Sober faces watched him silently.
“For all we know, some might have been murdered, been killed in accidents, or even just got sick or starved to death.”
The Fleet took full legal responsibility for people when they signed on.
That might have been what tripped the Commander into this mission. He wanted them back for whatever reason, and in disciplinary matters, he would have considerable discretion in their cases. It would be better to be caught by their own shipmates, if possible. Of course Burke’s own performance in this unwelcome duty would be closely scrutinized.
“Okay. So what do we do?”
Emerson Faber was a big, capable-looking man with ropy forearms and bulging biceps. Shapiro was glad to have him along, for he was at least weapons-trained and their newest recruits would be more of a hazard, considering how seldom they used their weapons aboard ship.
After sixteen months of garrison duty, endlessly hovering in the stable point, providing some kind of moral presence for the colony, people tended to get rusty. Most didn’t abuse shore leave, but every cruise had its killed and missing, even on the most mundane of duty. It was a hazardous profession and Shapiro was trained well enough in that regard. He had a responsibility to assess and minimize all risks.
Not very exciting, but it was his job.
“We make an appearance in the city. We troll through the bars, wearing full kit and arrayed for battle. And we tell people we’re looking for deserters.”
“And?” Dave Semanko was a communications specialist, which included linguistics and even rhetoric.
In his early thirties, he radiated competence. Perhaps the uniform, crew-cut and trim build had something to do with it. His intelligent brown eyes looked at Newton.
“Then we go to a hotel and rustle up some transport, as we have one or two tips to check out. Other than that, I figure by the time we get back to the port, people have had a chance to think on it and it’s quite possible some of them will turn themselves in.”
He was betting on word getting around—like wildfire.
“Turn themselves in?” Faber snorted and slapped his thigh.
He didn’t impress Shapiro as an idiot, but he might have been mistaken.
“Once they get out there. Once they’ve gone hungry a while, and seen the prospects. Once they see what they’re really up against, they’ll be kicking themselves all over the place for running away.”
Semanko was studying the field notes for Third World.
“It doesn’t seem so bad. A mix of indigenous and Terran flora, a few carefully selected fauna…temperate zone is extensive.” He read on. “Seventy percent of the surface is landmass, and the biggest ocean is at the southern pole. Huh.”
“Yeah. And there’s nothing down there.” Shapiro swept their eyes in an all-encompassing stare.
“Nothing?” If Ensign Spaulding didn’t get it, the others probably weren’t either.
“Nothing. Nothing at all, ladies and gentlemen.” He gave them a moment to think about it.
“The life of a soldier is compensated for by a life of ease and sloth.” Faber surprised him with that one.
It went back a thousand years to some historian no one ever read anymore.
“Yes. And that’s just what they’re not going to get on Third World. First, the capital city is our city—and it’s only eighteen thousand people. They really can’t hide there and they know it.”
Because sooner or later, everybody discovers they need to make a living. That was another, unspoken compensation for being in the service. It was a living.
“Because they don’t have the skills or the drive.” The Ensign had nailed it. “It’s more—a lot more, than they must have bargained for.”
There were comprehending nods around the table as they looked at him and each other. There was no lack of confidence, but a little caution would have been preferable. He wondered if he was just being insecure about his own role in all of this. It was a command, though. It was an independent command…
“So what do you think?” Shapiro eyed the lean, dour figure of Jackson at the far end of the table.
“Nothing, yet. What are the people like? I mean, outside the, er…cities.” He cleared his throat and explained. “There are a lot of officials from outside, recent immigrants, temporary workers. Not everyone in town is a local.”
The city was at least used for shore leave. They had some familiarity with it. The hinterland was another story. Newton wondered most about Jackson. At his age, his rank seemed very low, as if he had hit a dead end for one reason or another. That was the truth about the service. There were only so many desirable positions available, and in peacetime manpower withered away as the brightest people sought a better life in the civilian world. So why had Jackson stayed?
But Jackson had hit the nail right on the head. Walter was extremely intelligent, but was known to hate the service. He looked like he was looking forward to the duty, unlike one or two others, at least initially. They were putting a better face on it now. Control over one’s demeanor was a necessary trait in even the most junior officers in the close-knit community that was the ship. Catching deserters wasn’t exactly what they had signed up for. Ship-board duties had their own routine, and it was a comforting one, even a lazy one at times. Faber was right—it really was a different kind of a life, but one easily gotten used to.
“That, is very difficult to say. The traders say they are pretty business-savvy and harvesting the local commodities is back-breaking work. It’s all done with the simplest of tools and implements. The communities are very small and tightly-knit. The old timers still remember their home world, and some of them are probably better educated than you or I. We’d better remember that. This is not the time to be patronizing them. Hopefully we can avoid, ah…cultural pitfalls.”
Life was simple, brutal, and short on Third World, with its limited nutrition and medical care.
It was amazing how fast a new culture would spring up. The company had brought in twenty or thirty loads of colonists, setting them down here or there as per some initial study and planning. A lot of promises had been made, and then the company was affected by a downward turn of the economy. Much of the heavier equipment and tools never made it to the planet’s surface, being sold elsewhere in the name of liquidity. The government and the company were consulting and working on the difficulties.
Again the nods. There were limits to what power and authority could do. The Empire claimed that it governed on goodwill and tried to achieve it, in all honesty. In all honesty, it failed as often as it succeeded. It’s not like the Empire didn’t care about its social mission, but funds were always tight and priorities higher elsewhere.
“All right. Let’s go over this list and see who’s who—and who’s what.” Shapiro was rewarded with a few grins and chuckles.
The enlisted men’s files were at least entertaining. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. His team would be what he made of it.
He’d read all the books.
***
The troops filed aboard the shuttle craft and stowed all loose equipment.
Newton surveyed the lines of people strapping in on each side of the passenger bay but said nothing. They muttered amongst themselves and that was okay. He clapped Faber on the shoulder, as Faber was staying back there and Newton made his way to the copilot’s seat. That one blazon on Newton’s shoulder made all the difference.
Strapping himself in, he and the Ensign began going over the long checklist before launch.
Back in the passenger bay, Faber looked at the long line of eager young faces sitting across from him and stifled a laugh.
“Don’t worry, be happy.”
One or two looked over at him and gave him a thumbs-up or a nod. A couple looked just plain scared. Their names were on their tunics and he ran through them in his mind.
Benson hadn’t even been off the ship before, not since being assigned to Hermes after graduating technical school.
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He just looked young and green. Benson was armed, presumably trained for it, but his imagination was going overboard. Maybe it was the shuttle flight that was getting to him.
As for Freeman, he was a quiet sort who would have kept his head down and done his job but when he had a couple drinks he got belligerent with anyone with even a smidgeon of power.
He was always in some sort of a scrape or other. As to why he was unhappy, was another story as he’d been in the service for years and had been planet-side plenty of times. He was one of three in the party who’d actually been to Third World.
Faber’s own shore leave was coming up in a month or so and he was quite looking forward to it.
More than anything he wanted to sleep in a real bed, in a real room, eat like a pig and drink like a fish for a while. He’d spend a few bucks and get himself a whore. Grimaldi looked over and lifted her eyebrows in bored contempt.
Faber grinned. Grimaldi looked away, still looking contemptuous.
The machine lurched under them and then began moving forwards as the light outside the view-ports dimmed and then they were weightless as space, time and thermodynamics took them in its proper grip.
Once the Ensign had cleared the ship and found their course, Newton thanked her.
“I’m going to address the troops.”
She rolled her eyes a bit and he wondered what that was about, but she said nothing.
The Lieutenant activated his microphone and all of their earpieces and began going over their briefing, with a few additional reminders that were better left out of the official record, simple brevity also being a concern. Semanko appeared to be dozing in a quick glimpse over his shoulder.
His eyes popped open, and then he carefully winked.
Jackson chewed gum and stared out the side window.
Cultural contacts between Fleet and semi-autonomous worlds were often problematic and he was looking for his people to be on their best behaviour.
Chapter Four
The Flight Was Routine
The flight was routine in spite of the butterflies in Newton’s stomach. In their earpieces they listened in amusement as Faber, an old salt and clearly in control by sheer force of habit and a certain cockiness, chaffed and chatted with the troops. The few responses they heard sounded cheerful enough, and they were all eager to get down on the ground.
Their atmospheric approach was uneventful, although there were the usual jolts and vibration, underlined by the unfamiliar roar of air over the body of the craft. Faber’s voice went up a bit and it sounded like at least one trooper was suffering motion sickness, but they soon made it down to smoother air.
Faber’s quiet voice talked the boy through it as Newton listened in approval.
Spaulding brought the shuttle into the pattern like she’d done it a million times. It was a pleasure to watch her work and Newton made a mental note to mention it in the operational report.
She set her down on eggshells, and the nose sank and the speed bled off by the numbers. Spaulding’s ground-handling was totally professional, and he admired her for it as she must have spent days in the simulator.
Newton had over a hundred such landings in his log book, and he didn’t always do as well as she did on her first one. He made a point of telling her that, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
The shuttle craft would stay on the ground in a secure area guarded by civilian personnel. The place appeared to have four or five employees. There were a dozen small aircraft of various types lined up and one small commercial plane in front of the terminal, with a capacity of maybe thirty seats. Its engines were running and people came out, hauling bags from inside the dark interior of the loading dock.
Unbelievable.
He doubted if anyone on the surface had the skill to operate a shuttle, but theft or vandalism was a concern.
Taking a chartered bus waiting in front of the small, white-painted concrete block terminal, the field’s lonely windsock drooping in the background across verdant green fields, the drive into town took about twenty minutes and then they checked into their pre-arranged quarters.
Everyone had their own room, and to Newton, the prices seemed oddly unreasonable but they were on Her Majesty’s tab anyways. Everything in the ship’s own store was sold at cost and the transportation of it was heavily subsidized by the taxpayers. It was just culture shock.
It’s not like they ever paid room and board. Civilian life really did have its hazards.
All of this was part of his planning and responsibility, and the comfort of the troops was also a consideration. With their faces wreathed in smiles and their voices loud in the unfamiliar surroundings, he grinned and raised an arm.
“People.”
They simmered down quickly enough, although one trooper gouged another in the ribs with an elbow and got a quick swat in return.
He stared at them and they both turned beet red in the face.
“All right. You’ve all got your keys. Shower up, and we’ll rendezvous in the dining room at eighteen-hundred. You’re free until then, but stay on the premises and stay out of trouble.”
He received nods and grins in response as the desk clerk looked on and one or two folks came and went from the elevators.
“The Lieutenant will be buying you all a beer.”
They cheered at that and an old fellow sitting reading a paper in a wing-back lobby chair put his magazine down and looked up at the group.
“…but only one. We will do our first patrol tonight, beginning at twenty-one-hundred hours. Conduct yourselves accordingly.”
They were dismissed. A gaggle of ordinary people all of a sudden, a bit of a revelation to Newton, they picked up their heavy gunny sacks and turned. In ones and twos they straggled off to the elevator while Newton and Faber stood watching.
The Ensign spoke to the desk clerk, leaning in and muttering back and forth, and Jackson looked at his watch and then the front doors.
Catching Newton’s eye, he pointed.
“I think I’ll have a look about.” He beckoned at Trooper Khan, who sighed and looked at the other’s bags lying there beside him on the polished terrazzo.
On Newton’s nod, Jackson went out with a thoughtful look about him and Khan struggled towards the elevators with a hundred and fifty kilos of gear.
***
Newton, the Ensign, Jackson and one or two troopers were seated at the dining room table sipping ice water and waiting for the rest to arrive.
“The guy in a coffee shop across the street called them the Tree Streets.”
Newton wondered at the name.
“Tree streets?”
“They’re all named after trees. Pine Street, Sycamore Street, all kinds of trees. That’s one end of town, all small, working class homes. They’re on fairly big lots but people live by low income labour. Some of them are self-employed. Then there’s another neighbourhood nearby with a few small apartment buildings, all walk-ups in that area. No real high-rises in town. That’s the local hotbed of crime, as there are quite a few bars in the area.”
They had information on other types of crime, endemic to virtually all known worlds, but crime-fighting per se was not the focus of the mission.
There were a half a dozen villages and populated cross-roads within a short distance of Capital City.
The center of town had a number of multi-story buildings, including the Royal City Hotel which they were in.
Other than that, there were straggling industrial developments along major thoroughfares both inside and outside the city proper. With no premium on space, and plenty of room to go around, colonial towns tended to spread out quickly. There was an old joke about human beings spreading out in all directions to take up all available space.
The true value of being on the spot was that you could take a quick look around and new possibilities opened up.
“I was thinking initially of places of entertainment, I mean from the point of view of the deserters. But they don’t
have any income, and their money would soon run out.”
“Yeah.” Faber was looking all round the room and its few diners, romantic couples and several single males, and then he turned his attention back to the conversation.
Two more troopers, Khan and Freeman, arrived and grabbed seats with a nod towards their end of the table. They began talking in low tones and looking around in interest. After ship life, the place was not just big, but unusually dark inside, something they weren’t used to outside of their own berths. Shipboard, it was lights-on twenty-four-seven. Hernandez showed up and took her seat wordlessly, hair still wet from a shower.
At last a group of crew members, sounding for all the world like a bunch of tourists, came in and Newton looked around for the waiters, obligingly waiting in the wings in their long-tailed frock coats, bottle-green, and with white linen towels hanging over one arm.
The gang was all here. The last chair was dragged into place and they looked at him expectantly.
So this was like fatherhood.
Newton was the one paying all the bills around here.
“All right, people. Listen up.”
They were to have nothing over fifty credits, no alcohol other than that which the Lieutenant ordered, (a gentle reminder of who he was,) and dinner would be concluded within a reasonable time. The mission would begin first thing in the morning for most, and he listed those working tonight.
Other than that, they could order anything they liked and the dinner would be informal.
The noise in there picked up considerably after that. The waiters pounced.
Having studied the menu, Newton guts rumbled at the thoughts of a salad, a real salad, with vegetables picked only days before from a garden in actual soil and not produced in strings under lights and growing in nutritional fluids.
As for what else he might have, he was leaning towards the roast beef, but on impulse decided on country-fried chicken and all the trimmings. Looking down the table at the young and cheerful faces, he felt a strangely fatherly glow about them. All of them, really. Maybe a ship really was a big family, but there was nothing quite like being on the ground. He needed their help, if they could only give it.
Third World Page 3
