“But I’m a shaman,” Sarah said. “A shaman doesn’t have to work for the company.”
“You know the rule as well as I do.” Otto watched her shave a few strips of wood from the stick in her hand. “You might find a job you could do here. You wouldn’t have to get married then.”
She lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a half-hearted shrug. “I s’pose. If anybody’d hire me.”
“What do you want to do with your life?” Otto asked. “You’re fifteen now. You never talk about what you wanna be when you grow up.”
Her mouth tightened and her fingers stopped moving. She raised her head to stare at him again, anger burning in her gaze this time.
“Your mother had that same expression when I said somethin’ particularly dumb,” he said.
The anger washed from her face and she blinked several times, biting her lower lip between her teeth and lowering her gaze. “I want to be a shaman,” she said.
“You are a shaman,” Otto said.
Her eyes went wide and her lips parted. “I am?” Barely a breath, a whisper, the question hung between them for a moment.
Otto smiled and nodded. He pointed to the half formed whelkie in her fingers. “You’ve got the gift. Just a few cuts and that’s already looking like some kind of dog.”
“Wolf, actually,” she said holding it up to the light, quicksilver focus shifting back to the work in her hands. “I think.”
“There’s a reality in the world,” he said. “Sometimes you’re one thing inside and something else outside.” Otto paused until she looked back at him again. “Everybody gets to pick what they are inside, but sometimes the world picks what you are outside.”
“You don’t.”
“I don’t what?” Otto asked.
“You’re a shaman, inside and out. The world didn’t pick what you are on the outside.”
Otto snorted. “That what it looks like to you?”
She paused for a moment and cocked her head to one side. “You are a shaman, inside and out. Aren’t ya?”
Otto rolled the rough-carved sea bird in his fingers and considered. “I wanted to be a fisherman,” he said at last. “I didn’t have a lot of choice.”
“You could still be a fisherman, can’t you?” Sarah asked.
He shook his head. “When the other kids were learning how to fish, I was learning how to carve. Being the son of the shaman opened the door for me to stay on St. Cloud without working for the company, but it closed all the other doors.”
“Did Grampa make you be a shaman?”
“In a way.” He smiled at the memory. “When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I wanted to fish so bad. I watched the other kids grow up and move out to the boats. They’d be gone all day and come back in the evening. They always had stories to tell. It seemed pretty exciting compared to walking up and down the same stupid beach every day. It was like they were members of a club that I couldn’t join.”
“But you wanted to.”
“I did, yeah.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged and glanced at this girl who reminded him so much of her mother. “Something changed in me. I realized that I was really a shaman. That I had a gift that I could use, that could help people. I decided that it was okay for me to do that.”
“You could have become a fisherman.”
“I was for a time.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. That was before Manchester built the shipyard over in Margary. Back then Pirano only ran draggers. They got a contract to supply food for the workers and they had to pick up their production. They developed all kinds of new fisheries. Your grandmother was one of the first crabbers. I was her deckhand for a while.”
“But you stopped?”
“Yeah. I found that I couldn’t be shaman and fish all the time. When Pirano rolled out the new crab fleets, I gave my slot to one of the new kids who wanted to be a crabber.”
“Why?”
“Well, she was kinda cute.”
Sarah blinked several times. “Cute?”
“I was a shaman, not a monk.” He grinned. “Besides, I was spending more time carving and paying attention to the world. Being a shaman means more than just walking on the beach and staring at the sea. Sometimes you have to be there to talk to people. To listen to what they have to say even when it’s hard to hear. Can’t do that when you’re out there all day.” He nodded in the direction of the ocean.
“What would you have done if you were a girl?”
The question caught him sideways and he laughed. “I don’t know. Probably would have become a fish captain and had my own boat by now.” He smiled at her. “Or picked something to do that wasn’t fishing but kept me here on St. Cloud. That’s what most people do.”
Sarah sighed and bit her lip again. “I s’pose,” she said and turned her attention back to the wood and steel in her hands, her brow furrowed as her deft fingers worked their magic.
Otto swallowed the stab in his heart and admired her skill for a few moments. He let his own carving draw him back into the wood even as his memories drew him back to his youth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Aram's Inlet: September 20, 2344
JACK FLANAGAN BREEZED through the door of the Beanery, nodded to Barney behind the counter, and settled into the seat across from Jimmy Pirano. “You wanted to chat?”
Jimmy fought back his initial impulse and swallowed his frustration. “What’s going on with the shamans?”
“You heard about Maisie, then?” Flanagan asked, nodding his thanks to Barney who slid a cup and saucer onto the table in front of him.
“Home office is getting a little peeved,” Jimmy said, taking a sip from his coffee mug.
Jack dunked the teabag a couple of times before squeezing it against his spoon and setting it into the saucer. “What you expect me to do about it?”
“Second one in as many stanyers,” Jimmy said. “You got nothin’ to do with it?”
Flanagan shook his head and took a tentative sip of his tea, then a deeper mouthful. “I just listen to the world, Jimmy. Carve a few whelkies when I can get some time at home.”
“This isn’t normal.” Jimmy leaned forward across the table and lowered his voice. “Who’s stirring these women up?”
Flanagan leaned forward to meet him and his mouth crooked into a grin that Jimmy wanted to slap off his face. “I. Don’t. Know.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “Look. I deal with the shamans. The real shamans. The sons of shamans. That’s all.” He settled back in his seat and lifted the teacup. “They’re enough trouble by themselves. I don’t need to go sniffing after more.”
Jimmy sat back and a sigh bubbled up from his chest, almost against his will.
“What are you worked up about, anyway?” Flanagan asked. “They file a grievance. Company flashes the rule book. Arbitrator sides with the company. Case closed. Woman goes home to her job or her spouse and it’s over.”
“You have any idea how much that costs us?”
Flanagan shook his head. “Not my problem.”
“It’ll be your problem if they finally decide that shamans aren’t worth the spit,” Jimmy said, taking a pull from his mug only to find it down to a bitter, cold swallow at the bottom. He slapped it back on the table with a sharp rap.
“Who? The arbitrators?” Flanagan asked.
“Home office,” Jimmy said.
“What? They’re going to reverse a century-long policy?” Flanagan snorted and took a sip of tea. “As if.”
Jimmy leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. “Jack, you and I go back a ways. What’s the one thing the company can’t stand?”
“You’re the company here, Jimmy. You tell me.”
“Losing money,” Jimmy said.
Flanagan snorted again. “Well, yeah, but on a scale of things, this arbitration cost is rounding error, isn’t it? They can’t be worried about it.”
“You wouldn’t think so,” Jimmy said.
Flanagan gave him a side-eyed look. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve been through the records. We had one in the first half century on the planet. One.” He paused and passed a hand over his mouth. “They’ve been coming faster. Davis last stanyer. Before that was five stanyers. Now Maisie what’s-her-name.”
“McIlheny,” Flanagan said.
“So you do know her,” Jimmy said, trying to stare holes in Flanagan’s face.
“Of her. I know of her, Jimmy. That’s all. Trim your jib.”
“Trim my jib?” Jimmy frowned. “You taken up sailing?”
“It’s just a sayin’, Jimmy.” Flanagan sipped his tea. “What’s got you so wound up?”
Jimmy shook his head. “What happens if they decide to axe the exemption?”
Flanagan put his cup down in the saucer with a soft click. “Truthfully? Not much.”
“Why?”
“Because almost all of them are already married to the company or have jobs.” Flanagan raised an eyebrow. “And the company would probably have to find somebody else to be their front-line social workers.”
Jimmy chewed the inside of his lip for a moment and considered Flanagan’s point. “That’s what I’m most afraid of,” he said after a moment. “The social work.”
Flanagan’s eyebrows flicked up for a beat. “You recognize that?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be much of an administrator if I didn’t.”
Flanagan gave a single nod and lifted his teacup again, sipping as he stared into the middle distance. “Maybe home office doesn’t,” he said. He took a swig of tea. “What makes you think it’s some kind of plot? Two is only coincidence.”
“I know. Three is enemy action,” Jimmy said with a sigh. “It could be just luck of the draw.” He paused. “If you’re not behind it, who is?”
“If it’s just coincidence, nobody,” Flanagan said.
“I need to get ahead of this, Jack.”
Flanagan tilted his teacup and peered into it. “Been to Troy Harbor lately?” he asked.
Jimmy sat back on the bench and shook his head. “Not for a while. It’s not exactly on my itinerary.”
Flanagan shrugged, placed his empty teacup in the saucer, then pushed it away from the edge of the table. “Thanks for the tea, Jimmy.”
“You’re welcome, Jack. We’ll have to do it again some time.”
Flanagan snorted and gave a wave over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
Jimmy heaved himself out of the booth and pressed a thumb on the pad Barney offered. “Thanks, Barn.”
“Welcome, Jimmy. Need one to go?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I think I’ve got a road trip coming.”
Barney glanced at the door and chuckled. “You never look happy after talking with Jack.”
Jimmy laughed. “On second thought, I’ll take a cup. Milk. One sugar. And a bran muffin.”
* * *
Jimmy stopped at Personnel on the way to his office. “Stella, who’s the rep at Troy Harbor?”
Stella Marsenstone looked up from her console. “Morning, Jimmy.”
He put the Beanery bag on the corner of her desk, placing the cup beside it.
She grinned at him. “One tick.” She tapped at her console for a few heartbeats and looked up. “Steve McCord.”
“Thanks, Stella.” He paused at the door. “You know how many shamans we have on planet?”
She paused, one hand reaching for the bag. “Not off hand. I can find out.”
“Rough guess?” Jimmy asked. “I don’t need a census.”
“Something like four thousand.”
“You keep a record?”
“Sure. We count everybody.”
“Any idea how many women shamans?” he asked.
She frowned at him. “I have the exact count on that. Zero.”
“Yeah. I know that number. You know how many women are married dependents and not employees?”
“I can find out. What are you fishing for, Jimmy?”
“Nothing yet. Just trying to figure out how deep the water is.”
She nodded and reached for the bag. “I’ll run a query and get back to you.”
“Thanks.” He headed for his office. Troy Harbor wasn’t exactly on the opposite side of the planet, but it was close. He threw himself into his chair and fired up the console, dropping messages to McCord and the motor pool. He could take the tram, but it would take all day just to get there. A sub-orbital flitter could get him there in the morning. With luck, he’d be home in time for dinner.
He no sooner sent the messages than Tony Spinelli plunked into his visitor chair. “Troy Harbor?”
Jimmy nodded. “Jack suggested I visit.”
Tony grunted. “Odd choice. I thought you’d be talking about this new shaman grievance.”
“We were.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose.
“I asked who’s stirring things up with the women,” Jimmy said.
“And he pointed you to Troy Harbor?”
Jimmy nodded.
“You gonna talk to Maisie McIlheny?”
“Eventually. I owe her that much,” Jimmy said.
“Before she runs into the arbitrators?” Tony asked.
“Doubt we’ll be on speaking terms after.”
Tony gave a small nod. “Probably so.” He squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “What’s got your panties in a twist over this one?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Too soon. We just did this last stanyer.”
“Davis. I remember,” Tony said.
“Before that it was five stanyers.”
“What’d Flanagan have to say?”
“Coincidence.”
“He’s probably right,” Tony said.
Jimmy shrugged.
“You don’t think so?”
“How many shamans we have?” Jimmy asked.
Tony frowned. “Dunno off hand. Did you ask Stella?”
“I did. She said around four thousand.”
Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a bigger number than I’d have expected.”
“I thought so too until I realized we’ve got—what? Close to ten thousand villages scattered around, between us and Allied Ag?”
“The planet isn’t that big, is it?” Tony asked.
Jimmy shrugged. “We’d have one every five kilometers around the equator but the shoreline’s a lot longer and Allied has villages scattered all over the high plateau and eastern islands. Total population is probably three million.”
Tony frowned. “Makes shamans a pretty small percentage.”
“Seems like we’re spending a lot of time managing a small population,” Jimmy said. “Thing is, we need them.”
Tony nodded. “Probably could use more.”
“Fewer than half the villages have a resident shaman,” Jimmy said.
“Well, given those distribution numbers, at least half of them must only have a dozen residents,” Tony said. “We’ve got almost two thousand here at the inlet. Next biggest center is Langille’s Point.”
Jimmy nodded. “Starvey Bay has closer to three thousand but a lot of them are Confederated Planets people running the shuttle port.”
“Where you going with all these calculations, Jimmy?”
“I’m hoping to find that the increases in women challenging the shaman rule correlates to the rise in population.”
“What? We’re getting complaints more often now because there are more women?”
“Stands to reason.”
Tony settled back in the chair and stared at a point over Jimmy’s head. “Yeah,” he said after a few moments. “Yeah, it does.” He focused on Jimmy again. “But you know what the next question is?”
Jimmy nodded again. “Why aren’t there more grievances?”
“I was going to go with ‘Where are the women shamans?’ but yours works, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Troy Harbor: September 28, 2344
STEVE MCCO
RD STEPPED out of the terminal building even before the flitter’s fans had spun down. He tilted his head against the wind and shielded his eyes with one upraised hand. Jimmy popped the seat-belt release when the pilot gave him the all-clear and opened the door. A gust of salty air off the bay swept the cabin and McCord stepped up to hold the door open. Jimmy stepped down, offering his hand. “Steve.”
“Jimmy,” Steve shook the hand and let the flitter door thunk closed. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I’m not sure. Can we get in out of the wind? Someplace we can have a little chat?”
A cloud seemed to pass over McCord’s face. “Of course. My office is just across the way.” He led the way around the terminal and across a street that seemed to run in a straight line from the single long, stone pier to a tram terminal reclining at the foot of the bluff. The wind plucked at their clothes. McCord held his hat down with one hand. “Welcome to Troy Harbor.” He grinned at Jimmy. “Damn street is a wind tunnel this time of year.”
Jimmy found himself grinning back. The summer warmth hadn’t abandoned the land yet and he found the brisk wind lifting his spirit rather than chilling him to the bone.
McCord held the door so Jimmy could enter the one-story utility building on the far side of the street. “Ain’t much but it’s where I hang my hat,” he said. “Coffee?”
Jimmy nodded. “Wouldn’t turn it down.”
McCord took him to a tiny kitchenette just off the main hall. “Nothing fancy. Just me here these days.” He pointed to a table against the wall, a white laminate surface with the odd ding and burn mark on it. “Have a seat.”
Jimmy pulled out a chair and sat down, feeling more like he’d stepped into a time warp than a Pirano Fisheries office building. “Where’s your staff?”
McCord grinned over his shoulder. “Personnel and finance are up the street. We took over one of the old warehouses a couple of stanyers ago and moved them. Gives all of us more room.” He brought two cups of black coffee over to the table and took a seat. He slid one of the cups across to Jimmy and took a sip from his own. He raised an eyebrow at Jimmy.
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