by Sharon Lee
“Won’t be happy until there’s no wire through the hull,” she’d told Paitor three times within Khat’s hearing, and Grig had mentioned that phrase too, which was “no good sign” as Seeli told Khat, Seeli having heard it too, “Twicet or moren that, if I think hard on it.”
Seeli had an infant child on board so Khat could see her concern, and now, Seeli had that infant’s Da on board again, which was well, as Grig had returned to her from a jaunt which ought never have happened, except that Grig was in some ways Jethri’s closest kin now that it was out and open that calling Iza “Ma” when it came to Jeth was about as far as could be from true . . .
Khat’s knowledge of the rebuilt ship was still fresher and deeper than Iza’s, and that was just one more jagged edge in a ship that was supposed to be a fine-running team machine any day now, up to running orbits out of habit like they believed ’em, with Iza fully in charge because she was better, not because she used to be better.
Iza sat at the board, eyes closed, adjusting her brand new seat. This was practical work for a pilot, necessary work. Her hands reached out to the right and left, tapping . . .
With words that might have been “mud and muck” said between clenched teeth, Iza touched the lean left, on the adjustment stud, stood up, eyes still closed, turned twice, dropped into the seat and pounded on the main system engine’s full thrust button like to drive it through the hull . . .
“Works,” she said to space, since everyone else was studiously trying not to watch or listen to her.
The button hadn’t worked the engine, of course, since the board was still in training mode; but what had worked was that Iza had the seat set for her, and if she came in blind or bloody, that reach would put the ship in her control exactly as it ought, almost like the Market hadn’t been refitted with as much all-new as they could afford, and a bit more, too.
That being done, Iza punched a live button and got her scores out of the trainer, hissing under her breath and glancing at Khat with a straight-lipped seriousness that might have scared a lesser person. Khat, however, had hand-carried Iza back to the ship deadweight and fighting mad from the cop drugs and she sat second board with authority, just like she could sit first on more ships than ever she’d thought in her life. Khat nodded and waited for the captain, who went on as expected.
“You had a second on me in the run-in drill and two-thirds on the close down, before I adjusted; I’m thinking we’re right close to even on it now.”
“Imagine so. You were never sharpest in a drill anyway.”
That last was true, if pushing it; when Iza had last been on the boards live there wasn’t anyone else who’d been able to match her across the moves. Now . . . well, now, Iza’d been off running someone else’s ship and using their settings and so she’d learned those habits and would have to unlearn them. That was true. Also true—that Khat had been trading and flying ships as often as every other quickflit; they’d throw her something new as long as she’d flown something close and by the end of the refit she’d got fifty-seven new ships or varieties and that hadn’t been mentioned, and oughtn’t. Captain being captain . . .
“Got stuff we don’t need to share portside, I’m thinking, so if we can just go to standing order, say me and then you and Paitor to get us off this muck, we’ll do. We have some calibration to do, and some staff talk, seeing as how there’s a child on board, and we’ll need to be clear as to who does what. We’ll just set into a long orbit when we get off of this place and have some time for planning.”
Khat closed her eyes against the reality of the screen, now that the long orbit was mentioned. She hoped there wasn’t going to be an argument now about Paitor’s careful plans, made as well as could be when Iza was off-ship and safely tucked away on a long-haul so she couldn’t run riot at the shipyard.
“Shall we,” Khat suggested, “do some random route checks in the morning, maybe drop a couple of new safe-runs into the computers so there’s nothing that might be obvious left from the old runs?”
And that, of course, was necessary and Iza would snap it up as quick as she could. As sure as her name was Khatelane Gobelyn Acting Second, she knew that first board would have to go for that . . .
“Old safe’s are still set, right?” Iza said, hands punching a couple more things live and drawing out some things that weren’t usually touched within a quick scan of port much less still wired to the dock.
“All of them are still set,” Khat acknowledged, nodding and touching a button on her board to illustrate the first half-dozen of the secret presets, including Connerville.
That was a challenge right out, since Connerville’d been one of Iza’s favorite girlhood ports, and the one she’d snagged her original backup—who’d become second officer and husband . . .
Iza didn’t flinch. A lot had changed with Jethri finding his own way out of a bad bind, and the captain looked over the list, nodding carefully as she looked it over.
“Don’t see one we can’t do without, and most we ought to have been gone from a dozen years or more. Lift with these and the ones in my head, but we’ll clear the lot as soon as we’re able. Can’t figure but what someone looked ’em all over in dry dock.” She paused and even smiled, lifting a finger and shaking it in emphasis as something got decided in her head.
“You know what? We’ll have a paper pull—I get six to put in, Cris being gone you get four, Paitor’ll get four, and everyone else can throw in a pair. We’ll do it for first clear dinner once we’re away. How’s that to choose the first?”
That was actually pretty good; it would let them do some work as a whole crew—
Khat lifted an eyebrow. “Everyone? Even Dyk?”
“Sure,” Iza allowed, “even Dyk. None of us have to know who puts what in, but if we end up with Vertville I’ll just put it last on the list.”
Khat laughed softly. “If we end up with two Vertvilles, what then?”
Iza laughed now too.
“Dunno if he’s that much of a gambler, but I’d think not.” And, she said with a wave of her hand, “I doubt anyone owes him that much of a debt to fling away one of theirs.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Khat admitted. Not that it was likely, after all.
The point was that each of the worlds chosen ought to have an element of safety about it for serious problems—like a run-in with a pirate or a trade commission attempt to confiscate major cargo, or to save a crewman’s life, or the ship itself—and someone on the ship ought to have a special connection there, something that might provide an edge. A lot of the loopers depended on family links, or birth registrations, or membership in a trade organization . . . but it was hard to look to a planet when the whole of ship life argued for staying off the things since each lift from surface was a lot more costly than a swing-by at a trade station.
Still not quite returned from his run as a co-chef on a small tour liner, Dyk now, he’d see Vertville, with its twenty-seven-hour-a-day non-stop casino show-bar theater, food-food-food all-tourist-all-the-time atmosphere as the perfect place to run to; always were job openings, always has lots of ship movements, always . . .
Well, that was for crew to decide once the trip was going. Dyk was due back in seventy-two hours, with Cris due in well before that, and that was good as far as Khat was concerned, not only for her personal comfort but for the ship’s good: Iza needed to have someone to go over the changes with, and Paitor wasn’t doing very well at it, being not in the immediate flight chain of command and especially since his stock with his big sister had dropped considerably since he’d voted with everyone else about Iza off-shipping during the rebuild.
On top of that, Paitor’s concentration needed to be on getting out the news that Gobelyn’s Market was soon back to space and searching new cargo and routes starting at Franticle. There was a trade center there, and a good-size port and—
Khat could do that kind of stuff, but Paitor was much better at it: already on land links to portside outgoing ships that c
ould carry the news, and twice a shift he’d check the orbiting ships and squirt the news to any that were receiving news to spread, and sorting news they might have. Traders lived by that kind of network, after all, and so did the ship.
* * *
The ship felt crowded suddenly, so crowded that Khat let Cris go with a hug and a “Hi, brother” though they’d been parted for months. Zam and Mel were loud in the passage—perhaps against just such a need—and Grig had shown up and his happy voice had reached even this far, so he was projecting as well. Maybe they were being noisy against bothering Seeli and him. On the other hand, maybe they were just plain glad to be back on the ship they’d grown up on.
Khat walked behind Cris as they hit the control room, the sounds there more subdued, as always, as was the lighting. Cris took second, Iza was already in first, Khat picked up the so-called nav seat and its boards; and now, downship, working from the office, Seeli was using the all-call compartment by compartment, testing call tones and voice, testing code response and video—so that’s where she was.
“Mel,” Seeli’s voice drifted through the ship, “your new warehouse keys are still here in the office, need you to sign them out before lift. Grig, those supplies are in for the med cabinets if you’ll check by, and there’s more notes on those replacement actuators. Zam, Dyk’s still not in yet—you’re free to make lunch starting anytime now . . .”
Khat’s boards were live and sharp; the view of the outside of the Market an odd blend of the familiar and the new. She blinked at the screen, realized that part of the problem was that they had no pods attached but the refit had changed several of the video and sensor angles on her . . .
“Iza,” she said, “we’ve got new views on topvids . . .”
“Was noticing that, and Cris tells me the wide angle’s not as wide on the deck monitors at hatch one and two. They look bigger to me, if you’ll check . . .”
From downship came Zam explaining why supplies came first and then lunch, and if crew was hungry they’d have to ask . . .
That idea got caught in the midst and changed—being back on the ship together, it did feel like they ought to be able to just call on Jethri to pick up whatever slack there was at the low end . . .
Seeli cut off a couple seconds and so did Zam, and then something was settled and the all-call carried again.
“Zam, stick with supplies then; Grig’ll do handwiches all around and cater ’em too—and by my clock we have a rough count of four hours and fifteen minutes to lift. Has anyone heard any more from Dyk?”
Khat settled back, glanced at the dock monitors—
“Seeli, Dyk’s closing fast with a motocart. Grig, hold up, looks like he’s got carry-on for us all.”
The captain’s tone went out then, and Iza spoke to the ship:
“All hands! When Dyk boards I want that hatch locked and set; someone help him get in and away from the lock so I’ve got a confirm on how that video view looks for us up here. We’ll seal and go to full ship air and pressure, and I want any remaining external lines dropped and confirmed. That’s the ’genda.
“Seeli, I’m after port to get us out quick as we can; I need your confirms on crew and contents once I get confirms on seal. Cris will take reports of all outside lines and buses still attached, starting now. Soonest we get that move to hotpad, the sooner we’ll be sitting to dinner!”
There was extra busyness for a while then and the latch-on to swipe them out of the dry dock and over to hotpad fourteen took them through the lunch Dyk provided. He was still all gussied up in his Legot Lines purple smock but he’d reversed the hat and wore a multidozen-years-old Gobelyn’s Market tradeship show pin as jaunty as could be on the left side of that hat to show he knew where he was. He was Dyk, which meant he was fussing and whistling all the while, and he delivered. He mentioned he had an extra of this and an extra of that and an extra of the other as he went around but he didn’t mention nothing about extras to Iza, and Khat realized he’d fallen back to old-time normal and ordered something too, for the absent Jethri.
The dry dock folks were glad enough to get Iza out of their space; Cris and Khat traded off comms and they only mentioned Iza’s name once, because of the legal they had to say, else Paitor and Khat, and twice Seeli, had already signed and posted and acted for the ship on the legal.
The clunk of the release to the hotpad might have been extra strong or might have been just the way things got done on Kinaveral; the hotpad, as Zam was telling everyone later, just took ’em and tossed ’em, and that was right enough—if Khat hadn’t been all over the ship with Seeli and Paitor while Iza slept she’d have thought the yardmaster was trying to put something more over on them.
Cris looked over to her with a relaxed smile more than once, which helped make Khat’s time in the nav seat sit something better since he’d looked serious and even distant when he came in, and then Paitor called up from the trade board, with news that he had a pickup of three light transship pods, two of them empties, bound for Clawswitts, which was the agreed-on third bounce of the strategic Jump and long range loop plan he’d pored over for a Standard Year.
The key was to carry something paying into the next port, and that’s what they were doing; the risk was that they’d only spec cargo lined up there so far, much of it coming in lined up for Trader Jethri Gobelyn, on account of the news of his last co-trade for the Market having gotten around. The outgoing from here—one of them was dustfall from that, too, and Paitor glad to be carrying anything since they’d been so unsure of ship-outs ’cause Iza hadn’t been much in the way of answering her mail when she’d been out doing her exile.
For her part Iza ran numbers and got ahead of folks as she usually liked to do: the pod pickups were in a mid-orbit and they already trailed one two three pretty much on the way to the Jump point so if Iza and Cris were good—they’d be doing the work on this shift anyhow—ship’s dinner tonight ought to still be an all-hands affair.
The call for lift-off places made it all seem real—Gobelyn’s Market, better than ever, back to trade; Iza’s call around went quick and she even remembered to call Travit, Grig, and Seeli in one call, which was a clean way to do it.
Seeli, this time at least, got to trade away the admin office for the nursery—Travit had been sitting in with her but for his first lift-off he’d be in Nursery A—that being what Jethri’s old room had always been listed in the ship roster, anyway—in what traders usually called a bash-tank. A bash-tank could help hold someone in bad shape together through high-G if need be. When it had the cradle insert in it the bash-tank could lift a near newborn at four Gs but they weren’t planning on hotfooting it and any of the usual routes out of the dab-smack if the equator launch point didn’t call for anything higher than two-point-six Gs. Still, Grig as medico, would be standing by.
“Set numbers, boards check in!”
Three quick breaths, and boards all showing they were talking to each other, and pilots doing the same, and Khat found she needed a half-cent more of foot room and kicked the seat for that . . .
And then things got really busy, and the dust, dirt, and mud of Kinaveral fell away.
* * *
They’d worked longer in the day than usual, but the crew was still bright with the return of proper routine and familiar faces. Orbit gained and rendezvous performed one two three pretty as could be, they locked in the transship pods while Dyk hijacked assorted bits of the crew’s free time as he got together a big meal.
Khat was looking forward to her stint at the board while the first mate and the rest of the ship got the start of dinner; then Grig would come by and relieve her while she got dinner, and then the meeting, after all.
* * *
They went around then, starting formally at the top, making sure that the crew order was confirmed, one after another, each knowing who was one step up and one step down—and one step sidewise, if that was the case. Iza’d pointed people to places after they came in, but that was just Iza; ’course bei
ng captain, they’d moved . . .
“Iza Gobelyn, Captain-Owner and Pilot.” Iza said, sounding as even as a pod rail, and just a bit bored. The last time she’d been around crew for something formal it had been the Crew Having a Word; that had been a lot less pleasant for all of those present, and it echoed here, for all that Iza was as pure and clean, drink-or drugwise, as the best hydroponics water. She looked at each of them though, a sweeping look with no fidgeting, giving each one a nod.
“Paitor Gobelyn.” Paitor paused, like he had to refigure the talking order. “Co-owner. Trader and Reserve Warehouse. Reserve Docking Pilot,” he said.
Khat blinked in the silence between. She’d forgot that last, since it wasn’t like him to claim pilot usually, even if they all knew he could. On the other hand, he’d called co-owner first, too, so he hadn’t forgot the to-do when Iza’d been given leave to take an outship for the duration of the refit. She guessed she ought to ask if he’d got more time in . . . if he didn’t tell the ship credits before they hit Jump.
Sitting next, up against the wall and on the backup board so that someone was on duty, it looked that Cris was caught by Paitor’s presentation, too. He hurried, head bobbing, tongue making the words sound short-snapped.
“Cris Gobelyn. First Mate and Pilot. Technical Officer and Maintenance Director, Reserve Admin. Reserve Engineer.”
He hand-signed go at her, flat-handed and clipped as much as his words. This worried her. Was she out of the circuit? Was he watching a problem?
Her lips worked for her and she nodded up and down once, each time giving little pause, running things together. As she spoke she thought that there was a little oddity—maybe Seeli ought to be in her spot. But Seeli had no claim to pilot, and if that’s what Paitor had been on about . . .
“Khatelane Gobelyn. Second Mate. Pilot and Engineer and Reserve Technical Officer.”
Done and nodding on, seeing where folks were set now, she saw Seeli, serene, who should have been one up the ladder, at least.
