She narrowed her eyes at me and swallowed. “Skipper? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, not at all. You’ll need to come with me, or have you given up on the bodyguard thing?”
She rolled her eyes and growled her exasperation. “No, sar.” She gave special emphasis to the ‘sar’ as if it meant something more like ‘idiot’ which it probably did in that context. “The hair. What is it? White paint? Blue?”
I cocked my head and squinted. “A little of both, I think.”
“I hope the showers work, sar.”
“Me, too, Ms. Arellone. Me, too.”
She stuffed the last corner of sandwich into her mouth and washed it down with coffee. “You finish eating, Skipper, and I’ll try the crew head. Civvies for this one, right?”
“Yes, Ms. Arellone. That’s what he said in the note.”
“Then you better go pick out what you’re going to wear while I get cleaned up, sar. Nobody’s going to pay much attention to me, but you won’t want to look rumpled for the auspicious moment.” I could hear her chuckling all the way down the passage.
She did have a point and both of my grav trunks were on the main deck. I followed her example by finishing my sandwich in two overly large bites, washing it down with coffee, and stacking my mug in the sink before trotting down the ladder. The trunks were still parked just inside the lock, and I eyed the pile of mattresses and linens. I wondered what Ms. Arellone would use for a towel given that a small bale of terrycloth lay intact where the chandlery men had unloaded it. We’d spent a few ticks stocking the heads with soaps, depilatory, toothpaste, and paper as soon as the shipment had arrived from the chandlery, but in our haste to get painting, we hadn’t unpacked the linens.
I grinned as I dug into the trunk containing my civvies, quickly assembling slacks, shirt, and jacket into a more or less cogent whole. I pulled a pair of the new shoes out of the pocket on the side and called it good.
Remembering to pull a towel from the bale, I took shirt, slacks, skivvies, and shoes back to the cabin where the smell of fresh paint reminded me to be careful with my clean clothes. I looked around for someplace to lay them out without notable success.
I stood there for a moment, wondering how long it would be before we’d get to the point where every time we tried to do something, there weren’t two obstacles I hadn’t considered in the way. Sighing, I eased my way back out of the cabin and made my way down the passage to the crew’s head. I could hear the water running in the starboard side so I took the port and was glad we had spent the time to clean, but had been too busy to paint. It looked a bit rough around the edges but I didn’t need to worry about paint stains on my trousers.
In half a stan I’d managed to get myself presentable, although after the sumptuous living in the hotel with hot and cold running everything, the ship felt rather makeshift. It didn’t help that the towel bar fell out of its brackets when I pulled on the towel after my shower.
I grabbed my necessities from the pockets of my shipsuit and slipped my tablet out of its holster. As I headed back down the ladder to fetch my jacket, the tablet bipped and I opened another note from Mr. Simpson. “Minor hitch. Need to see you soonest. Bring your wallet.”
I slipped on my jacket, stowed the tablet in the inside pocket, and shouted up the ladder. “Ms. Arellone. We got trouble. We need to move it.”
She pelted down the ladder, looking quite respectable in a sedate pants suit in dark green and a pastel green blouse. “What’s up, sar?”
“I just got a hurry-up from Mr. Simpson. He wants to see us soonest. I’m assuming that civvie-speak for ‘at your earliest convenience’. Are you ready to go?”
I saw her eyes widen slightly when I mentioned ’earliest convenience’. That was officer-speak for ‘drop what you’re doing and move it’. Rationally, it was pretty silly, but apparently it was a practice that went back centuries. Ms. Arellone took a quick survey around her person, patting various locations where I assumed she stowed items of import, including the inside of her thigh. I wondered, idly, how she’d be able to draw a blade sheathed there with her slacks on. I found my conclusion disturbing.
“If you’re done perving me, skipper, I’m ready.”
“Sorry, Ms. Arellone. Merely marveling at your forethought and ingenuity.”
She gave me a smile that I think she intended to carry a certain level of wry disapproval, but ended up looking only sad.
“Any indication as to what he needs?” she asked as she led the way across the deck and keyed the lock.
“My guess is money.”
She looked at me sharply. “I thought he was giving you money, sar.”
“I did, too, Ms. Arellone. It’s not a good sign.”
“If we’ve cleaned and painted this ship for nothing, Skipper, I’m gonna be a bit on the ticked side.”
“If we’ve cleaned and painted this ship for nothing, Ms. Arellone, I’m gonna be more than a bit on the ticked side.”
She shot me a glance as she led the way out onto the cold maintenance docks.
The vehemence in my voice surprised me. As the lock swung down and sealed, I marveled at how attached I’d already become to that hunk of polymer and steel. I was not even mine yet, and I was already being protective.
“Sar?” Ms. Arellone’s voice broke me from the reverie. “Ready?”
“Let’s go, Ms. Arellone.”
She gave me a glance, but didn’t speak again as we made our way to the offices of Larks, Simpson, and Greene.
When we stepped into the office, the receptionist nodded in recognition. “Captain, he’s waiting for you next door.” He held out a hand indicating a discrete door to the side.
I nodded my thanks, and Ms. Arellone led the way through the door. It opened on a small auditorium with a podium on a long table standing in front of a large backdrop emblazoned with the Larks, Simpson, and Greene logo. Mr. Simpson sat at one end of the table scowling at his tablet but looked up when we entered.
“Ah, Captain. Thank you for coming so soon.” His eyes went to Ms. Arellone who stepped back discretely to stand beside the door. “And the redoubtable Ms. Arellone, is it?” He smiled and nodded at her which did not lessen her obvious discomfort at being recognized by a man she didn’t know.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Simpson,” she murmured.
He nodded once more to her and then beckoned me to the table with an open hand. “The press will be here soon, my boy. We have a problem that needs resolving quickly before they do.” He resumed his seat and nodded to the chair next to him.
I took the offered chair and tried not to tense up in anticipation. My mind kept skipping from disaster to disaster in spite of my attempts to contain it.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Mr. Simpson sat up a little straighter and turned to look at me with a small smile. “Money makes many things possible, my boy,” he started softly. “Mostly it makes people stupid.”
I felt my eyebrows flit up in surprise at his offhand, even bitter, comment.
He snickered. “Don’t be surprised. You’ll notice it yourself soon enough, I wager.” He turned back to his tablet and slid it over the draped table for me to see. “The problem is Roger Wentworth has backed out of the deal, leaving you a bit short.”
I marveled at how he could sit and calmly say ten million credits was “a bit short.”
“Barbara Greene is fit to be tied over it, and she’s ready to nail young Larks’ hide to the hull of the next outbound freighter, but we need to deal with the fallout.”
He looked over at me, and I nodded briefly to let him know I had not gone totally catatonic. On the scale of things I normally dealt with, this was fantasy land so I was able to keep a bit of distance. It only impinged slightly on reality when I considered what we actually discussed was the ship docked four decks down.
“I’ve got a plan to get us over the hump, but it’s not pretty, and it’s potentially going to leave you exposed.”
“How exposed?”
“What’s the deal?”
“Wentworth backed out this morning, and Barbara doesn’t have another angel in her pocket to take his place. She might be able to find somebody but we’re against a filing deadline here and need to get these transactions registered in the next few ticks.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“Good lad. With only three investors, you’re only going to get thirty million. You need thirty-five to buy the ship, and probably another couple million beyond that for registry, taxes, insurances, and the like. You’re making out very well on the taxes because of the scrap status of the ship. The tax is based on selling price, not true valuation.”
I nodded but the numbers were going too fast for me to really follow.
“Bottom line, you need money now, we have no tame investors to tap—and we have a time deadline. Give me a few days, or a week? Things might be different. They might not, but tomorrow is the day the Chernyakova settles, and my sources on Breakall are telling me nothing. We do know that the Ellis will dock in a bit more than a week. When it does, and Jarvis sets foot back on station, Ms. Kingsley becomes subordinate again, and he can scotch the deal. You must be firmly in control, and preferably half way to somewhere else by the time that happens.” He looked at me, head tilted down and eyes wide.
“I won’t even pretend to understand that, Mr. Simpson, but I’ve trusted you this far. Lay on, McDuff.”
“To the battle before us then.” He turned back to the tablet. I’ve secured a note for you backed by the company. As collateral, you’ll put up one of your shares with a book value of ten million.” He leaned over to explain. “That’s the share that Wentworth is going to want to sell his soul for in about two stanyers.” He chuckled evilly before continuing. “The loan’s only eight million but it’s enough to get the ship, pay the fees, and even have a little left over for refitting. If you sign this note, we can close the deal today.”
“Wait. Kimball wants forty for the ship.” I could feel the panic rising in my chest as the numbers with significant numbers of zeroes after them began adding up.
“Oh, we talked him down to thirty-five yesterday, my boy.”
“We?”
“Yes, yes. Kirsten and I paid a visit to Kimball yesterday, and convinced him to lower his asking price to thirty-five. That would have left you with a very nice cushion to cover your startup costs. As it is? It’s tight, but adequate for your immediate needs, my boy.”
“You talked him into lowering the price by five million?”
He nodded and gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “Oh, yes. I realize that’s a lot to you, but it represents a tiny fraction of the business that Larks, Simpson and Greene does with the yard.” He said it so blandly, so calmly.
I stared at him for about ten heartbeats, unsure if I’d just heard him correctly.
He broke my reverie. “Captain, time is of the essence. Do you want to secure this note or not?”
My rational brain was still churning, but I managed to ask, “Terms of the note, sir?”
“Six percent, flat rate...” he paused and looked over at me and I knew the hook was coming. “Ninety days.”
I ran the numbers in my head. “Payback is, what? About eight and a half million in ninety days?”
He pursed his lips and waved a hand. “Eight point four eight, but close enough, yes.”
“I should get enough to cover this within a few days, right? When the Chernyakova settles?”
“In theory, but it’s bad business to count the money you haven’t banked.”
“Mr. Simpson? Is this a good deal?” I asked.
He twisted sideways in his seat, and rested one elbow on the chair back, the other on the table to lean in to me. “It’s the best deal I can give you, Captain. Things are moving very fast. There are a lot of risks, but at the moment, you’re holding all the cards.” He lowered his head to look up at me from under his bushy white brows, the light fairly snapping in his eyes. “You can pull the plug right now and walk away. You’re out only what you’ve paid out-of-pocket. We can find you a ship you can lease, and put together a different cartel. Maybe we can even work out a deal for the Jezebel with Jarvis when he gets back.” He paused and shrugged. “Not a soul would blame you if you did. These kinds of deals fall apart at the last minute every day.”
“Or...?” I asked.
“Or you can take the note, roll the dice, and go.”
“Is that flying a little too close to the sun, sir?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “You’re the one with the wings on your back, my boy. It’s your call.”
“Worst case is that in ninety days, I’m back here, broke, and looking for a job?”
He chuckled. “I think there are a lot worse cases than that, Captain.” He winked at me. “But financially, yes, I believe that’s true.”
“How much time do I have to decide?”
“We have to file by the top of the hour, or we have to kill it and re-file for tomorrow.”
I glanced at the chrono on the wall. It read 1348.
He grinned. “No pressure.”
I snickered and thumbed the tab. “Can I rename the ship when I register it?”
“Of course. What name?”
“Iris.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Nice choice. The messenger goddess. Auspicious.”
“I hope so, sir.”
His knotted fingers moved rapidly over the tablet, and twice he held it over to me to thumb. As the chrono clicked over people started filing in from the far door. Most of them seemed to know each other, and they filtered down to the front of the auditorium, their voices only quiet mumbles from where I sat. The blood pounded in my ears as I realized I had just gone eight and a half million credits in debt—a debt I was not entirely sure I could pay back.
His slapped the tablet one last time and muttered, “There.” He looked at the screen intently, waiting for something, and I glanced over just in time to see the “Accepted” notice flash up.
“Congratulations, Captain. Your company owns a ship,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-26
The press conference started off smoothly, or perhaps it only seemed so after the tense few ticks beforehand. I still was not sure I had really done the right thing but that was becoming an ongoing theme in my life. In the end only a couple of newsies showed up, and they accepted the platitudinous statements of William Simpson announcing the new shipping line, and the key role that Larks, Simpson, and Greene had in putting the deal together. I stood up and said how grateful I was for the financial support of Larks, Simpson, and Greene, and thanked my unnamed backers. I said something about looking forward to getting underway soon, and how exciting it was to start forth on the new adventure.
Mr. Simpson stood beside me, and they took digitals of us shaking hands. He presented me with a gavel representing my taking the seat as chairman of the board, so they took digitals of that.
Finally, Mr. Simpson turned to the group clustered about the front of the room and said, “Well, if there are no questions—”
“I’ve got one!” A smartly dressed woman with perfectly coiffed hair held up her recorder.
Mr. Simpson seemed surprised by the interruption but smiled at her in what I thought was a genuine smile. “Yes? You are?”
“Madeline Burgess, Diurnia News Service.”
“Oh, yes, Madeline. You did that piece on Cavanaugh’s last week, right?”
“Yes, sir.” It was her turn to look surprised.
“Nice piece. My congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’s your question, Madeline?”
She refocused her attention on me. “Captain? You picked the name Icarus for your new company?”
“I did, Ms. Burgess, yes.”
“That s
eems an odd name for a shipping company, Captain. Didn’t he crash and die?”
The rest of the newsies went silent, refocusing their recorders on me.
“Icarus is an ancient myth about a man who overstepped his bounds, Ms. Burgess. In order to escape the tyrannical rule of King Minos of Crete, his father created two pairs of wings. The wings were wonderful constructions of wax and feathers, but fragile. His father cautioned him to stay high enough above the sea that the feathers not get wet, and low enough below the sun that the heat not melt the wax. On the appointed day, they took wing and soared. Icarus, becoming enraptured with his ability to fly, soon forgot his father’s warnings, and flew higher and higher, reveling in his ability to soar like a bird. Unfortunately, he flew too high, and didn’t pay attention to what he was doing. The heat of the midday sun melted the wax holding his wings together, and he plunged into the sea and died.”
I paused and looked around at the newsies.
“I hope that by listening to good advice, and paying close attention to what I’m doing, I’ll be able to learn from the story of Icarus and soar.”
I looked down at Ms. Burgess. She had an oddly cynical smile on her face.
“That seemed like a rather practiced answer, Captain,” she said archly.
“The question wasn’t unexpected, Ms. Burgess.”
She grinned and tipped her head in acknowledgment while other newsies laughed softly behind her.
A male voice rose out of the hubbub. , “I’ve got one!” A hand waved near the back of the crowd, and a tall skinny man with a familiar face focused his recorder.
I smiled at him. “Mr. Allen, is it?”
The other reporters looked confused and he shook his head. “You’ve apparently mistaken me for someone else, Captain.”
“As you say, sir. You are?”
“Robert Parkins, Independent News.”
Mr. Simpson frowned and stood beside me. “You’re a bit off your beat, aren’t you, Bob?”
He laughed easily and shook his head. “Not necessarily. You know who you’ve got there?”
“Yes, I think I do, Bob, but what’s your question?”
He turned back to me. “You’re the fellow who found the Chernyakova, aren’t you, Captain?”
Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) Page 23
