Assault on Ambrose Station: A Seth Donovan Novel (3 page)

“Same rule applies to the boarders. I don’t want any Protectorate blood on my hands. I won’t condone any violence against Protectorate people on this ship, am I clear?” Max made eye contact with Crege and me. We nodded.

“It might not come to that,” started Fel, “We can vent most of the oh two from where they board us, enough to knock them out. Tac can seize their ship systems, we just toss them back into their boat and we bug out before they wake up.”

If I have enough control over the Protectorate ship, I may also be able to do the same to personnel aboard their own vessel.

“Just make sure you don’t kill anyone.”

I can fine-tune a program that restores functionality a few minutes after we separate. I will also disable their main propulsion for a few hours while we escape.

“Sounds like a plan.” I said, clapping my hands together.

“Anything else?” asked Max. We all shook our heads. “Okay, everyone get out, I’m going to change out of my nightgown and walk around in the nude for a bit before bed. Good night.”

We shuffled out, keen to be out of there before she started stripping out of her robe.

4.

The next day I spent working in the cargo hold. My leg was getting much better, the itching had dulled to the occasional irritation and I could walk around with only a slight limp. I still had a nasty burn scar, and Zoe said I would be stuck with it for many years to come. The nanites had done their job, and I would soon pass their remains in my urine.

The cargo hold was never truly empty. Even though we were not on a cargo run, and hadn’t been for some time, we always kept a good stock of ‘stuff’, as Maxine lovingly called it. In reality, they were crates and containers filled with cargo that we either couldn’t move, as there was no market for it, or we had picked up due to finding bargains we could not pass up. Most Captains kept stock like this, you never knew when the next port might have a severe shortage of…
spiced pears?
I thought, reading the next label on the crate.

With the advent of auto-chefs throughout the galaxy, growing food and cultivating cattle for meat was just uneconomical. There were enough substitute products and they really didn’t taste any different. Auto-chefs used proteins, carbohydrates and other food substances to reproduce nearly any meal, provided you had the recipe loaded and the flavourings to match. Roast beef and vegies? Key it in. You wanted to try cheesecake-flavoured sausages? Mix and match flavours. Simple. No mess and no skill needed in cooking. They were space and time saving devices that nearly every ship had. Sure, some connoisseurs swore that real, naturally grown food was simply unbeatable, but that kind of luxury was expensive, required refrigeration and storage and many cooking appliances and utensils. With an auto-chef, all you needed was a plate.

Reading the label, I knew that this was more likely to be the flavours and recipe programs to add to an auto-chef, rather than
actual
spiced pears. Not exactly the kind of thing a shady dealer would go for. I checked the crates contents with my eyes to confirm, because if they
were
real pears that would definitely fetch a good price. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, I confirmed it was indeed the former and closed the lid.

So far all I could find were two foot locker sized crates of cheap booze and a pallet of assorted candies that had a couple of suspicious holes poked in the side. I chuckled at that one when I found it, suspecting Zoe, Artemis or Max of being the culprit. I had higher hopes for the aft cargo hold, we rarely touched that stuff.

At around mid-afternoon Zoe joined me for a while. I found myself trying to broach the topic of her internship, but whenever I stopped to say something I found that I had no way of opening the conversation. I was dense when it came to women at the best of times and even though I had shared some of my most personal thoughts and feelings with this woman, I still found it hard to talk about some things.

The day progressed, I missed several opportunities to talk to her and then she left for other duties. I found myself shaking my head at my own stupidity as she left. All we had managed was small talk and a little flirting.
Next time,
I told myself. I left soon after I had finished my inventory stocktake, spent a few hours in the fighter simulator and then called it a night, relishing the final day of my short vacation, even though I had technically been working all day.

We left Jump Space at precisely eight am, ship time, the next day. We all closed up at stations, as is our normal procedure. I sat at the number two console, behind Maxine, in the command module. Fel was beside me on the other side of the compartment, churning the sensor information into definable data and sorting incoming readings. Crege was in front, surrounded by a myriad of displays, his hands resting eagerly on the control yokes.

As we shifted, I glanced over at Crege’s displays that showed a wide vista of normal space. The nearby Jump Station was visible to the naked eye, stark white against a backdrop of dark purple haze, the dominant colour of local space. Barely a light year from the Gossamer star was the vast nebula the Ghantri named Ar’od Dar, which roughly translates to the ‘Great Web’. The Ghantri believed that it was the celestial home of one of their mythical gods, the throne of their pantheon. It was a thing of terrible beauty, filling two thirds of visible space. Nothing makes a man feel so insignificant as to travel the reaches of a star system dwarfed by such a spectacle, even the stars move ever so slightly as one travels, but not so the Great Web.

“Sensors coming in now, stand-by.” intoned Fel.

“Just give me local traffic and MTAS.” ordered Max. MTAS was an acronym for Message to All Spacers, an open broadcast detailing navigational hazards and any alerts to local traffic.

“Should be feeding to your console now, captain.”

“Got it. It’s brief, that’s for sure.”

“Not much to tell,” I explained, “besides
keep out!
”

She nodded. “Blanket warnings to all vessels to report to Protectorate control. Comm frequencies. Let’s get a channel open, Fel. Crege, head us towards the station, ion drives only. Let’s try getting around on main propulsion alone. Should convince anyone watching that our manoeuvring thrusters are offline.”

“Aye, aye,
kitrak!”

“Channel open, captain.”

Max cleared her throat and grabbed the mic, “Eridani Station, this is unaffiliated vessel Dreaming of Atmosphere. Request docking permission at earliest convenience to facilitate dry dock repairs.”

The communication panel lit up almost immediately and Max put it through to the command module speakers for us all to hear.

“Negative, Dreaming of Atmosphere. This is Eridani Station Control; Gossamer System is an exclusion zone by order of Galactic Protectorate authority. Turn your vessel around and re-enter the Jump Gate.”

“Eridani Station, we request sanctuary. A Corporate organo-ship chased us here from Eridani. We have no wish to involve anyone else in our troubles, but we need repairs and re-supply before we can attempt a return to Eridani System.”

“Stand-by, Dreaming of Atmosphere.”

We all looked around at each other. This was it. If they turned us away now, Crege would have to pour on the thrusters and try to evade any station defenders who may try to disable us. I glanced at my own console and brought up a list of contacts. There were nearly a dozen Destroyers close to the station, as well as several dozen smaller corvettes. The Destroyers were large, not nearly as big as the Corporate organo-ship, but nearly eight hundred metres long each. The corvettes were twice as large as the Dreaming but capable of fantastic speeds. Those would be the real threat to us if we tried to run for it. The nearest was a few hundred kilometres from our position. There was little chance of us escaping into the system before one of these managed to land a crippling blow.

“Dreaming of Atmosphere, this is Eridani Station Control. Sorry, but we’re in lock down. We can’t take on any civilian ships right now.”

Crege looked like he was about to set off right there and then. Max gestured for him to stand down. I waved for her attention, and pointed to my stocktake list I’d compiled the day before, highlighting a particular item.

“Ah, Eridani Station Control, maybe we can work something out. We can do our own work, and we can be confined to the dock if it’s security you’re worried about. I got a case of Barris Doon Sky Port that’s just gathering dust, if you know what I mean. For your troubles, that is. A gift in thanks for helping out a civilian in need.”

There was a small pause before the reply came, “Look, I can’t open up the station to you…”

“All we need is a dry dock facility. We can trade for supplies via the quartermaster’s office.”

There was an audible sigh on the line, “Barris Doon Sky Port? What year?”

“Seventeen fifty-eight. I was going to give it to my first Captain for his two hundredth birthday next year…but I’m in a pinch.”

“Seventeen fifty-eight Year of New Atlantis or one of them alien calendars?” the way he said
alien calendars
made me bristle. Bigotry was far from dead, it seemed.

“YNA, of course.” chirped Max in her best salesperson pitch. The galactically recognised calendar recorded the number of years since the first colonies from Earth were established. The oldest human colonies were dozens of Networks away, the oldest being part of the Olympus Network. I’ve been told that the first Network has nearly thirty star systems within its bounds, including the Orlii and Garz’a home worlds. New Atlantis, the prime world of the Olympus System, is considered the centre of galactic society. It is the birthplace of the Galactic Exploratory Alliance, the precursor to the Galactic Protectorate, and the last known Jump location to old Earth. Not that the Jump Gate worked anymore.

Max let out a victorious
whoop
sound and shook me from my musings. Crege almost look disappointed, but Fel was relieved. I could see a data package appear in our consoles from the station. I opened it immediately and navigation data flowed into our systems, information such as berthing permits, identification forms and cargo manifest requests. We had secured ourselves a berth.

5.

The Eridani Jump Station was far from the largest station I’d docked at, but it was by no means small. All Jump Stations were named for the star systems their respective Jump Gates link to, and Galactic Protectorate personnel manage them all. Usually, these stations are bustling trade hubs where bulk haulers could offload their cargoes to local traders and depart whence they came. Supply chains that spanned several star systems were sometimes structured this way. Crews never had to travel too far from their home systems and could simply transfer giant cargo pods to awaiting berths or warehouses in the Jump Stations.

There were, of course, long distance bulk carriers who did all the transportation themselves, it’s just easier to crew a freighter when you don’t need to take people away from their families for too long. Frontiersmen, such as myself, did not really care where they operated from, especially when they were only a single generation away from being a Nomad.

The galaxy tends to classify a person based on their connections to a planet. Zoe, for example, was a Kanto Prime citizen. Her family were Kanto Prime citizens. She identified herself as being a Harakiwan, from the Harakiwa star system. The two Argen, Hergo and Denno, were Argen from Argessi star system, though if I remember correctly, Denno
is
a Frontiersman. A Frontiersman is a person who wasn’t born on a recognised planet or sovereign nation. Denno, for example, was born (or was it hatched?) on a mining platform servicing the Kersios Ring asteroid belt in Argessi system. Although the Donovan family name traces its roots to the Eridani star system, my father was born on the Dreaming of Atmosphere and so was I. To galactic society, I still had a tenuous claim of allegiance to my family’s home system, but any children I may sire, should they also be born on this ship, or any other place that does not meet the requirements of citizenship somewhere is automatically classified as a Nomad.

True Nomads fill a strange niche in galactic society, they are both romanticised in poem, song and film and despised and distrusted in more civilised quarters. In truth, I think the stereotyping is an inaccurate assessment of them. True Nomads are proud and independent, seeing the galaxy at large as their homes rather than some spinning ball of dirt. They trace their lineage back generations through fleets of ships and their wanderings through the galaxy. Nomad families are some of the tightest and closest communities I have ever experienced, and their way of life appeals to me immensely.

I recently lost a close and personal friend, our chief engineer Eric Thackeray. He was the quintessential Nomad, a true wanderer of the stars. I never even found out where he was originally from, but I do know that he never spoke of any allegiance he may have had for any of the planets or star systems we visited.

Knowing a person’s standing in society was always a useful tool when working a deal with them, regardless of your own personal views about the social hierarchy. Until one gets to know a person well, falling back on the stereotypes sometimes pays off.

The Protectorate, although a galaxy spanning organisation, draws the majority of its officials from local space. The more senior personnel, however, are never local. The higher ranked one is, the further away from their home star system they are sent. I believe they do this to prevent the Protectorate from becoming too biased towards whichever star system most of the people are drawn from. Using this information, I knew that most of the people we’d be dealing with in the Eridani Jump Station would be Eridanian. They would most likely be citizens or first generation Frontiersmen. The higher ups, such as the station commander, would be from a different star system or possibly a different Network entirely. This meant we’d have to think like an Eridanian if we wanted to deal with the station folk, but if we got into trouble we’d need to think like an outsider.

Crege brought us into the berth we’d been assigned expertly, and when the station’s gravity field enveloped us and held us in place Maxine called over the PA for everyone to meet in the forward cargo hold for a brief.

Everyone was excited, I could tell. We’d been cooped up in the ship for the better part of several months and even our last furlough was cut short by Benedict Jenner’s hijacking of our ship. Even though this station was hardly the bustling trade hub that most Jump Stations were, there had to be
something
interesting for the locals to do to pass the time. Protectorate Fleet crews needed R and R as well.

“Alright, everybody, listen up!” called Max when everyone was present, “I know we’ve been stuck on this boat for long enough, but I wanted to remind everyone that we’re still on the job. Our gracious overlord,” Max gestured towards Artemis with a flourish, “Has agreed that we are due a little recuperation time after all. There will be no jumping ship. No frivolous or loud activities. Nothing that could bring the attention of the station officials upon us. Are we all one-hundred percent clear?” She eyed Mal and Hergo. Everyone grunted his or her agreeance.

Max continued, “Several of you have assignments, and almost everyone has some duties to perform before leave is allowed, but once you are released I want everyone to report in to the ship’s local network every six hours. There will be someone here at all times, so make sure you make contact and let him or her know you are all right. No exceptions.”

“How long will we be staying?” asked Hergo.

“Unsure, station day cycle is thirty standard hours. Local time is mid-afternoon, so we may not get all our contracts sorted today. A minimum of four days, during which time we’ll be keeping long dock routines.” That brought a groan from several of the crew.

A standard dock routine meant regular working hours, eight-hour days from eight am to four pm. A long dock routine meant twelve-hour workdays. We did the maths; we had a lot of work to do and little time to do it. At least the crew would have a few hours in the evenings to do what they pleased. It also minimised the trouble they could get themselves in to.

“Are we allowed to stay overnight off-ship?” asked Mal.

“No. The station control made it perfectly clear we were not even supposed to be on the station, so let’s not overstay our welcome and play by their rules for now. That may change, but for now, everyone returns to the ship before midnight, station time. Stragglers will have pay docked for being late.”

“Thought you said we weren’t being paid for this job?” asked Hergo, “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“You’re not, and it is. Suck it up, it’s an incentive meant to keep you safe and out of trouble. I’ll take that any day over bailing your arses out of gaol or paying for medical bills because you got stabbed in an alley.”

“Are we working today?” asked Denno.

“Some of us are. We’ll get ourselves secured, open shop on the dock and most of you can have the evening off.”

Open shop was Maxine-speak for arraying our cargo out for prospective buyers to peruse. Mostly, it was a digital footprint uploaded to the station’s local network, but some traders also prefer a physical inspection.

“Any other questions?” asked Max, eyeing everyone in turn. When there was none, she dismissed everyone and started issuing orders for crew to start attaching refuelling lines and power cables. Afterwards, Max waved me over.

“That station control guy should be here soon. Think you can pump him for some info about the black market?”

“Unlikely, I’m better off starting with maintenance people.”

“Why them?”

“They’re the most familiar with the station. If there was ever a hidey-hole to stash a secret cache of loot, they are the people to find it. If it’s all the same, I should be wandering the docks playing the retired military card.”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Yeah, gives me an excuse to wander into areas I shouldn’t be.”

“Okay, don’t get yourself shot or anything.”

“Hey!” I tried to look mock offended, “It’s me!”

“That’s what worries me. Try to stay out of the sewer drains this time, Donny.” she laughed as she walked after Fel, who was disappearing up the ladder well to Deck 2.

“If I remember correctly,
you
jumped in first!” I called after her.

I retired to my cabin, leaving the deck hands to start their work in the hold. When I got to my cabin, I found Zoe waiting for me at my cabin hatch.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I have a favour to ask,” she began, “A couple of components that probably won’t be for sale in the docks area, and I don’t want to go asking questions about.” She handed me a hand written note, with a list of four items that looked like model or part numbers.

“Okay.” That got me interested. Zoe, talking about illegal merchandise? What was she up to? “Want to tell me what for?”

“Nothing bad, you know me.”

“I do know you. That’s why I’m asking.”

She looked at me for a moment and saw that she wasn’t getting out of it without giving me something. “A project I’m working on.”

“That piece of cybernetics I keep seeing you working on in med lab?”

“Ah ha.”

“Which is a gift for me?”

“Yup. Surprise.” She gave me her best innocent smile, hands folded at her back.

“How illegal are we talking about?”

Her face changed suddenly, “Oh they’re not normally illegal, just here they might be. Possibly restricted.”

“Why would they be illegal here and not somewhere else?”

“Because of what they’re used for.”

“And what are they used for?”

“Secret.”

I sighed, and pocketed the note. “Alright, but if you get me arrested Max will be pissed at you.”

She reached up on her toes and gave me a quick kiss before dashing off down to Deck 2, probably to get her things and go exploring. As the junior crewmember, and the ship’s Doctor, she got the easiest job of all – rounding up medical supplies from the station’s infirmary. All her tasks were in the same place, so she would have heaps of free time.

I went into my cabin and changed out of the jump suit I always wore on the ship and into some civilian clothes. I slipped on my Ablative Coat, not because I expected any trouble, but because I wanted to look the part of active Frontiersman. I took my PX-2 and hung it from its holster on my belt, slung lower than normal to add a little swagger to my stride. I hesitated a moment before attaching the
lurzak
blade, but thought, what the hell? These military boys act tough a lot of the time, especially around civilians, but if I show them I walk the walk, and talk the talk, maybe they will skip the routine and go straight to business.

I took a look at a mirror that Zoe always left in the cabin, girl stuff, and checked myself out. Rough, worn and a little haggard. Should do. I wished I had enough time for a haircut; I could have gone with a more crew cut style to put these depot staunchers at ease. Then I remembered my medal, which I usually wore beneath my jump suit on my old dog tag chain.

I had been awarded the medal when I made it out of the Gossamer star system the last time, a bloody wreck after suffering terrible injuries and losing my entire squad. I had gotten out after months of fighting for my survival, stealing away on board a ship making a raid on the Jump Gate. At the time, and for a long time afterward, I could not bear the sight of the thing. I saw it as a reminder of the worst time in my life. Now, through Zoe’s counselling, I had come to see it as a memento of my fallen comrades and a symbol of my will to survive. It was also a symbol of my revenge.

I pulled the chain free of my under garments and displayed it proudly on my chest. That should turn some heads.