Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) (78 page)

When we got to the main console she ran a hand across the back of the chair, and looked around, jocularity gone from her face, but still smiling pleasantly, her gaze darting from corner to overhead, fusactor to grav generators as she surveyed the domain. Her eyes locked on the scrubbers, and she crossed to the unit, placing a hand on the cover as if to gauge its temperature.

She looked at me over her shoulder. “May I, Captain?”

“Of course, Chief.”

In seconds she had the case open, and her birdlike gaze raked through the interior workings, her nose and eyes working hard even as she folded her hands behind the small of her back. She stepped back and nodded once, turning on her heel, hands still clasped behind her. “Spares?”

I nodded toward the spares locker. “This way.” I led her into the locker, and she surveyed the bins and boxes with a critical eye before stopping at the filter cartridges.

“Shall we fix it now or were you hoping to interview more engineers?” she asked with grin that crinkled her entire face.

I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. She was that kind of elemental force. “I think my engineer has found me,” I told her. “We should probably fix it so we can begin airing out the ship before the passengers start coming aboard.”

She snaked two filters out of the bin, and tossed them to me before I finished speaking. I caught them as she grabbed two more, and scurried back to the scrubber. I dropped my two on the deck beside the unit, and went back to grab a trash-tote. I got back with it just as she pulled the first of the oldest filters from the rack, drawing the heavy, sodden mass easily with one hand, and easing it neatly into the tote without slopping a drop of scrubber slime.

She saw me looking at her in obvious admiration. “What? You think I’m old and weak?” Her voice teased as much as chided.

I had to chuckle. “Not at all. I can’t change one of those things without getting slime all over me, the deck, the unit, and everything in a three meter radius.”

She laughed. “Watch and learn, my boy. Watch and learn.”

Chapter Seventy-Five
Greenfields Orbital:
2373-July-9

With a couple extra days in port, I took a look at the cargo priorities, and re-ran some of my models. The analysis kept me from thinking about Greta, but it also gave me some interesting ideas about routing. Greenfields, in particular, served as a kind of secondary hub for the quadrant.

Diurnia had two Confederation ports—Diurnia and Dree. Typically, when the Confederation establishes a second port in a quadrant, they situate them some distance apart to provide focus for commercial activity around the quadrant. For most cargo ships, Diurnia and Dree were adjacent ports which left the largest part of the quadrant a long way out. The Greenfields Orbital appeared to have developed into a
de facto
hub. It was the most distant developed system from Diurnia, and Greenfields Corporation manufactured consumer goods. As a result Greenfields required a lot of imports for raw materials and food. Their factories occupied orbital platforms and planetary development consisted of some mining for rare earths and precious metals, small farming operations, and habitation. The digitals I’d seen of it showed an attractive, low population planet that was a long way from primitive. A few fast packets serviced the area, but generally the passage to Diurnia took the form of a slow series of jumps around the string of systems that made up the quadrant. As nearly as I could tell, nobody took the double or triple jump through the Deep Dark that would cut months off the Diurnia run for a cargo ship. I found that curious, and filed it away for future investigation.

My analysis led me to focus on Diurnia, and I picked up a priority shipment of communications parts that nearly filled the holds in a matter of stans. The passenger list filled nearly as quickly. Within half a day of getting Chief Stevens settled aboard, we had all we needed to leave Greenfields.

Ms. Maloney and Ms. Arellone took care of sorting out Greta’s personal effects. At one point, Ms. Arellone found me in the cabin and asked, “Skipper? We’re about to pack up Chief Gerheart’s things. Would you like to see if there’s anything you might like to hold on to?” she smiled gently, if somewhat tentatively.

My brain screamed at the thought, but something in my heart made me get up and follow her down the passage to crew berthing. The extra grav trunk took up a lot of the floor space. The closed top held a variety of trinkets, some small tools, her pocket flash. I started to reach for the flashlight when I spotted a rough figure carved in wood.

The whelkie had the shape of a seabird, perhaps a petrel or some other slender winged gull. It wasn’t a bird I recognized off-hand, and the rough style provided few details beyond the general sense of identity. I picked it up and rolled it in the light watching the overheads glint off the rich purple of the heart shell inlay that gave the carvings their name.

The tears came again then, blurring my sight, and rolling down my face.

“Thank you, Ms. Arellone,” I said when my voice would respond. “I’ll take this, if I may?”

She shrugged and nodded.

I wrapped my fingers around the bird, feeling the sharp edges of the wood, the points of the bill and wings pressing against my skin. I turned and left, walking forward toward the cabin, but climbing the ladder to the bridge instead. The harsh reflected light of the orbital cast deep shadows in the tiny bridge, but the armorglass gave me a view aft, out through the bustling traffic and into the depths of the sparkling darkness beyond.

Standing there, gazing into the eternal night, holding the whelkie I hadn’t known she had, I finally said good-bye to her. I knew the sapphire daggers of her eyes had scarred me, and that I would carry those scars for the rest of my life. Staring out into the void, tears making it impossible to see anything clearly for any length of time, turning the ocean of stars into a rippling sea of lights against the black, something my mother used to say came back to me. “Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” I murmured to myself.

Growing up, that had always seemed like such an empty, sour-grapes kind of saying. As a callow, romantic youth, I couldn’t imagine how it might be that having your heart ripped out by losing a love might be better than side-stepping the problem in the first place. I remembered arguing with her about it one afternoon over coffee. She had smiled that irritating smile she had, and said only, “Someday.” I smiled as I remembered how much I hated that smile.

Standing there, decades later, the raw wound gaping figuratively in my chest, I stared out into the cold, dark future, and realized that someday had come.

Unbidden my hand reached into the pocket of my shipsuit and pulled out my dolphin. The oils from my skin had stained it, burnishing it a deep nutty color that looked black in the darkness. I held it up and turned it back and forth beside the sea bird, the lights glinting from each polished heart. Sarah Krugg once told me that whelkies knew where they needed to go, that they had to be given, but that they had power to guide and protect. I pondered that as the salt tracks dried and tightened on my face.

I slipped the dolphin back into my pocket, and picked my way down the ladder. In the cabin, I placed the sea bird on the console near my keyboard, and went into the head to wash my face. Cargo would be coming aboard and passengers shortly after. I needed to be ready.

The timing was tight. Cargo wranglers showed up 1000, and were still putting the final cubes aboard as the first of the passengers arrived—a pair of business types, a woman and her assistant. I welcomed them aboard, and stood with them just inside the main lock, out of the path of the rushing cargo handlers. The woman, Melanie McArthur, watched with some interest as the handlers skated the massive cubes into the hold, and locked them down in a tightly choreographed dance that reminded me of the ants I used to watch as a boy—laden carriers coming in one line and empty ones going in another. The assistant, Sandra Rangel, looked irritated at the delay—shifting her weight and casting poisonous glances at the pile of cubes remaining on the dock. I wondered if Ms. Rangel thought it might be her duty to look irritated on her employer’s behalf.

“Sorry for the delay, ladies,” I said as the last of the cargo handlers trundled off the ship, and I thumbed the receipt.

“I found it fascinating, Captain,” Ms. McArthur said with a smile. She had a rich, throaty voice. I liked her immediately.

I helped them maneuver their luggage onto the lift, and keyed the hydraulics. Ms. Rangel started as the deck started rising beneath her, but Ms. McArthur beamed in delight. Ms. Maloney waited on the upper deck and I left our passengers in her capable hands while I secured the main lock, cutting off the flow of frigid air from the docks. Within a stan, all the passengers had come aboard for the run to Diurnia. I sealed the lock for departure just before lunch.

When I got to the top of the ladder the passage seemed crowded as Ms. Arellone and Ms. Maloney helped settle the passengers. I stepped into the galley to clear the passage, and found Chief Stevens holding court with Ms. McArthur and Ms. Rangel.

Lunch mess looked nearly ready to serve, and as the chrono clicked up to noon, Ms. Maloney strode into the galley and proceeded to do just that. The passengers, two couples—the Kilpatricks and the Usagis—and a father-son pair, the Bryants, trickled into the galley. Ms. Arellone herded the loose pack of passengers from behind. We got them seated by the time Ms. Maloney had luncheon on the table.

I surveyed our party and felt proud of myself for keeping my face in an expression that I hoped was pleasantly neutral. Chief Stevens sat to my right, Ms Arellone to my left with Ms. Maloney beyond her. The passengers all sat around the far end of the table in seats that would, no doubt, be permanent for the duration of the voyage. We had seen it often enough. Chief Stevens smiled at me, and I found myself smiling back at her. She was only a little older than my mother would have been but there was something inherently grandmotherly about her. Ms. McArthur seemed sociable, nodding around to the newcomers, but Ms. Rangel kept her expression closed, pretending to attend to her boss. The two couples, both in some indeterminate age between forty and sixty seemed pleasant enough. Mr. Bryant, the senior, likewise seemed pleasant, but his son appeared by turns intensely curious, incredibly bored, and just a bit angry.

When they’d checked aboard, his father had asked to stow two extra grav trunks of the son’s goods in cargo. “Taking him to school,” he’d said, pride ringing in his voice.

“You don’t really need to escort me, you know?” his son responded in what sounded like a longstanding argument.

“Of course not, Joshua, but it’s something I want to do. I haven’t seen the place since I graduated, and I’d like to get back, renew my old memories.” He smiled fondly at the youth. “When you’ve got kids of your own, you’ll see.” He turned to me. “He’s going to Duncan,” he explained. “Duncan Institute of Management? On Diurnia?”

I nodded in a manner that I hoped was appreciative. “Excellent school, I understand.” I had no idea personally, but he obviously thought so. I was in no position to argue. We stowed the trunks in the cargo hold, and I sent them up to find their compartment.

With that background, the son’s near petulance seemed understandable. He kept giving Ms. Arellone small glances out of the corner of his eye, and I admired his ambition, if not his judgment.

Ms. Maloney served a soup, salad, and sandwich luncheon with a delightful cobbler and ice cream for dessert.

Ms. Rangel declined the soup at first. “Vegetarian, I’m afraid.” She looked at Ms. Maloney with something like a challenge.

Ms. Maloney smiled. “Not to worry. It’s a meatless minestrone with my own vegetable stock. Please enjoy.”

Ms. McArthur arched an eyebrow at her protégé who flushed under the scrutiny, and said no more. She finished the soup, and had several slices of Ms. Maloney’s crusty bread. At the end of the meal, she didn’t look quite so angry.

When I caught Ms. Maloney’s eye she gave me a wink, and a small nod. I gave her a smile in acknowledgment, and toasted her with my mug.

As the meal worked its way toward conclusion, the group seemed to loosen up a bit. Ms. Maloney did a spectacular job of breaking the ice, performing the introductions, and generally keeping the conversation moving. Knowing my pattern, she turned to me during one of the final lulls, and I raised my mug to the table which brought residual conversation to an end. All eyes turned to me.

“Welcome aboard!” I said. “Thanks for joining us. We’re looking forward to a safe and speedy voyage to Diurnia.” I caught each of them by the eyes briefly, and smiled. “Ms. Maloney is our chef and chief steward. You’ve already seen her in action. Ms. Arellone will be assisting me in sailing the ship from here to there. Chief Stevens is in charge of the engineering department which includes environmental. If any of us can make your voyage more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

I paused, and most of them smiled around to the various members of the crew.

“I have a ritual that I follow before getting underway, and I’m happy to share it with you.” I turned to the chief. “Chief Stevens? Are we tanked on water and fuel?”