“You’re already doing a sim?” he asked, scarcely believing it. She nodded. “This runs counter to all my training. Those who didn’t have the math, couldn’t form the proper equations, flunked out first. Only after you had proven yourself capable of mathematically solving the problems, would you graduate to any actual piloting sims.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Then, if you flunked out there, having the math, you could always train for the position of navigator.”
Angela nodded. “But a pilot has to be able to do it all.”
“Right.”
“This is more fun,” she said, adjusting her thrust such that it sent her ship tumbling end over end.
Wen watched, wide-eyed, as warning lights flashed everywhere. An icon lit – asking if the pilot needed a hint. Angela ignored it and, over the next fifteen minutes, played with her attitudinal thrusters until she had brought the ship back onto a stable course.
“See,” she said. “Fun.”
Wen swallowed, thinking on what damage the nightmare gyrations would have caused to ship and crew. “Yes, fun ... if your idea of fun consists of giving a heart attack to any certified pilot within a parsec.”
Angela giggled. “But I got her back on course.”
“I think you used more fuel than this ship’s thrusters have access to.”
Angela raised her eyebrows, then went back to the control panel. She nodded soberly. “One hundred and eighty percent of available fuel.” Then she laughed lowly. “I’m getting better. Last time I used two hundred and eight percent.”
Wen raised his hands in mock surrender. “I bow before a master mariner.” He glanced over to see William watching them. “I think we’re disrupting the class; I’d better go.”
Wen walked across the room to William. “When might you have time to talk with me?”
William glanced at the chrono on the wall. “There’s a break in half an hour.” He saw Wen glance back to the program that had Angela glued to the screen. “Would you like me to set you up with that program? I’ll give you full access, so you can look through the lesson guide and the projected goals. We have a free piloting console at the moment.”
“I’d like that very much.”
William walked over to it, entered his access codes, and turned it over to Wen before returning to his class. Wen shut out the older man’s voice, and he scrolled through the lesson plans. It seemed like almost no time at all had passed before William put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up in surprise to see an empty classroom.
“We can talk now.”
“It’s more than just a game, isn’t it?” Wen asked.
“Much more. All of our pilots go through this course. They start as early as six years of age. The reality level starts at a couple percent. For them, it’s just a game.”
Wen nodded. “Then, as they grow older, advance, the things they have to take into consideration grow.”
“Until they do all the calculations, and make all the decisions that a real pilot does,” William finished for him. “And they keep coming back ... because it’s just a game. They get to keep score, compete with one-another, get bragging rights. They love it.”
“But don’t you find it a waste? Seventy percent of my original classmates dropped out. The instructors guided another twenty percent into other endeavours – such as navigation. Only ten percent ever make pilot, and most of those never make starship pilot. They remain in-system shuttle pilots, work pilots, earth-moon run pilots.”
William pushed back in his chair, causing the front legs to lift from the floor. He smiled. “True enough, but our success rate makes your class look rather poor. On the other hand, even those who never reach any kind of skill level still know what it takes to operate a ship like this. They appreciate what the pilot does, how he or she works to keep them safe and secure.”
Wen shrugged. It still seemed a huge waste to him.
“And it isn’t just piloting, Mr Pearson. We have modules for Cargo Handling, Enviro, the Engine Room, Security, and even Stewarding. All games – but all with real-world applications.”
Wen sat forward. “Cargo Handling?”
“Yes.” William cocked his head slightly to the side. “Interested?”
“How far does it take you?”
“Up to Cargo Master, should you follow it all the way. Of course, you’d have to integrate real-world exercises under a licensed Cargo Master to attain the various licences. But our programs will take you that far on a theoretical basis alone.”
Wen took a deep breath, and looked off to the side. He pressed his lips together, and his eyes turned hard. Finally, he relaxed. “Yes, I think I’d like trying that. Very much. Can I sign up for a course?”
William laughed, causing Wen to look sharply at him. If the man had only been stringing him along... But William held up his hand.
“Sorry, but I don’t get a question like that often. Every crewmember has the right to take any course for which he or she feels strongly enough about to put in the time and effort. It can only help the ship, the crew, and the Family.” He paused a moment, taking another look at the chrono. “Although, it’s not often that a pilot puts in for Cargo. Usually they avoid Cargo like the plague. Something to do with the practicals – in other words, work in the holds shifting deadweight.” He glanced again at the chrono. “Almost lunch time. Will you accompany me?”
Wen rose with the ship’s Instructor. “Of course. As to the other, well, the Family will never allow me on the bridge. I might as well try something else to earn my keep. The captain has let me know that she expects more of me. I must give back to the ship.”
They walked down the hallway towards the cafeteria. A fair rumble came from its direction. Before they entered into the noise, William gave Wen a pat on the shoulder.
“I hear you’re going to give guitar lessons. I’d say that counted as giving back.”
Wen laughed. “Under duress.”
“Angela says you play well; I’d like to listen to you, sometime.”
They joined the line, picked up trays, and shuffled forward to the serving tables.
“I practice in Acceleration Lounge B on the Passenger Deck.”
* * *
Friday 25 June
Wen took his seat in front of the console, and opened up the Cargo Handling program. The first lesson/game had him loading cargo without the necessity of figuring density, mass or distribution. His job, so to speak, consisted of fitting the containers in the hold to provide the greatest carrying capacity.
The programmers had set it up like a puzzle, with containers of varying shapes, some of which he’d never heard of before. The shapes differed with each iteration of the game, and Wen actually found himself having a good time with the program. Then came the speed tests, where he had to fit the cargo into the hold as fast as he could.
“Not bad,” came a high voice beside him. “But I can do better.”
He looked at the youngster, not much more than ten or twelve years of age. “And who might you be?”
“Sean.” The boy pointed to William. “That’s my Uncle.”
“Ah, is he? Well, good to meet you Sean. I’m Wen.”
“I know that.” The boy looked a little disgusted that Wen should think him so unaware. “You came aboard with Angela.” His attention went back to the screen. “Want me to show you?”
Wen shoved back. “The board is yours, Cargo Master Sean.”
The child laughed. “I’m not a Cargo Master yet, but I will be.”
Sean refreshed the game. “Start with some of the big ones that fit into the far corners. Then fill in the gaps with smaller pieces.” He demonstrated. Wen watched in awe as the youngster halved his best time. “See.”
“I see, young Master. Thank you.”
Sean went back to his own seat. Wen glanced over to ‘Uncle William’ and made a face at the back of Sean’s head, which caused the older man to chuckle. Suitably instructed, Wen returned to the game, and found
that young Sean’s advice did indeed result in a faster game and higher score. He plugged steadily on.
As the break approached, he jumped ahead a few lessons. So intent on the game, he failed to see Sean take up a position, looking on.
“No!” the child cried out.
Too late. Wen had opened the cargo hatch before depressurizing. The lighter unsecured contents of the hold went streaming out into space, those items nearest the hatch most forcefully.
“You never open a hatch without depressurizing,” Sean told him. “And you skipped the tie-down module. You need to strap all your containers down. If you don’t, they all jam together during acceleration. You can’t unload them fast if you do that. You’ll never get a high score.” He sounded disgusted.
“Thank you, Master Sean. I’ll remember.” He looked at the chrono. “I see that I have other duties to attend to.” He stood, and bowed to the young boy. “Again, my thanks.”
“Aw, that’s okay.”
The kid skipped out, heading for the cafeteria.
“Certainly outgoing,” Wen commented to William after the classroom had cleared.
William laughed. “But he’ll make a first-class cargo handler. No one has topped his scores – not at his age, at his experience level. He’s very bright. Well, lunch time.”
As they walked down the hall, William pursed his lips.
“Strange that you would forget to depressurize.”
“The game. I skipped several lessons, and I tried for speed, to get a worthy score. I didn’t realize that pressurization had entered into the game structure. Serves me right for jumping.”
* * *
William had laughed with Wen, but felt that the pilot didn’t tell the whole story. Something in his voice suggested that he was hiding something. William had become adept at hearing the truth or falsehoods in the excuses that students made about poor test results. He shrugged, and kept on walking without delving more deeply into the matter.
They parted, and he headed for the Trader’s Office.
“He’s taking a course in Cargo Handling,” William told Bettina, who frowned at her screen.
She raised her eyebrows. “Cargo Handling?”
William shrugged. “Says that as he’ll never be allowed on the bridge, he might as well do something useful.”
She took her eyes off the screen and looked up at William.
“That’s a change. And Ms Fulton?”
“She’s taking the piloting course. Says she always wanted to be a pilot.”
“In the main classroom, only, I presume.”
William nodded. “Of course. She has no access to the Family levels. She can only learn about the standard routes – and nothing about our non-standard methods.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“She seems without guile, Bettina. And diligent.”
Bettina smiled at that. “I get the same report from everyone she’s come in contact with.” She sat back in her chair. “I didn’t want her on my ship. I made a mistake there. The pilot, on the other hand, I don’t know. Keep an eye on him.”
“You suspect him of something?”
“Ms Fulton came right out and said that Mr Richardson had asked her to spy on us for him. She promised not to. Mr Carson did neither.”
CHAPTER 13
Venture
Saturday 03 July
Wen Carson took a look around the lounge, astonished that twenty people had shown up for his introduction to the guitar. He sat on the stage, where the ship played holo-vids for passengers and crew. Behind him, the stars shone through the clear walls. In front of him, in acceleration chairs, sat the crowd, captain included.
The Venture had begun taking on passengers – but not the usual kind. These were mostly Family members from FTL-1. So, they were beginning to thin out their crew on that station. He had assumed that they would go to Haida Gwaii, but then realized if the Yrden’s had the right of it, and the new station had a target ‘painted on it’, Venture would be the safer location.
Another woman walked in, and he recognized the luthier who had won The Lottery.
“I thank you all for coming,” he lied, mostly for Captain Bettina Yrden’s benefit. “I assume that many are here merely to hear me play – to see if I have enough skill to be worthy of the honour.”
Several people chuckled, and he laughed along with them. He glanced at the chrono. “Well, I see the hour has come.” He plucked at the strings in turn, ensuring they were tuned. He gave his head the most minute of shakes. Him, a teacher?
In the front row, Angela nodded at him encouragingly. Her fault, all of this. But without her, he wouldn’t have had the solace of a guitar. At another nod from her, he closed his eyes and began to play.
He played the songs that Lil loved the best, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to leak out. But his fingers never faltered and, at the end, when he opened his eyes, he received a round of applause the like of which he had never received on Amalgamated 684 – or anywhere else, for that matter.
He bowed his head, then began to talk of his experience playing and practicing, what it entailed. He hoped to frighten most of them off. In the end four signed up for lessons. As the last of those left the lounge to return to duty or sleep, he looked around and saw only two remaining: Angela – of course – and Janice Kerbin, the luthier.
Angela had a smile plastered across her face; Kerbin merely considered him carefully.
“You play well,” Kerbin said. “May I?”
He handed her the guitar, which she examined closely before strumming a few chords. Then she began to play, nodding at whatever it was which occurred to her. After about ten minutes, she handed it back with a wry smile.
“I hope to be able to do as good, soon. Perhaps you’ll find time to work with me.”
Why not? He shrugged. “If time permits.” Which, he felt sure, it no doubt would.
Kerbin walked off, looking slightly lost within her own thoughts, which left Angela. And he made a small wager with himself.
“You did really great, Wen,” she said. “I wish I could play like that.”
“So, you’d like to sign up, too?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she surprised him. “I don’t have the time. I only have one year to get as far as I can in the piloting course.” She grinned at him. “But you’ll love it,” she said.
Right. He’d love hearing sour notes, teaching beginners to play, having to make nice all the time when he’d prefer to just be alone.
Angela glanced at the chrono. “Oh, speaking of that, I can still get another hour in.”
And with that she left him feeling strange, almost bereft. Her constant attention to him had become so familiar that he almost missed it. He shook his head, and replaced the guitar in its case.
* * *
Wen sat at the console in the learning room once more. He opened the Cargo Master program, and began loading. He noticed Sean coming in and taking the console next to his.
“Did you remember to tie down?” the boy asked.
From an adult, Wen might have taken umbrage, but Sean had no such sarcastic intent. He merely asked a logical question.
“Yes, Cargo Master, I have carefully tied down all my pallets and pods. But I thank you for the reminder.”
The boy chuckled, more at being called ‘Cargo Master’ than at anything else, Wen figured.
“I heard you play.”
Wen looked up from his board. “Oh, did you?”
“You play really well. But my mom says she almost cried when you played ‘The Ballad of the Last Stand’.” The child stopped for a moment. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Wen forced himself to not laugh out loud. He explained, “The ballad tells of a sad time, Sean. If your mother almost cried, that means I played it like it is supposed to be played. I find myself complimented by her words.”
“Oh.” The boy paused for a moment while his program opened. “Then that’s okay,
right?”
“Right.”
Sean’s program came up, and he opened it to an empty hold. “I’ll race you,” he challenged.
“You’re much better than me.”
“But I’ll have to do it at level seven. You get to work at level one.”
“Level two,” Wen corrected.
The kid’s eyes opened wide. “That’s faster than I did it, and I hold the record.”
Wen laughed. “I knew more to start with; a pilot has to know something about cargo or he’ll never get his licence. So, it actually took me years – you still possess the record.”
Sean grinned. “Aw, I don’t mind. You can have it if you want it.”
But Wen could see that the loss had hurt the boy. “How many hours did it take you – not days?”
Sean opened his history, and pointed at the screen. Wen breathed a sigh of relief, and opened his. The boy’s eyes went wide. “You must be playing the game all night, every night.”
Wen laughed. “Just about. But you still have the record.”
Yes, he played the game every waking minute he wasn’t doing something else. He had his reasons – beyond trying to get lost in it so he could forget everything else.
* * *
William’s voice startled Wen. “Saw the light on. Never much going on in here at this time of night.”
Wen looked up and smiled. “I prefer it when it’s empty – easier to concentrate.”
Willam nodded, and peered at the screen. “You’ve progressed a lot.” He looked up, then back again. “Just how many hours have you put into this thing?”
“A lot. I don’t sleep too well. It helps.” And there, he’d said too much already.
“If it’s affecting your piloting, you’d better report to sickbay. They’ll fix you up with something.”
Not With A Whimper: Survivors Page 13
