Double Share: Solar Clipper Trader Tales

by Nathan Lowell

  Dock eight stood empty and I saw nine around the curve of the dock’s broad passage. I paused and wiped my hands on my pants and took a couple of deep breaths. I used the reflection on the empty lock’s view panel to make sure my cap was straight and checked my uniform for unbuttoned buttons and correct gig line on shirt, slacks, and buckle.

  “Third mate,” I told myself. “You’re not the captain and what you don’t know about being third mate would fill a seventy-five ton container. You’re here to learn, to grow, and to hold up your end. You can do this.”

  The academy prep was actually reputed to be quite good. I knew I didn’t know a lot, but I also knew that third mates were the bottom rung. I expected to get stuck with the same kind of jobs that my old training officer, Leland Von Ickles, did so well. As I gathered my nerve and marched along the dock, I held a picture of him in my mind.

  Still, it was with a considerable level of trepidation that I walked up to the gangway and pressed the call button. I looked up at the dock monitor, so the watch stander could get a good look at my face and not just the top of my cap.

  After a tick, the speaker beside the lock crackled. “Yeah? Can I help you?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Third Mate Ishmael Wang, reporting for duty,” I said, a little off-balance.

  Normal brow procedure would have been to walk out and greet the caller. They couldn’t have been surprised. It’s not like they wouldn’t have known I was coming.

  The pause stretched out. I wasn’t sure the watch stander had even heard me. I kept my face carefully neutral. I didn’t want to start out on the wrong foot with the crew, and I certainly didn’t know the ship’s conventions. For all I knew, he was following standard procedure. It struck me as rude, but I was the stranger on the dock and needed to keep that in mind.

  My hand wrapped around the dolphin shaped whelkie in my jacket pocket, and my thumb stroked the smooth, oiled wood. I found it calming. I’d been carrying the small bit of wood and shell for stanyers, ever since getting it as a gift at St. Cloud. I viewed it as a kind of talisman, a good luck charm. Besides, it felt good in my hand and was pretty. I wasn’t sure whether I believed it was imbued with magical powers by a South Coast shaman or not. I just found it soothing to have around.

  After nearly three ticks, the small personnel lock began cycling and I stepped back to give it a bit of room. An able spacer in a greasy looking shipsuit with an oily stain across the left arm stood at the head of the brow with his hand on the mechanism. “You the new third?” he asked bluntly and without preamble.

  Or salute.

  “Yes,” I said, eyeing the man and wondering what kind of ship I’d signed up for.

  He leaned out and looked up and down the docks—almost suspiciously. It was as if he were looking for any confederates who might jump out and hijack the airlock once it was fully open. Satisfied that I wasn’t the leading edge of a takeover force—or whatever it was that he was looking for—he stepped back and nodded his head to invite me aboard.

  I stepped into the lock, making sure my grav trunk made it over the threshold, and got my first smell of the ship. To be sure, every ship has its own unique bouquet. My nose wasn’t terribly sensitive, and several months working in the damp green dankness of environmental had broken me of any squeamishness. In my summer cruise experiences, I found that each ship’s aroma had a specific kind of smell. Some were chemical, as if the crew liked the smell of disinfectants and cleaning solutions. Some were organic—a mixture of cooking, people, and free esters. Some were mechanical and some were electronic. I’d smelled them all and found none of them to be really offensive.

  Until I smelled the Tinker.

  It was a meaty kind of scent that I thought the scrubbers should have handled.

  The spacer secured the lock. He still hadn’t introduced himself although I read his name tag, “Betts” from his shipsuit. He turned to the watch station and settled back down on the stool behind the counter, frowning at the readouts there and ignoring me.

  I was about to ask him to notify the officer of the day, when a woman’s voice rang out from the passage.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. Wang,” she said while looming out of the dimness.

  She was a solidly built woman with the typical spacer-cropped hair cut, wearing a shipsuit with DST’s star and oval on the left breast and a name—Novea—embroidered above it.

  Smiling, she came over and held out a hand. “You’re our new third?”

  Her hand was smooth, firm, and strong. She didn’t try any of the “power move” handshakes on me, but there was little doubt in my mind that this woman could open a jar of pickles without any help or second thoughts. I filed that information away in case I needed a jar of pickles opened. She smiled at me, and I realized that we were probably within two centimeters of the same height. She had a nice smile and clear, brown eyes.

  “Yes,” I said. “Fresh from the academy, straight to your wardroom.”

  She smirked and gave a little chuckle. “Sense of humor. Good. That’ll come in handy. Arletta Novea, second mate, astrogation.”

  She let go of my hand then, and I think we were both a bit surprised that she’d still held it.

  “Let’s get you settled in,” she said. “The skipper will wanna meet you as soon as he comes back.”

  We went through the ritual of establishing my mass lading and crew record. As third mate, I had much more mass allotted than I’d had as a quarter share crewman, but every kilogram needed to be accounted for. I was well under my two hundred kilogram limit.

  She led me up to Officers’ Country and showed me to a small stateroom. It was almost identical to the one I’d had on the Ellis coming in. I was glad to see that I would have the room to myself. On some of the older ships in particular, the junior officers were expected to double up. I was glad not to be relishing my sanctuary.

  “Don’t look so relieved,” Ms. Novea said quietly. “You only think this is a sanctuary.”

  She caught me flat-footed with that. My snappy rejoinder consisted of, “Wha-?”

  She smiled pleasantly. “It was pretty obvious.”

  I just looked at her and some of the sinking feeling in my stomach must have showed on my face.

  She snorted but maintained her smile. “The head is through there, and you do have to share that with me. So, pay attention and knock first, please.” She shot me a pointed look.

  “Of course.”

  “You say that now, but let’s not have any accidents after we’ve been underway awhile? Okay?”

  I held up my hands palm out. “You got it! I’m not that kinda guy,” I said, keeping my tone light while trying not to wonder—again—what kind of ship I’d gotten on.

  “Wang? You’re a guy. You’re all that kind,” she muttered, then changed the subject abruptly. “Got your tablet?”

  I slipped it from the holster and fired it up. She walked me through the sync up with ShipNet and used her second mate credentials to enable the officer level access to my record on the ’Net.

  When it was done she said again, “Welcome aboard. It’s all over but meeting everybody. I’m the OOD and we’re standing twelve-and-twelve in port. David will be relieving me at noon. I suspect he’ll want to get you into the rotation as soon as possible so be ready for him to assign you to his section immediately. You’ll probably do two watches with him and then stand them on your own for our last day in port. We’re due to leave for Breakall on the eighth—assuming they have a container ready for us.”

  “When will I meet with the captain?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “He’s ashore. He’ll probably stay there until we get underway. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t meet him until we’re setting out again.”

  I looked at her dubiously. “Really?”

  “Wang, I don’t know where you served before this, but DST is a small, locally run company. The captain’s wife lives here. When we’re in port, he goes down below to visit with her for a few days before we ship
out again.” She shrugged. “It’s up to us to get the ship unloaded, reloaded, and ready to go.”

  I must have still looked dubious, but she gave me a look that said, “He’s the captain. What are ya gonna do?”

  I didn’t find it terribly reassuring, but I’d been aboard less than half a stan.

  “You’ll find what you need to know about the ship, including the ships layout on your tablet. T’were me, I’d start exploring to make sure I could find everything.” She grinned. “Like the bridge.”

  With that, she slipped out past my trunk and headed off down the passage.

  “I’m on until noon,” she called back over her shoulder. “Expect a call from David about 11:30. If you get lost, bip me. I’ll be in the ship’s office.”

  In a tick, I was alone again. I stood there listening to the ship, breathing shallowly through my mouth and trying to ignore the smell. After a moment or two of staring dumbly, I slid the grav trunk into the closet, flipped the lid, and started hanging my uniforms on the rod. A small set of drawers set into the closet provided room for socks, underwear, and other small clothes. I left my generic shipsuits in the bottom of the trunk, along with the folio of my mother’s papers, and closed and locked it. I double checked to make sure the grav pallet had engaged to the deck. I wouldn’t want that box sailing through the air in the event of a gravity failure.

  I sat on my bunk, pulled down the desktop, and started reviewing deck plans on my tablet. I had almost two stans before I could expect to hear from the first mate. I intended to use the time wisely.

  The layout seemed pretty straight forward. There really were a finite number of ways that the massive solar clippers could be configured. The unique cargo container designed for the Bar Bell hull class created an interesting collection of ship’s spaces. I was anxious to take a look at the environmental controls.

  The smell was getting to me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DIURNIA ORBITAL

  2358-JULY-6

  Figuring to beat the summons, I reported to the ship’s office at 11:30. The door was open and Ms. Novea was there with what looked like an astrogation update running. She glanced up as I tapped on the door frame.

  “Well, you found your way here, okay,” she said.

  “I was looking for the mess deck.”

  “Oh, that’s back down the passage—” She saw the grin on my face and realized it for a joke. “So that’s the way you are!” she said with a smirk.

  I just shrugged. “I like to try.”

  “Well, just remember,” she scolded. “There’s no second chance to make a first impression.”

  Her mock scowl told me a lot about her. I felt the knot unwinding a little in my gut.

  I tried to look contrite. It wasn’t my strong suit.

  “So, have you managed to find your way around?” she asked.

  I stepped into the office and sat at one of the side chairs. “I’ve been the length of the spine, stuck my head into the mess deck, and found my way to the bridge. The gym doesn’t look like it gets much use,” I added.

  I figured it was too soon for me to say much more about what I thought of those spaces, being the new guy aboard and all.

  “Wow! You’ve had the tour,” she said. “See anything interesting?”

  The question was light and carefully neutral. Not casually light and neutral, rather a studied tone. She looked at me flat on with one eyebrow arched.

  Just as carefully, I answered very lightly, “Oh, a little of this and a little of that. I’ll need a bit more time to find the really interesting things, I’m sure.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched upward just slightly, and the tension in her eyebrows relaxed. Apparently I had passed the test.

  A skinny spacer apprentice in a grimy shipsuit exploded into the office and skidded to a halt. Above her pocket was the name Nart. She started to say something to Ms. Novea but caught sight of me sitting there and gawped as if in total surprise.

  “You the new third?” she blurted without preamble—or apparent thought, adding “sar” about two beats too late.

  “I am. Ishmael Wang,” I said and held out my hand.

  Nart looked at the hand, glanced at Ms. Novea, and then looked back to me. I’m not sure what she was looking for but she eventually took my offered hand, gave it a single shake, and pulled back quickly.

  “Nice to meet you…Nart, is it?” I prompted.

  “Oh, yes, sar,” she mumbled. “Ulla Nart.”

  Ms. Novea apparently took a little pity on the girl and informed me, “Ms. Nart is my messenger of the watch.” Turning to the spacer she asked, “And do you have a message for me?”

  “Oh, yes, sar,” she said again, focusing her eyes inward, she struggled to remember. Finally she said, “Mr. Burnside sends his compliments, sar, and will relieve you as soon as he’s changed into a shipsuit.”

  Ms. Novea smiled. “Thank you, Ulla. Would you find Mr. Apones and be ready to relieve the watch, please?”

  “Aye, sar,” she said and dashed out of the office.

  “Comment, Mr. Wang?” Ms. Novea asked.

  She must have seen the bemused expression on my face.

  I held up my hand to show the streak of—something—that the handshake had left across my palm.

  “Hygiene isn’t a high priority with the crew?” I asked. “And you can call me Ish.”

  “Arletta,” she said. “It’s hard to get them to deal with it,” she added with a little shrug. “You’ll see.”

  I nodded slowly and tried to keep my face neutral. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Norway, as my mother might have said. “So, what do I need to look out for?” I asked, lowering my game face a little.

  “What do you mean?” she asked innocently.

  I glanced out the door once in an exaggerated show of conspiratorial concern. “You know. Every ship has its problems. The troublesome able spacer. The sticky hatch—” I looked at her and my joking statements choked off when I saw the look on her face.

  Very precisely and with more heat than I would have expected, she carefully replied, “They’re a good crew, Mr. Wang. They deserve—”

  “Our respect and support?” her statement was interrupted by a voice from the doorway. I turned to see a broad-shouldered man in a shipsuit looming there. The first mate pips on his collar told me who he was even before I saw the name Burnside on his chest.

  Arletta’s face turned professionally bland. “Exactly. Respect and support.”

  She stood from her station and I followed her lead.

  “David, this is Ishmael Wang. He’s our new third.”

  I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I held out my hand without thinking. “Mr. Burnside.” I acknowledged his introduction.

  He grimaced at my dirty hand and didn’t shake it. “Mr. Wang, welcome aboard.”

  I remembered the encounter with Nart and pulled my hand back. “Oh, sorry about that. I just met one of the crew and haven’t had a chance to deal with this yet.”

  Arletta reached into a drawer and handed me a box of sani-wipes.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  Mr. Burnside merely grunted and turned to Arletta. “Okay, hon, what’s the scoop?”

  I was glad that Mr. Burnside wasn’t paying any attention to me, because the blatant informality of that “hon” took me aback for just a heartbeat. The rituals of watch standing were well documented and engraved on the souls of spacers. Referring to any watch stander as “hon” while in the process of relieving the watch was an appalling breach of etiquette.

  “Ship’s status nominal. Refueling completed and stores are due for delivery in the morning. Home office reports that the can for Breakall will be ready for us on the eighth and we’ll be getting underway on time. Mr. Wang reported for duty at 09:00 and his system credentials and mass limits have been established.”

  “How are the astrogation updates coming?” he asked.

  “Almost done. I should have them complet
ed by this time tomorrow,” she replied.

  I started to say something about automated updates, but thought better of it.

  Mr. Burnside nodded. “Okay, clear out. I’ll see ya at midnight.”

  He picked up the ship’s phone. “Make the announcement,” he said brusquely. “Log it at 11:45” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  I blinked at the ships chrono at the numbers 12:05 and noticed Mr. Burnside looking at me with a “do you want to make a comment” expression on his face. I shut my mouth and kept it carefully closed.

  The overhead speaker pinged once and a woman’s voice said, “Now hear this. First section has the watch. First section has the watch.”

  Arletta logged herself off the work station, grabbed her tablet and coffee cup, and stepped aside so Mr. Burnside could take the chair. She crossed the office and was about to step into the passage when a beefy rating who looked a lot older than the normal spacer apprentice stepped into the door frame and stood there blocking her exit. Arletta stopped and waited, a sardonic grimace on her face while her back was to Mr. Burnside.

  “Thank you, Apones,” Mr. Burnside said. “Please check the status of the brow watch and bring me a coffee on your way back.” His words were—marginally—businesslike but his attitude was slightly dismissive.

  The man rumbled a brief, “Aye, sar,” and removed himself from the door.

  Arletta stepped quickly out of the office and turned in the opposite direction toward Officers’ Country.

  It took me a tick to process the interaction. It looked—from where I was standing—that Apones purposely blocked Arletta’s passage out of the office and then stood there until he was told to move. For her part, she hadn’t seemed too surprised by the maneuver.

  “So, Ishmael,” Mr. Burnside said in a bland tone.