Pandora’s Crew (StarWings Book 1)

by Gorg Huff

  Another moment of clarity. He was going to touch her. She could feel it even before she reached him. His slimy paws on her hips, on her ass, on her . . . Rosalyn. She slowed and his grin widened. And it was just all too much.

  She sped back up. As she was starting to pass him and he was reaching for her, she struck.

  Absent the flash, his reflexes would have been measurably faster than hers. But she was flying and, besides, his reflexes weren’t that much faster.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Jason Smythe was expecting to grab a quick feel as Rosalyn passed him on the ladder. The last thing he expected was a blow to his diaphragm before he even touched her. It took him by surprise, and for a moment he was stunned.

  Then he reacted. He tried at first for a restraining hold and a nerve pinch, but she was faster than he realized. She got out of the way of his grasping hands and hit him in the nose. It was supposed to be a killing blow, but he managed to shift his head enough so that the angle was off and the blow just smashed his nose to the side. Blood sprayed the landing and covered his lower face.

  Now he was furious. He bellowed in pain and rage. He didn’t know or care why she struck. The uppity bitch was going to pay.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Second Officer Andrew Watson was coming down the ladder to return to his quarters. He wasn’t supposed to, but he usually left the bridge at the end of his shift even if Rosalyn wasn’t there yet. The captain would be drunk in his quarters by then and that asshole Smythe would never notice. He heard the bellow and leapt down the ladder. What he saw was Rosalyn, who was five foot two, fighting Smythe, who was six foot four. What he assumed was that Smythe got impatient and decided that with his social rank he could rape her without consequences. Andrew wasn’t going to stand for that. He went for the big man.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Smythe sensed the help arriving and backed away to give Andrew room. Then the stupid bastard came at him. Smythe was incapable of imagining why Andrew would be attacking him. It never even occurred to him that Andrew might think Smythe was in the wrong. That left just one option. Mutiny. It was a coordinated attack. He swung Andrew between himself and Rosalyn, and opened his interface.

  “Mutiny!” He dumped Andrew and Rosalyn’s IDs into the interface with shoot on sight orders attached. The ship’s computer, an intelligent system but not an artificial brain, had a set of protocols for mutiny, but there were fail-safes built in. As long as the captain was alive, only he could officially declare mutiny.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Captain Hickam was alive. He wasn’t even unconscious. He was just very drunk. He was looking at the image of his wife and trying not to imagine what she was doing while he was out here.

  The alert was transmitted to him and so was the second one, when Andrew Watson accused Smythe of attempted rape. Hickam was drunk and confused and put a hold on any action by the ship’s automatics while he thought things through.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Rosalyn was on fire. Between the flash and the adrenaline, the world around her was slowed. She stepped back and let Andrew fight Smythe. She got on her interface and called Lieutenant Quinton Williams, the commander of the ten-man exspatio force on the Brass Ass. He was a crook from way back, but a smart crook, and he had no loyalty at all to the Drake Combine.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Quinton Williams’ link came alive with Rosalyn’s data dump, and he had a decision to make. He didn’t really trust Rosalyn, but he had wanted out of the Drake Spaceforce almost since the day he joined. He quickly came to realize that even for someone who served well and faithfully, first lieutenant was about as high as someone not titled could go. And it was almost impossible to get a title for service to the Combine, even if it was the stock scenario in holo cubes.

  Fuck it, he thought. Let’s kick some ass.

  He got on the link and started giving orders.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Back on the landing at midship node, Smythe blocked a blow by Andrew, who missed a beat due to the shock at the accusation of mutiny. Andrew was strong and fast, even reasonably bright, but he wasn’t that much of a multitasker. He had excellent reflexes and was better trained in martial arts than Smythe ever bothered to become, but for vital seconds he was running on pure reflex. His higher functions were distracted by the fact that somehow he was on the wrong side of a mutiny.

  It cost him. He was in the wrong position to respond to Smythe’s elbow strike and was unable to avoid it.

  It grazed his right temple and he never even saw the throat strike that crushed his larynx and, minutes later, would end his life. He hit Smythe twice more, crippling blows, but he was already dead when they landed.

  Absent an emergency tracheotomy, which Rosalyn didn’t provide. She decided that he was much more useful as a martyr than as competition for command.

  Instead of making any effort to save Andrew, Rosalyn used the time Andrew was distracting Smythe to try to find a weapon. It was surprisingly difficult. The Brass Ass wasn’t a frigate from the first age of sail, with belaying pins everywhere. It was a jump-capable spaceship that used drones for much of the work. Lines were tied down, but they were tied down by computer clamps that were hidden behind wall panels. Where was a monkey wrench when you needed one?

  As it turned out, she didn’t need one. Andrew’s last blow brought Smythe to one knee, facing away from her. Rosalyn spun, bringing her right boot heel to the back of Smythe’s neck just between the skull and the top vertebrae. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it did render him unconscious.

  That was good, because Rosalyn realized that she didn’t want to kill Smythe until she was sure she had the captain. The Drake Combine didn’t trust its spaceforce, especially the enlisted ranks, so command devolved to the highest surviving commissioned officer, but not the enlisted personnel. That meant that Rosalyn needed to be the ranking commissioned officer.

  She ran through the list even as she dragged the unconscious Smythe to the nearest airlock. Captain Hickam, drunk in his quarters . . . he would need to die last. First Officer Smythe, now in an airlock. Second Officer Watson—she looked at Andrew—Second Officer Watson was dead. Quinton Williams was an officer, but exspatio, not spaceforce. The engineering officer, John Boyle, was a warrant officer, not commissioned, so as the computer saw things, not in line of command.

  Rosalyn opened up a comm channel to Williams. “Quinton, I can’t do the deed,” she sent, careful of the words even on the secure channel. “Smythe killed Watson and he’s unconscious in airlock 2C.” She paused. She must be extra careful here. “You know the programming in the ship’s comp. You know the protocols.”

  What she was referring to was the fact that the person who killed the captain—or, for that matter, any officer—could not be placed in that slot. Someone else would have to kill Hickam, and she would have to arrest and court martial that person. Either that, or hold them for trial as soon as they got back to a Drake base. In fact, it would be better if she could get to the computer without having killed anyone, at least before she assumed command.

  The ship’s computer was a large computer and extensively programmed with a lot of protocols, but it wasn’t an artificial brain, so it lacked the consciousness to realize that she was running the mutiny. As long as she didn’t actually kill anyone and arrested those who had, it would treat her as a loyal little Drake minion. Especially since she was from a good family.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Williams considered. He did understand the protocols, and the smart move would be to have Downing do it. But Quinton Williams was, in his way, an honorable man. He couldn’t, when all was said and done, put one of his men in that sort of jeopardy. If it was to be done, he would have to do it. Nodding his head sharply, he headed for the captain’s quarters.

  He used his interface to announce himself and the captain’s hatch opened.

  “What the hell is going on, Williams?” Captain Hickam asked.

  “It’s all rather complicated, sir,” Quinton said. �
��It started when Lieutenant Commander Smythe decided to have his way with Lieutenant Flatt.” Williams was speaking to the recorders and the expert system as much as to the captain. After all, what Hickam thought was about to become completely irrelevant. He was walking across the captain’s cabin even as he spoke.

  Captain Hickam shook his head in befuddled disappointment. “I hope she isn’t expecting me to do anything to Smythe. His family is very important on New Florida.”

  “No, Captain,” Williams said calmly. “No one is expecting you to take any action.” By the time he finished the sentence, he was standing right next to the captain, who nodded in drunken relief.

  Quinton Williams, in a carefully measured strike, hit the captain in the side of the head. It was a touch too measured. The captain was stunned, but not unconscious. Quinton hit him again, a bit harder. He then pulled the necklace from the captain’s neck and stuck it in his pocket. Everyone—well, all the officers anyway—knew about the captain’s pendant and the private rutters that it held. This would be his insurance. Rosalyn would want it.

  Quinton lifted the captain in a fireman’s carry and headed for the 1B airlock. Then he sent Downing instructions.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Joe Downing got the orders and headed for the 2C airlock. He passed Lieutenant Flatt on the ladder, but he didn’t know what was going on.

  Spaceforce uniforms in the Drake combine were white with blue and gold trim. It made blood easy to see and identify. Exspatio uniforms were black with gold and red trim. They didn’t show blood hardly at all. Both uniforms were based on the old heavy spacesuits, so they had fabric folds at the shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, ankles, and wrists to mimic the air containment folds of the old heavy suits. But that made no impression on Joe, in comparison to the blood spatter that marked the body and right side of the lieutenant’s suit.

  Joe reached the airlock and, against Lt. William’s orders, looked in. His orders were to cycle the airlock without looking, but Joe wasn’t as dumb as people thought. He looked and wished he hadn’t. If he had cycled the airlock without looking, he would just be obeying orders and he wouldn’t be at fault for anything except for failing to check. Now, cycling the airlock would be murder . . . and he almost didn’t do it. But while the LT would take care of him if he obeyed the orders, there was no way that Spaceforce bastard Smythe would protect him if he didn’t. Joe pushed the button and the lock cycled, sending Lieutenant Commander Sir Jason Smythe, belted knight of the Drake Combine, sailing gently into the void. The cycled lock had very little air left in it when the outer door opened, so it was only a gentle shove that lasted until he got far enough out to be picked up by the wings.

  By that time, Captain Hickam was in space as well, and Lieutenant JG Rosalyn Flatt reported to the captain’s cabin and found him gone.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  On her own authority, Rosalyn used ship systems to determine the locations of Captain Hickam and First Officer Smythe. She also reported the death of Andrew Watson to the ship’s computer, making a full and truthful report of the incidents leading to this situation. Well, almost full. She failed to mention her communications to Quinton Williams, and when asked she honestly responded that she told no one to harm Captain Hickam, First Officer Smythe, or Second Officer Watson.

  She hadn’t, not in so many words.

  Given the emergency, she took command and ordered the arrest of Quinton Williams and Joe Downing.

  Rosalyn now owned her own ship. But Rosalyn was no sheep of a trader and the Brass was no cargo ship. No. Rosalyn would hunt merchants.

  Chapter 4

  CIS, Computer Interface Systems, are a set of tiny circuits that extend into the gaps between nerve cells in the brain. This lets them talk directly to the brain. Human brains are flexible and with practice learn to distinguish the CIS data from normal neural impulses.

  Because every brain is different in detail, the computer interface system must be adjusted to suit each individual. When you get your CIS, you will be able to talk directly to the school computers and it will let you play a whole bunch of new games.

  Bonks Station One, second grade worksheet, Introduction to the Computer Interface Systems.

  Published Standard Date 01 01 607

  Location: Restaurant, Concordia Station

  Standard Date: 01 23 630

  “W

  hat are the goals of this trading mission?” Danny asked Checkgok as he used his interface to bring up a spreadsheet of the content of the Pan’s holds. They were in a private room at a station restaurant with the Pan sitting in by comm and a lawyer, Robert Jones, acting as witness and advocate of Clan Zheck, since Checkgok, as kothkoke to Clan Danny Gold, presumably had mixed loyalties.

  Danny wasn’t all that sure how mixed Checkgok’s motives were. Yes, while under the influence of the Parthian Banger, it swore a Parthian oath. But alien psychology didn’t necessarily correspond to human psychology, and even if it had, Danny was experienced enough to know that just because you swore undying love—even got married when you were drunk—well, that didn’t mean you still wanted to be married after you sobered up. Much less that you suddenly stopped caring about your old girlfriend. But Checkgok was talking.

  “There were three. First: to obtain a more reasonable price on certain goods that recently came to market from human worlds: jalapeño peppers from New Mexico and New Texas, beeffish from Sargasso, tor vine resin from Sinnath, several other items.” Checkgok keyed in an information transfer with its mouthparts and Danny looked at the data, more because he didn’t want to look at the Parthian mouthing the keypad than because he wanted to.

  Danny picked up his coffee and sipped as Checkgok spoke. It was fair, but not great, coffee. Standard station fare like you might see in any station restaurant in the Pamplona Sector, much like the decor of the restaurant. Bland, beige, and boring.

  “Second,” Checkgok continued, its mouth-hand shifting back and forth, “we, ah, they, wanted to open up human markets to some of our products. Our people are more biotech-oriented than yours are. We have bioengineered products that we think could be very useful.”

  Another download and Danny scanned quickly. They sure as heck did have some interesting stuff. Danny used his interface to mark a couple of items to discuss with Checkgok later.

  “Third: my clan, my previous clan, is fairly conservative in many ways. We have not had, nor sought, much contact with humans or the other two space-faring races in the hundred years since the first human ship landed on Parthia. Other clans have bought shares in ships, and even in the case of the Fly Catcher, outright ownership by Clan Kox, but their results have not generally been very good.”

  “Why not?” Danny asked.

  “We’re not entirely sure,” the Parthian said, his eyestalks wobbling in what Danny thought might be a shrug. “We don’t normally do well on our own, but groups as small as a ship’s crew do fine when trading with other clans. Both on Parthia and our space colonies.”

  “You have colonies?” Robert Jones interjected, clearly as surprised as Danny by the revelation.

  “Yes. We had them when Clan Canova’s ship appeared at the jump point into our system. There are clans who are based on our artificial worldlets. That was what brought the exploration ship to contact us. They felt, quite rightly, that a race that had independently reached space must have things of value to trade.”

  Danny nodded. If the Parthians climbed out of their gravity well on their own, their independent tech had to be pretty darn good. But in that case, why was the Fly Catcher a human-made ship? Why didn’t they build their own? Another thing to ask Checkgok about later. “So would you clarify that third reason?” Danny asked instead. “You wanted better prices and new markets. What else? That your clan is conservative doesn’t really count as a reason to send you out.” Though Danny suspected it just might, and if it did, Checkgok was screwed. It was, after all, not that different from what his own family did to him.

  “We, ah . . . the Zh
eck Clan wants a better understanding of the wider universe. It was to be my task to provide the clan with that understanding.”

  Danny winced somewhere deep inside where it didn’t show. It was bad enough for him when his people just thought they were a superior species. What was it going to be like for the poor bug that actually was being exposed to a different species and a different set of thought processes, then asked to come home and be a good little bug again? “So we will need to find markets for your goods, buy stuff you think that your clan needs or that they will want, and teach you about the wider universe. Good so far, but what’s in it for us? Just because I’m not willing to rip off your clan to the tune of your cargo and yourself doesn’t mean I’m willing to provide you free transport.”

  “The arrangement with the Fly Catcher was that the Kox clan would receive two percent of the net worth of the cargo that was sold or offloaded at Parthia.”

  Danny noted the movement of Checkgok’s eyestalks, and his translation app signaled that the eyestalks moving that way indicated acknowledgment of a point. “Two percent of net doesn’t seem enough even with all your cargo. It costs money to run a ship. How could they manage it?”

  “Clan Zheck undertook to provide running expenses.”

  “That’s more like it, but it doesn’t quite get there. You have less cargo and the Pan is a larger ship than the Fly Catcher. Besides, I have debts to pay.” Danny had his own troubles, and the Parthian societal structure bothered him. It was too much like what the Cybrants were doing with the Iron and Wood lines, designing them to be easily conditioned to extreme loyalty. Making people into slaves. Still, Checkgok was in trouble and it was at least sort of Danny’s fault. If they could help each other out, Danny was willing to try.

  “The cargo has less bulk, yes,” Checkgok agreed, “but not less value. Quite a lot of our initial cargo was high bulk, which has been replaced in part by components which are smaller, but more expensive. Even with the loss of Kesskox’s off-the-books cargo, the cargo that will transfer from the Fly Catcher to the Pan will have greater value than the cargo that was initially loaded. Several of our products are much more valuable in the wide universe than we thought.”