Pandora’s Crew (StarWings Book 1)

by Gorg Huff

  That cargo, by agreement between Captain Danny Gold and Merchant Checkgok as a representative of Clan Zheck, was transferred to the Pandora. Stella insisted on a contract between Captain Gold and Checkgok, with Checkgok acting as agent for Clan Zheck.

  While Stella was working that out, other ships arrived and departed: several independents, two Drake owned freighters, and a Cordoba courier taking an unofficial shortcut. The story of Danny Gold and the Parthian Banger—or of Danny Gold, the Parthian Banger—was quite popular and would eventually spread to the wider universe.

  Location: Concordia Station Hotel

  Checkgok watched the screen with its left eyestalk as it looked around the room with its right. The monkey—no, it should say human even in its own mind—the human bed was gone, replaced with a nest pad that would support its body in rest position. But the pad was across the small room from the console and for now Checkgok needed to use the console, as strange as that was proving. The consoles on the Fly Catcher were modified to make them more usable by Parthian mouth-hands.

  Its mouth-hand missed the proper key, and the space around the station appeared on the screen. There were three ships docked. The Pandora, a large barrel-shaped mass with poles and lines sticking out, the Fly Catcher, the same basic shape but smaller, with only two sets of sails and a sweep mounted on the bow, and another merchantman like the Pandora, but larger, with four sets of sails and fore and aft sweeps.

  As much as Checkgok despised the Fly Catcher and all aboard it, Checkgok missed it because it was the closest thing to Parthia—to home—that it was likely to see any time soon. Everything here was strange, alien, not suited to real people.

  But Checkgok had its duty. It could take comfort in that. It was, at least temporarily, a worker of the Gold Clan. In spite of its discomfort with the notion of an artificial mind, it found the right key and contacted its new clan’s clan home, the Pandora.

  When Pandora answered, Checkgok asked, “Tell me of the Gold Clan and its needs.”

  There was no noticeable pause. Checkgok wasn’t expecting one. “Danny Gold is the product of genetic engineering and intensive culling. He was intended to be . . . I guess the closest analogy would be one of your breeders, the ones that control the clan and produce the offspring.”

  Checkgok interrupted. “Controls the clans? Breeders don’t control the clans. Granted, their role is vital, but so are all the other jobs. From the nurses who take care of the spawn to fighters, crafters, merchants, and all the other necessary jobs that keep a clan healthy.”

  “But who makes the decisions for the clans?”

  “That depends on the decision. What foods are to be fed to the spawn of a clan is decided by the nurses. Where to build a clan home or other structure by architects. As an example, I make the decisions on what to buy and sell for Clan Zheck on this trading mission. That is why I asked what Clan Gold needs, so that I might best assess where my talents and training might be put to use for the Gold Clan.”

  “Who decided that you would go on this mission?”

  Now Checkgok thought he understood the question. “The Zheck clan council appointed me, on the advice of the clan’s master trader.”

  “And who chose the council?”

  Maybe Checkgok didn’t understand. “In the Zheck clan, new members of the council are nominated by their . . .” Checkgok paused and looked for an English word that would fit the meaning. “. . . department seems closest, though not quite right. It has some of the flavor of caste, as well. A council member is nominated by the department it comes from and is accepted by the council. Other clans have other ways of selecting, and how it is done can be affected by circumstances.”

  “In that case, I am not sure if there is a good Parthian analogy for what Danny Gold is. His progenitors were trying to create superior people, whose natural role would be to rule other humans. However, Captain Gold rejected that role.”

  “Who was right, Captain Gold or his progenitors?” Checkgok asked. Among Parthians, respect of the views of the clan elders was automatic, but it was now a member of Gold Clan. And in Gold Clan, Danny Gold was the whole clan, save for Checkgok and, perhaps, the Pandora. Though to Checkgok’s mind, the Pandora, as a machine—a ship—was more clan home than clan member.

  “I have no firm opinion on the matter. The main issue that Captain Gold objected to in his genetic modifications was the lack of empathy. He was designed to understand what others felt, without feeling what they felt. The idea was to make him capable of manipulating normal people, but prevent what his designers considered the weakness that would allow others to play on his feelings. He, on his own, concluded that the lack of conscience was not an advantage—or at least not an advantage that he wanted. So he has built a set of rules of fairness that he follows religiously. Sometimes to his detriment. He can’t empathize with the pain and loss that others feel, but he can usually figure out what they are feeling. He uses that analytical imitation empathy to live and work in human society.”

  As Checkgok listened to that, it realized that the designers designed Danny Gold to be a cheskek. But Captain Gold realized that in spite of his lack of a moral center, he needed one, so he built one out of rules. In spite of itself, Checkgok felt sympathy for the poor, crippled human who was trying to create a conscience out of intellect. “The clan then must help Captain Gold to deal with his mental deformities.”

  They spoke some more, and Checkgok determined that its best role on the Pandora would be the same as its role on the Fly Catcher. It would, with luck, return to Parthia with holds full of useful goods and a mind full of new knowledge of the wider universe.

  Chapter 3

  The Cordoba Spaceforce is a department of the Cordoba Combine. Its members are combine employees; however, like all military forces throughout history, the Spaceforce and their exspatios have developed a subculture with their own political and cultural norms.

  The Armed Forces of the Pamplona Sector, Part 3

  Location: CSFS James Bond, Cordoba Space

  Standard Date: 01 18 630

  Lieutenant Commander Tanya Cordoba-Davis took the steps leading to the bridge two at a time. It wasn’t hard. The Double O7 was running at point seven gee to conserve H. The hatch to the bridge was open. Tanya grabbed a handhold and entered the bridge at the sedate, stately pace suitable for the executive officer on a Cordoba Spaceforce warship.

  Commander Lars Hedlund looked up and lifted an eyebrow. “Running in the corridors again, XO?” He was about average in height, with straight black hair and brown skin. There was just a touch of epicanthic fold to his eyes, which were a startling green.

  “Aye, Skipper,” Tanya said, automatically using her anatomical control to suppress the blush. The skipper wouldn’t care, but it was a habit by now.

  “Is it the genetic mods or is there something to be excited about?” He was referring to the genetic mods that gave Tanya higher than normal energy levels. Tanya could stay up and fully operational for upwards of seventy-two standard hours, more if she needed to. She averaged three and a half hours a night of sleep and was stronger than an unmodified human. The skipper had some mods, but he wasn’t a Cordoba connection and his parents, while stockholders, weren’t overly wealthy.

  “Well, the rear B sail runner is back up to full readiness. And Cook says we are having Morland lambfish with asparagus and hollandaise sauce for dinner.” Tanya glanced at the main display that was showing the star field with an overlay of the ship routes and icons for the known jump points in the Aegean Cluster. She gave Lieutenant Christine Sanders who had the watch a nod, then turned back to the skipper.

  “So it’s the genetic mods.”

  Now it was Tanya’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

  The skipper continued. “You can eat helping after helping of Cook’s hollandaise without worrying about it going to your gut. I just look at it and gain five pounds.”

  “With all due respect, Skipper, I have never seen you just look at Cook’s asparagus and h
ollandaise.”

  “XOs who point out their skipper’s lack of character have short and grisly careers, Tanya.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Tanya said, but in her case it wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Tanya was a Cordoba-Davis, a grand stockholder in her own right. While another officer might find her career on the rocks because she was too open about criticizing her seniors, Tanya wouldn’t. That fact had made her very reticent about acknowledging Commander Lars Hedlund’s character flaws until she got to know him. She didn’t want to trade on her family name and tended to bend over backwards to avoid it. That was something that the skipper and her personal aide were working on correcting lately.

  “Christine, you have the con,” Commander Hedlund said. He hooked his thumb at the bridge hatch, and Tanya followed him out.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  A few minutes later, in the captain’s cabin, Tanya sat in the chair across from his and looked at the picture of James Bond behind the skipper’s desk. The old movie series and the books they were based on were the basis of the ship’s name. In the centuries since the loss of Earth, the distinction between fictional heroes like James Bond and real ones like Audie Murphy were blurred. Only scholars knew or cared, and even scholars weren’t sure in cases like Hector and Agamemnon.

  This was a small room compared to what might be seen on a station or a planet, four meters by six, with a bed that was, at the moment, folded up into the wall. Hero-class cruisers were light on amenities.

  The skipper’s face grew pensive. “I know you don’t like to trade on your family, Tanya, but I’m hearing some pretty troubling rumors.”

  “About what, Skipper?”

  “A possible shakeup on the Board.” Board, in this case, referred to the Board of Directors of the Cordoba Combine. The Cordoba Combine was effectively the government of much of the Pamplona Sector. It was run by a board of directors who were selected by the stockholders. Once the board was selected, it appointed the combine officers and officials. Election of board members happened when a board member retired or died and—very occasionally—when enough people with enough stock asked for a general stockholders’ meeting. There were rumbles over the past two and a half standard years that there was going to be such a request, with the requisite proxies filed, but nothing had happened yet.

  “My mother doesn’t think so, Skipper, but Dad is less confident. Isabella insists that nothing is going to happen, but she is so focused on the family investments that I don’t think she pays much more attention to politics than I do.” Tanya’s sister Isabella went into the family business with a will and was her mother’s fair-haired girl.

  “Pay some attention, Tanya. When we hit port, send some letters. The fleet needs to know what’s going on.”

  “The Admiralty . . .” Tanya started, but the skipper shook his head. Tanya’s father was one of the Admiralty Board, one of what the fleet referred to as stockholder admirals. Grand stockholders who went to the academy, then shot up the ranks, often with no experience at all on warships and who effectively controlled the spaceforce. They were the standard connection between the military and the civilian oversight, and the fact that the skipper didn’t seem to trust them was worrying.

  The skipper shook his head again. “Nothing against your father, Tanya. I respect him, and his work in the appropriations office has done good things for the spaceforce. Still, the stockholder admirals are holding back. At least, that’s what I’m hearing from the space-going admirals. The Drakes are fishing in a number of places and the stockholders don’t want to hear about it.”

  The Drake Combine was the other major player in the Pamplona Sector. It was actually larger than the Cordoba Combine, but more dispersed, and that meant that its spaceforce needed to cover more territory, be in more places at once. The advantage of the Cordoba Combine’s internal jump routes was all that kept the Drakes at bay.

  The Drakes were usually forced to go farther and send orders farther to coordinate. That let the Cordoba Combine get ships into position to respond to Drake incursions more quickly, and that was crucial in the recent battle of Conner Chain.

  “Do you really—” Tanya stopped herself. She knew the skipper was worried about the Drakes making a try for control of the Pamplona Sector. For that matter, Tanya was worried about it. The last of the trade wars was forty-three standard years ago, when the Drake and Cordoba Combines defeated the Ferguson Group and divided up its routes.

  “Yes, I do. Because I don’t think the Drake’s pseudo-royalty system is stable. They need to fight us or they will come apart from internal dissension.”

  Location: DSFS Brass Hind, Drake Space

  Standard Date: 01 18 630

  Flash mist rolled from the vap into Third Officer Rosalyn Flatt’s mouth and throat, then into her lungs, and the world became more intense. Colors were brighter and sounds crisper. The scratch on her quarter’s wall stood out in high relief. Rosalyn could feel the wings flapping as a vibration in the grav intensity. There was a hiccup, and she checked the readouts. That was a catch in amidships C wing. It was cycling fine, then it would skip a cycle. The comp was running slow. It always did when she was flashing. She was in her quarters and used her interface to hook into the computer. The captain was off duty and Second Officer Andrew Watson had the watch.

  Flash, a derivative of the thon plant, was a powerful euphoric and moderately powerful hallucinogen. It acted by increasing synaptic sensitivity and shortening synaptic response time. Depending on personal body chemistry, a user might feel ghostly touches, hear voices, have false memories, see things, or all of the above. To the observer, the flash user shows signs of delusional paranoia, but flash generally made the user feel capable, sharp, and clear. The world became more intense and connections, especially threats, that were obscure became obvious. People on flash also had response times that were as much as fifty percent faster than when not using. There were, in fact, recorded cases where the use of flash led to new and innovative solutions.

  Along with her noting of the hiccup in amidships C, Rosalyn realized that First Officer Jason Smythe was out to get her. It wasn’t just that he was always watching her. That was a common response of men and more than a few women since she had turned thirteen. Her five foot two inch body was shapely and supple. She stretched now, like a cat, enjoying the feel of muscles across muscles, sliding smoothly beneath her warm tan skin.

  No, there was something else about Jason Smythe. He wasn’t after a roll in the sheets. He was out to destroy her, not just to get laid. He resented her intelligence and her ability. Her mere existence proved his inferiority and he couldn’t stand that. In a moment of flash clarity, she knew that she had to get him before he got her.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Sir Jason Smythe looked on as Rating First Tom Tucker used his interface to control the bot that was on the hull, working on the amidships C wing. There was a valve that was sticking as the magnetic bearing weakened on the back stroke, if the timing hit just wrong. In space, magnetic bearings were standard. Anything else tended to vacuum-weld parts. In this case, the magnetic field was weaker than it should have been and out of balance, so the rotator shifted to touch the cup. It wasn’t much of a touch, but at a hundred rotations a second it was enough to cause a flutter and over time would wear away the joint and cause worse problems.

  “Watch that,” Jason said. The crew was sloppy and he had to keep an eye on them. He’d been tempted to do the repair himself, but that wasn’t an officer’s job.

  Tucker muttered something that Jason chose not to hear and made an adjustment. Jason was a belted knight in the Drake Combine, which was more social rank than anyone else on this tub. Even Captain Hickam was only an esquire. That gave Jason a special responsibility to make sure that the lower orders were kept on their toes.

  He thought about Rosalyn Flatt. The third officer was a cute little number, blond and blue eyed, just the way he liked them, and he figured that with a little more pressure she would yield readi
ly enough. It wasn’t like she had any other options, him being who he was, and her being a half-caste and born on the wrong side of the blanket to boot.

  “Caste” had nothing to do with ancient India or any other Earth nation. But for generations the upper echelons of the Drake Combine had been availing themselves of genetic mods. While still fertile with normal humans, they were—Jason was convinced—clearly superior. Yes, a few more “accidental” touches and Rosalyn would get the message. But these things needed to be done carefully.

  That was half the fun.

  “All right, Tucker. Bring in the droid and see that it’s put in the queue for maintenance.”

  Three Hours Later

  Rosalyn took a last hit of flash and headed for the bridge. The Brass Ass had a long, narrow structure, little more than girders separating three sail nodes. The hull held atmosphere from bow to stern, but not much more. It had algae tanks for oxygen, but no other hydroponics. It carried the food the crew ate and would off load waste when they got back to a port. The waste was valuable feedstocks for the hydroponics of many stations. The three sail nodes held the sail rigging and the quarters for the crew. The bridge was in the forward section of the ship, a design decision that had much to do with status and little to do with practicality. With the Hind underway, Rosalyn had to climb in a full standard gravity from her quarters in the stern sail nodule to the bridge located in the bow nodule. Rosalyn was in good shape and it wasn’t that hard for her, but it was irritating that Captain Hickam insisted that she report to the bridge for her watch, rather than simply having her use the interface in her quarters.

  Suddenly, in another moment of flash clarity, Rosalyn knew that Smythe was responsible for that, as well as the rest of the hassles she put up with. It was all part of his desire to kick dirt on her, to keep her from realizing that it was she, not he, who was superior.

  And there he was, the slimy bastard. Standing on the landing of the midship node, waiting with a smirk on his face. What was he doing here anyway? His quarters were in the forward nodule.