Spacer, Smuggler, Pirate, Spy Box Set

by J. A. Sutherland

  “Thankee, cap’n.”

  Dansby nodded, moving on toward the hatch, as others of his watch aboard Tyche were, there being only about an hour before their leave ended and them likely as empty-pursed as Dansby himself was now, but with more pleasurable memories of the reason.

  Behind him, the beggar cleared his throat. “Cap’n?”

  Dansby waved a hand behind him.

  “A word, Cap’n Dansby, sir?”

  Dansby stopped and turned, peering closer.

  “Milhouse?”

  The beggar looked up and it was, indeed, Milhouse, one of his crewmen aboard Elizabeth. Dansby rushed back to him.

  “Sweet Dark, man, what’s happened to you? Was Elizabeth attacked? What of the crew? Where’s the ship? Where’s your bloody arm, man?”

  Milhouse stood, rising far easier than his previously weak and disheveled appearance would have led a watcher to believe possible. He jerked his head back along the corridor, away from Tyche’s hatch and toward a short service corridor that offered a sheltered alcove. Dansby followed.

  “All’s well, cap’n, all’s well,” Milhouse said.

  Once out of sight, Milhouse shrugged and eeled in his jumpsuit until the empty sleeve filled as though it were an inflating balloon and his hand emerged from the cuff.

  “Remarkable —” Dansby muttered. There’d been no sign of the man’s arm, either in front or behind, despite the jumpsuit being not at all baggy or loose on his frame.

  “A misspent youth, cap’n, sir,” Milhouse explained. “Always a bit more coin fer one such.”

  Dansby put his own arm behind his back, attempting to duplicate the feat. “However do you —”

  “There’s a trick to the shoulder, cap’n, sir,” Milhouse said, “an’ it hurts a bit the first times. I can show you, if you like, once we’ve got you back aboard ship.”

  “Aye, the ship — is she on station? I didn’t see her listed when we arrived.”

  Milhouse shook his head. “Miss Kaycie thought it best not, sir — soes yer cap’n don’t put two an’ two together an’ get a sense o’ where you run. Out-sailed your Tyche t’get here, then set a few of us in aboard a boat. Elizabeth’s off at that little inner-planet’s L5, sittin’ in the Dark fer us t’bring you home.”

  “A good plan.”

  Milhouse nodded. “Smithey, Sween, an’ me’s been waitin’ fer you.”

  Dansby felt a sudden forbodeing at the names. “Sween’s on station? What about Presgraves?”

  “Aboard ship, sir —”

  “Sweet Dark, man, we’ve got to get Sween back to the ship instanter! Presgrave’s like to set off one of her pet bombs without him to —” Dansby trailed off. Calm wasn’t quite the right word for Sween and Presgraves’ peculiar sort of interaction. The pair’s rows, and subsequent bouts of making up, were nearing legendary status aboard the ship. “— give her an outlet?”

  “It’ll be fine, cap’n, sir,” Milhouse said. “Sween give her a tumble a’fore we left an she’s laid up for a time — something about her hip an’ —”

  “Very well,” Dansby said. He needn’t have the details, provided there was no chance of Elizabeth’s fusion plant being set to overload by an idle Presgraves. Ignoring the visible injuries each typically sported was knowledge enough.

  “Aye, sir, so we’ve just got to get you to the boat an’ tell the others.”

  Dansby nodded, then paused, then shook his head. “No, I can’t go yet.”

  “Cap’n, sir?” Milhouse’s eyes were wide. “Not sure there’s a man alive’d return t’Miss Kaycie, havin’ found an’ then lost you again.”

  Dansby took a deep breath and blew it out with puffed cheeks. He supposed he could return to Elizabeth — the Dark knew he wished to — but he’d have to never tell Kaycie about the addle. If he did, she’d give him a look, and he didn’t want that — there’d be enough of looking when she heard of Rabbit, he was sure, and she’d hear for certain, as Dansby knew himself well enough to know he’d let something slip eventually. There were many people he could keep a thing from, most in the universe, he suspected, but Kaycie was not one.

  “It’s too much to explain,” he said. “I’ll send a note back to Kaycie with what I’m about, so she doesn’t blame you. And instructions, for I feel I’ll want you all, and Elizabeth, close by.” He wasn’t at all sure yet what he’d do to end Tyche’s smuggling of the addle, but a quick escape was an almost certain necessity — his plans being what they typically were. He considered his current needs and the time before he was due back aboard ship. “Come on — we’ve to find a chandlery. I assume she gave you leave to draw on the ship’s funds while you waited?”

  Fourteen

  A chandlery got Dansby both the tablet he needed and narrowed eyes from a chandler not used to selling a device typically reserved for captains to a common spacer — nor for the payment to come from such a thoroughly disreputable looking fellow such as Milhouse currently was.

  Payment was payment, though, and Dansby left with a fine tablet in hand, using it to compose a message to Kaycie even as he hurried back to Tyche’s place along the quay.

  “There,” he said finally, “that should keep you out of any trouble and let her know what I’m about.”

  “Are y’certain, cap’n, sir?” Milhouse asked.

  “I am — you be off now.”

  With a shrug, Milhouse turned and hurried off to find his fellows and return to Elizabeth, something Dansby wished he might do himself, and he very nearly called out for Milhouse to stop so that Dansby might join him.

  That moment passed and he hurried to Tyche.

  “Not many minutes to spare, there, Dansby,” Tart said as he approached.

  “Enough, though,” Dansby allowed him, with a grin.

  The irritable master’s mate curled a lip, but jerked his head for Dansby to board. A few minutes later all of Dansby’s watch were back aboard ship and the other half of the crew was released for their own leave, while Dansby and his fellows resumed their work where it was left off. He had barely a moment’s time to draw his tablet all the rest of their stay at Corders Hole, dropping into his bunk exhausted and waking to shouts that there were yet more burdens to be brought aboard, lines to be restrung, sails to be taken below for mending and their replacements moved to the sail locker — all the countless tasks necessary aboard ship.

  Tyche sailed no later than the last man returned from his own leisure, breaking off from the station’s docking tube and making way for the L1 point and her return to darkspace.

  There was little respite there, though, as she worked her way out of Corders Hole’s dark matter shoals and halo to the clearer space past the influence of its star and planets. Leaving a system was always a time of constant work on the sails, tack after tack as a ship beat its way to windward against the dark energy winds that always blew toward a star system and never away. It was only when they reached the outermost edge of the system that the winds became more variable and Captain Stansfield was able to put the ship on an easier course.

  In all his time outside the hull to pulley-haul on this line or that, getting the sails just right to satisfy everyone from the Captain down to the supervising master’s mate, Dansby scanned the unrelieved darkness for any sign of Elizabeth’s lights. He knew, deep in his heart, that Kaycie and the crew wouldn’t forsake him, but another glimpse of the ship would be welcome. There was nothing, though, and he really didn’t expect there to be. Kaycie knew enough, and Elizabeth was a strong enough sailer, to outstrip Tyche and arrive at their destination far ahead of the Navy ship.

  Tyche’s course was well-known enough, Stansfield apparently not having too much in the way of imagination about such things as courses. He took the easiest path through his patrol area, stopping at each system, each in order of its distance from the last, as regularly as clockwork — or any clockwork subject to the vagaries of darkspace winds, at least.

  In any case, all aboard Tyche knew full-well where they’d next s
top, and Dansby had been able to pass that on to Kaycie via Milhouse.

  It wasn’t until they were well on their way, though, that he was finally able to settle into his upper bunk with his new tablet and begin any real work.

  “Well, that’s a fancy one, now, ain’t it?” Kel said, setting his arms on Dansby’s bunk edge and peering at the device.

  “It’ll do,” Dansby allowed, glad he had nothing incriminating on his screen yet.

  “What you need that for?” Prat asked from his own bunk opposite Dansby’s.

  There was a rustle of blankets and Jordan sat up on his bunk below Prat’s. “What’s he got, then?”

  “Fancy tablet,” Kel said. “Like t’be what a lieutenant’d have, seems.”

  “Aye, what y’gone and got that for?” Jordan asked.

  Dansby sighed. There was no such thing as true privacy aboard ship, not in the berthing area, at least, and he needed the others to ignore him as much as possible. He cleared his throat. “Entertainments,” he said distinctly, meeting Kel’s eyes at the edge of his bunk.

  “Well, aye, but —”

  “Of a certain nature.” Dansby stared at him, then raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see?”

  “Oh —” Kel said.

  “Ah —” Jordan said. “No. No — won’t judge your … proclivities — not after good advice — but …” He lay back down and pulled his blanket up. “Don’t need to see that, me.”

  “Never mind.” Prat laid down and turned his back to Dansby, then rolled over quickly, then cast his eyes about as though deciding where to look — though he’d be sleeping and his eyes would be closed — then rolled back over and settled for pulling the blanket tight under his buttocks.

  Kel opened his mouth, then looked around at the others and sank out of sight to his own bunk.

  Each pulled a short curtain about their bunk to give themselves what privacy they might have — and in Prat’s case, perhaps, what protection he thought it might offer his buttocks.

  Dansby did the same, finally tapping at the new tablet to begin his real work.

  The thing had power enough, and he’d been able to add some tools aboard Corders Hole, but there was still much do and he had no access to the references he’d had back at school on Lesser Sibward. There he’d had not only the system and network references publicly available, but a legacy of documents and tools from past students in how to attack the school’s systems and records.

  Aboard Tyche he had little but his own wits and remembrances.

  He tapped the screen late into the night, developing bits of code and agents to do the work he wanted, ignoring, for the most part, the systems of the ship itself. Those were hardened and inaccessible, with no few traps that would alert the fellows in engineering if they were accessed by one such as Dansby. In fact, he doubted there was any true connection between the gundeck, where he was berthed, to the engineering spaces or quarterdeck systems.

  Luckily, he didn’t need to defeat those protections, he was only, really, concerned about other tablets, and there were a plethora of those around him to test his workings on. Admittedly, the common spacers’ tablets would be a step or two below his ultimate target’s, but not by so very much.

  It was three days’ — nights’ — work before he was satisfied, and he ventured down to visit Fell in the purser’s stores.

  “Ah, young Dansby,” Fell said, “come to wheedle on about a tablet again? Or, no, I’ve heard you have a fine example already, yes?”

  Of course, the purser’d heard about his fine tablet, the rumors and talk aboard ship being what they were.

  “I did, Mister Fell. Good luck at the card tables on Corders Hole, it turned out.”

  “Hhhmmm.” Fell drew the sound out through pursed lips. “Or sold what you had to sell?” Fell shrugged. “No concern of mine, no, what a man does off ship, though if the rumors are true …”

  Damn me, Dansby thought. Is that what’s going around now? That I sold my backside on Corders Hole to get this bloody tablet? Should’ve caught Rabbit and dragged her to the ship’s hatch to give good report on how I truly spent my time.

  “No, Mister Fell,” he said calmly, concentrating on the work at hand. “I’ve only come for a bit of coffee for my mess, if you please.”

  Fell grunted. “How much?”

  “Half a kilo,” Dansby said. “And a tin of biscuit, as well, please.” He frowned. “Add a packet of sweets. On my account.”

  Fell grunted again, but Dansby merely smiled. He could treat his mess to a half kilo of decent coffee and treats, especially as he’d be long gone from Tyche before the accounts came due.

  The purser left the counter to retrieve the items, leaving, for all the world as though there were no danger in the doing, his own tablet right there. No sooner had the man turned his back than Dansby had his own tablet from his pocket and tapped against the purser’s, activating its new and special capabilities.

  Before the first of his ordered items was off the shelf, Dansby had his tablet back and tucked away. He wasn’t certain that it had worked — wouldn’t be until night when he could check — but it was as much as he could do just then.

  Fifteen

  A cursory look at what was on Fell’s tablet told Dansby he was on the right track, but a more detailed view of the data would take two more days. During the night, Tyche bespoke another ship traveling in the opposite direction, each exchanging what word they had of conditions ahead for the other.

  Ahead of Tyche lay darkspace storms — not unusual for the time and area of space, but strong and destructive as dark energy winds howled and swirled between the coming systems, driving all before them.

  Captain Stansfield took the opportunity of that knowledge to work the crew even harder than as they’d left Corders Hole, calling all-hands to make and change sail until he was satisfied that the mainsail could be taken in three reefs in as many minutes.

  Food was hot, thankfully, as they weren’t yet within an actual storm that might toss the ship about despite its inertial compensators and make hot pans full of hotter liquids a danger, but it was eaten quickly by men both so weary that they’d not take the time to taste it and so certain the next call would come at any time that they wished to get as much into them as they could before donning vacsuits and returning to the masts and spars.

  It was harder work than Dansby’d ever seen aboard ship, though easier than it would be in a true storm and he dreaded the thought of experiencing that. As scion of a merchant family, he’d been taught to avoid the storms or run before them, perhaps angling his ship as he might to avoid some system shoals — but never, as Tyche did, to shrug off the danger and maintain course, regardless of the conditions.

  It was a difference between the common merchant spacer and these men of the Navy, and one that made Dansby respect them all the more.

  Two days of that and Stansfield ordered the ship put on a steady tack toward Greater Ashton, their next destination, and allowed a make-and-mend day for the crew in recompense for their work. Dansby felt they must have done well, regardless of the bosun’s and his mates’ shouts through touched helmets, their shoving of men who were out of position, and the not infrequent landing of a heavy starter on the backside of a man not moving fast enough or pulling hard enough to satisfy them. Stansfield must have felt it was well-enough, as he ordered the purser to splice-the-mainbrace at lunch that day, and a grand keg of watered rum, flavored with sugar and citrus, was brought out.

  Dansby lined up with the rest, mugs in hand to receive their full measure and idle away the rest of the afternoon.

  “Fancy a bit of cards?” Prat asked.

  There’d be no gambling allowed, at least not overtly, but one could still hone skills and pass the time.

  “For a bit,” Jordan allowed.

  “Aye,” Kel said.

  “Dansby?” Prat asked.

  “I fear I’m exhausted,” Dansby said, regretting it, though he longed to get at the purser’s data and lear
n all the man was up to. “I’ll likely crawl into my bunk and sleep until morning.”

  “More entertainments,” Prat said to the others’ laughter.

  “More that I’ve not worked so hard in my life,” Dansby countered. “I was aboard a merchantman before Tyche — we’d not sail into a thing that demanded such sail work.”

  “Ah, the lazy life,” Jordan said. “All running and easy reaches, while we Navy fellows go hard against the winds.”

  “Smaller crews,” Dansby said, feeling the need to defend his fellows a bit, “and no Admiralty to pay for a damaged ship.”

  “Ah, but they’ll bear the risk when there’s profit on the other side of the storm,” Prat said, “and then it’s us Navy men have to drag a sorry bastard off some shoals.”

  The others nodded, except Jordan. “Some poor sod in the system’s Halo Guard, more like,” he said.

  “Mad buggers,” Prat said. “Spendin’ all their time with naught but shoals to leeward.”

  Dansby nodded along with the rest. What Navy and merchants alike could agree on was that the fellows who patrolled a system’s edges, where the dark energy winds always blew against the most concentrated of the system’s dark matter halo, were the maddest of buggers.

  The line moved on and Dansby collected his portion of drink while his messmates went about convincing a few others to engage in a bit of card play.

  Dansby returned to his bunk, hopped up to sit and set his mug on a little shelf set into the bulkhead, then pulled his curtain tight against the edges. He wanted those outside to get the impression he was a man intent on sleeping until the next call to work the sails and would brook no interruption of it.

  He took a long drink of his grog, trying to ignore the under-taste of ship’s water, and settled back with his tablet.

  Fell, the purser, like so many of his breed, was utterly mad for records.

  He had records of every milligram and milliliter of stores brought aboard Tyche, the slightest measure doled out to cook, carpenter, or man, the barest milliamp of power from the ship’s fusion plant and where each might go — had he been able to engrave an ID on the very molecules to aid his tracking, Dansby suspected he would do so.