by Dan Thompson
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women, it’s that I don’t know shit.” – Malcolm Fletcher
THEIR UNOFFICIAL CHRISTMAS DINNER became quite festive. Once Father Wilcox heard of it, he almost turned it into a mass. “Of course I approve,” he had said. “Our Lord’s promise is for every day of the year, not merely Christmas or Easter, so I see no reason why we should not celebrate it as often as we wish.” Vivian even decorated one of the larger plants in the lounge with an array of lights she cobbled together out of spare parts. Hector groused about this but kept his opinions to himself.
Winner cooked the larger of the two birds, a twenty-pounder, and served it up complete with stuffing, cranberry sauce, boiled carrots, and sweet potatoes. What made it even more mouthwatering was Michael’s decision to push their dinner back by an hour to make it easier for the night shift to join them. Richard and Dieter seemed quite pleased with it. “Turkey for breakfast is my new favorite,” Richard declared.
Dieter ate quickly and returned with his mandolin. Hector almost made a quick retreat back to environmental, but Dieter surprised them all with a collection of old Christmas melodies from the early Republic. “Some of these even date back to before space travel.” This drew some disbelief, but he insisted. “I don’t remember the words to this one, but it was some German song about a quiet night or something like that.”
Michael spent much of his time covering navigation and engineering, determined to let Carlos and Vivian enjoy their evening, but the crew insisted he come back to have some before it all broke up. It was in that festive mood that he finally shared his good news.
“I have a couple more things we can celebrate. First of all, I have our final numbers for the Rapoen-Cenita run, and we ran a tidy profit. I’ve already made the adjustments in the ship accounts, and that should sync up with the various banks when we hit Ballison.”
That was met with smiles all around and a hearty fist-pounding on the table from Hector. “On a more personal note, I cleared up that thing with the Captain’s Guild back at Cenita, so it’s not provisional any more. I am now a full member.” This elicited an enthusiastic round of cheers and congratulations, but Michael cut them short. “Thank you, all. Also, I’ve been told that the tradition calls for a new captain to take all his crew to the Guild Hall for dinner, so let’s plan on that for Ballison, shall we?”
This brought another round of cheers, though Hector found the one sour note. “All of us, that is, except the poor bloke who has to stand watch.”
Richard raised his hand. “I’ll take the short straw on that, Captain. I figure I can collect on it another time.”
Michael nodded. “That you will, Mr. Mosley.”
Eventually, the passengers departed, and most of the crew returned to their duties, but Richard lingered briefly. “You do know, sir, that if you want to take some extra time for yourself at Ballison, I can cover an extra watch shift or pick up some of the scut work for the cargo and passengers.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mosley, but to tell you the truth, I’m actually enjoying some of that scut work.”
“Certainly, sir, but do think about it.”
When only Michael and Winner were left, he helped her clear the tables. He offered to help with the washing as well, but she refused. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll be fine.” She peeled off a pair of serving gloves and grabbed a heavier pair for washing.
That was when he saw it. Her knuckles were covered in little scabs, and the backs of her hands looked almost purple. He realized then that he rarely saw her bare hands; between cargo work gloves, kitchen gloves, and so on, he had probably not seen them since before Cenita. He pointed as she pulled on the first of the heavier ones. “What happened to your hands?”
She shook her head and rushed the second one into the glove. “A little here and there,” she said. “Too much dishwashing with my bare hands, I suppose, and I might have burned one of them handling the turkey earlier.”
He stared at her. He had washed enough dishes in his day to know that those were not the marks of too much dishwashing. “Are you sure that’s all?”
She looked away. “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
He went back to his cabin. Something was going on with Winner, and he was going to get to bottom of it.
Captain Jack Wallace stepped through the airlock of the Johnny Rose and unzipped his jacket. The winters on Pinot’s Hammer were always harsh, and this one was no exception. He went straight to his cabin and signaled the bridge. “I’m back on board. Looks like we’re still waiting for those last two containers. Any word from the port master on freeing up that transport team?”
“No, sir, but we did just receive a ship-to-ship message for you.”
“What? Did old Bill call down to apologize to me?”
“No, sir, it’s not from anyone in system. It’s from a Michael Fletcher of the Sophie’s Grace.”
“Forward it to my mailbox,” he said and stripped off his gloves and jacket. By the time he sat at his desk, Michael’s message was sitting at the top of the stack. He read through it quickly, and then froze. Reading it again more slowly, he shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “That little Carlos shit again.”
He called back up to the bridge. “Keep the data lines open. I’ll be sending a reply to this one.”
His XO replied. “I expected as much. My condolences to your friend, sir.”
Wallace shook his head again and opened up a draft message.
Ship-to-ship: Johnny Rose to Sophie’s Grace, port unknown, Caspian sector
To: Captain Michael Fletcher
Michael,
I’m glad to hear about your provisional status. If you’ve got any of Malcolm in you, I’m sure you’ll find a way to turn that permanent.
But I am not glad to hear that you hired Carlos Rodriguez, especially if he traded on my name. In fairness, I will say that he’s an excellent navigator with the best intuitive feel I’ve ever seen, but he’s a rotten crewman. He was always getting into trouble at port, and not merely the usual drunk and disorderly. I had to bail him out three times, once for running a crooked card game out on Nasar.
But the worst was the petty theft on board. Little things started disappearing, and then one day we caught him heading off to liberty with a bag of his crewmates’ valuables. A man who turns on his mates doesn’t deserve to be in space, so I booted him off right there.
Looking back, I wish I’d pressed charges. Instead, I just foisted him off onto the next poor sap, and now I see that somewhere down the chain he’s latched on to you. Honestly, I’m surprised that he’s not already serving time somewhere, but I guess every other captain he’s had was as lazy as me. For that I am truly sorry, and I can only hope he hasn’t caused you too much trouble.
Until we meet again, good winds and good profits.
-Jack
Commander Collins tried to relax in the observation lounge of the Emerald Dawn as it counted down to departure. He was on his way to Cenita in pursuit of Robert Bishop, or rather in pursuit of Victor Trent. Collins had indeed stopped by the Tsaigo security office after leaving Alphonse chained to his bed, and they ran the little Jansky against their database. It had not, in fact, been registered, and they were going to send it to the lab to see if its force projection patterns met any crimes on record. Collins did not expect much from that. Force guns had set forensic science back seven hundred years, wiping out a long history of ballistics analysis on slug throwers. Nothing had stepped in to fill the gap yet.
Still, it had been enough for them to issue a warrant for Alphonse. Collins had been very sketchy in his statement about the supposed assault. While he had no love for the Tsaigo locals, he did not want to go so far as to perjure himself. Besides, he had no intention of staying around to press charges or testify at a trial.
He had already hacked into the local dockmaster’s computer system. He was no expert in the field, but he had tools to make most of the work easy. Normally, his nava
l codes would have given him access, but again, this was Tsaigo. Still, they used many of the same data components as the rest of the Confederacy, and some of those intermediate data systems still responded to the back doors that the Navy had arranged to have installed. From there it was a matter of letting his tools insert malicious code into the right parts of the data stream, and long before he needed it, he had access to the passenger and crew lists of every ship in the system.
Victor Trent had left for Cenita two weeks before Collins’s arrival. Again, Collins cursed the lack of a fleet presence. There was no fast courier he could hitch a ride with. Technically, there was a commercial courier he could have tried to book passage on, but it was headed to Ballison, not Cenita. Once there, he could have used fleet resources again, but with the added distance and layover, it would be no faster than waiting the extra day to book passage on the Emerald Dawn.
He sipped at his tea and stared out into the void. He could only hope that Bishop had not tracked young Mr. Fletcher down yet.
Winner closed the door behind her and stood before Michael’s desk with her hands stuck firmly in her pockets. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, I did.”
The silence stretched out, and it became clear that Winner was not going to break it.
Michael sighed and plunged ahead. “Miss Vargas, have you injured your hands?”
She shrugged. “A few nicks. Stuff happens in the kitchen. It’s part of pulling galley duty.”
Michael shook his head. “I think it’s more than that. Can you show me your hands?”
She grumbled, but she did ultimately pull her hands out of her pockets and present them. The palms were fine, but the fingers of her right hand were mottled purple, while a red abrasion covered the back of her left.
“Those didn’t happen in the galley,” he said. “They happened in port, didn’t they?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“Sir, why do you care? I’m doing my job right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Then why? What I do in my off time is my business, not yours.”
Michael chewed on that for a moment. He had stood in Winner’s place more than once, having similar conversations with Malcolm when he had been captain. “I sympathize with that. I suppose I’m worried about you. That’s two ports in a row where you have come back with unexplained injuries. I’m worried that someday you’re not going to come back at all.”
She put her hands back in her pockets and scowled. “If you think I’m that unreliable, sir, maybe you should put me off at the next port.”
Michael shook his head and leaned forward. “It’s not that at all. Please, sit.”
She took her time about it, but she did sit. Her hands came back out of her pockets, but she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into the crooks of her elbows.
Michael took a deep breath and tried to look more friendly than Malcolm had. “You’re a reliable and valuable member of my crew, Miss Vargas. I do not consider you to be unreliable at all. I do worry, however, that one day these injuries will be fatal.”
She snorted. “Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not like someone’s after me or anything.”
Michael shook his head. “Then what is it?”
She looked away for a moment, scanning around his office. It was still fairly spartan. “I like to fight, so I fight.”
“You’re picking fights in port?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s more of an organized thing. There’s always something like it in port. They line up matches. We have something of a boxing ring. The audience makes bets. The fighters get a cut.”
Michael was having a hard time believing it. “So, that’s it. All this run-around, and you’re just boxing?”
She shrugged. “More or less.”
“Then why the secrecy?”
She shook her head at him. “Most of it is that look on your face right now.”
Michael sat back. “What look?”
“That she-couldn’t-possibly-be-serious look. I do this for my own reasons, and I don’t need my captain or crewmates getting into my business.”
“I think I can speak for the rest of the crew that we would be on your side.”
She looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but the last thing I want is the distraction of a cheering section.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Michael frowned. He still did not feel as though he had gotten to the bottom of it, but he could not think of any legitimate objection.
“Will that be all, Captain?” she asked.
He sighed, but nodded. He was sure Malcolm would have pressed for more, but he honestly did not know if Malcolm would have been right to do so.
Celeste Davies entered the captain’s office as ordered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Captain Gallows motioned her to a seat and pushed his dinner to the far side of his desk. “We make Ballison tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. By my reading of the charts, we should begin down-tach at zero nine thirty.”
He glared at her. “I wasn’t asking for your navigation expertise, Miss Davies.”
She glared right back but said nothing.
“This woman … Patrice Parker, Jana Lewis … whatever the bitch chooses to call herself, I intend to be rid of her at Ballison.”
“The Winged Lady?” It was not like the title was required, but Davies wanted to remind Gallows that he was outranked by a woman.
Gallows reached for his wine glass and took a gulp. “She can call herself the angel of death for all I care, but she’s off my ship before we leave. Is that understood?”
“If you say so, Captain,” she replied. “Still, I had been under the impression that she had a longer authorization than that.”
Gallows finished the wine, tipping it all the way back. “You were under the impression?”
“Yes, sir, from the orders she presented. The ones from Father Chessman.”
“Chessman,” he replied with a chuckle. “More like Father Executioner, but she’ll learn that soon enough.”
Davies raised an eyebrow. “Your meaning, sir?”
Gallows leaned back and spread his hands across his wide belly. “This flighty bitch is on the way down. She lost the Blue Jaguar through her own incompetence. Hell, she compromised a major part of our operation at Arvin while she was at it, and now she’s on some fool’s errand hoping to save her own head by serving up this boy.”
Davies felt herself frown but did nothing to hide it.
Gallows reached for his empty glass but stopped with a shake of his head. “She’s bad luck, kid, and I want her gone.”
“I see that, sir,” Davies said at last, “but one could interpret Chessman’s orders to give her the authority to stay as long as she wants.”
“One could interpret?” he asked. “No, Miss Davies, the only interpretation that matters is mine, and by my reading, I’m still in charge of this ship, and she’s an unwelcome guest at best.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She goes,” he said. “Tomorrow. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I understand.”
Michael did one last tour of the ship to make sure Richard and Dieter were settled in for the night shift and then made his way to bed. It was quiet. Winner had closed up the galley early—the advantage of copious leftover turkey—and Hector was tucked away in his own cabin, trying to squeeze in the director’s cut of The Last Armistice before bed. Carlos had left dinner with talk of falling asleep with a book. Even the two chatty passengers had packed it in for the night. The only two people still up were Vivian and their nervous passenger, but they were both in the crew lounge quietly knitting pieces for something he assumed was a gift for the expected child at Ballison.
He closed his cabin door, made a decision to put off his shower until the morning, and curled
up in bed with one of Peter’s journals. He was tired enough that he only felt up to reading one entry, but the one that fell open before him was more than he expected.
I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing. In fact, I feel more than a little guilty for it. I didn’t plan it that way. But damn it. I was trying to do the right thing.
It started when we hit port yesterday, and I ran into Sophia again. That’s the third time this year, and I was going to count it as good fortune, but she was in a foul mood. She and Malcolm had a fight. Or according to the scuttlebutt, they had another fight. She didn’t want to get into it, but she said he was too broken, something about losing his little sister when they were kids. I tried to be helpful, but she just kept saying that he was broken and that she didn’t know how to fix him.
And I told her that maybe some things aren’t supposed to be fixed. Mostly I wanted to let her know she didn’t have to carry all of this herself. I mean, from what I hear, Malcolm is a hard nut. If he’s got stuff to deal with, she shouldn’t take it on herself. From everything I’ve read on that kind of thing, she can’t do it for him. He’s got to want it enough to do it himself.
Well, I don’t know if it’s what I said or if she was simply getting to that point already, but I heard this morning that she had left the Braddock and was looking for a new berth. I ran it past Captain Williams as quick as I could, but we’ve already got a full engineering rotation. More than full, really, considering that we’re taking on the Steiner twins for a training rotation when we hit Tsaigo.
Not that it mattered much. She found a berth on the Jolly Shamrock by afternoon and was moved in by the end of liberty at nineteen hundred. I tried to talk to her again, but I kept missing her. Not that it matters all that much. We’re on almost the same route as the Shamrock, diverging only at Cenita and Pinot’s Hammer, so if the schedule holds I’ll likely see her at nine of our thirteen ports.
I don’t have to say how much I’m looking forward to that, but I worry that I’m the one that put it in her head. It’s not like Malcolm’s some dear friend that I’d be screwing over, but hell, if this actually goes somewhere, if Sophia actually likes me, I’d hate to have been the one to break them up.