“Yes, sir.” He paused. “Sir, if I may . . . my brother Lincoln works on a schooner. The Palmetto. He’s been in space a long time. He must know people here. I know he’s been to the Albatross in the Lagrange Sargasso, because he wrote to tell me about it once. Surely he will be our best resource.”
“Excellent idea, Jefferson. I’ll inquire about that ship down on Lowside. Meet me there after you’ve secured our supplies.”
The dark-skinned man nodded and floated down the tube with practiced grace, never reaching for the tether to steady himself. Jonathan envied him that. Perhaps once he reached the end of this adventure, he would find his space legs once and for all.
Although the designers of Pinnacle Station had worked hard to make its interior warm and inviting to travelers, they couldn’t disguise that it was still a structure made of steel. Every noise seemed to echo for minutes and filled the air with a generalized hiss and hum. Pipes carrying steam, air, and water clanked in the walls, and Jonathan could hear the clangs and bangs of Lowside, where cargo schooners loaded and unloaded. Portholes let in the blue-white glow of earth-light. The brilliant white lead paint covering the riveted steel plates gave everything a washed-out, sanitized appearance that reminded him of the hospital from which he’d just escaped. The lower air pressure in the Station made him feel as if he had a large rock sitting on his chest, and he couldn’t ever quite draw a deep breath. The few times he touched foot or hand to any surface, he could feel the gentle vibration of the atomic plant that powered the Station.
Even with the magnetic boots, a few folks couldn’t get the hang of keeping their feet upon the ground, and two CR stewards were designated to retrieve these hapless drifters who’d floated away from the reach of the wall railings or tethers. Most of them shouted with laughter as the stewards threw them lines to haul them back down to the deck.
A wide opening in the lobby floor led to the freight deck. Jonathan pulled himself along a waist-high iron railing and followed it down the hole, working hard to convince himself he wasn’t falling through a shaft, but approaching the freight dock along a large circular hall. He reached the mouth of the tunnel and looked down into the chaos of Lowside.
Eight large airlocks connected to the sides of the octagonal freight deck. Fultons would dock their cargo holds against the airlocks and then discharge or take on goods and supplies. A maze of ropes and cables pulled cargo nets in every direction across the deck. Large fixed nets formed holding bays where longshoremen parked crates, barrels, and pressure canisters. Heavy hoses refilled the Fultons’ boilers from the Station’s own stock or else took on replacement water from docked tankers. The air stank of burnt coke, the Fulton captains’ fuel of choice. Through this bedlam of noise and motion danced the deckhands and supervisors in their intricate aerial ballet. Jonathan watched one man twist in mid-air to land upside-down, feet-first on a net full of crates, mark each one with a grease pencil, and then spin away like a Chinese acrobat, only to snag a line with his knees and revolve around it without using his hands so he could check his clipboard.
Jonathan looked around until he spotted the deck manager’s office. Luck was with him, for he wouldn’t have to travel far in the busy confines. Nevertheless, a passing chain of oxygen cylinders nearly took his head off when he first poked it out. “Mind yer head, ye durn fool!” shouted the man drifting alongside the containers. He reached the office without further incident and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called a man.
The interior of the office looked as if it were frozen midway through an explosion of paperwork. Files and folders and loose sheets floated everywhere. It was the multi-dimensional equivalent of the mess Jonathan recalled seeing in his father’s own office, which meant it was probably eight times as complex a system.
An upside-down man with pale blond hair and a dark tan peered over at Jonathan from behind a wall of floating cargo manifests. “What yer want, yah?” He rolled a slender white stick around in his mouth.
Jonathan spun himself around to at least have his head pointing the same way as the deck manager. “I’m Jonathan Orbital, and I’m looking for a schooner.”
“I’m Frank Guidry, and I got schooners up my ass, yah.” He paused and pulled the stick from his mouth and Jonathan realized it was a lollipop. “Wait . . . the Jonathan Orbital, yah?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Jesus wept. What yer doing here?”
“Looking for a schooner. The Palmetto to be exact.”
Guidry fumbled through his files, checking above and below. To Jonathan’s surprise, he reached out with a dexterous bare foot and pulled papers to him that weren’t within arm’s reach. “Palmetto . . . Palmetto . . .” The lollipop went back into his mouth as his other foot snagged a folder. “Aha. Here the puffer. She not in dock now. She taking load to Spain. Back in three days, yah.”
“I haven’t got three days. I need to get to the Albatross right away.”
Guidry laughed. “Yer need a pirate for that, earthworm, yah. Or a graymarket shipper. None of them here, Mr. Orbital. We run a clean dock.”
“There’s not a ship here who can take me there?”
Guidry pointed at Jonathan with his lollipop and his good cheer evaporated. “They got big guns out there, yer understand, earthworm? Cannons. Missiles. Yer not go to Lagrange without an invitation or else yer get big hole in your Fulton. Any captain here who will risk it, not going to say so. Smuggling get yer killed up here. By Space Guard, yah. Understand, earthworm?”
“Yes, I get the picture.” Guidry’s odd speech mannerisms didn’t seem to have an earthly equivalent he could identify. Perhaps the spacers were developing their own dialect after so many years in orbit. “Then I’ve got to get to the Palmetto. Is there someone here at least who could take me there?”
“Mayhap.” Guidry’s grin returned. “But yer not going to like it, yah.”
Chapter Six
Captain Greaves awoke with a dry mouth and a head that felt stuffed with wool. He’d spent the night camped out on one of the grotto’s couches surrounded by his men, who now sprawled about on the room’s floors and cots in a vapor of rum and a vile fermented liquid Zeric cooked up from hydroponic corn and bad fruit. They called it Moon Hooch, and Phinneas thought it might better serve as an industrial solvent than a beverage, but that didn’t stop them all from drinking it by the gallon.
After leaving the French lass behind in his quarters, Phinneas joined his mates in the common room and toasted three, or perhaps five, too many shots to wash down his indignation. He would be the first to admit he was a violent bastard, and he never hesitated to clock a dumb lout whose tongue wagged too loose, but he’d never before turned his anger on woman. Given their softer natures, it seemed wrong. Unnatural, even. All men, even an old space dog like him, were borne of women, and only a true bastard wouldn’t honor his own or another man’s mother. However, Renault had played him for a fool, spitting that brandy in his face with the audacity of a cocky greenhorn fresh after his first plunder. Nevertheless, a strange species of guilt ate at him now. The hangover wasn’t helping.
A brawl that Phinneas barely recalled happening had rendered the coffee table to splinters, and poor young Sebastian slept sitting up in the corner with a puke-filled basin on the verge of spilling out of his lap. The lad had clearly celebrated his promotion and naming a little harder than befit his age.
Phinneas turned his head and caught a whiff of Moon Hooch breath wafting out on the back end of Duncan’s snore, which resembled the death rattle of an obese walrus. He was perched in a precarious position on the couch’s arm, straddling it like a giant child who’d fallen asleep on a rocking horse. The mess cook’s thick handlebar mustache sucked in and out of his mouth with every throaty inhale and exhale. Phinneas grimaced and shoved the man’s face away, knocking him onto the floor.
Duncan jerked awake with a splutter. “Hwazzit? Cap’n?” He peered up from beneath eyebrows that looked like wrestling caterpillars.
Phinneas ignored him and stood up straight, feeling the old cocktail of anger and urgency boiling in his gut again. With the Ethershark out of commission and his only ticket to fixing her tied to his bed, they had little time to waste.
“Show a leg, ye gluttonous sons o’whores! If I have to tell ye a second time, I’ll toss each one of ye out to finish yer slumberin’ topside!” He stalked out of the room with his shouts still reverberating off the craggy walls and made for his room to fetch the girl. He slammed the door open with his boot and took a measure of satisfaction at the way she jolted in her bonds at the sound of the crash.
Stepping up to the bed, he noticed a tear trickling from her bruised and swollen eye. He was surprised it didn’t evaporate under the fire of her gaze.
One night tied up in a bed hadn’t hadn’t dampened her spirits too much. She looked just as full of piss and vinegar as before. He couldn’t help but admire her a little. Lesser folk would have begged themselves hoarse by now.
“What is it you want now? I can feel a bump on the back of my head. Come to add another, barbare?”
He leaned down until his face was square with hers and put his hand around her throat. Her pulse quickened like a snared rabbit under his fingers, and he liked that just fine. “I’m going to untie ye now. You should know not to be pert, but yer actions up to now have proven far from wise. That’s why, when I cut these ropes, ye’ll be as docile as a kitten with a dish of milk, or I’ll squeeze yer neck until ye fall unconscious, and ye’ll be at the mercy of men far less honorable than me.”
Cecilie’s face grew pale and stony as Phinneas spoke, and her solemn nod was all the assurance he needed that, for now anyway, she wasn’t going to give him any grief. He sliced the ropes and yanked her to her feet.
“Would you mind if I washed in the basin?” she asked. “I stink like you do.”
He led her over to the bowl of water. “Make it quick.”
She looked at him. “You can’t give a lady a little privacy?”
Phinneas grunted. “Don’t push yer luck. If ye weren’t so accurate in the estimation of yer stench, I’d have said no.”
She used a cake of soap to clean her hands, face, and underarms. After drying off and tying her curly hair back with the turquoise band from her hat, she looked refreshed. She surprised him by lifting up her dress and sitting on the latrine. Phinneas jerked his eyes away in reflex.
“Ye could’ve warned me.”
“I didn’t want to risk you saying no. I’ve been holding it all night. You’re lucky I didn’t go all over those fancy sheets.”
Phinneas turned to meet her mirthful gaze with gritted teeth. “No, lass. I’d say you’re the lucky one. Now are ye done, or do I have to pull ye off there with piss runnin’ down yer leg?”
She finished quickly and washed her hands a second time. “Where are we going?”
He grabbed her arm and dug in his fingers until she cried out in pain. “Keep yer mouth shut and ye won’t have to worry about it.”
She gave little resistance as he tugged her down the hallway toward the common room, but Phinneas could see her eyes flicking left and right, taking it all in, undoubtedly looking for some opportunity to escape. When the men saw them enter, they abandoned their slumped positions and steaming cups of Arabian coffee or Burmese tea and stood at attention, bleary-eyed and a little green, but Phinneas thought they’d live to see another plunder.
“Gather ’round, lads. Before we get back to the business at hand . . .” He raised Cecilie’s arm to a smattering of murmurs and “yars” from the group. “I want to say a few words in remembrance of our lost mates.”
The room grew sober and quiet as the men stripped off their hats and bowed their heads. Phinneas glanced at Cecilie and was surprised to see her bow her head as well. As he called up the words he needed to eulogize the good men who’d given their lives to their cause, he stopped short. What cause was it exactly? The question socked him in the gut. It was the first time he’d ever wondered if there was a point to this whole blasted exercise. The loss of six of his men in exchange for one strumpet, even one as valuable as this one, seemed too great. Zeric cleared his throat beside Phinneas as a subtle reminder to his Captain.
“We come together to honor the lives of six brothers. Patrick Smith, Zachary Kelly, Nathan Greene, Angus Ritchie, Elias de Graaf, and Xavier Aleman. Few men are fit for life in the void, where Willy Wright’s grip holds tight to even the heartiest souls. In life, these mates fared with great courage as they guided our vessel through the starry depths while the Space Guard’s fire bore hard against our flanks. When a mere two inches of metal separated us all from our makers, they stood true. We send these Gentlemen o’ Fortune to the Eternal Light, where their spirits may roam as we scatter their ashes from the Green Hills of Earth to the Sea of Tranquility, where they may pillage the treasures of kings, queens, and pharaohs of old. May ye swim in seas of gold, jewels, water, and beauty. Just save some loot for us, ye scurvy bastards.”
Phinneas pushed back a rising lump in his throat at the last. It was a speech he’d written long ago, but had been lucky enough to seldom practice. A muted murmur rolled through the men and Phinneas saw a few wiping their eyes. The captain could never have the luxury of crying openly. He looked back at Cecilie and saw tears streaming from her eyes. When she saw him watching, she stood up straight, sniffed, and palmed away the wetness with the heels of her hands.
“That was beautiful. You really loved your men, didn’t you?”
Taken aback by the sudden turn in her mood, Phinneas cleared this throat. “Aye, they were good lads. But why should ye care a whit? They kidnapped ye.”
“Oui. Scoundrels they may have been, but not all scoundrels deserve to die.” Her gaze hardened. “They died for you. Six men gave everything to serve their captain. Very few would think to lay down their lives for any man, but six men died for you and your cause, and I bet the rest of these men would not hesitate to do the same. That is a treasure more valuable than me or any of this.” She gestured her free arm around the room and stepped closer to him. Phinneas felt his guard rising and prepared himself for an ambush. A kick to the balls, perhaps. “If these men think you are worth it, there must be something more to you than this whole tough pirate business.”
Phinneas felt his pulse quicken by a beat too many as her eyes penetrated his. Her concern seemed genuine enough, but it was clear she was trying to work her way into his head. To weaken him enough mentally so that she could bolt at the first sign he’d turned soft. He tightened his grip on her arm and tugged her close enough to steal a kiss if he so desired. “Don’t worry yer pretty self over matters of Cap’n Finn’s heart and head, lass. It won’t get ye far. I’ve seen enough death on my watch to fill fifty crews in the afterlife. We were already dead men when we decided to go on account.”
Cecilie recoiled. “You can’t possibly be so callous.”
“I wouldn’t make for much of a pirate if I weren’t. Now shut yer yap and come on.” He dragged her along until he found Zeric speaking with a group of men and scrawling a list of parts needed for the Ethershark onto a notebook cradled against his arm sling.
The first mate turned to address him. “We need to talk about the next stage of this plan, Cap’n. About our fallen mates. Since we can’t yet bury ’em in space until the ‘Shark’s repaired, I was thinkin’ Sebastian here could help gather ’em into one of the airlocks so they won’t, yanno, stink up the Grotto.”
“Fine,” said Phinneas. “Now sod off, lads.” After the men had cleared out, Phinneas turned back to Zeric and pointed at the notebook. “What have we got?”
Zeric scratched his head with the pencil he was holding. “We were just goin’ over the parts list to get the ‘Shark up again so we could do just that, sir. We’re talkin’ bare minimum just to make it to Earth and rendezvous with one of the dirigibles.”
“And how long do ye wager it’ll take to make that work happen?”
Zeric sigh
ed and shook his head. “It’ll take time to salvage the metal and weld new armor and the new boiler. We could scotch the gunnery pod for the time bein’, but we’d have nothin’ to use against the Space Guard, who’re sure to be patrollin’ double now. All in all, we’re lookin’ at a few weeks give or take.”
“Give or take what?”
“A couple months.”
“Bloody hell! Not good enough, Zeric.”
“Beggin’ the Captain’s pardon, but if I could shit out the parts, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation at all.”
“Are ye lookin’ to feel ten fingers the hard way, Zeric?”
Zeric raised a hand. “Don’t worry, Cap’n. We’ve been mullin’ other options, too. You could smuggle the lady back onto the CR and go down the elevator.”
Phinneas held back the urge to break his First Mate’s other arm and crush the bones into fine powder. “Matey, I’ll either kill ye for being a blitherin’ idiot or for insultin’ my intelligence. Or maybe ye just want me to get arrested the second I set foot on that cursed train so ye could run the show here.”
Cecilie gasped at the sudden flare of temper.
Zeric’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Cap’n! I’m just tryin’ to cover every option. There just ain’t that many right now.”
Phinneas closed his eyes to gather his calm. “The ‘Shark ain’t our only spacefarin’ vehicle on this rock, is it now?”
“Well . . . yeah. But there’s nothin’ that’ll seat more than two or get ye to Earth. Maybe if you wanted to go to the Sargasso—”
Phinneas slapped the back of his First Mate’s head. “Finally, the man sees reason! Stock a stovepipe for a three-day journey. I’ll get a better ship at the Sargasso and deliver her alone. And keep yer mouth shut. The fewer people involved in this, the safer we’ll be.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“And may my regard for yer brains be restored by the time I get back here.”
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