by Robert Culp
Back at home I start filling the footlocker, mostly work and relaxation clothes. I have a few semi-formal dresses and skirts. I toss one of each into the bag—one never knows. I’ll bring my “homey” things: music discs, photocubes, and things like that. The rest of it goes to a bin for sale at the pawnshop. Whatever won’t sell will go into the church’s donation bin. Fuzzbutt will go to the crazy lady across the way who could never be troubled to mind her own business. She has always implied psionic ability, let’s see her get any secrets out of him. Fortunately, the apartment came furnished, so I am spared the headache of disposing of the furniture. I will, however, buy myself a bigger pistol. Da always said the four-millimeter was a fitting girl’s gun, so I started there. But Mummy always preferred a nine, so I’ll promote myself to one of those.
I was able to sell all the stuff I’m not taking for seven hundred credits. I’m not exactly rolling in dough, but I wasn’t looking for a profit. And it’s a little over half a week’s wages on the new job. The local pawnshop has 9mm pistols with two magazines for four hundred credits. Boxes of fifty rounds are priced at thirty credits each, so I get three boxes. The salesman tosses a shoulder holster onto the counter to round the sale to five hundred credits, after taxes. That leaves me two hundred credits. It’s walking around money, but not much more. So much for being rich.
I may have been a bit hasty in handing in the key to my apartment, though. I call Jimmy. “Hey, brother, I’m homeless. Can I crash on your couch for the night? I’ll buy you a Rison’s steak in exchange.” I’m not sure if Aria meant I could sleep on the launch or go up to the ship, but I’d really prefer to not breathe recycled air until I absolutely must.
“Well, if there’s beef on the table, my answer is an unqualified ‘you bet your sucrose infused posterior.’ What happened to your place? And how are you able to swing the expensive stuff? Didn’t I pay your way into the cinema last night? You’re not taking advantage of Jimmy B’s generosity, are you? Many have tried, few have succeeded, but none have prospered.”
“The roaches repossessed it.” Damnit! I didn’t want to get into this now, but Jimmy deserves the truth. “No, that’s not true: I gave it back to the landlord, it’s time for a change.” How do I tell him? “I’m shipping out on Night Searcher.” There’s a lot to be said for being direct, it may be painful, but it’s effective.
There’s a pause on the line. I’m about to ask if he’s still there when he speaks in strained tones. “Captain Prowse’s boat is a good ship. Well, in that case, I insist you buy me a few rounds of whiskey to celebrate your well faring.” And drown my sorrows I hear him not say.
“Of course. Should I meet you on your door step after work?”
“Of course, dear one,” he hangs up without another word. I had my perCom switched off while I was testing. When I turn it back on, I see that Morrie has called me eight more times. I’ve been looking forward to this. I scroll to his last call and punch the ‘return call’ icon. He answers on the third ring. “Sonia, where in the nine hells have you been? You better have a good excuse. You’re already cleaning the next four ionic scuppers.”
That’s a real shit detail. The cleaning fluid is cold, foul and plentiful. Ideally, the tech wears a water “dry suit” to keep from ruining coveralls. The fluid is more messy than toxic. Sadly, these cheap scoundrels haven’t bought even one. And the cost is prohibitively expensive for an individual mechanic. Here, most techs change into shorts and tee shirts with the intent of throwing them away. When Morrie trained me on the job, we were in there together. I can still remember the rolls of fat under his man-tits. The bastard is threatening me with a wet tee shirt. A cold, wet tee shirt. Alone. For several hours. And the event has to be monitored and recorded for “safety” reasons.
“Hi, Morrie!” I respond with sunshine dripping from my smile, “I’m calling in well.”
“You’re calling in well? What does that mean? When are you coming in?”
“It means, Well, I’m not coming in.”
“What do you mean? Are you sick?”
“Yes, I have gluteal glaucoma”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t see my butt being there. Ever again. Good bye, lardass.”
I have never enjoyed a phone conversation so much. I just wish I’d had the forethought to record it. His expression was priceless.
I take Jimmy to as nice a place as one could ask without reservations. While packing, I kept out an outfit of mine Jimmy has always liked. He’s happy for me, but he’s not happy I’m going. I do everything I can to keep either of us from dwelling on it. We each order the Rison’s Filet with all the trimmings. But Jimmy is without his usual banter as we eat. The waitress clears the platters away to make room for dessert. I put my hand on his. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
“Enough, my girl, ere you have me weeping. I propose a toast!” He pours wine into our glasses. “To Sonia MacTaggert, new Engineer, and I’m sure within a year Captain of Night Searcher. Open skies, m’love.” Our glasses clink together.
“Me? Captain? I’ll be happy to be allowed to leave alive if I don’t botch something. Department Head is still a distant career goal. If that’s in my future at all, I’m sure it will be years away.”
After ice cream, or maybe sherbet (I never remember the difference) we walk back to his place, hand-in-hand. Pilgrim’s Park is a nice place during the day, but at night, the “good people” really don’t want to be there. Jimmy steers us towards the park without a second thought. The “bad people” aren’t much more comfortable. “It’s okay, beloved. I am not exactly unknown here.” I don’t know what he means exactly, but the people I do see look the other way when they see Jimmy. Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe some girl did help Jimmy with some heinous deeds in the past. It just wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. Could it?
After passing through the park unmolested, we continue down Third street to his building. He’s fortunate enough to have a flat that opens onto the street. Opening the door to his apartment, he says, “Now, I ask one great favor of you: I will sleep on the couch. I want you to take the bed. I insist.” I hear a loud squawk as the door opens, and then I see Jimmy’s bird flap its wings in the cage. He swears it’s a hawk. I don’t think it’s big enough, but it is a raptor—that’s evident by its talons and beak. The cage is very large, easily ten feet long, four feet wide and from the floor to the ceiling.
“Jimmy…I can’t. This is your place, you take the bed.” I follow him into the apartment.
“Pshaw, tut, tosh, piffle and tommyrot!” As he speaks, Jimmy opens a small box beside the bird’s cage. He lifts a mouse out and tosses it into the cage. The terrified mouse scurries a bit. The bird watches it then swoops down, catching the prey on the first go. There is a water bowl in the cage but no food dish. This animal doesn’t want to be fed. It wants to hunt. I suppose Jimmy is accommodating it as best he can. The mouse’s bones make for a crunchy meal.
I prepare to argue some more. After wiping his hands with a sani-wipe, he silences me with a finger on my lips. “I have wanted to say for years that I got Sonia MacTaggert into my bed. Your morals and my ethics forbade pursuit of fornication.” That’s not entirely accurate. Jimmy apparently has a very high opinion of me. Hopefully, one day I’ll be able to live up to it. But I don’t think now is the time to tell him of my tarnished past. “And since matrimony appears out of the question and you are leaving me tomorrow, this is apparently my last opportunity. Therefore, when I say you were between my sheets, and I will, have no doubt of that, it will be true. Off with you! If you wish, I have some oversized tee shirts. Second drawer from the top, center. I’m going to take a shower.”
He closes the door to the bathroom behind him. I soon hear the water running and then I hear Jimmy singing, at least I hope it’s singing. It’s probably not the key the composer had in mind, but what the heck, it’s not like he’s selling tickets. I find the indicated drawer and quickly shed my own clothes, then
slip a copy of a Rams jersey over my head. It comes down to just above my knee. I’m not an exhibitionist, but I do decide on the “commando” route. I’m not as certain of tonight’s outcome as Jimmy appears to be.
I walk into the living area and turn on some music: whichever station Jimmy has it set to is bound to be good. The indicator lights say it’s a recording. Good, no commercials. It’s soft, melodic—so Jimmy and so not Jimmy at the same time.
“So, you’ve not only raided my wardrobe, but my tunage as well? Is nothing sacred?” He has the back of his right hand to his angled head, his left sweeping behind him. What a drama queen. I didn’t see him carry them into the shower but he has traded jeans and Rugby shirt for gym shorts and tee shirt.
“Dance with me, Jimmy.”
“As though there could be another outcome.” He takes me in his arms and we move together to the soft jazz coming from the stereo system. Time passes unnoticed while we dance; the songs segue into one another but we don’t part. If anything, Jimmy’s hand on my waist pulls me closer to him. I break contact with his left hand and wrap my arms around his neck; he in turn encircles my waist with both of his. I crane my head up and meet his gaze. Our lips touch for the briefest of moments. He pulls away from me. I can feel him trembling. “Good night,” he says. His hands are on my waist pushing me in the direction of the bedroom door.
I’m confused. He’s not a prude nor is he saving himself for anyone. He isn’t currently attached; he would have told me if he were. He’s had many lovers before; why not me? He turns out the light in the den and passes through my shadow as he reclines on the couch. The floor creaks as I step towards him.
“Close the door, Sonia. Get some sleep.”
I hate it when he does that. I stand in the doorway for what feels like a very long time. All he has to say is, “Please stay.” And I would. I know it, he knows it. That’s probably why he won’t say it.
He’s gone when I wake. My clothes are folded on the arm of the sofa; I wonder why he did that. I make a quick breakfast, take a shower, dress and leave. I feed the bird and lock the door on my way out.
3 NIGHT SEARCHER
Before I released my apartment, I had a courier service deliver my cargo trunk to the launch at bay 114. It didn’t cost near what I thought it would. My nosey neighbor accepted Fuzzbutt with aplomb. When she asked why, I told her I was leaving town. All of my baggage fit into the container; there was actually room to spare. That was one headache I did not want.
This morning I plan to take my time walking to the bay, I want to really see the parts of the starport I’ve always dashed past on my way to work. I have the day to kill, why not use it? Morrie calls me a few more times and I finally have to tell him in monosyllabic words that I’m not coming back. I look at all the places I used to take for granted; Jimmy isn’t my only friend here. I stop in a few other places and tell others I’m leaving. All congratulate me, a few are sad to see me go. I take a deep breath and head for the fuel wrangler’s booth. I don’t recognize the man working it. When I ask where Jimmy is, he replies, “I don’t know exactly. He called in sick this morning. I called his apartment, he didn’t answer. He must have gone to the doctor. He’s not answering his perCom.”
I thank him and head for 114. I’m disappointed. As much as I knew it would be hard, I wanted another…that scoundrel is waiting for me. He’s sitting on my footlocker.
“I didn’t really like leaving this morning without saying good bye,” he says.
“Me neither.”
He stands up and I wrap my arms around his neck. His arms go around my back and waist. I look up into his face; our eyes lock as I pull his face to mine. He’s got nowhere to run.
“Wow,” he says, “I haven’t been kissed like that since third grade.”
That does it, I punch his shoulder and we both laugh.
“Let me help you, bag.”
I punch him again.
“I’m sorry, I meant, ‘let me help you with your bag.’” He lifts my footlocker and carries it into the bay. One of the spacers directs him to a pallet they are preparing. Once it’s in place he takes me by the hand and we step to the edge of the bay. “Now, I’m afraid I must depart as I’m severely dehydrated and can ill afford to weep. Good-bye Sonia. I hope I will see you again someday.”
“I hope so too, Jimmy. But I doubt I’ll have much say as to which ports the ship calls on.” Another kiss and he’s gone.
I’m an hour early for the launch’s departure. A pair of workmen—spacers, since they work for a starship—moves the pallets of cargo containers into the launch and secures them for flight. There’s a shorthaired brunette walking around the craft. She’s dressed like a pilot; she’s probably doing her pre-flight inspection, she opens and closes various inspection hatches.
Aria is there with two other people. She introduces Ricky Margoon and Twelia Starr on the ramp prior to boarding. They must be the other two newbies. Ricky is a stocky, dark skinned man with a certain wild, untamed look. Given his build and general air, I think he’s probably an infantryman. Twelia is a full figured, short-cropped blonde wearing a chef’s jacket. She looks older than me, but it could also be due to harsher experiences. Aria introduces us to each other, we exchange handshakes and greetings. Aria announces, “Well, as we are all here I see no reason to delay. If each of you would find a seat, we will head up to Night Searcher.” They’ve changed the interior from when I was tested. It’s set for transport now. Where there had been desks and walls, there are now only two rows of seats along the sides of the craft. Aria is just as nice as she was yesterday, but I get the impression that discussion is not an option and argument will not be tolerated.
We all strap in for the ride. I take a seat towards the center of the craft’s passenger area, next to one of the windows—view ports, I remind myself. There are several pallets of cargo, our containers of personal baggage strapped in among them, fastened to the deck between the jump seats. It makes sense; a boat this size is too much just to move a few people, but with several tons of provisions also, the once roomy vessel is now a little cramped. The launch takes off and heads for orbit on a leisurely course. Either the pilot is not in a hurry, or she is hoping for some unveiling effect.
I see the ship soon. And my heart almost stops. This thing is huge! I’ve been working with starship engines for years now, but I never get to see the whole thing. I’ve never really thought about how massive the ship must be to need something with the power of seven fusion reactors to push it beyond the speed of light. And most ships reflect light. This one seems to absorb it. She is a large dark colored cruiser, probably at least a Class 2000 ship, and looks pretty scary.
I remember the last time I left the planet. Jimmy and I would often go up on rental flights, but those were always going back to the starport. We’d spend hours just spotting the ships in their much higher parking orbits, and wondering about them before we went back to our less than exciting lives on Tammuz. We would dream of what it must be like to fly between planets and solar systems. This launch isn’t going back to Tammuz. This is a one-way trip for me.
For all the bad that’s happened lately, I will always have some very fond memories of Tammuz. I can’t help but shed a tear. If Twelia or Ricky hears me crying, they make no sign of it.
The launch lands in a large bay—a large Ship’s Craft bay in a huge ship. A man stands in the middle of a marked traffic corridor staring at us, his arms crossed. His tunic is light blue of a simple cut, the sleeves don’t reach his elbows and the pants terminate mid thigh. I want one for myself; it has a sporty look to it. But leaving the warmth of the launch, the room is a bit chilly, so maybe it’s not such a good idea. He’s wearing gauntlets and heavier boots than the other crewmembers. The gauntlets terminate at the midpoint between his elbows and wrists. His boots likewise end mid-shin. He has a certain air about him. Given the way everyone moves around him rather than asking or telling him to step aside, he’s clearly someone of consequence. His tunic h
as a loose hood pulled over his head and down to his brow. The hood shades the top of his face. I can see what looks like a respirator over his throat, a grille just below his Adam’s apple. With no obvious tank, he doesn’t need anything added to the ship’s atmosphere, just performance augmented maybe. Aria steps over to him and—I’m not making this up—curtsies to him. He looks at the three of us as well as the cargo that rode up with us and simply nods his head; then he walks away without a word. I get the feeling we’ve just been accepted, but brushed off at the same time. I’m used to not being taken seriously; I’m unaccustomed to being ignored. And I can’t say it’s a feeling I enjoy. Nor is it one to which I intend to become accustomed.
The small craft bay is abuzz with activity. A handful of spacers remove the pallets from the launch and release the straps holding the various parcels down. Another group busies themselves building different piles of the cargo for distribution through the ship. Someone has brought us each an anti-gravity cart. Aria claps her hands together for our attention. “Okay, later on members of your respective departments will provide tours. Grab your gear and move out! Through those doors.” She points to a pair of double doors at one end of the compartment. We all load our baggage onto a cart and follow her. Ricky and I are the light travelers. We have only the footlockers. Twelia has a few more boxes, probably of various and sundry kitchen implements. We get into the stern elevator and ride six decks up to Deck C. “All of you, please adjust your personal chronometers to ship’s time. On Tammuz it is currently 1830. Night Searcher time is currently 1925.” I don’t wear a watch, but my perCom has already detected the time pulse and is prepared to reset itself accordingly. I press a button allowing the over-write.