Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

A tall, lanky man in a black jumpsuit stood talking to the medics at the end of the dock when they emerged. One of the medics pointed at them and his face twisted into a frown.

“Just great,” Terson muttered darkly. Virene put a hand against the small of his back.

“Behave yourself,” she whispered as the man approached. “Captain Bragg,” she smiled brightly. “We missed you at the wedding!”

Maalan Bragg had joined the Federal Police straight out of Malone and rose from beat rookie to lieutenant during his first ten years with Enforcement. He enjoyed the work, but the challenge ebbed quickly. Nivia’s low population and high standard of living didn’t make for interesting street crime. He transferred to the smaller, more challenging Investigation wing where he made captain. The workload was light, however, and most cases revolved around poaching and reproductive crimes. He’d requested additional duty as a Reserve Probation Officer for the filler more than the stipend.

Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it.

“I’d like to go a month without seeing you two professionally.”

“You were the farthest thing from our minds,” Terson said.

“I would hope so. Ms. Van Strahlen—”

“Reilly.”

“Excuse me. Mrs. Reilly, please wait here. Mr. Reilly, come here for a moment.” Bragg pulled a tiny microphone from his pocket and clipped it to his collar. “I’m required to caution you that this conversation is being recorded, and is admissible as evidence in a court of law. What were you two doing out there?”

“Camping.”

“In the archipelago?”

“A couple hundred kilometers farther out,” Reilly said.

“That’s outside the coastal boundary,” Bragg replied sharply.

“I know.”

“I see. Tell me what happened.” Reilly did so, though there wasn’t much more than Bragg already knew. The cargo shuttle had lost contact with Space Traffic Control during launch and fallen out of orbit. The remains came down far out to sea, and it was only a fluke anyone was near enough to attempt a rescue. He hoped it was just a fluke the rescuers were his own two problem children.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you of the prohibition on travel outside coastal boundaries,” he said when Reilly finished. “The marina has maps available. Check them.”

“Sure,” Reilly said.

Bragg withdrew the cassette. “Please sign here.” He tucked it away with the microphone and relaxed his official mien. “You need to stick to the rules, Terson.”

“We weren’t doing anything anyone else doesn’t.”

“Anyone else isn’t in your legal situation.” He gestured to the hydrojet. “That’s a fast, expensive boat. Some people might think you were poaching. Some poacher might like to have a boat just like it.”

“I’m not one of your juvenile delinquents,” Reilly said flatly. “I don’t need a lecture and I don’t need you to state the obvious. I know you can bust us for dirtying up your water and scaring the fish. We didn’t have to help!”

Bragg lowered his voice. “I don’t have any doubt that you can take care of yourself out there, but she can’t! You might know the risks, but Virene can’t begin to comprehend them! You got me?”

Reilly lowered his eyes. “Yeah, I got you.” It was the first time Bragg recalled him backing down.

“I’ll let you know when you can have the boat back.”

The young couple disappeared into the marina without looking back. Bragg leaned against the railing while he waited for the coroner and dug out a wad of raw tree gum, working it in his jaws until it softened and the victrotine spread a soft buzz through his head. He rationed his consumption carefully; more than two or three a day left an incriminating stain on his teeth and he’d catch hell if his wife found out he’d started again.

His training hadn’t prepared him for Terson Reilly. Most people on probation were first-time offenders, chronic losers or eighteen-year-old coeds out from under mommy and daddy’s thumbs for the first time in their lives and suffering delusions of independence, like Van Strahlen. Hard core criminals spent their lives in rehab or living beyond the pale of civilization and law, barely scraping out an existence in the wilderness—until the EPEA caught up with them. A few made it to the Beta continent, safe for the most part from even the EPEA. Rumors abounded of frontier communities full of criminals and social mavericks, rough and primitive; a place very much like Terson Reilly’s homeworld, Bragg suspected.

The coroner’s van huffed to a stop at the end of the dock and onlookers began to gather. The coroner captured the in situ images before Bragg helped slide the corpses into body bags and escorted them off the dock. Reilly hadn’t posted the hydrojet’s registration on the bow, and for once he was pleased with the kid’s noncompliance. If the media got wind of his record they’d have a field day.

Bragg had been Terson’s probation officer from the time he immigrated, and he arrived with enough strikes against him to make it a dubious proposition from the start. Between the chip on his shoulder and the look in his eyes, Bragg would have bet the farm that the kid would get deported or go beyond the pale in six months.

Bragg wasn’t far off. He had no doubt Reilly would be on the next shuttle out when they met with the magistrate. Good thing he hadn’t bet the farm on that. Something had gotten through when the kid realized what was at stake, but Bragg didn’t believe the kid was likely to change. Matters seemed likely to worsen when Reilly and Van Strahlen met.

Her family complained about their sweet, incorrigible reprobate dating a borderline sociopath and phig. Bragg suggested they stop paying her tuition and force her back home, half a continent away from her beaux. At least it would have gotten her out of his jurisdiction. They hadn’t liked that idea. They didn’t cut off the money until after Terson and Virene were engaged, but Reilly kept them both in school with his wad of Commonwealth credit.

Kids that age shouldn’t have that kind of money. Bragg spat the bleached wad of gum out the window. Reilly still walked the razor’s edge, but he’d been right when he said he hadn’t done anything anybody else didn’t. Lots of people cruised past the coastal boundaries without permits. Sometimes the Coast Guard caught them and slapped on a fine. Mostly nothing happened.

Bragg hoped it stayed that way. The cruiser’s integrated satphone warbled and he thumbed the connect button on the steering wheel. “Bragg here.”

“Maalan, this is Alan Chin. I need you at Saint Anatone General, Code Two.”

“On my way now,” Bragg replied, accelerating to twenty kilometers an hour over the posted limit. Alan Chin worked for the coroner’s office, and Code Two meant ‘Serious, Proceed With Reasonable Haste.’ “This isn’t about the pair of bodies from the marina, is it?”

“No, it’s worse. I’ll explain on scene.”

“Understood; out.” The absence of Chin’s usual banter was an indication of just how serious the situation was. He heard sirens as he turned onto the thoroughfare leading to the hospital’s main entrance and met two ambulances going the opposite direction. Overhead a helicopter made a slow approach to the building, waiting for one already on the pad to depart.

Another ambulance turned onto the street from the lot, lights blazing, and Bragg saw a line of emergency vehicles crowding the emergency entrance’s departure lane. Strangely, it appeared that patients were being transported away from the hospital. A pair of paramedics exiting the building with a patient confirmed his impression. He spied a patrolman directing vehicles and asked after Chin.