Empty Space

(Em.T-Sp8s)

by

Alan Black

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

EMPTY SPACE

Published by arrangement with the author

Printing History

Copyright @ 2014 by Alan Black

Cover Art: Willard (Bill) Wright at www.flickr.com/photos/billwrigt1/

Cover Layout: The Cover Collection at www.thecovercollection.com/

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or digital form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN-13: 978-1507669235

ISBN-10: 1507669232

Library of Congress Number: 1-2077182261

Dedication:

To my wife Duann for her belief in me and my writing efforts.

              -- Alan Black

Acknowledgements:

This book wouldn’t be as complete without the assistance and suggestions of my alpha readers:

Steven Black, (www.blackwood-systems.com)

A.J. Questerly (author of Pangaea).

Cover Art: Willard (Bill) Wright at www.flickr.com/photos/billwrigt1/

Cover Layout: The Cover Collection at www.thecovercollection.com/

Also, my chief editor Duann Black has made her usual insightful comments and changes.

As usual, any errors and mistakes are wholly my fault as this cadre of advisors struggled to make me heed their advice, sometimes unsuccessfully.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Legal Declaration

Dedication

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Other books by Alan Black

Praise for Alan Black’s books

About the author

ONE

York Sixteen skipped down the steps, barely registering the door slam over the laughter of the party still going behind him. He landed with a thump flatfooted on the walkway outside Blade Balderano’s off-post apartment. To any outsider, York looked jubilant. Inside he was feeling, for the lack of a better word, ordinary, contented and normal, or at least as normal as he ever felt. A double handful of credits jangled in his pocket, common for most New Hope middle class people. York wasn’t middle class and didn’t consider himself normal, ordinary, or common, nor would any therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist, if he ever let a shrink get that deep inside his head. His poker winnings were a small victory, yet he took his pleasures wherever he could find them. Barely containing the impulse to pump both fists into the air, he stretched his arms over his head turning the excitement into an unemotional movement.

A police drone slid down the street, hovering silently over his head. With a friendly wave, he slipped his civilian style cover off his head and ran his fingers through his dark straight hair. He smiled up at the drone with amusement. The drone didn’t care if his smile was sincere or not. Like all honest citizens of the Republic he had nothing to worry about in the presence of police protection. He certainly didn’t have anything to worry about in a high-class neighborhood, even though his dataport said the time was well past midnight, a time when most law abiding citizens were home in bed or in front of their TV.

He decided he might as well look presentable since the drone was taking pictures. He was used to being in public dressed in a variety of military cadet uniforms, not in these civilian clothes. Straightening his back, he came to his full height of fix foot four inches and settled the cap back on his head, adjusted his civvies, straightened his blouse, checked the buttons, and out of habit re-aligned his gig-line. The drone looped in a quick halo pattern over his head, recording a three-delta image, documenting his height, build, facial features, and even the length of his ring finger compared to his pinkie. It continued hovering silently in the dark sky above him rather than recording him and moving on.

His civilian clothes weren’t much to look at. Although they were new, they certainly weren’t the latest fashion. The automated clerk at the store had made a tsking noise at his choice of non-matching colors. He didn’t care. He liked the mixture of reds and blues. The outfit was the first set of civilian clothes he owned since being forcibly enrolled by legal mandate into the Independence Full Honors Military Preparatory and Training Academy at age nine. These were the first clothes he’d ever paid for with his own money.

He bought the slacks and button-down blouse with matching belt, hat, and shoes as an early birthday gift to celebrate his impending twenty-first birthday. Tomorrow may or may not be his real birthday anniversary, but the date was as close as the Little Sister’s of the Poor Orphanage could guess. True date or not, tomorrow would be a good day. “No,” he corrected himself. “It’s after midnight. Today. Happy birthday to me!”

York strolled down the dark quiet street toward the transport station. He didn’t attempt to contain his grin of satisfaction. The smile wasn’t one of pleasure, he wasn’t sure how a pleasurable smile felt, but he knew satisfaction and the thrill of victory. He was a few hours short of graduating from The New Hope Officer’s Academy, commonly called the Yards. He was as ready for the ceremony as he’d ever been for anything in his life. He’d been reading, studying, learning and preparing for the past twelve years to reach graduation day and become the first charity case ever to graduate from the Yards.

Not only was York graduating, he’d managed to reach the top spot, number one, to be honored as the best in his class. He had struggled with a few ancillary studies, but his piloting skill scores put him solidly in first place. Hours of torturous extra tutoring and library time had paid off. It hadn’t paid off in friends or fond memories of the Yards, but graduating was a thrill. Being number one had been unimaginable to everyone except York. He’d done everything necessary to secure the number one spot.

The top student gets his pick of available assignments. York was planning to choose a slot as a Fast Attack Craft pilot flying Stobor F-3s for the Republic’s First Fleet along the buffer zone near the Marridan Border. Many pilot slots were available all across Republic Space. However, an assignment on the front lines of the current war was duty desired by all cadets because of the fast promotions, adrenaline-rushing piloting, and the opportunity to visit far off planets. These plum assignments were so rare only a few top students ever earned the opportunity to volunteer. This year, there was only one such assignment available, and the assignment was his.

Republic law mandated the Yards accept charity cases as ten percent of their starting student base. The remaining ninety percent came from the rich ruling class, most of whom resented charity cases getting unearned student spots. York could understand their frustration. The Yards accepted only one out of every ten applicants. It would be difficult accepting that your family and friends lost training slots to randomly chosen orphans and, more likely than not, undereducated poor. York’s understanding of the upper class’s dissatisfaction was all that kept him from lashing out at his fellow students, at his ‘betters’ when they took their aggravation out on him and his fellow charity cases.

Still, even though the harassment rarely moved beyond levels acceptable to the faculty and administration, there were exceptions when it became unbearable, like when poor Dallas Nineteen, an incoming first year cadet had been beaten and raped. She’d identified the top student, Pietre Ibrahime, as the rapist. It turned into a case of he said/she said despite her injuries and all of the forensic evidence. Once released by the infirmary, Dallas Nineteen had been expelled for making false accusations and conduct unbecoming of a cadet.

Pietre Ibrahime was the top student until he broke his neck in a freak accident by tripping down a flight of stairs. His death appeared suspicious as he was an exceptionally graceful young man. However, the security footage and nearby witnesses all confirmed, no one had been near Ibrahime when he tumbled head over heels. York was sorry the young man had to die. He had hoped to beat him to the top spot by merit alone, but sometimes the fates smiled. The fates and York both smiled when no one noticed the quickly dissipating lubricant on the bottom of Ibrahime’s shoes or the specially designed chemically explosive charge neatly spread across his heels and his uniform collar.

The hazing continued to worsen as York moved up from the number two spot to replace Ibrahime and other charity cases dropped out or failed out. The persecution condensed by the simple rule of compaction. He became accustomed to the student-on-student bullying. He was constantly amazed at what a human being could get used to.

The academy torment wasn’t as bad as the earlier abuse he had suffered. As a young boy, he was exceptionally happy to leave Brother Calvin at the orphanage. Prep school was no better. House Master Albert was as much a deviant as Brother Calvin. Which one was at the top of the pervert scale was a close race, but in the end, Calvin won. He preferred a more youthful selection than Albert. Moving to the Yards ended the sexual molestation. Still, the Yards harassment and maltreatment overshadowed his previous abuse, not in intensity or in repulsiveness, but in frequency. Balderano Junior and his friends increasingly directed the most serious abuse his way. The persecution stopped when York finished as the undisputed leader in his graduating class. He had proven he belonged.

Balderano may be graduating fourth in their class, but he was the accepted leader of the cadet clique who controlled the top spots, a group calling themselves the dog pack. Rocky Telluride was a distant second in class ranking to York. Jackson Waldling was an unclear third as she and Balderano swapped places with every posted test score.

The invitation to Balderano’s party with his cronies in attendance showed they accepted him, both as a military comrade and as a social equal. Whether he accepted them as equals, had not yet been determined. Although it appeared that Telluride, Balderano and the rest of the dog pack had finally accepted him. A normal person would have felt like dancing.

York knew they tried cheating him at poker. They were so bad he still won, not by cheating, only by playing better. Losing money didn’t mean much to them. York won what amounted to less than pocket change to the sons and daughters of the wealthiest the inner planets had to offer. For him, the small amount of coins jingling in his pocket was a windfall. His government stipend barely covered toiletries and new socks.

York straightened his back, nodded politely to the unmanned police drone, and continued striding purposefully to the transit station down the street. Balderano had offered him a ride back to the Yards, but he had declined. The wealthy didn’t walk often, they used human chauffeurs to drive them a short few blocks. They were so unused to walking this neighborhood didn’t have sidewalks along the street, only walkways from the streets to their front doors. York preferred to walk, even if the distance to the station was a little more than a mile.

He was hailed before reaching the halfway mark to the station. “York A. Sixteen, this is the Independence City Police Department. Halt and be approached.” The voice boomed from a dozen police speakers scattered about the tree-lined street.

York halted. As was his habit, he came to attention and stood as commanded.

He hadn’t noticed the police, their cameras, or speakers. Of course, this neighborhood’s wealthy would insist the police remain discrete. He smiled. He had hours to get back for graduation and he wasn’t worried about a few IPD queries. The IPD was only doing their job checking up on people walking alone along a street after dark. It didn’t take long before three hulking officers surrounded York. They seemed to appear out of the night air. Two officers took up a position behind him and an older officer stepped into his view.

York dropped from an attention stance to parade rest. This gave him the opportunity to evaluate his position. He would not resist the police in any way, but years of self-defense classes had taught him to review, evaluate, reposition, and adapt. Planning for trouble was more a mental exercise than anticipating action.

The woman at the rear to his left would be the most dangerous of the three. She was fit and appeared angry. Angry meant unpredictable. The man behind and to the right spent way too much time in donut shops and not enough time working off the extra calories. The officer blocking his forward progress was tough, but older and well past his prime.

“York Sixteen,” the older officer, a police sergeant by his stripes, said. “You are a cadet at the New Hope Officer’s Academy. You’re a long way from the Yards. Explain your presence in this sector.”

The woman officer spat her words, “Come on, Sarge. This is crap. Everybody except this budger knows he’s getting set up.”

York tensed slightly at the term ‘budger’. The tension was internal. No small sign or tic would betray his feelings. He’d been called a budger his whole life. His years at the Yards hadn’t diminished the frequency of the slur. To be reminded he was an orphan, a charity case, and nothing more than a line item on a government budget ledger was an insult, even when used by others of his kind. He believed reaching the level of a graduating cadet-colonel would help him rise above the name calling; apparently not. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to be wrong in that regard.

The sergeant looked at the policewoman with sad tired eyes. “Shut up. You know the department frowns on the use of that word.”

The fat man laughed, “Takes one to know one, sugar britches.”

The sergeant shook his head, “Shut up the both of you. Neither of you knows when to keep your mouths closed and do your job. That’s why you’re still walking a beat instead of getting promoted.”

The woman snorted. “Jake can’t get promoted because he’s a fat asshole. I can’t get promoted because I’m a budger, just like this poor schmuck. Only I already learned I’m screwed. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

York’s mind flashed. This woman claimed to be a product of the New Hope Social Society System just like him. What did she mean about him being in trouble? He wasn’t concerned that they knew who he was. The information was in records easily obtained by facial recognition from the police drone. This obviously wasn’t just a casual street interview, on the contrary the police stopped him for something else. What had he done wrong to bring the police? How was he screwed?

York let what little emotion he was showing drain from his face. Showing no emotion was a personal defensive mechanism. “Sir. I was visiting a friend at—”

“I know where,” the police sergeant interrupted. “No one lives full time at that address. You couldn’t have been visiting a friend. Our records and a query to the owner indicate the building should be empty.”

York said, “Sir, there is a party going on just—”

“Shut it,” the fat man ordered. “We have officers checking the residence now. It’s empty, except for the mess you left behind.”

York wasn’t even mildly tempted to reply, after all of the years at the Yards, he recognized an order when he heard one. He kept his mouth shut.

The sergeant sighed and tapped a display on his wrist dataport. A party scene appeared, hovering between the police officer and York. The display showed a full-on party: loud, messy, and just short of riotous. York appeared in the middle of the video, sitting at a table playing poker, while partiers danced and drank behind him. The picture of York was clear and unwavering. Every other person in the video was blurry and unidentifiable. “There was obviously a party going on,” the sergeant said. “This is the feed from internal security cameras.” He tapped a few commands into his dataport to call up other recordings.

A disembodied voice boomed out of the air. “No, Sergeant. All other recordings are wiped clean. Someone tossed in an anti-CSI bomb. This place’s cleaner than your grandma’s underdrawers. The only scrap of evidence is your suspect’s DNA on the playing cards, poker chips and one glass, contents unknown.”

The sergeant looked at York. “Have you been drinking, Cadet Sixteen?”

York suppressed the desire to correct the man’s use of his rank. He was the one and only cadet-colonel at the Yards, and should be addressed as such. Instead, he said, “No, sir. I was drinking cola only, caffeine and sugar free.”

The fat policeman snorted in laughter.

The sergeant held up one finger for a moment of silence. They all stood waiting in the street.

The disembodied voice spoke again. “Contents of the glass were scotch whiskey, laced with an old style methyl-amphetamine. It’s homemade ecstasy, sergeant. It’s real old school.”

“Can you clean up the video?”

“No Sergeant. Someone wiped it at the source. They gave it a real professional cleaning job.”

The sergeant looked through the party’s video at York. “You been drinking and doing drugs, Cadet Sixteen?”

“Sir, no,” York replied. “You have my express permission to test me.”

The fat man laughed. “We don’t need your permission. We have enough evidence to force a test.”

York nodded and stood silently while the sergeant slid an evidence wand along a patch of bare skin. York was tempted to respond, but decided he should keep his mouth shut. The policewoman was correct. He’d been set up and he was screwed. Anything he said would only dig the hole deeper.

The sergeant nodded. “Cadet, your tests look clean except your electrolytes are a little low. Take some supplements when you work out next time.” The older man sighed again. “Okay people, let’s get this wrapped up and off the streets. We have more to do than look for some random partiers, unless Cadet Sixteen would like to supply us with the names of his co-conspirators?”

York kept his mouth closed.

“Okay, let’s get this investigation off the street. Cadet Sixteen, you are under arrest for breaking and entering. Further charges may be added as the investigation progresses. Do you wish to comply with the order of arrest or do you wish to resist?”

TWO

York didn’t even shake his head in response. He continued to stare at the video of the party until the Sergeant shut it off. He knew every cadet in it. He knew the rich kids in his cadet class had a strange sense of humor, or rather, their sense of humor was strange to him. However, this didn’t feel funny to him at all. Being stopped and arrested wasn’t a joke. He knew they’d all been complicit in setting him up for this arrest.

Telling the police the identity of every person in the video would be easy, yet could he prove it? Part of the Republic’s military code of conduct as a whole was to watch each other’s back. No matter what the situation or your feelings about a military member they were your family. You protected family. It didn’t matter if Balderano, Telluride and their friends violated the code. York wouldn’t break his oath, if he could help it. The military code of conduct was secondary only to his personal code. If possible, he would have to find a way to apply the military code within the scope of his personal one. If not, his sense of justice would win out.

Honor, integrity, loyalty, justice, and compassion weren’t just fancy words to York. He kept his mouth clamped shut. He let the two police behind him grab his arms and guide him into a whisper quiet police cruiser.

The policewoman leaned in as he slid onto the bench seat in the back. She said quietly into his ear, “Don’t keep your mouth shut, Sixteen. It won’t help you a tiny bit to protect whoever was at your party. They burned you and won’t be one iota grateful for you keeping your mouth shut.”

York stared straight ahead. He was keeping quiet for his own sense of right and wrong. Telluride and Balderano’s gratitude meant less to him than what he generated when he blew his nose. As a child, he’d been taught at the orphanage that ‘you get along by going along’. Brother Calvin had stressed that point along with the value of ‘keeping your mouth shut’. York knew trying to get along by going along was stupid. He would get along or fail by the code he’d developed and the one he’d accepted at the Yards. Long ago he’d learned to dovetail them together quite well.

York wanted vengeance against each partier. He cleared the thought of revenge from his mind as a waste of effort. He knew in the long run, he couldn’t touch them in any meaningful way without more damage to his own life. The dog pack would eventually earn their rewards for failure to live up to the code.

His nose wrinkled involuntarily as a particularly strong odor of vomit oozed up from the cruiser’s floor. The floor looked wet, as if recently hosed down. Someone, or a group of someones, had emptied their stomachs in the confines of the small space. He tried to keep his face passive. Not reacting to the stench was difficult with the odor wafting around him. He shook his head to clear the smells as a quick odor of rotten eggs assaulted his nose followed by a rancid smell reminiscent of an overworked sewage system. He laughed aloud when he realized the smells were pumped deliberately into the cruiser for the benefit of the occupants. He wondered if the smells were a new police technique employed to break down the defenses of any miscreant jammed into the backseat.

Was the policewoman a real budger like him or were they playing the old good-cop bad-cop routine on him? He laughed again. It wouldn’t matter who he said was at the party. The average policeman couldn’t touch Blade Balderano or Balderano’s friends without the political fallout damaging his career. The credits finding their way into their bank accounts would offset their shame at looking the other way or fudging a bit of evidence.

The police hadn’t placed him in restraints. He was still determined not to resist in any way. This was a new experience for him and he decided he might as well make the most of it. After all, they could kill him, but they couldn’t eat him.

York wiggled in the seat, becoming more comfortable. Today was his birthday and he was graduating from the Yards. He hadn’t violated any academy rules, ordnances or directives. He’d been given a legitimate pass off academy grounds. Even if he had been drinking, it was off campus. Gambling on academy grounds was against Yards regulations. These were civilian charges and wouldn’t affect his military career even if the police did follow through on their threat of charging him with breaking and entering.

He checked his dataport. By law, they couldn’t hold him long enough to delay his attendance at graduation unless they declared him a danger to himself or others. A miscreant couldn’t hide from the police on New Hope. There might be a few spots in Independence City or on the planet as a whole that weren’t under surveillance, but a normal human couldn’t survive in those spots for long without revealing their presence. So, why hold a man in custody if you could find him and pick him up any time you wanted to?

This little detour was just one more minor challenge in his life on his way to … to … to where? For so many years, York’s singular goal was to remain at the Yards. Earlier in his life, his goals were to get out of and avoid going back to the orphanage, the military prep school, and the dismal nothing existence following the poor wretches who graduated from those dreadful institutions. The last few years, his goal morphed into graduating, not just getting by. That goal developed into a desire to rise so high the Yards couldn’t knock him down and out. He’d achieved a real height. He’d earned the rank of cadet-colonel. They couldn’t take the achievement away from him.

Now what? Leaving the Yards meant an automatic enrollment in the Republic’s military. Both army and space navy commands drew their leading officers from the Yards graduates. He hadn’t thought more about his impending graduation aside from giving him the right to choose an exciting job such as fighter pilot. The choice was more important to him than the job. Then what? Where was he going? Even if he’d flunked out of the Yards as had many of his fellow charity cases had he would’ve been automatically enrolled as a low ranking enlisted soldier or spaceman. Becoming an enlisted spacer was no more than the orphanage operators said he could achieve. So many orphans and charity cases were dumped into the military it would feel like old home week to go there. Still, York wanted more. He didn’t know what yet, just … well, more.

Moments later he was ushered into the police station. He passed through the identification scanner, feeding his arrest information into police records. Those central database records contained data covering every part of York’s life. They held his fingerprints, DNA, the orphanage picture taken when he was six, the medical information about the high temperature from the common cold he had at eight and the grade from his last physics exam. The database contained all the information from his life: bland, minor and major. All except the first few hours between his birth and being found on the front porch of the orphanage. That remained a mystery to the database and to York.

He knew the law concerning abandoned children. How could he not! Turning an unwanted child over to the social systems wasn’t illegal. Many poor had to turn over children or run the risk of starving their other children. Birth control would have helped many families except the extremely conservative Republic government deemed such things immoral. The database maintained information on the parents and the lineage of all children. It gave the child a name and a family history, no matter how unattractive the name and history might be. To drop a child off and run away wasn’t acceptable to the law or to decent society.

The law required a DNA scan to match all children abandoned anonymously, negating any anonymity. In a civilization where every person had DNA on file, there wasn’t any DNA match on file for York. The official explanation was a freighter or itinerant spacer become pregnant, dropped a baby off, and then left the planet. The explanation didn’t make any attempt to explain how such an event could occur when every spacer was scanned for DNA and other identifiers before being allowed to exit their spacecraft, even for an afternoon of rest and recreation.

Society winked at how many pregnant women on freighters gave birth and abandoned those children on New Hope. York was the twenty-fourth baby found at the orphanage during the sixteenth year of the twenty-sixth century, old Earth style calendar. Being twenty-fourth allowed the unimaginative orphanage administrator to name him using the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet, choosing the name of an old Earth city. The year provided him his last name.

York liked his name. He was grateful he hadn’t been found fifteenth and been named Naccadocious after some town in Texas. He knew Naccadocious Sixteen didn’t like the name so much since she’d decided long ago to go by the name Candi Holes for her job as a dancer at a men’s club near the spaceport.

York had the legal right to change his name at any time after turning twelve and before he turned twenty-one. However, the name suited him. The name was a reminder of where he came from and how far he’d yet to go. All he needed was a destination. The fire in his belly, fuelled each time his name was shouted as an insult, would get him to his goal. Whatever the reason, this was his twenty-first birthday. His given name, York August Sixteen was his for good.

York expected to be ushered into an interrogation room. He expected it to be a small sterile room with a non-descript table and a couple of plain metal chairs. He was surprised at being led into a well-appointed room with lush carpet, decent artwork on the clean wallpapered walls, a sofa, comfortable chairs, and a nice coffee table.

He eased himself onto an overstuffed chair. The cushions seemed to sigh and settle around him. The chair was certainly a different sitting experience than the hard task chair in his dorm room. Comfortable or not, he sat at attention. Even if he’d given it a second thought, he wasn’t sure he knew how to sit any other way after all of these years.

He stared at a picture on the wall. The odd oil painting was of men sitting on some four-legged beast chasing and trying to catch a huge horned beast with just a looped rope. He wondered what kind of use the men would have for the horned beast. Riding the other animal looked fun, still the horned beast definitely didn’t want to be roped and had an angry look it its eyes. He wondered what planet the painting depicted. It definitely wasn’t New Hope. New Hope was more water than the wide-open lands depicted in the painting. Any open land on this planet was filled with buildings and people. There were certainly no mountains as high as the painting showed. He decided it must be just a place in the imagination of the painter.

The door flew open. York snapped to his feet, bracing at attention. He’d fully expected to speak to a policeman, if not the old sergeant, then a detective or investigator. He hadn’t expected to see the Yard’s commandant.

The commandant ignored the open door, leaving it ajar. She also ignored York, leaving him standing at rigid attention. She didn’t look at anything in the room, except the painting York had been staring at. She snorted in amusement and slapped a button on the wall. A desk and office chair dropped into place.

The commandant was dressed in a formal uniform, the only uniform York had never seen her wear. She’d never had one miniscule iota of her uniform undone, one speck of dust anywhere, or one stray hair out of place. She looked, moved, and acted like a living recruiting poster. She was resplendent even with glaring details missing from her uniform. The most obvious was her nametag, she didn’t wear one. No one knew her name, not the instructors, not the staff, and certainly not the cadets. She was the commandant, not a person. Her name was irrelevant. Her position as leader and educator of future officers was important.

The commandant’s uniform had no rank, only the special commandant’s insignia. There were no medals, ribbons, or commendation tabs, such as so proudly displayed on most senior officer’s dress uniforms. She wasn’t an individual. She was the embodiment of the military life, a life of service beyond self. She was the commandant at the Yards when he first arrived, and she scared the bejabbers out of York every day. She was the only human to engender fear in him since Brother Calvin abused the emotion out of him. Her random inspections could drive full-grown cadets into fits of tears, sending more than one trainee scampering back to civilian life. No man, woman or child was safe against her white gloved wrath. York tried to stay out of her pinpoint focus, hoping that each time her attention would be granted to another unlucky cadet. Now he was the unlucky one. It felt like he was standing naked before God Almighty.

She slid onto the chair behind the desk, seeming to hover a fraction of an inch above the hard backed folding chair. Continuing to ignore York, she flashed through screen after screen of information on her dataport. Saying nothing, she obviously required no response from York or any police officer present.

York stood at attention despite the cold trail of sweat trickling down his back. He could only see the commandant peripherally, his eyes were locked onto the wall before him. He stared unblinkingly at the loop of rope barely missing the beast’s horns in the painting.

The commandant tapped the desk in front of her. “Empty your pockets, Cadet-Colonel Sixteen.”

York’s heels clicked together and slammed into the carpet as he marched to the desk. He emptied his pockets as commanded and returned to attention. The credits in his pocket were more cash than he’d ever had at one time. The small amount was twice what he paid for his new civilian clothes. That pittance had taken him almost his entire cadet-colonel year to save from the pitiful stipend granted to him by the government mandated budget line item.

His eyes never wavered from a point on the wall at exactly eye level as if following a laser drawn line. His eyes now rested in a blank spot on the opposite wall. He realized he’d never seen the commandant’s face, except through his peripheral vision.

He heard the coins clinking on the table as the commandant counted and stacked the credits. She grunted and quickly flashed through a few informational screens. She entered a few bits of data onto a screen. York wanted to explain. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t speak to the police, but this was the commandant. He would readily explain anything and everything to the commandant. The police wanted him to talk, it appeared the commandant didn’t. She would order him to speak if she wanted him to and he would answer any and every question she asked without hesitation. He would admit he didn’t always wash his hands after going to the restroom. He would admit that if no one was around he wouldn’t cover his mouth when he coughed. He would admit he sometimes peed in the shower. He would identify everyone in the party video. All she had to do was ask. She didn’t ask. She left him standing at attention. She all but ignored him.

Finally, she said, “You have more money in your pockets than I can account for in a review of your banking statements. That, plus the surveillance video of your party showing you playing cards, is proof positive of gambling on academy grounds. It doesn’t matter how, or even if, you knew that particular building was owned by the academy for temporary housing of visiting dignitaries and how you knew it would be empty for your soiree. A review of past surveillance recordings show erasures for a number of times matching exactly your times off academy grounds. The evidence points inescapably to additional parties just like this one.”

York’s heart sank. He’d thought the house was Balderano’s off campus home. Many of the rich cadets owned places to go when released from study or duties. Balderano’s dog pack each had apartments or lofts for relaxing away from the confines of the Yards. York had only his small room on the grounds, a luxury given to final year cadets.

He almost snorted at the thought of Balderano calling his clique the dog pack. Calling his group of friends the dog pack was an obvious attempt to play off the name of his father’s political party, an ultra conservative group calling themselves Dog Soldiers, politicians who’d drawn platform lines in the proverbial sand and would go no farther. Known for neither backing up nor moving forward, they stubbornly stuck to one issue’s side, refusing to relent or even discuss any opposing view. Many of Balderano Junior’s clique were the offspring of Balderano Senior’s caucus.

She sighed and seemed to look at him for the first time. She shook her head.

York caught the slight movement at the bottom of his peripheral vision.

“It is doubtful you developed your sense of fashion by spending a lot of money on clothes, but it would take serious deprivation in your spending habits to even afford that hideous costume. However, there are many places to spend money other than on clothes.”

She pulled a medical wand from a deep pocket. Stretching across the table, she slid it across the back of York’s hand. She stared at the readout and compared it to the information on the dataport.

“Amazing,” the commandant said. “You’re a medical marvel. Police records indicate you had a blood alcohol content of 2.4 less than an hour ago, yet my device shows you to be more sober than I am. Plus, I cannot find any evidence of the drug MDMA in your system as shown in their reports. Still, even I can’t deny your DNA was found on a glass containing alcohol and illegal drugs. Drinking on academy property is as serious a violation as gambling.”

York gritted his teeth to keep from responding. Either rules violation would get him into serious trouble. Both could mean his expulsion from the Yards. He was determined not to speak unless given the permission or ordered to do so. It would be her doing and the doing of the police who lied on their reports if she was going to expel him based on lies. He wouldn’t publicly violate the rules he had sworn to obey. He hadn’t done so before and he wouldn’t now.

The commandant grabbed the corners of her dataport video and raised it to his eye level. “Do not answer me, Cadet-Colonel, unless you can identify the individuals in this surveillance recording.”

York almost sighed with relief. He was finally going to get to tell his side of the story. He would have to tell her about Balderano and his friends since it would be an order.

He stared at the screen. His face lost its blankness as he stared open mouthed at the images flashing before him. No longer were there blurry ghost figures dancing, drinking and playing cards with him. There was an odd conglomeration of people he would only be able to guess were prostitutes, drug dealers, budgers and hood rats. He’d been ordered to speak only if he could identify anyone. He couldn’t remember ever seeing any of these people.

His mouth snapped shut as he reapplied the rigid mask to his face and stared at the blank spot on the wall. The policewoman was right, he was screwed.

THREE

The commandant snapped off the video. “York Sixteen, you’re screwed. I don’t mind that as much as it makes me angry that you screwed me in the process, thank you very much.”

York’s position at attention almost wavered. She hadn’t called him Cadet-Colonel or even Cadet. She called him simply York Sixteen without any military title. To have his years of training so easily stripped away was harsh and callous. He wouldn’t have been as devastated if the failure had been his, yet his current troubles were based on an avalanche of lies.

His cadet-major year had been challenging, even after his promotion to cadet-colonel at the top of the class. Working in the cafeteria, studying hard, exercising in the gym, and all of the extra hours in the flight simulator had left him little time for socializing. It didn’t help that all the other charity cases in his class had long since flunked out. He was left alone to work toward the top spot as the singular graduating cadet-colonel. Those charity cases hadn’t been friends or companions, but they had provided a valuable service to him as a physical buffer between him and the rich cadets.

York chided himself, still not speaking aloud, “No. This whole mess is my fault for trusting people who spent years torturing me. I should’ve been more skeptical, I should’ve known better than to let my guard slip and go to Balderano’s party.” His eyes watered and he commanded the tears to stop. They did. He did exactly what his training taught him, hold at attention until relieved.

Pointing at the data pad screen, the commandant said, “That is some crappy digital enhancement on this video. It won’t even hold up under my cheap software review. It’s obvious this surveillance recording has been tampered with. Still, if I push it beyond this room, by the time we get to any competent military court, this recording will be immaculate and proven to be genuine by experts. At ease, Cadet-Colonel Sixteen.” He was shocked. He’d never stood at ease in her presence. It just wasn’t done.

York instantly snapped into an at ease posture. He held his arms in rigid confinement behind his back, his feet spread exactly one and a half feet apart, splayed at a precise 45 degree angle. His eyes never left the blank spot on the wall.

The commandant stood up. She broke his vision with a wave of her hand. She directed his vision using a finely chiseled finger pointing from his eyes to hers.

York was amazed. She’d always appeared to be a giant to him, a larger than life presence. In reality, she was a foot shorter than he was. She was almost twice his age, nevertheless still pleasant to look at, although not actually pretty. Her stern face was relaxed and sad.

“Cadet-Colonel Sixteen, you’ve acted foolishly. I don’t want to know who did this to you. If I knew, I’d have to do something about it, so keep your mouth closed.”

York decided there was more benefit to not speaking than there ever would be to running off at the mouth.

The commandant continued, “I do have family connections who might protect me personally if I intervened against whomever did this to you. My mother is the leader of the loyal opposition in the legislature. My father is an admiral of twenty years at the highest levels of the Rock. But, I’d rather not put them through the hassle. So, what do I do with you?” She looked at York with a practiced eye, studying him for imperfections, seeking the most minor of offenses, an unbuttoned button, an unzipped zipper, or a wrinkle where none should exist, glaring at him, defying any defect to exist.

York was glad the commander was face-to-face with him. The sweat sliding down the back of his neck was definitely non-regulation. So was the bright red heat he could feel starting to spread from the tips of his ears. He stood still. This wasn’t his first inspection by the commander, yet somehow this one felt personal.

The commandant spoke quietly, almost in a conspiratorial hush. “All right then, Cadet-Colonel Sixteen. I have already received more communications about you than I received greetings on my last birthday. And yes, despite the popular talk around the Yards, I was born, not issued in a full dress uniform. How most of these people communicating with me even know of your screw up so quickly is beyond me! I’ve no authority to even ask said question of these people: generals, senators, admirals, captains of commerce and the like. Do you know what they all tell me? And I mean all, even a message from my mother says essentially the same thing.”

York said, “Sir, I’ve come to expect and believe they would all say ‘let the budger hang’, with all due respect to your mother.”

The commandant nodded. “Their language is a bit more politically correct, but the essence is the same. However, I’m not inclined to hang a cadet based on one mistake, no matter how stupid, whether he’s a budger or not.” She glared at him. “You have a tell there, Cadet-Colonel. I don’t know how you could win this much at poker with such a face. Your left eyelid dips slightly when you’re angry or upset. Never mind, I can see you didn’t like my use of the word ‘budger’. I don’t care for it much myself, but you just remember you started it.”

York was shocked. He’d thought his poker face was stone cold and unmovable. Still, he had to admit, if to no one except himself, he didn’t like being called a budger. Still, she hadn’t asked a direct question, so he mentally filed away the information about the facial tick as something he had to work on.

The commandant continued. “You wouldn’t know this, but this was my last year at the Yards.” She sighed and sat down. “Sit, Cadet-Colonel Sixteen.”

York sat at attention.

The commandant sighed again. “At ease, Cadet-Colonel Sixteen.”

York sat at ease, still unable to relax. He sat on the edge of the seat, sinking farther into the cushions than he liked, managing to keep his back straight and stiff despite the desires of the chair drawing him in, wrapping him comfortably in its warm embrace. He realized the chair was warm, as if heated to his body temperature. It must be a specialized chair police used to relax a suspect, making them so comfortable they would start blabbing about something they shouldn’t say. He was determined not to let any information slip without direct orders to do so.

“Damn it, Sixteen. Why couldn’t you get yourself screwed yesterday or even tomorrow? Was one more day too much to ask?”

York held his tongue.

“I mean, yesterday I could’ve just kicked you out of the Yards and sent you back to whatever hellhole you came from. Today I can’t, because as of midnight, you were posted as having graduated. Tomorrow you would’ve been someone else’s problem. Your class’s graduation ceremony is my last duty at the Yards. My personal goods have already been shipped to a small retirement bungalow on Charmingham Beach in the back reaches of the Tanglefoot Sea.”

She reached across and tapped his Cadet-Colonel insignia with a stiff finger. “I can’t even remove your rank, although it is only good until the end of your graduation ceremony at 09:00 this morning, a ceremony you will not be attending.”

Normally, the top student at the academy addresses the graduating class during their ceremony. This year, the powers that be asked York to step aside. Senate Majority Leader Blade Balderano Senior expressed his desire to address the class because Blade Balderano Junior was graduating with York. Even though Balderano was graduating fourth, the change in speaker was due more to Senior’s political connections and Junior’s ability to network than his skills in the classroom or pilot cockpit.

York had diligently worked on his speech for weeks, however he gladly allowed it to slip from his mind, letting his notes shred to dust down the trash chute. Today’s invitation to Balderano’s off-Yards apartment for a pre-graduation party more than made up for the opportunity to address his class. Not giving his prepared speech as written was probably for the best as he’d planned to tell them exactly what he thought of them and their years of torment and abuse. That speech was best left in the dust.

The commandant pointed at the obviously tampered recording of Balderano’s party. “I don’t know which moron changed these police records, but your personnel database is in military hands and I can guarantee they are a lot more tamperproof than the system these idiots have around here.” She shook her head, “Dammit, I could still be attending my own retirement party if you’d had the brains to graduate near the bottom of your class. You’re smart, Sixteen, but not smart enough to know when it would benefit everyone for you to lose a little every now and then. You handed a hatful of ass to a hatful of asshats who have rich and important asshats for parents. Everyone expected a budger to graduate at the Yards eventually, but no one, and that includes me, expected you to graduate at the top of your class.”

She sighed and shook her head, knowing York wouldn’t speak until directed to. “I should’ve done something when I saw where you were headed. But, watching you beat out those socially conscious, inbred, junior-sized cretins was so much fun. Now what do I do?” The commander shuffled through a few data screens. “The one redeeming value of this present military structure is it manages to kill off a goodly number of our upper social strata.”

“Pardon me, sir?” York couldn’t help but blurt.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m one of the social elite, but I’m not blind or stupid. We pretend we’re promoting the very best, yet all we’re doing is sending the best of our social strata off to the military to get killed, using a front line fighter posting as an incentive for being the best. Yes, I know a fighter posting is what you wanted. It’s a death sentence, you fool. The Republic uses it to thin the ranks of our growing upper class. It kills off a few of the smart and ambitious, and so many of them are second and third sons. Strangely though, this system also allows the cowards to prevail and continue to flourish in our society. Cowards and fools who promote more of their kind. We would be better served if we gave the bottom of the class those supposedly choice positions. Come on! Think, Cadet-Colonel! Why is promotion so quick in fighter squadrons?”

York blurted out the textbook answer, “Because the cream rises to the top.”

The commandant made a rude noise. “Promotion is fast because pilots die at an alarming rate. Only the lucky or cowardly survive to be promoted, especially since the stupid and cowardly already command them. Cooks? Yeah, being an assistant cook is the position to choose. Who deliberately targets cooks in a time of war?”

She waved his response off, both of them knowing the old Napoleon Bonaparte quote about an army travelling on its stomach. “That was a rhetorical question. Furthermore, I’m a product of this system, but I’ve seen enough of it that I’ve had enough of it. I’ve been to too many military funerals for good men and women to give a rat’s ass who they send off to die in whatever currently popular war might be flaring up. Hell, this isn’t personal. I’d send you there to die and sleep soundly tonight, but those idiots in charge don’t want you to have the honor of dying in a glorious manner for their benefit. They just want you to go away, whether dying is a part of it or not. I can’t do what all of those high ranking mucky-mucks want me to do, and that is to expel you, bust you back to being an assistant cook and thereby save your life. You have already graduated and now it is impossible for me to expel you without violating regulations that might affect my own retirement. So, screw you. And I can’t let you graduate at the top of your class and choose the fighter position you have earned. You’d get yourself killed, the exact outcome the upper class really wants. They want you to fail and die, but not in a glorious military manner. So, screw you … again.”

She stood to pace. York politely rose to his feet, snapping to attention. She waved him back down. He felt odd sitting while the commandant paced around him. “Damned if I ain’t stuck behind a swinging hatch and a stiff bulkhead. Well, crap!” The commandant tapped a few buttons on her data pad. “There. I have filed a report on this whole mess as I see it. I have highlighted the discrepancies between the police reports and my own investigation. I have included a copy of the obviously altered video. None of these videos will hold up in any military or civilian court, but it is now a part of your permanent record and can’t be undone. Making these reports a part of your military record will piss off many of my upper class peers, including my mother. Hell, if it gets out to the lower classes about the upper class deliberately sabotaging a successful budger, we might even have a few street riots, setting a few fires, throwing a few rocks, and a little looting thrown in just for fun. The official record will be unassailable and unavailable to the public, but these documents are enough to give a conspiracy theorist a quivering orgasm. I doubt if even my mother will be able to protect me from the upper class backlash, should they get out, but screw them. I am done with them all. I’m going fishing for sea bass.”

Pointing an accusing finger at York, she said, “And you will graduate, not at the top of your class, even I won’t do that for you. Leaving you at the top would be what is right, but I don’t really care anymore. So screw you, too. Nor will you graduate at the bottom. I won’t do that to the cadet who earned the bottom spot by her own skill. Believe me, she’s smarter than you are. She managed to graduate, planning it so well she came in dead last, or should I say, the living last. I’m sure she’s hoping for a planet-side posting in personnel, just as far from the front lines as she can get and still be useful enough to put ‘Navy veteran’ on her resume for a future career in politics. She isn’t cowardly, just smart enough to see when someone is playing with a stacked deck. Having said that, it’s within my discretion to graduate you as unranked. You will be a navy officer, but you’ll take whatever posting becomes available that no one else wants, no matter how long it takes. You may spend your whole career sitting in the Bureau of Personnel waiting for an assignment. If you do get an assignment, I hope they make you the officer in charge of dishwashers.”

FOUR

Ensign Junior Grade York Sixteen walked into the offices of the Bureau of Personnel. He was dressed in his everyday blacks. Blacks were plain utility uniforms without any insignia, just name, rank and the security-coded QR code patch on the shoulder, containing links to his military records. Blacks were the uniform of the day, per regulations, yet all around him were officers dressed in various outfits, from an older admiral in a privately designed formal uniform complete with medals, braid and ceremonial sword to a junior lieutenant in a dirty and torn bilge engineer’s coveralls, obviously in from a duty shift. Mixed in was a variety of army officers. Enlisted personnel must gather elsewhere, if they gathered at all. Maybe they were just sent orders and told where and when to go. He didn’t know about being enlisted anymore than he knew about being an officer. All he knew was being a budger and a cadet. Yes, he’d had more officer leadership courses than he had hairs on his butt, however all the training was theory and didn’t help in the least for day-to-day go here and go there activities.

York wondered if BuPer was always this busy or if the officer ranks were swelled by this year’s Yards graduating class and the most recent war winding down. By all accounts, the graduating ceremony was a rousing affair, that was, by all accounts except his. He was ordered not to attend and had no opinion on it at all, refusing to even watch the live newsfeed. He’d had a busy day and night without wasting time watching a ceremony that would have little effect on his life. The software changes and paper printed override relay switches he’d designed and installed held more fascination for him.

He gave a small inward smile. The ceremony didn’t really matter to him, not as much as listening to all of the newsfeeds screaming foul. The big network feeds were screaming for his head on a plate for conduct unbecoming and for the commandant’s head for allowing him to graduate at all. The small independent feeds were screaming for his reinstatement at top of the class, the return of all awards, plus the arrest of those involved in his false arrest.

He’d given some small thought as to who had leaked his arrest, punishments and subsequent release from custody to the press. It hadn’t been him and he doubted the commandant had done it, not for any expressed dislike at the thought of riots, but because she didn’t much care about York as a person, one way or another. Everyone could see the riots coming. The protests were peaceful so far, though all it took to go from peaceful to violent was one cocky police officer pushing a budger with anger issues or vice versa.

The newsfeeds were at war. Each claiming their video was obviously the truth and their competitors were showing the fraudulent one. There were more than two versions of video available, yet they fell into two basic groups. The network newsfeeds were showing a version that was amazingly clear, clean, and looked almost like a commercial for a sitcom, missing only the laugh track and a smartass child, with York playing the role of the clueless head of the house. The version shown by the small independent feeds was a blurry video copy showing cadets with their faces and uniforms digitized out. He could easily recognize Telluride, Balderano and the other dog pack members, yet no one, not even the most vocal radical newsfeed dared name any cadet other than York August Sixteenth.

York ignored all requests for interviews, eventually coding all their incoming calls as spam and blocked. Blocking their requests for information was a violation of the newsfeed’s freedom of the press rights. On the other hand, the newsfeed’s insistence on getting access to York was a violation of his rights to privacy. The argument hadn’t been resolved in hundreds of years and it wouldn’t be any benefit to him to become embroiled in it. He was slow to come to the realization that whatever he did, it’d be wrong. He wasn’t going to hide from trouble, but there wasn’t any reason to invite trouble in. The commandant hadn’t been so subtle. Her speech at the graduation ceremony had been replayed, rebroadcast, torn apart for sound bytes and reprinted on every social media site across the entire expanse of the netfeeds. She’d praised the military for their honor, commitment, and dedication to duty, conversely she’d blasted criticism at the politicians who ran it. Her last words had been a final ‘screw you all’. York had seen enough of the video replay to know the commandant surely pissed off more than one politician, but she was retired now and beyond their reach.

He presented himself to an administrative technical rating. She scanned his QR code, took his retinal scan, DNA sample, and palm print without glancing up from her data terminal. She frowned at the data, pointing at a series of long lines snaking across the room. With little effort, he found the right line to stand in and slid into place at its back end. Junior and senior grade ensigns and junior grade lieutenants with last names beginning with S through Z snaked across the floor following a painted blue line. Mixed in were the lower three officer ranks of the army, most of the new army officers having graduated near the middle of his class.

The yellow and green lines for junior officers were just as long. There were other colors and lines of various lengths for other officer ranks. A white line for admirals was just a two-foot dash on the floor in front of a commander’s desk. No one expected admirals to stand in line for any reason.

Others in his cadet class stood in front of him. More experienced officers were near the front. A junior grade lieutenant with ship time hash marks on his sleeve bypassed York at the end of the line and walked to other jgs at the front of the line. A few quick checks, a quiet conversation, and he slid into line between two other jgs, causing the whole line to shuffle backwards about three feet.

Someone tapped York on the shoulder. He looked down to see the cadet who graduated at the bottom of their class, now a junior grade ensign. He knew her name. They’d never spoken outside of official communications. She still didn’t speak, but pointed at the shoulder tab indicating her ranking. He nodded his acceptance and took a giant step backwards letting her slide into line in front of him. Balderano and his cronies walked past York, deigning only to give him a variety of sneers, snickers, and snorts of derision. They all knew their class ranking and with jovial pushing and shoving, they managed to take their place in the long line.

York spent the rest of the day moving forward and backward. Forward as the front of the line was given assignments, shuffled off to remote and mysterious offices, or simply told to go away, take a seat, and come back when called. When they were called, they would move back into the line, again cutting in where their rank placed them, continuing to stand and wait until reaching the front … again. He moved backwards as other higher-ranking officers took their place in the line. By the end of the day, he hadn’t moved any farther than a dozen feet back and a dozen feet forward.

A bored voice broadcast throughout the room, “End of day. Return tomorrow for assignment. Sign out in order to be credited for a day of duty.” A rush of bodies crushed every exit, each officer slapping his palm on the reader by the door, signing out for the day.

York didn’t rush as he didn’t have anywhere to go. He did have an officer’s billet on base. His cabin was the size of a coffin, barely big enough for a bed and a locker with bathroom facilities down the hall. His room was only fractionally larger than his cadet quarters had been. There was a small low ranking officer’s dayroom he could enjoy, though the other officers using it shunned his company. The atmosphere in the dayroom hadn’t been a surprise, but the tension didn’t make the room conducive to relaxing. He’d used the dayrooms at the Yards, as socialization was required for cadets. Having graduated, he no longer had any requirement to spend time with people who didn’t want him around.

A number of other officer’s weren’t rushing toward the BuPers doors. Most were putting away readers, dataports, or sim pods. Other small groups of officer’s were finishing conversations, laughing and preparing to make their way home, to restaurants, or to whatever entertainment they preferred.

A junior grade commander walked slowly past York. He said, “Resign your commission. You are an embarrassment. The commandant deserved a better legacy than you.” He spoke so softly York doubted if the overhead security cameras picked up the words.

He wondered what the man meant by the commandant deserving a better legacy. People got what they earned, it didn’t matter what they deserved. She wasn’t any different than other people, earning what she deserved. She’d been the commandant for years and surely the totality of her time was her legacy. He was about to leave when he saw her picture flash on a wall-mounted data port. York stood watching as it showed pictures of the fiery vehicle crash that had killed the commandant. Apparently, another driver had a massive heart attack, crashed over a guardrail, and slammed into her vehicle from high above, crushing the passenger compartment. The newsfeed spent more time calling for an investigation of guardrails than it did commiserating over the loss of a respected officer.

A voice behind him said, “You killed her, budger.”

York turned slowly. He wasn’t worried about such an accusation. No one could prove he’d killed her … directly. He did wonder what Brother Calvin thought when his vehicle’s autopilot took over, trapping him, disabling all communications, and moving at the perfect rate of speed to reach the required spot. A small charge caused an aneurism killing him before his vehicle crashed over the guardrail and into the commandant’s precisely and similarly timed vehicle on the road below.

Balderano and his dog pack stood facing him in various poses of anger, aggression, and complete boredom.

Rocky Telluride said, “She was killed by budgers because they were angry she wouldn’t reinstate you.”

York nodded. He knew the dog pack arranged his current military status. His earned top spot was taken from him through a series of ill-disguised lies and the commandant had given in to those lies, even knowing they were false. The circumstances were enough to make anyone angry, budger or not. “The killing of the commandant by budgers is quite possible, Ensign Telluride. But, from what I have seen, it is just as possible she was killed by the upper class for not expelling me outright. Or, it could have been an accident.”

Balderano snorted in derision, “An accident caused by a guaranteed accident proof guardrail? I doubt it, unless the budger at the factory deliberately sabotaged the build out.”

York nodded, keeping his face calm, even though he could feel the small tic in his eye the Commandant had warned him about. “Ensign, I’ll accept your assessment that the crash was unlikely to be an accident since I believe your family owns the factory making those guardrails. I’m sure the investigation into the Commandant’s accident will look into your factory’s practices, just as I’m sure they’ll find the manufacturer of the guardrails to be completely non-complicit. However, the culprit could also be the individuals who set me up to be arrested by the police … whoever that may be.”

There was a quick flash of eye contact among the dog pack. However Balderano spoke without hesitation, “Keep it that way, budger. Otherwise, there’s more than one way to get you out of the navy.”

York turned his back on Balderano and continued to stare at the data feed, even though the news degenerated into a human interest story about a woman who birthed eight babies without the aid of drugs or doctors. He ignored further taunts from the dog pack. He knew most people would be tempted to strike back or retort, but years of practice had made him immune to their juvenile insults and threats.

He smiled to himself. He wasn’t at the Yards anymore and he could pound them with relative impunity, except ‘relative’ might mean some miscellaneous charges and more bruises than he wanted to collect. No matter how tough a person was, winning a fight against six people with similar training was beyond possible. He doubted the military would charge one man for assaulting half a dozen others at the same time. He’d learned not to trust security videos to prove his actions, the mistrust of non-human tools was a difficult lesson learned.

Finally, the dog pack left him alone to wander off in search of entertainment and the doorways cleared to a mere trickle. He wanted entertainment of his own, yet he hadn’t received his first pay deposit even though he was now an officer. He took a quiet path towards the officer’s mess, lost in his own thoughts about the commandant’s death. He didn’t know her, but her loss was his loss and he was truly sorry she’d had to die. He was wondering if it would be appropriate to send a condolence card to her mother when a body blocked his path.

Rocky said, “It took you long enough to leave BuPers, budger. We’ve been waiting for you.”

York shook his head, “Ensign, we have nothing to say to each other. You and I both know what you did to me. It’s water under the bridge.”

“We aren’t done until you are out of the navy or broken back to the enlisted ratings where you belong.”

Balderano swung a fist aiming for York’s nose. York blocked the punch, ducked beneath Balderano’s fist, and turned to run. He didn’t like to run. Odds of six to one were too great to stand and fight. He didn’t get far.

FIVE

York wandered away from his place in the BuPers line to find an aspirin for his headache. He wasn’t worried about losing his place since he was perpetually in last and would be until next year’s graduation. He was beginning to see what the commandant meant about him spending his whole career waiting in personnel for a posting. Still, next year his records would show having graduated a year before any new junior grade ensigns. Though he was still unranked, he would have a lower class number and a year’s time in grade. He snorted realizing they would have a whole year to change the rules. In the meantime, he had a splitting headache. The pain was his own fault for letting his head get in the way of Telluride’s fist while two others held him.

He chuckled when he got back to his place in line. He was still standing in last place, all within a very familiar small square on the floor. His quiet laugher got him a glare from the ensign in front of him. He smiled back, ignoring her glower. She was only about three feet better off than he was and from what the commandant said, she’d done it to herself.

The line shuffled forward about three feet when word spread about Rocky Telluride slipping in the shower at his off base apartment and dying of a massive concussion. Again, there weren’t any witnesses and no one could explain how an ensign could even slip on a nonslip surface. There wasn’t any explanation as to why he was in the shower at such an odd time of the night, except for the note on his reader from an exceptionally attractive married officer seeking an assignation. It had only taken the investigators a moment to determine the woman hadn’t originated the note and its true origin was unrecoverable, still the note was enough of a motivation to show why Telluride had shut off his apartment’s recorders.

York smiled again, knowing his small room in the junior officer’s barracks would verify he’d been home all night, whether he had been or not. Certainly, there wasn’t any reason for investigators to check on his whereabouts unless others in the dog pack reported they’d ganged up on him allowing the recently departed Telluride to repeatedly punch him without fear of a counter punch. Such a report didn’t seem likely as it would implicate them in a felonious assault against a fellow officer. He wondered why the Yards would teach a cadet how to bypass the security readouts on their cabins if they didn’t expect them to use the knowledge.

Day after day and week after week, York crept forward as the line became shorter. He took to reading, not the required military books or the posted requirements for his rank, conversely he read the pulp literature of the day. He found he had a peculiar liking for sword and sorcery stories, imagining himself in situations where he could wave his magic wand and turn everyone in the room into toads, while heroically fighting orcs and trolls with daggers and dirks, searching for magical goblets, bracelets, and polished rune stones. There were brief periods of excitement swirling around him from time to time having nothing to do with his reading as the current war raged, waned, raged again, and finally signed a truce.

The end of the war had little effect on his stance other than to back him up farther as officers began the draw down in a reduction of forces. There weren’t as many officers leaving the navy as he expected. Most were simply reporting to BuPers for extended leave, going home to family and civilian businesses, accepting a reduction in pay, and waiting until the war heated up again. War with someone always flared up eventually, making the navy a secure career.

Only a few of his graduating class remained in line when he first caught sight of his ultimate destination. There was a desk ahead of him where an enlisted administrative technician sat, reviewing files, matching opening positions, and assigning junior officers to their next posting. She was a ravishing young woman, tall, willowy, with a perfect smile surrounded by a halo of red hair. Naturally, there was a regulation against fraternization between officers and enlisted. Nevertheless, he could look at her. She could have been a cover model for the fantasy books he was reading. In fact, she looked more like the hero’s girlfriend than most of the book covers he saw. All she needed was a long broadsword, a leather bustier, and knee-high boots. All he needed was enough magic to do more than blow his nose.

He started to rate his days by how close or far he got to this vision of redheaded beauty. A good day was when he moved closer and a bad day was when he moved farther away. He even rated them by numbers, how many people stood between him and his girl. He’d never had a girl friend before and knew she couldn’t be one now. On the other hand, if he could dream about magic, then he could dream about her. Maybe she just needed a recommendation from an officer to apply to officer candidate school and go mustang. Obviously, she was underutilized pushing buttons and shuffling reports. She should be on recruiting posters.

Then the amazing day came when the last cadet in front of him stepped away, reaching her goal, an assignment to a BuPers desk deep in the bowels of this very building. Standing before this vision of his fantasy novels he said, “Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, reporting for assignment.”

“Whaaa…?” the redhead stuttered, her vacuous eyes stared up at him with a blank expression.

“I am here for assignment.”

“Yassir, um… yeah. Whaaaa… ?”

York sighed in frustration as his fantasies disappeared like chocolate-covered cream-filled donuts at a police convention. She may be a pretty package, but she was an empty container. He pointed at the QR patch on his shoulder, letting her scan it. She stared at her display screen until a small green light blipped on her dataport.

York felt his reader vibrate and emit a small chime. He’d received his orders. He stepped to the side, although after all this time there wasn’t anyone behind him. The redhead sat staring open mouthed, waiting for the next person in line to interrupt her lack of thought. He watched her for a moment, already feeling a sense of remorse and grief for the loss of his dream girl. She ignored him, staring, waiting for someone to join her line. He wondered why they didn’t automate her job. She had less personality than the soda machine at the officer’s mess.

York went into the waiting area and sat. He was nervous and excited at the same time to receive orders after all of this time. They’d popped up on the redhead’s reader so quickly they must have been pre-chosen for him and left waiting until he could present himself. He wasn’t given a list of choices to review, nor a choice of career paths to follow. Here was his assignment and he was stuck with it. He didn’t care whether he got orders to be a supervisor of junior dishwashers or just to go back and stand in line again. He was a navy officer and they couldn’t change his status unless they killed him or caught him doing something so bad they could court martial him. He was determined death would come before a court martial.

“What did you get, Ensign?” a nearby senior grade lieutenant called out. “I just got a posting on the Gambion as a navigation officer.”

York popped up to attention as required by regulation when being spoken to by a ranking officer. “Sir.” He dropped the stance at a nod from the lieutenant and glanced through the orders on his dataport. “I’m assigned as a communications officer on space station Em.T-Sp8s.”

The lieutenant shook his head, “Never heard of it. Em.T? That has to be back along the rim worlds border. There isn’t anything out that way except monsters and roanokes.”

York was familiar with both expressions. Old sailing maps often had the legend ‘monsters be here’ for unexplored areas and the Lost Colony of Roanoke in the Americas on old Earth was still the standard for lost and missing colonies. He nodded his understanding. His dataport showed a star map putting Em.T-Sp8s at the far edge of human space. Man was still quickly expanding his range throughout the galaxy. Then again, there was a lot of galaxy for expansion.

He said, “Yes, sir. It looks to be so far past nowhere you can’t even see nowhere from there.”

The lieutenant laughed. “Sounds about right. Did your orders give you transport arrangements or does the navy expect you to walk?”

“Well, I think they would prefer I walk, but my orders say I’m to catch a ride on … well, sir, your ship.” He held up the dataport reader. It clearly said he was to get transport on the Gambion.

“That’s not as surprising as it sounds. The Republic Navy has more ships than you and I could count in our lifetime, but we cover a lot of space and there are relatively few ships in any port at any given time, especially on one of the regional capital worlds like this one. That’s one reason it takes so long to get reassigned from one ship to the next, even a third line old defensive bird like the Gambion. She’s a ship only a few trips short of decommissioning and disposal. I’ve been waiting for a ship with a posting in my specialty at my rank for almost six weeks now! Any ship would do in these times. You?”

York realized this officer might not know who he was, most likely being in space during his crash and burn graduation. He’d dropped off the newsfeeds once the budger riots had been quelled by the Home Guard and pushed from the public interest by some starlet admitting she was a transsexual and had been hooked on drugs since her operation. He slowly counted the months.

“Eleven months, sir.”

“Eleven? Great googa booga, boy. Who did you piss off?”

York smiled, “Pretty much everybody, sir. I’m Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen and I—”

“You’re the budger who had the audacity to graduate top of your class at the Yards,” the lieutenant interrupted with a laugh. “I should’ve known by the fact your uniform isn’t showing class ranking. Yeah, I flashed your QR code before I spoke, but I didn’t make the connection until just now.”

York stiffened when the man called him a budger, however the man grinned, taking the sting out of the slur.

“I’m Harp Brown. Good to meet you, York.” The man seemed genuinely pleased, so York accepted it and smiled back. “Sadie is going to be tickled pink that I met you. She’s a big fan of yours.”

York was startled. “A big—”

“Big fan, yeah. Say, the Gambion isn’t scheduled to leave dry dock until tomorrow. If you don’t have any other plans, can Sadie and I buy you dinner?”

York had more than enough money to buy his own dinner. He had stashed almost eleven month’s pay. His room didn’t cost anything, his uniforms were free, and officers didn’t pay for meals in the officer’s mess. “Sir, if you’re sure, I’d be glad to accompany you, but it should be my treat.”

“Nonsense. Sadie and I plan on spending our last night dining at one of her family’s restaurants. It won’t cost either of us a dime.”

“Are you sure I will be welcome? I mean, it being family and all?” He really wanted to ask whether a government charity case would be accepted, yet the man was being so pleasant he didn’t dare ask.

“Hell, yes … oh, because you’re a budger?” The man laughed. “Sadie and her whole family used to be on the charity roles. I can see the shocked look. Crap on a duck, boy, I married a budger and used all the cash in my trust fund to help her family start the best chain of barbeque restaurants on the planet. Hellfire, they would be richer than my family ever was if they didn’t put all of their profits back into the slums to help other budgers get a leg up. Get used to it, Ensign Sixteen, the whole universe isn’t against you, it just feels like it sometimes.”

SIX

Even though York was technically a passenger on the Gambion, he was pleased the Captain ordered him to take part in flight simulations with his assigned pilots. He was sure the Captain let him do it to keep him from being underfoot with nothing to do on the long voyage and to give his pilots something or someone to shoot at. He knew he would never get to pilot the Fast Attack Craft through open space, still the sims were so much like games he wasted hours in the mods, twisting, turning and tanking over for the ship’s real FAC pilots.

After a good day of playing games, he would shower in the bachelor officer’s quarters, get cleaned up and read for an hour or so before supper. He still couldn’t finish any book with a redheaded heroine. The redheaded BuPers admin tech ruined the whole fantasy genre for him. That was wrong. It seemed two out of every three such books had a redheaded heroine. Luckily, he found something called spy thrillers living up to their genre’s name. They were usually filled with voluptuous blondes or leggy brunettes with redheads as rare as hair on a baby’s butt or, if they were in the book at all, they were the evil mastermind’s girlfriend.

Supper was often at the Browns. Harp and Sadie enjoyed hosting dinners, parties, and get-togethers. Their cabin almost become a Gambion fixture and an unofficial restaurant. The Brown’s invited York every day and he abused the invitation with rash abandon. He’d become the Brown’s assistant grill chef, running the smoker and blending their special barbeque sauce. He often put on a clean apron and helped Sadie serve burnt ends and riblets to the other officers and their families. He could put cook and waiter on his resume if the navy ever booted him out.

There was only one drawback to his complete enjoyment on the Gambion, Blade Balderano. He was also on the Gambion. Due to the delay in York’s assignment, Balderano was on his second cruise with the ship and promoted to senior grade ensign. While Blade’s first cruise had been short, it’d been long enough to grant Balderano veteran status. This trip looked to be longer than his first cruise just to get to Em.T. The man continued his long-standing practice of never missing an opportunity to criticize or sabotage York.

Before he could relax at the Browns today, he had a sim to fly. He hit the random placement generator and was pleased to see the main computer assigned him as the wingman for the red forces commander. Red forces were the bad guys, the enemy, the adversary trying desperately to destroy the Gambion’s Fast Attack Craft and reach the main ship to blow it into pieces.

“Red Commander to flight deck. Left aileron stabilizer shows frozen. Down checked.”

“Red three, down check.” “Red six, down check.” “Red five, down check.” “Red …”

York thought of laughing, but there wasn’t any humor in the situation. The computer sims regularly down checked FACs for equipment failure. It happened with increasing regularity for whichever side York was assigned to fly. The computer was supposed to generate the teams randomly, in spite of this, many times it left his team shorthanded. Today looked like another game of ‘kill the budger’. Due to theoretically random computer shuffling, suddenly he was outnumbered by ten to one. The computer down checked all of the red squadron except him and all of blue squadron was ready to fly.

He smiled. Losing another engagement was all right with him. Since he’d come aboard, he’d earned the highest kill rate among the pilots. He was also killed more often and his squadron lost more engagements than any other team. He secretly liked the ‘kill the budger’ sims. Knowing he wasn’t going to win or even survive let him jump into the fray with wild abandon, killing as many as he could before dying in simulated flaming glory. Suicide runs had their own special attraction.

Ten to one odds wouldn’t give him the opportunity to even lob a few missiles at the carrier spacecraft. He would be dogmeat long before he could get into range. Or maybe not. York didn’t think what he planned was cheating. Everyone knew the standard procedure for carriers was to hang back from a dogfight, turning to present their heavy bow shields toward any incoming hostile craft, even a lone attacking FAC. Without any other capital ships of the line in the sim, the simulated carrier wouldn’t attempt to jink or maneuver.

With a wicked grin, York waited for the simulation to start. As the attacking red force, he would blink into existence a hundred thousand kilometers from the carrier sitting still in empty space. The blue forces would launch from the carrier decks and form up to meet the assaulting force. He hit the accelerator on the yoke with his thumb at the first blip of the starfield on the screen before him, mashing it to maximum speed. He would get a big boost of immediate acceleration as he didn’t have a squadron to form up on or a strategy to formulate and share with other FAC jockeys. He could blast forward, going balls to the wall from the first green light. With his other thumb, he released all ten anti-ship missiles, making sure they were set to the lowest possible speed. He would outrace his missiles by a factor of seven to one. He sent a message to the missiles to kill their engines and coast once they reached minimum speed.

Slow missiles were easy for the blue forces to spot and deflect, but spotting tiny missiles without any engine signatures would be next to impossible, especially when no one expected a lone FAC to fire his missiles from extreme range. However, this was a FAC squadron against FAC squadron exercise. The blue forces had to kill him and his missiles while protecting the capital ship. He was sure this wouldn’t work in a real engagement because the capital ship would take a hand in the engagement, but it should work in a limited sim. While his FAC raced forward to engage the blue forces, he wondered what good a limited simulation did. Shouldn’t they be practicing for engagements they would likely encounter? Of course, in a real engagement, any capital ship could destroy a single FAC from a mere hundred thousand kilometers before his first missile left its tube.

York was rapidly approaching the blue forces. They appeared as tiny blue dots on his HUD though he couldn’t see them. They were still forming up, certainly not expecting him to come in under full throttle at ten to one odds. Flicking off the artificial gravity and the inertial dampeners, he yanked the yoke into what pilots of all eras would recognize as an inverted immelmann, coming at the blue forces from underneath as they formed up in a line along the bow of the carrier. At top speed, the maneuver would’ve turned him into post-human paste if he had left the inertial dampeners setting to Earth standard.

York didn’t throttle back to take aim at any blue FAC. Instead, he fired the mass driver auto cannon, blasting a solid stream, leaving it to chance whether he hit anything or not. Racing forward and reaching the end of his run along their formation he flipped the yoke causing his FAC to spin and tumble. He punched out every ECM bomb and chaff bundle his FAC carried. He quickly lost orientation. Even without gravity, his inner ear complained so violently that he lost his lunch. He smiled knowing the vomit wasn’t simulated any more than his lunch had been. Nevertheless, he was still alive, none of the blue forces had hit him with any return fire. His HUD showed three defending FACs were down, two by his haphazard fire and one by its own squadron’s friendly fire.

He didn’t know who was in command of the blue forces, yet their commander was likely to get a severe talking to for forming his squadron up where crossfire would kill friendlies. To hope his first pass killed the blue squadron’s commander was wishful thinking. It would be nice because no matter how quickly the FAC computers could switch command, the human brain seemed to have difficulty making such rapid command transitions.

York was hoping for every advantage he could find. He didn’t know who he’d already taken out. His first pass was so unexpected, it appeared he had the opportunity to make another run. His HUD showed a pair of mass driver streams creeping toward him, seeking to catch him in their crosshairs. He grunted in amazement, no matter what the experts said about marksmanship, give a shooter a relatively unlimited supply of ammunition and he will blast away, dragging his stream of bullets onto the target rather than putting the target into the crosshairs before pulling the trigger.

He grinned, James Bond used a semi-automatic pistol, never a machine gun. York was no James Bond. No matter how many times he read those books, martinis still made him gag and he couldn’t get a pretty woman to even look at him, much less fall into bed within a few pages of meeting her. Conversely, York could shoot.

Using the computer, he reoriented himself toward the blue forces. Their single line formation wasn’t smooth and precise anymore. They had scattered, more from drifting and slight thruster pushes than using their FAC’s main engines to gain speed. York laughed as he quoted his favorite military commander, “Screw you”.

Still moving at top speed, he pointed his FAC along their ragged line and raced forward spitting mass driver bullets at every target he could find. He flipped the bomb release and dumped the four space mines his FAC carried, he also released six planetary anti-personnel cluster bombs, four starbright skylighters and all of the FACs thirty-two message pods, each blurting ‘Screw you, too.’

He was out of chaff and ECM bombs, so he spun the throttle. Instead of jinking at a constant speed, he maintained a constant line of flight along the blue squadron’s formation, ignoring the fact that he might collide with any one of them at any time, especially the three dead FACs now drifting helplessly across the battlefield. Spinning the throttle caused his FAC to go from top speed to half speed, to quarter speed, back to top speed, down to a full stop and then race forward again. The stuttered speed completely disoriented York and he hoped it would disorient the blue team as well.

He was clear again. The computer said he had hit another ship, whether he’d killed it by mass driver fire or if it ran into a mine was unclear. The blue squadron had lost its formation as they dodged the barrage of garbage York had thrown at them. Most of what he threw at them wouldn’t damage a FAC. A planetary anti-personnel cluster bomb could only hurt a FAC if the pilot opened his hatch, pulled it into the pilot’s cabin, and hit its firing pin directly with a hammer, but unless a pilot was completely non-human and knew what had been shot at him, he would duck out of the way. A starbright was only used for night fighting on a planetary surface during close combat support of ground pounders. It would light up the sky like a nighttime sun. It would only bother a FAC jockey if he was looking directly at it without his visual filters set on high. And a message pod, well … those would just piss someone off, making noise over the comm-channels.

What was clear was someone managed to plant a ship killer missile on his FAC’s spine just as he started another immelmann. It broke his FAC into tiny pieces, breaking his simulated body into even smaller component pieces. He was done. He glanced at the read out as the sim continued. He had taken out four before they killed him. Four to one was an exchange he could live with … so to speak. From his point of view, it wouldn’t be a fair exchange in a real battle, in spite of this, it ratcheted his kill score up another notch.

Normally, when all opposing forces were dead, the sim was over, yet this one kept running. He smiled almost sensing the frustration of the remaining blue squadron pilots. They were still active, but there was nothing left to shoot at. He wondered if the squadron’s commander was scrambling for a copy of the engagement orders to see if there were secondary objectives on his plate he might have overlooked. York could imagine the blue squadron pilot’s confusion, anger, and frustration when one of York’s ten missiles, fired prior to the engagement, finally coasted into range, locked onto his ship, and with a final burst of speed, slammed into his ship.

Five blue FACs exploded in simulated military glory. Conventional wisdom said using a missile on such a small target was a waste, like swatting a fly with a nuclear bomb. York didn’t care. He was already dead and the missiles would have been useless if they had died with him. The five remaining missiles, whether smarter than their brethren or just luckier, didn’t lock onto any of the FACs or the raging explosions around them. They spotted, targeted, and locked onto the carrier.

A carrier is so heavily armored it can shrug off a dozen such missiles with minimal damage to a few external thrusters or hull sensors. Carriers are massive with their engines and command centers buried deep in their middles with layers of subhulls, decks, and bulkheads between them and the vacuum of empty space. Engines didn’t require huge rocket or thruster ports as they simply moved ships from one place to another without old school propulsion systems, trading locations by riding gravity waves.

The only soft spot the missiles could find on the carrier was available because blue squadron had been too lazy to close the flight deck hatches with their massive armored barriers. The missiles had enough onboard computer intelligence to see an open door. Blue squadron had even left the lights on, giving those five missiles a beacon to follow. Each missile blasted deeper and deeper into the simulated carrier. They couldn’t go deep enough to seriously damage the carrier. One FAC couldn’t carry enough munitions to destroy such a huge ship.

York actually laughed aloud as he realized the sole remaining blue FAC wouldn’t be able to land on its own deck at the end of the sim. He would have to go to another flight deck hatch and ask to be let in. Even simulated, a special docking was an inconvenience. York took it as a dead man’s victory. He may not have survived the encounter, but he managed to take out nine to his lone one and still inflict damage on the carrier. Red squadron lost this engagement and he died, but the victory was still his.

He whistled to himself as the sim popped off, releasing him to climb out. To take such enjoyment over a minor and unreal victory was decidedly unprofessional. He’d been prodded for years, told he was a useless budger and a waste of taxpayer money, told he should go back to the slums he came from, told he didn’t deserve to be an officer taking the slot from some family member who was born to it. He was tired of it, yet knew he didn’t dare respond in kind or even report the harassment.

There were a few people on this spaceship who’d accepted him. On the other hand, the vast majority of the officers on this ship, and he assumed, all of the other ships in the Republic Navy, were dead set against his kind. He’d read the reports stating that due to their poor diets when they were younger, budgers didn’t have a sense of spacial analysis, they didn’t have the natural sense of logical rational thought, and they couldn’t hear certain frequencies the upper class could easily discern.

He took a whiff of clean, ship’s air. The sim pod was working hard to clear the odor of vomit. The mess covered his uniform from neck to crotch. He would definitely have to shower and change before going to Lieutenant and Sadie Brown’s—”

York’s thoughts came to a crashing halt as someone punched him squarely in the nose. His eyes watered and blurred. He’d been punched in the nose before, yet the previous experiences didn’t do anything to build immunity against this time. He squatted down, wrapped his arms around his head, trying to clear his vision. He’d had his share of fights at the orphanage, though they were mostly shoving matches between children, except the time Fredonia Seventeen punched him in the mouth. He’d stopped fighting back by the time he entered the military prep school at age nine. He’d had the full complement of required self-defense courses, but training was different from taking a punch in the nose with a bare fist. Sure, he’d been hit, ganged up on and hit more, nevertheless he hadn’t fought back … directly.

Shaking his head, he stood up. Blade Balderano glared at him, daring him to fight. However, he wasn’t sure who had punched him. Getting a punch in the nose was a guaranteed way to make your eyes water. Lieutenant JG Bartol Samdon stood shoulder to shoulder with Balderano, it could have been either man, or any of the other junior officers in the cluster around him, most of whom were wearing sweat stained flight uniforms. They must be some of the blue squadron pilots. The flight was simulated, on the other hand, the stress, adrenaline, and sweat was real.

Samdon was a close friend of Balderano’s, their fathers were political allies back on New Hope. He wasn’t a pleasant or handsome man. Looks or personality weren’t military requirements for a FAC pilot. The man was also a moron who didn’t know he was stupid, making him cruel and an odd brand of foul that York had tried to avoid the entire voyage. The two men formed the core of Balderano’s new dog pack. York pointed a finger at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.

Samdon snapped a finger and the red light on the camera winked out. “Camera malfunction.” York was tempted to take a swing at the man, but Samdon outranked him by two steps. Even Balderano outranked him one. Even with the overhead security camera out, York would have everything recorded on his personal dataport for later review.

Since the night Balderano and his dog pack sandbagged him at the graduation night poker game, he recorded everything he could on his dataport. Even knowing it might be used against him someday, he often wished he’d thought to get the recording of Pietre Ibrahime ‘slipping’ and breaking his neck on the stairs. He did occasionally enjoy a quick review of Rocky Telluride’s ‘accidental’ slip and fall in the showers so soon after graduation. The video of Brother Calvin’s vehicle crashing into the commandant’s came from hacked traffic cameras and newsfeed offerings.

He sighed. Shipboard accidents happen. They were just more difficult to manage. He knew why he hadn’t removed Balderano from his circle of contacts. The man was known to ride him at every opportunity. Any investigator would automatically think of York as a suspect no matter what his alibi. Nevertheless, Balderano’s time would come, too; not soon, but soon enough.

“Lieutenant Samdon, I know Ensign Balderano is too much of a coward to fight me one-on-one face-to-face and always has to come at me in a group. Are you a coward, too?” He would carefully check his database later to see if it recorded who threw the offending punch.

Samdon said, “Easy with the name calling, Sixteen. You are speaking to a ranking officer.”

York nodded, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply all of you ladies and gentlemen were cowards. Only someone, and I didn’t see who, just sucker punched me and threatened me with a crowd of his supporters at his back. I mentioned Ensign Balderano because this is … what? Blade, is this five or six times you’ve been around when I was hit while outnumbered or unable to defend myself?”

Samdon said, “I’ve been here the whole time.” He sneered at York. “I didn’t see Ensign Balderano strike you even once, much less five times.”

York looked from Samdon to Balderano and back again. “Pardon me, sir. I know Ensign Balderano didn’t strike me, because Ensign Balderano hits like a girl. This time it hurt and confused me for a moment.”

Baker, a female ensign, spat out, “Hits like a girl? You want to try me, budger?” York knew the woman had an especially nasty mean streak and was known for her abuse of lower ranking enlisted when there wasn’t anyone around to stop her. Even in his isolation, York had heard rumors she favored catching young female spacers alone in dark corners late at night leaving whimpering messes in her wake.

York smiled, although there was no humor in his voice, “No. I mean he hits like a little girl, not like a trained naval officer of any sex.”

Samdon, a junior grade lieutenant, was the highest-ranking officer present. He said, “Enough. Ensign Sixteen, your uniform is a disgusting mess. I am putting you on report for failure to adhere to dress codes.”

York nodded his acceptance. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Taking punishment wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, and wasn’t something he could even contest. Technically, he was a passenger on the Gambion and not subject to Lieutenant Samdon’s inspection. Being dinged when coming out of a sim wasn’t accepted practice, nevertheless it hurt a lot less than getting punched in the nose. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No. You will clean your own sim pod and clean yourself before any enlisted gets a look at you.”

SEVEN

York was going to be on time for dinner at the Browns, but far too late to help with any preparations. His arrival at their cabin was constantly delayed as enlisted from all over the ship flooded the corridors wherever he went. He was saluted at every turn, not with the proper military flat palm to the forehead, but with a variety of nods, upraised chins, winks, and outright grins. It seemed that every budger on the ship had heard about the budger officer who single handedly wiped out an opposing squadron.

The acknowledgement felt good. The computer had automatically updated his scores. Nobody in the sim center had even looked in his direction. Whether his victory was luck, skill or incredible stupidity on his opponent’s part, nine to one was an amazing kill ratio for a single engagement. An upper class officer, whatever their rank, would have been feted, wined and dined, given accolades, attaboys and awards for such a win, simulated or not. It stung York. He should be immune to being ignored, it had been happening his whole life. Repeated experience didn’t bring any more experiential immunity than it did when being repeatedly punched in the nose.

He did want to fit in, or so he told himself, although he knew any change in his social status would have to come on his terms and not by current societal dictates. Did he have to be less than his best to gain the acceptance of his peers? He could resign his commission to become an enlisted rating. He could easily fit in with the budgers in the lower rates. Taking a demotion would just prove the upper class was right, that budgers didn’t have what it takes to improve themselves. He didn’t want to rise up to join the upper class. He just wanted to rise up to his own level, not upper class, middle class, or lower class. It felt good to receive the minor accolades of the enlisted ratings. The victory felt good simply for its own reward.

He arrived at the Brown’s cabin right on time. Sadie glanced at him through the receiver comm and slapped the hatch open. Rather than step aside to let him in, she stepped into the corridor and slapped the hatch closed.

She spoke before the hatch to their cabin cycled shut, “York, I’m sorry. Tonight wouldn’t be a good time.”

He nodded politely. Not staying for the meal wasn’t a problem for him. He’d been working hard to overstay his welcome. “I understand—”

The hatch flying open again interrupted him. Harp grinned at him. “Hey, York! You’re late. I had to empty the smoker myself.” He stood in the hatchway, preventing it from closing behind him.

He smiled back. Having no previous experience with friends, he wasn’t sure what to do with people who were friendly. He certainly wanted to count this couple as his first true friends. He understood if they needed some time without him. There were plenty of days when York wanted time away from himself. He knew what kind of person he really was and that he wasn’t always pleasant to be around. He only managed to hide from himself by escaping into books.

Sadie put a hand on York’s arm. “I don’t think it would be a good night for you.”

Harp asked, “Why not?”

“Well, since York is a budger and our—”

“Sadie!” Harp interrupted. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You of all people should know better. York Sixteen is an officer and always—”

Sadie interrupted with a finger across his lips, shaking her head. “That isn’t what I meant—”

A voice bellowed from inside the cabin. “Is that Ensign JG York Sixteen?”

Harp said, “Yes, Captain.”

Sadie spoke to her husband quietly enough her voice wouldn’t carry back into their apartment, “That’s what I was trying to spare York from. I’m a budger, Harp. You don’t understand, no matter how long we’ve been married.”

“Nonsense, the captain isn’t a bigot.”

York tried to get in a word, but Sadie waved him to be quiet. “Harp, you’re a good man, but dammit, all you see is the good in others. The captain is—”

The captain’s voice bellowed again. “Sixteen, get in here. I might as well talk to you now as later.”

Sadly Sadie said, “I am sorry, York.” She stood aside, letting him into their cabin. She and Harp followed him into the crowded room filled with officers, wives, and half-empty beer bottles.

The social gathering wasn’t an official meeting, yet York couldn’t stop himself from coming to attention in front of the captain. He had never met the man before. He was passingly familiar with the XO, the chief engineer and even the head chaplain who were already present, but until now, the captain was only a video, a voice, and a flurry of written orders.

“Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, Captain.”

The captain looked York over as if inspecting a minor species of bug from a third rate colony planet. “Sixteen, I got a report on you a little while ago. I’d forgotten all about it until just now, so we best take care of you while I’m thinking of it.”

Out the corner of his eye, York saw Sadie give Harp one of her wifely ‘I told you so’ looks.

“I’m more than impressed by your performances in the sims as of late, especially the little trick you pulled today.” He glanced at the XO. “Remember Pookie Trimble? She pulled the same missile stunt back when we were rookies. Of course, she ended up sucking vacuum about a year later. Nice trick, though.”

The XO laughed, “Pookie was a good pilot. She was a sport in the sack, too.” That earned him a poke in the ribs from his wife and a laugh from the chaplain.

“Be that as it may. Ensign Sixteen, you’re wrecking havoc with our FAC pilot training. How can my pilots get better if you keep blowing them out of the sky before they get a chance to shoot back? I’m rescinding my offer. You’re no longer authorized to train with them. You’re going into communications anyway, so FAC training won’t do you any good.”

The XO nodded. “I think that’s wise, Captain. His presence hampers building a cohesive esprit de corp. We also have squadron commanders complaining about his taking sim slots they could use for their training.”

Harp said, “Captain, I may be a navigator and not much of a FAC jockey since my first rookie cruise, but it seems to me our pilots would get better training against the best we can throw at them.”

The captain glared at Harp. “Lieutenant Brown. First, they are my pilots, not our pilots. Second, they need training and seasoning in how to win a battle, not how to die and lose. They will learn about dying soon enough.”

The chief engineer said, “Soon enough? Do you mean we have a combat mission?”

The captain shook his head, “No, dammit. With the last war drawing down and the next one not heating up yet, we’re going into the ass end of nowhere doing police work. We’ve been getting reports of slavery and human trafficking in some of the outer zones. We’re going to need to see if there are any organized activities that need full-on military support to bust up.”

York almost snorted in derision. The Republic’s system of government made budgers possible. It had degenerated into nothing more than a fancy way to keep a whole segment of the population, the charity cases, in economic slavery. Many upper class families made their initial fortunes using real slaves. They advanced their fortunes continuing to use real slaves for their second and third tier colony operations. He almost snorted, but didn’t. This was the captain speaking and the conversation wasn’t really an open discussion.

The chaplain nodded sagely, “Human trafficking certainly needs oversight.”

York didn’t need to parse the sentence to know ‘oversight’ wasn’t the same as ‘stopped’. The upper class didn’t want slavery to stop. They just wanted to ensure they were the ones with their hands firmly on the controls. Slavery was pervasive in Republic society. It included economic slavery, sex trafficking, and the actual ownership of human beings. The only publicly released metric came from historical records of the United States, old Earth. They admitted that .0028 percent of their population went missing every year. The reports were always followed by a caveat about how most were found, recovered (alive or dead) or returned home of their own accord. Even in that era, in a supposedly enlightened society, the number of people kidnapped, tricked into, or outright sold into slavery was obscured, mainly because many were enslaved outside of the country and smuggled in, unknown and uncounted by authorities. The authorities also pointed out that many people of legal age simply went missing by their own volition and didn’t want to be found. The authorities even helped people disappear in a bizarre practice called witness protection.

The only way the Republic and its upper class ever took official notice of the slavery issue was when one of their own went missing or someone threw a kink into the works upsetting their bank balances. Slavery patrol was little more than busy work when the military got involved. The navy was currently ramping down their war footing and in the upper class owned media, the navy could get a nice publicity spin for continuing present budget levels by policing slavery.

New Hope’s government refused to release any clear information on the continued practice of slavery. They obfuscated the data with the same excuses used for centuries and buried any meaningful numbers in thousands of pages of irrelevant data. They even argued about exactly what constituted slavery. The planetary population of New Hope was forty billion, extrapolating the same percentage, .0028 of forty billion results in eleven million people going missing annually, an astonishing number. The result was over one hundred thousand souls per year if only one percent of that number was sold into slavery. All reports, inaccurate or not, were from first tier human worlds, never second, third, or fourth tier worlds. Second and third level colony worlds generally underreported such statistics, or if reported, the data was lost in the huge Republic bureaucracy before the government eventually released the statistics to the public. Fourth tier worlds were such raw colonization efforts that survival was more important than reports of any kind. None of the Republic’s reports took into account the economic slavery of the lower classes and the ever present budger population who had no say in how to live their own lives and little to no way of improving their station in life.

A person had to look no farther than Sadie Brown to see that a budger couldn’t get out of their class. She had married an upper class gentleman. Her family by hard work and diligence became wealthier than many upper class. Yet, she was still considered a budger and the only reason she was tolerated by the ship’s officers and their families was because she served them, cooking their food and cleaning up after them. Harp and Sadie always entertained at their place because no invitation to the cabins of upper class officer’s families that included Sadie had ever been forthcoming. Harp did what he could because he loved her. Everyone, including Sadie, knew Harp could drop her at the next planet they came to and no one in the upper classes would bat an eye at her disappearance from their social circle. They knew, without a doubt in their own minds, she and her family wouldn’t be where they were without the patronage of Harp Brown. To York’s way of thinking, the upper class saw Sadie as little more than a well-trained house slave. In some societies in the distant past, Sadie’s class was regarded as one of the ‘untouchables’. York often wondered how much flak Harp took for marrying so far below his own class.

York himself was an example of the inability to escape budger slavery. He hadn’t been given the choice to enter the navy. Some random bureaucrat had decided that for him with the full expectation he would fail. When he didn’t fail, he still wasn’t given any choice about his own future. He knew choice was the true basis for the hostility directed toward him upon achieving the highest class ranking at the Yards. For the first time that class rank at graduation would provide a budger with a choice from available assignments. Giving budgers a choice beyond which sock went on which foot in the morning would set a bad precedent. The navy told him what to wear, where to go, when to get there, what to eat along the way, and what to do when he got there. That was as it should be for any budger.

The captain looked back at York. “Still, that leaves us what to do with you. We still have a couple of months left to get to your station. It makes sense to assign you to communications shifts, but we already have more than our fair share of FNGs the old hands are trying to train, so I’m not going to throw more kinks at a bad situation.”

The XO said, “We have a couple of officers to shift around in duties due to promotions. How about this?” He tossed a reader to the captain.

With a nod of acceptance, the captain said, “Ensign Sixteen, I am assigning you to temporary duty on second shift environmental. It’s not much, but we need an officer inspecting showers and toilets.”

York nodded his acceptance, keeping his reluctance buried deep in the pit of his stomach. “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t care if he inspected toilets or scrubbed pots and pans, however second shift would make it impossible for him to attend any dinners at the Browns. Not attending would mean upper class officers wouldn’t have to be offended by his presence at their social gatherings. He was going to be on his own again.

The shift change benefited York by putting him out of casual contact with Lieutenant Bartol Samdon. Maybe Karma would step in with an assist if he couldn’t provide the fates with a little boost in removing Samdon from other human contact. Whatever happened, not being around the man provided an alibi, should he need one. Setting up an accident for Samdon might take a little more imaginative thinking and planning than usual, but York was nothing if not careful, thoughtful, and above all, patient.

EIGHT

York stood alone in the space station access tube waiting to step foot on Em.T-Sp8s. He was used to being alone. It had been a lonely trip with the exception of the fondly remembered dinners at Harp and Sadie Brown’s cabin. The final two months of the voyage had isolated him from everyone. He even missed the harassment he’d received from other Yard cadets, not so much from the human contact point of view, but it provided a certain level of motivation to his days. Who he didn’t miss was Blade Balderano. Balderano had taken simple hazing to the level of physical hostility. Nevertheless, human contact was good and necessary and he had long ago decided he liked it better if the interaction wasn’t quite cordial.

His two months working second shift in the environmental department involved simply inspecting bathrooms after the enlisted teams cleaned them and departed. His reports went to a first shift supervisor he never saw. Working second shift meant meals occurred when only cooks and dishwashers were in the galleys and on many days, they were off duty before he arrived, leaving him with only sandwiches or meal packs.

The Gambion was a big ship filled with thousands of personnel and their families. Officers, even low ranking ones, had private cabins. York’s cabin was extremely small and working second shift minimized all human contact. He easily remembered days without seeing anyone except for a brief passing in the corridor. In some areas of the ship it was possible to not see anyone for an entire day. If he had been assigned to third shift he could have seen the Browns during the evening hours, late nighttime according to the ship’s clock. Evening hours were prime entertainment times. While York was working, the theaters ran movies and live performances. Junior officer mixers seemed to always be scheduled during his duty hours. Even civilian activities on the promenade were in full swing during his shift and closed before he got off work.

He was really looking forward to duty on a space station. Em.T-Sp8s was a huge station, older, yet still in its prime. He hadn’t been able to find any information about the number of personnel in its complement. The lack of information wasn’t a surprise considering operational security requirements. Military from both branches of service, all ranks, and every specialty would pack a station this size. There may even be military detachments from allied or neutral governments on such an outlying station.

The scant information he had found showed pictures of the station’s promenade deck on the civilian side of the station filled with a wide variety of shops, restaurants, bars and other entertainments. Primarily, being a military facility kept it off any civilian travel guide sites, however he found an old reference about a nearby planet using the station as their commercial traffic port. Civilian commercial use meant any extended liberty would be on a crappy-looking third-rate colony planet. Any civilian presence would spice up life on a station. In fact, the planet below was named Liberty, so if leave from the station was available, he would take liberty on Liberty.

The Gambion’s captain announced they would only be stopping long enough to drop York off. The ship didn’t have any need to take on supplies and he wasn’t making station facilities available to any crew. With no one else getting off, it left York as the only person in the access tube. He was glad to be leaving the Gambion behind him. It hadn’t been a bad time on the ship, despite Blade Balderano and his pack of followers. But, it had been lonely, despite his time with the Browns. He sometimes wondered why loneliness didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should, certainly not as much as the popular psychological treatises of the day indicated it should in any well adjusted individual.

The air pressure in the access tube made a slight adjustment causing York’s ears to pop and a miniscule gravity shift caused his stomach to give a little alley-oop as the environment in the tube switched from ship to station standard. He’d been led to believe there were such minor changes between every transfer, shuttle to ship, ship to ship, ship to station, and even shuttle to planet. The change wasn’t unpleasant and it made for a good signal. He was on the station.

The Gambion disengaged and pulled away from the station before the airlocks made their final adjustments. York wondered why the captain hadn’t just put him in a space suit and asked him to jump out as they cruised past. He had his few personal affects in minimal baggage. The navy supplied most of the things he needed. Resupplies of upgraded uniforms happened on a more-often-than-needed basis, always giving him perfectly fitting clothing with exact upgrades in his QR code patch. His books were loaded in his navy supplied e-reader. He didn’t have any family so he didn’t have any family mementos. Awards and decorations were all electronic and stored in his dataport, although he had no awards. Even if the Gambion’s captain had made him jump, he could still have carried his personal possessions without much effort.

The hatches cycled open and York stepped into the station proper. He snapped to attention and saluted per regulations. “Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, reports for duty, sir.”

A short man greeted him. He wasn’t strangely short, just about a head shorter than York. The man’s overall appearance was shocking. The man was obviously military as witnessed by his slacks and his cover. York wanted to shout at the man to take his cover off inside the station, but the man’s rank, against regulation, was pinned to it, indicating he was a junior grade commander. Those minor uniform pieces were the only concession the man made to the uniform code … any uniform code. He was wearing old bright orange plastic flip-flops instead of shoes. His shirt was the gaudiest green floral shirt York had ever seen.

The most obviously unmilitary thing about the man was that he was fat. Not just chubby, husky or a little heavy around the middle, but strawberry ice cream and chocolate chip cookie, couch potato, sloppy fat. York put on his best poker face, working hard to control the little tell the Yard’s commandant had warned him about. He wondered why or even how this man could be so sloppy. A simple regimen of one pill a day easily controlled excess fat. It didn’t even take diet and exercise, although a little of each would have done the man a world of good.

The short man grinned without any humor. “I am Commander Junior Grade Allyn Leigh Blaque, Second Shift Supervisor.” Instead of returning York’s salute, he tipped his hat, revealing a bald head with a short fringe of hair around the ears and neck. He was amazed the man remained bald. The cure for baldness was less painful and much less difficult than keeping his weight down. York noticed the man had more hair in his ears than on his head. He wondered if the man was mentally unstable and attempting to look his worst. How could the station commander let any officer exhibit such a poor personal appearance?

York dropped his salute, took the man’s extended hand, and shook it. He realized he had yet to be saluted by an enlisted rating as saluting wasn’t done under ceilings and roofs inside buildings, ships or stations. His time spent at BuPers had limited his activity to officer’s country. And this was the first time he had actually shaken hands with anyone … ever. Budgers didn’t shake hands, preferring the more widely accepted knuckle bump, fingertip diddle, or forearm cross. He’d saluted other ranking officers when reporting, saluting was a practiced activity at both prep school and the Yards. It looked as if Commander Blaque didn’t go in for military courtesies any more than uniforms.

Blaque said, “You’re the budger officer, right? Welcome to Empty Space. Come on, Ensign, let me get you settled in.” He turned and walked away, leaving York to grab his own bag and follow quickly. He hadn’t expected to have a reception, yet this was less of a reception than any enlisted rating would get. He wondered about Blaque’s welcoming him to ‘empty space’, had he been alone he would have slapped his forehead in disgust. Empty Space was the phonetic pronunciation of the station designation Em.T-Sp8s. Empty Space appeared to be appropriate.

Blaque waved a dismissive hand around the military gates. The wave simply gestured through open air, as the docking area was empty of people. There were dozens of gates disappearing into the distance around the curve of the station. Each gate had clear spaces, desks, a consoled dais, a hundred perfectly arranged plastic molded chairs and luggage carriers of every size, yet there wasn’t a human in sight. The only movement came from lazy, slow moving automated cleaners.

“The military freight decks are the next three decks down, ship consumables relay decks are the next three decks above, munitions reloads are below the freight docks and shuttle bays are below that. Or at least, they were there the last time I wandered down that-away, although there isn’t much reason to make personal inspections. The station commander says video reviews meet station requirements, so he occasionally runs video scans to make sure those parts of the station are still here … or at least, I think he still does it.”

York was shocked at Commander Blaque’s casual disregard of station facilities. He was sure his face lost its composure, nonetheless Blaque didn’t seem to notice or even care.

Blaque said, “Military warehouse spaces are above the consumables relay decks, but they’re as empty as a fat man’s butt after a colonoscopy.”

York didn’t know what a colonoscopy was and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know if it had anything to do with a fat man’s backsides.

“Ensign … um …”

“Sixteen, sir.” York supplied. He was surprised the man had forgotten his name already.

“Right, Ensign Sixteen, you have your dataport on?”

“Yes, sir.” His dataport was on as a matter of course, regulations required it, something Blaque should obviously know.

“Good. Then you already have your incoming station information download. It’s password and biometric protected secure information. The password is ‘password’. I am required to tell you not to share the password with anyone. Your biometrics are already uploaded on your reader.” Blaque rolled his eyes up, obviously thinking of what else he was supposed to say. “Oh yeah, we’re on first shift now. Commander Senior Grade Steven Paul is the station commander, the communications section commander, and first shift commander. I suppose he’ll hunt you down when he’s off shift to give you his greetings … or not. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Stevie is a couple of weeks or so.”

York asked, “My duties, sir?”

Blaque nodded, “You are the third shift commander. Being the shift commander covers everything happening on the station during your shift, but mainly we keep an eye on the communications relays.”

“Yes, sir. I was told I would be assigned to communications, however not at a command level. This is my first assignment.”

Blaque made a rude noise and said, “We don’t do real communications. When you go on shift later today, you just read the manuals and don’t touch anything until you know what not to touch.”

York nodded. He assumed he would have senior enlisted ratings to show him the ropes while he read the manuals.

Blaque continued, “As you know, interstellar communications are all done by instantaneous gravimetric push by line of sight An-G beams. However, since we’re so far back on the ass end of nowhere, by the time a beam reaches us, it has spread wide enough to blanket half a planet. Our receptors, about the size of my fist, automatically capture said signals.” He emphasized the word automatically as if it was a prayer to some divine space host. “It automatically refocuses and automatically resends them to their intended recipients around this gods-forsaken part of the galactic arm.”

York understood from his physics classes that gravity wasn’t a wave as previously thought of by every physicist since Newton. A scientist named Duke Wainwright had discovered gravity was an energy force that could be captured and focused just like wind and water on a planet’s oceans. It didn’t respond to Newtonian laws. It allowed push, but it didn’t demand the inconvenient opposite and equal reaction. A tight An-G beam went from here to there with no loss of time, unlike ships using anti-gravity propulsion that had to move physically from place to place. Ships ignored the little speed of light limitation by going around it, actually straddling gravity energy, just as a sailing vessel moves across an ocean faster than current wind speed by multiplying the wind’s force with its sails. An-G beams ignored all space-time rules with the exception of spreading in the shape of a cone. A cone that grows larger the farther the signal travels.

The military had communications relay stations clustered close together in the inner planets to maintain operational and communications security, keeping the beam tight and aimed securely only at other military An-G receptors. Communications sent this far out into empty space would require encryption. York doubted he would be involved in any decryption, as most likely it was automatically managed as well.

Blaque pointed down a short corridor. “The red hatch on the port side is the communications bay. That’s your primary duty station. Read the manual if you have any questions. Officer’s quarters are across the corridor through the blue hatch. Your official quarters are marked on the station map downloaded to your dataport.”

York nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. Why would he read a manual if he had communications questions? Why not ask an experienced enlisted rating? He was ready to admit to anyone that he didn’t know anything about communications other than the most simple theories. Still, if he wasn’t supposed to ask an enlisted person, why not ask another officer? Commander Paul and Blaque should be available to ask, assuming their duties didn’t keep them tied up elsewhere.

“Sir, how many enlisted ratings on the third shift will I be supervising?”

Blaque laughed with genuine humor. “Damn, Ensign. We have a total count of three bodies.”

York nodded knowing it would give him at least two people on his shift to rely on. “Thank you, Commander Blaque. I hadn’t expected to supervise anyone on my first assignment. Two should be a good place to start practicing the leadership skills I was taught.”

Blaque laughed again. “You misunderstand me, Ensign Sixteen. There are three military personnel assigned to this station in total.” He ticked off the names on short stubby fingers. “You, me, and Commander Paul. No more. Used to be less, but now we have you.”

York was aghast. “Three! I thought this was a complete station?”

“The station is. We ain’t,” Blaque said. “This used to be a hot place to be. Liberty … the shithole of a planet near us, was thought to have large deposits of transuranics and nearby alien ruins. The planet boomed with miners and astro-archeologists. The Republic built the station and it boomed. This corner of human space looked to be the next bubble of growth into unknown space. Like all good bubbles, it burst. Now we got shit. No. That’s not true. We got less than shit ‘cause you can always make fertilizer with shit. What we got is what’s left over after the galaxy gets a big gas bubble and farts. It gets real stinky for a while and then it all goes away.”

York nodded. “But, what about the civilian side?”

“Hell, Ensign, the civvies left before the military did. When I say there are three of us on the station, I mean three. That’s it, from stem to stern, port to starboard, top to bottom, and bow to butthole. That’s it for sixteen decks with ten square miles per deck.”

“Should I settle into my quarters and prepare for my first shift?”

“Crap on a consule, Ensign. Third shift has been automated for the last year. Show up or not, it doesn’t matter. And your official quarters … well, let’s just say I reside in the penthouse at the Royal Diamond Suites over in the civilian sector. Food storage is in the galley behind the white hatch. Cook it there yourself or take it anywhere you want to. Clean up behind yourself in the military sector. I don’t care about the civvie side. I do a mad hatter at the tea party kind of thing. When my suite at the Royal Diamond gets too dirty, I just move to the room next door. Pick a spot and squat. I don’t care.”

York was too stunned to speak and wondered how dirty a place would have to get before this slob moved to another room.

Blaque said, “Oh, be careful. There are automated medical facilities scattered all around the station, and you’re free to use any one you want, most still work. If you need help, just send out an emergency call. But, if I’m busy, it might be a while before I come find you and I doubt if Commander Paul will bother to come looking for you. So if you fall down a ladder and break a leg, well, drag your own ass to a med lab.”

“Commander Paul won’t ...” York didn’t even know how to phrase the question.

“Nope. Didn’t you know this is where they send officers to die? Paul will never be promoted. I don’t know what he did or who he pissed off or on, but his career is all but over. He’ll just sit here until his time is up and then he’ll go retire on some backwater planet to sit on a beach near some ocean that smells like a bucket of pig shit.”

“And you … sir?”

Blaque laughed. “I’m the second son of a third son of a fourth son of a mean old bastard who ain’t never going to die. I’m so far away from inheriting enough to even support me that I’ve already taken out an option on the beach hut next to Commander Paul’s place.”

“And me?” York was afraid to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“You? Well frak me, even Paul didn’t want you here and I advised him to refuse your assignment. Refusing your attachment to the station wasn’t out of any favors to you, but it would’ve been a favor to you. I didn’t want you here simply because it’s bad enough around here without having one of your kind skulking around every corner.”

Blaque laughed again and continued. “I can see what you’re thinking. Been there and thought that. Put in all the transfer requests you want. Done that, too. A transfer out of here isn’t likely and your promotion to senior grade ensign will take so long to come down the line you’ll be able to sublet my retirement cottage when I die before it gets here. There’s a long line of people ahead of you to take any transfers and promotions and none of them want to be here. Look at it this way: to a small dot on a long straight line, the whole line appears to be nothing more than the dot in front of him and the dot behind him. He can’t see how long the line is in either direction. Now, Paul is the dot in front of me and you are the dot behind me. I can’t see squat beyond you two. Believe me, there ain’t nobody behind you and this line stretches from old Earth to the gods-know-where without end in sight. Welcome home, budger. You’ve been screwed just like the rest of us greased up ex-virgins.”

NINE

York scrubbed the kitchen counter and wiped his hands dry. He liked living at the Wright’s Right Bed and Breakfast. The B&B was a quaint little place off the main promenade consisting of a few cozy little suites around a large communal living, dining, and kitchen area. It even had a faux porch in front of the hatch with a small holo-emitter to make it look as if a person was viewing a deep mountain valley while sipping a cold beer after work instead of a bland station corridor. His rooms were the largest he’d ever lived in. After three months on station, he considered the whole B&B his residence. He listed it on the military database for Commanders Paul or Blaque if they ever needed to find him, not that they ever would.

Normally, he only saw Blaque at shift change and then only once a week or so as the man left his duty station early rather than waiting for York to relieve him. More than once, the man had been half-intoxicated having drunk his way through his shift, leaving detritus in his wake for York to clean up. He had yet to meet Commander Paul, his nominal supervisor. Paul’s practice was to send him a text message at the end of third shift, relieving him of duty long before the man actually showed up to work.

There wasn’t any work to do. Everything was so automated even the emergency relay systems didn’t require supervision. Reading the manuals had only taken a month or so to get through the relevant parts. He didn’t bother with the maintenance manuals as there were so many redundant backups in place any failure would give him time to fix the broken equipment at his leisure. The maintenance log didn’t show any repair the automated system hadn’t accomplished by itself or anything requiring human intervention since the station went on line almost thirty years ago.

He was shocked to discover Commander Paul had been station commander since the station drawdown almost a decade ago and was quickly approaching his first retirement milestone. Blaque had been on station almost as long, yet he had another twenty years before he could even take the earliest, and most modest, retirement available. Military officers considered retirement pay the joke of the navy. Most senior enlisted earned much more for their retirement than officers did. Naval officers, until York, were from the upper classes with rich family ties. They were expected to lean on family, or if family support wasn’t possible, to be smart enough to manage their money during their careers for a comfortable retirement, or at the very least, being able to lobby successfully for a second career with a civilian military contractor.

York’s new home at the Wright’s was only a short walk from a civilian gym on the promenade. He doubted if he would ever run into Commander Blaque there. He liked the place because it had holographic personal trainers and a variable anti-gravity workout room with every piece of equipment known to man. The personal trainers, who appeared happy to be doing something again, designed a complete dietary plan for him and provided bottles of special vitamins and supplements from the gym’s storerooms. He didn’t question why the gym owners hadn’t taken the vitamins and supplements when they abandoned the gym. The obvious conclusion was it would cost more to box and ship supplies elsewhere or to throw them away than it cost to just leave them sitting on the shelves in the back. Scavengers hadn’t repurposed the vitamins as the storage area was behind locked thick hatches.

He had found some evidence of scavengers poking into various storerooms and warehouses on the civilian side of the station. So far, none of the junk collectors had started to cut through hatch locks. The lack of serious scavenging was probably due to the minimal military presence on the station. It would be impossible for someone to dock anywhere on the station without alerting someone in the communications center, although any alert might be problematic due to spotty duty attendance by the two commanders. Still, scavengers might not know how shoddy the military presence had become.

New Hope, York’s home planet, had gravity a few percentage points higher than human standard as set by old Earth. He liked to exercise a few percentage points higher than home, even pushing to two gravities at times. He had to admit he felt better than ever before. The Yards had fed him well-balanced meals, then again, they never provided personalized meal plans. He could feel the benefits of working hard in heavy gravity and the benefits were worth having to find and fix his own meals to match his meal plans. He did miss having real sparing partners for self-defense training, the Yards provided many volunteers to work with, especially when they were instructed not to pull any punches in full out combat training.

The uniform generator in his ‘official’ quarters on the military side automatically adjusted his uniform size, taking in a pinch at the waist and letting it out in the shoulders and arms. He thought about just dressing in the variety of civvie clothing he could order from the automated clothing production units scattered throughout both sides of the station, but it had taken him too long to become an officer. He wouldn’t throw his commission away that easily. Maybe after ten years, he’d go native, but not yet.

He could see why Blaque was almost reverent about automation. Without it, he’d be running around half-naked as most of the shops on the promenade were stripped bare of everything not welded down including hangers, hooks, and hairspray. Most of the shops, like the gym were locked and sealed, requiring his military password and biometric overrides to open.

York felt positively deviant tweaking the hologramic programming to get his favorite trainers, Gretchen and Aphrodite, to appear topless. He figured that if he could get it to work, he would move some of the emitters into his suite at the bread and breakfast. He didn’t want to touch and couldn’t have even if he wanted to. He did want to watch them as he was only passing familiar with nude women and admittedly, was more than a little curious.

The girls had some amazingly flexible personally interactive programming, however the software wasn’t quite flexible enough. He wondered if he could combine their software programming with the adult theater near the main hatch between the military and civilian sides of the station. It would be a way to provide the appearance of human contact. He also didn’t really need the overtly sexual actions of the holo-women in the adult theater. They were vulgar and obscene, so much so it made him nervous and twitchy. On the other hand, they did have a different set of personally interactive skills missing in Gretchen and Aphrodite, especially in the areas of vocabulary and conversational responses.

He glanced at his dataport. He still had a few hours before reporting for duty. His options to kill time were relatively short. He wanted to read, as he was in the middle of a thriller about a spy who’d been trapped by his own underdeveloped sense of sexual mores. His enemy was just about to start interrogating/torturing him making it a hard place to stop, but he’d quit reading because he spent most of his working shift reading fiction and didn’t want to finish this book too quickly. He didn’t want to read for fun during his off duty hours.

He’d found a list of additional duties he could volunteer for. It included every duty ever assigned on Em.T-Sp8s. They were still available because there wasn’t an officer officially assigned. The list was long, including everything from laundry officer to gunnery and weapons munitions officer. Most duties listed the rank of the last officer holding the duty. Few duties seemed fit for a junior grade ensign, as captains and commanders had filled them. Few duties weren’t already running on automatics, yet all he had to do was plug his name in as volunteering for secondary duties and he would get paid for the extra work, even if there wasn’t any work to be done due to the automatics.

There was the caveat that if something went wrong with the automatics, the officer in charge was held responsible. That gave him enough pause to think each position through rather than just sign up for everything and take the pay. It might be more trouble than any extra pay was worth, certainly if the duty required officer sign-offs on every report submitted to higher command, even if the reports were automatically generated. He wondered if automated readers read automated reports.

He did like the idea of becoming the station’s morale officer. How could he get in trouble being the officer in charge of civilian complaints when there weren’t any civilians? He didn’t have any place to spend extra pay, yet he wondered how much extra pay he could sign up for before someone came to check up on him.

He decided he would go for a run since he hadn’t showered after working out this morning. He would be back in time to shower and change into work utilities before third shift. He liked running on the station. Running wasn’t like being on a planet. Here he could set his dataport to guide him from deck to deck, exploring the station as he went, looking at this, marking that for later study, racing up and down ladders instead of using lifts and elevators. His runs didn’t follow any discernible pattern. He set his dataport to be as random as possible ensuring he eventually went everywhere, backtracking and duplicating as little as possible. He set a goal to someday tread on every corridor on the station and look in every cabin, storeroom, and warehouse. Most of those he’d already seen were empty spaces without even a trace of dust, having been undisturbed for years. Reading activity logs assured him that most of the station hatches hadn’t been opened in years. Em.T-Sp8s was truly empty space.

He was running along the lowest freight decks in the military section. He was feeling good about the run. His feet were whisking quietly and lightly along the decks. Working out in heavy gravity made running in standard gravity much more pleasant. There was little enough to see, following the path designated by his dataport. He would run along a wide corridor, issue orders for a warehouse or loading lock to unlock and open the interior hatches, then run through and trace a quick circle around the space. He’d order the area closed, locked and sealed behind him as he went. He was amazed at how similar each space was, yet how absolutely different they were from each other, like the comparison to the obvious similarities of women’s breasts. Yes, they were the same, yet different and each worth a good look.

He opened a hatch at the run, whisked into the space and skidded to a stop, his shoes squeaking on the deck. He came face-to-face with a master chief petty officer. The expected empty space was filled with enlisted men and women in various stages of activity and inactivity.

The man shouted from behind an incredibly well-grown mustache, “Where the hell … who the … ?” He flashed the QR code on York’s workout uniform and shouted, “Officer on deck. Room attention!”

TEN

Before he realized he’d spoken, York shouted, “As you were!” He gave a silent thanks to the Yards for the hours of rote practice. Speaking to the master chief, he said, “I’m Ensign Junior Grade York Sixteen, third shift station commander. You are?”

“You sure took a few years off my life showing up like that, Ensign York.” The man smiled. “Master Chief Jim Fugget.”

At least, York thought the master chief was smiling. His smile was hard to see behind the huge mustache and the glare coming off his polished baldhead. His dark skin practically glowed in the station’s artificial light. “I didn’t realize we had anyone else on station, Master Chief … um … Fuckit?”

“Fugget, sir,” the master chief laughed. “Two gees in the middle.” He waved a hand at the other enlisted, most of whom hadn’t bothered going back to their duties and were standing watching the exchange. “Most of these boneheads pronounce it with the ‘ck’ in the middle, but it’s okay with me, just so long as—” He raised his voice so it carried across the space “—just so long as they’re working.” He flexed his massive arm muscles as if the threat of a physical altercation might follow if his words weren’t obeyed.

The hint was enough. Suddenly everyone was busy, although there were plenty of laughs and joking as if they knew the master chief’s threats were toothless. York wasn’t sure he’d consider the man toothless. He was as tall as York, yet much wider. His muscles seemed to twitch even when he was standing still. He wore his uniform sleeves rolled up tight, almost to shoulder height, covering his shoulder patches.

Most of the enlisted were unloading gear through a shuttle hatch. A few of them were dragging what looked like fiberglass and clear plastic torpedoes to a stack in the corner. Each one was barely big enough for two men to squeeze inside with the outsides covered in various paint schemes reminiscent of any graffiti wall in the budger section of town. No one seemed concerned if they were banged around or scratched, so he assumed they weren’t dangerous.

“Master Chief, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize your unit designation.”

“Sorry, sir.” Fugget rolled a sleeve down far enough for York to flash a dataport query to the man’s QR patch. “We’re the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City on Liberty.”

“You’re on liberty?” His imagination could dredge up more exciting places to spend liberty or leave than Em.T-Sp8s.

Fugget pointed at the deck, though obviously his finger meant farther below the station. “Liberty? The planet below?”

York was embarrassed. He’d completely forgotten the name of the nearby planet. He had plenty of leave saved up to take a quick visit to the planet, but he felt as if he was still settling in and was more than a little uncomfortable asking for leave when he had only been on duty three months. It didn’t matter if he’d accumulated almost five and a half months leave. In fact, he’d never requested leave before. It still felt wrong to request the time.

He nodded, “Yes. Liberty, the planet. Thank you, Master Chief. I didn’t realize your Naval Reserve used the station.”

“Well, sir, we only get up here a couple of times a year. You know how it is with the Reserves. Most of us have real jobs and can’t get away for these trips as often as we’d like.” He pointed at the men and women working around them. “A lot of these goobers would be up here every weekend if we could afford the freight charges. They’ll take any opportunity they can to get up here so they can ride back down on their skyriders.”

“Skyriders?”

Fugget waved a hand at the fiberglass torpedoes stacked in the corner. “Skyriders are those little deathtraps there. It’s a crazy sport. One or two of those idiots pop the top open, run across a launch bay, jump in at the last minute, and slam their hatch shut just before hitting vacuum. They travel ballistic down through Liberty’s atmosphere until they get low enough to pop open their wings and glide them the rest of the way down. They score points for speed, aerobatics and accuracy. Do you see the skinny petty officer with the green and pink hair? She was junior world champion a few years back when she was only thirteen. She and her little brother landed one so close to the target that you couldn’t squeeze a human hair between the skyrider and the target. She’s only gotten better since then. I swear the only reason she’s in the Naval Reserve is to catch free shuttle rides up out of atmosphere.”

“They jump from here?”

“No. This is way too far. They need to be much closer to the gravity well. They’ll jump from the shuttle on the way back. Why do you ask, sir? Do you want to go for a ride?”

York looked at Fugget as if the man had lost his sanity. “No, Master Chief. I was just asking because it amazes me at the myriad of ways humans think up to kill themselves.”

Fugget shrugged, “It happens in a lot of ways, sir. We lost a spaceman first class last year when he tripped getting off a bus and hit his head on a rock. I can understand accidents, but it really chaps my cheeks to lose good people to theft.”

“You mean when they get arrested as thieves?” He wondered about the Reserve’s recruiting techniques if they were enlisting criminals.

“No, sir. I mean when they’re stolen right off the planet by slavers and kidnappers.”

York remembered the Gambion was supposed to be in this part of space for slaver interdiction. It must be a bigger problem than he imagined if slavers took people from their homes. “I was told the ship that brought me here about three standard months ago came to put a stop to slavery.”

Fugget said. “I’m sure that’s what they tell the media. It’s been going on for years and they rightly don’t seem to give a rat’s patootie, sir. I imagine they’re only involved because some slaver made a mistake and kidnapped the wrong rich man’s kid. They most likely sold the kid back for ransom, however it may have pissed off someone enough to rattle a few sabers.”

“The slavers take children?”

“You don’t follow this, do you, sir?”

York shook his head. “I have a good grasp of economic slavery, but not human trafficking. I know it goes on, I just haven’t had any personal experience with it.”

“You wouldn’t be standing here if you’d shared the experience. Slavers take children and some adults for the sex trade or for domestic servitude. You’re good looking enough to end up on that side of the business. On the other hand, you also have the look of a man who’d cause problems. Most likely you’d be sent to some unnamed planet and worked to death for someone else’s profit. If a person comes from a rich family, they might be ransomed back. Do you come from a rich family?”

“Rich? Not that I know of, no.”

“Then you best not be captured by slavers. It’s not that you’d have to worry about it while living on the station. Doesn’t it still have its automatic anti-ship defenses on line? A slaver’s ship wouldn’t get within a hundred thousand kilometers of this place before the station took it down. It’s a shame Ol’ Empty Space is too far from Liberty to give us protection.”

“Are slaver’s ships a regular thing on Liberty?”

“They aren’t supposed to be. The station’s guns may not protect us, however you have sensors that are supposed to give us warning of approaching vessels, especially those with suspect IDs. Sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn’t. Slavers don’t actually do sweeping runs on any recognizable pattern or we could take them out ourselves. They swoop down on a small farm or a market somewhere and sweep up whomever they can catch. They mostly kill those they don’t have a use for. The useless ones would be the old, disabled and those too young to leave Mama’s teats. We try to maintain a rapid response team, but the population is really spread out on Liberty. We manage to save a few folks, but we can’t save them all, no matter what the boss thinks.” At the word boss, he nodded his head back toward the shuttle hatch.

“The boss, Master Chief? Are you in command of this contingent?”

Fugget shook his head. “No, sir. The boss on this trip is Lieutenant Junior Grade Altamont. The unit commander is Captain Altamont.”

“Related?”

Fugget nodded, “Yes, sir. The captain is the LT’s poppa and that skinny blue and green haired PO is the LT’s little sister. The captain couldn’t make this trip , his barley fields are ready for harvest.”

“Where is Lieutenant Altamont?”

Fugget laughed. “The last I saw, the LT was storming into the pilot’s cabin to raise hell about the driving.” He stopped talking to shout at a few slow moving rates and turned back. “The LT should be here soon if you can hang around and wait. I need to get the rest of this shuttle unloaded so Ernie can get back to work.”

“Ernie?”

Fugget said, “Ernie’s the shuttle pilot. Being the pilot is only right since it’s his shuttle. Captain Altamont pays him to bring us up here. He has to get back to Liberty since the captain’s fields aren’t the only ones coming to harvest.” He rushed off to berate a few ratings who were leaning on rather than moving crates.

York wandered over to take a closer look at the skyriders. They were flimsy looking contraptions and he couldn’t imagine anyone letting a thirteen year old girl ride one from vacuum through atmosphere. Even with wings, they didn’t look safe. He saw a latch and popped open a cover to get a closer look inside.

“Excuse me, Ensign. May I help you with something?” PO Altamont was at his elbow. The young girl with green and pink hair had startlingly blue eyes.

“No, I was just looking—”

“No, sir,” she interrupted. “You weren’t just looking. You were touching. I realize you might not know, but touching someone else’s rider is bad luck and downright bad manners.”

“I am sorry, miss,” he said. “You are PO Altamont?”

“Yes, sir. Chrissie Altamont, Petty Officer Third Class, Communications Technician.”

“Comms, huh?” He grinned at her. “Me, too. I’m Ensign York Sixteen. I don’t know about your comms duties, but mine are boring as hell. I am sorry about touching your skyrider.”

She shrugged. “That one isn’t mine. That’s Booger’s and he needs a little bad luck if I’m going to beat him on our next ride down.”

“From what I hear, you’re good.”

“Some, yeah. It’s bad luck to brag about it. Booger’s better.”

“It still sounds like a dangerous sport.”

She grinned at him, “Well, Dad says exactly the same thing, except he doesn’t have any way to stop me. It’s my saorsa.”

York looked confused. “Your Saorsa? I thought Saorsa was the name of a city?”

She snorted in laughter covering her mouth and nose. “Excuse me, Ensign. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

“Laughing is okay. You go right ahead.”

She went ahead and laughed.

He liked her laugh, fresh and unrestrained, except when she tried to cover up a snort. Her laugh was genuine mirth and not directed at him personally. He silently cursed regulations against fraternization between the ranks. He made a mental note to check regulations to see if she was considered enlisted when she wasn’t on duty, after all she was in the Reserves. Maybe liberty on Liberty wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Saorsa City isn’t much of a city. Liberty doesn’t have cities. Saorsa City is more of a mobile market or festival since the founders determined we don’t need permanent towns or cities.”

“Master Chief Fugget mentioned Saorsa City.”

“It really isn’t a city. It’s the governor’s road train. And it isn’t really a big train, not like some of the farm equipment sales outfits, but it does act as a mobile government seat. It’s free to move about as it needs to.”

York was confused. “What do you mean you don’t have cities and towns? Where do the people live?”

Chrissie said, “They live on farms and ranches, silly … I mean, Ensign.” She looked embarrassed at her military gaff. She rattled on as if trying to cover up her mistake at calling an officer ‘silly’. “We don’t have anywhere permanent where people cluster together. Why, it’s a good twenty miles to the closest neighbor’s place from our home! People do gather together for harvests and roundups, and when we do, businesses and government offices drive in to join us using trucks, shuttles and road trains. When we go back to work, they go somewhere else.”

“You people seem to set a high value on liberty and freedom.”

Chrissie looked at him as if he really was silly. “Saorsa means freedom in old Gaelic. My saorsa is my freedom. The government, Dad, or Master Chief Fugget can’t stop me from following my own freedom.”

“Even if it means plunging to your death in one of these flying coffins?”

“Huh! That’s what Dad calls my skyrider. Mom calls his motorcycle a two-wheeled organ donor, so he has no room to talk.”

“What’s a motorcycle?”

Chrissie laughed again. York decided he really liked this young woman. She was just about his age, maybe a year or two younger. Her hair was crazy colored, she had wide set eyes and a rich full mouth under a straight nose. Sharp cheekbones blended well with a strong jaw line. As Master Chief Fugget said, she was skinny, although not exactly bony. She was more whipcord muscular, as if she didn’t allow any extra fat to accumulate anywhere. She was shorter than him, most women were.

“Motorcycles are the craziest things you ever saw. They’re just an engine and two wheels. Dad straddles the engine and balances on those two wheels. He and his buddies race around the roads at near enough to a hundred miles an hour. Well, Mom may be crazier. Her and her clutch sample their moonshine and shoot skeet while Dad and his gang rides hogs.”

York was baffled. While he understood most of the words, none of it seemed to make sense. He didn’t know what skeet was and why you would shoot it. He did know what moonshine was, after all New Hope had two moons, one large and one small enough it had no gravity of its own. One of the moons was in the sky every night. How would you sample it? He knew what hogs were, but riding livestock sounded crazier than riding the motorcycle thing, especially doing it at night under the moon.

Chrissie saw his confusion, “I guess you do different things for fun where you come from.”

York nodded, “I’ve heard about having fun, but I don’t really have as much experience with it as you would expect.”

Chrissie winked at him. “Well, we’ll just have to do something about that. How about you and I climb into my rider and I’ll give you a ride?”

It sounded to York as if the offer for a ride was for more than a jaunt in her skyrider.

A voice behind them interrupted York’s response. “The hell you will.”

York spun around and stood face to face with a female junior grade lieutenant. He snapped to attention. “Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, sir.”

“At ease, Ensign.” She looked at PO Altamont. “Chrissie, shag your ass back to work.”

“Aw, Sis.”

“Don’t ‘aw, sis’ me. Move it or I will cut it off, burn it, and bury it.” She looked York up and down. “Ensign Sixteen, I don’t like you regular navy types. I never met one who didn’t think he or she was god’s gift to the local talent. Even your fat-ass Commander Blaque thinks he’d be doing us a favor if we dropped our panties for him. So, you quit flirting with my detachment and keep your hands to yourself. I’ll be damned if I take any of my girls back pregnant by some fucknard who’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Lieutenant …” York stammered. He was about to protest how he hadn’t been flirting, until he realized he really had been. He wasn’t as smooth as Bond, Chiroc or even the Austin Powers guy, but he had been trying to keep Chrissie talking. “Yes, sir. I apologize. My actions were indeed blatant fraternization.”

He looked carefully at the woman. This was Lieutenant Altamont, the commander of this reserve detachment. She wasn’t thin like her sister, not that there was any fat on her any more than there was on his holo trainers Gretchen or Aphrodite. However, she did have curves where her younger sister had none. Her hair was long and jet-black. York silently thanked the god’s she wasn’t a redhead. She would’ve been perfect if she was a redhead and being perfect would’ve been too much.

Lieutenant Altamont backing off a bit, “Well, maybe you weren’t blatant. The overt action part is what I want to make sure doesn’t happen. I can’t stop you two once Chrissie … um, Petty Officer Altamont, graduates from college, gets her degree and earns a commission next year, but until then, she, and every other thing walking on two legs is off limits to you. Got me, Ensign?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I understand and I will comply. May I offer my assistance during your deployment aboard Em.T-Sp8s?”

“I’ve been coming up here twice a year since I was a raw recruit at fourteen. I know my way around better than you do. So, I don’t need to see you round and about. Make no mistake, Ensign Sixteen, if I catch you trying to get into any pretty panties, I’ll not wait for a court martial, I’ll castrate you faster than any two-month-old calf. You just stay out of our way and keep out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir.” He spun on his heels and marched out of the bay. He grinned when Master Chief Fugget winked at him on the way past. He wondered if he could find some way to be round and about, regardless of what Lieutenant Altamont said.

The past three months hadn’t been as hard as he expected them to be. York had decided at a very early age he didn’t like people in general. However, he knew he needed specific people in his life. He would go stark raving, foaming at the mouth, wet your pants insane if he spent much more time on this station without some human contact. There had always been people in his life. His earliest memories were living in the orphanage dormitory with children stacked in long rows three and four high. Even at the Yards, when he had a tiny private room in his final year, he was rarely alone except to sleep. The Yards filled his waking hours with classes, lectures, training and above all hazing and harassment. Hazing and harassment were human contact, just not always pleasant. All the same, contact was contact.

York was more than ready to admit he missed interacting with people. He missed Harp and Sadie Brown from the Gambion. He’d thought they were friends, yet once he was unable to attend their dinners, he never heard from them again. He hadn’t received any responses to his texts and emails to them. He tried to think back to other friends in the past, remembering his past had been lonely.

Now there were people on his station if he wanted to talk to someone. He certainly had to hang around long enough to find out the lieutenant’s first name.

ELEVEN

York grinned as he flashed his orders to Lieutenant Junior Grade Kenna Altamont. He was now the station liaison officer for all visiting reserve units. Accepting the role as a secondary duty gave him access to their roster with everyone’s names and biographies. Her name was at the top of the list as the detachment commander.

Kenna was a couple of months older than him. She was not old enough to give anyone’s excessively stuffy old grandmother apoplexy. He thought it amazing that even in this day and age many people still thought wives should be younger than their husbands. York wasn’t entertaining any thoughts of marriage. Honeymoon fantasies with Kenna, but not marriage, was entertaining enough. Every marriage fantasy ended in disaster from infidelity (hers, of course), military transfer (his) or death (certainly hers). He had nothing to offer in marriage. She outranked him and probably always would. He was convinced he would spend the rest of his military career in virtual obscurity as a junior grade ensign. She came from a large wealthy family, or wealthy by Liberty standards. He had his military pay and no family at all. She had civilian life prospects as a rancher, a business owner, or even moving into planetary government. He was stuck in this dead end job without hope of ever getting out, short of insanity or retirement.

In all of that, he had learned her first name. It gave him a little jolt of pleasure seeing her frustration and anger over his newly assigned duties. He didn’t know what a liaison officer did and obviously she didn’t either. The liaison officer additional duty had been signed off by Commander Paul with a specific note to ‘keep ‘em out of my hair’, ‘give ‘em whatever they want’, ‘keep your dick in your pants’, and most important of all to his way of thinking ‘meet with their commander daily for updates’.

Kenna said, “What the hell! We never needed a liaison officer before.”

York kept his grin. “Well, Lieutenant Altamont, I was never available before now.”

Kenna said, “My promise still stands if I catch you with any of my people.”

He showed her the note from Commander Paul. “See? Even my supervisor has warned me about such actions.”

Kenna grunted, “He actually wrote this? What kind of military command is this? ‘Keep your dick in your pants’?”

“Pretty much the same command you gave me minus the threat to castrate me, Lieutenant.”

“Um, yeah, I guess. Sorry about that, but I do mean it. Some of these kids aren’t sophisticated like you big city boys.”

York wanted to deny he was a big city boy. True he’d been born and raised in a big city, however he wasn’t sophisticated. He could dance. Cotillion was a required class at his military prep school, but he’d never taken a date to a dance. He knew which fork to use at the table. Etiquette was a required class at the orphanage, but he’d never taken a date out to dinner. He also could differentiate opera from rap. Music appreciation class was a required class at the Yards, but he’d never taken a woman to a concert. He knew about sex and sexual harassment. They’d been required classes everywhere, but he’d never even held a girl’s hand for anything other than a complicated judo hold or while wearing gloves in dance class.

Kenna said, “What kind of name is Sixteen anyway? Sixteen? Is that like the sixteenth lord of August Manor back on Richie Richland or wherever you come from?”

His budger past didn’t exactly embarrass York, yet, this was the first person he’d ever met who didn’t seem to know who he was. He wanted to duck the question, but the ingrained habit of honestly answering higher-ranking officer’s questions was insistent.

“No, sir. My name is a date. It means the twenty-fifth of August in the sixteen year of this century. Y being the twenty-fifth letter of the alphabet, Y for York. It’s my birthday.”

“What the …? Your family has so many children they make up names to match their birth date?”

York felt his face turning red with embarrassment. “No, sir. I have no family. Sixteen is my birth date and the day I was turned over to the state run orphanage. If I was given a name by my mother, I never knew it or her.”

It was Kenna’s turn to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Ensign. I didn’t mean to pry into your personals.”

He wanted to tell her that he’d like to get a lot more personal. None of the classes he’d ever taken told him how to say such a thing smoothly. It also might, just might, border on sexual harassment. Instead, he said, “So, what can I do to liaison you?”

She looked thoughtful, tapped her front teeth with a well-manicured fingernail and ended up wrapping her lips around her finger making little sucking noises as she thought. The redness in York’s face returned. It had nothing to do with embarrassment … yet. He knew it would get embarrassing if she didn’t quit sucking on her finger soon.

She said, “I’ve got everyone bunked down in two warehouses. This one,” hooking a thumb over her shoulder, “and one down there.” She pointed a long way down the corridor where a group of men milled about. “I’d like them closer. I mean, not so close as to mix the sexes, all the same it would be nice to have them close enough to form up quicker.”

“Why are you bunking in warehouses?”

“Because those warehouses are unlocked and close to our duty area.”

York asked, “What are your duties?”

“We’re retrofitting an old freighter, a cattle hauler in its previous life. If we can get her running, we can use her for smuggler and slaver interdiction around Liberty.”

York nodded. “Master Chief Fugget said you had a problem with slavers, but he didn’t mention smugglers.”

Kenna laughed. York liked her laugh more than he liked her sister’s.

“Smuggling is only a government problem since it means importing and exporting goods without them getting their cut. For most of us, it’s more of a part-time job. Hell, the shuttle bringing us up here does more smuggling than he does legal freight. We just say smuggling interdiction, because it keeps the government on our side. They aren’t as interested in stopping slavery as they are smuggling. Slavery doesn’t affect their pocketbooks.”

“The freighter is here?”

She shook her head. “No, she’s three decks up in the first docking bay on the civilian side of the station. We can’t officially dock her on the military side unless we get the old girl operational.”

“I was going to suggest you put your detachment in the old military barracks, but they’re about six decks up on the military side. It would keep them close together and—.”

She shook her head, interrupting him. “We thought about that back when I was nothing more than a shave tail ensign. They’re on lock down and we can’t get in.”

“I can unlock anything you need, but the old barracks wasn’t what I was going to ultimately suggest. Why don’t you move to the Spacer’s Rest? It’s a small hotel just on the other side of the gate to the civilian side. Actually, I think it used to be a brothel years ago, so the decor may be a bit gaudy. It’s close to your ship and it has enough rooms for most of your contingent, if you don’t mind some of your lower ratings doubling up.”

He wanted to offer her quarters at the Wright’s Right Bed and Breakfast. He knew the suggestion would be too forward especially since it would be just the two of them. Being just the two of them would be exactly what he wanted, but it would cause talk in her unit. Gossip about a commanding officer was never good.

Kenna said, “This is a military deployment, Ensign. We can’t accept or pay for civilian accommodations.”

“The whole station is now under military control. There aren’t any civvies left to ask for or receive pay. As your liaison officer, I have the authority to lock or unlock any space you need that isn’t actively being used by the navy.”

A small group of enlisted men running past interrupted them. They grunted their greetings, but didn’t slow down. They were huffing and puffing much harder than he would have expected for anyone in military status, even part timers.

“Your detachment is a bit out of shape, sir.”

Kenna spat back. “No, they are not. It just takes us a few days to acclimate to the higher gravity of the station. Liberty is about ninety percent standard. Ensign Sixteen, I won’t stand by and listen to you criticize these men and women. They’re all volunteers and taking time away from their families to protect and guard us all. They aren’t weekend warriors or—”

York waved his hands in surrender. “I apologize, Lieutenant, to you and to all of your command. I didn’t mean anything disparaging. We have a fully loaded gym not too far from the Spacer’s Rest you might make available for your unit. It has some variable anti-gravity settings that might help your people acclimate more effectively.”

Kenna nodded, accepting his apology. She turned and shouted. Her voice echoed along the almost empty corridor between the military docks and warehouses. “Master Chief! Let’s go for a little walk with Ensign Sixteen.” She turned back to him. “If these accommodations look good to Fugget and me, we’ll have our people hump their stuff to the new location.”

“Why carry their gear?” He pointed at a warehouse hatch he knew was locked. “There are vehicles in there you can use, trucks, loaders, and pallet jacks. There are even a few golf cars, segways, and scooters.” He decided to throw caution to the wind. “And unless you really want to share an old brothel with your detachment, how about you and the master chief move into a nice suite at a real cute little bed and breakfast nearby?”

TWELVE

York was getting good in the kitchen, but this was his first time cooking for someone else. He flipped a few pancakes and checked under a ham and cheese omelet. He’d filled the B&B pantry, pulling stores from the warehouse near the station’s active military galley. He doubted Commander Paul or Blaque would even notice the missing goods. Resupply was automatic and in the past three months, it looked as if neither man did more than use a microwave oven to heat a prepackaged meal, eat directly from the packaging, and throw the remains into the recycler.

The food statis chambers kept even the most delicate foods as fresh as if they were handpicked today. Still, he inspected everything with fanatical care. This was his first dinner party even if the meal was breakfast. Lieutenant Kenna Altamont had accepted his offer to move into the bread and breakfast. She brought Master Chief Fugget with her. He brought Senior Chief Petty Officers Jaden and Rodriguez with him, each taking a separate suite. The Wright’s little business was at guest capacity for the first time in a decade.

Rodriguez stepped into the kitchen and began whipping dishes away, carrying them into the dining area. She didn’t ask, she just grabbed and carried, slipping personalized meals in front of the others without asking who wanted what. York noticed she didn’t get any orders wrong. He grabbed the last two dishes, sliding the omelet before Fugget and setting his new specialty, chocolate chip pancakes, in front of Kenna.

He sat at the head of the table with his bowl of plain fortified oatmeal and granola. Looking at the display of food around the table, he almost regretted following Aphrodite’s personalized dietary regime. He sat quietly with spoon in hand waiting for Kenna, as ranking officer, to give the word to begin. She looked back at him, obviously waiting for his signal as the host to begin. “Oh, um …” Most of his toasts and oaths would be exceptionally inappropriate at this table. Toasting the Yards and her commandant would be as inappropriate as expressing an oath to the standing navy. He said the first thing he could think of, “To Liberty and freedom.”

Everyone, including Kenna pounded the table with their bare fists in a rapid and surprisingly synchronized thumping, rattling glasses, and utensils.

Rodriguez shouted, “Amen!”

Kenna said with a tone of firm commitment, “So be it always.”

Fugget and Jaden both growled some strange noise like a wild beast challenging the moon to come down and fight.

York waved his spoon as soon as Fugget and Jaden quit daring the heavens to a duel. He dug into his oatmeal with distaste. Eating alone, it hadn’t seemed like such bland paste, now he wanted chocolate chip pancakes with blueberry syrup just like Kenna was gobbling down.

Kenna said, “Holy crap on a crutch! Where did you learn to cook?”

York said, “I just followed the instructions. I mean, I can whip up anything from paella to opossum. Pancakes are easy. I did have some cooking instructions from some … friends, I guess, back on the Gambion when I was coming out here.”

Rodriguez laughed, “It took me six months to make pancakes when I was learning to cook. They either came out runny or burnt.”

Between mouthfuls, Kenna said, “They’re wonderful, Ensign Sixteen. It’s a good thing we’re only going to be here a couple of weeks or I’d be so rolly polly I wouldn’t fit through a freight hatch.”

York couldn’t picture her being rolly polly, nevertheless he’d like her even if she did get that way. He just wished she’d start calling him York. Using first names across ranks would be against military protocol, especially in mixed ranks of officers and enlisted dining at the same table. He and Kenna were low ranking officers and the enlisted were all in the top three enlisted ranks, each with years more experience than both of the officers put together. Yet, rank is rank.

He tapped his bowl with the side of his spoon, pointing at the oatmeal. “Aphrodite has me on a special diet of gruel and water to keep me from getting pudgy.”

Kenna’s head snapped up, looking directly at him. He wondered if there was a hint of jealously in her look. She said, “I thought there were only three of you on station. Who is Aphrodite?”

York smiled. Poking the bear wasn’t a smart thing to do and it felt exactly like that was what he was doing when he said, “I’ll introduce you to her and her friend Gretchen as soon as we finish breakfast.”

Fugget, pretending to ignore the scowl on Kenna’s face, changed the subject, “You come down to Liberty the next time you get leave. You’ll be more than welcome to stay at my place if you can cook like this. How are you with a barbeque grill?”

THIRTEEN

York’s feet pounded on the station decks with a heavy rhythm. He no longer ran in a quiet whisper, having figured out how to reset the gravity on each deck. He never reset the main military deck as that would affect Paul and Blaque, but he reset the other decks to twenty-five percent over standard when he did his daily run. He wasn’t becoming a glutton for punishment, on the other hand it seemed that every day since the Liberty reservists left, his workouts became easier and easier. He cranked up the gravity in the gym until even Gretchen complained and he dialed it back to a more comfortable 1.5 gravities, adding stretching and flexibility exercises to his daily regimen of weight and martial-arts exercises.

He had sparing partners for full combat martial arts training. They were holographic and didn’t actually hurt when they hit him, but the computer referee kept score. Not being able to feel a strike with his hand, got him over the embarrassing habit of pulling his punches in training. He could clobber through an opponent’s head, aiming for the back of his skull without fear of ever bruising his knuckles.

He felt he was becoming a bit obsessive about working out, but what else did he have to do? He could take up drinking like Blaque or go into self-imposed exile like Paul, doing the gods-know-what. Both would lead to insanity. York wasn’t worried about going insane. Either he was scary sane or already so crazy it didn’t matter. He hadn’t decided which.

In the past four months since Lieutenant Altamont and her team had left, he had run the station twice and was rapidly making his way around a third time, becoming more familiar with the station than anyone in decades. He wanted to tackle the repairs on the cattle hauler that the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City on Liberty was working to retrofit. He wanted to, yet he didn’t. The build out was their project and he was loath to step on their toes. Scrounging for parts was a simple matter of digging around various piles of junk in the civvie section of the station to find the necessary pieces for their repairs. He didn’t do any more than drag the parts into their work bay.

He was at war with himself for even doing that little bit. It concerned him that if they fixed the old freighter they wouldn’t have any reason to come back to the station. He wasn’t worried about human company. He’d since learned he truly enjoyed his own company, not needing human companionship for anything. Having people around was nice, yet companionship wasn’t as necessary as he previously thought. He even considered what it might be like to rid himself of Paul and Blaque. Neither man contributed one iota to station life. The problem was, they weren’t detriments either. No matter how hard he tried he was unable to find a reason to remove them from among the living. The lack of reason was frustrating. Frustration wasn’t a serious enough reason to help them move on to the next life. Besides, if they were no longer here, the navy could send in someone who might actually attempt to supervise him, rather than just leave him alone. If he started helping too many supervisors into permanent retirement the navy might, and rightfully so, become somewhat suspicious. That would never do.

York wondered if that was why he wanted the 44th Naval Reserve to return. He wouldn’t have any reason to remove Lieutenant JG Kenna Altamont or her sister Chrissie. He also liked the Master Chief and Fugget’s friends Jaden and Rodriguez. No one else came close to giving him reason to change their status from living to dead, no one except maybe the skyrider champion Booger. The man was polite enough, even so, Chrissie did say he needed a bit of bad luck. York was sure he could provide plenty of bad luck if the young man ever stepped out of line.

He reported each piece of equipment slated for the 44th to Captain Altamont on Liberty and to Commander Paul. Neither officer saw fit to respond, although York carefully worded his messages so none of them required a response. No response was needed, although he did want to hear from Kenna Altamont. He couldn’t figure out a reason to send her a message. He thought about sending her a personal note. Except for Harp and Sadie Brown, he’d never sent anyone a personal message and he must have done the messaging wrong as they hadn’t responded.

He had received a message from Master Chief Jim Fugget. The message wasn’t to him personally, it came addressed to the Em.T-Sp8s reserve liaison officer. That was him. The message was an official statement letting him know the 44th would be back on station in six weeks. He also had requests from three other reserve components requesting time using station facilities. Word about the change in station facilities must have spread as none those units had been to Empty Space in years. He was more than willing to schedule them time. The 41st was a gunnery outfit, so in his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station gunnery officer, he sent them a message offering access to the station’s guns. The 43rd was a search and rescue unit. In his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station search and rescue officer, he sent them a message offering access to the station’s emergency EVA equipment including short-range sleds and vacuum capable escape chutes. The 46th was a medical specialty unit. In his voluntary secondary duty capacity as the station medical liaison officer, he sent them a message offering access to all med-bays.

So far, he’d managed to get himself assigned to sixteen voluntary secondary duties. Commander Paul had approved each duty. It actually doubled his meager pay and so far it took less time to do all of them than his primary duties and they didn’t require any of his attention beyond signing off on a few reports.

York did worry about having so many strangers on the station. If there weren’t any people, he wouldn’t have a reason to remove anyone and he was comfortable being alone. Yet, it had been so long since he’d last had to take corrective and deadly action he was concerned he might be a little too quick to fix things. He needed to ensure any such activity was appropriate and required. After all, he wasn’t really a crazy killer. Killing needed to be done just because some people shouldn’t continue to reside among the living.

His dataport beeped, startling him enough it brought his run to a halt. He had an incoming message. Personal messages weren’t just uncommon, they were as rare as a dog turds in the kitty litter box. All official messages were routed to him through the station’s comms and he pulled them up at work. This message was from Master Chief Fugget. It hadn’t been addressed directly to him, but to dozens of government agencies, military commanders, and listed the Em.T-Sp8s reserve liaison officer. That would have routed the message to York’s official message board, not his personal dataport. He found his personal address buried deep in the long list of cc’s. It seemed Fugget had sent the message to everyone on his mail list.

Rather than wait until he went on duty, York read the message. Fugget reported another slaver attack on Liberty. The slavers slipped through atmosphere completely undetected, flashing down upon a small festival in the upcountry region of their main continent. The report stated there were approximately twenty men, women, and children missing. Six elderly adults were dead, both men and women. The slavers orphaned three babies less than one year old, but didn’t kill them like normal, they just left them in their cribs to starve to death.

Fugget reported he and Ernie had come by the festival in Ernie’s shuttle too late to see the slavers or their ship, yet in time to save the babies and bury the dead. From the message tone, the man was incensed about the attack, although he admitted neither he nor Ernie knew or were related to anyone taken or killed. His message was an indictment of their government’s unwillingness to do what was necessary to stop the attacks and the military’s inability to catch or kill the slavers and retrieve their fellow citizens.

He made no mention of why he and Ernie were shuttling into such a backwater community festival, especially since neither knew any of the occupants. Such an omission suggested there was some smuggling involved. York didn’t have any moral qualms about smuggling. Illegal import of goods was little different from the rampant black market trading carried on in the New Hope budger communities. People were people and they would do whatever they needed to do to get what they needed to survive and thrive.

York didn’t know what he could do to help. He wasn’t a citizen of Liberty. He didn’t know these people and they didn’t know him. Life as a budger afforded him few opportunities for choice. Slavery would provide even fewer to the slaves involved. However, adults should be able to take care of themselves, even if the duty to protect them was the military’s responsibility and by extension, his job. All Commander Paul had to do was send him orders if the man wanted him to do something.

What churned his stomach acid to frothy foam was taking children to sell as sex toys! He remembered how he’d gone through it as a young boy and it hadn’t really hurt him … not much, just a little in the beginning. He went through it and came out just fine. However, he was a budger orphan with no family, no hope, no prospects and no choices, human only by government fiat. Preying upon little children taken from loving families was wrong. Even the late House Master Albert, an unrepentant pedophile at prep school, would have agreed that leaving babies to starve to death was beyond inappropriate. These slavers were making more orphans. Someone needed to protect the children.

He flashed a message back to Fugget. “What can I do?” He meant it as a statement of how he was helpless to provide assistance, the emphasis on ‘I’. No matter how incensed he became, he was a low ranking communications officer on the third shift of, for all intents and purposes, a ghost station. He was just one person without authority, power, or influence.

Fugget must have read the message as a real question, offering him assistance. His face popped up immediately in live communications. “Ensign Sixteen, I’m glad you responded. We need your station to increase your scanning range, we need to be able to track these slavers.”

York nodded. He knew the station already scanned the entire solar system. With Liberty only eight or nine hundred thousand kilometers away, they easily could keep the planet well within their net. Since the station scans were set on passive, the only way for a ship to leave or arrive would be to use the planet as a screen. Passive scans only gave the station line of sight views. It would require active scans to see into the planet or moon’s shadows. Upgrading to active scans required Commander Paul’s express orders.

“Come on, York. Give us a hand here.”

“Do you have the exact times of the last attack?”

“Forty-eight to fifty-six hours ago.” Fugget said. “They could be anywhere by now. We don’t know which direction to look for them or have the means to stop them the next time they come in on a raid.”

“I’ll see what I can find out about this attack. We should’ve seen something. The automatics should have recorded the ship movement in the solar system, even if the movement wasn’t enough to hit scan perimeters. There isn’t any record of a ship coming or leaving the atmosphere, or at least none I remember seeing in the comms logs. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Let me know if you need help finding anything in your database.”

York looked baffled, “I didn’t think you were a communications technician.”

Fugget shrugged, “I’m not. I’m a data-bug exterminator. I find computer database bugs and kill them. I’m better than good at data mining. We need to find these slavers and killers. We need to find them and stop them.”

Something tickled York at the base of his spine. “I’ll do what I can to help you find and … stop these people.” He almost said ‘remove’ these criminals, but changed to ‘stop these people’ at the last second using the same language as Fugget.

He signed off and grinned. Here was a whole group who required removal from his universe. He didn’t have to think about his judgment and worry whether this man or that woman deserved removal. Fugget had just asked him to do it for the good of a whole planet. All he had to do was find them, plan their deaths and remove them. He didn’t even have to do it in secret this time.

FOURTEEN

York slammed his fist on the communications console. He hadn’t been on duty during the last slaver attack. Commander Paul had been officially monitoring their gear. There wasn’t any record showing Paul hadn’t been on the job. There also wasn’t any record of any space craft approaching or leaving Liberty during the slaver attack.

The only possible way a slaver could hide under those conditions was for them to hide their inbound and outbound flights behind the bulk of the planet. That was possible if they came in under full power, attacked quickly, and blasted away before the curve of the planet made them visible to the station. However, coming in under such high levels of power should have alerted Liberty’s anti-smuggling satellites.

He was frustrated with the logs. Nothing was reported and no matter how many times he went through the recordings there wasn’t any blip inbound or outbound. He briefly wondered if the slavers were truly aboard a ship and not planetary. Knowing Fugget, he rejected the idea. The master chief would have found them if they were on the planet.

Calling Fugget only took a moment. When the man appeared on the screen, he was covered in dirt and sweat. “What? Oh, good morning, Ensign Sixteen. How goes the hunt?”

“I can’t find any trace of a spacecraft during the time frame. I’m sorry, Fugget.” York was truly sorry, he sorely wanted to find these slavers.

“May I send you a special program to use?”

“You know I can’t download an unapproved program onto a military database. Maybe we can run it when the 44th is up here on their next deployment.”

“We won’t get there for a month and a half, Ensign. Look, sir, don’t download it. You can run it right from your dataport. It’ll just run through the info scanning for anomalies that a human can’t see, not even me.”

“I’ll do it, but know this Master Chief Fugget, if I get my butt in a crack using your program, it won’t make me happy.”

“Yes, sir,” Fugget said. “Trust me on this. The program won’t insert anything into your database, it’ll just pull certain types of information out of the database for analysis. It won’t even keep the data if you don’t want to save it.”

Looking closely at Fugget’s screen image, York said, “Are you feeling all right, Fugget? You look worn out.”

Fugget shrugged, “We’re just doing a cattle roundup for some neighbors. It’s hot and heavy work.” He looked at York through the screen as if his eyes could bore deeply into York’s thoughts. “Did you get the station’s scans extended?”

York shook his head. “No. We’re still pushing on passive scan. I got approval from Commander Paul to increase from passive to active scans based on your data, but it only lasted for a day before he rescinded the order and put us back on passive. I don’t know why he backed off. The slavers wouldn’t be able to hide behind the planet if we were on active scans.” York shrugged, discussing everything with his supervisor using texts and emails was frustrating. He still hadn’t seen the man after all of these months. He knew Paul really existed as he watched him on security videos in the galley and at work. The man rarely left his quarters when he wasn’t on duty and York had no video feeds there.

Fugget asked, “Do you think it would help if I got the planetary governor to request you switch to and remain on active scans?”

York shook his head. “I tried that. Actually, the governor thought going to active scans was a great idea since it would help with his smuggling interdiction plans. He sent the request through to my boss and reported back to me how Commander Paul would authorize the change. Nothing has happened on this end, even though I sent through a message asking about the status of the request.”

Fugget said, “I sent the program file. You run it and let me know what you find.” The man looked around, lowered his voice and added, “Say, could we set up the use of a civilian shipping bay for import goods? We have a load of inbound goods and we need a place to store it for a couple of weeks”

York shook his head, “This is for you and Ernie?”

Fugget shrugged and nodded his head.

York said, “It doesn’t take a genius to know what you two are up to. I don’t want to get involved in storing illegal goods.”

“The goods are legal, both on the planet they come from and on Liberty. Honest, it’s mostly off-planet spices and a few dressmaking goods: bolts of cloth, ribbons, and buttons. We just don’t make some stuff on Liberty yet. The military doesn’t have any responsibility to collect or even watch over planetary import duties and taxes.”

“As long as there is no contraband material, I have no problems. Have your inbound ship captain contact me as the liaison officer and I can get him a berth. We won’t have many entertainment facilities for his crew, but we can store your goods.”

“Great.” Fugget looked relieved. “Ernie and I should be able to get them before the Gambion returns to the system in a couple of weeks.”

“The Gambion is coming back?”

Fugget laughed. “I guess you didn’t hear. They should be here from the fourteenth through the thirtieth of next month. Yeah, this is typical military. You hear the scuttlebutt long before you get the real scoop.”

York nodded, “I’ll just chalk it up to operational security.”

Fugget snorted. “OpSec, my ass. I heard it from a stable boy at the Altamont’s place last week.”

“I guess that’s better than hearing it from someone who’s unstable.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” York said. “How are Kenna and Chrissie?”

“You should take leave and come down to visit them. Saorsa City will be at the Altamont’s place when the Gambion is in orbit. We should have a right ripping good gathering. People for miles around show up for an Altamont party.”

“I might be able to catch a ride on a Gambion shuttle.”

Fugget shook his head. “Ernie and I will come and get you. Word is that the Gambion is going to settle into planetary orbit rather than tie up at the station. I gather their captain would rather give his crew planetary liberty than turn them loose on a station with limited facilities.”

York said, “How much will Ernie charge me for the ride down and back?”

“Nada, my friend,” Fugget laughed. “He’ll be out of the atmosphere anyway shuttling skyriders up and giving kids rides into space, so picking you up isn’t anything more than repaying a favor to a friend. And the missus would skin my backsides if I didn’t offer you our guest room for your stay.”

York filed the comment away about being a friend for later study. “Dammit. The scan program you gave me says there wasn’t any ship in Liberty’s orbit anywhere close to the time frame of the last attack.”

Fugget scowled, “I don’t get it. You have better than commercial grade equipment. You should be able to see an asteroid scratch its ass.”

“I don’t get it either. They could hide behind the planet, not … wait. What the …? It looks like the system was running, but there are a couple of power drops. We were scanning at a million klicks, but we weren’t using enough power to see even a tiny fraction of that distance. And dammit, the whole thing happened right in the middle of my shift. I know I didn’t turn down the power. I know because I’ve never touched the volume controls. I’m going to have to dig into this and get back to you on it.”

Fugget signed off. Before York could turn around from the console communicator, a message popped up from Commander Paul. The text simply said, “All personal communications should be limited to off duty times.”

York texted back, “Yes, sir. Recent communications were with Master Chief Fugget of the 44th Naval Reserve discussing their next deployment. Also, discussing ship scanning for government smuggling and slavery interdiction.” He knew he was stretching the truth, but they had discussed, albeit briefly, the next time the reserves were coming to visit. Changing the subject would be appropriate, “Requesting leave for planetary liberty.” He gave the dates for the time the Gambion was going to be in the system.”

Paul’s text reply said, “Approved with caution. Liberty is a third-level colony populated by society’s cast offs and its dregs. Entertainment and amenities are limited. Further communication regarding planetary government scanning requests must be forwarded to appropriate station authorities.”

York laughed. The duty logs listed him as the liaison officer for the planetary government. He was the appropriate authority. He wasn’t sure he would pass anything along to Commander Paul again, if it could be avoided. For all he knew the man was in league with the slavers. Someone on the station was. He knew he wasn’t and Commander Blaque was drunk too often to be involved in anything except running his own distillery. For all York knew, Commander Paul might even be keeping an underage sex slave in his quarters.

The man had better watch his back.

FIFTEEN

York stepped onto Liberty, easily walking down the shuttle’s ramp, realizing that for the first time in his life he was stepping foot on a planet different than the one he was born. The feeling was odd. He knew some people might think it strange his having the feeling of a new experience for a man who grew up in a space travelling society. He was thrilled about setting foot on a strange new world.

Adding to his lighthearted feeling was that he had spent the past few months living and exercising in higher than standard gravity. Liberty was less than standard. He noted a slight lightheaded feeling as if he would float away or the contents of his stomach might not stay down. He knew the minor bout of gravity sickness would soon pass. It always did when he ran the gravity dial up and down the scale, fluctuating the station’s gravity as his whimsy dictated.

Fugget waved at him from across the little landing field. York expected a spaceport. Instead, Ernie set down in what looked like a pasture. He hoped it was an empty pasture as the shuttle would have flattened anything it landed on. He still wasn’t familiar with farm animals. He’d looked up cattle and horses in an encyclopedia database to understand the history of the old freighter the reserve unit was fixing. Fugget had called it a cattle hauler. He recognized the cattle and horses from the picture hanging on the wall in the New Hope police station during his meeting with the late commandant. Still, he didn’t have any personal experience with either one.

York waved back and carrying his small valise, walked across the field. He stopped partway there and bent down. There was a rock stuck in the dirt. He’d walked on dirt parade grounds at the Yards and the orphanage had a large grassy playground, even so, they were as smooth and flat as asphalt. This was a real rock, natural and rough, laying in the ground right where creation had left it. The small stone wasn’t set in a fancy rock garden, stuck into a wall as decoration or painted and lining a walkway. How could a man live to be in his early twenties and not see something as simple as a small stone it its natural setting? Somehow, the whole idea seemed absurd.

He put the rock in his pocket as a souvenir. He doubted anyone would complain about him taking a single small rock, but he would be sure to ask. He didn’t have any mementoes of his life to date. He planned to write the name of the planet and the date on the rock later. Someday, he might have a whole souvenir rock collection, one for each planet he visited. His reading on serial killers, a study of personal reflection, had led him to researching souvenirs. Those demented killers, almost without exception, collected some small trinket from each of their victims. The whole idea made York smile. He knew it was proof he wasn’t an insane serial killer. He didn’t want anything from those he had removed and none of them was a victim, they deserved what they earned and society was better off without them.

When he was within shouting distance, Fugget called out, “Welcome to Liberty, Ensign Sixteen!”

York grinned and held out his hand to shake. Being eager about this handshake, only the second one in his life and the first time he’d offered one, was as absurd as getting keyed up over free rocks. As Fugget gave his hand a mighty shake and a squeeze, he said, “Call me York. Ensign Sixteen seems a bit too formal since I’m on leave.”

Fugget said, “You can call me Jim if you like.”

A short dark woman stepped around him and wrapped her arms around York in a hug. “Fugget, you idiot, you know that not even your mama calls you Jim.” She was exceptionally pretty, small where her husband was large, yet as a pair they looked like chocolate frosting on chocolate cake.

York didn’t know what to do, so he hugged her back, hoping Fugget didn’t object to his squeezing his wife in public. “Ma’am, um … nice to meet you?” The statement was more of a question than a greeting.

Fugget said, “Excuse her manners. This is my wife Mimi. The poor girl has a hugging fetish and just can’t help herself. That’s why we have nine dogs around the place. They give her something to hug besides me so she doesn’t rub all of my skin off.” He was laughing as he said it and his wife joined him with a tinkle of laughter like glasses tinkling.

Mimi said, “Yep, that’s me. Someone said ‘Mimi Fugget’ and I said ‘Yes, I will’.”

A pack of dogs yowling and yapping spared York from responding. They raced around the side of a small building nearby. He wasn’t so much of a city boy that he didn’t recognize a dog when he saw one, yet he was amazed to see such a wide variety of dogs, from tiny ten pounders to some looking bigger than Mimi. He was more than amazed to see them running free, not on leashes, tied by a chain or secured behind a strong fence. He braced himself as a big black dog, all teeth, claws, and fur jumped at his chest.

York dropped his valise and caught the dog in mid-air. He was tempted to wring its neck and toss it aside, until it licked his face looking happy to be held. He wasn’t sure if the dog was just giving him a quick taste prior to taking a bite or if the lick was just the dog’s way of being friendly. Mimi was laughing so he assumed the dog wasn’t dangerous enough to kill.

“Dammit, Vesper! Get down,” Fugget shouted. “Frakking dog thinks she’s a lapdog, even though she’s the size of a small horse.”

York put the dog down. Other dogs vying for his attention almost bowled him over. Vesper edged between the other dogs and pushed them away by force of her own size. He bent to pick up his valise and found that Vesper already had the handle in her mouth and was trotting around the building to the other side.

Fugget said, “Well, that does it. When a dog invites a stranger into the master’s house, the stranger is a stranger no longer.” It sounded like he was quoting some ancient philosopher, although York was not familiar with the quotation.

Mimi said, “York, you come on in the house and let’s get you settled in. We have the guestroom almost cleaned up for you.”

Fugget and his wife lead him around the side of the building. From the back, it looked like a typical block and plate structure. From the front side it looked like someone’s country home. It had an extended porch with a small roof protecting some comfortable looking furniture from the heat of the noonday sun. Vesper disappeared into the building through a short portal that would be too small for a young child.

York reached down to grab the dog and retrieve his valise before it disappeared too far into the building, but the minute his hand touched the opening, he got a quick, light electrical shock.

“Easy there, York. We keep the fields up so only our dogs can come in and out of the dog door. It wouldn’t do to leave it unprotected from the local canines or mountain lions.”

Mimi snorted. “It ain’t likely a mountain lion will get within a hundred miles of this pack of dogs you call pets.”

Fugget held a door open for York, gesturing for him to enter. “I don’t call them dogs pets. They’re your critters, woman, not mine.”

York’s eyes adjusted to the inside lighting quickly. He could see Vesper standing guard over his valise in the middle of the floor, her tail wagging so hard her back feet could barely keep purchase on the carpet. He liked the place immediately, although the room was the messiest he had ever entered. Old-fashioned books were scattered about, interspersed with pictures, pillows, and curios of all kinds. The room hadn’t been dusted lower than Mimi could reach without bending over and no higher than Fugget could reach without using a step stool.

Just inside the door, set into a recessed wall cabinet, was a row of weapons. Half a dozen long guns, both rifles and shotguns, and more than a few handguns hung on pegs. He was startled to see them. Being in the military didn’t give Master Chief Fugget the authority to keep personal weapons and certainly never to put them on open display. Everyone had a right to be protected by the military and the police, yet even police officers had to turn in their weapons before going home after their duty shift. Normal citizens didn’t need weapons as the police were only a call away.

Fugget noticed his look and said, “Be careful with those, York. They’re probably loaded.”

“Probably? You don’t know? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Fugget nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re all very dangerous. I know whether they’re loaded or not. So does Mimi. If you think they may be loaded then you won’t be tempted to do something dangerous with them.”

“Keeping a loaded gun in a private home is dangerous and illegal. Not keeping personal weapons is a part the Republic’s constitution, even on Liberty.”

“Yes. They are illegal and I won’t admit they exist.” He pushed a light switch sideways in a direction the switch wasn’t originally designed to turn. A door slid shut over the guns. Even York couldn’t see where the recessed cabinet had been. Fugget pushed the switch back the other way, opening the cabinet again. “They are dangerous, but they’re less dangerous than waiting for help when the slavers swoop down, when a pterodactyl comes hunting the dogs, or when one of our homegrown roving road gangs bent on raising hell come to visit. Slavers can come and go quicker than the police can come to help. You should know the scenario. Planetary road gangs are much slower and a rightly aimed shotgun easily dissuades them. Besides, Mimi and I could be drafted as police posse at a moment’s notice and it would be inconvenient to have to run down to a central armory to grab a weapon.”

York wanted to argue, but as a budger he knew from experience that the police were often too late to do anything more than write a report on the crime. The statistics were well known that police response times in New Hope budger slums were multiples of what they were in upper class neighborhoods. Variable response times were only right since the upper class paid the taxes paying for police. Many of the upper class could even afford to hire private security. Far out in farm country on a poor planet like Liberty, the response times could be hours. Still, poor protection didn’t give anyone the right to take the law into their own hands. A volunteer civilian-police posse sounded like a fancy name for vigilante justice.

He smiled and nodded, knowing he was hypocritical to criticize anyone for taking the law into their own hands. He’d been forced to mete out justice himself more than once. He’d just never used a gun to do it. Making guns illegal was a good thing or some of the creatures he’d removed might have been able to protect themselves and thereby avoid their own demise, living to continue their deviant ways. Somehow, it felt nice to have such dangerous weapons laying around available for anyone’s use, should the need strike.

York never had a home of his own to use as a standard of comparison. Nevertheless, the Fugget’s home felt like one. Harp and Sadie Brown’s cabin on the Gambion had a similar comfortable feel. He followed Mimi down a short corridor and even the tiny room she ushered him into was comfortable, yet cluttered. In the corner was a large stack of what looked like unfinished, abandoned craft projects. There were even a few scattered rocks of unusual shapes and colors laying about as if they sprouted from the dust. He smiled, knowing having rocks everywhere was a clear sign no one would object to his removal of the small stone he had salvaged from the shuttle field.

Vesper jumped up on the bed, settled in and growled at the other dogs, chasing them back out of the room. The dog looked at York with adoring eyes. He had seen both Fugget and Mimi scratch various dogs behind their ears, mostly whenever a dog got close. It looked like a habit or a conditioned response rather than a rational, thought out touch. He scratched Vesper behind the ears and she rewarded him with a lick.

Leaning on the door jam, Mimi said, “Be careful, York or Vesper will adopt you.”

York smiled, “Well, getting adopted would be a change.” A few children had been adopted from the orphanage he was raised in, but adoptions were mostly babies of some exact phenotype. According to the pictures he’d been shown, he was an ugly baby. As he grew up, adoptions shifted to pretty young girls and polite young boys. Even though he was neither a girl nor polite, he used to wonder why he’d never been chosen. On the other hand, adoptions passed by so many children he didn’t take it personally, well, not too personally, certainly never personally enough to hunt down any prospective parent who passed him by.

Mimi gestured toward the front of the house with the nod of her head. “You can get settled in later, York. Let’s relax some.”

He followed Mimi back out to the front porch. Fugget pointed to a chair in the shade. He silently offered York a drink by simply using the longneck of his own brown bottle to point at a cooler filled with beers. York shook his head. He didn’t like alcohol, having tasted it more than once and determined the whole category of drinks wasn’t for him.

Mimi handed him a long tall glass filled with fake ice and some dark brown liquid. “Summer coffee?”

York settled back and sipped the drink. The coffee wasn’t just iced. He was able to identify the ingredients, a strange mix of chocolate, bubbles, sweetener, peppermint, and of course, coffee. It took all of his discipline to keep from guzzling the concoction and asking for more.

He glanced around him looking up and down the short row of buildings lining the road near the shuttle field. There were a couple dozen buildings, different from each other, but each so much like the others they obviously were made by the same people for the same purpose. There were a number of people sitting on their porches enjoying a respite from the noon sun. Some buildings along the road clearly looked liked stores displaying various items. There was a cluster of buildings across the road behind the first row of buildings: warehouses, processing facilities, dormitories, and homes.

Even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and no wind, dust was in the air and it settled onto everything. There were a few people stirring about, yet far fewer than York had seen on New Hope at anytime of the day or night. A shuttle floated over their heads and eased down onto the field behind them. Neither Mimi nor Fugget bothered to get up.

Fugget said, “That would be Rafe and his boys from down south. They’re half a day late as usual.”

Mimi replied, “Be nice. They may be slow to start, but you know once they get to work they’ll do more than their fair share.”

Fugget laughed, “I ain’t complaining. I’m just saying.”

“Do you need a refill, York? You might as well get one, I’m going to get one for myself. How about a sandwich or burger for lunch? I already have some salads made, if you want.”

York offered his glass for a refill, refusing any food. He turned to Fugget and asked, “I thought there weren’t any towns or cities on Liberty. This may be small, but it’s definitely a town. What gives?”

Fugget said, “This town is temporary. It’ll become Saorsa City tomorrow morning when the government train shows up.” He tilted back in his chair and slapped the side of his house. “This and every other place along this road are floaters. We come and go as we please. We may spend a week alongside a pretty waterfall up in the Torso Mountains or a month on a black sand beach next to the Calm Sea.”

“You chose to park on this hot dusty road?”

Fugget shrugged. “We have the freedom to go where we want, but living this way isn’t free. Mimi and I are here to give the Altamonts a hand with their hay harvest. Picking up odd jobs on the migrant worker circuit provides us with a decent living. My work as a bug exterminator provides me contracts with farmers and ranchers all over the planet for computer and database repair and restoration. Plus the government offers me some fairly lucrative contracts to track down and arrest black-hat hackers.”

He pointed at stores across the street. “Those folks take their businesses with them as they travel about, going from farmstead to ranch to station taking goods to their customers. Permanent buildings like some of Altamont’s homes require a special permit on Liberty, even most of his buildings are floaters he moves about as necessary.”

“What about mining and manufacturing on Liberty?”

Fugget laughed. “Mining on most planets leaves ghost towns when the ore deposits ran dry. Not on Liberty, miners just take their buildings with them to the next boomtown. Manufacturing is limited at this point, since we’re mostly an agribusiness planet. Much of what we need we trade for. Factories get special dispensation if they must be stationary. Most folks figure ways to be mobile, moving their plants and warehouses as needed.”

York nodded. He couldn’t see such the system working on an industrialized planet, but Liberty was a third level colony, considered barely habitable by most of the Republic’s citizens. “What about a main spaceport.”

Mimi said, “Didn’t you wonder why you came down in a shuttle and landed on a field? The reason is because we don’t have a main space port. Shuttles come and go, landing and taking off wherever they want.”

Fugget smiled, “Letting shuttles land where they want bugs the government as it helps smuggling more than hurts it. It’s hard to tax what you can’t catch. Don’t get me wrong, the government does need some money. However, on Liberty, family and volunteers, as much as possible, handle taking care of orphans and the disabled. Living on a colony world isn’t easy and we have more than our share of orphans and disabled. The government sponsors a couple of homes for kids and those with special needs. Mimi has a cousin running an orphanage west of here in the Ferguson district … or that’s where they were the last we heard. They move about like the rest of us. Orphanages especially keep on the move as they’re afraid they might become slaver targets if they sit still too long.”

York said, “You could stop smuggling by putting in one small spaceport.”

Fugget said with a shrug, “More than one of us picks up a little extra cash from smuggling. I know for Mimi and me, it isn’t money we need. What money we do get is extra we can send to her cousin’s orphanage directly without having the government taking their cut, getting the cash to the source of the need. Smuggling or not, most of us don’t want crime, ghettos and all manner of evil coming with urbanization. Even Captain Altamont says when he gets both his girls married off, he’s going to burn their house to the ground and move into a floater.”

“He would leave his farm behind?”

“Lord no! He’ll just float from one section to the next depending on whether he is rounding up cattle, harvesting corn or doing work at his brewery.” He raised his beer in reverence at the word brewery.

Fugget pointed high in the sky. “That looks like a military shuttle. I imagine it’s from the Gambion. Originally, we didn’t expect them until tomorrow. This morning we got word they were early.”

Mimi put another drink in York’s hand and glared skyward. “Early, but not this early.” She reached inside the door and flicked a switch. A large panel covering the front and side of their floater hinged up and away from the building creating a huge shaded area. Covering the walls and the bottom of the ceiling panels was a rainbow array of handmade goods. There were handbags, knapsacks, rucksacks, daypacks, backpacks, and shoulder bags of every size and color. The mixture of decorative throw pillows hanging from the ceiling included pillows so vulgar they looked like a pair of women’s breasts to pillows with old biblical quotations for the pious. There were handmade silk flowers of every variety and hue. Racks of quilts in every size, shape, and patchwork pattern took up most of the remaining space.

York started to say something, but people on both sides of the street interrupted him by throwing switches on their own floaters. The variety of goods was amazing, yet there was little overlap in products on display. One place had wood carved statues of all sizes and styles. Another place had banners, flags, and kites. The place next to them had chimes and swirly things designed to change color and shape through wind and solar movement.

Fugget said, “It’s good the air is still today. It can get loud when the wind blows and we’re parked this close to the Wilson’s place. When all those wind chimes let loose at the same time, it’s liable to drive a man to drink.” He proved his point by draining his beer and popping the top off another one. The bottle was an old style twist off cap. It wasn’t the newer, label button cap release style having the cap attached to the bottle by a long filament thread. The man carefully tossed the free cap into a can nearby, avoiding littering, thus defeating the need for the cap attachment in the first place.

York asked, “Where is the Gambion crew staying?” He was hoping to locate Harp and Sadie Brown. He was still disappointed they hadn’t answered any of his messages, in spite of that, he was willing to forgive them and move on, should they have an acceptable reason for not replying.

Fugget shrugged in answer to the question. “I don’t know. Maybe Captain Altamont offered them the use of one of his barracks or maybe they’re going to shuttle back and forth, sleep in tents or sleep in their shuttles for all I care. Just so long as they bring their spare cash with them.”

“Cash?”

Mimi gestured at the display of goods. “This is one small way we can bring a little off world income into our economy. We don’t get many visitors, nevertheless we hope to send this batch home with bags of goods and empty pockets. If I can’t sell them a quilt then I hope they drink themselves under the table guzzling Altamont’s rye whiskey and fill their bellies on O’Neil’s Chinese cuisine.”

York asked, “Did you make all of this?”

Mimi said, “No. I trade some of my quilts with some other folks for what they make. Swapping things around gives us all a little more product variety when we get the opportunity to make a few sales.”

Fugget said, “My wife makes the best quilts on the whole planet. They’re good, strong, and warm, so well made you’ll want to pass them along to your great grandchildren. In fact, York, she made you a special—”

Mimi slapped him on the back of the head. “You spoiled my surprise, you big goof. Ah well …” She went into the house and returned quickly with a large quilt. She spread it across York’s lap. “This is our gift to you.”

Patches of cloth in every color blue under the sun covered the quilt. Some colors were so blue York didn’t even know what the color was named. Hand stitched on the few rare white patches was his name. He didn’t know what to say, even if he had the words he still wouldn’t have been able to speak. His throat choked up almost to the point of closing. He’d never been given such a thing before and he felt embarrassed that he had nothing to give them in return.

SIXTEEN

York almost laughed at the cluster of Gambion’s crew rushing from the shuttle field. The lower ranked ratings rushed from the field into the middle of the temporary town with wild abandon. The top enlisted ratings walked quickly as if getting far away from a military shuttle was a relief all of its own. The few officers in the group moved into the street, failing miserably to put on an air of dignified comportment. There were some families scattered about the mix, parents with children of all ages hoping to spend a few hours on a planet away from shipboard life. More than one child looked at the high, clear blue sky with skepticism, hoping for a deck overhead.

York looked at each person. He didn’t recognize anyone. There were a lot of people on the Gambion and Liberty wasn’t a high-value planet worth wasting a rare liberty pass on. He didn’t know how long the ship planned on spending in orbit. He wasn’t familiar enough with navy life to know how many people were given access to a liberty planet.

A man across the street from the Fuggets shouted. “Cold beer!” The man obviously had more to say, yet other words weren’t necessary. Gambion’s crew immediately swamped him. Liberty coats bedecked most of the military personnel. The heavy duck cloth coat design was to keep the wearer warm in cold climates and cool in hot ones. Each coat was ankle length, tan and festooned with patches, streamers, and souvenir pins from past liberties. The older hands were positively gaudy. York noticed a younger crew woman searching desperately for something she could buy to add to her bare liberty coat.

Mimi shouted. “Hey, spaceman apprentice! No charge for your first liberty patch.” She waved the woman over to a stack of goods.

York was dressed in his everyday black work utilities. He didn’t own a liberty coat and was sure he didn’t want one. Not all of the officers wore coats. Older officers with families wore civvies of every style and color. Fugget said, “Well, if Mimi is going to go to work, I might as well too.”

“Need a hand?” York wasn’t sure what help he could be since he didn’t know what a hay harvest entailed. However, he was a quick study and could pick up the technical side of most anything quickly enough to be of some assistance.

*-*

York woke up the next morning long before the sun was up. He could hear someone moving about the Fugget’s kitchen, but he wasn’t ready to crawl out of bed yet. The big black dog Vesper lay with her head on his chest, staring at him with big dark eyes, waiting patiently for him to wake up. Whenever he was close to the Fugget’s floater she was either at his feet, in his lap or trailing along behind him.

Yesterday afternoon was surprising. A farm foreman assigned Fugget, a smallish boy and York as a crew of three. The small boy, Toby, drove the hay baler slowly, following rows of cut, raked, dry hay. The machine picked up the hay, formed it into bales, and dropped them into a container. The chute’s original design was to automatically maneuver and stack the bales neatly inside the container. Normally, Toby could have managed the whole operation. However, the equipment they used was old and faulty. Fugget manually wrestled the chute, trying to drop the bales into place. He failed miserably. The chute fought back as if it had a mind of its own, dropping bales into the container in a fashion described by Toby as cattywompus.

York wasn’t sure what cattywompus meant. The word was an accurate description if it meant the bales just dropped into the container without any order. He volunteered to stand inside the container and restack the bales to make the most effective use of the storage space. The bales weighed around a hundred pounds standard, but Liberty’s gravity was at ninety percent standard. It would still have been a challenge if he had not been used to working out in almost one and a half gravities. Rather than wait for the bales to fall before picking them up and moving them, he began catching them in mid-air, dropping them into place.

They laughed as the boy throttled the baler’s speed up, pushing forward quicker than any of the others could move. Their speed encouraged other teams and drivers to move faster and faster. Only one man ran the newest baler. It ran the slowest as the automatic’s design moved at little more than a snale’s pace. Several two-man teams tried to keep up with York, Fugget and Toby, but couldn’t.

The rhythm of the machine was mind numbing, yet they ran out of bales long before York was ready to quit. It’d been a close race whether the sun would set first or they would run out of hay. The sun won, but not by much and they finished the job using floating overhead lights. It wasn’t any more tiring than a normal afternoon on the weight machines. The big surprise came when Altamont shook his hand, thanked him for his extra effort, and held his hand in the air in front of the rest of the workers as if he was the greatest champion hay baler of all time. Such praise was unexpected since he’d volunteered and helped just to be neighborly. He was also surprised to learn Toby was Altamont’s young son.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he rubbed a small corner of his quilt across his cheek. He had never given bedding a thought. It just was. However, this quilt was his and his alone. Yesterday morning he hadn’t owned any personal possessions since he’d burned his only set of civvie clothing the day before his aborted graduation ceremony. Everything he wore or kept in his B&B room was navy owned down to his underwear and the pillowcase. Now he had a quilt. No. He had a quilt and a rock.

A shaft of light from the rising sun stabbed him in the eye just as he was trying to imagine what he else he might own before his liberty ended. He jumped out of bed with a start. The sun was coming up in the wrong direction. He knew he went to bed with the guest bedroom window facing planetary west. Glancing out the window as he dressed, he was shocked. The Altamont’s farm and the growing town were gone.

SEVENTEEN

Saorsa City had shifted and restructured itself around the newly arrived government road train. Retail businesses clustered together, guest dormitories and hotels scattered about as the mood struck the owners, and businesses catering to entertainment clustered near other such businesses: bars near other bars, restaurants near other restaurants, boat and canoe rentals by the lake with rafters along the incoming river, and fishing and bait supplies near the mouth of the lake’s effluent.

The lake was sparkling with clear water fifty feet down. The water was cleaner than most of the recycled water in every floater’s storage tanks, generating a line of floaters emptying holding tanks at the lake’s out flowing river and moving to refill from the cool lake center. Snow covered mountains in the distance reflected across the lake’s shimmering silver surface. Huge fish breached the mirrored surface with increasing frequency as the rising sun warmed and awakened the area’s insect population. Wide beaches stretched away in every direction.

A gentle breeze tickled the wind chimes hanging from the Wilson’s canopy, tinkling an irregular tune sounding like music for dancing fairies. The flags across the road flapped lazily in the morning air. A laughing child raced down the street, chased by her giggling little sister. The deep green forest’s smell behind the Fugget’s floater mixed gently with the cool dampness coming off the lake. A delicate waft of smoke drifted over from someone’s smoker with the odor of cooking sausage and bacon. Even York’s morning coffee smelled refreshing, more so than coffee ever had. Breakfasting on the front porch with the Fuggets was more like heaven than he’d ever imaged heaven to be.

The only jarring note to this idyllic morning was a group of navy enlisted ratings, still drunk from last night, howling in manic alcohol-fueled merriment, splashing in the lake, running along the beach and vomiting in the bushes. York wondered if anyone would notice if he drowned a few. Surely, the navy wouldn’t miss them. He understood their almost panicked frenzy. Military life, especially for the lower ratings and ranks wasn’t the pleasant life they’d been led to believe by navy recruiters. Day after day, duty on a spacecraft was confining. Leave and liberty were rare between habitable planets. Trying to cram as much fun in as a person could possibly fit into those sporadic times was almost a self-defeating activity leaving the reveler more worn and frazzled than when he started. Just because he understood it, didn’t mean he wanted them to do it where he had to watch and listen.

Fugget laughed as three enlisted women picked up a fourth young girl. Running across the sand, they threw her into the lake to come up sputtering and swearing. York wondered how the man could find any enjoyment at such behavior. It was a quiet serene morning and the navy folks were ruining it.

Mimi looked at York over the lip of her coffee cup. “You don’t approve?” She pointed toward the beach.

York said, “I understand it.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

York nodded, “Yes, ma’am. I don’t think I approve. It isn’t their fault. I imagine they’ve been caged for so long any taste of freedom is intoxicating.”

Fugget laughed, “Hence the reason why the navy calls going ashore ‘liberty’.”

Mimi said, “I like them this way. It sounds like money to me. They’re happy and happy people spend cash. After they settle down, have a little breakfast, maybe drink a little hair of the dog, they’ll walk along this road. My plan is for them all to go back aboard ship with empty pockets carrying more Liberty goods than they have room to store.”

Fugget said, “Such a mercenary heart. Is there any wonder why I love you?”

Mimi replied, “Well, you obviously didn’t marry me for my looks.”

Fugget laughed, “Yep, hideous old crone!”

York was shocked. Mimi was more than pretty. The more he looked, the more attractive she became. How could a husband say such thinks about his wife? How could a smile and a laugh take the sting out of such words? Mimi’s reply wrapped his wonder in a blanket of surprise.

Mimi snorted. Setting her coffee cup down, she moved to sit in her husband’s lap, punctuating her insults with tiny kisses all over his face. “A little runt of a man like you is lucky I even deigned to go out with you in the first place. I don’t know why I bothered to marry such a little man. I guess I had to marry you out of pity since there wasn’t another woman on the planet who would take you.”

York wasn’t sure he understood. Fugget wasn’t small by anyone’s definition, but the man didn’t seem to be insulted or embarrassed, so York smiled and continued watching.

Fugget looked thoughtful and said, “Well, I do remember a young girl named Sandy Watchman. She was kind of cute. We did date a few times.”

“Kind of cute?” Mimi tapped him lightly on the forehead. “You moron. She won the Miss Liberty Beauty Pageant. I only took first runner up.”

Fugget shook his head. “The competition was rigged. You beat her hands down.”

Mimi nuzzled his ear and said, “What about MaryBeth, um what-was-her-name?”

Fugget shook his head, “Nah. She had buck teeth.”

“Gail Holmes?”

“Too tall for me.”

“Yoyo Teller?”

“Tits too big,” Fugget said. “See, I had to marry you to save the other men from temptation so they’d all quit comparing other women to you.”

Mimi kissed him long and hard, then poked him in the middle of his chest with a stiff finger. “Twenty years of marriage and you’re still full of shit.” She looked over at York. “Do you have a girlfriend somewhere?”

York shook his head. Kenna Altamont had been on his mind more often than not. Thinking about it, he wasn’t sure he wanted a girlfriend or a boyfriend for that matter. The thought of being intimate with any human, female or male, twisted his stomach into knots. He didn’t like people touching him and sitting as close as the Fuggets were to each other would have be extremely upsetting.

He reached down and ran his fingers through Vesper’s dark hair. “I think I’ll stick with this girlfriend for a while.”

Mimi said, “I know a half a dozen girls … and even a few boys, who would be hair pulling, nail scratching, and biting just for a chance to date a hunk of man-meat like you. I could set you—”

Fugget squeezed Mimi to interrupt her. “Leave the guy alone.”

“I’m just asking—”

“No. You’re just starting to do a little matchmaking. Your matchmaking never turns out right and you know it. Leave it alone.”

Mimi laughed, “So, I ain’t any good at matchmaking. Not being good at something doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep trying. It only has to work once.”

Fugget shook his head, “No. Your brussel sprouts are horrible. That doesn’t mean you should keep making them just in case you get them right once. He’s young, give him a chance to be free first.”

York said, “Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite content without a girlfriend.”

Mimi laughed. “That’s because I haven’t found you the right one—”

She was interrupted by a noise like the sound of a feral cat being shoved through a wood chipper. It screeched and yowled for a few moments and then quit, followed by the sound of a drum roll. York was on his feet in an instant. He didn’t know which way to turn, whether to run or fight. Picking up Mimi, Fugget stood slowly, turned, and sat her in his chair. He stretched. “There’s the pipe and drums. I guess the games are getting ready to begin.”

York untensed his muscles. If the Fuggets weren’t worried about the noise, then he wouldn’t be either. “Games?”

Fugget nodded, “Sure. The Altamont’s always put on some games when we get together at their place.”

“The Altamont’s own this place?”

“Yep, we’re still on their land. Mimi, are you coming?”

Mimi nodded, “Missus Wilson is going to keep an eye on my goods.” She stepped into their floater, calling all the dogs inside. Vesper didn’t want to leave York, yet she followed the other dogs at his urging. Mimi came back out and handed Fugget a huge double-bladed war axe and a heavy pair of work boots with nine inch blades poking out the front of the soles. She had a six-shot revolver strapped to her waist and carried a lever action carbine.

York was practically unarmed. All he had with him was the thin-bladed knife he carried in his boot, the wire garrote threaded from his left shoulder to his left wrist, and the retractable ice pick in the special sheath at his neck. “Do we need guns where we’re going?” He didn’t know what type of game called for deadly weapons, though whatever is was, he was all for it.

Mimi’s face was blank as she dropped a barrier over the dog door, trapping the pack inside the floater. “What guns? Guns are illegal here.”

Fugget nodded. “No guns here. Why, do you want one?”

York said, “I scored pretty high on the pistol range back at the academy. Do I need one?”

Mimi stepped back inside, quickly returning with a small knapsack and a holstered pistol. She handed them to York. “Be careful. It might be loaded.”

York strapped the holster to his waist. The gun was a Walther PPK. It’s great, great granddaddy had been James Bond’s favorite. He’d fantasized about shooting one ever since he’d read Goldfinger by Ian Fleming. This was the first one he’d ever seen. Checking its receiver and magazine, he noted it operated like the pistols he had trained with on the Yard’s sim range. The magazine was loaded and there was no cartridge in the chamber. The knapsack contained a small box of cartridges, ear and eye protectors, and a shooting glove. He grinned. To borrow such a thing, to wear it, to pretend the gun was his was better than his souvenir rock. Still, the small handgun wasn’t as good as his new quilt. On the other hand, holding a lethal weapon was more than delightful, sending an electrical charge dancing along his spine.

Fugget said, “You better be better than proficient with that thing if you enter any shooting competition at the games.”

The three trailed along the road until they reached a wide grass-covered field. There were streamers, balloons and booths of all kinds set up around the edge of the field. Fugget led them over to a table. York was pleased to see Kenna and her younger brother Toby sitting behind the table. She looked as good as his morning coffee had smelled.

Toby nodded to him and went back to talking to a couple of men York recognized from baling hay. Suddenly, Kenna jumped up, bolting around the table. She wrapped him in a hug. “York. I’d heard you were here. I wondered if you were going to find me or if I was going to have to hunt you down.”

She’d never called him anything other than Ensign Sixteen before. He realized the rules must be different on the planet than up on the station. He almost saluted her and then settled for the hug. The close contact made him nervous. He wanted to both push her away and hug her closer. He smiled, “It’s good to see you, Kenna. I’d have hunted you down quicker if I’d thought you’d be so pleased to see me.”

Kenna laughed, “I should’ve known he was talking about you when Toby said some monster navy guy spent all afternoon throwing hundred pound hay bales around like they were ten pound sacks of flowers.” She looked at the Fuggets. “Are you signing into the games?”

Mimi nodded, “I’m for the cowboy shooting, freestyle wrestling and the tracker’s challenge.”

York didn’t know what any of those games were. He understood shooting and freestyle. The rest of the words left him feeling ignorant and confused. He would just have to swallow his embarrassment and ask what they were saying. Fugget signed up to do axe throwing, hammer throw and something called a caber toss. He understood those games better, but only a little bit.

Finally, Kenna turned to him, “You’re next, York. What do you want—?”

A voice coming from behind York interrupted her. “It doesn’t matter what you sign the budger up for, he’ll come in last. Always does, so you might as well move to the back of the line, Sixteen.”

York turned slowly. Blade Balderano laughed like he was joking, but York could see the man’s eyes weren’t laughing. Balderano wasn’t in uniform and a small cluster of Gambion FAC pilots, including York’s favorite, Lieutenant Junior Grade Bartol Samdon, surrounded him. The dog pack clique had managed shore leave en mass. None of them were laughing. More than one was already drunk and still drinking. Samdon was barely able to stand. York nodded and stepped to the side, gesturing the crowd forward. He saluted each person he recognized as a higher-ranking officer.

Fugget started to protest, but York waved him down. “I do have some questions anyway before I sign up. Might as well let them go ahead.” Dressed in his black utility uniform, he was required to allow any higher-ranking officer to cut the line in front of him. Even though Samdon, Balderano, and their companions were in civvies, he knew them to be higher-ranked. Moving to the back of the line was of little consequence to him other than interrupting his conversation with Kenna. He would still have his chance to talk to her when he reached the front of the line. Besides, he’d rather have Samdon and Balderano in front of him than behind him, even in public.

Mimi asked, “The boy who spoke is a handsome lad, York. Is he a friend of yours?”

York shook his head. “Not friends exactly. We knew each other at the Yards and the Gambion is the ship that brought me to the station. We’ve known each other for a while.”

York glanced at the FAC pilots. Balderano was flirting with Kenna, laughing and joking with an ease York had ever felt with anyone. Kenna was laughing heartily at something Balderano said, enjoying the attention. She flipped her long hair away from her face and gripped his bicep, giving it a little squeeze. He couldn’t hear her, but she laughed again and signed Balderano up for some competition or other. York remembered her chastising him on the station about rich, slick officers playing up to local girls. He wondered if her stricture applied just to the women under her command, if she practiced what she preached, or if it was just him she had objections to. Still, her greeting this morning had seemed genuine, but at polar opposites to their first meeting on Em.T-Sp8s.

He turned back to the Fuggets. “I’m not sure what to sign up for. I know shooting, but what is cowboy shooting?”

Mimi said, “It’s using both a revolver and a rifle, moving around a range shooting at random targets popping up and dropping away at various distances. Sometimes you have to use a pistol and sometimes you have to use a rifle. I’d be doing mounted shooting if this cheap bastard I married would let me buy a horse. You’d best stay with either pistol speed-draw or accuracy if you’re not used to switching guns in mid-shoot.”

York nodded, “I think I understand freestyle wrestling, but what is the tracker’s challenge?”

Fugget shook his head, “You may not understand freestyle as much as you think. Liberty’s freestyle wrestling is no holds barred, bare knuckle, catch as catch can. It can be rough even if you’ve had some martial arts training. It isn’t a good game to get into if you bruise or bleed easily.”

Mimi said, “The tracker’s challenge isn’t any picnic either. We have to run three miles, shooting at moving targets along the way, swim out to a raft in the middle of the lake carrying our rifle and gear, swim back, rock climb almost straight up a cliff, shoot again at the top and then rappel down and run back here. You can’t move forward until you hit every target along the way. The fastest time wins. I haven’t ever come in better than fifth, but I’m getting better every time.”

Fugget said, “Say, Chrissie Altamont is competing in the skyriders today. Maybe she or Booger would take you along?”

York looked at him as if he was crazy and laughed with them, as they knew he wasn’t crazy enough to drop through atmosphere in a plastic cigar-shaped torpedo the size of a coffin. He said, “I get hammer and axe throw, but what is a caber?”

Fugget said dismissively, “It’s just a big stick you toss about for accuracy.”

York said, “I should be able to throw a stick around.”

Mimi looked across the field. “There are Trahn and Donnie. Come on, Fugget. She’s your cousin and you have to go say hello.”

York pointed back to the line. “I’ll get signed up for some of these games.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to compete. Competition sounded too much like prep school or the Yards where everyone scored a rating on everything they did from table manners to astrophysics exams. All of the Liberty civilians were signing up for something and many didn’t seem to care if they won or lost. They were even calling it play, not competition.

When he finally reached the front of the line, Kenna was gone. She’d let someone take her place and gone off with Balderano and the dog pack. He was sorry she wasn’t there, even sorrier she’d been taken in by Balderano’s smooth style. He did have to admit, the man had upper class manners and comportment. York knew what to say, when and how to say it, but all his knowledge was classroom instruction and it never came out smoothly when he practiced in front of a mirror.

Toby Altamont asked him what he was signing up to play. He decided to try pistol target shooting, freestyle wrestling and the caber toss. He was anxious to try his hand at shooting a real gun for the first time in his life. All of his practice, both in school and on the station, was in simulation chambers specifically designed to train navy and army officers. He was a little more than anxious to get involved in free style wrestling. He didn’t wanted to hurt anyone in particular, on the other hand, if he didn’t break someone soon he was going to explode. And the caber toss … well, throwing sticks for accuracy just sounded like fun.

Toby handed him a tablet, getting his thumbprint on a release form, and downloaded York’s activity schedule to his dataport along with a map illustrating the activities locations. He was surprised reading through the details of the release form. A lawyer must’ve written it. It absolved the Altamonts for any damage done to anyone or anything, up to and including the sun going nova. It ended with the words ‘It’s your own damn fault if you don’t have a good time’.

He had a few minutes before his shooting event so he wandered over to the hammer toss to watch Fugget compete. The hammer wasn’t like the hammers he was used to seeing. This hammer was a heavy metal ball attached to a four-foot metal rod. Each competitor swung the hammer around and around, finally letting go with a mighty grunt, throwing it for distance. York thought this was something he could’ve done, however, he changed his mind after seeing over half of the men twist and fall down under the weight of the hammerhead. Fugget managed to keep his feet by putting on the special heavy boots, digging the long blades deep into the soil, and twisting at the waist.

His dataport beeped indicating it was time to wander back to his shooting competition. It didn’t take long to realize that the design of the navy’s shooting simulations were so amazingly accurate the competition felt like another day in the sim chamber. He was good. He knew he was good, but couldn’t do anything other than shake hands congratulating the people who took first through sixth places.

He wandered over to the caber toss and had to laugh. The Fuggets told him a caber throw was a stick toss. They didn’t tell him the sticks were twenty feet long and weighed around 175 pounds. He was sure he could handle 175 pounds with ease, then again, the scoring was based on accuracy. A caber was a long enough stick to make an accurate throw difficult.

A woman was sizing men and women into competing groups. The shooting competition had been coed, but apparently, they segregated the caber toss by sex and size. She’d already sent Fugget to Group A and she turned to punch York in the middle of his chest with a closed fist. She laughed at his confusion. “Not to worry, friend. Different groups get different sized cabers. We don’t pit a little woman against a big man and we don’t make a small man throw a caber weighing twice what he does. You’re tall enough, but not as big as Group A.”

He looked over at the men grouped in an area marked with an A. They were tall men and massive. Most were more massive around their middles than anywhere else and they all had large shoulders with huge thighs. They were all standing at ease joking with each other as if they knew everyone and had competed together at the caber toss before. York was as strong as any man there. However, he would readily admit he’d never even seen a caber and didn’t belong in the top group. He was little more than a willing rookie.

One of the men in Group A shouted. “Deliah, don’t you dare put that man in another group. If he ain’t A Group material then my granny’s titties ain’t saggy. Come on, look at them guns.”

York recognized the man as Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden from the 44th. He was one of the small group of high ranking enlisted who’d stayed with him at the Wright’s Right B&B on Em.T-Sp8s. York put his hand on the small pistol at this waist, in recognition of Jaden’s reference to guns. Most of Liberty’s citizens were carrying weapons of some kind. It baffled him why the size of his pistol had anything to do with throwing the caber.

Everyone around them laughed. Jaden shouted, “Not that puny thing. These guns.” The man flexed his arms, showing massive muscles with bulking biceps and twisted ropelike triceps. The display prompted each man in Group A to adopt a pose showing off muscles, more than one highlighting muscles contrasting against a fat gut. Fugget and Jaden were in the minority of men without extra weight around their middle.

Deliah grabbed York’s arms and whistled. “Them trim hips and flat waist fooled me.” She slithered in very close to him, causing laughter and cat calls from the gathering crowd. “Ooooh,” she cooed loudly. “Fool me once, shame on me.” She reached around, put both hands on his buttocks and squeezed. “Fool me twice, shame on … dammit, forgot what I was saying.” She squeezed him again, prompting more laughter from the crowd. She peeked around him at the audience and grinned. “Shame on you all for staring. I’m just a poor country woman trying to do a—” She wrapped a leg around him and squeezed. “I forgot what I was trying to do.”

Jaden shouted back, “It ain’t what, Deliah. It’s who you are trying to do.”

York smiled. He knew he didn’t have much of a sense of humor, then again he could tell this woman wasn’t really making fun of him, but playing to the laughing crowd. He bent down slightly, wrapped an arm around her bottom and lifted her up until they were face to face. Deliah wrapped her other leg around his waist and squeezed.

She pretended to swoon, fanning her face with her fingers. “I do swear, I’m suffering from the vapors.”

Jaden shouted back with a laugh. “Them ain’t vapers, Deliah! But you are suffering from something.”

Deliah leaned in, gave York a quick kiss on the cheek and said in a quiet whisper, “Thanks for being such a good sport, friend.”

York recognized a dismissal when he heard it. He set her on the ground and laughed as she pretended her knees wouldn’t hold her up.

Deliah pronounced to the crowd, “I don’t know if this man can throw a caber or not, but he is Group A material if I ever saw it.”

Jaden shouted again, “You ought to know, Deliah! Are you first prize to the winner this year?”

Deliah laughed, “I’ve seen you throw a caber and you’re going to have to do a lot better than your usual to find out what I offer the winner.”

York was welcomed into the Group A circle with claps on the back, knuckle bumps and honest smiles. Fugget and Jaden’s easy acceptance helped grease the social wheels. Jaden shook his hand. “Ensign Sixteen, it’s good to see you again. By the way, I’m Deliah’s husband. Thanks for playing along with her. Just look at her, she’s having a good time, but she really is good about judging groups for the toss.”

He looked over at Deliah who was still putting on a show for the crowd. Laughing, she jiggled a woman’s breast, slapped her on the fanny and sent her off to join a group. He still wasn’t sure he was in the right group, however since he was put here he would certainly do his best.

Jaden said, “You may have the strength, but you need quite a bit of flexibility here. Lift with your legs and buttocks only. Use your arms just for guiding the caber. Keep your back straight and you’ll do okay.”

“Thanks, Jaden.”

“Do you have any gloves?”

“Not with me. No. I just have a little shooting glove.”

Jaden looked at York’s hands, glanced around, and said, “Hey, Toad. You have a second pair of gloves?”

Toad nodded, “Always do.” He reached into a bag at his feet and tossed a set to York.

Jaden said, “The cabers can get a bit rough so keep those on. Put your gun in your knapsack and just leave it anywhere. Nobody’ll bother it.”

Someone shouted at Steward to get the game going. York thought the name was for some man, but it turned out to be the man’s position, like an umpire or something. After watching a few men throw the caber he knew the event wasn’t going to be as easy as it looked. Most men couldn’t even get it to turn in the air, flipping end-over-end, much less guide it into the straight away twelve o’clock position.

Jaden’s turn came and York volunteered to help the man balance the caber in the ready position. Jaden picked out a caber from the half a dozen lying on the ground. York couldn’t tell the difference in them, but there was something different Jaden saw. Once chosen, York picked up the caber and hefted it upright. He knew most of the other men just picked up one end and walked it upright, still there didn’t seem to be a rule and his way seemed easier. It drew a gasp from the crowd.

“Holy turd in a teacup,” Jaden said as York held the caber out for him. “What did you eat for breakfast? Never mind, gimme.”

York let Jaden slide his hands under the tapered end of the long pole and balance it against his shoulder. He didn’t let go until Jaden gave him a quick nod. He stepped back and watched Jaden flip the pole end-over-end into a perfect twelve o’clock position. The steward signaled the score and announced it to the watching crowd.

He felt bad watching the others. The caber didn’t feel nearly as heavy for him as it did to the other men since he had been working out in heavy gravity for months. Still, he grabbed a caber and with Jaden’s help positioned his hands under it. He tried to flip it just as Jaden had done, but it hit the ground with a bounce and finished in a ten o’clock position. His throw wasn’t great, yet Group A welcomed him back as if he’d done something extraordinary. The congratulations weren’t like he was a budger doing something no one thought him capable of. For the first time, he was just one of the guys, doing what guys do and being applauded for doing it well.

While he waited for his second turn, he craned his neck to see if he could spot Kenna. She was an adult and didn’t need his protection. On the other hand, he knew Balderano, Samdon and the rest of the dog pack. York didn’t trust them any farther than he could throw a caber. He didn’t see any of Balderano’s congregation or the young woman, although there were Gambion spacers scattered liberally throughout the crowd.

His next throw was a little better than the first, yet not close enough to finish in the top three throwers in Group A. Jaden took first place and Fugget managed to squeak out a close second, while York fell firmly somewhere in the middle of the pack. He was pleased with his performance. The caber toss was a new competition to him, yet he managed to best a half a dozen men, all experienced tossers. He congratulated everyone who beat him and accepted the congratulations of every man he beat. The congratulations weren’t like the forced efforts he’d been subjected to at the Yards where each congratulation was required as a part of ‘good sportsmanship’. Every congratulation there was tainted by overtones of jealously or gloating depending on who beat whom. Here they felt genuine, even from last year’s caber toss world champion who managed to end up behind York on the scoreboard.

Fugget clapped York on the shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do the freestyle wrestling? It’ll be a while before it starts. You can back out any time before then and no one will think any less of you. It can get rough in the ring.”

York said, “Mimi’s wrestling. I imagine I can compete if she can.”

Fugget smiled, “She’s tougher than she looks. I’d still rather she find something else to do with her excess energy. Even putting people in different weight classes doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable with her wrestling. Last time she came out with a broken nose, but she’s stubborn enough to keep at it. So, you just keep in mind it can be a rough round of fights and you best be ready for it.”

York was about to ask what he meant by a round of fights, but Fugget wasn’t done talking.

“Mimi should be worn out from her tracker’s challenge, but not enough to get her to back out of wrestling. Let’s go check on how she’s doing in the challenge and grab a plate of haggis or a burger.”

They checked the tracker’s challenger leader board and saw Mimi was currently in fourth place and quickly moving up on third. Fugget smiled with pride and led York to a small food booth. He bought a burger for himself and ordered York a plate of haggis, explaining how haggis was the traditional dish for the first time a person attended any of Liberty’s games. A dozen men and women joined them at a long table. Most were Fugget’s long time friends with Jaden and Deliah among them.

York chewed the haggis thoughtfully. The meat product was a little blander than he liked, yet more flavorful than any meal he ate growing up at the orphanage. He scanned it with his dataport, discovering it fit quite well into Aphrodite’s special diet for him. Haggis was mostly protein and fat with a few carbohydrates for flavor. The thick slices of sausage-like meat were even better than his usual bowl of fortified oatmeal and granola. He went back for seconds and, to the laughter of the table, thirds.

When he finished the third plateful, Fugget laughed. “York, do you know what’s in haggis?”

York shrugged. “It might be better with a few chilis for flavor, but from what my dataport said it’s mostly sheep guts.”

Fugget looked deflated. York had spoiled his punch line. “Most folks get all gaggy when they find out haggis is sheep heart, lungs and liver with some extra fat all boiled in a sheep’s stomach.”

York said, “As long as they leave the penis and testicles out, I’m good with it.” His deadpan delivery brought laughs from around the table.

Jaden yelled something unintelligible about the race results. Everyone turned to look at the scores. Mimi had finished in third. Fugget shouted with joy.

Deliah shook her head. “That wife of yours is something else. She’s approaching forty years old faster than I am, but she’s as tough as when she was in college.”

Fugget laughed, “Don’t tell her she’s almost forty. She still thinks she’s twenty-five.”

Mimi come up on the table unseen by Fugget. “Who still thinks she’s twenty-five?” Fugget sputtered in his beer until Mimi took it and drank it for him. “You best be talking about your mother.” She looked excited, but tired. Her hair was wet and York couldn’t tell if the dampness was from the sweat of a long run or swimming in the lake. Wet or not, her weapons were clean and dry.

York wondered if Mimi really was delusional. He often fantasized about being someone other than himself. Nevertheless, he knew how old he was, where he came from and what he could and couldn’t do. This woman was quite a few years older than he was, yet she was competing in games that should have been limited to youngsters his age.

Mimi said, “I’m so pumped up from taking third place that I should ready for a little freestyle wrestling. However, since you’re all being honest about it, I might as well admit that I’m getting too old for this shit.” She raised Fugget’s beer glass in Deliah’s direction. “I’m withdrawing from wrestling. I just saw Dii Bylo is here. She’s a monster, plus she’s twenty years younger than I am and I know I can’t beat her, so no sense in getting this magnificent body all bruised and broken for nothing.”

EIGHTEEN

York stepped into the circle and looked across the ring at his opponent. The man was young, younger than York, but obviously old enough to compete or he wouldn’t have been allowed to sign up. He looked strong enough with more muscle development than simple hard farm labor would produce, muscles with the slick pumped look of steroid injections. He was as tall as York, looked fast on his feet and had a little longer reach than York. He was well over the two hundred pound minimum weight limit for this heavyweight category. He also looked more than a little drunk.

His opponent ignored the announcer and the referee, dancing around and jabbing a finger at York. His words were slurred, “Youse going down. An’ youse ain’t gettin’ up. I hope you brought enough friends to drag you out of here. Sure hope youse health insurance is paid up.” He was obviously more interested in approval from his friends than how his words were supposed to scare York.

York undid the top of his uniform coveralls, separating them at the waist. Since this was catch as catch can, he didn’t want to give an opponent something extra to grab onto. He would have stripped down to his skivvies, but he wasn’t sure what the mores were for being mostly naked at a family event. He shoved the blouse into the small bag with the pistol and holster, unworried about wrinkles, since the material wouldn’t wrinkle or hold dirt and sweat no matter how hard he tried.

The referee was a small young woman. She held a stun baton. Turning it on and listening to the powerful electric buzz was all of the warning and instructions she gave the contestants about proper fight behavior. “Get at it,” she said.

The young man rushed across the ring swinging a wild, roundhouse punch at York’s head. Someone untrained might have been tempted to duck under the whiffer, but York could see the punch was a feint. The wild punch was meant to miss. The young man’s other fist was coming up in a jawbreaking uppercut, aimed to knockout anyone foolish enough to duck under the haymaker.

York didn’t duck. He grabbed the youth’s fist with both hands and yanked hard, pulling him in close, letting the uppercut glance harmlessly off his shoulder. He twisted the arm. Slipping behind the man and reaching up, York wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and head. Six and a half seconds of squeezing and the man went slack. York eased him to the ground, stepped back and leaned against the ropes.

He’d expected more and was disappointed. His hope had been to get into a real scrap. He wanted a hard fight where he might be able to break someone. None of these people had done him any hurt, so he wasn’t in the mood to kill any of them. Someone … somewhere … yes, but not these people. Still, if someone was willing to get into a little tussle just for the fun of it, at least they could’ve made it interesting for him.

It’d been a while since he’d meted out any warranted justice. York wasn’t exactly getting antsy from it, besides his options for removing someone from this life were limited. He didn’t like Commander Blaque, the man was a useless drunk and he didn’t know Commander Paul enough to hate him. He didn’t have any reason to plan their demise. He didn’t like the slavers who were operating in the area, but he didn’t hate them, they had never done anything to him personally. There was Balderano’s dog pack from the Gambion. Other than Blade Balderano and Bartol Samdon, he didn’t so much hate them as he understood them and didn’t like what he understood. However, he hadn’t decided to do anything about them, Balderano and Samdon notwithstanding, or what method to use. He’d worked on a plan for Samdon to have an accident back on the Gambion, but the timing had never been right. York was patient, if nothing else.

These freestyle wrestling matches weren’t like planning someone’s accidental death. York knew planning was an important part of his particular skill set. He admitted, if only to himself, he enjoyed the planning part as much as the execution of the plan. The fight’s specific design was to be a rough and tumble contest, on the other hand, there was minimal planning. A sheet on the scoreboard clearly explained the rules. No biting, no weapons, and a match lasted until someone quit or was unable to continue. No rests, no breaks, no mulligans. A round lasted until a contestant couldn’t or wouldn’t continue and then the winner moved on to fight the winner of another contest, until only one person remained in each weight class. There were two weight classes for women and three for men.

The referee glanced down at the unconscious youth and pointed to York as the winner. That was that. A volunteer medic checked the young man and signaled for his friends to drag him out of the ring. A beep from York’s dataport signaled his next round was supposed to start within minutes. His second fight was in the same ring as his first.

His next contestant climbed slowly into the ring. His face was already showing discolored blotches from his first match, with a trickle of blood coming from a fat lip. The man had won or he wouldn’t be here, but his facial damage made it obvious it must have been a hard fought contest. He was as tall as York and appeared to weigh twice what York did. In fact, York was startled when the announcer read the man’s weight to the crowd. The fat man weighed much more than twice as much as York. York realized there must be some thick muscles hidden beneath the mounds of wobbly fat.

The crowd surrounding the ring was almost all locals who were divided evenly as to whether they liked the fat man or not. Whether he was liked or not, what was abundantly clear was that everyone recognized him on sight. York lost the man’s name in the crowd’s mixed applause and boos. The man offered a knuckle bump when the referee said, “Come on, boys. I ain’t got all day.”

York took the knuckle bump and ducked as the man jabbed a fist at York’s face. A quick duck and York let the jab slip over his head. He responded with four quick punches deep into the man’s gut. He had never fought a fat man before; all of his training had been against other students, cadets and instructors. They were all fit. This man was not. He grinned when York’s punches had little effect. Punching him was like striking a pillow laying over concrete.

York spun and sent a heel flying towards the man’s head. For a fat man he was fast. He deflected the kick and drove a fist into York’s inner thigh. York used the momentum of the punch to spin out of the man’s reach, slip behind him, wrap his arms around the fat man’s head, and squeeze. Rather than waiting six and a half seconds to pass out, the man leaned forward yanking York’s feet off the ground.

The fat man leapt into the air, crashing down on his back, crushing York between the hard pack ground and his massive weight. York felt his breath rush out of his body as if the air had grown suddenly afraid of his lungs. The crash was enough to break his strangle hold. Rather than gasp for air, he grasped the fat man’s ears and twisted. The man responded by grabbing York’s ankle and yanking it upward while continuing to press his body weight down.

An elbow jammed York hard in the ribs. He was pinned under the fat man’s bulk and if he couldn’t get out from under him, his leg would soon be twisted beyond the manufacturers design specification or he would be pounded into submission. He got his arms between him and the man. Bench press! He threw the man off him, thankful he had spent time pumping free weights in a heavy gravity gym.

The fat man rolled to his feet as quickly as York with a surprised look on his face. He nodded his approval to York acknowledging that few men could have pushed out from under his bulk. He ducked his head, spread his arms, and bull-rushed York attempting to wrap him up and drive him to the ground again.

York dismissed his first thought. He wanted to drive an uppercut punch to the man’s face stopping the drive. He remembered the man’s face coming into the ring showed he could take more than one punch and still win. Instead of hitting him, York dove over him, rolling to the ground and spinning back to face the man. Before the fat man could turn, York grabbed him like a bale of hay, one hand on his neck and one hand at the base of his spine. With a grunt, York lifted with his legs and hoisted the fat man into the air. Pushing up, he straightened his arms, raising the man’s face to the sky. Pushing against this bulk wasn’t as easy as lifting this much weight in the gym. He could easily lift this much, but metal weights didn’t wiggle.

York let go and stepped back, the fat man crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. For the first time he could hear the crowd cheering. Rather than step back as he would have done at the Yards to give an opponent time to regain his feet, he dropped to ground at the man’s head. Still flat on his back, the fat man reached up to grab him, but York wrapped both hands around one of the man’s wrists, braced his feet on his opponent’s shoulders, and pulled. He released the fat man’s arm when he heard a juicy pop. The fat man screamed and tapped the ground in submission.

Rolling to his feet, York stepped back leaning against the ropes. He wasn’t tired or even out of breath, but the man had been a challenge to defeat. This was better than beating the young man, so much more satisfying, but still something was missing. Yet, he still didn’t have any desire to kill this man. He had fought an honest contest.

The fat man quit screaming when the medic injected a painkiller into his shoulder and popped the bone back in place. The injured man rolled to his feet. He offered another knuckle bump to York and left the ring, calling for beer. York had won round two.

York wasn’t sure how many more rounds he had to fight. He could look at his dataport or walk over and check the scoreboard, either would give him the contest standings and his next opponent, but guessing was just too much fun. He doubted he’d won the final contest, he remembered at least a dozen men had signed up in his weight class. His dataport beeped and directed him to another ring for his next match. He grabbed his small bag and slipped between the ring ropes not bothering to put on his uniform blouse.

Fugget intercepted him on the way. “Whoooeee! I haven’t ever seen anyone get Baird to tap out. Man, I heard that shoulder pop out of place from where I was standing.”

“Baird was the fat man?”

“Fat, but tough”

York nodded, “I thought he was going to have me for lunch when he came slamming down on top of me. He hit so hard I tasted haggis again.”

Fugget laughed, “Yeah, I probably should have warned you away from your third helping. Who’ve you got next?”

“I don’t know. I’m waiting to be surprised.” The surprise happened before he got into the ring. It had little to do with who he had to wrestle. Someone stepped in front of him and jammed a flat hand across his chest. York almost slapped the hand away and punched the person before he recognized Sadie Brown. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, but her reaction to seeing him was a shock.

“Who the hell are you to treat your friends this way? No letters, no calls and you never answered my mail. I thought you liked us.”

“Sadie, I—”

“You what?” she interrupted. “We sent you messages before you left the ship and even after, when you reached your station, but no responses, nothing. What the hell?”

“I didn’t—”

“That’s right, you didn’t,” she interrupted again. “You don’t be treating me or Harp that way.”

York held his hands up in surrender. He looked at Fugget for help.

Fugget shrugged back. “You’re on your own, Sixteen. I’m not going to get between any man and his ex-girlfriend.”

Sadie snorted, “Girlfriend! The frak you say.” She realized her hand was still flat on his chest. She yanked it away as if burned. “He may be a fine looking man, but I got me a good man.” Her words didn’t sound as convincing as they were meant to be. She reached up to pat York on the chest again. “Damn. Ain’t you a bit distracting?”

York said, “First, Sadie, this is Master Chief Fugget of the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City here on Liberty. Fugget, this is Mrs. Sadie Brown the wife of Lieutenant Senior Grade Harp Brown, navigation officer on the Gambion.”

Fugget tipped an imaginary hat, “Ma’am.”

Sadie laughed, “Don’t you ma’am me. If I ain’t Sadie to you then I ain’t nobody to you.”

York said, “Sadie, second. I never got any messages from you. Not when I was still on the Gambion or when I got to my station. I sent you a dozen messages, but never got a response.”

Sadie clouded up. “I’m going to have a serious talk with Harp. Someone is blocking our mail and that ain’t right. The only reason to block our mail is we’re budgers.”

Fugget said, “Sadie, calling someone a budger on Liberty is unacceptable. I know you don’t know our customs, but please keep the word to yourself.

York said, “Surely you have budg … persons needing government assistance on Liberty? It’s Republic law for all aligned planets.”

Fugget said, “Of course it’s the law. But there are laws and there are laws. If a person can work and doesn’t, they can starve for all we care. If they can’t work, and there are always elderly and young children who can’t, they’re taken care of by family or by friends and communities.”

Sadie said, “But the law—”

Fugget laughed. “Is that like the law saying me and my missus have to have a permanent address so the government can find me whenever they want to look? I’ll be found when I want to be found. I’ll carry a gun if I need to. And when Mimi’s dear old Ma can’t take care of herself anymore, then she’ll move into our guest room. Of course, moving in with us is only in case the girls at her brothel don’t offer to take care of her first … hope, hope.” He crossed his fingers and glanced skyward, pleading with whatever deities were listening.

Fugget asked, “Is it just your mail to Ensign Sixteen that isn’t reaching him or are other messages being blocked?”

Sadie said, “No. I get stuff from my folks all the time. What does that matter?”

York said, “Then it isn’t your mail that’s blocked. It’s mine.”

Sadie said, “Why you and not me? We’re both …” She glanced and nodded in Fugget’s direction. “… you know.”

York said, “You married Harp Brown from the upper class. He made his choice to marry below his station.” Fugget snorted, yet he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t marry up. I have the audacity to raise myself up and proclaim that they aren’t better than I am. I mean an upper class man can marry whomever he wants, that’s just bedroom politics, who’s going to complain whether Harp wants to sleep with another man, two women or someone from another class. That’s just sex. However, I’m pushing against that steel plated class ceiling and they don’t like it.”

Fugget said, “I can fix your mail problem. Just send ‘em through me and I’ll reroute them. As a communications officer on Em.T-Sp8s, York can get anything to me as an official document because he’s the station’s reserve liaison officer. I can send anything I want to get around any filters on your ship.”

Sadie said, “I’m still going to have a talk with Harp. It’s illegal to stop any of my mail.”

Fugget shrugged. “As I said, there are laws and there are laws.”

York said, “I just got beeped again. I need to get to my next match.”

Sadie asked, “You’re fighting in these brutal games?”

York nodded as they walked toward the next ring. “It hasn’t been much in the way of fighting yet. Mostly just a little pushing and shoving, why?”

Sadie sputtered, “It’s … it’s … well, it’s just barbaric.”

Fugget laughed, “Thank you. Barbaric is exactly what we were going for.”

York stepped into the ring, leaving Sadie and Fugget to continue their argument about freestyle wrestling matches. Rather than having crowds milling about watching the matches, this ring had bleachers and benches around the outside. Proper spectators were gathering in seats with enterprising vendors offering wares to the waiting watchers. He looked at the gathering crowd, many of them were the same faces he had seen from the earlier matches. They must’ve followed him. He smiled at the referee and stood waiting patiently for his opponent.

The referee raised his hand calling for the crowd’s attention. He pointed at York. “Winner. Ray McGordon sends his regrets. He won his last match, but Riley Laird hurt him so bad he can’t continue. Let’s give both of those competitors a hand folks. The doctor says Ray could fight if he takes his medicine, but if he does, he can’t drink any more beer for the rest of the day. Those of you who know Ray, know why he chooses not to continue fighting.”

York was disappointed. Then his dataport beeped, he knew he had another match coming up. The fat man was fun, but it was over before he was ready to quit. He was hoping for a tougher challenge this time, someone he could let loose on and do a little damage to or someone who might do a little more damage to him than knocking his wind away.

He looked around the crowd. The mix was about half military and half civilian, with very little mixing between the groups. The one clear exception was Harp and Sadie Brown sitting with the Fuggets in the front row right behind York. Even where the military was sitting, there wasn’t any mixing of the ranks. The military crowd was divided into three distinct clusters. York thought it might have been easier if the game’s designers had just put up signs. Single enlisted ratings sit here. Higher ranking enlisted with families sit here. Officers sit here.

There were quite a few enlisted wearing liberty coats in the crowd. The lower and single ratings clustered shoulder to shoulder as if space was an unnecessary annoyance. The enlisted with family members also wore their liberty coats, some even providing such coats to their children. Family groupings sometimes allowed small gaps between some families and not between others. There were just a few officers from the Gambion. They were easy to spot in their more up-to-date civvie fashions. Locals were dressed in more of a come-as-you-are style while the military had dressed up in the latest fashion, taking advantage of a rare planetary liberty. Most of the senior officers had their wives and children clustered around them. York noticed the dog pack surrounding Kenna Altamont at the center of a pack of junior officers.

He nodded to her. She stared back as if looking through him. Lieutenant Samdon had an arm wrapped possessively over her shoulders. The man leaned in and whispered in her ear. She nodded, went to fetch a beer and returned to his embrace.

York wasn’t sure if he wanted Kenna for himself. The thought of having a girlfriend he had to touch and be touched by was somewhat revolting and somewhat exciting at the same time, whereas watching Samdon paw at Kenna turned his stomach. Samdon wasn’t in her league. York didn’t imagine himself to be either. However, Samdon was barely in the same league as sheep and York imagined a sheep would be offended at being pawed by such a troll. Kenna appeared to be there voluntarily, making it none of his concern.

He hadn’t cooled off from his last fight and he hoped it wouldn’t take much longer for this opponent to get here. He certainly hoped the man would be tough enough to fight. He wasn’t disappointed when Ensign Senior Grade Blade Balderano slipped between the ropes to the cheers of the dog pack. Balderano’s reputation among the enlisted ratings didn’t garner him any ovations nor did he appear too popular with the locals who had been following his path up the freestyle wrestling scoreboards.

The referee shouted, “This is the last match. All comers have been defeated so winner takes all. We are indeed lucky the Gambion is in orbit so we have trained military competing here today.” The man didn’t look as if he felt lucky. He flicked on his stun stick and swung it about a few times as if he hoped for an opportunity to use it on York or Balderano. “Do you gentlemen remember the rules?”

York shrugged, “None that are worth remembering.”

Balderano walked across the ring and held his hand out for a knuckle bump from York. When they were close enough, he said in a voice only York would hear, “It’s a court-martial offense to strike a senior officer. Remember that, budger.”

“Are you sure you can do this by yourself, sir? Do you need to call in some of your friends to back you up?”

“Keep your mouth shut, budger. You can stand there and take your beating or quit like the coward you are. This is a direct order.”

York sighed knowing this should be an easy fight. The two were approximately the same size and weight, yet York had been working hard in the gym. He doubted Balderano had ever done more than exercise his butt in a sim chair. None of Balderano’s physical size or conditioning took into account he hadn’t ever been able to best York in any hand-to-hand competition. However, the order had been given, he wasn’t to strike back. So he wouldn’t … yet.

The referee shouted, “If you ladies are done gossiping, go at it.”

York flexed his knees and drew in his chin.

Balderano raised himself up on his toes, dancing and shuffling his feet like some ancient boxer from hundreds of years ago. He threw a punch at York’s face. York ducked and twisted, letting the blow pass by his ear. Balderano threw three quick punches at York’s head. The crowd gasped as it looked like all three blows landed. York easily flicked all three away with slaps from his hand.

York grabbed Balderano’s wrist as a punch flicked past his temple. He dropped his shoulder, turned and threw Balderano across the ring. The throw was light. A first year cadet would be able to roll back into a fighting stance. Balderano was much better trained than a first year cadet. He rolled up and came at York, throwing punch after punch shouting, “Is some weak-assed judo throw all you got, Ensign? I’ve seen better fighting from my six year old sister, Ensign. Are you going to cry and call your mama, Ensign?”

York flicked the punches away with ease, except for one managing to slice through his defenses and graze his chin. He felt nothing but anger. He couldn’t fight back beyond a few defensive moves without disobeying the direct order he’d received. Balderano calling him ‘ensign’ was a clear reminder York was outranked and striking back would have severe consequences. Self-defense was permissible, but the man had his dog pack at his back, manipulating the video database wouldn’t even be necessary with this many witnesses against York.

He threw a leg between Balderano’s legs and grabbed him behind the head. It was the perfect position to throw a few hard knees into the man’s midsection. Instead he pushed Balderano down and back away from him, hooking an ankle behind a foot, sending him crashing onto the ground. In a real fight, York would have pounced while the man was down. Knocking a man down and then waiting politely for him to get up was a foolish strategy. York was a firm believer in knocking a man down, keeping him down, and pounding him until he can’t get up again. Still, under orders not to fight back, he stood and let Balderano get back to his feet.

Balderano shouted, “He tripped me.”

The referee shrugged. “You wanna quit because of it? No? You don’t get no sympathy from me.”

Balderano rushed York, swinging wildly. York slipped out of the way and pushed him hard into the ropes. The man bounced back and threw a spinning back kick at York’s head.

York’s head wasn’t where Balderano aimed. He had ducked, twisted, and caught the man by the heel, holding his foot high in the air, causing Balderano to hop on one leg trying to keep his balance. York could have easily disabled the man by breaking his knee, dislocating his hip, or simply smashing a knee into his testicles. Instead, he simply pushed him away.

The referee snorted, “You girls done dancin’ or are you ready to start fighting?”

Fugget shouted, “Wait a minute, ref.”

The referee shouted, “Shut up, Fugget. There ain’t no ‘wait a minute’ in freestyle wrestling.”

Balderano took the distraction as an attempt to get a punch through York’s defenses. He couldn’t and ended up sitting on his back side with York ten feet away. It looked as if York was waiting patiently, but he was seething inside. Balderano would pay for this.

The referee said, “Contestants want to grant a quick minute to Jim Fugget, past planetary freestyle wrestling champion?”

York was surprised. He knew Fugget was tough. A past champion was nothing to sneeze at. He nodded.

Balderano shouted, “The hell I will. I got him right where I want him.” The obviously self-delusional comment brought a few chuckles from the experienced spectators. He rushed York again, getting a quick blow through to crunch against York’s mouth, splitting it and spurting blood. His next three punches whiffed the air, doing more damage to his own endurance than York’s minor deflections cost him.

York wondered if he could just outlast Balderano, dodging punches until the man wore himself out and went away. This wasn’t a match scored on points. This was last man standing wins. He did a quick hip check, sending Balderano crashing to the ground.

Balderano said, “Okay. All this is making me thirsty. Let’s give the coward a break.”

Fugget leapt into the ring. “What the hell is going on, York? I watched you train at the station’s gym and I’ve watched you fight. This should’ve been over a long time ago. You aren’t getting paid by the hour here.”

York, not bothering to keep his voice low, said loudly enough for anyone to hear, “I’ve been ordered by a senior officer not to strike back under penalty of court-martial.” He’d been told not to fight back, but Balderano hadn’t told him to keep the orders to himself. Besides, there wasn’t anything Fugget could do to get the order rescinded. None of the planetary reserve officers could order the active duty military to do anything. York’s own supervisor’s could have the order retracted, but neither Paul nor Blaque had left the station. Any higher-ranking officer from the Gambion could change the order. York doubted any would.

Fugget signaled Harp Brown. “Sir, Ensign Junior Grade Sixteen has informed me he was ordered not to hit Ensign Senior Grade Balderano or else be brought up on charges.” He emphasized the ‘junior’ and ‘senior’ in order to emphasize the ranks involved. “Is this what passes for honor these days?”

Brown shook his head, “Ensign Balderano, did you order Sixteen to not fight back?”

“Of course not, sir.” Balderano said. York wanted to chuckle as the man was a horrible poker player and everyone over the age of six, and a few younger, could tell he wasn’t being honest. “He’s a budger and you know they can’t help themselves but lie.”

The word budger brought a blanket of silence over the crowd. The inhabitants of Liberty were touchy about the political implications of the word and more than half of the lower enlisted ratings had come from the bottom rung of the Republic’s class structure.

Brown said, “Be that as it may be. From this point forward, I’m instructing both contestants to give this their best. We are the Navy and we don’t pull punches. There will be no retribution against Ensign Sixteen for any hits on Ensign Balderano. Are my instructions clear?”

“Yes, sir,” York replied. Balderano just nodded his agreement with little grace.

Fugget said, “Ref, it’s back to you.”

Without waiting for a signal, Balderano raced across the ring, executing a perfect flying scissor’s kick. York did the only thing he could think of, step back, let the man pass by and hit him in the head just as hard as he could on the way past. Balderano crumpled to the ground, sliding into a heap amid a small cloud of dust. He lay there not moving.

York looked at the referee. The referee looked at Balderano’s motionless form and pointed at York, “Winner. Damn, son, I wish you’d have done this quicker. My beer is getting warm.”

People rushed into the ring, pushing and shoving, quickly surrounded York, some to get at Balderano to help him, some to pat York on the back. He wasn’t comfortable with the crowd, so he clamped his jaw shut, letting the tide of people wash over him. The Fuggets and the Browns formed a small ring around him, keeping most people far enough away that all they could reach was a quick pat on the shoulder.

Samdon slid in behind York, edging between Fugget and Mimi. His voice was low enough it didn’t carry far over the crowd noise. “You’re going to pay for this, budger. I don’t know where or when, but I will bury your ass.”

York spun about and looked into Samdon’s eyes. He didn’t make any attempt to keep his voice quiet. “I’m right here if you want to try me. Oh, wait. I forget, you’re the kind of man who likes to hit people when they aren’t looking.” He glanced at Kenna and froze. The woman was still sitting in the bleachers where Samdon had left her. She wasn’t making any move to leave or even look at the people around her. He was close enough to look into her eyes. Her face had the long distance blankness of people who are seeing nothing near and everything else was beyond their visual range. He’d seen the look more than once as a child. Drugs!

Kenna hadn’t appeared to be a heavy user, yet he had to admit his only contact with her was the two weeks the reserve unit had been on the station. They’d been friendly, but not friends. He certainly hadn’t assumed their friendship extended to the hugging stage he’d endured earlier at her hands. It’d been uncomfortable for him to be wrapped in an attractive women’s arms. However, it hadn’t been as uncomfortable as he told himself it should have been. He didn’t like to be touched much less hugged with enthusiasm. It hadn’t been a sexual contact. Anything so close and personal as sex might make him vomit. It’d appeared to be just one friend hugging another. He didn’t feel friendship for her or did he? He wondered why it bothered him to see her so zoned out.

The doctor had finally gotten Balderano on his feet, ushering him out of the ring with the help of his friends. He fought through the crowd to get to York and asked, “You need medical attention?”

York shook his head. He put a hand on Samdon’s face and shoved, sending Samdon crashing through the crowd onto the ground, taking a couple of his dog pack friends with him.

York said, “I’m fine, but please get Miss Altamont somewhere where you can check her over.”

Mimi turned to look in Kenna’s direction. She shouted, “What the hell? Kenna, tell me you’re okay.”

Kenna’s voice was flat and dull as she said, “I’m okay.”

Mimi said, “Kenna, you have to come with me and the doctor.”

Kenna said, “Okay, I’ll come with you and the doctor.” Before she could stand and make her way through the crowd, Samdon and his friends were by her side. Samdon whispered in her ear.

She said, “I’m fine. I’m going with him.” She was quickly ushered out of the bleachers and was lost in the crowd.

Fugget snapped on his dataport and called Kenna’s family. Sadie asked, “York, what is it? What’s wrong? She said she was fine.”

York shook his head, “It isn’t for me to say, though I think the local authorities might want Lieutenant Samdon to stick around for some questions about his relationship to Kenna Altamont. I certainly think the doctor should run some toxicology tests on her, just to be safe.”

Brown looked around, his face growing dark and cloudy, but Samdon, Balderano and the dog pack had disappeared into the crowds. “I’ll go see if I can locate our Lieutenant Samdon.”

Word spread quickly around Saorsa City like a pebble thrown in a pond. It came bouncing back just as fast as a wave rebounding off a nearby shore. Samdon, Balderano, Kenna, and the dog pack had disappeared. Some said they took the shuttle back to their ship, some said they took a rented floater off into parts unknown and some said whatever she was into was her own fault for associating with upper class off-worlders.

NINETEEN

York sat quietly for the rest of the afternoon listening to the argument going on around him. There were voices shouting for a posse to go after the dog pack and other voices shouting that the young officers hadn’t done anything worth going after. No one could prove Kenna Altamont had or hadn’t gone with them of her own volition. They tried sending comms signals to the rented floater, but received no response. No one was shouting for someone to simply look up their GPS location and go check on them.

York finally asked about tracking them by GPS. He was surprised to learn each floater, truck, vehicle, car, flitter, and shuttle had a tracking system with software in place to stop anyone, even the government and police, from accessing the data unless a person was already convicted of a crime and running away. Using GPS to track someone was a direct violation of their planetary personal privacy code. He was further shocked to learn Liberty had no full time police or criminal investigators. A long list of voluntary deputies dealt with criminal action. Some deputies continued to argue for doing nothing at all while other police volunteers were ready to bring out the nukes.

Captain Altamont and his son Toby were ready to go find Kenna and drag her home if necessary. The law prevented them from learning where the dog pack might have taken her. Both man and boy were more than angry, but restrained by calmer heads around them. Everyone was cognizant of the potential political ramifications that may result from a third level colony government jumping the gun and accusing primary world’s upper class military officers of any impropriety, much less kidnapping … or worse.

Tensions all across the festival worsened throughout the day. Fistfights and shoving matches broke out all over until the Gambion cancelled all liberty. York’s leave hadn’t been cancelled, apparently Commander Paul didn’t care if he came back or not. The Gambion’s command staff admitted the dog pack hadn’t responded to their hale and their rented floater’s GPS signal was turned off.

York nodded to Fugget, who was no longer just Mister Jim Fugget or even Master Chief James Fugget. He was Voluntary Police SWAT Commander J. Fugget. With a nod, York silently suggested they talk outside. Fugget was reluctant to leave the meeting, as he was the most vocal of the group calling for a planet-wide search.

Once outside, York said, “Fugget, I’m not contributing here. Half of the people in Saorsa City look at my uniform and automatically lump me in with Samdon, Balderano and their clique. The other half looks at me and assumes I’m stonewalling you just like the Gambion.”

“Do you want me to get Ernie to give you a lift back up to the station?”

“No. I think I’d like to see more of the planet. I’d just like to get away from people for a while until things resolve themselves.”

Fugget nodded. “You could rent a flitter from Bob’s Used Transports or you could just borrow my car. I assume you can fly. The keys are in it. Just check in with me every now and again so I know you’re all right. There are some mighty rough and wild parts to Liberty yet. Human eyes haven’t even seen some parts. I know you’re tough, but be careful.”

York said, “Thank you. I won’t go far. You mentioned something about some big waterfall?”

Fugget said, “Yep, it’s a quiet spot probably with nobody there this time of year. The elevation is high enough to freeze at night, but the back seat of the car folds down into a comfortable bed. The coordinates are in the nav system. Keys are in the car. I just gotta—”

York interrupted. “I know, you have to get back. I’ll leave my radio and GPS on, so if there’s anything I can do to help, you call me.”

Fugget pointed at the pistol still strapped to York’s waist. “Be careful what you shoot with your little handgun. There are creatures in the Torso Mountains who’ll only get pissed off if you shoot them with such a tiny peashooter. Grab something bigger from the cabinet before you head out.”

It didn’t take him long to grab a heavy rifle to compliment the small pistol. He grabbed a few other things from around the Fugget’s floater and guided the car through the roof’s garage door. Vesper whined loudly at being left behind, but he didn’t want her along. He easily found a GPS location bookmarked for a Torso Mountain waterfall. He set the nav system on automatics and dialed up his secure link to the Em.T-Sp8s computers. The biometrics readout in the car easily shook hands with the secure military systems. Planetary rules or not, he called up the GPS location of the dog pack’s rental floater. The signal was off. Nevertheless, the system gave him the tracking history prior to it going silent. If the station’s sensors had been on active, he could have tracked where they had gone even with their GPS off. The station couldn’t read any planetary activity using only passive scans.

He overlaid the dog pack’s last location on a planetary map and saw they’d been hovering in an area called the Yavapai Steppes farther north than the Torso Mountains. Geographically, it was an area of high rims and canyons caused by successive tectonic quakes shoving up massive escarpments higher and higher into a series of thousand yard high steps extending for a hundred miles. Over the centuries, small streams and creeks cut deep into the high rim rocks creating waterfalls and throwing ten-ton boulders around like autumn leaves.

York didn’t expect to find the dog pack or Kenna Altamont at their last GPS marker. Shutting off his own GPS and radio, he set the automatics to their last known location. It’d be a good place to start his search. He’d had the same training as the missing officers. He knew if they were hiding, they would pick a direction and move after shutting down their signal. He also knew most people, whether by deliberate choice or by rote action, turned right.

The search didn’t take him long. After an hour of going low and slow barely brushing the treetops, he spotted a small wisp of smoke rising in the distance. He settled the car into a tiny clearing a mile from the smoke. He’d lied to Fugget when he told him he’d keep the GPS and radio on. The lie wouldn’t keep him up at night, on the other hand the car wasn’t his. He didn’t want to deprive the Fuggets of their property if he failed here in the unsettled north. He set a timer for the GPS to power up after twenty-four hours. The Fuggets could come and find their car if he didn’t come back within a reasonable time frame.

Dark would come on quick at these latitudes. Even though it was hours until sunset, the temperature was already getting colder. His uniform would compensate, keeping him warm as long as he remained active. He decided not to wait until morning to investigate the smoke. He made a clear mental picture of where to find the car again, grabbed the rifle and a canteen with a small pack of food supplements and moved quietly through the forest towards the rising smoke.

He was used to being alone; in fact, he liked and preferred to be by himself. But, he felt odd being alone in the forest and kept looking behind him. It felt as if someone was watching his every step. The shadows and smells were somehow wrong. He had spent many hours in escape and evasion simulators at the academy, moving and surviving in cities, forests, deserts and island environments, but this was different. It felt. Every sim he’d ever completed and later experienced in reality had been such a perfect match his memories couldn’t tell reality from simulated fiction. This was different. The trees had the same feel, the air smelled the same as many forest simulations and the sounds were so similar as to be indistinguishable. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different. It just felt. York wondered if the forest was different or if the change was in him.

His fingers danced lightly on the handle of the little Walther PPK in its holster at his waist. Fugget had warned him about the native fauna in the unsettled areas reaches around the Torso Mountains and he was farther north than that. He had the heavy rifle on a shoulder strap where he was sure he could get it quickly, if he needed it. Somehow, the little pistol was more comforting. The heavy rifle might be necessary, but the little Walther carried the solid confidence of James Bond.

York was downwind of the smoke and eased toward the camp quietly in the gathering darkness. A single figure sat quietly next to a roaring fire. The fire was much larger than anything they’d ever been trained to build in outdoor survival classes. Even though the flames were licking sky high, the man tossed another log onto the fire and glanced around him, obviously worried about what might be lurking in the dark. York smiled. He lurked in the dark.

His feet didn’t even whisper as he slipped forward and slid the small Walther from his holster. He bashed the man in the back of the head at the precise angle with the exact force and on the particular spot his training said would render an opponent unconscious, but not dead.

A short while later, York watched Lieutenant Junior Grade Bartol Samdon struggling to wake up. His fight against unconsciousness worked, conversely his battle against his restraints didn’t. It’d taken him longer to wake up than York imagined, but the extra minutes gave him plenty of time to scout the area around the fire. A huge escarpment jutted high into the darkness just to the north. A small nearby stream cascaded into a clear blue pool and wandered away into the forest for a thousand yards before crashing over the edge of another escarpment and dropping a few hundred yards to a steppe below. He hadn’t found anyone else. The dog pack’s rented floater wasn’t close by. He doubted Samdon would have been outside next to a fire if he had the option of being warm inside somewhere. The only paths through the forest were barely discernible animal tracks. He would have to wait until morning to see more.

Samdon croaked, “You better cut me loose, budger. This is frakking crap. I’ll see you court-martialed for this.”

Other than smiling, York didn’t respond. He munched slowly on a nutrition bar and watched Samdon struggle against his bonds.

Samdon shouted, “My friends will be back soon and you’ll get what’s coming to you!”

York chuckled. He really hoped Balderano and the rest of the dog pack would come back. It would be much more complicated to take on half a dozen trained military officers, but it would certainly make this more interesting. Complicated had its own special appeal. He pulled out the thin knife from his boot, letting the firelight twinkle on the shiny blade. Opening the pack, he pulled out a roll of duct tape. The blade on the knife was four inches long. Even such a short length was too long for his purposes. He knew if he wasn’t careful he’d become too excited and plunge the blade in long before he was ready.

Samdon’s eyes went wide. He sputtered, “Wait. Wait. No. My family is rich. You let me go and I can pay you whatever you want.”

York looked up with interest and said, “Really? How much?”

Samdon said, “Whatever you want. A million credits … no, two. Yeah, two million.”

York shook his head and wrapped three inches of the blade with thick tape. “How much money have you stolen from me in the past?”

“Stolen? Nothing. I swear on my eyes I’ve never taken any credits from you.”

“Yeah, I can’t remember you stealing from me either, so I guess money isn’t what I’m after, huh? It’s a strange coincidence you mention your eyes though.”

Samdon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to yank his head to the side.

York chuckled. “Oh, quit thrashing about. I’m not going to cut your eyes out. Hell, man! I want to you to see what I’m going to do. Now, don’t wiggle or I may cut you by accident.” He slipped the knife in at the man’s collar and sliced through his civvie clothes from neck to ankle, tossing all of the rags into the blazing fire. Civvie clothes were fire resistant, but weren’t fire proof and the blaze was hot. Samdon was naked to the cool night air. His clothes were unrecognizable ashes in a matter of minutes.

Samdon started to sweat. York didn’t know whether the sweat was from being so close to the fire or due to his fright. He hoped Samdon was frightened. Making a man sweat with fear was exciting. The excitement wasn’t sexual, getting an erection at a time like this would just be weird, though the capture and questioning was giving him a wonderful dopamine and adrenaline rush. He was glad he’d wrapped tape around the knife blade. Without a protected cutting surface, it would be too easy to slice too deep, too fast.

Samdon pleaded, “No. Wait. Tell me what you want.”

“Sssshhhh.” York said. “Save your breath for later. I think you’re going to need it.”

“No! Don’t—”

York rocked back on his heels. “Great googa-booga, boy. Have you forgotten all your academy training? They trained us better than this at the prep school I attended. I mean, really, sir, I haven’t even cut you once yet and you’re ready to give up everything except your sister.”

“Sister? You want my sister? Yeah, okay. I can make it happen.”

York shook his head. “I don’t want your sister. Busty Beethoven and randy Rachmaninoff, Lieutenant! If your sister has any family resemblance to you, I wouldn’t let my dog take her.” He poked a finger on Samdon’s body in a couple of spots: neck, chest, testicles, and inner thigh. “Let’s see … where to start, where to start? This is so exciting, Lieutenant Samdon. I don’t mind admitting how much I’m enjoying this. Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m not going to cut anything really important right out of the chute. Let’s work up to the good stuff.”

Samdon blubbered, “No, please. I never did anything to you.”

“Really? Nothing?” He grabbed Samdon’s nipple and slid the blade slowly through the flesh, tossing the small piece into the fire. He expected Samdon to scream, but when he looked at him, the man had fainted. He pulled a small vial of amyl nitrate from his pack and waved the smelling salts under the man’s nose. “Come on, sir. Stay with me.”

“What do you want? Please …” Samdon begged. “I’m sorry I hit you on the Gambion. I’m … I’m sorry I threatened you. I’m sorry I wrote you up. I apologize.”

“Oh, okay.” York said. “Shake on it? No. Oh, I forgot your hands are tied up.” He reached down and quickly sliced off the little finger on the man’s left hand, tossing the offending piece into the fire.

Samdon didn’t faint. He squealed like a little girl, sobbed and then whimpered.

York smiled. The whimpering noises were better. “Thank you, sir. I accept your apology.”

Samdon said, “I’ll kill you when I get … no, I didn’t mean that. We can forget all of this, just let me loose.”

York said, “Loose? Why would I let you go free? That isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want? Wait … I have the girl. You let me go and you can have her.”

York frowned. “Dammit, man. Why did you have to say that? You’re just too quick. You really suffer from tormenta interruptus. Okay, crap. Where is she?”

“Downstream about a hundred yards is a clearing. We landed the floater there. I took Kenna back into the trees a ways and put up a small tent. We … we partied some. I left her in the tent when I went back to the floater for something to eat, but they were gone. Everything was gone. They left me here.”

“She’s still there?”

“Yeah, I think. East of the clearing. I came up here looking for fish in this pond or for berries or something to eat.”

With a little shudder of enjoyment, York flicked the knife gently against Samdon’s neck, just below his ear.

Samdon asked, “What did you do?” He struggled to see where he was cut, his eyes wide with terror.

York said, “I must be getting soft in my old age. All of this naked skin to cut and I think I’m done. You just rest a minute while I go see if I can find Miss Altamont.”

“You aren’t going to cut me anymore?” Samdon’s voice was already becoming slurred as the blood flowed from his cut jugular.

York held up the knife, stripping the duct tape away. He threw the tape into the fire, wiped the blood away from the blade and held it into the fire to clean it. He would drop the knife into a sonic cleaner as soon as he got back to the car. He was sure he packed one with the camping gear appropriated from the Fuggets.

Samdon was still muttering, but he quit after a minute and appeared to be sleeping. York watched for a while until he was sure the man wasn’t breathing and his heart had stopped pumping blood. He cut the man’s restraints and tossed them into the fire. They were thick zip ties, yet they would disappear in time. He tossed the rest of the small pile of firewood onto the blaze, letting it flame higher and higher. He glanced at Samdon’s body and decided to leave it to the buzzards and insects. He wasn’t sure if the planet had carrion eaters, but every habitable planet he’d ever heard of had some equivalent who would enjoy a fresh meal of protein, even alien protein was a buffet.

He pulled a small light from his pouch. The night was full on dark as he followed the stream until he found a clearing. The whole area was a mess, filled with discarded debris left behind by Balderano and his dog pack. Scattered about with abandon were food containers, broken lawn chairs and dirty clothes. There was a flattened patch of grass and brush already struggling to repair the damage done by a floater crushing it. Wherever they’d gone, they’d left in a hurry, leaving everything behind.

He scanned the forest to the east of the clearing. He hoped the late Lieutenant Junior Grade Bartol Samdon hadn’t taken Kenna too deep into the woods. He doubted the man would’ve gone too far. He’d been a lazy man, yet there wasn’t any clear path to follow.

With a sigh, he started a search pattern, zigzagging around the thick trees. He flicked the light to rotate between infrared and visual light. After only twenty yards, he spotted a gap between two trees. In the gap was a small tent, invisible in the infrared spectrum. Not having an infrared signature, meant Kenna was dead or the tent was camouflaged. Upon closer inspection, the tent was military issue with the words ‘Property of the R.N.S. Gambion’ stenciled on the side. The tent would have kept anyone from picking up a heat signature from a body inside, even on a cold night. In the daylight, the tent’s coloring would have made it practically invisible in the forest. He only spotted it because he was using white light at night. Any trained military tracker would use infrared at night. The dog pack must have checked the tent out from the MWR department on the ship.

He didn’t know why Balderano and the dog pack had left Samdon and the tent behind. Maybe they abandoned him as a useless asshole or maybe they hadn’t been privy to where he hid the tent with Kenna inside. Whatever the reason, he was glad Samdon was gone and he felt strangely glad when he ran a finger down the tent flap and saw Kenna Altamont sitting cross-legged in the tent, staring back at him.

Her eyes were glazed as if she was still drugged. He glanced at her naked body. She was obviously bruised, her thighs covered in purple splotches and dried blood. She had bite marks on her breasts and scratches on her neck.

“Are you okay?” York asked.

“I’m okay,” she said with a slurred voice.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m hurt.”

“What is your name?”

“Kenna Georgine Altamont.”

“Do you want to give me oral sex?”

“I want to give you oral sex.” She got to her hands and knees and crawled toward him.

York said, “Not now. Maybe later.”

“Okay, maybe later.”

He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet outside the tent. Her clothes were nowhere in sight. Rather than have her walk barefoot through the forest at night, he picked her up and carried her back to the clearing. He was surprised at how heavy she felt. She was tall, but not big, so she must have more muscles packed on her frame than he’d estimated.

She stood in the clearing where he set her down. Scanning around, he found a pair of mangled flip flops and a pair of dirty shorts with a mismatching top. The colors of the shorts and top didn’t match but dirt was equally smeared on both. He dressed her carefully, touching her as little as he could.

“Can you walk?”

“I can walk.” No matter what she said, her first steps were more of a stumble than a walk.

“Crap.” York grabbed her and picked her up again. She wasn’t so heavy that he couldn’t carry her the mile or so back to Fugget’s car. If he ran into any wild beasts, he could drop her and still get his rifle out in time … he hoped.

TWENTY

York glanced in the back seat. Kenna was laying quietly, staring at nothing. She’d been quiet since he put her there. Conversation was possible, however any talk was limited to her parroting back whatever he said. So, he left her to rest. He kept an eye on her even though he knew she would stay in the back for no other reason than he’d told her to.

He guided the car around the back of the Torso Mountains through the dark. The sun wouldn’t begin to gray the sky until long after he reached Saorsa City. He spotted the glint of a small river and a lake below him. With a shrug, he flicked on the GPS and the radio. There weren’t any messages waiting for him so no one had bothered looking for him yet.

He dialed Fugget’s number, selecting it from the frequent contacts on the comm’s list. He expected to have to let it ring for awhile, waking the man. Fugget picked up the phone before it rang a second time.

“Ensign Sixteen, are you okay?”

“Yes, Master Chief, I’m right as a phoenix rising. Why? You sound frazzled.” He’d left the video screen blanked. Keeping the picture off was the only polite thing to do when calling someone who might be in bed.

“It’s been a rough night. We’ve had slavers hit a couple of farmsteads in the Ferguson district out west. They got away clean with a dozen people. We’re still waiting for the full reports on the missing and dead. And we still don’t have any word on the missing Gambion officers and Kenna Altamont.”

York said, “I found Kenna out by the Torso Mountains. I’m flying her back now.” He’d long since decided no one needed to know where they might find any part and parcel of the late Bartol Samdon. He wasn’t worried about being caught for murder. His arrest, trial and conviction would happen someday, no matter how careful he was. He wasn’t concerned about the whole legal end of his activities. He just wasn’t ready to share this experience with Samdon with anyone just yet, the whole thing was his private memory. “She’ll need a doctor right away. Please have people on standby.”

There were more than a few people on standby as he flew into Saorsa City. The medical building was lit up like opening night at an opera premier. He ignored the roped off open square in front of the building where people were standing three and four deep around the ropes. He doubted any man, woman, or child would want to be gawked at after having been so violently and viciously assaulted. Guiding the car behind the building, he landed by a back door. The receiving dock area was unlit and the bright lights shooting skyward from the roof and in front, left its small porch in deep shadows. The door was unlocked and he managed to get Kenna from the back of the car and into the building before the crowd of lookie loos raced around the building.

He was barely inside with the door shut behind him before the medical staff washed over him like a tsunami, pulling Kenna from his arms, settling her onto a gurney and whisking her away. A gaggle of Altamonts trailed the medical crew. No one paid him the least bit of attention, so he followed along behind.

Pushing everyone aside, the Altamonts moved into a waiting area. York trailed along with them. He doubted they even noticed he was there. He recognized people aside from Toby, Chrissie and Captain Altamont. There were a dozen other family members gathered together. He wondered what it was like to have so much family, or if the truth be known, any family. He wasn’t a part of the Altamonts, so he stood alone in a corner. The waiting room felt as claustrophobic as a tiny closet.

The doctor was back before anyone had time to get antsy. “Captain and Mrs. Altamont, we’ve done tests and the results are … um, unsettling.”

Mrs. Altamont said, “Spit it out, Grant.”

The doctor nodded. “She’s been assaulted, raped and beaten, we have three sets of DNA on her from the attacks and a fourth DNA sample not associated with any assault. We’ve run some blood tests and some toxicity screenings. We know she’s been drugged, but we don’t know what the drug is so we can’t give her anything to counter it. She is conscious and responsive. She’s obviously traumatized and not behaving normally.”

Mrs. Altamont said, “What can you do for her?”

“I’m afraid we can only clean her up, make her comfortable, and keep an eye on her for now. We’re still running some tests, but nothing—”

“Excuse me,” York interrupted. “Doctor, did your tox screens check for devil’s breath?”

The doctor spun on York “Who the hell are you?”

Toby and Chrissie both spoke up at the same time, “He’s Ensign Sixteen from Empty Space.” “He’s York, he worked the hay harvest with us.”

Captain Altamont snapped, “How would you know what he’s supposed to check for?”

York said, “Devil’s breath. It’s an old Earth drug. Test for scopolamine. It used to be used by organized crime to control people. It’s a zombie drug they called the devil’s breath. It’s used to make people compliant. Devil’s breath also made them forgetful, not remembering anything they’d done. I believe she’s been given the specifically reconfigured 2B12 strain.”

The doctor frowned, “Scopolamine 2B12?”

York nodded, “Scopolamine should be easy enough to find, and once you locate the base substance, you can check for the specific strain. About a hundred years ago the drug was refined using a 2B12 process. It’s a drug we’re trained to use at the New Hope Officers Academy for interrogation purposes. I never heard about there being a counteragent. She may just have to wait for her body to flush it naturally out of her system. Until then, she’ll truthfully answer any question put to her and do anything she’s asked to do, but this strain of the drug won’t impact her memory. She’ll know everything she’s done and what’s been done to her. While she’s under the influence, she can’t stop herself from doing what she is told to do or saying what she’s asked to say.”

Altamont shouted, “Did you do this to my daughter?” Two male relatives held him back. One was the fat man York had defeated in the wrestling match.

York didn’t have any doubt Altamont would have attacked him if the man was free. He was sure he could protect himself from the older man. On the other hand, he was glad the man was restrained. He shook his head, “No, sir. I found her like this. I believe a group of junior officers from the Gambion did this. I found her after they abandoned her and left.”

“They did this and left her alone this way? Where did the bastards go?”

York nodded. “I don’t know where they are. I found their campsite up in the Torso Mountains, but their floater was gone and there wasn’t any clue as to where they went.”

The doctor said, “How do we know you weren’t involved in this? Who are these men?”

York said, “I’m prohibited by Navy regulations from giving any civilian the names of any officers I think are involved. I can only give those names to a higher-ranking active duty military officer.” He rolled up his sleeve. “However, I can volunteer my own DNA for comparison.” He looked at the doctor, “As long as you give me your word you will not keep my DNA on record as a permanent file?”

It only took a moment for the doctor to extract a few cells, racing off to compare them against DNA from the assaults. Altamont glared at the fat man, “Do something, Baird.”

Baird nodded, yanked out his comm unit and made a call to the Gambion. It amazed York that the fat man had a navy spacecraft’s number in his contact’s list.

The doctor was back before Baird finished his call. “We have a DNA match on Ensign Sixteen.” He held up a hand to stop Altamont from attacking York. “His DNA is the fourth set on her. It’s only on her hands and one other, um, non-sexual location. The contact is limited to a few skin epithelial cells.”

York nodded. “I had to carry her to the car.”

The doctor said, “Those contacts would be consistent with the evidence. There aren’t any DNA matches for the two sets of fluids we found.”

Mrs. Altamont said, “Two sets of fluid? I thought you found four sets of DNA. One is York’s, that should leave three.”

The doctor nodded, “Two sets of fluid from the sexual assaults. There is a third set of DNA from bite marks on her breasts. They’re female.”

Altamont spun on York. “You tell me who did this or by all the gods I’ll have you arrested for being an accessory or … or for obstruction of justice.”

York shook his head. “I can’t. However, Doctor, you treated a Gambion junior officer after I fought him in a wrestling match yesterday. Do you have his records?”

The doctor looked sheepish. “We aren’t allowed by law to keep DNA from routine medical tests.”

York heard the unspoken conjunction and asked, “But?”

“But, I already checked my records, since I haven’t, um … had time to delete them yet. He was Ensign Senior Grade Blade Balderano, right?”

York smiled, “Junior. Yes that’s him.”

The doctor shook his head, “His DNA didn’t match.”

“Just because his DNA doesn’t match doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Just remember, I didn’t give you his name.”

Baird finished his call and spoke up. “The captain of the Gambion admitted he has a group of junior officers who haven’t responded to his liberty recall. He refuses to give me their names or open their medical DNA database for a comparison test. He says he won’t give York orders to reveal names to us as Ensign Sixteen isn’t in his command and is actually assigned to Em.T-Sp8s. I left a message for Commander Paul at Empty Space, but I don’t want to wait for him to bother getting back to me.”

York shrugged. “I am sorry, I can’t give you more than I already have, except to tell you if you find out who Balderano was with at the festival, then you are more than likely to know who you’re looking for.”

Baird shook his head. “No. I have a faster way. Ensign Junior Grade York Sixteen. I am the planetary governor, Baird Altamont. I’m using my Republic government authorized powers to federalize Captain Altamont for these troubling slavery incursions. As ancillary to said investigation, I am ordering Captain Altamont to order you to give us the names of those missing officers.”

TWENTY-ONE

York woke late from a mid-morning nap. He would’ve slept longer but the smell of coffee in the air tickled his nose, interrupted his dreams and Vesper licking his face finished the interruption. He pat her, scratching behind her ears and along her sides. He found a spot on her side where every scratch activated a switch causing her leg to dance. He sighed with resignation as he swung his feet over the bedside. He had to get up to urinate anyway.

Mimi fairly bowled him over with a hug in the hallway. “Thank you for finding Kenna.”

York patted her gently on the shoulder with a flat hand. He tried not to push her away, but he wished she’d quit touching him. It didn’t feel bad, but it just wasn’t right. He’d been much more comfortable touching Samdon. “You’re welcome. I only found her by accident.”

Fugget shouted from the porch, obviously overhearing their conversation. “That’s a load of mudslinging monkey manure.”

York and Mimi joined him on the porch. Dogs, empty beer bottles and a dozen men and women, Jaden and Deliah among them, surrounded him. Their porch must have been a gathering point for several hours judging by the amount of detritus scattered about.

York found an empty chair, let Vesper climb clumsily into his lap and shrugged. “Accident or not, they abandoned their campsite in a hurry. The rented floater was long gone, but they left meals uneaten and other items behind, things they didn’t bother grabbing, even in a hurry.”

Fugget said, “Things like Kenna Altamont?”

York said, “Exactly like her. Shoes, clothes, camping gear owned by the Gambion. Everything was left behind as if they didn’t take time to grab anything. They didn’t leave any clues as to where they went.”

“The camping gear was owned by the Gambion?”

York nodded. “I bagged everything I could pick up. Did you find the bags in the back of your car? I thought you would have by now. You may find some names on personal items as it’s kind of a military thing to stencil your name on your civvie undies, or you might find DNA evidence as to who was there, but you won’t find much else at the camping spot.”

“Even if we could find it again?” Jaden asked.

York smiled. “Yeah, I don’t know my way around very well and I must have accidently shut off the GPS.”

Fugget said, “My Aunt Annie’s ancient ass! Your GPS wasn’t off by accident. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re covering up for them. Let my team get at their campsite, we may find out where they went.”

York said, “I can give you a data scan of the area, even though I’d rather you not look. You know who they are. I gave the list of names to Captain Altamont as ordered. The DNA in those bags of trash I collected will give you solid proof as to who was camping there and who was involved in the kidnap and assault of Kenna Altamont. Believe me, if I knew where they went, I’d have gone after them myself.”

Fugget said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to hide, but I guess I don’t have a way to force it out of you.”

York said, “It’s best you let it go and concentrate on trying to find Balderano and his dog pack.”

Fugget nodded. “Next time you need to make a trip like you did, you let us know. You didn’t have to go after them alone.”

York said, “Alone is better.” He looked across the empty streets of Saorsa City. “I guess the crowds are gone with the Gambion’s crew back on their ship.”

Mimi nodded. “I’m glad Kenna is back. I’d rather have her safe and sound than sell another quilt.”

Fugget said, “Oh, speaking of money, York. Captain Altamont left this credit chit for you.”

York said, “I can’t take it. I don’t want a reward for bringing Kenna home. I didn’t go after her for money—”

Deliah laughed interrupting him. “Oh hell, honey. Bringing Kenna home ain’t what this money is for. It’s for you taking first place in the freestyle wrestling championships.”

York looked at the chit. “Wait! You mean I got to hit Blade Balderano Junior as hard as I could and got paid for it, too? Oh, I really like this place.”

Fugget said “I think your pay from the hay harvest is in there, too.”

“Wait. I didn’t help bale hay for pay. I was just doing it for the fun of it.” Looking at the credit chit was a surprise, Altamont didn’t pay by time, just a few pennies for each bale made and stored. The pay wasn’t much money per bale, however their team had moved a lot of bales. And they all got a small bonus for completing the job before day’s end. He tossed the chit to Mimi. “I don’t rightly need this. How many quilts can I buy from you?”

Mimi looked surprised. “You’d clean out about three quarters of my stock.”

York said, “Then, can you pick them out and ship them for me? I want to buy one for every child at your cousin’s orphanage. Can you make sure the children get them and they aren’t taken by the orphanage?” Mimi’s face grew dark and the side conversations on the porch died. “What? I didn’t mean to imply your cousin would steal the quilts, it’s just the only experience I have with orphanages is the one I grew up in and I wouldn’t have seen stitch or patch on anything like this …” He let his voice fade away since his words weren’t having any affect. “Did I say something wrong?”

Fugget frowned, twisting his face as if something unpleasant had made a permanent nest under his tongue. “We had slavers hit a small group of floaters in the Ferguson district.”

“Right. You mentioned last night about slavers hitting a couple of farmsteads there and you were waiting for information on who was taken and who was killed.”

Fugget said, “Mimi’s cousin’s place was at one of the farmsteads. She and all of the children were taken. Their floater was burned down to the base metal.”

“The slavers took the children?” York managed to choke out. There were very few people he had any feelings for, but orphans always caused a lump in his guts. It didn’t pull on his heart strings, but it felt more like someone was tying knots in the rope between his asshole and the back of his neck. He knew from personal experience orphans had little control over their own lives. A simple blanket or quilt could be stolen easily from them and they would have no recourse. To have their little lives sold to the highest bidder for the gods-knew-what was … was … was … all he could think of was how it just wasn’t right.

York had no words for how he felt. He’d thought he was done with most strong emotions. Sure, he liked the Fuggets and the Altamonts, especially Kenna, but he also liked chocolate ice cream. And he would eat strawberry ice cream with little remorse over any lost chocolate if the situation changed. He liked Jaden and his wife Deliah, however he also liked classical hip hop music. He’d listen to neo-gospel if hip hop wasn’t available and he wouldn’t miss hip hop one toe tapping bit. He liked Vesper and he knew he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if she became supper. Somehow orphans touched something deeply buried within his core.

He wanted to hurt someone much the same way he’d been hurt by the late Brother Calvin at the orphanage. He had hoped that Brother Calvin’s singling him out for abuse for as long as he’d been in his charge, had left the other children safe, especially those less able to deal with his abuse. A slaver taking a whole orphanage full of children was wholesale deviance. He clamped his jaw shut.

Jaden said, “We’re all hanging here, hoping against all rational hope that the Ferguson investigative team can give us a clue as to where these bastards went.”

Deliah said, “Every one of us here are members of a fast reaction swat team. As much as I want the animals who hurt Kenna Altamont, I want to go after our children first.”

Fugget said, “What I want to know is whether this was random chance that they hit the orphanage location or whether they were tipped off to where they could get a floater full of kids.”

Mimi tossed the credit chit back to York with a sigh. “I said more than once that we should split the kids up more. Dammit, Fugget, I told you we had room for a couple of children.”

Fugget nodded, “Yeah and you know why we didn’t take any. As police reserve and military reserve we can both be called away for extended times at a moment’s notice and then what?” It looked like an old argument and they let it drop. More than one couple passed glances and glares back and forth, saying nothing.

York knew one of humanities unanswered social dilemmas was what to do with unwanted children, disabled people, and the elderly. Many planets put such human flotsam in what amounted to little more than work farms or in facilities where the elderly had nothing to look forward to besides a lonely death. There were human societies where the elderly and disabled were allowed to wander into the wilds awaiting whatever death they could find. Other societies left young children to either fend for themselves or starve. He could see Liberty hadn’t resolved the issue any better than any other human society, on the other hand he could see these people cared. Their care was too little and too late, but a level of care was there.

York said, “Was that the only orphanage on Liberty?”

Mimi shook her head. “Liberty is a hard planet. We’re barely settled. People die and leave behind more children than we can take easily care for. There are other orphanages scattered around, but we’ve sent word to all of them to shut off their GPS locators and bounce all radio contacts through repeaters. They have to stay hidden until we know if they’re being targeted.”

Fugget said, “We’re getting security teams to shadow them. Mimi and I are going to volunteer for the detail if our swat expertise isn’t needed in Ferguson. We’ll have to go dark and go to a randomly chosen location to meet up with a randomly chosen orphanage and team up with randomly chosen security volunteers. If someone is passing orphanage locations to the slavers we can try to stop it by teaming up people who don’t know each other.”

Mimi said, “Unfortunately, York, we’re going to ask you to cut your visit short. I’ve already called Ernie to come and shuttle you back to the station. We can’t take you with us to the orphanage as you … well, frankly—”

York laughed, interrupting her. “You don’t trust me. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I wouldn’t trust me either.” He handed her back the chit. “I still don’t need this and you have other children to give the quilts to, right? Besides, I might be a better help to you on Empty Space than staying here as an extra gun hand.”

Fugget said, “What’ve you got in mind?”

“I can dig into the station’s database to see if I can pick up any traces of ships and shuttles breaking orbit. The Gambion is here for slaver interdiction. I doubt they have their whole heart in it. I can assure you, they’re more concerned about locating their missing officers than finding out where a bunch of poor orphan children went. The missing officers come from upper class families on New Hope and other prime worlds. Those rich and powerful families are going to want to know what happened to their sons, daughters, and heirs. I don’t have to work with the Gambion while they’re here and they’ll leave me to my own activities. I can check for any suspect historical or immediate communications from Empty Space’s databases, especially if you send me the coordinates of where the slavers last struck.”

He already knew his first data scan would be checking the area where he had found Kenna and Samdon. It would give Balderano and the dog pack what they deserve if slavers grabbed them up.

TWENTY-TWO

York and Vesper jogged along the corridor heading towards the hydroponic gardens. The acres of grass and plants were sadly overgrown and more tangled than the wildly forested areas of Liberty. Despite the automatic trimming, mowing and edging machinery, the oxygen giving plants proliferated faster than the machines could keep up. Thirty years of neglect left the area a virtual playground for York’s new companion.

Keeping a dog wasn’t against any regulation so when Vesper bit Fugget as he attempted to keep her from getting on the shuttle with York, they decided she might as well go with him. He didn’t have any dog food, but the replicator in the galley near work easily converted any number of foodstuffs to something she would eat.

York didn’t mind dropping her off at hydroponics before going to work. Water was abundant in pools scattered all around the hydroponics garden, deep grass was everywhere and sunny spots for naps were easy to find. She might get lonely spending eight hours a day by herself, so he called up often to talk with her. He also managed to reconfigure an automatic composting machine to throw balls and sticks for her to chase. York wondered if it would be a good idea to get her another dog to play with the next time he went down to Liberty or someone came up. Male or female didn’t matter as Fugget swore Vesper was neutered.

Having a dog wasn’t like having another person around. He was still alone even with Vesper draped over his lap or trying to lick his face. She was a good dog and only got antsy if he was gone for too long at one time. She was young, healthy, and more than willing to join him on his station runs, although she wasn’t fond of working out in the heavy gravity gym. She was frustrated with Gretchen and Aphrodite as the girls would talk to her, but they weren’t able to pet her.

York ushered her into hydroponics, swearing as he did every day that he was going to take time to do some yard work and clean up some. He was anxious to get back to work today. He’d been running alternating programs checking the station’s historical databases for any possible slaver attacks. It seemed impossible to him that a ship or shuttle could come and go from the planet without leaving a trace the Gambion, Em.T-Sp8s, or planetary listening stations didn’t pick up. It should be impossible to do without help from someone.

He came to attention as he entered the communications bay. Saluting Commander Blaque, he said, “Ensign Junior Grade York Sixteen, present for duty.” His stance and salute were precise, done as prescribed by military standards as taught at the Yards. He held the salute at attention until Blaque waved a few loose fingers while staggering out of the hatch.

He shut off the outgoing internal security cameras, initiated a program, and added a loop into the oversight relays. Feeding his biometrics into the display, York snapped on his program’s results. “Buggered Bach and shafted Schubert! The time matches too close to be a coincidence.” There were erasures on two sections of the station’s database. Removing data was against regulations. No one ever checked the database as long as nothing untoward happened and without his specialized search programs untoward events would never be seen.

One time frame matched exactly with the times Fugget had sent him for the attack on the Ferguson farmsteads and orphanage. The second erasure clearly bracketed the dog pack’s rental floater reaching the Yavapai Steppes and York’s arrival to dispatch Samdon. These were communications erasures, not scanning data. The station was still only on passive line-of-sight scans. Fergusson and the Yavapai Steppes had been on the far side of the planet at the times of attack. Anyone could have come and gone from the planet as long as they hid in the planet’s shadow cone.

They could even reach Liberty’s big moon and stay out of Empty Space’s passive scans, as the moon was in the shadow of the planet. However, the Gambion would have spotted them during either attack if they had left orbit, since the Navy spaceship followed its own orbital path inconsistent with tracks the space station followed. The tracking systems only worked if they left atmosphere. No one would see them if they remained on the planet.

York realized the slavers must still be on Liberty. He wondered if the arrival of the Navy had trapped them on the planet, pinning them to the planet’s jungle regions. The two recent attacks were too close together to be the same team. The slavers must have at least two shuttles operating within the atmosphere. The planet was more unsettled than not, there were places someone could hide a million people and not be found unless someone was scanning specifically for groups of people where they shouldn’t be.

Empty Space should be able to spot clusters of people, yet Liberty’s obsessive adherence to a nomadic society made it hard to know if anyone was where they shouldn’t be. Any group of people could be a few floaters searching for a place to park for a couple of weeks, or just as easily, be a group of kidnapped children and future sex slaves.

It wouldn’t matter. Em.T-Sp8s couldn’t spot anything less than a spacecraft launch or a nuclear missile launch on passive scans. Any slavers trapped on the planet would soon be able to scoot away into space unless he brought the scan systems up to active status. The orbital trajectories of the Gambion and the station would conspire to keep shuttles trapped for another couple of weeks, but soon they would synch up enough to hide any launches on the dark side.

York was supposed to get prior command authorization before switching from passive to active scans. He made the change anyway. He knew the Hopper Rule of Engagement as well as any maxim he learned at the Yards. Lost in history and recently found again was a quote by Admiral Grace Hopper, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission.” He didn’t know what else Hopper was known for, but the woman was often quoted in combat leadership courses.

York knew he would have to ask for forgiveness and claim ignorance later. He was, after all, just a lowly junior grade ensign who knew so little he really shouldn’t be left alone. He didn’t know whether he would have to beg forgiveness from Commander Senior Grade Paul or Commander Junior Grade Blaque. One or both of them were complicit in wiping data from the system. There were only three people on the station, if you didn’t count Vesper. He knew he hadn’t wiped any database prior to his own search. He didn’t know which man was working with the slavers. Once he found out, he’d be glad to help the man on his way to the next life. He knew the hydroponics section had wonderful composting and mulching systems when it came down to it, not to mention that empty space was indeed empty and full of space, both inside the station and outside.

He wasn’t entirely sure Paul or Blaque would even notice the systems were on active scans. Neither man seemed to have any compelling interest in their communications duties. Blaque’s only interest was in self-indulgence, either drink or food. Paul’s interests remained within his quarters, never leaving except during duty hours or for meals. Neither man showed any desire to socialize. Neither man commented on York shortening his leave on Liberty. Neither man said anything about Vesper’s addition to the station compliment. All of their non-attention was fine with York. He still preferred to be alone and didn’t want to socialize with either man. What he did want was to find out which one was helping the slavers!

TWENTY-THREE

York sat in the civilian docking bay, Vesper lying quietly at his feet. He was happily reading a historical novel with his feet resting on an upturned box. He’d managed to find a paper copy of the classic book, The Minstrel’s Tale by the original author Anna Questerly. He’d found it in the trash in the rear of an entertainment store on the civvie side of the station. His copy was a new reprint of the old book, but the paper volume wasn’t an e-version or any of the hundred or so ‘rewrites’ of her story by later authors. The book was odd reading, as there were only words and flat 2D illustrations minus the imbedded dictionaries, photos, u-tubes, and author commentaries normal books boasted of.

Vesper was quite happy to let him read.

An alarm signaling the arrival of a shuttle interrupted both of them. York sighed quietly in frustration at having to stop reading, made a mental note of the page number, and closed the book without a bookmark. He’d either remember where he left off reading or he’d start all over again, it didn’t really matter to him. There was an audible hiss as the air in the airlock tube between the shuttle and the station mated.

A voice shouted, “Secure the station bay!” He reached down, put a restraining hand on Vesper and watched six armed ratings pour through the small hatch. Each had small automatic weapons and waved them at everything except him and his dog. Two of them dropped into prone positions by the shuttle’s hatch while two others pounded across the bay’s deck swinging into the corridor beyond, scanning for hostiles. The remaining two ratings raced up to York and Vesper, snapping to attention, yet obviously alert for any ambush.

PO3 Chrissie Altamont saluted, “Ensign Sixteen, the 44th Naval Reserve from Saorsa City on Liberty has arrived. With Captain Altamont’s respects, he requests permission to come aboard and off load.”

The young rating accompanying her swung the muzzle of his gun in sweeping arcs around the bay, his finger twitching nervously on the trigger guard. If the finger slipped, it would cut York in half. It would have been annoying to die right here on his own station, but he didn’t know the boy and boy didn’t know him. He would have done the same thing had he been in the young rating’s place. The boy looked new to his uniform. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

York stood carefully. Keeping his hands in clear view, he returned her salute. “Permission granted and welcome back.” He nodded his head at the young man next to her.

She smiled, “Relax, Spaceman Apprentice.” She looked at York and said “FNG” by way of apology. Ignoring her comm gear, she shouted, “Station bay is secure except one moderately intelligent life form!” She winked at York and said, “Oh, and Vesper’s owner Ensign Sixteen is here, too.” She and the E1 rating raced off to join the guard duo near the hatch to the station corridor.

York snapped to attention as Captain Altamont and his daughter swept into the bay, followed closely by Master Chief Fugget and Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden. Altamont returned his salute and glanced around at the piles of goods stacked in the bay.

Kenna stepped up to York. Rather than return his salute, she slapped his hand away and gently put her arms around his chest. She squeezed lightly and turned him loose. Somehow, he knew she realized he didn’t like to be touched but she was unable to stop herself from hugging him. She said in a voice that carried across the bay. “York Sixteen, I owe you. You saved my life and I haven’t even had the chance to thank you.” When he started to shake his head to let her know she didn’t owe him anything, she interrupted before he could speak. “Don’t you dare say coming after me and saving my life was nothing. It’s my life and that isn’t nothing to me. Be it known to all here present I am in debt to York Sixteen. Any offense to him will be an offense to me. Any slight to him will be answered by me. Any debt he owes is mine to pay from this day forward.”

“Um … thanks, I think.”

Captain Altamont nodded, “I want to apologize, Ensign. I wasn’t very pleasant at out last encounter and I’m sorry.”

York grinned and said, “Apology accepted. Hells bells, sir. I’d have skinned me alive if I’d been in your shoes for nothing more than seeing my daughter naked.” Everyone laughed, except York, he hadn’t meant it as a joke. He had wanted to skin Samdon, but the man caved quicker than a badly made soufflé. He gestured around him, “Welcome to Empty Space.”

Altamont said, “Ernie said you directed him to dock us on the civvie side of the station. I admit this is a nice big bay, but it’s a bit cluttered. Why here?”

York said, “Sir, the old freighter you’ve been working on is right through the next access hatch and all these crates and boxes are parts I’ve scrounged from around the station. You should be able to get her up and running in no time. I’ll bet you won’t even need Ernie to shuttle you back down if you have a qualified pilot. And the bays on either side are clear and cleaned for your unit to bivouac in, though they still can use the Spacer’s Rest, if you would rather.”

Fugget shorted, “Ernie isn’t going to be happy to lose the transportation fees.”

York said, “Actually, I’d like to hold on to Ernie if you don’t mind. Talking to him is the second reason I wanted you to dock here.”

Altamont said, “You have need of a shuttle and pilot?”

York shook his head, “No, sir. I have a burning need to ask him about some encoded communications between his shuttle and a null space. Those are questions I couldn’t forcefully ask a civilian while on the station’s military side. I have a bit more latitude on the civvie side of the house.”

Fugget said with a frown, “Null space?”

“Null space is only what I know to call it. There was a strange spot on the surface of Liberty where there wasn’t anything. I mean, you could look a few miles in any direction and see planet, planet, planet and more planet, but look in the middle and there wasn’t anything. Sort of like someone was using camouflage designed for empty space, but on a planet.”

Altamont looked curious, yet still willing to stand between York and a long time friend, Ernie. “And what does this have to do with you or the military?”

York said, “I can live with seeing nothing, since I suspect Ernie does a bit of … how shall we say … creative importing. However, since both communications were made shortly before two known slaver attacks, I’d like to ask him who, what, where, when, why and how.” He didn’t say how much he really wanted to ask the questions when no one was around. Every police agency throughout human space used the usual good-cop bad-cop routine, even though everyone above four years old knew about the ruse. The interrogation technique was still used because the ploy worked. He was more than happy using the one-crazy-interrogator-without-controls as a questioning technique.

Altamont’s face clouded up. He turned to Fugget and was about to order Ernie’s arrest when York held up a restraining hand. “Sir, I think Ernie might be useful if we can explain things to him. I believe we should be very judicious in our discussions with the errant shuttle pilot.”

Fugget nodded. “Sir.” He spun on his heels, followed by Jaden and disappeared into the shuttle.

Kenna said, “York, I’m on board for whatever you have in mind.”

York said, “According to what I can fathom, the slavers have been trapped on Liberty or one of her moons since the Gambion made orbit three weeks ago. Empty Space has been running active scans for the past two weeks so they can’t go anywhere without being spotted. The Gambion will be leaving in another week for parts unknown. We may be able to catch the slavers sneaking from one hidey-hole to the next if we can let them think we’ve killed the station’s active scans. Ernie may—”

Altamont interrupted, “Hold up, you two. I want to hear more about this, but not in this big open bay. Lieutenant Altamont, if you’re up to it, would you see to getting our people and gear unloaded from the shuttle and let’s get settled in before we discuss this further.”

TWENTY-FOUR

It had been a busy two weeks for the 44th. Rebuilding the cattle hauler and training for the upcoming operation had been grueling. York’s days didn’t change much. He had company in his off times and assisting them where he could. The reservists filled the Wright’s B&B again and over time the meals degenerated from officious, stuffy officer gatherings to a family atmosphere with thrown food, laughter and plenty to drink. York had yet to throw food or drink alcohol, however he had clearly laughed once with genuine humor. Vesper and her new companion Moneypenny became fast friends, chasing each other around the table, each begging for the best morsels, or racing for accidently dropped food.

Captain Altamont asked, “Is everything in place?”

As the second highest-ranking person at the table, Kenna nodded. “Chrissie, Booger, and their teams are all set and ready.”

Altamont said, “I renew my objection to letting my youngest daughter do this.”

Kenna said, “Dad, you can’t stop her any more than you can stop me from taking a ride on the shuttle. My team is as ready as we can get, though I should be with Chrissie.”

York, as the next ranking person after Kenna, took his turn and said, “Captain, Ernie’s shuttle is as ready as we can make it and that’s why we need Lieutenant Altamont on the shuttle. It’s more than our reserve force, it may become our only ride home. Kenna is very motivated to keep the shuttle on station if we need it. Your cattle hauler is as operational as we can make it in the time we have and as operational as we need it to be, except for taking it on a short shakedown cruise. I know we can’t do more than test fire the engines, but she should be good to go for a short trip.”

The captain nodded. “I hope the cattle hauler is more than operational, since I’m her first pilot in years. It’ll be a long walk home if our repairs don’t hold. Some of those repairs aren’t much more than duct tape and spit. I know your plan doesn’t allow for the cattle hauler to survive, but I plan to.”

York said, “She should hold. We still haven’t rechristened her. I’m not superstitious, yet it seems odd to take a spacecraft on even a short cruise without a name. It isn’t like it’s a shuttle or a little runabout.”

Captain Altamont laughed, “You can call her Dead Meat for all I care, just so long as the old girl does her duty.”

Kenna said, “I renew my objection to letting Dad fly anything on this mission, especially anything named Dead Meat.”

Captain Altamont responded, “Objection noted and overruled. If you don’t keep the shuttle on course, your father and your baby sister might not get home again.”

Fugget laughed, “Not to mention, she’s my ride home as well.”

Captain Altamont nodded, “According to York’s plan, we need the best pilot on the cattle hauler we can get. No brag, I’m the best.”

Fugget laughed again, “No, sir. The best is Booger or even Chrissie, but they’re both tasked to be somewhere else. I’ll admit you’re better than anyone other than those two and Ernie.”

The captain laughed with everyone, “All right, I’m not the best, but I’m the best who isn’t specifically tasked with being someplace else. I suspect York is a better ship jockey than I am, but it’s his plan and I won’t deny him the lead.”

York had spent the last two weeks planning, revising, reworking, and orchestrating this upcoming attack on the slavers. Assuming once the Gambion abandoned the system and the slavers surfaced, his plan should enable him to locate them and the 44th to attack them successfully, even if the slavers had a larger force. He secretly hoped they were a larger force. His planning sessions were exciting and more than a little thrilling. In spite of this, without any execution, the whole activity would fall flat, leaving him emotionally frustrated.

York liked the expression ‘plan of execution’. That was exactly what he had planned for, although he kept much of the execution part to himself. Being in the lead element would provide him greater access to his execution part of his whole scheme. Planning was something he seemed to be good at and something he enjoyed as more than a mental exercise. The plan woke with him in the morning, fed with him at the table for meals, and bedded with him at night. Every possible detail was ticked off on a checklist, every possible contingency had been imagined, studied, and countered, and every scenario was charted for possible exploitation. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind there was something he’d missed. The Yards had pounded into his head that no plan ever, ever, ever survived first contact with the enemy. For him, the uncertainty was a large part of the excitement, knowing minor adjustments would have to be made on the fly. He would win if his plan was good. He would win if his plan was better than the enemy, better than circumstances, better than the fates and better than old Murphy himself.

He planned on winning. He planned on executing and he honed his knife to such a shiny point it might slice an atom in two. Dispatching Bartol Samdon on the Yavapai Steppes had been a slow dance like a waltz. It was a shorter dance than he’d originally planned, wielding his knife like the orchestra leader’s baton, establishing the beat for the music and the dancers alike. This upcoming plan was a tango with attitude, the knife beating a martial tune to follow.

York smiled with anticipation, “I’m more than ready to move forward. The Gambion will break orbit this time tomorrow and sail off to parts unknown. Their jump wave is our go signal.”

Fugget said, “I’m sure Ernie is ready to comply, although I’m uncomfortable with having held him for two weeks without benefit of an attorney, bail or even a phone call. Not providing those things is against Liberty’s constitution.”

Jaden nodded, “I agree, but York is right, we aren’t on Liberty. This is a navy space station and we’re bound by navy regulations, not civilian rules, not even when we’re on the civilian side, because …” His voice faded away as he fought to remember their earlier arguments.

York said, “Because the civilians abandoned it. There aren’t any rules unless they’re validated by the navy’s liaison officer to the civilian side of the station and the liaison officer is me. Navy regulations rule the navy side of Empty Space. I can make or retract whatever rules I need to make or break on the civilian side. Have another beer, Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden. It doesn’t make sense until you’ve had a few.”

Jaden complied, guzzling another long necked beer, followed by Fugget downing one of his own. York wasn’t comfortable drinking alcohol. He didn’t like the taste or the way it made his thoughts fuzzy, so he passed when Captain Altamont and Kenna raised their glasses in a toast to him.

Jaden said, “I still don’t get why we didn’t want the Gambion involved.”

York said, “Because they don’t care. It isn’t more complicated than that and it’s hard to understand unless you’ve lived among their upper class and their officer corps. You’ve seen the results of their investigation efforts. Their only focus has been on finding their missing officers. Balderano and the dog pack are still missing, or at least we’ve been led to believe they’re still missing.”

Kenna blushed bright red, her eyes hard. “And Samdon, Takrel, and Baker.”

York nodded, “Especially Samdon, Takrel, and Baker.” He knew the police investigation had matched the DNA from Kenna’s assault to DNA on clothing with those names stenciled on them. Her memory of the assaults was clear and she’d easily identified each of the Gambion’s officers. The Gambion promised only to take her statement ‘under advisement’. Everyone knew that government cliché was code for being ignored, especially incidents dealing with upper class officers involved with non-upper class complainants.

York doubted the Gambion would be leaving the system unless they’d heard from someone or knew something specific about their missing officers. Their wealthy families would have objected to the abandonment of their relatives, whether missing on an unexplored planet or taken by slavers. He wondered what Kenna would think if he told her no one would ever find Samdon. The recent storms raging through the Yavapai Steppes would wipe out any small evidence he might have left behind, as would the planet’s animal scavengers, scattering small bits of bone across miles of untracked wilderness, wiping away his involvement in the man’s death even if any bones eventually turned up.

York was of two minds. He wanted to tell Kenna about Samdon, yet he wanted to keep it secret a little while longer. He needed to dispatch another few evil doers before he could release Samdon’s memory. Dispatching the onerous animal was his special memory for now. He’d wanted to keep a souvenir from Samdon, but he knew keeping such things was just as dangerous as collecting trinkets from those who had gone before Samdon. Memories were the best souvenirs, they couldn’t be swabbed for DNA or offered to a prosecutor as evidence. Keeping data recordings of his activities was a danger he allowed himself, even when he told himself to stop and delete them.

York continued, “The Gambion has orders to stop slavery. They don’t have orders to rescue kidnap victims. They won’t even attempt to rescue wealthy scions, they simply pay the ransom and take the victim home. If they spot those slavers, all they’ll do is open up with their big guns and sift through the wreckage later, unless they find out their missing officers are with them. Then they’ll open up negotiations.”

Altamont said, “I concur, although I think we’re taking some crazy chances here.”

York smiled. No one was taking any bigger chance than he was. He planned to be in the forefront with Fugget and his teams following. He was more than happy to be the lone active duty officer present for this operation and pleased at dealing with reserves from a third rate colony world. Under other circumstances, he’d have been required to call in a squad of marines, hulking men and women in armor so tough and with such powerful weapons they could swarm an enemy position without breaking a sweat. Marines had long since misappropriated an old Earth quote from the Texas Rangers, changing it to “One Battle - One Marine.” Instead of highly trained troops in first-rate armor with perfectly designed weapons, he was going into action with a group of half-trained, half-armored, half-civilians.

Fugget said, “In light of upcoming events, I have a present for Ensign Sixteen.” He reached under the table and pulled out a small box. “Considering where we’re going and what we’re going to do I thought this might serve you better than the little Walther PPK you wanted.”

York opened the box. Inside was a handgun, twice the size the Walther PPK.

“It’s a Liberty Special. Made by a couple of brothers who handcraft weapons for our SWAT teams. It’s an electronic gas fired slug thrower. It fires cartridge free bullets from a magazine in the handle holding about a hundred rounds. We’ve given you six magazines. You should have about five and a half magazines more than you need for this operation, but we wanted you prepared. Be careful who you shoot because this cannon will put a hole in whoever is standing behind whomever you shoot.”

York hefted the heavy handgun, feeling its weight. It felt right. Still, when the time came, he hoped he could use his knife.

*_*

York sat on the bed and breakfast’s front porch, resting his feet on the railing. Reading about past times and cultures in other places and on other worlds he imagined that right about now, he’d be enjoying a cigar, a cup of coffee, spot of tea, snifter of brandy, or a martini shaken not stirred. That was what gentlemen did after a fine meal. He would also be swatting insects and sweltering in the muggy late summer humidity if the view from the porch was truly a wide pasture surrounded by dark green forests instead of a holographic projection. This projection was so complete that a slight breeze ruffled his hair, bringing a damp forest smell. The B&B’s projector was capable of generating hundreds of worlds and scenarios, many beyond any reality: sitting on the rim of an active volcano, sinking to the bottom of a dimly lit deep ocean, or gliding through a gaseous nebula. He could choose from views of deep canyons, quiet vistas, cold glaciers, waterfalls, beaches, and city centers. York had spun through many scenarios, even hitting the fast forward button as he declared most too bland to watch. Today was his favorite and almost cued up to his favorite spot, so he sat and watched the bucolic scene play out.

Since he’d cooked supper, as he often did while playing host to the visiting reservists, he dispensed with clearing away and cleaning up after their last meal, leaving that detail to others. Those not tasked with kitchen duty went their separate ways, checking last minute items before their upcoming raid. York was content his plan was as complete as he could make it. Things would go wrong; not could, but would go wrong. Something always went wrong. Good people would die and the wrong people would live. All he could do now was hope to be there when things went wrong, so as many bad people would die as possible, slowly and painfully, if he could manage it.

The B&B hatch opened with the creak of an old screen door and slammed shut with the sound of wood on wood, completing the illusion of his resting on the porch of a country home far away from civilization. He smiled, knowing the hologram was good enough to match the sounds, yet not good enough to supply mosquitoes, ticks, gnats, chiggers or flies. Glancing up, nodding at Kenna, he politely gestured to the chair next to him. He hoped his smile looked genuine and she would mistake it as being directed towards her. He liked Kenna and wanted to get to know her, but at the same time, he still preferred being alone. He wasn’t sure what to do with conflicting emotions, but for now, he needed her full cooperation for the upcoming raid. He set aside his confusion and tried his best to make her feel welcome.

Kenna slid onto the chair next to him, gliding like silk across satin. She didn’t plop or fall onto the chair like most men did. He couldn’t say why, but his guts twisted with excitement, watching her do a thing as simple as sit on a chair.

She asked, “Can I get you something? I think Fugget left a couple of beers in the fridge.”

He shook his head, not wanting to speak. Her voice was soft and pleasant, reminding him of the wind chimes on Fugget’s porch. His voice was harsh and raspy to his ears, speaking would ruin the holographic illusion and the illusion that he and Kenna could have a normal relationship.

She smiled, “Thank you for fixing supper. It was wonderful. You’ll make some gal a fantastic husband someday.”

He smiled back, curbing the desire to shudder at the thought of marriage. He hoped his poker face hid his feelings. Kenna continued talking, ignoring his non-responsiveness. He was trying to listen, but his favorite part of this illusion was about to play out. York held up a hand to quiet Kenna. She looked at his hand, grabbed it and intertwined her fingers with his. Unconsciously, he tried to pull away gently. She held him tight.

“I know you don’t like to be touched. I’m not an idiot.” She looked at him with soft eyes. “You can be that way with everyone else, I promise. However, you’re going to have to put up with some touching from me. I’m sorry, I need it and that’s just the way it’s going to have to be. Besides, I promise, it won’t hurt.”

York relented, allowing her to hold the hand captive. Breaking free would be easy, if required. Not wanting to admit it to himself or anyone else, not even Kenna, his fingers relaxed, taking pleasure from her simple touch. He glanced into the field near them, “Watch this.”

A small four-legged creature wandered into the meadow, grazing contentedly on the lush tall grass. It had small nubs for horns barely more than buttons, and spikes on its shoulders stretching up and curving beyond its head. It took a few bounding steps, stopped, and used its shoulder spikes to dig up some root. Bounding high enough to clear the top of the deep grass, it stopped again to munch on a bright blue flower and danced away from a startled butterfly. A bird sang a few notes in the distance, answered by another father away. A slight breeze rustled the grass in gentle waves.

Kenna signed, leaned back in her chair and wrapped her other hand around their tangled fingers. Before her feet rose from the deck to rest on the railing next to York’s feet, she squealed in horror. Gripping his hand, her fingernails dug into his skin as a huge bearlike animal sprang from the deep grass, mauling the small woodland creature into a bloody pile of meat and bones. She tried to yank her hand from his and turn away, but he held on tight.

“Oh shit!” she shouted. “How can you stand to look—”

He interrupted, “Watch and wait.”

Before the bearlike animal could take his first bite, a dozen creatures rushed from the forest’s edge. They were larger versions of the small creature with massive horns. Their curved shoulder spikes reached the length of their horns. They rushed the bear in a solid front, their attack line curling around the edges in a flanking movement to encircle the killer. Horns and hooves drove the killer to the ground. The horned woodland creatures turned their back on the dead bear. They cleared a grassy area and pawed a slight depression into the dirt. Dragging their dead comrade into the hole, they covered it up and wandered back into the forest, leaving the bear carcass to the scavengers.

“That was …” Kenna was at a loss for words.

York gave her hand a slight squeeze and offered her a genuine smile. “That was brutal, vicious, and raw. The bear did what bears do and the others meted out justice for the killing of one of their young. The loss of a child isn’t to be tolerated. Not among animals and not among us.”

Kenna leaned her head on his shoulder.

There wasn’t any doubt in York’s mind that someday he would enjoy her touch. He could tolerate it now, but ‘enjoy’ was for another day. Today was for bringing justice to those who hurt and stole Liberty’s children. Today wasn’t for holding a soft and gentle hand, but for holding a hard sharp killing knife.

TWENTY-FIVE

York sat with two men in a broom closet on the top floor of the Royal Diamond Suites Hotel. Propped up on his knees was a special split screen monitor. On one third of the screen, Kenna sat behind Ernie. Ernie looked as nervous as a Christian facing an arena full of hungry lions. He had every right to be nervous as Kenna looked like a hungry lion hoping her particular Christian had a broken leg and couldn’t run away.

On another third of York’s screen was a view from the specially prepared closed circuit camera set up inside the communications center on the military side of the station. The camera was set to monitor the officer’s console station. The officer on duty was Commander Paul. York knew he would be there because checking for erasures or lost communications always happened on either his or Paul’s shift. He knew he hadn’t intentionally helped the slavers, leaving Paul as the only one logical suspect. The camera wasn’t able to capture everything at once, but the view was wide enough to see Paul’s hands whenever they went to the console.

His third view showed a suite just down the hallway.

A quiet buzz brought everyone’s attention back to the screen. A message from the Gambion flashed across the communications center console’s monitor. Paul looked up from the game he was playing on his handheld tablet. No expression crossed his face. He obviously didn’t care. He went back to staring at the game on his tablet, his fingers dancing across the screen commanding tiny figures to storm some tiny castle, swinging swords and dodging boiling oil, dragons and the occasional nuclear bomb explosion.

York nodded at Kenna on the screen. She tapped Ernie non-too-gently on the top of his head with the barrel of her pistol. Ernie, without speaking, reached down and made a quick call, hanging up as soon as he passed his message and received a reply. A small light flashed on Paul’s communications console while he was engrossed in decapitating a troll. He missed the flash. The indications were clear. The communications array had been hacked.

York nodded to Senior Chief Petty Officer Jaden and the apprentice spaceman with him. The three men stepped out of the closet and walked down the corridor to the only occupied penthouse suite. The hatch to the Lt Commander Blaque’s quarters was locked. York’s password and biometrics popped the lock open silently. Stepping through the hatch, York walked across the mostly empty room, grabbed the fat man by the front of his pajama tops, yanked the communication’s tablet from his hands, and practically tossed Blaque into Jaden’s grasp. He didn’t want to touch the man any more than he had to as the fat man only had on pajama tops.

Blaque started “What the—”

“Shut up, sir.” York interrupted. He tossed the tablet to the apprentice spacer. “Take care of Commander Blaque’s computer. There will be enough information on this to hang him.”

Blaque snarled. “You budger bastard. You can’t barge in here and manhandle me. I’ll have you brought up on charges and sent back to wherever you came from.”

York said, “I am a budger bastard, sir. However, we have proof you’ve been working with the slavers attacking Liberty.”

“So what? I only took money to cover their tracks. Maybe I’ll lose my military pension, but I made enough cash I won’t miss it. Besides, no jury of my peers will convict me for picking up a few stray bodies for work in their own factories.”

Jaden laughed. “That’s the truth. Then again, what makes you think we’re going to send you back to your upper class buddies?”

York nodded, “You fat bastard, sir, those slavers you’ve been helping may have just helped themselves to seven sons and daughters of some very high ranking New Hope citizens. I wonder how they’d feel about your involvement in kidnapping.”

Jaden said, “Eight people, Ensign. Not seven.”

York laughed with genuine humor. He’d counted the missing Gambion junior officers with the exception of Samdon. “Jaden, I’m sure seven is the right number. I doubt if Lieutenant Junior Grade Bartol Samdon will ever be found. Making this animal disappear is exactly what I would like to do, but …”

Jaden nodded, “But, Captain Altamont said we’re to hold him and take him down to Liberty for trial.”

York said, “I’ll let Commander Paul know what went on after Blaque is on the planet.” All he planned on doing was filing a report stating their need for a new second shift commander. Maybe Paul would care enough to do something and maybe not.

All three communicators buzzed for attention and Captain Altamont’s voice boomed, “The Gambion has exited the system. Three shuttles left orbit heading for the moon before the Gambion’s jump wake even dissipated. Two have unknown engine wave signatures. The third is obviously the missing one from Ron’s Rentals. We’ve patched across the station’s communications and have an active scanning fix on the slaver’s main ship behind the moon. Its stationary and its engines are cold. Lieutenant Altamont, depart the station on the planned course toward Liberty now.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Altamont continued. “Ensign York, ten minutes or I will leave without you. Please be late since Chrissie is your teammate and without you with her I would get to down check my daughter from this op, so believe me, I won’t wait. Master Chief Fugget can handle things on the other end of this trip without you.”

York made eye contact with Blaque and slid his finger across his own throat in a cutting expression. He smiled without humor saying, “Captain, task completed. I’m on my way.” He looked at Jaden. “I know you wanted to go with us, but you need to secure this thing and prepare him for transport.”

Jaden smiled back with even less humor. He shoved a gag in Blaque’s mouth to stop his response, “If you and the 44th don’t get back to Liberty safely, this ‘thing’ won’t live long either.” He looked at the spacer apprentice. “Do you have a problem with that, Bob?”

Bob shook his head, “No, Senior Chief. I’ve been hauling the trash out as long as I could toddle. This would be the first time I took out trash that could walk there by itself. Still, I say we hold him for ransom, seems like a waste of money to just throw him out into empty space.”

Jaden shook his head. “You’ll never get promoted if you think that way. His family’ll pay the ransom sure, but they ain’t above trying to take a little revenge on yours truly, not to mention your tender tush.”

York left the two men arguing about the best way to kill and dispose of Blaque’s body while Blaque’s pasty face grew paler. He raced down the emergency steps instead of waiting for the hotel’s slow elevator. The corridors were empty and the docking station where the old cattle hauler sat, her sputtering engines causing vibrations across the decks, was just a short run away. Fugget’s team closed hatches as York sprinted through, locking down the hanger deck and airlocks behind them, racing to catch up as Fugget pulled the last set of doors closed, the last man slid through with inches to spare.

Fugget shouted into the ship’s open comms. “All aboard, Captain. Kick her in the pants. Let’s see if the old girl can still get wet and juicy.”

Altamont’s laugh floated back through the comms. “Do you kiss Mimi with that mouth, Master Chief?” Without waiting for a response, they felt a small jerk as the ship backed away from the dock. “Damn it. Hold on people. The inertial dampeners need a bit of …” There was a loud banging and the vibrations smoothed out, the jerking stopped, and the ship felt motionless. “There we go, all fixed. Engines to full thrust in five … three … now!”

York didn’t feel any movement and hoped the faulty old inertial dampeners held out or they’d all become human jelly smeared across the closest bulkhead. He didn’t mind getting killed. In fact, he was looking forward to it someday, just to see what it felt like, today just wasn’t the day for it. Today he’d made plans to dispatch a few human traffickers, slavers, and hopefully, a few pedophiles. In truth, if his plan worked right, he’d be able to dispatch more than his fair share. It’d be distressing to die before his plan bloomed into a full blood-red flower.

Captain Altamont reported, “Ship on designated course. Running silent and dark.” The old cattle hauler didn’t have any functioning camouflage system. It would’ve been odd if it had. Why would anyone ever bother to try hiding a beat up old freighter? They hadn’t been able to find a camo system on the station they could use to retrofit the ship. Ernie had one installed on his shuttle and they’d left it where Ernie had put it. Kenna would need it.

Fugget shouted over the growing noise in the huge bay. “We’ve practiced this operation time and again, so let’s not get our panties in a twist. Keep it relaxed and comfortable. We have about an hour before we make our move. Remember, Ensign York is in charge once we leave the ship and if anything changes in mid-operation, the word comes from him. Tac Team, check your weapons. The rest of you take a seat. We’ll be about it soon enough.”

York sat on the deck next to Chrissie Altamont. He sniffed at the odors surrounding him. No matter how many times the lower enlisted ranks scrubbed the deck plates, they still smelled like cow urine and manure. He checked the gun Fugget had given him. The pistol was ready to shoot, only the safety held its violence in check. His fingers flickered over the handle of his knife. It almost hummed against his fingertips. Did it remember the excitement of slicing through Samdon and yearn for more?

He didn’t pull the knife from its sheath. He was so emotionally charged he was afraid his calm external demeanor would crack. Instead, he rubbed a thumb across his face, working to relax that irritating facial tic the Yard’s commandant had told him about so long ago. He knew the only way to bleed off a little excitement would be to bleed a little blood from the humanity huddled around him in small groups. Studying each face, he was unable to find anyone who’d given him sufficient cause to dispatch, or even cut just a little. Booger was a bit of a lazy a-hole, however killing him now would throw a kink in his plans. His plans would allow him to do a lot more than bleed one cretin who didn’t pull his own weight. He quickly dismissed a random thought about loosing a little of his own blood. He’d read about people who cut themselves and it didn’t make any sense to him. He hadn’t done anything to warrant such punishment. Neither had Booger, Chrissie or Fugget.

Senior Petty Officer Rodriguez met his eyes from across the room. Smiling and sticking her tongue out as far as it could go, sliding the edge of her combat knife across it, she offered him a broad wink. He knew she was a tough little woman, hardened from living on Liberty a third class colony world, struggling against deprivations and poverty, and keeping fit for military and police duties. Her dark hair fluttered around her head and York realized he’d better be quick or this little woman would dispatch a few pedophiles he hoped to save for himself. She obviously recognized a kindred spirit in him.

York shook his head. He hadn’t planned to take any special time with anyone on the slaver’s ship anyway. Still, he hoped to dispatch a few so slowly they knew they were dying and who had done it to them. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could dispatch a few slow enough they’d even understand why he was helping to usher them into the next life.

Chrissie interrupted his thoughts. “Nervous, sir?” She glanced down at his hand.

His fingers were playing a tattoo on the knife handle. “A little nervous and a little excited. You?”

Chrissie shook her head. “My part is easy. I’ve done this a hundred times. You have the hard part.”

Fugget shouted, “Saddle up, children. We have places to go, things to see, and people to do.”

All around York people began pulling on EVA suits. They weren’t the bulky mechanic’s suits, but the thin tough survival suits used in emergencies for quick, repeated transfers. Many of the suits were patched and re-patched, painted and repainted, monogrammed and tattooed. Chrissie’s suit was a shocking pink, certainly not at all like York’s standard issue black. Once he saw her up close, he realized her patches were awards and decorations from skyriding competitions.

Fugget shouted, “Comms on channel 4.647. Face plates down, now.”

York was sure the Master Chief continued to shout, but his voice flowed quietly over the speakers in York’s helmet. “Inside hatches secured and sealed. Opening interior airlock hatch doors … now.”

As planned and practiced, Chrissie stood on the right side of her skyrider. York stood on the left. He bent down, gripping the handles in the exact spot he’d been told to grab. He flexed his knees and waited. This was the glaring point of unknown in his plan. He wasn’t sure this would work, though Chrissie and Goober had agreed piloting the skyriders to a pinpoint destination wasn’t a problem. Goober had said in his typical non-military jargon ‘easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, soft and breezy’.

Chrissie reached inside the tiny craft and flipped a switch. Tiny wings slammed into their open position. Normally a skyrider’s wings were only extended after digging deep into a planet’s atmosphere, but for this operation, they were barely getting close enough to capture a smidgen of gravity from Liberty’s big moon. Wings zipped open on other skyriders across the huge bay. A dozen skyriders with two people per vehicle stood ready. Looking around, York realized these people made up a strange looking assault group. Skyriders tended to be small wiry teenagers. Each one was paired with a large, well-muscled much older adult. Each team had one pilot and one fighter, but they didn’t look so much like a dozen combat teams as they looked like sets of father and son, mother and son, father and daughter, or in one case, mother and daughter.

Fugget called out, “External doors set for explosive breach in five, four, three, go, and one.”

At the word go, York pushed against the skyrider. It slid easily across the deck plates, picking up speed as he raced for the hatch. At the exact moment he heard Fugget say one, he felt more than heard a dozen outside hatches blow free from the ship, opening the bay to the empty space. Air sucked at him as he dove into the skyrider feeling Chrissie slam down on top of him. The wind quit whirling around them as she slammed the dome down sealing them inside the little cigar-shaped fiberglass coffin.

Their race toward the door picked up speed until they were sucked from the cargo bay, shot into space by their own push and by escaping air. Chrissie reached around York, as if she was hugging him. Instead of clasping him, she grabbed at the controls in the front of the skyrider, shifting their course, making what minor adjustments she could make in the rapidly dissipating air gusting forth from the huge open bay.

York couldn’t help with this part of the plan. He managed to crane his neck around enough to glance through clear dome, sighting eleven other skyriders adjusting course toward the location the slaver’s ship was hiding. One of the skyriders started a spiral spin, but a quick flick of a wing tip settled it into a stable course within the precise formation around him. Half of the skyriders looked as if they were upside down in relation to Chrissie and him. Up and down were matters of perspective only and didn’t really matter in the long run.

He caught the edge of a shadow as the cattle hauler slid between his small squadron and the sun. It passed them by, picking up speed and maneuvered into a course skimming the moon’s gravity well, aiming directly at the slaver’s ship. The huge freighter should be able to absorb the blows when the slavers open fire with their guns once they spot the cattle hauler coming at them. Hopefully, the slavers wouldn’t see the freighter too soon. According to York’s plan, the attackers expected the slavers to see it. In fact, if the old cattle hauler wasn’t seen in time, the freighter was useless as a diversion and the captain would have to turn on the lights and start broadcasting on open frequencies to get their attention.

York was excited. He was glad the skyrider teams put the most experienced rider on top. Chrissie’s slight weight pressing against his back was negligible, conversely if he’d been on top, she’d surely have felt his growing erection. The suspense was starting to affect his normal calm. He was grinning like a skinned skull on drugs.

They were cruising at such a slow speed he felt he could walk faster. They only had the speed they’d manufactured in their run across the deck and from the push of the storage bay’s explosive decompression. They’d jumped at the last possible moment, giving them as short a flight as they could possibly get. According to Chrissie, they’d feel the slight grab of the moon’s gravity, helping to slingshot them around to the back and give them enough momentum to take them to the slaver’s ship. He reached back and fingered his knife handle in anticipation.

Chrissie tapped him on the back of his helmet with a finger and leaned down, pressing her helmet against his. “Relax, York.” It wasn’t following strict military protocol for an enlisted rating to call an officer by his first name, yet it did help him relax. “I can feel your muscles tensing up. They haven’t even spotted Dad in the cattle hauler yet. Wait! There! They have him lit up.”

York strained his neck higher. He could only see out of the corner of one eye. The cattle hauler was taking cannon fire from the slaver’s ship. They couldn’t see the slaver’s ship firing from behind the bulk of the moon. They could see explosive shells ripping their freighter apart. In complete silence, the old ship broke into a dozen pieces, flaring and dying, odds and ends scattering across empty space.

Chrissie patted him on a shoulder, “Dad will be fine.” York was sure she was trying to convince herself more than him. “I’m sure he got out in time.”

If Captain Altamont got out too early, the slaver’s would have blown the ship apart fast enough to spot their small fragile skyrider squadron with its even more fragile cargo. If the man stayed at the controls long enough, the slaver’s would be forced to deal with large pieces of debris heading their way and may not notice the real attack coming at them from another angle.

TWENTY-SIX

Petty Officer Chrissie Altamont flipped her skyrider into a gentle curve, catching the weak gravity waves from Liberty’s moon. The small craft spiraled much like an arrow headed toward the mark. York couldn’t feel any motion, but felt her weight on his back become less and less. Glancing up through the clear dome, the moon appeared to spin around their tiny craft, however, the skyrider’s nose was pointed straight at the slaver’s ship.

The massive ship ahead of them was growing larger with every spin of the skyrider. Blossoms of light flared across the front of the enemy ship matching equally bright clusters of light as repulsar rays slammed into and pushed away large chunks of the old cattle hauler floating towards it. The slavers ignored pieces not headed in their direction and pieces too small to damage their ship. Everyone agreed a skyrider fiberglass body wouldn’t register on the slaver’s screens. York hoped everyone was right.

The slaver’s ship appeared to grow in size from a small model to the size of a small building in the span of a breath as his fragile squadron slipped into range. Chrissie retracted the skyrider’s wings at the last moment and gliding in, she slid along its hull, coming to a stop in the middle of a broad metal expanse. No one spoke over comms. All was proceeding as planned. Twelve small hatches popped open and a small flood of bodies popped out, their EVA boots sticking to the surface with ease.

York stretched quickly and did a fast count. They still had twenty-four people with them. Everyone was scooping out weapons from the skyrider bellies. Half of the tiny craft took damage in the landing. Chrissie flipped a switch on her skyrider, closing the canopy and locking the flyer to the hull. York knew she’d do everything possible to retrieve it if they survived.

Fugget and Rodriguez wrestled the pieces of a search and rescue drill into place. The master chief had wanted to leave the weight behind, preferring more weapons with the intention of forcing their way into the ship through a hatch, using explosives if required. York insisted if they could get inside sight unseen they could do untold damage before anyone knew they were there.

The men quickly drilled a hole in the ship’s hull, slipping a camera through the hole as a slurry of putty sealed around it. They didn’t have any schematics on this ship and didn’t want to accidently breach a compartment that, for all they knew, might be filled with stolen children. Fugget gave a thumbs up and set the drill to cut a human sized hole. He slapped a one-way membrane over the hole, losing only a few small wisps of air, certainly not enough to set off alarms. Leaving the drill behind, he dropped through the hole. The membrane oozed around him letting him pass through while keeping the air inside the ship.

York was only slightly peeved. His plan called for him to enter the ship first. Peeved or not, he found it hard to fault the master chief as the man would have had to step backwards to let the ensign through. He did manage to drop through the membrane-covered hole before Rodriguez and the other nine fighters of their assault team. They quickly spread out through the cabin, determining the space was occupied, yet still secure. The skyrider pilots quickly dropped in behind them.

As always, York felt a small sense of disorientation. His discomfort wasn’t from the gravity shift. His workouts had trained any queasiness out of him. The odd feeling was from dropping through a hole in a standing position and coming into a cabin through its wall. It might feel perfectly normal to someone born in space or who spent years working in low gravity, but he was planet born and raised. Odd was odd and he tried not to let it confuse him.

They had dropped into a common bunk area. York thought bunking arrangements were a human oddity since spacecraft engines moved a ship from place to place without concern for the ship’s size or mass. A designer could build a ship as large or as small as the owner wanted. Most ships had enough cabins and compartments for every occupant to have their own sleeping quarters, yet so many times, humans still managed to share quarters. This one had two double bunks. The upper bunks were empty. The bottom bunks were occupied.

York laughed out loud with genuine humor. A man was tied hand and foot on one of the bunks. Stuffed in his mouth was a red ball-gag, his hands were stretched over his head, and his wrists were raw and bruised. He was stripped naked and tied face down, his buttocks were propped high in the air, his legs forcibly spread, and a can of engine lube was stashed near his feet. The man had a wild look on his face as he stared wide-eyed at the gathering crowd around him.

Fugget was about to cut the man free when York said, “Leave him, Master Chief.”

Fugget’s face grew red with frustration. “But, Ensign Sixteen, he’s—”

York interrupted, “Master Chief Fugget, I’d like to introduce you to Ensign Takrel, formerly of the Gambion. I do believe Lieutenant Altamont has something she would like to discuss with him. So, if we leave him tied up, we know where to find him.”

Fugget nodded, looked down at the man, his face growing cloudy, he turned and went to the hatch, checking the corridor.

Rodriguez was leaning over the other bottom bunk. “This one’s dead, sir. It looks like she choked on her own vomit.”

Most of the skyrider’s looked away, turning pale, one even retched quietly in the corner after looking at the woman’s body. She was tied face up, stripped naked, her face and hair covered in dried sperm and vomit. Below the waist, she was a mess of feces, blood, and other human fluids. Rodriguez started to cover her, but York waved her away.

“Leave her as she is. This is Ensign Baker, also formerly of the Gambion.”

Even though most people in the compartment didn’t know the specifics of Kenna Altamont’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue, everyone in the 44th knew the names of the missing Gambion officers and knew they had been involved or complicit, if not actively guilty. Rodriguez’s eyes lit up hearing the name of one of Kenna’s rapists, specifically the woman leaving bite marks on Kenna’s breasts. As a Liberty volunteer police officer, Rodriquez was well informed about details that weren’t public.

York commanded, “Form up your teams. We don’t have all day, people. If we don’t get control of this ship none of us goes home and we won’t rescue anyone.”

The plan called for the assault force to break into four teams of six, each team with three combat trained fighters and three pilots. Captain Altamont had argued splitting their forces was a bad idea, especially when half of York’s assault force consisted of little more than low ranking teenagers with big guns. He’d finally relented when he realized there was too many things needing to be done at the same time. Although the skyrider pilots were young and inexperienced, they were still military reservists, theoretically trained as trigger pullers. Each now held an assault rifle, was dressed in a flak jacket with helmet, gloves, eye protection, and each according to his or her character wore a determined grim look on their face. The older crew was anxious to get started, mainly because the quicker you start the quicker you finish. York was anxious to get started, on the other hand, he wasn’t anxious to be done. His heart was pounding in anticipation.

The plan was to move quickly through the ship locating specific targets. Senior Chief Petty Officer Rodriguez was Delta Team. Her team was assigned to cut straight across the ship to the far side, searching for the shuttle bays in an effort to seal the doors keeping the slaver’s shuttles from escaping. The shuttle bay was the best place to gather rescued people, not to mention, the shuttle bay was where they were most likely to catch a ride home. Fugget was Bravo team and a small wiry whipcord petty officer was Charlie’s team leader. Bravo and Charlie teams were to search fore and aft for engineering to prevent the engines from spinning up and the ship from leaving the system, taking them and their captured people along.

York led Alpha Team. They were going to the center of the ship. Ship designers usually put central command in the middle. York had argued he should lead one of the teams searching for engineering. Going fore or aft, might have given him the best opportunity to search in a wider pattern, maybe finding a few slavers to dispatch along the way. Heading straight towards central command would limit his options. Captain Altamont had insisted York, as the only officer on the assault team, exercise his responsibility to take over command and control of the ship, if possible or to destroy it, if necessary.

York’s six-man team consisted of two commandos from the 44th. They were twin brothers and far too old for their low ranks, an obvious indication they yo-yoed up and down the rating scale, promoted and demoted with regular frequency. Able was the brighter of the two, with a wide scar across the bridge of his nose from, by all accounts, a beer bottle thrown in a less than friendly bar brawl. Caine wasn’t as smart as his brother, but he was meaner, with a matching scar across his nose. No one doubted his claim the scar was from wrestling an angry pterodactyl to the ground bare handed. No one doubted it because he wore, despite regulations to the contrary, a necklace of pterodactyl teeth and claws.

Even though they weren’t clearing the ship room by room, they still couldn’t leave large contingents of slavers at their backs. They had to move quickly and quietly for as long as possible. York hoped the slavers wouldn’t realize they’d been boarded long enough for him to find ample opportunity to dispatch a few slavers with his knife. He ushered all teams into the empty corridor, signaling everyone to move out.

Rather than follow Alpha team as planned, York stayed in the cabin and started pulling the hatch closed. Chrissie Altamont caught his eye. She was on the highest ranking enlisted on his team, but she wasn’t a trained assault commando. Her eyes flicked to Takrel, tied to the bed and back to York. As Kenna’s younger sister, she was more than familiar with the rape and torture Kenna had endured. She nodded slightly to York and turned her back as the door clicked closed.

York smiled with genuine pleasure. He knew if anyone asked, Chrissie could honestly say Ensign Takrel was alive the last time she saw him. Stepping quickly to the bunk, he sat next to Takrel. He wanted to spend time with this one, but he didn’t have as much free time as he wanted.

Takrel was thrashing as much as his restraints would let him, trying to speak around the ball-gag.

York said, “You recognize me, I’m sure. I wanted to ask you if you knew where they were keeping Balderano, but it doesn’t look like you’ve been out of this bunk for a while. I admit you never personally attacked me, nevertheless you always seemed to be with the Gambion pack who did. We both know you prefer taking advantage of drugged young women. Now, I can’t say I really care one way or the other all that much about what you did to the young woman on Liberty. I do know you, Samdon and Baker were directly responsible for raping her, right?”

Takrel mumbled and continued thrashing about. York patted him on the back of his head. “It’s okay. We know the truth, you don’t have to answer. I’m sorry I don’t have more time to do this right, but … ” He paused and pulled his knife, letting the edge glimmer in the overhead lights. “But, we have things to do and I have to cut you loose.”

Takrel sighed through his nose and a look of relief passed over his face.

York leaned down and pressed the point of his knife deeply into Takrel’s inner thigh. It pulled out with a slight sucking noise followed by a dark red flow of blood from the great saphenous vein returning blood from the leg back to the heart. He wiped what little blood there was from the knife blade and slid it back into the sheath.

Takrel screamed, but the gag muffled the shriek.

York leaned down and said, “Oh, I am sorry. Did you think I was cutting you free? No, I said loose, as in loose from this life. Please try to behave yourself in the next one.” He grabbed a blanket off the top bunk and covered Takrel from the waist down, hiding the blood flow.

He pushed the door wide open. Chrissie was still standing there and as if against her own will, she looked into the cabin. Takrel stared back at her, eyes wide, face screaming without coherent sound. She looked at York with a puzzled expression.

York said, “Yes, he’s alive. I wanted to ask him if he knew where the other kidnapped people were. He wasn’t in a mood to talk or he didn’t know anything, so I just left the gag in. Let’s go. We can come and get him later when we need him.” Of course, he knew Takrel would only be among the living for the next three minutes or so and conscious for a much shorter time than that.

Chrissie looked relieved. York understood most humans have an aversion to killing or even being tangentially involved in someone’s death. Some humans even went so far as to grant forgiveness rather than participate in a sanctioned death penalty. York understood it, but it didn’t make sense to him. No matter what might have happened at a trial, he had just guaranteed Takrel wouldn’t ever drug, kidnap, or rape another young woman. He’d wanted to spend time torturing the man, but the slavers beat him to it. He shouldn’t have wasted the time with Takrel, he hoped to get to central command before they lost their element of surprise, but what little time he’d just spent helped calm his nerves. Now, he was ready.

Bravo, Charlie and Delta teams had disappeared down the corridor. Pointing at Alpha team and picking a direction at random, York indicated the way. Caine took point. York followed behind him. Chrissie and the other two pilots clustered in the middle. Able trailed behind, walking backwards with his head on a swivel.

York said, “Caine, take a quick peek into any compartment before we roll past, but if a hatch is closed, just leave it. We need to get to command on the double. Chrissie, if a closed hatch has a lock, lock it on your way past. Don’t fall behind.”

Caine grunted and switched from a cautious walk to a trot, barely glancing into the compartments as he ran past. Chrissie and the skyrider pilots, threw hatch switches and levers, hopefully locking anyone inside their cabins. Caine rushed past a door, slid to a stop, and hooked a thumb in the direction of the door he had just passed. Not wanting to make noise and without breaking stride, York pulled his knife and ran into the compartment, bouncing off the hatch frame.

There were three people standing at a small counter in what looked like a break room or a wardroom. They were laughing and jostling each other trying to get to a coffee pot. York grabbed the closest man by the back of his shirt, surprised at how light the man felt, and threw him backwards into the waiting arms of Caine. He had a flash of satisfaction, working out in 1.5 gravity paid off, no matter how onerous it was while was doing it.

He drove his knife deep into the second man’s chest. He felt the tip crunch through the breastbone, splintering it as he forced the blade into the man’s heart. Grabbing the third man around the neck, he squeezed with as much force as he could muster, holding the man still while he pulled his knife clear of the second man’s chest. Having already taken too much time with Takrel he didn’t have any to spare for these three. Retrieving the blade from the second man’s chest before the man could collapse to the deck, he shoved it through the third man’s ear, deep into his brain. Holding the handle, it pulled free of its own accord when the man dropped to the deck, dead before his heart knew it.

Caine was holding the first man off the deck in a sleeper hold. York stepped up and disregarding Caine’s arm he shoved the knife into the man’s eye socket, swished it around and stepped out of the way when Caine dropped the body to the deck. York picked up the body and tossed it back into the compartment, yanking the hatch closed. He dropped the locking lever in place.

Caine looked at him with surprise. Chrissie and the other pilots looked away at his sudden brutality. York wasn’t sorry the men were dead. They were involved in turning babies into orphans and selling children as sex slaves. He was sure the slavers had just gotten off easy and he was the one who was cheated, knowing from experience they deserved worse than a quick death.

York snarled, “Move it, Caine.”

Caine said, “Yes, sir, but I’da done him—”

York interrupted with a growl, “Too slow. This ain’t a bar fight, man. We aren’t dancing a foxtrot. Next time, kill him and move on. Now, lead the way or get out of my way.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Caine scooted down the corridor until he came to a fork. He shrugged, looking both ways and waited for York to catch up.

York reached him quickly, read the wall chart saying, ‘you are here’, located the room marked central command and said, “Two decks down, then left, left, right and we’re there. Go. Ladderway through that hatch.” He pointed and pushed Caine by a flat hand on the man’s shoulder.

Caine took off at a run, smashing into two slavers coming out of the ladderway’s open hatch. The men crashed into the bulkheads and dropped to the deck. Caine stomped the closest man in the throat, crushing his adam’s apple, turning away before the man’s next breath changed from a gasp to a gurgle. York reached them just as Caine, grinning, sent a steel-toed boot crashing into the second man’s testicles, crushing them. He looked at York and said, “He ain’t goin’ nowhere, leave him for Able.” As an afterthought he added, “Sir.”

They took the ladder going down three steps at a time. York heard a series of muffled thumps in the distance. He was sure the noise was gunfire coming from somewhere aft and above. Aft was the direction Fugget had led Bravo team. He hoped the sound didn’t carry to central command. If it did, and the slaver’s command crew shut and locked their hatches, they might end up a dozen systems away before his team could break in and wrest control away from them. Maybe not if Fugget or Charlie team could find and disable the engines. Then nobody would be going anywhere.

Two decks down, Caine burst through the hatch into the corridor and turned left. York saw Caine swing a wild haymaker at someone. Following as close as he could, he pushed through the hatch. The corridor was crowded with a dozen men and women, most had their hands and feet cuffed with plastic zip ties. They were shuffling along, stunned by weeks of captivity or drugged. Caine wasn’t stunned. He laughed as his haymaker found its mark, dropping an unsuspecting man unconscious to the deck.

Caine vaulted over the man’s body, with a forearm he deflected a stun rod pointed at his direction, and punched a second man in the nose, splattering blood across the man’s face. The commando ignored the man’s howl. He locked an arm around the wrist holding the stun rod and twisted. A sickening snap, a howl, a screech, and the man dropped the stun rod. Scooping up the rod, Caine twisted the knob on the bottom to full strength and tapped the man in the middle of the chest. The slaver dropped to the deck as if dead, twitching as excess electrical current ran circles around his muscles. Caine raced ahead, swinging the stun rod at every slaver he encountered like he was chopping his way through a thick jungle.

York spotted a knife in the boot of one of the downed men. He yanked it free and tossed it to Chrissie. He pointed at the prisoners and turned back to race after Caine, but not before he saw Able catch up to them and put a big boot to the head of one of the slavers laying on the deck. He heard Chrissie tell someone in the line of prisoners to cut the others free and get to the shuttle bay. York didn’t slow down enough to check if the person followed the command or not or even if Chrissie was following him.

He had thrown the switch on Caine, turning the man loose from all restraints. If he didn’t keep up, the man was likely to get so far ahead York might not catch up. He needed to stay close, as he wasn’t sure Caine could remember when to turn left or which right to take.

The next corridor was clear, as was the next. Before he knew it, his team was outside the open hatches of the ship’s central command. Their team was still intact. Caine was splattered in blood, not all of it from his victims. The man ignored a deep gash across one forearm. Vomit splattered one of the pilots, likely a young lad who would retire from the navy before his next promotion. Chrissie looked grim, but unharmed. Able pulled up to the rear, no less bloody than his twin.

There were two hatches set twenty yards apart along the bulkhead to central command. Both hatches were open and dogged to the bulkhead. A woman stepped through the hatch before they were ready to make their surprise entrance, her eyes focused on a tablet. York grabbed her by the front of her top. It tore, but held together long enough for him to yank her off her feet and throw her behind him. With a thud and a crack, Chrissie hit the woman in the forehead with the butt of her assault weapon. The woman’s feet shot out from under her and she hit the deck with the back of her head. It sounded like a heavy sledge crushing a melon.

York directed Able, pointing him to one hatch. He pointed between Caine and the other hatch. He bolted through the closest hatch, hoping the element of surprise was still his. A dozen people sat at various monitors and consoles throughout the room. For such a big ship, central command wasn’t a big room, yet there was plenty of space between each station. The command crew had enough elbow swinging room for comfort. There was too much floor space to cross for York’s liking. It didn’t appear that they were heavily armed, no more than a few handguns and a plethora of stun rods were visible.

One man seated at a console shouted, “Boss, I got a cloaked shuttle off the port bow. It ain’t—”

Before the man finished, York pulled his Liberty Special and put a round into the back of his head. Fugget had been right about the force of his bullets. It passed through the man’s head, spraying the console with syrupy blood and various chunky bits. Travelling on, the bullet dug a deep furrow into the monitor, spraying parts and sparks in every direction. More startling than the brute force was the noise. The room was already loud with people talking and laughing. Everyone fell silent when his gun discharged. The only noise was the air hissing through the air exchanger.

Caine whooped and crashed into the closet knot of people, swinging his recently acquired stun rod like a club instead of a long taser. His twin bulled his way into the room through the other hatch, swinging his assault rifle like he was chopping down trees with a dull axe, dropping men to the deck and knocking others from their chairs. Chrissie stepped into the room and calmly put a round from her small assault rifle into the chest of a man digging for a handgun lost in the folds of his shirt, under his fat beer gut. The small pfft from her gun was a distant echo to the noise York’s gun made.

The other pilots held their rifles at the ready, one in each hatchway. They both had hopeful expressions that no one would try to leave and no one else would try to get in. They were both pale, yet willing to stand their ground, looking the part if nothing else.

Leaving Caine and Able to deal with the rest of the crew, York slowed to a walk and deliberately ambled up to the captain’s chair. Captain or not, the man had a young girl on his lap. He sat there with a shocked look on his face as if he didn’t understand what was going on. York pointed the big bore of his handgun at the man’s forehead. The Captain ducked behind the girl, hiding his face. He was weaponless.

York looked at the girl. She wasn’t a child, but she wasn’t a woman either, maybe twelve or so. She didn’t look drugged, but he recognized the look in her eyes. She might not have even come from Liberty, having been stolen from some other distant poor planet. No matter where she came from, they’d been abusing her for weeks. She looked back at him with dull eyes, expecting only more pain and abuse from him. He knew how she felt and knew deep in his heart that little girls weren’t strong enough to survive such terrible treatment for long.

York had been abused by Brother Calvin at the orphanage and again by House Master Albert at the prep school. Unlike delicate young girls, he was strong enough to survive such deviance and come out unscarred. He’d endured it and he was fine, knowing there wasn’t anything wrong with him. Sure, he didn’t like people to touch him, but that was only because he liked to be alone. Looking at this girl, he knew she wouldn’t survive much longer and would only survive after her rescue if she had an understanding family and years of therapy.

He holstered his pistol and nodded at the captain. “Sir, I promise on my mother’s life I won’t shoot you, nor will I allow anyone to harm you, but you must let this girl go.”

The man clutched the girl closer, burying his head behind her matted hair.

York looked behind him. Chrissie stood ready to put a bullet into the man’s head if she could get a clear shot. “Petty Officer Altamont, please have one of your pilots find a room to lock up the command crew. Well, any that Caine and Able haven’t killed. Boys, good job! Help Altamont drag these bodies out of here. Let’s close and lock one of these hatches. We need to make sure we keep the pilot’s consoles locked down.”

Chrissie pointed the barrel of her gun at the slaver captain with a questioning look in her eyes.

York nodded. He reached forward, as the man cringed backwards, dragging the girl into a huddle. He pried two fingers up from the man’s hand. The girl was turning bright red from being squeezed. Her eyes still had a dull, uncomprehending look, but she didn’t struggle, accepting more abuse without complaint. York began slowly bending the fingers backwards. He didn’t yank or force it, just slowly increased the pressure. Something in his head kept repeating: ‘The finger bone’s connected to the hand bone. The hand bone’s connected to the wrist bone. The wrist bone’s connected to the arm bone. The arm bone’s connected to the elbow.’ With each repetition, he pressed harder, peeling each of the man’s fingers away from the girl. The fingers brought the connected hand with it. He twisted the wrist until the elbow began to pull away, letting the girl slump from the captain’s lap onto the deck.

York continued pressing backward on the fingers. He looked over his shoulder at Chrissie. “Petty Officer Altamont, please take care of this young lady. Be careful with her, she’s in shock.” He turned back to the captain, completely unconcerned about Chrissie following his orders, or whether the young girl cooperated or not. He didn’t quit pressing until he heard a small pop. Not knowing if a finger, wrist or elbow finally gave way, he eased up on the pressure. Yanking the captain out of his chair and to his feet, he dragged the man to a small side hatch.

York asked, “Sir, is this your day office?”

The man shook his head and said, “I ain’t no captain. I’m just second officer on my shift. I ain’t in charge.”

York pushed the hatch open, taking a quick look inside. There was only one way in and one way out. He tossed the man into the room sending him crashing into a table covered with half empty glasses and fully empty bottles. Turning back, he looked around central command. Chrissie wasn’t in the room.

Caine saw him looking. “Petty Officer Altamont took the girl out of the room to find somewhere to stash her for now.”

York said, “No one except our team comes in or goes out of central command until I say otherwise. Altamont is in charge when she gets back. Send the transmission that we have taken central command. Keep an eye out, we don’t want to have the slaver’s trying to take this back from us.”

Caine and Able both laughed. Caine said, “Actually, I hope the sons-a-bitches do try. Where are you going to be, sir?”

“I’m going to ask this piece of ratshit a few questions.”

Caine asked, “You need any help, you just ask, sir. I’m not much at thinking up questions, but if you need an exclamation point, I can provide that.” He raised a massive fist and flexed his arm.

Able jabbed a thick finger, pointing into the captain’s day office behind York. York glanced over his shoulder. Showing little concern that the slaver was swinging a bottle at his head, he swept the man’s arm to the side, sending the bottle skittering across the floor to break in a corner. Sliding his knife from its sheath, he grabbed the man’s wrist, flattening the slaver’s hand on the table. He pinned it down by jamming the knife through it and deeply into the wood table.

York turned back to central command, nodding his thanks to Able. His expression hadn’t changed, nevertheless he was excited to be interrogating the slaver. He knew taking any time with this deviant was dangerous. He barely had time to do what he wanted to do and many people on Liberty wouldn’t condone his methods. Many people thought torture was cruel and never effective. York disagreed with that line of thought. He was sure this man wouldn’t enjoy what was about to happen, while he, himself would enjoy it beyond measure. His enjoyment was all he needed to motivate himself, even if the man lied or said nothing at all.

York kicked the hatch to the day office closed. Turning back to the man, he yanked the knife loose from the table. Pulling up a chair, he sat and smiled.

TWENTY-SEVEN

York hadn’t been alone in the room with the slaver for more than a few minutes, but it felt like time flew by instantly. He wanted to take his time with the man, yet time wasn’t in great supply. He still didn’t know if Bravo or Charlie teams had managed to take control of the engine room. He didn’t know if Rodriguez’s Delta Team had control of the shuttle bay. He didn’t know if Captain Altamont had survived the destruction of Dead Meat, their old cattle hauler. He didn’t know where Lieutenant Altamont in Ernie’s shuttle was located. What he did know was where the slaver’s home base was located, who the captain of this particular ship was, and how long it took a man to die once you cut his femoral artery with the jagged edge of a broken bottle.

The dead slaver looked, even to his practiced eye, like he’d attacked York again with another bottle and had lost the ensuing fight. He had lost badly, with a few of his soft parts almost completely cut away. With a shake of his head, York managed to knick his own forearm, hoping his self-inflicted defensive wound wouldn’t become infected because of the dirty glass he used to make the cut.

Opening the hatch to central command, he almost bumped into Chrissie Altamont. She was just about to knock on the door. “Sir.” She glanced behind him into the room. Seeing the dead man, she looked back at York.

York shrugged. “He was opening up about their main base and this ship, when all of a sudden he attacked me.” He held up his bleeding arm. “Can we get someone to wrap this up? I’m not in any danger of bleeding to death, but I’d rather not take the risk. I think we could have gotten a lot more information from him if he hadn’t gone crazy and attacked me. I guess we’ll have to interrogate the rest of the crew to get more data.”

Chrissie nodded. “Shame, sir. I’d have liked to gut that asshole myself for what he’s been doing to that little girl.”

“Don’t you let your father hear you talk that way! Remember, we can get more information from a suspect by pretending to be their friend. People lie under torture, even the most effective torture. We just didn’t have the time to convince this one that we thought of him as anything other than a lump of muskrat excrement.” He hoped the young woman didn’t hear the hypocrisy in his voice. Changing the subject, he added, “Speaking of your father, have we heard from Captain Altamont or your sister?”

She shook her head no. “Fugget’s Bravo team has taken engineering. The engines are off line. He lost a couple of his team and he’s barricaded in there. He says there is a large group of slavers pounding on the hatch, but he says they’ll be fine for a while.”

“Senior Chief Petty Officer Rodriguez and Delta team?”

“They’re locked down and they’re shepherding what victims they’ve collected to the shuttle bay, plus restraining a few prisoners. Charlie Team has joined with Delta since Bravo achieved their objective. Charlie swept up a few prisoners and victims as well. They have to put a guard on the slavers to keep the victims from killing them.” She glanced sideways at York, “We shouldn’t let them kill them, right?”

York shook his head. “I think we need to interrogate them first, don’t you?”

With a nod, she added, “She says they have more volunteers from the victims than they know what to do with. Most aren’t in good enough shape to fight back, but they’re more than motivated to help us.”

“Even with volunteers, does Delta have enough force to hold the shuttle bay? If we can’t hold the bay, Kenna can’t bring in Ernie’s shuttle to give us a ride home, after finding your father first, of course.”

Chrissie said, “We could always try to get the slaver’s shuttles running.”

York said, “We’re counting on that. It may take awhile for Master Chief Fugget to crack their pass codes and biometric lockouts to get them started. From the looks of it, we’ll have more people going to Liberty than we can fit in Ernie’s shuttle.”

Chrissie spat a very unladylike spew onto the deck. “Ernie! That dickwad! I still don’t know why you let him help pilot the shuttle with the reserves.”

“Because he’s the best pilot for the job and knows his shuttle better than anyone else. Don’t worry, your sister will keep an eye on him.”

“I still don’t understand how could he have helped the slavers.”

York said, “Money. It’ll boil down to money just like it will for Lieutenant Commander Blaque on Empty Space, for most of these slavers, and for the rich businessmen who hired them.”

“Do we know who hired them?”

“Not yet. We have to get out of this mess before we can start asking these slavers that very question. Most won’t know, however their captain should have enough information to be worth becoming his friend and offering special deals. Get on your comms and tell Delta to make sure the slavers aren’t killed by their ex-victims before we get around to interrogating them. Tell her to make sure the shuttle bay is secure and then send everyone she doesn’t need with Charlie Team to sweep from her position towards engineering to relieve Bravo. Kill where she has to, but capture if she can.”

“And us?”

“You and your two buddies will lock yourselves in here. We have signs, countersigns and distress codes, so you don’t let anyone in who doesn’t give you the right answers, not even me. See if you can get on the ship’s scans to help Lieutenant Altamont find Captain Altamont. We can use their reserves as soon as they can get here.”

He waved the twins over. “Able, Caine and I are going to start a second sweep to help Bravo secure engineering. Remember, Petty Officer Altamont, lock it down.” He hoped he could manage to accidently get separated from the twins. If he could, he might have time for a little personal hunting.

TWENTY-EIGHT

York pointed at the map on the bulkhead just outside of central command, thankful the slavers hadn’t thought about how useful a guide would be if they were ever boarded. He looked carefully at both of the twins. “We’re here, right?”

Both men nodded with identical expressions that indicated they weren’t complete idiots. York wasn’t so sure that was the case, so he pointed at where the map said engineering was. “That is where we’re going. Bravo Team is trapped there. We’re going to smash into the back of the slavers who have Master Chief Fugget surrounded.”

Idiots or not the twins understood the instruction and both smiled with anticipation.

York continued, “However, we aren’t going to go rushing any deeper into this ship with the possibility of leaving a large force at our back. We can’t allow ourselves to get sandwiched between two forces, right? Three of us can’t fight a two front battle.” He was sure the twins had been in more bar brawls than military actions, but the experience of drunken fights might serve them all much better in this fight than orchestrated military strategies. “Able will take point. Caine stay on his heels. We’re moving forward fast so if any of us gets separated we don’t stop for anyone, our rally point is inside engineering right beside Fugget, got it? Good. Go!”

York watched the two men race down the corridor towards a ladderway taking them deeper into the ship. The slaver’s ship was huge and sophisticated. It could be crewed by as few as a dozen or a many as several hundred men. Considering their cargo, the ship probably had more cargo handlers and guards than ship’s crew. Locking hatches was an effective tool to imprison their captives, however they needed personnel to control, feed, and maintain their human cargo.

The real ship’s captain and crew quarters should be near central command. It also made sense that the slavers would keep their high-value prisoners close by. Chrissie had locked a number of the slaver’s central command operators into a nearby room. Glancing up and down the corridor he spotted a hatch, locked from the outside and checked it on the map. The map designers labeled it a break room.

He locked his helmet’s faceplate in the down position, protecting his face. Drawing his handgun, he opened the door. The remains of the crew they had already subdued were inside. Most of them were lying on the floor, moaning or bleeding from the twin’s attack. The body of the dead man York had shot lay in their midst. One man was up and standing at a service counter. He spun, knife in hand preparing to throw it. Doubting it would get through his armor, York put a bullet through the man’s chest anyway.

Behind the darkened faceplate, York’s voice didn’t change tone or volume, speaking pleasantly he said, “The next time someone opens this hatch, if you try that again, I’ll have everyone in here shot and spaced, or spaced and then shot, depending on how badly you piss me off. So behave yourselves, okay?” He hesitated slightly as if he expected answer, but he didn’t and pulled the door shut before anyone responded.

He saw an unlocked hatch on a diagonal course across the corridor. The cabin was in the direction he was going, so he pushed on the hatch and it popped open. A young man sat on a bunk, his knees pulled up to his chin and his eyes wide at the intrusion. York gestured for him to stand up. He was as tall as York, trim and well dressed, to the point of straightening wrinkles from his perfectly tailored suit.

“I’ve been a prisoner. You’re here to rescue us?”

York could hear the upper class accent. Privilege and power oozed from him.

York kept his faceplate down, keeping his face hidden. “The 44th Naval Reserve from Liberty has taken control of this ship. We’re working to rescue kidnap victims. Who are you?” He stepped into the room and pushed the hatch shut, throwing the lock.

The man noticed him locking the hatch. “I am Trevor Blaque. I … uh, have been kidnapped and held for ransom. Who are you and why did you lock the hatch?”

The man’s name wasn’t lost on York. “Blaque? Are you related to Lieutenant Commander Blaque on Empty Space?”

Blaque nodded and smiled, “Of course, he’s my uncle. Our family is from Greenfield in the Eltis System. Do you know him?”

York asked, “Don’t you think it’s odd kidnappers would keep a prisoner in an unlocked room without a guard.”

“Of course, why—”

“Because your hatch wasn’t locked, you didn’t have a guard, and I already know your fat asshole uncle was working with the slavers. My only conclusion is you are a low-life asshole like your uncle.”

“You can’t talk to me that way. Do you know who my father is?” Blaque stepped close to him and thrust forward a flat unmuscled chest in usual upper class bluster.

York said, “No, I expect you’ll tell me.” He stepped forward and slapped Blaque across the face with the barrel of his pistol. Blaque dropped to the deck, spitting teeth through a bleeding mouth. Holstering the pistol and pulling out his knife, York yanked a deck chair over next to the man and sat down. He propped his feet up on the man’s back and waited.

“My family will pay a hefty ransom for me. We can make you a rich man.”

York shook his head, “Nope.”

“You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go. You let me go or my father will hunt you and your family down.”

“I’m counting on it. If you do find my family, let me know, would you? I’d like to see them, too. Say, you didn’t go to the Yards, did you?”

Blaque spat blood, rolled backed away from York and sat up leaning against his bunk. Speaking around split lips he said, “Of course not, military duty is for sons and daughters who don’t have what it takes to learn the family business.”

York nodded, “So I was told. Then you didn’t take any training sessions on maintaining silence during torture, did you?”

“Torture? That’s … that’s illegal and barbaric!”

York waved the knife blade in a circular motion around Blaque’s head and leaned forward. In a quiet whisper he said, “So is kidnapping, slavery, and child abuse. Let’s see, can we start with an easy question? Mind you, I may already know the answer. What’s this ship’s captain’s name?”

York leaned in contentedly listening with a mental smile and chuckle. Making a man spill his guts without having to spill his guts was almost as much fun as actually doing it. Blaque rattled on about everyone he knew on the ship, where they were and what their duties were. York barely had to grunt a question before the man told him everything he knew. He was recording this and knew the next step might get him in trouble, nevertheless he was having too much fun to stop.

Blaque slowed to a stop and hesitated when asked about the ship’s next heading. With a sigh, York stood, putting a boot in the middle of the man’s chest. Grabbing a foot, he stripped a soft leather shoe and fashionable bleached orange sock from Blaque. As if he was peeling an apple, York slid the blade of his knife under the skin of Blaque’s sole. Careful not to cut too deeply, disregarding the man’s screams and thrashing, he skinned the bottom of the man’s foot from heel to toes.

York sat back down on the chair and held up the single piece of bloody skin. “How about that! I did it in one chunk. Pretty good, huh? Now let’s see, where were we?” Blaque grabbed a pillowcase and wrapped it around his foot, trying to stop the bleeding. The temporary bandage didn’t work as the case was quickly soaked through. Blaque started complaining, but one look at York’s expressionless faceplate and he changed the subject.

York leaned back and listened to Blaque tell him where the slaver bases were, how his family acted as the middle men for slave sales, both for factory work and for sex. He even listed the families he knew who bought slaves. He claimed he didn’t know all of their customers and York tended to believe him.

Finally, Blaque said, “That’s all I know. Now, get me medical help. I’m going to bleed to death if you don’t hurry.”

York sighed with resignation. “I suppose I should get you some help. Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long.” He stood up and went to the hatch.

As he put his hand on the hatch handle Blaque cried out, “Hurry, damn you.”

York reached up and flicked off his data recorder. A few moments later, he left the room, leaving the hatch unlocked. Blaque wouldn’t be going anywhere and no longer needed medical attention.

TWENTY-NINE

The next hatch was open. York turned his recorder back on before he looked inside. The space was well appointed and comfortable. The only occupant was the young girl Chrissie had rescued from the central command. The girl was asleep in what looked like the captain’s quarters. He backed out quietly, hoping not to disturb her.

The next three cabins were empty. The next hatch was locked from the outside. York, hoping not to scare anyone held prisoner by bursting into the cabin, knocked gently on the hatch and his smile disappeared the second he pushed the hatch open.

Sitting on a bunk without a mattress in a stripped out cabin, wrapped in nothing but a ragged old blanket was Blade Balderano. Blade backed up, trying to disappear into the bulkhead behind him, clutching the blanket under his chin with a white knuckled grip. He’d been fed with substandard out of date meal packs, the discarded containers littered the floor. York could see the bathroom through an open door. From the sight and smell, the toilet had been plugged for a long while.

Balderano croaked out. “Who …?”

York flipped up his helmet faceplate. “Hello, sir. I want to apologize for the management’s failure to provide you with proper accommodations.”

“Sixteen? Wait … we’re still in the Liberty solar system?”

York nodded, “Yes, sir. Where are the rest of your people?”

“Get me some clothes, Sixteen.”

“Sorry, sir. Acting as your valet isn’t high on my list of priorities at this point. I’ll ask you one more time, where are your people? Answer me or I’ll leave you locked in this cabin until we have the ship secured.”

“You haven’t taken the whole ship yet? Where are the Marines? Did my father send you?”

York started to step back into the corridor, but stopped when Balderano screeched, his voice tinged with panic. “Stop, please! I’ll tell you what you need to know, just don’t leave me locked in here.”

York relented, actually feeling quite satisfied after his experience with Blaque. “First, we’re running this rescue operation without marines. The Gambion has left the system leaving you behind. Your father didn’t send anyone to rescue you, in fact, we weren’t even looking for you, so I could leave you here and no one would know. Now, your turn: where are the people who were kidnapped with you?”

Balderano replied, “I don’t know where anyone is. We started out in here, all except Samdon and I don’t know where he is.”

York said, “Samdon didn’t get off the planet. He must have fought back and the slavers killed him. I saw his body myself. How’d you get separated from your friends?”

“We started out together in this cabin, but as the kidnappers got response from our families, they took people away. Baker and Takrel went first. Takrel’s family said they didn’t negotiate with kidnappers and refused to pay the ransom. Baker’s family said they wouldn’t pay money to get that crazy bitch back. The slaver’s took them both away.”

“Baker is dead. We found her body already. Takrel was alive the last time I saw him, nonetheless the slavers abused him gravely. Where’s the rest of your clique?”

Balderano shook his head. “They took them away as soon as they got notice of a ransom payment.”

“And you?”

“They said my father was still trying to get the money together. I know they thought he was stalling to negotiate for a better price.”

“A better price? Hell, since you and the Blaque family are in this slavery business together, I’d think they’d give you back for free.”

“Slavery? Hell no! My family doesn’t—”

York interrupted, his voice calm and cold “No? That isn’t what Trevor Blaque says. Let’s go down the corridor and ask him, shall we?” He turned, slammed down his helmet’s faceplate and walked back down the corridor, waiting for Balderano to catch up to him. Balderano clutched at his blanket and stepped into the corridor. “I left Trevor in here. He told me your family and his are in the slavery business together, you can ask him yourself.” Pushing the door open, he stepped back and gestured for Balderano to enter first.

Balderano stepped partway into the hatch and backed out. “Oh, frak me!”

“What?” York looked around the hatch frame to see Trevor Blaque hanging from the ceiling. “Now why did he have to go and hang himself? He might not have gotten prison time for his involvement in murder, kidnap, rape, child abuse, slavery, false imprisonment, theft and … well, I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but you get the picture. Ah well, follow along, if you please, sir.”

York continued along the corridor in the direction he’d sent the twins. The cabin next to Balderano’s had the hatch locked from the outside. Standing back, pistol in hand, he directed Balderano to open it. Inside were the three remaining members of Balderano’s dog pack. They were all dressed, sitting in a neat and clean compartment. The slavers must have decided that once they had their money, there wasn’t any sense in mistreating the victims who were going home.

York gestured with the end of his gun and a nod of his chin, directing everyone out into the corridor, trying to herd them toward engineering. Before he reached engineering, he hoped to find someone who could take these four animals to the shuttle bay. If that didn’t happen he could use them as cannon fodder if a frontal assault was required to reach Master Chief Fugget.

He called the group to a halt at the next hatch. It didn’t appear to be locked. He pointed at one of the dog pack. “Open it.”

“Give me a weapon first. This is one of the slaver’s cabins.”

York snorted. “I wouldn’t trust you with a dull pencil at this point. Open it or you can go join your friend Trevor Blaque.”

The man nodded, “That’s okay with me. Where is Trevor?”

York flipped up his faceplate and said, “We stay together or I lock you back in your cabin.”

The man snorted in shock. “Sixteen! What the hell? I thought we were well rid of you!” He started walking away. Balderano put out a restraining hand and shook his head no. “Why the hell not? Trevor may be working with the slavers, but he’s at least upper class, not like this budger bastard.”

Balderano said, “Trevor hung himself rather than be taken in for trial. You might end up hanging yourself too if you don’t open this door. It might look like you were colluding with our captors. Isn’t that right, Ensign Sixteen?”

York didn’t say anything, just pointed at the hatch and slammed his faceplate down again.

Balderano stepped past his three friends and pushed the hatch open. The room was empty.

It didn’t take long before the four dog pack friends were taking turns opening doors and collecting slavers as prisoners and prisoners as rescuees. The crowd in front of York grew larger and larger. They bound each slaver’s hands behind their backs. Each victim received hugs and kisses by every other victim except the dog pack. York was amused watching it all, waving away praise from anyone coming near him.

Finally, with about thirty people herded in front of him, he reached the point where they heard shouting ahead. Booming loudly above the clamor, Master Chief Fugget’s voice was forceful and brash. “Clear a way, here. Drag those bodies in there. Put a gag on that man if he won’t shut up.”

Rather than shout, York turned on his communicator. “Master Chief, this is Ensign Sixteen. Hold your fire. We’re just around the corner and coming to you.”

“The hell you say! We’re—” Before Fugget could finish his sentence he marched around the corner leading a long string of slavers, a rope tied from neck to neck to neck. “—coming to you, sir. Damn! It’s good to see you’re alright. Able and Caine said they lost sight of you and when you didn’t come along, we thought something had happened to you.”

York flipped his helmet off, letting it fall back on the hinges. He scratched his scalp with a gloved hand, rustling through his hair and grinned. “Happened to me? Perish the thought. No, Master Chief, I just got distracted gathering information on the slavers and picking up a few little lambs along the way.”

Fugget pointed at a man from Delta team. “Jimmy’s going to lead us back to the shuttle hanger. Counting you, everyone is accounted for. I left the rest of Bravo sealed in engineering. Chrissie … I mean, Petty Officer Altamont is still in control of central command. However, I think we’ve got a lot more people to set free and a bunch more slavers to capture. I’d just as soon get our people clear of this ship and then open the outside hatches. Let space clear this stink out, slavers and all. On the other hand, I know we haven’t found all of our people yet.”

York could tell the man was still running on adrenalin and not done talking, so he let him ramble on as they followed Jimmy along the corridor. Once they reached the hanger, they could re-arrange the teams using all their commandos to perform a cabin-by-cabin search of the ship.

Fugget had just about wound down when he said, “I guess we have to take prisoners until we can find out who was in charge. He’s got a lot to answer for.

York smiled and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Their captain is the third man in the string you’re tugging on. I met a man in central command who gave me a very detailed description of who to look for. So, I still say capture if you can, but don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the shuttle bay. Rodriguez was relieved to see them. Her team was busy taking charge of prisoners and victims alike, keeping them safe from each other and from themselves. They all looked up in surprise when a shriek of metal and an alarm gave warning as Ernie’s shuttle pushed through the membrane separating space from the shuttle bay.

His shuttle didn’t land with Ernie’s usual efficiency and precision. It skidded across the deck and came to rest a fraction of an inch from one of the slaver’s shuttles. Even before the shuttle stopped pinging as its cold metal exterior met the warm air of the bay, the cargo hatch flopped open and Ernie flew through the opening to flop on the deck. Captain Altamont walked down the hatch, his fists clenched tight.

Kenna raced down the ramp. She jumped on her father’s back trying to keep him from kicking Ernie. “No, Dad! Let the courts have him.”

Altamont tried to shrug his daughter off, but she held on tight, “Son-of-a-bitch tried to kill you when you were picking up my escape pod. He doesn’t deserve a trial.”

York leaned over to Fugget. “I suggest you give the Lieutenant a hand, Master Chief, for the captain’s sake that is, not so much from Ernie’s point of view.” He was about to turn to other business as Fugget grabbed the captain, but Kenna released her father, raced across the deck and threw herself at York. He expected to have to fight her off, but before he could push her away, her lips clamped onto his.

This was the first real kiss he’d ever had. Oh, he’d gotten a peck on the cheek or a quick touch on the lips playing spin the bottle back at prep school, but this was his first full-blown, tongue-thrusting, nose-mashing lip lock. When she finally let go and came up for air, he was surprised that this kissing thing was almost as much fun as skinning a person alive. He’d have to try it again sometime.

York didn’t realize that for Kenna, ‘sometime again’ meant right now. She kissed him again, harder this time and more insistent.

THIRTY

York ran swiftly across the decks of Em.T-Sp8s. Vesper and Moneypenny ran circles around him and each other on doggy padded paws. For now, he was alone. The decks were quiet, as they were supposed to be during first shift. Commander Paul was in the communications center, happily playing games on his tablet, letting the station automatically maintain his duties.

The navy hadn’t sent any replacement for the late Lieutenant Commander Blaque. He’d been allowed by the Liberty courts to confess to a multitude of crimes and then allowed to follow his nephew’s example. Although his influential family objected, there hadn’t been any reprisals as enough accounts of their slave trade involvement hit the newsfeeds flooding the airwaves, even causing a few riots on various planets where they had financial concerns. York was sure that given enough time, the average human would forget who did what to whom and it would be back to business as usual. For now, everything was calm and quiet in Empty Space.

Second shift was normally quieter than first shift as Paul retreated to his cabin and York slept in his small suite at the Wright’s Right Bed and Breakfast. Today, however, second shift would be loud and noisy as the station expected the arrival of the 41st Naval Reserve, a gunnery specialty outfit from Liberty. York shifted his sleep period to greet them as the station liaison officer. In his capacity as the voluntary secondary duty station gunnery officer, he would take their officers and senior enlisted officers around to the station’s various gun emplacements. He would reset the lockouts and biometrics so the reservists could actually practice shooting what they were tasked with shooting.

The possibility of an opportunity to shoot a big gun and blow up big stuff in space was exciting, even an unmanned drone. More exciting was that the transport for the 41st was an ex-slaver’s shuttle. The shuttle had been retrofitted for commercial use by the newly formed space freight company of Fugget, Altamont and Sixteen, or Altamont, Sixteen and Fugget, depending on who you spoke to. Retrofitting the slaver’s spaceship for commercial transport wasn’t going to be as expensive as they initially thought, or so said the Altamont portion of their partnership.

York picked up speed with excitement. He was glad his company was making money shuttling the reservists up to the station. Still, he was more than glad that the pilot for this trip was the Altamont component of their partnership. Kenna had promised kissing and more this trip. Strangely, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t feel like killing anyone. He was looking forward to the ‘more’ Kenna promised.

The End

Books

By

Alan Black

Science Fiction

Empty Space

Titanium Texicans

Metal Boxes

Chewing Rocks

Steel Walls and Dirt Drops

An Ozark Mountain Series with Bernice Knight

(1920 Ozark Mountain Trilogy)

The Friendship Stones (Book One)

The Granite Heart (Book Two)

The Heaviest Rock (Book Three)

General Fiction

Chasing Harpo

Western

A Cold Winter

Praise for other books by Alan Black

              METAL BOXES

The best of new space adventure!

One of the best books of the new breed of scifi writers. Have been a fan of space adventures for the past 40 years and this is by far one of the top ten reads! I cannot remember such a fun and memorable read.

              By FDChandler (review on Amazon)

              CHEWING ROCKS

A strong female character you can't help but love

Chastity Snowden Whyte had gotten into too much trouble trying to defend her name and so started going by Sno. What a great name. Sno! Isn't that a weather condition, people ask when first introduced to her, many of whom have never seen snow, being born somewhere off planet, planet Earth, that is? Sno, herself, had only heard stories of snow, having been born on a planetoid somewhere between Mars and Jupiter. in the opening chapter, Alan Black paints an out-of-this-world picture of young Sno busy outside her spacecraft in her EVA suit, by herself, mining asteroids for rock and hopefully, a rare metal or two. When she returns to her home base in Arizona City on a small planetoid called, Ceres, she gets in a barroom scrap with 4 fellow miners from a competing operation. Without harming so much as a fingernail, she puts them in their place and then shortly after blasts off into the asteroid belt again to work a claim. It's what happens when they chase after her that makes Chewing Rocks so much fun to read.

Great action, wonderful word visuals of the planetoid city, the spaceships and the mining operations along with a multitude of colorful characters made Chewing Rocks hard to walk away from. When I got to the arbitration scenes with Therese Cleasemount, I just simply couldn't put my iPad down; actually found myself chuckling now and then. I think maybe our justice system could learn a little bit from Miss Cleasemount.

Chewing Rocks was simply a joy to read.

              By James Paddock (author of Deserving of Death)

              STEEL WALLS AND DIRT DROPS

Worth reading as it's a pretty good mil sci-fi with plenty of action

Hard hitting and had a decent plot. I enjoyed the depiction of a mutiny very much. Most times I read any fiction about a mutiny it's usually over fast and rarely gone into detail over…

Over all well worth the read

              By Roknar (review on Amazon)

              TITANIUM TEXICANS

Another amazing story

… a remarkable science fiction action adventure for the young and young at heart. It is a good old-fashioned space opera with good guys vs. bad guys. We have enough action to keep the adventurous entertained, enough romance to keep the lovers diverted, and enough humor to keep the rest of us reading.

Tasso Menzies is a 16 year old boy who has had to bury his grandfather, literally! And his only remaining relative sells him off to a space going freighter filled with Texans of Mexican descent. This coming of age story wraps us up as we watch Tasso grows from being a lost young boy to a maturing young adult in unknown and confusing environment.

This is written for all ages, while there is some violence, and brief nudity it is much less than a youngster will see on cable TV. There is minimal cursing and it has been brilliantly written to give the reader a smooth engaging story.

              By NonStop (review on Amazon)

              THE FRIENDSHIP STONES

              (BOOK ONE OF AN OZARK MOUNTAIN SERIES)

A Heartwarming and Innocent Look at Life

Settle in and get ready to read a heartwarming coming of age story for a young and innocent young girl living in an isolated and poverty-stricken area of the Ozark Mountains in the 1920s. LillieBeth has only known the most basic and simple pleasures of life, food on the table, the love of family, and her unfailing belief in the teachings of God, her teacher and her Sunday Services. She is twelve years old, an age where she starts to notice boys, starts to fantasize of being married, but only in the most innocent of ways. She is still able to enjoy playing outdoors when there is time, but as her life progresses, her responsibilities grow and she becomes determined to do what God would want and share her time with those who are the least likely to have anyone to be their friend, because they need love the most.

LillieBeth attempts to befriend a bitter old soldier who trusts no one and makes no bones about not wanting her on his property. Determined, she returns over and over, in spite of a horrendous experience that could have ruined her, had she not been so emotionally strong. When her world comes crashing down and her family is forced to move out of their run down home, perhaps all of the good she has always tried to spread will come back to her through God’s mysterious ways.

The Friendship Stones by Alan Black is one of the most beautifully written tales I have ever read, part historical fiction, part inspirational reading, part coming of age, told through the mind and heart of a twelve-year-old girl, the innocence of youth and the times shines through like a glittering diamond. Alan Black took me to a time and place I have never been to and yet, I could see it plainly in my mind, the simple joys of life and giving and being happy with what one has, while struggling to survive. Let go of your mind’s control and you will experience the dusty roads, the rocky fields and poverty that is all these people have known. There is no fast action, no great adventure, no thunderous preaching, just a journey that can be savored and reveled in through the eyes and heart of young LillieBeth.

Had I missed reading The Friendship Stones I would have missed some of the magic of books.

              By Dii at Tome Tender (top 500 Amazon reviewer)

              THE GRANITE HEART

              (BOOK TWO OF AN OZARK MOUNTAIN SERIES)

I look forward to the next book.

I bought this yesterday! Again, this book, the second in the series of Ozark Mountains, is so refreshing. I was sad that it ended. I look forward to the "next" book. (It's coming soon!)

I shared with my sister, that Alan has expertly woven God in the storyline. She has now bought "The Friendship Stones" (See my review on this book) in the Kindle version at Amazon. The fact that a mother and son could team up together and give us high quality AND fun reading, it's just absolutely wonderful. The glossary at the end of the book is great learning. Made me laugh at how many I knew!

Enjoy reading!

              By Frances Villa (review on Amazon)

              THE HEAVIEST ROCK

              (BOOK THREE OF AN OZARK MOUNTAIN SERIES)

This book is different from the usual crime stories I read in that it takes place in the Ozark Mountains and the characters really stand out. After the main character Grace's husband Clayton is murdered, the story goes on with her and a twelve-year-old fearless girl begins tracking down his killers. The girl LillieBeth however is sometimes referred to as a woman by Grace, which is something I don't get. She's only twelve! But, they fearlessly go on the trail of the murderers. LillieBeth heads right in where most people wouldn't go - straight into the Lion's Den, you might say, and it is enjoyable (I almost said "watching her") reading of her antics as the book travels on. Most readers will enjoy this book.

Go get it!

              By Lila L. Pinord (author or Skye Dancer)

              CHASING HARPO

Enjoyable Read to the end

I really enjoyed Chasing Harpo. I connected well with the characters, especially Harpo the Orangutan. To read some of the story from his POV was delightful and refreshing. The story keeps you immersed from start to finish with believable characters and plot. Well done to Alan on this one!

              By Amanda L Mackey (author of She Who Dares Wins)

              A COLD WINTER

I love it when the author can pull you in and ...

Let’s go on a expedition with one brave ,determined, gutsy woman on her own to defend and protect what she has.

Once again, Mr. Black takes you on a journey where you are right there in the moment forgetting the cares and concerns of the everyday and he puts you right in the adventure he is telling. You can see the cold vapor of the air, feel it seeping into your bones, grasp the situation in hand, and know the decisions you are making are going to have a huge impact on your survival.

I love it when the author can pull you in and leave you wanting more to the point you just can't stop reading you are so lost in the moment. Mr. Black is that kind of author

              By Tammie (review on Amazon)

About the author

Alan Black has been writing novels since 1997 when he started Eye on The Prize. His writing tastes are as eclectic as his reading preferences. Alan admits that he loves writing much more than editing and the whole publishing process. Marketing of his work leaves him as baffled as the whole string theory thing.

Alan was born in central Kansas and grew up in Gladstone, Missouri. He graduating from Oak Park Senior High School and eventually earning a liberal arts degree from Longview Community college. He spent most of his adult life in the Kansas City area. The exception came at the orders from the U.S. Air Force when he was stationed in Texas, California, Maryland, and Japan. He and his wife were married in the late 70s and moved back to Independence, Missouri, but now live in sunny Arizona. He says the dry desert air stimulates his creativity more than the juicy air in Missouri (pronounced here as ‘misery’) and he has yet to shovel sunshine out of the driveway.

His desire to write started in the second grade. He was given an assignment to write a short story about Greek mythology. His teacher took the time to call his parents and express her appreciation of the story. Although neither of his patents remembered the incident, it had an impact on him, eventually leading him to write Eye On The Prize, taking two years to complete. He has gotten faster since then completing a recent manuscript in three weeks

Alan Black is a #1 bestselling author on Amazon and Kindle for Metal Boxes, a young adult, science fiction, military, action adventure. He has published ten novels. Black is a self-published multi-genre writer. One writer friend called him ‘timeless’ because he wrote historical books, novels based in the present and tales of the future. His main goal is to write story driven novels with scifi novels that are more character and action driven than focused on science, story driven historical books that are not history lessons and entertainment based literary fiction.

Alan Black's vision statement:

“I want my readers amazed they missed sleep because they could not put down one of my books. I want my readers amazed I made them laugh on one page and cry on the next. I want to give my readers a pleasurable respite from the cares of the world for a few hours.

I want to offer stories I would want to read.”

For more about the author - www.alanblackauthor.com