How Beer Saved the World

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Sundancer, you free to go, mon. Have a safe trip and be back soon,” came the usual response.

  “Tortuga Control, you know I can’t stay away,” he smiled. “See you in two weeks.” Jack loved Tortuga, a warm and pleasant world with manners as relaxed as its laws. Of course, it was a sharp contrast to the planet he was going to, but them’s the breaks.

  The Sundancer’s thrusters flared, as Jack gave her full power. Like an angel ascending on wings of fire, she swiftly reached escape velocity and broke free of the planet’s gravity well. The auto-nav plotted the fastest course possible to the planet Isis, in the Alpha System. In the ship’s hold she carried 20,000 stuffed panda toys. In her plumbing she carried 10,000 liters of very fine beer. The toys were legal, the beer... not so much.

  <<>>

  Having pipes filled with beer had certain disadvantages. Sure, all he needed to do was turn on a facet to pour himself a cold one, but taking a shower in beer is not a good idea, and using the toilet would just flush away profits. So, for the next six days, Jack drank and bathed with bottled water. The empty bottles also had a use, and relieved him of the need to use the ship’s toilet for the most part. Unfortunately, this uncomfortable arrangement was completely necessary to get his illicit cargo past the Isis Public Protectors.

  Beer wasn’t exactly illegal on Isis. The planet even operated a small, state run, brewery. Unfortunately, that brewery produced some of the most God-awful, crap-tastic beer in the known universe. The label on this vile brew called it ‘Isis Nectar.’ Everybody who tried it called it ‘Isis Piss.’ Jack tried a sip of it once, and it instantly reminded him of the time he passed by a bad ammonia leak from a recycling system. Still, the state that produced this sudsy abomination intended to sell it. So, how did they get folks to choose their crap beer over the competition? Simple, they taxed the living hell out of all imported brews, until most folks had little choice but to choke it down or go through life sober... and who would want to do that?

  Sundancer’s pipes contained nothing but the best, a brand called “Rocket Fuel Beer”. Once it got past the state’s customs goons, it sold for a reasonable price in taverns planet-wide. Jack felt a prick of pride for giving the common man his due. And by going ’round the taxman Jack made himself one hell of a profit. At this rate, he figured, the Sundancer would be paid off in only three more years.

  <<>>

  Approaching Isis’s orbit, Jack’s scanners picked up an outgoing blip. Automatically, the I screens flashed the ident’; the MJS Vagabond, an old tub of a medium freighter, home-ported on a nowhere planet called Tarkan. He just shook his head, amazed that something that ugly could actually fly. Still, no reason to be unfriendly, he glanced once again at his commo unit.

  “This is MJS Sundancer to MJS Vagabond. Lulu, how the hell are you?”

  The Vagabond’s captain replied in her thick Russian accent, “Jack, you son of bitch, long time, no see. We hear you not making Earth to Rama run anymore.”

  “No, I got tired of doing military cargoes. Made me feel like I was still back in the service; and you know how I love taking orders. What are you guys up to now-days?” Jack asked.

  “We do run from Tortuga to Isis, mostly.”

  “No shit? Me too. Next time we’re on the same ball of dirt, we’ve got to have a drink together.”

  “Is deal, we buy you first round, you buy every round after.”

  “Ha!” Jack laughed. “Well, I got Isis Control on the other channel. Suppose I better get my approach vector before they start shooting. Safe voyage, Vagabond.”

  “Catch you on flip side, Sundancer. Lulu, out.” And with that, Jack switched to the other channel to get his landing instructions. He followed them to the letter all the way to a docking pad at the main starport.

  <<>>

  “Captain Galloway, I am Protector Johnson. May I see your manifest?” said the man in the steel-blue uniform with the standard issue, bureaucratic face.

  “Yes, Sir,” Jack replied, as he handed the man his printout.

  The official studied the manifest much longer than Jack thought necessary. “Captain, I see you are transporting toys again. Is it to the same buyer as before?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Jack felt that when dealing with uncompromising and efficient public officials, it’s best to keep answers short. Calling them ‘Sir’ didn’t hurt either.

  “I see. Well, there should be no problem then. Unless, you have something else to tell me?” The cop let the question linger menacingly in the air.

  “No, Sir.”

  “Very well. Please proceed to the clinic for your mandatory health check while we perform a routine search of your ship.” Over his shoulder, Jack saw a squad of IPP cops advancing toward the Sundancer, scanners in hand. This was the part that always made Jack nervous. If just one of them decided to wash his hands the gig was up. Still, he had no choice. He walked to the clinic for the usual off-worlder’s med exam.

  Of all the planets of the Confederation, Isis had the strictest health laws. Jack didn’t really blame them for that. After all, a plague almost wiped out the planet’s population within the first ten years of human colonization about a century ago. The medical and scientific types sealed themselves in quarantine and developed a cure, while the rest of the colonists died of the disease... or were changed by it. Those who caught it and lived mutated, and so too their descendants. Many folks said that mutants were filthy, crazy, and downright unstable. But Jack knew different. To his experience, mutants were just folk with no hair and jaguar spots on their skin. Still, that didn’t keep the Regime of Isis from exploiting and abusing them every chance it got. Damn shame, really.

  Two hours later, Jack finished with his exam and the Sundancer’s search was over. Fortunately none of the Public Protectors needed to use the ship’s can. As the old lift-trucks arrived to unload the stuffed pandas, Jack decided to take his shore leave. Time to visit Chad.

  <<>>

  Jack knew Chad from his Navy days. They served together on the CJS Olympus during the Tau-Ceti Crisis. Old Chad was one of those ‘spooks’ from Fleet Command who needed a closer look of the bad guys, and Jack had been just crazy enough to fly him there. The fact that Chad was of the bald and spotted set didn’t bother Jack a damn bit. A friend was a friend.

  Jack knew the way to Chad’s house by heart. Just take the public tubes from the starport to the Dumpberg Station, and then walk six blocks to the old shantytown by the river.

  As Jack approached the house, he noticed some things had changed a bit. For one thing Chad had fewer neighbors. A couple of lots were newly vacant and the char of fire stained the rubble-strewn ground. Chad’s house was perfectly intact but had a new steel door and a trip-wire fence. Otherwise, the outside looked like the same mud/brick/sheet-metal disaster Jack knew so well.

  Chad must have seen Jack coming as he opened his front door wide. “Jack, you old nutcase! How ya’ doing?”

  Jack regarded Chad’s stained, gray coveralls. “A lot better than you, shipmate! Where’s the suit and tie?” Work clothes were not Chad’s style. He had the noble bearing of a king among the peasants of the space-lanes, and usually dressed the part.

  “Well, these days a mutie’ who puts on airs is asking for too much attention,” Chad said with a shake of his head. “You look like shit yourself. Come on in and take a load off.”

  Jack walked past the battered porch and into the opulent living room. Chad’s missus was a fine lady from Central City. Her folks worked in the manor houses of Isis’s sovereign citizens, and she knew how to decorate. As Jack took off his old black leather jacket and draped it over a couch, he saw her enter the room with twin rug rats playing around her knees.

  He could never keep them straight. There names were Ader and Adora, both cute as hell at eight years old. Nothing disarmed Jack faster than their dimples. He kept that to himself, however. Jack didn’t think he would make a very good father, not after his dad’s example anyway.

  “Hello, Emma, t
hose kids overrun you yet?” Jack said with a smile.

  “Mr. Galloway, you know some people actually like raising children. A few of us even do it on purpose,” she said. Her regal smile and warm eyes beamed to him through her tan and cream spotted face. Turning to her kids, she said, “Now, go outside. It’s too nice of a day to play indoors.”

  “But Mom...” the kids said in unison.

  “No buts, out!” she said as she pointed at the door.

  The girls turned to smile and wave to the visitor before scampering out of the house.

  Jack returned the grin and waved ‘bye-bye.’ Then, the three friends sat down for some coffee and conversation on the soft couches that circled the living room.

  “So, Jack, when are we going to hear the news that you’re settled down and raising children?’ Emma asked.

  Jack’s eyes went wide as he turned and silently pleaded to Chad for help.

  “Honey, Mr. Jack Galloway is definitely not the child raising type. He has one big kid that he looks out for, and that’s himself, and sometimes he’s not so good at that either. Like the time he got thirty days in the brig for hitting an officer,” Chad said with a roguish wink.

  Emma smiled as she poured the coffee. “Smart man like you, Jack? Say it wasn’t so?”

  Jack winced at the memory. “Stupid of me. The lieutenant was talking about a classified operation on the mess decks. Chad and I were doing a lot of recon flights over missile batteries back then. We found most of them through contacts Chad made on the ground.”

  Chad nodded. “A lot of good people were taking big risks talking to me. If the Populists found out who tipped us off, they would’ve been happy to shoot ‘em. Jack met a few of my sources when he flew me to meets.”

  “Yea, and there was this real good guy—Voss. I think you called him Voss?”

  “That was one of his names,” Chad nodded as he smiled a Cheshire cat smile.

  “Yea, anyway, Voss, real nice fellow. Always brought us a pie when we met him. Can you believe it? We’re meeting in a burnt out shack in the jungle and this guy brings a pie!”

  “Quite a character,” Chad agreed with a chuckle. “The only people who knew that Voss was a source of mine were Jack, myself, and Lieutenant Hendri, the intelligence officer who read my reports.”

  “And what a dumb-ass,” Jack chimed in. “One day I’m’ having my lunch on the Olympia’s mess deck, when this moron starts talking about our missions. Hendri wanted to impress some pretty ensign, I guess. Might have been trying to compensate for his size XL schnoze. Anyway, I tried to get him to shut up polite like, ‘Excuse me, sir. But do you really mean to be talking about that?’ I said. But this idiot was just too full of himself. Hendri says ‘Spacer, mind your damn place.’ So, I reached across the table and put my fist into his honker. It was too big a target to miss. The guy fell back in his chair with this ‘what the hell’ look on his face. Funniest thing I ever saw. Next thing I know, five marines are piling on top of me, and I’m off to the brig. God, I learned my lesson. There ain’t no beer in jail.”

  “I got word from counterintelligence that there was a Populist sympathizer on the ship,” Chad said. “Jack, maybe if you hadn’t hit that little creep, Voss might not have made it to Earth. Last I heard he’s working at some restaurant and doing well for himself.”

  “Selling pies?” Jack asked.

  “Probably,” Chad answered.

  Jack mulled it over. “Maybe, maybe not, Chad. I just wish I hadn’t had to share a cell with Petty Officer Kent. God what a whiner! But hey, thanks for the party when I got out.”

  Chad smiled, “Least I could do.”

  “Tell me about the party,” said Emma.

  Jack and Chad just looked at each other and smiled. Both glanced at the souvenir jacket draped over the couch.

  “Best I not say, Honey. Military secret,” Chad replied.

  Emma began to glare at Chad, so Jack switched subjects by commenting on the neighborhood’s new look. The mood in the room took a nosedive as Chad heaved a sigh.

  “Riot,” his friend answered, “About a month ago. The rebels scored a big victory in the swampland south of Central City. Scared the living crap out of the Regime. Next thing you know the news is full of anti-mutant hysteria. You know, the usual bigoted bullshit. Anyway... a gang of sovereign citizens came ’round here with firebombs, and a lot of hate. I used a sonic-screamer that the government didn’t know about, and they kept away from my house, but it was still awful. Our kids still wake up crying every now and again.”

  Jack heard that the mutant rebellion had gained speed, but he had no idea how close to the starport the fighting had gotten. “Chad, you’re staying out of this right? I know you got that secret squirrel training, but it won’t do you any good if things get real bad. The Regime shoots spies. This is the perfect time to just mind your own damn business.”

  Chad gave Jack that half-twist of a smile he always gave before he lied. “No problem, shipmate. I’ve got no business getting mixed up in the movement. That would just put my whole family in danger, and where would we run to if that happened?”

  With the coffee finished, Jack made his goodbyes and headed back to the starport. After all, he had a schedule to keep.

  <<>>

  Back at the starport, Jack walked past the customs cops and onto the Sundancer’s docking pad. He took a moment to let his gaze sweep over her as the sun of Isis set below the horizon, its dying rays twinkling off her red hull. Man, such a beautiful ship.

  When he took his eyes from her, he turned his head to the sound of a maintainer truck approaching the pad. The driver, an old lady Jack had met before, gave him a quizzical look and Jack replied with a thumbs-up. She smiled as she dismounted the vehicle, lunch box in hand, and unraveled the hose from the back of her rig. The side of the truck read ‘water,’ but Jack knew its tank was empty. He watched as the driver screwed the hose into the portside access of the Sundancer’s life-support panel. She pulled the release handle and the beer flowed secretly into the truck.

  Jack and the driver sat by the pad and chitchatted about nothing in particular for a few minutes. When the tank filled up, she disconnected the hose and drove away. Funny thing, she left her lunch box on the docking pad. Jack wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, so he picked it up and took it aboard his ship. Sure enough, it contained cash for 10,000 liters of beer, a very nice sum indeed.

  <<>>

  In another week’s time Jack found himself back on Tortuga, and what should be parked next to the Sundancer but that old rust bucket, the Vagabond. Well, this was just too good a chance to pass up. He went to his pantry and got his best bottle of whiskey and marched right over to the next docking pad to pay his neighbors-of-the-moment a visit.

  “I buy the first drink, and YOU buy every one after. Is that the deal I recall you making, comrade?” Jack said.

  Captain Lulu looked down from the top of the Vagabond’s gangway at the black leather clad space bum and smiled. “Da, something like that. You get ass aboard. I find some glasses.”

  The Vagabond’s common room showed real old school space travel design. Back when she was new, couches that doubled as acceleration safeties and cupboards that secured shot glasses in dura-foam probably seemed trendy as well as practical. Now the whole thing just looked obsolete. Still, Jack knew the difference between heaven and hell is the people you meet. The Vagabond’s spacers were all-right guys by him. He threw his jacket onto a chair and took a seat.

  Lulu handed him a glass while she undid the bottle’s cap. Short Stack Mack, the Vagabond’s diminutive navigator, went to get a deck of cards as soon as he saw Jack enter. Deirdre, the ship’s pilot, jumped in Jack’s lap and gave him a big sloppy kiss on the forehead. “Good to see you too, kiddo,” he said to the cute mutant girl.

  Drinks were poured and cards dealt. This was Jack Galloway in his natural environment, hanging out with a bunch of spacer bums without a care in the galaxy. After all, what’s freedom if you c
an’t enjoy it? The whiskey bottle soon emptied.

  “So, what’re you guys hauling to Isis these days?” Jack asked as Short Stack opened a bottle of vodka. “Can’t be making too much money. We’re betting less than ten credits a hand here.”

  “Nothing,” Deirdre answered. Lulu and Short Stack shot a look at their pilot that said ‘shut-up’, and the room got quiet.

  Jack looked at his hand, a king, a queen, a pair, and a jack of the wrong suit. Nobody flies from star to star for nothing. He ante'd-up one credit. “Well that would explain your obvious affluence. Tell you guys what. I got a real sweet set up. I run beer past the customs goons. Make a forty-five percent profit every time. Don’t mind expanding the franchise if you’re interested?”

  The Vagabond’s crew eyed each other for a moment. Lulu spoke up, “Thanks Jack, we know you all-right-guy. We don’t need any more risk. We okay for now.”

  Jack thought about that. Risk is part of life. Sure, you didn’t go into a vacuum without a space suit on, but risk came to everyone, whether they faced it or not. The only question was, which risks were worth taking and which weren’t. He poured a shot and took a sip of the vodka. He preferred the whiskey, but it hadn’t lasted long.

  “Yea, sure... it’s a risk. I get caught and I lose my ship. Customs takes the Sundancer, and I spend maybe thirty days in the slammer for tax evasion. But at the rate I’m pulling in the dough, I can have the ship free and clear in just a few more years. Look at this crate,” he waved his arm about the Vagabond’s common room. “I bet the first spacer to fly in a ship like this has been dead for seventy years or more! It’s held together with spit and chewing gum for Christ’s sake. You flat out need the cash, and I’m just trying to help.”

  Lulu looked at her crew as they each gave their silent answer with a shake of their heads. “No. You trying to help folks so are we. We can’t afford to have Vagabond found with cargo of beer when we already carrying so much.”

  “What is it? Drugs? Weapons for the resistance? What the hell can you be carrying that is so damn risky but pays so damn bad?”