Pale Boundaries

by Scott Cleveland

  “Anonymous informants are not paid on the same schedule as those who can be fully vetted,” the entity on the other end explained. “I apologize if that wasn’t made clear when you first contacted us. Rest assured that you will receive the full payment once your information has been verified by field operatives. You will receive an appropriate percentage of the recovery fee paid to us by the lienholder once the actual recovery takes place.”

  “Aye. Any idea when that’s likely to happen?” MacLeod demanded.

  “For security reasons, I do not have access to operational information.”

  “I need the blasted money now, damn ye!”

  “I appreciate your predicament, sir. However, these protocols exist to protect us from false informants. The very people we’re attempting to recover property from frequently attempt to pass themselves off as concerned citizens such as yourself in order to obtain funds or lay false trails.

  “The balance of the payment would be available to you within five business days if you care to submit to full disclosure at this time.”

  “Nay, I do not,” MacLeod groused. “Thanks for a whole heap’o nothin’!”

  “You’re welcome, sir. Feel free to contact us at any time if you change your mind or have other questions.”

  MacLeod worked out his frustration peddling his tricycle from the hyperlink kiosk back to his shop. Hours of research, weeks of travel, a significant payout of operating capital, and he found himself slightly deeper in the hole than when he’d started. Chances were excellent that he’d be paid eventually, but he might be living in an abandoned shipping container by then. One of his more persistent creditors was due payment within the next few weeks. The only liquefiable assets on hand were tools and test equipment the loss of which would devastate his business.

  He was not so caught up with his troubles that he failed to notice a familiar cargo sled settle to the ground on the road outside his gate as he rounded the fence from the opposite direction. He skidded to a stop and back-peddled instinctively, reaching cover as a hatch opened and Ben Grogan dropped to the ground.

  The spacer’s reappearance constituted an eerie coincidence, setting off mental alarms that Cormack’s long experience taught him not to ignore. Perhaps Grogan was simply looking for more repairs on the sled; perhaps the master of the Ladybird had caught wind of someone looking into the ship’s affairs and deduced who that someone might be. Grogan held his finger on the buzzer as he peered through the fence. With no response forthcoming, he picked up a stone and threw it onto the sheet metal roof to bounce and clatter its way back to the ground with considerable racket. He appeared to satisfy himself with that provocation and jogged back to the sled. The craft lifted again and cruised off in a cloud of dust.

  Cormack pushed his ‘cycle around to the smaller back gate, just in case.

  “Nobody home,” Grogan reported when he reboarded. “We wasted half an hour. Happy?”

  “Head for the hospital, then,” O’Brien told him.

  “Haven’t we had this conversation already?” Grogan asked sharply. “The ship can’t get clear before they figure out who this guy is and who dropped him off!”

  “Just go,” O’Brien sighed. “I’ll think of something.” She sagged into her seat and pulled the blanket up around her chin. Her stims were finally wearing off. A huge yawn overtook her, and her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. She forced them open again, shaking her head.

  Grogan’s muted voice reached her ears from the cockpit, a litany of complaints and recriminations. She saw the same in the eyes of her crewmates, all of them hoping Pelletier would take the decision and its consequences out of their hands by simply dying. Jerrell Mackey moved next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, wishing she dared to close her eyes.

  Grogan’s smug voice shattered the brief reverie: “O’Brien! Markland wants you.”

  Markland, the Embustero’s hard-boiled First Mate. Grogan had decided to raise the stakes by inviting the command staff to the party. O’Brien went forward to the jump seat behind the pilots’ positions and pulled on a headset.

  “Grogan says you’re taking the dirtsider to the hospital instead of making the lift,” Markland said flatly. “Is that true?”

  “We’re dropping him off at the hospital before we meet the lander, yes sir.”

  “That is an absolute, unequivocal negative, O’Brien. Get your asses to the lander ASAP, understood?”

  “Yes, sir. What about the dirtsider? Liz says he’s critical.”

  “Unload him at the first public area you come to; let someone else deal with him.”

  “They’ll just mistake him for a drunk, sir. He’ll die.”

  “Not your problem.”

  “I’d like to talk to the Captain.”

  “Shadrack’s not on duty—I am. Do as you’re ordered.”

  She took a deep breath. Going over the First Mate’s head risked ramifications she shuddered to consider. “Respectfully, sir, I request a Captain’s Call.” The satement met dead air for a moment; even Grogan’s eyes grew large with shock.

  “Stand by.”

  “You are one crazy bitch,” Grogan murmured.

  O’Brien flipped him off with as much vehemence as she could pack into the gesture.

  The Embustero’s captain came on a few moments later. “Shadrack here. What’s the situation, Crewman O’Brien?”

  She explained as succinctly as she could, and waited for his decision. Once given, there was no arguing or variance. If she didn’t obey, her crewmates were obligated to enforce the order or suffer the same punishment she would incur.

  “You said he was unconscious, the last time we spoke,” Shadrack said. “When did that change?”

  “He made us aware of it shortly after we lost the line-of-site with the ship,” she replied. “We’re not certain how long before that he came to.”

  “So you have no idea how much he knows about us.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

  “Very well; proceed to the lander immediately.”

  O’Brien’s heart sank. “Yes, sir. What do you want us to do with the dirtsider?”

  A hint of surprise crept into the Captain’s voice. “Bring him with you, of course. We can’t risk leaving him behind.”

  “Yes, sir!” She paused on her way to the passenger compartment and turned back to Grogan. “I judge him about a hundred kilos. I think you and I should pay the others back out of our cargo-share.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?” he snorted.

  “Because nobody likes a tattler, asshole!”

  The cargo sled merged into the traffic pattern and circled until it received clearance to enter the field. It drifted slowly over the tarmac toward the idling lander and slipped into the waiting bay. “Chain her down,” Grogan ordered. The spacers scrambled out the hatch; O’Brien and Mackey moved their patient to the lander’s passenger cabin where Liz went to work with the larger vessel’s more sophisticated medical supplies to stabilize him for take-off.

  The lander finished taxiing into launch position just as they strapped a respirator to his face to assist his breathing during the G-force strain. The jostling roused him, and he looked around, confused by the restraints and change of scenery.

  “What’s going on?” he rasped behind the mask.

  “It’s okay,” O’Brien assured him as she strapped in next to him.

  “Stand by for launch in thirty seconds,” Figenshaw announced over the all-call. The lander’s engines rumbled to higher power and the craft began to vibrate.

  The Pelletier’s eyes widened; he clutched at the harness release. O’Brien seized one of his arms, Mackey the other. “Sorry, partner,” Mackey apologized. “The Captain says you’ve seen too much.”

  Brute engines roared, crushing them back in their seats.

  Saint Anatone: 2709:09:28 Standard

  “That’s her,” Undersecretary Mitchel Gidden said from the back seat, indicating an aub
urn-haired woman seated at a sidewalk café. Cai brought her unmarked cruiser to a stop. Gidden rolled down his window, raising the polished handle of his cane to catch the woman’s attention. “I’m a bit early, my dear,” he called. “I apologize if it’s inconvenient.”

  The woman approached the cruiser with a fond smile. “Seeing my favorite uncle is never inconvenient!” She slid into the front passenger seat, abandoning the charade the moment the door closed. “Who are you?” she demanded of Cai.

  “This is Colonel Cai,” Gidden replied. “You will deal with her, from now on. She knows everything.”

  “I know you people don’t retire,” she said, flashing an arrogantly self-assured smile. “Have you finally felt the clammy hand of death on your shoulder, Mr. Gidden?”

  “No more so than your former Chief Administrator did,” Undersecretary Gidden replied flippantly. “Good day, Ms. Cirilo.” He exited the car and walked up the street, cane tapping the flagstone sidewalk.

  The shadow that crossed Cirilo’s face at the remark remained when she turned her attention back to Cai. “I don’t appreciate surprises like this,” she said.

  “Then get out,” Cai suggested. Despite their shared culpability, their professions made them natural enemies, and she found it difficult to set that fact aside. Unfortunately it was she who was betraying her nature, not Cirilo.

  Cirilo declined the bait, instead appraising her with dark brown eyes. “It seems like a rather abrupt changing of the guard,” she said. “Anything I should know?”

  “I’d tell you if there were,” Cai replied coolly, “and if it suited me. You asked for this meeting; let’s get on with it.”

  “Neil Sorenson, one of your local exporters, stuck his nose were it didn’t belong and discovered things that he shouldn’t have,” Cirilo said. “He’s been silenced rather permanently.”

  “You killed Neil Sorenson?” Cai demanded incredulously. “Are you people insane? You can’t go around murdering high-profile citizens!”

  Cirilo’s eyebrows shot up. “He uncovered some very incriminating information about our activities and your own government,” she explained. “Things best left unknown. He also ran the largest poaching operation on the planet.”

  The latter revelation didn’t surprise Cai in the least. It had long been assumed, but never proven, that Sorenson Exports was engaged in large-scale poaching. “Did this have anything to do with the sanction you convinced Gidden to put out on Maalan Bragg and Terson Reilly?”

  “I’d tell you,” Cirilo said with a tight smile, “if it suited me. I believe our business has concluded.” She made to open the door.

  “Wait,” Cai ordered, drawing an irritated look from Cirilo even as she paused. “A gang of poachers escaped from the Great Northern Preserve a few days ago,” she said. “We have reason to believe that they were spacers.”

  “In what way does this interest us?” Cirilo asked.

  “They were working out of a pre-settlement complex buried in an old landslide,” Cai explained. The section that the poachers had penetrated was a tiny portion of what survived the slide; fortunately they didn’t possess the equipment to tunnel into the rest. The Secret Service would use explosives to collapse it in its entirety once they’d satisfied themselves that they’d found it all and mitigated the primary environmental hazard—the semi-functional nuclear reactor which turned out to be the source of the mountain’s many hotsprings.

  “And I repeat the question.”

  Cai looked at her skeptically. “You mean to tell me you really don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “I suggest you pass it along to your superiors, if it doesn’t mean anything to you,” Cai suggested.

  “And what the hell do you expect us to do about it?” Cirilo demanded.

  “Your organization is better equipped to find a privateer than we are.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she conceded, “but I expect something in return. We have questions for Maalan Bragg.”

  “You’ll stay away from Maalan Bragg,” Cai replied coldly. “Your own incompetence put him on your tail. Neither of us can afford a screw-up like that again.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along as well,” Cirilo said with similar ice, and got out.

  Bragg continued to occupy the Colonel’s thoughts as she drove away. He’d pulled through, physically, at least, and was due to return to work on light duty in a few more days. His mental state was still in question, especially given the shattering revelations she’d dropped on him at the hospital. She had to get him involved in police work again, regain what trust she could, and give him a chance to accept the new way of things.

  She’d successfully undermined his personal integrity already; undermining his professional integrity wouldn’t be nearly as difficult, and Neal Sorenson’s murder was the perfect opportunity to get that out of the way.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Beta Continent 2709:09:30 Standard

  Sergio Cirilo remained understandably acrimonious toward Hal after the attack on his daughter. They hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to each other since the incident and Hal made a point of avoiding the Fort’s Deputy Administrator whenever possible.

  The Old Lady’s summons, unfortunately, was not an event either man could avoid. Sergio’s expression when Hal entered the room and seated himself was positively glacial. The two men endured an uncomfortable silence until Tamara Cirilo arrived.

  Despite her earlier promise to discuss the matter, Tamara had refused to tell Hal exactly what she’d put in the report she was about to present to the Old Lady. Neither Tamara nor Sergio had made overtures he could consider extortion, which meant that the truth was sufficient for their purposes.

  Sergio’s smug smile when his daughter entered the room seemed to support Hal’s fear.

  The Fort’s Intelligence Officer offered a cheery greeting and took the seat next to Hal, a move that puzzled both Hal and her father. Hal didn’t have time to dwell on the issue, as the oversized monitor at the end of the conference table flickered to life a moment later.

  The Old Lady regarded them with a grim expression.

  “Tamara, I’ve read your initial report. Is there any doubt that Sorenson and the Minzoku are colluding?”

  “None whatsoever, ma’am,” Tamara replied.

  “Then we find ourselves in a very serious predicament,” the Old Lady said. “We must give Sorenson no reason to suspect we’re on to him until we’re in a position to act preemptively.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Sergio said blithely. “He’s dead.”

  The Old Lady’s eyes focused on Hal suspiciously. “How did this happen?” she demanded. The acidic taste of fear rose to the back of Hal’s throat. He ached to backhand the smug smile from Sergio’s face.

  “He was murdered,” Tamara said. “Hal found him dead when he went to Sorenson’s estate to confront him about the Minzoku.”

  Sergio’s face went blank with shock, and then blushed with anger. Obviously Tamara hadn’t been any more communicative with her father than she had with Hal, and managed to neatly trap them both. She could demand any price she chose from Hal and any attempt Sergio made to set the record straight would perjure his daughter.

  “That was a stupid thing to do!” the Old Lady exclaimed. “That half-cocked temper of yours will cross the line some day if you don’t learn to control it!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hal managed humbly.

  “It was fortuitous,” Tamara reminded the Old Lady. “We were able to secure all information linking us with Sorenson. We’d face a more difficult situation had the authorities arrived first.”

  “I doubt that you were entirely successful,” the Old Lady snapped. “One man can’t manage so far-flung a deception single-handedly! A murder investigation will certainly shake out something pointing to us!”

  “Our contacts assure me they’ll handle that,” Tamara said.

  “Their eagerness to cooperate has eroded over the years,”
the Old Lady reminded them. “Tamara, I expect a full follow-up within forty-eight hours. What is the status of our last shipment?”

  “Well on its way to Caliban,” Tamara said. “Sorenson’s death will not impact materials in the standard transport stream. Our people should receive it within weeks; about the same time our current production cycle ends.”

  “Maintain a normal appearance for as long as possible,” the Old Lady instructed. “Anything more out of the ordinary could severely complicate matters.”

  “The gaijin have found other things to distract them,” Hal said. “They seem more concerned with some old structure in the Great Preserve than our activities.”

  The Old Lady stared at him intently. “What did you say?”

  “The gaijin have greater interests than investigating the death of a suspected poacher. They aren’t likely to put much effort into it, reducing the likelihood that they’ll discover anything about us.”

  “Not that—you said something about the Great Preserve.”

  “Apparently spacers found the remains of some sort of structure while poaching in the preserve,” Hal said. “The gaijin expect us to track them down.”

  “I damn well expect so!” the Old Lady exclaimed. “Why didn’t you inform me immediately?”

  “It’s not significant,” Tamara replied for Hal, mystified at the Old Lady’s concern. “Their poaching problem has always been just that: their problem.”

  “Excuse us for a moment,” she ordered. “I’d like to have a few words with Hal in private.”

  The Cirilos looked at each other curiously as they filed out. When they were gone the Old Lady sat back, tilting her head disbelievingly. “Didn’t your father ever tell you?”

  “Ever tell me what?”

  “Where the Minzoku came from.”

  “They’re the remnant of some pre-commonwealth colony,” Hal said. His mother cocked an eyebrow at him. Comprehension sent the blood rushing to his feet. “You’ve got to be kidding!”