Pelquin's Comet

by Ian Whates

  “Controlled Thermonuclear Device,” the woman said almost as quickly.

  The two figures were hunched over a large silver metal case which stood at the foot of the loading ramp. Drake could see very little of the woman, who had her back to him, though her hair was a tumble of black-brown curls pulled back haphazardly and kept in place by a band. The angle might have hidden her figure but not her frame, which was broad and well-muscled, dwarfing that of the man beside her. A gangly individual with sallow complexion and a mop of ginger brown hair, the man wore dark blue work overalls belted at the waist, while his face was dominated by a prominent roman nose.

  No question, this was the right ship, though the realisation filled Drake with little joy. He was back at the spaceport, amidst the clamour and the shouting, the whir of machines and the groan of metal and the dust and the colour and the chaos, as incoming cargoes were unloaded and outgoing ones delivered and brought aboard. No departures were scheduled for this section of the field until late that afternoon, so activity on the landing pads was hectic and constant. People and machines moved around each other in a stage-managed melee, to the accompaniment of shouted instruction and the warning beeps of large vehicles on the move. Drake knew that proceedings were far better coordinated than they appeared to the naked eye, but from his perspective the whole thing looked chaotic.

  To reach the appropriate berth he had been forced to sidestep a long cargo train laden with assorted goods, detour around a particularly large crate that stretched across the width of the thoroughfare, and quickstep from behind a reversing lifter whose driver was clearly oblivious to his presence.

  For a moment his attention strayed beyond the two crewmembers to the craft itself: an old comet class trading ship. It brought back a whole welter of memories that, given a choice, he would have preferred not to revisit.

  Still, this was what they paid him for.

  “Constant Tongue Dicking,” said the man.

  The woman punched him on the arm with something more than playful force. “Arsebrain!”

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Is there anything anywhere that you can’t turn into something smutty?”

  Drake could see the woman a little more clearly now, if only in profile; broad features on a face that he’d describe as pleasant rather than beautiful, dominated by dark brown eyes and full lips.

  “I hope not,” the man said, “I’ve got my reputation to think about.”

  “Central Transport Data,” the woman said.

  “Is that the best you can come up with? I give you tongue dicking and you give me transport?”

  “In your dreams. There’s no way that you giving me any sort of dicking and me still breathing are ever gonna happen in the same universe.”

  “Is that so? Sounds to me as if the lady protests too much…”

  “Don’t push it, Monkey.”

  This seemed an appropriate time to interrupt. Drake cleared his throat and announced in a clear voice, “Corbin Thadeus Drake.”

  The man jumped as if startled, looking up as if noticing the banker for the first time; his pale blue eyes wide. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “He just told you, Arsebrain,” the woman supplied.

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “I represent First Solar Bank,” Drake continued. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

  The woman also straightened, stepping away from the silver trunk to reveal the letters CTD clearly embossed on its metal lid.

  She examined him, a stare that fell short of hostile but was equally distant from welcoming. “I think, my friend, that you’ve come to the wrong ship,” she said. “We don’t do passengers here on the Comet.”

  He recognised these two from their infofiles, but dry facts and snippets of tri-D recordings were poor substitute for meeting the real thing. The woman was Brenda Jayne Bearman, youngest of three siblings; father dead, mother remarried and no longer in contact; brother and sister both gainfully employed. Brenda, the black sheep of the family, had been in and out of trouble throughout her teens before she was eventually conscripted into the army. A reluctant recruit, she had subsequently thrived in the military environment, serving with distinction during the Macinairy Campaign, which had provided a coda to the Auganics War; a flexing of military muscle that finally quashed the lingering discontent left over from that bitter conflict which had threatened to tear the coalition of worlds apart.

  Since her discharge, Brenda had lived at the fringes of society, spending a couple of years drifting from place to place and picking up odd jobs in security or as temporary crew before settling – for reasons the files failed to explain – as a crewmember aboard a freelance trade ship currently registered as Pelquin’s Comet.

  The profile of the man beside her, Malcolm ‘Monkey’ Palmer, was a little more straight forward. Palmer had enjoyed limited formal education but had gained a wealth of experience souping-up engines for illicit street races and getaways, a pastime which saw him graduate from bikes to cars to ships. A dozen Malcolm Palmers could be found hanging around the bars of almost any spaceport, but Brenda Bearmans were a little harder to come by. Bearman was dressed casually in military-style fatigues with cut-away arms, worn tight enough to both display her biceps and accentuate a well-toned figure. He caught a whiff of perfume and she wore makeup, subtly applied. Here was a woman who had taken considerable care with her appearance but didn’t want to be obvious about it, which led him to conclude that there was somebody on board she was keen to impress. Not Monkey Palmer, that much was obvious.

  “Today we’re making an exception,” a new voice declared. The instantly recognisable form of Thomas Pelquin stood at the top of the ramp. Drake noted the fleeting look in Bearman’s eyes as she first saw the ship’s owner and captain. Ah, so this was who all the effort was for. He wondered if the man even realised that a member of his crew had the hots for him. “Welcome to the Comet, Mr Drake,” Pelquin said, evidently oblivious. “Bren, Monkey, bring our guest’s luggage aboard.”

  For a second it looked as if Bearman would challenge the order, but then she shrugged and moved to pick up the trunk, offering Drake a curious stare as she did so. Monkey slouched across to help, muttering, “Thought I was supposed to be the mechanic around here, not the friggin’ porter.”

  Drake went to follow them into the ship, at which point Mudball chose to put in an appearance, poking his head up from the papoose-like pouch that supported him.

  Pelquin, who still stood at the top of the ramp and was now no more than a dozen paces away, froze and stabbed a finger towards the furry face as soon as it peered from behind Drake’s shoulder. “What the hell is that?”

  “Just my genpet,” Drake replied, the familiar lie tripping freely from his tongue.

  “Nobody said anything about any genpet.” Pelquin made the last sound like a swear word.

  “I don’t suppose anyone saw the need. Mudball goes everywhere with me.”

  “Not aboard the Comet it doesn’t.”

  Bren and Monkey had stopped halfway up the ramp and were watching the exchange with interest. Drake felt the grip on his cane grow firmer, matching the tightness of his smile. “This is your ship and of course it’s your choice, Captain Pelquin. But without Mudball, I don’t come aboard. Without me on board, you don’t go anywhere.”

  Their gazes locked. Drake could sense the man’s anger, but he also knew that he had the upper hand – one which rested firmly on the purse strings. The Comet wasn’t ready to leave yet, and Drake could freeze the flow of funds in an instant. Excerting his authority this early wasn’t something he would have chosen to do, especially not in front of the crew, but Pelquin hadn’t given him much option.

  “Ah, come on, Pel,” Brenda Bearman said, surprising the banker. “I think Mudball is kind of sweet,”

  Her words broke the tension. Pelquin’s gaze flickered between the woman and Drake. He drew a deep breath, as if sucking in air might somehow cool his temper. “All right,
but that damned thing is confined to your quarters at all times. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “If I catch a glimpse of its hairy hide anywhere else during the course of the trip it goes straight out the airlock.”

  I’ll kick his ugly face straight out the airlock if he says much more, Mudball’s affronted voice muttered in Drake’s head.

  Behave yourself. “You won’t even know he’s on board,” he assured Pelquin. Will he!

  Of course not. Soul of discretion, you know me.

  Only too well, Drake reflected, while pondering Pelquin’s extreme reaction and wondering what exactly the Comet’s captain had against genpets in any case.

  Monkey interrupted his thoughts, calling out, “Hey, does the T really stand for Thadeus?”

  “It does,” Drake confirmed. “Still, it could have been worse. People might call me ‘Monkey’.”

  Bren guffawed. The mechanic merely looked puzzled, as if trying to decide whether or not he’d just been insulted. Drake smiled to rob the words of any malice, and followed Pelquin inside.

  They were joined by a waiflike, ebony-skinned girl who was presumably older than she looked. “Hi, I’m Anna,” the newcomer said. “I’m the Comet’s pilot… at least I am when the captain’s hands can be prised off the helm.”

  Drake didn’t recognise her from the infofiles, which meant that either she was a comparatively new addition to the crew or the bank’s records were incomplete. Both possibilities struck him as equally plausible. He didn’t especially like this sort of variable, but with the way the crew rosters shifted and changed aboard fringe traders it was inevitable. He smiled and gave a curt nod in greeting.

  Anna tagged along as the captain showed him to his quarters – a recessed alcove just deep enough to contain the width of a bed and just long enough to squeeze in a small cabinet and table at the foot of a crewcot. Quite where Bren and Monkey were going to stow his trunk was anyone’s guess. Drake was glad his suits were crease resistant, since any hanging space was going to have to be well and truly improvised.

  “You can leave the furball here,” Pelquin said, “and I’ll show you the bridge.”

  It’s Mudball, a voice seethed in Drake’s head.

  “I will if you insist, but I wouldn’t advise it,” Drake said, pulling at the flimsy curtain which was the booth’s token gesture towards privacy. “There’s no way of securing anything in here. Mudball’s obedient enough, but I can’t guarantee he won’t wander off if left alone for too long. Now, if he were to stay with me, I could ensure he behaves himself.”

  “Ooh, he’s cute!” Anna said, evidently spotting Mudball for the first time.

  I like her, said the voice in Drake’s head.

  Pelquin scowled. “We agreed you were going to keep him in your quarters.”

  “True, but I was assuming I could lock him in.”

  If he suggests putting me in a cupboard…!

  For a split second the captain looked as if he might indeed suggest something along those lines, but in the end his need to keep First Solar’s representative happy must have won out. “Very well, but this is the last concession you get. He stays put in that little papoose thing of yours at all times. No exceptions. Give me any excuse to lock him away somewhere and I will.”

  Drake nodded his acceptance. “That’s fair. Thank you.” He suppressed a smile, noting that already Pelquin had inadvertently slipped from referring to Mudball as an ‘it’ to ‘him’. The alien had a way of winning folk round, but this was swifter progress than he’d anticipated.

  Internally, the Comet held few surprises, conforming to standard layout for the class, with fitments better maintained than on a few ships Drake had seen, though here and there they showed their age – handholds worn smooth with use, lettering partially rubbed away. Nothing critical, just an indication of how worn a few elements of the ship’s interior had become. On the whole décor was functional and neutral, as he’d expect; which was why the 3D image fixed to the wall beside the final gantry leading to the bridge came as such a surprise: it served no practical purpose whatsoever – at least none that the banker could fathom.

  He paused to study the picture, taking in the image of a ship which looked to be racing out of the wall and about to shoot over the observer’s left shoulder. Both the ship and the dramatic starscape behind it were vividly depicted, and the observer in question might have been forgiven for thinking that this was the very vessel they were standing in, Pelquin’s Comet, but they would have been wrong. It was the same class, certainly, but a very different ship.

  “That’s the Ion Raider,” Pelquin supplied without being asked. “The greatest freebooter ever to have roamed the stars.”

  “Apart from Pelquin’s Comet, of course,” Anna added.

  “Including Pelquin’s Comet,” her captain corrected.

  The captain moved on but Drake delayed for a second, lingering over the image. It was a long enough pause for Anna to whisper, “Pel sees himself as the natural successor to Captain Cornische, the Ion Raider’s commander, or at least that’s what he’d like to be.”

  Did he now? Drake mulled that over as he followed after Pelquin. Aspirations were all well and good but he mistrusted the whole concept of hero worship, and this titbit of information made him uneasy. Trying to emulate anyone was a fool’s pastime and an open invitation to poor decision making. Precious seconds spent wondering ‘What would so-and-so do?’ took attention away from the real question: ‘What the hell should I do now?’

  Not the most encouraging of starts; he’d barely stepped on board and already he’d aggravated the captain and found cause to question the man’s competence.

  On the brighter side, said a familiar voice, things can only get better.

  He fervently hoped so.

  Drake didn’t get a chance to meet the two remaining members of the Comet’s crew until much later in the day. Neither was aboard when he arrived. Nathaniel ‘Nate’ Almont, who was the first to turn up, scowled at him in greeting. Almont was a seasoned spacer from a long line of spacers. No strong family ties.

  Almont and Pelquin, though, went way back, their association predating the latter’s acquisition of the Comet. They appeared to have been inseparable for many years, right up to the point where they had fallen out so spectacularly and Almont had left, disappearing for over a year. The bank had no information at all on that missing period, which worried Drake, since Almont and the knowledge he carried were so pivotal to this expedition. Cache hunts could be divisive; greed putting a strain on even the strongest of friendships.

  Drake had no idea what Almont had been up to while at large in New Sparta either, but nothing pleasant judging by the sight of him. The man looked shabby, grimy – as if he had been sleeping rough – which suggested some subterfuge or other and instantly piqued Drake’s curiosity.

  Pelquin seemed equally in the dark regarding his friend’s recent whereabouts, at least to judge by the heated exchange which Drake caught the start of when Almont appeared. They quickly moved out of earshot, but the exchange suggested that some degree of tension still lingered between them.

  The final crewmember, Ahmed Bariha, was in town somewhere replenishing the ship’s medical supplies, or so Drake was told. Judging by the dilated state of the man’s pupils and the distracted air he displayed on his return, the good doctor had been extremely diligent in his duties, to the extent of sampling a few of the products before buying. The bank’s files had less to say about Bariha than anyone else – apart from Anna, about whom they said nothing at all. Having a medic on a ship this size struck Drake as something of a luxury, but Bren put him straight on that score.

  “He only calls himself the medic because it makes him feel superior,” she explained. “The doc likes to think he’s a cut above the rest of us,”

  “He’s not a real doctor, then?”

  “Oh sure, he’s a doctor all right, qualified and everything, but that doesn’t count for beans around here. Unle
ss somebody gets ill or injured, of course. Other than that, he’s just regular crew like the rest of us, whatever he likes to pretend.”

  None of which explained why a qualified doctor would be working as crew aboard a small independent trader like this.

  Bren clearly guessed the nature of his thoughts. “Everyone’s got a history,” she said. “While they’re on the Comet, a person can talk about it or keep things tight, whichever they choose. Long as they do their job, we’re happy to let whatever happened in the past remain in the past; their business and no one else’s.”

  This was perhaps as polite a way of telling him to keep his nose out of things as he’d ever heard.

  Drake spent the next couple of days on the Comet, doing his best to stay in the background and determined not to get in anyone’s way, as he monitored the equipment being brought on board and did his own discreet calculations. The front of the ship’s voluminous cargo hold – the area furthest from the main hatch – swiftly filled up, with departure fast approaching. He wasn’t privy to the actual purchase negotiations Pelquin had conducted, but he did know how much the bank had lent the man and had a pretty good idea of what most of the equipment arriving ought to have cost, and by his estimate there ought to be a good chunk of the bank’s money left over… which was curious given most folk’s aversion to accruing interest.

  One thing these early days provided was a chance to assess the crew’s reaction to him, and he wasn’t displeased on the whole. Pelquin didn’t like his being aboard but accepted the necessity and had settled on being polite. Monkey felt much the same but seemed incapable of being polite to anyone. Doctor Bariha occupied his own cocoon of space aboard the ship and, since Drake didn’t impinge on this, largely ignored him. Bren was happy to treat him as a fellow human being and give him the benefit of the doubt, while Anna was positively friendly. Out of all of them, only Nate Almont gave him any real cause for concern. The big man clearly didn’t like him and displayed the sort of resentment that might fester unless Drake could bring it into the open sooner rather than later.