Ships of My Fathers

Ships of My Fathers

Dan Thompson

Chapter 1

“You know those times when everything works out exactly how you planned? Yeah, me neither.” — Malcolm Fletcher

M
ICHAEL FLETCHER LOST BOTH OF
his fathers before he ever found out there had been two of them. He was present for both deaths, but he could only remember the second one. Discovering what had happened to his first father was neither simple nor painless.

On the day he lost his second father, however, he and Malcolm were loading cargo into
Sophie’s Grace
. If they had been at a regular port, they would have been watching from the sidelines as the local cargo handlers did it, but the Shorthorn transfer station was far from a regular port. Instead, they were floating outside the ship, maneuvering the cargo through the vacuum of space.

“Skipper, down zero two, starboard one three,” came the call from Isaac. He was officially the ship’s first mate and was monitoring the bulky load’s zero-gee maneuver from within the cargo bay. Michael liked to think of himself as the first mate, but at seventeen, he was not yet old enough to qualify for the rating.

“Got it,” Malcolm replied, firing a few jets on the loader. “Down zero two, starboard one three.” Malcolm Fletcher was the captain and owner of
Sophie’s Grace
, but he often got his hands dirty on these runs. “If you want the job done right,” he had told Michael again and again, “don’t hire it out.”

Michael was floating about fifty meters aft watching his father drive the loader. He had already prepositioned the final array behind him with the backup loader, but he was at loose ends now while his father loaded this one. The work was trickier than usual, since these cargoes were loose pallets bundled together by cables instead of the standard ten-meter shipping containers.

This kind of load was not uncommon out beyond the borders of the Hudson Confederacy, and the Shorthorn transfer station was typical as well. It was less of an outpost than a collection of floating boxes in orbit around an empty moon. Someone had tried to terraform the moon a century before, reportedly drawn to the impressive view of the ringed gas giant above them, but the effort fell apart back in the 3350’s. Since then, the orbital staging area had become a useful transfer point for some of the less orthodox shippers working in the border region. They were not technically smuggling anything illegal. They were simply dodging a number of tariffs and port fees.

“Overshot starboard, Skipper, port zero four.”

“Adjusting.”

Michael watched with a wry smile. Dad had ragged on him their last time through for his own sloppy handling of the loader. Today he had hit the mark straight on four times in a row while Dad had missed on two of them so far. “Careful, Skip,” he chided, “or you’re going to have to back it out.” He could rag back on him a little, but he always called him Skip or Skipper in front of the rest of the crew, never Dad. It was a casual little ship, but it was still a ship.

“Fat chance, boy,” Malcolm replied. “I’ve got this one.”

“Skipper, you’re still drifting starboard, and you’re getting out of alignment. Another half-meter and you’ll miss the rail guides.”

Michael used his suit jets to move off to starboard so he could get a better look himself, but as he did, he caught a glance of what his father could not see. The loader was not much more than an open-framed cage around the driver, with grapplers and thrusters all around, but it did keep the driver facing forward. One of those thrusters behind Malcolm was firing, a little cloud jetting out at random intervals. “I see your problem, Skip. Your port thruster is still firing.”

Malcolm twisted in the loader’s harness to see the thrusters arrayed behind him. “Dammit, I thought we got this fixed back on Taschin.”

“We did,” Michael protested. “They told me it was solid.”

“Skipper,” Isaac called again, “you’re out of the lane now.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice tense over the radio. “I’m shutting it down. Isaac, can you get the lift arm in there to brace me?”

There was a hesitation. “Yeah, but it’s going to be close.”

Michael watched the cargo array continue drifting to starboard, rotating as it went. Inside, Isaac would be moving their internal lifter out to the end of the bay to stop the pallet array from crashing into the side of the bay doors. “Hurry, Isaac,” Michael called. “That thruster is still going.”

“I see it,” his father answered. “I’m trying to reach the shut-off valve.” Michael could see him straining against the harness, stretching out his left arm towards the loader’s frame and that sputtering thruster.

“I can get to it,” Michael called, already firing his suit jets to come up behind the loader’s frame.

“No, stay clear.”

“No, really Skip, I can come in clear of the thruster and still reach that valve.”

“Stay clear, son,” his father repeated. “That’s an order.”

Arguments with Dad took three forms. Arguments over chores earned him scut work. Arguments over his studies cost him access to the entertainment library. Then came arguments over orders. The one time he had disobeyed a direct order had cost him port liberty for eight months.

Michael adjusted his trajectory to swing up above the ship, well clear of Malcolm and the loader. “Aye, sir.”

“Gotcha!” Isaac cheered. The cargo lift arm grabbed onto the end of the pallet array.

“Good work, Isaac,” Malcolm replied, but the crisis was not over. The misfiring loader continued to push at one end of the pallet array, only adding to the momentum of the free end. With one end locked down, the bundle started to bend, crushing some of the individual crates on one side while pulling hard on the cables on the other side.

All but one of them held.

The one that snapped swung out from the left side, wrapped around the port side of the loader’s frame, and the final two meters of it whipped through the loader’s open frame and slashed against Malcolm’s leg.

“Oh, Christ fuck me!” he cried out.

“Dad!” Michael shouted into his microphone.

“What happened?” was all Isaac could say.

Orders or no orders, Michael started jetting in. He could see a mist of blood and air escaping from his father’s left leg. The end of the cable was still embedded into the suit. “He’s venting… Dad, you’re venting!”

“Ugh, yeah…” he replied, his voice ragged. “We’ve got to… I’m releasing harness.”

Michael jetted in from the right, well clear of the errant thruster, and he finally got a good look at Malcolm’s injury. “The cable’s still in your leg. Should I pull it out?”

“Gah… no. Not here. Get the cutter.”

Michael climbed around the loader’s frame to the toolbox. A small laser cutter was clipped on at the bottom. “Got it!”

“I’m coming out.” It was Isaac’s voice over the radio.

Michael climbed back through to the left side, still wary of the thruster, and started in on the cable.

“No,” Malcolm replied, panting. “You’ll never get through the cargo bay.” He paused, breathing hard as he cranked up his oxygen. “We’ll go in… dorsal.”

The cable was not very thick, no more than a centimeter, but it was strong. “Just a few more seconds, Dad.” He glanced back to his father, seeing him slowly disentangle himself from the loader’s harness.

The cable snapped free and swung back around to the outside of the loader again, missing Michael’s helmet by a hand’s width. He moved back to his father who was floating free within the loader’s frame.

“Dad?”

Inside the helmet, Malcolm nodded silently.

“What’s going on out there?”

Michael grabbed at his father and kicked free of the loader’s frame. “I’ve got… the skipper. He’s venting and bleeding from his leg. We’re headed to the dorsal airlock. Open it for us and stand by the other side with the med pack.”

“Aye!”

Michael jetted back above
Sophie
, careening side to side as his father’s weight threw off his center of gravity. “We’re almost there, Dad.”

“Too late,” he said.

“Keep your air up, Dad. You’re going to make it.”

“Fuck… not the air.”

The airlock was close ahead, gaping open, a two-meter-wide target. Michael pushed his feet out and hit the boot thrusters again, skewing them down into it. “We’re in!” he called out.

“Bleeding…”

The door closed above them, first the iris and then the sliding hatch.

“Cycle it!”

“Bleeding out…”

“Dad, we’re in, just hang on.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Cycle the damn lock!”

“I am!” It was Henry Bartz, the systems engineer. “Valves wide open.”

Michael looked down at his father’s face once more, separated by their two visors. “Dad, hang on!”

“I always meant to tell you… I’m so sorry, son. Forgive me.”

“Cycle the God damned lock!”

But Malcolm was already gone.

Michael sat in the med bay next to his father’s body. The mad rush from the airlock had been a futile formality. By the time they cut the suit away from his leg, it was clear what had killed him. The cable’s tip had sliced into his hamstring, wrapped around the bone, and severed the deep femoral artery. Nothing short of a trauma surgeon could have saved him, even if they could have gotten him there in mere moments. But the
Sophie’s Grace
was an independent freighter, crewed by seven. The closest trauma surgeon was light years away.

Michael had cleaned the wound, but Isaac had insisted he leave the cable inside. There might be an autopsy at some point, so it was best to disturb as little as possible. The body remained uncovered, and Michael sat there, still staring at the wound, replaying the accident in his mind over and over.

He could have come in and turned off the thruster.

He should have, orders or not.

Port liberty be damned, he should have come in and turned off that thruster.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. It was Isaac.

“We’re secure now. Henry and I got the rest of the load in, and we’re sealed up.”

Michael nodded.

“I’m sorry about your father. He was a good skipper.”

“I should have—”

“No,” Isaac cut him off. “No should haves. Not today. You’ll have years of them down the road, but not today.”

“What then?”

“Today we say goodbye to your father, and then we head back in to Taschin.”

Michael finally turned from the body to look at Isaac. “Taschin? We just left there. Nasar is the next stop.”

Isaac pulled his hand back and faced Michael squarely. “I’m afraid not, Michael. Taschin is the closest Confederate port, and we have to report your father’s death.”

Michael stood. “We’re going to put him in storage, right?”

“Yes. Henry has a cold bay waiting for us.”

“Then Dad can wait. He promised this cargo to someone on Nasar, and we’re going to follow the skipper’s orders.”

Isaac shook his head. “He’s not the skipper anymore, Michael.”

Michael set his jaw. “Ok, then I say so. My father made a promise.”

“It’s not up to you,” Isaac told him. “Look, you and the skipper ran a good ship, and between you and me, you made a good first officer, the best he could have hoped for. But on paper, you’re not the first officer.”

“That’s only because I’m too young to take the licensing exam.”

“I know, and I know you’re going to ace it next year, but seventeen is not eighteen, and I’m on the books as the first officer. You know that.”

Michael turned back to face the body again. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you know the regulations, too. We may work out here on the border, but we’re a Confederate flagged ship, and that means Confederate regs.”

Michael nodded. Dad had drilled him on the regulations every week.

“I know you want to do the right thing here, but if we don’t go back into Taschin, especially if something else were to happen between now and then, I’d lose my license, maybe even face charges.”

His shoulders sagged as he leaned in against the table. His father’s skin was pale and still. “You’re right, I know.”

“Then Taschin it is?” Isaac asked.

Michael nodded. “Taschin it is.”

“You got any family there? I know your mom’s been gone a while.”

“Since I was a baby,” he replied, only then taking it in. He was an orphan.

“Anyone else? Maybe back on Arvin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ll see when we get there.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Do you want me and Henry to take care of the body?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll do it. He was my father, after all.”

Chapter 2

“Some goodbyes are really good riddance. It’s the others that are hard.” — Malcolm Fletcher

M
ICHAEL SAT NEXT TO
I
SAAC
as the Taschin port magistrate read over the files in his office. They had brought video of the accident from the rear cargo monitors, but he had not bothered to look at it. The rest of the crew was still back at the ship seeing to the offload of cargo and waiting to hand over the body to the authorities.