Part 3 (1/2)
”Boscor Mechanics Guild.”
”Good outfit,” I said, shaking his hand. He had a good solid grip, the sort you'd expect of a stars.h.i.+p mechanic. ”Been waiting long?”
”No, just a couple of minutes,” he said. ”Kind of surprised to be the first
one.
here, actually. From the way Borodin talked last night, I figured he'd be in as soon as the gates opened. But the entry's locked, and no one answered when I buzzed.”
I stepped over to the base of the stairway and touched the OPEN command on the keypad. There was a soft beep, but nothing happened. ”You check to see if there were any other ways inside?” I asked, looking up at the s.h.i.+p again.
”Not yet,” Jones said. ”I went around that Trink's bow first to see if I could see Borodin coming, but there's no sign of him that direction. You want me to circle the s.h.i.+p and see what's on the other side?”
”No, I'll do it,” I said. ”You wait here in case he shows up.”
I headed aft along the side, circling the rest of the small sphere, then walking alongside the engine section. Seen up close, some of the hull plates did indeed look like they'd been fastened on by Jones's semi-trained chimps. But for all the cosmetic sloppiness, they seemed solid enough. I rounded the thruster nozzles-which looked more professionally installed than the hull plates-and continued forward along the starboard side.
I was halfway to the smaller sphere when a pair of indentations in the engine section caught my eye. Thirty centimeters apart, they were about a centimeter wide each, and an exploring finger showed they were about two centimeters deep and five more down, running to an apparent point. Basically like the latch grooves for a snap-fit lifeline, except that I'd never seen two of them set thisclose together before. Peering up along the side of the hull, squinting in the glare of the rising sun, I could see what looked like four more pairs of the slots rising in a vertical line to the top of the engine section.
I mulled at it for a moment, but I couldn't come up with any good reason to have a group of latch grooves here. Still, considering how unorthodox the rest of the Icarus's design was, I wasn't inclined to waste too much brainpower on the question right now. The s.h.i.+p's specs should be in the computer; once we were off the ground, I could look them up and see what they were for.
On impulse, I pulled out the now useless guidance tag and tore it in half.
Loosely wadding up the pieces, I carefully stuck one into each of the lower
two.
latch grooves, making sure they were out of view. The thin plastic wouldn't block or impede any connector that might be put into the slot, but the act of insertion would squash the plastic down to the bottom of the groove, leaving proof that something had been there.
I finished the rest of my inspection tour without finding anything else of particular interest. The wraparound tunnel/airlock we'd seen on the port side had no match on the starboard, as I'd thought it might, and there were no other entrances into the s.h.i.+p that I could see. By the time I returned to the stairway, there were four others and their luggage waiting with Jones: two men, a Craean male, and-surprisingly enough, at least to me-a young woman.
”Ah-there you are,” Jones called as I came around the curve of the smaller sphere to join them. ”Gentlefolk, this is our pilot and navigator, Captain Jordan McKell.”
”Pleased to meet you,” I said, giving them a quick once-over as I joined the group. ”I sure hope one of you knows what's going on here.”
”What do you mean, what's going on?” one of the newcomers demanded in a scratchy voice. He was in his early twenties, thin to the point of being scrawny, with pale blond hair and an air of nervousness that hung off his shoulders like a rain cloak. ”You're the pilot, aren't you? I thought you pilots always knew everything.”
”Ah-you've been reading our propaganda sheets,” I said approvingly. ”Very good.”
He frowned. ”Propaganda sheets?”
”A joke,” I said, sorry I'd even tried it. Apparently, humor wasn't his strong point. ”I was hired off the street, just like all the rest of you were.”
I sent a casual glance around the group as I spoke, watching for a reaction.
But if any of them had had a different sort of invitation to this party, he was keeping it to himself. ”I'm sure we'll all have our questions answered as soon as our employer arrives,” I added.
”If he shows up,” the other man murmured. He was tall, probably around thirty years old, with prematurely gray hair and quietly probing eyes. His musculature was somewhat leaner than Jones's, but just as impressive in its own way.
”He'll be here,” I said, trying to put more confidence into my tone than I felt.
Having a murder charge hanging over Cameron's head was going to severely cramp his mobility. ”While we're waiting, how about you starting off the introductions?”
”Sure,” the gray-haired man said. ”I'm Almont Nicabar-call me Revs. Enginecertification, though I'm cleared to handle mechanics, too.”
”Really,” Jones said, sounding interested. ”Where'd you journeyman on your mechanics training?”
”I didn't go through an actual program,” Nicabar said. ”Mostly I just picked it up while I was in the service.”
”No kidding,” Jones said. Apparently our mechanic was the terminally sociable type. ”Which branch?”
”Look, can't we save the social-club chat till later?” the nervous kid growled, his head bobbing restlessly as he checked out every s.p.a.cer that came into sight along the walkways.
”I'm open to other suggestions,” I said mildly. ”Unfortunately, as long as the entryway's locked-”
”So why don't we open it?” he cut me off impatiently, peering up at the wraparound. ”A cheeseball hatch like that-I could pop it in half a minute.”
”Not a good idea,” Jones warned. ”You can break the airlock seal that way.”
”And that would leave our hull/EVA specialist with nothing to do,” I said, turning to the Craea. ”And you are, sir?”
”I am Chort,” the alien said, his voice carrying the typical whistly overtones of his species, a vaguely ethereal sound most other beings either found fascinating or else drove them completely up a wall. ”How did you know I was the s.p.a.cewalker?”
”You're far too modest,” I told him, bowing respectfully. ”The reputation of the Crooea among s.p.a.cewalkers far precedes you. We are honored to have you with us.”
Chort returned the bow, his feathery blue-green scales s.h.i.+mmering where they caught the sunlight. Like most of his species, he was short and slender, with pure white eyes, a short Mohawk-style feathery crest topping his head, and a toothed bird's bill for a mouth. His age was impossible to read, but I tentatively put it somewhere between fifteen and eighty. ”You're far too generous,” he replied.
”Not at all,” I a.s.sured him, putting all the sincere flattery into my voice that I figured I could get away with. The entire Craean species loved zero gee, whether working in it or playing in it, with the lithe bodies and compact musculature that were perfect for climbing around outside s.h.i.+ps. On top of that, they seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to the depressingly regular hull problems created by hypers.p.a.ce pressure, plus the ability to evaluate the condition of a plate through touch alone.
All of which meant they were highly in demand for hull/EVA positions aboard stars.h.i.+ps, to the point where s.h.i.+p owners frequently tried to cajole, bribe, or otherwise steal them away from rivals in port. I wasn't sure how Cameron had managed to get him to sign on with us, but a little ego-ma.s.sage here and there wouldn't hurt our chances of keeping him here.
Unfortunately, our nervous type either didn't understand such subtleties or just didn't care. ”Oh, give it a rest,” he growled. ”He saw your luggage, Chort-you can tell there's a vac suit in there.”
The blue-green scales edged with the pale red of surprise. ”Oh,” Chort said.
”Ofcourse. There's certainly that, too.”
”Don't mind him,” I told the Craea, controlling my annoyance with a supreme effort. ”He's our certified diplomacy expert.”
Jones chuckled, and the kid scowled. ”I am not,” he insisted. ”I'm electronics.”
”Do you have a name?” Nicabar asked. ”Or are we going to have to call you Twitchy for the rest of the trip?”
”Har, har,” he said, glowering at Nicabar. ”I'm Shawn. Geoff Shawn.”