The Outback Stars Page 4

  Jodenny left as quickly as she could. Out on the Flats, the air was cold and dry and oppressively thick. On rubbery legs she forced herself past blurry strangers and toward her quarters. No one stopped her, which was a relief.

  She certainly didn’t want her new shipmates to see her sobbing like a baby.

  * * *

  At seventeen hundred hours the Aral Sea engaged aux drive and left Kookaburra. The haul to the Alcheringa drop point would take five days. An hour after launch, sequestered in his favorite booth at the No Holds Barred, Myell peered into the depths of his beer. His roommate Mick Timrin sat beside him. Some of the overvids displayed girls gyrating to music but most were replaying the Dunredding soccer game.

  “Fucking idiots.” Timrin glared at the soccer players. “I would have won a hundred yuros on that game, you know.”

  Myell appreciated Timrin trying to distract him from the loss of the DNGO. He’d filed a report and knew that someone from Security would be by to interview him within twenty-four hours. “How do you lose a robot?” some snarky chief would ask, as if Myell should have dragged a DNGO to the emergency station.

  “There’s always another game,” Myell told Timrin.

  Three Ops techs, each with one or two Alcheringa run patches, sidled up to the bar. Above their heads, the dancers faded away as the nightly news came on. Two virtual hosts, Hal and Sal, addressed the camera with vapid smiles.

  Hal said, “Good evening. In today’s news, departure was delayed by two hours and ten minutes after a General Quarters alarm.”

  Sal added, “The five-minute response rate was ninety percent, a new ship’s record.”

  “Notice they’re not saying why,” Timrin said. “Some Ops swipe probably pushed the wrong button.”

  One of the Ops techs glared their way. Myell nudged Timrin.

  Timrin grimaced. “So what?”

  “Departure went smoothly,” Hal said. “All systems are go for a safe flight.”

  Safe. Since the Yangtze, nothing about spaceflight seemed particularly safe. Myell had heard more than one rumor that the CFP was somehow responsible for the drill. The idea of a bomb somewhere on the ship made him gulp at his beer.

  “In other news,” Sal said, “the Medical and Supply Departments both announced new appointments. Lieutenant Mitchell Moody has been appointed to Crew Medicine, and Lieutenant Jodenny Scott has taken over the Underway Stores Division.”

  “Supply spaz,” said a tech wearing a Kiwi patch. “She freaked out during GQ.”

  “What did she do?” another tech asked.

  “Went to the wrong pod, got all hysterical. They almost had to sedate her.”

  A third tech popped a peanut into his mouth. “They say you’re never the same after a spacewreck. She was on the Yangtze.”

  The one with the Kiwi patch said, “Supply types always fall apart when there’s trouble. Look at the old SUPPO. Ran off like a jackal, didn’t he, rather than take it like a man?”

  Timrin finished his drink. “You know where to find an Ops tech during an emergency? Under a desk, pissing his pants.”

  The Kiwi tech pushed back his stool. The bartender, a bald civvie with wide shoulders, came out from behind the counter and warned, “You want trouble, you take it outside.”

  “We don’t want trouble,” Myell said.

  “Not unless there’s a girl to hold down,” the Kiwi tech said.

  Myell changed his mind. He did want trouble, the kind that would result in the satisfying thump of his fist against the Kiwi tech’s nose. But Timrin’s barricading arm kept him from lunging forward. Timrin said, “They’re not worth it.”

  “Sit your asses down before I call Security,” the bartender said to the Ops techs.

  Public brawling could land the offenders in the brig and leave black marks on service records. Better to fight in private and explain the injuries as work-related accidents—fingers caught in a hatch or ribs bruised by a ladder fall.

  “Ignore them,” Timrin said when they reached the passage outside. “Fucking idiots.”

  Myell’s temper cooled down on the ride to Supply berthing. A half-dozen people were sprawled in the lounge playing Izim on the large-screen vid. Someone had spilled beer on the carpet again, and popcorn had been scattered on the sofa. Chris Amador, in charge of the Izim siege, said, “Jesus fucking Christ! Where did those moths come from?”

  Timrin’s gaze swept disdainfully over the screen. “Izim’s for slomes.”

  “Heard you lost a dingo, Myell,” Nagarajan said, snuggling close to Amador’s side.

  Amador asked, “How do you manage that?”

  “Not so hard,” said Mike Gallivan, who was sprawled in a corner chair with his guitar in hand. Gallivan had checked onboard at the same time as Myell, and for a while they’d been good friends. “Little buggers get into all sorts of shit.”

  “Or get put there,” Nagarajan said.

  Myell clenched his fists and didn’t answer. Fuck them all if they thought he’d meant to lose any equipment put into his care. He followed Timrin down the noisy passage past a dozen half-open hatches. In cabin nine, Ben Chang was competing with the volume of his Snipe game as he relayed a story to Sergeant Tisa VanAmsal, who stood in the doorway.

  “—so Chief Vostic told her she was at the wrong station, and Scott told her to get out of the way, and Vostic told her to try another lifepod, and Scott told her to go to hell.”

  That encounter must have spawned dozens of imails and message threads, either through Core or on individual pocket servers. Myell wondered why the hell people didn’t have anything better to worry about.

  “Quenger must be pissed she’s taking over,” VanAmsal said, unpinning one of her braids. She was older than most in Underway Stores but still one of the more attractive sergeants on the Aral Sea. Myell respected how she kept a cool head and ran Loading Dock G with a firm hand.

  “Quenger’s a swipe,” Timrin said.

  Chang scored a direct hit. “Nitta will put her in her place.”

  Myell tried to put in a good word. “Lieutenant Scott seems sharp enough.”

  VanAmsal gave him a frosty look. “It’s not a fresh start for you, Myell. Already you’re screwing up again.”

  He turned away at the unexpected sting. The lost DNGO he could live with. Equipment was always disappearing on the ship. But no one was ever going to forget what Wendy Ford had said. Myell went inside his and Timrin’s cabin, yanked off his shirt, and threw it down the wash-chute.

  “Christ,” Timrin said behind him. “What happened to you?”

  Myell turned and glimpsed, in the mirror, a bruise darkening his back. “Nothing.”

  “If Chiba’s fucking with you again, you should let someone know.”

  “Who would I tell? Al-Banna? DiSola?” He pulled on a T-shirt, ignoring the protest in his back. “I don’t care anymore.”

  Timrin let the hatch close and leaned against his locker with folded arms. “You care. Too much. Honor, commitment, all that recruiting bullshit—they really got it when you signed up. Your trouble is you want to fight Chiba on his terms. You have to be smarter than him, not tougher. Next time something happens, get some proof.”

  Proof. Wendy Ford had claimed the bruises on her body were Myell’s doing, when they both knew it had been Chiba. Gritting his teeth at the memory, he lifted his rucksack from his bed and went to shove it into his locker. Something small fell on his bedcover.

  “Christ,” Myell said. “There’s an omen for you. A dead gecko.”

  Timrin bent close to it. “I don’t think it’s dead.”

  “Of course it is,” Myell said, but under Timrin’s urging he put the gecko in a cup near a lamp and it flicked its tail. It was small and brown, like the one that had crawled up on the bench outside Sato Spaceport. It peered up at Myell with beady black eyes.

  Timrin grinned. “I always wanted a better roommate than you.”

  Myell didn’t need a pet. He didn’t need to be responsible for anyone or
anything else on the ship. Hell, he couldn’t even take care of a DNGO. But he couldn’t very well let it run loose or flush it down into the ship’s sewage system.

  “What are you going to call him?” Timrin said.

  “Kookaburra,” Myell decided. “Koo for short. And it’s a her, not a him.”

  Timrin rolled his eyes. “Like you haven’t had enough trouble with women.”

  “Welcome aboard, Koo.” Myell bent close to the cup. “I hope you don’t regret it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “T-minus thirty minutes. All off-duty personnel and passengers report to quarters.”

  Sitting on her rack with her knees pulled to her chest, Jodenny tried to empty her mind of fear and doubt.

  “T-minus ten. Towers secure. Engines to speed.”

  Somewhere back at Alice Training Base, Matt Lu was probably cursing her name. Going over Campos’s head to Admiral Cartwright had probably made the commodore an enemy as well. Though she’d only been on the Aral Sea a few hours, Jodenny had already managed to annoy her boss, make a less than favorable impression on the captain, and embarrass herself in front of countless members of the crew. The Yangtze dead, lying in row after row of tidy graves, bitterly watched her from their dark repose.

  A slight, almost imperceptible jolt beneath her. The thrill of increasing acceleration. No other fanfare, no blast of trumpets, but the deed was done. Jodenny closed her eyes just as the comm came to life with, “Attention, attention, this is the XO speaking. We have departed Kookaburra and bid farewell to those we leave behind. Resume normal operations.”

  Jodenny didn’t move. She could venture forth from the cabin and do her check-in rounds, but what was the point? The ship had departed without incident but in five days they would reach the Alcheringa and the horror would begin all over again. Maybe she should find some broken glass and lay waste to her wrists again—

  No. That had been a onetime aberration, a dark time she barely remembered. She would not succumb again. And to fear that the Aral Sea was doomed when it reached the Alcheringa was foolishness itself. Team Space would have never authorized the next leg of her journey if there was a serious threat from CFP fanatics.

  Someone pinged the door. The wallvid flickered to life. “Lieutenant Scott? I’m from the chaplain’s office.”

  For a moment she considered pretending she wasn’t in, but then she wiped her face and opened the hatch. Her visitor was slim like a willow, with commander’s bars on one collar and a chaplain’s pip on the other. She held a large wicker basket in both hands.

  “I’m Kath Mowaljarlai. Call me Kath or Chaplain Mow. Can I come in?”

  Jodenny stepped aside and let the chaplain enter. Mow handed her the basket and said, “The official welcome-aboard kit from the Religious Service Office. Flowers-in-a-jar, two movie passes, a copy of our religious activities schedule, and a vid of me giving inspirational sermons. No, just kidding about that last bit. Chocolate biscuits. Much better than sermons.”

  “Chocolate’s always welcome around here.” Jodenny took the jar out, opened its lid, and watched a handful of fresh daffodils spring to full flourish. They reminded her abruptly of funerals and she stepped into the head.

  “Sorry.” Jodenny splashed water on her face. “Allergies.”

  “I suffer from them myself.” Chaplain Mow favored the flowers with her full attention but didn’t remove them. She let Jodenny compose herself and then said, “The Aral Sea isn’t what you’re used to, but I hope you’ll learn to like her. We’ve got some good people here. People who’ll listen to whatever you want to say.”

  Jodenny knew this game, and was relieved Chaplain Mow had slipped into it without wasting any time. “Alice was full of people who wanted to listen. Doctors, therapists, grief counselors, chaplains—they were lined up outside our doors. I’ve done more talking in the last three months than in twenty-eight years.”

  Chaplain Mow smiled. “You never know when the urge might strike again. My office is up on C-Deck. Come by tomorrow and I’ll sign your check-in sheet. Should I put you down as Unitarian, Gagudjun, New Denominationalist, Muslim, Mormon, Catholic, Jewish, Buddhist, agnostic, atheist, or something else altogether?”

  “Something else altogether.”

  “Can do. And remember, you’re not alone here. Have your agent call my agent and we’ll have lunch, okay?”

  After Mow left, Jodenny mustered enough energy to take a hot shower. The prospect of dinner depressed her all over again. Walking for the first time into the sea of strangers that had been the Yangtze’s wardroom had been nerve-wracking enough, but at the time she had been merely a new ensign. Now she carried the weight of tragedy and the day’s humiliations on her shoulders. She rubbed away a smudge on her shoes, buffed the gold buttons on her jacket, braided her hair, braided it a different way, changed her earrings, and changed them back. Maybe she could plead a headache and prolong everyone’s inevitable discovery that she wasn’t fit to be back in space, never mind in charge of the Supply Department’s worst division.

  The ship’s bells rang at eighteen hundred but Hultz didn’t appear. Jodenny paced the cabin and passageway. Five minutes later, just as Jodenny was about to strike out on her own, Hultz rounded the corner.

  “You’re late,” Jodenny said.

  “No one ever goes on time,” Hultz said. “Is it true you’re in charge of Underway Stores? Al-Banna must really like you.”

  “Liking me has nothing to do with it. Let’s go.”

  On her way down the passage Jodenny wiped her sweaty palms on the sides of her uniform.

  Hultz squeezed her arm. “Relax. Everyone’s great. Here we are.”

  Jodenny followed Hultz through the hatch and stopped. The supply wardroom had the same design and layout of the one on the Yangtze, but where she expected to see plaques and trophies she saw only empty shelves. The bulkheads were smooth gray parasteel, unmarked by anything as sentimental as pictures or murals. Empty stools stood against the darkened bar. The dining table had been set for ten people.

  “—and the guy next to me in the pod had the worst farts ever,” said a swarthy, dark-haired man on the sofa. “Clara, you’re late.”

  Hultz said, “Since when? Jodenny, this is Mike Zeni.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Zeni wore sub-lieutenant’s bars, and his cologne smelled strong and clean. “Did you like our friendly welcome-aboard alarm?”

  Obviously he hadn’t heard what a fool she’d made of herself. “Immensely.”

  Beside Zeni was Lieutenant A. J. Francesco, who was slender and dark-skinned. They both worked in Ship’s Services—Francesco ran the Disbursing Division and Zeni was in charge of Colony Berthing. Ensign Leanne Weaver, with extremely short hair, worked in Flight Support. Jodenny had already met Kal Ysten.

  “Let’s eat,” Weaver said. “I’m starving.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for everyone else?” Jodenny asked.

  “No one else is coming,” Ysten said gloomily.

  Francesco pulled out his chair. “Congratulations on your new job, Jodenny.”

  Zeni lifted his beer. “And good luck. You never hear anything good about Underway Stores.”

  “You’ll do fine if you can get along with Chief Nitta,” Weaver said.

  Ysten grimaced. “That’s if you can get a single moment’s work out of him.”

  On the Yangtze, no one had dared miss wardroom dinner unless they were on watch or in Sick Berth. Jodenny sat down reluctantly and shook out her napkin. AT Ashmont, the lithe young steward, started the soup course.

  Weaver said, “Chief Nitta’s the least of the problems in Underway Stores. Dicensu’s dumber than a rock. They say that new girl, Ishikawa, she’s doing kasai. And don’t forget Myell.”

  Jodenny remembered the handsome sergeant with the scuffed boots. “What about him?”

  Ysten said, “He raped a girl.”

  Raped? On the Yangtze Jodenny had supervised a sailor accused of trying to kill his roommate, but she’d nev
er worked with a rapist. She tried to imagine Myell pinning down a woman and forcing himself into her, but the idea didn’t make sense.

  Francesco said, “Shut up, Kal. You don’t know what happened.”

  A no-good chief and a purported rapist. No wonder Al-Banna despised her division. The conversation moved on to the gossip about an ensign in the Navigation Department who had been seen, of late, sneaking in and out of chiefs’ berthing.

  “Let the captain catch wind of that, and she’ll be out an airlock,” Weaver said.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Francesco said.

  Weaver downed more of her wine. “They say that’s where Matsuda went, you know. Airlock. Not on a birdie at all.”

  “Idiot talk,” Zeni said.

  “I don’t understand,” Jodenny said.

  Francesco told the tale. “Commander Matsuda was our SUPPO. He was two years into a three-year tour, and I won’t say he was popular or good at it, but we were getting the job done. We left Fortune as scheduled, no problem. Got to Kiwi, some people take shore leave, Matsuda says he’s on his way to visit family. Forty-eight hours before launch, he’s due back, no one can find him.”

  “Disappeared completely,” Hultz said. “No trace whatsoever. No one could even prove he went down to the surface.”

  “Not true.” Zeni waved his fork. “Data showed that his flight pass had been used as scheduled on one of the birdies.”

  Weaver shook her head. “Anyone could have used it. The security vids were all corrupted up, none of the other passengers remembered seeing him, and Kiwi Customs couldn’t prove he passed through. Even his family said they hadn’t seen him.”

  “Half the ship believes he deserted, for whatever reason, and his family was covering for him,” Francesco said. “There are rumors he was under investigation for dereliction of duty, but no one knows much about it. The other half think maybe he stayed onboard, hiding, until we reached Sundowner—he always said he wanted to retire there. Maybe he got off there. And yet another half think maybe he was a victim of foul play.”