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

by Lowell, Nathan

  That earned me a thoughtful look. “I’d never be able to make that stand up in probate,” she said with a tone that made me think she was contemplating doing just that. “I don’t have any evidence that he’s behind this.”

  “Maybe not yet, but who knows what we might be able to turn up in Greenfields.” Another thought struck me. “How dangerous is he?”

  “Who? Ames?” she asked.

  “Yes. Would he resort to violence? Does he have the kinds of connections that could get you mugged, maybe?”

  Her eyebrows lowered, and she bit her lower lip. “I don’t know.”

  “How much money and power is he likely to get out of this deal if you fail, and he takes the company public?”

  She shrugged and shook her head. “He probably believes he’ll stay as CEO if that happens. I haven’t been told what his deal is if I fail. Only what happens to me.”

  “But it’s safe to say that he’ll be looking at a much nicer position if you don’t come back?”

  “Yes, Captain, I believe that’s safe to say.”

  “We’ll just have to make sure you make it back then, won’t we?” The smile I gave her was far from mirthful.

  Chapter Seventy

  Greenfields Orbital:

  2373-June-27

  With some careful planning, we docked at Greenfields just a few days before the hearing. Ms. Maloney had contacted Judge Gerard, and had retained legal representation on station.

  We took advantage of the down time to work on the ship. The extra time allowed Greta to work through the maintenance protocols on all the major components on the ship, and I took the opportunity to do a thorough cargo analysis on the far end of the quadrant. It was a bit of a vacation for the two of us, while Ms. Maloney and Ms. Arellone spent most of their days ashore enmeshed in the web of legal positioning.

  The only curiosity was that, even after a week in port, Mr. Herring didn’t run out of credits. Of course, we knew going in that we would be staying a while at Greenfields. I didn’t book either passengers or cargo for the outbound leg. He spent most of his days with us aboard. Sometimes helping us paint or clean. Occasionally helping out in engineering when Greta needed a hand. After dinner mess, he helped with clean up when we ate aboard, or saw us back to the lock on those evenings that we dined on the station, but then he faded off into the evening. Some nights he returned before breakfast. Other nights he didn’t. I marveled at the man’s stamina, even as I counted my blessings in the warm circle of Greta’s embrace.

  According to Ms. Maloney and Ms. Arellone, the trial itself ground along with the normal amounts of wrangling, posturing, and positioning for best effect. Greta and I had planned on going to the hearing rooms for the final verdict but the pair returned in mid-afternoon of the fourth day of hearings with triumphant expressions and a jubilant hoot or two as they came through the lock. We gathered in the galley as they gave us the news.

  “So, did the judge throw out the case?” Greta asked Ms. Maloney.

  She shook her head. “Better than that. He filed a summary judgment in our favor. Dubois has to pay all the court costs, he gets nothing and the judge had some sharp things to say to him and his legal team for bringing the suit to begin with.”

  “Why’d he let it go on so long?” I asked. “If it was such a cut and dried case, couldn’t he have thrown it out sooner?”

  “Probably, but if he’d thrown it out sooner, Dubois would have been free to pursue it again.”

  Ms. Arellone was grinning like a canary stuffed cat. “You shoulda seen his face, Skipper. I thought he was going to strangle his lawyer.”

  Ms. Maloney chuckled. “I couldn’t see around to his side but apparently the lawyer was none too pleased with his client either.”

  “What about your counter-suit?” I asked.

  “That’s where we’ve been for the last stan or so,” Ms. Maloney said with a satisfied smile. “After the judge dismissed us from the hearing, his lawyer approached us with a settlement offer.”

  Ms. Arellone nodded. “Dubois didn’t look too pleased about that either.”

  Ms. Maloney shook her head. “No, he didn’t, but he let the lawyer do the talking.”

  Ms. Arellone snickered. “Just as well.”

  “So? What’d they offer?” I asked.

  “I let them talk me down to a hundred thousand,” Ms. Maloney said.

  Greta gasped. “Talk you down? How much were you suing him for?”

  “Two million. Twice as much as he was suing me for.” She shrugged. “He figured I had deep enough pockets that he’d be able to collect, I guess.”

  “Your case is a lot better than his was,” I said. “Why’d you settle for so little?”

  “Lawyer’s advice. Better a settlement you can collect than one that drives the defendant into bankruptcy.”

  Ms. Arellone looked disgusted. “I think the lawyer was just looking for his fee.”

  Ms. Maloney gave a small shrug. “Perhaps, but it was still good advice, and it’s more than I had going in. I doubt that I could have collected much more from him.”

  Ms. Arellone grimaced. “Yeah, and he all but threatened you with not being able to collect that.”

  Ms. Maloney looked over at her. “Really? When’d he say that?”

  “When his lawyer went back to him and Ms. Gracy brought you the news,” she said. “I was watching him, and he didn’t look all that upset by the news. He told his lawyer something like ‘We’ll see if she can collect.’ His lawyer shut him up pretty fast, and they got out of there quick, but I was looking right at his face when he said it.”

  “Well, the case is still pending and we’ll let it run until he pays up.” Ms. Maloney shrugged. “If he tries to play any games, we’ll have that to fall back on.”

  Greta said, “Well, this calls for a celebration. Where shall we go for dinner?”

  Ms. Maloney smiled. “Excellent plan. How about that steak house up on eight?”

  “It’s your celebration, Ms. Maloney,” I told her. “You call it.”

  “That’s what I’m in the mood for,” she said with relish.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” I announced.

  Mr. Herring ambled into the galley and smiled at us. “Congratulations, Ms. Maitland,” he said with a smile.

  She grinned back. “Thanks! Will you be joining us for dinner? That steak house up on deck eight around 1900?”

  He thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No, I’ve promised dinner to a lovely young lady who’s leaving in the morning.”

  Ms. Arellone snickered. “Gonna warm her last few hours on station, there, Perc?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Gonna try.” He shrugged. “Ya never know how it’ll turn out.” He turned to me. “You have anything else for me to do this afternoon, Skipper?”

  I shook my head. “No, I think we’ve wrapped up the work day here. Although I still wish you’d study up on astrogation. I could really use the help!” I smiled at him. “You only missed by a few points.”

  He sighed and flexed his shoulders in an odd shrug. “Well, I’ve got some time for that, Skipper. We’ll see.” He looked at the chrono and smiled. “Right now? I’m gonna get cleaned up because I’ve got a date with an angel.” He smiled at all of us and headed back to the berthing area.

  “How much longer do you want to stay here, Ms. Maitland?” I asked. “Another day or two?”

  She considered. “I’ll check with my counselor but I think that’ll be just about right. You want to start finding cargo?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll do that in the morning, and post the departure intent for passengers at the same time.” I looked at Greta. “Are we ready for space?”

  She nodded. “Have been for about three days, Skipper.”

  I looked at Ms. Maloney. “How we fixed for food, Ms. Maitland?”

  “I’ll put in an order to top us off tomorrow. We haven’t actually used all that much.” She started to say something else, and then st
opped.

  “What is it, Ms. Maitland?”

  She glanced at Ms. Arellone before looking back. “The Maitland thing isn’t going to fool many people any more, Captain. We may as well call me by my real name.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  Ms. Arellone fired up her tablet and showed me a newsie. “Shipping Heir Sued!” blazed across the top of the image of Ms. Arellone leading Ms. Maloney into the courtroom. “She’s been outed in the press, Skipper. Big time.”

  I examined the article and nodded. “So it would seem. How do you feel about that, Ms. Maloney?”

  She shrugged. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

  “Do we need to get you some new shipsuits, Ms. Maloney?” I asked nodding at the name stenciled on her pocket.

  She looked at it consideringly. “I hadn’t thought of that...”

  Ms. Arellone suggested, “We could wash that out so it doesn’t have the wrong name on it.”

  Ms. Maloney looked over to her. “Really? I thought this was permanent.”

  “Enzyme based cleaner. Daub a little on and rinse in cold water. The ink will come right out.” She shrugged matter-of-factly.

  Ms. Maloney looked at me. “Is it okay if I have an unnamed suit?” she asked with a grin.

  I shrugged. “It’s okay with me, but I suspect you can get them re-stenciled.”

  Ms. Arellone nodded. “Happens all the time.”

  Ms. Maloney looked back and forth between us and then shrugged. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do.”

  Greta and I left them planning the operation, and retired to the cabin. We had a couple of stans to get ready for the evening, and we put them to good use.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Greenfields Orbital:

  2373-June-27

  The four of us spent a giddy two stans at dinner. Ms. Maloney seemed relaxed for the first time since I had met her. Something about fighting back and winning did good things for her. I had never realized just how tightly strung she was, how closed off, and I kicked myself for it.

  When the waiter came around with the dessert card, we all just groaned at him. He smiled.

  “Didn’t leave enough room for a sweetie?” he chided us with a grin.

  I was full almost to the point of discomfort and the extra glass of wine didn’t help. We had spent a blissful two full stans of laughing, eating, and enjoying the company. When I thumbed the tab, I added a generous tip, and ushered my small harem out of the restaurant and onto the promenade.

  Ms. Arellone took the lead, as she was wont to do. She still saw herself as our bodyguard even though none of us still operated as if we needed one. Nobody in his right mind takes on a pack of four spacers. Ms. Maloney and Greta walked arm-in-arm with their heads together giggling over something that I assumed I would learn about soon enough, given the occasional grins and glances that they both gave me. I tried not to worry too much about it, although I harbored more than a little curiosity as I ambled along in the rear.

  The promenade was sparsely populated in the middle evening hours. It wasn’t late enough to be fashionable, and we made up the trailing edge of the early crowd. Maybe that’s why I spotted him moving up behind us, not running but walking with a purposeful stride as if he had somewhere to go.

  At first I didn’t recognize him. He was just another spacer in a gray shipsuit wearing a tyvek painter’s coverall. He walked up beside me, on the side closest to the bulkhead, which made me look at him more closely, perhaps. His black, spacer cropped hair looked wrong somehow but before I could register it, I felt a sharp burn in my side and looked down to see a gaping wound sliced just under my rib cage and blood already beginning to soak the fabric.

  I gasped from the combined pain and surprise. Greta and Ms. Maloney turned to look just he made his move. I saw his right arm begin to extend toward Ms. Maloney’s exposed kidney. By then, she had turned enough to see the blood soaking my side, and dodged away from the figure coming up fast behind her. Greta had seen what I had, and her eyes opened wide in shock as she recognized the face.

  What followed was less a smooth flow of time as much as a series of flashes—frames in some horror show. Sound didn’t register, as each frame took no time. The entire series unfolded in silence.

  Flash—Greta’s face twisted in shock and surprise as she pulled Christine Maloney away from the approaching blade.

  Flash—Stacy Arellone’s head turned to look back over her shoulder as she reached for her own weapons.

  Flash—A second tyvek suited figure stepped from a doorway ahead, blade already in hand, already driving upward toward Stacy’s chest.

  Flash—Christine Maloney fell to the deck dodging the thrust from behind, her momentum pulling Greta over on top of her.

  Flash—My vision blurred as the man’s flat, ceramic blade flashed forward so fast it was barely recognizable, and buried itself just under Greta’s left shoulder-blade as she fell over Christine Maloney.

  Flash—The rictus of anger on Stacy Arellone’s face as she engaged her own attacker, arcs of silver steel in each hand.

  Flash—His forward momentum forced our attacker to step over the tangle of limbs on the deck, and he slammed into Arellone’s exposed back, his second knife carving, his attack throwing her bodily into the bulkhead even as her first attacker stepped back from the fight, streaks of red slashed diagonally across his torso.

  Time became fluid and linear again, but the shock and blood loss drew me down to land in the puddles of red on the deck. As my head bounced on the decking, sound crashed around me. Shouts echoed down the promenade. I had one final vision of irritation flashing across our attacker’s face even as his blade reached to cut the life from his surprised accomplice.

  As the darkness edged out my vision, I watched our attacker coldly assessing the situation while the sound of my own heart gushed in my ears. He considered our party, lying sprawled and tangled on the deck, only Christine Maloney uninjured. He glanced up once as the alarm spread behind and around us. His lips pressed together in a line of irritation as his mental calculus reached a solution.

  I felt the vibrations of running feet where my face lay against the deck, and I watched as Percival Herring turned, walked away down the promenade, and disappeared into the stairwell. Through the din, through the pounding in my ears, and even as the darkness closed my vision, I heard the latch click as the door swung closed behind him.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Greenfields Orbital:

  2373-July-3

  When the autodoc cracked my consciousness, I woke feeling quite rested as if after a particularly good night’s sleep. A shell of satisfied well-being surrounded me, and I could feel a smile edging the corners of my mouth. The drugs did a very good job.

  “Hello, Captain.” A smocked figure beside the capsule drew my attention. Her face held a practiced calm even as her eyes assessed what her instrumentation must have already told her.

  “Hi.” The drugs kept me floating even as the memories drifted up, and tried to break into my head.

  She smiled and nodded. “You’re going to be fine, but we need to put you back under for a bit.”

  Before I could laugh in her face, the darkness closed on me.

  When I woke again, I found myself. No drugs held me warmly. The autodoc had no tubes or probes stuck into me or pressed onto my skin. The feeling might have been one of rested well-being except for the fear and uncertainty that flushed through me, sending the steady beat of the cardio monitor into double time.

  “Steady, Skipper.” Ms. Arellone’s voice came from the left, and my head turned to see her haunted eyes. Christine Maloney stood just behind her. Between the two of them, Ms. Maloney looked the worse. Black and red circles ringed her eyes.

  Before I could speak the medico drew my attention to the other side. “Captain?”

  I turned to look at her as she craned her head around, and leaned a bit over the capsule to gaze into my eyes.

  “Welcome back, Captain. We�
�re going to decant you in a few ticks here, but the authorities would like a word with you, if you’re up to it?”

  She made it sound like the possibility might be optional. “Of course.” My voice sounded flat and stale to me.

  “Thanks. We’ll be right outside, and the autodoc will call me if you have any trouble.” The medico gathered my crew with her eyes, and they stepped out of the alcove even as a jump-suited TIC agent pulled up a rolling stool and settled beside the pod.

  “Hello, Captain. I’m field agent Aaron Harkness.”

  “Field Agent.” I acknowledged his presence and title even as I steeled myself for what must follow.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions and record your responses, Captain. About the attack?” His mouth made a movement that approximated a smile. “Would that be alright?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Thank you, Captain. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Ishmael Horatio Wang.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “I assume I am still on Greenfields Orbital, but no, I have no direct knowledge of where I am.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Tell me what you remember about your attack.”

  I walked him through the raw and painful memories. I described the frames as well as I could remember even as I knew that time, shock, and drugs had eroded them—robbed them of their clarity and softened their pain.

  When I finished he held up his tablet for me to see. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “That’s Percival Herring. He was one of my deck crew.”

  “Is that the man who attacked you?”

  “Yes. His hair is different. Black, not red.”

  Agent Harkness nodded. “Thank you, Captain.” He pulled the tablet back, and flicked it once before holding it up again. “How about this man?”

  “That’s Chief Bailey. Engineering First Officer Montague Bailey. I fired him back on Diurnia.”