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“Excellent choices. Where you wanna go?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. I plan to spend some time looking up nice restaurants. Burnside relieves me at noon and then I can grab a few stans sleep before we go out at—say 19:00?”

“Good plan. Now I need to get some sleep.”

“Sleep well, Ishmael, and…thanks. Twelve and twelve is a sucky schedule, so thanks.”

I shrugged it off and stifled a yawn with my arm. “You’re welcome.”

Somehow I got back to my stateroom and into my bunk. I don’t remember getting out of my shipsuit even. All I remember is the cool sheets on my arms and legs and the soft pillow on my cheek. It had been a long, long day and I fell into a deep pool of sleep.

What is it about the sound of running water that sets up a sympathetic resonance with my bladder? The familiar pressure pushed me up from a cozy dream and over the threshold to consciousness. I heard the shower running in the head and realized that Arletta must have gotten off watch. The thought of her wet and slippery in the shower was deliciously agonizing and I hoped she wasn’t going to be too long because that running water was interfering with my more pleasant mental muzziness.

She was quick, and in a matter of a few ticks I heard the door close on her side of the head. I grabbed the shower, while it was still warm, and in less than ten ticks I was in my civvies and heading for the lock. Other than the buying trip for Vorhees, I hadn’t been off the ship since we left Diurnia and I was more than ready for a good walk about.

I headed toward the lift. The icy crispness of the dock air always felt good after being locked up aboard for weeks. Even the faint tang of hydraulic fluid and ozone smelt good. My warm jacket provided plenty of protection for the short time I was going to be passing through and it felt good to stretch my legs out after twelve weeks in a can.

When I got to the lift I had to make a choice. Food was my first order of business and I wanted breakfast. It had just gone 12:30 and I still had about six stans before I needed to meet Arletta for her first mate celebration. I punched Oh-two and dropped down to the spacer areas. I was looking for something particular and I was pretty sure I knew where to find it.

It didn’t really matter what time you went to the Oh-two Deck or what orbital you were docked at, there was always something going on. I followed the passage to port and walked around the station letting my nose lead me. I didn’t have to go too far before the aroma of coffee and bacon led me to a hole in the wall diner tucked between two bars. The sign on the door said, “Cackleberries.”

The place was exactly what I was looking for: chromed, clean, and sporting red tinted table- and countertops. Round-bellied coffee pots lined up behind the counter and a pass-through gave access to the kitchen behind. There were a few people scattered at the tables and a half-dozen spacers lined up on the bar stools at the counter.

I threw a leg over an empty stool and snagged the menu from the small chrome holder at the back of the counter. The waitress came over and slid a heavy mug in front of me and held up one of the fat bellied pots with a look that asked the question. I nodded my answer and she poured expertly, leaving just a bit of room for milk and turned to slip the pot back onto a warmer behind her.

“Yanno whatcha want?” she asked with a practiced smile.

I scanned the menu and said, “Yeah. Three eggs over easy, potatoes, three rashers, and two slices of wheat toast.”

She scribbled it onto her pad and slapped the order onto the pass-through before I’d even drawn my breath back.

“Be right up, hon,” she said and went to warm the cups down the counter.

For as much as I really did love Cookie’s omelets back on the
Lois
, this breakfast was a tie to those of my childhood back on Neris. Every Sunday my mother and I would hit that place in Neris Port. She’d have blueberry pancakes, and I’d have sloppy eggs and bacon. Jo-Ann’s Kitchen. That was the name.

The waitress startled me when she skidded the plate expertly, landing it right under my nose and providing a grin along with an expert splash to top my cup. I took a deep breath, grabbed a fork and lost myself in velvety yolk, crunchy bacon, perfectly browned potatoes, and buttery wheat toast. It was wonderful, and in what felt like only seconds, it was gone.

Looking down, and the plate was cleaned to its glaze with just the faintest smear of egg across one side. There was still half a slab of toast so I leaned back and nibbled it slowly.

“Long run, huh?” the server asked with a grin.

I took a deep breath and said, “Yeah.”

“Don’t feel bad. Happens ten times a day here,” she said with a wink. “You’d be surprised.”

I sat there thinking about going for another round but decided that I’d let this one actually hit my stomach before I tossed more in behind it. The coffee was good and the toast was excellent. It didn’t last very long and I drained my coffee cup as well. She handed me the tab, I added a hefty tip, and punched my thumb onto the pay button. “That was great,” I told her. “I expect I’ll be back.”

She gave me a lopsided grin. “You do that, hon, and bring ya friends.”

By the time I was up off the stool the dishes were gone and the counter cleaned.

I stepped out into the main passage and realized that the smell of bacon was stronger outside than in. I chuckled. Clever, but I couldn’t help but think what that was doing to the port’s scrubbers. On second thought, as I watched the press of bodies and took in the various aromas around me, maybe it wasn’t such an additional load after all.

I let the swirl of people pull me along. It was a good time to check out the local stomping grounds. I didn’t have anything in particular that I wanted to do, but when the time came that I did, it would be good to know what was where. Somewhere under me, I knew there were residence decks where the people who worked on the station found living quarters, along with transient hostels for crew caught between ships. Often those same people who worked on the station were indeed crew who had gotten caught between ships. On a confederated planet, you couldn’t get deported for not having a job, but you could be left homeless and starving if you couldn’t buy food or shelter. It was an interesting juxtaposition.

I’d made it almost all the way around the station by the time I found the pub, and it was predictably to the port of the lift while the main dance club was to starboard. I also located a couple of interesting shops that sold clothing, entertainment cubes, and food stuffs—not restaurants but more like grocery stores. That got me thinking about Cookie and Henri Roubaille, and I found that I missed my old life on the
Lois McKendrick
so badly that it took my breath away for just a moment.

I went into the pub—The Corner—and took a seat at the bar. The barkeep was an older man with a close cropped beard with a lot of gray in it, no hair at all on his pate, and a pair of startlingly green eyes in the middle. “What’s yer pleasure, then?” he asked by way of welcome.

“Something in a light ale. Local if you have it, but I’m not fussy.”

He grinned and pulled a short pint full of a golden ale and placed it on a coaster in front of me. “Try that, then, bucko, and tell me what you think.”

I took a sip and it was just the ticket. I realized I’d been walking around the station for over a stan, and I was thirstier than I’d realized.

“Very nice!” I said.

“Local hops and malt. An everyday ale for mid day whistle whetting. Long on flavor and short on kick.”

I savored another sip and asked, “And what is this miracle of the brewer’s art called? In case I’d like to order some more?”

He grinned. “We call that one ‘Midday Whistle Whetter.’”

I blinked at him, trying go judge if he was having me on. He pointed to the chalked sign behind the bar and sure enough there was “Midday Whistle Whetter Ale” along with a “Wonder Wheat” and one named “Call it a Day Working Man’s Porter.”

The names drew a chuckle out of me almost despite myself. “Cute names,” I said at last.

“Ah, well, too often people are tied up on the what when they’re really lookin’ at the when, don’t cha know.” He nodded at the sign. “There’s a few snobby people want a particular kind of brew—Golden Malt Five Hops Dragon Piss or some such. But most folks come in for a pint because it’s time for a brew—middle of the day, end of the day, sometimes just because. I make it easy for ’em by naming the beer after the occasion.”

“It worked for me,” I said giving the man his due.

“Works for most. Down here, if you come to my pub, you’re usually looking for someplace quiet, off the ship, away from the crowd, and you drink a beer as rental on the stool.” He shrugged as if it were all very obvious, and I suppose it was.

I settled down to think. I wasn’t out of the woods in spite of the past few days of respite. I knew David Burnside wasn’t going to go away, and I was relatively certain that he’d try something more dramatic than a punch in the gut. The ship was slipping out of his grip. His plaything had been taken away. The crew was acting more a like a crew and less like a herd of wounded rabbits. With the food, if not up to Cookie’s standards, at least better than it had been, there was going to be one more thing for David Burnside to blame on me. Sooner or later, I knew he was going to have to slap me down. I did not look forward to that at all.

The beer was a good sipping beer and the barkeep—his name tag read “Brian”—knew to stand back while a man was pondering in his beer. He offered a second when I got down to the bottom of my first, but by then I needed to get moving. I thumbed the tab and used the facilities before heading back out to the main passage. It was coming up on 16:00 and I still had no idea about what to do when we got underway again.

My feet carried me idly around, closing the circle returning me to the lift. I stopped once and looked in a shop’s grated and reinforced window. Inside were weapons—contact weapons: projectile throwers, blades—lots of blades—billy clubs, and coshes. I stood there looking at them for maybe three full ticks before realizing what I had been doing. I sighed and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. I couldn’t believe they’d pushed me this far. I turned on my heel and walked away.

Here thar be dragons
, I thought.
And those dragons will bite you in the butt.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
B
REAKALL
O
RBITAL
2358-
S
EPTEMBER-11

When the lift doors opened, I stepped out into a world I’d almost forgotten—the flea market. According to the chrono I still had almost a stan before they closed the doors on another day and I heard Pip’s voice in my ears saying, “Better deals in the afternoon.” I set out through the sea of booths, a bizarre bazaar of crap, craft, and kitsch.

Breakall was a corporate system. That limited the mix of goods available in the flea market to items that the planet could produce, but sometimes yielded unexpected treasures. It had been more than five stanyers since I’d helped organize the old McKendrick Mercantile Cooperative in order for the crew of the
Lois
to have a safe place to sell. I wondered how that was doing. It had been almost that long since I’d been in the flea myself. I didn’t have cash to spare while I was at the academy and never even tried private trading on my summer cruises.

As I sauntered along the long rows of booths, nothing really caught my eye. I kept thinking of my extra mass allotment and wondered how I could capitalize on it. Half the fun of private trading was the hunt for trade goods. “Low mass, high value,” I mumbled to myself with a grin.

In what seemed like no time at all I heard the ping-ping-pong of the closing bell and joined the throng heading for the exit. On the one hand I felt mildly disappointed that I hadn’t managed to find anything to buy, and on the other, I had enough on my plate without trying to play the trade game. Mostly, I missed Bev and wondered how she was doing on her family’s ship.

“Hello, Mr. Wang!” A woman’s voice speared me from my reverie and I turned to see Ulla Nart and Penny Davies walking up beside me.

“Hello, Ms. Nart, Ms. Davies. Enjoying your day off?” There was just something about those two that made me want to grin. They wore jeans, pullover tops, sensible shoes, and each toted a small carryall. “Buy anything good?”

They looked at each other and giggled. “Well, we hope so, sar,” Ulla said.

“Trade goods to take back to Diurnia,” Penny added.

“It must be hard to find things on one system that would be in demand on the next. You cover the same ports all the time.”

They shrugged in unison.

“Yes, sar,” Ulla said. “But we have fun looking. And it’s something to do.”

“Big plans for tonight?” I asked. “It’s last night in port and all.”

“We’ve been talking about heading down to the club later for a little dancing, sar,” Ulla said after a few heartbeats. The expression on her face said she might be doing more than a little dancing later.