Tag: fiction

The Chase: Part One

~ jsettger ~ Leave a comment

(Not sure quite what to call this. Natural science fiction would be as close as I could say without overthinking it. Nothing horrific, gross or deep, though it feels very much like a weird bit of writing. It just kind of came to me and was easy to write. It needs some TLC, but considering how the last month or so has treated me I will call it good enough for now. I include a map at the end of this because I was not completely satisfied with the visual I describe. I am also a sucker for maps, and apologize for the crude rending here; visual arts are not my forte. If you believe this is very short, then you are correct by any meaningful standard. More parts to come soon.)

Part One: Finding

It was a day like so many others.  The air was warm and calm, even before the sun rose.  It was a good day for many things.

It was not long after sunrise when I found a being worth catching.  It was unusual, but looked like so much like the other beings I was accustomed to catching that I hardly concerned myself.  Trying to identify each, specific type and remember them with detail was more effort than it was worth.  All that mattered were the details regarding how it behaved when chased, and then caught.  Everything else was not worth remembering.

This being was eating in an open space bordering a patch of water.  It was alone and unaware of my presence.  I also had the advantage of being concealed by trees and bushes on a ridge slightly higher than the ground the being was on.  The sun was off to the side, but high enough not to throw especially long shadows.  The still air would conceal my presence.  It was a good find.

A look at the terrain and positions at the start of the story

Coming Back, Part 1

~ jsettger ~ Leave a comment

(Okay. This is the biggest gap in posting yet; mostly an issue of writing too infrequently. Some of what I am working on is not for the blog, so I have not been entire idle. Nonetheless, I have some time to work on some blog-worthy items in the very near future. I expect this will keep me closer to the original posting goal. We’ll see.

I offer up a version of a story that I have started a few times, lost traction and started again. Mostly a matter of being dissatisfied with the nature of the characters and story direction. Rather than draw out my posting delay by another couple of weeks, I offer up the latest incarnation of the beginning. It likely falls under the umbrella of occult mystery horror. I am still undecided if I need to light the fuse on this start, too. Hope you enjoy.)

Gloria could not help but notice the eerie calm in Mona.  Her sister was no softy, far from it, yet it had been a tumultuous six months.  Mona was either in shock, denial or was, indeed, an emotional rock.  Gloria wondered if this was a good or bad thing.  For her own part, the strain was stretching her thin.

               Fredrik, Mona’s late husband, had died six months ago, victim of an unusual, hereditary blood disorder.  He was only fifty-two.  The condition had been in his family for several generations, and early deaths among the males of the family were common.  This was especially troubling considering he was otherwise in very good health.  Gloria and Fredrik’s only child, Lukas, had been suffering from the same family illness for a few years; and the effects had accelerated in the past year.  Now Lukas, in his mid-twenties, was on his deathbed.

               Not that it mattered in times of life and death, but Gloria now controlled the family business.  H-Stadt Corporation was a large, multinational holding company worth many billions of dollars.  A minor confidence crisis naturally arose when Fredrik passed and his son was known to be ill.  The company had numerous, highly qualified advisors that did not matter much to stockholders; all they could see was Gloria running the day-to-day operation with almost no experience, and stock prices were trending down.  The stress was real.

               Then, few days ago, a rainy day in early October, Mona called and asked for help; a rare thing.

               “It will only be for a few days,” Mona had said over the phone.  “I really just need you here.  I don’t want to get into details on the phone.”  Her voice sounded as though she had been drinking.

               “Of course,” Gloria had agreed, knowing it had to be related to Lukas.  He had been undergoing an experimental therapy that was not working out.  As she packed a quick bag and called her boss, Mona was sure she was going to say goodbye to Lukas, followed by his funeral.  Mona had insisted she take the private jet, not wanting to risk delays.

               When she arrived that afternoon, Gloria was not sure how to react.  It was not exactly what she expected.  Mona was, packed and waiting, joining her directly in the jet.

               “What is going on?” Gloria asked, noticing Mona’s dark glasses and the scent of alcohol on her breath.  “Where are we going?  Have they moved Lukas?”

               Mona stayed silent until the plane was secured and her security man was up front with the pilot.

               “Thank-you for coming,” Mona said, removing her glasses to reveal tear-reddened eyes.  “Everything is so confusing.  I just needed you with me for a while, to support me.  I hope that’s okay.”

               Gloria was certain they were going to pull the plug on Lukas, a difficult call for anyone; a back breaker for a mother.  It made sense that her sister needed her.

               “I would not have it any other way,” Gloria returned quickly.  “This must be brutal.  I am here for as long as you need me, okay?”

               “Thanks, Gloria,” Mona said, her voice catching on the emotion for just a moment.  “I don’t know if I could do this alone.”

               They sat in silence as the plane refueled.  Mona poured herself a drink and lit a cigarette; Gloria let it go.  She had a right to cope how she could. Normally, she smoked very little, and drank even less.  It would pass.

               “Where are we going?” Gloria asked, after they had both settled.  “Are they moving Lukas?”

               Mona took a moment to answer, as though she did not know what to say.  “Yes, they are moving him.  This will be the last time, one way or the other.”

               Poor Mona, Gloria thought, she has one last, experimental therapy for Lukas; a final, desperate attempt to keep him.

               “I’m with you,” she told Mona, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

               “Thanks,” Mona said with a sniffle.  “We are going to Europe, to answer your question.”

               “Really?” Gloria wondered aloud.  She had read about various therapies, surgeries, medications and other treatments for Lukas’ condition, but Europe had not been a hot spot for research.  This was new.

               “The treatment is highly unorthodox, and completely experimental.  It is not a medically sanctioned facility,” Mona said, putting her glasses back on as the plane taxied to the runway.  “I waited until the ordinary, scientific approach was out of solutions first.”

               Gloria sat back, content to have her sister talk it out; or just rest with silent support.  Her husband and son passing within a year was a suffering beyond comprehension.

               The flight was mostly spent in silence.  Mona did not say much, commenting a little on the state of the family business and her workload.  Exhaustion made her sleep for several hours, while Gloria fidgeted and worried about the entire ordeal to come.

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 7

~ jsettger ~ 2 Comments

(The adventure takes whole new turns)

“Apology granted,” Leo said in shock.  “Now keep digging.”

Charles kept digging though the muck for a several minutes, announcing in whispers when he found another piece.  It was tense work with time being short; Charles became more focused on digging and less on being quiet.  Cloud cover began to thin yielding more light, encouraging Charles to dig faster.

The sound of people approaching was obscured until the last moment, when Leo heard a mix of whispers and rustling reeds.  He instantly nudged Charles and whispered a sharp warning.  The incoming party had moved right up to them with little notice.

Leo turned off the safety of the shotgun and Charles drew the thirty cal.  The moonlight was out, making it impossible to hide.

Leo gave his brother a quick look, turning his eyes to the reeds behind them; suggesting they might run for it.  A quick head shake from Charles declined the option.

Red, Tanner and Ann-Marie Gibson approached.  They were all armed, ready for a fight.  Red and Tanner had shotguns, braced for shooting, and Ann-Marie pointed a rather large revolver.  Charles and Leo had been in tight spots before; just never this tight.  The Gibsons were trouble, widely known to be mean, tough people.  It would not take much of a spark to get the shooting started.

“You motherfuckers are trespassing,” Tanner said with a measure of calm, “so drop the guns and get the fuck out.”

“Just hunting.  We got lost,” Charles replied with a hoarse voice.  Leo realised what his brother had already figure out, which was that the Gibsons had not recognised them.  They had no beef with the Gibsons but, given their profession, it would be better to stay anonymous for as long as possible.

“You look pretty nervous for hunters,” Tanner said as his companions spread out as much as the trail allowed.

“And hunters don’t carry no pistols, neither,” Ann-Marie chimed in.

“You better start talking,” Tanner growled, “or you’re fucking dead.”

“Are you cops or something?” Leo said, disguising his own voice.  Accusing them of being police was the best this he could think of to throw them off.

“You guys must be pretty stupid,” Red said.  “You think we’re fucking cops?  What are you really doing here?”

Charles continued the play for time, half hoping a swatch of cloud would put them in the dark long enough to run for it through the weeds.  “Okay, fine,” he said, keeping up the disguised voice, “we aren’t hunters.  We’re working for Rob Sreyfus.  He wanted to start growing some plants near the swamp, so we are scouting it out.  We did get lost, though.”

The Gibsons were hesitating for real.  Sreyfus was known to them; a local who was well known for being connected.  More than that, Sreyfus was rumoured to have less than legal deals with the Gibson clan.  It made the situation wonderfully complicated for the Gibsons, who were not great thinkers.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Charles added.  “Rob will be pissed enough.”  More food for thought the Gibsons would struggle to digest.

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Ann-Marie squawked in her trashy way.  “Let’s just kill these cock suckers.”

Her words hung in the air.  A long, quiet gap would need to be filled, the brothers knew, or the Gibsons might fall back to their instincts for violence.  They were interrupted before stalling again.

“Police! Everybody stay right where they are!” a voice blared through a loud horn, deafening them after so much quiet.  Several flashlights came on in the surrounding reeds.  They threw little light and the mist dulled the illumination further.  The sounds of people moving through the reeds with some haste were clear.

“Fuck, it’s the cops!” Tanner burst out as he turned and fled.  “Get the fuck out of here.”  The other two Gibsons turned tail and followed him.

Leo and Charles set their weapons down, as slowly as they could manage.  A group of men entered the trail from both sides, guns first.  “Halt!” the loud horn belted out after the running Gibsons.

“I’ve got these two covered,” came the unmistakable voice of Police Chief Dingman.  “Get after those three.”  The cops legged it after the Gibsons, with occasional calls from the loud horn.

“Dingman, are we glad to see you,” Charles said as he raised his hands.

“Yeah, Chief,” Leo added, “we thought we were finished.”

“What the fuck?” Dingman blurted, confused.  “What are you two morons doing out here?”

“On a case,” Charles said, not dropping his hands.  “It turns out it involves you, even though we didn’t know it until just a while ago.”

Chief Dingman’s glare was obvious, even through the mist and partial moonlight.  “Keep talking, then.”

“We were looking for stolen goods,” Leo picked up the story, knowing exactly how they needed to play things.  “Sentimental items were stolen from a client, and we had some leads the Gibsons might be involved.  We have reason to believe they were dumping the goods they couldn’t sell in the swamp.  So here we are.”

“Did you find what you were looking for, then?” Dingman sneered.

“No, but I think we found what you are looking for,” Charles said with a smile.

“What would you know about that?” Dingman asked suspiciously.

“If I can put my arms down, I can show you,” Charles said.

“Keep the hands up, thanks,” Dingman said, “I don’t trust you assholes enough for that.”

Charles sighed.  “Left inside coat pocket,” he said, feigning boredom.  “And even if it’s not what you are here for, you probably know about it.  And if you don’t, then you will be even more interested.”

Dingman did not trust or like the McCoy brothers, though he did not hate them.  Mostly, they were just trouble.  He pulled the bag of blackmail pictures from Charles’ coat, not lowering his gun.  It was obvious from his glance through the bag that he had seen them before.

“How do I know you weren’t in on this?” Dingman said, taking a pace or two backward, aiming more carefully.

“Come on, Chief,” Leo argued, “you know us better than that.  That’s not our style.”  Leo knew Dingman would realise this.

The conversation was interrupted by a distant exchange of gunfire.  They all stopped as a few straggling shots rang out, dulled by the distance and walls of reeds.

“What the hell is going on?” Dingman called though his radio.  “Report.”  There was a delay of nearly a minute before a response came.

“Clear for now, Chief,” a cop reported.

“What happened?”

There was a shorter pause.  “Suspects are dead, sir.  It was the Gibsons.  They ran for the house and we pursued.  When we broke the cover of the swamp they fired on us.  We returned fire.”  Charles and Leo both mulled over the turn of events.

“Is anyone else hit?” Dingman asked.

“Del caught a bit of bird shot in the arm, but he’s ok.  We are heading to the house, now, unless you need us.”

“I’m good here,” the Chief called back.  “I’ll call this in.  Proceed to the house.”

Dingman lowered his gun, and the brothers lowered their hands.  “I don’t know exactly why you were here, and I don’t care much; other than you probably had nothing to do with the blackmail.  No one knows about these pictures or the blackmail attempt.  I kept that to myself.  This little raid is officially a drug and weapons bust.  It will only be a big deal now because three suspects were shot, but that also helps my case.  Why did you volunteer these pictures to me so fast?”

Leo cleared his throat.  “We know you don’t like us, much, but what they were trying to pull off is bad shit.  Your kid should not have got involved.  I didn’t want that on record in some evidence bag, word would have got out.”

Dingman paused, looking unhappy.  “So here is the deal.  You were never here, and you never saw these pictures.  As I was attempting to cuff you, I slipped and you managed to grab my arm and strike my face.  I was stunned and you ran through the swamp and got away.  I’ll tell them you were headed to the house, so you have a free shot out.”  Dingman pulled out his cuffs and tossed them on the ground, then struck himself in the face with the side of his pistol; a small cut opened over his eye.  He smiled, “If you don’t like that deal, the same thing will happen, only I end up shooting you dead.  So what’s it going to be?”

“Deal number one works, Chief,” Charles said, quickly, “we were never here.”

They turned and ran.  Dingman’s pistol fired twice as they ran through the reeds for cover.  They kept running.

 

Leo and Charles reached the truck in a state of near exhaustion.  The sun was on the verge of rising, and they needed to get away without being seen.  It was all back road driving until they reached the main secondary route into Gillbury.  Charles fumbled through his coat, pulling out dirty pieces of gold.

“I can’t believe we got out of that,” Leo said, checking his speed.  There was no need to be pulled over.

“Yeah,” Charles said, holding the gold in one hand, testing the weight, “we got lucky.”

“So how much did we get, after all?”

“Eight pieces,” he said, “about six or seven pounds, maybe.”

“Enough to pay the rent, at least,” Leo said, scratching at his bug-bitten hand.

“I suppose,” Charles agreed, inspecting the gold further.  “They do have some markings on them, small but distinct; might add some value if there is any rarity.”

“Whatever,” Leo said, starting to relax.  “I’m just glad we got something out of it.  Now, it’s over with.”

“Over with?  What are you talking about?” Charles said, pocketing the gold with a smile.  “There’s gold in that there swamp!”

 

(That’s it for now.  I have a number of story ideas for the McCoy brothers.  Their tales are probably best suited for a series, anyway.  If I get something together for another round, I will revisit Gillbury.  As it is, I am behind on enough writing projects to leave the brothers McCoy driving home with a pocket full of gold.)

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 5

~ jsettger ~ Leave a comment

(The adventure continues in the swamp as Leo deals with losing his way.)

A shot of adrenaline cleared his head, and quickly.  He back tracked on his last few paces, and then a few more, before giving up.  The reeds, growing in thick clumps, left too many gaps to clearly make out the way.  The ground was too sloppy to make out footprints.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Leo grumbled as he pawed through his pocket for his cell.  Charles is going to rub this one in, he thought as the screen lit up.

‘Lost the trail.  Will try to back track,’ he thumbed into the cell.  He waited, hoping Charles would respond quickly.  The message stalled, not going through.  A glance at the signal strength showed a depressing no signal indicator.

“This is bad,” Leo muttered to himself.  He tried holding the phone up high enough to get even a single bar, enough to get the message out, but to no effect.

There were only two choices: keep moving or stop and wait.  Waiting was usually the best approach.  His brother had the GPS and knew the geography.  It would only make sense he would come looking and be better equipped for the search.

Leo wanted to keep moving.  It was a gut feeling that drove him, despite the lack of good sense.  It occurred to him that the air felt heavy, almost suffocating.  His mind wandered to obscure ideas, maybe even facts, about swamp gases and what mild oxygen deprivation could do.  Leo shook his head and got moving.

It made sense that the trails would all be interconnected, Leo reasoned, so finding any trail would ultimately lead to the one he lost.  And odds were good that the original trail would be nearest.  The shotgun stayed in a ready carry, just the same.

The mist got thicker, somehow, making movement trickier and the hand light nearly useless.  Every step was taken with care not to slip or step into soggy ground.  It was like being blind.  Twenty minutes later, Leo checked his phone to find his text message still hanging, unsent.

“Well, in for a penny,” he muttered to himself as he pocketed the cell and started moving again.

Ten steps later he found himself on a trail.  It was hard to make it out, but the gap in the reeds was unmistakable and the ground too firm to be open swampland.  Score one for gut feelings, he thought, moving in the direction that felt right.  It was only a matter of time, and not losing the trail.

A rare break in the clouds flooded the scene with light and, instinctively, Leo took in the surroundings.  The mist limited the light, but for the first time in nearly an hour, he could make out the trail ahead of him for half a dozen yards or so.  The rest was open swamp.  The encouraging detail was a distant house, the Gibson place, off to his right, barely visible between the reeds.  This instantly gave him bearings.  The line from the house to his position was at a right angle to the trail, and the house was on the right side, making his direction north.  The clean geometry in his head, Leo knew, was not as clean in reality, but better than a moment earlier.  The gap in the clouds closed, and the light faded out.

North he continued, hoping to find a way west, presumably back to Charles.  The house had seemed close, though a distance was hard to factor out.  Charles had to be close, and had to be west of him.  The slow, blind man’s walk along the trail continued.

A branch to the left came up some thirty yards later, and Leo nearly laughed out loud.  The trail might have turned or twisted, making this a bad move, but it was more likely it would bring him west.  He moved along, carefully and slowly through the soup of mist and unsteady ground.  Some twenty yards later, he thought he heard something ahead.  It was muffled, the direction difficult to pin point, and sounded like something moving in the reeds.  There had not been puff of wind since they left the truck, so the sound could only be something or someone up ahead.

The easy math suggested it was Charles.  Bears and coyotes were not usually big swamp dwellers, and whatever made the sound was at least that big.

Step at a time, Leo thought.  He moved with more care to be silent, as much for stealth as to hear any more sounds ahead.  Staying on the trail was proving easier, with practice, and Leo was able to focus on staying low and quiet.  He heard the sound again, certain it was something moving in the reeds and directly ahead.  Each step was made with great care, and growing angst.

The clouds broke open, just for a moment, again, revealing a crouching figure ahead of him.  The details were still blurred, but it could only be Charles.  Leo took a short step forward, about to announce his return, when a hand clapped over his mouth and an arm about his waist dragging him back into the reeds.  The clouds closed and darkness smothered the swamp.

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 4

~ jsettger ~ Leave a comment

(Mystery adventure.  The brothers continue their search in the face of growing dangers)

Two hours later, they found relatively solid ground again.  Half crawling and half swimming through the muck and slop of the swamp proved a test of endurance.  They felt as though every insect in the area had descended upon them with fury.  The smell was almost beyond suffering.  On several occasions, one or other needed help to avoid getting trapped in the soupy ground that threatened to drag them under; and they both knew a bog could make them disappear for good.  Inky darkness, broken up only by rare moments of moonlight through the clouds, made everything just a little bit worse.  Neither of them thought about gold.  It was all a matter for surviving to reach firmer ground.

They agreed to take a more prolonged halt.

Leo sipped at his canteen, trying to ignore the worse of the mosquitoes.  “I hope you are ready for some constructive criticism,” he said, “because I am going to give it to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles said, already getting his GPS out for another look.

Leo capped his canteen and tried his best to stretch his tired joints.  He had not stood up straight for nearly two hours.  “Let me be entirely reasonable, here,” he began.  “There is no way we can go back this way.  A little bit of body surfing through some shit is one thing, and two hours is another.  We are not athletes.  Point two: there is no way we can haul fifty pounds, let alone a hundred, of anything through here.  Not feasible.  You getting this?”

Charles was distracted with the GPS, not overly concerned with his brother’s gripes.  He knew, though, that keeping Leo’s head in the game mattered.

“Leo,” Charles said, after fully processing both the GPS information and Leo’s words, “this will all work.  This stretch of swamp was worse than I expected, point taken.  It is not the end of the world.  Yes, it is going to be tough, so we just have to work through it.”

“Work through it?” Leo interrupted.  “What’s to work through?  Did you even listen to me?  I’ve lost a quart of blood to mosquitoes and feel like it’s been two hours of wind sprints.  And if you didn’t notice, we both had some close calls back there.  You think adding fifty pounds of gold to that is something we just work through?”

“All we need to do is get some flotation devices,” Charles said, finally taking some liquids for himself.  “Something in foam would be safer than an inflatable, too many pointy branches out here.  It doesn’t matter.  This is only path we have to get us through without being seen, so it has to work.  Anyway, the good news is that we are almost exactly on course.  It’s only about twenty minutes to where we can start looking.”

Leo was slightly calmed.  The idea of bring floats to help them through the swamp had not occurred to him, and the proximity to their goal refocused him.

“Fair enough,” Leo said.  “I am taking another ten minutes of down time, though.”

“No problem,” Charles agreed.  “We have to pace ourselves.  There is more to do.”

“You know,” Leo said, swatting at the latest swarm of insects, “all I want to do is drain this fucking place and pave it.  The bugs are killing me.”

Once rested, they continued toward their goal.  The ground continued to firm up until it was just wet and muddy.  The reeds grew higher than their heads as they approached the search area.  Charles consulted the GPS several times before calling a quick halt.

“This is it,” Charles said, pulling two, odd lights from his pack.  They looked like square cell phone with straps on the back.  “The Gibson house is that way.  It’s just close enough that we would see it, except for the reeds, but we will be getting closer as we search.  That means they could see us, too.  So watch out for breaks in the cover, especially if the clouds thin out; there’s a lot of moonlight coming through.  These lights are red and dim, but enough to see with.  Strap it to your palm, like this.  Just use it in short bursts.  No need to attract attention if anyone happens to look this way.”

“And we are looking for open areas, maybe with recent growth, right?” Leo asked, testing his light.

“That, or anything unusual,” Charles said.  “Watch out for trails, especially as we get closer to the house.  The Gibsons like their skidoos and quads.  If we are lucky, they are using the same paths from years before.  Whatever the case, keep an eye out for anything.  Stay behind me.  I will focus on the right side of our path.  You watch left.  All good?”

“Got it.”

“We have a few hours to do this, so we don’t have to rush,” Charles said.  “It would be a costly miss.”

They set out slowly, moving along in as close to a zigzag pattern as they could.  Charles kept their GPS checks to a minimum, though even he admitted there was some guess work involved.  It was not long before they came across the first trail.  It was also that same time they noticed a thin mist was beginning to form, catching wisps of it with their dull, red lights.

“This is good,” Charles whispered excitedly, going straight to his GPS.  “This is really good.”

“What’s good?” Leo asked.  “The trail or the mist?”

“Both,” Charles said.  “The mist will mean added cover, especially if it thickens up.  This trail is pretty far from the house, and it doesn’t look like it is used much.  I need to mark this point before we split up.”

“Whoa now,” Leo exclaimed.  “When was splitting up ever part of the plan?  I don’t have a GPS to work with.  How the hell do I find my way around with you elsewhere?”

“Listen, chickenshit,” Charles chided, “if it makes you feel all safe and snug, you can hang onto the GPS.  I’m not suggesting you go trailblazing blindly into the Gibson’s back yard.  We each follow this path in a different direction and then return.”

“The trail could be awfully long.  What about that?”

Charles sighed, repacking the GPS.  “Simple.  You follow the path until it ends, starts splitting up too much to follow, or brings you out into the open.  If you check one of those boxes you can scamper back to your stronger, braver brother for safety.”

“You’re such an asshole, sometimes,” Leo said.

“Soon to be a sometimes wealthy asshole,” Charles shot back.  “Just stay on the trail.  When you head back, text me; that way I know you’re coming.  You keep an eye on your phone, too.”

There was not much to disagree with, to Leo’s chagrin; still, he had no love for the plan.  Splitting up had not even been mentioned when they were planning.  Charles set off in what he thought was a northward direction, leaving the other way to Leo.

Leo could feel his fatigue nibbling at his energy reserve.  It was more than just the physical trial of the swamp or late hour; it was that plus the long week of short, irregular sleep and nearly constant work.  The trail was, as Charles had suggested, not recently used.  The mist continued to rise, steadily thickening and swirling, moving higher and higher, until it was nearly at Leo’s chin.  He was not far before he noticed the insects had thinned out in the cool, damp air.

“When the hell did it get so misty in the dead of night?” he half whispered to himself.

The hand light was growing less effective, doing little more than turn the mist into a creepy, red blur.  The trail felt like it was growing closer, tighter; and Leo found it impossible to notice anything unusual.  His path twisted and turned more times than he could count.  The experience felt vaguely surreal and dreamlike, in a spooky way.  It was at that point he noticed two things: he had moved the shotgun to a ready carry; and he had lost the trail.

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 3

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(More mystery adventure fun.  Nothing weird.)

A day of preparation got Leo feeling motivated.  The Wiltman case, he decided, would stay warm for a day or two.  The chase for stolen gold was intoxicating, and a strange feeling for Leo.  He kept feeling it was a moth to the flame scenario; and unlike the moth, he felt he should know better.

Charles simply ploughed ahead.  He had been working on this as a side project for some time.  Leo’s sudden interest and involvement was unexpected but welcome.  It was all about execution, moving forward.

The evening drive to the Gillbury Swamp was an uncharacteristically talkative time for the brothers.  A drive was usually quiet time.

“Is the twelve gauge all you are packing?” Charles asked his brother after they hit the main road out of town.  The old Cooey, double barrel had been in the family for two generations, although it had fallen into disuse for many years.

“Yep,” Leo said, casually watching for traffic.  “It’s also a great prop for our cover.  How about you?  Just the pump?”

Charles laughed.  The pump action twelve gauge was a more recent addition; a remnant of Charles’ passionate days of duck hunting.  It, too, saw little use in recent years.  “Just the pump?” Charles chuckled, jovially.  “Let me tell you, brother, that is a fine quality fire arm.  No ‘just’ about it.  But seeing how you asked: no, it’s not all I’m packing.”

Leo’s brow furrowed slightly, thinking about what Charles might have brought along.  They owned very few guns, and rarely had need of them.  “You brought the thirty cal?  Really?”

“What else?” Charles said more seriously, opening his jacket to reveal the holstered pistol.  It was an old, slide action peashooter their grandfather had acquired during the war.  It was inaccurate past twenty feet, only had a six round magazine and was a bitch to clean.  Still, it was very compact and never jammed or misfired.  Their grandfather claimed it was lucky.  As youngsters, Charles and Leo referred to it as the James Bond gun.

“Was it necessary?” Leo asked.

“Our hands will need to be free,” Charles explained, “so if the Gibsons jump us, I need a quick draw.  Swinging a shotgun around is not terribly practical.  And I’m not sure we could win a fair fight with them.”

“Mmmm,” Leo pondered out loud.  “I really don’t think it will come to that.”

“Me either,” Charles muttered, “but better to have it and not need it.”

“Fair enough,” Leo agreed.

They drove along the back ways until they were technically out of Gillbury.  They eventually found the spot they wanted and pulled in.  It was an ancient property entrance, long fallen into decrepitude.  It led into a fair dense clump of trees and brush that was too far from town to be casually used for drinking parties or such.  The truck was invisible from the road.

Then they waited for the light to completely fail.  Darkness would cover their approach to the swamp.

They had a two kilometre hike along a hedgerow, followed by another two kilometre tromp through the swamp; and this was assuming they found what they were after, right away.  Physically, the brothers were in good shape, yet they were aware that moving through a swamp in the dark might push them.  Neither felt any lack of confidence as they waited for darkness to fall.

“How much do you think we can haul out in one go?” Leo asked, more for something to do than for pure interest.

“Depends mostly on what we find,” Charles said, casually.  He had almost every angle of the logistics covered, and it showed.  “If it is bulky stuff, like decorative pieces, then not much.  Tough to conceal that, even slightly.  If we get compact bits like jewellery or coins, then I think we can manage forty or fifty pounds each, at least.  If we hit the mother load and go back with minimal gear, then we could push that to a hundred each.”

“A hundred pounds of gold,” Leo mused out loud.  They had not discussed what would be done with the proceeds if they were successful.  Leo’s mind went over their options, knowing his brother may have covered that base, too.  “How would we move even a hundred pounds?”

“Tiny increments,” Charles said, right on it.  “I have a few options that are likely to keep a trickle of money flowing for, oh, the rest of our lives.”

“Really?” Leo asked, wondering what Charles had in mind.

“Oh, yeah,” Charles went on without much prompting, “there is no point, otherwise.  I suspect it will mean a big haircut on the raw value, but whatever.  I feel pretty comfortable we can nail down thirty to forty percent of market price.  Remember Bo?”

“Bo?  Cousin Bo?”

“Yes, our distant cousin Bo,” Charles laughed at that.  “He is a jewellery maker, did you know?  Brick and mortar set up in Toronto.  He’s not exactly poor, but he could be doing better.  If we fed him gold at thirty to forty percent of his cost, partly as incentive and partly as shut up money, he might just go for it.  Besides, distant or not, he is family.  If we keep supplying him, long term, he is even less likely to say anything.”

“Clever plan,” Leo agreed.  “Would it be enough?  I mean, how much could Bo take on and still not attract attention?”

“Not tons, but he would be our slow, steady mover.  Outside of that, we can pop into enough pawn shops with bits and pieces to add to that.  It’s not a lottery win, and there are some risks, but it would add up.  I was thinking we might never pay for gas, or meals, or office supplies again.  Stuff that we could cover up more easily.”

“Imagine paying bribes for free,” Leo pondered aloud.  “Shit, I hope this pans out.”

Charles smiled.  “Only one way to find out,” he said, taking a good look outside of the truck.  “And I think it is about dark enough to get going.”

They loaded up and disembarked.  Charles led the way, carefully crossing the dirt road and keeping low until they reached the hedge.  The slim remains of sunlight helped cast a shadow along the hedge, making them practically invisible for any distance.  Both of them were used to moving around in the dark, precarious footing and all, and moderated their pace to avoid blowing an ankle or twisting a knee.  The entire trip through the field passed without incident.  They saw no one.

The field ended at a rarely used service road that bordered one side for the conservation area.  It was a muddy track that was nearly grown in.  A simple, wire fence along one side of the road was in bad need of repair, looking like it was a regular transit point for off-road vehicles; and several spots were completely toppled over.  Charles found such a spot after a few minutes of searching and they pushed into the swamp.

They followed a set of vehicle tracks for a while until Charles decided they need to go more directly.  After ten minutes of steady going, Charles stopped them for a short break.

“So far, so good,” Leo commented in a low voice.

“No complaints,” Charles agreed.  “Like it was meant to be.”

“You holding up, then?”

Charles looked up from his pack, which he begun to look through.  “Funny,” he said.  “This stop is for navigation only.  Now that we have some ground cover, I want to check the GPS.  If that bush trail took us too far out of our way, it’s better we find out now.  There are no real landmarks out here.”

“How far before we hit the softer ground?” Leo asked.

Charles turned the GPS on, the night mode hardly shedding any light.  It started looking for a satellite.  “I’m guess only another couple hundred meters,” he said, impatient for the GPS to find them.  “It depends on how far we wandered on that track.  I wish this thing would shit or get off the pot.”

Leo glanced up.  The sky was cloudy, with patches of clear; nothing the GPS couldn’t handle with some patience.

“Here we go,” Charles announced, adjusting the screen.  “Not bad, we are a little too far north, but hardly off course.  This is good.”  He figured out the general direction they needed to go and they set off.

They had hunted in their younger years, but neither thought they were outdoorsmen.  Plodding through the swamp grew more difficult as they moved along.  Charles checked the GPS a few more times as they progressed.  It took them nearly thirty minutes before they reached the truly soggy ground near the middle of the swamp.  Charles paused on a clump of halfway stable ground.

“This is brutal,” Charles admitted, though with no sign of discouragement in his voice.  “All right, the next three or four hundred meters are boggy, watery crap.  The danger is getting sucked in, so stay close and flat.  Remember, too, that the cover is pretty thin here.  You ready?”

“Absolutely,” Leo sighed.  “Close and flat, eh?  I am making you do my laundry tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Charles said.  “Now just stick to the plan and don’t die.”

“So much love,” Leo laughed.

“Fuck that,” Charles laughed back.  “I just don’t want to explain to mom that I got you killed.”

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 2

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(More mystery adventure. This posting was delayed by fantastic weather and unscheduled work distractions)

Looking over the maps and documents that Charles had acquired took over a day, even with Leo helping out between checks on Mrs. Wiltman.  Charles worked almost frenetically to gather the details he needed to pin down a search area.  It was late the next evening before they formed solid plans.  They sat back and had drinks while they discussed final preparations.  Their office was empty, not unusual for a Wednesday evening, and a sense of urgency had settled over both of them.

               Leo sipped at a modest quantity of gin.  He was still turning the whole, ancient story around in this head.

               “Humour me,” he said to Charles while looking into his glass.  “Let’s have it from the start, again.”

               Charles was happy to oblige.  His brother had been unusually supportive and helpful, so there was no point in rocking the boat.  Besides, his brother was a good investigator, even if he was too conservative in the field.  Another telling, especially in light of their latest findings, might not be out of order.

               “All right, then,” Charles said, putting down his drink and gesturing to their working copy of the map.  “Gilbury was not much of anything in 1857; a tiny farm town without much more than a church, a general store and a recent stop on the Great Western Railway.  The majority of the land was actually owned by the Gibson family, who held an estate a short distance from the downtown, such as it was.  Publicly, the Gibsons were an upstanding lot of good farmers.  They were blessed with old money from Europe and were hard workers, blah, blah, blah.  It has since been determined that the old, European money was largely gained from illegal activities.  The Canadian branch of Gibsons was probably not involved much those affairs.  Still, they were anything but squeaky clean.”

               “It would be nice to know more about their degree of involvement,” Leo commented as Charles paused to take a drink.

               “Absolutely!” Charles agreed.  “That would clear up a few things.  But we do know they knew about it.  So let’s switch the story to fact mode.  Fact: the European Gibsons start sending gold to the Ontario Gibsons as early as 1821.  Speculation: that gold was stolen and definitely hidden with or disguised as lead articles.  Fact: As early as 1833, these shipments start including precious gems.  More speculation: this was probably the European Gibsons trying to hide ill-gotten money.  Fact: the Gibsons, whether they got sloppy or unlucky, had two shipments discovered by outsiders.  Speculation: we are ninety-nine percent certain they murdered the first fellow, a wagon driver that carried the stuff to the estate.  Fact: the second discovery was in 1857 by a railway baggage clerk, Reginald Bannington, who inspected a damaged chest.  Fact: Bannington foolishly approaches Henry Gibson, the head of the Ontario Gibson family, about it.  Fact: Bannington disappears within a day, his body later discovered in a ditch out in Trunkville.  Speculation: Bannington was probably fishing for a bribe and may have got one, only the Gibsons wanted to completely cover their tracks.”

               “Right,” Leo chimed in.  “It’s too ridiculous for him to have gone to the estate, otherwise.”

               “Exactly,” Charles went on.  “Lucky for us that Bannington was greedy and had a big mouth.  The diary of Carol Benick was such a find.  It was meant to fucking be!”

               “She’s the daughter of Bannington’s friend, right?”  Leo asked.

               “Yeah, and she mentions that her father was told by Bannington about the gold,” Charles said, trying to contain his excitement as if he had just figured things out.  “Wisely, her father, John, shut up about it.”

               “Which had nothing to do with Bannington’s sudden disappearance, I’m sure,” Leo added.

               “Right,” Charles said.  “Now, we fast forward to the prohibition era.  The Gibsons are still into farming, but as a cover.  They returned to their criminal roots, if ever they left them, by entering the booze trade.  In 1920, the estate is raided and the cops find booze and various items made of gold.  According to police reports, fifty pounds of gold items were seized.”

               “Which they mistook for the proceeds of alcohol traffic,” Leo cut in.  “Only they didn’t know about their real origins.”

               “I have only recovered fragments of paperwork related to those gold and gem shipments,” Charles said, “but the Ontario Gibsons probably received an average of four shipments a year, averaging twenty-five pounds each.  I can verify that the first shipment was in 1821 and the last in 1883.  So, let’s get conservative.  If half of those shipments were decoys, and only half of the weight was actually gold, we are still looking at 1550 pounds worth.  Any quantity of gems would be over and above that.”

               “And you figure it has to be in the swamp?” Leo asked.

               “Where else?” Charles said.  “When they raided the estate, they also hit their other property and came up with nothing.”

               “Any chance the cops just shut up and split it among themselves?”

               Charles raised an eyebrow to that.  “It would have been awfully tough to cover that up.  Could they cover that with the twenty-ish cops involved?  And the Gibsons never said anything about it, either.  The swamp bordered their main estate.  It’s a half mile from the house and there is no reason to go there.  It would also explain the Gibson’s territorial nature.  Between 1846 and 1887, there are a dozen complaints from locals being threatened, beaten or shot at for trespassing.”

               “And that was all near the swamp,” Leo said.  “And you think the Gibsons all died before this could be passed on?”

               “Anybody who was anybody in the family either dies in the 1920 raid, or they died in prison.  The Gibsons who took over were all young, and somewhat disconnected from the hierarchy.  It is very unlikely they knew anything.”

               Leo sipped his gin, letting things sink in.  Wading through a swamp for a fortune in gold was making him heady.  He wondered if Charles had been feeling this way for some time.

               “These old maps are vague,” Charles went on, “but they note trails into the swamp.  The notes go on to say the Gibsons claimed to hunt and trap there.  Un-bloody-likely!”

               “What worries me is how far in they hid the stuff, and how well they might have hidden it,” Leo said, looking at their map, covered in scribbles.  “For instance, a good chunk of the swamp is still on Gibson property, and the rest is a conservation area.  That’s a risky venture.”

               “Shit,” Charles laughed, taking a drink.  “Who cares about the conservation area?  We play dumb and the worst we get is a fine.  And nineteenth century people never accounted for metal detectors, so we don’t need to worry about digging aimlessly.”

               “Actually, Charles,” Leo said, finishing his drink, “I wasn’t worried much about conservation officers.  The modern Gibsons are pretty tough customers, and not unfamiliar with violence.  What happens if Red or Tanner catch us prowling around in the middle of the night?”

The Gillbury Swamp Gold, Part 1

~ jsettger ~ Leave a comment

(It has been quite a span since my last post.  All is well.  I have not been writing as much in the last month or so, and not really for the blog; not yet, anyway.  I hope that everyone out there is doing well in these challenging times.  I will leave the passengers and crew of the Trailblazer for now.  I have to rethink some of it before I post more.

Rather than let the blog go stale (more stale?) I am posting the first part of this story about a pair of small town, private investigators.  It’s not finished and I’m not entirely sure where it is going.  Normally, I would not post something this undeveloped; however, I am not too concerned about it.  For now, consider it a work in progress.  Better stuff is coming.

This story is a mystery, detective adventure.  There are no plans to add any geeky elements, such as ghosts, vampires, ninjas, aliens, etc. That may change, but I doubt it.  I hope you enjoy.  Stay healthy.)

***

The Gillbury Swamp Gold

               “What the hell?” Leo exclaimed.  Charles tumbled into their office, arms overstuffed with rolled maps, charts and the like.  He practically fell through the door, dumping everything on his desk.  When he managed to get everything settled, he smiled.

               “I figured it out, Leo,” Charles said, excitedly rubbing his hands together.  “This is the big one.  It’s all going to pay off.  Mark my words.”

               Leo shook his head and sighed, a poster child for exasperation.  It took him a few moments of watching his brother organise the recent haul to gather his thoughts.

               “You will have to excuse my lack of enthusiasm,” Leo grumbled, trying not to lose patience.  “You see, I am doing this thing called ‘working for money,’ which you may have heard of.  It’s an ancient custom.”

               “Still working the Wiltman case?” Charles responded, half-distracted.  “What’s to work on?  We both know the old lady is messing around.  Does he need a feature length video?  I thought you had that nailed down, already.”

               “It doesn’t really matter,” Leo chided.  “What matters is that we are getting paid to provide the proof.  You do remember that part of the business, don’t you?  The getting paid part, I mean.”

               “Oh, we’re feisty tonight!” Charles said, sounding more amused than bothered.  “We generally get paid when the cases are resolved, at the end.  This is no different.  Besides, unlike you with the Wiltman case, I have made a massive breakthrough.  Beat that, Sherlock.”

               “I don’t have the energy to fight about this,” Leo said, dismissively.  “I will mention our credit line is brutally close to being exhausted and will need to be drawn from, again, to make rent.  All that is assuming the Wiltman case is wrapped up and we get paid in full.  Our credit limit will not bail us out next month.  Will your treasure hunt be paying off in the next month or two?”

               “I’m so glad you brought that up,” Charles began, as if it were a cheery conversation.  “I am on the verge.  It’s just a matter of narrowing the location and we are laughing!”

               Leo had a hard time focusing on his brother’s responses.  He had spent the last week chasing the lovely and adulterous Mrs. Wiltman across town in a desperate effort to get conclusive evidence of her infidelity.  She was careful, bordering on paranoid, about her goings on while Mr. Wiltman was away on business.  Pictures or video were tough to get with any quality.  The proof was there, but Mr. Wiltman wanted conclusive evidence.  The desperate push over the last week had meant sixteen hour days, irregular meals and infrequent clothing changes.  Leo was overtired and irritable; his brother was just icing.

               “Have you followed up on either of our prospective new clients?” Leo asked, looking away from his own report and rubbing his eyes.  “O’Connell and Laird were the names, if I recall.”

               “Oh, that,” Charles said, after a delay focussed on organising his mound of papers.  “They were not interested.  I called, I really did.”

               “I can’t remember which one, right now,” Leo said, “but they were practically in the bag.  Open and shut harassment case.  What happened?”

               “I don’t read minds, Leo,” Charles muttered, looking carefully at a large map he unrolled.  “They just said no.  I tried to get them on board, just for you, but they weren’t biting.  If I were a better salesman, I would sell cars or something.”

               “When dad left us the business,” Leo explained, “the idea was to work together, both of us.  You know, earn money.  These goose chases don’t pay.”

               “Bringing dad into this will not help,” Charles said, scribbling something on another paper.  “If we really wanted to make serious money, we’d have moved to the city.  We didn’t, so we get to scratch by on bits and pieces in a smaller town.  Excuse my reaching for more.”

               “Screw the big city,” Leo snarled.  “Higher overhead and tons of competition is all that would get us.  We are the only private investigators in this town.  Dad made this work for most of his life, by himself.  Why can’t two of us?”

               It was Charles’ turn to sigh.  He looked up from his bird nest of papers and properly addressed Leo for the first time since he had come in.  “All right, all right,” he said, holding up a passive hand.  “I concede I’ve put too much time into this venture of mine; point taken.  I get how it looks.  The business could use some TLC from my side.  No disagreement.  That said, I can’t walk away after this latest break.  It’s too big.  If it’s too much for you, I can walk away from the business; sign it over for a dollar.  I can finish it working this from my car if I have to.”

               “What is the rush with it, anyway?” Leo asked.  “If this mother load has been there all this time, where is it going?  What’s the rush?”

               “I’m concerned my activities have stirred up interest,” Charles explained.  “I know most people who are even vaguely aware of what I’m doing think I’m certified, fair enough, but there are some who do not.  Besides, up to today, your point would be rock solid.  I have made a monster breakthrough, however.”

               “What does that mean?  What kind of breakthrough?” Leo questioned.  His brother was a good investigator, when he applied himself.  This always made it difficult when challenging his hairier ideas.

               “I finally found where the older archives went,” Charles said with a pleased smile.  “That stupid, archive bitch had me believing it was all destroyed in the 1939 library flood.  The town should fire her for being so useless.  Anyway, some tireless investigation turned up most of what I needed in Grahamton.”

               “Grahamton?  Really?” Leo asked, finding himself oddly interested.

               “Pretty much everything I needed was only an hour away, brother,” Charles said, almost dramatically.  “Turns out, our 1939 library flood did wreck a bunch of stuff.  A lot of what they salvaged was shipped out of town, to Grahamton, for temporary safe keeping.  God only knows why, maybe the war, but temporary turned into forever.  In 1971, Grahamton moved most of that stuff to a third party site for storage because of renovations or something.  Here’s where the planets align: the storage arrangement was a handshake deal that went sour.  Gordon Brown had stored the crap at his estate, after which the library people quibbled about cost.  Gordo gets pissed and refuses to give the archive stuff back.  The Grahamton library covers up their end by denying the story and the deal, all the easier because it isn’t really their material, anyway.  Gordo holds onto it for spite and dies.  Et voila, the Brown estate has an attic full of gold waiting for yours truly.”

               “And that’s what all this crap is, then?” Leo asked, trying not to get caught up his brother’s scheme.

               “Some of it,” Charles said.  “I told Gordo’s family I was doing work for the university and needed the stuff, some of which is useless.  I took it all to avoid suspicion.  I don’t think they knew much about Grandpa Gordo’s quarrel with the Grahamton Library.”

               “By ‘take,’ you mean purchased,” Leo commented.

               “A couple hundred dollars for the cause,” Charles said, sounding proud despite an obvious sense of his brother’s disapproval.  “We’ve paid more for information before.”

               “Very rarely,” Leo said.

               “No matter,” Charles went on.  “If this ‘goose chase’ doesn’t pan out, I swear I will step up for the business.  Things will get better, either way.”

Dimensional Tourist, Part IV

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(The sci-fi mystery continues)

“Highly unlikely,” Pundel said.  “He has too much control over the ship’s systems to qualify.  If he were on a suicide mission, we would already be dead.  The engineer, on the other hand, is not in the clear.  The captain is our best recourse, for now. In the meantime, Lumbsden, can you see what can be done with the power core, assuming we need a straightforward fix?  I know it is out of your specialty, but we need to start a proper repair attempt.”

“Yes, sir,” I said with a smile and a short salute.

“Xiang,” Pundel said, turning to the professor, “this may be a stretch, but is there any way you could determine if the dimensional module or shields could be modified to use less power?”

“It is unlikely I could assist you,” Xiang said.  “My field of study is mostly theoretical.”

“I understand,” Pundel said, standing up and pulling his shirt straight, “but you are more qualified than anyone aboard, with respect to the physics.  You are also very intelligent.  The system specs are all available to us, so you are the only one who could help on that end.”

“It would take several weeks to explain the complexity of the task you request,” Xiang said.  “It seems highly unproductive.”

Pundel half-turned to go.  “As you will,” he said, “however, we may die for lack of a solution.  Consider that before you give up.”  Xiang looked eager to retort, but Pundel was gone too quickly.

“He is such a bastard,” she finally chirped, moments after he was gone.  “He is in no position of authority to order me around.”

I was already bending my mind toward solutions to the power core problem, but heard her clearly.  “True,” I said, “but he is right.”

[Story switching to Pundel’s perspective]

Lumbsden was a bright tech, no doubt about it.  He had picked up on the matter of the engineer quickly.  If I could count on that kind of reasoning from him, we might just have a chance.  It would be important to reach the captain and access the engineer’s records and personal logs.  A long shot, yes, but if the engineer was the saboteur and foolish enough to record her activity we would be in a better position.  I knew how to find the bridge from the ship specs and the computer reported the captain was there.  Jordan intercepted me in the corridor before I made it.  He was unhappy I had left engineering unescorted.

“You all require escorts while outside passenger areas,” he said tersely, before agreeing to bring me to the bridge.  “What do you need the captain for, anyway?”

“I need some general information about the transit of the ship and so forth,” I said, carefully adding, “as well as taking up a personal request with him.”  I did not want to give insult to the acting engineer.

The bridge was a cozy spot, certainly a change from the stark, functional ones on military ships.  If fact, it looked more comfortable than the lounges on military vessels.  Captain Trussman was slouched back in a padded, oversized seat, focussed on a personal viewscreen to his left.  The other bridge crew looked disinterestedly busy at their stations.  What struck me was the utter silence of the room.

The good Captain Trussman was surprised and hesitant in his greeting.  I was subtle about requesting private information, though Jordan may have picked up on my desire to leave him out; Trussman definitely read my signals.  I was in a briefing room with him a minute later.

“I may not be a seasoned military man, Pundel,” he said, offering me a drink with a gesture, which I declined with a wave, “yet I know when something unusual is happening.  I would prefer you get straight to it and spare me the nonsense.”

“That is fair, captain,” I said, joining him at a briefing table.  “I will try to be brief, but there are some layers, here.  To start, I think the vessel has been sabotaged.  Your injured engineer is likely the culprit, or involved somehow.  If we are to survive this, I will need your help.”

The captain poured himself a drink, after all, looking deep in thought as he did.

“So,” he sighed, “you think it was foul play.  Fair enough.  What do you need from me?”

“Several things, actually,” I replied.  “I will need access to the engineer’s personal logs and effects.  I will also need to speak with your officers and crew.  It would also be helpful to borrow your dimensional technicians during this.  Xiang is knowledgeable, to be sure, but her potential is wasted without guidance.”

“Is that all?” Captain Trussman said with a smirk.  “You do know that we are already operating on emergency protocol.  How do I pull my people away for this little hunt of yours?”

“Good question,” I replied.  “It’s a simple matter of logistics, really.  The general repairs in engineering should be a matter of hours, really.  Then there is the power core and computer system.  Those will require substantially more time, even if we can be sure of the computer and devise a fix.  You don’t have enough crew hours, even if the engineer was available, to make that happen.  Is this ship provisioned with stimulants?”

“Stimulants?” Trussman asked, suddenly looking uncomfortable.  “You mean the military variety designed for full duty hours?”

“Exactly that sort.  According to my understanding of things, we are a few days from our exit point.  If we do not have this vessel ready for dimensional transit by then, it might be pointless.”

Trussman looked pensive and troubled.  I felt bad for him.  This was not a scenario he, or his crew, were prepared or equipped for.

“The personal affairs of our Engineer are a detail,” he said, up and pacing now.  This emergency gives me full authority over privacy matters.  Ordering this crew to full duty hours, assuming we have the proper stimulants…that is more difficult.  Very few of them have a military background to handle that.  That level of stimulation, for so long, it could be lethal.”

“No less lethal than the alternative,” I countered.

“True,” the Captain agreed.  “I will see what we have available.  Access to the crew is yours, only let me advise them, first.  This will be difficult.”

“And one last thing, Captain,” I asked.  “Your officers seem set on monitoring our movements.  I appreciate the need for this, under ordinary circumstances, however we well past that, are we not?”

“I can have those restrictions relaxed,” Trussman said.  “But I have to review it with my security people.  Until then, let’s have a look through my engineering officer’s personal effects.”

He summoned a security man and we made our way to the officer quarters.  They were comfortable, compact cabins designed for modest comfort on short voyages.  The quarters of engineering officer Major Peggy Flint were simply and sparsely decorated, nothing suspicious in that; pictures of a few relatives and friends amidst her credentials hanging on the walls.

Trussman opened her private consol and gave a coded command to unlocked everything in the room and open her computer files.  He motioned for me to proceed as he began opening compartments and searching.  I also began with a physical search.

“What do you know about her?” I asked him.

“Standard information has her as single, divorced a few years back, actually,” he answered.  “A bit too dedicated, perhaps, not much room for a relationship, on top of regularly being away.  She is from one of the mining colonies on the periphery.  The space program gets a lot of recruits from remote places like that.”

“She mixes well with the other officers and crew?” I asked.

“Near as I can tell, yes,” Trussman answered, rummaging through her things.  “She is not overly social, mind you.  As I said, very committed to the job.”

“How about her politics?” I asked, cutting closer to a dangerous possibility.

“Not much there,” Trussman said.  “She is almost apolitical, really.  In addition to standard screening, our crew was then screened by the military.  I went through it, too; and they leave nothing to chance.  If you have the slightest gripe, you had no chance.”

“I see,” I said, having completed the search of her cabin.  “There is nothing obvious here, not that it matters much.  She would be unlikely to have left a physical clue.  Still, if your security man is worth anything, he should be familiar with a full search procedure and execute one.  Hopefully, her private computer files offer something.”

Trussman was already at her consol, glancing through her private information.  “I do not access officer and crew files lightly, Pundel,” the Captain commented.  “There is something I need to ask you, however.  You seem…almost too versed in the investigation process.  You were a technical officer, correct?”

I smiled at his comment.  This question was bound to come up at some point.

Dimensional Tourist, Part III

~ jsettger ~ 1 Comment

(More of the same!)

“I will answer your last question first,” Captain Trussman replied.  “We have lost roughly seventy percent our power capacity.  The precise figure is somewhat unimportant, for now.  As to what happened, we do not know with any certainty.  Lieutenant Jordan has been trying to work this out, but we need all the help we can get.”

     “The patchwork looks mostly complete,” Pundel said.  “What is it that you need?”

     “Lieutenant Jordan, you have a better technical sense of all this,” the captain said.  “Please continue.”

     Jordan paused a moment before speaking, the slightest hint of a nervous tick starting.  “The damage is relatively superficial, but has crippled key components of the power core.  We have lost most of the activation inputs and equalisation arrays, which is the majority of the problem.  This is not a fix that can be handled with the core in operation.”

     “Perhaps you should let us in on what happened, in the first place?” I asked.  “It might help to know what caused this before we attempt a fix.”

     Jordan exchanged a knowing, uneasy look with Patel, the security officer.  “We don’t know anything, for certain.  The diagnostics are inconclusive, but it could have been a system malfunction.  We have not ruled out foul play.”

     “So what do you know, beyond the immediate state of the damage?” Pundel asked.

     “Six hours ago, the computer detected a power surge in the power core arrays,” Jordan explained.  “The system compensated in time to prevent damage, except for the equalisation arrays; most of which overloaded and burnt out.  The activation inputs became damaged when the core became unstable.  We have managed to correct the instability by lowering the core’s output and making manual adjustments, which is extremely difficult with so few equalisation arrays operating.”

     “And you don’t trust the system to handle it,” Pundel suggested, “which is probably wise, considering.”

     “Yes,” Jordan continued.  “We haven’t had enough time to dissect the computer functions for signs of foul play or malfunction.  Even then, we do not have the personnel for a full diagnostic if it was a carefully concealed sabotage.  The basic functions are operating normally, though we are monitoring them carefully now.”

     “You need our help to brainstorm up a stability solution for the power core,” Xiang said, bluntly.

     “That is most of it,” the captain said.  “We would also need to know if there is an ongoing issue that needs addressing before we even try to play with the power core.  A repeat of the previous issue would be the end of us.”

     “I cannot speak for the professor, but Terry and I will need to see specs, system reports and diagnostic data before we can do anything,” Pundel said, sounding ready to jump in.

     We were brought to a terminal alongside the control panels.  A screen displayed a series of hub menus, all of which were familiar to me.  Jordan set the screen to an observation only mode and pulled up a file.  A series of files opened, presenting time stamped readings from system sensors.  It was slightly different for the format I knew, but made sense to me.  Jordan forwarded us to the point, just prior to the power surge that set everything off.

     “This is the point where the power surge began,” Jordan pointed out, probably for the benefit of Xiang.  “I compiled this file about an hour ago, trying to chase down answers.  My time has been limited, so I have only looked it over briefly.  Let me know if you find anything.  I will not be far, if you need me.”

     The next hour was spent looking over the information.  The sequence of damage that happened after the fact was easy enough to evaluate.  The lead up was far more mysterious.  Pundel and I made comments, here and there, but largely just reviewed the information.  Xiang had watched with cool interest, not speaking until Pundel and I were finished.

     “So,” she asked, “what happened?  Is there an ongoing concern?  Can we begin to find a solution to the power core damage?”

     Pundel rubbed his temples, squinting.  “I think Jordan is correct about finding a computer flaw, created or otherwise.  In either case, a technician’s solution is a full power down, disconnection and data wipe.  We can’t do that on an operating vessel.  Everything relies on the computer.”

     “So you don’t know what happened, then?” Xiang said, sounding angry again.

     “To be blunt: no.” Pundel said, completely calm.  “My opinion is that foul play is the most likely cause of all this.  A power surge of that magnitude should not occur in any system, especially an essential one.  Then the system disperses the surge to all but one type of array, and the excess power funneled back to these panels, blowing them out quite violently.  All of this together is too suspicious to be anything but a careful sabotage.”

     “Could this have been done before the ship departed?” Xiang asked, calmed down by Pundel’s assessment.

     “I suppose,” he said, “but I am speculating on that point.  Nothing is certain.”

     “So the saboteur could be on board,” Xiang muttered.

     “It is possible,” Pundel said, looking absently at the screen.  “Such a person would be insane or suicidal, if they were.”

     “Did you notice the smell when we arrived?” I asked Pundel.

     “Hard not to,” he replied.  “I take it you have the same concern about the fate of the engineer?”

     “It only makes sense,” I said.  “And it might just explain the foul play.”

     “What are you two talking about?” Xiang interrupted.

     “The sanitizer we smelled,” I explained, “is rarely used in this environment, unless there is…a biological cleaning.  Jordan is the acting engineering officer, which is unusual aboard a ship of this size.”

     Xiang expression told me that she needed no blanks filled in.  We were all on the same page.

     “What do we do now?” Xiang asked, very seriously.  “Is there a solution?”

     “I have a long shot hunch,” Pundel said.  “It assumes the engineer was the saboteur, and sloppy about his task.”  He waved Jordan over to us.

     “Please have good news,” Jordan muttered.  He looked tired.

     “No promises,” Pundel said.  “I am going to be direct with you.  I mean no offense, and I am not trying to cause difficulty.  This is all to strike a solution.  Am I clear?”

     Jordan’s brow furrowed, plainly surprised at Pundel’s approach.  He nodded in agreement.

     “Good.  I have some questions that need quick answers.  Was the engineering officer killed when the panels blew?”

     “No,” Jordan responded slowly.  “He is seriously injured, however.”

     Pundel looked at Xiang and me before continuing.  “Has he been questioned?”

     “Her injuries were quite substantial,” Jordan said.  “She has not been conscious since.”

     “Is she expected to live?” Pundel asked.

     “What are you getting at?” Jordan asked, sounding slightly defensive.  “If you want to wake her for more information you are out of luck.  The medical staff has already said her condition is terrible and will not push her.  We have already asked about this.”

     “Have you tried looking into her files?” Pundel went on, unfazed by Jordan’s agitation.

     “There was nothing unusual about her entries to the engineering log.  I’m sorry, Pundel, but that is a dead end.  We would love to have her expertise, as well, but her condition is too dire.”

     “That is too bad,” Pundel said.  “It would have been helpful to know what happened immediately before the incident.  Anyway, we are almost finished with our review.  Thank you for the information.”

     Jordan nodded coldly and left the engineering area.  Pundel looked pensive as we watched Jordan depart.  “What was that about?” Xiang asked.

     “I always thought I would die in space,” Pundel half-mumbled.  “I am concerned about our situation, here, deeply concerned.  We need to speak with the captain.”

     “Why?” Xiang asked.  “Do you think Jordan might be involved?”