Captain Jonathan Seabourne gazed out the window in the his quarters aboard the Breezewood. The hauntingly beautiful wreck of Freeport-4 filled the view. His luxury liner catered to all sorts of passengers, from hedonists looking for forbidden pleasures outside of the laws of house space to elderly ship-spotters manning the rails and hoping to catch a glimpse of a new class of vessel they haven't seen yet. However, passengers who wanted to see the wrecks and derelicts of Sirius always gave him the creeps. There was something... macabre about visiting these places where so many had died. Those in the conventions and meeting rooms would insist they were honoring the dead by keeping the stories of the destruction of their ships and stations alive. Given the t-shirts and souvenirs they carried, Seabourne had his doubts.
And so the normally sociable captain found himself hiding in his own ship, still dressed to the nines despite being officially "off duty." He worked for years hauling luxury goods in freighters for the right to wear the formal uniform of an OS&C captain. After a decade, it felt more natural to him than his "casual" clothes. A far cry from the messy child on Pittsburgh who snuck down to his father's landing pad to watch the ships take off after school.
A chime sounded. "Enter," said Seabourne, knowing exactly who it was from the reflection in the glass. Kendra Oldham, the Breezewood's first mate entered in her own formal uniform, slightly more ruffled from having just come off active duty while another officer now had the third watch. "You wished to see me, captain?"
Her Cambridge accent had fast tracked her for promotion. Orbital officers were expected to be posh and debonair, even under emergency conditions. A younger Seabourne had spent long treks on his freighters with language tapes hiding his native accent. He still occasionally slipped a "yinz" into his speech, much to the confusion of all around him. For Kendra, the necessary diction came naturally. While proper, was not cold, just efficient. She kept a tight ship and a cordial but formal tone with the passengers for the "highly encouraged" hours that OS&C officers were officially not required to spend with their passengers. The crew respected her, but any affection they felt was probably due to viewing her an an extension of the Breezewood rather than as a human being. If you loved the ship, you loved the things that kept her going. The engines, the CO2 scrubbers, the XO.
"The money from the GRG deal just cleared, I had accounting run the numbers for WSL as a whole." Seabourne wore two hats: captain of the Breezewood and Director of White Spa Lines, a division of OS&C intended as a loss-leader to help the brand. By publishing outlandish stories of the most luxurious and dangerous routes, it was hoped that less wealthy passengers would be inspired to book the safer, and more profitable, standard cruises. Orbital's numbers were still down since the Gallic War, and the company was desperate enough to give Seabourne a budget and the freedom to do whatever it took to enhance the brand.
"Is it bad?" asked Oldham. The officer only had eyes for the Breezewood, freeing up Seabourne to focus on the broader picture. But she knew that a Liberty corporation would only tolerate so many deficits before cutting a program without notice. Seabourne slid a datapad across his minimalist glass desk towards her. Her eyes couldn't help but bulge.
"Quite the opposite," said Seabourne unnecessarily. "We now have over a billion credits in WSL accounts."
"So, I take it that you're going to up the profit sharing initiative?" asked Oldham dryly as she flipped through the report.
Seabourne smiled, "No, I have bigger things in mind. Like a legacy."
Oldham cocked an eyebrow as her eyes left the pad. "Breezewood evacuated over 100,000 souls from Leeds. We served last drinks at the Battle of New London to the allied fleet. I think we've secured a footnote in the history books."
Seabourne nodded. "I think the flagship deserves to be more than a footnote, and I think these funds might go a long way towards repairing some of the damage of the war, and getting the Independent systems back on their feet."
Oldham put the pad down and turned her head slightly, eyeing the captain suspiciously as recent events clicked into place. "The messages you sent out about the Treaty of Curacao, befriending the independent groups of Sirius, what are you up to, sir? This seems to be more involved than merely repairing Curacao's docking ring."
Seabourne smiled and turned back to face the wreck. "I'm not looking for friends, Kendra," said the captain. "I'm looking for new neighbors."
Florian Schwarz settled into the black leather chair across from his Captain in the ship's starboard lounge. The Breezewood's second officer was strikingly handsome with sparkling blue eyes and wavy but well kept medium length blonde hair. Captain Seabourne noted that while he wore the same stylish uniform as first officer Oldham, Florian somehow made it seem relaxed and natural while Kendra always looked pristine and polished. In a way it was a projection of their respective duties: Oldham's second hat was riding herd on the engineering department and keeping the ship running. Schwarz took point on the hospitality side.
Just coming off his shift, Schwarz ordered a Rheinbeer. The Captain, about to start his, took coffee. Seabourne took a sip of the legendary White Spa Lines roast, strong enough to keep you dancing all night but mellow enough to not need sweetening or milk, and got down to business. "What do you have for me, Florian?"
"Aside from the usual troubles I don't bother you with?" His Stuttgart accent was clean, free of the stereotypical z's and v's of most Rheinlanders. Florian's parents had been ward bosses and eventual local politicians back on Rheinland's agricultural planet. They worked closely with the eventual Chancellor Niemann's early campaigns. Communication and diction training ran in their blood. They were loyal political activists for Niemann, even naming their son for the future Chancellor. After the whole Nomad fiasco, "Florian" become something of a taboo name in the Federal Republic. When he was old enough, he fled his homeworld to work on Baden-Baden and get away from the Rheinlanders who cursed his name for Niemann's recklessness... and from those who still felt that the Chancellor hadn't gone far enough.
"I asked you for some ideas about what should become of the wrecks in Cortez." The massive Gallic battleship Betheny and the only-small-by-comparison Yukon still lay smoldering in the home system of Orbital Spa and Cruise, months after the costly fight that finally started driving the Gallic invaders back.
Florian took a swig and swallowed. "Yes, the debris fields." Seabourne inwardly winced at the description. Rheinland was the only House that was not touched by the Gallic War, even welcoming the new technologies and trade partners that could break the stranglehold of Liberty's corporations across Sirius. Seabourne still considered himself Libertonian deep down, and he had more of a visceral reaction every time they buzzed the Yukon close enough to see the half-star and stripes emblazoned on its hull. To Seabourne, the Yukon was a monument to his people's finest hour. To Schwarz, it was a navigational hazard.
"I remind you, that the debris field is a war grave."
"Apologies, cap-i-tan." Sometimes the accent slipped, especially when Florian wanted to seem contrite. Seabourne wondered if he did it on purpose or if he was even aware of it. "But yes, I have come up with a few ideas of the possibilities for the... vessels."
"First," continued the Rheinland officer, "is the status quo. The wrecks are left intact as they fell in battle and we continue to visit the site with shuttles and day trippers from Curacao recovering from their sunburns." Seabourne smiled. The enclosed and air conditioned stellar excursions were indeed used as often as not as an excuse to give the overzealous beach goers on Curacao a chance to heal. "This has the obvious benefit of requiring us to do absolutely nothing."
"I like to think we can do better. What else?"
"Well," said Schwarz, "we can always turn the vessels over for military salvage. Although I think turn over is a bit of an overstatement. More like pester the Liberty Navy and BAF to salvage what they want or even re-pressurize the Yukon and tow it out of the system. I imagine doing so is way down on the list of their respective priorities, however. Bretonia has no shortage of Gallic hardware to salvage right on their doorstep and my guess is Liberty feels no rush to deal with the situation. It is not as though the vessels are in any danger of going anywhere."
"So it would be good and cheap," replied Seabourne, "but not fast."
Schwarz rolled his icy blue eyes. "You've been spending too much time with Kendra, dear Cap-i-tan. You are starting to sound like an engineer. But I do concede that her cliched paradigms are occasionally useful. If we must 'pick two' as it were, then yes, waiting for Liberty or Bretonia to clean up their toys will be cheap and effective but I could not begin to offer you a time table."
"What else?"
"We could try to open up the site for commercial salvage. I'm sure the Junkers would love to pick those vessels clean for parts. ALG might want a go at processing what it can, though the diplomatic situation there is iffy. The IMG might even be interested in trying to re-pressurize the Yukon and tow it to Magellan as a replacement for Freeport-4. They have the experience with the Hood after all."
"I don't want Junker ships crowding Curacao's orbit any more than they already do." Seabourne had a well known dislike of the spacefaring salvagers. The cause he kept close to the chest. The effect he made well known. "And I am relatively sure the IMG are still persona non grata in Liberty. Fleet Admiral Jones would probably have something to say about them making off with one of his capital ships."
"True, so that brings us to the next possibility: a memorial site. We clean up the debris fields, float some warning beacons around the site and set up a small station nearby to serve as a memorial and observation deck, possibly even a museum to the Cortez front of the war."
"How is that an improvement from the shuttles?"
"Well, first we could run Taurus class shuttles and not just Dorados, which would open up another tier of experiences to our customers. A cheap flight to the memorial to view from a platform or a premium to get up close and personal with the observation lounge aboard a Dorado."
"And, of course," continued Schwarz, "every museum has its gift shop."
The captain gave him a flat stare, the one that said, "we are not amused" without saying a word.
"It would be a tasteful giftshop. Holosculptures of the ships, branded consumer goods with their seals and crests, VR experiences of the battle..."
The royal we continued to ooze from Seabourne's eyes.
"It has the advantage that we could pull it off entirely in house. We make the platform and stock it with whatever... tasteful experiences we want visitors to have. It would not be cheap, but it would be good and fast, to borrow First Officer Oldham's parlance."
Seabourne considered the option. It would turn the ships from forgotten hulks into a deliberate memorial, though a costly one. The trinkets would go a long way to offsetting that and towards ensuring the story continued to be told. He finished off his coffee and set down the cup on the White Spa Lines china saucer on the table.
"Crunch the numbers on the museum option," said Seabourne. "Try to get me a price a little more precise than simply 'a lot' and it might just be a viable solution."
"Right away, cap-i-tan." The Rheinlander loosened his collar every so slightly, eased back into his chair, and took another swig of beer as the Captain made his way to bridge.
Seabourne was up late again in his cabin. He was taking full advantage of the projection features of his desk to make layout adjustments to Wanderlust, the inflight magazine for Orbital Spa and Cruise. The publication was the raison d'etre for his White Spa Lines division, as his recently established contacts in Gallia would say. Corporate gave the Wanderlust more free reign to find interesting stories across Sirius and publish them in the hopes of drumming up more business. As director of White Spa Lines, Seabourne held the office of Editor-in-Chief ex officio. By necessity, he was also the publication's main reporter, writer, photographer, publisher, delivery boy, and anything else it needed. Corporate had given him permission, not funding or staff, but Seabourne made the best of it. It was a passion project that brought him joy, as did captaining the Breezewood and being an OS&C Director, so he didn't feel the weight of all the hats he wore. Yet.
A chime at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," said the captain without looking up from his table. The door opened, spilling the light of the hallway into the cabin illuminated only by the bluish light reflected off of planet Manhattan through the captain's window. First Officer Oldham entered followed by second officer Schwarz. They stood on the other side of the captain's desk as Seabourne looked up from his layout. With a swipe across the desk, the projections disappeared, the door closed, and the lights turned back up. "Who has the bridge?" The captain's first thoughts were always of his ship, especially when the three watch officers were gathered together.
"Yakamochi is currently covering my watch," said Oldham. There was nervousness in her voice, her face oddly blank and frozen as if it was being held in place by deliberate effort rather than her natural formality. "Ship's log properly notes that he relieved me at 1:30."
Seabourne blinked and looked at his wrist watch, an archaic throwback given that he could bring up the time along with myriad other useful information on the enhanced contacts he usually wore. His lenses were currently recharging, but he preferred to wear the watch even when out on patrol. "I bled into my sleeping shift again. Time got away from me, I wanted to put the last touches on Wanderlust since the Navy is now moving on this unfortunate business with the Reverie-"
"Captain," the Rheinlander interrupted firmly but gently. His blue Nordic eyes betrayed more concern than the reserved features of his Bretonian colleague. "We're not here as whatever the opposite of a wake-up call is."
Seabourne cocked his head, confused for a moment. "Then I suggest we all have a seat." He gestured to the two other chairs in front of him, a rare luxury for crew quarters aboard an OS&C liner. The other two officers shared a joint office in their suite. It was a source of friction between the orderly Oldham and the casual Schwarz. In the end, Schwarz learned to tidy up after he was done. "Can Mat handle bridge duty? He's not a watch officer."
Oldham settled into her seat while Schwarz moved to the captain's bar. "Matsuo has completed all relevant training and scored exceptional in communications and logistics and good in everything else except for evasive maneuvers and astrogation where he only scored acceptable."
Schwarz chimed in from across the room, "Given that we are currently moored and taking on passengers and cargo, I doubt his weaknesses will come into play in the next hour or so." He handed the captain a drink and settled into his chair across the desk with its twin. The captain took an experimental sip. Whiskey. Vermouth. Bitters. A Manhattan, the traditional welcoming drink offered to Socialites leaving New York Space aboard Breezewood, though admittedly most quickly flocked back to their familiar Liberty Ales in front of the ships perpetually disappointed bartenders.
Seabourne nodded his thanks, "Seems like a perfect choice then, Kendra." The captain always made it a point to give appropriate specific praise to his crew. "So why do you need to squirrel away an hour with all three watch officers at once?" He directed his question to the superior officer, but she hesitated for a moment and Schwarz jumped in. "Captain, we have some concerns-"
"I was not addressing my question to you, Second Officer Schwarz." Seabourne interrupted Florian far less gently but no less firmly than the Rheinlander had done earlier. "First Officer Oldham," Seabourne sat back straight in his chair as the tone turned formal. "Why have you called this meeting?"
Oldham sat up a little straighter herself, but she seemed to draw more strength from the formal tone. She felt as much at ease with titles and last names as Schwarz felt with his drinks and loosened top button. "Both second officer Schwarz and myself have concerns about what happened near Fort Bush earlier."
"We were assisting the Liberty Navy in catching an artifact smuggler. We are a Liberty chartered corporation in her captial system. Should I have denied the request?"
"I am not advocating that we resist cooperating with the authorities," retorted Kendra. "But you went out of your way to volunteer the Breezewood's services. Lt. Sawyer has told us to run and hide in the past when the situation escalated. He would not have asked us to risk the ship without some strong convincing by her captain."
"She thinks you were fishing for a good story for Wanderlust," said the second officer between sips, "and so do I. If I had wanted to arrest artifact smugglers, I would have joined the military back home in Stuttgart."
"We were running empty," replied the captain, "no passengers were in danger."
Florian replied, "I'm sure the 500 souls aboard-" "530" corrected Oldham. "...530 still aboard will be pleased to know you considered them empty. Not all of your crew was thrilled to be risking our lives for Liberty."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees though Seabourne knew life support was working well. Liberty and Rheinland had fought a destructive border conflict not too long ago. It was likely that Florian had friends in the Rheinland Military that never made it back. Seabourne knew he had a few on his side. OS&C painted itself as an inter-house corporation, part of the reason its officer corps was so diverse was due to house-based affirmative action. It ensured that all houses had skin-in-the-game when it came to negotiating treaties and work visas for the corporation. Still, even the most cosmopolitan globalist never forgot where they were born. Seabourne turned back to Oldham.
"I don't recall these objections when we dove into an active warzone to assist BAF with the evacuation of Leeds. If memory serves we took heavy fire from Gallic patrols. Some of us had OS&C ships shot out from under us helping those Bretonians."
Oldham held the captain's gaze through sheer force of will. She was the one who had pleaded for Seabourne to make one last pick-up in the shuttle Day Tripper to get another 500 souls off world before the Gallic Royal Navy glassed the planet. An exhausted Seabourne had agreed and had gotten sandwiched between two patrols in orbit while transferring the refugees from the shuttle which could handle clandestine atmospheric landings to various liners in orbit which could not. Seabourne had survived, the shuttle had not. Up until now, the captain had never given any indication that he blamed Kendra for the incident.
Florian replied, "That was different. You had stripped the ship down. The only ones aboard were officers who agreed to it. We were willing to risk everything to save those on Leeds. You did not ask the dancing girls if they were ready to risk being killed to stop an artifact smuggler."
Oldham added on, "Half the luxury fleet engages in artifact exchanges." Not smuggling, facilitating exchanges. Several corporate pamphlets and the impressive OS&C legal team were quite clear and insistent on the distinction. Seabourne started to open his mouth but Kendra anticipated his next argument. "Not White Spa Lines, I know, we're the boyscouts of the fleet and the public face of the corporation." The corporate jargon almost seemed natural coming out of her mouth. "But the fact remains that OS&C profits off of the artifact trade, and I find it hypocritical to risk the lives of the crew to arrest a single smuggler when we as a company facilitate the actions of entire syndicates."
"For all we know," said Florian, "the poor bastard was on his way to deliver it to an OS&C contact."
That one cut Seabourne to the quick. Rising through the ranks, he turned a blind eye to a lot of the less-than-legal activities aboard the ships he served on. He put a stop to it once he was in charge, but even he didn't wear the right hat to ban it outright throughout the fleet. Looking around, he briefly wondered how much of Breezewood's construction had been financed by hauling contraband. If Curacao's accountants were worth what they were paid, he doubt even a thorough investigation would let him find out.
"All right, you've made your case. The next time the sheriff comes looking for deputies, we'll politely decline." Florian raised an eyebrow. "He's conceding the point," informed the Bretonian. "Sheriff's are a special type of law enforcement with the power to deputize civilians to temporarily help." "Ah," said the second officer, "We do not have this in Rheinland. We tend to leave such things to qualified professionals." "And it seems," said Seabourne, "so will we. Anything else?"
"No sir," said Schwarz and Oldham in unison.
"Very well then. Thank you, Kendra, for bringing this to my attention. And thank you, Florian, for the drink." The Rheinlander finished his off before rising from his seat. "I am always happy to lighten your cargo allowance when it comes to your bar, cap-i-tan." The second officer rose and placed his glass in the sink on his way out the door. Oldham started to rise to follow him.
"Just a moment, Kendra. If you think Mat is up for another hour of bridge duty, there are a few things I would like to discuss with you."
Kendra stopped, looked to Florian already halfway out the door. He gave her the look universal to all schoolchildren when one of their peers had been called to the principal's office. The one that said, "You're in trooooOOOOOUUUUbleeeeeeeeeee," in the common Libertonian/Bretonian tongue with an inflection that somehow spanned both the years and lightyears from old Earth. Kendra was momentarily surprised to recognize it in a Rheinlander, and wondered if they had a similar taunting cadence whenever they said their equivalent. Judging from Florian's eyes as he disappeared around the corner with the door closing behind him, she suspected so.
Kendra returned to her seat. "You're not in trouble," said Seabourne, as if reading her thoughts. "I just wanted to let you know that a captaincy has opened in the charter fleet."
OS&C liners were precious to the corporation, now moreso than ever with so many ships having been pressganged as hosptial or evacuation ships and subsequently lost in the war. Even before Gallia's invasion, Orbital did not trust command of a multi-million dollar vessel and the negative press that would result from any mishap to just anyone. At some point (much further down the line) the responsibility for hundreds of crewmember's and passenger's lives also probably entered the calculations of the powers that be. Long story short, Interspace would not insure an OS&C liner without knowing the track record of her captain, and the only way to get that evidence was by conning smaller vessels. There was fierce debate in the ranks about whether giving up a bridge officer position on a liner to captain a Democritus or other similarly sized craft was a sidegrade or a demotion. Not surprisingly, one's current job title usually revealed your stance on the matter. On the one hand, a Liner position let you mingle with the sector's elite on fantastic voyages, paid better, and came with nicer accommodations and amenities.
On the other hand, Kendra still had to call them captain whenever they crossed paths at mooring clamps, even if their shuttles could fit easily inside her docking bay.
Correction: Seabourne's docking bay.
"You're asking me for a recommendation? Well, I think Second officer Schwarz is more than qualified enough to take on the duties of a Democritus-"
Seabourne interrupted. "You can't get rid of Florian that easily," said the Captain with a smirk. "I want to know why you insist on being the oldest First officer in the luxury fleet."
It was a fair point. Unlike many, Kendra did not mind the grey streaks that had started appearing in her hair or make any effort to hide them. She had spent a decade fighting for the respect of her engine crews when they looked at her as a fresh-faced peer. Things got much easier when the new batches instinctively saw her as a stern motherly figure because she looked the part. Now that she was approaching looking more grandmotherly however...
"You can only pass an invitation to command so many times before they stop asking," said Seabourne. Kendra knew her captain had taken a roundabout route to where he was. Every OS&C captain had to show competence in both ship handling and hospitality. Seabourne had earned his engineering spurs ferrying transports full of luxury goods. How he got the chance to prove his people skills was a secret he kept close to the chest, though Oldham had heard rumors that the future captain was shuttling the right person at the wrong time but managed to get them home safely. The name Breezewood was an artifact of that unusual journey. Company tradition named liners for resort destinations on old Earth like Hawaii or Barbados. Kendra had once looked up her ship's name in an Atlas, surprised to find it was the name of a small town in the state the Pennsylvania system was named for. It was only notable because it was at the junction of the highway that went north-south and the one that went east-west. Barbuda was a destination, Breezewood was a layover, fit for Seabourne's Albatross-class transport full of tea and pearls. Somehow, the name tagged along with the Captain.
The first officer chose her words carefully. "I'm happy where I am."
"Are you?" said Seabourne. He had heard the same excuse from several competent officers that were afraid to take the plunge. "You'd be good at it, running a tight ship that's always on time. I would have killed for such an invite when I wore a younger man's clothes."
Kendra smiled. "I'm not like you, Captain, past or present version. I..." She breathed in and took the plunge. "...don't like people. I don't like parties, I don't like schmoozing or posing for pictures or regaling passengers with stories."
Seabourne looked taken aback. "Kendra, I had no idea, you always seemed to enjoy yourself at events."
"Yes, because there I'm not Kendra, I'm first officer Oldham. It's a part, a role I play. I slip into it like I slip into my dress uniform and discard it in my quarters the second I walk through the door. Florian enjoys working the crowd. You enjoy being the center of attention. I... I like keeping the machines running, and making sure you two have enough spotlight to shine in."
Seabourne studied his first officer. "The only other way up is through corporate."
"A fate worse than death for our kind," replied Kendra. "But look at your schedule, sir." Seabourne brought up his calendar on the desk's interface. A dozen meetings, appearances, conference calls, interviews, and other myriad duties filled his view, most color coded to deal with publishing Wanderlust, running the White Spa Lines division, or appearing at the onboard parties. Most of his paperwork and layout was done during was was nominally his bridge duty. Kendra was not surprised to see just how little sleep was built in to the schedule, and highly doubted Jonathan got those four hours he generously allocated himself every night. "You're spread thin with all the hats you wear, and so what do you do?" She reached over and brought up her schedule and Florian's as well, navigating the interface surprisingly deftly given that she was looking at it upside down. "You do what any good leader does and delegate."
Seabourne had never studied his bridge crews' schedules like this, and was surprised at what he found. One by one, he let duties traditionally assigned to the captain be covered by his subordinates instead. An ad hoc substitution became long term coverage became a longstanding implication until it was codified into the itinerary. It had happened organically over the years, meeting by meeting. Yet, had you sat down and taken every one of an OS&C captain's duties and deliberately separated them into their social and engineering halves, you would have ended up with exactly the type of schedules that Florian and Kendra did daily.
"When I'm here," said Kendra, "I get to spend my day doing everything I love and not having to do any of the parts that I despise. I don't want the title or the paycheck, I want the authority and opportunity to run the best ship I can run without having to deal with the passengers. Likewise, Florian gets to be the life of the party without the ultimate responsibility that would ruin all the fun. Why would we go anywhere else when we've carved out our niches so perfectly here?"
Seabourne looked up from the desk. "So why stay in the passenger fleet? Why not fly an ore hauler or even an OS&C logistics transport? You'd be a Captain and never have to deal with passengers."
Kendra smiled, "You misunderstand me, Captain. I don't hate the passengers. To the contrary, I love making their dreams come true and showing them the greatest sights that Sirius has to offer. I saw a young girl light up like a firework the other day when she got to see Manhattan from orbit for the first time. I like being there for those moments. I just like seeing it from behind the scenes. Florian lives for their gratitude. I like being where, if I do my job perfectly, they'll have no idea I even exist."
"Florian's the actor on the stage," replied Seabourne, "and you're the technician aiming his spotlight. Where does that leave me?"
Kendra looked down, smiled, and pointed to Seaborne's White Spa Line stationary with his corporate title on it. "Why, you're our director, of course."
An exhausted Florian Schwarz sat back from his desk and rubbed his eyes when he heard the chime at the door. "Enter," the tired looking second officer said as he turned to face the entrance to the common area he shared with First Officer Oldham. His suitemate and superior officer walked through the portal into the lounge area. Of course she had full access codes to her quarters, as well as to all other parts of the ship, but she considered it a common courtesy to knock first before coming home to the shared space. "You should be asleep," said Kendra. Schwarz furrowed his brow before bringing up his chronometer on his contacts. "This is true, I thought I set an alarm. Sorry about the mess, I'll get this out of your way as soon as I'm done."
"I also have paperwork to attend to," said Kendra. The cleanliness of their shared workspace was a perpetual source of friction between the two. In theory, their offset duty schedules should have prevented any conflict. In reality, an OS&C officer was always on duty, and what had started as chaotic battles of wills years ago had evolved into a routine as choreographed as a Kusari Kabuki show. This night would end like so many others had, with a frustrated party exiled to work in the ship's library or a booth in the starboard lounge, depending on who lost the inevitable rock-paper-scissors game. However, there were traditions to be honored first.
"What I'm working on is important."
"So is what I need to attend to."
The two stared at each other for 10 seconds, interrupted only by the familiar hum of Breezewood's life support. Passenger cabins were well insulated from such sounds to promote better sleep. OS&C preferred to keep their crew constantly exposed to how a ship should sound so they would know the second something is wrong. Plus, it was slightly cheaper not to sound-proof the crew quarters. Florian broke first.
"Kendra, I have a dozen legal documents and memos carefully arranged here with notes and cross references. I've spent hours arranging this bird's nest and I would rather not have to upset it so you can file a personnel report. Curacao can wait a few hours for whatever HR complaint you need to send off."
"Your lack of organization," replied Kendra, "is not my problem. You should have been in bed two hours ago which means my report, which, by the way deals with the lackluster performance of the new transfers from the Barbados that YOU were complaining so fiercely about, is already late. And so I need to use that terminal."
"It's already late, what is a few more hours? Besides, it's night at the corporate offices, no one will be there anyway." OS&C ships kept to Curacao time as a matter of convention for crew purposes, though they adjusted their day-night cycles to adjust passengers to their destination planets. The passengers never experienced jet lag as a result. The crew lived with it as a matter of course.
"Florian," said the first officer. "Get out of my seat."
Schwarz sighed. "Can I at least explain what I'm up to in the hopes of convincing you otherwise?"
Oldham cocked her head slightly and squinted warily. This was a new move. "What are you working on?"
"The captain's plans for Cortez. We got a quote back from Bristol Constructions for the station. It's doable, but we need to know the financial situation of licensing the place. Stocking it will already be a financial drain and he's worried about it becoming a 'white elephant' as he called it."
"What's a white elephant?"
"Why are you asking me, it's a phrase from your language. In any event, it's something undesirable to be avoided which is why I am diving into dozens of legal documents until my eyes bleed."
"We have a legal department to handle things like this," said Kendra. "If ship's counsel can't handle it, we can send it to the corporate lawyers planetside. I'm sure they can filter it down into something that is easier to use."
"This," replied Florian while stretching his arm over the collection of papers, pads, and honest to god books, "IS the filtered version." Kendra couldn't help but smile. She read more intimidating looking technical manuals in her spare time, but she pitied Schwarz nonetheless for his homework. "What's the issue?" she asked. "I thought the treaty of Curacao recognizes OS&C sovereignty over Cortez."
"The treaty of Curacao of 817 does make such an implication."
"So?"
"The treaty of Curacao of 821 tears that asunder."
"Oh."
"It seems in our desperation not to be speaking French right now, we completely reorganized the defense of the system. Instead of a 4 way agreement with Bretonia, IMG, and Liberty to govern independent space, we brought in Crayter and formed a five way council with Cortez split in the middle between the crown and Manhattan. Crayter technically has an exclusion zone around the Coronado hole large enough to include Curacao itself. Technically, all we have is the planet and its immediate orbit."
"Of course," continued the Rheinlander, "all this assumes the the treaty is worth more than the paper it is printed on. The IMG are technically a criminal organization now and Liberty explicitly denied a request to rebuild freeport 4 which was codified in the treaty, so who knows what they'll do or think proper. Precedence is also against us as that gateway base, Oceana Shipping, pays a licensing fee to the Liberty government despite technically being on the Bretonian side of the line as best I can tell."
"So, what are our options? The skipper seems intent on having his station."
"If we want to build it in the East, we'll have to pay Liberty several million a month. We could stick in in Curacao orbit, but that would be too far from the wrecks. We could try going through Bretonian channels, but even I admit it is probably going to be the Navy and not the Armed Forces who would take the station's security more seriously, so I see no advantage in those credits going to Carina instead of the 5th fleet."
"Funny," said Kendra. "You would have thought the Leeds relief efforts would have bought us enough goodwill to erect a station in our own system."
Florian froze. "Now there's a currency we did not stick on the account sheets for the lawyers to go over." His eyes darted as he brought up information on his contact lenses. "I need to make some calls."
The Rheinlander dashed up from the desk towards the exit. "What about your papers?" Oldham called out as he rushed past.
"Throw them in my 'to do' pile near my bed!" he shouted back as he raced down the hall.
Kendra faced the mess Florian left at the desk, gave it a solid looking over for a good three seconds, and turned to walk out the door to the ship's library. The two of them had fought countless times for their cabin's common area. This was the first time she could remember it ending in a draw.
"Hah! I TOLD you we could do it!"
An exuberant Seabourne on the bridge of the Breezewood slapped his armrest. "Just enough clearance is still clearance!"
The Enterprise class liner glided - barely - through the race track ring in Dublin, the ever present sparkling flakes in the background the only witness to the old track's largest participant. "Steady on, helm, don't scratch the paint on the tail."
"I admit," said first officer Kendra Oldham, "I am surprised. Were I the betting kind, I would have lost credits on this one."
"The betting kind is just the kind I hope to attract. People have watched snubcraft race through this track for ages. Some were even crazy enough to try it with a freighter. But with a liner? Now THERE'S a brave new world to write about in Wanderlust."
"The next issue is fine." relied Kendra. "We have that profile piece on Doc Holliday plus the Aestheta just completed her tour across Gallia. Should make for entertaining reading for the passengers and beyond." "Yes," said Seabourne, "but it's critical to always have irons in the fire, and schemes within schemes. Most of these will never come to fruition, but I like playing the averages. If only 1% of my ideas actually work out, well, that just means I need to get the ball rolling on 100 ideas to ensure one of them reaches the bottom of the hill." "Cast a wide net and you're bound to catch a fish?" said Kendra. "Exactly!" replied the captain, slapping the arm of his chair for the second time in as many minutes. "Most of the edge of human experience is empty void and unexperienced for a reason, but every once in a while on the map there actually be a dragon."
The Breezewood made it through the next two gates smoothly. "Now, let's try it at speed. Engines to cruise, attempt to thread the needle of the fourth gate and beyond."
Kendra fought hard not to roll her eyes. "Just because we can doesn't mean we should. Do we even have the permission of IMG to be out here."
"I don't like opening talks with groups until I have something to talk about, makes it easy for them to say yes to me when I have a full plan, or at least makes it easy for them to modify it," replied Seabourne, instinctively flinching as the helm managed to make the next ring. "IMG was hit hard during the war, I hope that this might be an opportunity to raise their profile a bit, maybe even raise funds to rebuild Magellan's freeport. I'd like the Hackers to have the distraction away from Cortez and a stronger Curacao Treaty party as an ally-"
A harsh scraping sound interrupted the captain. "Report!" The technician at damage control replied that the third decorative fin had taken minor cosmetic damage, but the helm's nerves were shaken and he missed the next two rings as a result. "Power down the cruise engines, all stop," said a crestfallen Seabourne. Kendra looked at her captain. "So... is racing liners through Dublin one of the 99?"
"Don't be ridiculous," said Seabourne. "We'll do it as time trials, with a penalty for missed gates. We'll get some great feedback on how the captains of the luxury fleet weigh risk and reward. All of our new directors in particular I'd like to see up against each other, for the pride of their faction and all that. Maybe make a trophy or cup of some kind..."
As the captain prattled on about his race, Kendra quietly went back to filing the personnel reports on her console. Yes, it was good to have a person like Seabourne to offer a destination, but it came down to people like her to make it happen through a lot of uninteresting busy work. Kendra very much doubted she'd ever make an issue of Wanderlust, but was confident that the issue would always be printed thanks to her. For someone like Kendra Oldham, that was more than enough for one lifetime.
"She knows you've been cheating on her," said a bemused Florian Schwarz as he sipped from his coffee cup on the bridge. Breezewood's second officer's shift didn't start for another hour, but he wasn't going to miss a chance to watch the old man make a fool of himself.
"Nonsense," replied Seabourne from the helm instead of his usual captain's chair. "Everyone knows the Enterprise class has trouble with trade lanes." The captain furrowed his brow has he struggled to work the maneuvering jets to line up the liner with ring. A moment's hesitation before pressing a button betrayed to an eagle-eyed Florian that it had been a long time, perhaps too long, since the captain handled his ship. However even the most oblivious passenger would not have been able to miss that the Breezewood was now perpendicular to the tradelane, about as far from successfully docking as possible.
"Kind of you to offer the portside passengers a glimpse of a tradelane head-on. It's not a view you often get outside of a cockpit." "Thank you for the reassuring words, Florian. Now let me concentrate." "Fire the number three jets, that should set her-" "I SAID LET ME CONCENTRATE."
The bridge went deadly silent. Seabourne was master of his ship, no doubt about it, but he did not lead by iron fisted tyranny. If a crewmember needed chewing out, he delegated it to Oldham who managed to get the desired effect without raising her voice. In all his years on the Breezewood Florian had never seen his captain lose his cool. It took a minute for his fear to give way to concern.
"Captain, are you all right?"
Seabourne knew he was a proud man, knew he had a temper. A side effect of his jeux de vivre was that all of his emotions, including both joy and rage, tended to burn hot. He closed his eyes, counted to five, and let his hands drop from the panel. "Mr. Schwarz, if you would be so kind as to take the controls." Seabourne walked over to his captain's chair as Schwarz took the helm and corrected for his captain's mistakes. The liner slowly turned and backed up before sliding into the trade lanes.
With the ship safely in the lanes, Schwarz ventured a comment while he had the excuse of not making eye-contact as he checked his screens. "Did flying that Lucullus really rattle you that much, sir?" Seabourne gave a weary smile. "The Gallic liner flew like a dream, I barely had to do anything at all, which was good because all the commands were in French. Your suitemate will be pleased to know there is a bibliothèque aboard, but that's most of what I could recognize. The rest was mostly proper nouns and inferred guesses. I barely had to do anything truth be told to get her back to Curacao."
"I pitty their captains then," said Schwarz, "smooth seas do not make for skilled sailors."
"The Renzu was much the same way, though at least it was labelled in English. As an old liner Gateway of all people had, I would have expected nothing less, though the electronics and some things behind the maintenance panels are still in Kusari."
"Well, I imagine the language barrier won't be too tricky for Captain Dumas. Gallic is his native tongue after all."
"Truth, I'm going to be seeing a lot more of him in the upcoming weeks I think. There's a LOT we need to do to get that thing to work with our systems. We can brute force it by cannibalizing power systems from the weapons, of course, but I'd rather not send a liner out firing at only 10% of what she can. In any event, I guess I just wanted to get a feel for the Breezewood again, it's been too long since my last maneuvering trials with her."
"You do what any good leader does," said Florian, "You delegate. Your job is not to be the best at every task aboard the ship, your job is to ensure every task is done by whoever is best suited." Seabourne winced as he remembered Oldham saying something similar in his cabin earlier. He knew that both of his officers intended it as a complement. It came across as making him feel unneeded. Excessive. Supernumerary. "We couldn't do this without outr captain." Said Florian, as if reading Seabourne's thoughts.
Seabourne inhaled and counted to five before replying. "Mr. Schwarz, would you kindly take watch an hour early?" "Of course sir, let the record show I have the conn as of... 17:07." "I feel like you've had it for far longer," mumbled Seabourne as he left the bridge.
A concerned Florian slid into the captain's chair, still sipping his cup of Breezewood's house roast. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, he supposed. He felt sorry for his captain, whose only crime was that his competence was greater than his desires. Every job that OS&C needed him to do, he had risen to the occaision. They confused his general enthusiasm for life and for the company with enthusiasm for titles. He only really wanted to be Captain of an OS&C liner. You could see it in the way that he made everyone address him as "captain" instead of chairman or director or senior editor or any of the other myriad lines on his resume. One day, he would have to pass off the duties of the Breezewood to be the corporate head the company needed. Until then, he'd continue to delegate and savor what moments he could with his liner.
As the helm officer moved to guide the ship to the next tradelane, Florian stopped her. "I think I'd like to take her under my own hand for a bit," said the second officer as stood up to take the helm once more.
"Forklifts and jumpsuits on the promenade? Tsk tsk, what if a passenger sees?"
Kendra Oldham looked up at the balcony above her to see a smiling Florian Schwarz. Kendra signed off on the pad and handed it back to the crewmember who slid it into a pocket in said jumpsuit before returning back to said forklift. The antigrav pads left a faint humming in their wake as yet another crate of medical supplies made its way to a former cabin.
"Florian, are you just going to make life miserable for me or are you actually here to help?"
"In theory, I should be 'pressing the flesh' as the Captain likes to say. A curious idiom that I dramatically misunderstood when he first gave it to me on a flight of socialites out of Manhattan."
Kendra couldn't help but smile at that one. "Well, since our current guests," she waved to the supplies, "do not seem to be particularly social, would you mind giving me a hand? These crates are too large for the autoloaders we use for luggage so if we're using the cabins we have to slide them in manually through the door frames."
"I remember the routine well from Leeds," said Florian as he made his way down a spiral staircase. The evacuation of the planet had been a two way process in the beginning: medical supplies in and refugees out. That was before the final days when every second counted, and those trapped on Leeds with injuries wouldn't survive long enough for the medical supplies to make a difference. Gallic cannons worked faster than infectious wounds. "What would you have me do?"
"Repack these crates so they're stacked horizontally instead of vertically. The way Cryer shrink wraps them they're too large for steerage class cabins doors." "I can do that, now you go off and do something more important."
Kendra cocked her head slightly. Florian was different, more professional and to the point. He had enough supplementary duties from the Captain's White Star Lines initiative to keep him busy, even with a cleared schedule he didn't have to be on the promenade. He sought her out for something to do instead of leaving Oldham to find him and give an order. "Everything ok, Florian? It's not like you to actively seek out moving crates around."
Florian shrugged. "I like being around people, Kendra, and watching these loaders is going to be the most interaction we get with someone not wearing an OS&C logo until we hit Baden Baden. Unlike you, I miss passengers."
Kendra raised an eyebrow until Florian filled the silence. "...and this time it is a crisis that affects my house. I recall you being unusually sociable with the refugees when we left Leeds, I'm being unusually productive with crates of pharmaceuticals to help Stuttgart. It is my home system, Kendra, much as I tried to flee it when first I could I still have family on the main planet."
Kendra remembered the games she played with circles of children from Leeds, children born after the start of the siege who had never seen the sun except for brief trips to the surface to scrounge for supplies. "Are they ok?"
Florian sighed. "I don't know. My parents were hardcore political loyalists to Niemann's party during the Nomad War, but a lot of the extended family has gotten involved opportunistically with the various parties as they rose and fell since then. I have a bad feeling most were caught on the wrong side of the aisle in this last election."
Florian stared as the icy peaks of planet Denver slowly rotated into view of the window. "I'm just trying to do my part. For the fatherland."
Kendra instinctively started to move her hand to comfort her subordinate, but Florian turned back to face her. An awkward moment ensued as she tried to casually bring it back to her side. Florian smiled. "Thank you, Kendra. Now, let's stow these crates to make room for the tourists coming back from Baden Baden early. Captain wants the ship's full amenities to be online to keep them happy, which is something we didn't have to deal with on Leeds."
"Any ideas how to swap between cargo and luxury mode in less than 6 hours?" replied Kendra.
"A few," said Florian, "but I imagine the Captain isn't going to like them."
"You've got to be kidding me."
Kendra stared at her captain as the latter reached out to stroke a red fox-like creature. The ship's menagerie was an impressive amount of open space for a liner. Most Enterprises used the space for a starlit lounge or restaurant, but Breezewood instead carried a little slice of planet Gaia wherever it went. Even the trees in the center of the area were real (though the ones on the edges were fiberglass). Their roots had a nasty habit of working their way past the isolation barriers, and Kendra's engineers had spent many a night tracking down leaking irrigation water. There was something oddly nostalgic about patching leaks on a starship, harking back to the golden age of terrestrial cruise ships on Old Earth. Provided someone else had to be the one who shimmied up the access duct with a calk gun to plug it, of course.
"No joke, a honest to goodness Gaian wants to help us upgrade our menagerie." The fox warily accepted a brush or two on the head before scurrying back into the canopy. Kendra noted that it darted into the artificial section of the forest. Now where the hell is he hiding? Those claws are for burrowing into wood, not steel she thought to herself before coming back to the task at hand. "I would have thought that radical environmentalists would want nothing to do with our little zoo here."
"And initially, she didn't, except to 'liberate' our permanent passengers. My first offer was to donate to her cause and put out materials for some of the more ecologically minded passengers to peruse. Ms. Velasquez's counter-offer was to inspect our vessel, confiscate our wildlife, and then fine us for the privilege."
"Ever the savvy negotiators."
"The Gaians or the two of us?"
"Yes."
Seabourne smiled. He always enjoyed when Kendra's dry humor slipped into her professional demeanor. Deep down, he knew that his first officer found as much joy in the Breezewood as he did, but she most certainly hid it well at times. "What was your counter to her counter?" she continued. "It's not like we really need their blessing to do what we do. They've been pretty well smashed since they chose poorly in the War."
"A golden opportunity missed for them. They should have worked with the crown as a ready-made insurgency in the taus. Instead, they threw in with his majesty. Say what you will, Gaia is truly a unique gem. Even old Terra doesn't compare to that world. It should be protected. And now it's being strip mined, the short-sighted bastards."
"Focus, captain. I take it this was when they offered to install their equipment and staff it to take care of our on-board creatures?"
"Bingo."
"And being the politically astute Captain you are, you immediately said no to filling your ship with a dozen known terrorists hauling in tons of mysterious equipment?"
"I immediately said 'maybe" to filling my ship with ten known terrorists hauling in tons of well vetted equipment. Or are you not up to the task of detecting a booby-trap?"
"Hardware I know," replied the Breezewood's head of engineering. "It's the code side of things that scares me. Mactan can cram an awful lot of nastiness into a thumb drive, let alone a piece of machinery that size."
"I know there's risk," said Seabourne, "but I'm trying to build some bridges here. Kendra, we've lost liners to the Gaians in the past, but if we can work with the Gallics, I imagine we can find some common ground to work with this lot as well."
"And if it goes south?"
"Well, then hopefully they don't shoot me before you get a chance to say, 'I told you so'."
"You said yes."
The airlock doors had barely opened before the words were out of Florian's mouth. A tired looking Seabourne handed his bag to a waiting steward before stepping over the threshold from his Taurus-class fighter back aboard the Breezewood. Seabourne sometimes found his second officer smug and annoying, but he never quested the efficiency of the hospitality staff under his watch. "I said yes."
Florian lit up like a firecracker. "Kendra is NOT going to like this," said the Breezewood's second officer as he followed his captain along the corridor towards the bridge. "She's been complaining about all of the legal and security issues of inviting Gaians aboard."
"That's your job to figure out," replied Seabourne, smiling at a few tourists as they passed. He was puzzled by their reaction until he remembered that he was in a flight suit and not his normal uniform. He checked his watch, but Florian was faster with his ocular interface. "You're not on duty for another 5 hours, plenty of time to freshen up, change, and explain to me just how large a nightmare you have created for the two of us."
"The plan is for 25 Gaians to man the equipment, which we have to procure the hardware for." "Do you have a list?" Seabourne handed him a piece of paper, hand scrawled with the requirements. Florian took the list and burst out laughing. "What the hell is Kendra going to do with this? These are not specifications, they are a Christmas list from an indecisive child!"
"Just because they're gibberish to you..."
"Oh no, this isn't a lack of engineering education. You need 25 units of 'alien organisms.' Do you know how many alien organisms there are? The wildlife themselves are technically 'alien organisms!' So are you and I for that matter. And the ever so specific 'industrial hardware' I'm sure will be trivial to track down. I'm sure the Zoners of Galileo keep crates of it in between their "thingamabobs" and "whosiwhatsits." And these Xenobiotic Filters... well that one actually is specific enough, only one company makes the things, though I am surprised to see Gaian technology using Planetform components-"
"Kendra will make it work. She knows her stuff better than any of us."
"She's a miracle worker, but this is beyond the powers of a minor deity such as her."
They stopped by the bridge to see Oldham in the main chair, manning the con. She turned to look at the two men who entered the bridge. "You said yes, didn't you?"
Seabourne smirked. "Remind me not to play poker with either of you." "I spend a lot of time in the ship's library," said Kendra, "I know how to read an open book."
A bemused Seabourne handed over a data pad. "What's this?" asked Kendra as a confused Florian looked over his captain's shoulders. "Technical specifications for the equipment our Gaian friends will need to construct these chambers for us. Can you procure the supplies?" "Of course I can. They were very thorough in their specifications," replied Kendra as she navigated the files on the pad. "They even included locations and contacts of known providers. All I have to do is relay the order numbers. Of course, that doesn't mean I can assess the safety and wisdom of such actions from schematics alone-"
"You'll get your chance to examine everything up close and personal," interrupted Seabourne before Oldham could build up a head of steam. "No switch will be flicked until you are 100% satisfied."
"I'm an engineer," said Kendra coolly. "I'm never 100% satisfied."
"Fine, I'll settle for 99.9 repeating percent satisfied."
Kendra started to point out to her captain that 99.9 repeating and 100 were the same number. A challenge problem on one of her middle school math tests dealt with that concept. She remembered it because of her teacher's praise when she was the only student to get that right. She pointed out that if they weren't the same number, then something would have to exist between them but there was no way to write such a number. It was her first "proof by contradiction," and the first time she felt "good" at math. But she got what her captain was trying to say in English even if it made no sense in numbers.
"Understood, sir."
"Good, carry on Kendra."
Oldham returned to her duties as Florian looked back at the paper in his hand. Seabourne took the note, folded it, and returned it to the pocket of his flight suit. "I'm not an idiot, Florian. That note was for me, not Kendra. Here's yours."
Seabourne pulled out a trifolded stack of papers from another pocket. A significantly longer set of letters, handwritten in the captain's neat cursive, now filled Florian's hands.
"Those are the basic specifications of the people we'll be entertaining. Your job is to do whatever you need to do to keep them as guests aboard the Breezewood in the event that we're stopped by the Navy, short of refusing a lawful order from our charter government."
"I though we were the innocent face of the corporation?" said Florian as he leafed through the papers.
"Yeah, well, White Star Lines is branching out I suppose."