Quarter Share: A Trader's Tale from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper (2 page)

***

Three days later, a courier delivered the urn containing my mother’s ashes. I placed it on the coffee table. She’d liked coffee, and we’d spent a lot of time sitting there with our feet up, talking—mugs of fragrant brew in hand.

That was it. Nobody else showed up, not my mates from the enclave, not company people, not Mom’s colleagues from the university—nobody.

To be fair, I didn’t have a lot of friends to begin with. I’d read about best friends in novels and such, but I’d never actually had one. Angela Markova had been the closest thing when I was a kid, but she left Neris when her father took a job with another company at the end of fifth form. I’d never really found anyone to take her place.

Something about being booted off-planet made you an instant pariah—no need to add water. I’d seen it before when people ran afoul of the company. Within ninety planetary days, I’d have to be gone. Nobody would bother to reach out to me in the short time I had left.

For more than a week I went through the motions of what would be considered a normal life. Eventually, the voice in my head stopped saying, “I can’t believe she’s dead,” and shifted to,
“Now
what am I going to do?”

In a month I was supposed to start at the university. Growing up with a professor, I really didn’t have a choice. We’d had several long, and occasionally heated, discussions on the subject. I hadn’t wanted to make a decision about what to do with the rest of my life with so much of it left ahead of me. Over time, I’d come to believe there might be some value in getting a degree in plant biology. If nothing else, signing up for college had gotten my mother to stop bugging me about it.

As a company planet, the University of Neris restricted enrollment to employees and their families, but even so it had a surprisingly good curriculum and one of the best biology departments in the quadrant. Its reputation was bolstered by being on a planet full of granapple vineyards. The university’s standing, combined with the corporate incentive provided to dependents of university staff, made U of N a good option.

I just didn’t know what to do with myself when that option expired.

***

By the end of the second week, it became clear that I had a serious problem. Passage off-planet cost more than I had—a lot more—several kilocreds more. I couldn’t afford to buy passage, and I couldn’t stay. NerisCo would repatriate me to the nearest non-company system, Siren, but they would charge me for the ticket and I’d start my new life deep in debt.

I needed work that would pay to get me off-planet. Unfortunately, I could only see two options left: enlisting in the military, or signing on with one of the merchant vessels that visited periodically. The Galactic Marines recruited aggressively on Neris. There were always kids looking for any way to get out from underneath the company, but I knew I could never be a marine. I lacked the soldierly instinct and that whole killing and dying thing wasn’t for me, so my only real choice was the Union Hall. I confess I really didn’t want to go there either, but beggars have few choices.

The next morning, I gathered my courage and trammed over to Neris Port. It was one of those perfect, bright, warm days when the soft breezes carried the spicy, tart smell of granapples out of the vineyards and into every corner of the town. The delicate bouquet covered even the hot-circuit board smell of the tram. It made everything seem too cheerful and pleasant. I hated it.

The Union Hall occupied a refurbished hangar at the edge of the shuttle port. When I stepped in out of the sun, the cavernous hall felt cool and smelled faintly of an institutional-grade floor wax. My footfalls echoed from the far wall as I walked past a row of data terminals and a long counter with five workstations, only one of which seemed to be in use. Aside from the functionary behind the counter, a slightly scary looking older fem with an artificial left arm, I was the only person there. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light level, and by then I had reached her station.

“Whaddya want, kid?” Her voice bounced off the ceiling.

I crossed to her position at the counter, noted her nametag said “O’Rourke.” I smiled tentatively at her and said, “I need to get off-planet.”

“Son, this is the hirin’ hall. The ticket office is down thata way. Just keep goin’. Ya can’t miss it.” She smiled a bit nastily I thought and pointed with an artificial finger.

“I can’t afford a ticket. I need to get a job that will give me transport.”

O’Rourke looked hard at me. “Ya need a lot more’n that, I’d wager. Ya lookin’ to hire onto a ship?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Ya ever sign The Articles before, kid?”

I could hear the capital letters in
The Articles
as she spoke the words. I shook my head.

O’Rourke rubbed the back of her neck with her good hand and cast a why me look up at the ceiling. Finally, she sighed. “Okay, kid, everybody has a story. What’s yours?”

I didn’t know how much to tell her, so I gave her the rough outline. “I was supposed to start at the university next month. My mom is—was—a professor there, but she died in a flitter crash. Now the company says I have to get off-planet because she’s no longer employed, and I’m no longer a dependent.”

O’Rourke stared for a moment but then something changed in her expression. “Good story. Where’s yer card?”

I pulled out my identification and slotted it into her reader. My particulars popped up on the display. O’Rourke examined it, scrolling and
tsk’ing
as she scrolled. She’d only checked through date of birth, and education level, before starting to shake her head. “Forget it.” Her voice was not unkind but she also didn’t look at me. “No specialty and you’re just barely eighteen. Technically, I could offer The Articles, but we got no open berths for quarter shares just now.”

I wondered what language she was speaking for a half dozen heartbeats before she noticed my complete lack of comprehension. She explained again, slowly, “You’re old enough to be contracted, but ya need to have a ship willin’ to hire ya—give ya a berth—before ya can get a job. With this skill level, that means somethin’ entry-level, what we call a quarter share, and nobody’s got an open one on file.” She pointed at the data screens mounted on the wall. “We have three ships in port now, and two inbound over the next week or so. Only one with a postin’ is the
Cleveland Maru
but that’s a full share berth and you’re not qualified.”

I examined the crawl carefully and it seemed to confirm what she had said. The listing showing CleveMar had an AG2 position, whatever that was.

“What’s all this stuff mean?” I pointed at the display. My brain had already shut down, although I hadn’t realized it, and my mouth engaged without conscious control.

She considered me for a tick, and then shrugged. “Sit down, kid. I’ll show ya a few things.” She took me to one of the data-port alcoves and demonstrated the use of the terminal. It allowed spacers to scroll through the various jobs, ships, and companies. I’d seen help wanted posts on NerisNet before, but this was a whole different bag of granapples. The display showed ship names, company affiliations, size, cargo capacity, propulsion systems, and even a list of the berths. The default setting showed only the openings, but with a little manipulation, I could find out how many positions of each kind were on every ship.

After a few ticks of walking me through the controls, O’Rourke went back to her place at the counter. I could see what she meant about the open slots. I went through each ship’s particulars. Her summary of the situation seemed to be depressingly accurate. As large as the ships were, they didn’t need a lot of crew. Out of that small number, the entry-level quarter share ones accounted for only a tiny fraction.

“What’s a share?” I asked, calling to her from where I sat.

“A share is extra pay ya get if the voyage is profitable. Owners, captains, and the other officers get the most, but everybody gets somethin’,” she called back.

“So in an entry-level position, I’d get a quarter of a share?”

“Yeah, but don’t be plannin’ to retire on it. It’s not much. Better than a spanner to the cranium, but it isn’t all that many creds.”

As I looked through each quarter share listing: engine wiper, mess deck attendant, cargo loader, I realized these were the dirtiest tasks and probably boring to boot. I sighed. Beggars, as they say, can’t be choosers. Unfortunately, even begging couldn’t get me a job where none existed. I shut down the terminal and headed for the exit.

“Thank you, Ms. O’Rourke,” I called over my shoulder, as I braced myself to step back into the midday glare.

“Hey, kid, if ya’re serious about gettin’ a berth, pack a bag and be ready to go.”

I stopped with my hand on the door feeling like a big, cartoon question mark was rising over my head.

O’Rourke beckoned me to the counter. “I like ya. Ya remind me of my nephew. Here’s how this really works. No ship will pull in here with an open quarter share, but they often unload a troublemaker. Some idiot signs on but then doesn’t pull his weight. He gets here, to the ass-end of nowhere, and put ashore with no income and no way home. A few days dirt-side gives him a bit of motivation, so to speak, to do better. Of course, that leaves the ship short-handed.”

“And if I’m ready to ship out…?”

“Well,” she said slyly, “ya’d have to be ready to go on a few stans notice and can’t take much with ya. Twenty kilos is the mass allotment for a quarter share. But ya don’t need clothes and there’s hygiene gear on the ship. Only thing ya really need to take is entertainment cubes and personal stuff.”

“I don’t need clothes?”

“Shipsuits, lad, shipsuits. They come with the berth. Ya pay for them out of yer first few chits. But they don’t count against yer mass allotment. One change of civvies will get ya through, if ya’re careful with ’em.” She smiled at me, and I felt she’d just given me some valuable insight. I just had to figure it out.

“Thanks, Ms. O’Rourke. How will you contact me?”

She pointed to the display that still had my data on it. With a couple of keystrokes, she saved it and gave me a broad wink. “I think I’ll be able to find ya, kid. If ya’re serious, be ready. The
Lois McKendrick
is comin’ in late next week. Rumor has it she’s got some deadwood that needs seasonin’ dirt-side. That gives ya about ten days to get ready.” She pulled a data cube from a rack under the counter and tossed it to me. “Here, read up. It’ll save ya some problems down the line.”

I nodded with a smile of thanks, stuffed the cube in my pocket, and headed home to figure out what to take with me. How do you fit a whole life into twenty kilos?

***

It didn’t take long to get back to the flat I’d shared with my mother. It still felt weird walking in and knowing she wasn’t there—that I was really alone.

The hardest part was going through her personal things. It made me a bit queasy dealing with her underwear drawer. I felt silly for being so squeamish. I had folded her bras and panties hundreds of times while doing laundry, but this was different somehow. Finally, I took her suits and dresses to the local charity drop. I just emptied the rest into the refuse bin without really looking.

She had a ton of professional stuff like books and papers and such. Her peeda had been with her, and lost in the flitter, of course. She had left a portable computer though. I donated her books to the library, while her pictures, data cubes, and records went into storage boxes. I packed her diplomas on top. Altogether it didn’t amount to much, maybe a hundred kilos in five boxes.

In contrast, looking around my own room, I realized I could walk away and probably wouldn’t miss any of it. My peeda was already stocked and I had some spare storage cubes and my good boots. The problem was my bag. I only had a heavy suitcase. It massed three kilos empty and seemed kind of clunky.

***

After three days of sorting, tossing, filing, and just generally working my way through the flat, I finally finished. I took out O’Rourke’s data cube and slotted it into my peeda. The title was
The Spacer’s Handbook
published by the Confederated Planets Joint Committee on Trade. The CPJCT, it turned out, was the arbiter of all things trading related. The cube reminded me of the scout manual I had as a kid. It had everything you needed to know about being a spacer: what to wear, how to wear it, and when and whom to salute. A little holo clip showed the proper technique for the later. The saluting part wasn’t too difficult, and you only did that under special circumstances, and only to officers.

The manual listed the various ranks and shares: quarter share, half share, full share, and on up to owner’s share. The thing was huge. I checked the size on the chip and gasped when I saw just how big it was. The Encyclopedia Galactica was smaller. I hoped I wouldn’t need to read the whole thing.

The introductory chapter caught my eye with a small section titled:
Shipping Out
. It explained the mass allotment increased as you rose through the ranks. As O’Rourke had said, the shipsuits were provided and items like toothpaste, shampoo, and shaving gear were all standardized and available on board.
The Handbook
recommended that a new shipmate should report wearing decent civilian attire and not worry about a change of clothing. The illustration showed a somewhat dated picture of what a well-dressed person might wear to a casual dinner with a friend. The jackpot in this section was the recommendation of the duffel bag for loading your gear. The lightweight mono-mol bag encompassed almost a half-cubic meter of volume, but massed less than twenty grams and could be folded up to about the size of a handkerchief when empty. Spacers considered it a standard and, according to
The Handbook
, “could be purchased at a reasonable cost at any Union Hall.” I smiled, thinking I should pay another visit to my friend O’Rourke. In the meantime, I started weighing out gear on the bathroom scale.

Twenty kilos turned out to be a lot.