by Rolf Nelson
Helton: Your boss must be a serious hard ass.
Harbin: (Tipping his head in thought) He’s among the best, but he doesn’t suffer fools or stupid mistakes lightly. Working for him is tough. Fighting against him, deadly.
Helton: Next time, then, we’ll just have to take a ship with better armor.
Harbin: Hard to find. Most ships don’t have it. Generally it’s useless.
Helton: Like souvenirs?
Harbin: (Shoots Helton a dark look) A first for everything. Normally it’s useful as a screen door on a spaceship. (Shrugs fatalistically) Been a while since anyone one-upped me on getting shot and lived to talk, too. That’s something to tell the grandkids about. Any more ideas about it?
Helton: Nope. At least it’s open, now. Lots of damaged pages, but they are seriously tough. Some sort of metallized carbon nano-tube stuff, I think. No idea who made it. Can’t go back to the cave without government clearance, and they’re not letting us anywhere near that prison mine again. Haven’t told the authorities about it. Ah, well. It all worked out OK. Good guys lived, bad guys mostly died, official investigation started-
Harbin: (Cynically) Likely just a whitewash-
Helton: -but started anyway, some official reward cash and a couple of cute new friends who owe me their lives.
He looks over at the young passenger ladies nearby, one with a kid next to her, who smiles back when she notices him looking at her.
Harbin: (Grinning) Don’t let it go to your head, Hero.
Helton: After a near death experience, you think about things. Long term, life sort of things. I am, anyway.
Harbin: Been there. Were I younger and single, I would again, too. Met my wife that way, just after… Being close to death does make you think about life. The closer you get, the deeper you see into yourself. No real risks, no deep thoughts.
Helton: Feels good to have more control of my life again…
Harbin: (Nods agreement) Any plans till your flight pulls out next week?
Helton: (Shrug) See the sights. Meet people, hopefully a cute one. Get a new coat. Find a game. Try to stop being amazed that I actually landed something without killing anyone.
Harbin: If you call that a landing.
Helton: (Joking) Picky, picky, picky. We walked away, didn’t we?
Harbin: (Grudgingly) Technically. If you define “walk away” broadly enough… All things considered, you did well. You did your family proud.
They lean back in their chairs, clink glasses in salute to events and each other, and take a drink.
FADE TO BLACK
Cards
FADE IN
INT - NIGHT - Discreetly lit, respectable-looking entertainment establishment
Helton sits at a card table with seven others. All are nicely dressed, steampunk-ish general style, and there are a lot of chips on the table. Three players are women. A half dozen people watch the game. Helton has the smallest stack, but it’s substantial. He eyes his cards, and the lone ten of spades in the center of the table, then tosses in a pair of chips. The next person folds silently. The next pushes in two to meet and raises by three chips of a different kind. There are murmurs from the onlookers.
DISSOLVE TO
Down to six at the table, and Helton’s heap of chips is about average compared to the others. He pushes in a stack of ten brightly colored chips next to the three of diamonds, adding to the pile already there, prompting many surprised exclamations by the observers. Beside him, a long-haired woman slams down her cards in disgust. The next man only has ten chips of the same kind left. He nervously eyes the pot, his hand, his chips again, swallows, and pushes his stack in. The next guy folds. A dozen people are now watching.
DISSOLVE TO
Only two other guys left in the game. Two dozen people watch. Only a small pot, and three-fourths of the chips not in the pot are in front of Helton. GrimGuy (skinny, long flowing hair, goatee, shades) has most of the rest. Trembler (average build, sharply dressed, short hair) only has ten chips left. The center card is a nine of clubs. Helton carefully looks over the other two players stacks and pushes forward a pile, about half what GrimGuy has remaining. The dealer rakes it closer to the pot but keeps it carefully separate. Trembler trembles, realizing he’s forced out, or at least can’t win from a large side pot. GrimGuy matches Helton’s bet, and again the dealer keeps it slightly apart. Trembler trembles more.
Dealer:. (To Trembler) All in with a side pot, add money, or fold?
The largish crowd of onlookers exclaim and murmur.
Trembler: No. No. You can’t force me out like this. You CAN’T! I need the whole pot!
GrimGuy: Shut up. You know the rules.
Trembler: You CAN’T!
Dealer: If you cannot add money to match, you’re only in the main pot.
Trembler looks around at the other two players and the crowd desperately, seeking a way out of his bind, looking like he’d like to beg but knows it wouldn’t help him.
Trembler: But… but… how… how about my ship?
Helton and GrimGuy both study him. The surrounding crowd hushes to hear.
Helton: (Flatly) Your ship?
Trembler: (Starting scared, then more convinced) Yes. Yes. I have a starship at the port over in Adelaide. I… I’ll put the title in the pot to match you (looking at GrimGuy). It’s worth far more than that, and-
He cuts himself off, fearing he’ll scare them into refusing. GrimGuy and Helton look at each other. Then at Trembler. At the pot and side pot. At each other.
Trembler: Hey, it’s not that unheard of. Some famous ships have been won in card games!
GrimGuy: Title?
Trembler pats his vest pocket. The crowd murmurs in surprise.
Helton: Verify it before accepting?
Trembler produces a slim packet of fancy paper with a credit-card sized hunk of plastic bonded into one corner. The dealer brings out a handheld scanner unit. He scans Trembler’s face, hand, and title, scanning close to the corner smart card. The unit beeps.
INSET - Scan unit reads “100 percent ownership of the twenty-thousand ton starship Tajemnica verified.”
The dealer nods to the other players, indicating it’s his to bet.
Dealer: Are you pledging this ship, the… (awkwardly butchering pronunciation) uh, Tajemnica (tah-JEM-ni-ka) as collateral?
Trembler: It’s Tajemnica (TA-zhem-NEETZ-ah)
Dealer: Ah, OK. You pledge the, er, Taj… ah, this ship, for the bets on the table for this hand, of your own free will, and promise transfer of ownership to the winner, effective immediately, if you do not win fairly?
Trembler: (Faintly) I do.
Dealer: Do both of you accept this asset title as a matching bet, going to the winner of this hand?
Helton: (Nodding) Yup.
GrimGuy: (Motionless) I… Yes.
The dealer nods and places the title on top of the pot on the table.
Helton pushes in enough to match GrimGuy’s remaining chips. Grim pushes all in to match.
Dealer: It’s a contract. All bets matched and called.
More crowd exclamations.
The players stare at each other.
Dealer: Show you cards, please, gentlemen.
Trembler lays down his four cards. A full house, using the center nine to match his nine of hearts, with a trio of fours. The crowd gasps and exclaims.
GrimGuy smiles. He puts down his cards. Also a full house. The center nine matches his nine of spades, and he has a trio of jacks! Trembler shakes and twitches more spasmodically, sweat breaking out on his brow, but he doesn’t say a word, as everyone now stares at Helton.
Helton holds his hand silently for a moment, looking at the pot. Then, ever so slowly, he tosses them down, one at a time. Two of spades. Two of hearts. Two of clubs… Two of diamonds. The crowd explodes realizing that he won, beating TWO full houses. GrimGuy just grows grimmer, and Trembler seems to faint dead away. The Dealer pushes the pile of chips towards Helton, who sits motionlessly
, staring at the chips, with a growing smile.
FADE TO BLACK
Tajemnica
FADE IN
EXT - DAY - Airspace high above a city
A graceful midsized low-orbital ship knifes through the air above the modest spaceport of Adelaide. A wide and tan plain stretches to low mountains, the blue sky above has scattered clouds, and a modest city sprawls away to one side of the port.
An aerial view follows the fifty-passenger, sharply streamlined flier as it descends towards the landing field, a simple and dusty facility with a large central building having six evenly spaced concourses radiating out. Along each concourse are pairs of landing pads, small ones close to the center, larger ones further out, and a narrow landing strip on one side for the occasional aerodynamic-lift sport craft. A dozen ships of various sizes and shapes are in port. The main road leads from the end of the widest concourse toward town. Meandering away from the other arms are narrower roads leading to warehouses and industrial areas scattered along that edge of town. A few smaller pads are scattered about near some of the outbuildings farther from the main terminal, with a collection of ship parts, wreckage, tarp-covered heaps, and personal aircraft and spacecraft. Near one of these beige outbuildings is a squat, dirty, angular, partially tarp-covered, very dusty craft that is all but unnoticed. The flier zips down, heading for one of the midsized landing pads.
CUT TO
INT - DAY - Passenger cabin of the flier
Helton sits in a window seat looking out eagerly, dressed in a new traveler’s coat with nice clothes underneath. Next to him sits a young man in shabby-looking clothes, Floyd, also craning his neck to see out the window.
Floyd: Wow. Twenty thousand tons. Good-sized ship. Two-hundred meters or more. Must be one of those on the outer ring.
Helton: Hope so. They look nice. Shiny.
Floyd: Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ve been away a few months. Must be new here.
Helton: Know soon enough.
FADE TO
INT - DAY - Spaceport concourse central hub
Helton stands at an information counter. The young woman at the counter shakes her head.
InfoClerk: Sorry sir, no ship registered by that name here.
Helton: Are you sure? I had it confirmed before I left. It’s my ship. It must be here.
InfoClerk: Nothing on the computer… Do you know if it landed in the last thirty days?
Helton: Actually, I, um, I’m not sure when it came in. Won it in a card game.
InfoClerk: (Apologetically as she digs for more data) Hmmm… sorry, no commercial or private craft registered with the port on any landing pad by that name. (Tap-tap-tap on the computer) No landings or takeoffs in the last year by any craft of that name. (Tap tap tap) No fuel requests under that name… No quarantines on it. No bonded cargo listed as being from it. Or for it. No passengers, either. If it’s here, it’s a Flying Dutchman.
InfoClerk looks up at Helton, shrugs her shoulders and spreads her hands in mute apology.
Helton: Is there anyone else here that I could talk to?
InfoClerk shakes her head.
Helton takes a deep breath, leans on the counter, and looks tired.
InfoClerk glances over Helton’s shoulder, sees Floyd, waves him over.
InfoClerk: Glad to see you’re back.
Floyd: (To Helton) Which is it?
Helton shakes his head.
Floyd: (Surprised, to Info Clerk) Not here?
InfoClerk: No. He says he checked before coming, but… (shrugs to indicate no data).
Floyd: Could it be one of the hulks?
InfoClerk: Maybe. Boneyard ships are a different company.
Helton: (Worried) Boneyard?
Floyd: Ships that can’t fly. Old wrecks and such. Used for parts and parties. Not likely, though. None of them are that big, unless it’s a small ore hauler. They’re something like 30k gross tonnes, I think.
Helton has a pained expression on his face.
Floyd: I’m headed that way. Work out past the end of Concourse 4. We could take a look out there first so I can check in, though there’s nothing anywhere close to that mass out there. Maybe one of the old guys knows something about it.
Helton: Well, it’s a start. Lead the way.
Floyd heads down the concourse, Helton following.
Allonia
DISSOLVE TO
EXT - DAY - Road on the outskirts of the port
Helton walks along a dusty road between an outbuilding and old, tarp-covered, dusty, crusty, ship. He stops, looks at the generic beige warehouse building, sporting the number 1701.
Helton: (To self) Well, there’s the right building, and he said across from it.
He looks at the ship. Looks at the building number. At the ship. He makes a skeptical face and shakes his head.
The ship is a little more than 70 meters long, and half that wide. It looks like it’s been there forever. Streaked, dirty, large tarps over parts of it, uncertain color underneath the crud and graffiti. It’s a very simple and angular design like a flattened hexagonal prism, with sharply pointed ends. It seems to be resting directly on the ground, without landing struts or gear holding it up. There is a fold-away boarding hatchway/ramp in the side that is down, and it looks massively thick. It is about 1.5m wide, with an old-fashioned airlock hatch open at the top, slightly inset. Dimly visible in the shadows, something inside of that is closed across the hatch. Overall, it looks like a mostly intact wreck of a very old ship. A tarp flaps in the wind, reminiscent of an abandoned building in a spaghetti western, and under it he catches a glimpse of lettering. He steps up to get a better look. Under it, hand painted in fading, chipped paint, is Tajemnica.
Helton: (Quietly to himself) Well, well, well. So here you are. At least the rest of the chips were worth something. (Sighs in resignation) Not quite what I was led to expect, but free’s a good price. Let’s see what sort of mysteries are inside.
He mounts the stairs cautiously. They seem rock solid. At the top of the stairs is a scan pad with a dim light next to it. He holds the title up to it, and pushes a button. Nothing. He holds his hand to the pad. Nothing. He folds the paper up, slips it back in his breast pocket, reaches forward and opens the door. It is a simple home-made screen door. He steps in through it. Dark inside. The screen door closes with a sharp bang behind him. He pulls out and turns on a small flashlight, revealing a cramped, narrow passageway into the ship, about 3m long to the next open heavy-duty airlock hatch. He stands next to another airlock door at the top of the stairs. It looks like an ancient submarine with sets of massive water-tight hatches. He moves cautiously inward. As he passes the inner hatchway, there is a slight scuffle off to his left in the dark. He casts his light beam around. The inner hatchway opens into the middle of the box-shaped cargo bay, 40m long, 8m wide, and 6m high. Several other hatches are visible, two large cargo doors at each end, and a number of 80cm x 1.5m wide windows looking onto it from the next deck up. Some of those windows are propped open, swinging up and into the cargo bay. A couple of chain hoists hang from above at one end, and lots of assorted things lay about the deck: barrels, crates, some odd cylinders (about 70cm across and 1m long with a 10cm hole in the top), metal beams, an ATV up on blocks with a missing wheel, tools, and a stack of boxes labeled “do not stack,” with their “this side up” arrows pointing every which way. He hears another scuffling sound, and he jerks the light in that direction. Nothing but dark, motionless stuff.
Helton: (Quietly) I think she might be needing just a bit more than a coat of paint. LIGHTS!
No response from the ship. He flashes his beam around and sees a com-panel with switches and another dim LED on the wall. He moves a switch. Nothing. He pulls out the title paper, holds it up to the scanner. Nothing. He hears another scurrying sound, and again his flashlight dimly shows nothing but a very abandoned and creepy looking ship. He pockets the title, switches the light to his left hand, pulls out a small locking knife and flicks it open, snic
k. He lights up the cargo bay to his left, where across the cargo doors the word STERN is printed in large letters. Swinging the light the other way he sees BOW. A pair of flags are painted on the top edge, about a half-meter on a side, one below the other. The top flag is a blue cross on a white background, the lower flag has three horizontal stripes with blue on top, then white and red below.
He advances cautiously toward the bow of the ship, scanning his light slowly around the ship and clutter. Approaching the bow door a hatch goes to a stairway and a storage area. He heads upstairs. Behind each riser of the stair is, faintly readable and not really noticed, a virtue, such as BRAVERY, DEPENDABILITY, and FAITH. Every stair riser on the ship has them. He climbs one level to the middeck and casts his light down the passageway. It is clean and orderly, with a couple of hatches receding into the distance. He moves a few meters down the cramped passageway, and casts his light into a side door. It reveals a small cabin, only about 2.5m wide and 4m deep, lined with a dozen close-spaced bunks three high on each side, two each end to end, and a set of small lockers at the back wall, with a low row of drawers along the floor. It looks and feels tight, like a bunkroom in an ancient submarine. He moves along to the next door, revealing an identical cabin. Behind the next door is a galley and serving line, partly neat and orderly and clean, and partially a mess of heaped stuff. He sniffs the air, and makes a face as he recognizes the pleasant smell of fresh food . There is another scampering sound, and he whirls, knife at the ready. Nothing. A clink-rattle-rattle, and he whirls the other way. Another scampering sound, the thwap of something hitting his coat from behind. He jumps, startled.
Helton: YAARRGG!
Quinn: TAG! YOU’RE IT!
In the beam of his flashlight, Quinn (five-year-old boy, messy hair, dirty clothes, barefoot) runs away down the passageway and around a corner, laughing.
Helton: Hey! Wait! Who are you! Where are you going! STOP!
