by Stefon Mears
“I’m not asking for anything I haven’t earned.”
Mancuso met Jacobs’ eyes, and Jacobs saw the merciless look he associated with commandos about to go into battle.
“You’re entering my field of combat now, Jacobs. Stick to your guns and you’ll find out how I earned my command.”
◊
Donal stood in the bedroom of his own suite, trying to get his suit to behave the way it had in the tailor’s shop, to hang just right. But he could not stop fidgeting, and neither mirror on the back of the closet doors seemed to offer much guidance.
“I should attend the dinner,” said Fionn, who lay on the floor, head on crossed paws as though completely uninterested in Donal’s clothing problems.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Donal twisted and checked another angle. Donal liked the suit. In theory. Tailored navy blue silk with a scarlet tie, a light blue silk shirt. Combined with a black belt and shoes, even Donal had to admit that the suit looked good on him.
At least, it had looked good while he and Li Hua had been in that tailor’s shop in San Francisco.
“Someone has already made one effort on Mr. Mancuso’s life. The responsible party will likely be sitting at that table tonight. You need me to help you sort through the possibilities.”
“That,” said Donal brushing his hands down his sleeves one more time, “does not address the issue of Mr. Mancuso himself.” From the look of his reflection, he almost had it right, except that now his shoulders looked off again. “I’m not sure we can afford to split our focus.”
“Oh, for Rhiannon’s sake,” said Fionn, rising to stand. “Stop fidgeting. Close your eyes. Now take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Now another. That’s it. You’re just getting dressed, not attending your own funeral. One more slow, deep breath.”
Donal could hear the cú sidhe walk a circle around him, feel its presence as it passed, its not-quite-body-heat. Finally, Fionn spoke again.
“Now, open your eyes.”
Donal allowed his lids to part as slowly as the breaths he continued to draw. The Donal looking back from the mirror looked just as good as Donal had remembered from that tailor shop.
“Much better,” said Fionn. “And for what you paid for that suit...”
“I’ll need it for certain school functions anyway.” Donal turned to meet Fionn’s fiery emerald eyes. “It doesn’t matter how much good you could do me at dinner. Magister Machado would probably throw a fit if I brought you.”
“Ronaldo Machado has no right to intrude on your safety.”
“Unless I want to challenge his right to this ship as his demesne, he does.”
“Foolish system,” said Fionn.
“Maybe, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Give me your word that you will summon me at the first hint of trouble. You can apologize to Ronaldo Machado later.”
“I’ll call you at the first sign of a problem.”
“No, Master. Give me your word.”
Fionn’s seated posture was erect and still, its ears up and pointed, its eyes locked on Donal’s.
Donal crouched to put his eyes on Fionn’s level and said, “An we are linked, I swear by my power, my skill, and my blood that I shall summon you to my aid at the first sign of trouble while I dine in the restaurant Ambrosia this night, or if I suspect any possible danger as I approach or leave that place.”
Fionn nodded once, then shifted into bright green light and moved into the silver faun pendant on the chain around Donal’s neck.
◊
Jacobs took his seat at the head of the captain’s table in the center of Ambrosia’s main dining room. Above him the illusory sky shone with the stars of a clear Greek spring, leaving the room at a comfortable level of dimness: bright enough that all diners at a table could see each other and their meals clearly, but dark enough to give privacy to the neighboring tables. In the background he could just hear the strains of a Greek folk song, loud enough to add a touch of spice to ambiance, but too quiet to interfere with even whispered conversation.
Mancuso sat on Jacobs’ right, and for the second night in a row Jacobs wondered why. The seat at the foot of the table was available. Mancuso might have claimed it by right of partnership, and considering that everyone at the table except Jacobs was Mancuso’s guest, it could even have represented a shift in the location of the table’s head.
And yet Mancuso chose to let Jacobs keep the head of the table, but sat in the position of most-important-guest: first among equals, but below the captain. Jacobs guessed that this was some sort of maneuver related to whatever business deal Mancuso was cooking up on this voyage.
Much like inviting Cuthbert had to have been. Oh, Jacobs did not doubt that Mancuso felt gratitude toward the boy for his role in the day’s excitement, but Jacobs doubted that Mancuso was the sort to accomplish only one thing with a gesture.
Even now Cuthbert sat at Jacobs’ left hand, dressed for the occasion, but lacking the self-possession to wear the suit the way it should have been worn. The poor lad looked every bit as uncomfortable as Jacobs had expected. He wondered for a moment whether Carl would have handled the situation better. Jacobs liked to think Carl would have. Jacobs liked to think he would have trained his son to understand that when you focus on mastering yourself, no one else can make you feel like less than a master.
But for all his study and introspection, Cuthbert seemed to have missed that lesson.
On Mancuso’s right was the only man not dressed for a formal dinner, Farbod Kianoush. Kianoush opted for a dark cashmere sweater with slacks that could have looked formal with the right shirt and jacket. With the sweater, though, the effect could not have been called “dressy.”
Kianoush was also the only one who had refused his share of Pinot Noir when the steward brought the bottle around. The opposite reaction from Saito Akio, who sat to Kianoush’s right and had already finished that first glass of wine and gestured for more. Saito wore a finely tailored charcoal gray suit with a slim black tie, and Jacobs approved of the choice. It created a look that managed to be almost understated, while still conveying elegant quality.
Saito shared that quality with Natasha Romanov, who sat across from him. She wore a gown of deep forest green, high-necked and long-sleeved, yet cut so that a hint of iridescence — apparently a feature of the fabric — emphasized her movements as though she wore understated jewels all over her body. But the only actual jewelry she wore was a cameo that hung about her collarbone.
Ricardo Montenegro, seated to Romanov’s right and Cuthbert’s left, also wore a necklace that hung about his collarbone, but in his case a face had been carved in gold. Jacobs did not recognize the style, but believed it looked Mesoamerican. The gold matched Montenegro’s cufflinks, the only other adornment of his classic-design tuxedo.
But Jacobs was more curious about Montenegro’s choice of seats than his decision to wear the only actual tuxedo at the table. Montenegro had looked as though he intended to sit beside Mancuso before he spotted Cuthbert, at which point he had moved quickly to claim the seat to the boy’s left.
But what could Montenegro want with Cuthbert?
Jacobs hoped that the day’s excitement had not put any of them on edge. But he knew that if any of them stepped out of line, Goldberg and his team would be all too happy to leave their table behind Jacobs and escort all disturbers of the peace to the brig.
And if any of them gave Cuthbert a bad time, Jacobs felt as though he might be tempted to let the chief do just that.
◊
Donal held his wineglass by the stem and swirled his Pinot Noir, enjoying the brilliance of its red color. He brought it to his nose and smelled bright cherries with a hint of fresh earth in its scent. He sipped, and its complex flavors sorted themselves on his tongue: fruit, currant, Portobello, and a hint of smoke.
He felt the urge to gulp it down, to finish his as fast as Mr. Saito had. Not that the wine was that tasty, though it was, nor as a gesture of suppo
rt for someone who clearly had been raised with a different attitude toward wine than Donal had.
No, Donal wanted to gulp down his wine and ask for more because he felt overwhelmed by the business discussions that had already begun. Either the other diners continued from previous topics with odd, pre-agreed-to jargon, or they conversed about business the way professional magicians discussed thaumaturgy: deeply and intently, with no regard for anyone who does not have the education to keep up.
Donal declined to gulp down his wine because it would waste a delightful wine, which he considered criminal, and because he had probably made others just as uncomfortable with his own shop talk as these tycoons now made him.
Donal could practically hear his father telling him to pay attention to the experience and learn from it.
A wine steward dressed as a satyr refilled Mr. Saito’s wine, and Mr. Mancuso raised his glass.
“What is this now, Donal? The third time you’ve saved my life?”
Donal felt a flush creep up his cheeks as the other businesspeople turned calculating eyes on him. But before Donal could find words, Mr. Mancuso continued, taking in the whole of the table with a sweep of his finger.
“And today he saved all of you as well. And your assistants, and our dear captain, and everyone else aboard this ship. And so let us drink to Donal: may he prove as good in the lab as he is under pressure.”
“To Donal,” said the others, and all raised their glasses to drink.
Am I supposed to drink too? Or is that a faux pas?
Donal didn’t know. Joke toasts had been made to him at college parties, but never anything serious or formal, and the rules were a mystery. By the time they had finished drinking the toast and replaced their glasses, Donal had managed to do nothing but hold his glass by the stem and fight down a blush.
Donal finally did manage a second sip, and as he replaced his glass, Ms. Romanov said, “I must say, Mr. Cuthbert, that I find this development quite irritating.”
She arched an eyebrow, clearly waiting until all eyes were on her before she said, “I did so hope to find an excuse to challenge you to a duel after that business on Luna. But I can’t very well continue to hold that against you after the events of the day.”
She raised her glass to Donal again.
“In light of your actions today, the Romanov family rescinds its vendetta.”
Now that was a toast Donal knew he could drink to.
◊
“In the future, Ms. Romanov,” said Jacobs, “please inform Security Chief Goldberg of any active vendettas against other passengers, including any you might still hold toward those on this flight.”
The woman actually gave Jacobs a coy smile.
“I will, of course, keep that in mind, Captain. And I assure you that though the Romanov family has as many vendettas as any other comparable family on Luna, I am not aware of any current instances that would involve the crew or passengers presently aboard your ship.”
Jacobs made a mental note to make sure Zoltan had not arranged for them to pick up any new passengers on Venus.
“But Natasha,” said Montenegro, “there are no other families on Luna that compare in status to the Romanovs.”
“No, there aren’t.” Her smile broadened a bit and took in the other diners. “Not anymore.”
Kianoush shifted in his seat as though her statement had been for his ears alone.
Mancuso pointed at Montenegro and said, “Weren’t you telling me just yesterday that you once fought off space pirates?”
That drew Jacobs’ attention.
“Do not make too much of it,” said Montenegro. “I was young and running a lifter on a cargo vessel. My first.”
He smiled despite his humble tone, and Jacobs saw something like nostalgia in the man’s eye, even though Jacobs considered him far too young to know what real nostalgia felt like.
“The ship had been forced to cut its speed. Something about an unexpected hazard in the route.”
“That should have tipped your captain,” said Jacobs.
“It did. He sounded the alarm. We didn’t have much more than axe handles though. It was a low-budget operation.” Montenegro shook his head. “When my buddies saw that ... our employers expected us to defend their cargo against armed pirates using nothing but axe handles, they opted to offer a few unpleasant words to their captain and hole up in the crew quarters.”
“I keep telling people,” said Mancuso, “cutting corners doesn’t save money.”
Jacobs agreed, but chose not to say so aloud.
Montenegro continued, growing more animated in his story. He leaned forward and held an imaginary axe handle in one hand.
“I wanted no part of their cowardice. I grabbed my axe handle and ran for the cargo bay. I pulled open the hatch...
“And ran straight into a pirate’s Pacifier.”
Jacobs laughed, and it seemed to break the spell. Montenegro followed and soon the whole table was laughing at his seated pantomime of taking a Pacifier blow to the head.
“I woke up two hours later with the worst headache of my life. These were the old Pacifiers, too, when they were made of wood instead of hard rubber.”
“I read about those,” said Cuthbert. “Magicians tried to tell them that the material didn’t matter, as long as it had once been alive, but the marketing people insisted on making them from wood. Like old police clubs.”
Jacobs had a story about old police clubs, the military police, a crew on shore leave, and a bar fire, but decided that this was neither the time, the place, nor the company to share it.
“Wish they had listened. I still can’t watch baseball.” Montenegro chuckled again. “Every time the ball gets hit, I take it personally.”
The waiters and waitresses arrived and began taking dinner orders, and Jacobs noticed that Montenegro took advantage of the distraction for a private word with Cuthbert.
◊
Montenegro leaned close to Donal, tapping a spot on his own forehead as though showing Donal where the wooden Pacifier had struck him. But instead of talking about the blow, he said, “Something is amiss. I cannot explain now. Keep your wits about you.”
Montenegro chuckled then, and Donal forced himself to smile as though at a joke. He wished Montenegro had told a joke. Donal had had his fill of cryptic warnings.
Nevertheless, Donal smiled ruefully at the half-glass of Pinot Noir he had remaining and swirled it just to savor its scent one more time. He had a feeling he should switch to water when the glass was empty. A decision he knew Fionn would approve of, which somehow made it worse.
All the money that went into the food on these voyages and Donal barely got to enjoy it.
He took a sip of the Pinot Noir and let the robust flavor trickle past his tongue and down his throat, then replaced the glass on the table. Only drinking the one glass meant that he could take his time with it, at least.
Donal tuned back into the conversation as Ms. Romanov pointed a comment at Mr. Kianoush: “Oh, you didn’t keep us out of Mars, however much you like to tell yourself you did. No, your little pro-Mars movement only convinced us that Mars is cutting off its own nose on the trade front.”
She smiled with a condescending tilt of the head. “Really, focusing on building local and buying local is all well and good, but until you develop your exports your cities will continue to hemorrhage money. If Mars runs out of carterite, the whole planet will turn into a ghost town in six weeks.”
“You’re hardly one to talk.” Kianoush managed a good sneer despite being only a year or two older than Donal, which put Donal uncomfortably in mind of his brother. Not the sneer itself, but the level of success at a young age. “Luna is so tightly woven into Earth’s economy that you might as well use their currency.”
Even Donal recognized that trap. Luna did use Earth’s currency. So had Mars until the start of 2026 when it began formally issuing its own and declaring an exchange rate. Donal never had gotten around to finding out how Earth
had responded.
“Come now, you two,” said Mr. Mancuso, though Donal thought he saw a glimpse of pleasure in the 4M magnate’s eye. “The main course has yet to arrive. What say you lay aside your grievances before you ruin the meal?” He circled his finger to call for another round of wine. Donal reached to cover his glass and indicate that he had had enough, but Mr. Mancuso caught the movement.
“Don’t spoil the party, Donal. Tai Shi has told me how you enjoy good wine, and I know that IIX can’t be expecting any pressing work from you. Don’t let their sniping stiffen you up.”
Donal felt his hesitation leak out all over his face, but he started to pull back his hand as the wine steward moved to refill his glass.
“Skip Cuthbert,” said Captain Jacobs to the steward. “Move on to the next.”
◊
Mancuso looked ready to argue, so Jacobs clarified.
“No one will have a drink forced on them at the captain’s table. Not Cuthbert, not you, Mancuso, no one.” He turned to Cuthbert. “Want to call for something else? I usually let the chef pick the wine, but we have a pretty good selection.”
“It’s not that. The Pinot is excellent,” said Cuthbert. “It’s just that when I finish this I think I’ll switch to water.”
“I’m the same way,” said Jacobs, who could not blame the boy for not wanting to drink too much around this group of sharks. Jacobs would have sworn that every word out of their mouths was intended to bite one of the others. Even Mancuso’s “attempt” to make Kianoush and Romanov play nice was little more than a reassertion of his control, a reminder that he was the one in charge of their little group.
The wait staff began taking orders, starting with the captain, as tradition demanded. Jacobs ordered the buffalo steak with garlic cheese mashed potatoes and wondered if Dr. Ramirez would give him a pass on the potatoes for choosing the leaner buffalo over the fattier angus beef.