Emily’s date — blind date really — was a captain named Alan from the space station’s construction unit. He looked around and shook his head. “Haven’t been up here yet. Could use a little paint.”
“It’s a dump, Grant,” the blonde said peevishly. “You said we were going to have fun. This isn’t fun.”
“Give it a rest, Krissy,” Grant replied irritably. “Let’s see what it is first.”
Cookie whispered to Emily: “Which do you think is larger, her tits or her IQ?”
“Almost there,” Hiram soothed. Grant shook his head and shot Emily a baleful glare. When Hiram had planned this night out, he had insisted that they invite Grant. After her recent meeting with Captain Grey, Emily had been intrigued by the chance to see Grant again, but also perplexed. “He treated you like dirt!” she complained to him. Hiram, who she still viewed as a bright but very naive young man, had astounded her by saying: “Em, I’m an Intelligence Officer. Grant is the son of the Admiral of the Second Fleet. Who knows what he might let slip?” Doubtful, Emily had invited Grant. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Now his girlfriend was whining and he didn’t look too pleased. Emily felt a mixture of guilt and amusement.
At the end of the corridor they came to a set of metal stairs. At the top was an unmarked wooden door. “And here we are!” Hiram cried. He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. It opened and a large man in a stained jumpsuit looked at them. “Yeah?”
“We’re meeting Captain Murphy,” Hiram told him. The man looked at them, his eyebrow raising a notch when he took in Krissy’s attire. “Okay, he said doubtfully, and let them in.
Inside, it was noisy and dark. The room was large, with a scattering of wooden tables and overstuffed easy chairs pulled around coffee tables. There was long bar along one wall, and music coming over the loudspeakers, some sort of ballad about a man and an innkeeper’s daughter, but that was mostly drowned out by a man standing on a table in the corner blowing air through a long stem into a bag and making a sound like a cat being tortured. The room was filled with men and women, many wearing kilts, laughing and drinking.
“I don’t like this, Grant,” Krissy complained. “Let’s go to the promenade and find a nice club.” Grant ignored her, staring at the far wall. “Gods of Our Mothers!” he breathed, “Will you look at that!”
They all turned and looked, and even Krissy fell silent. The entire wall was made of clear plastiglass. It was the largest window Emily had seen on the space station, and the view was breathtaking. The bar was perched on the twentieth level of the space station and they looked out across the curvature of Atlas itself to the planet Cornwall far below. The planet’s landscape almost filled the window.
“Oh my God,” said Emily. “That’s beautiful!”
Hiram laughed delightedly. “I told you it would be worth the walk.”
Cookie shook her head in wonderment. “Okay, lover, what is this place?”
“It’s a home away from home,” said a voice from behind them. They turned and saw a stout, fleshy man with pale skin and hair the color of cooked beets. “It is the place we come to after a day of noble deeds and rare adventures, the only place in the entire station where we know we’ll find men and” — he bowed to Emily and Cookie — “fair lassies of fine breeding and culture to share a drink and talk of the finer things.”
It finally dawned on her. Emily burst out laughing. “This is the tugger’s bar!”
The stout man beamed. “And isn’t that what I just said?” He held out a hand. “I am Peter Murphy, captain of the Son of Dublin, the finest tug boat in all of Victoria. Pleased to meet you.” He led them to a semi-circle of easy chairs by the window, men and women nodding respectfully to him as they passed. Drinks came and were handed out. Emily found herself with a large glass of brown liquid that smelled of yeast, malt and molasses. She sipped it cautiously. It was thick and syrupy.
Alan, her date for the night, nodded at Captain Murphy. “I’ve heard of this place. You’re with the Tug Masters Guild, right? You guys own four or five floors in this section of the space station.”
Murphy nodded, pleased. “Well, we don’t own it of course; we lease it from the Atlas Corporation like everyone else on the station. We’ve got this room here, offices on the floor below, than a large hanger and repair facility on the next three decks. These tugs are tough, but they take a lot of abuse, and the tractor coils have to be replaced fairly often.”
Alan had somehow sat down next to Krissy. She said something to him in a low voice that Emily couldn’t catch and he laughed and nodded.
Cookie punched Hiram’s arm. “How did you find this place? It’s the best kept secret in the station.”
“You know me, I like to poke around.”
Murphy gestured at Hiram with a glass of ale. “Your young man accosted me in the hanger deck one day, saying he had a few questions. Wanted to know all about the tug boats and such. So I brought him up here to chat.”
“Classic Hiram,” Emily said, remembering Hiram making lists in training camp. “There is no skill set not worth recording.”
“My very own geek,” Cookie said. She put her head on his shoulder, her mouth twitching in laughter. “And you brought us here to share.”
“Tug boats,” said Krissy, rolling her eyes. “How fascinating.”
“Yes, they are,” replied Murphy, ignoring her sarcasm. “Without the tugs, the entire Victorian economy would shut down.” He took a long swallow of ale that left a line of froth on his upper lip. “How many freighters do you think come to Atlas and Prometheus every day, including the orbiting custom warehouses?”
Cookie shook her head and shrugged. “Never thought about it. Two hundred? Three hundred?”
Emily pondered. Victoria was the central crossroads for trade. Seven worm holes entered into Victorian space, and ships from nine inhabited sectors used them. Ziridium from Arcadia, medicines and chemicals from Tilleke, ores from the Dominion, electronics from the Sultenic Empire, food stuffs from Sybil Head, and on and on. All those ships…
“A thousand a day?” she guessed.
Murphy smiled broadly. “Two thousand a day, every day. And each one has to be docked somewhere, and usually that means they need a tug. Some of the big ones take two or three tugs. We’ve got more than five hundred tugs in the Guild and we could use more, believe me.”
“What about the military ships?” Emily asked. “They must use their own tugs when they dock their ships.”
“Oh, aye, they do,” Murphy agreed. “But they don’t have as many as they should, you see. When they get one of the big boys in, one of the battleships or heavy cruisers, they call us to give ‘em a hand. Battleships cost a pretty penny; don’t want one of them to get loose while it’s docking and rattle around the dry dock, now do you?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Emily caught Krissy whispering something to Alan. Alan squeezed her hand.
“Your tractor beam can pull a battleship?” Grant asked.
“Each of those tugs has got the same tractor beam that you find in a Dover class battleship,” he said, obvious pride in his voice. “We put four of them on a battleship and we can guide her in smooth as a-” He paused, glancing sheepishly at the three women. “Very smooth. That’s all a tug is, when you come right to it: a big engine and a huge tractor beam.”
Krissy suddenly stood. “I’m not feeling good. I’ve gotta go.”
Grant looked surprised, then annoyed. “Krissy, for Christ’s sake-” he began, but Alan suddenly stood up. “I’ve got to go myself. I’ll walk her back.” He turned to Emily. “Sorry, I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He took Krissy’s hand and led her out. For a long moment everyone left behind was silent. Murphy, not knowing the relationships, merely looked puzzled. Hiram and Cookie exchanged a worried glance. Emily watched Alan lead the blonde Krissy out the door, torn between outrage and relief. She turned to Grant.
“I hate to break it to you, but I think we’ve been ditched.” Then she broke into laughter. “What?” Grant demanded crossly.