The Snows of Montora (The Chronicles of Montora Book 3)

by Ward Wagher

  “I am Peebee,” said one of the Woogies through his vocoder. The other said,” I am Peejay.”

  “I am the Nest Guardian,” the two Woogies said at exactly the same time.

  Schubach's mouth quirked, then he shook himself and stood straighter.

  “I am honored to meet Peebee and Peejay,” Frank said. “Are you both the Nest Guardian?”

  “I am,” both vocoders announced simultaneously. “I rule the nest of nests with my nest mate.”

  A giggle escaped from Schubach and Frank glared at him. He pulled himself back together again.

  “Are you brothers?” Frank asked.

  “As the humans would call it. Same parental incubators.” The vocoders presented the sounds at exactly the same time, and in the same timbre.

  “Unnh,” escaped from Schubach. “Ooop.” He quickly turned and trotted from the room.

  “Is the human ill?”

  “He is not familiar with the Woogie culture,” Frank said.

  A distant sound of hysterical laughter wafted into the room.

  “Perhaps the services of...” the two voices paused. “Not familiar with the word. Shrinky-dink?”

  Jones managed, barely, to contain a snort. Peebee and Peejay turned slightly to gaze at him.

  “Close enough, I think,” Frank said. “No, as I said, Charlie is just not familiar with the Woogie culture.”

  “That is the other Charlie person? Commands your ship?”

  “Yes. He is the ship commander,” Frank said.

  “Have heard he is good,” came the double voices again.

  “Good enough, I think.”

  “Behold the cargo,” the Nest Guardians said as they moved apart.

  As the Woogies moved further aside, the humans could see a half-dozen shipping pallets with shipping crates stacked on them.

  “This contains your payment to Carlo Roma?” Frank asked.

  “That is correct, Mr. Frank. Assortment of Woogie treasure for Mr. Carlo. Woogies always pay debts.”

  Frank nodded. “I understand. The Woogies are honorable. May I ask what is the nature of the payment?”

  Peebee and Peejay turned to each other, then turned back to Frank. “Mixture of jewels, bullion,” they said. “Made deal with Mr. Carlo.”

  “I would say you did,” Frank muttered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I don’t know whether to yell at you, kick the stuffing out of you, or just ignore you,” Frank said.

  “Hey, Skipper, I’m sorry. I’ve just never been in a situation like that before. I mean the Woogies are so… so…”

  “Funny?”

  “Right.”

  Schubach tugged at the collar of his tunic. The space in the Captain’s ready room aboard Forsythia seemed very tight.

  “Well, you are going to have to learn how to deal with it. We’ve got forty Woogies aboard for the trip to Earth and I want them to still like us when we arrive.”

  “You could have warned me, Skipper,” Schubach said. “We really had to scramble to find bunk space for the passengers.”

  Frank smiled. “I didn’t know myself until they showed up at the ramp. And stop calling me Skipper. You’re the Captain on this tub.”

  “The Forsythia is not a tub,” Schubach said indignantly.

  “Pay attention, Charlie.”

  “Okay… er… Mr. Nyman.”

  “Frank is fine, Charlie. One of the interesting facets of dealing with the Woogies is you never know what to expect. And I must confess I found today’s meeting entertaining. And to be honest, they find a lot of the things humans do to be hysterically funny too.”

  “Like what, Ski… Frank?”

  “Better. Oh, for example, they don’t have a chain of command that anyone can parse. The military courtesies we practice baffle them, and they also think it’s funny. We had a group of them do a skit for an MMNO show, where they basically mocked the Navy salutes and such.”

  “I’ll bet that was interesting.”

  “Well, the Woogies in the audience were almost helpless with mirth, but the humans were howling too. The Woogies have a knack for spotting humans who take themselves too seriously. In this case one of the Woogies was… decorated to represent Commodore Wessel. Which made it all the funnier. The Commodore was in the audience and he did not think it was funny.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that,” Schubach said. “What did he do?”

  “There was nothing he could do. They had him pegged. They knew it, he knew it, and so did everybody else. The really tough thing was that for days afterwards it was really hard not to burst into laughter every time he came strutting through with his riding crop.”

  “So what I did today was normal?” Schubach asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that, Charlie. One of the Guardians asked me if the human was ill. I strongly suspect it was tongue-in-cheek, if that expression has any meaning at all with the Woogies. So, let’s just say you apparently got away with it this time.”

  “I’m really sorry about that, Skipper.”

  “Frank.”

  Schubach shook himself. “You’ve always been the Skipper. That’s how I think about you, Sir.”

  Frank moved to the door. “Just don’t do anything to upset our guests. I don’t have to tell you how much we have riding on this voyage.” And he left the ready room.

  Schubach walked over and sat down behind the desk. He pushed a button on the communicator. Martyn Ridley, the executive officer answered.

  “Bridge, Executive Officer Ridley speaking.”

  “Mart, have we got our passengers settled in?”

  “Almost, Sir. The stewards are still sorting through the foodstuffs the Woogies brought aboard. That’s going to be a challenge.”

  “How so, Exec?”

  “We don’t have anyone who knows how to cook Woogie food.”

  “Mart, they brought along a complete kitchen and staff. We don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Cookie doesn’t like it.”

  “Well, the cook will just have to deal with it.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “Okay. Good. Have we received our launch clearances?”

  “No, Sir. The Navy has a hold on them until they can get the escort lined up.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  § § §

  An hour later Frank was in the owner's suite reading through the mail that had caught up with him during their visit to Woogaea. Galactic correspondence was most often carried aboard one of the many fast packet ships owned by Jesse Spelling. These small ships criss-crossed human inhabited space carrying mail and small cargo. An elaborate system had been devised centuries before on Earth which allowed data dumps from the stellar systems to be carried aboard the vessels and merged with the databases on the target world. Via the efforts of the Courier-Net packet ships, most of the inhabited planets in the Sphere of Man had more or less up-to-date and synchronized data.

  The communicator on Frank's desk chimed and he pushed the accept button.

  “Sk... Frank, the skipper of the Lockhurst would like to speak with you,” Schubach said.

  “Of the Navy?”

  “Yes, Sir. It's a Navy cruiser. I gather it has been assigned as our escort. The CO is not very happy.”

  “Doesn't surprise me. I wouldn't be pleased either. I'll speak.”

  Without another word, Schubach flipped the connection to the other ship. While middle age was a slippery term, the man on the screen was no longer young. His hair was iron gray, and his skin was beginning to sag.

  “I'm Frank Nyman. How can I help you?”

  “Commander Rogers Cambaert. I'm the CO of the Lockhurst. I want to know how in Satan's games you were able to commandeer my ship for escort? There is not nearly enough weight in metal to support the mission out here without sending one of the capital units haring off to Earth.”

  “Hey, I'm just the bus driver, Commander. The Woogies chartered me to take a del
egation to Earth. The Admiral told me an escort was not only appropriate, but required.”

  “Which admiral might that be, Nyman?” Cambaert's voice had taken on a distinct edge.

  “Why, the one you work for. Willard Krause. Surely you knew that.”

  “I still don't know why Krause would do something so foolish. And I've heard about you too,” he continued. “You did a pretty good job of blowing up Hepplewhite last year.”

  Frank turned red, and leaned forward to the pickup. “Who's spoiled brat are you that the Navy turned a perfectly good cruiser over to?”

  “I will not be talked to in such a fashion. Unfortunately I am stuck with you, but we will do things my way.”

  “Apparently you have not heard everything about me,” Frank said quietly.

  “I've heard enough to recognize incompetence and gold-bricking when I see it.”

  Frank grinned. “What else do you recognize about me?”

  “I would suspect a definite lack of courage.”

  Frank was grinning widely now. “I suppose I should apologize for leading you on, Commander. But you were doing such a good job I was reluctant to stop you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just a couple of things.”

  Frank paused to watch Cambaert carefully. He had suddenly decided the ice might be thin and had become wary.

  “You see, Commander,” Frank put emphasis on the word. “I may be a Naval reservist, but I still outrank you.”

  Cambaert grew still. He stared at Frank for a few moments before speaking. “Are you Ready Reserve?”

  “Give the man a cigar.”

  “May I ask your rank, Sir?”

  “Nice to see you throttle back just a bit, Commander,” Frank said. “But if you were in combat, you would be dead about now. I'm a Captain.”

  “Sir, you have my humble apologies,” Cambaert said quickly. “I didn't realize.”

  Frank slid a card into the slot below the screen. “I am transmitting my bona fides over to you right now. I really do not appreciate you throwing your weight around when you thought I was just a merchie.”

  “Sir, you must understand. I encounter a lot of pushy merchant skippers out here.”

  “I'm sure you do. But I'm sure Willard Krause would not enjoy hearing about your comments.”

  Cambaert stopped speaking again. He looked carefully at Frank. “I am honestly not terribly worried about the admiral. This conversation is just between the two of us and I can deny anything.”

  Frank tilted his head. “Do you suppose Admiral Krause would listen to his former Flag Captain?”

  The color drained out of Cambaert's face. “I think there has been a misunderstanding, Sir. We clearly have started off on the wrong foot.”

  “One would hope to think we have. But I don't think there has been a misunderstanding at all. You really ought to be brought up on charges of conduct unbecoming. Your behavior just now was beyond the bounds of reason.”

  “Certainly you can't expect to waste everyone's time by convening a court martial out here.”

  “Tell me right now why I shouldn't.” Frank's voice rose to a shout. “You have been mouthing off about lawful orders. You have not only been unforgivably rude to people you are sworn to protect; you have been profoundly disrespectful to the sector CO. I don't know whose navy you belong to, Mister, but in my navy those actions have consequences.”

  Cambaert was now white with rage. He glared at Frank over the viewscreen for nearly a minute. Finally he took a deep breath.

  “Perhaps I owe you an apology,” he ground out. “This has not been the best of days.”

  Now Frank glared into the screen for a while before responding. “I suppose I have no choice but to accept your apology. I must say, however, that I have grave misgivings about your fitness for command.”

  Cambaert's mouth dropped open. “I don't know what to say about that, Sir.”

  Frank tilted his head and frowned at the Commander. He then rubbed his hand over his mouth as he thought.

  “Okay, let me tell you what we are going to do. You are going to escort me to Earth so the Woogies can go see their patron. If everything goes the way it should, I won't say anything to the admiral.”

  “I will do my job, Captain. As far as what you tell Admiral Krause, I cannot control that. I don't propose to try.”

  “Very well, Commander. I believe we have an understanding.”

  After Frank had disconnected from the com unit, the cabin steward slipped in and placed a cup of coffee and carafe on the desk next to Frank. Sergeant Smith followed him in.

  “Schubach told me we were under weigh, Skipper. Finally. He said you smoothed things over with the CO of that Cruiser.”

  “I wouldn't exactly call it that, Cedric. I probably made another enemy,” Frank said.

  “May I surmise the conversation did not go well?”

  Frank cradled the coffee cup in his hands and leaned back. “Commander Rogers Cambaert of the cruiser Lockhurst is either a political appointee or a shining example of the Peter Principle.”

  “How about both?”

  “I am somewhat inclined to go along with that assessment,” Frank said. “Let's just hope we don't get into a situation where he has to fight his ship.”

  “God help us,” Smith replied.

  “Exactly. We have forty Woogies, and heaven knows how much treasure aboard. We really, really do not need to be screwing around with any pirates this trip.”

  “Perish the thought, Skipper,” Smith said. “But this really should be an uneventful trip. What is there, just a single refueling stop?”

  “I forgot to ask Cambaert how he's fixed for bunkerage, but one stop should do it. If we make our bearing shots well outside the systems, we should be fine.”

  While starships were capable of traveling to the limits of their range in overdrive, it was much safer to drop into normal space every hundred light-years or so for navigational fixes. Navigating starships in subspace was by dead-reckoning and notoriously inaccurate. Dropping out of subspace inside of a star was generally thought to leave a captain enough time to realize he had made a permanent mistake.

  “Does the commander know what we're carrying?” Smith asked.

  Frank raised an eyebrow and studied Smith. “I don't know. I told him we were carrying a Woogie delegation to Earth. I said nothing about the money. Not many people should be aware of it. The Woogies understand operational security.”

  “Let's hope that is the case.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Forest Vale, the ship's cook aboard Forsythia grumbled as he stacked boxes in his food storage lockers. Each box was carefully marked in the woven flowery script used by the Woogies.

  "It makes no sense to me why those pink barstools cannot eat perfectly good human food. Besides that, they smell like a cesspool."

  "What did you say Cookie?"

  Vale looked up to see MaryBelle Betencourt as she leaned into the compartment with a grin.

  "Ah, nothing, Bosun. Just trying to stow the victuals our… passengers brought aboard."

  MB, as she was known by the crew, stepped into the room. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't complaining. The bonus we will get from the boss for this trip is going to make a tidy addition to my retirement fund. I don't want to see you or anyone else do something to mess it up." She flexed her arms as she spoke, and the message was unmistakable.

  "Of course not, MB. I was just talking to myself as I worked.”

  “Uh huh,” Betancourt said as she walked off.

  The cook had a history of being difficult with passengers. The Bosun determined to keep an eye on him during the current voyage. The forty Woogies put Forsythia right at the limit of her passenger capacity, and the peculiar habits, not to mention the strong smells, of the passengers would make for a challenging ride.

  Betancourt slipped into Martyn Ridley's office and stood quietly, waiting for the executive officer to notice her.


  "Things in good order, Bosun?" Ridley asked.

  "Yes, Sir. Cargo has been stowed, and our passengers are settling in."

  "And how is the crew handling our guests?"

  Betancourt managed a one-sided smile. "About as well as you might expect, Exec. I might have to sit on one or two of them, but I expect no problems."

  Ridley nodded. "How is the cook taking all this?"

  "About as you might expect, Sir,” she repeated. “Right now he's just grumbling to himself. As long as it doesn't get any worse, I think we'll be okay."

  "That's why we pay you the big Centaurans," Ridley said with a grin.

  "You're not far off the mark where this voyage is concerned," she said.

  “I'm planning for a very nice contribution to the Martyn Ridley Benevolent Fund.”

  "You got that one right!" She slipped into the chair. "Are we underway yet?"

  Ridley nodded. "A little while ago. The skipper and the boss got into a spitting match with the Navy commander who is the CO of our escort. I think the boss just about beat the guy into submission, but it worries me."

  Betancourt leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Is it true, Exec, that we're carrying a chamber pot full of cash and valuables for the Woogies?"

  Ridley looked up sharply. "You didn't hear that from me, MB."

  "The crew is talking about it. I mean, why would we rate a Navy escort just to trundle a few dozen Woogies around the universe?"

  Ridley shrugged with his eyebrows. "As I said, Bosun, you didn't hear it from me. But, I also can’t tell you how happy I am for that Navy escort."

  Betancourt stood up. "I'm not sure that's what I wanted to hear, Exec, but thanks."

  Ridley waved her out. "Think nothing of it."

  § § §

  Frank, please help me! Don’t let them hurt me. Frank! Frank? Where are you? I need you!

  Frank Nyman sat up in bed, panting and trying to force air into his lungs. He swung his legs around, and rolled out of bed. He stumbled over to the wall and leaned against it with one hand as he tried to catch his breath. The lights came up dimly as the sensors in the room detected him moving about. Finally sure of his ability to stay upright, he walked over to the door and opened it.