“I’ve heard that name too.” A woman who’d been quiet up to now spoke from the other end of the table. She had the kind of voice that was soft in volume but loud in body. She could whisper in a loud room, I thought, and people would stop talking. Her dirty-blonde hair was tied back in a severe bun behind her head. She was young but her face was lined, a strange combination when you first see it. Then you chalk it up to a tough life and never notice it again. She looked like she’d already been to the frontier and back a few times. “And that he operates out of the Belt.”
So, there was another half-fact confirmation of what Tony had passed along when he handed me this little assignment. For being ignorant hicks, these claimstakers seemed to know a lot. I’d thought Tony’s sending me on the slow boat to Valhalla Station a fruitless venture, a fishing expedition in an empty lake. But as usual, Tony’s instincts were pretty good.
“How do you know all this, friend?” I asked. “I ain’t seen nothin’ on the network about it. First I’ve heard of pirates outside Robert Louis Stevenson.”
“Who?” Annie was interested in a new male name.
“Writer. Pirates. Never mind.”
“Oh.”
The woman at the end of the table held my gaze a bit longer than makes most people comfortable. “You hear things.”
I returned her cool smile. “Well, you certainly do.” I paused a beat. “And Haze hears things. Me? I’m downright deaf on the topic.”
Her smile left her eyes first. I wasn’t talking like an over-the-hill émigré looking to make an unlikely fortune. Her lips dipped at the corners, just the slightest bit. I was worried I’d have to blow my cover after all. Fortunately, for her, she kept her hands on top of the table.
Jaxson’s fork scraped his metal plate.
Annie looked back and forth along the table, as if watching a tennis match.
Haze cleared her throat. “I heard it was Ceres.”
Allard made a noise that said he’d had just about enough of pirate stories.
“That’d be the obvious choice,” I said, holding the stranger’s gaze. We’d both noticed the other’s hands atop the table. She was no ordinary claimstaker either. “Which makes it an unlikely one.”
“Why the Belt?” Annie asked, enjoying the tension between me and the woman at the other end of the table.
“The Asteroid Belt separating the inner planets from the outers is the dustbin of the solar system,” the stranger said. “Refuse kicked into it from both sides.”
“Lots of places to hide in there,” I said, like we were co-teaching a course. “Lots of sensor interference.”
“That’s right,” she said.
I wondered if Annie might be developing whiplash.
“You know a lot about the Belt,” I said.
“I read a lot,” she said.
“Funny you say that.” I smiled. “Me too.”
She smiled. “Something we have in common, then.”
“Seems so. What’s your name, friend?”
“Smith. Jane Smith.”
Well, there you go. Nothing to worry about. Hail, fellow, and well met!
“Sawyer Finn,” I said. “Can I call you Jane?”
“No,” she said, doing the internal parsing of my name. “Only my friends call me Jane.”
Touché, friend, I thought. I liked her. She reminded me of someone.
“I knew a marshal like you once,” I said.
Her eyebrows arched. “Intelligent? Beautiful? Too much for you to handle?”
I winked. “She had more moxie than you’d think her slight build could manage.”
“Small in stature only, then,” she said.
“Something like that.”
She nodded. “Sounds like me, all right.”
I thought Annie might slide right off her seat.
But that was enough for today. We had another four days of close-quarters bonding ahead of us. No need to rush right for Jane’s nethers on day one. I’d leave that to Annie, if she was so inclined.
“Going so soon, Mr. Finn?” Haze asked. Jaxson seemed to relax as I stood up from the table. Allard, too. Annie looked pouty.
“The pirate thing has me a little spooked,” I said in a voice that even I didn’t believe. I nodded to Miss Smith. “Plenty of time for conversation before we get to Callisto.”
She didn’t say anything, but her eyes looked wary. Had they blinked at all since we’d begun our verbal sparring?
I showed her my back and retired to my cabin.
Chapter 9
Edith Birch • Valhalla Station, Callisto
Edith focused on the patch of bruised skin around her right eye. The ruptured vessels formed a darkening ring beginning high along the supraorbital ridge and extending around the maxilla to the zygomatic bone. But she could paint over that. The ache she could cover with pain meds till it subsided on its own. In a couple of days her skin would finish healing itself, be like new again.
The hum of the dermal regenerator sounded like the calming voice of a friend. Allowing for the backward image in the mirror, Edith drew over the darkened area carefully. An aberrant, morbid question came to mind: is this the way morticians made the dead presentable? Did it mean so much to the living to believe they could step into eternity with peaceful, perfect skin? Like it would matter in the cold dark of the grave. The corpse certainly wouldn’t care.
Under the heat of the laser tip, the epidermal layer began to soften, to lighten. She knew how to use the regenerator and to use it well. As a tool, its function was to be used. It painted predictably, layering over the bruise like a bad stain, tanning the skin until it regained an approximation of its own healthy color.
He didn’t like to be reminded.
Sometimes, as she made light brushstrokes with the laser tip, Edith felt like an artist. With satisfaction she watched the bruise disappear beneath the faux Caucasian hue. Each stroke of the laser was like a maestro conducting a symphony. The regenerator gave her control over the damaged skin. It bent the bruise to her will. Covering it up made Edith feel accomplished.
A snorting noise came from the bedroom behind her, breaking the spell she’d woven in the mirror. She snapped off the laser and pulled up the time on her retinal display. Luther wasn’t due to be awake for another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to finish here and get breakfast cooking. He liked to wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs—said it made him feel like a kid again. But if he woke too soon, his disappointment would set the tone for the rest of the day.
Edith fired up the laser again, pushing aside the artist fantasy in favor of an expert’s pragmatism. Speed was her friend now. She widened the head of the beam to cover more skin with each stroke, making wide swaths over her eyelid. The warmth felt comforting, soothing. Only when she got close to the eyeball itself did she slow down again, narrow the beam. It wouldn’t do to cut into the sclera. Breakfast would certainly be late then.
Unacceptable.
The snorting came again, but this time the covers shifted. It was something Edith had learned to listen for. Luther turned over onto his side, ensuring another few minutes of sleep. Another glance at the time: twelve minutes left. Just enough time to get breakfast going so that it was half cooked and filling their pod with the wondrous smells of powdered, rehydrated food. How they’d built the scent of frying bacon and scrambling eggs into the powder, Edith had no idea.
She turned her head first left, then right, checking her handiwork. Even close up it was hard to tell. Allowing herself a slim smile of victory, Edith unplugged the regenerator and placed it in a drawer beneath her tampons, where she knew he’d never go looking.
He didn’t like to be reminded.
Knowing the secret of the tool’s location—something Luther didn’t know—made Edith feel powerful. Like there was a tiny island inside herself no one else could find.
In the kitchen, she was careful to lift a smaller pot off the skillet first before pulling the skillet itself from the cabinet. That minimized the noise. Pla
cing it lightly on the small stovetop, she poured a spoonful of cooking oil in the skillet, then swirled it around with two fingers. Edith turned the knob, and heat flared up from the burner.
After wiping her hand dry, she pulled two sealed bags—one containing four slices’ worth of bacon powder, the other two portions of egg powder—and inserted the water line into each in turn. The bacon expanded into four slices, fatty isles surrounded by thin rivers of pork. The eggs became four perfectly formed yolks, yellow irises surrounded by white.
Four minutes left.
Perfect timing, she thought.
Controlling the process, hitting her marks on the clock, doing everything just as it should be done. The ritual made Edith feel powerful, too.
She placed the bacon in the skillet. The reassuring sizzle began. It wasn’t really necessary to cook the bacon. It came fully cooked out of its powdered state. You could even eat the powder without adding water, if you wanted to. But cooking it in a little oil not only released the heavenly aroma of reconstituted pork, it made Edith feel like a true pioneer.
People still talked of the Pioneers who’d fled Earth for life anew in another star system. No one knew what had become of them, but the myth of who they were and where they went inspired would-be colonists of the Sol System to set aside their fears of leaving Mother Earth for the other planets.
Everyone on Callisto fancied themselves pioneers, she thought as the warming slices popped oil from the skillet. Turning the bacon over, she reduced the heat before it could begin to burn.
Valhalla Station was hardly a decade old, a relatively new settlement learning how to civilize a moon that had been dead for four and a half billion years. The community was like a frontier town in America’s Old West. The marshals maintained Company law and order, and the entire community toiled toward the same, individual end—amass a fortune in SynCorp bounties by scooping the precious helium-3 and deuterium from Jupiter’s atmosphere and freighting it to the inner planets for sale as fusion reactor fuel. Or trading it in kind for the latest entertainments or exotic whatevers from Earth.
Edith pulled the bacon with tongs from the skillet and placed it aside to drain. Luther liked it greasy, but not too greasy.
Everyone might play the part of pioneer, Edith thought, but so many relied heavily on modern tech for their daily existence. She guessed she did too when she thought about it, glancing guiltily at the powdered food stores. But at least she cooked breakfast like a real pioneer. Didn’t just irradiate it in the microwave.
Beating the eggs in a bowl, she poured them into the bacon grease. They made a satisfying crackle as the edges began to harden. Edith adjusted the heat upward again. Luther liked his eggs loose, but not too loose.
“Good morning, my love.”
She jumped when she heard his voice. But she’d learned to cover, to make a game of it. To make him feel powerful.
“Oh lands, Luther!” Edith said, not looking at him. “You about scared me to death!”
A light chuckle came from her husband.
“Sorry, love,” Luther said. “Breakfast smells heavenly.”
“I’m glad.”
Shorter answers were always better answers.
Safer.
Edith felt Luther’s shadow before his chest pressed against her back. Focusing on the eggs, she reached to lower the burner. His large, calloused hand encircled hers. Not flinching took willpower, but she had that in abundance. Instead, a tension like steel cables strained between her shoulder blades. Her hand on the skillet’s handle seemed part of a statue—stiff—the tendons and knuckles standing out against pale skin. A sculptor of pioneer statues could chime their door, ask so nicely to come in, ask her to stand in that perfect pose over the stove making breakfast before another hot day on the prairie, request to sculpt her as the perfect model of a pioneer wife. Or maybe he’d just pick Edith up and put her over his shoulder, still frozen in her morning cook’s pose, the skillet still in her hand. Take her away and put her in a pioneer museum somewhere on permanent display making permanent eggs.
Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely?
Luther’s left arm encircled her from the other side.
Her body felt shackled, confined like in one of those heavy-duty vac-suits the miners wore outside the ring around Callisto. Only, the hydraulic-assisted limbs of the vac-suit weren’t working, and so she couldn’t move.
Luther squeezed.
“I’ll overdo the eggs,” she said.
“No, you won’t,” he said, bending to kiss her ear.
Was he close enough to hear the blood rushing like a river inside her head? Could he feel through the stretched skin of her back the hammer of her heartbeat?
Edith melted backward, into his chest, spooned back against the rising firmness pressing into her hip. Surrender was sometimes the quickest way to freedom.
“I wish we had more time this morning,” Luther said, his tone pornographic. With a final squeeze, he released her. “But the weather’s been bad lately. Gotta take advantage of a good day.”
“Of course,” she said remotely, darting her hand to the burner knob as soon as it was free. Edith resumed working the eggs, distressed at the barest hint of black in them. Perhaps with a little experienced artistry, she could camouflage it. As she had her eye.
The oppressive cloud of Luther’s body lifted. He sat down at the small table behind her.
“Sprague might have the Company’s sign-off, but sometimes I think he fell straight into a net from his momma’s kooch,” Luther said. “He don’t know how to take a chance, even when it ain’t really a chance.”
Not knowing what to say, Edith said nothing. She concentrated on yellowing the eggs uniformly. She’d hidden the black as well as she could. Tumbling the skillet’s contents onto a plate, careful not to scrape too much off the bottom of the skillet itself, she placed the four pieces of bacon next to it, each piece equidistant from the others like Luther liked, then brought the plate to the table.
Luther sat back as she placed it in front of him. “Now, don’t that look like a fine breakfast for a heavy workday? Looks lovely, love.”
“Thank you.”
“Coffee?”
“Of course.”
She returned to the stove and the automated coffeemaker sitting beside it. She’d set it, as always, for 6:30 a.m. Some pioneer, she thought to herself. Can’t even make coffee without a chrono.
“But Sprague…” Luther’s voice trailed off in disgust. “He wouldn’t cross a street with traffic stopped for miles in all four directions. First sign of bad weather around the Eye, he thinks the whole damned planet is too dangerous to scoop.”
Edith brought the coffee in a tin cup, a novelty she’d bought in the gift shop over Earth before they’d shipped out, shortly after they’d been married. She set it approximately three inches to the right of the plate. At two o’clock, a pilot might have said. Luther nodded and picked it up immediately. He blew the steam off the flat, black liquid and swigged the cooled layer.
“Perfect, my love. Just perfect.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “I guess it’s both a blessing and a curse.”
“What is?” he asked, spooning rehydrated eggs into his mouth.
“Constantly seeing Jupiter all the time in the sky,” she said. “It’s beautiful, but—”
Luther’s grunt finished the thought for her. Callisto was tidally locked to its mother planet, making Jupiter a permanent fixture in the moon’s sky. Watching the planet’s Great Red Spot was one way the mining consortium decided whether or not to brave the planet’s atmosphere to scoop up the precious deuterium and helium-3.
“Fucking Sprague, afraid of his own shadow,” Luther said. Then, “Sit, love.”
She sat.
“One day,” Edith said, “there won’t be a Bill Sprague, and then you’ll run the crew.”
Luther smiled around the piece of bacon he was chewing. A smattering of grease lined his lips, so the smile glistened.
&nbs
p; “Right. In a place like this, a new frontier that’s untried, you need a risk-taker. You need someone willing to step outside the safety zone. To show the Company something worth rewarding. As it is, we’re barely making quota. Might even have to work a seven-day shift this week.”
Edith kept her face neutral, but her hands under the table made fists of hope. If he were on the scoop an extra day, that was an extra day she’d have to herself. Maybe she’d go back to the station’s market. See if there were any spices from the recent shipment from Earth left. She could make them an extravagant dinner for the extra workday. Luther would like that.
“How were the eggs?” Edith asked as he forked the last of them. She was feeling bold. Like a risk-taker.
“Perfect,” he said around a mouthful. His face lit up again. His smile had less of a shine to it.
“I’m glad.”
He picked up the coffee and downed the cup.
“And I’m almost late,” Luther said, rising. He stuffed the last piece of bacon into his mouth and wiped his hands.
Almost is okay.
“I thought I might go back to the market today,” Edith said. “Get some more spices for this week.”
Luther’s quick, almost-late movements stopped.
“Well, that’s fine,” he said, “but I’ll go with you. Let’s go after shift, if I’m not too tired.”
Edith smiled brightly. “Oh, that would be lovely. I was just thinking—”
“After shift,” he said again. She wondered if this was how he talked to Sprague. But probably not. Sprague was the boss.
“Okay, then,” Edith said. After Market Day, whatever Luther wanted was what Luther should get. It was just easier all around. And required less need for an artist’s touch. “We’ll go when we can go together.”
A smile and a nod from Luther.
A breath, quietly released, from Edith.
He came around the table, and it was clear he wanted her to stand. When she did, he wrapped her in his arms again.
“Thank you for the perfect breakfast,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “You’re the perfect wife.”
She wrapped her arms around him. The morning’s ritual was almost complete.
Valhalla Station Page 7