I am serialising my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the ninth chapter, titled “The Deputy Director”.
All chapters can be found here.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday (when I don’t forget, sorry!).
Chapter 09 – The Deputy Director
The vast Kantary deep-space freighter appeared, emerging from anti-gravity, and drifted into orbit high above the yellow prairie planet below.
Inside the freighter, in a dimmed room, stood an android. It was entirely motionless, standing in the dimness. The room contained two hibernation pods, a chaise, a table and chairs, synthetic potted plants, a work counter, and several cupboards.
In the corner was a shower stall, a deep bathtub, and a toilet. There were closets and a stack of towels.
“Life support systems and synthetic gravity initiated,” said a calm, female voice over a public address system.
The lights on the front of the hibernation pods flicked on, and the room’s lighting brightened. The android sprang to life, moving to the work counter, opening cupboards, and taking out containers.
The doors of one of the hibernation pods opened with a puff of vapour. A woman, wearing paper panties and a tank top, lay with her eyes closed. She stirred and sat up, blinking and looking around, disoriented.
“Where are we?” she said.
The android turned.
“Planet B, in the Proxima Centauri system, Sergeant,” said the android, in a feminine, metallic voice, and then it turned back to mixing powdered milk with water and shaking it.
“And why are we here?” said the woman, climbing from the pod.
The woman was tall, with a hard, athletic build. Her hair was shaved on either side of her head, with the band in the middle pulled back in a ponytail.
“The deputy director has a media event on the planet, as well as a ceremony and luncheon,” said the Android. “I have uploaded the details to the biosync, when you are ready to sync.”
“Let me shower first,” said the woman, stripping off and stepping into the shower, gasping as the cold water spurted from the shower head over her.
The doors to the other pod opened, and the android stopped what it was doing and moved over to where a man, with cropped white hair and an old but well-looked-after face, lay. The man had a calm, grandfatherly look about him.
“Good morning, deputy director,” said the android.
The man’s eyes flickered open, and he looked lost for a moment, as if he were unsure where he was or how he had got there, until his eyes rested on the android.
“Rachael…” he said weakly, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Help me.”
The android scooped him up in its arms and carried him to the chaise, where it set him down, resting his head on a pillow.
“I will get you a blanket, and something to drink and your supplements,” said the android, and it turned, retrieving a blanket that it draped over him. It took a shaker filled with milk, and held it to his lips.
The deputy director drank and gasped, some of the liquid spilling from his mouth, which the android gently wiped away. He drank more.
“Where are we, Rachael?”
“Planet B, in the Proxima Centauri system,” said the android, placing a tablet in his mouth. “Your B12 and magnesium supplements, deputy director.”
He swallowed the pills with more milk.
“Ah, yes…Gravitite!” he said, smiling.
“Yes, deputy director,” said the android.
“Run me a bath, Rachael,” said the man.
The android moved to the tub and began running a bath.
The woman stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. She walked off to where the deputy director lay.
“Good day, sir,” she said. “How are you feeling after hibernation?”
The man chuckled.
“I have lived for 78 years, Sergeant Vaz, and have spent a further 48 years in hibernation. These days, I awake weak and stiff. But after a bath and something to eat, I should feel as well as a man 128 years old can expect to feel.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vaz. “I shall be operational shortly.”
“Very good, Sergeant,” said the man, pressing a control on the side of the chaise. The metal blast screens began slowly rising, filling the room with Proxima Centauri’s rays that bathed the yellow planet below in golden light.
The android returned, lifted him to the bath, lowered his old, thin body into the water, and then bathed him.
“Are the any changes to the itinerary?” he asked as the android washed the crusts from his eyes and mouth.
“No, deputy director,” said the android.
While the android bathed the deputy director, Vaz dressed in the smart uniform of the Terra Space Directorate’s close personal protection detail, holstered a blaster, sheathed a dagger, and placed her cap on her head.
She went to a console, attaching a cable to a jack on the back of her head, and stood motionless for a moment.
She turned and walked to the tub.
“Biosync completed, sir. I am fully operational.”
“Very good, Sergeant,” he said lazily as he soaked in the tub while Rachael, the android, shaved the stubble from his face, his eyes closed.
It was later, and the deputy director looked a little more alive, eating cereal with dried fruits and powdered milk.
He wore a white tunic, white trousers, and red slippers.
Vaz ate some energy bars, drank water, and administered stimulants to keep herself alert, and now stood blank-faced at the deputy director’s shoulder, awaiting an attack or a threat.
“The pilot of the shuttle informs me that the media, Kantary personnel, as well as your travelling party are all out of hibernation, fed, and loaded in the shuttle,” said the android. “Shall I inform the pilot you are ready to depart?”
“Secpol have secured the hangar, sir,” said Vaz.
“Soon,” said the deputy director as he chewed and sipped milk.
A while later, the doors to the room slid open, with Vaz standing in front of the deputy director.
A man dressed in black special operations gear stood on the other side.
“Lieutenant Prass, second in command of Secpol special operations team 10, at the deputy director’s service,” said the man.
“Master Sergeant Vaz, Terra Space Directorate’s close personal protection detail, sir,” said Vaz, stiff and stern looking. “Is Captain Smith on the surface?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Prass.
“What is the last update from Captain Smith?”
“Civilian population have been placed in lockdown under Milpol control. Landing site is clear, the escort is on standby, and the surface is secured.”
There was a pause as Vaz digested this new information.
“Escort the deputy director to the hangar, sir,” she said.
“Team 10, this is LT. Principle is moving to the hangar,” said Prass into his comms.
“Have a nice day, deputy director,” said the android.
“Thank you, Rachael,” said the deputy director, placing a hand tenderly on the side of the android’s head, smiling, and then he followed Vaz and Prass to the hangar.
“Lieutenant Prass…” called out the deputy director.
“Yes, sir,” said Prass, quick and attentive.
“Where is the colonel?”
“Colonel Riker, sir?”
“Yes…”
“Still in hibernation, sir. He left instructions on Terra not to be disturbed. The colonel will be transferred to another freighter for onward transit to Ross 128 b. He gave command of this operation to Captain Smith, sir.”
The deputy director shrugged, and they continued on their way to the hangar, the shuttle, and the surface.
* * *
The captain, dressed in tight flight crew overalls with MILPOL emblazoned on the back and his rank on the front, watched through his scope as the shuttle jetted across the sky.
He was at the spaceport, where all inbound and outbound flights were grounded, with an enforced 8-hour interruption to precious Gravitite production.
There were six heavy gunship copters for escort, a transport copter to move the media, etc., a Kantary corporate copter for the SVP and his assistants, and three Milpol patrol copters.
The deputy director would be travelling with Captain Smith, Sergeant Vaz, and two Team 10 operators in one patrol copter.
The captain would be flying in a separate copter with Lieutenant Prass and four more Team 10 operators. The final patrol copter had more Team 10 operators.
Smith came over to where the captain stood.
“The media and the rest of the party will be disembarked first, and transferred to the transport copter, which will leave under the escort of two…” and he held up two fingers, “…Gunships and the Team 10 advance party who will join my troopers to secure the LZ.”
“Very good,” said the captain, nodding.
“The Kantary executive and party will transfer via corporate copter with an escort of one…” and he held up one finger, “…gunship. What is the situation with the drills?”
“Civilian population is under lockdown, and instructed to shelter in place. No disturbances reported,” said the captain, seeming quite pleased to pass on this news.
“Good,” said Smith, turning back to the approaching shuttle that swept over the spaceport, banked around, and touched down.
“This is Milpol XO—principal on the ground. Repeat, principle on the ground,” the captain said into his comms.
There were six Team 10 operators, led by Smith, all heavily armed and their faces hidden inside their helmets.
The ramp at the rear of the shuttle lowered, and the media and the rest of the parties disembarked and transferred to their respective copters. The machines powered up, and the captain gave the command for the first group to leave.
After they were airborne and flying away, the deputy director emerged, now wearing a white woollen cape wrapped around his body, and sunglasses, along with Vaz, Prass, and the remainder of Team 10.
Smith and the Captain stood smartly as the deputy director approached.
“Welcome to…” the captain started to say, but the deputy director cut him off.
“Please, no introductions or anything. I’m afraid I don’t have time for that.”
“If the Deputy Director requires information from you, Captain, sir, he will request it,” said Sergeant Vaz, in a tone that brooked no quarell.
The captain smiled thinly, blushed, and remained silent.
“Escort the deputy director to his transport, sir,” she instructed, and Smith led the way, followed by the deputy director, Vaz, and the Team 10 operators.
The captain was left standing in his ill-fitting flight suit.
“Let’s go, Captain!” called out Prass from the open side of a copter, and he turned, hurried to the machine, where he was handed a helmet that he put on, and climbed into the cockpit with the pilot.
Prass tapped him on the shoulder and gave the thumbs-up.
“Escort party, this is Milpol XO. Prepare for take-off. Handing over operational command to Secpol XO,” said the captain into his comms.
“This is Secpol XO, I have command. Commence take-off and continue on the agreed flight plan to Quarry LZ,” he heard Smith’s voice say through his helmet’s earpiece.
The gunships and patrol copters lifted off, flying in formation out across the prairies below, with the light of Proxima Centauri glinting off the machine’s black, glossy surfaces.
The captain lowered the mirrored visor of his helmet, lit a cigar, and smiled, enjoying the view and thinking about the cat he had seen in the brochure.
* * *
At the quarry landing zone, the media were setting up their equipment and enjoying the Kantary hospitality buffet suite. In the distance, workers, hand-picked by Kantary and screened by Milpol, could be seen “working” in the quarry.
The deputy director landed and was taken to the VIP hospitality suite, where Guus Hendrix, the Kantary Senior Vice President for Mining Operations and his assistants were waiting for him.
Vaz led the way, coolly eying the nervous faces of the people in the suite.
“Clear the room. Everyone leave except for you,” she said, her eyes fixed on Hendrix, who looked back meekly.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Hendrix, and he told his assistants to buzz off.
The assistants left, and only Hendrix, the Deputy Director, and Vaz remained. She stared at his nervous face for a moment longer, then stepped to the side, revealing the deputy director, who smiled.
“How are you, Guus?” said the deputy director.
“Very good, deputy director, sir,” said Hendrix, bowing slightly.
“Are all your ducks in a row for this thing?”
“Yes, sir, “ he said, bowing again, slightly. “The report about the…the whole… slave planet thing…legal managed to get several retractions, and our people at corporate intelligence were able to get the reporter discredited.”
“Discredited?” said the deputy director, raising an eyebrow.
“Highly compromising material…was discovered…by the authorities… at his home,” said Hendrix, bowing again.
“Good,” said the deputy director cooly. “I will handle this dog and pony show. If they demand any specifics, get their names, and let them know you will get back to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will make a speech, take a few questions, and then we can do this ‘blast’ thing you want to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we go to your offices for the ceremony, another speech, and then some food before we leave. I don’t want anyone fucking this up, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he said, smiling, and then, suddenly, he was no longer smiling. “We have spent a lot of time and effort and resources making sure this operation you have going on here remains economically optimised, and outside of federation oversight.
“It is simple, Hendrix. No one is supposed to know about what happens here. You control the only way of getting here. You control who comes here, and you control who can leave here. So how, Hendrix, does this ‘slave planet thing’ reporter end up releasing a story about the thing no one is supposed to know about?”
He fumed for a moment, then calmed himself.
“It has caused me a significant personal inconvenience by having to come here and replace your fig leaf, Guus. I am missing the birthdays of my great-great-granddaughters.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Now get me some water, and get my make-up girl,” said the deputy director, dismissing Hendrix with a flick of the wrist.
* * *
The captain watched the deputy director as he gave a speech to the gathered media, expounding on the benefits of Gravitite and deep space exploration and galactic colonisation, the importance of Planet B as one of only three known Gravitite deposits, and the strength of the partnership between Kanatry and the Terra Space Directorate.
He batted away accusations of slaves used in Gravitite production as ‘Agitprop’ from terrorist organisations, and attempts to manipulate Kantary’s stock price. He assured the media that there were no slaves on Planet B, only Kantary employees.
“Deputy Director!” called out a tall, glamorous-looking woman, one of the assembled media brought along for the ‘dog and pony’ show.
The Deputy Director nodded his head.
“Blache Pike, Federation Syndicated News. You claim there are no slaves on Planet B, Deputy Director, but are these workers, as you describe them, free to leave?”
The Deputy Director chuckled.
“Of course they are, Ms Pike. If you, back on Terra, wanted to travel to Jupiter for a cruise, or book passage to one of the colonies, you would buy a ticket, wouldn’t you?”
Blache Pike looked back at the Deputy Director, cold-faced.
“The same applies on Planet B. If anyone wants to leave, they can buy a ticket and head out to wherever it is they want to go, as long as their paperwork and travel documents are in order.”
“And is there a commercial service these ‘employees’ can use if they want to leave?”
The Deputy Director smiled, superscilliously.
“Blanche, my dear, I am the Deputy Director for deep space minerals and mining, not a travel agent. If a company wishes to establish commercial routes, ferrying passengers from Planet B in the Proxima Centauri System to any other part of the galaxy, they are welcome to do so. They should purchase the required deep-space freighters and fuel, and place a bid with the Terra Space Directorate for the rights to do so.”
He smiled again, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his body wrapped in a soft woollen cape.
Blache Pike tried to land a follow-up question, but the Deputy Director cut her off.
“Our presence here is disrupting important work, so, unfortunately, we don’t have time for any more questions,” he said. “Kantary has asked me to detonate the blast caps for the new seam they are opening up on the east side of the quarry.”
The “workers” had been evacuated by now, and Guus Hendrix led the deputy director to the platform where some grinning Kantary managers and engineers were gathered.
The captain thought that if he moved to the side, behind where the deputy director was standing, he might get in the vidcam’s view, and when the newsreels were downloaded, he might be seen on the Kantary entertainment system piped into the Milpol living quarters.
He moved a bit closer, trying to look important, and as if he should be exactly where he wanted to be.
An engineer was explaining to the deputy director what he had to do to trigger the blast, while the deputy director nodded and held the blast switch.
Also on the platform were Smith, watching the media, and Vaz, watching everything and everyone in proximity to the deputy director with calm, deadly eyes.
The captain moved closer, hands behind his back, chest puffed out. He was at the edge of the platform. The engineers stood back. Guus Hendrix smiled. Vaz looked stern. Smith watched with a cool readiness. And the captain shuffled forward, trying to look important.
The deputy director held up the switch, smiled, waved to the media, and then clicked it. In the distance, on the far side of the quarry, dust puffed up in the air, silently, and sheets of white and blue rock fell, and the blast wave rippled through the rock, and clicked the seismic blast trigger on the device hidden in the tunnels directly below where the deputy director stood, smiling and waving. The group heard the distant boom from the other side of the quarry.
The powerful explosive device planted by the pilot and his comrade exploded, and the cliff face cracked and crumbled, sloughing away. The deputy director, Smith, Vaz, Hendrix, the Kantary managers, the engineers, and the captain slid away into dust and rock, while the stunned media captured everything on vidcam.