Song of the Navigator (17 page)

All his things were exactly where they were three months ago. Nothing had changed, and yet everything felt different. Tover wandered his suite, picking things up, reminiscing about a collectable. None of it mattered much, and so little of it belonged to him. The room might have been inhabited by anyone. None of the traits of a well-loved house were found here, no interesting artifacts, scuff marks on the floor, the smell of old cooking oil. It was, for better or worse, a hotel room.

Something about the place bothered him.

Tover sat on the edge of his bed. He ran his hands along the white cotton sheets. Above him he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd had it installed after the first night he'd brought Cruz home. Until then they had been hooking up in side rooms and closets, or in Cruz's room, or in bathrooms. Cruz loved bathrooms because he loved to screw Tover on the counters, in front of the mirrors, and Tover had discovered he enjoyed it as well, watching himself getting fucked, the sight combined with the feel of it.

The mirrors on the ceiling had been fun, but without Cruz they had no appeal. And assuming he'd survived the peacekeeper assault, Cruz would never be back. Tover decided the mirrors would have to go. Otherwise he'd be lying in bed, looking at himself, and while that used to be a pleasant thought, he now found little appeal to it.

Tover showered and changed into something more casual. His old clothes didn't fit him quite the same since he'd lost muscle mass. He crossed the rooftop and entered his aviary nervously. He half-expected all of his birds to be dead. They were dependent on his care, after all.

Instead, he found a note scrolling across the door from Jason McGory, Oasis's atmosphere tech, welcoming him home. Apparently Jason had personally taken on the responsibility of caring for Tover's pets until his return. Tover made a mental note to give Jason a substantial financial gift, then walked inside.

The birdcalls reached through his chest and formed a gentle fist around his heart. He was in love with the sound of them, even the obnoxious screeches of his umbrella cockatoo, which were loud enough to drown out all the others in his frantic admonishment of Tover's disappearance.

The air fluttered with the sight of his flock, and Ronda, as always, was the first to greet him. She picked at his hair anxiously.

“Did you miss me?” He whispered, smiling as she cuddled closer. He'd never known a bird more affectionate than Ronda, who stretched into his strokes and cooed a gurgling, content song at each touch.

Tover stroked her as he wandered his aviary. The more affectionate birds swept down to greet him, while the shier ones stayed in the corners and in the branches of his artificial tree. His cockatiel Ellie screeched loudly and nearly blinded him as she tried to land on his face. He laughed.

Then Ellie flew to the top of the aviary and beat herself against the glass pane. She came back down, but the sight struck him as unbearably cruel.

What the hell am I doing?

He cleaned the aviary himself. It was work typically left to hotel employees, but he wanted to do something with his hands, and he preferred it in here to his penthouse. Once he'd cleaned the cage and everyone had the essentials they needed, he returned to his suite, glancing around once more, trying to pinpoint a source to his discomfort.

Then the realization hit him. He marched to the bed and picked up the antique navigational helmet he displayed on the bedside table. Navamp 1200 model. More familiar than he ever thought it would be.

It looked like a sleek masterpiece of modern design. Only now could he see how cruel the mouthpiece was shaped, sense the lonely, blinding nature of the darkened visor, feel the cut of those straps into his neck.

The helmet was worth a lot of money in collectors' circles. That said, Tover felt no remorse when he picked it up and tossed it into the trash vent.

Chapter Fifteen

“Are you feeling back to normal?”

Tover quickly grew weary of the question despite the genuine sympathy behind it. Most on Dadelus-Kaku Station extended extra effort to welcome him home, and it was with relief that he felt kindness in a place that he worried would seem foreign after so long away.

But when Peter came to his suite three days after Tover's return, asking for normalcy, it took a great deal of Tover's self-restraint to not tell the man to fuck off.

“I'm okay,” Tover responded, grinding his teeth. “Come in.”

Peter sauntered in and sat down on Tover's couch, as comfortable as an old friend. He'd stopped by frequently over the last three days, delivering special dishes prepared by various restaurants on the station, describing the latest gossip at the port, talking about planned technology upgrades on the cargo control deck. Peter tried very hard to make small talk.

But Peter's energy had an edge to it, and Tover knew it had to do with the tremendous backlog of cargo awaiting delivery in DK's storage docks. Christopher Forlan, Tover's temporary replacement, was also the improvisational navigator for Earthport, and since he had worked both locations during Tover's ordeal, only essential scheduled items were moved from DK.

Which meant a mountain of freight awaited Tover's return, and long hours in the navport chair.

And while Peter had hinted several times that Tover should “swing by” the cargo control deck for a check-in, Tover had managed to dodge any effort to go back to work.

Until now.

“I hate to press you, Tover,” Peter said, “but the doctor has given you a clean bill of health, and I think it would be good for you, mentally, to get back into the swing of things, and re-establish your life the way it was before this disruption.”

Tover nearly laughed.
Disruption
was so far from being the appropriate term, but he didn't say anything, and so Peter continued.

“A couple exploration shuttlecraft need refueling, and are dependent on you to find them and deliver them the goods they need to survive.”

“For God's sake, Peter, don't put that on me right now.” Tover ran a hand over his face. “Give me
one
fucking week to sort shit out, all right? I've been through hell.”

Peter looked remorseful. “Of course. I'm sorry, Tover. I'm under a lot of stress myself, but that's no reason to be thoughtless.” He nodded. “You take the time you need. We'll figure out a way to keep Forlan working double time until you're ready.”

Tover stared at Peter, wondering if he'd even noticed he'd replaced one guilt with another. It didn't matter though—it worked.

Tover could only imagine Forlan's workload, jumping shipments at two ports for weeks on end. It wasn't fair to make another man do Tover's job. Especially when Tover had wronged that man long ago.

“I'll swing by tomorrow,” Tover told Peter. “Don't expect miracles, but I'll see what I can do.”

Peter sprang from the sofa, shaking Tover's hand enthusiastically. “Great! That's great. I'll have an escort team here for you at eight. Thanks so much.”

Tover nodded, but didn't bother to rise from his sofa or see Peter out. He regretted caving in so quickly.

To take his mind off the issue, he reached for his media controller and turned the wall screen onto Star News, calling up Zoya Verishnikov's broadcast for the day. He thought he'd have heard a hint of Cruz's upcoming newscast by now, given that the council would begin sessions in four days.

But the news was as dull as it had always been. No mention of Carida. No mention of Cruz.

Tover missed him, more than he ever had before.

And he missed Ana and Lourdes. He missed having people around, fighting with each other and laughing and banging pots and yelling at him as if he were no one special, just a man. He'd forgotten how high his pedestal was on Dadelus-Kaku. He wished someone would swing by his suite with a cold beer and offer to watch a pirate film with him, but nothing was ever that casual in his relationships on the station.

Days of inquiries had revealed no further information about Lourdes's health. He'd have to abandon the effort until everything settled down and he could discreetly call. On Cruz's wristpad, Tover found the contact number for Ana, and some of the Pulmon Verde Tover had liked, Chucho and Lalo and Feo especially. But Tover knew his own system would be monitored by station security. If he called anyone on Cruz's wristpad, he would be endangering them. He'd have to wait for information until scrutiny around him settled down.

Tover took his mind off issues by working out at the gym. It had always been his way to unwind from the stress and monotony of his job. Even now, deep into repetitions of his strengthening routine, Tover felt almost content.

But a squadron of reporters blocked his return to the Oasis. They demanded details until his bodyguard unit shoved the men and women back and forcefully created a path for Tover to return home.

The following morning, Tover's escorts first took him to the Harmony wing of the medical center. Tover underwent a surprisingly quick and painless procedure as they injected a silicate substance into his neck and used lasers to slice through and reshape the damaged skin. Afterward, looking in the bathroom mirror, Tover could hardly tell where the scar had been.

It should have given him confidence. He knew that's why Peter Owens had scheduled it, the morning of his return to work.

But even with the scar hidden, his hair cut, and his old uniform back on, Tover was a different man. The sharp waistcoat, long coat, dark trousers and high-collared white shirt of his uniform might have made him look like the overly confident Tover of before. But the clothes were heavy and confining, and rather than bolster his nerve, he felt constrained, forced back into a routine he had not yet come to terms with enduring.

Still, he looked all right, and when crowds applauded him on his escorted trek to the port, Tover managed to wave back and smile shyly. In the hallways of the Harmony port offices, he nodded at recognizable faces as others jostled for a glimpse of him.

Tover ran his hand through his hair. He focused on how unremarkable this all was, how accustomed, and hoped the familiarity would still the slithering eels in his stomach.

But courage fled as he stepped onto the sleek black-paneled floor of the cargo control deck.

The room burst into applause. Only the other navigator, Christopher Forlan, didn't cheer. His own wrists were red from the medical cuffs, and he looked exhausted.

Tover made his way to Forlan. He shook his hand. “Thank you for all of your help,” Tover said. “I know you have had to work hard these last few weeks, and I truly appreciate it.”

Christopher Forlan had been a handsome man once, but what looked to be an unhealthy lifestyle after graduation carved lines into his face and gave him a dangerous edge. He wore his black hair in a ponytail, and he had earrings in his ears, reminding Tover of one of Cruz's pirate movies.

Despite Forlan's earlier refusal to speak with Tover, he now gave Tover a small nod.

“You ready to return?” His voice was as rough and hoarse as Tover's, but unlike Tover, Forlan didn't seem to care.

“Not really,” Tover said quietly. He shrugged. “But that doesn't matter.”

Forlan gave him a hard look, then gripped Tover's uninjured shoulder. “Never forget: it's just shit.”

Tover wasn't sure if he referred to the cargo or to the job itself, but he'd already walked away. “Good luck,” Forlan called. He left, and the responsibility of all that cargo was Tover's alone.

Cargo Chief Kulshan shook Tover's hand before shouting orders for a new load to be towed into the amplification zone.

Tover made his way up to the dais. The navport chair resembled a throne in all its grandeur; gold-tinted carved feet and plush velvet padding lent it an antiquated air amongst the advanced technology installed as part of the Navamp 3000 system. Tover stared at the navport console. The medical cuffs were clean and padded with synthetic wool. It didn't matter. He had to swallow repeatedly to keep his breakfast from re-emerging.

“Hello, Navigator,” Gull said, appearing at Tover's left side.

“Hey, Gull.” Tover smiled nervously. He touched her arm affectionately. His time with Cherko made him appreciate her gentle touch more than ever before. “You okay?”

Gull looked puzzled. “
I'm
fine. Glad you're back though. That Forlan is even more of a diva than you.”

Tover laughed unconvincingly.

“You want some water?” Gull asked. Tover nodded, and when she returned he reached for the glass and drank deeply, turning so only she would note the tremble in his hands. Gull took the empty glass back from him, frowning.

“Want more?” she asked.

“Why not?” Anything that might help slow the rapid beat of his heart. He glanced back at the chair. “It's ridiculous really.”

“What is?” Gull asked.

“That chair. Why paint it gold?”

Gull followed his glance and shrugged. “Highlighting its importance, I suppose. At least it's comfy.”

“Yeah.” Tover swallowed. Comfy it might look, but the setting was merely a glamorous version of the navport back on
The Baroque
. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he stepped onto the platform.

Gull wandered off to get another glass of water. Don Pryor, the dock communicator, nodded as he turned the earpiece in his head. “They're all ready for us, Chief.”

“Navigator?” Kulshan said. “We're moving the next load to Trinity, when you're ready.”

Tover sat down on the chair.

All good so far. He visualized calm, in his aviary, listening to his birds. He ignored the rapid beat of his heart, the sweat under his collar. He'd done this a million times, he reminded himself. Dozens of times a day, every day, year in and year out.

Gull offered him the second glass of water but Tover shook his head. He worried more water would worsen his upset stomach.

“Helmet first,” Tover told her.

Gull frowned at the change in the routine, but she did as Tover asked. She pulled the helmet down from the ceiling.

The cable connecting the helmet to the amp system was more flexible than the one on the Jarrow ship, and Tover could see muted shapes through the visor. Information flooded the screen about his cargo. He read it all very carefully. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

There was a long pause. He felt sickness rising up his throat and wished they would hurry.

“Navigator?” he heard Gull's voice. “Your wrists please?”

Tover could see the cuffs through his visor. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He started to breathe more raggedly.

“I'd rather jump without them,” Tover said.

“System won't work,” Gull told him. “The amps don't turn on unless they can read your vitals. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Still, Tover didn't volunteer to put his hands on the console.

Kulshan coughed, and Tover heard Don Pryor repeat that the Trinity base waited for the shipment.

“Maybe we should do this first,” Gull suggested, reaching for the mouthpiece. She placed the edge against Tover's mouth.

Tover bolted out of the chair, ripping the helmet off his head.

“No. Sorry. I'm not ready to do this.”

The helmet clanked against the ceiling as the cable gave. The noise reverberated through the completely silent room. Everyone stared at him in shock.

Tover backed off the dais. He was sweating profusely and only seconds from vomiting. He didn't say anything. He rushed from the control deck and pushed past two interns and into the men's room. He gagged and fought back sickness.

It took minutes to get control over himself, and when he did, he felt even worse.

Welcome home
, he thought bitterly.

Rather than waiting around for Cruz's news story, he now knew he should be spending his time looking for another job.