Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

The road ended at a well-defended portcullis. One of the guards made a cursory visual inspection and waved them through, a sign of sloppy security had Hal not already been aware of McKeon’s subtle all’s well signal.

“The department heads are at the command post,” McKeon said. “Den Tun’s update should arrive with the salvage.”

They parked in the shadow of a satellite dish. Computers maintained a constant link with the geosynchronous satellites monitoring the quadrants where the Family operated. Artificial images of virgin forest and coast, based on minute to minute changes in weather, temperature, and season replaced the real data in black-box components in the satellites themselves, components manufactured and installed by a subsidiary controlled by another Syndicate family. If necessary, they could conjure up images of weather or ocean conditions inclement enough to alter the course of any gaijin vessel or aircraft that might venture near. Direct observation from orbit was countered by an efficient blackout system that could be implemented in seconds. Every major facility was equipped with cold-smoke generators that produced convincing ground fog. If all else failed, the expatriate’s arsenal could prevail against anything short of nuclear detonation or orbital bombardment.

Sergio Cirilo, a distant cousin and Deputy Administrator of the outpost, met them at the entrance. “Welcome back,” he said soberly. “I wish the circumstances were different, but it’s always a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Hal replied unenthusiastically. Sergio was a handsome man by anyone’s standard, a blood member of the Family by both parents, a distinction Hal could not claim. Sergio had been born on Nivia and long aspired to become Chief Administrator. The aspiration had been cruelly crushed when Hal’s father assumed the title. Time had tempered his bitterness, and he accepted his position as site chief. Sergio had developed another aspiration, one that depended significantly on Hal.

“I hope you’ll join us for dinner this evening,” Sergio suggested. “I have some minor matters to discuss, since you’re here, and Tamara is off duty tonight.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hal said noncommittally, “but you understand you have my full confidence, just as you had my father’s.”

“Of course. The department heads are waiting in the conference room.”

The assembly stood as they entered. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Hal said as he took his place at the head of the conference table, “please be seated. Sergio, could you bring us up to date?”

“As most of us are already aware, the shuttle carrying our last shipment suffered a massive malfunction short of reaching orbit. Map, please.” A holographic globe materialized in the air above the table. Red tracings showed the shuttle’s path. “It survived reentry and impacted here, about twenty-five hundred kilometers off the coast. The wreckage is scattered over three kilometers at a depth of five hundred fathoms and salvage is underway. A small quantity is already on its way back.”

A dashed line split off the shuttle’s arc. “The crew ejected here and landed about three hundred kilometers from the mainland. A civilian boat picked them up, but none survived.”

“Any word as to the cause of the crash?”

“Not yet. The Federal authorities are reviewing Space Traffic Control tapes and radar images, but without the flight data recorder they’ll probably write it off as unsolved. The first EPEA boats to arrive had a skirmish with the Minzoku and consider a recovery operation too dangerous.”

“Anything that could cast suspicion on the cargo’s source?” Hal asked.

“No, sir. The material went through our front in Saint Anatone. Unfortunately, most of it went up on the same shuttle.”

Hal thanked him and turned to the other department heads. “Now, how much can we reasonably expect to recover intact?”

“That depends,” said Erin Nowatchik, the head biochemist. “The shipment was hardened against vacuum, not external pressure. I’d give each container a fifty-fifty chance of leakage or rupture. Some components of the shipment won’t be harmed by ocean water, some will be. Some can be recovered through reprocessing, if it did get wet. It’s not worth speculating on; we’ll have to see what we get.”

“I want a running report as it comes in,” Hal said. “The delay is going to cost us, even if we recover everything. Derner, I need to talk to you.”

The metallurgist slowly resumed his seat while the others filed out.

“The Old Lady got your request for reassignment,” Hal said. “She sent it back down to me, where it should have started in the first place. Care to explain why you went over my head?”

Derner crossed his arms defensively. “You didn’t approve the last one.”

“You didn’t give me sufficient justification to.”

“The Old Man would have,” Derner blurted. The metallurgist shrank in on himself as soon as he uttered the words.

So we’ve come around to that, Hal thought. The Old Man’s death had come without warning. Hal never expected to be thrust into the heart of the business so soon and neither had anyone else, obviously.

“I’m sorry,” Derner stammered, “I didn’t—”

“If you have a problem with my decision, you tell me to my face,” Hal said. “Go behind my back again and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Derner’s face grayed. “I understand.”

Having settled the issue, Hal’s voice took on a friendlier tone. “Why do you want a reassignment? You’ve been heavily involved in our production of optical semiconductors and earned top bonuses for the past ten years.”

Derner took a moment to adjust. “I came on board as a researcher,” he said. “We were trying to develop a monoisotopic semiconductor through molecular beam epitaxy. Granted, we didn’t get anywhere, but I think the refinements I brought to our first-stage production warrant my request.”

Derner’s contributions had been instrumental in establishing the Family’s profitable trade in exotic crystals, particularly indium gallium antimonide, a substance vital to the optoelectronic and thermophotovoltaic energy industries. Better than ninety percent now came off the line defect-free, at a quarter the overhead of any other producer, and received legitimate certification after laundering. The culls still went the old route, entering the market through counterfeited certification as a competitor’s product.

“Production and quality peaked five years ago,” Hal noted. “Why didn’t you request transfer then?”

Derner nodded. “My project was still making progress. Two years ago success seemed imminent but we hit a dead end, scrapped years of work. Since then the metallurgy community has pretty much given up serious research in that area and I’d like to move on.”

“I’ll take your request under advisement,” Hal assured him.

“Thank you.” Derner left a happier man.

Hal remained for a few minutes. Solitude would be a rare commodity for the next few days, given his next task: paying a personal visit to each of the department heads, answering what complaints and requests he could, giving lip service to those he could not. “Pressing the flesh,” his father called it—politicking. Hal had never developed the stomach for it. Real and perceived nuances attributed meaning to the most innocent comment, the most mundane action. The Old Man had a gift for it and decades of credit in his political accounts.

The Derners of the world would never have dreamed of pulling a stunt like that on the Old Man.

Virene pounded on the bathroom door irritably. “Terson, come on! You can go when we get there.”