Owner's Share (Trader's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper) (36 page)

“Correct, Ms. Maitland. If you don’t count the fifteen stanyers I’ve been eating at Over Easy and looking at the back of his head.”

Chapter Thirty
Diurnia Orbital:
2372-December-27

When we got back to the ship, true to my word, I made a fresh pot of coffee. We avoided the logistics problem of how to drink it without enough cups to go around when a train of heavily laden grav pallets appeared on the dock outside the ship. As the pallets came aboard, it was an easy matter to direct the machine parts aft where Chief Bailey checked them in as they came off the pallets. The three pallets containing galley equipment and clothing went up the ladder, one after another. By 0830, we had checked in all the pallets, and transferred the contents to the deck for unpacking and stowage. The case of coffee mugs solved the most pressing logistical problem of the moment.

When Chief Bailey stumped onto the mess deck around 0900, he found Ms. Maloney and Ms. Arellone unpacking the boxes of dishes into the dishwasher. I was surveying the pile of new cooking gear, and considering how to lay out my galley.

His eyes lit up when he saw the coffee urn. “Now, that’s more like it, hain’t it? I ask ya. Hain’t it?” He didn’t ask anybody in particular but instead pulled a mug right out of the case, rinsed it off in the sink, and drew off a mug of Moscow Morning. The“Ahh” sound of his satisfaction was audible across the mess deck.

“How are we fixed for spares now, Chief?” I asked as he savored the brew.

“Right well, now, Cap, right well.” He sipped again, his eyes rolling up in his head in pleasure. “You make this coffee, Cap?”

“Yes, Chief. It’s something of a specialty.”

“Well, Cap, you’ve made a believer out of me with this ’un, you have.” He sipped again. “You got any kinda priority on what you want done first?”

I thought for a few heartbeats, distracted from the cookware by the larger needs. “If you could fix the broken console at the brow first, then replace the sail generator coils. Stow the emergency suits in the suit lockers.” I frowned. “What else do we need to do before we can leave dock?”

He squinted his eyes, and held his mug up to his mouth, his brow furrowing in thought before drinking. “If’n ’twere me? I’d replace the bridge consoles now and stow them old ones. That’ll let everybody get used to the ship just the once, and not have to do’t agin later.” He sipped and grinned at me. “Course, ’at’s just me, Cap.”

“Makes sense, Chief. Need any help?”

“Not right yet. I’ll need some help wrestling the consoles up the ladder to the bridge, and getting the old ones down, but I reckon I kin handle the other, Cap. I reckon I can.”

“Holler if you need, Chief.”

“Oh, aye, Cap. I will.”

He topped off his mug, ambled off the mess deck, and clattered down the forward ladder, a tuneless whistle echoing in the empty cargo bay.

“Captain, how would you like this glassware arranged?” Ms. Maloney stood next to the dishwasher, the door cracked open and steamy air billowing out.

I stepped back, and surveyed the available counters and cupboards. In just a few heartbeats the sense of it came to me. I started pointing and calling out contents. “Plates, bowls, cups, regular glasses, flatware here, save that drawer for utensils, this deep drawer gets side towels. I’ll put pots and pans there, griddle and cutting boards here. Dish cleaning supplies go under the sink. Broom closet there, floor cleaners and wax go there.”

Ms. Arellone was trying to keep up with where I pointed, but Ms. Maloney didn’t try to follow the rapid fire detail at all, but I could see her nodding and measuring with her eyes. “What do you want down there, Captain?” She pointed to a couple of cabinets under the counter on the far end that I hadn’t assigned.

“Save those for now. I’m thinking maybe table linens when we get around to hauling passengers, or maybe an entertainment closet.”

She raked her eyes across the cupboards. “All right, Captain. Makes sense,” she said.

Ms. Arellone looked at her with a kind of “if you say so look” and then looked at the pile of gear. “No brooms, Skipper. No swabs.”

Ms. Maloney added, “No shelf liners.”

I sighed, and hung my head. “Ok. Stack the clean dishes on the counter for now.” I pulled out my tablet and brought up the chandlery catalog. I clicked off the requisite items, adding them to an order.

“And buckets, Captain?” Ms Maloney asked with an amused smile.

“Ah, the glamorous life of a ship owner. Yes, buckets, too. Anything else either of you can think of?” I added two rolling buckets, and two more small hand buckets.

Ms. Maloney held up the container of dishwasher detergent.

“Thank you, Ms. Maloney. I’ll get a case of assorted soaps and cleansers. Good thinking.” I had to change menus, but the cleaning gear all came in handy case lots and I grabbed one each, adding the cleansers and conditioning agents our laundry gear would need as I went.

Ms. Arellone frowned at the pile of stuff. “As long as you’re ordering, Skipper? Is there a can opener in this collection? I don’t remember checking one in...”

I sighed and shook my head as I added that to the list. “I hesitate to ask at this point, but anything else?”

Even Ms. Maloney laughed, but they both shook their heads, and I pressed the order button, paying the early delivery premium.

After that we settled to the work. We stowed the pots and pans. Mixing bowls, cutting board, knives, and utensils all found homes in secured storage. Dishes and glassware gleamed on the counter, waiting for the padded paper that would keep them from sliding around too much in the cupboards when they were finally stowed. We broke down boxes, bagged up the trash, and finished up as much as we could. By 1100 the galley looked more like a galley, and the smell of coffee made it almost homey.

“All we need is food now, Captain, and it’ll really be a galley,” Ms. Arellone said as she stood back, and examined our handiwork.

“It’s coming, Ms. Arellone. I ordered about a ton of food this morning.”

A loud clunking, clang shook the ship. It was over almost before we were aware of it but it seemed to have come from the engine room. I headed down the passage, and leaned over the railing to see the chief beside the fusactor, leaning over and squinting at the readouts on the side of the unit. “You okay down there, Chief?”

He waved up to me. “Ho, yah. Sorry ’bout that, Cap. That was the banging fusactor barge linkin’ up. He got a little rambunctious, but we’re good.” He leaned over and looked at the readouts again, and bobbed his head a couple of times. “Yah, we’re good.” He looked up again. “Say, Cap, any coffee left up there?”

“Come and get it, Chief. There should always be coffee up here.”

“Ah, now ’at’s the way ta run a ship, yessir. Hain’t it? Yessir. ’At’s the way ta run a ship.” He waved. “I’ll be up shortly, Cap. Soon’s they get this banging process started up, I’ll be along.”

I walked back to the galley, and met the wide-eyed stares of my deck gang. “Fusactor barge came along side.”

“Along side, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked. “Or inside?”

We chuckled while Ms. Maloney looked back and forth between us.

My tablet bipped, and I opened a station-net message from Ms. Kingsley. “Congratulations. You’re about to become a multimillionaire in your own right. Your share of the prize money from ship and cargo is something over a twelve million credits. Details attached.”

I pulled up the attachment, and tried to remember to breathe.

“What is it, Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked.

I found a seat at the table, and re-read the attachment carefully.

“Skipper?” Ms. Arellone asked again.

“The auction on the
Chernyakova
, Ms. Arellone. My share of the prize money is twelve million.”

“That’s good, isn’t it, Skipper?” There was a tentative note in her voice. “You don’t look like that’s good, Skipper.”

“I’ll get the money in a hundred and twenty days.”

“Four months from now, sar?” she asked.

“Yes, Ms. Arellone. Apparently, those are the terms of the settlement for the bids.” I looked up, feeling like I had my face under control. “That’s pretty good.”

“Sar? Didn’t you sign a note...?”

“Yes, Ms. Arellone.”

Ms. Maloney frowned, but didn’t ask the question that showed on her face.

The klaxon sounded one long blast.

“Ms. Arellone, would you see who’s at the door? I think lunch has just been delivered.”

“Lunch, sar?”

“Well, a lot of lunches, Ms. Arellone. I hope that’s our supply order.”

“Oh, gods, sar, I hope not. I’m not up to putting away a ton of groceries just now.” She laughed as she said it, though, and clattered down the ladder.

“Can I ask, Captain...?”

“You can always ask, Ms. Maloney. Sometimes I may reserve the right not to answer, but I’ll never penalize you for asking.”

“The note?”

I shrugged. “One of the investors in Icarus pulled out at the last minute, and left me too short to buy the ship. William Simpson floated me a flat rate note for ninety days against the share of stock that didn’t sell.”

Understanding blossomed on her face. “Timing is everything, eh, Captain?” Her carefully neutral expression seemed almost sympathetic.

“In most things, Ms. Maloney.” I shrugged again. “We’ve got ninety days—well, eighty-nine now—to find a buyer and sink the note.”

“What are you going to do, Captain?” She sounded genuinely curious.

“This is going to sound odd, Ms. Maloney, but back when I first set sail on the
Lois McKendrick
over in Dunsany Roads? We had a saying. It seems rather simple-minded in hindsight, but I saw it work again and again.”

“A saying, Captain?”

“Whenever things looked bad, we’d say ‘Trust Lois.’”

“Lois? The ship?”

“Yes, Ms. Maloney. It wasn’t a blind, sit on your hands, and wait for a miracle thing. It was more like, face your problem, and deal with it the best you know how, and trust that the ship—or more realistically, your crew—would help see you through.”

“And this worked, Captain?”

“Not always, but it was surprising how often it did.”

She cocked her head and regarded me with a rather skeptical expression. “So your strategy is ‘Trust Lois,’ Captain?”

I waggled my head back and forth a bit indicating she was close. “Actually, I’m thinking ‘Trust Iris’.”

She chuffed a laugh. “Do you think that’s going to work?”

I smiled, and shook my head. “No, not really, Ms. Maloney. I think it’s going to fail.”

“Then why?”

“Because it lets me put that problem aside for now. I can’t do anything about it. Focusing on it won’t solve it. Focusing on what might help, what could work, what I can do? That will move me closer and as we go, perhaps a solution will present itself.” I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Mr. Simpson will find somebody with eight million to invest before the ninety days are up and I can sink the note. What I do know is that worrying about it keeps me from doing the things I can do. If I can compartmentalize that by saying ‘Trust Iris,’ that’s good enough for me.”

“Eight million is a lot to compartmentalize, Captain. Can you really do it?”

“An excellent question, Ms. Maloney. An excellent question. I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks.”

The ladder started dropping then, and we went out to help the chandlery workers deliver the food.

Three stans, two urns of coffee, and several sandwiches later—we fed the workers while we were at it—we finished checking in and stowing three-quarters of a metric ton of food. The work was painstaking and aggravating. We kept making mistakes as we got more and more tired. In the end, we ran out of pantry space so I ordered them to stash some of the cases of canned goods, and other non-perishables, in the compartment next door as an expedient.

Ms. Arellone took the workers down to the lock, and opened it up so they could leave. She brought back my father. “Captain, I found this fellow loitering outside our lock. Perhaps you’d like to have a word with him?” She grinned, and winked at the older man.

I just stood there, looking at him, at the face that had stared out from that photo from so long ago. Wrinkled now, and lacking the hair, but the same eyes. His nose might have been a bit broader, his mouth a bit care worn. “Dad?”

“Ishmael.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

He laughed, and I remembered it—the sound of it echoed from long ago. A sound I knew, but didn’t know I knew until I heard it.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ve had enough of yours. It seems only right.”

“Yes, but I always charged you for mine.”

“I’ll let you pay for this if it’ll make you feel better.”

The coffee went into mugs, and we sat at the table. We sat for either a very long time or maybe a tick before he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me when your mother died?”

“I couldn’t find you.” I sighed, realizing how weak that sounded. “All I knew was your name, and that you were somewhere in this sector. Maybe.”

“That’s it?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if the expression in his eyes was pain or amusement. Perhaps it was both.

“Yes, sir. And again when I went to the academy. My captain pulled a few strings but you didn’t show on their census either.”