Angeleyes - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  I don’t do much socializing. Meijaps left Japan because they thought it was too open. They don’t like halfbreeds. I’m a quarter. Then I have that red-gold hair over my eyes. They think I’m hideous, and some sort of freak. If I leave the docks, I put my hair up, wear a hat or hood, and don’t try to speak Nippon. I did that once and they were very, very offended.

  There wasn’t anything I needed, so I stayed aboard ship for the short layover.

  Next we were through to Earth, where we dropped some of everything, and picked up more stuff.

  It was wine again, and exotic liquor. To me, liquor is something you drink or mix with a drink to get drunk. Some people insist on weird stuff. In Earth system, we picked up some Penderyn au Cymru whiskey from one small part of Britain, that was aged in honey-sweetened charred oak barrels for twenty-seven years and packaged with a small bottle of spring water from a particular spring, that you were supposed to mix in, I’m told, three ml per serving of 44.36 ml of the whiskey.

  I suppose if that’s what works for you and you can afford damned near Cr1000 a bottle at our end, and similar prices elsewhere, enjoy.

  We drove around Earth’s Oort cloud instead of going through-system. Traffic is too heavy, as are the transit charges. Then there’s all the rules and policies that they have in-system and would have outer if they could get away with it.

  Still, the ship had a decent vid library. I caught a couple of comedies and a ground chase action flick. They had good audio. I took in some classics I’d always meant to hear. Eh. They were okay, mostly. I guess I’m not suited for The Arts.

  I took care of second shift food, which was all of three people plus myself, mostly warming what first shift had cooked, but I did electrosmoke some salmon and grill ribs for the meat eaters.

  Almost a month later we jumped back into Caledonia.

  At which point I had to help dump waste tanks, refresh atmo and water, clean cyclers, all the sweaty, grubby maintenance you never see in vids. It’s not glamorous. It’s work.

  Twenty-seven days in cross-space is draining. I was going to have to do that again, too, because I needed to get to the other side of this system.

  I have intra-system experience (which is different from an intra-system annotation for deep space, which I obviously have, too). But, it’s a different community. Those legs are longer because of how the Jump Points speed everything up.

  Then there’s the new phase drive that the Freehold is starting to use on warships, and a handful of civilian craft. It’s a billion credits or more to equip a ship right now, or rather, was when I wrote this. It’s slowly getting cheaper, but that will change everything around again when it’s more common. I’d never been on one in use.

  But, I was either going to have to cross to the other side and try for an intra leg, or go around the long way again. Traffic was flowing to the Freehold again, with lots of inspections and tags that were a pain in everyone’s ass. Still, it was something.

  I knew this station, but had only been here twice. It’s gorgeous. New Liverpool isn’t very original for a name, but the structure is amazing. It’s six rows of spokes with a long outer ring over all of them. One end is enclosed and has emgee zones for lab and recreation. Three of the spokes have trees and vines climbing up inside, and one has a waterfall. It starts at barely .1G but is at a full G at the bottom, which means it looks like the water is racing, and the Coriolis force pulls it into a spray on the far side, so there’s a clear garden under a falling wave.

  It has every shipfitting function imaginable available on call with tug and sled response if you need it. Ships can dock attached, by umbilicus, by tether or in slow orbit. There are huge floodlights and reflectors for work zones. And there are clubs, hotels and bunkies, most of them upscale but reasonably priced.

  It was government built, and they’re still paying off the cost, so we’d never have anything like it. But damn, it’s neat.

  I was actually able to find a maintenance shed in the garden, hidden under a fake rock outcropping. I wedged the door closed and slept wonderfully in G, with the hissing roar of the cascade overhead. Okay, I may have mouthed an engineer I know for the info and the “romance” of sleeping there. Totally worth it. I wasn’t going to abuse the access code. I moved to a bunkie the next night.

  But I specifically needed to find either a cross-system leg or one that was guaranteed through Sol back to somewhere else.

  A seven-day week later, I had one that took me all the way to Caledonia’s L5 point where I could actually see a planet again for the first time in months. Very pretty, but I just feel right in space. We dropped cargo, stowed more, and boosted for their JP2 to the Freehold.

  So I was back in one of my homes, in my regular work environment, and the routes were all screwed up because the UN bureaucrats were trying to put rules on top of the existing rules, on top of the established way of doing things, on top of the ornery spacer way of life, on top of the anarchic Freehold streak, on top of the Freehold spacer lifestyle of “fuck everything except real world safety.”

  They weren’t having much luck, but they were still keeping things slow.

  It’s impossible to explain how it works. It’s a culture. There are habitat people, deep spacers, intras in a different loop. Techs, sales, astro. Each system has its own influence, stations aren’t like ground, spacers aren’t like habitots. If you haven’t worked in it for at least several months, it’s just a bunch of people moving about.

  Apparently, the people in charge of “space occupant movement management” were all from Earth proper. As in, dirtside. They were completely without grasp. They didn’t manage to organize anything, just piss people off, get in the way, slow travel. That pissed off habitats, grounders, businesses who needed those metals, gear and gas.

  Everyone saw them as outsiders. They had no friends.

  They still got in the way. Even though they weren’t touching intra-system traffic, it depended on outsystem loads.

  Every bunkie was booked, and I couldn’t afford the sotels that were available, never mind the actual inns. I was going to have to doss creatively.

  I didn’t have any playbuddies in that station. I didn’t want to take short naps in waiting rooms and lobbies. Sitting up to sleep is rough, even in low G. Short sleep isn’t productive for very long. I also didn’t want to annoy the locals or be seen doing that while trying to cadge a berth.

  But I needed somewhere clean.

  I walked around looking as if I was going somewhere, keeping my eyes open for signs.

  I found a bay used for automated dollies, where they plugged in to charge. Back behind there would be okay, even if it would be a bit loud. But there were already a couple of whole crews back there. I figured they’d gotten permission, and I shouldn’t get into their space.

  There was a gated supply area with spare cable, bearing and mounts. It had space and wasn’t likely to be entered, but it was officially locked. I could hop the fence, but I’d be trespassing.

  The rest of the dock was like that. Workable spaces taken, others not available.

  Down the hub were the usual machine shops and outfitters. I could find a place in the back passages, but they were dusty, with lubricants, goo and polymer gels making it messy and occasionally toxic, no matter what the air laws said.

  Past that were bars. Absolute worst case, I could try to sling hash or drinks, or strip, and sleep in the dressing or storage room. That would make getting hired even harder, though.

  I grabbed a tuna sandwich and kept looking.

  I found what I needed in the oxy hub.

  The oxy hub has full and empty bottles for suits, scooters, runabouts and emergency supplies. There were three dealers, all around one power bus for their compressors. The bottles were cordoned off for safety, non-sparking gear was mandatory, and it was secure and patrolled.

  A lot are stored and filled outside, but some are inside for station use and easy carry by crew. The empties were stacked on the deck around the bay
as a buffer in case someone tried to damage the full ones. I guess some deranged loon tried it once, but it’s exotic suicide. Spark in an O2 environment and you just become a flambé on the spot.

  The empties were in cages, racks, stacks, pallets, skids and had gaps. They also weren’t well-lit. Usage was down with the traffic reduced. All I needed was a chance to get into a gap.

  I found one I liked, slowed my walk and pretended to fumble in my pack, and waited until the roving rentacop and his drone turned laterally.

  It took three seconds to slip into shadow, and a few more to carefully crawl into a space under a rack. I was covered by large tanks on each side, and clutter and the depth of the rack. There was no reason for anyone to look for me or see me. I shoved my ruck in first, with some trash ahead of it, so it shielded me from that side.

  I had a rolled sweatshirt as a pillow, and a cloak to wrap in. The deck was cool, but at .3G, I didn’t need a mattress.

  It took a while to zone down for sleep. I had to learn to ignore local noises from passing vehicles and personnel.

  I got a couple of divs sleep, some of it solid, some restless, but it was enough to function. I rolled my gear, packed it and managed to get back into traffic unnoticed.

  Back in the dock lounge, intra-system was paying dirt wages. They had a lot of people trying to cross, some with quals and some without, and not many slots. The ships were taking advantage of that, but then, their transport was down, too.

  I had to decide if I wanted to break bottom scale and help lower everyone else’s wages, too. It could also hurt me later if the crew prices here dropped too much. But I wanted to get across.

  I found a small specialized transport that took processed chemical tanks between the jump point stations, just providing materials faster than they could be produced locally. They had a tiny crew.

  When I laid down my certs, the captain-owner said, “You can do cargo, cook, medical and Class 2 maintenance? I’ll take you. But I can’t pay above minimum scale.”

  “That’s fine,” I agreed.

  I was a bit nervous because it was an all male crew. However, it turned out he had a wife at the other end, and two of the four were otherwise in partnerships. The astrogator stared at me every chance he got, but only for short glimpses and he never made a move.

  Two weeks later I was where I wanted to be.

  CHAPTER 10

  I was able to find a bunkie in Shetland habitat. I was able to access my backup account, and I actually had funds to deposit. I swapped out some outfits and personal stuff from my locker, and planned to hit Lunacy Bar after I got cleaned up.

  But things changed when I went to the Lift Lounge and listened for routes and such.

  The whole system was like it had been at the other side.

  Apparently, the UN had warships and construction here, too. They were putting a facility at every jump point. They’d only restricted some traffic so far, but we all felt it.

  “Goddam Unos want to strangle commerce,” I heard one captain bitch over his beer. “It’s like they’re afraid of money.”

  Someone else said, “Blame that so-called ‘Freehold’ for opting out of everything. They’ve always been cheap fucks and trying to screw people for a buck.”

  “Eh, they sell exactly what they say they do.”

  “Yeah, but there are standards that we all developed, and not pissing off the UN was one of them. They enjoy doing it, and this is what they got. We’re paying for their fuckup. Fuck them.”

  “It’s not their warships and troops who are slowing us down.”

  “No, they just caused it. Like bacteria.”

  I really wasn’t going to get into that argument. It never turned into a fight, but it got rude.

  I pretended to drink, while the drinkers did drink and taunted the two.

  I realized something, though. The UN was planning to control commerce, and we were the reason. We’d taken control away from them in our system and others. They wanted that back, and the rest.

  That was when my conclusion led to a decision.

  I was going to have to go home and do some things.

  I kept an ear out for anything going into the Freehold. There really wasn’t much, and none of them had slots. I also did some anonymous core searching on where I could check in when I got there. I didn’t find much. I’m definitely not an intel type, even now.

  A week later, a Freehold cruiser came through. It was the Jack Churchill. I’d never been on it, but I remembered the schematic from recruit training. Caledonia was a neutral party, so the UN couldn’t harass or attack the ship while in local space, but they had only minimal time to provision or fuel and depart.

  Could they take on crew?

  And did I want to go back to the war zone I’d just escaped from? I was a papered resident here. I should be safe. But part of me was afraid they’d finish with the system then come out looking for any of us who had residence status. Did I want to try to totally deny my home system? All I’d have to do is shred my passport. I hadn’t paid a residence fee since I left. I had no reason to. There shouldn’t be any records. Except biometrics on file with the Freehold military. They’d already nailed a few people that way, who weren’t even combatants. I’d also have to hope they never asked for my birth certificate.

  The decision I’d come to was because I realized even if I avoided that, they might not stop. If they could drag us down, then they’d go after other systems, too. If everywhere got like Earth and Sol, I’d have nowhere to travel.

  It also seemed pretty crappy, being a veteran, to run away from my system. I guess I owed them my service. If they’d take me.

  I also realized just walking up to the dock might mark me.

  How full was Churchill? Did they even have berths?

  If I was going to do this, I was going to do this. Technically they had to take me space-A, but that assumed they had room. I hit my locker and grabbed the rest of my possessions. I wasn’t likely to come back here before the war ended. I grabbed my big pack, my garment bag, and started stuffing. That rolled bundle was my rifle with my kataghan alongside. That case was my pistol. I took it all, figuring they could tell me to dump stuff if they didn’t have room.

  Technically I could only take the weapons directly to a ship I had passage on. I could be considered a combatant now, and the station at least was neutral.

  One gate of the dock had a squad of Royal Caledonian Marines, though one was a naval petty officer. I walked up to them and had my ID in hand.

  “Aonghaelaice Kaneshiro, veteran, Freehold Forces. I need access for boarding.”

  The Marine sergeant looked at my ID and then at me. He didn’t seem sure. I knew my training was supposed to be better than his, but I was a medic, not combat arms, and I was out of practice and wasn’t going to fight. I didn’t like his smug look, though.

  The PO said, “I’ll have to check. We’re neutral, so they can fuel and depart, and do repairs. I’m not sure about taking on crew, you understand.”

  “Sure,” I said, and wondered if I should have checked Underdeck for a way past this. That would be illegal, too, but probably less obvious.

  I put my ruck down and sat on it. It was going to be a while.

  Several minutes later, he came back and said, “Okay, you can pass.”

  “Thank you, Petty Officer, Sergeant,” I said, as I shouldered everything. It was a strain, but I wanted the smug jerk to realize I’d just shouldered his mass and walked with it.

  Jack Churchill wasn’t docked directly. She was tethered at the axis and had a gimbaled access tube with a pressure elevator. Dockside, they had a small terminal with three seats. Sitting there, or rather, strapped onto the chairs in near emgee, was a lieutenant and a sergeant. I pulled myself along the ladder and drifted across the compartment. They saw me approach and watched as I dragged to a stop with a foot against the floor bulkhead, and caught the railing at the desk.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  The lieutenant
, nametag Broud, said, “Good morning, lady, how can I help you?”

  He called me “Lady.” Not “Miss,” “Ms,” “Ma’am.” I only ever got that insystem. It probably doesn’t mean much to you.

  “I’m a veteran. Clinical Specialist Kaneshiro. Rating four. Discharged seven years ago. I’m volunteering for duty.”

  They looked at each other.

  Lieutenant Broud said, “That’s generous and patriotic of you. I’d really like to take anybody we can get, but we’re already overmanned. We took some of the crew of another vessel that got seized, and some transients on leave. It’s ass to nose aboard now.”

  I decided to improve the odds. “I have other shipboard skills,” I told the lieutenant.

  “What can you do?” he asked.

  “I have civilian certs as cook, shipboard maintenance, cargo management, and I can manage as a social companion.” I’d have to work at that, but I could do it. I knew our people were clean.

  “You realize we may be in combat as soon as we hit the Jump Point? We don’t have a fleet carrier, so there’s no phase drive. We go where the Points dictate. They’re probably waiting.”

  “Sure. But I don’t want to stay here and wait to be pulled by the UN. I just want to get to the Freehold.”

  The sergeant grabbed his phone and called aboard. “Can we ID a vet from seven years ago?”

  It turns out I was actually safe in that regard. Any records their might have been were at HQ and probably scrambled already. The ship’s archive didn’t have anything. So the UN would probably have never IDed me that way.

  It got uncomfortable. They didn’t want to take a possible spy or wannabe. I didn’t have much to offer. I had my old ID, but that could be faked.

  “Weapon in my bag,” I said. “Can you date the issue number?”

  “Probably,” the sergeant, Bandan, said.