Incoming comm lit and a pleasant voice addressed them.
“Bechimo, this is Frenzel control. We hear you but . . . thank you! Your CIP has arrived. We catch your number and will set-and-schedule within two hours. Approximate backlog, one point two standard days. Bechimo, you are registered. Complete locals follow.”
* * *
“Pharst!”
It wasn’t the first time she’d said it it in the last hour, and if Clarence minded her cussing, he didn’t say so—he just looked to the main screen where Theo’d dragged the current item under consideration.
“Bechimo, can we check why these things are different? The packaging looks identical, but the weights are stupidly off and the . . .”
“Looks like a ship’s store supplier on number four, and number six, too,” Clarence said in his calm way. “They’ll be repackages of local consumer stuff, aimed at resale. Going by the price, I’d say Cloppers is offering actual local stuff, so there’s potential storage issues.” He spun his chair to face Theo. “Didn’t you have to deal with this for Arin’s Toss?”
She shook her head, indicating no, not moving her hands from the choice pointer.
“The Toss was stocked up when I got her, and I just sort of grabbed stuff when I was standing in front of it at the dock stores. I don’t eat a lot and . . .”
Clarence sighed.
“What about the other—oh!”
“Right, Hugglelans kept us stocked through their subscription services. We’d dock or come to port and the automatics would already have the stuff on the loading pallets. Other than personal choices like tea or coffee, the whole process was automatic. I mean, we had overrides—I could have traded off for ice cream instead of mycomeat if I wanted—but it was just as well to go with the stuff they supplied. Hugglelans does know about food!”
“Bechimo?” Clarence looked to Screen Six, where an image had formed again. There still weren’t enough cues to say for certain that there was a face on the other side of that blue-green window, but there certainly was the intent of a face there.
“Less Pilot?”
“We need to talk supplies. Can you make a study of the current subscription services and compare our wish lists across them to see if we can choose one or two to start with? Happens we’re in a bit o’luck; Frenzel’s a prime spot for subscription suppliers, on account of it being a warehouse trade center.”
“I am able to mount such a study. To whom shall I report?”
Theo sat up sharply as insight struck.
“You’ve got a good head for admin,” she said earnestly.
Clarence blinked, then laughed.
“Do I, then, lassie?”
“Yes, you do,” she said, ignoring irony. “We need an Executive Officer—maybe not right here, right now, but we’re going to come to some port, sooner or later, where admin won’t deal with just a pilot, they’ll want the Exec—” Back on Primadonna, she and Tranza had taken turns being “Exec” at those kinds of ports.
“So, maybe you ought to be Executive Officer,” she continued into Clarence’s grin. “We’ll put it on your business cards, even! When we get them.”
“There—you hear that, Bechimo?”
The pause was slight, and Bechimo’s voice laconic.
“I have noted that the Pilot has added business cards with Pilot O’Berin designated as Acting Executive Officer to the wish list. The list now encompasses three hundred twenty-seven actions or items. The list will be added to the docking routine.”
“Do that,” Theo said. “I’ll make sure I keep my need list up to date and we’ll take a look at exceptions rather than order from scratch each time around. You’ll report to Clarence as Exec on the subscription study.”
“Yes, Pilot.” Bechimo’s pause was just a little too short, before he continued. “Catalogs continue to arrive; I will wait for a landing time and location before making any decisions. I will be grading offers on price, ability to deliver, stocking issues, and reported reliability ratings. Additionally, I will multisource unbranded staples, again with vendor reliability charts in mind. I will, upon request, test samples of food and other staples for suitability.”
“Well,” said Clarence, hand on his chin. “You know, not sure I’ve ever had a ship test my food for me, but it makes sense, come to think of it.”
“The Builders were clear on the supply needs of a ship on independent loop routes, Less Pilot. When this vessel was commissioned, the possibility of long-term exposure to low to mid-grade toxins was a concern. I directly sample and analyze incoming air on-world and docked, using the highest standards, in addition to generating base air at need. Our water supply and other potables are tested continuously and are maintained in multiple independent reservoirs with backups and filtration available.”
“I see we’re well taken care of, then,” Clarence said, and inclined his head in full Liaden formal to Screen Six. “The pilots are aware of the ship’s vigilance, and sleep the better for it.”
* * *
Frenzel’s ground port was radio noisy and crowded. Bechimo was tucked into an auxiliary “field” out of the way of the big and busy ships that outmassed them many times over. The landing itself had been uneventful, with Bechimo taking Theo’s cue to take it easy, and not to exceed normal landing times by more than five percent.
Since Laughing Cat’s resources were thin in the universe, there had been no expedited landing or premium siting. It might have been different, if they’d come in carrying pods, or had a pickup scheduled, but running empty and listing “business development” in their pre-landing customs declarations wasn’t enough to get them one of the better seats in the house.
They had a hotpad only because all of the pads at Frenzel Port were standalones a bare step above a tow-tie. They could pick up power and land-line optical, and if they wanted they could patch in for water—but the fees for water were phenomenal and the land-line optical was a sponsored link, meaning half or more of the flow would be incoming messages of enticement, and they were already getting more than enough of that, if the pink, blue, and grey streaks showing on Screen Six were any indication.
“Pilots,” Bechimo said, sounding every bit as harried as Screen Six looked, “I have no less than seventeen attempts to set up open arrivals for items we have no need of; several for items which are on the wish list but which represent no outgoing request on our part. Two personal service companies report that they are responding to standing orders which do not exist and—”
Clarence spoke over him, in Liaden.
“Bechimo, forgive me! Commercial hubs are often overbusy, and there are ever those who seek to turn confusion into profit. Please, inform the personal services companies that our crew is on shift-hold and will make their own arrangements. To the chandlers say that we have supplies due in from other sources and are not at this time accepting samples or preapproved signature offers. What others have you?”
It was, Theo thought, amazing how calming Liaden sounded—smooth and flowing, like the little stream in Father’s garden, back on Delgado.
“I have,” Bechimo said, answering as he was spoken to, “offers to wash the hull, to advise the pilots on the proper mode of dress, and those who offer decorative skin art.”
“Regretfully, utilization of such services requires preauthorization from our office on Waymart. You may of course give them the Waymart call box, so that proper inquiry may be made. You may receive inquiry from those seeking employment. Express to them the following ship’s policy: that we utilize certified prescreened and prerequested guild members only.”
“Thank you, Pilot; those instructions cover most of the incoming queries.” Screen Six was mostly grey now, shading toward blue at the left edge. Panic averted, thought Theo and gave a nod and a smile to Clarence.
“Pilot Theo? We have several requests specifically for yourself. Are you in need of companionship?”
Theo sputtered, and shook her head.
“Exec said it—and if anyon
e asks by whose orders, you tell them standing orders from the Executive Officer.”
“Yes, Pilot. We have also several security consultants applying for permission to discuss ground-side security, including one who specializes in new-world orientation. I see offices listed for them in several ports on-world. I also have two sources offering weapons renewal.”
“Please send anyone claiming security to me,” said Clarence, back in Terran. “I’ll vet ’em. Might as well do the same for weapons renewal, but buy me some time—say I’m in conference. Ask for contact info and say that the Exec, who’s in conference, will get back to them.”
Clarence turned to fix Theo with a quick eye.
“These aren’t the kind of things you’re going to get in established ships mostly, ’specially if they’re marked Hugglelans . . . and by damn I thought the weapons check people were so old-time that no one would try it anymore.”
Theo signed query, figuring she had it pegged as a variation Rig had warned her about.
Clarence shrugged. “New ship on port stuff. If they can get on board to do a survey, so-called, or a ‘consult,’ then they get a handle on our readiness, and on what weapons we do have. They’d be especially interested in Bechimo—not like there’s a ship of this exact class dropping in of a ten-day, is it now? Some of the security folk, they’ll even have a try at dropping bugs, picking up ship or trade rumor, what have you. We don’t show local affiliation yet, and that can count a lot on dealing with refraff. They ought to be put off by two First Class Pilots on the con, but hey, you can’t succeed if you don’t try, like my auntie usta say.”
He spun his chair to face her. “Other thing we ought to do, now we got an Exec, is name a Trade Officer. What might be encouraging some of these folks to be so bold is we got nobody listed, so they might figure we got no connections and no sense, even if we do claim a contract with Tree-and-Dragon.”
Theo nodded, recalled that Rig Tranza had been strong on dealing with known affiliates . . . but he’d never needed to cope with anything except personals; buying wasn’t what he did, what he did was pilot. Like her.
“Trade Officer, huh?” She shook her head. “We’re going to have to improvise on that. Maybe list a name who’s always in a meeting?”
Clarence tipped his head, like he was considering that.
“Port request, on proper channels, Pilot Theo,” Bechimo said crisply. “Customs and port protocol officers will be arriving shipside within the local hour. We are requested not to open hatches before they arrive and are informed that, for our protection we are under surveillance at all times on port.”
“Of course we are,” Theo murmured. “Where’s this kind of support when you really need it?”
FIVE
Frenzel Port
Theo changed from basic ship clothes into a white shirt and dark trousers; she would have liked to have the Laughing Cat stitched above the pocket of the shirt but that hadn’t happened yet—maybe some of those catalogs would yield an embroidery service. Her hair was as it always was, just a touch neater than if she’d just rolled out of bed from a quick tumble. No worry—the chance that she, or any pilot, would be in the height of style on arrival at any particular world was on the order of vanishing to none.
To receive company, she wore so-called “shore boots,” shiny and waterproof, too, for all that she didn’t intend to go walking in water today. She’d also found and collar-spotted the pin she’d gotten so long ago from Win Ton: wings. Being a nexus of violence and thereby banished from Academy meant, among other things, that she’d never received the official Anlingdin graduate wings, but the Scout-issue wings Win Ton had sent were both more subtle and in their own way truer.
She gave a last glance in the mirror, seeing a wiry kid with flyaway blonde hair and serious black eyes. Nothing to do about that, she guessed, and headed for the door.
* * *
“Are we prepared?”
This she asked as she entered the command deck, where the screen reserved for Bechimo showed a staid chart listing available long info sources.
“What’s this?” she asked, pausing behind Clarence’s chair.
“Pilot, after discussion with Pilot Clarence, I will remain in radio silence unless there is a major emergency. All ordinary ship spaces are unlocked, as per the directives of the Executive Officer. We have selected Rosencrantz II as an emergency destination if there is a need for us to evacuate the system in haste. I am maintaining regular watch on public areas inside and outside the skin.”
The watch outside the skin showed the same area in three of the ten screens: a miserly patch of grit-blasted tarmac and the bare bones hotpad linkage. It looked like more than one ship had lifted in a hurry, or landed crabbed, leaving the contact arm swinging slightly askew, striped with a multitude of colors, including one that looked surprisingly like rust. But according to the locals, Frenzel Port got rain and major storms—the directives had been clear about tie-downs not being optional in certain seasons—and she felt better about the chance of Bechimo disengaging in a hurry, if necessary. No less an authority than Rig Tranza had maintained that always having a clear right-of-way was the sign of a good pilot . . .
She ran her hands through her hair, gently. The remaining seven views from outside showed other medium and small ships within easy range, all sitting tied to similar hardpoints in a row of craft fed by a runway-and-road combo capable of accepting podcranes and perhaps even vehicles bearing surface dry docks.
The view on the main screen showed the local tower as well as the road—it was echoed on Screen Fourteen, to her lower left, and to Clarence’s upper left. On it was a fleet of five vehicles, three of them a bright off-hue green, and the other two somber brown.
“Visitors on the screen,” Clarence pronounced, rising from his chair.
He’d done some cleanup in honor of portside visitors, too. For starters, he’d added red to his hair. Theo was startled, then saw the sense of it. He’d left enough grey for authority, but not so much that someone seeking advantage would automatically assume he was weak. For the rest—shore boots, polished bright, bright white shirt and, at his hip, a ship’s gun, a detail she hadn’t considered.
“I take it we’re second in line,” he said, looking down at her. “Looks like they’re slowing down outside the good ship Geranny Smith, in case you forgot anything, Pilot.”
“In fact, I did. Be right back.”
When she returned, it was with a gun on her belt, an urge for tea, and a feeling she ought to take another look at the port rules Tower had transmitted in the welcome packet. She tapped the file to her screen first, saw that Clarence was also reviewing the legal.
“Cup?” she asked. Clarence nodded.
“Rose tint for me, if you might? Thanks, Theo.”
She was back quickly, bearing a Vodamorang blend, said to be lightly calming, the fragrance playing well with Clarence’s rose, which she guessed was his third favorite.
At the board she scrolled port rules, finally asking, “We in violation of any of these that you see? Clarence? Bechimo?”
Clarence waggled his fingers, deliberately meaningless.
“No more’n most ships are. I guess we’re not going to share the complete ship’s specs, I guess we’re not gonna go overlong into our history wherein we might have broken a law somewhere and not properly balanced it . . . which they ask us to certify we never have, within the parameters of being on the up-and-up right now.”
Theo nodded. She’d read plenty of port legal before, and this, like most, was in place to provide an excuse from liability for the port, in case that became an issue.
Early in her time with Rig Tranza, she’d been concerned that Anlingdin’s declaration of her being a nexus of violence might have followed her into the spaceways. Tranza had been good about it, comparing, finally, his riot to hers, and pointing out that his riot had actually been a couple of riots in three days, and had involved actual time in in detention . . . which, he insisted, hers had
not, other than the protective custody thing.
She wondered if Clarence had any riots in his back history, but now probably wasn’t the time to ask.
“Bechimo,” she asked instead, “are you prepared to follow these rules to the letter?”
The staid catalog image on Screen Six gave way briefly to a roiling blue, and then faded back to the public face.
“Pilot, in all cases local rules and regulations fall considerably lower in my decision trees than standing orders from captain, pilots, and crew; general operating protocols as derived from files and observed practice, and the basic instruction set granted to me by the Builders. I see a number of conflicts between the materials received from Frenzel Port Authority and my understanding of ship’s practice. My study of your own voyages as outlined in discussions, and my brief experience as your transport inspire me to believe that at all times ship survival and crew survival are paramount, and that there is certain information that is best not shared.
“I have, for example, sealed the blast doors leading to the Remastering Chamber. The outer doors there now appear to be those sealing an older-fashion oxygen regeneration plant of a type still common on smaller manned stations and long-term orbiters. These are among the suggestions the Builders left with me in regard to dealing with outside polities.”
“And if they ask us for the information or access to the items in section four and five, are we prepared to permit inspection of the subsystems bay and other potential storage areas?” she asked, naming other areas that had been on the list of hidden compartments.
A pause; a flicker on Screen Six.
“There is a viewable subsystems bay which, given the acknowledged antiquity of our craft, will be sufficient. Other potential nonstandard storage areas are likewise not likely to be seen, and the interior holds and exterior pod-blanks are of course accessible at all times to crew and to visitors as appropriate.”
Dragon Ship Page 4