“Sure,” Carmie replied with a smile. “To start, we’re running with some aftermarket armorfoam over the basic polynium carapace…”
“Lapsic Hardcoat, perhaps?” I interrupted.
“No,” she responded a bit sheepishly, “it’s a product we picked up in barter out in Corporatespace. Plastron? Something like that.”
“That’s a spray-on armor, right? Yeah, I’ve read about that stuff.”
“Good or bad?” she asked. “We’ve never been shot at, so I can’t talk with authority.”
I hedged visibly, because I didn’t want to out-and-out criticize the ship, but I wanted them to know that I’d speak plainly.
“Well…neutral, I guess. Plastron exceeds the basic requirements for that kind of armor, but I’ve heard some anecdotes from the field that have been somewhat less-than-ideal. Explosive reactivity to high-speed impacts seems uneven. And there was one account of a resonance amplification issue from a maser attack, which is…disturbing.”
Bin Ragenston humphed in agreement, looking at Carmie in a way I couldn’t read, while E’lareda touched at his ring, confirming that he was, indeed, listening closely and double-checking at least some of my statements on the nets. That was sensible and efficient, since they didn’t have time to mess around, but the guy’s poker face was starting to irritate me.
“On the other hand,” I continued, hoping to sugar the lemon a bit, “lab and independent tests for the whole Cheloney line – Plastron’s the brand name – well, they’ve been quite good. I think they rate pretty high when it comes to insurance matters. If you specify the brand name on your policy, instead of just the generic type, you can usually get a discount.”
This seemed to get their attention – even E’lareda looked up for a moment, which felt like a triumph.
“That’s…good to know,” the Captain responded, seemingly pleased. “We’ll definitely look into the insurance aspect, thank you. As for GRIZZELDA’s weaponry, we have extensible Melcotch Mark II heavy lantern guns, and twin Feldercorp light missile packs, fore and aft. Those have been modified with twelve-count cylinders instead of the usual eight.”
“Twelves? On a Route Trader? That’s unusual.”
She nodded in agreement. “In addition to standard rocket loads, we have four units of some specialized ordinance in each cylinder that we picked up a while ago – impossible to replace in AINspace, but good to have anyway, I think you’ll agree. Assuming this works out, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed. Then I hit them with the scary part. “You reviewed my pay rate, I presume? I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable.”
Desperate as I was, I couldn’t afford to take a step back now. The industry was stagnant just then, and if I started signing lesser contracts, I’d get a rep for that. Employers were able to add their own comments to employee public profiles, and getting something that hurt my future negotiating strength would be problem that could chase me for years.
“It seems fine,” she replied, letting me sigh inwardly with relief, though the engineer frowned. “As a policy, though, we don’t carry dockside med insurance. If you need medical help, you get seen to aboard ship, or you pay for it yourself. I imagine your union covers you for emergencies, though?”
“Yeah, that’s no problem, my dues are current.”
“Good,” she said, then thought a bit. “Let’s see…hmmm. Ah. The crew all have separate cabins on GRIZZELDA. No barracks, no double bunks. Your berth would be tiny, but private.”
“Well now, that’s attractive,” I replied sincerely. “I’m used to communal bunking, but I can’t say I like it. Um, now on a different note…just what kind of political issues are we talking about on Barlow?”
They sort of looked at each other for what I took to be support, but the answer was banal.
“Only what we’re seeing in the news. Seems like some sort of radical neo-socialism is starting to take root. It’s just a single government on-planet. The current system is a democratic one, I think – they have a president, anyway, for what that’s worth. Looks like there are corporate influences in the government, but that’s true everywhere.”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know, really. The highdock in orbit is quiet, by all accounts, but none of us have ever been to Barlow before. You?”
“No. I’ve heard the name, but that’s about all. Can I ask about the cruise? The nature of the charter, perhaps?”
“Sorry, no details until you’re signed aboard – that’s a clause in the charter, and it’s GRIZZELDA S.O.P. anyway.”
They could keep confidences, then. That was a good sign.
“What would be my contract duration?”
“Well, we normally insist on a six-month commitment, subjective time. Considering our deadline, though, that’s on the table. We’ll sign you for this charter only, if it’s all you can see your way to.”
“No, no, six months is fine,” I replied, trying to hide my excitement. “I’d like a steady position, if I can find one.”
“Good. Would you tell us about your previous work, then, Mr. Dosantos?”
So…I launched into the usual mix of bull and bravado. I did my best not to seem like a drifter, but long-term gigs were always hard to come by. Big corporate freighters are usually the soul of job security, but between my poor luck (and sometimes worse attitude, if I’m going to be honest), there was a fair amount of down time in my job history. I’d generally used it as best I could to get a fairly wide spectrum of industry-recognized degrees and certifications, so I spun all that unemployment as periods of continuing education.
I smiled a lot, too.
The engineer squinted in concentration at my résumé while I spoke, but finally injected a question when I took a breath.
“You have actually seen combat, jeah? Pirates?”
“Yes, that’s right. Rilltule system, two years ago. Pirates of a sort, anyway; merc-sponsored, as it turned out. Missiles exchanged. The official reports are all open. I have the AIN File Key listed there under Past Employment. It’s in the public record now, I think.”
“Any private charter work before?” the captain asked. “You’ll have to second-up on steward duties. I see you have the certification for passenger service, but what about actual hands-on? Dispensing drinks and snacks before and after freeze tube transits is quite a bit different from serving waking passengers for weeks at a time. Duties aboard GRIZZELDA include laundry service and frozen meal prep for both passengers and crew, plus general gofer status.”
I nodded when she was done, and said, “I spent six months subjective on the starliner GOWERBELLE, about five years ago now. I performed steward duties almost exclusively. We had the Classin-Sandov route. Lots of traffic, no trouble. They had to have a gunner by law, but they sure never needed one. Rich clientele, too. Hailey Gardette was a passenger, once.”
“The singer? Really! I’ve always loved her voice. What was she like?”
“Well, she had an entourage that took care of her, mostly. I only spoke with her once – got her some tea as I recall. Seemed nice.”
I shrugged and smiled. The captain smiled back.
“We’re chit-chatting,” I said at last.
“Yes, I guess we are. Give us a chance to talk this over. Say, an hour?”
I stood up.
“I’ll wait for your call,” I said, shaking hands. And then I was on my way back down to my roomcube.
The moment I was back, I did a search on GRIZZELDA in all the public records, and on all the professional listings I had the certification to access. The ship had, indeed, docked only three days before, and had no outstanding fines or charges against it that I could see. A quick look at the current AIN Proscribed Space Vehicle listings didn’t have a ship by that name, or any other vessel of that class, so it wasn’t stolen (had to be sure). A final cross-check through my union’s ship analysis service, though, flagged GRIZZELDA as a “Code 17”. Based on my rough translation of the financialese, this indicated a
few late payments to the ship’s build-bond with the current set of owners.
So it was money troubles.
Nothing unusual there. Even big Corporate-owned ships usually had a history of slow or broken payment strings – if for no better reason than company policies. But GRIZZELDA was privately-owned, and experience had taught me that, with a ship pulling scant profits, desperate choices could follow behind like hungry dogs. Six months could be a long, risky time on a ship with an eye toward the bill collector. Still, they were in the middle of a contracted run, and that meant things would be okay for at least a little while.
I hemmed and hawed to myself for a few minutes, mostly to maintain the delusion of control, I guess. The choice wasn’t hard, though – deep debts or no, GRIZZELDA was the only game in town.
An hour to the minute, Captain Maynard called to offer me the job, and I accepted with what was probably obvious gratitude. With my underwear clean and dry, I had no more business on OASIS. I checked out of my roomcube, submitted to a too-friendly bag search and pat-down by the Customs cops, then hit my locker rental up on the docks to retrieve a roller case that contained what amounted to pretty-much all my worldly possessions.
Everywhere I looked, I had pop-up adverts appearing before me, as well as safety notices, sale updates, traffic directions, and much more. The display receptor implants in my corneas augmented the normal information of the environment, overlaying my path, and all else, with realtime adjunctive data. If I was actually interested in buying any more crap on this station, I could have called up mini vid windows, or other applications, to superimpose themselves on my point-of-view. The wristcomp acted as input, gateway, and processor all in one, allowing for on-the-fly purchasing, or direct interaction with network-based interests (commercial or otherwise). I could access these apps, or any stored data, through head and hand gestures, voice input, subjective eye focus, or even direct physical use of the wristcomp’s tiny keyboard and mini pop-up holo-display.
Yep, I could have stopped and played the good little consumer, if I had the money and inclination. But I surely didn’t: OASIS was fairly vibrant – a place lots of people called home; but shabby, too, and now clearly violent according to the news, so I was happy to show it my backside.
I had to take a passing streetcar to GRIZZELDA’s berth, as it was nearly four kilometers away, counterclock, but I didn’t mind that fee. It was the last thing I hoped to spend money on in the place, which almost made it pleasurable. When I came to the numbered berth I’d been given, I signaled for a stop. The cargo and personnel lifts for GRIZZELDA were clearly marked, with the ship’s abstract cat logo displayed prominently over both, on big signs in bright digital colors.
There was a tall, stoutish woman wearing a safety helmet and the GRIZZELDA cat on her stylish pink jumpsuit. Though she didn’t have a model’s figure, exactly, her clothes looked crisp and elegant, like something out of a spacer supply catalog. She was at the cargo lift, onloading a pallet of mixed stuff with a rental drivejack. She saw me watching, I guess, because she stopped and waved.
“You the new gunner?”
She had a surprisingly soft, high voice, considering she was bigger than me all over. She looked to be in her mid-thirties or so, had auburn hair that peeked out in short curls from under her matching pink helmet, and pale, pale skin, highlighted along the cheeks and chin with freckles. She had large brown eyes that were bloodshot and ringed darkly, and there were sad frowns at the corners of her mouth. Her smile seemed genuine, but it looked like it had been a while since the last one.
“That’s me. Ejoq Dosantos. Nice to meet you. Need a hand?”
“No, thanks. This is it. The containers are all in now – I’m only filling space with a loose load we just snagged. I’m Cassandra Helburn, but call me Candy. Um, Cargo Chief. Actually…do me a favor and return this jack to the lockbar over there? This is the last load, and I need to verify the manifest. You can ride up to the hold with me, and I’ll show you your locker aboard.”
I felt like a knucklehead, because the drivejack didn’t want to fit back under the lockbar, and I fought with it long enough for the big woman to finish her digital paperwork, and come over and see how useless the new guy was.
“Here, let me…there’s a trick to it,” she said. Taking the jack in hand, and guiding it out and then in again in a quick, smooth movement, Candy clicked it into place. She verified on the lockbar’s display that a receipt for the rental had been posted to the ship’s account, ticked it off on her own datapad, and then smiled shyly. “Takes practice.”
She double-checked that the receipt had gone through, then double-checked her strapdowns on all the pallets, crates, and drums in the lift. I was able to help there, anyway, without wasting time, since all the ties were perfect. She keyed the lift gate down, and then up we went on the elevator itself, losing weight by the meter.
She held her helmet on with one hand while gripping a railing to keep in place. I bounced up in the reduced, then zero gravity, but this part wasn’t new, and I was able to keep both myself and my case close to the floor. When we reached the station hub (just a ring of anchor clamps for cargo vessels of small-to-medium size – a chintzy port structure for a chintzy station), Candy floated down the wide accordion-style load tube that led to GRIZZELDA’s cargo hold. The pallet was set into a track on the tube’s floor, and it followed along automatically.
“I have room in the back for this stuff,” she muttered to me, as if I needed to know – but I smiled and nodded, following the pallet, my hard case and flight bag floating along with me. When we reached GRIZZELDA proper, Candy stepped across the open hatch, and landed easily on her feet.
“We’re at one-quarter gee down here in Cargo while berthed, so watch your step.”
I did, but I still tripped when the case hit the artificial gravity field and clunked lightly to the floor. She steadied me with one hand, and I smiled in gratitude and embarrassment. I’d done this countless times before, including the stumble, so I didn’t feel too badly. First impressions were never my strong suit.
A young woman, short and lean in direct contrast to Candy’s size, and dark in opposition to her color, was on the other side of the spacious hold, double-checking tiedowns on a roller rack of what looked like machine parts. She also wore the pink suit, and it looked for the moment like that might have been standard uniform – though the Offs, at the interview, had all worn different things.
“That’s Reena,” Candy explained quietly, like it was a secret. “She’s the other steward aboard. She doubles down here, helping me. She’ll show you the ropes.”
“Reena,” she then called, “this is Ejoq, the replacement gunner. Can you get his case stowed away for him, then take him up to Del so he can get his paperwork straightened out? After that, please come back down – I’ll need some help with the stuff I just brought up…it’s the last of it.”
Reena waved me over, and introduced herself with a mumble so low that I wouldn’t have caught any of it if I hadn’t already known her first name. Her pink helmet covered a black buzz cut and angular face, and she had the same rimmed sadness around her dark eyes, as if that, too, was part of the uniform. Maybe more so, in fact, because it was plain she’d been weeping silently when the Cargo Chief had called to her. She wiped away her tears none-too-carefully, before leading me over to a bank of lockers near a short lift set into the bulkhead.
There was a little door marked with the name “B. HAMM” that was open and empty, though a plastic crate next to it was filled with an assortment of clothes and personal items.
“I’ll get your name on it, soon as I can.”
“That’s okay, no rush. Did the last guy leave all his stuff?”
She looked at me with real pain and hardness, and I saw that I’d stumbled again – though I wasn’t sure just how. I decided to leave my foot in my mouth for a while to avoid any other landmines. I’d been signed to a lot of vessels up to that point; the “Hello/How Are You/Personal Property S
towage” ritual was nearly always the same. And it was was no different this time…yet it was. I just put my case away, entered a new code on the locker’s tiny keypad, and shut up.
Reena waved me to follow her, and we took the lift up one level to GRIZZELDA’s main companionway, where we were at a full gee. A tall man of middle years, with thinning brown hair and – yes, again – sad eyes, was walking past the lift with a memory core and associated cables in his hands. He wore dark pants and a tan shirt, implying at last that there was no particular uniform aboard, which I rather preferred.
“Who’s this?” he asked easily.
“Sorry, what was your name again?” Reena asked me.
“Ejoq Dosantos. Ship Defense. Pleased to meet you.”
“Ah…” he said with a wry nod. “Ira Helburn. Comp and Communications. You might have met my wife already. Candy?”
“Yeah, she brought me aboard. I think I embarrassed myself trying to lend a hand down at the dock, but she was nice about it.”
“Oh, I’m sure she appreciated it. Good to have you aboard, Ejoq.”
“Thanks.”
But he was already walking off.
We went the way he’d come, and stopped by an open hatchway marked: “DELMON FFOLKES, LEGAL SPECIALIST” in the same plain block font as the lockers. For that matter, all the doors were marked, as were all the access panels, maintenance closets, and all the important – as well as relatively unimportant – systems controls. I saw a light switch as we had walked down the companionway marked, apparently without irony, “LIGHT SWITCH”.
Ffolkes was sitting at a low desk interface, engrossed in forms, both digital and hard copy. He had intelligent features under manicured, sandy hair, and steel gray eyes that flicked up to us as we stepped in.
“Ah, the new recruit. Mr. Dosantos, is it? Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He offered a firm grip and gave me a quick, tight, but apparently sincere smile. He had the oddest Ingliss accent I’d ever heard, drawing out his “A’s” and flattening his “R’s” to the point that I initially thought he had a speech impediment. I thanked Reena and she almost smiled, though not really, and left without saying a word.
Motherload: Stardrifter Book 01 Page 9