Carbon Run

by J. G. Follansbee

  “Why?”

  “Fear is a powerful weapon. Human beings are obsessed with the surfaces of things. They see a tiger, and they see cunning, stealth, and a painful death. I have to deliver on that promise occasionally.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  In the end, the decision to accept Kapitan Gore’s offer of “freedom and wealth” came easily to Martin. He had known plenty of the alternative since his disidentification, and although he still held hope of finding Molly Bain and the possibility of redemption in the eyes of the larger society, Martin saw Extinction as a way to hedge his bets. Gore would extract some sort of price for his generosity, though Martin had no idea what that price was.

  So much had happened since he left the monastery. He lost his begging bowl in Churchill, but he was getting one solid meal a day, so he didn’t miss it. He prayed less and less, though he was unsure why. Gore moved him to another compartment, cleaner and less crowded, with bosses whose brutality ended with verbal viciousness. Unspoken was a threat of returning to the deepest bowels of Extinction, and Martin knew a good thing when he saw it.

  He retained his job in the engine room, overseeing the same group of common criminals and other misbegotten who had been at the wrong place and time when Reason’s press gang came round. Martin recommended changes to reactor procedures to the chief engineer, which reached the ears of Gore. The captain invited Martin to the control room, where every officer, male and female, greeted him with contempt. Martin recognized Nelson, whom Gore introduced as his executive officer. Lurking near a holo-console was Reason, Gore’s tactical officer and well as chief thug.

  Just when Martin thought he was going mad from Extinction’s endless wandering, the crew was ordered to action stations. The submarine’s watertight doors were sealed. Gore had removed the escape pods from the crew compartments. If Extinction were disabled or sunk, the dissed and others who were not on duty would die. Martin’s compartment, in contrast, had a lifeboat, though he had no idea whether it would function if and when it was deployed.

  Nelson’s voice came through the intercom. “Martin Scribb to the control room.” Afraid he had done something wrong, the monk clambered through companionways and up ladders to the brain of the boat. Gore, Nelson and other officers hunched over a monitor table.

  “Brother Martin, do join us.” Gore was ebullient. “I was beginning to think our hunt would be fruitless, but one of our drones has found a target.”

  Martin approached the tactical table, uncertain. Numerous images and readouts, updated every few seconds, filled every inch of the surface. Martin recognized sea temperature, salinity, speed, course, and the chemical formulae for various hydrocarbons. Images were shown in infrared, normal, and intensified light with its characteristic green tones, though it wasn’t necessary in the 24-hour day of the Arctic. The “target” was a sailing ship.

  Gore spoke in a kind of gurgle. “Ladies and gentlemen, the sensor array is giving us a strong green signal. I propose we investigate. Objections?”

  No one said a word.

  “Very well. Mr. Nelson, stand by to deploy countermeasures. Mr. Reason, standard boarding procedures. Mr. Scribb, would you care to join me in the gig?”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about—”

  “I want you to know what we’re about, what I’m about. Follow me, if you please.”

  Martin, Gore, and two other crew with stasers and ordinary pistols crawled into a submersible. Gore himself sat in the pilot’s chair. The submersible un-docked from the mother boat and glided downward into semi-darkness. Gore’s handling of the submersible was so smooth that the sensation of floating was soporific. The jarring note was Gore’s constant back and forth discussion with another submersible, which was out of view.

  Light filtering from above increased. Martin’s ears popped and Gore turned to the pair of armed crew. “Stand by,” Gore said. His lips pulled back, revealing teeth dripping with saliva, as if he were ready to pounce. “Three, two, one, GO.”

  Martin was blasted with freezing air that smelled of sea salt. The armed crewmen bounded out of the open hatch, and he glimpsed a rust-streaked wall and lettering that spelled out Aganippe. The hatch closed and Martin felt his stomach lurch; the submersible was sinking. Martin gripped his seat, his gorge rising, and the sensation of falling stopped. Semi-darkness enveloped the submersible, and Martin realized they were under the sailing ship, perhaps hiding from defenses. Martin heard Gore whisper something into his mic with the word “secure.” He brought the submersible back to the side of the ship and surfaced.

  Gore loosened his crash web and slipped out of the pilot’s seat. “Let’s go see what we’ve found, shall we, Brother Scribb?” The hatch opened a second time and Gore handed Martin a heavy jacket. Gore climbed a rope ladder with the dexterity of a monkey to the deck of the ship. Martin followed, aping Gore’s technique, though it took one of the armed men to lift him over the rail.

  After the relative stability of Extinction’s deck, the lurching deck of Aganippe threw Martin off balance. Gore and his men took no notice. Martin reveled in the fresh air, unlike the filtered air of the submarine, and his eye was drawn upward to the complex of ropes and fabric that hung from the ship’s masts. The vessel was huge, though Martin had to revive his thinking when he saw a long black shape, like a snake with rigor mortis, on the sea surface a half-mile or so from the sailing ship. Extinction had risen.

  Three armed pirates from the other submersible held stasers over a group of men and women of various ages and nationalities, all of whom were bound and seated on the wooden deck. One of the captives, a large, red-haired bear of a man, argued with a guard. As Gore approached, the bear-man’s face drooped as if he had suffered a stroke. He also cried in terror when Gore stopped inches from him and addressed the guard.

  “What’s happening here?”

  “Sir, this man claims to be the captain. He’s refusing to cooperate.”

  “That’s not true.” The bear-man blubbered like a child. “I was trying to explain. We’re on a mission of mercy. We’re going to Bežat. To help the refugees.”

  “On your feet,” Gore said.

  “Listen to me. I know who you are, what you want.” The bear-man struggled to obey Gore’s command, until he was helped by one of the guards. “We can trade.”

  “Your name?” Gore bared his teeth.

  “McMadden.” The man shivered from fear.

  Gore drilled a look into McMadden’s eyes. “I’m going to ask you once. Show me all the access points to your cargo. I want every drop.”

  “Listen to me. I know where you can find ten times what I have.” McMadden nodded like a madman. “I can tell you, but please let me deliver my cargo to the refugees at Bežat.”

  “A mission of mercy, you say?” Gore let slaver drip from his fangs. “Oh, yes, you’ll deliver your crude to the refineries there, at ten times what you and your backers paid for it.”

  McMadden held out his hands. “It’s business. We’re delivering a product the refugees need. We have to cover our risks. You know what it’s like.”

  “I’m a businessman, too, captain. I steal from everyone and sell to the highest bidder, and I have an insatiable appetite for oil.” Gore relaxed. “However, I’m not averse to a trade. What do you have that I would want, besides your crude?”

  McMadden explained, the words cascading out of his mouth in a torrent. Gore was impressed, Martin saw. The corsair glanced at Nelson, who acknowledged an unspoken order. He returned his attention to McMadden. “Thank you for the information, Captain.”

  McMadden grimaced, breathing easier.

  “For the last time,” Gore continued, “show me the bungholes for your oil tanks.”

  McMadden shook his head in disbelief. “You agreed to a trade.”

  “I agreed to nothing, and you don’t seem to understand how serious I am.” Gore hissed like a deranged cat. “You.” He pointed at a chunky woman wearing an apron. Martin noticed food stains. �
�Get up.”

  The woman, her face stricken, didn’t move. The guards lifted her up, stepping back, as if they knew what was coming. Gore stepped toward the woman and raised his hand so that it was parallel to the deck. Martin blinked, and missed the hand’s lightning fast swipe, but he saw the result: The woman’s abdomen was sliced open, her intestines sliding out of the multiple openings like spaghetti through a colander. Her scream was unbearable, but Martin did not avert his eyes. Gore’s claw swiped across her throat, ripping flesh as if it were rice paper, and the woman slumped to the deck, twitching. Blood spurted from her neck for a second or two, then stopped, flowing in rivulets over the side of the ship.

  Out of nowhere came a small robot that resembled an upside-down cooking pot. It started cleaning up the blood.

  Gore turned to the bear-man. “Captain McMadden, where are the bungholes for the oil tanks?”

  McMadden burbled, his terror absolute, tears streaming down his face.

  “Show me,” Gore growled. McMadden stumbled toward the bow. Martin and a guard followed the pair. McMadden stopped about midway to the bow, and pointed at the deck. Gore glanced at the guard, who said something into his headset.

  Extinction eased closer to Aganippe, close enough for crew to throw ropes across the narrow chasm separating them. The submarine was three times longer than the sailing ship, and Martin imagined it extended below the water far deeper than the hull of the captured ship. Extinction’s crew hauled on the lines, which were attached to hoses. With a hammer and chisel, one of the crewmen knocked off wood on the deck that covered a cap, which was pulled off. The hose was lowered into the hole, followed by the vibrations that signaled suction. Oil was transferring from Aganippe to Extinction. Another hose was pulled over the Aganippe, and the process repeated. Within an hour, Nelson announced the operation complete.

  With Aganippe’s remaining crew gathered in the waste of the ship, Gore addressed them. “I am Kapitan Gore of Extinction. I have taken that which does not belong to you. Your mission of mercy is a sham. McMadden and his backers care only about profit. The Bureau of Environmental Security probably knows about you and what you’re doing. Consider yourselves lucky to have met me first.”

  Gore shifted. “Unlike your captain, I’m prepared to offer you a share of what we earn when we deliver to Bežat. Yes, I’m going there, too, with your cargo, once my tanks are full. You are all criminals, even if you claim you knew nothing about the smuggling. You can guess what will happen to you when you are convicted of violating the carbon laws. I need crew. Experienced men and women, even if you have not served on a submarine. Your skills at sea are valuable. You can take your chances here, or with me.”

  Gore searched the silent faces. “You there. What’s your name?”

  A strong, well-built man, perhaps in his forties with longish, graying hair glanced to his left and right.

  “Yes, you,” Gore said, pointing his paw at the man.

  “My name is Penn, Bill Penn.” The man said it as if embarrassed.

  “What do you say, then? Wait for the bessies? Or join me?”

  Penn searched the face of a leather-skinned woman next to him. “I’m with you.”

  “Me, too,” the woman said.

  Three others in the group of thirty or so stepped forward. “Very well, then. I wish the rest of you luck.”

  The new Extinction crew members walked past Martin, and it struck him. Penn. William Penn! Could it be?

  Extinction retrieved the oil hoses and the deployed submersibles. Gore, Martin, and the new crew members crowded into a small boat, which shuttled them toward Extinction, now about three hundred meters distant from Aganippe. Martin marveled at the drifting ship’s grace, even with the sails slack.

  “Nelson,” Gore said.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Execute.”

  “Done, sir.”

  Martin heard a low rumble, and Aganippe disintegrated in fire and debris. When the smoke cleared, the ship was gone.

  CHAPTER 25

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE MONTAGE OF IMAGES JERKED and jumped for Janine Kilel like a crippled dancer. In the chair next to her was a lab technician with the name “ Portunes” on his badge. His white coat was clean but rumpled. Colonel Penn recommended him as a crack forensic scientist. In a mobile lab near Port Simpson, they watched the video footage of the pier that once hosted the brigantine Aganippe. The quality of the video irritated Kilel. “Is this the best you can do?”

  “It took me a week to recover this much,” Portunes said. “Whoever destroyed this video did a thorough job.”

  Kilel glanced at the man’s dense analysis on her tablet. “Put it in simple terms for me. What are we looking at?”

  “The video shows a series of passenger vehicles arriving at the pier over several hours. The vehicle drops off individuals, who then board the boat.”

  The ship took up about a third of the screen, with the vehicles moving in and out of the frame.

  “What’s interesting are the gaps in the data stream,” Portunes continued. “If you examine the time codes, you can see that there’s a large jump in time after the passenger exits the car, sometimes as much as ten minutes.”

  “I see.”

  “The question is, what is the car doing during those gaps?” Portunes paused the video. “You’ll recall on page four of the analysis of our results from the micro-sample sweep. Droplets of crude oil were found on the bollards positioned closest to the ship.”

  “The pier is old,” Kilel said. “Perhaps they were left from pre-ban days?”

  “The amount of water and other signs confirm that the droplets were fresh, a few days old.”

  “Perhaps they came from other vessels that had used that pier?”

  “We examined all the boats at that pier since Aganippe’s departure. None of them had oil with the same signature. None of it was crude oil, for certain.”

  Solid logic on thin evidence, Kilel thought. “You also located a suspect in another investigation I’m running.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Portunes touched keys on his terminal. Another video image displayed on the screen. “You can see a man and woman boarding the ship about an hour after the last crew arrival. They come on foot, not by car. The man has been identified as William Penn. The woman is identified as Micah Panang.”

  “They boarded Aganippe together on the same night I attempted to arrest the man. It’s not a coincidence. Who is she?”

  Portunes touched his personal tablet. “She’s listed in the employment and social welfare databases as a licensed merchant seaman, but there are gaps in her record.”

  Kilel let the question of Panang go for now, but William Penn was connected to the oil smuggling. She was sure of it. If he hadn’t been before, he’d learned of it when he boarded Aganippe.

  “We should discuss the vehicle now, Inspector.”

  Kilel and the scientist exited the mobile van, which was parked thirty meters up a forested track that branched off a two-lane secondary road out of Port Simpson. Kilel’s car was parked next to the large van, its security bot stowed. The mobile investigation crew’s secbot watched over the scene as the pair of BES agents approached the burned-out hulk of another car.

  “Local police found this a few days ago,” Portunes said.

  Kilel sniffed petroleum. “What happened here? An accident?”

  “The police don’t think so.” Portunes’ voice was euphonic. “There’s no sign that it lost control or hit anything before it was destroyed. The local police speculate that it was stolen, then abandoned.”

  “You believe otherwise.”

  “Yes. The license plates are missing. The license and registration transponder was deactivated and the memory wiped. Most of the other identifying characteristics have also been removed or altered.”

  “That would be typical of thieves, probably a ring, with some sophistication,” Portunes said.

  “I’ve also identified the cause of the fire. A flammable li
quid that was heated or sparked. The leak came from an area of the vehicle normally clear of such fluids. A closer examination found a series of sealed and connected spaces in the frame. One of the seals leaked, and the fluid came in contact with a heat source. Thus, the fire.”

  “Any trace of the fire’s fuel source?”

  “Crude oil,” Portunes said, proud of his discovery. “The traces we found match the traces found at the pier in Port Simpson. A calculation of the amount that could be transported by the car—about a hundred twenty litres...”

  “...a barrel of oil,” Kilel said almost to herself.

  “...and the number of cars seen in the data streams give us an approximate amount of oil transferred to Aganippe,” Portunes added.

  “Excellent work. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Inspector.” Portunes paused. “The supercapacitor pack was damaged in the fire, but the trace elements in the device’s electrolytes pointed to a particular manufacturer.”

  “And?”

  Portunes glanced back to the van and the security robot. “I’m afraid you won’t like what I’ve found, Inspector.”

  “Go on.”

  Portunes sighed. His pride gave way to apprehension. “The supercapacitors are installed in vehicles supplied exclusively to the Bureau of Environmental Security. No one can purchase these capacitors on the open market, which means the car has to be BES in origin.”

  The implication of this discovery was not lost on Kilel. The smuggling ring was sophisticated and extensive, but was there a connection to the government? Kilel found the idea hard to accept, but she was not naive enough to dismiss it. She crossed her arms. “Have you connected this car to any of the images from the pier?”

  “Not yet.” Portunes sighed again. “The fire badly damaged the vehicle, but we think the traces of oil serve as a connection.”

  “Not good enough.” Kilel was skeptical of whether an Environmental Crimes Tribunal judge would accept Portunes’ hypothesis. That’s a question for the prosecutor. “Let’s say this car was transporting crude oil to the ship. How was it transferred?”