by Dale Sale
Grey turned to the officer standing nearby, “Lt. DeWitt, what do you know about this ship and the fairy tale Johansson is telling?”
The officer keyed her tablet and said, “Jane’s Historical Fighting Ships, ancient records edition, identifies that ship as the experimental salvage tug Deliver from the Terran Expansion, specifically the Imperial Confederation,” Dewitt spouted. “It was reported lost with all hands on its shakedown cruise. That would be over 1000 years ago.”
Gus said, “A Third Generation Long-Range Salvage Tug to be specific.”
Grey was huffing now, “So, you expect me to believe you salvaged a 1000-year-old ship, by yourself, on your pension? A ship that outruns my fastest pickets, evades torpedo locks, and doesn’t show up on radar?”
“Umm, well, Sir.”
“Shut up! Take this man to the brig while I try to sort this out.”
Dewitt and the security guards marched a sullen Gus away.
“You do not have permission to board my vessel!” yelled Gus over his shoulder. Don’t know if that will work, but it’s a shot.
Aboard the ship, the three CIs discussed their situation.
HAM said, “Thank goodness the Skipper had his comm open the whole time. What shall we do?”
“NO SKIPPER, NO FLY,”
GRANNe said, “Well, of course not. Since it appears that we have gotten the Skipper into trouble, it is up to us to get him out. He has proven useful so far and may do so again.”
“But the Rules of Behavior,” said HAM “How do we get around those?”
GRANNe bent down to Ham’s level “What was the last thing the Skipper said to you before he left HAM?”
Gus’s voice issued from the little bot, “HAM, I’m counting on you and the others to use some initiative to get us out of here if this meeting goes south. I’ve got a buddy down in Lift Port. Find Fiona Patrick. She might be able to help.”
“Well, Fiona Patrick, whoever you are, I hope you are competent,” GRANNe said with a sigh.
“WANT FLY” Flight croaked dejectedly.
Chapter Four
HAM skated gracefully along Market Street in Lift Port, dodging cracks and potholes. It had been a simple matter for GRANNe to penetrate the local database and generate a set of official documents for the MCB that had brought HAM down from orbit.
He was trying to remain inconspicuous, but a skating bot drew attention anywhere. Bots didn’t wander the streets of Lift Port. Most got snatched and sold for parts.
A ragged mix of chai bars, noodle stalls, secondhand stores, and 3D print shops faced the street. Vendors were busy still repairing damage from the recent storm. They lined both sides of the street and specialized in fresh meats, veggies, imported spices, and the occasional shipment stolen off the docks. Barter was common. They eschewed e-pay to cheat the tax collectors as much as possible.
The dirty window of Fiona Patrick’s fifth story walkup office/apartment looked onto the bustling market scene below. It wasn’t designed as a walkup, but the lift had been broken since before she moved in and no one held out hope that it would ever get fixed.
Sometimes she wondered if she shouldn’t have just taken over her parent’s bed-and-breakfast back home on Nakon.
HAM knocked and as the door opened, he brightly said, “Greetings, are you Ms. Fiona Patrick, Attorney at Law? Allow me to introduce myself,” the bot said with a spin and bow. “I am Imperial Confederation General Repair and Maintenance Protocol bot service designation HAM2F347791, currently under the command of Chief Warrant Officer Guster Johansson. You may address me as HAM. My employer is in need of your assistance.”
Fiona looked down in surprise at the little bot skating in small circles on the faded hall carpet. She looked around, waiting for someone to let her in on the joke.
“Who? What?”
HAM pushed past the startled young woman and said, “Allow me to introduce my associate.” A holo-projector beam shot from one eye. The stern and straight figure of GRANNe sprang into view. The bots had decided that she was more suited to relay the gravity of the situation. HAM may have been competent, but imposing he wasn’t.
“Ms. Patrick,” GRANNe began, “Captain Johansson, whom I believe you already know, is in need of legal representation.”
“Who is Captain Johansson? I know a crusty old fisherman named Gusty Johnson. Sometimes I buy fresh fish from him down at the market, but he isn’t the captain of anything.”
HAM said, “I believe they are one and the same Miss.”
“If you will please accompany this bot to meet with Captain Johansson, he can explain the situation himself,” offered GRANNe.
Fiona Patrick narrowed her eyes as she looked over at HAM and GRANNe. The bot was in like new condition and had surprisingly navigated Lift Port’s hazards alone. The projected woman was intimidating and certainly looked official, although her uniform was unfamiliar.
Fiona hadn’t had a paying client in some time, and besides, how much trouble could old Gusty be in? Unpermitted fishing, selling without a license, drunk and disorderly? Sounded like some easy money. Patrick knew Johansson had a steady pension that she could garnish if need be. Maybe even lay a lien on this valuable bot.
“I usually ask for a retainer,” the lawyer fished, “and then there is my hourly fee, plus expenses. I am rather busy and would need to clear my schedule to take on a new client.”
GRANNe nodded at HAM. An arm extended, and he dropped three pearls into Fiona’s hand.
Patrick gasped as each perfect twenty mm sphere gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the streaked window. “Where did you get these?”
HAM said, “Oh, a hobby of mine, being submerged for several hundred years, I needed something to keep me busy.”
GRANNe stated flatly, “I trust these will cover your retainer. Please follow HAM to my location. Oh, and don’t dawdle, there is an element of urgency.” She sniffed, and the projection cut.
“Yes, Ma’am!” Fiona mock-saluted and scooped the pearls into a floor safe that opened when she triggered a hidden switch. “Lead on there, clanky!”
HAM ignored the insult and headed out the door.
Fiona locked the office door and paused at the stairs when she saw HAM roll into the broken lift.
“I shall meet you at the bottom, Miss. I don’t prefer stairs.”
Patrick laughed as she climbed down. It dawned on Patrick, as she reached the bottom, that HAM had somehow climbed five flights of stairs to the office on his stumpy skate legs. The lift door opened, and HAM skated backwards-into the lobby.
Fiona gaped and said, “That lift hasn’t worked in years!”
“You are most welcome Miss, As I previously said, I prefer to avoid stairs if possible, I find them rather undignified.” HAM said. “Consider the repair of your lift further compensation for your help. Besides, that’s what I do.” Ham clasped his hands behind him and swished down the street at a brisk rate. “Come along, make haste, Miss.”
Chapter Five
“Sir, can I talk to you about that unregistered ship?” Lt. Fredrika DeWitt was softly tapping on Capt. Grey’s office door frame.
Grey sighed and said, “What is it now, DeWitt?” He had been daydreaming about getting off this orbiting career killer.
Capt. Harrison Grey was currently exiled to Terne Station for diverting supply shipments slated for the latest Governance frontier conflict. No one really cared until some General had noticed that most of his cigars and favorite gin from Donas had failed to arrive. So, he remained stuck on “Wrong Turn Station” until he could boost his value to the Admiralty.
“Captain, I have been doing some digging on that ship we impounded.”
“Which one? You are going to have to be a little more specific, DeWitt.” Sometimes Grey thought his Executive Officer should be named Dimwitt.
Grey hadn’t been idle while posted to Terne. He had a side business skimming docking fees and seizing vessels for petty violations. They sold these to favored bidders
in a kickback scheme. At least Mitzi wasn’t nagging about money for once.
The crews of the seized ships also provided cheap labor. The inflated rates they paid for air, food, and rooms meant that most would never earn enough to pay passage off the station. Grey needed a transfer off “Wrong Turn” before growing resentment made the pot boil over.
“It’s about Bosun Johansson’s ship, that strange black one. I can’t find any record of it.”
“Hmm, what kind of ship was it again?”
“He called it an Imperial Confederation Long-Range Salvage Tug, Sir,” DeWitt said. “However, it doesn’t appear to be old; it looks brand new. Still no idea where it came from, it just appeared on a beach outside of Lift Port. We wouldn’t have even known it was there if a Fish and Game patrol hadn’t been investigating reports of an enormous fish kill in the area and called it in.”
“Is there anything of use in those files?” Grey snapped. “We already know it outran the Terne defense pickets like they were hovering. Weapons, armor, anything?”
DeWitt looked at her tablet. “Most of the Imperial Confederation records disappeared, Sir. However, if this one is anything like our Fleet tugs, it should fetch several hundred million creds at auction. Maybe more if we can find an antique collector.”
Grey licked his lips. Hmm, I’m going to have to keep my eye on DeWitt. She may not be such a dimwit after all. I don’t need her talking to the Inspector General.
“All right then, start the paperwork and impound that ship. Call it, um, operation of an unregistered fusion drive in a planetary atmosphere,” ordered Grey. “I don’t think old Gusty Johansson is going to cause us problems.”
Chapter Six
Gus slumped against the brig wall. He had finished reading through the briefing that GRANNe had given him and had done what he did best, figuring out unconventional ways to use things.
He also wanted a distraction from thinking about how he was going to get out of here. Gus had gone from minding his own business enjoying a secure, if boring, and unsatisfying retirement, to cooling his heels in the brig in record time.
And I don’t even deserve it… well, not this time. Hope HAM got my transmission, otherwise I’m gonna be here for a long time.
A security guard came to the cell and opened the door. “On your feet,” he barked.
Gus grinned. “Great, I guess I’m free to go.”
The guard just said, “Funny,” and marched him to the larger general population holding area.
The door clanged shut and Gus looked at the unhappy occupants around him. They were the usual mix of vagrants, sleeping drunks, and petty criminals.
Gus noticed a woman dozing on a bench alone, Hmm, she looks familiar.
“Well, Gunner ‘Fancy’ Nancy Stanski? Is that you?”
Nan turned to reveal a black eye and swollen jaw. “Bosun Gusty Joe, I’d recognize your wheezy windbag voice anywhere,” she said in her distinctive accent.
“What are you doing out of uniform?” asked Gus.
“I could ask same of you.”
“Well, Fleet Admin decided that I had outlived my usefulness and beached me. What about you?”
She replied, “Temper got the better of me once too often. Turns out if you send a few snotty JOs to hospital for abusing locals it goes badly for careers. Especially if one of them is an Admiral’s baby boy.”
“Too bad you are the best Jarhead I ever served with,” Gus said. “Not to mention, a fantastic person to have at my back in an unfriendly alley.”
“I remember you leaving me in several hot LZs.”
“Hey, I always came back for you! Besides, you still owe me for saving your ass on Kragus!” Gus said defensively.
“Never going to let that one go, huh? Yeah, good times,” Nan said.
“So, what are you even doing on this station?” asked Gus.
“I’m on contract to provide security for a mining group in the Ix rings. One guy gets the sniffles, and we are stuck in quarantine. That was a month ago and the fees are stacking up.”
“Sounds like Governance Admin is still SNAFU. I’m sure Grey has a profit motive too, but how did you get that shiner and end up in the brig?”
“I was in the Club trying to get some traction with Grey’s XO on lifting the miners quarantine. Things got a little out of hand. I got in a few good ones before they capped me though,” she added using the common name for the compressed-air fired stun guns favored inside spacecraft. She shook her head, “I think those capacitor pellets are getting stronger.”
Gus chided, “I think you are getting softer.”
Nan sulked for a moment. “Anyway, Gus, what’s your story? Make it long version, looks like we aren’t going anywhere soon.”
Gus filled her in on HAM, the ship, and how he had run afoul of “Hazy” Grey again.
“Don’t worry though,” he finished cheerfully. “I’ve got full faith that things are going to work out.” Yeah, my monosyllabic Flight Control, a 1400-year-old self-propelled screwdriver, and a holographic housekeeper are gonna save the day.
Chapter Seven
Fiona Patrick squirmed against the gravity couch of the MCB as they lifted to Terne Station.
“You didn’t say anything about flying. I hate flying!” She was wide eyed. “Who’s driving this thing, anyway? Where’s the pilot?” She nervously looked at the empty pilot station in the boat’s bow.
“Oh, it’s quite all right, Ms. Patrick,” HAM said assuredly. “GRANNe is a very skilled pilot.”
The holo projection of GRANNe winked on at the pilot console and she gave a wave and smile.
“Hold on, is that a holo? Take me back right now! CIs aren’t allowed to enter contracts,” Fiona protested.
GRANNe replied coolly, “Ms. Patrick, please calm down. You have been engaged by Captain Johansson, not us. If you would like to return your retainer fee, we can take you back to your ‘office.’ Such as it is.”
Patrick swallowed her reply when she remembered the three giant perfect pearls in the office safe. “I guess it won’t hurt to see how much trouble Johansson is in.”
The forward screen showed their destination. Terne Station’s two counter-rotating rings were joined by a central shaft. From this distance it looked pretty small, but Fiona knew it was over two klicks in diameter. That meant the rings only needed to spin at one rev per minute to maintain a standard gravity. She could see that construction on an inner set of rings was progressing. The Governance had decided that Terne Station needed an expansion if it was going to be the main base for annexing the Ix system.
A flurry of small cargo transports transited from the station to larger ships. A stained and hard used miner’s transport was in docking clamps at the hub. Running lights outlined a large ominous black shape in parallel orbit.
A squadron of attack craft launched from the station. The fighters maneuvered into formation and headed toward the black outline. Suddenly, six blinding fireballs erupted in the blackness as fusion engines ignited.
“Wonder what the hell is going on out there?”
“Chang! What the hell is going on out there?” thundered Grey as he entered Station Operations.
The general alarm sounded. An overwhelmed Ensign Chang stammered explanation, “Sir, I sent an impound team to Johansson’s ship. The hatches wouldn’t accept Governance override,” he said. “So, I dispatched BUGs with an impound collar. The ship pulsed an EMP that disabled the BUGs that were fitting the collar. At that point, I launched the fighters to show we weren’t fooling around.”
“Tell me they didn’t blow it up!” said Grey.
“No, Sir! As soon as the fighters cleared the hanger, Johansson’s ship ignited the main drives to escape.”
“Well, I’m assuming you caught it?”
Chang shook his head. “No Sir.”
“And why not, Ensign?
“Johansson’s ship blasted out hot enough set off all the radiation alarms.”
“Impossible, no ship has th
at much thrust! Flight Control, time to fighter intercept of escaping vessel?” Grey asked the Petty Officer at the console.
“Sir, vessel is accelerating at twenty, no thirty, wait forty standard gravities. Fighters are unable to maintain, and I’ve just lost the ship’s engine signature, visual and radar contacts.”
Grey bellowed, “Call DeWitt and get me some answers!” as he stormed out.
A transmission came across the bridge comms, “NO CAGE! I FLY!!!”
The alarms sounded in the brig.
Nan wondered aloud, “What is going on out there?”
The alarm finally silenced.
“What has that rolling scrap yard refugee done now?” Gus asked the ether.
A guard yelled from the brig door, “Johansson, your lawyer is here.”
An ashen faced Fiona Patrick entered. The slamming door made her jump.
“I hate flying and space,” she exclaimed to no one.
“Fiona am I glad to see you. You got my message. Stanski this is my lawyer Fiona Patrick. She is gonna get us out of here,” Gus said.
“If by getting your message you mean being Shanghaied by two rogue bots and nearly burned to a crisp by some star sized fireball, then yeah, I got it.”
Nan asked, “Can you tell us what is going on out there?”
“I was in a boat piloted by a phantom while being held hostage by Gus’s cheeky little bot when hell broke loose. All I know is, I saw fighters launch from the station and the pilot CI said something about Flight needing help. She disappeared and a huge fireball ignited off of the station. The little bot docked the boat after things calmed down a little and they brought me to see you.”
“Shit, shit, shit! As if I’m not in enough trouble already,” Gus said. “That fireball was probably my ship in self-defense mode escaping. I guess they do have initiative. Fiona, you gotta get us out of here.” Gus quickly filled the lawyer in on the story.
