“I knew I wasn’t safe on Auord,” I said instead. “I found these clothes and, when it seemed you could lead me to a ship, I followed you.”
“Out of all the ship owners carousing in Port City that night, you followed me,” he echoed, but as if to himself. There was an odd bitterness in the set of his mouth. An old memory, I decided, inclined to be envious. Morgan said more briskly, “What can you remember about your belongings?”
“Nothing useful,” I admitted with a shrug. “A dress, soaking wet, shoes definitely not meant for puddle-running.”
“You didn’t have your keffle-flute with you?”
I looked at Morgan blankly. “My what?”
He took my left hand and turned it over. “These calluses,”he rubbed his thumb over a parallel set of ridges on my palm. “I knew a professional keffle player once, a good one. He had the same marks.”
Had I been a musician? I looked at my hand suspiciously. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said after a moment, wondering where my music could have gone.
“What about the name you gave me—Kissue?” Morgan’s eyes glinted like those of the hunting cat he’d painted stalking along the tape shelf.
I flushed. “Kissue was the name Roraqk used for me. I didn’t know what else to say.”
Morgan considered this for a moment, swinging one leg methodically back and forth. “I’m no medtech, but I’ve tended a few injuries in my time. You had some bruises and cuts, that nasty burn on your shoulder, when you came on board, but I can’t see them doing this. However, there are ways of removing memory, temporarily or permanently, ways that don’t leave obvious traces.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to suggest. Perhaps the Enforcers—”
I was relieved and alarmed at the same time. “No! The Enforcers would take me back to Auord!” And make me leave the
Fox,
I added, but to myself. “I just need time, Captain Morgan. Maybe my memory will return.”
“What if it doesn’t?” he cut across my plea, almost brutally. “What then?”
“Then I go on from here, Captain Morgan. What else can I do?” I winced at a sickening increase in the throbbing sensation within my skull.
I felt a touch, ghostly light and strange, on my forehead. It was gone so swiftly I might have imagined it, save for a sudden relief from the pain in my head, a momentary scent of homely, safe things. Startled, I stared at Morgan as he withdrew his hand. The throbbing began again, but more softly, as if at a distance.
“What did you do?” I demanded, perplexed and more than a little frightened.
Morgan’s eyes were oddly dark. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, as if sensing my response. “I’ve a small—gift. I helped your pain a little, that’s all.”
I did feel better. The strain of searching my meager memory was gone, and the ever-present ache had almost disappeared. I doubted it would help my peace of mind to know how Morgan accomplished that feat with only a touch, or if this “small gift” stretched to eavesdropping on my dreams.
“Well,” Morgan said briskly, again as though fully aware of my thoughts. “On to our first order of business.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “That being?”
Morgan looked down at me, the corners of his mouth beginning to deepen in a smile. “A proper name for you, chit. I’m sure you don’t want to hang on to Roraqk’s.”
“Then you’ll let me stay?” Oh, where had that plea come from? I closed my lips tightly over it, but held his eyes with mine.
His brows rose ever so slightly. “You wanted passage to Ettler’s.”
I hadn’t realized relief could hurt. “I thought you might want me to leave. After what I did.”
“Oh, that,” Morgan said gruffly, glancing around his cabin. “I trust it won’t happen again?” At my nod, he brought himself back to his assigned task with a visible effort. “A name,” he said. “We’ll need one you can live with for my manifest, anyway. Ret 7 is a stickler for protocol.”
I looked at him helplessly. “I don’t have any suggestions to offer, Captain.”
Morgan considered this, then nodded curtly. “Trader ships usually carry kin as crew. That’s our best bet—no one will ask questions about a second Morgan on the
Fox.
And I suppose I could use a bit of help around here.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, keeping to myself the surge of possessiveness his naming gave me. I had some of him after all.
“And as for a first name,” Morgan paused. “What do you think of Sira?”
I couldn’t account for the expectancy I read in his eyes and dismissed it as my imagination. “It’s better than Kissue,” I agreed, anxious to finish this odd business of gaining a name. “I only hope it doesn’t have an owner likely to object.”
“No, Sira Morgan,” said Morgan slowly, as if tasting the words. “No, I don’t think it does.”
Chapter 7
FROM that moment, although I didn’t realize it then, the pattern of my days was set. To pay for my passage and food, I learned the tasks of the Hindmost crew of the
Silver Fox,
Karolus Registry. If these included some I suspected Morgan dreamed up just to keep me out of his way, I wasn’t about to argue. I healed at the same time, climbing into my hammock each night cycle too exhausted to dream.
Not that Morgan was idle. He divided his time among three occupations: studying journey tapes purchased from other traders (looking for opportunities, or checking for changes in language or culture since his last visit), endlessly fine-tuning the controls and engines of the
Fox,
and patiently (and not-so-patiently) helping me find my way around his ship.
It was the helping part, I decided, which tended to plant that frown between Morgan’s brows. This was my third shipday since Auord. We were in the anteroom which led to the main hold. Though completely walled on three sides by lockable storage compartments for less bulky cargo, the tiny room efficiently contained enough space for a desk and viewer table. It was Morgan’s office for bookkeeping and other trade-based work, and now my study chamber. Morgan tapped a finger on the stack of tapes next to my hand.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Hindmost Sira Morgan,” his tone making me want to cringe. “Aren’t these the ones I gave you yesterday?”
I looked at the offending stack carefully, covering a pair of tapes definitely not on my study program with a casual elbow, hoping the acrid disinfectants in the room wouldn’t start my nose running again. “I’ve been busy, Captain.”
The finger tapped again. “Didn’t you agree to review these basic procedures?” Maybe I was imagining a growing frustration in his voice. “I don’t have the time to teach you what you could pick up from the tapes, even if that were part of our bargain.”
I shared Morgan’s disappointment in my progress, but couldn’t bring myself to explain. Reluctantly, I reached for the first tape in the pile, this one, as the others, gray-stained and worn from years of use. These were likely Morgan’s own; no wonder he thought me ungrateful.
Morgan thrust a long arm past my nose and snatched up the tapes I’d hidden. He read the labeling silently. My face grew hot.
The captain of the
Fox
pulled the chair from his desk and sank into it. “You could have told me, chit,” he said almost wistfully. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“No?” I glared at him.
“Have these helped?” He held up the language tapes I’d stumbled upon in desperation.
“No,” I admitted.
Morgan rose and went over to the tape storage. He selected five tapes and returned to me. “Try these.”
I inserted the first one into the machine. Instead of meaningless text sprawled over the tabletop, a ship’s cargo bay formed itself, similar to the one behind the massive door at my back. A voice began to recite, in unaccented Comspeak, the procedure for hold decontamination. I halted the presentation and stared at my hands. “Thank you, Captain.” I knew my voice lacked enthusiasm.
“Not every spacer reads Trade script, chit,” Morgan said matter-of-factly, as he gathered up the other tapes and filed them. “Regulations call for ships to carry visteach tapes as well.” He paused and I looked up. “Neitherof us know what your life was like before, Sira. But if you want to learn to crew on a starship, you have to work together with others, which at the moment is me. Crew is closer than kin—it has to be. Don’t hesitate to tell when you need help with something again.”
Some hard, tight place inside eased ever so slightly as I listened. “I’m sorry, Captain.”
His voice became gruff. “Just finish these tapes today. I’ve enough to worry about without wondering if you’re going to blow an air lock cleaning the vents.” As Morgan was leaving, he turned. I halted the tape and waited. “And if you need help?”
“I’ll ask,” I promised. Blue eyes assessed my sincerity and then he nodded.
“See that you do. Just start simple and you’ll be okay.”
“Start simple. Fine advice,” I muttered to myself, taking my time entering the door codes on the wall pad. What could go wrong with cargo hold maintenance? I’d thought the same about refilling the servo-kitchen— that less than pleasant memory made me glance anxiously back into the main hold.
The door consulted with itself, digesting my instructions with sullen clicks. I peered into the hold again, eyeing the rows of plas crates and bags suspiciously. The unfortunate eruption in the galley had followed a similar feeling of accomplishment. I stared at the door indicators, calculating. There should be enough time.
Dashing back into the hold, I went to the load I had rearranged, and tugged at the straps securing it to the wall. By jumping up, I could hook my fingers into the overhead straps, breathing clouds of moisture into the chilled, odorless air. They bore my weight without sagging. Satisfied, I let go and turned to leave, only to smack into the closed door panel. A peaceful whirring sound began, signaling the removal of air from the hold—standard procedure to kill vermin. I should know; I’d coded in the instructions.
I didn’t want to see Morgan’s face when he found out—of course, the odds were I’d get my wish. I rushed to the pad on this side of the door, hesitated with fingersoutstretched and shaking. What was the opening code? I forced myself to breathe more slowly, calmly, trying to ignore the sound of the pumps as I concentrated on the number sequence. There. I entered the last number, only to have a second door panel slide into place before my eyes.
No more time for mistakes; I couldn’t seem to fill my lungs now no matter how deeply I breathed. I looked around hurriedly, spotting the outlines of a locker to the left of the door. Keeping one steadying hand on the panel, I fought to lift my feet, my legs growing loose and weak. My fingers clutched a proper handle—not another servo-mech to argue with, thank Ossirus. I pulled, half-falling in the process.
Bless Morgan, and his tapes, I added a moment later, drawing huge breaths from the helmet of the evac-suit. I closed my eyes, wanting to savor the simple act of survival. No fresh spring air could smell better than this stale, human-enriched stuff.
With the helmet locked over my head, and the suit sealed as per instructions, I closed up the closet and returned to the puzzle of the door. The index finger of each glove bore a short, blunt nail, sized to fit the keys of the wall pad.
This time, without panic to crowd my mind, I remembered the proper sequence and entered it. The inner door retracted. An indicator showed the reversal of the pumps, returning atmosphere to the hold. I leaned a bulky elbow against the nearest carton to wait, still enjoying the acrid taste of the suit’s air supply, content to have survived at least one mistake unnoticed.
Not that Morgan made much of my occasional slips, I thought, honesty overcoming my embarrassment, though he’d been a bit testy about the minor flood in the aft corridor (which hadn’t really been my fault, since the plumbing was ship-original). The outer door swished open, and I removed the helmet quickly, half-expecting to see the captain of the
Fox
standing there with brows slightly and eloquently lifted.
This time the only witness to my folly was the portlighthovering with servo idiocy over the wall pad I’d used to lock myself in the hold. I waved it to its shelf, annoyed, then summoned it back again. I didn’t need to make another mistake. I made sure I replaced the suit exactly as I’d found it.
The door closed, the indicators read complete vacuum, and I sighed, done at last. Why did everything have to be difficult, no matter how long I hunched over the tape table? None of my nodes of memory held anything about ships or machines. It was equally hard to bear Morgan’s patient instruction and tolerance.
I shook myself mentally, tired of self-pity. I was fed, clothed, and beyond the reach of whatever danger had chased me through Auord’s dark streets. And, far from being a slave, I was learning a trade, albeit with frustrating slowness. My calluses were well-earned, I decided, examining the palms of my hands with an odd pride. I’d be a spacer yet, qualified to scrub floors and shift cargo with any crew.
After one final look, I sent the portlight to its resting place, done with time to spare. I headed for the galley, inclined to celebrate my success—and survival. When I arrived, I stuck my head around the corner cautiously. Morgan wasn’t there. Refusing to acknowledge I was relieved, I went to the console and selected a hearty soup.
I sat at the narrow table and sniffed the aroma drifting from the cup appreciatively, then frowned into the steam. The smell was familiar, tantalizing, echoing a dim memory of another place, a place open to a crisp mauve sky. My empty hand curled as if around a warm round of bread. The memory diffused and vanished.
As I tried in vain to recapture it, I noticed the wall screens were again set for a view of some section of space, stars wheeling in a gently accelerated movement. I put my back to them, definitely not spacer enough to enjoy that view with my meal.
My thoughts turned to the present; I went over my success, feeling a peculiar contentment—a contentment which extended to where I was, and with whom. Morgan. I almost trusted him—certainly I respected his love of this ship. I fished a large piece of something from my soup and popped it between my teeth. The texture was odd, but when I bit down, the taste said meat.