“That I know. I've read the charts. But what do you mean, ‘off-contract'?”
“I mean what everyone out here knows, L.T., your superiors included. Not every person born off-Earth is duly reported to the authorities, nor is every business, or every ship, or every community.”
“So, by off-contract, do you mean they're not part of a legitimate commercial contract, or not part of the greater social contract?”
“Both. They only continue to exist because they stay under the radar.”
“Ah. And some of these—independents—come to Hygeia to trade?”
“That, and more. A lot of matchmaking goes on there. Talk to a Belter sometime about the about the difficulty of really long-distance relationships.”
Lee smiled. “I see your point. But then why would the brass order us to retransmit our report to Hygeia?”
Finder looked at his big feet. “Well, there are rumors, Skipper.”
Bernie looked over at him, surprised. “Okay, Jan, what've you been holding out on me?”
Finder looked up at him. “Listen, Bernie, if I told you everything I knew, then you'd be as smart as I am. Almost. So allow an old man his secrets.” He turned to Lee. “Skipper, word is that there are a few Earth Union ships—larger than cutters—which lurk around out here, and that they have hidden support caches on or near some of the major planetoids. Like Hygeia.”
Lee frowned. “You mean, other Customs Patrol craft?”
“Yes and no. Reportedly, these ships are under the control of a secret branch of the Customs Patrol, one that reports directly to the senior Green politico on the Earth Union Steering Committee. And these ships are crewed by guys like you, former cutter skippers and other Dirtsiders who got a little actual experience out here.”
Lee felt his frown deepen. “And what's their mission?”
Finder looked glum. “Whatever the politicos tell them it is.”
Lee felt his hands and feet suddenly go cold. “A spaceside Praetorian Guard?”
“Or Cossacks. So the rumor runs.”
Bernie stared at Finder. “I thought that was just an old wives' tale, bogeymen for scaring the kids.”
Finder's eyes rolled round toward the younger man. “If the tales I hear are true, they don't show up to scare people. Only to kill them.”
Lee started doing the forensic math. “If such ships really exist, it makes sense that one might be lurking nearby—particularly if our guess is right that the hijacking of the Blossom is just part of some larger covert conflict.”
“Okay,” said Bernie, “but if this Cossack Patrol is in on that action, then were the hijackers working for Upside or Dirtside interests?”
Lee nodded. “Or are there other players in the game?”
Bernie frowned. “Like who?”
The comm system squawked. “Incoming message, Sir. And be advised, there's a total exchange delay of forty seconds.”
“Acknowledged. Pipe it in, Rating.”
Bernie rubbed an index finger across his full upper lip as he did the math. “Twenty light-seconds range. A little closer than Hygeia, but not by much.”
The screen on the aft bulkhead flickered into life, revealing a plain-featured man, wearing an extremely conventional suit, seated stolidly in front of a nondescript background.
“Greetings, Lieutenant Strong. I am the Regional Customs Patrol Coordinator, Stephan Mann.”
With no outgoing signal to be sent until they were done watching this transmission, Bernie wasn't shy about filling in what he knew about their caller. “I've heard of this guy. Swiss-Belgian, been out here about five years. Every time he shows up, something funky has, or will, hit the fan. No friend of us Upsiders, and as Green as they come.”
Lee nodded and added silently, And not on any table of organization I've ever seen for the Customs Patrol. This guy handles special jobs only. Careful, now.
“We are in receipt of your after-action report, Lieutenant. You are to be commended on your competent performance.”
“I think he means, ‘enthusiastically congratulated for kicking bad-guy ass,'” muttered Bernie.
Mann's time-delayed image had not paused. “However, your failure to maintain necessary system readiness on your vessel compels us to append a negative comment to your performance. We trust you will ensure that such a failure does not recur.”
“System failure?” echoed Finder. “What system failure?”
Lee grinned sideways at him. “The lascom that you recorded as malfunctioning, ‘yesterday.' Remember?”
Finder's puzzled frown was replaced by the same sheepish look that was already on Bernie's face. “Oh, yeah, that. Sorry we didn't see this glitch coming, L.T.”
“So I don't get a cookie from Mr. Bad Suit. Big deal.”
The spare administrator in the admittedly bad (or at least, utterly dull) suit, was continuing. “What was of greater concern to us, however, was that you were unable to secure