Running Before the Storm 8

A half-hour later the other screen of warships cleared the William Placard to approach the colony. While Lannetay and Carnifor discussed the interaction, Marc exited his quarters and dropped into a recliner in the common room near L-T. He ignored Lannetay and Carnifor speaking about the frequency of getting boarded. “What’s the issue this time?”

Lannetay let Carnifor prattle on while her attention shifted to Marc and L-T.

“Good guys.” L-T closed the publication he’d been reading and it winked out of existence. “At least we hope they’re good guys. They’re holding the Wanti blockade at the edge of the system.”

“Odd outfit, Marc.” Lannetay interrupted Carnifor mid-sentence. “Black with orange stripes?”

Marc grunted, but otherwise dismissed those around him and simply stared into deep space.

“Kinda clashes with the blue shoes,” L-T added. When Marc didn’t react he shrugged and opened his reading material again.

Lannetay, bewildered, shared a helpless shrug with Carnifor. An awkward silence built.

Marc opened a hologram of a print publication.

A few meters away, Olthan turned off his weights and moved to sit next to Marc. “What’s up, little man?”

“Who you calling little?” Marc’s voice squeaked for a moment, and he stood.

Olthan’s jaw dropped. “When’d you git so tall?”

“This morning. It was on my agenda.” Marc slashed his hand through the hologram and stalked back toward his room as Bill dissolved the chair.

Goofball shut down his dogfighting simulator and canceled the sound suppression system. “Marc looks testy.”

Iresha shook her head and continued with shooting targets in a holographic gun range at the far end of the room.

“He is. Hormones.” Lannetay had read up on puberty. “Look for him to start bumping into things. His body is growing faster than he can adjust.”

Carnifor cleared his throat. “We’re going to make landfall in a bit more than an hour. The abbot of the monastery is not too pleased about missing out on that shipment of food.”

Goofball shrugged. “Seems inherent in the Wanti system.”

Olthan scratched his head. “Why don’t they do somethin’ about it?”

“Who?” L-T asked. “The government or the people?”

The Marine’s eyebrows drew closer together as he thought, but Iresha paused in her shooting to rescue him. “The hierarchy doesn’t care, and the people don’t have the ability.” She fired again.

Lannetay tried to project an optimism she didn’t feel. “Well, we’re doing what we can, and we’ll try even more.”

***

Lannetay was shocked when she entered the primary dome of the Clerimsu colony. Children ran everywhere. Most of them were giggling and having fun. She guessed their age ranged from four years old to perhaps nine – Marc’s age.

A monk just inside the inner hatch waited for her and Carnifor to take in the scene. “They’re recovered from Wanti space. Their parents didn’t want them growing up in that society and couldn’t get out themselves.”

“How many are there?” Carnifor asked.

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand.” The monk opened his arms wide in a gesture to include the whole colony. “It’s hard to keep track when we keep getting new entries and adoptions.”

Lannetay blinked and turned to the monk. “How do they get here?”

“Abbot Shramitore can tell you more. Shall we go?”

Lannetay wondered at how the youngsters had adapted the simple game of Tag to the half-normal gravity of the colony. Hide and Seek would be different as well. “Yes. Let’s go meet the abbot.”

The building the two crew mates went into had the feeling of a dormitory. The tiny reception area held the center position on the ground floor, with halls leading left and right down the middle of the wings. Stairs stood to one side heading up to the second and third floors.

Opposite the stairway was a large office without a door. There Lannetay and Carnifor met Abbot Shramitore.

He stood as the monk retreated from the building. “Captain Tae, I’m Granish Shramitore.” He extended his hand.

After greetings and offers of something to drink, which Lannetay and Carnifor refused, the trio sat and discussed business.

“I understand you need food, Abbot,” Lannetay said. “I’m sorry to say we had our shipment confiscated by the . . . Confederation.” She didn’t want to use insulting language in the presence of the Abbot.

Shramitore smiled. “Call them Wantis, Captain. Everyone not part of the Confederation does. It’s a pejorative, but not vulgar.”

Lannetay returned the man’s grin. “Very well, the Wantis. The people we’ve met say you’re in dire straits regarding nourishment.”

“Perhaps not as critical as some believe. We do have gardens and have some fresh food, but not as much as we like.”

“Does anyone?” Carnifor leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs out to cross his ankles.

“Nutrition from our systems drops off every day, though it’ll be a while before we have real health issues.”

“The Wantis say you came here without a decent plan to feed yourselves.” Lannetay wondered. With a good system to recycle organic material, a small garden could keep enough fresh input to sustain the process.

The Abbot’s mouth twisted to one side. “In a way they’re right. Our gardens were enough for our original plan, but the influx of children has pushed our increased growing space beyond the limits.”

“What was this ‘original plan’ you mentioned?” Carnifor asked.

Shramitore’s expression faded to sadness. “Our mission was to retrieve families from Wrantiban. We’d been contacted, surreptitiously, by agents representing a dozen groups who wanted to leave the planet. They were denied. So we bought a used Cepheid class cutter modified for speed. We could take out ten people at a time.”

“What happened?” Lannetay knew all good plans were ruined as soon as opposition began.

“The war.” The Abbot’s words were clipped. “As soon as hostilities broke out we were flooded with requests by our contact. After setting up this monastery we had enough time for two runs. Now there are hundreds of trapped families who are willing to stay if their children can get out. It’s turned into a fiasco with thousands of kids moving through our facility in the last year. We can’t place them fast enough if we want our efforts to remain covert. Apparently all our measures weren’t enough.”

Carnifor nodded. “The Wantis.”

“Someone must have tipped them off.” Lannetay wondered who would be so cold as to sentence children to starvation. “Still, why can’t you import food? You have a ship fast enough to get out of the system without being intercepted.”

“We make do. When we take kids outside the Confederation, the ship comes back loaded with food. But there are so many to take from Wrantiban, and our trips to Terran space are few and far between.” Shramitore frowned. “We only make that trip when we have to get more food, and that’s where we stand today. Our cutter is overdue by two weeks and nutrition has fallen off a cliff. We need a new influx soon or we’re in for some real trouble.”

Lannetay pondered a moment. “What can we do to help?”

“The B star in this system has a small colony.” Shramitore gave Lannetay a frank stare.

Carnifor leaned in. “I’m guessing you’ve tried contacting them?”

“I have. There’s been no reply. Perhaps if a ship landed there they’d be more communicative. And as I’ve mentioned our only ship is out of the system and overdue.”

Lannetay connected with Bill. Do we have any information about a colony around the B star in this system?

After a moment the AI replied. Nothing. And if we don’t, hopefully the Wantis won’t either.

Carnifor said, “The Wantis can’t know about every colony is their space. So many stars, so many options for habitats.”

Lannetay turned from the Abbot to Carnifor. Should we go? The Wantis might detect us.

***

“Less than a hundred and fifty light minutes.” Lannetay explained the situation to her crew while the seven stood in the middle of Olthan’s track. “We won’t even have to break light speed to get there in a reasonable amount of time. At such a slow velocity the Wantis might not even notice us.”

Carnifor added, “They’ll probably still be watching the mercenaries defending this colony. We could sneak over, grab some food, and be back before the Wantis are any wiser.”

L-T glanced from one crew person to another. When none spoke out he did. “If we do nothing the people at Clerimsu could starve to death. We’re balancing the fate of one colony with the fate of another.”

The thousand children in the main dome around the monastery weighed heavily on Lannetay. “I say we try. But since this is outside our mission I wanted to see what the rest of you think. Carnifor has already agreed. What about you?” Her gesture included the other five people in the common room.

Goofball shrugged. “Don’t really care either way. We could give Clerimsu some of our stocks and it would help out for a while. We still have some of the food we took from the pirates.”

Olthan took his turn to shrug. “I ain’t here ta decide stuff. Tell me what ta shoot and I’ll do that.”

Marc remained defiant, hands on hips. “My voice doesn’t mean anything anyway.” He turned away but stayed in the common room.

L-T said, “Iresha? What do you think?”

“You’re asking me?” The reformed Wanti seemed shocked. “I’m not on your little mission.”

Lannetay shook her head. “You’re on the ship, and while you’re here you matter. What do you think?”

“Well, um, ah,” Iresha stammered. “People on Wrantiban are starving to death. If we let that happen here we’re no better than them.”

“I agree.” L-T crossed his arms. “Let’s do this.”

Lannetay smiled. “Bill, let’s go.” Then she and Carnifor moved to the control room.

***

As the William Placard approached the unnamed colony planet, Bill gave the crew, packed into the control room, some relevant information. “Only five domes that I can detect. Single colony setup, all interconnected. They’re the only people on this planet.”

“Looks like we’re in the right place,” L-T said.

Even Marc had pried himself from his quarters to watch things, “as they happened,” though he remained sullenly silent.

Lannetay sat in the pilot’s seat, left of the short aisle. “Any luck contacting anyone?”

“No,” Bill replied. “They must be keeping a low profile.”

Carnifor smiled as he nodded. “Avoid the Wantis. Smart move.”

Iresha snorted a sarcastic laugh from the rear center seat grown for the occasion. “Works for me, and probably a lot of other people, too.”

Marc smirked and spoke for the first time since they’d left Clerimsu. “Works for me, too.”

Iresha gave Marc a withering sneer and he turned stony again.

Why does she treat him like garbage? Bill asked Lannetay.

She’s flirting. I’d talk to her about it, but Marc needs to learn how to deal with it. I’ll talk to him about it when we have time.

“So we’ll land and try the airlock?” L-T asked.

Lannetay nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the lieutenant in the right seat in the back row. “That’s the best we can do at the moment.”

The lone planetoid orbiting the “B” star probably would never receive a colony kit. The one-quarter native gravity would require too much assistance from gravity generators and create too much havoc. A small dome settlement would fall beneath the notice of Wanti investigations – as long as ship traffic stayed minimal.

Bill landed beside a small runabout near what seemed like a main airlock. As Lannetay and Carnifor, wearing support belts, exited William Placard, a pair of riflemen stepped out from behind boulders.

A man’s deep voice said, “Get back into your ship and fly away.”

“Wow.” Bill sounded impressed. “They inserted that into your receiver without matching protocols.”

The voice replied, “It’s not that hard. Only ten channels on standard equipment. Go away. We don’t want company.”

“Do you know of the monastery?” Lannetay stopped walking and spread her arms to show she wasn’t armed, Carnifor following suit.

“Yes. Go away.” The woman with him fired a disrupter bolt and carved a chunk of rock out of the surface near Lannetay’s foot.

Lannetay edged away from the target area before she could stop herself and silently berated herself for doing so. “They need some food or people will die. They sent us here to see if you could spare anything.”

The second figure gestured, obviously speaking on a channel Lannetay didn’t pick up. The first gave a chopping movement with his left hand to silence the second. “Food is all you want?”

“Yes.” Lannetay decided to keep her answers short. “Anything you can spare.”

The man spoke without Lannetay hearing a word, and a moment later three crates burst into existence on the rocky surface in front of the William Placard.

“Take that and go,” the man said. “If you come back we’ll fire on you without question.”

Carnifor shrugged. “Let’s go.”

Lannetay hated to retreat, but if they had what they came for she could call it a victory, not a retreat.

Bill rotated the ship to present the cargo hold to the crates. The doors opened and gravity lifters pulled all three boxes into the bay.

“Simple as that?” Lannetay still watched the two riflemen.

“Unless you want to complicate things.” The figures brandished their rifles.

Lannetay definitely didn’t want further entanglements. “No, that’s sufficient. Carnifor, let’s go.”

Back in the ship Lannetay had Bill lift off and head back to the monastery. “We need to do something about arming the ship. I’m sick of being pushed around by people with simple rifles. If we could have fried their domes they would have been more polite.”

“We could have crashed through, killing everyone,” Bill reminded her.

Lannetay stomped toward the control room. “It’s not about the act, but the threat. Nobody’s afraid of a cargo ship unless it can shoot back. I want the ability to avoid unpleasantness like that,” she pointed over her shoulder to indicate the colony they’d just left. “If we had visible armament, they’d treat us with more respect.”

“Well, you say L-T can help.” Carnifor gestured for the lieutenant to join them as they passed through the common room. The Navy lieutenant stood and followed them into the control room.

Lannetay could read between the lines in the younger man’s file. He had to know someone.

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: The Guns of Inglep, as Ebony Sea continues.

The Brotherhood #41

By Mark W. Meier

Part 41

Act IV

Windowed The Soul

Chapter Thirteen

Put him on the trailer

Send the loser home.

Your driver with your #88 racer was slotted into the spectator lane, while Boynton’s #13 was pit side. Both drivers spun their wheels to warm up the rubber. The track was reglued, and crews made last minute adjustments.

Boynton looked over at you standing in the pit, and again you were creeped out. The superior smile and dead look in his eyes brought a sheen of sweat to your forehead.

The beagle sidled up beside where you watched the preparations. “Your lawyer’s here, if you want to look over his draft of your new will.”

“Not now, Victor.” There was a race to run.

Too bad you were too cowardly to drive it yourself. Of course, it was probably your smartest decision in years. Sometimes chickenhearted choices actually were the wisest course of action. My job would have been much easier with you on the track, though. This dance with you was nearly over, and I was getting anxious for the endgame.

The body rose on Boynton’s car, cutting off your view of the judge. A crewman tweaked the brake calipers, another tuned the fuel mixture, and tire pressure was checked again. All optimum.

Similar changes happened on your car, and when everyone was satisfied, your driver edged up to the starting line. The pre-stage light illuminated on the Christmas Tree, and the driver inched forward until the stage light glowed.

Boynton went through the same process.

When both cars were ready the amber lights flared down the pole. Just before the green light came on both drivers slammed on the accelerator. As long as the green was on when the starting beam was crossed there was no disqualification.

Boynton’s RT read 0.003. Your driver hit 0.254. But reaction time, though useful in training, didn’t really mean anything, according to Wilson. The elapsed time, or ET, determined the winner.

The reading at sixty feet was impressive for Boynton. Two seconds even. Your car was more than a half-second behind. The gap opened wider and wider, so at the Big End your driver lost by an eternity.

Boynton’s run wasn’t a record breaker, but certainly very good with a time of 12.870. Your driver’s time wasn’t bad, but 14.266 wasn’t enough for your racer to advance.

Mr. Grin would be putting #88 on the trailer. I smiled.

When the two cars came back to the pits Boynton was told he’d be doing hot laps – heading right back to the track for another race.

Mr. Grin squinted in suspicion when the pit crew removed the old chute pack and installed another one. “He’s not even getting out to stretch his legs. How can a guy take that kind of abuse without a break? He looks nearly sixty.”

“He’s not exactly a wilting flower, Harley.” You gave a barking laugh. “Is it really that bad? I mean, it’s only a few seconds long.”

Mr. Grin explained that acceleration at the starting line can climb above four “Gs”, or four times the force of gravity. Though that’s a lateral acceleration instead of the vertical forces of fighter pilots in a banking turn, only a few seconds pass before the racers get eight “Gs” or more while decelerating. It’s hard on a body, and the speeds involved demand the same total concentration as combat pilots.

“Imagine getting punched in the gut, sir.” Your crew chief faked slugging you. “Then, when you’re struggling to get your breath back, someone else double-punches you in the kidneys.”

You nodded, finally getting a hint of what it was like. But you noticed Boynton still stared at you from his car. “Why does he keep watching me like that?”

The beagle glanced over Mr. Grin’s shoulder as your personal attorney crossed into pit row. “I hadn’t noticed. What difference does it make?”

You followed his gaze. “Tell me again why Ben is here?”

“He brought over a draft of your new will.” The beagle waved Mr. Grin away. “He’s expecting you to sign it.”

You sighed, wondering why your assistant seemed nervous. “Have him bring it here.” Your #88 was getting a post-race check to make sure nothing had been damaged, so you sat on a nearby bench. When Kiel brought over the papers you flipped through.

On the raceway, Boynton’s #13 again moved into the pit side lane. Another car, #122, went into the spectator side lane. The crews performed the same pre-race rituals, taking perhaps twenty minutes.

The engines roared, and the noise rapidly faded. The crowd went wild when the RT display of 0.000 blinked on for Boynton. His sixty-foot time improved to 1.998, and his ET for the whole race registered 12.280.

By the time Boynton returned to the pit, waving his race ticket out the window, you’d already finished skimming your new will.

“Ben, I don’t like it.” Your displeasure was acute, but you managed to keep from snapping in anger. “My cousin is nearly frozen out.” Your glare at the beagle could have melted glass.

“Mr. Grambic,” your assistant explained, “she’ll get a million dollars payout, with a hundred thousand annually for life.”

You gave the beagle a significant stare. “And who gets the bulk of my estate?” As if you hadn’t just read it.

Howe had the grace to blush.

“Mr. Howe does, sir.” Kiel didn’t look too happy with the draft that awaited your signature. “I wrote it as instructed, Mr. Grambic. If you’d like some changes, I could accommodate them.”

Judge Boynton chose that moment to jump from his car like a man of twenty. He waved the slip of paper with his times listed. “Goose eggs, Gram-bic. I hit an RT of zee-row.”

You glowered. “You put entirely too much emphasis on winning, you know that?”

“Winning is what it’s about.” Boynton looked out at the track. “Too bad #122 oiled the track.”

Noxious fumes from the track drifted into your pit and distracted you. “What?” Your eyes watered and throat burned.

“Blew a gasket. Sprayed fluids all over the far lane. It’ll take an hour to clean up for the next race, unless they simply go with bracket racing.” He paused, but before you could ask Boynton gave the answer: “Cars running without a competitor in the other lane. Takes longer, but it beats sitting around waiting.”

You brushed Boynton off. “Ben, let’s go somewhere quiet – without exhaust fumes – and look this over.”

The beagle took a few steps to follow, but you gave him a sharp look. Tail between his legs, Howe threw himself onto the bench you’d just vacated.

Let the sulking begin.

Boynton disappeared into his own pit.

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.

Running Before the Storm 7

When Lannetay entered the control room, Carnifor had Bill connect him with Gorbandic Station. “Mission accomplished. Where should we go to pick up the cargo for Clerimsu?”

“There’s a lock directly opposite the landing area.” Lesk worked virtual controls to provide a holo. “Drop down there, and we’ll extend an atmo field to your ship. There’s a lot of fresh, proprietary produce. None of the rest has been nano-stabilized.”

After Carnifor signed off he turned to Lannetay. “That’s why they want this done so quickly. Nano-stabilized foods would last a year or more, but proprietary food couldn’t be stabilized or copied with synthesizers.”

“Carny, you take us to the other side of the station.”

Are you sure? Bill asked.

Carnifor grinned, despite Lannetay using the nickname he hated. “Bill? Land us as close as you dare.”

Guess so, Bill sent to Lannetay. “I can dare quite a bit.”

Lannetay wondered if she’d made a mistake, but wasn’t about to rescind the order.

“Don’t scratch the paint. Lannetay will kill me if you damage yourself.”

“Oh, that’s tempting. I’ll do my best anyway.”

“Thanks, you obnoxious bucket of bolts.”

“You’re welcome, you neurotic sack of polluted water.” After a pause, Bill said, “We’ve landed.”

Lannetay brought up a hologram. “Five centimeters?”

Carnifor smiled. “Nice job, Bill.”

Bill sounded aggrieved. “Five point two centimeters. I didn’t want to do all the work. Those loading the ship will have to cover that distance.”

“Why so close?” Lannetay wondered aloud. “Would ten centimeters be such a huge problem?”

Carnifor turned a benign smile toward her. “Less time with our cargo visible from above. We can load directly from their haulers instead of trucking it across any sizable gap. No need to protect it from the native conditions, either. Everything goes smoothly, quickly, and we’re on our way with a minimum of fuss.”

Lannetay ordered their atmo field extended to cover the dome’s outer airlock. “Tell Gorbandic Station we’re set to receive their cargo.”

An hour later Bill lowered the last of the crates of food into their hold and sealed the ship.

Lannetay thanked Gorbandic Station and switched to another channel. “Swonorikus Ascent Control, William Placard at Gorbandic Station, ready for ascent.”

A deep voice responded. “William Placard, Ascent Control. We don’t have you clear of customs. Please stand by for inspection.”

Carnifor muttered invectives under his breath. “Here we go again.”

“We’re being scanned,” Bill said. “Should I allow it?”

“Absolutely.” Lannetay didn’t want to stay on this planet any longer. “I just hope they don’t find anything to delay us.”

Carnifor stared through the forward windows. “You mean like water or oxygen? Human beings?”

A different voice came through. “William Placard, Customs. We’ve scanned thirty thousand credits of proprietary food in your hold. There is a thirty percent tax on all food exports.”

Lannetay nearly swore. “You should find enough in the ship’s account. You now have access for that amount.”

Before Lannetay finished speaking the funds vanished. “Thank you, William Placard. You have cleared Customs.”

“We have a clearance code,” Bill said.

“Ascent, William Placard.” Lannetay nearly bit the end off every word as she sent the code and requested clearance again.

Iresha stepped into the control room. “Is it true? Thirty percent taxes?” Apparently she couldn’t resist another glance at the painting from Cayn on the back bulkhead.

Carnifor looked over his shoulder. “Yes.”

Lannetay turned to glare at Iresha, but knew she wasn’t to blame. “Bill, you’re such a tattle-tale.”

“Aren’t I though?” The AI sounded smug. “We’re cleared, though. Immediate lift off.”

Readings showed Bill hadn’t waited for approval. The ship arced up into the near-vacuum of low orbit then accelerated toward the outskirts of the Swonorikus system.

“Happy to leave them behind.” Iresha lowered herself into one of the auxiliary seats. “Wantis make me nervous.”

“You don’t show it.” Carnifor looked her over again. “Cool as a deep-space comet.”

She gave a regal nod. “Why, thank you, Sir Carnifor.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not at all, Your Highness.”

“Fourteen days to Clerimsu.” Bill produced a holo of nearby space with their course plot. “Unless you’d like to shave some time off that, Lannetay.”

“Better not.” Lannetay didn’t want anyone detecting their ship flying faster than it should. “Standard speed so we don’t draw attention.”

Several times over the trip William Placard altered course to avoid skirmishes between Earth ships and Wanti forces. One time they were stopped and boarded by a Wanti patrol that demanded documentation proving they were authorized to operate in Wanti space.

“You don’t look like you’re from the Confederation,” the frigate commander charged.

Lannetay squinted at him. “You don’t either. Where’s your commission?”

The Wanti and Lannetay ended up having a toast to Kio Otmitter, laughed themselves silly, and both ships continued on their way.

Iresha merely shook her head. Carnifor railed about taking unnecessary chances. Othan complained about not having an armed ship. Goofball insisted the ship had all the firepower it needed if only they’d deploy it.

Lannetay mostly worried about getting everyone killed – Marc in particular.

The youth spent more and more time in his quarters, conversing and playing games with kids from Earth and some of the colonies. Bill continued to block Marc’s access to Wanti sources, but Marc seldom asked.

As they approached Clerimsu, Bill notified them of patrols. “There’s probably fifteen or twenty frigates, a half-dozen destroyers, and fifty-or-so sloops. What do you want me to do?”

Lannetay had Bill show a holo. “Are they reacting to us? They should have scanned us by now.”

“So far, nothing.” Bill paused a moment, then continued. “Sorry. A pair of frigates and five sloops just broke this direction.”

Carnifor grumbled to himself for a moment. “Now what do we do, Your Ladyship?”

“We wait to see what they do, Sir Carny.Bill? Bring us to a stop. They’ll be calling in a second.”

“Speak of the devil.” Bill played a dramatic musical flare. “They’re demanding we stand by for boarding.”

L-T edged into the control room. “Stopped again? This is getting tiresome.”

“I agree.” Lannetay shot the man a brief smile. “But the Wantis have an effective blockade here. If we try to run through they could vaporize us.”

Bill said, “A lot of the ships here don’t belong to the Wantis. The others are holding the bad guys at the edge of the system.”

“Wish they’d blast the Wantis.” Carnifor brought up an analysis of the two forces. Clerimsu ships didn’t have the firepower to do more than keep the Wantis out.

“I’m opening the lock,” Bill announced. “A Captain Kerl is boarding us all alone.”

L-T whistled. “That shows courage.”

Carnifor growled. “Not so much when backed up by warships.”

Lannetay stood without commenting and entered the common room. “Captain Kerl.” She extended her hand and met the Wanti in the middle of Olthan’s running track. “What can we do for you and the confederation today?”

Olthan pounded past as he circled the room. He said something Lannetay couldn’t quite make out, but knowing Olthan she hoped Kerl couldn’t, either.

It certainly wasn’t polite, Bill sent. Something to do with Kerl’s parentage.

“Sensors show you have quite a freight of food heading for Clerimsu.” Kerl stopped a pace from Lannetay and ignored her offer of a handshake. “Quite a large living area you have here. You must be quite a successful trader.”

Lannetay dropped her hand and sensed Carnifor and the rest of her crew gathering behind her. “Not so much lately. We’ve been hit with confiscations and high tax rates of late. Our last few loads haven’t given us any profit.” She sensed Carnifor’s rising irritation and sent, Quiet. Let me handle this.

“Then I’m sorry to say we’ll be contributing to your complications.” Kerl gave a sneering smile and pulled off a pair of long uniform gloves. He folded them in half and tucked them over his gray leather belt. “I’m appropriating your entire freight of foodstuffs.”

Iresha gaped. “You can’t do that!”

Kerl tilted his head to one side and folded his arms. “Of course I can. Wrantiban is short of food, and the kio has instructed his forces to collect whatever food we happen across and take it to the home planet for his perishing people.”

“There’s gotta be some kinda law against that.” Olthan dropped a hand to where a sidearm would normally be holstered. He blinked in confusion for a moment before changing the gesture into a “hands-on-hips” posture.

“There’s not.” Kerl didn’t seem to notice Olthan’s bewilderment. “In fact, Kio Otmitter’s word is writ.”

Lannetay accessed records of the origin of the food and passed it along to Kerl. “Most of this food will be inedible by the time you get to Wrantiban, Captain. Why not just let us take it to the starving people of Clerimsu?”

Kerl stepped closer to Lannetay and loomed over her. “Because those monks chose to come out here without a decent plan to feed themselves. Besides, even foul food can be processed into reasonable rations.”

Kerl’s eyes lost focus for a moment. “I’ve been told there are seven people aboard. I only see six.”

Lannetay looked behind her. Marc was missing. Bill, where’s Marc?

In his quarters, talking to Earth.

Lannetay nodded. “My ship tells me my son is in his quarters.”

Kerl smirked. “He should stay there. We have a transport ready to shift the cargo out of your hold. It would be a shame if he were caught in the confusion.”

Bill, if Marc makes a move to leave, lock his hatch.

Done.

Kerl stared at Lannetay. “If you would drop your Transport Exclusion Field it would save us from overpowering it and maybe incinerate your instrumentality.”

Bill, lower the field. Lannetay glowered at Kerl.

Done. Bill paused. Our cargo is gone now. It’s aboard a nearby ship that’s moving away. I’ve activated our TEF so Kerl’s going to have to walk out.

Kerl rubbed his hands together. “Well, we’re done here.” He headed to the airlock. “Oh, you’re free to enter the system if you’re still going there. Have a delightful day” The inner hatch closed behind him.

Othan again reached for his missing pistol. “He needs ta git taught somethin’.”

“He will be.” Lannetay scowled and turned back to the control room. “And soon, I hope.”

Carnifor straightened his collar. “Why do you suppose they’re blockading a monastery?”

Iresha snorted in derision. “Like they need a reason. Could be the monks don’t wear the right kind of shoes. Wantis don’t need a reason.”

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.