by Stefon Mears
“How is our prodigal?” he said.
“They’ve chosen the call sign ‘mule,’ Sir. They’re about two minutes from the predicted trouble zone.” Grabowski stopped talking as though he considered his report complete.
Jacobs shook his head. “Mr. Grabowski, when I told you to keep an eye on the shuttle, what else did I tell you?”
“Space clear within predicted parameters in all other directions,” Grabowski said with the speed of the guilty. “And no recent sighting of the anomaly, Captain.”
“Much better. Ms. Jefferson, please ask the mess to send my food here, then contact Duran and Ketterman, and begin dinner rotations.”
Another concession to budgets, thought Jacobs. Instead of three full rotations for each station, I’m stuck with a dozen floaters. If we ever get a flight longer than a week...
“Captain.”
Jacobs looked past his grousing to see Kelly and his perfect posture at the foot of his stairs. Even now the man’s at-ease pose looked textbook perfect, down to the angles of his elbows. The hands behind his back probably didn’t waver.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly?”
“Sir, you are expected in the main dining room of Ambrosia in two minutes.”
“Much as I love dining with the passengers,” Jacobs said, irony dripping through his words, “I have two men risking their lives for this ship. I’m right where I need to be.”
“Shall I inform Ms. Stevens that you are delayed by a ship emergency?”
Jacobs knew that tone. He hated that tone. Kelly was not yet thirty years old, probably a third Jacobs’ own age, so how did he manage to master guilty expectation in so few years?
Perhaps it was a yeoman’s job requirement, the power to make strong, experienced captains feel the urge to squirm.
Worse, Jacobs knew Kelly had chosen the perfect words to make his meaning clear. The man’s diction was as precise as his posture. ‘Delayed by ship emergency,’ the exact phrase in the Starchaser Spacelines charter that enumerated the only circumstance under which a ship captain was excused from dining with the paying passengers. The fact that the chief paying passenger on this cruise happened to now be a partner in the company did not remove Jacobs’ obligation to the remaining passengers.
Jacobs could not remain on the bridge without formally announcing their situation as an emergency, which meant frightening the passengers, going to threat rotation, and a lot of other unnecessary bother for his crew.
And all because Mancuso had two assistants who did their jobs as well as Kelly did his.
“Fine,” said Jacobs with a sigh. “I’ll head down as soon as I’ve made a brief stop by my office.”
Kelly brought his right hand around, holding up one of Jacobs’ tumblers. “Brigid’s Own, the twenty-one year old, two fingers, neat.”
Jacobs smiled as he descended the stairs and took the glass from the waiting yeoman. “To your health, Mr. Kelly.” Jacobs drank down the whiskey, not in a gulp but in a slow steady trickle. Not as good as savoring it would have been, but time pressed. He handed the glass with a nod of thanks.
To the rest of the crew he said. “Continue meal rotations as normal with one exception: Mr. Burke, you have the bridge until I return.”
“Captain,” said Ms. Jefferson, “on behalf of the others, I would like to formally request that we remain on watch until the mule returns. We mean no disrespect to the relief staff, but—”
“I understand.” Jacobs casually scribbled in his notepad that the bridge crew had chosen Jefferson to speak for them. That sort of sign indicated leadership potential. Perhaps he would have her watch the bridge next time and find out how she handled it.
“You may delay meal rotations up to two hours. After that, you’ll all have been on shift too long to be sharp.” Jacobs started on his way, saying over his shoulder as he went, “Keep an eye on my ship.”
He left the bridge to a chorus of “ayes,” and went to face a fate worse than pirates: socializing with executives.
◊
Donal stood outside Ambrosia, the Horizon Cusp’s fanciest restaurant, with its three large dining rooms and Greek decorating scheme. Unable to decide how he should dress when he did not know if he would be dining alone, at a large table with a selection of V.I.P.’s, or perhaps even at a table-for-two with Li Hua, Donal had changed outfits three times before settling.
As he stood with Fionn under the pseudo-starlit sky of the Main Deck, the vague hints of sea air in his nostrils, Donal wore a midnight blue silk shirt with ivory buttons up the front and at the cuffs. His slacks were black, an alchemical blend that hung like wool and breathed like cotton. He wore his best black loafers, the only shoes he always kept polished, though maintaining their shine was a small piece of thaumaturgy. One of the benefits of his chosen art.
Fionn had circled three times, back in the room, before declaring Donal fit for any of the possible dinner combinations they foresaw. But Donal wondered if his familiar had not been entirely certain. The fae deerhound kept sniffing at the loafers, as though unhappy about the choice, or perhaps disagreeing about the socks. But the socks were black, if thin, and Donal could think of no reason they might prove a problem.
But before Donal entered the restaurant, he had one more thing to do, loathe as he felt to do it.
“Fionn, I think you better return to your base for now.”
“While I agree that you are unlikely to suffer physical violence, I think it better if I remain. You may need assistance dissecting the verbal sparring later.”
“True, but you saw how paranoid the executives got about having a magician around, and after Magister Machado’s warning...”
“I disagree with this decision, but if you wish, Master, I shall return to the pendant.”
Donal felt his stomach pucker at the formal words from Fionn. Fionn only reverted to such terms and phrases when it considered the situation important. But Donal felt he had to stick to his guns. “I’ll call you back the second I expect trouble.”
“Better to do so the second before you expect trouble.” And then Fionn twisted its words so that only Donal could understand them, even though Donal could spot no observers. “Remember our field work practice, and maintain your guard. This may appear a simple meal, but you enter a den of vipers.”
Donal was saved from having to reply by Fionn’s conversion into a beam of emerald light that flowed into the small silver faun pendant around Donal’s neck. Donal checked to make sure the pendant remained tucked into his shirt, steadied himself with a deep breath, and entered Ambrosia.
The door seemed to disappear as it closed behind Donal, and just like that he found himself standing atop Mount Olympus. A marvelous network of illusions provided a breathtaking scene. From the peak of Mount Olympus, Donal could see ships at sail on gentle seas, ancient Greek towns at ease by firelight far below, and even shepherds tending their flocks on distant hillsides. The air felt fresh as a warm summer evening, carrying the slightest hints of salt, and earth, and grass.
A tiny red speck among the faint stars above marked the position of the Horizon Cusp, relative to Earth.
A maître d' dressed in the robe and tunic of a simple shepherd — if a simple shepherd ever had his robe and tunic cleaned and pressed — approached Donal, thumped his crook, and said, “Donal Cuthbert, I believe?” No sooner did Donal nod than the maître d' said, “Mister Mancuso apologizes for not inviting you to join his table, but business concerns make that impossible this evening.”
“That’s fine. I’ll sit wherever.”
“Miss Stevens and Mister Davis request that you join their table, should you feel so inclined.”
“They’re not dining with Mr. Mancuso?”
The “obviously not” look the maître d' gave Donal made heat rise in his neck, but the man’s continued silence made clear that he waited for an answer.
“Certainly, I’d be happy for the company.”
The maître d' led Donal across the grassy apex of Mount Olympus
, between tables and beautifully rendered statues of Greek gods. Donal half expected Apollo to strum his lyre, or Aphrodite to offer a flirtatious wink.
Only a few tables were actually in use. The captain’s table in the center, of course, where Captain Jacobs sat at the head and other chairs were occupied by Mr. Mancuso, Mr. Montenegro, Ms. Romanov, Mr. Saito, and a Martian-Middle Eastern man Donal had not yet met. Given that the table could have sat twelve, Donal wondered why only half the seats were filled.
A ring of smaller tables surrounding the executives had two diners each, probably support personnel for the various executives. Donal wondered why they did not mix. Surely business matters among them were not so strained that the support staff could not even dine together.
At a table behind the captain sat Chief Goldberg and a half-dozen members of the ship’s watch, apparently there to eat, though Donal had seen the crew mess on a previous voyage.
Magister Machado also sat at that table, the only magician in the room apart from Donal. The magister gave Donal a smile and a nod, which Donal returned while feeling grateful that he had dismissed Fionn. He would hate to have the ship’s mage misunderstand the presence of Donal’s familiar during a simple meal.
Moving among the tables were the wait staff, clad and enchanted to resemble satyrs and nymphs, albeit dressed to convey elegant beauty rather than lasciviousness.
The maître d' dropped Donal off at his table and left, summoned by a nymph to tend to some small problem. Donal looked at his dinner companions, dressed in something apart from business suits for the first time in his experience. Mr. Davis wore a cashmere sweater over an olive green shirt and chocolate brown slacks, while Ms. Stevens wore a sky blue dress, conservative cut with a high neck and long sleeves, but flattering in how it hung.
“Thank you for inviting me,” said Donal as he sat. He glanced about as subtly as he could, but he saw no sign of Li Hua.
“If you’re looking for Li Hua,” said Ms. Stevens, “she’s dining with the other security executives.”
“I knew they wouldn’t follow the no-bodyguards rule,” said Mr. Davis.
“Well to be fair,” said Ms. Stevens, “Li Hua can pull double-duty. They’d have felt at a disadvantage if they didn’t bring help of their own.”
“I didn’t see any other magicians,” said Donal.
“Nothing like that,” said Ms. Stevens. “They couldn’t go that far. But each of the other companies suddenly happened to have a security executive with an ops track record.”
“Ops?” said Donal, feeling almost as far behind this conversation as he might have if Mr. Mancuso had been leading it. Perhaps they picked up the ability by osmosis.
“Field operations,” said Mr. Davis. “They all have combat experience.”
Ms. Stevens leaned forward a little. “They’re still a step behind. Rob and I both have combat experience. It just doesn’t show up on our records.”
Donal casually put both hands on the table in the universally accepted not-casting gesture, a reflexive show of peaceful intentions. “So you’re expecting trouble?”
“Officially?” said Ms. Stevens. “No.”
“Unofficially?” said Mr. Davis. “Always.”
◊
“Give me a wider read, damn it,” said Tunold staring more at his three-dimensional display of the space around the shuttle than out the front viewport. They were ten minutes out from the Horizon Cusp and entering the hunting grounds proper. “I’m flying half-blind here.”
“I’m getting you reads as fast as I can,” said Cromartie, irritation all through his tone. “This lacuna’s pulling double duty. The shuttle’s not designed for this sort of thing, you know.”
“Well we’ll be flying it to Davy Jones if this shimmer gets a jump on us.”
“Davy Jones? Really?”
Tunold spared a glare over his shoulder. At least Cromartie kept hard at his work as he groused. Still...
“Navy traditions didn’t stop when we left the seas, Mister.”
“Where’s his locker these days, then? Does it orbit any given planet? Or does it fly a long cycle like a comet.”
Tunold cursed under his breath. He knew there was no requirement for commercial spacers to have ever served in the Navy, but damn it, the ones that didn’t had no sense of history.
“Just find me the damn shimmer before it drops on top of us.”
“Aye aye, Sir. And if it’s the Dutchman, we’ll lay a couple of broadsides agin’ her timbers before she knows we’re here.”
“There!” Tunold snapped the word out and Cromartie cut off his laughter mid-breath. But that was merely a side benefit. Tunold had seen it. Just for a moment, true, but for long enough for him to jab that spot in his display, sending the data immediately back to Cromartie at the scanners.
“Got it,” said Cromartie. “Ten minutes at best speed.”
“We’ll take twelve then. I don’t want it to know what we can do.” Tunold spared a glance and was gratified to see Cromartie hard at work, analyzing the scant data as best he could. “Any idea what that was?”
“Not ... yet. I’ve got a rough idea of the size, maybe two-thirds the size of the Horizon Cusp...”
Cromartie trailed off and Tunold let him, angling for a smooth approach while letting the magician work his magic.
“I can’t get anything else right now. As far as the lacuna is concerned, there was something odd about a section of space for an instant, and then it was fine again.”
“No memory to search?”
“None that would help. They don’t think in our terms.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to go find out firsthand. Better strap in. The ride might get bumpy.”
Tunold pushed the speed toward eighty percent of capacity and wished he had a weapon trigger to ease the itch in his fingers.
◊
No matter how smart someone may be on land, mused Jacobs, in space one landlubber is just like another.
It didn’t matter that the five people at his table wore jewelry worth at least the cost of a small helioship or that their tailored finery looked equally expensive. As though their clothes might give them a negotiating edge.
They all asked the same questions when they sat at the captain’s table. “How long have you been at space?” At least this crowd knew enough not to say “in” space, which would have suggested that they were floating free outside a ship. But still, if they had bothered to read their pre-flight brochures, they would have already known the answer to that question, as well as how long the Horizon Cusp had been in service, what sort of engine it used, and whether or not it was armed.
Jacobs never understood why anyone asked that last one. Surely everyone had to know that the Navy took a dim view of arming civilian ships.
But it was the dreaded pirate question that Jacobs had been hoping to evade tonight, especially since that shimmer behind them might just turn out to be a ship. But no sooner had the wine been poured and the appetizers served — seasoned calamari with Martian clams to go with the Greco di Tufo — than Kianoush had to ask, “How often are pirates a problem?”
Kianoush had asked not as a curiosity, but with the intent eyes of someone considering the question as part of some deeper calculation. This was unlike Mancuso, Romanov, Montenegro, and Saiko, who all seemed to consider such questions a part of the small talk portion of their dinner conversation. Perhaps even an attempt to include their host before they moved on to more weighty matters.
But Kianoush stood out in another way as well. He alone did not dress as though announcing his status to the world around him. He wore a simple reddish brown sweater with darker brown slacks, the sort of clothes that might have come from a department store, even if his looked hand sewn.
So Jacobs paused before giving his pat answer to the pirate question, sipping his Greco di Tufo and considering the man who asked. The pause made Mancuso’s eyebrows rise, perhaps remembering the pat answer Jacobs had given when he asked a similar question
.
Similar, but not quite the same. Mancuso had asked if Jacobs had ever faced pirates. Kianoush’s question assumed that piracy was a problem.
“Pirates are a rare problem for a passenger liner at space. Even when a ship’s route is known, the vagaries of flight can make interception difficult and time consuming. Further, the crews tend to be larger than cargo vessels carry, and people are more likely to fight to protect their personal possessions than for a company’s products.”
Zoltan would have wanted Jacobs to apologize for any inadvertent offense given at this point, since these people were quite likely the sort to employ cargo vessels with crews that did not fight hard for their wares. But Zoltan was gone, and Jacobs felt he had said nothing that merited an apology.
“No need to take Farbod’s question so seriously,” said Romanov in an offhand manner as she studied her wine. “He just wants to sound interested in your business.”
“Easy to say for someone whose business is dock-bound,” said Kianoush. “But those of us with ships must keep abreast of new developments. Sandstorm Transit has not ventured into passenger travel, and I wanted to know what I might deal with if I decide we should.”
“Fewer pirates,” said Jacobs, “but on the other hand a shipping container never complains about the facilities.”
Everyone laughed, so Jacobs smiled and pretended he had been joking. Mancuso began to steer the conversation, then, to discussions of a family named Klemperer. Jacobs knew the Klemperers had provided major private funding for the colony on Venus, or at least the portion that had not been subsidized by Earth governments. But two minutes into the conversation he had figured out that Mancuso had had problems in the past with one Felix Klemperer.
But that was nothing compared to the problems at the table.
◊
“Wait,” said Donal. “What sort of trouble are you expecting?”
“Well, the Romanov Group and Sandstorm Transit have been fighting for years over rates,” said Ms. Stevens, gesturing for a waiter and ordering a vegetable platter and a Morgan ’23 sauvignon blanc for the table. “But honestly, there was bad blood between them before that.”