Empty Space

by Alan Black

  The captain laughed with everyone, “All right, I’m not the best, but I’m the best who isn’t specifically tasked with being someplace else. I suspect York is a better ship jockey than I am, but it’s his plan and I won’t deny him the lead.”

  York had spent the last two weeks planning, revising, reworking, and orchestrating this upcoming attack on the slavers. Assuming once the Gambion abandoned the system and the slavers surfaced, his plan should enable him to locate them and the 44th to attack them successfully, even if the slavers had a larger force. He secretly hoped they were a larger force. His planning sessions were exciting and more than a little thrilling. In spite of this, without any execution, the whole activity would fall flat, leaving him emotionally frustrated.

  York liked the expression ‘plan of execution’. That was exactly what he had planned for, although he kept much of the execution part to himself. Being in the lead element would provide him greater access to his execution part of his whole scheme. Planning was something he seemed to be good at and something he enjoyed as more than a mental exercise. The plan woke with him in the morning, fed with him at the table for meals, and bedded with him at night. Every possible detail was ticked off on a checklist, every possible contingency had been imagined, studied, and countered, and every scenario was charted for possible exploitation. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind there was something he’d missed. The Yards had pounded into his head that no plan ever, ever, ever survived first contact with the enemy. For him, the uncertainty was a large part of the excitement, knowing minor adjustments would have to be made on the fly. He would win if his plan was good. He would win if his plan was better than the enemy, better than circumstances, better than the fates and better than old Murphy himself.

  He planned on winning. He planned on executing and he honed his knife to such a shiny point it might slice an atom in two. Dispatching Bartol Samdon on the Yavapai Steppes had been a slow dance like a waltz. It was a shorter dance than he’d originally planned, wielding his knife like the orchestra leader’s baton, establishing the beat for the music and the dancers alike. This upcoming plan was a tango with attitude, the knife beating a martial tune to follow.

  York smiled with anticipation, “I’m more than ready to move forward. The Gambion will break orbit this time tomorrow and sail off to parts unknown. Their jump wave is our go signal.”

  Fugget said, “I’m sure Ernie is ready to comply, although I’m uncomfortable with having held him for two weeks without benefit of an attorney, bail or even a phone call. Not providing those things is against Liberty’s constitution.”

  Jaden nodded, “I agree, but York is right, we aren’t on Liberty. This is a navy space station and we’re bound by navy regulations, not civilian rules, not even when we’re on the civilian side, because …” His voice faded away as he fought to remember their earlier arguments.

  York said, “Because the civilians abandoned it. There aren’t any rules unless they’re validated by the navy’s liaison officer to the civilian side of the station and the liaison officer is me. Navy regulations rule the navy side of Empty Space. I can make or retract whatever rules I need to make or break on the civilian side. Have another beer, Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden. It doesn’t make sense until you’ve had a few.”

  Jaden complied, guzzling another long necked beer, followed by Fugget downing one of his own. York wasn’t comfortable drinking alcohol. He didn’t like the taste or the way it made his thoughts fuzzy, so he passed when Captain Altamont and Kenna raised their glasses in a toast to him.

  Jaden said, “I still don’t get why we didn’t want the Gambion involved.”

  York said, “Because they don’t care. It isn’t more complicated than that and it’s hard to understand unless you’ve lived among their upper class and their officer corps. You’ve seen the results of their investigation efforts. Their only focus has been on finding their missing officers. Balderano and the dog pack are still missing, or at least we’ve been led to believe they’re still missing.”

  Kenna blushed bright red, her eyes hard. “And Samdon, Takrel, and Baker.”

  York nodded, “Especially Samdon, Takrel, and Baker.” He knew the police investigation had matched the DNA from Kenna’s assault to DNA on clothing with those names stenciled on them. Her memory of the assaults was clear and she’d easily identified each of the Gambion’s officers. The Gambion promised only to take her statement ‘under advisement’. Everyone knew that government cliché was code for being ignored, especially incidents dealing with upper class officers involved with non-upper class complainants.

  York doubted the Gambion would be leaving the system unless they’d heard from someone or knew something specific about their missing officers. Their wealthy families would have objected to the abandonment of their relatives, whether missing on an unexplored planet or taken by slavers. He wondered what Kenna would think if he told her no one would ever find Samdon. The recent storms raging through the Yavapai Steppes would wipe out any small evidence he might have left behind, as would the planet’s animal scavengers, scattering small bits of bone across miles of untracked wilderness, wiping away his involvement in the man’s death even if any bones eventually turned up.

  York was of two minds. He wanted to tell Kenna about Samdon, yet he wanted to keep it secret a little while longer. He needed to dispatch another few evil doers before he could release Samdon’s memory. Dispatching the onerous animal was his special memory for now. He’d wanted to keep a souvenir from Samdon, but he knew keeping such things was just as dangerous as collecting trinkets from those who had gone before Samdon. Memories were the best souvenirs, they couldn’t be swabbed for DNA or offered to a prosecutor as evidence. Keeping data recordings of his activities was a danger he allowed himself, even when he told himself to stop and delete them.

  York continued, “The Gambion has orders to stop slavery. They don’t have orders to rescue kidnap victims. They won’t even attempt to rescue wealthy scions, they simply pay the ransom and take the victim home. If they spot those slavers, all they’ll do is open up with their big guns and sift through the wreckage later, unless they find out their missing officers are with them. Then they’ll open up negotiations.”

  Altamont said, “I concur, although I think we’re taking some crazy chances here.”

  York smiled. No one was taking any bigger chance than he was. He planned to be in the forefront with Fugget and his teams following. He was more than happy to be the lone active duty officer present for this operation and pleased at dealing with reserves from a third rate colony world. Under other circumstances, he’d have been required to call in a squad of marines, hulking men and women in armor so tough and with such powerful weapons they could swarm an enemy position without breaking a sweat. Marines had long since misappropriated an old Earth quote from the Texas Rangers, changing it to “One Battle - One Marine.” Instead of highly trained troops in first-rate armor with perfectly designed weapons, he was going into action with a group of half-trained, half-armored, half-civilians.

  Fugget said, “In light of upcoming events, I have a present for Ensign Sixteen.” He reached under the table and pulled out a small box. “Considering where we’re going and what we’re going to do I thought this might serve you better than the little Walther PPK you wanted.”

  York opened the box. Inside was a handgun, twice the size the Walther PPK.

  “It’s a Liberty Special. Made by a couple of brothers who handcraft weapons for our SWAT teams. It’s an electronic gas fired slug thrower. It fires cartridge free bullets from a magazine in the handle holding about a hundred rounds. We’ve given you six magazines. You should have about five and a half magazines more than you need for this operation, but we wanted you prepared. Be careful who you shoot because this cannon will put a hole in whoever is standing behind whomever you shoot.”

  York hefted the heavy handgun, feeling its weight. It felt right. Still, when the time came, he hoped he could use his knife.


  *_*

  York sat on the bed and breakfast’s front porch, resting his feet on the railing. Reading about past times and cultures in other places and on other worlds he imagined that right about now, he’d be enjoying a cigar, a cup of coffee, spot of tea, snifter of brandy, or a martini shaken not stirred. That was what gentlemen did after a fine meal. He would also be swatting insects and sweltering in the muggy late summer humidity if the view from the porch was truly a wide pasture surrounded by dark green forests instead of a holographic projection. This projection was so complete that a slight breeze ruffled his hair, bringing a damp forest smell. The B&B’s projector was capable of generating hundreds of worlds and scenarios, many beyond any reality: sitting on the rim of an active volcano, sinking to the bottom of a dimly lit deep ocean, or gliding through a gaseous nebula. He could choose from views of deep canyons, quiet vistas, cold glaciers, waterfalls, beaches, and city centers. York had spun through many scenarios, even hitting the fast forward button as he declared most too bland to watch. Today was his favorite and almost cued up to his favorite spot, so he sat and watched the bucolic scene play out.

  Since he’d cooked supper, as he often did while playing host to the visiting reservists, he dispensed with clearing away and cleaning up after their last meal, leaving that detail to others. Those not tasked with kitchen duty went their separate ways, checking last minute items before their upcoming raid. York was content his plan was as complete as he could make it. Things would go wrong; not could, but would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Good people would die and the wrong people would live. All he could do now was hope to be there when things went wrong, so as many bad people would die as possible, slowly and painfully, if he could manage it.

  The B&B hatch opened with the creak of an old screen door and slammed shut with the sound of wood on wood, completing the illusion of his resting on the porch of a country home far away from civilization. He smiled, knowing the hologram was good enough to match the sounds, yet not good enough to supply mosquitoes, ticks, gnats, chiggers or flies. Glancing up, nodding at Kenna, he politely gestured to the chair next to him. He hoped his smile looked genuine and she would mistake it as being directed towards her. He liked Kenna and wanted to get to know her, but at the same time, he still preferred being alone. He wasn’t sure what to do with conflicting emotions, but for now, he needed her full cooperation for the upcoming raid. He set aside his confusion and tried his best to make her feel welcome.

  Kenna slid onto the chair next to him, gliding like silk across satin. She didn’t plop or fall onto the chair like most men did. He couldn’t say why, but his guts twisted with excitement, watching her do a thing as simple as sit on a chair.

  She asked, “Can I get you something? I think Fugget left a couple of beers in the fridge.”

  He shook his head, not wanting to speak. Her voice was soft and pleasant, reminding him of the wind chimes on Fugget’s porch. His voice was harsh and raspy to his ears, speaking would ruin the holographic illusion and the illusion that he and Kenna could have a normal relationship.

  She smiled, “Thank you for fixing supper. It was wonderful. You’ll make some gal a fantastic husband someday.”

  He smiled back, curbing the desire to shudder at the thought of marriage. He hoped his poker face hid his feelings. Kenna continued talking, ignoring his non-responsiveness. He was trying to listen, but his favorite part of this illusion was about to play out. York held up a hand to quiet Kenna. She looked at his hand, grabbed it and intertwined her fingers with his. Unconsciously, he tried to pull away gently. She held him tight.

  “I know you don’t like to be touched. I’m not an idiot.” She looked at him with soft eyes. “You can be that way with everyone else, I promise. However, you’re going to have to put up with some touching from me. I’m sorry, I need it and that’s just the way it’s going to have to be. Besides, I promise, it won’t hurt.”

  York relented, allowing her to hold the hand captive. Breaking free would be easy, if required. Not wanting to admit it to himself or anyone else, not even Kenna, his fingers relaxed, taking pleasure from her simple touch. He glanced into the field near them, “Watch this.”

  A small four-legged creature wandered into the meadow, grazing contentedly on the lush tall grass. It had small nubs for horns barely more than buttons, and spikes on its shoulders stretching up and curving beyond its head. It took a few bounding steps, stopped, and used its shoulder spikes to dig up some root. Bounding high enough to clear the top of the deep grass, it stopped again to munch on a bright blue flower and danced away from a startled butterfly. A bird sang a few notes in the distance, answered by another father away. A slight breeze rustled the grass in gentle waves.

  Kenna signed, leaned back in her chair and wrapped her other hand around their tangled fingers. Before her feet rose from the deck to rest on the railing next to York’s feet, she squealed in horror. Gripping his hand, her fingernails dug into his skin as a huge bearlike animal sprang from the deep grass, mauling the small woodland creature into a bloody pile of meat and bones. She tried to yank her hand from his and turn away, but he held on tight.

  “Oh shit!” she shouted. “How can you stand to look—”

  He interrupted, “Watch and wait.”

  Before the bearlike animal could take his first bite, a dozen creatures rushed from the forest’s edge. They were larger versions of the small creature with massive horns. Their curved shoulder spikes reached the length of their horns. They rushed the bear in a solid front, their attack line curling around the edges in a flanking movement to encircle the killer. Horns and hooves drove the killer to the ground. The horned woodland creatures turned their back on the dead bear. They cleared a grassy area and pawed a slight depression into the dirt. Dragging their dead comrade into the hole, they covered it up and wandered back into the forest, leaving the bear carcass to the scavengers.

  “That was …” Kenna was at a loss for words.

  York gave her hand a slight squeeze and offered her a genuine smile. “That was brutal, vicious, and raw. The bear did what bears do and the others meted out justice for the killing of one of their young. The loss of a child isn’t to be tolerated. Not among animals and not among us.”

  Kenna leaned her head on his shoulder.

  There wasn’t any doubt in York’s mind that someday he would enjoy her touch. He could tolerate it now, but ‘enjoy’ was for another day. Today was for bringing justice to those who hurt and stole Liberty’s children. Today wasn’t for holding a soft and gentle hand, but for holding a hard sharp killing knife.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  York sat with two men in a broom closet on the top floor of the Royal Diamond Suites Hotel. Propped up on his knees was a special split screen monitor. On one third of the screen, Kenna sat behind Ernie. Ernie looked as nervous as a Christian facing an arena full of hungry lions. He had every right to be nervous as Kenna looked like a hungry lion hoping her particular Christian had a broken leg and couldn’t run away.

  On another third of York’s screen was a view from the specially prepared closed circuit camera set up inside the communications center on the military side of the station. The camera was set to monitor the officer’s console station. The officer on duty was Commander Paul. York knew he would be there because checking for erasures or lost communications always happened on either his or Paul’s shift. He knew he hadn’t intentionally helped the slavers, leaving Paul as the only one logical suspect. The camera wasn’t able to capture everything at once, but the view was wide enough to see Paul’s hands whenever they went to the console.

  His third view showed a suite just down the hallway.

  A quiet buzz brought everyone’s attention back to the screen. A message from the Gambion flashed across the communications center console’s monitor. Paul looked up from the game he was playing on his handheld tablet. No expression crossed his face. He obviously didn’t care. He went back to staring at the game on his tablet, his fingers dancing
across the screen commanding tiny figures to storm some tiny castle, swinging swords and dodging boiling oil, dragons and the occasional nuclear bomb explosion.

  York nodded at Kenna on the screen. She tapped Ernie non-too-gently on the top of his head with the barrel of her pistol. Ernie, without speaking, reached down and made a quick call, hanging up as soon as he passed his message and received a reply. A small light flashed on Paul’s communications console while he was engrossed in decapitating a troll. He missed the flash. The indications were clear. The communications array had been hacked.

  York nodded to Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden and the apprentice spaceman with him. The three men stepped out of the closet and walked down the corridor to the only occupied penthouse suite. The hatch to the Lt Commander Blaque’s quarters was locked. York’s password and biometrics popped the lock open silently. Stepping through the hatch, York walked across the mostly empty room, grabbed the fat man by the front of his pajama tops, yanked the communication’s tablet from his hands, and practically tossed Blaque into Jaden’s grasp. He didn’t want to touch the man any more than he had to as the fat man only had on pajama tops.

  Blaque started “What the—”

  “Shut up, sir.” York interrupted. He tossed the tablet to the apprentice spacer. “Take care of Commander Blaque’s computer. There will be enough information on this to hang him.”

  Blaque snarled. “You budger bastard. You can’t barge in here and manhandle me. I’ll have you brought up on charges and sent back to wherever you came from.”

  York said, “I am a budger bastard, sir. However, we have proof you’ve been working with the slavers attacking Liberty.”

  “So what? I only took money to cover their tracks. Maybe I’ll lose my military pension, but I made enough cash I won’t miss it. Besides, no jury of my peers will convict me for picking up a few stray bodies for work in their own factories.”