by Kathryn Hoff
“Why not? He likes people looking up to him. He’s been training to be captain ever since he was nine.”
“And how much choice do you think Kwame gave him?” Hiram sighed. “Listen, missy. Kojo’s grieving, just like you, but he’s got the safety of the ship and all of us in his hands. So you let him give orders and you carry ’em out. He’ll settle out in time. What you need to worry on is the money.”
“Umm. We can manage the suppliers and the ship mortgage. The problem is that damn loan from Branson. I know we needed it when the coils blew, but the interest rate is steep.”
Hiram gazed at me a little too long. “I’m guessing you haven’t read the terms of that loan yet.”
Oh, hell. “Not yet. Is there something unusual in there?”
Hiram’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Kwame offered that burzing Branson a second mortgage on Sparrow to secure the loan, but Branson said the ship was too old. Instead, he made Kwame agree to a personal surety.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, personal surety? Papa didn’t have anything but the ship.”
“He had himself. Kwame signed an indenture for a half-year’s service to Branson if we fell behind in the payments.”
My stomach dropped. “Indentured service? Papa? How could he?”
Hiram shook his head. “I told him not to do it. Told him we’d find some other way, even if it meant being late to Chuchan. But he was in a hurry, said it was important to meet the contract.”
“Why would Branson want Papa so bad?”
Hiram side-eyed me. “I’ve heard Branson has some interests in the fringe sectors. Planets that ain’t been terraformed yet.”
Ancestors! A six-month indenture would be just enough time for Papa to make a run out to the fringe using only the minor corridors that got scant attention from the Corridor Patrol. A single, high-risk venture with a load of contraband terraforming tech would reap Branson a fortune from wildcatters eager to bring another world under Terran control despite all the Settlement Authority’s laws and restrictions.
Tears pricked my eyes. “He should have told me.”
“He knew it would upset you, and he seemed sure he’d be able to make the payments to Branson on time.”
“No wonder he didn’t say anything,” I said, half to myself.
Hiram narrowed his eyes at me.
“Papa visited me last night. Archer said it was a dream, but it seemed real.” I twirled a lock of hair, willing Hiram to believe me. “I was hoping he’d speak to me. Say something to give comfort or a word of advice.”
Hiram paused to ping the engine room for an adjustment to the maneuvering rockets. “I knew your ma raised you to think on your ancestors, but I didn’t know you’d kept up with it.”
“It seemed right, to ask the ancestors for help. Especially now that Papa’s with them.”
After a moment, Hiram’s lip quivered. “I wonder what they make of him.”
He glanced at me, and we both laughed until tears came.
Branson’s contract was as bad as Hiram had said. Worse: Papa’s death may have spared him the humiliation of working for a bilge rat like Branson, but with Papa’s pledge of service now worthless, Branson had the right to call in the loan and put us out of business.
Oh, Papa. What scheme did he have in mind to make him so sure he could repay Branson? If only he hadn’t hidden from us how sick he was.
I tracked down Kojo in the wardroom, the cabin behind the wheelhouse that Papa and Hiram had shared.
“What’s the problem?” he snapped.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Truce? I was hoping you knew something about Papa’s plans for Chuchan. Did he leave any notes about taking on new cargo?”
Kojo blew out a breath. “Not a damn thing. Just mementos of the old days. Hiram said I should take the upper bunk in here, to be handy to the wheelhouse.”
“That makes sense.” A good-sized cabin with a table and two chairs besides the stacked bunks, the wardroom had been Papa’s office as well as quarters.
“Maybe. But it feels wrong. I keep expecting the old man to come thundering through the door and tell me to clean the head or something.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “You making progress on the finances yet?”
“The loan from Branson…”
“Yeah, Hiram told me. Patch, I know you don’t want to sell, but we may not have a choice. The buyer for those seaweed pellets is already complaining that we’re late. The Cartel could cancel our trading license over it.”
The Selkid Trading Cartel: another thing to worry about. Papa had named his ship after some bird that was small but fierce. That was Sparrowhawk—shuttling between Terran and Selkid sectors, picking up jobs too small or too out of the way for the big Cartel ships. Losing our license to trade in Selkid sectors would be a disaster.
“Don’t lose your nerve. I can handle the Cartel.”
Kojo folded his arms. “I’ve got plenty of nerve, but sometimes your best play is to throw in your hand.”
“We’re not there yet.”
Kojo stared at me for a moment, then quirked his one-sided smile. “All right, sis, make your play. But work fast. I don’t want to piss my life away, struggling to keep this old bucket sailing.”
Back in my cabin, I fretted. What could I offer Branson to make him extend the loan? My own personal service as a substitute? I didn’t have Papa’s knowledge of smuggler’s trails.
Besides, the idea of being a servant again, even for a limited time, made my stomach hurt. As a slave’s brat, I’d tiptoed around the master’s house, fetching and carrying, eyes down, trying to stay quiet and out of sight. Doing anything that got me noticed earned me a slap from the chief slave or whatever master I’d offended, usually accompanied by some mocking insult about my odd looks and mixed parentage.
Never again would I let another person control my life.
We were approaching the Chuchan beacon. I had to send a message to Branson, to tell him something to keep him from calling in the loan.
In front of the mirror, I removed the beret I usually wore to disguise my sloped forehead and let my Terran hair bush out. I’d never be beautiful, but by accentuating my differentness, I could look both exotic and disreputable.
I practiced the superior glower that Gavorans used when speaking to Terrans. “Mzee Branson. I am the executor of the late Captain Kwame Babatunji’s estate…”
It took me four tries to record the message to my satisfaction. It came off as tersely formal. “I am forwarding herewith payment of the invoiced amount of interest…I am pleased to report the captaincy has passed to the deceased’s elder offspring, Kojo Babatunji.”
At that point, I inserted a touch of grim satisfaction. “You can expect, under new management, a more aggressive approach toward trade, accessing nontraditional markets outside the normal corridors with an innovative mix of cargos. I look forward to working with you and your forward-thinking business associates.” I did everything but say out loud that Sparrowhawk was open to transport anything, legal or not, and knew how to do it without going through the Corridor Patrol checkpoints.
Maybe it would make Branson think there was more profit to be made by keeping us in business than by shutting us down.
CHAPTER 3
Youth and daring
In the offices of the Selkid Trading Cartel on Chuchan, the Cartel’s sector agent raised his proboscis to sniff toward me and Kojo. The size and shape of an upright walrus, the Selkid’s many little eyes were nearly lost in the blubbery folds of his face.
His throat sac emitted a grating screech.
“Ha ha,” Vell’s translator plug squawked. “Mzee Patch, you make a joke. This is not Captain Babatunji. The smell is all wrong.”
He belched. One of his seal-sleek little geishas rushed forward and put a mug of some liquid into his flipper.
I leaned forward earnestly. “Mzee Vell, you insult the captain. Kojo Babatunji is captain of Sparrowhawk now, as you can verify with the ship registrar.�
� I wore my best jacket and trousers, deep purple, with a matching beret.
Kojo folded his arms and raised his chin. In that stalwart pose and wearing Papa’s most ornate jacket, he looked very like Papa.
After refreshing himself, Vell uttered some clashing syllables. His translator said, “Truly? Then your new captain begins badly. Sparrowhawk arrived nearly two standard days late.”
Kojo opened his mouth, but I jumped in first. “Article forty-six permits delays for disasters and unavoidable circumstances, so long as the cargo is not damaged. I’m sure you will agree that the death of the family patriarch and the necessary ritual observances constitute unavoidable delay.”
I’d scoured the Trading Cartel articles for an excuse—blown propulsion coils wouldn’t qualify, but I figured Vell, as patriarch of his own little dynasty, would expect his family to drop everything if he died.
“The cargo suffered only minimal losses,” I added, although it would take weeks to get the smell of rotting seaweed pellets out of our holds.
“Hmmm. You know the articles, that is good. But I have dealt with Captain Kwame Babatunji since the Yin war. It is only because of his courage against the Yin pirates that the Cartel granted Captain Kwame license to trade in Selkid sectors—a privilege granted to few Terrans. There is trust between us. Why should the Cartel accept a substitute?”
“Come now, Mzee Vell,” I answered. “You’re no hatchling, unfamiliar with the Terran race. You know Terran lives are short. Captain Kwame reached the end of his. As is proper, he prepared his first-born offspring to succeed him as captain. You may trust Captain Kojo as you trusted his father.”
“Ha. My first-born is more than ninety-eight standard years, and he has the wisdom of a sand flea. I would not trust him to find his way home from the tavern.” He waved a flipper at Kojo. “What is he? Forty-two years? Forty-nine? I have kegs of brandy older than he.”
Kojo remained quiet and dignified, as I’d coached him.
I answered, “Youth is daring, and daring is a good thing in a captain. Captain Kojo has spent all his life aboard Sparrowhawk, as engineer, pilot, and now captain. He knows his ship, he knows the ports, and he knows the ether.”
Vell rumbled like a stirring volcano. “The nav, Heerrrrammm. Is he dead, too?”
“Mzee Hiram lives and remains Sparrowhawk’s navigator and pilot.”
As Vell took another long quaff of smells-like-feet, Kojo arched a brow at me. I winked back, pretending a confidence I didn’t feel.
Vell threw his empty tankard to the floor for the geisha to scramble after. “Very well. The Cartel will extend your ship’s license, subject to the Cartel’s articles of trade. Deviations will not be tolerated. I suggest you contact the dealers of refurbished agriculture equipment. They have been seeking markets in the Terran sectors.”
“Forty-two?” Kojo griped, as we waded through the dockside streets. “He knows damn well I’m not that old. And what’s this about refurbed ag equipment? We’ve been hauling higher class stuff than that.”
“Trust. The Selkids knew Papa and Hiram from their privateer days. We have to build up to that level of trust again to get the high-value loads.”
Kojo stopped. “This is hopeless. We can’t keep the business going by hauling junk, and Vell knows it. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting across the chinko table from people like him, and I know when to fold my hand. The only reason Vell is letting us keep on trading is to watch us get deeper in the hole. Once we’re desperate enough, he figures to buy us out at a bargain price.”
“Maybe you’re right, but we don’t have to play it Vell’s way. If the Cartel blocks us from the high-value loads here, we can make up for it in the Terran sectors.” I pushed him toward the docks. “Go on and see to the maintenance while I talk to the dealers.”
Dropping Vell’s name among the refurbished equipment sellers got me a load of consigned irrigators and seeders—barely worth the expense of carriage.
Suspicious, I checked the crating carefully. Something far more interesting was packed away among the oily machine parts: hydroverters, five of them. Technology restricted by the Settlement Authority, illegal to transport to new colonies without an expensive license, but in high demand in the Terrans’ wildcat ag settlements.
So that was why Vell sent us to the used equipment dealers, the slimy fungus-eater. New markets in Terran sectors, my ass.
I folded my arms, taking a rock-solid stance. “You cheating offspring of a three-spouted Delfin. Did you think to gull me into carrying your contraband?”
“Don’t worry,” the dealer squawked. “I’ve got a fix in with the port inspector who comes on duty next shift. Just show him my chit and add a little sweetener, he’ll let the load pass.”
“Your local inspector is a pissant. We’ll be risking prison if a spot-check by the Corridor Patrol finds them.”
His many eyes glittered. “Ah, then you have not the courage of your progenitor? A pity. Sparrowhawk always had a reputation for fair dealing and an appetite for risk.”
I swallowed. Hydroverters were a cut above the usual tech components and stun rifles that Papa had carried in Sparrow’s hiding places—but there was only one way to keep Sparrowhawk sailing.
“We can take the risk,” I said, “as long as we get paid for it.”
After swapping more insults with the dealer, I agreed to take the load for triple the original price, the excess to be paid in untraceable rhollium sovereigns.
In the spare hours I had before the cargo would be delivered to the dock, I strolled through the district, planning how to allocate our limited funds. First, provisions—the rhollium would get us a cash discount on recharged jump cells and power modules. Wages for Archer and Hiram—maybe not all they were owed, but enough to keep them solvent. For the suppliers who’d let us buy on credit, token payments and assurances that we were still operating.
And the loan from Branson? I expected the demand-in-full notice was already waiting for me, like a hyena ready to claim a carcass. Even with the bonus from carrying the hydroverters, there was no way we could pay the full amount.
Papa, do you have any idea of the fix you left us in? His last words had been an apology. Had he realized in his last lucid moments that his death might mean the end of our business, our home on Sparrow, our way of life?
The scent of Gav spices wafting through the damp air made me look up. In my distraction, I’d wandered into the Gavoran quarter. Hulking Neanderthals with neat pelts strode down the street with the confidence born of centuries of technological domination. The guttural tones of Gav speech replaced Selkid screeches.
My first instinct was to slink out of sight, as I had as a child in the masters’ house. The grafted-over slave brand on my left arm itched at the memory.
I ducked down the first alley I came to, one frequented by slaves unobtrusively going about their masters’ business. Their shy stares followed me in my incongruous Terran clothing.
Don’t act nervous. Legally, I’d been granted Terran status under the Terran rules for hybrids. That wouldn’t mean anything on a Gav world, where I’d still be considered a Gav and a slave, but a Selkid world like Chuchan should be safe enough.
I calmed my jitters and strolled by the slaves as if they meant nothing to me.
Slaves. I paused. That meant somewhere close by, there must be an ancestor shrine.
I quickened my pace. I hadn’t visited a shrine since I’d left my mother’s side, but perhaps the old rituals would sooth the pain of Papa’s loss.
And maybe, somehow, Papa would show me the way out of the hole we were in.
For a few dracham, a second-hand shop provided me with directions to the shrine, a ragged Gav robe to cover my jacket, and a wide yellow scarf to hide my unmistakably Terran hair. I didn’t want to alarm anyone—hybrids weren’t a common sight, and slaves were a skittish lot.
The Gav upper classes worshipped in great temples honoring the Sages, the ancient aliens who had rescued a few Neanderthals
from Earth and nurtured them on the planet Gavora, propelling Gavs into technological dominance over other races.
But the Sages had also instituted the Gav’s strict caste system. Gav slaves had no reason to revere the Sages. Instead, they found some improvised corner out of their masters’ sight to pray to their ancestors in the ancient way.
This shrine was at the back of an alley behind a warehouse. With my bulky build shrouded in the Gav robe, I blended in well enough as I walked to the shrine’s entrance.
In the shrine’s dim light, broad Gav backs bent before little altars as a score of slaves quietly communed with their ancestors. Graying pelts covered bowed heads, heavy brow ridges shaded half-closed eyes, and sloped foreheads furrowed with worry. Whispered prayers surrounded me. “Help me, beloved ancestors…dear mother…revered grandmother. I am sick…afraid…my child…my beloved…”
I shuffled past panels painted with the totems of the lower castes: Moss Clan, Mushroom Clan, Sand Clan. Each was decorated with handmade offerings of flowers, stars, and ships.
At the Cactus Clan totem, I knelt and lit a small candle. My whisper joined the others. “Beloved ancestors, help me find the wisdom to choose what is best, the strength to do what I must, and the courage to face what may come. Mother, Papa, send me your love and advice.”
I calmed my breathing and opened my mind, aching to hear Papa’s voice.
No comforting words came to me, no reassuring vision. The only sounds were the murmuring prayers and the traffic on the street outside.
“Please, Papa. Should we sell out like Kojo wants? Or try to keep Sparrow in the family?”
No response. I might as well have been talking to the dirty floor.
I felt like a fool. Papa had never frequented a Terran house of worship, so why would he answer my prayers from a Gav shrine?
My pious hope turned to resentment. Papa should have told us he was ill. He should never have made that deal with Branson or hid the details from me. Papa hadn’t been so wise or so open with me in life, why should I expect better from him after death?