By Darkness Forged

by Nathan Lowell

  She nodded. “Aye, aye, sar.”

  “Mr. Carstairs? I thought we were looking for a can to Margary.”

  “Close as I could find leaving on our schedule, Skipper.” He shrugged. “You’ll like the profit margin on it.”

  “Fair enough. Anybody have any reason we shouldn’t get this boat underway at 1300?” I looked around the table. Nobody raised so much as an eyebrow. “Good. Then let’s get on with getting out of here.” I stood and left the wardroom, freeing up the rest of them. Before heading up to the cabin, I took a swing through the mess deck.

  Liberty expired at 0600 so almost the whole crew lingered over their coffee. Ms. Sharps had laid out a spread of pastries to keep everybody happy while they caught up with each other’s escapades. The noise levels weren’t painful but I caught an earful long before I stuck my head in the door to the mess deck.

  “Captain on deck!”

  “As you were,” I said before anybody had a chance to move. “You’ll be working soon enough. Finish your coffee.”

  I got some laughing “aye-ayes” as I passed through into the galley.

  “Good morning, Skipper,” Ms. Sharps said.

  “How’s the remodeling holding up?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Stan was right. We cursed him for about half a day because nothing was where it used to be. Half the places we used to have stuff weren’t even there anymore. Now?” She looked around, surveying her domain. “Fewer corners to clean. Easier access to everything from coolers to cleaning gear. I don’t know how we did anything with the old layout.”

  “Al says we’re good on stores?”

  She shrugged. “We’re within parameters but not full-full, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do. Any problems getting supplies?”

  “The prices are fair, but they didn’t have a lot of selection. We’ve enough for about three months. We’re topped off on staples like root veg, flour, frozen goods.”

  “Coffee?” I asked with a grin.

  She laughed. “Standard varieties, Skipper. I think I’ve got enough to keep us all revved without pulling out the back up stock.”

  “We’re going to navigation stations at 1300. That’s going to crowd your luncheon.”

  She shrugged. “Our stations are here so it might slow cleanup by a few ticks but won’t matter much. We’ll strap in for the pushback, but we can work around it once we get pointed outward.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Sharps.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  I stepped back out into the mess deck.

  “Captain on deck.”

  “Sit,” I said.

  They did, silence descending immediately.

  “Anybody hurt?” I asked.

  My answer was a lot of shaking heads.

  “Hung over?”

  A few people grinned at their bleary-eyed companions.

  “Any problems you know of with the ship? Any reason we shouldn’t dust off and go make some credits?”

  More shaking heads.

  “All right then. We’re getting out of here at 1300. Don’t linger over lunch. Pay attention to your department heads. Anybody has a problem they can’t handle, bring it to me. Anybody causes a problem they can’t handle, bring them to me. Anybody doesn’t like it ... you can walk home.”

  The room erupted into laughter.

  “One last thing. You’ve all seen the smiling galley crew. I didn’t really expect to do an overhaul of the galley while we were at Mel’s, but it happened. I’m more than pleased with the result. If anybody has any ideas about what you might like to see? Take it up with your department leads. Poke them up the chain of command. We’re making credits. We can afford to make our home more homelike. If you have an idea, share it.” I paused to let it sink in. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  The crew returned to their post-liberty festivities and sufferings and I headed for the brow.

  “Did you get breakfast, Mr. Bentley?”

  He looked up from his screen and stood. “Yes, sar. Thank you.”

  “How’s it working out with trading watch sections?”

  He frowned a little. “It’s going really well, sar. Is it a problem?”

  “Not in the least. I think it’s a great idea. Is it hard to make the adjustment between voyages?”

  He shook his head. “Going from portside to underway schedules is such a jolt, I hardly notice I’m in a different watch section, Captain.”

  “How are you coming on the coursework?”

  “I’m about halfway through the spec-three book, sar. It still seems a little bit like magic and we rely so much on the computer to give us the data. It’s ... not what I expected.”

  “That’ll change as you move up. Spec-two goes from math-less to math-lite. Spec-one gets nasty. The second-mate exam? That’s a bugger.”

  He grinned.

  “Carry on, Mr. Bentley.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  I left him settling back onto his seat and bringing the spec-three book back up on his screen.

  The stroll back down the passageway, past the somewhat less crowded mess deck, and into deck berthing took only a couple of ticks. The passageways along the way looked clean, even in the corners and along the edges. With Al riding herd on the operation, I wouldn’t have expected anything less, but it still gave me a warm feeling to see it.

  I stepped into the deck berthing area, inhaling the aromas of fresh laundry, floor wax, and deodorant. Low voices came out of the head. I looked around, trying to see the area through new eyes. Was it space efficient? Was it effective? I wondered what Stan Douglas would have done with the space.

  I backed out of the area and crossed the passageway to engineering berthing. The two spaces mirrored each other with identical bunk, locker, head setups. Engineering always had a tang of machine oil to me. I never knew if it was actual or just a mental overlay. Even when I worked in the environmental section of the Lois, I always thought the berthing area smelled like machinery.

  “Captain on deck!”

  “As you were. I’m just visiting.”

  A spec-three fields with Verde on his name tag stepped out of one of the quads. “Is there something I can help with, Captain?”

  “Thank you, no, Mr. Verde. I’m just taking a tour of the ship before we get back out there.” I smiled at him. “It’s a habit I haven’t done that much on this ship.” A few more heads peeked out around lockers and over partitions. “Carry on. I’ll show myself out.”

  I left the berthing area to a chorus of quiet chuckles and made a mental note to tour the berthing areas when the crew was on liberty. They didn’t need me sticking my head in while they were getting ready to get underway.

  The tour took me back to officer country and I followed Al up the ladder.

  “You lost, Skipper?”

  “No, why?”

  “I thought I saw you down by the berthing areas.”

  “Just getting reacquainted with the ship before we get underway.”

  She headed into her stateroom, one door down from the cabin, the ladder from the bridge between them.

  “Do you have any pieces you might show me?” I asked.

  She stopped. “Skipper?”

  “Artwork? Anything you’d be willing to share?”

  “Why?” The question carried no heat, just curiosity.

  “If I’m going to lose you to your muse, I’d like to see some of your work.” I shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish for prying into what might have been private.

  She nodded and held the door open for me.

  I followed her in and stopped just inside. I don’t know what I expected. Sketches everywhere, maybe. She could have painted the walls in exotic patterns. Instead I found a gallery.

  The first mate and engineering officer got a bit more room than the other officers, even the cargo master. The compartments could never be considered spacious. Al’s was painted a pale gray, the decks a charcoal nonskid. An easel leaned against the bulkhead
nearest her bunk, but the rest of the bulkheads held art. A few were paintings. Most were sketches. Spacescapes. Some portraits. I recognized Chief Stevens in one, bent over a water pump, sleeves up and a streak of grease across one cheekbone.

  “Has she seen this?” I asked.

  Al shook her head. “Nobody’s seen any of it. It’s all since our first trip out to Mel’s when you bought me art supplies.”

  “You’ve done all this since then?”

  She shook her head. “This is only a fraction of it.” She reached down beside her desk and pulled out one of the sketch pads I remembered from Mel’s. She lifted the cover and started flipping through it. It was mostly full.

  My expression must have registered.

  She shrugged. “It’s a long time between watches.”

  I looked around the stateroom, my gaze slipping from one piece to the next. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “I put you in for the captains’ board while we were still in the yards at Dree.”

  “You what?” she asked.

  I looked her straight in the eye. “I thought I was doing you a favor. I put you in for the board.”

  “That was months ago,” she said.

  I shrugged. “Apparently it takes a while. Fredi said she put me in long before they responded. Months.”

  She lowered herself to the bunk, staring at me. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Well, the other night at dinner ...” I didn’t finish.

  “You didn’t say anything then.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t want that to be public knowledge. Even now, I’m not sure I should have told you.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if you’re not called?”

  Her head shook slowly from side to side. “I don’t know.”

  “Now this.” I waved a hand around the paintings and the sketches. “All this. I understand why you want to retire to be an artist.”

  She stood again. “Skipper, I’m an artist now. It’s as much me as this chunk of stainless in my ear. I just happen to earn a living as a first mate.”

  “But you’re planning to retire.”

  “I’ve saved enough. I’ve got some investments. I don’t exactly live the system-hopping, high-flyer lifestyle. Never have. Never wanted it. Out here, I could live comfortably on investments, selling a painting or two. I talked to some folks while we were at Mel’s. I had some digitals of my older work that one of the gallery owners wanted to exhibit.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You put me in for captain.”

  “Yeah, I actually just told you that.”

  “Why?” she asked, suddenly frowning. “Why would you do that?”

  “You mean other than your skills, knowledge, experience, and heart?” I laughed. “Fredi put me in and I’ve only got half of your skills and experience. We’re aboard ship, so pretend I’m not saying this but every day I find some other way I’ve screwed up.”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out, still staring at me. “Do you know how many of my skippers have put me up for the board since I became qualified?”

  “Five? Ten?”

  “One,” she said. “Just one.”

  “That’s ... disturbing. Who was it?”

  “You.”

  “Why in the world? What’s wrong with that picture?”

  “Nothing. I had some great skippers. Some just wanted to make sure I stayed in their crews. Some gave me really nice raises. Some were dicks. I thumped one of them. Busted back to second mate. I don’t regret it.”

  “You were lucky he didn’t just toss you out the air lock,” I said.

  “We were portside in a bar at the Junk Yard. CPJCT would have probably yanked my ticket but the station security sided with me and wrote him up. Fined him a few thousand credits. Kicked him off the station.”

  “So he got his revenge by busting you back to second mate,” I said.

  “Yeah. I left them at the next port. Got a decent ride for a few stanyers. It worked out.”

  “You’ve been at this job for decades.”

  She nodded. “I’m old.”

  “You’re not old. I’m just trying to get my head around the scope of this.”

  She laughed. “Good luck with that part.”

  “Why did you stay so long?”

  She bit her lips between her teeth and looked around the stateroom. “This,” she said at last, jerking her chin toward the artwork displayed around her stateroom.

  “This is the Alberta Ross that Christine Maloney knows,” I said, comprehension dawning.

  “Yes. I’ve been entering the show for at least a decade. I don’t know how long. Never got anywhere until she took over managing it. I’ve sold a few pieces there. She’s offered me space in her gallery in the past.”

  “You missed last year.”

  She nodded. “Breakall wasn’t a good place to be beached.”

  “What do you want to do about the captains’ board?”

  “Well.” She laughed. “They have to invite me first.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. The moment turned awkward so I backed out of her stateroom, admiring the work from different angles as I left. “The mess deck needs a mural,” I said.

  She grinned. “I’m thinking about it. You all right with it being dark?”

  “You mean the Deep Dark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I got no problem. Do you have enough black paint?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “We’ve got it in the ship’s budget, next time we’re docked.”

  “I’ll figure something out, Captain.”

  I left her staring at her own artwork as I latched the stateroom door behind me.

  Started to head aft, but saw the chief lounging at the foot of the bridge ladder. “Something up?” I asked.

  “Maybe. The cabin?”

  I led her in and we settled in the normal places. “Something new?”

  “Something old. Al. What are you going to do?”

  “You mean about putting her up for captain?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Funny you should ask.

  “I heard you talking. Did you come up with any ideas?”

  “You know she’s never been put up? Ever.”

  “Wasn’t that what she said at dinner the other night?”

  “No, what she said the other night was that she’d never sat for the board.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No. You know as well as I do how this works. She might have not gotten the invitation to sit. It’s a black box as far as I can see.”

  “Alys would know more about it,” the chief said.

  “No doubt.” I felt the anger building in my chest. “Not one of the captains she flew for put her up before this.”

  “That surprises you,” the chief said.

  “Of course it surprises me. That woman has forgotten more about running a clipper than I’ve ever learned.”

  The chief held up a fist and ticked off her points as she went. “First, she’s a woman. Second, she’s not a pretty woman. Third, she’s hard, sometimes crass. Fourth, she has more ink than a yeoman’s office and more stainless steel than our galley.” She paused. “Do I need to go on?”

  “You say that like these are bad things.”

  “Ships are business. Running them is politics,” the chief said. “She’s been on the wrong side of the politics for every captain she’s sailed under. She doesn’t fit the mold. Won’t do for a recruiting poster.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I guess I knew all that.”

  “You don’t think about it because you don’t need to think about it. You’re young, good looking, talented, smooth as polished glass. The academy knocked most of the rough edges off and Fredi groomed you for the better part of two decades.”

  “You seem pretty sure of that.”

  The chief chuckled. “You
remember me at Sifu Newmar’s studio?”

  “Of course.”

  “Margaret Newmar had you tagged then. I saw Fredi the week after she took over from that piss-ant Rossett. She was only staying with the ship to make sure you grew into a captain.”

  “And you’ve been showing up at opportune moments, too, haven’t you?” I asked.

  She gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “Timing matters.”

  Chapter 17

  Telluride System: 2376, February 24

  Telluride’s tug, one of the ubiquitous Moran “bumblebees” so called for their yellow and black livery, released us almost as soon as we got lined up on our outbound vector.

  “Ms. Ross?” I asked. “How soon can we put up a sail?”

  “About another stan at this velocity,” she said. She consulted a couple of screens and shook her head. “Mr. Reed, do you have any data on how far we need to go before we can jump?”

  “A normal exit, we’d need a couple of weeks. This short? All three accelerometers indicate we could make our jump now if we wanted to.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Captain, local regs ask that we move a few thousand kilometers off the station before jumping.”

  “If we stay on a ballistic course?” I asked.

  “About a stan. It’ll give our sails a bit more clearance but by then jumping would be the logical action.”

  “Well, let’s coast on ballistic for a bit. I’m still not comfortable jumping this close to an inhabited station.”

  “Stay on ballistic, aye, aye, Captain,” Al said. “Ms. Torkelson, mind our course.”

  “Aye, aye, sar. Minding course.”

  I spun the captain’s chair around to look back the way we’d come. Telluride Station looked more like a CPJCT orbital—minus the planet under it—than any of the other Toe-Hold stations I’d visited. It felt awfully close to the stern of the ship even though I knew we’d traveled as much as a hundred kilometers from the dock. In space, a hundred kilometers was nothing.

  “Who do you suppose built that station, Ms. Ross?”

  “Judging from the architecture—and the fact that they were already here—I’d go with Manchester, Captain.”

  “You can tell it’s a new station, though, can’t you,” I said.

  “Well, it seems obvious to me,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of old stations. What features lead you to draw that conclusion?”