Outpost

  At the desk, Kalico half grunted, the disgusted sound deep in her throat as she watched the holo screen and read Supervisor Clemenceau’s personal log. It had been sealed of course, waiting all this time until Kalico arrived with the Corporate access code.

  Finally she slapped a hand to the desk, powered down the display, and straightened. She gave Cap a thoughtful look, face grim. “Un-fucking-believable. Send for Dr. Turnienko.”

  Cap accessed his com mic, ordering, “Private Finnegan, please escort Dr. Turnienko to the Supervisor’s office.”

  “Firm’tive, Cap. On the way.”

  “Trouble?” he asked.

  Kalico burst into caustic laughter. “Look around! This is a disaster. I’ve spent the last day reading reports. What few there are. And half the records are on paper, for God’s sake! And homemade paper at that. Why? Because only a handful of pads still work. Twenty-four aircars are in the inventory, of which six remain operative. Of the three excavators only one is still digging. Three of the fifteen ore haulers still run. The others are sitting on blocks. Production at the mines is down to just about zip. Mostly maintenance, because the few miners left are filling out their contracts, and some of the others have been hoping to score big in the event a ship ever came back.”

  “What about the regional research base stations?”

  “Three of the fifteen are still occupied. Strike that. At least as far as Shig and Yvette can tell, they’re occupied. Six or seven were abandoned. They think. And there’s been no word from the other five that were occupied as of the last contact, which was two years ago.”

  “And they haven’t gone out to check?”

  “Cap, they didn’t want to risk losing one of the aircars—assuming they could still fly that far. And while they periodically broadcast on the shortwave radio, they’re not sure the remaining camps still have electricity, let alone that anyone’s alive out there.”

  “But there’s a chance they are?”

  Kalico shrugged. “The only thing these people have going for them is that terrestrial food plants grow here. Successfully in fact. And the native fauna won’t touch them. Not even the invertebrates or microorganisms. Every one of the research bases had their own gardens.”

  “What about native foods?”

  Kalico ran fingers through her black hair. “A botanist by the name of Iji, working with a chemist named Cheng, have determined that a couple of the local plants—if you can call them that—can be eaten. But only for a meal or two. Until the body begins to suffer from toxicity because of the metals. The rest are either deadly or indigestible. We can eat most of the animals, especially the herbivores. In moderation. Every living organism on Donovan concentrates metals.” She paused. “Do you know that they found a mountain of pure palladium just below the equator?”

  “You’re joking.”

  She shook her head slowly and stood, walking over to stare out the window at the storm-torn night. “This planet is a gold mine. Literally. Along with just about everything else that can be extracted. That, however, is not my problem.”

  “What is?”

  “Whether to abandon the colony.” She rolled her shoulders as if they’d stiffened. “Cap, here’s my dilemma: The Corporation has invested nearly ten trillion SDRs in Donovan up to now. They sent me to get answers, and what do I find upon arrival? Seven ships are missing. Just vanished. The colony is in shambles. Three hundred and eighty-nine people are alive—they think—where our last census listed three thousand one hundred and seventy-one. The oldest person alive is a miner in his early seventies. Fifteen percent of the population are children. Barely enough to maintain viability.”

  She turned dark eyes on his. “Given everything I’ve told you, what’s your analysis of the situation?”

  “That mountain of palladium is tempting, except that it’s way out here, clear across space from Solar System. But, Supervisor, I think it’s too far away, and too uncertain to reach. Especially given the number of ships we’ve lost just trying to keep this place supplied.”

  She nodded. “My thought, too.” A pause. “And there’s another thing: This place is corrosive. I mean that in the social sense. I just finished Supervisor Clemenceau’s log. The colony was falling into chaos even before his untimely death. He was almost living in a state of siege. He couldn’t even walk across the Port Authority compound without an armed escort. The miners were in open rebellion, having called a strike, and political meetings were being openly held in violation of the Corporate compact. He’d lost control.”

  “What about his security?”

  “Before I get to that, do you know who his main rival for power was?”

  “Shig Mosadek?”

  “Close. Yvette Dushane. Though Shig is often mentioned, but generally as a sort of easygoing mediator. And then, just as things are coming to a crest, Clemenceau flies south to inspect a promising outcrop of gallium arsenide near the equator. And he dies. Cause of death? You’re not going to believe. It’s listed as ‘nightmare.’”

  She arched a provocative eyebrow. “His security officer on that trip was none other than Talina Perez.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Yes?” Cap called.

  Private Finnegan leaned in, announcing, “Dr. Turnienko, Captain. As ordered.”

  “Send her in.”

  Raya Turnienko strode into the room on long legs. Cap put her close to six feet, with a slender build, shoulder-length black hair, round Asiatic face, light-brown complexion. Something about her would have screamed Siberian, even if he hadn’t reviewed her file. She wore a frayed and stained white lab coat, her hands in the pockets.

  She greeted them with a smile. “I’m Raya Turnienko. My pleasure to meet you, Supervisor. You, too, Captain.”

  And just as quickly she produced a sheaf of papers from a pocket, adding, “Thank you for seeing me so quickly. Here are the requisitions for medical supplies. You’ll find the critical list on the top. Hopefully they are in stores, but if we could tap the ship’s pharmacy aboard the Turalon before the next shuttle, I would really appreciate it.”

  Kalico had stepped behind the desk, taking the papers. A frown on her forehead, she thumbed through them, expression grim. “I’ll see what I can do.” Then she glanced up. “But first, I need to have some answers.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Turnienko told her, expression flattening to neutral.

  “What’s the major cause of death on Donovan, Doctor?”

  “The wildlife. Immediately after that is heavy metal poisoning. It’s not as critical now since we’ve made major improvements to the water system. Most of that relates to cisterns.” She inclined her head to indicate the storm outside. “Infection is number three—though with a resupply of antibiotics, we should be able to just about eliminate that. Next in line come accidents: falls, lacerations, crushings. We still get the occasional suicide and murder when interpersonal violence gets out of hand. Last on the list are natural causes like heart attack.”

  “What would your professional response be if someone attributed a cause of death to a nightmare?” Kalico asked it casually.

  Turnienko hesitated. A flicker of surprise, then it was followed by a hardening of her features. Her voice dropped an octave. “Ah, you’re referring to Supervisor Clemenceau. Donovan has no shortage of terrible and horrifying ways to die.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cap interjected. “I have nightmares all the time. Haven’t died from one yet.”

  Turnienko turned her knowing gaze on his, a faint smile on her lips. “What you are really asking is did Talina Perez murder the previous Supervisor?”

  “Did she?” Kalico countered.

  “Talina doesn’t go around randomly killing people. Let alone anyone who doesn’t deserve it. There’s not that many of us left, and some of us are critical. Take Cheng. If w
e were to lose him, it could be the final nail in the coffin for Port Authority.”

  “But not the colony?”

  Turnienko had shoved her hands back into her coat pockets, stretching the worn garment as she straightened her arms. “I don’t have an answer for you, Supervisor. Some of the Wild Ones are flourishing.”

  “How?” Cap asked.

  “Not sure, exactly. They are making it with their gardens, and through whatever happenstance seem to have brokered some sort of live-and-let-live deal with the quetzals, though the bems, slugs, and sidewinders remain a problem.”

  “What’s a bem?” Kalico asked.

  “That’s Donovan shorthand for ‘bastard evil monster.’ We classify it as an animal, though that’s an unclear distinction for many species on Donovan. Like all of the predators, it thrives on camouflage, preferring to look like a big rock. Matches the colors and contours of the surrounding stone—right down to the mineral inclusions. Mostly they prey on chamois, which, if you don’t know, are one of the local herbivore species. They digest them by engulfing. If you pay attention, you can usually spot a bem, or smell it and avoid it. They’re not fast, so they’re relatively easy to evade.”

  “There’s no mention of bems in the records,” Cap added.

  “Your records are eight years old,” Turnienko noted dryly.

  That was the thing about all of them, Cap noted. They all had that slightly superior arrogance. Treated the Supervisor and him as if they were children.

  Kalico had picked up on it as well. “Doctor, give me your neutral, nonpartisan, and professional opinion. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Supervisor.”

  “Did Talina Perez assassinate Supervisor Clemenceau?”

  “I don’t have reason to believe Talina lied. She wrote up a report if you’d like to see it. I’ve got it somewhere in the files.”

  “I would. Thank you.” Kalico steepled her fingers. “Assuming there is no more supply after Turalon, what are the chances that human beings can sustain themselves on this planet?”

  Turnienko might have been a statue, though her dark brown eyes remained actively fixed on Kalico’s. The pause stretched.

  Finally, she said, “Long term? Without future supply? Toss a coin, Supervisor. I call it fifty-fifty. And if we make it, we’re going to be very different human beings than we started out.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Doctor.” Kalico tapped the papers she’d been given. “I’ll have my cargo load specialist check your request against the inventory and send the rest to the ship’s clinic. See what we can come up with. You are dismissed.”

  At the word dismissed, Turnienko’s lips twitched as though amused. Nodding to Kalico, and then to Cap, she turned and left the room.

  “Now there’s a cheery sort,” Kalico stared vacantly at the door. From her pocket, she pulled a token, tossed it into the air, calling, “Heads.” She caught it, slapped it on the back of her hand, and said, “It’s tails. Donovan’s doomed.”

  “She’s lying about Clemenceau,” Cap noted, his concerns slightly different from the Supervisor’s. “As if this place somehow converts bad dreams to lethality? Was she referring to a sort of self-induced madness? Being stuck in a nightmare and not being able to wake up?”

  “More to the point, Cap. The good doctor never denied that Perez killed Clemenceau.”

  “Yeah, I caught that. I say haul the whole lot of them back to Transluna, charge them with murder, contract violation, sedition, mutiny, theft, and every other charge Corporate Legal can come up with.”

  “Agreed. There’s enough in the records and reports to convict without trial.” Kalico stared thoughtfully at the desk. “I’d be within my rights to execute the ringleaders on the spot. But in the meantime, give me solutions. We’ve got one ship capable of spacing four hundred passengers. If there are eight hundred to evacuate from Donovan, how do we get them home on Turalon?”

  “So, you’re pulling the plug?”

  “Damn right. But I need to give it a few days, get a better feel for the place and how to keep from having to kill a couple hundred of them when we make the announcement of forced evacuation.”

  “Any ideas on how to do that?”

  “We need to make a statement, set an example. These people have been wild for years. It’s time to bring them back under control. And, like wayward children, sometimes it takes a slap across the face to get their attention.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “I need you to arrest Yvette Dushane, Shig Mosadek, and Talina Perez on the charge of conspiracy, murder, and theft.”

  “Those are all death penalty charges.”

  “Yes.” She smiled grimly. “They are.”

  13

  Without a cattle herd to act as camouflage for his actions, Dan had to figure another way to make a living. He just hadn’t understood how perfect Port Authority was for his operation. Call it a dream come true. The place was wide open. No laws. No constant monitoring, and people came and went as they pleased. If he could have designed a colony to his own needs and specifications, it would have been Donovan.

  The place was ripe for his picking.

  The trick to rigging his game was to make it seem probable. Especially in the age of com-chip-brain interface. Any three-finger fool could buy an implant that turned him or her into a mathematical wonder—with all the computational abilities of said genius no more than a thought away.

  A fact that had revolutionized gambling to the point it was illegal back in Solar System. No one in Port Authority, it seemed, even cared, let alone ran a game.

  Computation of odds coupled with exponentially increased memory had allowed any simpleton to count cards. Instead, Dan relied on sleight of hand to manipulate the odds in his favor. He’d mastered every trick when it came to shuffling and dealing. Three-card monte, faro, and slap-jack were his forte when it came to cards. Craps, chuck-a-luck, crown-and-anchor, and poker dice were his preferred “fixed dice” games. Then there were the mechanical games of roulette and spin the wheel, while lottery pools filled out his repertoire.

  He had spent his entire passage aboard Turalon biding his time. But for his indiscretion with Nandi, there’d been no hint that he’d been anything but a model passenger. Nothing to suggest that he wasn’t the man he pretended to be.

  Dan Wirth? The cowboy? A gambler and murderer? Gotta be a mistake. That Dan Wirth never so much as wagered a yuan on the way out.

  His special cards and dice, the contacts and electronics, were all safely packed in his duffel. The game boards, craps table, and roulette wheel would have to be locally manufactured. Word was the Skulls could pick their personal effects up at the shuttle port starting tomorrow morning. As soon as he did he’d be in business. For the time being, he would rely on his single deck of cards.

  They had all finished their “orientation” with a drill. A blaring siren had sounded and everyone had to drop what they were doing and get to their personal quarters and lock the doors. Supposedly this happened if one of the local predators got into the compound.

  Into the compound?

  Seriously?

  With everyone safely locked away, drones and teams would hunt the creature down while others did a “head check” to ensure folks were where they were supposed to be.

  Then two blasts told people the whole thing was over.

  Hard to believe it was for real.

  From his table in the back, he shuffled his cards as he studied the tavern. The Bloody Drink. What a great name for a place. The room had been dug four or five meters into the ground, the dome stretching high overhead. The floor consisted of carefully fitted stone slabs. A curving bar had been built in the back where an older blonde woman was in the act of writing a charge on a huge wall board. Each time she poured a drink, she’d turn and add the charge to a column behind the appropriate name.


  An old meteorological station casing had been made into a keg which dispensed locally brewed beer. The shelving on the back wall displayed various containers ranging from bota bags to plastic gallon jugs, and even a selection of glass bottles all filled with different wines and spirits.

  Good. A thriving local brewing and distilling industry made his task that much easier. Alcohol lubricated the entire process. Call it the gambler’s best friend. And best of all, there was no Corporate monitoring that limited the number of drinks a patron could consume.

  Illumination in the place came from the occasional glow globe and honest-to-god oil lamps—the latter having been made from handblown glass complete with impurities, wavering ripples, and bubbles.

  The room was packed. People clustered around the chabacho-wood tables. Most were hunched forward on the benches, elbows on the hand-hewn and polished wood. They clutched mugs of beer, or bought shots of whiskey that were consumed with the accompaniment of toasts and cheers.

  They jostled elbow-to-elbow, partly as a refuge from the storm, but mostly because everyone had come to inspect the Skulls and hear the news about home. The whole thing resembled a riot on low boil, the locals shouting questions, the Skulls shouting back about politics, explorations, setbacks, disasters, prices, the economy, what was new in movies, games, and sports. Which actors were big, and who was in power.

  Way up above it all, the storm roared. Rain drummed on the high dome—bangs of thunder startling and loud.