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“Marc seems a trifle withdrawn.”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.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.

The Brotherhood #37

By Mark W. Meier

Part 37

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Monday brought tests. There was an MRI, an EEG, blood draws, and a whole gamut of poking and prodding only performed to satisfy attorneys and keep lawsuits at bay.

I watched. And waited.

You’d learned that the log had peeled back a piece of your scalp and cracked your skull. The pieces were all still in place. No bleeding in the brain, either, so beyond stitching the flap of skin back in place there was no surgery planned.

For some reason nobody could recall Judge Boynton being there. Their only recollection was a local fisherman had pulled you from the water and taken you to Polly’s Landing. An ambulance had arrived a minute before the flat bottomed boat.

By evening you were bored out of your skull. I chuckled at the irony of that phrase. A television on the opposite wall was tuned to a classic television network, but Dobie Gillis made your headache worse. You turned it off, preferring silence over the dialog of Maynard.

The beagle’s phone had buzzed maybe a dozen times during the day, so when the examinations ended he stepped into the hallway to take care of Grambic Tiles.

An hour later he returned.

You asked, “How’s business?” Did you even realize it sounded like “Howe’s business?”

“Everything is going well, Mr. Grambic. The required permits in Dannacona will all be approved unless something unusual comes up. About half of our valuable employees from Paris were enticed to move to Canada. Perhaps five of the less-than-valued will relocate on their own. The Paris police determined the culprit of the explosion, but he’s fled outside the EU. Stock prices dropped after the explosion, and again after your accident Friday. Word of you waking up has pushed the price back upward. Unless there’s another issue, analysts say Grambic Tiles will fully recover by mid-summer.”

For some reason you didn’t care about stock prices. Altruism? Perhaps. Even I couldn’t make concern for your employees drop lower on your priority list.

You breathed a sigh of relief. The survivors of the explosion were all taken care of, with some in the process of joining your new plant when it started up.

“Victor, is there anyone asking for me?”

You succeeded in keeping your voice level, but I knew you well enough by now to interpret it as whining. You already felt nearly useless at work, and the emptiness yawned beneath you. Nobody but the beagle saw fit to be at your side.

“Terrance Yang called to see how you’re doing.”

“He’s only worried about his ten percent share of the company.” You stretched. The pain you’d felt before had faded through the day.

“I told him you were willing to buy him out.” The beagle grinned. “With the price drop you could have picked up his shares at a bargain. But he said he’d hold on to them.”

“What about Amy?” You wondered if your cousin even knew you existed. If so, you doubted she’d cared about what happened to you.

“Nothing from Iowa.” The beagle frowned. He didn’t like your thoughts of someone so far beneath you.

You reached up to touch the bandages above your right ear and winced. That was still tender, but you’d had no pain relievers for more than six hours. “Ring the nurse. I’m leaving.”

A moment later you pulled the clip off your index finger, then peeled back the sticky pads holding the heart sensors. The display over your head flatlined and shrieked in protest, but you swung your feet over the edge of the bed. You wobbled, but managed to sit upright.

The day nurse knocked and entered, her face white with panic. When she saw you sitting she took a deep breath. “You shouldn’t be getting up yet, Mr. Grambic.”

“I’m not going to spend another night here. If I’m going to be useless, I might as well be home.”

The beagle opened the cabinet he’d stocked with a pair of your shoes, new sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You’d never worn anything like them since before your father had died, but they were loose-fitting and easy to get into. Underwear and stockings were from your home supply. The slip-on shoes were probably as new as the sweats.

“I have to insist, Mr. Grambic.” Day Nurse did her best to look stern. “You’ll have to stay until the doctor releases you.”

“I’ll be leaving. I think you call it AMA, ‘against medical advice.’ You can help me get dressed or stay out of the way. Your choice.”

Day Nurse scowled and crossed her arms, but otherwise remained still and silent.

The beagle gathered your few belongings, and the two of you brushed past the fuming nurse. She followed and gave a hand signal to the duty station.

A short spitfire of a head nurse stepped away from the desk and blocked your path. “If you’re leaving, you have to sign out.” Her expression brooked no dissent.

Your gait faltered. Attitude went a long way in dealing with people, and she had enough to stop a train. Her arms akimbo, creased forehead, and a steely gaze all contributed to the overall “don’t mess with me” and took it to new heights.

You hesitated a moment. “Very well.” You stepped to the desk and leaned, grateful for a brief respite. “Where do I sign?” Depression bayed in the back of your mind. Those were the hounds I wanted you paying attention to, not the beagle.

At the valet station outside, the beagle led the way to his car and opened the door for you. Exhausted, you nearly collapsed into the passenger seat. He handed the valet a pair of bills and closed your door.

The beagle climbed into his side of the car. “Mr. Grambic?” He started the engine. “I think you should change your will.” He pulled away from the hospital entrance.

You closed your eyes, wanting nothing more than to sleep. “Why do you care about my will, Victor?”

“Sir, you almost died.”

“That’s why I’m leaving everything to my cousin Amy.” You paused as your head throbbed. “You’ll be taken care of, Victor. No need to worry about that.”

“That guttersnipe in Iowa won’t have any idea what to do with wealth, sir. Handling a multinational corporation would be so far out of her wheelhouse as to be ridiculous.”

“She’s my only living relative, Victor.” Lassitude clawed at you. “Who else would I leave everything to?”

You were so insulated from the way the world worked you never suspected the beagle might be after your wealth. “Just let me sleep. Wake me when we get home, Victor.”

The trip from Clarendon Memorial Hospital to the interstate didn’t take long, but you were asleep before the beagle took the entrance ramp. Minutes later the car crossed over Lake Marion within sight of where your life almost ended.

You passed through Santee, South Carolina, at midnight. You’d probably have slept the whole two-hour trip except for the beagle swearing, followed by the grinding vibration of antilock brakes.

Your eyes opened to high beams glaring into the Honda Crosstour from behind. One car flashed past in the left lane, then the one which had nearly rear-ended the beagle’s car changed lanes and accelerated into the wake of the first. Seconds later a third car rocketed past, then three more in rapid succession.

You blinked in confusion for a moment as the beagle swerved back and forth in his lane as the Crosstour slowed to a stop.

Then you smiled in appreciation as taillights faded in front of you.

The blue and red flashing lights of a police cruiser appeared behind you, and followed the speeders toward Georgia. No chance he’d catch them before they crossed the state line.

As you watched darkness swallow their tail lights new orders came to me from the Brotherhood. The timeline was set.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.