by Sarah Zettel
The other two members of the bridge crew were waiting out launch in their cabins. Most of the work had been done while the Pasadena was still in dock. Schyler, Yerusha and Al Shei had mapped and timed the route while figuring the requirements for fuel and reaction mass. Yerusha had programmed the simulations. When the stats lined up to her satisfaction, she wrote them into Pasadena’s computers. Both Schyler and the ship had verified them.
Al Shei and her crew had been on board even before Yerusha, re-checking the ship inside and out. When it came to flight capability, it didn’t matter to Al Shei that the Pasadena had been checked over less than forty-eight hours previously by a Lennox expert. Yerusha couldn’t fault Al Shei’s caution. She and her crew would be depending absolutely on the ship for the next six to eight months, she and her crew should be the ones to decide if it was ready to go.
It had taken a day of drill calls and simulations to get the new crew used to each others’ speech patterns and how the orders were given and confirmed. After that, Al Shei and her engineers had remotely warmed the reactors and accumulators with the “hot” mix of deuterium and tritium. Once warmed, the Pasadena’s engines could run on the much safer mix of hydrogen and boron (11). The ship was humming and ready when they all were allowed back on board to strap down and start out.
“Oberon to Pasadena, we’ve got you at fifteen klicks at eleven minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Good luck and see you soon.”
“Thanks Oberon. See you soon,” replied Schyler. “Clear to go whenever you’re ready, Yerusha.”
Yerusha checked the angle of the jets one more time to make sure they were pointing away from the station and the incoming traffic. “Intercom to Pasadena,” Yerusha called. She lifted her hands and held them flat over her boards. “Counting down to acceleration. Ten, nine, eight…”
She heard no sound of movement under her countdown. There was nothing to do. The systems were all up and running. The final set-up had been completed four hours before the docking clamps had let them all go. Now was the time to rest in the harness, pay attention to the monitors and remain quietly confident that nothing unexpected was going to happen.
“Three… two… one.” Yerusha brought her hands down on her board. The ship read her fingerprints and sent its signal down to the engine compartment. “Torch lit,” she reported, just before a low rumble that echoed all the way up the drop shaft confirmed her call.
Gradually, Yerusha’s head settled on her neck, her neck rested against her shoulders and the floor reached up and pressed against the soles of her feet. The harness went slack against her shirt and trousers as her body settled into the chair.
Despite two hundred of years of attempts to separate it out, gravity had remained a property of mass and motion. Without enough of either, you had free fall. Al Shei ran her ship at close to one gee acceleration. In that respect at least, the run was going to be comfortable.
The displays on the monitor in front of Yerusha all remained green. She read the numbers and thrust ratios one by one. Each was exactly as it should be.
The intercom started bringing up the voices from engineering.
“Station One, all normal and constant,” said Javerri, the FTL Assistant, who didn’t look like she ever got enough sleep.
“Station Two, all normal and constant.” Ianiai, a big, black bear of a boy who though the knew a lot more than he did.
“Station Three, all normal and constant.” Shim’on, who wore a yamulke and wouldn’t eat even cloned bacon.
Groundhogs at core, all of them.
“Check and check,” Al Shei’s voice answered them. “Intercom to Bridge. Engineering reports normal and constant, Watch.”
“Thank you, Engineering,” said Schyler. “Time to jump, Pilot?”
Yerusha touched a key and brought up the official time on her board. “Thirty-eight hours to jump point.”
Pasadena needed flat, smooth space to start from. Thirty-six AU from the Sun would put them close enough to the top of the Solar system’s gravity well that they could jump the rest of the way out.
Pasadena was, of course, a long way from being the only ship starting for a jump point this day, even this hour. A lot of the flight planning had involved logging in with Port Oberon’s flight-schedulers and finding out who else had registered a route so she could pick a clear path and reserve it. Yerusha had done runs that were held up at Oberon for over a week before there was room in the direction the ship needed to go. The delay this time had only been a day. She counted herself lucky.
“Received and agreed,” replied Al Shei’s voice. “Thirty-six hours to jump.”
“Intercom to Pasadena,” said Schyler. “Secure from free fall.”
Yerusha snapped the catches on her harness and scratched hard under her left armpit. The new arm was a little stiff, but there wasn’t any of the pins and needles sensation that could accompany a new graft. Her discomfort came simply from the fact that no one seemed to have designed a free fall strap that didn’t chafe.
“And there ends the exciting part,” said Cheney, stretching both arms over his head until Yerusha could hear the joints pop.
“I wish,” muttered Schyler, letting his head fall back until he stared at the ceiling.
Yerusha exchanged a glance with her relief, who just shrugged.
“Pilot,” Schyler lifted his head, “we need to get some projections for the Vicarage to Out There to Wyborn Station jumps. Al Shei’ll want to go over all that at the next briefing.”
“Right away, Watch.” Yerusha got to her feet. “Relief,” she said to Cheney as she crossed the deck to the VR station.
“Relief active.” Cheney picked himself up out of his chair and plopped down into hers. He pulled out his pen and activated the reconfiguration menus to set the boards back to the way he liked them.
She wasn’t even halfway across the deck when the intercom beeped.
“Intercom to Watch,” Resit’s voice sounded out. “Schyler, if she’s free, I need to see Yerusha down here.”
Yerusha froze in mid-stride, but she managed to screw a “what the hell?” expression on her face.
Schyler gave her a heavy glance. “Acknowledged, Law. I’ll send her down as soon as I’ve gone over a couple of things up here.”
“Thanks, Watch,” said Resit. “Intercom to Close.”
Cheney bent over the boards, even though there shouldn’t have been much to see. Schyler jerked his chin towards the drop shaft hatch. Yerusha nodded and walked through the hatch. She heard Schyler’s footsteps follow her.
Inside the drop shaft was a staircase that spiraled all the way down to the engine compartment. The walls were lined with junction boxes, bundles of cables and wires, and endlessly branching ceramic pipes, color-coded in green, red, blue or orange depending on what they carried. Maintenance displays dotted the chaos, their readings shining bright green.
Yerusha walked down a couple of steps and turned, resting her new hand against the railing. Schyler followed her a split second later. He stopped one step above her.
Schyler leaned close to her and Yerusha felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There was a cold sheen in his eyes that she had not seen there before.
He kept his voice soft and relaxed. “I already have one massive problem on this run,” he said. “If I find out your presence is going to add another, I will boot you out of here without slowing the ship down. Understand?”
“Absolutely.” Yerusha matched his conversational tone and folded her hands behind her back. “But if you’ve got problems this run, Watch, they’re not coming from me.”
“Glad to hear it.” Schyler straightened up. “Report to the Law then, Pilot. In her cabin.”
“Yes, Watch.” She touched her forehead, turned on her heel and marched smartly down the stairs.
The berthing deck was immediately below the bridge. The Pasadena had been built to keep the crew as far away from the engines as possible, just in case. The deck’s corridor was as bare and uni
nspiring as the bridge. Yerusha found herself wondering why Al Shei hadn’t invested in at least a pre-fab mural to brighten the place up a bit. The woman didn’t seem like one of the engineering aesthetic types who believe bare machinery was beautiful. Then again, she’d already heard rumors about some of the woman’s tight-fisted peccadillos, so maybe she shouldn’t be too surprised no cash had been laid out for corridor trimmings.
Yerusha kept walking around the curved hallway until she found the cabin labeled ZUBEDYE RESIT. The ENTER light shone green, so Yerusha just knocked once to signal that she was there and went inside.
The lawyer’s cabin was not so much living quarters as office. She had her bunk folded away. An active, permanent desk had been welded to the wall where most cabins had a fold-down set of boards. Resit sat at the desk, pouring over a set of films.
Yerusha wasn’t surprised to see her so deep into her work even though they were only five minutes out of free fall. As ship’s lawyer, she had to be a one-woman bureaucracy. She had to have a working knowledge of the local statutes wherever they were taking on or dropping off cargo. She had to make sure contracts, tax forms and manifests were all prepared and legal. The crew had to get reports on any behavior-related ordinances that would effect them, and cultural and legal advice had to be available to anyone who needed it. Al Shei and Schyler would have to know the circumstances under which they could seek work, and the contracts would have to be drawn up to cover cross-system traffic.
Much of the job could have theoretically been done from a station or groundside, but the expense of FTL communication prevented that. Unless you were a mega-corp or a monarch, it was easier and cheaper to bring your counsel with you.
A big input-output box sat on the corner of Resit’s desk. It had been unceremoniously piled with films filled with cramped Arabic writing. Guessing it was Resit’s AI law firm, Yerusha waved to the box in acknowledgement.
“Would you do me the courtesy of an introduction, Law?” she inquired, indicating the AI.
Resit’s mouth pressed into a long, straight line. Yerusha met her eye calmly. Resit obviously shared her cousin-employer’s prejudices.
“Incili. This is Jemina Yerusha.”
“How do you do, ‘Dama Yerusha?” answered the AI in a clear tenor voice with a slightly British accent.
“Pleased to meet you, Fellow.” Yerusha saluted the AI.
“Thank you, ‘Dama Yerusha.”
“All right, Incili, that’ll do.” Resit tapped her pen impatiently against the desk top.
“‘Dama.” The voice shut off.
“You called for me, Law?” Yerusha unfolded the stool from the wall and took her seat. Resit, Yerusha noticed, had changed from her usual skirt to a pair of baggy, opaque blue harem pants.
Skirts not being conducive to the maintenance of modesty in free fall. Yerusha forcibly suppressed a smile at the image of the lawyer with her hems billowing about her ears.
Resit sealed the films in front of her. “It’s part of my job, Yerusha, to try to stay apprised of any trouble the crew might have on the run.”
Yerusha held up her hand. “Is this going to be about the can blowing out at Port Oberon?”
“No,” answered Resit coolly, and Yerusha knew she’d made a tactical error. The lawyer had been all set for a confrontation, and she’d gotten one. “It’s about why the Freers’ exiled you.”
Yerusha had thought she was steeled for this, but the lawyer’s words still hit like a physical blow. She swallowed. “You know about that, and you still hired me.”
Resit shook her head. “I did not hire you. Al Shei did.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “My grasp of Freer law is pretty limited. As near as I can tell, so is anybody’s who doesn’t actually live on a station that has gone Free, or been set up Free.
“I do know you’ve been exiled from Free Home Titania and I know why. We’ve got a couple of station stops this run, so I need to know if you’re likely to get caught up in Freer political brawls, so I can budget for your bail, or your absence.”
Yerusha glanced at first one wall and then the other, just to make sure they weren’t closing in on her. It sure felt like it. She met Resit’s eyes again. “I’d like to know what you’ve been told.”
Resit reached out and tapped the I/O box. “Incili. Give me a replay on what we have from the Titania Hall of Records.”
The tenor voice flowed smoothly out of the box. “Fellow Jemina Yerusha is found guilty of dereliction of duty in public office. It is now a matter of public record that Fellow Jemina Yerusha has been sentenced for two years’ exile from the protection of Free Home Titania. For that time she may not seek or receive work, shelter or resources from any Freer. End sentence.”
There was a strange pounding noise coming from somewhere. Yerusha realized it washer heartbeat. She remembered the stale air in the court and the feel of sweat on her own palms.
“I’m sorry your first impression of me was unfavorable, Incili,” Yerusha said to the box.
“My first impression of you was simply factual, ‘Dama,” answered Incili. “I have not had cause to speculate on you yet.”
“I have, though,” Resit broke in, obviously insulted by the fact that Yerusha was more ready to talk to the AI than to her. Yerusha reined her temper in. It wouldn’t help if she pointed out the AI was more likely to hear anything she might have to say.
“I was derelict in my duty while serving in the Titania Free Guard. I was supposed to be standing a docking watch. I wasn’t. Because of me, a Fellow died.” She forced herself to keep her eyes fixed on Resit’s. “I was brought up and I was sentenced. If I keep a clean record while I’m out here, they’ll let me come home again.”
“Watch Commander Schyler contacted someone in the Free Home who suggested the charges were trumped up. Would you care to elaborate on that?”
Yerusha knew Resit saw the way she struggled to control her features. There was no missing it. The lawyer saw the memories even if she couldn’t read them. Resit didn’t know about Holden’s panicked cry coming down the intercom, about how she’d sprinted down the corridors, about how she’d been too late.
“No.”
Resit’s frown was heated from a slowly simmering anger. “I want you to tell me the worst we can expect if you come into contact with any other Freers.”
Yerusha looked at Incili’s gleaming silver skin and then at Resit. “I’m an Exile. I’ll be ignored. Treated like a ghost. That’s how I lost my arm.” She ran her hand over her right wrist. “I was trying to help with the can explosion, but no one would help me, so I couldn’t get myself out of the way fast enough when the last seam blew.”
Resit regarded her with a steady gaze that had probably made a lot of witnesses squirm. It almost worked on Yerusha.
“I hope,” Resit said without letting her gaze flicker for a second, “that your piloting records are more complete than your service record.”
Yerusha didn’t let herself flinch. “My pilot’s record is exactly as my agent gave it to you. I am the best you would have found in Port Oberon, on any day.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Resit sat back and swiveled her chair so she faced her desk. Her voice had a brittle undertone. Yerusha wasn’t sure whether the lawyer believed what she said or not. “I’m obviously going to need to add Freer law to my repertoire though. Can you recommend a good source?”
Yerusha smiled. “The best storehouse of Freer law is Aneas Knock in Free Home Kemper. Be careful how you talk to him though,” Yerusha stood. “He’s an AI that doesn’t like being dismissed. ‘Bye Incili.” Without bothering to smirk, she left the lawyer’s cabin.
Back in the bare corridor, Yerusha rubbed her right wrist and tried not to curse out loud.
Of course she checked. After that little run-in with the Oberon greens, how could she not check? Yerusha took a couple of deep breaths. And you didn’t do yourself any favors in there. Watch your step, Jemina-Jewel. You’ve got no back-ups on this ship.
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br /> She glanced towards the ceiling. Technically, she should get right back to her station. But there shouldn’t be any problem with her slipping by the galley to grab a quick bulb of coffee. She needed something to bolster her up.
Not two hours into the shift and I’m already tired, she thought as she climbed down the stairs. Below her feet, one of the engineer’s mates was hanging from the stair railing by his harness and resting his feet against a couple of support staples. He had a bunch of wiring in one hand and a probe in the other. At the sound of her footsteps, he cast a curious glance upward, flashed a brief smile and went straight back to his work.
At least somebody doesn’t give a damn. Yerusha waited while the galley hatch cranked itself open. It’d be nice to be ignored for awhile.
Kitchen and cafeteria were only part of the galley deck’s function. It also held the exercise room, the sick bay and recreation room. It was also the permanent station for Chandra and Baldassare Sundar. The wife and husband were genuine starbirds. They lived their lives traveling, hiring on board ships and stations as long as it suited them before moving on again. There were groundhogs who called their kind ‘space gypsies,’ and held them only one cut above Freers on the contempt scale. Some commanders wouldn’t hire them for any money. But Al Shei didn’t just hire them. According to some gossip that Yerusha had overheard, the Sundars had the highest share of anyone on the ship, except for Al Shei and Schyler. Between the pair of them they were Management Union certified innutrition, physical therapy, and first-and-emergency aid, and both were rated level six cooks by the Cordon Bleu association. Chandra, Yerusha already knew, made a curry that could burn the tonsils out of the uninitiated.
Despite all that, in the galley, the Fool, Dobbs, was engaged in the ancient past time of baiting the cook.
Dobbs was collapsed across the service window. Three off-shift crew members were so busy watching the show, they had forgotten the food cooling in front of them.
“Water!” Dobbs squeaked. “Water.” She slid off the counter into a little twitching heap on the floor.
