Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper)

by Lowell, Nathan

  “I’m getting that impression, sir.”

  He smiled at me and patted my arm again. “You’ve also got a third problem that’s related to both of the first two, and that’s Christine Maloney.” He sighed and shook his head, looking back out into the void. “She’s not really your problem. You don’t need to be Geoff Maloney’s mule on this load, but accepting it might get you a leg up on the other two issues.” He sighed again, smiling this time. “Geoff was a master at that. Getting people to do what he wanted them to do because it was the fastest way for them to get what they wanted themselves. Sometimes it even worked out.” He paused for a moment. “I’m gonna miss that boy.”

  I thought he was going to subside into contemplation again, but he surprised me by turning to me suddenly, and leaning half out of his chair so he could face me almost directly.

  “You’ve got DST by the short and curlies. Kirsten knows it even though that fool Jarvis thinks he knows better. They have a ship they’ll sell you, and you’ve got a windfall the likes of which we haven’t seen around here since Virgil Murphy struck gold out in the belt.”

  “But I can’t afford that ship, sir. I talked to Mr. Larks, and he showed me the problems with that.”

  He sat back on his haunches and looked at me, head cocked to one side. “Dick Larks?” He made a pfft sound. “That boy wouldn’t know a decent deal if it bit him on his backside. If it doesn’t come with a balance sheet, he’s lost. We should never have taken him aboard, let alone made him lead partner. He keeps thinking we invest in assets. Silly git.” He shook his head. “No, he’s right about one thing. You probably can’t get a loan to buy that ship. Banks, collateral, payments. Gah, you’d sink from the red tape. You don’t need a loan, Ishmael. You need capital.”

  He could see the confusion on my face and asked, “How much money do you need to go indie, do you think?”

  “Enough to get a ship. Enough to have operating funds.”

  “How much is that?”

  I shrugged. “My best estimate is about half a billion.”

  “Oh, my stars,” he exclaimed. “Not nearly enough, or way too much, depending.” His face crinkled into a smile. “Look, Ishmael. You don’t need to own a ship to be an indie. You only need to have a ship to sail around in.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Son, you ever buy an apartment?”

  “Well, no, sir, you have to lease...”

  His eyebrows went up in a “Do you get it now?” expression.

  “I can lease a ship?”

  He settled back into his seat and gazed out at the panorama in front of us. “About a third of those ships out there are leased. Almost all the big lines lease some ships. It’s a good way to get access to capacity without capital investment. Short term expenses are a bit stiffer because the leasor has to make a profit, and that’s your penalty, but it’s done all the time.”

  I sat back in my own seat and looked out.

  “You need something more than a ship. Ship’s the least of your problems, Ishmael,” he said after a few ticks.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “You need a plan.”

  I turned my head to look at him and he looked back. “That’s why I asked you what you wanted to do, and we started all the psychological claptrap. You really haven’t a clue, my boy, but I’d have been surprised if you did.”

  He chuckled at the look on my face.

  He waved a hand at the window. “Look out there. Take a good look. Get a grip on how many ships there are, how many of them are the small fast packets that you’re thinking about running.”

  I frowned and did as he said. When I started looking, I began to realize what he meant. There were thousands of metric kilotons of cargo capacity floating in the darkness.

  “What’s going to make customers for you, Ishmael? Why are they going to ship with you instead of him?” He stabbed a finger at an Unwin Eight just coasting past the view about two kilometers out. “Or her?” He pointed at a tractor under tow with Schulman livery. “Those people have been out here earning a reputation for decades. You think you can just waltz in, grab a cargo, and poof? You’re an indie?”

  His words hit home and he subsided back into his seat to let me stew on it a bit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Simpson.” I said at last.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Ishmael.” There was a glint of humor in his voice.

  “After all this, I’m not sure I can handle much more, sir.”

  His raspy laugh bubbled out again. “Well, you haven’t seen my bill yet either, my boy. Patience.” He laughed some more and I found myself laughing along with him, although I wasn’t sure what was funny.

  Eventually we stopped laughing except for the odd chuckle from one or the other of us.

  He reached over and rested his hand on my forearm again, but left it resting there. His eyes were focused out into space, but he patted my arm with each point.

  “This is where I earn my fee, Ishmael.” Pat. “When you leave here, go down around to the main Admin Office here on deck four, register the name of your company, get your tax id number. You’ll have to pay a filing fee, it’s cheap.” Pat. “When you leave there, go down to the oh-four deck and see the nice people at Spacer’s Bank. Open a commercial account, deposit a thousand there for incidentals and fees. Don’t buy the extra services. That’s what we’re for.” Pat. “Go next door to see Patti Cantrell at Presto Personnel Services. Get your payroll, contract, all that stuff through her. She’s expecting you.” Pat. “Do all that and you’re an indie.” He turned his face toward me. “You, and about a million other people. It’s one of the problems. It’s too easy. Anybody can do it. You’ve got some advantages. You’ve got a master’s license. You’ve got experience. You’ve got DST in a position where you can get a ship for almost nothing if you can deal.” He stopped then and looked at me shrewdly. “Now, take out your tablet and write that all down because otherwise you’ll forget.”

  I grinned, and did as he said, reading it back as I did so.

  “Good,” he said with a final pat. “We’ve got about two weeks or so before Jarvis gets back, but Kirsten knows the tapdancing has to stop soon. Do you have any questions?”

  “Well, sir, this is all good, and I can see where we’re going today, but where do I get the price of a ship? How do I raise the capital I need to get this going if I don’t take out a loan?”

  He leaned back to look at me. “Oh, the hardest part of that is already done. We just need a company to tie it to.”

  “Tie what to, sir?”

  “Why your stock offering and the bonds, of course.”

  He rasped his laugh again. “Ishmael, how do you think the other companies do it? They can’t afford the level of debt that would be required to get one of these ships out of dry dock, let alone fueled and filled with cargo. We’ll set you up with a private stock offering in the next few days. I need to file some paperwork. You need to file some paperwork. You’ll need to put together a board of directors, and they’ll need to file some paperwork.” He shrugged. “It’s boring but sure.”

  “But don’t we need to find people to buy the stock?”

  He grinned. “Oh, you already sold the stock, Ishmael. We just need to figure out who gets what pieces.” He reached over and patted me one last time. “Now, go. Roll up your share of the red tape so we can do ours. When you get done, send me all your account numbers so we can start your tax processing. Don’t send me any passwords or access codes, mind. I don’t need that trouble. Just the public numbers so we know where to put the credits when they come in. Now get out of here. Scoot. Spread your wings and fly.”

  I thanked him again and let myself out, leaving him sitting there staring out into the dark.

  Ms. Arellone waited just outside, looking about as subtle as a black eye. “Not many places to blend in here, Ms. Arellone?”

  She chuckled. “No, but the upside is there’s not much place for risks to hide here either.” She roused herself a
bit, stretching her arms above her head for a moment, but never stopping the scan. “Where we going next, Skipper?”

  “Admin office, then down to oh-four. We’ve got some red tape to deal with.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me, sar?”

  “I have a problem, though; I need to name the company.”

  “You haven’t named it yet?”

  I shook my head. “I need something classic. Has to be flexible. Something maybe inspiring.”

  “Well, let’s walk that way, sar. Maybe something will come to you on the way.”

  “I hope so, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Did you get the money you needed, by the way, sar?”

  “I hope so, Ms. Arellone,” I repeated.

  She glanced at me for a heartbeat. “You hope so, sar? You were in there a long time. What’d he say?”

  “A lot of things. We need a plan. Something that separates us from the other carriers.”

  “That’s sort of a given, isn’t it, Skipper?”

  “It should have been, Ms. Arellone, but I really thought I’d have a lot more time to think about this.”

  “Like the name, sar?”

  “Yes, Ms. Arellone.”

  We were almost at the entrance to the main Administration Office and I still hadn’t come up with a name.

  “Well, did he give you any hints about a name, sar?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. We spend the first few ticks talking about the normal ‘Who’s stopping you?’ kind of stuff. He wasn’t really interested in it, but wanted to see if I had a clue. Which I don’t, apparently.”

  “Sar, I have to agree with him about most things, but I’ve seen you with the crew. I have no idea what it was really like before you took over, because all I know is what I heard on the dock, and some of the stories I heard in the berthing area, but, Skipper, you really do have a reputation as a high flier on the docks. Everything I’ve seen since has only re-enforced that.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Just the truth, Skipper. A lot of people thought you’d crash and burn when you got a ship of your own. I remember some of the betting—”

  “What did you say, Ms. Arellone?”

  “About the betting, sar?”

  “No, crash and burn.”

  “Oh, it’s just a saying, sar. Sometimes when a First Mate gets his ticket, and takes off on his own for the first time, he gets a little carried away, and it all comes tumbling down. They call it crash—”

  “I’m familiar with the phrase, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Then why did you ask, sar?”

  I grinned. “Because of something that Mr. Simpson said just before I left his office.”

  “What was that, sar?”

  “‘Spread your wings and fly’, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Sar?”

  “Onward, Ms. Arellone, I know what I’m going to call the company.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Diurnia Orbital:

  2372-December-22

  “Rise and shine, Ms. Arellone.” I banged on her door at 0700. “Uniform of the day is shipsuit.”

  I heard a muffled curse from the other side, and took that as a sign she was awake. I’d agreed not to leave the room without her to guard my body, but I already grew tired of the routine, and didn’t see the need.

  I had been up since 05-bladder, and was desperate for my coffee. The colored water in the room didn’t quite cut it, so I hadn’t wasted the time. For two stans I reviewed my business charter, went through the packet of documentation and keys from Kirsten, and generally gazed out at space trying to think of how to differentiate my fledgling company from the rest.

  To her credit, Ms. Arellone was up, dressed, and out of her room by 0710. She didn’t look happy about it, but she was moving.

  “Cheer up, Ms. Arellone. You’re not standing watch.”

  “I’m not complaining, Skipper. Just trying to get my eyes open.”

  “You’re the one with the don’t-leave-the-room-without-me fetish.”

  “Sar, every hour that passes, you’re becoming more known.”

  “Yes, Ms. Arellone, but this whole bodyguard thing is just a bit over the top, don’t you think?”

  “Kirsten has a bodyguard, sar.”

  “She thinks it’s over the top, too.”

  “Geoff Maloney had a bodyguard, Skipper. You don’t think he thought it was over the top, do you?”

  “Geoff Maloney was also a member of the Confederated Planets Joint Committee on Trade. He was a lot more than a just a ship captain.”

  “So are you, sar.”

  “I’m not even that at the moment, Ms. Arellone.”

  “You need your coffee, sar. Perhaps we should go find some?”

  “We need to go check out the ship and see what we need to get started there.”

  “Coffee, first, sar? You’re grumpy without your coffee.”

  “I was actually thinking breakfast, Ms. Arellone.”

  “Any place but Over Easy, sar.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Why? Don’t you like Over Easy?”

  “I like it a lot, but you were there yesterday at about this time. You shouldn’t go there again today, sar. Too much of a pattern.”

  I groaned. “Do you really think somebody is going to be after me at breakfast?”

  “They got your picture yesterday, sar.”

  “Yes, after you gave them the set up by mugging me in the promenade.” I shook my head. “We’re not going to be able to keep them from taking my picture, Ms. Arellone. Not when I’m in a public place, and not when I’m a public figure, which in about five more standard days, I will become if the predictions come true.”

  “I know, Skipper, but that money is going to draw the crazies. You’re not going to be just another clipper captain.”

  “Enough. Let’s find breakfast.”

  She led the way out of the suite, and we were soon in a pleasant enough diner on deck five. The place had barely opened, and obviously catered to a later rising crowd than Over Easy. At first, Ms. Arellone refused to join me for breakfast.

  “Sar,” she said quietly and in her I’m-being-reasonable voice, “I’m your bodyguard, not your dining companion. I need to be alert to threats.”

  “Sit down and order breakfast, Ms. Arellone, or you will be my ex-bodyguard.”

  She sat, and the hostess regarded us with a bit of a nervous smile flickering on her mouth like an out of phase neon sign. “Ellie will be your server. She’ll be right over with coffee.”

  I nodded and smiled at her. “Thank you. Coffee would be most welcome.” I looked across the table to where a very distraught Ms. Arellone tried to look in all directions at once and sighed. “Ms. Arellone, thank you for your diligence, but you’re not going to be any good to me hungry, thirsty, and drawing attention to us all the time by behaving like a bodyguard.”

  She looked startled.

  “I am not going to live in this paranoid envelope of fear, Ms. Arellone. You’re my crew. You asked to come along with me, and I went along with it because Captain Thomas and Mr. Wyatt seemed to think I needed an assistant and an extra pair of eyes.”

  “See, sar? Even they thought you needed a bodyguard.”

  “Yes, I suppose they did, but so far the only one who’s really threatened me with violence in the last couple of days, Ms. Arellone, is you.”

  She sighed and hung her head. “I’m sorry about that, Sar. That was inappropriate.” She looked up at me. “But you scared the gym socks off me. When I couldn’t find you, I really did think somebody had grabbed you.”

  “I appreciate that, Ms. Arellone, but that’s my point.”

  The waitress came over, went through the server song and dance, and I finally got a cup of coffee. Sipping gratefully, I was less than happy to find another bad cup of coffee. I sighed, placed my order for an omelet, and tried not to think of the breakfast I could be having instead.

  I looked back at Ms. Arellone, momentarily thrown off co
nversational course by the disruption.

  “What’s your point, sar?” Ms. Arellone asked after a few moments had passed.

  The thought returned and I continued. “Your mindset predisposed you to misinterpret what you saw. That incorrect interpretation caused your emotional reaction which in turn drove you to pursue an improper response.”

  “You’re not sitting there calling me an emotional female, are you, Captain?” She was on the verge of affront.

  I shook my head. “I most certainly am not, Ms. Arellone. I am merely suggesting that the fear you have reported as your motivating mindset is not caused by a rational assessment of the risk as much as it is by the bodyguard framing of your operational context.”

  “What?” Her eyes were focused on my lips as if she could see the meaning if she only watched my mouth move.

  “You’re approaching this as if I’m at risk. You have gotten more and more paranoid as we’ve gone along.”

  She started to object but I held up my hand. “Peace, Ms. Arellone. I’m not saying a bit of situational awareness is a bad thing. What I’m saying is that when you let fear rule your life, your life isn’t worth keeping. You were looking for something bad to happen to me. You saw my room, and your expectation caused you to jump to the conclusion that I’d been kidnapped. That conclusion was not only false, but dangerous because by acting on that conclusion, you exposed me to greater risk—a risk that was actualized by that ridiculous newsie photo.”

  Ellie brought our meal and I ate, but my heart wasn’t in it. The omelet was watery, over cooked, and filled with a bland yellow cheese with a few shreds of ham. Even the toast was limp.

  I took a few bites while Ms. Arellone sat stiffly across from me, her eyes alternately scanning the room and glaring at me.

  “Eat, Ms. Arellone.” I pointed to her plate with my fork. “You’re going to need your strength, and it’s going to be a long time until lunch.”

  “I really don’t think—” her voice choked off when she saw the look on my face. “Aye, aye, sar,” she finished. She took up her fork and picked at her meal while her eyes continued their not terribly furtive survey of the room.