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  “Stewart,” said Sergeant Russell, after Jake had scored six points out of a possible hundred, “If I am ever on a boarding and I see you in my group, the first thing I am going to do, for everybody’s safety, is shoot you before we board. That will minimize casualties.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I just can’t see you passing the weapons part tomorrow. I’m sorry Stewart, but your militia career ends tomorrow. Enjoy going south.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’ve never met a student I couldn’t train. You’re my first failure. You’re great with zero-G, all that time in the Belt I guess. Hell, you could probably stop close enough to kiss the bad guys, but you can’t hit them from more than six inches away.” He sighed. “I think I’ll go get drunk and start a fight. You do what you want.” The sergeant stalked off but turned before he went out of sight. “Oh, and Stewart—you might be thinking that with your zero-G skills you can jump to the next ring and disappear through an airlock into the rest of the station before somebody catches up with you. You might even be able to pull it off. But you’re not faster than a gauss needle, and I’ve scheduled a live fire drill outside tonight.”

  “Merde. He sounds serious,” Suzanne said. “Will they really send you to the south continent, Jake?”

  “They might. I really screwed up my first job. And my boss is angry and pretty powerful. He doesn’t like failure.”

  “Huh. Pour encouregez les autres. We have to save him somehow, Zeke,” Suzanne said. “We could help him. You and I could attack the guards, and Jake could run through the gate. Or we could setup a diversion. We could start a fire.”

  “No fires,” Zeke said. “That did not work well last time.”

  “Okay, no fires. But we have to get him to the other side of the station.”

  “And then what?” Jake asked. “I’ll be in a militia station with no money. I’ll just be stuck there. And even if I get onto a ship, chances are it won’t have enough life support for me, and I’ll freeze in the dark or get tossed out an airlock.”

  Zeke nodded vigorously. “Suzanne, he is correct. We are going about this the wrong way. We do not plan, we just act without thinking. Jake is not like us. He is clever. He is a planner. Jake,” Zeke turned toward him. “You must think clever. What is the clever way to solve this problem?”

  “Clever way? What do you mean?” Jake said.

  “Something smart. Something that only Jake would think of.”

  “Yes Jake,” Suzanne declared. She grabbed him by the arm. “You will come up with something, I’m sure of it.”

  Jake nodded in spite of himself. He wasn’t so sure of it. But he did like her grabbing his arm.

  Chapter 5

  Jake stood at the entrance to the boarding course. It was all automated, he just had to put his card in and charge his test shotgun. It was loaded with compressed air to give the proper recoil, and a laser was used to record hits. In order to pass, he had to get through the exit point within 120 seconds and have a hit score of no less than 80 points.

  Jake started to sweat. Would his plan work? Was it allowed? He knew what the rules said, but would he get away with it?

  “Only way is to try,” Jake said out loud.

  It seemed an eternity but finally the light turned green.

  Jake flipped slowly through the door, floating down the hall, his shotgun held loosely in one hand as he spun end over end, coming gently to rest next to a door. He stopped himself easily with the door frame and braced himself. A target appeared not more than two feet away from him. Jake carefully pumped the shotgun, leaned forward until he was less than a foot from the target, and fired.

  Even he could hit a target from eight inches away.

  He took the recoil easily and used it to float carefully down the hallway toward the airlock. He landed lightly next to it, turned to the side where a different target had appeared, then shuffled forward to where he could actually touch the target with his shotgun, and fired again. Another hit.

  He continued in this style through the course. Sergeant Russell was right, years of playing on Rim-37 had given him the skill to float across a room and land exactly where he wanted to be. So, he took the sergeant’s advice and kissed the targets, kissed them with a shotgun.

  He was not quite halfway through when the first warning beeped on his comm. Half his time was gone. He needed to speed up. He pushed a little harder for the next few targets. He didn’t totally stop to fire, just slowed. Still moving well, he rounded the corner into the fake engineering room. Lots of handholds here, so he was able to jump from fake fusion plant to fake altitude jets and touch his shotgun to the targets. So far he hadn’t hit any bystanders. His record was good. He floated up and stopped on a control panel. The final engine room target appeared and he shot it. The recoil caused him to gently float toward the door, but he had forgotten how far away the door was. He stretched out his arm and grasped the door just as the twenty-second warning went off.

  He still had one more hallway to go down and out before time was up. The hallway was smooth, nothing to grab onto and propel himself forward. He launched himself off a desk and into the hallway, hoping he had enough momentum to get to the other end.

  His ten-second warning went off. He wasn’t going to make it. He reached out with his hands and legs, but he couldn’t touch any of the walls or the floor or ceiling to help push him forward faster. When you were floating you couldn’t change direction, but you also couldn’t accelerate. Dammit. He wasn’t going to make it.

  Wait. He still had the shotgun. He rolled over in mid-air so he was flying down the hallway back first, facing the way he came. He bent at the waist and adjusted his body so his center of gravity was exactly behind the butt of the shotgun. The five-second warning rang out and he fired the shotgun as rapidly as he could pump it. Each expulsion of compressed air added to his velocity. He was flying faster and faster down the hallway. The doorway was coming closer and closer. Just before the final alarm rang out, Jake flew over the threshold, still firing as he cleared the doorway. He did a flip, rolled over a surprised examiner who had the good sense to not move, and did a perfect bounce from the back wall to the ceiling to another wall, then stopped on the floor in front of the examiner. He stood up, handed him the shotgun, and looked at him.

  “Well?” Jake asked.

  The examiner pointed over Jake’s shoulder. He turned and looked at the board. One hundred points out of a possible hundred, one hundred twenty seconds. Pass.

  ***

  The next day, Zeke, Suzanne, and Jake were marched down to the locks by the duty sergeant. Since they were technically convicts, they were supposed to be shackled.

  “If you all promise to be good, you can just march with me,” the duty sergeant said. “But if you cause me any problems, I’ll use the shock stick on all of you and slap you in leg irons handcuffed to your arms and see how far you get with that.”

  Everybody promised to be good, and they headed out. On the way to the lock, they passed a med station with a lineup outside. A sign read “Immunizations Today.” Jake read it with interest. He hadn’t seen this before. His station had a bad outbreak before he was born, and the station council had insisted everybody get a whole whack of immunizations, but that wasn’t common.

  They marched on to the airlock. The display board read “Petrel” and showed all green. The sergeant punched the comm board and conducted a muted conversation with somebody on the other end, then stepped back and waited.

  The lock swung open and a curly haired man in ships uniform stepped out. His nameplate read “Vidal.” He wore a serviceable skinsuit, with hard collar and cuffs, and sealed station boots. His shoulder showed the rank of third officer. He had thin gloves and a very thin emergency helmet, the plastic bag type, clipped to his belt, along with a small O cylinder. Jake approved. It was a good compromise. He could move easily with no restrictions, but in the event of an accidental blowout or emergency he could suit up fully
in seconds and move under his own power for an hour or more with no ill effects, even if exposed to vacuum.

  “Thumb here and they’re all yours,” the sergeant said.

  Mr. Vidal reached over and thumbed the proffered data pad.

  “Thank you for doing business with Militia Staff Support Services. Have a great day,” said the sergeant, turning and hustling off.

  Mr. Vidal watched the sergeant for a moment and then turned back to inspect the three in front of him. He frowned.

  “Attention,” he barked.

  Jake roused himself to something of a straight stance. He couldn’t quite remember how to do it. They had only one short etiquette class at the academy, and he’d mostly forgotten it. And it was hard to do in a suit.

  Zeke and Suzanne exchanged looks, then Zeke turned to the man. “Of course you have our attention, sir. How may we help you?”

  The officer’s eyebrows rose. “What?” he said.

  “We are listening, sir,” Zeke said.

  “Stand at attention.”

  Zeke looked at Suzanne, who shrugged. He looked to Jake, who continued to stare straight ahead.

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Zeke said. “We never learned that.”

  “You never learned to stand at attention?”

  “No.”

  “You three are my militia boarding party?”

  “It would appear so, sir.”

  “How long have you been in the Militia?”

  “Does it matter?” Zeke replied.

  “Does it matter? Does it matter?” Vidal was nearly shouting now, his necks muscles nearly popping under his frustration.

  “I remind you, you have our attention. There is no need to repeat words.”

  Vidal stuck his head forward and looked angry, then confused. This interview was clearly not going the way he expected.

  Jake cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should check your communication from the Militia, sir. That might clarify things.”

  Vidal spun his head to look at Jake, then took out his comm and began typing, finally finding the correct communication to read.

  Jake and the LaFleurs stood there. Zeke started to whistle. Vidal glared at him, and Zeke stopped. Vidal looked back to his comm shaking his head and continued reading.

  “Indentured militia personnel,” he said. “Great. Which of you is Stewart?”

  “Me, sir,” Jake said.

  “Drunk and disorderly?”

  “It was a misunderstanding, sir.”

  “Uh-huh. Zeke LaFleur.”

  “That’s me,” said Zeke.

  “Assaulting the Militia. Was that a misunderstanding?”

  “Not at all, sir. We did throw a few punches, but it was all a good-natured sort of thing. I had fun.”

  “I see. You must be Suzanne LaFleur.”

  “Yes.”

  “Arson? You destroyed a bar?”

  “Damaged, sir.”

  “Another misunderstanding? Never mind, I don’t want to hear it. I asked for a trained militia boarding party, and I got you three.” He looked up at the clock over the display screen. “We drop in less than two hours.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Right, no time to fix this. Okay, I’m third officer Bassi Vidal. I’m the third watch officer on the Petrel. I need a boarding team and apparently you’re it.” He stopped and glared at them. “Now, I was hoping for a fully trained boarding crew, or at least some people with a little experience. Obviously, that’s not what I got. But needs must. Follow me.”

  He walked along the corridor and gestured through a view port. A ship was visible hanging between two docking trusses.

  “So, there you have her. Type 2 Far Trader. Double the number of drive nozzles, so she can sustain 2G. We lose a bit in fuel tankage, but the extra acceleration is worth it. Top two decks are bridge, sensors, and crew. Then a sealed hold for high-worth cargo, then second crew deck, then container trusses, then engineering at the back.”

  “What is that attached to the top? Is that a shuttle?” Zeke asked.

  “It’s not the top, it’s the dorsal side. Emperor’s balls. Have you never been on a ship before?”

  “No, sir. We have been on the shuttle that took us up here, but this is our first time in space.”

  Vidal shook his head. “Better and better. That’s a mini cargo tug. Sealed cab, catcher grid in the front, battery operated thrusters on the back. We don’t need a station crane to shift containers to us. We can go out and get them, chain on, and haul them back.”

  “Is that a fuel barge on the ventral side?” Jake asked, careful to use the correct terms. He sensed this was a test of sorts.

  “Yes. But not just fuel. We’ve got tanks for H, O, and water for consumption or for reaction mass come to it.”

  “Why do we need that?” Zeke asked.

  “Like the tug,” Jake replied. He was aware that he was the suck-up student but couldn’t help himself. “It has an electric pump and hoses, so we can shuttle it down to a station or a cracking plant and suck up what we need, and then go back to the ship. We don’t need a fueling dock.”

  “Shut up, Stewart. I’m doing the talking here,” Vidal said. “There are also two broomsticks on the bottom for moving personnel and small packages. The Petrel can trade anywhere. We don’t need a full station or a docking ring. We can transfer to another ship directly or from a mining mill without any other facilities. We’re totally set up to operate in an austere environment.”

  He turned to look at his new crew.

  “Which means that you three will not be off the ship very much. Which is good for me. One less thing to worry about. Now follow me.” He led the way through the boarding tunnel and onto the ship.

  “This is the mid deck. Front of the ship is bridge, computers, and sensors, and cabins for the watch crew. There are three officers, Captain, Navigator, and me. Three ratings as well, including a medic. Captain is also the engineer. Then there is the pressurized cargo hold. It’s not large, but it has locking cages for private cargo.” They continued walking down a narrow corridor. “This is normally the passenger deck. There are six cabins here. You each get your own. The passengers are locked out from the security deck while we’re under way, so you will be too. There’s a galley with food trays through there and an access tube to engineering that goes along the dorsal truss that way. We have space for thirty external containers on our truss system. Engineering is at the back. You’re also locked out of engineering. Basically, you’ll stay locked on the passenger deck unless I need you. We don’t have a brig on board but there’s not really anywhere to go, so keeping you down here should suffice. Now, I’ve got work to do, so stay here and don’t get into any trouble.” Vidal walked off.

  Jake, Zeke, and Suzanne looked at one another.

  “So, we are stuck here, then?” Zeke asked.

  “Seems like, says Jake.

  “This will be no fun,” Suzanne said.

  “Well,” Zeke said, “you will have plenty of time to read those manuals you love so much, Jake. And perhaps you can teach me some of that electronics that you seem to know about.”

  “I would like that also,” Suzanne said.

  Jake looked at her. Well, he thought. If the girls don’t’ find you handsome, at least they should find you handy.

  ***

  Alfredo Gianno de Marchello, Captain of the GG trader Bountiful Onion, arrived on his bridge. He was a tall man and wore a custom fitted skinsuit, with his rank tabs and name impressed directly on the material. Even in the void, he expected his crew to identify their captain and treat him accordingly.

  Bountiful Onion was enormous for a ship in the Delta rings. It had not one, not two, but three internal cargo holds between its trusses, and its truss system for containers extended hundreds of meters behind him. There were six decks in the front crew section.

  The first officer turned around to look at him. “We’ll be ready to drop in minutes, sir. Airlocks are going through final closing and
inspection now.”

  “Very well,” Captain Marchello said. He keyed a button on his board. “Cargo—has my brandy arrived and been stowed?”

  “Yes, sir. In the special lockers as you requested.”

  “Good, good.” He wasn’t a huge drinker, but they would be gone for almost six weeks, and he liked a glass of brandy before retiring in the evening.

  The first officer waited for a last light on his board to turn green and then reported to the captain. “Ready to drop, sir.”

  “Good, good, Vasquez. You can take us out.”

  The first officer nodded, expressionless. The helmsman let out a sigh of relief, then looked around guiltily to see if anybody had noticed. The Bountiful Onion was large, luxurious, had a huge cargo capacity, but nobody had ever called her maneuverable. And the captain owed his position more to family connections than experience. His helm orders could be…erratic. Life would be much safer with the first officer giving the commands.

  ***

  The blonde woman at the table munched on an apple as she surveyed the man across from her. He was carefully cutting up a buffalo steak, a specialty of the house. He had thinning gray hair and a face stained with age. He was at least forty years older than her, and dressed in a neat, fussy manner. He looked like somebody’s boring grandfather.

  Franz’s on the Plaza was one of the most expensive restaurants on TGI main, and it was quite common for successful older executives to dine there for a celebratory dinner. Many male executives brought women young enough to be their granddaughters. Some of these women were actual granddaughters, but most were not.

  Nadine took another bite of the apple. It was real and fresh, so it must have been boosted recently, at great expense. She looked at the women sitting at the other tables, carefully categorizing the cost of their clothes, hair styles, and meals. Nadine wanted those clothes. Her mother’s advice would have been to use her looks. But her mother had been one of those women once, and it had not ended well. Not for her and not for her daughters.