by Peter Grant
"I had to find something better, and that meant going somewhere else. I read as much as I could about the rest of the settled galaxy. The place that seems to put the most emphasis on individual rights and responsibilities is the Lancastrian Commonwealth, so I started to look for ways to get there and earn citizenship. Its Fleet's Foreign Service Program seemed to offer an opportunity. It'd let me earn citizenship without needing qualifications and experience I can't get here without surrendering my right to emigrate. Problem was, I couldn't afford to buy passage to the Commonwealth. Becoming a merchant spacer was the lowest-cost way I could think of to get there. I'd also get training and experience that'd make me more useful to its Fleet.
"I couldn't afford spacer training at vo-tech school, so I knew I'd have to try for an apprentice berth. That's why I studied spacer theory on my own, then spent everything I had in the world to come up here and wait for a ship with a vacancy. It wasn't easy. There's been times I haven't eaten regularly, because I couldn't earn much by doing odd jobs; but if I wanted to get off-planet, I knew I had to be up here, ready to grab any chance that came along. If I wasn't on the spot to take advantage of it, I'd miss it. I never expected my chance to come in the form of a fight to the death in front of the saloon! I guess everything came together at the right moment - my karate, my studies, being up here, and then Mr. Brackmann knowing you. Without all those things, you'd never have heard of me and you wouldn't have considered hiring me."
The Bosun nodded soberly. "You sure grabbed the brass ring when it came around! Don't think your struggle's over now, either. I'm going to ride you hard, and not cut you any slack - that's my job, after all. Still, on the basis of what you've just told me, I reckon you'll do all right. Keep working as hard as you have to get to this point, and we'll make a spacer out of you in no time!"
Three assistants converged from different directions as they strode through the doors of Spacer Supply, all drawn by the Bosun's badge of rank. He selected the most promising-looking and handed him a data chip.
"This young man is Steve Maxwell. He's joining my ship as a spacer apprentice, and needs a complete outfit - the works. That's a list of what I want for him. Payment will be made by Louie Brackmann, owner of the Horseshoe Saloon two decks down. We'll call him to set that up before I leave."
"It'll be a pleasure to serve him - and you, Bosun!" The salesman's eyes glittered at the thought of the commission to be earned on so substantial a sale. He slipped the chip into a reader and scrolled down the list. A furrow appeared on his brow. "We may not have some of the exact items you list. We can supply equivalents, of course - "
"No!" Steve and the salesman looked at the spacer, startled by his vehemence. "When I specify a brand name or manufacturer or model, or if any item is preceded by an asterisk, you'll provide exactly what I list. You do not have discretion to substitute anything else. If you don't have them, either get them here by tomorrow morning, guaranteed, or tell Maxwell at once so he'll have time to buy them from another vendor."
He turned to Steve. "I've learned to trust what's listed there, and you will too. If you can't get something here, look up other suppliers in the Terminal and order it from them. Remember the old saying: 'Buy cheap, pay dear'. In space, your life quite literally depends on your gear, so buy the best, no matter what it costs. In this case, thanks to Louie's generosity, I've specified a very comprehensive outfit, far better than most spacers start out with. You'd take several years to put it together using only your salary."
"I get it, Bosun. Thanks."
The salesman promised, "We'll make sure to get what you want from a distributor, Bosun, or if necessary we'll get it from our competitors. We help each other that way from time to time for brand-specific orders like this. He won't have to look elsewhere."
"Good. Give Maxwell a detailed invoice listing all items in full, down to model numbers, plus their prices." He looked at Steve. "Transmit it to the League right away, and ask them to keep it on file as part of your insurance documentation. That way they'll have proof of what you own, and they'll cover it all at replacement cost in the event of a claim."
"Aye aye, Bosun."
"All right, I'll call Louie to arrange payment, then leave you to it. I'm off duty, and it's party time!"
Chapter 4: January 24th, 2837 GSC
Steve finished heat-sealing a name-tag over the right chest pocket of the last set of utility coveralls. He folded them around a cardboard template he'd cut, sized to ensure that his clothes would fit as neatly and compactly as possible into the smaller of his two trunks. He slid the template out, and placed the coveralls on top of the pile in the trunk. It protruded well above the rim, but when he pressed the lid down the trunk closed without problems. Satisfied, he raised it again, then stood for a moment, looking down at the neatly-folded clothes. It was sobering to realize that everything he owned in the world - or, rather, in space - was right here in the trunks, toolbox and carryall. Even so, it was more than he'd ever owned before in his life.
He'd had to abandon most of the little he'd brought from the orphanage before taking the long ride up a Planetary Elevator to orbit, then a shuttle to the Cargo Terminal. A charge of one hundred neodollars per kilogram of luggage had a limiting effect all its own. He hadn't been able to afford that, so he'd made the trip wearing multiple layers of clothing and an outsized coat over it all, every pocket stuffed to bursting point. He'd carried only the single permitted item of hand baggage, also crammed to - no, beyond its capacity. He grinned, recalling the expression on the security inspector's face as he'd unlatched it. Its contents had erupted onto the examination table as the pressure was released when it sprang open.
The fare to the Terminal had wiped out the last of his inheritance from his parents. For several months thereafter, until the fight ten days before, he'd lived from hand to mouth. Some days, when no work was to be found, he hadn't eaten at all. He'd had offers, of course. A fit, lithe young man would never be short of them from those who saw bodies only as receptacles for lust, to be used, then tossed aside. Fortunately, he'd never slid so far into the gutter that he'd had to sacrifice his self-respect in that way. Even so, there'd been one five-day period when he'd learned the hard way what it meant to be truly hungry.
He'd had several periods when he couldn't afford even the cheapest flophouse bed, either. He'd had to join the Terminal's down-and-outs in the garbage tunnels - the only place where the cops didn't go to look for transients to harass. Police weren't the only threat. Those using the tunnels had to time their stay carefully, moving out of each section before its thrice-daily schedule brought the auto-disposal systems to life, chewing up everything inside and flushing the remains into recycling tanks. His face turned grim as he remembered the morning when someone had overslept. The victim had woken as the grinding began, and stumbled for the exit. His head, arms and torso had made it out... but his legs hadn't. His tormented screams still echoed in Steve's mind sometimes, particularly when he was too tired to shut them out.
He shook his head violently. He would not allow memories of the past to cloud his future! He had a whole new life ahead of him, an opportunity many people would kill for - and he was going to make the most of it! Determinedly, he started to stuff small empty spaces in the trunk with rolled up socks and bundled underwear.
He was interrupted by footsteps outside. Louie put his head around the door. "How's the packing going, Steve?"
"I'm almost finished, Mr. Brackmann."
Louie came in, carrying a small baize drawstring bag in his right hand. He was followed by his 'personal assistant', Maxine. Steve had eyed her half-longingly ever since he'd been hired as a part-time cleaner here, but even if she hadn't 'belonged' to Louie, he knew she was way above his league. She was short and dainty, with bobbed blonde hair over green eyes in an artificially tanned face. Her pert, perky breasts jiggled enticingly as she walked, her rump twitching from side to side beneath a green mini-dress. She carried an overstuffed sandwich on a plate, and a mug of
coffee.
"Here, Steve," she said cheerfully. "You've been working for hours. Louie figured you'd be getting pretty hungry by now, so I got this from the kitchen for you."
"Thank you so much! You're a saint - and thank you again, Mr. Brackmann." He took them from her, put down the mug on a corner of the table he'd been using to fold his clothes, and took a mammoth bite out of the sandwich.
She giggled. "If you knew me better, a saint's the last thing you'd call me!"
Louie laughed. "Yeah, you're much more fun as a sinner!"
She stuck out her tongue at him, then turned back towards the door, smiling. "Fresher's calling my name. 'Scuse me, please."
"Yeah, sure, honey." Louie looked around. "The place looks a lot cleaner now."
Steve took a slug of coffee to moisten the remains of his mouthful of sandwich, and swallowed mightily. "I bagged all the packaging for disposal, Sir." He nodded to three bulging garbage sacks against the rear wall of the storeroom.
"Huh! I can see now why it took two shop assistants and three carts to bring all your gear back here. Looks like half the load was packaging! You've been cleaning, washing, tagging and packing since yesterday afternoon."
"I'm just about done, Sir. I've got toiletries and a merchant spacer's uniform in my carryall, to take back to the flophouse for my last night there. Everything else is packed, except for my oldest, grottiest clothes, which I've torn up and added to your cleaning rags. I really can't thank you enough for starting me out with a complete set of gear and uniforms, Mr. Brackmann, and letting me use one of your storerooms to get them all ready. I owe you big-time!"
"No, son, I owe you - and so does the Dragon Tong. They weren't joking about a reward. Their local boss just came by. I've got good news for you."
"Oh? What's that, Sir?"
Louie grinned. "They... ah... discussed things with the Lotus Tong. They say there'll be no more problems. According to their boss, the Dragons 'persuaded the Lotus to compensate us for our trouble'. I reckon that means the Dragons stole everything the Lotus Tong owned, and gave us a bit of it as a 'thank you' for giving them an excuse to do so! Would you believe their boss just handed me a hundred taels of gold?"
Steve blinked. "A hundred - what did you say, Sir? 'Tales'?"
"No; tael, t-a-e-l. It's a very old measure for weighing precious metals. It works out to about thirty-seven and a half grams. Your salary will be paid in Lancastrian credits, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"OK. One tael of gold at current market prices is worth... " - his eyes lost focus for a moment as he mentally calculated - "about twelve hundred and fifty Lancastrian credits."
Steve whistled softly, eyes wide. "That's more than a month's net salary for an apprentice spacer, even after deductions and League dues! And they just gave you a hundred of them?"
"Yeah. It's a nice round number, isn't it? Anyway, the Dragons said it was for both of us, so I split it fifty-fifty. Out of your half, I deducted twenty-three taels to cover the cost of your spacer gear." He handed Steve the bag, which rattled enticingly in his hand. "Here's the balance of your share - twenty-seven taels. If you want to exchange a couple of them for cash, I can do that for you."
Steve was dumbfounded for a moment as he took the bag, feeling its weight. He opened it, running his fingers in fascination through the little square and oval gold ingots inside. Each was die-stamped on one side with the seal of the licensed mint that had produced it, and on the other with its certified weight in grams and another number. He could hardly believe he was holding the equivalent of well over thirty thousand credits in his hands - better than three years' salary for a spacer apprentice.
Finally he found his voice. "B - but, Sir, that's not fair! You're the boss. You should have a bigger share!"
Louie snorted. "Like hell! I'm only breathing because of you, remember? That means you earned an equal share. Another thing. Whatever you do, don't deposit this into your League account here! If there's any local official record of it, you'll be taxed on it. Even at minimum rate, that'll mean giving half of it to the bureaucrats planetside."
Steve shook his head violently. "They already glommed on to half my parents' estate - their lawyer had to fight like hell to keep enough to pay for the orphanage. No way I'm giving them any of this!"
"You said it! If you don't need cash in a hurry, hang on to the gold - it's a good store of value for emergencies, even if it doesn't appreciate much. I keep up to forty per cent of my funds in precious metals or other hard assets for that reason. If you want to convert them to cash, most banks will demand proof you already paid tax on them, and tax you if you don't have it. I'd sell 'em privately to avoid tax, or wait until you reach a Lancastrian Commonwealth planet - their maximum tax rate's only ten per cent. Until then, keep them safe. I've already sent the Bosun a message, asking him to arrange for you to store them in the ship's safe. They'll be secure enough here in your baggage until morning. No-one else knows about the gold, not even Maxine. Don't tell her, whatever you do, or she'll want to spend some of my share on herself!" They chuckled softly. "Just set the alarm on the storeroom door when you lock up for the night."
"I will, Sir." He looked down at the gold. "What does this decimal number mean? They're all stamped '99.9' under their weight."
"That's their fineness or purity rating. 'Three nines fine', what you've got there, is the third-highest rating, after five and four nines fine. It's the most common in circulation. It designates high-end gold, what jewelers call '24-carat'."
"I get it. I don't know how to thank you for this, Sir, really I don't!"
"You already did, by pulling my ass out of the fire. For the rest, thank the Dragon Tong - or rather the Lotus Tong, after the Dragons finished with them!" They laughed. "It'll help you make a fresh start in the Lancastrian Commonwealth. You'll need a nest-egg to establish yourself there."
"I won't waste it, Sir," Steve promised fervently.
He crammed the crust of the sandwich into his mouth. Chewing, he took a pair of socks from the smaller trunk, put one inside the other, then poured the gold taels into them, tying a knot to keep them inside. He handed Louie the empty bag, put the tael-stuffed socks into his trunk, then closed both trunks and the toolbox. The large wheeled-and-powered trunk held his spacesuit, helmet, toolbelt, work boots and gloves, and bulky items like footwear. The second, slightly smaller trunk fitted into a recess in the large trunk's lid, and contained his clothes and other personal possessions. The heavy toolbox, in turn, slotted into the top of the smaller trunk.
Steve built the stack, then withdrew one end of a security cable from a spool in the bottom trunk, led it through the locks and handles of all the baggage, passed it around a convenient shelf bracket welded to the wall, and plugged the end into a locking socket next to the spool. Finally, he thumb-sealed all the locks.
"That'll be safe enough 'til tomorrow." He swallowed the last of the coffee and glanced at his watch. "It's after twenty-three already! I need a shower, then I'd better hit the sack. I've got to make an early start in the morning."
They started towards the door as Louie observed, "Yeah, you mustn't keep the Bosun waiting. Say, I've heard you complain about the hot water at that flophouse. Why not shower here before you leave?"
"Thanks, Sir, I'd appreciate that." Steve closed the door behind him, and entered a multi-digit code into its lock to activate the storeroom's alarm systems.
Louie glanced down the passage. "Here's Maxine, just in time for you to say goodbye."
"You're leaving already?" she asked as she came up.
Steve nodded. "I'm going to shower quickly, then head for my flophouse. Big day tomorrow!"
"Uh-huh. Why not use the entertainment staff's fresher? It's just upstairs from here, and it's nicer than the kitchen fresher."
"Good idea," Louie approved. "Show him where it is, please, honey. I'm heading back to the saloon."
"Sure, then I'm off to bed. I need my beauty sleep!"
"You do that,
sweetheart. I'll be along in a few hours." He kissed her, then held out his hand to Steve. "I probably won't see you again before you leave. Best of luck, son. Make us proud of you! Be sure to drop in for a drink whenever you get back this way. First one's on the house!"
"I'll do that, Sir. I'll always be grateful to you for helping me get this start."
They shook hands firmly, then Louie turned and headed back to his waiting customers.
Maxine led Steve along a rear passageway and up a flight of stairs. The next level was carpeted, instead of being floored with the hard-wearing black plasrubber coating of a working area. Diodes were turned low in wall sconces to provide a soft, intimate light. Doors lined both sides of the corridor. As they passed one, a rhythmic, squeaking pounding increased in volume and tempo. A breathless voice urged greater speed and intensity, while another gasped and moaned. Steve blushed furiously.
Maxine noticed. "Does that bother you?" she asked curiously.
"Er... ah... "
Shocked realization dawned on her face as she stopped dead in her tracks. "Steve! Don't tell me you're a virgin?"
"I... um... oh, hell!" He shook his head in chagrin. "In a boy's orphanage out in the country, particularly one run by the Church, it's kinda hard to meet girls. Since leaving there I've been living in a flophouse here on the Cargo Terminal. I've not had enough money to interest a girl, and no privacy to do anything about it even if one was interested!"