I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood, so I just sat and looked at him.
“My name is Mr. White.”
He looked more like he should be a Singh or a Gupta, but I had a hunch I’d never know his real name. I still didn’t respond.
He wasn’t perturbed by my lack of civility—just sat behind the desk, forearms on the desktop, hands folded, and calm eyes focused on me. I sat a trifle straighter. I’d interacted with his type before. My intuition said he was somebody—either important or confident enough in his position to let assholes like me roll off him like mercury slides down a slope. Someone who usually got his way and knew it. I disliked him immediately.
“An interesting service record, Mr. Cole. Multiple commendations. Known for getting the job done. Respected by subordinates, although a somewhat checkered history with superiors.”
I figured his understatement was an attempt to be diplomatic. No sooner would one officer promote me than another would put me back down in rank. The former usually occurred after an operation; the latter, after I expressed an opinion about the value of the operation, the intelligence provided on local conditions, or the character of someone up the chain of command. I wasn’t cantankerous by nature, but bullshit is bullshit, no matter how high ranking its originating orifice.
“This was your second time to lieutenant, not to mention multiple rounds through different sergeant levels. I’m surprised they didn’t discharge you much earlier, Mr. Cole.”
Me, too, particularly after I beat a major half to death two years earlier. I survived in the service only because the major had screwed up royally and gotten too many of our men and civilians killed. The FSES wanted the incident kept quiet, and my indiscretion was trivial enough to sweep under a rug and not create a court-martial or a discharge record.
Mr. White looked at me with fish eyes. “Do you have a problem with authority, Mr. Cole?”
This had gotten annoying. “I’ve a problem with jackass officers who give stupid orders and who don’t give a shit about the people under them or civilians who might be affected.”
“But surely you realize that sometimes mission parameters involved considerations that someone of your rank was not fully cognizant?”
“I’ve no problems with orders that make sense, for missions that are achievable and that have some plausible positive outcome. If none of the three are obvious, then yes, I have a problem with authority.”
“Then we might be in the position to satisfy mutual needs. We are looking for someone with your particular skills. It’s a mission off Earth. In fact, it’s way off Earth. Realistically, you may never get back here, but I sense that is not all that much of a problem for you. The pay is good, and expenses are covered. There’s no retirement plan, but judicious husbanding of that generous pay should put you in a favorable position once you leave our service.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s the pay?”
“Ten thousand credits a month.”
I stared. It was five times my salary in the FSES, which was already more than most people earned. Even if the work was distant from Earth, I’d read that FS credits were recognized everywhere humans remained in contact with the Federation, and credits were readily converted into local monetary units.
“And exactly what expenses are covered?” I asked.
“Everything, including medical during the employment and any resulting conditions after employment.”
“And are there going to be any clues to exactly what this work is or who I’d be working for, or am I just supposed to swoon at the chance?”
“Who is not important for you to know at this stage.”
“And when would that stage be?”
“Never, if you choose not to work with us. A little information will be forthcoming if you accept joining us, and more over time, depending on your performance and length of service. As for the what, all I can say at the moment is that it is helping people on colony planets, people who, for whatever reason, do not have access to what we would consider reasonable protections of the law.”
“Some kind of police work? Law enforcement?”
“Some kind of would be the operative phrase. From your record, I believe you feel offended when too many people get too little consideration from higher authorities. Although I tend to agree with you, I would argue that most of our system works well. You’ve just had the misfortune to work around those situations where things have not been optimal.”
I just stared. I didn’t disagree but waited for more information.
“Unfortunately, the legalistic situation on many of the colony planets is not good. Even on some of the longer-settled planets, with functioning central governments, the rapid settlement has left pockets of colonists with less than stellar government services, particularly for law enforcement.”
“So it is police work.”
“Not exactly, but we are positive you would find the work personally rewarding. Yet we need to be honest—there would occasionally be elements of personal risk to yourself.”
I snorted. Like the last ten years hadn’t included elements of personal risk?
I had some misgivings, but I was interested. He had hit some major buttons. Despite few strong personal connections, and with memories I didn’t need, I always considered Earth my home. But now that the opportunity had just landed in my lap, I realized I did want off Earth. The colony planets did sound interesting (fewer people, more space, a feeling of starting over). I did want to feel whatever I achieved would make some positive difference to someone. My youthful optimism had become seriously jaded enough that I had begun to worry I’d lost it forever. Starting with a clean slate on another world appealed to me.
“Okay, so you might have me pegged, to an extent, but how do you expect me to agree to leave Earth, maybe never to return, with so little information? What if I get to wherever I’m supposed to go and find out the job stinks or I’m supposed to do things I refuse to do? Then what?”
A hint of a smile cracked his mask. I knew that whatever he’d say next, he thought he had me. I also decided he wasn’t a robot.
“A perfectly legitimate concern, Mr. Cole. We believe this will not be a problem, but to show you our good faith, your employment will include return passage to Earth valid for six months from when you arrive at your first work site. If, anytime in those six months, you decide our association is not working for you, you may terminate that association and return to Earth. However, please note that the return ticket option ends at six months, although we don’t believe you will exercise the option. It’s a measure of our confidence that you will find the employment satisfying enough not to want to return.”
I sat back in my chair. He was right. It did sound attractive, but were we negotiating? I decided to play along.
“All right. I admit I’m interested. But still, going that far out only on your word about the pay and the return ticket seems like taking a big chance.”
“Then shall we say that six months’ severance salary will be deposited in an account here on Earth, accessible only upon returning? You will also be given a prepaid return voucher when you leave Earth.”
Well, fuck me, I thought. They really do want me for whatever this is.
I was hooked. Besides the six months’ salary, the ticket itself was worth a hundred times the salary. Travel to the colonies was damned expensive. Except for sponsored immigration, only official travelers, industries, and rich citizens could afford it.
I signed on the dotted line and was told to report to the Quito space elevator in 23 days. By day 27, I was up the beanstalk, prepped for stasis, and on my way to wherever.
CHAPTER 2
The trip from Earth to Geminorum Station above Thalassa was my first time off-planet and therefore my first experience with hyper-travel. The cost and inefficiency of life support systems meant the passengers and most crew were not conscious during travel. You’d have thought that, with our technology, they’d have figured out how to master sustainable
closed life support, but the complexity of biological systems still stymied such efforts. An upside was you didn’t have to be conscious during months of a boring voyage in cramped environs. So . . . in principle, being asleep during a trip where you couldn’t see anything seemed fine to me. It was the details and caveats that bothered me.
“For those of you not aware, there are two phases to interstellar travel,” said a perky redhead on the briefing video. “First is the boost phase to reach a velocity sufficient to engage the Alcubierre drive. To keep the time of boost as short as possible, the ship will accelerate at ten gravities. Since we wouldn’t want you to be squished, your bloodstream will be connected to a reservoir of a colloidal solution and your blood gradually mixed as acceleration increases.”
Miss Perky smiled as if this were something to look forward to.
“At the same time, you will be immersed in a heavy-salt bath to allow your body to withstand the full acceleration. Once the ship reaches the target velocity, the main drive will engage. Of course, you won’t notice anything since you will be in an unconscious state prior to leaving Geminorum Station.”
I expected her to clap her hands next and tell us how wonderful the experience would be.
“Then when the ship arrives, your blood will be returned to its original state and concentration, and you’ll be brought out of immersion and awaken to see your destination.”
Okay, so she was happy for all of us so far, but that’s when the problem came.
“Of course, there will be some minor side effects after you awaken. But there’s no reason to worry since the effects will wear off quickly, and there are medications to help.”
Now I started to worry. Who determined what a “minor” side effect was?
The briefing finished, we went to the vessel that would take us to Thalassa. Twenty-some other passengers and I queued up and were led to the ship. I never did see what it looked like because we were inside walkways until we entered the ship. Then we went down another hall to a chamber that reminded me of pictures of beehive honeycombs. One wall was composed of hexagonal-shaped compartments. One at a time, an attendant pushed a button on each compartment, a platform slid out, one of us lay down, and they inserted tubes into veins on the inside of both thighs and neck. Even though they sprayed an anesthetic, it hurt like hell. Then, without a “by your leave,” the platform slid back into the wall, and they moved on to the next victim.
Almost immediately, my right leg and side of my neck started to feel warm, then hot, and before I could call out . . . I woke up feeling as bad as I ever had in my entire life and listening to a young woman’s voice tell me I’d arrived at Geminorum. I would have heaved up my stomach, except we hadn’t been allowed to eat anything the last twenty-four hours before leaving. My tongue was as big as a sausage. Well, maybe not, but it felt that way. And those were the good parts of me. Every muscle twitched or spasmed, I saw four copies of everything, my ears recorded random chimes and whistles, and I had the overwhelming urge to urinate—which I promptly did, still inside my capsule.
The latter mishap was evidently common. An attendant, unfazed, used a combination hose/vacuum system to clean me off, then sat me up, wiped me dry with a real towel, and helped me walk to a bench against the opposite wall. Several other people were already there, all of us naked, not that any of us were in any shape to ogle.
“There you go,” said the perky blonde attendant, smiling at me as if I were a seven-year-old just awarded a participation trophy. “You’re in good shape. Better than most. Just sit here until your head clears.”
Perky? I thought. Why do all these people have to act so happy at what happened to you? And better shape than most. Christ! If it could be worse, they need to be on the alert for suicides.
It was an hour before I was able to down water and another hour before I ate the first food—or whatever the small, pasty mass was that they fed us. The meds helped, but I found myself wondering about settling on Thalassa to avoid another round of stasis. When they released us, I felt normal enough that I headed to a bar. I needed a drink.
So there I was, sipping a beer, looking down at a planet rotating by, and wondering how I was supposed to meet my contact. Mr. White said I’d know the person when it happened.
The number of patrons increased, and the dance floor was crowded two hours later as I nursed my third beer, getting hungry. Patience running out, I figured I’d give it another ten minutes before looking for a restaurant. Then, after a meal, I’d sign in to one of the sleeping cubicles. Nothing had been said about how long I might have to wait for whomever. All I knew was that the contact would meet me at Geminorum Station and would find me wherever I was.
That’s when the elevator across the dance floor opened. Through the growing throng of undulating bodies, I could see snatches of a man step out onto the transparent floor. He never looked down. Eyes scanned the room, reminding me of a man traversing a scene through gun sights. When his head pointed straight at me, it stopped. He smiled an expression that started at his mouth and stayed there, then he wove his way over to my table.
“Mr. Cole?”
“If you tell me your name is Mr. White, I’m not gonna believe you.”
“How about if I say it’s Millen. Edgar Millen?”
“That I might believe. No one’s likely to use ‘Edgar Millen’ for a pseudonym. Who’s named Edgar anymore?”
He sat. He was of average height, had short brown hair and a wiry build, and moved like a cat—every motion smooth with controlled potential. I’d been around enough dangerous men to know one. No hand was offered to shake.
“I suppose you have a few questions, Mr. Cole.”
Right to business. “What if I said I didn’t, and let’s go to work?”
“In that case, our association is fated to be a short one. A man with no questions is not cut out for our job. I’m authorized to validate your ticket back to Earth. Let’s be clear, Mr. Cole, no matter what Mr. White told you, how we proceed from here—or, should I say, if we proceed—is entirely up to me.”
This I wasn’t expecting. After their enormous cost in sending my body all this way, I was still in the interview stage? I decided to brace Mr. Millen.
“All right, so I DO have questions. Like, what the hell is this job, and what am I expected to do? Who am I working for? Who are you?”
Another smile—this one got to his eyes.
“My job is to bring order. Colony planets differ in that need.” He gestured to the combination floor/window. “Thalassa is a first-tier planet, an FTP. It was colonized three hundred years ago and is doing well. It was accepted into the Federation fifty years ago after satisfying some rather stringent requirements related to fundamental laws and responsibilities as a Federation member. However, if you were to visit Thalassa, you would find many unique cultural and societal differences compared to Earth’s. The Federation attempts to cast a small shadow, except for the required legal principles and member responsibilities.
“Things are not so rosy as you move farther from the core worlds. If you accompany me, we will be going to the planet Astrild. It’s what’s referred to as a third-tier planet—one that is developing but is not at a stage where it is a potential Federation member candidate. As such, it’s like many other TTP’s—I don’t know the exact number of such colonies, but certainly in the scores. Of course, there are many smaller and less developed colonies, but we won’t be dealing with those—at least, not in the near future.
“Astrild’s problem is that it has no common history for all its inhabitants to identify with. By this, I mean a societal basis for all citizens to feel part of the whole. Of course, that’s hardly surprising. Astrild was settled sporadically in multiple waves of different ethnic groups, in addition to individual immigration and specific corporate interests. There has been a movement in the last fifty years to bring the disparate parties together to see the advantage of a central government. Unfortunately, the effort has little to show for it, and the pl
anet remains governed independently by the larger cities and towns, with the smaller towns, settlements, and isolated inhabitants left to organize as best they can.”
Millen grew silent, as the waiter stopped at our table.
“I’ll have a Poseidon Pale Ale,” Millen said with a smile that was polite and simultaneously passed on the message Go away for now.
I wondered how he knew of this specific beer. How long had he been waiting for me? Had he been to Thalassa’s surface?
“As I was saying . . . or maybe I hadn’t gotten to it yet . . . anyway, Astrild suffers from too many factions, groups, and individuals who are content with no central authority that might stop them doing whatever they want. My job is to remove enough of the significant hindrances for the centralization movement to take hold.”
I looked at him skeptically. “You? You, alone, are going to do this?”
“Well, I will have the help of my trusty sidekick—which might be you.”
I gave him my best “You expect me to believe this nonsense?” look. He was unperturbed, so I went to my alternative response.
“Well, excuse me if I think you’re full of shit. One man . . . excuse me . . . two men are going to change the direction of an entire planet?”
The waiter reappeared with Millen’s beer. I would need reinforcement to listen to Millen’s arguments on how he was going to save a world. Maybe I’d even need to get partly sloshed if I found out I’d come so far for an idiot’s idea of a future.
“I’ll have one of the same beers. Actually . . . make it a large.”
Millen sipped on his beer. I sat stone silent until mine arrived and I took two healthy gulps.
“All right. I’m listening. Convince me you have any idea what you’re talking about, and I haven’t wasted a trip eleven light-years from Earth, based on someone’s fantasy.”
Millen smiled. “I’m not sure I can convince you, and whether or not the trip was a waste will be up to you to decide.”
A Tangled Road to Justice Page 2