by Cary Caffrey
The Girls from Alcyone
Merchantman
by Cary Caffrey
Copyright © 2013
The Girls from Alcyone: Merchantman. Published by Cary Caffrey. Copyright 2013 by Cary Caffrey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit Cary Caffrey at carycaffrey.com
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This story is a work of fiction created by the author. All characters, events and organizations portrayed in this novel are works of the author's imagination.
Copyright 2013 by Cary Caffrey
carycaffrey.com
Cover art by Anne Pogoda
Published by Alcyone Studio, NB, Canada
All rights reserved.
Contents
Merchantman
Author Notes
Merchantman
"Blast!" Sigrid said.
Twisting, turning, arms spread out or tucked in, nothing she did made any difference. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space.
Stars spun by her fractured visor. Every point-four-six seconds she saw the blinding binary stars of Alpha Phoenicis flash past. It was only Sigrid's enhanced physiology, the nano-swarms that surged within her system, that halted the rise of bile in her throat and kept her from losing consciousness completely. But she had greater worries to consider.
Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit and damaged her oxygen feed; the mixture was far too rich. Her bionic systems did their mechanical best to compensate, but they were taxed at their limits. Worse, a chunk of the Merchantmen's ship had struck her, nearly cracking open her helmet. A quick calculation determined that the weakened faceplate would soon succumb to the pressure and shatter in less than nine minutes.
Nine minutes to live.
This in itself did not depress Sigrid or bring on any sense of panic. She was too busy cursing, punishing herself. She'd missed all the signs, ignored the warnings of the captain, and allowed all four of their ships to walk willingly into the trap. The traders had never intended to deliver their supplies; Sigrid doubted they ever had them. They were liars. Thieves.
And yet she hadn't seen it.
Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts, all that was left of the Merchantman.
Small mercies, Sigrid thought.
July 21, 2348 (Forty-Eight Hours Earlier)
Alpha Phoenicis Space
White light gave way to the blackness of space; like snow melting away, large white droplets scattered, forming into billions of individual stars. Her warp jump complete, the Ōmi Maru swung around, blasting toward the heart of the Alpha Phoenicis system and her destination, the Konoe Transfer Station, still hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.
The captain of the tramp freighter leaned back in his chair, his fingers kneading the wiry mess of stubble he called a beard.
"Do you honestly think we'll find what we're looking for here," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said; it was more a statement than a question.
Honestly? Sigrid wondered. I have no idea.
All she knew was their new homeworld was in desperate need of supplies. Not just food and materiel for shelters, but machines and equipment, parts for vital defensives systems, everything they would need to make their new homeworld self-sufficient.
Frankly, Sigrid didn't have a clue what she was doing here or why the Lady Hitomi had assigned her this task. Sigrid could think of any number of people more qualified. Karen seemed the obvious choice. The ex-Kimuran orientations officer had a knack for understanding all the nuances of trade regulations; things that repeatedly escaped Sigrid. Of course, no one was more qualified to lead a trade mission than the Lady Hitomi herself, though it was far too dangerous to allow her to do so, for obvious reasons.
The Lady Hitomi was now an enemy combatant as far as the Council was concerned. Sigrid was no less a target. The authorities had not taken kindly to her actions at Scorpii or her destruction of the Warp Relay. For her actions, the Council had placed a bounty the size of a small planet on both of them.
They were wanted, barred from trading with anyone from the Merchants Guild. This left a very thin list of willing trading partners, with even fewer legitimate options open to them.
And so it had been decided. Sigrid would take their four lone transports—four stolen Kimuran freighters crewed by expats and defectors from Aquarii, men and women thoroughly loyal to the Lady Hitomi Kimura. Her destination: an outpost far outside of Council-controlled space, long abandoned by the Federation. Here, with luck, she could make contact with the only persons left willing to trade.
The Merchantmen.
These brokers of goods were not aligned with the Merchants Guild or with the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. They considered such stilted bureaucracies an annoyance, an impediment to true free trade.
"Black marketeers," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. "You should not trust these men, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid agreed. "I'm not sure we have much choice, Captain."
"With all due respect, Ms. Novak, the smartest course of action is to go in, take what you need, and leave. If you happen to injure a few along the way, I'm sure no one will mind."
"Steal?" Sigrid asked. She found it hard to believe the captain would advocate such a plan.
The captain favored her with a knowing look. "Anything they have to sell is already stolen. Besides, when one considers the sums they will demand of us… Now that is thievery."
Sigrid wondered at the older man. She rather liked Captain Trybuszkiewicz, even if pronouncing his name left her tongue twisted and numb. He hadn't always been a freighter captain. In fact, he'd been a commodore in the Kimuran Naval Forces, commanded an entire cruiser division of his own. But all that had changed when the Council had orchestrated the coup against the Lady Hitomi. They had intervened in her affairs, taken her company, her world. Captain Trybuszkiewicz had been one of the first to defect and join with her. It had taken little effort to convince his own crews to follow. These same men and women now crewed the four aging transport ships in service to New Alcyone. Their devotion and dedication to the Lady Hitomi amazed Sigrid. Only their professionalism and attention to duty impressed her more.
"You don't like them," Sigrid said. "These Merchantmen."
"At my age there are few people I like. Fewer that I trust. I trust only that these people are not worth the spit I use to polish my boots. You must be mindful of them and always keep your hands on your purse."
"I don't have a purse." It was true. Sigrid had never carried a purse or a handbag.
The captain smiled.
"We're approaching the transfer station," the helmsman reported.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz nodded. "Slow to 42,000 kph. Signal the dock master. And don't let me hear any nonsense about traffic delays. I want priority docking."
"Aye, sir."
Sigrid moved toward the forward view port, eager to ca
tch her first view of Konoe Station. It was much smaller than Vincenze, much simpler in its design. It didn't appear much larger than the orbital lift platforms in Panama. Few ships were in orbit; the small outpost appeared a cold and friendless place, a dull metallic disc drifting alone in the barren wastes of deep space.
"What on Earth are those?" Sigrid asked. She spied several vehicles moving quickly amongst the sparse traffic. Too small and too fast to be pilot ships or tugs, they danced in and around the waiting ships, the flares from their thrusters making them look like fireflies in the dark.
"Are they service vehicles?"
The captain laughed, his broad shoulders shaking, causing him to wheeze and then cough. "You'll find no service vehicles at Konoe Station, Ms. Novak. These things—they are the toys of children, boys."
"Joy riders," Andrzej Topa explained; he was the ship’s chief engineer. "Troublemakers and layabouts. They take old maneuvering thrusters—engines, anything—strap seats on them, blast themselves to oblivion… Menace to navigation, if you ask me."
Sigrid looked closer, her eyes wide in disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me."
But he wasn't. Sigrid zoomed in with her optical module and scanned the speeding vehicles more closely. The chief was correct. She couldn't believe it; she'd never seen anything like it. These joy riders were insane. The vehicles appeared as nothing more than acceleration couches strapped to rocket motors; the men piloting them wore only pressure suits with no other protection against the elements. They seemed to be racing, performing laps around the station, using ships as turning markers. It looked insanely dangerous.
Sigrid was desperate to give it a try. "They look marvelous."
"Death traps," the captain said.
"I don't know," Sigrid said wistfully, twirling a lock of hair about her fingers. "I think they look like fun. They remind me of those old rockets men would ride on back in the olden days. Those weren't much more involved than these."
Sigrid remembered reading about such things: huge, hulking rockets, packed with unstable propellant; engines welded together with bits of tubing and piping; the pilots riding on top with little more than a tin-plated fairing between them and the cold realities of space.
"Exactly," the captain reiterated. "Death traps."
The chief nudged Sigrid, directing her attention to another ship moving into a berth off their port beam. She was a freighter, but far grander than the likes of the Ōmi Maru or her sister ships. She looked close to one hundred and fifty meters long, roughly the same size and tonnage as their ship. But she had a stately flair to her, her thrusters painted in bright gold and red, her long hull featuring distinctive red piping. She sported several cannon mounts along her starboard side, but as Sigrid scanned them, she knew they would be of little use in a real firefight—probably more for show as a deterrent, never intended to be used in actual fighting. Sigrid scanned her markings; she registered as the Merchantman.
"Our contact," the chief engineer said. "Right on time."
"Dock master says we're cleared for approach."
The captain leaned back, pulling his cap down over his eyes. "Good. Wake me when we arrive."
* * *
"Are you sure about this?" Sigrid said.
She was standing in the airlock with the captain, the chief and the ship's three crew—the entire crew complement of the Ōmi Maru. The Kimuran officers had changed from their usual uniforms and now wore the rough workmen's clothes familiar to tramp freighter crews. Sigrid had done likewise. She sported a heavy wool skirt and a sweater with a high collar rolled over and down. It was hot and itched, and the knitting was already unfurling in several spots.
"You look perfect, Ms. Novak," the captain said. "I fear our normal accoutrements might attract the wrong kind of attention, but you look like a true mariner."
"Don't worry," the chief said. "No one will look at you twice here."
The captain scratched his beard; Sigrid caught his eyes on her as he scrutinized her attire. They had taken great effort to dress her as them. Her long blond hair was braided and tucked beneath a too-large knitted cap. The bulky sweater did a reasonable job at disguising her small but powerful figure, making her appear shorter than her five foot one-point-five inches, if that were possible. But there was no getting around the fact that Sigrid would always stand out in a crowd. The exact nature of the alterations to her physiology was a closely guarded secret; her array of bionic enhancements even more of a mystery. Whether Sigrid would ever realize it or not, she was special and she would never pass as normal.
The chief lifted his cap and scratched his forehead. "Well, the other freighter crews might want to buy you a round, but I don't think you'll raise any suspicions. Maybe try not to stand so straight. Slouch your shoulders a bit. There that's it. Maybe if we take your hair…"
"Enough!" Captain Trybuszkiewicz shouted. "We go."
Without further discussion, the captain hit the switch opening the airlock.
Unlike Vincenze, there was no security on the docking platform waiting to greet them. In fact, there was no one in sight at all. Trash and debris littered the docking ring. Someone had left a series of incoherent scrawlings painted on the walls and ceiling, and the overhead lighting flickered in an annoying fashion, blinking out its need for repair.
"What happened here?" Sigrid asked.
"Independents," the captain said; it was clear he did not approve. "They wrested control of this station from the CTF years ago. Claimed the space for their own."
"They took over?"
The captain made a sniffing noise. "Before abandoning it. Revolutionaries seldom consider what will happen after their battles are over. They had no plan to govern this place. Don't misunderstand, I have no love of the Council, but at least they know how to change a light fixture. With the Independents…well, you can see the result."
Sigrid took care stepping over a collapsed support beam. "Who governs the station, then? Who's in charge?"
"In charge? If you mean the law…? Well, we must be cautious."
The docking ring led out into a holding area. This seemed to be a warehouse of some sort, the entire length filled with what appeared to be abandoned intermodal shipping containers, some stacked, some overturned, rusting and covered with even more of the graffiti. Several of the containers had been cut open, turned into makeshift residences and storefronts. Sigrid spied several vendors emerging from the shelters as they approached, eager to showcase their wares to the newcomers.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz waved them all away, his officers manhandling some of the more persistent peddlers.
"They don't get many customers on this level. Come. The place we want is just up ahead."
The lift was out, leaving their group to climb three stories up a winding staircase to the station's main level. Sigrid reasoned the station's environmental systems must have been malfunctioning here. The narrow stairwell was damp, puddled, and rank with mold. And worse. Sigrid was glad to have the ability to ramp down her olfactory sensors. She didn't envy the crew of the Ōmi Maru having to endure the stench.
When they emerged on the main concourse, it was to the relief of all. Much brighter and busier than the lower levels, the main concourse practically bustled with activity—if she could call the slow shuffling of Konoe's residents 'bustling.'
Passersby kept their faces lowered, heads down, too interested in staring at their own bootlaces to take notice of Sigrid or her companions. She saw the reason for this. Groups of armed youths occupied each of the corners; young men and younger boys brandished assault weapons and rifles, patrolled, and kept watch on the crowds. Sigrid scanned the weapons—mostly antiques and not well cared for. Criminal. One pedestrian who strayed too close to one of the groups got a boot to the backside and ordered to move along. The boys seemed disappointed when the man obeyed. She could see they were looking for an excuse, any reason to demonstrate their dominance, their power.
"Local militia," the captain explained.
&n
bsp; "Gangs," Chief Topa elaborated. "After the CTF pushed the Independents out, they didn't think to leave anyone in charge here. Now these thugs control everything—if one can call it control."
A scattering of brightly lit signs added minimal color to the depressing surroundings. Electronic placards and storefronts announced a variety of services: asteroid prospecting, claims services, weaponsmiths, and of course, the flesh traders were everywhere. Their destination was up ahead. Neon flashed like a beacon in the gloom. Sigrid heard the low throb of music sounding from deep inside the structure.
"A gentleman's club?" Sigrid asked skeptically.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz held the door and ushered them inside. "The location is of our contact's choosing—though I'd hardly call these men gentlemen."
Sigrid had seen such places before and thought she was prepared, but this place was nothing like the Paradise on Gliese. It was neither raucous nor festive, and no host rushed to greet them. The girls and boys that worked the room were younger than she: weary, battered, drained of life and hope. It sickened her to think that men thought to profit from their misery. Perhaps she would have words with the management…
The captain must have sensed her anger and put a reassuring hand on her arm. "We're here for a purpose, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid forced herself to unclench her fists. "Of course, sir."
He was right. Their mission was of vital importance. Her friends were relying on her.
Sigrid scanned the room. The man they sought was here, this trader, leader of the Merchantmen. He occupied a table on a raised platform to the rear overlooking the club. He was fat; rolls of pudgy flesh billowed out between the folds of his trousers and his shirt. The vile cologne he wore threatened to overwhelm her sensors from across the room. Worse odors lingered. Two girls sat to either side of him, barely aware of their surroundings. Drugged, Sigrid knew. The morphgesic cocktail in their blood stream registered heavily in her PCM. It was a miracle the girls were conscious. Tired eyes looked up at her as she approached, suspicious, leery, their thin hands clinging to the fat man at their side and the coin he promised.
