by Dan Thompson
She took it in stride. “It’s cargo’s lot in life. We work when everyone else plays, but two and a half days is good. I can do my thing and be back in plenty of time.”
He did not ask what her thing was—and given the gleam in her eye when she had said it, he was pretty sure he did not want to know. He was the last one out, and he dithered over what to pack, ultimately settling on a pair of utilities and his dress uniform. He had outgrown most of his old civilian wardrobe and had not yet replaced it.
He closed up the Sophie and put in the locking code on the outside of the airlock. It was always a trade-off, usually made groundside vs. stationside. In orbit, station regulations required that someone remain on board at all times in the event of an emergency. That required some kind of duty rotation that ate into the crew’s liberty, but it also meant you could sleep on the ship and avoid hotel costs. Down on the ground, he was used to Malcolm locking the Sophie up and sending the crew off to see the local sights for a couple of days.
The only exception to that had been the nine long months when Malcolm had denied portside liberty to Michael for having disobeyed a direct order. As harsh as it had seemed at the time, he saw it differently now. He had violated airlock protocols, and even though the failsafe doors kept everyone safe, it was the stupidest thing he had ever done.
He chuckled as he walked down the ramp. At least, it had been the stupidest thing he had done before the day he signed on with Elsa Watkins and walked onto the Blue Jaguar.
Winner slid onto the end stool and laid a five down on the bar. “Whatever you’ve got on tap,” she said. The bartender poured it and collected her cash. She took about half of the drink back in one long draft, and looked around with intent.
The place was something of a dive, but it was not quite so seedy as to be a target of the law. The clientele was a mix of spacers and locals. She caught a pair of eyes in the mirror. The bouncer was checking her out. She smiled. That was what she had been hoping for.
She glanced back at him over her shoulder, raised an eyebrow, and gave him a little shrug of the shoulder. He was standing next to her before she could finish her beer.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Sophie’s Grace… W. Vargas.”
“Winner,” she said. “I’ve been through before on other ships.”
He leaned a little closer. “You looking for a good time?”
She shook her head. “I’m looking for a rough time.”
He pulled back a bit. “A rough time?”
She pumped her fist at his face, stopping a centimeter short and pulling back before he could grab it. “Yeah, a good rough time. Do you know where a girl can find that kind of thing?”
“I … um, not sure what you mean by that.”
She shrugged. “Last time through I got hooked up at Tally’s Toolbox, but they’re gone now.”
“Ah … Tally’s,” he said with a knowing smile. He looked her up and down, sizing her up. “Yeah, I know what you’re looking for. They got shut down, but they relocated to the warehouse district, on the east side behind those two big-ass hangars. It’s a weeknight, so they’ll start around twenty-two-hundred.”
She nodded and slid a twenty across the bar. “Anyone I need to ask for?”
“There’s a security guard at the gate, beefy guy named Conners. Tell him Spence sent you.”
She finished her beer. “Thanks, Spence.”
He pocketed the twenty. “If I can get off early, I might head down there myself.”
She turned to him. “What, you gonna join in?”
“Um, no,” he said, taking a step back. “I like to watch.”
She gave a snort and slid off the stool. “Figures,” she said, and walked out.
Michael sat in the cargo agent’s office as the man tapped away at his computer. “We have a fair amount of cargo bound for Cenita’s ground port, Captain, but you say you want to go to the station?”
“I have some business with the Guild office there.” At least, he hoped he had some business. At the very least he wanted to stop in and thank Terry Johansen for getting him his provisional status, but he was quietly entertaining the notion that the administrator would find a way to help him finance the bond.
The agent typed a little more and waited for the computer’s response. “Okay, it looks I have fourteen containers. Are you rated to carry powered cargo?”
“Powered? What do you mean?”
“These are cryo containers, looks like some of the salmon harvest. They’ll need power in transit, but they’re paying a good rate.”
He nodded. “Sure, we have the hookups for that. Is that all? I’d be looking for eighteen more.”
“That’s all there is today. Where are you going after Cenita?”
“Ballison. At least that’s the plan.”
The agent typed some more. “Ballison ground or Ballison station?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really care at this point.”
“Then I think I’ve got you set. Eighteen containers for through shipment to Ballison station, one lot of thirteen and mix of doubles and singles.”
“Do they have a time limit? I mean, I’ll probably be at Cenita for at least a couple of days.”
“Only the batch of thirteen. That needs to be delivered in twenty-two standard days.”
Michael did the math in his head. Two more days here, six in transit, three or four at Cenita, another week to Ballison ... it would be close, but he could do it. “That’ll be no problem. I want to start loading tomorrow afternoon. Can you get them all there by then?”
“Sure, but they’ll want to hold off on the cryo delivery until you’re powered up for departure. The last thing we want is a bunch of fish going bad sitting out on the tarmac.”
“That’s for sure,” he replied. Malcolm had once had a container of pork sides lose power in transit. The cargo bay carried that stench through two more star systems. “And I’m taking on passengers for bottom rate: a single and a pair of bunks.”
The agent typed some more. “All right. It’s posted, but we had a liner depart for Cenita nine days ago. You’ll have more luck with that kind of thing if you can post your route ahead of you by courier. There are always a few bargain hunters willing to wait for a cheaper ride.”
“Then I may as well do that now. We’re heading to Arvin after Ballison.”
“Makes sense,” he replied, typing it all in. “There, it’s flagged for outbound couriers. I don’t know if it’ll help you at Cenita, but you’ll probably have people waiting at Ballison.”
“That would be nice.”
Stefan Carillo settled into another anonymous telecom booth in the back of a coffee shop. He had lifted some mark’s payment card in line. As soon as he sent his message, he planned to drop the card quietly near the creamer station. With luck, Mr. Shapiro would never realize what had happened. He tapped it out quickly, though. He wanted someone else to find the card before its owner left.
Port-to-Port: Rapoen to Tsaigo, Hannover Shipping, 4487-2136
Copy port-to-port: Rapoen to Cenita, Hannover Shipping, 3392-8176; Rapoen to Ballison, Hannover Shipping, 9231-1344
To: Forwarding Agent #843
My Lady of the Wings,
On our way. I saw it posted to the passenger boards: Cenita, Ballison, Arvin. I doubt Cenita is an option, so I’m hoping to meet our friends on Ballison. A note of concern, I’m seeing some advanced navigation software, way beyond simple wake detection. The target may not be as soft as we expected. Proceed with caution.
Your White Knight
He was stepping out into the sunlight when he heard someone call out, “Hey, did anyone drop a cash card?”
He grinned. Honest people made his work so much easier.
Michael watched Winner direct the cargo loaders from the quiet vantage point of his office terminal. The rest of the crew was trickling in, but they were not officially due back until ten. He had managed to find only two passengers, a pair of newlyweds who had overspent thei
r budget and were limping home to Cenita. He had told them he did not have a double bed available for them, but they assured him they would make do with the single.
Dieter was the last to come back, wandering up the ramp with his mandolin case just as the last cryo container was powering up in the bay. Michael saw him staggering through the hall toward his cabin. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. He remembered working a shift on the Heinrich when he was hung over. He knew it could be done, but he did not like the idea of it.
Dieter flinched at his voice and wobbled around to face him. “Vivian and I switched shifts. She’s probably already down there.”
“You switched?”
“Yeah, worked it out in port and cleared it with the exec.”
“Mr. Mosley said yes?”
Dieter nodded.
“And that was it?”
He nodded again. “I’m sorry, Captain, but if you don’t need anything else, I would really like to …”
Michael waved him on. “Yes, Mr. Merkel, you head on to bed.”
He stood, stalked out of his office and down to engineering. Just as Dieter had predicted, Vivian was at the engineering station.
“Morning, Captain. Reactor is online, and the pulse drive is on standby. What’s our launch window?”
Michael paused, surprised by the contrast between Dieter’s near death and Vivian’s chipper smile. “Um, it’s eleven-thirty. Dieter tells me you switched shifts.”
Vivian nodded and made a minor adjustment to the display. “Yeah, I got tired of eating midnight leftovers, and those overnight shifts are so boring with no one else awake. Mr. Mosley said it was okay.”
Michael nodded. “All right then. You, um … you do that, and I’ll let you know when we’re pulling out.”
“Aye, sir. One more thing. I brought some greenery on board for the lounge—none of it real, I’m sad to say, but I thought it would liven the place up.”
He nodded in silence and headed back toward the bridge only to run into Hector coming down to his environmental station. “Morning, Captain. Is Vivian down here yet?”
He froze. “Yes, she is. So, you already know about the shift change.”
Hector nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, and it didn’t happen a day too soon, if you ask me. I mean, I’m sure Dieter is a talented musician, but ... let me say that his music is not my music and leave it at that.”
“Noted,” he replied, pulling back from the ladder to let Hector down. “Carry on, Mr. Reyes.”
Hector passed, calling out to Vivian.
Michael headed up, determined to find Richard Mosley, and he plowed right into Winner, almost knocking her over. He reached out to stabilize her, but she batted his hand away.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
He shook his head and shook out his hand. The brief contact had left it stinging. “No, I’m the one who wasn’t looking.” But then he did look, and that was when he saw it: an odd-shaped purple bruise on her cheekbone. “Wait, what is that?”
Her hand went to her cheek. “This?”
“Yes,” Michael replied. Now that he was looking at it, he saw a cut above her eyebrow on the same side.
“It’s nothing, sir.”
Michael shook his head. He had seen enough of Malcolm’s wounds over the years to know that those kind of facial injuries were never nothing. “Miss Vargas, were you attacked?”
She shook her head as a grin flashed across her face. “No, sir. I was not attacked.”
Michael stared at her for a moment. “Are you sure? It’s not too late to file charges with the port authority if you want. I would back you on that.”
She took a step back. “No, sir. There’s no need to get the authorities involved. Of that, I am absolutely sure.”
Michael frowned. “And you’re well enough to assume your duties?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, sir, the only thing keeping me from my duties right now is you asking all these questions.”
Michael grumbled. He knew there was something going on here, but he could not think of a reasonable way to keep pursuing it. “Well, let me know if you change your mind about the port authority.”
“Certainly, sir. Is that all?”
He nodded.
“Then I’ll be in the galley putting away the rest of our stores.”
He stepped back and watched her go, but only when she had rounded the turn did he head forward to the bridge. Richard was there, standing over at the systems station, listening to a headset.
“Captain, it’s traffic control. They’ve had a delay on another ship and want to know if we would like to move up to the eleven o’clock slot.”
Michael checked the clock. That was only forty minutes. “Ship status?”
Richard shrugged. “Cargo bay and airlocks are secure, crew and passengers are aboard, and fueling is complete. I don’t see any reason why not.”
He nodded and reached for a headset. “Sure, tell them we can start taxiing in fifteen.”
“Aye, sir.”
Michael sat down at the pilot station and punched the intercom for engineering. “Vivian, we’re moving up half an hour. I want you to bring up the pulse drive in ten minutes.”
Vivian acknowledged. “Starting my checklist now, sir.”
Michael turned to Richard. “So, Mr. Mosley, you approved the shift change?”
Richard hesitated. “I … I assumed they spoke to you. I mean, I ran into them on liberty, and they presented me with the idea. I had no objections. I’m guessing from your tone that they had not talked to you?”
Michael shook his head.
“Then I apologize, Captain. Do you have objections?”
Michael opened his mouth to voice them, but then he realized that he could not summon a single one. “No, I guess I don’t.”
Richard shrugged. “I’ll make sure we coordinate on this kind of thing in the future, sir.”
“That would be good.”
Carlos plopped down at the navigation console next to him. “Good? What are you two up to?”
Richard answered, “The shift change with Dieter and Vivian.”
Carlos nodded and initialized his console. “Yeah, that’s gonna work out a lot better.”
Michael turned to him. “You knew?”
“Hell, yeah. Everyone knew, right?”
Traffic control started speaking into his ear so he cut back his reply. He keyed his headset and said, “Confirmed, Sophie’s Grace stands ready for early takeoff, awaiting clearance to begin taxiing.” But inside he was grumbling. He had engineers playing musical chairs, and his cargo handler was getting twitchier by the day.
This had not been on the captain’s exam.
Chapter 11
“Of course captains can be wrong, from the trivial to the lethal. The star on the shoulder does nothing to restrain stupidity in the head. Mind you, this only applies to other captains, not me.” – Malcolm Fletcher
MICHAEL WOKE EARLY the next morning and headed down to engineering. The rapid notes of Dieter’s mandolin rose up the ladder as he headed down. He arrived to find the engineer staring calmly at the displays while his hands danced along the strings. He cut the tune short when he noticed Michael, leaving the musical line unresolved against the background hum of the sail generator.
“Good morning, Captain. You’re quite the early riser.”
He shrugged. “It varies. I see you recovered from your last night of liberty.”
Dieter chuckled. “It was a close call, sir. A word of advice, never involve mandolin playing in a drinking game.”
“I’ll try to remember that. So, did the night shift work out for you?”
“Very much so,” he replied with a contented sigh. “I know this sounds weird, what with us slipping through the deep dark and all that, but I’m much more of a night person. I like the feeling of being up and about while most everyone else is settled in their beds.”
Michael glanced back over his sh
oulder to the empty environmental station. “And what did Hector think?”
Dieter’s smile faded. “I like him, sir. I don’t want you to think otherwise, but he has no appreciation for music. Mind you, he was trying to be gentle about it, but his complaints were getting almost as bad as my old roommate’s. I like this life, getting to wander across the stars, but I gotta have my music. I’d die without it.”
He nodded. “Then I’m glad it worked out. Carry on.”
He headed forward and Dieter’s mandolin jumped back to life, picking up at the same line where it had left off, down to the note. His nose told him that breakfast was not even close to being served, so he diverted to the gym and put in some time on the treadmill. It was a good way to lose himself in the rhythm of his steps, building from a brisk walk into a jog. He thought about pushing all the way into a hard run, but he was still in his ship utilities and not his workout clothes. It was not so much that he did not want to get them dirty as that they chafed a little if he pushed too hard. He wound down after eight kilometers, toweled off, and put his uniform jacket back on.
By now, the smell of breakfast was wafting down the corridor, so he headed to the galley to find Winner setting out a series of breakfast tacos. She moved a couple onto a plate for Michael and added a small dish of salsa. He liked to think of himself open to possibilities, but evidently he had become quite predictable to Winner.
He sat at one of the tables and when he saw her preparing her own plate, he motioned her to the seat across from him. She hesitated, but she did come over and sit with him. The bruise on her cheek seemed to have faded some overnight. Either that, or she was hiding it with makeup. He briefly considered asking her about it but was still feeling the sting from the day before.
“So, how are our passengers doing?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen them since we took off.”
“The newlyweds? They’ve mostly been locked up in that cabin. He came out last night to fetch dinner for two. She returned the dishes a couple of hours later, barefoot and wearing one of those big fluffy robes from some resort on Rapoen. I don’t expect we’ll see much of them this trip.”
