*
“It’s still going to cost a small fortune to put right,” said Rus. “To do it properly, I mean. You do know that, don’t you?”
The Dubious Profit drifted gently in a very quiet corner of Issoar space. Hesperus stood with his hands behind his back, watching Rus drag another dripping laser coolant coil out of the air-plant hydroponic system. He took a deep, ostentatious breath, and ignored the strong stench of overcooked cabbage which permeated the ship. “Very commendable, Mr Rus!” he said, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Very commendable indeed! You know, laser overheating is a pressing issue for a great many starship commanders: now that we have developed this admirable solution, we can patent it, sell it … this could be worth a lot of money. A lot of money!”
“Hesperus,” said Rus, between gritted teeth, “I only did this out of desperation. Desperation and temporary insanity, brought on by oxygen starvation – and possibly contagion. If you can find me one single other commander witless enough to use his own ship’s atmospheric systems as a heat-sink, I will carry out the work myself, for free. Wearing that ridiculous twixtear cap of yours as a codpiece. It might have escaped your notice, but that stunt not only damaged the air-plant, it nearly cooked two members of the crew.”
“Two tenants, Rus,” said Hesperus. “Not crew: tenants. We have settled that question, at least. In any case, those tenants assure me that the air-plant will soon be in excellent health once more: they work with a vigour all would do well to emulate.”
Rus hissed, and yanked out another coil, spraying the floor with green algal ooze. “It’s not even as if you needed the laser!” he said. “Compared with twenty-two tonnes of cargo canisters moving at that sort of relative speed … entirely superfluous. Still though,” he added, looking sidelong at Hesperus, “shame about the cargo, eh? Twenty-two tonnes. Twenty-two tonnes of red wango: what would that have fetched, do you think?”
Hesperus scowled. “You have your work to do, Mr Rus,” he said. “You should not waste your time with idle speculation.” He turned, and stamped off down the corridor to the cockpit.
Twenty-two tonnes. It nagged at him, gnawed at him. Yes, he was alive; yes, the ship would survive. They would have to skim more quirium fuel from the stellar winds, a strenuous and potentially dangerous task, and make further jumps, until at last they outran the Co-operative’s interest – which meant many more days of short rations, boredom, missed opportunities … and he had lost twenty-two tonnes of prime red wango! He cursed.
In the cockpit, he found Stepan, slumped in the co-pilot’s chair. The navigator started, and tried to hide the book he had been reading. Hesperus recognised the cover: Blood and Plunder. He opened his mouth to remonstrate, then closed it again, and shook his head. He sat, tapping at the controls, running through a systems check.
“Stepan,” he said. “You have run calculations for jumps to all neighbouring systems, as I asked?”
“Um, yes, Captain,” Stepan said.
“Twice?”
“Yes … well, three times, actually. The second time one didn’t come out right, so …”
“Very good.” He tested the compass, waggled the control yoke. He turned to Stepan. “Arae. Mad Arae. ‘Mad Queen Arae’, I suppose they will call her now. You read about her. Do you … admire her?”
Stepan blinked. “Um … not admire, no, I don’t … it’s just, she’s just exciting, is all.”
Hesperus raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, um, ah, no, er, not like that, that’s not what I mean at all, no,” said Stepan, his ears fanning up and down. “Just, well … adventure and excitement, you know? She did exciting things. Big. Dramatic. You know?”
Hesperus sniffed. “Indeed. Well, do not let me detain you.”
“Eh?” said Stepan. “Oh. Right.” He stood and shuffled out of the cockpit.
Hesperus stared at the screen. The stars gazed back, unwinking. Arae was rich; he was not. Arae was powerful; he was not. Arae was respected, feared, and even loved; he was not. He shifted in his seat. Then again, he thought, Arae was dead; he was not. On the whole, taking everything into consideration – and twenty-two tonnes of prime red wango notwithstanding – he supposed he preferred things as they were.
THE END
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends