A Care Giver Adventure
Owner Operator
by Straycat
Preamble:
Casey Maxwell is the Owner Operator
of an over the event-horizon Space Train in the 22nd century. Hired
on to the CareGivers, and familly to them as well. Casey’s wife is Rebecca St.
Charles, formerly NASA Space Shuttle Astronaut turned CareGiver after the PWA.
Tracey Chadwich-Robins-Waco, Casey’s daughter and a CareGiver. This is Casey’s
Story. It’s a story of Adventure. It’s a story of Love. It’s a story of
Familly. It’s a story of War, and most importantly, it’s the story of a man
coming to terms with who he really is.
* * *
Chapter 1
No shit, there I was. Sitting in
bed wondering just how does one come to grips making a change like this in the
middle of my life? Oh the doctors had all kinds of good advice… If you are
twenty. I am a little bit beyond twenty years of age. Matter of fact I am on
the close order of 72, but don’t tell anybody. Taking Fountain for the last
tweny years, daily exercise and a very healthy sex life has keep me going pretty
well. It was recently estimated that had I not been violently decompressed a
few months ago I would have probibly reached 210 years old or slightly more.
Oh yes, I was almost killed. It has
had a bit of a calming effect on me, not so much the nearly dying part, but the
loss I would have suffered after having survived such an event.
You see, I am an astronaut. I am an
owner operator of a transport ship. Flying in space is my life. Piloting my
craft is all I have to look forward to every morning. Well, not realy, but it
sounds better that way. I do have familly, and I love them almost as much as I
do flying in space. My ship is not the biggest, nor is it the fastest, and it
is most definatly not the nicest thing to fly in. It is, however, mine, and that
is all it needs to be special, to me anyway.
Since the accident I have undergone
more than a few changes, and not just mentally. Do to the extent of my injuries
I would have been down checked for my spacers rating. I would have lost my
pilots licence. I would have become a liability to any and all around me in
space. In short, I would have been grounded, or worse made a simple passenger
on my own ship.
I would rather have died than to
have that which I love so much taken from me like that.
With everything else going on, the
plight of one man, in the grand scheme of things, doesn’t really matter all
that much. Now I have to say I am at least as smart as the next person, as long
as the next person is a rocket scientist with a 200+ I.Q.
Here is the basic layout of the
geo-political lanscape in the solar system right now. You have the Terrans with
their Inter Solarsystem Police and United Nations trying to put a strangle hold
on everybodies freedom “For the greater good” they always say. And then you
have the Independent Spacers Movement, XX Flight, Apollo Freight, CareGivers
Company, the Independent Spacers Guild, and a whole host of others trying to
make out a living in the most hazardous enviroment imaginable. Just trying to
live and Be Free. That’s not a whole lot to ask you might think, till you see
what the Terrans have been doing to us for years.
I am not going to say it started
with the Protection of Women Act enacted by the United Nations, but that is
seen now as the opening shot in the war. A war of independence no less. I am a
spacer, so I guess that tells you which side I am on, right?
With the crushing foot of the ISP
and the U.N. on the neck of the spacers we had no choice but to fight. A
malicous man once said that the trouble with Scottland was there were too many
Scotts. And he also said that since they could not drive them out that they
would breed them out.
The U.N. had the same idea, only
coming from the opposite direction. If we can not breed, we die. Literaly die.
Terra can just wait us out and let us die off, or we would have to return to
Earth. If we have to do that then we would have to be under Terran control.
So you stick me floating around the
solar system in my ship just trying to live and be free, meanwhile titanic
forces set the stage for the first interplantary war. Sure, I did business with
both sides, and if push came to shove (which it has several times) I take
sides. I always side with the spacers, but I still take money from Earth
when I have a chance to make some profit.
It was on one such day that I
almost died. My memories of the event are a bit fuzzy with the pain and all, so
I will pull a page out of my wife’s diary and you can see it from her
perspective…
* * *
Dear Diary, August, 31th, 2125
Casey, my love, has been hurt;
almost terminally.
We were on possum for The Fred.
Admiral Hastings had us tugging along what was billed as “propulsion parts,
miscellaneous” as bait for the ISP. We had IFF squawking a faked code, freash
paint job over the reg numbers, and the whole nine meters. In the pipe
five-by-five, right on profile for our flight plan. ISP fell for it, just like
we wanted.
“Tug Flowers for Algernon,
Heave to and prepare to be boarded. This is the ISP Corvette Yankee Omega Four
Two Niner.”
“ISP YO429, this is the tug Flowers
for Algernon, WILCO. May I ask what we’ve done for you to grace us with
your presence?” Casey asked over the squawk box.
“Tug Flowers for Algernon,
you are suspected of violating the Protection of Women Act. Heave too and prepare
to be boarded. Have all female personnel ready to be transferred to YO429 upon
coupling, and transfer your manifest immediately.” Casey grinned over at me
from his pilots’ seat on the left.
“This is where the fun begins,
babes.” He gave me a wink then keyed up the microphone again. “Rodger ISP
YO429. WILCO; transfering manifest now. We will begin killing forward momentum
in 30 seconds.” He clicked the One MC. “Johnson, they took the bait. Get your
boys ready.” Then he tossed the microphone up on the dash.
“Are you enjoying this, lover?” I
asked and his response was a chuckle and an evil smile. We made ready for
guests, unwelcome guests of course. The assault team finished their touch ups,
double checking their night vision gear, and then got back into the cabins.
The idea was to lull them into a
false sense of security, then spring the trap; taking the boarding crew first,
then the ship. We wanted to do it preferably without casualties on either side,
but we were taking no chances. The assualt crew had full weapons loadout. Oh,
yeah, sure; we had done this a time or two in the past but it would only work
so many times before something bad happened. Well, we were hoping for just one
more time.
Once we came to a stop they crossed
our bow, and maneuvered for docking. The ship completely blocked our view
screen forward. It was big; lots of armor, and massive engines.
Casey and I took up post at the end
of the entance tunnel, which happens to be convenient to the armory. Casey
loaded up the pistol and stored it away in the armory. No sense in spooking the
fish.
Bastards used a gravity lasso on
us, to “aide” in their docking procedures. Right, like this old heap couldn’t
just drag them along with us if we decided to run for it.
“So, babe, wanna bet it is another
wet behind the ears gringo?” Casey asked. I chuckled and shrugged;
running gag and a long story. Maybe I will tell you some day.
We heard the docking thumps of the
clamps engaging, then we listened to the airlock cycle and the door swung open.
“Idiots” I muttered. They left both
sets of doors open. That’s a no-no, and a vilotation of our breathing air. If
anything happened to their air seals, or if they got hulled, we would be
breathing vacuum because of their idiocy. They also came loaded for bear. No
less then 6 guys with a mixed combination of shotguns and automatic rifles. At
least one guy in the second rank had a teargas launcher. And right out in front
of all of them, the Lieutenant. Classic ‘carrot or the stick’ routine, talk to
the nice officer, or deal with the not-so-nice guys with weapons. Smart looking
chap; he looked like an intelligence officer and the asshole was smiling. His
eyes took us in at a glance, also seeing we were parallel to the plain of his
gravity generators. Zero-Gee can be so much fun.
“Capitaine David Keys of the
Flowers for Algernon, I presume?” His voice sounded reasonably
intelligent.
“Aye, that’s me;” Piped up Casey. He waved a
hand in my general direction “And this is my First Officer, Carlotta Fagina.
She happens to be the only female on board at this time, and well beyond the
restraints of the PWA, Sir, being beyond childbearing age…” I jabbed him in the
ribs for that. “She's lean, she's clean, she's built, she looks thirty-two, and
she knows Nixon jokes from the first time that they made the rounds” The
Lieutenant continued to smile and stepped on board, taking a handhold to accert
a little pressure on his feet.
“One would hope that you might have a fresh
brewed cup of coffee on board, while we discuss your crew and cargo, Mon
Capitaine.” He got with in a meter of us and halted, still with that smile
on his face, his hand on the bulkhead railing, and his goons on his six.
“Of course, Sir, this way.” The Lieutenant
made a gesture and the six-man team lowered their weapons, but kept them ready.
Casey led the way to the galley, with the Lt and I in tow. Behind us crept the
goon squad, still ready for action.
Casey took a seat at the table, and so did
the Lieutenant. I got coffee. Don’t ask; some kind of very old and out dated
formality. The Lieutenant took his with real milk and sugar, not substatutes
like most people these days. Casey took his the normal way, two cubes of
Splenda and a non-dairy cube. I had to retreive a milk cube out of the freezer
for him, then I looked into getting my own coffee. Black if you must know.
Anyhow, where was I? Ah, yes, coffee.
The glance at my timepiece told me we had
about ninety more seconds till the fun would start. The Lieutenant did not
start drinking his coffee, instead he began talking.
“Capitaine, I do not know what kind
of game you’re playing here, but I want it to stop.” Casey should play poker
for money with a face he returned to the Lieutenant.
“What games? You ordered us to heave to and
be boarded, you’re the law out here, and we complied.” The Lieutenant smiled
and lent forward slightly.
“You are not the only history buff in space,
Capitaine Maxwell.”
“Who? I’m sorry, I think you are mistaken.”
“Flowers for Algernon, written by
David Keys in 1958. I have read the book before, and I also ran your reg
numbers. This ship is not listed under those numbers, Capitaine
Maxwell.” He looked around. “I never thought I would actually catch the
infamous Backasswards.” He leveled a gaze directly at me; “And you must be
Rebecka St. Charles. Charmed, I’m sure. That other name does not suit you very
well at all.” I glanced at the goon squad, they shouldered their weapons. The
sound of safety's being taken off chilled my bones.
That’s about the time all hell broke loose.
The lights shut off, I ducked behind the counter, and Casey came diving over it
about a second later. The stink of cordite and the report of firearms filled
the room, along with shouts of anger and pain as the assualt crew burst from
the cabins with their night vision gear and firearms taking down the unwelcome
guests.
Casey and I held each other close
for a long couple of seconds while it passed. When the room lights came back on
we took our queue and got up. Peaking over the counter revealed just how bad it
was. The Lieutenant was wounded and all his goons were dead. So were a few of
our guys. A med tech was putting a slap patch in the Lieutenant so we could
keep him for questioning.
Johnson’s second in command was ripped in
half with his head was missing most of the back; his nightvision gear hanging
loosely from his face. The fighting was headed into the ISP corvette, and from
the sounds of it, it was brutal. Casey took off for the bridge and shouted over
his shoulder at our guys.
“Get that hatch closed. Someone pokes a hole
in my ship and we are all gonna breath vacuum!” He closed the bridge hatch once
he was inside. I headed for the lower bridge, just in case, dogging it behind
me. I got on the comset and called my lover.
“What’s it look like up there?”
“Nothing on radar, babe, but I’m getting a
weird echo. Try it your side.” I dialed up the radar screen on the MFD,
multi-function display. There was the echo alright, but Casey wouldn’t have
been trained on these things; I was. Again my blood ran cold.
“Dam it! They got a shadow! There is another
ship out there hiding in their radar shadow!” Half a second passed.
“Is that what it means. Johnson! Get your
men and get back to the ship! We are being ambushed! There’s another ship out
there!”
“Negitive Captain, they still have the lasso
on you. We gotta shut that down or you ain’t going anywhere. Give us a minute
to get that taken care of then get the hell out of here, got it?” I got the
start up sequence going, and checked my board. All lights green, we were
airtight. I could hear orders being shouted over the com, and gun fire.
“What about your boys?” Casey asked
“We knew the risks when we signed on. Your
ship can’t be replaced. Get going, Captain.” Was his reply
“Babe, as soon as they cut us loose I am
gonna release the cargo pods and go for the rendezvous point.” We were both
working on the numbers for that.
“Copy, lover. Hope Johnson and the boys have
the best of luck over there.”
“Johnson can handle things, he is a smart
chap. We did our job getting them on board; time to run like good little
non-combatants.”
“I heard that Captain.” Came Johnson over
the com, “Good, we’re mopping up the engine room crew now. I think the command
crew is trashing the bridge, but I have men already rerouting the controls so
we should be able to move this cast iron beast once it’s completely in our
control.”
“Vaya con dios, mi amigo. See you
back at Reds. Now cut us loose. There is another ship coming in. Make sure the
com is jammed will ya?” Static descended on the channel, all channels as a
matter of fact, although the intercom worked.
“Looks like some one beat us to the punch on
that one, babe.” The ship shuddered a bit. “That would be Johnson deactivating
the gravity lasso. Ok, I’ll get us get outta here.”
Casey tapped the cold gas and backed us up
at a couple meters per second. Once we were about a dozen hundred yards he
dropped the cargo pods and hit the cold gas to arrest our departure rate. Added
a bit of vertical movement, and then heard him gasp.
“El dios contuvo a hijo de mierda del
asno del las perras!” I looked up from my screens just in
time to see the flash from the muzzles. The radar shadow was another corvette,
and it was firing on the corvette Johnson and his boys were on. Blowning holes
through it was more the word. We must have caught their eye, because some of
the smaller weapons started firing on us.
My heart stopped when I felt the chuff. I
check environmental, just as I feared, the main bridge had depressurized. About
twenty seconds later I felt a thump and slam. The main bridge was building
pressure again.
“CASEY!” I screamed into the com. Untill the
room was sealed again, he would not have heard me.
“Alive… get us… out of… here.” Came the
gasping reply. Training instinct took over, and I overrode the main bridge
controls.
* * *
As you can see so far, it was a
pretty crummy day. A well-laid trap foiled by a well-laid trap. It is funny how
things like that can happen when you are not paying attention. Or rather not
paying attention to the things you should have been. They always say that
hindsight is 20/20.
During those horrible seconds while
I was being broiled alive in pure vacume my mind went into overdrive. It was
almost as if time slowed to nothing. I could feel the vacuum that was trying to
take my life. I could see that the pressure shields inside the window had not
deployed, and training took over.
I screamed. I screamed like my life
depended on it. If you try to hold your breath in a blow out, your lungs will
explode.
I knew the only way to save my ship
and myself was to get those decompression shields closed. The bridge hatch may
be good, but protracted vaccum might overcome the seal. Center consol over the
window is where the Emergancy deployment trigger is located. I had to undo the
harness that was holding me in the pilot’s seat, which had fortunetly kept me
from being blasted out of the ship when the window shattered. I stood, pulled
the cotter pin preventing accidental discharge, flip the arming switch, waited
for the green light and then depress the trigger.
I collapsed into the pilots seat as
the charges went off. The bridge started to pressurize again, that’s when I
could hear Rebecca yelling for me. I gulped air and replyied. Then the pain
decended on me like a blanket. I don’t remember too much for the next few days
except pain. I was informed afterwards that I’d had morphine and a saline drip
while we were in transit back to our contact… but I guess I should allow
Rebecca’s words tell the story as I don’t remember too many details about that
time.
* * *
Rebecca’s tale continues:
“Hang on to something.” I call out
on the One MC. I rolled us and kicked the throttle a touch to get forward
momentum. Backasswards is not a war ship. She has no guns… but that does not
mean that she is unarmed. I had four of the biggest and most powerful weapons
ever created by man at my fingertips, and they were going to make me proud
today.
M.O.P. D-47’s were fusion drives, probably
second generation as they were large enough for a ship three times the mass
they were attached to. That figure being with a full load of cargo.
I slued the ship around in front of the ISP corvette on
cold gas doing what on earth would be called a Boot-leggers turn while rolling
like a coke can on a hot Georgia highway. We ended up only a couple meters away
from the ship pointing my engines directly at the offending corvette.
“Eat this you mother fuckers!” I yelled and
hit the throttle again. Fusion power flared behind us. Corkscrewing like a
bottlerocket we took off slicing the corvette like a fish with the power of the
fusion engines. I kept it there for an extra 10 seconds longer then I really
intended, then I checked our position and angle. Punched the numbers into the
computer and corrected for the rendezvous point, and called up the
preprogrammed burn. I had to sit through the burn, and that was a long time to
wait when your best friend and lover is hurt and you can’t get to them.
You see, the access hatches for both bridges
open up into the zero-gee corridor from the air lock. The Duke/Brannick gravity
wave generator works only on certain plains, depending on how it’s built. This
one was pointed up relative to the decks of each bridge. Since the bridges are
180 degrees out from each other, that makes the floor of one the floor of the
other as well. Double redundancy; two bridges. As soon as the engines shut off
I was out of the seat and heading for the hatch leading to the other bridge.
I yanked the med kit off the wall as I
passed it. Undogged the hatch and pulled myself in. First glance told me that
the blast shields were down. No, not the blast shields, the decompression
sheilds, which are armor plates inside the windows. I rushed over to
Casey and gasped in horror. About every vein in his face had broken, his eyes
were completely red from blood, his joins were swollen, and blood was coming
out of his nose. Massive pressure trauma, I am sure some quack would call it. I
hit him with a morphine ampule from the med kit, he groaned. I checked his
pulse, thready and a bit weak.
I looked around and found the control for
the gravity ring, hit the override and stopped it. It would be easier to move
him in zero-gee, and easier on him too. I also shut off the Duke/Brannick box,
lifted him out of his seat as his harness was already unbuckled. I cradled him
close as I moved him slowly toward the down ladder. I had to move slowly or the
Velcro slippers would come off, or loose. I floated Casey over the hole and
wormed my way below him, then gently tugged him after me thru the hatch, into
the corridor, then holding him close I maneuvered him into our cabin.
Again I set him floating in the middle of
the room as I went to the galley for the emergency kit. This was a lot bigger
then the med kit, and had one item that I needed immediately; the Pressure Bag.
The medic and the Lieutenant were both still
there in the galley. Both looked a little worse for wear having gone through a
boost without the Duke/Brannick box to cushion the gee-force. They were both
alive, that is really all that mattered to me at that second; I went back to
our cabin.
The Pressure Bag was developed on Earth back
in the 20th century for mountain climbers over a certain altitude. I
don’t recall the exact medical terminology for the condition, but I know adding
pressure helps. And I know when you take the person back out you have to do so
very slowly or they will develop the Bends. That is where Nitrogen gas builds
up in the joints.
I opened the bag, drew it around him, and
sealed it, then cracked open the valve on the oxygen bottle. The bag inflated.
I allowed the pressure to raise slowly up to two bars, which is twice ambient
pressure at sea level on earth. Two-bar is alittle more than twice internal
pressure of the Backasswards.
I had seen this thing in use once on TV when
I was a kid. Some climbers up on Mount Everest had a demonstration of it.
Personally, this was the second time I’d had to use it on some one. Last time
had been back in 2006 on my last space shuttle ride.
I went back to the galley for a bulb of
coffee, and to check on the medic. Byron Dyson was his name.
“How is our guest?” I asked as I floated
over to the coffee. He lisped heavilly the way queers did back when I was a
kid. I thought that most people had out grown that fad.
“He’s not going anywhere. I’d be a lot
better with gravity.” Yeah, that lisp was going get on my nerves.
“Captain had a blow out on the bridge. The
sheilds engaged too slowly; he has massive barometric trauma. I got him in the
bag right now. Gravity would only add to his discomfort.” The priss actually
sighed at me.
“Well, I guess that’s for the best then.” he
lisped; I frowned at him, then went back to our room and floated where I could
see Caseys’ face.
The Endeavor, was one of the last
three original Space Shuttles. It was retired way back in July of 2007. I had
been EVA with Donaldson when he caught a piece of space junk in the leg and had
trouble sealing it. I had the EMU, Extra-vehicular Mobility Unit, and it took
me a several seconds to get over to him. I had to do an emergency patch job on
his leg to kept the pressure in, then got him into the airlock as fast as I
could.
Yeah, orbit was still loaded with junk way
back then.
Donaldson was not hurt as bad as Casey was;
after all, and Donaldson was in a suit designed for redundancy; It had sealed
his leg off when the pressure dropped, minimizing the damage.
Donaldson still lost the leg, however; but
that was after we got back to Kennedy Space Center. The return trip was shall
we say… Interesting. As in the old Chinese curse “May you live in interesting
times.”
Computers have come a long way in the last
100 years or so. I would almost actually trust my life to one now a days, and
that is saying a lot about my trust in computers. Just before we hit reentry
interface All of the computers went down. The old shuttles had four back up
systems, the most reliable of them were the pilots.
The Endeavor started to tumble while
I was riding left seat. I’m suprised the old bird didn’t disintergrate on us.
It got awfully warm before I got her straitened out. That’s the short version.
The long version would take up more pages than I care to dedicate to the Endeavor.
Besides, it is all on file in my offical report with NASA.
Ya know. I never tried crying in zero-gee
before. I do not recommend it. The tears have no place to stream to.
Casey came around the next morning, only
feeling marginally better. Personally I think he was humoring me. I
administered another dose of morphine thru the bag, and got him some broth and
passed it thru the airlock built into the bag. Byron told me he checked in on
Casey while I was sleeping. I guess I was so tired that I didn’t hear him. I am
normally a light sleeper. From that morning on we took turns keeping an eye on
the wounded, not that either Byron or I could have done anything if either had
gotten worse.
It was a long flight back to the rendezvous
point. Not long as in time, But long in worry. Byron was a competent medic, but
he was no doctor. The Lieutenant I found out was named Jacques Auteuil. I also
got his service number, but I don’t need to write that here. The Fred will want
it however, and he will get it. The Lieutenant would not say anything else.
Jack, as I had taken to calling him, had
caught a bullet in the shoulder and the leg. So sad for him. Bryon cleaned him
up, removed the lead, and stuck a plug in him; then hand cuffed his ass to a
pipe away from anything he could fuck with. We let him off his leash only long
enough to use the head.
That is the bathroom. Old navy custom. Back
in the days of wind powered sailing ship the crapper was off the bow, because
the wind was coming from the stern of the ship.
What can a gal say, I was Blue Water Navy
before NASA, and old habits die-hard. I was a pilot of course. I drove me an
F-14 Tomcat back before they retired them all for that F-22 Raptor.
Damn it girl, you are showing your age
talking about those things.
Anyway, I put a post it note on the main
bridge “Out Of Service”, and flew from the lower bridge. There is really not
much of a difference, except tradition, and the fact the lower bridge still had
all of its windows; the upper bridge lost one, and they were all blocked off
now.
Bryon was neither a tech nor a mechanic. I
wandered into the shop, back of the grav-ring. Found a couple spare windows. I
found the right one and the bolts to replace the window, and the tool kit.
Suited up and made an EVA, or Space walk as some call it, solo. Not something I
like doing, but I followed all the safety rules, and kept radio contact with
Byron inside, not that that he could have done anything if the shit hit the fan
while I was outside, but that is SOP. Standard Operating Procedures.
It took longer than I would have liked, but we
were far enough from Sol so I did not catch too many rads. I had mostly
depressurized the main bridge before working on the window. I did not want a
pressure leak blasting me off into space. When I was done I had Byron
repressurize the bridge; talking him through it while I watched for leaks. It
held. Once I was sure it would hold I came back inside and unsuited, then
climbed up into the main bridge and looked thru the manual to figure out how to
release the armor plating that had saved Casey’s life. It was not easy, that
took another couple hours. Byron checked up on both Casey and the Lieutenant
while I kept busy, and took over bridge duty while I slept near Casey.
According to the manual, the shields should
have fired immediately upon loss of pressure; they did not. With all the
modifications to the ship over the last 30 years, it had never been hooked back
up to fire remotely by the new computer control system. I found the
manual-override. The pin had been pulled, arming switch thrown, and firing button
pushed.
Casey had managed that while being boiled
alive by the lack of pressure. That’s my man for you. Even when he was dying he
was saving his ship. There really was no reason to open the shields till the
charges had been replaced, so I left them closed and shut the outter armor
sheilds as well. Then went to the other bridge and flew from there.
You don’t really need to see outside in
space, but it helps. I prefer being able to see outside. Knowing and seeing
your environment keeps you from getting claustrophobic. That is not something I
suffer from, but I like looking at the stars.
We made the rendezvous in about a week.
Casey did not improve much, and our guest was given very good reason to behave.
If Casey died I was going to space him. Or at least that is what I had told
him.
Fortunately the rendezvous ship had a full
medical bay. CGC outfits their ships very well. I radioed ahead.
“Charles Sheffield, this is the Backasswards
on encripted 37 alpha. Over.”
“Backasswards, this is the Charles
Sheffield, we copy on channel 37 alpha encrypted. Say status.” A crisp
British accent replied.
“Sheffield, Backasswards,
Pilot Code one. Medic code one. Visitor code two. Captain code three. Boarding
party MIA presumed 10-7. Confirm.”
“Confirmed. Two souls code one, one
soul code two, one soul code three. Boarding party Missing and presumed dead.
What happened out there Backasswards?”
“The rats laid a trap for us, more
in person Sheffield.”
“Copy that Backasswards.
Dock port 2-4-left. Medical team standing by.”
“Sheffield, I have a
request. My Captain is badly beat up. Took at least 20 seconds of pure vacuum.
I have him in a pressure bag. Can you give him zero-gee till we get him in the
med-bay?”
“I’ll get it approved by the OOD,
and inform the Captain. We’ll take good care of him Backasswards.”
“Rodger that. And you better or
I’ll kick your scrawny butt, ya hear?” he chuckled.
“Right oh. I will endeavor to keep
that in mind.”
I plugged the Backasswards
into port 2-4-left, cycled the lock and sure enough the medical team was
waiting there in zero-gee. I led them into my cabin where Casey was still
floating. Byron had him on a saline drip, hooked up inside the pressure bag.
How I’m not sure. I would have to remember to ask him about that later.
The medical team worked Casey out
the hatch and out the ship. They dragged him into the med-bay where they worked
the depressurization routine, and I had to report.
Oh, the joys of command. Zero-gee,
I found, was only in the route to and from the Backasswards to the
med-bay, and gravity had been turned back on after we had passed. Ain’t science
wonderful? A full guard had taken our guest to the brig, and took Byron to
another debriefing room, which is also where I was headed.
I walked into debriefing to see a
David Niven rip off if I’d ever seen one. Right down to the pencil mustache. He
smiled when I entered and stood.
“Ah, Mrs. Saint Charles. Please
have a seat.” He spoke with the same crisp British accent I had spoken with
over the radio. His nametag said ‘Commander Richard Rayner’. I frowned.
“Commander Rayner, about that
ass-kicking comment…” he waved it off, and I took a seat.
“I understand, Mrs. Saint Charles.
Nothing to worry yourself over.” He took a seat himself on the other side of
his table, where lots of paperwork was laid out, and a writing tablet. “First
thing I would like is a report; we will worry about the status of my arse
later.” He smiled again. “Would you care for a coffee or tea? Maybe a fag?” I
stared at him. “Cigarette, Mrs. Saint Charles.”
“Sure, and a coffee. Black and
strong enough to pour it’s self.” He waved to an orderly over in the corner.
“Then if you would, in your own
words, describe the events as you witnessed them.” He picked up his stylist.
I spent the next three hours going
over the events of the last few weeks. The intercept, the trap, and the
counter-trap. Radar shadow and why we didn’t see it before.
“The Backasswards has a
military grade radar set, salvaged and not on file. If we had used it sooner,
it would have tipped the ISP off that we knew of the counter trap.” He nodded
and constantly made notes. Cross referencing questions, going back and forth
covering all the angles.
When he finally stopped writing he
took a deep breath and looked up.
“Everything seems in order here,
all things considered.” He set his stylist down. “I do believe that you have a
wounded man in the med-bay. Why don’t you go see him, and if I have any more
questions I will contact you. I must send this information back to Command.”
“Sounds like we have a mole in our
midst.” He shook his head.
“Possible, but more than likely the
ISP is finally beging to learn from their mistakes. They sacrificed a corvette,
by the sounds of it, and her crew in order to catch us ‘pirates’ it would seem.
To catch you and your ship, more specifically.” I nooded and took my leave.
Chapter 2
Rebecca’s tale continued:
I found myself back in the med-bay.
Full gravity was back on by now. Casey was finally out of the bag, and on the
table. I had to wait outside in the observation lounge. There was a doctor
handy. She was five foot nothing, raven haired, green-eyed oriental beauty. She
was also a CareGiver, which helped a bit.
“Ah, Mrs. Maxwell.” I shook my
head.
“No, it’s Mrs. St. Charles. That is
my husband, but I kept my name.”
“I am sorry, I ment no offence.”
She gave a short bow.
“None taken.” I returned the bow,
then we both turned to look in the window to what little we could see of the
operation.
“He is a tough old bird, I will
give him that.” She said and I nodded. “I am going to be direct about this,
Mrs. St. Charles. Initial diagnosis is not good. He will live, but I doubt he
will be fit for much. He will never again hold a spacers rating. He will no
longer be able to pilot, let alone command a ship again.” I looked her dead in
the eyes. After a second she lowered her eyes. “I am sorry.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, and
Casey’s image floated through my mind. All the times I had seen him at the
command consol, in the pilots’ chair. His smirk and chuckle ringing in my ears.
The Doc had not moved, and while there was a tear in the corner of her eye, she
seemed to have something on her mind.
“I didn’t catch your name, Doctor.”
“Doctor Timberlane, but please call
me Wendy.”
“Well, Wendy. You have the look of
some one with Plan B in mind. Care to spill it before I get to sentimental
about all this?”
“Plan B, as you call it, is the
same plan I underwent when I joined CareGivers.” I looked her up and down, then
in the eye. “My name used to be William.” I nodded.
I thought about that for a second
“Wendy is a better name for you.” We turned back towards the window. “I took
the same stuff when I singed up. I’m a natural, but it helped my reflexes and
boosted my mind a bit. Not too much, but enough that I still notice these
twenty years later.” She nodded.
“I know. I remember reading about
you during my time in training. The way you saved Donaldson-san during the Endeavor
incident.” After a moment I lifted my chin towards Casey and asked:
“Does he know yet?” she shook her
head.
“We are not positive yet. Once we
are, then he will have to be told.” She looked at me again. “One would presume
that you would wish to tell him your self.” I nodded.
“Yes. Crotchety ol’ fart he might
be, but he’s mine.” I shook out my red tangles a bit and started pacing around.
Wendy took a walk and ended up in the operating room a few minutes later in
full scrubs. I could only really tell it was her from her green oriental eyes
and coal black hair.
I made dinner for one later that
night on board the Backasswards. I sat in the G-ring, which was spinning
again. I started it up when I came back on board. We were deep in space, and I
was docked to a ship I knew to be friendly, so I’d left the airlock unlocked. I
guess I should have expected guests. Some how I couldn’t even think about it,
but Byron let himself in, got a cup of coffee and sat opposite me at the table
I was using, while I poked ineffectually at my food. He didn’t say anything at
first, looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to speak. Started a
couple times, but remained silent.
“I’m not an old maid, Byron. You
helped my husband. He’s alive because of your actions. For that I can’t thank
you enough. So, if you have something to say, please do.” He smiled sheepishly,
took a sip of his coffee, and then set the cup down.
“He saved my life once, many years
ago.” I was almost shocked. He wasn’t lisping. “That’s why I volunteered for
this mission.” He paused again, and took another sip of coffee.
“Several years ago I was riding out
to the Wango-Tango with my lover, Villhelm Dyson, he was an assistant
engineer at that time. We were on this puddle jumper of a ship called the Merlin’s
Prank.” He lowered his eyes for a bit before continuing. “It wasn’t much of
a ship. After it got hulled by a piece of space junk it was even less. The
Captain and his engineer had taken turns with us to… ‘Pay’ for the ride as they
put it. I didn’t mind so much, but I prefer to be willing for that sort of
thing.” He sniffed.
“Villhelm and I were on the bridge
so the Captain and his engineer could be alone for a while. Villhelm was
standing watch and had dogged the hatch, as per regulations, so I was told. I
wasn’t much of a spacer at that point in my life. Matter of fact I wasn’t much
of anything. I was just keeping my Villhelm company.” He looked around the
galley.
“Captain Maxwell was nearest when
Villhelm sent out the distress call. Captain Maxwell sent Jorge Waco in the Briar
Patch to come get us.” He took a sip again. “We ended up spending a little
more than a week on this ship.” He smiled. ”I can still remember chatting with
Tracey. She was such a nice girl. She told me about the CareGivers. About the
DeCorvin process a bit and what it really meant to be a CareGiver.”
He drank a bit more coffee, and I found that
I didn’t have anymore food to poke at… I must have eaten it while he was
talking. Truth be told I had not noticed. So I went and got some coffee, and
got Byron a refill.
“Thanks.” He smiled. “I tried
applying for the CareGivers when I finally got back to Mars. I failed horridly.
No skills to speak of.” He sighed “That’s when I decided to change my life. I
started taking medical studies. I’m not much of a hostess, but I could learn
something.” He laughed a bit and then drank some more coffee. “It took me four
years to pass the basic stuff. I wouldn’t let my Villhelm help me. He’s smart.
Full engineer now, and still as lovable as ever.” He smiled. He really had a
nice smile.
“When I finally made Medic rating I
made sure to get posting where Villhelm was. He’s the Chief Engineer on the Charles
Sheffield now. When Sheffield was slotted as the rendezvous ship I
learned the Backasswards was involved, I felt it was necessary to repay
Captain Maxwell for his hospitality, and for saving my life.” He looked up into
my eyes. We shared a sad smile.
“Well, kid. I guess you managed to
make it even, then. He saved your bacon, you saved his.” He nodded, then took
another sip of coffee. Then as if remembering something he took his wallet out,
and removed a picture. He lingered over it a moment, then passed it on to me.
The picture was of two strapping young men, one of them was Byron, and a lovely
black girl. All three were holding hands, and holding them out showing the
rings of marriage in their fingers that must have been taken on their wedding
day. All three of them were smiling like it was the happiest day of their
lives. And I guess it was. I know mine was.
Oh, mine and Casey’s marriage was
nothing special as far as ceremony is concerned. The Captain of the ship
married us. Ok, Casey was the Captain. But it was still the happiest day of my
life when I finally tricked that ol’ codger into marring me.
“Her name is Delilah, and no, she’s
not a Philistine.” Byron told me, and we chuckled.
It ended up being a couple more
days for them to complete examinations on Casey. Fixing what they could,
mending as best they could what they could not. They were not rushing anything.
He was past the critical hour, as they say.
I found out that they had raised
the pressure in the operating room, which is how they got Casey outta the bag
so fast. Meant the Doc’s would have to depressurize slowly, but it saved
Casey’s eyes, so no complaints there.
When everybody was back in normal
pressure, and I was given the ok, I went in to see him.
* * *
When Bek cam in to see me I was still a bit
sore. Ok, a lot sore. But I was alive, and that was all that mattered at the
moment. That moment was about to pass. She waltzed in and smiled down at me.
She always had the most gracefull way of walking.
“How you feeling today, lover?” I rolled my
eyes at her.
“Like I’ve been coger en el asno
por una mula the size of a world war two aircraft carrier. How do you think
I feel?”
“Grouchy would be my guess.” She
leaned over and kissed my forehead. “They give you the good news?”
“Nope. Just the bad news.”
“Which is?” She took a seat on the
stool next to his hospital bed.
“That I’ll have to live through this…”
She looked down at her hands in her lap.
“Lover, I’ve known you took long to
even try to sugar coat this, so I am just going to say it. I think you would
rather have it that way.” She looked up as I arched an eyebrow.
“Ok. I gathered there was something
being left unsaid around here. Say it then.”
“They saved your life, and your
eyes. But you will be crippled the rest of your life from your injuries. If
they had been right there when it happened, they mighta coulda done something.
With all the time that pasted getting you back here… most of the damage was
already done.” She took a deep breath. “You won’t be spacer qualified anymore.”
I swallowed. She could tell I was
taking this hard. The thought of loosing my home, my ship, my way of life. All
because of Terra’s need to control everybody. I was about to get angry at the
loss.
“Options?” I asked tightly.
“Limited.” I nodded. “Either accept
it, and we live out our lives with it. Or…”
“Spit it out, Bek.”
“Care Givers. DeCorvin Process.” My
eyes opened a bit wider. “Wendy says it’d heal most of your injuries, but the
major side effect would be that you would be changed into a genetic female.” I
stared at the ceiling a while, weighing my options, considering the
possibilities. There were not many to consider.
“I’d get my qualifications back?”
“More than likely.” I thought a bit
more.
“Meloney would get two
Grandmothers. She might like that.” She playfully slapped my arm, I winched in
pain anyway.
“Don’t even try to take the high
road on this, Casey Maxwell, my husband. You and I both know it’s about the
ship, and your need to fly her.” I gave her my best sheepish grin.
“How’d you ever talk me in to
marrying you?”
“Easy. I got you drunk, then gave
you the best sex of your life.”
“Ah, is that it?” It was an old
joke of ours. We both chuckled, but I held my ribs in pain for a bit.
* * *
That is how I almost died, but it seems I’m
starting the story in the middle. I never was much of a storyteller. Meloney is
my grand daughter. Her mother is Tracey my only daughter… at least, that I know
of anyway. I was not married to Tracey’s mother, Penny, but in many ways I am
glad that I did not.
You see, if I had wed Penny Wise and made
her Mrs. Casey Maxwell, I never would have gone back into space. I never would
have won the Backasswards in a card game and never would have truly
LIVED. I have never been so alive as I have been in space. If you’ve never been
there, you will never understand.
Being a Spacer is the best ‘Get-rich-quick’
scheme there is. If you live, you make the money. It’s that simple. The more in
demand your particular field is, the more money than that you make. Being an
Owner Operator is just a bit different. You cannot Just pocket all that money.
You have to reinvest it into the ship. You have to pay your crew, the broker,
port fees, benefits, taxes, tariffs, and licencing fees. It is Very easy to
dump all of your money back into the ship and forget to buy food. Well, that is
a mistake you only make once. Then again, almost any mistake you make in space
you will only ever make once. Mainly because 99.999% of all mistakes end up
being fatal, and the other 0.001% don’t matter enough to worry about.
But how far back should I start my story?
Childhood? Hell, I don’t remember enough of it to make even a few pages worth
of very disjointed text. All I remember really is it was not worth remembering
at the time, and now it’s been too long ago for me to really remember much of
anything.
School? Well, maybe as a side note. I
decided I wanted to go into space almost from the get go and talored everything
in my life to get there. Here, you do the math: I am somewhere close to 72
years of age. I have been in space 45 years. I have owned the Backasswards
for 30 of those years. That means I spent the first 27 years of my life on
earth, at at the very least I that means I spent 16 some odd years actively
trying to get into space.
I do not, in any way what so ever, regret a
single second of all that time.
I once met a Tibetan monk who spent 15 years
contemplating the breeze. He told me about it over a fifth of gin in a
disreputible bar once. He was on a bender. He did not regret the time he spent
there, he just appreceated the time drinking more. Kind of puts it into
perspective, doesn’t it?
I guess the best way I could start my life
story would be to pull a couple pages out of my own diary from when I met
Tracey, and how we figured out how we were related.
It will also help me figure out where I am
in my life right now, and what I am going to be doing from now on.
As I am sure you are going to discover that
I do not take change very well, and my most recent change is as drastic as
anything I have ever done in my entire life.
* * *
Dear Diary, March,
31th, 2104
Kids these days, no respect for their
elders. I’ve been a Spacer ever since I first shipped out on the Teenage
Wasteland 15 years ago. Sure, I’ve had those days. More than I can count.
But I’m not complaining none. Who’d listen? I did good on my hitch, saved my
pesos, invested wisely, and got lucky in a card game or two. That’s how I got
the Backasswards about 10 years ago, doubled down on a royal flush when
facing off against a dead-mans hand. Neither of us drew down like in the
spaghetti-westerns of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Naw, RubberDuck was a good ol’
bird, only shed one tear when I offered him a job till he could afford to head
off again. He was a good first mate the two times I launched with him. His
heart gave out halfway back on the triangle run. Buried him at sea as per his
wishes… I never even knew his real name, but that ten reams of paperwork I had
to do to register his decaying orbit into the sun will always remind me of him.
That was almost depressing; I kinda thought he’d have just kept going into the
great unknown forever. The Corpsicle Explorer. Yeah, I welded him into
an old footlocker and scribed that onto the door along with those immortal
words “To boldly go where no one has gone before” and “Rest in peace, My
Captain.”
Anyway, I was telling you about kids. Never
found a girl to settle down with and make a few of my own. Too busy, and now
I’m too old. Never bothered with chemicals. Figured when my time came I’d check
out like Ol’ RubberDuck did. As far as familly is concerned, men out number
women like 4 to one on Terra now, and it’s worse than that in space, like 7-2
was the last numbers I saw. Sure, sure, you get a few Surgicals like the DSC
once in a while. Aggressive lays, not the hardest things on the eyes, but
dammed close. You spend two years in space working 18 out of 24 hours every
single day and you’d stick it in the first thing that opened it’s thighs too.
Had more than a couple natural gals too, Few pretty nice. Oh, and I’ll never
forget my first and only cherry. Penny Wise. God, what a girl. Her father,
Miguel, was an asno. But Brazilians normally are to Uruguayans. He
threatened to cut my bolas off, and I threatened to drop a rock on his
happy ass. Punta.
Well, those were the good ol’ days
and now things are rough. Being an Owner Operator ain’t as easy as I thought,
nor is the pay as good anymore. Apollo Freight, and a handful of others are
running me out of business. They can move stuff cheaper than I can buy parts
anymore, thanks to Space Train Systems discontinuing the 2050-b model a couple
years back that is. RubberDuck had upgraded the engines back when you could
still afford that kind of thing. The nav systems, life support, and pretty much
everything else were original. Being just shy of the start of the 22nd
century c.e., that put it all about 50 years out of date. It worked… Mostly.
The engines were Grumman Ironworks M.O.P. D-47’s, all four of them. Damn, I
couldn’t count the number of ships that had used the D-47’s at one time in the
past. Things change, or rather engineers change things.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yeah…
Kids. I was dirtside looking for a new hand or two to make the triangle run
with me. Had one already, he was out getting his martillo wet or
whatever. Could always use another hand or two. I was coming out of a bar to
head back to the space lift and start looking for some new crewmembers, when
this kid runs into me, literally that is. He apologizes, which is unusual
enough, then he noticed my tour patches from the Teenage Wasteland and
gets all wide eyed on me, asks me if I’m a Spacer.
I told him yeah, I’m an Owner
Operator. He begs me to hire him, he’s always wanted to go into space and he’d
make it worth my while… like I said, kids these days. I’m not gonna ship out
with a wet behind the ears brat just cause he’s gonna offer his milk money. For
me to take him up, show him the ropes, teach him a millions of peso’s worth of
skills, then have him ditch me dirtside and run get a better job. Ain’t gonna
happen. He did have an air about him though… looked rather familiar for some
reason that I couldn’t put my finger on. Eh, not important.
I polled the staffing agencies during the
cab trip back to Launch Control South America (basically NASA Southern Command,
but they hate it when you call them that) outta Port Shepard, and found a guy
that looked qualified to do the job and was going for cheap. Cheap is good,
qualified is better. He was both according to the listing. I placed a bid on it
and waited for the call to connect. He answered and we talked.
Small talk, yes it was his listing, yes he was
still available, sure he could ship out on short notice. He’d meet me at the
pad for the orbit trip back to my ship.
Now, I don’t exactly travel heavy, but I’m
known to pack a bag or two for a trip to Mars wandering around New Atlanta, or
dirtside Terra for a week or two of visiting the houses of ill repute and some
of the better know bars too. The point is the guy showed up with the clothing
on his back, and a daypack with one change of clothes. I should have told him to
bugger off right then and there, I didn’t because of the call I got right
before he showed. Carlos, who was my right hand on the last flight I’d made,
called me. He got a kid on the way and a manufacturing job at her daddy’s biz.
Talk about a set up. I guess those arranged marriages are handy for something.
So I took this guy. His paperwork spec’d out. No general alarms in my head. I
needed the help. Oh, I coulda run the ship solo, that’s not the question. But
being alone in space is one sure way to breathe vacuum. Not something you ever
wanna do. Not since Gordo Cooper or Space Ship One had any one gone into space
alone willingly, for very good reasons.
Getting the launch going was a cakewalk. It
had already been programmed by Carlos. A parting gift I guess. He could do that
math in his head, he was that good. Then again, he was gone, and the punk was
running the right seat. He seemed to know what he was doing. He had a few
questions because the layout was different then he was used to, which is not so
unusual considering the age of my bird. This was a contract load for New
Atlanta. Emergency food packs. Nothing hot, or expensive unfortunately. Cause
if it had been I might have been able to get a few more things fixed and or
upgraded.
Percentage of the load, half up front, other
half on delivery, plus broker fees and taxes etc, etc, etc. Standard fare
really. But things were breaking faster then I could afford to fix them. We
launched. Like getting kicked in the asno by a mule. Half way to Mars I
finally got the idea this jerk had lied to me. He couldn’t read a radar screen,
couldn’t fix a zero-gee john, didn’t know the first thing about
astro-navagation or propulsion systems. He almost breathed vacuum because he’d
never worn an EVA suit before and if I hadn’t checked him I’d been down a suit
and a hand.
When I finally cornered him he confessed.
He’d never had any formal training in anything. Read a bunch online and had a
vague idea on actual workings. Three months in space and I find out I’d been
babysitting an invalid. I stranded his anso on Mars and let some one
else worry about him. No coin, no nothing. I figure the on the job training he
got made up for the mistakes he made that I had to correct. I got better things
to do than baby-sit some pounder while my ship and my anso is on the
line.
I pulled a load heading to the belts solo.
Like I said before, NOT something you really wanna do solo. Dropped and pulled
an ingot load back to Terra for some peso’s and hope to find a hand that has a
clue. Things broke, they always do on this ship. Nothing life threatening,
fortunately. But the four days I had to have the G-ring stopped and working on
the plumbing was something I could only hope to forget. I hate sleeping in
zero-G on my own ship unless I’m strapped into the command consol, which I’ve
also done before.
I pulled into Terra Shipping Authority and
dropped off my load after a year alone in space. Stir crazy comes to mind, but
I didn’t have all that much time to sit idly with nothing to do. I took an orbiter
down to dirtside for a little R&R&R. Rest, Recuperation, and Repairs. I
also made sure I hit up NASA, ESA, and ARTA for a new hand to help on the Backasswards.
Unfortunately they had upped their rates in the last two years and I couldn’t
afford them on the last paycheck I’d gotten. That on top of more repairs, and
maybe I could afford at least one upgrade.
I got the bird ready to fly and made another
solo Mars run. Again nothing expensive as Apollo was winning all the bids they
covered… lucky bastardos. Must be nice. I know Apollo started off as a
small time O/O just like me, but he got of couple lucky contracts early on and
grew from there. Hell, I even passed the Atlas once or twice in the last
couple of years, that was Apollo Frieght’s first ship. I know The Fred of
Apollo Frieght doesn’t take anything out of service. And he can afford to keep
them up… a couple more years and I won’t have a choice but to sign on with one
of them guys. Maybe, but orgullo won’t let me till I’ve given my all and
my bird’s falling apart… of course I know it’d be too late then… but hey.
I hit dirtside again to do my business while
I waited for freight. Found out that Grumman Ironworks had not only
discontinued the D-47 line, but were offering the last update for them as a
parting gift. Well, not gift, and not cheap either. But it was needed. About a
1% boost in efficiency and about 2.5% decrease in maintenance. But the labor to
install it was too expensive for me to bother paying some one else to do. I
have almost as much time on them engines as any of the company reps do. I also
looked into a nav board update, and a general parts order.
Not surprising things are getting
hard to find, and more and more stuff is coming from “Bob’s Discount World of
Spacer Junk” also known as salvage yards. Salvaged from what? Give you three
guesses and the first two don’t count. Wrecked, broken, or hulled ships.
Ok, now here is where things start to get
interesting. You know as well as I do that NASA, ESA, and ARTA don’t go cheap,
and getting more expensive as times go on. That’s when I decided to call
CareGivers. Oh, sure, I’d heard of them before. All women spacer staffing
agency. Hot pink flight suits. Total Babes. Makes my martillo hard just
thinking about them. But I had not considered calling them for a hand to help
on the ship till now. And amigo my wallet was dreading that call.
I got a hold of Miss Sandra Chandris,
CareGivers Corp Recruiting South America, first try. I explained very carefully
that I was not looking to join, but looking to hire a spacer as long as they
were fully qualified and not too horribly expensive. She told me that she’d
have a look and call me back. Amigo, when a hot babe like that tells you
she’s gonna call back, you take her word for it and thank her!
Two days I waited, not idly mind you. I got
a ship to prep and cargo to find. But as always all the good stuff was taken
even when I tried to under bid. Dedicated accounts must be nice. That’s when I
got the call back from Sister Tracey Chadwick-Robins of CareGivers Corporation.
“Hola” I answered
“Hola, is this Casey Maxwell?” her
voice all but purred and her picture matched the voice. And that picture took
my breath away. I gasped
“Something wrong senor?” she asked
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong. You just remind me
of some one I knew many years ago, senora.”
She smiled “Yes, I have heard that a time or
two. I am told that I favor my grandmother on my mothers side quite a lot.”
I was almost breathless. Women, as I believe
that I have pointed out, are few and far between these days thanks to the
wonders of modern science. Making studs of most men and causing a surge in male
offspring because nearly every swinging martillo wanted to have a son to
carry on the family business.
“I hope that now is a good time to call, I
can try back later if that would be more convenient for you, senor…”
“No, no, now is just fine. I take it your
calling about the job, si?” I said trying to get the right head running
again
She smiled that award winning smile again “Si,
senor. I hope it is still available.”
“Yes, of course it is!” I’d have held that
job open for years for her just this moment if she asked… but it looked like I
wouldn’t have to wait that long.
“Good. I take it that you are still on the
planet, correct? Would you like to meet someplace to discuss my
qualifications?”
“Yes I am. Are you here in Montevideo?” I
asked. I didn’t want her to have to travel too far on my account.
“Si, senor. Is there a place
you would like to meet?”
I thought about this… I figured I could
probably use a drink about now anyway “Have you ever heard of the bar called ‘Senoritas
Y Toros’?” Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to offer this lovely young lady a drink
either.
She smiled again “Si, I can be there
in about 45 minutes if you would like.” I’d be there in about 30 myself anyway,
so that works.
“That would be fine. I’ll be the grizzled ol’
space dog hiding in the back corner as long as I can shovel my booth open
again.”
She actually laughed at that “Ok, I will see
you then, adiós.”
“Adiós.” And I signed off. And this
thought crossed my mind… I Need A Shower, bad.
* * *
That phone call was twenty-two years ago. It
is funny how perspective changes over that period of time. I recall things now
that I completely overlooked at the time. One of the things that I had
overlooked was the genetic signature line across the bottom of the screen. It
was not on the screen for long, and I was distracted by the young lady that was
on the other side of the screen to notice it at the time, but now I recall it
almost prefectly.
Of course it helps that her and I talk on a
semi-regular basis and I can tell when she calls by that signature line. One
would expect a parent to know their child’s G.I.D. line over the vid-phone.
In any case, that signature line so closely
resembles my own that I should not have been surprised to discover we were a
little bit later on that we were related.
But I will get to that in another diary
entry. For now I will continue where I had left off.
* * *
I hurried back to the deluxe coffin hotel
that I was staying in, hit the rain locker and dragged out a clean flight suit
along with my leather jacket, (real leather, a gift from my last hitch on T.W.),
with all the patches on it. What’s a leather jacket without patches? And boots.
Dirtside I always wear boots. In space I could get away with Velcro slippers,
but dirtside you’d pick up a whole hell of a lot more crap then you’d ever
want, so boots it was.
I got to the bar in about 35 minutes, I take
quick showers, and my coffin is not that far away anyway, walking distance. And
sure enough my table was taken. I saddled up to the table and leaned over to
the three