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

by Nathan Lowell

  We left the office and Ms. Arellone looked to me. “Ship,” I said. “I need to find more cargo.”

  “Can you fill the compartments with cargo, Captain?”

  I thought about it as we headed for the lift. “I could if it weren’t crated up, Ms. Arellone.” I had an odd thought. “I wonder how much of the fleamarket we could buy.”

  She laughed at the idea, and I saw a couple of people look up at her laugh, but then focus on me. It began to feel a little creepy.

  We made it back to the ship without incident, and I intended to retire to my cabin to deal with logs, cargo, and crew issues. The chief still hadn’t read my message—at least the receipt hadn’t returned. For a guy who was just going out to stretch his legs, he had been gone an awfully long time. But when we stepped back aboard, the green funk was stronger. I knew the scrubbers would degrade pretty rapidly.

  “Do you smell that, Ms. Arellone?”

  “Yes, sar. What is it?”

  “Scrubbers need their filters replaced. I sent a note to the chief but he hasn’t responded.”

  “Can you fix them, Skipper?”

  “I think so, Ms. Arellone, but not before I put on an old shipsuit. It gets messy, and I’d just as soon not mess up one of my better ones.”

  She snickered. “Don’t blame you a bit, sar. You need a hand with anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you, Ms. Arellone. I can handle this one.”

  “Okay, sar.” She headed for the ladder up to deck one, and I stopped by the cabin for a change of clothing before heading for the spares closet.

  On the way I tried to remember what I knew about cartridge-filtered scrubbers. One thing that stood out was that you really did not want the whole rack to be the same age if you could avoid it. The cartridge filters had an effectiveness curve where they were most effective in the middle of their duty cycle, so wise engineers cycled through cartridges, swapping out the oldest—and least effective—and replacing a few at a time so they weren’t all brand new like we’d been forced to do when the array failed entirely. Rotating them it helped spread the load, and improved the overall scrubber’s performance profile over time by smoothing it out.

  When I got to the scrubber, I pulled the casing off, and found the same mess I’d seen before, only worse. The whole looked ready for a catastrophic failure.

  I dropped the casing on the deck, and went back for a trash tote and some fresh filters. After that it was an easy matter to swap out half the dying filters for four fresh ones. The new filters should stabilize the older ones, although the chief would need to swap out the older ones before we got to jump. I refastened the casing, pushed the loaded trash tote back to the bulkhead, and latched it down before heading to the cabin, a shower, and another fresh shipsuit.

  I began to wonder if he had run into some trouble ashore. I couldn’t imagine any bodyguard worth his salt would be mugged, but there were other things that could happen—accidents, illness, legalities. My mind steered away from “hostile action” as a possibility.

  After I got cleaned up, just for reference, I pinged Mr. Herring with a meaningless status update confirming we’d be getting underway at 1500 on February 2nd. I included the return receipt with that message, and noted that it was not quite 1400. If I didn’t get a receipt back from him, I might assume that it was something with the system, and I immediately began worrying that I’d munged up the upgrade.

  I took a deep breath, and started digging into the systems diagnostics, looking for the right tests to run when my tablet bipped. I looked down and saw the receipt from Mr. Herring. I frowned. The chief was beginning to irk me.

  Under the circumstances there wasn’t much I could do except wait him out. I couldn’t really report him missing until he’d been gone for a full day, and he was a grown man. With a sigh, I pushed the chief out of my mind for the moment, and focused on the list of priority cargoes bound for Diurnia.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Ten Volt Orbital:

  2373-January-30

  By the time 1700 rolled around I had snagged another half-dozen small priorities for Diurnia. The onesy-twosy containers totaled thirty-eight, and promised a substantial payout for an on-time delivery. It might not total as much as the priority we earned for delivering Dr. Leyman’s equipment on time, but it was still nothing to drop out the lock. With a couple more days of diligent sifting, I might actually manage to fill the hold. I considered recalling Mr. Herring and turning him loose on it, but discarded the idea.

  I stood up from my console and stretched my arms over my head to get blood moving through my body. I found some civvies, something dressy but low-key enough to wear almost anywhere without feeling over or under dressed. The shop on Diurnia really did have good clothing. I pondered the news about a mythical tailor lurking in the upper reaches of the orbital, and thought perhaps I’d pay a call with M. Roubaille’s introduction when we got back.

  Dressed and feeling a tad peckish, I crossed to the mess deck to find Ms. Arellone and Ms. Maloney waiting. Ms. Arellone wore her black leather jacket with studs and chains over a shock-white blouse. The collar stood up and she wore it unbuttoned almost to impropriety. A stylishly embroidered pair of jeans, and something that looked like combat boots on her feet, finished the outfit. On her short stature, the look was harder than it might have seemed on somebody taller. The leather and metal looked like armor. By comparison, Ms. Maloney wore a black wool bolero jacket over a cranberry dress with a square neck and a skirt that fell just below her knees. Sensible pumps in black with flashes of red at the tips of the heels and toes finished the outfit. A silk scarf, artfully knotted at her throat stood in for jewelry that she most definitely did not need.

  “Wow.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Ms. Maloney said with an amused smile.

  “I feel like the kid goin’ out with the old folks for dinner here,” Ms. Arellone said with a cheeky grin.

  “I’m not that much older than you, Scamp!” Ms. Maloney scolded her playfully.

  Ms. Arellone just grinned and drawled, “Well, somebody has to watch out for the elders. I guess that’s me.”

  “Don’t let Chief Bailey hear you talk like that. He’ll skin you alive,” Ms. Maloney said with a laugh.

  “Where is Chief Bailey, Ms. Maloney? Do you know?” I asked.

  She shook her head and her face took on a worried frown. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  “Does he do this often?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve never known him to.”

  “Well, not much we can do about it now. Shall we go eat?”

  “What about Perc?” Ms. Arellone asked.

  “Did he come back aboard?”

  “Oh,” she said, “he came in earlier but I’m not sure.”

  I went to his compartment and knocked once before sticking my head in. He wasn’t in there, but a towel on the bunk and a dusting of civilian clothing across the deck made me think he had been. Closing the door again I went back to the mess deck.

  “Not there.”

  Ms. Arellone nodded. “I checked the lock records while you were looking. He left about a stan ago.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “How do you know it was him?” Ms. Maloney asked, curiosity lining her face.

  “Well, I don’t really,” she admitted, “but somebody left the ship via the main lock about a stan ago. Given that we saw him come in around 1430, heard him singing in the shower around 1445, and he’s not aboard now...” She shrugged. “Circumstantial but highly indicative.”

  I turned to Ms. Maloney. “Are you ok to go out with just us?”

  She shrugged and looked at Ms. Arellone who nodded at the unspoken question. “Yes, Captain. I think so.” She smiled at me. “Besides, I’m not the Playboy Flyboy here. You’re going to be the target.”

  I groaned. “Thanks for that reminder. Do we know where we’re going?”

  They both shook their heads.


  “Ok, Ms. Arellone. We’ll head up to Deck Seven. Should be some places to eat there that aren’t too exclusive but better than the oh-two deck.”

  She nodded and strode out, heading for the ladder. I held a hand out for Ms. Maloney to precede me, and we all trooped out onto the docks. I keyed the lock closed behind me as we left, and we waited until the lock sealed.

  Less than a quarter stan later, we strolled the promenade on deck seven.

  “What are they known for here besides electronics? Anybody know?” I asked.

  Ms. Maloney pulled her tablet from a pocket inside her jacket and I was impressed that the tailoring hadn’t given that away. “Says here, electronics fabrication, clean room, and crystalline logic membranes.” She gave me wry grin. “Doesn’t say much about food.”

  She slipped the tablet away again as Ms. Arellone approached the entrance of a likely looking establishment with the words “Le Biftech” in flowing lettering on the sign. She looked at the menu posted in the window and shrugged. “They apparently serve steak, Captain.”

  “I’m not surprised, Ms. Arellone.”

  I could see Ms. Maloney staring at the sign.

  “It’s spelled wrong,” she said.

  “Anyplace else but here, I’d agree with you, Ms. Maloney, but would you care to bet that the place got started by somebody who was tired of working for Ten Volt Systems, Inc., or whoever the leaseholder here is?”

  She shook her head. “No, bet, but why this?”

  “Because they wanted to open a restaurant that would appeal to the technical crowd. It’s a pun,” I said. “The beef tech. Beef technology. A steak house.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That is so sad,” she said at last, and a laugh bubbled out of her.

  “I don’t get it,” Ms. Arellone said.

  “It’s a pun in French, Ms. Arellone. Le bifteck—with a k instead of an h at the end—is French for steak.”

  She looked back and forth between us a couple times and shrugged. “Okay. Shall we eat here?”

  Ms. Maloney said, “Oh, yes. Anybody who can have that much fun just naming a restaurant? I think we have to.” She gave a shrug.

  “Sounds good to me,” I nodded to the door. “Ms. Arellone, you’ll dine with us. None of this silliness you normally do.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Then lead the way.”

  She shook her head, but grinned, and led us into a delightful little bistro with electronic candles on the tables, wall tiles made of what looked like circuit boards in a giant scale, and a healthy appreciation for beef, flame, onions, and bread. I saw Ms. Maloney smile, and I thought five years melted off her face.

  The maitre d’ showed us to a table where Ms. Arellone could watch the room and the entrance, while we dined with our backs to the mass of people and—with luck—any nosy newsie who happened to be having a quick dinner.

  Dinner was delicious. Ms. Arellone kept her eye on the restaurant, but also managed to enjoy about a kilo of prime beef, a baked potato the size of a small asteroid, and a large pile of green beans. Ms. Maloney went for a subtle beef en croute with horseradish, while I took fork to a delightfully rare steak au poivre with a side of garlic mashed potatoes and broccoli.

  Conversation started with the art of French cooking and rapidly transitioned to Ms. Maloney’s stories from her college days at L’Institute des Arts Culinaires.

  Ms. Arellone seemed fascinated. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to go to school every day for stanyers and just, you know, cook.”

  Ms. Maloney shrugged. “Oh, we did other things. Studied history, liability law, management, and accounting. It’s just like any other college really, except when you master dessert you graduate.”

  Ms. Arellone’s eyes got very round. “Really?”

  Ms. Maloney shook her head. “No, but that was the joke. They saved the courses on desserts for seniors. Puddings, pies, cakes—anything sweet. They based the whole curriculum around a five-course meal. I think they did it that way so that the people who weren’t going to make it got disillusioned early by making—and eating—about a thousand salads in the first year.”

  Ms. Arellone wrinkled her nose, and scanned the dining room again while Ms. Maloney laughed softly.

  “How did you happen to go into E and D?” I asked.

  She shrugged, and played with her water-glass. “When I got out of school, Mother insisted I do something. That’s when I thought I might like to open a restaurant.” She leaned in my direction a little. “Mother thought that was a grand idea until she found out I planned to be the chef.” She straightened back up, and sipped from her glass before tilting her head back, looking down her nose, and pursing her mouth. “It’s just not done, my dear. Not done at all. People of our station are not of the working class. The idea is just too plebian. I forbid it.”

  “How could she stop you?” Ms. Arellone asked.

  “Now? I don’t think she could. Then? She controlled the purse strings. I would have needed a lot of help from Father to get it started. Without her around, he might have gone for the idea. With her there? Not a chance.”

  “So you chucked it all and went E and D?” I asked.

  “Basically. I was angry with everyone. The whole social scene felt trivial and artificial after spending four stanyers actually doing something, making something.” She shrugged. “So, yes, Captain. I chucked it all and went to E and D. After about eight weeks of orientation and training, they put forty of us on a barge, and dragged us out to the edge of the Deep Dark. It was a lot of dirt, a lot of chemicals, a lot of cold, and even more dirt. We mixed bacterial cocktails, and seeded whole planets at a go. Long hours, short pay, and we were out there for two stanyers. I met Andy Leyman out there. The group bonded pretty well. There were a half-dozen of us who held each other up, and together, while we poisoned planets.”

  Ms. Arellone looked shocked. “Poisoned planets?”

  “That’s what we called it after a while. Admin hated it when we said that, but what else could you call it? The worlds were lovely and alien. We changed them to be something we could use, something we could exploit. In most cases that meant killing almost everything that was there and starting over from dirt, after we’d rebuilt the dirt.”

  “Our group did four planets in the two stanyers. We did the initial groundwork, and then moved on. E and D let the initialization run for a decade or so, and then sent the next team along to seed the place with plants and animals. Whatever would work there.” Her story ran down as she continued playing with her glass, staring into it like a sloshing crystal ball.

  “When I got back, I got my father to loan me a few credits, and opened my first gallery on Jett. It wasn’t easy, but, compared to E and D?” She gave a hard laugh.

  Ms. Arellone looked impressed. I thought Ms. Maloney looked depressed.

  “Okay, then. Anybody up for dessert?”

  They both looked at me—Ms. Arellone like she couldn’t believe I’d spoken, Ms. Maloney like she was glad I did.

  “They have crème brulee here, Captain. I haven’t had a good crème brulee since I left Souci,” Ms. Maloney said.

  “Crème brulee it is, then, Ms. Maloney.”

  “What’s crème brulee?” Ms. Arellone asked.

  “When done right, it’s heaven with a sugar crust,” Ms Maloney explained.

  “Sounds good to me,” Ms. Arellone said.

  I ordered a round for the table, and we talked about passengers and cargo and what we might be able to do to make the ship more livable.

  When we got back to the ship, we found the chief sitting at the table drinking coffee and eating left over quiche.

  “Ah, there ya are, Cap. Evening, Ms. Maloney, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Good evening, Chief Bailey.” I didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Are you alright?”

  “Oh, aye, Cap. Right as rain. Feeling much better for the sleep, I am. Much better.”

  The ratings excused themselves and
headed for their compartment, while I entered the galley and contemplated the chief.

  “Can I ask where you were all day, Chief?”

  “Of course, you can ask, Cap. Darn right. I took a lovely walk around this morning, came back in when the cargo folks started makin’ a rumpus. Went to my compartment and went to sleep.” He grinned and raised his cup. “Musta needed it ‘cause I never heard another thing all day.”

  “Do you have your tablet with you?”

  “Right here, Cap. Right here.” He pulled it out of the holster and held it up. “Always carry it. You bet I do.”

  “May I see it, Chief?”

  He shrugged and handed it over. “Course you can, Cap. Course you can.”

  I examined it and handed it back. “You might want to charge it, Chief. It works better that way.”

  He looked startled. “Well, sar, Cap, don’t that beat all. I’ll do that right away. I most certainly will.”

  “When you get it charged you’ll probably find a message from me asking you to report to the ship immediately, and swap out the filters on the scrubbers. I sent that this morning.”

  He sniffed the air. “I’ll look at that, Cap. Right after I finish eating, I will.”

  I shook my head. “You might just double-check my work, Chief, because the situation degraded rapidly. When you didn’t respond to the message, I had to change out the filters myself. You’ll find the used ones in a trash tote in engineering.”

  He nodded. “You shoulda woke me, Cap. I’da been happy ta do that. Course I woulda.”

  “If I’d known you were aboard, Chief, I certainly would have.” I paused while he continued to eat. “Where are we on fueling and tankage, Chief?”

  “They’re toppin’ off now, Cap. Should be right up there by noon, sar. Yes, they should.”

  “Also, before we get underway? I’d like you to fix up some of those punch list items I gave you? We need to get the ship put back together before we bring more passengers aboard.”