South Coast (Shaman's Tales From The Golden Age Of The Solar Clipper Book 1)

by Nathan Lowell

  “Jimmy, think about it. What happens when they lose their berths?”

  It took a heartbeat or two for Jimmy to realize that Tony meant. “They’re no longer employed by the Company.” He’d known that, of course, but the full implication hadn’t really fallen into place.

  “Some of these people are third and fourth generation, Jimmy. They was born here. You’re telling them to get more fish or get deported to Dunsany.”

  Jimmy nodded slowly and closed his eyes against Tony’s tirade.

  “Kicked out of their homes, sent to a foreign planet against their wills. No friends, no mon—”

  “I know, Tony,” Jimmy cut him off, a little more sharply than he intended.

  Tony took a deep breath and a sip of his coffee before continuing. “What do you think they’ll do when they hear this? Just go out and catch more fish? You think they’re not doing the best they can? They’re just goin’ out there and sayin’, ̒Oh, I’ll leave this ton of fish swimming along ’cause I don’t feel like catchin’ it today’?”

  Jimmy smiled at the notion and shook his head as he took a deep breath and let it out before speaking. “No, course not.”

  “No, they don’t,” Tony continued. “They already go out there and drag back every fin, skin, scale, and shell they possibly can. Some of them are already pared so close to the bone that we’re loosing boats–and crews.”

  Reminded by that, Jimmy asked, “Any news out of Callum’s Cove?”

  Tony accepted the conversational tangent without a blink. “Abernathy’s report came in yesterday. We were lucky. Knowles will be ready to go back out as soon as the new boat’s delivered.”

  “And the skipper? Sandra Jamison? How’s she doing?”

  Tony shrugged. “How’d you be doing if you almost killed yourself and your crew by staying out too long and taking too many risks?”

  “But she’s always been one of the better skippers.”

  “How do you think she gets the results, Jimmy? Between the sonic imagers, and the satellite deep scans, this isn’t a guess-work business anymore.”

  “I know, Tony, I know,” Jimmy said, resignation heavy in his voice.

  “She does it by taking chances, cutting costs, and staying out longer than other skippers. Even when she shouldn’t.”

  The implications were not lost on Jimmy. “And when we post these quotas, there’s going to be a lot more people taking a lot more risks.”

  “Damn right. Still think we’re not killin’ people here?”

  Jimmy knew only too well. Faced with the choice of—perhaps—getting into trouble they couldn’t get out of or the certainty of exile to the sector capital they’d take the chance. They’d be angry and resentful in the process which would only increase the probability that something would go wrong. Even with all the technology, information, and communications that they had, it still came down to men and women in frail boats doing hard, dirty work over long hours in an environment that would kill them if they weren’t both careful and lucky. Almost involuntarily, his eyes glanced at the sign on the wall.

  Number of fisherman lost this year: 215.

  Safety is no accident!

  “So? What do we do?” Jimmy asked again.

  “We get more fish, we get more efficient, or we get new jobs,” Tony said with a shrug of one shoulder.

  Jimmy chuckled without much humor. “Yeah, I got that part. What do we do here?”

  “Well, the instructions are more fish, right?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “They’re saying the stockholders aren’t happy.”

  Tony grimaced and shook his head. “They’re never happy, but are they happy because of the metric kilotons leaving the planet or because the bottom line isn’t yielding the eighty percent they always want?”

  Jimmy snickered. “True, don’t matter what kind of return we give ’em. They always want more.”

  “We’re still out performing Umber with an eighteen percent return on investment here, Jimmy,” Tony pointed out.

  “I know and I can’t image what they’ve told Angela to do,” Jimmy said, thinking of his older sister, his counterpart in the Umber system.

  “I can,” Tony said lugubriously. “The Ole Man won’t lean on His Little Girl the same way he leans on you.”

  “So you think this is coming from him and not just from the lawyers?” Jimmy asked.

  Tony shrugged and sipped his coffee once more before answering. “I don’t know where it’s coming from, Jimmy, but you know how the Ole Man is. You know that the lawyers know that they lean on His Little Girl at their peril. Would you risk losing such a lucrative contract by alienating the Ole Man?”

  Jimmy snorted. “Not on your life.” He paused for a couple heartbeats. “It’s just that this doesn’t really sound like the Ole Man.”

  “He’s made these kinds of demands before,” Tony said.

  “Yeah, but he’s also been out here. Hell, he was fishing on St. Cloud before I was born. He knows how this works.”

  Tony’s brow furrowed. “Yanno, we got a half dozen boats ready to go down in the yards, if we only had crews. Can we scrounge up skippers? Promote a few mates up to take ’em out?”

  Jimmy sat very still while his mind raced through the possibilities. “Get HR to look at the records. We haven’t done a major fleet expansion in three stanyers. Maybe it’s time.”

  “Six boats ain’t exactly a major fleet expansion, boss,” Tony pointed out. “We got something like eighty thousand boats working almost non-stop. Landings from six boats will disappear in the rounding error."

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “But it’s something.” A wolfish grin spread across his jowly face. “What you think, Tony? Fancy a season at sea?”

  Tony almost spit his coffee on the desk in surprise. “Us? You’re not seriously considerin' taking out a boat.”

  “You said it yourself. We have to do something. If we’re asking these people to put their lives on the line for us, the least we can do is pitch in.”

  “Boss? One boat ain’t gonna make that much difference in quota.”

  “I’m not talking about quota, Tony. I’m talking perception.”

  “People gonna perceive you’ve lost your mind, Jimmy.”

  “Think, Tony. Think. What’s gonna happen when we post these quota numbers? People gonna be pissed, frustrated, and very, very uncooperative.”

  “No? Really?” Tony said, irony dripping from his voice in solid ingots.

  Jimmy ignored the outburst and continued. “The real danger here is letting that get outta control and turning into an us-against-them situation–meaning you and me, compadre. If that happens, we got much bigger problems than lawyers.”

  Tony snorted. “Are there any bigger problems?”

  “You ever see these guys and gals fillet an abo-abo?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well, yeah. They’re damn fast with those knives.”

  Jimmy just stared at Tony for a long moment.

  “You don’t think ...?” Tony began.

  “Angry, desperate people do angry, desperate things, my friend.”

  Tony sighed. “So, how’s it gonna help to have us out there flailing about on the grounds?”

  “It’ll be much harder for them to get mad at us if we’re out there working beside them, don’t cha think?” he asked in reply.

  “But, boss, we ain’t young guys any more. You haven’t been out there in twenty stanyers.”

  “My license is still valid,” Jimmy said, “and with another decent crewman, we could take one of the side trawlers out to the Pumpkin, or even Ole Man’s Bank.”

  “You want me to be your crew?” Tony asked.

  “Why not?” Jimmy asked. “You’ve never been out there, have ya?”

  Tony shook his head. “You know I haven’t. My ole man was an accountant. I learned to balance the books.”

  “Time you see how the other half lives then,” Jimmy’s grin got even more wolfish. “We need a seasoned hand to round out the crew a
nd show ya the ropes, but we can do this.”

  Tony looked at his boss with growing horror. “You can’t be serious, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy Pirano’s grin turned to steel. “I’m deadly serious, Tony. I’m not going to ask the men and women to risk their lives all on their own to chase down fish to make a buncha corporate bean counters back in Dunsany happy. If they have to, we have to.”

  “Damn it, Jimmy, I’m an accountant—not a fishermen.”

  Jimmy snorted. “Maybe you’re not, but I sure as hell am. And it’s time you learned what’s behind those columns of numbers you’ve been balancing for the last twenty stanyers. A little work won’t kill ya.”

  Tony sighed. “I’m too old for this cark.”

  “Look, we only got a month or so before the weather turns and everybody’s going to be ashore for the winter. A couple months will let us get you trained up, see us build a crew, and send a message along the whole South Coast. We’ll have the winter to work with everybody and make sure they know that–whatever we may have to say in the formal memos–nobody is gonna lose a job. I’m not sending these people into exile. The Ole Man can come out here and relieve me if he thinks I’m gonna do that.”

  “But, Jimmy, fishing? Us? Out there?”

  Jimmy looked at his friend for a long moment before replying. “One thing the Ole Man drilled into me, Tony. Never ask your people to do something you can’t do yourself. If we’re gonna ask them to shoot at those quotas, then by the gods and little fishes, we’re gonna ask them from the deck of a boat heading out to the banks.”

  “But, Jimmy.”

  “Tony? Weren’t you the one that insisted we had to do something?”

  “Yes, boss, but this?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better idea, I suggest you get your butt down to HR and find us a good, experienced crewman. I’m calling the yard and snagging that new side trawler for myself. We’re going out. Any questions?”

  Tony stared hard into his cup for a minute before looking up at his boss with a rueful grin. “Only one."

  "What's that?"

  "When we leaving?”

  Jimmy grinned back with real amusement this time. “Soon as we can get the boat ready and the crew aboard. How long you think that’ll take?”

  Tony snorted. “After the yard gang gets done rolling on the floor laughing when you tell ’em, I’m guessin’ not long. Bein’ the son of the CEO carries some weight, even with these goons.”

  Jimmy considered that for a moment. “Good point.” He stood up and headed for the door. “Maybe I should deliver this bit of news in person.” He stopped at the door and looked back to where his long-time accountant and second on command still sat in his chair. “Don’t you have something to do other than clutterin’ up my office?” he asked with a laugh as he strode off down the hall, letting the flimsy door of the executive suite flap shut behind him.

  Anthony Spinelli sat there for a moment longer before he rose, chuckling to himself, and followed his boss down the hall at a more sedate pace. The coffee cup went with him. He one-handed his peeda from his shirt pocket and started reviewing personnel records as he sauntered down to HR to see what Carruthers could do to help.

  Chapter Four

  Callum’s Cove

  October 5, 2304

  The mood at The Gurry Butt was ugly. Red Green lay back against the bolsters in his favorite corner booth and nursed a lager. Some of the other guys nursed grudges that were nearly as bitter. Jace pulled pints. Mary poured the shots and kept an eye on the general tenor. Neither of them looked too happy with the way things were going even before Hank Marston started mouthing off at the bar.

  “What they expect, huh? That’s what I wanna know,” Hank said not very quietly and to nobody in particular.

  “Now, Hank—” Jace said, but Hank was having none of it.

  “Don’t ya be ̒Now-Hank’ing me, Jace Murray. This new quota is insane. Where do they think we’re gonna get these levels of landed tonnage? Huh? Pull ’em out our hairy—”

  “Hank.” Mary snapped. “Be civil or be gone.” She shot him a poisonous look.

  “Sorry, Mary,” Hank said not quite contritely, but years of experience had taught all of them not to cross Mary Murray in matters of propriety in her establishment. She ran a taut ship, did Mary Murray. Long habit, firm tradition, and a shotgun loaded with rock salt under the bar near Mary’s right hand kept things pretty well under control. It didn’t hurt that this was the only public establishment in Callum’s Cove and being locked out meant a long dry spell for people who gathered there for the company as much as the beer.

  More than a couple of them lifted a pint to hide a smirk.

  His tirade de-railed, Hank covered his embarrassment with a long pull on his stout.

  Jane McGill picked up the thread, if in a more reasonable tone. “They can’t be serious about takin’ our boats now, can they.” From anybody else it would have been a question. “I mean how will puttin’ us ashore help anything?”

  Hank said, “Who knows what that son of a—” A sharp look from Mary changed his course to “—sea cook Pirano has in mind.”

  Mary nodded and went back to pouring shots.

  Red tossed his oar in the swirling argument at that point. “Now, let’s not be getting’ too carried away here. I’ve known Jimmy Pirano for goin’ on ten stanyers. Almost all of us have. This ain’t somethin’ that sounds like the Jimmy, we know.”

  After a general mutter of agreement, the tide of argument began to ebb a bit.

  Hank mumbled something dark into his stout, but nobody asked him to repeat it.

  “Well, we’re getting some new boats in the fleet here,” Frank Knowles said to the room at large. “That’s more than just replacement for Esmerelda.”

  “You’re the second person I’ve heard say that, Frank. You got anything more than rumor?” Aaron Pye asked from across the room.

  “Rachel Jameson got the skinny direct from Spinelli himself yesterday,” Frank said. “The new boats are coming up in a pod. They was supposed to leave the Inlet today. Esmerelda II and three more.”

  The gathered fishermen buzzed about this for a few minutes before the door opened and a squat, balding man waddled in. The buzz didn’t fade out. It just stopped. Alan Thomas grinned into the face of the squall of silence. “What? Was it something I said?”

  Jace smiled and pulled a pint of wheat beer for the Pirano Fisheries rep. “Evenin’, Alan.” He slid the pint down the bar to stop neatly in front of Alan’s customary stool.

  When Alan got settled, he lifted the pint and took a deep pull. He sighed and smacked appreciatively, toasting Jace silently before turning to the assembled fishers. “So we’re talking about the new quotas?

  Red grinned at Alan from his spot in the corner, “Naw. Just discussin’ the weather. Think we’ll have snow?”

  Alan made a big show of consideration as he took another pull on his beer. “Yes. Yes, I do. I just don’t know when or how much.”

  Hank Marston turned on the man and started another tirade. “Oh, yeah, big damn joke to you. You sit here ashore and make jokes while the rest of us are out there riskin’ life and limb to try to make these ridiculous quotas or lose our boats.”

  “Civil, Hank,” Mary said. “Civil.” She didn’t stop polishing the glassware, or even look up, but the rest of the room went totally still.

  Alan sighed. “Hank’s got a point, Mary. Jace, may I buy the man a beer?”

  Jace nodded and pulled a stout and slid it down the counter to stop in front of Hank’s place.

  “I didn’t mean to be flippant, Hank,” Alan went on. “Please accept my apologies.” He turned to the room and raised his voice. “He’s right, I am staying ashore and you’re going out, but you’re never gonna believe what I just heard from the Inlet.” He let the suspense build while he took another slow pull from his beer, not paying any attention to the looks ping-ponging around the room.

  Jane McGill laughed when it became obvious
that Alan wasn’t about to say anything until somebody took the bait. “What’s that Alan? The Ole Man coming back to St. Cloud?”

  The rest of the room guffawed at this but quieted quickly to hear what Alan had to say.

  “Well,” Alan began, hitching himself up on his elbows on the bar and lowering his voice. “Jake Samson up at the yard called to give me the specs on the new boats coming in?” He paused to take another sip. “In addition to the ones they’re sending here, they’re gearing up to send three of the new trawlers up to Cheapskate and provision three more there in the Inlet.”

  The assembled fishermen looked at each other, wondering if that could be the startling news, but Red took the cue. “That’s not so hard to believe, Alan. What’s in the other boot? Besides your foot?”

  “Jimmy Pirano and Tony Spinelli are taking one of the new trawlers themselves. They’re gonna go fishin’,” Alan said into the mouth of his mug.

  After about three heartbeats of stunned silence and disbelief, the room erupted in laughter.

  Hank Marsten guffawed. “They gonna make up the quota on their own? I feel so much better knowing the pencil pusher is gonna be out huntin’ abo-abo.”

  “I dunno,” Alan admitted. “Jake was agog when I talked to him. Jimmy himself went down to the Yard to make sure he got his pick of the new hulls. You know how Jimmy is.”

  Everyone in the room smiled and laughed, the tension broken. Each table had a conversation going about how Jimmy and Tony would soon learn how hard it was. All except Red Green who stared down into his lager. Alan slipped off the stool, took up his stein, and slid into the booth across from Red with a smile and a nod.

  “You don’t seem to think this is funny much, do ya, Red?” he asked by way of opening.

  Red sipped his beer once and sucked his teeth a little before replying. “Nope. I known Jimmy as long as you have, and if Jimmy’s taking a boat out, there’s a lot running under the surface here that we ain’t seein’, I think.”

  Alan flicked his eyebrows up and down in acknowledgment and leaned onto the table with his forearms. “You caught that, too, eh?”