“No company should have such power, nor wield it like this.”
Jon stopped beside his father’s chair and held his arms up, which had the expected result of his being grasped and lifted up to rest in the broad lap that always welcomed him. He rested his face against his father’s chest and smelled the familiar, comforting scents of spices, woods, and other goods from far-flung planets, so different from the scent of thermoplastic that clung to his mother after her trips to the shipyards.
“The Elizabeth’s a threat to them, and they know it. Her design’s faster than any they have and they don’t like that we have the patents and rights to that design.”
Edward sighed. “I know. And it might go easier for us if we just sold them the design, as they’ve asked.”
“I’ll speak well of you at the wake.” Wyatt snorted. “Elizabeth’d have you in the oven next to the bird if you sold off her design like that.”
“No doubt, but with the work stoppages and the Marchants buying up every bit of material we need, it’ll be a miracle does her design ever taste darkspace.”
“But once it does …”
“Aye,” Edward said, “once it does —”
His father’s lap disappeared and Jon fell—
“Up and out, Dansby, you lazy bugger!”
Jon —
No, Avrel Dansby, now, he reminded himself, even as his body crashed to the deck with a heavy thump and a sharp pain in his left wrist.
“Up!” the quartermaster’s mate, Bridgeford, yelled, casting a heavy boot into Avrel’s thigh.
“Aye! I’m up,” Avrel said, scrambling to his feet. He shook the pain out of his wrist, along with the that of the faded dream, and edged away from Bridgeford—not so far that the crowd of watching crewmen could call him shy, but far enough that he’d be able to dodge Bridgeford’s next kick or cuff, should it come. As well to keep from going for the man’s throat, for the sight of Bridgeford in his Marchant Company shipsuit filled him with a rage as great as the peace the dream had brought. He’d never know that peace again in truth—with his father dead, mother indentured on an unknown world, and Uncle Wyatt gone into self-imposed exile on colony world.
Bridgeford scowled. “See that you are when the pipes sound next time.”
He stalked away and Avrel wondered if the man would ever know just how close he’d come to having his head bashed against the bulkhead.
Avrel turned his own scowl on his messmates, who’d let him sleep through the quartermaster’s call for all hands to make sail. Again.
“My thanks, lads,” Avrel muttered to them as he smoothed the bedding on his bunk and folded it flush with the bulkhead above Sween’s.
That worthy, the leader of their mess, at least in the eyes of the other members, Detheridge and Grubbs, grinned widely.
“Och, an’ y’loooked so peaceful, y’did,” he said, eyes wide and innocent. “’Ad a smile on yer face like a wee bairn an’ we were loathe t’disturb ye, we were.”
Avrel shrugged acceptance. He’d been sleeping heavier than he should, likely using it as an escape, he’d admit, and he couldn’t blame his messmates for growing tired of waking him.
Pipes sounded over Minorca’s speakers again and Avrel hurriedly latched his bunk to the bulkhead. Bridgeford was bad enough, but if the lot of them weren’t out on the hull soon, the quartermaster himself would become involved, and none of them wanted to draw Hobler’s notice, much less his ire.
“‘Urry along, then, keelman,” Sween prodded, making Avrel wince at the nickname. It was because of that bloody Eades he’d been saddled with it and he’d like a word or two with the man.
He slid the storage on his bunk’s underside open and pulled out his vacsuit, then followed his mates as they rushed forward from the berthing deck to the sail locker at the ship’s bow, slipping inside just as Bridgeford was sliding it closed. Even before the sound of the latch fastening sounded, Avrel and his mates had the seals on their vacsuits open.
The others in the sail locker already had their vacsuits on and watched the latecomers with open amusement.
Avrel sealed his own vacsuit to the neck. They’d all filled their air tanks when last they came in from outside, but he still checked the gauges on the back of each of his messmates’ suits, as each of them checked his. The Dark was harsh and offered no mercy for the ill-prepared.
“Yer set,” Sween muttered, as Avrel clapped a hand on Detheridge’s shoulder to confirm her gages and hoses were correct as well.
The helmet was next, and Avrel could hear the quartermaster’s voice was already sounding over his vacsuit radio as he made those seals tight, just before Bridgeford triggered the pumps to put the sail locker in vacuum.
“— last tack a’fore we transition, if we’re lucky.” Hobler chuckled, something he was more likely than not to do every time he spoke, no matter if he were calling for another round in some pub or yelling for some bloody lubber for moving up the mast with less alacrity than he felt appropriate. “Then it’s a hop to Penduli Station and a bit of rest, lads, so make it a lively evolution, will you?”
Bridgeford shuffled through the crowd of spacers to the forward hatch, and the chorus of Ayes was cut off in a burst of static as he triggered the outer hatch. Darkspace radiation filled the now open locker, interfering with the electronics and killing their vacsuit radios.
Avrel filed out of the locker with the others, feeling the familiar hitch in his stomach as he stepped from the artificial gravity of the locker onto Minorca’s hull.
He spared a glance further forward, past the ship’s bowsprit, to the vast expanse of darkspace ahead of them. A black canvas, relieved only by the distant swirling of darkspace storms where the winds of dark energy picked up and made visible the dark matter that permeated everything here, like black foam picked from an ocean’s wavetops.
There was little time for gawking at the view, though, as the crew rushed up the masts. Avrel clipped his own safety line to the mainmast and sprang upward with the others, floating alongside the thick pole of thermoplastic to the topsail booms, then pulling himself along that to his position.
Minorca was taking in sail, so as to slow her speed and be more maneuverable as she neared Penduli.
The azure glow of the charged sails sparked white as he grasped the thin metal mesh of the sails and pulled along with the other. They took in two reefs, hauling the metal in and wrapping it to the yard, then making it fast.
All in silence, responding only to each other’s hand signals and those of the master’s mates below on the hull. It was hot, heavy work and his vacsuit stank of the sweat of hours and days doing the same. Avrel took a pause in the work to look out at darkspace again and wonder what his life would have been like if it’d continued on its course instead of being derailed by the Marchants.
He jumped as something touched him and found Detheridge had scooted over on the yard far enough to touch her helmet to his.
“Stop lallygagging, lad,” she said, “they’re callin’ us in.”
Avrel glanced down to the hull and saw the rest of the crew was headed down the masts and making their way to the sail locker.
“We’ll transition to normal-space soon,” Detheridge went on. “Then it’s leave on Penduli, so don’t dally!”
Once Minorca was made fast to the station’s quayside and the docking and cargo tubes made fast, Captain Morell called for all hands to assemble on the berthing deck.
Avrel shuffled into the crowd with the rest of the crew, near his messmates. Captain Morell and Minorca’s two mates, Carr and Turkington, were on a slightly raised platform at the aft end of the deck, just forward of the wardroom and the captain’s quarters aft of that.
Morell stepped to the edge of the platform and began speaking as soon as the quartermaster indicted that everyone was in attendance.
“Well, lads, I told you there’d be some changes once we made port at Penduli and we’re here,” Morell said, “so here’s what we’re doing.
“First, Miste
r Carr’s off the ship for leave and we’ll be getting a new second mate.”
There were some uneasy looks and mutters at that, for the second mate dealt most directly with the crew, through the quartermaster. Carr was a good man and well-liked. He brooked no excuses, as was the norm for the Marchant Company as a whole, but he never worked the crew beyond reason.
Morell, as well, did not look pleased with the news he delivered, but went on.
“His replacement is enroute, but we’re early, so you’ll have a few more days leave here than expected.” He hurried on as the crew perked up at that news. “And you’ll need it,” he said, instantly quelling the crew’s excitement. “We’ve no more short hauls and easy routes ahead of us. Once Carr’s replacement is aboard, we’ll be setting sail to Hso-Hsi for a load of silks.”
There was a moment’s silence, then a cheer. Avrel looked around and most of the crew seemed to be expressing pleasure, if mixed with a bit of worry.
Hso-Hsi was a long haul for any ship, but Minorca was smaller than those that normally made that journey. They’d be feeling cramped by the time they finished, no doubt, and it would be a long finish coming—more than six months, at least, even though Minorca was a fast ship. The cargo, though, artificed-silk, was valuable enough that the crew’s shares would be large.
The Hissies had managed to perfect a closely-held method of getting their silkworms to ingest virtually anything and combine it with the silk. From practical to luxury applications, the silks were much in demand. There was even a rumor that they’d managed to get the worms to eat gallenium, but, if true, the Hissies were holding that product even more closely—such a product would make everything from vacsuits to the netting over a ship’s gunports more effective, and the value would be immense.
The Penduli Station merchant quayside was a scene of self-organizing chaos.
Spacers filed on and off the ships nestled up to the station and connected with docking tubes. Carters moved containers of freight and supplies to and from the warehouses of the station’s inner side, yelling and gesturing as some other got in their path. Vendors hawked their wares to those just coming off ships after weeks or months in the Dark—and amongst those were the younger hawkers, looking for someone to guide to the station’s more dubious establishments.
Boys and girls rushed toward Minorca’s debarking crew. They called out the offerings of the places which would give them the best commissions for leading a spacer there, expertly reading the faces of the spacers for interest, then zeroing in on them.
“Girls!” a boy called, rushing up to Sween and tugging at his hand.
Another grasped Detheridge’s arm. “Come, lady! I’ll show you the best place—you’ll be happy. Broad shoulders, skin like bronze!”
One of them stared at Avrel for a moment, then stepped forward, knocking another boy aside. “Ignore these others, sir,” he said. “Their houses have skinny girls, nothing but bones—put your eye out, they will.” He stopped in front of Avrel and drew a shape in the air. “You need girl like pear—much nicer. Sweet and juicy.”
“That’s our Keelman,” Sween called. “Every port they seem to know what he’s after!”
Detheridge laughed. “I heard what you like, Dansby?” she asked. “A girl with a bit of a keel to her?”
Avrel flushed.
Detheridge laughed again. “Broad shoulders, you say?” she asked the boy who’d approached her.
“Like an ox, miss,” he assured her.
“Well, then,” she said, with a wink to Avrel. “I’ll take that above the waist and you below, Dansby. Do have fun.” She followed her new guide off into the crowd.
Avrel flushed darker, for he knew his messmates would likely give him guff about this. It wasn’t his preference—and he’d prefer to keep those to himself, regardless—but there was only one person to blame.
He glared at the boy, who met his gaze confidently and with a cocky grin. Did he know the full of who he worked for? Likely not, only that he should approach a certain man from a certain ship and make a certain offer.
“All right, then,” he said, making sure all of the other Minorcas had moved on and weren’t close enough to overhear. “Take me to the bloody Pear.”
The boy led off and Avrel followed. They quickly left the quay Minorca had docked at and made their way around the station’s ring. The look of what they passed through changed from the clean, ordered chaos of the Marchant docks, where the whole section of quay was leased to the company and available to no other ships, to something seedier and more disreputable.
Everything from the dress of the crews and dockworkers to the grime on the decks and bulkheads became noticeably worse the farther they went, and Avrel began noting the hard looks and narrowed eyes as he passed.
Marchant was not a well-liked company in some circles, and he’d have changed from his ship’s jumpsuit with the distinctive logo if he’d known where the boy was leading him.
“Has your Pear no sense at all?” he hissed at the boy, but his question was met only with a shrug of indifference.
Of course, the boy turned inward midway through the worst of the quays Avrel had ever seen. Penduli was a large enough station that some parts fell naturally into disrepair. This was one such, near enough the Naval sector that it received some custom from the Navy’s spacers who were looking for entertainments outside what was offered in their enclave. Those visits brought with them the Navy’s Shore Patrol, and where the Patrol went, the Impressment Service was not far behind.
Merchants like the Marchant Company paid well to keep such things from the areas where their ships docked. For those merchantmen who couldn’t, well, there was the reason for the quay’s condition and low docking fees as well, wasn’t there?
Avrel eyed the corridor the boy was leading him down dubiously. What lights there were flickered here and there, and access panels hung open where they’d been sprung and left hanging. Gaps were visible within those, where some of the station’s own components had been taken, either for sale or for use on some long-left ship.
There was little signage about what sorts of establishments might be down that way, and what there was had been defaced with graffiti so often that the original words were all but unreadable—not that he’d trust the word of any signage in such a sector. The businesses here would be rather more mobile than signage could account for, and stubs of cut cables told the story of any digital signage that might have once been in place.
Avrel caught the odor as he drew near, and thought this section’s facilities must be in as poor repair as the signage, if the smells were any indication.
“Come on, then,” the boy called. “This way.”
Avrel took a deep breath to steel himself, immediately regretted that, and considered tearing his ship’s insignia off entirely.
Or telling the bloody Pear to take himself off to hell and be buggered by some demon.
The establishment they finally arrived at was much as Avrel expected it to be. Not, at least, the brothel he’d halfway feared, but a small, crowded pub of dubious origin.
Sandwiched between two other compartments, neither of which advertised what was inside and both with a hulking, narrow-eyed figure beside their hatches, was a narrow space. It appeared that those businesses to either side had commandeered some of the space, with haphazardly welded pieces of bulkhead making up the adjoining walls.
The space was even dimmer than the corridor and smelled worse—something Avrel wouldn’t have credited if he’d not smelled it himself. A bit of the corridor mixed with rancid grease and whatever the pub had on offer for eating—all of which put Avrel far off of that.
The boy moved through the crowd easily, but Avrel was larger and there always seemed to be an elbow or shoulder he couldn’t quite get around. Despite his care and muttered apologies, the shove and snarl of rage, when it came, was not unexpected.
“M’pint, y’ lubberly bastard!” a man yelled, spinning to confront him after Avrel brushed against h
is elbow.
Avrel sighed and looked the man over. The pub’s other patrons edged away, suddenly finding enough space to open a small circle around the pair. Long experience with such events made the crowd’s movement appear choreographed.
He sighed again after getting a good look at his antagonist. Half a head shorter than Avrel, but with shoulders appearing as wide as he was tall, the man was clearly spoiling for a fight.
Detheridge might like those shoulders, if not for the face.
The fight the man was spoiling for was certainly not his first, for his nose had the mashed look of one which had been broken countless times. One eye was hooded and the eyebrow slashed through with scars. The knuckles around the pint glass were also visibly scarred, even in the poor light—and the glass itself was nearly full, meaning there’d been little spilled, if any, by Avrel’s jostling. No, this was only an excuse to pummel a stranger.
Avrel wasn’t a stranger to this sort of thing, at least not since leaving Lesser Sibward. First there’d been finding his place aboard ships with the crews—there was always a bit of jostling involved in that, and one had to fight for one’s place. Or, at least, show a willingness to fight and not back down or be bullied. And if a fight was ordained, he’d quickly found, it was best finished quickly—no dancing about and certainly no fairness.
“I’ll be happy to buy you a new pint —” Avrel ventured.
“Ha! ‘’Appy to buy me a pint,’ he says.” The man drained his glass at one go and narrowed his eyes. He flexed his shoulders in that way some men do to show they’re preparing for some effort. “If yer happy t’buy a pint, lad, I’ll make y’ bloody ecstatic.”
He handed his glass to someone in the crowd, never taking his eyes from Avrel, and stepped toward him.
Avrel moved as the man was midstep, snatching a full glass from the crowd and stepping forward himself. He swung the glass at the man’s head while simultaneously driving his knee upward.
His target, concentrating on the glass and its contents being swung at his head, missed the knee and let out a pained grunt as it connected with his fork. He did manage to block Avrel’s swing, but not the flung glass, which broke against the side of his head.
Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology Page 27
