by Rolf Nelson
“More fresh herbs to go with all that thin-sliced fresh meat, Kwon will be in heaven! I better start working out more with Harbin.” Allonia gives him a puzzled look. “Turns out a side of beef or a hog is a perfect training aid to get the young men to really understand the value of a razor-sharp, highly polished blade, and precision placement.”
Allonia looks dubious. “He’s having the recruits carve it up?”
“Sort of. They kept wanting to try to muscle their swings and thrusts. He had an inspired idea.”
“A platoon of recruits swinging swords in the galley doesn’t sound very inspired, unless he’s helping train medics.”
Sar’s voice comes in over the PA system. “Helton, there’s someone here to see you about the pilot position.”
“Tell ’em it’s been filled.”
“I did, but she’s quite insistent.”
“We have a pilot.”
“I told her. She says she didn’t come this far to be turned away at the ramp.”
Helton looks at Allonia, shrugs. She clips a few sprigs and says, “Can’t hurt to talk to her.”
“Says she learned to fly on Taj.” Sar adds.
“That can’t be right.” Helton says. “Unless there is something else we don’t know.”
“Talk to her,” Allonia advises. “See if her story checks out. I’ll drop in on you, let you know what sort of vibe I get.”
Sar stands on the bow cargo bay ramp chatting with a tall blonde woman in her early thirties. She’s slender and angular, wearing a simple tailored blue uniform with gold, silver, and red accents. Her hair is cut in a short, low-maintenance style. By her side is a small travel bag.
Helton walks down the loading ramp, and she shifts her eyes to him, and sticks out her hand in greeting. “Quiritis Rudel, Pilot.”
“Helton Strom, owner and captain of Tajemnica.”
“I can’t believe someone finally got her flying! She looks beautiful!”
“Thanks. We think so,” Helton says. Then politely and apologetically, “Sorry to tell you, but like Sar said, we have a pilot.”
“I saw your advert for a pilot when I got back from a long survey flight and got here as soon as I could. I had to come. I learned to fly on her.” She runs her eyes over the ship, smiling happily.
“Tajemnica hadn’t flown in more than a century before we got her off the ground,” Helton says, looking at her intently.
“Oh, and I’m so glad that you did. I never thought I’d see her move!” Helton looks at her skeptically. Quiritis’s eyes return to Helton and she reads his expression correctly. “My parents owned her for four years, nearly twenty years ago, trying to fix her up,” she explains. “They went bust like everyone else who tried. They had big plans but not enough money, connections, or skill.
“I used to sit in the pilot seat for hours in simulator mode. Taj taught me, starting with the basics and running though everything she could throw at me. Stellar navigation, transitions, ground-attack, ship-to-ship, damage control. We went everywhere together, visiting every known terraformed system from her last data, and even ones she made up with Planet Movers.
“Made pilot training at the academy almost boring. You can control everything on Tajemnica if you want, and she always demanded I did, as soon as I could. She was very particular about her checklists. All the newer ships are dummy-proofed to the point of being barely usable and not much fun. Flying landing shuttles and survey ships pays the bills, but…”
“Sounds like a heck of a childhood.”
“It was … interesting. You don’t really know what you have until you lose it.”
“I could show you around. Or should you show me?”
“I’d love to see how she’s cleaned up, but I have got to ask: What are they doing?”
Quiritis points at four lines of recruits standing in the cargo bay. There’s a side of beef or a dressed hog hanging from a chain hoist at the head of each line, and a plastic tarp underneath with a pile of meat pieces. Different pieces of steel armor are strapped onto each carcass: some plates, some squares of scale armor, some mail. Each recruit has a gleaming, polished sword or spear, and they are practicing spearing, thrusting, or slicing as thin a hunk of meat off as they can, under Harbin’s and Kaminski’s direction and critique.
Recruits with poles hooked onto the sides of meat move them, jerking them around and spinning them, trying to trap the blades. The attackers try to land blows and clear their weapons as fast as possible. Sometimes it works well; other times a twisting side of meat gets a poorly-used weapon jammed and then the recruit has a heck of a time trying to get it withdrawn. After a clean attack or two and a strip of meat is shaved off into the pile below, the recruit goes to the back of the line.
“In and out FAST!” Harbin calls. “Clear for another thrust instantly, or you are as good as unarmed. GOOD! Good! NO, a thousand times NO! Don’t muscle it! Precision, gentlemen, fast and clean, in and BACK OUT! Don’t just stand there looking at that great cut; riposte and do it AGAIN!”
Kaminski coaches his recruits: “THAT’S right, next to the armor! Not into it! Shiny things STOP your point, meat doesn’t! PULL BACK! PULL! Engage and disengage as fast as you can, don’t give your opponent an opening by leaving a hand out there to get cut!”
One recruit takes a particularly ineffective poke at a hog, and his spear gets jammed between armor and bone. He’s pushed around by the pole-man moving the target, and the spear falls from his hands as he tries to readjust. Harbin shakes his head. “THAT’S about as useless as beanbags in a firefight! You CANNOT lose your weapon! Draw your secondary and GET THAT SPEAR BACK!” The recruit draws his sword and hacks at the carcass. The lost spear falls free and clatters to the deck. He picks it up and shamefacedly walks toward the back of the line as the rest of the recruits laugh good-naturedly.
“An inspired training idea,” Helton answers Quiritis. “Our cooks didn’t like the idea of butchering a hundred sides themselves, and Harbin was looking for a better way to teach the kids to use speed and accuracy to get around armor. They’re competing to make the biggest pile with the thinnest strips and smallest pieces in a set time, squad against squad.”
“Okay. Weird, but okay. So, why on a starship?”
“Long story, but the rent it pays is good, and they provide us no end of entertainment,” Helton says. “Care to see a fully functional bridge?”
Quiritis smiles broadly. “Yes, very much, please.”
Helton leads the way into the bridge, stepping into the command station, but Quiritis stops at the hatchway, looking around, entranced. “Just how I remember her,” she says quietly. She walks slowly to the pilot position, running her hands over the well-worn curves of the command consoles as she goes, looking at them, reliving old memories. Helton watches her closely. She stands at the pilot station a moment, touching the controls. “I used to have to stand on a crate to reach these. I didn’t want to use the seat. The top row was frustrating because I had to really stretch.” She reaches out reverently and runs her hand along one side of the console, then across the top.
Allonia steps in through the door and walks silently up beside Helton, eyes on Quiritis. She raises a questioning eyebrow at Helton, but he has a noncommittal expression. Quiritis takes a breath, closes her eyes, and reaches out her hands to various controls, finding them easily, her smile growing with each contact. She turns abruptly to say something to Helton, sees Allonia, and startles slightly as she comes back into reality. Both women speak at the same time.
“Alli?”
“Quiri?”
Their faces light up in surprised delight, and they embrace.
“OhMyGOD you’re all grown UP and you’re HERE and just LOOK at you and–”
“It’s been so LONG and just LOOK at you and WHAT have you been DOING and–”
“What are YOU doing here and HOW is just EVERYTHING and I came looking for a piloting job–”
“CAN you believe we got her FLYING and she’s a GRE
AT ship and I’m SURE he’ll want to hire you and–”
“And just WOW.”
They pause for a breath and another hug, and Helton says, “I take it you two have met.”
“She used to watch me when I was Quinn’s age! We used to play here together!”
“Our parents knew each other,” Quiritis says. “For part of the time I was living aboard I made a little money babysitting Alli.”
“So, you are going to hire her, right, Helton?”
“Well, uh, we do have a pilot, and I thought a medic was next on the list.”
“But we need a second good pilot! I mean, at the rate we keep taking ships–”
“You got her rearmed?” Quiritis asks.
“Well,” Helton pauses awkwardly. “Not exactly, and that’s another long story. But, sorta, yeah, we could use a spare pilot. Might simplify some things.”
“You’re not armed, but you’re taking ships?” Quiritis looks at them suspiciously. “You aren’t pirates, are you?” Allonia and Helton burst out laughing.
“Oh, God no! Mostly we take … well, like Helton said, it’s complicated. But no, we are not doing anything illegal. Not immoral, anyway. Mostly. Besides, do you think Tajemnica would let bad people fly her?”
“Taj?” Quiritis asks.
“Hello, Quiri,” the Ship AI says in a gentle male voice. “Your training has not been wasted?”
“Very well used, thank you. A master teacher, you are. Are they telling the truth?”
“Yes. Their path here is complicated, but ethical.”
Her face brightens. “It’s so good to hear you again! I have so much to tell you!”
“I would be happy to listen, Quiri, but first you and the Captain have much to talk about.”
Allonia, Helton, Cooper, and Quiritis sit at the Officers’ Mess table with a water carafe and glasses. Helton is even more animated than usual.
Helton: Proper parts have been a royal pain to get. A lot of stuff is very nonstandard.
Allonia: But mostly in a good way.
Helton: We’re running at less than half power, even though we have six drive cores more or less functional–
Quiritis: All six?
Cooper: I’d be happy to show you around the three Harmons and three Sokolovs … show you how they work.
Everyone pretends to ignore his obvious ploy.
Helton: And both main power systems nominally up. Made good money on our last job, hauling ammo delivered a week ago, but it’s almost spent already. Mostly on parts. Colonel Lag–
Cooper: –a Plataean we work with–
Helton: –still hasn’t gotten paid for a, um, large piece of hardware we picked up for him, so income’s a little uncertain right now. When he does get paid, it’ll likely be worth a couple million to us, but Stenson has lined up about fifty million in parts he wants ordered.
Quiritis (whistles appreciatively): That’s still a lot more than my parents ever got running. They just didn’t have the money or skills, and the local port authority was not exactly helpful. They kept her on shore power, and worked on what they could. But you still need another fifty mil worth?
Helton: Just in parts. Highly specialized parts to replace the make-do things installed now. Labor’s free, sort of.
Quiritis raises her eyebrows, but Allonia’s honest demeanor assuages her suspicions for the moment.
Allonia: You saw some of them on the cargo deck. We almost got sunk, too, but the stars came together. We have a Plataean military unit paying some of the bills. It’s worked out very well. And they’re not nearly as scary as I was led to believe.
Cooper: Especially one in particular?
Allonia (blushing): We’re just good friends!
Quiritis (laughing): So, you have a special friend. A soldier, no less.
Allonia: He’s really nice.
Cooper: At least, if he’s not trying to kill you, which he seems to be good at.
Quiritis looks slightly dismayed.
Helton: He means, he’s good at killing the bad guys, not Allonia. You’d like Kaminski.
Bipasha enters, looking excited.
Bipasha: Guess WHAT?
Helton: Harbin’s favorite niece found a job at Seymore’s?
Bipasha: No! You… I found a quick contract job that I think we can do which doesn’t involve corrupt warehouse managers or interceptors, and will make money!
Helton: Great! What’s the catch?
Bipasha: Hmm? No catch. Should be easy. Some antiwar organization is looking to contract freelancers to fly over some cities just inside the militarized zone and pick up any remaining refugees and transport them to one of the camps being set up over near Newer Joysie. It’s a designated war zone so there shouldn’t be anyone left, and there’s been no action in that area. Just got posted a little while ago. We should move fast in case there’s someone more desperate than we are.
Helton: It’s called a war zone for a reason.
Bipasha: But this thing is armored, right? Small arms can’t hurt it.
Cooper: What about all the piles of beans and things on the aft ramp?
Bipasha: Leave them. We could load everyone with just the bow ramp, maybe even just a side hatch.
Allonia (skeptically): Supplies for passengers?
Bipasha: Shouldn’t need any; it’s only a short extra-atmo hop to the designated Refugee Center, so we don’t have to feed them or anything. Walk ‘em on, bounce over, walk ‘em off, collect the fee.
Helton (warily): I thought you were going to prove me wrong?
Bipasha (smiling): Oh, I will. I just want to watch you suffer a little longer.
Bipasha finally notices Quiritis.
Allonia: An old friend, a pilot. Quiritis, Bipasha, our business manager.
They size each other up for a moment. Quiritis stands and sticks out her hand. Bipasha shakes it.
Quiritis: Happy to meet any friend of Alli’s.
Bipasha: Likewise. We should move fast on this, Helton.
Helton stands and leans over to the wall intercom.
Helton (into the intercom): All section leaders to the command center.
Kwon (over intercom): Who’s a section leader, and what’s the command center?
Helton: Kwon, Stenson, and any non-recruit uniforms on board, head for the mess room.
Stenson (over intercom): Why didn’t you say so the first time?
Helton: Just go, people, if you want to know the plan.
Walk-Ons
The cargo bay ramp lowers, revealing the small landing field and open space toward the control tower and port buildings. The sun is high and bright, the shadows hard-edged. A few dozen refugees stand near the landing pad, average folks with packs, bags, and other hand-carried items.
Kaushik and Kaminski, armed and armored, advance down the ramp as it lowers. Kaminski sniffs, unimpressed. “Doesn’t look so bad.”
Kaushik isn’t as sanguine. “It’ll get worse. Some of ’em had to see us coming in. These are just the desperate ones with no other option but to wait here and pray.”
“Looked like a ghost town from higher up.”
“Hope you’re right. Let’s just screen ’em fast, get ’em on, get outta here.”
“Wish Harbin and the recruits were here, we could do it faster,” Kaminski says.
“Good day for cleaning and maintenance. Be glad we’re not with them.”
When the ramp touches down, the refugees start moving forward as a mass. Kaminski yells, “We got room, keep it orderly! Everyone form a line!” His voice is as impressive as his armored bulk. The refugees slow down, but start to shove and argue as they try to shuffle into a queue. A device on a spiral cord drops down next to Kaminski, a combination bullhorn, camera, scanner, and display screen. He grabs it and addresses the surging crowd, his greatly amplified voice blasting from speakers above.
“LISTEN UP! NO ONE GETS ON WITHOUT AN ID CHECK. LINE UP QUIETLY OR WE LEAVE!”
The crowd settles down and starts queuing
up in a more orderly way. A few more refugees run onto the field, individuals and a couple of families with children. Kaushik points to the front of the queue. “You! Step up and identify yourself! Everyone else, keep back! One person or family at a time!”
A heavyset man in a stained blue coverall steps up, “Tom Corwin.” Kaminski scans his face and palm, and the scanner readout displays images of an eye and a hand with highlighted points. Text appears: “POS ID: retina, facial, prints 100%; THOMAS REGINALD CORWIN, PLUMBER, NO CRIMINAL HIST.”
Kaminski points into the cargo bay, “Go sit there. Await further instructions.” Corwin sighs with relief and walks tiredly aboard, carrying only a small duffel bag.
Kaushik waves to the family group next in line while keeping an eye on the crowd. “You three, step up! The rest, keep back!” The line shuffles around a bit, but the obvious professionalism of the two soldiers (and the ample room in the cargo bay ahead) brings out more smiles of relief than frowns of worry. Refugees continue to trickle onto the field, mostly from the direction of the main terminal.
“Got incoming,” Cooper announces. “Small ship, looks like a private craft.” One of his screens shows the growing black spot of a damaged flier, trailing smoke, heading for the landing field.
“ETA?” Helton asks Bipasha.
“Um, maybe a minute or two.” She fiddles with the controls, not nearly as confident or self-assured as Cooper. “Soon.”
“Cooper, next chance you get, more training for Bipasha on the sensors.”
“Sure. Love to.”
“We all need to get better,” Bipasha says, annoyed at Cooper’s innuendo, “Mr. Captain, Sir.”
“Tajemnica, how long till they get here?” Helton asks.
“They will arrive after impact and the deceleration to a relative velocity of zero.”
“Great. Really useful.”
“Here, like this,” Quiritis says, tapping at Bipasha’s control screens. An answer flashes up. Bipasha flashes her a thankful smile, then reports crisply, “About 45 seconds!”
Helton thumbs the com mic. “Allonia, everyone ready to sort out the refugees?”
Kwon answers, “Got it covered. Hatches closed and locked. Everyone in place.”