by Peter Grant
Frank frowned, and raised his hand. “Mightn’t that be a security risk, sir?”
“Yes, it might, but I’m planning to use them at first aboard our freighters and communications vessels, not our fighting ships. That’ll free up our people for more demanding work requiring greater security. I’ll send back to Keda all those who want to go, with a year’s salary. We’ll take that out of what we captured from the Brotherhood. Those who want to work for us will first have to pass our security checks, including a truth-tester examination. Next, within six months they’ll have to be sufficiently fluent in Galactic Standard English to learn, and then do, a spacer’s job without needing translation software. We’ll give them hypno-study courses and immersion language training.
“After that, we’ll put them through the entry-level spacer course aboard our training ship, to bring their standards up to the minimum we require. Irrespective of their current rank, they’ll all start with us as Spacers Third Class. They’ll have to prove themselves, and work hard, and qualify to our standards as at least Spacers First Class within three years. Their more experienced people will probably advance much faster, of course. If they fail any of those steps, back to Keda they go.”
“That’s a pretty tough program for people with their limited background, sir,” Dave Cousins said, concern in his voice. “Will they be up to the challenge?”
Cochrane shrugged. “We aren’t running a charity. This is a tough business. Yes, it’ll be hard for them: but if they’re willing and able to make the effort, it’ll be worth their while – and ours, I hope.”
“What about their families, sir?” Caitlin asked.
“They’re all on Keda. I don’t expect that to change anytime soon. Once they’ve qualified as spacers to our standards, we might look into letting them bring their families here to Constanta, which will still be the hub of our freight operations for at least the next decade. We can get them residence permits. The spacers will serve aboard ship for a regular one- to two-year tour of duty, as most merchant spacers do, then come home for six months to a year. For those wanting more family time, we might let them work on our vessels undergoing routine maintenance at Grigorescu Shipyards. In time, perhaps they can graduate to our new dockyard at Bianca.”
“Will you allow them to live on Bianca, sir?”
“I’m not sure yet. It depends how well they work out for us, and on the progress of our infrastructure there. Also, we’ll have to make sure we won’t have a clash of cultures in our new home. We can’t have a New Orkney Cluster, and a Constanta, and a Keda culture, and who knows how many others, all competing with each other. There’s too much risk of conflict. We’ll need to establish an overarching ‘Hawkwood culture’, for want of a better term, with common values and a common language. If individuals and families can fit into that, and not be insular, that’ll be fine. If they can’t, then they won’t be allowed to live on Bianca, irrespective of where they came from.
“We want people for whom Bianca alone will be home, and who are its citizens alone, not hyphenated Biancans from all over the place. Too many planets have that problem. I don’t want ours to be among them.”
Dave asked, “What about the Brotherhood officers and spacers we captured at their base, sir, and those who escaped from Patos?”
“They’re under sentence of death from the Big Three, who are actively looking for them. I’m trying to find a way around that. Caitlin, do you remember the planet you visited for conferences with the Big Three?”
“Bintulu? Yes, sir.”
“You’ll remember its special attributes, then. Do you think that might offer a solution for our prisoners?”
She began to smile. “I daresay it will, sir, if they’ll agree to it. The Big Three will probably honor it. I don’t think they can do otherwise – they rely on it too much themselves.”
“I’ll discuss it with the prisoners, then. Frankly, I don’t think they have any safe alternative. We’ll have to subsidize them with some of the captured Brotherhood gold, but I don’t mind doing that, considering how much help the Brotherhood unknowingly provided to us over Bianca.”
The briefing over, waiters entered once again to serve fresh coffee and more liqueurs. Jock Murray waited until they’d finished, then rose to his feet, smiling down at Sue McBride, who’d been leaning against him. Their budding romance had amused and pleased all the others. He picked up his glass.
“Sir, we’ve been very lucky to have you as our leader over the past several years. I don’t think Hawkwood could have even survived, let alone flourished as it has, without you at the helm. You’ve provided the sort of leadership most Fleets can only dream of. Here’s to you, sir. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Rear-Admiral Cochrane, majority owner, Chairman and Managing Director of Hawkwood Security, and prospective first President of Bianca!”
They jumped to their feet as one, and raised their glasses in a chorus of agreement.
Epilogue
BINTULU
The personnel shuttle settled into its slot in the space station docking bay. The pilot waited for the airlock to be linked, then announced, “Passengers may disembark.”
The forty-two men and women slowly filed through the airlock into the space station. A woman was waiting for them, holding a sign reading ‘Sejdiu Party’. “Please follow me,” she invited them. “Your baggage will be held for you until we have finished.”
She led them to a small auditorium, with seats for up to a hundred people. They filled the front few rows. A man at a podium in the front of the room waited until they were seated.
“We provide this briefing to all new protective residence permit holders, to give you one last chance to reflect on the restrictions that will govern your lives on Bintulu,” he began. His voice was cool and formal, neither welcoming nor forbidding. “If you choose not to accept any of these restrictions, you are free to re-board your shuttle. It will return you to the ship that brought you here. However, once processed through Customs and Immigration, you will be governed by these restrictions. Any violation will – I repeat, will – have very serious consequences.
“Bintulu is recognized throughout the settled galaxy as a place where feuds, vendettas and revenge may not be pursued by outsiders, resident or not, under any circumstances. The punishment for doing so is drastic – usually terminally so. Organizations and individuals may not target their enemies who have sought sanctuary here, and individuals with protective resident permits may not seek to strike back at their enemies, whether here or off-planet, either directly or through third parties. Bintulu is a strictly neutral planet, and we defend that status vigorously by any and all means necessary. What is more, certain interplanetary organizations that benefit from our neutrality help us to enforce it, also by any and all means necessary. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate.
“Another condition of your protective residence permits is that you may not leave Bintulu. If you do, you will not be allowed to return, and your enemies will be free to act against you as they see fit. You are safe here, so long as you stay here. Leave, and you are on your own.
“You were members, and are now almost the only survivors, of an organization that no longer exists. A benefactor has paid on your behalf the five million francs we charge per person for protective residence permits, and also for a month’s hotel accommodation for each of you. He has deposited a further two million francs per person in bank accounts that will be made over to you after entry processing. Housing is expensive in East Kampung, the part of our capital city where most expatriates like yourselves live, but you each have enough to purchase a moderately comfortable residence. The balance will support you until you can establish yourselves; or, if you are frugal and don’t spend too much on a home, it will earn enough interest to serve as a pension.
“Are there any questions?”
Alban Sejdiu raised his hand. “Does ‘leaving’ mean the planet, or the system? May we engage in space commerce within Bintulu’s system – say, asteroid m
ining, or orbital warehousing?”
“Yes, you may. Anything within the Bintulu system is in order. However, if you hyper-jump out of our system, your protection is permanently revoked, and you lose your right of residence. The only exception to that is if you choose to become a citizen in due course, and then join Bintulu’s armed forces or a department of the government, and are sent out of our system on official planetary business.”
“I see. Thank you.”
A former Brotherhood spacer officer asked, “What about families? Most of us have none now…” He had to pause to collect himself, the pain of all-too-recent bereavement showing clearly on his features. “If… if we marry again, and have children, can they leave someday?”
“Anyone arriving here from off-planet under a protective residence permit may not leave. However, any children born to you here will be Bintulu citizens, and therefore will not be bound by that restriction. They are free to depart. Whether or not that is advisable will depend on whether or not your enemies might regard them as targets. That is out of our hands, of course.”
The official waited for a moment, then said, “If there are no more questions, is there anyone who wishes to return to the shuttle that brought you here?” None of his audience moved, and he smiled. “Very well. You may proceed to Customs and Immigration, where your protective residence permits will be issued, and your bank accounts handed over and validated. Welcome to Bintulu!”
Three days later, Pal Sejdiu, his wife and their children, complete with Alban’s wife and Fjolla’s husband and daughter, sat down at the outdoor terrace of an East Kampung restaurant. They ordered food, then sat back to enjoy their drinks while waiting for it to arrive.
“So, what do you think of the place?” Pal asked his children.
“It will do,” Fjolla observed. “Given the alternative, it will do very nicely!”
The others laughed, but there was an undertone of profound sorrow to their amusement. They could not forget – they would never forget – how many of their relatives and friends had been forced to endure that alternative. They knew how fortunate they had been to be saved. The Brotherhood spacers from the depot ship had lost their entire families. A few of them had found the grief unbearable, and had committed suicide. Meanwhile, rumors of the Brotherhood’s fate had sent a frisson of horror throughout the settled galaxy – particularly the underworld, which was better informed than most, thanks to the Big Three.
Jehona said quietly, “Let us be grateful for what we have. We shall make new lives for ourselves here, and the children born to us on this planet will regain all the opportunities we have had to give up. It could have gone much, much worse for us, as it did for all too many of our friends.”
“Yes, it could,” Aferdita agreed. “I don’t know why Commodore – sorry, Rear-Admiral Cochrane was so generous to all of us, but I’m very grateful that he was. He could just have released us with no money or anything, to run for our lives until the Big Three’s assassins caught up with us, as the crews of the Brotherhood’s few surviving ships must be doing.”
“We would not have got far,” Pal agreed. “I asked him why he had not done that. He sighed, and said there had been enough hatred and enough killing. Sooner or later, we had to get on with the business of living instead.”
“He told me that the Brotherhood effectively paid for our permits here, out of the gold Hawkwood recovered at our base,” Alban noted. “It was still very generous of him, though. He could have used that money for many other things. To send forty-two of us here, paying for our space travel, protective residence permits, hotel and funding, has cost him about three hundred million francs. That is far more than I ever expected of him.”
“I wonder if the Big Three will be angry with him when they find out?” Lindita mused.
“They may be, but I think they will let it go,” Pal replied. “In the end, they got what they wanted. A small group of survivors is not really worth worrying about, so long as we do not try to re-establish the Brotherhood. If we were that foolish, they would act.”
“Bintulu would regard that as a breach of our residence conditions,” his wife pointed out. “It would probably hand us over to them.”
“Then let us make sure we never give them cause to do so!” His listeners agreed, loudly and fervently.
“Commander Thanas and his surviving spacers are not letting grass grow under their feet,” Fjolla’s husband Enver commented. “They are talking about contributing a million francs each to a pool, and using it to buy a share in an orbital warehouse, or perhaps a couple of used cargo shuttles, or both. They can operate them themselves, of course. They think they can make a good living in orbital cargo handling and storage.”
“I wish them luck,” his wife said. “Father, have you had any thoughts about what you will do?”
“Aferdita’s father, Jehona and I are talking about going into business together. I have a broader and more in-depth knowledge of security than almost anyone I know, Jehona is almost as good, and is also a highly trained accountant – and a trained intelligence operator besides, which I am not – and he is a skilled financier. Together, we can offer security products and services to banks and businesses. I think, between us, we have more experience and expertise than any of the companies currently operating here in that field.
“It will take more capital than we have, though. What with licensing suitable products from off-planet, consulting fees and other costs, we shall probably need ten million francs in startup funds. If we can raise five million, he thinks he can obtain investors for the balance.”
“Well, you and I each have two million in the bank, and so does he,” Jehona pointed out.
“Yes, but we have to buy a home, too.”
She shrugged. “Let us start small. We can buy something simple, perhaps further out of town. We can upgrade later, when our finances allow.”
“Why don’t we all buy something together, perhaps a large house we can share, or a building with two or three apartments?” Alban suggested. “That way, we can help support each other, and pool the money we save to finance our future together. If all of us contribute to your venture, that would give you ten million or more, and our shares would earn us money over time.”
“What are you going to do, Alban?” his younger brother asked.
“I’m thinking about going in with Commander Thanas, or perhaps looking for employment in an asteroid mining company. I’m a trained spacer officer, after all, even if only a junior one. I don’t mind starting at the bottom of the ladder, and working my way up. What about you?”
“I’m going to talk to Commander Thanas, too. We have to make a fresh start here, and there’s no point in being too choosy at first. Let’s work together to get ourselves established. After that, we can figure out what we want to do next. I might follow you into merchant spacer officer training, or study at a university down here. Who knows?”
“That is a good attitude,” Pal said approvingly. “We shall be stronger if we work together.”
Jehona shivered. “I wish you hadn’t put it like that. It reminds me too much of my grandfather, and the disaster he brought upon us by saying much the same thing, over and over again.”
“You are right. Let us never take it to such an extreme again!”
When the meal was over, they decided to walk back to their hotel along the river. The weather was balmy, and crowds of strollers, diners and shoppers kept the broad, paved walkway bustling with activity. Along the street above, the noises of the entertainment district reminded them that this was the heart of East Kampung’s night life, too.
They paused to watch a paddle-boat swish slowly past on the river, couples dancing to a live band on its upper deck. “That looks like fun,” Alban observed to his wife. “We must try it soon.”
Aferdita hugged him. “I’d like that. I’m sure we can spare a little of the Rear-Admiral’s gold to enjoy ourselves.”
Pal nodded. “It was our gold first, of course, before he c
aptured it from our refinery ship,” he said contemplatively. “I wonder what happened to the gold Szipnij was carrying? We never heard anything more about her after she was pirated in the Mavra system. I suppose one of the Big Three got her. I know Ostrovy went back on the market after our purchase fell through, and was bought by someone else within a couple of months. I’d never heard of the buyer before.”
Jehona shook her head. “Let it lie, dearest. It is no longer important to us. The Fatherland Project turned out to be disastrous for us, first in the way we raised funds for it, and then when we tried to use them to buy a planet. Let us hope that whoever bought Ostrovy has better luck with it than we did, and much greater success.”
“Yes. Let us hope and pray so, for their sake.”
About The Author
Peter Grant was born and raised in Cape Town, South Africa. Between military service, the IT industry and humanitarian involvement, he traveled throughout sub-Saharan Africa before being ordained as a pastor. He later immigrated to the USA, where he worked as a pastor and prison chaplain until an injury forced his retirement. He is now a full-time writer, and married to a pilot from Alaska. They currently live in Texas.
See all of Peter’s books at his Amazon.com author page, or visit him at his blog, Bayou Renaissance Man. There, you can also sign up for his mailing list, to receive a monthly newsletter and be kept informed of upcoming books.
Books by Peter Grant
MILITARY SCIENCE FICTION:
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The Maxwell Saga:
