Ships of My Fathers (21 page)

Her face took on more of a frown. “His name is Aaron Forrester, and he’s not so much of a good friend as he is a special friend.”

“Ah,” he said. Gabrielle had warned him about this back at Ballison. Let Karen have her fun in port. He did his best to put a smile on it. “I understand. You two have a good time.”

He must not have been very convincing, because she took him by the chin and turned his face directly to hers. “Remember, we talked about this. Neither of us is settling down, just passing the time.”

He nodded. “I know, but now I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

She gave him a quick kiss. “I imagine I could hook you up. Aaron has friends.”

He shook his head and tried harder to look happy. “I’m sure I’ll be in sufficient demand as it is.”

She laughed and jabbed at his ribs again. “That’s my boy.”

The truth was he was not in such high demand after all. He trailed along with the rest of the crew, most of whom settled into a faux-historical pub with plenty of dark corners and other drunken crews to fill them. Several attractive women caught his eye, but none of them seemed to pay him much attention as he sat at the bar by himself. Finally, after two hours of this, he gave up and left.

Tortisia station was much smaller than Arvin had been, and its only military presence was a recruiting station on the bottom ring. It was well into the evening ship-time, but the station’s local population was heading into midday. He found recruiters for both the Navy and the Marines, but he settled in at the desk for the Navy. The recruiter was an older man bearing the stripes of a non-commissioned officer.

“Ready for some action, young man?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if you’re ready to throw off the yoke of your corporate master and see some real action amongst the Confederacy’s finest.”

“Oh,” he replied. “No, actually I’m not here to enlist.”

The recruiter crossed his arms. “Then what do you want?”

Michael pulled a data card from his pocket and handed it over. “I want to file an information request under the War Records and Reconciliation Act.” He made sure to give the full name, precisely as the XO had given it to him.

“You want to do it here? Arvin’s only a hop over that way, you know.”

Michael smiled. “Yes, but my corporate master won’t be going there for several months.”

He took the card. “All right. I’ll forward it up through channels. What are you trying to find out anyway?”

“I want the war records of my adopted father, Malcolm Fletcher.”

“What branch?”

“He was a privateer.”

The recruiter paused. “War records from a privateer?”

“I was told they had some kind of support.”

He shrugged. “Support yes, but I doubt you’ll find much in the way of records.” He started typing on his keyboard. “I’ll forward the request, but if you want real answers, you should go talk to some other privateers.”

“I would, but I can’t find any.”

The recruiter chuckled. “They’re a lot more common than you think, young man. The
Hamilton James
is in port. Try her.”

He headed back down to the docks and checked the registry. The
Hamilton James
was indeed in port, scheduled to pull out in thirty-eight hours. The captain was listed as Leonard Bradley. He went back up to ring two and found the right dock. The dockside lock officer was a woman with graying hair.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m looking for Captain Bradley.”

“Sorry, son, he’s not aboard.”

“Can you tell me where I might find him?”

She looked him over before shaking her head. “Sorry, it’s against ship policy to tell outsiders where our crew are. I can take a message for you, but that’s the best I can offer.”

“Can’t you call him for me?”

“Is this some kind of official ship-to-ship business?”

“No,” he confessed. “It’s personal.”

She stood her ground. “Sorry. Did you want to leave a message?”

He paused. What could he even ask the man? Were you a bloody privateer during the war? Did you know Malcolm Fletcher? Did he kill my parents? “Please tell him that Michael Fletcher of the
Heavy Heinrich
would like a word with him.”

She nodded. “Okay, but no guarantees.”

He thanked her and headed back for the
Heinrich
on ring three. He was getting tired and thought he may as well sleep in his own quarters. Being alone in the Ballison hotel had not been a comforting experience, and he was not in the mood to repeat it here.

Roxy Collier had the dockside watch. “What happened, Michael, did you strike out?”

He shrugged. “No, I just…” he paused, thinking about his failure at the
Hamilton James
. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“No worries, at least it’s not as bad a time as you had at Arvin.”

The gears started turning in his mind. “Say, who’s on runner duty?”

“No one right now. It’s a long enough layover that we’re letting things batch up.”

“Do you have something now?”

Roxy checked the box by her station. “Yeah, two for station administration and one for the bank, but none of it’s high priority.”

“Do you mind if I go ahead and deliver them?”

She shook her head. “Go ahead, but you’re a glutton for punishment.”

He took the packets and the runner card. “Yeah, I’m sick that way. I should be back in a few hours.”

He went first to station administration and delivered the two packets. Only one got a confirmation, but even once he had it, he hung out in the runners’ lounge. It was smaller than the one at Arvin, but it still had a steady trickle of runners coming and going. He sat near the back where he could watch them enter.

It took almost two hours, but eventually he found what he was looking for: a young woman wearing the runner tag from the
Hamilton James
, the old gunpowder cannon marking its distinctive logo. “Hey,
Hamilton
!” he called.

She walked over with a drink and sat down. “Hey,
Heinrich
,” she replied. “I’ve heard of you guys. I’ve got a cousin on Ballison who’s been dating one of your engineers.”

“Zane?”

“Yeah, I think that’s what it was. Small galaxy, eh? So, what’s up?”

Michael hefted the packet for the bank. “I’ve got something for your captain.”

She reached for it. “I’ll give it to him, save you the trip.”

He held it out of her grasp. “Sorry, I’m supposed to put it ‘in his hands’. You know how it goes.”

She chuckled. “Do I ever! Fucking officers.” She hit her link on her wrist. “Suzie, this is Lana. Do you know where the skipper is? I’ve got a packet for him.”

There was a pause, and the voice that came back was that of the graying woman Michael had spoken to before. “He should be up at the Guild hall having dinner.”

“Thanks, Suzie. Lana out.” Then to Michael, “Look for a white beard above a big belly.”

“Fat captain?”

“Not roll-down-the-ramp fat, but he’s got his own gravitational field.”

Michael nodded. “Thanks, Lana.”

“Anything for another runner,” she said. “Say, I’ll be at Xeno’s later if you want to get a drink.”

He stopped short, because now he realized that she looked pretty good: short black hair, green eyes, and beneath that
Hamilton James
uniform a pleasant curvy figure. But he had already started off with a lie to take advantage of her, and she was not going to be happy when she found out. Malcolm had taught him better than that, but now he did not see any way to fix it.

He stood. “I’d love to, but I may have duty.”

She shrugged. “Maybe another time, Mr. Fletcher.”

“That would be nice,” he replied and got out before he dug his hole any deeper.

The Captains’ Guild was up on ring five, and so was the bank. He dropped off the packet there first and made his way to the Guild hall. He still had his runners badge, and he figured that he could bluff his way in if need be, but that would probably get back to his uncle. More family grief was the last thing he needed right now, so he found a seat outside and watched the door.

Fortunately, he did not have as long to wait this time. After twenty minutes, he spotted his target. Captain Bradley did indeed have a white beard and his own gravitational field, but he also had a crewmate with him. He wore the same uniform, and his lapel bore the gold triangle that denoted first officers amongst civilians. Well, Michael was in it already, so there was no point in backing down now.

He stepped forward into their path. “Captain Bradley,” he said. “May I have a word with you?”

They both stopped, and the first officer’s hand slipped quickly into a pocket. “About what?” Bradley asked.

“I wanted to ask you about privateers during the war.”

The first officer pulled his hand back slightly. He was clearly holding something. “Do you want me to get security, sir?”

Bradley opened his mouth to reply but paused. He tilted his head and peered at Michael. “You wouldn’t be Malcolm’s boy, would you?”

Michael nodded.

Bradley turned to his officer. “No, that won’t be necessary. Mr. Fletcher here is the son of an old friend.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No, Jerry,” he said. “You go on and enjoy your evening. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”

The officer nodded but gave Michael a hard stare as he passed.

“Come on,” Bradley beckoned. “Let’s go back in and get a drink.”

Chapter 17

“You don’t have to inspect every cargo container, son. Sometimes it truly is better not to know.” — Malcolm Fletcher

M
ICHAEL HAD BEEN IN A
Guild Hall only twice before, both of them with Malcolm. Captains could bring guests, of course, but Malcolm had shared the privilege with him rarely. “You want to go more often,” he had said, “then get your own license.” In truth, that more than anything had driven him towards getting the necessary ratings. Someday, he had been sure of it, he would reserve a table for himself and Malcolm and pay for their dinner himself. As he followed Captain Bradley in, he realized that day would never come. Licensed or not, he was never going to have that dinner.

“Table for two,” Bradley said. “By the window if you can find one.”

The waiter led them out to edge of the restaurant. It was situated at the outer edge of the core, and the wraparound window looked out at the rings above and below. In the distance, Michael could see the
Heinrich
docked with the radial cargo loader sitting idle nearby. He tried to remember where the
Hamilton James
would be, but he had lost the orientation somewhere along the way.

“Have you eaten?” Bradley asked.

“Actually, no, but I wouldn’t—”

“Bring him a steak,” Bradley told the waiter. “A growing boy like you needs the meat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I think we met once, but you were little.” He made a dismissive wave near the floor. “This was back when your dad still had the
Hammerhead
, of course.”

“Have you heard?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss. Is this S&W thing a family connection?”

“Yes, it turns out my birth father… did you know I was adopted?”

“I thought it might be, either that or you were some by-blow. All I knew for sure was that Malcolm picked you up sometime during the war.”

“You knew him then?”

The older man shuddered. “Bad times, but he was a good friend.”

“So what’s that whole privateer thing about? Were you… I mean, I have a hard time imagining him going after other merchants, given the way he always talked about pirates.”

“How do you think he got that way, Michael?” He shook his head. “Like I said, they were bad times. The Navy wanted to starve the rebellion out, not literally mind you, but they figured if they could cut off enough of their trade, it would bring them down from within.”

“Then why didn’t they do it themselves?”

Bradley frowned. “They did. They blockaded most of the larger ports, but too much was slipping around the edges. You know, smaller ports, transfer stations. If you grew up with Malcolm, I’m sure you’ve seen those places. The Navy couldn’t patrol them all without spreading themselves out damned thin, and the Caspians had too many ships of the line to risk that. So they got us instead.”

“Privateers,” Michael said, almost spitting it out.

“Yeah, I know. For some, it wasn’t much more than piracy with a government license, but not Malcolm. Know this, Michael, he was a fair man.”

Michael shook his head. “What does that even mean in a context like that? Please give me your cargo before I kill you?”

The waiter returned with food for Michael. It looked delicious, but knowing the history of the man who was paying for it, he was not sure he could stomach it.

“Eat it,” Bradley said. “A full belly will make this easier.”

He frowned, but he cut into the steak anyway. “So, what’s fair in the world of privateers?”

“Personally, I always offered them a chance to surrender before I fired the first shot. A lot of them were only trying to fulfill a contract, so they had no taste for the politics. They usually made it easy and dumped their cargo into open space.”

Michael started eating. “And you’d collect it?”

“When feasible. The Navy cleared all our recovered cargo and paid good money for it, too. I even hear they made good on some of the merchants’ insurance bonds after the war.”

“But a lot of people weren’t there to collect, right?”

Bradley looked out the window at all the freighters waiting at their docks. “I’m not proud of everything I did, Michael, but I know I played by the rules. Whenever I could, I always went for the drive sections. One good missile shot, and I could disable a ship with minimal casualties, or if they tried to go to tach, a well-placed gravity warhead could rip those generators to pieces. I couldn’t always take on survivors, but I always reported their location at the next port. Most of them made it.”

“And Malcolm?”

Bradley chuckled. “At first he developed a reputation for wasting ammunition. Warning shots, that kind of thing, and he’d go through twenty or thirty missiles on each outing, trying to box ships in with distant gravity warheads. You know, enough to foul the sails but not enough to feed back into the generators. Foolish stuff like that.”