by Ginger Booth
“Holster your weapons,” Ben demanded. “You will not enter my ship with weapons drawn.”
“They’re stun batons,” Flom scoffed.
“They are a danger shipboard, officer Flom. Especially if you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. We have priceless instruments on board.”
Ben turned and led the police into the hold. He didn’t warn them about the 1-g gravity threshold. Flom staggered at the sudden doubling of her weight. Ben took the opportunity to snatch her stun baton under guise of breaking her fall. “I really must insist. Weapons holstered.”
Glaring at him, Flom took back her baton and complied. Her minions followed her lead. And there they halted in great consternation. The hold was chock-full of potted trees. An incomplete project failed to provide them with light pipes and automated irrigation. Ben and Kassidy were taming the tangle when the cops arrived. Flom shielded her eyes from a wayward fiber optic glare spot.
“None of those people are on board,” Ben claimed.
“Why is your hold full of trees?”
“Madame, this is my home,” Ben returned. “You visit without invitation, no notice, at our busiest time. Expect to find dirty underwear and dishes in the sink. I have work to do. Make it quick.”
“Get everyone out here where I can see them!”
“Fine.” Ben keyed his all-address channel again, and set it to max volume. “Police inspection. All hands to the catwalk for viewing. Captain out.”
“What is that?” One of the backup cops pointed in trepidation to a vine that crept toward him. A purple stem bore orange-and-green leaves, thumb-size thorns, and dainty blue flowers. The vine lurched forward at about 10 cm a minute. He stood closest.
Ben had no idea. “Denali poison ivy,” he ad-libbed. “Don’t let it bite you.”
The cop backed away. Flom noted, “That is contraband. You can’t bring Denali wildlife onto Mahina.” The law was well-justified. Denali wildlife was vicious, and readily displaced Earth life.
“It’s indoors,” Ben excused the vine. “Belongs to my Denali gardener.” He pointed above to Quire, who quietly exited his cabin with Eli following the announcement. After a quick mental tally, Ben realized the pair were his entire crew not in hiding. So his story was that he and his ex-husband headed into the rings to rekindle their romance, and brought along two gardeners and a shipload of plants. Awesome.
He asserted, “All plants are legal if confined to a greenhouse. Or equivalent. Trees are extremely important to my husband and myself.”
Still bemused by the sensory onslaught of so much shrubbery, Flom attempted to rally. “Show us the storage compartments. Now.”
Ben objected, “This is the cargo hold. You’re looking at it. I expect my containers to arrive any minute now.”
Flom stalked to the crate Hunter and Zan arrived in, wading between foamcrete pots instead of taking the cleared path. A side shoot of the Denali vine zapped out to grab her ankle. She tripped onto a compact blueberry bush, gasping as a thorn impaled her. Ben, tracking her in the aisle, waded in to stomp on the runner. He ground it into the deck plating. “Quire! Eli!”
Gardener and botanist leapt down from the catwalk on antigravity and hastened toward them. Ben grabbed the crowbar, left on the giant crate. The miffed vine sought revenge against him. He ground out three more side shoots before taking refuge behind a boxy evergreen. Flom’s backup withdrew to the ramp.
Eli shrugged out of his coverall sleeves to use them to protect his hands. He grabbed the vine where it coiled on Flom’s leg. Quire hastened to the aid of the beleaguered blueberry bush. Ben applied his utility knife to sever the strand that assailed the cop. Eli cautiously unwound the plant fragment from Flom’s leg, evincing a shriek as he worked out the thorn.
“Quire, I want this thing burned,” Ben ordered.
“Ah, it’s mine, actually,” Eli admitted. “I’m trying to breed a landscape plant for the dark side of the moon. Earth plants…” He trailed off as he took in Ben’s expression. “Maybe just a little piece of it? Pruned small?”
“Only by your bedside,” Ben suggested sweetly.
Eli claimed the two-meter section. “I’ll just freeze this sample, and yeah, burn the rest.”
“Good idea,” Ben encouraged. “And the wound?” He looked to Quire.
“I’ve never seen that plant before,” Quire murmured.
Ben winced. Of course he hadn’t. Farmers on Denali remained strictly inside their agricultural domes, vigilant lest something like this vine invade, or worse. Earth crops were devastated by Denali native life. Whole agricultural domes needed to be abandoned, their hydroponic equipment ruined.
“It’s a genetically engineered custom hybrid,” Eli explained. “Grape and… Yes, I’ll get rid of it now.”
Ben reminded him, “Eli, the question was first aid for this member of Schuyler’s finest.”
“Finest what?”
The captain snickered in spite of himself. “Do you recommend soap and water, and antibiotic? For the wound.”
“Oh! Yes, it’s perfectly clean. Ah, there might be, hm.”
“It burns!” Flom moaned. “The skin is puffing out.” Indeed, her hands seemed to be breaking out in hives as well. The red streak up her leg looked suspiciously like blood poisoning. That was quick. Denali plants had amazing defenses to complement their offense.
“Antihistamine, stat,” Ben murmured, and trotted for the med bay. “Eli, make it dead! You two on the ramp! Carry your captain in here!”
53
Copeland’s footsteps toward the Prosper faltered as he took in the sight of a man in full pressure suit assaulting a trash container with a flame-thrower. Beyond, a pair of cops awaited at the top of the ramp.
“Don’t come any closer, Cope!” Eli’s voice came over the suit speaker. “Poisonous volatiles! Risk of contact dermatitis.”
“What are you burning?” the ship’s owner inquired.
“It’s a Denali hybrid vine.”
Cope watched a glowing scrap of something fly out. Eli cut the flame thrower for a moment to retrieve it, then slammed a lid on the container. “Is that the only Denali plant on my ship?”
“Um….”
“Keep burning until they’re all dead, Eli. Every scrap.”
“But most of them…” Eli attempted, then thought better of it. “Right.”
“Containers arrive in 15 minutes. Get that project away from my ship.”
Flustered, Eli tried to pick up the burning bin, then put down his flame-thrower, then picked it up again.
“Give me that,” Cope growled at him. He stepped over and snatched the device, only to drop it again. It was hot, but Cope was no stranger to burns. The bubble blisters instantly arising on his hand were something else. The burning sensation felt chemical, not temperature. “Is this…?”
“Contact dermatitis,” Eli confessed. “Ben’s in the med bay –”
“No more burning!” Cope barked at him. “Get your plants into the trash bin. We’ll space them after takeoff.”
“Oh. You’re right. This isn’t working.”
Cope ignored him and strode up the ramp, heading for med bay.
“We can’t allow you in!” one of the cops attempted.
“I’m the owner. You can’t stop me.” Cope pushed his bubbling palm a few centimeters too close to the man’s face. The man recoiled, and Cope kept walking, only to find his med bay full. An anxious Quire hung in the doorway, as Ben tended to a woman cop lying on the auto-doc gurney.
“Flo?” Cope asked, displaying his blistered hand to Ben. “What’s she doing here?”
“Cope?” officer Flom returned in surprise. “I could ask the same!”
Ben studied Cope’s hand, his own protected by medical gloves. He tugged his ex toward the sink. “Cope is the ship’s owner, my ex I was telling you about. Soap and cold water, then I’ll dress it. Hurry, before it gets worse. Officer Flom and her companions handed me a warrant. They’re looking for Teke, Zan, an
d Hunter Burke. But one of Eli’s experiments attacked her.”
Cope nodded, and washed his hands. Cool water soothed the blisters instantly. He trusted the soap rinsed the chemical irritant off his skin and down the drain. He devoutly hoped the water recycling system knew how to neuter it. “Those guys are friends of ours, sure. But they’re not here. So Flo, how long has it been?”
“Haven’t seen you since you landed in the phosphate mines. Fifteen years?” Flom replied. “Sorry about that.”
“You had what to do with that?” Cope inquired, an edge to his voice. He was unconscious when loaded onto a skyship to be dumped in the mines. He’d never stopped to wonder which cops were involved in that transaction.
“Obeyed orders,” the cop returned. “Ow!”
Cope didn’t catch what Ben did to her. He was glad it hurt. “Get off my ship, Flo.”
“I’m here on official business. Ow!”
That time Ben used a lancet to drain the largest boil on her leg. The fluid ran clear, a basic hive reaction. Simple antibiotic would do, but he poured painful peroxide into the wound, which foamed with happily agonizing abandon.
Cope grinned crookedly in appreciation. He mused, “Wonder what Josiah will do to you. When I tell him you sent me to the mines.”
“I didn’t say that!” Flo objected strenuously. “All I did was hand you over to…”
“To the urbs?” Cope wondered. “Ben, stab her again.”
“I have a job to do!” She yanked her leg away from Ben’s third rinse of peroxide, and slapped a big band-aid on the worst area. “And you’ll pay a fine for harboring a dangerous plant!”
“You entered my ship at your own risk,” Ben returned in unconcern. “I warned you.”
“You didn’t warn me about the plants!”
Ben shrugged. “Trade secret.” His tab chimed, and he pulled it out. “Oh, good. Our containers are here. Officer, time for you to go.”
“We haven’t completed our inspection!”
“You never started your inspection,” Ben observed. “But you can’t stay on the ship while we’re maneuvering. Not rated for passengers.”
“Josiah,” Cope reminded her.
The cop’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “My men and I stay aboard. We will resume our search after the containers.”
“Suit yourself,” Ben invited. “But you’ll sit on the deck out of the way. And fair warning, I turn off the inertial dampeners.”
Cope masked a laugh with a cough into his hand. “I’ll watch them. If you barf, you clean it up,” he warned Flo. “Follow me.” He led her out to sit with her back to the downstairs toilet, and beckoned her sidekicks to sit beside her. A thick screen of trees blocked their view, but the passage to the john was clear. “I’ll need your weapons. All of them.”
“Kirk,” Flo growled, “take our weapons outside and watch them.” One of her men eagerly clambered up and out, and took their arms with him. The familiar sound of the ramp starting to rise hastened him on his way.
“All hands, this is the first mate,” Willow announced on the ship-wide broadcast. “Brace for maneuvers. Inertial dampeners are disengaged.”
Cope leaned left to peek around the potted hedge. Yes, Willow stood at the engineering console. I thought I got rid of her. Eli and Quire, in heavy-duty gardening gloves, still waded through the pots in the hold hunting down stray Denali biology experiments. “I’ll be back with some barf bags,” he informed Flo. “Don’t move.”
He ducked back into the med bay and grabbed some plastic basins and towels, then secured the door for maneuvers. By now Ben stood snickering with Willow at the engineering podium. With a final clang, the ramp shut. A split second later, the floor lurched up into Cope’s feet. He cut his personal gravity to Mahina normal, and staggered back to Flo as the ship spun in place. He sat abruptly as the floor fell away again, and handed over the vomit control accessories.
“Why cut the inertial dampeners?” Flo demanded.
Cope considered spinning a tale. But a child learned young on the streets of Schuyler that a complicated lie always comes back to bite you. He shrugged. “Don’t barf on the shrubbery. It’s a bitch to clean.”
Another clang confirmed container one latched on. He lurched to the right as Prosper swung its tail and leapt up to come around and position to grapple the next box. Cop number 2, labeled Raczkowsky, lost his breakfast neatly into his bowl. Flo kept her lips pursed tight.
Eli and Quire dove up into the guylines criss-crossing the hold for their zero-g ball games. Cope followed their lead. The aft goal cables were 3 meters up and a couple forward of the john. He almost missed his catch as Prosper fish-tailed around, twice, sprang into the sky again maybe 200 meters, then dove to pounce on a second container. Cope bet the spaceport staff were laughing their asses off. No, none of these moves were in any way required to collect their containers. The inertial dampeners only ever cut off by accident. Old space hands, the trio on the guylines easily swung and somersaulted to the ship’s antics. Flo and Ratzy on the floor looked downright green.
The grapplers seized empty air, and whined about it. “Aw,” Ben moaned. “Too bad. We’ll just have to come around again.”
“Get me out of here!” Flo screamed. Her rat-buddy sat knees up, with face permanently glued to his bowl. A young fig tree flapped sticky leaves at his head.
“OK,” Ben agreed. With a couple more deft fishtails, Prosper set down with a bounce.
Cope pulled the cops to their feet. He guided their staggering steps to the front airlock door rather than waste time opening the ramp again. “They’re not here,” he repeated to officer Flom. “Don’t come back. We’re busy.”
“About Josiah –”
“If I ever hear a word from you again, you’re good as dead,” Cope promised. “Have a nice day.”
She limped away, hanging from Raczkowsky’s shoulder. The man still clutched his barf bowl. Cope let him keep it. He shut the airlock doors and dogged them. Without the slightest sensation of motion, he could see through the door that Prosper rose and turned to grapple its three remaining containers. Willow was quite deft at it.
Eli and Quire hopped down from their wiring and resumed plant inspection. Cope joined Ben in the middle of the cargo hold, where he sourly surveyed the rat’s nest of incomplete piping.
“We could simply leave,” the captain noted.
“You don’t need permission for takeoff?”
“Courtesy call,” Ben allowed. “But I thought we’d visit Sass’s well to top off the water tanks. They asked two credits a gallon here for water. Can you believe it? ‘Excise taxes.’ Screw that.”
“Do we need water?” Copeland consulted his pocket tab. “Auto-doc refill.”
Ben pointed to a new crate by the ramp. “Willow brought it.”
“Willow,” Cope echoed. “I thought we fired her.”
Ben shot him a look. “I need a first mate. You have engineering, chief.” One final clang confirmed the last container was attached.
Cope didn’t bother to tamp his grin. “Aye, sar. Water is optional. We got plenty for takeoff. Pono’s rings are made of the stuff. I can’t speak to the condition of the ship.”
Ben nodded, and switched his comm to public address. “All hands, this is the captain. Prepare for launch.” He clicked off. “Willow, bridge. Chief, at the console. Let’s blow this town.” Eli and Quire hastened up the aft staircase ahead of them to reach their double cabin.
Prosper benefited from every trick that Thrive picked up, plus plenty more Cope and Ben evolved since then. On the bridge, Ben and Willow worked as a smoothly oiled team after years together. With a warm negative nostalgia, Cope recalled the old days of terrifying takeoffs, the crew in pressure suits in the hold ready to stave off disaster. Nowadays, he simply sealed all the airtight spaces from the engineering console. Willow handled the roll call. Copeland still wore the charcoal suit he donned for the lawyers this morning – and his steel-toed boots.
Of course, the
spaceport authorities were a minor wrinkle. Cope listened in. “Prosper, Schuyler air control. You are not cleared for takeoff.”
“Schuyler, this is Prosper Actual,” Ben replied evenly. “I don’t care. I have clear sky. See you in a month or two. Prosper out.” He cut the channel dead as the tower attempted to ask his destination.
Copeland smiled. His ex was a fish out of water groundside. It was good to see him back in his element. “Chief to bridge. Where are we going, anyway?”
Ben replied dryly, “Chief, next I’d like a full system diagnostic from your station. Do let me know of any problem that requires my attention.”
In other words, Don’t bug me while I’m driving. “Aye, sar.” Copeland chuckled and set to it. He hadn’t been space-side on the Prosper for a few years. The rust shook off as he lost himself in his displays.
54
Ben was the last to breeze into the galley. He opted to leave the bridge empty to have all hands present. Everyone had food, including his place at the head of the table. As majority owner, Cope claimed the foot of the table, facing off in the other position of honor. Willow held the captain’s right hand seat, as first mate. The foliage was beaten back to stay off his head. Good enough.
Time to exert authority with a velvet smile. He’d love a round of drinks and a Thrive family reunion. But he required respect as captain first.
“Thank you for joining me!” he boomed en route to his chair. “Sorry for holding up dinner. Feel free to start eating. My agenda for this meeting is to begin crew shakedown. As I’m sure you noticed, we exited the rings of Pono. We’re basically pacing Mahina in its orbit.”
He applied his pocket comm to throw an image of that concept up onto the big wall screen behind Copeland – gas giant Pono, a tutu of rings, a dot labeled Mahina, and then hovering above the ring waistline, another dot named Prosper. Too many rocks and ice shards competed to hole his ship in the rubble-rich rings. In near-Pono space, for a good night’s sleep, one parked outside the rings. They were still moving, as was everything else in the universe. But their current track wasn’t far from a stable orbit. The moon Mahina was a dumb rock, and it had no trouble riding the rings in perpetuity. Pacing it from ‘above’ was cheap on fuel. Ben kept this track on preset.