Terran Assignment Trilogy - Second Edition: Paladin Shadows Trilogies, #1

By Aidan Red

Terran Assignment Trilogy collects the first three previously published books of the Paladin Shadows series into a single book

 

The beginning of Shara's journey of discovery and decision as her world shatters and she uncovers the secret, dark truth of her family and their designs on her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aidan Red
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946039576

Book preview

Prologue

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For thousands of Terran years, societies had evolved and developed across the inhabited galaxy, some honest and forthright, searching to make lives better and to be more prosperous for their populations. Others, however, devolved into the lowest form of social development, preying on the weaknesses, lesser talents and capabilities of the not very prosperous, seeking to make their own personal wealth soar, empowering only themselves.

As the various cultures and planetary societies sought more and more markets for their products and wares, the Stellar Merchants Guild was established to provide at least one respectable trading avenue and to assist in normalizing the value of those items being offered, providing a fair exchange no matter where the transactions took place. But as millennia passed and the number of systems and races grew, other, smaller and less-reputable trade organizations evolved to support those who wished to trade in the more nefarious properties. Of these, were those trading organizations and black markets for the more illicit and unlawful materials and including, of course, those perishable bodies necessary to provide the labor to produce those material demands.

Observing the shift in the markets and the associated profits, some within the Stellar Merchants Guild quietly established a secreted arm of their organization to compete in the growing darker markets. To those involved, the arm was simply known as the Traders’ Union, or Traders in short.

To support these changes in trading opportunities, the Traders surreptitiously worked with a team of bioengineers from Omerai One in the Kyddel System, quietly developing a genetically purified race of workers from ancient Terran humanoids. By the time the initial trials were showing success for the new humanoids, the Warlord Prince Kiese had ascended to the throne over the far-reaching Kyddellan Empire, continuing the former ruler’s evil reign. This change in command forced the Traders to quickly move their project to the secret laboratories on the planet Bersara, where they could adjust and evaluate the genetics of the new race without the new warlord discovering them.

Then, in the early years of Terra’s last century, the Traders placed a small colony of the new humanoids on earth, secreted in a remote pine valley in the western United States. They were named ‘Reeds’ so they could assimilate themselves in the Terran cultures and were identified as the ‘Family.’ As the Family matured, proliferation was closely controlled, and offsprings were allowed only of inseminated Reeds eggs to maintain the Family’s genetic purity. The Family developed a governing council from the older members, called the Council of Elders, and established a system to categorize the skillsets of each member as they matured, known within their family ranks as ‘the Rites.’

Occasionally there were surprises, and the less pure offsprings of matings outside the Family were sought for special needs. But when the need arose, the Family never accepted no for an answer.

The purpose for organizing and controlling the Family in this manner was ulterior at best, and based in the fact that Terran humans, due to their specialized skills and exceptional stamina, were becoming popular in the slave markets. The Traders plan was simple: selectively collect the Terran humans in groups small enough to go unnoticed and deliver them into the various slave markets across the galaxy, and especially the nefarious markets controlled by Warlord Prince Kiese. In the not so rare instances when the normal collection methods were unable to meet the market’s demands without raising unwanted notice, the Traders would call upon the Family to fill the shortfall by first helping to collect locally or, second, from their categorized offsprings. The Elders quickly learned that collecting locally also had the valuable side benefit of controlling dissenters.

With the economic evolution that brought different societies and cultures together came the need for a universal enforcement power to maintain order where a culture’s or society’s local laws and enforcement had no jurisdiction. The Galactic Peace Force served to fill that requirement and, among others, to protect personal rights and trade agreements, and to confront the reprehensible conduct of those that placed themselves above all others. Specialized equipment was created for the wars that would ensue and specialized undercover agents were trained to gather the necessary intelligence to maintain the peace, seek out the violators, and correct the various wrongs. Among these special tools were the Peace Force’s recondite corvettes, nicknamed Q-Ships or simply known as ‘heavy fighters,’ and the agents, Shadows.

After the loss of significant ships and agents in the near past, searching for proof that mining consortiums were using engineered humanoids crossbred with or using involuntary Terran bloods, the Peace Force knew they needed to change tactics. Terra, being far outside what were considered the inhabited regions of the galaxy, and being beyond the normal trade routes, was believed to be in no immediate danger. But that had obviously changed.

The continued losses in years of fighting had cast the Peace Force into disfavor among many of their supporters, and the demands for reduced authority or outright disbandment were heard in whispers. But it was this very disenchantment that forged the Peace Force Director’s determination to find a way to succeed. He focused on what was necessary and secretly had a small fleet of specialized, superior corvettes created, crewed with pilots selected from an elite corps of enhanced, battle-trained agents exhibiting certain special talents. It was this fleet, manned by the best men and women he could train, that would lead the newly strategized war against the Traders, and if necessary, the Warlord Prince Kiese himself.

One

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The Dai Horizon’s wiry astronavigator looked up from the navigational display, an intangible transparent sphere filled with numerous points of light positioned in front of his console. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he noted to the coms officer in Galactic Standard, Confirmed.

The coms officer, petite when compared to the massive males that comprised the bulk of the ship’s crew, some tall and lanky and others squat and round enough to challenge their restraining straps, sat surrounded by scanner displays and communication terminals. She nodded and pressed the earpiece against her head. Captain. She pressed harder, barely able to hear through the static that assailed her ears. She hated—no, despised—the antiquated systems on this continually revamped space discard Captain Arkir called a ship.

He was obsessed with his love affair of gutting, stripping, and refitting this relic of the Talton Wars with rueful glee. He personally oversaw the expansion of the freighter’s holds in width and length until they finally reached the very pressure skin, allowing for another one or two environmentally conditioned shipping containers—‘envirocubes’ to those in the business of illegally transporting unwilling passengers from collection to market.

Captain Arkir maximized the ship’s bulk handling and hauling capabilities with maniacal zeal, tuning and retuning the drives before each lift. He gave scant attention to the outdated, fickle systems they relied on to perform their duties, even ignoring the engineer’s demands for repairs in Life Support. The only new systems he cared about were the cloaking transmitters he had secreted deep in the dingy bilge holds, sealing them away from the Port Authority inspector’s prying eyes.

At the squeal in her ear, the coms officer jerked her head, banging it against the display panel suspended beside her. The closet-sized Bridge crammed all seven crew stations into the narrow nose of the ship. Only the area around the captain’s chair, ominously perched on a dais in the center of the compartment, and around the astronavigator’s display, immediately forward, were large enough for stand-up access. She cursed, slapped the panel, pushed her straight amber hair back, and rubbed her temple.

The squeal died with the uncomfortable strain of acceleration, slowly easing as the suffocating howl of the drives diminished. The coms officer’s eyes watered in relief and her shoulders ached. This lift was just another launch from Antheria’s heavy gravity well. Another painful launch into the blackness of space with another descent into another heavy G touchdown in another somewhere.

Captain. The coms officer looked past the Systems Support console, just able to see his boots in the stirrups of the cushion chair, raised to push his head up inside the hemispherical portal. She knew his piercing eyes, set between bushy brows and stubble beard, were searching the void ahead, even though two crewmen accomplished the same task on every lift. We are clear of the ascent corridor. We have clearances for departure.

Anyone watching?

Negative. No signs of Peace Force ships. Nothing unusual, the support officer said as the coms officer watched him study his console. He knew what she was asking.

His title was an alias, a legitimate billing for the Merchants Guild and the ship’s logs. The support officer, trained as a weapons specialist while serving in the Warlord Prince’s Royal Knobaalian Navy, monitored the passive surveillance and counter-measures display that replaced the standard Support screen immediately after lift. He touched a place on the screen and noted the cloaking transmitters’ indications for ‘Friend or Foe.’ All IFF codes are regular haulers and a few Port Security cruisers, he said. Nothing unusual. No Peace Force patrols obvious in this quadrant.

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CAPTAIN ARKIR BLINKED and let his shoulders relax. He was pleased that everything was on schedule and the Dai Horizon had a clean launch. No Peace Force Shadows, no questions, just a quiet exit. To an enquiring eye, if there were any, they were another normal freight run for another nondescript contract vessel.

The Stellar Merchants Guild always commissioned contract vessels for the less profitable or more dangerous runs, but for this trip, the flight plan was simply to pick up a load of ore containers and deliver them to Pico-3. It was entirely the captain’s discretion where else they went before arriving at the mining port.

We have clearance direct to R-Victor 903, kink-Charlie, the coms officer said, referring to the third intercept with the published navigational route to Pico-3.

The captain nodded and the helmsman keyed the information into the guidance computer. Instantly, the ship adjusted power and heeled into the course correction.

Captain Arkir watched in silence as the freighter Dai Horizon left orbit and crossed the distance to swing around Rhor, the smallest of Antheria’s four moons. At kink-Charlie, they gathered with other freighters in a loose group along the outbound lane of R-Victor 903. The visually magnified images of the ships around them, projected on the inside of his observation dome, reported every change in position and speed. Together, in a loose formation, the small gaggle of ships accelerated.

Of the many times he had hauled for the Traders’ Union, the less public trading arm of the Guild, Captain Arkir had never questioned their Guild connections or the legality of the Traders business. It wasn’t healthy to know too much. The commissions were always well defined, usually lifting some highly sought rare minerals or chemicals. But occasionally the contract required a more delicate, undetected touch, and the captain had a knack. This was a simple repeat trip to the other side of the galaxy—his third since the Traders established their new Terran facility. The terms were explicit, though he felt unnecessarily clandestine: slip through the net of satellites unnoticed and arrive without being followed, deliver the diplomatic pouch, collect the reply, and then transport a cargo of five sealed envirocubes discreetly to Wiko Prime, the spaceport in Angrilat on Miseri-3 in the Kyddellan System.

He had demonstrated this knack on many occasions, but this time it was different. They quietly told him that if he were successful in delivering both the pouched documents and the cargo of envirocubes, the Traders would consider a ‘special’ commission for Knobaal in the Cellystoan System. The prince himself!

It was not hard to figure what made the commission ‘special’ and the reason that it had to arrive at a specific time. He had heard the whispers that implied the Traders had identified an empathically talented humanoid woman and the prince expected to have her in marriage. He smiled. ‘Marriage,’ if that was what he wanted to call it, would only be to promote his political posture and tyrannical power.

But what did he care if the prince’s ‘mate’ would actually be a slave in chains? It was the prince’s need of her talents that mattered. And if the stars permitted, the commission would satisfy both requirements and he could return to Knobaal a wealthy man, in time to enjoy the festivities demanded by the ‘surprise’ announcement of the prince’s pending marriage. The entire planet and half the systems would be celebrating the marital fall of the high regent from bachelorhood. For that, the captain knew he would celebrate doubly. But Peace Force boardings and a certain promise of a cold exile to the prison on that icy planet Nuth made succeeding an even greater trophy.

Then the captain wondered why the Royal Knobaal Ambassador’s private aide had entrusted the sealed pouch to a lowly merchandise transporter, the lowly captain of a worn-out freighter, and why was it being delivered to the Traders on Terra? He also wondered if it had something to do with the humanoid woman, but again, he knew better than to ask.

Twenty-one millipars to the first jump, Captain. The astronavigator’s voice crackled in his earphones, noting the Standard Galactic time units that remained before they reached the outbound jump point. Pico-3 in one?

Negative. Their silence told him they had not anticipated his plan. Point Obscure in two.

Point Obscure? the astronavigator asked, and a soft chuckle lingered in his voice. We did good for them to ask again. In two?

In two, Captain Arkir said, turning to the star chart. Use the third star coordinates from the last trip for your mid-course and program to jump on the point. Start your count at three. Shadows? He looked at the support officer as his chair lowered to the dais.

Peace Force channels are clear. Normal traffic. All transponder IDs are still non-Peace Force.

Good. He nodded to the helmsman, pointing to the images on the computer-enhanced transponder map. Maneuver between the two ships ahead. Activate cloaking half a millipar from the jump.

On the numbers, Captain.

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LOOK AT THIS. THE Rhor traffic control lieutenant tapped his message screen as he turned to look at the traffic status map dominating the center of the sector control room.

The watch deputy lowered his suspension chair for a closer look.

A security cruiser just reported an unusually high post-jump swirl at kink Fox, R-Victor 903.

Any ID?

He adjusted the screen. Three freighters jumped in sequence. Two were flight-planned for Cargrit and one for Pico-3.

Swirl density?

Near twice the amount for three, the lieutenant said.

Hmmm. Could be a deteriorating drive.

Possibly. They are all old registry. Second generation drives and lifters.

Any port complaints?

The lieutenant keyed another monitor. None filed. Clean departure. Odd. They would have noticed a bad drive. Maybe we should report this one.

I thought the Peace Force quit watching routine traffic reports.

That’s the official posture, the lieutenant admitted, and tagged the identification. He sent it to the security computer without waiting for a directive. But some of the die-hards still think they should. And who are we to disagree? If they want to watch, that’s their business, he said, and then changed the subject. Who won the game last night? He maneuvered his suspension chair back up to the observation screen.

Within moments, as the controllers sparred over the outcome of the previous night’s game, the Surveillance Division’s computer network silently alerted Peace Force Cruiser Control. The PFCC computer routinely classified the freighter’s ID as a ‘Traveler’ and four GPF ships on deep patrols received the transmitted departure data.

The routine patrols were guised in keeping with the newest Peace Force operating policy, but the selected four Q-Ships waited on a director’s hunch at points deep in sectors far outside the normal trading routes. At previously witnessed course change coordinates, the Force’s ‘Watchers’ waited.

The freighter’s long first jump took fifty-one pars, enough time for the Watchers to analyze their trail of past presence, their wake. Two Watchers reported no contact, but one collected a data bank full as the Traveler decelerated, verified its position in the star field, and corrected for the outbound jump. Unbeknownst to them, their nefarious venture was no longer secret.

Among widely spread planets orbiting a small Class G star in the distant seventh arm of the galaxy, a small mottled blue and brown planet circled. Stabilized in orbit on the dark side of its single moon, the fourth Watcher waited. Its two-man crew noted the arrival as the Traveler entered the atmosphere near the planet’s frozen white polar cap. They observed the Traveler as it jinked its course and headed across the smaller of the two prominent landmasses in the planet’s northern hemisphere. It disappeared beneath an extensive cloud cover on the dark side that concealed most of the continent and obscured the exact global coordinates of its destination.

The Watcher tabulated the surveillance data, plotted the last known course on the topographical overlay, and reported the Travelers’ arrival and estimated a departure time as they settled down to wait and listen. Galactic date was the year 3482, day 285.

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Thursday, September 29

C.3482.291

Terra, six days later

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Didja see the paper today? Paul Hawkins asked.

He stretched his aged, lanky frame, twisting slowly on the bench’s hard wood slats, watching a group of college students. They had stepped out of Dawson’s Drug Store just to the left, south, of the Stop ’n Shop fueling station and convenience store directly across Riggins’ Main Street from their chosen bench. He glanced up, waiting for a response.

Of course. Which part? Harry Woods asked as he dusted a spot from the leg of his creased slacks, then looked at him.

Looks like we lost another’n, Paul continued, looking back to the students wending their way along the sidewalk back toward town.

Did not see that article, but we are always losing some in the fall. Harry sounded disinterested. Kids come back from summer break and forget everything they have learned about the wilds.

Sure do. Said the fella went hikin’ and hasn’t come back yet.

The group of students entered another store.

How long has he been gone? Harry pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, but did not light it.

Few days, I think. Paul sighed and flicked his eyes at Harry without turning his head. Not enough to get in a real fuss.

Was he from around here?

Jordan’s place, out south. A visitin’ nephew or some such.

Well, Bob used to check things out first, but you know how some families are. He has been funny since Darcy left, and this nephew probably just got lost. He will show up in a day or so with a whopper of a tale to tell.

Darcy’s gone, Harry. Paul’s tone was suddenly heavy. "You know as well as everyone, she didn’t leave. She died! Sudden! Kinda like when Nancy—"

Harry quickly pointed across the street, interrupting and changing the subject. Now, there’s a very good looking pair, Paul.

Following Harry’s gesture, he let his agitation cool and smiled. A flashy red convertible two-seater had stopped at the Stop ‘n Shop and an attractive young woman wearing a tight T-shirt top and jeans to match accessed the fuel pump. Sure are. I’m gonna miss the view when the weather finally changes.

I know, Harry admitted, but Paul did not look at him. There was something odd about Harry today and he could not put a finger on it. At least, not yet. Here we sit. It is the end of September and it is still balmy. Cannot last, but I would vote for a few more weeks like this before the snows come.

I could sit for that. These old bones don’t stand the cold the way they useta, Paul added as the woman got into her car and waved as she sped up the street past them. He waved back, admiring how the widow Clark’s daughter had grown. Maybe winter’ll be mild after all.

He leaned back and stretched gently, again sensing the subtle uneasiness that still bothered him. It had most of the day. Could just be remembering Nancy, he thought, but this seemed more than a mood or a thought. Something was touching his senses, and it had started early, before he had even had a chance to read the paper.

He glanced up and down the block, casually noting the afternoon sun’s bright sparkles as the rays filtered through the lodgepole pine trees lining the street. He absently watched the patches dancing on the sidewalk to the wind’s soft rhythm. But it was to the wind itself that he listened. He felt a barely discernable whisper that began far down the forest-carpeted valley, channeled by the mountains on the east and west, and now brushed the roof of the city just above the treetops. Usually the wind was calming, steadying the pace of Riggin, but today it was restless, maybe a little defiant, but very elusive. Whatever it was, he was certain there was something disturbing in the air.

Paul focused on the busy sounds of the street—the whines and clinks of the cars, trucks and many bicycles echoing against the curbs—and slowly they stemmed his rising anxiety. But without a solid touch, his concern slowly waned and he reluctantly turned back to the view of the town appreciating the afternoon. He listened in a happier vein, trying to enjoy the pleasantness of the people whispering, talking, laughing, shouting. They energized the aura with their feelings of life, each accenting the other sounds, each a sweet herb in a carefully prepared sauce.

Everything appeared normal. The aroma of fresh bread from the bakery down the street and the fragrances of Mary’s Flower Boutique next door demanded his attention. Slowly he relaxed, and glanced at Harry without speaking and wondered if Harry sensed the uneasiness.

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LOST IN THOUGHT, HARRY lingered on the sight of the departing sports car and inhaled the nostalgic sights, sounds, and aromas. Officially retired many years from his presidency at the lumber mill, he enjoyed every warm afternoon on the old bench near Mary’s Boutique. He marveled at how consistent his and Paul’s routine had become. Every warm day, Paul wandered in from his ranch at noon and he from his estate northwest of town. Together they spent the afternoons relaxing in the shade of the tall pine trees along Main Street, and today was much the same, reminiscing about days past, land disputes, political debates, fishing down by the town of Clay, and quiet observations of students and townspeople hustling about.

With fond memories of the town’s earlier days, when many of Main Street’s older facades had been constructed, he studied the mix of aging buildings. The refurbished stores and modernized storefronts now embraced the street with their comfortable yet less rustic character, like a close, personal friend. He liked the way that feeling settled daily turmoils, hiding more than a few. Yes, he felt good about the euphoric character of the old town, especially now.

A growing anticipation lightened his mood. It had taken years for his other business interests to reach this point of fulfillment and he felt the satisfaction of arriving at a long-awaited point in their development. However, he cautioned himself, some secrets he could not share—especially not with certain close friends that probably would not share in the things that had lifted his mood. Quickly checking his thoughts, he scanned the street and glanced at Paul, worried that he might do something to raise questions. He sighed and smiled; Paul gave no indication that he had noticed anything troubling.

How’s that great-granddaughter doin’? The one Jim and Shelly had? Paul asked without turning.

Jim says she is doing very well. Relieved by the change in subject, Harry smiled as he glanced at Paul. A new pair of denim jeans, the neatly pressed blue plaid flannel shirt and, his spit-polished high-top western boots quietly hinted at Paul’s position in life yet played perfectly to his relaxed, unhurried manner. This made Paul the ideal partner for these long, anxious afternoons and provided Harry with a perfect unsuspecting alibi, should he need one. They recorded one of her nearly understandable conversations with her dolls on a vidcard a couple of weeks ago.

Didn’t you say they were plannin’ to come back this last Labor Day?

I was hoping for the visit, but Jim could not get the time off. They have not been back since Carrie was born.

At least they do call and send video files, Paul acknowledged, watching the drug store. With all of Andrew’s grandkids around here, I fergit which kids’ve left. How long’s it been since Jim joined the Air Force? Right out of high school, right?

Yes. He went through the Air Force’s OCS right after college and graduated as a second lieutenant—that was four years ago. Harry remembered the family celebration after graduation. Jim’s single gold bars would never be as bright as they were that day. That was when he and Shelly got married. And he made first lieutenant two years ago, same year Carrie was born, but Jim did not want any celebrations.

Still workin’ over in Virginia?

You must be getting old, Harry teased. I have told you before, he is in the satellite control office where they watch what is going on up there. Harry looked up, spotting a short condensation trail, the one noticeable imperfection in the clear afternoon sky. He says he stays real busy. He paused as a thought crossed his mind. I wonder what they are looking for.

Silently, they both watched the contrail until it disappeared over the valley’s western mountains.

I just cannot imagine a job where all you do is watch...nothing. Harry scratched his chin.

What’s the difference? Paul laughed, his arm sweeping around them and their afternoon ritual. Up there or down here? Has he ever said what they’re watchin’?

Nope. Says I would not understand, and he is probably right. Harry forced a smile, uneasy with the direction this line of conversation had taken. Maybe he is not supposed to tell. Ever think of that, you old geezer?

And why wouldn’t he? What’s so secret anyway? My nephew, Nancy’s stepson Jack, says that’s where the future’s at, and that can’t be too secret. He ought to know, bein’ in the Senate and all.

Maybe he is not supposed to tell either.

It’d be interestin’ to know anyway, wouldn’t it? Paul added.

To know what?

They both turned at the familiar feminine voice.

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WELL, HELLO THERE, Shara, Paul greeted, moving over on the bench to make room for the young, raven-haired woman as he turned.

Harry nodded and moved to help make room.

What’re you two conjuring up now? She leaned her bicycle against the storefront behind the bench. What’d be interesting to know?

Paul smiled, almost possessively, as she dropped onto the bench between them. Out of all of his brother Andrew’s grandkids, she was his favorite, the prettiest and the smartest. He still thought her dad’s Native Apache blood was an attractive accent to the Hawkins’ distinctive family traits.

Now what brings a saucy young filly around to bother two old codgers and interrupt the only satisfying pastime filling our quiet afternoons? Harry asked, playfully ruffling her short black hair.

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YOU TWO! GIRL WATCHIN’S for the college boys.

Not hardly, young lady. Paul chuckled as he pushed his fingers through his own thinning hair. The boys’ll just have to work harder to keep up with us more mature gentlemen. What’re you up to?

Her irritation surprised her, and repeating images suddenly flashed through her mind: the morning’s conflicts, the saddening thoughts, the work, school, more work, studying, work... S-O-S. Same old Stuff, Shara said, and realized she was frustrated, almost depressed, for the first time since... She stopped, wishing she could change...everything? Today’s been crappy. I’m tired and had a bad time in class, so I came down to do some shopping before going to work. Turning a smile, she flung herself back against the bench and dropped an arm around each man’s shoulders. But who cares about that? It’s much too nice a day, and besides, someone has to watch you two and protect the unsuspecting women.

Harry chuckled, nodding toward a group of college girls that caught Paul’s eye as they entered the drug store. I heard you took second in the Penning Finals on Saturday.

Yeah. The mare let a heifer out of the pen at the last second. If I’d been riding Danny, I’d have taken first for sure.

She’ll do better next time, Paul said, without turning. She’s still young. How’s the ranch? I heard your mom had some trouble last week.

You could say that. She glanced around, checking for faces that she might not want overhearing. Shakey Morgan again.

I thought that was settled long ago, Paul said, but it came out as a question.

No, but maybe now. Mom let him go Saturday night. Remembering the exchange of heated words made her shudder. He left quiet enough, but I have a bad feeling about him. She turned to Paul. What were you two talking about?

We were just thinking about Jim and Shelly, Harry explained. He has been awful busy in that government job of his. The recent news about the Russian Mars cosmonauts and our own space station makes a fellow wonder about his watching job.

Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? No activity for years, then the big push for the space station and now the Russians are on their way to Mars. She tilted her head back and watched the empty sky. You know, I’ve often wondered what it’s like up there. Sometimes, when I’m real tired or out riding at night, I stop and just watch the stars. It’s like I’m drawn to them, somehow belonging to them. I don’t know how to say what I feel, but there are times when they feel so familiar, like I should know what it’s like to be up there. Bizarre, huh?

Who’s to say? Maybe we do belong to them.

She noticed the peculiar smile that curled Paul’s lips and the sparkle that filled his eyes.

Harry squeezed her hand where it lay on his shoulder. I think we all wonder about that sometimes, but I am sure I would not like it much. You cannot fish, or hike through the woods, or even build a campfire to sit around. Sounds like a terrible place to me.

Maybe so, Shara agreed, then glanced northwest across the river. I hear things’re really bustling up at the mill, more business than ever.

It is doing very well. Brian is always dealing on something like that new line of furniture and those smokeless pressed chip fireplace logs. He says the future is in diversification, so he invests the mill’s money in different products and other companies and the stockholders get larger returns. Harry chuckled quietly. It works. I get richer and do not have to lift a finger.

Must be nice, she teased. I get a little from our investments, but still have to work! I don’t think it’s at all fair.

Harry chuckled again, his eyes catching hers. Do not worry. There is a day coming when you will not have to worry about wealth or heavy responsibilities.

She looked at him, wondering what he meant as he turned his attention back to the street.

Heard from your dad lately? Paul interrupted.

Yeah, she said, and pushed away the questions Harry had raised. She tried to concentrate. He stays up north on the reservation, taking care of urgent problems and business of one sort or another. I guess the good thing is that he can look after his folks.

You have not been up to see them in a while, have you? Harry asked.

No. She stared at the sidewalk. Last time was after Grandma Katherine died and just before he and mom split.

I am sorry, Shara, Harry apologized. I had forgotten how bad that wreck was. Pieces everywhere, nobody knew for sure which belonged to—

Harry! Paul snapped. We don’t need a description. I think she remembers all too well.

Harry glanced at her and nodded. I am sorry. I do ramble on sometimes without thinking. I am sorry, girl.

Thanks. It’s okay. Really it is, Uncle Paul. I’ve been thinking about her and Aunt Nancy a lot lately. It’s all so puzzling. Why them?

Don’t, girl, Paul admonished. It’s not good to drag up and keep reliving the past. Especially when there’s nothin’ to be learnt. You’ve got much better things to think about. Stay happy and let sad memories die, fade away the way they should.

I know I should. She smiled at Paul. But sometimes it just doesn’t make any sense and I get angry. I just have to work through it for a day or two, then I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I bounce.

That’s my girl. He leaned over and picked up the jacket he had folded and laid beside the bench. It’s gettin’ late and us old codgers’ve got to get our rest if we’re goin’ to get an early start tomorrow at our favorite pastime.

He winked and she laughed, leaning back, stretching, a joint-popping stretch with her arms reaching high above her head. She saw Paul wince.

I’ve got to run too. Thanks for the visit, she said, bussing them each on the cheek. See ya.

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SHARA GLANCED IN THE various shop windows as she walked her bicycle down Main, unable to concentrate on any of their contents. It was a difficult day, and even the townsfolk made her uneasy, happily scurrying in and out of the stores and up and down the street. The banter and chatter of passing students irritated her, and jealousy held her spirits back. Everyone she knew seemed to be enjoying more fun than work, and she felt isolated, a victim of her own choices. She reminded herself, as she had so many times before, that she would have a full and happy life after graduation.

But she still felt trapped. It was her own doing, but she was trapped just the same. Summer was suddenly over and the fall term had begun, seemingly without warning. Time blurred, her summer merged into one memory of the ranch’s never-ending chores, the business of statements and receipts, ledger postings, supply orders and deliveries, arranging competition schedules, confirmations, performances, consolation and ride-offs. In the scarce time between, she tried to practice her own routines.

Shara scheduled and advised those of her students good enough for the arena, finishing each day with the eager paying-students who lacked the finesse or talent to compete. To the complete exclusion of all other activities, horses and the ranch had dominated her very existence. But she knew it was her own doing.

Suddenly classes had resumed, and together with her part-time college job, the last of her free time had evaporated. Work and obligations corralled her on all sides. Many of her friends had returned from their summer break, but she could not get close to them again. Too many hours astride a horse, studying, and working had come between them. Even her college job became rebellious, a colt under the reins for the first time. Every day since classes had started, something had gone awry. First the mixed-up data in the files she had entered the previous day, and then the lost entry fees for the September barrel classics. Each day was worse than the one before, and her frustration pointed out her unharried and happy friends. Most of them shared similar interests in ranching and horses, but to a far lesser degree. Involuntarily, her mind focused on the leisure time she saw them enjoying—time she wished for and did not have.

Being the oldest of the juniors was enough to separate her from the rest, at least from the girls. Most of them could not understand the seven-year absence she had spent between high school and college.

But the fellas were more forgiving of her single-mindedness for they too were single-minded—though to a different destination. They were socially predictable, alike to the point that once you had dated one, you had dated them all. Unimaginative, rude, and coarse, SEX was everything. They were always in heat, not an honest feeling of sensitivity, compassion, or romance among the lot of them. Only tales of great illusion, all chauvinistic deceit, intended as a lure for the conquest, especially the conquest of the ‘older’ woman.

Of course, Shara being the only heir to the second largest parcel of land in the valley only whet their competitiveness and determination more. Chivalry, honesty, and honor were most certainly dead. Everything seemed dead—

God, what a wreck! It looked like a bomb had gone off! The thought invaded her mind. Her head spun again, thinking of how Katherine had died—

A tap on her shoulder startled her. She jumped.

Oh my, where are you off to?

Damn, Jill. Don’t do that. Shara caught her breath as the taller red-haired girl stared down at her five foot one self.

Serves you right. I’ve told you more than once, you should always pay attention to what’s happening where you are. But you never listen, always off focused somewhere else.

She watched absently as Jill shrugged and, with an unnecessary sweep of her hand, brushed her impeccable, shoulder-length curls. Anyone seeing her for the first time would think she had risen from the hair stylist’s chair only a moment before. Those who knew better seldom saw her any other way.

Yes, ‘mother.’ I was distracted, Shara admitted with a smile.

They had known each other since Jill was in the sixth grade, and Shara was a high school senior. But they really became friends when Jill was a junior and came out to the ranch to learn to ride. Jill had explained that she had been watching Shara in riding competitions for years and that she thought it looked like fun.

Even though Jill’s riding abilities and her time available to learn kept her from achieving any competitive form, they both realized they had similar tastes and found they usually enjoyed each other’s company. They quickly became fast friends.

So? What is it today that has you so preoccupied that you don’t even notice your best friend?

Nothing in particular, Shara lied. Suddenly self-conscious, feeling watched, she glanced up the street. "You know how moody I can get. It’s easy for me to get off thinking about class or the week’s training schedule. Mother’s still taking students, and last night she told me I had three new ones starting Saturday. Honestly, I think she forgets I have classes and a job at school. Shit, I’m wading through a major bog." Glancing down one side of the street and up the other, the uneasy sensation lingered.

I know the feeling, Jill rambled on quickly. "The term’s only three weeks old and I’m already lost, but not in thought. We’re going to Hap’s for burgers and a beer later tonight. You are going to break this unbecoming habit of social celibacy and come, aren’t you?"

I really don’t have time, Shara deferred. I’ve got to work and should study for a surprise exam tomorrow. You know the kind old Prof Beecher gives to see what you forgot from last semester.

"Do I ever. I had one in English Lit. Anyway, you do have the time and we’re gathering at seven thirty. Everyone’s going to be—"

Okay, okay. I’ll stop by. I’ll be off by then, but I can’t stay long. Shara turned back to the store window.

What’re you looking for?

Shara quickly searched the window for something, realizing she had not paid attention to its contents before. Her eyes fell on a delicately patterned, lightweight, mottled rust sweater and her finger pointed in relieved reflex. I was looking at that one. My others are heavy and old, so full of horsehair that I doubt they’ll ever come clean. And that one will go with my silver and turquoise.

The men will definitely like that one. The pattern is subtle and the style is very flattering.

Jill! I need a sweater, not something for the fellas to gawk at.

Really, Shar. You don’t mind them gawking when you’re on horseback, so why not other times? I say a girl has to take advantage of what she’s got. Jill struck a highly suggestive pose. Men around here have trees, horses, and cows on their narrow minds, and when they do think of a woman, they’re impatient.

Like Brad?

Shar! That’s not funny. He’s just... She stopped and stared at Shara’s laughter.

Sure it is. An unwritten, unspoken, irrevocable rule here in Riggs Valley. ‘All females, since there are nearly four for each male, shall be at all times ready and available.’

They laughed, but Shara was uneasy with the truth. It did seem to be the rule. If you weren’t available, there was always another who was. And the good part was that that meant, most of the time, she could make them leave her alone.

I’ve got to go, Shar. Father’s got all the departments at the mill whipped up in a brush fire today getting accounting ready for the quarterly meetings. He lent me to scheduling to organize the crews for tomorrow and Saturday. Gads, I haven’t done scheduling in a couple of months and I know I’m mossy. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

It’s good for you. See you tonight.

Shara watched Jill get into her yellow and brown sports truck and drive up the street, cross the north truss bridge, and turn left onto Mill Road toward the Woods’ Lumber Mill, dominant on the river bank, northwest of town. Jill’s truck passed out of sight behind the buildings and trees and Shara turned back to the window, deciding. For me, or for the fellas, who cares?

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THE DEPUTY SPREAD THE vertical blind on the station’s tall front window, intent on the scene across Main Street from the City of Riggin Sheriff’s Office. There she is, Hal, he said, watching the young black-haired woman studying the display in the window of Sally’s Casuals.

Yeah, I have seen her, Hal said as the woman stepped inside. Is she the one the judge wants?

Yes, Johnson answered. The judge told the sheriff she is up to something.

She does not look the type. Hal spread the blinds farther apart.

Deputy Johnson turned to the desk and picked up a thin folder. Apparently there are indications. The judge says that tomboy’s time is getting close. Couple of weeks at the most, if you ask me.

She gonna need persuading?

I suspect. He tossed the folder in a basket. She will either accept the judge’s demands or wish she had. We are supposed to be ready if we are needed.

Two

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Jill Thomas studied the three mini-limos in the visitors slots as she slid out of her truck, straightened her knee-length skirt, and started for the mill’s office building. She wondered about her father’s meetings and remembered the rumor about some huge business deal. And since her Uncle Brian did not explain, speculation ran rampant. Generally, without knowing anything specific, whatever-it-was was valued in the multi-millions and she was certain her father, the head of the mill’s financial office, was involved in whatever-it-was , especially since it concerned the mill’s money.

The creaking porch steps announced her arrival, and the throb of determined but muffled conversations assailed her as she pushed the door open and stepped into the unusually tidy, pine board paneled lobby. She glanced at the closed conference room doors and crossed the room to the receptionist’s desk.

Hey, Alice. Who’re in the limousines?

The receptionist looked up with a blank expression. Them. She jabbed a finger toward the conference room. They have been going at it since seven this morning, broke for one of Hap’s catered lunches, then went right back to it.

Where are they from?

Out of state. Alice looked back to the work on her desk.

Oh. Are we winning?

No one’s said. Here. She pushed a stack of papers across the desk. I have the rosters you need. James said to have all of them done before the first crews go out in the morning.

The dismissal was final but Jill was undaunted. Alice was like that, and pushing for more information was not worth the effort. Maybe her father or James, her maternal grandfather, would let something slip this weekend and then she would know as much as anyone else. Maybe.

With a forced yet pleasant smile, she took the stack and, with heavy footsteps, walked to her shared office as Alice swiveled back to her typewriter. She dumped the papers onto the small desk squeezed into the corner between two tall wooden bookcases. Seeing the neat stacks of papers on the corners of the other two desks in the room, their chairs pushed up tight, she knew she would be working alone this afternoon.

Trying to ignore Alice and the meetings, Jill settled before the thick stack, still impressed by the sheer number of employees that looked to the mill for their livelihood. She knew most of the active ones personally, and the task of scheduling was an enjoyable break in her normal routine. One by one, she wrote the names into the spaces on the roster sheets, viewing the effort as an opportunity to revisit what she knew about each, their capabilities, their special needs, who they worked best with and who they did not want to work with at all. She figured she knew more about their likes and dislikes than they did themselves.

Her entries settled into a quickening rhythm and time passed with little notice. Her tempo steadily increased until a new name flashed in front of her and her mind stumbled. She backtracked, her finger retracing the name.

Greg Malone? Where...? Oh, yes. I remember you. Vaguely, anyway, Jill commented out loud in a soft voice, speaking to herself. Let’s see. Three? No. Four weeks ago. A Friday, I think. She toyed with the sheet as she concentrated. You passed through the office with Uncle Gary. Yes, I remember now. He said you’d started early that morning, but it was late when he brought you in and told Alice.

She tried to recall his features, how he looked, but could only remember the devastation on Alice’s face when Gary led him back out into the yard without any further explanations.

Well, ‘Mister’ Greg Malone, I do have to schedule you, she continued out loud, thumbing through the stack. And Alice forgot your folder. Probably on purpose, knowing her.

Jill recalled her initial affront at his appearance as she returned to the front office. Tall, about six foot, maybe a little taller she had estimated, and seemingly slender. He was unkempt, dirty, in loose-fitting work clothes; a frayed and torn, untucked, dull with age brown plaid flannel shirt that hung from wide, drooped shoulders, hiding his upper body shape. His scuffed boots looked like he had walked a thousand miles to get there, and his jeans had appeared as if they would slide off if they were not pulled tight around his narrow waist. Dirt-smudged and faded, his clothes seemed to have escaped the laundry for weeks.

No wonder I have so much trouble remembering you, she said out loud to herself. You looked terrible, but...but why should that bother me? She stopped in the hall to consider. I’ve seen hundreds of fellers and millers in my life and they’re always unkempt, dirty, and unruly.

But she had been offended by his appearance, and that puzzled her as much as how she could forget him so easily. Yet she had felt warmth in his firm, square-jawed face, and compassion in his proud, confident eyes. She had to admit he was certainly a sandy-haired puzzle.

I don’t know what it is, Greg-boy, but I’ll bet in a good long shower, you just might scrub up to be something worth thinking about.

The dark office startled her. Only the security lamp in the corner was on, and it was dark outside. Alice had covered her equipment for the night.

Shit, Jill-girl, she said as she pushed the door open to the adjacent office. Lose track of time and they all get away before you can find out anything. And to top that, now you have to look up the past schedules and get the rest of the files yourself.

The disorganized shelves and cabinets assailed her senses.

God, Father. Why? Jill questioned as she opened a file drawer and stared at the chaos. This is disgusting. Why can’t you buy a decent computer filing system? Everyone has them. Even the stores in town rely on them.

She rummaged through the disarray and finally found the assignment sheets for the past three weeks. This is ridiculous. Passable systems have been around since before I was born! She shoved the drawer shut.

Jill slammed the bulky fruits of her search down on her desk and stomped up the hallway to the personnel office. At the door, a sharp chill stopped her as she realized that somewhere in that room, her own statistics and particulars silently waited to be pulled and studied by...

She shuddered and hurried to the chief’s desk and his file keys, stashed in the unlocked top drawer.

Pushing her childish thoughts aside, she sought the M’s and pulled the drawer open. Another soft curse slipped past her lips as she dug through the bulky folders, finally locating the MALs on the third pass, misfiled halfway back in the drawer. She nearly missed the thin, unobtrusive file marked ‘Malone, G.’

I guess we can’t all be thick as books. She dropped a marker in place of the folder and quickly returned the keys.

Back in her corner, with the schedule rosters neatly stacked to one side, she centered Greg’s folder on the desk pad and flipped it open. His employment application was on top.

Gregory J. Malone, formerly of Pitcarthy, Pennsylvania, a Pittsburgh suburb. Single male. Spring Solstice baby, age twenty-eight. Well, I’m only six years younger than you, Greg-boy. She thought about that shower again. What’re six short years?

Her finger followed the handwritten data. Current address is P.O. Box 423, Riggin, she noted, still speaking out loud. No phone number listed. And your previous address was a post office box in Pitcarthy? With no phone there either. Now, how can anyone live out of post office boxes and not have phones?

Confused, she stared at the ‘relationship’ block. Great-nephew of Gary Woods. My god! You’re a relative! She slapped the desk. Damn! How come I’ve never heard of you? Or any relatives named Malone?

Disgusted, she inhaled slowly and looked back at the folder, trying to collect her thoughts. She was not certain which bothered her more, him being a relative or that she had not known about him. Only the necessary information was there. A high school graduate. She paused at each detail with her finger. From East Pittsburgh’s Old Town High School. Some college courses at Carnegie Mellon University and a limited background in the steel business. Parents deceased and no specific reason for leaving your last job. The brevity bothered her.

All right, Greg-boy, she said softly. I don’t know anything about you, except that you’ve given me the surprise of my life! But I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you came here and I don’t know where you live. I don’t know who you know, who you like or who you don’t. But I do know something’s odd, Greg Malone. Very odd. She paused, debating her next move. All right, all right, Jill-girl. Just put him with his last crew and hope he was happy there.

She was stacking the last of the schedule sheets when the communications console buzzed. She glanced at her watch and reached for the after-hours toggle. Shit. It was eight forty-five and she knew who it was. She was late and he would be mad.

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Traders Facility, Point Obscure

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Captain Arkir watched the loader retreat from the last envirocube and squeal down the loading ramp. He allowed his shoulders to drop from their rigid pose of authority and let his gaze wander across Point Obscure’s launch bay, past the freight doors to launch control’s wide window where a security sergeant seemed to glare back.

For pars, he watched the loading of the precious environmentally sealed containers, the robotic loaders growling and squealing across the textured deck, shoving each container into a slot for the journey ahead. Then, with the clanking of the deck locks, securing the containers in place, followed by a sudden silence, they were finished and he was anxious.

The caravan of technicians, loaders, and flatbeds had finally ceased their cyclic treks from warehousing to the receptive freighter’s hold. The mothering was finally over. The cubes were stacked, counted, and secured, the contents of each verified. He smiled. The five ‘special’ envirocubes held over three hundred destined to new lives and, albeit unwanted, new careers with the Pico Mining Consortium.

The captain’s loadmaster had double-checked Obscure’s lading. Not that he doubted, but experience as a smuggler, and now a slave trader, made him wary of everyone’s loadmaster. Everyone’s.

His astronavigator confirmed the navigational alignments and the crew signed the ship as ‘Ready,’ and now there was only the Answer he waited for and the time, seemingly thick and lethargic, before they could depart. He was ready and anxious to be back in his element, away from the dreadfulness of planets, away from their oppressive gravity, away from...

He pushed tan curls off his forehead and started down Dai Horizon’s ramp. His first officer stood at the bottom watching security’s window, but the sergeant was gone. It was less than three pars to launch.

He rechecked the lading notepad, a mere formality in the moment. The captain knew his loadmaster would erase the memory and all records of this side trip as soon as they were safely clear of the planet. He pressed the Confirmation key and headed for the hatchway below the window, handing the keypad to the first officer.

Captain Arkir, a trooper in a Traders all-brown uniform said as he reached the top of the stairs. He gestured to the open door beside him. A dispatch waits for you.

Inside, a thin female in at least her seventh local decade slid an ID-logger across the counter toward him. Obscure has reviewed the message you brought and wish for you to deliver an answer.

He smiled; only Time now remained.

This pouch to a courier in Angrilat. His identification will match this scrambled coding. She pushed a palm-sized card across the counter. If you clear Angrilat Wiko Prime Port Authority—she let her words hang a moment—proceed to Gillac Freighters, Incoming Bay Two. He will make contact one par after and will collect envirocube Alpha-D and the pouch. You will deliver the other cubes per your previous arrangements.

Payment? he asked, glancing at the card before he slipped it into his sleeve pocket.

Log receipt. She tapped the ID-logger he had ignored. She watched his finger strokes as he entered the ID. If ‘Perishables’ not damaged, balance will be paid. Expect next contact five turns out of Pico-3. They will tell you if you are needed to transport more.

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MAJOR, THE WATCHER’S nav-com officer said to the pilot as he studied the panels of illuminated switches, computer displays, and visual monitors wrapped around three bulkheads and rose to the domed observation portal that formed the compartment’s ceiling. His massive cushioned chair was fixed in the center of the compartment. I have an indication of the freighter’s power build-up near the west central sections of the smaller continent. I can’t pinpoint it exactly.

Display it, the pilot said as he watched the blue and white planet.

The officer stroked the colored buttons illuminated beside his main visual monitor and an ethereal image of the globe below coalesced beside the pilot in the compartment immediately forward. Glowing spots highlighted the appropriate area on the intangible surface.

Time? the pilot asked.

Marked and counting, sir. The data blinked into place on the transparent image.

Estimate?

About two and a half pars.

That figures. They will be in the darkest part of the planet’s cycle. Send the alert. Give PFCC your estimate of launch.

Yes, sir. The nav-com officer keyed the response.

Have you estimated their departure route? the pilot asked.

We’re working on it. Their approach data will give a first iteration, and I’ve run a cross-check of known satellites and debris about the planet. There are hundreds of them. It’ll take a few millipars, sir.

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ALIVE WITH LOUD, PULSATING audio and flashing visual rhythms, Hap’s Place was bulging with dancing and laughing college students. Behind the swaying throng and across the back of the room stretched a long wooden bar with an unmistakable, old western video character.

The cabinets above the bar were antique, with trinkets of the logging industry and a few of the ranching interests. Saws and chain stirrups contrasted against saddle silver and ropes. Multi-colored holographic brewers’ signs pulsed in rhythm with the beat of the music. The mugs and rows of bottles and decanters on the glass shelves jittered with the strobic reflections.

Jill pushed through the crowd and past the end of the bar to the group gathered around tables shoved together against the side wall, near the back. At the near end of the table, she saw him—her self-appointed domineering boyfriend, Bradley Jenkins. He was born and raised in the southern valley south of Clay and moved north with his family during middle school.

About time, he said when he saw her step through the crowd.

She instantly resented his motioning to her as if she were a child and needed his help to know where to go. You shouldn’t be mad. She forced a smile. I was just doing the crew scheduling for the mill.

Someone has to pry you away from work, and I’m just so lonely when I’m not with you. He grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her to him, nuzzling her blouse boldly.

Stop it, Brad! Not in public! She pushed him away, embarrassed as she glanced at the others. What’s everyone having?

Beer. Brad smiled, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

It’s always beer. Isn’t there something else besides beer? Her tone surprised her. She was usually better at hiding her irritation.

You can have whatever you want, but beer bubbles and wine don’t. You’ve never complained before. Time of the month?

Stuff it, Brad. Beer’s fine.

Have you eaten?

You know I haven’t! she snapped.

Just asking. He held his hands up. What d’you want?

A big thick slice of Hap’s ham, with melted Swiss cheese on rye toast. Pickles, onions, fries. The works.

Yes, ma’am. Brad got up with a mock flair of courtesy and plunged into the crowd.

She watched him for a moment, then turned to chat. Tony, what’s going on?

A dark-complexioned fellow across the table looked up. Not much, Jill, just a lot of work. I forgot how quick classes get to be a pain, and with the mill’s increases... Man, I’m already dead.

It’s not that bad, she replied. His references to increases surprised her; she had not heard of any increases. You’re just getting soft. It’s just the fall pickup.

"Nah, I’m used