Her arms wrapped around him and her face buried itself in his chest.
“It is you,” she whispered again and again, her breath hot through his ship’s jumpsuit.
“Kaycie, I —”
She cut him off by squeezing him harder, almost leaving him unable to breathe. His own arms went around her.
She pushed herself away from him. Away and then she backed to the far bulkhead, close as it was in the tiny compartment. She put her back to it and crossed her arms, as though trying to get as far from him as she’d just been pulling him close.
“I thought you were dead!”
Avrel winced and flushed hot. There was so much pain in her voice. Pain and accusation.
“There was no word,” she whispered. “Not for so long. Both Wyne and I thought …” Her face twisted with pain and anger. “We thought we’d helped you to your death in the Dark!” She swiped at her eyes. “And then the boat was back on the school’s quay and nothing said about it, so we knew you’d made it somewhere. And still there was no word!”
Avrel’s gaze fell to the deck. There was so much hurt in her voice. He hadn’t thought of what his friends would think, what they’d wonder at when there was no word from him. He’d been so focused on finding a way to hurt the Marchants—and then, once aboard a Marchant ship, there’d been no safe way to tell them.
“There was —”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare say there was no way to get us a word—not one single word? Not when you arrived at Greater Sibward? Nor while you were there? Nor once in the last three years?”
Kaycie grasped the back of her stool, spun it toward her, and fell heavily onto it, head bowed as though all the strength had been taken from her.
“I thought you were dead.”
Avrel resisted the urge to go to her and lay an arm over her shoulders. He felt she’d not welcome that. He sat in the other stool, shoulders slumped, as weary as Kaycie looked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think —”
Kaycie’s head shook.
“Of course not, you were being Jon Bartlett.” She sighed. “You had some plan, I imagine. Some bit of business, and thought nothing of anything but that.” She wiped her eyes, still looking down, then only raised her gaze when they’d been thoroughly scrubbed of tears and the only evidence Avrel could see was their red rims. “So, what was it, then?”
“What?”
“Your plan. What you’ve been about. Tell me.”
And just as though the last three years hadn’t happened, though Avrel suspected he’d not heard the last of it from her on that, he was with Kaycie again. No Wyne, of course, but it was so much like being back at Lesser Sibward and planning some bit of fun again that his heart lightened—perhaps for the first time since that awful moment in the headmaster’s office when he’d learned of his family’s ruin.
He told Kaycie all that had happened. From leaving school, to finding there was nothing for him on Greater Sibward, to signing aboard ship. He left out the bits about Eades in the telling, and his plans for the Marchants, as well. Those were things Kaycie oughtn’t to know about. No matter how much being with her again might feel like school, this wasn’t some prank he was about and he’d not drag her into it.
“Why?” she asked when he seemed to be finished.
Avrel shrugged.
Kaycie frowned.
“No, I can see you feeling you had no place and signing aboard ship. I can even understand your wishing a new name, though how you managed it I note you put a shine on … but why a Marchant ship? For god’s sake, Jon, of all the shipping companies about, why would you sign with Marchant if you thought they were behind …?” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Of course. What else would Jon Bartlett do but play the fool after vengeance?” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you about, Jon? This isn’t school anymore, this is a real ship a’sail in the Dark. Your pranks could have real consequences out here, and hurt real people.”
Avrel flushed. She was speaking to the Jon Bartlett she remembered as a schoolboy, not the Avrel Dansby who’d been three years aboard Marchant ships doing a man’s work and making his plans. She’d grown, herself, in those three years to become an officer aboard ship, but gave him no credit for the time.
“I’m not about any pranks,” he said.
“I imagine not, but you’ve vengeance in mind, I have no doubt either—and whatever sabotage you have in mind could harm the ship or crew. What is it?”
“Am I speaking to my friend or Minorca’s second mate?”
Kaycie looked pained. “Your … friend, Jon. Always that.” She swallowed. “I’d not see you hurt, nor regret hurting others.”
Avrel nodded. There might be something else in her voice, something he couldn’t place, but he believed her. Whatever might have brought her to the Marchants instead of her own family’s ships, she was still his friend.
“I’m planning no sabotage,” he told her. “Not of the ship, at least.”
And so, he told her of Eades and their arrangement. Of passing along what information he had to Eades’ agents when approached, and what Eades had done to get him his new identity.
Kaycie’s brow furrowed while he spoke and she frowned heavily.
“Foreign Office? Are you certain of that?”
Avrel shrugged. “As I may be. The identity he supplied is solid and his network of agents make me think he must be. He’s his fingers into nearly everything, in any case, and knows too much not to have some government support behind him.” He shrugged again. “For the moment, our interests are aligned, regardless of who he may be.” He paused. “You’ll have to call me by my new name, you know.”
Kaycie nodded. “Where the crew might hear, I will. In private you’ll always be my Jon, and I’ll not change that.”
Avrel smiled. He still wished that might be true in fact, but doubted she meant it the way he might.
Kaycie was silent for a time and Avrel took the opportunity to ask his own question.
“And you? What’s happened with you since school? What brought you aboard a Marchant ship instead of your family’s?”
Kaycie chuckled but there was no mirth in it.
“I spent the year after school aboard family ships. It was a quite happy time.” Her face hardened. “But the Overfields have no ships any longer, Jon, we were bought out last year.”
“Bought out?”
“It was a fair offer, though not one the family would have accepted in other circumstances.”
A chill went through Avrel at her words.
“They did manage to arrange for our ships’ officers to be taken on by the new owners. All were transferred to other ships almost immediately, of course, so that there’d not be Overfields commanding former Overfield ships—that wouldn’t do, I suppose.”
She met Avrel’s eyes and he saw the same hard look she’d had when she drove her foot into York Scoggins’ fork.
“And so, you’ll understand, Jon, when I say that I should like to meet your Mister Eades at the gentleman’s very earliest convenience.”
Minorca moved on from Penduli into the Barbary.
For Avrel and the other spacers, without access to the quarterdeck and the navigation console there, little changed. Their work outside the hull in the featureless expanse of darkspace went on as usual.
Their arrival at Kuriyya was much like any port, though certainly more like one of the Fringe’s younger colonies than any Core world, as there was no station circling above Kuriyya for them to make fast to. All of the goods from Penduli must be brought down to the surface in Minorca’s boats and unloaded in-atmosphere at the planet’s main town. On a landing field with half its surface still dirt and grass, no less, and that far better for their boats and work than the jaggedly cracked expanse of paving left on the field.
“Bloody barbarians can’t pave a bloody field,” Detheridge muttered, as they stumbled their way across the rutted field. Minorca’s anti-grav cart might keep itself level over the
terrain, but their boots had no such advantage. “And why’s it all the bloody cargo on this bloody world?” She grunted and heaved a shoulder against the cart to slide it away from a low berm the sensors had decided was too steep to navigate.
Avrel shared a look with Sween and both hid a grin. With Detheridge’s mood and punctuating her words with ‘bloody’ so much, she’d be taking out her frustrations when Minorca’s crew was done and had an evening’s leave. She’d leave someone bloody, sure enough, whether she spent her time in a pub or brothel, they knew.
Her question had merit, though, and Avrel was pondering that very thing. He’d been brought up to measure a cargo’s worth, and the goods Minorca’d carried from Penduli would certainly have more value deeper into the Barbary. To sell it all at their first stop and rely on locally produced goods for the rest of their trip to Hso-Hsi made little sense to him. Better to spread it out, or travel far deeper before selling—Kuriyya was just on the periphery, after all.
Detheridge stopped, stretched to ease her back, and wiped her brow.
“Bloody planets,” she muttered. “Never the same bloody temperature twice in a row, how they stand it I’ll never bloody fathom.”
For a blessing and a curse, there was no boy pulling Avrel’s hand and prattling about pears as Minorca’s crew exited the boat for their leave. He caught Kaycie’s eye and shook his head slightly, letting her know that there was no chance of her meeting Eades on Kuriyya—and now likely no chance until their return to New London space. The man himself wouldn’t travel deep into the Barbary or to Hso-Hsi, and his agents would have neither cause nor authority to trust Kaycie.
So, they went their separate ways for the evening’s leave. That was a disappointment. Other than the one private meeting in Kaycie’s cabin, there were no opportunities for them to speak privately aboard Minorca. Such contact between an officer and crewman would be remarked on, and no matter how private they thought themselves, the cramped quarters aboard ship would always provide that someone would overhear or see.
Neither could they be seen together on leave. On a larger world or station they might make arrangements to meet far from the landing field or quay, but Kuriyya’s port town was so small that there was too much risk of being seen.
Instead they wandered separately, Avrel following along behind a group of Minorca’s crew, but not really part of them. His own messmates had split up as well, Detheridge having other interests than Sween and Grubbs.
The town’s streets were dimly and variably lit, the streetlights’ solar panels being old and ill-kept.
The sewers were equally ill-kept, it seemed, for the street—such as it was, having its deteriorated paving mostly torn up to expose bare earth—ran with refuse and worse.
Someone had invested more than a little in Kuriyya once, for it to have such things at all, but whatever the source of those funds had been, they’d clearly disappeared long ago. Odd they didn’t keep things up, though, as there were enough ships in-system even now that a bit of a landing fee would pay for the upkeep well enough.
All of the pubs and other establishments had ample customers, and the streets, though not crowded, were certainly not empty themselves.
The last of the group Avrel followed turned into a pub, but Avrel kept on.
An odd melancholia fell over him—or perhaps it had been there for some time and he only now became aware of it.
His thoughts turned to what his life might have been, if the Marchants had not destroyed his future. Perhaps he’d be walking on some world with Kaycie Overfield now. Not officer and crew aboard a Marchant ship, but officers of their own families’ fleets—equals and having no fear of being seen together and caught out.
They might even, he fancied, come to some understanding. The spark of interest he’d noted when she saw him off from Lesser Sibward, and the degree of concern when she thought him dead, made him think there might be something to her feelings for him other than mere friendship. He knew his own feelings ran deeper.
One of the pubs had opened a window onto the street, selling out-sized mugs of their wares and Avrel stopped to buy one. It wasn’t anything he’d seen before, but tasted of rum and what he suspected was some local fruit.
She was such a clever girl. Just look at how she’d caught sight of him for the first time aboard Minorca and not cried out as some might, then put together a plan on the spot for how to speak to him privately. He might have come up with the plans for pranks back at school, but she was always the best at refining them—teasing out the details so that there was less risk.
He wandered aimlessly, though instinctively keeping to the spacers’ quarter and away from the darker alleys or less-travelled routes. Those on the streets around him grew more boisterous as the night went on—and as the air grew cooler, Avrel noted with some relief. Detheridge had been spot on in that complaint, and Avrel shared her inability to fathom how those in-atmosphere stood the variations.
He noted that many of the pubs had open windows selling wares, and that his mug was empty, so he stopped at the next. It was a different drink, but he turned over the few coins-cost without asking its contents. His mood had not improved with the first mug, but that was no reason to cease trying.
His thoughts returned to Kaycie, and his head filled with images of her even as his second mug emptied.
Her upturned nose. Her hair, cut short now, but flowing long back at Lesser Sibward—and both, if he were to be honest, quite fetching in their own way. The little furrow between her eyes which told one she was cross and not to be trifled with on some matter. The feel of her arms around him and her breath hot against his chest.
He drained his mug, noted it was not quite the same as what he remembered his second to have been, wondered at that a bit, but spied another window which yielded a refill of some sort.
What had he been thinking about again? Oh, yes, Kaycie. He’d had it bad for her at Lesser Sibward, he had to admit, but he’d reconciled that she didn’t want him. Then there was that kiss as he’d left, which left him all in irons—but nothing for it, as he’d likely never see her again. Until now—and still, no chance for them. Not aboard ship, not with him in the crew and her a ship’s officer.
The night had turned chill somehow and the streets were less full than earlier. He had no idea of the time, but Minorca wasn’t due to leave until the following afternoon. The crew merely had to be aboard by the end of the forenoon watch and that would surely be no difficulty.
He sighed. This wandering was doing him no—
A man’s voice drew Avrel’s attention. He stood before a dark building with shrouded windows. Deep red light leaked around the windows’ edges and the silhouettes applied to the glass made the establishment’s purpose clear.
The man said something else incomprehensible, then squinted at Avrel.
“Londoner, yes?”
Avrel nodded, eyes on the establishment’s door, struggling with a sudden urge.
“‘Have a go,’ yes? As you say, yes?”
A deep draught from his mug emptied most of it, then another to finish it off. He nodded and returned the man’s smile.
“Aye.”
Inside a woman met him, scantily dressed but past her prime for such a place and now set to greeting until a client with that particular fancy came about.
She took in Avrel’s dress and read his ships’ patch with a practiced eye.
“Welcoming,” she said with a wide smile. “What it is you like, yes?”
Avrel wondered for a moment how many languages she and the man outside might speak. The Barbary was ostensibly part of Hanover, so many of the settlers would be German, but it also drew the flotsam from whatever ships passed through and whatever men must flee so far away. She’d likely learned enough of as many languages as she needed to serve those who came.
He broke off his musing as his eyes adjusted. The interior was darker than the street, even with it being night and the streetlights so dim. Now he could make out more than s
hadows and saw a half dozen girls, all clad to draw the attention they catered to.
They lounged about, each watching him and posing to catch his eye.
“You wish?” the woman asked, gesturing to the girls.
Avrel set his mug on the side-table near the door, it was empty now.
“Yes,” he said, “someone …” He swallowed. “Someone slight.” No bloody pears tonight. “And … hair to here.” He brought his hand to his head to show her, flushing as he did so. This was … not right, somehow, but some part of him pushed forward regardless. “Perhaps a nose that turns up, just a bit and a crease just —”
A girl coming down the stairs drew Avrel’s eye. She was close—so close. Not exactly, but she’d do.
Make do. Minorca to make do for my own ship, revenge to make do for a family, and this … her … He nodded to the girl on the stairs and smiled as was expected of him. She’d know, of course, what he was doing. That was part of the arrangement, after all, and there was something of a higher service in that. She’d do her best to fill one of the holes that Minorca, vengeance, and she, never truly could.
The greeter smiled wider, seeing he’d made his choice. She gestured him toward the stairs even as the girl smiled wider as well and cocked her head coyly.
Make do.
Minorca’s hold was echoingly empty despite the mass of men and bustle of activity. The scent of hot thermoplastic permeated the air, both from the carpenter’s shop, aft, and the work being done forward, where Avrel was, with the rest of the crew, transforming the vast open space of the hold.
That scent was making Avrel’s stomach churn—at least that was what he blamed it on, and not his drinking of the night before. The echoing shouts of the crew and their ongoing work was also making his head pound, and his arms ached from lifting the heavy bulkheads and holding them in place.
Nearly all the crew was working on the task, with the quartermaster and his mates, as well as Kaycie, overseeing the work.
They had large sheets of bulkhead printed by the carpenter and his machines, and were busy erecting them to form compartments all down the length of the hold. Each was a bit less than two meters’ square, with a solid, locking hatch.
Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology Page 29