Captain's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper)

by Nathan Lowell

  As we cleaned up from breakfast mess I broached the subject with Mr. Wyatt. “I tried to access the available cargo listing this morning, Mr. Wyatt. It’s blank and Mr. Hill informed me that you don’t pick up the outer marker data. Is there a reason for that?”

  “It’s out of date, Captain. It just never seemed like it was worthwhile before.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Wyatt?”

  “In part because of the time involved, Captain. We rely on cargo dispatch for our cargo and it’s five weeks.” He stopped wiping down the work table and his head snapped around as comprehension dawned.

  “Used to rely on cargo dispatch and it used to be five weeks, Mr. Wyatt.”

  “Still, we’re almost two weeks out now, Captain. There’s something I’m missing, isn’t there.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wyatt, there is.” I grinned and he caught my excitement. “If you’d ask Mr. Pall to run the updates with the best data he can find, I’ll show you what it is.”

  He pulled out his tablet and ran a few commands. “Three ticks, Captain. He’s running up to systems now.”

  I drew a mug from the urn and snagged the keyboard from its dock before settling on a bench where I could see the repeater screen and have room to work. I brought up the cargo lists and waited. As good as his word, in just a few ticks the list refreshed and a long list of cargo availabilities scrolled down the screen.

  Mr. Wyatt walked over to the screen so he could point to it to demonstrate his issues. “The dates on these postings are quite old, Captain. Many of them days old.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wyatt, but how long to cargoes stay on the list when we’re in port?”

  He looked startled. “Oh. Well, yes. Several days if they’re not bid out.”

  I highlighted a field on the top of the screen. “That’s the number you want to watch, Mr. Wyatt.”

  Mr. Hill brought his coffee and settled on the bench beside me so he could watch as well.

  “Time of last update, Skipper?”

  “That’s the date and time that this list was captured and spun out to the beacons.”

  He looked at it, but objected. “It’s still a day out of date.”

  I flicked a few keys and the date display changed. Mr. Wyatt’s eyes almost bugged out of his head and he glanced at the chrono on the bulkhead. “What happened, Captain?”

  “I accounted for the difference between Welliver standard and ship local time.”

  “It’s only three stans delayed?”

  “It varies, but it’s seldom more than five.”

  Mr. Hill was taking it all in and looked at me for permission to speak.

  “Please jump in, Mr. Hill. You’re part of our little troika.”

  “How does this help us, Skipper? Sometimes you lose a cargo because you’re a tick late. These numbers are three stans.”

  “True but they give you a feel for how the market flows. Some ports, you can’t keep up with the flow. Some ports, priority cargoes wait for contracts for days. Getting a feel for how it flows is part of it. But even out here, if you see a good cargo, grab for it. Maybe you’ll miss, but maybe you’ll hit. By starting early, it takes the time you have available to search from a day or two to a week or two. You only need to be successful once on a really fat cargo and there’s no penalty for missing one because of the time delay.”

  We stared at the list. I hit a few keys to winnow out all but the fifteen metric kiloton cans. The remaining list was shorter, but still impressive. I sorted by priority and a three can string went to the head of the list.

  Mr. Hill spotted the value on it first. “Mr. Wyatt, does that number mean what I think it does?”

  “If you’re looking at the delivery bonus, yes, Mr. Hill. It does.”

  I had to admit. It was impressive. The bonus alone on that set of cans was more than we’d likely clear on the three we had. Several other cargoes were on the list, but none had that value on them.

  “Why is it so high, sars?”

  “Look at the destination and cut off date, Mr. Hill.”

  The string was going to Jett and they were asking for delivery in seven weeks. I sighed. “We’d have to be almost docked and ready to pull out immediately to bid on that one, Mr. Hill.”

  He nodded slowly, lost in thought. “I see that, Captain.”

  Mr. Wyatt pointed out the other limitation. “We’d also have to jump twice, Skipper.”

  “Yes, we would, Mr. Wyatt.”

  The chrono ticked over to 1000 and I realized that I had better hit the rack for a snooze. Mr. Hill and I had been up all night on the midwatch and we’d be back on the bridge at noon.

  “Watch in two stans, Mr. Hill.”

  He roused himself from his revery. “Yes, Captain. Thanks for the reminder.”

  We bussed the empties and headed out of the mess deck, he for crew berthing and I to the cabin. As I stretched out on my bunk, that string of cans weighed on me. We weren’t close enough in to bid on it, but what if we were? Would I need to end the bet so the ship could profit? Was that wise? In the short term, perhaps, but things were beginning to shape up nicely and how would my lack of faith in them be perceived? Or would it even matter? And what about Jen. I told her I’d be home in mid-April. This would push my arrival home until May or June. The thoughts were not easy ones and they chased themselves around in my head–even while I slept, apparently. When I awoke, I felt more tired than when I’d laid down. Fortunately, the set of cans in question was beyond our capacity to deliver. We wouldn’t make it to Welliver in time to take them to Jett.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Welliver System:

  2372-February-17

  The watch cycle included two extended periods of downtime–one twelve stans long and the other twenty-four. The twelve fell across the 1800 to 0600 time slot, giving the watch stander one good ship’s night every third day. It worked out pretty well. Get off watch, have a relaxing dinner on the mess deck, and even have a little time for relaxation before hitting the rack for a solid eight or nine stans of sleep. Of course, then the cycle began again, but that’s life no matter where you are.

  My body woke me at 0515 for rather pressing bladder capacity issues and once vertical just continued on to the shower, a clean shipsuit, and down to the galley for a fresh cuppa. I found Mr. Wyatt doing a very creditable imitation of a steward, complete with fresh quiches in the oven and a second urn of coffee just coming off the brew cycle.

  I had to give the man a lot of credit. Once he had the scope of a problem and clear understanding of his operational authority, he was an amazingly resourceful individual. He was particularly adept at logistical issues like meals. Somewhere around the end of the first week underway, he’d come to me with some revisions for the menu. My stipulation of frequency was actually a bit problematic, particularly around breakfasts. When I thought of my own preferences, I had to agree. Having omelets every morning was certainly not advisable, but being able to offer them more than once every two weeks certainly was. I accepted his changes and had been very pleased with the results. Even Ms. Thomas seemed less pinched about the eyes. Not only was she getting larger portions at meals, but the ready cooler held a bottomless supply of individually wrapped meat and cheese sandwiches. He’d even added some redi-heat canisters of soup she could grab on the way to the bridge.

  I drew off my first mug of the morning and leaned back against the counter for a few heartbeats while Mr. Wyatt checked the status of his quiche. I looked up at the cargo list on the big screen and those three canisters still occupied the top slot. The list had refreshed recently, judging from the status display. I kept thinking about the bet and what those three cans would do for us if we could take them. I couldn’t very well suspend our arrangement without jeopardizing what I was working so hard to accomplish. On the other hand, the profit was sorely tempting.

  Of course, I also felt guilty about not getting home to Jen for another six weeks, if we took them. Standing there on the mess deck in the cold Deep Dark I felt more
than a bit guilty about the reality of the life we weren’t really sharing.

  “Frustrating, isn’t it, Skipper?” Mr. Wyatt was resting his forearms on the top of the work island and looking up at the screen with me.

  “See anything else come by that was worth grabbing, Avery?”

  “No, Captain. There have been a lot of mid to low value cargoes but they all look pretty puny next to that one. I wonder why nobody has snagged it yet.”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. Maybe no tractors in port, or maybe nobody wants to take the double to get it there in time.”

  A timer dinged and he bustled about pulling hot egg pies from the oven to cool a bit before serving. Mr. Hill joined me at the coffee urn with a smile and a nod. He glanced up at the screen but offered no comment. We climbed the ladders to the bridge and settled into our watch.

  I kept thinking about those cans off and on through the morning watch. Mr. Wyatt’s quiche was delivered up and consumed, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I scanned the overnight logs and checked the ship’s status. Being captain and OD gave me a bit of advantage in terms of having many of the same responsibilities. In a lot of ways, OD was a kind of surrogate captain so I found that the extra workload wasn’t all that egregious, other than not being able to walk about the ship as often as I’d seen other captains do. No matter what else I did, my mind kept coming back to that string of three cans and the amount of profit it could bring the ship, and what the costs might be if I did what I’d need to do in order to take them.

  “Have you reached any decision, Captain?”

  It was unlike Mr. Hill to initiate a conversation on the bridge. He was an excellent helmsman and we’d developed into a good team over our brief time together. He’d been Captain Delman’s helmsman so perhaps that colored our relationship and may have made him more reticent to break into my silences. He did startle me with the question, however. “Decision about what, Mr. Hill?”

  “The irregularities in Agamemnon’s mass allotment, sar.”

  “Ah, of course. Sorry, Mr. Hill. I’ve been a bit distracted by other issues.” Even as I spoke, I realized that the solution to one problem had come to me while I was focused on the other.

  “I understand, Captain.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Ten percent, Mr. Hill.”

  “Captain?” He turned to look at me.

  “I want ten percent of the profits rolled back into Agamemnon’s credit balance. There’ll be some other restrictions as well, I think, but we can start there.”

  His face took on a frown of concentration. “You want us to do what, Captain?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Hill. You came in on the middle of a conversation I was having with myself.”

  He seemed a bit confused and I didn’t really blame him. It’s hard to follow conversations that veer so unpredictably from course.

  “Here’s what I want, Mr. Hill. You gentleman can continue using Agamemnon’s quota up to but not to exceed the amount you currently have tied up. I estimate that to be about five full shares worth–something on the order of two hundred kilograms.”

  He nodded. “About that, Captain.”

  “In return, all profits from the use of that mass will be accounted for and ten percent of the profits will be donated to Agamemnon’s credit balance.”

  “Ten percent, Captain?”

  “It’s the traditional captain’s share, Mr. Hill. It seems appropriate. You’re using ship’s resources and the ship should profit from it.”

  “Is that before or after co-op charges, Captain?”

  I considered that one. One of the bits of advice I’d given the group organizing the co-op was that they should invest in themselves first by rolling some amount of the profits back into the organization so that they’d have funding to take care of all the odds and ends of expenses they’d incur through the course of doing business. “After, Mr. Hill.”

  “That’s very generous, Captain.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s fair. All Agamemnon is providing is some storage and the transport. Incrementally, it’s nothing she’s not going to do already, so there’s no additional expense involved, and in return we serve a greater good by creating a revenue stream for the good of the ship that doesn’t depend on voluntary contributions of a very small crew.”

  He thought about that for a time.

  “One other thing, Mr. Hill.”

  He braced for the bad news.

  “I need to be able to inspect the goods on demand.”

  “You want us to approve them with you, Captain?” I heard the concern in his voice.

  “No, Mr. Hill. I have too much to do to approve or disapprove of these transactions individually and you gentlemen need some operating room to be able to take advantage of market conditions.”

  “Then what, Captain?”

  “When it strikes my fancy, I want to be able to see all the goods you’ve booked in the ship’s name. If push comes to shove and I get called to answer the question, ‘Did you know this was aboard, Captain?’ I do not want to have to say, ‘No.’ That would look very bad.”

  He looked a bit troubled by this. “I understand the need, Skipper, but right now, I think it would take a stan for us to find it all to show you. How do we do this?”

  We frowned at each other in concentration. “I don’t know, Mr. Hill, but I know who to ask. Let’s table that point until we can put together a workable solution, shall we?”

  He nodded an agreement. “That sounds reasonable to me, Captain.” He continued to look at me, as if waiting for the conversation to continue.

  “Mr. Hill?”

  “Is there more, Captain?”

  “More what, Mr. Hill?”

  “More conditions, Captain? So far you want ten percent and the ability to inspect the goods.”

  I thought about it. “Yes, Mr. Hill. If I find goods that seem to be a danger to the ship in any way, I reserve the right to dispose of them immediately, without dispute or recourse. That includes dropping them out the lock.”

  “Well, of course, Captain. I sort of took that as a given.”

  I considered the topic a while longer. “I’m sure the details of the arrangement will evolve, Mr. Hill, but if you see anything I’ve missed?”

  He took a deep breath before continuing. “I was thinking that perhaps the captain might want to exact some punishment, sar.”

  I made a big show of considering it. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Hill, but I can’t think of anything the captain might want to do in that regard.”

  He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t really read. It looked a little like disbelief.

  I relented and offered the explanation. “You found a hole and you used it, Mr. Hill. Shame on me–on the procedures really–for having the hole. I’m not going to lower the boom on you for exploiting it. There may or may not be some ethical issues involved, but they occurred on somebody else’s watch and I won’t to try to second guess with the advantage of hindsight.”

  He looked relieved. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “No thanks needed, Mr. Hill, but you’re welcome. Just don’t violate my trust. It’s all I ask. We’re one ship, one crew. We need each other and trust is the glue that’ll bind us–or break us.”

  He considered that. It stabbed me that he looked like he wanted to believe it, but wasn’t sure he could.

  The rest of the routine watch passed without additional incident or commentary. Mr. Pall relieved the watch on time and we went down to lunch on the mess deck.

  Mr. Wyatt had prepared a very nice grilled chop for lunch with rice and two vegetables. He had every right to feel very pleased by the enthusiastic reception. We were still working through the frozen pie inventory but he offered a side of ice cream which was generally greeted with approval around the table. All through the meal, I had to fight to keep from looking over my shoulder at the cargo display, but I could tell from Mr. Wyatt’s occasional glance that it was still there.

  We cleared away
the rubble and I took Mr. Wyatt aside and explained my requirement. He thought about it for only a moment.

  “I think I know just the thing, Skipper.” He led us out to the main lock. Fitted into one side of the lock was the embargo locker. That was where the ship sealed anything that might be aboard, but considered contraband in any given port. Fitted into the other side was another large, empty, double locker. He slipped the catch and swung it wide. “Guest locker, Captain. For visitors to the ship who need a place to park while they’re aboard.”

  I considered the space. “Do we get many guests aboard, Mr. Wyatt?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, Captain.”

  I turned to Mr. Hill. “What do you think? If I add the condition that everything you book to Agamemnon has to fit in this locker? Is that acceptable, Mr. Hill?”

  He was measuring the space with his eyes and he nodded slowly as he took it all in. “Absolutely, Skipper. And thank you.”

  I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Hill. If you’d notify your compatriots and have the goods transferred here over the next couple of days...?”

  He looked at me and the hand as if confused for a moment, but he shook the offered extremity and nodded. “Yes, Captain. We have a deal. We’ll get the stuff moved ASAP.” He looked a little sheepish. “Frankly, I’ll be glad to sleep on a flat bunk again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Welliver System:

  2372-February-22

  Mr. Pall picked data off the inner markers while we were still six days out of Welliver. The rest of the crew was, by then, in on the bet and with the new updates came renewed interest. I felt the pressure to pick a can so we’d know where we were going next. The obvious choices involved grabbing three and heading back home, but the manifests heading in that direction were nothing to write home about, let alone carry along with us. Everybody got into the act. I was as likely to find Ms. Thomas sitting at the table staring at the list as Mr. Hill.