Running Before the Storm 5

“Well, Carnifor, what do you think of that offer from Gorbandic Station?” Lannetay strolled from the aft of the hold toward the airlock leading forward.

Carnifor held back to stay in his normal position a half-pace behind her. “Not entirely sure. My gut tells me they’re genuine, because if the Wantis had even a hint of something like a colonization kit, they’d have torn the ship apart looking for it.”

“Other than the one Borenic stole from us, the Confederation hasn’t planted even a small kit since the war started.” Lannetay slowed to a stop. “The only thing they’ve put up is a lot of domes. But what does that mean?”

Carnifor pondered a moment. “They can’t afford it. Those kits are expensive, and the Wantis are using everything they have just to get food.”

“Not everything,” Lannetay argued. “Probably not even close. They spend most of their GPP on their navy. If they’d use an intermediary to buy a single Twenty-K kit, they’d have hundreds of square kilometers to raise crops within six months.”

Carnifor nodded. “A kit that big would cost as much as a light cruiser.”

“They’ve lost a lot of light cruisers since the war started. Add in all the other ships that have been destroyed, and the Wanti Confederation could be feeding humanity instead of the few farming planets Earth controls.”

“Bill?” Carnifor prompted. “What do you think?”

The big cargo doors finished closing. While the atmo shield held air away from the doors there was no direct noise, but the decking vibrated. A dull thump sounded, conducted from the deck to the atmosphere inside.

“They’re after power, not food.” Bill sounded very sure of himself.

Lannetay raised a finger. “Exactly! They’re using food as an excuse to control their people. They’ll raid Terran supplies, take over a colony or two to get enough, but they’ll never allow their populace enough freedom to produce what they need.”

“I see.” Carnifor wasn’t used to thinking like a civilian after nearly a decade in the navy. “So, what can we do about it?”

The airlock opened to admit Iresha. “Are you two coming inside, or are you up to something in here?” Her eyebrows wagged suggestively.

Before Lannetay could fire off a rejoinder, Bill’s voice sounded in the gigantic hollow bay. “Gorbandic station is calling again.”

Making a decision, Lannetay headed toward the lock. “I’ll take it in the control room. Tell L-T to join us.” Iresha ducked back through the lock to get out of Lannetay’s way.

“L-T?” Carnifor shook his head. “Why?”

Her stride lengthening with renewed purpose, Lannetay passed through the locks in time to see L-T enter the control room. “He’s more ‘street smart’ than the rest of us combined. I want his take on Gorbandic’s proposal.”

As Lannetay sat in the left-hand seat she ordered Bill to connect her with the station. When the hologram appeared, she said, “Gorbandic station, William Placard. I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves. I’m Captain Lanny Tae.”

The woman on the other end of the signal smiled. “You’re right, Captain. I’m Phoebe Lesk, Director of Communications.”

Bill inserted an editorial comment. “She’s probably director of a few other things, too. That station only boasts about a thousand residents, so there can’t be many with the rank of ‘director.’”

Lannetay ignored Bill’s sidebar. “Director – ”

“Please. Call me Phoebe.”

Lannetay smiled. “Phoebe, tell me more about this trade deal you’re proposing. I’m intrigued, but unsure if we have anything of interest to you.”

Lesk touched her control panel, and Bill flashed a notification of “privacy” across the bottom of the hologram. Nobody in Lesk’s room could overhear their conversation.

“I was told by Grenwel Pop you had access to colonization kits.” Lesk leaned forward. “We’d like to acquire a One-K kit at least. Bigger if you have one.”

Lannetay frowned. “We could part with a small kit, but your station is tiny. Do you have something of similar value to trade?”

“Oh, it’s not so much what we have as what another colony world would buy.” A side holo of local space blossomed. “Clerimsu will pay for a hold of food at triple normal rates. That should cover a One-K kit.”

Working controls on her implants, Lannetay brought up a holo of L-T so she could watch his reactions without looking sideways. Is she right?

Barely. However, nobody in our position would part with that much value for so little.

“I think you’re undervaluing what you’re asking for.” Lannetay shook her head. “That’s not a good trade, even if we had such a kit.”

Lesk smiled. “How about if we added another thousand credits? We could raise that in a few days.”

L-T held up two fingers, and Lannetay said, “Make it two thousand and we have a deal.”

After a pause for thought, Lesk nodded. “Done. Will you deploy it or will we?”

“We’ll take care of it.”

The holo of L-T shook it’s head. For another five hundred.

Lannetay added, “For another five hundred credits.”

“I don’t know.” Lesk frowned in thought. “That could take extra time. How about you deploy it for three hundred fifty?”

Lannetay paused, glancing at the holo of L-T. He shrugged, so Lannetay said, “Very well. Call it a deal.”

The holo showing Clerimsu switched to local geography, with Gorbandic station tucked up against a steep cliff. Lesk said, “We’re right next to a bowl-shaped valley. It’s about a klick across, so if you put it there the Wantis won’t notice unless they’re looking more closely than they ever have.” Lesk grimaced. “They look closely at our business dealings, but they’ll probably ignore a colony kit deployed on the other side of a mountain. We’ll dig a tunnel through that mountain so we can access the area without raising any red flags. If the Wantis notice a new pile of rock nearby I’d be surprised.”

L-T squinted and moved into range of the holo pickup. “Why do you want a One-K? Gorbandic Station is industrial, not agricultural.”

Lesk raised an eyebrow at L-T’s sudden appearance, but otherwise didn’t react. “We’d like to branch out so we’re not dependent on the Wantis for something like food.” She switched to a nearly belligerent tone. “Besides, they’re taking almost all the food this world produces. Getting foodstuffs to take hold might require months, but in the end we’ll be better off.”’

Something didn’t sound right to L-T. “Why send food to Clerimsu? Wouldn’t it make sense to feed your own people instead of another colony?”

“We’re not animals.” Lesk shot L-T a nasty look. “They’re far worse off than we are. We’ve been stockpiling and preserving food for a while in hopes of someone willing to take a humanitarian mission. The thing is, we’ll have to eat it or ship it soon because some of it’s verging on spoilage.” Lesk looked from L-T to Lannetay and back. “If you would take take the food to Clerimsu, we’d get a farm, you’ll profit, and Clerimsu will be fed.”

“Of course we will.” Lannetay didn’t miss a beat. “Clerimsu is only fourteen days away for us.”

Lesk worked a few controls and a side channel opened. Numbers flashed across a flat ribbon screen as they flowed into Bill’s memory. “Here are the coordinates where the monastery is located. They’ll pay for the shipment upon delivery.” Another set of references appeared. “This is where we’d like the One-K kit deployed. As soon as you finish the deployment we’ll have your cargo ready to load.”

The two exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before signing off.

“Monastery?” Lannetay turned to Carnifor. “We’re taking food to monks?”

“Looks that way.” Carnifor shook his head.

“The Wantis called while you and Lesk spoke,” Bill said. “They asked when we planned to leave.”

Carnifor grunted. “Guess we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“What did you tell them, Bill?” Lannetay smiled, knowing Bill’s sense of humor wouldn’t allow him to give the Wantis a straight answer.

Bill’s voice held enough of a mocking tone to make Carnifor grin. “I told them to go pound sand. ‘We’ll stay as long as we need to pick up a cargo to trade on another planet. You can jolly well stew in your own juices while we negotiate, or help us out so we can leave soonest.’ They didn’t have much to say after that.”

“What name did you give?” Lannetay suppressed a laugh. One day Bill would get them in trouble, but having their AI tell off the Wantis was too funny.

“Victoria Rickman.”

Iresha spoke from behind them. Neither Carnifor nor Lannetay had heard her enter. “Who’s Victoria Rickman?”

“Some rude woman who would be executed by the Wantis if they ever found her.” Carnifor’s chuckling was infectious. Iresha joined him.

Bill cut in. “There’s a squad of Wanti soldiers at the hatch. They’re threatening to blow the lock if we don’t open up. So I let them in.”

Lannetay opened an in-head window to view William Placard’s interior. Wantis brandishing rifles deployed through the ship, but one with only a pistol headed for the control room.

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

Running Before the Storm 4

“We won’t resist.” Lannetay waved her crew into obedience. “We will, however, file a complaint.”

“That is your right.” Yundu sneered, as if he’d heard the threat too many times to count. “Good luck with doing so.”

The Wanti waved his soldiers toward the airlocks. “You’ll be notified when to make your hold available. If you fail to comply, we’ll take your ship. If you sell off your manifest, we’ll take your ship. If you try to run, we’ll take your ship.” He spun away from Lannetay and marched to the airlock.

After the lock closed, Marc said, “What a jerk.”

Lannetay was glad Marc had waited until the Wantis were gone before speaking.

“Mom, are all Wantis like that?”

Iresha gave him a withering stare. “Not all of us – them.”

“It’s a symptom of unchecked power.” L-T’s degree was in politics. “When there are only directives from above, people tend to view those beneath them in the hierarchy as resources or pawns. They’re treated that way by their superiors, so they treat others that way.”

Goofball plopped into a still-forming recliner. “Sounds like a feedback loop. Propeller-driven aircraft going into a spin get that way. One wing has lift, one doesn’t, so you end up in a spin pointed straight down. Takes practice to know what you’re looking at.”

“Getting out of it is tricky.” Lannetay glared at the airlock. “Like this situation.”

Carnifor scowled. “I recognize this as the strong squeezing the weak.”

“Told ya before, we need ta arm the ship.” Olthan frowned. “Even a puny gun’s better than nothin’. Them pirates woulda been surprised.”

“An armed trading ship isn’t illegal, but it is frowned upon.” Lannetay looked at L-T. “Won’t it create more problems by having a disrupter?”

L-T raised an eyebrow and pondered. “There are ways to hide weapons from scanners and visual inspection.”

“Whatever might be possible,” Carnifor said, “we don’t have the resources to do it. This confiscation will force us to buy something to haul to our next stop.”

“Wherever that might be.” Marc sat.

Bill told Lannetay, Marc’s accessing EarthCore again.

At least he’s meeting people not aboard this ship. Keep monitoring and doing checks on them. Only if they’re a bad influence do I need to know.

Lannetay headed to the control cabin to think. Carnifor followed, as if he didn’t want to miss out on anything. Did he smile at Iresha before he left? Lannetay couldn’t be sure.

“Marc seems a trifle withdrawn.” Carnifor sat in the right-hand seat.

Lannetay grunted. “Bill and I think meeting people his own age would be good for him. With all the adults around he could get too serious. He needs to have some fun.”

“There’s some danger in that. Might come across some folks who won’t have his best interests in mind.”

“Maybe.” Lannetay watched a power meter on an in-head display. “Bill keeps our firewalls current and thoroughly vets everyone Marc meets. So far it’s been okay.”

Carnifor nodded. “I certainly don’t envy you raising a smart kid like Marc in these circumstances.”

“I wasn’t given much of a choice about the circumstances.” Lannetay still resented Admiral Choergatan strong-arming her into her current mission. A year of service for the ship had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Wantis cropping up every time they tried to accomplish something gave her second thoughts. And she wasn’t even half-way through.

Bill cut off Lannetay’s ruminations. “Gorbandic Station is calling.”

Lannetay and Carnifor traded looks. “Audio, please,” they said in unison.

“There’s video available.”

Lannetay thought-clicked to accept an in-head video link. “William Placard here. Go ahead, Gorbandic Station.”

A pale-skinned woman with a flattop hairstyle appeared in Lannetay’s mind. “We’re very sorry about your cargo. Is there anything we can do to help make your trip here not be a total loss?”

Carnifor rolled his eyes and spoke so only Lannetay could hear. “That’s why they’re called ‘jarheads.’”

Lannetay fought a smirk and resisted calling him a squid. “We’d like to have a consignment for another destination, if you could arrange it.”

“Consignments are okay.” The woman leaned in. “Not much profit margin for you though. Are you sure you don’t have anything of value? A little bird tells me you might have a ‘kit’ Yundu missed when he scanned your ‘caboodle’ for confiscation.’”

Lannetay hid her panic. “Can you hang on for a moment? I’ll check our manifest.”

The woman from Gorbandic Station nodded, and Bill cut the feed.

“A trap?” Carnifor seemed as worried as Lannetay looked. “Seems to me ‘kit and caboodle’ is slang not many people would know.”

Lannetay wondered. The race between totalitarian regimes and black market trading would continue for the life of the universe. This contact could be a Wanti plant, but also might have a valid proposal.

“Bill, could you tell if she was on the up-and-up?”

“Sorry, Lannetay. There was plenty of stress in her voice, but if she really is looking for a colonization kit, she’s risking a lot with Wantis potentially looking over her shoulder.”

Lannetay signaled to be reconnected. “Gorbandic Station, I’m still looking over possibilities. Did this ‘little bird’ have a name?”

The woman frowned. “Let’s just say she wasn’t my mom.” The slight emphasis on “mom” seemed suggestive.

Carnifor whispered, “Grenwel Pop?”

A brief wave signaled Carnifor to hush, then Lannetay continued. “There’s a matronly woman we met recently. If only I could remember her name.”

“Grenwel?”

“That’s it!” Lannetay brightened. “Grenwel.”

Bill cut into the conversation. “Your reunion will have to wait, ladies. Cargo carriers are approaching our ship, and the lead truck is signaling for us to open our main doors.”

Lannetay kept her attention on the Gorbandic display. “I’ll come for a visit, and we can talk all about Cousin Grenwel.”

“I look forward to it. Gorbandic Station, out.”

Lannetay and Carnifor stood and exited the control cabin. In the common room L-T and Iresha both read, while Goofball flew another in an endless series of sorties in his holographic fighter. Olthan broke down and cleaned a small disrupter pistol that had already been cleaned a hundred times. The KR-9 “Thorn” was even legal on Wrantiban, though rumors suggested it wouldn’t be for much longer.

Iresha looked up as Carnifor walked past toward the cargo hold.

Bill laughed silently to Lannetay. She told Carnifor, “nice view.”

Lannetay grinned. Stop spying, Bill. It’s unbecoming.

Bill laughed again.

Carnifor blushed as he and Lannetay passed through the hatches into the access corridor.

In the cargo bay, Lannetay ordered Bill to open the main clam shell doors. They slid aside as the first transport backed up to the ship. Antigravs adjusted the truck’s altitude to match the ship’s cargo deck. Lannetay and Carnifor walked toward the opening down a narrow aisle between massive crates.

The back doors of the lorry opened and an atmospheric retention field extended to match the one protecting the William Placard’s hold. A pair of soldiers with rifles at the ready stood behind a man holding a small display.

“I have an order to confiscate your cargo.” The man looked up, for the first time noticing the large crates stacked in the hold. “We’re gonna need a bigger truck.”

Making us wait while they steal our cargo is kind of rude, Carnifor sent to Lannetay.

Lannetay rolled her eyes but didn’t respond to Carnifor. “We’ll drop the biggest off to the side and you can load the smaller ones.”

One crate holding a fully-assembled industrial grade oxygen plant lifted a centimeter off the deck and floated into the thin, poisonous air on Swonorikus. Bill shifted it to one side and lowered it to the rocky surface. Four more similar units followed the first before creating enough room for smaller equipment to move into the trucks.

“There goes fifty thousand credits,” Carnifor grumbled. “Could have sold it for eighty.”

For three hours Lannetay stood grinding her teeth. Arms crossed, her fingers drummed deeper and deeper into her upper arms. “This should have taken only two hours.”

“Never been a slower theft in history.” Carnifor echoed her frustration. “Moving large objects always takes longer than it should.”

Finally the last crate slid into one final lorry. The man with the display checked the package’s code against his list. “That’s all. Thank you for your cooperation.”

As the man turned, Lannetay muttered, “As if we had a choice.”

The only hint she’d been heard was a small hesitation in the man’s pace. He stepped from the ship into the truck and closed the door without comment.

Okay, Bill, Lannetay sent, close her up.

Carnifor waited for Lannetay to head back toward the living area of the William Placard. “An empty cargo bay gives me the willies.”

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

The Brotherhood #38

By Mark W. Meier

Part 38

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Ten

Kick

To assassinate.

On your elevator ride the next day you retrieved a voice mail from Detective James. You were cleared of all wrongdoing in your car’s explosion. Various reasons were given, but your lingering headache made them seem trivial.

Then you wondered about how to get into racing. You could buy an existing NASCAR team, but watching someone drive in circles didn’t interest you. Maybe something with more immediacy.

When the lift doors opened the beagle greeted you. “Welcome back, sir.” Understated, as he usually was.

“Thank you, Victor. I appreciate the lack of ostentation.”

“Head injuries come with headaches, sir. Fanfares are noisy, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

The two of you worked well together, if you could call what you do “work.” Most of the rest of the week passed without your involvement, with you simply staring into nowhere or looking out the windows at the city below. I was able to push you closer to depression, since you did nothing of use to anyone.

You ruminated about your lack of participation in society, how if you vanished nobody would really care. The thing you craved now was relevance. Money you had, influence as well. People looked after you, but nobody sought you out for yourself – only because you had the money and influence

On Friday morning the beagle raised his head above the privacy shield in your Grambic Tower office suite. “They got the guy.”

You turned from your perusal of the Savannah skyline. “Context, Victor.” At times people lost track of what they hadn’t said aloud.

“The man who bombed your Paris plant. He was shot and killed trying to escape from soldiers.”

That someone even sent soldiers was surprising to you. “French special forces?”

The beagle’s expression was unreadable to you, but I saw something flicker. “If so, nobody will admit it.”

Maybe Howe was more than just a beagle. I could get to like him, but Brothers seldom experienced affection.

You shrugged. “I hope someone thanks the people responsible.”

“I’ll see to it.”

I smiled. He would indeed. And your accounts would be docked by a few hundred thousand, though you’d never notice. The gunman, however, would notice. Nice job, Beagle.

A half-hour later the Paris Police Prefecture liaison called the beagle’s desk. It was Lepine, announcing what you already knew.

“Pass along my thanks to the responsible parties, Monsieur,” you said.

Lepine seemed puzzled. “They were mercenaries, Mr. Grambic.”

“If you say so. Thank you for the call, Monsieur Lepine.”

After ringing off, you told the beagle to have your car ready. “I’m leaving early today, Victor.”

The beagle nodded as the elevator closed.

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