Short Story Fiction Contest May 2014 | Page 161

It was a fourth check on the delicate balance of power that held back the dangerous, ravening beast that was the nature of putting men in charge of other men.

“Mr. Milenko,” the Captain said by way of greeting, “please have a seat.” His smile wasn’t unfriendly. I knew he liked me, or at least I thought he did. He’d let a bit of almost fatherly affection slip out here and there. But I also knew he wasn’t sure of me, yet. Captain Rominger was a man who greatly valued honor and discipline and trust. His esteem was not cheaply earned.

“Hey, boss. How’s it hanging?” There might have been a reason the Captain was still unsure of me. He wasn’t the only one who held me to high standards, however. I wanted to be good enough, useful enough, to overcome the deficit of my attitude and earn his respect anyway.

To Rominger’s credit, he managed to stifle the grimace this time. It probably didn’t hurt that I placed on his desk the notepad I’d taken from the ogre last night. The screen was on and scrolling through some of the more interesting bits.

“This is where they’ve been storing and transferring their contraband?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I gave him that sir as a freebie. No need to immediately negate my accomplishments. And it was an accomplishment. In a Libertarian society, contraband was hard to come by, and thus cracking down on it was even more important. Most anything was fair game, so long as it didn’t deprive anyone of life, liberty, or property through force or fraud. Repurposing stolen materials as counterfeit goods qualified as