Pale Boundaries

by Cleveland, Scott

  PALE

  BOUNDARIES

  ‡

  SCOTT CLEVELAND

  PALE BOUNDARIES

  Copyright © 2010 by Scott Cleveland and licensors

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced except in the case of brief quotations used for the purpose of critical articles or reviews.

  Front cover art by Corey Ford

  www.coreyfordgallery.com

  Rear cover art by Kirill Alperovich

  www.alperium.com

  Images licensed via www.BigStockPhoto.com

  Cover design and layout by Scott Cleveland

  Interior design and layout by Scott Cleveland

  ISBN-13: 978-1-449-99495-2

  ISBN-10: 1-449-99495-4

  Genre: Science Fiction

  First Edition: January 2010

  Second Edition: February 2010

  Kindle Edition: February 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my many friends, family and coworkers

  whose contributions and advice made this book possible,

  But especially to my wife, Carol,

  for her patience, encouragement, and keen editorial eye.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  EMBUSTERO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Algran Asta: 2706:10:19 Standard

  “Yankee sierra five, adjust heading to one three five and contact Approach Control on final.”

  “Rodger, Center, turning to heading one three five. Yankee sierra five out.”

  The blades’ pitch altered slightly as Terson Reilly turned the heavy, ponderous aircraft to the new course and contacted Approach Control. He wouldn’t land for another quarter-hour if the aircraft stacked ahead of him in the holding pattern were any indication. From this distance they looked like insects swarming carrion.

  The object of their attention, unfortunately, was the corpse of Algran Asta’s capital city.

  The volume of cargo moving through Windstone was higher than at any other time in its history, but amounted to nothing more than the agonal gasp of a community in the grip of a slow, irreversible decay. The city’s breath faded with every departure, sucked away by transports that landed empty and launched loaded to capacity, pushing the city’s infrastructure closer to failure as the skilled personnel vital to its maintenance left.

  A larger prefab compound, surrounded by berms of razor wire and guard towers, stood off the far side of the runway. A line of prisoners escorted by Colonial Police walked single file through a gate to a shuttle waiting on the tarmac. Marines, in turn, watched the police.

  Terson shook his head at the sight. He’d entered his compulsory two-year tour with the Colonial Police at eighteen and received his discharge before the force was federalized. A few months later and it might have been him down there, caught between the contempt of his fellow colonists and the suspicion of the Marines, who considered every colonial cop a Militia sympathizer waiting to get caught.

  “Watch your course,” Jack Tham admonished from the copilot’s seat. The helicopter’s assigned approach brought it uncomfortably close to the prison. The Colonial Resistant Militia had launched two unsuccessful raids on the compound in the past month and the military was understandably jumpy.

  “We’re fine,” Terson replied. He brought the huge helicopter down and taxied to the shipping terminal where a refrigeration unit waited to receive their load. They unstrapped while the engines spooled down and ducked through the cockpit access to the main body of the aircraft where Nick Foster was already breaking loose the chain binders securing dozens of pallets to the deck.

  “Ease up there, son,” Tham drawled. “That won’t get the ramp down any faster.” The teenager broke into an embarrassed smile and mumbled an apology. He fidgeted while the rear hatch groaned open, six months worth of pay burning a hole in his pocket. Tham dropped to the ground and guided the K-loader into contact with the bumpers on the end of the ramp.

  “We’ll get it,” Terson told Tham. “Want to see if we got anything going back?” It wasn’t likely—there hadn’t been any return cargo except mail the last four runs.

  The rose-tinted liquid dripping from the crates as the beef inside thawed attracted a swarm of bugs greedy for the iron-rich hemoglobin. Terson turned on the blowers just inside the ramp to keep them at bay, but the tenacious creatures massed as close to the opening as the jets of air permitted. They descended on each crate as it rolled out, taking the opportunity to bite any exposed flesh they happened upon.

  A lifetime of exposure to Algran Asta’s bloodthirsty fauna had hardened Terson against the constant attacks, but they were such a vivid reminder of the colony’s misfortune that he cursed and swatted at the damnable pests with impotent fury, drawing a curious stare from Foster. The younger man was too preoccupied with thoughts of booze and friendly city girls to appreciate the fact that their cargo had been someone’s prime breeding stock a few days before, and that the infusion of livestock that had so far kept the Hanstead herds safe from the butcher’s block was dwindling.

  Tham motioned from the doorway of the shipping office. “Interested in a bush drop?” He asked quietly, dipping his head toward Tyus, the shipping agent.

  “No,” Terson replied flatly. A few months earlier he might have been—the recipients then were frightened, desperate people who’d assumed the worst and fled before the Commonwealth Colonization Board clarified its intent. Now it would most likely benefit hard-core holdouts or Militia forces who wouldn’t hesitate to use it against those who disagreed with their aims, including fellow colonists who proved more cooperative with the authorities than the Militia considered proper.

  “He’s paying premium rates, and I’ll need the money,” Tham urged. His background was a bit vague; certain rumors held that he was wanted, and therefore could not file a claim for compensation without exposing himself.

  “It’s not worth the risk,” Terson replied.

  “Maybe not for you,” Tham shot back.

  “Oh, fuck off,” Terson spat. Boss Hanstead had managed the trust holding the Reilly family homestead since taking Terson in and given the estate the same attention as his own holdings. The value translated to future monetary compensation due Terson when he eventually relocated. Terson’s coworkers stood to receive pittances by comparison, which occasionally made him a target of their frustration. Terson’s status as Boss Hanstead’s protégé tempered their jealousy somewhat due to the widely held opinion that the position wasn’t an enviable one.

  “It’s just spare parts and first aid supplies—nothing proscribed,” Tham insisted.

  The military wouldn’t care what it was if they caught them dropping it in the middle of nowhere, but if there was one thing Boss Hanstead had criticized Terson for his whole life, it was a compassionate streak. “Alright,
but you’re the one to tell Foster.”

  “Naturally,” Tham grinned as he sauntered back inside.

  Terson headed for the helicopter to start his preflight. Foster had been looking forward to the carousal that accompanied overnight trips, and Terson wondered how he’d take the news. Under ordinary circumstances they’d leave him to his own devices for a few hours, but the number of Marines in town made that prospect inadvisable. A civilian might not be held criminally liable for an altercation with a soldier, but those detained by the military were typically processed for immediate deportation. The soldiers knew it and took great pleasure in taunting the locals.

  Terson stepped around a blood-tinged puddle of water behind the helicopter. A growing mat of drowning insects covered the entire surface as the weight of new arrivals pressed those who gorged too long deeper into the carnage where they, too, quickly expired.

  The K-loader trundled back across the hot tarmac carrying a single pallet. Jack, Foster, and a third man pushed the pallet onto the rollers in the helicopter’s deck. Tham climbed into the copilot’s seat and gave Terson the paperwork while Foster and the stranger strapped in.

  “You didn’t say anything about passengers,” Terson said.

  “Neither did Tyus,” Tham replied uncomfortably, accurately reading in Terson’s expression that he considered the development cause to back out. “I already frisked him; he’s just the guide.”

  Terson mulled it over. The Colonial Resistant Militia was growing more desperate as forced evacuations dried up their base of supply and support in the bush; there had been incidents of hijacking and worse aimed at those they considered collaborators, and Hanstead ranked high on the list. But the guide was unarmed, outnumbered, and an airdrop wouldn’t put the crew at any great risk from anyone on the ground. “I assume Foster’s okay with the change of plans?”

  “It cost me a couple hundred of my share,” Tham shrugged.

  Free of its earlier burden, the helicopter climbed swiftly and Terson turned onto the heading their passenger provided the moment Windstone Center released him. It took them toward the intercontinental basin that held the closest thing Algran Asta had to a sea: the impenetrable, planet-spanning swamp from which the chinche had emerged to confound the colonists.

  Seventy-five years of human habitation had not ended rumors of strange, wily creatures skulking around outlying communities stalking children and killing livestock. New species of varying hazard emerged from the jungle every year, and most people assumed that the chinche were merely one more irritation to deal with.

  The pivotal event occurred when a hired hand at a remote homestead killed one as it lapped up the blood of his employer’s wife in her own kitchen. The unfortunate incident might have been noted, remarked upon for a few days and forgotten, but the creature possessed what some interpreted as primitive tools and jewelry.

  Predation by an animal acting out of instinct was one thing; the existence of a reasoning predator that consciously sought out human victims was intolerable. Despite the fact that the total number of deaths attributed to chinche since their discovery was a tiny percentage of the annual mortality rate—more people died annually at the hands of fellow humans—Algran Asta’s ruling body launched a campaign to eradicate the creatures. Unfortunately, it was the fervor with which they did so that spurred the CCB to investigate the reason behind Algran Asta’s sudden thirst for defoliants and nerve agents.

  A bare, rocky spine ridge jutting upward through the jungle canopy ahead spurred Terson to glance at his altimeter. There wasn’t supposed to be anything higher than seven hundred meters in the area, but maps had been wrong before.

  His headset popped with an unfamiliar voice: “Colonial aircraft, this is the Marine gunship at your five o’clock. Hold your present direction, altitude, and speed. Acknowledge.”

  Terson’s kept his voice steady, though his pulse sped. “We copy,” he replied before covering the mike with his hand. “We’ve got company! Gunship at five o’clock—can you see’im?”

  Foster clambered over the crates to the portside door, pulled it open and peered back along the tail, into the sun. “Two Headhunters!” Terson looked at Tham and shook his head—told you so.

  “Colonial aircraft, state your destination and purpose.”

  “Making a supply run to Rimhead, sir.”

  “You’re off course, mister. Rimhead is seventy-five degrees to port.”

  “Yeah, roger that. We’re having trouble with our GPS; thanks for the advisory, over.”

  The Marines didn’t buy it. “Turn right heading one two five point seven. You will proceed to Windstone under escort, and submit to inspection. Over.”

  “Roger, Marine. Changing course now.” He eased into a long, gradual turn as the Headhunters moved to the port side, forty degrees above the helicopter. Tham twisted his head around to shout back to the passenger: “Buddy, you got anything in there you don’t want’em to see, now’s the time to dig it out!” The passenger knew the drill: he loosened the cargo straps and flipped up one corner of the tarp.

  It was a familiar game: the Marines intercepted aircraft suspected of transporting Militia supplies, the colonists played lost and dumb. The Marine’s rules of engagement prevented them from opening fire without provocation and for the first few months they could only watch helplessly as the colonists dumped their loads into the deep bush where the chances of recovery were virtually zero. The practice grew so prevalent that the Board finally decreed the dumping of any man-made object a deportable offense.

  Now the trick was to jettison the contraband without getting caught. Windstone lay far enough away that they could break the packages down and toss out individual items as they passed through mist banks. Terson and Tham turned their full attention to the search for such opportunities and did not immediately notice the scuffle that broke out a moment later.

  “He’s Militia!” Foster shouted.

  Tham rolled his eyes, twisting around to calm the teenager. “No shit, kid—Jesus Christ!” His hand flew to his chest, fumbling to release the seat harness. The object the passenger had removed from the case, and which Foster now grappled for control of, was a single-use, shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile launcher. The Militiaman wrenched the weapon from Foster’s grasp and raised it, sighting on the Headhunters through the port hatch.

  “Hang on!” Terson yelled. Foster leapt for a cargo net as Terson banked hard to port. Searing propellant exhaust filled the cargo compartment; the Militiaman lost his balance and vanished through the open door. The abrupt maneuver broke the weapon’s target lock and it sailed harmlessly past the two gunships, but it was too late for apologies. The Headhunters pealed off in tight turns, circling in behind the helicopter from opposite directions. Projectiles rattled along the airframe like gravel. Something slammed the back of Terson’s head, driving his chin into his chest.

  His ears popped from a sudden burst of pressure accompanied by acrid fumes and moist air. The helicopter went gyroscopic; the sky streaked into a horizontal blur of green, blue and smoky gray. He glimpsed the tail section spinning away and Foster falling with it, legs pumping, hands pawing with splayed fingers as if he could gain purchase on the air itself.

  Terson thrust his hand through the rubberized boot covering the panic bar between the pilots’ seats and wrenched up with all his might. The engine screamed, transferring a flood of kinetic energy to the blades before the squibs detonated, flinging them away like a quartet of scythes. The cockpit module separated, thrown forward by centrifugal force and Terson’s stomach rose to his throat in the terrifying moments of free-fall before the parachute deployed.

  The broad crown of a tree rushed up at him and the cockpit module crashed through half a dozen meters of foliage until the chute snagged in the ruin of broken branches left in its wake. The situation went from deafening chaos to near absolute silence in an instant. He hung limp in his seat harness, gasping for breath while the ghastly image of Nick Foster flailing against the relent
less pull of gravity looped through his mind’s eye.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack Tham choked out. “Jesus H. Christ, I’m so sorry.”

  Jack’s guilt was nothing compared to Terson’s. Boss Hanstead expected him to make the right decisions, not let Jack Tham talk him into risking life, limb and property. The fact that it hadn’t taken much talking only exacerbated his guilt.

  Terson swallowed the emotion, blinked the wetness out of his eyes and twisted around to haul out the survival pack stowed behind the seat. A firm jerk released a coil of rope attached to a tie-down ring in the floor.

  Insects swarmed around the two men by the time they lowered themselves to the mound of taproots at the base of the tree. Terson dug into the pack for a tube of greasy salve which they applied liberally to their exposed flesh. The chemical stung skin and was excruciatingly painful if it came into contact with the eyes, but it was the only topical repellent capable of deterring the bugs.

  Next he checked their weapons: a short bull-nosed automatic rifle he kept for himself and a semi-automatic shotgun with a pair of twenty-round drum magazines that he handed to Tham. His copilot set the weapon aside and sat down while he packed his pipe with his personal blend of mildly narcotic homemade tobacco.

  “No time for that,” Terson told him, gesturing to the bright orange parachute fluttering in the crown of the tree above them. “This is the first place they’ll look for us.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” Jack said as wisps of smoke curled around his hand.

  Terson didn’t like the sound of that. “What are you trying to tell me, Jack?”

  Tham blew smoke over his head. “You were born here, right?”

  “Might as well have been,” Terson replied. “My parents immigrated when I was two or three.”

  “I figured. Kid, as planets go this one is a shit hole, and even Hanstead knows it’s only a matter of time before they yank the rest of us off. A cell is a lot safer than walking a hundred kilometers through this shit on the slight chance that we’ll get to suffer through another few months of hell.”