by Peter Grant
Hesitation warred with gratitude on Steve's features. At last he surrendered. "Thanks, Mr. Brackmann, I'm obliged to you. Of course, it may not be necessary, if Cabot's Captain turns me down. Better wait and see."
Vince added, "Thanks, Louie. That's big of you." He set down his knife and fork, surveying the empty plate with satisfaction. "I'm going to have to give your cook a fat tip. That was great!" He looked up. "OK, Steve. You'll hear from me tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Sir!"
Chapter 3: January 23rd, 2837 GSC
Steve tore his gaze away from the display window of Spacer Supply long enough to rub his weary eyes. He hadn't got much sleep after his conversation with the Bosun. He was on tenterhooks, waiting to hear whether this was the lucky break he'd been hoping and praying for, or whether he'd have to possess himself in patience a while longer.
He couldn't keep his eyes from returning to the wares on offer. Spacesuits, protective work gear and an array of gleaming tools were artistically arranged in the window, interspersed with tri-dee holopics of nubile young men and women, wearing very little indeed, draping themselves seductively around models wearing and (very ineptly) pretending to use the objects in question. He wanted the gear so badly he could almost taste it... but he couldn't help thinking to himself, grinning, that those 'spacers' would undoubtedly have a very hard time keeping their minds on their jobs, with so many distractions so temptingly to hand.
His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his PIA behind his ear, signifying an incoming call. As he focused on the display in his right eye, his heart began to pound. It was the Bosun!
He blinked to answer the call. "Steve Maxwell here, Sir."
"I just spoke with Captain Volschenk. Subject to one condition, you're hired, son."
"YAHOO!" Steve's exuberant yell turned heads all around him. "I - I can't thank you enough, Sir."
The Bosun's voice was amused. "Good thing these PIA's have automatic volume limiting, or you'd have blown out my eardrums! The condition is this. The Captain says, if he's going to train you and commit so much of his crew's time to training you, he wants a return on his investment. He wants you to undertake to serve a minimum of two years aboard Cabot before you pursue any other opportunities that may come your way. That includes enlisting in the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet. Can I tell him you'll give your word to do that?"
"Of course, Sir! That's only fair. I'll sign any contract he wants."
"Contracts can be broken too easily in our trade. You can disappear aboard an orbital station or hide planetside until we're forced to leave without you; or you can slip aboard another ship and be light years away before we realize you're gone. No, we reckon if your word's no good then neither are you, and vice versa. You've demonstrated, by helping Louie at the risk of your own life, that you're anything but 'no good'; so we'll accept your word."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Don't thank me yet, Maxwell. Let's see if you can handle the life of a merchant spacer first. It's not easy! There's one thing you need to get straight, right up front. Last night was social. From now on, you and I are on a professional footing, at least until you finish your apprenticeship. Once you're qualified, we'll relax that to some extent - we're merchant service, after all, not military - but the first few months will be pretty formal. The same applies to your contact with the Captain and the mates."
"Understood, Sir. Thanks for warning me. I appreciate it."
"One more thing. I'm not a commissioned officer; a Boatswain in the merchant service is a warrant officer. You address me as 'Bosun'. The Captain and the ship's mates are 'Sir'."
"Yes, Bosun."
"Another thing. When a spacer answers a question, he says 'Yes'; but when he's acknowledging an order, he says 'Aye aye'. It's a very old tradition."
"Aye aye, Bosun. Er... may I ask a question, please?"
"Sure."
"Is it also tradition for you to use crossed anchors in your badge of rank? I've never heard of a spaceship having anchors."
The spacer chuckled. "Neither have I! Yes, that goes back many centuries before the Space Age. Now, we've got a lot to do this morning. Can you meet me at the offices of the Lancastrian Merchant Spacers League at oh-nine-hundred?"
"Just a moment, please, Bosun - I'll have to look them up."
Steve hurriedly re-focused on his eyescreen as he muted the call. His PIA picked up his muttered, sub-vocalized query, transmitted through his jawbone and skull. It processed it, then projected a three-dimensional map of the terminal onto his eyescreen. A flashing star marked a location two levels above and a kilometer away from his present position.
He reactivated the call. "I've found them, Bosun. I can be there by nine."
"Good. They'll have an arrangement with a nearby clinic to do spacers' medical checks - they always do. I'll call ahead to set that up. Bring with you every important personal and official document you've got - birth certificate, passport, qualifications, academic transcripts, the lot. In particular, bring the certified results of those spacer vo-tech classes you took online. Also, bring details of any existing bank accounts - you'll want to transfer them."
"Aye aye, Bosun."
###
Steve shuddered, then sighed with heartfelt relief as the probe withdrew from his anus. The pressure on the rest of his body began to ease as the med unit completed its analysis, retracting the figure-hugging sensor-laden lining surrounding him. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a minute or two, before the front of the machine swung open. He almost fell forward into the examination room before he caught his balance.
The tech sitting at the console looked round, ignoring his nakedness. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.
"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled, crossing stiff-legged to the fresher door. "You haven't just had a sadistic computer shove a pole up your ass!"
She giggled. "Depends what turns you on, doesn't it? At least it's pre-warmed and lubed! Towels are in the rack, soap and shampoo sachets in the cupboard. Stop at the front desk to get your results."
He lingered under the hot water, vainly attempting to wash away the vague feeling of violation that the examination had produced in him. Dressing, he headed for the front desk.
"So, am I going to die?" he asked.
The receptionist grinned. "I'm sure you will someday, but probably not today. According to Dr. Herbert, you're in good health."
"Dr. Herbert?"
"The med unit. A couple of years back, someone said that since it was doing a doctor's job, we might as well give it - him - a name."
"Oh. What about the results of the blood, urine and stool tests?"
"The initial results came back clean. It'd be very unusual if the detailed results turned out different, so as far as we're concerned, you're in great shape. We've issued you a preliminary clearance for unrestricted shipboard service, and we'll make that permanent and communicate it to you, the League and your ship once we have the detailed results."
Steve let out a low sigh of relief. He hadn't expected the medical examination to reveal anything that might dash his hopes, but it was nice to be sure.
The receptionist handed him three black data chips. "Here are three copies of your medical and DNA profile. One's for your ship's records, one's for the Merchant Spacer's League, and the third's for you. Keep it safe. You never know when you might need a past full medical profile to help treat a disease or condition you pick up on some strange planet." She punched a couple of keys, then removed a green chip from a socket in her data unit. "This contains sizing information for your spacesuit and work gear. Give it to the clerk who takes your order. He'll know what to do with it."
"Thanks very much."
He walked out into the plaza, a designation which never failed to amuse him. Having been in town squares and plazas on Earth, the thought of a 'plaza' with plasteel walls, floor and ceiling, encapsulated within a fifty-kilometer-long, five-kilometer-wide and three
-kilometer-high space station suspended in vacuum, still seemed incongruous.
He crossed the plaza to a display window. It was labeled in old-fashioned gold script, 'The League of Merchant Spacers of the Lancastrian Commonwealth'. He opened the door next to it, went inside, and looked around until he caught sight of the Bosun, sitting in front of a desk in a glass-walled office at the side of the room. He tapped at the half-open door.
"Ah! Come in, Maxwell. Got your medical profile? Passed all the tests?"
"Yes, Bosun."
"Good. Give a copy to Agnetha here. She'll enter it in the League's records, and use it to set up DNA-verified access to your account." He did so as the Bosun continued, "You have all your other documentation with you?"
"Yes, Bosun." As he tapped his belt pouch, data chips rattled.
"Once Agnetha's set up your personal file in the League's electronic vault, copy everything into it - and I do mean everything. This branch will send the info back to Head Office on Lancaster. From there it'll go out with the next monthly update cycle to every planetary office. Within three to four months you'll be able to get a certified copy of any of your documents from any League office, in case you lose the original or don't have it with you when you need it. The copies are legally recognized throughout the Lancastrian Commonwealth, and by many other planets as well. I've had to use that service three times so far. It's a life-saver!"
"Er... is the information secure?"
"Oh, yes!" Agnetha assured him. "Our data vault is triple-enciphered, then quantum-encrypted. Over and above that, access to anything you designate as confidential is restricted to our offices, with DNA verification of your identity every time. Your mail is different, of course, as you may not be able to get to our offices during a brief visit; so you can send a signal to one of our planetary offices, asking them to forward it to your ship. Your message has to contain a prearranged authentication code, of course."
"What if I'm on a planet that doesn't have a League office?"
"We have offices on every major planet, and affiliates on more than half the minor worlds. You can authorize us to forward funds, mail and documents to you on planets where we don't have offices. You do that by sending us a specially formatted request that includes a prearranged authentication code, plus a DNA sample for verification of your ID. Of course, after it leaves our custody or that of our associates, we no longer accept responsible for your property's safety or security."
"That's fair."
It took almost an hour to complete all the formalities. At the end of that time, Steve had been registered as a spacer apprentice in terms of the laws and regulations of the Lancastrian Commonwealth. He was issued a merchant spacer's ID for use when visiting orbital facilities, reserving his passport for travel planetside. He signed a copy of the ship's articles, to signify that he agreed to observe and be bound by them during his service aboard Cabot. The League set up his personal file in their electronic vault, provided him with bank and mail accounts plus health, disability, life and piracy insurance coverage, and verified and logged his spacer theory courses and examination results.
As he and the Bosun left the League's office, he asked awkwardly, "Er... please excuse me if this is a stupid question, but - "
The spacer interrupted him. "Stupidity is not asking a question when you need to know something. What is it?"
"What's 'piracy insurance' all about?"
"Let's hope you never need it! Basically, if your ship is taken by pirates, the League insures you against the loss of your personal possessions and gear, plus lost income while you're a prisoner and for a few months afterwards. They'll pay the ransom to free you, plus transport from wherever you're released to wherever you want to go. That insurance alone is worth every credit they charge!"
Steve winced. "I should hope so! Their dues of twenty per cent of salary seem awfully expensive. If you hadn't said it was so important, I'd have passed on membership."
"Look what you get for your money. A spacers' guild is a bank, insurer, notary, co-operative, trade union and postal service, all in one institution. When we're hundreds of light years from those services on our home planets, our guilds are essential. Local banks don't know us from Adam, so they won't let us draw against accounts on other planets; and local service providers want to be paid up front before they'll help us. Planetary guild offices bypass all those problems. If our guild doesn't have a local office, it'll probably have a mutual aid agreement with a guild that does. If you add up all you get, a levy of twenty per cent is cheap at the price - and that's only charged against your salary, not income from private trading or other sources."
"If you say so, Bosun." Steve still couldn't help sounding dubious.
"You'll see for yourself soon enough, 'specially if you're ever in deep trouble out in the back of beyond. You'll find out it's better to have those services on tap than not have them when you need them! Now, let's buy your gear."
"I don't think I've thanked you yet for all you're doing to get me squared away. This must be keeping you from all your other duties."
"Not really. I'm on liberty for the next two days. This will only take a couple of hours. I'll get things moving at Spacer Supply, then leave you to get on with it. I'm going to do a little business with Louie over lunch, then indulge myself with wine, women and song while you sort, clean, wash and pack everything. Meet me outside Louie's place at oh-seven-hundred, the day after tomorrow. We'll travel back to the ship together."
"Aye aye, Bosun."
"Do you have anywhere safe to keep all your gear until then?"
"No." He hung his head, embarrassed. "I'm sleeping in a flophouse. Can't afford anything better right now."
"I've been poor a time or two myself, son. There's no shame in honest poverty. OK, we'll ask Louie to let you use one of his storerooms to sort out and stow your gear. It'll be secure enough there. No-one on this Terminal is fool enough to try to steal from him!"
Steve grinned. "Apart from the Lotus Tong, you mean, Bosun?"
"Ha! No, by now you can include them, too. The surviving members - if any - have surely learned that lesson the hard way!"
The older man hesitated, then went on, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but I'm curious. You've given me two examples of really dedicated behavior. One was making up your mind that becoming a spacer was your ticket off Earth. You studied spacer theory for a couple of years on your own initiative, even taking the online exams, then came all the way out here to the Cargo Terminal, living on a shoestring while waiting for your chance. Most young men wouldn't have the self-discipline and drive to do all that on their own initiative. The other is karate. It's very unusual to find a second dan black belt who's not yet twenty years old. What made you work so hard in both cases? What motivated you?"
Steve's instinctive response was to withdraw, avoid the question, evade any revelation of what he felt inside. He'd learned the hard way, over more than a decade in the orphanage, that to expose your innermost thoughts to someone was to risk them being used as fuel for mocking jibes. It might even lead to outright rejection. In such a setting, privacy had to be guarded jealously, one's motivations and aspirations hidden from others.
He forced himself to relax. He's not out to get me, he reminded himself mentally. He's my boss. He's got a right to ask questions - and he was upfront about my not having to answer this one. I think I can trust this man. If I can't, I'm in deep trouble anyway! May as well take a chance, and answer honestly.
"I've had to fight to defend myself, and make a place for myself, almost as long as I can remember," he said slowly, unaware that the pain of his memories was leaking into his voice. "Orphanages can be merciless, even if the people in charge do their best to make them as humane as possible. Put a bunch of boys together, and they're going to establish a pecking order based on physical size and aggression. That's just the way it is. My first years there... let's just say I learned to hate bullies and sadists with a passion. I started karate as a w
ay to defend myself against them. It wasn't taught in the orphanage, but at a nearby gymnasium, so none of my tormentors bothered to go out of their way to learn it. I figured, if I knew a way of fighting that they didn't, I'd be better equipped to take them on."
The Bosun listened without comment, but could sense what these revelations were costing Steve. He mentally compared them to his memories of growing up in a comfortable family atmosphere, knowing he'd been very fortunate by comparison. He tried not to let his instinctive sympathy show, and had to restrain himself from patting Steve reassuringly on the back. He figured the youngster wouldn't take it very well.
"It wasn't easy," Steve continued. "I managed to stop one bully, but then some of the others ganged up on me, so I had to work even harder and learn even more to protect myself against them. I took several bad lickings - I even ended up in hospital once - but the time finally came when I could hurt them as much as, or more than, they hurt me. I also taught some of the others how to defend themselves, and to stand together with me against the bullies. After that, they left us alone. I hope those I left behind will pass on what they've learned to future generations. That'll make the orphanage a better place for everyone.
"That taught me you've got to stand up for yourself, and you've got to persevere. If you don't, if you just take it passively and knuckle under instead of resisting, you'll be a victim forever. That helped me when I had to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I didn't want to stay on Earth, where rights and freedoms that used to be normal have been forgotten or ignored. Everything's geared around conforming to the group. There's not much tolerance for individualists. There's an old proverb that says, 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down'. Down there, if you try to live your own life, if you want to rise as high as you can on your own merits and in your own right, you're going to get hammered down by the bureaucrats who administer the system. They're like the bullies in the orphanage. They want obedience and conformity, not initiative and drive. The only way to get out from under them is to join 'em, and I wasn't about to do that!" His face twisted sourly.
