Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“So we may be looking at the cause of the crash, not a symptom,” McKeon concluded.

“I’ll have the Minzoku bring it up for analysis.”

“Make the flight data recorder a priority as well,” Hal ordered.

McKeon’s people moved in for their instructions, forcing both Hal and Tamara to the outside. The woman’s perfume made it impossible to concentrate on what was happening inside the circle.

“Dad and I were just putting dinner on when they called me,” Tamara said. “I’m sure we have enough for three.”

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Hal apologized. “I shouldn’t leave now, in view of the circumstances.”

McKeon appeared at his elbow. “It’s all right, sir. There’s nothing more you can do here. I’ll call if anything new develops.”

Tamara slipped her arm through his and guided him into the cold night air. “And how are things Out There?” she asked.

“Dark and cold,” Hal replied crisply.

“It’s dark and cold here,” she noted. Tamara Cirilo, like her father, had been born on Nivia and had never set foot off Beta continent, to Hal’s knowledge. She, however, had aspirations that did not limit her to administration of the Fort.

The signs had been evident as early as their teenage years. Tamara had been a willing conquest and continued to court Hal’s advances long after the other girls turned their affections to men prone to stable relationships. Tamara never voiced objections or exhibited jealousy of Hal’s other affairs, but as each ended she was there, ready to take up where she’d left off.

Just like now.

The warmth of her body against him was temptation enough without the memory of their past familiarity. Hal was keenly aware of the situation and the weakness of character that threatened to re-ensnare him in a relationship with the woman.

Hal withdrew himself from her grasp brusquely. “I’m sorry, Tamara, I’m not up for this. Give my regards to your father.”

Her mouth turned up in a shy smile. “You can stay with me tonight, Hal. I’d like your company.”

Turning down her invitation should have been easy, Hal reflected, but it wasn’t. She was warm, friendly, and as good in bed as her appearance promised. Her flaw was ambition and the quid pro quo it suggested.

“I’m sorry, Tammy. I have to go.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she replied, business again. Knowing the game for what it was, she played it like a pro.

Hal checked into transient quarters and spent much of the night wondering who’d won that round.

The shipping container sat in an empty warehouse outside the walls of the Fort. Seawater dribbling from between the double walls formed puddles on the floor that sent random, silvery tentacles across the uneven surface. Hal looked inside expecting to see a fish or two slapping against the bottom. The interior was coated with black, greasy soot.

“What could have caused this?” Sergio Cirilo asked no one in particular.

“That’s no mystery,” McKeon said, referring to the lab report he held in his hand. “The residue indicates ammonium nitrate, petroleum and traces of trinitrotoluene.”

“But what was the target?” Hal wondered. “As impressive as this looks I can’t believe anyone expected to destroy a freighter with a fertilizer bomb.”

“Not one this small,” McKeon agreed. “It was a fluke that it brought down the shuttle.” He pointed to the bulging ribs. “The outer shell contained the explosion, for the most part. I’m guessing that the breach occurred near some of the flight control circuits. The flight data recorder indicates that they lost their orbital maneuvering system.”

“So the target was the shuttle,” Sergio said.

“It depends on whether the bomb was too small to do the job, or too big,” McKeon said. “If this particular shipping container hadn’t been where it was, the shuttle wouldn’t have crashed. Take the explosion to the next order of magnitude and it would have blown the bottom out of the hold and the shuttle might have crashed. To get a blast big enough to ensure the shuttle’s destruction you’d have to fill the entire container with the reactant—”

“In which case we wouldn’t be looking at it,” Hal finished. “So the actual target may have been the cargo. They made the bomb too powerful.”

“Or the shipping container was flawed.”

Hal turned to Sergio. “What was in this container?”

Cirilo shrugged helplessly. “We won’t know that until we get a copy of the load list,” he said. “All our goods were contracted as individual consignments; the shipper packed the containers.”

“A dead end for now, then,” Hal said. “Who could have done this?”

“The Minzoku use ammonium nitrate fertilizer,” McKeon said. “They refine quantities of petroleum for their machinery.”

Sergio looked stunned. “At lease a quarter of our shipments are handled exclusively by Minzoku ,” he said. “My God, what is that old man trying to accomplish by this?”

“As much as I’d like to blame Den Tun, this isn’t his style,” Hal said. “He’s not one to chance this sort of evidence turning up.”

“I agree,” McKeon added. “This was amateur.”

“Besides,” Hal pointed out, “it was a Minzoku submersible that located the container. If Den Tun arranged this, we’d still be wondering.”

“Could this be part of a power struggle among the Minzoku ?” Sergio asked.

“I haven’t caught wind of anything like that, but it’s possible,” McKeon replied. “The man is old and there is no heir apparent.”

Wars have started over less, Hal thought. “This remains classified, for now,” he said. “Our official stand is that a third party’s cargo caused the explosion. I want copies of the lab report and the flight data recorder. Sergio, get me the load lists.” Hal went back to his office to start writing his initial report. He sincerely hoped he would have answers by the time the Old Lady got it.

It was nearly midnight when Hal pulled himself painfully into the passenger seat of McKeon’s ORV for the ride back to the Minzoku base. Bursts of pain shot from his hip to his toes incessantly no matter how he positioned himself.

“Back acting up?” McKeon asked.

Hal grimaced and nodded. “I haven’t been doing my exercises,” he said. “Leaning over a keyboard hasn’t helped any.”

“Mind if I ask something personal?”

“Go ahead.” If he mentions Tamara Cirilo I’ll scream!

“Not many people make it through a car bombing in such good shape,” McKeon said. “What happened?”

“I guess you could say I owe my life to the Sundowners.”

“The who?”

“Sundowners. Local music group. The Old Man was taking care of some business and I wanted to listen to the Sundowners, so I sat up front with the driver,” Hal told him. “There was a shaped charge mounted in a tunnel and tied it into the traffic computer, timed so perfectly that the driver didn’t get a scratch. It shredded everything behind the front seats, and I caught a piece of shrapnel in the back.”

“Damn.”

McKeon fell silent again, and Hal stared ahead dolefully. The headlights illuminated scores of hapless insects as they splattered against the windshield. A few of them stuck there, quivering, broken by the impact but alive for the moment, helpless and doomed. Hal felt some sympathy for them, recalling a similar feeling during months spent immobilized in a Family clinic while Khold biotechnology acquired at unimaginable cost knit his severed spinal cord together.