by Alan Black
Empty Space
(Em.T-Sp8s)
by
Alan Black
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
EMPTY SPACE
Published by arrangement with the author
Printing History
Copyright @ 2014 by Alan Black
Cover Art: Willard (Bill) Wright at www.flickr.com/photos/billwrigt1/
Cover Layout: The Cover Collection at www.thecovercollection.com/
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or digital form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN-13: 978-1507669235
ISBN-10: 1507669232
Library of Congress Number: 1-2077182261
Dedication:
To my wife Duann for her belief in me and my writing efforts.
-- Alan Black
Acknowledgements:
This book wouldn’t be as complete without the assistance and suggestions of my alpha readers:
Steven Black, (www.blackwood-systems.com)
A.J. Questerly (author of Pangaea).
Cover Art: Willard (Bill) Wright at www.flickr.com/photos/billwrigt1/
Cover Layout: The Cover Collection at www.thecovercollection.com/
Also, my chief editor Duann Black has made her usual insightful comments and changes.
As usual, any errors and mistakes are wholly my fault as this cadre of advisors struggled to make me heed their advice, sometimes unsuccessfully.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Legal Declaration
Dedication
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Other books by Alan Black
Praise for Alan Black’s books
About the author
ONE
York Sixteen skipped down the steps, barely registering the door slam over the laughter of the party still going behind him. He landed with a thump flatfooted on the walkway outside Blade Balderano’s off-post apartment. To any outsider, York looked jubilant. Inside he was feeling, for the lack of a better word, ordinary, contented and normal, or at least as normal as he ever felt. A double handful of credits jangled in his pocket, common for most New Hope middle class people. York wasn’t middle class and didn’t consider himself normal, ordinary, or common, nor would any therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist, if he ever let a shrink get that deep inside his head. His poker winnings were a small victory, yet he took his pleasures wherever he could find them. Barely containing the impulse to pump both fists into the air, he stretched his arms over his head turning the excitement into an unemotional movement.
A police drone slid down the street, hovering silently over his head. With a friendly wave, he slipped his civilian style cover off his head and ran his fingers through his dark straight hair. He smiled up at the drone with amusement. The drone didn’t care if his smile was sincere or not. Like all honest citizens of the Republic he had nothing to worry about in the presence of police protection. He certainly didn’t have anything to worry about in a high-class neighborhood, even though his dataport said the time was well past midnight, a time when most law abiding citizens were home in bed or in front of their TV.
He decided he might as well look presentable since the drone was taking pictures. He was used to being in public dressed in a variety of military cadet uniforms, not in these civilian clothes. Straightening his back, he came to his full height of fix foot four inches and settled the cap back on his head, adjusted his civvies, straightened his blouse, checked the buttons, and out of habit re-aligned his gig-line. The drone looped in a quick halo pattern over his head, recording a three-delta image, documenting his height, build, facial features, and even the length of his ring finger compared to his pinkie. It continued hovering silently in the dark sky above him rather than recording him and moving on.
His civilian clothes weren’t much to look at. Although they were new, they certainly weren’t the latest fashion. The automated clerk at the store had made a tsking noise at his choice of non-matching colors. He didn’t care. He liked the mixture of reds and blues. The outfit was the first set of civilian clothes he owned since being forcibly enrolled by legal mandate into the Independence Full Honors Military Preparatory and Training Academy at age nine. These were the first clothes he’d ever paid for with his own money.
He bought the slacks and button-down blouse with matching belt, hat, and shoes as an early birthday gift to celebrate his impending twenty-first birthday. Tomorrow may or may not be his real birthday anniversary, but the date was as close as the Little Sister’s of the Poor Orphanage could guess. True date or not, tomorrow would be a good day. “No,” he corrected himself. “It’s after midnight. Today. Happy birthday to me!”
York strolled down the dark quiet street toward the transport station. He didn’t attempt to contain his grin of satisfaction. The smile wasn’t one of pleasure, he wasn’t sure how a pleasurable smile felt, but he knew satisfaction and the thrill of victory. He was a few hours short of graduating from The New Hope Officer’s Academy, commonly called the Yards. He was as ready for the ceremony as he’d ever been for anything in his life. He’d been reading, studying, learning and preparing for the past twelve years to reach graduation day and become the first charity case ever to graduate from the Yards.
Not only was York graduating, he’d managed to reach the top spot, number one, to be honored as the best in his class. He had struggled with a few ancillary studies, but his piloting skill scores put him solidly in first place. Hours of torturous extra tutoring and library time had paid off. It hadn’t paid off in friends or fond memories of the Yards, but graduating was a thrill. Being number one had been unimaginable to everyone except York. He’d done everything necessary to secure the number one spot.
The top student gets his pick of available assignments. York was planning to choose a slot as a Fast Attack Craft pilot flying Stobor F-3s for the Republic’s First Fleet along the buffer zone near the Marridan Border. Many pilot slots were available all across Republic Space. However, an assignment on the front lines of the current war was duty desired by all cadets because of the fast promotions, adrenaline-rushing piloting, and the opportunity to visit far off planets. These plum assignments were so rare only a few top students ever earned the opportunity to volunteer. This year, there was only one such assignment available, and the assignment was his.
Republic law mandated the Yards accept charity cases as ten percent of their starting student base. The remaining ninety percent came from the rich ruling class, most of whom resented charity cases g
etting unearned student spots. York could understand their frustration. The Yards accepted only one out of every ten applicants. It would be difficult accepting that your family and friends lost training slots to randomly chosen orphans and, more likely than not, undereducated poor. York’s understanding of the upper class’s dissatisfaction was all that kept him from lashing out at his fellow students, at his ‘betters’ when they took their aggravation out on him and his fellow charity cases.
Still, even though the harassment rarely moved beyond levels acceptable to the faculty and administration, there were exceptions when it became unbearable, like when poor Dallas Nineteen, an incoming first year cadet had been beaten and raped. She’d identified the top student, Pietre Ibrahime, as the rapist. It turned into a case of he said/she said despite her injuries and all of the forensic evidence. Once released by the infirmary, Dallas Nineteen had been expelled for making false accusations and conduct unbecoming of a cadet.
Pietre Ibrahime was the top student until he broke his neck in a freak accident by tripping down a flight of stairs. His death appeared suspicious as he was an exceptionally graceful young man. However, the security footage and nearby witnesses all confirmed, no one had been near Ibrahime when he tumbled head over heels. York was sorry the young man had to die. He had hoped to beat him to the top spot by merit alone, but sometimes the fates smiled. The fates and York both smiled when no one noticed the quickly dissipating lubricant on the bottom of Ibrahime’s shoes or the specially designed chemically explosive charge neatly spread across his heels and his uniform collar.
The hazing continued to worsen as York moved up from the number two spot to replace Ibrahime and other charity cases dropped out or failed out. The persecution condensed by the simple rule of compaction. He became accustomed to the student-on-student bullying. He was constantly amazed at what a human being could get used to.
The academy torment wasn’t as bad as the earlier abuse he had suffered. As a young boy, he was exceptionally happy to leave Brother Calvin at the orphanage. Prep school was no better. House Master Albert was as much a deviant as Brother Calvin. Which one was at the top of the pervert scale was a close race, but in the end, Calvin won. He preferred a more youthful selection than Albert. Moving to the Yards ended the sexual molestation. Still, the Yards harassment and maltreatment overshadowed his previous abuse, not in intensity or in repulsiveness, but in frequency. Balderano Junior and his friends increasingly directed the most serious abuse his way. The persecution stopped when York finished as the undisputed leader in his graduating class. He had proven he belonged.
Balderano may be graduating fourth in their class, but he was the accepted leader of the cadet clique who controlled the top spots, a group calling themselves the dog pack. Rocky Telluride was a distant second in class ranking to York. Jackson Waldling was an unclear third as she and Balderano swapped places with every posted test score.
The invitation to Balderano’s party with his cronies in attendance showed they accepted him, both as a military comrade and as a social equal. Whether he accepted them as equals, had not yet been determined. Although it appeared that Telluride, Balderano and the rest of the dog pack had finally accepted him. A normal person would have felt like dancing.
York knew they tried cheating him at poker. They were so bad he still won, not by cheating, only by playing better. Losing money didn’t mean much to them. York won what amounted to less than pocket change to the sons and daughters of the wealthiest the inner planets had to offer. For him, the small amount of coins jingling in his pocket was a windfall. His government stipend barely covered toiletries and new socks.
York straightened his back, nodded politely to the unmanned police drone, and continued striding purposefully to the transit station down the street. Balderano had offered him a ride back to the Yards, but he had declined. The wealthy didn’t walk often, they used human chauffeurs to drive them a short few blocks. They were so unused to walking this neighborhood didn’t have sidewalks along the street, only walkways from the streets to their front doors. York preferred to walk, even if the distance to the station was a little more than a mile.
He was hailed before reaching the halfway mark to the station. “York A. Sixteen, this is the Independence City Police Department. Halt and be approached.” The voice boomed from a dozen police speakers scattered about the tree-lined street.
York halted. As was his habit, he came to attention and stood as commanded.
He hadn’t noticed the police, their cameras, or speakers. Of course, this neighborhood’s wealthy would insist the police remain discrete. He smiled. He had hours to get back for graduation and he wasn’t worried about a few IPD queries. The IPD was only doing their job checking up on people walking alone along a street after dark. It didn’t take long before three hulking officers surrounded York. They seemed to appear out of the night air. Two officers took up a position behind him and an older officer stepped into his view.
York dropped from an attention stance to parade rest. This gave him the opportunity to evaluate his position. He would not resist the police in any way, but years of self-defense classes had taught him to review, evaluate, reposition, and adapt. Planning for trouble was more a mental exercise than anticipating action.
The woman at the rear to his left would be the most dangerous of the three. She was fit and appeared angry. Angry meant unpredictable. The man behind and to the right spent way too much time in donut shops and not enough time working off the extra calories. The officer blocking his forward progress was tough, but older and well past his prime.
“York Sixteen,” the older officer, a police sergeant by his stripes, said. “You are a cadet at the New Hope Officer’s Academy. You’re a long way from the Yards. Explain your presence in this sector.”
The woman officer spat her words, “Come on, Sarge. This is crap. Everybody except this budger knows he’s getting set up.”
York tensed slightly at the term ‘budger’. The tension was internal. No small sign or tic would betray his feelings. He’d been called a budger his whole life. His years at the Yards hadn’t diminished the frequency of the slur. To be reminded he was an orphan, a charity case, and nothing more than a line item on a government budget ledger was an insult, even when used by others of his kind. He believed reaching the level of a graduating cadet-colonel would help him rise above the name calling; apparently not. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to be wrong in that regard.
The sergeant looked at the policewoman with sad tired eyes. “Shut up. You know the department frowns on the use of that word.”
The fat man laughed, “Takes one to know one, sugar britches.”
The sergeant shook his head, “Shut up the both of you. Neither of you knows when to keep your mouths closed and do your job. That’s why you’re still walking a beat instead of getting promoted.”
The woman snorted. “Jake can’t get promoted because he’s a fat asshole. I can’t get promoted because I’m a budger, just like this poor schmuck. Only I already learned I’m screwed. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
York’s mind flashed. This woman claimed to be a product of the New Hope Social Society System just like him. What did she mean about him being in trouble? He wasn’t concerned that they knew who he was. The information was in records easily obtained by facial recognition from the police drone. This obviously wasn’t just a casual street interview, on the contrary the police stopped him for something else. What had he done wrong to bring the police? How was he screwed?
York let what little emotion he was showing drain from his face. Showing no emotion was a personal defensive mechanism. “Sir. I was visiting a friend at—”
“I know where,” the police sergeant interrupted. “No one lives full time at that address. You couldn’t have been visiting a friend. Our records and a query to the owner indicate the building should be empty.”
York said, “Sir, there is a party going on just—”
“Shut it,” the fat man orde
red. “We have officers checking the residence now. It’s empty, except for the mess you left behind.”
York wasn’t even mildly tempted to reply, after all of the years at the Yards, he recognized an order when he heard one. He kept his mouth shut.
The sergeant sighed and tapped a display on his wrist dataport. A party scene appeared, hovering between the police officer and York. The display showed a full-on party: loud, messy, and just short of riotous. York appeared in the middle of the video, sitting at a table playing poker, while partiers danced and drank behind him. The picture of York was clear and unwavering. Every other person in the video was blurry and unidentifiable. “There was obviously a party going on,” the sergeant said. “This is the feed from internal security cameras.” He tapped a few commands into his dataport to call up other recordings.
A disembodied voice boomed out of the air. “No, Sergeant. All other recordings are wiped clean. Someone tossed in an anti-CSI bomb. This place’s cleaner than your grandma’s underdrawers. The only scrap of evidence is your suspect’s DNA on the playing cards, poker chips and one glass, contents unknown.”
The sergeant looked at York. “Have you been drinking, Cadet Sixteen?”
York suppressed the desire to correct the man’s use of his rank. He was the one and only cadet-colonel at the Yards, and should be addressed as such. Instead, he said, “No, sir. I was drinking cola only, caffeine and sugar free.”
The fat policeman snorted in laughter.
The sergeant held up one finger for a moment of silence. They all stood waiting in the street.
The disembodied voice spoke again. “Contents of the glass were scotch whiskey, laced with an old style methyl-amphetamine. It’s homemade ecstasy, sergeant. It’s real old school.”
“Can you clean up the video?”
“No Sergeant. Someone wiped it at the source. They gave it a real professional cleaning job.”
