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

by Nathan Lowell

  I shrugged and wondered how much I could tell her without violating my promise to Quentin Carstairs. “Pip thought he saw him last night on station.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I don’t know him well enough. He was bidding against us at the Chernyakova auction on Breakall. That’s the only reason I even know the name.”

  “So why the question?” she asked.

  “A bad actor bidding against us for the ship suddenly shows up at Mel’s Place in Toe-Hold space where CPJCT can’t touch him at the same time the Chernyakova is here?”

  She shrugged. “You’re still thinking like a High Liner. Mel’s Place is bigger, has a larger population, and handles more cargo than any single orbital in the High Line. It handles more than almost any two orbitals you could pick at random. The confederation port at Dunsany Roads is probably the nearest comparable and that’s only about sixty percent of Mel’s.” She shook her head. “If you want to disappear in a crowd? Mel’s is the station you want. If he’s going to be anywhere in the Toe-Holds, it’s most likely to be Mel’s.

  “His brother, Zachary, has some connection with Dark Knight. Verkol Kondur runs the place but Zachary Vagrant provides some services to him. I don’t know exactly what, but Vagrant flies a mixed-freight hauler that may have as many hidden compartments as legitimate holds.”

  “We’ve been to Dark Knight. Seemed pleasant enough.”

  “Trade flourishes when the traders have no concerns about the station or its inhabitants,” she said. “Kondur likes it that way and keeps it that way.”

  “So Mel’s Place is the great cross roads?”

  “One of only a few, yes.”

  “If I was looking for David Patterson, I should be looking here?”

  “You’re full of surprises today,” she said. “Are you looking for David Patterson?”

  “I’m not sure. Pip seemed to think I should be. It was his argument for getting me to buy into the Chernyakova scheme in the first place.”

  “But ...?” she asked.

  “But he’s been working to convince me there’s not much I could do about it even if I found him.”

  “Probably more truth than not in that statement,” she said. “What would you want him for?”

  “Take him back to the High Line for trial.”

  I saw the veil drop across the chief’s face. It was subtle—a shift in the tension around her eyes, a fractional tilt of her head.

  “I see,” I said. “So I’m not sure. There’s damn all I can do about him. Probably the best thing is forgive and forget.”

  “You could forgive him?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Here’s the thing. Exacting retribution means I have to become like him. I have to be acting on impulses that are antithetical to my basic philosophy. If I can’t be the white knight or the good cop or whatever metaphor applies to dragging his sorry butt back to the authorities to answer for his actions, and I can’t wreak personal vengeance on his hide without becoming like him, the only alternatives are to let him continue to connect to me through my animosity, or forgive him and move on with my life.” I shook my head. “I’m done having his pollution cloud my vision. I guess I have to forgive him so I can cut him out of my life again.”

  “What about Greta?” she asked.

  “I’ll always have Greta inside, but she’s gone from this universe. I miss her. I regret being a dunce where she was concerned and losing time with her that I could have had. Maybe I’ve learned something. Something valuable.” I sighed. “I don’t know. Life is short. Love is rare. All those duck-billed platitudes. Captains have to choose their own paths.” I paused and listened to that echo in my head. “I don’t think it’s just captains who have to choose.”

  “No,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s not.”

  “The cook on the Lois told me that, actually. I can hear him in my mind. ‘Choose the path before one is chosen for you.’ I always knew that was good advice. I just never realized how good.” I looked across the desk at her. “He’s working at the officer’s club at Port Newmar now. I saw him when Pip and I were hatching the scheme that brought us here.”

  “What do you want to do now, Captain?” she asked.

  “We still have some loose ends to wrap up,” I said. “I don’t know what they are but both you and Pip are working on something. I’m going to trust you’ll let me know when there’s some part of that you need me for. In the meantime, I’m going to haul freight, take care of my crew, tend my ship, and make money.”

  She chuckled a little. “That’s a plan, but what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are you going to do about you?”

  “I’m going to take it one day at a time. I think I’ve done some good work today. I’m going to try to do more tomorrow.”

  She nodded and slapped her palms against the arms of the chair before standing. “I’ve got an engine room to check on. Holler if you need anything, Captain.”

  Chapter 12

  Mel’s Place: 2376, February 3

  The brow watch paged me at 0700 to sign Stan Douglas and his crew aboard. “Starting early?” I asked.

  He grinned. “She’s expecting me. You’ll see.”

  I signed him in and led the parade to the mess deck. A few hangers-on lingered but it was only the third day in port. I suspect they were more curious than anything. Nothing travels faster than rumor. Not even light.

  I stuck my head into the galley and found the place in a carefully organized disorder. Both islands were bare; the serving line had been secured, and served only to support a variety of pots, pans, bowls, and trays. All the prep areas were covered in similar arrays. The ovens appeared to be loaded with extra bakeware. Ms. Sharps and Ms. Adams had the sink filled with soapy water and were cleaning up after the breakfast mess while the sanitizer ran in the background.

  “Oh, good,” Ms. Sharps said. “You’re here. We’re ready for you, Stan.”

  “So I see,” he said. “We’ll just get organized a little while you finish up.” He pulled a tool bag off the grav pallet of parts and his crew began staging parts on the two closest mess deck tables. The clattering drew a few more observers from the crew, and the chief showed up shortly thereafter.

  I took a seat at the de facto officers’ table. The chief grabbed a cup of coffee and joined me.

  “Come for the floor show?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I had to hand it to Stan and his crew. As soon as Sharps and Adams vacated the space, his crew went in with pull bars and started lifting the deck surfaces. I’ll confess that I had no idea what was under there, but his assurances made much more sense to me when I realized that the islands and fixtures were not welded to the deck, only latched in with an ingenious hook-and-toggle arrangement. The entire space had notches in the deck to handle a set of standardized building blocks. As long as you knew how big the blocks were supposed to be and had the blocks you needed, replacing the fittings became a question of lining up the pieces the way you wanted and toggling them down. The two islands came apart, only to be reassembled into a single unit, displaced for clearance around the sides and ends. The kettle just unplugged and lifted out of the decking. Douglas even had the plumbing fitting to secure the open pipe in the deck.

  “He’s good,” the chief said.

  “Yeah. Talk about exceeding expectations.”

  One of the pieces Douglas brought was a correctly sized top for the newly configured island. It snapped into place, secured by the same fasteners that the old tops had used. The crew fitted the new cabinet into place where the kettle had been, latched it down and snapped in a metal prep top. The finish matched so well, I couldn’t really tell that it hadn’t been original. The only clue was a rubber grommet that ran along the metal seam at the top where the two pieces came together.

  The chief nudged me and nodded at Sharps. “I think we have a winner.”

  Ms. Sharps surveyed the process from the side. Her
eyes gleamed as the crew pulled the new configuration into being before her eyes.

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  Douglas’s gang finished up with half a stan to spare. He’d attracted a small crowd. Ms. Sharps and her attendants all stood by the serving line, peeking between the pots and pans to watch the final touches. While his helpers towed the grav pallet with the excess pieces out of the way, Douglas waved her in.

  “What do you think?” he said. “I can put it all back if you want.”

  Ms. Sharps looked shocked for a moment until Douglas’s grin escaped. “It’s—” Her voice choked off. “I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful.”

  “You’ll curse me in about half a stan when you go looking for stuff that’s not where you thought, but I think you’ll adapt pretty fast. There should be a logical place for everything now, even if it wasn’t where you had to put it before.”

  “I’m delighted,” Ms. Sharps said. “Thank you.”

  Douglas beamed and nodded. “Lemme get out of your way. I think you’ve got a lunch to fix.” With a final nod to her, he followed his crew across the mess deck, heading for the brow.

  I fell into step going down the passage. “Thank you, Mr. Douglas.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain. I’ve already billed the ship through the chandlery.” He glanced at me. “I had to charge an extra ten credits for that rubber grommet. I forgot that on the original estimate. You can dispute the charge, of course.”

  “Not on your life. Ms. Sharps is over the moon. Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t be much of a consideration, but having the cook happy means the rest of the crew is happy.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t need to explain it to me, Cap. I been around the docks long enough to know how this all works. Not just the metal and rubber. You need flesh and blood to make a ship.” He winked. “You got any other remodeling next time you’re back here, call me. If there’s something that don’t work right with that galley, I’ll make it right. No charge.”

  “Thanks again, Mr. Douglas.”

  “My pleasure, Captain. My pleasure.”

  Cheuvront logged them off the ship and I went back to the galley to check in with Ms. Sharps.

  I got there while they were still stowing the cookware. “Anything else you need, Ms. Sharps?”

  She straightened up from behind the island, her eyes wide and gleaming. “I don’t know what to say, Captain. Thank you.”

  I glanced at the chrono on the bulkhead. “Will you be able to get the lunch mess off on time?”

  “I made a soup last night. It’s in the chiller. Portside lunch is soup and sandwich. I’ve got time to make a nice green salad and bake a cobbler.” She glanced at the clock and poked Mr. Franklin. “Alan, grab that cobbler out of cooler two. Put it in the secondary oven at 175, please.”

  “On it,” he said and set words to action.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” I said, backing out of the galley. Chief Stevens stood at the doorway, peeking in past me. “We have a winner.”

  She nodded and looked at me. “Yeah. I think maybe. What was the bill like?”

  “Less than Manchester would have charged for the sheet metal.”

  She snorted. “I’m not at all surprised. You sure you don’t want him to do the berthing areas?”

  I glanced back at the happy crew working the galley and shook my head. “No, I’m not sure at all.” I shrugged. “Berthing is berthing is berthing and we don’t have time to displace the whole crew for that kind of remodel. We’re due to pull out of here tomorrow.”

  “So, I’m hearing a ‘not this trip’ in there.”

  I laughed. “Well, maybe. I’m not hearing any complaints about the berthing areas.”

  “You didn’t hear any about the galley until you asked.”

  She had a point.

  Chapter 13

  Mel’s Place: 2376, February 3

  Pip plunked himself into one of the desk chairs and grinned. “Nice work with the galley.”

  “Thanks. All I did was pay for it. Ms. Sharps identified the problems. Douglas and his crew did all the work.”

  “True,” he said. “But it’s still nice work.”

  “You have a purpose here? You seem unusually cheerful this afternoon, even for you.”

  “Thought you might like to take a stroll this afternoon. Last chance before we get underway tomorrow.”

  “You have any place in mind?”

  “Thought we might visit Aunt P and Uncle Q before we leave.”

  I shook my head. “Not for me thanks. I love them like they were my own but whatever they’re doing here, they don’t want us involved. I’m going to respect that and stay away.”

  Pip sighed. “They got to you, didn’t they?”

  “It seemed pretty clear the other night that neither your uncle nor Cousin Roger wanted anything to do with us.”

  He looked at me across the desk, his brow slightly furrowed. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Nothing much, but I can take a hint.” I shrugged. “Your uncle hustled us out of that room so fast, my backside was still going in when my nose had already left. Roger even went to the wrong lock to try to hide where they were. Your digitals probably show which lock so we can walk up to it and ring the bell, but how are they going to feel when they open up—assuming they open up—and find you standing there?”

  Pip crossed his arms and slouched into a credible pout. “I just want to know what they’re doing here with Malachai Vagrant.”

  “And they clearly don’t want you to know.”

  “Aren’t you in the least bit curious?” he asked.

  “Right now, all I’m curious about is what we’re going to find in Telluride.”

  “We’re going to find the mega.”

  “You seem pretty sure of it.”

  “I am. Brill told us where to find it.”

  I sat up straight, startled by his assertion. “When?”

  He leaned forward—his grin returning, pout apparently forgotten. “She seemed really surprised that the mega was lost. She remembered meeting some of the crew after the ship took off for Margary.”

  “She wasn’t sure of the timing. She also had the wrong port. They were headed for Siren.”

  Pip’s grin broadened. “That’s your assumption. What if she’s right?”

  “What would they want in Margary?” I asked.

  “Bona fides,” Pip said. “Manchester can’t just have a brand new mega-hauler appear out of their backsides. Manchester’s biggest CPJCT yard is in Margary. So they announce the new ship in Margary, it swans out from behind a moon and it’s now a legit hull.”

  “Nobody would believe that.”

  “Nobody has to believe it,” Pip said. “That’s the beauty. It just needs a legitimate source to claim it, and the company that built it is about as legitimate as it gets. Sure, it wasn’t actually built in Margary, but outside of a few people in Margary nobody will know or care.”

  “TIC might.”

  He shook his head. “Not much they can do about it without the evidence. They can’t get the evidence that’s buried in Telluride. They know it was built in the Toe-Holds, but it would have a full registration set from the Margary yards.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” I said. “This is all speculation about what mighta, coulda, shoulda happened. The ship never arrived. I don’t care how big the ship is. The Deep Dark is bigger. How do we find a ship we don’t know is even out there?”

  He tsked me. “We’ve been thinking that the ship got lost in the Dark. What if it didn’t jump at all?”

  “If it didn’t jump, where is it?”

  “Mind game. What happens to the Chernyakova if we get out to the Burleson limit and the drives fail? They don’t explode or anything. They just don’t bend space.”

  The idea boggled me. It was always a possibility. It was why we had two drives. “We just keep going,” I said.

  “Right. We�
�ve been operating on the assumption that the ship was bound for Siren because that’s where TIC found the spares. Anybody tracing that vector out from Telluride wouldn’t find anything. What if they weren’t headed there?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Whoa. Slow down. That system has only been opened up for—what, a matter of a few months? Who’s been looking anywhere? Is anybody actually looking for the ship besides you?”

  “Well, for one, TIC wants to know.”

  I nodded. “I’ll grant that point.”

  “Back to the mechanics of it. How long would it take to kill that much momentum?”

  “That depends on how much momentum it had gathered. If it started on the outer edges of the system, it wouldn’t need much. Just enough to get through the hole and complete the jump.”

  “Right. They’d have to use the kickers to slow the ship. That’s going to take a lot of fuel to pull the ship down to something approaching a stable orbit.”

  “Wait. Orbit?”

  Pip nodded. “If I’m right, I think the mega is still out there. It would have taken stanyers to slow that ship down. It probably didn’t have enough fuel to do it in one go. We sure don’t carry enough to reverse our outbound momentum on the Chernyakova. They’d have had to get refueled at least once. Probably several times. It would need a lot of supplies to keep even a skeleton crew going, but that would explain how Brill met members of the mega’s crew after it left. What if it’s out around Telluride’s Oort cloud—or maybe part of it?”

  “So your idea is that it’s out there in a deep space orbit around Telluride’s primary?”

  Pip shrugged. “It’s a theory. All the facts we have line up.”

  “How does this help? It’s been—what? A decade or more?”

  “That’s the beauty. What’s the orbital period on an object that far out? Say a hundred AU.”

  “For that system, I have no idea.”

  “It’s going to be around 1000 years,” Pip said. “Twice that for a hundred and fifty AU. I checked and the Burleson limit for us is about fifty. It’s not going to be much farther for them regardless of how much bigger their mass.”