Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

A genderless, electronically distorted voice came on the circuit a moment later. “Thank you for waiting. Your passcode is required to continue.” MacLeod recited the alphanumeric string. “Thank you, sir or madam. How can I help you today?”

“The amount deposited to me account for the information I provided on the Embustero is more than a wee bit less than what ye led me to believe,” MacLeod said. “It doesn’t even cover me expenses!”

“Anonymous informants are not paid on the same schedule as those who can be fully vetted,” the entity on the other end explained. “I apologize if that wasn’t made clear when you first contacted us. Rest assured that you will receive the full payment once your information has been verified by field operatives. You will receive an appropriate percentage of the recovery fee paid to us by the lienholder once the actual recovery takes place.”

“Aye. Any idea when that’s likely to happen?” MacLeod demanded.

“For security reasons, I do not have access to operational information.”

“I need the blasted money now, damn ye!”

“I appreciate your predicament, sir. However, these protocols exist to protect us from false informants. The very people we’re attempting to recover property from frequently attempt to pass themselves off as concerned citizens such as yourself in order to obtain funds or lay false trails.

“The balance of the payment would be available to you within five business days if you care to submit to full disclosure at this time.”

“Nay, I do not,” MacLeod groused. “Thanks for a whole heap’o nothin’!”

“You’re welcome, sir. Feel free to contact us at any time if you change your mind or have other questions.”

MacLeod worked out his frustration peddling his tricycle from the hyperlink kiosk back to his shop. Hours of research, weeks of travel, a significant payout of operating capital, and he found himself slightly deeper in the hole than when he’d started. Chances were excellent that he’d be paid eventually, but he might be living in an abandoned shipping container by then. One of his more persistent creditors was due payment within the next few weeks. The only liquefiable assets on hand were tools and test equipment the loss of which would devastate his business.

He was not so caught up with his troubles that he failed to notice a familiar cargo sled settle to the ground on the road outside his gate as he rounded the fence from the opposite direction. He skidded to a stop and back-peddled instinctively, reaching cover as a hatch opened and Ben Grogan dropped to the ground.

The spacer’s reappearance constituted an eerie coincidence, setting off mental alarms that Cormack’s long experience taught him not to ignore. Perhaps Grogan was simply looking for more repairs on the sled; perhaps the master of the Ladybird had caught wind of someone looking into the ship’s affairs and deduced who that someone might be. Grogan held his finger on the buzzer as he peered through the fence. With no response forthcoming, he picked up a stone and threw it onto the sheet metal roof to bounce and clatter its way back to the ground with considerable racket. He appeared to satisfy himself with that provocation and jogged back to the sled. The craft lifted again and cruised off in a cloud of dust.

Cormack pushed his ‘cycle around to the smaller back gate, just in case.

“Nobody home,” Grogan reported when he reboarded. “We wasted half an hour. Happy?”

“Head for the hospital, then,” O’Brien told him.

“Haven’t we had this conversation already?” Grogan asked sharply. “The ship can’t get clear before they figure out who this guy is and who dropped him off!”

“Just go,” O’Brien sighed. “I’ll think of something.” She sagged into her seat and pulled the blanket up around her chin. Her stims were finally wearing off. A huge yawn overtook her, and her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. She forced them open again, shaking her head.

Grogan’s muted voice reached her ears from the cockpit, a litany of complaints and recriminations. She saw the same in the eyes of her crewmates, all of them hoping Pelletier would take the decision and its consequences out of their hands by simply dying. Jerrell Mackey moved next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, wishing she dared to close her eyes.

Grogan’s smug voice shattered the brief reverie: “O’Brien! Markland wants you.”

Markland, the Embustero’s hard-boiled First Mate. Grogan had decided to raise the stakes by inviting the command staff to the party. O’Brien went forward to the jump seat behind the pilots’ positions and pulled on a headset.

“Grogan says you’re taking the dirtsider to the hospital instead of making the lift,” Markland said flatly. “Is that true?”

“We’re dropping him off at the hospital before we meet the lander, yes sir.”

“That is an absolute, unequivocal negative, O’Brien. Get your asses to the lander ASAP, understood?”

“Yes, sir. What about the dirtsider? Liz says he’s critical.”

“Unload him at the first public area you come to; let someone else deal with him.”

“They’ll just mistake him for a drunk, sir. He’ll die.”

“Not your problem.”

“I’d like to talk to the Captain.”

“Shadrack’s not on duty—I am. Do as you’re ordered.”

She took a deep breath. Going over the First Mate’s head risked ramifications she shuddered to consider. “Respectfully, sir, I request a Captain’s Call.” The satement met dead air for a moment; even Grogan’s eyes grew large with shock.

“Stand by.”

“You are one crazy bitch,” Grogan murmured.

O’Brien flipped him off with as much vehemence as she could pack into the gesture.

The Embustero’s captain came on a few moments later. “Shadrack here. What’s the situation, Crewman O’Brien?”

She explained as succinctly as she could, and waited for his decision. Once given, there was no arguing or variance. If she didn’t obey, her crewmates were obligated to enforce the order or suffer the same punishment she would incur.

“You said he was unconscious, the last time we spoke,” Shadrack said. “When did that change?”

“He made us aware of it shortly after we lost the line-of-site with the ship,” she replied. “We’re not certain how long before that he came to.”

“So you have no idea how much he knows about us.”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

“Very well; proceed to the lander immediately.”

O’Brien’s heart sank. “Yes, sir. What do you want us to do with the dirtsider?”

A hint of surprise crept into the Captain’s voice. “Bring him with you, of course. We can’t risk leaving him behind.”

“Yes, sir!” She paused on her way to the passenger compartment and turned back to Grogan. “I judge him about a hundred kilos. I think you and I should pay the others back out of our cargo-share.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” he snorted.

“Because nobody likes a tattler, asshole!”

The cargo sled merged into the traffic pattern and circled until it received clearance to enter the field. It drifted slowly over the tarmac toward the idling lander and slipped into the waiting bay. “Chain her down,” Grogan ordered. The spacers scrambled out the hatch; O’Brien and Mackey moved their patient to the lander’s passenger cabin where Liz went to work with the larger vessel’s more sophisticated medical supplies to stabilize him for take-off.