by Jay Allan
They also started compiling a list of crew who wanted to sell something, along with a catalog of goods for sale. They had a short discussion on scheduling times so everybody didn’t show up at once, but soon chucked that out as too restrictive. The watch schedules would sort out some of it in any case.
After the discussion ranged for a bit, I started getting concerned about the level of detail. “How many people are we talking about here?”
Pip looked at me and answered with a completely flat expression, “Seventeen.”
I almost choked on my coffee. “Seventeen? That’s almost half the crew! Do they know they have to chip in to the co-op?”
Rhon nodded. “Oh yeah, in fact most of them wanted to before I told them. When they heard it was one percent or ten creds, most of them were willing to pay right then. I had to explain that we would collect after they were done selling.”
Biddy piped up, “Yeah, you have no idea what it’s like to try to find buyers for this stuff without a table. The things I sold the other day I had dragged through three systems without even a nibble. This is just such an obvious idea, I can’t imagine why nobody ever thought of it before.”
Pip shrugged. “Well, I know why it never occurred to me.” We all looked at him. “Lone wolf syndrome. I thought I was a wheeler-dealer. Then I got mugged…man, that was stupid and less profitable. I made more in the last booth than I’ve made in my whole career.”
Rhon nodded and grinned. “Yeah, and it beats the sneakers off trying to use other people’s booths. Selling wholesale really takes a bite and it’s not always easy to find someone who will carry the stuff you have. Even the successful traders like Bev and Tabitha are switching to this model.”
Pip pointed at me and grinned. “Well, we owe it all to Ish.”
I groaned. “Oh, come on. Save the kissing up until this actually works. We’ve got a lot of things to figure out yet.”
Francis snorted a laugh. “Like what?”
“Well, does everybody know how to move the grav pallet? Are we all clear on how to set up the booth? Have we established who’ll handle the money? If we’re going to take a percentage we should have a cashier, and maybe that’s the manager. I don’t know. Where do we stow the pallet when the market is closed? Do we know where to rent chairs on St. Cloud? Has anybody looked at the rental agreements there?” I ran through the issues rather quickly off the top of my head. The group sat staring at me.
Pip shook himself out of a daze and pulled out his tablet. “Could you run through that list again?” he asked, holding his stylus.
Everybody laughed and we got on with the process of organizing the co-op. I wanted Lois to be proud of us.
Unfortunately, we were interrupted by the pingity-pingity-pingity of the abandon ship alarm. We bolted for the boat dock and arrived at the gym just as the announcement came for the drill. We split up to attend to the ship’s business.
* * *
Two days later, after the evening cleanup, the steering committee convened in the main cargo lock where we practiced locking, unlocking, loading, and unloading the grav pallet. There wasn’t a lot to it, but if you had never done it before it could be intimidating. The secret was in the tow handle and Biddy had us all maneuvering pallets around like pros in less than a stan. She also arranged with Mr. Cotton to be able to bring our pallet back from the flea market each night and park it in the ship’s cargo lock. There was a kind of vestibule where we could leave the pallet without it being in the way. We’d have to stow it with the rest when transporting but that was only to be expected.
Three days out of St. Cloud we gathered for one last planning session in the mess. We identified sources for tables, chairs, card stock, and markers. We worked out a rough plan to display all the various items that the crew had to sell. The group determined that we’d need two tables but we only had one cloth. Pip suggested a standard ship’s blanket, but Cookie, who had been lurking in the background, tossed a covering matching the original. Officially, the cloths stayed as part of the galley’s stores so we were probably violating some rule, but we trusted Lois wouldn’t mind. Drawing up the final schedule for booth shifts, we split the days in half so nobody had to stay the whole time if they didn’t want to. Last we created a list of the people who’d be moving their goods up first and another for those who would be bringing theirs along later.
I was amazed, frankly. What had started with the innocent concept of let’s rent a booth had become a paramilitary operation complete with scheduled supply runs as Cookie volunteered to pack bento-boxes and fill thermoses.
A day out of St. Cloud, Mr. Maxwell called Pip and me to the office so we could sign the legal agreements to formally form the ship’s cooperative. This made it possible to have accounts in the ship’s ledger to keep the money straight. As a recognized sub-entity of the ship, we also stayed within the regulations on use of rental spaces. While we were there setting up the accounting and going through the procedures, the captain joined us.
“Gentlemen, I don’t want to interrupt, but I thought I would stop by and thank you for what you’re doing for the crew.”
Pip and I looked at each other. “Us, Captain?”
Mr. Maxwell added his two creds worth with a dramatic sigh. “Yes, you. The polite response would have been to say, ‘Thank you, Captain,’ but I suppose that would be too much to ask.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Pip and I spoke together.
The captain smiled at us. “I’ll be frank. When I first heard about this idea, and that you two scalawags were involved, I had my doubts. But already it has improved morale aboard the ship. You boys are doing a good thing and even if it all comes crashing down when we get to St. Cloud, the progress you’ve already made in breaking barriers between our various divisions is astonishing. So, I’ve come to thank you on behalf of the ship. Good trading, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Captain,” we replied in unison again.
She nodded to Mr. Maxwell and left.
After she had gone Mr. Maxwell turned his attention back to us. “Well, lads, I think that about sums it up. You’re in business. If you’ll tell me how many of the days we’re in port you’ll be using, I’ll have Mr. von Ickles message the orbital on behalf of the co-op. Then you’ll be off and running.”
Pip had the numbers all ready. “We’re due to dock tomorrow afternoon and the schedule says we’re pulling out in the morning five days later so we’d like the four full days we have in port, please.”
Mr. Maxwell nodded. “Easily done. You probably already know the St. Cloud Orbital has the same rental agreement as you found in Margary. I believe it’s the same subcontractor operating both markets actually.”
Pip nodded. “Yes, sar, and the same company has Dunsany Roads’ Orbital as well.”
I added the specifics of what we’d need to the list. “Sar, could you request the booth, two standard tables, and two chairs? The rental agreements listed those options and it should come to sixteen creds per day for a total of sixty-four creds.”
He nodded. “Of course, Mr. Wang. Will that be the standard configuration?”
I nodded and Pip answered, “Yes, sar, We have a total of seventeen crew planning on using the booth over the four days and at least three consignments which should cover that amount and then some.”
I had one more piece of business. “We took a collection and have a hundred creds as seed money to open the accounts with.”
Mr. Maxwell smiled and shook his head. “That’s not necessary. You already have a hundred and forty creds in your balance.”
Pip asked before I could. “Where did that come from, sar?”
He smiled and, I’m not sure if I was just getting used to his grin, but for once it wasn’t frightening. “Forty came from you, Mr. Carstairs, back on Margary. The other hundred came from Lois.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
St. Cloud Orbital: 2352-February-17
We docked at the St. Cloud Orbital right on schedule and the captain
declared liberty almost immediately. By prior arrangement, Pip took Biddy and Rhon to scope out the flea market and rent a locker so we could have secure storage nearby.
Cookie and I made a pasta bake and garlic bread for the evening buffet. We suspected that few people would be aboard for dinner except the few who had to be. Everything was ready by 1600.
“Cookie? When was the last time you went out for dinner?”
He stopped wiping down the counter and thought for a long time. “I confess it has been a while, young Ishmael. Why do you ask?”
“Because tonight would be a good opportunity for you to go. Dinner is all prepared and just needs to be put out. The dessert is already warming in the oven. You deserve a night out. You should go. I can solo one dinner service especially on a first night in port.”
Cookie cocked his head to one side as he considered the proposition. After a couple of ticks he smiled. “You are correct, young Ishmael, and there is an old friend who has a restaurant here. I’ll do it,” he said enthusiastically with a little nod of his head. “This is very thoughtful. Thank you.” With that, he strolled out of the galley and left me alone with the pasta.
About then Bev stuck her head in the galley door. “Hey, Ish? You know you ran out of coffee out here, don’t ya?”
I laughed and went to the mess to start a fresh urn of Sarabanda Dark, while we still had it.
When I finished I went back to the galley. It felt good to be there on my own and I took a few minutes to check out the stores Cookie and Pip had reserved for trade on St. Cloud. Almost all of the Sarabanda Dark was on the block as were about half of the mushrooms. In return we were restocking Arabasti and some root crops which stored well in any cool, dark space as well as a lot of fresh greens. They decided to fill the extra freezer with lamb and a local fish called munta. It was sort of a cross between a salmon and a sea bass in flavor. The lamb would give us a welcome break from the beefalo, and had the added benefit of being Cookie’s favorite meat. He was sure to have many recipes that would feature it prominently.
Pip had calculated that after all the trades cleared and the ship was restocked we would break even with consumption, basically eating free since Margary. Cookie thought we were actually down about a kilocred. Either way, their trading turned out to be a marvelously effective way to feed the crew well, while still reducing overall costs.
The ship’s container turned out even better. Pip’s assessment had been right on the mark. Mr. Maxwell stocked up on four different mushroom varieties, not just one. The value of almost a full container netted the ship more than two hundred kilocreds. They even sold the beefalo rugs for another ten. I wondered if the crew knew that Pip almost single-handedly threw an extra two hundred ten kilocreds into the profit pool. Not all of that would be distributed to share, but still, everyone would benefit from Pip’s astute trading skills.
Just then, the timer beeped and I started setting out dinner on the buffet. Comforting feelings washed over me carried by the warmth of the pasta and the wonderful smell of the garlic bread. Cheerful greetings from the crew who came for dinner added to my good mood—I could sure do worse.
Right near the end of dinner Pip came in, wearing a shipsuit that had seen better days. He grabbed some food and sat down with me.
I eyed him with a frown. “What did you get into?”
“Wet paint,” he said between bites. Holding up his hands he showed me black splotches and dirty fingernails. “It’ll be dry by morning, though.”
“So, how does the flea market look?”
He slurped a little coffee before answering, “Excellent. Just perfect. There’s a lot of fleece items but also some very nice leathers—goat as well as sheep—and a good supply of carved wood. I didn’t see any stonemasons or metal workers so the buckles and gems should sell well. The clientele seems to be pretty upscale, but I guess that’s because shepherds can’t afford the ticket up on the shuttle.”
“Sounds about like we anticipated.”
He nodded again and sat back with his drink in hand. “Cookie has his stores lined up and they should be coming in over the next couple of days. The empty container may stay that way leaving here. We really can’t make much on raw wool and there are no commercial quantities of textiles available.” He shrugged. “Sometimes winning involves just getting to the next port.”
Dinner mess ended and Pip helped me clean up. I brewed a fresh half urn of coffee before we headed for the gym. I had a good work out, but it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Sandy since just before the deck exam, and she wasn’t on the track. Pip and I had the sauna to ourselves as well. First nights in port really made the Lois feel large and empty.
* * *
The next morning I got up when I heard Pip heading for the galley. I didn’t need to leave for the flea market quite that early, but I wanted to go with the first group. Pip and I had packed all our goods into a duffel the night before. We had permission from the co-op to pool our sales for the purposes of the cap since neither of us had individual items. It’s not like the bag weighed much, but I had planned to use the grav pallet just because it would feel posh.
I headed down to the galley and while Pip set up the omelet station I made fresh coffee and put some biscuits in to bake. When Cookie showed up, he was smiling broadly. “Good morning, gentlemen. You do my old heart good by coming in and setting up perfectly without being told.” He sighed happily. “It’s been a long time since the galley has been such a well-oiled machine.”
“Did you have a nice evening out?” I asked.
“Yes, young Ishmael, it was lovely. I visited one of my countrymen who has an establishment on level five. We had grilled lamb, couscous, and strong tea. We talked until the early morning. I feel tired but am glad I went. Did all go well here?”
I nodded. “Oh yeah, dinner was easy. No problems.”
“And today is the official commencement of your new trading empire?”
Pip and I laughed. I shook my head. “Well, perhaps not a trading empire, but we’re at least going to try to turn a little profit.”
Pip made me an omelet and I poured coffee for everybody. I still had a few minutes before the mess deck opened officially so I settled down with my breakfast. It would probably be a while before I would have another chance to eat.
By the time I’d finished a few of the crew had lined up at Pip’s station. I took my plate and cup out to the dishwasher and stacked them there.
Cookie called to me as I was leaving, “Best of luck.”
Pip looked over his shoulder and saluted with his spatula. “Keep me posted.”
I was still chuckling as I reached the berthing area and changed into my civvies. My clothes were getting—not worn exactly—but certainly tired. My good boots weren’t anything compared to some of the footwear I’d seen in the last six months. My jacket was little more than an outdated windbreaker. My pants weren’t special either, what my mother called, “good, solid trousers.”
I put them on because that’s all I had, but I started to realize why people dressed up when changing into their own civvies. As nicely made and practical as shipsuits were, months of wearing them on a daily basis made putting on anything else kinda special. If I got new clothes I’d have to get rid of these, or take a hit to my mass allotment. I understood now why so many people did exactly that.
I saw the boy toy belt hanging in the back of the locker and, with a sudden burst of daring, stripped off my old, perfectly adequate belt and buckled on the supple leather with its gold metal and black dragon. I looked at myself in the mirror, and if I were being perfectly honest, the new belt looked out of place. It didn’t go with the rest of the outfit at all. It did, however, go with me. So I kept it on.
I scooped up the duffel, slammed my locker, and headed for the cargo lock. I got there just after 0700 and found a crowd had gathered. I walked up to see what they were looking at and burst out laughing.
When we first received the grav pallet from Mr. Cotton, I could
see why it had been slated for salvage. It had been pretty torn up and would only lift about half its rated capacity. Not that it would matter for our purposes, since its normal load was measured in kilotons and we only needed it to carry a few dozen kilos. Freshly painted a rich, matte black, the pallet looked almost new. A uniform layer of pristine, gray skid-grid covered the top, which had been scarred by dropped loads and untold cargo calamities. It was the same nubby, rubbery matting used in cargo entries and engineering spaces where good footing was important. Along the skirting on all four sides, somebody had stenciled McKendrick Mercantile Cooperative in gray paint that matched the skid-grid. Judging from the smudges on Biddy Murphy’s cheek, I could guess who’d done that. The black told me where Pip had found wet paint the day before. A stack of gear already waited on the pallet, including a basket with the banner and table coverings. I added my duffel to the pile and we all stood there looking at it for a few ticks before Rhon, the morning’s booth manager, took the tow handle and pushed the pallet out the lock.
I stood there watching them go and really didn’t know what I felt. This crazy group of people headed out on an adventure that was no more exotic than a yard sale. The gray-haired members of our merry band seemed to be having as much fun as the younger ones. The scene felt all the more surreal when I considered that in their real life, when not selling trinkets at a flea market, they sailed a deep space leviathan between the stars. It sounded romantic, but it wasn’t exciting. It was just their job.
“You’d better hurry, Ishmael, or they’ll leave you behind.”
I turned to see the captain standing there watching the parade streaming out of her ship and across the orbital’s dock. “Aye, aye, Captain. By your leave?” I saluted for what might have been my first time since signing The Articles.
The captain grinned and returned the salute. “Carry on, Mr. Wang. Carry on.”