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

by Nathan Lowell

  The good news in the whole mix up was that the co-op got their first feel for flea market trading. I’d sent Mr. Schubert off in the morning of the twenty-ninth to secure a booth and they worked out a schedule for coverage that included the afternoons.

  “Better deals in the afternoon,” I muttered.

  “Sar?” Mr. Pall looked up at me.

  “Oh, nothing, Mr. Pall. Just something we used to say about going to the flea market.”

  He went back to his astrogation screens. “If we don’t spend too much time in the Deep Dark, we’ll be okay on this deadline, Skipper.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pall. If you’d pass the word? I’ll call the navigation detail at 1400.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” He skinned up out of the seat and headed down to the galley. Most of the crew would be there. With the installation of the long table, the mess deck had become a kind of crew lounge. Mr. Wyatt’s gentle humor and ready supply of samples encouraged people to hang out and “keep him company” while he puttered about.

  I crossed the bridge to look out at the cans. The orbital’s cargo people had been most expeditious in swapping out the loads. I sent a thank you note to their cargo master. His crews had done yeoman service in getting us set up to fly as soon as possible and I appreciated the extra effort. If they ribbed us about the cargo of ‘platinum-plated kitty litter,’ I was happy to laugh all the way to the bank.

  I glanced up at the chrono. It was getting ready to click over to 1130 and I could hear Ms. Thomas holding forth on the mess deck.

  I sighed.

  I was on the bridge–granted, at the top of the ladder and there was a direct sound path down to the main deck–but she was two decks down, on the mess deck, and I could still hear her voice echoing clearly up through the ship. Other voices were indistinct mumbles but I could hear every word Ms. Thomas spoke. She reminded me of a colleague my mother had back at the University of Neris. He was a big, bluff professor of mathematics. He’d always claimed he developed his booming voice to reach the sleeping students in the back of the classroom. His colleagues accused him of learning to whisper in a steel foundry.

  I snorted, thinking about my old life. I hardly ever thought about growing up any more–the dusty streets and languid heat of Neris, the small apartment I’d shared with my mother. I took another sip of cold coffee and tried to focus on the coming voyage, but my mind kept straying back to that math professor. What the heck was his name?

  It was one of those irritating things that happens sometimes. I knew his name was in there somewhere, but I just couldn’t dredge it up and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I remembered all kinds of things about him. Where he lived. His wife’s name. There was even a joke going about that he made himself deaf from talking.

  I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cold armor glass. Of course.

  It was a matter of a few moments to scamper down to the mess deck. Everybody but Hill and the chief was gathered around the table engaged in making lunches. It looked like a good set up with Mr. Wyatt supervising.

  “Mr. Wyatt, may I steal Ms. Thomas from your production line for a moment? I have a task that I need her to do for me before we get underway.”

  She’d glanced up as I entered the mess deck and looked startled when I singled her out.

  Mr. Wyatt shrugged. “Of course, Captain.”

  I nodded Ms. Thomas out into the passage and she followed with a curious frown. “I need you to do something for me, Ms. Thomas.” I kept my voice low and my head turned to the side. For good measure I rubbed the side of my face closest to her.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. What was that?”

  I turned to face her. “I need you to do something for me, Ms. Thomas.”

  “Of course, Skipper. How can I help?”

  “Gwen, I want you to report to orbital medical right now. Go down and ask for a hearing examination.”

  “What?” Her voice–already quite loud–took on a note of alarm. It was loud enough that the general hubbub in the galley quieted.

  I nodded in the direction of the lock. “This way, Ms. Thomas, if you please.”

  I led her out to the lock, and with a nod to Mr. Hill, cracked the lock and went out to the frigid docks beyond. It was loud enough and busy enough out there that we had a bit of privacy. I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the crew, but she needed help.

  “What’s this about, Captain?” By that point, she’d had enough time to process and was becoming angry.

  I looked down at her. Our height differences never seemed to be that great until I stood next to her. “Gwen, I think you have a hearing loss. I want you to go get it checked out. That’s all. If I’m wrong, then no harm, no foul, and I apologize for interfering, but if I’m right, then this is a matter regarding the safety of the crew, to say nothing of your health and well-being.”

  “But, Captain, I’ve been through this before. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing!”

  I smiled. “Prove it, Ms. Thomas. Bring me back the audiogram.”

  She started to screw up her face in that truculent frown I’d seen that first day aboard.

  “Please, Gwen?”

  “But we’re getting underway this afternoon, Captain.”

  “I can spare you for the few ticks it’ll take. Go now and you’ll be back in time for mess.” I pulled my face down closer to hers. “Please, Gwen. I need to know for the safety of the ship.”

  She looked like she might argue one last time, but she subsided. “Okay, Ishmael. You’ve been a square dealer so far. Take a bet?”

  “What stakes?”

  “Loser buys the winner a beer when we get to Jett.”

  “Agreed. Conditions?”

  “I’ll take the audiogram. If it’s clean, you buy. If I have a loss, I’ll buy.”

  “You have a bet, Ms. Thomas.” I spit in my palm and held it out.

  She spit in hers and took the grip. After a quick squeeze she headed off toward the lift and medical, and I headed back into the ship and out of the cold.

  I went back to the mess deck and helped pack up the finished boxes to clear away for mess at noon. Mr. Wyatt had planned a hearty lunch and the smell from the ovens was delightful. I thought it was a spicy pork dish, but I’d stopped looking at the menus, trusting in Mr. Wyatt to surprise me with good food. With a couple notable exceptions, he’d lived up to that trust. I was more than willing to accept the exceptions as part of the price for training a first class chef.

  The chronometer clicked over to 1200 and Mr. Wyatt opened the mess line. “Are we expecting Ms. Thomas back for lunch, Captain?”

  “I was expecting her to be back by now, Mr. Wyatt, yes. I’m not sure what the delay is.”

  We didn’t stand on much ceremony but continued through the serving. I did happen to notice that Mr. Wyatt set aside a plate with several choice cuts on it. We all got seated and I had several curious glances from the assembled crew and the odd look a the empty place across from me. Conversation lagged until Mr. Pall offered the first salvo.

  “So, what do you think is really in the cans, Skipper?”

  “My initial hunch is that it’s probably kitty litter, sand, and clay, Mr. Pall. Why?”

  “Sar, nobody pays that much to ship kitty litter.” He looked like it was so obvious.

  I turned to our cargo expert. “Mr. Wyatt? Your thoughts?”

  He took a moment to finish the bite in his mouth before speaking. “Interesting question, Captain. I’ll admit that I wondered myself.”

  “Any idea on the actual commercial value of the cargo, Mr. Wyatt?”

  He shrugged. “Not really, Skipper. I don’t really follow the futures market in kitty litter.”

  Mr. Hill surprised us. “Actually, sars, the valuable can in the three is the sand, then the clay, then the Fuller’s Earth.”

  “Fascinating, Mr. Hill. Do you have an approximate value on the worth of the three cans?”

  “It’s hard to say, Captain, because it’s p
art of a long term contractual agreement between Welliver Mining and Extraction here and Jett Ceramic Components. The details of that contract are not on public record. Going rates on the open market for the three components would place the value of the shipment at something like three times what they’re paying in priority shipping.”

  Mr. Pall whistled appreciatively. “That’s a lot of money for freight.”

  Mr. Ricks shrugged and tossed a few tidbits of his own onto the table. “Contracts are funny things, sar. These bigger players out here toss them around like confetti and everybody’s trying to do in everybody else while they’re trying to make it look like they’re cooperating.”

  That struck a cord with me. “How so, Mr. Ricks.”

  “Well, take this WME and JCC contract, Skipper. Nobody knows for sure, but rumor is the two got into a kind of brinkmanship game over it. They couldn’t really play too fast and loose in the primary conditions of cost and schedule, but they knifed each other pretty badly on the penalty clauses.”

  Mr. Pall’s eyes glittered. “How badly, Mr. Ricks? Do you know?”

  He shook his head. “Not in detail, but I’m guessing this priority they’re paying is a drop in the bucket. Apparently JCC was late in payment sometime last stanyer. The late fees were reported to be record-breaking in the local press here.”

  “I knew it.” Mr. Pall looked jubilant. “They’re all pirates!”

  Mr. Wyatt turned to Mr. Ricks. “That’s a lot of information for a private contract, Mr. Ricks.”

  Mr. Ricks shrugged. “I think it’s as much about claiming the win as getting the money. WME couldn’t help crowing.”

  Mr. Wyatt smiled. “I wonder if the JCC did the same on the other side but with a slightly different twist.”

  Schubert grinned. “I can see the headline. ‘JCC Victim of Corporate Greed’.”

  We shared a chuckle and I saw the chief stiffen and look over my shoulder.

  “What’s–” Ms. Thomas’s voice came from behind me but stopped suddenly before resuming at a more normal volume. “What’s all the funny?”

  Conversation, laughter, all of it stopped and all heads turned to where Ms. Thomas stood in the entrance to the mess deck.

  I smiled at her. “We’re just laughing over corporate greed, Ms. Thomas. And wondering how we can take better advantage of it.”

  She crossed to the galley and started looking over the serving area.

  Mr. Wyatt rose. “I saved you a plate, Gwen. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, and I wanted to protect some small portion from these scavengers.” He grinned and looked at us all in mock fierceness.

  She beamed at him. “Thank–” She stopped and thought for a moment before resuming in a more normal tone. “Thank you, Avery. That was thoughtful.”

  He used an oven mitt to pull the warm plate from the oven and slip it onto Ms. Thomas’s place.

  I turned to the chief. “Any problems with getting underway in a few stans, Chief?”

  “Oh, no, Captain. We’re topped off and ready to sail off into the night.” She smiled her little girl smile.

  Ms. Thomas tucked into her lunch with a will, and I turned to Mr. Hill. “If you’d take a moment to hang out the sign, Mr. Hill? We’ll make the orbital happy by locking down now.”

  He scraped the last bit of dinner from his plate and stood. “Aye, aye, Captain. Securing ship for scheduled pull out at 1400.” He took his empties and slotted them in the cleaner before heading back to his watch.

  Mr. Wyatt eyed the clock and mumbled, “We’d probably better serve dessert if we’re going to get done before 1300.”

  Ms. Thomas turned to him, leaning in to see around the chief who sat between them. “I’m the late one here, Avery. Don’t wait on me. Please, serve dessert.”

  It was a little unnerving to hear her speak at a near normal tone and she seemed to sense it.

  She sighed once and looked around the table. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She looked at me and that decided her. “I owe ya a beer, Skipper.” Her voice was that rough burled alto that I associated with heavy worlders. Clear of the volume artifacts, it had a richness to it that was completely at odds with the sharp voice we’d all come to associate with her.

  “I’ll collect with pleasure when we get to Jett, Ms. Thomas.”

  She turned to the table at large and took a deep breath. “The captain sent me to medical. I had a hearing check.” She turned her head little to show a small button of flesh colored material in her ear. “The test itself was very fast. It took a little longer for them to install my new ears.”

  Chief Gerheart was closest to her and leaned in to look. “That’s cute!” She grinned happily. “And you can hear better?”

  Ms. Thomas nodded. “Yes, Chief. I can hear better, and I shouldn’t have to shout as much.”

  The Chief clapped her hands happily. “That’s wonderful!” She offered a quick, seated hug. “I’m so pleased.”

  Ms. Thomas looked a little taken aback by the hug but as everybody around the table offered congratulations and good wishes she soon relaxed and finished off her lunch while Mr. Wyatt doled out pie and ice cream.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Welliver System:

  2372-March-20

  We were only eighteen days out of Welliver when we went to navigation stations for our jump into the Deep Dark. The ship and crew functioned smoothly. Ms. Thomas was adjusting to her new levels of sensory input and she seemed younger. It was something about her eyes. She didn’t seem as haunted. The Chief was relaxing a little as well. Her mask didn’t exactly come off, but she appeared more at ease. The little girl was still there, but maybe she was growing up a bit. Mr. Wyatt had obtained some new spices and he treated us to some wonderful curries on the way out. Even the bad boys seemed happy. Their first try at doing a flea market booth had yielded good, if not great returns, and somebody had taken my advice on finding new trade goods there. The guest locker still contained a number of items that I thought might not sell well at the flea, but they’d also picked up some bolts of fabric and a few pieces of flat artwork from a local artist.

  Mr. Pall, however, still insisted that something else must be in the containers. His speculations went from toxic waste to dead bodies to the inevitable pirate horde. I found him with an ear pressed up against the aft bulkhead as we were preparing the ship to jump.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Pall?”

  “Listening, Skipper.”

  “I see. And what are you listening to?”

  “Nothing at the moment, Captain.”

  “We are surrounded by vacuum, you know, Mr. Pall.”

  “Yes, Skipper, but any vibrations in those cans would be transmitted to the hull.”

  I considered that for a moment. “Actually, I don’t think they would, Mr. Pall.”

  He looked surprised. “Why not, Skipper?”

  “The pads on the edges of the cans are built to damp out vibrations. It keeps the ship’s vibrations from being transmitted into the cans and stirring any volatiles that might be in a cargo.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Then I wouldn’t be able to hear if there was, like, a fusactor back there supplying power?”

  I shrugged. “You might, Mr. Pall, but it would have to be back there, for starters, and it would have to be vibrating more than ours for you to pick it out of the hum.”

  “Excellent points, Captain. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Pall. Do you think we might get the course plots laid in for the jump?”

  “All done, Skipper. I did it earlier, and then came down here to listen. Timing is everything.”

  “Timing, Mr. Pall?”

  “Yes, sar, the pirates won’t want to act too soon. They’ll wait until we jump into the Deep Dark before they strike, and we’ll just be another statistic on the lost ships roll.” He looked positively gleeful at the prospect.

  “Are there any precautions you think we should take, Mr. Pall?”


  “Just keep an eye open for the murthering scum, Skipper.”

  “Murthering scum, Mr. Pall?”

  “Yea, it means like cold blooded killers but meaner, Captain.”

  “I’m familiar with the term, Mr. Pall. I was just surprised you used it.”

  “I’ve been working on my vocabulary.” He looked down shyly. “Never know when you might hear a word you don’t understand and feel like a ninny-come-pooper, know what I mean, Skipper?”

  “Yes, I can see where that might be embarrassing. Well done, Mr. Pall. Now? If we could secure the pirate patrol and adjourn to the bridge, I’ve a mind to see the Deep Dark this afternoon.”

  “Capital idea, Skipper.” He raised a hand dramatically. “High Tortuga bound!” He scampered off up the ladders and I could hear his eager footfalls all the way up to the bridge.

  It was a bit distressing. I kept remembering the comment that Mr. Hill had made on our way into Welliver about the crew being a reflection of the captain. The thought gave me a few moments’ pause. I slipped into the galley for a fresh mug of coffee before following Mr. Pall to the bridge. The rest of the crew was waiting when I got there and I nodded to Ms. Thomas to call us officially to stations.

  The swap over was seamless since Ms. Thomas and Mr. Schubert had the watch already. I took my seat as her now mellifluous tones echoed through the ship. Ms. Thomas appeared to enjoy the effect her heavy worlder’s growly voice had on the male of the species and I suspected she practiced in her stateroom.

  “Do we have enough way on the boat, Ms. Thomas?”

  “I should think so, Skipper.” She took a few moments to look at some data. “It looks good to me. When we furl the sails, we’ll go ballistic at something over twenty kilometers per second. We really only need a meter per second to jump through the hole, Captain.”