* 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.
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.
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.
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