Beyond the Stars: At Galaxy's Edge: a space opera anthology

by Nick Webb

  Brook blinked. “Yes. I agree. Why didn’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” Arriet said. “Divar and the others‌—‌they were acting so strangely. Like they knew something I didn’t.”

  Brook spread her arms. “We have nothing to hide. Is there any way you could figure out why they were so hostile?”

  “Perhaps.” Arriet threw a glance back at the committee chamber. “But only if Divar doesn’t realize I’m helping you. He was very upset I did not vote with the majority. Meet one of my aides tomorrow at the center of Freedom Square, 7:00 Standard Time. Do not wear your uniform.”

  “I’ll be there.” Brook glanced at JP.

  “I will look into alternative‌—‌”

  JP cut himself off as the committee’s door offered up its characteristic squeal‌—‌if that awful thing had any benefit, it was that nobody could sneak up on them through it.

  An aide stood in the doorway. “Representative Arriet?”

  Brook folded her arms and glared at Arriet. “I don’t care what you voted for‌—‌your committee killed my agency. So why don’t you go scurrying back to them, politician?” The resentment was not difficult to fake.

  Arriet shot a haughty look back at Brook. “Well, then, I apologize for trying to help you. It’s quite clear you don’t deserve it.”

  Representative Arriet turned and strode back into the committee chamber, the outmoded door screeching like the metaphorical cogs of bureaucracy itself.

  * * *

  “What in the galaxy is that?” Representative Arriet scrutinized Brook’s double breasted crimson leather jacket as the IES captain stepped into Arriet’s office. The aide who had met Brook at Freedom Square let himself out.

  “Until recently, I lived on a starship,” Brook said. “Didn’t have anything but IES black. So we had to go shopping‌—‌and I was told this was high fashion on Meltia.”

  “That it is,” Arriet said, “but my intention was for you to be inconspicuous. Did you see any other committee members on your way in?”

  “No one at all,” Brook said. “Your aide brought me in through some back entrance. Are they looking for me?”

  “They shouldn’t be, but we don’t want to give them ideas.” Arriet shook her head, pulling a personal screen from a compartment in her desk. “Especially now that I’ve found the source of your problems.”

  Brook reached out to take the screen. It displayed a document with a block font heading that tightened the grip of her hands around the device: “THE IES: IRRESPONSIBLE AND UNACCOUNTABLE.” Below the title was the logo of the Telahmir Report, a major Meltian news agency.

  “Why have I never seen this before?” Brook asked. JP kept tabs on news articles concerning the IES‌—‌surely this would have come to his attention.

  “As far as I know, only a handful of copies were ever distributed‌—‌all of them to Divar and the other members of our subcommittee. I didn’t know about it myself until I sent my aides to do some digging‌—‌I suspect they did not send it to me because they knew I would see through it.”

  Brook swiped past the table of contents to the main body of the text, skimming the first page. Every paragraph presented a new example of how the IES‌—‌and by extension, Brook‌—‌pursued their mission with reckless abandon, causing hundreds of civilian casualties in the process. The facts would be shocking if not for the fact that every single one of them was false.

  “This is nonsense.” Brook felt her face heat as she tossed the screen onto Arriet’s desk, stabbing her finger at a particularly offending example. “Frinid isn’t even part of the Meltian Republic‌—‌the IES has never been there, much less burned down one of their cities. I can’t believe the Telahmir Report distributed this.”

  “I can,” Arriet said. “Divar may not have realized this since he is a relatively new representative, but there are few reporters left in Telahmir who cannot be bought for a sufficient sum. To distribute a few copies of a report on a niche issue? I bet the purchaser did not even pay very much.”

  “Then who’s the purchaser?” Brook asked.

  “An enemy of the IES.”

  “We’re part of the Emergency Service,” Brook said. “We save people. We don’t have any...”

  Arriet prompted Brook with a raised eyebrow‌—‌a trademarked politician’s gesture if there ever was one.

  Brook eased herself into one of the chairs in front of Arriet’s desk, resting her forearms on the ornately patterned platinumwood surface. “I told the committee we got everyone onto lifeboats when our flip drive overloaded‌—‌and that was the truth. What I... did not emphasize was the fact that in doing so, we left the Griffin Space Technologies station behind. It was ripped apart with the Kindred Spirit. The Emergency Service compensated them, of course, but that didn’t stop Charles Griffin himself from publicly denouncing the IES. I thought he was irrationally angry over the loss of a small station like that, when he’s so rich, and he even got compensated for it, but if the IES has an enemy, it’s him.”

  Brook’s certainty grew as she said it out loud. Griffin had a reputation for double-dealing in the business world and meddling in the political sphere; she was fortunate not to have encountered his company previously while serving as Captain of the IES, but there were rumors that Griffin made a fortune during the Order War by selling starships to both sides of the conflict. A petty retaliation like this would not be beneath him, and he certainly had the money to pull it off. The only question was what to do now.

  Arriet seemed to agree, judging from her thoughtful nod. “In theory, this matter should be referred to a court or to the Subcommittee on Ethical Business Practices.”

  Brook noted Arriet’s qualification. “And in practice?”

  “You may not have the necessary amount of time.”

  Brook knew Arriet was right‌—‌nearly two weeks had passed between the incident with the GST station and her committee hearing, and she had been lucky to get an appointment that quickly. Two weeks from now, the dismantlement of the IES would be well underway, its assets sold off, and its crew dispersed across the galaxy. Returning to operational status could easily take five or six months. If another space station fell into a star during that time, or a new epidemic spread across the shipping routes, or a new terror cell emerged... the bureaucrats in charge of the regular Emergency Service would do something eventually, but not with half the speed and agility of the IES.

  Brook frowned at the report on Arriet’s desk. JP had been right, in a way. The bureaucracy could provide opportunities‌—‌if one were Charles Griffin. If one were an honest captain trying to save her command from a spiteful trillionaire, not so much.

  Whatever delusions JP had, it was clear they were heading toward a dead end. The system of arbitrary rules that governed this planet’s bureaucracy was the glove on her fist‌—‌or maybe the pair of handcuffs binding her wrists behind her back; if she wasn’t willing to fight without them, she might as well admit defeat now. Had the stakes been lower, she would have considered doing so‌—‌for JP’s sake, if nothing else‌—‌but to give up now was to be the captain who sacrificed the IES on the altar of bureaucratic procedure.

  And that was not Captain Jareyn Brook.

  “You’re right.” She stood. “Time is not on our side. But I have a plan.” Brook took the personal screen with the offending document and strode out of Arriet’s office.

  Maybe “plan” was a bit of an exaggeration.

  Brook knew she needed to prove Griffin had paid for the document to be distributed, and she figured the first step toward that was to trace its delivery to the other representatives.

  Arriet’s office was close to the front of the complex in which it resided, so Brook first made her way to the reception desk, attended to by a woman whose nametag identified her as Abigail Igoru.

  “Hi!” Brook extended her arm to shake Igoru’s hand. “I’m supposed to bring a copy of this document to Representative Divar’s office, but I think he may
have already received a copy. Can you message ahead and check? The title is: ‘The IES: Irresponsible and Unaccountable.’”

  “Certainly, Ma’am,” Igoru said. “Or you could deliver it to them yourself. Divar’s office is number... five twenty-four.”

  Brook smiled. “Why don’t we do both? If no one’s there, maybe one of his aides will still respond to his Interplanetary Network Address.”

  “Of course, Ma’am,” Igoru said.

  “Also,” Brook said, “do you have a coat check?”

  Five minutes later, wearing a gray overcoat from the coat check’s lost and found, Brook arrived at office number five twenty-four.

  A single male aide sat behind what she assumed was Divar’s desk. He looked up as she entered. “How can I help you, Ma’am?”

  “Abigail Igoru.” The name spilled out of Brook’s mouth as she shook the aide’s hand. “From the reception desk,” she hastily followed up. “I was wondering if you got my message?”

  The aide gave her a scrutinizing look. Brook froze‌—‌impersonating a government official was probably something that was frowned upon in Telahmir. In fact, it might be a misdemeanor.

  “Did you... get a new haircut, Abigail?” the aide asked.

  There was still time to claim a slip of the tongue‌—‌but Brook did not. Surely borrowing the name of a receptionist paled in comparison to Griffin’s outright bribery, and if she wanted to win this bureaucratic tussle, she could not afford to be squeamish about such small things. At any rate, this man clearly did not interact closely with Igoru if he was tempted to confuse her with an IES captain twenty years her senior. Brook dialed up the intensity of her smile. “I did‌—‌thanks for noticing!”

  The aide returned the smile before looking back at the computer workstation embedded in Divar’s desk. “Ah, I have your message here. Yeah, turns out we did get a copy of that document a few days ago.”

  A few days ago. That would place it just a day or two before her hearing. The other representatives must have deeply trusted the Telahmir Report’s impartiality to not recognize such an obvious attempt to undermine Brook. Perhaps if her investigation disabused them of that trust, this sort of thing would not happen again.

  “For our records,” Brook said, “I need the time, date, and manner of delivery, to the best of your memory.”

  The aide scratched his head. “Well, I remember it was hand-delivered‌—‌that was odd‌—‌and it was... I don’t know, about 3:00 ST, two days ago? Actually, now that I think about it, it’s probably on security footage downstairs.”

  Brook constrained her excitement‌—‌security footage would be excellent, but a Meltian bureaucrat would not be excited to do more legwork in pursuit of trivial records.

  “I’ll check that out, but...” Brook let her face fall into a frown. “Could you call ahead for me? Last time I tried to get something from them, they didn’t seem to want me around at all.”

  The aide gave her a sympathetic smile. “They’re like that to everyone. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

  Brook grinned. “Thanks!”

  Brook took an elevator to the basement of the complex. Upon exiting the elevator car, she was stopped by a bored-looking security guard.

  “This is a restricted area, Ma’am. May I please see your identification?”

  Identification? Brook made a show of patting her pockets before coming up empty. She shrugged apologetically. “Must have left it somewhere, sorry‌—‌but I’m Abigail Igoru. Representative Divar’s office should have told you I was coming.”

  The guard pulled a small personal screen out of his pocket. Brook clasped her hands behind her back, masking her uncertainty.

  “Huh.” He regarded her again. “I guess you’re okay. Says you’re here to look at video records.”

  “That’s right,” Brook said. “Can you help me with that? I need the security video of Representative Divar’s office starting 2:30 ST two days ago.”

  The guard grabbed a transceiver from his belt. “Yeah, hey, this is Roth, I need someone to relieve me out here. Yes, really. No, I need to escort someone to the camera room.”

  Roth led her down the hall‌—‌a bare concrete and metal affair that seemed far removed from the offices above‌—‌until they reached a dark doorway. Inside, three floor-to-ceiling screens dominated the wall space, each split into sections with views from various cameras and attended by a guard dressed similarly to Roth.

  “Hey, Roth,” one of them said. “Who’s this?”

  “Name’s Abigail Igoru,” Roth said. “One of the Reps sent her down to look at the record from two days ago at 2:30.”

  “Office five twenty-four,” Brook said. “Also, if we do find something, is there any way we could pull the image off this system and send it over the network‌—‌or store it on a datacard?”

  The next step, Brook figured, was to run facial recognition on whoever delivered the document. The Emergency Service had some powerful video analysis software they used on footage of terror attacks.

  The wall screen officer gave her a funny look. “That’s an unusual request.”

  This one wasn’t quite as gullible as the others.

  “Is it?” Brook asked innocently. “Representative Divar wants to know for sure who was in his office at that time.”

  “He does, does he?” the wall screen officer asked. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Abigail Igoru,” Brook said.

  She noticed too late that the security cameras monitoring the building tagged by name the government employees that walked in front of their view‌—‌and one camera was pointed directly at the reception desk.

  The guard pointed at that camera view. “That Abigail Igoru?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Brook saw Roth reach for the stun baton on his belt.

  “Oh!” Brook said. “That’s my daughter, Abigail Igoru Jr.”

  The age difference was a little too small, but Brook figured it was at least plausible.

  “You don’t even resemble each other,” Roth said.

  “She has her father’s hair,” Brook said.

  The wall screen officer tapped the reception desk view and scrolled backward in time to when Brook approached the desk. “She doesn’t seem to recognize you.”

  “My husband and I divorced when Abigail was two. She lives with her father now.”

  By now every guard in the room was looking at them‌—‌and they all seemed to be losing patience. Brook’s pulse quickened. There was never a good time to be arrested, but now‌—‌with the future of the IES depending on her‌—‌was especially bad. “Look,” Brook said, “this is extremely important‌—‌I can explain it to you later, but right now‌—‌”

  Roth laid a hand on her shoulder. “You can explain it to a judge.”

  Not in time to save the IES, she couldn’t. Brook’s muscles tensed at Roth’s touch‌—‌working for the IES, even as its captain, tended to keep one fit, and she could probably evade these guards, but for what? Ironically, they would track her down with the very security systems she had hoped to exploit, and then she would be charged with evading arrest on top of impersonating a public official.

  Brook felt a trickle of defeat seeping into her body. She took a slow breath in and expelled that insidious emotion with her exhalation. The fight wasn’t done until the Emergency Service signed off on that dismantlement order, or she stopped fighting, and neither of those was happening right now‌—‌this arrest just added a few more variables to the problem.

  Brook raised her arms. “Well then, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Brook was pacing up and down the small holding cell when the door opened. As she turned, her stomach hoped she would see a police officer with her morning meal‌—‌instead, she found an even more agreeable sight.

  “JP!” Brook’s initial enthusiasm was dampened by his stoic expression. “They wouldn’t let me contact you; what’s going on out there?”

  �
�Let’s go, Captain,” JP said.

  Brook leaned out of the holding cell. No police officer accompanied him. “JP, are you breaking me out?”

  “No.” He tossed her a skeptical look as he led her out of the cell. “I used a clause of the Emergency Service’s boilerplate employment contract to ensure your maximum sentence was commuted to a token fine, which enabled me to settle the case out of court for a small sum.”

  “Oh,” Brook said. “Thanks.”

  JP did not answer. They reached the front of the detention center in which Brook had been held and strode out the door into the Meltian sunlight.

  Brook frowned. JP always chose his words carefully, but he was never recalcitrant. “What’s going on? What happened to the dismantlement order? Did you find another legal route?”

  “The committee has drafted the dismantlement order. Meltian law requires it to be delivered by a Legislature representative, a process which is undoubtedly underway.”

  So they did not have much time left. Brook was concerned by JP’s apparent lack of urgency. “And did you find a way to stop them?”

  JP stopped in the middle of the brick street in front of the detention center. The bright sunlight glinted off his bald, midnight blue head. “It is difficult to open doors in the legal system when the leader of the organization one represents is in jail.”

  Oh. Right. “Sorry about that. I guess we need to come up with a new plan.”

  “Your plan, I should hope,” JP said, “is to refrain from repeating the recklessness that resulted in your arrest. My plan is to find new employment.”

  JP turned and began to walk away. The defeat that Brook had deflected before now flooded back. She did not care what Charles Griffin or Representative Divar or even Roth the elevator guard thought of her choices. They had their own agendas. But JP had dedicated himself to restoring the IES, even when she made his job difficult. He had come back to help her out, despite the fact that she blatantly violated his code of ethics.