Debts of My Fathers (Father Chessman Saga Book 2)

by Dan Thompson

  The inner airlock was closed, as he expected, but he keyed it open. “Who’s there?” came Richard’s call over the intercom.

  “Captain returning. Where are you?”

  “Bridge, sir.”

  He found Richard sitting at the ops station, reading something from a pad in his lap. He stood when Michael entered. “All systems nominal,” he reported.

  “Excellent,” he replied and held aloft the folder of papers. “And excellent work here as well. Everything is signed for, and the loading crew should come tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Very well, sir. Are you heading out again?”

  “No,” he replied, thinking of heading for his office, but stopped. “In fact, you should go out. I can cover the rest of your watch.”

  “You wouldn’t rather go celebrate a bit more?”

  He gave a little smile but shook his head. “I think I’ve had all the celebration I can take for now. No, you go. In fact … wait, who’s on for tonight?”

  “I believe Mr. Merkel is covering tonight with Mr. Rodriguez slated for the morning.”

  “Okay, you head on out, but before you go, track them down by link. Tell Dieter he can be a little late, and tell Carlos to take the day off.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Michael nodded. “I think I’ll simply relax on my own ship for the rest of our stay, but don’t worry. You and I have a date at Arvin. We’ll start at the Guild Hall and see what mischief we can get into from there.” He headed aft. “But remember to tell me when you leave.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He settled into his office and pulled up the list of pending cargo. It all looked good, though the rates were average. He understood why Richard had been tempted by that time-bonus cargo to Tortisia. The passengers looked tame as well. There were a few messages waiting in his queue, most of them routine, with over half of them mere copies of Richard’s exchanges with station administration. The last one, however, caught his eye. It was from Captain Bradley of the Hamilton James.

  Captain Fletcher,

  We’ve been released from the tugs and will be spreading the sails in two hours, but I wanted to send you a note of thanks. Lena told me you got her a shot at a berth on the Windy Wilhelm. S&W runs good ships, and I’ve met the Wilhelm’s captain. She’s solid. If it all works out, I’ll be able to tell Lena’s mother that I passed her into good hands, and I’ll have you to thank for it.

  Sorry for not tracking you down to tell you by link, but I understand there’s something of a rush to reach the Wilhelm. I do not intend to be late. The next time we meet, though, dinner is on me.

  May your winds be steady,

  Captain Leonard Bradley

  Stefan pushed through the crowd, taking it all in. He had seen something like this in a couple of movies, but he had never thought it any more real than malevolent aliens. And yet, nearly two hundred people packed into the warehouse. They all looked serious and mean, but only a dozen of them were actual fighters. The promoter, as the little thug called himself, promised at least six fights, but there was the possibility that some of the “survivors” could be cajoled into a second or even third round of fights.

  It was not such a bad deal for the promoters or the fighters. A lot of money was changing hands, and while the odds shifted as the money piled on to one fighter or the other, Stefan figured that the house was taking 15 to 20 percent off the top with some fraction of that going to the victors.

  He had watched four fights so far, and none of them were lightweights. Three of the losers had been carried off on stretchers. None of the injuries looked life-threatening, but the fights seemed to go until one person could no longer stand or signaled their surrender. In the last fight, even surrender had not saved the loser from one last kick to the side of the head.

  Stefan had a hard time imagining little Winner even stepping into a place like this, let alone surviving combat in the center ring. For that matter, he had seen only five women among the spectators, and for a couple of those he had had to look twice to be sure.

  A hand tapped his shoulder. He spun around with a raised fist before he could rein in his reaction.

  “Whoa there, fella, just want wanting to talk.”

  Stefan glared at him. He was short and chubby, but the scars on his face told a tale of not running away. “What do you want?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you, mister. You’re walking around here like you’re looking for someone.”

  Stefan shook his head. He had hoped he had been more circumspect than that, but he had been sloppy. “You ever get any women in here?”

  The short man looked around, but Stefan cut him short.

  “No, not here,” he said. He hooked his thumb toward the ring where the next two combatants were starting to circle each other. “In there.”

  The other man gave a snort. “Not bloody likely.”

  “Never?”

  He shrugged. “Four or five times a year, tops, and most of those are … well, call them special events: paying off a debt, twisted punishments, things like that. Is that what you want?”

  Stefan shook his head and turned to leave, but the man grabbed lightly at his elbow.

  “Cause, you know, if it’s a cat fight you’re looking for, I know a place up on ring two. You pay the cover for both of us, and I can get you in.”

  He shook the man off and headed for the exit. He had no idea what Nick Crow had seen when he thought he saw Winner, but it sure as hell was not this.

  Dieter had the watch. The last Michael had heard, he was playing his sitar on the bridge, so Michael curled up in bed with one of Peter’s journals. He had broken with his habit this time and gone looking for something specific. He pulled out the volume where his mother had left Malcolm. He scanned ahead, looking for the next time Peter met her. There it was, four weeks later. It was not much, but it spoke volumes.

  As predicted, we ran into the Jolly Shamrock at Cenita, and Sophia is still on board. We had lunch and spent the afternoon at some local arcade. It’s hard to believe, but we must have spent an hour launching these little rubber frogs from tabletop catapults, trying to land them on the center platform.

  On the face, it was ridiculous, and I think we both knew it was rigged to be almost impossible, but we had a blast working on the problem together. By the end, we worked out the angle and the necessary force, and sure enough, we popped three in a row onto the pad. She got a big monkey doll, and I took a little plush puppy.

  Dinner was short because she had the final evening watch on the Shamrock, and they’re pulling out in the morning. But we’ll catch up with them at Ballison, and we’ll only be a day behind at that point. Hopefully we’ll have a day or two.

  I always thought Malcolm Fletcher was a sharp guy, but he was a fool to let Sophia go. I may not deserve her any more than he did, but if I can snatch her up, there’s no way I’m letting her go.

  Michael skimmed forward through a few boring entries about standing watch and settling some dispute over a gaming system and found the entry for Peter’s visit to Ballison.

  Unbelievable. Best two days of my life, and not only because I got Sophia out of her uniform. I don’t know where to begin, and normally I don’t even describe my exploits in much detail, but this lady was something special. Her breasts, her hips, and I can’t even find words to describe her …

  Michael slammed it shut. Yes, he wanted to learn more about Peter, and yes, he wanted to know how he and his mother met. But there were some things he was simply not prepared to know in detail. This was clearly one of them.

  Nick Crow brought up the rear of the trio boarding the Sophie’s Grace. He took note of the airlock controls, noting the safety features, the overrides, and the manual control valves. Such details were rarely important, but noting them had become a habit.

  The girl leading them had introduced herself as Winner Vargas. He avoided close contact initially on the off-chance that she might recognize him, but as she led them through the docking
tube, she had shown no sign of recognition.

  Looking at her, he could see that she was roughly the right size, and her hair was similar, though it was hard to compare its current dry state to the fighting ring when it would have been matted down with her sweat. She moved with ease through the zero gravity of the tube, but that did not indicate any particular lethal skill. He tried to imagine her build, but it was hard. Her uniform was loose and baggy, and it made her look thin, but he could not truly tell how thin.

  She led them around from the airlock through some crew quarters, past the central common areas, and over to another set of cabins. At the end of the hall, she pointed to two rooms. “The aft one has two bunks. Lunch is noon, dinner is eighteen hundred, and breakfast is at seven.”

  She began to back away, so he took a step after her. “Miss Vargas,” he called.

  She stopped and faced him, but her gaze did not meet his eyes. “Yes?”

  “We sent some crates over before. They have some of our gear, and we may want to access some of it during the trip. Can you tell me where they’re located?”

  She nodded but did not look up. “There’s a locker down by the cargo access.”

  He took a step forward and watched her shoulders shift as she took a half-step back. Her mouth was sealed in a tight frown, unlike the snarl from the earlier night, but her chin looked very familiar. “And can you show me?”

  “That’s crew area,” she replied, eyes fixed on his feet.

  He took another step forward. “But you’re crew.”

  She looked away sharply, took a full step back and turned away. “Please ask for Mr. Mosley,” she said, hastening back up the corridor.

  He shook his head. Stefan Carrillo had not lied. She did seem skittish, though he would not have gone so far as describing her as timid. There had been something about the way she had set her shoulders when he had approached her. It might be nothing, but one thing was certain. This girl had a twin among the Valkyrie.

  Michael watched the tugs fade into the distance as the pulse drive sent the Sophie even further outward. Richard sat at ops listening to traffic control. “We are clear for tach, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mosley,” he replied and eased off on the throttle. “Did you have a good time with your last two nights?”

  “I did at that, sir. I saw some amazing things touring the lower rings. I found this one club in fact … well, next time through, perhaps we should make an outing.”

  Michael nodded. “And you, Mr. Rodriguez?”

  “You know, the usual, bar hopping, maybe looking for a friendly card game. Thanks for the extra day, by the way.”

  “No problem. Now if you would do the honors of unfurling the sails, I’m eager to be on our way to Arvin.”

  “Aye, sir. Prepare for first stage up-tach in sixty seconds.”

  The Fat Grizzly was already being pulled by the tugs when the word came in. “Scopes show that the Sophie’s Grace has engaged her sails and gone to tach.”

  “Acknowledged,” Davies said. “Time left on tugs?”

  “Twenty minutes,” the pilot replied.

  She turned back to face her captain and the Lady. The captain slumped to the side of his chair, his jaw resting in his right hand. The Lady stood on his right. “Everything is on schedule,” she reported.

  “Yay,” Captain Gallows said with as much enthusiasm as his pose allowed.

  “Do you have the course plotted for Sanhurst transfer station?” the Lady asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Davies replied. “The latest navigation reports show grade-one winds through most of the trip with only minor instabilities at the two light-year mark.”

  “Excellent,” the Lady replied. “At this point, all we have to do is collect at the rendezvous.”

  The captain grumbled, but said nothing more.

  Chapter 21

  “There aren’t enough curse words in the universe to capture how screwed you are, and believe me, I would know.” – Malcolm Fletcher

  MICHAEL WENT TO HIS OFFICE after dinner and checked the logs. Carlos had made only one minor sail correction, and Michael had actually been on the bridge for that. Hector had reskinned the starboard scrubber before dinner. The reactor and sail generators were running smoothly. The galley was stocked for the trip to Arvin as well as the longer layover he had predicted.

  He checked the enhanced navigation log next. It had recorded seven ships in all, two of them identified. The Wandering Seed left Ballison just before them, on a course toward Tsaigo, and the Fat Grizzly left an hour after them though the computer could not predict a heading for them. He was not familiar with either ship, so he closed the log.

  He moved into his cabin and changed for bed. He considered grabbing one of Peter’s journals but decided to skip it this evening. It had been an eventful layover at Ballison. He was looking forward to a quiet cruise to Arvin.

  Dieter was plucking out a tune on his sitar when the call came from the bridge.

  “Hey, Dieter,” Richard said, “I’m going to hit the head and stretch my legs for a bit. The wind looks steady, but you know the drill. Page me if anything happens to the capture rate.”

  “Aye, sir,” he replied. He adjusted the displays to make it easier to watch for any variation, and made a small note in the console’s log. Two-oh-five, engineering watching the winds.

  Dieter continued with the melody, and to him it was most definitely a melody, no matter what anyone else thought. They were merely uneducated when it came to all the variation that humanity’s musical heritage had to offer. He only paused once when he noticed a momentary drop in the capture rates, but it steadied after mere seconds.

  A few minutes later, he heard footsteps on the hard metal deck. “Is that you, Mr. Mosley?”

  Richard came back from environmental. “It’s the middle of the night, Dieter. I think we can go by first names.”

  “Sure, Richard. Everything looks fine down here. There was a transitory dip, but we’re back up to nominal capture rates.”

  Richard glanced back toward environmental, but then grinned at Dieter. “So I have to admit, I’ve been curious about that sitar. How different is it from your banjo or a plain old acoustic guitar?”

  Dieter stopped plucking the strings and considered it. “Well, it’s tuned to another scale, of course, and the banjos don’t have sympathetic strings. Plus, the frets are used quite differently.”

  “How’s the weight?”

  “Heavier, quite a bit actually.”

  Richard leaned forward to look at displays, and Dieter followed his gaze. The tachyon capture rate was still in the middle of the green zone. “It looks like we have a minute. Can I hold it?”

  Dieter hesitated for a moment. It had taken two years to find this particular sitar, but Richard looked to be the gentle type. “Sure, but be careful with it,” he said, handing it over. “It’s older than I am.”

  Richard took it and tried to pluck it with his fingernails. It came out as a sour warble, not even a proper note. “Not quite as easy as it looks,” he said.

  “Well, for starters, you’re holding it wrong,” Dieter told him. “You actually need both hands on the neck.”

  Richard reversed his grip so that he was holding the sitar out from his body, almost like a fishing rod. “Like this?”

  “No, it’s …” Dieter trailed off with a sigh. First officer or not, Richard Mosley was apparently a philistine when it came to the arts. “You can’t really even play it standing up. It’s meant to be played sitting on the floor, but I can get by with an armrest.”

  “I see,” Richard replied, and shortened up his grip around the neck and held the body up in the air. “You’re right about it being heavier though. It’s quite solid.”

  Dieter shook his head. From the way Richard was abusing the frets with his grip, Dieter knew he was going to have to retune it. “Yes, sir. May I have it back?”

  “My pleasure,” Richard said, taking a step toward him.

  Dieter wou
ld never quite remember what happened next, but in that fleeting moment as the heavy body of the sitar swung toward his head, he had only one thought: Be careful with that!

  Stefan Carrillo stood over the limp body of Dieter Merkel and examined the remains of the sitar in his hand. As solid as it had seemed, the resonating body had collapsed on impact. Still, it had been enough.

  Nick Crow rushed aft from his hiding spot near environmental ready to deliver another blow if necessary, but as soon as he turned the corner, the tension slipped out of his body. He was no longer wearing the casual business suit of his cover, but was in lightly armored tactical gear.

  Stefan tossed the instrument aside and stepped around Dieter’s chair, allowing Nick to move up next to him. “All right … on three, two, one, lift,” he said, and the two of them hauled Dieter out of the chair and dropped him onto the deck.

  Nick rolled him over and pulled a heavy-duty temporary tie out of his vest pocket. “I’ve got this,” he said.

  Stefan pulled the small headset out of his pocket and clipped it over his right ear. “We have engineering,” he said.

  “Holding the bridge,” Perry replied.

  “Okay, I’m going for the weapons now.”

  Nick finished securing Dieter’s wrists and ankles and gave a nod.

  The small cargo locker was tucked back by the cargo airlock. It was little more than a steel mesh cage with a coded lock. He tapped in the code, swung the door open and grabbed the green case. He lifted it onto another crate and popped the lock. The top layer was dominated by four commercial-grade analysis decks. He very nearly tossed them aside, but they had cost money somewhere along the way. He set them carefully on the floor instead.