Pelquin's Comet (13 page)

“Well, if you can prove yourself by doing
that
,” Bren continued, “then you’ve passed the test that the Captain set you, and he’ll have no reason
not
to hire you, right Captain?”

Pelquin raised his eyebrows, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

“
Right
?” Bren repeated with feeling.

Pelquin looked from one woman to the other, then, deciding he’d probably milked the situation as much as he dared, said, “
If
she can fix it, and if she’s capable of taking orders, then yes, she’s hired.”

He didn’t miss the flicker of relief on the girl’s face; quickly masked, but it had been there.

Bren turned back to the girl. “Will that satisfy you? Fix the leak, join the crew, and then go and find us the right part.”

“She’s on the crew
provided
she can fix the engines properly,” Pelquin said, backtracking slightly but still reckoning he was being more than reasonable. “Guaranteed,”

“Sounds good to me,” their new mechanic replied, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll have this patched up in no time.”

“Good.” Pelquin considered her for a second.

Whatever had inspired that quick display of vulnerability it was hidden again, supplanted by her absorption in a task she seemed to relish. He lingered for a few more seconds. Then he caught Bren’s eye and the two of them left, heading towards the rec room and leaving the girl to her work.

“You know,” Bren said as they walked, “I think she’s going to work out.”

“Yeah,” he said. “So do I as it happens, so do I.”

E
IGHT

There was a time when Pelquin would have been itching to rush off and explore La Gossa. Too many responsibilities limited his opportunity for such excursions these days, so he welcomed an excuse to leave the ship and meet up with Nate.

Drake had conveniently vanished off with the new mechanic into parts of the city unknown, and Pelquin had done nothing to discourage him. Supposedly the banker was keeping tabs on their new engineer as she looked for the replacement engine part, but Pelquin never took anything for granted where Drake was concerned.

The banker’s absence came as blessed relief; only once he’d gone did Pelquin realise how heavily his constant presence had weighed upon him in recent days. The timing was perfect, enabling Pelquin to leave the ship with just a quick, “Keep an eye on things for me,” to Bren and without the need to explain himself further.

Taxis crowded into a pick-up point just outside the port entrance – uniformly liveried in a jarring combination of yellow and pink, nose pressed to tail as if desperate to reach the front of the queue but not so desperate that they’d risk breaking rank. Nate had recommended he take one, saying it would be easier. Pelquin, however, preferred to stretch his legs. So he walked straight past the waiting vehicles despite a hopeful shifting of feet from drivers lounging by their cabs.

Pelquin trusted his wrist perminal for guidance. Sat Nav was as reliable here as on any world with a satellite network.

According to Nate, the restaurant was ‘only five minutes’ away’ from the port. The perminal quoted thirteen, and in the event it took Pelquin nearer twenty, but then he wasn’t in any great hurry. The first ten found him negotiating streets crammed with shops and clogged with traffic, the latter ten had him walking along narrow side streets. He emerged from one such to find his goal directly in front of him.

Describing the place as a ‘restaurant’ was pushing it; the tired-looking café could never hope to live up to such a lofty ambition. Twin glass doors had been pulled open, sliding back behind full-length plate windows to leave the interior exposed to the street. No air conditioning, then. The garish yellow façade stretched across the full width of the frontage had bold black and red lettering plastered across it. The effect was cheap and tacky; though Nate would doubtless describe this as ‘shabby chic’. Not that Pelquin minded – he’d eaten in places far less inviting than this, and eaten well for that matter.

This sort of experience came with the territory if you were a friend of Nate Almont’s – a man who delighted in discovering what the local cuisine had to offer wherever the ship landed and who took pride in ferreting out ‘hidden gems’ that were so far off the beaten track, they didn’t even know a track existed. Pelquin had to admit that most of the time Almont’s instincts were good.
Most
of the time… He just hoped this wasn’t one of the occasions when the odds ganged up to claim a bit of retribution.

More a noodle bar than either restaurant or café, he realised as he stepped inside, and perhaps his initial assessment had been a little harsh. Twin decorative pillars stood just inside the doors, one to either side. The décor was basic but everything looked clean enough, and the whole place was open plan, with the busy kitchen at the back fully exposed to patrons’ scrutiny. Pelquin’s gaze was immediately drawn by a sudden flare of bright orange flame, as one of the white-vested chefs flipped the contents of a large black iron wok over a gas burner, the oil or liquor within it briefly catching alight.

A large propeller-like fan hung from the ceiling, turning lazily with a perpetual muted whirring to mark its presence.

A shortish man of indeterminate age with slicked-back hair and sporting a broad smile came up to greet him. “Good day, sir. Your friend is waiting over here.” Which suggested they entertained few off worlders here; hardly a surprise – this place didn’t strike him as the sort to feature the tourist guides; a typical Nate ‘find’.

He had already spotted Nate, who raised a hand to make sure of the fact. He took the seat opposite his friend, who grinned in greeting. Trying his damnedest not to think of Julia, Pelquin smiled in return.

The little man hovered at his shoulder, asking, “More drinks?”

“Thank you, Henry,” Nate said. “Two more beers.”

Pelquin mouthed ‘Henry?’ as the waiter scurried away.

Nate shrugged. “It’s what he said to call him, and I’m not about to argue.”

Slipping away to some out of the way eatery when time allowed – just the two of them – had once been an established tradition, but this was the first time they’d done so since Nate’s return. It resonated with a whole stack of good memories and made this outing almost like old times, but that was a pretty weighty ‘almost’. Pelquin
wanted
to trust Nate, wanted to relax and simply enjoy himself, but Julia’s intangible presence still came between them.

“You found the place all right then?” So Nate could sense the tension too. He was overcompensating, trying just a little too hard.

Pelquin was happy to play along. “Of course,” and he tapped the diminutive perminal strapped to his wrist.

Nate tutted in feigned disgust. “Typical. It’s a wonder you manage to wipe your own arse without a gadget to explain how to do it.”

“That much I
can
do. Besides, you were the one who wanted me to take a taxi.”

“Pampered mechanist!”

Pelquin found the corners of his mouth curling into the suggestion of a grin. This was a well-gnawed bone of contention between them, mostly an excuse to tease one other. The hypocrisy of a man who spent most of his life flitting through RzSpace at the mercy of hi-tech guidance systems disdaining a SatNav within the environs of a city continued to bemuse Pelquin.

Two pale, chilled beers arrived. The interruption came as a welcome relief. No menus were offered or asked for, and Pelquin guessed that Nate had already ordered for both of them.

“How’s the hunt for Monkey’s replacement going?” Nate asked, and Pelquin told him briefly about Leesa, before asking, “Has everything gone smoothly your end?”

Nate nodded. “No problem at all. Everything we need should be delivered to the ship by late tomorrow.”

“Good, good. And the… ah, more
sensitive
items?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“A shame they couldn’t arrive today.”

“While that interfering son-of-a-banker Drake’s off the ship, you mean?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“All right, leave it with me. I’ll see what I can sort out.”

Pelquin nodded. He was subconsciously using this lunch as a test, he realised; perhaps they both were. If they could make it to the end of the meal without mentioning
Her
name, maybe a few bridges would have been repaired… But there was a long way to go yet.

The first course arrived, Henry bringing over an oval platter which he placed between them on the table. It held a small pile of what proved to be lightly battered seafood; among them a prawn variant which was superb – very succulent and packed with flavour. Nate didn’t hesitate but reached out to take one in his fingers.

“Careful, these are piping hot,” he warned.

Pelquin followed suit, fascinated by the way the pink flesh of the cooked fish was visible through the thin, almost translucent coating of batter. They proved crisp to the bite and had been dusted with a hint of chilli or some equivalent; not too much, just enough to lift the flavour.

While they were finishing off this local take on tempura, Henry reappeared with a plate for each of them, piled high with noodles interlaced with vegetables and dark strips of meat, all of which glistened with a coating of sticky dark sauce. Pelquin breathed in the exotic fragrances appreciatively – aromatic, almost woody, with overtones of sweetness and undeniably mouth-watering.

Following Nate’s example, he picked up the chopsticks and tucked in. The meat was beef, or near enough. Given a choice, Pelquin would have preferred a plain grilled steak with a pile of fried onions on the side, but he had to admit that this noodle dish was a delight.

“Good?” Nate asked, looking up.

“Mmm,” Pelquin confirmed.

Nate drew the edge of his hand across his lips and grinned. He knew full well what Pelquin’s culinary preferences were. “Well, I like it in any case.”

“Have you heard me complaining?”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

This struck Pelquin as the first truly relaxed moment of the meal, which shouldn’t surprise him: if it was common ground they were searching for, their shared love of food was as reliable a starting place as any.

“This is a hell of a lot better than the
last
place you took me to…”

Nate laughed. “God, yes! That enclosed fire pit on Cannelos Three; what was it called…?”

“The Salamander Garden.”

“That’s the one. Now that really
was
awful. Hot as hell; claustrophobic as a giant’s codpiece and almost as sweaty, benches for seats, the surliest waiter in the known universe, and so many flies buzzing about they might as well have been a side dish.”

For a moment, the spectre of Julia receded.

“Had to be tried, though,” Nate said.

“No it didn’t,” Pelquin replied. “Trust me, it really didn’t.”

“But it came so highly recommended!”

The meal continued in similar vein. As the last of the noodles were polished off, Nate said quietly, seriously, “We needed this.”

Pelquin stared for a second and then nodded. It was as close to an admission of what still lay between them as either was likely to make.

After a pause, Nate said, “Do you really think we’re going to pull this off?”

“Yes. Why, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do, but… God, Pel…”

“I know.”

They had been through so much together over the years, him and Nate, but Julia had wiped all that away at a stroke. And now they were involved in a venture beyond anything either of them had ever dreamed of. Would it be enough to expunge her shade once and for all, or was this to be their last hurrah, a parting of the ways?

Pelquin didn’t want to consider that.

Despite the fragility of their current bonhomie, he wanted to discuss something. “The shootout back at New Sparta…”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I think we’re agreed that Jossyren were behind it.”

“I don’t see who else.”

“Nor do I, but what do you reckon they were hoping to achieve?”

“Delay us, I suppose; get us tangled up in red tape and law suits.”

“That’s what I thought at the time, but now I’ve had a chance to think about it I’m not so sure. It had the opposite effect, after all. What if that’s what they were trying to do from the outset – spook us into acting before we were ready?”

“Why would they?”

“Perhaps to keep us off-balance, to make sure we went into this before we were fully prepared…” Pelquin shook his head. “I’m not sure; still trying to figure that bit out. I just don’t trust that attack; it doesn’t feel right.”

“Good luck with that one. I gave up trying to understand those bastards a long time ago.”

Pelquin didn’t comment. Nate was the one who had brought Jossyren into all this, after all. Come to that, Nate had brought
all
of them in.

Pelquin paid for the meal; he had a feeling it was his turn anyway. Along with the bill, Henry also brought them a small brown paper carrier bag, which bore a single bold black glyph emblazoned on both sides.

“I didn’t order…” he started to say, but Nate shushed him and then spoke to Henry in a dialect that Pelquin couldn’t understand a word of. He played along though, smiling and thanking the grinning man, and even picking the bag up as they stood and left the building.

Only once they were out in the street did he ask, “What’s with the takeaway?”

“Thought you might like some noodles for later, when we’re back on the ship.”

“Right. And…?”

“To be honest, while I’ll happily eat the noodles if you don’t want them, I’m more interested in the bag, or at least the squiggle on it.”

Really? Pelquin glanced down at the bold, stylised mark. “I assumed this was just the noodle bar’s name or something.”

“Not quite. It’s the emblem of the Red Tigers; a local street gang – ‘disberos’ they call them here. Henry’s noodle bar is one of their places. Carrying something with that emblem on puts us under the Tigers’ protection and ought to keep us safe until we reach the ship.”