A Respectable Profit

A RESPECTABLE PROFIT

  by

  Bruce C Davis

  Copyright 2010 by Bruce C Davis

  Titania's Purse

  Queen Mab Courtesy

  or check out the website at www.thatwhichishuman.com

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please do not resell it or give it away to others. The author does appreciate word of mouth referrals so please direct your friends to this site so they can buy their own copies. Information may want to be free, but entertainment needs to be paid.

  A RESPECTABLE PROFIT

  by

  Bruce C Davis

  "You have to go down, Zack" Sylvia chided. "It's part of the package."

  I heaved myself out of the command chair and picked up the short jacket slung over the headrest. "You sound like Cleo, Sylvia," I grumbled. "Never giving a man a minute's peace. Not even in his own cockpit."

  "But Cleo told me to make sure you saw our guests off in person."

  "You always do what she tells you?" I asked. "I thought I was the captain of this ship."

  "You know how she gets when she's cross," Sylvia said carefully. "The passengers are expecting you."

  As the Profit's Artificial Intelligence, I'd have thought Sylvia immune to Cleo's displeasure. Don't get me wrong. I knew Cleo was the reason we were doing so well lately. I'd lived on the edge of bankruptcy for years until she'd convinced me to take a windfall score and upgrade of the Profit's passenger cabins and salon. Now, she marketed us to the rich and famous as a high class charter boat.

  I shrugged into the 'uniform' jacket. The uniforms were Cleo's idea. Made us look more professional, she said. She'd had a hell of a time getting Deuce into one. He spent most of his time with the engine and his workshop when passengers were aboard.

  "I'm going," I said, putting on my cheerfully confident professional face. I swung through the cockpit hatch and crossed the catwalk above the forward hold. I could hear Cleo speaking from the starboard sally port, just below me.

  "I'm sure Captain Mbele will be down any second," she said. "And here he is." She shot me a look as I reached the ladder.

  I hooked my feet around the ladder railing and slid down, always a sure crowd pleaser. I brushed back a dreadlock that had drifted across my face. The dreadlocks were Cleo's idea, too. She said it made me look sinister, enhancing my reputation as a reformed pirate. I took it in stride. Our bookings were up and the rich charterers paid in cash. If they were attracted by the illusion of danger, so what?

  "Sorry I'm late," I said, flashing my best rakish smile. Cleo's eyes said she wasn't buying it. "We had a glitch in the drive gimbals during approach and I had to order a level one overhaul from Port maintenance."

  I heard Deuce cough behind me and knew he was covering a guffaw at my technobabble nonsense. I glanced back and saw him standing in the hatch that led aft to the engines and his workshop. His broad shoulders nearly filled the hatchway, his smooth scalp and blond beard set off by the black and gold uniform jacket. He nodded to me but made no move to come forward and join us. Not that the passengers would expect it.

  "I was telling the Guthrie's how much we enjoyed having them with us for this trip," Cleo said, looping her arm through mine and poking me in the ribs at the same time.

  I managed not to grunt at her poke and smiled again. "Yes, indeed. A real pleasure." I reached out with my free right hand and grasped Mr. Guthrie's. His grip was firm and sure, just what I would have expected from a self-made ice merchant. Sam Guthrie had made a fortune in a cut-throat business and wasn't impressed with our playacting. He and I had shared a few drinks late in the sleep cycle while we told war stories about our service in the Reunification War. I liked the man.

  "Oh, Captain Mbele," gushed his wife. "Will Mr. Conejo be coming down to say good-bye? I simply must get that spiced fishcake recipe before we leave."

  Mrs. Guthrie was much younger than her husband and excelled at spending his money. She and her daughter, Ingrid, were the rest of our little charter group. Cleo had spent much of the trip keeping the two of them away from Deuce and me. Me because my tolerance for Mrs. Guthrie's brand of self-important silliness was marginal, and Deuce because Ingrid was seventeen, looked twenty five and liked playing seduction games with big tough men. There wasn't much fear that Deuce would take her up on it, but why take the chance?

  "I'm sure Rabbit, that is Mr. Conejo, would be here if he could," I said. "He’s busy in the galley and it's hard for him to negotiate the ladder from the upper deck in his wheelchair." In fact, Rabbit's fancy power chair could descend the ladder as fast as anyone. I knew he was hiding in his cabin. "I'll have Sylvia download the recipe to your link. Rabbit wanted you to have it. Sylvia?"

  "Done, Zack," she replied.

  "Tell him thank you for me," Mrs. Guthrie said. "His meals were the best part of this trip."

  One of the surprises of our new 'respectability' was the discovery of Rabbit's talent in the galley. He'd always seemed indifferent to food, eating only for sustenance. But he approached cooking in the same analytical way he approached programming or dataslicing. The result was near perfection as long as he had a recipe to follow.

  The cargo 'bots arrived along with a deferential customs inspector to offload our charges' luggage. The inspector's obsequious fawning was a sharp contrast to the handling we'd received on our last visit to the Highpoint arcology. That time we'd been swindled out of our shipping fee, part of the cargo and nearly the Profit as well. Respectability had its perks.

  Cleo and I edged the ladies toward the sally port. Guthrie strode ahead, ready to be off. Just as we reached the lock, Mrs. Guthrie pulled out a holorecorder and turned to me.

  "Please, Captain," she said. "Just one hologram of you and Ingrid. As a keepsake."

  Cleo glared at me. "Of course," I said, returning Cleo's look.

  Ingrid stepped up next to me and snuggled under my arm. She made a point of pressing her breast against my side and snaked her arm around my waist. Her finger played up and down my back under the short jacket as her mother fussed with the recorder and finally got the image she wanted. She smiled her thanks and began putting the recorder away. Ingrid snuggled closer. I gently disengaged her arm and stepped away, drawing a small pout from her. Cleo looked daggers at her, but if she noticed, she hid it well.

  "Well, that's all then," said Cleo cheerfully, leading them to the lock. Mr. Guthrie was already at the foot of the sally port stairs. He threw me a short nod as his wife took his arm and they strode off across the docking bay with Ingrid in tow.

  "Did you enjoy your little cuddle, lover boy?" Cleo asked as she waved to the Guthrie's.

  "Should I have tossed her off the ship?"

  "No, but you didn't have to enjoy yourself so much." She elbowed my ribs again. "You'll make it up to me tonight."

  I pulled her closer. "Yes, ma'am."

  She kissed my cheek, then pulled away. "Not now. I need to log their payment and put our name on the open charter list. With luck, we can pick up a client and not have to deadhead back to Tycho."

  I had been looking forward to having Cleo to myself on the passage back to home port, but didn't say so. Cleo was more than my ex-wife and business partner, but we weren't quite back to husband and wife yet. She had always craved the security of a successful business and for the time being, I was willing to go along. Especially since the alternative was losing her.

  I watched her climb the ladder to the upper deck and sighed. We were making money on a regular basis for the first time since I'd liberated the Profit from the Martian Navy after the Reunification War. I owned the ship outright, we paid our bills on time, and we were welcome most everywhere we went. (Well, not on Ceres or Kwai Hong One, but you can't please everyon
e.) Yes, being respectable had a lot going for it. Too bad it was so damn boring.

  Deuce reappeared in the aft hatch, minus the uniform jacket. "We pickin' up more passengers, LT?"

  "Don't know, Deuce. Cleo's fishing for jobs, but if no one steps up, we'll be empty on the run back to Tycho."

  "That'd suit me fine," he said, rubbing his smooth scalp. "Okay if I take a little shore leave while we're in port? I'm gettin' a bit cramped back here."

  “Sure. Just stay in touch through your link and stay sober."

  "No fear, LT," Deuce said with a grin.

  "Never, Deuce."

  I left him and climbed the ladder to the upper deck. Cleo was in our quarters on the holomatrix, working. I went forward to the cockpit and shed the jacket before dropping into the command chair. From there I could look out on the huge docking bay that housed the Profit. At sixty meters length and four thousand metric tons capacity, she was small for a freighter and occupied less than a third of the space in the bay. I watched Deuce leave through the main lock, off on his own business.

  A thought occurred to me and I checked the bay identifier posted above the main exit lock: Bay 42, spinward. I smiled. The same berth we'd had more than three years earlier.

  "Sylvia, see if you can get Akira Kensai on the comm. Senior Patrol Officer Akira Kensai, unless he's been promoted since our last visit."

  "Right away, Boss."

  A few seconds later, the