A Star Wheeled Sky

by Brad R Torgersen

  “You want to move to another ship?” Captain Loper asked, only half joking.

  “No,” Wyodreth said, groaning the word. “What would be the point? Dad always used to say to me, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ I’d rather have Lady Oswight and Zoam Kalbi somewhere I can keep an eye on them. If they’re here, I’d better damned well be here too. For the sake of corporate public relations, if nothing else.”

  Captain Loper nodded his understanding, then turned and pushed off with his toes, expertly gliding through the hatch into the command module proper. Wyodreth followed suit, and soon found himself sitting at one of the free workstations, using a keyboard and headset to talk to the captains of the other two ships under his control. Unlike the ships of the DSOD, none of Antagean’s ships carried names. The family owned close to two dozen of them, with operational hubs in three different systems, including the current one. To Wyograd Antagean, a ship was simply a means to an end. He did not romanticize the starliner life. He merely stated—for Wyodreth’s sake—the necessity of knowing all the bits and pieces. How each ship moved from star to star, and port to port. Maintenance schedules. Spare parts. Creating and maintaining separate depots across Constellar space, which would warehouse and service the various modules forever being grafted onto, and then pulled off, the spines of the starliners themselves.

  Because a ship in the modern sense was not a whole thing. It was actually bunches of little, practically self-contained things—each and every item riding on the backbone of the ship, to be swapped out, serviced, and replaced at various intervals. There were modules on the present starliner which were older than Wyograd Antagean himself, as well as modules which had only come into service within the past two years. By the time a given starliner had seen two decades or more of service, easily seventy percent of itself had been turned over in the constant process of replacement and refurbishment.

  So, the three starliners joining Admiral Mikton’s fleet had Constellar commercial registry numbers. Nothing more.

  It took the better part of an hour to confirm that all three ships had finally taken on the last of their cargo and passengers, and could now be released from their docks. There was no fanfare for such an event. No wharf filled with spectators, all waving goodbye. The ships merely withdrew from their cradles—noses coming unclamped from the standardized hardpoints built into the surface of the asteroid moon, which doubled as a space station. Negligible gravity meant that each starliner could maneuver easily on reaction thrusters alone. They wouldn’t start up the main motors until they were well clear of the dockyard’s minimum safety radius. And, then, only for as much thrust as was needed to nudge each of the three ships into their assigned places within the Task Group formation.

  Along the way, Wyodreth fielded calls from his own people and DSOD personnel alike. On several occasions, he found himself directly speaking with Commodore Urrl, aboard the Catapult, who seemed to be the main orchestrator of things. As always when in uniform, Wyodreth found himself lapsing into the familiar tones and wording of explicitly military dialogue.

  “They’ve sweated it into you,” Wyograd Antagean had said one day, after overhearing his son discuss a matter of company logistics—while unconsciously using DSOD jargon.

  “What do you mean?” Wyodreth had asked.

  “Like a piece of shopworn leather,” Wyograd had continued. “You keep the shape they want, even when you’re not in use.”

  Wyodreth had never been entirely comfortable with that assessment. But now, as he prepared to lead his father’s ships across many light-years to an unknown system of worlds circling an unknown star, Wyodreth had to admit his father had been correct. The DSOD’s officer training program had left its mark. Wyodreth—who preferred being a civilian—couldn’t help but notice in his behavior, and in the sound of his voice, the quality which his father had first noticed years earlier.

  For the voyage out to the Waypoint, the three Antagean ships formed a flat-plane triangle. To the left and to the right were the two DSOD scouts—the Gouger and the Tarinock—with Mikton’s flagship Catapult riding herd above, and the Oswight yacht Hallibrand passing below. As a Task Group, they synchronized their reactor ignitions and throttling so that this formation was kept coherent within a cubic space no larger than five kilometers to a side. There were no checks out portholes, nor sightings performed from any masts. Everything the pilots of each spacecraft needed to know was collected by the labyrinthine nest of gadgets and electronics which made up each ship’s sensor module.

  The scouts, of course, had more than one sensor module, and each of those was much more robust than anything Antagean Starlines had ever placed on any of its ships.

  When they reached the far side of the Waypoint, those scouts—along with the monitor, Daffodil—would be the long-range eyes and ears of the Task Group.

  Until then, however, there was little to do but wait. It would be many days before they reached the transit radius of the Waypoint. Time enough for Wyodreth and the other visitors to settle into their various cabins and dormitory compartments, take care of whatever sorting and tidying hadn’t been handled on the ground, and get better acquainted with each other—as well as the plan for the mission ahead.

  Satisfied that all three of his father’s ships were performing normally, Wyodreth finally took off his headset and—with his old compatriot, Captain Loper—retired to the section of the galley module which had been cordoned off for distinguished guests, as well as ranking civilian and military personnel. There were no set meal times aboard the liner. Merely people getting on and off shift, taking breaks, or stealing a moment to find a snack. The galley module itself was overflowing with a variety of foodstuffs and prepackaged meals, all preserved against both decay and potential vacuum decompression.

  People took what they wanted from the dial-to-order dispensers, making cold and hot portions available at all hours.

  It wasn’t gourmet. But then, it wasn’t slop, either. A fact which Wyodreth had come to appreciate during his “sea legs” period, as a young man. And at many points afterward.

  His only specific regret in the moment was having to muster the courage to face the two people onboard whom he least wanted to face—and present himself as having a good time while doing it.

  Chapter 7

  Elvin Axabrast was unhappy. Of that, there could be no question. Garsina Oswight had known that he would not approve of her self-reassignment—ship to ship—during the flight from Planet Oswight’s surface. The old jack-of-all-trades body servant had been in Family Oswight’s employ since before Garsina herself had been born. Stubborn. Overly cautious. He’d been the one piece of freight Garsina knew she couldn’t throw off the moment she was out of her father’s sight. And now that they were finally speeding toward the distant Waypoint, massaging Elvin’s ruffled feathers was going to be a major chore.

  “It’s been a long time since you went to space,” Garsina said to the old servant, across the small galley table where they sat. The civilian ship was thrusting at a comfortable half gee, giving everyone aboard the luxury of things sticking where you put them. Including plates and containers filled with food, drinking bottles, and disposable utensils.

  “Aye,” Elvin said monosyllabically before sporking another hunk of meat and vegetable cake into his mouth.

  “I would think even you might get excited for the change of pace,” Garsina continued, hoping to get the man talking—versus merely glowering.

  “Excitement is fine,” he said, “when there’s no one around to look out for.”

  “You could have just gone home, Elvin. If I’d ordered you to remain aboard the clipper, after it undocked, would you have obeyed me?”

  “Not a chance! Your father would have boiled me in oil.”

  “My father still thinks I’m fourteen years old.”

  “You are fourteen years old. At least in his eyes.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never been a father.”

 
Elvin’s eyes suddenly looked pained, and he went back to putting bites of his meal into his face.

  “Sorry,” Garsina said. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I know your wife died with the baby who was never born.”

  “Yourself and your two brothers were all the children I ever needed.”

  “And your overwatch has been most appreciated, Elvin. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. My brothers and I…we love you, as much as anyone can love someone not by blood. But there comes a time when you have to let us go. All of us. You didn’t seem to have a problem with my brothers being sent abroad.”

  “Going to the capital on Family business is not the same thing as shipping out for hostile territory,” the old man said, finally putting his spork down, and lacing his thick fingers together under his bearded chin. “You have to remember what I saw during my days in the war. Terrible stuff, aye. Blood, and death. That’s nothing I’d want you to have to experience, ma’am. No matter how eager you are to strike out on your own, and make your mark.”

  Suddenly, there was a third person standing at the galley table’s edge. He was shorter than most men, with a slight chin, and a hint of moustache and goatee on his face. His clothing was designer brand. Expensive. While his manner seemed extraordinarily nonchalant for someone interrupting the private conversation of a First Family member.

  “I am so terribly sorry to intrude, Lady Oswight,” the man said, his voice a bit on the high and nasal side. “But I’ve been looking for a chance to talk to you, ever since I came aboard.”

  “You want I should make him piss off?” Elvin growled.

  “No,” Garsina said. “This isn’t the Family yacht. We need to be mannerly. Don’t you recognize who this is? He’s the infotainer who came to do an extensive exposé on Planet Oswight’s orbital manufacturing facilities. Mister…Kalbi, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve read me,” the man said, performing a small bow at the shoulders.

  “Seen you,” Garsina corrected, but with a smile. “I wasn’t aware that the DSOD had granted permission for informationalists to accompany this mission.”

  “I consider it an act of providence that I happened to be visiting your world at the precise period when the new Waypoint appeared in Constellar’s skies. There will be many infotainers eager to claim their piece of fame regarding this system we’re going to explore. But only one person gets to write the history of the first expedition.”

  Elvin grunted unhappily. Garsina reached out a hand and put it over the old man’s fist, as it clenched on the table’s surface.

  “You’ll have to forgive Mister Axabrast. His job is to ensure that I am kept happy and safe. Not every infotainer in Constellar has been kind to the First Families. Especially Family Oswight.”

  “An adversarial attitude comes with the territory in my profession, Lady Oswight. Where the First Families are concerned, the concentration of so much wealth and influence into so few hands has always been cause for extraordinary scrutiny. Nevertheless, I am not here to pester you about your Family’s dirty laundry. I only have eyes for the adventure ahead. And I’d rather we participate on friendly terms, since I’ll be covering you—indeed, everyone who is part of this mission—until our return to Constellar space.”

  “I think that’s a very professional attitude,” Garsina said.

  Elvin still didn’t seem convinced.

  “Thank you, Lady Oswight,” Zoam said, doing another small bow at the shoulders.

  A man somewhat older than Zoam, but much younger than Elvin—and wearing a slightly-too-big DSOD blue-and-yellow uniform—appeared at the opposite side of the table. He was tall, with a face that featured both a strong chin and intelligent eyes—surrounded by premature wrinkles. Those eyes quickly surveyed the three of them before the officer spoke.

  “Lady,” the man said, imitating Zoam’s shoulder-level bow. “I wanted to make sure that you’re satisfied with your accommodations up to this point.”

  The officer’s voice had a practiced quality to it, at a pleasantly low, masculine register. Very different from Zoam’s.

  “Yes indeed,” Garsina said, spying the rank pin on the DSOD man’s collar. “It was very generous of the ship’s captain to offer us the executive suite. Myself and Mister Axabrast would have been satisfied with business-class cabins, just to make you aware. So the added luxury has not gone unnoticed.”

  “Excellent,” the man—lieutenant commander?—said smoothly. “If there is anything I or any other Antagean crewmember can do to make your journey more comfortable, please let me know.”

  Garsina’s brow knit, but only for a moment. Then she snapped her fingers and exclaimed, “You’re the son of Wyograd Antagean! I saw you briefly before we boarded our clippers.”

  “Wyodreth Antagean,” Zoam said, his tone polite, but with just a bit edge on his words. “You were the other person I specifically wanted to introduce myself to.”

  “At your service,” Wyodreth said formally.

  “As this expedition’s informationalist,” Zoam said, “I am hoping to have access to your ship’s crew.”

  “For what purpose?” Wyodreth asked.

  “I intend to live-document our expedition as thoroughly as possible. Including the thoughts and feelings of the civilians who have been…ah, how best to put it? Commandeered, for the voyage. Members of the military—yourself included—have an expectation upon them, regarding duty. But your crew? Today they find themselves compulsory participants in an adventure which might prove to be extremely dangerous. I’d like to see how they feel about that.”

  “You’re welcome to talk to anyone you wish,” Wyodreth said, keeping his tone professional, “provided you do it off the clock. They’ve got enough adjustments to make, adapting to a heightened readiness status. Without having an infotainer poking around in their work while they’re on-shift.”

  “That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Zoam replied, his eyes never blinking.

  Those eyes, Garsina thought to herself. There was something about them she couldn’t quite put her finger on. If there had been tension on account of Elvin’s generally crusty demeanor, the flavor of the air had changed again with Antagean’s arrival. He clearly had no love for Zoam Kalbi. But why? The infotainer’s demeanor had been perfectly reasonable so far. Yet, he seemed to be setting something off, for both Axabrast and Antagean alike. Could it simply be a male thing? Garsina was experienced enough to know that some men simply didn’t mix well, regardless of the circumstances.

  After a few seconds of silence had passed, Kalbi gave Garsina another bow, and excused himself from the conversation. Wyodreth’s gaze followed the man for a few moments, then the lieutenant commander returned his attention to Garsina herself.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to be seeing a lot of him on this trip,” he said.

  “Not necessarily a bad thing, I think. Somebody is going to have to tell this story, when it’s all over.”

  “Let the infotainers tell their bloody stories,” Elvin groused, “and let the soldiers fight the bloody battles.”

  “You seem to be a man who knows more than a little about the second part,” Wyodreth said.

  “Please, have a seat,” Garsina said.

  Antagean formally sat, his back erect and his attention focused.

  “Mister Axabrast has been retained by the Family Oswight since my grandfather’s time,” she said. “Please forgive his coarseness. He was a decorated sergeant at the Battle of Faltarion.”

  “Colour Sergeant,” Elvin corrected her, his voice warm in the way a father’s voice is warm when he’s talking to a favored child. “And the Lady does me too much credit. I was at Faltarion. And also Syberestad before that. But I just did my duty. No better nor worse than anybody else who fought. The best men and women…they’re still there. Buried. Or floating as freeze-dried husks in space.”

  “If the tattoo on the back of your hand means anything,” Wyodreth said, pointing to the faded mark on the older man’s flesh, “it s
eems a bit more complicated. You’re one of the Dissenters—the people who refused First Family rule, when this was a virgin system. And the Dissenters got crushed for their trouble.”

  “I see the lad knows his history,” Elvin said, his eyes wary. “What of it?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m just a little surprised,” Wyodreth said. “I know there are many descendants of the original Dissenters who are presently working the Oswight shipyards and factories. But I’d never have expected to see a Dissenter in service to the Family Oswight proper.”

  “Not good enough for yah, am I, lad?” Elvin barked. “You’ve got a lot of nerve sitting at the Lady’s table, and passing judgment.”

  Wyodreth held up his hands, taken aback by the sudden outburst. Garsina could feel many pairs of eyes suddenly turned their way. A flush rose into her face.

  “Elvin, I’m sure that’s not what the lieutenant commander meant,” Garsina said.

  “Doesn’t matter what he bloody meant,” the older man said sternly. “He’s got no business here. This may be his ship, but while you’re aboard, he owes you his deference. Now, I suggest the lad picks up and goes, double quick, before I really lose my temper. I was fightin’ the damned Nauties with my bare fists before he was even a twinkle in his sire’s eye.”

  With that, Garsina could tell that Antagean had been dismissed from Axabrast’s attention. The majordomo plowed back into his meal, sporking bites into his mouth without looking up.