Desert Planet (THE RIM CONFEDERACY Book 6)

by Jim Rudnick

  "On screen, please" Tanner said, and he and the rest of the bridge crew watched as the UrPoPoi shuttle slowly wheeled away from its mother ship and moved down toward the planet.

  Against the huge swaths of brown desert, the bright blue shuttle slowly dropped away from the low orbit position, receding and getting smaller all the time. In less than a few minutes, it disappeared down into the atmosphere and was gone.

  "Sir," his XO said, "should we track the disembarking of the diplomatic team?"

  "Yes, please," said Tanner, and he sat back to sip on his fresh tea. Not a double-double but not too bad. He grinned and recalled some of his past remembrances of the bridge on the Atlas and the Marwick too. He could remember spilling coffee on his uniform shirt and retiring to his quarters to get a fresh shirt and a double of Scotch added to his coffee. He remembered hiding a bottle in his ready room or down in the gym on Deck Twenty-three or getting his steward to add it to his dinner glass surreptitiously. He shook his head. He thought he'd been hiding his addiction, but everyone seemed to know. Of course, getting totally lit up like a spotlight didn't help, and many of the old crew knew and had helped him hide it. And while he'd been sent to the RIM prison planet to try to get rid of that addiction, that had been bypassed by the convict revolt and his help in putting down that riot. The fact that he'd had to kill two of the rioters—one whom he actually liked a lot, a woman named Tibah, was not important to the memory, Tanner thought, as he noticed his hands were both still. He had to do what he had to do; it was called attention to duty. Still no fingers tapping, he noted. But the events on Halberd had been followed with his resignation from the RIM Navy and accepting the captaincy in the Barony Navy—and the care and control of the Atlas.

  He smiled. He'd just run through the past few years, and there was no PTSD rearing its head right now.

  That was worth the smile. But he also knew there was a difference between running over a recent memory and being under stress and having those memories come storming back into his consciousness.

  "So far," he said to himself, "so good ..."

  #####

  Tanner sat in the Officers' Mess and swirled the Scotch around in the rocks glass in front of him. Alone at a side booth, he let the glass sit now, picked up his juice, and took a swig of that for now. He'd been here for over an hour and was on his second juice, but the same Scotch sat in front of him, untouched.

  He leaned back, stretched out one of his long legs, and wondered why designers in the food-service world always made the dang booths so cramped..

  Never enough room for us six footers.

  Hell, even that's a lie 'cause I'm only five feet eleven inches tall. So the designer here should be demoted to designing Garnuthian pigsties. He smiled even wider, slid down a little on his bench, and looked back at the glass of Scotch.

  His admiral had called him not two hours ago—well, his ex-admiral to be exact. It had been an EYES ONLY request, which he had ducked at first but then grudgingly accepted in his ready room. He had sat there for a full ten minutes trying to hit the accept button and failed every time he reached forward. But eventually, the flashing icon won out, and he had steeled himself to accept the call. The two of them had decades of history together. The EYES ONLY conversation with the admiral replayed in Tanner's mind as he stared at the Scotch in front of him.

  The admiral stared at him for a full minute before he finally spoke.

  "Captain Scott, good of you to take my call," he said, his voice somber.

  The admiral was—or rather had been—a friend, a mentor, and someone who had saved his life a few times when years ago they had been in the Earl of Kinross's Navy to inward. McQueen had been the admiral who had repelled an alien attack, and Tanner had captained a ship that aided in that war. After that and the huge costs that such a victory had cost them both, they had left and went outward toward the RIM. That had taken years and Sleeper Ship time, but they had ended up here on the RIM, in the RIM Navy.

  Admiral McQueen ran the RIM Navy, and under him, Tanner had taken on an XO role on the Navy frigate the Kerry. Attacked by pirates, their captain killed, Tanner had stepped up with his well-honed combat tactics, had defeated those pirates, and had earned a full captaincy on the Marwick in the RIM Navy. Of course, his alcoholism grew as did his rank, and he ended up loaded and had embarrassed the Navy as well as his admiral.

  Resigning his captaincy back on Halberd, the RIM prison planet, and moving over to the Barony Navy had happened soon after, and then the cure for alcoholism had happened recently over on the Barony Hospital Ship. It hadn't been tested, he knew, but his general practitioner and his psychiatrist had both verified that he had had the treatment and would never ever be drunk again. No matter how much he drank, the alcohol would be disregarded by his body, sluiced out directly into his urine. And if there was no lift from the booze, it was argued, then why bother, they said.

  Tanner carried this around in his head, and he knew that he owed his admiral something, but what?

  He nodded to Admiral McQueen and one hand drew little circles on his ready room desk. The other, he was beating out that one, two ... one, two ... pattern on his right knee below the desktop.

  "Sir, yes, how may I help you—or the RIM Navy even?" he said.

  The admiral looked down at some papers in front of him on his console and then back up at Tanner. "There appears to be a rising argument made here on Juno at the Executive Committee level that something is going wrong with our—with your—attempts to get the Enkians to accept membership in the RIM Confederacy. At least that is what we hear from our Master Adept. And I wanted to contact you directly—to ask you personally, for you to watch over these negotiations as closely as you can. To read what you can of their strengths as a force that we may one day face in the field. And lastly, to see if you get a sense of what kind of an adversary the Enkians would be—should that ever arise, Captain," he said.

  Tanner was not surprised that the conversation had been steered to the content of the call itself—rather than anything of a personal note between them.

  He indicated that yes, he would surely get back to the admiral with a wrap-up report to include any recon that would help the RIM Navy in the future. He had also admitted that he would be sending the same report to his Barony Captains Council as well as the Baroness too. That was a part of his duty as a Barony Navy officer. The admiral would know that.

  He smiled at the admiral and signed off without any kind of a personal note either.

  Finished replaying the EYES ONLY communication with the admiral in his mind, Tanner swirled the Scotch around in the glass now, and he wondered what he might have said, could have said, or should have said, and he came up empty. There was really very little to say, he thought, and that was because, perhaps, there was far too much to say.

  That might still happen sometime in the future.

  “But not now,” he said to himself, as he tossed the Scotch down his throat, and catching the eye of the steward, he ordered another double.

  More than an hour after that, and after seven doubles, he felt nothing.

  Not a blessed rise in temperature, no extra sweating, no increased breathing either. There were no clues when it came to his body.

  He was sober as far as he could tell. The damage that seven Scotch doubles should do to his normal attitude and demeanor was high, he knew. But whatever had been in the shot he'd had a few months back on the Barony Hospital Ship had worked so far.

  Course, he thought, maybe that wasn't enough ... or maybe it was. His last attempt to find that bucolic alcohol high, which he now knew he would no longer find, was done.

  He smiled at himself, and with his juice, he toasted the doctors on the Hospital Ship who had obviously known what they were doing.

  The fleeting thought that he had tried to get drunk after failing to face his mentor, the admiral, came to him.

  And he threw it away because he knew that out here on the RIM, there would always be a chance to see the a
dmiral again.

  Penance is as penance does, he thought.

  #####

  Uigoeri Qor, leader of Words Muse, rose in the negotiations room and addressed the large group before him.

  On one side of the horseshoe table sat the five leaders of the Words Muse, along with a few aides and assistants. On the other, the RIM ambassador and his larger group of minions sat, and all had their eyes on Qor as he looked around the room. Sitting against the far wall were representatives from the Resources and Militia groups along with a single Enkian from the other four muses, Dance, Fine Arts, Music, and Performance. And on the opposite wall were the seats that held the RIM Navy, Barony Navy, and Duchy Navy officers who again were there for support. These negotiation room visitors were just that—they could take no part in the talks, but the negotiating team at the table could call upon them for help or counsel or advice.

  Not that it had happened, Tanner thought, since we've been here.

  Negotiations had been moving along pretty well, he thought, but then again, he had nothing to measure that by.

  They had left some of the tougher items alone at this point, and instead they had so far worked out a large majority of minor points. Trade for agricultural imports and exports, manufacturing, technology and its incoming impact were big items. But all had been handled to the satisfaction of both sides and signed off on, and they had moved to the next item.

  Tanner knew that mining and refining would be coming up very soon, and that was of major interest for the RIM group as the probe metal would be a part of that area too. Course, he thought, we won't be spelling out any interest at all in that metal, just ensuring that it would be included in the overall classifications that would be agreed to later.

  Qor looked at them all once more and held out his hands. His talons were very polished and shiny. With a hint that he was not so happy to be saying the words, Qor said, "I am sorry, but I have to announce that we are going to have to suspend our negotiations on our RIM membership candidacy for the time being," he said.

  And that got a whirl of comments from the diplomats in the front row of the seats of the table.

  "Wait—" Ambassador Harmon said.

  "We do not have the time—" another diplomat said.

  "Certainly not, this is not the way that—" a third diplomat said.

  Holding up both hands, palms facing the RIM side of the table, Qor went on.

  "Yes, I know that this sounds odd—but you must know that we are breaking off talks for only the next two weeks. Other items have occurred that require our—my—immediate attention, and I am sorry, but to do these negotiations justice, I cannot spare the time at present," he said, and then he sat down heavily at his place.

  Directly opposite him, Ambassador Harmon rose and held out a hand to quiet his own team.

  "Might we know what these other items are, please, Qor, so that we can understand this delay? We know that you, like the RIM, are wanting to keep our negotiations ongoing and moving forward. Can I ask that, at the least, please?" he said and then he sat.

  Qor nodded and rose. "Yes, that is proper too, we feel. For your information, as we are the lead muse—Words Muse, I mean—as we are the lead muse on the next graduation day event to be held right here in our pyramid, the time for that is a major drain up until it happens next week," he said and then he sat.

  Tanner thought they should have agreed long ago they could be seated when they spoke to each other, as his ambassador rose once again.

  "But that is only a week away—so may we also then schedule to reconvene, say, one week from tomorrow?" he asked very politely and sat down once more.

  Rising, the Enkian shook his head. "I also must inform you that there will be an election held one week later for the head juror position, as the current leader, Iavoesi Qax, will be retiring. And in that election, I am running for that position. Which does mean that should I be successful, then the seat here in the negotiations room will be held by someone else," he said as he pointed at the other four leaders of the Words Muse.

  "It could be one of these fine leaders, or even my replacement, whomever that might be. But in any case, it means that my time will be spent on the election process—so we need at least two weeks in our delay timeline. There can be nothing else done," he said, and he sat down again.

  Tanner knew all of this, but it was good to have it out in the open now.

  If Qor were successful, they'd be dealing with someone else as the Words Muse leader.

  If he failed in his election, then he'd be back in that same chair, so as far as any concerns, negotiations would then happen.

  All good to know, but then the ambassador rose.

  "Qor, we are most pleasantly happy for you and your attempt to gain the head juror's position, and while we are outsiders here, if there is anything that we can do to help, please just ask," he said and he sat.

  Everyone was still seated and as talks had just been put on hold, they all rose to leave.

  Tanner grabbed Stonecraw Qew's arm as they left the room and walked down the short corridor to the huge rotunda area at the base of the Words Muse pyramid.

  "So, we've a couple of weeks off—maybe you could arrange for a trip to your technology centers or your spaceport—that's an area we'd like to see," he said.

  Stonecraw Qew nodded. "I will personally call my conda to ask, but that should not be a problem," he said, and they left the pyramid together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As the tank technician slowly worked his way down the long row of cryonic tanks, he noticed no one had swept or mopped up the floor ahead and off to port. Something had leaked but he was positive it was not a single tank in this—his—row. He had been doing this now for six months, since the SN Majestic had left her last port on Lambda 4 and sailed for the RIM. Every day, the same thing, and that made him a happy technician.

  “Nothing to think about, nothing changing every day. Set standard operating procedures, the kind of thing that anyone with a brain would want. And the job was his,” he said to himself and smiled.

  Ahead at the next two tanks, he turned to his right first and looked at the display screen as the standard monitoring of a sleeper began.

  Male, Seenra race, fifty-nine years, normal range of O2, vitals all within range, and interior gas levels at optimum. Injected chemicals were also within range.

  “No surprises here,” he said to himself, as he picked up his tablet off his cart and tapped it against the display screen to transfer the vitals from the sleeper tank over to his tablet for eventual upload to the ship's sleeper monitoring database.

  “Next,” he said to himself, and he turned around, pushed the cart a few feet closer to the matching tank on this row, and stopped cold.

  He was standing in some kind of fluid, and it had no odor or color. Like water, he thought. The shallow puddle had spread across the floor tread plates, and it was the same fluid he'd seen a couple of tanks back.

  He looked at the monitor and noted that all looked well. Wait, what's this? A flashing icon reported a low level of interior fluids. While the sleeper was not completely covered by liquid in their cryonic tank, there was a small volume of water in each tank of about knee depth, which was used to moderate the interior temperature levels. Liquids worked best, it had been found decades ago, to keep the sleeper in the most viable range of temperatures.

  And this level was low, the icon indicated.

  He nodded and did not smile. This was the first issue he'd run into since the ship had left Lambda 4, and it bothered him that this issue with a tank and it's seals, most likely, would be on his report. He made a note on his tablet and then clicked the icon on the monitor to stop the flashing.

  The repair request would go to engineering. They'd schedule a repair technician to come down, pop the tank to make a change to the seals, and see if that fixed the issue.

  Meanwhile, he looked at the monitor to check on the occupant of the faulty tank.

  Female, human race, twenty-si
x years, normal range of O2, vitals all at low range but still acceptable, interior gas a little thin but still okay, and injected chemicals were fine. He tapped his tablet to copy over the vital statistics for later upload and noted the name of the occupant too—one Gia Scott of Branton in the Earldom of Kinross. He added in the repair request note that the sleeper had vitals that were all at the low or thin edge of their ranges. He ensured that he clicked the top priority category for the message and clicked send.

  He stepped out of the puddle slowly hating that the bottoms of his clean shoes were now wet. When he got back out on the main walkway, he stamped his shoes to get the water off, and he was only partially successful.

  As he worked his way down to the next duo of facing tanks, he left wet partial footprints behind him on the floor tread plates.

  He hated changes and hoped the tank that was leaking was adjusted soon—before the tank occupant was affected more, he hoped.

  #####

  “There was no doubt that the room was plain and had been plain for over a generation,” the Baroness said to herself. “Yet there are now at least some items that added a dash of style, of color, and yes, even some Executive Committee panache too!” She looked over at the far wall, which was made of brick and saw a native Ikarian carving out of some kind of wood they had found on Throth. The Ikarians had used their skills to create what looked like a huge feathered serpent. The swirling colors of its feathers painted with bright oranges and reds on the yellow skin of the snake with blue eyes added a real whoop of color, she thought.

  Looking to her left, she saw the solid wall of bookcases. The middle four rows on each column had been emptied and cleaned, and there were now sculptures from Bottle, knick-knacks from Ttseen, and carvings of real sailing ships from DenKoss. These items came from her gift room where the gifts that had been presented to her and her late husband had been stored, which her aide had retrieved for her.