by Alan Black
Kenna laughed. York liked her laugh more than he liked her sister’s.
“Smuggling is only a government problem since it means importing and exporting goods without them getting their cut. For most of us, it’s more of a part-time job. Hell, the shuttle bringing us up here does more smuggling than he does legal freight. We just say smuggling interdiction, because it keeps the government on our side. They aren’t as interested in stopping slavery as they are smuggling. Slavery doesn’t affect their pocketbooks.”
“The freighter is here?”
She shook her head. “No, she’s three decks up in the first docking bay on the civilian side of the station. We can’t officially dock her on the military side unless we get the old girl operational.”
“I was going to suggest you put your detachment in the old military barracks, but they’re about six decks up on the military side. It would keep them close together and—.”
She shook her head, interrupting him. “We thought about that back when I was nothing more than a shave tail ensign. They’re on lock down and we can’t get in.”
“I can unlock anything you need, but the old barracks wasn’t what I was going to ultimately suggest. Why don’t you move to the Spacer’s Rest? It’s a small hotel just on the other side of the gate to the civilian side. Actually, I think it used to be a brothel years ago, so the decor may be a bit gaudy. It’s close to your ship and it has enough rooms for most of your contingent, if you don’t mind some of your lower ratings doubling up.”
He wanted to offer her quarters at the Wright’s Right Bed and Breakfast. He knew the suggestion would be too forward especially since it would be just the two of them. Being just the two of them would be exactly what he wanted, but it would cause talk in her unit. Gossip about a commanding officer was never good.
Kenna said, “This is a military deployment, Ensign. We can’t accept or pay for civilian accommodations.”
“The whole station is now under military control. There aren’t any civvies left to ask for or receive pay. As your liaison officer, I have the authority to lock or unlock any space you need that isn’t actively being used by the navy.”
A small group of enlisted men running past interrupted them. They grunted their greetings, but didn’t slow down. They were huffing and puffing much harder than he would have expected for anyone in military status, even part timers.
“Your detachment is a bit out of shape, sir.”
Kenna spat back. “No, they are not. It just takes us a few days to acclimate to the higher gravity of the station. Liberty is about ninety percent standard. Ensign Sixteen, I won’t stand by and listen to you criticize these men and women. They’re all volunteers and taking time away from their families to protect and guard us all. They aren’t weekend warriors or—”
York waved his hands in surrender. “I apologize, Lieutenant, to you and to all of your command. I didn’t mean anything disparaging. We have a fully loaded gym not too far from the Spacer’s Rest you might make available for your unit. It has some variable anti-gravity settings that might help your people acclimate more effectively.”
Kenna nodded, accepting his apology. She turned and shouted. Her voice echoed along the almost empty corridor between the military docks and warehouses. “Master Chief! Let’s go for a little walk with Ensign Sixteen.” She turned back to him. “If these accommodations look good to Fugget and me, we’ll have our people hump their stuff to the new location.”
“Why carry their gear?” He pointed at a warehouse hatch he knew was locked. “There are vehicles in there you can use, trucks, loaders, and pallet jacks. There are even a few golf cars, segways, and scooters.” He decided to throw caution to the wind. “And unless you really want to share an old brothel with your detachment, how about you and the master chief move into a nice suite at a real cute little bed and breakfast nearby?”
TWELVE
York was getting good in the kitchen, but this was his first time cooking for someone else. He flipped a few pancakes and checked under a ham and cheese omelet. He’d filled the B&B pantry, pulling stores from the warehouse near the station’s active military galley. He doubted Commander Paul or Blaque would even notice the missing goods. Resupply was automatic and in the past three months, it looked as if neither man did more than use a microwave oven to heat a prepackaged meal, eat directly from the packaging, and throw the remains into the recycler.
The food statis chambers kept even the most delicate foods as fresh as if they were handpicked today. Still, he inspected everything with fanatical care. This was his first dinner party even if the meal was breakfast. Lieutenant Kenna Altamont had accepted his offer to move into the bread and breakfast. She brought Master Chief Fugget with her. He brought Senior Chief Petty Officers Jaden and Rodriguez with him, each taking a separate suite. The Wright’s little business was at guest capacity for the first time in a decade.
Rodriguez stepped into the kitchen and began whipping dishes away, carrying them into the dining area. She didn’t ask, she just grabbed and carried, slipping personalized meals in front of the others without asking who wanted what. York noticed she didn’t get any orders wrong. He grabbed the last two dishes, sliding the omelet before Fugget and setting his new specialty, chocolate chip pancakes, in front of Kenna.
He sat at the head of the table with his bowl of plain fortified oatmeal and granola. Looking at the display of food around the table, he almost regretted following Aphrodite’s personalized dietary regime. He sat quietly with spoon in hand waiting for Kenna, as ranking officer, to give the word to begin. She looked back at him, obviously waiting for his signal as the host to begin. “Oh, um …” Most of his toasts and oaths would be exceptionally inappropriate at this table. Toasting the Yards and her commandant would be as inappropriate as expressing an oath to the standing navy. He said the first thing he could think of, “To Liberty and freedom.”
Everyone, including Kenna pounded the table with their bare fists in a rapid and surprisingly synchronized thumping, rattling glasses, and utensils.
Rodriguez shouted, “Amen!”
Kenna said with a tone of firm commitment, “So be it always.”
Fugget and Jaden both growled some strange noise like a wild beast challenging the moon to come down and fight.
York waved his spoon as soon as Fugget and Jaden quit daring the heavens to a duel. He dug into his oatmeal with distaste. Eating alone, it hadn’t seemed like such bland paste, now he wanted chocolate chip pancakes with blueberry syrup just like Kenna was gobbling down.
Kenna said, “Holy crap on a crutch! Where did you learn to cook?”
York said, “I just followed the instructions. I mean, I can whip up anything from paella to opossum. Pancakes are easy. I did have some cooking instructions from some … friends, I guess, back on the Gambion when I was coming out here.”
Rodriguez laughed, “It took me six months to make pancakes when I was learning to cook. They either came out runny or burnt.”
Between mouthfuls, Kenna said, “They’re wonderful, Ensign Sixteen. It’s a good thing we’re only going to be here a couple of weeks or I’d be so rolly polly I wouldn’t fit through a freight hatch.”
York couldn’t picture her being rolly polly, nevertheless he’d like her even if she did get that way. He just wished she’d start calling him York. Using first names across ranks would be against military protocol, especially in mixed ranks of officers and enlisted dining at the same table. He and Kenna were low ranking officers and the enlisted were all in the top three enlisted ranks, each with years more experience than both of the officers put together. Yet, rank is rank.
He tapped his bowl with the side of his spoon, pointing at the oatmeal. “Aphrodite has me on a special diet of gruel and water to keep me from getting pudgy.”
Kenna’s head snapped up, looking directly at him. He wondered if there was a hint of jealously in her look. She said, “I thought there were only three of you on station. Who is Aphrodite?”
> York smiled. Poking the bear wasn’t a smart thing to do and it felt exactly like that was what he was doing when he said, “I’ll introduce you to her and her friend Gretchen as soon as we finish breakfast.”
Fugget, pretending to ignore the scowl on Kenna’s face, changed the subject, “You come down to Liberty the next time you get leave. You’ll be more than welcome to stay at my place if you can cook like this. How are you with a barbeque grill?”
THIRTEEN
York’s feet pounded on the station decks with a heavy rhythm. He no longer ran in a quiet whisper, having figured out how to reset the gravity on each deck. He never reset the main military deck as that would affect Paul and Blaque, but he reset the other decks to twenty-five percent over standard when he did his daily run. He wasn’t becoming a glutton for punishment, on the other hand it seemed that every day since the Liberty reservists left, his workouts became easier and easier. He cranked up the gravity in the gym until even Gretchen complained and he dialed it back to a more comfortable 1.5 gravities, adding stretching and flexibility exercises to his daily regimen of weight and martial-arts exercises.
He had sparing partners for full combat martial arts training. They were holographic and didn’t actually hurt when they hit him, but the computer referee kept score. Not being able to feel a strike with his hand, got him over the embarrassing habit of pulling his punches in training. He could clobber through an opponent’s head, aiming for the back of his skull without fear of ever bruising his knuckles.
He felt he was becoming a bit obsessive about working out, but what else did he have to do? He could take up drinking like Blaque or go into self-imposed exile like Paul, doing the gods-know-what. Both would lead to insanity. York wasn’t worried about going insane. Either he was scary sane or already so crazy it didn’t matter. He hadn’t decided which.
In the past four months since Lieutenant Altamont and her team had left, he had run the station twice and was rapidly making his way around a third time, becoming more familiar with the station than anyone in decades. He wanted to tackle the repairs on the cattle hauler that the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City on Liberty was working to retrofit. He wanted to, yet he didn’t. The build out was their project and he was loath to step on their toes. Scrounging for parts was a simple matter of digging around various piles of junk in the civvie section of the station to find the necessary pieces for their repairs. He didn’t do any more than drag the parts into their work bay.
He was at war with himself for even doing that little bit. It concerned him that if they fixed the old freighter they wouldn’t have any reason to come back to the station. He wasn’t worried about human company. He’d since learned he truly enjoyed his own company, not needing human companionship for anything. Having people around was nice, yet companionship wasn’t as necessary as he previously thought. He even considered what it might be like to rid himself of Paul and Blaque. Neither man contributed one iota to station life. The problem was, they weren’t detriments either. No matter how hard he tried he was unable to find a reason to remove them from among the living. The lack of reason was frustrating. Frustration wasn’t a serious enough reason to help them move on to the next life. Besides, if they were no longer here, the navy could send in someone who might actually attempt to supervise him, rather than just leave him alone. If he started helping too many supervisors into permanent retirement the navy might, and rightfully so, become somewhat suspicious. That would never do.
York wondered if that was why he wanted the 44th Naval Reserve to return. He wouldn’t have any reason to remove Lieutenant JG Kenna Altamont or her sister Chrissie. He also liked the Master Chief and Fugget’s friends Jaden and Rodriguez. No one else came close to giving him reason to change their status from living to dead, no one except maybe the skyrider champion Booger. The man was polite enough, even so, Chrissie did say he needed a bit of bad luck. York was sure he could provide plenty of bad luck if the young man ever stepped out of line.
He reported each piece of equipment slated for the 44th to Captain Altamont on Liberty and to Commander Paul. Neither officer saw fit to respond, although York carefully worded his messages so none of them required a response. No response was needed, although he did want to hear from Kenna Altamont. He couldn’t figure out a reason to send her a message. He thought about sending her a personal note. Except for Harp and Sadie Brown, he’d never sent anyone a personal message and he must have done the messaging wrong as they hadn’t responded.
He had received a message from Master Chief Jim Fugget. The message wasn’t to him personally, it came addressed to the Em.T-Sp8s reserve liaison officer. That was him. The message was an official statement letting him know the 44th would be back on station in six weeks. He also had requests from three other reserve components requesting time using station facilities. Word about the change in station facilities must have spread as none those units had been to Empty Space in years. He was more than willing to schedule them time. The 41st was a gunnery outfit, so in his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station gunnery officer, he sent them a message offering access to the station’s guns. The 43rd was a search and rescue unit. In his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station search and rescue officer, he sent them a message offering access to the station’s emergency EVA equipment including short-range sleds and vacuum capable escape chutes. The 46th was a medical specialty unit. In his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station medical liaison officer, he sent them a message offering access to all med-bays.
So far, he’d managed to get himself assigned to sixteen voluntary secondary duties. Commander Paul had approved each duty. It actually doubled his meager pay and so far it took less time to do all of them than his primary duties and they didn’t require any of his attention beyond signing off on a few reports.
York did worry about having so many strangers on the station. If there weren’t any people, he wouldn’t have a reason to remove anyone and he was comfortable being alone. Yet, it had been so long since he’d last had to take corrective and deadly action he was concerned he might be a little too quick to fix things. He needed to ensure any such activity was appropriate and required. After all, he wasn’t really a crazy killer. Killing needed to be done just because some people shouldn’t continue to reside among the living.
His dataport beeped, startling him enough it brought his run to a halt. He had an incoming message. Personal messages weren’t just uncommon, they were as rare as a dog turds in the kitty litter box. All official messages were routed to him through the station’s comms and he pulled them up at work. This message was from Master Chief Fugget. It hadn’t been addressed directly to him, but to dozens of government agencies, military commanders, and listed the Em.T-Sp8s reserve liaison officer. That would have routed the message to York’s official message board, not his personal dataport. He found his personal address buried deep in the long list of cc’s. It seemed Fugget had sent the message to everyone on his mail list.
Rather than wait until he went on duty, York read the message. Fugget reported another slaver attack on Liberty. The slavers slipped through atmosphere completely undetected, flashing down upon a small festival in the upcountry region of their main continent. The report stated there were approximately twenty men, women, and children missing. Six elderly adults were dead, both men and women. The slavers orphaned three babies less than one year old, but didn’t kill them like normal, they just left them in their cribs to starve to death.
Fugget reported he and Ernie had come by the festival in Ernie’s shuttle too late to see the slavers or their ship, yet in time to save the babies and bury the dead. From the message tone, the man was incensed about the attack, although he admitted neither he nor Ernie knew or were related to anyone taken or killed. His message was an indictment of their government’s unwillingness to do what was necessary to stop the attacks and the military’s inability to catch or kill the slavers and retrieve their fellow citizens.
He made no ment
ion of why he and Ernie were shuttling into such a backwater community festival, especially since neither knew any of the occupants. Such an omission suggested there was some smuggling involved. York didn’t have any moral qualms about smuggling. Illegal import of goods was little different from the rampant black market trading carried on in the New Hope budger communities. People were people and they would do whatever they needed to do to get what they needed to survive and thrive.
York didn’t know what he could do to help. He wasn’t a citizen of Liberty. He didn’t know these people and they didn’t know him. Life as a budger afforded him few opportunities for choice. Slavery would provide even fewer to the slaves involved. However, adults should be able to take care of themselves, even if the duty to protect them was the military’s responsibility and by extension, his job. All Commander Paul had to do was send him orders if the man wanted him to do something.
What churned his stomach acid to frothy foam was taking children to sell as sex toys! He remembered how he’d gone through it as a young boy and it hadn’t really hurt him … not much, just a little in the beginning. He went through it and came out just fine. However, he was a budger orphan with no family, no hope, no prospects and no choices, human only by government fiat. Preying upon little children taken from loving families was wrong. Even the late House Master Albert, an unrepentant pedophile at prep school, would have agreed that leaving babies to starve to death was beyond inappropriate. These slavers were making more orphans. Someone needed to protect the children.
He flashed a message back to Fugget. “What can I do?” He meant it as a statement of how he was helpless to provide assistance, the emphasis on ‘I’. No matter how incensed he became, he was a low ranking communications officer on the third shift of, for all intents and purposes, a ghost station. He was just one person without authority, power, or influence.
