FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Emancipation

** ** “Harrier, Harrier, this is the heavy freighter Commodore's Choice, responding to your distress beacon. Do you copy?" The voice on the other end of the comm link sounded bored, likely hoping that their hails would not be answered and they could be on their way. On non-military vessels computers had a built-in default setting that forced them to respond to distress beacons, at least so far as to get close enough for a scan. If signs of life were detected the ship's computer would refuse to abandon the beacon source until a rescue or repair attempt was made, unless the distressed vessel transmitted it needed neither, or there were active hostiles in the area.

Pirates, of course, discovered this very quickly and, for a time, had exploited it to the fullest. In turn, any captain worth their rank did whatever they could to disable that default setting, leaving any distress response down to Spacer custom. One did not just ignore a call for help because it was rather easy to identify ships within signal detection proximity, via the logs of nav buoys or the distressed vessel itself. And, should the vessel survive, lawsuits or other reprisals could follow. Pirates using the distress trap also ran the risk of a fully armed military response, masquerading as a rescue ship, arriving so the prevalence of such tactics was less than one would imagine.

Luckily the freighter computer's default response setting was working as intended. Judging by the irritation in the radio operator's voice they were not there by any adherence to Spacer custom.

“Harrier here!" The pilot snapped quickly through the open channel. “I copy!"

“Commodore, here. What's your situation, Harrier?" The voice had lost its irritated, bored undertone for an even more set-upon resignation.

“Drive core is completely slagged. That caused an antimatter blowback and my containment was failing so I had to jettison it." Meaning he was on limited power and thus limited life support and they could not just confirm his well-being and move on, communicating his position and situation to others along the way. Being on the fringes of two galactic powers locked in conflict, active and cold, 'others' could be either side, as well as dozens of other factions scattered about the local region and beyond working for either side or both. Thus they were pretty much locked into rendering aid.

“Harrier, Commodore, affirmative. We're five thousand klicks off your port stern. Can you EVA?" He could almost hear the 'damnit!' in the distant speaker's voice.

“Affirmative, Commodore. I'm limited to a soft suit, though. Can you salvage?" A soft suit was fine for transiting from one ship to another in relatively close proximity, ideally within less than a kilometer. They were wholly inadequate for lengthy jaunts outside of the shielded, pressurized safety of a hull, even a non-functional hull.

There was a momentary pause and he could imagine the grumbling in the radio room while the commander of the freighter, undoubtedly present to listen in, discussed the merits of hauling in a derelict ship to rescue the pilot. Eventually the speaker's voice returned. “Affirmative, Harrier. Shut down your attitude control, we'll grav you in. Be in range in an hour. Suit up and stand by. Commodore, out." One hour to close a mere five thousand kilometers meant that the freighter would have to slow enough to match speeds so the gravity tenders, designed to move bulk freight containers weighing tens of thousands of tons, would not simply crush his fragile ship against their hull like a dropped egg.

Considering his ship weighed a few hundred tons as it was, minus the weighty drive core and reactor, and the freighter topped the scales at, likely, close a million if not more, they could just park nearby and the mere proximity would pull him in.

He watched the distant blob resolve into the smooth seashell curve of a Coxwain class heavy freighter, only its upper hull illuminated by the dull yellow glow of the nearby star, Tomb. The lower hull, he knew, would mirror the upper almost perfectly. It was a very handsome beast, wholly incapable of planetary insertion. His computer listed the ship's design weight, capacity, peak delta-v, jump range, and even its current cargo mass. Capable of carrying five hundred thousand tons its current cargo mass was below half of that, so the added tonnage of his wreck would not even be measurable.

As it moved closer the illuminated upper hull was lost to the impenetrable black nothingness that was its unlit belly, only his computer telling him that it was within ten kilometers.

At five kilometers a palpable ripple of distortion wrenched at his ship as the gravity inducers locked on, sending a ripple of tidal forces from nose to tail before stabilizing. The momentary jar sent his skittish damage control beacons from yellow to clamoring red instantly filling the cockpit with noise. He stabbed them to silence without taking his eyes from the external displays that showed nothing save what artifacts his computer projected onto them. The last small oscillations of his tumble smoothed out and the ship rotated ventrally toward the shadow. It began a slow, controlled fall toward that darkness, turning slightly to align along the freighter's axis.

One kilometer; five hundred meters; one hundred meters. Due to the slow descent his proximity warnings remained silent. The final contact was firm enough to rattle his teeth and send the damage control into another tantrum but, considering his situation, he was not about to complain. He slipped on his helmet and continued to watch the displays, now focusing on each of his three extended landing struts. As he had not turned on his landing lights, and the freighter apparently lacking any floods wherever he had come to rest, he could only see a small pool of light moving about on the freighter's hull. Someone had been tasked to come out and secure his ship which he had already expected.

“Commodore, Harrier. Stand by for EVA, wait until your vessel has been made secure."

“Harrier, copy. Can I slave in? I'm down on internal and reaction mass for maneuvering."

“Commodore, copy. Transmit credentials and manifest. Once your vessel is moored in you can exit. They'll help you slave in once you're on the hull." After silencing the petulant damage control alerts he brought up his ship's specs, for what little of it remained, and his cargo and transmitted it. Securing his helmet the pilot levered himself up, bones and muscles suffering in zero-G for the better part of three days complaining as they once more felt gravity pulling them into their proper place. The puffiness of his head, which he had long gotten used to, went rushing pell-mell toward his feet while every bit of nasal mucous sought to vacate his nose into his helmet or lungs. It was nothing new to any spacer, or suit designer. His body and his suit managed the fluid shift without issue.

His exit was just behind the pilot's seat; a hatch ramp that descended with a shrill rush of air escaping into space. His suit whuffed as its internal air supply pushed against the sudden lack of external pressure. The visor fogged momentarily but, by the time he had navigated down the short ladder, it had cleared. The exterior helmet lamps switched on automatically, illuminating the forward landing strut and pitted gray hull of the freighter. Beyond that light, however, was blackness save for a pair of motes bobbing along toward him.

Whatever deck hand sent out to secure his ship held up a suited arm in greeting and he echoed it. Once they had closed to ten feet and could properly see each other in their respective cones of light the person held forth one hand, but not in greetings. Twice he signaled with his fingers, three-one-five and a thumbs down.

Comms channel 315, not secure. That was easy enough to parse and he responded with a thumbs up, switching to the appropriate channel using the internal tabs in one glove.

“Heyah." The person, a human male judging by the voice and modularity, came over his suit channel. “Yer ass end is flat blown out, cap'n. Lucky you didn't end up the same way." One bulky arm threw a hand back, gloved thumb hooking toward the unlit aft of the anchored ship. “Lucky we found ya, too."

“Damn right on that." The pilot offered, like the other man not turning on his suit's internal helmet light leaving both of their faces lost behind opaque black curves. “I'm Johan Rashid, Elmier Combine, Lippizan." He thrust out a gloved hand while they circled to one side of his ship toward its ruined stern.

The return grasp was firm but not crushing, power held in check though clearly available. “Harmon Dade, Texas Station… leastwise, that's where the homestead is."

Ducking behind the port rear strut Johan tapped a small panel which popped open. A pair of long hoses slithered out, one fat and hollow the other slender and packed with wiring. “Your comms operator said I could slave in, top up my reaction mass and batteries." Above him the rear of the small, sleek ship was simply missing. Loose cables, hoses, and other connective material floating listlessly from the gaping wound as if grasping after the missing reactor and drive.

“Yep, got told same." Taking a few strides Harmon squatted, turned a recessed crank, and opened up a round port in the hull. “Lashed you down where we did for this port. Tie in. You send the cap your credentials and such? Manifest?"

“Yessir. Not that I was ferrying anything other than corporate data. That all went when the reactor backlash pulsed the entire system. Only thing that kept the bridge systems online was the oscillation limiter that slagged, cut the bridge off from everything else."

“Yer corp guys no gonna like tha'." Harmon opined as he stepped back to let Johan tie in his hose and cable. Just within the port was a small inset containing coupling adapters which he had to use to marry his ship to the freighter. After some tinkering a telltale on the power line flashed green followed soon after by another on the fuel hose. “But, like yah said, is fried so nothing compromised, eh?"

“Hey, it's their boat, too. I'm just the pilot and I sure as shit didn't stress the drive getting here, so they're going to have to look at maintenance, not me. Lock?" Johan stood and stretched his back, still getting accustomed to the returned G, even if it was a paltry quarter on the hull plating.

“Over here." Harmon led him a hundred meters or so to a brightly illuminated circular airlock door at their feet. Once it cycled open and they stepped over the edge of the quarter-G deck plate to the half-G airlock interior, stopping once they had come to stand upright in relation to the door closing behind them. They shucked their helmets once the control panel indicated positive pressure.

Harmon was a ruddy, freckle faced man somewhere on the high side of forty with a mop of loosely curled bright ginger hair. His pug nose and striking hazel eyes gave him a look of merriment but there was a careful reservation in his gaze of a lifelong spacer. The old-world Scott did not trust him in the least but he was putting on a good show.

Johan, for his part, had a far more angular face; sallow cheeks and high cheek bones framing dark blue eyes under thick black brows and a crop of short black hair. While Harmon showed the blood of his ancestors clearly above his shoulders Johan was just a mishmash mutt of half a dozen nationalities. That gave his eyes a slightly oriental almond shape while his face was mid-Atlantic somewhere, perhaps from the old French. His accent was carefully modulated Corporate, however, hailing from everywhere and nowhere.

Stepping out of the airlock Harmon paused to shed the remainder of his heavy EVA suit, which was thick and bulky. Johan's was much thinner, not designed for extended trips in vacuum and most certainly not while doing hard work on a ship's hull. As he had nothing to wear beneath his soft suit but the jumper he had been living in the last six days he was loathe to strip out of it lest the stench of bottled up sweat make them both swoon.

Harmon waved a hand toward one end of the corridor into which the airlock had dumped them. “Gotta tell ya up front, Johan, ye'll have to deal with the cargo if yer gonna ship with us to the next port. Tha's about three weeks off; four more transits."

“Your cargo?" They began walking. The corridor was long and, for the most part, featureless. It was clearly intended solely to reach the airlocks set into the hull every hundred meters.

“Yeah. Beasties, a good lot of 'em."

“Beasties? You mean canned animals?" Referring to one of the typical methods of producing the genetically modified labor beasts called, “Moreaus?" While whelp breeding was less expensive, the results were not as controlled and took longer to put those results into production so many companies stuck to the tested and efficient method of gestating them in vats to de decanted at physical maturity almost entirely programmed to whatever task the client desired.

“Yep."

“As cargo? Fresh decants or repurposed?"

Harmon shrugged, “Well, since we're taking 'em to Yazi, I doubt they be freshies. Probably culls and retires." In the oriental dominated Sangan Coalition, which included Yazi, the modified animals were considered an abomination fit for nothing more than death, by whatever ingenious methods of unpleasantness they could devise. Target practice, sport hunting, a robust fur trade, and as nothing more than food were understood staples.

Johan bobbed his head slightly and shrugged, “Gotta recycle, eh? Meat's meat."

Harmon flicked a sidelong glance at him briefly, “Yeah. Pay's pretty damn good, even if it's in Coalition chits. Use tha' to buy cargo fer inner system Corps who'll pay us nice fat Obles. Win win."

“Unless you're a moreau."

“Which I aint', so, whatever." He shrugged noncommittally, “Meat means money." They reached a closed bulkhead door and Harmon spun the wheel to open it with single handed ease.

“Do this run often?" Johan asked, following the man through the hatch.

“Nah. First run with live cargo like this. Usually it's less organic commodities." Harmon closed the hatch and continued toward an intersection of corridors. They had come to a much better looking area of the ship. The walls were painted a bit less of a drab utility gray, with numbers stenciled high at each corner of the upcoming intersection. “But this payout, hoo boy now, gonna be like ten of them other runs, even fer an engineering schlep like me." At the end of the corridor he hooked a thumb to the left. “On down thataway, commodore'll be waitin, figure out what t' be doin with yah."

“Thanks for the assist, Harmon." Johan held out his hand but the stocky laborer was already stepping through the hatch. Turning down the indicated passage Johan found himself facing another man, much taller than the stocky deck hand, who was more broad of shoulder, harsher of visage, and armed.

“All that for l'il old me?" Johan opined with a glance at the squad pulser. He knew it was a miserable weapon at range but within a hundred meters in a confined area it was absolutely devastating. A soldier with one of those could mow down a lightly armored mob in seconds if not faster in the confines of a corridor similar to the one he was standing in. And since the ordinance was frangible with a charged plasma core it would not damage the often thin skin of a ship's outer hull. It did not rely on hydrostatic shock like most conventional rounds. Rather, the frangible casing deformed on impact to transfer its kinetic energy to the target and then the plasma charge would continue on through light armor, fabric, and vulnerable flesh. Against metal, even thin hull sheathing, it simply shattered into powder and the plasma was grounded instantly.

The guard said nothing, merely stepped to one side and turned to face the opposite wall. Beyond his imposing bulk was another closed hatch, the light above a steady red. As Johan approached it blinked twice and then shifted to green, the door unsealing with a muffled thump and hiss. He pushed it open with a glance at the man who offered no direct examination but had, in all likelihood, already assessed the newcomer down to the smallest margin of threat. Dressed in black military fatigues he stood as Johan, who was not exactly short, and outweighed him by almost a hundred well-muscled pounds. The man neither met his gaze nor reacted to the glance at all.

Johan stepped through the hatch and the man mechanically stepped forward and rotated until he stood where he had begun, guarding the hatch. With a thud and brief hiss the hatch swung shut and sealed.

A tiny beep in Johan's inner ear heralded his ship computer making its usual connection. It was not unusual for pilots to have connection implants so the telltale signal, if detected, would not be out of the norm. Johan had three such implants; one in his inner ear for comms, and two others for more specific purposes.

“Runtime executed, analyzing." The dispassionate androgynous voice reported via his cochlear implant.

Johan wandered unescorted through what was clearly the residential deck of the freighter. Being larger than most warships there was always plenty of cabin space for the usual crew compliment of ten to twenty. Considering they were transporting moreaus, likely not in stasis if Harmon claimed that he would 'have to deal with them', there were probably a lot more to manage the cargo. Furry dust bunnies resting in corners told him that some moreaus had access to the residences, likely as service staff, as well. A couple of humans came from a side corridor, dressed in green coveralls, and paused when they spied him in his sagging EVA suit.

“You must be the beacon, eh?" One of them asked, a woman of perhaps twenty-five or so, with a spacer's pale skin and short dirty blond hair. With her was a man of similar age, but much shorter, with the same paleness and a wary look; blue eyes, dark brown hair, and some freckles.

“Yes'm." Johan nodded with a smile, “Johan, out of Lippizan. Jump drive slagged on me and I had to jettison the reactor so I'm damn lucky you folks happened by, I was not looking forward to a stasis wait."

“No doubt. I hate coming out of stasis, feel like shit for days." The woman laughed easily, “Sara, out of…well, whatever ship I'm crewing." For spacers the concept of Home was often a rather nebulous one.

“Guy named Harmon said I needed to see your cap?"

“Engineering crew, he doesn't go to the forward area much. Sticks to the aft and helps keep this dray beast moving." Sara offered with a nod, jerking her head back the direction from which they had come, “Commander'll be back there, fourth hatch or the port side. That's the crew galley. Food's pretty nice on this run, considering how much of it we've got. Enjoy." With a short wave of one hand she continued on with her silent partner whose shrewd stare had not drifted from Johan during the brief exchange. With a matching wave of parting he continued on, counting four hatches, some open onto rather spacious rooms and others closed. The one she indicated was standing open. A short chain between wall and hand wheel kept it from swinging shut unexpectedly.

Through the door was a relatively large room, the dozen long tables with attached benches denoting it as a place for the crew to gather for meals. There were eleven people in the room beyond, five scattered about in coveralls of various hues eating their meals. The remaining six were in a close knot around a tall, barrel chested human who was dressed in a shirt, pants, and long gray overcoat with the single star of Sanganese commodore rank on the epaulets. Well, Johan mused, that explained the ship's name. One of the group spied Johan as he crossed the galley and their conversation petered into silence as all eyes turned toward him.

Drawing up a respectable six paces away Johan assumed a rigid stance, heels together, and brought his right hand up across to his left breast smartly. “Commodore, Johan Rashid of the Harrier, courier out of Elmier Combine." The big man had the modestly dark complexion of the old Terran continent of India but his eyes were gray with a subtle green tint. Tall, almost two meters, his shoulders were not quite as broad as Johan's but his arms were thick with muscle. While he still carried the strength of his earlier years as a laborer the notable thickening of his midriff bespoke of leisurely years giving orders rather than taking them. At Johan's salute one dark brow quirked slightly.

“You Sangan, Johan? Elmier's Coalition, last I knew."

Johan smiled disarmingly and lowered his arm, easing from his attention but only within the limits of military regs. “I'm familiar with Sangan, enough to know flag rank when I see it, Sir. Play both sides of the coin, honestly."

The commodore grunted concurrence with a nod, “Don't all of us freelancers. I did my time for 'em before taking my leave." He shot out a large hand, a complex patina of pale scars lacing the mocha skin of hand and forearm. “Bochas Marid, Hylemere orbital."

Johan clasped the hand; strong grip, almost a contest of strength. He knew enough not to play that game so he kept the matching grasp a shade less assertive. “Before it got popped? Shipped over after Raytheon turned it into orbital scrap?" Not that they had actually wanted to do that, or so the press release had said of the catastrophe. A damaged frigate had lost its bridge, and thus any control, and plunged into the Hylemere habitat in its death spiral. While most of the orbital had been evacuated before the engagement, it still sent five thousand souls racing into the afterlife quite unpleasantly.

Bochas again nodded, “Yeah, figured I'd ship in with the Sangan, try to mete out a little retribution against the corps and their CODA thugs. How about you, eh? No cargo on that bit of flotsam we dragged in, so you're just a data jockey?" Relaxing from his stance Johan rested his backside against a nearby table.

“Pretty much, not a whole lot of cargo space on those pigeons. A jump drive with just enough cobbled on to call it a cockpit. Anything left over was data storage." He quirked a half-smile and sighed, “With stress on 'was'. Reactor spiked when the jump blew and all that precious info went to the great data beyond."

“So," Bochas leaned back against his table and crossed his arms while the crew around him merely looked on, “your data is wiped, your core and reactor are space trash, and you've got nothing but the hulk on our hull and what you're wearing. By rights pretty much anywhere I can dump you in a jumper and tell you to push a mop."

Johan's chest tightened and his lips thinned as he stared back at the commodore. The man was right on all counts; Johan had little room to bargain. “My chit is not exactly thin, Commodore, and there's always that bit of salvage you pulled in. Even without a core the avionics are a pretty haul." Repairing a ship without a drive was seldom financially worth the effort, and for a fast courier that was almost entirely drive it was pointless. Better to salvage what could be recovered and just buy a new one.

“Uh huh. Corps don't send out cheap mercs to courier their internal data, so you're on payroll, probably pretty high up, right?"

“High, but hardly top billing. One of their go-to pilots, yes."

“Getting you back safe will put us in their good graces, then?"

“Without that data they could just cut my contract cold. They might value my services, but even that has limits. They won't give two damns about the ship, which I don't either. Call it payment for saving my ass and getting me to the next station?"

“That'd be Canton Orbital, which is above Drexler. Not a bad place to get dumped."

“Certainly not, sir. I'd be happy with a two-bit backwater fuel dump at this point."

Pushing himself up from the table Bochas thrust out his labor scarred hand once more, “Well then, Johan of Elmier, welcome aboard my Choice. I've got cabins to spare along the spinal concourse, even with the extra manpower on this transit. How're you with the beasts, by the way, if you play both sides of the border?"

“Take 'em or leave 'em, don't much give two shits. Good labor, good whores." Johan shrugged with a pull at one corner of his mouth. “Dime a dozen, with how many of the fucking things the corps are spitting out these days. Colonial Defense is even recruiting them, under the same citizenship clause as any human, considering how much less expensive they are and programmed to serve. And considering how thin they've been stretched fulfilling their protectorate contracts, corporate bickering, and border conflicts, they need all the help they can get."

Bochas snorted with a rueful shake of his head, “Giving the damn furballs citizen rights to pull triggers, dumb asses. That'll come back to bite 'em. Give a drudge a gun and, at some point, they'll turn it on you, without a fucking doubt. But then, no one learns from history do they?"

“Just as easy as a tap of the delete icon." Johan agreed. Churning out prodigious amounts of holographic media propaganda also went a long way in keeping the populace blind to how things really worked. History was worthless in the face of propaganda, Johan knew very well indeed.

The commodore turned his head slightly, “Beck, go down and fetch me one of the tuxedoes. Have it laundered, and bring it up to the crew deck, number sixty-three." Striding out from the circle of men Bochas dropped a heavy hand on Johan's shoulder. “Come with me, I'll get you a cabin. Command residences are full; my crew, of course, not the hires. Even if you are a paying passenger I can't exactly evict one of my command staff." His gaze flicked toward the EVA suit Johan still wore and the dirty collar of the jumper beneath, “I'll get laundry to find you some duds, though I can't promise a lot."

“Whatever the crew's wearing will work just fine with me, sir. I was so happy to hear your hail I'd have been willing to wear rags and kiss your boots. Space is pretty lonely when you're forty light years into the ass end of nowhere without wings."

“Where were you going, anyway? Tomb is, like you said, the ass end of nowhere."

Johan shrugged with a dip of his head, “Drexler. Mobius Combine is a third-tier subsidiary of Elmier."

The crew residences and bridge were in the forward area of the freighter, buried behind layers of hull, inert reaction mass, and water. And it was pretty extensive, even for a heavy freighter over a kilometer long and three hundred meters wide. They passed dogged hatches and open hatches, which appeared to be common areas like recreation and media rooms. Johan even caught a glance through one door, as a crewman entered, of simulation tanks. At the far end of the axis corridor they came to a switchback stairwell, artfully styled with real wooden accents, with a large elevator reading 'crew only!' to one side. The stairs only went up but the elevator shaft appeared to go further down, likely to the bilge or ballast decks. Despite needing neither of them in space the naming convention lingered from the days of water-based navies.

Ascending the stairs several decks they emerged onto a long, slightly arched concourse that was quite wide. The reason for its width were the agroponic tanks that ran down the center, leaving enough room to either side for six people to walk abreast if they should choose. Solar lamps stretched along the ceiling providing light for the greenery above the aquatic tanks, with holographics simulating a blue daytime sky on an oxygen rich world. People wandered here and there, most wearing coveralls of one color or another that denoted their job duties. Others wore pants and light shirts, as one would when off duty. Johan saw a few moreaus, all trying their best to be unobtrusive while they went about tending the plants and aquatics. All they wore were shorts, male and female alike.

To a one they looked damaged. Bent backs, graying fur, nicked ears and kinked tails, heads bowed with crushed spirits.

“Damn, Commodore." Johan poked a listless looking equine in the back as they passed, the old codger cringing as if struck by a truncheon. He only had half a tail and the scars on the stump gave the impression that it had barely been tended after the injury. “These things look like garbage."

“They're cargo. Corps don't need 'em or want 'em anymore so they just dumped 'em cheap. I bought up as many as I could haul. These know 'ponic systems so they get to work, but they'll be unloaded with the rest." Bochas chuckled and slapped his belly, “Got skilled cooks for the galley, too, and these grow systems mean damn good food. Now, them cooks I might keep. If they got skills and aren't too damn broken I might hang onto 'em." His elbow bumped Johan's conspiratorially, “Picked up the contract on every beast I bought up, cheaper than you might think. You should look into hauling cast off flea farms, the profit margin is handsome and the demand is pretty insane. Not enough freighters to keep up, really. Hell, I only stumbled on it a couple years back, talking to a light hauler cap. He could only transport a couple hundred at a time. I can transport thousands!"

“Damn, I never knew. Data transport has a good margin, too."

“What, twenty percent? Thirty?"

“Data's only limited by storage, sir; that's the only cargo mass. And I don't buy it, I just move it. One hundred percent margin, for me. It's not my ship, either, so no overhead."

“Not bad, then. This run you had, what's your take, since everything is corp owned?"

“Ahh, comfortable. Thirty K. Well, would've been, anyway. I won't get shit for loosing data and the boat. I'll have to fight 'em on charging me for them, though."

“Cost me, at most, five hundred per fur coat if they weren't just thrown at me to dispose of. I even got paid to take on a good bunch of 'em. On Huánglóng Yazi I can unload the wrecks for one or two, the decent ones for ten. Ones with real looks, though? Hell, twenty thou without breaking a sweat."

Johan blinked in surprise, “Fuuuck," he exhaled slowly, glancing at a cowering canine of some sort trying to hide in the shadow of a fruit bush. “Okay, you sold me there. Might see what I can get in line once I hit Drexler."

Bochas shook his head and rumbled a piratical chuckle, “Son, I've bought every cast-off fur coat for fifty light years. It'll take 'em ten years to stack up again. I'll have to go damn far afield to fill up for another run after this."

“Shit."

“Sorry. Ah, here we are. Number sixty-three, and sixty-four isn't used either so I'll let you use it, too. Gotta keep your tuxedo somewhere close at hand. Mind you, not that I'm being a shit or anything, I'm gonna have one of my security guys hanging with you, too."

“Can't be too cautious, I understand. He going to be in the cabin, too?"

“Nah, I'll post 'em on the concourse so they can watch the coats as well."

Through the hatch with the large number '63' stenciled on it in bold yellow was a commendably large cabin, for a starship. There was no exterior port but an oval oblong view screen displayed an image of a star field, either the one immediately outside the ship or another, it was impossible to tell. Rather than the conventional single-man berth there was an actual bed, with linen and pillows, roomy enough for two or a cramped trio. In one corner was a shower stall and toilet and, opposite, a small refrigerator and single element cooktop. Beside those was a small table with a data tablet. “Damn." Johan huffed as he gazed around, “This is my first time on a freighter. I never knew they had so much… space!"

“Beats a bubble on a fast burn, doesn't it? I sacrificed a good bit of cargo space for the spinal cabins, but I count it well worth the cost. I could freight paying customers with this setup, and I have, actually." Bochas bragged with genuine pride.

“Hey, cap, got your tux." A voice came from the cabin entry drawing Johan's gaze away from the artificial star field above the bed. A very unique and curious sight stood in the cabin's open hatch; a skunk moreau. Naked and still dripping from whatever bathing it had been forced to endure, the monochromatic creature stood about a meter and a half, five feet, at the top of his – and, being naked, identifying its gender was instantaneous – black furred, white striped head. His tail, wet and bedraggled as it was, appeared to be almost as long as his upper torso and head together. Johan caught a momentary upward glance through the downward tilt of the beast's head as it took in the commodore and Johan standing nearby.

“Well, you didn't bother dressing the damn thing?" Bochas growled with a wave at the sopping animal. “You, whatever you are, get in here. Beck, have one of the laundry tenders bring this thing some shorts." With a firm thrust of one arm in the center of the skunk's back the crewman named Beck shoved the animal into the room and stalked off muttering into his communicator. Bochas strode forward and grabbed the beast by its lower jaw, forcing its head up. “What's your name?" He growled. The animal said nothing, wide eyes ogling up at the commodore in terror. For a few breaths the only sounds in the room were the steady drip of water from the creature's fur. “What is your name?" Bochas finally snarled when nothing forthcoming was apparent.

“Designation. Lot, generation." Johan quipped into the second silence. The striking blue eyes of the moreau flitted to him, the terror of its expression unchanged.

“J-0095, 1. Marris Alpha, R." it muttered as best it could with the commodore's huge hand wrapped under its chin.

“First gen, what I would expect of a skunk line. Produced by Marris Holdings at their Alpha outpost, probably a subsection R, gestation bank J." Johan clarified in a bored voice as if citing a dry report.

“And young, too." Bochas released the skunk's jaw with a jerk, spinning its head to one side so firmly its upper body half turned to follow before righting itself. “Cull, then. No matter, a fur coat is a fur coat." Stepping around it the commodore strode toward the hatch, “He's all yours, Johan. If he gets uppity at all just kill him, but try not to damage that pelt. It's pretty damn rare so it'll be pushing that twenty thousand mark easily." The hatch swung closed with a thump of seals when the commodore made his exit. Johan scanned the room once more, looking for things other than the obvious.

One spy cam was hard to miss situated above the door, hardly larger than a housefly. He was sure there were likely to be others, more cleverly hidden. Every cabin probably had them, he assumed, because the tiny imagers were ubiquitous everywhere anyway and the potential for blackmail was ever-present. The skunk stood where he had stopped after being shoved into the room.

“You." Johan snapped sharply and the animal drew its gaze up from a spot on the floor to stare fearfully at him. Johan waved his arm toward the facilities in the corner, “Go use the blower, you're dripping all over the floor. Is your musk cancelled?"

Moving stiffly the monochromatic moreau shambled toward the shower, limping slightly. “Sir, no, sir. Not skunk." The damn thing spoke so softly Johan had to actually walk over to him to hear what he was saying, asking it to repeat itself three times.

“Not a skunk? What are you then?"

“Canidae, master." One of Johan's brows tried to disappear into his hairline at this revelation. Purely going by a visual standpoint the damn thing looked to have been modeled entirely on a mephitidae genome; the muzzle was angular, the ears short and round, and the dripping tail was clearly not that of a dog. Of course, with genome manipulation technology he guessed it would not be too much of a challenge to adapt a canid genetic line to have the monochrome stripes, head, and tail characteristics of a non-canine species.

“Genus?" Most corps hard coded the stock of a moreau into it during gestation, just as they did manufacturer and patent information, so that it could be rattled off without error whenever anyone wanted to know.

“Gene stock identification was not provided to us, master." The dog-cum-skunk whispered, staring at the back of the shower stall into which it had walked and stopped without raising a hand to activate the door or blower. “This one only knows gestational identification and primary patent tree." Genus not provided in patent filings? That was an unusual oversight, Johan thought. It made copying the moreau stock completely legal. Pursing his lips in thought Johan flicked the shower stall closed.

“Get yourself dry." He walked over to the bed as the muffled shriek of the air drier started in the more or less sound proofed shower stall. Closing his eyes he activated his implants. “Status?" He queried with a thought at an unseen presence that only he could sense; a ghostly 'thereness' just behind his left shoulder if he concentrated enough to try giving it a positional fix. Since it was not really there he had long ago stopped bothering.

“Encryption level: low. Infiltration detection probability: Nil. Database scan: in progress. Four hundred thirty-three point one seven zettabytes storage. "

“Avoid higher tier encryption on data store, if encountered. Send me a schematic mesh." It popped into his head almost before he had thought the command and he spent a few minutes perusing the wireframe construct behind his eyes. “Cargo?"

“Thirteen thousand four hundred seventy-one, 0.003 attrition. Crew classification: Livestock manager; eighty-six. Systems; twenty-seven. Command; six. Security, armed; twenty-one. Engineering; seventeen. Medical; three. Supplemental medical under livestock management; eight. Dietary management; thirty. Dietary cargo; eight thousand tons pre-prepared ration. Ship organic production not monitored, limited to primary crew. Secondary crew dietary storage; forty-three tons, non-prepared. Expanded waste reclamation; levels sufficient for current cargo and crew tonnage. " Over half of the freighter's current capacity was given over to sustain its cargo, though the data storage capacity was astounding. They were transporting an insane amount of data on top of the live cargo.

“Fuel?"

“Scheduled refuel at Canton Orbital."

“Course emendation; refuel?"

“Rekogin Communal, Albetross system jovian."

“Plot." Johan thought, glancing toward the spy in the corner. “Identify monitoring channels, local specific."

“Three visual, one audio identified; secured. Disable? "

“Negative. Record, ready obfuscation." After a moment he added, “Damp audio gain forty percent."

“Damped. Recording, preparing. "

“Record all crew, ready obfuscation."

“Recording, preparing."

Johan's thoughts were interrupted by the motion of the hatch swinging open slightly accompanied by a quiet, muffled knock. The sound was muffled because the knocker had fur on their knuckles, which he discovered when he went to open the heavy hatch fully. Beyond stood a feline shorter even than the skunk patterned dog in the shower stall. One greenish yellow eye was marred by a puffiness under the fur and vivid red inclusion along one side of the iris. Crusted blood marred the fur of one nostril on the same side of the animal's muzzle. Without a word she extended a neatly folded black coverall which Johan took and then swung the hatch closed with a heavy thud of seals. A quiet motorized hum and hiss heralded the automated locks engaging.

“Time to jump?" He thought, returning to the bed and tossing down the jumper. The muted shriek of the air drier fell silent.

“Fourty three hours twenty-one minutes. Disrupt?"

“Negative. Target?"

“P-913. Lagrange; negative 4, 5a. " A schematic of the upcoming jump destination sprang immediately into his mind's eye; a busy orange giant system with thirteen planetary bodies, most of them jovian class. The plot showed a course to the underside – or negative orientation – of the system in the gravitationally stable point formed by the star, its fourth and fifth jovians, and modified slightly due to the density of planetary moons. “ One hundred thirteen hours projected for realign and jump capacitor recharge to Canton. " At some point someone had replaced the Commodore's primary matter/antimatter intermix reactor with one that was rather considerably less powerful – albeit safer. The Covier J-9 would take almost twice as much time to ramp up the jump core than the original Ram-Johnson Vector+.

“Amend plot. Lagrange plus primary, 7. Obfuscate."

“Amending. Zero point zero one four three negative factor three degrees deviation. " A pretty leggy jump to have such a miniscule deviation considering target points were a light month apart.

“Spike on emergence, plus one hour."

“Preparing spike. Duration?"

“Thirty percent."

“One hundred fourty nine hours for jump. Loaded."

“Disengage." There was no reply, his computer had closed the link from its end, but it was still listening for his commands. The faux-skunk emerged from the shower stall, now looking more like a crazed cat than a drowned rat. His tail had quadrupled its earlier sopping girth and looked nearly comical. Johan walked over and stood before him, eyes roving up and down.

“How did your former employers address you?" It was a lot more succinct to 'what is your name' that the commodore had asked, since moreaus could have several. They had one form of address at the center that gestated and trained them upon release. Another form at the barracks where they employed, used by other moreaus. Their nomenclature, which had already been stated. And, finally, whatever humans arbitrarily decided to call them.

The dog did not look up, as it would have to since Johan was almost half a meter taller than it was. “Salen, master."

“Salen, okay. Address me as sir, or Johan. What was your occupational classification?"

By the twitching of the dog's short, rounded ears Johan could tell that it was searching for an understandable definition. “Body servant, m- sir."

“Whore?" Johan raised an eye. His distinct physiological conformation and coloration was certainly out of the norm, which would be attractive to humans who dealt in the sex trade.

But Salen merely shook his head slowly, if fitfully. “No, sir. Specific servitor, highly limited communal usage. Developed and released under the specific demands of house Hurchester, Hell's Gate."

Ouch, Johan thought. That was not a system friendly with the law-abiding side of the Coalition despite being nominally Yukatec colonial systems. Nor with the Sangan, Orion Soviet, or pretty much anyone else except the most elite of the moneyed elite. They maintained their own militia almost on par with the Colonial Defense Authority itself. “How'd you end up here, then?"

“Turnover, sir. Our services were no longer desired." Meaning Herchester had lost to some other Hell's Gate syndic and had been dissolved; most likely bloodily. It was probably too much a bother to butcher the staff, and disruptive to operations as well. Thus, it appeared, those without a desired skillset were simply sold off.

“Our?"

“This one and seven others, sir, of the same batch. Five of us survive; all are here."

“Indeed. You are to serve me, now, Salen, until such time as the Commodore deigns otherwise. Is that clear?"

“Yes, sir."

“You are not to leave this cabin and the accompanying one, in which you will sleep, without my leave or the Commodore's. Is that clear?"

“Yes, sir."

“Good. Do you have any injuries?"

“Sir?"

“I saw you limping. A cat just came by with noticeable injuries."

“We," the dog's short ears flattened back and his comically bushed tail tucked, “We were thrown to the deck, sir. This one is bruised, only."

“Anything else, previously? You were bred and trained to serve a house, or an individual. Has anyone made use of those services since coming aboard?"

At this the dog did finally look up, striking blue eyes profoundly confused. Why did this unknown human care, he could read in the stare. “No, sir. Not of ourselves. Our crèche sisters have fared less well."

No doubt, Johan thought. “Use the intercom over by the door, get someone to bring up some towels. I'm for a shower."

“Yes, sir." But the dog did not turn toward the door, his gaze dropping to Johan's suit. Without asking if he needed help with his suit the dog stepped over to lend ten nimble fingers unfastening the clasps and seals, offering a shoulder for him to grasp while he pulled his legs free. With a moue of disgust at his own stench, which the dog did not react to in any visible way, Johan kicked it aside. When Salen continued to help with his sweat stained, reeking jumper Johan hissed and cocked back a hand as if to strike out irritably. Salen immediately wilted, dropping to the floor and bending into a deep kowtow in front of him. “Appologies, master! This one sought-" Though they were very subtle, Johan could see the shallow furrows that criss-crossed the skunk striped dog's back where scars prevented the fur from growing back quite right.

“Silence." Johan snarled, “And I am not your master." He pulled off the jumper, negligently tossing it over the prostrating skunk's head and shoulders. “If I need your help I'll ask for it."

“This one understands, sir." The skunk made no move to extricate himself from beneath the fabric draped over him.

Black fur was plastered to every surface, standing out starkly but Johan could care less; the drainage in the floor was designed do deal with the occasional moreau. Tabbing on the shower he ramped it up to just shy of scalding and pumped the soap dispenser a couple of times. There was a rag for bathing, as plastered with fur as the walls. Lathering it up, fur and all, he vigorously worked himself over, luxuriating in the hot removal of so many days sweating in a single garment. His ship had a purely utilitarian toilet crammed into the back of the tiny pilot's cabin, but it was not functional enough to keep the pilot clean. That was nothing new to being a spacer, however. The shower automatically cut off after a couple of minutes while he lathered up, turned it back on to rinse, lathered up once more to include his thick hair, and then a final rinse.

Salen, standing just outside the shower door and now clothed in a pair of simple brown shorts, held a towel up before himself like someone displaying a flag. There was no edging around the dog so Johan simply stepped into it and the dog wrapped the towel around him. His redolent jumper and suit were gone and the black coveralls brought by the beaten tabby had been laid out on the bed as formally as a suit. While Johan toweled off the dog retrieved the coveralls and returned to help him step into them. When the human turned around the dog gave him an appraising up and down, adjusting the coveralls once they had been zipped up as if straightening formal wear before stepping back.

He adopted a respectful pose, hands clasped above his tail and head bowed. “May this one help you with anything else, sir?"

“Yes," he said, walking toward the hatch. “Firstly, quit simpering, it's annoying. Secondly, clean your damned fur out of the shower."

Salen jerked upright as if his short round ears had been hooked, “Yes, sir. This one will attend to that immediately, sir."

Johan merely cast a glance back at him when he reached the hatch, “I will return, though I have no idea when. Until then… figure out what to do with yourself, so long as you adhere to the orders I gave you. If anyone tells you to do anything else, have them contact me or the commodore."

“We shall do so, sir." Salen bowed forward primly at the waist but Johan had turned away without a second glance.

Pulling the hatch closed he dogged it secure with the hand wheel and turned his attention to the lean, dark skinned guard seated on a bench facing his cabin. A broad-leafed dwarf tree provided a facsimile of shade from the faux sunlight above. “Mind giving me the nickel tour, or are you just going to follow me? I'd like to get the lay of the land, so to speak, because I've never been on a freighter before, much less a heavy."

The man said nothing and stood, letting his squad weapon dangle lightly at his side where his arm rested upon it.

Easy, Johan thought with an inner smile, and began walking. The guard let him take ten paces before following, leaving the cabin unguarded save for whatever security cameras might be watching.