“My mother’s gonna be pissed when I tell her I almost became pirate churn,” Mann told Clarke. “I already lied to her when she asked me about sailor’s accident rates per trip.”
“Where does she live?” asked Clarke. Talking about a sailor’s family was a sure way to calm them down, and he was well aware the Beowulf’s crew needed some reassurance.
Clarke and Mann stood in the crew’s lounge, a cramped room that mixed gym with cafeteria and entertainment center. About a dozen other contractors hung around, sipping drinks that, officially, were alcohol free. Many shared the same worried look and spoke only in hushed tones. Occasionally, one shot Clarke a glance or two.
Captain Navathe shared an issue many other commanders her age shared. She expected her crew to be as professional as she was. After surviving the pirate attack, Navathe had barely explained the situation to the crew—enough words to let them know what was going on, but that did little to reassure their fears and concerns.
“Ponterona Colony,” said Mann. “We spent our childhood there—my mother, my three sisters, and myself. It’s in the Nera System.”
“I know Nera,” said Clarke, “the Fleet sent us there for a patrol stint, about a year of keeping an eye on its Alcubierre points.”
“You fought any pirates, then?”
“Not really,” Clarke said, with a shrug. “Pirates know they won’t survive direct confrontation with the Defense Fleet, so they avoid us like the plague. Anyway, Nera was a rather peaceful system, from what I can recall, so our presence was barely needed.”
“Sure,” said Mann, “Nera is this close to being a resort system, let me tell you. A great place to let your children grow up, far from Edge’s politics.”
“I believe that,” Clarke said.
The contractor’s chest puffed with pride when he talked about his home system. Clarke nodded with satisfaction, and for a while, they talked about Nera and the high points of Clarke’s stint there. The women, the food, the music scene. Mann told the truth when he said Nera was almost a paradise system.
Clarke remembered little of it, though, since he’d seldom left the destroyer during that time. There was no need to tell Mann that.
“How about you, Clarke?” Mann asked during a lull in the conversation. “Any family waiting for you at the end of your contract?”
The crew of the Beowulf knew nothing of the EIF’s involvement or their plans. To them, this was a mere contracted trip like any other they’d done on the same ship. Clarke hoped they never knew about what the Beowulf was really doing this time around. It’d be safer this way.
“My parents are gone, and I’m an only child,” Clarke told him. He dismissed Mann’s obligatory apologies with a gesture. “No need for that, it was a long time ago. They were good, honest people. Hydroponic farmers for a small corporation. I spent most of my childhood on one ship to another.”
“It sounds like you’ve seen it all,” Mann told him. Clarke could see a hint of adoration on Mann’s eyes, and it made him profoundly uncomfortable. It was a well-known secret around the Beowulf’s decks that it had been Clarke’s advice that had got them through the pirate encounter without casualties.
Compared to Captain Yin, I’m still a child, he thought. That woman had earned the right of calling herself an old space dog, aloud, and not get drowned by laughter. Thinking about Yin made him think of Broken Sky. Clarke’s mood sobered.
Mann seemed unaware of the mood shift. “This ‘gravity assist’ shtick is your idea too, right? How does it work?”
Clarke blinked and forced his mind away from the memories of death and destruction. “It’s nothing new. The Beowulf missed its window to brake safely and reach New Angeles’ orbit. Right now, if we burned the g’s necessary to decelerate us, the crew would be reduced to a pulp.”
“Right,” said Mann.
“We could keep going to the Alcubierre point opposite New Angeles, from our point of view,” Clarke went on, “but we need to buy fuel from New Angeles.”
And get Antonov’s fleet coordinates.
“So, instead of wasting fuel, we’ll use New Angeles outer orbit as a slingshot,” said Clarke. He opened a holographic screen and quickly drew the maneuver for Mann.
The planet was a dot, the ship was another one. Clarke traced a line from the ship to the planet that missed it by an inch. “This is our current route. We can’t get any closer or the garrison will shoot us down. Don’t get alarmed, it’s a survival thing. A ship going at .03c can do nasty things to a planet. Nastier than a nuke.”
“Same to the ship,” Mann pointed out. Clarke barked a coarse laugh, then continued his drawing:
“Since we want to save time, instead of decelerating, passing the planet, and then accelerating (and decelerating again) toward it, we’ll use its gravity and our velocity to change directions.”
He continued the line of Beowulf’s route, but instead of keeping it straight, he drew a quarter circle around New Angeles and then resumed the straight line. The new route was a full 90 degrees off from its original course.
“During this maneuver,” Clarke pointed at the quarter circle, “we’ll be decelerating. Our end point will be much closer than without the slingshot, and we’ll save a lot of fuel and time.”
Mann nodded, taking it all in. The man was new, but not an idiot, and he knew how gravity mechanics worked. “Thanks for taking the time to explain it to me. I can’t ask Gutierrez or he’ll make fun of me until we disembark,” he told Clarke.
“Anytime, Mann,” Clarke said. He checked the time on his wristband and dismissed the holo screen with a gesture. “Don’t let him get on your nerves. Next contract, you’ll be the veteran.”
Clarke left the other sailor and made his way to the rest of the tables around the lounge. Mann’s doubts had been assuaged, but there was still the rest of the crew, and Beowulf, as most independent merchant ships, lacked enough officers to check on them. It wasn’t acceptable. If the EIF was lying to them, the least Clarke could do was talk to them as if they were persons, not merely a convenient disguise.
HOURS LATER, Clarke returned to the bridge. According to his wristband, he was well into the second part of the internal ship cycle. As such, most of the scarce bridge’s crew slept in their quarters. Only Captain Navathe herself still manned the bridge’s computers.
Clarke looked over her shoulder at the screen above her. Several forms and permits for tow ships and emergency landing fees. Just thinking of sorting out the bureaucracy gave Clarke a headache.
“Still awake, Clarke?” Captain Navathe asked.
“Yes, sir,” Clarke said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You’ve been busy, I hear,” she said, “talking to the crew. According to Lambert, you’ve done wonders for the ship’s morale, not even counting our daring fight against the pirates.”
Clarke’s had spent his day trying to avoid the topic of the pirates. He made an effort of will not to sigh at the captain.
“More of a daring retreat, I’d say. The only thing I did was tell you how to best run away from them.”
“While shooting all the while,” Captain Navathe said. A spark of humor danced across her eyes, like she knew exactly what Clarke was going through. “The turrets of the Beowulf had never fired in combat before, Clarke. My crew will tell the story about their victory against pirates for the rest of their lives.”
Clarke took a deep breath and plopped down in one of the g-seats near Navathe. He pulled a new holo screen and helped her plow through the bureaucracy of New Angeles. They worked in silence for a while before Navathe resumed the conversation: