Terson slipped the card back into the envelope. “You don’t want to read this.” He tore the card into tiny pieces and they never spoke of Virene’s family again.
FOUR
Beta Continent, Nivia: 2709:04:35 Standard
Halsor Tennison shaded his eyes against the glare off the water. His shuttle wallowed at neutral buoyancy, bare centimeters above the surface. Occasional waves washed across the hull, splashing his feet while a launch cut toward him from shore.
Hal tossed his bag into the small boat, stumbled onto the dipping bow, and dropped awkwardly into a seat. He twisted his back as he went, sending a bolt of pain through his right leg. The pilot’s dark almond eyes regarded him inscrutably as he spun the tiny craft and headed for shore. Hal punched a key on his remote, sending his shuttle to the bottom in a foam of venting ballast.
The launch revved and lugged in the waves until the pilot matched speed with the crest of a swell. The ride smoothed and the engine steadied. The surf along the base of the cliffs was light, indicating a deep bottom. A few birds rode the updraft along the nearly vertical escarpments. The launch took a suicidal tack directly into the shadows at the base of the cliff, nosing through a barrier of meter-wide, overlapping plastic sheets textured to match the surrounding rock.
A small harbor lay on the other side inside a gigantic cavern. Hal counted three submarines, seven small ships and docks for twice that number. A flurry of activity caught his attention as they rounded one of the vessels. Minzoku sailors unfurled tarps across a dry-dock, but not before Hal spotted the bullet riddled hull of an EPEA patrol boat. I’ll throttle the old bastard!
The cavern narrowed to a dark tunnel and ended at a wall of bedrock where the pilot shut off the engine. A rust-stained metal door sealed the channel behind the launch, and the surface boiled as water rushed in, lifting the launch ten meters up a vertical shaft to a ledge where two armed men waited. The diminutive Minzoku soldiers led him through corridors only a few centimeters higher than their heads, forcing Hal to bend almost double. His back ached by the time they reached a familiar chamber where he could unfold.
The room had been his grandfather’s office once, and at the height of the Family’s prosperity Den Tun had poised obeisantly before the great hardwood desk Hal now faced. The desk was lower now; Den Tun had sawed off the legs to accommodate his height.
Hal regarded the old man austerely. Den Tun had been ancient when Hal was a child; it was a wonder to many that he remained as spry as he did. Time hadn’t let him off easily, however: his tight curls had diminished to uneven patches about his scalp; the hair he still possessed was bleached by senescence. Wrinkles cut deeply into his flesh and one eye had gone chalky with blindness. He spoke to the guards, who bowed at the waist and backed out, closing the door behind them.
“My apologies for the lack of a chair,” Den Tun said. “I rarely entertain visitors of such stature.”
You could get one, asshole! Hal regretted never having learned the convolutions of Minzoku conversation with its double meanings and subtle insinuations, as well as his late father had, or his father before him, but he’d learned enough to know when he was being insulted. Hal visited the Family’s operations twice a year, often enough to rate at least a decent chair, but the old Minzoku preferred his visitors to sit on cushions, positioning the tops of their heads at an elevation respectfully lower than his own.
Hal chose to remain standing. “How much cargo have you salvaged?” he demanded.
“Very little. The wreckage lies at great depth, difficult to reach with what we have.”
“Your people have accomplished more difficult tasks with fewer resources.”
“Protecting your interests is costly!”
“The cost will rise if you don’t stop skirmishing with the EPEA! I saw the patrol boat you captured.”
“They provoke us at every opportunity,” Den Tun insisted. “You have less influence with the gaijin than your honored ancestors.”
“Don’t overestimate yourselves,” Hal warned. “There may come a day when we do not influence the gaijin at all.”
Den Tun fell stone-faced and silent.
“I’ll be staying indefinitely,” Hal said. “I want an inventory of the salvage and a status report on the operation every twelve hours.”
“Of course.” Den Tun clapped his hands and a young woman appeared from an alcove behind the desk. “Lieutenant Dayuki will see to your needs.”
The young officer deferred to Hal as he passed. She remained the requisite number of paces behind, advancing to his side only after they passed beyond Den Tun’s perception. Dayuki was a head shorter than Hal, but still a third taller than any other Minzoku he’d met. Her ethnic features had been softened by mixed bloodlines, resulting in a unique, exotic beauty.
“What do the gaijin know regarding the crash?” Hal asked. The slur flowed easily from his lips. The term did not include the Family—yet.
“A civilian boat picked up two of the crew,” she replied. “One was dead. The other died before reaching shore. They have made no attempt to recover the wreckage.”
“I must still hold some influence with the gaijin,” Hal said.
“Den Tun speaks from frustration,” Dayuki said in defense of her superior. “We spend as many resources defending ourselves as serving yourselves, the honored Onjin.”
They entered an opulent room three times the size of Den Tun’s office, filled with fine rugs, couches, and cushions, all collected by the room’s past occupants. Hal had yet to make any contributions, other than the clothes and toiletries he’d stocked in the closets.
“The days ahead of you may be hectic,” Dayuki said. “I would be honored if you would join me for a more amiable evening while the opportunity exists.” Hal accepted, surprised at the offer. Dayuki backed out with a courteous bow, drawing the doors closed.
Hal ruminated on the situation while he showered and changed into a set of clothes from one of the hardwood wardrobes. The Family’s operations on Nivia were nearing the end of a long decline beginning several years before his birth. He found it ironic that the slow, inevitable failure of the cornerstone of his Family’s rise from obscurity was due exclusively to its own success.
The rise to power and influence began with Hal’s great-grandfather, a man who scraped a living on the fringes of a crime syndicate as hired muscle yet aspired for more. It was he who usurped control of a counterfeiting ring from a non-affiliated amateur and found a passion for manufacturing financial instruments. That passion drove him to improve the quality of his product until he came to the attention of an influential syndicate member who contracted with him to produce custom documents.
Success in that endeavor and a reputation for uncommon quality allowed him to take over or buy out unprofitable ventures from other Families. Within fifteen years he controlled a far-flung conglomerate that counterfeited products ranging from banknotes and tax stamps to microcircuits, fasteners and pharmaceuticals.
Eventually laws of business and economics common to all entrepreneurial pursuits, legal or otherwise, led to consolidation. The development of a new colony presented a unique opportunity; though it nearly bankrupted him, he financed a quarter of the colony’s charter and concentrated his scattered holdings on Nivia, where they flourished beneath the Commonwealth’s very nose.
The note he held on the colony allowed him unbounded leverage for decades. When the colony repaid its loans, Hal’s grandfather funneled a percentage of his profits into its coffers as generous grants, preventing the need to answer any awkward questions. It was he who engineered Nivia’s zealous environmental amendment to the charter, and within a single generation fewer than a dozen top officials knew anything was amiss on the Beta continent.
Using Nivia as a kicking board, the Family launched into activities throughout the Commonwealth and depended less and less on their old operations. Family presence declined as influencing the gaijin government and avoiding detection became more difficult. Hal
’s father abandoned most of the bulk manufacturing interests.
In Hal’s time the grants were a fraction of what they had been and the colony was not so desperate for capital. Those few still directly influenced by the Family had become mindful of their political futures and more cautious in their participation. The Minzoku took over tasks once performed by Family administrators and only a small number of researchers and technicians remained full time.
It didn’t look good for Hal’s first year of administration now that the entire quarter’s worth of production lay scattered on the floor of the ocean. His father held things together with experience and alliances Hal simply didn’t have, yet. The prudent thing might be abandonment, not that it could be accomplished quickly or cheaply. The expenses involved in covering tracks were greater and more immediate than the operating costs of a now minimally profitable venture.
He slung his compact needle-beamer under his right arm and pulled on a tunic, checking himself in the mirror. The face staring back raised one eyebrow as it often did. The skin was just starting to lose the glow of youth; he could point out the places where fine lines would one day tell others whether he tended toward worry or laughter. Dark highlights crept into once gloriously blond hair, complimenting pale brown eyes. He’d put on a few pounds, but it didn’t show. Midway through his third decade, his only regret was not accomplishing as much as his predecessors.
A timid knock clued him to Dayuki’s arrival. Hal opened the door but his greeting faltered at the sight of an elegant young Minzoku woman. Long, ebony hair flowed down her back like a waterfall, rippling as if it were lighter than air; a gown of colorful, lustrous fabric hugged her body in lieu of the utilitarian tunic and trousers Hal expected.
Dayuki bowed shyly at his expression. “Have I come too soon?”
“Ah, not at all. Lead the way.” Dayuki turned down the corridor, motioning him to follow. Open seams up each side allowed long-legged strides to replace the submissive half-steps she affected on duty, though decorum demanded that legs thus revealed be clad in the same type of fabric as the gown.
They walked down a dim side corridor to a heavy metal door that opened into the bottom of a ladder well. Dayuki went up first to unlock the trapdoor at the top. Hal had a bad moment when his chest threatened to become wedged in an opening designed for more slender bodies, but he emptied his lungs and slipped through.
A horse and cart stood nearby. The animal watched them approach, snorted, and stomped a hoof. Dayuki took up the reins and slapped it on the rump with a long, narrow stick. It took a few halting steps and looked back mournfully at the unusually heavy load. Another slap convinced it to continue.
The air was dry and chilly, almost biting, an early symptom of approaching winter. Insects stopped chirping when the cart approached, took up again when it passed. The horse worked up to a trot on the smooth, sandy road, taking them farther inland. It turned abruptly, the reason clear when they left the trees. A lake spread out to the left and the road ran along the edge of a high embankment or cliff that sloped down to the near shore. The water reflected the lights of a small town on the other side. The presence of electrical power surprised Hal. Despite Den Tun’s control of the old manufacturing facilities and the technology he acquired from the Family, he kept his own people agrarian and backward, for the most part. Most Minzoku were as blissfully unaware of Den Tun’s dealings with the Family as the gaijin were their own government’s malfeasance.
“Is that where you’re from?” Hal asked.
Dayuki shook her head. “I was born in a fishing village to the south. This is Tessaoua, where the families of the base personnel live.”
Bright pagodas rose three and four stories. The main street was paved and lit by electric lights and filled with people. There were a few military vehicles here and there, but the primary modes of transportation were horse and bicycle. Dayuki turned onto a side street, keeping the animal at a trot all the way to an alley that ran along the rear of the buildings.
The horse assumed a three-legged stance as soon as they stopped. Dayuki wrapped the reins around a post and pointed at the door. “In there, quickly.” Hal ducked through to find himself in the back of a kitchen. “Wait here.”
Dayuki vanished through another door, returning shortly with the proprietor, who greeted Hal with a smile and bow. The man took them to an alcove that had been partitioned off from the rest of the room with a framework of wood and dark paper. The only furniture was a low, expertly carved wooden table with pillows on two sides. Dayuki took off her slippers, indicating that Hal should do likewise, and sat down.
Hal picked up the little scrolled parchment he assumed was the menu. It was pleasing to look at, but he couldn’t make head or tail of it.
“Bulao is known for his sashimi and duck,” Dayuki suggested.
“What’s sashimi?” Hal asked.
“Specially prepared raw fish,” she said.
“I’ll take the duck,” he replied without hesitation. Hal studied the room while she gave Bulao their orders. The decorations on the walls testified to the unique blending of African and Asian cultures that bore the Minzoku. Hal was amazed that they’d maintained anything of their ancestry after the brutal circumstances that lead to their purchase and relocation to Nivia. Not even the Minzoku themselves could say exactly where they came from. The Big Empty was littered with backward, pre-Commonwealth colonies that suffered greatly at the hands of their discoverers, more often than not.
The Minzoku’s sense of honor demanded they serve their saviors unquestioningly, but time had a way of erasing old debts. They had never lost their identity and their hunger for self-determination had reached the point where their own agendas held priority over those of the Family.
Hal wondered if they would survive Den Tun’s ambition.
“I shouldn’t be here, should I?”
“Den Tun prefers your people to remain...unapparent. He would not be happy to know you are here.”
“He already plays the gaijin and the Family against one another,” Hal said. “Why does he complicate his balancing act by deceiving his own people?”
“He fears mortality will overtake him before he accomplishes his objective,” Dayuki explained.
Bulao carted in a steaming tray and distributed the dishes before them with an efficient flourish. Vegetables surrounded the duck on Hal’s plate and a light brown sweet and sour sauce covered the entire serving. There was also a bowl of fried rice with squares of meat in it, served with a dark, salty liquid. Last was a covered, high-sided bowl. Hal lifted the lid to find a dozen white, squirming bodies the length and thickness of his thumb.
Dayuki saw the look on his face. “Bulao will understand if you do not eat them.”
“What are they?”
“Immature insects. I do not know your word for them. Very tasty.”
Hal wasn’t bothered by what they were, but by the fact that they were still alive. He’d eaten many strange things in his lifetime, but they were usually incorporated into another food or, at the very least, cooked. He picked one up and bit it in half. The inside had the color and consistency of butter, with a taste like cream. He popped the other half in his mouth.
“What is Den Tun’s objective?”
“Once he would have said independence,” Dayuki replied. “Now he would settle for our survival.”
“We’ve always guaranteed your safety.”
“How long will that continue?” Dayuki asked. “Some day the honored Onjin will leave us to our own devices. We need strength for that day and our greatest strength is our spirit. How strong can a people’s spirit be if they believe their patrons have abandoned them?”
So he obscures the existence of the patron, Hal thought. “He told you this?”
She shook her head slightly. “Den Tun keeps his own counsel. His actions betray his thoughts.”
Her insight impressed him. For years the Family humored Den Tun’s eccentric methods and demands, riled at his actions when they
crossed purposes. Dayuki put it in a context Hal understood, and the implications worried him. If Den Tun played the game this far ahead, what plots were already afoot, and how much could he damage the Family?
“What are your thoughts?” Hal asked
“Honor dictates that the Minzoku exist for the sake of the Onjin,” she said. “Our fate is your prerogative.”
“Rather contradictory philosophies,” Hal noted. “How did you come to work with him?”
Dayuki looked into her lap, suddenly introverted.
“Just curious,” Hal added quickly.
She looked up with a brief, uncertain smile. “Many know, but it is not spoken of.” She took a breath. “My village was raided by gaijin outlaws. My mother was just a girl, very pretty, and one of them—” She stopped, flustered. Hal found himself embarrassed at being taken into her confidence. Dayuki took another breath, cleared her throat, and continued:
“The man who sired me is buried in an unmarked mass grave. Each time I return home I spit on that place.” Dayuki looked up with renewed confidence. “The circumstances of my conception made me unlucky and I was cursed with height. No man wants a wife that towers over him. My family would have hidden me away, but my grandfather was wealthy and did not want my mother to be shamed by birthing an unsuitable daughter. He dowered me five times what was appropriate, but the intent was to save my mother’s honor, not mine.
“The poor men in the village made offers of marriage and my grandfather told me to choose, but I would not. I knew that my suitors only intended to hide me away and use the dowry to pay the bride price for another woman. I was too proud for that, but my grandfather threatened to choose for me.
“It was then that my great uncle arrived to visit. He told them I could be a great service to our people and I left with him.”
Hal nodded. “Den Tun is your great uncle.”
“Yes,” Dayuki said.
Pale Boundaries Page 7