Prison Planet (THE RIM CONFEDERACY Book 3)

by Jim Rudnick

  At least here at Max, solitary confinement could be used if needed. It had been 200 years ago back on Juno, before the Halberd Prisons were even built. Some smart prisoner had an even smarter lawyer who'd filed a class-action suit to bring an end to "administrative segregation" and the use of the rubber stamp prison doctors to okay such punishments.

  As if we needed that, and more, as if such confinement actually did cause paranoia, psychosis, depression, and even was a major contributor to self-harm and eventual suicide, the warden thought.

  Once Halberd had been built 100 years ago, the solitary confinement had been outlawed over at the Farm Camp, but not at Max Island. Not here, yet, he thought and smiled.

  He tapped his white hairy fingers, one by one in order, as he waited for the arrival of the only name on his appointment list for today. She was late by an hour at least, and his fingers tapped, and tapped, and made a hollow-sounding echo on his big yellow desk, a control dashboard that didn't end up in a pod but in his office instead.

  She'd be here, well, sometime. He really had no idea when, but he knew that she would get the tour, and perhaps if she was interested, go up to the Power Plant for a look, He'd even gotten the Pod Plant ready for a look-see too. One never knew, he thought, one never knew.

  #

  EYES ONLY are a pain—at least they used to be when I was a line officer, Admiral Higgins thought and almost broke out into a grin. Surely, Admiral McQueen would have to agree; he posed that thought, and then agreed with himself. And this one didn't deserve that smile, either.

  He toyed with the stylus on his desktop and twirled it again and again until it zoomed off his desk.

  Sighing, he got up and went around his desk and over to pick up the stylus where it lay beneath the view-port on the outer wall of his office. Grabbing the pen, he stood and looked out at the scene in front of him here on Pike Station. Over on the far side, he could see four transport ships awaiting docking at the Pod port. But right now there was a Leudi freighter taking on pods as they came off the EL elevator like clockwork, and he watched them as they flew across the pod loading struts and disappeared within the freighter. Wonder how many they can take, he thought and knew he could just look it up, but he really didn't need to know that much. They were the major product that kept Halberd funded, paid for all the prison budgets, the volcano power stations and all its costs, as well as the usual upkeep of the city of Andros and its population.

  Seems simple enough, Higgins thought as his computer flashed its monitor at him, and he realized his EYES ONLY was coming in. “Not a good call coming up,” he said to himself and turned to resume his seat.

  "Admiral McQueen," he said as the logo of the RIM Navy disappeared and the unlined face of the head of the Navy came on-screen, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?" He knew. He knew that McQueen knew too. But at this point, it hadn't been acknowledged.

  Admiral McQueen nodded, and put down the sheaf of papers that he held in his hand, and pulled himself a bit closer to the screen.

  "Admiral, yes, good to see you. We need to talk about Captain Scott. This will not be an easy chat, however, as I'm thinking that I may have to cashier him out of the Navy, and that's going to be one of the toughest decisions I've ever had to make."

  He leaned back in his chair and toyed with the papers that lay in front of him. He nagged at one edge, sliding it over and back and then over again, and his eyes were downcast. He looked up a moment later.

  "Admiral, can you offer up anything for me to add to my considerations?"

  His tone was almost plaintive, and Higgins thought, he looks like he is trying to find a way to not rip those eagles from the captain's collar.

  He took a moment and then spoke.

  "Admiral, at this point, I can offer only the following for your edification. Captain Scott has not—as far as I know—been out in the public realm in any kind of a 'state,' Sir. He did just that when the Marwick arrived, what, six months ago. And yes, I've been careful to watch over his public persona as per your direction. But other than that single evening, I know of no indiscretions, at all. He also has been pretty discreet, I understand, on board the Marwick too, though I am unable to vouch for that other than keeping track of the scuttlebutt in the officer’s mess."

  McQueen nodded.

  "I thank you for that, however, my own mole on the Marwick claims that his Scotch supply is not down hardly at all. Only that he appears to not be laying drunk all over the ship, but stays to his quarters," he said as he looked up from reading from those papers on his desk.

  "Sir, what a man—any man—does in his quarters are surely, well ..." Higgins said, his voice going up at the end of that sentence.

  "Not a problem if the worst that can happen is he drinks himself to bed. Course, as a starship captain who is out on the RIM, he might be caught sitting in the Comm chair and being too drunk to handle the situation. That's my worry, Admiral," McQueen said sadly.

  And Higgins had to agree, but that did present an answer.

  "So perhaps a permanent staff officer appointment might be in order, Admiral? Take him away from the Comm to sit at a desk, pushing paper, perhaps," he said, and he did try not to sound a bit like that was his own slice of life here on Halberd.

  McQueen sat back lost for a moment in thought, but then he shook his head negatively.

  "Never happen, I fear, Admiral," he said.

  "There is no way that Scott will ever leave the Comm. No way, and if he wasn't actually guilty of being a drunk, then he never would have accepted this current mission. He loves—and actually is damn good at—being a starship captain. He knows that and it's saved his and his crew's life—my own as well—many, many times. So for him to sit on Halberd or doing boundary buoy maintenance for the next fifty years just won’t' work for him," McQueen said, his voice steady.

  Higgins could tell that he was speaking the truth, no matter what the cost. Must be tough, having a protégé who goes bad or at least has the wheels fall off his life like Scott had done, he thought.

  "Sir, if I do hear anything else or if I find anything else out, I'll EYES ONLY you immediately," he said, as he knew he had nothing else to offer McQueen no matter how bad off he seemed to be.

  McQueen nodded.

  "Stay on this, Admiral, as a favor to me, please. And oh, if you haven't heard as yet, the 100th Anniversary event has been okayed, and it appears that the Royal who's going to be doing most of the on-site work is the Lady St. August—and she and Scott have some history. Try to be a part of any and all exchanges between them if you can, and let me know what is going on with those two, please, Admiral?"

  Higgins nodded and said, "Agreed, Sir," and the EYES ONLY was done, and the screen faded to black.

  A few moments later, he turned to the view-port to watch the freighter take on more and more pods, and he smiled at the Halberd economy that he could see and understood at least. Interpersonal relations between Navy captains and Royalty were not his forte.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Provost captain was not happy.

  "Yes, I know. No personnel with any kind of authority can enter one of those damned Ishtar Weapon shops. Known that for, what, 200-plus years since they came about, and yes, I too would love to know how they filter their force field to keep out us police types," he finished off, as he too firmly tapped the end of his report into the tablet at his side.

  Half-smiling at him, the Andros Police lieutenant nodded.

  "Assuredly, Captain, but that's for them to handle. Our job is just to report what happens without actually having access to the crime scene.

  "Does it not seem odd to you," the captain said, "that this force field is only on the doorways—front and back doors, instead of also covering the windows too. And that means that this 'smash & grab' was successful. Did that manager type ever give us a record of what was stolen?" he said.

  "Not yet," the lieutenant said, and they both turned to face the damaged storefront.

  Someone had
been passing by the weapons shop, and for a reason that had not been discovered yet, had smashed in the big glass window and grabbed some of the weapons and guns in the window. The door, of course, hadn't been affected as the glow of the blue force field still was on, and the two local authority types cooled their jets, waiting for that list. And they waited more than twenty minutes more until the blue glow ended and the door opened.

  Ishtar aliens looked, well, odd. First, they had red eyes that always could be seen as their lids were made of some kind of a chitinous material. Each of their hands and feet had retractable claws that they had a habit of flexing that made a chinky-clinky sound. Of average height, they had little body hair, but all of them affected some kind of a display of facial hair—beards, goatees, Van Dykes, muttonchops, and Winnfields too.

  The one that came out of the shop looked about average, the Provost captain thought. And he stepped up to introduce himself and the local Andros Police lieutenant too. Introductions made, he asked about that list, and all the Ishtarian did was hand him a single sheet of paper. He then turned tail and went back into the weapons shop, and the blue force field jumped back on a moment later.

  "Anything of interest, Captain?"

  Reading the list, he said nothing but then held it out and pointed at the items, his finger scanning the list.

  "Umm, okay, so, wait," the lieutenant said, "there is, what, more than a dozen and a half of those new palm Needlers gone. A couple—three actually—of those compact stunners too. Probably could'a hid them under your shirt and shoved the stunners down your pants," he said and sighed.

  "Looks like they just grabbed what they could," the captain said as he turned to scan the street scape around them. He looked back one way and then the other.

  "No cameras for video?" he asked and received the answering shake of the head from the lieutenant.

  "No witnesses?"

  Another shake of the head from the lieutenant.

  "No cameras inside the shop?" he asked on the off chance the Ishtarians might have thought ahead, which gave him his third head shake.

  "And so ... what to do?" he finished off and received a shrug in response.

  He nodded and handed the list to the lieutenant.

  "I'm done," he said, spun on his heel, and wheeled off, the robbery all history to him.

  The lieutenant watched as the glaziers pushed the yellow tape out of their way and moved up to the window to take their measurements and fix the windows. He stood and watched for a bit and then caught the next LRT that went by, figuring whatever happened to the shop was karma and not his problem.

  #

  Knock! Knock!

  More than a bit surprised, Tanner rolled off his bed and went to the door of his quarters. No one ever knocked, and the knock had been loud and strident. He pushed the open button, and as the door slid open, the almost blinding shine of the blue boots of the EliteGuard at his door made him wince.

  "Sir," his steward said almost apologetically, "we had to admit this emissary from the Barony. My apologies, Captain," he said and almost winced and wouldn't meet Tanner's gaze.

  The EliteGuard simply held out a blue envelope complete with the twin crowns of the Barony on the front, turned on his heel, and marched away to the lifts.

  "Sir, can I—is there anything you'd like me to get for you?" the steward said and waited patiently.

  "'Nother bottle is all," Tanner said and pushed the close button on his door, knowing the steward would be back in less than a minute. So he stood at the door, that envelope clutched in his sweaty hand, and the bottle was delivered with a new bucket of ice and a fresh plas-glass.

  "Time for another, then the mystery envelope ..." he said, poured a stiff one, and slurped it down, realizing that he'd been hitting the bottle hard this afternoon, but not too hard, he rationalized, because he was off duty only until early tomorrow. He slouched back onto his bed, as it was the softest place to sit, and propped up a couple of pillows behind him as he looked at that envelope once more. Tearing just the corner off with his teeth, he blew into the envelope so that it swelled up, and he reached inside to take the folded letter from inside. Unfolding it, he had to use the back of his hand to sweep across his eyes once more to get them to focus well enough to read the letter.

  It appeared to be an invitation to dinner to be held on the Sterling, with the Lady St. August. No one else was named, nor was there any mention of why the dinner was to be held, nor mention of dress either. No real information, just a request to have him attend for dinner.

  He smiled at first, figuring this might be her way of trying to get him to agree to join the Barony Navy, or, perhaps, to discuss the Barony offer and terms, or to get her Adept to read his own point of view on the matter. Perhaps she just wanted to spend some time with him, but that thought made him grimace, and he shook his head to dislodge that thought.

  Most likely not that, he surmised and then realized the requested dinner hour was in just three hours, and he had a bit of a load on. That meant he'd need to stop chugging the Scotch now, or soon at least, as he quaffed the slug in the plas-glass and reached for the bottle once more.

  Figuring he might need a bit of help, he used his wrist PDA to summon his steward who let himself in and hustled away with a set of dress grays for a quick press and a request for more ice with the promise to come back one hour before Tanner would have to leave to walk over to the Sterling.

  My steward is my lifeline, for sure, Tanner thought. Wish I could take him with me when I go.

  The realization that the decision might have already been made scared him a touch, but then he shook that off and just blamed the Scotch, like always. He dozed and suddenly the steward was back, shaking him a bit and telling him there was barely an hour until that dinner, his dress grays were hanging on the chair, and he'd better get a move on.

  Slowly showering a couple of minutes later, he let the lukewarm water wash over him while he wiped on and then washed off the facial depilatory. As he toweled off, he only stumbled once against the counter top and knew that jar would leave a bruise. He smiled to himself in the big mirror as he wiped the glass to see a bit better. Face shaved, check. Clean body, check. Hair combed, not yet. Teeth brushed, doing that now. A few minutes later, all the items for his personal toilet were done and complete, and he admitted standing naked in front of the mirror, for a Navy man in his late thirties, he looked pretty good. Hair still black with only the teeniest of a sprinkling of gray at his temples, his eyes that bright blue of the tropic seas, his chin strong with a cleft that dimpled it, and looking down, he could see he still could lose about five more pounds. That made him smile a bit more broadly—a solid navy man is how he felt. Of course, whose Navy might also be an important question, and that made him laugh loudly.

  Fetching some clean skivvies, he donned his dress grays and made sure the ribbons and badges were all straight and level. Wonder, though, he thought, if I should wear a sidearm? He moved to stand in front of his arms cabinet and decided he should wear one, so he picked his tried and true Navy issue Colt, from a line that went back almost a thousand years. The R1911 in the desert sand finish had been with him since his graduation from the Navy Academy inward in the Earldom of Kinross more than fifteen years ago. It had his name and graduation information on the one side, with the blued Nimschke engraving surrounding that personalization, and as usual with all Navy Colts, it held seven of the .45 rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Hefting it, he worked the action, checked the rounds, ejected and then re-inserted the magazine, and was happy as usual with the weapon. Projectile sidearms were generally frowned on on board a spaceship, but as the captain, few could complain and he liked that. Wonder what the rules might be over in the Barony Navy, he thought for a second as he strapped on the soft leather holster and seated the Colt with a degree of efficiency. Never used it to ever hurt a human or an alien either, he thought, and that was a good thing. Something so powerful would knock down anyone, even one of the natives of Er
an, big as a house who had a real hatred of humans.

  In the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he presented well. Everything was straight, neat, and … wait, he thought, and he went back into the bathroom to rummage in his bathroom shelves. Yes, there it was. Grinning, he splashed a liberal dose of cologne—from Bottle, as he remembered, and he could still smell the scent of that leave from three years ago now and that made him grin even more.

  He moved off the twenty-ninth deck onto the lift, and moments later, he was coming down the landing escalator to the tarmac. A distance away, on Pad Sixteen, sat the Sterling, and even from here, he could see a wad of EliteGuards hovering around their own escalator. Past them was a Leudi trader ship he didn't recognize and four Duchy ships too, and he wondered what they were doing on Halberd and made a quick PDA message to his XO to find out more. A few more ships were over against the far wall that was shared with the sub-station power plant and those he knew were from both Bacu and Elbo, as they were painted in their realm’s colors.

  He ambled over but did check his PDA to make sure he was a bit early and eventually reached the Sterling.

  Arriving and meeting the officer of the fay, he saluted and said, "Captain Tanner Scott, and I believe I'm expected, Major," to the ranking EliteGuard member who returned his salute.

  "Captain, yes, we've been expecting you. However, before I can have you admitted, I would need to ask you if you'd like to check your weapon with us? Barony Navy rules, I'm afraid.”

  And there it is, Tanner thought and smiled.

  "The line here, Major, would be only out of my cold dead hand," he said, but without a smile and his tone and volume rose.

  "Major, please inform the Lady that you have refused her dinner guest admittance to the Sterling, even though I am the acting head of the RIM Navy. And give her my regrets," he said, and he spun on his heel and strode off.