by Rob Buckman
Its designs had little or no restrictions on configurations. They only had to worry about protecting the crew and cargo from normal space conditions. Most radiation and meteor shield took care of that and life support and environmental took care of the air, water, and most nutrients. After that, it was just a matter of strapping on engines, power plant and fuel tanks. Passenger ship had the added need to carry its cargo in relative comfort and provide some entertainment. Outside of that, a passenger ship was little different from a cargo ship, just different types of cargo. A warship on the other hand was a different kettle of fish. On top of the requirement of a cargo and passenger ship, she also had to have the capacity to engage an enemy, take damage, and inflict it, and provide her crew with extra-ordinary means of protection. Mike had broken down the problem into its component parts long ago, and now spent his time on one at the time. Keeping it simple was a lot harder than he’d originally thought.
“Sierra Whisky Gulf 893 - this is Free Trader ‘Orion Dawn’, do you copy?”
“I copy, ‘Orion Dawn’”
“Catch.”
“What!”
Just then, something ejected from a service hatch and sped towards the ‘Promethium’. Instinctively Mike grabbed for it with a tractor beam, catching it and bringing it to a halt relative to the tug.
“What’s this ‘Orion Dawn’?”
“Nice catch Mike, Gramps said you were good.” A deep voice announced, chuckling. “Just a little something for you and Gramps. Thank for the service ‘Prometheus’, see you next trip. Captain out.”
“I’ll be damned! GRAMPS!” Mike yelled, hitting the engine room comm.
“What are you yelling about boy?”
“The Captain of the ‘Orion Dawn’ just shot something to us.”
“He did?” What is it?”
“How on Earth should I knew, I just caught it.”
“Well?” Gramps asked with a raised eyebrow. “You want ME to go get it?”
“Jeez.” Mike shook his head. “Take the helm, Gramps.” Mike slide out of the helm seat as his grandfather slide in.
“I have the helm.” He answered formally. Old habits die hard, so they say, but Mike didn’t mind. The cockpit recorder would note the change in command, just in case something did happen.
Many a ship’s Captain had lost his ticket for not formally announcing the change in command. The Navy insisted on it as a way for everyone to know who is in charge of the ship at any given point, especially in combat. Mike ducked below deck and passed through three hatches to the forward airlock. It only took a moment to manipulate the tractor control and gently kick the object inside the airlock. He noted in passing the ‘Free Trader’ and the ‘Promethium’ move apart, then astern, above and to the Starboard of them. He watched as ‘Orion Dawn’ fired her main thrusters and began pulling away ‘Northward’ above the plane of eclipse and the nth space hyper limit. For a moment, his heart went with it, wishing he were the Captain, heading outward to the distant stars.
“What did he send us boy?”
“Huh? Oh, just a sec.” Mike realized his hands had automatically cycles the airlock door and the small bundle sat melting frost on the deck. Slipping his work gloves on he picked it up and headed back to the bridge. It would take a few moments for the package to thaw so he didn’t bother trying to open it.
“Well, well, well. Old friends aren’t forgotten after all.”
Gramps carefully opened the insulated package, finding two bottles of Earth Brandy and something wrapped in tissue paper and insulating foam. The old man picked it up and un-wrapped it, whistling in astonishment. Mike agreed. Inside was an old fashion printed book, bound in leather by the look of it. Mike looked at the faded gold lettering on the spine. ‘The complete History of Naval Warfare. Volume One’.
“Wow!”
“You can say that again. Haven’t seen a book like that in ages.”
“How come they sent it to you, Gramps?” As he opened the cover. A slip of paper fell out, and retrieving it, Mike read the note.
“Happy Birthday, Mike, when it arrives. Sorry we can’t be there then, but here’s a little something for you that Gramps said you’d enjoy.” It was signed, Captain Charles Napier.
“Gramps! I…” Mike felt his eye begin to sting. “Thanks.”
“For what, getting a Free Trader Captain to find something I know you’d appreciate?”
“That too, Gramps.” He hugged the old man from behind for a moment, unable to say anything more.
“Here, you’d better take over. I never did like those hairy high speed approaches of yours.” The old man blew his nose on a large red handkerchief and muttering to himself went back to the engine room.
His approach wasn’t that hairy, at least from Mike’s point of view. He brought the barge in and settled it onto the landing pad with all the delicacy of a butterfly landing on a snowflake.
“Shoot, I knew it was you Mike,” the ground controller called, “no one else can bring a barge in like that.”
“Thanks, Freddie.”
“You’re welcome. Say, what are you and Gramps up to after this?”
“Not much, taking the barge back in and then heading home is all.”
“I might be able to put you in the way of another haul, if you’re interested.”
“That depends on what it is, another garbage run?”
“No, nothing like that. There’s a train of ore container out in the belt that needs hauling to an outbound freighter.”
“So? What’s the deal? There are plenty of others more than willing to cut you a slice for that kind of action.
“I heard that the tug in question is three days late to the haul due to engine trouble. The owners are screaming.”
“And?”
“Well, between you and me, the Captain boosted out early, and it’s too late for the regular tug to get out there from Avalon and get the containers to the ship in time for her departure. The Captain said he wasn’t going to wait.”
“Nasty.”
“You can say that again. But I was thinking. You run faster and turn over a lot later than the other, and if you can make a deal, you could still make it.”
“You have a contact?”
“Yes, here. I’ll upload the data.”
“Thanks Freddie. I’ll pass it on to Gramps and see what he thinks.”
“You’d better hurry.”
“Copy that.”
Gramps grabbed at the idea, with some reservation, and went into the communication shack to make some calls while Mike ran the calcs. It looks good. The fact they were all ready half way to the belt meant they could still make it, just. He was about to call Gramps and tell him the news when an idea struck him. It only took a moment to contact the Captain of the freighter and get his somewhat reluctant agreement. If Mike to get the containers to his ship before he hit the nth space wall, the Captain would much rather haul a full load. It would make his bottom line look a little better to the owners of the company.
“OK, I think I’ve got us a deal, a good one by the look of it. How did the calcs go?" He stood there scratching his bald head for a moment.
“Something up, Gramps.”
“No, not really, it just…”
“Well?” Seeing Gramps rub his chin.
“I don’t know. First, I got the VP of shipping, and he blew a gasket when he found out about the delay. Then he got onto the shipping agent and told him to make a deal as quick as he could.”
“So? That’s good, isn’t it?”
“You’d think so.”
“When he got off and I talked to the Factor, you’d think we had all the time in the world. He asked for insurance, hauling capacity, system licenses, the whole works.”
“That’s normal, Gramps.”
“Yes, I know, but it was the way he was asking for them, as if trying to think up reasons for delaying us.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, had all that stuff ready to download the m
oment he asked for it, and by the look on his face he wasn’t pleased.”
“That is odd.”
“I finally got a contract out of him, with double the pay for on time delivery. Said he’d fax it to me as soon as he had it written up.”
“Did you add a rider in case we can’t make it?”
“Yes. I told him that at this late date, there was always the chance of in-system delays due to traffic and such.”
“So, missing the outbound clause in the contract is void.”
“Should be.”
“Good.” Then he looked over his shoulder and the old man, seeing a worried look on his pug like face. “So why the long face?”
“I don’t know. Something’s not right.”
“OK.”
“How come this desk-jockey didn’t charter another tug two days ago, when he knew his first choice wasn’t going to make it.”
“He thought they’d come through?”
“He didn’t seem all that concerned and tried to talk me out of taking the haul.”
“Humm, you’d think he’d be desperate for someone to get his containers out of here.”
“They have to be losing money if they sit out there until the next freighter arrived.”
“You’d think so. I hear the mining company concerned is a bit shaky financially, if you know what I mean.”
“They had that nasty accident a few months ago, and it cost them a lot of production.”
“Jeez, you’d think they want to get that load to market as soon as possible, wouldn’t you.”
“Yes, it could mean the difference between staying afloat and going under.”
“What’s the cargo?”
“High grade ore. Aluminum, Titanium, iron and magnesium, a lot of it.”
“How many containers in the haul?”
“Seventy five at one hundred thousand tons each.”
“That’s a lot of ore.”
“Money in the bank if they can get it to the smelter.”
“We’ll get it there, Gramps.”
“Good. You set up the outbound course?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time, making coffee?” Gramps eyes the coffee pot, seeing it was full with a fresh brew and smiled.
“Space brat!” He muttered, grabbing a cup before heading back aft.”
“OC, this is Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893 requesting a change in flight plan.”
“What is your new destination, Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893?”
“The Inter-modular terminal at belt yard 001 to pick up a container string.”
“Way to go, Sierra, Whisky, Gulf 893,” Mike could hear the duty controller chuckling, “about time you had a little luck come your way.”
“Thank, Orbital Center.”
“You are clear on hearing 286.334 by 174.33 by 88.6, switch to Belt Control when you hit the marker beacon.”
“Thank Orbital Center I copy that. Weez gone.” He laughed, hearing it echoed by the controller.
Mike spooled up the inertial compensator up to 80% and stepped on the gas as he brought her to the correct heading. His sweep radar was now set to max, searching ahead for possible hazards. To be on the safe side, he increased power to the radiation and micro-meteor shields.
“How’s the pile holding up, Gramps?”
“Great, no problems at all.”
“Can we squeeze a little more out of her?”
“You need to ask? You’re at the helm, just go for it and I’ll yell when she’s reached max.” The old man grumped.
“Jeez, just asking.”
Mike pushed the throttle forward, pushing the old girl to fifty gravs. Now he could hear the old girl singing as everything slipped into sync. He could feel her through the control yoke as she sailed outward towards the belt. This was what she was built for, not lumbering around the inner system. She was a Royal Navy deep space tug, and in her day could pull heavy duty all the way out to the hyper wall and back. Mike punched in his course to the yard and keyed the autopilot before lowering the instruments and cabin lights. Now it was just him and the stars, shining in all their glory around him. It was almost like seeing the face of god. The outbound trip went smooth, with Mike cutting the zero/zero intercept to the minimum. He was glad he did, as getting the containers hooked up proved a nightmare, with one delay after another. The company Yard Boss didn’t want to release the haul at first, saying he had to check in with the main office. That took an hour. After that, it was locating the container string. As if that should have been a problem. Mike kept one eye on the clock as he jockeyed the tug between the rows of outgoing containers, looking for the right designation numbers. He found it before the Yard Boss, but it still took another hour before he had her hooked up and ready to go. After that, it was traffic controls turn to delay them and both Mike and Gramps sighed as the countdown clock for the calculated departure reached zero.
“We can still make it, Gramps.”
“I don’t see how.”
“The Captain of the freighter agreed we could transfer in flight.”
“WHAT! Are you crazy? The old man yelled.
“What lame brained idiot came up with that idea?” He growled.
“I did, Gramps.”
“Of all the stupid, cock-eyed, lame brained ideas you’ve ever come up with, this takes the biscuit.”
“You all ready said that, Gramps.” Mike muttered.
“What?”
“Lame brained. You usually don’t repeat yourself, you must be really pissed.” He gave Gramps one of his killer little boy smiles, but it bounced of Gramps as if he was plated it battle armor.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a flaming crutch!”
“We can still make it, Gramps, honest.” Mike interjected quickly. “My calcs were based on a normal straight in run to the freighter. But there is a way we can still do a zero/zero intercept with him before he reached the hyper wall.” Gramps was in the process of taking another deep breath to let fly when he paused. He raised one eyebrow in a threatening manner, but said nothing. Now it was Mike’s turn to take a deep breath.
“We can make a sling shot around Avalon, and pick up sufficient speed to reach a relative zero/zero intercept with the freighter before she reached the hyper wall.” He felt himself cringe then, expecting the worse. Gramps did nothing, just stood there looking at him as if he’d gone completely crazy. That was a bad sign.
“Good God! I think you are right!” He muttered, then laughing.
“What!” Mike asked in surprise.
“Don’t know of anyone doing a slingshot around the planet in a long time, but it’s possible, if!”
“If?”
“If we can get Orbital Center to give us permission.”
“Why ask, just say we are going to swing round Avalon to pick up a new vector.”
“Hmm, that might work, but we will catch hell for it after.”
“If we make the haul on time, what can that say? There is nothing in the Coast Pilots manual to say we can’t.”
“True, but with all the orbital traffic someone is going to get singed as we go by at that speed.” Then Gramps chuckled again. “Hell, why not. Been a long time since we really had any fun. Who knows, it might even get us some hauls.” They sat drinking coffee, re-plotting the vector.
“What the hell is taking them so long to give us clearance? My scope is clear of traffic out to five miles?” Mike muttered, more to himself than anything.
“Not sure, the last message was they were having trouble with the optical bollards on one of the containers.”
“That’s odd.” Mike brow pulled together in a frown. “This load was supposed to be ready to ship three days ago, how come they wait until the last minute to mix it.”
“You’ve got me.” Gramps punched the container cams on the view screen and magnified the image. “Funny. I don’t see anyone back there.”
“Could be on one of the upper containers?” Gramps nodded and flicked quickly through all 75 conta
iners. Nothing. Everything looked normal, and no sign there was anyone onboard any of them. If there were, the red warning light beacon would be flashing from one of the units.
“To hell with it, I’m going to pull out of station and see who yells.” Mike did, and nothing happened, in fact, no one said a word to them until they cleared the yard. Then the Yard Boss came on the screen.