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CHAPTER 6




Colonel Lambert limped down a long hallway. Captain Mehmet walked slowly next to him, keeping pace. The civilian shipmaster wore a leather vest over a linen shirt and baggy pants wrapped tightly around his ankles. A fez with a tassel sat tilted back on his head.

“I assure you, Mehmet, your presence here makes little difference,” Lambert said.

“Ah, my dear colonel, you must not think that I am here for your sake. My sailors are rather agitated that they’ve been refused shore leave. I accompany you on your unusually difficult task of offloading my ship and they assume I’m trying to help. No matter what happens with the Hegemony bureaucracy, I return to better favor,” Mehmet said.

“Are things not this complicated back in the Union?” Lambert checked an office number to the screen of his data slate and kept walking.

“Things work . . . differently. It’s not hard to find the right person as they will make themselves known,” Mehmet said. “Typically, they require a small donation. The Hegemony seems to have stricter standards. Or we haven’t met the right person. Yet.”

“Would you prefer things be like you’re used to?” Lambert asked.

“While my ship and I would likely be in orbit awaiting our slot to hyperspace with a fresh cargo contract and full hold if we were back home . . . the Hegemony pays better, once they finally pay up,” Mehmet said.

“Indeed. Here we are.” Lambert adjusted his Bretton Planetary Guard uniform and knocked on a door. There was a buzz as magnetic locks unsnapped from each other and the door creaked open slightly. Inside, a portly Hegemony officer sat at a desk surrounded by curved holo screens. The displays were one-directional, casting flickers on the man’s mostly bald head and archaic glasses.

“Help you?” He came up slightly from his seat and squinted at Lambert’s uniform. “Mister . . . Lambert, is it?”

Lambert hobbled forward. He’d become used to never being referred to by his Guard rank from anyone in the Hegemony military. Getting around the planetary headquarters seemed a bit easier when he was in some manner of a uniform, a theory he tested and confirmed by having Mehmet accompany him.

“Hello, I’m looking for the . . .” Lambert glanced at a small data slate, “Logistics Requirements Review Officer for Void Port Operations.”

“Do you need the principal officer or someone with signature authority?” The Hegemony officer took a sip of coffee.

“I was told either can approve my disembarkation request.” Lambert set a different slate on the man’s desk. He read “Torgersen” from the man’s name tape next to his Chief Warrant Officer rank insignia.

“Depends which budget pool funds have been allocated from. I happen to be both the principal and a signature designee but which authorization I might have to use is relevant.” He picked up the slate and adjusted his glasses. “The . . . Izmir? Sounds foreign.”

“It is her first journey this deep into Hegemony space.” Mehmet bowed slightly. “I am her captain, and my crew and I have—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Torgersen tapped the corner of the slate against a reader and the screens switched. “Bretton? Where’s that? So you were granted landing authorization almost twenty-four hours ago. Average cargo disembarkation authorization and longshoreman budget allocation takes five to seven days. But there’s a holiday weekend starting tomorrow. Why are you even here?”

Lambert smiled. “I’m aware of the usual time frames, but my battalion’s been rushed to the front lines and their logistics support foundries are stuck aboard our transport because authorization hasn’t been—”

“I am losing money sitting at dock.” Mehmet knocked twice on Torgersen’s desk. Lambert put a hand on Mehmet’s knuckles and moved them back.

“Oh! Your battalion’s no longer in the indoc barracks? Why didn’t you say so?” Torgersen raised a hand and moved it among the holo controls only he could see. “For me to authorize an expedited bidding process for the final disembarkation and transport, your battalion’s deployment orders need to be in the system . . . or you’ll be on the normal schedule of five to seven days. Holidays notwithstanding.”

“The orders are—” Lambert raised a finger.

“Still in the pending queue.” Torgersen leaned back. “Marshal Van Wyck’s adjutant hasn’t ratified the orders through the system yet.”

“My battalion has most certainly been deployed.” Lambert swiped twice on a tablet and held up the screen. “I have the orders from Marshal Van Wyck right here with his signature block and Hegemony cipher certificates.”

“And?” Torgersen raised an eyebrow.

Lambert and Mehmet glanced at each other.

“I have the orders to authorize the expedited bidding—why is there bidding? There are Hegemony naval personnel at the void port who could unload the foundry units,” Lambert said.

“Civilian firms can perform the work at a ten-percent budget savings, and we are all stewards of Hegemony tax dollars. I see the orders you’ve got there, but they’re not in the system.” Torgersen sighed.

“Could you . . . put them in the system?” Lambert asked.

“Impossible. Has to be done from an Adjutant-rated terminal. Do I look like an Adjutant to you?” Torgersen pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Certainly not.” Lambert frowned. “What would you recommend I do to get my foundry units offloaded and shipped? Captain Mehmet can’t be paid until his holds are clear.”

“I suggest you send your request to the Central Adjutant’s office on the eighteenth floor,” Torgersen said. “But, as you’ve been rather polite and I don’t get many visitors down here, there’s no one manning that office today.”

Lambert blinked.

“There’s no one in the office?”

“Yes, I just said that. Seems General Fausch fell from a rather high window yesterday and the entire staff have been segregated by High Guard agents for investigation and mandatory counseling. A new Adjutant should be appointed soon. After the holiday. Then the terminals need to be recertified and then there’s the backlog.” Torgersen nodded slowly.

“So when will I be paid and my ship allowed to make orbit?” Mehmet asked.

“Next week . . . maybe,” Torgersen said.

“I don’t think you understand,” Lambert said. “My battalion has been sent to the front. Without their foundries they won’t be able to replace parts or manufacture—”

“Oh no,” Torgersen said. “If you’re about to suggest that I try and authorize anything without the required paperwork, I assure you that any attempt would be flagged by the system six ways from Sunday and then my terminals would be sequestered from the network until a High Guard level investigation is completed.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” Lambert said.

“Then what were you going to say?” Torgersen tapped a button and a recording icon flashed on the reflection of his glasses.

“Thank you for your time.” Lambert took his slates back and walked out of the office. Mehmet followed him outside.

“What? Where are you going?” Mehmet asked once the door mag locked behind them. “I need to get paid!”

“And I am more than happy to do everything possible to get my equipment off your ship so that can happen,” Lambert said. “But as you just heard, that won’t be possible in the near future.”

“Can’t you . . . can’t you go back there and make a donation to his favorite charity? That works in the Union,” Mehmet said. “Just give them the cash and ask them to make the donation on their behalf.”

“I’m afraid that’s most unwise. Are you unaware of the Richter Reforms? After the war with the Alliance a number of allegations of graft and financial impropriety came to light. Several of the Most High retired or were censured and a number of reforms were made, not reforms that made anything better, but more bureaucracy that made corruption more difficult to commit without detection.” Lambert jabbed a thumb against the elevator controls.

“It’s impossible to grease the skids in the Hegemony?” Mehmet asked.

“No . . . simply difficult. I’ve heard there’s quite an observation period of anyone with the placement and access to divert funds. I’m so new on the scene here that I squeak. Not that I’m interested in anything illegal, mind you,” Lambert said.

“So you’re giving up on helping me get the Izmir away from this madness?” Mehmet asked.

“Madness? This is the Hegemony, my friend. Is there another option that I’ve neglected?” Lambert stepped into the elevator with the captain.

“You could—but—hold on . . .” Mehmet looked Lambert up and down and cursed in his native language.

“What?” Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing, I doubt anyone would go for it . . . my crew is going to mutiny.”

“There is a small silver lining to this rather delayed thunderstorm.” Lambert reached into a pocket and handed a red envelope to Mehmet. “I was given an amount of Hegemony credits by the Bretton government for ‘incidentals.’ I’m sure you can purchase a fair amount of items to lessen your crew’s suffering. I also assume I don’t have to tell a sailor where to find such things.”

Mehmet flipped the envelope open and ran his thumb across the bills.

“This will tame them for a while. How much more do you have?” the captain asked.

“I may have more, I may not. That’s more than enough for a week, I assume,” Lambert said.

“You know some things about sailors, but you’re sadly mistaken on other things,” Mehmet said. “Can you at least get the port master to detach the anchors from my ship?”

“I’ll be sure to ask once the cargo disembarkation authorizations are approved,” Lambert said.

“And perhaps waive some port fees for the delays?”

“Don’t push it.”





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Framed