The Kestral Voyages: My Life, After Berserker

by Steven Lyle Jordan

  Gellen So’s face fell visibly. “No…”

  The man nodded. “The acquaintance told him about the berserker.”

  “Damn!” So gritted his teeth in anger. He stood silently for a moment, then he looked at the other man. “There’s an old saying, goes all the way back to 20th century Earth: ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Ever heard it?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Well, May’s buddy may have sunk us all.”

  ~

  “Tirri, are you in here?” Angel strolled into the main cargo bay with a cup in his hand, craning his neck about.

  “Over here.”

  Angel stopped and turned, and saw Tirri at one of the wall consoles to his left. He headed in her direction, absently glancing about the mostly-empty cargo bay around him.

  “The last of the coffee from breakfast,” he announced, holding out the cup. “Thought you might like some.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Tirri smiled, taking the cup. She took a sip, and grinned. “This is a good drink. Sarander’s occasionally mentioned it, but he never drank it regularly, so I had no idea it could be this good.”

  Angel nodded and leaned casually against the bulkhead. “Where did you two meet?”

  “On Gem’s Planet.”

  “Oh, really?” Angel’s eyebrows shot up, and he grinned widely. “Don’t tell me one of you were working there?”

  “I was on leave,” Tirri replied, “and Sarander was between jobs and taking some R&R. We met at a party for someone neither of us even knew.”

  “Last time I was on Gem’s Planet,” Angel admitted, “I could hardly stand to leave. Too many temptations. And that orange liquor they sell makes sex…” He searched for the right word.

  “Magic,” she finished for him.

  “Magic,” he agreed, then paused and regarded her closely. A moment later, Tirri smiled at Angel and batted feathery lashes.

  “How do you think I got him?”

  Angel returned her grin. He indicated the panel she had been working on. “Checking the cargo already?”

  “Just making sure we have the load balancers set properly,” She replied. “It’s supposed to be the boss’ job, but with Sarander flying this thing, he doesn’t have time to check things like this right now.”

  “Well…” Angel tried to think of something positive to say. “At least he can pilot, so we didn’t have to write off this first job. I suppose Carolyn will find us a pilot after we deliver at Terra212. Then Sarander will be just the boss.”

  “I suppose,” Tirri replied.

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  Tirri started to speak, but she paused before doing so. “Well… you weren’t there, but Carolyn shooed me off of the bridge when we got the call from Doshu May.”

  “Our pilot?”

  “Yes. Before she sent me out, I heard him say, ‘I did some checking on you’.”

  “On me?” Tirri fixed Angel with a cold stare. “Oh! Sorry… you mean he checked on Carolyn. So, what does that mean?”

  “That means,” Tirri explained, “that something he knows about Carolyn made him decide not to be her pilot.”

  “Well… okay,” Angel nodded. “But that doesn’t say much. Maybe this guy May is just real particular about who he works for. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t like working for ex-Rangers. Who knows?”

  “Well, I think maybe we should find out,” Tirri said. “I mean, sure, it might be nothing. But it might be something, too.”

  Angel shrugged. “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “Well, I can’t do anything until we get to High Amarillo, our fuel stop. Once we’re there, and out of C, I may be able to make some calls and check some things.”

  “Or,” Angel pointed out, “you could just ask her.”

  “She already blew off the question once. Do you think she’s likely to say anything now?” Angel shrugged at Tirri’s response. “Whatever it is, it’ll probably wait until we get to High Amarillo. By then, she might do something to give it away anyhow. So I’m not going to say anything. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “Mm.” Angel pushed off of the bulkhead. “I’m going to check on the farm, if anyone’s looking for me.”

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Any time.” Angel ambled over to an access ladder, and started climbing toward the upper bays. Tirri watched him go, before turning back to her console.

  ~

  Angel’s “farm” was, so far, not much. After all, he had only arrived on the ship two days before. Still, anyone who visited it would have been able to recognize what it would eventually look like.

  Angel had already set up tiers of thin carbonate scaffolding, running the length of the cargo bay in multiple rows. The scaffolding included spray nozzles that would eventually pump out the nutrients the plants would need to grow, as soon as Angel had them hooked up. He had a few plants already arranged on the scaffolding, and large storage cubes along one back wall were apparently filled with vegetables, beans, tubers, and more plants for Angel to arrange throughout the room. A specialized air-filtering system sat quietly in a corner, creating a more palatable atmosphere than the standard air that the freighter’s systems provided. He had also installed some specially-designed lighting tubes in the ceiling, and placed a few mirrors strategically about the corners of the bay. Thanks to the tubes, the room was bathed in a light that was virtually identical with that of Earth.

  Angel was soon busy unpacking one of the packing cubes, filled with more plants to arrange on the scaffolding, when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor to the bay. As he looked up, the bay door opened and Kestral stepped through it.

  “Hello there,” Angel said, grabbing a nearby cloth to wipe his hands and standing up. “Did you need me for anything?”

  “Oh, no,” Kestral said. “I just came to see how things were progressing up here.”

  “Actually, pretty good,” Angel replied, joining her in looking around the room. “I know it doesn’t look like much right now… getting the scaffolding up, and the plants on the scaffolding, is the time-consuming work. Once that’s done, I’ll get the aeroponic systems hooked up, and set up the controllers. Then it’s mostly light maintenance, and I won’t have to spend so much time up here.” He looked around the bay. “Still, maybe we should see about installing an intercom station inside here, instead of just the one out in the corridor.”

  “I don’t know why standard design specs wouldn’t have installed coms inside every bay anyway,” Kestral admitted. “I’ll talk to Sarander about it.”

  “Is he still flying?”

  Kestral nodded. “I’ll be spelling him later.”

  “Well, it’ll wait. We’re making a fuel stop along the way, right?”

  “Yes,” Kestral replied. “High Amarillo. It’s a small asteroid depot about a third of the way to Terra212.”

  “Asteroid? I guess I won’t be picking up any food supplies there.”

  “No, probably not.”

  “I guess you’ll have time to send out inquiries for a pilot, though.” Kestral looked at him. “You know,” he continued, “spread the word. Maybe that way you’ll have a pilot waiting at Terra212.”

  Kestral nodded and smiled lightly. “Maybe so. Good thought.” She took another look around. “Well, it’s looking pretty good. I’ll leave you to it. See you later.”

  “See ya.”

  As Kestral walked out of Angel’s “farm,” she mentally kicked herself. She’d known exactly what Angel was alluding to when he’d made those suggestions about finding a pilot. He was checking on her intention to actually try to get one. Following Sarander’s double-duty discomfort and Tirri’s suspicions at being chased off the bridge, she knew now that she had already damaged her crew’s trust in her.

  “Some Captain I’m turning out to be,” she muttered to herself.

  5: Pilot Found

  Kestral remained in her quarters during the rest of Sarander’s first shift at pilot. No one called on her, and
she called on none of her crew.

  At the agreed upon time, she left her quarters and headed directly for the bridge. Opening the bridge hatch, she was not surprised to find Sarander and Tirri sitting at the pilot and ops stations, talking together. They did not seem to be particularly conspiratorial in tone, but they did both stop speaking and turn her way when she came through the hatch.

  “Okay, I’ll take over,” Kestral announced in as neutral a tone as she could manage. “Sarander, maybe you should take a look about and make sure none of us have screwed up your systems. Then get some rest.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Sarander stepped away from the pilot’s station, and Kestral sat down silently, taking a moment to familiarize herself with the controls as he had shown her hours earlier. “Um… holler if you need anything.”

  “Oh, I will,” Kestral replied, managing a thin smile. Then she settled in for her shift. After a moment, Sarander turned and headed for the hatch. He stopped at the hatch and glanced back at Tirri, who continued to sit at ops.

  Tirri alternated her glance at Kestral, then Sarander, clearly torn as to what to do. Sarander continued to watch her. Kestral, for her part, stared at her instruments, and avoided eye contact with Tirri. Finally Tirri came to her decision: She stood up from ops, and followed her husband off the bridge.

  “Wait.”

  At the sound of Kestral’s voice, Tirri and Sarander stopped and turned to face her from the hatch. Kestral turned in the pilot’s seat to face them, and looked both of them in the eye when she spoke. “I know we’re getting off to a bad start. I’m hoping I can make it up to you. But I just want you to know… I won’t try to force you to stay on, after we finish this run. Please tell that to Angel for me, too.”

  Her voice was even, but she did not bother to hide the resignation in her tone. Tirri clearly reacted to her statement, and she looked to Sarander for his response. Sarander seemed to consider her words carefully, taking time before he responded.

  “Just find us a pilot, Carolyn,” he finally said, without rancor. Then he left the bridge, Tirri following him silently.

  ~

  High Amarillo was typical of the asteroid-based fuel depots throughout the Galarchy. Most fuel depots consisted primarily of living facilities encased inside an asteroid, or inside asteroids joined together, and docking slips built about the outside of the asteroid. Many of them, especially the larger of the depots, would have extensive constructions jutting out of the asteroid in every direction, allowing space for hundreds of ships of every size and shape. The fuel was often stored on the asteroid only for short periods, as many of the depots utilized remote fuel processing facilities set up on a nearby asteroid, and transported the fuel to the depot on demand.

  The asteroid itself would generally offer some amount of rest and recreation facilities, although it was usually spare on lodging (after all, if you were there on a space ship, you already had a place to stay). And depending on its location, it would have a constantly-updated Galarchy map database for visiting ships to use to update their own databases, as well as facilities to permit connection to other Oan databases and systems.

  As the Mary approached, now out of C and slowing, High Amarillo looked like nothing more than an immense maze of platforms and gantries, a carbonate spider’s web that had seemingly captured dozens of ships. Kestral, her turn at the pilot’s station, received slip coordinates from the dockmaster, and was about to call Sarander to handle the docking, when he and Tirri arrived on the bridge and quietly took over. So had it been for the past two days, everyone doing their job, but saying little to each other outside of the demands of duty. It had been tense, and Kestral had suppressed the need to scream on more than one occasion, but it had gotten them this far. Kestral took her place at the Captain’s station and let them work, while she silently accessed the message she had composed in her quarters, and sent it to the databases at High Amarillo.

  Sarander donned a pair of goggles with domed lenses, as Tirri called out readings from her station. The goggles were designed to create a visually-immersive three-dimensional representation of whatever the pilot felt he needed to be viewing, whether it was a normal visual of their immediate surroundings, a sensor-enhanced overlay of their course plot, or a graphic representation of the ship’s systems. Within Sarander’s point of view, the Mary became a ghost, allowing him to see the outer envelope of the ship, and the scaffolding around them, as if he could literally see through the ship’s hull. He brought the Mary about slowly, using the thrusters in light puffs, and guided the ship into the gantry waiting for her. He occasionally asked for a reading from Tirri, who supplied it directly. Kestral took note of how well-coordinated they worked, which only made her more regretful that she had probably already driven a permanent wedge between herself and them. As she silently watched, Sarander slid the Mary smoothly into her gantry, with only the slightest of jolts to signal their docking.

  “Okay, we’re in,” he said, systematically shutting down the engines from his station. “I’ll supervise the fuelling.”

  “Great,” Kestral nodded, standing. “Well, we’ve got a couple of hours here. I’m going to the administrative offices. Call me if you need anything.” She left the bridge behind Sarander, turning for the crew hatch as he continued on back to the engines.

  The Mary’s hatch was mated to an access umbilical that led into the asteroid. The umbilical was essentially a flexible tube, with interior handholds to facilitate moving through it, and numerous cables and lines running along its exterior that allowed the Mary’s systems to be connected to the asteroid’s facilities. Kestral pulled herself hand over hand through the umbilical, which had no gravity generators built into it.

  When she approached the first seal-off point in the umbilical, she hesitated only briefly before pushing herself through. At this point, she knew the biosensors in the umbilical were looking her over, and if they found any organisms that were considered hazardous, the umbilical would close ahead of her, preventing her from leaving the Mary. She did not expect it to stop her, but she was mildly relieved when she passed through the second seal-off point unchallenged.

  When she reached the entry into the terminal corridor, she quickly righted herself in the gravity field and touched down deftly, drawing a few impressed glances from bystanders who had probably not acclimated to the asteroid’s gravity fields as well… and from not a few who simply admired her figure.

  The interior of High Amarillo turned out to be as typical an asteroid depot as the outside. Spray-sealed rock walls formed corridors wide enough for three humans, with doors sunk into the rock, or branches that joined the main corridor.

  The people Kestral saw were also typical of depots like this. Humans from dozens of terraformed worlds abounded, their various shapes and sizes occasionally punctuated by the distinctive appearance of a non-human… an Avian, like Tirri, or a Tauran, Klannan, Kyxhian, Digit, or Waldo. Non-human was, actually, a misnomer… all of these races were descended from humans, originally. However, the needs of expanding the human race about the galaxy had soon revealed that humans were not necessarily suited to the environmental conditions of most planets, even after terraforming. In many cases, humans had to be genetically altered to some extent, in order to be able to survive on a new planet that could not be completely made over to an Earth-type environment. On those planets, generations of genetic manipulation had produced new “branches” of humans, some of which looked only slightly different from genetically unaltered humans, like the Taurans, Kyxhians and Klannans… and some, like the Avians, Digits, Waldos and Hell’s Angels, who looked significantly altered and… well… alien. But they all shared a common heritage, and generally, there was little animosity towards someone of another “race” evident. And since they all had that shared heritage, there was also a common language between all Oan races.

  It made for a better situation than that of the highly-imaginative fiction writers of the past, who used to postulate a future galaxy full of completely d
issimilar alien species, which would nonetheless somehow manage to work together, share common goals and interests, and all speak the same language. More recent scientific study had concluded that there would be little chance of aliens from different star systems being able to interrelate and communicate well, if at all, due to the almost infinite forms that a life form could take… even on Earth, humans could not communicate with other intelligent species from the same planet. Why expect them to be able to communicate with species from other planets? In hindsight, scientists and sociologists generally thanked whatever makers they worshipped that the galaxy had not been filled to the brim with sentient aliens, for they knew that such a situation would never have worked out, and probably would have resulted in outright genocide by one side or the other. At least, if the Oan’s meeting with the Spiders, the one alien race they had discovered, was any indication.

  The asteroid contained a market that looked much like any other: Collections of kiosks and stands in various hollowed-out alcoves and promenades; and a lot of buying and selling going on as Kestral passed. She watched the activity intently, taking note of the way people bargained, dickered, argued, cajoled, and worked out their purchases. After so many years as a Ranger, she was still not used to living in a cash economy… having everything paid for by the Rangers, she reflected, was one of the service’s biggest perks. But now that she was not a Ranger, she could see for herself how people dealt with Rangers who moved around the shopping areas. Invariably, the Rangers were politely dealt with. But once they were out of hearing range, Kestral heard criticisms and epithets directed at them. At least one comment hinted that the value of an item provided to a Ranger, which would be reimbursed by the Ranger service later, would not be half what the item was actually worth, and would cost them dearly in profits.

  Chances are, the merchant was exaggerating somewhat… the Rangers would not intentionally underpay for merchandise, and merchants typically delighted in selling their wares for much more than reasonable profit demanded. Still, it was clear that no one seemed to like selling to Rangers, and many seemed to consider it tantamount to giving merchandise away.