possible
to look down the entire length of the ship. The illusion of looking down a well
was dizzyingly strong.
The rest of the office was well appointed. A massive desk
sat in the center of the room, lightly scuffed, but very precisely curved to
match the curve in the floor. The carpet on the floor was aggressively purple,
plush on the sides, worn in the middle. In truth, everything in the room was
worn, maybe a bit less so than other parts of the ship, but still noticeable.
That was a never–ending source of annoyance to the room’s current resident, who
wanted, even
needed
everything in this room to impress.
Nothing here impressed the captain, and Mayor Eric Kinsella
hated him for it. Every other person on the Argos who held any real power owed
their position to Kinsella in some way, whether they knew it or not. Nominally,
Captain Helot did, as well. The ship’s constitution was very clear about the
relative authority between the civilian government and the commander of the
vessel itself. But there was a certain lack of deference in Helot’s behavior
that suggested to Kinsella that his counterpart thought otherwise.
“Diagnostics on all the rotational thrusters have been
completed. We should have eighty–five percent of them working before
deceleration begins,” Helot read without looking up from the terminal in his
hand.
Helot had been made Captain almost twenty years earlier by
one of Kinsella’s predecessors. Kinsella didn’t know the whole story, but got
the impression that Helot had been given the job ahead of older and more
experienced personnel as part of some multi–layered political stratagem being
played by the mayor at the time. He couldn’t recall if the stratagem worked or
not, and indeed it didn’t really matter — that mayor was long gone.
The next mayor had chosen to leave Helot in place, seeing no
need to rock the boat as it were. A mistake as far as Kinsella was concerned.
By being made Captain at such a young age, Helot had spent a third of his life
in office, plenty of time to become a familiar and comfortable presence to the
ship’s citizens. This left Kinsella handcuffed by a captain who was — though no
one would come out and say it — significantly more popular than he was.
Bored, Kinsella drummed his fingers on his desk. Realizing
he was being rude, he stopped, then just as quickly wished he hadn’t. He didn’t
have to care if he was rude. He was tired of dealing with Helot. He smiled
involuntarily, then caught himself when he realized he never smiled during
cabinet briefings. Concentrating, he focused his energies on not fidgeting with
the terminal sitting on his desk, recently delivered to him by Thorias, the
security chief.
Helot had given every appearance of a man dedicated to his
career. His list of dependents was short: no wife, no children, one ship. In a
society where the privilege of breeding was a precious commodity, the lack of a
family marked him as unusual. Kinsella tried to hide a smile. How would people
react if they knew their captain’s brave solitude wasn’t a reflection of his
commitment to public service? Just a side effect of a secret and dark
perversion? The information on the terminal in front of him was toe–curlingly
detailed.
Kinsella allowed himself a thin smile as the captain
continued to drone through his briefing. Yes, Helot was going to be out of his
hair soon. And Kinsella had big plans for his going away party.
§
One day, this will all be yours
. Bruce strolled down
one of the leafy tree–lined streets in the garden well, looking up at the low–rise
apartment buildings around him.
Gonna move on up. Get me some windows. Live
like a pope.
While Stein burgled merely for her own amusement, Bruce had
actual goals in mind when he worked the nights. Although many dwellings below
decks did have windows, when they fronted out to a hallway, this wasn’t a lot
to get excited about. Not like the expensive and hard–to–come–by windows in
to look down the entire length of the ship. The illusion of looking down a well
was dizzyingly strong.
The rest of the office was well appointed. A massive desk
sat in the center of the room, lightly scuffed, but very precisely curved to
match the curve in the floor. The carpet on the floor was aggressively purple,
plush on the sides, worn in the middle. In truth, everything in the room was
worn, maybe a bit less so than other parts of the ship, but still noticeable.
That was a never–ending source of annoyance to the room’s current resident, who
wanted, even
needed
everything in this room to impress.
Nothing here impressed the captain, and Mayor Eric Kinsella
hated him for it. Every other person on the Argos who held any real power owed
their position to Kinsella in some way, whether they knew it or not. Nominally,
Captain Helot did, as well. The ship’s constitution was very clear about the
relative authority between the civilian government and the commander of the
vessel itself. But there was a certain lack of deference in Helot’s behavior
that suggested to Kinsella that his counterpart thought otherwise.
“Diagnostics on all the rotational thrusters have been
completed. We should have eighty–five percent of them working before
deceleration begins,” Helot read without looking up from the terminal in his
hand.
Helot had been made Captain almost twenty years earlier by
one of Kinsella’s predecessors. Kinsella didn’t know the whole story, but got
the impression that Helot had been given the job ahead of older and more
experienced personnel as part of some multi–layered political stratagem being
played by the mayor at the time. He couldn’t recall if the stratagem worked or
not, and indeed it didn’t really matter — that mayor was long gone.
The next mayor had chosen to leave Helot in place, seeing no
need to rock the boat as it were. A mistake as far as Kinsella was concerned.
By being made Captain at such a young age, Helot had spent a third of his life
in office, plenty of time to become a familiar and comfortable presence to the
ship’s citizens. This left Kinsella handcuffed by a captain who was — though no
one would come out and say it — significantly more popular than he was.
Bored, Kinsella drummed his fingers on his desk. Realizing
he was being rude, he stopped, then just as quickly wished he hadn’t. He didn’t
have to care if he was rude. He was tired of dealing with Helot. He smiled
involuntarily, then caught himself when he realized he never smiled during
cabinet briefings. Concentrating, he focused his energies on not fidgeting with
the terminal sitting on his desk, recently delivered to him by Thorias, the
security chief.
Helot had given every appearance of a man dedicated to his
career. His list of dependents was short: no wife, no children, one ship. In a
society where the privilege of breeding was a precious commodity, the lack of a
family marked him as unusual. Kinsella tried to hide a smile. How would people
react if they knew their captain’s brave solitude wasn’t a reflection of his
commitment to public service? Just a side effect of a secret and dark
perversion? The information on the terminal in front of him was toe–curlingly
detailed.
Kinsella allowed himself a thin smile as the captain
continued to drone through his briefing. Yes, Helot was going to be out of his
hair soon. And Kinsella had big plans for his going away party.
§
One day, this will all be yours
. Bruce strolled down
one of the leafy tree–lined streets in the garden well, looking up at the low–rise
apartment buildings around him.
Gonna move on up. Get me some windows. Live
like a pope.
While Stein burgled merely for her own amusement, Bruce had
actual goals in mind when he worked the nights. Although many dwellings below
decks did have windows, when they fronted out to a hallway, this wasn’t a lot
to get excited about. Not like the expensive and hard–to–come–by windows in
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