Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“How do you feel about your session today, Maalan?” Lutz began.

“Irritated,” Bragg replied, “but resigned.”

“I see. Why is that, do you think?” Lutz didn’t encumber himself with a notepad, allowing his posture, body language and gestures to fully engage his subject. Bragg had no doubt, however, that the session was carefully documented in some other way.

“I have work to do,” Bragg explained.

“You don’t view this session as a legitimate aspect of your work?”

“I understand the reason for it, intellectually,” Bragg expounded, “and I agree with its purpose, but, no, I don’t view it as significant to my ability to perform my duties.”

“Has anything significant happened since your last interview?”

Bragg hated that question. What qualified as significant and in whose opinion? Significant to Maalan Bragg personally, or significant to the public at large? This time, at least, he had something that qualified on both counts. “I made an arrest in a big case last week.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I was lead investigator into the deaths at Saint Anatone General last month,” Bragg said.

“I found that incident particularly disturbing myself,” Lutz acknowledged. “Did you find it satisfying to apprehend the perpetrator?”

“Not particularly,” Bragg replied. “He was an idiot—there was no way he couldn’t get caught and he missed his intended victims by about as wide a margin as could exist.” The man worked at a medical supply service and filled medical oxygen bottles with carbon dioxide. He intended them for an elder care center but they found their way to Saint Anatone General instead. It was a simple matter to track the serial numbers to their source, where company records identified the person who prepared and inspected them.

“You felt the case was a waste of your investigative skills.”

“No. Well, maybe, in a way—it wasn’t a challenge, if that’s what you mean, but I’d rather get someone like that off the street as quickly as possible than be challenged.”

“How do you feel about the suspect himself?”

“Contemptuous,” Bragg said without hesitation. “He wasn’t remorseful over the mistake. He said—now, get this—he said ‘At least they aren’t suffering anymore.’ I’ll tell you what, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to pistol whipping a suspect.”

“Was that his motivation?” Lutz asked. “The relief of suffering?”

“Not at all,” Bragg chuckled bitterly. “His son and daughter-in-law had their application for contraception reversal denied a few months ago. They were about to reapply and he decided that he could improve their chances by reducing the population by a few dozen. He figured anyone who was both old and on oxygen probably didn’t have a decent quality of life anyway.”

“Do you agree with his conclusion?”

“That’s hard to answer,” Bragg said. “Logic would seem to dictate that life shouldn’t be extended beyond a certain point if it means preventing someone else from being born. I’ve filed legal instruments to prevent anyone from putting me on permanent life support because I think that it’s socially irresponsible to do otherwise, but that was my choice.

“Making that choice for someone else is unconscionably arrogant and cowardly. You’ll notice he didn’t feel strongly enough about it to kill himself.”

“Would you feel differently about him if he had?” Lutz asked.

Bragg shook his head. “His targets were still helpless and vulnerable.”

“I’m referring to those who engage in descendant-motivated suicide,” Lutz clarified.

“It makes me angry,” Bragg told him.

“But it’s clearly an act of personal choice,” Lutz said. “Many people view it as commendably altruistic.”

“I’m angry that a system exists that makes suicide seem like a reasonable option,” Bragg said. “Once you accept it as such you’re one step closer to justifying euthanasia of the elderly or the mentally and physically challenged.”

“You don’t have any children yourself,” Lutz noted. “Is that a choice you made because you disagree with the system?”

“I guess that depends on how you look at it,” Bragg said tightly. “My wife and I applied several times. Eventually the stress and disappointment outweighed our desire and we stopped. It’s open to debate whether that constitutes personal choice or concession.”

Bragg shifted in his seat, trying to swallow the acidic anger welling up in his gut. They’d done everything the bastards suggested to the letter, striving for an impossible perfection until it became the central focus of their lives. The strain showed in the psychological screening and their last failed application cited marital instability.

“I take it you wouldn’t object to loosening of the reproductive laws,” Lutz guessed.

“That, Doctor, is a political issue that I certainly don’t intend to discuss,” Bragg said, getting to his feet. “I believe I’ve had enough.”

“I apologize for upsetting you,” Lutz told him. “It wasn’t my intent.”

“I never thought otherwise,” Bragg assured him. “I appreciate the opportunity to get these things off my chest; I feel much better, and I look forward to next year’s session.”

He drove the highway that circled Saint Anatone three times before he calmed enough to go home.

Cargo damage proved to be as bad as Hal feared. The depth had crushed fifty percent of the containers; nine out of ten intact containers had leaked. For all practical purposes, the entire shipment was a loss.

If the customers on the other end could abide a delay, or accept partial shipment, he might be able to get things back on schedule. If not, the only choice was to refund those with the most power and stiff the ones without. No doubt Den Tun saw an opportunity to gain concessions in return for stepped up delivery of the raw materials needed to increase production.

Hal sat at his desk through the day and remained there hours after his shoulders cramped, dividing his gaze between the computer screen and the clock. There had to be more work, something he could use as an excuse to avoid Sergio Cirilo’s hospitality.

The vidcom buzzed.

Hal considered ignoring it, locking the door and pretending he wasn’t there, but feigning absence would only put the Fort’s security people in a spin. Better to face Sergio and deliver a bald faced lie.

McKeon’s visage appeared instead of the Deputy Administrator’s. “We’ve got a live video feed from the crash site,” McKeon said. “You’d better come to the command post.”

“On my way,” Hal said, disturbed by the edge in the security officer’s voice. As soon as he entered the Fort’s command post his eyes locked on the over-sized video screen mounted on one wall. Against the gray-brown sediment, pinned by a submersible’s spotlight, lay a broken cargo container. Not crushed.

Burst.

The ribs bulged outward; one side sported a gaping hole, the edges peeled back and blackened by a tremendous explosion. Sea creatures swam slowly through the gap, investigating the unusual addition to their habitat.

“Collateral damage from whatever brought down the shuttle,” Hal surmised.

“Not likely,” came a throaty feminine voice from behind him. Hal turned to find himself illuminated by the liquid brown eyes of Tamara Cirilo. If the father was handsome, the daughter was gorgeous. Auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders; her skin seemed to glow from within, like light seen through bone china. The mere sight of her sent a shock through his system. “As far as I’ve been able to determine, the cargo didn’t include any reactive substances.”