Tractors for Sale 1

Lannetay and Carnifor trudged across the rugged surface of Rubineker, on their way from the William Placard to the first colony dome. Their support belts allowed them to walk freely, and the short-range comm signal allowed them to speak without much risk of being overheard.

“Three hours in orbit.” Carnifor’s rant had been nonstop since they’d landed. “A micromanaged descent, hovering at the edge of the spaceport for an hour, another two hours on the ground before customs even came to look.”

Lannetay mouthed along, getting nearly every word. Then she spoke right along with her second-in-command. “Then two more hours while he scanned every square centimeter of the ship looking for contraband.”

After a few more purposeful steps Carnifor stopped. “I am sort of going on, aren’t I?”

“Even Olthan has this memorized.” Lannetay stopped with him and pointed to the customs agent a hundred meters ahead. “Mr. Nasal certainly does know how to irk people. He wouldn’t even give us his name.”

“A thirty percent tax on our cargo?” Carnifor picked up his harangue against Wantis and everyone who worked for them. “How can anyone afford to trade in their confederation?”

Lannetay resumed walking. “Now you know why poverty follows wherever Wrantiban appears.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Carnifor nearly had to run to catch up. Despite her being shorter, she always managed to stay ahead of him by about a half-pace

Mr. Nasal reached the main airlock and slipped inside the colony dome. Carnifor shook his head in frustration.

“To a Wanti bureaucrat it makes perfect sense.” Lannetay smiled a bit at Carnifor’s rushing stride. “They control their entire economy – hatch, batch, and container.”

“They don’t control everything.” Carnifor grumbled wordlessly for a moment. “There’s always an underground. We might find somewhere to spend our extra eight thousand credits.”

“The Wantis haven’t been on Rubineker long enough to have an iron grip, but that also means a black market hasn’t been established yet.”

The two stopped at the airlock where Mr. Nasal had entered. Lannetay pressed a control to open the hatch and felt a vibrating buzz from the button. She connected to the colony’s Core and inquired why the airlock didn’t open.

“A fee of five credits per individual must be paid before entrance might be granted.” The Core’s dry recitation contrasted with Bill’s non-mechanical voice.

Lannetay rolled her eyes, and Carnifor muttered insults about Wrantiban. Lannetay sent to Bill, Could you send the colony ten credits so we may enter?

You must be kidding, Bill said. Ten credits is a lot of money for just entering a colony. And after taking sixteen thousand credits before even letting us trade!

Good thing we hid the food from the pirates or they’d have taxed that, too. Lannetay watched the ship’s account get debited as Bill paid, then pressed the control again. This time the hatch opened.

Thanks Bill, Carnifor sent as air filled the lock. Their support belts turned off and the far hatch opened, giving them access to the colony.

“They’re going to nickle and dime us to death.”Lannetay stepped into the colony dome and looked around. She’d expected to be met by some official, but nobody appeared.

“Nickle? Dime?”

Lannetay answered by rote. “Fractions of a credit. A dime is a tenth of a credit, a nickle half that.” She looked around. “Where is everybody?”

The transparent dome overhead covered a series of low buildings. The biggest had to be a factory of some sort. Smaller structures looked like dormitories, and a few tiny ones tucked into the mix had unknown purposes. One of those stood directly in front of the lock, and it looked newly built.

Lannetay indicated the shanty only a few meters away. “That could be a guard house.”

“Mid-morning, Lannetay. This time of day most people would be at work, so why not there?” He pointed to the big structure.

Lannetay walked toward the large building a hundred meters away. “Hopefully some colony administrator is there.” Bill, can you find out from their Core if there’s someone we need to contact to sell our tractors?

You still hope to sell those things? Bill asked.By the way, I can’t break into their Core. Security is too tight, and even if I forced my way in alarms would would be triggered. However, the dome you’re in only has fifteen life signs. The rest are scattered through the rest of the colony with almost none in the dome you’re in.

Carnifor pointed in the direction of another colony on the other side of some small hills. “The planet’s only farming dome has no use for all that equipment. With the Wantis taking over, we can’t give them any of our ‘gifts,’ can we?”

Lannetay was pleased Carnifor had avoided naming what their gifts were. Wantis might be listening. “We’ll see if we can find someone.” She kept her eyes searching for something other than empty roads and buildings that might very well be deserted.

Carnifor stepped ahead of Lannetay and opened the door for her. “After you.”

I tell ya, he’s got it bad, Lannetay. Bill laughed. He wants you.

Lannetay dipped her head in thanks and entered the factory, ignoring Bill’s jibe. She wasn’t interested in Carnifor. Too pompous. If anyone on her crew would catch her eye . . . No. Nobody.

“We’ll have to work fast.” Carnifor tried to beat Lannetay to the receiving desk, and failed. “If we’re on the surface for more than an hour the Wantis will charge us another thousand credits.”

Lannetay looked around for someone – anyone – to help out. The reception area stubbornly remained vacant. Office doors in the area were closed.

“Should we see if they’re locked?” Carnifor asked. “I hate waiting when something needs to be done quickly.”

Lannetay shook her head. “No, that’s just rude. I have a better idea.” She walked past the desk, down a slight ramp, and onto the factory floor. The two passed a sonic dampening field and the cacophony of machinery assaulted Lannetay’s ears.

A recharging rack at the base of the ramp held circlets which would project short-range deflectors to protect the wearer’s head. Lannetay placed one on her head, with Carnifor following suit.

The long, narrow room stretched into the distance, noisy machinery blocking Lannetay’s view of the far end of the building. Scorched industrial lubricant created a stinking, translucent miasma. A faint shout from Lannetay’s right drew her attention.

“What?” Lannetay called back. “I didn’t catch that.” She couldn’t even see who had spoken.

A graying man in a stained coverall emerged from the haze. He yelled, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Lannetay barely made out his words, so shouted back. “We need to speak with someone!”

“What am I, a decommissioned robot? Talk to me.” He pointed back up the ramp. “In the front office.”

As the man walked past, Lannetay deciphered the name “Olburq” embroidered on the coverall. The patina of dirt and grease on his clothing told of manual labor in a dirty environment. Back on the quiet side of the sonic field, Lannetay pulled off her headband. “I’m Lannetay. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.

He looked at his battered, filthy hand. “I don’t think you want to take this. Not someone dressed like you.”

Lannetay smiled, resisting the urge to make a quick spin to show off her calf-length pleated mauve dress. “I’ve been down and dirty before and probably will be again.”

Olburq dropped into the seat behind the reception desk and flicked on a holographic display of the factory. “I’m Olburq, former administrator of this colony. The Wantis use me as a go-between to the rank and file here. You must have come from that fancy ship what just landed. Nobody here would dress in high fashion, so you gotta be a new arrival.” He sniffed. “And you don’t smell like Wantis. Not even him.” Olburq glanced at Carnifor.

“We have a cargo we’d like to sell, and from the recent political changes that might be difficult.” Lannetay drew out a credit chip and thumbed a contact. The number “50” floated briefly over the coranium wafer. “Maybe you can help.”

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 #26

By Mark W. Meier

Part 26

Act III

The First Horseman

You spent weeks on damage control. You’d appear on cable news shows, and they’d play video of you saying you’d run for president. Then they’d all ask the same question in one form or another: “Was that a mistake, or did you change your mind?”

Politicians seldom answer questions. A skilled craftsman will phrase a response that’s deliberately vague without addressing the issue, but make it seem like they’d said something.

“A run for president would be premature at this time. I’m not ruling out a run in the future, but for the time being I have other priorities.”

The whole situation worked to your advantage. Newsrooms featured you, your name, your ambitions. Name recognition went through the roof. When you ran for governor you were very well positioned.

Enemies fought you. Politics is dirty, but I fought dirtier than anyone. Of course I kept a genteel exterior. If anyone discovered my true nature, Leo Jeffrey would be useless.

Even with everyone knowing you, what you stood for and against, the incumbent governor nearly beat you. An affable fool can make lots of friends, and he had. All you needed was one more vote than him.

You made it.

Barely.

Three separate recounts put your margin of victory at less than a hundred votes. Three weeks after the election the governor conceded in a brief online statement.

Maybe you’d learned to follow my directions. Maybe.

That winter a troubling flu-like illness broke out. A dozen people in the same city were quarantined. Four died. Nobody noticed except a few regional news outlets. After all, flu deaths were common.

A few other cases were scattered statewide, but vicious cold and near-record snowfall pushed illness away from mass awareness.

Fundraising the next summer was simple. Millions of dollars found their way into your campaign coffers. At first nobody noticed. But as winter approached again a couple of national media probed your finances. By Christmas they were close to uncovering what only you and I knew – most of your money came from illegal sources.

Then the disease hit with a vengeance.

Thousands flooded hospitals across the state. Hundreds swamped funeral homes. Grieving families covered the front pages of publications across the nation. Only one New York paper broke the trend with a headline on page five. “Who Owns Wilson?” The story implied foreign organizations with unfriendly connections. Few paid attention to your finances when the flu-like sickness killed tens of thousands from Newark to Portland.

While winter didn’t have an iron grip on the whole country, the illness terrorized colder northern cities and clogged hospitals. The CDC shut down interstate travel in the northern half of the United States.

On camera, you were sympathetic. Privately, you laughed.

“Oh, Leo, how did you do it?”

I sipped an expensive cognac in your office. “Trade secret. Now we have work to do.” I didn’t bring up your missing tree. Neither did you. I smiled to myself.

“Work? Can’t we celebrate for a while?”

I gave you ten minutes. My enemies never slept, and you could block some of their strategies if we kept working. This epidemic provided too many opportunities to pass up.

“I want you to invest your entire personal fortune in a research center on the verge of discovering a cure.” I plucked the bottle of liquor from your cabinet and refilled your glass – and mine.

“A cure?” You scoffed. “Why? Didn’t you want this chaos?” You’d turned deliciously heartless. “Find the cure and the people will be forever grateful, as will their families. Pour all your money into that and you’ll be a hero.”

You sipped while thinking. “All my money? Every cent?”

Idiot. “No. Just your above-board personal accounts. Nobody knows about Libya. Using that won’t benefit you at all.”

“Caymans? Switzerland? China?” Your eyes widened.

“And Russia. Every cent others can connect to you.” I tossed back my last bits of cognac.

“That’s fifty million dollars.”

I smiled. “The federal government will buy enough vaccine to inoculate every man, woman, and child in America. Canada has millions of cases, and it’ll crop up in Europe and Asia for hundreds of millions more. Your cut will be pennies per dose, but the overall take will be pushing a billion dollars. You’ll more than make up your investment.”

You made a call right after I left. “Josh, it’s Bob. I want you to sell everything. There’s a research company I want you to buy, and put everything else into funding their search for a cure for this epidemic.”

You were mocked for twenty-three days. By the thirtieth day the scope of your investment sank in and you were called a philanthropist. When a cure was announced six weeks later, you were vilified as a money grubbing opportunist.

Headlines screamed, “Governor Wilson Cashes In!” Attention like that can’t be purchased. A press release detailing how seventy percent of your profit would be handed over to not-for-profit organizations satisfied most reporters. You were loved by most of the nation for backing a little-known laboratory using your money to find the cure, despite the media’s continued attacks.

You told skeptics, “If the lab had failed I’d have been penniless.”

You were nominated for a Nobel Prize, but my Brothers had other plans for it.

A few people dug deeper and found the groups receiving your donations were political action committees. Some of the critics accepted payoffs.

The rest vanished.

When your personal fortune climbed above a hundred million, you again showed signs of rebellion at our arrangement, but I put my foot down again. You fumed, but followed my advice.

“There’s a festival in a town thirty miles away.” I placed a map on your desk with the town circled. “You should be in that parade. Thousands will line the streets, and those could tip the balance in your presidential run.”

An avaricious smile crossed your face. “Presidential run. I like the sound of that.”

“The effect will be even more pronounced if you’re actually walking the route and shaking hands.”

You grimaced. “I don’t like touching people like that. They’ll have ice cream residue, beer splatter, cotton candy – it makes them sticky.”

Humanity in general was repulsive. “Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and do what you have to.”

After a disgusted nod you put your people into action. Calls were made and paperwork filed. Governor Bob Wilson could be accommodated.

The first part of the parade went well. You refrained from using wet wipes in view of the cheering crowds. Every couple of blocks you ran to your car to wash your hands on an endless supply of wet, soapy towels carefully hidden from spectators.

Then Phyllis Renstan appeared, decked out in Bob Wilson regalia. She had pledged her loyalty to my enemy, so I couldn’t touch her. You were under no such prohibition. She drew you like a moth to flame.

You couldn’t resist the photographic opportunity. The “BW” baseball cap itself was worth breaking the rhythm of your parade progress. The homemade “We Love Bob!” t-shirt – honey for the bear trap.

You stepped through the crowd, greeting people along the way, and up an incline to where she jumped for joy under a massive oak. Photographers closed in.

Phyllis gave you a hug and introduced herself, her husband, three children, and five grandchildren. “You saved us all from the flu!” She went on to explain how her family had been hit hard, and the prognosis had been that of the ten infected, eight would die. The cure you’d discovered had saved most of her family.

Your smile never wavered as you greeted each in turn. I watched, trying to “push” your handlers into taking you away from her. These kinds of meetings were dangerous. You had a presidency to win, and one woman pledged to Him could derail my plans.

Finally a member of your protection detail pulled you away. As you retreated Phyllis yelled, “I’ll be praying for you, Bob!”

That was the last thing I needed. You turned to wave, happy with a true supporter, but inwardly sneering at her belief. My people – and my Brothers – did everything we could do stomp that recording out of the media. Only one local report managed to air the pledge despite our efforts.

That night, as if Phyllis had sparked a trend, dozens prayed for you. The next night word had spread through their contacts and hundreds more joined in.Then thousands.

My control was slipping.

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The Pirates 8

“Bill.” Lannetay sighed with relief. “Get Goofball aboard. As soon as Penn releases their docking clamps, get us out of here.”

“What about your fashion designs?” the AI asked.

“Send them over. She paid for them.” Lannetay wasn’t likely to wear any of them again. She’d used each one at least twice.

“Goofball is aboard,” Bill said. “Their power levels are increasing. Uh, now they’re falling.”

Lannetay dove toward the control cabin. “Maximum speed. Now. And find out what’s going on, if you can.”

Carnifor followed as the ship thrummed, moving once again. “Why did you want us to sit quietly?”

“I had everything under control.” Lannetay smiled as she sat. “Thankfully you’ve learned to trust me at least a little.”

Marc sat behind Lannetay, listening to the exchange. “I’m just glad to be alive.”

Bill said, “We’re at maximum rated velocity. They’re not pursuing.”

“Rantaal’s Pony never wavered.” Carnifor scowled. “At close range, a J-12 will leave a really nasty headache – after you wake up. And Cabon looked ready to shoot if we even breathed funny. I wasn’t eager to try anything they might object to.”

Bill cut in. “Uh, Goofball has some bonuses for us. He raided their cargo hold.”

L-T barked a short laugh. “Leave it to him to turn the tables on those guys.”

“What could he get into a fighter?” Lannetay asked. “Those things are nearly as form-fitting as my body suits.”

“Delicacies.” Goofball stood in the hatchway, hands behind his back. “Mushrooms, spices, caviar, and more. All proprietary, not synthesized. Small packages, so I stole as much of a variety as I could.”

Carnifor’s eyes gleamed. “What kind of mushrooms?”

“Furanto black truffles.” Goofball’s expression indicated his thoughts about mushrooms. “Some others, too. Don’t remember their names, but I recognized the Furanto label.”

Carnifor smiled. “When we get to a place I can use a stove, I’ll make you all a meal you’ll never forget.”

“Don’t bother.” Goofball waved away the offer. “I can’t stand mushrooms, and it’ll be wasted on me. But if you’d sell all that stuff on a civilized planet, it would be worth more than all those tractors we’re hauling. Then there’s the box loaded with cash.”

“Uh, cash?” Lannetay asked.

Goofball pulled the small bin from behind his back. “There’s about sixty credit chips here. No markings on how much they’re worth, but why would pirates have chips with less than a hundred credits?”

“That would be six thousand,” Carnifor said, “if they each have only a hundred.”

L-T whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Especially if it’s more.”

“First order of business,” Lannetay said, “before we even cook Carnifor’s mushrooms, is find out how much money that is. Goofball, see to it.”

“Absolutely, my liege.” Goofball bowed in sarcastic deference.

Bill said, “The pirate ship never made a move to follow us or to fire their weapons. What did you do, Goofball?”

“I . . . changed the ship’s programming, ruined their disrupters, and gave their Core a virus.” Goofball beamed. “Penn and his merry band of pirates will spread that virus when they get to their home base.”

Bill hummed an ancient tune for a moment. “I overheard you talking in the cargo bay. His aunt owns that ship?”

“Yes.” Lannetay looked at Carnifor and shrugged. “And a dozen others.”

Bill asked, “So we were attacked by the pirates of Penn’s aunt?”

Carnifor and Lannetay groaned. Goofball’s smile grew as he withdrew to the common room, whistling “Tarantara.”

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.

Next week: Tractors for Sale, as Ebony Sea: 1 continues.