Amish Vampires in Space (5 page)

Captain Sealius Drake was in his personal study
with the door closed. The surface of his desk showed the delivery logs of his current vessel, the
Raven,
over the past solar year. Seal hovered over the desk, staring intently. One hand cradled his chin, the other manipulated the desk’s data—sliding a row here, pushing a column there. It was all very routine. Very predictable. Purposeful.

Which was how the Delivery Guild liked it. Routine and predictable. Schedules met and kept. Objects transferred without interruption from Stellar Point A to Stellar Point B. Colonies needing supplies, received them. Without exception.

Commerce depended on Guild ships like the
Raven,
the
Crow,
the
Oriole,
and whatever other avian species they’d used to name the latest—
Swallow,
maybe—to do their job. All needed to move. To fly the heavens.
Do what you do—we’ll move you.

Seal heard a knock on his door. He frowned and swiped both hands together on the desk’s surface, closing the logs. “What is it?” He brought both thumbs up to massage the bridge of his nose. Stifled a yawn.

“Message off the scraddlebox, sir.” A female voice, young and enthusiastic. “New assignment.”

Seal nodded, bid the crewmember enter. The door slid back with a slight wheeze. The crewmember was blond and dressed in Guild finest—blue pants and short sleeved shirt. On the right breast of her shirt was the gold bird-like glyph of the Guild. It resembled a smooth, flattened-out M. Beneath it was a black name tag, which he ignored. She wore a regulation cap too, with a matching glyph. She found a place in front of his desk and stood at near attention, both hands clasped behind her back. All very professional.

As it should be.

“You couldn’t just wire it to me?” he asked.

“HQ said no. Said it was face only.”

Seal sighed. Someone at HQ liked dramatics. Doubtless there was a new manager who wanted to strengthen his office empire. Make it seem like he or she was running a military troop. The Guild modeled their business on military precision, of course, so there was some precedent for that. But the galaxy wasn’t at war any longer. Not even an inner system skirmish that he knew of.

He frowned. Unless you counted the upstart StarRace delivery service, of course. They handled packages of only two tons or less, though. Hardly competition. “No war,” he said aloud.

The crewmember looked startled. “Sir?”

“Nothing,” Seal said, shaking his head. “So what is it? We have a schedule.”

She gave a short nod. “HQ noted that we have no perishables on this ship.”

Seal sniffed. “Is that so? Well, with twenty days of slipping ahead, I’d hope not.”

“And that we have sufficient free space for the articles in question.” The crewmember remained rigid with eyes locked ahead. She wasn’t so much looking at him as through him.

Seal almost turned to see what she was staring at. It certainly wasn’t the office view. Behind him was nothing more than a picture of an eagle flying over his birth home on Freehaven. Lots of trees and mountains. Irony of ironies, eagles seemed to be able to live anywhere.

Captains
should
get a space view in their study, though, shouldn’t they? At least a little portal where they can watch the stars go by?

He sniffed. Guild wouldn’t have it. Business to run. No time for daydreaming.

“Sir?”

“You know this isn’t the military,” he said. “‘Captain Drake’ is fine. Or just ‘Captain.’” The latter was a bit of an honorarium, since in ships like the
Raven,
most of the piloting was automatic.

She nodded. “Okay, sir. Captain, sir.”

He just shook his head. “The cargo,” he said. “Where and what?”

“Maple system. Remains of experimental outpost
Reclamation
, sir…um…Captain.”

“A non-standard size package?”

“Heavy cargo, but said to be properly sealed.”

Seal thought of the
Raven
’s partially full Bay 16. Wondered if he could make this new cargo fit. “Is it rectangular?” he asked. “Because if it isn’t, we might have to use Bay 17. Be unfortunate. I was hoping to fill that one with grain at Mogex.” He looked at his desk. “Have to adjust the ledger. Factor for it. Might cost extra…”

“I’m told it is properly bundled, Captain Drake. Ready for transit.”

He sighed again. “On second thought, can you just call me ‘Seal’?” he asked. “Feels better.”

The crewmember seemed to relax a bit. “Seal, yes, I can do that.”

“So it is rectangular, this shipment? Or can it be made so?”

“Yes. Two rectangulars, actually. A larger containing the remains of—”

Seal held up a hand. “Wait,
remains
? So we are transporting hazardous materials?” There were other such materials on board, of course, but it meant extra caution. Extra caution meant extra union pay. Extra time. Extra cost all the way around.

“They say it is inert now. There
was
an accident, but it is contained. Over. Boxed and sealed.”

“Boxed and sealed,” he repeated, smiling. “Sealed for Seal, eh? I like that.” He squinted at her name tag. “Crewmember Singer.”

Her cheeks colored. “Thank you, sir. Seal, sir. I wasn’t trying to…I mean…your name…”

He waved. “I said I liked it,” he said. “Now, I thought I heard you say
two
packages.”

Her hands appeared from behind her back. Swung free. “I did. The second is a cryomatrix.”

Seal leaned back in his seat. “Cryo?” He touched his chin. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while. So we have a passenger?”

Singer nodded. “Yes, but HQ says no maintenance will be necessary. Just pickup and delivery.”

Seal frowned. “Someone’s trying to get around paying the passenger fee. I’m surprised HQ allowed—”

Singer’s hands went behind her back again. She shook her head. “She’s injured, Seal. An accident, apparently. XP sealed the whole thing and are sending it to Obelisk for examination. Mishap reconstruction.”

“They’re going to reconstruct the mishap? That hardly seems advisable.”

“I don’t know. They only told me so much. I just handle the scraddle.”

He studied her face, twisted his lips in thought. “But HQ gives this all the okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “The fees are already paid. We just need to make the stop.”

Seal shrugged. Touched the desk to bring up the ledger. Checked again the free space onboard. The manpower. “Alright. We’ll make the stop.”

Singer nodded. “Very good, sir. Should I tell the pilots?”

Seal touched his side, felt the bit of physical padding that had developed over the last year. “No. I’ll do it. I can use the walk. Got to get out of this office sometime, you know.”

Singer dipped her head, took a step back. “So, I can—”

“Yes.” He smiled. “You can go. And I’ll go with you.”

• • •

Early stories romanticized outer space. Epic battles and sultry princesses. Ancient wizards fighting maniacal villains. Dogfights and laser beams. Searches for galactic mysteries. Or destiny.

In reality, space had none of those things. At least, not in Seal’s lifetime. Space was nothing more than a medium to be crossed, just like the continental landmass colonists might push through, or a sailor’s trip across the ocean. It was not epic, or even romantic. It just was. Dangerous in some places, certainly. Hostile to the ill-prepared. But space was genuinely a very boring place.

Empty and useless.

“And Guild ships steer clear of all the dangerous,” he said aloud. “And are always, always prepared.”

“Sir?” Crewmember Singer said. “I mean, ‘Seal.’”

They rode one of the
Raven
’s primary slideways together. This particular slide stretched from the ship’s stem to its stern and was contained within transparent material. It was tube-like, really. Like a giant human-based habitrail. Slides going both directions. Handrails for safety.

Overhead was the dull crisscross of the craft’s support structures, all brown. To their left, more infrastructure and an occasional section of wall.

On their right and below was the second of the ship’s largest storage bays, the first being on the opposite side of the ship. From their perspective, they could tell the bay was filled to capacity. From top to bottom, there was only row after row of solid white rectangles, all sealed and properly labeled. They contained anything from toothpaste to building supplies to ship parts. They were all just parcels to him. Things going somewhere.

Seal snorted. “Just reflecting on how this ship echoes reality,” he said.

Singer’s hands were clasped behind her back. She was an attractive female, he now realized. A little young and gung-ho for his taste, but altogether striking. Especially in her proper Guild uniform. Doubtless she had a line of men in the office pool vying for her attention.

“The
Raven,
” he said, “to someone of an artistic mind, is a traveling carbuncle. Boxy. Few curves. Little more than a slip-enabled barge.”

Singer smiled politely. “Yet it is a model of efficiency here,” she said. “And there is beauty in that, don’t you think?”

Seal returned her smile. Let his eyes linger. Yes, definitely pretty. “How long have you been assigned here?” he asked.

“Since the Ash system.”

“Graduated from land-based operations?”

The smile widened. “Yes. Bumped up. First in my class for communications equipment.”

He nodded approvingly. “And how was your load test score?”

She gave a polite nod, one that showed both disappointment and acceptance. “I was third,” she said. “In a class of twenty.”

“And low-grav?”

The hint of a smile. “Second,” she said. “But a close second.”

Seal raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to be ashamed of there. I was third in low grav, myself.”

Another nod. “Thank you, sir.”

A mock frown. “Please…”

“Seal. Thank you. You are kind.”

Another bay approached. Though inactive now, each had its own network of package-only slideway conveyors that, when they reached port, could quickly load or unload the space. Very little human interaction was required. Even now the boxes were categorized and positioned in such a way to make the procedure most efficient. Seal liked to watch the loading process. It was like a symphony to him.

Minutes later their slideway slowed, and the transparency around them ended, replaced by solid white walls. On the ceiling overhead a sign identified the slow zone as a potential stopping point. In this case it was the “locomotive” section, meaning the rooms and machinery that composed the ship’s engine. Seal looked at Singer, wondering if she showed an interest in such things. He certainly didn’t. He was relieved when she barely turned to acknowledge the section’s existence, even when the slide opened up completely on their right for the stop.

She glanced at him once, smiled, and otherwise looked firmly ahead as they slowly slid by. “On to the bubble then,” she said.

“Yes,” Seal nodded. “The bubble.”

They passed more storage bays, though these were smaller than those near the back of the ship, where Seal’s office was located. The slideway made a gentle curve then, toward the center of the ship. Another slow zone approached, this one marked only as “Technical.”

When the tube opened again, Seal allowed Singer to step off and then followed. They passed through a doorway that tabulated their passing with a loud
ding
and turned left, toward the front of the ship. After a secondary doorway, they entered a large open room, generally triangular, that had been subdivided into dozens of triangular work areas. The floor was an efficient blue color, and the walls were sandstone. Everything was perfectly neat. There were no windows here either.

There were a few potted plants scattered about, some exotic enough to look alien. None of them really were. Everything that populated the stars—no matter how strange—ultimately traced its origins back to Earth, and to humanity’s urge to meddle.

“Genesplicers,” Seal muttered. He gazed over the rows of work areas. He glanced at Singer, now walking near his hip. “Where do they have you, Singer?”

She nodded toward the peak of the triangle. “That way. The most claustrophobic section. But that’s where the new girl starts, I guess.”

Seal sniffed. “I remember those days. Not being the new girl, of course…but, the other…”

Singer smiled. “Do you need me to go with you then?” she asked.

“No, I’ll be fine from here.” A smile. “It was nice walking with you Singer.”

A nod, a bit of a smile. “You too. Seal.” She turned into the nearest aisle and moved away from him. Seal watched her depart over the triangular walls. Sighed.

Continuing through the room, he reached a short corridor that led only to his right. He followed it to a stairwell and ascended the sixteen steps. At the top was a locked hatch. He rapped on it. There was a puff of air as the door released, and a brown ladder descended. It was an archaic form of entry, of course, but regulations supported it. The chamber above seemed needlessly dark, but again, regulations. With a grunt, he ascended the ladder.

He entered a small spherical room. Around the perimeter was a long, seamless desk—in actuality, a single active control sheet. The surface was filled with lists and tabulations, the excruciating data that made piloting the ship possible. What little of it that wasn’t handled by computer. In front of the entrance, on either side, sat two young men. Both had dark hair.

At the moment, one was crouched over the desk, with elbows resting on it and hands supporting his face. He was either deep in thought or completely asleep. Seal guessed the latter. The other young man, the pilot, had a data tablet in his lap and was clearly reading. Doubtless, nothing to do with ship maneuvering. Crossed legs supported the tablet.

The “bubble,” as the chamber was called, was where the hapless pilot and co-pilot spent most of their waking moments. The name came from the transparent ceiling overhead. At the moment, the view was a 360 degree panorama of total grey, without even a star to break the monotony. The “fog” of slip travel.