Star Runners

by Clayton J Callahan

  “I know,” Yu replied. “I’m working on it.”

  And at that moment the ship ceased its gyrations to cruise smoothly through the alien fire. Robishaw hadn’t realized how much she’d been sweating, but now her face and pits felt flush with dew. “Good job, Yu.”

  He blinked. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I said, I didn’t do anything. The ship seems to have leveled off on its own.”

  “You've got to be kidding,” Robishaw replied. “How is that even possible?”

  Yu seemed to think it over. “I can think of one or two possibilities, but you’d have to be back in the engineering section to pull it off.” He snapped his fingers. “Now that I’m thinking about it, you could separate the causeway from the bridge by decoupling the guide rods from engineering. But unfortunately, that’d be a one-way trip. Whoever went there would get dragged back into hyperspace with the rest of the ‘sea anchor’ as the bridge section floated free.”

  Stars once again filled the canopy with majestic Jupiter swirling above. Io appeared to the right, and several ships were converging on the Yang-He. Robishaw’s first thought was that the rescue had arrived with impossible speed.

  Over the radio she heard, “This is Captain Unbago of the Re-United States Space Forces to CEC Yang-He. We are here to provide assistance. Please state your situation.”

  She mashed the com-key, “This is Acting Captian Robishaw of the Yang-He. We are experiencing a problem with our jump drive and unable to remain in normal space for long. Good to see you. How did you get here so fast?”

  “Fast?” Captain Unbago replied. “We got your distress message two months ago and are just now arriving.”

  Robishaw checked her calendar. He was right, time was racing ahead with every mis-jump the Yang-He made. If she didn’t solve this problem fast centuries may pass before they could get home. Her mind raced to think of a way to detach the bridge from the rest of her failing ship.

  Turning to her ship’s engineer she said, “First Officer Yu, can you instruct me over the communicator as to how one decouples the guide rods?”

  “Oh, no, Helen, not you. I can…”

  “First Officer Yu, I’m the acting captain. I give the orders. It’s my decision and I…”

  A loud bang echoed through the bridge followed by a second and a third. Suddenly, the bridge drifted free. Her ears popped and a fierce wind blew across the deck, but it wasn’t wind, it was suction. Their prescious air now escaped unobstructed through the open airlock that led to the causeway.

  “I got this!” Yu shouted over the gale. With a few key strokes on his panel, he remotely closed the airlock and activated the emergency life support.

  As they drifted away from the ship, Robishaw caught a glimpse of the rest of the Yang-He as it popped out of existence. She kept her eyes on that spot for a long, long time, but it didn’t return. Whoever had gone into engineering wasn’t coming back.

  She looked around the bridge. All crewmen were accounted for…except for Captain VanDer.

  Yu looking at the same vacant spot in space where the Yang-He had been and said, “The Buddha says, ‘A small night storm blows saying, 'falling is the essence of a flower'; preceding those who hesitate’.”

  Sanchez broke his long silence with the answer to the question no one had thought to ask, “Captain VanDer left the bridge while you were talking to the American Captain, ma’am.”

  Robishaw nodded, “He didn’t hesitate.”

  ***

  When the rescue ships arrived, they consisted of one Re-United States cruiser, two civilian freighters, and a Brazilian yacht. They were all equipped with new Regina grav drives. Robishaw had heard that such drives were under development but none were in production when she left Earth.

  Captain Unbago cheerfully informed her that the ten-month journey home could be accomplished in just under four months.

  “Thanks, sir, that’s the first good news I’ve heard in a while. We look forward to your docking with our airlock. My people are ready to disembark.”

  “We aim to please, Acting Captain. Or should I just say Captain? I got a message from Director Clemens advising that you’ve been promoted.”

  She took a moment to let that sink in. After a long and too eventful career, she’d finial made rank as a full captain, but only after she’s lost her ship. The Yang-He was no longer hers to command and no one could dispute that.

  Robishaw was the last to debark the remains of the disconnected bridge or the Yang-He and was invited to the bridge of the American warship by Captain Unbago. He offered her a soda and invited her to sit in his executive officers seat as he pressed her for details about the needs of her crew of interstellar refugees.

  And as they chatted away, a bright flash appeared in the night sky at least a thousand kilometers from the Yang-He’s last known position. But there could be no mistaking that silhouette. That was VanDer’s ship from causeway, to habitat, to engine bell. A moment later, another flash lit up the sky and it vanished from sight.

  “Was that your ship?” the American captain asked.

  “No,” she answered, “That was the Flying Dutchman.”

  The End

  Drinks at The Darkstar

  “Once mankind moves into a place, and I mean anyplace, he’s going to start looking for a place to drink. Booze has been with us since the caveman days, and I’ll bet you credits to cookies, when some alien discovers the last human skeleton, it will have a drink in its bony hand.”

  Anonymous

  ***

  Jezebel always showed up early for work.

  She wasn’t any kind of workaholic or ladder climber—as if there were a ladder to climb at the Darkstar. She simply hated to be rushed. Rather than scramble in the door the minute her shift began, Jezebel preferred to stroll in, take a pause, grab a cup of coffee, shoot the breeze with the other waitress, and generally ease her way into work. It gave her the chance to think before she started doing things and that always worked out for the best.

  After all, the job often got pretty stressful soon after she arived. Once she put down her coffee and hit the floor, she knew that for the next eight to ten hours her feet would be flying from table to table while juggling a dozen random orders in her head.

  Normally she tended six tables, arranged in a crescent along the far wall where a big picture window overlooked the starport’s landing field. The joint was a known spacer hangout, and each table sat between five to eight thirsty patrons from all over Confederation space. Confed’ Navy boys out for a good time, merchant spacers flush with cash, desperation—or both, and garden variety space bums, all wound up at the Darkstar eventually. Half the time, Jezebel could hardly understand her customer’s orders, what with so many weird accents.

  She didn’t hate her job, but growing up to be a waitress was never exactly one of her childhood dreams. Truth be told, as a kid, Jezebel longed one day to be a spacer and to take part in fantastic interstellar adventures. Unfortunately, her examination scores in senior school disqualified her for flight training. Simply put, school wasn’t her strong suit. Math was especially problematic, and spacers needed to know a lot of math.

  Traveling the stars as a passenger was similarly out of the question. A girl like her could never afford a trip in a fancy starliner. So, if she were ever going to travel the universe at all, it would be through the tales space travelers told at the Darkstar. She took what vicarious pleasure she could in that, and besides, space bums tipped surprisingly well.

  In short, it was a living.

  She’d gotten to know quite a few of the regulars over the years, old pilots who made frequent calls to the Tortuga starport were well known to her. Jezebel’s home-world had never officially joined the Confederation, and so it enjoyed a wide variety of travelers who’d be less than welcome in a proper starport—with a proper customs agency. Suffice to say; her customers were seldom boring. She had folks like the famous beer smuggler Jack
Galloway stopping by and the crazed crew of the Vagabond came round at least once a month. These were good folk who always had great tales to tell. On slow nights, she’d make excuses to keep their water filled as they spun their stories and her boss, Carlos, wouldn’t mind.

  Of course, busy nights were another matter altogether.

  “Jez, get your coffee black,” Carlos shouted. “It’s going to be one hell of a night. I can tell already.”

  She turned from the coffee urn to see her boss unpacking crates of Maelan’s Whiskey in the back corner by the closet. Lifting her cup, her nose took in the first sniff. “Not bad, Carlos. Were they out of the cheap coffee at the market today?”

  “Ha-ha,” Carlos replied. “Everybody’s a comedian tonight. Listen, Jez, we got the usual Saturday crowd inside, like always. But, just for fun, lining up outside we got a peck of about two dozen mercenaries.”

  “There must be something in this coffee, Carlos.” She put the cup down. “Did I just hear my manager tell me we got mercenaries lined up outside?”

  “Yep, you did.” He picked up a pry bar, opened a crate, and started stacking whiskey bottles on the shelf. “But maybe I should have been more specific. We got only two actual mercenaries. A couple of Mulitar’s Marauders, or if you prefer ‘Trans-Solar Security professionals,’ are out there looking for recruits. They got your table-three and are going to be doing some interviews. The gang of scruffy looking misfits lined up outside are wanna’-be-mercenaries at the moment. Maybe, if they’re lucky, some of them will be mercenaries by the end of the night, but right now they’re merely unemployed killers.”

  “Terrific.” Jezebel shook her head. “And what’s at table-four…rabid garganchia beasts?”

  Carlos smiled. “It will be alright. I know you can handle anything that gets thrown at you, Jez. Get with Mindy. She’s about to go off shift, and she’s been running all the tables.”

  She took a sip of hot coffee and about burned her lip. “What happened to Sam?”

  “Fired him.” Carlos shook his head. “He tried hard, but he just couldn’t keep all the orders straight.”

  Jezebel shrugged. “He seemed like a smart guy?”

  “Jez, it takes more than book smarts to work in a place like this. Now, finish that coffee. Like I said, you got all twelve tables to work, so it’s going to be a crazy night.”

  Jezebel went to the ice machine to cool her coffee. Gulping down the last of it, she dropped the cup in the sanitizer and mumbled, “So much for easing into work tonight.”

  Clapping on her nametag and stuffing a rag in her apron, she headed for the service floor where a tired-looking Mindy greeted her with, “Sweet Buddha, am I glad to see you.”

  Jezebel scanned the room. Although the night was young, the place was already fairly packed. Patrons rested their elbows on the hardwood tables or scuffed their shoes on the worn red carpet in the dimly lit tavern. “Well, looks like the place hasn’t caught fire yet.”

  Mindy handed over her datapad and stylus. “We got a few of Russian ‘businessmen’ at table-six, a happy couple hitting on some dame at table-five, and by the look on your face Carlos already told you about the ‘security professionals’ at table-three?”

  Jezebel nodded.

  “Good,” Mindy continued, “tables six through eight are getting cleaned up, nine has just one guy, a space captain who keeps hitting on me, the rest are no real problem, and…Oh! I almost forgot. Your old pal Bob is at table-eleven.”

  “Bob Haskins of the Starskipper?”

  “The one and only,” Mindy answered with a grin.

  Bob had once been regular as clockwork as he made his run from Tortuga to Rama. He always had a ready smile and told some of the best damn stories Jezebel had ever heard. That was before the war of course. Things change in a war and often not for the better but Bob was still an all-right-guy in her book.

  “Wow. It’s been years. Last I heard, he was out in the Azanti sector, looking for his wife again.” Jezebel shook her head. “Poor bastard spent almost every last credit trying to find her too.”

  Mindy nodded. “Yep, I don’t think he’s hauled any cargo in that busted up freighter of his for years. But he’s in a good mood tonight. Sat down with some guy in an orange vest, started crying and then laughing. The guy in the vest left an hour ago. But Bob’s still at the table, humming to himself and nursing a pot of coffee.”

  “Humming? You're telling me that our Bob is not only back on Tortuga, but he’s laughing and humming?”

  “See for yourself, Jez.” Mindy took off her nametag. “I’ve got to run. My kid’s home with the flu. Good luck, girlfriend.”

  “You too.” Jezebel looked across the clouded room to see Bob Haskins at table-eleven. Sure enough the old codger was humming to his coffee mug with a goofy ear to ear grin. “What the hell?” She figured he might as well be her first customer tonight.

  As she approached, she could barily make out the old pop tune Good Luck John being massacred by Bob’s vocal cords. “What’s up, space bum?”

  Bob looked up from his mug. “Jez! My Tortugan daydream, how are you doing?”

  She returned his smile, tooth for tooth. “Fine, Bob, just fine. But it looks like I won’t be spacing off anytime soon. Night school was a bust. I failed my math trials for the fifth time.”

  “Damn, Jez, you’re smarter than half the astronauts I know. Well, that’s a shame. Now, I do have some good news to share. I just met a man…a man with connections, see? And this man, he knows how the Azanti operate, you see? Anyway, he just gave me…Oh, my God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, he gave me exact coordinates to my wife! She’s alive, Jez! Irene is alive! She was captured by the Azanti back in ’55 like we thought. Seems the blue bastards sold her to some human slavers. But the slavers had to make an emergency landing, see? And all the slaves escaped. According to my man, she’s living in a colony on Apukohai. As soon as the ground crew finishes fueling up my old Starskipper, I’m on my way to get her!”

  “That is wonderful, Bob! Whatever you want, it’s on the house.”

  “Just the coffee, Jez. Soon, I’ll be at the stick—got to keep a clear head when I’m flying. But I thank you.”

  Jezebel smiled even wider. It’d been hell on Bob since he’d lost his wife all those years ago. But a fellow like him was not one to give up on love—or anything else for that matter. And now, he was just one more space jump away from rescuing his bride.

  She reached out and squeezed Bob’s shoulder. “She’s a lucky woman, Bob. You be sure to ask if there’s anything I can do for you, okay?”

  He nodded. “You bet, Jez. But right now,” he pointed out the window to where his ship was docked, “I’m just going to sit here and wait for Starskipper to get its tanks filled. Maybe watch the ships come and go while I wait.”

  Looking out the huge picture window that dominated the far wall, Jezebel watched a fire trail streak into the sky as a small scout ship launched. The Darkstar itself was perched on a rocky overhang that loomed over the dozens of starport docking pads. From that window, ships could be seen awaiting their turn to dance among the stars. And in the bar, you could see them all parked in neat rows, every kind of ship from the squat green military transport with its mercenary guard, to Bob’s battered gray Starskipper. Each one was home to a crew of well-traveled men and women whose lives were filled with interstellar adventure.

  But Jezebel was just a waitress, and they don’t need waitresses in space.

  “Miss, oh miss, can we have a refill please?” It was the happy couple at table-five. It looked like they were closing the deal with the pretty young brunette and wanted to make one final toast.

  “Be right there, sir.” And with that, she left Bob to hustle across the old red carpet and take the order.

  The night picked up from there. Table-two soon hosted a half dozen conventioneers who were already half drunk when they sat down. They were dressed in crazy costumes and acted like they’d never been in a bar before. Aft
er she took that gang’s order, she saw a wave from across table-nine. When she got there, the space captain asked her for a “slow, comfortable, screw against the wall.”

  “You are talking about the cocktail, right, Mister?”

  “Buckman, the name’s Chris Buckman.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right, Buckman, and you’re ordering the drink, right?”

  His eyes danced around her bosom. “Maybe…”

  Leaning into him, she softened her voice and asked, “Why don’t I just give you a Hot Screw?”

  He quivered ever so slightly, and said, “I’d love that.”

  She let her fingers briefly dance about his shoulder and neck. “Mister, you got it.”

  Jezebel went back to the bar console and downloaded her pad. The data pads were a new thing at the Darkstar. Six weeks ago they were still taking orders on actual paper with ink pens, but Tortuga was modernizing fast. Carlos got a sweet deal from a shipyard worker and managed to get the used equipment for a steal.

  Jezebel remembered the shipyard guy explaining to the waitresses how to jack the data pad into the bar’s new electronic console to transfer the orders and payment data to the automated bartender. By following the steps, data was transferred from the pad to the console, and it could also be transferred from pad to pad. The whole procedure seemed awkward to Jezebel.

  In less than a day, she’d learned that all you needed to do was bump the data pad in just the right way and it downloaded in half the time. She even found out how to transfer data from pad to pad using the same bump method. Carlos said the things probably weren’t supposed to work that way but admitted it was a lot quicker. All the waitresses were doing the bump thing now, and on a busy night like this, it mattered.

  As Captain Buckman’s drink was being prepared, the console informed her that an order of sandwiches was ready. Jezebel shrugged. It must have been Mindy’s last order for the night. She grabbed a tray and took the sandwiches to table-ten, which was occupied by some kooky writer’s club. The aspiring authors were huddled over hand computers and dickering over the meanings of sentences. They hardly paid Jezebel any notice when she served them so she didn’t expect much of a tip.