Scott Cleveland - Pale Boundaries

“Y ankee sierra five, adjust heading to one three five and contact Approach Control on final.”

“Rodger, Center, turning to heading one three five. Yankee sierra five out.”

The blades’ pitch altered slightly as Terson Reilly turned the heavy, ponderous aircraft to the new course and contacted Approach Control. He wouldn’t land for another quarter-hour if the aircraft stacked ahead of him in the holding pattern were any indication. From this distance they looked like insects swarming carrion.

The object of their attention, unfortunately, was the corpse of Algran Asta’s capital city.

The volume of cargo moving through Windstone was higher than at any other time in its history, but amounted to nothing more than the agonal gasp of a community in the grip of a slow, irreversible decay. The city’s breath faded with every departure, sucked away by transports that landed empty and launched loaded to capacity, pushing the city’s infrastructure closer to failure as the skilled personnel vital to its maintenance left.

A larger prefab compound, surrounded by berms of razor wire and guard towers, stood off the far side of the runway. A line of prisoners escorted by Colonial Police walked single file through a gate to a shuttle waiting on the tarmac. Marines, in turn, watched the police.

Terson shook his head at the sight. He’d entered his compulsory two-year tour with the Colonial Police at eighteen and received his discharge before the force was federalized. A few months later and it might have been him down there, caught between the contempt of his fellow colonists and the suspicion of the Marines, who considered every colonial cop a Militia sympathizer waiting to get caught.

“Watch your course,” Jack Tham admonished from the copilot’s seat. The helicopter’s assigned approach brought it uncomfortably close to the prison. The Colonial Resistant Militia had launched two unsuccessful raids on the compound in the past month and the military was understandably jumpy.

“We’re fine,” Terson replied. He brought the huge helicopter down and taxied to the shipping terminal where a refrigeration unit waited to receive their load. They unstrapped while the engines spooled down and ducked through the cockpit access to the main body of the aircraft where Nick Foster was already breaking loose the chain binders securing dozens of pallets to the deck.

“Ease up there, son,” Tham drawled. “That won’t get the ramp down any faster.” The teenager broke into an embarrassed smile and mumbled an apology. He fidgeted while the rear hatch groaned open, six months worth of pay burning a hole in his pocket. Tham dropped to the ground and guided the K-loader into contact with the bumpers on the end of the ramp.

“We’ll get it,” Terson told Tham. “Want to see if we got anything going back?” It wasn’t likely—there hadn’t been any return cargo except mail the last four runs.

The rose-tinted liquid dripping from the crates as the beef inside thawed attracted a swarm of bugs greedy for the iron-rich hemoglobin. Terson turned on the blowers just inside the ramp to keep them at bay, but the tenacious creatures massed as close to the opening as the jets of air permitted. They descended on each crate as it rolled out, taking the opportunity to bite any exposed flesh they happened upon.

A lifetime of exposure to Algran Asta’s bloodthirsty fauna had hardened Terson against the constant attacks, but they were such a vivid reminder of the colony’s misfortune that he cursed and swatted at the damnable pests with impotent fury, drawing a curious stare from Foster. The younger man was too preoccupied with thoughts of booze and friendly city girls to appreciate the fact that their cargo had been someone’s prime breeding stock a few days before, and that the infusion of livestock that had so far kept the Hanstead herds safe from the butcher’s block was dwindling.

Tham motioned from the doorway of the shipping office. “Interested in a bush drop?” He asked quietly, dipping his head toward Tyus, the shipping agent.

“No,” Terson replied flatly. A few months earlier he might have been—the recipients then were frightened, desperate people who’d assumed the worst and fled before the Commonwealth Colonization Board clarified its intent. Now it would most likely benefit hard-core holdouts or Militia forces who wouldn’t hesitate to use it against those who disagreed with their aims, including fellow colonists who proved more cooperative with the authorities than the Militia considered proper.

“He’s paying premium rates, and I’ll need the money,” Tham urged. His background was a bit vague; certain rumors held that he was wanted, and therefore could not file a claim for compensation without exposing himself.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Terson replied.

“Maybe not for you,” Tham shot back.

“Oh, fuck off,” Terson spat. Boss Hanstead had managed the trust holding the Reilly family homestead since taking Terson in and given the estate the same attention as his own holdings. The value translated to future monetary compensation due Terson when he eventually relocated. Terson’s coworkers stood to receive pittances by comparison, which occasionally made him a target of their frustration. Terson’s status as Boss Hanstead’s protégé tempered their jealousy somewhat due to the widely held opinion that the position wasn’t an enviable one.

“It’s just spare parts and first aid supplies—nothing proscribed,” Tham insisted.

The military wouldn’t care what it was if they caught them dropping it in the middle of nowhere, but if there was one thing Boss Hanstead had criticized Terson for his whole life, it was a compassionate streak. “Alright, but you’re the one to tell Foster.”

“Naturally,” Tham grinned as he sauntered back inside.

Terson headed for the helicopter to start his preflight. Foster had been looking forward to the carousal that accompanied overnight trips, and Terson wondered how he’d take the news. Under ordinary circumstances they’d leave him to his own devices for a few hours, but the number of Marines in town made that prospect inadvisable. A civilian might not be held criminally liable for an altercation with a soldier, but those detained by the military were typically processed for immediate deportation. The soldiers knew it and took great pleasure in taunting the locals.

Terson stepped around a blood-tinged puddle of water behind the helicopter. A growing mat of drowning insects covered the entire surface as the weight of new arrivals pressed those who gorged too long deeper into the carnage where they, too, quickly expired.

The K-loader trundled back across the hot tarmac carrying a single pallet. Jack, Foster, and a third man pushed the pallet onto the rollers in the helicopter’s deck. Tham climbed into the copilot’s seat and gave Terson the paperwork while Foster and the stranger strapped in.

“You didn’t say anything about passengers,” Terson said.

“Neither did Tyus,” Tham replied uncomfortably, accurately reading in Terson’s expression that he considered the development cause to back out. “I already frisked him; he’s just the guide.”

Terson mulled it over. The Colonial Resistant Militia was growing more desperate as forced evacuations dried up their base of supply and support in the bush; there had been incidents of hijacking and worse aimed at those they considered collaborators, and Hanstead ranked high on the list. But the guide was unarmed, outnumbered, and an airdrop wouldn’t put the crew at any great risk from anyone on the ground. “I assume Foster’s okay with the change of plans?”