Captain Future xx - The Death of Captain Future (October 1995) Read Free

desk, “here's the scoop. I've checked around for a boat that'll take you on, and I found what you were looking for. An Ares-class ore freighter, outbound for Ceres ... in fact, she's already docked at LaGrange Four and is ready to launch as soon as her captain finds a new second.”
    As he spoke, Schumacher punched up a holo of the ship, and it revolved in the tank above his desk. It was a standard rock hauler: eighty-two meters in length, with a gas-core nuclear engine at one end and a drum-shaped crew module at the other, joined at the center by the long narrow spine and open cargo bays. An uprated tugboat, really; nothing about it was either unfamiliar or daunting. I took a slug off the whisky flask he had pulled out of his desk drawer. “Great. What's her name?”
    He hesitated. “The TBSA Comet ,” he said reluctantly. Her captain is Bo McKinnon.”
    I shrugged and passed the flask back to him. “So what's the catch?”
    Schumacher blinked. Instead of taking a hit off the whisky, he recapped the flask and shoved it back in the drawer. “Let me repeat that,” he said. “The Comet . Bo McKinnon.” He peered at me as if I had come down with Titan Plague. “You're telling me you've never heard of him?”
    I didn't keep up with the TBSA freighters or their captains; they returned to the Moon only once every few months to drop off their cargo and change crews, so few selenians happened to see them unless they were getting drunk in some bar. “Not a clue,” I said.
    Schumacher closed his eyes. “Terrific,” he murmured. “The one guy who's never heard of Captain Future and it's gotta be you.”
    “Captain who?”
    He looked back at me. “Look, just forget the whole thing, okay? Pretend I never mentioned it. There's another rock hauler heading out to Ceres in about six or seven weeks. I'll talk to the Association, try to get you a gig on that one instead...”
    I shook my head. “I can't wait another six or seven weeks. If I'm not on Ceres in three months, I'll lose the Jove Commerce job. What's wrong with this gig?”
    Schumacher sighed as he reached back into the drawer for the flask. “What's wrong,” he said, “is the nut who's in command. McKinnon is the worst captain in the Association. No one who's shipped out with him has ever stayed aboard, except maybe the google he's got for a first mate.”
    I had to bite my tongue when he said that. We were pals, but racism isn't an endearing trait. Sure, Superiors can be weird—their eyes, for starters, which was why some people called them by that name—but if you also use words like nigger, slant, kike or spic to describe people, then you're no friend of mine.
    On the other hand, when you're hungry for work, you'll put up with just about anything.
    Schumacher read the expression on my face. “It's not just that,” he said hastily. “I understand the first officer is okay.” For a google, that is, although he didn't say it aloud. “It's McKinnon himself. People have jumped ship, faked illness, torn up their union cards ... anything to get off the Comet .”
    “That bad?”
    “That bad.” He took a long hit off the flask, gasped, and passed it back across the desk to me. “Oh, the pay's okay ... minimum wage, but by Association standards that's better than union scale ... and the Comet passes all the safety requirements, or at least so at inspection time. But McKinnon's running a tank short of a full load, if y'know what I mean.”
    I didn't drink from the flask. “Naw, man, I don't know what you mean. What's with this ... what did you call him?”
    “Captain Future. That's what he calls himself, Christ knows why.” He grinned. “Not only that, but he also calls his AI ‘The Brain'...”
    I laughed out loud. “The Brain? Like, what? He's got a brain floating in a jar? I don't get it...”
    “I dunno. It's a fetish of some kind.” He shook his head. “Anyway, everyone who's worked for him says that he thinks he's some kinda space hero, and he