I nodded. “In that case would you satisfy yourself that the area is secure, and then return to the foot of the ladder?”
A look of surprise flashed across Ms. Kingsley’s face at the request, and she looked at Ms. Maloney who nodded once in reply.
“Ma’am?” Aiden asked, looking to Ms. Kingsley for instructions.
Ms. Kingsley looked around at the various faces before speaking. “Yes, please, Aiden. I’ll call you if I need you.”
He looked uncertain, but had no grounds for objection and, with a small half bow of his own, exited the galley. I heard his steps on the ladder. With a nod I dispatched Ms. Arellone to confirm he’d complied fully, and Ms. Kingsley’s eyebrows crawled together in a frown.
Ms. Maloney stepped into the gap by crossing to Ms. Kingsley, and greeting her warmly with a hug. “Thank you, Kirsten. So much has happened.” She stepped back and added, “Please! Sit! Let’s get some lunch, and you can tell me what’s happening here.”
Ms. Kingsley allowed Ms. Maloney to guide her to a seat, and looked curiously at Chief Stevens who smiled warmly.
Ms. Maloney made the introductions. “Chief? This is Kirsten Kingsley. She’s the fleet operations manager for DST, and one of my oldest friends. Kirsten, Engineering First Officer Margaret Stevens.”
The two women shook hands briefly, the chief murmuring an appropriate greeting, but allowing Ms. Maloney to control the conversation.
Ms. Kingsley looked confused. “Where’s Gramps?” she asked, peering from Ms. Maloney to the chief and back again.
Ms. Maloney frowned. “What do you mean?”
We settled at the table, and Ms. Maloney started serving, filling bowls of soup, and passing them around.
Ms. Kingsley nodded to the chief. “You’re the chief engineer here, right?”
The chief smiled her patient smile. “Indeed I am.”
Ms. Kingsley turned back to Ms. Maloney. “Chris? Where’s Gramps?”
Ms. Maloney frowned. “What do you mean ‘Where’s Gramps?’ I fired him months ago. We put him ashore here on Diurnia in, what was it?” She turned to me. “February? March?”
I finished helping myself to the salad, and passed the serving bowl to the chief. “March, I think.”
Ms. Kingsley’s face clouded in concern. “You fired him?” She looked back and forth between Ms. Maloney and me.
“I couldn’t work with him,” I told her flatly.
Ms. Maloney looked to me, and then back to Ms. Kingsley. “Kirsten? You really don’t know this?”
Ms. Kingsley shook her head. “No! This is the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t understand.”
Ms. Maloney reached out and placed her fingers on Ms. Kingsley’s forearm. “Kirsten,” she said her voice low, “he was leaking to the newsies.”
Ms. Kingsley pulled back in shock. “Not Gramps!”
Ms. Maloney nodded, a sad smile on her face. “We were getting a lot of newsie attention. Some digitals from inside the ship, even.” She shrugged. “We found the originals on his tablet.”
It took a few heartbeats for Ms. Kingsley to process that bit of news, but she frowned in concern. “How is that possible?”
“It’s worse, Kris.” Ms. Maloney gripped Ms. Kingsley’s forearm, and leaned toward her. “Gramps—Chief Bailey—is dead. He died in a fight on Greenfields a couple of weeks back.”
The news stunned Ms. Kingsley. I saw the surprise wash through her, leaving her expression blank with disbelief. She recovered after a few heartbeats, and her mind kicked back online. I could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. “You’re going to have to back up.” She looked from Ms. Maloney, to me, to the chief, and then back to Ms. Maloney.
The chief and I ate while Ms. Maloney briefed Ms. Kingsley. Ms. Kingsley rocked back further in her seat at each new detail.
“This is impossible,” she said when Ms. Maloney finished.
“Unfortunately, it’s not,” I said. “The question is whether or not Ames Jarvis is behind it. He seems like the only one with something to gain.”
“I can’t believe Ames would send somebody to kill you!” She looked back and forth between us again. “Either of you. Any of you.”
I shrugged. “Well, you know as much as we do. We thought maybe you’d know because Chief Bailey worked for DST. The word of his death must have been passed up the line by TIC by now.”
Ms. Kingsley shrugged. “Maybe it was, but he doesn’t work for DST.” She stopped and corrected herself. “Didn’t work for DST.” She sighed and looked to Ms. Maloney. “I still can’t believe this. I’ve known him forever.”
Ms. Maloney frowned, but I asked the question first. “Who did he work for?”
“All our bodyguards are subcontractors. We hire them through Umbra. Umbra Security.”
“Aiden, too?” I asked.
She shrugged. “All of them. Sure.”
Chief Stevens spoke for the first time. “Who owns Umbra?”
Ms. Kingsley shook her head. “I have no idea. They’ve always handled DST’s security.”
“Did Kurt work for them?” I asked.
“Geoff’s bodyguard?” Ms. Kingsley frowned then shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think he did.”
“Kurt joined us when Father was elected to the CPJCT,” Ms. Maloney said. “I was under the impression that he worked for them. All the members have bodyguards.”
We sat there for a few heartbeats. My half-eaten lunch lost its appeal.
“So, we don’t know who we’re supposed to be watching out for now.” Ms. Maloney summed up the situation succinctly.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Diurnia Orbital:
2373-November-22
The answer, when it came, was as shocking as it was unexpected. We spent months looking over our shoulders at every shadow. Each time we set our passengers ashore we swept the compartments to make sure they left nothing behind. We did background checks on every new set of passengers we took aboard. We stopped our regular pattern of Diurnia to Kazyanenko to Martha’s Haven and back, breaking up the routine in hopes that it would keep our adversary off-balance.
Through it all, Chief Stevens was completely unflappable, endlessly patient, and tirelessly giving of herself and her time. She watched films during movie nights and entertained the passengers, many of whom were closer to her age than mine. What she lacked in the critical art of cinema, she made up for in a nearly bottomless well of anecdote and humor. The discussions about the films often went on well after midnight, liberally fueled by Ms. Maloney’s cellar.
As for me, I confess I played the role of Aloof Captain. I tried to maintain a pleasant demeanor, particularly when around passengers. In truth, I hid on the bridge or in my cabin most of the time, showing up for meals, helping out in the galley occasionally, but mostly trying to keep out of sight.
Most nights found me on the bridge, staring through the armorglass at the lifeless void beyond. The Deep Dark stared back, the unwinking eyes of billions of suns, so many that clusters of them were merely smudges against the black. It would be a mistake to say I felt sorrow, or grief, or any of the things that one might associate with losing a love. The brutal circumstances under which the knife cut her from my life should have left me angry, bitter. Something. Instead I felt numb. I stared into the Deep Dark, and felt that the true emptiness existed inside me.
My lifeline to the world of the living ran through Chief Stevens’ strong hands. Every single day we did tai chi. Every day for at least a stan, sometimes two, I didn’t feel numb and empty. I felt nothing. The movements filled my being. My mind left off the incessant replay of a scene I never wanted to remember, but couldn’t seem to forget. I became the movement. I was able to step out of myself and rejoin the universe.
Sometimes on the bridge, I would close my eyes and visualize what the tai chi must look like from the outside. The chief and I, two tiny and fragile beings, dancing on the tongue of a fantastic metal whale. I imagined what it would look like thr
ough a video camera, panning around us as we moved. I could see us even as I mentally pulled the camera outside the hull and further and further into space. The solid hull, pitted and dark, blocking the view of us, yet knowing we were there, inside and unseen. I pulled back further and further until at last the ship itself became lost amid the sparks of distance suns.
Slowly, over the days and weeks, Chief Stevens’ quiet support pulled me back.
When the news broke, we were back on Diurnia. The cargo handlers had off-loaded the cubes and we had just finished our morning workout. The empty cargo bay echoed with our quiet footfalls, even over the ever present sounds of the blowers. I stood there at the end of our final set, filled with the warmth that my body generated as it moved, what Sifu Newmar would have called my qi.
“Skipper? Chief? You’re going to want to see this.” Ms. Arellone stood at the top of the ladder, beckoning us up.
The chief and I shared a glance and, with something like regret, I broke the mood and started for the ladder. Ms. Arellone, still standing at the top, had some odd expression on her face that might have been excitement or impatience.
We stepped into the galley to find Ms. Maloney sitting at the table, elbows on the surface, and both hands clapped across her mouth as if to prevent herself from speaking. She stared at the console screen, and I could hear the sound of a newsie as I stepped into the compartment.
“Recapping this breaking story, a spokesman for the TIC tells reporters that long time businessman and financier William Simpson has been arrested on suspicion of murder...”
I groped for a chair, and fell heavily into it as the audio track faded behind the roaring in my ears. The talking head cut away to images of William Simpson being escorted off the orbital’s lift in restraints. He looked a bit disheveled, as if rousted from his bed and dressed in a hurry. He kept his face turned, and his eyes squinted against the worst of the lights shining in his face from the surrounding newsie cameras. In spite of myself I felt shocked at how old and frail he looked.
The newsie’s voice edged back into my awareness as her breathless excitement carved at my credulity. The scene cut to footage of a TIC officer obviously speaking to the press from behind a podium, but the newsie’s voice overlaid the audio track so we couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Authorities investigating a suspected homicide on Greenfields Orbital earlier this stanyer seized records from the executive protection firm, Umbra, earlier this week. Again, TIC agents arrested financier and businessman William Simpson at his home this morning.”
The newsie recycled the sixty second recap again and again. I realized that was all the information we were likely to get.
Ms. Maloney keyed the sound off, and the four of us looked around at each other, stunned.
Nobody spoke for several heartbeats.
Finally, Ms. Arellone broke the silence. “I don’t get it. Why?”
Ms. Maloney sighed and shook her head. “Money. Has to be the money.” She looked at Ms. Arellone. “He’s the only one likely to make more off taking the company public than Ames Jarvis.”
Ms. Arellone looked puzzled. “How?”
“Ames would make a profit on the shares he owns. Simpson—or his firm—would make a profit on every single share that trades hands.”
“How many is that, though?” Ms. Arellone looked confused.
“Millions.”
The chief asked the question that tried to work its way from the back of my brain. “Why try to kill you for it? Did he think he’d get away with it?”
Ms. Maloney shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe Herring was only supposed to hurt me, rough me up a little.”
“Why did Chief Bailey get involved, though?” Ms Arellone asked.
Ms. Maloney shrugged again. “Maybe it was a private deal between the chief and Mr. Herring. Maybe the chief wanted to get back at us for firing him. I doubt we’ll ever know.”
“Unless they find Herring,” Chief Stevens said.
On the screen the newsie’s report shifted to images of men in business suits standing in a windswept field, and Ms. Maloney slapped the key to shut off the terminal.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Martha’s Haven Orbital:
2373-December-11
When the authorities arrested William Simpson, it gave us a bit of closure. Every time we got back to Diurnia, we were deluged anew with breathless reporting of nothing, and endless commentary on the lack of real information coming out of the trial. With each day that went by we felt more secure, and even resumed the traditional dinners ashore. By November we were going ashore in pairs and, if we were watchful, a certain level of awareness seemed appropriate.
We visited Martha’s Haven Orbital enough that we developed favorite eateries. When it came time for dinner there, we almost always wound up at Paul’s. The proprietor, Fred Noble, ran a comfortably eclectic establishment where beer drinkers could mingle with wine drinkers, and all could enjoy a menu that ranged from meatloaf and mashed potatoes, to prime rib au jus, from macaroni and cheese to an orbital-high soufflé. He served everything from fish to veg to chicken to you-name-it. Every time we got back there, he had a new recipe for us to try. We were never disappointed.
When we walked through the door, Roxie, the maitre d’, recognized us at once. We only made the trip to Martha’s Haven four times during the stanyer, but if it was enough for us to pick out favorite restaurants, it was also enough for the restaurants to give us celebrity status. I think part of the celebrity came not from Ms. Maloney’s being heir to the DST fortunes, but from the ship herself. The extra bit of attention that Ms. Maloney engendered helped, but the stories about what went on aboard the Iris on the long voyages under the stars were becoming embarrassing.
“Welcome back, Captain!” she said as we walked through the doors. “Fred will be so pleased to see you made it this trip.” She nodded to the rest of the crew, and scooped up four menus before striding purposefully through the dining room to a booth situated out of direct sight of the door and tucked into a curving banquette that gave us a modicum of privacy. She seated us, ran through the normal hostess ritual, and then disappeared into the kitchen.
Chief Stevens seemed amused, and Ms. Arellone started to go into her bodyguard trance, staring at everybody around us, looking for exits, and generally running a mental threat assessment on everybody she could see—including a couple of the larger plants. Ms. Maloney caught her eye, gave her a little head shake. She subsided a bit. She still paid more attention to what was happening around us than at the table itself, but under the circumstances, I couldn’t blame her.
As the meal started spooling out onto the table, Fred appeared, a wide grin splitting his face and a slightly amused look on his face. “It’s always wonderful to see you all. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Fred. The vote was unanimous this trip. After that amazing chocolate amaretto tiramisu we had last time, we decided we needed to come back to see what you had in store for us today.”
He beamed. “Excellent! I think you’ll find a few new tasties on the menu. Speaking of which, let me go see what’s on the cart for desserts tonight.” With a cheerful smile he turned and sailed back through the tables toward the kitchen. I watched him go, stopping here and there to shake a hand and smile a greeting. Eventually he made his way across the dining room and disappeared through a swinging door that led to the kitchens.
That was when I saw the man sitting alone at the table beside the door. He wasn’t staring at me, precisely, but more like he was trying to make eye contact. He looked vaguely familiar but I didn’t place him until he stood up and started walking toward the table.
“Kurt.” I must have said it aloud because everybody at the table looked at me, and then at the man approaching.
In a jovial voice that was just a hair too loud he called to me. “Captain! What a surprise!” By then he’d crossed to the table, and Ms. Arellone was twitching in defense mode.
I half stood, and shook his hand, but before
I could speak he continued.
“I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we met a few months back on Diurnia? I’m Grant Whitherspoon?” His eyebrow arched just slightly.
“Of course, Mr. Whitherspoon. What a surprise seeing you here!”
He nodded to the people around the table and stepped closer, lowering his voice with a sheepish look around as if he’d only just realized what a scene he made. With a smooth movement he slipped in beside Chief Stevens with a smile and a nod, leaning in to speak to us all at a much reduced volume.
“Chris? I’m sorry about your father. He was a good guy.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked softly.
“Looking for you lot,” he said with a grin. “Your red-headed friend disappeared into the Deep Dark.”
“We heard,” I said. “TIC said the ship jumped, but not where they said they were going.”
He nodded. “He jumped to a place between the systems.”
“Odin’s?” I asked.
He nodded. “Good guess. We tracked him that far but he disappeared after that. Don’t know if he finally aggravated somebody and got shoved out an airlock, or if he caught ship to some other hidey hole.” He shrugged. “We’re still tracking him, so we’ll hope for the best. For now?” He shrugged. “He’s somewhere out there in the Deep Dark.”
“Why?” Ms. Maloney asked.
“Why’d he do it?”
She nodded.
“He wasn’t supposed to. It was just supposed to be a smash and dash.” He nodded at Ms. Maloney. “You were supposed to be the only casualty, laid up long enough to force the ship to leave you behind. Missing a movement like that would have given him all the leverage he needed to get Jarvis to take the company private.”
“Willie Simpson was really behind it, then?”
Kurt nodded. “Yes. We’ve been watching him ever since Mirafiori went public in ‘71. He’s been skirting the edges. Too many people have conveniently died.”
Ms. Maloney blanched. “He didn’t kill—”
Kurt shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, your father was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He looked at her earnestly. “Believe me. We looked real hard.”
Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) Page 61