Orbital Claims Adjuster: Adventures of a Jump Space Accountant Book 2 Read online

  Orbital Claims Adjuster

  Adventures of a Jump Space Accountant

  Book 2

  Andrew Moriarty

  Copyright © 2018 Andrew Moriarty

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  PRELUDE

  “Shoot me,” the sergeant said.

  “What?” Jake asked.

  The sergeant thrust the shotgun at him. “I said, shoot me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t call me sir, I work for a living. Don’t worry, I’ll load it for you. Watch.” The sergeant racked the shotgun, and Jake heard a clacking sound as it chambered a round.

  “Trigger’s here,” the sergeant said, holding the gun up and pointing with his finger. “Point it right here,” the sergeant banged his breastplate with his free hand, “and pull the trigger. It’ll fire right away.”

  The sergeant was short and stocky with a disgruntled expression like a pugnacious fireplug. He wore a standard militia suit—a body-hugging, airtight stocking with inset titanium panels, magnetic boots, hard collars at the wrists and neck for helmet and gloves, and a two-hour atmo-pack on the back. His breastplate read “SGT Russell.”

  “Are you deaf as well as stupid? Shoot me, I said.”

  Jake contemplated the gun in front of him. Was this a trick? He’d never shot anything before. I shot a shotgun once, he thought. That had caused him a lot of trouble. But the sergeant seemed set on him doing it. It must be part of the training. Jake stretched his hand forward, then stopped.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a gun before? Do you even know what this is?” the sergeant asked.

  A quiz. Okay. Jake was good at quizzes.

  “It’s a model 27 boarding shotgun. Holds six shots, weighs 2 kg. Chemical propulsion. Shoots in atmosphere or vacuum,” Jake said.

  Sergeant Russel blinked his eyes. Jake took that as interest and continued. “It’s designed for station security troops. Short barrel, 1.2 m. Easy to store in a model 275 sub container. Low maintenance. Few moving parts. All steel, so it won’t rust or vacuum weld.” Jake pointed at the barrel. “That orange colored barrel and black stock means it’s an old empire model. The ones printed on Delta have a red barrel. Shortage of pigment for the printers. In fact, many items printed on Delta, even though identical to old empire models, have different colors. Delta has a full line of standard pigments, but the more exotic ones are only available if the minerals are sourced locally.” The sergeant blinked again. Jake continued.

  “Cobalt blue, for example, is only prevalent when there is a major cobalt strike in the Belt. Orange and some other colors require titanium, which is difficult to find.”

  “Thank you very much, professor,” Sergeant Russel interjected. “But I’m not interested in whether the color of the gun matches your kerchief or your lacy panties. I’m interested in whether you can shoot it. Now shut up and shoot me.”

  Jake gulped and looked down at the gun. Was this a setup? He didn’t want to look like an idiot, not on his first day. Probably as soon as the sergeant gave him the gun he’d beat him up and take it back. Things like that had happened before. Then he’d mock Jake. That had also happened before.

  Jake withdrew his hand. The sergeant didn’t move his arm, just tilted his head and frowned at Jake.

  Jake didn’t really want to hurt anybody, but he needed to pass training. But did he really have to shoot somebody to do it? If that was the case, he figured he better take the gun and get it over with.

  Jake extended his hand again. The sergeant’s gun arm didn’t quaver. Impressive given the weight of a fully loaded shotgun. Jake stopped his hand a half inch from the gun. All he had to do was close his fingers and grasp the barrel. But then what? He didn’t know how to shoot. He’d never hit anything, never hit a person. What if he screwed up? What if he looked like a fool?

  “Make up your mind,” Sergeant Russell said.

  Jake started to reply but stopped as the side door clanged open. Jake and the sergeant turned to see what was going on.

  A short man in a militia uniform marched in. He walked with the shuffling glide that characterized somebody experienced in low G. When Jake walked, he walked the same way. Behind him were a young man and woman who were bouncing a bit as they moved.

  Groundsiders, Jake thought. Don’t know how to walk in low gravity.

  He revised his opinion a bit when he realized the pair were loosely shackled with ankle chains and handcuffs. That was bound to make walking more difficult, no matter the gravity.

  The escort gestured walked over to the sergeant, and the shackled pair went to stand beside Jake. The escort extended a data pad to the sergeant, and the two Militia members began a low-voiced discussion.

  The new man turned to Jake and extended his hand, at least as far as he could, given it was chained to his ankles.

  “Zeke LaFleur. This is my sister, Suzanne.”

  “Jake Stewart,” Jake said, shaking the proffered hand.

  Zeke was taller, about one hundred ninety-five cm to Jake’s one hundred eighty, and Suzanne was shorter, about shoulder height to Jake. Both were slim and blond with blue eyes. They both looked athletic in that long-muscled sort of way. Probably runners, since they came from gravity.

  “Pleased to meet you, Jake Stewart. Are you from this station?”

  “No. I’m from the Belt.”

  “Really? You are the first Belter we have ever met. Of course, this is our first time on a station.”

  “I figured,” Jake said. Zeke was acting like somebody who had arrived at a cocktail party in a custom spaceship, not dragged into a gym in chains by the Militia.

  “Yes? Of course, it must show. We do not walk correctly. The low gravity is difficult for us.”

  “And we stand wrong,” said Suzanne. She smiled at Jake. “We see the others. They slide, but we seem to bounce off the ground and hit things.” She spoke slowly and carefully, as if Standard was not her first language, but she had no trace of an accent.

  “Just try to keep your feet on the ground and don’t push up, push more forward,” Jake said.

  “Is it hard to learn?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How long did it take you to learn to walk like this?”

  “I’ve always known,” Jake said. “I grew up on a station.”

  “Of course. You are lucky to have spent so much time in space, but now my brother and I will be in space as well.” Suzanne grinned again at her brother, who grinned back. “We will learn,” she said, cheerfully.

  Jake shook his head. These were the happiest criminals he had ever met.

  The sergeant finished his conversation and pointed at the LaFleurs. The short Militia agent nodded and came over. He began to unlock the leg irons and cuffs. He wasn’t gentle about it, and both Suzanne and Zeke had scrapes when he was done. He stepped back and smirked at both of them. “Enjoy your new assignment,” he said and shuffled out. Suzanne glared at his back, then turned to her brother. Zeke gave an elaborate shrug.

  Aha, thought Jake. They must be descended from old empire Francais. The shrug was a giveaway, and it explained the careful phrasing. Francais corporations had been part of the coalition that supported the Old Empire from the start. For hundreds of years after the founding wars, many emperors spoke Francais as a first language, and English and Hind
i as a second. Many Delta corporations traced their lineage back to before the empire existed, and traces of their pre-imperial culture still lingered. As recently as fifty years ago, a lot of high-level business was still conducted in Francais. Of course, the abandonment had changed all that. English was now the standard language on Delta.

  “Right,” Sergeant Russell said. He stepped in front of the three of them and extended the shotgun again. “Back to work. Somebody shoot me.”

  Zeke’s brow furrowed, and he looked at his sister. It was her turn to shrug.

  “None of you have the guts? Shoot me!” Sergeant Russell pushed the shotgun farther forward. “You, Stewart. Shoot me.”

  Jake looked at the shotgun, carefully put his hands behind his back, then shook his head.

  “Ask Zeke,” said Jake.

  “I didn’t ask Zeke. I asked you.”

  “Well…”

  “Never mind. Stewart, you’re a pussy.” Sergeant Russell glared at Jake for a moment, then turned to the others. “This punk won’t shoot me? What about you, girl?” He stepped toward Suzanne and brandished the shotgun. “How about it? Want to shoot a militia sergeant?”

  Suzanne stopped rubbing her wrists and nodded enthusiastically. “I would very much like to shoot somebody. You will do.” She reached toward the shotgun and looked up at the sergeant. Then she frowned and put her hands on her hips. “This is a setup. It is not loaded. You will charge us. I am in enough trouble already. You will send us to the south continent.”

  The sergeant laughed. “You think this is a setup? Watch this.” He braced his legs on the floor, pointed the shotgun up at the roof, and pulled the trigger.

  BANG! The shot smacked into the ceiling and exploded. Dust and metal pieces drifted down from the ceiling plate. The ejected shell arced lazily up in the low gravity. The tinkle of it hitting the metal floor was a good second after the gunshot blast.

  “Does this sound like a setup to you? I, Sergeant Scott Russell of the Delta Militia, order you to shoot me in the chest with this shotgun. Is that good enough for you, LaFleur?”

  Zeke spoke up. “Good enough for me. Give me the gun.”

  The sergeant laughed. “Here,” he extended the gun. “Give it your best shot.”

  Zeke took the shotgun and checked it. He ratcheted it once, loading another round.

  “Used one before, have you kid? Think you know what you’re doing?” taunted the sergeant.

  “I know what I am doing,” Zeke said. He smiled. “But if you want me to prove it, I will show you.” Then he frowned. “Sergeant, are you sure you want me to do this? I have nothing against you. Why should I hurt you?”

  “Because I told you to, wimp. Come on, too scared?”

  “No. Just confused. Okay, sergeant, where do you want to be shot?”

  The sergeant expanded his chest. “Give it to me right here, kid.” He banged his chest. “Fire away.” He leaned back and braced himself.

  Zeke shrugged and aimed the shotgun at the sergeant’s chest. “Huh. I might like this job.” He pulled the trigger.

  The shotgun fired. Jake had heard that pellets spread out, that you didn’t have to aim a shotgun as much as point it in the general direction. Like a lot of rumors, it was false. The shot only spread a few centimeters over the short distance.

  The shot pranged onto the sergeant’s breastplate and exploded in a cloud of dust. The shot was frangible—it collapsed as it hit the breastplate. The sergeant absorbed the momentum with a grunt and a flex of his arms. He staggered back but kept on his feet. Jake was impressed. Suits were stiffened with metal to protect the wearer against accidents. Apparently, titanium worked on gunfire as well.

  TGI central was a space station. A big one. If they had been on the outermost edge of the cylinder, they would have had nearly .5 Gs. Zeke could have braced against that. But they weren’t at the edge of the station, they were near the core, where the gravity was weak.

  Jake had lived in space his whole life. He knew this. But the LaFleurs clearly didn’t. Zeke had obviously fired a shotgun before, he had braced it with both arms, expecting to absorb the recoil. But this was low G. When he pulled the trigger, he didn’t absorb the recoil. Instead, he flew off the ground, backwards, and smashed into the wall head first. His eyes rolled up as he slid down to the ground. The shotgun dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

  “Welcome, everyone, to day one of your militia spaceman basic,” Sergeant Russell said.

  Chapter 1

  “All rise for the loyalty oath to the Emperor,” said the chairman. The sound system boomed his voice throughout the boardroom. The chairman was thin and bent, with skin spotted by age. He placed both hands on the wooden conference table and shoved his chair back. Then he leaned forward and slowly pushed himself up. An aide stepped beside him and placed a stout wooden cane into his left hand, and then helped lever him up. The chairman leaned heavily on the cane but was able to extract his right hand from the table and pivot to face the stylized representation of Polaris as seen from earth—three eight-pointed starts, one very large with two smaller ones above it. The imperial emblem.

  The meeting table was a wooden oval that seated thirty-seven. The chairman sat at the head, below the imperial emblem. Members of the board faced each other across the table, chairs for subordinates and specialists sat against the wall behind them.

  The public sat in an elevated gallery that circled three quarters of the way around the table.

  Mr. Dashi rose from his seat in the gallery and faced the imperial seal. He placed his right hand over his heart as he waited for the oath to complete. He flicked his eyes over the board members to see who did likewise. In Delta’s constantly shifting political alliances, subtle gestures made big differences. Some members of the council didn’t copy the hand movement. He noted who they were and who they worked for.

  “I pledge allegiance to the heirs and successors of Emperor Prahmeet IV, last known emperor,” he repeated, then sat down with the crowd. The gallery was sparsely filled, and he sat alone, with nobody in the same row or the one above or below.

  The chairman dropped his hands to the desk, pushed the cane aside, and collapsed into his chair. His well-trained aide grabbed the falling cane and adroitly pushed the chairman’s chair underneath him. What should have been a fall turned into a well-rehearsed movement, like a stylized fight in a play.

  “The annual meeting of the Emergency Committee of Combined Imperial Control, doing business as the Delta Corporation, is in session,” intoned the chairman. “This is the 86th extraordinary meeting of the Delta Corporation since the abandonment.” He paused to take a sip of water from a glass in front of him. “Motion to accept the minutes of the last meeting. All in favor?” he asked.

  The board members sounded bored. “Aye.”

  “All opposed.” Silence.

  “Motion carried. Reports,” said the chairman. “Communications,” he said, turning to a woman seated with a group at the foot of the table.

  The woman stood up. She wore what looked like a plain leotard, but cuff, ankle, and collar fittings identified it as a space skinsuit. Four white squares gleamed on her collar. “The Militia reports that we have received no communications from the empire, imperial officers, or forces since the last meeting.” She sat down.

  The chairman didn’t even look up. “Ecology,” he said.

  A man in the same group as the communications woman stood up. He wore boots and tights. His boots were elaborately tooled. His shirt was loose fitting and hung below his hips, cinched by a tooled leather belt at this waist. It had a stylized collar with four blue and white checkered squares. “The university is pleased to report that we continue on track for terraforming. Planetary average temperature rose .1 degrees this year. We predict similar growth next year. Currently, we are 26.4% of the way to our terraforming goal. We anticipate full terraforming in 126.3 years.”

  A person slid into the chair next to Mr. Dashi. He jumped as a hand poked his leg,
then smiled as he turned.

  “Hello, Beth.”

  “Hello, Dashi. Enjoying the show?”

  Mr. Dashi was small, bald, brown, round, and neat. Beth was the same height as him, very pale, with an angular face. He was dressed in dark skinsuit, like the presenter, with a dark sash over his shoulder. She wore a calf length woman’s dress. Dashi had four red squares on his collar; Beth four blue.

  Dashi smiled a bright smile at her. “Not much of a show. It’s the same every year.”

  Beth smiled back. “You know that all the important work goes on in committee. All the resolutions are agreed ahead of time. Why do you bother to shuttle down from your orbital sector directory to see this?”

  “I like the tradition. The pomp. The politics. The weather. Why do you rail in from your regional directory to see this?”

  “The weather. I like that. Politics. There are lots of people here I need to see. Mr. Chairman continues to refuse to die, but he can’t put that off forever. There will be a new chairman, a new board member, and new vice presidents and presidents.”

  “And you want to make sure the allied corporations know what job you want, and what they will get if they vote their shares to vote you in.”

  “I’m not making promises. I’m just having political discussions, like we are now.”

  “So, I’m just a political discussion now, am I?”

  Beth patted his leg again. “It’s always good to see you, Dashi. I missed you.”

  Dashi smiled. He had known Beth since they were students in university together. They had been briefly involved, until Beth had gone to work for Horizon Construction on planet, and Dashi had moved on to mostly orbital work. They didn’t see each other all year, and only met back up at these meetings. That was enough.

  Beth continued. “I want to see how things play out at the top. Who knows, in a few years, I might be in line for a board member spot.”

  “True. You did come second in finance your graduating year.”

  “You’re an ass, Dashi.”