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

by Nathan Lowell

  My rummaging about woke Ms. Arellone who had taken advantage of our port stay to get a little extra sleep.

  “Sorry, Ms. Arellone. I’m just trying to get some of these loose ends tied up.”

  She shook her head. “Not a problem, Skipper. I needed to get up anyway. Can I help?”

  I pointed to the pile of empty boxes and packing material. “If you’d bundle that up for disposal? It would save me some time.”

  “Of course, sar. Anything else happening?”

  “The cargo handlers should be here in about half a stan to clear out Dr. Leyman’s shipment. I’m going to swap out the ShipNet boards so watch out for the network to go down briefly.”

  “Okay, Skipper.” She looked at me with a raised brow. “You’re not planning on any trips ashore are you, sar?”

  “Not at the moment, no, but I’d like to grab a bit of down time—maybe explore the flea market and see if there are any hangings.” I considered. “Might not be today, but at some point, preferably in the afternoon.”

  She grinned at me. “That’s what the guys used to say back on the Agamemnon. Better deals in the afternoon.”

  That made me laugh, but also reminded me of a certain sapphire smile, and that made me sigh.

  Ms. Arellone caught both of them I think but made no comment about either. “Okay, skipper, if you’d clear the passage, I’ll get this litter cleared up.”

  “Oh, sorry, Ms. Arellone.” I grabbed the box with the system board in it and headed for the systems closet in engineering.

  As I slipped down the ladder, I caught a whiff of scrubber and frowned. “Chief? You down here?” Getting no answer, I stood the board beside the engineering console, and went to inspect the scrubber. When I opened the case, the whiff got stronger, and the filters looked like they were due for replacement. I sent a note off to the chief, asking him to replace them before we got underway. The memory of Captain Allison was still fresh. I had no intention of reliving her experience.

  As I finished sending, Ms. Maloney’s replenishment order dropped into my inbox, and I took a moment to review it. It had several new items on it including some new herbs and spices. I forwarded it to the chandlery and then sent an “all crew” notice to the ship to notify everybody that ShipNet would be secured for a few ticks.

  Unwrapping the new board brought back memories of the Lois. In hindsight, Mr. von Ickles had been a huge influence. That influence helped shape my career in systems which, in turn, pointed me to the Academy. I hoped he was doing well, and wondered if he was still sailing.

  I popped the catch on the systems closet, and soon had the old board swapped out for the new. I used the chief’s console to reboot the subsystem. By the time I got to the right screen, the hot swap routines had already tied off the loose ends, fired up ShipNet, and re-established communications with the orbital. My tablet bipped with the order confirmation from the chandlery. A few diagnostics later, and I felt confident to send an all clear to the crew.

  The klaxon went off, startling me with how loud it sounded even in engineering. Glancing at the chrono, I realized it must be the cargo handlers. I beat feet for the lock. By the time I opened the hatch into the back of the cargo bay, Ms. Arellone had already let them in and lowered the ladder to the deck. I crossed to the lock, carefully avoiding the carriers as they whizzed in and out of the hold. In less than a stan the hold was empty again. The lead cargo handler and I exchanged thumbprints for receipt and delivery documents.

  Ms. Arellone closed the big lock behind them. When she turned to me, there was a huge grin on her face. “First time I’ve seen them from deck level, Skipper. That’s impressive.”

  “It is, indeed, Ms. Arellone.” A whiff of funk reminded me that I needed to find the chief engineer, and soon .“Have you seen Chief Bailey this morning, Ms. Arellone?”

  “Yes, sar. He went ashore a few ticks before the cargo people arrived. Said something about stretching his legs a bit.”

  I pulled up my tablet, and sent him a priority message on ShipNet, attaching a return receipt request. If I were any judge of scrubbers, ours was about to have serious problems, and I didn’t want to stink up the ship before taking on passengers.

  Which reminded me of four other things that needed doing, and I sighed.

  “Problems, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked.

  “Too much to do, too little time, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Anything I can help with, sar? I’m not planning on going ashore anytime soon.”

  “Yes, there is,” I told her. “You remember the punch list of discrepancies we did during the first few days we were aboard, Ms. Arellone?”

  “I sure do, Skipper.”

  “Do me a favor? Run through that list—not all of them, just spot check maybe a dozen or so. See how many are fixed?”

  “Sure thing, Skipper. My pleasure.” She pulled out her tablet, and I flashed the combined list to her.

  As she went in search of some of the items on the list, I went into the cabin and began looking for passengers.

  Being used to freight hauling, the passenger system always seemed a bit backwards to me. I suppose it made sense, but it just felt odd. When somebody had freight to ship, they could contract with a hauler if they knew of one, or they could add their cargo to the “cargo available list” and the ships would book the cargoes they could take. It worked well from the ship side because we could fill our ships with the cargoes that fit our ships and our schedules.

  Passenger traffic got handled differently. Most passenger carriers set up regular routes, and had regular runs between and among the systems, but those were the big carriers. They had dozens of ships with passengers crammed into the hulls to generate the most revenue possible. The little carriers—like I hoped Icarus would become—carried freight and passengers on a kind of “ship for hire” basis. Most of the fast packets carried a few passengers on the side to help add to revenue without running over their mass limits. Instead of the passengers signing up on a clearinghouse, the ships with open spaces registered their sailing specifics, and waited for passengers to pick them.

  I fired up the passage clearing house on the console in my cabin and scrolled through it, familiarizing myself with how it looked, and what information the postings needed. They were not precisely free-form—each listed a destination, a sailing time, an estimated arrival date, a passenger limit, a fare price, and then a small box listing the amenities. Scanning the list it seemed that most of the packet berths were for systems that were fairly close to Ten Volt like Kazyanenko and Foxclaw, with a smattering for systems a bit further out. I saw one for Martha’s Haven and one for Diurnia with transit times around twenty days.

  That information gave me what I needed to position the Iris, but still I needed to visit the local office of the CPJCT. Over two weeks had passed since I took my test, and I had not received my steward’s endorsement. I needed that before I posted for paying passengers.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ten Volt Orbital:

  2373-January-30

  For lunch Ms. Maloney served up a pair of savory quiches with a bean salad in a tangy vinaigrette. Her crusty breads had become a staple, and even if we had no customers to appreciate it, the crew did.

  Well, to be more precise, Ms. Arellone and I did. The chief had neither returned nor, apparently, even read his messages. There were three reasons I did not expect to see Mr. Herring any time soon. He was young, male, and had credits to burn. With no watch schedule to constrain him, I suspected he would stay out until he ran out of credits—money being in shorter supply than stamina at his age.

  When we gathered for lunch, the group seemed small after nearly two weeks with the lively companionship of Andrew Leyman and the youthful exuberance of Perc Herring. I wondered at how well the chief faded into the background. When spoken to, he stood out well enough, but between times he had the knack of being nearly invisible.

  After the initial cutting and first bites of quiche, we got down to business.


  “What did you find, Ms. Arellone?” I asked.

  She swallowed the bite of quiche, and shook her head. “I checked maybe two dozen, Skipper. One had been fixed.”

  “Which one was it, Ms. Arellone?”

  “A lighting panel in engineering stores, sar.”

  I sighed but the quiche was delicious and the counter point with the crusty loaf and tangy salad struck sparks off my taste buds.

  “After lunch, I need to go to the CPJCT office here and find out what happened to my endorsement.”

  “You haven’t received it yet, Captain?” Ms. Maloney asked.

  I shook my head. “No, and they told me it would be only five to seven working days.”

  “Ah, bureaucracy,” Ms. Maloney said. “We can get gossip across the quadrant in days but official correspondence takes weeks.”

  “Gossip, Ms. Maloney?”

  She flipped open her tablet and spun it on the table so I could see a rather blurry photo of me in my civvies coming out of The Plum Blossom in the company of a stylishly dressed Ms. Maloney. The words “Playboy Flyboy Dines In Style” scrawled across the image and only partially hid her face.

  “Ouch,” Ms. Arellone said, taking in the photo. “Chris, you’ve been reduced to the unnamed.” She looked over at the older woman. “How insulting!”

  Ms. Maloney smirked. “Actually, in the story they tease with references to somebody who’s supposed to be in mourning but is really living the high-life in secret.”

  “I’m a playboy?” I asked. “How am I a playboy?”

  The two women just looked at me like I had grown another head. After sharing a look, Ms. Arellone said, “Skipper? It’s a headline. It’s not supposed to make sense.” The two of them shared a small laugh at my expense.

  Something about the photo bothered me. I couldn’t quite place it but there was something odd.

  “Do you have to deal with this all the time, Ms. Maloney?”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “Publicity? Gossip?”

  “I’ve been pretty lucky, although occasionally some newsie will take an interest in me.” She shrugged. “It’s worse when I’m on Diurnia, and there’s something going on with the company or my family. It’s been pretty quiet ever since Mother left.”

  “Oh, you get plenty of notice,” Ms. Arellone said with a sly smile. “What about that blow up with what’s his name? The art critic?”

  “Oh, Simon?” She gave her head a little shake. “Yes, well, Simon is a drama queen in his own right. Personally, I think his career was flagging so he picked a fight with me in public.”

  “I never did figure out what it was about. The newsies never actually said, did they? Something about some artist’s show you were putting on, and he thought it was some kind of put up deal?”

  “He accused me of sleeping with the artist so he’d show in my gallery.” Ms. Maloney saw my bemused look and took pity on me. “A year ago last November, I think it was...” She looked at Ms. Arellone who nodded in confirmation. “I hung a show of works by Anthonio Velasquez Romero in my gallery on Jett. It was a big show, and Romero is a big fish for an operator like me to get.” She shrugged. “Simon Aubergine is the self-appointed savior of the art world in our benighted corner of the galaxy, and every so often he goes on a tear. He thought the only way I could get Romero to do a show with me on Jett, of all places, was to sleep with him.”

  Ms. Arellone was dying to ask the obvious question, but I was proud of her for refraining. “You got a lot of attention for that. Seems like every time I looked, you were in the newsies, and being accused of sleeping with somebody.”

  Ms. Maloney made a wry face. “Yeah. That got old after a time.” She sighed and her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Still, I should probably thank Simon.”

  “Why’s that?” Ms. Arellone asked.

  “Without all his yelling about it, the show might have been a horrible failure. As it was, we sold out the entire gallery in about a month. Not just Romero’s work but everything I had. I even brought stuff out of storage, and had artists taking the shuttle up from the planet with more work to sell.” She laughed quietly. “And I managed to get the newsies quashed, when it was over. They mostly leave me alone now.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I leaked a photo of me walking with my father anonymously. Some poor gullible newsie ran it with the headline ‘Gallery Girl Likes Older Men!’” She shrugged. “I gave the article to my father and let him handle it.”

  Ms. Arellone and I both laughed, and the light dancing in Ms. Maloney’s eyes intrigued me.

  By then we’d all eaten about as much as we wanted, and by silent consensus, rose and took care of the dishes and left over food.

  “Will you be comfortable alone in the ship, Ms. Maloney?” I asked.

  She gave a little shrug. “Of course, Captain. Why not?”

  “I thought you might like to go ashore? See a little of Ten Volt?”

  “You’ve got a chore to do, Captain, and I’ve got supplies coming from the chandlery.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay here and get this taken care of, but if the offer’s still good later, maybe we can get some dinner? I wouldn’t say no to a meal I didn’t have to cook or clean up after.”

  I snorted a low laugh at her tone. “I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Maloney, and let’s plan on that.” I turned to Ms. Arellone. “You ready to guard my body, Ms. Arellone?”

  “You’re taking this much too lightly, Skipper. When you were nobody, it was one thing but you’re getting more attention now.” She sighed and shook her head. “I need just a moment to freshen up. Don’t leave without me.” She ducked out into the passage, and headed for her compartment.

  I sighed, and looked back at Ms. Maloney. “How do you deal with bodyguards?”

  She shook her head. “Not well, I confess, Captain. If DST weren’t paying for mine, I wouldn’t have one, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Why are they paying?” I asked. “I mean what are we being guarded against? This all seems so unnecessary.”

  She shrugged. “I think—probably most of the time—it is. Once you become a public figure, though, it only takes getting tied up in one hysterical mob to appreciate somebody having your back.”

  “I supposed, but wouldn’t having a friend along do as well?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, Captain, but ...” She paused, and looked at me under lowered brows. “How many friends do you have who you’d trust to watch your back right now?”

  My response must have shown in my face because she said, “Yeah. Me, too, Captain. Me, too.”

  Ms. Arellone came to the door of the galley and stopped, waiting for me to join her.

  I nodded to Ms. Maloney. “See you in a few then.”

  I followed Ms. Arellone down the ladder and off the ship, sealing the lock behind us. The chill of the docks, and the lunchtime conversation, made me to begin paying closer attention to the people around us.

  As a clipper ship captain, one gets used to a certain amount of recognition. I always said I could recognize a captain, whether he or she were in uniform or not. I hadn’t been a captain all that long, but I learned to recognize it—the flash in the eyes when you walked by a spacer. Since I mostly went around the orbital in shipsuit and showing rank, it wasn’t so surprising. What I noticed as we walked to the CPJCT office was something else. It was more than “Oh, that’s a captain.” and more like, “I know him.”

  “Do these people seem a little different to you, Ms. Arellone?”

  “A bit too familiar with your face, Skipper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so, too. I wonder if there’s been more press, sar.”

  “Well, the playboy flyboy picture was bad enough.”

  She snorted but we kept moving. In relatively few ticks we were at CPJCT, and I presented myself and my credentials to the functionary.

  “One moment, Captain. I’ll put up your records.”

  “Thank
you.”

  After a moment, she turned to me. “How can I help you, Captain Wang.”

  “I’m looking for my small craft steward endorsement. I passed the test on Welliver. They told me it would be applied to my records electronically, and I could pick up the physical copy here on arrival.”

  She looked into her terminal and frowned. Tapping a few keys, she pursed her lips and nodded. “Yes, I see the record of your exam, that you passed, and that the request went to Diurnia’s Central Registry for processing on January 13th.” She tapped a few more keys and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Captain, but they do not seem to have responded yet.” She looked over the counter at me apologetically.

  “And according to my understanding, I cannot book paying passengers on my vessel until that response comes through.”

  “That is correct, Captain. It does take a while for the forms to go through. Seven to ten days is just an estimate, and we are a long way out. If they routed it back to...” she paused to look back at the screen, “Welliver, it might have been delayed a few days.”

  “There’s no way to tell where it is in the process, or whether it might show up anytime in the next few days?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry, there isn’t, Captain. I can send a query to them but it’s likely to be three days before we get an answer back. It could catch up to you by then.” She smiled encouragingly. “It could be in transit now, and show up in your box any minute.”

  “Or not for a week?” I asked.

  She grimaced and nodded. “Unfortunately so, Captain. How long will you be on Ten Volt?”

  “I was hoping to leave on the second.”

  She shrugged helplessly. “There’s not much I can do, Captain. I’ll keep an eye open. If it arrives, I’ll forward it to you immediately.”

  I sighed. “Thanks. I appreciate your looking.” I would have appreciated her finding even more, but the wheels sometimes grind slowly, and often grind slowest when you are caught in them.