by Zen DiPietro
Good for Jamestown for recognizing that, too.
“Have you been well?” she asked.
Wren might be the only person on the station, his companions included, who could ask that question genuinely, with no context or ulterior motive.
“As well as anyone these days,” he hedged. Though he didn’t suspect Wren of spying on him, he had every expectation that every word he uttered was being recorded. He had to be circumspect.
But she nodded, her eyes knowingly boring into his. She understood without him having to say anything.
Interesting. Perhaps she could be an ally.
“You don’t have any idea what’s planned next for us, do you?” he asked.
“Me?” she laughed. “No, I could not be more outside of the loop. I saw your name on the arrivals list, since it’s my job to check out all arriving ships. I found that you required permission to visit. I requested it, and it was granted. That’s as much as I know.”
If she knew nothing about what was going on, then this was a purely social visit. He changed gears.
“How are you adjusting to life here?” he asked.
“Fine. I’m making friends. It’s not the same as Dragonfire, but it will be, in time, I think.” She bit her lip. “No, I’m sure it will. I just need to create memories, make more friends, and have some history here. You know?”
He nodded. He wouldn’t ask what her relocation meant for her and Fallon. He could figure it out on his own.
“New beginnings are exciting, but it takes time to grow roots,” he mused.
“Exactly.” She seemed relieved that he understood.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. It was his standard line. When someone came to his shop, he expected to cater to their needs and wants.
“That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “I know you can’t be here for good reasons, and wanted to know if there was anything I can do for you.”
They shared a long, even look.
She understood more than her pay grade or security clearance allowed for. Of course she did. She’d been romantically involved with Fallon, who had deep ties into the PAC’s current state of affairs.
She’d been in the center of all this from the very beginning.
Her eyes were sharp, watching him.
“No,” he said carefully, holding her gaze. “I think we’ve been well cared for. All we can do at this point is wait to see what the top brass has to say.”
With his eyes, he conveyed, We’ll see.
He didn’t know if there would be anything in the future that Wren could help with, but he knew that if something came up, she’d do her best to help.
As someone who could really count on very few people, he valued her offer.
She nodded, then checked her comport. “I’d better get to work! My shift will be starting soon. But if you need anything, even if it’s just someone to have dinner with, let me know, okay?”
“I will. Thank you, Wren. And I’d like to offer you the same. Not that I’m likely to be able to offer you anything you can’t get here, but maybe you’ll be looking for a special gift or something at some point.” He chuckled, but fixed her with a meaningful look. If things got bad, as in catastrophically bad, she could call on him.
“Thanks, Cabot.” Her voice was soft as she lay a hand on his arm. “I don’t know how long you’ll be here, but stay in touch.”
“I hope to be back on Dragonfire soon, but I will. It’s not far from here at all.”
She smiled. “It isn’t.”
“By the way,” he added, “I like the new hairstyle.”
Her pale pink hair, which she’d previously worn up in a twist or a bun, was in two little buns on the top of her head, giving her a very cute, girlish look.
“Thanks.” She laughed. “I was in need of a change.”
After she left, he said aloud to the empty room, “And all I want is for things to go back to how they should be.”
CABOT BEGAN the next day with a sense of determination. Whatever the PAC wanted of him, he intended to get it done and hightail it back to Dragonfire.
He’d had some time to think the night before. As a trader of no particularly great influence, he didn’t belong among these proceedings. He’d done what he could, and now felt more than ready to pass off the project to people like Ditnya, Fallon, and the admiral.
He couldn’t remove the threat of war. But he could go back to his life and his shop, and enjoy them for as long as circumstances allowed.
When the chime to his quarters sounded, he took a moment to smooth his tunic and his ponytail. He’d be meeting some important people today, and getting a good look at a place that people like him never saw.
At least there was that. He’d have some major bragging rights. In his world, they were as good as money.
Right. He’d already determined that he needed to enjoy life while he could, so he was going to do his best to appreciate this interesting experience.
As he stepped out to meet his colleagues and their escorts, he fully expected reality to hit him in the side of the head and make certain he didn’t enjoy this experience at all. However, the escorts remained pleasant and courteous, though businesslike, as they led them down the corridor. They even point outed certain design elements of the station as they went along.
“All this has been resurfaced since the upgrade to the station, including new deck plates,” Cabot’s escort said. He was a young lieutenant, probably nearing a promotion to lieutenant commander. Cabot wasn’t sure why he had that impression, but he’d have put money on it.
Indeed, the corridor was sleek and flawless. Smooth seams, no chips or dents, or any of the usual minor signs of wear.
“Will we get to see the engine room?” Ditnya asked.
“Sorry,” the most senior officer, a blond commander, said. “The location and layout of critical areas won’t be on the tour, for security reasons.”
“We’ll only be seeing unimportant areas, then,” Ditnya said. “This tour suddenly sounds far less interesting.”
“It does sound dull,” Nagali said, then blinked and darted a glance at Ditnya.
Cabot smiled faintly. Nagali had just inadvertently agreed with Ditnya. He wished Peregrine had come along to witness it. No doubt it would have amused her.
He would have loved to see the engine room as well, along with ops control, engineering, and the senior staff briefing room.
Instead they saw a docking bay, which they’d already seen while boarding, the mess hall, the lift, and the bottom-level storage for both station supplies and personal items belonging to the crew.
Cabot actually found that last one interesting. He could only wonder about what the crew of Jamestown chose to store. Personal effects, like mementos and family heirlooms? Tactical gear not needed on an everyday basis?
If he were to loot and plunder this station, that would be the most interesting area.
Not that he’d do something like that. But he couldn’t help imagining what treasures it might yield.
They looked at recently reinforced bulkheads, got a brief look at some offices belonging to administrative peons, and admired the small gallery of seats comfortably arranged facing the spaceport. There was little to see in the blackness of space, but Cabot supposed the window provided a nice view of approaching and departing ships.
Compared to Blackthorn Station’s multi-deck spaceport, it was modest, but Jamestown probably had much higher security design. No doubt this place gave residents of the station a nice multipurpose recreation space.
Of the station’s fifteen massive decks, they saw only a tiny portion of Jamestown. They returned to Deck 8, where they’d begun. Instead of returning to their quarters, they visited the main commerce area.
On Dragonfire, they called it the boardwalk, but the commander announced it to them as the hive.
“That’s an odd name,” Omar said. “Why call it that?”
The commander smiled. “Because it’s always crawling w
ith people and buzzing with activity. We have four shifts here and they overlap, so you might see three people eating together, and each eating a different meal of the day.”
Cabot tried to give it a fair assessment, though for him, no such place lived up to the boardwalk on Dragonfire.
Their escorts gave Cabot and the others some space to explore while keeping a watchful eye. Omar went straight for the food venues while he, Ditnya, and Nagali drifted toward the shops.
A more unlikely trio of shoppers had never existed.
Nagali went straight for the clothes, looking at the current fashions at PAC command.
Cabot was more interested in the shops that sold day to day items, personal effects, and gifts. They said more about the people who lived there. Their values, their lives, and how they thought.
He kept an eye on Ditnya, curious about what would capture her interest, but her approach was different. She started at one side and methodically worked her way through, giving every shop brief but intense attention.
She seemed interested in everything, with no particular attention on any one thing.
He wondered what the hive told her about Jamestown, its officers, and the PAC in general. Her study of it told him nothing except that she was methodical and missed nothing.
He already knew that. Everyone did.
After he’d gotten a look at the things that interested him personally, he doubled back and took a look at everything else. The knowledge might come in handy someday for doing some business with the vendors on Jamestown.
He still needed to select a present for Pigie. He feared the wrath she might rain down on him if he forgot or merely selected something underwhelming. He knew so little about her that finding the ideal item was proving to be problematic.
Normally, Cabot had no problem sizing a person up and figuring out what they’d like. He considered his talent a gift. Pigie was a complex person, though, and he hadn’t gotten an accurate read on her just yet. Other than knowing that she felt a personal responsibility for Ditnya and was remarkably self-confident, he knew nothing else solid about her. She was wily, and he sensed that she used a lot of misdirection.
Hm.
There was only one way to go: stupidly expensive. With a sigh, he returned to the jewelry shop.
“Can I help you?” the kindly looking man behind the counter asked.
“Yes. Can you direct me to something that has no practical use, but is unreasonably expensive?” Cabot thought of Pigie and her habit of fluffing her hair when she was being self-righteous, then added, “Perhaps a hair accessory.”
The man looked taken aback. “And a high price is desirable?”
“Yes. I must pay off a blackmailer.”
The clean-cut man blinked. “I…I see. Well, the hair jewelry is over here.”
Inside his mind, Cabot laughed heartily.
Nagali might be rubbing off on him a little too much. He shouldn’t be acting so naughty. It was fun, though, and somehow, he sensed that giving the gift of scandalizing a prim and proper PAC citizen would please Pigie far more than any bauble could. She’d appreciate this story.
His eye fell on a wide hair comb with a profusion of jewels arranged on netting to resemble a solar system. Tiny diamonds sparkled like stars around a citrine sun and a myriad of other gems.
His gut told him this would be perfect. When it came to business, he went with his instinct.
When the man recited a ludicrous sum and Cabot agreed, the poor shopkeeper seemed even more bewildered. “And this is for someone blackmailing you, you said?”
“That’s right,” Cabot said, using the infoboard to transfer the money, and—what the heck—doing so with a little flourish. “A Trallian.” He rolled his eyes meaningfully. “You know how it is.”
Truth be told, his words and expression did not, in fact, mean anything. Most Trallians were lovely people.
“Ah…of course. My sympathies.” The man quickly boxed and wrapped the hair comb, then handed it to Cabot.
In spite of having just made a hefty purchase, Cabot had the distinct feeling that the shopkeeper wanted him to leave as quickly as possible.
Which, of course, made him think of lingering. But no. He’d been mischievous enough. Pigie would love this story. Even Nagali would approve.
WHEN HE WAS DONE SHOPPING, Cabot found Omar wolfing down an astonishing variety of foods. Omar had a particular talent for eating, both in volume and in gastrointestinal fortitude.
“Did you leave anything?” Cabot asked.
Omar grinned. “Maybe a little. Better hurry, though, in case I go back for fourths.”
“Fourths? Are you going to be able to make it back to your quarters or are we going to need an anti-grav cart?”
Omar waved him off. “This is nothing. You should have seen me that time on Talos IV. Pretty sure songs were written about me after that one. I plan on eating until the officers drag us away. It’s all compliments of the admiral, so it would be a shame not to.”
“Anything in particular you recommend?” Cabot asked.
Omar frowned down at his plates, bowls, and baskets. He took food seriously, and a recommendation was something to consider carefully.
“The Sarkavian prawns are top notch. Can’t get them better even on Sarkan. And these little dumpling things in the brown sauce.” He nudged a bowl that was empty except for a smudge of sauce. “I don’t know what they are or where they’re from, but they’re awesome.”
Prawns and dumplings of unknown origin. Why not? “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Cabot preferred all things in moderation, so his tray held only enough for a reasonable-sized meal for one person. He had to admit, as he sat across from Omar, that the food his friend had suggested smelled amazing.
Ditnya didn’t join them. Maybe she was afraid of being poisoned by someone she’d once caused harm. Actually, that would be wise of her. Food vendors weren’t officers or even enlisted. They were carefully vetted, no doubt, but if some otherwise perfectly nice guy saw that the woman who’d had his father’s head put in a vise and crushed like a grape was asking for a taco, he might just lace it with something lethal.
One never knew.
Nagali arrived as Cabot was chewing his last prawn. She pouted. “You didn’t save me any.”
Cabot pointed. “Restaurant’s over there. Go get some.”
She peeked at Omar to see if he might be amenable to going to get some for her, but he scowled and grunted at her.
She sighed. “Fine. Don’t go anywhere. I don’t want to be left eating alone while all these people stare.”
“No one’s staring,” Cabot said.
“Feels like it.” She looked uneasily over her shoulder.
Once again, a person with a guilty conscience had a different view of a situation.
For some reason, that cheered him.
One of the lieutenants watching them approached. “We’ll be leaving in five minutes.”
“Where are we going?” Nagali asked.
“The admirals are ready to see you.”
Nagali sighed. “I hate having to eat fast. The admirals should have to wait until I can finish my soup like a normal person.”
“Since when are you normal?” Omar muttered, licking sauce off his thumb.
“I heard that,” she answered darkly.
“Well good. I meant you to.”
She sent him a withering look and spooned up her soup.
Sometimes they could be quite entertaining. For the first time, it occurred to Cabot that he could be stuck on this adventure with far less palatable companions.
Again, he felt cheered. Strange. Maybe it was his decision to enjoy life while he could.
“Enjoying the buffet?” a familiar voice behind him asked.
Cabot turned to see Fallon standing there, looking amused but lethal. He liked that she could manage such complexity.
“No buffet today, Chief,” he said. “Omar’s just a Bardakian pig.
; “Is that worse than the regular kind?” she asked.
“Much.” Cabot stood and gave her a deep bow of respect. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”
She bowed in equal measure, in front of everyone who might be looking. Then she grasped his arm near the elbow in the Rescan gesture of greeting.
Someone like her never did more than a cursory bow to someone like him. Omar and Nagali now sat still, watching her. Cabot sneaked a look at his escorts, who showed a variety of puzzlement and curiosity.
There was no one like Fallon.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Commander Fallon.” She gave small, polite bows to Omar and Nagali. “But friends of Cabot can call me Fallon.”
Omar stood, a slow smile spreading across his face. He bowed. “Nice to meet you, Fallon.”
“She’s involved,” Cabot pointed out. “Don’t even think about it.”
Omar’s smile didn’t dim. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just glad to meet the person Peregrine’s told me about.”
Right. Cabot hadn’t thought about it from that direction.
Nagali got to her feet, too, but much more slowly, and offered an equally slow, almost insolent bow. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Rather than be insulted, Fallon grinned. “What do you think of the station?” she asked them.
“State of the art,” Omar said. “Great food.”
“The fashion’s a little out of date,” Nagali observed. “But my brick of a brother is right. The food is very good.”
Cabot added, “It looks great. Wren did a good job overhauling this place.”
He probably shouldn’t have said that.
But Fallon smiled. “I don’t think she gets all the credit, but I’m certain she deserves a healthy portion of it. But that’s why she’s here—she’s the best.”
She didn’t seem to have any hard feelings. He’d narrowly avoided a faux pas, and relief washed over him.
For her sake, he was glad she wasn’t upset that Wren was going her own way. It was better for them both. And Fallon still had Raptor, who she’d been involved with for far longer, as he understood it. He’d never gotten the feeling that Fallon had fully adapted to the realities of having a relationship with a Sarkavian.