Changes from the Joint Planetary Committee on Trade had relaxed some of the standardization rules, thereby permitting the orbital management more leeway in painting the fixtures and dock spaces. They still weren’t garish, but regulations allowed for splashes of color, and individualized patterns. Newmar Orbital had adopted a color scheme that displayed the various systems in pastel colors, giving the dock spaces a kind of organic feel. Electrical, air, fuel, water, and data runs, each in different colors, were offset against the pale neutral background of the bulkheads. I had to admit the scheme was pleasing to the eye, although a little disconcerting…like being in the guts of some huge space beast.
Even as I was considering how the docks had changed, superficial though it was, I couldn’t help but remember my first tentative steps across the Neris Orbital’s threshold after my mother had died, almost six stanyers before. In some ways it felt like a lifetime, and in others only last week. No doubt, the smell of the docks triggered my emotions. The combination of fresh paint, lubricant, hydraulic fluid, and the tang of electrical systems brought it all back. So long ago. So far away.
After two years on the Lois, I had been accepted to The Academy at Port Newmar. The four years of physical, mental, and emotional challenges had given me much more than I was really able to wrap my head around. Remembering how young and stupid I’d been going in brought a smile to my face. Those first exams had been so easy…as long as all that was required had been filling out the forms. My test taking skill had remained strong, but my hubris had gotten me into trouble when it came to the physical tests.
While the book work at the academy was a large part of the effort, occasionally you had to prove you knew something by actually doing it firsthand. The first field trial in engineering maintenance had been a rather messy and embarrassing disaster. Luckily I recovered and learned, much to my chagrin, that my manual dexterity was limited to fine motor control and that my test taking ability only extended to academic work. Nobody could touch me in the “book courses” like Trade Law, Modern History, or Grav Theory, but when it came to the practical stuff—like getting my shuttle certification—I was average at best. My systems marks had stayed high, but being a Third Mate was more than just systems and it showed in my final standing—122 in a class of 438—in the top third, but nothing distinguishing. My academic advisor had been very supportive.
“A good showing for a first generation spacer, Mr. Wang,” she’d said. With a wink she added, “Your children will probably do better.”
One physical skill that I picked up at the academy came out of my self-defense classes. For stanyers I’d admired Bev’s fluid and dangerous grace. I’d seen her practicing with other crew back on the Lois. Her skill and training kept her in good standing at the academy. After an introduction to the various schools available, we were required to pick a discipline in our second semester. Beverly, of course, went with her preferred forms of G’wai G’wah—a combination of bare hand and armed combat with lots of kicks, strikes, dodges, and grappling. I, on the other hand, was mainly hopeless in a fight. The training master had taken me aside at the end of the first semester.
“Wang,” he had said, “I hope you never get into a fight, because you have the killer instincts of a lawn chair.” His words were harsh, but his tone was light and playful. “I could assign you to one of the intro courses in any of the various hard disciplines—G’wai G’wah, tae kwon do, karate, or the like—but you’d be wasting your time.”
“Yes, sar,” I had replied. All instructors were addressed as “sar” regardless of rank, and he was obviously going somewhere—even if I hadn’t known where at the time.
He nodded once, then led me out of his office and onto the academy grounds. I had followed him, somewhat mystified, as he strode across the manicured lawns to where a small woman with sun burnished skin worked to prune an azalea. I remember thinking, “Oh, great, I’m being demoted to gardener.”
The training master had stopped about two meters from the woman and bowed deeply. It had been one of those martial arts bows with hand positions and arm movements. I knew right then that this woman was somebody.
“Sifu,” he had said after she returned his bow, less deeply but still respectfully, “please forgive my interruption but I would like to introduce Cadet Wang to you.”
The woman had smiled and turned her gaze on me. She inclined her head gently after a moment.
“Thank you, Mr. Mercer.”
It had been all she said, and that’s how I found myself studying tai chi with Sifu Margaret Newmar. I had no idea at the time, and it had been stanyers later that I came to understand, that she was, in fact, a direct descendant of the Newmars for whom the system had been named not to mention one of the leading experts in tai chi in the universe.
Her first lesson had been pruning azaleas. The memory of her kind smile and gentle nature warmed me. I had learned so much from her, and I would miss our time together. I had no doubt that I’d be back to see her again. Her students regularly returned to visit and I had met some amazing people that way.
I glanced up out of my reverie and found myself at the lock displaying “CELLIS ETD 2358-May-23” I pressed the call button and turned to look into the video pickup. In less than a tick the lock began cycling, and a rating stepped out, ducking under the door even before it had finished opening.
She greeted me with a smile and said, “Mr. Wang? We’ve been expecting you. Welcome aboard, sar. I’m Casey and you’re the last one to arrive. If you’d come this way, please?”
As easy as that I was ushered aboard, tote and all, and she showed me to a small stateroom. A clever closet allowed me to latch my grav trunk down while still being able to access it easily. A small, fold-down desk, a compact wall screen, and a bulkhead mounted bunk comprised the sum total of the furnishings. I had room to stand, turn around, change clothes, and not much else.
Casey pointed out the controls. They were pretty standard, and she showed me where the san was at the end of the passage. There was a common room and crew quarters farther aft.
“We’re pretty informal here, Mr. Wang,” Casey said. “Eight passengers and a crew of four, so we can move pretty quickly. You’ll meet Bill—Captain Lochlan—tonight, if you care to join us at Freddie’s for our send off dinner.”
“Thanks, Casey,” I said with a nod.
Freddie’s was one of the better restaurants on the orbital. Good food and reasonable prices.
She grinned again. “Sure thing! The reservations for 19:00 in the name of Ellis. You’ll get a chance to meet the other passengers too. I think most of them will be there.”
I nodded again. “Sounds like fun,” I said and meant it.
“Oh, the skipper knows how to throw a party. You’ll have a ball. Trust me.”
With that, she ducked out of the stateroom and closed the door gently behind her.
In the sudden silence, I became aware of the ship sounds around me. When docked there wasn’t as much background noise as when underway, but the ever-present environmental blower and the occasional whirr and vibration as pumps or fans started up somewhere in the ship made me feel strangely at home, even though I hadn’t been aboard a ship for almost a stanyer. Two years on the Lois McKendrick made a lasting impression.
That was when it struck me.
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t have anything to do. I sighed and stripped off my uniform jacket, hanging it in the locker. The chrono said 15:25 local time, which meant I had a few stans before I needed to head up to Freddie’s. I keyed open the grav trunk and started pulling out the clothing I would need for the voyage. It wasn’t much, all told—a few personal shipsuits and my comfy boots.
When I finished that small chore, it was only just past 16:00, so I took a few minutes to check out the wall screen. I found an extensive library of entertainment programming and some information on the ship itself. If I managed to get through the library I had with me—all the accumulated reading that I had put off during
the previous four stanyers—I’d have plenty to occupy myself with.
For fun, I pulled up the ship’s specifications. It was a small ship, as clippers go—barely fifty meters. She was rated at six metric kilotons which was more than enough for some small cargo in addition to the bread-and-butter passenger traffic. The ship’s amenities included a gym with treadmills and weight machines along with a small hot tub and sauna. I whistled appreciatively when I saw the engine ratings and did some rough calculations. Christiana had Tatiana-class Burleson drives which gave her a jump range of six—twice as far as the Lois had been capable of. The Pravda fusactors were more than sufficient to the task of powering up the Carillon sail fields and grav keel. I did a double take when I saw the designators on the sails. This ship had about half as much sail area as the Lois, but it only massed a small fraction of the larger clipper. Christiana was a spritely little boat—according to her specs. She had good reason to be called a “fast packet.” We’d make the run to Diurnia in just under six weeks, dock-to-dock.
CHAPTER THREE
NEWMAR SYSTEM
2358-MAY-30
Eight days out of Newmar I ran out of things to read, or more precisely, I ran out of things I wanted to read.
Having grown up with an ancient literature professor, I had been used to being surrounded by books. Mom had made it a habit of discussing them over dinner. My tablet was full of volumes, and the ship’s library was available and extensive.
But I wasn’t used to inactivity.
Ever since Mom’s death, I’d had little more than a few moments of free time. From the planet, to the Lois, to the academy—I’d always had things to do, and people to do them with. During my third stanyer at Port Newmar, I had hungered for the opportunity to curl up with a book, a fresh pot of coffee, and bury myself in the story. For three weeks during the spring of that third stanyer, the desire for a fresh book and no demands had been physical—an ache in my stomach. Something bounced me out of it then, so it was with a certain degree of ruefulness that I ran to the end of my “reading binge” within so short a time. Faced with another month in transit, I realized I needed to find something else to do.
The Ellis’s small workout room—it wasn’t big enough to be called a gym—was available around the clock, of course, and the treadmills and sauna saw a lot of me even during the first few days underway. There was a smallish open space where I could run through my tai chi exercises as well. After four years with Sifu Newmar, I had a good grasp of the basics, and felt my energy, strength, and balance develop as I had gotten deeper into the discipline during my time at the academy.
So when I ran out of things I wanted to read, I headed to the gym. During the middle of the morning, I usually had the place to myself. Without distractions I could zone out, my mind not so much disengaged as completely focused. I worked on getting each movement where it needed to be—each finger, each toe, the shifting of weight.
“Your back knee isn’t bent far enough.”
I blinked out of my focus and saw that one of my fellow passengers—a man I knew only as Kurt—had come into the gym dressed in loose fitting workout clothes. He didn’t smile, but then again he never smiled. As near as I could tell, his face never changed from his blank, neutral expression. His eyes were always focused on whatever he looked at, but his expression seemed like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. He traveled with a small man I took to be his employer.
“I said, your back knee isn’t bent far enough. It needs just a touch more to free that flow.” His voice was a smooth tenor, almost too light for his bull like frame.
I looked down and realized he was right. I was getting sloppy and slightly adjusted my back knee a bit more.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile, “that feels better.”
“May I join you?” he asked.
I shrugged and adjusted my position to make room for him. He stepped into my routine without hesitation and followed along, one step behind and to the left of me, as I completed the Wu Long Form. From the corner of my eye, I saw his large body working smoothly on Wave Hands Like Clouds, but I had a bit of advantage in Snake Creeps Down. His larger frame bent, dipped, and lifted into Golden Cock almost effortlessly, but since I was shorter, I could get lower—although not by much. His movements were smoothly controlled and carried the graceful power I recognized in Sifu Newmar, but tai chi was obviously not his main discipline.
After a few ticks, I put him out of my mind and moved directly into the Yang Short Form, before starting the Wu Long once more. At the end of the Wu, I stopped and let the chi settle, intending to head for a sauna and shower.
“Do you Push Hands?” Kurt asked.
“I have, but I’m not very good,” I said with a rueful smile. “The academy master said I have all the fighting instincts of lawn furniture.”
Kurt didn’t smile, exactly, but I caught a twinkle in his eyes. “You studied with Sifu Newmar at the academy, then?”
I nodded.
He took the beginning pose for the Push Hands technique and waited for me to step in. I did so, and we worked slowly through several cycles of the drill—inside, outside, up, across, swap. We moved faster until I pushed and he wasn’t there, rocked back on my heels from a touch to my shoulder.
He did smile, then, and proceeded to show me a few things.
After two solid stans, the sweat rolled down my legs under my pants and I had that firm, burning glow from a good workout. When we broke, Kurt bowed and I returned it, bowing much lower to him than he did to me.
“Thank you for the workout,” he rumbled. “This is the time of day that Mr. Blalock does most of his work, so I’m free if you’d care to meet me tomorrow.”
It was less a question than a statement.
“Thank you,” I said, and bowed again.
I went to the sauna then while Kurt fired up one of the treadmills and started a run. Half a stan later when I came out of the sauna, he was still running and nodded to me as I headed for the showers.
Afterward, I gravitated to the galley where Paul Mueller held court. I didn’t know if it was the same for other people, but my early days on the Lois had given me an appreciation for the mess deck and galley as the heart of the ship. The galley on the Ellis was no exception.
My first exposure to small ship life had been on the voyage from Dunsany Roads to Newmar on the Bad Penny with Pip’s Aunt and Uncle. The Penny was a family ship with an eat-in galley where we’d spent many an evening gathered around the table, sailing through the Deep Dark. The Ellis had a dining room for the passengers and crew. The actual galley itself was tucked away around the corner with a cleverly concealed pass-through and door that connected it to the dining room.
Breakfast and lunch were typically buffet style at the pass-through—always a hot dish or two and plenty of fruits and vegetables. Dinner was something else and served family-style, with platters and bowls on the large table in the dining room. The captain presided at the head of the table with passengers rotated via some formula that I hadn’t been able to discern after only a few days underway.
Because of the long work out, I almost missed lunch. The others had come and gone and Paul was already beginning to clear.
“Mr. Wang,” he said, “I wondered if you were skipping lunch today.”
I snagged a few pieces of fruit, a couple of rolls, and a small block of cheese from the buffet, then stood back to let him work. “Wasn’t my intention, Mr. Mueller. I was working out with Kurt and lost track of the time.” I waved a hand vaguely at the set up. “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I know how hard it is to keep up with the galley.”
He smiled and started his clean up routine.
“You’ve worked the galley, then, Mr. Wang?” he asked as he worked.
“Mess hand on the Lois McKendrick. Had some of my happiest times on that mess deck.”
I smiled to myself as the warm memories slipped through my mind.
Paul finished clearing the buffet and closed th
e pass-through after wiping everything down. I finished the fruit, bread, and cheese and noticed the crumbs I’d scattered while I was standing there eating and talking to Paul. While he was clattering in the galley, I grabbed the sweeper from the bracket on the bulkhead and picked up my crumbs and—since I had it out—did the whole floor.
In a few ticks, Paul came into the dining room through the connecting door and caught me with the sweeper in my hand.
“You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Wang,” he said with a concerned look on his face.
“It was my pleasure, and please, my name is Ishmael. You can call me that. We’re gonna be cooped up here for a while yet. Might as well get comfy.”
His wrinkled face folded into a lopsided smile and his eyes danced at me as he held out a roughened paw.
“Paul, then, Ishmael, and tell me about working in the galley while I finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind.”
So I stood in the doorway regaling Paul with stories of the mess deck on the Lois as he proceeded to clear and clean everything in the three by five meter galley. The galley itself was a marvel of compact installation. The cook top was a four burner design, but instead of the normal two by two, the four were lined up on a narrow counter. The ovens—there were three of them—were recessed into the bulkhead. Instead of the big steam kettles we’d had on the Lois, the Ellis had an honest to gods pot rack and I couldn’t help but admire the big chillers, larders, and carefully laid out cabinets and counters. It was perfectly designed for a one person operation.
In just a few ticks, Paul finished up his after-lunch routines and shooed me out of the galley. “It’s time for my nap, Ishmael,” he told me playfully. “Baked chicken for dinner,” he said, as he secured the pass-through door, and I heard him clicking off the lights as he exited through the main entry on the other side of the galley.
Double Share: Solar Clipper Trader Tales Page 2