Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars)

by S J MacDonald

  Two minutes after that, a call was made to the Princess Rose asking for shuttles to come and get “about twenty” people who wanted to leave.

  Half a minute later, that number was upgraded to “about fifty”.

  “Come on, come on!” Morry Morelle was still holding the watch. He was glued to screens, as they all were, watching the IDs of those being taken onto the liner. The Princess Rose, very obligingly, was signalling that to them as they checked people aboard. Tension was high on the frigate. Morry was not the only one muttering encouragement or even prayers. The atmosphere resembled that of ardent sports fans holding their breaths as they watched to see if a complex, risky game-play would pay off. The big question in everyone’s minds was whether, if Logan Tantrell did try to leave, the gang would let him go. Durb Jorgensen and the others, after all, did not know that the clerk had been keeping private records of their drug transactions. It was obvious that they did not know that because Logan Tantrell was still alive. It was possible that they might just let him go, if he had the sense to just slip away quietly in the middle of a big group.

  When the name Logan Tantrell appeared on the Princess Rose passenger list, the frigate erupted with cheers.

  “Yes!” Morry shouted, punching the air, and then remembered that he was a senior officer and not supposed to do that kind of thing on watch. Alex, however, just grinned. He’d laughed aloud himself at the sight of the clerk’s name appearing on the list. “Okay, go!” he told Buzz, who was already getting to his feet and looking at him expectantly.

  “Alpha, beta and gamma teams prep for launch,” Buzz spoke through his headset, already hurrying away.

  Alex called the captain of the Princess Rose. He seemed a little distracted, as might be expected when he was having to cope with several hundred emergency passengers on the one hand and his own passengers flaring into a panic on the other. He took Alex’s call at once, though. Like the other liners, the Princess Rose was in the seventh orbit, close enough to manage a live conversation with only a second or so delay in transmission.

  “Sorry,” said Alex, politely, “but I have to ask you to detain passenger Logan Tantrell as a person of interest in our investigations. If you could do that as discreetly as possible and have him at a convenient airlock for collection within the next few minutes, it would be greatly appreciated. I’m attaching the warrant.”

  There was a slight pause while the captain of the Princess Rose examined the warrant for Logan Tantrell’s arrest. There was no hesitation at all in his response. Quite apart from the fact that Alex had the legal right to issue such a warrant, the alternative just did not bear thinking about. The liner captain did not need to be told that unless he complied Alex would exercise his right to send a boarding party aboard to find and arrest Logan Tantrell himself. The sight of cyber-suited members of the Fourth going through the ship with their rifles at the ready was not likely to improve the situation there.

  “Can we deliver him to you?” Even the sight of Fourth’s shuttles approaching the liner would freak out their passengers, and there was earnest appeal in the captain’s face. “Please, skipper?”

  “All right.” Alex did not want to alienate the liner companies, and agreed to that at once. “I’ll liaise with your security chief.”

  “Thank you.” The captain gave him a look of profound gratitude.

  Four minutes later, a shuttle from the Princess Rose docked at the Heron’s number seven airlock. They were docked on for less than ten seconds – just as long as it took to open the airlock, bundle Logan Tantrell through it, salute the officer who’d come to meet them and close the airlock again.

  Logan Tantrell looked like a frightened gerbil. He was punctiliously dressed in clothes that had never been in fashion on any world at any time. Two lumopens and the kind of laser-torch that had a safety beacon on it were clipped into his shirt pocket.

  Martine Fishe dealt with the formalities, confirming his identity and going through the ritual of arrest and formal warning. He didn’t say anything other than “yes” to confirm his ID. When he was shown into the interview room and uncuffed, he sat down on the edge of a chair, watching her anxiously.

  “Dr Tekawa will be here shortly to give you a preliminary medical check,” Martine told him. Seeing him flinch at that, she assured him, “That’s just to confirm that you’re uninjured and in a fit state to be interviewed. He may be a few minutes, though, so in the meantime, can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “Could I have…” he belched, putting his hand over his mouth and looking embarrassed. The sour smell of bile drifted on the air. “I’d like some water, please.” he reached into his pocket and took out a plastic dispenser labelled Stomasoothe. It had a hololabel showing a man in exaggerated pain from acid reflux, taking a Stomasoothe and immediately trail-biking on a mountain, glowing with health. The picture faded into a Landorn Pharmaceuticals logo and then reverted to the wincing, chest-clutching actor. “I have these tablets,” he explained, “for my stomach.”

  The irony was not lost on Martine.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to take those,” she said, getting a forensics bag. “Our doctor will prescribe you something if you’re in discomfort.”

  Logan Tantrell didn’t argue about it, though his eyes followed the packet of tablets rather forlornly as Martine took them away.

  “Thank you,” he said, as she gave him a beaker of water.

  Martine relieved him of the rest of his personal belongings. He had no luggage with him, having obviously left the station without even going to his quarters to pick up an overnight bag. The fact that he was not asking why he’d been arrested or protesting his innocence made it apparent that he knew very well why he was here. It was almost as if he’d been expecting it, with a fatalistic air under his anxiety.

  “I suppose Mr Arad told you about me,” he said, as he handed over his pens and safety torch.

  “I’m not supposed to interview you till the doctor’s checked you out,” Martine said. On principle she had nothing but contempt for a man who’d spent years assisting with drug running on a scale that had killed countless addicts. In practice she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for this pathetic little man.

  “Well, I’m not going to talk,” he said. “I don’t care what you do to me.” The fearful look on his face as he said that made it clear that was a lie. “If I turn state’s evidence I’m as good as dead.”

  “Just sit quietly,” Martine told him. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

  Rangi arrived a couple of minutes later, breezy with pleasure at having another patient to check out. This time, however, he clucked and tutted during the preliminary evaluation and told Martine that he was going to have to take him to sickbay.

  “I believe he has an ulcer,” he said. “That can be very serious.” He addressed Logan Tantrell, “What have you been taking for it?”

  “Stomasoothe,” Logan replied, looking scared.

  “But that’s… who prescribed that?” Rangi asked, astounded.

  “Nobody. I mean, I bought it at the dispensary,” Logan told him, with a nervous twist of his fingers. “I’ve had it before, when I get acid pains.”

  Rangi gave a derisory little snort.

  “You,” he told him, “are coming to sickbay. Don’t worry. We’ll soon get you sorted.” Seeing the questioning look on Martine’s face he told her, “Couple of hours.”

  There was nothing she could but accept that, so Logan Tantrell went off with Rangi and a security escort. Alex, when he was told, merely nodded. He was engrossed in running a feasibility simulation. He had a sim of the station on a screen and was analysing how much of it they would be able to keep functioning with the staff they had left. Karadon had been haemorrhaging staff all week. With the departure of the three hundred and eighty seven remaining Leisure personnel and the forty eight that had fled the station even after Durb Jorgensen’s pep talk, they now had just sixty nine staff remaining.

  Raw numbers weren�
��t everything, however. To keep the station running needed qualified technicians. Karadon had precious few of them left. They were already sealing off and powering down the Leisure sections, shutting them down deck by deck. Most of the journalists had gone now. Durban Jorgensen had called into the hotel and told them straight, on camera, that unless they were off the station by 0900 he would have them removed by force if necessary. They did still have most of the station’s security staff. Many of them were ex-army types, not in the habit of running away when things got tough.

  There was a brief drama on the Leisure decks as the last of the journalists were made to leave, protesting till the moment the airlocks were shut on them. Then Durb Jorgensen, now describing himself as the “Acting Director”, had the rest of the resort part of the station scanned for life signs, sealed off and shut down.

  A large part of the station was now airlocked off, dark and silent. No airpumps were working, all pipes had been drained. Even the autobot controller had been turned off, as one less thing to have to monitor. From the outside, though, none of that was obvious. Hull lighting was a separate system and that remained on, defiantly, right across the station. Durb Jorgensen had the lowest thirty two decks of the Freight section sealed off and deactivated, too. He was only maintaining that section of the station which had the freight offices and main cargo handling.

  “Karadon Freight,” he signalled out in a blast of chutzpah, “is still open for business!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Belassa Torres looked up from her desk as the ICV 12’s medic came into her office.

  The term “yacht” was a rather misleading description for the three deck ship. It had eight principal staterooms, thirty two lesser cabins, two lounges, a dining room and a compact but well equipped spa. Since the Director had only brought a handful of staff with her, several cabins had been removed to create an office that could double as a conference room. It was bigger than Chok’s office on the station. One of the walls had been covered with a huge holoscreen that was showing the same view of Oltes, the capital city of Flancer, as Belassa Torres had from her office high in ISiS Tower, there.

  “I’m sorry, Director,” the medic informed her, “Mr Dayfield won’t be fit for duty for some time. He’s suffered a psychological trauma on top of physical collapse from stress and exhaustion. Frankly, if we were groundside I would be checking him into a clinic. I would certainly sign him off work for at least a month, the state he’s in.”

  Belassa Torres nodded. She didn’t seem surprised. She had seen Chok Dayfield having to be helped through the airlock and carried off to the yacht’s sickbay.

  “Thank you,” she said, and the medic inclined his head and departed.

  When he’d gone, she looked down at a message still open on her desk. It was from Chantalle Rivers, in response to a request from Belassa Torres that she come aboard the yacht in order to continue her role as Director of Karadon Leisure. Chantalle’s answer was short, blunt, and told Director Torres exactly what she could do with her job. A second screen showed a copy of her reply to the Fourth’s asking if she would be willing to go aboard their ship and make a statement. It was rather more politely phrased but equally firm. She would, she said, make a statement once she was home and able to consult her own lawyers.

  Director Torres looked up, gazing at the holographic view of Oltes. There had been a fad for building circular towers there in recent years, most of them clad in metallic-tinted glass. The largest of them, the three hundred and forty seven storey bronze tinted Enterprise Tower, was known affectionately to Oltesans as “The Finger”. It was glowing in the rosy light of the Flancerian sun. Traffic streams flowed across a spectacular pink-tinted cloud-scape.

  Belassa Torres, however, seemed to be looking far beyond the simulated scenery, her expression deeply thoughtful.

  Then she smiled very slightly, giving a little nod, decision made.

  She called the Freight Director, who answered with a curt, “What?”

  “Mr Jorgensen,” she said, “Your employment with the company is terminated with immediate effect on grounds of gross misconduct. Kindly ensure that you have left the station within three days.”

  She shut off the call before he’d managed to utter more than a couple of obscenities. Then she sent the same message to Hale Ardant, messaging him because he didn’t answer her call. Then, methodically, she zap-mailed every other member of ISiS Corps who’d remained on the station, firing every single one of them. As she did so she also sent a message to Ambit Persane. He had also taken refuge on the ICV 12 and had spent the last couple of hours trying to find something he could say to the media with any kind of positive spin. So far the best he’d come up with was, “At least nobody got shot,” which even he recognised was not really workable PR.

  “Yes, Director?” he came in within seconds of being sent for, trying to look keen and confident.

  “Mr Persane,” she gestured him to a seat, and he sat down, looking at her alertly. “Mr Dayfield has been signed off as medically unfit to continue in office,” she informed him. Ambit tried to look sympathetic, which was not the slightest bit convincing. “Ms Rivers has resigned,” the Director continued, “and I have just fired Mr Jorgensen, Mr Ardant and all those staff remaining on the station. As you are now the only member of the Board still employed and fit for work, that makes you the Acting Managing Director of ISiS Karadon.”

  Ambit gazed at her with a kind of rapture dawning in his face.

  “I’m the MD?” It was all his fantasies come true. Well, nearly all. There was no sports car and no scantily clad young women. Other than that, it was all his fantasies come true.

  “MD, and only remaining employee,” she observed, drily. “I have given Mr Jorgensen and the others three days to vacate the station, as is required under company policy.”

  Ambit’s look of delight faded.

  “Er…” he said. “Do you think they will, Director?”

  “If they do, the Fourth will certainly arrest them,” Director Torres observed. “I believe it is now safe to assume that they have sufficient evidence in hand to arrest everyone involved in the drug trafficking.”

  “And you think all of the people still on the station are in on that?” Ambit’s eyes widened. His own impression was that the drug gang consisted only of around twenty people. There were nearly seventy still aboard the station.

  “No,” Director Torres said, calmly. “But everyone who stayed aboard the station is either directly involved in the drug trafficking or prepared to stay on working for Mr Jorgensen even with overwhelming evidence that the allegations against him and Mr Ardant are true. That does not, in my view, make them the kind of people we want working for ISiS Corps. If they leave, the Fourth will arrest the ones involved in the drug trafficking. If they don’t…” she paused just for a moment, and gave one of her cool almost-smiles, “well, if they don’t, then in three days we will be in a situation where the station is being occupied by a group of armed and dangerous people who have no right to be there.”

  “And that’s a good thing?” Ambit hazarded, picking up that vibe.

  “That, Mr Persane, is an excellent thing,” she told him. “Just take stock of the situation. The Fourth was given the near-impossible task of putting a stop to drug trafficking on Karadon without having any legal rights to board it. Drug trafficking has been stopped. All vulnerable members of the public and innocent employees have been evacuated. Alternative trade and transit hubs have been established, minimising impact on the League. The only people left on the station are the drug traffickers and those prepared to work for them. Now that they have been fired, they must either leave the station and be arrested or occupy it unlawfully. If they are still doing so in three days’ time and refuse to leave then you, as the acting MD, may implement Emergency Protocol Five.”

  Understanding flashed onto Ambit’s face. There were only six circumstances in which the MD of an ISiS Station could give permission for or ask League authorities to
board and carry out operations there. The first was if the station was on fire beyond the ability of their own systems and staff to deal with. The second was if it had suffered technical breakdowns putting the lives of the people aboard it at risk. The third was if there was an epidemic outbreak of a virulent disease on board. The fourth was in the case of terrorist attack. The fifth was if the station was being occupied by a hostile force. The sixth was merely described as “incursion by non-human species”. Most people assumed that to mean Marfikians, though it actually referred to the remote possibility of another alien race turning up at a deep space station, making first contact there. No ISiS had ever had to implement any of the Emergency Protocols. If it came to it, Ambit Persane would be the first MD in corporate history to do so.

  He sat up a bit straighter, looking very impressed.

  “I will do whatever it takes,” he declared, and then as a sudden thought struck him, added, rather less valiantly, “I don’t have to go onto the station myself, do I?”

  “No,” she said. “We will keep our airlock secured, Mr Persane. And don’t worry, Mr Ardant’s master key will not override our airlock security.”

  “Good,” said Ambit, and became macho again. “Don’t you worry, Director. You can rely on me.” As she looked at him with a complete absence of joyful relief, he went on hastily, “The only thing is, though, if you’ve just fired everyone left on the station, what about the maintenance, life support, traffic control, all that?”

  “Well, if they stop doing that and essential systems are failing, you can implement Emergency Protocol Two,” she observed. “Somehow, though, I doubt that they will cut off their own life support. If I read Mr Jorgensen correctly, he will attempt to retain a kind of ersatz authority by refusing to acknowledge my right to fire him or yours to assume the role of Acting MD. As for traffic control, you needn’t be concerned about that. An agreement has just been reached that the largest liner in port at any time will extend their currently agreed role of “flagship” into handling traffic control. Ships are already contacting the Queen of Cartasay rather than Karadon.”