Jon slid the control all the way to the top, then eased it back down again. He stopped not quite at the control’s bottom.
“Go!” he yelled, pulling the cables from his tablet and spinning to push the others to hurry them along.
Wyne slid the hatch open and the three of them spilled out into the corridor, stumbling and tripping over one another in their haste.
The shrieks were louder now, without the maintenance closet’s closed hatch to muffle them.
They’d barely gained their footing when the hatch to the professors’ loo slid open and the sounds of outrage filled the corridor.
Jon stared for a moment in slack-jawed awe as Professor Smallidge, bane of many a first-year’s comparative economics grade, came into view.
His hair and clothing were wet, soaked with water and … well, Professor Smallidge was well known for his digestive issues. Regular in timing, he might be, but that did nothing for the material in question.
“You boys! You there!” Smallidge started toward them, face red where it wasn’t brown. “You did this, you little bastards! I’ll —”
Smallidge’s feet went out from under him, leaving disgusting brown streaks on the deck, and he landed prone on his back.
“‘You did this! You little bast—urk’” Wyne mimed his feet flying out from under him and flung himself prone on his bunk.
Kaycie collapsed on the other lower bunk, holding her stomach as she laughed.
Jon watched her roll on the bunk, entirely taken in by the sight. He frequently had to force down the thoughts her trim figure brought to mind, and remember that she wanted to be nothing more than mates with him. It was a bit of torture he often thought must be punishment for some vile sin he’d committed in a past life.
Despite the frustration it would bring, though, he often wished she berthed with him and Wyne, instead of their having to put up with Peavey and Scoggins. Scoggins was all right, he supposed, but Peavey was a right prat. Of course, Kaycie was only second year, while they were third, so that wasn’t even an option.
Jon tossed his tablet onto his bunk, the one atop Wyne’s, and smiled, but he didn’t laugh out loud. He was busy replaying things in his mind, seeing where they’d gone wrong at the end.
“Should’ve left him at a tenth negative-g,” he muttered. “Stuck up at the ceiling unless he pulled himself down and over to another grav-plate.”
“Oh, give off, Jon!” Wyne sat up and wiped his eyes. “Then we’d never’ve seen him. No, with graduation two months away that was the perfect end to our time at good old Lesser Sewer. Oh, lord, the sight!”
“Oh, lord, the smell!” Kaycie cried out. “Got a whiff right down the corridor!”
“Still,” Jon said, “he saw us.”
“In balaclava?” Wyne asked. “And those down a trash chute already?”
Jon frowned. He’d turned off the corridor cameras along their route back to the rooms, all except the one just outside the loo so he could see Smallidge arrive, so there was no record of them fleeing, disposing of the balaclavas, or even leaving and returning to their room. So far as the cameras were concerned, the three of them had been in this room since just after breakfast. The other residents of the room, Thornton Peavey and York Scroggins, had morning classes, so wouldn’t be able to say differently. He thought they were safe, despite being seen by Smallidge, but it still nagged at him.
His tablet pinged for his attention and he retrieved it from the bunk.
“Damn,” he muttered at the sight of the message.
“What?” Wyne asked.
Jon frowned. “Summoned to headmaster.”
Both Kaycie and Wyne grabbed their own tablets.
“Nothing for me.”
“Me neither.”
“I suppose he just assumes I was involved,” Jon mused. If all three of them weren’t summoned, then the headmaster was probably just fishing.
“There was poo involved,” Kaycie said. “Small wonder you’re the first one they think of.”
“I don’t —” Jon broke off. He supposed there was a bit of a scatological theme running through many of his pranks. He’d have to look into that and see about changing things up a bit.
Not good to be predictable.
He took a deep breath and slid his tablet into a pocket.
“Well, nothing for it but to face the Inquisition.”
“We were all three right here studying,” Wyne said.
“Surely,” Kaycie agreed.
“Mister Bartlett. How good of you to come.”
“Headmaster Fitt,” Jon said, nodding.
He stood in front of the headmaster’s desk, not taking one of the visitors’ chairs—Fitt very rarely invited a student to sit.
Fitt was silent for a time, reading some document displayed on his desktop, then finally sat back in his chair and looked at Jon.
“Mister Bartlett,” Fitt repeated.
Jon started to become worried. Fitt’s face was as impassive as always, but there was a gleam in the man’s eyes. Almost as though he were … happy? No, that couldn’t possibly be it. The headmaster was as dour an old stick as there ever was. Jon didn’t think anyone had ever seen him smile. Still … those eyes.
“You’ve heard about Professor Smallidge’s mishap, I assume?” Fitt asked.
“Mishap?” Jon tried to keep his own face impassive, or at least displaying only the sort of mild curiosity one might expect at such a question when one was entirely innocent of the events.
“A gravitational fluctuation in the heads.” Fitt leaned farther back in his chair, looking positively casual. “Just the sort of thing that’s up your alley, I believe.”
Jon forced a puzzled look to his face, then added a bit of concern.
“I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t heard … I do hope he’s all right?”
The corners of Fitt’s mouth turned up. Not quite a smile, but enough to send a chill through Jon.
Good lord, where’d I bollox it up? What didn’t we think of?
“You have been a thorn in my side these many years, Mister Bartlett,” Fitt said. “A pebble in my shoe. A pea under my mattress.”
Pea under the mattress? An image of Fitt in princess-garb sprang to mind and Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Have to share that with Wyne and Kaycie.
“Yes, you and your constant shadows, Mister Proffit and Miss Overfield. I’d thought Mister Peavey might provide an acceptable influence on you three, but he seems to have failed in that.”
Knew the prat was reporting to you. Bloody wanker.
Fitt took a deep breath and now he did smile. Jon stared at him with a growing foreboding.
“And now I’m shut of you.” Fitt leaned forward and slid his fingers over his desk. He turned the document he’d been reading to face Jon and slid it across the desk. “You won’t have heard yet, of course. My condolences.”
Puzzled, Jon bent to read.
It was a news report out of Greater Sibward and the headline made his knees buckle.
Bartlett Shipping Stock Plummets!
Notes called! Bonds questioned!
Jon vaguely felt himself come to rest in the headmaster’s visitors’ chair. He couldn’t even bring himself to read the article, just the headline was enough. How could their notes have been called? The company was solid financially, his father wouldn’t have it any other way, and the banks knew that. Their bonds were all held by the appropriate third-parties, their validity was unquestionable. What could have …
“There’s more, I’m afraid,” Fitt said. “Been nearly six weeks since the last ship from Greater Sibward arrived in-system, you know. Plenty can happen in such a time.” He reached across his desk and swiped the article away to be replaced by the next, then again and again, so rapidly that Jon could only take in the headlines, though that was more than enough.
Bartlett Shipping Scandal Worsens!
Were Bartlett ships used for smuggling?
Marchant Company to Guar
antee Bartlett Bonds!
Frederick Marchant says: “The integrity of the transport system must not be put in question!”
Bartlett Allegations Worsen!
Stolen cargoes! “Piracy claims an inside job” says major insurer!
Criminal Charges Imminent in Bartlett Scandal!
Insurers to sue over false piracy claims!
Fitt jabbed his finger down on the latest article. “Again, my condolences, Mister Bartlett.”
He flicked his finger to the side.
Edward Bartlett Dead!
Apparent Suicide! Where will the blame fall now?
Jon felt his eyes burn and his throat tighten. His father was dead? Killed himself? Could he really have been involved in all that?
He didn’t see how it could be true. His father was an honest man — hard, yes, and a ruthless businessman, but he was scrupulously honest.
Was.
My father is dead.
Fitt’s finger jabbed the headline and flicked again.
Elizabeth Bartlett Pleads Guilty!
No further charges sought! “We are satisfied” says Crown Prosecution Service!
Jon felt his vision blur. Mother, too? And pled guilty so quickly?
Fitt was speaking, but Jon couldn’t make out the words. There was a rushing noise in his head and the sides of his vision contracted until all he could see was the headline, then that blurred too and he knew nothing at all.
Jon felt his eyelids flutter. He could hear voices, but not understand the words. He knew he was waking up, but didn’t want to. He wanted to dive back down into the darkness. There was something in waking life he needed to avoid, but he couldn’t recall what it was. The voices became clearer and he fought against hearing them—that way lay pain, something he wanted to avoid.
“Mister Bartlett! Wake up!”
Fitt.
The headmaster.
It all came back to him—the lark of pranking Professor Smallidge, followed by the call to Fitt’s office and the revelation that …
My father’s dead. And …
“Mother.”
The word came unbidden from him.
“Transported,” Fitt said, as though it had been a question, “for fraud, and indentured for debt. Though I doubt she or any of your family could hope to repay those you’ve cheated.”
Jon opened his eyes. He was in the school’s clinic. Fitt stood by the bed and Mistress Virden, the nurse, hovered behind him.
“The boy needs rest, headmaster,” Virden said. She was frowning, brow furrowed.
“He can do that once I’ve finished with him,” Fitt said.
“We cheated no one,” Jon said. His voice sounded weak to his own ears.
“Your father killed himself for shame and your mother’s admitted it!” Fitt was practically yelling now. “Up with you!”
He grasped Jon’s shoulder and pulled him upright in the bed. Jon’s head swam and his vision blurred again.
“You must leave him be, sir!” Virden stepped forward and reached out a hand to push Jon back down.
“You must mind your place, Mistress Virden,” Fitt said. “This is none of your affair. I shouldn’t have called for you when the boy fainted to begin with.”
Virden stepped back and Fitt dragged Jon upright, twisting him so that he sat on the edge of the bed.
“I had Peavey pack your things for you,” Fitt said, pointing to a spacer’s travel bag next to the bed. “It’s time for you to be on your way!”
“On my way?” Jon asked, confused. What did Fitt mean? Was he to go home? Was there even a home to go to with his father dead and mother transported?
“Away,” Fitt said. “You’ve no place here any longer. This school is for proper merchant shippers, not …” He scowled. “Not the spawn of criminals and cheats.”
Jon stared at him. There was other family, but he wasn’t sure he could rely on them or what their status was. Most worked the family’s ships, with only a few, like his parents, resident on Greater Sibward.
Fitt was using this as an excuse to get rid of him, but the school might well be the only place Jon had right now. He narrowed his eyes, thinking.
“I’ve done nothing—nothing to be expelled for,” he said. “My tuition’s paid through term’s end, isn’t it?”
Fitt scowled. “Think you’ll play the space lawyer with me, boy?” He grasped Jon’s arm in a painful grip and dragged him to his feet. “We can expel any student who damages the school’s reputation—which your family’s certainly done. As for tuition, well, I’m sure a refund will be issued after a proper accounting’s been made.” He shook Jon. “I’ll see it’s sent right along to your family’s creditors and victims.”
He shoved Jon toward the hatchway.
“Now shoulder your bag and off with you!”
Jon thought to argue more. He looked to Virden, thinking she might help him, but she’d backed away and wouldn’t meet his eye.
He picked up the bag. It was the same well-worn spacer’s bag he’d arrived with at the beginning of the term. Students were allowed only the one bag, it was supposed to teach them to pack lightly for their future as officers aboard trading vessels. Jon often thought it was because limiting possessions was yet another way for the faculty to control the students.
He supposed the reason didn’t really matter now—it simply meant that the bag would contain everything he had in the world. A few clothes, his vacsuit, his tablet, and personal mementos. If mother had pled guilty and been transported for debt, then all of their possessions—the house and offices on Greater Sibward, everything in it, and certainly the company assets themselves—would have been liquidated already.
How could it all happen so quickly?
“Move!” Fitt yelled.
Jon glared at him, but did as he was told, still in too much shock to think of how to protest more. Out of the clinic, past the administrative offices, and right up to the school’s main hatchway. He saw no one at all and wondered if Fitt had ordered the way kept clear.
Fitt ushered him through the hatch and then slammed it shut behind him, uttering not another word.
Jon stood still for a time, watching traffic in the station corridor pass back and forth before him.
He thought, perhaps, the hatch behind him might slide open again and Fitt or some other teacher might come out and tell him there’d been a terrible mistake, a tremendous misunderstanding, and he should come back in at once.
He’d never even been out in the main station alone before, only ever with other students on those rare occasions when some sort of holiday was granted. Lesser Sibward had not been chosen for the school’s site because of any amenities it might have. In fact, quite the opposite was the case.
Lesser Sibward, as a star system, had little to offer other than raw ore to be had by the miners. There were no habitable planets at all and most of the station catered to those miners. The school was generally closed off from the rest of the station. Students could even arrive and depart from the private quays where the school’s own ships docked. Those ships were used to teach the basics of sailing the Dark, as well as cargo handling and loading.
Jon had no doubt that, given only a few good hands to work the sails, he could manage one of those ships and make it to Greater Sibward in a week’s time at most. He could hand, reef, and steer, himself. He was a decent navigator—not the best, perhaps, but then everyone struggled with darkspace navigation a bit. The idea that the distance traveled changed in relation to how close one’s ship was to a normal-space mass took getting used to. He was even a competent gunner, given that the Lesser Sibward School’s position on the matter was for merchants to strike one’s colors and surrender at the first shot of a pirate, and then hope to be set adrift near a path with heavy traffic.
None of that, though, had prepared him to be cast adrift like this. Alone on a station with no friends, no resources, and only the few coins left in his pockets and accounts.
That brought to mind hi
s finances, so he quickly checked his pockets and tablet. Twelve shillings and seven pence in his pockets, with only two pounds four shillings in his accounts. To be thorough, he tried to access the family accounts as well, but couldn’t even view them. They’d likely been frozen by the courts and were long since emptied.
So … two and sixteen, with a few pennies.
He wouldn’t starve, not right away, at least, but neither was it enough to make any kind of start. He wasn’t even sure how far it would get him on his journey home. He could estimate the cost of a cubic meter of cargo well enough, but Bartlett Shipping didn’t …
Hadn’t. Damn me.
Bartlett Shipping hadn’t done much in the way of passenger service. In fact, what few cabins might be available were most often left to the individual captains to set pricing on. Still, there was no telling until he’d asked.
First thing is to get home, see for myself what’s happened and what’s left.
That would mean a berth on a ship, preferably one going straight to Greater Sibward, even if there wasn’t much traffic directly between the two systems. Most of Lesser Sibward’s exports were raw ore, and that was taken to systems with refining and industrial bases. Greater Sibward was more business oriented and wanted finished goods more than raw ore.
Jon settled his bag more comfortably on his shoulder and looked around to get his bearings. A ship it would be, then.
The quayside was lined with them, but a quick check of the departures board showed only one going to Greater Sibward. Likely the same one just arrived from there, the one that the stories of his family’s doom had arrived on. Regardless, that was the one he needed.
Jon made his way down the quay. He noted that most of the ships in-system were Marchant Company vessels, their distinctive logo of stylized blue waves in a red circle prominent on nearly every berth’s display screen.
He reached the berth he was looking for and tapped the call screen beside the hatchway. It was only a moment before the call was answered, showing that the vessel kept a decent station-watch, at least.
Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology Page 23