Zeric tipped a stiff salute. “On my honor it will, sir. And I’ll see to it the ‘Shark is as good as new.” He scrambled off to fulfill the Captain’s orders.
Phinneas dragged Cecilie back to his quarters to retrieve the most important thing he needed for the journey to Earth: the key for his chest implant, which would be essential to keep his heart pumping once he was in full gravity. He’d made a deal long ago with a Chinese clockmaker to construct it in exchange for smuggling a few of his family members back from the Sargasso. There was none other like it that he knew of in all of the Big Black.
“What is that?” She sat upon the bed and watched as he placed the chain holding the key around his neck.
“Ye know how landlubbers get a little woozy the first time they come into space on that cushy elevator?”
Cecilie nodded.
“That’s nothin’ compared to what happens when ye live in space and visit Big Blue for a day. We spacers do exercises to keep our muscles toned, but there’s only so much we can do to keep the heart as big and powerful as it needs to be in Earth gravity.”
She snorted. “I don’t find it surprising you would have a small heart.”
He ignored the dig. “It just so happens I don’t.” He undid the top buttons of his shirt and bared his chest to reveal a metal keyhole and a mass of tiny brass gears mounted within a silver frame upon his chest.
“Mon dieu! It is as if your heart is mechanical!”
Phinneas grinned. “Me heart, black and evil it may be, is flesh and blood. A very skilled man made this for me long ago, and a surgeon in Shanghai installed it. I just stick in the key and wind it up. Then I’m good for whatever earthly business I need to conduct before heading back home.” He mimicked the motions and dropped the key against his chest again before buttoning his shirt.
Cecilie was frowning. “You speak of our planet as if it is an alien world.”
Phinneas smiled grimly at her. “Lass, as far as I’m concerned, it is. I may have been born on Big Blue, but out here is where I belong.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her back up just as someone knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Zeric popped his head in. “The stovepipe’s ready when you are, Cap’n.”
“Come with me, lass. We’re about to take a ride that’s terrified brave men.”
“I cannot wait.” Cecilie pretended to yawn, much to Phinneas’s secret amusement.
He escorted her through the Shark Tank to a side passage hewn long ago by men with pickaxes and hammers. It led to a smaller natural chamber with an airlock built into the side. Before Phinneas could stop her, Cecilie stepped over to the thick glass porthole beside the airlock door and peered through to look at the vessel beyond. Her fingers flew to her mouth as she took in the tiny ship that was little more than a high-pressure boiler attached to a short cigar-shaped fuselage. “You want me to ride in that thing? It is a coffin!”
“It ain’t a question of want. In fact, it ain’t even a question.” Phinneas spun the airlock door open. “In ye go.”
“But . . . but how long is the trip?” She pulled away from him, her face becoming a stricken mask of dawning panic.
Phinneas slammed the door shut and dogged it. Then he whirled and tightened his grip on Cecilie’s arm to one which usually made most of his crewmen squirm in discomfort, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Three days.”
“Three days?”
“And it’ll be easier if ye don’t make me have to stuff ye in unconscious.” He dragged his recalcitrant prisoner toward the fuselage door with both arms.
“No, wait. We can wait for them to fix the bigger ship! I’m not flying deeper into space in that tin can!”
She slipped out of Phinneas’s grip and hurled herself at the airlock door. He didn’t rush to get her back, because she had nowhere else to go. That didn’t stop her from trying to pull and push and bang her way through the thick metal. “Ye’re wastin’ a lot of time and energy, lass. Not to mention my patience.”
She turned to face him again, her hair flying loose from its tieback. “I would rather spend three months tied to that bed than ride in that chimney going to a place where we’ll probably die anyway.!”
“That’s all fine and well, Miss, but I would fully intend on sleeping in that bed myself. Any additional time ye’d spend here would be tied to a cot in the common room. Naked.”
Cecilie glared. “You stinking pig! You would not dare!”
“Ye think I stink now, just wait until we’ve spent three days in that thing.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“That is it! I have had enough of this. You won’t take me in there without a fight.” She raised her fists in an awkward boxer’s stance that made Phinneas stifle the first real laughter he’d felt in months, if not years. The futility and annoyance of her resistance notwithstanding, the girl had more steel in her spine than all the men on his crew.
“You don’t want to fight me, lass.”
“Oh yes? Prove it to me then. Or are you a coward?”
If this was how she wanted to play, so be it. Phinneas raised his fists and lowered his chin in his well-practiced fighter’s posture. He didn’t expect to hold it for long. “Ye do understand I don’t get my jollies hittin’ ladies.”
“We’ll see if that’s true.” She took a swing and landed a decent clip on his jaw. He would feel sore for the next day or so, but in the lunar gravity, her blow wasn’t powerful enough to throw him off his stride. “That was a freebie. Out of chivalry.”
“Ha! What do you know of chivalry?”
“This is about the extent of it.” He dropped his fists. “I’ll see ye in a few hours.”
Cecilie frowned and lowered her hands. “A few hours? You mean—”
Phinneas grinned and delivered a sucker punch to her temple. He caught her before she could hit the ground. “Leastaways I’ll get some bloody peace and quiet,” he muttered. After stuffing her into the passenger seat of the stovepipe’s cramped interior, Phinneas settled in for a long, hot ride. This chore wouldn’t be over soon enough.
Chapter Seven
Mikhail Gusarov was a bearish brute of a man who would have towered over Jonathan had his legs not ended midway down his thighs. On Earth, a man like him would have been consigned to a clunky wheelchair and made a reject of a modern society enamored with narrow doorways, stairs, and disdain for the handicapped. In the microgravity of orbital space, it didn’t affect him in the least, or so he explained to Jonathan and Porter between India rubber squeeze bulbs filled with Polish vodka, a drink Jonathan had sampled once and found to be rather like drinking paint thinner. Gusarov’s black hair and skin bronzed from constant exposure to solar energies gave him an exotic appearance that was at odds with his accent, which placed his origins somewhere along the Volga River.
Where Jonathan and Porter had belted themselves into chairs at the table, Gusarov floated above it, making no pretense at hiding his stumps. “Da, friends, it was live steam shunt that did it.” He smoothed down his thick black walrus mustache. “We were three days out from a Melbourne drop when meteorite holed us. Space rock went through three pipes and blew all portside jets. Pressure change split pipe beside me. Cut legs off like hot knife through butter. At least heat sealed them shut.” He sucked his bulb dry and eyed the nozzle. “You still buy, Gospodin Orbital?”
Jonathan took a deep breath. Dockmaster Guidry had said he wouldn’t like the sole option of Mikhail Gusarov, but no other pilot or crew at Pinnacle would forgo their scheduled runs to track down a freighter that could be anywhere in space. They’d found Gusarov in Cantina del Vuelo, a seedy spacer’s tavern, trying to wheedle a drink from the barkeep. Jonathan mentioned a business proposition and bought the man a vodka to quiet him down.
So far, the alcohol had only loosened the expatriate Russian’s tongue and Jonathan hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise. Gusarov had himself an audience, and the man intended to tell a few stories. Nevertheless, Jonathan nodded and motioned t
o the barkeep.
“Another vodka, Billy.” Gusarov reached down and touched the table to steady his drift. “Now then, where was I? Ah. My legs. I was in bad way, and crew couldn’t patch up damage. We crammed into stovepipes and scuttled Hannibal’s Bride. She was lovely ship, friends.” In gravity, the barkeep might have slid a full pint mug down the bar, but in microgravity he gave a gentle toss to another rubber squeeze bulb and it floated into Gusarov’s waiting hands. He raised it in salute. “To Hannibal’s Bride. May she rest in peace.”
Jonathan and Porter glanced at each other. Jonathan nodded, so they pulled their own steel drink containers from the magnetic strips on the table and raised them. Drinking beer through a straw was a tricky operation, and it seemed like every time Jonathan took a sip, a trail of foam floated free from the straw’s mouth.
“Sir,” said Porter in a soft voice. “I really think—”
“Quiet, Jefferson. Mr. Gusarov’s about to talk business. Aren’t you?”
“Da. When Lloyd’s paid out for Bride, I asked Captain if I could keep stovepipe as payment since I would not be digging dirt anytime soon. He agreed, so there it is, and here I am, captain of Condor. You will hire us, da?”
It took Porter nudging him under the table for Jonathan to realize it was his turn to speak. Microgravity and alcohol was a potent combination, and he felt quite a bit more soused than he should have been. Gusarov had the cadences of a master storyteller, and wove a powerful, mesmerizing spell with his words.
“Oh, er, yes. You couldn’t take us to the Lagrange Sargasso, could you?”
Gusarov looked around quickly to see if anyone had overheard. “Hush, Mr. Orbital. You do not want people to overhear you talk like that. Sargasso is no place for respectable man like yourself.”
Jonathan lowered his voice to what he felt was a safe level. “That may be, but I need to get there. It’s a matter of desperate importance. A young lady’s life may be at stake.”
Gusarov considered Jonathan’s words for a moment. “As much as I would like to help your lady friend, it is not possible. I was going to speak to man who knew other man who could tell me semaphore code to approach without being shot into space dust.” He took another drink. “Somewhere along line, someone did not show up, so here I am. Honest man trying to make honest living with honest work.” He spoke this last at a louder volume and looked around the bar, as if to convince anyone who overheard. No one appeared to give him more than an annoyed glance before continuing their conversations.
“Then perhaps you could take us to rendezvous with another ship. Mr. Porter’s brother works aboard the Palmetto, and he must know the code you spoke of. We need to reach his ship as soon as possible. Can you take us to it?”
Gusarov smoothed his mustache again. “Palmetto. Alberto Muñoz’s ship. He and I go way back. He is day outbound, heading for drop in Lisbon. I can bring you to him, comrades. There is just question of my fee.”
“I’m prepared to pay whatever you require if it’s reasonable,” said Jonathan. Porter nudged him under the table again and he knew he was being too easy a negotiator. Every minute they delayed, though, was one more minute Cecilie had to stay among the pirates.
“I am small bit behind in airlock rental, thanks to misunderstanding with weekly rates.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“And Condor needs coke, water, O2”
“Done.”
“The larder could use restocking.”
“Give me your list and I’ll cover it.”
Gusarov looked at Jonathan with unrestrained curiosity. “Bozhe moy, you are in real mess of some kind, yes? Gospodin Orbital, I am charitable kind of fellow. If you cover those expenses for me, I will fly you wherever you need to go.” He finished his bulb. “I am between jobs at moment.”
Jonathan pushed his beer aside; he needed a clearer head now that they were talking business. “Tell me more about the Condor, Mr. Gusarov. I’ve seen stovepipes before around the CR. They’re quite small. Are you going to have room for the two of us?”
Gusarov smiled. “Condor is not typical stovepipe. Bigger boiler, bigger can up front. I could fit four into her, long as you are good friends. She will do for us to make Palmetto.”
“Good enough, I suppose. How soon can we depart?”
A delicate belch escaped from between Gusarov’s lips. Too late, he covered his mouth and then grinned. “I must have bulb of coffee, Gospodin, and then there is just small matter of settling up bills and laying in supplies.”
“Give my man your list of supplies and he’ll see to it. As far as your bills and fees go, I’ll take care of them myself.” Jonathan unhooked his seat belt and adjusted his goggles as sunlight began to stream into the bar. “Get your coffee to go.”
Gusarov protested a bit at the rush, but scribbled out a supply list on a napkin and handed it to Porter. “Condor is docked at Airlock Six on main deck. That is, if stationmaster has not impounded her by now.”
“Lead on, Mr. Gusarov,” said Jonathan.
The legless man took up a surprising quick pace, using his fingertips to guide his progress through the station over the heads of travelers and crew. Jonathan fell further and further behind as he struggled along the floor. Red-faced and puffing, he fought through a crowd of Chinese diplomats in their Western-style suits and wire-framed glasses, and eventually found Gusarov waiting for him on the other side of the throng.
“Those boots are half your problem right there, Gospodin Orbital.” The pilot sipped from his coffee bulb. “They keep you upright, sure, but that traps you into thinking in only two dimensions. That is earthworm thinking. Space has six cardinal directions, not four, and if you are going to travel in it, you should start thinking that way.”
“I’m sorry.” Jonathan tugged his collar away from his neck. A while ago, he’d learned that sweat didn’t roll off one’s skin in microgravity. Instead, it collected like perspiration on a cold mug of beer, and with every motion he sent tiny clouds of droplets wobbling off into the air. “I haven’t spent much time in space, as you can probably tell.”
“Pretty funny joke for man named Orbital.” Gusarov spun himself around in mid-air until he was upside-down. “You want to be spacer, first is take off clinkers. Hang them from your belt by laces so they are out of way.”
Jonathan shrugged and untied his boots. Pulling them from the deck was far more difficult when he wasn’t braced against anything. After struggling for a minute to Gusarov’s great amusement, he got the second boot freed and stuck it to its mate, heel to toe.
Then he discovered he was floating in the middle of the corridor with nothing in arm’s reach. “Aw, hell,” he muttered.
“You are not helpless,” said Gusarov. “Move your body. Swing clinkers by laces. Blow out lungful of air. Damned earthworm.”
Shamed into experimenting, Jonathan started to wiggle himself, swing around his boots, and blow like Gusarov recommended. Some combination of the tricks worked and he was able to get a hand onto a nearby pipefitting. With Gusarov alternately coaching, goading, or rebuking him, Jonathan flailed his way through the corridors of Pinnacle Station to the designated airlock. Porter awaited them there with tanks of air and water, boxes of coke and canned supplies. A station representative waited as well, and his expression grew both avaricious and hopeful at Jonathan’s appearance.
“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” said Porter. “I know time is of the essence, so I sought out this gentleman and explained you personally would be taking care of Mr. Gusarov’s docking fees.”
Jonathan nodded and dug out his money clip from his inside coat pocket. He counted out sufficient funds to cover the bill and added a few dollars more for good measure. The station man counted the money twice, then doffed his cap, adjusted his goggles, and moved off down the corridor back to the Station offices.
“Mouth-breathing durak.” Gusarov grumbled as he spun the wheel to the airlock. “He has no love for independents, as if we are all smugglers and
pirates.”
“Are you?” Jonathan fixed him with a steady gaze.
Gusarov looked back over his shoulder with a wink and a grin. “Not today, Gospodin Orbital. Money is scarce for one-man operation like mine and I have to take jobs as I can get them.”
“I see.”
“Never you mind that, comrades. Welcome to Condor. Get gear stowed and tanks connected so we can shove off. Palmetto is getting further away each minute and it will take hard burn to catch up with her.” He entered the cabin and threw a switch. Bulb-enclosed gaslamps started to glow, illuminating the ship’s interior with their soft, friendly warmth.
As Jonathan entered the cabin of the stovepipe ship, he was once again reminded of Gusarov’s insistence on the fundamental difference between life in four dimensions as opposed to six. The cabin, or can, as the legless man called it, was only about fifteen feet long, with a diameter of but six. In gravity, the space within would have seemed cramped and unusable, but Gusarov had made clever use of all sides of the interior.
A pilot’s station nestled in the ship’s nose. Leather straps floated and swayed from the movement of air in the cabin, and their brass buckles gleamed in the gaslight. The Condor was docked on the far side of Pinnacle Station, so instead of the familiar vistas of Earth, only distant starlight beckoned through the leaded glass windows. A forest of control levers extended from pulleys and ratchets set all around the windows, so many that Jonathan couldn’t even begin to guess at all their functions.
Cabinets were bolted behind the pilot’s station on walls, floor, and ceiling. Each one’s door had a cunning two-part brass latch that would seal it tight against sudden accelerations. Gusarov opened a couple of them and told Porter to fill them with the canned goods. The butler raised an eyebrow at Gusarov’s effrontery to give him orders, but said nothing. Looking closer at the cabinets, Jonathan realized not all of them were used for simple storage. One looked like it was a tiny airlock, perhaps for waste disposal. Another had a line feeding into it from the ship’s radiator and he understood it was a sort of hot-plate for cooking. At least, they wouldn’t just be eating cold tins of meat on their journey.
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