Captain's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper)

by Nathan Lowell

  “Aye, sar.” He tapped keys for a few ticks and sat back in the chair staring. “Ten weeks, Skipper.”

  “Try Diurnia to Breakall.”

  A few more ticks and he looked at me strangely. “Ten weeks, Captain.”

  I nodded. “Those baseline numbers are not the Agamemnon. Or at least not the ideal plot for the Agamemnon. I’m not sure why, but somebody wanted every trip to be exactly ten weeks long.”

  Mr. Pall turned to me, his eyes wide. “Pirates, Captain?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Mr. Pall. It’s certainly possible. Where did this template come from, can you tell?”

  He grinned. “I’m not just the astrogator, Captain. I have access.”

  He turned back to the console, pulled up the system’s displays, and started rooting about in archives. After a few ticks he frowned, and started typing faster. I could see his eyes tracking something on the screen as folders and files opened and closed, but I didn’t interrupt him to find out what it might be. I knew he was getting close when his eyes tightened and I saw his eyeballs slow in their sockets. “Gotcha.” He turned to me. “Skipper, this template has been in place for going on twenty stanyers.”

  “Well, I like to see well established policy, Mr. Pall, but it would be good if that policy were established for some reason. Any clues as to who put that template up?”

  “It’s listed to a David Burnside, Captain.”

  “Burnside, Mr. Pall?”

  He nodded and pointed to the screen. “Right there, Skipper. Operator of record for this file was David Burnside, Second Mate.” He looked up at me as I came around to look over his shoulder. “That name mean anything to you, Skipper?”

  “Pirate, Mr. Pall. I’ve run into him before. I think if you cross reference that date against the command list you’re going to find that the skipper who put the standing order in place was Captain Leon Rossett.”

  His fingers dodged around the keyboard for a few moments. The list of Agamemnon’s captains spooled down the screen from most current, me, to Delman and on down the list. Some I recognized. Most I didn’t, until the pointer rested on the name Leon Rossett.

  “Damn, you’re good, Skipper.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pall, but that answers my question. My suspicion is that Captain Rossett wanted to have some order in his life, and Mr. Burnside supplied it.”

  “The template is wrong, Captain?” Mr. Pall sounded alarmed.

  “No, Mr. Pall. It does what that captain wanted and it’s done it very well. The wonder is that nobody since has thought to change it.”

  “Nobody wants to challenge a standing order, Captain.”

  “Yo ho ho, Mr. Pall. I think it’s time we kicked a few butts, took a few risks, and called the cat rude names.”

  “We have a cat, Captain?”

  I laughed, because I wasn’t really sure he was joking. “I’m considering it, Mr. Pall. Do me a favor, and bring up a blank plotter.”

  He clicked a few keys, but the plotter he showed was filled with the suspect template. He frowned at it. “That’s as empty as I have, Skipper.”

  “Use the console commands to erase all data, Mr. Pall.”

  He did so.

  “Now, if you’d use your fine understanding of ship’s systems, modern astrogation techniques, and any other little tricks, traps, and foibles you’ve concocted along the way to plot me a run from here to Welliver, best time, current configuration. Assume a climb out to the burleson limit with a five percent safety factor on this end and drop us outside the wall with ten percent margin on the other, Mr. Pall?”

  “I love it when you talk dirty, Captain.”

  “I do, too, Billy. Plot me a course no buccaneer would dare follow.”

  Mr. Ricks was trying not to stare openly.

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.” He was already moving. Familiarity with the screens and current practice in the tools made my earlier efforts seem almost childish. He worked for the better part of a quarter stan. Every once in a while he’d grunt and his left cheek would twitch, but other than that only his fingers and his eyeballs moved. He didn’t even jiggle a foot. Every erg of energy was focused on the task. The frenetic activity ended suddenly and he pulled his hands back from the keyboard.

  “That can’t be right.” He was talking to himself and not to me. The date on the screen was two days earlier than mine–February 2.

  “Why not, Mr. Pall?”

  He slapped his sheet against mine and they compared them, line by line. Where there was a difference, and there weren’t many, the error was mine.

  “Cross checked and verified, Mr. Pall.” I said it softly but I saw Mr. Ricks twitch.

  “I’m–speechless, Captain.”

  “Okay, so we have two experienced astrogators who believe that this date is correct. All we need now is to find the course that takes us there.”

  “Mr. Ricks? Come right five degrees and yaw plus fifty-two. Hold her because I’m going to ask for some more sail.” His fingers moved as he spoke and the engineering display showed the action matching the word. When the fields had stabilized and the new track established, he looked up at me. “Any suggestions, Captain?”

  “Two, Mr. Pall.” I smiled down at him. “File that corrected course with Diurnia traffic control and keep a weather eye peeled.”

  He grinned. “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

  There were a few more details I needed to deal with before I could find my rack, and first was a stop in Engineering. I found Chief Gerheart grinning at the sail generators and in a way that had nothing to do with little girls. She saw me enter the generator room out of the corner of her eye and turned those sapphire daggers on me. “About damn time, Captain.”

  “How are they doing, Chief?”

  “The generators? These baby’s have been dying to cut loose for a long, long time, Skipper.” Her eyes went back to the machinery and I could see her tracking back and forth in ways that I didn’t understand, watching the cues that meant something to her, but not to me. There was an almost predatory glee in her face as she watched the machines working.

  “This isn’t normal then, Chief?”

  She shook her head, never taking her eyes off the displays. “I don’t think we’ve ever had them out past forty percent, Skipper. Not in the two stanyers I’ve been aboard.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Delman always said it was standing orders. I tried to tell him it was causing them more damage to run damped down like that, but he just told me to deal with it.”

  “How much leg does the ole girl have?”

  “Lot more than we’re using, but Billy’s a good sailor and Ricks knows his helm. They’ll call for what they need. And we’re still close in. We get further out and we’ll need more sail to maintain delta-v.”

  We stood there in the belly of the beast, feeling the new tension in the hull, a new tempo in the beat of the ship’s heart. Chief Gerhart laughed–high and musical and filled with delight. “Yes, Cap’n. The girls are doing just fine and thankee, sar, fer askin’.”

  I really wanted to know but I was afraid to break the spell, and I wasn’t sure it mattered.

  She answered the unspoken. “It’s camouflage, Captain.”

  “Does it work, Chief?”

  She arched one raggedly perfect eyebrow with a sardonic grin.

  “Do you need it?”

  She stopped for a heartbeat and started to answer, but stopped again. “Good question, Captain. Can I get back to you on it?”

  “Of course, Chief. Take your time.” I stopped to take a quick look around the space. “Any issues in the other systems? The bacon fire cause any problems with the scrubbers?”

  She shook her head and gave a little sideways shrug. “Mighta knocked a day off the life cycle, but nothin’ serious, Cap. I may have to swap out a cartridge a day early but these things are massively over engineered for the size of crew we have.”

  “That’s what I thought when I saw the specs. Any idea why, Chief?”


  “Old design. They built to different standards then and I think they engineered environmental on the volume of the nacelle and not the anticipated crew load.”

  “Good point, Chief.”

  “S’my job, Cap’n.”

  “You do it well, Chief, and I’m truly grateful.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I left her running status checks on the fusactors and headed up to the galley. I needed to make sure Mr. Wyatt was okay with dinner before I took my nap. It was already pushing 1400 and I needed to lie down soon or it wouldn’t be worth it.

  I found the mess deck already shipshape and bristol fashion. Ms. Thomas and Mr. Schubert weren’t there but I found Mr. Wyatt putting the finishing rub down to the work counters. He smiled when he saw me coming. “Did I feel the generators spooling up, Captain?”

  “You did, indeed, Mr. Wyatt. We put on a bit more sail and took a new tack.”

  “Pirates, Captain?”

  “In a way. We’ll be getting into Welliver a bit earlier than expected.”

  He looked curious but didn’t press it, for which I was grateful.

  “You okay for dinner mess, Avery? I’d like to take a nap before it gets too late, but I’m asking you to do a lot that’s not in your pay grade, and I don’t wanna leave you hanging in the wind. Again.”

  “I’m fine, Skipper. Dinner’s a roast with some tubers and veg. Using one of the cans of soup, with a little help from the pantry like you showed me. Dessert’s a frozen pie tonight, but ...” He shrugged apologetically. “Gotta use ’em up.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Well, if there’s nothing you need from me, I’m gonna try to get a couple stans rest before watch.”

  “Sleep while you can, Skipper.”

  “First lessons, eh, Mr. Wyatt?”

  He chuckled and I headed out of the galley but remembered one other point. “Mr. Wyatt, you know about the ship’s pooka?”

  “The Agamemnon account, Captain? Of course. What about it?”

  “Has it ever been used?”

  “Not that I know of, Captain, but I might not be in the loop on that one.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Wyatt. I’ll look into it and let you know what I find.”

  “Get some rest, Skipper.”

  I went up to the cabin and was almost tempted by the paperwork, but I had a long evening watch ahead that I could use for some of it and I needed to be careful to sleep enough. I went into the sleeping cabin, slid the privacy screen closed, skinned down to my boxers, and slipped into the rack. I was concerned that I might not be able to fall asleep, but good training tells. Before I could even wonder too seriously if I’d be able to sleep, my tablet bipped me awake at 1700.

  Mr. Wyatt was puttering in the galley when I got down there at 1730. “Any problems, Mr. Wyatt? The roast smells marvelous!”

  He shook his head with a smile. “All ops normal, Captain. Dinner’s on course and on schedule.”

  “Good to know, Mr. Wyatt. Thanks for this.” I waved my hand at the galley and mess deck.

  He paused for a moment before speaking. “You’re welcome, Captain. It’s funny, but when all I was doing was opening cans? I hated this part.” He nodded to indicate the galley. “It just seemed like so much work.” He laughed. “Now I’m working ten times more, and enjoying it. All of it.” He shrugged. “It fills the time and–this probably sounds corny–it feels like I’m helping.”

  “You are, Avery. More than you may realize. If you need anything, make sure I know about it, okay?”

  “I will, Captain.”

  I crossed to the urns and decanted a mug before climbing the two ladders up to the bridge. I really felt like it was coming together and I regretted that feeling with every step. If experience taught me anything, it was that feeling like I had things under control was usually the first symptom of a complete and utter lack of understanding. It was a lesson I thought I had learned well, but which continued to show me new variations with every iteration.

  Chapter Thirty

  Diurnia System:

  2372-February-02

  After the initial excitement, the run out to the burleson limit settled into a comfortable rhythm. The predictable procession of watches soothed any jangled nerves and we slipped collectively into a Zen-like state. We lived in the moment. We looked to the next task, the next watch, the next meal, the next shower, the next sleep. I started using the treadmills in the workout room, surprising Mr. Hill on the rowing machine one morning by joining him. He rowed. I ran. The universe unfolded.

  Three minor excursions marked the outward leg. The Confederated Planets Joint Committee on Trade required us to exercise the crew in emergency procedures once each quarter. Spacers soon took these little alarums as just part of the routine, even though they were generally offered at some odd time on a semi random basis. The Agamemnon’s crew sailed through with nary a hitch, other than a few ticks of lost sleep for the off watch. They executed lifeboat, suit, and fire drills flawlessly and with some degree of good grace.

  Jump, on the other hand, was one of those evolutions that could break the routine on any voyage and rouse the crew from the pattern. It marked the only tangible milestone in the journey from here to there. It represented the point where we were no longer leaving here and started approaching there.

  Mr. Pall had, indeed, threaded me a needle, when he finally realized that he could hold the thread. We actually crossed the burleson limit in the middle of the morning watch on February 2, 2372. I purposefully held off calling the navigation detail until 1130. It was one of those little things that often got in the way on larger ships that ran on somebody else’s deadline. I had the luxury of delaying the jump for a convenient point in the watch cycle–where waking everybody in the ship, dragging them to duty for half a stan, before going back to the mind-numbing cycle would have the least effect.

  It promised to be a special day for all. Mr. Wyatt had been planning a celebration dinner for days and refused to tell me what was on the menu, but assured me that going to navigation stations wouldn’t effect it in the least. After we secured, there’d be a feast awaiting us on the mess deck, assuming that the jump went as predicted, of course. If it didn’t go as predicted, that would be another issue. In the twenty-odd stanyers I’d been making jumps, I think I could count on the fingers of my hands the number of times they’d gone wonky. Typically, it was a minor over or undershot. One memorable jump on the Tinker dropped us almost on top of an outgoing tanker.

  To be clear, in the universal scales of the Deep Dark, “almost on top of” consisted of within ten kilometers. We could see his running lights. It was that close. Not “we could see into the bridge windows” close. He’d been out of his lane and was more embarrassed than we were.

  There wasn’t really any way to know if there was something already in the spot we were jumping to. The probability of there being anything there was very small, but not zero. So we woke everybody and got them where we’d need them in case of emergency.

  Promptly at 1100, Ms. Thomas, Mr. Pall, and Mr. Schubert joined Mr. Hill and me on the bridge.

  As they trooped up the ladder, I stood from the watch stander’s station, logging Ms. Thomas on as I did so, then crossed to the captain’s chair. “Let’s go somewhere else, Ms. Thomas? Shall we?”

  She smiled in real amusement. She’d settled down in the weeks we’d been chasing each other around the watch stander merry-go-round, and my instincts seemed to be holding up. She gave every impression of being a first-rate first mate, and I thought she might make a good captain–if she weren’t so loud. I knew she struggled to control it, but with limited success.

  “Did you have any place in mind, Skipper?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking Welliver, Ms. Thomas?”

  She turned to Mr. Pall who was already setting up the astrogation board. “What d’ya say, Mr. Pall? Welliver work for you this morning?”

  “Yes, Ms. Thomas. I think that would be an excellent choice.”

 
“Mr. Pall agrees, Captain. Shall we?”

  “Oh, let’s. We’re already this far along. Log it up, Ms. Thomas.”

  She called the hands to navigation stations as a formality. Most of them were already in position, and Mr. Hill was probably halfway to Engineering by the time the call went out.

  We settled down and ran the checks, locked down the ship, and generally braced up as well as we could. I’d done this so many times I’d lost count, but I always got a frisson of thrill from the possibilities of what lay just a few ticks ahead.

  “Ship is green, thrice, Captain.”

  That was my cue to give the command to jump. There wasn’t a prescribed command in the manual. It was one of the curiosities of the ages. In virtually every circumstance where command and control relied on living people talking to one another, tradition and experience created a prescribed set of commands and responses. Those commands get drilled, and the responses rehearsed endlessly. Lives depended on the commands being heard, interpreted, and understood correctly as fast as human synapses allowed. Yet in this one circumstance there was only a suggested command word. Each Captain I’d served under had their own way of doing it. Some, like Captain Giggone just said, “Go.” Leon Rossett had always said, “Jump.” Fredi deGrut used to say, “Punch it!”

  I confess. I had thought more than once about what I would do when the time came. I’d spent more than a few idle moments on watch wondering what command I’d use. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to be staid and by the book or say something flamboyant and memorable. I felt like a total ninny for even considering it. Right up until the point where Ms. Thomas gave me my cue and Mr. Pall looked up from astrogation.

  The whole ship paused, waiting for me to say something.

  “Ready about, Mr. Pall. Hard a-lee.”

  He punched it and we were somewhere else.

  Ms. Thomas queried the scanners and Mr. Schubert kept us steady ahead until we could find a course. I had nothing to do, but Mr. Pall’s hands almost blurred as he cranked through the process of finding where we were, exactly.