Outpost

by W. Michael Gear

  “They might be here for a while,” Shig noted. Then he glanced up. “This isn’t supposed to break any time soon.”

  Talina took in the marines on guard at the gate, weapons slung, water dripping from their armor. Farther down the fence she could see others standing their posts. The marines’ job was supposedly to keep any deserters from Turalon from climbing the chain-link and making their way into Port Authority.

  Shig stared thoughtfully at the guards. “Word has it that Dan Wirth has set up a regular underground railroad to smuggle crew out of Port Authority.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From a lost soul who has bound himself to our Mister Wirth. That’s the thing about people who sell themselves. They often hawk their wares to more than one buyer at a time. The hope, of course, is that they can serve both masters without conflict.” Shig’s lips bent into his benign smile. “A hope that I will help my source to achieve.”

  “You think we should do something about it?” Tal asked.

  “Yvette and I have discussed Mr. Wirth to no end. Trish would have the guy suffer a ‘healthcare emergency’ some night that ended in cardiac arrest.”

  “I like that plan.”

  Shig laced his fingers together and pressed them to his midsection. “Trish has suggested several ways in which the cause of Mr. Wirth’s cardiac arrest could not be traced back to us.”

  “Good old Trish. Always pragmatic. Want me to save everyone the time, effort, and skullduggery by just walking in and putting a bullet through his brain?”

  “Yvette and I would ask your concurrence that we wait for the time being. We’re under no illusions about Wirth. The man is a psychopath. But here is the thing about psychopaths: while they have no empathy, and are in the game only for their own gratification, some can be reasoned with. And in the meantime, he is providing a service.”

  “What’s that? I heard he’s turned Allison Chomko into a drugged-out poker shill, that he’s bought his way into Betty Able’s, and he pretty much runs the underside of Port Authority. He’s using people.”

  “People come to Donovan for various reasons. Some to die. Some to find themselves. And others to leave. But none are unchanged. For the moment, Dan Wirth is expediting that process. But ultimately?” Shig shrugged.

  “Trish says he robbed and murdered Thumbs.”

  “He is the most likely suspect.”

  “And you and Yvette think we should just let him skate free?”

  “What did you make us promise after you killed Clemenceau?”

  “That we’d stay out of the way. Let people manage their own affairs and only step in when people’s actions threatened the survival of the colony.” She made a face as she repeated her own, once hotly held demands.

  “Precisely. Does Wirth threaten the survival of the colony, or is he, in his way, adding to its viability by building an organization that accrues wealth and then uses it for the colony’s advantage? You’ve heard? He’s building a house. A big thing. He’s hired Hofer and his crew to erect his mansion. Close to thirty people are on the payroll to obtain the timber and stone. Lawson is fabricating the metal, piping, and cistern.”

  “I’ve heard that half the soft meat are in debt to him. How is that good?”

  “You’ve been out in the bush. Let me get you up to speed.” He shot her a sidelong glance from under his hood. “The jobs the Skulls were promised are not here. Port Authority is not what they expected. They’ve been assigned employment they consider menial, and they see no future. Because of their sense of deprivation, we’ve had suicides, and homicide is up.”

  “They can space back on Turalon.”

  “A prospect that terrifies them. Especially with the arrival of Freelander after so many lost ships. They feel betrayed, trapped, hopeless, and desperate. An explosive recipe ripe for ignition, don’t you think?”

  “And how does Wirth play into this?”

  “He is becoming a leader. Someone with influence among the Skulls.” Shig pointed. “For the time being, the marines act as a reminder that The Corporation still calls the shots. The Skulls are currently in a state of stunned disorganization. Their thinking is in the Corporate paradigm. But as soon as the marines space and Turalon is no longer in orbit?”

  “It will change.”

  “And they will lash out. A problem for which we must prepare. There are a lot more of them than there are of us.”

  “Shit.”

  Shig tilted his head as he studied the haphazard clutter of crates, tarp-wrapped equipment, pieces of machinery that defied Tal’s recognition. “What is all this stuff?”

  “The bounty of Freelander’s hold. The ship’s AI was chopped out by the crew, so there is no inventory. I understand that most of the food and drink was sorted through and plundered over the years. But the mining equipment, structural materials, vehicles, and so on, were left untouched. What little of it that still works. The few vehicles that Montoya’s crew have had time to work on are iffy. Things like the seals and gaskets are brittle, old, and often deteriorated. The tires on the haulers and trucks are hard and cracked. No telling if they’d last long enough to get across the field, let alone out to the mines. The batteries are dead, of course. But, after nearly thirteen decades, will they ever take a charge, let alone hold it?” He threw his hands wide. “Guess we’ll see.”

  “What’s that?” Tal asked, pointing to a huge pile of struts and large folds of what looked like white fabric.

  “A huge dome. Though where we’ll put it remains a problem, unless we tear down some of the existing structures to make it fit.”

  “And those things?” Tal tried to figure what the large and irregularly shaped sections of ceramic might be. Large vents or manifolds had been cast into them. Obviously they fit together to create some sort of structure.

  “A smelter,” Shig told her. “Perhaps the most useful thing they’ve sent us. Assuming we can figure out how to assemble it, we’ll finally be able to smelt our own metals. From there we need only to produce a foundry, and we can take another step on the road to ultimate survival.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got a problem, Shig. The best ore deposits are out there.” She waved a hand in the direction of the distant mountains. “How do we get the ore here to smelt? What powers the furnaces?”

  “That,” Shig assured her, “is our problem to figure out.” He smiled in that unassuming way of his. “Assuming the Skulls don’t revolt, and we don’t all kill ourselves in the meantime.”

  “Charming, Shig. Really fucking charming.”

  58

  Cap Taggart sat at a back table in Inga’s. He had his leg flopped out, half-slumped in the chair, his left hand on the table to ease the healing wound in his arm. In his right hand he grasped a stein half-full of Inga’s crystal-malt brew.

  The incongruity of his situation wasn’t lost upon him. Since the moment he’d been assigned to Turalon, the SDRs had been accumulating with each tick of the clock. A small fortune waited in an account with his name on it back in Transluna.

  And he’d given it up.

  Now, here he sat. The sum total of his assets consisted of overalls and plasticized boots, a quetzal-hide coat, chamois shirt and pants. The latter—local items—had been a gift from Talina. The belt, knife, and pistol, he’d held back from the bundle he’d forwarded to Lieutenant Spiro. When he could, he’d send a nugget or two to pay it off. What the hell, the rest of the Donovanians had paid for Corporate property, why couldn’t he?

  His parting with Lieutenant Spiro had been anything but pleasant. She’d treated him like dung on her boot, a loathing hatred in her eyes as she’d said, “I ought to shoot you down like the stinking traitor you are. You’ve betrayed us. As good as spit in our faces.”

  Nor had the rest of his marines taken it well.

  “Figures,” Private Talbot had said. “He’s as good as
his reputation, not worth shit in a toilet.”

  “Oh, brave new world,” Cap quoted, and took a swallow from his beer. But it hadn’t all been bad.

  Until the day he died, he would remember the expression on Talina’s face. He’d been sitting on her step, rain dripping from the awning that sheltered her doorway. He’d had his hands clasped in his lap and looked up at her without so much as a wink or smile.

  She’d cocked her head, water dripping from a wide-brimmed hat. Something he couldn’t read had lain behind her eyes, as though unsurprised, but still uncertain.

  “You lost?”

  “Nope.” He’d spread the fingers in his clasped hands. “I know right where I am. I quit. Resigned. Surrendered my commission.”

  “Aguila let you?”

  “I think it happened so quickly I caught her off guard. Nor did I hang around long enough for her to consider the options. So, here I am. What you see is what you get.”

  She’d just stood there while rain spattered on her hat. Her mouth was pursed—and a thousand thoughts were running behind her large and dark eyes. Cap had waited, his heart beating slowly in his chest.

  In the end, she’d nodded to herself, stepped around him, and opened her door. Pausing—as if for a final consideration—she’d said, “Come on in.”

  He had, waiting as she hung her raincoat and plucked off her muddy boots. Her domed dwelling had looked as he’d remembered it. Then she shook her hair back, no expression on her face as she’d taken his hand, led him to her bedroom, and began frantically ripping his coveralls off.

  The miracle was that the bed hadn’t collapsed from the impact of their naked and desperate bodies.

  “So, what next?” he asked himself as he stared around Inga’s. Being midday, the room was mostly empty. He lifted the stein to his lips and took a sip. Across the room, he could see Inga’s big board. A new column, labeled “Taggart,” now had two beers charged to it.

  Great place, Donovan. A man with nothing could have credit for the asking.

  He was considering just that fact when two of the transportees came clumping down the steps in muddy boots. Cap couldn’t remember their names—he hadn’t paid much attention to the transportees—but they were dressed in technician’s overalls. Sighting him, they stopped, squinted as if unsure, then put their heads together.

  A second later they started his direction, winding around tables, and stopped before his.

  The first stood about six feet, looked to be in his early thirties, and had a lanky body that was mostly bones. His blue-eyed face, too, was thin, but dominated by a fierce nose mindful of a knife’s edge.

  His companion had a narrow skull and face, small mouth, and high brow. Black, piercing eyes gave him intensity, while his well-muscled body appeared used to hard work. The guy looked hard-used and might have been knocking on forty.

  “You’re Cap Taggart,” the blue-eye Skull stated as if making a proclamation.

  “That’s right.”

  “Word is you’re no longer a marine.” The dark-eyed one’s pronunciation was more circumspect.

  “That’s a matter of definition,” Cap told him easily. “Once a marine, always a marine. Or so they say. As for my current circumstance, I am officially resigned from the Corps. Let’s call it retired.”

  “Buy you a beer?” blue eyes asked.

  “Got one. As you can see.”

  “Can we ask why you resigned?” Dark Eyes asked.

  “You can ask anything you want. Doubt you’ll get an answer.”

  They looked at each other.

  Dark Eyes said, “I’m Abdul Oman. This is Fig Paloduro. We came in on the Turalon.”

  “How could I have missed that?” Cap took a sip.

  “Hey, don’t bust our balls just because you can. We’re in the same situation as you are. If you resigned like you say, you’re stranded here, too. Probably for the same reasons we are. The contract wasn’t what they promised. And anyone with half a brain in his head isn’t going to space off to certain death. Not in Turalon. And especially not in Freelander. You heard what they found on that wreck?”

  “Can we sit down?” Paloduro asked.

  “It’s Donovan. You can do any damn thing you please.”

  In unison they dropped onto the bench. Oman propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. “If we could ask, was your parting with the Supervisor amicable?”

  He gave them a grim smile.

  Again they looked at each other.

  Paloduro asked, “Since you’re on your own, what exactly are the nature of your plans? I mean, did the triumvirate offer you a job?”

  “Nope. I was just sitting here contemplating what I might do next. Obviously, the two of you have a suggestion. Also obvious is the fact you want a fighting man, which brings you to me. So what particular skills do you want, and what are you willing to pay for them?”

  The way they looked at each other was as predictable as gravity.

  Oman spoke. “Our concern is the transportees. Abandoned by The Corporation, exploited by the triumvirate. You’ve heard of the suicides? Our people have no hope. We’re trapped in hell. Some of us, we’re looking to find a way, somehow, to make things right.”

  “As it is,” Paloduro said, “our people are turning on themselves. Bickering, tearing each other apart. Even murdering each other, and the Donovanians don’t care. ‘Fair fight’ they say, and wash their hands of the matter.”

  “It can’t go on,” Oman told him. “We need order, purpose, and to provide a unified front in our negotiations with the triumvirate and the Supervisor.”

  Cap glanced back and forth between them. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. How do you see this working?”

  “The Turalon crew is deserting any chance they get.” Oman glanced around uneasily. “We say let them.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re wondering if I’m working undercover to catch them?” Cap laughed. “Good ploy, but I could give a rat’s ass.”

  “Why?” Paloduro asked. “That flies in the face of everything you’ve lived your whole life. You were a marine.”

  Cap chuckled his self-amusement. “Listen, I’ve been out there. In the bush. Face-to-face with what Donovan’s all about. Talina and I walked out. The locals are calling it a miracle. That’s why I don’t care. If the spacers want to go, I’m with you. Let them.”

  They did the clockwork look at each other.

  “What about the transportees?” Oman asked.

  “Gentlemen, whatever scheme you’ve got hatched up your sleeves, I’m not going to be your strongman. I’ve spent my life imposing someone else’s will on people who didn’t want it. I’m done with it. Over. Finished.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s for our people’s own good. We need you, not just for the authority you bring, but for your skills and understanding. You’ve spent a lifetime in command. You know how to make people act in their own best interest. I’m not sure that Fig and I can do this without you.”

  “Ah, so you’re thinking of your own triumvirate?”

  Again the look.

  “Captain Taggart,” Paloduro’s voice had a trace of desperation, “building a new society is never easy, never without its regrettable mistakes, but if we don’t act now, our people are going to be forever miserable. Second-rate transportees cleaning toilets, washing dishes, digging ditches and mining clay when they are owed so much more.”

  “All it takes is leadership. Someone for them to look up to.” Oman added quickly. “The kind of inspiration you could provide.”

  Paloduro spread his hands. “Officer Perez will listen to you. And when it comes to negotiations with Supervisor Aguila, she’ll know the quality of the man she’s sitting across from.”

  “You have the ability to save lives,” Oman immediately followed up. “You can help
us avoid those costly and bloody mistakes that people seeking social justice so often make. You can turn a rabble into a potent political force.”

  “I don’t think you boys get it.”

  “Get what?” Paloduro asked. “We’re offering you a seat at the table. Now. At the beginning. What you do with it? Where it takes you?” He thumped the table with a knuckle. “Hey, the future is filled with opportunity.”

  “Join us,” Oman lowered his voice. “Help us build that future. Together, the three of us, with the people behind us, we can do this.”

  Hot on Oman’s heels, Paloduro chimed in: “We can’t have our people hanging themselves, slitting their wrists out by the fence. Sure, they’re lost and angry, but that anger needs to be redirected into a productive direction. Used to bring this world and the Supervisor into compliance with the will of the people.”

  “What about Turalon’s crew?” Cap asked. “You want them to join this movement?”

  “Absolutely,” Oman said as if it were essential. “And you’re just the person to bring them to us. They’ll trust you. We need their expertise with Turalon.”

  Ah, I see. Cap smiled to himself.

  “Good luck, gentlemen. I wish you all the best.”

  Again the shared looks, this time slightly startled.

  “You don’t have to make up your mind immediately, Captain,” Paloduro told him. “Take a few days. Think about it.”

  “Of course.” Cap saluted them with his beer stein. “Have good day, gentlemen. And, as far as the Supervisor is concerned, be assured that this conversation never happened.”

  “We didn’t expect that it would be any other way,” Oman said solicitously.

  “Then you’re nowhere near as good at this game as you think you are. Just be glad I’m no longer on The Corporation’s side. So there, you don’t need to spend the rest of the day wondering if you’d be better off sticking a knife in my back to keep me silent. Like I said, I don’t give a shit. Best of luck to you.”