Grace looked thoughtful. “Will a view from the security camera do? You still look like a strong gust could knock you over.”
It probably could.
“Provisionally, yes," I agreed and he held out a hand for his tablet.
He stared at it, probably doing something behind the scenes with his implant computer. When he handed it back it showed a feed of a nice, but unremarkable little workshop. The last occupant hadn’t been the tidiest sort, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. The shop had all the trappings of every driver’s workshop I’d worked in ever. I could see a support pod in one corner and there were shelves on every wall loaded with anchored crates that had bot codes written on the front in varying hands. Most were disposable maintenance and facility bots, I could tell. Others had codes I didn’t recognize past the first few characters of the ID string.
Right. Those ‘specialist’ bots.
I did recognize the manufacturer; Cryogen. They made kitchen appliances for large starliner operations. I’d worked with their service bots in the past, but freezers weren’t what I’d consider ‘specialty equipment.’
I looked at Grace. “I’m interested so far, but what do you need the food service bots for? Cryogen doesn’t make galley appliances for this class of vessel.”
“They aren’t for food service.” Grace looked at the tablet and the view changed to reveal a cargo hold that held two banks of big box-like machines. They seemed to be powered down, but the sides had clear panels that showed a cradle inside meant for a quadruped. “Your main concern is going to be these. It’s our newest service; specialty livestock transport.”
Well. That was certainly something worth my time. Cryogenic transports needed constant supervision and maintenance. Bots were ideal for the purpose. They didn’t need breaks for food or rest or entertainment, all of which a living medical technician would. Not to mention that a bot’s time was far cheaper than a human’s.
That said, anything living that was worth shipping in cryo had to be insured up to its eyeballs and that meant Grace’s operation would be under constant scrutiny. Bots smart enough for medical oversight didn’t need a human to direct them, but bots couldn’t protect themselves well from deliberate sabotage and so their behavior needed close oversight. I wasn’t sure if sabotage was going to be a realistic worry for Grace, but I could see an insurance agent being much more concerned and those worries would translate into credits added onto already the steep premiums for interstellar transport.
“Really? I thought shipping embryos was more economical.” I could see the stalls were empty. Grace clearly wasn’t willing to court risk by boarding anything until he had a replacement driver. He’d said the Ag Ring wouldn’t release the cargo without insurance approval, but there were ways around that; especially on this station. I liked that. Recklessness wasn’t a charming trait in a starship captain outside of the movies. In space, recklessness either got you killed or drove you to bankruptcy. Neither was a state I liked to be in if I could avoid it.
“For food grade purposes, sure. No one cares what the beef cattle come out looking like so long as they taste good and their waste maintains the terraforming bacteria," Grace agreed as he took back his tablet. “The outer colonies are just about established now so their priorities are shifting. They’re all self-sufficient and the Rim militia has finally secured the major traffic lanes. Consider Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.” He spun from side to side in his seat, barely able to contain his excited energy.
I bit down on a smile. I seemed to have hit on a subject of some enthusiasm.
“They’re all self-supporting so they have their physiological and safety requirements satisfied. According to census data from the last two years there’s been a huge boom in marriages and births out there too. People are starting families. That means the next steps are esteem and self-actualization. All those rich belter families out there with their huge land grants are going to want to start defining themselves and their communities. They want to differentiate themselves from their neighbors. You can do that through art, culture, or…” he paused for effect, “…industry.”
“You mean through livestock?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around it.
“Through animals in general. That’s a bit of primeval programming humans haven’t gotten past," he clarified. “Our first run was last year before those corporate sharks stole your predecessor out from under me. We carried start-up stock for a horse farm to an Aluminum Baron out in Deltana Rema. She wasn’t willing to gamble on fertilized embryos. She wanted registered and trained adult animals who’d undergone a full health check and genetic testing.”
Actually, that made sense.
Of course a bunch of nouveau riche colonists were going to want bits of the home world with them. I was just surprised that colonial oversight was willing to let them introduce new species into their biomes, but I supposed it would be harder for something like a horse or a cow to get loose and disrupt the planet’s ecology past the terraformation boundaries–assuming they’d be able to survive outside a farm. I noticed Grace hadn’t mentioned transporting anything small and escape-prone that could breed fast enough to adapt to an alien planet.
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There were beef farms out there already. Horses weren’t that far off from cows, when you got down to it.
“I’ve got a waiting list of people just like her who want to establish heritage game preserves and cattle ranches. They are willing to pay because they’re building the stories that will define the lives of their children and grandchildren.” He spread his hands. “Visit Deltana Rema and ride Old Earth horses through an alien rainforest!” He waggled his eyebrows at me and grinned. “Tourism is probably further off, but that’s what the rimfolk are starting to think about right now and they’ve got the credits to do something about it.”
“Cassandra has two holds. Is the other like this?” I asked and Grace shook his head.
“No, the other is for smaller consignments. The outer rim has some industry now, but they all still want the newest of whatever that’s popular in the Sol system. A small, fast ship can do a tidy business in celebrity endorsed herbal supplements, band cores, and designer accessories.” He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s the less sexy side of our business, but I’m a firm believer in diversification. Cryo failures happen even with the best equipment and the best staff. Diversification protects our bottom line. We’ll be moving seed stock and live plants too. There’s a vineyard starter kit aboard right now, but plants aren’t as delicate as animals.”
Damn it. I didn’t really want to like Grace, but that seemed to be happening anyway.
Part of me had known from the moment I agreed to set foot on his ship that I was going to sign his contract. The rest of me knew that I’d made the decision as soon as he’d mentioned the outer rim. It didn’t really matter what I’d be doing or where I’d be doing it, so long as we left this sector.
Mostly, it was self interest. I didn’t want to stay on Fjord. Mimir stopped there too often and if I stayed then I could potentially be on the labor registry for years or even decades before the labor board released me to a new captain. I’d have to spend all that time in hiding for fear of running into a former crewmate. I wanted lots of distance between me and my old life.
“All right," my voice sounded high and thin in my ears. “Give me the contract. I’ll sign.”
Grace blinked. “Just like that? You don’t want to sleep on it?”
“Someone recently reminded me that the indigents’ housing here is terrible," I replied, trying for humor. From the look on his face I don’t think I managed it. “I don’t think I’d get much sleep.”
“I’m willing to spot you a bunk for the night," Grace countered. He must have read the confusion on my face because he hurried to explain. “I do want you to sign, but in the interests of full disclosure; you shouldn’t until you’ve met the rest of the crew. My last driver didn’t leave because of the handsome pay and good facilities, after all. If you stay, I’d like you to stay for good.”
Stars, I hadn’t even considered my crewmates.
In my experience, the only person to worry about on a ship was the Captain and maybe the XO. They were the only people you couldn’t avoid, but that wouldn’t be the case on Cassandra. She was a small vessel, equal in size to a single small housing block. Mimir had been equivalent to a small city even though it didn’t boast a similar population. You could go days to weeks without seeing someone who wasn’t in your work group. It had been easy to vanish when someone had started paying me too much attention, although I obviously hadn’t been able to keep that up forever.
“Oh.” I rubbed the back of my head, worrying at the minimal amount of hair I had left. I still wasn’t used to the short little bristles, although they’d grown out some since I’d been forced to shave it. “No, that’s a good point. I’m used to Leviathans and Carriers.”
Grace deflated and nodded. “Yes, that’ll be an adjustment for you. Everyone has private spaces here, but the common areas can get a little close. My crew is all good people, but we’re not always comfortable people.”
I got a chill. “Are they superstitious?” I was going to have to take my chances, even if they were, wasn’t I?
He started to answer and then paused. “You know, I don’t actually know," he said at last, looking like the admission hurt. “I want to believe not, but I understand that’s a safety concern for you. Why don’t I show you a bunk and I’ll have an answer by the time you’ve gotten some rest.”
Crew quarters were on the level above operations, where most of the offices, the clinic, and the deck were located. The other levels, according to the elevator map, were ‘Cargo’ and ‘Works’; both located below operations.
Operations was the main level of the ship with the main lock on one end of a needle-shaped corridor and the deck on the other. Grace’s office was located in the ‘eye’ of the needle just inside a U-shaped deck. Grace led me out back towards the main lock, which doubled as an elevator.
Unlike Operations, the crew level had one straight corridor that ended in a small observation lounge with a port. Most of the hatches that lined either side of the passageway had names outside them save a few at the far end just outside the lounge. The one Grace stopped us outside had a blank nameplate above ‘Supercargo.’
I turned to Grace. “You don’t have a cargo master?”
“We do. She’s also my hydroculture specialist, Elaine. We all wear a lot of hats around here. Shes in charge of that vineyard kit I mentioned. Our techs double as loaders, although if you choose to stay with us then I’ll probably ask your opinion on cargo bots at some point. I’d like to free Brando up. He’s in too much demand when we’re loading.”
“You can ask me even if I don’t.” I cracked my neck. My reserves were flagging and this time I didn’t seem to be getting a second wind. “Cargo drones are designed so anybody can ride herd on them even if they don’t have an onboard interface.”
Grace held his hand up to the palm plate. “Later," he told me. “Go pass out.”
“Aye, ser.” The ‘ser’ caught on a yawn and I staggered into the darkened berth. My shin barked against the unmistakable edge of a standard-sized spacer’s cot, which told me which direction to let myself fall. A soft mattress covered in a thin, plush blanket caught me. The bedding smelled neither good nor bad; just slightly of a long-vacant room. Somehow, that was more comforting than the perfumed sheets of a hotel.
The rectangle of light behind me eased shut and with it my grasp on consciousness, but even so I still heard Grace say, “Night, Sin” as it shut.
How weird. That was the second time he’d used that name. I hadn’t been called Sin since I was a kid, which was, coincidentally, the last time I’d been around civilized people. I’d gotten so used to being called ‘Ananke’ that I’d almost forgotten I had a childhood nickname.
Maybe that was a good omen. I wouldn’t mind being ‘Sin’ again.