“Gotcha,” she said.
“Why hasn’t somebody done it before this?” I asked.
“You ponder that over the next stanyer or so,” she said. “It’s not an accident.”
“You know?”
She shook her head. “I have my theories, but I don’t know.”
“It has to do with Toe-Hold space.”
“You’re just guessing.”
“Yeah, but it makes sense. This configuration isn’t common where I’ve been flying. None of DST’s Barbells had legs like this.”
“When do you think we’ll make our first jump out there?” she asked.
“Depends on Pip. I’m just the bus driver.”
She made the rude noise again. “You sell yourself short.”
“I think he wants to make one more pass in CPJCT space before jumping out into Toe-Holds.”
She settled herself down into the chair. “Can I ask? What has he told you about Toe-Hold space? What do you know of it?”
“He’s been spinning some yarn about how dangerous it is. How TIC has sent ships down that haven’t come back. He wanted the Chernyakova because it has the complete set of Toe-Hold charts that TIC hasn’t been able to acquire.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You believe him?”
“Do I look that dumb?”
“Ha. I thought he had you wrapped around his finger.”
“He spins stories like other people sneeze. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it half the time.” I toyed with the spare stylus lying on the desk. “I've never caught him in an outright lie, but he's a master of misdirection.”
She tilted her head to the side and her eyes narrowed like she might be trying to focus on me. “Why do you go along with him?”
I shrugged. “Why not? You know what kind of mess I was last stanyer. Christine Maloney knew.”
“You had reason.”
“Yeah, but I also need to get beyond it.”
“No argument on this side of the desk.” She laid an ankle on the other knee.
“So I go to Port Newmar, Pip finds me there. I’m pruned back to my roots and he starts to feed me bullshit. I could have stayed and worked with my therapist. Taught class in the fall.” I shook my head. “Pip’s story—bogus as it almost surely is—gives me a kind of trellis to regrow on. It gives me something to do that’s bigger than myself. We brought the Chernyakova back from the dead. We found what looks like a good crew. We’ve got some solid financial backing thanks to you and Alys Giggone.”
“And you’re not CEO.”
“And I’m not CEO. I was never cut out to be CEO. One of the painful lessons I learned in Diurnia. One of many. I’m a competent captain when I pay attention to the job. Pip was born to be a CEO. He’s always been the wheeler-dealer.”
“That’s not what Alys says.”
“We work best as a team.” I laid the stylus aside and folded my hands on the desk. “I think Alys Giggone has a limited perspective based on a narrow sample of our work.”
Chief Stevens started laughing. “You really have no idea.” She shook her head. “No matter. Have you thought about how you’re going to handle the crew?”
“About Toe-Hold?”
“Yeah.”
“The deck gang already knew about it before I hired them,” I said.
“You asked them?” Her eyes widened in surprise.
I shook my head. “Actually, they either asked me directly or hinted strongly that the Chernyakova might be going places that weren’t on the usual itineraries and they’d be fine if that happened. After the beer and cheese party at Dree, anybody who wasn’t comfortable with the idea probably bailed on us.”
The chief’s smirk did little for my equilibrium.
“I feel like I’ve stumbled on a whole separate universe that everybody knew about but me,” I said.
“Well, not everybody,” she said. “But you didn’t spend your formative years in the Deep Dark, did you.”
“No, Neris over in Dunsany Roads. Corporate brat.”
“Did you ever take any history courses?”
“Yes, but even at the academy Toe-Hold was a footnote. It was ‘how we got here in the distant and forgotten past,’ not ‘a whole separate and thriving society outside our walls.’ It wasn’t even that in the university enclave on Neris.”
“It wouldn’t have been. Corps have been sweeping Toe-Hold space under deck plates for a century or more. The academy can’t very well admit it exists since they actively censor most references to it.”
“You mean like history books?” I asked.
She laughed again. “I mean like where the Chernyakova came from.”
“I thought we suspected it’s from Toe-Hold space.”
“We do. Because it’s the only answer for how a ship could be sailing around in such disrepair. The only question I ever had was about the odds of it going belly-up in CPJCT space when it clearly spent most of its life in the Toe-Holds.”
“So Pip’s whole ‘Daughter of Darkness’ story?”
“The name actually can be translated that way. Roughly. That was brilliant on Pip’s part.”
“The skulking around, sneaking into the ship to find the hidden charts?”
“That’s curious,” she said, not smiling. “TIC gets chart updates for Toe-Hold space almost as fast as the Toe-Holds generate them. You two sneaking onto the ship might have been a lark, but our Mr. Phillip Carstairs does very little larking about, for all his jesterlike appearance. That piece makes me wonder what he was really looking for.”
“We didn’t find much. Once it was clear the ship had Toe-Hold charts, Pip backed off. We sat at the brow until TIC showed up.”
“Eldorado.”
“Eldorado?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Ancient myth from old Earth. Lost city of gold. Eldorado.” The chief folded her fingers together on her lap and snuggled farther back into the chair. “Ever since the old Board of Exploration got assimilated by the CPJCT—probably even before—there have been stories of lost systems, lost colonies even. The tale always follows the same path. Explorer finds rich system. Holds out on BoE registration. Goes back to retire and get filthy rich away from the prying eyes and clutching tax collectors of the BoE or, later, the CPJCT. Explorer makes his final jump and leaves his wealth lost between the stars when he secures his last field coil.”
“And somebody just happens to have a chart showing where the wealth drifts unattended in the Deep Dark?”
“That’s it.” The chief shook her head. “The thing of it is, there are probably hundreds of those.”
“What? Stories?”
“Lost fortunes.”
“You mean real ones?”
She nodded. “Think about it. Starting in 2152 and for a century after, prospectors flew those little scout ships out into the Deep Dark. We hear about the successful ones. The ones that have systems named for them.”
“Like Oswald Newmar,” I said.
“Just like Oswald Newmar, but for every Oswald there were dozens—maybe hundreds—of people who went out into the Dark and either disappeared or never reported anything worth developing.”
“So you’re saying the Chernyakova has a map to Eldorado?”
She shook her head. “Nothing of the sort. I’m just saying that there are charts and there are charts. Some get shared. Some get hoarded. If our ship’s jester wants these particular charts, it has nothing to do with TIC wanting to know where the Toe-Holds are. At least not the known ones.”
“Because they already know,” I said.
She nodded.
“If we ask Pip, he’ll probably spin a tale.”
“No ‘probably’ about it.” She straightened up in her seat.
I shook my head. “Now what?”
“You were going to buy me coffee.”
I smiled. “So I was. Wardroom or mess deck?”
“It’s the same coffee.”
“I know, but the ambiance is better on t
he mess deck.”
“It’s also free.”
“Not exactly. The ship pays for it and that in turn comes out of our shares. Everybody pays for it.”
She laughed and scrubbed her face with her hands. “Mess deck coffee is fine. I take mine with a shot of rum and just a touch of sugar.”
“I don’t think Ms. Sharps stocks rum.”
“You fetch the coffee. I’ll fetch the rum,” she said and stood up, heading for the cabin door.
“Why Chief Stevens, I had no idea.”
“You still don’t if you want those drives to keep purring.” She stopped at the door. “You gonna sit there all night, or are you gonna buy a girl a coffee?”
By the time I got back to the cabin, she’d already returned. A small silver flask rested on my desk. I put the mugs down and slid one toward the chief. “Just a touch of sugar.”
She picked up the flask and poured a splash into the coffee. The sharp, spicy scent of rum wafted across the console. She held the flask out to me. “I hate to drink alone,” she said.
I laughed and pulled my mug closer. “Not just now. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
She spun the cap back on her flask and nodded. “You’ve done good work, Captain. Very good work.”
“What? The ship?” I shrugged. “Just doing what needed doing.”
She stood and took her flask and coffee mug with her. “Not the ship.” She opened the cabin door and slipped out into the passage. “Thanks for the coffee, Skipper.” She raised her mug in a toast and closed the door behind her.
I sat there for a few ticks, staring at the coffee mug and pondering what the chief had told me. I picked up my mug and headed for the bridge.
Al looked up when I climbed the ladder. “Evenin’, Captain.”
Ms. Torkelson turned at the sound of Al’s voice, then glanced at me before snapping her head around to stare at the helm readout in front of her.
“Good evening, Al. Ms. Torkelson.” I took my seat in the raised chair and slotted the mug into the arm socket. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a while.”
“Something we can help with?” Al asked.
“Just looking for a quiet place where I can look out and see the stars,” I said.
Al gave a little chuckle. “We got plenty of that, Captain.”
I turned the chair around so I looked out the back of the bridge, out over the length of the ship into the star fields beyond. I sipped my coffee and pondered.
Chapter 10
Jett System: 2375, April 3
We’d managed to kill most of our momentum and went to navigation stations just after breakfast mess. The chief sat with us on the bridge, which made communications with the engine room feel much smoother. We’d made good time in from the Burleson limit and stood to make a nice early delivery bonus for our trouble.
“Tug reports ready to take us under tow, Skipper,” Al said.
“Very well, Ms. Ross.”
I kept thinking about what Pip might actually have planned. Not that I really expected to come up with any answers until he revealed them, but the situation was like a sore tooth. I couldn’t stop fiddling with it. I also hadn’t seen much of him on the whole voyage from Dree and was worried about what plots he might have hatched.
The approach to Jett felt both routine and brand new. The familiar silver can-shaped orbital loomed closer as the tug inched us in. I couldn’t even think of how many times I’d docked at Jett, either on the Tinker or, later, the Agamemnon. Docking in the refurbished Chernyakova felt odd. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here.
The docking clamps engaged with their customary thump-clunk and the tug cast off to find his next ship.
“My compliments to the tug crew, Ms. Fortuner. Smooth as glass,” I said.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Message sent.”
“Shore ties latched. Shifting to shore power,” the chief said.
“Log us in, Ms. Ross,” I said.
“Logged, Skipper.”
“Secure from navigation stations, Ms. Ross. Set port-side watch through the ship and declare liberty at your discretion,” I said.
She made the announcements and I took my leave from the bridge to clear the decks for the departing crew.
I’d no sooner planted my carcass in the chair behind my desk when Pip strolled into the cabin. “I was just thinking about you,” I said.
“Nothing good, I hope.” He plopped into the chair across from me.
“Wondering what kind of mischief you’ve gotten into. Ms. Sparks hasn’t complained about your meddling in her stores rotation.”
“And why would she? She hasn’t seen it in action yet.” He grinned. “As it happens, our can made a nice profit and an early delivery bonus.”
“Got an outgoing cargo?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got a line on one. Thought you might like to trot along with me while I scope out the deal.”
“We’re not going to some seedy dive in the oh-two deck are we?”
He placed a hand on his chest. “You wound me.”
“You always say that.”
“Do I?” He shrugged. “Anyway, no. Up in retail land on the eight-deck.”
“Ooh. Should I dress up?”
“Uniform of the day is spiffy-casual.”
“What the heck is spiffy-casual?”
“Slacks, shirt, no jacket.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“We’ll want to blend in.”
“No jacket?” I squinted at him. “This isn’t something silly is it?”
“Silly? You wound me.”
“You said that already.”
“You keep wounding me.”
“What time?”
“Dinner’s at 1800. They keep a shipboard schedule.”
“Who does?”
“The people who need a can dragged from here to there.”
“Where’s there?”
“Ever hear of Mel’s Place?” Pip asked.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Little Toe-Hold settlement about half way between here and Venitz.”
“They want a can of something?”
“Well, not just any something. It’s pretty specific.”
“Will you tell me now or do I have to wait until Al slaps it out of you?”
He started to do the pose again so I said, “Yes, I wound you. Got it. Again. Next joke? This one’s getting stale.”
“Can of black malt.”
“Black malt?” I asked. “Two hundred metric tons of black malt?”
“Roughly. I’m not sure how the mass volume ratio holds up. A full can, at any rate. It’s for making beer.”
“I know what black malt is. Where are we taking it?”
“I told you. Mel’s Place.”
“So why do we need to meet with these mysterious strangers to pick up a can of black malt?”
“They’re concerned because they don’t know us. They’d just like to meet the people who’ll be carrying a few million credits worth of cargo for them.”
“We carry cans worth millions of credits all the time.”
“One point four,” Pip said.
I stared at him.
“Billion.”
“One can worth one point four billion credits?”
“It’ll make a lot of beer.”
“A billion credits,” I said, still in denial.
“One point four. Almost one and a half, actually.” He grinned. “Come on, we carry that much all the time. Two hundred million kilograms of stuff adds up fast.”
“I thought we were going to make another test run,” I said, stalling to give my brain a chance to catch up.
“I did, too, but they contacted me very soon after we jumped in. They know the Chernyakova from the old days.”
“When they sailed without spares and alarms?”
“They know the ship changed hands. Seem interested in the new owners. That’s us.”
“Everybody in the qu
adrant knows it changed hands.”
“Well, there you go. A chance to make a good connection with an old client.” He jumped up and clapped his hands together. “Jeans and a pullover. Ship boots. No need to try to impress them. They’re already impressed.”
“Where is this spiffy-casual place on the eight-deck?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t know it. You need an invite.”
“Try me.”
“Aubergine’s?”
“Simon Aubergine? The art critic?” I asked.
Pip stopped. Just like that. I’d never actually noticed how much he moved around. He always moved something. Head. Hands. Legs. Arms. Head and legs. Until that very moment when he stopped and stared at me. “You know Simon Aubergine?”
“This quadrant has been my home for almost twenty stanyers. You think I live under a rock?”
He blinked. “Well, yes, actually.”
I stared him down.
“Christine Maloney,” he said.
“She’s in my file.”
“No. That’s how you know Aubergine. She has an art gallery here on Jett and is constantly butting heads with him in the press.”
“You have a file on her, too?”
“All the important people. She’s an important people.” Pip restarted, a hand flapping against his thigh. “So, yeah. Aubergine’s having an opening with a buffet dinner.”
“I thought you said we needed an invitation.”
He held up a gold embossed card. “For two. I thought you’d make a delightful plus one.”
“Why don’t you take Al?”
“She’s my second choice if you turn me down.”
I felt my eyeballs roll.
“Be ready. 1730. I’ll pick you up. Don’t be late.” He ducked out the door before I could think of anything to throw at him.
Still he made a good case. If we were going to be on the hook for one point four billion credits’ worth of cargo, I really wanted to be in the loop. I wondered what our take on that would be and how far this Mel’s Place was.
Chapter 11
Jett Orbital: 2375, April 3
Pip knocked on the cabin door for a change. He didn’t wait for me to answer, but I gave him credit for progress. “You ready?”
To Fire Called (A Seeker's Tale From The Golden Age Of The Solar Clipper Book 2) Page 6