Outside there wasn’t much to recommend the place, but inside the smell of fresh breads, yeast, and frosting was heavenly. The hostess met us with a smile and said, “Four?”
Kirsten shook her head. “Not today, Millie. Can we get one of the booths for two and a couple of bowls of water for the dogs?”
Millie’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Mr. Alvarez? Would you like your usual seat by the door?”
Adrian nodded and helped himself to a chair at a plain round table just inside the dining room.
“Thank you, Millie,” Kirsten said. “Ms. Arellone? Would you like to keep Adrian company?”
Ms. Arellone looked at me, and when I nodded, she took the seat to the side where she could see the door, the dining room, and over Adrian’s shoulder.
Millie smiled and chirped, “What a lovely couple,” before leading the way to a small booth on the back side of the restaurant. “Is this okay, Ms. Kingsley?”
“Perfect, Millie, thank you.”
“Soup special is great today, and we’ve fresh muffins. Gracie will be your server. She’ll be right along.” With that, Millie bustled back to the door, beaming at the clientele and generally being pleasant.
We settled onto opposite sides of the table and Kirsten grinned at me before holding her menu up in front of her face as if examining it closely. From behind the menu I heard, “He reads lips. It drives me crazy.”
I stifled a chuckle and turned my face toward the wall and examined the seam in the wall paper. “I thought it was just Ms. Arellone that was taking things a little too seriously.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s a function of the job. Kurt drove Geoff mad for stanyers. I think he got a great deal of pleasure out of it.” She dropped the menu to look at me. “He felt horrible when he wasn’t there when Geoff needed him. I think that’s why Adrian is being so pissy these days.” She shrugged. “He’s always been a bit more paranoid than I think is exactly necessary, but it’s been worse since Geoff died.”
Gracie took our orders for soup and muffins and disappeared back in to the kitchen only to re-emerge with a pot of coffee and two mugs. “Sorry, Ms. Kingsley, I thought Millie had taken care of your coffee.” She plunked the mugs down, and filled them both with a rich dark brew. She slipped one in front of each of us, and I took an appreciative sip.
“Moscow Morning?” I asked.
“Very impressive, sir. You know your beans.” She giggled and went back to the kitchen.
“That was good,” Kirsten said with a bit of admiration in her voice. “You’ve been here before?”
I shook my head. “I bought a few kilos of this for the ship a while back. It comes from a boutique place up there, deck six or seven, I think.” I nodded my head toward the overhead. “Light City is the name. He roasts and blends on the premises.”
The soup, a thick chowder, came with an oversized muffin and taken together, it made a very satisfying lunch. We were halfway through the bowls when Kirsten got around to business.
“I’ve been thinking about the Jezebel, and talking it over with some of our fleet maintenance people. They all agree that Greta was right, and I should put a caretaker aboard.”
“I agree with her. Ships need caring for. Just having somebody who can call for help would help make sure things don’t degrade too far before you can sell it.”
Kirsten took another spoonful of soup before continuing. “I messaged Ames. He agrees so we’re going to fund a skeleton crew until we can get it refurbished and put on the block.”
“Makes sense,” I nodded my approval.
“Want the job?” she asked almost before I’d finished speaking. “I’d have offered last night, but I was waiting for authorization from Ames. He’s still in transit.”
“You mean go live aboard?”
She shrugged. “Sorta. I was actually hoping you’d supervise the refurbishment. You know ships and crews, and you need a job for another week or so.” She grinned. “Although, I suspect that’s not really much of an issue.”
I snickered softly. “Well, I’m not really cut out for hotel living.”
“What? You don’t like the Lagrange?” She had a very amused expression on her face.
“It’s okay, I guess.” I shrugged. “It’s not exactly home, if you know what I mean.”
She laughed and I decided I liked that laugh.
“That reminds me. How did you know I’d end up there?”
She finished her soup. “I didn’t. I just left reservations at all the hotels. There are only four and we have corporate accounts with all of them.” She smiled at me. “Good choice, by the way.”
“Thanks. I figured if I was starting a company, I wanted to be in the right place.”
“Are you?” she asked. “Starting a company, I mean.”
“That’s the idea, right? Go indie, train your CEO, see the galaxy?”
She laughed again. “Something like that. What will you call it?”
“I don’t know yet. Things are moving a bit quickly. This time last week I was on approach to Diurnia.”
She sighed and shook her head, counting backwards on her fingers. “Mercy. So much has happened in a week.”
We finished up the soup and muffins, declined a refill on coffee, and Kirsten thumbed the tab. Rising, I followed her back across the restaurant. “So, you’ll take it?” She asked, turning her head to speak to me over her shoulder.
“Terms?”
“Standard contracts for Captain and Able Spacer. Shares will be zip because you’ll be docked but it’s better than nothing, and you’ll have free room and board.”
We met up with Adrian and Ms. Arellone at the door, and let them play the bodyguard games while we chatted on the way back.
“You know, you could contract the refurbishing, but that’s going to cost a lot.”
She nodded. “I put out an RFP for the cleanup and refit to the various yards, and the bids have not been pretty.”
“Most of what has to happen is not terribly specialized. Cleaning, fixing the small broken bits like that console at the lock.”
“What about the coil replacement in the sail generators that Greta recommended.”
“That’s actually a standard maintenance procedure. All you need are the parts and a qualified engineering officer to oversee the calibration.”
We stopped outside of the office and she looked up at me. “You got my attention.”
“Give me the Jezebel as acting captain. I’ll take Ms. Arellone here, hire a couple of wipers, maybe another Able Spacer. In a week or so, we can probably put most of that ship back together. After that, you’ll be able to get a good price for it on the market, and all it’ll cost you is parts and labor.”
“And food, air, water...” Kirsten pointed out.
“Standard operational expenses. You’d pay that if the ship were sailing, and it’s probably less than the profit margin the yard would need.”
“You’re jacking the price up on the ship you’re hoping to buy, you know.” She said it with a grin.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I held up my hand and ticked off the points on my fingers. “First, you won’t have as much refurb cost to cover. Second, the ship won’t be in any better or worse condition if we do the work in-house so having a spaceworthy vessel works out the same in either case. Third, if I’m doing the work, I’ll actually have an advantage if I do wind up being able to swing the deal because I’ll know the ship inside and out.”
“We could just put it out there, as is, and call it good.” There was an odd gleam in her eye.
“You’d have to take the rock bottom price. That boat doesn’t present well to buyers.”
“Yes.” She said the one word with that odd gleam in her eye. “We’d have to take a rock bottom price wouldn’t we.”
The look on her face made me pause. “How rock bottom are you thinking?”
She gave a coy shrug. “I need to get a formal appraisal on it, which I should have by close of business
today. After that we’ll see. I want it gone. That ship’s a wart on our bottom line, and it’s never earned it’s keep. Ames is arguing that it’s a valuable resource for the company, and we need to get as much for it as we can. I’m seeing it as a drain on our balance sheet, and we need to get rid of it.”
We stood there for a few heartbeats while I processed what she said.
“Yes,” I said, carefully. “Ms. Arellone and I would be happy to move aboard, and be caretakers until you can dispose of the ship.”
She smiled. “I thought you might.”
“When does Ames get back?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could.
“He’s coming in on the Ellis. I’d have to double check the flight plans but I think he’s still at least two weeks out. Maybe three.”
“How soon would you be able to sell the ship?”
“I’d sell it tomorrow if I had a buyer.”
“Doesn’t he need to approve?”
She shrugged again. “I’m head of fleet ops. In theory he’d have to sign off, but he’s not here and if I got a viable contract, I’d sign it in a heartbeat to get that ship out of my fleet. I’d need to get the chairman of the board to sign off.”
“Who’s chairman of the board?” I wracked my brain trying to remember, and wishing I’d paid more attention to the politics of the company I’d spent so many stanyers working for. “William Simpson?” I guessed.
She shook her head. “Oh, dear heavens. No. That would be a conflict of interest. He’s a financial adviser, and his firm does our outside audit.” Her tablet bipped and she pulled it out of a pocket. She looked at the screen and sighed. “Adrian?” He stopped looking out, and cocked his head in her direction. “We need to get over to the CPJCT offices, and clear up some paperwork on the memorial service.”
He nodded, and stepped forward to lead as soon as she was ready to follow.
Kirsten looked back at me. “I’ll have the keys forwarded to your hotel. Can you be ready to go aboard, say, tomorrow morning?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Ishmael. Adrian, go.”
She waved a hand, and they headed off in the direction of the lift leaving Ms. Arellone and me standing in the promenade outside the offices.
“Skipper? That was a long chat, and did I hear we have a job?”
“It was, Ms. Arellone, and we do.” I pulled my tablet from the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled up the last corporate report from Diurnia Salvage and Transport. As a privately held company, they weren’t required to publish much, but the members of the board of directors had to be a matter of public record. I grinned when I saw the name listed. “Very clever,” I muttered.
“Sar?”
“Nothing, Ms. Arellone. We need to get to the offices of Larks, Simpson, and Greene.”
“You know where it is, Skipper?”
I pulled up the message from William Simpson. “Deck four, five spinward.”
She nodded. “Okay, Skipper. You ready?”
“Lay on, McDuff.”
She stopped and turned to me in confusion. “Sar?”
I chuckled. “Nothing, Ms. Arellone. Famous line from an old, old play. We can go.”
She gave me one of those exasperated looks, but did a pretty credible impersonation of Adrian Alvarez leading me to the lift.
Chapter Seventeen
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-21
Just before 1400 Ms. Arellone and I arrived at the offices of Larks, Simpson, and Greene. Orbital Admin occupied deck four, and I wondered how the firm managed to get commercial space there. Most of the financial services were either much higher, or down in the oh-six, oh-seven range with ship’s services. Given William Simpson’s age, I suspected that the company might have been one of the original settlers.
When we pushed through the door, rather than the hushed, paneled space I expected, we stepped into bedlam. A collection of cubicles took up the center of the office. I could see office doors around the perimeter. The men and women in the cubes created the noise. I could hear them talking loudly, but apparently not to each other. Periodically, one would stand up and shout something that I couldn’t quite make out. It was undoubtedly some kind of jargon code because after two or three shouts another person would stand, point at the shouter, and yell, “Done,” and they’d both sit back down. As we watched, sometimes two or three people would be standing and shouting at once.
A receptionist sat at an almost empty desk just inside the door and seemed to ignore the waves of sound coming from behind him. He looked from Ms. Arellone to me and focused his attention on my face. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m Ishmael Wang to see William Simpson.” I felt like I had to shout, but that it still wasn’t quite enough.
In spite of my misgivings, the receptionist nodded. “He’s expecting you, Captain.” He pressed a button on his desk and pointed to where a green light blinked above a door on the far side of the office. “His office has the green light, Captain.”
I turned to Ms. Arellone. “You can wait on the promenade if you like.” I put my head close to her ear so she could hear me.
I thought she was going to make an objection. She looked at the crowd of strangers in the room then looked up at me with that dogged expression she gets. When she saw my frown, she nodded and beat a hasty retreat while I made my way around the shouting match to the door with the light. I pushed through it and closed it quickly behind me. The sound pressure dropped off dramatically, but didn’t actually cease.
“Dreadful racket, isn’t it?” Mr. Simpson stood beside a smallish desk with a view of space outside the orbital. The subdued lighting minimized the reflections, and the view was spectacular. Just a few meters down, I could see ships docked at the center of the orbital. The panorama effect rivaled the view from space on final approach to dock. He saw me transfixed by the view, and laughed a dry, raspy laugh. “And that’s why I put up with it. That view.” We admired it for a moment before he took my by the elbow, and escorted me to a very comfortable chair where we could sit and watch the ships.
He didn’t look at me but just kept gazing out the port when he spoke. “So, how can I help you, Captain?”
“Tell me how to get started, sir.”
“What do you want to do?” He angled his head toward me but did not actually turn. “I know what Kirsten has told me, and I know what you said last night at dinner, but tell me in one sentence, what do you want to do?”
The question was breathtaking. It was the one I’d struggled with for as long as I could remember, and it always got tangled in what other people wanted, and what I needed to do, and making a living, and all the rest. In that moment, in that space, sitting beside William Simpson, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“I want to make a life out there.”
I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye.
After a few heartbeats he asked another question. “Aren’t you doing that now?”
“I’ve started, but I feel like I’m building somebody else’s life, and I want to build my own.”
“All right. Who’s stopping you?”
We sat there while I contemplated the question. I wasn’t comforted by the knowledge that I’d faced that question before, and always came up with the same answer. Being forty stanyers old didn’t make it any easier to admit than when I was fourteen.
“Nobody really, sir.”
“Good answer, my boy. You’d be surprised by how many people say ‘me’ to that question.”
“I like to think that the things I stop myself from doing are those things that aren’t going to help me build a life I’d want to live. Everything else is just finding a way to get where I want to be.”
“What about a family?”
“I had a wife. It didn’t work. I think I’d like another someday, but I need to find a way to take her with me out there.”
“Lots of people do, Ishmael. What’s the problem?”
“How do you
deal with the power differential, sir?”
He turned to look at me then. “Power differential?”
“Of course, sir. As captain of the ship, I’m responsible for making the decisions. How can I have a relationship with somebody when I have that kind of responsibility over them.”
He looked at me and his face crinkled in amusement before he finally broke into his raspy laugh again. When he caught his breath, he reached over and patted my forearm where it lay on the arm of the chair between us. “Dear chap, your problem isn’t power.”
I could feel my eyebrows coming together as I tried to figure out what he was talking about.
“It’s selection.”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
He chuckled a little and turned to look back out into space. “Out there are thousands upon thousands—millions, billions even—of people who live and work and fight and make up. You’re a starship captain, you’re not a god. You must know couples who live and work together. Solar clipper people, even.”
“Well, yes, sir, I do.”
“How do you think they do it, Ishmael? One of them puts on the captain’s hat and says ‘Jump, frog?’” He glanced over to me and snorted before turning back to the view. “I bet you don’t run your ship that way now. What makes you think you’d do it if you were married to your cargo master, or your engineer?”
“Well, the chain of command, sir. They have their jobs and I trust them to do them. I have mine and they trust me to do it. They advise me, I listen, and usually do what they want. Sometimes I have to argue them around a bit, but usually it works out.”
“Sounds like a description of marriage to me, Ishmael. What’s the issue?”
“If I have to pull rank now, I don’t destroy my marriage.”
He glanced sideways at me. “You think on that a bit, Captain.”
We sat there for as much as two ticks. He seemed in no hurry to move me along, and I sat there trying to figure out what the old bugger was trying to tell me. I was pretty sure it was something important.
“You’ve got a couple of more immediate problems, Ishmael,” he said at last. “First, you’re about to come into a great deal of money. Second, you think you want to go into business for yourself.” He turned his face to me and observed, “If you go into business for yourself, you’ll solve the first problem handily because once you head down that road, no amount of money will help you.”
Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) Page 16
