Chapter THIRTEEN
The black skies and drab mounds of Planet Pluto were spotted with color. From where he stood on Drummer's enclosed patio, Brad looked through the transparent shields at ice-gray Charon low over scarred ridges to the west. Shifting his eyes slightly brought into focus the panorama of Coldfield's dome and its multi-colored lights. The orange-green cylinder of the Slingshot Logistics Depot gleamed in the black sky.
The Fandango force field around the depot shimmered. A wide gap separated the transports loading and unloading at the portals inside the force field from those outside waiting in line or in clustered formations until moorings inside became available.
The short taxi ride from Coldfield had been uneventful. The formalities of introductions behind them, the host and his guests had refreshed themselves, dined and rested.
Drummer joined Brad and followed his gaze to the orange-green cylinder and its gaggle of transports and tugs. The silence was brief.
Drummer said, "I've had your ship searched."
Brad shrugged, eyes scanning the scene outside, and replied dryly, "Hope it was worth your while. To us, it was transportation. Any old tub would have done. As it turned out, we were lucky."
"I'll accept that it's an 'old tub'. I gathered as much from the reports I received," Drummer said, "but I understand the primary systems are in good condition, considering the vessel's history and the spunnel shocks the ship must have experienced on the way. How does it all fit together?"
"How does it concern you?" Brad turned to face
Drummer.
"Come, now." Drummer shook his head impatiently. "Let's not act naive; it doesn't go with the rest of you. But," he added waving his finger at Brad as he turned away, "just so you don't make a habit of responding to my questions with diversions, be aware that I am a member of President Narval's Council of Advisors. Despite the incident with Scarf, I have considerable authority and resources at my command.
"I've checked through my confidential sources in the Inner Region," he went on, "and confirmed you are all convicted criminals that escaped from a Guardian Station prison. Now, for starters, how did you manage to get a lift by spunnel and make it this far without tearing that old wreck apart? Those vessels don't have navigational gear for trips to the rim, nor do they carry the required gear and supplies. Straight answer."
"We're spacers," Brad said. "One of us is an experienced maintenance engineer. Another is a space navigator. We've all knocked about the space-ways a bit on assorted jobs. I was Captain of a freighter before the Space Guard and the Transport Board took my ship away from me on trumped up charges, and then sent me up for five years of rehab. We teamed up on the Guardian Station, worked out the details, kept our noses clean and our eyes open, and, when the chance came, grabbed it. We did have a few breakdowns, but we kept her moving along until we could attach the ship to a convoy through the spunnel. We took our chances and made it."
Drummer shook his head. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"The reports I received identified your former professions and gave me the rest of your personal histories. Frankly, it has me wondering: a ship's captain, paramedic-logistics type, a maintenance engineer, communications specialist, navigator, and a weapons technician. Wasn't it odd to have these special skills fall into place?"
"Not really," Brad countered. "I could have made up any kind of crew I wanted. The station has lots of spacers under lock and key. These folks happened to fit in with my plans, and they were as anxious to get out as I was. It worked. Now, what's the problem?"
"The problem," Drummer replied, "is that a half-dozen escaped convicts with exceptional space skills make it to Planet Pluto; that one of them defends a high level official in a tavern brawl, making for himself a mortal enemy of their sanctuary's chief security officer. To cap it, the escaped convicts are now guests in the home of the official that they defended in the bar-room scrape who, I might add, also happens to be a member of the President's Council. See the problem?"
"Crank this in," Brad remarked, "the citizen, who considers himself a high government official, moves about without a bodyguard thus inviting confrontations. Also, his attacker's arrival at the bar-room couldn't possibly have been predicted, let alone his drunken behavior and my colleague and I happening to be there. Add who it was that took the initiative for departure from the tavern, and that it was the high government official that invited the escaped convicts to his home. He wasn't threatened or coerced into extending his hospitality."
Drummer grinned, nodded. "You ordered Hodak to intervene. Why?"
"First, tell me more about Scarf."
Drummer shrugged.
"He's been with Narval since the beginning of the regime. Did, and still does, most of the dirty work that keeps any government in power, and he's better at it than most. He has a special hatred for dissidents to Narval's policies and uses spies, informers and killers to infiltrate their organizations and tear them apart. By the way, he also had your ship searched. Watch out for him. Now, my question."
"When Scarf began to hassle you, I had no idea of his identity or position. His words and actions in the bar-room gave me an impression that, if we got you out of that mess, you might reciprocate by helping us to get permission to remain on the planet, and maybe steer us to jobs. It was a chance. Now, as to your problem with us: is it insurmountable?"
Drummer studied Brad's face, trying to read his thoughts. "Not really, insofar as getting you and your friends temporary resident status," he said. "Scarf will not be easy with you and your friends, especially my rescuer, Hodak. I'll talk to my associates. The skills you have might be useful to us. Since you're a former ship's captain, I'll consider you spokesman for your colleagues."