Chapter One: Sixteen Tons

"Some people say a man is made outta mud,

A poor man's made outta muscle and blood,

Muscle and blood and skin and bones,

A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong.

 

You load sixteen tons, what do you get?

Another day older and deeper in debt,

St. Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go,

I owe my soul to the company store."

 

Hank Lewis bounced a baseball off the bulkhead with a loud ping before the artificial gravity sent it tumbling back to his hands. It was the only sound in the cockpit, save for the low, rumbling hum of the ship's ion engines. He glanced around the lonely cabin, sighed, and tossed the baseball into the air once more. It hit the bulkhead with another loud ping and then returned to his hands.

 

The ship's bridge, if you could call it that, was quaint. It had a small cab with enough seating for five behind the cockpit where Hank sat, a two-seater control setup for piloting and navigation. Hank currently had his feet up on the navigation console, while staring at the bulkhead above him at a swimsuit model poster he’d haphazardly hung there months ago, lolling his head from side to side. He swiveled in his seat.

 

Toss.  Ping.  Catch the ball.

 

Sure, he was bored. What would you expect? He'd done this run countless times. Ganymede to Uranus, load the cargo, back to Ganymede. Every week, out past the edge of human civilization and back again. Staring down The Black, as the old spacers called it, for days, even weeks at a time. It was enough to drive anyone to drink.

 

But Hank didn't touch the sauce, not on the job anyway. He was a professional. Or he would like to think so, anyway. You got paid to do a job, you did it and you did it right. Most of the time. That didn't mean you had to do absolutely everything by the corporate handbook, however.

 

He actually enjoyed being so far removed from society; it had its perks. Being out this far meant staying out from under the watchful eye of the Allied Planets and Colonies, and if he was lucky he could make some credits on the side. The fledgling colonies on Saturn's moons always needed something: fresh water, food, medical supplies. On the other hand, Saturn's rings were teeming with pirates just waiting to hit up a wayward long haul freighter for the valuable resources therein.

 

Never a reward without a risk or three, he thought.

 

The ball pinged off the bulkhead once more, and tumbled back through the air. Hank had to struggle to catch it.

 

"Belle, what is the current time?" he asked in just the hint of a southern drawl as he recovered into his seat, readjusting the Ersan Mustangs ballcap on his head. The 'stangs hadn't won a System Series in well over a decade, but they were his favorite baseball team just the same.

 

Query: Would you like to know the Ganymedian local time? The ship's AI responded flatly, a cold, feminine disembodied voice.

 

"No, Titan's local time. We're diverting course."

 

That course of action is ill advised, Captain. Diverting to the moon of Titan will deviate from our prime directive.

 

"Relax, Belle. We're two days ahead of schedule. We have time for a layover," he replied, rolling his eyes and fidgeting with the laces in the baseball. The AI had a tendency to get on his nerves, but hers was the only voice he heard once he left the inhabited planets, so he dealt with it as best as he could.

 

There was a pause, almost as if the AI was sulking. Or at least, Hank could swear she was.

 

At the tone, the current time on Titan's Freeport colony will be 09:56am, it said, followed by a one-second dialtone.

 

"Thanks, ol' girl," said Hank, before tossing the ball over his shoulder and grabbing the flight controls. He flicked a series of switches on the cockpit dashboard over his head and steered the ship for Titan. "Hey, why don't we toss on some music?"

 

Accessing your account, the AI replied. A holographic projection of Hank's Nezumi Unlimited  account suddenly appeared from the console in front of him. He tried to wave it off with a groan, but had trouble finding his cursor on the display. Your weekly subscription has expired. Would you like to renew for 9.99 credits now? Nezumi Unlimited brings you all the hottest songs from your favorite artists...

 

"No, no. Nevermind," Hank sighed.

 

The C.S.S. Hell's Belle was Hank's ship, such as it was. She was an old Coleman Schmidt Freightrunner, registry number BL-2056. A workhorse vessel, the 'Belle was 40 meters long by 28.5 meters wide, with a height of 7.9 meters. She was comprised of two decks and a spacious cargo bay. The cockpit was located on the nose of the old girl, with viewports allowing for a nearly 180° arc of sight. She was bulky yet nimble for her size, with heavy laser beam arrays on the located on the bow and the stern of the ship, with one turret on the starboard side. She had an ordinance of one proton torpedo launcher situated on the bow, with a compliment of 10 torpedoes before needing to restock.

 

Hank regarded the 'Belle as his home, even though he rented an apartment in New Berkshire's lower east side on Ganymede. The building he lived in was grimy and bathed in neon blue light, ensuring he never got any sleep on the few nights he had between runs. No, he found a sort of comfort in the dull roar of the idle of the ship that a stationary home just couldn't offer.

 

He had worked for CSS for just over nine years, and didn't much complain about it. They had provided on the job training and allowed him to get his pilot certification with the Allied Planets and Colonies. Just twenty more years of working for the Company and the 'Belle would be all his.  Lock, stock and barrel.  Of course, that was barring any repairs the ship would need between now and then. That would be added to his debt. Plus the training fee, the room and boarding fees. Plus food. Plus fuel. Plus docking fees.  

 

The last voice he heard, other than Belle’s, was on subspace three days back: an old fringerunner outside of Sinope hauling a fat load of ice to the core worlds. He regaled Hank with stories of salvage running and the kind of cred you could make if you strike out on your own.

 

Who was he kidding?  He'd be lucky if he could retire after forty years.

 

He wasn't a fan of signing over his whole existence to the Uranus Run. Sure, shipping contracts like these were hard to come by for a guy like him, and he knew he should not look a gift horse in the mouth. Still, though, he knew there had to be something more than just Ganymede to Uranus and back again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

Maybe that's why he was willing to sell cheap crap to the backwater moons for creds. It wasn't going to get him out of debt, but maybe it was his personal way of rebelling, of sticking it to the big guy.

 

Or maybe he did it to see another human face halfway through his trip. The Titans were good people, if not rough around the edges. Terraformers usually were, in Hank's experience. This week's shipment would bring the Titans cereal and crackers, shotgun ammo and power cells, fusion cores, atmospheric condensers, and Antarean flu vaccines. The terraformers would never ask Hank where he got them, and he would never volunteer the information. Just sell it at just over cost.

 

Hank didn't think of himself as a bad guy, nobody ever does. If you asked him, he'd say that he was providing a public service. You might call that a justification, considering that he collected a fee from the struggling colony. He'd just tell you that that's the way the solar system works.

 

"Ain't nothin' for free," he mumbled to himself.

 

Directive unclear. Please restate command, The AI replied. Hank could swear she was mocking him.

 

"Nevermind," Hank replied with a roll of his eyes. He had decided to sit in silence for a while, with the rumble of the ship's engines keeping him company.

 

It was some time before Titan came up on his viewscreen, several hours, perhaps more. Hank had taken a nap at some point, letting the ship's AI take the wheel. Titan was slowly growing from a distant speck to filling the space of the Belle's viewports. Hank bristled a bit. The moon was enormous, larger than any other moon in Saturn's orbit, and was also the second largest natural satellite in the solar system. The largest was his current home of Ganymede, in orbit of Jupiter.

 

Titan was half-terraformed, with an oxygen rich atmosphere but not much else, save for the colony he was headed for. Wild storms would echo outside the ship as the 'Belle broke atmo, shaking the ship with fervor. Hank flipped the switch on the compensator, and the ship's inertial dampeners whined into action. He opened the comm channel and attempted to hail Freeport colony as he visually scanned the horizon. Static met his call, which worried him.

 

Couldn't be too careful. He didn't want to run into damned pirates on this unsanctioned stop.  No way he could explain that one to corporate. So, his eyes darted port and starboard, looking for errant starships. They liked to hide, to lie in wait and snap up their prey. As well armed as his ship was, it was no match for the speed and maneuverability of smaller corvette class ships, a favorite of the fringer pirates. Three or four of those zippy little 'vettes and it would be all over, regardless of the 'Belle's firepower.

 

He usually didn't have to worry about pirates until after he picked up his cargo on Uranus, they wouldn't be much interested in the bric-a-brac that he was planning to peddle to Freeport's citizens.

 

But he didn't see anything. And all he heard was static.

 

Over the comm channel, he finally heard another human being, but very faintly. The storms must have knocked out their transmitter again. Hank made a mental note to offer to help with repairs for a few more creds.

 

"ZZZT…ay again, unidentified vessel? You are …Zzzt… tering restric… airspace.  Please iden…fy," Hank had to crane his neck to hear the faint voice over the metallic scratch of the static.

 

"I said, 'This is Captain Hank Lewis of the C.S.S. Hell's Belle, and I am requesting permission to land.' I have supplies for sale or trade. Come back," he said as he fine-tuned a dial, trying to reduce the white noise that made it damn near impossible to hear.

 

A moment went by as he sat amidst the crackle of the radio.

 

"…quest approved, provid…Zzzt…ou have …alid clearance…odes.  Over,"  The voice on the other side met his ears. He had a hard time, but he could make out that the voice was feminine. He smiled before replying.

 

It must be Gracie. She was always on that radio, trying to boost the signal here or there. If there was a broken transmitter, she would be giving all holy hell to the colony's engineers for being lax in their maintenance of it. The engineers would probably tell her that keeping the molten core generator took precedence.  Either way, it would work to Hank's advantage.

 

"I have clearance codes. My vessel's registry is BL-2056. That's a B as in 'boy,' L as in 'Larry,' two-zero-five-six. Freeport access code: Echo Papa October, dash-three."

 

"Roger …Zzt… at, …aptain Lewis, proceed to…" but the reply cut short, dying in the static.

 

"Say again, Freeport. I didn't get that. Over."

 

"Frak. …is damned thi…" the sound of a power tool followed the message, followed itself by the sound of a hammer hitting metal. After a moment, Gracie's voice returned, with very little static. "Proceed to docking port 3, Captain Lewis. Welcome back. Over."

 

Hank stifled a laugh at the thought of Gracie just whaling on the comm station with a big ass mallet. She was a spitfire, she was.

 

"Roger that, Freeport. Always a pleasure," he let his drawl thicken. Since leaving Ersa, he had learned to mostly shed his accent, but he liked to slip into it occasionally. Especially when dealing with those of the fairer sex, or in business dealings. He dripped charm, he thought, anyway, when he did it.

 

As the call ended, the sound of whipping winds battered the humble freighter as Hank prepared the landing procedure. The 'Belle broke the cloud line, and it was then that he saw Freeport colony, a sprawling mecca of worldbuilding wonder. A massive laser drill towered in the center of the small cityscape, pointed at the moon's crust, A steady beam of red light drove deep into the ground, digging it's way to Titan's inert core. It was there that the terraformers would "jump-start" the core, superheating it to its melting point and providing heat to the fledgling moon.

 

The facility surrounded the laser, a donut-shaped metropolis that housed engineers, ecologists, geologists, meteorologists, botanists, construction personnel, and of course their families. It had been the massive starship that brought them there, designed to be torn down and rebuilt as the colony that now lay before him. Four docking ports lie on the outside ring. Hank piloted the 'Belle toward his assigned port, and clicked the VTOL engines on as the huge bay doors opened before him.

 

The Hell's Belle slipped into the docking bay, the mid-size freighter slowly hovering to a natural decline, as Hank snapped on the dial marked "Landing Gear" in magic marker. Three struts emerged from the belly of the ship, the hydraulics groaning quietly.

 

After the ship landed, Hank pulled his key chip from the ignition, and the steady hum of the idling engines died out. He made his way past the crew and passenger quarters, which were all empty, save for his. From there it was through the kitchen area, stocked with just enough rations to get him through until he hit Ganymede. Then he walked through the dining room, which he rarely used. For the most part, he liked to either eat his meals in the cockpit or in his quarters.  He took the spiral staircase to the cargo bay, checked the crates he surreptitiously loaded in the week before. Finally, he punched the big red bay door button, and steam rolled up around him as the door lowered like a drawbridge. He stepped off of his ship with a feeling of optimism.

 

He'd turn a profit.  He was sure of it.