Torchship Pilot

by Karl K Gallagher

  Small Freighter: cheap flexible merchant ship. Can land anywhere and make long journeys with a full hold. Most analog ships are this type.

  Destroyer: a small warship capable of agile maneuvers. Used for scouting and escorting larger ships.

  Light Cruiser: conducts independent raids or holds the flanks in fleet engagements.

  Heavy Cruiser: main firepower of the fleet. Has difficulty landing on planets.

  Missile Frigate: a torch drive with some missile racks and minimal crew accommodations strapped to it. Can’t land, endurance is only 2-3 weeks. Created to deploy maximum firepower with minimum construction time.

  Chapter Five: Ballgown

  Demeter, gravity 7.5 m/s2

  Hiroshi’s voice rang over the PA. “Skipper, the limo is here.”

  Schwartzenberger answered from the intercom next to the cargo hold airlock. “Thanks. You have the con. See you in a few days.” He looked over his old crew, dressed in their best, and Bakhunin, in his normal. “Remember, we’re here to let the Ambassador do his job. Be polite, do things their way, and don’t mention the war. Let’s go.”

  The oversized aircar waited at the base of the stairs. A pair of elegantly attired attendants stood ready to guide them to seats and provide drinks or anything else requested. “Miss has made a few minutes gap in her schedule, so we’re taking you to her first,” said the older one.

  Endymion City’s glittering rooftops flashed by. The junior attendant apologetically scanned everyone for weapons. Billy’s replacement by Bakhunin was called in. When the drink offer was repeated the captain requested wine. The rest followed. Mitchie accepted a red but just touched it to her lips.

  They flew out of the city proper before landing. The mansion was stone, klicks from any neighbor. Guo muttered a comment on the architecture. Mitchie didn’t recognize half the words he’d said.

  The attendants led them out to a gravel path between the front door and another landing circle. “There’s Miss now,” said one. She pointed at a descending aircar.

  It touched down and popped a door open. Three bodyguards emerged and fanned out. Bobbie followed, looking just as she had in the hologram.

  That must be her real face, thought Mitchie.

  “You’re here! You’re here!” The teenage girl leapt on Captain Schwartzenberger with a hug. “Oh, I wish you’d been here sooner! My schedule is just ludicrous now. But if you could stay four days after the ball I can make time.” She squeezed each member of the crew in turn. “Um, hello.”

  Ambassador Bakhunin smiled warmly. “Good morning. Billy Lee asked me to come in his place. I am Yuri.”

  Bobbie shook his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Yuri. Welcome to Demeter.”

  “Thank you.”

  A woman with a datasheet out had followed Bobbie out of the aircar. She tugged gently on the girl’s elbow.

  Bobbie sighed and started walking toward the mansion. “I’ll see you all at the ball!”

  The attendants led them toward the aircar Bobbie had arrived in. One had their wineglasses on a tray. Once they’d taken off Mitchie asked, “Security shell game?”

  “I’d think you’d understand the necessity,” said the older attendant.

  “I do,” admitted Mitchie. “I just hadn’t expected to be part of it.”

  “A very exuberant young lady,” said Bakhunin.

  “Miss has her ups and down,” said the other attendant. “I’m glad you lot could make her happy for a bit.”

  Their destination was “Miss’s Country House,” somewhat larger and lonelier than the mansion they’d stopped at. The agenda for the next three days was laid out. First was fittings. The clothiers wanted to make sure the designs they’d based on their transmitted measurements actually fit.

  Mitchie found herself in a second-floor sitting room overlooking a garden. The chairs were perfectly laid out for tea for four. Before she could identify the flowers on the wallpaper the parade burst in.

  Six effete minions led carrying white clothes of varying size and identical flimsiness. Behind them followed their master. Demeter natives normally tried to walk as if their planet pulled the normal ten gravs humans were built for. Not this guy. He pranced. The way his hands dangled from his wrists made her think of a dog walking on its hind legs.

  “I am Jesohn!” he proclaimed. “I have sworn to Miss that you shall be perfectly attired. And, Miss Long, we shall not fail her!”

  “It’s, um, Missus Kwan now, actually.”

  “Missus? No! You are no matron. You have youth, and fire! We shall display that, and your husband will kneel to thank me when he sees the result.”

  She could find nothing to say to that.

  “Now this is only a structural prototype. We must ensure that they fit you, and fit each other.” The minions had spread their burdens over the tables and chairs. Mitchie realized they were layers of a single outfit. All together they might be more modest than a jumpsuit. “I have prepared virtual designs of color and movement and texture. But first we must have shape.”

  Jesohn’s fingertips fluttered. The minions scampered out, closing the door behind them. “Now strip and dress.”

  “Is there a dressing room I . . . ?”

  His shrug waved from shoulders to wrists, leaving the hands still. “How can I know they fit properly if I do not know if they were donned properly?” He began studying an oil painting by the window.

  When in Rome, thought Mitchie. She stripped off and picked up the smallest piece. She turned it over twice before identifying the proper openings. One foot lifted up to go into it.

  “No! Left foot first!”

  Dear God, she prayed, If I get through this without killing him you owe me one guilt-free murder. Amen.

  ***

  Joshua Chamberlain’s cargo hold faced east. The late morning sun poured through the half-open doors. Spacer Setta lay on a blanket in the pool of light.

  The sight made Hiroshi pause on his way down the ladder. He’d been impressed by her looks in utility coveralls. Seeing her in a swimsuit made his heart pound harder than climbing this ladder would in twice the gravity.

  But he didn’t want to be caught staring at her from above. He worked his way down, keeping his bag from bumping the ladder.

  She opened her eyes as his footsteps came close. “What’s up?”

  “I made lunch. Just sandwiches.” He sat next to the blanket.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to.”

  Hiroshi shrugged. “I had to do something or the boredom will kill me.” They’d knocked off most of the required maintenance for the week yesterday after the crew left.

  She laughed. “This is going to be a rough assignment for you if you get bored that easily.” She took a turkey sandwich from the selection.

  “Maybe. I’ll have to find a project to work on.”

  The sandwiches and fruit salad absorbed them for a few minutes.

  Setta broke the silence. “Okay, the curiosity is killing me. Why the hell did you take a cutter under the bridge?”

  “Um. Well . . . I wanted to be first in my class.”

  “By getting court-martialed?”

  “That wasn’t the—see, there were three of us with a shot at the number one slot. That meant any assignment you wanted after graduation. I was best at hitting the mission goals, Furlong was a little more precise than me, and Chang was close behind but beat us on ground school exams. So when Chief Sanchez said, ‘I want a pilot who could take a cutter through the Gold Street Bridge’ I thought that was my chance.”

  “So you stole a cutter and flew to Commerce City?”

  “I didn’t steal it. I was scheduled for solo practice time. I headed for Commerce and found the bridge. Had to go over on the first pass, there was a damn boat going under it. So I made a loop around the Exchange, came back, and went through the middle arch. Then straight back to the field.”

  “Wow.”

  “Fortunately Chief Sanchez said it in front of half the class so I ha
d witnesses. And a Commander on the tribunal was a former cutter pilot, so he was impressed.”

  That got a laugh. “Not guilty on grounds of awesome?”

  “I’ll take it. At least I’m still in uniform.”

  “If you’d graduated first, would you have stayed with cutters?”

  “No, I wanted a missile control pinnace.” Hiroshi’s stare seemed to look through the hull. “When a fleet fires missiles at a target ten million klicks away, the light lag is too long to control them. So they send a pinnace along to direct the final maneuvers. That’s a job that makes a difference. One man against an enemy fleet.”

  The wistful look on his face made Setta want to cheer him up. “Hopefully we’re making a difference here. Even if you don’t get to do any fancy flying.”

  “Oh, they’ve done some real flying in this ship. You can find news reports about her going through the rings of Kronos. The captain has some stories about stuff on the trip to Old Earth. And they did something that pranged one of the turbines bad enough to need blades replaced but they won’t talk about it.”

  ***

  The Dancing Master waxed ecstatic over the crew’s experience in formal dance. Bakhunin had been to Fusion balls before. Schwartzenberger had taken Bing to a few on Bonaventure during his Senatorial sabbatical. Guo had taken a few lessons at Confucian Revival clubs. It was a “gentlemanly” skill.

  When Mitchie’s turn came she demonstrated the moves she’d picked up in Port District dance clubs. The Master closed his eyes. “Stop.”

  He stepped close to her and began a speech on “elegance” and “refinement” with too much fancy vocabulary for her to follow. Suddenly she remembered her first pre-dawn formation listening to the sergeant explain how he would smash the civilians into clay to build soldiers with. This will be hell.

  The Master assigned each of them a personal instructor. Mitchie got two. They tag-teamed. One would dance with her while the other circled and called corrections. They switched every three tunes or when her heel landed on one’s toes.

  In the morning everyone had a “rough” of their outfit to wear for the lessons. Mitchie did like how the dress flared in the turns and twirls. The instructors she liked less. After the sixth time the satellite made a particular correction she flipped around to face him. “I know that’s wrong, you don’t need to remind me, telling me it’s wrong again doesn’t help me figure out how to do it right, so if you don’t have anything useful to say just fucking shut up!”

  Guo pushed between them. The instructor backed away from his glare. The other one tried to take Mitchie’s hand to resume the dance. Guo waved him off.

  “C’mon, love, let’s find a quiet spot.” The gilt ‘Lesser Ballroom’ had room for hundreds. The crew and dozen instructors were tucked into one corner. As they walked Mitchie cursed her instructors.

  “Forget them,” Guo said. “Pretend you’ve already killed them.”

  “Don’t fucking tempt me.”

  Guo stopped them under a pearlescent chandelier. “Hey. Do you trust me?”

  “More than anyone else in the universe.”

  “That’s not a yes.”

  Mitchie shrugged.

  “Well.” Guo wore the wry smile of a man whose suspicion was confirmed. “Let’s try this. Do you trust me to not want to intentionally hurt you or embarrass you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you trust me to be competent enough to know where you should go next in the dance?”

  She thought a moment. The instructors were all happy with him. “Yes.”

  “Then let me help you. I won’t shove you around. Just let me guide you in the dance.”

  Just let you be in control. “All right.”

  “Let’s practice a twirl. Lift up your hand.”

  She’d managed to learn this move yesterday. Mitchie assumed the pose. Instead of grasping her hand he laid his index finger across her palm.

  “Move with me.” The faintest of pressure led her through the twirl. Then he guided her into the reverse. She spun back at the same speed, losing contact with his finger as he slowed the tempo.

  “Don’t plan,” he said. “Don’t expect. Just be in the moment with me.” He touched her palm again and pivoted her back and forth. Different angles, different speeds. Until she stuck to his lead.

  Next he practiced a move where they went from facing each other to back to back, pulling their joined hands between them. They did it fingertip to fingertip until she could match a tempo change mid turn.

  The Dancing Master came up as Mitchie practiced stepping forward and back to Guo’s fingertip on her waist. “Mister and Missus Kwan? It’s time to change for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” said Mitchie. “But . . . “ She suddenly felt very hungry.

  “I didn’t dare interrupt you for lunch.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Guo. “We’ll head for our rooms.”

  The first night’s dinner had mixed the crew with some other Revelation Ball guests staying at the Country House. They were contemporaries of Bobbie, had never met Diskers before, and were clearly afraid of going the way of the kidnapper if they said something wrong.

  Tonight they had different company. Three couples, the wives relaxed, the men in habitually alert postures. These people worked for a living, decided Mitchie. Or possibly fought. She read them as off-duty bodyguards.

  Some how-are-you-liking-your-visit chatter went by as the servants poured wine. Then the oldest man, Samuel, stood and waved the servers out. After the door closed his took up a wine glass. “I should mention that I am the Family’s head of security. My lieutenants and I wanted to join you tonight to thank you.”

  The other locals—and Bakhunin—stood to toast. “We failed Miss’s mother. We’ve only once failed her. Thank you for doing our jobs for us. Thank you for saving her life. And thank you for doing right by John.” They drank.

  As they sat Captain Schwartzenberger lifted his glass. “To John Smith. He did more than his duty.”

  With a chorus of “John Smith” they all drank.

  Samuel knocked on the table. The servers reentered, bearing salads and oven-warm bread.

  Guo smiled as Mitchie began talking shop with their host. The analyst report on the Kronos Incident left her with many questions. Samuel willingly answered in exchange for details of the fight on the Fives Full.

  When the servers came back to replace the salad bowls with soup ones Samuel’s wife delightedly switched places with Mitchie. She recognized the slight panic in Guo’s eyes and reintroduced herself.

  “I’m Yvonne. And I know you’re Guo. Quite as famous as your wife. More so among the intelligence types. They were very put out you knocked so many answers out of that one’s head.”

  “Sorry.” Interrogation hadn’t occurred to him when he put the wrench into the traitor’s skull.

  “Do you do a lot of head-breaking?” she asked.

  Guo’s palm tingled with the remembered crunch of breaking bone transmitted through the hammer’s handle. “Not when I can avoid it.”

  He heard Mitchie saying “—went off in his hand. Right next to the ribs. By the look on his face he never knew it.”

  Yvonne’s next question was about dancing. Soon he was explaining the differences between the Upper Mode dances and the traditional ones the Confucian Revival brought back.

  When he paused Samuel was saying “—so multiple bodyguards are death on cover identities. They’re a big sign saying ‘research who this is.’ A single one can blend in. More or less.”

  Yvonne talked over Mitchie’s response with, “How many times have you been to Demeter?”

  “This is my fourth. A simple cargo run, the Kronos trip, and then we were caught in the last AI attack. Now we’re here for a party.”

  Yvonne shivered. “That was so horrifying. Usually the Navy chases an attack off in deep space. That one came so close we could see explosions from the ground. People panicked, screaming they’d kill themselves if the AIs took the
planet.” She took a calming breath. “I hope you stayed clear of the fighting.”

  Guo said, “We were closer than we liked but didn’t get attacked. Were you in the countryside then?”

  “Yes, there’s a village south of here were many of the staff’s families live.” She described life there. It sounded as quiet and private as life in the Fusion could be.

  In the morning there was another round of fittings before dance lessons. Mitchie watched them teach Guo the advanced moves. After each he came over and led her through them.

  After lunch came donning The Dress. Jesohn and his minions waited for her in the sitting room. By now he’d broken her of shyness. The minions stripped off the “rough” outfit and slid the layers onto her. Once the gloves reached her wrists Jesohn snapped, “Turn!”

  Minions scattered. Mitchie pivoted just fast enough to make the skirt float.

  Jesohn clutched his chest. “Perfection! Perfection! A true blossom! Misha, let her see herself.” A minion put a box on the wall. It unfolded to a floor to ceiling mirror. “Behold the perfection! My career is at an end; never shall I surpass this. I am exhausted. I must rest.” The minions bore him out, twittering comfort and praise.

  Mitchie watched the parade go out of sight before turning to the mirror. She had to admit the gown was lovely. On someone else it would even be flattering. But on her . . .

  Well, Demeter fashion apparently considered “support” something for matrons. Or maybe even something for higher-gravity worlds. Maybe a life in only seven gravs let the local women get away with these outfits. I wish I’d skipped showers on Corcyra.

  She turned back and forth before the mirror. Threads of color ran across her horizontally, parallel except where an imperfection in her body distorted them. You’d think they’d both sag the same amount. Hitching up her left shoulder evened the line a bit.

  The effect worked better on the skirt. When she swung her hips to twirl it the threads parted, clear fabric between them revealing the bright but less sparkly colors of the underskirt. Hopefully I’ll fit in and they’ll overlook me. She’d always gotten a lot of mileage out of being overlooked.