by Ginger Booth
“Welcome to Mahina Orbital!” A woman greeted Sass and her entourage. Her warm smile flashed perfect white teeth. “I’m first officer, Commander Jaymie Alohan. We spoke on the comms on your way in.”
Sass blinked. The one who left her post to find ‘someone to ask’? Her rank put her as second in charge of the station.
The first mate’s shapely brown skull gleamed under 5 o’clock stubble, with scabby bits. She appeared a trim 25 years old, but then so did Sass, and she was nearly 100. Alohan’s loud pink Hawaiian shirt looked threadbare with age around the seams, a button missing, a ratty thermal shirt underneath. The orbital kept its public spaces a bit chilly.
The commander turned to the master chief, who escorted them here to the officer’s mess. “Thank you, Pollan, I’ll take it from here.” Her lips pursed faintly at his back as he left. “I hope he didn’t give you any trouble.”
“Trouble?” Sass inquired.
“Pollan’s been great,” Copeland asserted. “He offered to help patch our hull tomorrow. Took a rock on the way up.”
“And you are?” Alohan’s lips pressed harder.
Sass hastily supplied introductions. “Our engineer John Copeland. Steward Jules Greer. Gunner Benjy Acosta. Our passengers Dr. Eli Rasmussen and Kassidy Yang. My first mate and another passenger are standing watch at the dock. We weren’t sure of your security arrangements.”
“If someone gives us trouble, we toss him out an airlock.” The idea didn’t appear to trouble Alohan. “Don’t worry. Nobody here is motivated enough to steal a skyship. Where would they go?”
Sass smiled, and trusted this was a rhetorical question.
Alohan drew her along for introductions to a half dozen officers she referred to as ‘Directors.’ The urban citadel of Mahina Actual used the same title for the top department heads on the moon below. She skipped over the other fifteen or so people in the room. This evening – MO observed the same single worldwide time zone as the moon – the Thrive was invited to supper on the orbital.
“There are others, but they’re not here,” Alohan wrapped up.
They’re not available, was how that sentence usually ran, Sass reflected. “And Captain Ingersoll?” Your commanding officer?
“He eats in his rooms,” Alohan supplied. “I’m sure he’ll summon you eventually.” She smiled cheerily again.
Sass felt the first officer’s moods seemed to flip-flop in an awful hurry. She accepted the seat of honor at her right hand at the foot of the Directors table. Captain Ingersoll’s chair remained empty. Sass gestured for the rest of her crew to find open seats for themselves at the other tables.
The dreary grey mess hall could accommodate four times as many officers as were present. Alohan’s loud shirt was the lone festive note. Copeland and Kassidy claimed bench spots between rowdy junior officers. Eli proclaimed himself a botanist, then chose a table where people seemed like they might be interested. He kept the younger crew members with him.
The moment the first officer sat, a couple stewards straightened from leaning against the bulkhead. They pushed their carts forward to deal out plates.
“Made with our new supplies from the Thrive?” Alohan asked one hopefully.
“Not yet,” the steward replied, clunking her plate to the table. He delivered Sass’s dinner and utensils with greater care, and a sad little wincing smile. “Welcome to MO. Thank you for bringing fresh supplies. We don’t get –”
“Buzz off, Friedman,” Alohan cut him off. “A steward should serve silently, and not butt into the conversation of his betters. My apologies, Sass, serving the captain’s table is a rotating duty. They’re never any good at it.”
Sass smiled encouragement to Friedman. “Oh? What is your normal work on the orbital, Mr. Friedman?” Her query annoyed the first officer, a welcome bonus. That woman was unfit to lead.
Friedman shot a leery glance at Alohan. “Labor pool rotation, sar. Whatever I’m assigned next.”
Sass frowned slightly, perplexed. “But you work in food service?”
The man shrugged, and delivered the last plate from his trolley. He came around again with a pitcher to top up water glasses.
Alohan clarified, “Variety is the spice of life. Skilled specialists work in a single area of operations. Friedman only has a bachelor’s degree. If he ever showed a talent for something, some supervisor would have snatched him. In the meantime, he rotates to a new assignment after three months. That will be soon now, I trust.”
“Two more weeks. Then I wash bulkheads. It’s only six hours a day,” Friedman added quietly to Sass. “I’m in a VR band in my free time.”
Sass nodded politely. She wondered whether a virtual reality band developed skill as a musician.
“I wasn’t asking, Friedman,” the first officer growled, then raised her water glass. Her tone switched back to warm. “To the Thrive, for bringing us clean food!”
“To clean food!” the directors chorused with feeling.
Sass raised her glass amiably but couldn’t help glancing at the ‘dirty’ food on her plate. The water was awful, with a strong waft of chlorine failing to mask a sewer aroma. Or maybe that smell rose from the brownish starch glop with chunks forming the main course. She tried a dainty forkful, conscious of Alohan watching with furious eyes.
Yep, that was awful. Sass sampled the salad. “Your lettuce is delicious! I’m eager to see your gardens, Director, um – I’m sorry, so many introductions.”
She’d looked to the wrong man. The woman next to him volunteered, “Francowski. I’m sure my chief can show you around.” Brown rot colored the half of her teeth which remained. Director Francowski looked about 70, by which Sass surmised her nanites had expired.
“Chief,” Sass echoed. “It’s been years since the last time I visited the orbital. I’m sure things have changed.” And how. She decided etiquette did not require her to eat a second bite of the entree. “So as director, you handle oversight, while a senior noncom runs hydroponics?”
“Hm?” Francowski frowned vaguely.
“We delegate,” Alohan clarified. “Surely you delegate on your ship, too? Or no, you piloted in yourself, didn’t you?” She’d bristled at the news that Sass had visited the orbital before. She didn’t like surprises.
“My first mate piloted us in. I stood as relief pilot and relief gunner. It’s a stressful couple hours. First trip for my crew. Actually, Commander, I wanted to ask – do you keep backups of skyship piloting data?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“The skyships have an automated system for piloting and gunnery. But ours says it’s only 30% trained. We can’t trust it to pilot ship and guns through the ring until 100%. But surely there’s been enough experience in the Pono rings by now, if we share data. Over a century, after all.”
Alohan frowned and applied herself to her food for a minute. “That makes sense. I’ll look into it.”
“While we’re on the topic of data, I hope we’ll be allowed free access to your archives. For our research. Is that Director here?” Sass smiled hopefully around the table.
“What research?” a man at the far end asked.
“Several questions,” Sass said. “The unifying theme is progress toward humans thriving on Mahina. Compare notes with Sagamore and Denali as well as the orbital. Medical and plant research, nanites. And early records of the Ganymede techs who brought the settlers here. Is there anyone here left from that time?”
“You’re joking, right?” Alohan asked.
“Why would I be joking?”
“The Ganymedes left 60 years ago.”
“I recall.”
“Captain Collier, this orbital is a death sentence,” the first mate clarified. “No one survives it more than 10 to 15 years.”
“I don’t understand. You have full nanite suites from Mahina Actual, don’t you? Or are those deactivated before,” exile, “transport to the orbital?”
“Not deactivated,” Jakeem, Director of Medical
explained. “Just unequal to the challenge. Our radiation exposure is extreme. Surely you understood that, even on Mahina. An urb such as yourself needs to live inside Mahina Actual to limit environmental damage at the cellular level.”
In fact, Sass tended to forget that. Her urb friends Eli and Kassidy appeared to be as bulletproof as herself and Clay. But they weren’t. And her settler crew – Benjy and Copeland, Abel and Jules – had only the most rudimentary nanites to protect their health. They gained those nanites only recently for this trip. In alarm, she pulled out her pocket tablet and jotted a note.
She asked, “Should we be wearing some kind of radiation dosimeter, doctor?”
“We don’t bother,” Jakeem said dryly. He reapplied himself to the awful stew.
Alohan scowled at him. “My understanding, doctor, is that a skyship protects the crew better than the orbital. The same electrostatic whatsit that protects them from micrometeors, shields them from radiation.”
“Can’t the orbital use similar shielding?” Sass inquired.
“The orbital,” Alohan intoned, “is 120 years old and held together with duct tape and spitwads. We live in a cluttered planetary ring that lobs rocks at us. You may have noticed that on the way up.”
Sass elected to chuckle softly, though flicking her middle finger was her first choice. “Yes. I did notice that.” In fact, her nerves still felt raw from running the gauntlet into orbit this morning from Mahina Actual. “My crew is mixed settler and urb.”
The Thrive’s crew was actually pure settler, descended from the unwashed refugee masses who arrived at Mahina with Sass and Clay. The urbs, Eli and Kassidy, paid rent. If the locals assumed Sass was an urb, too, she felt no rush to correct them.
“Settlers!” Alohan spat. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have permitted you to come. We are urbs here.” She stood abruptly and stormed out.
You’re an urb convict, Sass thought. And you take on airs over me?
She turned slowly back to the Director’s table, intending to follow up with the Director of Data, or whatever his title was. But that worthy also decamped, along with his female neighbor.
Sass turned to Jakeem, who seemed unconcerned. “Only 10 to 15 years? That must be challenging. For morale and continuity.”
“It’s long enough,” Jakeem returned, with a pointed glance around the decor and his fellow diners.
Sass sighed, then smiled hopefully around the remaining three at the table. “Any chance I could get a tour from you?” They looked away. “Or I could just wander around and ask questions.”
Jakeem shrugged.
“Really? You’ve never seen my show?” Kassidy Yang asked at her table. The stunt woman was astonished. Her weekly daredevil shows were popular on Mahina, among urbs and settlers alike. Her biggest fans followed her daily livecast as well. Since she started her skydiving series on the Thrive, her audience had mushroomed.
“Captain says it’s bad for morale,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Leary replied. “Make us homesick or something.” His quip rated a few dark chuckles around the table.
“Are you? Homesick?” Copeland asked, seated across from Kassidy.
Humor died in Leary’s eyes. “No. I’m an officer.”
That means yes. Kassidy surreptitiously summoned one of her drone cameras to close in. “What kind of officer were you in Mahina Actual? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I do mind!” Leary barked at her. “Get that camera away from me! And don’t ask that question again.” He softened his tone. “You need to understand, miss. Everyone aboard got a life sentence on exile from Mahina Actual. But at least we start over with a clean slate on station.”
“I see,” Kassidy said grudgingly. Damned if she would apologize to him for a friendly question.
The ex-con Copeland followed up. “I think what Kassidy was asking, was what makes you guys officers.” And they were mostly guys at this table, plus one woman.
An ensign snickered a couple seats to Kassidy’s left. She shot him an inquiring smile. “Looks,” he replied.
Leary cleared his throat. “The first mate selects officer trainees from new arrivals.”
“Well you are awfully cute,” Kassidy assured them, looking around the table. The woman was homely, so Kassidy favored her with an extra warm wink.
“Any gambling on board?” Copeland asked. “What do you do on MO to blow off steam?”’
“Yes!” Kassidy pounced gratefully. “Tell us about your nightlife!”
“My thesis advisor is on the orbital,” Dr. Eli Rasmussen explained at the next table, to Lieutenant Commander Dolby. There being no military on Mahina, let alone a navy, he wasn’t aware of the fine points of naval rank. But he was fairly sure he was a bigger fish than the ones Kassidy and Copeland swam with, and smaller than the ones seated with Sass. “Do you know Dr. Bertram?”
Dolby huffed a laugh. His lips began a smile and aborted halfway. “There are less than 500 people on this orbital. Bertram? I can point you down the right hallway.”
“Must be hard,” Benjy offered. At 20, the well-knit young settler with tousled tawny hair served as gunner and captain’s pet gofer aboard the Thrive. “To maintain this place with only 500 people. You supervise them doing repair and stuff?”
“Oh, less than half work on maintenance,” Dolby explained. “The rest are too sick, too old, refuse to work. Or like Dr. Bertram, busy doing their own thing.”
“Cleaning must be a challenge,” Jules said. “I’m in charge of housekeeping for the Thrive.”
Dolby’s eyes lit at the gangly 15-year-old. “I’m surprised they let you up here.” He added to Eli, “She can’t walk around unchaperoned.”
“I’m here with my husband,” Jules explained, puzzled by the old woman’s comment. “First mate of the Thrive.”
“You’re married?” Dolby caught himself. “Oh, how…cute.”
Eli explained softly, “Jules, urbs generally don’t marry before 25 or so.”
“Never, on the orbital,” Dolby supplied. His eyes drifted to adorable Benjy, and his brow furrowed. “You might want to keep an eye on him, too. There are a few men…”
“Understood,” Eli said.
“I don’t understand,” Benjy differed. Jules also shook her head.
“I’ll explain later,” Eli promised. “Is there security aboard?”
“After a fashion,” Dolby allowed. “But we’re already in prison, right? And the inmates run the asylum.”
“Enjoy your dinner?” Clay inquired with a sardonic grin when they returned. Swarthy and toned to perfection, Clay looked male-model handsome in clothes to match. Sass’s sole counterpart as a survivor of Earth sat playing cards with Abel on the orbital dock side of the pressure doors.
“Worst food I ate in my life,” Jules reported.
“I bet their booze is alright,” Copeland suggested.
“They’ve never seen my show,” Kassidy complained. “And my dad and his girlfriend are long gone.” She expected as much, but confirmed it over dinner.
Benjy offered, “Some commander said Jules and I needed babysitting or we’d be ra– Uh, pestered.”
Jules’ husband Abel shot to his feet in alarm. “Propositioned?”
Jules’ jaw dropped. “But she said you, too, Benjy. You’re a boy!”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oy,” Eli summarized to Clay.
“Rego charmers,” Sass agreed. “Let’s lock up for bed. Clay? Don’t say you told me so.”
The suave ex-FBI agent spread his hands in a Who, me? gesture. “What did you expect in a penal colony?”
“I didn’t deal with MO. Why did you?” She led the way into the umbilical. Clay and Abel followed last, bearing their folding card table and chairs.
Sass and Clay both served the city of Mahina Actual as marshals for decades, policing urb-settler conflicts and inter-settlement squabbles. Anything that fell in the cracks between city security and local sheriffs. Sass favored a wholesome blonde farm-girl-next-door
look to Clay’s gigolo finery, but either way – their bailiwick was settlers.
Clay shrugged. “I lived in the city more than you did. They use it as a threat to keep the urbs in line. The orbital is understaffed. Behave, or land up here.”
Kassidy rolled her eyes and nodded.
3
Colony ships from Earth were not equipped with true cryogenic chambers. Nor did they have the cubic and food to support hundreds of thousands. Most settlers were placed in an induced coma and stored in cold rooms. Estimates place the death toll around 8%.
“Funny, it’s big on the outside,” Eli murmured. “But inside it’s rather…” His foot hung poised over the next stair step, then passed it over. The brown pile was easily identified by smell.
“Cramped,” Abel finished his sentence. “Also filthy.”
Sass suggested, “They’ll probably clean that by tomorrow.” They’d climbed this way up three decks last night to the mess hall.
Clay looked dubious beside her. The whole staircase oozed filth.
“Level map on the landing,” Copeland noted, bringing up the rear. “Engineering. Walk through? Or should I do that on my own.”
“Abel and I want to see it,” Sass pounced. The captain held the heavy pressure door open as the other four cautiously stepped over the high threshold. Engineering was deck 3. Docks and cargo storage lay on deck 2, with deck 1 reserved for tanks and recycling. “Let’s keep it quick, though, Copeland. I want to scope out the whole orbital today. Once over lightly.”
Copeland nodded as he studied the engineering deck plan on the bulkhead facing the stairwell. “Gravity generators. This way. Bet they’re big. Won’t take long.”
After 70 years of detective work, Clay automatically strolled in observation mode, noting everything. More of a beat cop herself, Sass drank in the people, the filth, and anything her engineer found interesting. Eli looked eager to reach hydroponics on the top floor, where Dr. Bertram lived and worked.
