Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

The launch revved and lugged in the waves until the pilot matched speed with the crest of a swell. The ride smoothed and the engine steadied. The surf along the base of the cliffs was light, indicating a deep bottom. A few birds rode the updraft along the nearly vertical escarpments. The launch took a suicidal tack directly into the shadows at the base of the cliff, nosing through a barrier of meter-wide, overlapping plastic sheets textured to match the surrounding rock.

A small harbor lay on the other side inside a gigantic cavern. Hal counted three submarines, seven small ships and docks for twice that number. A flurry of activity caught his attention as they rounded one of the vessels. Minzoku sailors unfurled tarps across a dry-dock, but not before Hal spotted the bullet riddled hull of an EPEA patrol boat. I’ll throttle the old bastard!

The cavern narrowed to a dark tunnel and ended at a wall of bedrock where the pilot shut off the engine. A rust-stained metal door sealed the channel behind the launch, and the surface boiled as water rushed in, lifting the launch ten meters up a vertical shaft to a ledge where two armed men waited. The diminutive Minzoku soldiers led him through corridors only a few centimeters higher than their heads, forcing Hal to bend almost double. His back ached by the time they reached a familiar chamber where he could unfold.

The room had been his grandfather’s office once, and at the height of the Family’s prosperity Den Tun had poised obeisantly before the great hardwood desk Hal now faced. The desk was lower now; Den Tun had sawed off the legs to accommodate his height.

Hal regarded the old man austerely. Den Tun had been ancient when Hal was a child; it was a wonder to many that he remained as spry as he did. Time hadn’t let him off easily, however: his tight curls had diminished to uneven patches about his scalp; the hair he still possessed was bleached by senescence. Wrinkles cut deeply into his flesh and one eye had gone chalky with blindness. He spoke to the guards, who bowed at the waist and backed out, closing the door behind them.

“My apologies for the lack of a chair,” Den Tun said. “I rarely entertain visitors of such stature.”

You could get one, asshole! Hal regretted never having learned the convolutions of Minzoku conversation with its double meanings and subtle insinuations, as well as his late father had, or his father before him, but he’d learned enough to know when he was being insulted. Hal visited the Family’s operations twice a year, often enough to rate at least a decent chair, but the old Minzoku preferred his visitors to sit on cushions, positioning the tops of their heads at an elevation respectfully lower than his own.

Hal chose to remain standing. “How much cargo have you salvaged?” he demanded.

“Very little. The wreckage lies at great depth, difficult to reach with what we have.”

“Your people have accomplished more difficult tasks with fewer resources.”

“Protecting your interests is costly!”

“The cost will rise if you don’t stop skirmishing with the EPEA! I saw the patrol boat you captured.”

“They provoke us at every opportunity,” Den Tun insisted. “You have less influence with the gaijin than your honored ancestors.”

“Don’t overestimate yourselves,” Hal warned. “There may come a day when we do not influence the gaijin at all.”

Den Tun fell stone-faced and silent.

“I’ll be staying indefinitely,” Hal said. “I want an inventory of the salvage and a status report on the operation every twelve hours.”

“Of course.” Den Tun clapped his hands and a young woman appeared from an alcove behind the desk. “Lieutenant Dayuki will see to your needs.”

The young officer deferred to Hal as he passed. She remained the requisite number of paces behind, advancing to his side only after they passed beyond Den Tun’s perception. Dayuki was a head shorter than Hal, but still a third taller than any other Minzoku he’d met. Her ethnic features had been softened by mixed bloodlines, resulting in a unique, exotic beauty.

“What do the gaijin know regarding the crash?” Hal asked. The slur flowed easily from his lips. The term did not include the Family—yet.

“A civilian boat picked up two of the crew,” she replied. “One was dead. The other died before reaching shore. They have made no attempt to recover the wreckage.”

“I must still hold some influence with the gaijin ,” Hal said.

“Den Tun speaks from frustration,” Dayuki said in defense of her superior. “We spend as many resources defending ourselves as serving yourselves, the honored Onjin. ”

They entered an opulent room three times the size of Den Tun’s office, filled with fine rugs, couches, and cushions, all collected by the room’s past occupants. Hal had yet to make any contributions, other than the clothes and toiletries he’d stocked in the closets.

“The days ahead of you may be hectic,” Dayuki said. “I would be honored if you would join me for a more amiable evening while the opportunity exists.” Hal accepted, surprised at the offer. Dayuki backed out with a courteous bow, drawing the doors closed.

Hal ruminated on the situation while he showered and changed into a set of clothes from one of the hardwood wardrobes. The Family’s operations on Nivia were nearing the end of a long decline beginning several years before his birth. He found it ironic that the slow, inevitable failure of the cornerstone of his Family’s rise from obscurity was due exclusively to its own success.

The rise to power and influence began with Hal’s great-grandfather, a man who scraped a living on the fringes of a crime syndicate as hired muscle yet aspired for more. It was he who usurped control of a counterfeiting ring from a non-affiliated amateur and found a passion for manufacturing financial instruments. That passion drove him to improve the quality of his product until he came to the attention of an influential syndicate member who contracted with him to produce custom documents.

Success in that endeavor and a reputation for uncommon quality allowed him to take over or buy out unprofitable ventures from other Families. Within fifteen years he controlled a far-flung conglomerate that counterfeited products ranging from banknotes and tax stamps to microcircuits, fasteners and pharmaceuticals.

Eventually laws of business and economics common to all entrepreneurial pursuits, legal or otherwise, led to consolidation. The development of a new colony presented a unique opportunity; though it nearly bankrupted him, he financed a quarter of the colony’s charter and concentrated his scattered holdings on Nivia, where they flourished beneath the Commonwealth’s very nose.

The note he held on the colony allowed him unbounded leverage for decades. When the colony repaid its loans, Hal’s grandfather funneled a percentage of his profits into its coffers as generous grants, preventing the need to answer any awkward questions. It was he who engineered Nivia’s zealous environmental amendment to the charter, and within a single generation fewer than a dozen top officials knew anything was amiss on the Beta continent.

Using Nivia as a kicking board, the Family launched into activities throughout the Commonwealth and depended less and less on their old operations. Family presence declined as influencing the gaijin government and avoiding detection became more difficult. Hal’s father abandoned most of the bulk manufacturing interests.

In Hal’s time the grants were a fraction of what they had been and the colony was not so desperate for capital. Those few still directly influenced by the Family had become mindful of their political futures and more cautious in their participation. The Minzoku took over tasks once performed by Family administrators and only a small number of researchers and technicians remained full time.