Luisa Kamajeck, XO-as-was, eyed the reflection the polished chrome doors of the lift showed her. Her uniform was pressed until the creases could have cut the unwary, her boots polished to a mirror gleam. Look as hard as she could, there was no speck of lint or stray hair needing to be brushed away.
Ready.
Ready to face the men and women Pilot'd left to take care of her hangar here in Torrinos when she'd kited off to the Republic, getting on for ten months ago now.
Men and women who'd known her as the XO, their XO.
Past is past, Lulu, Luisa told herself. Can't be picking and choosing when it comes to working or not working. And the cool metal of the doors showed her a woman who was no longer young enough to be on anyone's list down at Labor Hire.
As was blindingly obvious to anyone who had eyes to see.
And Pilot, silly, sweet-natured Pilot, was foolish, but in some ways was no fool.
So Luisa Kamajeck got a charity job back in the State, make-work keep-busy, supervising the engineers who had nothing but routine maintenance to do on the old Duty's Call, the Fortune's Fire, and the Fleet Fortune, keeping an eye on cargo-crews stacking discarded ammunition in piles and moving it to the other side of the hangar and then unstacking it and starting again.
Better than she could have expected, given how things had gone, even if the charity stuck in her throat.
Learnt long ago, Lulu, when something sticks in your throat there's nothing to do but swallow hard and choke it down.
Only way to get on in this life, that was. And there was Jamie to think about. Like to leave that boy with more of a start in life than I got.
If I can do that, I've done all right.
So she'd swallow Pilot's charity and like the taste.
And do a damn better job than she could expect, too.
The lift doors hissed open and Luisa strode out onto the hangar deck, not giving her knees a chance for any Spirits-damned complaining.
"Fore!"
Something small and white whizzed past her face too fast to be identified, shot into the lift and bounced off the back wall to roll to a stop at her feet.
Luisa looked down at the golf ball and then up at the man hurrying towards her holding what she thought, from her limited holo-viewing of the sport, was probably some sort of five-iron or ten-iron or Ancestors-fuck-me-iron for all she cared.
There were others behind him, holding golf sticks as well, a litter of little white balls at their feet, and beyond them Luisa could see what she thought was probably a land-car, or had been, before someone had turned it on its side and taken the wheels off and prised out the engine to spread over the deckplating. That wasn't entirely unexpected. Engineers. Have to keep them busy or they get into all sorts of trouble.
Cars, shuttles, the Chief Medical Officer ...
The man with the golf-stick came to a stop and gave what Luisa judged to be a grade-A half-assed salute. "Ma'am," he said. "Sorry about that. We did put up a sign saying - "
Luisa gave him her best stare, the one she reserved for Chief Engineers caught shtupping the CMO or for the perpetrators of half-assed salutes, and his voice trailed away. "You put up a sign, did you?" she said dryly.
"Ma'am, yes'm - "
"Stand at attention when you talk to me!"
That got every one on the deck standing up straight, Luisa noted with sour satisfaction.
"Get those things out of my sight and - not you! You, Corporal ... " She had to peer to read the tag stitched over his pocket and cursed, once again, the impartial humiliations of age. "Corporal Massek! You will come with me to the hangar office and show me what I am sure will be immaculately maintained records."
Ten minutes later, Luisa reflected that it was a good thing she hadn't been expecting the records to be immaculate. Because I'd sure as shit be disappointed.
The haphazard filing and the significant gaps were no more than she'd expected. The papers she discovered in one of the drawers with the neat letterhead of what claimed to be a private security company, contact frequency the very office she sat in, were more of a surprise.
The porn stash in the filing cabinet she took for granted.
"You've had a lot of latitude here, Corporal Massek," Luisa said flatly. "Hasn't been anyone paying much attention to the Torrinos hangar in quite some time."
Massek, Luisa was pleased to see, was still rigidly at attention, eyes fixed on the wall. "Yes'm!" he said.
She slapped the folder in front of her closed. "That's over now."
"Yes'm!"
"I want the whole crew here assembled on the deck in fifteen minutes, on duty, off duty, I don't care. If they don't fall in they can pack their gear, understood?"
"Yes'm!'
Luisa looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Well?"
"Uh ..." He glanced at her nervously. "Well, uh, what?"
"Well snap to it, Mr Massey!"
Massey left so fast he careened off the door-frame.
Alone in the office, Luisa permitted herself a small, a very small, smile.
Make-work charity job, hey?
We'll see about that.
Three hots and a cot is nothing to turn your nose up at, not at your age, Lulu.
And it's still better than you ever thought you'd have, once upon a time.
Swallow hard. Learn to like the taste.
She levered herself to her feet, cursing her knees, and headed for the door.
After all, it's only charity ...
If I don't earn it.
And Lulu Kamajeck had earned everything that'd come to her in her life.
Good and bad.
Showing posts with label Luisa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Luisa. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Four Bells
Luisa shuffles the cards.
She can't send them shooting from hand to hand in a flashy waterfall like Nerila, can't cut them one-handed or flip them over her fingers. Can't palm an ace the way Nerila did.
Wouldn't if I could.
She shuffles, unfancy, precise, no Spirits-lost Gallente foolishness.
Deals in a circuit, two cards, one, two more.
Five cards face down in front of her.
Five face down at each of the three empty places around the table.
You're a stupid, sentimental old woman, Lulu Kamajeck.
Fisk Hurun wasn't about to pick up the cards at the place to her left, his big hands dwarfing them, handling the squares of pasteboard with the exaggerated care of a man whose augmented strength could rip a door from its hinges in a moment of inattention.
No, he's off somewhere in that fancy battleship he flies these days, or living the highlife with that little Vherry girl he's taken up with.
Nerila Janianial wasn't reaching for the cards to Luisa's right, either, long dark fingers deftly rearranging them and maybe slipping in a high card as she did it. Gone, without a word. I told Pilot not to hire a fucking junkie, but no. 'Everyone deserves a second chance, Luisa.'
Well, shit. Only people asking for second chances are those already proved themselves untrustworthy.
As turned out to be true.
And Michael Mitcheson wasn't sitting across from her, playing footsie with his wife as if none of us noticed and watching the bottle go around the table with just a little bit too much interest.
And one thing you can say for that over-sexed, over-charming Gallente son-of-a-bitch, he's the only one of 'em hasn't left the ship.
No. Downstairs, is where Mitch is. Cold and stiff in one of his wife's morgue drawers, waiting for someone to track down his junkie bride so the decencies could be done.
Luisa sweeps up her own hand and tosses it face up. Two acorns, four leaves, six and seven of hearts, ten bells.
Handful of trash, is what I got.
Handful of trash.
There's still an inch left in the bottle of Invelen's fine Pator vodka. Luisa hooks it out of the cupboard and pours herself a careful quarter of that last inch, caps it and puts it back.
Better than I'll ever afford, that's certain.
And when it's gone, that'll be that.
Gone.
She toasts the empty chairs around the table and tosses the vodka back. The burn makes her eyes water and she blinks hard as she sweeps up the cards and begins to deal them out again, seven stacks in front of her this time, one, one two, one two three.
Five of acorns on the six of bells. Nine hearts on ten leaves. Turn over eight acorns and move it over.
You can fool yourself into thinking poker's your game, Lulu. But in the end ...
In the end, it's always solitaire.
She can't send them shooting from hand to hand in a flashy waterfall like Nerila, can't cut them one-handed or flip them over her fingers. Can't palm an ace the way Nerila did.
Wouldn't if I could.
She shuffles, unfancy, precise, no Spirits-lost Gallente foolishness.
Deals in a circuit, two cards, one, two more.
Five cards face down in front of her.
Five face down at each of the three empty places around the table.
You're a stupid, sentimental old woman, Lulu Kamajeck.
Fisk Hurun wasn't about to pick up the cards at the place to her left, his big hands dwarfing them, handling the squares of pasteboard with the exaggerated care of a man whose augmented strength could rip a door from its hinges in a moment of inattention.
No, he's off somewhere in that fancy battleship he flies these days, or living the highlife with that little Vherry girl he's taken up with.
Nerila Janianial wasn't reaching for the cards to Luisa's right, either, long dark fingers deftly rearranging them and maybe slipping in a high card as she did it. Gone, without a word. I told Pilot not to hire a fucking junkie, but no. 'Everyone deserves a second chance, Luisa.'
Well, shit. Only people asking for second chances are those already proved themselves untrustworthy.
As turned out to be true.
And Michael Mitcheson wasn't sitting across from her, playing footsie with his wife as if none of us noticed and watching the bottle go around the table with just a little bit too much interest.
And one thing you can say for that over-sexed, over-charming Gallente son-of-a-bitch, he's the only one of 'em hasn't left the ship.
No. Downstairs, is where Mitch is. Cold and stiff in one of his wife's morgue drawers, waiting for someone to track down his junkie bride so the decencies could be done.
Luisa sweeps up her own hand and tosses it face up. Two acorns, four leaves, six and seven of hearts, ten bells.
Handful of trash, is what I got.
Handful of trash.
There's still an inch left in the bottle of Invelen's fine Pator vodka. Luisa hooks it out of the cupboard and pours herself a careful quarter of that last inch, caps it and puts it back.
Better than I'll ever afford, that's certain.
And when it's gone, that'll be that.
Gone.
She toasts the empty chairs around the table and tosses the vodka back. The burn makes her eyes water and she blinks hard as she sweeps up the cards and begins to deal them out again, seven stacks in front of her this time, one, one two, one two three.
Five of acorns on the six of bells. Nine hearts on ten leaves. Turn over eight acorns and move it over.
You can fool yourself into thinking poker's your game, Lulu. But in the end ...
In the end, it's always solitaire.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Ghosts
The Void. The Black. The Deep Beyond.
Every culture has its own term for the infinite darkness out between the stars.
The Big Empty. The Widow-maker. The Endless.
Space isn't all dark, of course, and it isn't all empty. There are stars boiling with furious light, comets streaking their way through long orbits around their suns, planets spinning lazy ellipses with their own followers of moons and ice.
The Vast. The Big Null. The Ship-Eater.
There are the defiant lights of the people of the Cluster, too: stations with their docking beacons and every window shining; the Gates flashing a blaze of color every time a ship jumps through; ships of every shape and size, from shuttle to titans, plying their busy way between the stars.
But space is big, and the lights are small, even the incandescent furnaces of the stars.
In between them is the dark.
And the dark, as any child can tell you, is where the ghosts live.
The Cold Hereafter. The Infinite Sea.The Forever Night.
There are a lot of ghosts in the dark between the stars.
Some pilots say they hear them, half-asleep in the pod, in the blink between here and there of the jumpgate. Voices. Whose voices, well, that's a different question. The dead. The damned. The unborn.
Some engineers say they can hear them in the hum of the engine and the whine of the capacitor: the ghost of the ship, the spirit of the steel around them. Singing. No, I don't know the tune.
There are stories of ships that have particular ghosts: a rifter that always set its own autopilot to the homeworld of the previous captain, who'd died on board but not in pod; a myrmidon with a guardian spirit that appeared as a woman made of flame to lead crew trapped by an explosion safely through corridors choked with smoke.
Some less harmless, like the freighter whose crew, stranded in slow orbit by engine failure, drew lots to see who would survive on the limited life support and the flesh of their colleagues, and which, repainted, renamed and relaunched, was halfway through its next voyage when the ship's cook woke from a strange dream to find herself preparing a fricassee of the first mate.
Ships that cry and ships that bleed, ships that send their crew mad and ships that set course for the sun of their own accord and will not answer to the helm. There are stories about all of those, told in the crew bars along the dockside, late in the evening.
Spend a few weeks on a ship, any ship, and its easy to see where the stories come from. Dopplered static on the comms, signals caught and echoed and distorted by any one of a thousand kinds of interference, voices from the past, half-heard, a quarter-understood. Ships found drifting, empty, ownerless: sometimes with a gaping rent in the hull to show what happened; sometimes with the escape pods missing and all the signs of an orderly evacuation; sometimes with the crew still at their posts, white and stiff and rimed with frost.
Sometimes, most unnerving, ships in perfect working order, with no sign of any emergency - a pot set on a cold stove, spoon still propped across it, as if the cook had stepped away from a moment and would be right back; a coffee cup on the captain's desk and just one bed in the crew quarters unmade. Coming across one of those ships gives the disturbing feeling that the crew have simply, and only seconds ago, vanished.
Or that they're still there, unseen, unheard. Waiting.
Ghosts.
Signals skipping across the interface, ending up in places they were never meant to go. Drifting hulls. Ships slipping on and off the registry lists, undocking here and sliding out into the dark to disappear until the crew disembarks there off a different ship with a different name. The Bright Spark; the Sapphire Star; the Magpie.
Ghosts.
Every faction and corporation has its ships that can run silent and lie hidden off the grid, for all intents and purposes just another piece of space-junk until the systems fire up and the guns go live. Not every war is declared.
The Kogaru Io; the Felton May; the Toshkaiska.
Ghost ships fighting ghost wars.
The official response to any question is laughter. Ghosts? You know how superstitious spacers can be! No, we certainly don't employ any 'ghosts'. There's no such thing!
Everyone knows there's no such thing as ghosts.
Except out in the Void, the Vast, the Deep Beyond, at the back of the Big Empty, wrapped up in the Endless, and the mercy of the Infinite Sea.
There's no such thing as ghosts, except where the ghosts live.
In the dark behind the stars.
The Big Empty. The Widow-maker. The Endless.
Space isn't all dark, of course, and it isn't all empty. There are stars boiling with furious light, comets streaking their way through long orbits around their suns, planets spinning lazy ellipses with their own followers of moons and ice.
The Vast. The Big Null. The Ship-Eater.
There are the defiant lights of the people of the Cluster, too: stations with their docking beacons and every window shining; the Gates flashing a blaze of color every time a ship jumps through; ships of every shape and size, from shuttle to titans, plying their busy way between the stars.
But space is big, and the lights are small, even the incandescent furnaces of the stars.
In between them is the dark.
And the dark, as any child can tell you, is where the ghosts live.
The Cold Hereafter. The Infinite Sea.The Forever Night.
There are a lot of ghosts in the dark between the stars.
Some pilots say they hear them, half-asleep in the pod, in the blink between here and there of the jumpgate. Voices. Whose voices, well, that's a different question. The dead. The damned. The unborn.
Some engineers say they can hear them in the hum of the engine and the whine of the capacitor: the ghost of the ship, the spirit of the steel around them. Singing. No, I don't know the tune.
There are stories of ships that have particular ghosts: a rifter that always set its own autopilot to the homeworld of the previous captain, who'd died on board but not in pod; a myrmidon with a guardian spirit that appeared as a woman made of flame to lead crew trapped by an explosion safely through corridors choked with smoke.
Some less harmless, like the freighter whose crew, stranded in slow orbit by engine failure, drew lots to see who would survive on the limited life support and the flesh of their colleagues, and which, repainted, renamed and relaunched, was halfway through its next voyage when the ship's cook woke from a strange dream to find herself preparing a fricassee of the first mate.
Ships that cry and ships that bleed, ships that send their crew mad and ships that set course for the sun of their own accord and will not answer to the helm. There are stories about all of those, told in the crew bars along the dockside, late in the evening.
Spend a few weeks on a ship, any ship, and its easy to see where the stories come from. Dopplered static on the comms, signals caught and echoed and distorted by any one of a thousand kinds of interference, voices from the past, half-heard, a quarter-understood. Ships found drifting, empty, ownerless: sometimes with a gaping rent in the hull to show what happened; sometimes with the escape pods missing and all the signs of an orderly evacuation; sometimes with the crew still at their posts, white and stiff and rimed with frost.
Sometimes, most unnerving, ships in perfect working order, with no sign of any emergency - a pot set on a cold stove, spoon still propped across it, as if the cook had stepped away from a moment and would be right back; a coffee cup on the captain's desk and just one bed in the crew quarters unmade. Coming across one of those ships gives the disturbing feeling that the crew have simply, and only seconds ago, vanished.
Or that they're still there, unseen, unheard. Waiting.
Ghosts.
Signals skipping across the interface, ending up in places they were never meant to go. Drifting hulls. Ships slipping on and off the registry lists, undocking here and sliding out into the dark to disappear until the crew disembarks there off a different ship with a different name. The Bright Spark; the Sapphire Star; the Magpie.
Ghosts.
Every faction and corporation has its ships that can run silent and lie hidden off the grid, for all intents and purposes just another piece of space-junk until the systems fire up and the guns go live. Not every war is declared.
The Kogaru Io; the Felton May; the Toshkaiska.
Ghost ships fighting ghost wars.
The official response to any question is laughter. Ghosts? You know how superstitious spacers can be! No, we certainly don't employ any 'ghosts'. There's no such thing!
Everyone knows there's no such thing as ghosts.
Except out in the Void, the Vast, the Deep Beyond, at the back of the Big Empty, wrapped up in the Endless, and the mercy of the Infinite Sea.
There's no such thing as ghosts, except where the ghosts live.
In the dark behind the stars.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune’s Fist: Thirteen
"Well, you be captured by the Angels, then, and I'll rescue you!"
Camille Roth's voice sure does have a carrying power, Luisa thought to herself as she closed the door to the secure container holding Pilot's hab-unit behind her. Just as well, if she ends up being a marine like she's got her heart set on.
Ain't no-one going to mishear an order she gives, for sure.
"In the holos, it's usually the girl who gets rescued." The second voice belonged to Jamie, and it still gave Luisa a start, a little lift of the heart, even all these weeks after Pilot had come to her and suggested, in that soft, diffident way Pilot had about her, that maybe Gwen and Jamie might stay a little while here at Lustrevik, given how far away they all were from State space these days, given how important family was.
Luisa had told Pilot stiffly that it wasn't necessary, thank you very much, she was well used to not seeing them above once or twice a year, thinking And I'm not going to be any rich podder's charity case, even one as stupidly sweet-natured as you.
Pilot had nodded, and said Mmhmm, and talked for a little while about how much she worried that Camille wasn't seeing other children except at school because of all the security issues, and how nice it would be if there were other children living inside the perimeter, and how she wished awfully that some of the crew had families here on station, and somehow Luisa had found herself turned around and offering to ask Gwen if she and Jamie could stay a little while, and Pilot nodded and smiled and said how kind it would be of Luisa to do that, and how much she'd appreciate the favor, and it wasn't until she was out the door that Luisa had realized just how thoroughly she'd been conned.
Vague and wishy-washy as Pilot was, Luisa reflected as she made her way up the path towards the pretend-Gallente house in its pretend-countryside setting, there were times when talking to her was like what Luisa had once overheard a couple of pilots say about trying to catch and kill a Helios. Fragile as a cobweb one had said. Get one good hit in and you just know it'll go to pieces. But every time you think you're closing in, the damn thing disappears and pops up on the other side of you.
"Only in the stupid holos," Camille said firmly from the other side of the garden. "In the good holos the girl rescues herself!And everyone else!"
"Can't I rescue myself too?" Jamie asked.
As Camille said reluctantly "O- kaaaaay", Luisa spotted Pilot sitting under one of the pretend-trees in pretend-shade from the pretend-sun, a stack of hard-copy next to her, studying one of the pages with her bare feet stretched out in front of her. Luisa noted with a mental snort that Pilot had found time to paint her toenails all the colors of the rainbow. Typical Gallente foolishness.
Pilot caught her gaze and wiggled her toes with a smile. "Camille felt creative," she said. "Better my toes than the walls of the house, eh?"
Luisa had to admit, if only to herself, that yes, it probably was. "I've got my recommendations on those roster changes for you, Pilot," she said.
"Oh, good, thank you." Pilot rose to her feet with, Luisa noted, the ease and grace of someone too young to know arthritis as more than a word. "Come inside, let me get you a cold drink and we'll talk about it."
"I'm fine, Pilot," Luisa said.
"Well, I'm thirsty," Pilot said. About to turn toward the house, she paused, and looked across the pretend-garden, shading her eyes against the pretend-sun. "I do hope Camille isn't pushing Jamie around too much. She can be very, uh, decisive."
Camille Roth's voice sure does have a carrying power, Luisa thought to herself as she closed the door to the secure container holding Pilot's hab-unit behind her. Just as well, if she ends up being a marine like she's got her heart set on.
Ain't no-one going to mishear an order she gives, for sure.
"In the holos, it's usually the girl who gets rescued." The second voice belonged to Jamie, and it still gave Luisa a start, a little lift of the heart, even all these weeks after Pilot had come to her and suggested, in that soft, diffident way Pilot had about her, that maybe Gwen and Jamie might stay a little while here at Lustrevik, given how far away they all were from State space these days, given how important family was.
Luisa had told Pilot stiffly that it wasn't necessary, thank you very much, she was well used to not seeing them above once or twice a year, thinking And I'm not going to be any rich podder's charity case, even one as stupidly sweet-natured as you.
Pilot had nodded, and said Mmhmm, and talked for a little while about how much she worried that Camille wasn't seeing other children except at school because of all the security issues, and how nice it would be if there were other children living inside the perimeter, and how she wished awfully that some of the crew had families here on station, and somehow Luisa had found herself turned around and offering to ask Gwen if she and Jamie could stay a little while, and Pilot nodded and smiled and said how kind it would be of Luisa to do that, and how much she'd appreciate the favor, and it wasn't until she was out the door that Luisa had realized just how thoroughly she'd been conned.
Vague and wishy-washy as Pilot was, Luisa reflected as she made her way up the path towards the pretend-Gallente house in its pretend-countryside setting, there were times when talking to her was like what Luisa had once overheard a couple of pilots say about trying to catch and kill a Helios. Fragile as a cobweb one had said. Get one good hit in and you just know it'll go to pieces. But every time you think you're closing in, the damn thing disappears and pops up on the other side of you.
"Only in the stupid holos," Camille said firmly from the other side of the garden. "In the good holos the girl rescues herself!And everyone else!"
"Can't I rescue myself too?" Jamie asked.
As Camille said reluctantly "O- kaaaaay", Luisa spotted Pilot sitting under one of the pretend-trees in pretend-shade from the pretend-sun, a stack of hard-copy next to her, studying one of the pages with her bare feet stretched out in front of her. Luisa noted with a mental snort that Pilot had found time to paint her toenails all the colors of the rainbow. Typical Gallente foolishness.
Pilot caught her gaze and wiggled her toes with a smile. "Camille felt creative," she said. "Better my toes than the walls of the house, eh?"
Luisa had to admit, if only to herself, that yes, it probably was. "I've got my recommendations on those roster changes for you, Pilot," she said.
"Oh, good, thank you." Pilot rose to her feet with, Luisa noted, the ease and grace of someone too young to know arthritis as more than a word. "Come inside, let me get you a cold drink and we'll talk about it."
"I'm fine, Pilot," Luisa said.
"Well, I'm thirsty," Pilot said. About to turn toward the house, she paused, and looked across the pretend-garden, shading her eyes against the pretend-sun. "I do hope Camille isn't pushing Jamie around too much. She can be very, uh, decisive."
"If she is, it'll toughen him up, is all," Luisa said.
"But he's so sweet! Why would you want him toughened up?"
Luisa blinked. Pilot's eyes were wide and blue and genuinely puzzled. "Let him know what life's going to be," she said shortly. "While he's still young enough to learn from the lesson."
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa could tell this particular oh was what she herself classified as number seven. Oh, I don't understand what you mean but it would be rude to say so. It was close, but not identical, to number thirteen, Oh, I think you're completely wrong, but it would be rude to say so. "Well, come and have some lemonade, and tell me about the rosters."
Luisa followed Pilot into the house, the thick stone walls shutting out the pretend-summer outside. She waited, hands clasped behind her back and shoulders square, as Pilot opened the refrigerator and took out a tall jug of something, poured two glasses and carried them to the battered table.
"Please, come and sit down, have some lemonade," Pilot said, taking a chair herself, legs curled up under her like a kid. Luisa's own rules about dealing with a Captain who made requests rather than issuing orders meant she had to treat that invitation like a direct instruction, and so she took a chair opposite Pilot and picked up the glass. The lemonade was tart and sweet at the same time, and Luisa could recognize the tang of real fruit and the smoothness of sugar from a ... Wonder where real sugar does come from, now I think about it?
Where-ever it came from, a tree or a flower or some animal, it was a luxury, although not to podders, I guess.
Luisa gave herself a few seconds to savor it as Pilot tasted her own drink and smiled with satisfaction.
Those three seconds of self-indulgence past, Luisa swallowed and spoke. "Master Gunnery Sergeant Jadat thinks you should promote Private Alpassi."
"Helmi? Why? And to what?"
"His report says she's got real natural talent at close personal protection. And she's hard-working, and dedicated. Plus she's about the right age, and the right gender, to work close-in, in civvies. She'd look like a friend, to anyone else, you see?"
"A friend?"
"You go shopping, she goes with you, two girls off on an outing. Anyone looking to try anything, they'll clock your detail, have a plan for them. Alpassi would be the nasty surprise they didn't plan on."
"Is that dangerous?" Pilot asked.
Luisa paused. "Alpassi isn't the one I'd pick, all in all," she said carefully. "Taking everything into consideration. But Jadat doesn't know, and Alpassi doesn't know, what you and I do."
Pilot looked puzzled for a moment, and then shook her head. "Oh. No, I mean, is that dangerous for her. Is it a dangerous job, being ... that person?"
"Yes," Luisa said baldly. "I expect she'd be wearing some kind of light armor, nothing visible, you can talk to Jadat yourself about the details, but there would have to be limits, I'd expect, if she's passing herself off as an ordinary civilian."
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa recognized it as 'Oh' number nine, Oh, you've just told me something I'd have preferred not to know. "And what does Helmi think about it?"
"It's not her job to have opinions about the best way she can serve her Captain, her ship and her crew," Luisa said.
"Oh," Pilot said, number thirteen. "Well, I'd like to know, all the same. I'd rather have someone volunteer, especially if it's dangerous. And we should promote her?"
"But he's so sweet! Why would you want him toughened up?"
Luisa blinked. Pilot's eyes were wide and blue and genuinely puzzled. "Let him know what life's going to be," she said shortly. "While he's still young enough to learn from the lesson."
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa could tell this particular oh was what she herself classified as number seven. Oh, I don't understand what you mean but it would be rude to say so. It was close, but not identical, to number thirteen, Oh, I think you're completely wrong, but it would be rude to say so. "Well, come and have some lemonade, and tell me about the rosters."
Luisa followed Pilot into the house, the thick stone walls shutting out the pretend-summer outside. She waited, hands clasped behind her back and shoulders square, as Pilot opened the refrigerator and took out a tall jug of something, poured two glasses and carried them to the battered table.
"Please, come and sit down, have some lemonade," Pilot said, taking a chair herself, legs curled up under her like a kid. Luisa's own rules about dealing with a Captain who made requests rather than issuing orders meant she had to treat that invitation like a direct instruction, and so she took a chair opposite Pilot and picked up the glass. The lemonade was tart and sweet at the same time, and Luisa could recognize the tang of real fruit and the smoothness of sugar from a ... Wonder where real sugar does come from, now I think about it?
Where-ever it came from, a tree or a flower or some animal, it was a luxury, although not to podders, I guess.
Luisa gave herself a few seconds to savor it as Pilot tasted her own drink and smiled with satisfaction.
Those three seconds of self-indulgence past, Luisa swallowed and spoke. "Master Gunnery Sergeant Jadat thinks you should promote Private Alpassi."
"Helmi? Why? And to what?"
"His report says she's got real natural talent at close personal protection. And she's hard-working, and dedicated. Plus she's about the right age, and the right gender, to work close-in, in civvies. She'd look like a friend, to anyone else, you see?"
"A friend?"
"You go shopping, she goes with you, two girls off on an outing. Anyone looking to try anything, they'll clock your detail, have a plan for them. Alpassi would be the nasty surprise they didn't plan on."
"Is that dangerous?" Pilot asked.
Luisa paused. "Alpassi isn't the one I'd pick, all in all," she said carefully. "Taking everything into consideration. But Jadat doesn't know, and Alpassi doesn't know, what you and I do."
Pilot looked puzzled for a moment, and then shook her head. "Oh. No, I mean, is that dangerous for her. Is it a dangerous job, being ... that person?"
"Yes," Luisa said baldly. "I expect she'd be wearing some kind of light armor, nothing visible, you can talk to Jadat yourself about the details, but there would have to be limits, I'd expect, if she's passing herself off as an ordinary civilian."
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa recognized it as 'Oh' number nine, Oh, you've just told me something I'd have preferred not to know. "And what does Helmi think about it?"
"It's not her job to have opinions about the best way she can serve her Captain, her ship and her crew," Luisa said.
"Oh," Pilot said, number thirteen. "Well, I'd like to know, all the same. I'd rather have someone volunteer, especially if it's dangerous. And we should promote her?"
"You should, yes." Luisa eyed her glass of lemonade, then allowed herself another swallow. "I've given you Jadat's report on restructuring security, separating out your security, and hanger security. Those marines will need different training, a different roster, different reflexes and priorities, to say, boarding parties. Jadat says, and I agree, they're specialists. Either way you go with Alpassi, Jadat says she ought to be on security duty, not general. It'll take a restructure, and that'll mean some promotions anyway."
Pilot nodded. "All right. If you think that's the best way to go about it, and Demen does, then ... " She shrugged.
"It's whether you think it's the best way to go about it, Pilot."
Pilot scratched at the table with her thumbnail. "Well, it's not like I know anything about security," she said. "That's why Ami sent Demen, after all."
"He's a gunny from another ship, you're the captain of this one. Take his advice, if you like, but the decision's down to you, Pilot."
Pilot pulled a face, and for an instant Luisa was reminded so strongly of Gwen, a few years younger than Pilot was now, faced with mathematics homework, that she could almost see the cramped kitchen in their tiny flat on the Ishukone Logistics station in Haajinen, smell the greens simmering on the stove, hear the front door open and close and a dear and familiar voice callI'm home, finally! -
She shut the door on memory, hard and tight. Pilot wasn't a teenage girl struggling with algebra, Pilot was a captain and a podder and wealthy beyond imagining, Pilot held thousands of lives in her hands every time she undocked, Luisa's among them, Pilot took tens of thousands of lives as a matter of course in her chosen profession.
Pilot needs to act like a Spirits damned grown-up, from time to time.
Not pull faces like a spoiled teenager asked to clean her room.
Pilot looked up from the table. The opalescent light cast through the fake windows by the pretend sun blurred and softened her features, and despite herself Luisa was forced to acknowledge She is barely more than a kid, after all.
Not so very much older than the girl running around in the garden outside.
Just a little bit older than I was, when I got my papers cut for the Sapphire Star.
Hard to remember, that girl, Lulu Kamajeck, hard to see past five long years in the dark. Kid when I carried my duffel up the companionway.
No kid when I walked back down, that's for Spirits- damn sure.
Luisa looked at Pilot biting her lip and scratching at the end of the table and wondered what five years in the dark would do to her.
Wondered if they'd both live long enough to see.
Maybe. If she starts paying decent notice to her own security, for the Ancestors' long-suffering sake.
"Pilot," she prompted, gentler than she might have.
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa recognized and welcomed 'Oh' number three, the one than meant Oh, now I have to do something I don't want to, but there's no getting out of it. "Yes. I'll read Demen's report, Luisa, before I make any decisions. And I want to talk to Fisk, too."
"Over comms?"
Pilot shook her head. "Face to face. I know it's harder for him. But I want to see his face when I tell him Helmi might be going to spend her working life standing next to me with a gun."
Luisa nodded. "Thank you, Pilot," she said formally, and got to her feet.
Pilot smiled. "Thank you, Luisa," she said. "Won't you finish your lemonade?"
Politeness gave Luisa the excuse to pick up the glass, then, and take the last few swallows of liquid, sour and sweet and tasting of seasons she'd never seen for herself on worlds she'd never go to.
Pilot nodded. "All right. If you think that's the best way to go about it, and Demen does, then ... " She shrugged.
"It's whether you think it's the best way to go about it, Pilot."
Pilot scratched at the table with her thumbnail. "Well, it's not like I know anything about security," she said. "That's why Ami sent Demen, after all."
"He's a gunny from another ship, you're the captain of this one. Take his advice, if you like, but the decision's down to you, Pilot."
Pilot pulled a face, and for an instant Luisa was reminded so strongly of Gwen, a few years younger than Pilot was now, faced with mathematics homework, that she could almost see the cramped kitchen in their tiny flat on the Ishukone Logistics station in Haajinen, smell the greens simmering on the stove, hear the front door open and close and a dear and familiar voice callI'm home, finally! -
She shut the door on memory, hard and tight. Pilot wasn't a teenage girl struggling with algebra, Pilot was a captain and a podder and wealthy beyond imagining, Pilot held thousands of lives in her hands every time she undocked, Luisa's among them, Pilot took tens of thousands of lives as a matter of course in her chosen profession.
Pilot needs to act like a Spirits damned grown-up, from time to time.
Not pull faces like a spoiled teenager asked to clean her room.
Pilot looked up from the table. The opalescent light cast through the fake windows by the pretend sun blurred and softened her features, and despite herself Luisa was forced to acknowledge She is barely more than a kid, after all.
Not so very much older than the girl running around in the garden outside.
Just a little bit older than I was, when I got my papers cut for the Sapphire Star.
Hard to remember, that girl, Lulu Kamajeck, hard to see past five long years in the dark. Kid when I carried my duffel up the companionway.
No kid when I walked back down, that's for Spirits- damn sure.
Luisa looked at Pilot biting her lip and scratching at the end of the table and wondered what five years in the dark would do to her.
Wondered if they'd both live long enough to see.
Maybe. If she starts paying decent notice to her own security, for the Ancestors' long-suffering sake.
"Pilot," she prompted, gentler than she might have.
"Oh," Pilot said, and Luisa recognized and welcomed 'Oh' number three, the one than meant Oh, now I have to do something I don't want to, but there's no getting out of it. "Yes. I'll read Demen's report, Luisa, before I make any decisions. And I want to talk to Fisk, too."
"Over comms?"
Pilot shook her head. "Face to face. I know it's harder for him. But I want to see his face when I tell him Helmi might be going to spend her working life standing next to me with a gun."
Luisa nodded. "Thank you, Pilot," she said formally, and got to her feet.
Pilot smiled. "Thank you, Luisa," she said. "Won't you finish your lemonade?"
Politeness gave Luisa the excuse to pick up the glass, then, and take the last few swallows of liquid, sour and sweet and tasting of seasons she'd never seen for herself on worlds she'd never go to.
That was all right for kids, she supposed. But one day you have to learn that rules don't change because you want 'em to.
When the pretend sun goes out, in the dark behind the stars.
She set the glass down carefully. "I'll let Hurun know you want to see him."
Pilot nodded absently, gaze on the thin line she'd scored into the tabletop with her thumbnail. Luisa waited a few seconds to see if she'd say anything else.
But it seemed Pilot had nothing more to say, not even an Oh, and so Luisa left her there, in the middle of that carefully-built illusion, expensively constructed to give the impression that nothing had really changed, that Pilot's world was just as it always had been, with drinks made out of fruit that had ripened beneath an open sky, and sunlight that might even feel real if you were careful to not notice the faint shimmer of the joins in the holo-screens against the container walls.
All right for kids, Luisa thought again as she made her way to the doors that would let her out in the hanger, into the familiar world of deckplating and canned air and the smell of machine oil.
But I'm no kid.
And neither is she, know it or not.
And none of this is a game.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Conversations On The Fortune’s Fist: Eleven
Luisa Kamajeck cursed the twenty years of riding out grav-fluxes on unforgiving cargo-hold deckplates as she bent her aching knees to peer into the cupboard in the officer's mess. No fancy new joints for Ishukone's cargo-jockeys, she thought sourly.Not worth the expense. Not a 'hazardous job'. No matter that a snapped safety cable at full thrust can take off an arm as easy as any plasma charge.
It was an old complaint, worn thin and familiar with repetition, one that she'd kept on the inside of her teeth for forty years and would for forty more if the spirits give me that long.
It seemed unlikely. Still, there was a time I gave up on seeing twenty-five. Days on the Sapphire Star towards the end that I didn't think I'd see the next morning, let alone the next birthday. Luisa found the bottle she was looking for, hooked it out along with a glass to go with it, and straightened, barely suppressing a groan. Never can tell, Lulu, what's around the corner. Never can tell.
Spirits know I never saw this job coming.
The mess door opened, the lack of a knock telling Luisa, if not who it was, then at least that it was one of the other three people with business here, this time of night.
"'lo," Michael Mitcheson said, letting the door hiss shut behind him.
Luisa grunted an acknowledgement and poured herself exactly one finger of vodka. Invelen's gift, podder largess, better than I've ever had or will again.
Mitch grinned. "I see you missed me, then."
"Yeah, but one of these days my aim will get better," Luisa told him, recapping the bottle as Mitch pulled a chair out from the table. "Hope you came back ready to work, Chief. Didn't put your back out or anything."
"Well, I had the best medical care," Mitch said, straight-faced.
Luisa snorted. "Is that what you decadent Gallentes call a double-enten-whatsit?"
He let the smile show then. "Possibly."
"Well, cut it out," Luisa told him. "Don't think you'll be getting any extra leeway around here because you're a married man, Michael Mitcheson."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mitch assured her. "Although, thanks for the new quarters."
"Don't thank me," Luisa said. "Pilot's idea."
Mitch rocked back on his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Pilot's idea, your work orders, right?"
"Maybe," Luisa admitted. She glanced at him, sipped the fine Pator vodka. "So you happy with how your little plan worked out?"
" My plan?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Wasn't Nerila's, was it? Doesn't take eyes like Fisk's to see the only way you'd get a ring on her finger is with a gun to her head. Metaphorically speaking." Luisa sipped her vodka again. "What are you going to do? If your wife finds out she's not the only one on this boat who knows how to deal from the bottom of the deck?"
Mitch shrugged. "Tell her the truth." He let the chair settle square on all four legs again and grinned at Luisa. "That it was your idea."
She gave him her best and blankest noncommittal stare, the one that usually saw her walk away with the pot in any game that doesn't have Fisk and Nerila in it. "Can't have senior officers flouting regs, can I?" Luisa heard more of an edge to her voice than she'd meant as the words came out and couldn't think of a way to soften it, waited to see if Mitch'd take offence.
No. He kept grinning. "Oh, so that was why, was it?"
It was an old complaint, worn thin and familiar with repetition, one that she'd kept on the inside of her teeth for forty years and would for forty more if the spirits give me that long.
It seemed unlikely. Still, there was a time I gave up on seeing twenty-five. Days on the Sapphire Star towards the end that I didn't think I'd see the next morning, let alone the next birthday. Luisa found the bottle she was looking for, hooked it out along with a glass to go with it, and straightened, barely suppressing a groan. Never can tell, Lulu, what's around the corner. Never can tell.
Spirits know I never saw this job coming.
The mess door opened, the lack of a knock telling Luisa, if not who it was, then at least that it was one of the other three people with business here, this time of night.
"'lo," Michael Mitcheson said, letting the door hiss shut behind him.
Luisa grunted an acknowledgement and poured herself exactly one finger of vodka. Invelen's gift, podder largess, better than I've ever had or will again.
Mitch grinned. "I see you missed me, then."
"Yeah, but one of these days my aim will get better," Luisa told him, recapping the bottle as Mitch pulled a chair out from the table. "Hope you came back ready to work, Chief. Didn't put your back out or anything."
"Well, I had the best medical care," Mitch said, straight-faced.
Luisa snorted. "Is that what you decadent Gallentes call a double-enten-whatsit?"
He let the smile show then. "Possibly."
"Well, cut it out," Luisa told him. "Don't think you'll be getting any extra leeway around here because you're a married man, Michael Mitcheson."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mitch assured her. "Although, thanks for the new quarters."
"Don't thank me," Luisa said. "Pilot's idea."
Mitch rocked back on his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Pilot's idea, your work orders, right?"
"Maybe," Luisa admitted. She glanced at him, sipped the fine Pator vodka. "So you happy with how your little plan worked out?"
" My plan?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Wasn't Nerila's, was it? Doesn't take eyes like Fisk's to see the only way you'd get a ring on her finger is with a gun to her head. Metaphorically speaking." Luisa sipped her vodka again. "What are you going to do? If your wife finds out she's not the only one on this boat who knows how to deal from the bottom of the deck?"
Mitch shrugged. "Tell her the truth." He let the chair settle square on all four legs again and grinned at Luisa. "That it was your idea."
She gave him her best and blankest noncommittal stare, the one that usually saw her walk away with the pot in any game that doesn't have Fisk and Nerila in it. "Can't have senior officers flouting regs, can I?" Luisa heard more of an edge to her voice than she'd meant as the words came out and couldn't think of a way to soften it, waited to see if Mitch'd take offence.
No. He kept grinning. "Oh, so that was why, was it?"
"Well, and I'm a soppy romantic at heart, of course," Luisa said, dry as vacuum. "Like the rest of us from the State. Let nothing come in the way of true love, all that stuff? Very Caldari, you know."
"Oh, sure." Mitch reached out to open the cold storage without getting out of his chair. "Fortune, we're not short of left-overs, are we?" He tugged out a plate of pastries and set it on the table. "But, you know, I wondered. Why that way. At the party. You could have just reported us, would've worked out the same."
"Yeah, I could've." Luisa selected a pastry and peeled off a flake of crisp sugared dough.
"So why? Why the scene?"
"Knew she wouldn't let it go," Luisa said. "That girl ... she is a romantic. Wasn't going to see the mean old XO sacking two crew for falling in love, was she?"
He studied her. "Pilot calling you on something in front of the whole crew, wouldn't have thought ..."
Luisa looked at him levelly. "It's her boat, Mitch. Not mine."
"Well, I knew that."
Luisa shrugged. "Now she does." She contemplated the pastry and peeled another flake.
"Not going to be here forever, Mitch. There'll be day Pilot's got to say no to her XO and mean it and there'll be more at stake than, excuse me for saying, the over-heated nether regions of couple of Gallente fools." She shrugged again. "Better she practice when it doesn't matter than fail when it does. I've seen that, I know where it goes." Goes real bad. Real fast.
She shivered at the memory, looked up to meet Mitch's gaze and could tell she hadn't entirely managed to hide it. Don't ask,her stare said, best XO tool she had, that stare, flat and cold and promising a short,cold walk to anyone who crossed her. Don't ask. Don't presume I'm going to indulge you further than our interests run in common. Don't push your luck.
Don't think for a second we're friends.
For one long moment she thought Mitch was going to ignore the warning, and then the door opened and he closed his mouth on whatever he had been going to say.
"Hope you brought folding money this time," Nerila said, pulling a deck of cards from her pocket as she slid into a chair.
"You feeling lucky, then, I guess?" Luisa asked.
"One way of putting it," Nerila said. She cut the cards one-handed and began to shuffle as Fisk followed her in. "Gonna share that, Luisa? Or you getting stingy or something in your old age?"
"Or something," Luisa said, sliding the bottle down as Fisk fetched two more glasses and took his seat.
"Yeah," Mitch said, watching Nerila's hands as she fanned the cards and gathered them up again. " Or something is right."
"Oh, sure." Mitch reached out to open the cold storage without getting out of his chair. "Fortune, we're not short of left-overs, are we?" He tugged out a plate of pastries and set it on the table. "But, you know, I wondered. Why that way. At the party. You could have just reported us, would've worked out the same."
"Yeah, I could've." Luisa selected a pastry and peeled off a flake of crisp sugared dough.
"So why? Why the scene?"
"Knew she wouldn't let it go," Luisa said. "That girl ... she is a romantic. Wasn't going to see the mean old XO sacking two crew for falling in love, was she?"
He studied her. "Pilot calling you on something in front of the whole crew, wouldn't have thought ..."
Luisa looked at him levelly. "It's her boat, Mitch. Not mine."
"Well, I knew that."
Luisa shrugged. "Now she does." She contemplated the pastry and peeled another flake.
"Not going to be here forever, Mitch. There'll be day Pilot's got to say no to her XO and mean it and there'll be more at stake than, excuse me for saying, the over-heated nether regions of couple of Gallente fools." She shrugged again. "Better she practice when it doesn't matter than fail when it does. I've seen that, I know where it goes." Goes real bad. Real fast.
She shivered at the memory, looked up to meet Mitch's gaze and could tell she hadn't entirely managed to hide it. Don't ask,her stare said, best XO tool she had, that stare, flat and cold and promising a short,cold walk to anyone who crossed her. Don't ask. Don't presume I'm going to indulge you further than our interests run in common. Don't push your luck.
Don't think for a second we're friends.
For one long moment she thought Mitch was going to ignore the warning, and then the door opened and he closed his mouth on whatever he had been going to say.
"Hope you brought folding money this time," Nerila said, pulling a deck of cards from her pocket as she slid into a chair.
"You feeling lucky, then, I guess?" Luisa asked.
"One way of putting it," Nerila said. She cut the cards one-handed and began to shuffle as Fisk followed her in. "Gonna share that, Luisa? Or you getting stingy or something in your old age?"
"Or something," Luisa said, sliding the bottle down as Fisk fetched two more glasses and took his seat.
"Yeah," Mitch said, watching Nerila's hands as she fanned the cards and gathered them up again. " Or something is right."
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune's Smile: Ten
Nerila shuffled the cards. "Ladies high, deuces wild, bent and skip straights." She grinned. "Everybody got that?"
"Shall we just give you our money now?" Luisa asked dryly, pouring herself a little more vodka.
"If you like," Nerila said, beginning to deal. "Certainly save time."
"N-n-n ..." Fisk said. He flushed as the other three looked at him, waiting, and found a word that didn't lock between mind and mouth. " Earn it."
Mitch picked up his cards. "Think you can make Nerila work for a winning hand?" he said. "You really are brain-damaged, Fisk."
Fisk caught Nerila's quick shift in her chair and Mitch winced.
"M-m-m ... could be," Fisk said, studying his cards. Three, five, seven acorns. "Still t-t-take your m-m-m ... cash."
"Oh, you want a side bet?" Mitch said. "How much?"
"Mitch," Luisa said, a warning note in her voice.
"Pilot pays well, Luisa, but not so well I can afford to pass up the chance to take candy from a baby," Mitch said. "Fisk wasn't so good at cards before he put his hand up for the experimental brain-dice-'n'-slice." He studied Fisk. "Two bits a point?"
Fisk nodded.
"Your funeral," Nerila said, flipped a card over in front of Luisa and then fumbled the next. "I mean - "
Fisk took a breath, and made himself smile. " Had that," he said. "D-d-didn't we?"
There was a pause, and then Nerila spluttered with laughter. " Hells, Fisk," she said, dealing him the nine of acorns, and turning the jack of bells over in front of Mitch. She flipped up the ace of leaves in front of herself and tapped the cards together in her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen and Michael Mitcheson, place your bets."
"Fold," Luisa said.
Fisk pushed a marker into the centre of the table, followed it with another.
"The CTO raises," Nerila said.
"See that," Mitch said, matching the action to the words.
"And me," Nerila said. She turned the ace of acorns over in front of Fisk, the Jack of acorns in front of Mitch, and dealt herself the queen of leaves. "Possible flush for the CTO, pair or more in the engineer's greasy hands and the doc might just have a royal-high flush."
Fisk pushed another two markers into the centre of the table.
"Idiot," Mitch said, matching him.
"Man's got a right to lose money," Nerila said, adding her own bet.
"On a low-high flush?" Mitch said as Fisk bet again. "Man, don't know know enough to quit while you're behind?"
"N-n-n.." Fisk said, watching Mitch and Nerila add their bets. "N-n-n ... st-st- strongest suit."
Luisa sipped her vodka. "Obviously."
Mitch matched Fisk's raise. "Anything further from Ami?"
"I'd have said," Luisa said.
"You don't always." Nerila tossed her own chips into the pile.
"Some things are operational," Luisa said, watching as Fisk raised again. " Someone's got to pay attention to procedures on this boat."
Mitch kept his gaze on his markers as he matched Fisk's raise. "You got nothing in that hand, soldier boy, to beat a pair of jacks."
Fisk shrugged. "G-g-g ... s'pose m-m-m ... luck's r-r-un out."
Mitch snorted. "Only now you realise that?"
"Slow. Learner."
Nerila studied her hole cards and then bet again. "Let's see your cards, Fisk."
Stronger than he used to be, Fisk's fingers closed a little too hard on the cards and he opened his hand reflexively before the pasteboard crumbled, scattering the ace, three, five, seven and nine of acorns across the table.
Mitch shook his head, turned up three fours and reached for the pot. "Full house beats a flush."
Fisk reached, faster than he'd meant to, faster than he'd been able to, a week ago, and covered Mitch's hand with his own. "C-c-can't count." he said. "N-n-n ... g-g-g ... bad f-f-for engineer."
Nerila grinned. "He's right, Mitch. Man's holding a skip straight flush. The money's his."
Mitch paused, then swore.
"P-p-p .. and side-b-b-bet," Fisk pointed out. "P-p-p .. hand it over."
Mitch swore again, and then smiled. "Guess I was wrong about how scrambled your brain was, eh, soldier boy?"
"G-g-g ... suppose so," Fisk said, raking the chips toward him.
Nerila reached across the table to gather up the cards. "Guess you were wrong about running out of luck, too," she said.
She glanced at Luisa, and Fisk caught her give the XO a tiny nod, looked at Luisa and saw a faint smile twitch the corners of her mouth.
"C-c-could have asked." he said.
Luisa leaned forward. "Could have asked what?"
"D-d-don't n-n-n ... have to rig g-g-g ... cards." Fisk watched Nerila's long fingers turn and ruffle the cards, able to see now the flick and turn she used to disguise breaking out an ace, the deft, almost imperceptible movement as she palmed a queen. "T-t-test. C-c-c-could have j-j-just asked." He pointed at Nerila's hands. "Th-think you m-m-m ... lost one."
Nerila went still. "You saw that?"
Fisk nodded.
"Well," Nerila said, dropping the hidden cards back into the pack and starting to shuffle again. "Guess those optional extras Captain Vikarion gave you really do work as advertised."
Fisk tapped his chest, smiling. "N-n-n .. a' improved."
"Matter of opinion," Mitch said. "No offense, solider boy."
"N-n-n ... wasn't m-m-m .. of a talker," Fisk said. "Even b-b-before."
Mitch snorted. "Well, that's true," he said.
"Thought about how you're going to give orders to your marines when you can't get a sentence out?" Luisa asked.
Fisk raised his hand, extended two fingers, tapped them on his forearm and jerked his thumb to the door.
" Mime?" Mitch said incredulously. "You're going to give orders in mime?"
"C-c-c-combat. Code." Fisk said.
"And over coms?" Luisa asked.
Fisk concentrated, and Luisa's com buzzed. She raised an eyebrow, and flicked the switch.
"Squad two, left," Fisk's voice said from the device. "Squad one, with me. Watch your fire and - "
Luisa flicked it off. "So, straight from your brain to their ears?"
Fisk nodded, tapped his head. "Inside. C-c-com."
Luisa looked at Nerila, who nodded. "All right," the XO said. "You're cleared for return to duty. Provided you pass the physical."
"Th-th-thank," Fisk said.
"Don't make me sorry," Luisa warned, her gaze level.
"N-n-n ..." Fisk shook his head. "Won't. Will d-d-o better. N-n-n .. future." He tapped his chest again. "N-n-n ... a' improved."
"Yeah," Mitch said. "New and improved."
Fisk reached, faster than he'd meant to, faster than he'd been able to, a week ago, and covered Mitch's hand with his own. "C-c-can't count." he said. "N-n-n ... g-g-g ... bad f-f-for engineer."
Nerila grinned. "He's right, Mitch. Man's holding a skip straight flush. The money's his."
Mitch paused, then swore.
"P-p-p .. and side-b-b-bet," Fisk pointed out. "P-p-p .. hand it over."
Mitch swore again, and then smiled. "Guess I was wrong about how scrambled your brain was, eh, soldier boy?"
"G-g-g ... suppose so," Fisk said, raking the chips toward him.
Nerila reached across the table to gather up the cards. "Guess you were wrong about running out of luck, too," she said.
She glanced at Luisa, and Fisk caught her give the XO a tiny nod, looked at Luisa and saw a faint smile twitch the corners of her mouth.
"C-c-could have asked." he said.
Luisa leaned forward. "Could have asked what?"
"D-d-don't n-n-n ... have to rig g-g-g ... cards." Fisk watched Nerila's long fingers turn and ruffle the cards, able to see now the flick and turn she used to disguise breaking out an ace, the deft, almost imperceptible movement as she palmed a queen. "T-t-test. C-c-c-could have j-j-just asked." He pointed at Nerila's hands. "Th-think you m-m-m ... lost one."
Nerila went still. "You saw that?"
Fisk nodded.
"Well," Nerila said, dropping the hidden cards back into the pack and starting to shuffle again. "Guess those optional extras Captain Vikarion gave you really do work as advertised."
Fisk tapped his chest, smiling. "N-n-n .. a' improved."
"Matter of opinion," Mitch said. "No offense, solider boy."
"N-n-n ... wasn't m-m-m .. of a talker," Fisk said. "Even b-b-before."
Mitch snorted. "Well, that's true," he said.
"Thought about how you're going to give orders to your marines when you can't get a sentence out?" Luisa asked.
Fisk raised his hand, extended two fingers, tapped them on his forearm and jerked his thumb to the door.
" Mime?" Mitch said incredulously. "You're going to give orders in mime?"
"C-c-c-combat. Code." Fisk said.
"And over coms?" Luisa asked.
Fisk concentrated, and Luisa's com buzzed. She raised an eyebrow, and flicked the switch.
"Squad two, left," Fisk's voice said from the device. "Squad one, with me. Watch your fire and - "
Luisa flicked it off. "So, straight from your brain to their ears?"
Fisk nodded, tapped his head. "Inside. C-c-com."
Luisa looked at Nerila, who nodded. "All right," the XO said. "You're cleared for return to duty. Provided you pass the physical."
"Th-th-thank," Fisk said.
"Don't make me sorry," Luisa warned, her gaze level.
"N-n-n ..." Fisk shook his head. "Won't. Will d-d-o better. N-n-n .. future." He tapped his chest again. "N-n-n ... a' improved."
"Yeah," Mitch said. "New and improved."
Monday, May 18, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune's Smile: Six
“No help for the XO,” Nerila Janianial said. “Possible pair for the engineroom, and the doctor sits ace-high.”
Fisk Hurun, Chief Tactical Officer of the Fortune’s Smile, hesitated and then rapped softly on the open door of the Officer’s Mess. It was usually closed this time of day, unneeded for meals for either main or alter-day crew, the unchallenged preserve of the three officers who’d been with Pilot Roth for longest. It would take a hell of an emergency to get me to open that door under normal circumstances.
But he had been summoned, by XO Kamajeck herself.
Three heads turned at his knock: ‘Mitch’ Mitcheson, unshaven, a smudge of engine oil on his forehead, jacket off; Nerila Janianial, making her uniform look like haute couture as always, sleek dark hair pinned up; Luisa Kamajeck, hair gone more grey than brown, her eyes clear and steady in a face papery with age and pale with a lifetime’s worth of ‘spacer’s tan’.
“Fisk,” the XO said. “Come in. Pull up a chair.” She paused, and then one corner of her mouth twitched up slightly. “Not an order. You might have better things to do.”
Both by training and by inclination, Fisk was not a man to spend longer in a doorway than necessary. Even so, he hesitated a bare second before stepping forward and pulling out a chair at the table.
“Born in a barn?” Nerila asked, not unfriendly, with a glance at the door.
“Sorry,” Fisk said, and shut the door before sitting down.
“Oncer-ante, aces high, nothing wild,” Mitcheson said, pushing the cards of his unfinished hand across the table to Nerila. “You in, Fisk?”
Fisk glanced at the XO and she gave a tiny nod. “Yessir, I am.”
“No ‘sirs’ in this room,” Nerila said. “Nor m’m, either. Fisk.” She gathered the deck together, her long dark fingers flicking the cards into tidiness, and began to shuffle with the precision of a surgeon and the flash of a card-shark. "Not while the door's closed."
"Yes - " He hesitated.
" Nerila," she supplied, cut the cards one-handed and jerked her thumb towards Mitcheson. "Mitch." The deck cascaded between her hands, reformed itself and divided again with the barest movement of her fingers, and she gestured with her chin toward the XO. "Luisa."
"All right," Fisk said. He looked around at the three of them, Nerila's dark gaze steady on his as she split and ruffled the deck by touch, Mitch seeming to watch Nerila but, Fisk noted, looking in the same direction as the polished steel cabinet doors that reflect me like a mirror, and Luisa with her head tilted a little bit, studying Fisk like a sergeant sizing up a new recruit.
"You're new to the ship, Fisk. Newish," Luisa said.
"Yes'm. I mean, Yes. I am."
"Liking it so far?"
Fisk nodded.
Nerila flipped a card over, seemingly at random, face up in the middle of the table. Eight hearts, Fisk noted automatically. "You can tell the future by cards, you know, Fisk," she said, holding the card for a moment before shuffling it back into the deck. "Eight of hearts is an unexpected invitation."
"Then that deck is telling my past," Fisk said.
Mitch snorted. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
Nerila dealt another card and held it for Fisk to look at. Five Acorns. "Five clubs," she said, reminding Fisk again that this was a mixed crew and two of the people in the room were Gallente. "Alliances."
"Few things happened on Pilot's ships before you came on board, Fisk," Luisa said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, hands folded. "One or two."
Fisk nodded. "Everyone knows there's history," he said. "Same everywhere, isn't it?"
"The three of us have been with her, oh, five months?" Mitch said.
"Seems like five years, sometimes," Nerila said.
Fisk Hurun, Chief Tactical Officer of the Fortune’s Smile, hesitated and then rapped softly on the open door of the Officer’s Mess. It was usually closed this time of day, unneeded for meals for either main or alter-day crew, the unchallenged preserve of the three officers who’d been with Pilot Roth for longest. It would take a hell of an emergency to get me to open that door under normal circumstances.
But he had been summoned, by XO Kamajeck herself.
Three heads turned at his knock: ‘Mitch’ Mitcheson, unshaven, a smudge of engine oil on his forehead, jacket off; Nerila Janianial, making her uniform look like haute couture as always, sleek dark hair pinned up; Luisa Kamajeck, hair gone more grey than brown, her eyes clear and steady in a face papery with age and pale with a lifetime’s worth of ‘spacer’s tan’.
“Fisk,” the XO said. “Come in. Pull up a chair.” She paused, and then one corner of her mouth twitched up slightly. “Not an order. You might have better things to do.”
Both by training and by inclination, Fisk was not a man to spend longer in a doorway than necessary. Even so, he hesitated a bare second before stepping forward and pulling out a chair at the table.
“Born in a barn?” Nerila asked, not unfriendly, with a glance at the door.
“Sorry,” Fisk said, and shut the door before sitting down.
“Oncer-ante, aces high, nothing wild,” Mitcheson said, pushing the cards of his unfinished hand across the table to Nerila. “You in, Fisk?”
Fisk glanced at the XO and she gave a tiny nod. “Yessir, I am.”
“No ‘sirs’ in this room,” Nerila said. “Nor m’m, either. Fisk.” She gathered the deck together, her long dark fingers flicking the cards into tidiness, and began to shuffle with the precision of a surgeon and the flash of a card-shark. "Not while the door's closed."
"Yes - " He hesitated.
" Nerila," she supplied, cut the cards one-handed and jerked her thumb towards Mitcheson. "Mitch." The deck cascaded between her hands, reformed itself and divided again with the barest movement of her fingers, and she gestured with her chin toward the XO. "Luisa."
"All right," Fisk said. He looked around at the three of them, Nerila's dark gaze steady on his as she split and ruffled the deck by touch, Mitch seeming to watch Nerila but, Fisk noted, looking in the same direction as the polished steel cabinet doors that reflect me like a mirror, and Luisa with her head tilted a little bit, studying Fisk like a sergeant sizing up a new recruit.
"You're new to the ship, Fisk. Newish," Luisa said.
"Yes'm. I mean, Yes. I am."
"Liking it so far?"
Fisk nodded.
Nerila flipped a card over, seemingly at random, face up in the middle of the table. Eight hearts, Fisk noted automatically. "You can tell the future by cards, you know, Fisk," she said, holding the card for a moment before shuffling it back into the deck. "Eight of hearts is an unexpected invitation."
"Then that deck is telling my past," Fisk said.
Mitch snorted. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
Nerila dealt another card and held it for Fisk to look at. Five Acorns. "Five clubs," she said, reminding Fisk again that this was a mixed crew and two of the people in the room were Gallente. "Alliances."
"Few things happened on Pilot's ships before you came on board, Fisk," Luisa said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, hands folded. "One or two."
Fisk nodded. "Everyone knows there's history," he said. "Same everywhere, isn't it?"
"The three of us have been with her, oh, five months?" Mitch said.
"Seems like five years, sometimes," Nerila said.
Mitch nodded. "Heard her on comms saying she'd come back for us. That she wouldn't leave us behind."
"And she didn't, neither," Luisa said. "You going to deal those, Nerila, or just play with them?"
"
"
"As you'd have reason to know, Fisk," Nerila said, beginning to deal. " Personal reason. Wouldn't you?"
Fisk watched Nerila's hands as she flicked down the cards, one, two, three, four, thinking personal reason covered a lot of things he didn't plan to ever think about again if he could help it.
One, two, three, four.
"Yeah," he said at last.
One, two, three, four.
"Guess we all owe her one," Mitch said, gathering up his cards.
"Guess we do," Fisk said, picking up his own and looking to see what the doctor had dealt him.
Three of a kind. Fisk wasn't the Cluster's best poker-player but you don't need to be to know that holding three Jacks is a strong hand.
His best poker-face wasn't a patch on Luisa Kamajeck's normal expression, but he tried to keep his face blank.
Nerila dealt Fisk a show card. "Queen of Hearts," she said. "My gran'mama'd say there's a good-natured, soft-hearted blonde in your life."
"I could be so lucky," Fisk said.
"Card don't mean she's in your bed, Fisk," Nerila said. She finished the round, ten of hearts to Mitch, seven bells for the XO, four bells for herself. "Are all men the same?"
"Vile slander," Mitch said. "Vile cards, too."
"Let's see if we can make it all better for you," Nerila said. "Club jack to our newest player - soldier for your queen there, Fisk, fighting her battles and keeping her safe. Ace of hearts for you, Mitch - if you can't make a flush at least you can rest assured the cards promise you true love. And for you, Luisa - "
"Don't tell my fortune," Luisa said, and it was an order even in a room where there were no ranks.
Slightly deflated, Nerila laid the last card of the game face up. "Four hearts."
Fisk pushed a marker into the centre of the table, trying not to move either too quickly or too slowly. "Raise one."
Mitch followed suit. "See and raise again."
"And me," Nerila said.
Luisa glanced from the doctor to the engineer. "I see you both," she said quietly.
Fisk raised again, and the bets went round, and round again, all of them still in.
"You know Nerila got arrested once for cheating at cards," Luisa said.
"Bad old days," Nerila said. "Long time ago, before, you know, I reformed. And got better. Raise."
"Raise," Luisa said. "It's on you again, Fisk."
"Raise," Fisk said. As the bets circled the table once more he lifted the corners of his hole cards, reassuring himself that he hadn't imagined his hand. Jack of hearts, jack of bells, jack of leaves.
And face up, one more jack - soldier, Nerila had said - beside the queen.
An incredibly lucky, unlikely hand.
Dealt to him by a self-confessed cheat.
He looked up and met Nerila's gaze.
She dropped one eyelid in a sly wink. "Your call, Fisk."
Four soldiers and one fair-haired woman.
"You in or out, Fisk?" Luisa asked.
"Make up your mind, man," Mitch said.
Fisk checked his cards again, then pushed his stack of markers to the centre of the table, betting everything he had on four of a kind.
"I'm in," he said. "All the way."
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