The bay doors began to open, sliding apart like the jaws of a Venus fly-trap. I hadn’t even sent a hail signal yet. I glanced back, but it seemed like Daniel hadn’t either. Not unless he was in the habit of keeping a communication device up his nose.
It didn’t seem like a friendly welcome. It reminded me more of a sleeping bear lazily opening one eye as a much smaller animal attempted to sneak past. And now it was scrutinizing me and trying to decide if it was in the mood to get up and start mauling.
Still, it was an opportunity. I maneuvered the ship carefully inside the circular hangar and came in to land on one of the many unoccupied parking bays. There was only one other ship: another luxury yacht, slightly more understated than ours, with the gleaming sheen of a vessel that was very frequently cleaned but very rarely flown. The residents of Cloud Castle clearly had few reasons to travel anywhere else.
Nobody came out to greet us, but we hadn’t been shot down by surface-to-air missiles, which was a plus. I’d probably have been immediately blown out of the air if I’d shown up in the Neverdie. The obvious pointless decadence of the Platinum God of Whale Sharks had earned us the benefit of the doubt.
I watched the bay doors ominously slide closed; then my touchscreen drew my attention with a pop-up window and a little beep. “The Quantunnel booth’s connected to the local network,” I reported. “So who is this person we’re picking up, again?”
I heard the sound of aluminum foil being crinkled, and turned to see Daniel standing up out of his chair, straightening his jumpsuit, and brushing off imaginary dust. “It’s just a friend,” he said.
“Look, if you’re bringing one of your dad’s toughs aboard to menace me around, just say so.”
He smiled, baffled. “What?” He was adjusting the clasp on his chest as a man in a tuxedo would adjust his bowtie.
“It’d honestly be a relief at this point. I know where I stand when I’m under a henchman’s shoe.”
“Uh,” said Daniel, uncomprehending. “I’m just gonna go and get her. I’ll be literally one second.”
Then he ran off, leaving me with my advancing worries. Her, I repeated, in the confines of my own head. The plot thickened. I wasn’t immediately relieved, though. No reason to assume Mr. Henderson wouldn’t have female henchmen, just as willing and able to put their shoes on my face as the men.
I was startled from these thoughts by a burst of energetic violin music coming from my console. The touchscreen flashed with the words “Incoming Call: Cloud Castle Ground Control.”
Glancing up, I looked through the view screen at the interior wall of the docking bay, in the upper half of which was a wide viewing window. Two sets of heads and shoulders were visible, silhouetted against severe fluorescent lighting. The shoulders were either wearing big epaulets or hunched up with anal retention.
My hand hovered over the Receive Call button. It was probably safe to assume that Terran ground control wouldn’t be as easygoing as their Lunarian counterparts. For one thing, I didn’t know them personally and couldn’t blackmail my way through with knowledge of late-night drinking indiscretions.
Fortunately, I wasn’t trying to gain entry. I only needed to stall them until Daniel returned with whatever fresh hell he had prepared for me. That gave me the advantage. Stalling bureaucrats is easy; half the time they stall themselves without you even having to ask. But failing that, the best technique is to pretend to be extremely stupid.
I got into character by slackening my jaw and staring boggle-eyed at the touchscreen as I mashed the receive button with a knuckle.
“Your vessel has been scanned,” came a pompous voice. “One or more of your crew members are lacking the necessary permissions for entering or landing upon United Republic territory.”
I found myself wondering when it had gone out of fashion to refer to it as planet Earth. “Hello?” I replied, lowering the pitch of my voice an octave and talking like my tongue had grown three sizes larger.
“Entering United Republic territory without valid permissions is grounds for immediate detention and interrogation under the Prevention of Terror Act,” continued the official.
“Whaaat?” I slurred, leaning into the touchscreen as if I didn’t know that the mike was incorporated into the headrest of my chair.
“If you do not submit valid permission documents, immediate action will be taken.”
I waited for roughly the amount of time it would take an average person to start wondering if I’d hung up, then repeated, “Whaaat?”
A pause. “State whether you are the captain or the pilot of this vessel.”
“Do you want to speak to the captain?” I spoke as slowly and loudly as possible, enunciating as if I’d been taught to speak on a consonant-per-year basis. “He was here a moment ago.”
“State whether you are the captain or the pilot of this vessel.” The tone was completely unchanged.
“Why do you keep saying the same things? Are you stupid?” I was deliberately trying to provoke frustration, partly to aid with the stall and partly out of curiosity about whether there was anything remotely close to a human being behind that voice.
“Please identify yourself immediately,” it said, which did nothing to resolve the debate. “Failure to comply will—”
“I don’t think I can help you. You should talk to the captain,” I said. “Could you hold for a minute while I find him? I think this is the hold button.” Then I hung up.
I leaned back and placed my feet up on the console, crossing my ankles. Elegant little play, the idiot routine. It gets the target frustrated, but not confrontational frustrated—the kind of frustration aimed mainly at yourself and your lack of patience for the disadvantaged.
They’d probably call back, but it might not be for a while. First there’d be however long it took for them to realize that they were not on hold after all, but were waiting patiently on a disconnected line. They might call back immediately at that point, but chances were good they’d double-check the scans, make some effort to contact someone else, or initiate some other time-wasting bureaucracy that meant they wouldn’t have to attempt to communicate with me again . . .
The steel rods holding the docking bay access door closed suddenly slammed aside, with such unnecessary violence that the clang was audible from my cockpit. I started, failed to disentangle my ankles, and fell right off my chair.
By the time I’d gotten my legs sorted out and gotten back into a position to see outside, the bay’s access door had just completed the final part of the rather technical multistage opening sequence. A small team of eight armed men, decked out with black body armor and concussion rifles designed for use in riot control, jogged into the docking bay with military choreography.
I watched, open mouthed, as they trooped underneath the ship and out of sight, presumably making for the external airlock door. What the hell kind of spaceport has a plying SWAT team ready for deployment in case there’s a momentary issue with the paperwork? What the trac kind of terror threat were these measures designed to combat? Malmind cyberserkers masquerading as very stupid rich people?
From the belly of the ship I heard a short, polite knocking on the external airlock door. This formality over with, it was immediately followed by a harsh pounding of rifle butts. How long would the hull on this decadent pile of trac actually hold out? I was starting to feel like the bag of chocolate buttons inside a cheap Easter egg.
Subconsciously, my hand had already drawn my blaster from my shoulder holster. Blowing the invading soldiers away wasn’t what I’d consider the rational course of action, but the sight of it could at least start a conversation.
I scurried out of the bridge and down the two sets of carpeted steps to the circular “foyer”. The inner airlock door was open. I considered closing it, but that would only delay the inevitable and ensure further damage to the ship. A ship could still fly with a smashed-open external airlock door—you just had to make sure you only ever entered or left the ship within an at
mosphere—but there’d be no escape with both doors forced open. Not unless everyone onboard was prepared to seal all their orifices shut.
The external airlock door was still holding, but the wheel lock quivered with greater and greater energy with every hit. I pointed my gun at it, planted my feet, and waited. Hopefully my greeting would expedite matters.
Boy, I thought as I waited. It would be so embarrassing for these guys if it turned out I did, in fact, have the necessary permission papers and could produce them the moment they stormed in. This was not a particularly helpful thought to have. After all, even if I did, they might not necessarily be in the name of Jacques McKeown . . .
And then it hit me. Warden was still onboard. She’d convinced the chip-ID system that I had the name of a traitorous novel-writing bracket everyone wanted to kill. Convincing the immigration database that I had a visa would probably be a hell of a lot easier.
The crew quarters were only one level up. I took the stairs three at a time and shoulder barged my way into Warden’s quarters. She was still sitting on the bed, going over Mr. Henderson’s paperwork, and was startled to her feet by my sudden entrance. “Mr. McKeown? What on earth are you doing? What is that banging noise? Answer both questions.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m bursting into your quarters waving a gun. Second answer, there are some United Republic immigration staff wanting to see paperwork that I don’t have.”
“I see.” She sat down again and crossed her legs. “I expect the relationship between the two matters is that you think I can assist in some way.”
“Nail on the head. Can you?”
She returned her gaze to her work nonchalantly. “Were I inclined to, yes.”
I squeezed the grip of my gun. This helped me cope. “Why wouldn’t you be inclined to?! Do you know what those drones are going to do when they get in here?”
“I know what they’re going to do to me, Mr. McKeown. Absolutely nothing, because I am a citizen of the United Republic and a resident of this community. What they will do to you is capture and interrogate you until you confess to your involvement in anti-Terran terrorism.”
The banging noise was getting more sonorous. I got the impression that the team outside had made a decent-enough dent on one part of the door and had all started concentrating on that. “I’m not the slightest bit involved in antiterror Terranism! I don’t give a trac about what Earth does!”
“I doubt that fact matters as much to the gentlemen outside as meeting the monthly quota for antiterror operations,” said Warden. “As long as your signing hand is still functioning by the end of the week, they may even be able to earn a funding increase.”
I tried playing one of the big cards in my hand. “You know Mr. Henderson isn’t going to be terribly pleased about his son’s special treat being ruined by his hero getting arrested and tortured.”
She placed a hand on her chin thoughtfully. “Actually, Mr. Henderson has long borne a grudge against the immigration department. I may be able to shift the blame entirely to them. It can hardly be considered my fault that you failed to apply for the right permissions.”
“May,” I repeated, triumphantly stabbing a finger at her as if I were pinning the word to a corkboard. “You said may. You can’t be certain he won’t take it out on you.”
“And you can’t be certain he will. Welcome to your new life on the ocean of uncertainty that is the Henderson Corporation.” She met my gaze, one side of her upper lip stabbing upward in distaste. “I’ve had to put up with it for a lot longer than you have.”
My chest deflated, and my arms fell loosely to my sides. My gun brushed my leg like a faithful dog reassuring its downhearted master. “Back to plan A, then,” I muttered, turning to go. I stopped in my tracks when a particularly loud clang signaled that the first opening had been created.
“Of course, I would become more inclined to assist if something was offered in return,” said Warden, with maddening calm.
I reluctantly turned back around as if mounted on a slow lazy Susan. “What do you want?”
“Your pistol,” she said, nodding toward my dangling hand. “I have been feeling more and more often in the last few days that I need a means of defense.”
“Do you even know how to use a blaster?”
“I don’t intend to fire it, Mr. McKeown. I would just feel more comfortable with it in my possession.”
I looked down at my gun. I fancied that it was looking up at me with big, brown puppy-dog eyes. Below me, I heard the whine of bending metal. I reached for one last attempt at reason. “This gun may be the only defense we’ll have if pirates get onboard.”
“That was precisely my thinking. And the specific pirates I am concerned about are the very recently recruited ones who may or may not already be on board the ship.”
I gave in. While I wasn’t sure what game I was playing with Daniel, I knew exactly which one I was currently playing with Warden: some hybrid of chess and Russian roulette, and I didn’t have the rule book. I toyed briefly with the idea of starting a game of Clue with her in the starring role, then sulkily threw my gun onto the bed.
The airlock’s exterior door rattled aside with some difficulty, having significantly changed shape since the last time it had opened, and the lead soldier found himself standing in the entryway with his rifle still poised stupidly in midsmash. Ms. Warden’s datapad was directly in front of his face, displaying an official-looking certificate with a large and ominous seal.
“I am Penelope Warden, divisional head of the Henderson Corporation and registered notary, here are my credentials,” she said, pausing for the briefest possible amount of time for each comma. “All interactions with my client Mr. Jacques McKeown must now go through me. I am his representative for all matters related to his application for asylum.”
The soldiers leaned in, in finely honed military unison, to read the small print. With their all-black helmets and shiny black body armor sculpted into the shape of ideal human musculature, they looked like a blackberry bush swaying in the breeze. They were all wearing black balaclavas under their helmets that only exposed the eyes, but those eyes were conveying enough confusion to make up for the rest of the face.
“Asylum?” asked the one in front.
I was standing behind Warden, trying not to look like a schoolboy getting his angry mother to confront the headmaster. I waved cockily, and some of the gazes turned to me.
One of the soldiers—it was hardly worth differentiating them—decided that the best approach to Warden was to pretend she wasn’t there. I wished I’d thought of that when we’d first met. “Do you or do you not have the necessary permissions to enter the United Republic?” he asked gruffly, with a menacing glare.
Warden immediately sidestepped to intercept it. “My client does not currently possess the necessary permissions. However, United Republic law states that an entrant without permissions may remain in transit regions for a period of twenty-four hours in order to lodge an application for asylum.”
The soldiers started grumbling antsily, having psyched themselves up for a bout of skull cracking that was slipping ever further from their grasp. One of the shrewder pairs of eyes said, “But that’s only if he’s actually eligible for asylum.”
Warden was ready for that one. She smartly swiped the certificate on the pad aside to reveal a highlighted section of legal document. “Indeed. United Republic law states that an individual becomes eligible for asylum if there is strong evidence to the effect that their physical well-being is under threat by a ruling authority.”
“And is it?”
“It is. Mr. McKeown is in extreme danger of being physically brutalized by a team of eight government soldiers for not possessing permission papers.”
The shrewd one figured it out first. “You mean us?”
“The law of the United Republic states only that the threat be created by a ruling authority,” said Warden, folding her datapad under her arm and standing fully straight to signal h
er victory. “It does not state that the ruling authority cannot be its own. And we have all the evidence we need that the threat exists, because I am currently addressing it.”
The men had been defeated by the very bureaucracy they zealously enforced, and they knew it. They shifted guiltily, looking sadly at their weapons, as if they’d just realized that they’d shown up in tuxedos to a beach party.
But then the shrewd bracket started with a realization and threw up an upward-pointing index finger. “Ha! Wait a minute! There’s a fault in your logic!”
Warden’s half smile of triumph froze. “Is there.”
“You say he’s eligible for asylum because we were going to physically assault him. But if we don’t physically assault him, then he’s not eligible at all, is he!”
A moment’s absolute stillness, then Warden sighed in irritation through her teeth. “I should have realized. You’re right. You are entirely authorized to brutalize Mr. McKeown as long as you do not brutalize Mr. McKeown.”
She let that sink in for a moment, the two parties staring at each other across the ship’s threshold. The shrewd bracket’s shoulders slowly sagged.
“Well, he still has to leave,” said the team leader.
“Absolutely,” said Warden. She turned to me. “Daniel’s picking up Jemima, I take it?”
“Yeah. Possibly. Who’s Jemima?”
“Mr. McKeown will be out of your hair within a couple of hours. In the meantime, don’t hesitate to leave.” She probably intended to remain standing defiant as the door closed in the soldiers’ faces, but it got stuck halfway. We stared at each other through the gap for a while before the soldiers quietly walked away, muttering.
The one bringing up the rear looked briefly over his shoulder. “We like your books, by the way.”
Chapter 12
It was about an hour before Daniel returned. I used the time to beat the dents out of the exterior airlock door as best I could, which made me quite nostalgic for the days when enemy pilots could actually afford ammunition. The selection of tools available on the ship was of course pathetic, so I was using a meat tenderizer I’d found in the breakfast nook.
Will Save the Galaxy for Food Page 9
