Beginnings-eARC

by David Weber

  Stubborn and insubordinate, but Bulganin had balls. “Perhaps I should include your mention of that preference when I make my first report, Sergeant. The Neo Luddite regime in Moscow might find it somewhat disturbing.”

  “I am already in exile, sir.” Bulganin's eyes swept the dismal environment. “Where can they send me that's worse than here?”

  Lee smiled. “They can send you out an airlock, Arkady. Things are tightening up back in Mother Russia. Neo Luddites—and their preindustrial Communalism—are busy looking for counter-revolutionaries. Some things never seem to change.” He stepped back. “And at this moment, I don't give a damn whether they ever do. The only thing I'm concerned with is what's going on right here, right now.”

  “Sir, with all due respect,”—Bulganin's tone suggested that this was a minuscule amount—”I must ask. What do you know about what is going on right here, right now?”

  “I know that discipline has gone down the drain and that this unit is currently incapable of carrying out its assigned mission.”

  “Lieutenant, this ‘unit,' as you call it”—Bulganin glanced sidelong at Cabral, and then back—”has carried out its duties, even though we have been forced to struggle along without an officer for over a year now.” Bulganin allowed himself a slow, sarcastic smile.

  Lee smiled back. “So you're in full readiness? Even for emergency duty in a full grav environment? Tell me, Sergeant,”—Lee looked down at Bulganin's overly-thick midriff—”have you been putting in the mandatory one hour per day in the spin gym?”

  Bulganin's smile diminished, faded away.

  “Have you, Sergeant?”

  The Russian glanced sideways. “There have been—mechanical failures.”

  “Have there? Well, then you'll be glad to learn that I stopped by the spin gym on my way here and found it to be in full working order. So I'll expect you to report for double-shift PT, Sergeant.”

  Bulganin's eyes betrayed a hint of dread. “When?”

  Lee's smiled widened. “Right now.”

  * * *

  Iseult cast a curious glance at Lee as she picked up Bulganin's feet and helped her orderlies carry the unconscious Russian out of the spin gym. Cabral stood to one side, watching, panting, and dripping perspiration. One calf was shaking spasmodically—a sign of over-exertion and electrolyte depletion—but the little Brazilian had stayed the distance.

  “Cabral.”

  The wiry private spun away from the door and came to attention. “Sir!” His chin was up, his eyes straight ahead and fixed, his body tensed with readiness. Lee restrained a smile. The top dog barks and Cabral listens.

  “At ease, Rating.”

  Cabral fell into the “at ease” position, which looked even more uncomfortable than his previous stance.

  “No, no—stand down, Rating. Take ten.”

  Cabral's eyes flicked sideways, evidently double-checking Lee's expression against Lee's words: was the American trying to trick him or was this a genuine invitation to relax?

  Lee wandered over to a bench, and flopped down. Cabral breathed a sign of relief and joined him.

  “So what do they call you, Cabral?

  “Me, sir? Eduardo.”

  “No, I mean your nickname.”

  Eduardo smiled, a flash of white teeth. “They call me Fast Eddie, Sir.”

  “Well, Fast Eddie, you didn't do too badly today. How long has it been since you put in”—Lee checked his watch—”fifty minutes in the gym?”

  Cabral paused, then admitted, “A long time, sir.”

  “Well, we'll be doing at least an hour every day, now. From here on in, we're going by the book.”

  Cabral laughed suddenly, unexpectedly.

  “Did I say something funny, Private?”

  “Oh no, Sir. I mean, yeah, you did say something funny, but I guess you didn't know it. You said ‘by-the-book,' Sir. That's what the workers call Mr. Perlenmann.”

  Lee leaned back on his elbows. “Why do they call Perlenmann ‘by-the-book'?”

  “Well, it's sort of a double meaning, sir. I mean, he has all those books, right? Thousands of them. But it's also a joke about how he does things. Everything with Perlenmann is ‘by-the-book,' you know?”

  Lee licked salty perspiration off his upper lip; odd, Cabral's description didn't quite jibe with his own perception of Perlenmann. “Tell me, Eddie, what do you think of all this sabotage business? Who do you think is behind it, the hardline Dirtsiders or the Sols?”

  The Brazilian shrugged. “I don't know, Lieutenant. Could be either one, I guess.”

  “What about the rank and file Upsiders? Are there any of them that might have a reason to shut down Callisto?”

  Fast Eddie frowned. “I dunno, Sir. I don't see why they would.”

  “Me neither. What about the Outbounders?”

  “The Outbounders? But why, sir? If there isn't enough fuel, they can't leave.”

  That's true, Eddie—which is also why no one would ever suspect them of destroying fuel to frame the group that was most likely to prevent them from leaving the system and resorting to violence: the Sols.

  “Besides,” Eddie was continuing, “The Outbounder leaders—Briggs, Kerkonnen, even Xi—they're real nice, real pacifico. They've never done nothing that was, like, harmful or sneaky.”

  Well, if this line of inquiry was to bear fruit, it certainly wouldn't be as a consequence of Fast Eddie's political perspicacity. Might as well get back to basics. “Rating, how long since you've done any shooting?”

  “Long time, Sir; months.” Fast Eddie's eager smile was a testimony to the fact that he liked guns—a lot.

  “Then it's about time we got you back in practice, Rating. What do you use for a range around here?”

  * * *

  Early the next day, Callisto's comm specialist paged Lee in his planetside quarters. “Incoming message from the Gato, Lieutenant Strong. Shall I match encryption?”

  “Yes, please do. Put them through.”

  A moment later, Bernie and Finder were crowding their faces into his screen. “Hi, Skipper. How's the chow down there?”

  ”Indistinguishable from what you're having up there.”

  “Ouch. That bad? Well, so much for officer perks, I guess.”

  “I guess. Do you have an update for me, Bernie?”

  “Sure do. Skipper, this whole hijacking incident is getting weirder and weirder.”

  Lee wondered how that was possible. “In what way?”

  “Well, when we sent the hijackers' digitized DNA samples back to Earth, they assigned it the lowest priority status in their search queue.”

  “That's odd. That search isn't hard and we should be at the top of the priority list.”

  “That's what I thought. So we took the liberty of sending the samples to a pair of our Upside friends. One works database management on L-5, and the other is in charge of immigration record-keeping on Mars. They got us concrete results—and very fast.”

  “Fast means that the hijackers were already part of the population that is pre-flagged for scrutiny.”

  “Bingo. Seems the hijackers were all either convicted or accused felons.”

  “Pawns for someone else, then. Not surprising.”

  “No, but this is: every single one of them were Upsiders. They were either from cis-lunar or Belt communities. And all genuinely anti-social types, some with diagnoses of possible sociopathia. What do make of it all, Skipper?”

  “Nothing conclusive. They're all Upside-born, so perhaps they were tapped by other Upsiders—Spacers, maybe—who needed cold-blooded killers. But on the other hand, it sounds like someone on Earth was involved, someone who had enough clout to get these brutes out of jail or off parole in exchange for doing this job.”

  “But why?”

  “Until we find what they were after on the Blossom—until we find that needle in the haystack—I don't think we're going to get any closer to having an answer to that question, Finder. About which: has there been anything
interesting on the cargo claim lists send up from Callisto?

  “Nothing particularly riveting, Skipper. We've been examining every piece they've asked for, including sensor scans for hidden compartments. If they have electronic components, we've run full data analyses. So far, nothing.”

  “What about tantrums by the brass? Has anyone had a coronary about my decision to divert to Callisto?”

  “So quiet it's scary, Lieutenant. We've received dispatches and routine orders, but that's all.”

  “What orders?”

  “Just the ones we were expecting. First a message to resume our patrol route ASAP, then a correction to that order, in response to Perlenmann's indication of our quarantine situation. He bought us an extra one hundred hours on-station. And I got us two extra days beyond that.”

  “How'd you do that, Bernie?”

  “Well, with Callisto's deuterium refinery down, I explained that we didn't have sufficient authorization to draw on Callisto's reserve fuel cache, since every frozen drop is now reserved for the next Outbound colony ship. At least until their main purifier is running again, and they've built up a sufficient surplus.”

  Lee frowned. “I'm surprised the brass didn't kick that upstairs to get you the necessary permission.”

  “We didn't give them the chance, sir. In the same communiqué, we indicated that we had made preparations to transfer the fuel from the Blossom to our own tanks. Pending their approval, of course, since that could be construed as tampering with sealed evidence.”

  Lee was impressed at Bernie's inspired chicanery. “So what did they do with that pile of tangled prerogatives and priorities?”

  “What bureaucrats do best: they passed the buck to Perlenmann. Who sat on the request for a while, and then sent notice to command—and us—that he was authorizing us to tap the Blossom's tanks and take on her fuel. Which, as you know, is a very long process unless you have specialized fuel tending apparatus.”

  “True, but Perlenmann has a tender module. Several, I think.”

  “So I gathered. But he didn't offer and we didn't ask.”

  Lee smiled. “How long can you reasonably extend the refueling operations?”

  “Brass tells us that due to the ‘situational impediments,' we have an additional two days to take on fuel. So we can stay on station for another six days, all told. Then you'll have to interrupt your Callistan vacation and—”

  “Negative, Bernie. I'm staying.”

  “Sir, I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say you're staying?”

  “Perlenmann has tapped me to investigate the sabotage that took out their fuel production. It's a matter of regulations: I can't say no. But that could be to our advantage. Did the brass say I had to take the Gato back out in six days?”

  “Well, no, but you are the CO and I think they assumed—”

  “That's their problem, then. If I haven't wrapped up here in six days, you resume our patrol roster as the acting CO. That gives me more time on Callisto to see if there's some connection between what happened to the Fragrant Blossom and the sabotage here. If they're two pieces of the same puzzle, then in the process of my investigation, I might find whoever was supposed to take possession of that lost needle you're still looking for aboard the Blossom.”

  “Maybe, Skipper. I suppose I don't have to tell you that this is another decision that won't earn you brownie points with the brass.”

  “This time, they'll have to complain to Perlenmann.” Lee told himself that would shield him from the worst of his superiors' probable wrath. Knowing himself to be a poor liar, he was not convinced. “If I'm not back on board in six days, head toward Hygeia first, quarter speed.”

  “Why there, Sir?”

  “So that you'll still be close when I call you back for a pick up.”

  “Got it, Skipper. Anything else we can do for you?”

  “Not unless you believe in the power of prayer or have a lucky rabbit's foot.”

  “A what?”

  “A barbaric Earth tradition.”

  “Sounds Neo Luddite.”

  “It probably is. Keep on looking for that missing needle of evidence, Bernie.”

  “Will do, Skipper. You just keep your head down.”

  “Sound advice. Out.”

  * * *

  It took the better part of a week to get Cabral and Bulganin reaccustomed to one-gee centrifuge exercise and military discipline. Bulganin remained silent and somewhat surly, but was obedient and seemed to acquire a grudging respect for Lee.

  Which was more than could be said for the Upsiders among the facility personnel. Their written responses to Lee's inquiries about the explosion were terse to the point of uselessness. In the corridors, they avoided meeting his eyes, kept responses to his social greetings as brief and closed-ended as possible. The Dirtsiders weren't much better, and the Outbounders already seemed to be living in another world, simply eager to leave the incessant Upsider/Dirtsider bickering behind them.

  The only individual who seemed willing to help was Perlenmann, who opened up his personal log for Lee's perusal. According to the administrator's accounts, the Upsider/Dirtsider factionalism on Callisto had never broken out into violence or sabotage before. However, since the explosion, Parsons' Upsider fuel-ops technicians had provoked at least two public confrontations with Dirtsiders, intimating that if they discovered the bombing had been specifically directed against them, they would retaliate. It was far less certain that they would exert much care in ensuring that their retribution was directed only against the guilty parties.

  By the middle of the second week, Jack Carroll had finished his forensics report on the technical details of the saboteur's methods—a report which Lee and Perlenmann decided to keep under wraps until the case was nearing its resolution. A general disclosure now would only tell the perpetrator how much the investigators did (or, rather, did not) know.

  As he leafed through Carroll's report, Lee sighed, letting his last hopes for an easy investigation escape along with his breath. Ten days of thorough research had turned up nothing. The time had come to press some personal buttons and to see what happened when he did.

  * * *

  The cavernous gut of the damaged hydrogen purification tank was alive with the echo of distant work crews. Lee craned his neck to look up at the “ceiling” ten meters overhead and moved deeper into the vast space, angling toward the intermittent white-blue glow of workers' torches.

  A dozen steps later, he found himself approaching a stocky silhouette, its hands-on-hips stance backlit by the intermittent light of the welding. Parson's voice was less pleasant than usual. “What do you want here, Dirtsider? My people have filled out your idiot reports, so leave 'em alone.”

  “I wish I could, Mr. Parsons, but I'm afraid ‘your people' didn't complete the questionnaires I gave them. To be specific, not a single one of them provided the names of any individuals that they suspected of being radicals—either Dirtsiders or Upsiders. Now I wonder why that would be.”

  “Wonder all you like, Patrolman.” Parsons spat; the impact of the saliva made a flat sound, like a pebble ricocheting off slate. “We're not snitches on this station. And if that's what you require of us, then you can go to hell.”

  “If you, or any of your people, have any relevant suspicions, I advise you not to withhold them. Anyone who does so knowingly is obstructing an official investigation, which in this case makes them accessories to sabotage—and guilty of endangering the lives of the workers at this facility.”

  As Lee had guessed, that was the right button to press; Parsons' voice grew taut, his words coming out in a rush. “You're going to accuse my men of endangering their fellow fuel workers? All of whom are Upsiders? Well, take your best shot, Patrolman. But I'll tell you this: we watch out for our own here on Callisto, and if we have any problems, we sort it out ourselves. You don't understand how things work out here—and it's real easy for newcomers to get hurt by things they don't understand. Don't you agree?”

>   “Threatening a Customs Patrol officer is a serious offense, Mr. Parsons, and it makes me wonder if I shouldn't expand my investigation to include you as a prime suspect.”

  Parsons laugh was soft and deep. “Did I threaten you, Lieutenant? Gee, I can't remember saying anything threatening. I was just commenting on how outsiders can find this sort of political problem to be difficult—even dangerous—to handle. And as for investigating me,” Parsons snorted derisively, “be my guest. Let me guess. You're convinced that I'm a deep cover operative for the radical Dirtsiders, right?” His teeth shone as he sneered. “Yeah, while the Dirtside Greens and Neo Luddites are slowly strangling this facility out of existence, you'll waste time investigating the people who need to keep it running in order to survive.”

  Parson's tone grew more strident. “You make life hard for us and who knows, maybe production will suffer. Maybe that will make life hard for the Greenie bigwigs on the Steering Committee by giving the Neo Luddite hardliners just that much more ammunition to criticize their handling of Callisto. Maybe that will mean an inquiry, and maybe that will make life hard for you—very hard.” He paused and leaned closer. “You get my drift?”

  Lee leaned into Parsons' face. “Yes, and I hope you're getting mine. I'm here to uphold the law and find the saboteur. And that's exactly what I'm going to do—with or without your help.”

  Their faces were less than three inches apart, the scratchy hiss-and-whine of torches intermittently piercing the silence. Then Parsons changed his stance, which gave him an excuse to lean back and laugh. “Suit yourself, Patrolman; it's your court-martial.” He turned into the glow of the torches and drift-walked away across the belly of the fuel tank, shouting orders as he went.

  * * *

  Doctor Iseult arched an eyebrow when Lee entered her office. “And to what do I owe the honor, Lieutenant?” The crisp tone added about a foot to her diminutive frame.

  Lee smiled tentatively. “Might I take a seat, Doctor?”

  Iseult impaled him with a glare that suggested she was seriously considering a negative response; then she sighed and waved him into the chair on the other side of her desk. “Well, you are sitting. What is it?”