Stars & Empire: 10 Galactic Tales

by Jay Allan

  The cart’s studs and spikes clutched at the ice. Gravity claimed she was hardly off center, but her eyes told her she was canted dangerously. In another moment, the cart would give way and tumble into the blue-black abyss opening ahead.

  She swiveled the port-side thrusters down and fired them to full burn. Superheated vapor billowed into the air, swirling over the cab and refreezing to the windshield. The cab began to drift back and left. She tilted the cargo hold to the left and punched the release. Ore tumbled to the ice. Freed of most of its weight, the sliding cart banged into the disgorged rocks, momentarily arrested.

  She engaged the wheels. They churned through the slush and found a spur of rock. The cart leapt to the right. To her left, ice tumbled into the gap. She re-engaged the autoskid just before she hit solid ice. The cart slowed, searching for traction, then began a steady crawl away from the crevasse.

  Smoke and steam dervished behind her. Ice crunched beneath the wheels. There was no sound of wind or avalanche. Just her heart thundering within her ribs. The autopilot was back in control, but she couldn’t allow herself to close her eyes. Her gloved hands shook like the morning after a long night out.

  “Pence?” Parson’s voice crackled over the comm. “Rada, is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  “Do you need me to send someone?”

  “Negative. Home in a few.”

  The comm staticked, as if he meant to say more, then went silent. She sat back in the chair and forced her muscles to unclench.

  Twenty minutes later, she climbed a low rise. Below, a shelf of bare, cleared rock housed the Box Turtle. There was no getting around it: it was an ugly ship. Like a dented cardboard box. Antennae and smaller boxes projected from its sides and top. It was painted a flat gray, yellow warning stripes accenting its engine nacelles and sensitive arrays. It was built to do its job—haul stuff across the system—and looked it. Technically, it was sixty years old, but everything in it had been replaced at least once, including most of the hull.

  The cart delivered itself to the ramp extended from the ship’s belly. The ramp lifted, sealing the cart inside the cargo lock. Rada threw open the door and exited, yanking off her helmet.

  Yed stood in the cramped hold, hands held out as if he were waiting to accept her helmet. “Are you okay, Rada? What happened?”

  “Moon decided it had had enough of us defacing it. Tried to swallow me.”

  He stood in the aisle between the ore bins, blocking her. “What’d you do?”

  “Reacted.” She squinted past him. “I appreciate the concern, but Parson’s waiting on my report.”

  “Oh. Sure. Excuse me.” He pressed himself against the bins. As she walked past, his eyes skipped over her suited body. He fell in behind her, boots clanking.

  She jogged upstairs. Parson was in the bridge. Stem was there too, feet propped up on a chair, inhaling vapor from a dented little pipe.

  He grinned at her and winked. “Almost ate it, did you?”

  Rada lifted her brows. “Is that funny to you?”

  He swung his head side to side, lower lip jutting in innocence. “I say it was?”

  “I almost died, Stem.”

  “So has everybody here. You’ll be laughing about this tonight. By next week, you’ll be telling it like a badge of honor.”

  She clenched her jaw. “And right now, I’m freaked out. So how about you act like you care?”

  “Hey.” Parson had been lingering at his station. He strode forward. “Rada. What happened out there?”

  She thunked down in a chair, propped her elbows on the counter, and shook her head. “Can I have one second here?”

  “Tell you what she needs.” Stem popped to his feet. “A tall glass of pig.”

  Parson scowled as Stem began to fill a glass with clear liquid from the AllBev. “Can you at least wait until I’m done before you use the illegally hacked dispenser?”

  Stem goggled at him. “She almost died, Cap. You going to make her wait until the end of the day to calm her nerves?”

  Parson shook his head and averted his eyes. Stem added a long pour of something brown and fizzy, then brought the glass to Rada. The Plain Grain tasted as good as the sugar water. She drank a third of it and set down the glass. Within moments, she felt the prickly legs of her anxiety smooth out.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Parson said. “I’ll be recording. Okay?”

  “Not much to tell,” she said. “I was on my way back. Ice gave way. Felt like the whole moon was imploding. Only way out was to lose the cargo.”

  “You dumped the ore?” Parson said.

  “Would you rather you lost the cart? Oh, and by the way, me too?”

  He watched her levelly. “What I’m asking is if you dumped the ore.”

  “I dumped the cargo. The ore. The ice was falling under me. Without the ore, I was light enough to claw my way out. Had to melt the ice with my thrusters. Soon as I got down to the rock, I hightailed it for solid ground.”

  “Some of the ice sheets are hundreds of feet thick. How did you know you’d hit rock so soon?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I was hoping. Or that it would refreeze and stabilize. I don’t know.” She gazed across the bridge, not looking at any one thing. “All I knew was that I had to do something. No matter how dumb it felt. If I didn’t, I was headed down that hole.”

  Parson folded his arms, digesting. “You had no warning?”

  Rada picked up the glass. “Not until after it started. Bet I would have if we had some real scanners.”

  “You know we’re too low-margin for that,” he said quietly. “Besides, that would put you out of a job, wouldn’t you?”

  “So it’s my job to keep the machines safe. Because it costs too much to buy the machines that could keep watch on them.”

  “I like to have human eyes out there.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Do you think that cart could have done what you did? Now imagine if it had had a passenger in back.” He drew away. “Take the rest of the day off, okay?”

  She ran her finger down the side of her glass. “There’s an idea.”

  “I’m not about to tempt fate twice in one day.” He smiled in mock exasperation. “Especially not after you just slugged down six ounces of pig.”

  Rada laughed hoarsely. “Thanks, Captain.”

  “You earned it.” He stood there a moment, then returned to his station.

  She swirled the glass. Already, it felt like something that had happened to her days or weeks ago. Yed was leaned against the far wall, watching her with that look in his eye—one part bitterness, three parts yearning—but for the moment, even that didn’t bother her.

  Stem got up and fixed himself a drink. If Parson noticed, he pretended he didn’t.

  “So.” Stem threw himself into a chair. “I ever tell you about the first time I almost ate it?” He took a drink, smacked his lips. “Was on an ice freighter. The Absolution. We were coming in to dock at Darmor Station and the autopilot went nuts. Thought we were still three thousand miles out. We came in so hot I figured ‘Well, if I’m about to die, at least I won’t have to pay to be cremated.’”

  She looked up. “Maybe the autopilot finally had enough of you.”

  Stem laughed and tossed an ice cube at her. “If ships knew how to take out obnoxious crew, the entire mining industry would cease to exist.”

  -o0o-

  The next day, she thought she’d have some jitters, but she was fine. There were no accidents, no mishaps. The mole churned out rock. The cart sorted out the ore. Rada “drove” the cart. The ship filled up.

  She made her last delivery. Yed stacked and organized the hold, assisted by Karry. Stem was off doing some light maintenance on the mole and its collection team. Parson was on the bridge, tallying their haul and composing messages to potential buyers.

  Rada leaned her forearms on the back of a chair. “Got any leads?”

  “Always,” he said without looki
ng up. “Unless someone comes out of the void with a new offer, it looks like we’ll be on our way to Beagle.”

  He spoke the name as if it should mean something to her, but she couldn’t remember if she’d been there before. It would have been easy enough to call up the details on her device, but it didn’t matter. Knowing what Beagle was would have no impact on whether they were going to go there. Besides, after a while, most stations started to look the same.

  “Looks like we’re going to do all right,” Parson said. “Picked up some interesting isotopes.”

  “That’s an interesting definition of ‘interesting.’”

  He eyed her. “It’s interesting to the client. What interests the client interests me.”

  She mocked, but she was envious of his interest, of his business, his ability to determine his own future. Because she felt she could be him, and the fact she wasn’t meant she might be wrong. Maybe she was no more than what she was now: an adequate crewman on a vessel where everyone but the captain was expendable. Outfits like JJO didn’t seem to think she was anything more. After so many of them had reached the same conclusion, it was harder and harder to believe they were wrong.

  Parson continued to tap out messages. After a while, she got up to go to her bunk and compose a few more applications.

  Over the next two days, they wrapped up operations, stashed the mole in a hole in the rock for their return visit, and tied down the ship. Parson began the countdown to launch. Rada’s duties were complete and Stem tried to convince her to strap down in their bunk—launches always made him eager for her—but she headed to the bridge to observe them make their final preparations. If she couldn’t get a gig elsewhere, maybe she could settle for a promotion here, to the helm or quartermaster. Anything besides babysitting the machines.

  The engines spooled up, grumbling through the ship like steady thunder. Steam swirled across the screens. Genner, the copilot, checked off the readings and confirmed all were green. The Box Turtle lifted. Rada’s stomach lurched. It was frightening, lifting a ship of this size from the ground rather than a station port, but it was thrilling, too.

  They lumbered into the black sky, thrust to safe distance, and engaged the main engines. They were heading sunward toward the Belt, estimated duration of nine days. With nothing more to see, Rada began to undo her straps.

  “Contact,” Genner said. “Coming in fast.”

  A bright purple dot appeared on tactical. Its course was projected to intersect their own.

  Parson flipped on his outgoing comm. “This is Captain Parson of the Box Turtle.” His voice carried the easy command of his station. “Please identify.”

  The bridge was silent except for the clicks and taps of Genner pulling up more detailed readouts.

  “Be advised,” Parson said, a new edge to his tone. “If unaltered, your current course will bring you in unsafe proximity to our own.”

  A woman’s voice came through the comm. Crisp. Confident. Teasing. “You don’t say.”

  Parson swung to face Genner. “Defenses. Now. Give me everything you’ve got!”

  Genner nodded, hands flashing over the controls. “Do you know them?”

  “No,” he said. “But I know their type. Pirates.”

  The word hung in the air like a sphere of steam in the microgravity of the moon. Heart racing, Rada clipped herself into her chair.

  CHAPTER 2

  Readouts for the defense systems splayed across the screens. Parson spoke into his comm, his voice echoing throughout the ship. “All hands! This is an emergency. Buckle down and sit tight.”

  Within moments, several voices chattered across the line.

  “People!” Parson barked. “You want to get out of here intact? Then stay put and shut up. You’ll know everything as soon as we’re in the clear.”

  “Oh Captain Parson,” the woman said from the unidentified vessel. “I can’t help but notice you’re attempting to flee.”

  “If I’m fleeing,” he snarled, “that must mean you are pursuing. If you persist, the consequences will be dire.”

  She laughed. It wasn’t scornful or derisive. It was delighted. “Like what?”

  “Let’s not allow it to come to that.”

  “Then here’s what you need to do for me. Kill your engines. Confine your crew to quarters. And allow us to board.”

  “All we’re carrying is ore,” Parson said.

  “Yes, your outgoing messages made that perfectly clear. Next time, I’d recommend paying for real encryption. I’ll need you in the hold to show me the choicest parts of the lode. If you cooperate, none of your people will be harmed.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  The woman laughed again. “Then you’ll all be harmed.”

  Parson closed his eyes. “Give me an hour to decide.”

  “An hour? You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  He cut the comm and turned to Genner, his expression haggard and wry. “That’s thirteen minutes more than I expected. I don’t think we can outrun them—they’ve already got a head of steam. That means our options are to let them board us, or to fight. Can you tell anything about their armament?”

  Genner pulled a schematic up on one of the screens at the front of the bridge. “They’re flying a Scimitar-class. Originally intended for scouting/light skirmishing. Unknown modifications. But they’re pirates—they will be armed.”

  “Unless they’re bluffing.”

  “Or they’re bluffing about not harming us. We’ve got nothing but game theory, Captain.”

  “This is no game.”

  “Game theory,” she insisted. “We have to weigh our odds in a fight versus the odds they’re telling the truth about not hurting us.”

  “This sounds all wrong,” Rada said. “They’re going to try to parse out the best ore and leave the rest? How many days will that take them?”

  “It’s not impossible.

  “But it’s a hell of a lot easier to flush us out the lock and take the entire ship.”

  Parson tented his fingers over his nose. “Pirate attacks happen every week. Genner, I know you’ve done the research. How do they typically go down?”

  The copilot shrugged. “Forty percent of boardings result in one or more fatalities for the boarded party.”

  “Forty percent.”

  “In those incidents, 84 percent of the time, the captain is among the fatalities.”

  Parson swore. “Then we’re at high risk either way. I’m inclined to fight. See if they’ve got the claws to match their growl.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if not,” Rada said. “If you’re strong, pretend weakness. If you’re weak, pretend strength.”

  Parson’s brows drew together. “Did you come up with that?”

  “Sure. After reading it in Sun Tzu.”

  He shook his head. She said no more, allowing him to believe the reference must be highly obscure. She wasn’t exactly a scholar, but she’d learned that if you read anything at all—especially Pre-Virus literature—you sounded qualified to found a college.

  “And what do you do,” he said, “if you’re stronger than they think, but not strong enough to stand toe to toe?”

  “Trick them.” Before speaking the words, she had no plan, but it arrived in her mind fully formed. “Launch the shuttle. Pretend you’re on it, abandoning the ship.”

  “But they’ll have bioscans. They’ll know it’s unmanned.”

  “Bioscans can’t tell the difference between what’s alive and what’s dead. Fill up one of the suits with protein mush from the dispenser.”

  Parson burst into laughter. “Either they’ll come for the shuttle, exposing themselves to the Turtle, or they’ll paste it, and we’ll get a better look at what we’re up against. Either way, they’ll think we’re so weak that my only choice was to make a run for it.”

  Genner glanced between them. “We’re committing to a fight, then.”

  “Not necessarily.” Parson unclipped himself from his seat. “We’ll make a de
cision based on what they show us. If we’ve got no chance, you’ll pretend I tried to escape without you.” He stood; now that they were off thrust, there was no gravity, but his soles were magnetic. “Stem! Yed! Karry! Meet me at the shuttle right now. Rada, you handle the suit.”

  She extricated herself from the chair, ran to the bulkhead to grab a suit from the compartment, and raced to the galley. She closed the suit vacuum-tight, inserted the dispenser’s nozzle into the suit’s intake valve, and started pumping mush. It took several minutes to fill. Finished, she detached the nozzle and ran downstairs to the shuttle, carrying the suit like a giant sloppy balloon.

  There, the four men were wrestling big black tanks into the back of the shuttle. Explosive charges, meant for mining work. Karry was bent over them, installing what looked like detonators.

  “Added wrinkle,” Parson said. “If they try to capture the shuttle, we blow them into the next dimension.”

  “I like it.” Rada held out the suit. “Where shall I put you, Captain?”

  “Buckle him in. I’ve got some messages to record. Nothing draws in a cat like the squeal of a wounded mouse.”

  As Rada strapped in the suit full of pink goo, Parson leaned over the shuttle’s device, recording a handful of vague phrases. She got the gist: that way, the shuttle could send legit transmissions of its own, completing the illusion.

  The entire operation didn’t take ten minutes. With the shuttle ready, they ran back to the bridge and secured themselves in their seats.

  “Time’s almost up,” the woman from the other vessel said as they were settling in. “What’s it going to be, good sir?”

  “My ship is all yours.” Parson winked at Rada. “I, however, will not be on it.”

  “Tsk tsk, that wasn’t the deal. I need you to show me around, remember?”

  “My master of operations will be more useful to you than I would be.” He punched a button. On tactical, an orange dot representing the shuttle arced away from the Box Turtle. “I leave you to do as you will.”

  “Unacceptable, sir.” For the first time, the woman’s tone lost all notes of playfulness. “I can’t allow you to just go scooting off. Kill your engines now, and I’ll make sure none of the torture leaves permanent marks.”