Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars)

by S J MacDonald

  “Register?” Alex demanded, with rising suspicion. “What do you mean, register?”

  “Well, you know, I’ve been looking it up.” Now that he was not restricted to a given number of words, Rangi launched into rapid explanation, “and there is provision for ships or space stations to register with system authorities as a quarantined facility – you need a license which we could get very easily, it just needs a suitably qualified vet to sign off on our quarantine arrangements and confirm the animal is healthy, and then we can keep him on board, no problem.”

  Alex saw straight through that one.

  “When you say quarantined facility,” he said, “you mean zoo, right?”

  “Well, technically, yes,” said Rangi, hurrying past that to assure him, “it is just a technicality to get the licence, skipper.”

  “You are seriously suggesting that I register my ship,” said Alex, “as a space zoo?”

  His tone was controlled but eloquent, and Rangi gave a bright smile.

  “We don’t have to use the word zoo,” he said, having anticipated that that might be something of a sticking point.

  “We wouldn’t have to,” Alex observed. “Can you imagine the grief we’d get over that? The animal rights lot would be all over us, for a start, and right now they’re just about the only people who are not campaigning against us. The media would go ballistic, too. Even the Fleet…” he looked appalled, as he thought about the reaction of the rest of the Fleet to the news that the Fourth had now registered themselves as a space zoo. “We would never, ever live it down,” he said. “No, Dr Tekawa. Absolutely not. It is out of the question.” He held up a hand to forestall debate. “I will give you twenty five hours to come up with some other solution,” he said. “If you can’t, I’m sorry, we’ll just have to put it to sleep.”

  “You can’t just kill it, sir!” Rangi protested.

  “Twenty five hours, Sub-lt.” said Alex, using the medic’s Fleet rank to remind him that this was not a situation in which he could argue against orders.

  “Oh,” Rangi said, and went off, then, looking upset. The ship, Alex noticed, had gone very quiet. Several of the command deck crew were looking at him reproachfully. Alex took no notice. There were times, as skipper, when you just had to make the unpopular decision. He had rather more important things to deal with than the fate of an unquarantined gecko, too.

  So he got back to considering how best to board the station, anticipating the need for that in another three days, while keeping half an eye on long range scopes just in case the Pallamar arrived.

  It had not done so by 0900 next morning, when he was finally able to interview Logan Tantrell. The clerk was feeling better. He was no longer in discomfort thanks to the microsurgery Rangi Tekawa had carried out. He had also found himself with clean, comfortable accommodation and decent food. The terrifying Fourth had turned out, on closer acquaintance, to be courteous and considerate. Now, he sat facing Alex von Strada with a look of resolve.

  “I’m not going to tell you anything,” he stated.

  “That is your right, of course,” Alex replied. “But we don’t actually need you to give evidence, Mr Tantrell. In fact, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your excellent and detailed record keeping. It has been extremely helpful in our operations and I have no doubt that your records will be central to the prosecution case when this comes to court, too.”

  Logan Tantrell looked suspiciously at him.

  “What records?” he challenged.

  “These records, Mr Tantrell,” Alex called up copies of all the altered files they’d retrieved from the Karadon network. “They all,” he pointed out helpfully, “have your name on them as the actuating member of staff. They also have two full stops on article seventeen in the terms and conditions.”

  Logan Tantrell looked as if he felt sick. He stared at the records then picked up the cup of water on the table and took a sip. Alex just sat there waiting patiently.

  “Who told you?” the clerk asked, eventually.

  “I will not reveal our sources,” Alex said. “But that double stop, cross referenced to your “personal expenditure” file and seizures of shipments made by Customs, is what enabled us to find all the drugs aboard ships in port and the recently shipped ones, too. We, and the League, are indebted to you, Mr Tantrell. Of course, if you choose to exercise your right not to make any statement either now or in the future, those documents will also form the prosecution case against you. But I’m sure you thought of that, when you decided to keep private records of all the manifest certificates you were falsifying for the Landorn cartel.”

  Logan, like the other prisoners, had been given shipboard rig to wear, without insignia. As he took in what Alex was saying, he turned the same grey as the uniform.

  “I didn’t think anyone would ever notice!” he appealed to the skipper. “Nobody ever reads the Terms and Conditions! They just click the box to say they have! I never told anyone about the two full stops! That’s my private code! So how did you find out?”

  “I am not going to tell you that,” Alex repeated. “You do not, of course, have to answer my questions, but you do not have the right to information about how we obtained those documents, either. I would just like to ask you, though,” he surveyed the clerk with chillingly unemotional grey eyes, “why, Mr Tantrell? How does a man like you end up laundering Customs documentation for a drugs gang?”

  Logan looked at him in astonishment. “For the money, obviously!” he said, as if that was self evident. He took another drink of his water and managed to compose himself. Then, seeing Alex’s cold stare, he became defensive. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he told the skipper. “I’m a Subter. It took me eighteen years to get even a ten hour office job on Chartsey, and another six before I got a job on Gateway.”

  Alex understood just what he meant by that. “Subter” was Chartsey slang for a citizen who lived, as four billion of the planet’s population did, in deep subterranean estates. Subters were the capital world’s underclass. They were far less likely to go on to higher education, or to get jobs. With almost all manufacturing and even most service jobs automated, jobs were hard to come by. Most Subters would spend their lives doing eight hours a week community work in exchange for subsistence benefits.

  “I do not want to end up like my parents,” Logan said, with a bitter note, “living in a miserable hole, penny-pinching every day to make their benefits stretch. I want my own place and a decent pension for my old age.”

  “All for a place in the sun, is that it?” Alex queried, with a cynical note.

  “Not me,” Logan said, looking revolted at the thought. “Above-ground living is highly overrated, in my opinion. I prefer it underground, out of all that weather.” He said the word “weather” as if it was something disgusting. “If I want a view of the sky I can put one on the holowindow,” he pointed out. “No. I want a nice place in Calewood.” Calewood was one of the more upmarket underground areas, popular with middle class city types who wanted to live in Londris, the capital city, but couldn’t afford the extortionate above-ground rents

  “I liked it on Gateway, too.” he said. ISiS Gateway was located just a few hours from Chartsey. It wasn’t as big as Karadon and nothing like as important as a freight hub, but life there would have been very glamorous to someone like Logan Tantrell. “But I heard the money was better at Karadon so I applied for a transfer,” he explained. “I’ve been here twelve years now.”

  Alex said nothing. He was fascinated by how this apparently timid, respectable little man was talking as if they were having an ordinary conversation. It was as if he felt the need to explain, to justify himself, and as if he believed somehow that if he did so, everything would be all right.

  “Eight years ago, I realised that Mr Hopkins had altered some Customs documents, off-shift,” Logan told him. Dale Hopkins was another minor functionary, an office supervisor in Karadon Freight. “When I asked him about it he said there’d been
a mistake at the export world and he’d just put it right. A few weeks later, though, it happened again. I came in to work one morning and found that one of my containers had been reprocessed overnight. I worked out that they were smuggling something, so I told Mr Hopkins that if they needed documents changing like that, he didn’t have to double up on my work, I’d happily do that for them.” He took another sip of his water, apparently unaware of having said anything remarkable.

  “He seemed a bit worried at first that I might tell people about it but I convinced him that it would, of course, be totally confidential. I was going to ask if I could log an hour or two’s overtime whenever I processed a cargo like that, but Mr Hopkins said he’d give me a hundred dollars a container, which was a lot more, obviously. I’ve processed forty seven cargoes altogether. I’ve been putting the money into a high interest savings account and there’s more than five thousand dollars in it now. That’s more money than I could ever hope to save, of course. So that’s why I did it.”

  “But you knew it was drugs?” Alex asked. “And you knew that you were working for the Landorn cartel?”

  “I never asked what was in the containers,” said Logan. “I did hear that it was medication being shipped by Landorn Pharmaceuticals so yes, obviously, I knew it was drugs, but I didn’t want to know the details.”

  “But you did know that the “medication” you were helping them to ship was drugs destined for the streets of our worlds, and that addicts were likely to die from them?”

  Logan looked annoyed, as if he felt that Alex had no right to be criticising his morals.

  “If it wasn’t me,” he said, “it would have been somebody else. Since it was going to happen anyway, why shouldn’t I get the benefit?”

  Alex was not often lost for words, but he was then. He stared at the prim little clerk, outwardly so very respectable. You could never, he felt, fathom the depths of the human psyche.

  “I suppose it was Mr Hopkins who told you about me,” said Logan, with an aggrieved note. “So,” he said, looking at Alex, “how much are you offering for me to give evidence?”

  “I am authorised,” said Alex, “to offer you a place on the witness protection programme in exchange for your testimony. I can also offer you the same deal I have with Mr Arad – protective custody at our base for the duration of legal proceedings and then either relocation out of the League or the safest “change of identity” option available.”

  “Yes, but how much?” Logan pressed, and as Alex looked at him questioningly, “how much are you willing to pay?”

  “I’m sorry?” Alex said, with a note of faint incredulity.

  “Well, I have to consider my options,” Logan pointed out, as if this was the most reasonable thing in the world. “You see about it all the time, supergrasses being paid tens of thousands for their evidence. I’m sure that the Landorn people would happily pay me a lot of money to keep quiet, so how much is it worth for me to talk?”

  There was a short silence while Alex contemplated him with some slight bewilderment.

  “Mr Tantrell, you do remember being advised that everything said in this room is recorded and may be used in court?” he queried, gesturing towards the notice on the wall that stated that in large, clear lettering. “You have already admitted, on record, to laundering documents for the Landorn cartel, and named one of your associates. And whatever else you may have to offer, believe me, nobody is going to pay you any money for it. Witness protection schemes allow you sufficient funds to start a modest new life, but nothing more than that. Wherever you’ve got the idea that the League pays supergrasses tens of thousands of dollars for their evidence, you are entirely mistaken.”

  “I’ve seen it on the holly!” Logan insisted. “Lots of times!”

  Alex recalled channel hopping on Chartsey and being amazed by some of the stories going out on channels which described themselves as “news”.

  “Channels like Hot Goss and Lightning are not reliable sources of information, Mr Tantrell,” he said, and as the clerk looked indignant, “but regardless of that, I can assure you that the League does not pay witnesses for their evidence. I also have to tell you that regardless of any promises they might make, the Landorn Cartel is not in the habit of paying off people who ask them for money in return for their silence, either. Are you familiar with what happened to Jaz Michel when he threatened to make a deal with the authorities?”

  “Yes, of course.” Logan looked frightened again at that. “You’re right. I should keep quiet.”

  Alex was reminded of a quote he’d come across in his schooldays. Stupidity is a black hole, nothing overcomes it.

  “That is your right,” he conceded. “But you should understand that you only have two choices, here. If you refuse to give your testimony these records will be used as evidence against you. If convicted, you may be sent to prison for up to twenty years. You may believe that the Landorn cartel will forgive you having betrayed them by keeping detailed records of their drug trafficking and reward your belated silence with large amounts of money. Personally I doubt it. On the other hand you may accept the offer of turning state’s evidence in return for immunity from prosecution and a place on the witness protection programme. You do not have to make your mind up on that right now, of course. As you have been advised and reminded since your arrest, you are strongly advised not to make any statement until you have obtained independent legal counsel.”

  Logan ignored that.

  “I didn’t betray them by keeping the records,” he told Alex, clearly feeling it to be a matter of importance that the skipper understood that. “I just thought I ought to keep proper records, in case there was ever any dispute about what had been processed, you know. That’s the first thing I learned on my business administrator’s course, to keep proper records of everything. How was I supposed to know that someone would find out and tell you about it? But I can still deny it, refuse to make any statements or give evidence.”

  “Indeed you can,” Alex said, drily, “though the records of this interview will make interesting viewing in court, either way.” The recording might, he’d realised, be used either by the prosecution or defence to discredit whatever testimony Logan Tantrell was giving at the time. His confusion of declaring that he wouldn’t make a statement and then doing just that, coupled with his demand for large amounts of money in return for his evidence, would give the lawyers a field day. “I really would advise, very strongly, that you do not make any further statements until you have a lawyer representing you.”

  Logan looked perturbed. The lawyers had been amongst the first to flee the station. Even those who’d initially agreed to represent the Demella Enterprise’s crew had since departed aboard liners.

  “But where can I get a lawyer, out here?” he asked.

  “There may be one aboard one of the liners,” Alex observed, “and they might be willing to act for you. Failing that, you’ll just have to wait till we get back to Therik.”

  “But I don’t want to go to Therik!” Logan complained. “I want to go back to Chartsey.”

  “You’re in our custody, and we will be taking you to Therik,” Alex said, in a tone that made it clear that was not up for discussion. He got up, feeling that there was no point in continuing this. He even doubted whether the Prosecution Service on Therik would consider Logan Tantrell sufficiently credible to justify allowing him to turn State’s evidence. They had, after much discussion, allowed Alex to offer that to key witnesses on their behalf, but if he was discredited as a witness in person then his records might also be called into question. If so, Logan Tantrell might be more of a liability than an asset to their case. On the other hand, refusing to allow him to turn State’s evidence and denying him the witness protection that offered would be effectively abandoning him to the vengeance of the Landorn gang.

  “All right, all right!” Logan picked up that sense of the skipper’s not even wanting his evidence now, and apparently mistook it for a bargaining ploy. “All right,
” he said, with that aggrieved note again, “I’ll turn State’s Evidence. But I want to go to Chartsey! Therik is disgusting!”

  Alex looked at him in mild perplexity. Therik had its share of inner-city deprivation areas like any other world, but for the most part it was a green world, with small cities and a thriving natural ecology.

  Then the penny dropped. Of course, to a Subter like Logan Tantrell, that natural environment would be disgusting. No wonder he hadn’t been comfortable in sickbay, with the tree and the lizard.

  “Like it or not,” said Alex, “you’re going to Therik.” He nodded to the crewman who was standing guard in boarding-rig. “Take him back to the brig.” Then, as Logan Tantrell protested that he was ready to make a statement now, Alex told him, “I’ll have another officer meet with you later.”

  He decided as he walked away that that officer would be Martine Fishe. She had endless patience even with the most infuriating people.

  Chapter Twenty

  At 1407 that afternoon, the Pallamar came into port.

  Started to, anyway. The Trademaster ship was rising into port on a standard approach. At the point where the frigate appeared on their scopes, however, they aborted their ascent, curving away and accelerating.

  “Action stations,” Alex commanded, though a shout had gone up at the first glimpse of the Pallamar and the crew of the Heron were already scrambling to stations. The order put the ship into freefall, enabling the crew to scoot around much quicker.

  Alex pulled on the survival suit the command deck rigger handed him, his eyes focussed on screens. He was coming to a rapid decision about what to do about the two snatch teams currently away on cargo-checking operations. Both of them were being led by super-subs. Of the two, Arie McKenna was the senior.

  Alex had to leave them both here. There had to be at least one team remaining in port to watch in case Durban Jorgensen and the others tried to make a run for it.