Prologue

Slavers

During the wave of expansion that followed the First Galactic War, exploration fast exceeded the ability of the Confederate government to monitor events. This led to several kinds of lawlessness.  Slavery was one of those issues; between 2254 and 2265 C.E., the Confederate Bureau of Investigation investigated no fewer than sixteen abductions and attempted abductions by slavers, resulting in nineteen convictions.

One of the more egregious slaver rings was conducted by an organized group operating in the Avalon system. The ring specialized in supplying young women to the miners and gas distillers that operated in the rings of the systems’ gas giant as well as in the systems’ Kuiper belt.

Only two convictions resulted from the CBI investigation, however, as an unexplained nuclear detonation destroyed the colony that supported the slaver’s primary base of operations. The source of the nuclear device was never discovered, although an armed privateer ship was known to be in the area just prior to the detonation.  Following the explosion, several young women that had been reported missing from the Mountain View area of Tarbos were returned home safely; none of them would name the ship that transported them from the Avalon system to Tarbos.

The actions of these slavers, smugglers, pirates and other lawbreakers would eventually lead to the Confederate government’s tightening of control over traffic to and from outlying regions, and eventually over the outlying planets themselves.

– Morris/Handel, “A History of the First Galactic Confederacy,” University Publications, 2804CE

***

One

Tarbos

The old man woke suddenly, like a cat, almost as though he had never been asleep. As was his habit, he lay still, letting his eyes and ears take in the surroundings – the never-changing surroundings of his spacious Mountain View studio penthouse.

The sun was up, barely visible through the nighttime polarization of the big windows that faced the ocean.  The old man moved only his eyes, scanning the room.  Nothing was out of place.

Satisfied that his surroundings were secure, he finally moved.  He sat on the edge of the bed, stretched, rubbed the ache in the small of his back and ignored the more insistent pain in his belly.

Colonel Augustus G. Feller, Confederate Marine Corps (Retired) knew what the pain was.  He knew that rubbing wouldn’t make it go away.  The best doctors, the best treatments in the Confederacy had not been able to reduce the cancer that chewed through his insides.

Since there was nothing he could do about it, Gus Feller had long since decided not to bother worrying about the cancer.  “I suppose it will kill me one day,” he told his few surviving old friends, “but what the hell doesn’t?”  And then he proceeded to enjoy life as he always had.

At eighty-two, Feller was a robust, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, ruddy-faced, bandy-legged man.  Despite his age, his arms and legs were as tight as spring steel. A thin fringe of close-cropped white hair circled his high-templed, broad skull; he looked out at the world through steel-gray eyes under brows of shaggy white.  His nose was misshapen from multiple breaks; a thin knife scar ran from his left eye to just short of his upper lip.

Feller tapped a contact on his universal remote, depolarizing the windows to let in the brilliant sunshine of a beautiful Mountain View spring morning.  He wandered into the bathroom, went through his morning routine, and emerged minutes later in an ancient United States Navy Academy bathrobe. He walked across the flat and out onto the balcony, where he sat in a lounge chair and lit a mammoth Forestian cigar. He blew a smoke ring at the rising sun and frowned.

Gus Feller was cruelly bored.

Feller was a man used to adventure. Thirty-two years in the United States Marine Corps on Earth, followed by ten more in the Confederate Marines, all had left him with a taste for travel and excitement. Even under fire, fear never entered into Feller’s thinking. Retirement sat on him like a ton of rock.

He had found some short-term excitement, to keep retirement from becoming too tedious.  A series of astute investments had left him with considerable financial means, and so Feller had launched on a round of trips, hunting rocs on Forest, African buffalo on Earth, paragliding in the canyons of Avalon, deep-sea fishing on Caliban, and sightseeing and entertaining on Corinthia.

After a while, even the prospect of a charging roc had palled; and while his resources were considerable, they weren’t unlimited; planet-hopping was expensive.  The Colonel needed to find something else to do; the cancer limited his time, but Feller was determined not to die alone in his bed, or in the Mountain View Veteran’s Hospice.

He didn’t yet know it, but even as he enjoyed his first morning cigar, the answer to his boredom was just arriving in geosynchronous orbit over Mountain View.

***

The Shade Tree

“In our assigned orbit, Captain.  Auto-control engaged,” Paolo Guerra announced from the ship’s helm.  On the bridge’s main viewscreen, the blue-green-white orb of Tarbos turned slowly.  “Damn, ain’t she pretty,” Guerra breathed.

“Good.  We got a shuttle berth assigned yet?”

“Just came in – we’re assigned to berth Sixteen-D.”

“Good.”  Jean Barrett tapped the arm of her bridge chair and picked up her wand mike.  “All hands,” she announced over the ship-wide address system, “We’re in Tarbos orbit.  One week’s shore leave for everyone.  Third watch gets first shot at the shuttle to the Skyhook, then first, then second.  Let’s be orderly, people.  Have a good time, and try not to end up in jail.  That is all.”  She laid the mike back in its cradle, leaned back in her bridge chair and stretched like a cat.

“Too bad we couldn’t get a berth on the Fleet spacedock’s commercial level,” Indira Krishnavarna observed from her Executive Officer’s station.

“Tarbos is getting pretty crowded these days,” Barrett said. “More and more traffic all the time. I hear tell they may be building a second orbital station, this one all commercial. Besides,” she continued, “The Confederate Bureau of Investigation just opened new offices on the Fleet dock – smart people in our line of work steer clear of the CBI as a matter of principle.”

“I suppose so,” the Exec snickered, “especially after this last job.”

“Prostitution is legal,” Barrett said, an expression of mock severity on her face, “Even if those tight-ass Corinthian lords didn’t take too well to us transporting a dozen pros to set up a Service House in their capital.”

“Asking payment in advance was a good move. Especially since the Corinthians nearly opened fire on us before we jumped out of orbit.”

“Right, and by the way, remind me never to make a jump to subspace that close into a gravity well again. I think we shook a few things loose – I’ll look into repairs while we’re here, no point in screwing up Engineering’s shore leave.”

The speaker on the arm of her Bridge chair buzzed; Barrett stabbed a contact. “Bridge, Captain speaking.”

“Cap’n,” Security Chief Hector Gomp’s voice came from the tiny speaker, “Are you going to be needing any of my troops for anything, or can I cut ‘em loose?”

“Let them go,” Barrett replied, “I don’t think we’ll have to fight off any boarding parties in geosynchronous orbit over Tarbos – not with the Navy hanging up there looking down at us. You going down too?”

“You bet,” Gomp’s voice chuckled. “Got some plans, got to unwind a little.”

“Don’t unwind yourself into the Mountain View city jail,” Barrett warned. “Remember last time we were here – I don’t want to have to come sign you out of the pokey again.”

“Nothing to worry about. Just a little friendly recreation. Out here,” Gomp replied.

“Captain, auto-control is functioning normally, and security protocols are in place,” Helmsman Paolo Guerra reported. Barrett looked up; the entire Bridge crew was looking at her expectantly.

“You want permission to clear the Bridge, don’t you?”

“Well sure, Captain,” Guerra grinned.

“All right,” Barrett said, “Go on, then – you’re all dismissed.  Clear the Bridge.”

With a communal whoop of glee, the duty crew leaped at once for the passageway.

Only Indira Krishnavarna lagged behind, pausing in the doorway to ask, “What about you, Captain? Got anything planned? The auto-control and security protocols can look after the ship for a few days.”

“I haven’t lost anything in Mountain View,” Barrett evaded.

“Well, no, but just because of it…” The Exec stopped suddenly; mentioning Barrett’s short-lived romance with Confederate Senator Michael Crider Jr., which began in Mountain View, was a good way to invoke the Captain’s Irish temper.

“Not anything,” Barrett said firmly. “I might go down for a day or so, but after I get a good, long sleep in my own rack; six-hour nights are fine when we’re in space, but it’s nice to be able to just sleep as long as I want, and I can’t ever seem to do that with this noisy crew banging around this little ship. A little peace and quiet will be nice.”

“All right,” Krishnavarna said. “I’m going to visit my cousin in Rangely; the comm code is in the computer, if you need me. I’ll take the last shuttle to the Skyhook.”

“Have fun,” Barrett said as her Exec left the Bridge.

Barrett stood up, stretched again and looked around the Bridge, strangely empty and quiet with no duty watch. “Peace and quiet,” she repeated to no one.

 ***

A hundred kilometers away

The ship was old and space-worn, but functional. Early in its career it had worked the Earth – Caliban – Zed run as a light cargo hauler of the Rorqual class, but now the ship – renamed the Brookes – carried cargoes less legitimate than mining equipment, settlers and supplies.

“In assigned orbit, Boss,” the ship’s Helmsman reported.

“When’s local nightfall?”

“About nine hours,” the Navigation tech answered.

“Good. Unlimber the cargo shuttle. Get us a landing clearance at the usual field.”

“Already on it, Boss.”

Several levels below in a cavernous hangar bay, figures began moving around a large cargo shuttle, preparing it for a descent to the surface of Tarbos.

“How many this time?”

“At least a half-dozen,” the ship’s commander answered, “and younger this time. Prices are going down some, our buyers are getting paranoid.  Find ‘em young and pretty.”

“Sure thing, Boss. We’ll be careful.”

***

The Shade Tree

Hector Gomp was waiting impatiently for the last shuttle for the Skyhook to dock when Indira Krishanvarna found him.

“What’s up, Exec?” the former Marine asked.

“Your troops get off all right?”

“Yeah – McNeal’s off to visit some girl he met last time we were here, the girls are headed down the coast to the Tide Pool, and Mickey Crowe – well, who the hell knows where he goes when he gets leave?  He never says much of anything to anyone at best of times.”

Krishnavarna chuckled. “Yes, he’s the strong, silent type. What about you?”

“You know me, Exec,” Gomp leered. “Just off to find me some quality time with one or two of the locals.”

“Female locals, I presume.”

“None other. Cap’n is staying on the ship again, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” the Exec replied. “I wish she’d unwind a little bit, just once in a while. She’s determined to work herself to death, I think.”

“Cap’n ain’t got good memories of Mountain View, you know,” Gomp pointed out. “Well, that is, she does, but that was then – you know?”

“I know.  But life goes on.”

“Yeah.” Gomp looked out the port. “Finally – here comes the damn shuttle. I’m outta here. Exec, you have fun with your cousin, hear?”

“Have a good time,” Krishnavarna said. “Try not to get thrown in jail again.”

Gomp scowled. “Geez. A guy screws up once around here, and no one ever lets him forget it.”

***

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