by Ward Wagher
“Very good. Helmsman, signal Engineering we are done with engines.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Exec, set the station-keeping watch.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Franklin rose slowly from the chair. He glanced at the time displays along the lower edge of the main view screen. It was 02:00 ship’s time and 09:00 at Braxton Starport on the planet. “Exec, I’ll be in my cabin. I need to make some calls to the surface. Do you have the planning session set up?”
“Yes, Skipper, anytime you are ready.”
“Okay. Let’s shoot for 03:00. I apologize for keeping everyone up, but I want to be ready in case things come together quickly. You have the conn”
“Aye, aye, Skipper. The Exec has the conn.”
For earth-dwelling troglodytes the concept of times and seasons among the planets in the sphere of human expansion are mysteries. Even seasoned star travelers sometimes have trouble adjusting between ship’s time and the time of day at the particular location where they land on a planet. It gets worse because of the variances in the length of day among the worlds settled by humankind.
In practice, the variations among habitable planets do not seem so great. Within the liquid water zone around a star, it is rare to find a planet with a rotation period outside of a range of twenty-two to twenty-seven hours. Among the quirks, however, of terrestrial animal life forms (of which man is a member), is an innate inability to adapt to variations as little as one-half hour in the length of the day.
While these creatures can tolerate an amazing climatic diversity and survive improbable environmental situations, the diurnal cycle tends to leave people and animals in a continuous state of fatigue, slight confusion, ill temper, or any combination of the above. Humans actually did better where the differences were greater. On planets with an extremely short or long day, people settled into the twenty-four hour cycle of the home world of Terra and basically ignored the planetary day.
So there were noticeable yawns and stretches as the ship’s department heads met in the Wardroom at 03:00.
“Sorry to stretch your day into two,” Franklin said as he walked into the room and laid his comp-term at the head of the table. “Braxton is about seven hours ahead of us and I wanted to move on the start of the business day there.”
“That’s why they pay us the big deer,” Louie said.
“Bucks, Louie,” Ensign Chaplin corrected.
“That too.”
“Okay, we’ll have three teams working today,” Franklin said. “Lieutenant Simmons will be with me, and we’ll be working on the weapons procurement and intelligence. Lieutenant Locke will remain on board, but work on getting bunkerage. Lieutenant Foxworth will take a team down to procure supplies, including a new vocoder for Louie.”
“Do you have the grocery list, Lieutenant?” Daphne asked.
“Yes, Exec. This will top off what we used the past month, plus what we missed on the initial loadout.”
Franklin glanced over at Daphne who winced.
“Lieutenant Foxworth is a much better quartermaster than I,” she said. “I’m glad we have her along.”
Franklin nodded. “Okay. When does the shuttle launch?”
“Fifteen minutes, Skipper,” Daphne said.
“Very good. If no one has anything else, we can adjourn.”
# # #
After a quick ride down to the surface in the ship’s elderly combat shuttle, Franklin and Simmons walked across the hot dusty tarmac of the Braxton Starport. Lari Chaplin, Signe Foxworth and Louie followed. It was a close analogue to Earth; the gravity was 1.05 Earth standard. It orbited Vance at slightly less than one A.U. On the whole it was slightly warmer than Earth. While it is dangerous to generalize about a planetary environment based upon a single region, Harcourt's World was by and large a dry planet. Oceans covered only about 30% of the planetary surface, and most of the land was dry and dusty. Compared to some of the marginal planets on which human feet trod, though, it was paradise.
Braxton was the largest city on Harcourt’s World. The bulk of the manufacturing for the planet was done here and the one hundred thousand inhabitants were mostly employed in the factories spotted around the area.
Because the manufacturing infrastructure provided a decent income to the planet from exports, the citizens of Harcourt had invested in a network of pipelines to pump fresh water around the planet from the polar ice caps. Over the previous decade the resulting irrigation had made the planet self-sufficient in food stuffs, and allowed the development of several very profitable resorts. In spite of a planetary population of less than twenty million, Harcourt's World was on its way to becoming wealthy.
The fixed base operator was a familiar face. Harcourt's World had been a regular stop during the five Earth years the Nymans had managed the Forsythia, and Kingston Kennerley owned a Fixed Base Operation at the Braxton Starport. Franklin had been along with his parents on several of those trips. The first trip through Wendy, Franklin’s mother, mistook him for a beggar, or perhaps a janitor. Kennerley was a wealthy businessman on Harcourt’s World, but his worn, rumpled clothes and perpetual three day beard belied his influence.
"A ship's captain now, Master Franklin," Kennerley said. "You've come up in the universe. Last I heard, you was in the Navy."
"Admiral Krause drafted me to take over my Dad’s job on Hepplewhite.”
Kennerley stopped shuffling behind his counter and looked up at Franklin. “And where might your father be?”
“You haven’t heard about this have you?”
Kennerley shook his head. “Heard about what?”
Franklin sighed. “Krause asked my father to move on. This was after my mother was killed.”
“Oh… my! How did that happen.”
“A long story, Mr. Kennerley. Long and tawdry. Let’s just say that Dad settled matters and got sent along his merry way for his sins. I was the compromise choice to run the Margraviate.”
“I am very sorry to hear about your mother, Master Franklin. She was special. Everyone loved her.”
“Thanks. Dad took it pretty hard. I hope he gets his balance back.”
“They were very close,” Kennerley said. “I noticed that.”
“Well,” Franklin took a deep breath, “We’re here on business. I thought we’d rent a couple of ground cars, Kingston. I have some places to visit, plus whatever this crew needs to do.”
Kennerley carefully opened a cabinet and lifted two key tabs off the hook. “Here you go; the light blue Rancher sedan and the green vanlet. I’ll get the servicing started on the shuttle.”
“Thanks, Kingston. It may be well into the evening when we return. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I sleep here about half the time anyway. Somebody will be here. I hope you have a profitable day.”
“I don’t know how he does it,” Franklin said to Simmons as they walked out to the ground cars.
“What’s that?”
“The man’s a complete wreck and yet he maintains an impeccable operation. You go back into the shop area and you could eat off the floor.” He slid the key tab into the dash and the vehicle came to life. “And notice how clean the car is.”
“Where are we going, Skipper?” Lieutenant Simmons asked, as they left the Braxton Starport. Traffic was light along the dusty, windblown highway.
“We’re going to talk to a friend of Dad’s. Dad said this guy was resourceful. I’m hopeful of getting a line on some missiles for the Canopus. And financing for them.”
“And I’m just along for ride, Skipper?”
“You’re the baloney repellent.”
“Sir?”
Franklin looked over as he steered the groundcar.
“I think I know weaponry pretty well, but I’m sure you do too. If something is not kosher and I don’t catch it, then I have to count on you.”
“Gotcha, Skipper.” Simmons paused for a moment. “I feel like I should warn you that I am the most credulous perso
n in the crew.”
“I’ve heard something about that, Mr. Simmons,” Franklin smiled. “Your particular talent in that area may come in handy.”
Simmons looked at Franklin with his mouth hanging open. “What are you tying to say, Sir?”
“Just follow my lead, Mr. Simmons.”
“Aye, aye, Sir… I think.”
Franklin laughed.
They parked the groundcar in the street in front of 4096 Perry Road. The building, a large four story office building had no markings other than a large “4096” on the side.
“This is the place, Mr. Simmons,” Franklin said as he opened the door. “Please don’t say anything unless you are spoken to.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” Simmons said as he got out of the car.
The two men walked into the lobby. Franklin marched up to a guard sitting at a desk in the center of the hall.
“Franklin Nyman to see Charles Steelmaker.”
The guard looked carefully at both men for fifteen seconds. “May I see some ID, Sirs?”
Franklin nodded and pulled a card from his pocket and laid it in front of the guard. He turned to Simmons. “Your Naval ID, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” Simmons.
The guard looked at the two ID cards carefully, and then peered up at the two officers.
“Is this all?”
“Is this all, what?” Frank said. “Those are Merchant League Naval IDs. They are as good as diplomatic passports, and twice as hard to forge. You’ve got the equipment to read them, I assume?” He placed his hands on the edge of the counter top and leaned forward towards the guard.
“Yes, of course. But you can’t be too careful these days.”
“Indeed you cannot, Officer. Now check the cards and let Mr. Steelmaker know we have arrived.”
The guard stared at Franklin for a few moments and then visibly wilted. “Of course, Sir.”
He slid each card into a scanner and then looked at his display. He typed a couple of things and then handed the cards back to the officers. “Go to elevator three. Your card will open the door. You will be taken to the fourth floor. Someone will meet you there.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Franklin said. “Come on, Simmons.”
Simmons spoke as they stood in the elevator. “I wish I could intimidate people like you do, Sir.”
“Oh, you do. Ensign Kane nearly wets his pants anytime you glare at him.”
“Surely not.”
“Believe it Simmons. You have the gift.”
Simmons quickly turned to the front as the elevator doors opened. A crooked grin crept involuntarily across Franklin’s face, and swiftly disappeared again. Simmons’ reputation for credulity was well earned.
They were met at the elevator door by a young, androgynous man, who silently turned and motioned for them to follow. The hallway opened into offices along the path they followed. The décor was Spartan, but clean. The painted walls were unrelieved by artwork or pictures. The anonymity gave no clue as to the type of business conducted on this floor, in this building. Simmons looked around curiously while Franklin stared straight ahead as they followed their guide.
“You’ve been here before?” Simmons asked.
“Yes. They don’t like extraneous conversation here.”
Simmons clamped his mouth shut again at the implied rebuke. Franklin shot him a slight corner-of-the-mouth grin to remove the sting. “Pay attention and watch the master at work.”
Once he was assured the captain was looking the other way, Simmons rolled his eyes.
“I saw that, Simmons.”
The guide stopped in front of a door with the marking 4C on a plaque mounted on the wall beside it. He knocked twice and opened the door.
“Franklin Nyman and Gabriel Simmons, Sir.” The guide stepped aside to allow Franklin and the Tac Officer to enter. He stepped back outside the office and closed the door.
“Grab a chair,” the man sitting behind the nondescript desk said. “I’m too old to have the energy to jump up every time somebody walks through the door.”
Franklin studied the elderly man as they slipped into the wooden, straight-backed chairs across from the desk. The wispy, uncut, white hair waved ethereally over a wizened, cadaverous old man, whose skin seemed to be one large age spot.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see us today, Sir,” Franklin said.
The man leaned back in his chair and cradled his chin with his left hand. He rubbed the skin between his upper lip and nose with his index finger, as he studied Franklin.
“You don’t seem to favor one parent over the other, it seems. Tell me, young Nyman, why should I treat you any differently from everyone else who comes in here with their hand out?”
“It depends on how you treat everyone else, Sir.”
The old man barked a single sharp laugh. “That’s definitely Frank. Tell me, Franklin, who’s your cohort here?”
Franklin raised an eyebrow as he looked over at Simmons. “This is Lieutenant Gabriel Simmons, my Tactical Officer. Simmons, this is Mr. Charles Steelmaker.”
“Glad to meet you, Sir,” Simmons said, trying to inject as much sincerity in his voice as possible.
“No you’re not. You are simply humoring your boss, whom you have yet to decide whether to completely trust or not. His decision to visit a half-crazed old man isn’t helping your confidence either.”
Simmons had been resting his hands in his lap. He opened them palm up, but said nothing.
“Nothing to say, Simmons?” He stared back at Steelmaker, and could not tell if the glint in the old man’s eye was malicious glee or simple good humor.
“The Skipper told me to keep my mouth shut unless I could contribute to the conversation.”
The resulting smile on Steelmaker’s face looked ghoulish, but the laughter seemed genuine. “You are not the complete fool then, Mr. Simmons. Lieutenants, like children, are often better to be seen and not heard. You are waiting to see if young Franklin here is like his father and rushes in where angels fear to tread.”
“Are you suggesting my father is a fool?” Franklin said.
Steelmaker stared at Franklin again. “No. Don’t read into what I am saying. I have done business with your father for thirty years. He is nobody’s fool – otherwise I would never give him the time of day.”
“Then what were you suggesting, Sir?”
The old man cocked his head as he gazed at his guests. “I am simply trying to get the measure of the man who calls himself the son of an old friend. You have your father’s temper. You also have some of his impetuousness – it’s obvious. You marched in here ready to impose on my friendship with your father.”
Franklin stood up. Simmons hesitated a moment and then stood up as well.
“I apologize for wasting your valuable time,” Franklin said. “Since you obviously don’t have much of it left, I don’t want to steal from you that last opportunity to make your employees’ life a living hell…”
“Oh, sit down Franklin!” Steelmaker was speaking with asperity now. “You are just as thin-skinned as Frank. He couldn’t take a joke either. But, you are right. I don’t have the time left to run off any more friends. Sit down.”
Franklin eased back into the chair, but continued to glare at Steelmaker.
“Your father is one of the sharpest operators I know. Probably the smartest thing he ever did was marry Wendy. The two of them together are unbeatable. Tell me: did you inherit any of your mother’s sterling qualities?”
“My mother is dead.”
“What?” Steelmaker was now intently focused on Franklin. “What did you say?”
“Mom is dead. Assassinated with a poison dart on Hepplewhite six months ago. I gather you hadn’t heard?”
“Good God, man, what happened? No, I had not heard this.”
“My parents tangled with a deranged Duke and came in second place. You never saw such a screwed up mess.”
“And what happened to the Duke?”
<
br /> “He came in last place.”
“That does not surprise me,” Steelmaker said. “Your father could be the most ruthless man in the universe if he perceived a threat to Wendy. I am just so sorry to hear about this. Your father is a friend, but Wendy was like a daughter to me.” He shook his head. “And where is your father now?”
“As I said, it’s a screwed up mess. The Navy came in to try to sort things out.”
“Krause?”
“Yes. Admiral Krause. He and Dad cut a deal. I got the Margraviate of Montora. Dad went out to Sarah’s Star.”
“Willard Krause is that rare individual I have never been able to figure out. I just about convince myself he is one of the great statesmen of the age when he does something that confirms his roots as a plutocrat.”
“I think he’s in bed with Carlo Roma. The dead duke was Roma’s brother.”
“Okay, the pieces are coming together. I’m surprised Roma didn’t have your father killed on general principles. He really loved his brother.”
“The duke would have been dead within months anyway. He was deranged and dying. I think Dad was able to communicate to Carlo some home truths. And if it came down to it, I think Dad would have won that little urination contest, if it came to it.”
“Likely so. I still can’t believe it.” Steelmaker stopped and looked at Franklin. “Okay, your point about the time I have left was crude, but the point was taken. What do you want?”
“The Navy transferred the destroyer Canopus to Hepplewhite. So, technically, she is part of the Hepplewhite Space Navy. She’s in good shape, but I need a missile load-out. We had a pirate raid and our Prime Minister and his wife were kidnapped. I’m going pirate hunting.”
Steelmaker was back to rubbing his index finger under his nose. “The Navy audits my production, you know. Those missiles are serialized. That is assuming you have the money, what do you think I can do about it?”
“Dad told me once that you have some influence with Blind Trust Armaments. And BTA missiles tend to show up among mercenaries and system defense navies out here, well, they’re not uncommon.”
“And your father is bankrolling you, I assume?”
Franklin snorted. “No, he most assuredly is not. I’m doing this on my own Centauran. Dad invested most of his ready cash into the Margraviate. If I cannot extract some cash from Carlo Roma – the Duchy doesn’t have any – I’ll simply have to finance it myself out of the Montoran cash flow.”
