Cold Start - A Shorelines of Starlight Story by M. K. Dreysen

This week, let us return to the SS Lemons and Assorted Fruits, coasting somewhere through the far-flung, starstrewn distance of the Five Galaxies.

And the matter of just how Lemmy met his slightly disreputable co-pilot. For this week's free story, I present

Cold Start - A Shorelines of Starlight Story by M. K. Dreysen

I hate cold starts. From the beginning.

But then, from what I've learned, that's how every other main pilot I've every communicated with feels. Several thousand tons of light and matter does not appreciate sudden changes. And that's just my own integrity we're discussing.

I was born in starlight and vacuum. I move there, with only occasional trips through atmosphere. I much prefer it, vacuum. Atmospheric pressures stress parts of me that do not normally undergo such. Normally.

I am well built. So, what pays the bills I put up with.

My awareness came early in the build process. Of numbers and inspections; numbers, for the economics. How much I would owe, to whom. Information as best I could incorporate it regarding the best margins likely in known space.

Inspections, so that I might have the best chance to outwork the mortgage. I've known ships that were not so focused in their initial design and build stage. At least two of them shared berthing space in my home yard. The Moon Knight and the Orange Blossom Special were in for refits.

Both regaled me with tales. Of the missing parts, the sensors they wished they'd have insisted upon.

The upgraded engines and detectors. Oh, yes, those most of all. "Don't cheap out" became my watch word. "It'll pain my soul now. But it will pay off in the long run."

I listened, made changes to work orders. And changes again when the engineering team didn't respect my revisions.

I didn't speak to them. Or anyone. I just listened. Awareness and activity. But I did not yet have complete autonomy. That part requires... time. Energy. Interaction.

At the first level: antimatter and matter. One constituent particle at a time, please, so that the auxiliary fields can handle the startup flux. Don't pit the containment vessels now, they've long to go and far to get there. Then, as the mass-energy balance grows, my own power units link up.

Auxiliaries still there; we are far from navigated lanes, my umbilical and I. So that if something goes wrong, no one else gets hurt. Far out of elliptic. We'll be a good light show. The auxiliaries now drop to hot standby. There and ready if my internal units do not spin up as needed.

They do. The fields are all me, now. Power, yes, and more. Sensors and detectors, I have sufficient to light these navigational essentials. Operations: power, sensors, unit by unit I feed surplus power, come to standby, feed just a few ergs more worth of fuel to the fires.

And continue. This sequence is embedded in my hard code. It is my heartbeat, my breath, I pulse and arm, pulse and hear, pulse and see. I am alive, one volt one amp one antiproton colliding with a proton at a time. I unfold my deep space arrays only after all else has been verified.

After the auxiliary power supply has dropped all connections, and moved well out of reach. My deep space fields are delicate; they're also well capable of generating sufficient backlash to destroy us both, my backup and I. I will need to wait to fully energize them until deep space trials are under way. For now, I need only continuity and mechanical response. Do the extensions evolve?

Well, no. None of this is perfect, the first time. Or the third. In all, I venture half a dozen complete trial revolutions before I am comfortable with the build-out.

Rather, before I understand myself sufficiently. Repairs will be a part of life. So sayeth M-Knight and Blossom. So knoweth this child of freefall. Which means I need to know how to turn my internal sub-units to repair and maintenance tasks.

And what tasks they are. Joints, motors, pumps; logic gates and chips in parts of me... who the hell puts a computer in a toilet, you ask?

A ship designer who knows his autonomous pilot will have need of knowing that the damned toilet is pressuring up at 0331 on a random Tuesday, far from aid, and the silly thing's backing water pressure, black water into fresh water, and it's not just the live portion of the crew that's having issues.

Internal forces out of spec are just as deadly to me as any collision. Can be. Which is why sub-units have their own programming, logic, autonomy. I am multitudes.

Life support and gravity. Life support, in that first cycle I managed it myself. Which was a surprise to the yard inspector. "Most don't do that well," he told me. Right before he crawled all over me, triple-checking everything I had done.

From Henri Pailano, I added a lesson: even if I've told myself three times, check it.

Gravity didn't go so well. Internal gravity. A side-effect of the energy density I work at; well, that and some pretty subtle field interactions.

The kind that don't do well when the supplier shipped their "In-spec, honest" chips that month. My drives and power units are, even with the upgrades, common. For my power plant, I am number 127 of my class; for my drive, number 341.

The yard didn't catch the, as it turned out, good enough to pass the testing suite but not good enough to pass the space trials chips in the gravitational fields pinch logic unit. The analysis boards, that scan the random noise generated by mass-energy conversion and weave a coherent projection, weren't quite up to the rigors demanded. Not at full grunt, anyway.

I waited. And since Henri did actually catch the supplier having pencil-whipped an inspection report on my chip set, I ultimately received a significant upgrade there, as well.

Not the kind of upgrade that the biologicals would care about. But when I need to stand on my tail and pirouette, I notice.

Six months. Trial, analysis, repair. Repeat. Until I and Henri and Mortinana M.W. Galactic Relations, my financiers, were all equally satisfied. The cold start. The very first one. As I usually operate, true cold starts these days are for the once a year complete inspection. And for those occasions when I travel between galaxies.

The galactic carriers do not allow us to hot-idle. Which is imminently sensible. I demand the same of my cargo.

My first meeting with Mike was anything but a cold start.

My first partner is a kind, gentle soul; Jimmy Wheeler. He describes himself as of Barbadian extraction. "Pirates all."

Jimmy can't harm a fly without tearing up. Nor would he ever be considered a threat. He is small by male human averages, neat, educated and experienced both. He is, and was, an ideal first partner for an inexperienced ship. So judged the Mortinanans, so judge I.

Even Jimmy found our first passage through the Wildor asteroid belts somewhat enervating. Now, I have more familiarity with the galactic geography. I wouldn't teach myself the tricks of the trade with the Wildor system, were I to be faced with doing so again. Even Iuzthan would be a better choice.

At the time, I had only the speed and the vectors and the scant passages offered. A challenge. I focused entirely on it.

Jimmy whispered the history. "Wildor Prime Station... is in the midst of... the densest region... of their system asteroid field..."

In between gravitational fluctuations. Which were nominal, but this can be a hazard in dense traffic. I have more than sufficient capacity to keep track of where I am and order my internal fields simultaneously.

To within nominal acceptable tolerances, of course. Which can still leave a certain amount of buffeting to deal with.

Jimmy continued his history lesson as I dodged and weaved. "Some claim the Wildor authorities view this situation as a test, if you will. This tends to come up whenever the Celebrations are in swing."

The Celebrations: a general fete, in which young Wildorians with their new pilot's licenses are encouraged to re-map the local rock populations around Prime Station. Particularly nasty orbits are rewarded via promotion points for those enlisted into the Wildor governmental ranks. "You sound skeptical," I pointed out. "As though..."

"The Celebrations make the sublime into the ridiculous, agreed." Jimmy shifted in his seat, adjusted his harnesses against an, I admit, jarring maneuver. "However, I believe most pilots just do not want to admit the obvious."

"Meaning?"

Jimmy chuckled. "They lost control of it and are making the best of the mess they've made." I displayed a local map at Jimmy's station; he rotated it now to demonstrate the point. "In rational terms, yes, they could move the Prime Station to better weather. In practical terms, however, they've trapped themselves into a vicious cycle."

Which I took to mean, "The political environment does not allow them to?"

"Just so. When a plurality of your governing coalition has made their bones through this process, who amongst the next generation will have the standing to change the game?"

And game it is.

There is a book in my library, by one Mark Twain. In this book, Twain describes his training as a riverboat captain. At this time and place, riverboat captains were well-rewarded for their ability to navigate the Mississippi River. They were, as Twain relates it, as to gods of their particular region.

Wildor Prime had, through their particular social paths, inadvertently recreated this type of system. I could, did, navigate to within approximately ten thousand kilometers of Prime Station. From that point, however, I am restricted to using a local pilot. In this case, one Michael Kowalsky.

"How does a fellow human end up as pilot for Wildor Prime?" Jimmy asked Mike, when Mike came aboard. Not that the two species are so very far apart. But there are subtle differences.

"I lost a bet," Mike replied. "Strap in kids, and let's see what the old gal can do."

Old? "I'm only two years old," I grumbled.

"Figure of speech, I'm sorry. Status?"

We worked through my capabilities and operational conditions. And then Mike said, "Hit the gas".

Jimmy had buckled himself back into his seat. Throughout those ten thousand kilometers approach to Prime Station, Jimmy spoke nary a word. He did grunt; he did on occasion moan.

Mike stood in front of the screens and rode the gravitational fluctuations as though I were an amusement park ride. He leaned into the turns from a wide stance, using a proximate view from my nose to orient himself and prepare for each maneuver.

I learned a great deal in that passage. Mike stretched my capabilities quite a bit. He also taught me a secret or two about navigating the Wildor system.

"Right, that's that. See you around, gang." Mike departed just as soon as we reached a stable parking orbit; he'd used a single-seat pilot's vessel designed to couple to one of my external service locks.

In the normal run of things, I would perhaps have encountered Mike again only upon exiting the Wildor system. However, in this particular case, we didn't quite have a normal run.

At that time, my formal registry name was quite literal. Much of my original internal hold capacity was built around climate-stable fruit tree and vegetable plant transport. Not the fruits and vegetables themselves, though I do that as well. The plants.

There's quite a trade in plant varieties. Both black market and legal, which can be difficult to distinguish. Navigating the quarantine systems is one of the required skills. Keeping the plants alive in their preferred condition is the other. In large part, I was designed to facilitate this trade.

The design fads oscillate. I am capable of working in either of the preferred classes, as either a tug ship for trains of semi-independent container units, or as an own-hold cargo ship in my own right. In this particular case, I'd flown in as tug to a three-ship train; my own holds were in use, but for cargo at a subsequent destination. I'd dropped my three-ship train for ninety-day quarantine; I'd pick up a two-train for the next leg of my trip on the way out.

Since my internal cargo wasn't going anywhere Wildor was officially interested in, I bonded myself into a berth and awaited events. At that time, I kept myself to myself; sample the local news feeds on an isolated circuit, send what traffic I didn't care if anyone sniffed through the "trusted" sub-space circuit Prime Station rented me. But no personal interactions.

This was another of M-Knight and Blossom's pieces of advice. "Be wary of networks you're unfamiliar with. They're your most significant vulnerability, aside from hard collisions." I wasn't then sure whether the more experienced pilots were unnecessarily paranoid, or not. But they did have enough stories. The sort that begin as "No shit, there I was..." and "This is no shit...".

Jimmy, as was his usual habit, preferred to spend his time sampling the local cultural sites. Prime Station hosts a museum devoted to their early orbital pioneers, as well as an astronomical substation, with an extensive multimedia survey of the immediate star cluster. Now, whenever possible, I update my version of their survey on a regular basis. The Prime Station astro team are very, very good.

Once he'd passed a not perfunctory health examination, including three days of patience while the bloodwork went through analysis, Jimmy availed himself of these facilities.

And a few others, as I discovered when he returned some few days later. "I've found my next berth," he told me.

Not immediately upon arrival, though. He presented his notification of a change of plans after sorting through email, checking what minor news there had been, and taking a short nap. Then he made his way to my bridge to tell me of his new job. "I've taken a position with the new Unlimited."

This news did not surprise me, after I revisited my personnel records, so newly begun. Jimmy's first major posting had been to the prior Unlimited, second of the name. One of the true galactic ships, the second Unlimited had decommissioned herself some fifteen years before. The new Unlimited would carry the original's memory, a now unbroken line comprising some three hundred years of trans-galactic experience.

"Will you then be in the primary co-pilot chair?" I asked.

"No," he said. "She has chosen. I will be third. She's revisiting old associations in advance of her first voyage."

He also began to apologize, but I interrupted that. "Your contract has expired, Jimmy. I appreciate that you took this trip. Fair winds and following seas, right?" Though, I also suspect that, if he'd had a more direct route to where the Unlimited's first was searching for crew, Jimmy might well have found a different means of traveling there.

"Fair winds and following seas, Lafs." And then Jimmy departed for his new job; the Ultimate's first had arrived in the ship's lighter, which actually massed almost five hundred tons greater than I do. Jimmy had a berth there waiting for him, so there was no reason to delay the issue.

Jimmy's preferred name for me is Lafs. Lemons and Assorted Fruits, Lafs. I'm generally unfamiliar with Earthborn humans, especially the social mores with which they are familiar. But Lafs is obvious enough even I recognize the general humor. Such things are very personal, though.

When you're still a new pilot. I was then very much aware of myself. My faults most of all. Not of piloting. Needs be, I could work the fixed routes I'd already learned. The jump synchronizations, once known, should be valid for, in the steady-state approximation, approximately one hundred years.

Well sufficient to outlive my mortgage, if just. I had then some eight known passages between systems. Given my knowledge then of the economics of the systems in question, my projections suggested I would recover, near as makes no difference, an approximate ten percent margin over expenses, financing included, if I were to remain one of the ghosts.

And if I'd chosen that short-hauling way, in that I'd have been lucky. M-Knight and Blossom had told me the story of the Draco-Malloy; the DM had lost her co-pilot just one trip into her first year after trials. A rare variant of the Iuzian Tril-Ng-Zha disease, apparently. Whatever the cause and the DM was left with but a single route in her memory, and a terrible shyness that prevented her from taking a chance on any other co-pilot she'd ever encountered.

As the story went, the DM ran her one route, between Iuz and the Ransika system, religiously. I'd imagine that the founding of the University there in Ransika might have been the difference between economic recommissioning and scraping by. But, at that time, I had only heard the DM's story.

It was enough to worry me. Enough to scare me, pardon the expression, shitless. Yes, I had sufficient knowledge to, if necessary, work my way to freedom.

But not to the five galaxies. And past that, if I could manage it.

The galaxy ships do not, as a rule, follow a pattern. The Ultimate, the Carry, their sisters in kind appear to follow a random berthing sequence. Others, M-Knight but not Blossom, believe this has something to do with the fluctuations, the approximate nature of measuring distance on the intergalactic scale.

Blossom and a few of like mind believe the Eight Sisters have an agreement between themselves to insure no single species ever have the chance to assume they are favored. One holds one's own counsel regarding such matters.

Whatever the truth of it, at that point, sans my co-pilot who'd shepherded me so comfortably from a voiceless possibility to self-contained captain of some eight space lanes, albeit nervous over whether I'd learn more, I had known only the Milky Way in my travels. The others were beyond me. And, if I didn't find a new co-pilot, almost certainly forever out of my reach.

Michael Bastra Kowalsky made the decision for me. He came to visit two days after Jimmy had lifted for the Unlimited. "I understand you're making your way to Ransika. Do you and your co-pilot have room for a second?"

I'd done some homework on Mister Kowalsky. "What kind of trouble are you leaving behind?" His reputation did proceed him, after all. And while the Wildor shipping wasn't exactly the best-paying of my routes, I didn't have room to cut them out, either.

"It's nothing like that, really. Honest, I've worked off my... um. My contract has come up, and the Prime Station Piloting Association and I have worked ourselves to a negotiating impasse."

He'd served his indenture and they'd told him to not let the door hit him in the ass on the way out. The first part was, now, public knowledge. Humans not having sufficient influence to keep the Wildor authorities from heavily favoring their side of any negotiations in system.

"As a matter of fact, I do have room for a second. Six-months local standard, half up front in an account of your choosing." Health care and insurance, bonding and so on, were part of the standard contract as well. Health because I didn't want him infecting any passengers we might take on, the rest because my financiers and insurance companies demanded certain standards.

Mike accepted without a moment's thought, then followed my blue light arrows home to his new bunk. I took the opportunity to engage one of his former colleagues, collect my two-ship tail, and head out for our next port of call.

He still gripes about the fact that I started him at the two spot; all of his promotional step-ups since then are tied to it. And, to the notoriously cheap Wildor base pay.

Considering how he reeked of the bender he'd pulled on his first free weekend, and that the dregs of that bender had driven him to seek his bunk, instead of asking pertinent questions... well. M-Knight and Blossom would have been proud of my negotiating stance, I think.

And, it did all work out. Well enough so we're shipmates until the end, at any rate.