by Jim Rudnick
All the Council members were present, and he nodded to them and then told the Council secretary this would be an “in camera” meeting, so she would be excused, as that meant no records needed to be kept.
Smiling at Nusayr, she quickly left but did show them that she unplugged the recorder and placed it back on the shelves to the rear of the table. Now only the nine members of the Olbia Council were present, and Nusayr, as the Council head, stayed standing while he motioned for the rest of them to be seated. He looked first to Razin, who was the head of Security for the planet, and nodded for him to proceed.
“Nusayr,” he said as he referred down to the notes in front of him, “we have so far only good news with our mission, and it’s looking even better—“
Interrupting with both a scowl and a “no way,” the planet’s chief scientist, Ilias al-Marazi stood suddenly.
“We all know what this is going to be for us—either we secede or we die. It’s that easy and for some of us here—we think the mission is not developing in a manner that we can count on for success. Nusayr, please ... you need to re-think the time line on this as well as—“
The force of Nusayr’s hand as it slammed onto the tabletop was enough to make even the full pitcher of water jump and the glasses that had surrounded it fell in disarray.
“Enough, Ilias—enough! We have been over and over this, have we not?” he said, pointing at the councilor at the end of the far side of the table.
“Did we not, Shihah our Ramat Colonel, watch you work for more than four years in our colleges, our universities, and our whole school system to show our next generation what can be hidden from all with surreptitious covert action?” he said.
Heads nodded around the table.
”Hamzah, our Crop Engineering Professor, did you not personally take the best of the best of those graduates under your wing and show them what chemistry with vision is all about? Did you not, Hamzah?” he said.
A resounding “huzzah!" echoed from around the table.
“Muhibb, our Caliphate Whip, did you not spend more than five years with bureaucrats of all types and kinds to get them to ‘buy-in’ to our vision—to get them to support either through direct action or via their supposed ignorance when it came to those shipments into Olbia?”
Again, there were nods all around the table.
“And Sadiq, Tamir, and Wajih, our Export Officers—did we not all—all of us—the Olbia Council of Nine—did we not all talk about this rebellion for years and make all our decisions by agreeing to the plan and making changes when necessary but always aiming at the date that we know this must happen on? Are we not all in agreement?” Nusayr said slowly and then turned to point out the window at the fields that marched on to the horizon.
From here, the giant irrigation sprayers moved down the fields and the spraying mists caused rainbows to appear almost in rows, field after field. The nine Council members stared out at the planet in front of them. Even here in Umarah, the capital of Olbia, the fields growing crops were harvested at least twice yearly and shipped off-world to feed the realm—something that this Council was going to change.
#
On board the black pod, the final spit-and-polish team of five low-security convicts was busy cleaning the interior of this third to last pod. Once the pods were finished being constructed over in the EL Pod Plant on Max Island, they were all linked and sent over to the mainland on the pod bridge, to this final inspection station everyone called Cleanup Hall. Once lined up, they were cleaned from stem to stern, and all of them received the same attention—a clean pod is a saleable pod, they said. And the job of cleaning them fell to the low-security convicts on Halberd, who lived in the prison farm barracks and came to the final cleaning pod arena to work every day.
“Jorgenson, did you pull the top panels yet?” one convict said.
“On which one, Jerry?”
“Y-4541, the yellow one is next,” he said and glanced sideways at the next one.
“Fine, then let’s get at her,” the team leader said and grabbed a caddy with the cleaning solutions and rags and moved on to the second to last pod for their shift. Inside, the panels that ran the length of the pod were removed from both the overhead bins and the side panels. Each was wiped, then sprayed, then wiped again, and finally polished and placed back in its place. Panel after panel was cleaned and replaced, and the whole job took a bit more than an hour for the five-man crew. Time now for the last one.
“Jorgenson, the last pod ready?” Ted the team leader asked as he looked around the large arena at the hundreds of pods that lay ready to be moved onto the EL space elevator to climb up to the top for shipping off-planet to their new buyers.
“Yeah, Ted ... we’re running slow—last group here today it appears,” he said as the other slow crew waved from the far building doors.
“Not a problem,” Ted replied as he grabbed up a handful of new rags and in doing so, hid the short pry bar as he mounted the steps into the final yellow pod. Inside, he’d removed the top and side panels, and he moved to the back row of seats. By standing on the seat, he could reach the panel that lay behind the top overhead bins. One of the team filled up the doorway with a couple of panels, and by leaning them in the opening, he hid what the crew chief was busy working on using that flat-sided tool. Prying the bar into the space at the bottom, he was able to pry up the panel. He moved the whole panel that ran the length of the overhead bin up enough to hold a crew-member. Moving quickly, as others finished off the normal panel cleaning, he finished the five overhead bins and then waited at the front one.
Jorgenson was done first and took his spot by boosting himself up on the seat, crabbing his way into the bin first, then angling his body behind that panel, and tucking himself in as far as he could go. Clasping his hand in a shake, Ted nodded and said, “See you up top,” as he then remounted the panel to hide his crewman. He heard the snap that signified it was popped back into place.
Three more times as each of the other convicts finished the normal cleaning tasks they were responsible to complete, the team leader closed each man in place, tucked behind the interior panels in the overhead luggage bin and he heard those snaps.
Finally, he went to the pod door, and glancing about the huge final pod-cleaning arena, he confirmed that his crew was the last ones there. A squad of guards would come through sometime through the night, but for now, the crew of five were alone. Alone and hidden, awaiting the trip up the EL to the huge ships that would fill their holds with the newly bought pods to transport them elsewhere on the RIM.
Moving back to the final bin, he boosted himself up into the bin, and folding himself into the space behind the panel, he reached out to close the bin. Working slowly, he knew exactly how to fold the back panel back into place, and he did so fairly quickly in the dark. With a final snap, the panel closed him in, and he knew now all that needed to happen was to wait.
#
The Baroness smiled and then made her decision. Using the quick call button on her PDA, she called in her private steward, and she quickly ordered a bottle of her own winery’s best white. Rising from the settee in her bedroom, she went to the small balcony that jutted off her stateroom in the Baronial palace. Moving right out to the railing, she looked out at the grounds and squinted a bit with the dusky sunshine glow on the far horizon.
The far walls of the palace grounds were whitewashed stucco that was dark on the inside as the sun was dropping quickly. In front of the walls lay the outside track that was cobblestone, and from where she stood now, she could see two, no, three of the Barony EliteGuards doing their rounds, walking on their security patrols. Closer still lay the outdoor spa area with its pools, tubs, and cabanas that were bright primary colors that shone even though the light was fading now. And away on the left-hand side were the tennis courts and putting greens that her husband had put in to try to give visitors some degree of physical use of the large space, though as she remembered, she’d never been down that way at all.
Owning a palace meant there were areas she had never seen, let alone used or visited, and that too brought another smile to her face. A great day for smiling, and she nodded and then broke out into a grin as she tossed her long blonde hair to one side and grinned even more.
Beneath her, the gardens were lush green, and colored splotches of flowers and shrubberies rose out of the Bermuda grass that was a bit long. Would have to speak to the head gardener, she thought but even that micro-managed thought couldn’t break her mood.
When the wine had been poured and she took her first sip, she realized that taking on the RIM Navy would not be an easy task but one that if properly developed and then managed could be done—slowly and methodically she knew would work. But to do that, she needed help from one person that would take some real people skills, her stepdaughter Helena, the Lady St. August.
She knew that the formidable presence of the RIM Navy along with Admiral McQueen was the real adversary for her and the Barony. He was more than capable, she had learned, in figuring out some of her initiatives, and that was bothersome ... but his direct manipulation of some of those “special” items was more than bothersome. He had set her back a few times with her foray into the use of Pirates to her taking over the Ikarian immigrants to the RIM and that had to stop.
Yet, she realized, she would need a method to hurt the admiral, to make him lose face with the RIM Council, and in doing so, get him replaced. And the best way she knew was to use the captain, his protégé, who had defeated Rhys and her Pirates, Captain Tanner Scott. Didn’t they say to break a chain you used the weakest link?
He was an alcoholic; she knew that and it made him the weakest link.
She knew he was on Halberd as punishment and her intel showed he was under orders to give up the bottle or else. He was a functioning drunk though as he was able to captain his starship, but that was probably made possible by some of his crew, which might be an issue. She had to admit the captain knew how to fight space battles, he knew how to last in his job, and as far as she was concerned, he could be managed. But not by her—directly by Helena.
There was an attraction there, she knew. Gillian, the Sterling Adept officer reported to her that the attraction was mutual and seemed to grow each time they met and had any kind of a confrontation. And she knew Helena was quite aware that he found her attractive as she had spent much time on her toilette and outfit choices before each one of their meetings.
Nodding, she sipped her wine again and turned to lean back against the railing. She knew she’d picked right as a method to get back at the admiral and make him lose the war, battle by battle, by stealing his protégé.
Now her only chore would be to order Helena as to how she would play a part in all of this. She smiled once more as she thought, This too would be a test of her stepdaughter—a real test ...
CHAPTER TWO
At the 10,000-mile level of the EL space elevator, in the side-holding channel, a yellow pod lay at rest and the two passengers were fuming. The corporal in charge, sitting in the pilot’s seat, pushed the toggle once more to speak to the EL control room supervisor.
“Again, I ask exactly why have you side channeled us, and why are we being held here?” he said as he looked over to the only other person aboard the pod and raised his eyebrows.
“You know any reason, Private?” he said and received a flat-out “negative, Sir,” as a response. So they sat. And they waited.
Above them, the speaker finally broke the silence as the control room finally answered.
“Attention, occupants of pod number Y-6773. We will be flooding the pod with DeParv-5 gas. You will fall unconscious, and once we are sure that the seven of you are unconscious, we will be entering the pod, and you will all be placed under arrest, taken to Max Island, and placed under investigation and confinement. A separate trial for this escape attempt will be held in the near future. The gas will disseminate now ...”
“Seven ... what are you crazy, AI? There’s Bill and me ...”the corporal in the front seat said and then slowly slumped back into his seat.
#
Skrogg was the kind of world that existed, but no one really paid any attention to. It was a smaller planet with an alien race that for the most part also paid no attention to the Confederacy, or for that matter to much more than its two inhabited moon colonies it owned. Aliens, of course, were aliens, but the race that populated Skogg was almost exactly the same as the humans who populated the RIM, but for one single item.
All of the Skogg aliens were purple.
At least when you looked at the youngest of them, they were slightly lavender in color—the shade that the Skoggians were born with. Add decades and the color slowly darkened from lavender to mauve to lilac and eventually to a deep purple grape color. And it was a station commander of this deep purple hue that the Marwick away team had issues with, and that was a problem all of itself.
“XO,” the station commander said with his purple face screwed up into a very, very upset expression, “are you telling me that you cannot accept these prisoners? Is that it, XO?” He slapped the file in his hand down on top of the desk in the lockup area.
Behind him, three Provost Guards shuffled and yet still stood in front of the seven alien convicts, all Skoggian purples, of course, and three more guards backed them up. All looked at the Marwick XO, Craig Templeton, who wouldn’t meet their gaze but stared down at the papers in his hand.
“Says here—and is signed off by the RIM Council, that we’re supposed to be picking up only four convicts from Skogg bound for Max Island over on Halberd. No mention of seven—no mention of any changes—no mention of any modifications—no mention of anything but four convicts. So ... guess I need to ask, why do you have seven lined up here for transport to Halberd? Seven, Station Commander?” Templeton said in a voice that was anything but accommodating.
Station Commander Ainslie nodded and said matter-of-factly in a voice that sounded like he was fed up with this issue, “XO—your captain has been in touch with the RIM Confederacy, and the orders that he received—three days ago, I understand—told him about the changes to the number of convicts here on Skogg. We are now to deliver seven convicts to your brig, and that’s the end of this conversation. Either you sign off on this, XO, or I’ll EYES ONLY direct to your RIM Navy admiral to get to the bottom of this—your choice entirely, XO,” he said as he tapped his foot on the station deck floor as if to count the time it would take for the XO to agree.
“Our captain is ... what ... ’indisposed’ right now, Commander, so I can’t check with him directly, now can I? However, let me see what I can find out, Commander,” the XO said, stepped back, and then thrust the documents into the hands of Ensign Radisson, who quickly gathered them up and tried to stack them all nicely and evenly, but failed.
The XO held up his hand to indicate he needed a moment and moved off the small group of convicts and guards that were concentrated in the forward part of the airlock between the Station and the link to the Marwick. Behind him, the force field blocked off the access to his ship and ahead of him stood the group that was looking for access and the rest of the Station.
Pretending to press some buttons and icons on the PDA on his wrist, he nodded again to the station commander and moved off to place a private call. But what the group didn’t know was that the button clicks were not followed with the ENTER key, and he was making a fake PDA call.
Moments later, he began to talk quietly into his PDA, as if he was involved in a real call—but of course, he spoke to no one. He was merely killing time in an attempt to accept the extra convicts, which appeared to be verified according to the Skrogg station commander.
His captain, Tanner Scott, had been poured into his quarters not much more than an hour ago—his façade about being sober all dissolved. His apparent ability to maintain a semblance of sobriety was gone; his thoughts on hiding the state he was in were again gone. The captain was a drunk, and one and all on the Marwick knew that now
for sure. The captain’s steward had found him down on Deck Twenty-three, crammed into the ship’s cinema with a blaring movie playing over and over on a loop that showed some kind of a ship-wide terrorist who was losing his battle with hundreds of knee-high robots. Not what the XO would think was top-quality movie fare, but still it mattered not a bit as the captain was the one who decided on its playing time.
The captain had not wanted to leave his movie and barked at his steward repeatedly that the robots were the only bad guys on Deck Twenty-three—he should be left alone to watch the action and then to handle it—after all, was he not the captain? When the steward had used the ship’s communicator to contact the XO and explained the situation, Craig had zoomed down to help the steward gather up the captain and put their drunken friend into his bunk. In moments, the snores that came from the captain’s bunk were loud and long ones.
Not knowing about the actual changes—if there had even been any—to the numbers of Skoggians to be picked up didn’t really matter. What did matter was that the pickup went smooth and without a major incident ... and no notice made to the admiral either.
Almost too late, Craig thought, but let’s see ...
“Station Commander, I just got the confirmation that, yes, the new number is to be seven convicts—the original four and now supplemented with three more, totaling 7. I vouch for that change, and yes, I can sign off on this myself,” Craig said as he held out his hand to the ensign for those papers.
“Sir,” Radisson said, “are we sure that we can accept this new number—normally it is the Captain himself who needs to sign off, right, XO?”
Nodding in agreement, the XO spoke up quickly.
“And I just got same, Ensign, so we’re good.” He nodded again to the deep purple Skoggian station commander
“Now, Station Commander, let’s get this done,” Craig said once more, made notes on his PDA, and transferred the acceptance verifications to the commander’s PDA. With a bit more back and forth, the transfer was completed.