John O’Hara took a deep breath. “Okay, hon, I trust you, and I have something for you here.” Reaching into his pocket, he gave Coleen a card with the four-pointed star of the Confederation and the logo of the United Veteran’s Association. It was gold, a lifetime membership.
“That’s good anywhere in known space. You can walk into any UVA post on any world and get a meal and a place to sleep. You’ll also meet a lot of all-right folks who can help you out. You earned this, kiddo. You served our nation, and I am proud of you.”
Coleen knew that the UVA was all her dad had now that mom was gone. And she knew what he meant by this. She reached around her daddy’s shoulders and had a good, long cry. John patted his little girl’s back knowingly and said: “There, there, kiddo, there, there.”
Five hours later, the Starstrider took off for another run to the Tau Ceti system to drop off machine parts at Thor and pick up a cargo of rice for Odin.
* * *
With Coleen as ship’s manager, the Starstrider’s profits started to slowly but steadily rise. Her great coup, however, came when she secured a deal with the Moscow Ballet. The dancing troupe was doing a tour of the colony worlds, and their travel plans fell through at Tortuga. She arranged to pick up the dancers and stagehands and fly them to Rama for a performance they were expected at later that month.
“Belly dancers? You mean with the slinky costumes and the jingly bells on their hips?” Captain Buckman wasn’t known as a man of culture.
Coleen rolled her eyes. “No, Chris, ballet dancers. They tell stories in dance. It’s a classical thing from ancient Earth. I put bunks in the starboard cargo bay, and the port one will be used for their stage equipment. The galley’s been stocked, and I had the ground staff fix the aft toilet. We should have them aboard for a week and two days.”
Chris Buckman mulled it over, “Well, I never carried twenty-five passengers before. It’s gonna be crowded. Are you sure this is a good idea, girl?”
“They are paying two-hundred-and-ten thousand credits up front.”
With the debt payments and the crew’s wages due, it was too good a profit to pass up. He said, “Okay, but these newbs better stay out of my way. I don’t want any fu-fu dancer messing around in the engine room or on the bridge.”
Coleen agreed to his terms, and the Moscow Ballet came aboard that evening.
She greeted the Russians as they embarked and made sure they all found their bunks. Politely outlining the no engine room or bridge policy, she showed them to the galley for dinner. Coleen enjoyed their company. The dancers and stagehands were intelligent and witty and had lots of stories to tell. They were all in splendid physical condition too. Coleen’s proclivities guaranteed that she noticed the firm shoulders and pert rear ends of the men—she looked but did not touch. Yet, even Coleen couldn’t help but notice the curvy figure of Miss Ivona Czenko. The young ballerina stood shoulder high to Buckman, and her long blond hair flowed easily over her pert breasts.
* * *
“I would love to see a holo of your performance!”
Draco, the lead stagehand, had invited Coleen to view the ballet on his imager. As they sat in the common room with four of the dancers and two of the ship’s crew he offered her a glass of wine and some cheese. The dancers watched the holo too, eager to point out their achievements in the art. The other crew members looked around; when they noticed Buckman and the cute blond were absent, they gave each other a short chuckle.
The performance was dazzling. It amazed Coleen to see the things they could do. “Was this done in normal gravity?”
“Da, we have performed in less but is harder. Especially when low ceiling.” the short dark-haired girl answered as her holo image was lifted by a brawny blond man. Then Coleen saw Ivona enter the virtual stage.
She was truly amazing, a joy to watch. Her leaps were impossibly high and her body so flexible she appeared to be made of light and air. Coleen was dazzled by her ability and looked around to give the young lady a compliment. “Hey, where is Ivona?”
Nobody answered her, and they began to look away. Coleen repeated her question, “I said: where’d Ivona go? She should be watching this too. She spent all day telling me what a great ballerina she is. Why isn’t she here?”
All remained silent for a moment and then came the excuses, “I think she has headache,” and “Yes, she gets very bad headaches,” and “I think she went to bed.” At the mention of bed, everyone grew quiet again.
Coleen got up and marched to her captain’s stateroom. She opened the door, switched on the lights, and saw a young dancer; the brawny blond man who’d lifted up the short, dark-haired girl was now giving Buckman another kind of amazing performance.
“Hey, girl! Ever heard of knocking?” Buckman was, as usual, not a picture of class and sensitivity. As for the blond female ballerina? It turned out that Miss Ivona Czenko was in her bed with a headache after all.
Go figure.
Later, with pants on, Buckman tried to set things straight. “We ain’t married, girl. I never made you any promises. You know, I’m a man...we have needs. It was just a thing. Hey, you know you’re special. You wanted to see the stars, and that’s what you’re doing. What’s the name of that constellation you’re always talking about? The one with the hunter.”
“It’s Orion, dumbass. And no, you never made me any promises, but I thought you understood. I introduced you to my father for Christ’s sake! Don’t you get it? I don’t screw around on you, and you shouldn’t screw around on me.”
“Hey, girl! Listen, I’m free. My life is mine and nobody else’s! I told you that before.” She knew he did and now she knew what he meant by it.
She still slept in his stateroom because that’s where all her things were. Sometimes they had sex, but it was no longer making love. Now it was just screwing, and there was no warmth after the need had moved on. She continued to arrange cargoes and manage the ship’s books, and when she finished her work, she’d go to the bridge and look out the canopy at the stars. They were still beautiful to her, but they were also cold.
* * *
“Okay, I got us a regular run from Tarkan to Rama starting in April and a delivery of bots to Isis, but I’m still looking for a cargo from Isis. We don’t want to leave there with nothing, but there are no goods on the broker’s manifest for our timeframe.” Captain Buckman listened to her as he had for weeks now. He seemed to be getting tired of listening and obviously preferred talking. The planet Isis must have given him an idea.
“Girl, I think I can get us a cargo at Isis. I did some business there the last time I was in the Proxima system. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
She heard him, and she worried. But, after rechecking the official brokering, she found no better ideas. So she shrugged and let him go with it.
***
The Starstrider descended through a thick mist and landed in Central City Starport. It was another hot and humid day. Three public protectors, wearing their steel blue uniforms and dour expressions, greeted them. Armed with gauss pistols and scanners, they comprised the welcoming committee of the dictatorship.
“Welcome to Isis. I am Senior Protector Johnson of the Customs Force. Who is your captain?” Buckman waved. Unimpressed the official went on, “I need to see the manifest.”
Chris Buckman swaggered up to the official and presented the manifest that Coleen had prepared. Johnson studied the document for longer than should have been necessary before speaking, “Captain, I need you to open your cargo bays. My men will search your ship for contraband. Before that happens, do you have anything you wish to tell me that may present a problem?”
“No, buddy, your guys are gonna find everything just as it says on that sim-paper. Now can you recommend a good bar for me and my crew while we wait?” The protector’s frown deepened.
“First, you must report to the immigration clinic. Everyone visiting must have a brief examination. Once the med-techs complete a few routine checks, you are free to
go where you wish.” He gave them a card with directions to the clinic. Then, with a grudging finger, Johnson also pointed them to the small starport saloon.
From the window of the bar, Coleen watched as the lawmen crawled all over her ship. An ugly two-dimensional portrait of Dr. Apple stroking his goatee was prominently displayed above their booth, and looking around she could tell that all the patrons of the bar were sovereign citizens by the standard white national dress they wore.
She also noticed some graffiti scratched into her table —a little cartoon character with a big nose leaning over a wall. The phrase “Kilroy was here” was scribed below it.
The search took three hours, and it discovered nothing that might raise the concerns of Isis authorities. This was of course not a surprise to Coleen. By this point in her merchant spacer career, she knew every widget and doo-dad onboard Starstrider right down to Captain Buckman’s sports card collection. So, with the formality of customs out of the way, she looked forward to a short vacation on an alien world.
The crew of Starstrider were planning to spend two days in Central City, and then leave for Tortuga with Buckman’s mysterious cargo. Coleen also looked forward to that trip, because Tortuga would be the first planet outside the Confederation’s boarders she’d be visiting. But while still on Isis, she thought the time could be well-spent sightseeing. Central City famously featured numerous public gardens, and she persuaded her shipmates to visit them with her.
The flowers of Isis were renowned throughout known space, especially the rainbow-colored Isis rose. While walking the gardens, a ball sailed around a hedge just ahead of Coleen and Buckman. She bent to pick it up as it rolled to her feet, and looking up; she saw a child staring her in the face. He was maybe four years old, dressed all in white with his finger in his mouth.
“It’s all right, Christian. I’m sure the lady will give you your ball.” The child’s mother had just rounded the hedge.
Coleen smiled. She liked children but knew Buckman wasn’t the reproducing type. The little boy looked so soft and innocent. She wanted so badly to see him smile, and that, of course, was easy to arrange.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” she said as she held out the ball. The boy did smile, big and wide and took it from her in a lighting snatch.
He ran to his mother who waved at Coleen saying, “Enjoy the tour. The flowers are perfect this time of year.”
She smiled and waved. Buckman grunted.
Coleen did enjoy the tour, but she had a nagging in the back of her mind. She still had no idea what Buckman’s mysterious cargo was, and it was starting to annoy her. Of course, she asked him a few times about it, but he just smiled and said, “You’re not the only one on this ship with a knack for business, girl.”
His smile was warm, but not genuine.
The time to depart Isis came too quickly upon her. And Coleen found herself working on the docking pad, making final checks as usual before a launch. As she unclasped the aft shackles on Starstrider’s landing gear, a work gang of mutant men pushed four carts onto the pad. Dressed in plain brown coveralls with their spotted skin and bald heads, no one would mistake them for the upper class on a rock like Isis. Mutants were the distant descendants of plague victims and thus doomed to the lower class in this society.
The mutants pushed the carts up toward the gangway and stopped without saying a word. The captain and crew of the Starstrider were on board doing pre-flight checks. Coleen got out her hand comp and selected the comm app. “Chris, is this the cargo you were expecting?”
“Uh, kind of busy, girl. What was that?” She heard the clicking of switches in the background as he talked.
“I have four carts on the pad with blue and green logos. Is this the cargo you were expecting?”
“Uh, give me a sec,” Buckman’s face appeared out the bridge’s canopy. When he spotted the carts, he smiled. “Yes! That’s it, just push ‘em in the port cargo bay and we’re out of here.”
Coleen examined the mysterious carts, concerned with what she couldn't find. “Chris, there’s no manifest. What kind of crap is this?” It was so like Buckman to screw up the paperwork. Without a manifest, they could be fined at any civilized Confederation port.
Buckman’s voice lost its calm. “Just get the carts on the ship, girl. We can worry about crossing the I’s and dotting the T’s when we’re in space.”
All she could do was grab the handles and start pushing a cart toward the open bay door. Hearing the roar and feeling the hot wind from the engines told her that the countdown to lift off had already begun. Another three minutes and she’d be aboard and Starstrider space born.
She had gotten two carts inside and was going for the third when she heard a harsh voice.
“Halt! Do not move! Put your hands in the air! Do it now!” Protector Johnson shouted. He appeared, suddenly to her right, and held his gauss pistol level to her head. Eight other steel-blue-clad protectors flanked him, and none of them seemed in a good mood. “Step away from the cart, slowly! Now get on the ground.”
As Coleen did exactly what Johnson said as his men rushed the Starstrider. One of them just got onboard before the gangway snapped shut and the ship lifted off. Then, as the freighter oriented itself above the docking pad, the lone public protector got off the ship. He fell from one hundred meters up and hit the ground with a sickening smack, but it wasn’t the fall that killed him. There was a laser burn in his chest.
Then, gliding smoothly on its anti-grav propulsion, Starstrider seemed to hum as it vanished upward into the mist. Coleen didn’t get a chance to look at her vanishing home for long, however. She was pushed face down on the docking pad while hand bindings were affixed to her wrists.
“You are under arrest! Do not resist. Obey all commands. Do you understand?”
* * *
Isis’s unique biosphere produces some of the most valuable plants known to medical science, and the drugs made from the harvests have extended human life by an average of ten solar years throughout the Confederation. Also by using underpaid mutant labor, the Beta9 plant is extremely cheap to harvest. However, the Regime’s export tax marks up the product by one hundred and fifty percent—and it’s a regime that takes tax evasion very seriously. Naturally, the carts Coleen had pushed onto the pad were stuffed full of that lovely Beta9, over five hundred kilos of it in each as a matter of fact.
There was no trial, not on Isis. Coleen O’Hara’s case was given due consideration when the magistrate read Senior Protector Johnson’s report. Apparently, there weren’t any spelling errors, and the commas were all correctly placed.
The magistrate could have given Coleen ten years of hard labor for smuggling. That was, after all, the maximum sentence under Isis law, and if she’d been one of the planet’s mutants that is precisely what she would have received. However, the magistrate was probably aware how the Regime’s reputation suffered in the interstellar community. Isis was growing to be seen by the other member states of the Confederation as a pariah because as other governments were expanding civil rights, Isis contracted them.
However, despite the pressure from Coleen’s member state on Earth, a public protector had died during her arrest, and the magistrate surely needed to show his own people that justice would be served. Thus, a compromise sentence of six months hard labor was imposed.
The good news being six months as Isis rotates around its Alpha Centauri is only five point two months by Earth reckoning. That was the only good news Coleen heard that day.
* * *
They processed her in a small room with bright white light emanating from everywhere.
“Take off your clothes.”
Coleen glared at the correctional protector, but the gal in the steel blue uniform simply repeated her command in a bland tone. “Take off your clothes.”
“I’d rather not. Perhaps instead…”
“Look, convict, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got you and fourteen other inmates to search and dress out before the transport
leaves,” she said as she folded her arms. “Now, let’s not be dainty about this and get it over with, ay?”
Coleen complied, dropping her dignity into a small brown box with her name and legal papers affixed to the lid. Mechanically, the correctional officer ordered her to lift her breasts and then to turn around, bend over, and cough.
“Why do I have to cough?” she asked.
“Just shut up and do it, convict. And after you do, if I see anything up there that ain’t natural we may have a more uncomfortable search back in the clinic to go through.”
She coughed, revealing her most personal space contained no contraband after all.
“Okay, follow me.”
She did as she was told, following the officer to a small stall where she got an anti-bacterial shower. Now, adding cold and wet to her discomfort list, she was taken to a window marked “Clothing Issue” where a bored official presented her with a yellow jumpsuit with adjustable string ties instead of buttons or zippers.
“Don’t worry convict,” the protector soothed, “everybody looks like shit in those things. Now, here’s your socks and shoes. Sit on that bench and put ‘em on.”
The metal bench was located below an air duct, and as she laced up the plastic shoes, the cold air blew her wet hair in her face. She wondered if the bench had been put under the vent on purpose but eventually decided that indifference over malice dictated much of her new environment. And weirdly, that thought proved to be less than comforting as malice would at least convey that somebody gave a damn about her.
“Now, stay put, and lift up your right leg.”
“What?”
“Look, snowflake, this ain’t brain surgery. Sit still and stick out your leg so I can put this shackle on your ankle.”
Coleen obeyed and was rewarded with the gift of what the convicts called a “Shock Shackle”. This nasty little tamper-proof device couldn’t be removed. Worst yet, at the push of a button from a correctional protector’s controller, the shackle would zap her into unconsciousness. The protector then presented her with what would become the total of her worldly goods for the length of her sentence.
Star Runners Page 12
