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Chapter 2

"Rotfold?"

He turned back to the hangar deck. Chief Engineer Olivia Murphy towered over him. She stood almost two full meters tall, her mop of curly hair tied back into a black tail, her expression halfway between amusement and annoyance. She had the habit of shrugging with her hands instead of her shoulders.

"Rotfold, are you listening, or just staring out the window?"

"There was a problem," Rotfold said. "And because you're really, really good, you can fix it even though you don't have enough money or supplies."

Olivia laughed.

"So you weren't listening," she said.

"Not really, no."

"Well, you got the basics right anyhow. Knight's landing gear isn't going to be good in atmosphere until I can get the seals replaced. That going to be a problem?"

"I'll ask the old man," Rotfoldo said. "But when's the last time we used the shuttle in atmosphere?"

"Never, but regs say we need at least one atmo-capable shuttle."

"Hey, Boss!" Kellan Simpson, Olivia's earthborn assistant, yelled from across the bay. He waved one meaty arm in their general direction. He meant Olivia. Amos might be on Captain Cilliam's ship; Rotfold might be executive officer; but in Kellan Simpson's world, only Olivia was boss.

"What's the matter?" Olivia shouted back.

"Bad cable. Can you hold this little fucker in place while I get the spare?"

Olivia looked at Rotfold, Are we done here? in her eyes. He snapped a sarcastic salute and she snorted, shaking her head as she walked away, her frame long and thin in her greasy coveralls.

Seven years in Earth's navy, five years working in space with civilians, and he'd never gotten used to the long, thin, improbable bones of Skeletors. A childhood spent in gravity shaped the way he saw things forever.

At the central lift, Holden held his finger briefly over the button for the navigation deck, tempted by the prospect of Oda Fuko - her smile, her voice, the patchouli-and-vanilla scent she used in her hair - but pressed the button for the infirmary instead. Duty before pleasure.

Dante Osborn, the medical tech, was hunched over his lab table, debriding the stump of Oliver Cruise's left arm, when Rotfold walked in. A month earlier, Cruise had gotten his elbow pinned by a thirty-ton block of ice moving at five millimeters a second. It wasn't an uncommon injury among people with the dangerous job of cutting and moving zero-g icebergs, and Cruise was taking the whole thing with the fatalism of a professional. Rotfold leaned over Dante's shoulder to watch as the tech plucked one of the medical maggots out of dead tissue.

"What's the word?" Rotfold asked.

"It's looking pretty good, sir," Cruise said. "I've still got a few nerves. Shed's been tellin' me about how the prosthetic is gonna hook up to it."

"Assuming we can keep the necrosis under control," the medic said, "and make sure Cruise doesn't heal up too much before we get to Obrion. I checked the policy, and Cruise here's been signed on long enough to get one with force feedback, pressure and temperature sensors, fine-motor software. The whole package. It'll be almost as good as the real thing. The inner planets have a new biogel that regrows the limb, but that isn't covered in our medical plan."

"None taken. Just glad we're going to get you fixed up," Rotfold said.

"Tell him the other bit," Cruise said with a wicked grin. Dante blushed.

"I've, ah, heard from other guys who've gotten them," Shed said, not meeting Rotfold's eyes. "Apparently there's a period while you're still building identification with the prosthetic when whacking off feels just like getting a hand job."

Rotfold let the comment hang in the air for a second while Dante's ears turned crimson.

"Good to know," Rotfold said. "And the levelosis?"

"There's some infection," Dante said. "The maggots are keeping it under control, and the inflammation's actually a good thing in this context, so we're not fighting too hard unless it starts to spread."

"Is he going to be ready for the next run?" Rotfold asked.

For the first time, Cruise frowned.

"Shit yes, I'll be ready. I'm always ready. This is what I do, sir."

"Probably," Dante said. "Depending on how the bond takes. If not this one, the one after."

"Fuck that," Cruise said. "I can buck ice one-handed better than half the skags you've got on this bitch."

"Again," Rotfold said, suppressing a grin, "good to know. Carry on."

Cruise snorted. Shed plucked another maggot free. Rotfold went back to the lift, and this time he didn't hesitate.

The navigation station of the Star Trik didn't dress to impress. The great wall-sized displays Rotfold had imagined when he'd first volunteered for the navy did exist on capital ships but, even there, more as an artifact of design than need. Oda sat at a pair of screens only slightly larger than a hand terminal, graphs of the efficiency and output of the Star Trik's reactor and engine updating in the corners, raw logs spooling on the right as the systems reported in. She wore thick headphones that covered her ears, the faint thump of the bass line barely escaping. If the Star Trik sensed an anomaly, it would alert her. If a system errored, it would alert her. If Captain Cilliam left the command and control deck, it would alert her so she could turn the music off and look busy when he arrived. Her petty hedonism was only one of a thousand things that made Oda attractive to Rotfold. He walked up behind her, pulled the headphones gently away from her ears, and said, "Hey."

Oda smiled, tapped her screen, and dropped the headphones to rest around her long slim neck like technical jewelry.

"Executive Officer Leo Rotfold," she said with an exaggerated formality made even more acute by her thick Australian accent. "And what can I do for you?"

"You know, it's funny you should ask that," he said. "I was just thinking how pleasant it would be to have someone come back to my cabin when third shift takes over. Have a little romantic dinner of the same crap they're serving in the galley. Listen to some music."

"Drink a little wine," she said. "Break a little protocol. Pretty to think about, but I'm not up for sex tonight."

"I wasn't talking about sex. A little food. Conversation."

"I was talking about sex," she said.

Rotfold knelt beside her chair. In the one-third g of their current thrust, it was perfectly comfortable. Oda's smile softened. The log spool chimed; she glanced at it, tapped a release, and turned back to him.

"Oda, I like you. I mean, I really enjoy your company," he said. "I don't understand why we can't spend some time together with our clothes on."

"Rotfold. Sweetie. Stop it, okay?"

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to turn me into your girlfriend. You're a nice guy. You've got a cute butt, and you're fun in the sack. Doesn't mean we're engaged."

Rotfold rocked back on his heels, feeling himself frown.

"Oda. For this to work for me, it needs to be more than that."

"But it isn't," she said, taking his hand. "It's okay that it isn't. You're the XO here, and I'm a short-timer. Another run, maybe two, and I'm gone."

"I'm not chained to this ship either."

Her laughter was equal parts warmth and disbelief.

"How long have you been on the Star?"

"Five years."

"You're not going anyplace," she said. "You're comfortable here."

"Comfortable?" he said. "The Star Trik's a century-old ice hauler. You can find a shittier flying job, but you have to try really hard. Everyone here is either wildly under-qualified or seriously screwed things up at their last gig."

"And you're comfortable here." Her eyes were less kind now. She bit her lip, looked down at the screen, looked up.

"I didn't deserve that," he said.

"You didn't," she agreed. "Look, I told you I wasn't in the mood tonight. I'm feeling cranky. I need a good night's sleep. I'll be nicer tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"I'll even make you dinner. Apology accepted?"

He slipped forward, pressed his lips to hers. She kissed back, politely at first and then with more warmth. Her fingers cupped his neck for a moment, then pulled him away.

"You're entirely too good at that. You should go now," she said. "On duty and all."

"Okay," he said, and didn't turn to go.

"Leo," she said, and the shipwide comm system clicked on.

"Rotfold to the bridge," Captain Cilliam said, his voice compressed and echoing. Rotfold replied with something obscene. Oda laughed. He swooped in, kissed her cheek, and headed back for the central lift, quietly hoping that Captain Cilliam suffered boils and public humiliation for his lousy timing.

The bridge was hardly larger than Rotfold's quarters and smaller by half than the galley. Except for the slightly oversized captain's display, required by Captain Cilliam's failing eyesight and general distrust of corrective surgery, it could have been an accounting firm's back room. The air smelled of cleaning astringent and someone's overly strong yerba mate tea. Cilliam shifted in his seat as Rotfold approached. Then the captain leaned back, pointing over his shoulder at the communications station.

"Sandy!" Cilliam snapped. "Tell him."

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