Chapter Forty-Eight

Encounter in the Desert

Commodore Charles Tucker III

I don't think I realized when I gave Amanda her orders how difficult they would be to carry out.

In hindsight, it was obvious that the parents of a member of the Triad would be very well hidden. Malcolm must have known full well that they would be prime targets, both for revenge attacks and as leverage against him. Madeleine reluctantly gave Amanda a number that left a message that would be collected 'sooner or later', but in the end I had to call in a whopping big favor to penetrate the maze that kept them hidden.

It took even Her a while. But a few hours ago, She gave me the go signal, and I've snatched half an hour out of a visit to the R&D center on Earth to visit a dilapidated old garage on the outskirts of the desert.

I've brought only the security people I truly feel I can rely on. Even that is a risk, but it's a risk I have to take. I don't want Mal's parents put in any more danger than they already are.

The sun's setting. I pace around the garage, which is dusty and deserted. Nobody lives there except lizards, which live under the rotting veranda and come out to sun themselves on the floor planking as soon as dawn comes, though I'm sure that once the rattlesnakes I've heard slithering around in the weeds at the edges of the parking area figure out the shop has been abandoned they'll take over.

During her preliminary visit, Amanda bought some old clothes that'd fit me (more or less) from a consignment shop in the next town down the road, and dressed in them I'll attract no attention even if anyone sees me from the highway. At closer range and with the help of the gathering twilight, if I keep them on my left and keep my head down, the hooded jacket and mirrored aviator sunglasses I'm wearing should conceal the distinctive droop of my damaged face. It never occurred to me when I took over Jupiter Station that our activities and achievements would be interesting enough to anyone for them to start flashing my ugly mug on the news often enough for people to recognize me. A bedroll on the floor and an old backpack mark me as just another homeless guy sleeping in whatever shelter he can find, and I'll guess that folks hereabouts are too busy scratching a living to pay much mind to just another traveler down on his luck.

The guards are in the surrounding hills, keeping watch. The communicator that will vibrate at the first sign of danger is hidden in the back pocket of a worn old pair of jeans that are loose round my waist and too long in the leg, so that folds of faded denim around the hems are constantly trying to work their way under my boots.

We deliberately chose a highway which sees some traffic. Not much, but enough that the sight of a van rolling by and stopping at the garage won't raise any eyebrows. After all, the place was open till just a few months ago, and the signs swinging in the desert wind still look as if it just might have gas for sale.

A few trucks go by, and vanish into the dusty desert haze. Then, just as I'm starting to wonder whether something may have gone wrong, a small van appears in the distance. At first it looks as though this one's going to follow all the others, but almost at the last minute the bare light of the indicator bulb winks on and the vehicle pulls into the garage, stopping beside the compressed air dispenser.

"Nearside rear tire's low," the driver grunts through the lowered side window as I stroll out, wiping my hands on a dirty rag. "Still got any air in that machine?"

"'Bout the only thing we do have," I respond, spitting. "Cost you two credits."

"Bastard." He gets out and slips his credit chip into the slot, and while he's busy with the tire I stroll around to the back of the van.

This is unlocked. A gift for any hobo, and of course I'm going to check it out in case there's anything I can steal.

Quick as a coyote I open the door just enough to slip inside.

Where I find two very ordinary and apprehensive-looking civilians, seated side by side between two armed MACOs.

At my nod, the guards don headphones that will fill their ears with white noise, effectively blocking out whatever's said here. At the same time they drop down the goggles they're wearing perched above their foreheads, and a close observer would notice that the lenses are completely opaque.

I have very little time. The guy outside will mess about with his tire for as long as he can, but there's a limit to what you can do even with a faulty pressure gauge and a slow leak.

I squat down in front of the man and the woman. "Thank you for agreein' to meet me, Admiral Reed, Mrs. Reed,'' I say rapidly. "I'm sorry all this has been necessary, but it's strictly for your protection."

Mal's father looks a little older than his wife, but you can still see the military in the way he holds himself. "Commodore Tucker, I believe," he replies formally. "Your message stated that our son is ill."

"There hasn't been any mention of it on the News," his wife adds anxiously. "And he seemed well enough on the last broadcast…"

I'm not going to go into detail here of everything that's been going on while the Empire was kept in the dark.

"The general kept up a brave front as long as he could," I tell them (it was true enough, if not at all the way they imagine). "But he's been through a real bad time. I think it'd do him a lot of good if he could see his family for a visit. I guess it's been a long while since you all saw each other any other way than on a screen."

Mrs. Reed darts her husband a glance. Mal favors her more than his daddy; he has her dark eyes and hair. He got his stubborn chin from his dad, though in profile they're a little more alike.

"Madeleine may not choose to come," the Admiral says heavily. "She and her brother became … estranged at one point. But if you feel that our presence will be of benefit to him, and can arrange a visit without endangering my wife, we will accept with gratitude."

"That's all I needed to hear." I stand up – I've pretty well used up all the time there is – and hand him a spare communicator keyed into one of my old diplomatic frequencies. "Keep that to hand, Admiral, an' I'll make sure the instructions are sent to you. But make sure no-one else gets a hold of it, okay?"

"They won't." No more than that, but I get the feeling that Fortress Reed is about to pull up the drawbridge and set the oil boiling, and with a smile and a nod I turn away.

"Get out of there, you thievin' bastard!" The driver erupts through the door, grabs me by the scruff and hurls me bodily out of the van, just a bit harder than we had agreed. I still manage to sprawl artistically in the road, though, so that he can jump down and land a boot on my butt.

"Wasn't nothin' in it anyways!" I howl, and it's not all for show. I think Sergeant Lymon might just have forgot he's supposed to be playacting. "Load of ol' junk, you think I'm gonna waste my time stealin' that?"

"You get your sorry thievin' ass out of here, or I'll damn well call the sheriff's office!"

"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" I scramble to my feet and start walking with a show of defiance towards the scrub, until a menacing step forward from him sets me scurrying.

As I melt into the dusky scrubland, my ears alert for the distinctive whirr of a rattlesnake's tail, I hear the van start up.

Mission accomplished – or at least, set in hand.

Reviews feed the muse.