Sparrowhawk Legacy Read online

  Sparrowhawk

  Legacy

  Prologue to the

  Sparrowhawk Books

  Kathryn Hoff

  Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Hoff.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design by JD&D Design. © 2019 by Kathryn Hoff.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  CHAPTER 1

  Life and death

  Captain Kwame Babatunji always claimed that he worshipped nothing and no one, and the only faith he had was in his ship, his crew, and his own damned will. So when Papa lay in his bunk dying of Perrigan fever, it was with curses on his lips, not prayers.

  “Stand down, Patch,” he whispered. “I’ve lived hard, and I’ll go out the way I always wanted: aboard my own ship, with my son as first mate and my daughter at my side.”

  “To hell with that,” I said. “Kojo’s not ready to be captain, and for damn sure I’m not ready to be an orphan. Now take your medicine.”

  For two days, Papa alternated between delirium and exhausted sleep while I mopped his brow and used all the serum we had to try to bring down the fever. Hiram, a grizzled old sinner who’d been with Papa since before I was born, came and went between shifts at the helm, offering Papa sips of brandy and recounting the wildest adventures from their mercenary days. My half-brother Kojo, twenty-eight and already an accomplished pilot, sat beside me when he could, tense and quiet as Papa sank lower.

  And, since our little space hauler Sparrowhawk was deep in a deserted star corridor, days away from any port, I prayed. Not a prayer to change what might come—death touches all—but a prayer to my ancestors to send me the strength, courage, and wisdom to face life if the worst should happen.

  The last word Papa spoke was “Sorry.”

  In the calm of the star corridor, as the jump cells transported the ship at faster-than-light speed toward the next jump gate, Sparrowhawk’s remaining crew—me, Kojo, Hiram, and the new engineer Archer—gathered in the operations room to say our farewells.

  I’d dressed in a tunic jacket of somber blue with a matching beret pulled down to keep my curls under control. Kojo wore a double-breasted dress jacket, the one Papa had worn to impress passengers. With his mahogany-brown face and dark wavy hair, Kojo looked so much like Papa a sob caught in my throat. All he needed was a jaunty smile and a brace of stun pistols, and I’d have thought Papa’s youthful spirit was visiting from the afterlife.

  Kojo stepped forward and called for a moment of silence. For an uncomfortable half minute, we all stared down at the deck.

  Papa had been more than a father to me. Some Terrans wouldn’t have bothered with a half-blood child sired on a Gavoran slave during a raucous celebration, but Papa had come back for me, snatching me from my masters at the age of seven to smuggle me to Terran sectors and freedom.

  I had no illusions about my looks—homely by the standards of both my races. My hefty build, protruding brow ridge, sloped forehead, and receding chin came from my Gavoran mother, descended from Earth’s Neanderthals. From Papa, I got an incongruously jutting nose, prominent ears, and—instead of a sleek Gav pelt—hair like straggly orange corkscrews.

  But aboard Sparrowhawk, Papa had nurtured an ugly, unwanted girl into a confident woman of twenty who knew how to pilot a ship, spot a good trade, and strike a keen bargain.

  You’re a bridge between races, he’d said. When someone treats you bad, remember: it’s the ones who step on a bridge who need it most.

  I had no doubt Papa would soon be rollicking about the afterlife with the same reckless bravado he’d had in life.

  When Hiram sniffed and Archer began to shuffle his feet, I broke the silence. “Smooth sailing, Papa. Give Mother my love.”

  Hiram wiped rheumy eyes and poured a bit of brandy onto Papa’s shroud. “A little something for the journey. Give ’em hell, Kwame.”

  “Rest in peace, old man.” Kojo laid a hand on the bulkhead, as if by touching the ship, he could touch Papa once more. Then, with a flick of a button, he consigned Papa’s remains to the waste disposal system. “Thanks, everyone. Back to posts, please.”

  Archer, a thin, awkward young man we’d hired only a few weeks before, murmured, “Sorry, Patch.” He ducked his head, making his unruly curls bob, before disappearing in the direction of the engine room.

  Hiram paused to pat my shoulder—higher and broader than his own. “Don’t fret, missy. It’s as he’d want it, to go out among the stars. He’d never rest easy if we planted him in the dirt.”

  Kojo stared at the ether blur on the viewscreen. “I’m glad you were with him, sis. I just wish that me and Dad…”

  Hiram harrumphed. “Don’t you fret neither, lad. Fathers and sons always fuss, and the more they’re alike, the worse the fussin’. Kwame never took it to heart.”

  “And you are a lot like him,” I said. In looks, pride, and stubbornness.

  Kojo quirked his one-sided smile. “A week ago, I would have told you both to go to hell. Right now, I’d settle for being a little more like him.” He blew out a breath. “Hiram, you should take over as captain—for a while, anyway.”

  Hiram folded his arms. “No, lad. Kwame wanted you to follow him as Sparrowhawk’s master, even if he didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

  Kojo bowed his head, looking almost humble. “That’s just it. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.”

  “Yes, you are. You can pilot, you can nav, and you know your ship. You just got to make your mind up to it. As for the trading side…” Hiram nodded toward me. “You let Patch handle the money. That’s why he left Sparrow to the both of you. So long as you work together, you’ll do all right.”

  Something in Hiram’s tone made me search his face. “You’ll stay with us, won’t you?”

  “’Course I will, missy. At least till you’re comfortable with Sparrowhawk being yours.”

  He glanced at the scanner. “We got one more jump before we get to the Chuchan system. You both better get some rest—once we hit sublight, we’ll have to haul ass to make up for lost time.”

  As Hiram headed for the companionway, I grabbed Kojo’s sleeve. “Listen, don’t file notice with the registrar until the last beacon.”

  “Why? The sooner I’m listed as captain, the sooner our customers will get used to the change.”

  Proud and stubborn—but I wished Kojo had half Papa’s business savvy.

  “And what do you think our suppliers will do? And that rat Branson? Once it gets out that Papa’s gone, anyone we owe money to will demand payment. Wait till we exit the corridors to make the report—that way we’ll have time to unload our cargo and collect before the payment-due notices arrive.”

  Kojo rubbed his jaw. “Zub’s pitchfork, Dad chose a bad time to peg out.”

  For a moment, he stared at the viewscreen, as if the swirls of ether hid the answer to all our problems. “Patch, maybe we should think about selling the ship. We could pay everyone off and forget the headaches. The Cartel would be happy to take me and Hiram on as pilots, and you as a trader.”

  I sputtered in anger. “Papa’s barely gone and you’re already giving up? Sparrow was Papa’s pride. Selling her would be like…like losing him all over again.”

  “Patch…”

  “Just sail the ship and let me handle the creditors. I’ll straighten things out—all I need is a little time.”

  Kojo sighed. “All right. No need to decide anything yet.
But think about it, will you? After all, Sparrow’s just a ship—an old and ornery one at that.”

  We had a few more hours of quiet travel in the star corridors before hitting Chuchan’s system and the demanding sublight sailing through the swirls and eddies of ether. I retired to my cabin to catch up on the sleep I’d missed while sitting at Papa’s bedside.

  Sleep did not come quickly. Sell Sparrow? How could Kojo even think about it?

  Once a Selkid military cutter that had patrolled the Cartel’s trade routes, Sparrowhawk had been renovated first, as an oligarch’s pleasure craft, later as a pirate’s raider, and eventually as a space hauler. Her hull was marred by pings and patches from decades of wear and tear, and her once-sleek profile bulged and gaped where Terran, Gav, and even Delfin upgrades had been added to her propulsion.

  My cabin—an awkward little ’tween-decks space—was cramped now, but when I’d come aboard Sparrow as a child of seven it had seemed as big as a palace. My bunk pulled down over a locker that doubled as a table by day. On the wall, a viewscreen displayed the ether’s golden haze and a scanner showed the comforting blip of our progress toward the next jump gate. An image of Papa and Hiram hung nearby: in full battle gear, arms over one another’s shoulders, they were young and grinning and full of life.

  Sparrowhawk was my home, the only home I wanted.

  Resting in my narrow bunk, I recited the prayer my Gavoran mother had taught me.

  Beloved ancestors, help me find the wisdom to choose what is best, the strength to do what I must, and the courage to face what may come.

  For the first time, I included Papa among my ancestors, asking him to watch over Kojo and me.

  Patch.

  I opened my eyes, certain I’d heard Papa call my name.

  He stood beside my bunk—or floated, since he somehow seemed farther away than the bulkhead would allow. Dressed in his familiar work jacket, he might have just come from the wheelhouse.

  “Papa?”

  But he was gone, my cabin quiet and empty.

  I closed my eyes again with gratitude. Papa was still with me—another reason to keep Sparrowhawk sailing, a member of the family.

  I just wished he hadn’t looked so worried.

  CHAPTER 2

  Captain and crew

  With a long slide, a burst of blue light, and a jarring thump, Sparrowhawk exited the jump gate in the Chuchan system. Half a dozen ships, most of them bigger than ours and all of them grander, were queued up at the gate’s spidery gantry to be shunted through the star corridors to other systems.

  We turned our stern to them all and began the two-day sublight slog to Chuchan. The engines, quiet during the days of faster-than-light travel in the corridors, chugged to life with a hiccupping rumble.

  We couldn’t wait any longer. I transmitted the report of Papa’s passing to the jump gate’s com beacon. The message would be relayed from beacon to beacon through the corridors to the ship’s registrar in our home port. By the time we reached Chuchan, Kojo and I would be officially recorded as co-owners of Sparrowhawk, and Kojo would be recognized as the new captain.

  Word would spread faster than light, and the vultures would begin to circle.

  As we left the jump gate’s busy hub, I keyed in the code to retrieve from the com beacon any messages for Sparrowhawk. One popped up for Archer, whose family kept in regular touch. I forwarded it to his private node. Two for Kojo, probably from women he’d loved and left or gamblers he owed. Two invoices from suppliers. A terse note from Branson, reminding Papa that an interest payment was coming due. Could it really be so much? When I had time, I’d have to look into the accounts more carefully.

  One for Papa from an old pal—I choked up, wondering how to tell him Papa was gone.

  Kojo came onto the com. “Push it, crewmates. We’re two and a half days late and the customer won’t pay for spoiled seaweed pellets. Hiram, make sure you keep to the fastest channel. Archer, stay sharp on the maneuvering rockets. Patch, shift those jump cells back to storage.”

  Kojo. He’d been giving orders left and right, things every crew member already knew. Papa had never been so heavy-handed.

  Chafing, I wheeled the handcart to the engine room.

  Archer jumped up. “Here, let me help you with the cells.”

  That made me smile. Archer was as tall as me, but so thin I could have bench-pressed him.

  “I’ll do it. Shifting the heavy stuff is my job. Yours is getting us to Chuchan as fast as possible.”

  The engine room throbbed with the propulsion drivers’ roar. Consoles and monitors crowded between jump cell freezer bays and power module niches. Controls for the maneuvering rockets were crammed among scanners and viewscreens. Between the two bolted-down swivel chairs was the trigger—now locked—for the escape thrusters, which could provide a burst strong enough to launch the ship off a planet even without the help of lifters, or ease her down onto the surface as gently as a falling leaf.

  The smell of lube competed with the piney scent of Prestoclean—Archer was fastidious as a cat about his engines, if not about his person.

  His left foot jigged as if it had a life of its own. “I’ve never been to Chuchan. What’s it like?”

  “Noisy, smelly, and wet—just like every other Selkid port.” Bending, I pulled one of the heavy jump cells from its bay.

  “Maybe we could explore the port together,” he said. “There must be some Gavoran restaurants. Don’t you miss Gav food?”

  I hefted the cell onto the handcart’s flat bed. “I’d rather eat seaweed. Gav food gives me a stomachache.”

  The console pinged with a request from the helm, and Archer turned to fiddle with the maneuvering rockets. “I thought you’d like to have a chance to see the sights. Do something to get your mind off things.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to be busy. Without Papa…” For a moment, I choked up. “He used to talk to the cargo agents, line up the loads. I’ll have to take care of all that now.”

  Archer laid a hand on my arm. “I’m really sorry about your dad. I may not see my parents much, but I can’t imagine losing them.”

  I stacked the last jump cell onto the handcart. “I saw Papa last night, in my cabin.”

  Archer squinted at me. “You mean you dreamed about him?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Patch? It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t a dream.”

  Archer turned back to the console but watched me from the corner of his eye. “Come on. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Why? Just because you haven’t seen one?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. Archer was so easy-going that, despite his tics and twitches, I felt comfortable talking to him. Maybe that was a mistake.

  “Because it’s not logical,” Archer said. “No scientific evidence.”

  “You’re not logical. Terrans must have ghosts, otherwise you wouldn’t have a word for them.” I folded my arms, pleased with my argument. “All Gavorans believe in spirits. Ancestors who give advice and comfort in times of trouble. Maybe we have senses that most Terrans don’t.”

  He opened his mouth and shut it again. “I guess you have a point. I never knew anybody who actually saw a ghost before. What did he look like? Did he talk to you? Give you advice?”

  “Yeah, Patch. What did Dad have to say?” Kojo was at the door, ready to relieve Archer for his break. Kojo’s mocking smile made me want to smack him.

  I raised my chin. “Nothing. But seeing him made me feel better.”

  Kojo’s face hardened. “He should have told you to get to work. Those cells are getting warm and losing juice every minute you’re stalling. Now get them into storage and stop wasting time.”

  Later that evening, I took refuge in the wheelhouse, taking the watch station next to Hiram’s seat at the helm.

  “You have to talk to him, Hiram. Kojo’s driving me ether-happy, ordering everyone around like apprentices on a first voyage. Telling me
to pull the jump cells, shift the power modules, even when to make supper, as if I haven’t been doing all those things for years.”

  Through the canopy, the ether swirls glowed in pinks and purples, backlit by Chuchan’s distant sun.

  Hiram turned to me, a wry half-smile on his lined face. “And what do you think Kojo was in here complaining about, not an hour ago?”

  He kept a light touch on the helm, making tiny course corrections to keep Sparrowhawk in the most turbulence-free channel of the route to the main planet. We’d made up a little time, but the scanner still showed us more than a day away from port.

  I slumped in my seat. “What does Kojo have to complain about?”

  “About his business manager treating him like a pesky big brother instead of the ship’s captain. Kojo shouldn’t have to give you orders—you know your duties and you were dawdling in the engine room.”

  “Maybe I should have stored the cells before stopping to talk,” I admitted. “But Kojo didn’t have to talk to me like that in front of a junior crew member.”

  “Ah.” Hiram nodded sagely. “So this isn’t about Kojo, it’s about looking bad in front of the lad in engineering.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” But I felt my face flushing. “Archer’s twitchy enough without having to cope with Kojo’s ego.”

  “Humph. You might not have noticed, missy, but young Archer gets a mite twitchier when he’s around you.”

  “He…?” I shut my mouth. “The point is, Kojo’s changed. He’s always been bossy, but Papa kept him in check. Now he’s turned into a bully. I wish Papa had made you captain.”

  “I don’t.” Hiram’s face softened as he gazed at the glowing ether. “When we won Sparrowhawk, all those years ago, Kwame wanted to roll the dice on which of us would be captain and which first mate. I wouldn’t have it. ‘It’s pilot for me,’ I told him. ‘I’ll sail you to Zub’s kitchen and back, but I’ve no wish to be the one making decisions for ship and crew.’ Do you think Kojo craves that burden?”