by Peter Grant
“Yes, Sir. I’m informed that BuSec was responsible for the outer perimeter.” Steve had to bite his lip to refrain from adding several very rude remarks concerning their competence.
“Don’t say any more, Lieutenant — this is an open channel. All I can say right now is that there’ll be further developments through the night. Go back to your hotel and relax. I’ll give you an update tomorrow morning.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
~ ~ ~
“Hi, buddy.” Brooks grinned as Steve opened the door to his room. “I hear you made a nuisance of yourself again last night.”
“Come in. Yeah, I’ve been keeping myself busy. What brings you down to the planet?”
Brooks tossed his overnight bag onto the bed, and sat down beside it as Steve resumed his seat. “We’ve been working like dogs checking everything aboard Vargash. Midrash’s System Patrol Service were real grateful for our help — having an extra sixty trained bodies on hand has speeded up the work enormously. Achilles gets out of the dockyard tomorrow, so they gave us all liberty tonight and flew us down here. They’ve arranged accommodation for everyone planetside. They’ll fly us back up to orbit tomorrow evening to rejoin Achilles.”
“Sounds good. Where are you staying?”
“Right here! Lieutenant–Commander Maram arranged a room for me. Said it was the least they could do for both of us, seeing as we’re buddies. I’m shamelessly playing on your fame for all it’s worth.”
Steve pretended to throw a cushion from the chair at him. “Bribery and corruption, that’s what it is!”
“Maybe.” Brooks’ face sobered. “Speaking of corruption, what’s this I hear about a judge of the planet’s Constitutional Court being part of this mess?”
“I guess bad apples can crop up anywhere, or a good apple can be bruised. In this case, enough money was involved to tempt a saint!”
“How did they catch him so quickly, anyway?”
Steve thought fast. He couldn’t reveal that the Dragon Tong had provided the judge’s name, amongst others, to Inspector Gilon. “The authorities became suspicious about five people — two directors of the Fargin conglomerate, the judge, and two other businessmen. They got a court order to tap all their comm units and messages. Turns out some of them had additional, unregistered comm units — they found out about them when the others called those codes. They used voice and data encryption, but the authorities got around that by downloading a program to their devices, disguised as an ‘operating system update’. It recorded everything seen or heard on their end — after decryption or before encryption, in other words — then called a data repository and played it back on receipt of a coded signal.”
Brooks frowned. “I didn’t know they could do that! Sounds like something we should be aware of in terms of Fleet security.”
“Apparently they already are. Commander Wu says BuSec builds defensive measures against that sort of thing into our issue comm units. Anyhow, they were able to catch all five discussing the smuggling among themselves, and trying to figure out how to get their tame Judge to give them a court order setting aside some of the warrants already served and seizures already made. Three of them also spoke about the contract on my life. Apparently they hoped it’d send a message to investigators to back off — you know, ‘If we’re prepared to kill a Fleet officer, just think what we can do to you and your family’, that sort of thing. They were pretty upset when the hit failed, and called each other to discuss setting up another attempt. That was good enough for the prosecutor to issue arrest warrants for all of them.”
“Will those taps stand up in court?”
“I guess so, or they wouldn’t have used them as justification for the arrests. I’m betting some of the five will crack under interrogation, too. After all, the three we caught last night are singing like birds, and implicating some of them. They’re looking at forfeiture of all their assets, which will hurt their families very badly, plus incarceration for the rest of their lives on a prison planet. I figure one or two of them will co–operate in the hope of getting at least some leniency from the authorities — perhaps being allowed to leave their families enough money to live on, something like that.”
“Let’s hope so. Did they find out how the kill team penetrated the security cordon?”
Steve shook his head in disgust. “They can’t have known about all the security precautions, but even so, they used one of the oldest tricks in the book, and it worked as well as always. They simply set up their ambush before the cordon was established. Traffic vid showed their car being parked there early in the morning. The driver paid at the meter for all–day parking, using an untraceable prepaid credit chip, then simply walked away and left it there. The Bureau of Security team checked it out when they established the outer perimeter during the afternoon, but there was nothing suspicious about it.
“About half an hour before we left the restaurant, the three–man team walked up, got into the car and sat there, cool as you please. A passing patrolman wondered why they didn’t leave, and asked them if there was a problem, but they told him they were waiting for someone to join them. He accepted their story and didn’t think any more of it.”
“He didn’t notice their bead carbine?”
“He says not. Apparently it was stowed in a concealed compartment beneath the back seat. They must have taken it out when they needed it.”
“I bet BuSec’s smarting about that right now.”
“That’s what I hear. It seems there’s an ongoing ‘turf war’ between BuIntel and BuSec at the best of times, so this mess is allowing BuIntel to score points off their rival. Commander Wu seems to be enjoying their discomfiture, anyway. I think he’ll get an official feather in his cap from the Fleet for coming up with a plan to capture the team of assassins, and probably another from Midrash for helping the planetary authorities break up a major smuggling network. To be fair, he deserves both. He’s in a good enough mood that he’s even offered to arrange a two–year tour of duty at BuIntel for me in a few years, when I reach O–3 grade or higher. Apparently they don’t take line officers in more junior grades.”
Brooks’ eyebrows rose. “He must have some pretty serious influence if he can do that! BuIntel doesn’t open many of its assignments to general service officers. Will you take it?”
Steve nodded. “Lieutenant–Commander Kilian said it’s a great opportunity, because Intel experience can open doors later in one’s career. If Commander Wu makes good on his offer, I’ll take it, but only for two years. I don’t want to specialize in Intelligence work. He’s got an idea for my next planetside tour of duty, too. He’s offered to arrange an assignment for me to the Accident Investigation Unit on Lancaster. He says their investigations are as thorough as those of BuIntel, sometimes even more so. He reckons I’ll learn a lot from a stint there that’ll stand me in good stead for a later tour at BuIntel. I like the idea.”
“OK, but if all that's in the future, but what are they going to do for you now? Without you they’d never have captured the kill team, and wouldn’t be able to use their interrogations to gather evidence against the others. Come to that, without you and your team, they wouldn’t have an investigation to begin with – those smugglers would have taken the inertial compensator over the protests of the System Patrol and got clean away!”
Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m sure they’re planning something. Commander Wu’s already written up Lieutenant Sabran and myself for a Planetary Combat Badge award. Neither Miriam nor myself wanted one, because this wasn’t much of an engagement, but he pointed out that the Regulations are clear. If you come under hostile fire while on an official assignment, you’re considered to have been in combat. He wanted to write up Miriam for a Combat Injury Medal, too, but she refused. She said it wouldn’t be right to accept it for such a tiny scratch.”
“Good for her! Both of you deserve more than just combat stars, though. After all, you were both aboard Vargash when things went pear–shaped
, and you were both involved in this latest incident too.”
“I don’t know what else he has in mind. What’s been going on in orbit?”
“Plenty! The most interesting thing right now is that rhodium. Ever heard of something called an ‘elemental profile’?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s the unique chemical ‘fingerprint’ of a particular sample of any element on the Periodic Table. It comes partly from trace elements at the place where it was extracted, and partly from the way it was refined. They tested the rhodium we found, and guess what? Its elemental profile doesn’t fit any source listed in the United Planets mining registry. The scientists reckon it must come from a completely new source, probably an asteroid mining facility set up in an uninhabited system somewhere. That’s big news, because rhodium’s scarce at the best of times. If we’ve just found over a ton of the stuff, that implies the same source must be producing other platinum group metals as well. If their output’s big enough, it might affect markets and prices throughout the settled galaxy.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose. “That big, huh?”
“So they tell me. We know Vargash came here from the Sigma system, stopping at a couple of planets along the way to collect more cargo. I guess they’ll try to find out where she loaded the inertial compensator, then send investigators there to back–track it and see whether they can find the source of the rhodium.”
Another knock came at the door. Steve opened it, to reveal Miriam standing in the corridor. She stepped inside and embraced him, kissing him lingeringly. He put his good arm around her and hugged her close, returning her kiss with interest. Behind them, Brooks whistled approvingly.
“I didn’t know you two were an item?”
Miriam grinned at him. “We aren’t, not long–term — I know Steve won’t be settling down here. Even so, when a gentleman shoves her out of the way of a bullet, and nails the guy responsible, the least a lady can do is show her gratitude!” She turned back to Steve. “I’m famished! Are you ready to eat?”
“I sure am!”
“Oh, good! Are we all eating together?”
“If you don’t mind my tagging along,” Brooks agreed.
“I’m glad you’re both here,” Steve admitted. “It’s a special anniversary tonight, and I didn’t want to spend it alone.”
“Oh?” Brooks’ face and voice were intrigued. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”
“No. Let’s eat, then I’ll tell you more. Miriam, you’re a local. I want to go to a restaurant or nightclub with a really good selection of Scotch whiskies, including the rarer single malts. Any ideas?”
“There’s a place called Balmenach. The proprietor’s grandfather emigrated here from Scotland, and established a pub. It’s still in his family, although it’s added a retail store and a pretty good restaurant with traditional Scottish food. They boast there are never less than fifty Scotch whiskies available.”
Steve grinned. “I’ve never eaten Scottish food, although I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about haggis. Care to try it with me?”
She giggled. “Why not?”
Brooks sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to come along to keep an eye on you, in case you over–indulge. If we’re going to be drinking whisky, should we take a taxi?”
“That’s not a bad idea. I’d hate to be arrested for drunken driving so soon after becoming APD’s golden boy!”
~ ~ ~
As a server cleared their table of the remnants of dessert, the waiter asked, “Was everything to your liking, Sir?”
“Oh, yes,” Steve assured him happily, patting his replete stomach. “Now, do you have Aultfeldy single malt whisky?”
The man’s face showed surprise. “Yes, Sir, we do. You’re the first person who’s asked for it in some time. Most people choose a cheaper and better–known single malt. Aultfeldy’s a connoisseur’s tipple.”
“Well, I’m no connoisseur, but tonight’s a special occasion. I’d like three glasses of Aultfeldy, straight.” He looked at his friends. “Coffee for everyone?” They nodded, and he turned back to the waiter. “Coffee as well, please.”
“Coming right up, Sir.”
As he walked away, Brooks said, “All right, Steve, out with it! What’s so special about this ‘Aultfeldy’ stuff, and why do we need to drink it tonight?”
Miriam leaned forward. “Yes, this is all very mysterious! What’s up?”
Steve said slowly, “Nine years ago tonight, on January 22nd, 2837 according to the Galactic Standard Calendar, I met a man. In a very real sense, he’s the reason I’m here tonight.”
He told them of meeting Bosun Cardle in Louie’s saloon at the Elevator terminal at Old Home Earth, and how his defense of Louie a few days earlier had sparked a discussion that had led to an offer of employment as a spacer apprentice. He described how that had led to Radetski and Operation Sweet Tooth, Vince’s later death at the hands of pirates, and Steve’s subsequent enlistment in the Fleet. While he spoke, the waiter put three crystal glasses on the table before them, and poured coffee, but no one interrupted his story to sample their drinks.
“So that’s what we’re celebrating tonight,” he concluded. “Nine years ago I met the man who’d become a surrogate father to me, only to lose him less than two years later. It was his willingness to take a chance on me that gave me the opportunity to leave Old Home Earth and build a new life for myself. Two years later — seven years ago, almost to the day — I enlisted in the Fleet and started Boot Camp. Now I’m 27 years old, with a bright future ahead of me, all because Vince gave me a break. I wish he was still here with us, but since he can’t be, I reckoned I’d raise a glass of his favorite tipple in his memory.”
He picked up his glass. “Here’s to Vince Cardle, the best man I ever knew. If there’s anything after death, I hope he knows we’re thinking of him now; and I hope I get to see him again when my time comes to cross the river.”
“Absent friends,” Brooks toasted, and Miriam nodded. They clinked their glasses together, then sipped the heady single malt whisky.
“Whoo! That’s strong!” Miriam gasped, her eyes widening. “It’s smooth, though. I can feel the warmth sliding all the way down my throat.”
“It’s good stuff, all right,” Brooks agreed. “It’s much lighter than some single malt Scotches I’ve tasted, not too peaty–flavored.”
Steve nodded. “I can appreciate it better now. Back then I didn’t have a palate for whisky — Louie said I was too young. I reckon I’ll keep a bottle of Aultfeldy in my home when I finally establish one, and drink a glass now and again in memory of Vince, and for special occasions.”
“I think he’d like that,” Miriam said quietly.
“I hope so. I hope I can become someone of whom he’d be proud.”
“I think perhaps you already have,” she suggested.
“I reckon I’ve still got a long way to go before I can claim to have lived up to his standards.”
Brooks grinned. “What’s the old proverb? ‘The longest journey begins with a single step’. You took that step nine years ago tonight, buddy. I’d say you’ve taken quite a few more since then. Here’s to the rest of them. They may not be smooth and easy, but I hope they’ll be steps of which he’d be proud — and I’ll be proud to walk at least some of them alongside you.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Steve agreed softly.
About The Author
Peter Grant was born in South Africa in 1958. The state censor board did not allow television until 1973, and his parents didn't get one until 1974; so he grew up with books. Lots of books.
He started out after school as a military man, moved into commercial information technology, and assisted with humanitarian work during South Africa's prolonged civil unrest that led to the end of apartheid in 1994. After having traveled all over Africa, he emigrated to the USA in 1997, married a pilot from Alaska, and settled in Tennessee.
Visit him at his Amazon.com author page, or his blog
:
http://bayourenaissanceman.blogspot.com
