Kurtland-Tonakawa 66

When I was a kid the moon port always looked so fancy. The posters all had the hopeful style of 300 years ago. Getting tossed out with the non-recyclables there put the lie to that. Beaten but not bloody, it was time to find a gig. Scuffling in holds and hiding from crews can get you around, but it won't put any coin in your pocket.

Things were pretty dead as I perched against the wall and begged for some coin. The moon isn't a great place for charity. Three days later I had enough to get cleaned up and get a meal. Cleaned and fed I walked into the hall to pick up a gig.

I'd been in the deep for a stretch and there was a good chance whoever was on the desk wouldn't know me. The stew in charge took my chip and looked me over, handed me back a tab for the Tristis and waited. The number at the top was a decent score.

"How big is the crew and how's the split?"

"Just you, pal. No split, but you're gonna earn."

"I need some in advance, say, 600 at 2 percent?"

Sailors have borrowed against their wages forever. I asked for less than half to skip the haggle.

"Sure, plus 50 for my troubles. She's at 34 on the left. Needs to be away in 2 hours."

I swiped my thumb across the tab, passed it back, and headed to the shops. Flush with coin and back in debt.

#

I spend most of the coin on a decent pair of boots and enough booze to last the trip. I pick up some cheap old novels and head to the hangar. When I get there I know I have the short side of this deal.

The Tristis is a Kurtland-Tonakawa 66. One of the original hauling rigs. It's an electro-mag frame that holds containers together and is a big block floating through space. There's a small corner for the crew. They used to staff 10 for a full trip across the deep. Now it's just one or two babysitters in case the autonomous drive fucks up. My stomach drops when I see the windows. If I had any luck the shipper would have replaced them with screens.

Deep space is dark and vast. Abysmal. Get to the edge of a solar system and the lights go out. The first long-range trips, if they got to port, would have 2-3 people left barely able to string a word together, or they would have all snapped and drifted off as a total loss.

The autos take care of making it in now. They don't need a crew, until they do. The insurance companies make sure there is a crew if you fly the deep. Even if it's just one sad sack like me.

With the vig at 2 percent a week on the advance plus fees I'm going to owe the company money as it is. I might be able to get to scratch if I get in early. I might argue the 50 isn't part of the loan. Something will turn up.

#

I shove myself through the bulkhead and hear the hiss as it closes behind me. The first thing I see is the view. Fucking windows. I grab some sheets from storage and do what I can to cover the windows in the bridge and my bunk. It's a half-assed job. You can't really pound a nail into the walls. I don't have time to get to the shops again. I have to push off and head out.

I take my chip and slip it into the helm. It takes a minute for the bridge lights to come up and the nav to pull the manifest. I toss my stuff on my bunk and make sure they stocked the galley. I brought whiskey from the station. The shipper stocks the basics for a fee.

On a long trip like this habit is important. It's kept me from losing it before. The rack holds about 90 thousand containers plus the 3 by 3 cube that is the ship. Every day I will take a walk from top to bottom and end to end three times. I'll shower, cook and eat three times a day, and get eight hours of sleep. Rhythm and habit.

When the nav is ready I strap into my bunk and slip on the mask. The nav drives at near light speed for the first months while I take a nice nap. The Tristis doesn't have real stasis, so any faster and I'd be a puddle when we get to cruising. The gas keeps me still and there's electro-stim for my muscles. The novels play and I hope they keep me sane.

#

The drugs don't taper. You're floating and then you're not. I roll out of the bunk and struggle to stay on my feet. I need to get to the head and take care of business.

The sheets have fallen off the windows and I stare out into nothingness. It looks fake. Nothing should be that dark. It's hard to look away but I'm hungry and head to the galley.

I fix up some noodles and tea. I stare out at that same scene as I slurp the noodles and sip the tea. The tea has gone cold when the nav beeps at me. I shake myself out of it and head to the bridge. I fill out the log and play a quick matching game. The system is happy I'm still sane. I start the book playing again. It's an old-time detective book.

#

The first week awake is boring. I have my routine. I find myself slowing down on my walks. I stare out there for longer periods of time.

I've switched out the tea for the whiskey I brought on board. It's cheap and it burns and I have enough for the trip. If I keep it under control. Just a drink with dinner.

#

I wake up on the floor of the galley. Stiff, hung over, covered in noodles. They weren't digested so that's good. I clean up and head to the bridge. Things are on course. Kurtland holds up the cards and I match the shapes without thinking about it. I start up a new book about a detective who takes a case from a woman with a missing sister. I take a walk to the far end. I try to keep my eyes on the wall and not look out those windows.

#

I wake with a jolt when I hear the bottle shatter on the floor. Space is still out there. I'm stiff and tired. I look down at the glass spread on the floor. Looks like just a quick sweep up will take care of that. I tidy up and head to the bridge.

Kurtland is waiting on the bridge when I get there. He's poured himself a drink and his feet are up on the desk. I slink into my chair and shuffle some things a bit.

"Pour yourself one to get steady there, friend. Then we can get to the questions. I've been busy while you were sleeping it off."

I pour two fingers of the bourbon, down it, and pour another.

"Easy, easy, we got work to do here. You see this? Recognize it?"

"That looks like a key. Does it fit the lock at the sister's room?"

"Pretty good. There's hope yet."

Kurtland had gone to the sister's apartment and found some shirts. Nice ones. Tags said they were Tony K's. Seems the sister had a new beau. A dangerous one.

"So we tell that dame who she's holed up with and collect our fee, right?"

"Sure, that's the way you would handle it. Take the cash and get to the bar. That would be your style."

Kurtland's glass is still untouched. I lift mine to my lips. Already feeling that warmth.

I set it back down without drinking. Scrawl some lines in my pad and get to my feet.

"Guess we're heading over to Tony's to save the sister, huh."

"Yep, if we're lucky one of us will make it back."

I hear a phone ring down the hall as we head out.

#

The nav messages ahead that the crew isn't responding and will be taking the rest of the trip at light speed.

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