Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) (31 page)

A slow smile spread across his face. “You’re the one with the wings on your back, my boy. It’s your call.”

“Worst case is that in ninety days, I’m back here, broke, and looking for a job?”

He chuckled. “I think there are a lot worse cases than that, Captain.” He winked at me. “But financially, yes, I believe that’s true.”

“How much time do I have to decide?”

“We have to file by the top of the hour, or we have to kill it and re-file for tomorrow.”

I glanced at the chrono on the wall. It read 1348.

He grinned. “No pressure.”

I snickered and thumbed the tab. “Can I rename the ship when I register it?”

“Of course. What name?”

“Iris.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Nice choice. The messenger goddess. Auspicious.”

“I hope so, sir.”

His knotted fingers moved rapidly over the tablet, and twice he held it over to me to thumb. As the chrono clicked over people started filing in from the far door. Most of them seemed to know each other, and they filtered down to the front of the auditorium, their voices only quiet mumbles from where I sat. The blood pounded in my ears as I realized I had just gone eight and a half million credits in debt—a debt I was not entirely sure I could pay back.

His slapped the tablet one last time and muttered, “There.” He looked at the screen intently, waiting for something, and I glanced over just in time to see the “Accepted” notice flash up.

“Congratulations, Captain. Your company owns a ship,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Six
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-26

The press conference started off smoothly, or perhaps it only seemed so after the tense few ticks beforehand. I still was not sure I had really done the right thing but that was becoming an ongoing theme in my life. In the end only a couple of newsies showed up, and they accepted the platitudinous statements of William Simpson announcing the new shipping line, and the key role that Larks, Simpson, and Greene had in putting the deal together. I stood up and said how grateful I was for the financial support of Larks, Simpson, and Greene, and thanked my unnamed backers. I said something about looking forward to getting underway soon, and how exciting it was to start forth on the new adventure.

Mr. Simpson stood beside me, and they took digitals of us shaking hands. He presented me with a gavel representing my taking the seat as chairman of the board, so they took digitals of that.

Finally, Mr. Simpson turned to the group clustered about the front of the room and said, “Well, if there are no questions—”

“I’ve got one!” A smartly dressed woman with perfectly coiffed hair held up her recorder.

Mr. Simpson seemed surprised by the interruption but smiled at her in what I thought was a genuine smile. “Yes? You are?”

“Madeline Burgess, Diurnia News Service.”

“Oh, yes, Madeline. You did that piece on Cavanaugh’s last week, right?”

“Yes, sir.” It was her turn to look surprised.

“Nice piece. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What’s your question, Madeline?”

She refocused her attention on me. “Captain? You picked the name Icarus for your new company?”

“I did, Ms. Burgess, yes.”

“That seems an odd name for a shipping company, Captain. Didn’t he crash and die?”

The rest of the newsies went silent, refocusing their recorders on me.

“Icarus is an ancient myth about a man who overstepped his bounds, Ms. Burgess. In order to escape the tyrannical rule of King Minos of Crete, his father created two pairs of wings. The wings were wonderful constructions of wax and feathers, but fragile. His father cautioned him to stay high enough above the sea that the feathers not get wet, and low enough below the sun that the heat not melt the wax. On the appointed day, they took wing and soared. Icarus, becoming enraptured with his ability to fly, soon forgot his father’s warnings, and flew higher and higher, reveling in his ability to soar like a bird. Unfortunately, he flew too high, and didn’t pay attention to what he was doing. The heat of the midday sun melted the wax holding his wings together, and he plunged into the sea and died.”

I paused and looked around at the newsies.

“I hope that by listening to good advice, and paying close attention to what I’m doing, I’ll be able to learn from the story of Icarus and soar.”

I looked down at Ms. Burgess. She had an oddly cynical smile on her face.

“That seemed like a rather practiced answer, Captain,” she said archly.

“The question wasn’t unexpected, Ms. Burgess.”

She grinned and tipped her head in acknowledgment while other newsies laughed softly behind her.

A male voice rose out of the hubbub. , “I’ve got one!” A hand waved near the back of the crowd, and a tall skinny man with a familiar face focused his recorder.

I smiled at him. “Mr. Allen, is it?”

The other reporters looked confused and he shook his head. “You’ve apparently mistaken me for someone else, Captain.”

“As you say, sir. You are?”

“Robert Parkins, Independent News.”

Mr. Simpson frowned and stood beside me. “You’re a bit off your beat, aren’t you, Bob?”

He laughed easily and shook his head. “Not necessarily. You know who you’ve got there?”

“Yes, I think I do, Bob, but what’s your question?”

He turned back to me. “You’re the fellow who found the
Chernyakova
, aren’t you, Captain?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Mr. Parkins. You’ve apparently mistaken me for someone else.”

The reporters all laughed as I echoed his words back to him.

When the laughter died down, I continued. “The
Chernyakova
was never missing so I couldn’t have found it.”

“But you’re the man that returned the ship to Breakall, aren’t you?” He seemed peeved that I was puncturing his balloons.

“That’s correct, Mr. Parkins. Diurnia Salvage and Transport filed a salvage claim on the ship, and I led the prize crew that sailed her back to Breakall.”

“A ship full of corpses, Captain?”

The reporters murmured among themselves, and Parkins clearly enjoyed the effect his words had.

“I’m not really at liberty to discuss that, Mr. Parkins. I’m sure if you query the TIC, they’ll be happy to give you all the public information available.”

He seemed frustrated, and tried a different approach. “How does it feel to be founding your company on the blood of fellow spacers?”

Everybody in the room went silent.

“Excuse me?”

He gave me a smarmy smile. “Well, Captain, seems to me you couldn’t afford this venture without the prize money you got from salvaging the
Chernyakova
. They all died and now you’re making the profit. How does that make you feel?”

I stood and looked at him for a full tick. “You realize that your question is irrational, don’t you, Mr. Parkins?” Before he could answer I turned to Mr. Simpson. “William, you have my permission to tell this group, on the record, exactly how much money I have received to date from the salvage of the
Chernyakova
. Would you do that please?”

He frowned but shrugged. “Certainly, Captain.” He made a show of pulling up his tablet and holding it up to his face, squinting dramatically. “According to my records... not one single credit.”

A confused buzz went around the room, and even Mr. Parkins looked flustered. “That’s impossible!” he objected.

Mr. Simpson looked up and smiled. “Actually, it’s factual. The auction for the Chernyakova doesn’t close for another dozen stans or so. That auction occurred on Breakall, and it would surprise me greatly if we even find out how much the salvage is worth before the twenty-eighth.”

Parkins wasn’t quite done. “But you underwrote this deal based on that money coming in, Simpson!”

Mr. Simpson returned a cold look, and waited for the buzz to calm down. “Now, that, Mr. Parkins is a falsehood uttered in public in front of witnesses. I am under no obligation to justify that remark, and I just might take umbrage if I thought you intended to impugn my character or that of Larks, Simpson, and Greene.”

Parkins backed down as the room got loud again. I didn’t like the way some of the reporters were looking my way.

“I will make a statement about the
Chernyakova
, Mr. Parkins,” I said.

That got their attention and all the recorders focused on me.

“The
Chernyakova
was a tragedy. I think it’s probably a matter of public record that the crew died, leaving the ship unattended but underway and in transit through a heavily trafficked shipping lane. The CPJCT issued a hazard to navigation warning, and my ship was the first that was able to respond. Yes, we filed a salvage claim. Yes, we boarded the vessel and got it back under control. Yes, the TIC investigated. Yes, I led the crew that sailed the ship back to Breakall.”

I paused, letting that all sink in a bit. The only sound was low hum of the air blowers.

“I am uncertain as to how much of what happened aboard the vessel is public record so I cannot say much more without permission of the authorities, but I reiterate. The
Chernyakova
was a tragedy. If we hadn’t intercepted the ship and boarded her, if we had failed to stabilize her course and trajectory, the
Chernyakova
might have plowed into some other vessel out there in the Deep Dark. Now I can’t say that we actually prevented that, because that’s speculation. We don’t know that it would have hit another ship. It’s a big, dark universe out there. She might have slipped beyond the limits of our navigational channels and disappeared.”

They were all looking at me, many with long faces, and Parkins still glowered.

“But because we brought that ship under control and returned it to Breakall, the families and loved ones of that entire crew at least learned what happened to their sisters and brothers and wives and husbands. The ship didn’t just disappear into the Deep Dark, never to be seen or heard from again. Those families and loved ones—as devastated as they are—don’t have to spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened.”

I paused to get a breath.

“You asked how it makes me feel, Mr. Parkins? It makes me feel terrible to know the entire crew died. It reinforces my resolve to make sure that nothing like that ever happens to my ship. But I’m also glad that, in the face of this horrible tragedy, I was in the right place at the right time with the right skills to prevent that tragedy from becoming any worse than it already was, because spending your life not knowing, Mr. Parkins? For all those families and loved ones left behind, Mr. Parkins? That would have been much, much worse.”

I took another deep breath and looked around at the reporters. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I appreciate your time and attention. I think I’ve answered enough questions for the moment. I bid you good day.”

I turned and left the stage, Ms. Arellone got the door open in time for me to walk through it with William Simpson hot on my heels. Ms. Arellone closed the door firmly behind us just as the hubbub started to build.

Mr. Simpson stood there looking at me with an odd look on his face.

I shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Simpson. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, and let them think what they wanted. They’ll have that speech carved up and respliced inside of a stan, and who knows what I’ll wind up saying.”

His wrinkly face seemed to fold in on a grin. “Who cares, my boy!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Wentworth will scream when he finds out he’s missed out on this one!” He cackled and nodded. “Oh, yes. This will be fun to watch.”

Ms. Arellone looked back and forth between the two of us, and cast the occasional glance at the door behind us.

Mr. Simpson’s good humor eventually dissipated, and he nodded in satisfaction, looking up at me, still grinning. “You still here, Captain? I thought you had a shipping company to run.” He held out a hand.

I shook it. “Thanks, Mr. Simpson.”

He waved me off. “Don’t thank me, yet, my boy. I’ve just signed your life into servitude. I’ll give you the same advice my father gave me when I went into business.” He looked at me seriously. “When you work for yourself? The boss is a jerk. Try not to let it bother you.”

Ms. Arellone frowned at that. She stopped scanning the office long enough to look at Mr. Simpson for a moment.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will, Captain. Now git. I’m a stock holder. Go make me rich.”

I nodded to Ms. Arellone, and we headed for the docks.

On the way down in the lift I asked, “Do we need to make any stops on the way back, Ms. Arellone?”

She shook her head. “We own the ship now, right, sar?”

“Well, technically, the company owns the ship, but I own six ninths of the company. Sort of.”

She shot me a glance. “What I’m getting at, sar, is that we can start stocking up now, right?”

“Yes, we’re now clear and legal, and I’m paying docking fees so we best get this boat hauling freight soon.”

“Think Chief Bailey was serious, sar?”

“I sincerely hope so, Ms. Arellone. I need somebody to take charge of that engine room and certify the sail coils.”