Ships That Pass In The Night

[Malacandra]

An Asp Mk II makes few concessions to creature comforts. There is far less room inside than in a Cobra 3, still less is it gorgeously decked out with rich man's luxuries like a Fer-de-Lance. For anyone human-sized there is barely room to ease out of the pilot's seat to stretch cramped muscles during a long jump through Witch-space, the head is rudimentary enough to convince a spaceman of the virtues of an old-fashioned low-yield diet, and it almost comes as a surprise to find the cabin maintained at a constant comfortable temperature. But nobody shells out credits on an Asp because it is comfortable; they buy it because it is one of the best ships in all the Eight for coming back from a trip alive and uninjured.

And, as much to the point for those whose proclivities run that way, a mighty effective tool for seeing to it that some other poor sap doesn't.

Steel Thunder was typical of the marque. Her one-man crew sat half-reclined, not for comfort but to maximise endurance, with all the controls conveniently to hand whether for fight or flight. He hardly had to move a finger to activate anything from the target ident system to either of the ship's LF90s - either the one advertising its presence mounted in what looked like a ship's cannon in the Asp's nose, or the vicious sting in the tail almost invisible in the glare from the ship's drive. Thunder's single pylon mounted a Quirium Cascade Mine, but from the occasional scar on the weapon's tough casing, her owner had been through many a scrap without seeing the need to activate it. And as her pilot eased the ship into the docking bay with barely a touch on her sensitive controls, the station crew's discerning eyes could easily make out the extra wiring conduits where Steel Thunder had been outfitted with high-spec shield generators - and that added a fair piece to the cost of what was already a pricey ship.

It is not easy to make an Asp pay her way. Cobras shift a moderate amount of cargo at a good speed; if you have the credits, a Boa Class Cruiser will haul five times the payload at a good percentage of that same speed, while the less-well-heeled trader can always settle for freighting a hundred-odd tons of contract goods in the sturdy old Python. But an Asp is made for shooting things, and turns up her nose at so much as a ton of cargo just as a knight's charger would scorn to pull a plough. There are bounties, of course - in a lawless galaxy there are always bounties, for GalCop tacitly admit that the arm of the law is not as long as either pride or desperate need requires - but for all that it is hard to stay the right side of maintenance costs and even a tank of premium Quirium.

Once the bay repressurised, the Asp's hatch eased open and her pilot wriggled out. He wasn't huge for a human but he was about as large as the Asp's flight-deck could accommodate in even rudimentary comfort. Reaching back into the Asp and behind the pilot's seat, he tapped a combination into the keypad on the safe, and a moment later one of its doors popped open. The bag he pulled out would have been heavy in full normal gravity; in the microgravity near the centre of a Dodecahedron's axis of rotation, there wasn't much weight to worry about, but mass, inertia and momentum were still very much real. Accordingly he moved the bag with some care despite its small size, heading for the window where precious metals were bought and sold.

The credits rung up and the empty sack stowed about his person, the Asp's commander headed for the lift. He was completely unsurprised to find an officer of the Aqutebi People's Police waiting for him in the station's atrium. Like the People's Police in every Commie system he'd ever visited, this one looked like he'd be completely impervious to reason and patience alike - and yet it never paid to upset them if you had any future plans in this system.

"Commander Hammond, Asp 'Steel Thunder' AKV1010344KRS?" enquired the People's Policeman, with at least superficial politeness. He was a shortish humanoid, barely chest high to Hammond, and according to the guidebook the horns on his head were purely for decoration; but of course a Communist police officer's personal stature had nothing to do with how dangerous he was.

"I am. May I help you, officer?" answered the young man; only another Communist would use the term 'comrade', and not always then to a policeman unless he were very sure of his ground.

"Just a routine enquiry, Commander. Our records show that you visited our Astromine Penal Colony LVP328-AQ6 within the last hour. May I enquire as to your business there?"

"Trade, officer," replied Hammond. "You know my ship can't carry more'n her safe will hold, so I took it on me to see if the Astromine had any gold, platinum, gems for sale. As you further likely know, I paid the asking rate in good GalCreds for all she had."

"Understood. We have the records, and all appears in order, except... Shortly after you left, did you encounter any traffic near the Astromine?"

There was not the least point pretending differently and both of them knew it. Hammond nodded acquiescence. "I did. There were three asteroid-mining ships and two police vessels near the Astromine. Mass-locked me for a couple minutes. Oh, and I got mass-locked a minute or so later by a single ship."

"Did your Ident system recognise this single ship?" continued the policeman.

Again, there was no sense dissembling about anything the policeman could easily recover from Steel Thunder's log whether Hammond gave his leave or no. "It identified her as an 'Escaped Convict', status Fugitive," Hammond admitted.

"And what action did you take?"

Hammond inclined his head a fraction sideways. "In an Asp? I could blow him out of the sky for you, and thank you for the bounty - but I figured, whatever you'd sentenced him for, you'd prefer he be rounded up and serve the rest of his sentence as an example to the rest, and that's not something an Asp's any good for. Even if he could bail out, I can't take prisoners."

"You should consider a Sun Ray," the policeman suggested. "All the good points of your marvellous Asp, and it can scoop fuel or cargo - or escape capsules."

"Well, I keep coming back alive in what I have," Hammond replied, "but as to your convict, I figured he couldn't outrun or outfight the next Ray that happened by, and with his transponder squawking 'Fugitive' the whole while he would't be sneaking onto this station or out of the system - less he felt like jumping into a random wormhole, and I sure didn't make him one."

"That we know. And for the record, may I ask you to state that you have no personal or ideological sympathies with any who oppose the People's Soviet of Aqutebi?"

Hammond pondered briefly, then took a couple of steps forward, quickly crossing a yellow line on the station's deck. "No harm in asking, officer - but we're now in GalCop territory, and I'm not required to answer that question without an Arbiter present, nor can I be detained pending the arrival of one. Glad to have been of service, officer."

It wasn't dead safe to offer even that amount of lip to a People's Policeman, but equally, it wasn't likely they'd harass him or slow down his ship's turnaround over something as trivial as that. Even Communist planets needed that much of GalCop's goodwill, and the steady traffic in traders with GalCreds to spend. For all that, Hammond didn't even mutter "Round up your own god-damned dissidents", even when he was sure the policeman was out of earshot.

* * * * *

The station was in planetostationary orbit - the most efficient arrangement for ground-to-space transit - and just crossing the midnight line on Aqutebi a few thousand klicks below. Some station facilities never closed, but the sound baffles effectively muted both the loading bays and the workshops where scores of ships were being turned around, and many of the station personnel and visitors alike were taking the opportunity to catch up on a proper day/night cycle for once. Hammond had half a mind to join them, but after a few days in space in the Asp's cramped accommodations, and the enforced isolation with only a couple of computer-generated personalities for company, a drink or two in agreeable company looked more appealing than rushing straight to a sleepset.

Well, the bar was open and the drink was a definite possibility, but there was little enough company. There was just one of the locals on the customer's side of the bar - at least, she looked like a local, but she could be a spacer like himself -

"Well, hello there, spaceman. You're a little late - there were a few in here earlier, but they're gone by now."

- and then again, perhaps she wasn't a spacer after all. Hammond smiled agreeably. She was a little smaller and slighter than the policeman had been, but only a little, and the horns on her head coupled with the grin on her too-small mouth made her look a little like a succubus. "I'm that easy to read?"

"Call it an informed guess, if you like. Seen enough spacemen to know the signs, humans more'n most, though every once in a while a catfolk'll put everyone else in the shade. But I don't smell right to them. Name's T'kella, spaceman."

"Hammond, miss. Is this the part where I buy a girl a drink?"

She patted the luxuriously-stuffed sofa and sat herself down a short distance from where she'd patted. "Appreciate the thought, Hammond, but alcohol's not kind to me. Bartender needs shots just to handle the stuff, never mind drink it. 'Course, alcohol's poisonous to you, too - it's just I get the bad effects, worse, and no upside to make up for it. But if you want to stand a girl a bar of chocolate..."

Hammond grinned and signalled the bartender. According to legend, chocolate was an export from old Earth herself, and in all the Eight there were only a handful of planets where it grew at all well. Some species couldn't see the point in it, to some it was pure poison, to just about all humans everywhere it was anything from tasty emergency rations to the food of the gods, and to some it was a euphoriant with all the plus points of the most addictive narcotics and none of the harmful effects. On Aqutebi station a tenth-kilo bar was dearer than a generous tot of the best Esgelageian Oubeouab brandy - but to T'kella and anyone else with a modicum of self-restraint, it was to be savoured one tiny square at a time. It made her cheeks and nose-tip flush charmingly, too. Also, it made her talk.

"Yep," she said, nibbling delicately at her third chunk of chocolate, "you could have found yourself a for-real woman if you'd been, what, two or three hours earlier. Local customs and all that, nearly everyone's in bed by now, so it's me or it's wait another day-cycle, spaceman. If you've got that much time to kill."

"You're pretty direct." Hammond sipped his brandy appreciatively.

"I'm pretty realistic. Man off a spaceship, few hours to kill, not even seen another living creature for days or weeks, not got time to go courting according to whatever rituals he grew up with. Why'd I mind? I have something they want, they have something I want, by definition, we make the trade, net wealth has been created."

Her sentences got more clipped the further she got into the chocolate, Hammond noted amusedly. "I never heard it put that way, but it sounds like good economic theory to me."

"I should hope it was," T'kella retorted. "Worked hard for my degree. Unfortunately, turns out that an economics degree and good Party connections will land you a job a sight quicker than an economics degree. I shouldn't mind, I grew up with it - but it turns out I need to make a living another way."

"A - do you mind if I say the word?"

"I'll say it myself, and not mind. Prostitute. Turns out the State's got plenty of openings for them, but you make a better living on GalCop territory. State's itching to hit me up for what's technically 'off-world earnings', but I'll be out of here by then. Don't get me wrong, Party runs the world pretty good, especially if you read your history and know what it used to be like - but one of these days I'd like to make a living at what I studied for."

He took a deeper sip of his brandy. "Yeah. Lot of that about. Listen, T'kella..."

"Nope, I'm going to interrupt you, 'cos I'm a mouthy little piece and the chocolate's really starting to kick in," the humanoid chuckled. "You really like me, you think I'm sweet and smart and all that, but you don't think you can go through with this. And what's more, I'll tell you why."

Hammond raised his eyebrows. "Guidebook didn't say that Aqutebians were telepathic."

"We're not, but I took a couple units of anthropology and psychology along with the economics. Well-rounded education and all. What you're up against is the 'Uncanny Valley'. I'm not your species - but I'm close enough to make you uncomfortable. It's why they don't make sexbots more realistic. They could do it easily, but it disturbs the customers."

"There's that. Also - I mean, physically, you look like an immature human."

"Don't sound like it, though, do I? I'm covered both ways, if it makes you easier. By Aqutebi law I'm educated and documented rational enough to make my own choices, and by GalCop law I'm of age. Varies by species, but I'm not even close to borderline. Check the licence."

Her datapad cheeped as it and Hammond's exchanged protocols, and he confirmed with a glance what T'kella had told him. "Understood. Well, to be honest - "

"Yeah, me too - and believe me, I'm rich enough to turn away custom if I don't like the look of him. Just the one warning: we're not a hundred per cent compatible, if you know what I mean. Anatomically. There are one or two things I can't do. But there's enough left over that we can enjoy it. A lot."

* * * * *

She was innocent of false advertising - especially after the rest of the chocolate. Which was just as well, as T'kella charged high and warned up front there would be no refunds; but a comfortable bed with a view of the planet was part of the deal, and T'kella's company for the rest of the night through breakfast into the bargain.

Even so, Hammond found himself awake early, with a view of the bright crescent of Aqutebi below him as station and planet together rolled towards the sunlight. He didn't move, though. T'kella (not an immature human, at any rate) was still lying next to him, breathing deeply and sometimes giggling in her sleep, probably from the after-effects of her chocolate. He didn't move, but -

"Oof. You always squeeze your girls that tight, spaceman?" grunted T'kella.

"Sorry," said Hammond. "Didn't think I was."

"Don't know your own strength, you Harmless Hairless Ursinoid," teased the girl. "Well, m'awake. You want to go again, or..." She wriggled around to face him. "Or you got something on your mind. I'm bought and paid for by the hour - talking about it's part of the deal, if that's what you want."

"The advantages of a university-educated prostitute," said Hammond, "with no worse substance issues than she likes chocolate. Oh... Well, all right. You remember what you said about wanting to make a living at what you studied for?
"I just wanted to carry passengers. People want to travel through space, I want to fly spaceships, we trade what we've each got for what we each want, and wealth's created. Only it turns out not to be as easy as that, after all.
"Flying Lady was my first - with a little silver ornament that's been in the family I don't know how long. Just a Cobra, tricked out for passenger transport; five comfortable cabins and some go-faster goodies, no more. I always steered clear of trouble, but she didn't steer clear of me.
"Terror is when you've got five lives aboard depending on you, and a Fer-de-Lance and one of his mates lock on to you. I Witched out of there only to find they'd got through the wormhole with me, and then it was turn and fight whether I liked it or not, because if I ran I was for it and all my passengers with me. A Fer-de-Lance, a nasty little Sidewinder, and me with the basic-issue pulse laser.
"Well, here I am. Turns out the only good thing about a pulse laser is it's damn near impossible to cook it, and just when every light on my dashboard's blinking at me the Ferdy's hurting worse than I am, and I stick to his tail and zap him very slowly until he just falls apart. I got his debris in my fuel scoops whether I wanted it or not. Sorted through it later and found his walnut dashboard, hardly a mark on it. Installed it in Flying Lady for a while, too. As for his Sidekick, turns out he was a worse pilot than me or his mate and... again, here I am.
"So I grew up a bit, got tooled up properly, and it turns out that for a taxi driver I make a fair-to-middling fighter pilot. Anyway, I never let myself get stuck with such a helpless ship again. After a few trips, I scored myself a lovely Boa Class Cruiser and really got the business built up. Could carry a dozen high-paying fares from one end of the galaxy to the other, drop off some freight besides... and I still get idiot pirates looking to shoot me up.
"For all that I did the best day's work of my life when I dropped into a nova system with empty holds and a working GalactaHype. But... Even when the whole system was being blown to shit around them, you still found some that never learned the lesson about not starting a fight in a burning house. I don't understand it. You're stuck in a system with an exploding sun, you don't carry witchdrive, why in hell wouldn't you follow anyone that's got one and jump into his wormhole the moment he's out of there?"
Hammond paused and shook his head. It was T'kella's turn to squeeze him. He sighed and went on, "Eventually it got to the point that I felt like the only reason the spacelanes were at all safe was that better men than me were willing to take the lumps, and... I sold the BCC, which left me enough for a top-class fighter with all the gear, including one piece that's not on the books and isn't going to be, and now - I do what I do, and I'm good at it.
"And then there I am, chasing down someone else who's put himself the wrong side of the law and would've shot first if I hadn't been a better shot, and just as I'm watching the white blast a dozen klicks away, I notice my commset beeping at me... and it's saying 'Please, stop shooting! My lifesystem is failing!' And I'd just ignored it."

T'kella didn't say anything. Hammond needed to finish that chain of thought for himself.

"What have I become?" he whispered. "I only wanted to be a spaceman. When did I turn into a killer, and when did my sense of mercy get lost?"

T'kella still didn't say anything, but she thought of something else, and after a while Hammond said "That's really not the answer."

She sat up without interrupting what she was doing. "Maybe not, but in my experience it helps. Look, I'm not a spaceman, and I've never been a pirate in a doomed ship, but I hear stories. Mostly from my own species, sometimes from yours, there's even birds that want someone to prattle at or a feline who likes to be stroked (which is about all I can do that they like, but hey). They tell me - I don't know if it's true or not - but they've seen all sorts of things come over the squawk box when it's going down like you say. They tell me they've salvaged pirate ships more or less intact and found a voice recorder tied in to the energy banks. It's got something programmed into it so that when the ship's close to blowing the box will squeal for mercy. Cheaper than an escape capsule, which the smaller ships don't have room for any way. Long story short, it's a ploy. Pirates don't give quarter. If they ask for it, maybe once in a while someone turns soft-hearted, they live to plunder another day.
"Then someone with less luck, smarts, hardware or gunnery gets to buy the farm because someone else had a merciful impulse."

Hammond looked at her. "You know, I want to believe you, but I don't know whether you're right or if it's just the psychology education talking."

"And you'll never know," said T'kella. "I can talk, but I can't prove I'm telling the truth - still less that I'm right. I'm just one more voice, one more thought, one more point of view. I hope it helps, but barring one or two things, that's all I can do."

"And what are they?"

"Well," said T'kella, "to begin with, I am going to carry on what I'm doing until you beg me to get it over with, and then you're going to sleep for two or three more hours, and then I'm going to fix whatever you like best that I've got in the apartment..."

* * * * *

Hammond was sure that T'kella could not make him beg.

He was wrong. But it was worth finding out.

By the time a quarter of Aqutebi was shining through the window, he'd found out that she was an excellent cook, too, and more than willing to help scrub him cleaner than clean before his datapad cheeped to let him know that Steel Thunder was ready to blast. And the berthing charges would be going through the roof if he outstayed his slot, and both of them knew it.

"Well," smiled Hammond, "that was good, and you were worth every tenth-credit."

"Good. I aimed to be," said T'kella, now dressed for all the world like a professional economist. "So. Get out there, spaceman, and keep doing the good work. But when it's too much - you've done your share, and you can't do it all. If it's carrying passengers that makes you happy, then carry passengers. Wealth is created."

"I will. Do Aqutebians hug when they say goodbye?"

"They do - once." T'kella had to tilt her horned head back quite a way to look at him. "Then they say 'Go away, spaceman, don't look back, and above all don't ask me to miss you. I can't live like that.' "

"Nor could I," said Hammond. He didn't know whether bright moist eyes meant anything to Aqutebians.

He went away. He didn't look back.

[maaarcooose]

Wonderful.

Really enjoyed that.

!m!

[Malacandra]

Thank you!

(You just know I'm going to have to follow this one up now, don't you?)

[Disembodied]

Nice one, Malacandra. The only little detail I would think of changing is the phrase "a working gal hype": perhaps because of the context of story, I stumbled a bit over that before I realised what it referred to ... maybe it was because on my screen the line broke between "gal" and "hype", too. Anyway, like I say, it's just a very minor detail!

[Malacandra]

Heh. Yes, "working gal" in the context of that particular story...!

Anyhoo, rephrased that, fixed one remaining typo, and corrected the serial number of the Astromine in Aqutebi system (the one nearest the sun, for those who care)... and due thanks to the author of Commies.oxp

(And wouldn't you know Aqutebi station would be a Dodecahedron, not a Coriolis. )

I fear the next episode may be darker, the way my brain's planning it out.

[Cholmondely]

The next part of Malacandra's story is here: https://bb.oolite.space/viewtopic.php?f=11&t=14036: Interlude: Steel Thunder