Half Share

by Nathan Lowell

  Going in to strip my bunk and clean out my locker felt strange. I knew I was just moving across the passageway but it still seemed as if I was leaving home. It took only a couple of ticks to clear off my linens, pack my duffel bag, and reset the palm-lock on the locker. I checked around one last time to make sure I had not left anything tucked down beside the mattress or under the pillow and that was it. Done. One good thing about living out of a locker, when you’ve cleaned it out, you’re done.

  The thought inevitably dredged up memories of my mother’s death. I remembered packing up all the stuff in our flat and shipping it off to storage on Siren. I became very sentimental over leaving that flat and wondered if I would always have that sense of loss whenever I moved.

  It’s just a locker, I tried to tell myself, but it was really more than that. There was Big Bad Bev who slept in the bunk under mine, and Tabitha Rondita’s gentle snoring on the other side of the partition. I would miss having Pip across the way. I knew I was not really leaving them. We were still all on the same ship. Still, it pulled at me a weird kind of way.

  I got a hold of myself and headed over to engineering berthing. It was such a long way. I stepped out of deck berthing, walked the eight steps to engineering, and into the mirror image of the room I had just left. Midday is always quiet in berthing and made even more so because we were docked. It felt funny to walk into the empty berthing area, like I was sneaking in. With no one to talk to, it made me feel even more like an intruder. The place even smelled slightly different, a tang of something mechanical that I could not put my finger on.

  I walked slowly around, looking for an empty berth. I had several to pick from. Of the five quads, none were completely filled. The bunk with the same relative position as my old one was free so I took that. It was as good as any and it seemed less likely that I would crawl into the wrong bunk by mistake out of habit. I tossed my bundle of linens onto the bunk, set the palm-lock on the corresponding locker, and stashed my gear in it. I hung my civvies on the hangers and put my boy toy belt on a hook in the back. Making up the bunk did not take long. Within half a stan, my moving day was completed. It felt odd being halfway between, like being in limbo.

  As I was standing there, trying to decide what to do next, Brill came charging into the berthing area. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed. “I thought I might find you here.” She wore civvies—a tailored caramel colored jacket over an emerald blouse along with beige straight-legged slacks. “Are you all moved in?”

  “Yeah. Just trying to decide what to do. There’s still a couple of stans left before the flea market closes, but I don’t want to go alone. Also, I’m not sure I should leave Pip in case the new greenie comes in.”

  Brill smiled at me. “At a minimum, the greenie won’t be here before evening watch. I suspect the captain will need to go down to the hiring hall on planet in the morning, so you’ve got nothing to worry about there. You’re off now, right?”

  “Unless you’ve come to give me some other news, I’m still a mess deck attendant, and Pip has the duty.”

  “Excellent! Let’s go shopping. I want some of that Ishmael insight with private cargo choices!”

  “And I owe ya a dinner,” I reminded her. “I should probably settle that debt before you become my boss.”

  “Deal. After the luck you’ve been having with trades, you can afford it. Meet me at the lock in five ticks or I’ll leave without ya.” She waved airily and sashayed out.

  I began to feel better as I changed into my one set of civvies.

  My old bunkie, Beverly Arith, introduced me to flea market shopping. Her black leathers, military crew cut, and tattoos usually cut a wide swath through the throngs of people clogging the aisles. Whenever I walked in public with Big Bad Bev, the reactions of people who saw her entertained me to no end.

  Shopping with Brill was an experience of a different nature. Where Bev attracted attention for her tough appearance, Brill got noticed for her height. In a universe of people who seldom topped two meters, Brill’s two and a quarter left her towering over almost everybody. She walked with a slight stoop and had to be careful around the ship not to bang her head into hatch combings. She was perfectly proportioned, long legs and neck, a narrow waist, and a somewhat muscular physique. Until you stood next to her, you did not realize how tall she really was. She had a broad face that most would not call beautiful but was far from plain. Her wide set brown eyes, high cheekbones, and cute nose were appealing in their own way. She usually wore a ready smile and had a razor sharp wit. She was what my mother would have called a sweetie.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think the other people on the orbital saw her quite the same way. If Bev got stares of fear and awe, Brill got incredulity and amusement. As we headed into the flea market, those around us would go quiet and stare, only to buzz in our wake like flies. I kept catching bits of conversations with words like Amazon and freak in them. The general derisive tone made me angry.

  Just before we entered the flea market’s main sales hall, Brill leaned down to me and murmured, “Thank you, Ishmael, but getting angry will only make your day worse and won’t change their minds.” She smiled beatifically and I noticed how the emerald in her blouse set off her brown eyes.

  “But it’s so unfair,” I protested quietly. “You amazing and they’re—”

  “Hush! I’ve been tall since I was ten stanyers old. I’ve made my peace with it. Can’t you?” She squeezed my hand and I felt my anger melt away.

  “You’re gonna be a bitch to work for, aren’t ya,” I said at last.

  She laughed and nodded. “But you don’t work for me yet, so let’s just enjoy ourselves. I need you to find me some decent trade goods for Dunsany.”

  After a while, the stares and the giggling did not seem to matter. Brill and I knew what was what and the rest was just noise.

  Our first stop was at the co-op’s booth. Spec three environmental Francis Gartner was booth manager, and while not as tall as Brill, he was still taller than average, and I spotted him over the crowds in the aisles before we actually reached the booth. His string bean build made him appear taller from a distance but until you saw him standing next to Brill, you could not appreciate how skinny he was. The booth looked good. The McKendrick Mercantile Cooperative banner was clipped to the back drape and matching navy-blue cloths covered the two tables. Our grav pallet acted as a raised dais in the back of the booth. From it, Francis could see what happened around him and left most of the floor free for traffic. He even had a big round button pinned to his blue shirt that said, “Booth Boss.” As we approached, Sandy Belterson finished closing a sale on some small item I could not quite make out, and she sent the customer back to Francis to pay for it. Compared to our first rough outing back on Margary, we looked like real pros.

  Francis smiled broadly when Brill and I walked up. “Hey! Am I glad to see you. What in the world is going on at the ship?”

  Brill gave as innocent an expression as I had ever seen, and turned to me. “Is there something going on at the ship?”

  “I don’t know. Is there?” I asked in return but we were not fooling anyone.

  For his part, Frances just kept glancing back and forth between us as if he was trying to decide which one to hit first. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he finally said playfully. “Gregor was packing up as I was getting ready to leave to come up here. What’s going on?”

  Brill relented. “Gregor’s gone. The Moore needed him aboard at noon and the captain signed the transfer.”

  Francis grinned like he had won the lottery. “Outstanding!” he said with just a bit too much enthusiasm. He tried to backpedal a bit. “I mean, that’s good for him. I know he wanted to be on a tanker.”

  “More like he wanted a bunk-bunny, you mean,” Brill muttered.

  Francis flashed his eyebrows up and down but did not say anything.

  I made a mental note to find out what a bunk-bunny was, although I had my suspicions.

  “What else have
you heard?” Brill asked him.

  He smiled mischievously at me before answering Brill, “Well, I heard a rumor that we’re getting some greenie engineman as a replacement.”

  “It’s true. We had to take what we could find on short notice,” she said with a wink in my direction. “He has some potential, don’t ya think?”

  Francis held out a hand and I shook it. He drew me into a hug. “Outstanding!” he said again, pounding me on the back.

  “Yeah,” Brill said. “You shoulda heard Diane going on about the greenie we were gonna get saddled with before she knew it was him. I about peed myself laughing.”

  Francis seemed concerned. “Is she upset?”

  “No, I set her up as a joke,” I told him. “She came into the mess deck all upset about Gregor’s leaving and I played up about some inexperienced goof getting the job.”

  “And she bought it?”

  “Oh, yeah. She took me aside afterward to make sure I knew she was happy that I’d be joining the section. She seemed very sincere.”

  Brill giggled. “Yeah, she only calls people she really likes ‘sludge monkey’ so you’re on her short list of good people.”

  Francis put on a long face. “Damn, it took her a year to call me sludge monkey!” He burst out laughing.

  Rebecca Saltzman called Brill aside just then and I took the opportunity to ask Francis quietly, “You sure this is okay with you? I know Gregor had—”

  “Are you kidding?” he interrupted. “Hey, anybody who’d give up his break time to scrape sludge is good in my book. I don’t care what your rating is. Most of what we do is pretty mundane. You’ll have plenty of time to get caught up on all the theoretical stuff. You probably already know more than Gregor does. Diane and I had been talking about the possibility of getting you transferred into Foggy Bottom ever since you passed the engineman exam. Anything we can do to help you, just let us know. I mean that.”

  A customer came over to ask about the brocaded vest on the table, and Francis winked at me as he went to answer her questions.

  Brill wrapped up her conversation with Rebecca and we headed out of the co-op booth. They were all selling like crazy so it seemed like a good day for the McKendrick Mercantile Cooperative. We turned the corner and Brill said, “You know, I’ll help you, too, Ish. Francis and Diane aren’t the only ones who’re glad to see Gregor Avery out of the section.”

  I stared at her in surprise.

  “I’m tall, Ish,” she said with a mischievous expression, “Not deaf.”

  “You’re gonna be a bitch to work for! I just know it,” I said in mock dismay.

  “I’ve been called much, much worse.”

  As we were walking along, a display of small, wooden carvings caught my eye and I steered Brill that way. A balding man with a long, sharp nose wearing what seemed to be homespun sat on a tall stool behind the table. Unlike most vendors in the flea market, he made no attempt to call attention to his wares. Brill and I walked up to the table and leaned over to get a better look. Made from a pale gray wood—gnarled and weathered—the figures were exquisitely crafted and finished with a velvety oil that brought out the natural grain of the wood. He must have had dozens of them representing a wide range of fish, animals, and birds. Each contained an inlaid bit of shell shaped like a heart on its chest.

  “What are these?” I asked, having to work hard to look up from the figures.

  He smiled and laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Why, they’re wooden sculptures, my boy. What do they look like?”

  I saw Brill’s eyes flicker from one figure to another. She examined the detail and the textures, certainly, but it almost seemed like she was searching for one item in particular.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I can see they’re wooden sculptures, and they are absolutely exquisite. But…what are they? What kind of wood is this?”

  He smiled again. His seamed and weathered skin made him appear carved from wood himself. “The wood is windrift, and ’tis a gift from the sea, which we gather on the beaches. The larger bits we burn for fuel. Some we carve.”

  “And the hearts?”

  “Ah, the hearts are bits of shell. The sea provides those as well.”

  “These are not just souvenirs. They have some meaning. Can you tell us?”

  He raised his eyebrows in amusement at this. “You see what you see, young sir. I am but a simple carver of shapes.”

  As stall banter, his speech felt unusual. Most craftsmen wanted to prattle on to make their wares more appealing but I had to drag everything out of this guy. Maybe he was smarter than I thought because he was spectacularly effective at securing my attention. I could not get it out of my head that the figures were more than mere carvings. Perhaps I projected my own feelings onto them. I could not shake the feeling. To begin with, the carving was exquisite and the inlay work, flawless. The shapes emerged from the wood like they were always there hidden below the surface, and the carver merely revealed them.

  “Good sir, I mean no offense,” I answered him formally, playing along with his script. “But I’m a simple lad and not familiar with your customs. Are they religious icons? Good luck charms? These seem like more than merely shapes.” I glanced at Brill again but she seemed oblivious to our conversation as she intently examined the figures.

  The man relented then and admitted, “These are but the shapes in the windrift and shells of the sea. My family has been making them for decades, my father and his father before him. We collect the windrift and shells and carve them as the mood strike us. They bear no significance other than the love we have for the sea.”

  His words seemed at once sincere and not completely true. As I was about to press him on the matter, Brill reached out and plucked a figure from the table. It was a heron, about six centimeters tall, with a delicately formed neck and long legs. The carving had a bit of rich purple shell as the heart. “How much?” she asked.

  “All the pieces on the table are ten creds,” he said. “That’s the price.”

  She placed the heron back on the table. “It’s lovely, but…no, thank you.”

  We took our leave then, but as I was walking away, I noted the booth number.

  A few meters down the aisle, we turned to each other. “What was that about?” Brill asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure, but we need to remember that booth. Ten creds is a lot for a small wooden artifact, but they might be worth every bit of it. The craftsmanship on them is spectacular, and each one seems to have captured the essence of its subject. That heron looked like it might reach out and strike a fish.”

  She nodded. “It was lovely.”

  “Why didn’t you get it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it but as soon as he said the price, I didn’t really want it anymore.” She shook her head slightly as if just waking up. “I mean, I wanted it, but I didn’t want to buy it.” She blinked and looked confused. “I don’t know what I mean. How about you? Why didn’t you buy some?”

  “I don’t know either. I just want to think about it.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Ten creds is a bit much.” We continued down the aisle. Around the next corner was a booth selling powdered dyes and it reminded me of a conversation I had with Pip on Margary.

  I nudged Brill with an elbow and pointed. “You were looking for trade goods?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Back on Margary, Pip and I were thinking we should buy dyes as private cargo and bring them to St. Cloud. We thought there might be a market because of all the yarn producers here. But when we did a little research, we discovered that St. Cloud dyes are kind of a cottage level export.”

  “Makes sense. If you have the yarn, you’ll find ways to dye it.”

  We drifted into the dye booth and examined the dye packets. The couple behind the counter, a woman and her husband, were pleasant and business-like. The dye was packaged in paper packages from a few grams up to a quarter kilo. Each packet had a small s
ample of yarn attached to it showing the color the particular dye would produce.

  Brill asked, “Do you have these in larger packages?”

  The man laughed, but the woman shook her head and grinned. “The quarter kilo packets will dye ten kilos of wool to full saturation,” she explained. “That’s a lot of wool. For most normal uses, the hundred gram packets are preferred.”

  The packets were spread on the table in a color wheel pattern with the purples on one end arching around to red on the other. There were no white dyes, of course, but blacks took up space in the center of the curve. I took out my tablet and snapped a digital of the display and sent it off to Pip.

  “We’re crew from the Lois McKendrick,” I explained. “We’re looking for things to take with us out of the system. I’m interested, but I’d like my partner to come see.”

  “Please, take a card,” the man said, offering a small item. “We’re happy to offer wholesale prices.”

  I took the data-card and thanked them before Brill and I moved on.

  “What do you think?” she asked as we turned a corner to head down another aisle.

  “I’m not sure. The dyes are a good idea in practice, but I’m thinking of what they’d look like on the co-op table. As a trade good, they lack something.”

  “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. It does seem like a specialty kind of item. Either you want it or not.”

  It was just about then when we came to a section that was dedicated just to yarn. There were dozens of vendors, and as we worked our way through them, we found Sean Grishan about halfway down the aisle. Sean was a short guy with a pug nose and sandy hair, a spacer apprentice in the deck division. He carried several skeins of a soft-looking yarn in a wide variety of colors. As hard as it was to believe, he spent quite a bit of his downtime on the ship knitting and crocheting. Back on Margary, his handmade lace earned him a pile of creds in the booth. Judging from the skeins in his bag, I suspected he had some new projects in mind. He waved when he saw us and had a kid-in-a-candy-store grin plastered on his face. “Hey, shippies,” he called.