Fool's War

Chapter Two — Launch

“Port Oberon to Pasadena, prepare for transfer to docking trolley.”

Yerusha looked out the window above her station boards and watched the trolley slide into place underneath Pasadena. The camera displays on either side of the window showed the flat-bed cart reaching out its waldos and grabbing ahold of the Pasadena’s side just before the docking clamps retracted into the skin of the station.

Yerusha had been glad to see that Pasadena sported a real window. Cameras were fine, and virtual reality was very useful, but she never felt quite comfortable flying without a direct look at what was actually between her ship and where she was going.

The trolley began to tow them out of the docking ring. The slight jerk buffeted her gently against her straps. The gravity was so light she barely retained any sense of up and down. On the displays, the curving walls of the modules fell behind as trolley trundled towards the pinnacle of the station. The landscape became nothing but silver panels sliding away underneath the black dome of vacuum.

If she squinted at the top of the left-hand screen, she could see the shining edge of Oberon, just barely visible beyond the station. Titania though, was somewhere on the other side of Uranus’s blue-grey bulk.

She was glad. She didn’t want to see the Free Home right now. She just wanted to get through the next two years.

“Port Oberon to Pasadena. Thirty seconds to release.”

“Thanks Oberon.” Yerusha chided herself for daydreaming. She had a job to do and starboard Watch Commander who didn’t seem as though he was a great believer in second chances for Freers.

Doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. For now, you are Pasadena.

Yerusha rested her hands on her boards. The flat keys glowed with the designations she had written across them, including the OVERRIDE key. That one would cancel out all the programs she had labored over for the past two days and would let her command the engines directly if anything unpredicted happened on course to the jump point.

The ship had been slow to learn her writing and short-hand because there was no AI running the internal systems. Al Shei was obviously almost as paranoid about humanity’s progeny as Lipinski was. Yerusha shook her head. With attitudes like that surrounding her, it was going to be a long run, that much was sure.

The Pasadena slid out from under the module rings and the gleaming panels that the view screens showed came to a halt. Out of the window, she saw the silver-white curve of the station and just a glimpse of the ghostly globe of Oberon.

“Three to release, Pasadena,” said the Port voice. “Two…one…release.”

The trolley opened its clamps and Yerusha watched Port Oberon and the stark, white moon fall away from the Pasadena.

She knew that the relative motion was the ship’s. Pasadena was falling away from the station, from Oberon and from the sun. Without any acceleration pressure to tell her otherwise, though, her mind believed what her eyes saw. As the minutes ticked by, Port Oberon dropped back, becoming an elaborate silver mobile surrounded by moth like ships that darted between the spindly arms of cranes and the bloated hulls of the fuel tanks. All of them hung against the backdrop of Oberon’s white and black speckled surface. The moon itself was nothing but a cardboard circle suspended in the limitless black pool that made up the universe.

“Pasadena this is Port Oberon we have you at a eight clicks at five minutes, fourteen seconds. Hour 15:24:16. Mark.”

“Marked, Oberon.” Yerusha checked the clock at her station automatically. The clock showed both the length-of-flight time and time of day. The Pasadena’s flight clocks had to be in synch with each other as well as with the outside, but not just for timing torch bursts for sub-light navigation. Navigation past light speed was impossible. To change direction, they would have to drop down to sub-light, change the ship’s flight angle and jump again. The trick was, if they made a mistake in their calculations, they might not know which system they were making their correcting jump from, and it might take days to work out where they were, much less where they were headed, if they were able to do it at all. Ships did disappear for want of good timing.

“In sync, Pilot?” came Schyler’s voice from her right hand. The bridge was laid out so that all the vital stations were on one side of the drop-shaft. The other side held the back-up boards, the conference station and the virtual reality simulator. During her shifts, Yerusha would don the VR gear and run through flight simulations, looking for ways to cut down the run time and fuel consumption, as well as bringing herself up to spec on just what the ship she was flying could and could not do. If an emergency course change were called for, Schyler could put on the gear and run through the programs she fed in from her chair, using full-blown simulations of Pasadena.

“In sync and on line, Watch,” Yerusha replied in her best doing-my-job voice. From Schyler’s station he could call up a display of exactly what she saw, but safety and approved protocol called for a direct check.

To Yerusha’s left sat the pilot’s relief, only other member of the bridge crew on duty at this time. He was a round, little man named Cheney who had Asian eyes and had let himself go almost completely bald. This was his third run with Al Shei as a pilot’s mate, he’d told her. He had described each trip with the single word every shipper with more than one working synapse wanted to hear. Uneventful.

The other two members of the bridge crew were waiting out launch in their cabins. Most of the work had been done while the Pasadena was still in dock. Schyler, Yerusha and Al Shei had mapped and timed the route while figuring the requirements for fuel and reaction mass. Yerusha had programmed the simulations. When the stats lined up to her satisfaction, she wrote them into Pasadena’s computers. Both Schyler and the ship had verified them.

Al Shei and her crew had been on board even before Yerusha, re-checking the ship inside and out. When it came to flight capability, it didn’t matter to Al Shei that the Pasadena had been checked over less than forty-eight hours previously by a Lennox expert. Yerusha couldn’t fault Al Shei’s caution. She and her crew would be depending absolutely on the ship for the next six to eight months, she and her crew should be the ones to decide if it was ready to go.

It had taken a day of drill calls and simulations to get the new crew used to each others’ speech patterns and how the orders were given and confirmed. After that, Al Shei and her engineers had remotely warmed the reactors and accumulators with the “hot” mix of deuterium and tritium. Once warmed, the Pasadena’s engines could run on the much safer mix of hydrogen and boron (11). The ship was humming and ready when they all were allowed back on board to strap down and start out.

“Oberon to Pasadena, we’ve got you at fifteen klicks at eleven minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Good luck and see you soon.”

“Thanks Oberon. See you soon,” replied Schyler. “Clear to go whenever you’re ready, Yerusha.”

Yerusha checked the angle of the jets one more time to make sure they were pointing away from the station and the incoming traffic. “Intercom to Pasadena,” Yerusha called. She lifted her hands and held them flat over her boards. “Counting down to acceleration. Ten, nine, eight…”

She heard no sound of movement under her countdown. There was nothing to do. The systems were all up and running. The final set-up had been completed four hours before the docking clamps had let them all go. Now was the time to rest in the harness, pay attention to the monitors and remain quietly confident that nothing unexpected was going to happen.

“Three… two… one.” Yerusha brought her hands down on her board. The ship read her fingerprints and sent its signal down to the engine compartment. “Torch lit,” she reported, just before a low rumble that echoed all the way up the drop shaft confirmed her call.

Gradually, Yerusha’s head settled on her neck, her neck rested against her shoulders and the floor reached up and pressed against the soles of her feet. The harness went slack against her shirt and trousers as her body settled into the chair.

Despite two hundred of years of attempts to separate it out, gravity had remained a property of mass and motion. Without enough of either, you had free fall. Al Shei ran her ship at close to one gee acceleration. In that respect at least, the run was going to be comfortable.

The displays on the monitor in front of Yerusha all remained green. She read the numbers and thrust ratios one by one. Each was exactly as it should be.

The intercom started bringing up the voices from engineering.

“Station One, all normal and constant,” said Javerri, the FTL Assistant, who didn’t look like she ever got enough sleep.

“Station Two, all normal and constant.” Ianiai, a big, black bear of a boy who though the knew a lot more than he did.

“Station Three, all normal and constant.” Shim’on, who wore a yamulke and wouldn’t eat even cloned bacon.

Groundhogs at core, all of them.

“Check and check,” Al Shei’s voice answered them. “Intercom to Bridge. Engineering reports normal and constant, Watch.”

“Thank you, Engineering,” said Schyler. “Time to jump, Pilot?”

Yerusha touched a key and brought up the official time on her board. “Thirty-eight hours to jump point.”

Pasadena needed flat, smooth space to start from. Thirty-six AU from the Sun would put them close enough to the top of the Solar system’s gravity well that they could jump the rest of the way out.

Pasadena was, of course, a long way from being the only ship starting for a jump point this day, even this hour. A lot of the flight planning had involved logging in with Port Oberon’s flight-schedulers and finding out who else had registered a route so she could pick a clear path and reserve it. Yerusha had done runs that were held up at Oberon for over a week before there was room in the direction the ship needed to go. The delay this time had only been a day. She counted herself lucky.

“Received and agreed,” replied Al Shei’s voice. “Thirty-six hours to jump.”

“Intercom to Pasadena,” said Schyler. “Secure from free fall.”

Yerusha snapped the catches on her harness and scratched hard under her left armpit. The new arm was a little stiff, but there wasn’t any of the pins and needles sensation that could accompany a new graft. Her discomfort came simply from the fact that no one seemed to have designed a free fall strap that didn’t chafe.

“And there ends the exciting part,” said Cheney, stretching both arms over his head until Yerusha could hear the joints pop.

“I wish,” muttered Schyler, letting his head fall back until he stared at the ceiling.

Yerusha exchanged a glance with her relief, who just shrugged.

“Pilot,” Schyler lifted his head, “we need to get some projections for the Vicarage to Out There to Wyborn Station jumps. Al Shei’ll want to go over all that at the next briefing.”

“Right away, Watch.” Yerusha got to her feet. “Relief,” she said to Cheney as she crossed the deck to the VR station.

“Relief active.” Cheney picked himself up out of his chair and plopped down into hers. He pulled out his pen and activated the reconfiguration menus to set the boards back to the way he liked them.

She wasn’t even halfway across the deck when the intercom beeped.

“Intercom to Watch,” Resit’s voice sounded out. “Schyler, if she’s free, I need to see Yerusha down here.”

Yerusha froze in mid-stride, but she managed to screw a “what the hell?” expression on her face.

Schyler gave her a heavy glance. “Acknowledged, Law. I’ll send her down as soon as I’ve gone over a couple of things up here.”

“Thanks, Watch,” said Resit. “Intercom to Close.”

Cheney bent over the boards, even though there shouldn’t have been much to see. Schyler jerked his chin towards the drop shaft hatch. Yerusha nodded and walked through the hatch. She heard Schyler’s footsteps follow her.

Inside the drop shaft was a staircase that spiraled all the way down to the engine compartment. The walls were lined with junction boxes, bundles of cables and wires, and endlessly branching ceramic pipes, color-coded in green, red, blue or orange depending on what they carried. Maintenance displays dotted the chaos, their readings shining bright green.

Yerusha walked down a couple of steps and turned, resting her new hand against the railing. Schyler followed her a split second later. He stopped one step above her.

Schyler leaned close to her and Yerusha felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There was a cold sheen in his eyes that she had not seen there before.

He kept his voice soft and relaxed. “I already have one massive problem on this run,” he said. “If I find out your presence is going to add another, I will boot you out of here without slowing the ship down. Understand?”

“Absolutely.” Yerusha matched his conversational tone and folded her hands behind her back. “But if you’ve got problems this run, Watch, they’re not coming from me.”

“Glad to hear it.” Schyler straightened up. “Report to the Law then, Pilot. In her cabin.”

“Yes, Watch.” She touched her forehead, turned on her heel and marched smartly down the stairs.

The berthing deck was immediately below the bridge. The Pasadena had been built to keep the crew as far away from the engines as possible, just in case. The deck’s corridor was as bare and uninspiring as the bridge. Yerusha found herself wondering why Al Shei hadn’t invested in at least a pre-fab mural to brighten the place up a bit. The woman didn’t seem like one of the engineering aesthetic types who believe bare machinery was beautiful. Then again, she’d already heard rumors about some of the woman’s tight-fisted peccadillos, so maybe she shouldn’t be too surprised no cash had been laid out for corridor trimmings.

Yerusha kept walking around the curved hallway until she found the cabin labeled ZUBEDYE RESIT. The ENTER light shone green, so Yerusha just knocked once to signal that she was there and went inside.

The lawyer’s cabin was not so much living quarters as office. She had her bunk folded away. An active, permanent desk had been welded to the wall where most cabins had a fold-down set of boards. Resit sat at the desk, pouring over a set of films.

Yerusha wasn’t surprised to see her so deep into her work even though they were only five minutes out of free fall. As ship’s lawyer, she had to be a one-woman bureaucracy. She had to have a working knowledge of the local statutes wherever they were taking on or dropping off cargo. She had to make sure contracts, tax forms and manifests were all prepared and legal. The crew had to get reports on any behavior-related ordinances that would effect them, and cultural and legal advice had to be available to anyone who needed it. Al Shei and Schyler would have to know the circumstances under which they could seek work, and the contracts would have to be drawn up to cover cross-system traffic.

Much of the job could have theoretically been done from a station or groundside, but the expense of FTL communication prevented that. Unless you were a mega-corp or a monarch, it was easier and cheaper to bring your counsel with you.

A big input-output box sat on the corner of Resit’s desk. It had been unceremoniously piled with films filled with cramped Arabic writing. Guessing it was Resit’s AI law firm, Yerusha waved to the box in acknowledgement.

“Would you do me the courtesy of an introduction, Law?” she inquired, indicating the AI.

Resit’s mouth pressed into a long, straight line. Yerusha met her eye calmly. Resit obviously shared her cousin-employer’s prejudices.

“Incili. This is Jemina Yerusha.”

“How do you do, ‘Dama Yerusha?” answered the AI in a clear tenor voice with a slightly British accent.

“Pleased to meet you, Fellow.” Yerusha saluted the AI.

“Thank you, ‘Dama Yerusha.”

“All right, Incili, that’ll do.” Resit tapped her pen impatiently against the desk top.

“‘Dama.” The voice shut off.

“You called for me, Law?” Yerusha unfolded the stool from the wall and took her seat. Resit, Yerusha noticed, had changed from her usual skirt to a pair of baggy, opaque blue harem pants.

Skirts not being conducive to the maintenance of modesty in free fall. Yerusha forcibly suppressed a smile at the image of the lawyer with her hems billowing about her ears.

Resit sealed the films in front of her. “It’s part of my job, Yerusha, to try to stay apprised of any trouble the crew might have on the run.”

Yerusha held up her hand. “Is this going to be about the can blowing out at Port Oberon?”

“No,” answered Resit coolly, and Yerusha knew she’d made a tactical error. The lawyer had been all set for a confrontation, and she’d gotten one. “It’s about why the Freers’ exiled you.”

Yerusha had thought she was steeled for this, but the lawyer’s words still hit like a physical blow. She swallowed. “You know about that, and you still hired me.”

Resit shook her head. “I did not hire you. Al Shei did.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “My grasp of Freer law is pretty limited. As near as I can tell, so is anybody’s who doesn’t actually live on a station that has gone Free, or been set up Free.

“I do know you’ve been exiled from Free Home Titania and I know why. We’ve got a couple of station stops this run, so I need to know if you’re likely to get caught up in Freer political brawls, so I can budget for your bail, or your absence.”

Yerusha glanced at first one wall and then the other, just to make sure they weren’t closing in on her. It sure felt like it. She met Resit’s eyes again. “I’d like to know what you’ve been told.”

Resit reached out and tapped the I/O box. “Incili. Give me a replay on what we have from the Titania Hall of Records.”

The tenor voice flowed smoothly out of the box. “Fellow Jemina Yerusha is found guilty of dereliction of duty in public office. It is now a matter of public record that Fellow Jemina Yerusha has been sentenced for two years’ exile from the protection of Free Home Titania. For that time she may not seek or receive work, shelter or resources from any Freer. End sentence.”

There was a strange pounding noise coming from somewhere. Yerusha realized it washer heartbeat. She remembered the stale air in the court and the feel of sweat on her own palms.

“I’m sorry your first impression of me was unfavorable, Incili,” Yerusha said to the box.

“My first impression of you was simply factual, ‘Dama,” answered Incili. “I have not had cause to speculate on you yet.”

“I have, though,” Resit broke in, obviously insulted by the fact that Yerusha was more ready to talk to the AI than to her. Yerusha reined her temper in. It wouldn’t help if she pointed out the AI was more likely to hear anything she might have to say.

“I was derelict in my duty while serving in the Titania Free Guard. I was supposed to be standing a docking watch. I wasn’t. Because of me, a Fellow died.” She forced herself to keep her eyes fixed on Resit’s. “I was brought up and I was sentenced. If I keep a clean record while I’m out here, they’ll let me come home again.”

“Watch Commander Schyler contacted someone in the Free Home who suggested the charges were trumped up. Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Yerusha knew Resit saw the way she struggled to control her features. There was no missing it. The lawyer saw the memories even if she couldn’t read them. Resit didn’t know about Holden’s panicked cry coming down the intercom, about how she’d sprinted down the corridors, about how she’d been too late.

“No.”

Resit’s frown was heated from a slowly simmering anger. “I want you to tell me the worst we can expect if you come into contact with any other Freers.”

Yerusha looked at Incili’s gleaming silver skin and then at Resit. “I’m an Exile. I’ll be ignored. Treated like a ghost. That’s how I lost my arm.” She ran her hand over her right wrist. “I was trying to help with the can explosion, but no one would help me, so I couldn’t get myself out of the way fast enough when the last seam blew.”

Resit regarded her with a steady gaze that had probably made a lot of witnesses squirm. It almost worked on Yerusha.

“I hope,” Resit said without letting her gaze flicker for a second, “that your piloting records are more complete than your service record.”

Yerusha didn’t let herself flinch. “My pilot’s record is exactly as my agent gave it to you. I am the best you would have found in Port Oberon, on any day.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Resit sat back and swiveled her chair so she faced her desk. Her voice had a brittle undertone. Yerusha wasn’t sure whether the lawyer believed what she said or not. “I’m obviously going to need to add Freer law to my repertoire though. Can you recommend a good source?”

Yerusha smiled. “The best storehouse of Freer law is Aneas Knock in Free Home Kemper. Be careful how you talk to him though,” Yerusha stood. “He’s an AI that doesn’t like being dismissed. ‘Bye Incili.” Without bothering to smirk, she left the lawyer’s cabin.

Back in the bare corridor, Yerusha rubbed her right wrist and tried not to curse out loud.

Of course she checked. After that little run-in with the Oberon greens, how could she not check? Yerusha took a couple of deep breaths. And you didn’t do yourself any favors in there. Watch your step, Jemina-Jewel. You’ve got no back-ups on this ship.

She glanced towards the ceiling. Technically, she should get right back to her station. But there shouldn’t be any problem with her slipping by the galley to grab a quick bulb of coffee. She needed something to bolster her up.

Not two hours into the shift and I’m already tired, she thought as she climbed down the stairs. Below her feet, one of the engineer’s mates was hanging from the stair railing by his harness and resting his feet against a couple of support staples. He had a bunch of wiring in one hand and a probe in the other. At the sound of her footsteps, he cast a curious glance upward, flashed a brief smile and went straight back to his work.

At least somebody doesn’t give a damn. Yerusha waited while the galley hatch cranked itself open. It’d be nice to be ignored for awhile.

Kitchen and cafeteria were only part of the galley deck’s function. It also held the exercise room, the sick bay and recreation room. It was also the permanent station for Chandra and Baldassare Sundar. The wife and husband were genuine starbirds. They lived their lives traveling, hiring on board ships and stations as long as it suited them before moving on again. There were groundhogs who called their kind ‘space gypsies,’ and held them only one cut above Freers on the contempt scale. Some commanders wouldn’t hire them for any money. But Al Shei didn’t just hire them. According to some gossip that Yerusha had overheard, the Sundars had the highest share of anyone on the ship, except for Al Shei and Schyler. Between the pair of them they were Management Union certified innutrition, physical therapy, and first-and-emergency aid, and both were rated level six cooks by the Cordon Bleu association. Chandra, Yerusha already knew, made a curry that could burn the tonsils out of the uninitiated.

Despite all that, in the galley, the Fool, Dobbs, was engaged in the ancient past time of baiting the cook.

Dobbs was collapsed across the service window. Three off-shift crew members were so busy watching the show, they had forgotten the food cooling in front of them.

“Water!” Dobbs squeaked. “Water.” She slid off the counter into a little twitching heap on the floor.

Yerusha shook her head and threaded her way between the tables to the coffee urn that had been built into the wall.

Chandra, a grey-haired, bark-brown woman, appeared at the window with an open-lidded bucket in her wrinkled hands. It sloshed. She held it over Dobbs’ head.

Dobbs took one look up and scuttled backwards like a frightened crab. “Help!” She dodged under the nearest table. “That’s a declaration of war, Cook! I’m telling everyone I saw you put blasting gel in that sauce!”

Chandra clapped her hand to her forehead and staggered backwards. “Oh! I am found out! I am undone! I am ruined!”

“I am upstaged,” remarked Dobbs as she crawled out from under the table.

“Now behave yourself, young woman,” Chandra reached meaningfully for a ladle. “There’s work to be done, and unless you want to do it…”

Dobbs slapped her own forehead and stumbled away in perfect imitation of Chandra’s gesture. A comm assistant, who’s name Yerusha had forgotten, chuckled appreciatively. Then, he caught sight of Yerusha. Yerusha nodded to him and sat down at the next table. He got up immediately and moved over to a table on the far side of the room.

Yerusha swallowed her anger with a long draft of very strong coffee. When she looked up, the Fool was sitting across from her, both feet on the table. The chair would have been tilted back if it hadn’t been bolted to the floor.

“I’d be careful with that stuff.” Dobbs pointed toward Yerusha’s coffee cup. “The curry’s not the only place Cook puts the blasting gel. I don’t want to see Al Shei’s face when she’s got to scrape her new pilot off the ceiling.” Dobbs raised an imaginary umbrella and squinted angrily out from under its rim. “That does it,” she said in a good imitation of Al Shei’s Dubai accent. “That is the last time I hire a cook who says she’s a demolitions expert!”

Despite herself, Yerusha chuckled. The comm assistant gave her a disgruntled glance. Dobbs waved cheerily and gestured expansively for the man to come over and join them. Instead, he got up and left.

“Good sign.” The Fool folded her arms. “He at least recognizes when he’s just contributing to a ridiculous situation.”

“You trying to tell me you’re on my side, Fool?” Yerusha took another drink of coffee, smaller this time. The stuff really was strong.

“I’m on all sides. Sometimes all at once,” she added. “Defying relativity is one of those things they teach you when you’re going for master’s rank.”

Yerusha lowered her cup and looked at the other woman speculatively. “I’ve never shipped out with a Fool before. A friend of mine took the Guild entrance exam once. He didn’t even make the first cut.”

“I would sooner jump head first down a black hole than go through the Fool’s Guild qualification process again,” Dobbs gave her a quick smile. “You can’t imagine, the custard pies, the pratfalls, the water balloons…yuch.” She shuddered.

“And the psychology, the sociology and physical aptitude,” added Yerusha. “It seemed like you were expected to have several advanced degrees to get in.”

“Nah.” Dobbs waved the idea away. “We just do that to keep out anybody who doesn’t really have a sense of humor.” She smiled again. “Actually, one of the best Fools I know comes from a Free Home. Cyril Cohen. He’s two years younger than I am, but he took his master’s rating three years before I did, the upstart.”

“Yeah, upstarts,” said Yerusha into her coffee. She wished her memory wasn’t so accurate. “Some people you have to watch every second.” She took another swallow and stood up. “If I don’t get back to the bridge, Schyler’s going to be hollering down the intercom for me.”

Somehow, Yerusha knew the little Fool was still watching her as she left.

Al Shei rolled her shoulders backwards a couple of times, already hearing Baldassare Sundar tch-tching her about making sure she took more breaks during her shift. Shim’on was stowing his gear in the tool locker. The hatch opened and the relief watch, Ianiai, who looked like he was mothered by a black bear, stepped through. At twenty-four, he was the youngest of the crew and still believed he could do nothing wrong. This was only his second trip out.

All of her engineers were younger than she was. Not quite green, but not quite experienced enough to price themselves out of her range. All of them were capable though. Al Shei had put them through their paces alone and with each other before she had hired any of them.

“Welcome on, Ianiai.” Al Shei pulled a set of films out of the drawer near her station and touched her pen to the first one. The assignment notes she’d been recording in it flowed out onto the film.

“How’s things running, Engine?” Ianiai leaned his rear end against the boards.

“Smooth and quiet.” She switched off her pen and put it back in her pocket. “But you’ll be happy to know you won’t be bored. We need a check on all the valves in the water recycling tanks.” She gave him the film. “Don’t want anything compostable backing up.”

Ianiai took the film and folded it away, waving at her in an imitation of an Arabic salute that Al Shei would never forgive Resit for teaching him. “In the meantime, however,” she climbed to her feet, “you have the joy of manning the big chair.” She bowed and swept her hand out towards it. “Relief.”

“Relief active.” He settled into her chair, took out his pen and began tapping menus and writing orders to slave the other monitors to Station One and display all their output in front of him.

Satisfied, Al Shei gave Shim’on a parting wave and headed for the stairs.

Main Engineering was the only inhabited section in the bulb at the end of the drop shaft. The spiral stairs provided a clear view of the cabling, pumps, juncture boxes, and piping that kept the gases, fluids and power that made up the ship’s life blood flowing steadily. Work was mostly done right from the stairs or the sets of staples that served as foot-and-hand holds from the walls. There were obvious reason that the slang term for ship’s engineer was “shaft monkey.”

Al Shei’s eyes scanned the walls of the shaft. She remembered when all of this had been a bewildering tangle. Now her eyes tracked individual lines and pipes to their junctures. Air, electricity, fuel, everything running like it should. The atmosphere around her practically purred.

She smiled at the thought. Good kitty. She patted the stair railing.

As she climbed, her gaze automatically picked out each of the display boards. Deck Four O2, green. Deck One main electric, green. Deck Three water, green. Deck Two nitrogen, blank.

Al Shei stopped in front of the board and snapped open the cover. She swung it back and pried the light strip out with her thumbnail. She held it up to the light and saw the crystals had gone dark grey.

She put the strip back and closed the cover. She took her pen out and wrote BURNED OUT STRIP on the display’s memory board and added the engineering seal so the message wouldn’t be wiped out accidentally. Ianiai would find it when he did his walk-about.

On the way back to her berth, she stopped in at the galley for a hot-box full of Chandra’s curry and a thermos of tea to take back to her cabin.

“Got to know our new Fool today, Al Shei,” said Chandra as she handed over the box.

“Oh?” Al Shei picked up the thermos. “What do you think?”

“I either love her or she’s going to be dead before the week’s out,” answered the Galley chief with a wink.

“Oh, please don’t kill her off,” Al Shei waved the thermos. “The last thing we need is to be black-balled by the Fools.”

Schyler was waiting in the corridor when she reached her cabin. His arms were folded against his chest and he was leaning his head and shoulders against the wall. Al Shei felt her good mood begin to drain away. This was not a posture Schyler adopted when things were going well.

“What’s up, Tom?” she asked as she palmed the reader for her cabin hatch.

“I’ve got to talk to you about Tully.”

Al Shei’s mood fell straight into her boots. The cabin hatch cycled open. “Come on in.”

Schyler followed her into her cabin and let the hatch shut behind them. Technically Al Shei was not supposed to do this. Although for centuries it was common practice for Islamic women to earn at least part of the household income outside the home, it was, by some interpretations of the law, haram, forbidden, for a married woman to be alone in a confined space with a man who was not her relative. She had gotten around the problem years ago by having Resit draw up adoption papers. Schyler was an orphan and Islamic law explicitly encouraged the adoption and maintenance of orphans. On paper, Schyler was Al Shei’s son. They kept the fact very quiet, since neither of them particularly wanted to deal with the jokes that were sure to arise from it.

It also meant that, technically, she could take off her hijab in front of him. She had never exercised the option.

“So, Tom, what’s the problem?” Al Shei tucked the hot box under her arm so she could fold the table down from the wall and deposit her dinner on it.

Schyler paced the room between her folded up bed and her nest of faux silk pillows in the far corner. His hands were jammed so far into his pockets, she could see the fabric strain at the seams.

At last, he faced her. “I think Marcus Tully’s finally gone too far.”

Al Shei leaned her hip against the edge of the table and reached up under her hijab to rub her temple. It was not surprising to find that Schyler’s abrupt confirmation the suspicions she’d laid out for Asil did not make her feel better.

“I know.” She lowered her hand. “Or at least, I suspected. Do you know exactly what he did?” she asked.

Schyler shrugged without taking his hands out of his pockets. His coveralls hitched up and down. “I’m not sure. You know he never tells me when he breaking local law…”

“So you won’t have to tell me.” Al Shei finished for him. “What’s different this time.”

“Whatever it is he… acquired, he’s left it here.”

Al Shei jerked her head up. “What!”

“Or part of it, or evidence of it.” Schyler finally extracted his hands and waved them towards the walls. “He tried to get back on board after he’d checked out. Needed to get some things he’d left behind he said.” Schyler jammed his hands back into his pockets.” He’s never done that. The change-overs have always been smooth. Something is up this time.”

Al Shei nodded. “I agree with you. What could he have left? It’s not in the engineer’s cabin, or if it is it’s hidden…” An idea struck her and Al Shei faced the wall. “Intercom to Houston.” She waited the single second while the intercom located and paged him.

“Houston, here, Engine,” came back Lipinski’s voice. She could hear the faint noise of voices in the background, so ‘here’ was probably the comm center, as opposed to the data-hold.

“Houston, what did you do with those burned out wafer stacks? Did you cash them in with the recyclers at Oberon?” The look that crossed Schyler’s face that was part revelatory and part fearful.

“No,” answered Lipinski. “It looked like some of the sectors might be useable, so I kept them for spares. I haven’t gone over them yet.”

Al Shei tapped one finger against the wall. “Just put them aside for now, will you, Houston? I’ll be down later to talk to you. Intercom to close.” The wall chirped as the connection closed.

Al Shei tugged at her tunic sleeve and faced Schyler. “You know, if this turns out to bean on-going situation, Resit is going to have fifty fits.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea at all what Tully was doing?”

Schyler nodded reluctantly. Al Shei bit her tongue. She hated it when he acted like a guilty child. Most of the time he was a fast thinker, cool under pressure and quick to give an order or take on a job. But very now and then, the sheepish, confused Schyler she had helped out on Station Kilimanjaro resurfaced.

“So, what is it?” The chill she felt in her blood was reflected in her voice. She’d had plenty of time in the off watches to speculate on what Tully had been up to on his run. Part of her did not want confirmation of any of the ideas she had dreamed up.

She waited while Schyler made up his mind. She forced herself to be patient. Schyler functioned in a small world of self-imposed rules. One of those rules dictated that he never discussed Al Shei’s doings with Tully, or Tully’s with Al Shei. He was about to break that rule. She could spare him the time he needed to finally decide to do it.

“I think he was data smuggling from Powell Secured Sector. You know, where Toric Station is.”

Al Shei closed her eyes. “Allahumma inna nasta’inuka,” she said reflexively. Oh, Allah, we seek Your help. “It’s possible. Resit picked up a rumor that a security plug had been pulled out of there.” She through up both her hands. “Why, Tom? Why is he doing this? He doesn’t smuggle, he broadcasts. If he got hold of some military secret, why isn’t he just blabbing it all over the next six systems.”

Schyler looked at her bleakly. “We did not make any money last trip, Katmer. We had a totally flat run.”

“But there’ve been deposits in the acc…” Al Shei’s voice trailed away. She took a deep breath. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got Asil checking into where they came from, isn’t it?”

Schyler started a little at that. “I guess it is.”

“All right.” Al Shei sat down in the room’s one real chair and tried to smooth her turbulent thoughts. “All right. We can’t leave all of this to Asil. He’ll just be able to track the buyer, or the contractor, assuming we’re right, of course. On this end, we need to find out exactly what Tully’s done, and to whom, and how if we can. We can’t panic appropriately when we haven’t got the facts.”

“Beware of suspicion,” quoted Schyler. “For suspicion may be based on false information.”

Al Shei nodded and looked at her long hands where they lay in her lap. “It is also said ‘Allah’s curse will be on him if he is a liar.’” She shook her head heavily. “Brother-in-law or not, I think you were right, Tom. I think Tully’s really gone to far.” She looked up at Schyler, some part of her seeking reassurance. “But maybe we’ll find out he’s just being an idiot again.”

Schyler gave her a weak smile. “God willing and the creeks don’t rise.”

She smiled underneath her hijab. “Your mouth to God’s ear,” she told him. “Look, prayer is in about three minutes. I’ll get Lipinski going on those wafer stacks and we’ll talk about this after breakfast tomorrow, all right?”

“All right, Mother,” he said because nobody else was there. He let himself out into the corridor. At that same moment, Resit walked in from the door to the bathroom she and Al Shei shared. Her face was still slightly damp from the wudu, the ablution. She saw the door close and must have spotted Schyler’s back.

She took one look at Al Shei. “That was not good news, whatever it was.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Al Shei agreed as she got to her feet. “Time to pray hard, Cousin.”

“As you say, oh-my-mistress.” Resit’s side way’s glance said that she really wanted to know what was going on and it was nothing short of piety that was keeping her from starting what could be a very long conversation.

Al Shei went into the bathroom, stripped off her hijab, sat down on the toilet and went through the careful washing: rinse the hands, rinse the mouth, clear the nose, drench face, arms, quick pass over the head and down the back of the neck, both ears, the nape of the neck and finally the feet.

“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah,” she said, wrapping her veil back around her and wishing she felt as clean inside as she did outside. “And He is one and has no partner and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.”

She pulled her shoes back on and rejoined Resit.

“Which way is Mecca today?” her cousin asked.

Al Shei did a quick calculation of the relative direction of Earth from the Pasadena. “This way.” She pointed to the corner where her pillows were piled. She knew some shipper Muslims who would literally stand on the ceiling if that was what was required. She and Resit had never gone quite that far. She got her prayer rug out of its drawer and laid it down next to Resit’s.

They faced the proper corner and raised their hands. Al Shei took a deep breath and put the day behind her. This was not the time for her troubles. This was the time to go beyond them, to the infinite and the permanent.

“Allahu Akbar,” she and Resit chorused. God is great. They folded their hands below their chests. “Oh, Allah, glory and praise are for You and blessed is Your name and exalted is Your Majesty and there is no god but You. I seek shelter in Allah from the rejected Satan.”

As Al Shei went through the motions of the salah, she felt real calm returning to her. When the regular prayers were finished, she added the sajdatus sahw, for forgetfulness, since she’d been elbow deep in a maintenance hatch with a bundle of fresh wiring in her fists when afternoon prayer came around.

After she straightened up, she faced Resit and raised her right hand, Resit raised hers. Simultaneously, they each reached out and yanked off the other’s veil. Resit’s hair fell down around her shoulders in a black cloud. This was not part of the salah. It was done in memory of the time when prayer was dangerous and the women who had survived the Fast Burn sometimes had to stop in the middle and hide their veils because vigilantes or the police had broken in the door.

“Dining in peaceful solitude tonight, Cousin?” Resit nodded to the hot box as she settled her kijab back over her hair and pinned it under her chin.

“I felt I needed a little peace and quiet.” Al Shei folded her own hijab over her arm and opened up a drawer. “It’s actually been a pretty busy few days.” She laid the hijab inside.

“Hasn’t it just.” Resit picked up her carpet. “Are you going to perhaps tell me what’s going on with Schyler?”

“Not yet.” Al Shei bent to roll her own carpet. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh. Should I be worrying about my air supply, Katmer?”

Al Shei straightened up and stowed the carpet back in its own drawer. “It’s not that kind of problem, Zubedye.”

“Well, that’s something anyway.” Resit opened the bathroom door. “I will be talking to you in the morning, Katmer.”

“You will.” Al Shei held the door open for her. “I promise.”

Resit crossed the bathroom into her own cabin through the opposite door.

When she was gone, Al Shei sealed the door to the hallway and touched the key beside it to signal anyone who might be walking by that she was not to be disturbed. No matter what her door said, she was always on immediate call for engineering. The Pasadena itself could summon her if any of half a dozen emergency switches were tripped.

With her door sealed, she finally let the weight of the day pull her shoulders down. That brief conversation with her cousin had robbed her of most of the calm that prayer instilled. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it out and letting the slight breeze from the ventilators dry the film of dampness near her scalp. Unlike Resit, she had no cloud of long hair to shake down. She’d kept hers cut to a bob that would not get in her way. She stripped off her work clothes and debated a moment before tossing them into the laundry drawer. She slid her forest green kaftan over her bare shoulders and sighed contentedly. The kaftan had been a gift from Asil. It was real Earth-grown cotton. Cotton was grown only by permit on Earth. Most textile fibers came from vat-bred clones.

As she smoothed the kaftan down, Al Shei studied her face in the mirror. It was a good face, all and all, she admitted. Her brow was wide and clear, even though the worry wrinkles were beginning to etch themselves in deeper every year. Her aquiline nose was not too big, and her chin was not too pointed. She had an expressive mouth with lines around it that spoke more of smiles than of sorrows. Resit teased her that the real reason she wore the hijab was not just to hide the fact she’d cut her hair, but to emphasize her wide, almond-shaped eyes. Asil sometimes said it was her eyes were that had bewitched his heart.

Vanity, vanity, she chided herself with a small laugh and turned away. What are you doing? Seeing if the news about Tully has added any new lines?

Al Shei folded her bed down from the wall and sat on the emerald faux silk coverlet, crossing her legs. She opened her hot box and detached the fork from the cover.

“Intercom, playback,” she said to the walls as she dug into the chicken curry and rice. “Asil Day Book, entry one.”

There wasn’t even a beep in response. Al Shei had taken them out for this command sequence. Instead, her husband’s, clean, deep voice filled the empty spaces between her in-flight possessions and her inmost heart.

“Good morning, Beloved. Not much to report from yesterday, Katmer. It’s a week before the rains are scheduled to begin and we had six hours of outside time left in the ration, so we had dinner on the terrace…”

Al Shei set the fork down, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift with the recorded voice. Her imagination was so trained for this that she could see every detail. The low wooden table on the clean white stone, surrounded by piles of blue and green cushions that would have been tossed into place by Muhammad and Vashti. The children would have taken the opportunity to inflict an impromptu pummeling on each other, halted by mock threats from Asil. He would have set down the broad dish of imam baldi and flat bread. Asil was a traditionalist as far as food was concerned. The children, their hair blowing in the gentle breeze scented with the smells of living trees and roasting garlic would scurry to the table and be told to calm down before helping themselves. They would, for about thirty seconds, then they’d begin digging each other in the ribs…

“…Vashti told me she wants to try out for the soccer team next semester. Muhammadis talking seriously about summer classes for his astronomy. Looks as though the banks are going to lose another one, Katmer…”

Al Shei smiled and let the voice wash over her. This was how they kept together. Everyday he made an entry in the verbal diary, just as she did. When she came home to stay, of course they talked. They told each other everything, delighting in conversation. But on the last day, before she left again, they would solemnly exchange diaries. At home, in his own room, come back from his prayers, Asil would be listening to her voice reeling off an account of the first day of her previous flight. Although she knew, by now, that Vashti had made the soccer team and that Muhammad had been accepted to an academic camp in Tel Aviv, the Asil in the recording did not. His voice made it all new again and gave her those days that were the other half of her life, as Asil would have hers.

They could have used video, of course. They could have even each carried a small camera with them, but Asil had preferred imagination from the beginning. After the first trial, Al Shei had to agree. She thought in pictures anyway. With the diaries she had a whole memory full of pictures of her growing children and her steadfast beloved.

“I live two lifetimes,” she’d told him once. “And both are full of what I love.”

When the entry faded into silence, Al Shei opened her eyes. She sneaked a look at the door and the intercom. Both were silent and blank.

I can indulge. “Recall file,” she said, stirring her curry. “Mirror of Fate.”

In the next heart beat, a blue-line schematic for a packet ship flowed across the wall screen. This was the Mirror of Fate. It was almost twice the size of the Pasadena. Even without the crew, it had a Lennox rating of B. With a good crew, it would be A rated. She ordered the intercom to scroll through the diagram to the family quarters. The ship had room for Muhammad, Vashti and up to four other children, if any of her crew had families to bring along. In the Mirror of Fate, she and Asil would have one lifetime.

Next to the diagram the wall printed a tidy row of figures. Current savings, projected income from this trip, projected amount to be added to savings, remaining balance before they could have Mirror of Fate commissioned.

She had designed the ship. Asil had designed the payment scheme. With him, money was not just a commodity to be tracked and traded. He saw endless possibilities embedded in what to her were meaningless statistics. Maybe that was how she had known she loved him, when she saw that he found possibilities in accounts the way she saw them in a ship’s systems and that like her, he lived to realize the possibilities he saw in his mind.

Mirror of Fate represented the grandest of all those possibilities. Freedom. Asil and the children and their possibilities in a home she had made and a ship that worked under her hands and eyes and inner vision. She’d dreamed this ship all the years she was learning her trade. When Asil entered her life, they dreamed it together and together, no matter how long the runs lasted, they still dreamed.

It was a sweet dream and she savored it slowly, like fine coffee. She sipped it gently and let it roll across her senses and warm her from the inside. It would happen. Another two years’ work, three at the very outside. Pasadena’s upgraded rating would bring in…

“…so you tell the Ninja Woman I am not going to put up with…”

The strident voice jolted Al Shei out of her reverie. She started and dropped a forkful of curry onto her plate. “…this kind of crap from a bunch of bigoted…”

Yerusha. The stun bled away and Al Shei was able to identify the voice clanging through the intercom.

“And the thunder crashed in a mighty cacophony and all did tremble and shake at the oath that could make the stars ring!” There was a shuffling of cloth and silence. Dobbs. Whatever she had done had caught Yerusha so off-guard she wasn’t able to respond.

“Intercom to Yerusha,” said Al Shei. “Yerusha. The com’s on and I want to talk to you and whoever you’re yelling at with the Watch Commander.”

More silence. “Yes, Engineer,” came the answer finally.

“Intercom to Watch Command,” said Al Shei.

“It’s okay, Engineer,” came back Schyler’s voice. “I’m the one she was yelling at, myself and the Houston.”

“Obviously, there is a problem with the intercom,” said Al Shei dryly.

“Obviously,” cut in Chandra, “unless you really meant this conversation to hit the galley.”

“Walls are supposed to have ears, but tongues…” chipped in Dobbs. “Do you suppose they gossip about us during the night shift too?”

“All right, all right,” said Schyler. “Obviously we need a meeting, now.”

“Obviously,” agreed Al Shei. “Lipinski, who’s on comm watch? I want whatever’s wrong with the intercom routing fixed. I’ll meet all of you in the conference room. Intercom to Close.” She looked regretfully at the Mirror of Fate. “Store file.” She stuffed another forkful of curry into her mouth before she closed the box lid and popped it into a drawer. “Why do I have the feeling this is going to be one of my more interesting runs?”

She changed back into her working clothes and wrapped her hijab back around her face.

By the time she reached the conference room, Schyler, Lipinski and Yerusha were already there. So was Dobbs, Al Shei noticed as the hatch cycled closed. The Fool, disdaining any of the available chairs, sat cross-legged in the corner, resting her elbows on her knees. Al Shei suppressed a sigh. According to contract, the Fool could not be excluded from any crew meeting, including disciplinary hearings, but Al Shei really could have done without her presence.

Yerusha sat with her arms folded and a look of studied blandness on her face. Lipinski was frowning at the pilot and giving her a look that could peel paint. Schyler had one hand laid on the table-top and was dividing his attention between the two recalcitrant crewmembers.

“All right, Watch.” Al Shei leaned rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs. “What happened?”

Schyler turned towards her. There was an odd light in his eye that Al Shei couldn’t quite interpret. “Pilot Yerusha was found to be working with an unregistered hardware/software interface using the ship’s systems…”

Yerusha sat up straighter in her chair and unfolded her arms. “I was testing a wafer stack to make sure it was intact,” she countered. “In my own cabin, on a secured, internal…”

“You were letting an AI loose in my system!” thundered Lipinski.

Yerusha started to her feet. “You have no right to spy on a secured…”

“It’s my job to make sure there’s nothing here that’s not registered…”

“So what made you decide to keep a special eye on my line, you ground hugging…”

“Enough!” Schyler slammed his hand against the table. The pair subsided.

“Thank you, Watch,” said Al Shei. She turned a little so she could face Yerusha but still keep her eye on Lipinski. “Have you got an artificial intelligence rated wafer stack with you?”

Yerusha bridled. “You do not have the right to question me about legal possessions.”

Al Shei inclined her head. “You’re right, of course.” She turned towards Schyler. “Has she got an AI wafer stack?”

“I saw her carrying something that could have been an AI. From the stats Houston showed me, it’s very probable she had it cabled into the system.” Schyler answered blandly.

Al Shei nodded and faced Yerusha again. The woman’s cheeks were starting to pale and her hand clenched into a fist at her side. “Is it your foster?” Al Shei asked.

Yerusha jumped like she’d been stung. “What do you know about our fosters?”

“It is one of the Freers’ more…publicized goals.” Al Shei kept her voice level. “I know they’re AIs assigned to, sorry, adopted by, individual Freers who want to have a go at creating an environment which could hold a human soul. I know a departed human soul making a home in an AI environment is considered to be the root cause for the AI breakouts like the ones on Edgeward and Kerensk. I also know there’s some sort of lottery involved in who gets to be a ‘parent.’” I also know you’ve never had a single success with it, which is why you’re still sitting here talking to me and not confined to quarters with the thing in Lipinski’s hands. She let her eyes narrow. “It’s not a very popular program in some circles.” She very deliberately did not look towards Lipinski.

Yerusha’s knuckles were turning as white as her cheeks. “I have a right under my contract to bring aboard any legal piece of software that I choose, as long as I don’t infect the ship’s systems or go over my allotted weight limit.”

Al Shei waved her hand and suppressed an urge to laugh. “Oh, stop bristling, will you? I’m not interested in taking it away from you, or saying you broke contract by bringing it aboard. But I want to know if you were really going to let it loose?”

“Here?” Yerusha snorted. “You joke better than your Fool. I would never expose my foster to a crew of complete paranoids.”

“Good,” said Al Shei. “We don’t have room in the system for it anyway, do we Houston?” She cocked her eye at Lipinski.

“Hardly,” said Lipinski to the floor.

“And because it is a legal program and we’ve all got plenty to keep us busy on shift, there’s not going to be any more ideological shouting matches. Right?” She looked straight at Schyler.

“We’ve already discussed the matter,” he replied.

“Glad to hear it.” Al Shei lifted her hands off the chair back and smoothed down her tunic sleeves. “Because I’d really hate this to be the first run where we docked anybody for violating the courtesy and privacy clauses in their contracts.” She glanced first at Lipinski and then at Yerusha. “Is there anything else?”

Lipinski got up. “I guess not,” he said. “I’m going to see how Rosvelt’s doing on the intercom problem.” He left without another word or look to anybody.

The hatch cycled shut and Yerusha leaned forward.

Al Shei made a slicing gesture across her throat. “Before you say anything, I know Lipinski is a paranoiac. He may also be a bigot. Deal with it. You have to work with everyone else, and they have to work with you. If you can’t get your job done because of behavior problems, you talk to Watch. If I catch you shouting names across the bridge again, I may decide to pitch you off of here as soon as we get to The Farther Kingdom. And before you feel too picked on, I may decide to do the same to Lipinski.” Her mouth twitched. “It’s hard being one of a kind. I know Freers consider Muslims barbarians…” Yerusha had the grace to look away at that. “In fact, they consider all us groundhogs barbarians and you’re pretty much not allowed to like any of us.” Rebellion surged across Yerusha’s face but she was bright enough not to say anything. “I understand what it’s like to be set apart by your beliefs. I also understand this gives you a great temptation to lie, and cover up, and hide. I’ve done it, so I know that aboard a small ship that only leads to trouble. Maybe disaster. That I won’t have, just as I won’t have personal prejudices getting in the way of my crew getting our mutual job done. We are all here and we can’t rely on one Fool to keep us from each others’ throats. Do your job, Yerusha, and stow the stack until we get to port, all right? And rest assured that now that we’ve been alerted to the problem, Watch will make sure Lipinski doesn’t interfere with anything that doesn’t interfere with the ship or its cargo.”

“Aye-aye, ‘Dama.” Yerusha got to her feet. She cocked an eye at Schyler. “Can I go?”

Schyler nodded and Yerusha left. As soon as the hatch cycled closed, he folded his arms and looked at Al Shei. She waved a weary hand at him. “Don’t say it, Tom,” she fell into Arabic. “Just don’t.”

He shrugged. “All I was going to say was this time you may finally have found the one who refuses to make it easy on herself.”

“She’s proud, she’s scared, and she’s totally on her own. It’ll make you act funny.” Al Shei stood up. “She is not, however, totally stupid, and I do believe she needs this job. She’ll behave.” She made sure her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Who knows? In time she might even be likeable. It’s happened before.”

“Are you talking about me or you, Mother?”

“Impudence,” she snorted. “Go get some supper. You’re no good to me starved and sleepy.”

He grinned. “The hell I’m not.” He cycled the hatch open.

“And don’t swear,” she said to his back as he strode out the hatch.

“Nice job.” Dobbs stood up in the corner. Now it was Al Shei’s turn to jump. She’d completely forgotten the Fool was even in the room.

Dobbs grinned. “Believe it or not, we get training in unobtrusiveness. I got an A in the course.”

“That much I do believe.” Al Shei smoothed her hijab down. “I hope I can count on you to keep an extra eye on Yerusha and Lipinski. A holy war is not something I need aboard my ship.”

Dobbs snapped to attention and saluted briskly. “Yes, Ma’am!”

Al Shei waved her away. “Aren’t you off-shift too?”

Dobbs relaxed her stance and grinned. “Cooks, owners and Fools. We’re never off-shift.”

“No, I guess we’re not.” Al Shei cycled the hatch open. Dobbs bowed deeply and gestured for her to go first. Al Shei did. The Fool took off in the opposite direction, maybe on her way to her own cabin or to catch up with Yerusha and find out how well she took Al Shei’s lecture.

As she remembered the anger flashing between Yerusha and Lipinski’s eyes, Al Shei suddenly felt very glad the Fool was aboard.