Summer station, at the far terminus of the Corbin-Haas trade corridor, beyond even the mining hub of Barragh, is misnamed. The small, blue star and its single gas-giant companion feel cold and far from the delights of a planetary season. Still, the Empire likes to keep a finger on the edge systems where troubles are hatched and weened and Summer has its share of laxity, corruption and malcontent.
At Corbin-Haas that finger was named Aaron Jones.
His Cobra MK III, “Sabretooth” was upgraded within the realm of a typical rocket-jockey this far out, down to a couple of loose deckplates hiding whatever was popular in minor league contraband at the time – no problem leaving it to the lowest-bid maintenance contractor; if they found any funnies, it showed competence and a little dockside shakedown told Jones who was troublesome, or useful.
Entry to the station this visit had been interesting. A bristling Python LE was running ahead, bulky and ancient and covered with mods Jones didn't recognise. It slipped through the main doors and dropped into the largest ship cradle in the core with absolute precision and quicker than any automatics would have allowed. So, not an amateur, this one. And too big for this station, for this whole region; the economics of trade were knife-edged out here and newboys who wagered that big holds meant lots of cargo didn't keep their ships long enough to get that slick.
The dock-master summoned him within a minute of receiving his trade manifest so Jones ordered a short dump and fuel and cargo-offload and left the automatics to it while he sauntered down the docks. He passed by where the Pythons cargo was being transferred – yes, a short load coming out of those cavernous holds and probably less to replace it – and jury-rigged pipelines for consumables already in place. The station probably didn't even maintain a regular cradle for such a big rig. Just one thin, gangly crewman was supervising the operations and he slipped out of sight quickly. There was no crewman at the dock office either, waiting to argue customs and charges or wrangle a station freight contract. Jones cheerfully hailed the dock-master and handed him the Papers. They said nothing except that his odd cargo was licensed and duty-paid but the signature told any competent bureaucrat a good deal more. Jones was stamped through, the customs inspection waived with a stream of pleasantries.
Jones was about to leave the man so he could put the call though to the station master to warn that a new arrival had “connections” when a skeletal old man in a heavy wool longcoat entered. He must be the Python cargoman's father or uncle.
'Jorge Fisk' he said, the voice soft but high and pure, defying his raddled look.
'Captain Fisk. As before?' the dock-master replied, taking up the thin doc folder from the old man. 'I shall relay your request to the station master, of course. Reinhold may have some more cargo for you if you can get to Haas transpoint in twenty days. I could act as broker for...'
His eyes alighted on Jones at the doorway momentarily and he left for the back office grasping the papers.
Jones nodded at the old man. 'Captain, a pleasure to meet a fellow trader. I'm Jones, just in, in the Sabretooth...'
After a long delay the old man turned and spoke in a thick accent, 'Zank you, Kaptain. I am,' another delay the length of an indrawing of breath, 'Jorgay Fizk, of the Marionette.'
The last syllable, precisely pronounced, made his thin lips turn up like a smile and Jones paused too; he had the feeling there was something quite wrong with this figure.
The dock-master was bustling back so Jones took his leave with a wave.
Throughout history warriors have had there arenas of one sort or another in which to practice their chosen endeavours, clerics have had their pulpits and teachers their classrooms. Agents, spies and investigators have bars. Jones caroused the meagre pickings of nightlife in Summer station and gathered only suspicions. He'd already found no official trace of the “Marionette” and no similar vessel reported in local space. There was no Jorge Fisk at all in the pilots federation. False names and forged ID meant someone in the station authority was complicit but Jones didn't need the confirmations from the crews of a couple of ore haulers to guess that the whole station operated while bobbing happily through a water-ocean of back-handers and blind-eyes. That was something for the Imperial bureau to look into, if they cared to rock this particular boat. What Jones wanted to know is what those eyes were being blinded to.
Through the night shift Jones staked out the two docker bars, the main sleepover and a house of some dubious entertainments at which crews on shore leave waste their pay. He found not a single one of the Marionette crew and finished up with the end-of-shift barflys and a crude tale. As the night shift crews were beginning to settle in he stood a round of drinks and asked
'Did you see that grand old ship, came in last shift? It's a beaut.'
'It's a pile of' trash' said one of his new friends propping up the bar, 'bin crosswired to hell and gone. 'You seen the pitting forrard of the mains? Trash.'
'I'd love to fly in it' said Jones, 'I, er, was hoping one of the crew might be around who I could ask about a vacancy?'
It was a lame story but he hadn't expected the silent disbelief.
'Not ... the ghost ship.' said one of the maintenance workers
'Knock it off, Joe' said the barman, redistributing the film of liquids across the bartop, 'Nah, they don't come in here; don't never come off that ship.'
'What “ghost ship”?' said Jones, turning towards Joe.
'It's slavers,' said another one, 'S a ship of slaves an that devil chains em up, in port.'
'You don't know that, Charlie.'
'Look at t amount of food they take on. Starves em an chains em up.'
'Supplies ain't cheap here, they got hold space to supply an army. And they'll get a proper inspection further up the line,' the barman replied 'What they gonna want from here anyway. They'll be gone in a few hours.'
'Just a few hours? said Jones, trying to sound disappointed, 'when do you suppose they'll be back?'
'About a months time usually, but I wouldn't hang around for them. They ain't friendly.'
'What's their route?'
'Up the line to Haas or Boerhing, I guess.'
'Well they don't run through Barragh' said one of the ore haulers, leaning over.
'They gotta. They sure don't go by Santini. I was stationed there two years. Santini couldn't even dock her.'
'She's got big hold tanks so she could jump straight through – I would.'
' Hey, Santini's got better equipment and better traffic scans than this steel-can. If they jumped Barragh Outer then..'
Jones sat back and let the argument roll on; he already knew they'd not been near either station. That left going out into the black. To where, or to whom?
Jones didn't much like putting pressure on the station authorities; it gets you noticed. But he had to hit space ahead of the big Python for the next step.
He picked an observation spot a little below the ecliptic roughly opposite the Santini least-loss jump route and slowed to system-V, minimal radiation well ahead of the Marionettes final push to jump. It was going a long way out and vectoring off the efficiency route to Barragh but more or less within the envelope for such a big fuel-heavy ship. The show Jones came to see started abruptly.
Sabretooths sensors registered a jump- then a slight stutter that should have ended in an expanding wave of atoms. The ship, though was still intact and steering an impossibly high-V turn of about 20 degrees before the jump popped again and it was gone. Back on station, the jump images would have overlapped and become indistinguishable, if anyone even looked. From Jones parallax viewpoint the double jump and the final course were clear – but implausible.
Sabretooth jumped into a storm and bucked like an airship. Rarefied gas streaming off a nova feels like diving into water when you crash through it at near-C. Jones wrestled his glowing Cobra towards an emptier region between the ejecta streams even as it slowed, superheating the compression wave being ploughed ahead of the craft. A noisy entrance to this nebulus system that might have been easy to hide and sneak through. Better now to retain as much entry speed as possible in case of... what?
Pirates. Or raiders; Marionette had to be some sort of supply runner for a pirate base. It is the perfect hiding place; in a system so dangerous and useless as a dead-end at the tip of this peninsula of inhabited systems and yet close enough to the depots of Barragh and beyond to raid or attack..or make war? Could launching an offensive from here make any strategic sense? How many ships could be hiding from Sabretooths grasping sensors right now?
Rocketting through the systems veins of relative vacuum, Jones soon found Marionette. It was surfing across one of the ejecta streams using a ram scoop to syphon off hydrogen and, presumably a panoply of other elements. It would be slow compared to a sun-dive, perhaps a week to fill those big tanks, but efficient and safe ... and noisy. As Sabretooth shed V, searching the vicinity for ambushers, Jones got a message in the unmistakable tones of Captain Jorge Fisk.
'Approaching ship, know zat zis vessel has mean and desire to defend itself viz deadly fortz'. No furtzer varning.'
Jones was still slowing in his path towards the Python in a broad funnel between the ejecta stream and a denser field of gases when a missile launch was detected.
The automation warning spoke, 'Missile launch; unguided; path 24°left; no counteraction required.'
The missile flared and the radar track broke up and reformed.
'Warning misclassification; guidance detected; evasive action 50 right, secondary burn, pitch +20.'
'No, not that way' murmured Jones and spun the protesting Cobra across the path of the missile and towards the denser gas cloud. As Sabretooth passed ahead of the missile, Jones yawed the ship around to stab the directional ECM projector. The Python was underway ponderously but she'd have a good lead by the time Jones had dealt with this threat.
'Scan for missiles, launches, anything. Where the hell are the rest of them.'
The single, targetted missile was still running but it made another course change almost opposite to their direction, more or less where Jones was sure a phalanx of missiles should now be racing to. Even at his current low speed the gas would cause a missile more trouble than his sleek Cobra but surely most pilots without his skill would have taken the safer evasive path. If he had chosen the obvious path he could now be on the heels of the Marionette as it raced towards system edge. If they are pirates it makes no sense that they didn't loose every one of their motley missiles at him while he was on the defensive. Perhaps that missile, whose behaviour was as odd as its ship and captain could tell where they all came from.
At Corbin-Haas that finger was named Aaron Jones.
His Cobra MK III, “Sabretooth” was upgraded within the realm of a typical rocket-jockey this far out, down to a couple of loose deckplates hiding whatever was popular in minor league contraband at the time – no problem leaving it to the lowest-bid maintenance contractor; if they found any funnies, it showed competence and a little dockside shakedown told Jones who was troublesome, or useful.
Entry to the station this visit had been interesting. A bristling Python LE was running ahead, bulky and ancient and covered with mods Jones didn't recognise. It slipped through the main doors and dropped into the largest ship cradle in the core with absolute precision and quicker than any automatics would have allowed. So, not an amateur, this one. And too big for this station, for this whole region; the economics of trade were knife-edged out here and newboys who wagered that big holds meant lots of cargo didn't keep their ships long enough to get that slick.
The dock-master summoned him within a minute of receiving his trade manifest so Jones ordered a short dump and fuel and cargo-offload and left the automatics to it while he sauntered down the docks. He passed by where the Pythons cargo was being transferred – yes, a short load coming out of those cavernous holds and probably less to replace it – and jury-rigged pipelines for consumables already in place. The station probably didn't even maintain a regular cradle for such a big rig. Just one thin, gangly crewman was supervising the operations and he slipped out of sight quickly. There was no crewman at the dock office either, waiting to argue customs and charges or wrangle a station freight contract. Jones cheerfully hailed the dock-master and handed him the Papers. They said nothing except that his odd cargo was licensed and duty-paid but the signature told any competent bureaucrat a good deal more. Jones was stamped through, the customs inspection waived with a stream of pleasantries.
Jones was about to leave the man so he could put the call though to the station master to warn that a new arrival had “connections” when a skeletal old man in a heavy wool longcoat entered. He must be the Python cargoman's father or uncle.
'Jorge Fisk' he said, the voice soft but high and pure, defying his raddled look.
'Captain Fisk. As before?' the dock-master replied, taking up the thin doc folder from the old man. 'I shall relay your request to the station master, of course. Reinhold may have some more cargo for you if you can get to Haas transpoint in twenty days. I could act as broker for...'
His eyes alighted on Jones at the doorway momentarily and he left for the back office grasping the papers.
Jones nodded at the old man. 'Captain, a pleasure to meet a fellow trader. I'm Jones, just in, in the Sabretooth...'
After a long delay the old man turned and spoke in a thick accent, 'Zank you, Kaptain. I am,' another delay the length of an indrawing of breath, 'Jorgay Fizk, of the Marionette.'
The last syllable, precisely pronounced, made his thin lips turn up like a smile and Jones paused too; he had the feeling there was something quite wrong with this figure.
The dock-master was bustling back so Jones took his leave with a wave.
Throughout history warriors have had there arenas of one sort or another in which to practice their chosen endeavours, clerics have had their pulpits and teachers their classrooms. Agents, spies and investigators have bars. Jones caroused the meagre pickings of nightlife in Summer station and gathered only suspicions. He'd already found no official trace of the “Marionette” and no similar vessel reported in local space. There was no Jorge Fisk at all in the pilots federation. False names and forged ID meant someone in the station authority was complicit but Jones didn't need the confirmations from the crews of a couple of ore haulers to guess that the whole station operated while bobbing happily through a water-ocean of back-handers and blind-eyes. That was something for the Imperial bureau to look into, if they cared to rock this particular boat. What Jones wanted to know is what those eyes were being blinded to.
Through the night shift Jones staked out the two docker bars, the main sleepover and a house of some dubious entertainments at which crews on shore leave waste their pay. He found not a single one of the Marionette crew and finished up with the end-of-shift barflys and a crude tale. As the night shift crews were beginning to settle in he stood a round of drinks and asked
'Did you see that grand old ship, came in last shift? It's a beaut.'
'It's a pile of' trash' said one of his new friends propping up the bar, 'bin crosswired to hell and gone. 'You seen the pitting forrard of the mains? Trash.'
'I'd love to fly in it' said Jones, 'I, er, was hoping one of the crew might be around who I could ask about a vacancy?'
It was a lame story but he hadn't expected the silent disbelief.
'Not ... the ghost ship.' said one of the maintenance workers
'Knock it off, Joe' said the barman, redistributing the film of liquids across the bartop, 'Nah, they don't come in here; don't never come off that ship.'
'What “ghost ship”?' said Jones, turning towards Joe.
'It's slavers,' said another one, 'S a ship of slaves an that devil chains em up, in port.'
'You don't know that, Charlie.'
'Look at t amount of food they take on. Starves em an chains em up.'
'Supplies ain't cheap here, they got hold space to supply an army. And they'll get a proper inspection further up the line,' the barman replied 'What they gonna want from here anyway. They'll be gone in a few hours.'
'Just a few hours? said Jones, trying to sound disappointed, 'when do you suppose they'll be back?'
'About a months time usually, but I wouldn't hang around for them. They ain't friendly.'
'What's their route?'
'Up the line to Haas or Boerhing, I guess.'
'Well they don't run through Barragh' said one of the ore haulers, leaning over.
'They gotta. They sure don't go by Santini. I was stationed there two years. Santini couldn't even dock her.'
'She's got big hold tanks so she could jump straight through – I would.'
' Hey, Santini's got better equipment and better traffic scans than this steel-can. If they jumped Barragh Outer then..'
Jones sat back and let the argument roll on; he already knew they'd not been near either station. That left going out into the black. To where, or to whom?
Jones didn't much like putting pressure on the station authorities; it gets you noticed. But he had to hit space ahead of the big Python for the next step.
He picked an observation spot a little below the ecliptic roughly opposite the Santini least-loss jump route and slowed to system-V, minimal radiation well ahead of the Marionettes final push to jump. It was going a long way out and vectoring off the efficiency route to Barragh but more or less within the envelope for such a big fuel-heavy ship. The show Jones came to see started abruptly.
Sabretooths sensors registered a jump- then a slight stutter that should have ended in an expanding wave of atoms. The ship, though was still intact and steering an impossibly high-V turn of about 20 degrees before the jump popped again and it was gone. Back on station, the jump images would have overlapped and become indistinguishable, if anyone even looked. From Jones parallax viewpoint the double jump and the final course were clear – but implausible.
Sabretooth jumped into a storm and bucked like an airship. Rarefied gas streaming off a nova feels like diving into water when you crash through it at near-C. Jones wrestled his glowing Cobra towards an emptier region between the ejecta streams even as it slowed, superheating the compression wave being ploughed ahead of the craft. A noisy entrance to this nebulus system that might have been easy to hide and sneak through. Better now to retain as much entry speed as possible in case of... what?
Pirates. Or raiders; Marionette had to be some sort of supply runner for a pirate base. It is the perfect hiding place; in a system so dangerous and useless as a dead-end at the tip of this peninsula of inhabited systems and yet close enough to the depots of Barragh and beyond to raid or attack..or make war? Could launching an offensive from here make any strategic sense? How many ships could be hiding from Sabretooths grasping sensors right now?
Rocketting through the systems veins of relative vacuum, Jones soon found Marionette. It was surfing across one of the ejecta streams using a ram scoop to syphon off hydrogen and, presumably a panoply of other elements. It would be slow compared to a sun-dive, perhaps a week to fill those big tanks, but efficient and safe ... and noisy. As Sabretooth shed V, searching the vicinity for ambushers, Jones got a message in the unmistakable tones of Captain Jorge Fisk.
'Approaching ship, know zat zis vessel has mean and desire to defend itself viz deadly fortz'. No furtzer varning.'
Jones was still slowing in his path towards the Python in a broad funnel between the ejecta stream and a denser field of gases when a missile launch was detected.
The automation warning spoke, 'Missile launch; unguided; path 24°left; no counteraction required.'
The missile flared and the radar track broke up and reformed.
'Warning misclassification; guidance detected; evasive action 50 right, secondary burn, pitch +20.'
'No, not that way' murmured Jones and spun the protesting Cobra across the path of the missile and towards the denser gas cloud. As Sabretooth passed ahead of the missile, Jones yawed the ship around to stab the directional ECM projector. The Python was underway ponderously but she'd have a good lead by the time Jones had dealt with this threat.
'Scan for missiles, launches, anything. Where the hell are the rest of them.'
The single, targetted missile was still running but it made another course change almost opposite to their direction, more or less where Jones was sure a phalanx of missiles should now be racing to. Even at his current low speed the gas would cause a missile more trouble than his sleek Cobra but surely most pilots without his skill would have taken the safer evasive path. If he had chosen the obvious path he could now be on the heels of the Marionette as it raced towards system edge. If they are pirates it makes no sense that they didn't loose every one of their motley missiles at him while he was on the defensive. Perhaps that missile, whose behaviour was as odd as its ship and captain could tell where they all came from.