The Kestral Voyages: My Life, After Berserker

by Steven Lyle Jordan

  Kestral filed away the mental note, and continued on to the administrative area. Instead of standard signs directing visitors at every intersection, various styles of signs, in many languages, and many of them hand-made, were scattered haphazardly on the walls, on the doors, vents, and next to access panels. It took Kestral a bit of time to identify the route to the administrative offices of the depot, but eventually she found herself at the entrance hatch and walked in.

  There were a few workers, and some Rangers, in the office (Kestral had taken note of a Ranger scout ship among the depot’s visitors), going over the usual documents and discussions heard in administrative offices everywhere. Upon Kestral’s walking into the room, quite a few people, including all of the Rangers in the room, stopped working or talking and looked at her. The change in the room’s ambient sound level prompted everyone else to stop and look, and in seconds, the entire room was silent and staring at her.

  Kestral took them all in, and maintained an outward calm. She started to ask aloud where she would find the Chief Administrator’s office, when she saw the plaque for the CA’s office across the room. Without a word, she started for the door. As she passed one Ranger, the officer seemed to lean away from her slightly. The sight of it caused Kestral a slight pause, and she regarded the officer pointedly. The officer did not change his position, but he did not apologize for it either, nor did he take his eyes from hers. For a split-second, Kestral considered pretending to lunge at him, just to see how fast he could do a backflip over the table behind him and avoid her touch. But decorum, if nothing else, made her decide against it. Instead, she leaned slightly towards him and whispered, “Boo.” Then she continued on to the CA’s door.

  She knocked and waited. Presently, the door opened. Kestral took one more glance over her shoulder at the roomful of staring people, before she walked calmly in.

  “Are you out there scaring my people, Carolyn?”

  Kestral sighed, realizing she had been taut as a bowstring until that moment. She smiled in exasperation at the woman behind the desk before her. “Ciana, you don’t know how close I came to hurting one of them out there.”

  “Was one of my people rude to you?”

  “No, a Ranger.”

  “Oh, well. Be my guest, hurt all the Rangers you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The woman stood up and came around the desk, and the two promptly hugged one another. “Carolyn, it’s so good to see you! It’s been too long!”

  “And you, Ciana,” Kestral replied. “Or should I call you Administrator Prinz now?”

  “Only if you want me to call you Captain Kestral,” Ciana responded. “On the other hand, I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind that one bit, would you?” Kestral smiled slyly. “Nice, isn’t it? You’re a Captain, now. Congratulations!”

  But Kestral’s smile faded quickly, and she shrugged. “Captain of a freighter. Big deal.”

  “Don’t be that way,” Ciana shook her head, steering Kestral into a seat next to the desk, and leaning on the edge of the desk herself. “It’s your command, Carolyn. It’s the least you deserve. Never forget that.”

  “Forget… today, I want to forget. Just before we left Kyxha, I had a pilot bail on me. He had a Ranger contact.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “That’s not the word I used,” Kestral admitted sourly. “I just had my boss fly us here without a pilot. My crew… all three of them… are already suspicious of me, and if I still have them after my first run…”

  Kestral stopped letting the words rush out of her, and gathered herself together. “I’m sorry. So far my first command is starting out under less than auspicious circumstances.”

  Ciana nodded. “I was surprised myself, at how fast word spread around here when we received your flight plan. After three years of not seeing you, to being told that ships are leaving because you were coming…”

  “What!” Kestral’s mouth fell open. “Oh, Ciana, if I knew that I was going to cost you—”

  “You’ve cost me nothing,” Ciana assured her. “Nothing I can’t afford to lose, anyway. That’s the nature of business, after all. As you’ll soon find out.”

  “You don’t regret leaving the Rangers?”

  “Not one bit,” Ciana replied. “Ten years as cannon fodder was enough for me. Oh, sure, a lot of things were easier as a Ranger. Not paying for anything. Full run of everywhere. Matter compilers. The Ranger Database. But you know what? Plenty of civilians live without those things every day. I have for three years, and so will you. You’ll get used to it.”

  “If that’s all I have to get used to,” Kestral said, “that’s easy. But I have other issues to deal with.”

  “That, too, shall pass,” Ciana told her positively. “In fact, the more you keep going, the less anyone will be worried about your medical history.” She paused before she asked her next question. “Is that why you expect your crew to leave you?”

  Kestral winced at the thought of her crew. “Actually, I haven’t told them.”

  “Oh, Carolyn,” Ciana screwed up her face and leaned her head back. “You’re still thinking like a Ranger, aren’t you, now? You can’t work with civilians on a need-to-know basis, and expect them to blindly accept that.

  “Take this advice,” Ciana said, leaning forward on the desk. “Talk to them. I know you, and you’re a good judge of character. If you hired them, they’ve got to be on-the-ball. Tell them the whole truth. Let them decide to stay or go, based on the facts, not on guesses.”

  Ciana laid a hand on Kestral’s shoulder. “You might be surprised.”

  After a moment, Kestral nodded. “You’re probably right. I plan to tell them. I will soon.”

  “Good. The sooner, the better. Say, have you eaten lately? I was just about to break for lunch. Join me?”

  Kestral shrugged. “Sure. What do you do for food around here?”

  “Well, when I don’t want to upchuck it right afterward, there’s this great place I know. Come on.”

  No depot would be complete without places to eat and drink. High Amarillo had all manner of both, from a single high-quality bar and restaurant combo, to numerous seedy diners, watering holes, and dens of iniquities. Ciana Prinz led Carolyn Kestral down the corridor that connected most of the better eating establishments, the two of them arm in arm as only old friends could be. Their obvious closeness was not lost on those who clearly knew Ciana as Administrator, and Kestral’s history, but there were no direct comments made as they passed by.

  Finally they turned into one of the eateries. “This isn’t the fanciest place on High Amarillo,” Ciana explained to Kestral, “but in my opinion, it’s the best place to eat.”

  Kestral took in the small tables and booths on one side of the room, the long bar and numerous patrons at the other. She also noticed the number of men at the bar who pointedly looked their way as they walked in. “You’re sure you’re not bringing me here to fix me up with someone?”

  “You never know, do you?” Ciana replied slyly, and waved at a man at the far end of the restaurant. The man waved for them to approach. “Perfect… an out of the way table. Come on.” They threaded their way through the restaurant until they reached the man, and the table that was being set for them by a waiter. “Good afternoon, Taj. How’s the Benny’s today?”

  “Good afternoon, Madame Administrator,” Taj greeted them with a bow. “You wouldn’t like the Benny’s today, Madame. Extra dry out of the vat.”

  “Good,” Ciana grinned as they sat down. “Bring one for my friend, and I’ll have a Green Green Grass.”

  “Very good, Madame.” Taj headed for the bar, as a waiter appeared and deposited two menu sheets in front of them.

  “Everything on the menu is human certified,” Ciana explained. “I can recommend the gino stroganoff, the cassus tips, the… on second thought, everything’s fantastic except the pizza.”

  Kestral laughed, and gave the menu a quick once over. “In that case, I’ll
have the spinach casserole.”

  “Good one. Herb,” she addressed the waiter, “bring me a linguini alfredo.” The waiter headed off, just as Taj returned with their drinks. “Ah, such excellent service,” Ciana crooned.

  “Only the best,” Taj replied, “for the one who could shut me down at a whim.”

  “Cheeky! Just for that, I’m having your kitchen checked for skitters again!” Ciana teased. “Consider that fair warning, you have until eight tonight to clean the place up.”

  “Warning duly appreciated, Madame,” Taj returned jovially. “T’sic libe kellen si mir!”

  Ciana laughed again, as he departed the table. Kestral asked, “What the heck language was that?”

  “Belludin, I’m told,” Ciana replied. “It’s an old saying, translated as, ‘enjoy your drink as if it is your last.’ Cheers!”

  “Very funny,” Kestral said, as she tasted her drink. “Mmmm… for a Benny’s this good, I could live with it being my last.”

  “Thought you’d like it.” Ciana started to say something else, when she was distracted by the sight of someone who had entered the restaurant. “Oh… isn’t it always the way? You can’t find someone for days, and when you’re finally off-duty, that’s when he turns up!”

  “Who—?”

  “Oh, just a local trader who’s been rumored to be carrying controlled substances. Please excuse me, but I really need to speak to him. I promise, I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” Ciana stood up from the table. “If the food shows up first, scream for me.”

  “Will do.” Kestral watched as Ciana moved across the restaurant and confronted a man who had apparently just walked in. She was too far away for Kestral to hear what was being said, but she continued to watch for a few more seconds, more idly curious than anything else.

  “Ah, the rigors of administration.”

  Kestral turned to find the source of the offhand comment, which was a small booth adjacent to her table. She was forced to blink, in an attempt to get a better view of the commenter. This was because his skin, literally as black as ink, was all but lost in the low light of the room. Further, he wore a gray outfit, which was also near-invisible in the low light. This left only his snow-white hair and the whites of his eyes to focus upon, features which seemed to float in the air like disembodied spirits. Such was typical of those born and raised on Mars … they had the uncanny ability to almost disappear in dark places.

  The Martian inclined his head towards Ciana and the man she was speaking to. “I meant, so often being forced to abandon pleasure for duty. A thankless job, that.”

  “Those things happen,” Kestral commented. “Mister…?”

  “O’Bannon,” the Martian replied, bowing his head slightly. “Mark O’Bannon. I couldn’t help but notice, your accent sounds like it’s from Earth.”

  “That’s right,” Kestral replied.

  O’Bannon nodded. “Someday, I have to visit Earth. Yes, I’m one of those people who are born right next to a place, and have never actually visited it myself.”

  “I know what you mean,” Kestral told him. “I’ve never been to Mars, myself.”

  “No? Well, trust a native when he tells you, you haven’t missed much…” O’Bannon stopped speaking suddenly, and took a hard look at her.

  “What?” Kestral finally asked.

  “You’re Commander Carolyn Kestral, aren’t you?”

  Kestral’s face clouded perceptively. “No. As a matter of fact, I am not in the Rangers.”

  “Oh, yes, forgive me… I had heard you retired from service. I meant no offense. It’s just that I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “You know me?” Kestral asked guardedly. “Did we serve together?”

  “I was on the Relize for two years, when you were a lieutenant there,” he replied. “I was stationed in the fighter bay, part of the pilot pool. I didn’t get to the command levels much. I also know why you left the Rangers.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Kestral commented dryly.

  “Around here, quite probably,” he agreed. “But for the record, I think what they did to you stinks.”

  Kestral smiled, but did not seem inclined to continue along the subject. “Are you assigned to that scout out there, then?”

  “Oh, no,” O’Bannon replied. “I’m not with the Rangers any more, either.”

  “No?”

  O’Bannon shook his head. “When I signed on… well. I expected more exploration, more diplomacy, more conflicts decided with words. Less fighting. Less bloodshed. The Rangers are simply unnecessarily violent, as far as I’m concerned. Too violent an organization for me. Once I understood that, I resigned.”

  “Oh. What are you doing with yourself, then?”

  “Oh, odd jobs. Some ship’s mechanical work. Manpower. Piloting.”

  “Piloting. I see.” Kestral nodded quickly, took a quick swig of her drink and silently prayed to herself. “Tell me: Have you piloted anything larger than a shuttle?”

  “Sure,” O’Bannon replied. “an RJ-90, a Cano short-hop, a Red Shift…”

  “A Cano?” Kestral repeated, stopping him. “Ever flown a Quicksilver?”

  O’Bannon shrugged. “Been a few years. But my Cano rating includes Quicksilvers. Why?”

  “Mister O’Bannon,” Kestral explained, leaning across the space between table and booth, “I happen to be looking for a pilot—”

  “Call me Mark.”

  “—Hm?” Kestral blinked. “Oh! Of course, Mark. I just purchased a brand new Quicksilver, and I’m looking for a pilot for freight-hauling runs.”

  “Pilot, huh?” Mark seemed to consider the offer. “Well, I am currently between gigs… what are you planning to haul?”

  “Whatever,” Kestral replied. “I want to haul anything, go anywhere, wherever and whenever I can.”

  “What about military cargo?” Mark asked.

  “The Rangers have their own cargo carriers. They don’t need me.”

  “And controlled substances?”

  “Depends,” Kestral replied evenly. “I want to haul cargo, not get shot at.”

  Mark O’Bannon smiled then. “Then let’s talk.” He stood up from his booth seat, and almost collided with Ciana, who was just returning to the table.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” Ciana said, starting as she realized she’d almost run into him. She squinted a bit to make out his features in the dark. “Mister… O’Bannon, right?”

  “Right,” he replied. “Call me Mark.”

  “Mark. And have you been entertaining my old friend while I was away?”

  “More than that,” Kestral told her. “I’ve found myself a prospective pilot.”

  “Really!” Ciana quickly slid a chair from another table, and pointed Mark toward her own seat. “Then please, join us!”

  Mark obliged, sitting next to Carolyn. Once out of the booth and sitting nearby, Carolyn could see Mark’s features much better, and became aware of how handsome he was. He smiled easily, and had a twinkle in his eye that, she was sure, could draw ladies into his influence as fast as any gravity well. Even if he did not turn out to be a pilot for her, she was sure she would enjoy his company, at least.

  Lunch passed pleasantly between the three, Mark allowing Kestral and Ciana to do a fair share of reminiscing between them. Occasionally, he would strategically excuse himself from the table, when he picked up the impression that their conversation was getting into more private territory, and spend a few minutes at the bar under the aegis of getting fresh drinks.

  On the third occasion when he stepped away from the table, Kestral remarked to Ciana, “He’s nice. Do you really know him?”

  “I know of him,” Ciana replied. “I run the place, so I know of a lot of people. He seems to be here a lot, looking for freelance work of all sorts. Except for violent work… I’m pretty sure that every time mercenaries have come through here picking up every able-bodied gun handler they could, Mr. O’Bannon was always still here when they left.”

  “
That’s fine with me,” Kestral admitted. “That’s the last place I want to be, anyway.”

  “Still,” Ciana said, “I hear he was missed by some when he left the Rangers. He was good. Smart. Capable. If it weren’t for his peaceful streak, he’d probably be an officer some day.”

  “He may still,” Kestral said. “I don’t have a first officer…”

  Mark O’Bannon casually watched their conversation from the bar while he waited for his next drink, silently calculating how long he should wait before rejoining them at the table. He paid particular attention to Kestral, watching her speak as best he could from across the room. Although he was too far away, and the bar too noisy, for him to hear what was said at the table, he seemed satisfied with the direction the afternoon had taken.

  His musings were cut short, when he was suddenly aware that his light had just been eclipsed. He looked up, to see two burly Lokians in Ranger uniforms hovering uncomfortably close over him. And “over” was the apt word… they were both almost a head taller than Mark, thick and wide-shouldered. And they were both glaring down at him.

  “You see?” one of them said to the other. “I told you I was right. I did see a disgraceful Ranger Kella across the bar.”

  “Yes, you did,” the other replied. “You certainly called it.” He sneered down at Mark. “Hello, O’Bannon,” he said acidly.

  “Hello, Buker,” Mark said, turning fully towards them and leaning casually against the bar. “Who’s your friend? I thought cloning sentient species for spare parts was illegal these days.”

  Buker smiled thinly at Mark. “This is Cole. He was just telling me the other day that he’s never seen a Kella before. He also said that, if he ever did see a Kella, that it would be his duty as a Ranger to put it out of its misery.”

  Mark frowned. “So… does this mean you won’t buy me a drink, for old times’ sake?” He motioned toward the bartender and his glasses. “A Boston Brand, please.”

  “I’d much rather snap your neck like you did mine,” Buker snarled. “For old times’ sake.”