Fortunes of War (Stellar Main Book 1)

by Richard Tongue

  “If they’re so bad…”

  “They’re here, they’ve got a lot of ships, and they have low charges. To be fair, you get what you pay for, but shipping capacity in this sector’s pretty limited. None of the majors are interested. Thank God. The last thing we want is one of the big haulers turning up.”

  Petrov made his way to the podium, looking around the room, then banged his gavel six times in quick succession, the conversations abruptly coming to a halt as all attention focused on him. He looked down at the datapad placed before him, coughed twice, then started to read.

  “Auction for the purchase of the Wildcat-class Scout, listed as Alpha, certified by the Commonwealth Patrol as in a Bravo-condition state. Suitable for in-system travel at once, and capable of interstellar travel with minor repairs. Armaments have been removed, but a hardpoint remains, should suitable permits be made available.” He looked at Carter, and added, “I caution you that such permits will be difficult to obtain under the current circumstances, but applications can be made to my office at any time. You’ve all had a chance to take a look at the ship for yourselves, and most of you have sent your own engineering teams in to inspect her condition. Therefore, I see no reason to delay this auction, and unless anyone has any objection, I will begin at once.”

  He looked around the room, banged his gavel again, and added, “There is no reserve price today, and payment is to be made at once, upon the conclusion of this auction. Failure to provide payment will result in the ship going to the next-highest bidder. I would like to start the bidding, I think, at four hundred thousand credits.”

  “That’s a steal,” Scott said, raising his hand.

  “Four and a half,” a loud voice barked, a wild-haired man from the rear of the room.

  “Five,” McBride said, glancing at Carter.

  “Five and a half,” Scott replied.

  “Six,” the wild-haired man said.

  “I have six hundred thousand credits,” Petrov said. “Any advances must now come in units of a hundred thousand credits. Is there seven on the floor?”

  “Seven,” Carter said, raising her hand. She had more money than she had ever seen in her life, and she was about to trade it all away for a ship she’d never seen.

  “Eight,” McBride said, a smirk on his face.

  “Nine,” Carter replied. There was a long pause in the room, Houston smiling at the rear, and Petrov looked anxiously around, going from bidder to bidder, waiting for someone else to raise their hand. For a moment, Carter allowed herself to relax. Larson had told her that she’d rigged the auction, most of the potential bidders were friends of her father, and Rogers had a supportive hand on her arm.

  “One million credits,” McBride said, smugly.

  “Is there any advance on that?” Petrov asked. “If not, I am going to sell at that price.” Carter’s eyes widened, a silent curse on her lips, and with the same smug grin as McBride, Petrov slammed down the gavel, selling the ship not to Carter, but to McBride. Scott shook his head in disbelief, and Carter turned to angrily look at Houston, who still had the same calm grin on his face before replying with a curt nod. McBride walked to the podium, pulling out a corporate card, ready to take advantage of the bargain he’d just snatched out of Carter’s grip.

  “Don’t worry,” Rogers said. “There will be another chance. More ships. Some of the other people in this room will probably be selling some of their older freighters off before long, and you’ll have a chance to arrange a bank loan. With a million in the bank, it shouldn’t be that difficult.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Carter replied, shaking her head. “It’s Petrov. You can bet he’ll be talking to every bank on Colchis, ready to salt the earth before I meet them. And if I have to go off-planet for funds, that means somewhere out of the sector. Maybe even back to the Core Worlds.”

  “And with a mortgage on her back,” Scott said, “there won’t be any chance of going pirate hunting. Vicky, I can’t stand McBride, but there’s a not-insignificant chance that he just saved your life.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rogers replied, gesturing towards the podium. “Something’s wrong.”

  McBride was frantically working the payment computer, swiping his card through, a host of angry red lights winking on and off, to the amusement of the increasingly attentive crowd. Petrov pushed him aside, working the controls himself, but to no better result. After a moment, red-faced, he looked up at Carter, rage in his eyes.

  “Miss Carter, if you would come to the podium, please?”

  “Sure,” she replied, reaching for her recently-acquired credit card.

  “AstraTech appears to have suffered an unexpected disruption in its banking and will be unable to conclude the payment today. As the next bidder, theoretically the ship is yours if you can pay, but under the circumstances, I would request that you agree to a postponement of the auction to allow…”

  “Not a chance!” she said, deliberately raising her voice, an angry murmur rising through the crowd. “I’m not going to agree to change the rules because your little friend can’t raise the money to fulfill his legal obligations. And if you try and force me to do so, I’ll be only too glad to see you in court.”

  “You dumb…,” McBride began.

  “Slander’s going to get expensive,” Carter interrupted. “You don’t have the money to back it up. I do. Shall we get on with it?”

  Gritting his teeth, Petrov slid the machine in front of her, and said, “Be my guest.”

  She swiped the card through the system, entered the access code, and watched as the nine hundred thousand credits were sent to the auctioneer’s account, a green light flashing to report a successful transaction. Without a word, McBride stalked off, pushing his way through the crowd and out of the room. Petrov looked at the readout with ill-disguised disgust, then looked up at Carter.

  “License?”

  Pulling out her identity card, she said, “Limited Master’s Certification, suitable for ships up to two thousand tons. Unless they’ve been loading ingots into her cargo hold, that Wildcat is a little under eight hundred, unloaded. A thousand loaded. I updated the paperwork three months ago.”

  “This all seems to be in order,” he replied. “I will warn you now that I will reject any application for armaments you submit, and that I will insist on a thorough inspection of this vessel before allowing it into interstellar space.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like harassment, Captain.”

  He grimaced, then said, “It’s not too late to change your mind. AstraTech will almost certainly buy the ship from you as soon as they’ve solved their credit problems. Maybe as early as tomorrow, and for a profit. You could walk away with a ten, maybe twenty percent markup.”

  “Tell your friend McBride that I’m not interested,” she replied. “Carter Interstellar Couriers is back in business, and I intend to operate this ship myself.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Petrov said. “I tried to warn you. When it all blows up in your face and your crew are dead at your feet, just remember that you had a chance to save their lives, as well as your own. Just remember that.”

  “She might have a better one if you dared to risk that highly polished ship of yours,” Rogers replied, walking over to them. “Congratulations, Captain Carter. Your father would be proud. I know I am.”

  “Me too,” Scott said.

  “And me,” Wu added. “What are we proud about?”

  “Our mutual friend just became the owner of a somewhat used Wildcat-class Scout Trader,” Scott replied. “We were going to put her into service ourselves as Loki, but I don’t mind losing her to you. I was a little reluctant to get into trade pioneering, anyway. If you want us to help fix you up with a cargo, I can ask around the brokers, see if there’s anything lined up.”

  “Nice little ship,” Rogers added. “Not much cargo space, but she’s a fast beast. Tough, as well. Originally milspec design. Still got the hardened hull plating and the rapid reaction thrusters.
And the hardpoint.” Turning to Wu, she asked, “Do you think your father might have something lying around in stores that would fit this beast?”

  “No idea, but we can probably find something,” she replied, glancing at Petrov. “Though getting it through an inspection is going to be tough.”

  “That can come later,” Scott said, reaching for the airlock control. “Go on, take a look.”

  Carter walked to the threshold, looking inside. The previous crew had obviously left in a hurry, scrawled text on the wall indicating maintenance half-completed, coffee stains on the deck, waste chutes half-full. There was a faint tang in the air, the life support system needing some work, and one of the overhead lights was flickering on and off.

  Tentatively, she walked through the airlock, onto the deck. It was a small ship. Less than a third as large as O’Dell. She stepped into the crew room, a well-worn table with a couple of metal benches on each side, a cracked viewscreen looking down upon them, lockers swinging open, hastily emptied. A ladder descended into the cargo bay, cold and dark, and she peered down into the gloom, a smile spreading across her face.

  To the rear, in Engineering, the monitors were dead, but green and amber maintenance certifications stuck everywhere, testifying to the ability of this ship to return to life at a moment’s notice. She walked forward, along the narrow central corridor, cramped cabins on each side, barely large enough to sleep in. A single ‘fresher for the whole crew, opposite the Captain’s Cabin, slightly larger than the others – with a desk underneath a raised bed, a chair crammed in underneath it, one wheel twisted and bent.

  The Captain’s Cabin.

  Her cabin.

  That thought seemed strange, alien. As she looked inside, she half-expected her father to tap her on her shoulder, edge past her into the room. She shook her head, stepping through the single blast door to the flight deck, glancing up at the pop turret above, currently loaded only with sensor systems, the weapons long-since removed.

  The flight deck had the usual three stations. Pilot, Navigation, Sensor/Communications. No Flight Engineer, not with the engineering section only thirty meters away, within shouting range even if the internal comm systems failed. She walked up to the helm, running her hands over the controls. The design was familiar enough. The same standard design that she’d flown on the O’Dell, but the feel would be completely different. Faster, nimbler, perhaps more graceful. And that was before they’d managed to add the usual modifications.

  This ship wasn’t built simply to haul cargo from place to place. The designers, back in the Seven Stars War, had intended this ship as a blockade runner, even a raider. Built for fast, quick strikes on enemy targets. None had ever seen active service, the Commonwealth Patrol suddenly uninterested when the war ended, the market flooded with hundreds of these ships, hastily civilianized.

  If she was planning to take on Fortuna, to destroy the people who killed her crew, her family, this was the ship to do it. Larson had chosen well. Rogers, Scott and Wu walked onto the bridge, Wu’s hands covered in recently acquired oil that she wiped off on her jacket.

  “I can get this baby purring like a kitten in a few hours, skipper,” Wu said. “There’s nothing wrong with her that a little love and attention can’t fix.”

  “We’ll lend you a few technicians as well,” Rogers offered. “Just for the day. Cassie’s right. It isn’t going to take any longer than that.”

  “You’re signing up?” Carter asked, looking at Wu.

  She shrugged, and said, “Dad told you that anything you needed, you got. Right now, you need me.” With a gleaming smile, she added, “Besides, this is going to be fun.”

  Petrov’s yeoman stepped onto the flight deck, coughing to attract her attention, holding a datapad in his hands.

  “Your paperwork,” he said. “All signed, sealed and approved. Captain Petrov has asked that all copies of your insurance and other flight profile data be sent up to him as soon as it is ready, before he grants you clearance to leave the system.” He looked down at the device in his hands, and asked, “What are you calling her?”

  “That’s easy,” she replied, a smile on her face. “Pandora. When I’m finished with the pirates, they’ll wish they’d never opened the box.”

  Chapter 7

  Carter smiled with joy, the first time that emotion had entered her soul since her dive into the escape pod, guiding her ship through the atmosphere, wingtips flaming red from the abrasive heat. Pandora was a dream to control, just as she had hoped and expected, her ship ducking from side to side, spilling speed, as she started to get the feel of the helm. At the rear, Wu fed power to her engines from her station, the ship responding perfectly to commands.

  “Nice and smooth,” Scott said, nodding in approval. “We’ve got landing clearance. Pad Four-Nine. That’s as close as I could get to the Second Stage. I managed to get through to Bella, as well, so we’ll have a reception committee when we land.” Glancing at Rogers, he added, “I’m a little jealous. I wouldn’t mind taking this baby up myself.”

  “You’ve got a ship of your own to worry about,” Rogers chided. “Captain Gregson’s on sick leave.”

  “Another annoyed wife?” Carter asked.

  “Actually, this time it was a real accident. She managed to puncture her spacesuit, lost three fingers to vacuum exposure.” She flexed her hand, and said, “Bionics take so damn long to get working, and take it from me, it’s never quite the same. She’s going to be out for a month.”

  “At least I’m not shipping out until after our anniversary,” Scott said with a smile. “No way I’m missing our twentieth.”

  Turning to him, Carter said, “If you need to…”

  “Friends come first,” Rogers replied. “Better mind your helm.”

  Nodding, Carter turned back to her station, looking up at the viewscreen as her ship soared from the chemical-laden clouds, skimming across the jagged coast. In the far distance, just on the horizon, she could make out the beacons of Solstice City, fighting their way through the smog, and she altered course, lining up her trajectory for a perfect landing.

  The heads-up display flickered into life as it picked up the signals from the surface, traffic control guiding them in, and as Pandora dropped below ten thousand feet, she kicked down the thrust, the wings flexing to put the ship into the perfect glide path, swooping towards her goal. Her hands danced across the controls, making pinpoint adjustments to the trajectory, firing split-second bursts on the thrusters.

  “One minute to landing,” Rogers said, looking up from the navigation console. “Perfect.”

  “Retrothrusters,” Carter replied, firing a short burst that slowed the ship, bringing it down on the landing jets, slowly descending into position on the landing pad, the snake-like docking collar already sliding towards them, ready to hook onto Pandora’s airlock. A slick sheen smothered the plasticrete surface below, the landing lights an eerie green, their lenses coated in the perpetual oily rain. Struts dropped from the underside of the ship, talon-like legs sliding smoothly into place, and the ship settled into position, a series of loud reports as the landing thrusters died, the roar of the engine silent.

  “Pretty good for a first try,” Scott said, a smile on her face. She reached up to a control, activating the post-flight systems, and climbed out of her couch. “If you’re looking for a crew, you might struggle a little. Especially given what you plan to do with this ship. I can probably help you out if you’re planning some standard runs, build up a credit base a little, but combat-ready spacers are hard to find.”

  “I can run this ship with two if I have to,” Carter replied. “Though somehow, I don’t think I’ll have that much trouble getting a third.” She unstrapped her restraints, and said, “I’m more worried about the fact that I have a little under twenty thousand credits left in my account.”

  “You can probably manage a little credit,” Scott mused. “Though again, that would be a hell of a lot easier if you were planning to haul some high-val
ue cargo.”

  “It’s not going to work, honey,” Rogers replied, shaking her head. “She knows what she wants to do, and she’s going to find a way to do it, come what may. You can have our technicians for free, at least for today, and I don’t think you’re going to need much in the way of replacement components. If you can sort out consumables, I think you’ll manage to at least get off the ground.”

  The airlock opened, and footsteps emerged onto the deck, a tall, gangly woman wearing a technician’s jumpsuit emerging, a datapad in her hand. Her eyes darted around, her fingers scrawling one notation after another as she walked towards the bridge.

  “Captain Carter?” she asked.

  “That’s me,” Carter replied. “And you are?”

  “Marsha Forbyn. Landing Pad Supervisor.” Shaking her head, she said, “I guess you’re going to be here for a while. Do you want me to see if I can get an inspector out here next week, or do you think you’ll need longer?” Swiping her screen, she added, “Chamber of Commerce pays for the first day, the rest is five hundred credits, payable in advance. Can I have your account details for an automatic debit, or would you rather pay in a lump sun.”

  “That first day,” Carter asked. “How long does it last?”

  “Six hundred, tomorrow morning.” Nodding, Forbyn said, “Attention to detail. Very good. A lot of our pilots take off at ungodly hours of the morning.” With a grimace, she added, “Frankly, I wish they’d move the cut-off to noon. We’re paying far too much overtime for the flight controllers, getting them out of bed at three in the morning. Though I suppose they appreciate the extra pay. Not a job for me.” She paused, then asked, “So, how will you be paying?”

  “In a lump sum,” Carter replied. “And how much for the inspector?”

  “Another five hundred,” Forbyn said, holding out her datapad. “Just slide through the slot. How much are you paying?”