Van Ryke did not throw past mistakes into anyone’s face. Dane appreciated this, and reluctantly gave himself some credit for not making the same mistakes twice.
As he looked around the silent ship, he felt the impact of Wilcox’s earlier words. It seemed he was about to be promoted—and this ship
would be his first assignment as full cargo master. He felt an intense amalgam of emotions, with pride and apprehension foremost.
He’d learned a lot since that first day he stepped aboard the Queen at Terraport, but he still had so much more to learn!
A shrill chime sounded, an alien sound very different from the gee-warning Klaxon of the Queen. Automatically Dane triggered his magboots and grabbed the wall grips near the lock, as did Van Ryke. Moments later the subdued whistle of the engines faded and Dane could hear the structure of the ship creak around them as acceleration ceased.
"Coming, my boy?" Van Ryke stepped into the lock.
"I’ll wait for the next boost pause, so I can look around a little more," Dane said. "Might find something else we’ve overlooked so far."
"Good idea," Van Ryke said, and closed the hatch. Dane watched the lights flicker, indicating the drop in air pressure, then he turned away, demagnetized his boots, and pushed off down the corridor, not thinking, just—observing.
Already he liked the spaciousness of the ship. He didn’t feel the ceiling crowding the top of his head. The hatchways were higher as well.
He tabbed open one of the cabin doors and pulled himself through, looking around. Rip had already reported all personal effects having been stripped away, but right now Dane was just interested in the layout.
The cabin had the same basic components that just about any ship had: storage, bed, console. A narrow door on the other side opened onto a fresher. Dane noted that the water nozzles were higher than those on the Queen—as if designed for tall people.
A glimpse of color caught his eye. He looked down and saw something blue lying in a corner. He bent, picked it up. It was just a mug, with no handle, its color a deep cobalt blue that instantly appealed to Dane. Miraculously unbroken despite the changes in acceleration, its weight was impossible to guess in the microgravity of the ship, but its mass was pleasing. It seemed to have some heft, and as he wrapped his gauntleted hand around it, he realized it fit nicely into his palm. No worrying about dropping or cracking something like this, as he’d worried about most
Terran-made dishes since he was about fifteen.
As he looked down at the cup in his hands, he felt a jolt inside, as if acceleration had suddenly resumed. For a moment it wasn’t his hands he saw holding that cup, but an unknown being’s hands, holding something long familiar.
The chime shrilled again, and Dane braced himself. Acceleration returned smoothly. Rip and Wilcox hadn’t taken long to master the alien engines. Perhaps they felt as he did: that the crew of this ship had not been so alien after all.
He found a cupboard and put the cup in it, then retreated to the cabin, scanning it slowly. He saw the high seat, and on a portion of bulkhead near the fold-down console, a well-scuffed spot, as if the unknown inhabitant had habitually rested his or her feet there. Dane lowered himself onto the seat, leaned back and placed one boot on the scuffed rest, looked up—and there was the tri-D screen, placed at the perfect angle for perusal.
Despite the lack of belongings, subtle evidence was all around, indicating that this cabin had been someone’s home, probably for a long time.
He rose suddenly and backed out, a conviction forming in his mind.
As he made his way toward the bridge, his eyes kept noting little signs of accustomed use, hints of personality. This ship had fit her unknown crew of Traders just like the Queen fit Dane’s crewmates, and he wondered what a stranger would think coming aboard the Queen and looking around as he was doing right now. Would its worn spots and narrow, quirky design make it just another old ship—or would the visitor recognize it as someone’s home?
On the bridge Steen Wilcox and Rip Shannon were busy at the consoles, experimenting with tools and hand comps. Both glanced up when he entered, and in their eyes, framed by their helmet visors, he saw question.
"I think we should find out what happened," he said to Rip.
Both of them stopped their work, and faced him.
"Find something?" Rip asked.
Dane gave his head a shake; the cup wasn’t important. What he had to do was fit his ideas into words that made sense. "No good crew would just jump ship. Not a crew that’s been with one ship a long time. The crew on this one had been here long—the evidence is all around. If we’re going to take over their ship, well, I think we owe it to them to find out what happened. If we can."
Wilcox leaned back against the captain’s pod. "That’s not going to be easy—or cheap. Why? They’re gone. There’s nothing we can do about that."
Rip looked from Wilcox to Dane. "Maybe I see. You’re thinking of the Queen, aren’t you?"
Dane nodded, and Rip gave them a grim smile. "I have to say, I’d like to think someone would find out what happened to us, if the Queen was found empty, orbiting some distant planet."
Wilcox shrugged, and turned back to the unfamiliar nav-comp. His interests obviously lay with the intricacies of the mysterious computer, not with the equally mysterious people who had used it. "You clear it with the Old Man, I’ll do what I can to help. But I think this plan of yours is like jumping into hyper with fog for coordinates."
Dane said, "Might be no one will thank us for finding out. If we can find out. Could be it would lead to trouble. But I have to know."
"It seems more honest," Rip said slowly. "I think Thorson’s right."
"What it is, is more trouble," Steen Wilcox said with a wry smile. "If all you uncover is some planet-bound distant family members who decide they want to lay blood claim and collect the price of a ship. But, as I said, it’s your game. If the captain backs you, I’ll do what I can to help."
Dane nodded, relieved. He sensed a kind of approval in the atmosphere—though he knew that was just fanciful thinking. "I’ll ask him as soon as I get back."
Miceal Jellico entered the last of his report into his log, then sat back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. How long had he been awake now?
He’d lost count of the hours long ago.
The ship was quiet; everything was under control. It was time to rack up. But first.
"Eeeeeyaaaagh!"
Jellico looked up at the blue hoobat, who stared back in typical detachment. "Yergh," Queex squawked again, and spat.
"Forgotten you, have I?" Jellico asked, and swung his arm out, hitting the hoobat’s cage, which rocked and swung on its specially made springs. Queex grumbled and squeaked in contentment, its back four legs nestling and the two upper claws gripping the worn post. The hoobat appeared to settle down to sleep.
Jellico looked longingly at his bunk, but the insistent growling in his stomach reminded him that his last meal had been before his last rest. He got to his feet, tabbed his door open—and the smell of real coffee drifted in. Real, fresh, hot coffee, not the syntho coffee substitute called jakek that the crew made do with when times were lean.
He smiled to himself at this unspoken reminder, sent to him by his steward, that he needed to eat. Frank Mura would never nag. He simply set up an irresistible lure like this coffee, and made certain the air currents somehow carried the aroma from the galley to the captain’s cabin.