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Part 24: MISSING PERSONS
The Navy outreach office in Medicine Leaf was, predictably, empty. It was an easy job for the crews assigned there, but it was something of a punishment detail. Aside from manning the reception desk, airmen in the centre were expected to keep it clean, and that meant a lot of mopping floors.
Today, though, the airman on reception would have preferred mopping. He was staring into Gore’s mirrored glasses, and seeing the fear of his own eyes reflected back only made him more nervous.
‘More than a month and I’ve not heard from my boy,’ Gore said. ‘He writes to me every couple weeks – what’s happened?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the airman said. It was almost a whisper. Gore’s hands, flat on the desk, clenched suddenly into fists.
‘You’ve got his file, soldier,’ he replied. ‘I suggest you take a look. Figure it out; I’ll wait.’
The airman rose. He opened up a large cabinet behind him and flicked through until he found the required folder. Taking it out, he opened it up.
‘It’s light, for a cadet,’ he noted. ‘Hmm… not a lot of citations. One for tardiness early on, but he seemed to clean up his act quick. Good progress on his training, too.’
‘Skip the school report,’ Gore instructed. ‘Just get to the part where I find out what’s wrong.’
‘This could be important.’ The airman sat, skimming through some areas. ‘Not seeing anything behavioural, though I note some issues with the other cadets-’
‘Get to the point, airman, before I have you booked for obstruction!’
The airman swallowed, even as he bent to consult his file.
‘Let’s see,’ he murmured. ‘Uh… he set sail aboard the CT Aurelian… they stopped over here a little over a month ago… and he didn’t answer roll call a few days after. It’s likely he washed out at a waystation and hopped aboard the next freighter going.’
’The Navy abandoned my son at some nowhere waystation without telling me?’
The airman didn’t try to look into Gore’s eyeglasses again. He stuttered and stammered but Gore leaned in close and cut him off.
‘You’re going to give me the Aurelian’s logbook so I can follow its path and find out where they left him. But before that, you’re going to file a loss of personnel report, like you should’ve done a month ago! And you’re going to send it for immediate dispatch to Naval Headquarters, so I can file a missing persons report if I don’t find my son within the next day, which is the second thing I’m going to do if I don’t find him because the first thing is going to be coming back here to rip out your tongue! Am I understood?’ Gore stood, arms folded, stare boring into the unfortunate airman.
‘Y...yes sir,’ he replied, and bent to his task immediately. Gore did not wait for him, but instead strode directly to a long back of filing cabinets and began rooting through the logbooks.
‘Hey!’ the airman cried. ‘You can’t just go through confidential Navy files!’
‘Yes I can,’ Gore retorted. ‘I’m an Umbrella Man. Our jurisdiction extends to Naval intelligence. Specifically so we can investigate corruption and crime within the Navy.’ Gore turned his eyes pointedly to the airman. ‘Or were you not aware of that fact?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead returned to his search.
‘Here.’
He sat at the reception desk with the logbook, turning pages until he got to a more recent one. He ran a finger down the logs – dates of stops, check-ins, reckonings, and any unusual sightings en-route – until he found the last date of the Aurelian’s docking at Medicine Leaf. He took out a notebook, scribbling down the names of waystations and headings.
‘I’ve got the ship’s heading,’ he said eventually. He stood, putting the logbook back in its proper place.
‘I have the report ready, sir,’ the airman said. ‘I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t write one sooner.’
Gore held out his hand.
‘Uh-’
‘I’ll post it, kid,’ he said. ‘You’ve gotta look after this place, right? Besides, you helped me out.’ He took the envelope.
‘Uhhh… thank you, Agent Gore, sir.’ The airman stood and saluted; Gore grimaced and waved him down.
‘None of that crap,’ he said. ‘I’m too busy for formalities. Look, I’m sorry for that stuff about ripping your tongue out; I won’t really do that when I come back here.’ He stared at the airman for an uncomfortably long time, before adding, ‘Anyway, bye.’
Gore turned on his heel and left.
The first waystation wasn’t far from Medicine Leaf. It was a day’s flight for most of the bigger ships, but Gore wasn’t about to pay for passage out. He hauled his own personal skiff down to the docks and took off from a free berth after palming a few coins into a smuggler’s hand for a small cannister of gas and a few light ampoules to run the rear jet. It was a design modelled on the Umbrella Man skiffs, of a smaller make and not designed for long journeys. But it would do for these hops, and at the speed it moved he could make two stops in a day.
His first destination hove into view quickly. It was a dot on the horizon, a pinprick of bright light that resolved into a wide, flat platform above the jungle trees. Atop its tall aerial structure, a beacon of light revolved.
Gore handled the skiff like a professional, slinging a rope over an anchor post and stowing the sail; he stepped effortlessly onto the dock and made for the shed at the centre. Due to the strikes at Medicine Leaf, travel this far out of the corporate continent was rare at present, and only a few ships were docked here. Gore scanned a lazy eye over them, picking out crew members and dock workers and dismissing them – if his son was here, he wasn’t serving on one of these ships.
The interior of the shed was an open-plan mess of general store, bunkhouse, and bar. Stevedores hauled goods to and from the cargo area where the odd quartermaster haggled over the price of goods, withering under the steely denials of the clerk. Over on the open bunks, seasoned sailors snored as they clutched their bags to their chests, while cutpurses eyed up the bags of greenfly aeronauts who simply tied their possessions to their legs; one glance at Gore stayed the thieves’ hands, and they slunk out, glowering eyes fixed on the Umbrella Man.
The bartender was a tall, lank-haired man with a gormless expression, who introduced himself as Edmund.
‘I’m looking for a child,’ Gore said. ‘A boy. Went missing a month ago. Have you seen him?’ He pulled out a photograph and handed it to Edmund, who stared at it and grinned.
‘Well, I might have,’ he said. ‘I see a lot of people, boats come through all the time. Maybe I did see this boy of yours.’ He winked, and Gore growled.
‘I don’t have time for this,’ he muttered to himself. He leapt the bar effortlessly and dragged Edmund into his office – the hubbub of the waystation paused amid Edmund’s protestations, and then rose back up as the door shut with a click.
Gore threw Edmund against his own desk and turned the latch on the door to lock it. He hung up his overcoat and rolled up his sleeves.
‘This is not a business call,’ he said, advancing on Edmund, who was rifling around in a drawer; he came up with a pistol but Gore wrenched it from his grip and tossed it aside.
‘I’m here on a personal errand,’ he continued. ‘But that does not change that I am an Umbrella Man.’
‘Look, I don’t know about your stupid boy!’ Edmund snapped. He drew a knife from his belt. ‘Now get out of-’
Gore hit him with a right cross and grabbed his thumb, wrenching it entirely the wrong way. Something cracked and Edmund made to cry out, but Gore’s left hand came up beneath his jaw; there was a burst of claret down his chin as he bit his tongue.
‘We’ll try this again,’ Gore said. ‘I’m going to give you a moment to compose yourself, and then maybe you can answer my questions.’ In this dark space he took off his reflective glasses. Edmund looked into his eyes and froze, blood dripping from his chin.
‘L-look, man,’ he managed, ‘I don’t know anything about your boy, I swear!’
‘No?’ Gore was not looking at him. His fingers traced some documents on the desk, shuffling them aside. ‘Then why’s his name on your contract, here?’
He grabbed a page, held it up. Edmund scanned through it, going from terrified to perplexed.
‘My…? But I-’
‘A kid!’ Gore snarled. ‘He’s a kid! And you had him working here and barely looked at him, and you traded him away for some light!’ He shoved the paper into Edmund’s chest and hauled him up by the collar with both hands. ‘And you have the temerity to lie to me about it?’
Edmund cried out, unable to do anything but stare into those grim, yellow eyes; eyes that promised death. Eyes that sent an animal chill down the spine.
Gore took two steadying breaths and loosened his grip. Edmund dropped to the ground, legs collapsing under him, pressing his back against his desk as though trying to melt through it. Gore picked up his glasses and put them back on, heading for the door.
‘That contract tells me all I need to know,’ he said. ‘You sold him off, to a Maira Deanfleet. Sent him off on a stranger’s ship, with no idea who he now worked for except their name; no ship, no registration.’ He scoffed. ‘You’re real clever, aren’t you Edmund?’
Edmund finally found his voice, in amongst the indignation.
‘Hey man!’ he cried. ‘This sorta thing happens all the time: some kid washes out of navy training at some waystation and they jump on the first ship going their way! It’s not my fault your kid was too dumb to realise he could’ve left at any time, he-’
‘So you took advantage of that,’ Gore interrupted. ‘You worked him as hard as you could, for weeks, and for nothing in return. Am I right? My kid has a healthy respect for the law – what was it you were holding over his head? Some phantom bar tab? His sense of pride? His honour? And what did he get in return? A couple bowls of chili each day and space on one of the bunks to lay his head for a few hours each night?’ He turned to face Edmund again, pulling on his coat. ‘You’re about to say something that’s going to make me very angry,’ he continued. ‘You’re going to try and defend your actions – defend your taking advantage of a child, and I don’t care how old you thought he was, in the law’s eyes he is a child. Don’t; please don’t. I’ve bloodied your mouth already. Let that be the last blood I have to spill of yours.’ His fist uncurled into a shaking hand as he unlatched the door, and he shot one last backward glance at Edmund. ‘Thank you for your cooperation; don’t let me see you again.’
He opened the door and returned to the world.
Gore was in a foul mood as he returned to Umbrella Security. He pushed through the throng at the reception desk and glanced to one side just in time to see Hardacre entering from the dockyard. He muscled his way through the crowd on a collision course, taking Hardacre by the shoulder and leading him to a quiet corner.
‘I need your help,’ he said. Hardacre scowled at him.
‘Shove off, Gore,’ he sniffed. He shoved Gore away with two hands; given the size difference between them, this was not even out of arm’s length. Gore pulled him back and put his arm over Hardacre’s shoulder.
‘You wanted me gone!’ Hardacre continued. ‘You were going to fire me for shooting that old guy!’
‘I was,’ Gore agreed. ‘I was going to do worse: I wanted you and those other two chuckleheads charged with murder. But I also know you’re intercepting any likely ship which might have picked up our refugee; any luck this past day?’
‘You were going to brand me a criminal?’ Hardacre had the effrontery to look hurt. ‘And me, an Umbrella Man!’
‘Focus, Hardacre,’ Gore insisted. ‘I need to know a couple of names. Have you come across a Maira Deanfleet in your search?’
Hardacre’s expression went from wounded pride to confusion, his brows knotting together.
‘Yeah, actually,’ he said. ‘First one I searched. The Fallen Star.’
‘The Fallen Star?’ Gore snapped. Hardacre flinched, but nodded.
‘Yeah, that’s right! I remember – they didn’t have a crew manifest, but there were only three of them.’
‘Three? Who were they?’ Gore asked. Hardacre scratched his ear.
‘There was the captain, Deanfleet,’ he murmured. ‘Then there was the engineer, some H-guy; Hal or Hank or something… and they had a kid there, some ex-navy cadet.’
Gore felt his heart lurched. He swallowed and continued.
‘This kid,’ he pressed. ‘What was his name?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Hardacre asked. Gore took him by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall.
‘Don’t mess me about, Hardacre,’ he growled. ‘That name, now.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Hardacre threw up his hands. ‘His name was Lance. Can’t remember the last name, something kinda plain.’
‘Burgess?’ Gore asked. Hardacre thought for a moment.
‘Yeah, that sounds about right,’ he said. ‘What’s this about?’
‘One more thing and I’ll let you go,’ Gore said. ‘But if you lie to me, I’ll forget charging you with murder and just kill you right here, understood?’ His glare brought beads of sweat standing out on Hardacre’s brow.
‘Alright, shoot!’
‘The Fallen Star, where was it headed?’
‘Last I recall,’ Hardacre said, ‘the captain said she was going to the Cannibal lands. Some place called Vaalhest; ring a bell?’
Gore let go of Hardacre and turned away from him. He threw his head back and let out a scream of rage, a furious, wordless roar that startled the crowd and sent people retreating back from Gore, the desk, and the corridors.
Gore took a couple of steps towards the door, then turned back.
‘Hardacre!’ he snapped, causing the latter man to snap to attention instinctively. ‘If I find out you’re lying…’
‘It’s the honest truth!’ Hardacre cried, arms spread wide. ‘Ah, whatever; good luck, Gore, with whatever the Hell this is!’
Gore nodded neutrally and turned, jogging from the room.