Take The Star Road (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  "But if they have to send freight to the planet from the Terminal, and fetch it, doesn't that cause just as much of traffic problem, and add a transshipment overhead as well?"

  "It's not as bad as it would be if we all parked in orbit." A muffled whine came from beneath the floor as Tomkins engaged more of the cutter's systems. He continued, "A lot of traffic is transshipment rather than delivery, so you cut that out of the orbital overload for a start. After Customs processes planet-bound containers here, they load 'em into elevator pods, then ship 'em to the planet using special tugs that can tow a couple dozen pods at once. The shuttle leaves 'em at a 'down' elevator, where the operators clamp 'em to the cable and send 'em on their way, then goes to the 'up' elevator next door to pick up a string of pods that have come up from the planet, and brings them back here." He shrugged. "If you're dealing with only one planet's traffic, that's more efficient than allowing freighters to clog the orbitals. Earth's problem is that the traffic from all the system’s other planets and their moons snarls up everything here. Our cargo's come from Mars, for example. It would have been a lot quicker and easier for us to pick it up there."

  "What did we load here?"

  "A shipment of high-end limos and aircars. We're taking 'em to the Bismarck Cluster. I wouldn't waste my own money on 'em, but the folks in the Cluster are real big on buying products with good Deutsch labels on 'em - ancestral pride and all that, you know? These aircars carry brand names and badges that scream 'luxury' to the right crowd, even if they're so shoddily made nowadays that they spend half their time in the workshop!"

  Steve frowned. "Surely most planets made their own vehicles these days?"

  "They do, including the Bismarck Cluster, but some people will always pay over the odds for something with a 'Made On Earth' label on it - not that most of it's actually made on Earth at all, you understand! The gravity well and orbital congestion make planetside manufacture far too expensive for most spaceborne commerce. Most of it's made in orbital factories, or in plants in the asteroid belt where they're close to raw materials. Mars has a bunch of 'em, including the one that produced our cargo." He switched the comm panel to the traffic control channel, producing a muttered squeal of background noise. "Give me a moment to tell TrafCon we're ready for them."

  He waited for a break in the traffic, then pressed the 'Transmit' switch. "LMV Sebastian Cabot Cutter Two to Cargo Terminal Traffic Control, over."

  There was a brief pause, then a man's voice answered. He sounded harassed. "Trafcon to Cabot Cutter Two, go, over."

  "Cabot Cutter Two to Trafcon, we're ready to depart Service Bay Two, Dock Nineteen at your convenience for return to Cabot, over."

  "Trafcon to Cabot Cutter Two, you're in luck; there's a slot open in three minutes. You are now designated Delta-Seven. Slave your systems to Trafcon and stand by. Upon exiting the service bay, monitor Channel 217 for further instructions. Over."

  "Delta-Seven to Trafcon, understand departure in three, then monitor 217. Thank you. Standing by."

  Instead of a reply, there were two brief clicks on the channel. Tomkins pressed a series of controls on the console. "There. I've just given Trafcon remote control of our systems."

  As they waited, Steve asked, "Why do you call this type of small craft a 'cutter'?"

  Tomkins shrugged. "It's named for a type of wooden boat powered by oars or sail, once used by wet-water ships to ferry passengers and cargo to and from shore. Don't ask me why the name was applied to a spaceship, even a tiny short-range boat like this. More tradition, I guess."

  Steve looked around the interior, which appeared cavernous to him. "Doesn't seem 'tiny' to me, but then I haven't got much against which to compare it."

  The Bosun's Mate laughed. "I'd forgotten how things seem to a newbie. A cutter can transport forty to fifty personnel and a hundred tons of cargo, internally and underslung on tractor beams. By comparison, Cabot can load up to half a million tons of freight - what we call her net register tonnage - in standard containers and in break-bulk cargo. We have two cutters, plus a smaller gig for the Captain - that's another boat name from the days of sail - and two much larger ten-thousand-ton cargo shuttles. Any of them will be lost in one of our holds. Cabot's not all that large, either, as freighters go: the biggest can accommodate ten times as much as we can. That's why I say this is tiny."

  Steve blinked. "I see. I guess I've got an awful lot to learn!"

  "Yes, you have, but you will. All it takes is time and hard work."

  "I know I've still got to learn the basics of being a merchant spacer, but after I've done that, how difficult is it to learn to pilot one of these things?"

  "It's a lot quicker and easier to learn than it was with the heavier-than-air or space vehicles they used in the old days. Nowadays, the computer does almost all of it. They call me a 'pilot', but in reality all I do is issue instructions to the artificial intelligence systems. They control everything. If they think I'm telling them to do something that isn't safe, they won't do it. All modern small craft work that way, just like private vehicles planetside. You can fly 'em hands-off from start to finish if everything's routine. A pilot's really only needed because computers sometimes go wrong. Also, no matter how smart an AI system gets, sometimes it comes up against a situation that hasn't been foreseen or pre-programmed. That's where we come in."

  Steve nodded. "What made you decide to become a pilot?"

  "Several reasons. For a start, I had the aptitude - not everybody does. It's a well-paid specialization, because pilots are always in demand. No ship ever has enough of them, and if you want to settle down in one place for a spell pilots are always needed planetside, or in orbital work, or for asteroid mining. There's plenty of variety to keep things interesting. Also, I get to see outside a spaceship, which for me personally is a real plus, although many spacers aren't interested. Last but not least, I sometimes get to sit comfortably in a pilot's chair aboard a shuttle or cutter while everyone else is handling cargo!"

  Steve couldn't help chuckling. "Sounds good to me. How long does the training take?"

  "It's a process. Before taking the course for a Lancastrian Commonwealth license, you have to pass an aptitude test, then do a minimum of two hundred hours of initial hypno-study and simulator training. We've got all that aboard Cabot, if you're interested, although you'll have to complete your apprenticeship before the Bosun will let you tackle any other training. You'll also need to log at least two hundred hours as a crew member aboard small craft. Once you've got those minimums - most people end up with quite a bit more - your ship certifies you've completed them. That qualifies you to attend a full-time small craft school for two months, where you'll earn a license for a single type of small craft, usually cutters."

  "What about gigs and cargo shuttles?"

  "Your basic license is for a single type. Your ship will add others as type endorsements on your license over time, first as second pilot and then as P.I.C."

  "What's a P.I.C.?"

  "Pilot In Command. You need at least five hundred hours as second pilot before you earn that rating in the merchant service. The Fleet wants a thousand hours, but then they do a lot more with their small craft than we do with ours."

  "How much does small craft school cost?"

  "Plus-or-minus fifteen thousand credits. Your ship normally pays for it, in return for which you sign a contract to stay with her for a given period, usually two or three years."

  "But if you've got the money, there's nothing stopping you paying for the training yourself, right?"

  "No, but why would you want to?"

  Steve explained his ambition to join the Commonwealth Fleet to earn citizenship. "Seems to me that if I've got a qualification like that, it'll make me more attractive to the Fleet. After all, there's bound to be a lot of competition to join."

  Tomkins nodded emphatically. "There sure is; even more so for the Foreign Service Program, because it's restricted to no more than ten per cent of the available recruit slots ea
ch year. The competition for them is fierce, because earning Commonwealth citizenship in other ways isn't easy, so there are always twenty or thirty applicants for each FSP vacancy. Still, if you're a qualified small craft pilot, I reckon you'll have a good chance to be selected. The Fleet has the same problem as the merchant service. It never has enough pilots."

  A chime sounded softly, and a light on the console changed from amber to green. "Hold that thought," Tomkins added. "I'll say more once we're under way."

  Steve waited as tractor and pressor beams thrust the newly-serviced cutter from its dock, then Trafcon took control and directed the cutter out of the service bay in a long, smooth curve away from the Terminal. He looked back at its fifty-kilometer length as it receded into the distance.

  "The Terminal looks mighty big from this perspective," he observed.

  "Yes, it's one of the biggest in settled space, thanks to having to handle traffic for the entire solar system."

  Steve leaned forward in his seat against the pressure of his harness, craning his head to look around the immense blackness of space, studded with the bright sparks of stars and the lights of merchant ships parked near the Cargo Terminal. He couldn't hold back his smile.

  "This is just... beautiful! I can't understand why some spacers don't like to look at it."

  Tomkins shrugged, smiling himself. "I guess some people like it, and some don't - but I don't pretend to understand that, either. To me, this is one of the best parts of a pilot's job. You get to look around."

  "Uh-huh." Steve sat back reluctantly, and looked across at the pilot. "You were going to say more about pilot training?"

  "Yeah. The ship's due for a reactor and propulsion system overhaul next year. We do a twenty-year maintenance cycle, and this comes up every ten years. It'll take three months. Most of the crew will take leave and go home, but I'm going to stay at Bedford - that's the planet where we've booked the overhaul - and teach at their Small Craft Academy to gain more experience as an instructor. With that, plus what I get from teaching you, I'll be qualified for Bosun's Mate First Class by the time the ship's ready for space once more.

  "If you have the aptitude and work hard, you can complete the pilot training prerequisites by then. If the Bosun gives permission, you can do the basic studies using the ship's computer, and serve as a crew member aboard our small craft to build up your hours. You'll still have to find the money for the school - you can't ask the ship to pay for you if you intend to enlist soon afterward - but you can save a lot if you don't waste your wages partying at every planet of call. You'll also have crew trading privileges once you qualify as a Spacer Third Class, which shouldn't take you more than three or four months, since you've already done most of the theoretical training. With a few good trades you can make even more money.

  "With me at the Academy to give you a priority on training, you could qualify as a second pilot on cutters by the time the ship's maintenance period is over. That'd earn you Spacer Second Class rank right away, plus a decent skills supplement to your salary. First Class rank would follow once you qualify as first pilot on at least one type of small craft."

  Steve decided not to mention his windfall from the Dragon Tong, but he knew it would more than cover the training costs. "Sounds great! Thanks for being willing to help me. As soon as I'm a qualified Spacer, I'll talk to the Bosun about that."

  "Good. He likes people with drive and ambition, and he'll help you all he can. The skipper has the same attitude. You're lucky to be aboard Cabot. There's not many better ships for someone in your position, just starting out."

  "I'm beginning to realize that. I don't know if there's anyone up there, but if there is, I guess he must like me!" He craned around, trying to see the planet, which at one and a half million kilometers' distance was no more than a tiny dot in the viewscreen.

  "Taking a last look at home, eh?"

  "Yes. It's... it's a funny feeling. I've wanted to get away from Earth for a long time, but even so, to know I may never see the planet again... it's a strange, almost sad feeling."

  "I don't blame you for feeling like that. I guess we all do, the first time we leave our home worlds. Used to be you felt like that when walking away from home to begin life on your own, but worlds have become pretty small places, what with high-speed transportation. You can almost always visit home, no matter where you live. Travel between planets, though... that's a different story. Some are pretty similar, but others are so different you wonder how they ended up in the same galaxy! Ever seen pink or blue vegetation, or rocks in brilliant orange or peppermint green? They're out there! Canyons deeper than the deepest seas, mountains so high most planes can't fly over them because the atmosphere's too thin, critters stranger than anything fiction writers ever invented... I've seen them, and I hope to see a lot more before I'm through."

  Steve sighed as he turned away from the planet and settled himself into his seat, looking through the viewscreen towards Cabot, still a distant tiny dot ringed in green in the head-up display, but drawing closer. "Yeah. I want that too. I may miss Earth sometimes, but it's time for me to go."

  Part Two: Hitting Stride

  Chapter 8: June 2nd, 2837 GSC

  "You say this is the last load?" the dispatcher inquired, frowning as he checked his electronic clipboard. "We were expecting a thousand containers, but you've only delivered five hundred and fifty-two."

  "The empties we've been taking back up to the ship are ten-meter containers," Tomkins pointed out. "This shipment's packed in twenty-meter units, which would account for the difference."

  "I guess so," the dispatcher agreed dubiously. "We're gonna have a problem getting them all to the assembly plant. Our haulers are mostly short-chassis units. I think we've only got two or three long-chassis trailers."

  Tomkins nodded, and looked over his shoulder. "OK, Steve, let's have the last one."

  "Here she comes." Steve was seated at the cargo handling console. He used the cargo shuttle's tractor and pressor beams to lift the last container from the load compartment and move it towards the gaping doors.

  As he did so, Tomkins turned back to the dispatcher. "You'll have to run a non-stop shuttle service with the long trailers. Did you specify to the factory on Jaen that you wanted your stuff shipped in smaller containers? If you didn't, they'd have used whatever was most convenient for them."

  The dispatcher shook his head. "I don't think we did for this last order. The boss won’t be happy to hear we screwed up like that! I guess we'll have to make sure we tell the factory to use smaller ones next time." He fell silent as he entered commands into the control panel strapped to his right forearm, using the spaceport warehouse's beams to take the container from Steve and move it through the gaping roller doors into the cool, dark interior, lit only by skylights. He added it to the stacks of containers already delivered.

  "There we go," he said at last, satisfied. "Just gotta load the last twenty empties, then you can be on your way back up to orbit."

  "Why are we taking them back, anyway?" Steve asked as he rose from the console and walked over to the other two. "I thought containers were usually left at the point of delivery for re-use or recycling."

  "That normally happens with standard units," the dispatcher agreed. "Like most colony planets, the first houses here were built by converting the containers that brought cargo for the initial settlement wave. I'm living in a two-container unit myself, with my wife and kids. They make good homes. Thing is, these pressurized containers cost a lot more than standard boxes, so it's worth sending them back to a central depot for re-use. Sure, the shipping's expensive, but the depot pays us half the price of a new container for each one. That makes it worthwhile."

  "Steve, you want to try your hand at loading them?" Tomkins asked. "You'll find 'em a bit squirrelly - they weigh much less than when they were full, so this crosswind will push them around."

  "I'll do my best," Steve said cautiously. "Stand by to help if I have any problems."

  As Tomk
ins had warned, the strong crosswind made loading the first empty box, with its large windage area, much trickier than the full containers he'd just offloaded. He got it halfway through the shuttle's cargo bay doors, but then it swung too far and jammed itself crossways.

  "Hold it!" Tomkins sprang to the console, shoving Steve ungently out of the way. He hammered at the beam controls, took the joystick, and spent a careful five minutes maneuvering the container back out again and setting it down on the loading dock. Securing the console, he turned to Steve.

  "Sorry about that, but there's no time to be polite when that sort of thing happens. Let's go check the cargo doors for damage. If their airtight seals are broken, we'll have to go back up to orbit in spacesuits, and book the shuttle for repairs at the next orbital dockyard we reach."

  "I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... "

  "Hey, stuff like this happens. It could just as easily have been me, in a wind like this."

  They spent ten minutes carefully checking every centimeter of the doors' edges and their seals. Finally, Tomkins straightened up. "Looks OK to me. We'll wear spacesuits on the return trip, just in case, and run a pressure test on the way up to orbit. If the bird passes, we're golden. Now, let's try those containers again - but this time I'll load 'em."

  "That suits me just fine!" Steve assured him fervently.

  Things went more smoothly for the rest of the loading. Tomkins re-checked the wind speed and direction, recalculated the empty mass of the containers, then updated the cargo handling software's parameters. It automatically adjusted the power of the tractor and pressor beams to compensate for the problem, and deployed extra stabilizing beams to keep the containers at the optimum angle for loading. The next few boxes went much more smoothly. Tomkins allowed Steve to try his hand once again as soon as he was sure the software was properly calibrated.