Courier And, as you would expect, a significant percentage are killed by their partners or crewmembers for the ship and the credit in their pocket. Only a select few survive long enough to retire peacefully after twenty years or so of trading, sometimes bringing vast fortunes with them into their golden years, but, if they're honest, more frequently having to settle for the modest lifestyle their meagre savings can provide. My aunt, however, did not die in space, but in the hospital section of Mars High. A faulty anti-contamination shield had exposed her to the intense radiation emitted by a ton of radioactive waste from her Class 2 military drive, as she was trying to get rid of it on the black market. In the Sol system, it is not permitted to bring radioactives anywhere near populated space, and certainly not to remove it from your ship while unloading cargo. So in order for the crew to avoid detection and an enormous fine, the waste has to be taken out of the ship in unconventional ways. This more often than not involves the captain herself manually unloading it while berthed in a remote dock in the more unsanitary parts of the installation. The primitive machinery available there has very few safeguards, and when handling radioactive material you had better make sure that there are no leaks in the containers. My aunt was experienced enough to have taken all the necessary precautions, but sometimes even that is not enough. I never learned the precise circumstances surrounding the accident, and it didn't really interest me; I hardly knew the lady. What did interest me was the fact that as she had not died in space, her ship was still intact and, presumably, in good condition. It also interested me that as her closest living relative I inherited everything she owned, which was basically a Moray Starboat with a military drive and a 4 Megawatt beam laser. Plus the 3000 credits left on her account after the expenses for the disposal of her now very radioactive, badly burnt body and the decontamination of the area around the ship had been deducted by Mars High Administration. When I arrived in Sol two weeks after her death, I was pleasantly surprised when I surveyed the Moray and tried it out in the gravity well around Jupiter. It was much larger than my Eagle Mk1, of course, but still handled well. And the considerably larger cargo space would really get my profits going. It was a one man craft; no crew was needed. Perfect. If I sold my Eagle, the credits would enable me to fill the Moray with decent cargo for a nearby system, and the big laser would be a great asset if I met any trouble. It would also help boost my elite-rating; I was only Average and the pulse laser on the Eagle was absolutely no match for even the most suicidal and incompetent pirate. Consequently, I had only been able to trade in safe systems, with the marginal profits that meant. This is a situation it is very difficult for a prudent commander to break out of, as weapons and ships are very expensive. And so, all commanders are always looking for that big break which means a way out and up. Few of them get one. But I did, and this was it. As I let the autopilot guide the Moray into its allocated berth I checked my messagebox like I usually do. To my surprise there was a message from someone who wanted to buy the Moray for what seemed to me a lot more than it was worth. Of course, in those days, when my line of business was that of the interstellar commander, I didn't really know the price on any other ships than my current one and the one I was going to buy next. A commander is always looking to upgrade and always has a plan. Before I replied to the message I did a check on the GalNet to find out the going rate on a Moray of specifications matching mine. As far as I could tell, that particular class of ship was, and still is, pretty rare and at the same time quite popular, which made it a lot more expensive than comparable types. The fact that it is one of the largest ships that can be flown without extra crew is at least part of the reason why it is so popular. Reduces the risk of getting stabbed in the back, you see. Still, the price I was offered was a couple of thousand credits higher than what seemed to be common. Now I had a dilemma. Keep the Moray and trade with it, as had been my plan up to that point, or sell the Moray and the Eagle and buy a different ship with money to spare? I decided to at least meet the interested party and then decide. I told her where the Moray was berthed and when she came I must have done something right, because after we had gone through the ship together she upped her original offer by five thousand. I accepted immediately. I returned to the Eagle in a euforic state and with a real high, the kind I otherwise only experienced after having survived a fight with a really determined pirate. Space almighty, I had talked up the price by more than five percent, an almost unheard of margin in interstellar trade! And without even trying. In the rush I decided to sell the Eagle right away. I put an ad up, contacted the shipyard and had a potential buyer on the line after half an hour. He was on Daedalus, the trading post orbiting Mercury and, eighteen hours later, so was I. During the trip in I checked ship-prices, as with the Moray, so I knew what I could accept. I also began thinking about what kind of ship I should buy to do my own trading in. When I had sold the Eagle I would be able to afford some serious extra equipment, like a radar mapper, naval ECM, top-of-the-range missiles, energy booster... The man who had expressed interest offered an average price to start with. As is customary, I went through the ship with him, continuously talking and pointing out the nicer details of the design and showing how well kept it was (it wasn't). He offered thirty-two hundred above standard price. Sold. And again a euforic high. After I had calmed down I began to suspect that I had a genuine gift for this ship-selling stuff. Of course, a year and a half of interstellar trading had honed my business senses, but not realistically to a point where people should willingly offer me seven percent over list price on a standard ship in no particularly good shape. Was it a fluke or could I make it last? Would I be equally adept at buying? Only one way to find out. With about a hundred and fifty thousand (Good skies, I was rich!) credits to my name, but no ship, I scoured Sol system for a Harrier. To make a long story short I found a suitable ship after two days, talked the price down to well below average and presently sold it with a profit of four and a half thousand. That day was the last time I ever considered going back to interstellar. Two years later I was well settled on Daedalus, with a good relationship with the local shipyard, nine ships of various size in the showhall, a nice bank account and, most importantly, a good reputation. From the day I first started out professionally in the used ship-business I knew that a solid reputation would be my greatest asset in the long run. A talent for buying and selling is really just the icing on the cake that ensures an increased margin of a couple of percent when a sale is made. But first, you have to get people into the showhall, and that is what a good reputation does. Maintaining that reputation is, in my experience, the difference between success and failure. I did so by several means, some more devious than others. I don't think I am a more decent and soft-hearted businessman than any other, I just make sure that I never sell a piece of junk at premium price unless I am confident that I can get away with it. It's all in the mind, you see; if a customer goes on his merry way in a new ship, thinking he has made a killer deal, it doesn't really matter if it is objectively true or not. So I have my little tricks. After having made a sale, the next morning I send a man who works for me to the customer's berth. His role is to walk up and start talking to the new owner, openly admiring and highly praising the ship. After a while he will offer to buy it at a price slightly lower than what the owner has paid, claiming that that is all he can afford. The owner, of course, not realizing that the man comes from me and has absolutely no intention of buying, will happily decline, now very safe in the knowledge that he has made the deal of the century, and that his is the most desirable ship in the universe. If I really want to make the customer happy, I will send a small crowd of people, all gathering to admire the ship and its beaming owner with the extraordinary business-sense. The next time that person is in the market for a ship, where do you think he will go? The real beauty of this is that you're really only playing to the customer's tune; he has just parted with several thousand credits and desperately wants to think that he has not been swindled. So you're merely helping him getting rid of all that destructive doubt. Of course, this state of mind also makes him less likely to ascribe any hidden faults with the ship to you or your business, should they pop up. I think it is only fair, at this point, to admit that my people skills are probably a bit better than average. My goal in every deal, apart from making a hefty profit, is to get the customer to feel that he had just gotten a new friend, namely me. That takes some fine-tuned instinct and instant and correct judgment of character, not to mention communicative skills. It seems to work, anyway. And it has paid off well beyond my expectations. Already after six months my business was booming and I was rapidly outpacing the two competitors I had on Daedalus in terms of ships sold and profits made. After two years, I was the only one left. The rush (endorphines or adrenaline? I never found out) I had experienced the first times I sold ships had faded somewhat, but it never completely left. My life was so much better than in my interstellar days, not least because I didn't have to risk my cargo, my ship and my life to make a profit. In addition, I was becoming well known for being willing to trade in the more unusual and esoteric types of ship, which many in my trade will refuse to take. I could do this because I knew from experience that with my talent and persistence, I could sell any ship. I have never had a dented old trade-in collecting dust (figuratively speaking; there is no dust in the sales-berthes) in the back row (also figuratively speaking). There is a market for everything. Occasionally, some ambitious, and frequently deluded, person decides that his fortune will be made if only he can get his hands on something like a Krait or some 400-year-old design, for which he will then pay good money. He comes to me, and if I don't have exactly what he is looking for, I can usually persuade him to take another of the unpopular ships in stock. For more money than he had originally meant to spend, of course. In addition to these loonies there are always people who want to stand out and therefore feel that their ship should be something other than usual. It never matters to these people how old the thing is or how hard it is to get spare parts. My, those are easy sales. I hardly even have to lie. I succeeded with building my reputation to the point where people who otherwise had no particular business on Mercury would come to Daedalus only to trade-in their exotics or look at my current stock. So I would like to think that what I am going to tell you now happened because I maintained such an excellent reputation. I would really like to think that. But I would be wrong. - - - According to Daedalus Admin Time it was late evening and the lights were dimming imperceptibly slowly to create the illusion of the sun setting, which was true, in a way. Daedalus orbits Mercury in such a fashion that the station is never on the day side of the planet, always keeping in its shadow. The sunlight on the day side is just too intense. I was in the library of my living quarters, relaxing after a long day and celebrating the sale of a Griffin, one of the biggest (and for me, one of the most profitable) ships available. I had opened up a small box brought in at enormous expense from Earth and taken out a long, brown, porous cylinder with a heavenly smell, a little bit thicker than my thumb. Even though the use of open fire is strictly prohibited on Daedalus (which seems appropriate), I set one end of the cylinder alight with an ancient, red device I had aquired just for this purpose and put the other end in my mouth. A sense of luxury and success engulfed me as the grey, highly aromatic smoke swirled its way up into the grating of the airmatic system. I kept the cylinder in my mouth for a few seconds until the flame died. Again I used the small antique device to set fire to the other end, and again it went out immediately, as it always did. From experience I knew that the best way to enjoy the cylinder was to lay it down on a glass plate, pour some flammable liquid on it, light it, and watch as it burned brightly and released its luxurious odour into the recycled air. The old traveller who had introduced me to the cylinders had kept one in his mouth for a long time as it slowly glowed itself shorter and shorter, but I hadn't quite noticed how he did it. It didn't really matter, and my way of doing it was without question much more efficient and only lasted about thirty seconds. As the smell filled the room and I studied the red fire-making device with its elegant decor, a graceful, yellow, double arc, I got a tri-D message from my associate Kennds, who was down in the showhall-area. We must always have someone down there, because space-travellers don't live on Daedalus Admin Time and will dock at any time, expecting service. Kennds wanted me down right away, which surprised me a little. He was one of my most experienced employees and should have been able to handle most things by himself. I put on my business suit and was down in the showhall a minute later. Kennds was there, and beside him stood a somehow unusual-looking man wearing a heavy duty utility suit, battered but clean. His back straight, he looked right at me as I went to greet him. His eyes were clear and his gaze experienced. He was just as shrewd a judge of character as I was, that much I felt instinctively. Something about him reminded me of Earth. I stretched my hand out to him in greeting. "Hello, sir, I am Wan Ertex. How may I assist you?" I felt myself putting on a calm, friendly smile; my professional face. He took my hand and squeezed it firmly, looking me straight in the eye before disengaging. "You proprietor, I see?" Oops. Accent alert. Thick, but clear and understandable. This man had not grown up in Federation space. Not Imperial, either. Alliance or Independent. Or something else entirely. "Yep, that's me. Would you like to buy a ship?" "No." I took it in stride. "Would you like to sell a ship?" "Yes." To quickly establish a connection with a customer, there is an old trick called mirroring; do what he does and talk like he does. He won't notice, but he'll sense it subconsciously and feel more at ease. Friendly atmosphere, you see. "Where?" "Outside." He pointed through the main hatch, out into space. "All right, let's take a look." I led the way to the nearest spaceworthy ship in my stock, a Saker III, and motioned to Kennds that he should stay behind and watch the shop. I would handle this. The man climbed in behind me and sat in the copilot's seat. My natural behaviour in a situation like that is to make smalltalk, but I decided against it as the man didn't seem to be in the mood. He was a doer, not a talker, that much I was sure of. Not a pirate, not a trader, possibly an explorer, but unlikely. A prospector perhaps. He didn't seem to be a stranger to hard work. And he didn't look rich. I had the autopilot manouver the small fighter out into space. Again the man pointed and my eyes followed his finger to a cluster of lights in space on the night side of Mercury, fifty kilometres away. I accelerated, preferring to navigate myself instead of leaving it to the autopilot. My scanner showed that it was a large ship, almost a Lynx in size. I had never before dealt in ships that big, but why not? The bigger they are, the larger the profit. When we were a kilometer away I spoke. "Is that the ship you want to sell?" "No. Inside." Quite. A ship transported inside another ship meant that its drive was shot. Not at all my favourite kind of deal. Too much hassle in getting it prepped for sale. I vaguely wondered why he hadn't just called on the tri-D instead of coming in to get me in person, but I was too occupied with not crashing into the large carrier to give it any further thought. "In the back." I manouvered the Saker round the back of the carrier and kept well away from the hatch now opening up into the hangar. Something moved in there. Something big. I'm not sure if I gasped, but I may well have. The light grey shape that slowly made its way out of the back of the carrier and into the darkness of night space was unmistakeable, even to someone like me, who had never seen one before. An Imperial Courier. The legendary mainstay of the Imperial Navy; fast, big, powerful, intimidating. The ship that chased the Thargoids out of the galaxy a long time ago. An arrogant-looking ship, immense purpose seemingly radiating from its hull. Engine sections like enormous missiles, rotating slowly, making you feel very vulnerable. Just to see one was a really extraordinary event, but in Federation space? Unheard of. Unique. Profitable. I had to have it. I cleared my throat. "How much do you want for it?" I braced myself. "Two hundred plus fifty," he said flatly. Obviously no room for negotiation. I sensed that I was expected to make the decision right there and then, but the businessman in me protested. "That's a lot of money. I must inspect it first." "Ship in very good condition. Inspect not necessary. Not much time." "How did you find it? Where? Did you buy it from the Empire?" He hesitated. Maybe he didn't want to tell me about it, or maybe he was searching for the right words in a language foreign to him. "Find ship drifting. Coordinates two negative comma nineteen. All men gone. Ship not damage. Put ship in big ship. Not use it. Too small. Now sell." I considered for a minute. At galactic coordinate -2, 19 there was not much in the ways of civilization. And it was certainly not Imperial space. Could be a legitimate salvage-job. I knew that Couriers were sometimes seen in the Alliance, run by traders with Imperial connections. But what was a trader doing way out there, so far from the Core? What had happened to the crew? Intriguing. And potentially very profitable. If the Courier was indeed in good shape, as he claimed, I would easily be able to charge half a million for it here in Sol, maybe more. That meant a profit of one hundred percent. That's the kind of stuff legends are made of. "Is the drive working?" "Yes. Ship in good condition." He looked at me, apparently waiting for my decision. I had never before bought a ship without taking a good, close look at it first, checking that all the systems worked and had been serviced properly. But now, for some reason, I felt as if I was under pressure to act immediately, and I had to admit that he gave me the impression of an honest man. Simple, but honest. I did some calculations. If I bought the Courier for a quarter million and it turned out to be a complete wreck, it would probably not be entirely unsalable. The hull alone, if it wasn't punctured, should bring in somewhere between twenty and fifty thousand. The Griffin I had sold a few hours earlier had given me a profit of a hundred and eighty thousand. So taken as a whole, this day of business would still be in the black. Barely. It was a risk I could afford to take. I took it. "I'll buy it for two-fifty." "Two hundred thousand plus fifty thousand." "Yes." He said a few words in a language I had never heard before, and the Courier turned towards Daedalus, accelerating majestically. He must have had a comlink on, transmitting our entire conversation, such as it was, to his friends. A cautious bunch. I had the Saker overtake the Courier on the way back to my section of the berthing area, inexplicably hoping that not too many people noticed the rare vessel. An interplanetary shuttle of unfashionable design followed us from the carrier, probably to bring the man beside me and the crew of the Courier back from Daedalus after payment had been made. As we disembarked the Saker, the Courier was slowly being manouvered into the same berth the Griffin had been in and came to a dignified halt. A hatch opened and a woman wearing the same kind of suit as the mysterious man appeared, her face serious and concentrated. She didn't come over to us, choosing instead to enter the little shuttle which was now berthed right behind the Courier. As far as I could make out, the pilot of the shuttle was a teenage boy. Hardly surprising; everyone who wants to learn to fly must start out somewhere, and there are few environments better suited to just that than behind the controls of an interplanetary shuttle. I began making preparations to pay via my wrist computer, using the DNA from the sweat on my fingertip as ID. "Right. Now I just need the number of your account." "Pay in goods, not account." Startled silence. It felt as if minutes went by before I was able to answer, so unusual was the idea of not settling payment electronically. And yes, my jaw hinged open, but just a little. Honest! "Wha... er, how do you mean? Do you want to trade it for one of my ships?" "No. Do not want ship. Goods. You buy goods on station, give to us. Worth two hundred thousand plus fifty." He was very calm and looked straight at me, patiently, mildly. And firmly. "But if I just transfer the money to you, you can buy it yourself!" OK, so I'm a bit slow sometimes. "No account. You buy goods, give to us." "But listen...." I looked at him and something in those clear, grey eyes made me understand. I averted my eyes. "All right. I guess we could do it like that. It's just unusual. OK, you've got a deal. So what kind of goods do you want?" I think he smiled, just a little bit. - - - Six hours later, the carrier lay in space ten kilometres away, its cargo hold and stores rapidly filling up with robots, farm machinery, liquid oxygen, all kinds of mining equipment, air processors, a few computers, different types of clothing, lots of medicines, and crate after crate after crate of food. Thanks to my connections and business sense, they got a lot more for their quarter million than if they had bought it themselves, which I suppose was a nice bonus they hadn't thought about. Or maybe they had. I don't know. They spent every single credit. Even though it was in the middle of the night, Daedalus Admin Time, the sale, which needless to say was one of the biggest in the station's history, created quite a stir. Crowds were starting to gather in the merchants' joint showroom as Kennds and I picked out the various articles from the stocklist and haggled over prices, continuously in contact with the crew of the carrier via my wrist computer. A fleet of Heavy Lifters, all that could be mobilized on Daedalus, flew back and forth between the station and the carrier at top speed, loading countless containers into its cargo bays and general stores. Toward the end, when the merchants' stores were starting to look empty, some locals were actually on the brink of panic, thinking that the mysterious carrier was taking away all the station's supplies. It wasn't, and if it had, a bunch of fully loaded Panther Clippers from Earth would have been here in less than twenty-four hours to top up our stores. Some people just love to panic. - - - Exhausted, I stood by a viewport and looked at the final phases of the loading operation. I had just spoken to my technical manager Haggane, who, after a brief inspection, could report that the Courier was in excellent shape, had lots of equipment and had even been thoroughly cleaned on the inside. Somehow, I was not surprised. I watched as a Heavy Lifter approached the carrier with the last few containers. I knew what was in them, and it was not something the crew had ordered or were expecting. Like I said, I have a gift for figuring people out and understanding their personalities. That also means that I am good at reading and interpreting all kinds of situations; you may as well call it social instinct. So even though I only ever met one of the carrier's crew, and even though the carrier was only at Daedalus for eight hours, I think I found out a bit more about them than they realized. And probably more than they would like me to know, judging from how secretive they were. It was just a matter of putting the pieces together. Some pieces were concrete, like the man's dialect and attire and the stuff they bought; some were abstract, like the way the man behaved and handled himself; and some pieces were completely immaterial, like the feeling I got when I talked to him and the impression I got of the woman I had only seen for a few seconds. I think I got the right picture. The picture was this: The carrier was owned and crewed by one large family, or possibly a few small ones. In their vast ship, they lived a nomadic life in the outer regions of the Galaxy, far away from the Core and any kind of civilization. Here, they mined asteroids and prospected on planets, harvesting the unsettled systems, scraping out a living, only rarely bothering to venture into the populated areas of space for essential equipment. Theirs was a simple life, dominated by hard work and the need of making the most out of a harsh environment. They probably even did some farming on hospitable planets. Out of the blue they had gotten lucky and found the Courier, probably having a hell of a time salvaging it in one piece. And probably not quite knowing what to do with it. But they must have realized right away that, although unusable to them, it could be exchanged for things they actually needed. What an opportunity to replenish and renew their equipment and fill up their stores! The temptation was too strong. They jumped to Sol, even if it was far away, painfully aware that they could not enter an unsecure system in their unarmed carrier. I was just lucky that Daedalus was the closest trade post when they emerged from witch-space. In all likelyhood, their coming to me had nothing to do with my precious reputation. Kennds provided an important clue regarding their origins. He claimed in no uncertain terms that the language they spoke was Tilialan. I believed him; he has been around. It would explain a few things, like the fact that they didn't have a bank account. The chaotic system of Tiliala has been ravaged by civil war for generations, and any banks present there could not possibly be of interstellar magnitude. It also explained why they had not been able to call me on Tri-D. All citizens from anarchic and unstable systems are denied access to GalNet and most other communications, to prevent them being used for "Non-condoned Activities and Purposes of Terrorism", as I think Federal law reads on that point. They were a family which had taken a chance and left a burning, war-torn system for a more peaceful existence far away, where they made the rules themselves and where they could live as they chose. And where they could maintain some hope. It seemed logical. So the Heavy Lifter I was currently watching as it crept towards their ship was carrying a gift from me. The collective term is luxury goods; entertainment systems, tri-D movies, sports equipment, Dreamware, exotic drinks, electronic books, ship furniture, toys and so on. Just a few things to make their lives that little bit more enjoyable as they while away the long hours of space travel. And all quality articles. I even sent off my little box of porous brown cylinders. I don't think I quite know how to make the best of them, and I really don't have the time to find out. But maybe those people do. It doesn't mean that I am soft or anything, you understand. It makes sound economical sense. Next time they find an unmanned, undamaged and unusual ship just floating around in an unsettled system, they'll know where to go to sell it. Slim chances, I admit, but not at all unimaginable. Besides, I think I kind of liked them. paolo.mariani@spray.no  |
paolo.mariani@spray.no