Cale shook his head and sighed. "Go ahead. I won't peek, I promise."
She did have to ask for help with the 'fresher, and he studiously kept his eyes averted, though his grin was wide. She ignored the grin. She found she actually enjoyed the sensations created by the 'sonics'. But the water bag distressed her as she realized what it was doing to her hair. Soaked, it fell straight down past her waist. She had always been proud of her silky black hair, and had resented having to keep it wound up under her cap. But once it dried, she wouldn't have enough pins to keep it under control.
However, the shipsuit was fun! It seemed a 'coverall' was a one-piece garment covering from shoulders to ankles. The three available were all too large for her, and she had to roll up the sleeves and trouser legs. Ha! Legs, not 'limbs'. Moreover, it was so freeing to wear trousers! No heavy, ankle-length skirt, no Lord-damned petticoats! She strode up and down the three-step length of the cabin until Cale told her to sit down, they needed to talk.
Cale watched with amusement as his 'guest' reveled in the newfound freedom of a shipsuit. Nevertheless, it was time to find out what was going on, and try to figure out what they could do about it.
The girl cleaned up well. He'd guessed well on the height and weight, about 155 cems and 52-55 kilos. Her black hair was shiny and well cared for. Pity it was so long. Obviously, it was important to her. But she was going to find it almost impossible to live with in space –especially aboard L'rak, with its cramped quarters. She was about 20 standard years old, he guessed. However, raised on Ararat, she would be as naive as a twelve-year-old.
She remained standing. "Are you going to ravish me now?" she asked in a calm tone.
Cale's jaw dropped. "Am I . . . See here, what do you think I am, some kind of monster?"
Her tone remained calm, her stare level. "You are an offworlder, noble sire. We are warned about your degeneracy and debauchery. Please do not hurt me. I will try not to resist. But please allow me to remove the shipsuit first, so it will not be damaged."
Cale was swept into gales of laughter. I took him several minutes to get himself under control. Finally, the hurt look on her face brought him to calmness. "Don't worry, I've sworn off debauchery for lent. And I'm taking the week off from rape."
"You mock me."
"No. Yes. Well, a little. I'm not mocking you, but the silly ideas Ararat leaves you with. Now sit down," he continued, "and let's talk. I promise not to attack you without at least knowing your name." He shook his head and sighed. "The first things we need to deal with are those damned Ararat manners. They drive normal people crazy!"
Her eyes widened. "But, noble sire, manners are what permit us to live together in harmony, without violence."
"Hmph," he grunted. "Everyone carrying a blaster gets the same benefit, without all the baggage. And it's not "noble sire." My name is Cale Rankin. And no, you will not call me "sire Rankin." You will call me Cale. And you are?"
She started to stand and curtsey, but he pushed her back into the co-pilot's seat. "I am Ruth Lordschild," she replied. "I am from the village of Salvation, some fifty kiloms from Yahweh."
"All right, Ruth Lordschild. Now, what the devil are you doing on my ship?"
Startled, she drew back from the anger that had suddenly entered his tone. "I . . . I have always wanted to leave Ararat, to see the wonders of the Lord's creation. Since there was only one person on your ship, I thought there might be room for a small girl." she straightened. "I'll work for my passage, nob . . . uh Cale," she flushed slightly before continuing. "I can keep the ship clean, and cook the meals, and . . . and . . ." she stopped as she realized there was very little ship to clean, and she had yet to see anything resembling cooking facilities.
Cale nodded. "I'll call you Ruth. You create real problems for me, Ruth. I'm on the run. People are chasing me, and this is not my ship. Well, actually it is, but only temporarily. I was planning to go to Refuge to trade. But Refuge is a wild place with no laws and free traders and pirates making deals. You'd end up kidnapped and aboard a slaver less than an hour after I dropped you there."
"I'm not afraid!"
He grinned. "I am, and you should be. But it looks like we are going to come out where I'd planned; at least I hope so. Luckily, I topped off the atmosphere tanks on Ararat, and those tanks are designed for two crewmen. But we're going to be short of water before long. So, when we emerge, I'm going to recalculate our course to skip Refuge, and head straight back to Torlon."
"Then you will leave me there?"
Cale shuddered. "Not a chance. One of the reasons I chose it was that it barely retains spacegoing capability; in fact, when L'rak's original owner dies, I think spaceflight on Torlon will die with him. I wouldn't leave you on a planet sinking into barbarism."
Ruth frowned. "Then what will you do with me?"
"Lady, I haven't the slightest idea. I have another, larger ship waiting for me at Torlon. However, it doesn't really need a cook or cleaner, either. It has robots to handle those chores. All I can promise is to drop you off on a reasonably developed planet, with maybe some fake papers to make you legal. Then I will leave. You'll be on your own. Hopefully you can avoid the slavers, but you might still starve."
She shook her head. "I will not starve. I am a hard worker, and the Lord will provide."
"I hope so. For right now, though, we have to make it through this jump, and then on to Torlon. In the meantime," he continued, "you might want to consider cutting all that hair. There are reasons that spacer women wear it short."
"They do? Who are 'spacer women'?" Her face clouded up, looked ready to begin crying, then suddenly she straightened. "Do you not like my hair, Cale? I have always thought it my best feature."
"It's beautiful," he replied, "on Ararat, or on any planet. But you are going to find it difficult to care for in the small spaces on L'rak. Especially since we have no water to spare, and will have to be content with a bath a week."
She was shocked. "A week! But did our Lord not command us to bathe daily?"
Cale smiled. "Not that I know of. I know you think the Lord will provide, but until He provides unlimited fresh water, we will be bathing weekly. I suspect you will find your hair becoming oily and matted."
"You are mocking me again. I am sure I will survive."
He found that it was actually rather pleasant to have a companion to talk to. She peppered him with questions about worlds he had visited and all of man-settled space. Of course, she asked him about himself, and he found himself unwilling to lie to her for some reason, so he deflected her questions or simply refused to talk about it.
Finally, the countdown timer clicked down and L'rak emerged into normal space. Cale said nothing, but his relief was easily visible as he verified that they had indeed emerged at the proper recal point. While he struggled to make the computations necessary to change their course with L'rak's simple astrogation comp, Ruth stared transfixed at the unfamiliar constellations adorning the heavens. For years, she had looked at the stars of Ararat's sky, trying to imagine that each of them was a sun, so far away as to be only a pinprick of light. Now, here was a whole new sky, full of thousands of new stars. Suddenly, she felt very small, very insignificant, and very alone. Her world was gone, a door closed on her past. She was on her way to an unknown future, and depending on a stranger, of whom she knew nothing. Correction. A stranger who refused to tell her anything about himself.
Cale sat back with a satisfied sigh. Ruth's presence was causing only minimal disruption. Oh, he'd had to skip his planned stop at Refuge, but that might be a good thing, not a problem. He had been worried about that stop anyway. Peng was a sneaky bastard, but he was basically a businessman who wasn't above a bit of larceny when the opportunity arose. But Refuge was a lawless haven for the dregs of society. There were people there who would kill you for the change in your pockets, and kick and curse you as you died for not having more. Cale had spent hours debating whether to go there. To be honest, he was relieved that Ruth's presenc
e forced a change of plans. According to the astro comp, the course changes to divert back to Torlon were not significant.
However, the problem of Ruth was significant. What in space was he going to do with her? She was a young, attractive, – okay, very attractive – woman. But she was as innocent as a child. She had zero experience with men or with any cultures but her own insular cocoon.
For a moment, he entertained the idea of returning to Jackson and Yan Carbow. He could trust Yan to look out for her and keep her out of trouble until she learned to survive in galactic civilization, such as it was.
However, it just was not possible. There were too many inconsistencies and risks. By now, the word was out on John Smith, and a bounty on his head. Returning to Jackson would make a waste of all his efforts. Scorpion was known there, might even now be identified with said John Smith alias James Yor-Tarken, and its return would draw attention. It would be in the hands of an apparent stranger. His new description would certainly be noted, as would his new identity. No, he could not return there, at least not without a different ship. He could possibly make it as a passenger on a liner, say, but chances are Yan was now watched. Tempting as it was, he would have to find another solution.
There was an idea that had been percolating in the back of his mind since his visit to Torlon. With old Nabel's help, he might be able to give Scorpion a new name and clean papers – clean enough to enter the Alliance.
He was fairly certain he had seen the distinctive outline of a genuine stinger-class courier, the ship Scorpion had been modified to resemble, in Nabel's scrap yard. If he could get Nabel to sell him the ship's identification papers and, most important, the serial number plate embedded into the hull metal, Scorpion could almost certainly pass for a legitimate survivor of the Fall, and his own Rankin identity was certainly good enough as the duly registered owner.
The Alliance was an island of progress in a sea of a former empire declining to barbarism. There were a few successful planets, and even a few groups of systems, but no non-Alliance system in man-settled space was better off now than it was before the Fall. Obviously, millions of the Old Empire's wealthier citizens wanted to immigrate to the Alliance; as a result, the Alliance's immigration policies were strict and tough. The Alliance had annexed a dozen systems, but only one inhabited planet in the last century, and it only admitted a few million immigrants per year. They did not care where you came from, but legal immigration involved investigations, interviews, and tests. Many tests. The Alliance would accept only the smartest, the best educated, those who could contribute to the development of the Alliance.
Nevertheless, if you were careful and lucky, you could sneak into the Alliance illegally. The rumor was that if you were able to sneak in, and your papers passed casual inspection, the Alliance authorities would not devote much energy to catching you. Rumor had it that the Alliance figured that if you were smart enough to break in, you were probably smart enough for the Alliance. Oh, people-smugglers were energetically tracked down and punished with a vengeance. The Alliance only wanted those smart and tough enough to make it on their own. But they didn't make it easy. Borders and nearby jump points were picketed and patrolled relentlessly, and the Alliance Border Patrol's pursuit ships were reputed to be the fastest in space – and the best armed.
Cale had decided it was not worth the risk and effort required to try to sneak into the Alliance in Scorpion. But now . . .
Naive as she was, Ruth would need a safe, stable environment to live in while she learned to cope with galactic society.
But no, he decided. It simply was not worth the risk and the extraordinary effort it would take. There were over a thousand inhabited worlds in the Old Empire. With Scorpion and his resources, he would surely be able to find a peaceful planet for her. He could drop her off somewhere, perhaps with the rest of Jan's gold in a local bank. Then he could get on with his own plans – without this feeling of guilt and responsibility!
Anger flared. Why should he feel guilty or responsible? She was the one who'd slipped aboard his ship. She was the one naive enough to think that piety gave her security in a hostile world.
He slammed a hand on the chair arm. Damn it! The trouble was that he did feel responsible for her, and yes, even a little guilty about the inevitable hard lessons she was about to get.
By the time they emerged in Torlon's system, the very close quarters, the lack of hygiene, the space rations, and of course the sexual tension, had caused them to really begin to annoy each other.
"Sit down, or get into your bunk," Cale ordered sourly. "I'm going to drive in at 1.5G. You're going to feel very heavy, and if you fall, you could break an arm or leg."
"Do not trouble yourself," she replied coldly. "Does this '1.5G' mean we will get there sooner?"
"Yes. We'll get there in less than 20 hours. But it will be very uncomfortable."
"Then go! Go!"
"Sit Down!" he roared. She dropped into the copilot's seat with a thump. Cale worked out the orbital data and delta vee requirements, entered them into the nav comp. Their bodies pressed back into the padded seats as the acceleration built. It steadied on 1.5G. Cale felt that was enough to get them there sooner, but would still allow them to move around when necessary.
Ruth struggled to breathe against the force compressing her chest. She had never experienced anything but the .96 gravity of Ararat, and panic was setting in. She gasped for air.
"Relax," Cale said in a gentler tone. "Don't fight it. Concentrate on breathing. That's it. In, out, in, out. That's it. And above all, don't panic!"
For the first time in her life, Ruth regretted not knowing any curse words. She fumed, but the simple act of breathing demanded so much attention that her anger faded. "How . . . long?" she forced out.
"About . . . 18 hours." She was pleased to note that his voice also sounded strained.
Several hours later, it took her over a minute to pry herself from the chair and struggle heavily to the 'fresher, moving hand over hand for fear of falling.
Finished, she gathered two of the self-heating space ration packets and worked her way back to the copilot's chair. She dropped into it with a painful grunt.
Cale tried to smile at her, but the acceleration's effect on his face turned it into a horrible rictus.
They traveled on in silence. Cale also made a struggling trip to the 'fresher, but except for the few moments when L'rak flipped over to begin deceleration, they merely sat in mutual discomfort, breathing hard and counting the seconds until that awful weight would lift.
Finally, it did lift, and they approached orbit around Torlon. From his previous visit, Cale knew that the space detection satellites were not functioning. When he hailed ground control, it took almost half an hour for the familiar raspy voice to respond. Since the landing grid also didn't work, calling ground control was mostly a courtesy. Cale simply did it out of habit.
He landed L'rak manually at the edge of Nabel's junkyard. The two tired, dirty travelers climbed out of the tiny cabin and stretched, breathing in huge, gusty sighs and luxuriating in the one G gravity field of the planet.
Chapter 4
He was a bit surprised the old man didn't hear him land and come out, but after a few minutes, he shrugged and headed for Nabel's "office". There was no sign of Nabel, and Cale was beginning to get worried and suspicious. Had the pirates tracked him down? Had news of the price on his head reached here? Would he find only an ambush in the old warship/office?
He motioned Ruth to stand to one side, then went to the other, turned the knob and threw the door open. It banged against the hull, but there was no hail of pellets or blaster fire. Just a wave of stench and a querulous voice. "'Bout time ye got here!" Nabel said weakly. "I been waitin' fer ya fer a week!" The two visitors steeled themselves against the odor and entered the office.
They found Nabel propped in his float chair. A duramin rod was tied to his right thigh and leg with filthy rags. The overpowering smell testified that he had been sitting
in his own feces, unable to get to the 'fresher in the next compartment of the old ship.
"What happened?" Cale asked as he forced himself to examine the crude splint.
"Talk about it outside," Ruth interrupted. "We have to get him out of here before anything else."
Cale nodded. "I'll find something we can use for a litter."
"Nah," the old man said. "Just gimme a hand up and let me lean on yer shoulder." Cale lifted the old man out of the chair and put his shoulder under Nabel's armpit. With Ruth stabilizing his left side, they made their way into the bright sunlight and out of the horrid stench. Cale found an old acceleration couch whose padding had not yet rotted away, and he jammed it into the ground. He hoisted Nabel into the improvised bed. "Okay, now what happened?"
Nabel grimaced. "Damned scaffold collapsed on me. M'right thigh's broken. I crawled over here to th' office. Lucky there was a survival water tin outside the hatch of that Epsilon tramp over there. I pushed it inta the office aheada me. Didn't get no food, though. I found the rod, stretched the thigh, an' splinted it. Been settin there ever since makin' bets with myself about whether you'd come back afore I starved."
Cale was puzzled. "Why us? I mean, you're on a planet. Why did no one come to find you? Why didn't you call for help?"
The old man chuckled. "Shit, Son, they ain't but about twenty folks left in Torlon City. They hate me an' I hate them. They pretty much leave me alone. An' the phone system ain't worked fer near ten years." He sobered as he shook his head. "Torlon's had it, boy. When I die, th' last spaceflight capability on Torlon will go away, and it'll go the way of Cutler's World."
Cale waved a hand. "What about those tramps over there on the field?"
"Hah! I put 'em there, boy. So's it'd look like Torlon was still an active port. But your ship was the first to ground here in half a year. Ain't been one here since you left, either. Did ya bring m'baby back to me?"
The Privateer Page 7
