By Darkness Forged (Seeker's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper Book 3)

by Nathan Lowell

  “She was a lot more than your engineer,” Uncle Q said.

  I nodded. “She was.”

  Aunt Q leaned forward. “Out here, identities are liquid. You can be anybody you need to be. The High Line? That’s different. Every hatch you open, every bill you pay. Every time you put your thumb print down. It’s you. They track who, when, where. They can’t do much about the why but they know the rest.” She spoke quickly, words spraying like water from a hose.

  “I figured that out long ago,” I said. “The question that devils me is how does Patterson have an alias?”

  “The answer to that is High Tortuga,” Aunt P said.

  “The bank?” I asked.

  She gave me a wolfish grin. “The data center.”

  Uncle Q’s tablet bipped. “Time to go,” he said, offering a hand. “Thanks.”

  I shook his hand. “I’ve kept your secrets before. I can keep these. Safe voyage.”

  Chapter 10

  Mel’s Place: 2376, February 2

  The odd conversation with Pip’s aunt and uncle stayed with me all the way back to the ship. By the time I got back to the cabin, I’d almost forgotten Douglas and Sons. I dropped the magnet beside my keyboard and sent a message to the station address. I didn’t expect much, so began my search for a refit yard.

  When I started digging into it, I found plenty of yards. Nothing like I needed to just pull out the kettles, patch the deck, and install a cabinet, though. Apparently it wasn’t a thing people did in the Toe-Holds. Or at least not a thing Toe-Holders hired out. It occurred to me that I hadn’t actually asked the chief about it.

  With a sigh at my own short-sightedness I pinged her tablet and sat back to think about what I’d learned from Penny and Quentin Carstairs. One phrase echoed in my head. “Out here, identities are liquid. You can be anybody you need to be.”

  It made sense but it also implied a couple of things. First, my assumptions about identification seemed to be built on sand. Or, maybe, water. Second, it must be possible to change identities. Aunt P’s comments about High Tortuga pointed to the source. Not so much the visible financial structures but the actual data management needed to support those structures.

  I wondered if my understanding of the hard-coded, inviolable ship transponders was equally liquid.

  But I knew those transponders, inside and out. The chips in them weren’t rewriteable. Once they were burned, the ship’s identity got stored on glass. They couldn’t be updated.

  The answer smacked me in the back of the skull. I hadn’t updated the transponder when I registered the Iris. There was no need to. The hull identification stayed the same. The data on the chips never changed.

  The registration simply changed the name associated with the records so that once the records updated through the system, everybody saw the ship as the Iris.

  I looked at my thumb, my gaze working through the loops and whorls. All I needed to do to change my identity was to change the record my thumbprint pointed to. Everybody thought that was impossible, but I was sure I knew somebody who’d done it. Probably more than once.

  The console bipped as the chief knocked on the cabin’s door frame.

  I blinked at her, trying to refocus from looking at the ball of my thumb.

  “You all right, Skipper?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think I am. I just had an epiphany.”

  “Did it hurt? You look like you’ve been clocked with a spanner.”

  “No. It didn’t hurt but I’m kicking myself for not tumbling sooner.”

  “You needed me for something?”

  “Oh, yes. Galley. Ms. Sharps. Gotta minute?” I asked.

  “Going ashore for lunch in a bit but I’ve got time.”

  I led her down to the galley where Ms. Sharps was working dough in the big mixer.

  “Ms. Sharps, can you walk through the problem you showed me earlier with the steam kettle?”

  “Sure. Hi, Chief.” She nodded to the chief before crossing to the kettle in the corner. “It’s this kettle. If you look closely, you can see that it’s wearing already. I’m pretty sure the cleaning brushes are too stiff.”

  Chief Stevens leaned into the opening, using a small handflash to illuminate the surface from various angles. “Yeah. I see the problem.” Her voice echoed oddly in the kettle. She straightened up and turned off the light, tucking it back into a pocket. “You got one of the brushes?”

  Ms. Sharps took us over to the gear closet and pulled out a standard, plastic-bristle scrub brush. “Just one of these. We use them on everything where we need a little extra scrub.”

  The chief took the brush and ran her hand over the bristles, combing her palm through them. She shook her head. “It’s nothing you’re doing. The kettle’s flawed.”

  “How can that be?” Ms. Sharps asked.

  “The kettles are supposed to be pure stainless. The metal is supposed to be polished smooth, which cuts down on microbe-sized flaws in the surface. Metal isn’t a good growing medium for much but surface flaws can catch stuff that is, which is why so many things that need to be sterilized are made of polished stainless.”

  “If it’s not the brush, what’s causing the scratching?” Ms. Sharps asked.

  “I think there’s a coating on the surface. It’s not bare metal. It’s thin. Probably only a few microns deep.” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t be there. How much have you used the kettle since we’ve been out of the yards?”

  Ms. Sharps shrugged. “Maybe a dozen times. It’s a pretty specialized piece of gear. Great for making big pots of stew or soup, but even at that, it’s overkill for a crew our size. The captain suggested I stop using it altogether.”

  “Not a bad choice. What would you like in that space?” the chief asked.

  “We’d discussed a cabinet and prep surface,” I said.

  The chief nodded, her gaze sweeping the area around the kettle. “I could see that. Sure.” She pursed her lips and nodded. “You want that or do you want the kettle fixed?”

  Ms. Sharps worried her lower lip between her teeth, looking at the kettle and then looking around at the rest of the galley. “I hate to waste the investment in the kettle.”

  “Chump change,” I said. “What’s important is having a galley that does what we need it to do. This is probably some default kitchen arrangement the yard uses all the time. I know I didn’t sign off on the layout. Did you, Chief?”

  The chief shook her head. “Most of what’s here was either here to begin with and upgraded or rebuilt according to the yard standard with modern gear.”

  “The expense is not your concern, Ms. Sharps,” I said. “Your concern is what you need to make this space as functional as it can be. My concern is that we have a galley you love to work in, not one the yard gave us by default.”

  She nodded and looked around. After a moment, she looked at me. “Really?”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Gut it,” she said, looking from me to the chief and back again.

  Her response choked a laugh out of me. “Gut it?”

  “Yes, sar. Well. Not entirely, but there are work flow problems here that trip us up every day.”

  I looked at the chief who appeared to be stifling a grin. “What?” I asked.

  “Be careful what you ask for, Skipper,” the chief said.

  My tablet bipped. “I’m apparently needed at the brow. Hold that thought, Ms. Sharps. Can you stand by, Chief?”

  They both nodded and I made the short trip down the passageway to find Torkelson with a guy in a mostly clean but ragged coverall with the name Douglas stitched over the left breast.

  “Sorry to bother you, Captain. Mr. Douglas here said you wanted to talk to him,” Torkelson said.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Torkelson. I do.” I held a hand out. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Douglas. I hope it won’t be a wasted trip.”

  He grinned. “One of those, huh?” He nodded a couple of times. “Been there before. What’s twisting
the bilges?”

  I nodded toward the passageway. “Why don’t we look it over in person and you can get the skinny direct from the source?”

  He nodded. “Always best,” he said. “Always.”

  I led him back to the galley where Chief Stevens and Ms. Sharps were waving arms and measuring spaces. Both seemed to be in good spirits. “Chief Margaret Stevens, Ms. Melanie Sharps, this is Mr. Stan Douglas. He’s a local craftsman. They recommended him at the chandlery and I contacted him earlier this morning.”

  “Chief. Ms. Sharps.” Douglas nodded at each. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a craftsman. Tin-knocker and bolt-twiddler, maybe.” He looked around the galley. “What do you think the problem is?”

  I laughed. “Ms. Sharps has a problem with the layout of the galley. Chief Stevens has the say-so on the physical plant. Depending on any decision we reach this morning, we might be doing some remodeling over the next couple of days.”

  Douglas nodded again. “Ms. Sharps? Wanna tell me what you think should happen?”

  “I can tell you what I’m having problems with,” she said. “Maybe you can tell me what has to happen.”

  He grinned at that, lighting up like a proximity alarm in a docking bay. “Do tell,” he said. “Do tell.”

  Ms. Sharps led him on a tour of the galley fixtures while the chief and I stepped back out of the way.

  “I suspect this wasn’t anything like what you had in mind,” the chief said, leaning close and speaking softly.

  “Not even in the same sector, but I’m not complaining. At least not yet.”

  “How familiar are you with Barbell galleys?”

  “I’ve only ever seen the Tinker’s and this one. I can lay out the Agamemnon’s from memory and could probably still navigate the Lois’s in the dark with my eyes closed. It never occurred to me that this layout wasn’t a standard one.”

  “It may be,” she said. “The larger question is whether or not a chef has ever been consulted before.”

  “Good point.”

  Douglas trailed Sharps around the galley for the better part of a quarter stan, every so often stopping to ask a question or take a note on his tablet. When they got to the steam kettle, he chuckled. “Damn fools put these in everywhere. Never saw the purpose on a ship like this. Too big for cooking, too small for bathing. How many do you feed a day?”

  “Thirty-ish,” Ms. Sharps said. “Three main messes and snacks in the cooler for the mids.”

  Douglas nodded, pursing his lips. “Standard Barbell crew. Some skippers try to skimp on crew. Always bites them in the ass.”

  “Recommendations, Mr. Douglas?” Ms. Sharps asked.

  Douglas looked around, nodding his head every so often. “First problem is traffic. These islands are too close together. You’d be better off with a single, slightly larger one that lets you and your staff all work either on the island or at the periphery—like there at the stove-top or over managing the ranges without stepping on each other or getting banged with a hot pan.” He walked to the middle of the galley and held his arms up like he was conducting the orchestra. “Was me? I’d put it right about here, shift it forward toward the door to make that alley in front of the sinks and ranges a bit wider. Still has room for the serving line and your prep and staging areas on that side of the galley but gives you a lot more options for how you’re going to work on the islands. It’s actually going to give you more floor space and less island top, but you’re going to be more efficient in that use because you can reach it all. Right now you can’t reach the middle of either of these islands from the side. They’re too wide.”

  “If they can’t work across from each other, won’t that limit the number of people who can work on the island?” Ms. Sharps asked.

  “How many people do you have?” Douglas grinned.

  Ms. Sharps blinked a few times, her gaze sweeping back and forth. “Oh. Of course.”

  “Shouldn’t be more than three of you here at a time, right?”

  Ms. Sharps nodded.

  “Floor space counts as much as prep space, and right now you could park a shuttle on the counter space you have but the pilot has no room to get out.” He shrugged.

  Ms. Sharps took a deep breath and blew it out, her head on a gimbal as she scanned back and forth. “I’m trying to visualize how it would look.”

  Douglas pulled out his tablet. “Can I take some digitals?” he asked, looking to me.

  “Whatever you need,” I said.

  “I need a coffee,” he said. “The digitals will do for now.” He moved around the galley, taking snaps on his tablet from all angles. “I assume you want this done with a minimum of downtime and as soon as possible.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” I asked.

  “Well, most people want cheap, too,” Douglas said, taking one last picture from the open galley door. “There. That should do it.” He flipped through the screens, apparently checking the pictures. “Lemme grab the measurements.” He pulled a yellow stick from a pocket and rested it on the nearest work island. He took a picture of it and nodded. “That’ll do.”

  “Now what?” Ms. Sharps asked.

  “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to take a seat out there on the mess deck and run up some plans for you to see.”

  “Here? Now?” she asked.

  He eyed the chrono on the bulkhead. “You’re about two stans from lunch mess. I need about half a stan to run up a prototype for you to see. Easier to do it here. Saves me running back and forth from the shop.”

  Ms. Sharps blinked a couple of times and looked at me.

  “Don’t look at me, Ms. Sharps. It’s your galley.”

  “Would you like a pastry with your coffee, Mr. Douglas?” she asked. “I have some fresh muffins. Just made them this morning.”

  “Call me Stan, Ms. Sharps.” He grinned. “A muffin sounds terrific.”

  Chapter 11

  Mel’s Place: 2376, February 2

  “You’re welcome to stay for lunch, Mr. Douglas,” I said, showing him to the lock.

  “Obliged, Cap’n, but I need to get this prototype loaded into my metal bender. I’m going to use almost all of what you’ve got in there now, but I promised Melanie some extra drawer space which you don’t have. I’ll have them fabbed up by morning.”

  “This wasn’t your first galley, was it?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I’ve lost track of how many galleys I’ve done. After the first twenty, I realized that damn few yards understand how a galley is supposed to work. Mostly they have the same problems you all have here. Too much island, too little foot space. Planning for a crew that’s too big and a galley gang numbered in the dozens instead of single digits.”

  “Sure you can get this done between breakfast and lunch tomorrow?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’ll be tight. I should be able to do it all in three stans, if Melanie does the prep I’ve asked for. I could do it overnight tomorrow night. Start after the dinner mess. That would cause less stress, but this way I’ll be around to see how things are working for lunch. Leaves the afternoon to make any adjustments.”

  “I still don’t see how you’re going to do all that in a couple of stans.”

  “Said it yourself, Skipper. Not my first galley.”

  I keyed the lock open for him while Ms. Torkelson logged him off the ship.

  He stopped just at the top of the ramp. “You didn’t haggle much. You want to renegotiate?”

  I laughed. “I’m as tight as anybody, but I know the value of a happy crew. That woman back there is the key. Having her in a galley she loves is almost priceless.”

  He gave me a little laugh. “I shoulda asked for more.” With a grin and a wave he headed down the ramp. “See you in the morning, Skip.”

  I went back to the galley where Ms. Sharps and Mr. Franklin were rolling the lunch mess out. She smiled in my direction but didn’t pause in her work. I caught the chief’s eye and we adjourned to the cabin.

 
“You all right with having Douglas work on the ship?” I asked, settling behind the desk and digging into the bit that gave me the most heartburn.

  “You afraid you’ve hurt my feelings, Ishmael?”

  I shrugged. “A little.”

  She laughed. “My forte is engines. Jump drives. Inertial compensators. Getting crews trained and keeping them on their toes. Remodeling ships? Yeah. I can. Douglas? You saw him. He’s an artist in the truest sense. He’s not creating a galley. It’s going to be a work of art that will make every crew member who works in it feel something. Something good.” She shook her head. “I can’t even pretend that I could do what I’m pretty sure Stan Douglas is going to do to that galley.”

  “Should we have him do the mess deck?” I asked.

  “Ask him what he thinks tomorrow. Why stop there? What about crew berthing?”

  I thought about it for longer than I should have, probably.

  The chief waved her hands in front of my face. “We’ve got to move cargo, Skipper.”

  I laughed. “All right. I’ll tuck that away for ‘someday’ planning.”

  “Speaking of getting underway, we’re going back to Telluride,” the chief said.

  “Yeah. I’m sure it’s just coincidence that we brought a can from Newmar and—voilà—we find a can going to Telluride.”

  “Not as unusual as you might think,” she said. “Mel’s Place is a key trans-shipment point. They’ve got the docks, warehouse, and storage space to support most of the Western Annex by themselves. Mel’s, Dark Knight, and The Ranch handle almost eighty percent of all traffic in the Toe-Holds. If anybody had a can going to Telluride, it would be here. Probably a dozen more still waiting.”

  The percentages surprised me, but I had already recognized that Mel’s was a key player in the region. “What do you know about Malachai Vagrant?”

  Her eyebrows flashed upward. “Vagrant? Why?”

  “Pip says he’s in bad odor in most of the Western Annex.”

  She pursed her lips and frowned. “Yeah. He was a major player in the High Tortuga pantheon at one time. Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He keeps mostly to the High Line now. Nobody is aware of any CPJCT regs he’s broken so they can’t touch him.” She stared at me. “Where did you see him?”