by David Weber
Finder smiled. “So you prequalified for the Customs Patrol by sailing into hurricanes.”
Lee smiled back. “Pretty much. That was the only way they were ever going to let me go Upside.”
“Which you wanted to do . . . why?”
Lee glanced at Bernie. “To do this. To go to a place where I figured the global bureaucracy couldn't have everything under its constant scrutiny and control.”
“Well,” exhaled Bernie, “welcome to the shit, Lieutenant Strong. Because that's what you asked to swim in, and that's where you are.”
“Skipper,” the communications rating broke in, “incoming signal from the brass.”
“Speaking of shit—” drawled Finder.
Lee cut a sharp look at him as he responded to the rating, “Pipe it in here.”
“Sir, there isn't really anything to pipe. It's a request for a retransmission of your after-action report, sir—to new lascom coordinates.”
“New coordinates? For where?”
“Best guess, sir? Hygeia.”
Bernie and Finder looked as surprised and puzzled as Lee felt. “Very well, Rating. Comply with the request.” He toggled the channel off, turned to the other two. “Hygeia?”
Bernie shrugged. “The outermost of the Belt's big rocks. Observation post, watering hole, fuel station, gathering place for off-contract prospectors and small-claim miners.”
“That I know. I've read the charts. But what do you mean, ‘off-contract'?”
“I mean what everyone out here knows, L.T., your superiors included. Not every person born off-Earth is duly reported to the authorities, nor is every business, or every ship, or every community.”
“So, by off-contract, do you mean they're not part of a legitimate commercial contract, or not part of the greater social contract?”
“Both. They only continue to exist because they stay under the radar.”
“Ah. And some of these—independents—come to Hygeia to trade?”
“That, and more. A lot of matchmaking goes on there. Talk to a Belter sometime about the about the difficulty of really long-distance relationships.”
Lee smiled. “I see your point. But then why would the brass order us to retransmit our report to Hygeia?”
Finder looked at his big feet. “Well, there are rumors, Skipper.”
Bernie looked over at him, surprised. “Okay, Jan, what've you been holding out on me?”
Finder looked up at him. “Listen, Bernie, if I told you everything I knew, then you'd be as smart as I am. Almost. So allow an old man his secrets.” He turned to Lee. “Skipper, word is that there are a few Earth Union ships—larger than cutters—which lurk around out here, and that they have hidden support caches on or near some of the major planetoids. Like Hygeia.”
Lee frowned. “You mean, other Customs Patrol craft?”
“Yes and no. Reportedly, these ships are under the control of a secret branch of the Customs Patrol, one that reports directly to the senior Green politico on the Earth Union Steering Committee. And these ships are crewed by guys like you, former cutter skippers and other Dirtsiders who got a little actual experience out here.”
Lee felt his frown deepen. “And what's their mission?”
Finder looked glum. “Whatever the politicos tell them it is.”
Lee felt his hands and feet suddenly go cold. “A spaceside Praetorian Guard?”
“Or Cossacks. So the rumor runs.”
Bernie stared at Finder. “I thought that was just an old wives' tale, bogeymen for scaring the kids.”
Finder's eyes rolled round toward the younger man. “If the tales I hear are true, they don't show up to scare people. Only to kill them.”
Lee started doing the forensic math. “If such ships really exist, it makes sense that one might be lurking nearby—particularly if our guess is right that the hijacking of the Blossom is just part of some larger covert conflict.”
“Okay,” said Bernie, “but if this Cossack Patrol is in on that action, then were the hijackers working for Upside or Dirtside interests?”
Lee nodded. “Or are there other players in the game?”
Bernie frowned. “Like who?”
The comm system squawked. “Incoming message, Sir. And be advised, there's a total exchange delay of forty seconds.”
“Acknowledged. Pipe it in, Rating.”
Bernie rubbed an index finger across his full upper lip as he did the math. “Twenty light-seconds range. A little closer than Hygeia, but not by much.”
The screen on the aft bulkhead flickered into life, revealing a plain-featured man, wearing an extremely conventional suit, seated stolidly in front of a nondescript background.
“Greetings, Lieutenant Strong. I am the Regional Customs Patrol Coordinator, Stephan Mann.”
With no outgoing signal to be sent until they were done watching this transmission, Bernie wasn't shy about filling in what he knew about their caller. “I've heard of this guy. Swiss-Belgian, been out here about five years. Every time he shows up, something funky has, or will, hit the fan. No friend of us Upsiders, and as Green as they come.”
Lee nodded and added silently, And not on any table of organization I've ever seen for the Customs Patrol. This guy handles special jobs only. Careful, now.
“We are in receipt of your after-action report, Lieutenant. You are to be commended on your competent performance.”
“I think he means, ‘enthusiastically congratulated for kicking bad-guy ass,'” muttered Bernie.
Mann's time-delayed image had not paused. “However, your failure to maintain necessary system readiness on your vessel compels us to append a negative comment to your performance. We trust you will ensure that such a failure does not recur.”
“System failure?” echoed Finder. “What system failure?”
Lee grinned sideways at him. “The lascom that you recorded as malfunctioning, ‘yesterday.' Remember?”
Finder's puzzled frown was replaced by the same sheepish look that was already on Bernie's face. “Oh, yeah, that. Sorry we didn't see this glitch coming, L.T.”
“So I don't get a cookie from Mr. Bad Suit. Big deal.”
The spare administrator in the admittedly bad (or at least, utterly dull) suit, was continuing. “What was of greater concern to us, however, was that you were unable to secure any prisoners. It would have been helpful to interrogate any of the perpetrators of the senseless and depraved criminal act that was carried out against the Fragrant Blossom.”
Lee raised an eyebrow. Senseless and depraved? That seemed to obliquely suggest that Mann was satisfied that the unexceptioned slaughter of both passengers and crew was an act of wanton savagery, not ruthless premeditation. It was a puzzling—or maybe telling—conclusion.
Mann droned on. “Concerning your speculation that the ship you destroyed was equipped with a reconfigurable nuclear thermal rocket—specifically, a gas model that could shift between closed and coaxial operating modes—our engineers point out that such a technology is hypothetical only. Your speculation also presupposes that there are rogue Upside engineers and shipbuilders who have achieved this high-performance technology independently, and have amassed sufficient radioactives to operate it. Our threat projection analysts deem both conjectures insupportable and not worthy of farther examination. However, if you have farther evidence to support your speculations, please transmit it now.” The message ended.
Lee looked at his senior ratings. “Am I going nuts, or did he just tell me that what I hypothesized is absolutely impossible, but then ended by asking me to send more evidence to support my hypothesis?”
“Uh, yeah, pretty much,” nodded Bernie.
Lee shook his head, and signaled to the communications rating. “Prepare to send reply.”
“Sir, your comm pickup is live and sending.”
Lee stood slightly straighter. “Coordinator Mann, I am happy you have received my reports and data so promptly. In the matter of the capabilities and origin of the ene
my craft, I base my conjecture on theoretical work that dates back almost three centuries, and the Customs Patrol's known inability to maintain complete overwatch on Upside activities this far from Earth.”
He felt Bernie's and Finder's eyes upon him, watching, measuring, wondering how much he was going to tell or reveal about what he was learning about the real circumstances of Upside existence.
“However, while I can offer no concrete evidence of production facilities or personnel operating away from the supervision of the Customs Patrol or other duly appointed Earth Union authorities—”
—he heard two faint, relieved sighs behind him—
“—it is nonetheless noteworthy that the intensely radioactive nature of the threat vehicle's expended propellant, and its ability to generate such a profound energy spike so quickly points to a fundamentally different nuclear thrust technology, one that would be consistent with the projected performance ratings of a reconfigurable nuclear thermal rocket. I close by pointing out that it would be the perfect vehicle for their operation, able to change power levels quickly, and seize the offensive initiative with a five hundred percent thrust advantage over us, at least during our brief engagement.
“Finally, while our understanding of the Fragrant Blossom‘s hijacking is limited to what we can reconstruct from the forensic evidence, I must point out that although the felons showed depraved indifference to life, their actions are hardly seem ‘senseless.' Each step of their plan was deliberately and methodically executed, right down to the long drift they undertook to reach 216 Kleopatra a few days after the event, rather than making a fast getaway. The discipline evident in their actions leads me to conclude that this may not be the work of mere pirates, but of political radicals among the Upsider communities.” He switched off the comm hub, sat down . . . and suddenly noticed that both Finder and Bernie were carefully avoiding his eyes. “Okay,” Lee said in a low voice, “what now? Is there an organization of renegade, radical Upsiders?”
“Well,” answered Finder, “it's not so much an organization, as it is a loose collective. They call themselves the Spacers.”
“Why that?”
Bernie rubbed his hands anxiously. “Because, L.T., it's their way of saying you're wrong to think that the dirt is humanity's real home. The most extreme of them insist that humanity's prevalent obsession with living on a green planet is not only outdated, but dangerous. They believe that's why Dirtsiders treat Upsiders like crap: because they feel superior, because they live on Earth, the holy womb of the race.”
Finder nodded. “And their answer is to turn their backs on Earth and let it drown in its own sewage and self-importance.”
Damn, I really do have a lot to learn about what's going on out here, Lee thought.
“But I'm not sure the Spacers are militant enough to resort to hijacking, Skipper,” finished Bernie. “On the other hand, you're dead right that whoever took down the Blossom wasn't doing it to get money, to get the ship, or even to get the short-term concessions that hostages can buy. So we've gotta wonder, what were they after?”
Finder nodded with the whole upper half of his body. “Yeah, and why was there an illegal, nuke-engined, missile-laden hot rod waiting in the weeds to spirit them away?”
Lee nodded. “We have too many questions and not enough answers—but I don't think we're going to find any new ones just by combing the ship, again. I think we have to expand the search.”
“To where?” Finder asked.
“To the one place that might have answers, and which we can get to: Callisto. That's where the Fragrant Blossom was heading.”
Bernie nodded. “And you think that the ‘mutiny' was planned to make sure she didn't get there?”
“More specifically, to make sure that something or someone on board didn't get there.”
Finder frowned. “So you think someone on Callisto was waiting to receive the goods? Maybe the guy who sent the warning about the Blossom being overdue?”
Bernie shook his head. “No, that would be too obvious. And besides, Callisto doesn't get a lot of ships in—maybe four a year, tops. So a lot of people are going to be eagerly waiting on each one of those hulls for supplies, building materials, new personnel, forwarded cargo.”
Lee nodded. “Yes, but somewhere in the haystack of the Blossom's cargo hold, there just might be that one incriminating needle of evidence that will point to someone who was waiting for something not on the manifest, something secret.”
The communications rating called through the ready room door. “Skipper, incoming reply to your last transmission.”
“Thank you, Rating. Pipe it in.”
The screen brightened. Mann was seated as before but appeared to be on the verge of fidgeting. “Lieutenant Strong, it is my professional opinion that your comparative youth and the uncommon stress of the last few hours has you imagining perfidies, plots, and political renegades where none exist. It is an understandable after-effect of combat, but you must put these phantasms behind you. You have work to do and a patrol route to complete. You are to take the Fragrant Blossom in tow and make for the nearest secure Earth Union facility at best speed. You are not to conduct any farther forensic surveys of the ship's contents; that will be carried out by the on-site authorities. Farther communications on this matter are prohibited, except insofar as you must coordinate with the Earth Union facility at which you will turn over the derelict ship. If, since your initial report, you have detected anything anomalous or unusual on board the Fragrant Blossom, you are to report it now. I await your final transmission.”
After a few seconds, the communications rating prompted over the intercom, “Sir, do you wish to record your reply?”
Lee exhaled slowly, leaned back from the communications hub. “I will not be sending a personal reply. Simply transmit that I have nothing farther to report, that I have received and understood my orders, and will be under way to the nearest secure Earth Union Facility within the hour. Conclude with my regards to Coordinator Mann, and my thanks.”
Finder jerked his head toward the now-blank screen. “That bastard Mann should have let you follow up on the evidence, finish this investigation.”
Lee smiled. “Oh, but he did.” He punched the intercom stud, feigning obliviousness to the matched stares on the faces of his senior staff. “Helm?”
“Yes, Skipper?”
“Make fast the Fragrant Blossom for towing. Navigator?”
“Here, Sir!”
“Plot a course for Callisto. As soon as the helmsman signals that the Blossom is securely in tow, execute at best speed.”
“Yes, sir!”
Lee turned back to his goggling senior staff and smiled.
“You're trying to get yourself court-martialed,” hypothesized Bernie.
“I am obeying orders,” corrected Lee. “You said it yourself, we always follow regulations on the Gato. To the letter, in this case.”
Finder's face brightened with comprehension. “Because Mann told you to head to the nearest secure Earth Union facility. Which, given our current position is Callisto.”
“Yes, it's the closest—by about a thousand kilometers.”
Bernie stared balefully. “Skipper, you know Mann wasn't including Callisto in the list of options.”
“Do I, Bernie? He said ‘the closest.' If he had any exceptions in mind, it was—by regulations—his responsibility to make them explicit.”
“Lieutenant, Callisto is off-limits. We're not even allowed to go there.”
“That's where you're wrong, Bernie. You're not allowed to go there. No Upsider is, unless they are on a government contract to help build the Outbounders' interstellar colony ships. But as a Customs Patrol officer, I have clearance to go to the facility and inspect it, if I deem it necessary to ensure its security.”
“And do you currently have any concerns for its security?”
“I don't have to, Bernie. On the one hand, I have the clearance. On the other hand, I was just given an explicit order
by Coordinator Mann to go to the closest facility—Callisto.”
Bernie glanced at Finder, who shrugged. “Hey, he's following regs, as far as I can tell.”
“Sure, Skipper's following the letter of the law—but is completely twisting the intent of it.” Bernie turned back toward Lee. “Listen, Lieutenant Strong, we don't get a lot of officers like you. So you'll forgive me if—for purely selfish reasons, and for the good of the crew—I ask you to reconsider this course of action. You know they're going to slow-roast you for going to Callisto—for bringing us Upsiders that close.”
Finder leaned forward. “Skipper, I hate to say it, but Bernie's right. Much as I'd like to see you get to the bottom of whatever happened on the Blossom, the Earth Union has made it painfully clear to us Upsiders that we're not allowed close enough to see the technology that's being used to build the Outbounder ships. And you can understand why. If your hunch is right, then our own off-contract communities found a way to improve on nuclear thermal rocket technology and build the raider that almost blew us to dust a few hours ago. What do you think they'd do with the fusion drive and power-plant technologies used for the Outbounders' STL colony ships? Or the waste-heat radiation systems? Or the robotics and automated systems?” He spread his hands wide. “L.T., your bosses know that if we Upsiders got our hands on those systems in their entirety, not just the little bits and pieces we fabricate separately, we'd have monkey copies operating in a few years. And we'd have improvements within a decade. And then how long would it be before the Spacers would decide to turn away cutters like this one—or vaporize them, if they refused to listen? With fusion-based energy and engines, we'd own space almost overnight. And you know what that means.”
Lee nodded. “Ultimately, you'd own Earth, too. Or can at least threaten it with annihilation.”
Bernie leaned close. “So don't push the letter of the regs on this one, L.T. The Earth Union will burn you for it, even if they have to trump up charges and falsify evidence. They can't afford to let you thumb your nose at them.”
