Take The Star Road (The Maxwell Saga) (5 page)

"How did you manage that? Earth isn't noted for issuing long-term unrestricted passports to its citizens, because so many never come back! They won't even allow off-planet recruiters to operate here."

"Yes, Sir. Brother Bede at St. Anselm's pulled a few strings for me. I think one or two of his former students are working in that department."

"You were very lucky. Nine years ought to be long enough to find your feet somewhere else. What about longevity treatments? Some planets require them all, and at nineteen you're already too old for some of the advanced therapies to take full effect."

"I received them all before my sixteenth birthday, Sir. The state provides the basic regimen for everyone, of course. Brother Bede persuaded my parents' lawyer to allow me to use most of the residue of their estate to pay for a full suite of advanced therapies. He reckoned it would be much more useful to 'double my Biblical life-span', as he put it, than to waste the money on short-term expenses."

"He's a wise man! You were lucky you had private means available."

"Yes, Sir. It wasn't 'lucky' to lose my parents, but at least they did their best to provide for me if the worst happened."

The Bosun hesitated, then made up his mind. "All right. I'll talk to Cap'n Volschenk about you. Don't get your hopes up too high!" he hastened to add as he saw the youngster's face light up with excitement. "He may turn me down. It's his decision in the end."

"If the kid needs a reference, Vince, I'll give him one," Louie offered.

Steve flushed. "Thanks, Mr. Brackmann. I really appreciate that."

"I'll tell the Captain, but if he's willing to hire an apprentice - and as I said, he hasn't done that for a long time - he'll trust my judgment. He always does when it comes to hiring spacers. How can I reach you to let you know his decision?"

"I'll give you my comm code, Sir."

Steve blinked as he focused on the contact lens in his right eye. His Personal Intelligent Assistant, tucked behind his right ear, displayed a series of icons representing other PIA's within range. He picked out one tagged as 'Cardle, V., Boatswain, LMV
Sebastian Cabot
', wrinkled the muscles around his eye socket to drop a cursor onto the name, then blinked again. In a few microseconds, the exchange of information was accomplished.

"Got it, thanks," Vince acknowledged. "There's something else you've got to bear in mind. We're a tramp freighter. We go where our cargoes take us, and we're seldom sure where we'll be in three months' time. We may reach a Lancastrian Commonwealth planet fairly soon, or it might take us a year or more. If you want to talk to a Fleet recruiting office, you'll have to be patient."

"Sir, if you offer me the chance to get there, and earn my keep while doing so, and learn skills I'll be able to use there, I'll be the most patient man on board!"

Louie laughed as he placed a shrimp tail on the side of his plate. "In that case, you'll be the first patient teenager I've ever met!" Steve had the grace to blush. "Vince, what about his outfit? Will he need any special gear?"

"I forgot to mention that. Steve, some cheap-ass ships let you come aboard in street clothes and build up your personal gear over time, but our standards aboard
Cabot
- aboard almost any Lancastrian ship, for that matter - are much higher. You'll need a lot of stuff: uniforms; a general purpose spacesuit - the ship provides the heavy cargo-handling suits; working utilities and protective gear; a pretty comprehensive toolkit and some other bits and pieces, plus personal items. Do you have an outfit like that?"

Steve dropped his eyes, his voice chagrined. "No, Sir."

Louie said, "Steve, the Dragon Tong hasn't got back to us yet about the 'compensation' they were going to extract from the Lotuses, but they will. Once they make a commitment they keep it, no matter what, so I know it's coming. You may never get an opportunity like this again, 'specially not aboard a Lancastrian merchant ship - they're top-rated everywhere in the settled galaxy - or under a Bosun as good as Vince here. I'd hate you to lose it because you aren't properly equipped. If Vince will give you a list of what you need, there's a good spacer outfitter two levels up. I'll stake you to a starter outfit, and recover the cost from your share of what the Dragons give us when it gets here. Make sure you get quality stuff, not cheap crap!" He glanced at Vince. "Put down everything he's likely to need, not just the essentials. He may as well start out fully equipped."

Hesitation warred with gratitude on Steve's features. At last he surrendered. "Thanks, Mr. Brackmann, I'm obliged to you. Of course, it may not be necessary, if
Cabot
's Captain turns me down. Better wait and see."

Vince added, "Thanks, Louie. That's big of you." He set down his knife and fork, surveying the empty plate with satisfaction. "I'm going to have to give your cook a fat tip. That was great!" He looked up. "OK, Steve. You'll hear from me tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Sir!"

Chapter 3: January 23rd, 2837 GSC

Steve tore his gaze away from the display window of Spacer Supply long enough to rub his weary eyes. He hadn't got much sleep after his conversation with the Bosun. He was on tenterhooks, waiting to hear whether this was the lucky break he'd been hoping and praying for, or whether he'd have to possess himself in patience a while longer.

He couldn't keep his eyes from returning to the wares on offer. Spacesuits, protective work gear and an array of gleaming tools were artistically arranged in the window, interspersed with tri-dee holopics of nubile young men and women, wearing very little indeed, draping themselves seductively around models wearing and (very ineptly) pretending to use the objects in question. He wanted the gear so badly he could almost taste it... but he couldn't help thinking to himself, grinning, that those 'spacers' would undoubtedly have a very hard time keeping their minds on their jobs, with so many distractions so temptingly to hand.

His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his PIA behind his ear, signifying an incoming call. As he focused on the display in his right eye, his heart began to pound. It was the Bosun!

He blinked to answer the call. "Steve Maxwell here, Sir."

"I just spoke with Captain Volschenk. Subject to one condition, you're hired, son."

"YAHOO!"
Steve's exuberant yell turned heads all around him. "I - I can't thank you enough, Sir."

The Bosun's voice was amused. "Good thing these PIA's have automatic volume limiting, or you'd have blown out my eardrums! The condition is this. The Captain says, if he's going to train you and commit so much of his crew's time to training you, he wants a return on his investment. He wants you to undertake to serve a minimum of two years aboard
Cabot
before you pursue any other opportunities that may come your way. That includes enlisting in the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet. Can I tell him you'll give your word to do that?"

"Of course, Sir! That's only fair. I'll sign any contract he wants."

"Contracts can be broken too easily in our trade. You can disappear aboard an orbital station or hide planetside until we're forced to leave without you; or you can slip aboard another ship and be light years away before we realize you're gone. No, we reckon if your word's no good then neither are you, and vice versa. You've demonstrated, by helping Louie at the risk of your own life, that you're anything but 'no good'; so we'll accept your word."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Don't thank me yet, Maxwell. Let's see if you can handle the life of a merchant spacer first. It's not easy! There's one thing you need to get straight, right up front. Last night was social. From now on, you and I are on a professional footing, at least until you finish your apprenticeship. Once you're qualified, we'll relax that to some extent - we're merchant service, after all, not military - but the first few months will be pretty formal. The same applies to your contact with the Captain and the mates."

"Understood, Sir. Thanks for warning me. I appreciate it."

"One more thing. I'm not a commissioned officer; a Boatswain in the merchant service is a warrant officer. You address me as 'Bosun'. The Captain and the ship's mates are 'Sir'."

"Yes, Bosun."

"Another thing. When a spacer answers a question, he says 'Yes'; but when he's acknowledging an order, he says 'Aye aye'. It's a very old tradition."

"Aye aye, Bosun. Er... may I ask a question, please?"

"Sure."

"Is it also tradition for you to use crossed anchors in your badge of rank? I've never heard of a spaceship having anchors."

The spacer chuckled. "Neither have I! Yes, that goes back many centuries before the Space Age. Now, we've got a lot to do this morning. Can you meet me at the offices of the Lancastrian Merchant Spacers League at oh-nine-hundred?"

"Just a moment, please, Bosun - I'll have to look them up."

Steve hurriedly re-focused on his eyescreen as he muted the call. His PIA picked up his muttered, sub-vocalized query, transmitted through his jawbone and skull. It processed it, then projected a three-dimensional map of the terminal onto his eyescreen. A flashing star marked a location two levels above and a kilometer away from his present position.

He reactivated the call. "I've found them, Bosun. I can be there by nine."

"Good. They'll have an arrangement with a nearby clinic to do spacers' medical checks - they always do. I'll call ahead to set that up. Bring with you every important personal and official document you've got - birth certificate, passport, qualifications, academic transcripts, the lot. In particular, bring the certified results of those spacer vo-tech classes you took online. Also, bring details of any existing bank accounts - you'll want to transfer them."

"Aye aye, Bosun."

###

Steve shuddered, then sighed with heartfelt relief as the probe withdrew from his anus. The pressure on the rest of his body began to ease as the med unit completed its analysis, retracting the figure-hugging sensor-laden lining surrounding him. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a minute or two, before the front of the machine swung open. He almost fell forward into the examination room before he caught his balance.

The tech sitting at the console looked round, ignoring his nakedness. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

"That's easy for you to say," he grumbled, crossing stiff-legged to the fresher door. "You haven't just had a sadistic computer shove a pole up your ass!"

She giggled. "Depends what turns you on, doesn't it? At least it's pre-warmed and lubed! Towels are in the rack, soap and shampoo sachets in the cupboard. Stop at the front desk to get your results."

He lingered under the hot water, vainly attempting to wash away the vague feeling of violation that the examination had produced in him. Dressing, he headed for the front desk.

"So, am I going to die?" he asked.

The receptionist grinned. "I'm sure you will someday, but probably not today. According to Dr. Herbert, you're in good health."

"Dr. Herbert?"

"The med unit. A couple of years back, someone said that since it was doing a doctor's job, we might as well give it - him - a name."

"Oh. What about the results of the blood, urine and stool tests?"

"The initial results came back clean. It'd be very unusual if the detailed results turned out different, so as far as we're concerned, you're in great shape. We've issued you a preliminary clearance for unrestricted shipboard service, and we'll make that permanent and communicate it to you, the League and your ship once we have the detailed results."

Steve let out a low sigh of relief. He hadn't expected the medical examination to reveal anything that might dash his hopes, but it was nice to be sure.

The receptionist handed him three black data chips. "Here are three copies of your medical and DNA profile. One's for your ship's records, one's for the Merchant Spacer's League, and the third's for you. Keep it safe. You never know when you might need a past full medical profile to help treat a disease or condition you pick up on some strange planet." She punched a couple of keys, then removed a green chip from a socket in her data unit. "This contains sizing information for your spacesuit and work gear. Give it to the clerk who takes your order. He'll know what to do with it."

"Thanks very much."

He walked out into the plaza, a designation which never failed to amuse him. Having been in town squares and plazas on Earth, the thought of a 'plaza' with plasteel walls, floor and ceiling, encapsulated within a fifty-kilometer-long, five-kilometer-wide and three-kilometer-high space station suspended in vacuum, still seemed incongruous.

He crossed the plaza to a display window. It was labeled in old-fashioned gold script, 'The League of Merchant Spacers of the Lancastrian Commonwealth'. He opened the door next to it, went inside, and looked around until he caught sight of the Bosun, sitting in front of a desk in a glass-walled office at the side of the room. He tapped at the half-open door.

"Ah! Come in, Maxwell. Got your medical profile? Passed all the tests?"