Pirates

Book Six, the New Frontiers Series

By Jack L Knapp

 

 

 

By the Author:

 

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

Angel (A Wizards Short Story)

 

The Darwin’s World Series

Darwin’s World

The Trek

Home

The Return

Defending Eden

 

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

BEMs: Bug Eyed Monsters

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

Hybrids (forthcoming)

Fantasy

The Wizard's Apprentice

 

The American Southwest Series

Jacob Jennings

Edward Jennings

Edward Jennings: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

The Territory

 

 

Copyright

Pirates: Book Six, the New Frontiers Series

Copyright © 2018, renewed 2023 by Jack L Knapp

Cover by Blair Howard

 

All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Disclaimer: the persons and events depicted herein are the product of the author’s imagination. No resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

Product names, brands, or other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. No association between the author and the trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such imply an endorsement by the author of the product, trademark, or trademark holder.

 

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Prequel

Bobby Sneyd looked out at dim, distant Sol, and shivered.

Most believed he had it all. Wealth, of course. Power, even, and something his free-wheeling father Chuck had never had, a title that was his, forever: First President of the Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol.

Bobby had subsequently retired from government service in order to run the family company, New Frontiers, Inc, full time. Now, he realized what no one else did, that reality no longer matched the appearance. NFI, once the largest and most powerful company in the solar system, had become a hollow façade.

The company had been bleeding money for years. Sales, few; profits, minimal. The prospectors no longer brought in the valuable metal asteroids, a major source of profit in the beginning, and what little had been coming in couldn’t be sold. Because on Terra, the main market for the metals the company’s refinery produced, buyers had stopped buying. One, occasionally two, would offer bids for a load, but the offers were so low that the metal was barely worth selling. A side effect: transport profits, another major income stream, had declined.

By contrast, the prospectors, the lowest socioeconomic class on Mars, had never had it so good. Food on Mars was free, the result of a barter arrangement between the Chinatown farms and the company. The food was supplied to the company, in part as payment for excavating the cubage the Chinese farmed. The company also provided water and the free electrical power that ran the grow-lights.

The extraterrestrial Flickers had helped too. Thanks to the crop strains they’d helped the Chinese farmers develop, their farms produced more, far more, than Chinatown's residents could use. The excess they sold or bartered, vegetables to Mars City and grains to the rogue Flickers who had settled in the Outback. They used some of the grains for food, but most went to their breweries and distilleries.

Ongoing tunneling (highly-engineered excavations, despite the name) produced plenty of water as a side effect, some of which was electrolyzed into hydrogen and oxygen. The farms not only produced food, they took up carbon dioxide and released oxygen, which went far to keeping the atmosphere in the subsurface living spaces balanced.

The water performed one more service. In return for assistance, the outcast Flickers had created an enormous dome on the surface. Prospectors had then helped them construct the interior of what had subsequently become known as Central Park. The park now contained a large lake with a Flicker-created ecosystem and even a forest surrounding the lake's edging beach.

The lake water contained biological nanites that had been designed for Flickers, but experience had revealed that they worked equally well on humans. Whether drunk or absorbed during swimming, the nanites circulated through the body, keeping it healthy. Long life, for sure; perhaps, life without end.

Working in the Belt was dangerous, and running a scoot was expensive. But on Mars, prospectors had free food, free air, free electrical power, and there was more.

The Flicker outcasts converted Chinatown’s grains into. premium wines and beers, which rivaled the best on Terra and provided them with a necessary medium of exchange. Lower-quality beverages were provided to the independent prospectors who lived in the forests around the lake. Most stayed for a month, sometimes longer, until their money was spent and memory of the seductive voices in their helmets had faded. Some swore the voices were those of long-dead prospectors, while others claimed they were imaginary. Neither were willing to change their opinions, and it didn't matter. No question, the Big Dark out in the Belt was scary, so scary that only Terra's desperate failures were willing to try.

A few got rich, some of them very rich; most barely broke even. But on Mars they had company, and no one was going to starve or be sent packing when residents tired of providing care for the homeless.

The Flickers used profits gained from selling premium beverages to Terrans to finance their shopping via the planetnet, using Solar Union dollars and marsbucks. A thriving resale trade had grown up between the Flicker entrepreneurs and humans, and some of the Terran-produced products were traded far across the galaxy.

One drawback to this prospector’s Eden: the Flickers had never quite learned the knack of producing high-quality whiskey, rum, or tequila. Aging, in wooden barrels? Cutting a living tree for its wood? The pacifist mainstream Flickers wouldn’t think of it (although they prized Terran woodcrafts) and the outcasts, who might have been willing to use lumber, had no access to it. Not to mention little knowledge of how to use it even if they had. Despite science and technology developed over perhaps a million years and at least 50,000 of them in space, the subtle changes in distilled products simply refused to happen.

But they kept trying. No need to waste the failures; prospectors, they knew, would drink anything!

But the prospectors, despite everything, had become restive. They had been failures on Earth, almost all of them, and many barely a step ahead of justice. They had come to Mars expecting to start over, to work hard but also to grow rich from their labor.

And why should they not? Prospecting, from the beginning, was lonely, extremely hazardous work! Hard, exhausting work, in vacuum, moving heavy objects in zero gravity. Weightless objects, but not massless, and always with death waiting for a single mistake. The voices might be imaginary, as some believed, but vanished prospectors and the 'ghost' scoots they left behind were all too real.

The company had financed the vehicles that took them out to the Belt, ‘scooters’, at first which soon evolved into 'scoots'. One-person vehicles, small enough to maneuver easily, but large enough to carry the tools and consumable supplies needed to support a prospector for a month.

For NFI, it was simply good business, because the prospectors located the valuable M-type metallic asteroids that NFI refined. The metal was subsequently shipped to Terra in NFI ships and sold at a profit, quite a high profit truth be told.

Or had been.

But designing the scoot had necessitated a compromise. The need for maneuverability had dictated small size, which therefore limited range. Enough to reach the Asteroid Belt, but only that portion of it nearest to Mars, the ‘shallow Belt’.

Mars, which orbits faster than the asteroids in the Belt, had carried them to new regions during each orbit, so prospectors had done well at first. Some very well, while others had at least made a reasonable living. But after two years, the shallow Belt, the only part that scoots could reach, had been worked out. The deeper Asteroid Belt was accessible only to NFI's ships, and to the few prospectors they employed on salary, with bonuses for extraordinary finds.

The company’s efforts to keep peace and set up some sort of order had also backfired. By arbitrarily dividing the shallow belt into sectors and assigning them to individual prospectors, the company had hoped to prevent violence and claim-jumping. It had been a limited success at best, because some of the sectors contained more of the valuable M-types than others. And some sectors were virtually worthless. Bobby understood the problem, and also realized that there was nothing he could do.

NFI, sliding ever closer to bankruptcy, could not afford to fund the research needed to develop longer range scoots which could carry the prospectors deeper into the Belt. And even if they had them, the prospectors, poorly educated for the most part, simply might not be able to master the mathematics necessary for deep-space piloting. Bottom line, the company had done all it could, and it had not been enough. What had seemed so promising in the beginning now held all the elements of a Greek tragedy.

A number of prospectors, unwilling to waste time and scarce marsbucks exploring already-prospected sectors, now spent more time on Mars than out in the Belt. And too many found ways to get into trouble. Fortunately, there were no guns on Mars. Custom, followed by company policy and finally, Article Four of the Constitution, forbade private ownership of guns.

The authorities did what they could to control behavior in the Park. Constables patrolled the beaches around the lake, the source of most offenses, one or two during the day, four on rotating patrols after dim-down.

For misdemeanors, locking a drunken prospector up overnight in an uncompleted tunnel might get his attention. If that failed, repeated offenses might result in banishment, temporary or permanent. But for the worst, those expelled from Terra for crimes of violence, justice was swift and lethal: expulsion through ‘Airlock 13’, without a pressure suit.

A knowledgeable few realized that economics, fueled by Terran resentment and fear, was the real issue, but none of the prospectors were among that knowledgeable few. For that matter, they had little contact with the permanent Martians. The ‘family’ beach where they went wasn’t technically off limits to prospectors, but there was no reason for them to go there, to be ignored at best, sneered at or worse by those who had settled Mars a long time ago.

Bobby understood what no one else did. The prospectors, from the beginning, had proved to be independent, perhaps too independent.

Now, motivated by disappointed and resentment over what they saw as injustice driven by profiteering, by anger reinforced by too much alcohol and too much time on their hands, the prospectors might decide to act. To express their anger against the company by turning to violence.

So far, they hadn’t found a leader.

If they did, if somehow violence did break out, the ever-helpful nations on Terra would be happy, even eager, to intervene. To take over the upstart planet, and the company they resented at least as much as did the prospectors. To quash the dangerously idealistic government that, just by existing, threatened theirs.

Bobby looked out at dim, distant Sol, and shivered.

Prologue

“Greenhorn,” Ron agreed, when Sam pointed out the newbie. “Wonder what he wants with us?”

“He just left Mickey’s shop. Could be that Mick sent him,” Sam suggested. “He likes us.”

“Lucky us. You think he bought that scoot Mick was offering for sale?”

“Dunno. I thought he was asking too much. Lots around, you know. Not as if a fellow would have to look very far if he wanted a used scoot,” Sam said.

“Used or new, long as the fuel cells put out at least 90% of rated capacity and the impellers have been through a recent rebuild, a used scoot’s just as good as a new one. And way cheaper.”

“You can bet Mickey’s scoot is in good shape,” Sam said. “Prospectors wouldn’t stand for anything less. Be same as murder if one failed out in the Belt.”

Ron, usually unflappable, showed signs of anger at the idea. “Not even Lanny would do that!”

“No, he wouldn’t dare,” Sam agreed. “You want to do the talking?” He indicated the stranger, now waiting diffidently to be noticed.

Ron nodded. “Welcome! What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Ian Murray. I just got a scoot and NFI assigned me a sector to prospect. I’ve had the usual orientation course, but I’m a little nervous and Mickey said you were the ones I should talk to.”

“You should be nervous!” Sam said. “Overconfident rookies don’t come back. Cautious ones don’t get rich, not right away at least, but they survive.”

Ian nodded. “What I figured. Mickey said one of you might let me go along on your next trip.”

“You can follow us out to the Belt," Sam said, "but after that, you’re on your own. No offense, but prospectors work alone. That way, if you find that platinum asteroid you own it. Nobody else to claim they found it first,”

“Aw, you’re just pulling my leg! No asteroid is made out of platinum!”

“That’s right,” Ron said sagely. “But we found one that was almost that good. Core metal, it was, with the mantle stripped away, and most of it gold. Only about 20% of it was platinum.”

Sam nodded agreement and kept his grin from breaking out. The ‘asteroid’ in question had indeed been rich. Unfortunately, it massed less than five kilograms.

“So how come you aren’t rich?” Ian scoffed.

“Wild women and expensive whisky,” Ron said sadly. “Sure was fun while it lasted. Right, Sam?”

“Oh, yeah! Took us two months to spend it all, and another month to get over the hangovers!”

This time, the humor was not to be denied and Ian finally joined in, laughing along with the other two.

“You’ll need to know enough to keep yourself alive, Greenie, or you won’t lift with either of us,” Sam said. “The thing is, our sectors border each other, Ron’s, then mine, and on the other side is Mac’s. Just his, now that his partner died. Most would have turned the sector back to NFI, but Mac’s not afraid of Old Willard’s ghost.”

“Ghost? You’re joking again, right?” Ian said.

“Not this time. We’ve all heard the voices, and some say they’ve seen the ghosts. Maybe they did, or maybe they just went a little rock-happy, but Mac said he enjoys having Old Willard's ghost around. He claims it keeps the other ghosts away, but then again, Mac might have more than a touch of Belt Fever. He’s spooky for sure when he gets back, same as the rest of us, but it never takes him long to tie one on as soon as he hits dirt. He drinks until he passes out, but you got to watch that in-between part. After he starts drinking, I mean, but while he’s still on his feet.”

“Ghosts out in the Belt! Are you sure you’re not imagining things?” Ian suggested diffidently.

“I doubt there’s a prospector on Mars that hasn’t heard the voices,” Sam said. “We don’t talk about it much, except to each other—people who’ve never been out there wouldn’t understand—but after a week out in the Big Dark, you start listening. And that’s how long it takes just to get to your sector. After that, you’ve got two weeks of prospecting and a week to get back to Mars. If you stay out longer, you’ll run out of consumables. You can go hungry, but you can’t breathe vacuum.”

“Mickey said something like that,” Ian agreed. “He said you learn to watch your oxygen and hydrogen levels, battery too. If you stay parked too long, you won’t even be able to call for rescue.”

“Don’t push the envelope,” Ron agreed. “Easy enough to die out there, even without adding in stupid."

"And watch yourself after the 5^th trip," Sam added. "Guys start to get careless about then.”

“I’ll remember,” Ian said. “So I should expect to hear things?”

“You should, and they might even keep you alive. Friendly ghosts warn you, but watch out for the mischievous ones! They’ll cause you to make a mistake, and it only takes one. Things like whispering that you don’t need the safety line, you’re only working a couple of centimeters away from your scoot. You can reach that far if you try. But you can’t, because as soon as you reach out your arm your body rotates away. We’ve heard of guys that happened to, floating right next to the scoot but with no way to get back to it. The others, like the one that owned the scoot you bought from Mickey?” Sam waited for Ian’s nod, then continued. “Ghost scoot, found drifting with no sign of the owner. Dead, of course, because suits only hold a few hours of oxy, so the scoot was brought in as salvage and sold to Mickey. He fixes them up if they need it, then sells them to guys like you.”

“We generally don’t talk about ghost scoots,” Ron said. “People who’ve never been out in the big dark don’t understand. They think we’re nuts as it is, go out for a month, then spend the first week back drunk. Some go overboard, Mac for example. He’s a friend of ours, but we avoid him for that first week.”

“He gets drunk?” Ian asked.

“Fighting drunk,” Sam agreed. “He tries to compensate for being a little guy, kind of a runt, but when he’s boozing he’ll fight at the drop of a word. All it takes is someone calling him Big Mac and people start moving aside. But after he’s had time to get rid of the worst of the shakes, he’s okay. Lanny, now, you don’t want anything to do with him. He’s poison mean, and the ones that hang out with him are almost as bad.”

“We all drink,” Ron explained. “The beer is good and it’s either cheap or free, depending. One of NFI’s psychologists labeled us binge alcoholics, and maybe we are, but that psychologist was never out in the big dark. Let him listen to the whispers for a couple of weeks, and he’d be a stone drunk like the rest of us! But not out in the Belt; never take alcohol when you go out. Here on Mars, okay. Out there, it will kill you.”

“Some can’t take it at all,” Sam agreed. “No shame in it if you’re one. And even the ones that can handle the darkness and the silence won’t go back out right away. Takes most of us a month or two back here on Mars before we’re ready.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ian said. “Basic food allocation is free, according to Mickey.”

“Food and air both, here on Mars. But for enough supplies to last while you’re out in the Belt, there’s a charge, and as for water, you’ll learn to drink lake water and love it. Takes away a hangover and cures what ails you. Literally,” Sam said.

“I heard that,” Ian said. “Makes you immortal, what I heard.”

“You heard wrong,” Ron snapped. “It will cure virtually any disease, but that’s it. You can die from a lethal case of the stupids, and for all we know old age will eventually get you anyway. It just takes longer before it happens. The Flickers, now, they may be immortal, or almost so, but they can get killed like anyone else. Ever met one?”

“I saw pictures,” Ian said.

“You’ll see a lot more than that if you stick around long enough,” Sam smirked. “The mainstreamers mostly keep to themselves, but there are several small groups of outcasts. The mainstreamers call them rogues, but except that they don’t live with the others, they’re alike. And aome live here in the park full-time, with us. They’re good people.”

“Technically, it’s their lake,” Ron clarified. “We helped build it, but they designed it and they provide the nanites that make it work. It’s not the water, you see, it’s what’s in it. You can’t feel them or taste them, but they’re there. Cure anything, a hangover, a cancer, even a damaged heart. If you’re not dead, go for a swim or just soak in the water and drink as much as you can. You’ll probably survive.”

“Do people ever visit the Flicker settlements?” Ian asked.

“Not more than once,” Sam said, “except for the guys that transport their trade goods. They’re prospectors mostly, hauling wines and premium beers to Chinatown. Few trips, and a prospector can earn enough to buy hydrox and ration packs for his next trip out. But they’re all standoffish, out in the communities, so it’s best to wait until they visit us. The females will, because they get lonesome. Not many Flicker males to start with and they usually avoid us prospectors, but the females look for us. Our girls keep us in beer.”

“Lot to learn,” Ian said. “About this Mac guy, is he on Mars now?”

“Been back two weeks. He’s probably safe right now, but watch out a week from now,” Ron warned. “We all drink, it’s just that Mac drinks more and he can’t handle it.

“About drinking,” he continued. “A hangover’s okay, but don’t fly drunk. Not ever, not even once! Some will tell you it’s okay, makes the ghosts easier to understand, but don’t listen to ‘em! And like I said, no booze out in the Belt. Otherwise, a month or two from now, Mickey’ll have your scoot back and it’ll be for sale to the next guy.”

“You know, I used to fight on Terra,” Ian mentioned. “Boxed some, tried MMA for a while. I can hold my own.”

“In Mars gravity?” Sam scoffed. “Changes things, Ian. Mac used to teach Martian martial arts, but after Judge Monique got involved he had to quit. She’s got her hook out for Mac, she does. Too many fights; she’s threatened to expel him if he gets in another one, and she just might.”

“With no suit,” Ian said. “I was warned about that.”

“If the sentence is Airlock 13, believe it. Been that way since Mars was first settled. Little things that don’t mean much on Terra can get people killed out here,” Ron explained. “Can’t have it, because careless people get careful people killed. But she probably won’t do that to Mac. Just boot him off Mars.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Um…those are Flickers, right?” Ian pointed to figures that had just emerged from the forest.

“Yep, that’s Maona and a couple of her clan-sisters. Not really sisters, but they call themselves that. Something to do with the community and the way they can talk to each other with their minds. They’re friendly. If you’re lucky, they’ll be really friendly later on tonight.” Ron smiled.

Ian wasn’t convinced. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Sam agreed. “Some of the other guys will be by too, now that the females are here. You’re welcome to come by and have a beer, but watch out, it’ll knock you on your butt! And if Mac comes around, whatever you do, don’t call him Big Mac!”

 

Chapter One

"It's bullshit, that's what it is!"

Ron wondered if Mac was drunk again, then decided he wasn't. He had been at the potent Flicker beer, but that wasn't the reason for this outburst. The dozen pages of old-fashioned paper scattered around him was the real issue.

"We had an agreement, Willard and me!" Mac continued. "We shared that section of the Belt, because there wasn't enough metal in those poor excuses for asteroids to keep a cat in food much less support either one of us! NFI's paid miners get all the good zones, we get what they don't want! And now, some guy who claims he’s Willard’s cousin is suing me for half of our sector!" Mac finished his beer and Maona handed him another.

Ron frowned. Mac was close to his limit; it wouldn't take much to set him off and then the trouble would start. Again. And 'Big' Mac would demonstrate why a human who was at least ten centimeters shorter than average was no one to take lightly, because Mac had small-man's syndrome, including a temper to match. And after he got a snootful, he started looking for a victim. "No more, Maona," he ordered. "Milly, give me a hand; Mac needs to head back for camp."

"Ron, I don't think he wants to go back," Milly said.

"Sleeping it off at camp is better than sleeping it off in a MARS jail! Couple of you guys, we might need a little help."

"Aw, he'll be okay," Sam said. "He's just pissed at that Terran lawyer."

"Sam, did you pay attention to that bunch to the south? A dozen, maybe more, about 35 meters away? They're passing a bottle of something, maybe that fake tequila the Flickers are making now."

"Hey, don't knock it! That stuff ain't half bad," Sam protested. "Knock you flat on your butt if you're not careful, though."

"It will, but it's not about what's in the bottle, it's who's drinking from it," Ron pointed out.

"Oh, shit! Lanny's bunch?"

"Yeah. Not seeing Lanny, though, which is a good thing. Any more trouble between him and Mac and they're likely to both be permanently banned."

"That would kill him for sure," Sam agreed. "Mac likes it out here. The low gravity added at least six centimeters to his height, and out in the Belt it's more."

"Yeah. I'll give him this, he’s a runt, but there's no quit in him! If he's still conscious, he's still fighting."

"Well, let's get to it, but if Mac takes a swing at me, he won't get a chance at Lanny," Sam said darkly. "I still owe him for that sucker-punch! Friend or no, if he balls up his fist he's going down!"

But the trip to their camp went without incident. Mac was docile enough; he hadn't reached the 'fighting drunk' stage. Sam and Ron got him settled by the small fire, and the female Flickers, with the help of the four human women who were for the time being, part of the group, began preparing food. While they worked, Ron brewed coffee.

The caffeine levels were acceptable, but there was something off about the taste. Those who could afford it bought Terran coffee. Mac's group couldn't. "Wish we could afford wood for that fire," Mac observed sadly.

"Hydrocarbon fires are good enough," Sam argued, "they're cheap, and Mars needs the carbon dioxide."

"Yeah, but a gas fire just ain't the same." Mac drank his coffee and around the fire, the other humans breathed mental sighs of relief. Disaster averted, this time. "You know, it’s just not fair. NFI’s cherry-picking the best regions for themselves!"

"Their refinery, their rules, Mac," Ron said reasonably. "If you can't show you mined your find from a legal asteroid, one in your assigned sector, they won't buy. They claim it heads off trouble before it starts."

"And they get to decide which ones are legal! It's robbery, that's what it is!"

"Be reasonable, Mac! NFI got here first, so they got first dibs on the Belt. They're rich, but no company is rich enough to keep on spending unless they're earning too. Food, water, air for us, and they fund the patrol. More than one of us has been glad to see that cruiser when it came by to tow us back to Mars, and they even paid for that expedition to Centaurus! I don't see how we can begrudge them what they make from the Belt."

"That was then, this is now," Mac argued. "Sure, they spent money on that military expedition, but nobody's heard of the community of 33 since Admiral Robby blew up that rogue planet. That was what, three years ago? Nowadays, the Flickers don't bother us and we don't bother them. Should have been that way all along, you ask me! But anyway, NFI has been raking in the marsbucks ever since while we take all the risks. How many of us Indies have been lost out there? I don’t know, and I’ll bet you don’t either! I say that we deserve a fair share of the rewards!"

"Well, we might deserve it," Ron agreed, hoping to head off trouble, "but we won't get it. Unless you've got your own refinery, that is! Until then, you're stuck using theirs just like the rest of us are. Like I said before, their refinery, their rules. Not to mention that they own most of the ships. They sold off some, but NFI is still the only one that’s shipping metal. If you had a way to ship directly to Terra without going through NFI, then you might be able to make a go of a new refinery, but until you figure out a way of doing both at once, you're stuck. Doing what we're doing now, selling country rock for the ice content instead of asteroids full of industrial metals! And in between, hauling cargo on Mars to get the bucks together for a new stake."

"An independent refinery could work," Mac argued stubbornly. "Indies would go for it."

Ron shook his head and glanced around the group. No question, Mac was determined when he got an idea in his head! He was trying to think of a way to change the subject when Maona interrupted. "Why not build your own, Terran Mac? You could do that, you know."

"Not on Mars, you can't," Sam argued. "NFI would know, and we’d end up back on Terra, broke. I don't know about you, but I like it out here. Not as free as I'd like, but it’s a living and we get something nobody on Terra does. We get to swim in the Central Park lake! When was the last time you got sick?"

The silence spread. The biological agents in the lake water were a rumor on Terra, but an open secret on Mars.

"There's a way, if you're interested," Maona insisted. "Are you?"

"I sure am!" Mac said. "If you’ve got an idea that will work, I’ll tell that lawyer he can just have Old Willard's claim! There's nothing but rock out there anyway. I oughta know, I've prospected enough of it! Let that cousin come on out and mine country rock for himself, see how long he lasts! That lawyer’s hoping I'll settle, pay him off, but I can't. I’m broke, we all are, or near to it as anything. Good thing food and air are free, because we'd be starving, assuming we could breathe vacuum. Let’s hear this idea of yours, Maona."

 

Chapter Two

The lights near the top of the huge dome brightened right on time. Unfortunately for Mac, he'd fallen asleep on his back and the lights shining through his eyelids woke him up.

There was a little leftover coffee in the carafe, cold now, and it hadn't tasted all that good while it was fresh. Mac drank it anyway, then headed for the lake. A morning dip wouldn't be pleasant, considering his headache, but it would fix him up enough to face the day. Sour stomach relieved and headache gone, he soon felt human.

He shook himself almost-dry on the beach and ducked through the opening in the surrounding forest, where he found the trail that led back to camp.

He occasionally felt astonished at what the Flickers had done, not only creating the dome and what the humans called Central Park, but an actual forest surrounding it! The trees could not have grown to their current size that fast, which meant transplanting the trees, but how had they done it? And where had they found them? They were from Earth, or an Earthlike planet, which meant that somewhere out in space was a planet that could support humans. Other Earth-native animals and plants too, perhaps, and someday, the Flickers might help humans as Martians now helped them! No question, humanity could learn much from the ancient species, but why they bothered with humankind was another question entirely.

But the good feelings lasted for bare moments before Mac remembered. He would be meeting today with his 'legal advisor', whose legal training consisted of having been a clerk in a law office on Terra. He'd had nothing to do with Terran laws on Mars, or the simple set of rules that had superseded them after the new Constitution was approved, but he was all Mac could afford. In lieu of payment, Mac had promised to help him get started prospecting as soon as he could afford the down payment for a scoot of his own.

And after he talked to the man, Mac would have to meet with the Terran lawyer representing Old Willard's cousin. Which was guaranteed to make him feel worse.

Maybe he should have a beer or two beforehand? It wouldn't make what was coming better, but maybe it wouldn't be quite as bad. Sometimes, when that was the only option a man had, not-quite-bad was what he settled for.

Ron was waiting when Mac got back to the camp. "Sam was out earlier. There's coffee if you want some, and even better, he picked up news about Lanny."

"I hope a Flicker got mad and disappeared him! But that's too good to be true, because he knows better than to mess with them. What's the news?"

Ron grinned. "He got in another fight last night, this one up by the family beach. If it had been down in Hippie Hollow no one would have cared, but he punched a guy who was there with his wife and kids. Constables saw it and hauled him in, and guess who he got for a judge?"

"Hippie Hollow. Danged Texan! No hippies there, far as I know, not that I would recognize one if I saw it. And no hollow either, now that I think on it, but don't keep me in suspense; who did he get?"

"Maximum Monique, that's who!"

Ron leaned back and grinned, as did the others. Even Mac smiled. Better him than me! he thought. But Mac was interested despite himself. "She lock him up again?"

"Nope, but she sure-enough took a strip of hide off him before she passed sentence! Said he was a louse, not even important enough to be booted out of Lock 13! Yet."

"Ouch! Got to be a bunch of mummies out there somewhere. Nobody survives banishment to the surface." Did even Lanny deserve that? Well, maybe...

"I hear he's still in a state of shock," Ron agreed. "No Lock 13, but she banished him from Mars and ordered him not to ever come back. She also vacated his Belt permit and assigned his sector back to NFI. Since she's also NFI's rep, she could do that, and acting for the company she also revoked his refinery contract and ordered Marsbank to foreclose on his scooter loan. And since Lanny is nearly as broke as we are, the scooter is gone. He's got no income now, at least no legal income. No scoot, to start with, and even if he had one, no sector and no way to sell what he found. Which means there's no way he can make a living on Mars, at least no legal way. I suspect he'll be on the next ship for Terra, if he can figure out a way to pay for passage.

"She suggested Mistral might take him, but Captain Rivers claimed he didn't have the cubage. He does, but he just doesn't want Lanny on his ship. He punched one of Rivers' engineers a while back and broke his nose."

"Reason enough," Mac said. "We got food?"

"Sam stopped by the dispensary on the way back," Ron said. "We're good for today and tomorrow, but we really need to get back out to the Belt."

"After I see that lawyer, I may not have a sector to go to," Mac said glumly. "He expects me to pay him what he claims is Willard's half, and I don't have it. None of us do."

"Can't make money off country rock," Sam agreed. "You're gonna see him today?"

"Right after I talk to Porter," Mac confirmed.

***

"He wants it, give it to him," Porter advised. "I ran a check on this guy. He files suit, settles cheap, and keeps most of what he gets by claiming 'expenses'. That cousin won't see more than a pittance."

"Porter, that sector is all I've got, except for my scooter, and I only own it because of that poker game last year! I tried hauling products for the rogues, but there are so many others doing the same thing that it would take forever to get enough for a stake. The only way I was able to go out last time was because the wholesalers fronted me supplies for a month! I made enough from ice sales to pay them off, but just barely. They'll quit doing even that if I don't have a sector to prospect."

"Share a sector with somebody if you have to," Porter advised, "but I doubt that lawyer will want yours. He can't sell it, because everybody knows it's worthless or the next thing to it. Not to mention that no Martian wants dirtside people up here trying to take our stuff! I predict he'll head for home quick, and probably never even file a claim for the sector."

"You think?" Mac asked hopefully.

"I do. Tell him he can have it if he wants it, but absolutely no settlement because you're as broke as Old Willard was."

"Print up a quit-claim for me, would you? And Porter, I owe you. We'll fix you up when you're ready to start prospecting."

"Glad to help, Mac."

***

Porter was almost right. No question, the lawyer was shocked, but he accepted the quit-claim. For what it was worth, he now owned the prospecting sector that had been the property of Old Willard and Mac MacIntyre.

Mac thumb-printed the screen and grinned at him. "Nothing out there but rocks! You want 'em, you got 'em.

Old Willard and me, we barely paid for our consumables, and from time to time we were prospecting only because people here in Mars City helped us out. Lately, we made do by locating a C-type asteroid with enough water ice to make hauling it to Mars worthwhile, but no metals. That sector, as much of it as we can reach with our scoots, is prospected out. There's nothing left."

Mac was whistling when he left the disappointed lawyer's rented suite. He suddenly understood that he'd been fooling himself all along; that sector was never going to pay off.

He was more upbeat than he'd expected when he got back to camp. "I'm officially out of business! He wanted a settlement, he got a quit-claim. I'm tired of beating my head against S-type rocks anyway! I'll bet there's not a single M-type asteroid left in that whole sector! The only good thing, thanks to Judge Monique, is that Lanny went broke before I did."

"You've still got a scooter, mining tools too," Ron observed, "which is more than Lanny's got! Turns out he was in debt up to his eyebrows. Bunch of idle layabouts, him and the rest that hang out with him! Do they even bother to go out to the Belt? If they do, they're always here when we get back!"

"Doesn't matter now, he's gone. We got any beer left?"

"He's not exactly gone, Mac. They moved their camp. Word is that he's way back in the woods at the far end of Hippie Hollow, hiding out while he tries to figure out some way he can avoid being deported. Rumor says there's a warrant out for him on Terra if he does go back."

Mac chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I'm not that bad off after all! I'll have to find a job of some kind, but I really don't want to go back to working at the refinery. About that beer?"

"We've got some," Ron said reluctantly. "Oala picked up a few cases from Poss's group. That new guy, Ian, scooted her out there, wanted to meet a real Flicker male. They're doing all right, she says, and they brought back a load of beer. Pretty good stuff."

"They're good people, and their beer's better than what we were drinking yesterday," Mac agreed, "but I mentioned to Maona that we might be broke last time I saw her, and after this morning that's confirmed. I'm not sure what I'll do, but I don't want to be shanghaied back to Terra!"

"She mentioned some kind of idea last night, didn't she?" Ron asked.

"Yeah. Kind of a surprise, because the females don't usually get involved in business. But I'm broke, and you guys are the next thing to it, so the females may have to find places in that rogue town to live. I doubt they'll like it, but I'm sure they'll eventually find someone to join up with."

"That's not why they stay with us, Mac," Sam said softly. It's the companionship. The communities, except for Poss's and one or two others, are all female. Poor bastards still haven't recovered from that civil war."

"We'll just have to do our best to make sure they don't think about it too much," Mac smirked. and got a couple of grins in return. The Flicker females rarely slept alone.

"Is Maona around?" Mac asked. "That idea of hers sounded pretty far-fetched. I would have said 'impossible', but you know, Flickers do things. Million-year-old society, all that stuff."

"Yeah. They do impossible all the time," Sam agreed.

***

Two hours later, they'd finished their meal and were lounging around the fire. Maona was next to Mac, a not uncommon occurrence, but like all Flicker females she had never heard of monogamy and wouldn't have spared it a second thought if she had. Mainstream Flicker communities survived as they did because the group shared everything, including the services of a male if there was one. And made do as best they could when there wasn't.

According to researchers, there was considerable turnover in such communities. The presence of a male Flicker brought stability, and somehow females from other communities moved in until the desired number was reached.

At the same time, communities were headed not by the male but by a female the others considered to be 'most complete'. She shared the community gestalt, their opinions, thoughts, and feelings. When she lost that status, the former most-complete always moved on.

"You mentioned something the other night, but I don't quite remember," Mac said. "About prospecting? I suppose I could go shares with someone who still has a sector; that's what happened with Willard."

"You do not see the solution, Terran Mac? It is obvious," Maona said.

Mac shrugged and finished his beer. "Obvious to you, maybe, but you're not a prospector. We only have one outlet for our finds. NFI assigns prospecting sectors, to keep the peace they claim, but I figure it's really a way to control us. We'll never get rich. That was only a pipe dream, at best. They've got a monopoly and they intend to hang on to it."

"You must break their monopoly," Maona said firmly. "To do that, you must first build your own refinery. Then you can prospect wherever you want and refine your own metals.

"They sell their metals to Terra, do they not? And Terrans will buy from anyone. They do not like paying what the company charges, and sometimes they do not buy."

"Building a refinery costs a lot of money," Mac argued. "Ceramic tanks, acids, electrodes, and a source of electricity just to start. You also need someone who knows how to run the place."

"But you worked at NFI's refinery, Terran Mac! You know what must be done."

"I did, and yeah, I know how an electro-refinery works. But even if we had the money, we don't have a place to build one. Most of the surface within easy reach of Mars City is claimed now. Terran companies bought up all the available leases before that war with the community of 33, and they still own the properties even though they're not doing anything to develop them. Distant land, yeah, but extending a tunnel and laying rails would cost more than the metal is worth.

"From what I heard, NFI didn't want to sell that land, but Bobby was desperate for money. Just building new ships and equipping NFI's share of that expedition—make that MARS's share—nearly broke the company. Things have recovered now, but they're still hogging every marsbuck they get their hands on. They act like they're still hurting for money!"

"You do not need money, Terran Mac. You do not need a place on Mars. We do not ask the human government for permission to build a habitat."

"Different for Flickers" Mac said morosely. "The government doesn't have jurisdiction over you like it does over us. And anyway, you're using land that NFI had reserved to itself. They can afford the loss, because when your species sells something to Terra NFI gets a cut. You probably don't even notice, but Terra pays you in Solar Union dollars and NFI's bank then exchanges them for Mars-Republic dollars, marsbucks. The company then pays you directly or banks it for you, but every time there's a transaction NFI keeps some for itself. And when you spend the marsbucks, say for music or an ad on social media, they exchange the money again, this time marsbucks for SU dollars. And once again, the company bank keeps a little bit of the money for themselves."

"I did not know this," Maona said, "but it does not matter. You do not need their land or their permission. Perhaps it is time for one of you prospectors to give the others like you a choice."

"And just how are we to do this?" Mac asked wearily. "You say we don't need money, but we do! Money to pay for food, water, and air, not here but when we go out to the Belt. Hydrogen and oxygen for the scoot's fuel cells too, because hydrox is our biggest operating expense. That makes every trip a gamble. Will we find something that's valuable enough to not only pay for expenses but turn a profit? We did, for a while, but now? Break even at best."

"There is no need to buy these things," Maona said. "I will gain them by bartering with those like me who have no traditional community. My people are called outcasts by the mainstreamers, Terran Mac. They will help you, because you help us. I have spoken to them, and they have agreed. We will build our own habitat, and your refinery can be part of it. But not here on Mars."

"Maona, think!" Mac argued. "Our scooters carry barely enough supplies for a month, maybe, before we have to return to Mars! And our mining lasers don't have enough kick to weld asteroids like yours do. We don't have ships, and we don't have the money to buy one."

"I can call a ship," Maona said. "It will not be one claimed by the community you call Flickertown, but when I call, a ship will come. Our species has many ships, Terran Mac. One will come when I call, as will others, as many as needed."

Mac glanced at the others to get their take on this. Sam nodded slowly. He was beginning to see what Maona had in mind.

Ron also understood. "Maona, they might be available to you, but we can't take one of your ships! That's piracy, and the SU has a no-quarter policy. They don't even bother to arrest pirates, they just dump them out the nearest airlock."

"You will not take our ship, nor will I," Maona said. "No Flicker owns a ship as you Terrans do! I will borrow it for a time, as long as I need it, then release it. It is our way. Who will know? The community of 33 might have cared, but they are no more. If any survived, their power is gone."

"You can just borrow a ship? One of those big freighters, even more than one?"

"Yes, Terran Mac. There are so many ships that no one will miss the ones I call. I can borrow as many as I need, and I know of ships that have not been called in years."

"You do? Where?"

"Around the star you call Proxima Centaurus," said Maona. "Ships damaged during the Felis War were left in orbit there, that they might perform self-repairs. They have done so, and now they wait for a call. But none have been called in more than three years. They have been forgotten by the mainstream people, and there are other ships like them, many others. It is how we live, we who have been cast out. The mainstreamers know, but just as with the Felis, they do not want to know. They are content within their communities; to think of us is to make them less-complete. Among the ships is one that was formerly a habitat ship; it contains a shipboard pond that is suitable for our kind, or was. Shall I call it, or perhaps two or three more?"

"Wait, wait...we can't just go parking ships in Mars orbit! The government will know we're up to something!" Mac had a cavalier attitude to government edicts, but this was more than he was willing to do.

"We will conceal the ships in the Belt," Maona said serenely, "in a place where humans do not go. A place where your prospectors have not been. If my people notice, those the mainstreamers call outcast, they will not care. No one cares! They are only ships, Terran Mac, they are not people. Some of the forgotten ships hold machines taken by Felis, including lasers that can weld asteroids together."

"The patrol will notice," Mac objected. "NFI won't like it. I'm not sure what they can do, but I'm sure there's something."

"Be complete, human Mac. If necessary, I will handle the patrol. I am outcast, but I am still Flicker."

 

Chapter Three

"You've already called a ship?" Mac asked, confused by how fast things appeared to be moving.

"I have called for three ships," Maona corrected. "One is a freighter that was taken long ago from the people. I chose it because it carries machines that were looted by the Felis. The Felis had no use for them, but they never give back what they take in raids. Instead, they place the machines in a freighter's hold and leave it in orbit. No one understands why they do this, but they do, and it is helpful to those of us who are not mainstream.

"That may be why they leave the machines; they cannot use them, but we can, and we who are outcast have much in common with the Felis. They are gone now, except for a few breeding pairs, and none among the people will harm them. The ship and others like it are ours to use, but we are not pirates. We will return them when they are no longer needed. Others like us, outcast by our kind, will know that they are available.

"The other two are ships that were used by Meesa's community when they came to this world. One is a farm ship; it has spaces for plants that prefer dirt, but most of the hold is taken up by what you call aquaculture. Such plants live in symbiosis with the gleanerfish that keep the pond in the habitat ship healthy. We will live aboard the habitat ship while we build a new permanent habitat. It will be much like the one you call Makemake, but unlike Makemake, it will have a place for your refinery."

"Sounds like you've got everything figured out," Mac commented. "What do we need to do?"

"You will take us to meet the ships I called. I will not bring them here. It is best if no one has cause to wonder, and your people would. They will wait near the asteroid group you call Greeks until we arrive." She frowned for a moment. "The farm ship and the habitat ship have already left orbit, but the freighter has not. It responded, but did not follow my instructions. That is very unusual! I will ask my sisters if they know of such."

She was silent for several long minutes. Mac understood that somehow, she was communicating with the other females in the group. Telepathy? Or some sort of implant?

Finally, she faced him again. "It has sometimes been necessary for more than one to join together when calling a ship. No one understands why, but it is on the way now. Your task is to gather supplies for your kind. We will travel with you to meet our ships."

"Gonna be crowded," Mac said thoughtfully. "And all the way out to the Greeks? That's more than twice as far as we've ever pushed a scoot. Fuel will be tight by the time we get there., but I can probably strap a few tanks of hydrogen and oxygen to the gunnels. Even so, we'll travel together for safety. Food—we can find someone to stake the other guys, I reckon, but not me. By now, everyone knows I'm out of business. No sector to prospect, so Ron and Sam and the rest of the guys will have to do that. Find us a stake, I mean."

"Let people think you've gone crook, Mac," Ron suggested. "We'll spread the rumor that you're determined to go wherever you think there are metals, and if it's in a sector claimed by NFI, too bad! We'll tell them that you're planning to break up whatever you find and have one of us sell the chunks to the refinery."

"I actually thought of that, Ron," Mac admitted. "But the problem is that NFI's ships haul big strikes back to the refinery. Scoots just don't have enough power, and even if they did, the fuel cells would burn through hydrox in a hurry.

"Anyway, NFI wouldn't dispatch a ship unless the find was in one of our sectors, and none of them have enough M-class asteroids to make it worth their while."

"You're both right," Sam said. "Mac, they'll believe anything of you. Stupid, sure, but it doesn't matter; they'll still believe it. When you're drinking, stupid is your middle name, and don't give me that look! You try to punch me, I'll feed you your teeth! After you shit 'em out, I mean. I won't play your silly game. I'll fight if I have to, but I don't fight for fun, not your idea of fun, anyway. I fight to win, and I don't worry how bad the other guy gets hurt!"

Mac blinked. Then looked at Sam, who looked back. His gaze never wavered. He didn't even look nervous! Was he serious? Mac decided he was. Sam was nobody's pushover, not to mention he and Mac had been friends for a long time. And no question, most of Mac's troubles had come on him after he'd had a few drinks. The fighting was just for fun, Mac knew that, kind of a way to keep loosened up and mix things up. A man's mitts were meant to be used, weren't they? People who won't fight don't deserve respect!

Suddenly he wondered: how many others felt the same way? Mac glanced around, but no one was smiling. A chill ran up his spine. None of the others would stand with him! They'd take Sam's side, not his, and things would never again be as they had been. He'd be alone, no friends to stand by him.

How had it come to this? Maybe it was time he grew up. He resolved to put the alcohol behind him. He'd done it before, but this time he'd stick with it! The voices, out in the dark…but Old Willard had been his friend, and maybe the voices really were only his imagination. Even though they sounded so real!

The only sounds, out in the Big Dark, originated in his helmet. Some came from his breathing, from the subdued click of the exhaust valve—until the murmurs started. Until he started concentrating on the sounds instead of what he was doing.

Imagination. That's all it was, imagination, not the spirits of long-dead prospectors. And he, Mac, was careful. No unnecessary changes, just the unavoidable ones that came with working alone. He wouldn't be joining the Belt ghosts anytime soon! He could do it, this time. He would! Quit the drinking, cold turkey. This time, he wouldn't take that first drink!

"I'll see to setting up the scoots. You fellows see what you can do about supplies. Gary will probably front us one more time."

"We'll do that, Mac. You going to be okay?"

"Yeah, Ron. It was only a worked-out sector anyway. I'll be okay."

Mac looked at the ground as the others walked away. Hadn't there been human women around last night? Just hazy memories, and anyway, if any had been there they were gone now. Even the Flicker women had gone off somewhere, all except Maona. For a moment, he looked longingly at the case of beer sitting off to the side.

But what kind of man couldn't stick to his vow for even a few minutes? A small man! He was better than that!

Wasn't he?

He walked over to the pitcher and poured a mug of water. Grimacing, he drank it, refilled it, and drained that too. As always, the water left him feeling refreshed.

It would just have to do.

***

Sam donned his helmet and breathing pack, all he would need for the short trip outside to check on his scoot.

Mars had an atmosphere now, thin, but far better than when humans had first landed on the planet. The government claimed that one day, people would be able to walk around on the surface without breathers. He didn't believe it, not unless they found a way to cover the whole planet with artificial gravity. They could produce an atmosphere, but Mars lacked the gravity to hold it.

His scoot, like the others, was shut down except for the fuel cells. They produced enough juice to maintain operating temperature and keep the batteries topped off, but unless Sam was aboard, not much else.

The major drain when Sam was present was due to the gravity compensator. No scooter produced enough power to run a grav compensator full time at one gee, or for that matter to generate a field large enough to cover the whole scooter. Maybe one day, if NFI's labs managed to design a fusion torch small enough to power a scooter...

He kept the field dialed back to a half-gee while underway, one half of Terran normal gravity. That was enough to keep him healthy during the weeks when he lived aboard, and if there were issues, a day or two swimming in Central Park's lake would see him right.

He took a moment to examine his own scoot with a critical eye.

The steel bottom and sides would have been at home on a river barge. Minor dents in the hull, of course; when stopped, the scooter was in essence just another asteroid, and asteroids bumped into each other. Steel, because on Mars, iron and carbon were literally dirt cheap. Supposedly, NFI's market on Terra had declined to almost nothing. If you could believe the company, that is! But for whatever reason, iron and steel were cheap.

Thirty meters long, eighteen and a half meters wide. Steel-lattice upper deck, flush with the 3-meter steel sidewalls. Bounded around by a sturdy steel rail called the gunnel, a meter above the deck. Inside, multiple pipes lined the interior of the sidewalls to distribute the gases to the cabin and the fuel cells located amidships between the decks, enclosed by a stainless-steel housing and flanked by stainless-steel battery banks to each side.

Oxy tanks to starboard, hydrogen to port. Globe-shaped enclosures inside each rounded corner that held the impellers, gimbal-mounted for maneuverability. Large metal equipment lockers aft, other metal lockers just forward of the fuel cells that contained food, water, and personal items. The ‘pantry' and ‘closet' were connected to the control room by a tube that extended from the small ‘tween-decks cabin.

Rounded control room containing the flight control instruments, attached to the front of the cabin and projecting above the metal lattice. Tool storage lockers by the bow, one to each side of the control room. Twin radar transceivers projecting outboard at the bow, one on the port corner, the other to starboard. The parallax between them was sufficient to provide highly-accurate ranges to nearby asteroids. If he was approaching from up-sun, the asteroid might be visible, but from down-sun, it was almost totally hidden, the ‘new moon effect'. But the radars didn't care; they provided their own illumination.

Not enough spare cubage between the decks to swing a cat, and if there had been, Sam would have found a use for it. Storage for more oxy, more hydrogen, and more ration packs, probably. More water, maybe, but the fuel cells produced water as a by-product and waste was dehydrated to extract water.

Rations were always short near the end of a trip, but hydrox for the fuel cells was the real issue. The solar cells were enough to keep the batteries charged, but he would always need fuel-cell electricity.

The cells ran continuously; trickle power on Mars, half of their rated output while out in space. They would freeze solid if they ever totally shut down. The battery bank could restart them, supposedly, but the rule was if in doubt, don't waste the juice! Use what you've got to call for help.

The scoot was a marvel of efficiency, but the drawback was that the cabin was small. Changing into his vac suit was a major chore. Some claimed they could sleep in theirs, but Sam had found it impossible.

Recovering sweat wasn't a problem; the recycler took care of that. But inevitably, at the end of the month he was desperate for a swim in Central Park's lake, and he always had a touch of claustrophobia by the time he got back. Not to mention that by then, he'd heard far too many voices. Some were beginning to make sense!

He walked over to talk to Mac, who'd hopped on board his scoot and gone down ‘tween-decks. Mac kept himself fit, a good thing; as it was, his various bad habits probably did more than enough damage to compensate. Good thing the local water comes from the lake, Sam thought. The Flicker biologicals were wonderful, almost magical. Too bad Terra hadn't figured it out yet; far better to prevent illness than to try to fix it after symptoms appeared!

<What are you thinking, Mac?> Sam sent.

Mac started; he hadn't heard Sam approach. Deciding the confrontation was over, he hopped over the side and landed near Sam. "I'm thinking we're gonna kill ourselves trying to make it to the Greeks! Those asteroids are a lot further than where we've been working. I just don't know..."

<Yeah,> agreed Sam. <Even traveling in a convoy won't help much. We'll have the Flicker women with us, meaning oxy supplies are likely to run low. Take us close to a month just getting there. The Flicker ships she called had better be waiting, because if they're not, our first trip will be our last trip!>

"We could call the patrol if we had to," Mac reminded him, "but they'd want to know what we're doing that far out, and they're in tight with NFI. Long trip for nothing if the company finds out what we're doing, but there might be a way." He tried to scratch his head and muttered something when his gloved fingers felt plastic.

<Well, I reckon if there is, you'll find it,> Sam sent. <What are you thinking?>

"I'm thinking you and Ron have good credit, and Marsbank now owns Lanny's scooter which it doesn't need. What if you two went in together and took over the loan?"

<I'm thinking we might end up banished if we can't make the payments!> Sam replied. <They'd take that scooter back, maybe both of ours along with it, and probably revoke our permits. I can see all three of us a year from now, sitting by a beach somewhere on Terra, living on basic income and trying to figure out what happened.>

"They can't foreclose if they can't find you," Mac argued. "They won't come after you out in the Belt, they'll just wait until you land on Mars and take the scoot then. But if we're out in the Greeks or on that Flicker ship, nobody will know where we are, and if we don't come back, they'll probably think we died out there. It happens."

<Mac, we'll eventually have to pay. Marsbank won't forget, and sooner or later we'll have to come in to Mars for something. Maona thinks that farm ship will produce enough for all of us, but I'm not buying it. Enough for Flickers, maybe, but once in a while I'd like to eat meat, even if it is vat-cultured, and see a human face that's not yours or Ron's.>

"We'll get to that," Mac said. "I figure if you two buy his scooter, we could load it with extra supplies. Hydrox tanks topside, even, and extra lockers for rations and water. Then stash the scoot out where you were working before you came in. One-way trip, fly it out, park it, then come back."

<I see what you mean,> Sam said slowly. <We stop there on our way out long enough to restock our scoots, replace everything we used on the way out. With the extra hydrox, we can run the fuel cells at full output and make the trip out to the Greeks in a week, ten days at most.>

"I just had another idea!" Mac said. "Suppose we parked just beyond high orbit and stay there long enough to strap our scoots together? Yours, mine, Ron's, and Lanny's foreclosed one. Maybe as many as eight scoots if the other guys join in, arranged in two squares with the bottoms facing out so that one will always be collecting sunlight? If we had more guys, we could make up even more squares and join them end to end, like a train. Use two of the forward ones for propulsion, leave the rest on low power to conserve fuel. Change over every few hours, use the others so that the tanks on the first pair don't run empty. Flip end for end every day or so to even out fuel use among the rest."

<Mac, you're nuts! I've never heard of anything that crazy! And even if we did, we'd still need money or at least credit to stock up on supplies!>

"I've been thinking about that too," Mac grinned.

 

Chapter Four

“You've always got a plan, Mac. Now and then, one even works. What are you thinking this time?” asked Ron, who'd come up in time to hear the exchange.

“I'm thinking we've been thinking too small! We're not the only ones with a gripe against NFI, right?”

“You got that right,” Sam said. “They're getting rich off the M-types, we sell them ice for barely enough to pay for our next trip out and we’re always one step away from going broke. Not just our friends, everybody! We take all the risks, they rake in the profits! How many guys get killed out there? One or two every month?”

He got nods from his listeners.

“What if prospectors had a choice? Prospect anywhere, sell their finds to the highest bidder? What if that refinery we talked about was big enough to compete with NFI? We could undercut their prices in the beginning and at the very least, break even in the long run. I think we can do it, and if the Flicker women come through like they said, we can do a lot more!”

“NFI also owns the shipping company, Mac. What about that?” asked Sam. “How are you gonna transport your metals to Terra?

“China's got ships, Great Russia too. Every nation and consortium on Terra has ships now! Some just work the local runs and never go farther than Luna, but some come all the way to Mars. I think they’d be glad to contract with our refinery, especially if we sold them our metals for less than what NFI charges. And as soon as we sell a few good shipments, we can buy our own freighters! I'm telling you, NFI made a mistake when they sold that first ship, because they also sold their monopoly.

“That opens the door to us, but we have to move first if we intend to take advantage of the opportunity Maona's offering. If we do, we can do what NFI's been doing, buy metal-rich asteroids, refine them, and ship the product to Terra in ships we own! They would be second-hand, maybe third-hand ships, but they're almost as good as new after a rebuild. Hulls are beat up, sure, and interiors are pretty shabby, but that's not a problem because they're still space-worthy.

“And if NFI doesn't want our business, there are maintenance yards on Terra that will! The company sold those too, and all of them charge about the same amount because nobody wants to take the chance that a ship will fail while approaching Terra. It could wipe out a city! I’m telling you, this is our opportunity! If we’re willing to take the chance!”

“I hate to say this, but you're making sense. Even so, Mac, it's like making a billion marsbucks,” Sam cautioned. “The hard part is making that first million. Right now, our problem is supplies, which we don't have enough of. And we also don't have credit, not enough for all the stuff we're gonna need. You got a way of fixing that?”

“Yeah, Sam, I do. We ask other independents to buy in. Tell 'em what we've got in mind, not all the details because it's none of their business, but enough. Tell them we're going to build our own refinery and that the Flickers will help. If they help us with startup cash, they can prospect anywhere in the Belt and we'll buy their finds!”

“I can think of a few guys that might go for that. Joe Lucus for one,” Sam said. “Him and his brother Frank found a pretty good one a month ago, twenty tonnes I heard. Most of it iron, of course, but industrial metals too. They’ve got money now, and I think they'd invest.”

“You know them better than I do,” Mac said. “Want to ask? They wouldn't do it for me, but maybe for you they will.”

“You think that dust-up you had with Frank might have colored their thinking?” Ron asked. “Your asshole ways might have finally caught up with you, Mac. You come up with good ideas, but personality wise, you're a shit!”

“I can't argue the point,” agreed Mac. “But I've decided to give up the booze. Not even beer. I'm on the wagon for good.”

“For how long, Mac?” Sam asked. His skepticism showed.

“Well...”

“How long has it been since you've had a beer, Mac?”

“Last night,” Mac admitted, looking down.

“And how many times have you sworn off?” Ron pressed.

“More than once,” Mac said. “But this time I'm going to stick with it. I thought about having a beer this morning and had water instead!”

“Maybe we can help,” Ron suggested. “Suppose I allow you just one beer in the evening, and Sam allows you one. That's two.”

“I don't know,” Mac said doubtfully. “I'm thinking I might like to try it for a while without anything. Maybe coffee; the Flicker-grown stuff doesn't have as much caffeine, but I'm getting used to the taste. As for Earth coffee, we can't even afford the smell.”

“So be it, Mac. We’re depending on you. If you get desperate, then one from Ron, one from me, but not until tonight. I've got folks to talk to,” Sam said.

Ron and Mac watched him walk away, then decided to head back to camp. Talk about Mac’s idea of joining scoots together, Ron thought. Not cables, something rigid…

“I'm pretty sure Maona’s doing this for her own reasons,” Mac said. “She wants a habitat of her own. The other Flickers don't like it, her and her clan-sisters living with us. It's not all that noticeable unless you spend time with them, but even the other outcasts are avoiding them now. Must be tough, being outcast even from outcasts. And there's another thing; some of the Flickers are still using Terran drugs. Not from us, but the Flickers are like us, everybody gets blamed for what a few do. Anyway, she mentioned it, wanted me to try to do something, but I put her off because we've got problems of our own. But if we had a habitat out in the Belt, she and the other Flickers could control access! Not sure how they do it, but if they don't want to let humans in, the entrance doesn't open. So, no drugs. The refinery will have to be on the surface anyway, which makes things simpler. People come in to sell their strikes, we buy, but we don't let them inside.”

“You're thinking something like that Makemake habitat they had out in the Kuiper Zone?” asked Ron.

“Yeah. Ceres would work, it's almost as big as Pluto and Makemake, but NFI already grabbed it. What about Vesta? It's probably big enough for the habitat, at least. If we need to add onto the surface, those Flicker lasers have no problem welding asteroids together.

“I wonder: could a Flicker ship, or ships, tow a protoplanet? The reason I ask is that if we do build this habitat and refinery, we don’t want to do it near Mars. We want to be far enough away that prospectors will be working in virgin space, the middle Belt or even the deep Belt that’s closer to Jupiter. The good stuff around here is gone, but nobody’s ever prospected the Greeks, it’s all new, and after that, there are the Trojans and the Hildas. We might end up building more than one refinery, or at least concentrating facilities to get rid of the country rock!

“But back to Vesta; NFI would have already grabbed it if they could work it economically, but they can't. It's too far away, and Vesta has a mantle, carbonaceous rock around a metal core. Meaning that if we started drilling in from one of the troughs, Divalia Fossa for example, we'd hit payrock right away. Got to be lots of metal in that core, enough to keep a refinery going for a year! We might even be able to get in, clean out the metal, and build Maona’s habitat in there! NFI would claim it in a minute if they could tow it in closer to Mars, but they can't. Maybe, just maybe, we can, if Maona is right about those Flicker ships.

"Selling core metal to NFI’s refinery is out, even if we did get it to Mars, because it's not in any of our sectors. But Vesta, all by itself, is enough to make us rich! If we can refine the metals and sell them on Terra, that is.”

“Mac, Vesta is almost ten percent by mass of the whole Belt!" Ron protested. "It's one thing to think big, but let's not let our stupid get out of the box! One day, we'll be able to harvest Vesta, but not now. What we might be able to do, assuming Maona knows what's on that cargo ship she called, is use one of those big asteroid-welding lasers to cut a shaft down to the core, but first, we need a place to live. Build the habitat, then the refinery. But there’s more; NFI gets their electricity from fusion torches, which we don’t have. Or a million marsbucks to buy one.”

“I'll think of something,” Mac said. “Back to what the Flickers want; they want a habitat that’s far away from Mars, and I'm okay with that, especially if it has its own lake. But for us, it has to be about the money. It's time NFI had some real competition out here, competition that won't fold like the Russians and Chinese did. Way I see it, we'll get rich and at the same time, give a whole lot of Indie prospectors a chance to get rich too. NFI's not entitled to everything just because they got to Mars first! A lot of pretty desperate guys, friends of ours, are working the Belt, willing to take a chance even if it kills them. I figure we can do something about that. No question, I'm pissed at NFI, but I'm thinking of the other guys too.”

“You're right about the chances,” agreed Ron. “How stupid do you have to be to work the Belt without a safety line? But they do; most bodies are never found, just their ghost scoots.”

“Safety lines get in the way when you're pushing a prospecting laser around, Ron. Lots of mass, twice as much as a prospector and his suit. Unless you’ve done it, you don’t understand just how much work is involved. As for being dangerous, if you move in close, it's not all that bad. The rock you’re working has plenty of mass, so just push off, grab the scoot's gunnel, and you're back on board. Hook up the safety line, then go recover your laser. I've done it.”

“It's still stupid,” Ron insisted, “but I agree, if we can help other people, we should. I wouldn't mention it to Maona if I was you, okay? She has her reasons, we have ours. No reason why we can't both get what we want.”

“I'll try not to talk in my sleep,” Mac agreed. “Although on two beers a night or less, I'm not likely to even get much sleep! But that's not the only thing I was thinking about; Maona's all for building a habitat, but she's never actually done it. The mainstream Flickers use construction ‘bots, but our girls are rogues. They don't have access to ‘bots, meaning it will be up to us to build that habitat. But as long as we've got those Flicker ships to work with, I think we can do it. Big hollow sphere, I'm thinking, one or at most two ways in. Probably take us a year.”

“A whole year, just us?” asked Ron. “And eating Flicker-grown food? We'd be totally dependent on them, you know.”

“We could always call the patrol in an emergency,” Mac pointed out. “We could do this, I know we could.”

“No beer on those Flicker ships, Mac. We could take our own, but…”

“I already thought of that,” Mac said. “I’m not sure, but maybe it’s for the best. And anyway, I'm okay with it. It won't be easy, just quitting. My nerves are already...well, it's not easy. But other people have done it, I can too. You and the other guys should be happy; you’ve been telling me to grow up, and just maybe it’s time I did!

“According to what I hear, if we keep on swimming in those Flicker pools, we'll live a long time. I don't want to be worrying about whether I've got payrock to sell a century or two from now. I intend to do what Bobby and his family did, get rich enough to buy a yacht of my own, then do what they do, cruise the system. Maybe see old Chuck from time to time, stop in and say howdy. Nice enough old feller, according to what people say, although he might kind of turn his nose up at me. New rich and all that.”

“Mac, Chuck didn't look a day past 40 last time I saw him. And he's new-rich himself, so I doubt he'd snub you. Chop you up with one of those swords, maybe! NFI was his baby before he turned it over to Bobby. If this scheme works out, we'll be cutting a chunk out of NFI's income.”

“Then I'll just have to get one of those swords for myself! I expect to have a long life, no reason why I can't learn new stuff. Including how to stay sober.”

“Better chance than playing the SU lottery,” Ron said, “but don’t spend all those billions just yet.”

They walked into the camp. Mac headed immediately for the toilet and Ron walked over to the small table. Keeping Mac supplied with coffee might take his mind off beer. Maybe he could stop cold turkey, but there was no reason why his friends shouldn't try to help!

He filled a kettle with filtered water and while it was heating, set up the coffeemaker. He wondered briefly where everyone had gone, but that wasn't unusual. They might have wandered down to the lake for a swim. Then again, they might be off visiting. Leaving the camp deserted wasn't a problem; no prospector would approach someone else's camp without permission. But the water was hot, so he poured it over the grounds and waited for the coffee to brew. Mac had looked a little shaky. Coffee might not help, but considering Mac's state, it wouldn't hurt.

 

Chapter Five

Sam returned that afternoon. “I talked to people. Most sounded interested, a few are as broke as we are. They’re interested, they just don’t have money, but they may come by anyway. Mel asked if we needed help, said he was willing to work to earn a share.”

“He’s a good man,” Mac said. “I’ll keep him in mind. Anything else?”

“I told them to show up right after dim-down. I said you’d tell them what you’ve got in mind and answer any questions they might have.”

“I suppose we should rearrange stuff, maybe have coffee on. You think we need anything else?” Mac asked Ron.

“Nope. We’re not being social, this is business. But I’ll make sure there’s coffee for you.”

***

A few early birds showed up, but Mac was evasive when they asked what he had in mind. “Save it, guys; that’s what the meeting is for. Right now, all I can say is that we’re all equals in this. Nothing’s been done, nothing can be done, unless we all go in together.” There were the expected grumbles, but Sam brought out beers for the visitors and they settled in to wait.

And noticed that Mac stuck to coffee. Judging by the smell, it had been grown on Mars. If Mac was drinking that stuff...well, they’d known all along that he was a tough little guy!

Others soon drifted in and found places to sit with the early arrivals. Prospectors kept coming. And coming. “How many did you talk to?” asked Mac nervously.

“Everybody I could find. The ones I talked to said they’d tell their friends,” Sam confessed.

“I figured ten or twelve guys, tops,” Mac said. “It would be like talking to you guys, and I could do that.” He looked appealingly at Ron, who understood his nervousness. Mac was at his best among small groups, preferably people he knew well.

“Calm down, Mac, you can do this,” Ron soothed. “You’ve got the big dreams, they don’t. They came to listen, remember? Just stick to what you told us in the parking lot. You want to build a refinery? This is how you start! You can’t get rich by talking to one guy at a time, and even if you did he likely wouldn’t believe you. But watching you talk to this many people, and doing it sober...that’s got to have an effect. They’ll listen, because they know you’re smart. They want answers, you can give them what they’re looking for. And remember, it’s not about you; they’re here because they’re like us, looking for a way to help themselves. You can do this!”

“Shit, I feel like a politician! And I hate politicians! I wish I had a beer, this coffee tastes like shit!” Mac muttered.

“Calm down, Mac. If you had a beer, they’d think it was the beer talking. You said you were done with being a drunk! It’s time to man up!” Ron said forcefully.

“Yeah, but there must be fifty guys out there! Maybe more! What do I do?”

“You know what you’re going to say, the same thing you told me and San. They don’t, so talk slow. Speak loud enough to be heard, but no louder. You’re talking to them, not yelling at them! If they have to listen close to understand you, that’s all to the good, because it keeps their attention on you. Stop worrying, you can do this!”

“You already said that! And I didn’t believe you the first time either!”

“It’s time, Mac. Put up, or shut up. Stand up, walk out there in the middle, and welcome them to camp. Then start by talking about NFI and how they allocate sectors. Tell them about that Terran lawyer, and why you gave up your worthless sector claim. But be careful; did you notice who’s back there, just inside the tree line?”

“Somebody from NFI?” Mac’s alarm was obvious.

“Worse. Lanny must have heard what we had in mind. Mary’s with him, but at least the rest of the hookers stayed away.”

The news seemed to settle Mac’s jitters. People he didn’t know, that was a problem; Lanny he could deal with.

He was almost calm when he walked out and addressed the crowd.

Sam murmured to Ron, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this scared. He’s drawn bigger crowds, but only because they were there to see him get his butt kicked. Not that it happens very often.”

“No, there’s no quit in him,” Ron agreed. “I doubt Mac even knows the meaning of the word.”

“You really think he can pull this off?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yeah. Just look at him. No more nervousness at all, at least not that I can see. I think our boy may actually have grown up.”

“Took him long enough,” Sam observed dryly.

***

“...and that’s the gist of it. Think it over, and then if you want in decide how much you’re willing to risk. It’s venture capital, boys. You can blow it on booze and hookers or maybe, just maybe, get in on something big. I’m going to do this! All I need is enough money to get started. I'll be using the money to buy supplies for the most part, same as what we always buy before we head out to the Belt except more of everything. I also need iron, a fair amount of it. I prefer to buy from people not connected to NFI, you can guess why, so if you’ve got iron, I’ll accept that in lieu of marsbucks. We might need a few extra hands too. I’ve already got one volunteer, so if anyone else is interested, stick around after I’m done.

“I guess I am, done talking I mean. If you’ve got questions, I’ll try to answer them. I don’t plan to leave Mars before the end of the week, so you’ve got five days to make up your mind.”

The crowd began to disperse, a few stopping long enough to clap Mac on the shoulder and murmur, “I’ll be in touch, soon as I figure how much I can spare.”

Ron handed Mac a fresh mug of coffee. Mac scowled. “You said I could have one beer! And that stuff tastes like crap! My mouth already feels worse than when I woke up with a hangover!”

“Then drink water. No beer, Mac; Lanny’s heading this way.”

“Gimme the coffee, then. I may want to throw it in his face.” Ron and Sam glanced worriedly at each other. Mac didn’t appear to be joking.

But then Lanny was standing there, beer in hand, and Mary was right behind him. Some thought her the brains of Lanny’s bunch, as much as any of them. Brains had never been a requirement to hang out with Lanny. He was curt to the point of rudeness. “I want in,” he said.

Mac’s reply was equally short. “No.”

“You’re turning down money before you even know how much I can invest?” Lanny’s look of surprise was a sham; he’d expected as much. But it wouldn’t be the first time that a ‘negotiation’ had required a bit of extra persuasion.

“Doesn’t matter. You’d want more than any investment would be worth; you’d soon be trying to take over, and then I’d have to kill you.”

Lanny’s face darkened and he scowled. “You didn’t even wait to listen!”

“Didn’t have to. You’re pissed because I figured it out. The answer is no, and it’s going to stay no. You’re no prospector, and maybe you never were. How much metal, how much ice have you ever sold to the refinery? Couple of your hangers-on, maybe, but not you! You live off hookers and gambling and loaning money to guys when they’re too drunk to understand what’s going on! The answer is no! Now get the hell out of my camp!”

“Like hell I will!” Lanny snarled. Ron and Sam quickly stepped between the two. Not seen, out in the dimness some two dozen prospectors waited. They’d spotted Lanny and understood what was likely to happen.

Money changed hands too; some had believed that maybe, just maybe, the new Mac might be able to control his temper. He was sober, after all. Wasn’t he?

But others had given odds, so bets were quickly arranged. There would be new investors tomorrow, and some who’d been considering the idea wouldn’t have money after all.

“Not here!” Ron hissed. “Mac, you don’t want to do this! Lanny’s already been banished, Judge Monique is just waiting to do the same to you! You need to think before you mess things up!”

“The time for thinking is past, Ron. This has been coming for a long time, and if we don’t settle it now, he’ll figure a way to stop us before we start. Move aside, boys, and put out the fire. I’ve got enough light.” Mac’s voice was calm. Unlike the way he’d felt before speaking to a crowd, this was quintessential Mac.

Ron turned to tell someone to shut off the valve that controlled the fire’s hydrocarbon feed. The moment’s inattention cost him; Lanny’s first wild punch glanced off his head, stunning him. Sam quickly grabbed him before he could fall and dragged him over by the firepit.

Glancing around, he spotted a length of fallen tree limb, thick as his wrist and as long as his arm. Arming himself, Sam spread his legs and stood in front of the still-groggy Ron. The fire would just have to take care of itself.

Out in the dimness, there were thumps and gasps as both men swung, and in turn were hit. Both were brawlers, although Mac had a slight edge from the months he’d spent teaching new prospectors how to fight. Some of his lessons had been physical, because he’d studied several forms of unarmed combat before emigrating from Terra. Most of the students had been like Mac, smaller than average. Bigger men lacked their motivation.

Not that his knowledge did much good right now; hate, not science, was in control.

Lanny was bigger, probably at least a dozen kilos heavier and with a longer reach than Mac. But unlike Mac, who worked as hard as any man when he was out in the Belt, Lanny had spent far too much time in low gravity. There was a softness about him, but his flabby waist wasn’t Mac’s target.

His first punches had landed on Lanny’s face, a straight left to the nose followed by a right hook that slammed into Lanny’s cheekbone. Nose pulped, Lanny snuffled as blood splashed down the front of his tunic, but the damage was relatively minor.

By contrast, the strike to the left side of his face had left him half-stunned and his eye had immediately begun to swell. Now it was nearly shut. Hurt but enraged, he stumbled forward, reaching for Mac.

Who responded by stepping back, but only enough to give himself room. His kick to Lanny’s balls was too high, the result of the dimness, but his toe sank deep into Lanny’s midsection.

Lanny stopped in his tracks, breathless, wheezing. The fire provided just enough light for Mac to see, but Lanny was bent forward. Details were no longer important. Fists wouldn’t work unless he straightened up, and even another kick was unlikely to be effective.

That was a preview of Pirates: Book 6, the New Frontiers Series. To read the rest purchase the book.

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