Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars)

by S J MacDonald

  There was a slight delay and then the door opened. Leo Arad glanced suspiciously up and down the corridor before nodding the station director to come in.

  Chok did so, and tried not to show his reaction. Leo Arad rented one of the more upmarket apartments on the station. It had a lounge-dining area with a huge holowindow, a micro-kitchen and a separate bedroom just large enough to contain the king sized bed. Autobots should keep it clean, as the hand-sized bots routinely cleaned every surface on the station. Air conditioning should keep it smelling fresh, too. The apartment autobot clearly wasn’t working, though. The remains of a congealed flash-meal were on the table, along with an empty whisky bottle. Another half-empty bottle and a glass were on the floor by the sofa. Through the open bedroom door, Chok could see that the bed was made, unused. Discarded clothes were heaped on the floor, adding a musty smell to the odour of stale food and liquor.

  Leo Arad himself was surprisingly neat in comparison. He had expensive depilatory treatments so he didn’t need to shave, his hair was cut in a fashionably short crop so didn’t need combing, and he smelt only of high class shower products. He was fully dressed in a clean shirt and pants.

  Chok understood why. He too had taken to showering and changing into other clothes, the last few nights. He’d told himself that that was so that he could just grab a jacket and go if there was an emergency. The truth was, though, that he did not want to be arrested in his pyjamas if the Fourth came for him.

  “I’m sorry to have woken you,” Chok said, seeing the significance of the folded cushion and the dressing gown on the sofa, where Leo had evidently been sleeping.

  “I wasn’t asleep.” Leo was a plump man in middle age. He had a rosy complexion and bright blue eyes. Chok had seen him at Zelda’s clubs many times. He was always at the centre of a lively group, laughing, telling stories, buying rounds. Now he looked grey, deflated. “Has something happened?” he asked, and Chok heard fear in his voice.

  “No,” Chok said. The Heron was continuing to circle the station, watchful and predatory. The Heron was the wrong name for the Fourth’s ship, Chok thought. They should have called it the Vulture or the Shark. “I just need to ask you myself about the allegations being made.”

  Leo gave him a sharp glance, a flash of alarm on his face.

  “I already told Mr Jorgensen…”

  “Yes, I know,” Chok said. “But you will notice that we are not having this meeting in my office, Mr Arad. This is an unofficial discussion, off the record.”

  That had seemed important. He wanted to talk to Leo Arad without Durb Jorgensen there, or the lawyer Leo would certainly bring to an official interview. He had wanted to get a sense of the man, and felt that he was more likely to tell him the truth if they were meeting privately. Now, he wondered whether this had been an error of judgement. Leo was staring at him with a frightened look in his eyes. He tried to smile, but it was forced.

  “Nothing is ever entirely off the record,” Leo said. He glanced at Chok’s wristcom as he spoke, and Chok held it up to show him that it was switched off.

  “I’m not recording this,” he promised.

  “You should always assume you’re on record.” Leo did not sit down, nor invite his visitor to do so. “Look, Mr Dayfield, I can’t tell you anything I haven’t already told Mr Jorgensen. This is a complete fit-up. I mean, drugs, me?” He held out his hands in a gesture of protesting innocence. “Mislabelled crates of tet and cindar, yes, okay, I’ll hold my hands up to that – you can’t get spacers to buy it any other way. But drugs? Come on! I’m a good guy, a family man, I’ve got a kid at uni. This thing they’re saying about whole container loads going through here, eighty or ninety tons a year, that’s just fantasy! I’m not saying the odd crate doesn’t slip through, but tons? That’s just not even possible! And I swear, Mr Dayfield, I swear on my daughter’s life that I’ve never had anything to do with dealing DPC.”

  Chok wanted so much to believe him. He had come here wanting to be reassured. He wasn’t, though. There was just something that rang artificial in Leo Arad’s manner. It reminded Chok of a play he had been to see, once, which had been running so long that the actors ran through their lines with purely habitual mannerisms, a technically correct but empty performance.

  So this is why Durb has kept him away from the Board, Chok thought, and was immediately horrified by the implications of that. Durb had blocked every effort by Chantalle Rivers to have Leo Arad brought to the boardroom so that they could question him themselves. He had even effectively prevented Chok from speaking to him, making it clear that he would take offence if the director over-rode him.

  It was possible that there were innocent reasons for Durb not to want them talking to the trader, but right here and now Chok could not think of any.

  The awful realisation was dawning that Leo Arad was lying, and that Durb was protecting him. And that could only mean…

  There was a short, taut silence as the two men stared at one another. Durb’s anguish and horror were clear on his face. Leo’s face set hard in response, though his eyes were more afraid than ever. Then he swore once, under his breath. He was standing next to the sofa. While Chok was still reeling from the enormity of what he’d realised here, Leo reached under the dressing gown on the sofa. When he stood up there was a gun in his hand.

  Chok gaped at it. Perhaps, he thought, he had drifted off into a doze and was having one of those light-sleep nightmares that had plagued him since the Fourth’s arrival. This didn’t feel like a dream, though. It was all too appallingly real.

  “You fool,” Leo said. The gun in his hand was small but deadly. Even Chok could see that it was no stun gun, but a percussive pistol capable of blasting his head off. The small red light on the top of it indicated that it was charged and ready to fire. Chok stared at that little red light. It seemed to fill the whole room. “Take your wristcom off,” Leo commanded.

  “What?” Chok could not even begin to get to grips with this situation.

  “Do it!” Leo insisted, with an urgency emphasised with a flourish of the pistol. “Don’t you understand, you moron? We’ve got seconds! Take your wristcom off and move!”

  Chok did as he was told. It wasn’t as if he had much choice. Dropping his wristcom onto the floor, he left the apartment with Leo close behind him. He couldn’t understand what the trader meant by “we’ve got seconds”, but it was evident that he was a desperate man. A desperate man with a gun.

  “G-porter,” Leo instructed.

  Chok went into the nearest access point and stood there, as Leo directed it to take them to the Central Hotel. Part of him felt that he should be attempting to talk to the man, to reason with him and persuade him to hand over his gun. The rest of him knew that he was going to attempt no such thing. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to speak.

  It was all true. Leo Arad had been shipping tons of drugs through Karadon. The gun pointing at him was, finally, sufficient evidence even for Chok to believe it. The terror of imminent death was supposed to bring sharp clarity to the mind and senses, but in Chok it seemed to be having the opposite effect. He felt physically numb with shock, pins and needles in his hands. The only thoughts going through his head were It’s all true and He’s going to kill me.

  Even as Leo pushed him out into the lobby of the Central Hotel, Chok did not recognise the significance of where they were. It was a beautiful hotel. The Central was where movie stars and system presidents stayed. Rather than compete with the rest of the station in glitz, they’d gone for an understated opulence, with the glamour of natural materials. The floor was of marble and the furniture of real wood, all hand crafted. Expensive works of art adorned the lobby, including a painting hanging behind reception that the hotel had paid eighteen million for. Chok liked to call in for a pot of tea here, sometimes, just to soak up the wonderfully soothing ambience.

  Now the only people staying here were journalists. The Central’s customers had been amongst the first to leave. Offers of increased se
curity presence at the hotel had not impressed them. What use was that, as one of them had observed, when you didn’t know whether the security guards themselves might be involved in the drug dealing? The journalists had not been keen to have armed people hanging around them, either, so Chantalle had pulled security back to a discreet level. The lobby, therefore, was unguarded.

  At least some of the journalists were obviously up, though, even at this hour. The sound of voices was coming from the Library Lounge, which the journalists had taken over as their hangout.

  “Move!” Leo prodded Chok in that direction and he stumbled towards the archway that led into the Library. It was ordinarily the Central’s quiet lounge, equipped with privacy booths and an atmosphere of subdued elegance. The two ornately carved bookcases that gave the lounge its name contained fourteen actual paper books, preserved behind forcefields in controlled environments.

  The journalists, however, had brought their own particular style to the Library. Heaps of bags, camera-jackets and equipment were strewn about on tables, chairs and even on the floor. There were around thirty journos there, chatting and watching the several channels active on the big screen behind the bar. Contrary to the popular belief that journos were all heavy drinkers, most of them were drinking coffee.

  Their reaction when they saw the station director coming in with Leo Arad behind him was to give shouts of surprise and grab for their cameras.

  Then they saw the gun.

  “Shut up!” Leo Arad told them. The swearing and yelling of warnings to each other faded down, all attention focussed on the man with the pistol in his hand. “None of you will be hurt if you do exactly as I say,” Leo told them, and with a touch of grim humour, “and you want the story, don’t you?”

  Several of the journalists nodded at that. Some of the others had dived for cover. Others were attempting to turn on their cameras and aim them at Leo Arad surreptitiously.

  “Right, then,” Leo said, “Get your cameras and start filming! But no questions!” He aimed his pistol directly at Chok’s head. “Just keep quiet and film. Go to broadcast. I want this going out live!”

  Chok began to understand why as they made their way out of the hotel and across a concourse. The journalists gathered around in their usual huddle, surrounding them as they filmed. Some of them were muttering urgently through headsets. Even those who’d dived for cover had grabbed their cameras and joined the pack. Leo Arad effectively had a human shield around him as he made his way to a marina. Even better, it was a human shield broadcasting every angle of what was happening, live. They all filmed it as Hale Ardant appeared on the concourse with another man in security uniform. As soon as he saw the cameras, though, the security chief stopped, holding his arm out to prevent the other man approaching them.

  “Move!” Leo had seen them too, and his voice was close to panic, now, as he pushed Chok to hurry him along, almost running.

  They were heading to the hotel’s private marina. It was a long spur jutting out of the station just behind the hotel. Guests arriving on their own yachts could leave their shuttles there. Now that they were staying at the hotel, those journalists who had ships in port had their shuttles docked there too.

  “I need a shuttle to take me to the Fourth,” Leo looked around at the journalists.

  Several voices immediately offered the use of their shuttles. Even the risk of being shot wouldn’t put them off going for the exclusive rights on filming Leo Arad as he went to the Fourth. It was self-evident to them all that he was using them as cover, terrified of being killed by other gang members on the station. Unless he was intending to commit suicide by going aboard the Fourth’s ship shooting, that could only mean that he was intending to betray the gang and turn state’s evidence against them.

  “I’ll fly you there myself,” said an ABC journalist. Hers was only one of the voices offering that, but Leo singled her out, nodding. Possibly he recognised her. Sadie Kettle was one of ABC’s top intersystem journalists.

  “Right.” They were at the airlock in seconds. The cluster of journalists had bunched up in the narrow passage, creating an even more effective barrier, but Leo wasn’t hanging around. As soon as Sadie Kettle opened the airlock to the ABC shuttle, he scrambled in behind her. He was still pointing the gun at Chok, but not trying to force him onto the shuttle.

  “If you’ve got any sense,” he told the director, “you’ll come with me.”

  That decision made itself. Chok did not need to be able to think it through to know that if he had a choice, he would not get aboard that shuttle with the armed drug dealer. He just stood where he was. Leo didn’t attempt any further persuasion.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, and closed the airlock.

  As it sank in that he had survived, Chok stood dazed, surrounded by the journalists who were now clamouring questions at him.

  “What happened, Mr Dayfield?”

  “Why was Leo Arad holding you hostage?”

  “Has he admitted to the drugs?”

  “Is he going to give evidence?”

  “Has he talked to the Fourth?”

  “Do you believe now that he’s involved in drug trafficking?”

  “All right,” Hale Ardant arrived amongst them, speaking with curt authority. “Back off!” he commanded. “Mr Dayfield is shaken. Needs medical attention.” He put a possessive hand on Chok’s elbow and attempted to steer him away. “Come with me.”

  Chok pulled away, his face showing terror again.

  “No!” he gasped, remembering what Zelda had told him about Hale Ardant being in with the gang. He was also remembering her warning that once he realised the truth and turned on the gang, himself, he would be in great danger. Suddenly, he understood what Leo Arad had meant when he’d said “We’ve got seconds” and why he had urged Chok to flee with him, taking refuge with the Fourth. “Don’t leave me!” Chok begged the journalists, turning to them instinctively. He would be safe, he knew, so long as their cameras were on him, broadcasting live not only to the station but to all the ships in orbit. “Please!” he gabbled, “stay with me and keep broadcasting!”

  The journalists were only too happy to do so. Even the least experienced of them knew that their own safety lay in sticking together and continuing to broadcast. Their own safety was the last thing on their minds, however, with a story as hot as this going down. Assurances came from all directions that they would stick with him, glued on, and several told him that they’d take him back to the hotel.

  “You’ll be safe there,” said one, but Chok shook his head. He could think of only one place he might actually be safe, and it wasn’t the hotel, his quarters or his office.

  “Take me to Marina Eight,” he asked. Several of the journalists immediately mentioned Belassa Torres, and Chok nodded. Director Torres was staying aboard an ISiS Corps yacht that had decelerated and was docked onto the station.

  “You need medical checks,” Hale insisted. “And we need to take a statement from you.”

  “No!” Chok shouted at him, then, fury rising through his shock. “Leave me alone!” Realisation was hitting him that if Zelda was right and murder had been done on this station, then at the very least Hale Ardant must have been involved in covering it up. If he was working for the Landorn cartel, he might well be one of the shotguns they had aboard, protecting their investment. Chok had been an asset to them all the time he’d denied that drug trafficking could be happening on the station. Now he’d realised the truth, he was a problem. “You’re fired!” Chok hardly knew what he was saying. He turned back to the journalists, desperate appeal on his face. He seemed not to be aware that there were tears streaking his cheeks. “Get me to Director Torres!”

  The journalists rose to the occasion with a courage that certainly merited the awards they would win for this. They formed a cordon around Chok, continuing to film him, some of them actually pushing Hale and the other security man away.

  “Leave him be!” said a grizzled veteran, ferociously.

&
nbsp; “He’s under our protection.” The speaker was a rookie journo who couldn’t have been graduated more than a few months. She was still wearing her shiny new media ID and had every camera gadget on the market clipped on her camera harness. She barely stood a metre sixty even in her high heeled boots. She faced down the security chief with a fearless glare up at him, indicating the two cameras she had floating above her head.

  It certainly wasn’t fear of her that made Hale step back.

  Triumphant, and still asking questions, the journalists hustled Chok back to the concourse and into a g-porter, crowding in with their cameras gridlocking overhead. As the doors closed, they could see Hale Ardant standing there, staring after them with an unreadable expression.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Heron was already at action stations as the ABC shuttle approached. The engineer, Morry Morelle, had been holding the nightwatch, assisted by one of their super-Subs. The moment they saw what was happening on the station, Morry called the ship to action. It had taken them longer than usual to achieve that because so many of the crew had been asleep, but even so Morry had reported “Action stations secured, sir,” just fifty seven seconds after the alert had been sounded.

  “Thank you.” Alex acknowledged, though not taking his eyes from the multiple screens showing broadcasts from the station. At that point Leo Arad was heading into the marina, his pistol aimed at Chok Dayfield’s head. Alex watched as Sadie Kettle volunteered to pilot him and the two of them went aboard the shuttle.

  Sadie continued to broadcast as she sat down in the pilot’s seat. Leo Arad sat down beside her. He still had the pistol in his hand but was not pointing it at her. His attention was on the flight console, looking for the comms panel. Moments later he was calling the Fourth.

  “This is Leo Arad, calling von Strada,” he said. “I know you’ll be watching. I’m coming in. I want to do a deal.”