We slipped into the booth just as the busboy finished wiping it off, and took his tub of dirty dishes through the swinging door.
Ms. Arellone pointed me into the corner, and nodded to Ms. Maloney to put her across from me, before she and the chief took seats outboard of us. Anybody coming for us would have to go through them. While I admired the sentiment, I still had a hard time with the overt paranoia.
A dark haired guy I recognized as Phil ambled over to the table. He scanned us once, apparently checking rank insignia, and focused on me. “Morning, Captain.”
“Morning, Phil. Coffees all around, I’ll have Frank’s Finest, three over, three bacon, wheat toast.”
He gathered orders from the others at the table and slipped back behind the counter to turn it in. He returned instantly with packets of flatware, mugs, and a thermal carafe that he used for the first round, and then left on the table.
“That’ll be right up, folks.” He smiled, and moved to the next table.
I grabbed my cup, and took a few heartbeats to savor it while I looked around the table. The chief leaned in, and barely lifted the mug from the table before finding the rim with this lip and sipping. Ms. Arellone had a hard time adding cream, and watching all the people in the restaurant, while Ms. Maloney watched me over the top of her mug, while she sipped daintily from it.
One thing about Over Easy that I never ceased to marvel at—besides the food—was that it didn’t matter how many people were there, you didn’t need to wait long for your meal. Maybe it was that they specialized on breakfast and were able to keep things cooking even before the orders came in. It took a little longer to get food for four together, but even in the morning rush, our wait was surprisingly brief.
Phil brought our meals over, and distributed them within just a few ticks, and even refilled the coffee for us before moving on. He never seemed to hurry, but he was always moving. The man was smooth.
I was about halfway through my pile of potatoes when Ms. Arellone said, “Maybe trouble.” Her voice was low, and directed into the center of the table. Her inflection made it sound like she might have said, “Pass the pepper.”
The chief asked, “Where away?” in that same conversational tone without actually looking up from his plate.
“My nine. Far end of the counter. Bullet head and flattop paying too much attention to us.”
I kept my head down, and kept eating.
“Tourists,” the chief said after a minute. He looked over at me, and elbowed me with one of his grins. “You son of a gun, I bet you got yer pitcha snapped again last night, and these boys have recognized ya.”
I looked at him, and forced a grin in return. I could see them over his head. “Yeah, probably. I’ve been plagued by newsies lately, and there was the news conference yesterday.”
“That’s probably it then, Cap.” He went back to eating, and I followed suit.
Ms. Maloney surprised me by pulling her tablet out of the holster, and started consulting it as she ate. It didn’t take her long before she snickered, and turned her tablet so I could see it. The image was only a bit grainy and showed me holding my beer glass up in toast. The caption read, “I’ll have another!” and under it in smaller letters. “Diurnia’s newest fleet owner celebrates!”
The chief leaned over and squinted at it, too, and I heard him snort.
“You see it, too, Chief?”
“Oh, aye, Cap. Time to put a little space behind us, I’m thinking,” he said as he re-addressed his rapidly emptying plate.
Ms. Arellone, trying to watch in five directions at once, asked, “What is it?”
Ms. Maloney answered, “A picture of the captain holding up his beer glass in the restaurant last night.” She held the tablet so Ms. Arellone could see the screen.
Ms. Arellone glanced at it once and said, “Crap.”
The chief grunted his agreement.
Ms. Maloney turned it back to look at it with a slight frown on her face. “It’s not that bad. You’ve gotta expect they’ll grab pictures of public figures, Captain. After yesterday, you’re certainly a public figure.”
I looked over at her with a smile. “I know, Ms. Maitland, but it’s not my picture I’m worried about.”
Her frown furrowed for a moment, and she looked back down at her tablet. I could see her studying it for a moment, and then the scene registered with her. “Crap,” she said.
While the photo had framed me nicely, and I was obviously the target, the shooter also managed to get the side of Ms. Maloney’s face in the frame. It wasn’t a good photo, and the graininess obscured much of her identity, but I suspected that anybody who knew her would be able to recognize her well enough.
“Eat up, people.” I mumbled. “Time to get back to the ship.”
As we finished up our meal, the attention from the far end of the counter became more intense. The two workmen even called Phil over, and showed him their copy of the newsie. He looked at it, looked at us, looked at it again, and I could see him reading it, and was about to give it back when he stopped, and did a double take. He said something to the guy at the counter who nodded.
“Be ready,” Ms. Arellone murmured.
Ms. Maloney holstered her tablet, and picked up a coffee cup, sipping from it sparingly and carefully not looking at the developing situation behind the counter.
Phil took the newsie, and leaned into the kitchen. Even over the hubbub I could hear him say, “Hey, Frank.”
From our angle I couldn’t see into the kitchen, but Phil leaned over and thrust the newsie through holding it, presumably, so Frank could see. Phil nodded to something, and then turned his head to look at us. “Yeah. Right over there.” I couldn’t so much hear him as see it on his lips. A head poked out through the pass through, and looked in our direction. I realized then that it was the first time I’d ever seen Frank’s face. He’d always had his back turned, head down working on the grill. In all the stanyers I had been on Diurnia, after all the meals I had eaten there, I realized I had never seen his face.
“Time to go,” Ms. Arellone said and started to rise.
The chief started to move, but I said, “No.” It was command voice, “No,” and both Ms. Arellone and the chief froze as those eyes stared at me.
Frank withdrew his head, and I panted a little for breath. “Stay,” I said, just at the swinging door opened, and Frank stepped out of the back and walked over to the table, his eyes on me. He stood there for a moment, the newsie clasped in his hand, and a tentative smile on his face.
“You’re Captain Wang?” he asked.
“I am.” I could barely speak.
“Ishmael Horatio Wang?”
I nodded.
He took a deep breath. “I’m...” He started to say something, but changed it to, “Frank Wang.”
I smiled. “Franklin Prescott Wang?”
He nodded, and I could see what might be tears forming. “Terrible timing, Captain. Breakfast rush and all.”
“I can see that, sir. Perhaps I can come back later? Or you could visit the ship when you get off?”
He nodded, and I became aware of the pool of silence that surrounded us. The guys behind the counter were looking at each other and shrugging.
“Yes, I’d like that.” He paused and then added, “I have to get back to work.”
“I do, too, sir.”
He turned and started for the door, but stopped before he got there. “How’s your mother?”
I shook my head. “Passed away. Decades gone.”
Something left him then, and he seemed to deflate a little. “This afternoon, I’ll come to your ship? Maybe we can talk?”
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Which one is yours?”
“Maintenance dock three. Iris.”
He arched an eyebrow and grinned. With a nod he disappeared back through the door and the spell broke.
“Okay, crew. Soon as I pay this tab, we need to get out of here before some wise guy decides to get snap
happy.”
I waved a hand at Phil who got the hint, and brought the tab for me to thumb. The chief led the way out, and in a matter of two ticks we were in the lift heading for the ship.
Nobody said anything, but the curious glances from Ms. Arellone were becoming quite heavy.
Finally, the chief muttered. “I can’t believe you know Frank.”
I chuckled, and they looked at me. “I don’t,” I said.
He glanced at me, “Sure sounded it to me, Cap. Anybody knows your middle name sure seems like knows ya.”
I shook my head. “I used to know him, I think. A long time ago.”
“You think, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked.
“I was four the last time I saw him, Ms. Arellone. I don’t remember much about it.”
“Four? As in four stanyers old?”
Ms. Maloney regarded me with an oddly contemplative look. “You haven’t seen your father since you were four?”
“Correct, Ms. Maitland. If you don’t count the fifteen stanyers I’ve been eating at Over Easy and looking at the back of his head.”
Chapter Thirty
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-27
When we got back to the ship, true to my word, I made a fresh pot of coffee. We avoided the logistics problem of how to drink it without enough cups to go around when a train of heavily laden grav pallets appeared on the dock outside the ship. As the pallets came aboard, it was an easy matter to direct the machine parts aft where Chief Bailey checked them in as they came off the pallets. The three pallets containing galley equipment and clothing went up the ladder, one after another. By 0830, we had checked in all the pallets, and transferred the contents to the deck for unpacking and stowage. The case of coffee mugs solved the most pressing logistical problem of the moment.
When Chief Bailey stumped onto the mess deck around 0900, he found Ms. Maloney and Ms. Arellone unpacking the boxes of dishes into the dishwasher. I was surveying the pile of new cooking gear, and considering how to lay out my galley.
His eyes lit up when he saw the coffee urn. “Now, that’s more like it, hain’t it? I ask ya. Hain’t it?” He didn’t ask anybody in particular but instead pulled a mug right out of the case, rinsed it off in the sink, and drew off a mug of Moscow Morning. The“Ahh” sound of his satisfaction was audible across the mess deck.
“How are we fixed for spares now, Chief?” I asked as he savored the brew.
“Right well, now, Cap, right well.” He sipped again, his eyes rolling up in his head in pleasure. “You make this coffee, Cap?”
“Yes, Chief. It’s something of a specialty.”
“Well, Cap, you’ve made a believer out of me with this ’un, you have.” He sipped again. “You got any kinda priority on what you want done first?”
I thought for a few heartbeats, distracted from the cookware by the larger needs. “If you could fix the broken console at the brow first, then replace the sail generator coils. Stow the emergency suits in the suit lockers.” I frowned. “What else do we need to do before we can leave dock?”
He squinted his eyes, and held his mug up to his mouth, his brow furrowing in thought before drinking. “If’n ’twere me? I’d replace the bridge consoles now and stow them old ones. That’ll let everybody get used to the ship just the once, and not have to do’t agin later.” He sipped and grinned at me. “Course, ’at’s just me, Cap.”
“Makes sense, Chief. Need any help?”
“Not right yet. I’ll need some help wrestling the consoles up the ladder to the bridge, and getting the old ones down, but I reckon I kin handle the other, Cap. I reckon I can.”
“Holler if you need, Chief.”
“Oh, aye, Cap. I will.”
He topped off his mug, ambled off the mess deck, and clattered down the forward ladder, a tuneless whistle echoing in the empty cargo bay.
“Captain, how would you like this glassware arranged?” Ms. Maloney stood next to the dishwasher, the door cracked open and steamy air billowing out.
I stepped back, and surveyed the available counters and cupboards. In just a few heartbeats the sense of it came to me. I started pointing and calling out contents. “Plates, bowls, cups, regular glasses, flatware here, save that drawer for utensils, this deep drawer gets side towels. I’ll put pots and pans there, griddle and cutting boards here. Dish cleaning supplies go under the sink. Broom closet there, floor cleaners and wax go there.”
Ms. Arellone was trying to keep up with where I pointed, but Ms. Maloney didn’t try to follow the rapid fire detail at all, but I could see her nodding and measuring with her eyes. “What do you want down there, Captain?” She pointed to a couple of cabinets under the counter on the far end that I hadn’t assigned.
“Save those for now. I’m thinking maybe table linens when we get around to hauling passengers, or maybe an entertainment closet.”
She raked her eyes across the cupboards. “All right, Captain. Makes sense,” she said.
Ms. Arellone looked at her with a kind of “if you say so look” and then looked at the pile of gear. “No brooms, Skipper. No swabs.”
Ms. Maloney added, “No shelf liners.”
I sighed, and hung my head. “Ok. Stack the clean dishes on the counter for now.” I pulled out my tablet and brought up the chandlery catalog. I clicked off the requisite items, adding them to an order.
“And buckets, Captain?” Ms Maloney asked with an amused smile.
“Ah, the glamorous life of a ship owner. Yes, buckets, too. Anything else either of you can think of?” I added two rolling buckets, and two more small hand buckets.
Ms. Maloney held up the container of dishwasher detergent.
“Thank you, Ms. Maloney. I’ll get a case of assorted soaps and cleansers. Good thinking.” I had to change menus, but the cleaning gear all came in handy case lots and I grabbed one each, adding the cleansers and conditioning agents our laundry gear would need as I went.
Ms. Arellone frowned at the pile of stuff. “As long as you’re ordering, Skipper? Is there a can opener in this collection? I don’t remember checking one in...”
I sighed and shook my head as I added that to the list. “I hesitate to ask at this point, but anything else?”
Even Ms. Maloney laughed, but they both shook their heads, and I pressed the order button, paying the early delivery premium.
After that we settled to the work. We stowed the pots and pans. Mixing bowls, cutting board, knives, and utensils all found homes in secured storage. Dishes and glassware gleamed on the counter, waiting for the padded paper that would keep them from sliding around too much in the cupboards when they were finally stowed. We broke down boxes, bagged up the trash, and finished up as much as we could. By 1100 the galley looked more like a galley, and the smell of coffee made it almost homey.
“All we need is food now, Captain, and it’ll really be a galley,” Ms. Arellone said as she stood back, and examined our handiwork.
“It’s coming, Ms. Arellone. I ordered about a ton of food this morning.”
A loud clunking, clang shook the ship. It was over almost before we were aware of it but it seemed to have come from the engine room. I headed down the passage, and leaned over the railing to see the chief beside the fusactor, leaning over and squinting at the readouts on the side of the unit. “You okay down there, Chief?”
He waved up to me. “Ho, yah. Sorry ’bout that, Cap. That was the banging fusactor barge linkin’ up. He got a little rambunctious, but we’re good.” He leaned over and looked at the readouts again, and bobbed his head a couple of times. “Yah, we’re good.” He looked up again. “Say, Cap, any coffee left up there?”
“Come and get it, Chief. There should always be coffee up here.”
“Ah, now ’at’s the way ta run a ship, yessir. Hain’t it? Yessir. ’At’s the way ta run a ship.” He waved. “I’ll be up shortly, Cap. Soon’s they get this banging process started up, I’ll be along.”
I walked back to the galley, and met
the wide-eyed stares of my deck gang. “Fusactor barge came along side.”
“Along side, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked. “Or inside?”
We chuckled while Ms. Maloney looked back and forth between us.
My tablet bipped, and I opened a station-net message from Ms. Kingsley. “Congratulations. You’re about to become a multimillionaire in your own right. Your share of the prize money from ship and cargo is something over a twelve million credits. Details attached.”
I pulled up the attachment, and tried to remember to breathe.
“What is it, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked.
I found a seat at the table, and re-read the attachment carefully.
“Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked again.
“The auction on the Chernyakova, Ms. Arellone. My share of the prize money is twelve million.”
“That’s good, isn’t it, Skipper?” There was a tentative note in her voice. “You don’t look like that’s good, Skipper.”
“I’ll get the money in a hundred and twenty days.”
“Four months from now, sar?” she asked.
“Yes, Ms. Arellone. Apparently, those are the terms of the settlement for the bids.” I looked up, feeling like I had my face under control. “That’s pretty good.”
“Sar? Didn’t you sign a note...?”
“Yes, Ms. Arellone.”
Ms. Maloney frowned, but didn’t ask the question that showed on her face.
The klaxon sounded one long blast.
“Ms. Arellone, would you see who’s at the door? I think lunch has just been delivered.”
“Lunch, sar?”
“Well, a lot of lunches, Ms. Arellone. I hope that’s our supply order.”
“Oh, gods, sar, I hope not. I’m not up to putting away a ton of groceries just now.” She laughed as she said it, though, and clattered down the ladder.
“Can I ask, Captain...?”
“You can always ask, Ms. Maloney. Sometimes I may reserve the right not to answer, but I’ll never penalize you for asking.”
“The note?”
I shrugged. “One of the investors in Icarus pulled out at the last minute, and left me too short to buy the ship. William Simpson floated me a flat rate note for ninety days against the share of stock that didn’t sell.”
Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) Page 27
