by Dan Cragg
“Roger, I think that’s a great idea.” He held out his mug in a toast. The four clinked mugs.
Prime Minister Duane Foxtable and his cabinet stood on the same beachside flagstone terrace where they’d greeted Commodore Borland and Brigadier Sturgeon on their first meeting.
Commodore Borland didn’t bring any Marines on that trip planetside, but he instructed the coxswains of the two Essays to make the descent in combat assault mode—a straight-down dive—anyway. He wanted to give the prisoners a good shaking up. The only difference in the landing this time was the Essays didn’t come across the beach, the Essays landed in the middle of the plaza. After Borland and Lieutenant (jg) Flynn, the Grandar Bay’s legal officer, who was also the officer in charge of the Small Arms Department, exited the first Essay, Chief Petty Officer Ault, the Grandar Bay’s Master at Arms, led the sailors of the Small Arms Department out of the Essays. The sailors weren’t in dress uniforms; they wore working coveralls and carried weapons at the ready. The sailors formed two ranks in front of each Essay, through which the crews of the three Sharp Edge starships exited. The crewmen were shackled at the wrists and ankles, and a chain led from one to the next. The clothing on many of them testified as to how their digestive and excretory systems had responded to the combat assault dive. Borland and Flynn weren’t dressed in their whites; they wore their workaday khakis—this was no social occasion for them.
While the navy personnel were forming up, Prime Minister Foxtable and his cabinet scampered to turn so they were facing the plaza rather than the beach, and the police and lesser functionaries who attended them hastily repositioned themselves behind their reoriented masters.
Borland came to a halt in front of the Prime Minister.
“Commodore Borland, what an unexpected sur—” Foxtable began, but Borland cut him off.
“Mr. Prime Minister, members of the cabinet,” Borland said harshly, “the last time I was here, not only did all of you deny any knowledge of mining activities on Ishtar, you stated clearly that there were no activities of any sort on your sister world.
“You see before you men in chains. These prisoners are the crews of the SS Pointy End, the SS Tidal Surge, and the SS Lady Monika. Starships we found in orbit around Ishtar. They were there in support of the ground operations of a mercenary force running slave-labor mining camps. You will notice”—he leaned in at Foxtable—“that there are no Marines with us today. That is because the Marines are all planetside on Ishtar, engaged in hostilities with the comrades of these mercenaries.” He stood erect and looked from one end of the cabinet line to the other. “In case you are wondering, the mercenaries initiated the hostilities by shooting and killing a Marine officer!”
“Bu-bu-but—” Foxtable objected.
Up and down the line of cabinet members, the ministers were also objecting. Some looked honestly surprised by Borland’s statement, others horrified, as though they’d been caught out doing something they really shouldn’t have done.
“Your system scanning must be the worst among settled human worlds,” Borland snarled, “if not one but three starships could enter your system and take up orbit around your sister world without you noticing!
“Or did you know?” he demanded accusingly.
Borland turned to look at the prisoners, obviously not listening to anything the Prime Minister might have to say in response. “These sailors,” he said derisively, “are not worthy of being on a starship, much less a Confederation Navy starship.” He turned back to Foxtable. “So I am handing them over to you for safekeeping. You will secure them until I can arrange for their removal to a proper venue to be tried for piracy, slave running, and other crimes as may be determined.”
There was no reaction to that announcement from the prisoners; they were all still recovering from the planetfall.
Foxtable paled. “Bu-but, Commodore, Opal doesn’t have proper facil—”
Borland rounded on the Prime Minister. “Then you will make proper facilities,” he snapped. He leaned so close that Foxtable took an involuntary step back. “I cannot yet determine that you or your ministers are responsible for what is happening on Ishtar, but if any of these prisoners are not immediately available for pick up and transport when they are come for, you and your ministers will be held personally responsible and may face criminal charges yourselves! Do I make myself clear, Mr. Prime Minister?”
Foxtable swallowed several times and ran a finger around the inside of his collar. Down the line, the Minister of Security and one or two other cabinet members looked distinctly ill.
“Y-yes,” the prime minister croaked. “Yes, sir.”
Borland gestured toward the prisoners. “Now these are yours. Deal with them.”
“Deal with them, yes.” Foxtable craned his neck to look along the line of cabinet ministers. “M-mister Rondow,” he said, “kindly see to the prisoners.”
Minister of Security Rondow flinched, but turned to the Berrican police chief, who stood behind him, and said, “Lock those people up, Chief Madlow.”
Chief Madlow blanched and mouthed “Where?” but ordered his policemen to take control of the prisoners from the sailors guarding them. Master at Arms Ault, in turn, had to take control of the policemen to straighten out the ensuing confusion.
“Now, Mr. Prime Minister,” Borland said once the policemen had the prisoners marching off to the city jail, “shall we retire to your office?” He phrased it as a request but it came across as a command.
“B-by all means, Commodore.” Foxtable led Borland to his land car and ushered him into it. He tried not to be taken aback when Lieutenant (jg) Flynn and Master at Arms Ault joined them. Foxtable made a couple of attempts to make polite conversation during the short ride to the Prime Minister’s palace, but the navy men didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him, so he stopped trying and sat in uncomfortable silence until he was finally able to scramble out of the vehicle.
The four of them, along with Minister of Security Rondow, met in Foxtable’s office at Borland’s demand—he had phrased it as a request, said the office would be more comfortable and conducive to open and honest conversation.
As soon as he entered his office, Foxtable scurried to the perceived safety of his desk. Borland and Flynn took visitor’s chairs facing the desk, virtually forcing Rondow to sit between them. Chief Petty Officer Ault closed the office door behind them and stood in front of it at parade rest. When he casually patted the hand blaster holstered at his hip, it became obvious that he was going to let no one get past in either direction.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Borland began, “we have a serious situation here. There are numerous violations of Confederation law involved, enough to send people to prison for the rest of their natural lives—not to mention a possible threat to the security of the Confederation of Human Worlds, and, just incidentally, the security of Opal. I want to make sure you are aware of that.”
Foxtable nodded dumbly.
“You heard what I said about slave labor being used by the mercenaries on Ishtar. Do you have any idea who those slave laborers are?” He watched Foxtable’s face closely as he spoke. Flynn watched Rondow just as closely.
“N-no. I didn’t even know s-slavery or anything else was happening on Ishtar. How could I know who is being kept in such dire circumstance?”
Borland gave him a sharklike grin. “Aliens, Mr. Prime Minister. The mercenaries have enslaved an alien sentience indigenous to Ishtar.”
“No!” Foxtable shouted. “That’s not possible! When the Bureau of Human Habitability Exploration and Investigation explored Ishtar before we colonized Opal, they didn’t find any sign of a sentience. Our own explorations didn’t find anything, either. It’s not possible!”
Borland shook his head. “It’s not only possible, it’s true. Behind”—the derisive colloquial name for BHHEI—“didn’t look in the right places, and neither did Opal’s explorers. The indigenous sentience lives in burrows—its villages are all underground. We’ve been i
nside them. We have collected and examined samples of the artifacts of the sentience. Technologically, they’re at a level roughly analogous to our own early Industrial Age.”
Foxtable looked aghast at Rondow. “Do you know anything about this?”
Rondow shook his head. Borland wondered if the Minister of Security was unable to speak out of fear that his voice would give him away.
“I noticed a similarity between your name and the name of the chief of police,” Flynn said conversationally. “Are you related?”
Off balance at the unexpected and off-topic question, Rondow stared at the officer for a moment. “No, no,” he said at last. “Just a coincidence of sounds. That’s all.”
Flynn looked over his shoulder at Ault, who nodded, got out his comp, and took a note.
Rondow saw the byplay, as he was supposed to. “A distant cousin, that’s all. Not a close relative. No, not at all close. Anyway, nepotism isn’t illegal on Opal.” He looked to Foxtable for confirmation.
“That’s right,” Foxtable said quickly. “Everything he said is true.”
“I see,” Flynn said in a calm voice that implied he didn’t believe a word of what either man said.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Borland said in a friendlier tone than he’d used so far, “I believe, and Brigadier Sturgeon concurs, that these mercenaries could not have established their slave-labor mining operations on Ishtar without the connivance of some of Opal’s industrialists and, possibly, some ranking members of your government. I would like to have your assistance in ferreting out the guilty parties. Bear in mind, please, that the discovery of an alien sentience is a matter of great security interest to the Confederation of Human Worlds.”
Foxtable was taken aback by the sudden and unexpected change in Borland’s tone, and by the request for assistance. It took several seconds for him to collect himself. When he did, he said slowly and with relief, “Commodore, my office will give you every assistance we can in coming to a proper and successful conclusion to this matter. An alien sentience indigenous to Ishtar is indeed, as you said, a matter of great security interest. Not only to the Confederation, but to Opal itself!”
“I’m very happy to hear you say that,” Borland said. He produced several sheets of flimsiplast from his jacket pocket. “I have here copies of permits signed by your Ministers of Commercial Enterprise, Space Operations, and Mines and Resources, granting Galactic Enterprises, Ltd., permission to develop and exploit the resources of Ishtar. Galactic Enterprises is—”
Foxtable cut him off. “Let me see those!” he snapped, yanking the sheets out of Borland’s hands. His eyes widened as he skimmed the copies. Aghast, he looked up at Borland after reading the permits. “Minister of Mines and Resources Bijuterie died in an accident seven months ago. Minister of Space Operations Kugis resigned and went off world nearly a year ago—I don’t know where she is now. And Minister of Commercial Enterprise Shouhou retired to his estate on Minisan last year.” He looked at the permits again, and said slowly, “The dates on these permits suggests that signing them was just about the last thing each of those ministers did in his or her ministerial capacity.” He rolled his head from side to side and murmured, “None of them said anything to me about these permits.”
“What about their successors? Do they know about?”
“I’ll damn well find out!” Foxtable shouted, banging his hand on his desktop. He turned to Rondow, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Get those three ministers in here, right now! I want to see each of them individually, and I don’t want them to know what I want to see them for. Understand?”
“Yes, Prime Minister, I fully understand,” Rondow said as he jumped to his feet and rushed out of the office.
“And get Shouhou in here!” Foxtable shouted after his Minister of Security.
Minister of Commercial Enterprise Perkara was the first of the summoned ministers to arrive. She was dressed in a business suit a decade out of style in the older worlds of Human Space, but she wore it like the latest fashion, which on Opal it probably was. Commodore Borland and his people sat in a row off to the side of Prime Minister Foxtable’s desk. No other chairs were available, so Perkara stood directly in front of the desk.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded after casting a harsh glare at Borland. She made a show of looking at the absence of seating for herself. “Is this the way you receive your ministers now, Duane? Like misbehaving students brought in to the headmaster’s office?”
Foxtable didn’t answer her, just handed over the permit signed by her predecessor. “What do you know about this?”
She looked at it and shrugged. “Before my time,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before. For all I know it’s been revoked.”
“Well, find out. I expect a full report on this permit and its current status by the end of the afternoon.”
Perkara sniffed, spun on her heel, and marched out of the office without a word.
Minister of Mines and Resources Khaan was next. He was flushed, sweaty, and in gym clothes.
“What’s the meaning of this, Duane?” he demanded, not seeming to notice that he wasn’t offered a seat. “You know I work out every day at this time.”
Again, Foxtable ignored his minister’s protests and handed over a permit. “Explain this to me,” he ordered.
“What?” Khaan took the permit and looked it over. “It seems to be in order. What’s the problem?”
“What the problem is, is I don’t know anything about it. But evidently you do. Explain it to me.”
Khaan shrugged. “It’s a permit for a mining operation on Ishtar. Everything seems to be in order.”
“Galactic Enterprises, Ltd., to whom the permit was issued, is a holding company. For whose benefit are they holding it?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Bijuterie. He signed it, not me.”
“Minister Bijuterie is dead, as you well know. Since I can’t ask him, I’m asking you. Explain it, if you please.”
Khaan looked at the permit again, and waved it at Foxtable. “Everything I know about it is right here.”
Foxtable simply stared at Khaan.
“Well, I guess I can find out,” Khaan admitted.
“I expect a full report on my desk by the end of the afternoon. Now get back to the gym and clean yourself up. You look a mess, and you smell.”
Looking offended, Khaan left.
Minister of Security Rondow returned. “I haven’t been able to find Avaruus,” he reported. “He’s not in his office or any of his usual haunts. Nobody seems to know where he’s at.”
“Keep looking. What about Shouhou?”
“I’ve sent an atmospheric flyer to Minisan to bring him to you.”
“Did you talk to him, tell him why you’re sending the flyer?”
“No, I didn’t speak directly to him. I told his major domo that you wanted to see him, that was all.”
“All right. Keep looking for Avaruus.” Foxtable waved Rondow away. When the security chief was gone, he turned to Borland with a questioning expression on his face.
“Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. I would like to see those reports once you’ve read them.”
“I’m happy to cooperate, Commodore. I think we’ve got a serious situation on our hands. Now, you said you wanted to see some industrialists as well?”
“Yes I do.”
In short order, Commodore Borland had meetings scheduled with Navio Acalli, the owner of the starship yard; Smaragdna Boja, the owner of Opal’s primary gem mining fields; Beimat Sawder, the owner of the principal private security firm; and Relv Arma, Opal’s sole weapons manufacturer. There was subterfuge involved; the meetings weren’t set directly with the industrialists—they weren’t even told in advance that they would be meeting with Borland. Instead the four were invited to an impromptu luncheon at the Prime Minister’s palace, and the meetings would take place before they were allowed to leave. Foxtable carried enough weight that all four showed up promptly, even
though Boja tried to beg off, citing a major new find on an arctic island that he was preparing to visit. If the industrialists were surprised by the presence of two Confederation Navy Dragons standing outside the entrance of the Prime Minister’s palace, or the armed Confederation sailors dressed in work coveralls standing at parade rest outside the entrance to the conference room where the luncheon was being held, they didn’t give voice to it. Nor were they surprised at the absence of the cabinet ministers. Conversation over the hastily thrown together yet elaborate five-course meal was perfunctory; basically how are your families, how’s business, and what help might you need from the government?
Commodore Borland, Lieutenant (jg) Flynn, and Chief Ault weren’t present for the meal. Instead the three navy men were in a nearby office preparing to interview the four luncheon guests.
While the luncheon dishes were being cleared away, an aide to the Prime Minister entered the room and leaned over Navio Acalli’s shoulder. After a few whispered words, Acalli followed the aide from the room. He didn’t return. Smaragdna Boja was the next to be summoned. Beimat Sawder and Relv Arma, both of whom were in a hurry to get back to their businesses but were prevented from leaving by armed Confederation sailors who had entered the room immediately after Boja left, demanded to know what was going on.
“Please, please, gentlemen,” Foxtable said, patting the air. “Nothing is wrong, I assure you. Mr. Acalli has already returned to his shipyard, and Mr. Boja will soon return to his office to continue preparing to visit his new arctic gem field. You will shortly be allowed to leave and attend to your businesses.”
“Duane, I’m in the security business,” Sawder said. “I can tell what’s going on here. You dragged the four of us in here so that fancy sailor from the Confederation can interrogate us without our being able to talk about it until everybody’s been questioned. You think I don’t know he’s here? With his sailors carrying weapons in the Prime Minister’s palace? Now what the hell are they so curious about? Talk about violations of sovereignty!”
