Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology

by Amy J. Murphy

  Jon nodded. So that was out then. It would take far more time and coin to gain access to those records and travel to her than he had. The indenture ships traveled long loops amongst the Fringe Worlds, taking on and selling off indentures. It could be a year or more before that ship’s records made it back to a central office—assuming, even, that it wasn’t an independent ship that had no office more than its captain’s cabin.

  Mother’s as much gone to me as father is.

  “Come with us,” Wyatt repeated. “A new world. A fresh start.”

  Jon stared at him for a moment. A fresh start … it was really giving up, though, wasn’t it? Fleeing and letting Marchant get away with it.

  “Thank you for the offer, Uncle Wyatt, but I think there’s … I think there’s more I need to do.”

  Wyatt shook his head.

  “Oh, Jon, don’t be a fool. Do you think I don’t want vengeance myself? What do you think you’ll do? Get yourself killed or jailed storming onto one of their ships with your pistol waving in the air?”

  Jon shook his head.

  “No. Father always counseled patience. I don’t know just yet what I’ll do, but I can’t simply leave.”

  Wyatt met Jon’s eyes for a long time, then his eyes filled and his lips trembled. Jon was shocked—he’d never seen his uncle in such a state.

  “You’ve got his look about you,” Wyatt said.

  “What?”

  “Edward’s. That set of his jaw and the coldness in his eyes when he was hell and determined on something.” He looked down at the table as though unable to meet Jon’s eye. “I can’t Jon. I have Mary and the little ones to think of … I can’t.”

  “I know, Uncle Wyatt. You and the others have families to care for—there’s no one looking to me.”

  Wyatt pulled out his tablet. “I can give you a bit … not much … colony shares’re dear.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to —”

  “No. A hundred pounds, though I can’t do more. Enough for a start.” He looked up from his tablet. “You can’t be a Bartlett, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The name, Jon. It’s sullied now.”

  Jon nodded. He hadn’t thought of that, but he’d experienced it with the hatches being shut on him as soon as he gave his name and documents.

  “And then there’s the Marchants. Frederick Marchant isn’t known for doing things by half. He may not be done with us, at least if there’s any of our name underfoot. That’s why the family’s scattered so far.”

  Jon frowned.

  “There are men,” Wyatt said, “who can forge what you need. You’ve heard of it, sure?”

  He had. Some men would jump ship and seek out a new identity. He didn’t know how to go about it though. How did one even begin?

  “I’ve a couple places you can post messages,” Wyatt said. “No names, but I’ve heard things. Don’t go for the cheapest—not what the common hands would be able to pay. They’ll not have work that’ll hold up for long.”

  Jon nodded. His tablet pinged announcing the transfer of funds and messages from Wyatt.

  Wyatt reached across the table and gripped his hand.

  “If you’re determined, well, then my best to you, lad. You get them, Jon. You get the bastards that did this to us and make them pay.”

  Jon entered the pub and headed straight for the bar. The messages he’d received in response to his veiled inquiries had mostly been dismissed, but one seemed promising. He couldn’t be certain, of course. Aside from the illegality of it, there was the concern, as Uncle Wyatt had said, that the Marchants were not entirely done with the Bartletts.

  The message had stated which table to go to, but Jon wanted to view the man he was to meet before going over.

  “A pint of pils, if you please,” he told the barkeep. “I’m not particular.”

  In fact, he planned to nurse the one drink through this entire meeting. He wanted his wits about him even after, in case it was a trap of some sort.

  “Three,” the barkeep said, sliding a glass in front of him.

  Jon slid the coins back in return, wincing at the cost. Even with the hundred pounds from Uncle Wyatt, he begrudged every pence, as there was no telling when he’d be able to earn more. He raised his glass and took a sip, grimacing.

  I should have been particular.

  He set the glass down and used the mirror behind the bar to scan the compartment. The table he’d been instructed to go to was occupied by a single man. As Jon’s gaze passed over him, the man looked up and met Jon’s eyes in the mirror.

  “Mister Bartlett!” he called out.

  Jon jumped, startled. He hadn’t mentioned his name in the messages and even if he had how would the man recognize him?

  “Yoohoo!” The man waved a hand in the air. “Mister Bartlett! Over here! You seem to have forgotten which table I said!”

  Jon looked around, but none of the other patrons seemed to be paying any attention. He hurried over to the table and sat down.

  “Are you mad?” Jon glared at the man. He was tempted to leave, but this was the only response he’d received to his inquiry that seemed it might be valid. “Do you not understand the need for discretion?”

  The man laughed. Now that he was viewing him up close, Jon tried to fix the man’s appearance in his mind, but found there was simply nothing at all distinctive about him. Average, in every way, was the best he could come up with to describe him. Even his age was difficult to estimate—one moment Jon would swear the man was his own age and in the next, as though with a change of the light, he could be a decade or more older.

  “Discretion? Whatever for?”

  “This transaction,” Jon whispered. He wished the man would lower his voice.

  “Yes, well, I wouldn’t have chosen a place where anyone would care what our business was, now would I?”

  Jon looked around. True, no one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention. Rather studiously so, given the man’s volume.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ah, yes, the introductions.” The man held out his hand. “Malcom Eades, at your service, Mister Bartlett. I represent … well, let us say an organization to whom I believe you may be of some service in return for my being of service to you in this matter.”

  “And how do you know who I am? Or what service I might be?”

  “It’s my business to know things,” Eades said. He signaled for the barkeep and ordered a bottle of wine, which was quickly delivered. Eades poured himself a glass and drank. He appeared to be in no particular hurry to discuss their business.

  “Can you do it?” Jon asked finally.

  “Do it?”

  “Yes, damn you, the whole bit we discussed!”

  Eades raised his eyebrows and took another sip.

  “The whole bit, eh? A new identity, ship’s officer certificates … a past that doesn’t haunt you, yes?”

  Jon clenched his jaw. Who was this man to speak so to him? What did he know of a haunted past? He’d expected this to be a simple transaction, cash for the necessary work, not a bloody discussion of his life.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Eades frowned. “Well, I suppose I could … except the past bit, that would be on you, I’m afraid, but an identity and certificates I could accomplish if I chose to.”

  Jon stared at him for a moment, not at all certain he’d heard correctly.

  “If you choose to? If you won’t do it, why message me? Why meet?”

  He scanned the room again, wondering if it was some trap of the Marchants and he should prepare to run.

  “To convince you to change your plan, Mister Bartlett,” Eades said. “Your current course is doomed to failure.”

  “You can’t know what I plan. You’re —”

  Eades sighed. “Mister Bartlett, you wish a new identity and credentials as a ship’s officer. You plan to find a berth with the Marchant Company, lear
n what you may of them and their ways, then cause them some harm in vengeance for what the Marchants did to your own family. Have I got it right? Left anything out?”

  Jon stared at him in shock. He knew not only what Jon did, indeed, plan, but so casually stated what no one else believed—that the Marchants were responsible for the harm done to the Bartletts.

  “It is my business to know.” Eades settled back into his chair and regarded Jon critically. “Your plan is unworkable on its face. Go aboard a Marchant ship as an officer, regardless of how well made your new documents are, and you’ll be found out within a fortnight. The community of ship’s officers is far too small—remarkably small and close, given the size of the universe and number of ships. Incestuous, even, it sometimes seems.”

  Eades took Jon’s glass of beer, poured the contents onto the floor, seemingly without a thought that the proprietor might object, and then filled it halfway with wine from his bottle.

  “Here. Have a proper drink. You look as though you could use one and that particular pilsner is vile.”

  Jon lifted the glass and drained it without really tasting the wine. It might as well have been the beer, vile as it was, for all he noticed. Eades filled the glass again when Jon lowered it.

  “No,” Eades continued. “You’ll want to join the common crew, perhaps work your way to master’s mate, but no higher. No more visibility than that.” He filled his own glass and signaled for another bottle, waiting to speak more until it arrived. “Besides which, it’s the crews that really knows things—where the bodies are buried, so to speak … or possibly more literally than you imagine. The crews know and the crews have loose tongues—but not to an officer.”

  “Who are you?”

  Eades smiled, the first thing Jon found remarkable about the man, and he felt a shiver run down his back. He decided he much preferred this man, Eades, as innocuous and unremarkable, rather than that distinctive smile.

  “I am someone with whom your own interests coincide at this particular juncture, Mister Bartlett. You wish to know more about the Marchant Company.” Eades shrugged. “I wish to know more about the Marchant Company. Why should we not assist each other in this mutual endeavor?”

  Jon swallowed, throat tight. He was becoming more and more uneasy about Malcom Eades and began to wish he’d never posted his inquiry.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

  “The enemy of your enemy is sometimes a useful tool, Mister Bartlett, it would be foolish not to make use of him.” Eades smiled again. “I have no friends, I assure you.

  “A new name, Mister Bartlett, untainted by scandal.” He frowned, examining Jon. “Records of … three years aboard ships, I think, so we’ll make you a year or two older than you are. You can pass for that. Rated Able … a brief stint as master’s mate aboard your last ship, one that’s now gone off far from the Sibwards, Lesser and Greater both, and away from any Marchant trading routes.”

  “Solid records?” Jon asked. “You can do that?”

  “Solid as rock, Mister Bartlett.” Eades smiled again, as though at some secret joke he found most amusing. “Solid as though Her Majesty Herself had stamped them for you.”

  “And in return?”

  “You tell me what you learn. Simple as that.” Eades held out his hand. “A bargain, sir?”

  Jon eyed the hand for a moment. It was a deal with the devil himself, he suspected, but Eades was likely his only chance. No one else had responded to the message—it was as though no one had even seen it after Eades replied. Was vengeance worth it?

  More than sup with the devil, I’d bend over for Lucifer himself if it would harm the Marchants.

  He took Eades’ hand.

  “I expect it’ll be neither simple nor a bargain, Mister Eades, but it is a deal.”

  Jon clenched his jaw and resisted the urges that were running through him.

  This section of the Greater Sibward quay had been his family’s docks, he’d grown up running through them, dodging crates and men as they loaded and unloaded ships. The logo of Bartlett Shipping had graced a dozen docking hatches here.

  Now it was all Marchant.

  “Watch yerself!” a stevedore yelled and Jon skipped aside to allow the man’s load to pass.

  The move put him next to one of the docks, its hatch screen bright with the Marchant logo. Jon stared at it for a moment, thinking about all he’d lost. His father, his mother, every member of his family scattered to far systems, and everything they’d worked for, five generations of Bartletts … gone. Gone to Marchant, the men who’d engineered his woes to begin with.

  It wasn’t right that they should win. It wasn’t right that they should profit.

  They needed to pay.

  He forced his fist to unclench so that he wouldn’t punch the screen before him. His father’s voice echoed in his mind.

  Patience.

  Know your enemy. Learn everything you can about him. His habits, his loves, his hatreds, and his desires—then use all that to crush him.

  He knew what Marchant loved. Their ships, their cargoes, the money that came from them.

  He’d learn as much as he could about the company, pass what he thought best on to Eades—perhaps the man was serious about harming Marchant as well, perhaps not. Either way he’d use Eades as well as he could.

  And when I know it all, I’ll crush them. Destroy them as they did us, father. I’ll see they pay.

  There was a recruiting table set up a few hatches down and another three docks after that. Some new Marchant ships, it seemed, had need of more hands, and that worked to Jon’s purpose. He approached the first table, struggling to keep a charming, friendly smile on his face and show none of his true feelings.

  “Looking for a berth?” the man behind the table asked.

  Jon nodded and scanned the woman’s rank tabs and then the docking information.

  Second mate on … the Elizabeth.

  A former Bartlett ship they’d taken with the rest of the company and not bothered to rename.

  The very ship my father named for mother.

  All of the Bartlett ships had been named for the wives and daughters of the family. A five-generation tradition, fouled by the Marchants.

  Jon clenched his jaw tightly, shook his head, and moved on. He couldn’t stand to sail on a former Bartlett ship, but, more importantly, it would be dangerous to do so. Marchant would have replaced the officers, but if Bartlett hands had stayed on they might recognize him.

  He made his way down the corridor until he found a recruiting table for a Marchant ship that hadn’t come from their takeover of Bartlett.

  A smiling woman greeted him. She nodded to the bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Between berths?” she asked. “Looking for another?”

  “I am,” Jon said, “if the bargain’s right.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow, as though unused to anyone suggesting there was a bargain to be made instead of simply accepting Marchant’s terms.

  “Ordinary spacer,” she said. “One and twelve the month. Two-year contract.”

  Jon nodded. “I’m rated Able,” he said, “and struck for master’s mate on my last ship.”

  The documents Eades had supplied would back that up.

  “You look young for Able.”

  The woman looked at him oddly and Jon realized he wasn’t behaving as a merchant spacer.

  Play the part, he told himself. Hide the hatred and play the part.

  He forced a grin and leaned down to rest his elbows on the table.

  “I’ve skills and more skills,” he said. “Perhaps if we’re not to be shipmates I could show you some of my others over a pint?”

  The woman looked him over and chuckled. “You’re a bit young for me, lad, and haven’t nearly the parts I prefer.”

  Jon straightened and gave her a sheepish look. “Sorry, then … but about a berth?”

  “Able’s two and seven, if the bosun approves you. You strike for master’s mat
e if there’s an opening, for we’ve none now.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The woman tapped on her tablet for a moment.

  “You’ve your ratings?” she asked. “And your name?”

  Jon nodded. He swiped his finger across his own tablet to send her his forged papers and ratings. He’d have to get used to the new name Eades had provided, as well.

  “Name’s Dansby,” he said. “Avrel Dansby.”

  2

  Jon’s mother, Elizabeth, was in the kitchen overseeing the final details of the holiday dinner. He could smell the roasting turkey and spices even from two rooms away and debated, for a moment, sneaking in to weasel a bit of the bird, or perhaps an early slice of one of the pies.

  Instead he made his way towards his father’s study, where Edward was meeting with Uncle Wyatt.

  He raised the toy ship he held above his head as he moved—model, really, as it was the concept model for Bartlett Shipping’s latest flagship, Elizabeth, now being built at Greater Sibward’s orbital shipyard.

  Named for Jon’s mother, the massive, four-masted ship was one of the largest on the Fringe, rivaling even the Marchant Company’s huge merchantmen, and faster, for all its size. Much faster, if what Jon had heard was true.

  At the study door, he cradled the ship under his arm—careful with the rigging, since Uncle Wyatt had impressed upon him how delicate the strands of plastic representing the ship’s lines were—and reached up to key the latch.

  The study’s wood flooring was cold under his bare feet after the carpeted runner in the hallway, so Jon rose up on tiptoe and hurried to the thick rug around his father’s desk.

  “Why the delays?” his father asked.

  “You know why, Edward,” Uncle Wyatt said. “No matter the excuses the shipyard gives up.”

  “Hmph.”

  Jon reached up and set his ship carefully on the desktop and went around to his father’s side of the desk.

  “‘Hmph’ you may,” Wyatt said, “but we should have expected this.”