Torchship Pilot Read online

  Torchship Pilot

  Karl K. Gallagher

  © 2016 Karl Gallagher.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Kelt Haven Press, Saginaw, TX.

  Cover art and design by Stephanie G. Folse

  (www.scarlettebooks.com).

  Interior art by Michael van Slyke, Archangel Arts

  Editing by Laura Gallagher.

  Audio Recording by Laura Gallagher.

  First edition, revised.

  To Fencon, a place of community and inspiration,

  To all the volunteers who make it happen,

  And especially to Ed Dravecky III, now at the eternal con

  Cross section of 25m freighter.

  Chapter One: Homeward

  Fragment of FNS Terror, Bonaventure System, acceleration 0 m/s2

  Michigan Long floated through the corridors of the wrecked battleship. Her spacesuit was recycling the smell of her own sweat into her face. Even in free-fall, hauling out survivors was heavy work.

  At a bend in the corridor she braced against the bulkhead. Spreading her hands flat on the wall let her sense any vibrations from survivors banging on their compartments. She was listening for survivors. Not resting from the effort of maneuvering in free-fall. At least the wreck had enough spin to let her rest against the wall instead of having to brace herself.

  She felt some vibrations. Not the bang-bang-bang of someone trying to attract attention. This sounded like someone working.

  Her radio was set for the standard suit emergency frequency. She called, “Anyone out there?”

  “Oh, thank God. I thought we’d been abandoned. This is Chief Donner. Who are you?” The signal was clear. He had to be less than fifty meters away.

  “I’m Mitchie Long. Where are you?”

  “Corridor Twelve-Golf-Five. It’s blocked. I’ve been trying to get through.”

  “On my way. Anyone with you?”

  “About a dozen back in the compartment. I’m the only one with a suit. We need to find survival bubbles for the rest.”

  “That’s going to be tough. All the ones I’ve seen are full. Let’s clear the block first.” She’d also seen plenty of spacers who couldn’t find a bubble fast enough as their ship was torn apart.

  The Fusion Navy might skimp on safety gear, but they labeled everything clearly. Finding 12G5 only took a couple of minutes.

  The blockage filled the corridor. A molten penetrator had passed through, liquefying structures as it went. The strands of steel alloy surrounded the hole in the bulkhead, looking like a spider web made of icicles.

  “That you, Long?” transmitted the chief.

  “Yeah. I see the problem. Hold on, I saw something back there.”

  A cross-corridor had twisted and warped in an explosion shockwave. A thick spar was lying to one side, held in place by the wreck’s spin. She hauled it to 12G5.

  Some shoving forced it through so Chief Donner could grab the other end. Then they could combine their leverage on the icicles.

  After breaking four of them Donner said, “That’s a start on a hole.”

  “It’s big enough,” said Mitchie. She squirmed into the gap. The coverall she wore over her pressure suit snagged on a spike. Tugging it free cost a slice in the heavy fabric. It wasn’t the first one she’d gotten on this mission, but at least her suit didn’t have any holes in it.

  “Big enough for you,” was the chief’s greeting on the other side.

  Mitchie thought it was a fair complaint. He was almost two meters tall. In gravity she wouldn’t even reach his chin.

  “That ain’t a Navy suit. What ship are you from?” demanded Chief Donner.

  “I’m off a freighter passing through the system. We were called in to help look for survivors.” Which was true, if incomplete. Telling him she’d had a part in destroying his ship wouldn’t help the immediate situation.

  “Your accent is funny. What’s your home planet?”

  “Akiak.”

  “A Disker!”

  “Yes, I’m a Disker.” Mitchie kept her voice calm and friendly to de-escalate things. “The Disconnected Worlds won the battle. We’re doing search and rescue. You’re going to a prisoner of war camp, which is better than staying here.”

  “Like hell.” Donner pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt.

  Mitchie kicked off into the corridor behind him. As she bounced off a bulkhead she considered the decision. Going back through the hole would have been too slow. Pulling her own pistol would have left them both bleeding out through holes in their suits. And trying to attack him bare-handed was ludicrous. So this was the best option.

  It just wasn’t a good option. The corridor made a right angle just ahead. A bullet smashed into the bulkhead ahead of her, sending sparks and bits of metal flying.

  She bounced through the bend and despaired. The corridor went straight for a hundred meters with no cover.

  There was a hatch. If it let into a compartment with cover she could fight it out there. Or she could use the hatch itself as cover.

  Mitchie twisted the dogging wheel with one hand while the other gripped the edge of the hatch, ready to pull it open. The wheel released the hatch just as Donner came into sight in the bend.

  The hatch pulled out of her grip. Air pressure flung it open against the stops, hiding Donner from view. Oh, crap. That was a pressurized compartment, Mitchie thought in horror.

  Escaping air pushed on Mitchie’s suit with screams and the roar of wind. A Fusion spacer slammed into her, his limbs flailing in panic.

  She grabbed the edge of the hatch with one hand. The other shoved on the spacer, trying to push him back into the compartment so the hatch could close. More people bumped into him, pushing back.

  Vibration stung her fingers as a bullet struck the hatch. She pulled harder but an arm was caught against a hinge.

  The roar of air became a whisper and then vacuum silence. Mitchie cursed in frustration but none of the dying spacers could hear her.

  Another bullet struck the hatch. She pulled herself into the compartment, shoving aside more warm bodies. A table was mounted on the floor, now a tilted wall with the wreck’s spin. Mitchie wedged herself behind it and waited, her pistol aimed at the hatch.

  Chief Donner broadcast a string of curses over the radio. She didn’t answer. When his helmet poked through the pile of bodies she fired. He twisted to try to spot her. She kept firing until he was still.

  Mitchie thought, This war became brutal fast.

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  Planet Pintoy, gravity 9.4 m/s2

  The elevator opened into a round lobby. No hallways, just four doors. This floor of the skyscraper had big apartments. Captain Schwartzenberger started checking the names on the doors. Mitchie and Guo gently guided Alexi out of the elevator. One of the advertisements fascinated him. Guo had to hold a duffle bag in front of it to block his view before he’d shuffle along to their lead.

  “This one,” said the captain. The door was marked FRANKOVITCH in old-fashioned static letters. When Alexi was in front of the door Schwartzenberger pressed the notifier.

  The security system must have warned of people approaching. The door flew open. “Bozhe moi, Alexi! How long have you been on planet? Why didn’t you message me?” Alexi’s sister was equally blonde and almost as tall.

  Alexi slurred out, “Hi . . . sis.”

  “Are you all right?” Ms. Frankovitch looked at Schwartzenberger for the first time. “Is he all right?”


  “I’m afraid he’s on some very powerful medication, ma’am. I’m Alois Schwartzenberger, captain of the analog freighter Fives Full. Alexi was a crewman on our last voyage. This is my pilot Michigan Long”—Mitchie offered a friendly smile—“and engineer Guo Kwan. May we come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Please, call me Donna.”

  A few minutes later Alexi was seated on a couch staring at a fish tank. She’d forced a cup of coffee into everyone’s hands.

  “Now,” said Donna. “What happened to my brother?”

  Captain Schwartzenberger took a sip. “He had a psychological breakdown under the stress of a very difficult mission.”

  “How stressful?” asked Donna.

  “We took a load of Pilgrims to Old Earth. We were attacked by AIs, holed by a meteor, and ran short of food. Long hours of work and complete isolation. There was also . . . did Alexi ever talk to you about what your grandfather hid when fleeing Eden?”

  “Oh, do not tell me Alexi talked you into doing his stupid treasure hunt,” scoffed Donna. “You looked so sensible.”

  Schwartzenberger waved to Mitchie. The pilot produced a small box covered in tacky “Happy Birthday” film. She’d chosen it to make any watching criminal think it had to be worth less than twenty keys.

  Donna took the box with a doubtful expression. Opening it revealed a necklace. A dozen rubies formed a triangle hanging from a gold chain. She pulled a datasheet from her pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. “Grandmother’s wedding portrait,” she ordered.

  By the time the crumpled wad had unfolded itself into a smooth display it had found the picture. A young woman, gowned in the swooping excesses of late 22nd-century fashion, wore the same ruby necklace.

  Donna collapsed into an armchair. “Bozhe moi. You found it.”

  His eyes still following the fish, Alexi said, “Found it.”

  “How much was there?” asked Donna.

  “Two containers,” said the captain. “Ancient art, fuel metal, stable transuranic elements, jewelry. Tons of stuff. We’re not sure what we can sell it for yet. Tens of millions of keys at least.”

  She clutched the necklace tighter. “Do you need to sell this?”

  “No. That’s part of Alexi’s share. The deal was that he’d get twenty-five percent of the value before expenses.”

  “I’d think he’d be happy now. He’s been lusting for that his whole life.” Donna studied her brother’s blank expression.

  Schwartzenberger hesitated, not sure how to explain how things went wrong.

  Mitchie sat down next to Donna. “He was, at first. But then he became terrified of losing it all. Started acting paranoid. Accusing us of trying to steal the treasure.”

  Mitchie continued, “He assaulted one of the crew, then ran off to the hold and started shooting at my husband.” She looked over at Guo. “Fortunately he missed.” Guo smiled back at her. “We restrained him and locked him up. Weeks in solitary confinement didn’t make him any happier. The Navy evaluated him and prescribed a calmative.”

  “So he’s gone mad,” said Donna.

  “The Navy psychiatrist thought being in a familiar environment with people he trusts was the best therapy,” said Captain Schwartzenberger. “Do you think you can keep him here and get him professional care?”

  “Of course, he’s family. I don’t know how we’ll afford that but we’ll manage.”

  “You won’t need to worry about that,” said the captain. He fiddled with his datasheet.

  Donna’s sheet lit up with a message. She gave permission for the deposit to go into her account. The amount drew Russian curses from her. “That . . . that will pay for many doctors.”

  “It’s Alexi’s pay for the Pilgrim trip and his share of what we’ve sold so far. We’ll send more as we can. It’s going to take a while. We don’t want to attract attention from the Fusion.”

  “No,” agreed Donna. “They’d grab it all if they had an excuse.”

  “The art is the hardest to sell,” said Guo. “Proving it’s authentic requires telling the whole story.”

  “You’ll need to set up a business we can transfer funds to,” said Schwartzenberger. “Paying you directly will get noticed. Now that we’ve paid off Alexi we won’t have an excuse to make more direct transfers.”

  As Donna and the captain discussed the details of money laundering Mitchie walked over to Guo.

  He stood behind the couch, ready to deck Alexi if he overcame the medication. Guo wrapped an arm around Mitchie and pulled her close. “I wasn’t your husband when he shot at me,” he whispered. “And Abdul wasn’t one of the crew, just a working passenger.”

  “Nitpicker,” said Mitchie. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  The cuddle broke up when Schwartzenberger finished his deal with Donna. Guo put the duffle bag on the couch by Alexi. “This has his clothes and effects,” explained the mechanic. “This pocket has the medication. There’s a week of it left.”

  The captain got them out the door with minimal farewells. The elevator was waiting for them.

  After the doors closed on them Guo said, “I feel bad not saying goodbye to Alexi.”

  “He wouldn’t have registered it,” said the captain.

  “Still, we owe him a lot. Maybe I’ll write him a thank you letter after he recovers.”

  “So he’ll know where to send the assassins?” asked Mitchie.

  ***

  Michigan “Mitchie” Long had spotted a pattern early in her Intelligence training. If a tradecraft technique had a cutesy name she hated it. They always went for the flamboyant, exactly what she didn’t want while trying not to be noticed.

  She’d tried to arrange a data drop-off with her Pintoy contact. Instead he had asked her to do a pick-up using “Posing with Pigeons in the Park.” If she had to go for a walk in a park this was a nice one. Walking paths made a figure eight around two lakes. Her datasheet played music. She kept a good grip on it. Dropping it should look like an accident, not be one.

  Singh had the feather in his hat at the right angle to mark himself as the contact. She’d recognized his profile from farther away than she’d seen the feather. He was familiar from the year they’d spent training together on Bonaventure. Since the point of “Pigeon” was for them not to interact at all she ignored him.

  Actual pigeons clustered in front of the park bench as Singh tossed them another handful of breadcrumbs. She hoped they had some fear of humans left. If they stayed in her way they could ruin the drop.

  The birds flew off when she closed to kicking range. She scanned the remaining breadcrumbs looking for a datacrystal. It was supposed to be in the center of the path where she could drop her datasheet and pick them up together. Nothing.

  Singh stood up, leaving the breadcrumb bag on the bench. He fell into step with Mitchie. “Hey, while you’re in the neighborhood, could you give me a lift home?”

  Mitchie ground her teeth. You frigging idiot, screwing this up won’t get you flunked, it’ll land us both in a Fusion interrogation cell. She said calmly, “I thought another friend was taking you home.”

  Singh shrugged. “I don’t like the way he’s been drinking. I’d feel safer riding with you.” The code word “drinking” meant his main contact was dead or detained.

  Keeping her poker face took work. Mitchie had made contact to put her data on the battle over Demeter in a secure delivery route. Being asked to pick up his data instead was annoying but part of the job. Bringing Singh onto her ship . . . seemed like a good way to get Fusion Counter-Intelligence’s attention.

  “Don’t you still have work to do here?” she asked.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Well, yeah, but ever since, you know, it’s been a lot harder to get anything done.”

  Obviously he was referring to when a Fusion warship nuked the town of Noisy Water on her home world. It destroyed a conference of scientists pursuing research forbidden on Fusion worlds. The Disconnected Worlds imposed a blockade in retal
iation, and tensions were still increasing. More counter-intelligence activity was probably part of that.

  She decided to pass the buck. “It’s not my ship,” said Mitchie. “I can ask the captain if he’ll take you. He’s not eager to do me favors though.” Which was true. Schwartzenberger hadn’t enjoyed finding out his new pilot was an undercover operative, even if her reports had been good enough to earn him an appointment as a naval reservist.

  “I’ll make it worth his while,” said Singh. “I want to get off this rock before it gives me a drinking problem.”

  “No promises.”

  ***

  Alois Schwartzenberger sat in the swivel chair, watching silently as the metallurgist collected data. Dr. McClendon had moved the sample to the spectrometer. He’d started the process hiding annoyance under a polite mask, just going through the motions. Now he was nervously double-checking every step.

  McClendon fiddled with the spectrometer display until an array of lines appeared on the lower half. A minute later the machine dinged. More lines flashed onto the upper half. The sets matched precisely. McClendon collapsed into a chair. “You’re right. It’s ansonium.”

  Schwartzenberger didn’t answer. The metallurgist needed to adjust to the idea before they could talk money. He’d have to convince someone much more important to agree to the amount of money this would cost.

  “Where the hell did you get forty-five grams of it?” demanded McClendon.

  “I don’t have to say,” answered the captain.

  The other stared at the wall. Schwartzenberger spotted flickering in his pupils as McClendon’s implanted HUD flashed up data. “You’ve been in AI-controlled space. All the way to Old Earth.”

  “The Navy inspected and cleared us. There’s no data in that sample.”

  “Did you find it along the way?” asked McClendon. “Or did the Pilgrims give it to you as hazard pay?”

  Okida, the middleman who’d arranged this meeting, had faded into the corner while the analysis was done. Now he felt the need to protect his percentage. “The origin isn’t the important point,” said Okida. “You’ve proved it’s real ansonium. How many uses are there for it?”