The Blunt End of the Service

by L. J. Simpson

  “Range and heading?”

  “Can’t be sure of the range but I do have a bearing, and it looks like he’s heading towards the outer solar system.”

  “I wonder where he’s going?”

  “Dunno. I suppose we’d better follow him and find out,” said Chuck.

  “He’s disabled his transponder, hasn’t he? Once we’re in open space, how about turning off our own? Two can play at that game.”

  “Good idea, but I’ve got a better one,” said Chuck, opening up the secure channel to O1.

  “Ops, can you find me a transponder code for a small shuttle? One about the same size as the Valiant?”

  “Understood,” said Jacobs. “Baz, get on it.”

  “What’s he want that for?” asked Mullins.

  “I’d say he wants to disguise his approach,” said Jacobs. “He could turn off his transponder altogether but Jacks will smell a rat if he checks his radar and picks up a ship without a transponder. If Chuck re-configures the transponder code, all Jacks will see is a nondescript shuttle.”

  “How about this one?” said Baz, checking the registry. “It’s a light transport scheduled for decommissioning.”

  “That’ll do,” said Jacobs. “Send it off to the Valiant.” A few minutes later Chuck had the new transponder code installed and the Valiant instantly became the MV Gladstone to all except those close enough to verify the fact with the Mk1 human eyeball. Chuck matched the Valiant’s course to Hector’s signal and engaged the engines; in seconds Phoenix was left far behind them. Twenty minutes later Chuck had gathered enough data to determine Jacks’ exact speed and course.

  “Brannon’s Wharf. He’s heading straight for Brannon’s Wharf,” he said.

  “Brannon’s Wharf?” said Penny.

  “It’s out in the asteroid belt. If Phoenix is a shining city in the sky, think of Brannon’s Wharf as a shanty town, a collection of bars, brothels, gaming houses, that sort of thing. It’s where all the prospectors and miners go for their rest and recreation. There’s a whole bunch of places like it scattered around the belt, all of them run by the same consortium which is widely believed to be a front for the Delph Organisation.”

  “The crime syndicate?”

  “It’s a great big universe,” said Chuck. “The police can’t be everywhere and there are places where people have to make their own rules. I suppose the more clout you have, the more rules you can make – or break – as the situation requires. Out in the belt the Delph maintain a kind of law and order – their own particular brand of law and order but better than nothing… probably. As long as the Delph doesn’t step too far out of line the government turns a blind eye to its operations – out here, at least. Closer in-system it’s a different story. Anyway, now that we know where he’s going I’m going to change course a little. I can still keep an eye on him but we can’t just sit on his stern for the next two or three hours. He’s bound to notice.”

  Jacks was already aware of the shuttle trailing him. He’d picked it up almost as soon as it began to follow him and he’d been watching it closely for the last ten minutes. Now it seemed to be veering away to port, probably heading for one of the mining platforms out in the belt. He watched it for another minute or so before focussing his attention on his destination far in the distance.

  Brannon’s Wharf was an obsolete freighter parked in permanent orbit inside the asteroid belt. No longer able to withstand the rigors of jumping into super-space it had failed its airworthiness certificate but was saved from the cutting torches by an enterprising consortium which had the bright idea of towing it out to the belt and fitting it out as a way-station for the mining community.

  Like the clientele for which it catered, Brannon’s Wharf was rough and ready with few frills. It could be dangerous but if you weren’t stupid, kept yourself to yourself and didn’t violate any of the unwritten rules, it was easy enough to stay out of trouble. It was the ideal place to get drunk, get laid and, if you were of a mind, gamble away whatever might be left of your month’s salary.

  Jacks had just one more thing to do before he arrived at Brannon’s Wharf. For the last time he removed his commodore’s uniform and donned a set of civilian clothing. Brushing his fingers over the broad gold stripe on the epaulette of his jacket he felt a momentary tinge of sadness. Then with a grunt he tossed the jacket into the corner of the cockpit. Out with the old, in with the new.

  CHAPTER 12

  The administrator of Brannon’s Wharf was a man called Kai Saxman, a third generation retainer of the Delph Organisation. The business was in his blood. Kai’s father had been an ‘enforcer’, sometimes referred to as a foot-soldier but in reality, a thug. He was the man they sent when someone failed to pay their dues, their debt or their respect. Caspar Saxman was a simple man but within the relative confines of his work, an honest one. True, he dealt in violence, but he administered his beatings entirely without malice as to do otherwise would be unprofessional and if nothing else, he took great pride in his work. Perhaps unusually for someone in his line of work he was a devoted husband and also a good father to young Kai, schooling him in those skills that he would undoubtedly need in the future – the use of the cosh, brass knuckles and those most honourable of weapons, the boot and the fist.

  When Kai was fifteen years old his father’s past caught up with him and he was jailed for eight years after beating a government official to within an inch his life. Had the paramedics failed to re-start the man’s heart Caspar would have been facing a life sentence instead, so all in all the eight years seemed a good enough deal. He may have gotten off lighter still had he shown some remorse for his deeds, but that wasn’t Caspar’s way. He’d been given a job to do and he’d done it. No more, no less. If the official in question hadn’t reneged on his deal he wouldn’t be in intensive care and Caspar wouldn’t be in the dock, but that was the way of things. Life was all about responsibilities and consequences and a man flinched from neither. Caspar went to gaol safe in the knowledge that while he was inside his family would be well looked after and in return he would remain silent about the activities of his employers. That was also the way of things.

  One of Caspar’s lieutenants, a man by the name of Boone, was charged with ensuring that Saxman’s family received due consideration. Boone soon discovered that young Kai had not only inherited his father’s physical attributes, but also had a very sharp mind. It seemed only sensible to take the young man under his wing. He also noticed that Mrs. Saxman was an extremely attractive lady and since he still had a wing to spare it seemed equally sensible to give her some very special care and attention too.

  Kai neither condoned nor resented the relationship between Boone and his mother. They lived in relative luxury and Boone was capable of opening doors that would have been forever closed to his father. Kai grasped the opportunity with both hands and by the time Caspar was released from prison Kai had risen above the rank of a mere enforcer. He had learned to differentiate between what was personal and what was business but he knew that a day of reckoning was coming. His father wouldn’t be happy to find his side of the bed warmed by another.

  Kai was several light years away when he learned that Caspar Saxman had been found bludgeoned to death in some back-alley a few days after his release. No questions were asked. It was the way of things. Conveniently, Kai was still several light years away when, a few weeks later, Boone was blown to shreds by a car bomb. Again, no questions were asked; a debt had been repaid and the ledger balanced. The matter was closed.

  Ten years later Kai found himself at the helm of one of the most lucrative subsidiaries of the Delph. Well respected within the organisation, he was an intelligent man, a hard man and one you crossed at your peril. He had to be. Everyone knew that out in the belt respect for the law was largely optional, and at the best of times open to a certain level of interpretation. It was Saxman’s job to remind his clientele that while on Brannon’s Wharf it was a dictum which applied only in certain circumstances, and
even then was subject to a level of oversight which would involve some kind of kickback or percentage of the profits. Not everyone wanted to play ball of course – there was always the odd punter who thought he could buck the system, but that carried its own price. The lucky ones never did business on Brannon’s Wharf again. The unlucky ones never got to do anything again. Close scrutiny of the asteroid belt would reveal the occasional carbon based satellite winding its lonely path around the sun.

  Saxman was well connected, a man who could get things done. If you needed a certain job doing and were unable accomplish it through legitimate means, or simply unwilling to undertake it yourself, you might whisper it on Brannon’s and if you were lucky and adequately funded, word might reach the right ear and you would be contacted in due course.

  Jacks had maintained a business relationship with Saxman for many years. His time in military intelligence had taught him the occasional but very real need of an independent operator who could be relied upon produce results both quickly and in complete discretion. A supply of arms, a reliable courier, a buyer or seller of speciality items, even raw intelligence, Saxman could supply it and on the rare occasions when he couldn’t, he knew someone who could. All for a fee where nothing came cheap and discretion cost extra, but that was only to be expected. For his part, Saxman had been delighted to accommodate Jacks with whatever he required. It never hurt to have the ear of a senior fleet officer, especially one able to grant an additional level of protection and immunity from the law.

  Having hatched his plan to steal Hector, Jacks realised that he would need a go-between, someone to broker the deal and Saxman was the obvious choice. He had the connections and his involvement would ensure that the transaction proceeded smoothly. Enquiries were made and Saxman soon reported that he had located an interested party and negotiated a payment that fell in line with Jacks’ demands. Saxman’s fee would be ten percent of the total; perhaps a little high, thought Jacks, but in the circumstances, not excessive. Five million credits were transferred to the accounts of Brannon’s Wharf and a further twenty million to a numbered account which belonged to Jacks. The balance would be paid in untraceable government bonds on receipt of the merchandise.

  As far as Saxman was concerned, that was to be his total involvement in the affair but now it seemed that his co-operation was once more required. How very interesting, he thought as he read the message on his screen. This could be very good news indeed…

  Chuck and Penny were still headed towards a small ore processing plant when they saw Jacks’ scout close and dock at Brannon’s Wharf. Once Jacks’ engine signature disappeared from their scanners Chuck reduced power and changed direction towards the old freighter.

  “Better report in,” he said. He opened a secure channel to O1 and sent off a brief message: ‘Target docked at Brannon’s Wharf. Awaiting instructions.’ An equally brief reply from Admiral Giles arrived within seconds. ‘Nearest assets still six hours away. Previous orders stand.’

  “Great,” said Chuck. “What are we supposed to do now? Just sit here and wait until he leaves?”

  “Let’s go in and have a closer look,” said Penny. “Find out what other ships are docked there.”

  “Agreed.” Chuck increased speed and in a few minutes they were in visual range of Brannon’s Wharf.

  “Bigger than I expected,” said Penny. ‘There must be fifteen or twenty ships moored alongside.”

  Chuck moved in closer to get a better look at the line of vessels docked around the lower levels of the old freighter. Making a pass along one side they saw a collection of small shuttles, barges and an ancient tug that looked even older than the Valiant. Rounding the stern, the starboard side of Brannon’s Wharf came into view, revealing another row of ships. First up was an expensive looking yacht followed by a small but sturdy looking ship with a pair of tubes protruding from the nose.

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a gunboat,” said Chuck. “How much do you want to bet that his guns work better than ours?”

  “No takers on that one,” said Penny. Next to the gunboat was another pair of shuttles and then a larger vessel loomed into view. “That ship look familiar to you?”

  “Hmm… A fast transport minus a cargo pod… now where have I seen one of those before? It’s definitely the Magellan – I recognise the markings on the tail section. And look, Jacks’ scout is next in line. That’s close enough for me.” He throttled back and slid underneath the freighter, out of sight of the Magellan and the Arrow.

  Jacks was relieved to see the Magellan already docked at Brannon’s Wharf when he arrived. He moored his ship alongside and made his way along the docking terminal to the Magellan’s airlock. He stopped at the inner hatch and pressed the intercom button. “Permission to come aboard.” The hatch slid open and a thickset man stepped forward to shake Jacks by the hand.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” he said.

  “And you, Sergeant Fletcher. Situation report?”

  “Fuel cells topped up and all systems on line. We can leave at a moment’s notice.”

  “Well done, sergeant. I trust our guest is in good spirits?”

  “Mr. Benedict, sir? He’s in the aft cabin. He’s been complaining rather a lot since we left O1 – all in the nicest possible way, of course, but I thought it best to keep him confined until he’s needed.”

  “Has he worked it out yet?”

  “I believe the penny may have dropped that we are no longer acting in the best interests of either the Space Agency or Military Intelligence. Other than that I haven’t told him anything.”

  “Suppose I’d better have a word with him,” said Jacks. He made his way to the rear compartment and opened the door to find Benedict sitting on a bunk, staring into space.

  “Good day to you,” said Jacks pleasantly. “I apologise for your confinement and do hope you’ve been treated well.”

  “I haven’t been clubbed with a wrench, if that’s what you mean,” said Benedict, looking up at Jacks. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Benedict, I believe I told you a long time ago that we are all pawns in someone’s game. The trick, of course, is to know who and where all the other pieces are.”

  “And you are?”

  “Yesterday… perhaps a knight. Today, at least a bishop, maybe even a rook.”

  “And I suppose I’m still a pawn.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And the queen?”

  “The queen is on the other side of super-space. I don’t expect her to arrive in time to change the result of this particular contest.”

  “What do you want of me?” asked Benedict.

  “Hector will soon be transferred from my ship to another vessel. You are to supervise the transfer and liaise with their technical officer. After that you will be free to leave. Is that understood?”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Let me put it this way, Mr Benedict, you may be a pawn but at least you are still on the board. I’d hate to have to remove you from the game. Do you catch my meaning?” Benedict nodded.

  “And now you must excuse me,” said Jacks. “I have some pressing business.” Leaving the Magellan he made his way to the security checkpoint that led to the station proper. A pair of security guards manned a gate above which read a sign, ‘No firearms, knives or fighting instruments beyond this point.’ No alarm bells rang as Jacks passed through the gate. He didn’t expect them to, though you never could tell…

  “Mr. Saxman is expecting me,” said Jacks.

  “One moment, sir,” said one of the guards. He turned away and spoke into his radio while the other guard stood squarely in Jacks path. Turning back to face Jacks he said, “Mr Saxman is engaged in a meeting at present. He sends his regrets and says you may either wait in his office or amuse yourself on the station until he has concluded his business.”

  Unusually eloquent for an enforcer, thought Jacks. “I see,” he said. “I’ll wait aboard the Magellan. Perhaps you could i
nform me when Mr. Saxman’s is free.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Chuck. “What are we going to accomplish by hiding underneath here?”

  “Should we go aboard?” said Penny.

  “Not sure if that’s consistent with keeping our heads down and staying out of trouble. What do you think?” But before Penny could answer they were hailed by Brannon’s Wharf.

  “Unidentified shuttle. Is there any chance of you docking in the foreseeable future? In your present position you are a danger to yourselves and other traffic. Docking bay Red 14 is currently vacant. Either dock or be on your way. Brannon’s Wharf out.”

  “Don’t mess about, do they?” said Penny.

  “Seems not. I suppose we’d better dock,” said Chuck. “Where’s Red 14 anyway?”

  “Port side. Somewhere opposite Jacks’ scout.”

  “At least it’s not right alongside.” Chuck edged the Valiant over to the other side of Brannon’s Wharf and looked for the gate. “There it is, Red 14. Right in front of us.” Chuck brought the Valiant up to the gate and waited until he had a hard lock before he cut power to the engines. On either side was a pair of nondescript shuttles bearing the logo ‘Conquest Minerals’. Neither ship showed any signs of activity.

  “Hector’s pings are coming from abeam. He must be directly opposite. Take a look inside?”

  “Like this? Bit conspicuous, aren’t we, with me in my cadet’s uniform and you in regulation O1 dress.”

  “What we need are… these,” said Chuck, fishing some old overalls from a locker at the back of the cabin. They had been freshly laundered but sported a fair collection of oil and grease stains. “We should blend right in.” Chuck’s overalls were a perfect fit but Penny’s were a few sizes too large and she had to roll up the legs and sleeves.