Tarragon: Yellow Knife Intermodal

By Lee Wonnacott

Space is dark and deep and has a bull-eye painted on Jake Lattrell's forehead.
His freighter exploded when the wrong asteroids kissed. Depressed, almost bankrupt, and on the verge of losing it all at the bottom of
a bourbon bottle

A trouble-magnet since birth, Lattrell had nothing left to lose when he sat down at that poker
table. A once-in-a-lifetime royal flush hand of cards won him title to Tarragon, one of the most technologically advanced
ships out there.

That bull's eye just got bigger.

Jake Lattrell and his partner, Shawn Bass have run Yellow Knife Intermodal Freight for coming up on twenty years.
They calculate that one good run with Tarragon off the rim could put the company in the black and keep it there. 
The voyage from Earth's Space Dock out to the Silver Array takes Jake and his motley crew into 
the path of hidden stealth ships, crippled space stations, and broken down private yachts.

But that is not the worst of it:  the Tarragon artificial intelligence has other ideas.
This is Ice Road Truckers meets Firefly and is packed with intrigue, deception, and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Anne Weltsch
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201641085

Lee Wonnacott

On any given day you can find her speeding on the Five, harassing the clerks in Wal-Mart or sitting in her car with a DoubleDouble. Her religion is the National Football League and an Oakland Raider fan since 1967. She prefers a Sheriff over a city cop, a pickup over a coupe and a Colt.45 over a 9 mm. She’s a sucker for children under three and anyone in their 90’s. She will happily put you on hold until next week. Every book she writes feels like her first one.

Book preview

TARRAGON

A Yellow Knife Intermodal Story

Lee Anne Wonnacott Weltsch

TARRAGON

Copyright © 2021 by Lee Anne Wonnacott Weltsch

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Any references to historic events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Front cover image by Fiverr.com

Book design template by Derek Murphy

Published in the United States of America.

First Printing Edition 2021.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contact information :  www.leeanneweltschauthor.com

ISBN :  978-0-578-87823-2

ISBN :  (Hardcover)

ISBN :  (ebook

ALSO BY LEE ANNE WONNACOTT WELTSCH

WESTERN FICTION NOVELS:

Rage at Rancho Del Oro

From Windy Ridge to the Flint Hills

Newton Cutter

Iron and Rawhide

Nick Stolter

SCIENCE FICTION/SPACE OPERA NOVELS

The Man from Marvessa

NON-FICTION BOOKS

So, You Want to Start a Business

DEDICATION

IF YOU ARE SITTING on the third bar stool from the end at

O'Malley’s Bar on the Silver Array, tell the bartender to

put your next one on my tab.

Look down to the other end of the bar and pretend

that I am lifting my glass in a toast.

This dedication is for you.

CHAPTER ONE

THE METAL HANDLE FELT chilled as a tipsy Jake Lattrell pushed his way into the colorful and noisy Frieda’s Saloon. One of six casinos on the Earth Space Dock orbiting the blue planet, it was his favorite place to play poker. The card room manager greeted him by name and escorted Lattrell onto a chair at a table with a game in progress. It felt like home away from home and right now that is what he needed.

Credit by credit the money dribbled away. Bad hand after bad hand, it felt like luck had abandoned him. It was only happy sips of a good, blended whiskey that kept his spirits up.

Six men sat at the green-topped round poker table. Five had folded. The remaining man, or what he thought was a man, had trouble focusing his eyes on Lattrell.

I have two hundred credits left, Lattrell said. My ship is gone. I don’t have a job. I got fired today because my ship is in a million little pieces. But I do have this hand of cards. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll throw in these excellent boots that I bought last week. They are comfortable. If you win, you will walk in comfort. Lattrell laid his cards face down and rubbed his right eye vigorously, then took off his boots and put them up on the table.

The alien pounded his chest twice with his left hand.

I am Berinde. Luck follows me. I’m waiting for it to catch up to me today. He spoke with a guttural accent. The long-fingered hand swept the straggling brown hair back from his face. The long neck twisted slightly to the right and the lower jaw fell open to expose what might be described as rows of shark teeth.

The dealer shrugged after examining the boots. Those are nice boots. I recognize American-made Tekara boots. We will apply three hundred credits to the wager. The blood-shot eyes turned to look at Berinde.

Berinde fumbled at the left side of his head for a second. He tossed an object onto the table. He blinked the thin-lidded cat eyes and then coughed. It looked to be a diamond stud. That is my favorite one. Add it to the wager.

The dealer gestured for the pit boss to examine the stone. With gloved hands, a quick exam with a jeweler's loupe assessed the gem. After a brief consult, the dealer smiled.

We will add three hundred credits to the wager.

Berinde knocked his knuckles against the table edge. But if that doesn’t cover it, this will.

When he pulled back the collar of the grungy tunic, oozing yellow slime crept down the muscular chest. The skin seemed to be encased in a fine netting. A small leather pouch came forth and a smudged folded paper was laid on the table.

The dealer brought up his spectacles and furrowed his brow as he read. "Legal title. Model 12, Number 1244 Dessen Class Utility Vessel. The ship name is Tarragon." The dealer looked over the rim of his glasses at Berinde.

"Sir, you are betting the title to your ship, the Tarragon?"

Berinde took a sip of the bubbling green drink and nodded. I will win. I will take your boots. I will walk in them with pride while you slink away into oblivion to lick your wounds.

The dealer looked at Lattrell. Do you accept the bet, sir?

Yeah, go ahead and deal. His ship could be broken down and be worth parting out. It’s just a game. Lattrell tapped his cards and gestured to the dealer.

A small crowd of five people had edged closer to the players. Their voices speculated over the cards. The hazy smoke floated upward.

The pit boss and another man scanned the document into a tablet and looked exasperated as they waited. Two minutes later, the tablet beeped. They consulted with the dealer for more than several minutes.

We will add one thousand credits to this wager. The dealer smiled to both men.

No more bets, please. The dealer laid down a ten of diamonds in front of Lattrell who squinted and blinked twice at it. The dealer laid down a jack of clubs in front of Berinde, who immediately raised both arms and made a celebratory whoop. The leering crowd cheered him on.

The dealer held the deck of cards and rubbed his thumb against the side. He looked at Lattrell. Sir, please turn your cards over, show your hand.

Lattrell squinted at the dealer and then realized what he had said. With slow care, Lattrell rubbed a finger against that ten of diamonds and then grunted with raised eyebrows. With deliberate care, he turned over a nine, eight, seven, and six of diamonds to make a straight flush. Lattrell laid both arms with palms up on the table and looked at Berinde.

The alien’s amber eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open. The vein running up the side of his face started to throb. A strangled, animalistic cry escaped his lips.

The dealer signaled for the pit boss to come over and authenticate Lattrell’s cards. A clear tablet was placed over the cards and after several seconds, it toned a slight bell sound.

Your hand is good, sir.

Lattrell nodded but couldn’t get his eyes to focus and blinked hard. He cleared his throat.

Thank you. Lattrell gestured towards Berinde’s cards on the table.

Mr. Dealer, do you want to check my clothes and pockets. I’m happy to oblige the house. Lattrell said as he raised his eyebrows. He lifted his drink glass and took a swig. In the past, he had won jewelry, candy, and clothing off other players. Most he had donated to charitable organizations in business to help those addicted to gambling. That always gave him a good laugh.

By now over twenty people had gathered around behind the two card players. The buzz of their voices had become louder.

The pit boss laid a long, thin shiny steel bar across Lattrell’s cards. He then wiggled two fingers to security guards who stood against a textured wall. They parted the crowd and had Lattrell stand while they checked his hair, clothing, and chair. The stone-faced security man pushed out a belligerent bottom lip and shook his head and returned to his position.

There was a smattering of applause and more debate on the cards on the table.

Lattrell sat back down and drank down the last sip of whiskey. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.

The pit boss lifted the shiny bar. Play on.

The dealer looked at Berinde. Sir, turn over your cards, please.

Berinde scanned the faces to the left and right in the crowd as he reached for his cards. He turned over three sevens and the last card made pair of jacks. It was a full house.

There were several bright flashes as the house took images of the winning and losing hands. Lattrell jerked away, dazed and saw white spots in his eyes.

The crowd began to press against Lattrell slapping his back, rocking him in the chair. The pit boss signaled for the security men and they moved forward to clear away the cheering bystanders.

It was the guttural screech that came from Berinde that made Lattrell’s blood run cold. Berinde’s face was contorted in rage and his fists pounded the table. The alien tried to stand but his rubbery legs wouldn’t hold him, and he fell to the floor.

Several men in the crowd tried to help the alien but he came up swinging. One man in a black suit was knocked to the floor with a right cross. Another man in tee shirt and slacks was thrown onto the poker table. Chaos ensued.

The dealer dumped the credits into an envelope and shoved it down into the boots. He shoved them into Lattrell’s chest, and the two burly security men hustled him to the other side of the casino.

When Lattrell looked back at the table, the guards had Berinde down on the floor putting restraints on him.

At the door, the big security man pressed Lattrell over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. Don’t come back.

He turned and went back in the saloon, letting the door slam with a grating metal-on-metal sound.

Lattrell gripped his boots, blinked hard trying to clear away those white spots, turned to the right and started walking.

THE BUZZING OF HIS wrist band communicator next to his head woke Lattrell the next morning. Somehow, he had made it into a hotel. He was still clothed on top of the bed wrapped in the spread.

Yeah, yeah. I’m here. I’m up, Lattrell said and then coughed. He blinked a couple of times.

Shawn Bass’ voice came through the device.

You have a good time last night, Captain? You ran up a one hundred fifty-dollar bar bill on my tab at Freida’s Saloon. They called today to get payment.

Oh, hey Shawn. Yeah, I had a couple of drinks. Ate steak dinner. Played some cards. Nothing much. Again, Lattrell cleared his throat.

"Well, partner. The Ahazi is due in later this afternoon. After it is offloaded, I want you to jump it over to Jelks for refueling. Have them clean it good, too. It’s had three different crews and it most likely doesn’t smell so nice and the floors will be sticky." Shawn’s voice sounded like he was reading off a list.

Lattrell cracked open a bottle of water and drank half of it down. He tore open one of the aspirin pouches, tossed the round white pills into his mouth and chewed them hard. He swallowed those down with the rest of the water.

"The Ahazi. Okay. Get it cleaned. What else do I need to do about the Sky Horse? I imagine the insurance company wants a deposition or something." Lattrell wetted a small cloth at the sink and swabbed his face. He could hear Shawn grunt as he laughed.

I got a shit-pile of papers here on my desk. I got more in my email from assorted different agencies and authorities. I called Gary at Jelks and had him make a salvage claim, so it is not a total loss. They are at the site now. He said it was a wonder that you guys lived through that.

It was a sobering memory and it made Lattrell realize how close he came to death. The wrong two asteroid fragments touched each other in the full cargo hold of the Yellow Knife Freighter, Sky Horse. The explosion tore the ship almost completely in two. Two crew members died. One man who was suited and holding the net was blasted to tiny bits. Lattrell, Terry Stallworth, and Lesslee Mao who were on the bridge were saved by the blast doors. They had survived by climbing into their emergency vacuum suits. It was the worst thing that ever happened to him as captain on a ship.

Lattrell hunted around for his socks and sat down. When he shoved his foot into his left boot, he felt something in there.

How’s the crew? I know they caught the medical shuttle down to New York. Have you heard anything?

It was an envelope, and he tore it open. Five hundred fifty dollars in cash and electronic credits, a small diamond stud earring, and a folded piece of grimy paper. He unfolded it.

Bass told Lattrell about assorted injuries and which crew had asked to be cashed out and which had requested to be re-assigned to other ships.

Hey, Shawn. Yeah, uh, last night I was playing cards, I made that ‘bet-your-boots’ bet that I make when I play with you. Lattrell went on to explain what he remembered from the game.

Bass laughed. Don’t tell me. You actually lost your boots! Hah! I knew it. Someday you would lose those boots! Hah! The booming laugh belted out of the comm.

Lattrell shook his head. Uh, no, I got my boots, but I also got something else. Here, I’m going to send you a picture of this. It looks like a title to a ship. The casino bosses ran it by the registry, and I guess it is some sort of little personal dingy. You know how some braggards like to toss out something impressive when they know they can’t lose. Look at this.  With a couple of passes, Lattrell smoothed out the paper on the table and sent an image to Bass.

Bass made a deep breath sound. Okay, its coming through now. It’s kind of blurry. It could be a deluxe  inflatable kayak!

Much laughing over the comm.

You sound like you need to get some coffee in you, bucko.

Lattrell reached over the table and pushed the button on the coffee maker and the little red light came on as it started heating up.

Shawn, just for the fun of it, can you do a search on it and see if it is bigger than a breadbox? I know you got other things to do, but this might be good for a laugh at a party.

Bass laughed again. Lesslee is sitting in there doing nothing. I’ll have her do it. She might get a laugh out of this.

Lattrell chuckled and nothing fell out of the other boot on the floor. He pulled it on and stomped to push his foot all the way in.

"Alright, I’m up. Coffee is cooking. Let me get something to eat and I’ll go wait on The Ahazi."

Talk to you later, partner. Bass clicked off.

Fifty-seven emails sitting on his personal account. Lattrell scrolled through them and deleted out all the ads and fluff. Three were from the crew of the Sky Horse wanting to know if he was feeling okay. Shawn had copied him on five of the insurance emails on the accident. There was a message from Frieda’s Saloon, and he passed right on by it. He drank down his first cup of coffee and ordered in room service.

An hour later after waffles and eggs and a hot shower, Lattrell started to feel human again. He poured another cup and started working on the Yellow Knife reports on his tablet. He sent an email up to the Space Dock operations office asking for notification when the Ahazi docked.

The comm system in the room toned and Lattrell looked up to see a bald-headed man with spectacles perched on his nose waiting for a response.

Hello, this is Jake Lattrell. What can I help you with? Lattrell stood in front of the comm with his arms folded over his chest.

Hello, Mr. Lattrell. I am Dallas Hank. I’m the operations manager for Frieda’s Saloon up on Level Seven. He held up his identification to the camera.

Lattrell frowned. Okay, what can I do for you, Mr. Hank?

Uh, Mr. Lattrell. At this time, I’d like to ask you to hold up your identification, please. I figured there aren’t too many Jake Lattrell’s out there, but I need to be on the safe side. Please, sir.

Lattrell frowned again. Is this about last night? Because my business manager said that bill was paid this morning. He picked up the tablet and swiped through two screens and then turned it toward the camera.

Thank you, Mr. Lattrell. No, no, it is not about the bill. And thank you for your quick payment. That is very appreciated. Yellow Knife is one of our more frequent customers and we appreciate your patronage.

Lattrell shook his head. What is this about then? Did I break something or cause a problem?

No, no. As the casino business manager, I select a few games each day to review. I want to make sure that our guests are treated with respect and above board. During your game last night, there was a questionable wager made by a player at your table. A Mr. Berinde. Do you recall that wager?

Lattrell laughed and said, I remember I had a straight flush that won the hand. I’ve had those cards maybe three times in my life. I remember when the dealer laid down that ten of diamonds that I rubbed it to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

Hank sort of smiled with a grimace. Yes, it was a good hand and very exciting. The reason I am contacting you is because Frieda’s Saloon authenticated that ship title as the wager. We ran it through the system registry in order to accept it as the wager. Mr. Lattrell, what I’m getting as is you now own that ship. It is a real ship tied up at the top berth on the station.

Lattrell picked up the grimy ship title and stared hard at the screen. What do you mean? I was just telling my office that it might be good for a laugh at a party. Is it broken down or something? Lattrell stepped closer to the screen.

Hank shook his head and pressed his lips together in consternation. Yes, sir. It is a ship docked here on the station. As a rule of business, anytime an ownership document is used in a wager, we must authenticate it. We had our attorneys look at the document during the game and verified that it is a real title. We’ve notified the Space Dock authorities that as a result of the wager last night, that ship has changed ownership. You can be sure they will be contacting you.

Lattrell’s wrist comm had started an incessant beeping. Three calls, four calls, five calls scrolled up the small screen. He made a bewildered frown.

Uh, um. Well. Mr. Hank, to be honest, I don’t know what to do about this. Can you give me a hint, clue me in here? Lattrell unbuckled the wrist band and tossed the device onto the bed where it continued to buzz.

The man on the screen nodded. Yes, Sir. Frieda’s Saloon will make the recording of the game last night available to you and your legal representative, should you need it. Please give them my contact information. I am happy to help in this situation. Also, you will want your legal representation to help you sort out how to take ownership of the vessel. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or need further information. Mr. Hank smiled at the camera and lifted a hand to wave.

I may call you, yes. Thank you, Sir. Goodbye. The screen went blank.

Lattrell poured himself another cup of the strong black coffee. He looked at himself in the mirror and slapped his cheeks twice. He rubbed his face with both hands and tried to shake out the cobwebs.

The buzzing comm got his attention.

Thirteen calls from Shawn Bass. Partners in Yellow Knife Intermodal for coming up on twenty years, Shawn and Jake had delivered everything imaginable to Earth, Mars, and the inner system planets. It was Shawn that urged Jake to contract out for cargo deliveries to the sectors beyond Pluto. Six feet and two hundred ninety five pounds of muscle, Shawn’s curly red hair bobbed when he laughed.

Seventeen messages from Lesslee Mao. The only daughter of a diplomat mother and a space station developer father, Lesslee handled the business manager job for Yellow Knife Intermodal Interplanetary Division. With a skilled knack and savvy negotiating style, the twenty-eight-year-old Asian woman steered them away from high-risk ventures.

Lattrell could feel his head start to hurt again. He pressed the hotel comm link and keyed in Lesslee Mao’s contact.

Jake! Where the hell have you been? She turned away from the screen and yelled for Shawn to come into her office.

I’m good, Lesslee. Thanks for asking. I got a spot on my shoulder that is kinda sore, but I’m good. Lattrell could see both Lesslee and Shawn crowd together in front of the camera.

Shawn’s voice boomed. Whatever you do, don’t leave that hotel room. Stay right there. I’m trying to track down Hammett Earl to come stay with you.

Lattrell squinted and turned his ear towards the screen. He asked, What? Why does Ham have to be here?

Lesslee nudged Shawn a little to the left. That ship title you have? That paper you have there. Hold it up to the camera for me.

Lattrell could hear Shawn say in an irritated voice, Just do it. Now.

Okay. Lattrell walked over to the table and retrieved the sheet. He unfolded it and held it close to the camera.

Thank you, said Lesslee put her hand over her mouth as she got up from her desk and walked away.

Bass’ face was flushed and sweaty. Okay, here is what we found out. That ship on the title is there at Space Dock.

Lattrell went to get his coffee and pulled up a chair. Yeah, what is it? A little twenty-year-old Jitnee for sightseeing tourists? Lattrell laughed.

Nope, it’s a freighter. A big freighter.

What? A freighter? No.

You know how we have to produce ownership and title to the station master when we dock? Shawn dabbed a white cloth across his face and took a drink from a water bottle.

Yeah, it proves we own it and are not pirates. The ship is not stolen. Why?

That Berinde guy came in day before yesterday and docked. He lost title to you in that wild poker game. Space Dock has the ship locked down because Berinde cannot prove he is the owner. You are the owner. Lesslee put another bottle of water next to Bass and he twisted off the lid and drank part of it.

Lattrell’s voice sounded incredulous. I own a freighter that is tied up here at Space Dock. From that poker game last night? Lattrell squinted and frowned in disbelief.

There’s more. Berinde’s crew tried to get back on the ship this morning and Space Dock won’t let them on because they no longer own the ship.

Wait. What?  Latrell stood up scowling with his mouth gaped open. Grimacing, he turned away and shoved his open palm at the screen.

Stop. I’ll call you back.  His voice was gruff and spit out through gritted teeth. He could hear both Lesslee and Sean yelling as he disconnected the call.

What the heck were they talking about? This had to be some barge ready to be salvaged and parted out. He pulled on a jacket, grabbed his keys and phone, letting the hotel door click shut behind him. His heart raced and fists clenched as he headed for the elevator. Thirty seconds later, the twin steel doors opened onto the top cargo deck. His first step was into a body-armor clad security officer who held a wicked black stun gun.

What’s your business here, mister?

"Uh, I’m from Yellow Knife Intermodal on Earth. I’ve got a freighter coming in, The Ahazi, and need to set up a berth. Lattrell’s eyes trailed up the chest plate to the tinted face shield.  Can you help me with that?"

It was then the captain became aware of a crowd to the left, throwing things, and yelling. Lattrell cleared his throat, starring at the angry mob.

The security officer nudged Lattrell to get his attention back. Step over to that kiosk and one of the station managers will help you get a berth.  The tall man bent to the right to get a better look at the captain.

You ain’t one of the crew off that big-ass ship, are ya? If you’re here to start trouble, you’ll have to go through me, mister. The black-gloved hand tightened around the stun gun.

Lattrell took a step back and held up both hands. He took a quick sideways glance at the rowdy mob and then frowned at the security guard. What’s all this about? An ugly feeling started crawling up his spine.

The guard pointed up with his gloved hand. Lattrell could only see a black ceiling or a shield stretched out over the top of the station.

As he took a shuffling step towards the kiosk, he asked, What’s the problem over there? Someone not get paid? It was not unusual for a crew to block ship access if they had not received payment for the cargo run.

After a moment, it appeared the security guard deemed Lattrell non-threatening and relaxed his grip.

No, that big freighter up there changed hands, got sold, or something and most of those yelling was the crew. They’re trying to get back on and get their possessions, but the station manager hasn’t straightened it out with the new owner yet.  Both men turned to look at the crowd.

Oh, that would be a problem. That’s not good. What ship is it? said Lattrell shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

Lattrell noticed two of the crew at the end of the who had been talking to one side had turned. They had been staring at Lattrell.

Fleshy tendrils covering the head was held back with a band. Triple eyelids blinked independently. A naked upper torso, the bottom half was clad in grimy black pants held up with a rope. Hey! You look like that guy from the game last night.

Then Lattrell could feel the stare of the frowning guard. He opened his mouth the say something and then felt a crushing grip on his shoulder. Cringing, he turned around and came face to face with Hammett Earl.

You’re coming with me, right now. The grip dragged the captain into the open elevator where another man stood holding the door open.

Okay, Ham, okay! Let me go! Lattrell squirmed as he shook loose from the freight master’s hand.  Hammett Earl had worked for Yellow Knife Intermodal for over ten years and when called upon, stepped in to provide security services.

The elevator doors slid shut.

Six feet four inches, three hundred pounds of muscle, crew cut blonde hair and smiling blue eyes. The Yellow Knife Freight Master grinned at the captain.

Hey, Cap’n. Black tee shirt, black denim jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt. That crew out there is not happy. They would have done you some damage if they knew who you are, Captain, said Earl. "This is Sinai Lettman. He’ll be going out as the cargo master with the Ahazi on the next run."

Earl looked at Lettman. Push seventeen. I don’t want that crowd following us down to captain’s room. Lettman nodded.

Pleasure to meet you, Captain Lattrell. It was a quick head nod as he stood against the elevator wall.

My pleasure, Mr. Lettman. Welcome aboard, said Lattrell as he rubbed his face. Please forgive me as I am somewhat preoccupied right now.

The doors opened and the three men stepped into the lobby area. Earl motioned for them to head for the stairs at right side. Single-file, they tread down the flight to the door at level sixteen. Earl slid a key fob and the Lattrell’s hotel room door clicked open. The big man looked up and down the corridor before shutting the door.

Back in the captain’s hotel room, Earl immediately pressed the communications screen and then clicked on the blinking call.

Earl looked hard at Lattrell. There are twenty-two angry crewmen who have lost their jobs, and all their personal stuff is still on that ship.

Lattrell poured himself a cup of the fresh coffee. Oh, shit.

Yeah, oh shit. Space Dock security could not handle the crowd, so they called in the Space Authority officers. They came in with uniforms and stun guns and forced the crew off the dock and back to the station. The ship is locked down.

On the comm screen, Lesslee nudged Shawn to the side and sat down. "I’m sending you an amended partnership agreement that states you and Shawn own and operate Yellow Knife Intermodal. It will allow Shawn to act on your behalf regarding the Yellow Knife Freighter Tarragon. That is the ship you now own. Please initial on the blank lines and at the bottom."

Lattrell saw another comm window open and a multi-page document began scrolling up. He read the first page and then stepped back.

I went up there. There are no ships up on level twenty-two or twenty-three. I don’t remember seeing any big freighters called that out there yesterday. What does it look like?

Shawn laughed and looked at Lesslee who laughed back at him. Shawn wiped his face off again. Offscreen, Lattrell could hear Lesslee laughing with gusto.

The captain took a long drink of the coffee. Come on, guys. Which one is it? I’ve got an outside room and I can see most of the docks from here. Which one? Lattrell went back to the window.

"The Tarragon is not at a regular berth, Jake. She is tied up at the top of the station. She is a big ship. She is bigger than a military frigate. Look up." Shawn burst into laughter again.

What? Lattrell pushed the drape to the side and put his face against the thick plexiglass. It was black out black overhead. I thought the station had deployed the meteor shield.

"Ham will act as your security and protection for the time being. I have gotten the partnership agreement notarized and recorded so that is legal. Now that Ham is with you, I’ll ask the Space Dock officials and law enforcements to meet with you so you can establish ownership of the Tarragon. Do you understand this?" Lesslee’s flushed face got closer to the screen.

Yeah. Okay. Okay. Are you sure? Is there some mistake? Wait. Why does Ham need to protect me? Latrell rubbed his face again. He went to get more aspirin.

Lesslee took in a deep breath and closed her eyes while she let it out. Be thankful I am not there in the room with you because I would shake you until your teeth loosened Jake Lattrell. Yes, this is real. Yes, it is a freighter.

Lattrell could see Bass take her elbow and move Lesslee away into the next office. After a minute, he returned to sit down in front of the screen.

Look, bud. If it were me, I’d be looking for the man who has my ship. That means this Berinde guy may be hunting all over the station to get his title back. I would hazard a guess that he will not be in such a congenial mood. I had the lawyer down in Anchorage look at the video and the image you sent over earlier this morning. We got the video from Frieda’s Saloon. It will hold up in court. That ship is yours.

Lattrell sat back in the chair and stared at the screen. He said,I was drunk. He was drunk. We both made a stupid bet. It is either a bet the farm and lost or was in the right place at the right time. Lattrell shook his head.

Lattrell jumped when he heard three fast knocks and then another three fast knocks at the hotel room door. Someone pounded on the door. Earl looked at Lattrell and shook his head. Lattrell noticed Ham wearing a stun gun holster on his right hip.

Yeah, everyone is a little excitable right now. I’ll help you keep them under control. Ham smiled and nodded.

At the screen, Ham waved. Shawn and Lesslee both waved back.

Lesslee said, At 2:30pm station time, you have an appointment up on level seven with the Space Dock operations, System Vessel Registration officer, and System Security. They will process the change of title over to you. Space Dock will recognize you as the owner and allow you to take possession.

Lattrell nodded. Shawn, you sure you want to get wrapped up in this ship? We haven’t even stepped foot onto her.

Shawn held up a hand said, "There’s more. Once you take possession, we’ll pay the Space Dock fees and the arears for the last two days. Berinde never paid