Starship

by Michael D. Resnick

  “In another day or two, just to make sure no one is following me,” he said. “I had to leave McAllister in a hurry.”

  She laughed. “Well, you wanted to be a pirate.”

  “No,” he answered seriously. “I didn't want to be a pirate. It was forced on me—but as long as that seems to be my fate, I might as well try to be a competent one.”

  “I think I'm going to enjoy serving with you,” she said. “Let's drink to it.”

  “You know the stock, you do the ordering.”

  She leaned forward and spoke into the table's communication port. “Two Cygnian cognacs. From the Northern Hemisphere. No later than 1940 G.E. Got it?”

  “Understood,” replied the computer.

  “Make it fast,” she added. “We're thirsty.”

  “If you're thirsty, drink water,” said Cole. “For what this stuff costs, sip it slowly.”

  She was about to reply when two men, one burly, one tall and lean, approached the table.

  “Go away,” said Val.

  “We want to talk to your friend, Dominick.”

  “Beat it,” she said. “We gave at the office. And my name's Val.”

  “How the hell can anyone keep up with your names?” complained the tall man. “We just want to have a little chat with Mr. Cole here.”

  “Go away,” said Val. “You're not even bounty hunters. You're just scum that thinks you can get drinking money by blackmailing this man.”

  “We plan on getting a little more than just drinking money,” replied the tall man.

  “You've got the wrong man,” said Cole. “I don't know anyone called Cole.”

  “Our price for agreeing with you just went up,” said the burly man.

  “And your life expectancy just went down!” snapped Val. Suddenly she stood up between them. What happened next was a display of strength and skill the likes of which Cole had never seen in all his years in the service. Within seconds both men were on the floor, bleeding profusely and moaning in pain. Three of their friends charged the Valkyrie, who handled them as if they were awkward children rather than large, hardened men. Two went down in the first half minute. Then she grabbed the third before he could retreat, lifted him above her head, spun around a few times, and tossed him through the air. He landed with a bone-crunching thud! on an empty table, which broke beneath him. He fell to the ground, and lay motionless.

  Cole got up, stepped over the five unconscious men, and headed to the door.

  “Let's go,” he said.

  “Where?” asked Val.

  “My ship.”

  “I thought you were waiting to make sure no one was following you.”

  “If I wait until those guys wake up, they won't have to follow me,” said Cole. “They'll take one look and know exactly where I am.”

  “What about our drinks?” demanded Val.

  “I'll buy you one on the next world we come to. Let's just get the hell out of here!”

  “I can make sure they never get up,” said Val. “No one will miss them.”

  “Save it for the Shark,” said Cole. “We don't need twenty of their friends coming after us.”

  “They don't have any friends.”

  “Are you coming or not?” demanded Cole.

  She shrugged. “What the hell. They're your problem anyway, not mine.”

  They walked the mile to Cole's ship, and he found that he had to work hard to keep up with her long strides. Once they'd taken off, he contacted the Teddy R to ascertain its position.

  It was red shift and Forrice was in command. The Molarian looked at the image before him and said, “Who's that with you? A new girlfriend?”

  “Four Eyes, say hello to the new Third Officer of the Teddy R.”

  Cole sat in his cramped office aboard the Teddy R, facing Forrice, Christine Mboya, and Sharon Blacksmith.

  “You're the Captain,” Forrice was saying. “You can promote or demote anyone as the mood takes you, but we've got a lot of people who've risked their lives for you, who can never go back to their families, and they're going to resent making an outsider our Third Officer.”

  “She knows more about piracy than the rest of the crew put together,” said Cole. “And she saved my life.”

  “Maybe it's slipped your memory,” said the Molarian, “but there isn't a person aboard this ship who hasn't saved your life—or do you think you just walked out of the brig on Timos III on your own?”

  “I know how I got out,” said Cole. He paused and stared at Forrice. “Do you remember a month ago I told you that Slick was the most valuable member of the Teddy R because his symbiote enables him to function without air or physical protection in the cold of space, and on chlorine and methane worlds, for hours at a time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he's now the second-most-valuable member. This woman knows every friendly planet, every rival pirate, every place to unload the kind of cargo we're going to be stealing. She's a walking encyclopedia of piracy—and if that's not enough, she's commanded her own ship.”

  “And lost it,” noted Sharon.

  “I didn't say she was perfect,” replied Cole. “I said she was valuable. She's got another virtue, too.”

  “What is it?” asked the Molarian.

  “She can beat the shit out of you and any five crew members you pick to fight on your side.”

  “Just a minute,” interjected Christine. “Before we go into raptures about her, let me make sure I understand the situation. She's not with us permanently. She's just here until we hunt down her ship and take it away from this Hammerhead Shark and his crew.”

  “Which also happens to be her crew,” added Sharon.

  “That's right.”

  “And then she leaves us and goes back to her own ship?” continued Christine.

  “After we split up the Shark's loot,” said Cole.

  “What's to stop her from screwing up all our instruments and then turning her weapons on us?”

  “I trust her not to.”

  “I don't mind you putting your life in her hands,” said Forrice. “But I object to you doing the same with mine and the rest of the crew's.”

  “I appreciate your objections,” said Cole. “But I've explained my reasons. She's our Third Officer. I'll stay in charge of blue shift until we finish debriefing her, but then I'm going to turn it over to her.”

  “And what will you do?” asked Christine.

  “What I always do, but this time I won't have to do it in a constricted time frame.” He looked from one to another. “Just remember: Every time I've ever taken any action aboard the Teddy R it's worked out to our advantage.”

  “That's why we can never go back to the Republic,” said Forrice sardonically.

  “That was your action,” said Cole. “I didn't escape from the brig. I was broken out.”

  “I still don't like it,” said Forrice.

  “Neither do I,” Sharon chimed in.

  “Your objections are noted,” said Cole. “And if this ever becomes a democracy, they may even be acted upon. But until that happy day, I'm the Captain and what I say goes.” He paused. “Does anyone dispute that?”

  Silence.

  “All right. If I can sense all the hostility, I'm sure Val can too. I want someone to try to bond with her, become her friend, put her at her ease.”

  “I thought that was you,” said Sharon bitterly.

  “I've got a ship to run. It can't be Forrice or Christine, because they'll be commanding different shifts.”

  “Don't you look at me that way, Wilson Cole!” snapped Sharon.

  “Can't you give it a try?”

  “Bond with her?” repeated Sharon. “Hell, when I stand next to her, I'm staring into her navel! How do you bond with a lady Goliath?”

  “You're the one who's going to be debriefing her,” said Cole. “You'll be in her company a lot for the next few days. Just try to be more pleasant to her than you're being to me right now.” He paused. “She's not my lover, an
d she's not looking to run the Security Department. She's just the possessor of a lot of valuable knowledge, and if we have any luck tracking down the Shark she's not going to be here too long, so I want to make her comfortable and talkative while we have the opportunity.”

  “Didn't she talk to you on the trip from Basilisk to the ship?” asked Sharon.

  “Nonstop,” said Cole. “I have improved my knowledge of cognac a thousandfold.”

  “And I'm supposed to become friends with that?” demanded Sharon.

  “Just make an honest effort.”

  She grimaced. “All right, all right, I'll try.”

  “I'll try too, when I'm not on duty,” said Christine.

  Cole looked at Forrice.

  “I'm still mad at you for pulling rank,” said the Molarian. “I thought you called this meeting to ask for our opinions.”

  Cole shook his head. “I called this meeting to tell you my decision, not to argue for it.”

  “Well, I think it's a mistake.”

  “You're free to think so,” said Cole. “In here,” he added, as his voice took on a sharper edge. “One step outside that door, all disagreements end.”

  “I know the routine,” replied Forrice sullenly. “But since we're still on this side of the door, I just want to say that I've never seen you this damned arrogant before.”

  “That's because you've never challenged my judgment before,” said Cole. “We went into this pirate business cold. None of us knew anything about it except all the stuff we'd assimilated from bad books and worse holos. We lucked out and figured out how to dispose of the diamonds, but if that sonofabitch on McAllister had been a little more competent, I'd be in a Navy brig right now, strictly because of ignorance. And now we've got a phenomenal source of information on board. She's been a successful pirate for more than a decade. She's never had a ship shot out from under her, never been arrested, always been able to show a profit, stole things that didn't attract the Navy's attention. She knows where to pick up information. She knows the make and model of most of the major pirate ships on the Frontier. She knows the ships' captains and their methodologies. She knows where to hide when things get hot, from rivals as well as from the Navy. If we get into fighting at close quarters on a ship or a planet, she's worth two of Bull Pampas and six of anyone else. She's not military, and she's got more than her share of rough edges, and she sure as hell drinks too much—but we need her. And, just as important, I trust her.” He paused and stared at each of the three officers in turn. “And as of now, the subject is closed.”

  “Hey, Cole!” said Val's voice, and her image appeared an instant later.

  “That's not the way we open communications aboard the ship,” said Cole. “But let it pass this time. What do you want?”

  “I just saw the jewelry you were trying to unload on McAllister.”

  “And?”

  “You're never going to dump it the way it is,” she said. “It was famous even before you screwed up on McAllister. By now everyone knows that Wilson Cole is trying to get rid of it.”

  “You have a suggestion, no doubt?” asked Cole.

  “Pull the diamonds and rubies and melt the tiara down. You can sell it as a block of gold.”

  “To a fence?” asked Sharon.

  Val made a face. “I thought you guys learned your lesson with fences. Hell, there are dozens of commodities dealers who don't just buy and sell futures but handle actual gold, including a couple on the Inner Frontier.”

  “What about the jewels?”

  “They're a lot harder to market. By now you know you can't make any money from a fence. I know a jeweler who'll take the rubies—they're harder to identify than the diamonds, because they haven't been laser marked, or at least these rubies haven't—but you'd be better off using them.”

  “Using them?” repeated Cole.

  “As bribes. A diamond or a ruby in the right hand can buy some useful information—and the people you bribe can unload one stone a lot easier than you can unload a batch of them.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Cole. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yeah,” said Val. “Where do you keep your drinkin' stuff? You still owe me a Cygnian cognac.”

  “I don't think we have any on board,” said Cole.

  “Would you settle for an Alphard brandy?” asked Sharon.

  “Sure as hell would!” said Val enthusiastically. “My room or yours—or maybe the mess hall?”

  “Why don't we meet in the Security Department in ten minutes?” said Sharon. “We can start debriefing you in comfort.”

  “I'll be there,” said Val, breaking the connection.

  Sharon looked uneasy. “Well, you said to bond with her.”

  “She can probably drink you under the table,” said Cole, “so let her do the drinking, and you do the questioning.”

  “You know,” said Sharon as the door sensed her approach and irised to let her pass through, “she did make some sense, didn't she?”

  “Why is she here?” asked Rachel Marcos, trying to hide her resentment.

  “She's a pirate,” replied Vladimir Sokolov. “The Captain thinks we can learn about piracy from her.”

  They were on the bridge with Forrice during red shift, waiting for Cole to choose their next destination.

  “How good a pirate can she be?” persisted Rachel. “She lost her ship.”

  “How good an officer can the Captain be?” answered Sokolov, who was manning his computer station. “He was demoted twice and court-martialed once.”

  “You know why that happened,” said Rachel.

  “Yes, I do,” answered Sokolov. “And until I know why the Valkyrie lost her ship, I'm inclined to rely on the Captain's judgment.”

  “I'm not the only one who has questions about her,” said Rachel defensively.

  “If you have questions, why not walk up to her and ask her?” suggested Sokolov.

  “Have you seen her?” demanded Rachel. “She's not only a giant; she's a walking weapon shop!”

  “I think she's sexy as hell,” said Sokolov.

  “You would,” she said distastefully.

  “That's enough,” interjected Forrice. “Like it or not, she's our Third Officer.”

  “What do you think of it?” asked Rachel. “Why does she deserve it, instead of Lieutenant Briggs or Lieutenant Sokolov?”

  “My opinion doesn't matter,” said the Molarian. “The Captain has made his decision, and we can either accept it or leave the ship.”

  “Well, she may be the Third Officer, but except for the Captain she hasn't got a friend on the whole ship.”

  The exercise room was actually just an empty cabin that served as a bedroom for two alien crew members when the ship carried a full contingent. It was ten feet by twelve feet, and because it was created for races that were taller than Man, the ceiling was ten feet high, rather than the usual seven.

  There wasn't much exercising possible in the cramped quarters, but Bull Pampas had appropriated some weights and barbells, and underwent a daily regimen of lifting.

  It was during her third day on the ship, after she'd been thoroughly debriefed, that Val made her way down to the room toward the end of red shift. Bull had been there just long enough to work up a sweat. “What can I do for you, ma'am?” he asked when she entered. “Or is it sir?”

  “Whatever makes you happy,” answered Val. “I heard there were weights down here, and I thought I'd put in a little work.”

  “I'll get out of your way and come back when you're done, ma'am,” said Pampas. He knelt down and began taking some of the weights off the bar.

  “What are you doing?” asked Val.

  “I'm a pretty experienced lifter,” he said. “I'm making it a little lighter for you.”

  “I'm a pretty experienced lifter myself,” she said. “Let me take a shot at what you've got right there.”

  “I don't want you to hurt yourself, ma'am,” said Pampas.

  “I hurt other people
, not myself,” she said, standing before the bar. She squatted down, put her hands on it, took a deep breath, and straightened up, lifting it above her head. “It's not that heavy,” she said with a smile. “You got any more weights we can put on it?”

  “How the hell did you do that, ma'am?” said Pampas admiringly. “I'm pretty strong and pretty experienced, but I worked like hell to clean and jerk that, and you lifted it like it was nothing.”

  “Maybe I can teach you a trick or two about lifting,” she suggested.

  “I'd sure be grateful, ma'am.” He paused. “I hear that you're pretty good at taking care of yourself in a fight, too.”

  “I do okay.”

  “I'd be happy to work out with you,” said Pampas, “though this room is awfully small.”

  “I'd like very much to work out with you, Mister…?”

  “Pampas, ma'am,” he said. “Eric Pampas. But everyone calls me Bull.”

  “All right, Bull,” she said. “And if you have any friends on the crew who want to keep in shape and maybe learn something about self-defense, invite them too.”

  “I sure will, ma'am.”

  “Call me Val.”

  Sokolov and Briggs were in the mess hall, each sipping a beer. The rest of the room was empty. Then Val entered, walked to a table, and seated herself. A menu immediately hovered in front of her, a few inches above the table.

  “Give me a Blue Comet,” she said.

  “That is unknown to me,” responded a mechanical voice. “Is this a human food?”

  “It's a human drink.”

  “I do not find it in my data banks.”

  “Then pay attention,” said Val. “Take two ounces of Antarean whiskey, one ounce of Nebodian liquor, one ounce of any citrus juice—and no soya substitutions. Add a pinch of bitters, and mix in one raw egg.”

  “I have no raw eggs.”

  “All right,” she said. “An ounce of heavy cream.”

  “I have no heavy cream.”

  “Have you got any ice cream?”

  “I have no ice cream.”

  “Some galley!” she snorted. “How about yogurt?”