Torchship (19 page)

Starmap (not all connections shown)

Planet Argo. Gravity 9 m/s
²

They were going to be late to the opera. It was Billy’s
fault, of course. Guo had gotten everybody out of the ship on time but the pass
he’d secured for the deckhand hadn’t been enough for the port guards. They’d
insisted on every member of the crew making statements accepting responsibility
for any misbehavior on Billy’s part. Talking Bing and Mitchie into just
considering it a formality went nowhere. Finally Billy pledged to go directly
from the opera back to the ship and consume no alcohol. With the statements
recorded the guards let them through into Argopolis.

Guo paid extra for an express vanbot. Its arrival
interrupted Billy complaining about the unfairness of it all.

“Be glad they let you on the planet at all,” said the
captain.

“That brawl was started by the locals!”

“I don’t care. And neither did the judge. Be grateful.” The
stare that went with that finally got through to him.

“Um, right,” said Billy. “Guo, thank you for treating us to
this show, and for getting me a visiting pass. And thank you everyone for
vouching for me.”

Cool nods all around. The silence extended. Billy seemed
done for the moment.

Mitchie studied the rest of the crew. Bing’s silver dress
was a nice complement to the captain’s dark grey suit. Both were creased from
storage. Billy’s black suit looked like it had been at the bottom of a trunk.
The heavily embroidered wide-sleeved robe fit Guo as if he wore it all the
time. Which, given that he was enough of an opera junkie to drag the whole crew
to one, he probably did.
Does clean up nice
. She was glad she’d gotten
the silk jacket. Her dress was too clubby for a formal event by itself.

She turned back to Billy. “What did you get that suit for?”

“A funeral,” answered the deckhand. “The mechanic on the
Angels
Ten
went dutchman trying to do an EVA repair. That’s where I met the
captain.”

“We gave him a good send-off,” said Schwartzenberger. “Spacers
have to be family for each other. Also a lot of us wanted to steal all the crew
we could from Meng before he got anyone else killed on that deathtrap.”

“Worked. He didn’t have the hands to lift so he just sold it
for scrap.” Billy almost chuckled. “It was strange though. Having a funeral
with no body. Can you imagine how weird that was?” he asked.

“Don’t need to,” retorted Mitchie. “My fiancé’s funeral was
one of those.”
Crap
. Blurting out that bit of history had everyone’s
attention. She resorted to the truth. “It was another EVA death. He was a
rating on the
BDS
Brave
. Akiak’s Space Guard had loaned him to
the Bonaventure Defense Force.”

“We’ve always had more hulls than hands,” said
Schwartzenberger.

“Yeah, half his boot class went exchange. They had him doing
maintenance on the hull when, when a Fusion ship plumed them.” Her listeners
flinched. A ship hull would be slightly eroded by even the fringes of another
ship’s torch. A spacesuit would fail in seconds.

“Bastards,” snarled Billy.

“I’m surprised the Guard told you what happened,” said
Schwartzenberger. The Disconnected Worlds governments usually hushed up the Fusion’s
efforts to keep them in their place. They were afraid of escalation.

“They didn’t. Officially it was a training accident. I, uh,
had to ask around a bunch.”

That raised the captain’s eyebrows. “You must have annoyed
some people.”

Mitchie shrugged. “I do that sometimes, sir.” And the
consequences of annoying them still kept her busy.

The vanbot sighed to a stop. “They’re still doing
announcements,” said Guo, waving his datasheet. “We haven’t missed any of the
show yet.” He led them into the Argo Opera House at a trot.

Mitchie counted an amazing total of six real people working
in the lobby. It took two to collect a thumbprint and admit that Guo really had
reserved five seats. A third said, “Welcome to
Three Wars In Five
Generations
,” as she led them toward the door.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT, RAT-A-TAT-TAT.

“Oh, sorry,” said Guo to his cringing shipmates. “That’s the
percussion section of the overture.”

Mitchie popped up from behind a chair. “Automatic weapons
fire is the overture?”

“Well, it starts during a civil war.” The gunfire sounds
repeated with strings and woodwinds matching the rhythm. The guide shushed them
and got everyone into their seats.

Mitchie had pocketed her datasheet. Ten minutes of singing
forced her to admit her Cantonese vocabulary had gaps she hadn’t noticed when
talking to Orbit Control. The sheet had a running translation with links to
explanations of the historical references. She resisted diving into the
articles and soon was caught up in the family’s lament for their two sons being
conscripted by the local warlord. As the sergeant led them offstage a young
woman ran out of the villager chorus and kissed one on the cheek. Mitchie
flinched.

In Act Two the surviving son had grown to be the village
scholar, sharing the Master’s teachings with the community. Naturally that made
him a target in the War on Culture. By now Billy had completely lost the
thread. He leaned over Mitchie to ask Guo, “What’s the government got against
books?”

“The government wants everyone to live by their new
religion. The books teach the old traditions.”

Billy went back to watching the show. The commissar’s song
threatening to take the scholar’s daughter if he didn’t reveal his library’s
hiding place had him questioning Guo again. “Why not just give them up and
replace them later?”

“This is industrial times. They can’t back up books. If the
last copy is destroyed it’s gone forever.”

“But still, that’s his daughter . . .” Guo tried to explain
the dilemma of conflicting duties to Billy until even with the sound baffles
around their seats other members of the audience glared at them.

Mitchie cut the argument short. “It’s his job to be father
to the books, so he can’t give them up. Now shut up.” Bing and Schwartzenberger
exchanged quick smiles.

Their attention returned to the stage as the scholar
produced a knife and plunged it into his heart. The villagers hustled the
daughter offstage then sang praises to the scholar’s wisdom by the light of his
burning house.

“Over a book?” complained Billy.

“Shhh!” hissed Mitchie.

***

Billy joined in the standing ovation at the end. “At least
it had a happy ending.”

“Close enough,” said Captain Schwartzenberger. “The next
happy ending is for you three kids to make it back to the ship before Mr. Lee
turns into a pumpkin.”

“Can I at least get some dinner first?” asked the
gourd-to-be.

“You can pick up something to eat on the ship,” said the
captain. The trio left.

“And what’s keeping us from taking our troublemaker home?”
asked Bing.

“Reconnaissance.”

“Of what?”

“Of the bar in this place. May I buy you a drink, Shi?”

“Certainly, Alois.” She went down to the bar on his arm.

The selection was as impressive as their prices.
Schwartzenberger decided they were on vacation. He brought the drinks back to
Bing at their table. “To a successful night out.”

She clinked glasses with him. “To crew morale.”

“Guo looks to have potential as a morale officer.”

“If he’s properly motivated. I don’t know how much good it
did for Billy. Hopefully it cheered Michigan up. She had a sad start it sounds
like.”

“It did sound like it. If we can believe it.” Bing cocked
her head to encourage him to continue. Schwartzenberger sighed. “I had a turn
on the committee that tracked reparations over the Brave Incident. It was ten
years ago. Add a bit for her young man to get trained and to his ship. Little
Michigan was engaged at fourteen years old or less. Even for Akiak that’s damn
young. If it happened as she said. I don’t think the numbers add up.”

“I hadn’t realized.” She sipped her drink. “So what are you
going to do about it?”

He shrugged. “She’s a superb pilot.”

***

Captain Schwartzenberger had grabbed the first cargo that
would get them off Demeter. They’d taken a slight loss on the run to Argo but
he accepted that to get away before their report received any serious study.
For the next trip he wanted a solid profit.

Fortunately for Billy an urgent load of fresh fruit came on
the market before he went completely stir-crazy. The deckhand actually cheered
when the captain announced they were headed for Sukhoi. Bing echoed the cheer.

“What do you have against Argo?” Mitchie asked her.

“Nothing. But I’ve got friends on Sukhoi. I’ve just had mail
from them for a couple of years now. It’ll be nice to see them in person.”

“Not that you do see them in person,” muttered
Schwartzenberger.

“Well, to have a real-time conversation.”

Planet Sukhoi. Gravity 12
m/s
²

A medical safety inspection was the only hitch on the job.
All the ripe fruit had to be unloaded, rolled past the scanners, and reloaded
for delivery. It was sweet work for the crew, who’d peel an orange whenever
they needed a break. The captain muttered a bible verse and billed the missing
weight to “lost or damaged during inspection.”

Once offloading was done Bing cried, “Shore leave!” and left
the ship.

The captain glared at the rest of the crew. “Don’t get any
ideas. She spent a lot of time working in port while y’all played. Now it’s her
turn for some time off while we work. It’s time for external fitting inspections.”

Bing returned for dinner. The captain had ordered pizza
delivered from one of the places around the port. Everyone was too tired from
crawling over the hull to cook. She cheerfully carried the conversation as they
ate. Her friends were a group of virtual reality gamers scattered all over
Sukhoi. She’d been catching up with them from a VR parlor, or, from their point
of view, in their new stronghold. “It’s gorgeous—a castle on a thunderhead.
They can throw lightning at anyone assaulting it. The clouds trailing behind it
form a maze. We wandered in there for hours. That’s where they hide all their
trophies to keep them safe.”

“That sounds very . . . grey,” said Mitchie.

“No, it’s beautiful,” said Bing. “The walls of the castle
are crystal. They break the sunlight into rainbows, shifting and merging as you
walk. The central tower shines with a three-sixty rainbow at noon. And the
labyrinth walls are covered with bas-relief. Static while you look at them.
Turn around and it’s changed to a new scene. I could wander in there for days.”

Schwartzenberger dropped a crust on his plate and took
another slice. “How’d they like your stories?”

“Oh, I’m a hit again. Being so exotic and all. They’re
jealous as hell that I got to meet a real terraformer. Creating with matter is
the ultimate goal to these artists.”

“I’d think Sukhoi’s citizen stipend would be enough to let
them do hands-on art,” said Guo.

“Sure. Most of them have two or three rooms filled with
sculptures or paintings. But they can’t get anyone to look at them except in
VR. It’s worst for Yanglo. He creates landscapes but every square meter of this
planet is sewn up. It’s a shame. He has some lovely gardens in game.”

“He should emigrate,” said Guo. “We’ve got plenty of dirt in
the Disconnect.”

“Yanglo was sounding me out about that, actually. He’s been
researching it. He’d have to work his passage, though. Just has his stipend.”
Bing glanced at the captain as she said that.

Schwartzenberger shrugged. “Plenty of room, plenty of work.
Usual rule—if he doesn’t produce he gets dropped at the next port.”

“I’ll tell him that.”

“How did he sound you out?” asked Mitchie.

“Asking what it’s like in the Disconnect, how hard it is to
get land there.”

“Did he ever ask about that before?”

“No, he said he’d been too shy to ask about it.” Bing
smiled. “Afraid I’d think he had an ulterior motive. But hearing about our
adventures made him brave.”

Or they triggered some orders he already had
, thought
Mitchie.

Bing pushed away her plate with her second slice half-eaten.
“I’m going to sleep this off and head out early tomorrow. Good night, all.”

Everyone focused on their food until they heard her hatch
close. “She seems very, um, caught up in that,” said Guo.

“Our agreement is she has to sleep on ship and have one meal
a day with us. As long as she does that she can virt out to her heart’s
content.”

“I’ve never seen her go into VR before.”

“She had a long layover here once. Made friends with some of
the artists and they talked her into that stuff. She’s kept in touch since.”

“Sounds kinda strange, that guy just deciding to emigrate,”
said Mitchie.

“Some people get tired of lotus eating,” said the captain.

“Or everybody knowing their business,” added Billy.

The last slices were soon eaten. Schwartzenberger made some
noises about “early start.” They all headed for bed.

***

The Planetary Trade Center was refreshingly low-tech for a Fusion
world. The brokers had elaborate data support tools but the security arms race
had circled back around to “nothing is as unforgeable as a handshake.” After a
long morning of pitching the unique virtues of his ship to every agent and
broker he could catch Alois Schwartzenberger was in the mood for a quiet lunch
alone. He still put on his professional smile when a stranger came up to his
table.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Captain, but may I beg a moment of
your time?” His suit had the subtle texturing that showed it had been made by
humans, not machines. He didn’t have the forceful extroversion of the brokers.
Schwartzenberger read him as an executive or senior analyst.