The Passenger Ch. 01

"I've got to hand it to you, Harvey," said the man sitting across from me. "I've seen you looking rough before, but never like this."

The Starburst bar was about three quarters full at that hour, but then it usually was. Spaceports never close, which means that spaceport bars also work around whatever clock the locals use. No matter what the hour, the Starburst and the half dozen or so other other watering holes within stumbling distance of it were always busy, serving a mixed audience of about two dozen species from all over the galaxy.

I looked at him without much enthusiasm.

"Like I told you, Deke, it's been tough lately."

The look he gave me in return was as sympathetic as always. Which is to say, not at all.

"Tough how?"

I found a sigh without trying, knowing that I would have to tell him. You see, Deke Ryder is my cargo broker on Radix. I needed him. And we both knew it.

The thing is this: when you're making a living as an independent interstellar cargo hauler, you end up spending most of your time being a trader. Not by choice, but out of necessity. Unless you can get a haulage contract to ship cargo for somebody else for a flat fee (which happens occasionally but not too often) you have to trade for your own cargo. You make a living by locating goods that are cheap wherever you happen to find yourself; buying them and then shipping them to another place where those same goods are worth a fortune. There you sell them. If you get it right, the profit you make will cover your expenses and buy you a living. If you don't get it right, you lose your shirt.

While that doesn't sound too bad in theory, the problem is that the position from which you have to negotiate is terrible. You can't move on to the next port until you sell your cargo and buy a new one, and everyone knows it. Not only that, but spaceports charge for berth by the hour, so the more time you spend trying to get a decent deal, the deeper the berthing fees will cut into your bottom line. Any trader you deal with knows he's got you by the spheroids, and he won't hesitate to squeeze until you scream for mercy.

Which is where your friendly spaceport cargo broker comes in. Cargo brokers have their offices at the larger spaceports, and they specialize in trading with independent interstellar cargo haulers such as yours truly. The cargo broker has a fairly easy job: both incoming spacers and local manufacturers will come to him, eager to sell, and all he has to do is make arrangements with buyers to come and collect their merchandise from the spaceport, so his expenses are minimal. He's also secure in the knowledge that he is a necessary evil, and being necessary is absolutely essential for a middleman. On the other hand, he needs repeat business and lots of it, so it's in his own interest not to squeeze you too hard. In the end you make some money, he makes some money, and everyone's happy.

It also means that when you meet with your broker, he's buying the drinks. Which suited me fine right now, because I needed several stiff drinks rather badly. However, another unwritten rule of the brokerage game meant that it was up to me to stay sober enough not to do anything stupid, like signing a haulage contract without reading the small print. Deke has always given me a fair shake so far, but there's a first time for everything. If I got too faded before signing a contract, I'd be a chump, deserving everything I got, and everyone would know it. Still, there's usually a certain basic level or trust between spacers and their long-time brokers, and Deke and I were no exception to that rule. Which meant I would have to tell him exactly how badly I was stuck right now.

"Well," I said, taking a deep breath, "For starters, I just came in from Tau. You know about what's been happening there?"

"Some major in-system war, I hear. Not sure how bad it really is, though."

"Trust me, it's bad. Very bad. They've set up grav tractors in the inner asteroid belt to bombard each other with interplanetary debris. Have you ever seen what happens when a hundred thousand tons or so of interplanetary rock hits the surface of a planet at orbital velocity?"

I reached for my glass and drained it in one gulp. Whatever he had poured me burned its way down my throat, but at least it seemed to have some sort of numbing effect.

"Let's just say that none of us will be trading with Tau anytime soon."

I waited for Deke to pour me another one. This time I took a smaller sip.

"Great gods, Deke, what is this stuff?"

"Nothing but the best for you, Harvey, as always. Are you sure that Tau is no longer an option?"

I nodded.

"I was hauling metals, as usual. But I couldn't find a buyer."

Deke seldom shows much on his face, but this time he was clearly surprised. I couldn't blame him. Tau Ceti, with its two habitable planets, is seriously deficient in metals, so any sort of refined metal is always in demand there.

"Deke, there's simply nobody left to sell it to. All the major industrial centers are smoking craters now. I'm telling you; they're pounding each other back into the stone age over there. There was a bright flash in my rear camera when I took off from Tau One, so I don't think the port is even still there anymore. It's probably been replaced with a glass-lined crater by now. Trust me, we can all forget Tau for the next century or so."

I took another sip of my drink.

"Anyway. There I was, with a cargo that nobody would pay me a milli-credit for, and I clearly needed to get both my ass and my ship out of there quickly. So I did the only thing I could, which was to dump my cargo and write it off, and take on a passenger instead."

"Doesn't sound too bad," Deke said. "There must have been a lot of people wanting to get out rather badly."

One thing that I have always respected Deke for is his impartial attitude to aliens. Deke and I are both human, and he's one of the few humans I know who actually seem to appreciate non-human species as much as I do. To us they're all just people, no matter what their species. Except for Tragulans, of course, but that's only because of their rather unappetizing alternative to an internal digestive system. With pretty much all other species I'm fine, and so is he. Unfortunately, that particular trait hadn't helped me much at Tau.

"Well..." I said slowly, taking a deep breath, "Picture this. The locals are all busy obliterating each other. Spacers like me have their ships to worry about, and they either manage to refuel or they die trying. So what's left?"

Deke shrugged.

"Foreign diplomats, Deke, that's what. And the problem with foreign diplomats is that they're not welcome just anywhere, interstellar politics being what they are these days, so they can't simply travel wherever they want."

I reached for my drink again and drained it in an attempt to fortify myself.

"Coming this way, my options were limited," I continued. "In fact, as it turned out, I only had one."

I put down the glass and sighed.

"So my passenger was a Vulpin."

Deke looked at me for a moment, then silently poured me another one. I was grateful. Vulpins are built along generally humanoid lines, but they are also furry, lithe and supple. They are slender and curvy, they have long, bushy tails, and in spite of their needle-sharp teeth and claws they are intensely, achingly sexy. The males of the species are barely sentient and rarely leave their home world, so any Vulpin you meet is invariably female. Very female. Few human males can look at a Vulpin without wanting her, badly.

To make matters worse, one of the many biochemicals that are part of the normal Vulpin physiological makeup happens to closely mimic human sex pheromones. If the sight of a Vulpin won't turn a man on instantly, the first whiff of her natural fragrance will be enough to fill him with a searing, unreasoning lust for her.

Which is where the worst part comes in. You see, Vulpins don't possess any genitals that are even remotely compatible with humans. How Vulpins mate and procreate is still a bit of a mystery because they tend to be very private about it, but that they are physically incapable of any sexual union with a human is absolutely certain. Which is why Vulpins are largely regarded by human males as proof that the gods are cruel.

Do you know what it's like to spend three weeks locked in closed quarters with a female creature who is the sum and total of all your adolescent sexual fantasies, who fills your head, not to mention your loins, with a wild, mad, unreasoning lust for her with every breath you take, and yet you know with absolute certainty that you can never, ever have her?

I do.

"The worst three weeks of my entire life," I said slowly. "And there was fuck-all I could do about it."

Deke raised his glass in sympathy. We drank a silent toast to the cruelty of fate.

"So," I said after a long pause. "Now you know."

"I, ehm... I could probably arrange something for you to, you know, take the edge off," Deke suggested delicately.

"Have you taken up pimping as a sideline business? Thanks, but no, thanks, Deke. Spaceport prozzies are not my thing. Too risky, for starters. You either get ripped off, or you end up getting more than you bargained for, if you get my meaning."

Deke managed to look slightly hurt.

"You know I only deal in quality, Harvey," he said reproachfully.

"No offense, Deke, but I've got enough problems as it is without losing my shirt and picking up an embarrassing infection or two."

Also, if truth be told, I didn't want him to know how much his offer tempted me. I'd been going steady with my fist for three weeks, but that relationship was starting to wear a little thin.

"How about a droid?" he suggested.

"Hell, no. A plastic animated fuck toy doesn't do it for me."

Deke smiled faintly.

"Obviously, you haven't tried the latest," he said. "Plastic was replaced with synthflesh ages ago. Impossible to tell apart from the real thing, I understand. Their behavior is completely life-like, too. Especially with the, ehm, new software extensions."

"You mean AI extensions? Those are illegal."

Deke shrugged. If he was overly concerned, he hid it well.

"Maybe." he said. "Lots of things are. But in the privacy of your own ship, between systems..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but his face spoke volumes.

"Are you kidding? It'll wake up and then I've got an emerging AI on my hands! And even so, how good is it really going to be? I'll tell you; it'll still be a plastic fuck toy."

I took another sip from my drink. I'd have to watch that; the hooch he'd been pouring me was strong enough to peel paint.

"I'm still willing to bet that you won't be able to tell a state-of-the-art pleasure droid from the real thing," he said.

"Thanks all the same for the sales pitch, Deke, but let's limit our dealings to cargo, shall we?"

"Sure, no problem," he said comfortably. "Your loss, though."

"I'll live with it. So let's talk cargo."

He nodded, and I braced myself for what I knew was coming.

"I just happen to have a shipment of biologicals that will get you a good price at Persei," he offered. "Cryo storage included. I could let you have that for, oh, half a million credits."

And there it was.

"Well, Deke," I said, resigning myself to the painful negotiations that I knew were now inevitable. "Thing is, the Vulpin's passage covered my expenses and it got my ass out of a tight place, but I already told you I had to dump my cargo. I can refuel and all that, but half a million I don't have right now."

Deke put on his man-to-man look, fiddling with it for a second or two until he had it comfortably in place. It wasn't an exact fit, but he managed to make it work.

"Alright, Harvey," he said. "I get it. So let's cut through the crap. If you want to play ball for a few more hours that's fine with me, of course, but I think we know each other well enough by now. So let me just ask you: how much can you afford?"

That's Deke for you: he knows he's got you by the short-and-curlies, but he'll allow you a measure of grace and dignity while he prepares to skin you. And, in all fairness, he'd always been reasonably decent with me. So I took a deep breath. What the hell.

"About fifty," I said.

He pursed his lips in an expression as old as pawn shops.

"Okay," was all he said.

We watched each other in silence.

"You'll need a contract job," he said after a while.

I nodded. I'd worked that out myself long ago. Without a cargo to sell, I didn't have enough left to buy anything decent to move, what with berthing fees and the cost of refueling and servicing and all. And, as the oldest adage of the space freighting business goes, "When the ship lifts, all bills are paid." So that only left a contract job, moving someone else's cargo for transportation fees only. But contract jobs were scarce.

Deke looked at me for a few long moments, as if trying to make up his mind about something.

"I might have something for you," he continued then. "A shipment of environmental control system modules for Ursa. It's been sitting on my books for a while, so I'll let you have it for... shall we say eighty?"

I countered his man-to-man look with a carefully crafted expression that combined shock and indignation with a measure of almost, but not quite, concealed hurt. I'm an old hand at this game, too.

"Eighty? All the way to Ursa? I won't even manage to cover fuel expenses with that, Deke, let alone supplies and maintenance. You know that. To Ursa I'll need one twenty, minimum."

Deke pretended to carefully consider my counter bid, adding some reluctant concern to his facial expression just for good measure.

"I really can't afford one twenty, Harvey," he said, following the unwritten script that we both knew so well. "However, you and I go back a long way and I've always enjoyed our dealings. So for you I'll waive my profit on this one. You can have it for one hundred."

I smiled. That's classic Deke: even when he's skinning you right down to the bone, he'll still allow you a save some face while he drives the knife in nice and deep, putting all his weight behind it. We both knew he'd net at least five times the piddly one hundred thousand credits he was offering me. We also both knew I couldn't afford to say no. This contract would let me depart with a cargo and get paid the balance a hundred thousand credits upon arrival, which was far less than a regular buy-and-sell run would get me, but at least it would keep me in business. I knew it, he knew it, and we both knew that the other knew that we knew. Still, it was good of him to offer me the contract.

Too good, in fact. I smiled, a bit grimly this time.

"You're right, old friend," I said. "We do go back a long way. Which is another way of saying that I also have been around the block a few times. So, tell me. What's the catch?"

"I never could get anything past you, Harvey," he said, managing to look admiring, trustworthy and honest all at the same time. "Alright, here's the catch: you'll have to take a passenger."

"Hell no, I won't."

"If you want this contract, then hell yes, you will. A technician has to accompany the cargo, to advise the customer on how to commission the goods once they've been delivered. In fact, without the tech the cargo is mostly useless, as I understand it, so I'm afraid it's not negotiable."

I sighed. I hate sharing my ship with passengers, and the Vulpin hadn't done much to change my mind on the matter. But I'm also a realist, and right now I was a desperate realist.

"Fine," I capitulated. "What sort of passenger?"

Deke shrugged.

"Human. That's all I know. But look at it from the bright side: after three weeks with a Vulpin, having a human around is going to be a walk in the park no matter what."

I nodded glumly. I had no choice and we both knew it. All I could do was hope that he or she would at least shower regularly.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, dammit. And thanks."

He raised his glass.

"Any time."

I returned his toast, wondering if I had made a mistake. Yes, I know what I said before, about trusting your broker and all that, but somewhere, very faintly, there was a smell of rodent in the air. But no matter how I looked at it, I had no choice.

We went over the details of the deal, making arrangements for fuel, servicing and final payment upon delivery to the customer at Ursa, as well as for the loading of the cargo at oh eight hundred the next morning. The tech was scheduled to arrive about two hours later. We scanned our thumb prints, attached them to the contract and logged it. Then we had a final drink, shook hands and went our separate ways: he to his office, me to the ship.

* * *

The good ship Slowboat is a Sigma class freighter, which means that she's about four hundred feet long and eighty wide, with the living quarters located in the front and the hyperdrive section right behind it, followed by the cargo hold and the sublight drive. Along the central axis of the hold a narrow tunnel connects the crew compartment to the sublight engine compartment. A pair of hatches set into the tunnel bulkhead give access to the port and starboard hold, but those are rarely used, except in emergencies. The cargo doors line both sides of the hull for almost one third of the length of the ship and they open in a gull-wing fashion, which gives the ship a very sleek and fast look, but only during loading and unloading when it's not going anywhere. You can't have everything.

With the cargo doors closed, the ship looks just like your average light space freighter: a little blocky with a slightly bulbous bow, The port, starboard and dorsal thrusters are mounted around the engine section at the rear, giving her a very business-like, if slightly ungainly, appearance. In short, she's nothing special, but she's still my pride and joy. She's about sixty standard years old now (they built 'em to last in those days) but I did a good job fixing her up, and I've maintained her well ever since.

Loading the cargo, the next morning, only took just over an hour. Spaceports have to be run efficiently and punctually if they are to function at all, so when the carriers arrived, right on schedule, I had the cargo doors open and the hold empty, clean and ready. These days most cargo is transported in the standard three by four by five foot compartmentalized containers which can be transferred quickly from the carrier beds into the hold on a regular antigrav sled.

When the last carrier had left, I continued with the usual maintenance jobs. If all went smoothly, I would have most of it done before the fuel arrived. The first job on the list was to clean the air scrubber's precipitation filters. I like to get that out of the way as soon as possible, because it's one of my least favorite chores. The filters collect all the solid and liquid contaminants that the air scrubber removes from the ship's atmosphere. Most of those contaminants are organic matter coming from the inhabitants of the ship. That includes anything from exhaled and perspired liquids and semi-liquids to skin and hair particles. Once this stuff collects in the filters it forms an unpleasant layer of greasy gunk that is about as appetizing as the contents of a septic tank. Which, if you think about it, is probably its closest relative.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind me, just as I dropped the contents of the filters into a disposal container. "I'm looking for captain Harvey Ross."

I turned around. The woman standing behind me was tall. About my age, maybe a little younger. Her half-long honey-blond hair framed a delicate, pretty face, and her baggy flight suit appeared to have seen a lot of mileage. The enormous duffel bag she had slung over her shoulder looked like it weighed a ton and a half, but she carried it as if it was nothing. Her eyes were a beautiful green.