Here Be Monsters - Chapter 13

* I would like to express my thanks to Joe MacDonald for the concept of the personal Daemon, as a form of encryption key based on a person's unique neural imprint. *

     Rollie had a number of duties as the Jester's bosun, and right now he was attending to the one he liked best:  Maintenance of the ship's vacsuits and EVA gear.  He had finished the suits in the forward cargo holds and the loading bay, and he was pleased with how quickly the work was being accomplished.  He and a couple of the other ratings, along with one of the new able spacers, a woman named Aliah Salvato, were making their way to the vacsuit storage area forward of the well deck for the last of this project.
     Like oceangoing ships of old, the Jester was required to carry life preserving equipment for every member of the crew, and any passengers.  In the event they suffered some calamity, the theory was that everyone would be able to get to a vacsuit, and make their way to one of the emergency escape vehicles.  Rollie was, however, aware that if something happened to the ship's hull severe enough to require a vacsuit, then you had best be wearing one at the time.  An emergency vacsuit took anywhere from two to five minutes to put on properly, depending on how familiar one was with doing so.  If you'd never donned a vacsuit before, then you'd be lucky to get into it in under ten minutes.  Needless to say, if you have to take that kind of time, the problem is either not urgent, or you're dead.  In Rollie's opinion, the aforementioned facts meant that the regulations on carrying a vacsuit for everyone were mostly a feel good gesture, but he was always on the side of 'better safe than sorry'. He understood the hazards of working in space on a level that bordered on instinct, and he possessed a commitment to the ship's safety that any dirtsider would consider obsession.
     Like a lot of people who lived and worked in space, Rollie had made the decision to purchase a vacsuit for his own personal use.  He had eventually decided on a Davis-Arctica Industries D11 EVA Exosuit.  One of the most commonly available, and renowned for its reliability, a D11 could be found just about anywhere in the Known Sphere of human explored space.  Davis-Arctica had even granted licenses to Hollis Manufacturing in the Darkaellan Imperium to produce copies for the local market.  Rumor had it that the suits made by Hollis were more advanced, due to the Imperium's higher level of technological development.  There were only a handful of those to be found outside of the Imperium, since their sale was restricted as a condition of the license.  Davis-Arctica had offices in every Alliance system, and most of the Free Systems League, which had allowed them to capture a large share of the market.  The fact that the cost of their base model was affordable to most new ratings, when combined with legendary reliability, ease of maintenance, and a commitment to customer satisfaction, had cemented their reputation more than any PR or advertising could.
     He and his team arrived at the well deck's vacsuit storage bay, which was nicknamed the 'Crypt', to find that someone was already there.  It was one of the newbies, Hicks, working on her Baccardax ultralight exo.  She was so focused on her work that she didn't notice right away that she wasn't alone until Rollie spoke.
     "Hey!  Hicks, what are you doing down here?"  He called out, causing her to jump reflexively.
     She shot him and the others an angry look, and paused to pick up the diagnostic tablet she'd dropped, before she answered him.
     "I'm working."  She replied curtly, and turned back to her exo, before continuing.  "Tell me something, bosun:  Who's got the M-class PA-2 over there?"  She asked, nodding her head in the direction of the brightly colored exo, as the rest of Rollie's team got to work.
     He could understand her curiosity, after all, he'd been just as curious as she was, when Dirk had come aboard, suit in tow.  The Baccardax PA-2 was the state of the art in ultralight exos, designed for extravehicular activity in hard vacuum, and Dirk had bought the company's top of the line.  He had also paid for some serious factory customization, not the least of which was his suit's paint job; the base was done in a bright red, with an angular white pattern edged in gold over top.  It was highly visible against virtually any background, which was the point, according to Dirk.  The colors also matched his vintage motorcycle jacket.  He had also requested a special LiDAR array, and longer range RADAR capability than was standard.  With the exception of not having mounts for external weapons systems, Dirk's exo was almost identical to the one he was issued in the Corps.
     "That'd be Dirk's, and if y' value your ability to use your fingers, you won't even look at it too hard."  He told her in a cautionary tone.  "He has a proprietary attitude toward his gear, does DJ."
     "DJ?"  She asked, not understanding.
     "Dirk Jameson Sinclair, Gunnery Sergeant HIAMC, retired.  He's our primary weapons tech, and ship's gunner, he also does some EVA work when needed.  Free advice:  If you want to stay on his good side, don't ask a whole lot of questions about his personal history, because that'll really piss him off."  Rollie warned her, now very serious.
     "Why's that?"  She asked.
     He could only stare at her for asking such a question after what he had just told her, and instead of answering, he gave her a look that wasn't so much old-fashioned, as Neolithic.  The silence between them drew out uncomfortably, when Hicks realized that everyone in the Crypt was looking at her and she realized what she'd done.
     "Oh, come on!  Really?  What's the deal?"  She asked in apparent disbelief.
     "The deal is that if you respect DJ's privacy, he'll respect yours, Hicks.  He's a bit old-fashioned that way."  He told her, in an effort to make her understand that she was playing with fire.
     She appeared to consider what he had said before speaking again.  "Fair enough, but that doesn't strike you as odd?  Your gunner clearly has trust issues, and that doesn't worry you?"
     There was a certain uncomfortable truth in what she was saying; Rollie recognized that he knew little more about Dirk now than he did when he'd first come on board, but he lacked the skill to explain to some newbie, who had just come aboard, exactly how much trust Dirk had earned from the Jester's crew in the last two years.  Like a lot of people who had, or were still, working for Cameron Marshall, Rollie had his own reasons for wanting to stay permanently mobile.  As a result, he understood anyone's desire to keep their private life private.
     "Yeah, but if you stick around long enough, y' sort of get used to it.  Take my advice, and don't asking anyone a lot of personal questions until you've been here a while.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I got work of my own needs doing."  He said, turning back to his team.
     He hoped that Hicks would take his advice, because he knew firsthand how much trouble was waiting for her if she didn't.  He had been just as curious at one time, but running up against Dirk's massive, iron wall of passive-aggressive resistance to any inquiry into his life before joining the AMC had quashed it almost completely.

     Almost.  He was still curious, but now he knew enough to be circumspect.
     Rollie had a job to do, however, and after satisfying himself that his team had the work at hand under control, he decided to check on the status of the rest of the ship's salvage equipment.  The large CAT-Hyundai salvage mechs were secured against their skeletal storage cradles in the well deck proper, two each on either of the bulkheads to port and starboard.  The gantry overhead was equipped with an extremely powerful pair of cyber-manipulated robotic arms, each of which which was capable of handling over fifteen tons in any direction without difficulty.  The arms were locked in their storage position at the sternmost end of the well deck to make room for the 'Mules'.  Mule-1 and -2 were a pair of old, but serviceable, NHI PM-3 salvage recovery tugs that were used to maneuver large objects outside the ship that couldn't be easily moved around using EVA gear or the mechs.  The Mules had little in the way of creature comforts, although they could remain operationally independent for up to 28 hours with two people on board, and had a lot of power to spare for thrust and maneuvering.  They rather closely resembled deep-sea submersibles in appearance, they consisted of a cabin with just enough internal volume for a pilot's chair up front and a sensor operator station, surrounded by an external framework which allowed for the mounting of robotic manipulators, thrusters, fuel tankage, and various anchor points for working in space.  They were also, obviously, strictly exoatmospheric, and could not survive the rigors of atmospheric reentry.  They could be used to ferry up to half a dozen vacsuited personnel externally, or a pair of salvage mechs, to a worksite away from the ship, and while it would be uncomfortable to do so, they could carry up to four passengers in the suit-up area in the rear of the crew cabin.
     Rollie took his time running diagnostics on the salvage mechs and Mules' various systems, making certain that each one checked out to specifications before moving on to the next.  He was sitting in Mule-2, waiting for his diagnostic tablet to finish scanning the tug's systems for anything out of the ordinary, when he spotted something moving along the well deck's forward bulkhead.  He rarely ever turned all of the well deck's lights on, settling instead for just the minimum necessary to avoid tripping over anything, and making up the difference with the nanochannel amps he had in his eyes.  Most of the crew didn't know that his eyes were cybernetics, and it was almost impossible for anyone to tell just by looking, because he'd requested that they look as normal as possible.  He swiped his hand over his diagnostic tablet's screen, backing it out, and hung back from the Mule's forward view port, concealed in deep shadow.  He brought his eyes' amps on line, and the well deck suddenly appeared to be as bright as though its overhead lighting had just been turned up to full power.  He could now see what was moving along the edge of the deck, and he was justifiably intrigued to see one of the other newbies, whose name he couldn't recall, skulking around to one of the equipment lockers along the bulkhead.  He watched the crewman as he used a security bypass unit to open the locker and put a small object inside, then relock it before leaving.  Rollie's eyes had several other functions, in addition to light amplification, including a shunt to his cranial interface's on-board memory; he'd taken the liberty of recording everything he had just witnessed.  Just in case.  He watched until the newbie had snuck off the well deck, and resumed his work; whatever was in the storage locker, it was not just going to get up and run away.
     Rollie wasn't particularly surprised that one of the newbies was trying to smuggle something on the Jester, and he almost had to admire the balls it took to use a locker to which anyone could have access, to hide whatever it was.  Smuggling by crew members was something that all privateer captains had to face sooner or later, and all had different methods of dealing with it.  Some would simply turn you over to the local USPF office, others would extort a bribe or a kickback to look the other way, but most would just kick you off the ship with a fresh termination notice and last paycheck in hand.  The Captain was usually predisposed to be one of the latter, he would occasionally overlook someone's stash when it was something he considered harmless.  In this case, the only way to be sure was to see what had been hidden.
     As bosun, it was a relatively easy task for him to open the locker, since he had override authority for virtually any system on the ship, short of the bridge and engineering section.  He was careful to record images of everything in the locker, as it was when he opened it, before removing a small duffle bag from within.  The bag was far heavier than he was expecting.  He opened it carefully, and found a small courier's attaché case inside.  It had a brushed stainless steel exterior, and a Daemon Recognition Lock built in where normally there would be a keyhole, or a combination dial.  DRP locks were insanely expensive, and they were as secure as locks could be made, but something was bothering him; his admittedly limited imagination couldn't come up with anything an Able Spacer could afford that would need to be so well protected.
     Rollie had some finely honed instincts when it came to things that didn't make sense, and right now, all of them were sending him warnings.  He put the case back exactly where and how he'd found it, and resolved to take the matter to the Captain at the earliest opportunity.
     He left the well deck, and headed back to the Crypt, to make sure that things had gotten done during his brief absence.  Along the way, he gave serious consideration to just removing the case from the locker, and dumping it into space just before the ship hit the transit locus.  It would solve the problem quite neatly, since their would-be smuggler wouldn't be complaining about losing his contraband, and he didn't know Rollie had been watching.
     But then he'd never know what was in the case.
     He had over 500 hours until they reached Minotaur, and Rollie figured that should be more than long enough to find out.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 12

     Cameron was sitting in his command chair on the bridge, awaiting final clearance from New Detroit's stationmaster.  The ship's crew had been frantic with activity, as Dirk's delivery of SPC lines for the ship's guns had finally arrived a little more than two hours ago.  He had said that he'd acquired them through a friend in the AMC, but Cameron had the sneaking suspicion that there was more to it than he was being told.  He realized that he had told Dirk to get what was needed, and he hadn't wanted to be bothered with the details, but he hoped that however he did the job it wouldn't come back to bite them in the ass.  His thoughts were interrupted by the stationmaster's voice on the bridge comnet.
     "Jester this is New Detroit Traffic Control, we have received confirmation of your departure approval, and are routing tugs at this time.  We will be disconnecting all ship-to-station connections momentarily, please acknowledge that all airlocks have been sealed."  The NDTC officer paused, and Cameron looked at his own monitor, and over at Bao-Jian Shen, his pilot, who nodded in affirmation.
     "Traffic control, this is Captain Marshall onboard Jester; I confirm, all locks and connections sealed, awaiting final release from moorings."  He said with the confidence of long practice.
     The ritualistic requests for, and volunteering of, information from the ship and the station played out over the course of the next 41 minutes and 19 seconds.  When the station tugs finally uncoupled from the Jester, and they were finally allowed to continue under their own power, Cameron breathed a massive sigh of relief. 
     "Shen, put us on a least time path to the ND-Minotaur FTL locus, and start calculations for our angle of entry and transit time."  He instructed, and opened a connection to the engineering department.  "Engineering, this is the bridge, I'm going to need full power on the drives when we get out to 500,000 kilometers from the station, and I'll take as much from the manoeuvering thrusters as you can spare."
     "We will be ready when you need it, Captain.  Full power is available on all thrusters now, and the main engine will be on line in two hours."  Answered Ludmilla Brostowski, his Chief Engineer.
     He always experienced a profound satisfaction when his crew were able to deliver a superior level of performance the way they had today.  In just over two hours from now, he would order his ship's pilot, Bao-Jian Shen, to bring the Jester's main sublight engine up to full power.  The idea of being able to push a 347 meter long, 52,490 ton, starship at a constant acceleration of 147 m\s², up to almost seven percent of light speed, gave him a thrill like nothing else. 
     The hull of the ship vibrated when they were underway on thrusters, and like most longtime spacers, Cameron was aware of it at a subconscious level.  He was in his private galley when it stopped, and he realized that he was waiting for Shen to call and tell him that the ship had reached the standard 500,000 km distance at which they could safely bring the main drive on line.  That distance was called the Fusion Propulsion Boundary, and any ship that lit off its main fusion drive inside the limit was in serious trouble.  The United Systems Interstellar Transportation Commission prosecuted violations of its statutes with considerable effort.  More than one ship's master had been red-flagged, blacklisted, fined and imprisoned for doing so.  In short, it was one of those areas in which he just didn't take risks.  He didn't have long to wait, however, before the call he'd expected came from the bridge.
     "Captain, we've crossed the fusion boundary, but engineering still has over an hour before the main engines can be brought to full power, shall I continue on thrusters?"  Asked Shen, from his position on the bridge.
     "No, cut thrust to station-keeping for the time being, we'll keep making headway until we can bring the main engine on line.  Once Engineering gives you the all clear, put us up to 15 Gs and hold that accel until we hit the turnover point."  He instructed, turning back to his lunch preparations.
     The FTL locus out of the system to Minotaur was an Alpha-3, only 2.7 light hours away from New Detroit, and by his estimate, they would be transiting the locus in just over 78 hours from now.  They would then have a 504 hour trip in FTL to look forward to.  When they arrived at Minotaur, he would have to give the crew some shore leave, since their final port of call before heading outward would be Vulcanfall, and compared to Minotaur there wasn't much to recommend it.  Vulcanfall was a marginally habitable planet, and one of the original mining systems.  It had an overall population just north of 375,000, most of whom were miners, support staff, corporate personnel, or dependents thereof.  Dry and dusty, Vulcanfall was not going to make anyone's list of favourite places to spend a vacation, but he had a contract to deliver cargo there and he would take the opportunity to top off the Jester's fuel tanks one last time. 
     He would take advantage of the time in FTL to catch up on planning how to find a huge derelict spacecraft, in a system for which they had no charts, without wasting too much of the limited time they would have before needing to turn back.  He didn't doubt that his crew were up to the task, but there was a randomness to the universe that couldn't be predicted, and the number of unknowns on this job were not inconsiderable.
     He finished eating and cleaned up, sticking his tray in the galley's recycling unit, then left his private office after quickly checking his desk terminal, and headed for the power room for the ship's dorsal railgun turret.  He had to admit that Dirk had come through in spades on the problem of getting new lines for the railguns.  The price he'd paid was lower than what he would have expected for two sets of Mark 33 SPC lines, plus a couple of spares for good measure.
     Dirk truly had proven to be a valuable member of the crew.  When he had first come aboard, Cameron had thought he was running from something, but he'd come to realize that Dirk had been unconsciously running toward something.  He'd wanted to belong somewhere, and the military had no longer been his best option.  Cameron respected two things about Dirk:  His work ethic, and his privacy.  He knew that he and Alex had paired off, and he heard about their occasional arguments, but he suspected that the two of them would be together for a while; Dirk struck him as that sort.  His skills as a gunner and weapons tech, and his combat experience, however, made him an extremely valuable member of the crew.  He had worked hard when he'd come aboard, and all things considered, Cameron had no complaints, but there was always a nagging feeling about the man that he couldn't put his finger on.  The incident with the pirates, who had tried to jump them a couple of years ago in the Jefferson system, had been one of the times when he found himself wondering what sort of man Dirk really was.
     He'd been at the gunner's console on the bridge when they hit the transit locus into the system; when the automatic proximity alarm had sounded its warning, he hadn't wasted any time asking bothersome questions, but had plotted a firing solution by using their own targeting radar against them.  They had been lying in wait for passing merchant shipping, and they hadn't been prepared to handle a well armed privateer.  The pirates' ship had no weapons heavier than autocannons; four, twin 30mm gun turrets would be enough to force an unarmed merchantman to surrender.  The Jester had two, twin 76mm railguns, and once they had confirmation that the ship targeting them wasn't on anyone's registry, Dirk had made them see the wisdom of giving up without a fight with a single shot.
     It only made sense to send him with the prize crew, since he had training in handling ship to ship boardings.  When he had come back, after delivering the crew to the Jefferson Republic's authorities, he asked to speak in private; what he'd had to say wasn't pleasant.  He had used his cranial interface's overrides to breach the ship's command network, and copied as much of the captain's personal data as possible.  There were lists of payoffs to local officials, and out of system parties, involved in a wide range of criminal enterprises, but the worst had been the secret records from the pirates participation in trafficking human beings, there had been entries for children, some as young as ten years old.  Dirk had put the information into his hands, and he had transmitted the information to the UniSys Police Force.  Jefferson had almost no UniSys office to speak of, so it had to wait until they had reached their next stop.
     Dirk was just where Cameron expected him to be, deep in the machinery of the dorsal turret's power room, and covered in a colorful array of coolant, lubricants, and greases. He waited until Dirk had extricated himself from the tangle of conduits, wiring, and - thank the Saints - new SPC lines, before speaking.
     "Please tell me that I did not get screwed twice on this project, Guns."  He said, offering the naval honorific for a ship's gunnery officer.  "I would like to be able to defend my ship, if the need arises."
     Dirk slid all the way out from under the coolant pump he was working on, and stood, pausing to grab a clean rag with which to wipe the dirt off his hands before he answered.
     "Count on it, Captain; I scoped each one of the lines, and they were like new.  We should see about a six to eight percent improvement in cycling time between shots."  He replied.
     "No offense, but eight percent doesn't sound like much of an improvement to me."  Cameron said, and continued.  "I would have thought we'd get into double digits, at least.  Not that I'm not relieved, you understand, I just expected more."
     Dirk paused, and tossed the used rag into the open top of his tool box before speaking.
     "Buy some new guns, and I'll triple, maybe quadruple, those numbers.  The ones you have mounted now were copied from Alliance Naval weapons by Freedom Arsenal in the FSL, and they're almost as old as the ship.  I'm good, Skipper, not God.  If it makes you feel any better, the Mk 33s are rated to 750 degrees Celsius for up to 20 minutes.  The old linings would have melted in a quarter of the time at that temperature."  He explained.
     Cameron couldn't help thinking about the deal he'd made for those old railgun turrets.  Even third (and possibly fourth) hand, they had been expensive, and the licensing for them had taken some doing.  The Free Systems League was noted for its lack of energetic regulatory oversight when it came to selling starship weapon systems to private owners, but non-League buyers had to hold an officially registered letter of marque, either from a League member, or an allied system.  His own letter was issued by the government of Nova Sol, and was limited in scope; restricting him to defensive action.  If attacked, he could take prize possession of any vessel he forced to surrender, but he couldn't go looking for a fight.  Which was fine, since the idea of risking the loss of his ship was not one that particularly appealed to him, and space still offered hazards enough for anyone.  He had been jumped by pirates three times, and he'd come through more or less unscathed, but if it hadn't been for Dirk, things on the last might have gone the other way entirely.
     "I can learn to live with eight percent, I suppose; there's no way I can afford new guns, or even newer guns, for that matter."  Said Cameron, more to himself than Dirk, before continuing.  "You did good Dirk, I'll see if we can't swing you a bit of real downtime if the big job works out.  Although to be honest, if it doesn't, you'll be unemployed and I'll be broke, so you're going to get some vacation time either way."  He finished with a smile.
     "Gee, thanks Skipper.  It's nice to know I'm appreciated."  Responded Dirk in a dry tone.  "I don't suppose you want to share with me just what that job entails?  I mean generally, that is?"  Dirk asked, now serious.  "You were always the one who told me:  Never take a job when you don't know where it is."
     "I'll tell you this much, Guns; we're going to be pushing out to the edge of the mining systems, looking for a needle in a haystack, and if we don't screw up, then we're likely going to be very well off." He answered cryptically, and quickly made his way out of the room before Dirk could say anything else.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 11

     Aroma of eucalyptus and jasmine drifted on artificially generated breezes from outside; through the open French doors which led from the suite to the balcony overlooking the park twelve meters below.  Dirk, a glass in hand, padded silently across the oriental style rug that covered the faux marble floor, and sat down in one of the low slung lounge chairs out on the balcony.  He looked over at the bed where Alex lay, still fast asleep, one leg draped over a pillow, hand tucked under her chin, and her hair half covering her face.  The sheet covering her had partially slid off when she'd rolled over in her sleep, revealing her lithe figure in a state of unadorned repose, and he stirred reflexively.  He allowed himself another few seconds to commit the image of her lying there to memory before turning back to his drink.  The station's nocturnal period wasn't really necessary, but humans think that day-night cycles on a station make life easier, so they engineer stations to have them.  Dirk couldn't have cared less, so long as it was quiet; he was deep in thought, and he found the quiet beneficial to that end.
     He was looking forward to getting back aboard, and getting the hell off the station.  In moments of introspection like this, he sometimes wondered if he shouldn't have re-uped when the recruiting officer had come around.  At the time, however, he'd had enough of fighting people he respected to impose another pointless, artificial, border on them.  Truth be told, the sight of a Darkaellan VIP and his escort had had a lot to do with it; the last thing he needed was to get their attention.  That would be all kinds of bad news.  He knew a lot of people - most of them former Marines - who shared that attitude, if for rather different reasons than himself, and still more who would have picked a fight with them just for the hell of it.  Although people in the latter category could best be described as idiots.
     A change in Alex's breathing and sound of movement caused him to glance over at her again.  His feelings for her were the very definition of complex.  He was a product of an extremely strict upbringing; the idea of consorting with the people who made up the Jester's crew, and were now closer to him than his own family, was anathema to those who had raised him.  His father in particular would probably have an apoplectic seizure if he knew what Dirk had been doing no more than an hour beforehand.  The only person he'd ever been able to really relate to was his grandfather.  He had been the one who had provided cover for Dirk when he had fled his homeworld, and that was a debt owing he doubted he would ever be able to repay.  His mother, who exerted considerable influence over her husband, would probably be more understanding of his decision to leave home, and probably just be glad he was well, if he were to risk getting a message to her.  As it was, she had to settle for what she got via Granddad, because the chance that they might try to track him down was one he wasn't yet prepared to take.
     He did wonder every so often, what his younger brother and sister were up to.  They were both talented kids, and he figured that adulthood would only sharpen their natural abilities.  Caroline had been obsessed with becoming a veterinarian as a child, and he hoped she'd realize that dream.  Daniel had been about ten, and something of a musical prodigy, but beyond that his memories of Danny were hazy at best.  His two older brothers, however, could get obliterated by a meteorite strike tomorrow, and he would have to revisit the idea that there was no just and benevolent God in the universe.  To say that the three of them didn't get along was a gross understatement.  Malcolm and Kirk had been born a year apart, and as a result, they had grown up together; Dirk had been born five years later, and been something of a time investment.  As near as he could tell, Malcolm had felt that he should have gotten more attention than he had, and his resentment found a focus in Dirk.  Kirk was Malcolm's shadow, so he just went with the flow, but as the years went by, he settled for indifference over malice.  Malcolm never gave an inch, although he was forced to abandon physical violence when Dirk began studying the sword and unarmed combat at the age of twelve.  By the time he was fourteen, Dirk had decided that he wasn't taking attitude from anyone, ever again, and made the mistake of thinking that he was entitled to dish it out.
     He and Malcolm had it out one day.  The fight had moved out to a second story terrace, and Dirk had been pinned against the balustrade, where Malcolm had told him that he should be more respectful of his elders.  Dirk had laughed in his face, and made a highly questionable suggestion - possibly involving barnyard fowl - and dared him to do his worst.
     He had woken up in a regeneration tank with no memory of what had happened, save for a brief sensation of flight, and a sudden weightlessness.  Malcolm, in a rage, had pitched him over the edge of the terrace, and Dirk had hit the ground on his upper back.  The impact had cracked three of his vertebrae, fractured his left scapula in two places, broken four ribs, collapsed a lung, and caused a minor concussion (his head had hit a prize rose bush instead of the granite cobbled walkway) along with a shitload of bruises.
     His father had been livid, not because one of his children had nearly killed another, but because of the loss of face from having his sons' wrangling made part of the public record.  He had managed to have any legal action against Malcolm forestalled by forcing him to acknowledge his actions, and make financial restitution.  Dirk received half of his brother's very generous stipend for four years, until he turned eighteen, when he decided to take what he'd saved, then just up and left.  He joined the Alliance Marine Corps a month and a half later.
     It had been like coming home.  The Corps had offered him a promise of earned respect and hard work, and he had done well within those parameters.  He had found a sense of brotherhood with his fellow Marines, even amidst the horrors of the war on Draconis, when it carried him through the worst fighting in the Scatha region.  His two years in a Fleet Marine Unit were some of the best of his hitch, and he usually described them as a two year paid holiday.  The four years he did in a Force Reconnaissance unit were anything but.  The last six months of his final tour had a seen some incredibly thick, hard, and heavy fighting, and when his enlistment was up, he'd decided he'd had enough.
     He found sharing his childhood with others difficult at best, and he found it practically impossible with Alex.  He couldn't think of a way to explain to someone who had been raised in a loving, if somewhat unorthodox family, how dysfunctional his own had been.  Explaining the problems he'd had adjusting to life as a civilian had actually been easier, probably because she had watched him dealing with them when he first came aboard the Jester.  He still found himself occasionally having to cope with the emotional scars that came with exposure to violence, but the episodes were never severe or particularly long lasting, which made dealing with them relatively easy.
     He heard the sound of rustling sheets as Alex moved again, but didn't turn to look until he heard the sound of her footsteps on the floor.  She had wrapped a sheet around herself, although it wasn't cold, and walked out onto the balcony.  She sat down on the edge of the lounge chair and combed her fingers through his hair in a silent gesture of affection.
     "Can't sleep?"  She asked quietly, kissing him.
     "Nah, just woke up, and started reminiscing about my childhood, for some bizarre reason."  He said, moving aside slightly so she could lie down next to him.
     "Anything good?"  She asked, cautiously, knowing that she was venturing into an emotional minefield.
     "Not really."  He said eventually.  "I was thinking about my brother.  He's a sanctimonious prick who used to kick the shit out of me as a kid."  The bitterness in his voice was palpable.
     Alex wasn't accustomed to hearing him talk about his life before he'd joined the Marine Corps, and it shocked the last vestiges of sleep out of her system.  Past experience had shown that prying into Dirk's history was not going to get you on his good side; she was now wide awake, however, and clearly realized that she might never get another chance like this.
     "I didn't know you had a brother." She commented, hoping he might be prompted to say more.
     "Three, actually."  He chuckled as he spoke.  "Two older, one younger, and a younger sister, and, yeah, I realize that makes me a middle child."  He said, smiling.
    He looked down and saw her staring at him, clearly shocked by the unexpected revelation that he had a family at all, much less four siblings.  He pushed a stray twist of hair out of the way, and tilted his head down to kiss her on the forehead.  She pushed herself up off the lounge chair, took his hand, and used the other to undo the sheet she'd wrapped around herself.   Taking the hint, he swung around to face her, standing naked in front of him.  The offer wasn't exactly subtle, but neither was he, so he didn't really notice the lack.  She was marvellous to look at, and he cupped his hands under her toned buttocks as he stood up, lifting her off the floor, she hooked her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.  He felt the warmth of her firm, pink-tipped breasts on his chest, and the thin, downy fuzz just above her sex pressed against his pelvis as he carried her back into the room.  He was almost painfully erect by the time he got her to the bed; once there, she reached for him, and placed him in position between her legs.  He needed no further urging, and she gasped with pleasure as he entered her.
     They were both covered in perspiration and gasping for breath an hour later.
     Dirk was almost certain he would be hearing from the hotel management; Alex had nearly screamed the paint off the walls.  It was never clear to him what had driven the two of them together, but he had come to see maintaining their relationship as the most worthwhile effort to come along since his decision to leave home.  It wasn't just the physical connection they shared, but the mutual respect and trust he'd come to realize he needed just as much.  That had come as a shock, unaccustomed as he was to the idea of love in any context.  He'd been involved with other women, but those relationships had been lacking in emotional commitment, and short-term hookups had been the general rule during deployment, but the idea of love was somewhat alien.  He was adult enough to admit that it had scared him more than a bit, and it had forced him to deal with aspects of the human condition with which he had little experience.
     The exertions of the last few hours finally pushed any remaining concerns below the threshold of consciousness, and, like the woman nestled against him, he fell asleep.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 10

     The Jester's loading bay was suffused with the echoing of murmured conversation from the two dozen or so people gathering there.  Cameron and Gandu were looking for new crew to make up for some recent personnel losses, and he could tell that the next few minutes were going to be interesting, if nothing else.  When there didn't seem to be any more stragglers coming in, the bay had a motley collection of some 27 men and women, ranging from what appeared to be late adolescence to one senior citizen.  There was one who had the hardened look of a long-service Able Spacer, and three more who clearly knew the score, and had packed to move on a moment's notice; oddly, the teenage looking male was one of the latter, and he didn't seem inclined to gape like a hayseed dirtsider.  That still left more than twenty who obviously had no place onboard a working ship like the Jester, but one never knew, after all, Rollie had come on board as unskilled labor fifteen years ago, and was now his bosun.
     The chatter died way as Cameron stepped forward to address the group, and he took the opportunity, as the various conversations stopped, to put his thoughts in order before speaking.
     "My name - as most of you may have guessed - is Captain Cameron Marshall.  First off, I want to thank you all for coming, and apologize for not being able to meet each of you individually.   Normally that would be the case, but my timetable is extremely short, and there just isn't time."  He said, and began to pace up and down the ragged line of applicants scrutinizing each one, and continued speaking.  "The Jester will be departing in 25 hours, if any of you cannot make that, then I wish you well, and suggest you be on your way.  We will be en route to Minotaur, Vulcanfall, and then outward to one other system.  Any questions?"
     Two hands went up, one belonging to the able spacer, and the other to the gray haired man, who looked like a retiree.  He nodded to the hard looking spacer.  "Go ahead.  Name?"
     "Able Spacer, Rebecca N. Hicks, Captain.  Can you be more specific about what 'outward' direction the ship will take, and will gear maintenance be covered in our contract, or out of pocket?"  She inquired, a bit defensively.
     The questions confirmed his opinion that she was a professional, and hoped that she would be willing to come aboard as a member of the crew.  Her desire to know where they were headed after Vulcanfall was a natural one for an experienced spacer, since only the terminally foolish, extremely stupid, or wildly suicidal would sign on to a ship without knowing where it was headed.  The second of her concerns was equally telling, and he suspected that the large, wheeled case she had brought with her contained her own personal, custom fitted, spacesuit.  Like most ships, the Jester had remotely controlled mechs for making repairs to the exterior of the ship, but even the best remotes occasionally ran into something outside of their program's parameters, and when that happened, someone had go for a spacewalk.  He stopped pacing to address her directly.
     "Our final destination is something I'd like to keep confidential at this time, but I'll guarantee your contact as far as Vulcanfall, without penalty if you decide not to go any further.  As far as gear goes, it depends on what I'm going to be expected to maintain."  He explained, chucking his chin in the direction of her travel case expectantly.
     "My personal rig is a Baccardax PA-2B ultralight exo, with an upgraded flight management suite, designed to link through the suit's internal electronics to my cranial interfaces."  She explained.
      Her description of her exo was the last thing he needed to prove that she was as professional as they came.  Baccardax Machine Technologies was one of the largest manufacturers of high end mechanical products; from small, internal combustion engines to massive, station defense railguns.  They also made a line of extremely light, powered, exoskeletal spacesuits. A Baccardax exo wasn't a spur of the moment purchase, and their baseline price made them a serious investment, but factory customization cost a small fortune.  She clearly knew her business, and wasn't afraid to show it.
     "Okay, Hicks, I'm impressed.  You're also in luck; another member of my crew has a PA-2M, so I have a maintenance mech with the programming to keep your rig up and running.  Do you want in?"  He asked, smiling at the look on her face.  She was clearly surprised to find out that another member of the ship's crew had a PA-2, and a military grade 'M' type, at that.
     "I'm in, pending a full reading of a contract of employment, of course."  She declared, quickly.
     "Of course."  He echoed.  "See my XO, over there, for your billeting information."  He gestured with his thumb at Gandu, who had hung back, giving his Captain room to work.
     She didn't waste a second, grabbed her travel case's handle and stepped out of the lineup, case rolling along behind.  Cameron turned his attention to the old man who apparently also had a question.
     "What's your name, mister?"  He asked, hoping that the man wasn't particularly long-winded.
     "Beavis Gohmert, Cap'n.  I's wondrin' if y'alls gonna be flyin' tuh Jefferson soon, on account ah it's where ah lives, like?"  He asked, with a thick Jefferson accent.
     Cameron had a lot of experience in keeping a poker face, but the man's accent was incredibly thick, and he desperately hoped that he wasn't going to say something rude.  The Jefferson Republic was not on his list of favourite places to visit, unless there was a heavy profit margin involved.  He decided that the best option was to be honest with the man.
     "Well, Mr Gohmert, I have no intention of going to Jefferson anytime soon, but there's always ships coming and going, and one of them is sure to be going your way."  He told him, in a compassionate tone.  "Perhaps you'll have better luck elsewhere."
     He was more than slightly relieved when Gohmert took his duffle in hand and wandered off towards the airlock to the station, allowing Cameron to get back to the task at hand.  He made a quick decision to accelerate the selection process, and the best way to do so was to weed out the least desirable candidates.
     "Anyone else have a question?  No?  Alright then.  If any of you have an Able Spacer's certificate then please take a step back."  The line was reduced by three.
     "Okay, anyone with experience as a sick bay attendant, engineering specialist, or a comms tech, take a step back."  Two more gaps opened up.
     The last spot he needed to find someone for was the hardest, and there was little hope that any of the people here would have the skills he needed.  He was going to roll the dice anyway.
     "Anyone with up to date cyber security training?"  He asked, not really expecting a response.
     Which made the one who put his hand up all the more surprising.  The kid who had walked in wasn't much to look at, but he'd seen worse, and he had his hand in the air.  He didn't quite know what to make of the young man in front of him; his limp hair and fair skin were covering a very thin frame.  Cameron figured that he'd give him a chance to prove himself before dismissing him out of hand, and asked:  "What's your name, son?"
     "Otto Dix, sir." He answered, simply.
     "Well, Dix, you're going to get a chance to impress me soon enough."  Cameron told him, then turned to address the remaining members of the group.  "Everyone still out front:  I appreciate you coming on such short notice, and if you will see my executive officer on your way out, he will provide you with compensation for your time."
     He waited until the small crowd had been dealt with, before he turned back to the applicants who had passed the first cut.  Hicks had been given a copy of a standard employment contract, with a few spot modifications by his XO to allow for her gear's maintenance, and given access to the crew lounge to read it in more comfortable surroundings than the loading bay.  She had taken her suitcase with her, and he hoped it was because she was planning on staying; if he had to make concessions, he had some room to negotiate, but his people got better than average pay and bonuses, so he felt that it probably wouldn't be necessary.  The last unwanted applicant having been paid off, Cameron turned back to the remaining six, regarding them rather more sternly than before.
     "Those of you with Able Spacer certification should see the XO, you'll be given a standard contract to review; if you don't like it, then the most I'll say is 'sorry, and good day', and that'll be the end of it."  He paused to give them time to grab their gear and see Gandu, before turning to the final two.  "So, both of you indicated that you're specialists, what're your names?"
     "I am Shashwat Bhavsar, Captain.  An engineering technician by training, I am cross trained in life support systems maintenance as well."  Said the first, in a voice with only the faintest trace of an East Indian accent.
     "I'm Carla Ustinov, Captain.  Certified sick bay attendant.  I,  uh, can also cook - for whatever it's worth."  She said, less assertively than Cameron had expected, given her hawkish appearance.
     He turned both of them over to Gandu to deal with, and turned his full attention to the young man fidgeting quietly while he waited.  The man - boy, really - was of average height, and looked like he'd missed more than a few meals growing up.  He certainly looked the part of a console cowboy, but Cameron needed proof that he was what he needed, and there was only one way to know for sure.
     "Okay, Dix, here's your chance; I want you to challenge my ship's security systems.  If you can even get close to infiltrating my ship's network, then you're hired.  He told him, and leaned back against a lift truck to watch him work.
     The Jester's internal network was, for all intents and purposes, a closed system; access from the outside was routed through a secondary system that was only capable of interfacing with the primary system through a very heavy firewall.  The intrusion countermeasures weren't lethal, but if a person was using a hardline and a cranial interface, then they were in for a bit of a jolt.  Some people used RF interfaces to try to get around anti intrusion software, but doing so risked electronic counter measures or RF jamming.  It was a trade off.  Being hardwired in made a person immobile, but an RF interface was easier to detect and disrupt.  Dix had decided that the former was the best option, and was connecting a two millimeter I/O cable from a flat black, featureless box, that was about the size of an antique hardcover book, to the interface port behind his left ear.  His face took on the slightly glazed look characteristic of someone who was seeing things that no one else could see, but were there nonetheless.  He stood there for about a minute and a half before speaking.
     "I'm in.  What should I do now, Captain?" He asked, in a flat voice.
     Cameron was standing there looking at the young man, his face a mask of incredulity.  No one had ever actually managed to make it through the ship's cybernetic defenses before, and he activated the comlink implanted behind his ear and accessed the command network.  He found to his considerable surprise that Otto had, indeed, been able to access the ship's primary systems.  The command network was an overwatch and backup for the primary systems, with full override authority accessible only by the Captain.  The command network's security protocols were based on the unique neural imprint which served as a personal key called a 'daemon', which was theoretically impossible to replicate.  He shook himself before answering.
     "Oh, uh, nothing.  Job well done, Dix, I've rarely seen better.  If you're interested in working for me, just go over and see the XO, and he'll show you an employment contract."  He told Otto, while silently resolving to keep an eye on the kid.
     The onerous task of hiring new crew out of the way, he decided to make a circuit of the ship's various departments, and do a little informal inspection before the end of the watch.  And once that was done, he'd be headed Topside for a few hours at one of the local casinos.
     He figured that he had earned it.

Here Be Monsters - Chapter 9

     Alex had been standing watch on the Jester's bridge, using the ship's uplink to the station's infonet to check the open manifests of other ships in dock.  There hadn't been any publicly listed manifest from the ships currently docked, with parts matching the specs Dirk had given her, but there had been three ships on approach, and one of those did.  Unfortunately, the ship was captained by the Captain's ex-wife, and that was a problem.  She had considered how best to go about getting what they needed without going anywhere near Jayne Powers' ship.
     Having finished for the moment, she was downloading a partial manifest of available goods that might be traded for those parts, if she could ever find a way to get them without either ship's captain ever finding out about it.  It was baffling, what one could find on a starship's manifest; one crew member had listed seven, 10 kilogram, wheels of cheese, another had included two dozen hand woven rugs, made on Earth.  The Captain allowed his crew a percentage of the available cargo space for their own trade goods or personal effects, with the option of listing any of their property in the ship's trading manifest.  This guaranteed that anyone's goods listed were open to bidding by anyone who might want it whenever the ship made port.
     Her duties as the ship's communications officer were rarely needed when docked, so she invariably did double duty as a sales and purchasing agent.  Most of the people she encountered in the course of her duties as the ship's agent tended to be caught off guard by her appearance.  She was of highly mixed ancestry, her father was Anglo-German, her mother was mostly French-Irish with a heavy streak of Native American thrown in.  She was aware people generally found her exotic-looking, and she wasn't above using that to her advantage if she thought she could get away with it.  The ship's crew knew better, and they tended not to be swayed by her looks, but she had a keen mind to make up for it.  She occasionally resented that her appearance was too often the deciding factor in a deal, however, she was also smart enough, for someone as young as herself, to play that card with some skill.  She had been haggling with local vendors in an attempt to acquire Dirk's parts for most of the watch, and was just leaving the bridge when she received a private, text-only message which read: 'Don't buy SPCLs.  Deal made.  Good price.  Need a bottle of REAL Scotch.  No questions asked.'
     Her next move was to call the Captain:  "Dirk sent a message, Cap'n, he says he's made a deal for the SPC lines we need for a - and I quote - good price.  He also needs a bottle of 'real' Scotch; he didn't say why." she concluded, anticipating his unasked question.
     There was an uncomfortably long pause before a reply came back.
     "Didn't happen to mention who he bought from did he?"  The Captain asked, slowly.
     "No, but he was supposed to be meeting with someone from the Alliance Naval Station, it could be from there."  She answered thoughtfully.
     "Well, tell him that he has -" there was a break in the conversation, "- just over 27 hours to make the buy and get the parts on-board, otherwise the additional docking fees are going to start coming out of bonuses."  The Captain said testily.
     New Detroit, busy as it was, allowed ships to remain docked for up to 72 hours for a reasonable mooring fee, but any time over that period was subject to very steep surcharges.  Exceptions were made for ships carrying New Detroit registry, Alliance military vessels, and ships needing repairs, or whose crew needed medical attention.  Even then, however, ships requiring more than three days to conduct business not involving the transfer of large volumes of cargo, or people, were often encouraged to park away from the station and hire a shuttle service.
     "What about the bottle of Scotch, Captain?  Do we even have such a thing?"  She inquired, somewhat confused as to why such a thing was necessary.
     "If I have to choose between being a big, fat, defenseless target, or drinking the best alcoholic beverage ever created, I can probably give up a bottle and learn to ration myself."  Was the sour reply.
     Alex decided that talking further on this subject would only aggravate him further so she decided to say nothing.  She decided the best course of action was to get in direct contact with Dirk, and find out what he might need in the way of financial services to buy the SPC lines and get them aboard.  Doing so was easier said than done; Dirk had engaged his com badge's privacy function, and until it was deactivated, he was effectively unreachable.  She did the only thing she could, and left him an urgent message to call her immediately.  She could have tried an emergency override to get a message to him, but the situation didn't warrant it just yet.
     She was halfway to her quarters when inspiration struck, and she sent Rollie a message instead.  She couldn't quite wrap herself around the idea that Dirk and Rollie were friends; they couldn't be more polar opposites if they tried.  Where Dirk was attractive, adventurous, and self-confident; Rollie was homely, antisocial - almost anthrophobic, and a loner.  If the two of them could be said to have any overlap whatsoever, it was that they both had a perverse sense of humour, and a taste for practical jokes.
     Rollie answered her message within a minute.  "Hey, gorgeous, what's up?"
     "I need to find Dirk, and I thought you might know where to find him.  He activated his com badge's privacy mode, but if I do an emergency burn-through, it will get logged by NDPS, and - let's be honest - that kind of attention should be avoided.  Right?"  She said, with sharp emphasis on the last.
     "Don't panic, he's with me, and we're both headed back to the ship.  Dirk forgot to reset his com badge's privacy setting after his meeting earlier.  I'll transfer you over."  There was an electronic chirp from her headset as Rollie transferred her over.
     "Dirk, you owe me, I was able to convince the Captain to donate a bottle of his private stock, so please tell me that you have a solid deal going."  She said, making the statement something of a plea.
     "That is possibly the best thing I've heard all day, 'Lex, so I will make it up to you with an overnight stay at The Excelsior.  Sound like a plan?" he asked.
     The response wasn't actually an answer, but her excitement at the offer he'd just made had caught her off guard.
     "Uh, I'm clearing my schedule as we speak, and I'll have a bag packed before you get here."  Came the excited reply.
     "See you in a bit, Kitten."  He said as he closed the connection.
     She had read about The Excelsior Hotel's spa, but had never been able to justify the expense, and it was definitely expensive.  If Dirk was willing to spring for even one night in that luxurious setting, then she wasn't going to say no, and she was determined to be ready to go as soon as Dirk got back to the ship.
     The ship wasn't scheduled to depart for more than 26 hours' and she had no inclination to waste one more minute than was necessary.  Down time and shore leave with Dirk was never dull, he was always bound and determined to enjoy himself to the fullest; on-planet resorts, posh hotels, sight-seeing, local entertainment, good food and drink - and making love.  He did as much living as humanly possible.  She'd asked him about it once, and he had simply said that he was 'making up for lost time'.  She had her own ideas about it, but in the interest of keeping the peace, she didn't press the issue.
     She was looking forward to going to Minotaur again, before heading on to Vulcanfall, and whatever lay beyond.  The nightlife on Minotaur was incredible; clubs, music, and dancing, all in the most bewildering variety.  The first time she'd been there, she had been too young to appreciate it, but successive visits had given her a taste for what it had to offer.  Alex firmly believed that a girl who works hard, is allowed to play hard, and she worked very hard in an effort to make sure that when it was time to play, it would be worth it, and you could play really hard on Minotaur.
     There were over two dozen planets that had been settled in one form or another by human beings, Minotaur was easily the most heavily populated world outside of the Terran solar system.  All of the major shipping companies were represented there, and and it was home to dozens of corporations with multi-system reach, even DTI had a corporate center there. It was the center of commerce for the whole of the Humanist Interstellar Alliance, as a result, the local standard of living was extremely high.   Those two factors were generally acknowledged to be the reason for official immigration that pushed into the five figure range annually; there was no good estimate of illegal immigration, but an unofficial report by the United Systems Interstellar Transportation Commission put the number at anywhere between 4500 and 7000 persons per Terran standard year.
     Alex firmly believed that the flow of people to Minotaur was the reason for its economic superiority amongst the worlds of the Alliance; anyone capable of finding a way out of the Sol system was probably self-motivated in a big way, and not likely to require much in the way of outside support.  Illegal immigrants were often even more self sufficient than others; since their status as illegals made it impossible to register for what little public welfare was available, most found work in the massive market in agricultural produce or in the local aquaculture industry, which both relied heavily upon casual, seasonal labour.
     Since its founding more than a century before by an American/Pan-Asian (mostly Chinese) coalition, Minotaur had adopted an official policy of relatively small government combined with low taxation.  The restrictions imposed by the planetary government on industry, banking, and commerce were almost nonexistent, and governed little more than basic controls on things like pollution, insurance, and health standards.  There was almost no service that couldn't be found, and goods from almost every inhabited star system found their way to the capital, Ningjing Bay.  In many ways, The Bay, as it was usually referred to by locals, had eclipsed the great capitals of Earth where the colonies were concerned.  Its populace had early on adopted a highly cosmopolitan attitude, combined with a great deal of laissez faire, both social and economic.
     Being a member of a privateer's crew, however, meant that Alex saw more than what the corporate and public relations people were willing to advertise.  The Bay had a thriving underworld, and it catered to those who had the money to spend on its wares.  She was familiar with Rollie's nicotine addiction, and there was one of the cargo handlers who liked a little Hatat now and then, but most of the highly addictive narcotics common to Earth were rare, and still officially controlled.  Things like alcohol and marijuana were too difficult to control due to the simplicity of their manufacture and growth; marijuana in particular had proven to be ridiculously easy to grow on Minotaur.  Tobacco was also grown there, on illegal plantations out in the jungles of the major continent, northwest of Ningjing Bay.  The production and export of tobacco products was a major enterprise, and they were smuggled to virtually every corner of the Known Sphere.
     She knew there were privateers, and even some corporate starship captains, who either actively engaged in smuggling, or at the very least turned a blind eye to it on their vessels.  There were also rare individuals who took up smuggling professionally.  Professional smugglers moved anything that turned a profit, from illegal weapons, to proscribed intoxicants, luxury goods (carrying high tariffs), and even people.  Anything worth enough money to justify the risk could be smuggled from one system to another.  Alex wasn't entirely sure that Cameron Marshall hadn't done a little 'off the books transportation' in the past, but he wouldn't allow it now.
     Her day bag was packed, and she'd no sooner slung it over her shoulder, when she stepped quickly out of her quarters and nearly tripped over Dirk in the corridor.
     "Hey there!"  He said, slightly surprised.  "Looks like I've got some catching up to do."  He continued, tugging on the shoulder strap of her day bag, then continuing on to his own room.
     "Yeah, you do, Marine.  Now, get that sculpted ass of yours in gear, time's-a-wasting."  She replied coyly, as she followed him to his quarters.