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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2020 by Nathan Lowell

Cover Art Alexandre Rito

Second Printing: September, 2020

For everyone who knows this story too well.

You're seen.

CHAPTER ONE

Cape Grace: May 12, 2329

OTTO KRUGG STARED AT the autodoc. The line of red lights across the front burned into his eyes, occasionally blurring out of focus, but even his tears couldn’t wash the color away. His legs gave out as his mind tried to wrap itself around the reality. Only the medic’s support kept him standing long enough to get a chair under him. He sat heavily, unable to pull his gaze from the hateful machine.

“Otto, look at me,” the medic said.

Otto turned his head but his eyes stayed fixed, as if by staring he’d see the lights flicker over to amber and then green and Carla wouldn’t be ... wouldn’t be ...

“She’s gone, Otto. Carla’s gone. The toxin was too fast.”

He looked at her then. The tag on her tunic read “Edith” and some part of his mind recognized her as Edith Something. He knew her. Morales. Edith Morales.

She crouched beside him and peered into his face. “We have the baby.” Her lips offered the tiniest of smiles, her head nodding the slightest encouragements. He looked down to see her hand resting on his forearm. He didn’t feel it.

“You have the baby,” he said.

“We got her before the tox did. I don’t know how.”

Otto forced his eyes closed. Perhaps he might wake up and it would all be gone. A horrid nightmare where his Carla died, stung by a boxfish, and he could wake up beside her and laugh at his foolish fears.

Once closed he wondered if he could open them again. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Their life at Maggie’s Landing. The new opportunity at Cape Grace. The joyful stanyers living in the cottage. Otto walking the beach and Carla taking her boat and crew out to fish every day. Coming home windblown and so alive.

He opened his eyes. “You have the baby?”

Edith nodded, her head making tiny bobbing motions and her eyes fixed on his. “A little girl.”

“It’s too soon.”

Edith shrugged. “It’s not uncommon. We can help her. The autodoc will give her the time she needs. A couple more weeks.”

“A couple more weeks. That’s what Carla said.”

Edith cocked her head.

“A couple more weeks, she said, and she’d take leave.”

Edith nodded. “It was an accident, Otto. They happen.”

He turned his head to look up at the autodoc again, but Edith shifted to stand in front of him, her hand on his shoulder. “You have a daughter who needs you, Otto.” Her quiet words drew him back.

“Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“That’s her name. We agreed. Sarah.”

“It’s a lovely name. I’ll add it to her file. Would you like to see her?”

Otto felt his head jerk down and up once. “Yeah. In a minute.”

Edith straightened, keeping her body between Otto and the silent autodoc. Somebody nearby typed on a keyboard, the tappity-tappity sounds cutting through the shoosh of air conditioning and the slow bipping of a monitor down the hall. He counted the bips silently. At ten, Edith nodded. “In a minute.”

Otto pushed himself up, his legs shaky, feeling more like ninety-eight than thirty-eight stanyers. He placed his right palm on the curved plastic shell that held the ashes of his dreams. It felt cold. The mechanisms that normally pulsed and pumped, stilled. The scent of plastic and disinfectant caught at the back of his nose. After a moment, he withdrew his hand. “We’ll have to make arrangements. A funeral.” The word nearly stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” Edith said. “There’ll be time for that. Her family, your family. They’ll need to be notified.”

The tappity-tapping stopped.

“Sarah?” Otto asked. “Can I see her?”

Edith’s lips curled to the right in a smile. “Of course.”

Her size surprised him. Tiny, tiny. He peered through the lexan cover at her. “I’ve seen bigger chickens.”

Edith gave a shallow laugh. “I suspect we all have.”

“Looks like she’d fit in one hand.”

“Well, probably, but don’t try. She’d flip out and you’d feel terrible if you dropped her.”

Otto straightened and stared at the medic. “I’d never ...” His voice trailed off when he saw the gentle look in her eyes.

“I know, Otto.”

Her soft words hit him hard. His eyes burned again as he struggled against the ice pick in his chest. He escaped her tender gaze by looking back at his daughter. Sarah. Their daughter. “A couple of weeks?”

“Yep. That’ll give you a chance to get ready.”

He glanced at her. “Get ready?”

“Your first?”

“Yes.”

“You have any sibs?”

Otto shook his head.

Edith’s lips did curve up then. “Yeah. We’ll need to get you set up with some parenting stuff. You don’t have any family here in Cape Grace, do you?”

Otto shook his head again.

“We can find you some help.”

“Help?”

“Help.” She nodded once. “For the next few weeks, she’s going to need a lot of attention. You’re not going to get much sleep.”

Otto gazed back at the tiny person in the incubator. He saw just the barest of hints in the shape of her ears and the strength of her nose. He felt sure she’d grow into them. Something about the shape of her eyes made him see Carla once more. That day she’d stood on the promenade in Maggie’s Landing, the sun shining from behind turning her hair into a flaming crown. She’d taken his breath away for the first time then.

Baby Sarah opened her eyes and peered upwards into his face through the lexan. One fist flailed and she kicked her feet, never taking her eyes off his.

He would have said something, but couldn’t find the breath.

CHAPTER TWO

Cape Grace: May 14, 2329

OTTO OPENED THE DOOR and blinked into the bright sunrise. “Mother?”

She didn’t say a word, just opened her arms and folded him in.

He held her for a long moment, letting the world take care of itself for a time. The shampoo smell in her hair took him back to being seven and anxious to be a fisherman.

After a time, her hug relaxed and she let him step back, following him into the trim cottage at the edge of the beach. She said. “I came as soon as I could get transport.”

The gray numbness returned, but not before he saw her red eyes, the graying of her hair. “You shouldn’t have.”

Rachel stared at him like he’d sprouted another head. “Is that any way to talk?”

Otto collapsed into a chair and held his face in his hands. “Not what I mean, Mother. Sorry.”

She slipped her jacket off and hung it on a hook by the door. “Never mind. Have you had breakfast?” She tilted her face down and got in front of Otto.

“Not today.”

“Yesterday?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“Have you eaten at all?”

Otto shook his head. “People from town. They brought food. I think it’s in the cooler.”

She sniffed. “I see. You’ve been moping like this for two days?”

Otto bristled. “Look, Mother. Carla died. I’m not exactly handling it very well.” His voice caught in his throat but he took some small comfort that he hadn’t broken into tears again.

Rachel sighed and sat down across from him. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Otto looked up at her hard and saw the steel in her backbone, the iron in her eyes. Inexplicably, he felt a bit less battered seeing her. He scrubbed his cheeks with his palms. “Of course, Mother. Thank you for coming.”

“What did you mean, I shouldn’t have come?”

“You have your own problems, Mother. Your job, taking care of Father.” He shook his head. “You didn’t need to come a quarter of the way around the planet to hold my hand.” He shook his head as if to clear it of something in his hair.

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t come to hold your hand, I’ll have you know.”

Otto cocked his head to the side and examined her again, looking for some deeper meaning on her face.

“I came to see my granddaughter, of course.” Her bright words belied the sadness in her eyes.

Her words surprised a short laugh out of him. “Of course. I should have realized.” He felt grateful for her simple excuse.

“When can we go see her?”

“They told me I could come visit around midmorning today. She’s in an incubator and can’t come out for a while yet.”

She nodded and pulled a tablet out of her bag. “You’ve notified Frank and Georgina?”

He nodded. A lump in his throat, thinking about the call to Carla’s parents. “Right after you.”

“Will you have a service?” Her voice sounded only slightly more stable than his felt.

“Company has arranged all that. Ed Comstock’s office. There’s something on for tomorrow at 1400. The boats will be in so the fleet can pay their respects.”

“I see.” She sat there for a few moments.

Otto felt her eyes on him but couldn’t meet her gaze. He stared at his fingertips, his nails torn and ragged from working with the driftwood. Tanned hands, if not the roughened hands of a fisherman. They lacked the scars and calluses from stanyers of working the saltwater and twine. He saw them as if they were some strange creatures taken up residence on the ends of his arms.

Rachel patted the table with both palms, breaking the moment. “Well, I need a cuppa. Are you going to make your aged mother fend for herself or what?”

He looked up at her across the table. She sat in Carla’s chair and for a heartbeat he saw Carla’s smirking smile. He blinked and the smile remaining was pure Rachel Krugg—a hint of mischief and a dollop of challenge in her raised eyebrows. “My ‘aged mother?’” The words almost made Otto laugh.

She sat back in her chair, a hand pressed to her breast. “Well, I am. And a guest to boot.”

He grinned and pushed himself to his feet, his palms pressed to the smooth wood of the table. “Of course. Let me just put the kettle on.”

“That’s my boy.”

He filled the kettle and set it on the burner, adjusting the flame to just kiss the metal. He looked over his shoulder at his mother, catching the change of expression as she adjusted her too-bright smile. “Some breakfast? You must have traveled all night.”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.”

He rummaged through the pantry and assembled some dried fruit and oatmeal in a pot. Simple fare. Comfort food. It joined the tea kettle on the stove. He stepped back and admired his handiwork before turning to his mother again. “I just realized. You didn’t come to hold my hand.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You came to kick my butt.”

“Of all my children, you always were the smart one.”

“I’m an only child, mother.”

“See?”

The old, familiar joke made him grin at her. “And you’re the best mother I ever had.”

Rachel grinned back but Otto saw the glistening in her eyes and the way she bit the inside of her lip. He turned to give the oatmeal an unnecessary stir and twist the kettle on the burner. He barely heard her quiet sniff behind him. The kettle started a whispery whistle, giving him a few moments to focus on the normal, the mundane, as he rinsed the teapot with hot water and tossed a few pinches of tea into the infuser basket. By the time he finished, the kettle’s whistle had grown to a shriek. Taking the pot to the stove, he topped it with boiling water and punched the tea timer.

“Five minutes,” he said turning to find his mother’s gaze on his face. “Would you like toast?”

She shook her head. “Oatmeal will be fine.”

Otto took his seat again and found once more he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Tell me about Sarah,” Rachel said.

“I don’t know much. She’s almost a month early. Just a bit of a thing. I’m almost afraid to hold her, she’s so small.”

“You haven’t held her yet?”

He shook his head. “Incubator. She needs the oxygen. Edith said maybe today.”

“Well, I’m not leaving until I’ve held my granddaughter.” Rachel’s fierce glare made him smile again.

“Maybe today,” he said again. “If she’s strong enough.”

They sat in silence until the tea timer dinged. Otto filled two heavy mugs and stirred the oatmeal again. “Almost ready.”

When they’d settled and sipped, Rachel glanced over at Otto. “Will she have problems?”

“Sarah?”

“Yeah. The toxin? It’s not a good thing. For anybody.”

Otto took a deep breath and blew it out before taking a shallow sip of the hot tea. “They said they don’t think so, but until she’s out of the incubator nobody seems to know. Right now they’re just concerned with making sure she can breathe.” He glanced over at his mother. “Yesterday, they said her lungs looked fine. They’re just being careful.”

“How will you manage, Otto?” Rachel gazed into her mug.

“Manage?” He shrugged. “Lots of single parents around. I’ll just have to learn.”

She looked up at him with a broad smile. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“What? Is there a choice?”

“Not really.”

“But ...?”

“But if you thought you weren’t up to it, your father and I could take care of her for you.”

The thought sent a chill down Otto’s back. “What? No. She’s your granddaughter, but she’s my daughter.”

Rachel’s smile grew wider. “Good.”

He rose and fussed with the oatmeal. He split the contents between two heavy china bowls, drizzled a bit of milk on each and forced himself to place the bowls on the table. The growl of anger in his gut surprised him.

“Why’s everybody so concerned that I won’t be able to handle one small girl?” He settled back in his chair and folded the milk into the cereal with stabbing twists of his spoon.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the second person to ask me how I’m going to manage.” He shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, burning his tongue in the process. He sucked air through his lips to try to cool it.

His mother’s lips twitched but she looked down at her bowl, casting only small glances across the table at him. “Who else asked?”

“One of the med techs. Edith Morales.”

“What did you tell her?”

Otto thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t remember.” He took a deep breath and blew it out again. “It was a lot to take in all at once like that.”

“Mmm. I bet.” His mother took a small spoonful of the oatmeal and blew on it. “You’ll be fine. Just take things slow and call if you need help. It’s a grandmother’s job to spoil her grandkids.”

He paused, his anger burned out as quickly as it flashed up. “I’m sure things will be different now.”

Rachel’s eyebrows wagged as she chuckled. After a moment she repeated, “You’ll be fine.”

He thought about that, his eyes focused somewhere near the tabletop between them. “I’m not worried about me.”

“Welcome to parenthood.”

Otto lifted his gaze to meet his mother’s smile. “I just wish ...” He couldn’t finish. His eyes stung and the last spoonful of oatmeal felt lodged in his throat.

Rachel sighed. “We all do, Otto. We all do.”

Otto led Rachel into the med station where Edith waited for him with a broad grin. “Mother, this is Edith Morales. She’s been taking care of Sarah. Edith, this is my mother, Rachel.”

The tech offered her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Krugg.”

“Rachel, please.”

“Edith. You’ve come to show your shaman here how to change a nappy?”

Rachel laughed and shook her head. “That wasn’t my plan. I suspect he’ll have to learn the same way we all did. Trial and error.”

Otto shook his head. “I know how. I think.”

“You think?” Edith looked at him with a wide-eyed gaze of incredulity.

“I’ve changed a few.” He looked at the floor and struggled to keep breathing.

“Oh,” Rachel said, her voice a whisper. “Nieces?”

“When we found out ... When we first learned ... Tony and Nancy let us babysit for their little ones. It was ...” Otto stopped and took a breath. “I’ve changed a few diapers already. I know the theory.”

Rachel gave him a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Of course.”

“Shall we see how the li’l peanut is doin’?” Edith asked. “She’s due for an excursion today. I waited until you could be here.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Rachel said. “I’ve come all the way from Callum’s Cove for this.”

Edith smiled and led the way to the nursery, stopping beside a lexan-topped crib.

Rachel leaned down to peer through the cover at the tiny pink baby. “Oh, my,” she said, her voice a bare breath. “She’s so tiny.” She glanced at Otto over her shoulder. “You weren’t exactly a linebacker, but this is amazing.”

“How’s she doing?” Otto asked. “Can I hold her yet?”

Edith grinned. “We’ve had her out a couple of times. She needed a bath and we’ve been monitoring her weight. Her reflexes are good. The big concern was her lungs, but she appears to have good function. Her oxygen levels are good.”

“What about the toxins?” Rachel asked, not taking her eyes off the baby.

Edith glanced at Otto and gave him a little shrug. “We didn’t find any in her blood. The neurotoxin would have metabolized quickly. It wouldn’t have lasted long, even if she’d gotten some through the placental barrier.”

Rachel straightened up and turned to Edith. “So, wait and see?”

“Hope for the best. Any cognitive issues won’t show up for years, if at all. Kids are resilient little buggers. It’s amazing what they’ll rebound from.” Edith sighed and gazed into the crib. “I wish I could tell you something better.”

“Can you tell me how long it’ll take you to get her out of there so I can hold her?” Otto asked.

Edith chuckled and slid the lexan open. “Have at it.”

The small squirming bundle in the bassinet let out a squall—short, almost tentative—and kicked her right foot several times.

Rachel stepped back and motioned to Otto. “Come on, Dad. You get dibs.”

Otto caught the glistening in his mother’s eyes as he moved up to look at his daughter for the first time without a pane of plastic between them. He reached in and scooped her up, one hand behind her shoulders and the other under her butt. Nearly her whole upper body fit in his hand, and he marveled. The world spoke to him in the wide eyes of his daughter and he stood there, holding her, listening.

She opened her mouth and squawked again. Louder, more certain. She seemed almost surprised by her own noise.

Otto watched her eyes roll around, her head turning slightly. “Can she see me?” he asked.

“She probably can’t focus on anything more than a hand’s width away right now,” Edith said.

Otto held her close to his face. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

She stilled in his hands and gazed up at him.

Otto felt his mother looking over his shoulder and he turned so she could see better. “She looks so much like Carla, I can’t get over it,” he said.

Rachel gave a little laugh. “I don’t think Carla was pink and wrinkly.”

“I’m sure she was at some point,” Edith said standing back, lounging against the wall.

Rachel nodded. “True, but I never saw her that way.”

“You know what I mean,” Otto said.

“Yes, Otto. I know.”

He turned to his mother and offered the bundle to her. “You wanna hold her a minute?”

Her eyes lit up and she gave an eager little nod. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Otto handed Sarah off to Rachel and turned to Edith. “Thank you.”

Edith shuffled her feet and gave a little shrug. “Just doin’ my job. We don’t get that many real little ones here in Cape Grace. She’s a sweetie.”

“I can’t get over how tiny ...” Rachel held the baby up to her face the way Otto had. “You’re so cute, but I bet you’re going to be a clever thing like your daddy. Yes, I do.”

“It’s almost time for her midmorning snack. Would you like to do the honors?” Edith asked.

Rachel turned to Otto. “Here. You should do this one. It’s the first time for you.”

Otto took the baby and Edith pointed to a comfy chair.

“I’ll go get her bottle. Won’t be but a tick.”

Otto settled into the chair, sliding his daughter into the crook of his arm. “You sure you don’t want to do this?” he asked, looking up at his mother.

She sucked her lips in between her teeth and shook her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’ll get a chance before I head back. This one’s yours.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth, her eyes beaming at him even as the tears seeped out and down her cheeks.

Edith came back with a bottle and handed it to Otto. “Should be the right temp. Drop a little on the inside of your wrist. See what it feels like.”

He upended the small bottle and sprinkled a few drops onto his skin. “It doesn’t feel very warm. You sure it’s right?”

Edith grinned. “Yep. If it felt hot, that would probably be a warning sign. Your skin temp there is a little lower than core temp. You’ll get the feel for it as you go. If it feels hot, don’t give it to her right away. Most babies seem to like it warmish, but too hot can burn them.”

Otto settled in and soon had Sarah sucking on the bottle. Peace settled around him like a heavy quilt on a chilly day. A warm kernel of comfort joined the cold lump in his chest. In what seemed like only moments the small bottle of formula emptied into the tiny mouth.

“Where does she put it?” Otto asked as he pulled the bottle away. He held up the empty and looked down at Sarah. “Doesn’t seem like there’s enough room in there for all that.”

Edith laughed. “It wasn’t that much. She’ll need to eat again shortly.”

“You should burp her,” Rachel said.

Otto pressed the empty bottle into Edith’s outstretched hand and fumbled Sarah upright on his chest. A couple of gentle pats achieved the desired result and by the time he lowered her again, her eyelids drooped.

Rachel smiled down at him and held out her hands. “Warm belly, sleepy baby. Here, let me put her back for you.”

Otto passed the tiny bundle off and stood, his knees a little shaky, his own eyes feeling droopy.

With Sarah safely ensconced in the incubator once more, Edith ushered them out to the lobby. “If she keeps improving at this rate, she’ll be ready for release in a few more days. Are you ready for her, Otto?”

The question stunned Otto. “Ready? I thought it would be at least another week.”

Edith shrugged. “The sooner you can get her out of here and into your care, the better it’ll be for her. What do you need?”

Otto’s brain seemed to short circuit. “I have no idea.” He turned to Rachel. “Crib? Food? Bottles? Diapers?”

“Clothes?” Rachel asked. “Hat and jammies at a minimum. Sleepers.”

“Baby-strength shampoo and soap. You might consider a carrier for when you want to go out.” Edith pursed her lips and squinted her eyes for a moment. “Normally I’d suggest a stroller, but it needs a solid flat surface.”

“You wouldn’t be able to use it on the beach,” Rachel said. “It might be useful when coming into town.”

“How do you get supplies out to the cottage now?” Edith asked. “That’s a bit of a hike if you need a liter of milk.”

“Chandlery delivers. Carla and I—” Otto’s throat clogged up on him. “We keep a list. Put in an order once a week. Marty’s boy runs it over in the jitney when they get a chance.”

“There ya go,” Edith said. “Chandlery has anything you’d need.”

Otto’s mind pulled up the image of a suntanned and wind-chapped fisherman in the chandlery ordering a hundred meters of net and two cases of diapers. “I’m guessing that’s not listed under ship fittings.”

Edith laughed.

Rachel hid her grin behind a hand. “Household goods. Misc,” she said. “I can show you when we get back to the cottage.”

“Fair warning. We don’t have that many infants in town,” Edith said. “You’ll want to make sure you stay ahead of the ordering because Marty’s not going to have a lot in stock at any given time. It may take a day or two for him to get what you need in from the Inlet.”

“How much is enough?” Otto asked. He looked down into the incubator at his daughter. “She doesn’t look like she’d eat much.”

“She’ll make up for it in frequency,” Edith said. “Formula has a long shelf life. Get three of the large cans. When you open the second one, order another.”

“Diapers?”

“Get the recyclables. They come in standard packs based on age and gender. She’ll take the newborn size for a while. Same deal. Get three packs, at least to start. When you open the second, order another. You’ll have a good feel for it in a couple of weeks.”

Rachel touched Otto’s arm. “We should let Edith get on with her duties. I’ve been around this harbor before. I can help you get started.”

Edith grinned. “I don’t mind. I love having the little ones here.”

“You have any of your own?” Rachel asked.

Edith gave a little shake of her head. “Not yet, anyway. Haven’t found any worthy DNA donors.”

Rachel chuckled and patted her on the arm. “You’ve plenty of time for that.”

“We’ll see.” Edith turned and led them back to the lobby. “This time tomorrow?”

Rachel cast a look at Otto. “What time’s the service?”

“Meeting at the chapel at 1400,” Otto said.

“The company has it covered,” Edith added. She looked to Otto. “Will you want to speak?”

“Speak?”

“You know. Say anything at the service?”

The thought of it made Otto curl up inside. “I don’t think I can.”

Edith gave him a gentle smile. “No need to. There’ll be plenty who will and if you change your mind, nobody’ll say boo.”

They stepped out into the late morning sun. The warmth of the sun carried the promise of summer. Otto felt it warming the trousers against his legs.

Rachel hooked her arm through his and started walking slowly down the street. “These next couple of days will be the hardest.” She seemed to be looking anywhere but at Otto. “Get through them and you’ll be on the mend.”

“I miss her already.”

She made a little hmm of agreement and patted his arm. “You always will.” After a few steps she said, “You’ll never get over her, but it will get better. Eventually, you’ll remember only the good times.”

“Sarah will remind me every day,” Otto said.

“Think that’ll be a blessing or a curse?” She looked at him, an eyebrow raised and her head tilted to the side.

“Probably a bit of both.”

She patted his arm again and nodded. “Probably so.”

CHAPTER THREE

Cape Grace: May 15, 2329

THE CHAPEL WITH ITS high, arching ceiling and subdued lighting made Otto feel small. The press of people—fishermen, townies, and assorted families—crushed in on him. Sweat ran down his back under his shirt from the heat and moisture of too many people in too small a space.

He stood beside a large photo of her at the front of the room. In the image she stood at the wheel of her boat, leaning out of the wheelhouse window. Wind blew her jaw-length brown hair back from her face. The sun caught her smile and twinkled in her eyes. It wasn’t how Otto remembered her.

During the long fishing season, he shared her with the company. Long hours. Short nights. Meals grabbed on the go. Boat problems. Weather problems. People problems. Always some kind of problem. Always some distraction over which he had no control. He could only look on from the outside and offer what simple comforts he could. A home-cooked meal after a long day, a hot bath before a short night, and a hurried kiss before another departure.

He knew her best in winter when the short, frozen days and long, frigid nights kept them curled around each other on the small divan. They’d read or talk. Sometimes just sit quietly and say nothing, listening to the wind whistling outside, basking in the glow of a wood fire in the small stove. The look in her eye when she’d pull him up from the couch and lead him back to their bed.

When the last hand shook his, the last hug had been offered and accepted. When the last of the speakers had said his piece and the attendees had gone, Otto sat staring at the photo and the brushed steel container beside it. He sat there for a long time, but didn’t know how long. It seemed long. The bare bench against his butt-bones told him it had been too long. Still he couldn’t get up to leave.

A shadow sat beside him in the dim, shifting light. “D’ya want some company?”

He glanced over to see Frank Mannetti slouched on the bench. Otto shrugged. “Sure. No. I don’t know.”

Frank said, “Heh.”

They sat there for some amount of time. Long enough for the shadows to shift on the walls.

“Wanna talk about it?” Frank asked finally.

Otto shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Me, either. Just thought maybe the two guys who loved her the most might ... I don’t know. Have something to say to each other.”

Otto thought for a moment, his eyes trying to find the woman he knew in the photo that wasn’t the one he remembered. “I told her I loved her. That morning. Before.”

Frank clapped him on the shoulder. “All we can do, I s’pose. Tell ’em we love ’em.”

Otto turned to look at Frank’s craggy, lined face. “She loved fishing.”

“She loved you, too.”

Otto nodded. “You see the baby?”

“Yep. Georgina made me stop there first. Cute li’l bugger. Has her mother’s eyes.”

Otto chuckled. “I thought so, too.”

“You’re gonna have your hands full with that one, Otto. Mark my words.”

Otto nodded, unable to speak.

Frank shifted his seat and stared off into space. “What I remember about Carly. She always had her own mind. Once she set her course, nobody’d shift it. Tony, now. Tony’d go whichever way the wind took him. For a while there he thought he wanted to be a fisherman, then a shuttle pilot, then a cook, then I don’t even remember what.” A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Nance straightened him out in good shape.” He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “Carly always wanted to be a fisherman. Set her sights on being a fishing boat skipper. Nothin’ and nobody got in her way.”

Otto nodded and looked over at Frank again.

Frank met his eyes. “What I’m tryin’ to say is she died doin’ what she loved. She lived the life she loved.”

Otto sighed. “Yeah. That she did.”

“You need to do the same, Otto.”

Frank’s words took Otto by surprise. “I am.”

Frank rolled his tongue around in his mouth a bit, like he didn’t like the taste of his own words. “Your life isn’t over, son. She’s gone, but you’re still here and you got a lot of livin’ to do yet.”

“I know that. Everybody dies eventually. It’s part of the deal we get for being here.”

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, hell. I don’t know.” Frank’s mouth twisted into a sideways grin. “We’re here for ya, if you need us, Otto. Georgina and me? We’re here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. I suspect I’ll have a lot to do over the next little while. Sarah’s not exactly out of the woods yet.”

“Course she’s not. You’ll do good by her, I got faith in ya.”

“As long as I have Sarah, I’ve got a little piece of Carla left.”

Frank chuckled again. “You hold onto that thought for now, but there’s a lesson coming down the road for ya.”

“What’s that?”

“Kids grow up and expect to have lives of their own. There’ll come a day.”

“Of course. It’s how things go,” Otto said.

Frank looked at him silently for a few moments. “When the kids left, Georgina and I had a chance to get reacquainted, so to speak.” His eyebrows lifted as if in question. “We’d had twenty-something stanyers where the kids and the business and the living took precedent over everything else. Until suddenly, it didn’t.”

“Sounds nice,” Otto said.

“It is nice.” Frank stared into Otto’s eyes for several heartbeats. “Be thinkin’ about how that’ll be for you.”

The older man’s words struck home in Otto’s chest somewhere. Unable to speak, he nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor between his boots, as if considering the scuffed flooring—but not really seeing anything.

“A few of the boys and girls are getting together down at the Saving Grace to hoist a few in Carly’s memory. You’re welcome to come if you’ve a mind.”

Otto nodded, his head bobbing on his neck, but he didn’t look up. “Thanks. I’m not exactly fit company right now.” In truth he didn’t feel like a part of that side of her life. The “boys and girls” would need their own space to grieve the loss.

“No problem. Just wanted to let ya know you’re invited if you’ve a mind.”

“Thanks. You staying in town long?” He glanced over at the older man.

“We’ll be here for a few days. Taking the tram back on the eighteenth.”

“Oh, good. Sarah should be coming out of the incubator around then. Stay in touch.”

Frank clapped Otto’s shoulder. “Will do. Georgina wouldn’t let me leave without a visit.”

Otto sniffed a small laugh. “A lot like Carla, eh?”

“Yeah. She came by it honestly.” Frank stood and stretched. “See you in a bit, then.”

Otto held up a hand and Frank shook it. “Say hi for me,” Otto said.

Otto sat there for a long time after Frank left, trying to listen to the world around the empty silence inside himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cape Grace: June 22, 2329

OTTO STOOD ON THE TRAM platform, basking in the warm afternoon sun. Sarah snuggled against his chest, held in a baby sling and half wrapped in his great coat. A whiff of saltwater and fish wafted across the platform in the onshore breeze, momentarily masking the baby smell rising from inside the wool.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Rachel asked, peeking down at the sleeping baby.

“You asking her or me?”

Rachel chuckled. “All right. You seem like you’re coping. I admit it.”

“Sleep would be nice, but we don’t have any pressing social engagements on our calendar. I’ve got enough driftwood and whelkies to keep me busy all summer.” He shrugged. “We should be fine.”

“I napped when you napped.”

“I’m planning on the same thing.” Otto smiled at his mother. “Thank you for coming. You’ve been so patient. Just ... thank you.”

Rachel’s eyes glistened but the tears no longer fell so readily for either of them. “You just take good care of her. I’ll be back in a few weeks to check in.”

“I will, Mother.”

A whistling sound heralded the tram’s arrival. Moments later it slipped into the station with a squeal of magnetic brakes and a gust of ozone-charged air. The doors whooshed open and a half dozen people got out, scurrying off without looking up.

Leaving a kiss on his cheek, Rachel stepped onto the tram. She paused at the door. “Take good care of you, too,” she said.

“I will, Mother.” Otto had just time to say it before the doors whooshed closed and the tram pulled out, accelerating on its magnets until the whistle of its passage died away.

Otto stood on the platform for a few moments more. He looked down at his daughter, still asleep and unfazed by the bustle and noise of the tram. He felt a smile tugging his lips and he marveled. After a few heart-stopping moments, he’d mastered the sling. He’d been certain that he would drop her trying to get her into or out of it, but found it quite secure. After a bit of practice, it became second nature. Her slight weight offered no burden, and he only had to remember not to bang her into things, which was no real hardship. The warmth of her cuddled next to his heart worked wonders on his mood.

Otto took up his staff and strolled back along the platform toward the beach and the waiting cottage. It would be time to feed her by the time he got back. He sighed and felt a strange contentment that he was—at last—going to spend time alone with his daughter. The noise and obligation to his guest, welcome though she might have been, had just left on the tram. Instead he heard the familiar whispering of the breeze past his ears and the tinkling of the shells on his staff. The comforting sounds always served to center him, to focus him. He glanced down at her once more and felt his smile broadening as they went.

The cottage felt strange to him. For the first time since he could remember, he had little to do. Sarah slept, his mother had cleaned the cottage—removed Carla’s clothing and toiletries. She’d left a box of fishing gear in the closet, but the bedroom felt out of kilter without the little things that mattered. She’d even left him a large pot of soup. He’d have food for a week, if he didn’t get bored from eating the same thing every meal.

He considered trying to carve a bit, but lethargy settled on him like a blanket. He settled onto the divan, his gaze going to the worn cushion beside him. He put his feet up and snuggled down, pulling the comforter off the back to wrap himself in. He let his tears slide down, washing his cheeks silently for a few moments until he fell asleep.

Sarah woke him with a little hiccupping cry after what seemed like only moments. He blinked awake and had to turn on a light to see her. A quick whiff told him why she’d cried and a glance at the clock reminded him that both of them needed dinner.

“Okay, kiddo. Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll see what we have in the cooler.”

He scooped her up and found solace in the little things for a time. Eventually, she nodded off and he put her back in her bed. He folded the comforter and draped it over the back of the sofa once more. He slipped another stick onto the fire and savored the small wisps of wood smoke. His stomach growled.

“Time to feed me, I guess,” he said, and went off to warm the soup.

After his meager meal, he rolled the bassinet into the bedroom and made sure she was zipped into one of the sleepers before shucking off his outer clothes and sliding between the sheets of his very cold and empty bed. He reached over to touch the covers on the other side before sleep claimed him.

He didn’t struggle against the sandman. He’d be awake in a couple of hours and needed to get some rest. If he was going to take care of Sarah, he needed to take care of himself as well.

CHAPTER FIVE

Cape Grace: May 15, 2332

OTTO CHECKED THAT SARAH’S hat was tied under her chin and her jacket was zipped up. He’d already checked her boots and mittens. He knew if he checked much more, he’d have to start again from the beginning so he opened the door to the brilliant but chilly morning. “All right, Sarah. Time for walking.”

“Walkin’,” she said, and marched out the door, arms swinging and knees high.

Otto grinned, taking up his staff and hat before hurrying outside to make sure she’d not gone too far without him. His gathering bag hung over a shoulder, they started down the long stretch of coarse sandy beach. A higher than normal tide overnight had brought in a bounty of driftwood and seaweed.

Sarah stopped at the edge of the sand and waited for him to catch up. She looked up at him. “Carry me?”

“Can’t. Have to find driftwood. You’ll have to walk.” He held in a smile. She always asked and he had been refusing for almost a year.

“Hard walkin’ san’.”

Otto nodded, keeping a serious expression on his face. “It is hard walking in the sand sometimes. Come on, then. Best get started.” He took a few steps out onto the loose sand and peeked over his shoulder to make sure she followed.

“Okay, okay. Walkin’.” She stepped onto the sand and followed in his footsteps.

A bent and twisted piece of wood half buried in the sand caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up. There was something in it, but he couldn’t tell what. He held it up to the light and turned it this way and that before putting it into his bag. Some pieces were like that. More lately but perhaps he was just getting old.

Sarah tottered along on her stumpy legs, her warm clothes giving her a bit of a waddle, but she didn’t seem to mind. She kicked at a pile of seaweed, missed, and fell on her padded rump. She giggled and climbed back to her feet. “Missed it,” she said with a shrug before kicking it again. Her boot connected solidly and the small knot of weed flipped over. A tiny sand crab had sheltered under it and scooted off to find more cover. Sarah squeaked and pointed. “Crab, Dada. Foun’ a crab!”

Her antics never ceased to amuse and sometimes amaze him. “You did, indeed, clever girl. What else can you find?”

“What you fin’?” she asked, patting his bag.

“Only one piece so far,” he said, pulling a long face. “I’ll have to work harder to find more.”

They wandered along, Otto picking up pieces and tossing most of them back to the sand.

Sarah found one and tried to throw it out into the waves but her short arms couldn’t get enough momentum behind it. She splashed the lacy edges of the wave with her boots.

“Don’t get too close, Sarah.”

“Won’. Just ’plashin’,” she said her eyes as bright as her smile.

He found a pile of small loose sticks and stirred it with the butt of his staff. He crouched down to look more closely. Sarah ran over and put her hands on her knees, bent over the pile.

“Wha’cha fin’?”

“Sticks,” Otto said and picked up a smooth, gray stick about a centimeter across and several long. “See?”

“Good stick?” she asked, tilting her head to the side and staring at the wood.

“Just a stick, I think,” Otto said. “I’ll save it.” He tucked it into his gather bag.

“You carve it?” she asked, squinting up at him against the sunlight.

“Maybe. Maybe use it in the fire.”

She nodded and leaned over again, looking at the collection of driftwood.

Otto spotted a nicely twisted and gnarled piece. He picked it up and turned it back and forth, looking for the grain.

“Carve it?” Sarah asked again, looking at the wood in his hand.

“Maybe. Looks like a cat, I think.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Cat. You founded it.”

He didn’t see anything else that he liked so straightened up and started down the beach once more. “Come along, Sarah. We have a lot more beach to cover.”

“All righty, Dada.” She stood and clapped her mittens, shaking off the sand before trotting along behind him.

They trudged along for half a stan, picking up pieces of stick and shell. Mostly they tossed them back down but occasionally Otto slipped one into his bag.

Every so often, Sarah picked up a piece and presented it to him. He always accepted her small gifts and, after a serious examination, slipped each into his bag.

It was a game they had played most fine days since the heart of winter had broken.

The coughing sound of a boat’s engine starting up wafted across the bay.

Otto shaded his eyes with his free hand and looked across the water.

“What is it?” Sarah asked.

“Fishing boat. Getting ready for the season.” He looked down at her. “You remember last year? The fishing boats?”

Sarah squinched up her face and made a show of trying to remember. “Nope.”

“During the fishing season, the boats go out and catch fish for people to eat.”

“We eat fis’?” she asked.

“Indeed we do, my girl. Indeed we do.”

“Fis’ is good?”

“We like it very much.”

She seemed to take his assertion at face value and mimicked his stance, raising a hand to stare for a few moments before turning back to the beach. “Come on. Fin’ sticks,” she said.

Otto chuckled a little and joined her. “Perhaps it’s time to walk back now.”

Sarah looked up at him and then back down the beach the way they’d come. “Okay. Have a snack?”

“We’ll have lunch when we get back home.”

She seemed to ponder that for a few moments. “Okay. Lunch and snack.”

He chuckled again. “At least one of those.”

They walked back along the sand, walking where they hadn’t left tracks yet. They fell back into their quiet sauntering, picking up and discarding sticks—occasionally finding a pretty shell or interesting piece of sea glass. Some of them went into his gather sack.

They approached the end of the beach once more. As Otto stepped onto the path to the cottage, Sarah came running up with one last piece of driftwood. “Foun’ a crab,” she said, offering the wood to Otto.

Her grin made him smile back at her before he looked closely at the wood. When he reached for the stick, he nearly snatched his hand back.

For just one moment he saw a sand crab hidden in the small flattened driftwood in her mittened palms.

He took the offered wood and held it up to the light. The sand crab showed itself to his practiced eye once more, locked behind the twists and grain but there.

“What do you think it is?” he asked, looking down at the earnest face gazing up at him.

“Crab. Foun’ it.”

He looked at the wood and then back at Sarah. “Yes, you did.”

She beamed. “Lunch now?”

He slipped the piece of wood into his sack and nodded. “Lunch now. You hungry?”

“We have fis’?”

“Probably a sandwich.”

“Cheese sammich?”

He grinned at her. “Peanut butter?”

She brightened even more. “Jelly?”

“If we must,” Otto said and struck off down the path. “It will be a great hardship, but I’ll make the sacrifice.”

“Good,” she said and took his hand, walking beside him. “Whew. Long walk tucked me right out.”

“Me, too,” Otto said, looking down at her. “Me, too.”

After a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with some crunchy carrot sticks, Sarah toddled off to nap without complaint.

Otto retrieved his gather bag and pulled the sticks out, sorting the larger sticks into the wood box beside the stove. After so many stanyers he could usually spot good whelkies relatively quickly. The wood itself seemed to flow differently. The grain and twists marked the trapped animal figures for his blade to free.

He stared at each stick as it came out of the bag, occasionally finding the figure immediately. More often the figures were elusive, if they were there at all. He pulled out Sarah’s sand crab and for a moment it seemed like the tiny crab scuttled across his palm. He stared at it for a dozen heartbeats. He set the driftwood aside for later and pulled out another piece. A stick of firewood, nothing more, so he placed it into the wood box. As he pulled his hand back, he saw the sinuous shape of a weasel in a stick right on the top of the waste pile.

He pulled it out and held it up to the light. Did he miss it? Was it a stick he hadn’t actually looked at before discarding? He placed it gently beside the sand crab and sat very still for a long time.

CHAPTER SIX

Aram’s Inlet: September 18, 2332

JIMMY PIRANO STARED out over the bay for what must have been the ten thousandth time. “What’s her name again? Shelly something?”

“Shelly Chambers,” Tony said, taking a sip from his mug. “Lives out at Bleak Point.”

“Her father a shaman?”

“Yeah.”

“He putting her up to it?”

“Nope. He’s fighting her on it.”

Jimmy turned back to look at Tony. “Seriously?”

Tony nodded.

Jimmy sat behind his desk and let that idea roll around. “You know why?”

“Why he’s fighting or why she’s pushing?”

“Him.”

“Not directly but the story is that he sees it as a lost cause and she just needs to get over it,” Tony said. “That’s what Harriet Drover says.”

“Drover’s the company rep?” Jimmy asked.

Tony nodded. “You know her?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Name only. There’s thousands of them.”

Tony snickered. “Yeah. Well. I looked her up. Twenty plus years as rep at Bleak Point. Spotless record. People seem to like her. She’s got good recommendations from the regional supervisor. They’re doing well in terms of managing quotas and budgets.”

“She’s not putting this Chambers girl up to it?”

“Not as far as I can tall, and it’s Chambers woman. She’s thirty-four. Married. Two kids.”

Jimmy gave his head a shake. “Why? She’s married. Doesn’t need the title. What’s going on?”

Tony shrugged. “I’d guess she just wants to be recognized as a shaman instead of the wife of the harbormaster.”

“She’s got about as much chance of that as I do of flying,” Jimmy said. “What’s the mister say about it?”

“No idea. Drover forwarded the paperwork through channels with a note about Shelly’s father. Nothing about the husband.”

Jimmy sighed and started typing on his console.

Tony sipped his coffee.

“You wanna run down to Bleak Point with me?” Jimmy asked, pausing to look across the desk.

Tony shook his head. “Not really. Long trip. What d’you hope to find out?”

Jimmy settled back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his chest. “I’m not sure. I want to know what’s behind this. Why now?” He reached for the keyboard again but paused, his fingers on the keys. “Don’t you have some books to cook or something?”

Tony laughed. “Or something.” He levered himself out of the chair and ambled toward the door. “You really need an assistant that’s not me.”

Jimmy snorted. “We tried that once. That didn’t work out so well.”

Tony paused at the threshold, looking back at his boss. “You need to learn to delegate more, Jimmy.”

Jimmy waved a hand. “I delegate. I delegate to you.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, his lips screwed into a grimace. “You need to learn to delegate more to somebody who’s job it is to be delegated to.”

Jimmy shook his head and grunted. “Find me somebody.”

“Do I look like I work in Personnel?”

“You work across the hall from them,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “And you know me. If anybody can find me an assistant, it would be you.”

“Yeah, Nicolas worked out so well,” Tony said.

“Not Nicolas. Nicolas couldn’t find his ass with either hand. Book smart. People stupid.”

Tony snorted and waved a dismissive hand in Jimmy’s direction before walking through the doorway, leaving the door open behind him.

Jimmy sighed. “Damn bean counters.” He turned his attention to the screen and sending messages to Harriet Drover and Jack Flanagan. Another woman looking to be recognized as a shaman would not sit well with home office. He needed a lot more to go on before he booted this ball up the field.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bleak Point: September 20, 2332

HARRIET DROVER MET Jimmy at the shuttle pad. A slender, middle-aged woman with a retro haircut and no apparent attempt to hide the gray streaks, she offered a hand as Jimmy stepped out of the flitter. “Mr. Pirano,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to come all the way to Bleak Point for this.”

Jimmy shook her hand. “Call me Jimmy, and it’s the fastest way for me to see what’s happening here.”

Drover nodded, swiping a bit of windblown hair out of her face. “I’m Harry or Drover, depending on who’s talkin’. My spouse calls me Harriet when she wants to piss me off.” She grinned and beckoned toward the admin building. “Let’s get settled and I’ll fill you in as best I can.”

Jimmy followed her through the hallways up and to the second floor to an office that could have been the mate to his own: the windows overlooking the harbor, the metal console, and a pair of chairs. She had a basket of greenery hanging in front of one of the windows and a different table against the side wall, but it looked so much like the one in his office that he did a double take.

She stood back from the console rather than taking her seat behind it. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be greatly appreciated.”

Drover nodded and pressed a button on the console. “Alistair, would you bring us coffee, please?”

“Coming up.” The man’s voice sounded like he was standing in the room.

Jimmy took one of the visitor’s chairs and leaned back in it. “So? What’s this about?”

Drover took her seat and leaned her forearms on the desk. “Shelly Chambers wants to be recognized as a shaman.”

“There has to be more to it than that,” Jimmy said.

Drover shrugged. “If there is, I don’t know what it might be.”

“She a troublemaker?”

Footsteps in the hallway signaled the arrival of an older man carrying a tray with cups and a carafe. “Coffee,” he said by way of introduction.

“Thank you, Alistair. You can leave it here on the desk,” Drover said.

“You bet,” he said, sliding the tray onto the surface with a smile in Jimmy’s direction. “You take yours black, I believe, Mr. Pirano?”

Jimmy nodded, feeling a jolt of surprise. “Yes, thanks.”

Alistair nodded and looked at Drover. “Anything else I can do, Harry?”

Drover shook her head. “Not at the moment.”

He nodded again. “I’ll have that report on last month’s landings ready by end of day.”

“Thank you, Alistair.”

He nodded, offered another smile to Jimmy, and left. The door clicked closed behind him.

“He seems very efficient,” Jimmy said.

“Alistair Edward Thomas. Was the brains behind my predecessor and has been my right hand since I took over the office. You can’t have him.” That last came with a full mug and a wide smile.

“You’ve been at it, what? Twenty stanyers?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah. Something like that. Alistair started young.”

Jimmy accepted the coffee and chuckled. “Fair enough.” He took a sip and settled back again. “So, Chambers? Troublemaker?”

Drover shook her head. “Solid member of the community. One of her kids will be out with the fleet next season. Husband is the harbormaster. Runs it like a symphony conductor.”

“What’s he say about her trying to become a shaman?”

Drover cradled her mug between her palms and stared into it for a long moment. “He wants her to be happy,” she said, looking up. “He thinks being recognized as a shaman will make her happy.”

“What do you think?” Jimmy asked.

Drover took a long time over a sip of her coffee, weighing him with her gaze the whole time. She placed the mug down on the surface with a quiet click before speaking. “I think she’s a shaman.” She raised her eyebrows, as if in challenge.

Jimmy nodded and sighed.

“That’s it?” Drover asked.

“You were expecting me to object?” Jimmy asked.

“You’re the Pirano on planet,” Drover said, as if it explained everything.

“Yeah. True,” Jimmy said. “I’m the one who has to say no. Comes with the job.”

Drover seemed to settle around her coffee cup a bit, the tension draining from her shoulders as she stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said after a few moments.

“Simple. I’m the guy who has to make sure we follow the rules. Our rules say ‘son of the shaman is a shaman.’ Shamans have some privileges that other people don’t. Mostly they don’t have to leave the planet when they age out and haven’t got a company job or spouse.”

“So, you’re saying Shelly can’t be a shaman because she doesn’t have a dick?” Drover scowled across the desktop at him.

Jimmy sighed again. “Not at all. I’m saying the company can’t recognize her as a shaman because she’s not the son of a shaman. For all I know she’s the shamanest shaman we’ve ever had on St. Cloud. Doesn’t change the rules.” He took another sip of the coffee, the excellent brew tasting bitter on his tongue.

Drover blinked. “So you admit she can be a shaman?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I’d be rather foolish to claim I have some insider knowledge on the subject of shamans given that I’m not one.”

“But you’re the Pirano man.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I know about shamans. I’ve lived here my whole life. I know they exist. I know there’s some kind of gift they’re supposed to have. I’ve met a few who’ve made me wonder about things.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and cup cradled in his hands. “The only thing I know about shamans without any doubt or question is that Pirano Fisheries will only recognize the son of a shaman as a shaman.”

Drover sat up straight and stared at him. “Even when you sit there and admit that women can have the gift.”

“Yeah. Even now,” Jimmy said. “It’s not about what I believe. It’s about the rule I have to enforce.”

“Do you think it’s fair?” Drover asked.

Jimmy shook his head. “Not one bit.”

“You could turn a blind eye.”

Jimmy took another sip of coffee and placed his cup back on the tray. “Lemme ask you a question.”

She nodded.

“Would you rather the devil you know?”

“Meaning?” Drover asked.

“If I turn a blind eye. If I fail my job, which is enforcing the work rules ...” He shrugged. “You’ll have a new devil to deal with because I’ll be gone faster than a deckhand’s pay on Saturday night.”

Drover leaned back in her chair and stared him in the eye for several long moments before nodding, almost to herself. “You want to meet her?”

Jimmy nodded. “Wanna meet her, her spouse, and the local shaman if that’s possible.”

“But it’s not going to change anything,” Drover said.

“Probably not.”

Drover stood. “Let’s take a walk.”

Jimmy followed her out of the admin building and down a paved path toward the bay. The afternoon sun glittered off the water and the onshore breeze brought the unmistakable smell of a fishing fleet—part fuel, part exhaust, part fish, and an overlay of paint and cordage. For a moment, Jimmy let himself remember when he used to smell that aroma every day.

Drover led him to a tidy shed just at where the pier met land. A sign beside the door proclaimed “Harbormaster.” She pulled the door open and held it for him. “After you.”

Jimmy snorted and stepped into the small office, blinking in the dimness after the brilliant sun outside. A picture window on the other side of the room gave a panoramic view of the harbor but did little to shed light into the office proper.

A man stood up from a console, his body silhouetted against the window. “Can I help you?”

“Jimmy, this is Mick Chambers, our harbormaster. Mick, this is Jimmy Pirano. He’d like a word.” She pulled the door closed and leaned against the wall beside it.

“Mr. Pirano?” Mick came out from behind the console and offered a hand. “How can I help Pirano Fisheries today?”

Jimmy shook the man’s hand. “It’s about Shelly.”

Mick’s face seemed to flicker for a moment, like a video stuttering. “Oh.”

“So, I’ve just been talking to Harry here about it,” Jimmy said, walking toward the window to look out over the docks. “I wanted to know what you think.”

“What I think?” Mick asked. “About what?”

Jimmy turned to face the man again, the light behind him giving him a better view of the harbormaster’s face. “Oh. The meaning of life, maybe. Perhaps how Pirano can help here in Bleak Point?”

“Or what I think about my spouse fighting the company?” Mick asked.

“Or that,” Jimmy said with a nod. “You’re the cipher in this equation. I’ve got statements from all the interested parties except you.”

Mick crossed his arms and shot a glance at Drover.

The woman gave him a nod.

Mick looked back at Jimmy, his jaw tightening. “No comment.”

Drover stood up straight, her eyes widened.

Jimmy caught her eye and shook his head. “It’s all right, Harry. I don’t blame him. I found out what I needed to know.”

Mick frowned. “What d’ya mean?”

Jimmy smiled. “You believe your wife is a gifted shaman. You think the rule is stupid and sexist. You like your job and you’re afraid if you tell me what you really think, I’ll fire you, but you’re not going to stand there and belittle your wife or her gift.” He paused and looked Mick in the eye. “Did I miss anything?”

Mick took a deep breath and let it out before speaking. “No comment.”

“Fair enough,” Jimmy said. “It’s gotta be tough.” He patted the man on one shoulder. “Good man. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me.” He headed for the door.

Mick stopped him with a hand on his bicep. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“Shelly?”

Mick nodded.

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. She’s going to lose the arbitration, and she’ll continue doing whatever it was she did before she filed the grievance. No harm. No foul.”

“You’re not going to put her off St. Cloud?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Why would I? You going to divorce her or something?”

Mick frowned. “Of course not.”

“Well, as long as she’s a dependent or an employee, I have no grounds for kicking her off planet. Why?”

“She wants to be a shaman.”

Jimmy nodded. “As I understand it, she’s already a shaman in all but name.”

“She wants the name,” Mick said.

“She can call herself the Pirate Queen of the South Coast and the Bounding Main for all it matters to me,” Jimmy said.

“But she won’t be recognized,” Mick said.

Jimmy shrugged. “Son of a shaman. It’s the rule.”

Mick scowled. “Where does that leave us?”

“Right where you are now, as near as I can tell,” Jimmy said. “You’re married to a woman who has a multitude of gifts, mother to your children?”

He nodded.

“You’ve got a good job that you seem to enjoy?” Jimmy asked.

Mick looked around the office for a moment before nodding again.

“What’s going to change, then?”

“Won’t there be ... repercussions?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Probably. We’ll convene a board. They’ll evaluate the case. We’ll pay the fees. Everyone goes back to work.”

“You don’t think they’ll listen?”

“Who? The arbitrators?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, they’ll listen. Then they’ll pick up the company contracts, work rules, and CPJCT regulations. They’ll examine the language and any prior decisions, and then they’ll probably say what they’ve said at least a dozen times before.”

“Son of a shaman,” Mick said, his shoulders slumping, defeat printed on his face.

“Son of a shaman,” Jimmy said.

Mick stared at Jimmy for several long moments. “You could be wrong.”

Jimmy nodded. “I am. Frequently.”

“But you think this is a waste of time.”

“No. I didn’t mean to imply that. Fighting for something that matters may be a losing fight but I’d never say fighting it was a waste of time.”

Mick sighed and dropped his hand from Jimmy’s arm. “I see.”

Jimmy patted Mick on the shoulder again. “Thanks for taking the time to talk with me.” He headed out the door, Drover on his heels.

“You mean that?” she asked as the harbormaster’s door closed behind her.

“What? Fighting isn’t a waste of time?”

She nodded. “Not what I expected.”

“Yeah. I meant it. I’d change the rule if I could, but I’m just the guy they stuck with enforcing the rule. If I don’t, I’m gone.”

“But you’re the Ole Man’s son.”

“Which only means I’m closest to the door,” Jimmy said. He bit down on everything else he might have said.

“You want to meet Shelly?” Drover asked.

“Yeah, and the local shaman, if he’s around.”

Drover nodded and led the way along the shoreline. “Shelly and Mick’s house is just down here.”

The crushed shell walk could have led to any house on the South Coast. The tidy bungalow, rubber-stamped from some company database of “Houses: Harbormaster.” Jimmy had seen it often enough that it barely registered except for the row of wind chimes hanging along the edge of the porch roof. The collection tinkled and rang as the morning breeze worked its way between the various structures along the shoreline. In a blow, that would make quite a racket.

Drover knocked on the door—three quick raps—and stepped back.

A young-looking brunette in blue jeans and a stretched-out gray top opened the door and peered out, looking back and forth between them. “Morning, Harry,” she said with a small nod. “Mick should be in the office.” She turned her gaze to Jimmy but didn’t speak to him, just weighed him with her eyes.

“Shelly,” Drover said. “This is Jimmy Pirano.”

Shelly nodded. “Figured.” She frowned and pressed her lips together in a line that left a white ring around them. She shifted her weight and leaned a forearm on the door jamb above her head as if blocking the way with her body.

“Did we come at a bad time?” Jimmy asked.

Shelly looked at Drover for a heartbeat before looking back at him. “What is it you want, Mr. Pirano?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Just talk.”

“About my grievance,” she said.

Jimmy nodded.

“I’m filing it.”

“You already have. The process is in the works. I can’t stop it at this point.”

Her frown deepened but she looked more curious than angry. “What do we have to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Figured I’d come find out if there was something maybe we should talk about.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like why your father doesn’t want you to file the grievance,” Jimmy said.

A bitter, snorted bark of laughter burst from her. “Well, maybe you should ask him.”

“I intend to.”

“You have to find him first.”

“Yeah. I assumed he lives here in Bleak Point,” Jimmy said. “There’s a cottage here somewhere, isn’t there?”

He looked at Drover who nodded.

A kid’s voice from inside the house interrupted them. “Ma, I can’t find my other boot.”

Shelly didn’t step back from the door frame, merely turned her head and shouted over her shoulder. “I told you to pick them up. Where did you leave it?”

“Ma-ah!”

She shook her head and sighed. “Honest to seaweed, that kid couldn’t find his face if he was looking in a mirror.” She dropped her arm and nodded them in. “May as well come in out of the sun. Neighbors’ll have enough to talk about as it is.” She turned and stalked off into the interior, leaving them to follow or not.

Drover grinned at Jimmy. “Not what you expected?”

Jimmy felt a chuckle bubble in his chest. “I didn’t have any expectations.”

“Sure,” Drover said. “Come on. We’re letting the bugs in.” She led the way through the door and into a tidy kitchen.

Jimmy took in the spotless counters and scuffed flooring. A dining set held pride of place in the center of the room under an overhead light. The floral scent of dish soap wafted in the air.

Thumping and muffled voices came from farther inside the house. After a few moments, Shelly returned shaking her head. “He was wearing it.”

Drover laughed. “He’s going to get along just fine.”

“He’s mooning over some girl. Can’t keep his brain out of his pants long enough to do more than eat and pester his sister.”

“Which girl?” Drover asked.

“This week? Who knows?” She glanced at Jimmy. “Tea? May as well be civilized.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Shelly turned to the counter and started filling a kettle at the sink. “Have a seat.”

Jimmy took a chair at the table and folded his hands in front of him. Drover took the chair next to him.

Shelly glanced over her shoulder as she measured tea into the pot. “What do you want to know, Mr. Pirano?”

“Why now?” Jimmy asked.

Shelly settled the pot and turned to face them, arms across her chest and butt braced against the counter. “Why not?”

“Well, you’re in no danger of deportation. You’ve built a family, have a house. Husband who’s devoted to you. Kids. Why take this on now?”

She tilted her head and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’ll laugh.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Not at you, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Because I can,” she said, almost a dare.

Jimmy nodded. “All right. What makes you think you’re a shaman?”

Drover pulled in a sharp breath.

The woman blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re filing a grievance about not being recognized as a shaman. What evidence do you have that you’re a shaman?”

“Why should I tell you?” Shelly asked.

“You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later. Well, tell the arbitrator. I’ll be there. I’ll get a report. I just want to know your side of the story before they sanitize it for my consumption.”

The kettle interrupted them with a harsh whistle and Shelly turned her back to Jimmy and Drover while she filled the teapot and hit the timer. When she turned around again, her face had formed into a kind of rigid mask. “If you’re going to poke fun, you can leave.”

Jimmy sat back in his chair and cast a glance in Drover’s direction. “I’m sorry,” he said, pausing to weigh his words. “I’m not poking fun. I’m trying to understand.”

She looked at Drover who gave her a small nod. “I’ve always been a shaman. My mother divorced my father when I was little. He couldn’t leave me home alone so I went out with him when he walked the beach.” She shrugged and bit her lower lip. “He’d pick up these awful pieces of driftwood and leave the good stuff behind. It drove me crazy.”

The tea timer dinged and she set about pouring tea into heavy mugs, distributing them around the table. “Milk? Sugar?” she asked.

Jimmy shook his head and leaned forward to cradle his mug between his palms. “So, you knew you were a shaman because you pick up driftwood?”

Shelly sat down across the table from them and sipped her tea before shaking her head. “No. Well, yes, but that’s not how it works.”

Jimmy nodded. “I’m listening. I’ve known a shaman or two, but I don’t really know much about them.”

“Head of Pirano Fisheries and you don’t know about shamans?” Shelly asked.

“No. I know you carve whelkies. I know you—what’s the phrase? Listen to the planet?” He sipped his tea.

“Listen to the world,” Shelly said, her unfocused gaze resting on the middle of the table between them. “We help people. Listen when they have something to talk about. Try to get them the help they need.”

Drover nodded. “Shelly’s a godsend, particularly with the women over the winter.”

“Winter’s rough here?” Jimmy asked, looking at Drover.

“Winter’s rough everywhere,” Drover said. “But yeah. It’s not called Bleak Point because of its comforting views and restful weather.”

“It’s the wind,” Shelly said. “It’s almost constant from mid-December through the end of February. Even into March some years. People used to being out and about stay in. Couples that live separate lives during the season are forced together by the wind, snow, and cold.” She shrugged. “Not everybody manages that well.”

Jimmy let that fact settle for a moment. He’d heard it before but never put so succinctly. “Anything the company can do?” He looked at Drover. “Something that would make winters easier?”

Drover shook her head. “It’s just part of living here. Most of us were born here. We’re used to it.”

“I see,” Jimmy said. “So when a new boat or crew gets transferred here, they’re not expecting it.”

Drover nodded. “Once in a while it boils over, but Shelly here seems to have a nose for it. We’re able to get an intervention in place before it gets out of hand.”

“Out of hand?” He looked at Shelly.

Shelly sighed. “The wind makes some people a little edgy. We’ve lost people over the winter. Suicides peak around February.” She sucked her lips between her teeth and stared at the mug of tea in front of her.

“Domestic violence goes up,” Drover said. “Squabbles get out of hand. Alcohol and frustration aren’t a good mix.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Jimmy asked.

“You remember a couple of stanyers back?” Drover asked. “Man went crazy. Thought his wife was getting it on with the neighbor when his back was turned and went on a rampage with a fish knife?”

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah. That was here?”

Drover nodded. “Arthur Martin. Killed his wife and kid. Went next door and killed the neighbor, neighbor’s wife and kids. Then ran down the dock and jumped in the bay. Coroner said he probably froze to death before he could drown.”

“I remember,” Jimmy said.

Drover shrugged. “So do we.” She looked across the table at Shelly. “You wanna tell him?”

Shelly seemed to grow even smaller, her shoulders pulling in, head falling forward. “Artie’s wife was my sister.”

Jimmy took a pull from his tea. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

Shelly looked up then, some of her earlier fire pushing color into her cheeks. “I knew,” she said. “I knew there was a problem. Artie had been slipping for weeks. Stanyers even. Every winter it got a little worse. Every spring he swore he’d changed.” She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He didn’t change. He just kept going further and further down the road.” She took a sip of tea and ran her tongue around her lips before speaking again. “My father, the shaman, told us all it was fine. That he was just on edge from the wind. He carved him a whelkie.” A tear slid down her cheek. She shook her head and she sniffed. “Sorry.”

“But you knew,” Jimmy said.

Shelly nodded. “I knew. He wasn’t an evil man. He was just sick. Something in him wasn’t right.” She shrugged. “Head? Heart? I don’t know what. Soul, maybe.”

The two women shared a glance before Shelly looked down at her mug, staring into it as if the answers might be read from the surface of her tea.

Jimmy glanced at Drover, who looked away.

“You said you knew,” Jimmy said, keeping his voice low.

Shelly wiped her cheek with a rough sweep of her fingers. “My father said he was handling it. He wasn’t. My father said to leave them alone and they’d all be fine.” Her head came up and she stared at Jimmy, anger and grief burning in her gaze. “My father, the man with the title because he’s the son of the shaman. My father didn’t do shit to stop it. You know why?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Because he doesn’t have a gift. He has a title. He thinks that gives him permission to tell people what to do, how to think. He’s got the title, but he can’t back it up.” Shelly seemed to run out of steam all at once, as if her outburst had drained her and she went back to staring into her tea. “He lost a daughter to his hubris. I lost my sister and my nephew. And some good friends.”

“But you knew,” Jimmy said.

She nodded without looking up. “I knew but I’m not a shaman, am I? I’m just a woman so I can’t possibly have the gift. I can’t have the empathy and the sense of when something’s not right in the village. When I listen to the world, all I’m allowed to hear is the whistling of the wind in the eaves and not the quiet cries for help.”

Jimmy looked at Drover. “You were here at the time?”

Drover nodded. “Lived here all my life. Took over from Ned Norton in ’14, when his wife passed and he retired. It shook us all pretty hard.”

Jimmy took in a long breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t even imagine.”

“You believe me?” Shelly asked, looking up from her tea. A look of incredulity flickered across her face, twitching her eyebrows and tilting her head.

“I do,” Jimmy said.

“That mean you’ll help?”

Jimmy sighed and took a slug of tea. “I’m the Pirano Fisheries guy. My job is to keep the place running. I can’t help you. Literally, cannot. There’s no place for me to apply leverage in the arbitration process.”

“You could speak up for us,” Shelly said, frowning across the table at him.

“I’m not allowed to have any input beyond providing the legal documentation for the company. Even that’s going to come from the home office in Dunsany Roads. Corporate counsel will do the talking to defend against the grievance.”

Drover looked at me. “Seriously?”

Jimmy nodded. “Not my first time in the box,” he said. “Since the grievance is against the company and its policies, I’m superfluous to the high-level discussions. Even if I wanted to change the rule, I can’t. I have no standing because I’m no better than the harbormaster in this discussion. I can’t change a company policy any more than you can.”

“You can choose to enforce it or not,” Drover said.

Jimmy considered that. “Can I change a century of bias?”

Drover settled back in her chair, frowning at him. She gave her head a slight shake.

Jimmy stood and offered his hand across the table. “Thank you for the tea and conversation, Ms. Chambers. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

Shelly stood and shook his hand. “What happens now?”

“Now, I’d like to go have a few words with your father.”

“He’s probably on the beach this time of day.”

Jimmy looked at Drover. “Harry?”

Drover finished her tea and nodded. “Certainly.”

At the door, Shelly placed a hand on Jimmy’s arm. “You think I’m going to lose, don’t you.”

Jimmy sighed. “Yeah. I do. I’m sorry.”

“How do we change the rule?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “As long as the management in St. Cloud holds the wheel, we go where they steer.”

Shelly nodded and withdrew her hand. “Thank you for listening, Mr. Pirano.”

“You can call me Jimmy,” he said. “Good luck, Ms. Chambers.”

Drover led the way down a short path to a stone cottage on the headland that protected the harbor. “Best view in the village,” Drover said, climbing up toward the front door.

From the top of the headland Jimmy could see the whole harbor on one side and the open sea on the other. A narrow beach ran about a kilometer east in a shallow crescent. A stony finger of rock thrust into the sea on the far end. “Nice digs.”

Drover nodded. “Some folks think it’s a little too nice.”

“Why?”

Drover shrugged and looked back at the village curved around the base of the pier.

Jimmy looked over his shoulder at the processing facilities lined up along the shore, a jumble of houses seemingly tossed at random into the only level space between the sea and the escarpment behind. His gaze measured the tiny yards and cheek-by-jowl buildings. He sighed. “Anything I can do about this?”

Drover shrugged again. “Not sure. Too many people. Too many houses. Too little land to put them on. Fishing’s good so new boats and crews come in. Kids grow up, don’t want to leave, but got nowhere to live.”

Jimmy nodded. “We’re seeing a lot of that up and down the coast.”

“Seeing what?” A man’s voice came from behind.

They turned to find an older man wearing a windbreaker and billed cap climbing up the beach side of the headland.

“Hallo, Harry.”

“Afternoon, Charlie. Jimmy, this is Charles Gibbs. Charlie, this is Jimmy Pirano.” Formalities observed, Harry stepped back with a small grin teasing her lips.

Gibbs lunged for Jimmy and grabbed his hand, pumping like he needed water and thought Jimmy’s heels might be tapped to a spring. “Mr. Pirano. You have no idea. I’m delighted to meet you.”

Jimmy claimed his hand and arm back with a nod. “Call me Jimmy. Nice to meet you, too.”

“You’re here because of that fool daughter of mine, aren’t you?”

Jimmy glanced at Harry, who gave him no clues in her expression beyond a certain gleam in her eye. “Yes,” Jimmy said. “My belated condolences on your loss. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get out here to offer them.”

Charlie’s effusion sputtered to a stop and he frowned. “Oh, you’re not here to talk about the grievance?”

“You mean Shelly?” Jimmy asked.

Charlie flapped his arms against his side. “Of course I mean Shelly. How many women have filed a grievance against the company?”

“This week?” Jimmy asked, keeping his expression schooled to a dead-pan. “Three, I believe.”

“All about being shamans?” Charlie asked, his jaw hinging open a bit.

“Oh, no. None of them this week. I believe Shelly’s was in last week’s total.” He paused, pretending to think about it as he watched Charlie’s face turn a darker shade of red under the seasoned brown of his tan. “No, week before.” Jimmy shrugged. “They all blend together after a while.”

Charlie stood there, flat-footed and staring. He might have been a scarecrow in a field for all the life he showed.

“I did want to talk to you about Shelly, though, if you have a few ticks?”

Charlie nodded and seemed to reanimate, a fleshy robot booting up as he nodded. His nods picked up vehemence and speed as the transmission in his jaw caught first gear. “Well, I should think so. Of course. How can I help?”

“Why didn’t you want her to file a grievance?” Jimmy asked.

“Waste of time. What’s she gonna get out of it but a black mark on her record and time spent filling out forms and talking to stupid administrators.” His teeth clicked as his jaw clamped shut. His eyes grew wide. “Uh. That is—”

Jimmy cut him off. “I know what you mean. But what record is she going to get a black mark on?”

“Her personal record. You mean to tell me you folks don’t keep track of who’s a troublemaker and who’s a good employee?” His jaw thrust out a tad.

“She’s not an employee, is she?” Jimmy asked, looking at Drover.

Drover shook her head. “She worked for a time in the distribution center. Don’t think she’s drawn a check since before her eldest was born.”

“Still ...” Charlie said.

Jimmy shrugged. “No matter, Charlie. We’ll keep a file of the grievance for the company records. Stupid administrators like to know where they spent the credits, if you know what I mean.”

“Just what I was saying.” Charlie gave a short nod.

“It won’t have any bearing on your daughter’s future. We’ve had a couple of dozen women contest the rule over the decades. Nobody’s been able to make a case that stands up. We have the records, but nobody’s going to go after those women either.” He paused. “What would be the point?”

Charlie glanced at Drover for a heartbeat before looking at Jimmy. “Deterrence? Warning others not to try?”

“Not in my playbook,” Jimmy said. “Thanks for your time.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Charlie said. “I thought you wanted to talk about Shelly.”

Jimmy paused to look back at the man. “I think I learned all I need to know.”

“But you didn’t ask about being a shaman at all.”

“I just wanted to know why you didn’t want her to file the grievance,” Jimmy said.

“I told you that.”

Jimmy nodded. “Yes, you did. That’s all I needed.”

“You came all the way out here to ask me that?”

Jimmy stifled a laugh at Charlie’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of incredulity. “No, Charlie. I came to see what kind of woman Shelly is.”

Charlie frowned and settled back on his heels.

Jimmy continued back along the path down to the village.

Drover fell in beside him. They walked in silence, Charlie making spluttering noises behind but not following.

When they got back to level ground, he glanced at her. “Can I ask?”

“Why do I keep him?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Not like I can tell him to move.” Drover looked around at the houses. “He’s not really a problem.”

“He’s not much help, either, is he?” Jimmy asked.

She gave him a sour look and a short shake of her head. “No.”

When they reached the admin building, Jimmy extended a hand. “Thank you, Harry. I appreciate the time.”

She nodded and shook his hand. “Not sure what good it did, but you’re welcome.”

“Lemme know if there’s anything we can do for you,” Jimmy said.

“Besides recognizing Shelly?” she asked.

Jimmy nodded. “Besides that.”

“Why did you come all the way out here?”

“I’ve visited every woman who’s challenged this rule over the last twenty stanyers.”

“But why? Intimidation?”

Jimmy grinned. “Am I intimidating?”

“You’re the Pirano. Of course you are.” Harry folded her arms and frowned. “How can you not see that?”

“I can’t help who I am, Harry. Any more than Shelly or Charlie can.”

“So why do it?”

“That woman’s going to lose her grievance. The lawyers are too good. The language, too strong. It’s been tested too many times.”

She squinted at him but sighed. “Probably so.”

“I just wanted Shelly to know that I see her. There’s nothing I can do about it, but at least I see her.”

Drover looked down and scuffed a toe on the crushed shell path. “Do you believe her? That she’s a shaman?”

Jimmy squinted out over the tidy harbor, weighing the words before he spoke. “I don’t know what a shaman is.”

“Son of a shaman,” she said.

Jimmy look back at her and shrugged. “That’s the rule. Reality has a way of laughing at rules.”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him.

“I don’t know what a shaman is,” Jimmy said again. “But Charlie does and he knows two things that scare the snot out of him.”

“He knows she’s a shaman,” Drover said.

Jimmy nodded. “And he knows he’s not.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Aram's Inlet: December 15, 2332

JIMMY WATCHED THE ARBITRATION judge frown at his tablet for several long moments before he looked around the room. “Mr. Long? Your argument in favor of upholding Ms. Chambers’s grievance?”

The lawyer beside Ms. Chambers nodded. “The company rule is sexist and discriminatory. It denies my client due process by preventing her from exercising equal rights as a resident of St. Cloud simply because of an accident of birth.”

The judge nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Long. Mr. Howard? Your argument in defense?”

“The company rule, long standing and supported numerous times in precedent as referenced in our brief—”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Howard. I’ve got the brief. Spare me the extra foliage and just give me the tree.”

“Shamans are an exemption to the CPJCT requirement that only company employees and dependents shall be allowed residence on planet. They are not employees and have none of the rights or privileges that CPJCT affords to employees and dependents. The company is under no obligation to extend the rule beyond the original grant.”

“Even though the rule excludes women, Mr. Howard?” the judge asked.

“The rule is as stated and granted by CPJCT on inception, your honor. I am privy to neither the circumstances nor the rationale that caused the rule to be established.”

The judge frowned at Howard. “While I appreciate your position, Mr. Howard, even I am privy to the rationale as stated in the grant. The original signatory of the Combine’s lease established the role of shaman as satisfying a request for religious freedom.”

“Yes, your honor. I’m aware of that but I have no knowledge about where that request came from or how Mr. Pirano determined that the position should be filled.”

“You’re aware that the Combine occupied the system for ten standard years prior to signing the lease, Mr. Howard?”

“I am, your honor. As spelled out in the CPJCT regulations for establishing new leases. I can cite them for the record.”

The judge held up a hand. “Noted, Mr. Howard. That won’t be necessary.” The judge looked to Mr. Long. “Final statement, Mr. Long?”

“CPJCT regulations on freedom of religion do not specify gender or sex when establishing bona fides of celebrants, your honor. The rule as written suppresses that freedom by requiring the practitioner to be male.”

“Is it your position, Mr. Long, that women are prohibited from being spiritual leaders on St. Cloud because of this rule?”

“It is, your honor.”

The judge pursed his lips and looked at Howard. “Rebuttal, Mr. Howard?”

“Completely unfounded assertion, your honor.”

Long scoffed but the judge held up a warning hand. “Explain, Mr. Howard.”

“The rule only defines who may have the title of shaman. The rule establishes that men who have the title may be exempt from the standard CPJCT regulation on employees and dependent residents of the planet. The rule does not prohibit women from serving as spiritual leaders or any other role they may desire on planet so long as they abide by the company rules and CPJCT regulations in force in every other system in the Western Annex.”

“Mr. Long?” the judge asked.

Long cast a long and venomous look at Howard. “Mr. Long’s statement is correct except that there are no company positions for spiritual leader on St. Cloud. If a woman were to take on the role, it must be in addition to being a dependent or an employee of the company, a burden men are not obliged to carry.”

“Your honor, there is no requirement that any company leasing a system from the CPJCT have a paid spiritual leader position. So long as they satisfy the requirements for mental and physical health and support the social welfare of their employees and dependents in compliance with Title Four of—”

“I have it, Mr. Howard. Thank you.” He looked at Long. “Anything else, Mr. Long?”

Long sighed and shook his head. “Nothing further, your honor.”

“Mr. Howard?”

“No, your honor.”

The judge scowled at his tablet again. “I’ll publish a formal ruling within forty-eight standard hours as required by CPJCT regulations. Hearing dismissed.”

The two counsels stood and left the room, Long holding the door for Howard before following him out.

“Questions, Mr. Pirano?” the judge asked.

“You don’t look happy,” Jimmy said.

The judge swiped the surface of his tablet and stuffed it into his case. “I’m not. This is a screwed-up rule and it should be overturned.”

“But you won’t.”

The judge sighed. “I can’t. For all that Howard is a pain in the ass, he’s got the law on his side. So long as the company won’t budge ...?” The judge raised his eyebrows, staring at Jimmy.

“I’m just the driver on this bus. I don’t get to pick the route,” Jimmy said.

“You’re not happy about it either, I take it?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

The judge paused and tilted his head to one side. “In what way?”

“Why do we fight it when it would cost less and create fewer problems to just include women? I don’t get it.”

“Have you asked your father?” the judge asked, curiosity apparent in his tone. “He’s the one who set it up.”

“I have.”

“I take it he didn’t give you a satisfactory answer.”

Jimmy shook his head. “He didn’t.”

The judge nodded. “As long as the company is willing to keep paying the adjudication fees and abides by the regulations, my hands are tied.”

“She’s out of luck, I take it,” Jimmy said.

The judge shrugged. “Same arguments as the last five, based on my case file. Same rules apply. Nobody wants to make a different argument or take a different stance.” He shrugged again.

“The definition of insanity,” Jimmy said.

“More like having to test the limits about once a generation, I’d say,” the judge said.

“Something like that, I suppose,” Jimmy said, standing to shake the judge’s hand. “Thanks for your work, thankless though it might be.”

The judge snickered. “Not as thankless as yours, I suspect. Good luck, Mr. Pirano. See you in ten stanyers.”

Jimmy sighed as the judge let himself out the back door and off to his waiting transport.

Jimmy walked into his office only to find the company lawyer waiting for him there, staring out the window at the harbor. “Mr. Howard. I thought you’d be on your way off planet by now.”

“Soon. I’m on the evening shuttle out of Starvey Bay. I have a message for you before I leave.”

“Can I get you some refreshment? Cup of coffee?”

Howard shook his head. “I’ve hired a flitter to take me on a little sight-seeing tour while I’m here.”

“Sight-seeing?”

“You must admit,” Howard said with a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “Compared to Dunsany, the coastline between here and Starvey Bay is particularly scenic.”

Jimmy nodded, conceding the point. “You mentioned a message?”

“Your father asked me to remind you that the shaman rule is in place for a reason. You would be well served by not trying to subvert it.”

“Did he happen to share that reason with you?” Jimmy asked.

Howard smiled and shook his head. “Let’s just say the board is not averse to pulling the plug on the South Coast shamans. The company spends an inordinate number of credits on a tiny portion of the population.”

Jimmy nodded, letting the words settle while he schooled his features. “Anything else from dear old Dad?”

Howard pulled a data chip from his pocket and held it out. “He asked me to give you this.”

Jimmy took the chip and wrapped a fist around it. “You know what’s on it?”

Howard shook his head. “Only that I should put it in your hand personally.” He picked up his case and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pirano. I’ll show myself out.”

Jimmy stepped out of his path and struggled to contain his anger. He forced his fists to relax, tossing the chip onto his desk before pushing his palms over his scalp, one after the other.

“Message received,” he said. The words sounding hollow in the empty room.

He crossed to his desk and slotted the chip into its reader. It contained a single video file. He opened it to an image of his father. He looked older—a lot older. Loose skin hung off his neck and his hair consisted of a few wisps. Age spots mottled the exposed scalp. Jimmy pressed play.

“Jimmy. Heed Howard’s words. There’s no way we’re backing off this.” He paused and ran his tongue over his lower lip, taking a couple of noisy breaths. “The damn doctors say I can’t travel right now or I’d come out there myself but mark my words, boy. We’ll fight this every time it comes up. You forget that and you’ll be here in Dunsany, chained to a desk for the rest of your life.” His eyes glittered as he stared into the camera. “The rule’s there for a reason and I’m damned if I’ll see it changed to include women. I’ll rescind it first.” He paused and swallowed a couple of times, his mouth working. “Mark that down. Son of the shaman or none of the shaman.”

The screen froze, playback complete.

Tony Spinelli stuck his head in. “What did Howard the Coward want?”

“To pass a message from the Ole Man.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“He warned me about tinkering with the shaman rule.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose over widened eyes. “Or what? They’ll fire you?”

“Well, that or kill the rule altogether.”

Tony rocked back on his heels and shook his head. “Like anybody can just step into your shoes and run this place?”

Jimmy stood and crossed to look out the window. “He sent a video message with Howard.” He waved a hand at his console. “It’s short. Watch it.”

Tony sat in Jimmy’s chair and keyed the video. It spooled out, the sound of the Ole Man’s raspy breathing and harsh words already eating into Jimmy.

When it ended, Tony sighed. “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’s failing,” Jimmy said.

“Probably to be expected. How old is he?” Tony asked.

“He’s got to be closing in on his second century. He was in his sixties when he came here to set up the Combine.”

“You think he’s still got it?” Tony asked.

“His mind, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy sighed and watched a gull soaring across the harbor. “I’ve no reason to believe he hasn’t.”

“That seemed like a pretty irrational rant to me,” Tony said.

“You remember the quota fiasco, don’t you?” Jimmy asked, turning to look at Tony. “We thought he was irrational then.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said. “But he wasn’t foaming at the mouth and his bodyguard wasn’t acting as his nurse.” Tony glanced at the screen again. “Who are these doctors?”

Jimmy shrugged and shook his head.

“What do we do now?” Tony asked.

“Hope that we go a few more stanyers before we get hit again. Get back to work. Speaking of which, have you found me an assistant yet?”

Tony flipped him a rude hand gesture and left the office, chuckling as he went down the hall.

Jimmy snorted and stared out at the harbor, letting the familiar scene soothe the rough edges of his anger while his brain felt like a gerbil on a treadmill, running hard on a path that never seemed to end.

CHAPTER NINE

Cape Grace: May 25, 2334

WHEN THE PLANNERS LAID out the town, they put the community center where it belonged, in the center. It served as meeting place, company office, and—occasionally—school. Sarah held Otto’s hand as they made the walk into town.

“Will I have fun, Papa?” she asked, looking up at him.

He glanced down at her and smiled. “I think so. There will be other kids to play with. Teachers who’ll give you things to read, show you games to play.”

“I can already read, Papa.” Her steps lagged.

Otto found he had to slow down to keep from dragging her. “You read very well.”

“What if I don’t like the other kids?”

“Why would you not like them?”

“What if they’re mean?”

“Why would they be mean?”

She bit her lower lip and sighed. “I wanna go on the beach with you. Find sticks.”

“The tide’s too high. We’ll go this afternoon.”

She tugged on his hand. “Promise?”

“Promise. You go to school. Meet with Ms. Tandy. Meet the other kids. I’ll be back to get you for lunch. After lunch, we’ll go to the beach and find sticks.”

As they got closer, they saw other children converging on the building. A few had parents in tow, most were larger, older than Sarah. Otto recognized many of the adults. He nodded and smiled at them as they fell into a rough parade, the adults scattered among the trickle of kids. Two boys streaked past, their legs and arms pumping as they pelted down the street, one slightly ahead of the other. A pair of girls, a couple of years older than Sarah, fell into line ahead of Otto and Sarah. They offered tentative smiles at him with his staff and hat and curious glances at her. In moments they had their heads together and walked arm in arm. They giggled and whispered as they walked.

The double doors on the center swallowed the thin parade of small people with their attendant adults. Otto followed along, but stopped at a door marked “Educational Coordinator” while the others continued into the building. He glanced down at Sarah, who pulled on his hand and stood very close to his leg. “You ready?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Do I have ta?”

“It’s for the best.”

She took a deep breath and blew it out. Her lips flattened in a determined line. “I’m ready.”

He opened the door and ushered her into the office.

“Good morning, Otto.” The man behind the counter smiled. “Good morning, Sarah.”

“Sarah, this is Mr. Ward.”

Sarah looked up at her father and then up at Mr. Ward. She released her father’s hand and held it up to the admin. “Good mornin’, Mr. Ward. Please ta meecha.”

Ward shook the small girl’s hand with a solemn expression. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sarah. Are you ready to get started?”

For a long moment, Sarah seemed to be considering it. “Yes,” she said at last.

“Excellent.” Mr. Ward beamed. “I’ll just take you down to meet Ms. Tandy.”

Otto crouched to be on her level. “You have fun. I’ll meet you outside after school and we’ll go get some lunch.”

“And then walk on the beach and find sticks?” she asked.

“And then walk on the beach and find sticks.”

She looked up at Mr. Ward and then back at Otto. “All right.”

“If you’d wait here a moment, Otto? I’ll just get Miss Sarah here introduced.”

Otto straightened up and nodded. “Of course.”

Mr. Ward opened the door and ushered Sarah out into the hall. The traffic had dissipated and Sarah looked back over her shoulder once. Otto grinned and waved. “Have fun, sweetie.”

The door closed behind them with a snick of the latch. For two heartbeats, Otto felt tempted to chase after them, to take her back home. The irrationality of it made him smile at himself. Still, the smell of the floor wax, the rumble of voices elsewhere in the building, and the simple structure of it took him back to his own first day at school.

He remembered meeting the school administrator. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember her name, only the flowery scent she wore. She had strong hands. He hadn’t really had much contact with her but he remembered being frightened at meeting her. She seemed huge.

He’d gone for his five years of school almost every day. Two days a week, he didn’t have to go. Every other day he met his mother—sometimes his father—standing outside the door of a community center like this one back in Callum’s Cove.

The door opened and Mr. Ward stepped back into the office. “There. She’s settled in. Olive will take good care of her.”

“I can pick her up at noon?”

“Yes. We release them at noon, straight up. A lot of the parents who work in town break for lunch then, so it’s handy.”

“Thanks.” Otto stood there for a few moments without moving.

“Something else?” Mr. Ward asked.

Otto gave a little shake of his head. “First time in five stanyers I haven’t had to take care of her. Other than naps and the like.” He looked over at Ward. “It feels odd.”

Ward nodded and offered a smile. “It can’t have been easy by yourself, but she seems pretty well adjusted. Not one in ten kids comes in here with enough confidence to shake my hand.”

Otto looked down at his boots and grinned. “We practiced.”

Ward chuckled. “Practiced meeting me?”

“Well, not just you. How to greet people politely.”

“Maybe we should offer a class in that,” Ward said. “Wanna teach it?”

Otto shook his head. “Oh, no. One’s enough. More than enough most days.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve got two of my own, mostly grown now but when they were here, it made my life interesting.” He paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something, Otto?”

Otto shrugged. “I guess.”

“The shaman thing? Son of the shaman is a shaman and all?”

“What about it?”

Ward looked down at the counter in front of him and gave Otto a look out of the side of his eyes. “I see you walking around town. What is it you do? Besides bless the fleet and all.”

Otto considered the man’s questions. “It’s hard to explain. My father always said we listen to the world.”

“Do you hear it?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I walk on the beach and find driftwood to carve whelkies. I do a lot of listening. Sometimes folks just need somebody to talk to. Or to sit with them when they’re sick or lonely.”

“Son of the shaman?”

“Actually, my grandfather came to his gift late in life and my great-grand was a sheepherder over on the Eastern Reaches. Still is, actually.”

“So your father became a shaman? Now you?”

“Yep. Father splits his time between Callum Cove and the offshore platforms. He says he likes the quiet. It’s easier to hear the world out there.”

“So, you mentioned the gift. Can you tell me what it is?”

Otto laughed. “If I knew, I would. It’s not like there’s some secret shaman organization to protect the world from our arcane powers. I’m not bound to secrecy. I didn’t have to take a pledge to do good, or anything.”

“Then what is it? How do you know you have it?”

Otto shrugged. “Well, basically, if you’re the firstborn son of a shaman, that’s it. The only real significance is that the company can’t deport me if I don’t have a job working for the company.”

“So you don’t have to fish or teach school or anything?”

“I also don’t get paid, unless it’s a place that offers a stipend. I met Sarah’s mother over in Maggie’s Landing. They’re out on the Eastern Reaches and offer a cottage and a bit of company scrip to their shaman.”

“I thought most of the South Coast had cottages for the shaman.”

“They do now. When was the last time the company established a new village?”

Ward nodded. “I see your point.”

“Company provides housing for all their employees, but my grandfather built our house in Callum’s Cove after he came into his gift and before my father was born.”

“What about Sarah? She inherit the gift?”

Otto felt his heart stop. “Why? Did she say anything?”

Ward’s eyebrows went up and he shook his head. “Just asking.”

“Only sons get to be shamans,” Otto said. “Everybody else has to work for the company or leave St. Cloud.”

Ward looked at him for several long moments. “I see,” he said.

“Can I ask you something?” Otto asked.

Ward grinned. “I guess.”

“You have any idea how many people leave St. Cloud rather than work for the company?”

“Not many. Almost anything you can do somewhere else you can do here. Company has open job reqs for everything from fishermen to mechanics, from cooks to shopkeepers to accountants. They always need fishermen and crews. Power people. Transportation crews. Builders.”

“My mother was a company product analyst.”

“So you know.” Ward shrugged. “It might be as high as ten percent for each generation but that’s a guess. I don’t have data for it. Some people get stars in their eyes and go out to see them in person. A few like the atmosphere up on the orbital. Almost everybody stays. The population of St. Cloud has been growing by about one percent per stanyer for the last few decades.”

“I wanted to be a fisherman when I was little,” Otto said.

“What happened?”

“I became a shaman.” Otto shrugged.

“Can’t you be both?”

Otto shrugged again. “Not easily. I did some crabbing with my mother when they opened up the deep-sea ridge. Gave up the slot to a local who needed a job more than I did.”

Ward’s comm panel bipped and he turned to look. “Duty calls,” he said.

Otto nodded. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He slipped out of the office and sauntered back down the path to the cottage. It was going to seem terribly quiet.

Perhaps he’d hear the world again.

CHAPTER TEN

Cape Grace: May 30, 2334

OTTO LEANED ON HIS staff and closed his eyes. The midday sun warmed him and the onshore breeze carried the funk of muddy bottom baking in the sun. A few other parents waited for school to let out. They murmured together but none approached Otto. He felt them glance at him, familiar with the odd stares. He’d been getting them most of his life.

The doors slammed open and a flood of children raced out. Some arrowed for the street and, presumably, home. Some flew to waiting adults, chattering like a flock of gulls over a school of bait fish. Sarah appeared near the end of the flood. She seemed in no hurry as she approached. She took his hand and they left the community center without speaking.

“What did you learn today?” he asked as they strolled toward the cottage.

“I learned that Stacy Thomas is stupid.”

Otto glanced down and saw her face screwed into a scowl. “Anything else?”

“We did some arifmatic stuff. It was dumb.”

“Arithmetic,” Otto said. “Ar-ith-meh-tic.”

“Arithmetic,” Sarah repeated.

“Did you play with the blocks?”

She shook her head. “They’re just blocks of wood. They don’t have animals in ’em. No fish. No birds. Just blocks.”

“You don’t like playing with them?”

“They’re boring.” She dragged the word out and rolled her eyes.

“Well, you’re certainly learning something in school.” Otto felt a smile tug his lips.

“Do I have to go tomorrow?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

Otto shook his head. “Nope. You’ve got a couple days off now. It’s the weekend.”

“What’s a weekend?”

Otto thought about how to describe it. “Well, it’s days you don’t have to work. Almost everybody gets a couple days a week off. It’s not always the same days for everybody, but it’s called a weekend because it follows a work week. For you, it’s days you don’t have to go to school.”

“Good,” she said. She looked up at him again. “When do I have to go back?”

“Couple of days. Why? Don’t you like it?”

She heaved a great sigh but didn’t speak immediately. “It’s fine.”

“All right then.”

They walked in silence for a time.

“Did you have to go to school?” Sarah asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Only sometimes?”

“I wanted to be a fisherman. I watched the boats come and go but I wasn’t allowed to go out.”

“Why?”

“I was too little and I had to spend time with my father to learn to be a shaman.”

“What did he make you do?” She stared up at him, her eyes a pair of round bottle caps.

“It was horrible,” Otto said. “He made me follow him around all the time.”

“Grampa made you do that?”

Otto nodded, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Where did he make you go? Someplace scary?”

“He made me walk ...” Otto lowered his voice and bent down toward her. “He made me walk on the beach!”

She blinked several times and stopped walking. “On the beach?”

Otto nodded. “Every day.”

“But I like to walk on the beach,” she said. “Why was it so horrible?”

“Because I wanted to go out in the fishing boats and be a fisherman.”

“But you’re the shaman.”

He nodded again and they resumed their stroll. “I am now. Back then I was just a little boy who wanted to be a fisherman.”

Otto glanced down to see Sarah frown. After a few moments of cogitation she asked, “What did you do?”

Otto pursed his lips and thought about it for a moment. “Well, first I finished school. I learned how to read and write and do my sums like a good boy.”

Sarah giggled.

“It did seem pretty boring,” he said, drawing out the word the way Sarah had. “But I got more stuff to read. Things I liked to read. I learned about maps and charts.”

“But you didn’t be a fisherman,” she said.

“Yes, actually, I did. Your gramma used to be a fisherman. She let me fish off the rocks, just like we do now. That’s fun, isn’t it?”

She looked up at him with a small shrug. “Sometimes. When you catch fish, that’s fun. It’s a lot of waiting around for nothing to happen.”

He laughed. “Yes, well. A lot of life is like that. Sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.”

“I’d rather walk on the beach with you,” she said. “Findin’ sticks.”

Otto bit the inside of his lip and glanced down at her.

“Did you find sticks with Grampa when he made you walk on the beach?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Mostly I just walked and he found sticks.”

“’Zat how you learned to be a shaman?”

He laughed in spite of himself. “I suppose so.”

“I’m gonna learn to be a shaman when I grow up.” She looked up at him, a proud smile on her lips. “Just like you, Papa.”

Her words froze his brain and he couldn’t find the right response. “You’ve got time to figure out what you want to do, Sarah. No need to make up your mind now.”

“You’ll see,” she said. “I’ll be the bes’ shaman of all shamans ever.”

Otto swallowed hard to try to move the lump in his throat.

“Will you be proud of me if I’m a shaman, Papa?”

He crouched down and hugged her tightly. “I’m already proud of you, sweetie. Prouder than proud.”

She gave him a quick hug around his neck and a peck on the cheek. “Can we get some lunch and then go out on the beach after?”

“Tide’s not right just now. Soup and a nap? Then maybe before supper we can go.”

“All right, then,” she said, squirming out of his hug. “I’m hungry. I could eat the north end of a southbound horse.”

Otto blinked. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Bobby Tatum. He says lots of funny stuff.”

Otto nodded. “Well, I expected school would be an education for you. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Good. Can we go get lunch now?”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” He stood and they continued toward the cottage.

“What’s a horse?” she asked.

“It’s a big animal. They’re on farms and such.”

“Like up north?”

“Yes. They’ve probably got horses and cows and sheep. Like your picture books.”

“Why do they go south?”

Otto felt the laughter in his chest. “I don’t know, sweetie. Maybe they migrate for the winter?”

She considered that for a few minutes. “I’ll ask Ms. Tandy tomorrow. Would she know?”

Otto shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask, but you’ll have to wait until the weekend’s over. No school tomorrow.”

Her face brightened. “Yay. We can walk on the beach and you can teach me how to be a shaman.”

The pit of Otto’s stomach stabbed back at him but he nodded. “We can walk on the beach.”

“Find sticks?”

“Find sticks.”

“What kinda soup?”

“What?”

“You said we’d have soup for lunch. What kinda soup?”

“Fish.”

“I like fish soup.”

“Me, too, sweetie,” he said. “Me, too.” He swallowed the fear that rose up in his throat.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Cape Grace: June 8, 2334

SARAH STORMED OUT OF the community center, her fists clenched and anger wafting from her small body in nearly palpable waves. “Bobby Tatum is an idiot.”

Otto held his hand for her to take and they began their walk back to the cottage. “Was there something in particular?”

“He said I don’t have a mother.”

Otto’s stomach clenched. “What did you say?”

“Everybody has a mother. You can’t get borneded without a mother.”

“Good logic.”

She looked around at the mothers with children leaving the school yard. Some of the kids stared at her and she scowled at them. The mothers pulled their offspring along, a few shooting Otto sympathetic glances. Probably most of them had known Carla.

“So, I must have a mother. She’s just not here. Right?”

“Your mother’s name was Carla. I loved her very much.”

“Where is she?” Sarah asked looking up at him.

“She got killed by a boxfish when you were born.”

“Killed? Dead?” Her eyes filled. “Like when Manda’s puppy got sick and they buried him?”

“Yes, sweetie. She’s gone. I miss her every day.”

“I never got to see her.”

“I’m afraid not. I know she’d be very proud of you now, but she had an accident and the autodoc couldn’t save her.”

“Did you bury her like Manda’s puppy?”

“Most people don’t get buried when they die here, sweetie.”

“What do they do?”

“Well, there’s a machine that burns the bodies up. It’s called cremation.”

“Does it hurt?”

Otto found himself smiling as he fought back the tears. “No, sweetie. The person who’s dead can’t feel a thing.”

“What happens when people die?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Some believe their souls live on in some form or another. Some think that when you die, that’s it. Done. It kinda depends on your religion.”

“What er-ligion are you?”

“Religion. I’m a shaman. I believe in fish and driftwood.”

“What about when you die?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does, really. Anything beyond that is just what you personally think. What you believe in.”

“And you believe in fish and driftwood?”

Otto nodded.

“Oh.”

They walked along in silence until the cottage came into view.

“What did she look like?” Sarah asked.

“She was pretty. Just like you.”

“No, silly. Was she tall? Short? What color was her hair?”

“I have a picture of her. You can see for yourself.”

“Really? Where?”

“In the cottage. I’ll show you when we get home, but you’ve probably seen it already.”

“’Zat the woman on the fishing boat picture in your closet?”

“Yes.”

“She’s pretty. Why’s it in your closet?”

“I miss her very much. I would rather look at you to remember her.”

“Because I’m alive and she’s dead?”

She surprised a short laugh out of him. “Not exactly, but close enough.”

“Did you look for sticks this morning?”

“I did. How did you guess?”

She looked up at him like he might be a couple eggs shy of a dozen. “The tide. It’s almost in now. You had to go this morning because we can’t go now.”

He grinned at her. “I’m impressed. Did you figure that out on your own?”

“I just looked out the window. I can see how high the tide is by the docks.” She shook her head. “I’m five years old, you know. Not like I was borneded yesterday.”

“Very true,” Otto said, struggling to keep from laughing again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She cast a sly glance at him. “Since we can’t go find sticks this afternoon, can I carve?”

The thought of her soft fingers near sharp steel nearly sent Otto into a panic. “I think you might be a little young for that yet. You need strong hands and fingers to do it right.” He didn’t mention the sharp knife.

“Really? It doesn’t look hard when you do it.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“All your life?”

“Your grampa gave me my first knife when I was about thirteen.”

“He did?”

“Yep.”

“Think he’d give me one?” She looked up at him. “I’d be careful.”

Otto thought of the blade waiting for her in his workshop. “He might. When you’re old enough.”

Sarah sighed.

“Patience, sweetie. You’ll get there.”

When Otto opened the cottage door, Sarah raced into his room. He found her rummaging in the back of his closet. She emerged with the large photo of Carla from the funeral. Otto’s breath caught in the back of his throat as she examined it.

“That’s my mother?” she asked.

“That’s her.”

“She’s pretty.”

“Yes.”

Sarah sighed. “Why’d she have ta die?”

“I ask myself that every day, sweetie.”

“What do you answer?”

“There really isn’t an answer, I’m afraid. When it comes to people and living and all. Asking why isn’t really the question.”

“What is?”

He laughed. “You sure you’re five?”

She pondered that for a moment. “That’s what you tole me.”

“It’s true.”

“So what’s the question?”

“I have no idea.”

“’Zat why you b’lieve in fish and driftwood?”

“Probably.”

“Can I put her in my room?” She nodded at the photo.

“Sure.”

“It won’t make you sadder?”

Otto shrugged. “Might make me happier to see you growing up to look like her more every day.”

She smiled. “All right, then.” She trundled away, dragging the picture behind her like a stiff towel.

Otto looked up at the brushed steel container resting on the top shelf in his closet. His eyes stung until he closed the door. He had to stand there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the door panel, before he felt strong enough to meet his daughter’s eyes again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Cape Grace: May 12, 2339

SARAH GRINNED INTO the wind that blew over the headland. The onshore breeze always felt stronger at the top of the hill than at the bottom, even though it wasn’t that high. The air smelled alive. “Ready, Papa?”

Her father stepped up beside her, feathers on his staff flapping in the breeze as the shells tinkled against each other. He smiled back at her and nodded. “Feeling lucky today?”

She shrugged. “No more than normal.”

He laughed and led the way down the narrow path to the broad beach beyond.

As she walked behind him, she could smell his distinctive smell and almost see his brain working as he left the rocky headland behind in favor of the hard-packed sand above the receding tide. Sunlight shattered on the waves as they rolled in, making her eyes water for a moment. She blinked the flashes away and focused on the piles of weed and wood.

“We seem to have had a bounty left for us,” her father said, jutting his chin toward the far end of the beach.

“Highest tide of the month,” Sarah said. “And an onshore wind last night.”

Otto glanced over at her with that smile he had, teeth flashing against his sun-darkened skin. “You been studying?”

She grinned up at him. “Last night. Wanted to get out and walk this morning. Didn’t want you tryin’ to tell me the tide was wrong.”

He laughed. “Have I ever done that to you?”

She nodded. “Yes, but I forgive you. I was little and a handful.”

“Ah, so. So grown up for nine?”

“Ten today, Papa.”

“What?”

“I’m ten stanyers old today.”

“You can’t be,” he said, striking off down the beach, his staff stirring the piles of weed as he walked. “You were six just last week.”

“Papa!” She laughed at his expression, his teasing warmed her. “Do I need to get Mr. Ward to remind you?”

He crouched down and peered at a nest of sticks on the sand.

She leaned over, hands on knees to see what he was looking at. “What’cha got?”

He pulled a couple of sticks away, tossing them to the side, before lifting a gnarled chunk of wood. The water and sun had bleached it bone white. “This looks like it should have something in it.” He handed it to her.

She took it and turned it around a couple of times. “You mean besides the sea lion?”

He bit his lips together for a moment, staring at her and not the stick. “Yeah. Besides the sea lion.”

She focused hard and flipped the stick around in her hands. She ran her fingertips along the hard, smooth wood. She shook her head. “Just the sea lion.” She handed the stick back and brushed her hands off on her pants. “That’s a keeper.”

Her father straightened and held the stick up to the light for a moment, twisting it back and forth. “Good eye.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m learnin’.”

He tucked the stick into his gather bag and started to walk away.

Sarah leaned over and looked into the pile of sticks again, spying two more figures hiding in different sticks. She pulled them out and rubbed them against her coat, double-checking each before trotting a little to catch up with her father. “Here, Papa. You left these.”

He stopped and turned, taking the sticks from her, examining each for a moment before tucking them into his gather bag. “Oh, thank you. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” He grinned. “I’m still learnin’, too, I guess.”

His warm smile made her giggle and she picked up a stick of her own to walk with. She dragged it behind her, letting it score the sand as she walked. Occasionally she gave it a shake to form a squiggle as they continued down the long beach.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cape Grace: May 14, 2339

OTTO SAT IN THE AUDIENCE at the community center and watched as Sarah finished her last day of school. Almost every child in the village of Cape Grace who’d turned ten in the previous stanyer sat in the front row of the auditorium while adults gave speeches. Otto counted twelve heads in the front but he only had eyes for the brunette near the end of the row. She sat very politely and clapped when everybody else did.

“Doesn’t seem possible, does it?” the man sitting next to him said.

Otto smiled. “Not really. I still have empty formula cans in my shed.”

“I use ’em for nuts and bolts.”

“Most of hers have bits of driftwood in them.”

“You savin’ them for her?”

“The cans?”

“The driftwood.”

The thought took Otto unawares. “I don’t know. Guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

The man held out his hand. “I don’t think we ever got introduced. I’m Artie Tatum.”

Otto shook. “Otto Krugg.”

“Sarah’s dad. I know.”

“Tatum? Bobby’s father?”

A brilliant grin lit up the man’s sun-stained face. “You know Bobby?”

Otto nodded at Sarah. “She does.”

Tatum nodded. “Gotcha.”

A woman in the row ahead cast them a baleful glance and the two men sat back with amused—and abashed—grins for each other.

After a relatively short ceremony the twelve students paraded across the stage. Mr. Ward handed each a rolled certificate of completion, shook hands, and posed for a moment for the official photographer to snap a picture.

When the last child had their picture taken and resumed their seat, Mr. Ward took the podium again and held up his hands for quiet. “This isn’t the end of your academic journey. For most of you it’s just the beginning. You’ll be getting information sent to your homes about courses and subjects available through the St. Cloud education network. Parents and guardians, please take advantage of that information. It’s a tremendous opportunity for your scholars to gain depth and insight into a number of subjects. Some of which might include fishing.” He paused for the polite laughter to subside. “Now, I’m tired of listening to me talk. Let’s go next door to the cafeteria for ice cream and cake. Whad’ya say?”

His announcement drew cheers and applause. The double doors opened and the crowd began oozing in that direction, led by a dozen very excited students who wouldn’t have to get up for school in the morning anymore.

How many of them would be going to work on the boats instead?

After getting a small scoop of ice cream and a piece of cake, Otto retreated to a quiet spot out of the way to eat and keep an eye on his daughter. How much she’d changed since starting the school. Five short stanyers saw her shoot up and lose the last of her toddler awkwardness. Rail thin but browned as a nut from the time she spent on the beach with him.

It made him at once proud and sad. She’d be moving into puberty soon, growing up. He knew how difficult being the shaman’s son had been. Would it be any easier for her as the shaman’s daughter?

As if reading his mind, John Ward braced his shoulders against the same wall and nodded to Otto. “She’s something special, that one.”

“Thanks. I think so,” Otto said. “I’m a bit biased.”

“You’ve a right to be. She’s amazing. Sharp, curious, strong.”

“Stubborn as a terrier with a rat,” Otto added.

Ward chuckled. “Yeah. We noticed that, too. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Depends on what rat we’re talking about.”

“There’s that,” Ward said with a nod.

They ate ice cream off the tiny fiber plates for a while.

“You know what she’s going to do with her life?” Ward asked.

Otto glanced at him. “It’s kinda early for that, isn’t it?”

Ward shrugged but didn’t look at him. “Half these kids are going to work on the family boat. Mr. Roberts over there is planning on taking some business courses so he can be an accountant with the company like his grandfather.” Ward paused to lick the last of the ice cream off the disposable spoon. “Fruit don’t fall far from the tree here, if you see what I’m saying.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen it a lot. Proud stock. Strong roots.”

“They don’t all work out.”

Otto grimaced and tossed his empty plate into the trash. “Seen that, too.”

“You ever counsel any of them?”

“Sometimes. Mostly I just listen and, sometimes, carve a whelkie for them.”

“Do they work?”

“What? Whelkies?”

Ward nodded.

Otto took a deep breath and blew it out his nose before speaking. He faced the kids but his gaze was someplace else. “Near as I can tell, the whelkie’s a focus. It’s pretty. It’s rare in the world. Not everybody gets one. It’s a symbol of some kind of future. Mostly people read into them what they need.”

“More of a crutch than a guide?”

Otto grimaced and shook his head. “I could be biased there, but I see it as more like a weathervane. Depending on where you are when you look at it and what’s going on around you, it can point out a direction. It won’t tell you that a storm’s coming, but it’ll at least get you to look that way.”

“Huh.” After a few moments, Ward asked, “Do you have one?”

Otto looked at him and grinned. “I’ve got a pile of them in my shop. Why? You thinking you might want one?”

Ward chuckled.

“Yeah, I got one,” Otto said.

“It work?”

“I’m still here. Weathered a lot of storms. Figure there’s at least a couple more on the way.”

“That’s true for everybody,” Ward said.

“Not everybody has a daughter wants to be a shaman,” Otto said.

Ward grunted. “Any ideas what you’re going to do about it?”

“Same as any father. Best I can.”

“Lemme know if I can help. She’s out of school but as long as she’s here in Cape Grace, she’s in my district. There’s lots of things a smart young thing like that can learn. Things that’ll keep her here and walking the beach.”

Otto turned to see Ward’s sad, tired eyes looking at him. Otto nodded his thanks.

Ward tossed his plate and spoon into the trash and moved on around the room, smiling and shaking hands—chatting with parent and student alike.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cape Grace: May 16, 2339

SARAH KRUGG STOOD AT the end of the path and surveyed the beach ahead of her. The prospect of walking the beach alone filled her with excitement and dread. “You sure you don’t want to come along?”

Otto shook his head. “You’re old enough. You don’t need me.” He held out a gathering bag. “You’ll want this.”

She looked at it for a moment before realizing it wasn’t the old, battered bag her father used. She took it and ran a hand over the supple fabric. “My own?”

“Your own,” he said. “If you’re going to walk your own beach, you need your own bag to keep the things you find.”

She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat before slipping the shoulder strap over her head and letting the bag hang on her hip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled at her and jerked his chin toward the sand ahead. “I’ve got work to do and so do you, my girl. Now, git.”

She nodded and faced the beach again, the morning sun dazzling off the water. Her first few steps out onto the sand felt awkward, self-conscious. The new bag bumped her arm as she walked. She turned to look at her father.

He raised a hand in a silent wave before turning to climb the low headland that separated their cottage from the beach.

She watched him go, walking with his staff tinkling with the music of shells and pieces of sea glass, until even his hat disappeared behind the grassy ridge.

A stray gust caught a strand of her hair and slapped it against her cheek.

She laughed and turned to face the beach once more. “I’m goin’,” she said and bent to her work.

The long familiar beach felt foreign without her father, different somehow. Strange that the lack of his tinkling staff and shuffling boots might make such a big difference. With a shrug and a full nose of salt sea air, she pressed on in earnest—determined to return with at least a few items in her bag.

With no one to watch her, no one to chivvy her along or slow her down, she meandered left and right as she passed piles of wrack and weed. Occasionally a bit of wood attracted her attention—the shape of a wing or the curve of a tail drawing her eye. The voice of the world soon engulfed her—the quiet words of the gulls mixing with the hollow rush of wind over her ears and the rhythmic susurration of sea over sand.

The beach ended at the rocky headland leaving Sarah slightly dazed. The long walk had passed so quickly. She glanced up at the sun and looked out to sea. The tide had turned while she’d been engaged in gathering her shells and driftwood. If only she’d thought to bring a sandwich. Her lips felt tight from the sun. She took a moment to poke through the weed caught in the stony crevices but found only wet rock weed.

With another glance at the sky she turned back toward the cottage. The day would be more than half over by the time she got home, the sun high in the sky and baking the softer sand on the upper beach. She trudged along, looking this way and that but setting a more or less straight path back, ignoring her earlier footprints. The sea would erase them soon enough.

A sparkling piece of sea glass caught her eye. She stooped to pick it up and found a seal trapped in a stick next to it. Both went into her gather bag. When she stood, she noticed her footprints from earlier and remembered turning over the pile of weedy treasure. She hadn’t seen either the glass or the stick earlier.

“That wasn’t very observant.”

She stood there for several moments, letting the onshore breeze blow through her hair, filling her ears and her nose with chilled, briny air. She nodded, then continued on her path.

As she approached the headland she looked up and saw her father, sitting on the grass, watching her. She waved at him and his smile showed white against his skin. He waved back but didn’t get up.

“Did you find anything good?” he asked.

She ran over to him and gave him a hug around the neck. “I think so. At least some kindling.” She patted her bag.

He smiled and clambered to his feet. “You had a good walk.”

She nodded and took his hand, leading him toward the cottage. “Yeah. Was fun. Kinda lonely and I wish I’d taken a sandwich.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Need a drink of water,” she said. “Sun is hot out here.” She turned to look out to sea, squinting against the glare.

“I’ll get you a water bottle to carry,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d walk all the way to the end and back.”

She grinned at him. “Me neither.”

“Why did you?”

She shrugged and continued along the path. “Just listening to the world. It sounded good. I kept finding new sticks. Then I was there.” She shrugged again. “Just was.”

He nodded. “I can understand that.”

She smiled at him and tugged his hand. “Come on. I want a cookie to tide me over till lunch.”

“It’s lunchtime already. Why don’t we have lunch and then a cookie?”

She nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Let’s do that.”

He laughed, the sound bouncing back from the side of their cottage and spreading out across the headland. It was a good sound. She liked hearing it and wondered why he didn’t do it more.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cape Grace: November 2, 2339

SARAH STOOD AT THE window and stared out into the gray. Wind whistled through the eaves and sleet rattled against the window in an occasional splatter, the icy crystals tapping the glass like a handful of sand. She sighed.

“No fun, is it?” her father asked, looking up from his reading on the sofa.

“It’s boring.”

“You could do something. Are you caught up on your coursework?”

She crossed to the sofa and curled up beside him, his bulky sweater smelling of yarn and comfort. She leaned into his side. “Coursework is boring.”

“Some things are.” He looked down at her. “Most things get kinda boring after you do them for a while.”

“Carving doesn’t look boring,” she said, letting just the tiniest bit of pleading into her voice.

He laughed. “Nice try, shortcake. You’re not strong enough to carve yet and I’m not letting your fingers get close to a sharp blade until I know you can handle it.”

“I’d be careful.”

“I know you would, but if something were to happen and you cut off a finger, I don’t know what we’d do.”

She stared at him. Hard. Then sighed again and flopped down on the couch beside him. “Wanna play a game?”

“What kind of game?” he asked.

“Cards?”

“Like what? Solitaire?”

She laughed. “Only one can play solitaire. Chess?”

“You’re offering to play chess with me again?” he asked, his eyebrows rising.

She shrugged. “I won’t get better if I don’t practice.”

He closed the book and stood. “Well, let’s have a game or two. If it gets too boring, you can always practice cooking.”

The thought of fresh cookies brought her upright on the couch. “Cookies?”

“I think we have everything to make them, if you want.”

“You help?” she asked.

“I’ll help,” he said. Sleet chattered against the window. “Day like today, about all you can do is stay inside next to a warm stove.”

“Or carve,” she said.

He laughed. “Come on. Them cookies won’t make themselves.” He rose and pulled her upright. “Cookies or nap.”

The warmth of the cottage, snug against the elements, felt safe. It made her yawn and blink.

“Maybe nap instead,” her father said.

She shook herself and headed for the kitchen. “You’re not getting’ away that easy.” She grinned at him. “Cookies first.”

“Then nap?”

The eagerness in his voice made her giggle.

“Maybe,” she said, turning her head and stifling a yawn so he wouldn’t see and insist on the nap first.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cape Grace: March 24, 2341

SARAH FOLLOWED HER father through the aisles of the hardware section of the chandlery. The spicy scent of the rope melded with an undercurrent of lubrication oils. Half a dozen fishermen carried on a round-robin conversation near the check-out, laying down a background drone of half-heard voices. She glanced at the arrangements of tools and supplies, waiting whenever he stopped.

He needed a new whetstone for the bench in their workshop. It wasn’t something they could order online because he wanted to feel the stones before buying. He’d been mumbling about grit and hardness for a couple of days already and she was getting more than a little tired of it. The long winter of heavy coats, extra leggings, and frozen noses dragged on, seemingly forever, but she felt the beach drawing her.

She sighed. It would be a couple of more days before the tide shifted enough to let them walk during the warmth of the day again.

They stopped at the counter in the back of the store.

Mercer Roman leaned forward over the counter and smiled. “Hey, Otto. How’s the shamaning going?”

Her father laughed and shook Mercer’s hand. “I’m still listening. How’re things going at home?”

Mercer glanced down at Sarah, shifting his weight back a bit before looking back at her father. “Better. Winter was tough, but I think we’re on the mend.” He glanced back at Sarah again before looking away.

Her father nodded. “I need a new bench stone for the shop. Whatcha got?”

Mercer started pulling various blocks of stone and ceramic from the cubbies, going through the characteristics that all blended into numbers and words that washed over Sarah like breakers on the beach, unable to parse any significance from the tumble of grits, hardnesses, and solutions. She wandered down the counter, eyeing the merchandise within. The first display of fish knives arranged in a flower pattern drew her along to the next display of household cutlery. Broad-bladed chefs’ knives and stubby paring knives gave way to tableware. The next display stopped her cold.

Pocket knives.

She stepped closer to the glass, peering in at a bewildering collection of folding knives. Many sported a single, broad blade. Some displayed two—a longer and shorter. A couple of them seemed to have everything under the sun with gadgets fanned out from each end of the handle.

She glanced back to where her father and Mercer continued to discuss the relative merits of sharpening stones. If she had a knife, she could start carving. She stared into the glassed-in display, her fingers clenching with their desire to hold one of the knives—any one of them would do, even the simplest ones.

Small stickers beside each knife displayed the price. The fancier knives with more blades cost more. The bottom row of knives, those with small blades and blocky grips, cost the least. The first one on the bottom row caught her attention and she leaned over to stare at it. The larger blade looked to be only a few centimeters long. Maybe the size of her pinky finger. The smaller, narrower blade only half as big. The black handle grips gleamed in the display’s lighting. She could run a lanyard through the small hole on one end. The price showed as six credits.

She straightened up with a sigh and a grunt. “Where am I going to get six credits?” She glanced around, aware that she’d said it aloud, and bit her lips together. It might as well have been a hundred. She pressed a fingertip to the glass beside the small knife as if to mark it as her own in some way. From the corner of her eyes, she saw her father turn toward her, a small package in his hand.

A pang of guilt shot through her and she walked toward him, not wanting to be caught looking at the knives. No matter how many times she asked, he steadfastly refused to let her carve. He would only let her use his knife for tiny periods to shave a stick for kindling. Just long enough for her to feel the wood and blade together, to give her the tiniest scratch to the growing itch in her hands.

Six credits.

She pressed her hands to her sides to keep her fingers from clenching in anticipation.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cape Grace: August 9, 2341

SARAH PICKED HER WAY along the shore towards town. The receding tide left a swath of stinking mud baking in the afternoon sun with just the hint of sand along the upper edges of the rocks. A piece of green glass caught between the rocks reflected the sun. She scooched down and plucked it from its nest. The sea and sand had polished the sharp edges off but it hadn’t been in the water long enough to round off all the sides. Still, it counted toward the total. She plopped it into her pail.

She straightened up and continued on her quest. Old Lady McIntyre paid by the kilo for the sea glass, but it took a lot of pieces to fill the bucket. She’d picked the long sandy beach clean already. While storms and tides brought the promise of more, she’d not been able to get to the town side of the cottage yet. Glancing at the meager pile of glass in the bottom of her pail, she sighed.

A rock twisted under her, and one foot slid into a mucky swale. She pulled her leg up, nearly losing the shoe in the sucking mud. It released a cloud of stink that stuck to the back of her nose and down her throat. Clamping her mouth shut and holding her breath against the smell, she scuttled up the slope toward the sandy verge. Sand stuck to the mud as she got back onto solid ground and she looked around for a grassy spot to wipe some of the gunk off.

“Whatcha doing?”

She looked up the embankment and saw a couple of kids standing on the path—a boy and girl she recognized from school. She couldn’t remember their names. Brother and sister. She remembered that much. “Nothin’.”

The kids looked at each other for a moment and then back at her. “What’s in the pail?” the boy asked.

Sarah bit her lip and shrugged. “Nothin’. Bits of glass.”

The girl nodded. “You’re the shaman’s kid, right?”

Sarah nodded.

“Ain’t ya supposed to be collecting driftwood and stuff?” she asked.

Sarah nodded again. “Yeah. Shells and driftwood.”

“Then why you in here pickin’ up seaglass?” the boy asked.

Sarah shrugged. She didn’t want to admit she needed it for Old Lady McIntyre. They might decide to collect it, too, and she would never get enough to buy her own knife.

The girl scowled at her and pulled her brother by the arm. “Come on, Neil. We got better things to do.”

Neil and Patty. She remembered their names.

“Like what?” Neil asked.

“Like getting some ice cream at the chandlery,” Patty said, jingling some credit chips in her pocket. “Ma said.”

He shrugged and gave Sarah another long look. “Good luck with the glass.”

“Thanks,” she said, looking around at the rocks and sand. Her shoe would dry and the muck would flake off. Eventually.

After a moment, she clambered up to the path and looked toward town. There wasn’t much left of the tide flat. One of the processing plants blocked the way. Patty and Neil had wandered off toward the chandlery and she looked into her pail. She had enough to cover the bottom with a couple of centimeters of shining glass. It wasn’t enough to take to sell yet. She sighed and glanced up at the sun. Tide had already changed. She felt parched. Her mouth felt gummy. The afternoon sun seemed to draw the water out of her.

With another sigh, she turned her steps back toward the cottage but hadn’t gone more than a few paces when the shouting started.

Looking back toward town, she saw Patty and Neil yelling at a grinning Bobby Tatum. Bobby held something up out of their reach while they hollered something. The echoes and the distance garbled the words but it looked serious. Bobby put a hand on Neil and gave him a shove backwards. Neil fell on his butt and Bobby laughed even more. Patty stomped on Bobby’s foot and reached for whatever it was he held.

Bobby stopped laughing and shoved Patty back. She grabbed his arm and pulled, toppling both of them onto the ground beside Neil. He got up, his face red and his fists clenched just about the time Mercer Roman came around the corner from the direction of the chandlery.

“Hey, now,” Mercer yelled. “What’s going on here?”

Bobby dropped his arms and unclenched his fists, turning to Mercer and shaking his head. He said something but Sarah couldn’t hear it.

Mercer glanced in Sarah’s direction before helping Neil and Patty up from the ground.

Sarah turned away and headed home. Her heart pounded in her chest, her face felt tight, and her breath came in pants like she’d been running—or fighting. She glanced back at them. Mercer stood with Bobby on one side, Patty and Neil on the other. Patty and Neil looked pretty mad but Bobby had a grin on his face. Mercer kept looking back and forth between them, shaking his head.

She picked up her pace toward home. Whatever happened, she didn’t need to be mixed up in it. Eventually her heart calmed down and she was able to get a full breath again. She shook her pail so the glass rattled against the sides. The anger still felt like a cloud behind her but she didn’t know what to do about it.

She didn’t like the feeling of not knowing what to do. Of being helpless.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cape Grace: November 10, 2343

OTTO STARED THROUGH the frost-rimed panes at the headland that guarded the beach. Sleet and wind-driven spume obscured all but the nearest side. The sturdy stone cottage held up against the wind that rattled the windows, keeping them snuggly warm inside.

“Not a good day to walk the beach?” Sarah asked, looking out over his shoulder.

“You can go if you like.”

She grinned at him. “Looks like a good day to stay in and carve.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Don’t you have something you should be studying?”

She grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him. “I finished the basic maths courses already.”

“Planetary sciences, then?” Otto asked.

She laughed. “As if. I’m thinking maybe cooking next. I’d have to go to the center for labs, but seems like a girl shouldn’t depend on her father for meals.”

“What? You don’t like my cooking?” He put on a pained expression and clutched his chest.

She laughed again. “You’re a wonderful cook, Papa.”

“But I’m no chef.”

“You’re no chef.”

“All I ask is you study something. Preferably something you can make a decent living at.”

“You hoping to get rid of me?”

“No, daughter. I’m hoping you’ll take care of me in my old age.”

“So. Carving?” she asked.

“Tea first,” Otto said. “Maybe a batch of cookies.”

“Do we have what we need to bake cookies?” she asked.

Otto shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“Then why’d you suggest it?”

He grinned at her dismay. “Just to see what you’d say.”

She giggled and went to fill the kettle while he looked back out at the storm.

“If it keeps blowing like this, the picking should be good tomorrow,” he said.

“If it’s as cold as this tomorrow, I’m staying inside,” Sarah said. “You can go freeze your butt off, but there’s no way I’m going out into that.”

Sarah filled an infuser with loose tea and set the pot aside to wait for the boiling water. She rummaged in the cupboards but closed them without pulling anything down.

“What are you looking for?” Otto asked.

She grinned. “Just checking to see if we had stuff to make cookies.”

“Do we?”

She shook her head as the kettle came up to boil. “Scones, maybe.” She poured the water onto the tea and set it aside.

“Scones?” Otto said. “That sounds rather good.”

“I said ‘maybe,’ Father. This isn’t the time to be experimenting with food.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we waste it, getting a shipment from the chandlery in this glop would be difficult.” She handed him a hot mug of tea and poured one for herself. “Now, are you ready to do some carving?”

Otto gave a little shrug and beckoned her with a nod. “Let’s go see what’s in the shop.” He took another look out at the icy winds driving past the cottage. “And be glad we don’t have to go outside to get to it.”

He led the way to the other end of the house and the small workshop. Not much more than an overgrown closet, the room was redolent with the aromas of carved wood and rubbing oil. A small stove for the coldest weather huddled on one side and a built-in workbench filled the wall opposite the door.

He opened a drawer on the lower left rank. He pulled out a pocketknife and handed it to her. “Your Grampa Krugg got this for you before you were born. I’ve kept it for you. Maybe it’s time you learned how to use it.”

She took it from him with both hands as if it were some sacred relic, something fragile she might break.

He found he had a lump in his throat that made it difficult to speak. He tried to clear it, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’ll do for now. Who knows? I’m still using the knife I got from your great-grandfather Krugg when I was your age. Don’t see any reason to change.”

“Before I was born?” she asked.

Otto nodded. “He was almost as excited as my mother when we told them you were on the way.”

“You make it sound like you ordered me from a catalog,” she said, staring at the knife and blinking her eyes rapidly. She held the knife in her open palms. The oiled wooden side grips gleamed in the overhead lights. She unfolded the solid blade, locking it open with a quiet snick. She swallowed a couple of times. “Wow.”

He pulled out a stone and spent a few minutes showing her how to maintain the knife’s edge. “It’s good steel. Should hold an edge for a long while. If you take care of it, that’s a knife that could last your lifetime.”

“What should I carve?”

“Grab a stick from the wood box there and see how the steel and wood go together.” While she picked over the wood box, he pulled a piece of driftwood from one of the many formula cans that still filled the shelves in the tiny workshop. He found a streamlined abo-abo hiding in the grain. He settled into his chair to rough out the piece while Sarah made the first scraping cuts on her scrap of wood.

Outside, the wind still whistled through the eaves. Every once in a while, the rattle of sleet blasted the tiny window. Inside, the shavings and cuts fell off their blades and onto the floor with tiny scratchings barely audible over the noise of the storm. He glanced at Sarah working the wood and knife as if she’d been born to it. A short, silent laugh fluttered his chest. He’d have gladly starved for a week to have that level of skill at fourteen stanyers.

He’d been holding her off for months. Years even. She’d wanted to carve even before she had strength enough in her fingers to hold the knife. She’d watched him carve so many times he’d lost count. She felt right in his shop, like she belonged there.

As he roughed out the abo-abo, he pondered why he’d held off so long. Why he’d kept the knife hidden away.

He remembered the day his father had given it to him to pass along. He and Carla had gone to Callum’s Cove to tell them in person. After dinner, Richard had taken Otto out to the shop and pulled the knife out of a drawer in his bench, much as Otto had just done.

“Picked that up when you and Carla got married,” he’d said. “You got your grandfather’s knife. Only right that the next Krugg shaman have mine.” He’d handed the presentation box to Otto with a grin.

The box still lay hidden in the drawer with its inscription carved into the lid.

To my grandson.

Otto wondered what his father would say when he found out.

She picked a smallish stick from the wood box, but the scrap held as much life as any stone. Her fingers wrapped around the body of the knife and tested the grip. It felt like the bones in her hand flowed into their rightful places. She let her father guide her through the first shaving cuts again. She bit her lower lip and kept her head down so her expression wouldn’t give her away.

The knife’s edge felt smooth and shaved even flakes off the stick as she pushed it along the grain. She could feel the blade cutting with each long, quiet scrape of metal against wood.

They worked side by side for several long minutes, the storm outside wrapping them in a cocoon of sounds—wind whistling around the edges of the cottage, the occasional staccato stutter of sleet.

“Good,” Otto said. “Keep the cuts shallow. You can always take more off but you can’t put it back on.”

She grinned at his predictable comments. How many times had he said that over the stanyers? A hundred? A thousand?

“You’re a natural,” he said.

“I come by it honestly.” She smiled up at her father and noticed the bright gleam in his eyes. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. Thank your grandfather when you see him again.”

She turned to her work and controlled her impatience. She had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him that the blade in her hand was her second knife, that she had a blade of her own tucked into the bottom of her gather bag. Her long walks on the beach gave her ample time to practice back among the dunes, away from the view from the headlands.

She tucked her guilty secret away, pleased that—at least, now—she could carve openly. She could share the gift in the cozy, smoke-scented room. Her inlay work still needed improvement. Perhaps now, he’d show her how to make it all come together.

She had to admit it. The knife fit her hand better and felt much more solid than the cheap Barlow she’d traded five kilos of sea glass for. Being the daughter of the shaman meant she didn’t have the opportunities that the other kids had for earning a few credits. No fish cutting for her. No deckhand work. The handline had given her access to the sea and her regular patrols turned up interesting objects now and again, but Old Lady McIntire paid for sea glass by the kilo. It took most of her twelfth stanyer to collect enough glass to be able to buy her own knife. Even then she hadn’t been sure Mercer Roman would sell her one from the case at the chandlery, but he did and she’d been practicing ever since.

She focused on pulling the blade across the stick, smelling the spicy aroma of fresh cut wood as the shavings rolled off the blade and onto the floor. Tomorrow she’d start carving in earnest. For the moment, she’d bide her time and get used to the heft of the new blade and the feel of it against the wood.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cape Grace: February 12, 2344

SARAH SAT BESIDE THE stove and turned the bit of driftwood over and over in her fingers. Her brow furrowed and relaxed, then furrowed and relaxed.

“Something wrong?” Otto asked without looking up from the fox that was emerging under his knife. His blade made a quiet skritch, skritch sound in the nearly silent workshop.

“Not really.”

“You sure?”

“Not really.” She gave him a shy glance before refocusing on the wood.

He chuckled, but didn’t push.

After a few moments she said, “I don’t want to get married.”

Otto lowered the work to his lap and looked over at her. “Where’d that come from?”

Sarah kept her gaze on the piece of wood. “I don’t know. Just something I was thinkin’ about.”

“You were thinkin’ about not getting married?”

A small grin teased the corners of her mouth. “I was thinkin’ about having to leave St. Cloud.”

“If you married a fisherman, you could stay, you mean.”

“Wouldn’t have to be a fisherman. Just somebody who worked for the company.”

Otto nodded once. “True.”

Sarah looked at him then. “But I don’t wanna get married just so I can stay here.”

“A reasonable attitude,” he said. “You’ll be fifteen in a couple of months. You’ve got time.”

Sarah sighed and looked back down at the stick. “Where do people go when they have to leave?”

“I suppose it’s up to them.”

“Do you know anybody who’s left the planet?” she asked.

“Sure. Lotsa people have moved on. Kids grow up and don’t want to work for the company. Sometimes the company fires somebody.”

“You know where they are now?” she asked.

“Well, your great-grandmother is on the orbital.”

“No, I mean women who’ve been kicked off.” She turned her head to face him, and the look in her eyes slew him.

“No,” he said, almost choking on the word. He swallowed. “I don’t know any women who’ve been kicked off at all. Just people, mostly men—boys mostly—who didn’t work for the company.”

“But I’m a shaman,” Sarah said. “A shaman doesn’t have to work for the company.”

“You know the rule as well as I do.” Otto watched her shave a few strips of wood from the stick in her hand. “You might find a job you could do here. You wouldn’t have to get married then.”

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a half-hearted shrug. “I s’pose. If anybody’d hire me.”

“What do you want to do with your life?” Otto asked. “You’re fifteen now. You never talk about what you wanna be when you grow up.”

Her mouth tightened and her fingers stopped moving. She raised her head to stare at him again, anger burning in her gaze this time.

“Your mother had that same expression when I said somethin’ particularly dumb,” he said.

The anger washed from her face and she blinked several times, biting her lower lip between her teeth and lowering her gaze. “I want to be a shaman,” she said.

“You are a shaman,” Otto said.

Her eyes went wide and her lips parted. “I am?” Barely a breath, a whisper, the question hung between them for a moment.

Otto smiled and nodded. He pointed to the half formed whelkie in her fingers. “You’ve got the gift. Just a few cuts and that’s already looking like some kind of dog.”

“Wolf, actually,” she said holding it up to the light, quicksilver focus shifting back to the work in her hands. “I think.”

“There’s a reality in the world,” he said. “Sometimes you’re one thing inside and something else outside.” Otto paused until she looked back at him again. “Everybody gets to pick what they are inside, but sometimes the world picks what you are outside.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t what?” Otto asked.

“You’re a shaman, inside and out. The world didn’t pick what you are on the outside.”

Otto snorted. “That what it looks like to you?”

She paused for a moment and cocked her head to one side. “You are a shaman, inside and out. Aren’t ya?”

Otto rolled the rough-carved sea bird in his fingers and considered. “I wanted to be a fisherman,” he said at last. “I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

“You could still be a fisherman, can’t you?” Sarah asked.

He shook his head. “When the other kids were learning how to fish, I was learning how to carve. Being the son of the shaman opened the door for me to stay on St. Cloud without working for the company, but it closed all the other doors.”

“Did Grampa make you be a shaman?”

“In a way.” He smiled at the memory. “When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I wanted to fish so bad. I watched the other kids grow up and move out to the boats. They’d be gone all day and come back in the evening. They always had stories to tell. It seemed pretty exciting compared to walking up and down the same stupid beach every day. It was like they were members of a club that I couldn’t join.”

“But you wanted to.”

“I did, yeah.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged and glanced at this girl who reminded him so much of her mother. “Something changed in me. I realized that I was really a shaman. That I had a gift that I could use, that could help people. I decided that it was okay for me to do that.”

“You could have become a fisherman.”

“I was for a time.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. That was before Manchester built the shipyard over in Margary. Back then Pirano only ran draggers. They got a contract to supply food for the workers and they had to pick up their production. They developed all kinds of new fisheries. Your grandmother was one of the first crabbers. I was her deckhand for a while.”

“But you stopped?”

“Yeah. I found that I couldn’t be shaman and fish all the time. When Pirano rolled out the new crab fleets, I gave my slot to one of the new kids who wanted to be a crabber.”

“Why?”

“Well, she was kinda cute.”

Sarah blinked several times. “Cute?”

“I was a shaman, not a monk.” He grinned. “Besides, I was spending more time carving and paying attention to the world. Being a shaman means more than just walking on the beach and staring at the sea. Sometimes you have to be there to talk to people. To listen to what they have to say even when it’s hard to hear. Can’t do that when you’re out there all day.” He nodded in the direction of the ocean.

“What would you have done if you were a girl?”

The question caught him sideways and he laughed. “I don’t know. Probably would have become a fish captain and had my own boat by now.” He smiled at her. “Or picked something to do that wasn’t fishing but kept me here on St. Cloud. That’s what most people do.”

Sarah sighed and bit her lip again. “I s’pose,” she said and turned her attention back to the wood and steel in her hands, her brow furrowed as her deft fingers worked their magic.

Otto swallowed the stab in his heart and admired her skill for a few moments. He let his own carving draw him back into the wood even as his memories drew him back to his youth.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Aram's Inlet: September 20, 2344

JACK FLANAGAN BREEZED through the door of the Beanery, nodded to Barney behind the counter, and settled into the seat across from Jimmy Pirano. “You wanted to chat?”

Jimmy fought back his initial impulse and swallowed his frustration. “What’s going on with the shamans?”

“You heard about Maisie, then?” Flanagan asked, nodding his thanks to Barney who slid a cup and saucer onto the table in front of him.

“Home office is getting a little peeved,” Jimmy said, taking a sip from his coffee mug.

Jack dunked the teabag a couple of times before squeezing it against his spoon and setting it into the saucer. “What you expect me to do about it?”

“Second one in as many stanyers,” Jimmy said. “You got nothin’ to do with it?”

Flanagan shook his head and took a tentative sip of his tea, then a deeper mouthful. “I just listen to the world, Jimmy. Carve a few whelkies when I can get some time at home.”

“This isn’t normal.” Jimmy leaned forward across the table and lowered his voice. “Who’s stirring these women up?”

Flanagan leaned forward to meet him and his mouth crooked into a grin that Jimmy wanted to slap off his face. “I. Don’t. Know.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “Look. I deal with the shamans. The real shamans. The sons of shamans. That’s all.” He settled back in his seat and lifted the teacup. “They’re enough trouble by themselves. I don’t need to go sniffing after more.”

Jimmy sat back and a sigh bubbled up from his chest, almost against his will.

“What are you worked up about, anyway?” Flanagan asked. “They file a grievance. Company flashes the rule book. Arbitrator sides with the company. Case closed. Woman goes home to her job or her spouse and it’s over.”

“You have any idea how much that costs us?”

Flanagan shook his head. “Not my problem.”

“It’ll be your problem if they finally decide that shamans aren’t worth the spit,” Jimmy said, taking a pull from his mug only to find it down to a bitter, cold swallow at the bottom. He slapped it back on the table with a sharp rap.

“Who? The arbitrators?” Flanagan asked.

“Home office,” Jimmy said.

“What? They’re going to reverse a century-long policy?” Flanagan snorted and took a sip of tea. “As if.”

Jimmy leaned his elbows on the table and shook his head. “Jack, you and I go back a ways. What’s the one thing the company can’t stand?”

“You’re the company here, Jimmy. You tell me.”

“Losing money,” Jimmy said.

Flanagan snorted again. “Well, yeah, but on a scale of things, this arbitration cost is rounding error, isn’t it? They can’t be worried about it.”

“You wouldn’t think so,” Jimmy said.

Flanagan gave him a side-eyed look. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve been through the records. We had one in the first half century on the planet. One.” He paused and passed a hand over his mouth. “They’ve been coming faster. Davis last stanyer. Before that was five stanyers. Now Maisie what’s-her-name.”

“McIlheny,” Flanagan said.

“So you do know her,” Jimmy said, trying to stare holes in Flanagan’s face.

“Of her. I know of her, Jimmy. That’s all. Trim your jib.”

“Trim my jib?” Jimmy frowned. “You taken up sailing?”

“It’s just a sayin’, Jimmy.” Flanagan sipped his tea. “What’s got you so wound up?”

Jimmy shook his head. “What happens if they decide to axe the exemption?”

Flanagan put his cup down in the saucer with a soft click. “Truthfully? Not much.”

“Why?”

“Because almost all of them are already married to the company or have jobs.” Flanagan raised an eyebrow. “And the company would probably have to find somebody else to be their front-line social workers.”

Jimmy chewed the inside of his lip for a moment and considered Flanagan’s point. “That’s what I’m most afraid of,” he said after a moment. “The social work.”

Flanagan’s eyebrows flicked up for a beat. “You recognize that?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be much of an administrator if I didn’t.”

Flanagan gave a single nod and lifted his teacup again, sipping as he stared into the middle distance. “Maybe home office doesn’t,” he said. He took a swig of tea. “What makes you think it’s some kind of plot? Two is only coincidence.”

“I know. Three is enemy action,” Jimmy said with a sigh. “It could be just luck of the draw.” He paused. “If you’re not behind it, who is?”

“If it’s just coincidence, nobody,” Flanagan said.

“I need to get ahead of this, Jack.”

Flanagan tilted his teacup and peered into it. “Been to Troy Harbor lately?” he asked.

Jimmy sat back on the bench and shook his head. “Not for a while. It’s not exactly on my itinerary.”

Flanagan shrugged, placed his empty teacup in the saucer, then pushed it away from the edge of the table. “Thanks for the tea, Jimmy.”

“You’re welcome, Jack. We’ll have to do it again some time.”

Flanagan snorted and gave a wave over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

Jimmy heaved himself out of the booth and pressed a thumb on the pad Barney offered. “Thanks, Barn.”

“Welcome, Jimmy. Need one to go?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I think I’ve got a road trip coming.”

Barney glanced at the door and chuckled. “You never look happy after talking with Jack.”

Jimmy laughed. “On second thought, I’ll take a cup. Milk. One sugar. And a bran muffin.”

Jimmy stopped at Personnel on the way to his office. “Stella, who’s the rep at Troy Harbor?”

Stella Marsenstone looked up from her console. “Morning, Jimmy.”

He put the Beanery bag on the corner of her desk, placing the cup beside it.

She grinned at him. “One tick.” She tapped at her console for a few heartbeats and looked up. “Steve McCord.”

“Thanks, Stella.” He paused at the door. “You know how many shamans we have on planet?”

She paused, one hand reaching for the bag. “Not off hand. I can find out.”

“Rough guess?” Jimmy asked. “I don’t need a census.”

“Something like four thousand.”

“You keep a record?”

“Sure. We count everybody.”

“Any idea how many women shamans?” he asked.

She frowned at him. “I have the exact count on that. Zero.”

“Yeah. I know that number. You know how many women are married dependents and not employees?”

“I can find out. What are you fishing for, Jimmy?”

“Nothing yet. Just trying to figure out how deep the water is.”

She nodded and reached for the bag. “I’ll run a query and get back to you.”

“Thanks.” He headed for his office. Troy Harbor wasn’t exactly on the opposite side of the planet, but it was close. He threw himself into his chair and fired up the console, dropping messages to McCord and the motor pool. He could take the tram, but it would take all day just to get there. A sub-orbital flitter could get him there in the morning. With luck, he’d be home in time for dinner.

He no sooner sent the messages than Tony Spinelli plunked into his visitor chair. “Troy Harbor?”

Jimmy nodded. “Jack suggested I visit.”

Tony grunted. “Odd choice. I thought you’d be talking about this new shaman grievance.”

“We were.”

Tony’s eyebrows rose.

“I asked who’s stirring things up with the women,” Jimmy said.

“And he pointed you to Troy Harbor?”

Jimmy nodded.

“You gonna talk to Maisie McIlheny?”

“Eventually. I owe her that much,” Jimmy said.

“Before she runs into the arbitrators?” Tony asked.

“Doubt we’ll be on speaking terms after.”

Tony gave a small nod. “Probably so.” He squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “What’s got your panties in a twist over this one?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Too soon. We just did this last stanyer.”

“Davis. I remember,” Tony said.

“Before that it was five stanyers.”

“What’d Flanagan have to say?”

“Coincidence.”

“He’s probably right,” Tony said.

Jimmy shrugged.

“You don’t think so?”

“How many shamans we have?” Jimmy asked.

Tony frowned. “Dunno off hand. Did you ask Stella?”

“I did. She said around four thousand.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a bigger number than I’d have expected.”

“I thought so too until I realized we’ve got—what? Close to ten thousand villages scattered around, between us and Allied Ag?”

“The planet isn’t that big, is it?” Tony asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “We’d have one every five kilometers around the equator but the shoreline’s a lot longer and Allied has villages scattered all over the high plateau and eastern islands. Total population is probably three million.”

Tony frowned. “Makes shamans a pretty small percentage.”

“Seems like we’re spending a lot of time managing a small population,” Jimmy said. “Thing is, we need them.”

Tony nodded. “Probably could use more.”

“Fewer than half the villages have a resident shaman,” Jimmy said.

“Well, given those distribution numbers, at least half of them must only have a dozen residents,” Tony said. “We’ve got almost two thousand here at the inlet. Next biggest center is Langille’s Point.”

Jimmy nodded. “Starvey Bay has closer to three thousand but a lot of them are Confederated Planets people running the shuttle port.”

“Where you going with all these calculations, Jimmy?”

“I’m hoping to find that the increases in women challenging the shaman rule correlates to the rise in population.”

“What? We’re getting complaints more often now because there are more women?”

“Stands to reason.”

Tony settled back in the chair and stared at a point over Jimmy’s head. “Yeah,” he said after a few moments. “Yeah, it does.” He focused on Jimmy again. “But you know what the next question is?”

Jimmy nodded again. “Why aren’t there more grievances?”

“I was going to go with ‘Where are the women shamans?’ but yours works, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Troy Harbor: September 28, 2344

STEVE MCCORD STEPPED out of the terminal building even before the flitter’s fans had spun down. He tilted his head against the wind and shielded his eyes with one upraised hand. Jimmy popped the seat-belt release when the pilot gave him the all-clear and opened the door. A gust of salty air off the bay swept the cabin and McCord stepped up to hold the door open. Jimmy stepped down, offering his hand. “Steve.”

“Jimmy,” Steve shook the hand and let the flitter door thunk closed. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m not sure. Can we get in out of the wind? Someplace we can have a little chat?”

A cloud seemed to pass over McCord’s face. “Of course. My office is just across the way.” He led the way around the terminal and across a street that seemed to run in a straight line from the single long, stone pier to a tram terminal reclining at the foot of the bluff. The wind plucked at their clothes. McCord held his hat down with one hand. “Welcome to Troy Harbor.” He grinned at Jimmy. “Damn street is a wind tunnel this time of year.”

Jimmy found himself grinning back. The summer warmth hadn’t abandoned the land yet and he found the brisk wind lifting his spirit rather than chilling him to the bone.

McCord held the door so Jimmy could enter the one-story utility building on the far side of the street. “Ain’t much but it’s where I hang my hat,” he said. “Coffee?”

Jimmy nodded. “Wouldn’t turn it down.”

McCord took him to a tiny kitchenette just off the main hall. “Nothing fancy. Just me here these days.” He pointed to a table against the wall, a white laminate surface with the odd ding and burn mark on it. “Have a seat.”

Jimmy pulled out a chair and sat down, feeling more like he’d stepped into a time warp than a Pirano Fisheries office building. “Where’s your staff?”

McCord grinned over his shoulder. “Personnel and finance are up the street. We took over one of the old warehouses a couple of stanyers ago and moved them. Gives all of us more room.” He brought two cups of black coffee over to the table and took a seat. He slid one of the cups across to Jimmy and took a sip from his own. He raised an eyebrow at Jimmy.

“What do you know about shamans?” Jimmy asked.

McCord stiffened a little, his head tipping a couple of degrees off vertical. “Shamans?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Son of the shaman,” McCord said. “You didn’t come almost halfway around the planet to ask me that.” He lifted his mug again, blowing across the top and staring at Jimmy.

“You have one here?” Jimmy asked.

“Monty. Been here for a couple of decades.”

“Monty?”

“Ed something. Edwin? Edmund? Montgomery. Everyone calls him Monty.”

“What’s he like?” Jimmy asked.

McCord took a swig of coffee and placed the mug back on the table with a little click. “Hell if I know. I see him wandering through. Know him enough to talk to. Older guy, but you’d never guess how old he was to look at him. Clean living and fresh air, I guess.”

“I’d like to meet him. He around?”

“What’s this about anyway?” McCord asked.

“Wild goose chase as far as I can tell,” Jimmy said, taking a swig of coffee. “Flanagan suggested I should come out here.”

“Jack Flanagan?” McCord asked.

“You know him?”

McCord nodded. “Know of him, at least. Monty curses his name on a semi-regular basis.”

“How regular? Quarterly?”

McCord snorted. “Try daily.”

“Any reason?”

“As far as I can tell, just because he’s alive,” McCord said.

“That strike you as odd?” Jimmy asked.

“You don’t know Monty.”

Jimmy laughed. “Monty a complainer, is he?”

McCord leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and cradling his mug in both hands. “What are you really looking for, Jimmy?”

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “I was talking to Flanagan about this new grievance. He sent me out here.”

McCord’s eyebrows rose slowly. “New grievance?”

“Maisie McIlheny. Challenging the shaman rule.”

McCord’s expression slammed down like a storm shutter in a gust front. “What exactly were you talking about?”

“With Flanagan?”

McCord nodded.

Jimmy watched a vein in McCord’s neck throb for a few heartbeats. “I wondered who was stirring up the women.”

“How do you mean?” McCord’s scowl relaxed a fraction.

“More women challenging the rule. This McIlheny woman is the second in two stanyers. It’s like they’re picking up momentum. One tries and fails, then another one.”

McCord said, “And you think this has something to do with Troy Harbor?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know, Steve. Flanagan said I should visit. I’m visiting.”

McCord pursed his lips and peered into his coffee cup.

“Where are the women, Steve?” Jimmy asked.

McCord looked up. “What women?”

“The women shamans,” Jimmy said. “I asked Flanagan. He sent me here. You’re too good a rep to not know what’s going on in your own town.”

“There aren’t any women shamans. By definition.” McCord took a long pull from his cup. “That’s the company position, isn’t it?”

“That’s what home office says,” Jimmy said. “They keep winning the arbitrations.”

McCord placed his cup onto the table with the faintest of taps. “That seem right to you, Jimmy?”

“Right’s kinda slippery,” Jimmy said. “What kind of right? Fair? Correct? Conscionable?”

McCord shook his head. “You need to talk to Monty.”

“What’s he going to tell me?”

“All the residents of Troy Harbor either work for the company or are married to somebody who does.”

Jimmy nodded. “That’s kind of a given, isn’t it? What’s the problem, Steve?”

“We have a nice quiet town here.”

“We both want to keep it that way,” Jimmy said.

McCord stared at him for several long moments. “You like pie?”

The non sequitur surprised a laugh out of Jimmy. “Who doesn’t?”

“Eunice Winston up at the Muddy Grounds makes a damn fine apple.” McCord raised his eyebrows. “Just up the street between here and the tram station. Feel like taking a walk after your long flight?”

“Will Monty be there?” Jimmy asked, weighing the offer.

McCord flexed one shoulder up and down in a half-hearted shrug. “Might be. Tide’s comin’ in. If he’s on the beach, he’ll be back soon.” He paused for a couple of heartbeats. “Unless you wanted to go chasing down the beach after him?”

“He have a cottage?”

McCord gave a single, slow nod. “Head for the pier, hang a left, and follow the water. He’s got the stone cottage on the other side of the headland.”

“The other side?”

“He likes his privacy.”

Jimmy looked into McCord’s face for a few seconds before tipping his mug and draining it. “This is pretty good coffee, but you know what it needs?”

“Pie?” McCord asked, the hint of a smile twitching his lips.

“Pie.” Jimmy stood. “You coming?”

McCord stood but shook his head. “You’ll do better without me there.”

Jimmy let that idea roll around in his head for a moment. “Your town,” he said.

McCord smiled. “Company town. I’m just the caretaker.”

Jimmy held out his hand. “Fair enough. I’ll check in before I leave.”

“Your pilot need anything?” McCord shook Jimmy’s hand.

“Probably refueling. Him and the bird.”

McCord nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

“Thanks.”

“All part of the service,” McCord said.

Jimmy found the restaurant by following the aroma of fresh bread and brewing coffee. A sandwich board on the sidewalk read “Fresh Coffee – Made Weakly!” A bell jingled when he pressed through the glass door.

A woman wearing a white bib apron and a welcoming smile looked up from behind a counter along the back. “Howdy. What can we do you for today?”

Jimmy took a quick survey of the room, mostly empty except for four women plying knitting needles and crochet hooks at a corner table. They surveyed him in return with variations on interest, concern, and a smidgeon of challenge. He nodded. “Ladies.”

He crossed to the counter and took a stool in front of the woman. “I heard Eunice Winston makes a damn fine apple pie.”

“You come to check yourself?” the woman asked, putting a hand on her hip and leaning on the counter.

“I’m willing to risk it,” Jimmy said.

“You want somethin’ with it?”

“Coffee smells good.”

“Tastes better,” she said. “You want some?”

“Please.”

“You want something with the pie?”

“Like what?” Jimmy asked.

“Scoop of ice cream? Slab of cheddar?” She shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. “Bowl of chowder?”

Jimmy’s stomach grumbled and he nodded. “Sold.”

One of the women at the corner table cackled. “Way to upsell him, Eunice!”

Jimmy glanced in that direction but all four of them had their heads down.

The white-haired woman on the far side of the table looked up from her needles, giving Jimmy a steely-eyed stare. “Not every day we see the big boss here. Makes me wonder what he wants.”

“Bet it ain’t pie,” the woman to her right said, shooting a side-eyed glance at Jimmy.

“Don’t mind them. They’re just bored,” Eunice said, pouring a heavy china mug full of coffee and sliding it onto the counter in front of him. “One tick. I’ll get your chowder.” She bustled off through a swinging door.

The faint sounds of crockery clattering came out of the kitchen interspersed with the clicking of knitting needles from the corner.

Jimmy looked over and saw the white-haired lady gazing at him, fingers working her knitting without looking.

“We know who you are, Mr. Pirano.”

He nodded. “I’m not surprised. Not everyday somebody drops a flitter on the pad, is it?”

A brief smile twitched at her lips. “Nothing travels faster than gossip,” she said.

“What’s the gossip say about me being here?”

Her fingers paused their task for a moment and she glanced down, pulling up some loose yarn before picking up the stitch again and staring him in the eye. “Says you’re fishing,” she said.

Her answer surprised a short laugh out of him. “True enough, I guess.”

“For what?” she asked.

Jimmy shook his head and sipped his coffee. “I don’t really know.”

She snorted. “Damned poor fisherman, if ya ask me.”

The brunette next to her snickered but kept her head down.

Eunice came back with his bowl of chowder and a plate of biscuits. She slid it in front of him with practiced ease and a big grin. “Get that in you. See how you like it.”

Jimmy leaned over the bowl and took a whiff. The blended aromas of onion, bacon, and thyme wafted on a breeze of fresh seafood. He looked up at Eunice. “Smells great. Thanks.”

She nodded at the table in the corner. “They giving you guff?”

Jimmy glanced in that direction and shook his head, grinning. “Not at all. Thing is, she’s right. I’m a damn poor fisherman.”

Eunice looked at the group in question and her eyes narrowed. “That seems like an awkward thing to say to the boss.”

The white-haired lady stared right back, never missing a beat with the needles.

“She’s right,” Jimmy said again. “I have no idea what’s in the water, no clue as to how to catch it, and nothing to use for bait.” He shook his head and stuck a spoon into the bowl in front of him. “That’s a damn poor fisherman. No argument from me.” He took his first tentative taste of the chowder and forgot about the audience for a tick while he gave the bowl some well-earned attention.

“Lemme check the pie,” Eunice said. “Rate you’re going through that bowl, you’ll be needing it sooner rather than later.”

The group at the table laughed but it seemed that maybe—just maybe—the ice had begun to melt.

Jimmy thumbed the tab and left the diner, heading back toward the shoreline. The midafternoon sun felt good on his face, an onshore breeze pulling the scent of fish and fuel from the harbor.

McCord met him halfway. “How was the pie?”

Jimmy patted his stomach. “You didn’t lie but she makes a mean chowder, too.”

McCord nodded and fell into step as Jimmy continued toward the flitter. “She does. Everything she touches turns to gold. Even that diner.”

The words seemed freighted. Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Franny Osborne used to run the diner for us,” McCord said.

“It’s a Pirano property?” Jimmy asked.

McCord nodded. “The only eatery in town.”

“You have a pub?”

McCord nodded again and pointed to a utility building near the docks. “Couple of the boys started brewing their own beer in one of the empty sheds. It’s pretty good.”

“But that’s not one of ours?”

“No,” McCord said. “The Urquhardts run it. They pay us rent on the shed. It falls under the ‘ancillary products’ rule.”

Jimmy nodded. “You were telling me about the diner.”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway. Franny got tired of the business. Got old enough to retire and moved to the highlands to be near her great-grandkids. The building stayed empty for a couple of stanyers until Eunice stepped up and said she’d do it.”

“Only eatery?” Jimmy asked. “How’d it stay closed that long?”

McCord ran a hand over his mouth as if wiping away a smile. “Let’s just say, nobody missed Franny’s cooking.”

“Hard to miss what you didn’t use?”

“Yeah,” McCord said. “Something like that.” McCord stopped at the edge of the flitter pad. “Eunice didn’t have any real qualifications for running the place but nobody else wanted it. I gave her a shot at it. Took her about three weeks to get the place cleaned up and ready to serve. It’s made a small but steady profit ever since.”

“What’d she do before that?” Jimmy asked.

“Born and bred here. Knows everybody in town. Deckhand on one of the trawlers. Never worked up the chain. Seemed content from all appearances.”

“Suddenly took a hankering to run a diner?”

McCord snorted. “I think she got tired of not having a place to go to dinner after a day underway.”

“Think he’s back from his walk?” Jimmy asked.

McCord glanced at the harbor. “Probably. Tide’s gonna be full in another stan or so. He won’t want to get his feet wet.”

Jimmy started down the street toward the pier.

McCord fell into step. “You met the girls?”

“The sewing circle there?” Jimmy asked.

“Knitting circle,” McCord said. “They’re there most days. Keep Eunice company.”

“I don’t know that ‘met them’ is the right phrase.”

McCord grunted as if he’d been punched. “I’m not going to have trouble with them, am I?”

“Not from me.”

“Nan give you any guff?”

“Nan?” Jimmy shook his head. “Didn’t get any names except for Eunice.”

“Whip thin. Shock of white hair. Sharp tongue.” McCord glanced at him.

“She had some words. Nothing I’d take offense at. She had me pretty well dialed in. Maybe better than I do myself.”

McCord’s head bobbed a couple of times and he stared at the paving under their feet. “She’s the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“She lived here long?”

“Yeah. She’s lived here longer than I’ve been alive.” McCord cast another a glance at Jimmy.

The comment surprised a laugh out of Jimmy. “Older than the Ole Man?”

An offhand line, but McCord worried the side of his mouth a bit before nodding. “Maybe. She’s over a hundred. Looks more like seventy. Acts more like seventeen, but she’s a hell of a lot shrewder than anybody I’ve ever met. Any age.”

“What’s her connection with Monty?” Jimmy asked.

McCord shrugged and cast a glance over his shoulder as if to see who might be following them. “None on record.”

Jimmy gave the man a stare. “But ...?”

“They’ve both been in Troy Harbor longer than I have. Maybe just familiarity. They helped build the town. Supported the earliest crews.”

“What was her position?” Jimmy asked.

McCord frowned. “That’s the hell of it. Far as the records go, she didn’t have one.”

“Didn’t have one or you don’t have the records?” Jimmy asked.

“The archives are all online. I know who did what when from the first day. The official record anyway. She must have had a job or she’d have been kicked upstairs. I’m damned if I can find it. It’s all apocryphal. All anecdotal. No data.”

“Married?”

“A few times. Couple of her exes are still alive.” He shrugged. “None here.”

“What’s Nan’s full name?” Jimmy asked.

McCord stopped and looked at Jimmy. “You’re not going to cause trouble with her, are you?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not if I can help it. I didn’t come here to kick sleeping dogs.” He glanced back up the street and shook his head. “I’m not sure why I’m here, but I think I’m beginning to get a hint about what had Flanagan spooked. I’m hoping Monty will have the missing piece of this puzzle.”

“Annette Nelsen.” He spelled it out. “No middle name.”

Jimmy nodded. “So all those women are shamans. Right?”

McCord’s eyes widened. “What?”

“The knitters. Eunice. All of them. They’re shamans,” Jimmy said.

McCord’s brows slammed down in a frown. “They can’t be. They’re women.”

Jimmy ran a hand over his scalp and stared at McCord. “You’re not that dumb. You think I am?”

“No. Crap. No. Of course not,” McCord said. “It’s just they can’t be shamans. They’re not sons of shamans.”

“Splitting my own semantic hairs isn’t helping me, Steve. Lemme rephrase it. How many women in this village have the gift?”

“How the hell would I know, Jimmy?” McCord’s face had taken on a ruddy hue that had nothing to do with the sun or wind. “Does anybody know what this mythical gift is?”

“I’m pretty sure Monty knows,” Jimmy said. “Shamans claim to recognize it in each other.”

“Leaving the rest of us to trust them,” McCord said. He shook out his hands and blew out a breath, turning his head to stare out to sea. “As far as I know, it’s religion. That’s all. Some people get it. Some don’t. Some believe in some deity or other. Some believe in whelkies. Some believe in nothing.” He looked into Jimmy’s face. “What I believe is that every time one of these women goes up against the company, things get shaken up a little bit more.”

“Shaken up how?” Jimmy asked.

“People get tenser. More anxious.”

“You see that here?”

McCord nodded. “Shows up in the stats. More arguments. Fist fights.”

“You know it’s because of the shamans?”

McCord looked away for a moment before squinting at Jimmy. “No. Not exactly.”

“Could be coincidence?” Jimmy asked.

McCord shook his head. “Maybe. I noticed it last stanyer with that Davis woman. Happened over the winter when the crews were all ashore. Tempers get short.” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“I do,” Jimmy said. “What’s changed your mind?”

McCord looked back out to sea as if searching the horizon for his next words. “Generally, things smooth out when the boats go into the water. People got stuff to do. Work out their differences.”

“I hear a but,” Jimmy said.

“It settled down a bit but started ramping up again in the early summer. About the time McIlheny decided to file her grievance.” McCord looked at Jimmy. “Why a woman on the other side of the planet would make a difference to the fishermen here? No clue.”

Jimmy rolled that around in his head a little. “You got the logs?”

McCord nodded. “Filed with HR.”

“You think there’s a connection?” Jimmy asked.

“That’s the hell of it,” McCord said, shifting his weight back and forth. “I can’t see what it might be. It might be one of those weird correlations without causation. Coincidence.”

“They happen,” Jimmy said.

“They do,” McCord said. “This could be one of them. I just don’t know.”

“And that makes you nervous.”

“That makes me nervous and now you’re here asking about the women shamans.” He shook his head and looked down at the street. “If something’s up, I’d like to know about it before it boils over.”

Jimmy patted the man on his shoulder. “You and me both, Steve. That’s why I want to talk with Monty.”

McCord looked up. “You really think he has an answer?”

“He’s the only lead I got. If he doesn’t know the answer, maybe he knows somebody who does.”

“Somebody like Annette Nelsen?” McCord asked.

“The thought had occurred to me. Yeah.”

“You want me to talk to her?”

“No. This is my school to fish. You have enough on your plate as the company man in a town full of women shamans.”

McCord didn’t answer that, just rolled his tongue around in his mouth as if he wanted to.

“Turn left at the pier and follow the water?” Jimmy asked.

McCord nodded. “Want me to come with ya?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I got it. No witnesses might be best.”

McCord snorted. “You don’t know Monty.”

Jimmy offered a grin. “With that kind of buildup, I’m looking forward to making his acquaintance.”

McCord nodded and headed back up the street toward his office. “Good luck with that,” he said.

Jimmy followed the foot trail and found the stone cottage nestled into the rocky headland just over the crest of the ridge. A long curving beach stretched out to the east where another rocky point bracketed the far end.

A man wearing heavy boots, loose pants that flapped around his legs in the wind, and a ratty-looking coat stood at the foot of the path staring up at Jimmy. “You’re a long way from home,” he said. His shaggy white mane blew into his face but he didn’t seem to notice.

Jimmy nodded and picked his way down the far side. “Some things you just have to do in person.” He offered a hand. “I take it you’re Monty?”

The man looked at Jimmy’s hand for a heartbeat before grasping it, his grip solid and his skin rough. “I am. You’re Pirano.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “I’ve come—”

“I know why you’ve come,” Monty said, cutting him off. “Come in. I’ll make some tea and we can chat.” He led the way into the cottage, ducking under the low lintel. “Watch your head.” He tossed a heavy kettle onto a burner—clattering it across the metal burner and flicking the gas on with a thumb. “Jus’ be a tick or two.” He nodded at the kitchen table. “Take a load off.” He started pulling sticks and shells from the pockets of his coat, stacking them on the counter.

Jimmy took a seat and waited, his hands folded over each other on the smooth surface.

“You’re not going to ask how I know?” Monty asked.

“No,” Jimmy said. “Should I?”

Monty shrugged his coat off and hung it on a peg inside the door. “Not necessarily. It’s a small planet.” He busied himself with a stained teapot and tea, flicking a timer beside the burner. “Wondered how long it would be before you got around to finding me.”

“I’m a little slow off the mark sometimes,” Jimmy said.

The kettle came up to boil. Monty sloshed a little hot water into the pot, sluiced it around, and dumped it out. He stuck the loaded infuser into the pot and filled it with boiling water. “How strong you like it?” Monty asked.

“Not a fan of weak tea,” Jimmy said.

“You prefer coffee,” Monty said.

“I do, but I’m not a purist.”

“Need anything in your tea? Milk. Sugar.” Monty gave him a half-smile over one shoulder while he keyed a timer. “Whiskey?”

The question surprised a laugh out of Jimmy and he shook his head. “Black is fine.”

Monty pulled a pair of white china mugs from a cupboard and placed them beside the pot. He surveyed his handiwork and nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned, leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “So you want to know about McIlheny?”

Jimmy shook his head. “No,” he said.

Monty’s bushy white eyebrows climbed up his weathered forehead. “No?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “I want to know where all the women shamans are.”

Monty frowned. He opened his mouth as if to speak but the timer dinged and he turned to pour the tea. “That the company line?” he asked, half turning his head to speak over his shoulder.

“Not exactly.”

Monty took the took cups to the table, placing Jimmy’s in front of him and taking a chair. “What then, exactly?”

“McIlheny is the second in two stanyers,” Jimmy said.

“Yep.”

“Davis last stanyer. That’s way above average in terms of challenges,” Jimmy said.

“You fight this often enough that you have an average?” Monty lifted his mug in a mocking toast. “I’m still listening.”

Jimmy took a sip of his tea. The smoky bite of pine rolled across his tongue. “About every decade or so, somebody challenges the rule,” he said, placing the cup back on the table and curling his hands around the warm ceramic. “Davis was a little early. Now McIlheny.”

Monty took a noisy slurp from his mug and nodded. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Flanagan sent me.”

Monty nodded. “Figured. Asshole.”

“No love lost, I take it?” Jimmy said.

“He’s got his head so far up his butt, he has to breathe through his navel. There are no shamans except the sons of shamans. You carve or you’re not a shaman. If he thinks you’ve got the gift, he’ll bend space-time for you but if not, you can piss into the wind.” He took a swig of tea, rolling it around as if to wash the taste of his words from his mouth.

“Why’d he send me here?” Jimmy asked.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Just his way of crapping in my sandbox.”

“How so?”

Monty leaned back in his chair. “How did my name come up?”

“I wanted to know where all the women shamans were. He said to come here. You’re the shaman. Seemed a logical place to start asking questions.”

Monty’s lips pressed together and he frowned. “Company says there are no women shamans.”

Jimmy took a sip and nodded. “Funny thing about that. You know how many shamans there are on St. Cloud?”

“Men?” Monty asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “Are there any others?”

“No,” Monty said, looking down into his mug. “Something over a thousand. I don’t know how many exactly.”

“Flanagan says around four thousand. Personnel agrees with him.”

Monty looked up, his eyes widened. “That’s ... unexpected. Four thousand?”

Jimmy nodded.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing, but it got me thinking.”

“About ...?”

Jimmy took another sip. “The population of St. Cloud is forty-seven percent male.”

Monty blinked several times. “I would have thought it was closer to fifty-fifty.”

“Nope. A few more women than men born and they tend to live longer.”

Monty leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table. “Any idea why?”

Jimmy shook his head. “More women than men deckhands. More women than men have captain’s tickets. More women than men in administrative roles. Not a lot more but it’s not fifty-fifty.”

Monty’s gaze focused somewhere in the distance. “Same risk factors. Just live longer.”

“Yeah. Births are slightly closer to fifty-fifty. Almost forty-nine percent male.”

Monty took a sip of tea and stared at the tabletop. “What’s that got to do with me? Or McIlheny?”

“Well,” Jimmy said, drawing the syllable out. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Women have a little more than half the jobs in every category on the planet. Except one.”

“Shamans,” Monty said.

“Yeah. That’s what got me thinking I was looking through the wrong lens.”

“What way?” Monty asked, looking up at Jimmy.

“I was getting worried about the increase in the number of challenges.”

Monty nodded.

“I should have been wondering where the thousands of women who have the gift are and why more of them weren’t filing grievances.” He took a sip of tea. “When I asked Flanagan, he sent me here.”

Monty sighed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m trying to get ahead of the problem with home office.”

“They complaining?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “And I know the Ole Man. Too much grit in the gears and he’s going to want to wash it out.”

“And the grievances are the grit?”

Jimmy nodded. “Costs nothing to file a grievance. Costs us a lot to handle them.”

The hint of a smile flickered across Monty’s mouth and danced in his pale green eyes. “How is that my problem?”

Jimmy shook his head. “It’s my problem. It’ll get to be your problem if they decide to rescind the shaman clause in the contract.”

Monty stiffened. “Rescind?”

“Yeah. Fastest way to remove the grievances is to remove the rule.”

“Fastest way is to let women be shamans,” Monty said.

Jimmy snorted. “That’s not the way home office thinks. You know we’re the only CPJCT system that allows nondependent residents on-world?”

Monty shook his head. “I didn’t know. You sure? The Western Annex is pretty big.”

The question took Jimmy by surprise and he frowned into his mug. “No,” he said. “I’m not sure. It’s just the story I’ve gotten.” He looked up. “You know of any examples to the contrary?”

“No,” Monty said. “I’ve lived on St. Cloud my whole life. It never occurred to me to ask.”

“I’ll look into it,” Jimmy said. “I wouldn’t put it past them to blow smoke up my skirt.”

Monty’s eyes widened.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Jimmy said. “I grew up here, too. What home office believes and what actually happens aren’t always in alignment.”

“I’m just surprised you admit it.”

Jimmy laughed. “I try not to make the mistake of believing the world is how I want it to be.”

Monty took another slurp of his tea. “I don’t know how many women there are,” he said, putting the mug down with a quiet thump.

“But you know there are some.”

Monty nodded. “I do.”

“Is every woman in Troy Harbor a shaman?” Jimmy asked.

Monty laughed. “Hardly.” He shook his head. “Some, sure. All? No. Most of them are just what you’d expect. Deckhands. Skippers. Dependents.”

“Annette Nelsen?” Jimmy asked.

Monty gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe.”

“Eunice Winston?”

A brief smile flickered over Monty’s face. “Honestly, I’m not sure. She seems to have the gift at times. Others?” He shook his head. “I’m not always sure I have the gift. How can I be certain about somebody else?”

Jimmy finished off the tea in his mug. “Would it surprise you to learn that there are thousands of women with the gift?”

Monty hunched over his mug and stared into it for a few heartbeats. “Yes,” he said. “It would surprise me to learn that there were thousands of men who have the gift. The real gift.” He looked up at Jimmy. “The title? Yeah. Sons of shamans are shamans. Not all of the fathers had the gift to begin with. It doesn’t breed true and not all sons get it. Some get the title and feel the calling. A few thrive. Most?” He grimaced and shook his head. “Most are just going through the motions.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Jimmy asked.

“I don’t know,” Monty said. “Seriously. It’s something I think about a lot. I got no answers.”

“But you think there are women shamans?” Jimmy asked.

Monty nodded. “I know there are.”

“You the real deal?”

Monty chuckled. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not like I can wave my hands and make magic happen.”

“What would you do if you weren’t a shaman?” Jimmy asked.

Monty frowned, his gaze turned inward. “I don’t know. Never gave it much thought.”

“What does a shaman do?” Jimmy asked. “Besides walking the beach and carving whelkies.”

“You serious?” Monty asked, staring at Jimmy, his head turned a bit to one side.

Jimmy laughed. “I know what I think shamans do.” He shrugged. “That’s on me.”

“Flanagan never gave you the spiel?”

Jimmy shook his head. “All I get from Flanagan is the politics. Seems like you’re a contentious lot among yourselves.”

“Well, probably more truth to that than I’d like to admit but it’s human nature, isn’t it? Get a bunch of people in the same place and they’re going to try to sort themselves out, one way or another.”

“Probably so.”

“I see the same things around the fishing crews. Factory workers,” Monty said. “You can’t tell me your village reps are all in agreement all the time.”

Jimmy laughed again. “No. That’s true. I think it helps that there’s only one rep per village. They don’t have anybody to compete with.” He paused. “Same with shamans, isn’t it?”

“Well, there’s only one per village. If that. There are still places where there’s no shaman.”

Jimmy nodded. “That much I knew.”

“Still have jockeying for position. Villages with cottages are in higher demand. Some men aren’t cut out for a life of service and just want to stir the pot. Gives them something to do.”

“Truth,” Jimmy said. “Same with reps. At least with reps we have some control. We can deal with anybody who likes stirring the pot more than they like turning a profit.”

Monty finished off his tea and pursed his lips. “You’re being pretty forthcoming for the head of the company.”

“You expected I’d dance around in the bushes?”

Monty frowned a bit. “I guess I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I’m not giving out any company secrets. I never was one for varnishing truth. It works better if it’s not so smooth and easily dealt with.”

“That endear you to home office?” Monty asked, a grin twisting his lips to the side of his face.

Jimmy chuckled. “Not so much, no. That’s not my worry. I don’t think the Ole Man would let them get rid of me for telling the truth. Not making quota? Maybe. Truth? No.” Jimmy stood and offered his hand again. “Thanks for taking the time. And for the tea.”

Monty rose and shook his hand. “Always happy to speak to the man in charge.”

“If there’s anything you need, let me know,” Jimmy said.

“Anything?” Monty asked.

Jimmy laughed. “Well. Within reason.”

“Whose reason? Yours or mine?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not playing that game. If you need something, ask. I might say yes, might say no. How’s that?”

Monty nodded. “That’s fair. Thank you.”

Jimmy headed for the door, but before he stepped outside Monte spoke.

“One thing.”

Jimmy turned.

“I think you’re overlooking one important question.”

“Which is?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, son of a shaman is a shaman, right?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Which came first?” Monty asked. “Chicken or the egg?”

Jimmy paused. “Good question,” he said.

“I thought so. Mind your head.”

Jimmy ducked at the last minute and slipped under the lintel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Potter's Landing: October 3, 2344

THE PILOT CIRCLED THE village a couple of times, giving Jimmy a bird’s eye view of the place.

“Where would you like me to put down, Jimmy?” Eddie asked. “Village green or the beach?”

“Can you land on the green? It looks level enough.”

The pilot nodded and the flitter eased over the grassy square between buildings. “I’m being as gentle as I can, Jimmy.”

“Can’t be helped. Do what you need to.”

The heavy flyer settled onto the grass and the pilot killed the lifters. The vehicle settled a little more toward the starboard side than the port. “Not exactly built for it,” Eddie said.

“We stable enough?” Jimmy asked.

“Should be, but it’s going to leave a dent.”

Jimmy nodded and pulled the door latch. He stepped down on the lawn, looking around.

“Oy! What you think you’re about?”

Jimmy turned to see an older woman in a jumpsuit stalking across the grass, fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “Good morning,” Jimmy said.

“I asked you a question, bucko. What’s the idea of putting this noisy beast on my lawn?”

Jimmy held up his hands, palm out. “Sorry. I didn’t know. Where do flitters usually land here?”

She marched up to him, getting right up into his face. “Flitters do not land here.” She enunciated every word, biting each of them off succinctly.

“I understand. We’d be happy to move it if you’ll just tell me where to put it.”

“Stuff it where the sun don’t shine, ya twit. Who do you think you are, flittering in here on a quiet morning? Digging up my lawn and waking the dead with your racket?”

“Sorry,” Jimmy said, trying to edge his hand up between them. “I’m Jimmy Pirano. You are?”

The woman blinked owlishly a couple of times, her eyes squinting and then opening as trying to focus on his face. “Likely story,” she said.

“Jenny! Jenny O’Toole!” A young woman wearing jeans, a flowered blouse under a -windbreaker, and a wide-brimmed hat came around the front of the flitter.

“What?” The woman’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing back from the surrounding buildings.

“Ease up, Jenny. You’re makin’ a fool of yourself and us as well.”

“Me?” she asked. “This idiot parked on my lawn. Look at what he’s doin’ to the grass.” She pointed to where the starboard skid had sunk into the soft soil.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know,” Jimmy said, looking back and forth between the two. “I’d be glad to move it if you’d tell me where it should go.”

“I told ya to stick it—”

“Jenny.” The younger woman cut her off. “Guests. Be nice.” She elbowed her way between Jenny and Jimmy, turning to face him. “Sorry, Mr. Pirano, is it?” She held up a hand for him to shake, having to angle her arm awkwardly in the confined space.

Jimmy became uncomfortably aware of just how close she stood when she turned her face to look up at him, her sea-green eyes flashing in the morning light. “Uh. Yeah. Jimmy Pirano. Call me Jimmy.”

“If you could have your pilot move to the pier?” she nodded at the single finger of stone thrust into the tiny harbor.

Jimmy leaned into the vehicle. “Can you land on that, Eddie?”

Eddie nodded. “Long as nobody needs to use it while we’re here.”

“Boats won’t be comin’ back before midafternoon,” the young woman said. “It’ll be fine.”

“I need you all to step back,” Eddie said, starting to flip switches.

“Of course,” she said. “Come along, Jenny. Let’s get out of the nice pilot’s way so he can get his flitter off your lawn.” She took the older woman by the arm and started walking her back the way she’d come.

“You gonna be all right, boss?” Eddie had an uncertain grin on his face, looking back and forth between the women and Jimmy.

“Should be. You sure you can land on that pier?”

“It’s concrete and stone. Should be solid enough. Won’t be much room to maneuver around me once it’s down.”

“I’ll try to keep it short,” Jimmy said.

Eddie cast a knowing look at the women. “Take your time.”

Jimmy slammed the door and followed the women off the lawn as the flitter’s lifters spun up. Eventually, it rose, trailing bits of grass and dirt from the skids as it climbed.

“You see that?” Jenny asked. “That’s damages. Who’s gonna fix that? Huh?” She turned on Jimmy, punching a stiff finger into his chest. “You? Office man? You gonna fix my lawn?”

The young woman stepped between them again, facing Jenny this time and collecting the old woman’s hands in her own, holding them like fragile birds instead of vicious claws. “Jenny. Look at me.” She moved her body so she stood between Jenny and the lawn. “Look at me, Jenny. Come on. Look at me.”

Jenny looked into the woman’s face. “What?” She sounded like a petulant child.

“This man didn’t know. A little dirt and a little time, you won’t know it happened. Grass knows how to grow. You don’t need to fret.”

“But he had no right.” Jenny’s voice seemed small and frail. “That’s my lawn and he just landed on it.”

“I know, Jenny, but it’ll be fine.”

Jenny glared at Jimmy over the woman’s shoulder.

“Jenny,” she said. “Look at me.”

Jenny sighed and nodded, the tension in her body seeming to fall away like some heavy coat. “If you say so.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” she asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Not that I ever caught you at.”

“Have you looked in on Florence this morning? You know she was feeling poorly last night.”

Jenny blinked and straightened up. “No. No, I haven’t. I should do that.”

The young woman released Jenny’s hands and patted her on the shoulder. “Yes. Maybe take her some of those date cookies. She likes those.”

Jenny nodded several times, slowly at first but picking up steam. “Oh, good idea.” With a final glare at Jimmy, she turned and strode off between the buildings.

The young woman blew out a breath and turned back to Jimmy. “Sorry about that. She’s a dear but that grass? It’s a fixation.”

“I didn’t know,” Jimmy said.

“No way you could,” she said. “Let’s start again.” She held out a hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pirano. I’m Maisie McIlheny.”

Jimmy took the woman’s hand and lost himself in her eyes for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “Hello. I’m here to see you.”

She smiled. “I thought perhaps. It’s about the grievance, isn’t it?”

Jimmy released her hand, suddenly aware that he still held it. “Yes. It is.”

“Let’s go get some tea,” she said. “Does your pilot need anything?”

“He could probably use a chance to stretch his legs.”

“Of course. Tea and pee.” She grinned at him. “Come on, then. Let’s get him settled, and then we can talk.”

Maisie settled on the front porch with a pot of tea, a plate of cookies, and a view of the harbor beyond the simple rail. She waved Jimmy into the chair across from her. “Please. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Pirano.”

“It’s Jimmy,” he said, taking a seat and feeling large and awkward.

“Jimmy,” she repeated, offering him a cup and saucer. “Do you take anything in your tea?”

“No,” he said.

“You’re more a coffee man, I think,” Maisie said.

He shrugged. “It’s fine. I drink both.”

“So why did you fly all the way to the bustling metropolis of Potter’s Landing?” she asked.

He tried to focus but found her distracting. He took a sip of tea to buy some time. “I wanted to know why,” he said.

“Why? Why what?”

“Why the grievance.”

She laughed. “Because only squeaky wheels get greased.”

“But why? You’re the harbormaster here. You have a job. A position. You’re not going to be deported.”

“Because it’s wrong,” she said. She picked a cookie off the plate and nibbled the edge of it.

Jimmy watched her teeth bite and her tongue catch the crumbs. “Wrong?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Surely you see it.”

He took a breath and stared out to sea. “The rule.”

“Yes,” she said. “What else? The rule is wrong.”

“Are you a shaman, Ms. McIlheny?” he asked, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes.

“Me?” Her laugh chimed in the morning air. “Yes. Possibly. Are you? I think you must be.”

He almost choked on his tea and stared at her. “What?”

She shrugged. “What’s a shaman? Do we even know? Does the company have a definition beyond that stupid tag line?”

He shook his head.

“Of course not. Shamans have a calling. They serve the people.” She looked out at the ocean. “The planet. They call it the gift. Did you know that?” She didn’t look at him.

He couldn’t look away from her. “Yes,” he said.

“They carve whelkies. They listen to the world.”

“Yes,” he said again.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes gleaming—almost laughing. “So tell me. Do you listen to the world, Jimmy?”

He felt the hairs on his neck rise. “No,” he said.

She grinned. “I think you do. You must.”

Jimmy swallowed and took refuge in his tea, inexplicably flustered by the conversation.

“You were a fisherman once.”

He nodded. “Started out as a deckhand like everybody else.”

She sipped her tea. “Your idea?”

“The Ole Man’s,” he said. “If you’re gonna ask people to do the work, you better understand the work you’re asking them to do.”

“You took that to heart,” she said.

He freed himself from her gaze by staring out to sea, remembering the days of twine and fuel, of fish and food. “I did. There’s a sense to it.”

“That didn’t prepare you to run a planet-wide fishing operation though, did it?” she asked.

“I worked up. Got my skipper’s ticket. Took a crew out for a few seasons. Moved back ashore and ran the processing plant at Aram’s Inlet for a while.”

“When did you take over the company?”

“When the Ole Man went to home office.” He didn’t want to say how long ago that was, suddenly aware of the difference in their ages. His mouth went dry at the realization. The tea didn’t help.

“What was the biggest challenge? Giving up the sea?”

He shook his head. “I never gave up the sea. I just didn’t fish it.”

“What then?” she asked.

He sighed and thought back. “Probably the divorce.”

“You were married?”

“At one time, yeah. Didn’t work out.” He took a sip and shrugged. “We’re still friends. Just couldn’t be married.”

“Did you love her?”

He looked at her. “In a way I suppose.” He shook his head. “What about you? Ever married?”

“I would have thought you’d have looked up my record before flying out here.”

“I did,” he said.

“What did it say?”

“Born here. Raised here. High academic marks. Worked the deck on your father’s boat. Worked the chandlery winters. When your father came ashore, you came with him. Took over the harbormaster from him when he retired.”

“Seemed the place I could do the most good,” she said.

“You like the job?”

She shrugged and looked out to sea. “It’s necessary. We’re too small to rate a local rep. The district guy checks in every week to find out how things are going. I keep the landings numbers and we reconcile them with what gets processed at Mulligan’s Cove.”

“Eight boats here?” he asked.

“Just put in a requisition for two more,” she said. “We’ve got the crews already. Jamie’s ready for a boat of his own. Cynthia, too.” She looked at him with a grin. “Locals.”

“Got the capacity to cover two more?”

She pursed her lips and looked back to sea. “Grounds are solid all season. There’s almost no drop-off as the season progresses. We could probably handle four or five more boats without degrading the fishery.”

Jimmy nodded. “So you’re basically doing the rep’s job without the title.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So why the grievance?”

She looked back at him. “I told you. It’s unfair. The rule needs to change. I didn’t ask to be a girl. It’s unconscionable that I can’t be a shaman.”

“You’re going to lose.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“But you’re going through with it.”

She grinned. “Of course.”

“What if they remove the exemption?” he asked.

The smile faded. “Well, at least it will be fair.”

“So if everybody can’t be, it’s fair if nobody is?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Of course,” she said again. “It’ll cost the company more to remove the exemption than to expand it, but that’s not my concern.”

“Why do you say that?”

Her grin came back. “You know the answer to that one already.”

“I have an idea,” he said. “I’m interested in what you think.”

“Social workers. The company doesn’t have any. CPJCT regs say you need them.”

“You know that?” he asked.

“It’s obvious,” she said. “I may be the harbormaster in an eight-boat town halfway to no place special, but I can read. The net comes here just like it does at the Inlet.”

“You know how many shamans there are?” he asked.

“No. We don’t have one here. I know a lot of places don’t but there are a lot of places that do.”

“You know Monty Montgomery over at Troy Harbor?”

Her brow furrowed and she wrinkled her nose before shaking her head. “Not that I recall. Why? He a shaman?”

“Yeah. He’s a shaman.”

Her eyes widened. “You think he put me up to this?”

Jimmy shook his head. “No. Just wondered how big a net you fished.”

“I fish in my own harbor, Mr. Pirano, but the planet is my world, too.”

He examined her face and wondered what it would be like to wake up to. The thought rattled him so much he put his teacup down on the table before he dropped it. He stood and held out a hand. “Thank you for your time, Ms. McIlheny.”

“Maisie,” she said, rising to shake his hand. “And any time. Jimmy.”

He nodded, turned away, and felt the heat rise in the back of his neck. The harbormaster’s porch was only a few steps from the waiting flitter on the pier. It felt like a mile. Sure she was watching him leave, he couldn’t seem to figure out how to walk right. His arms and legs felt like somebody else’s limbs. It took him two tries to get the flitter’s hatch open so he could climb in. “Let’s go, Eddie.”

Eddie glanced at him and then back at the porch where Maisie McIlheny stood shading her eyes with a hand. “Roger that.” He got the flitter airborne and set the course for the Inlet before asking, “You all right, boss?”

Jimmy stared out the window at the coastline streaming past below. “Yeah. Of course. Why?”

“No reason,” Eddie said. “Just checking.”

Jimmy looked at him. “Something wrong?”

Eddie set his jaw and shook his head. “Nope. You just bailed out of that meeting like your pants were on fire and your hair was catching.” He glanced at Jimmy. “She say something?”

“No,” Jimmy said, turning to look back at the coast. “Nothing like that.”

“All right, then,” Eddie said.

Jimmy nodded. “All right, then.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Cape Grace: May 29, 2345

OTTO KRUGG STOOD BY the door and waited for his gangly colt to prepare to embark. She capered about the cottage, finding hat and coat, losing gloves and bag, and generally doing the same awkward dance she’d done every morning for her entire life.

“You could be more organized,” Otto said, a smile warming his heart.

The young woman stopped and stared at him, her eyes wide in shock. “Could I?”

Otto shook his head. “Maybe not.”

Finally she presented herself to him—gloves on, coat mostly buttoned, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and a knit cap pulled down over her ears.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready, Papa.”

“You forgot your bag.”

A look of horror washed over her and she dug under the battered kitchen table, pulling out a shoulder bag and draping it across her slight frame. “Now I’m ready.”

Otto grinned and held the door for her before following her out into the crisp spring morning. They paused for a moment outside their stony cottage. The town crouched across the bay from them, apparently returning to slumber now that the heavy work boats had left harbor on their morning pilgrimage. Later in the day the local waterfolk would pull their few crab pots and take care of the onshore work. For now, flags of smoke or steam flew from the chimneys and little else moved.

“Why do we live over here, Papa?” Sarah asked.

“You ask me that about once a week,” he said, his heart warmed by the look of her even as he worried about the woman she might become.

“Surely not more than once a month,” she said, grinning up at him.

“All right. Once a month. The answer’s still the same.” He struck off down the path, worn almost bare by their regular perambulations. “It’s near the beach.”

They hiked along in silence, only the creaking of the gulls overhead and the whoosh of the breakers against the stony headland to keep them company.

“And Mother loved it here,” Sarah said as they crested the promontory and started down the far slope toward Five Mile Beach.

Otto stopped at the top of the trail and blinked back the emotion. The chilly breeze made his eyes water as he stared out over her head to the long, arc of beach beyond. “Yes,” he said, his voice a gull-like croak. “Yes, she did.”

Sarah stopped halfway down the trail and turned to look back at him, one hand on her head as if the wind might snatch the cap from it. “Come on, Papa. Tide’s turned against us already.”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he said, her innocence teasing a warmth into the chill breeze in his heart.

She grinned and turned back to scamper down the remaining length of trail. She stamped onto the loose sand at the foot, her head already turning back and forth as she scanned the wrack for likely bits of driftwood or shell.

They strolled along without talking, moving up the beach in a meandering path. Every so often one or the other would stoop and pick up a bit of wood and hold it up to the sun’s light. Once in a while, they’d slip the piece into the gather bags but more often than not, they’d simply toss the stick aside.

After about a mile, they paused and rested in the lee of a pair of gray boulders that had fallen from the bluff above. Sarah grinned and poked about behind the stones, exploring the shadowed recesses.

“What do you think you’d like to do when you grow up, Sarah?”

“You ask me that about once a week,” she said, grinning over her shoulder. “Answer’s still the same.”

“What? You still want to be a shaman?”

She drew in a breath and blew it out as a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I know, Papa. The son of the shaman is a shaman. That’s the rule and I’m not your son. It’s a stupid rule. Why do boys have all the luck?”

“It’s not exactly lucky,” Otto said, letting his gaze dance across the waves as they raced toward the beach.

“You know what I mean.” Exasperation tinged her voice.

Otto pondered that idea. He knew what she meant. It seemed an arbitrary and overly restrictive rule.

“Look, Papa! A mouta!” Sarah held up her open palm.

For an instant Otto saw the characteristic flattened shape of a fish laying in her palm. Just as he reached for it, the true shape of the driftwood reasserted itself. He blinked.

“Yes,” he said. “A mouta, indeed.”

Sarah tucked the bit of wood into her gathering bag and continued walking down the beach. “Come on, Papa. Time and tide wait for no one, as you’re so fond of tellin’ me.”

He struck off after her, following the scuffed footprints in the loose sand until he’d almost caught up with her. “I’ll speak to the ombudsman tonight,” he said. “Try to get you a waiver.”

Sarah stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Did you say something, Papa?”

Otto gazed at his daughter. “No. Nothing. Keep looking.”

He sighed again and followed after her, trying to focus on the task at hand. As they turned around for the trip back down the beach he knew he’d have little but firewood in his gather sack. It would have to be enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cape Grace: January 3, 2346

OTTO KRUGG STARED AT Ed Comstock across the administrator’s desk. He tried to breathe slowly, to approach the situation rationally. “You won’t help,” he said.

“Otto, I can’t help. There’s nothing that I can do.”

“You could accept the request.”

Comstock brushed his hand down the back of his gray-haired skull. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Even if I did, it would get overturned at the Inlet.”

“How do you know?”

Ed pressed his hands palm down on the desk. He tapped the fingers of his right hand with each point. “First, the contract uses specific, gendered language. The son—and only the firstborn son—of the shaman is the shaman. Second, it’s been tried a dozen times just in the last half century. The arbitrators side with the company. Every. Single. Time. Third, you can’t even prove you have this gift. How can you prove she does?”

Otto shook his head. “No. I’ve done my homework on this, Ed. Every other attempt has tried to get the rule overturned on the basis of sexual discrimination and due process.”

“Exactly. Everybody agrees it’s overly restrictive. If this were a Confederation planet, it would have been tossed out on the first go. It’s not a Confederation planet. The St. Cloud Combine sets the rules here. You can either accept the rules, try to convince the lawyers in Dunsany to change the rules, or leave. So far, nobody’s been able to get the lawyers to budge.”

“I don’t want to overturn the rule. I want to use it.”

Comstock stopped shaking his head and looked at him hard, his head tilted as if he hadn’t heard right. “You want to use it?”

Otto nodded. “I want to get her an exemption based on her gift, not that she’s a girl.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

Otto reached into his pocket and pulled out some whelkies. He slipped them onto the desk. “That’s her work.”

Comstock’s eyes narrowed and he reached out a fingertip to stir the small collection around, almost as if he were afraid to pick them up. “Those are exquisite, Otto. She’s how old?”

“Seventeen in May. In another year she’ll have to find a job or leave.”

Comstock’s head nodded slowly. “Yeah. Or get married.”

Otto’s fists tightened. “She’s a shaman, not some chattel to be bartered off.”

Comstock winced. “It’s the same rule for boys, Otto. Once you turn eighteen, you either go to work or get off the rock. The only exceptions are dependents of employees.”

“And shamans,” Otto said.

“Yes. And shamans.” Comstock shook his head. “How do you see this exemption working?”

“Some shamans aren’t born with their gift. They come into it late.”

“Like your grandfather?”

“You know about him?”

“Sure. Son of a sheep farmer over on the Eastern Reaches, but he convinced a quorum of shamans to recognize his gift.”

Otto nodded. “That’s where I’m going.”

“Otto, he was a young man and that was decades ago.”

“The process is still in the contract, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s there, but your grandfather was also a company employee for five stanyers before he applied.”

Otto nodded, granting the point.

“There’s an easier way. Just have her get a job with the company. She can stay as long as she likes.”

“I’ve been trying. The only job she wants is shaman.” He shook his head. “She has the gift. She shouldn’t be relegated to second-class citizenship because she’s a girl.”

“We’re back where we started, Otto. I even agree with you, but I can’t change the contract. You can appeal it up the line, but I can’t change it. I just don’t have the authority.”

Otto ground his teeth in frustration. “All right, then let me apply for an extended dependency exemption.”

“Extended dependency?”

“I can keep her as a dependent until she’s twenty-three.”

Comstock pushed himself back in his seat and scowled across the desk. “She’s not sick or disabled. How do you see that getting through?”

“She’s not prepared for life off St. Cloud. I don’t need a reason. It’s part of the Confederation clauses. She has no marketable skills that the Confederation can use and it buys me some time.”

Comstock’s scowl relaxed a bit and he leaned forward over the desk again. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I’ve got jobs going begging. I need crews for the boats, sorters on the fish lines.” He pointed to the whelkies. “She can use a knife and I need people on the fillet lines. Hell, I’m short on office staff and messengers.”

“The deal?”

“Let me see if I can get her a job she can do here. Give me a stanyer to get her settled as an employee. She’s too young to work some of the jobs but sixteen is old enough for most of the low skill, low risk, entry level positions.”

“No fishing.”

Comstock nodded. “No fishing.”

“And if you can’t find her a job?”

“If we don’t have her settled by this time next year, I’ll personally recommend the exemption to the Inlet.”

“Why don’t we do the exemption anyway?”

Comstock bit his lip and looked down at his desk. “I’d like her to take these jobs seriously. We lose about ten percent of our young people as it is. I think she’ll find a lot to like here if she applies herself. Leaving the door open to deportation adds a bit of incentive.”

“So you want to leave the threat of deportation open? That’s what you’re saying?” Otto forced his hands to unclench.

“It’s not like that, Otto. You know as well as I do that everybody’s got to find his or her own path. Might be her path is off planet and not here after all. I swear to you, I’ll forward her exemption if she doesn’t find something to keep her legal here.” He leaned forward further. “Mark my words. She’ll be a happy, productive member of our community by this time next stanyer and we won’t have to put that exemption on her record at all.”

“What do you mean, on her record?” Otto asked, momentarily distracted by the odd phrasing.

Comstock took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. “Almost every single kid growing up here on St. Cloud finds a job by the time they’re eighteen. What does that say about the few that don’t?”

“Most of the kids have parents who put them to work on the boats or take them to the plants to work,” Otto said. “I talk to those parents every week.”

“What’s your point?”

“Even when the kid wants to be an astronomer or shuttle pilot,” Otto said.

“They can do that,” Comstock said, frowning. “Who says they can’t?”

“Look up the courses.”

Comstock’s frown deepened and he tilted his head. “Look up the courses?”

“Yes. Look up the courses on the education administration database.”

To his credit, Comstock started tapping on his keyboard and turned his attention to the display. After a few moments he turned his attention back to Otto. “So? The shuttle pilot courses are there. What’s your point? We always need shuttle pilots.”

“What’s the minimum age to take those courses?”

Comstock looked back at his display and manipulated the interface. “Twenty stanyers. So what?”

Otto shook his head. “So, if you want to be a shuttle pilot, you have to work for the company already.”

“Or go up to the orbital and take them there. These are standard Confederated Planets courses. Anybody can take them anywhere. Every system I know is short on shuttle pilots.”

“My point is that nobody can afford to do that. Fishermen don’t make that many credits and they can’t stop fishing long enough to take the courses. Oh, sure they can take the first few theory courses, but after that they need to fly simulators. Did you happen to notice where the nearest simulator is?”

Comstock dug back into the terminal and frowned. “Margary.”

“Yes. So how is a kid from a fishing village like Cape Grace supposed to do that? His parents work for the consortium—just another way of saying they work for Pirano Fisheries. They make enough to live comfortably but most of these people are third- and fourth-generation fishermen. I suspect you’ll find the same thing with administration and production labor.”

“Well, of course. It’s a good life.”

“So you’ve stacked the deck. It’s worse with shamans because that’s codified in the labor contracts, which everybody has to sign or leave the planet.”

“Unless you’re a shaman,” Comstock said. “Where are you going with this, Otto?”

“You’re trying to paint my daughter as lazy or shiftless if she doesn’t get a job working for the company before her eighteenth birthday. That’s what you meant by ‘putting it on her record,’ isn’t it?”

“It’s easy to find work here, Otto. I’ve got jobs going begging right now that she could do.”

“Except they’re not the jobs she’s suited for.”

Comstock shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a company planet, Otto. There aren’t a lot of jobs here that don’t contribute directly to the company. What would you expect? The problem is that your gift isn’t recognized beyond the atmosphere here.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“Well, then that’s a different conversation and instead of trying to convince me that she should stay, maybe you should be trying to convince her to leave.”

Otto sat back in his chair. He stared at Comstock for several long moments. “You’re right,” he said, the words ashes on his tongue. “See if you can get her a job she likes. If she does, well, I guess I have nothing to worry about.”

“If she doesn’t, I’ll put in the exemption personally, Otto.” He stood and stuck his hand out. “I appreciate what you do for the village and I’ll help you any way I can. You have my word.”

Otto stood and shook the offered hand. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Comstock smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Aram’s Inlet: January 5, 2346

JACK FLANAGAN STARED across the table at Jimmy Pirano, his craggy face stony as a headland. “Why, Jimmy? After all this time. Why?”

Jimmy shook his head and shifted his weight to lean over his coffee cup. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Jack.” He glanced around at the sparse late morning crowd at Barney’s Beanery.

“You still haven’t said why you’re doing it. The South Coast shamans have been a fixture since the early days of the colony.”

“Dammit, Jack. It’s not me. Supposedly it’s coming from the Ole Man. Tony and I think it’s the bean counters.” Jimmy hunched over his coffee and bowed his head.

“What beans are they counting?” Flanagan’s hard words cracked across the table. “Most of the shamans are dependents. They’re married to the company. They’re not leaving. The few that aren’t? You’re going to kick them off the planet? What’s that going to save?”

“Legal fees,” Jimmy said, staring into his coffee cup.

Flanagan flopped against the back of the booth. “Legal fees?”

“Too many grievances. Too many credits.” Jimmy looked up at him and shrugged.

Flanagan’s expression went from wide-eyed surprise to a narrow-eyed glower over the space of a few seconds. “This is about that McIlheny case.”

Jimmy took a sip of coffee. “Yeah. And the Davis woman before that. And the Quinlan girl before her. All the way back to Oswald and Chambers and everybody else who’s filed a grievance. Seems like every season there’s another woman filing a grievance against the company to change the rule.”

“So instead of fixing the rule, they’ve decided to remove it.” Flanagan’s response wasn’t a question.

Jimmy nodded. “That’s what it looks like. The CPJCT adjudicators are not cheap and the company always has to pay the fee.”

Flanagan leaned over the table. “You ever wonder why?”

“I know why,” Jimmy said. “Stiff-necked and short-sighted office boffins don’t want mere workers dictating to them.”

“It’s not going to solve the problem, you know,” Flanagan said.

“Yeah, actually. If you buy the argument that the company is sick of fighting to enforce their charter? If they take away the loophole that allows nondependent adults to stay on planet without being a company employee?” He shrugged again. “That pretty much solves the problem of women wanting to be shamans and filing grievances to stay.”

“So rather than give women the same right as men, they’re going to take that right away from men.”

“That’s the gist of it.” Jimmy took another swig of coffee but it didn’t wash the sour taste from his mouth.

“That can’t be all of it,” Flanagan said, hunkering down over his cup. “The system has worked for decades. Why now?”

“All I know is what they’re telling me, Jack.” Jimmy stared across the table, willing the shaman to believe him. “I swear to you this is none of my doing. I got another warning from home office last week. I believe that the idiots there really think that this adjudication expense is best served by a big boot instead of taking the restriction off the rule.”

Flanagan’s lips pressed into a line. “Can’t you talk to the Ole Man?”

“I got a sternly worded message from him stanyers ago, and I’ve sent him three messages on the family channels. Nothing back yet.” He shifted in his seat and stared down at the table. “It may be that he’s just out of the loop.”

“How old is your father, Jimmy?”

“Too old.” Jimmy took a sip of the cooling coffee and sighed. “He’s running well into his second century. I was born on St. Cloud, but he was running the company when they signed the lease on this place. He left my sister Angela running Umber and moved here to open the first fisheries.”

Flanagan mirrored Jimmy’s posture, leaning over his cup. “He had to have had a hand in establishing the rule.”

“I don’t know the story. He never said how that loophole got formed.” He looked at Flanagan. “You know who the first shaman was?”

Flanagan frowned and his gaze focused somewhere else. “No.” The single syllable stretched across the table and he tilted his head as if it might roll a loose marble into place. “That’s odd. I don’t know. Is it in the company archive?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I keep meaning to look. Why?”

Flanagan frowned, his focus on Jimmy’s face, his jaw tightening. “It just seems strange that the man who must have adopted the rule and created the precedent suddenly wants that rule removed.”

“Maybe it wasn’t him.”

“Come on, Jimmy. Who else could be calling the shots on this? Nothing happens with this company unless your father approves it.”

“True.” Jimmy sighed and shifted his weight in the booth. “I don’t know, Jack. That’s the truth. Seems like I’m always last in the loop. The rationale I’m getting from corporate is that they’re done paying for arbitration on a rule that nobody else in the Western Annex even has to deal with.”

Flanagan snorted. “By getting rid of the exemption instead of fixing the rule.”

Jimmy nodded.

“You realize this makes no sense.”

Jimmy nodded again. “Making sense and making money. You’d think those things would go together more often.” He waggled his thumb at their server. “But I got to get back to work oppressing the masses and torturing children.”

Flanagan laughed.

The server brought the tab, Jimmy thumbed it and smiled his thanks.

Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t like this any more than you do. I hate anything that has people up in arms and fighting the company. Sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Like the quota debacle?” Flanagan asked with a smirk.

“Like the quota debacle,” Jimmy said. “The Ole Man could have been a little more forthcoming about what the company was doing and why. I don’t know that it would have helped much, but at least I’d have had a fighting chance before he came out here and laid down the law.”

“Still, in the long run, it was a good thing,” Flanagan said. “You pulled that out of the fire.”

“Yeah, well. It didn’t feel like it when we thought we’d lose the planet.”

“So, what’s the lesson?” Flanagan drained the last of the coffee from his mug and slid out of the booth.

“Question your assumptions, I guess.” Jimmy stood up and slipped his parka on. “Don’t rely on doing what you’ve always done.”

“Seems like a model we could follow,” Flanagan said, shrugging into a wool coat and looping a scarf around his neck. “But that takes us back to who that first guy was.”

Jimmy nodded. “I need to check with archives. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.” He gave a wave to Barney behind the counter and headed for the door. The sharp sting of the wind off the water carried the nose-tingling bite of a winter not yet in full bloom.

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll go visiting. See if I can find out what the older heads have stored away.”

Jimmy held out a hand and Flanagan shook it.

“We’ll figure out something,” Jimmy said.

“I hope so, Jimmy. I’d hate to see shamans leave St. Cloud.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, by your own numbers, most of them wouldn’t.”

“True, but taking out the exemption puts a lot of us at risk for deportation and keeps late bloomers from getting the chance to use their gifts.”

Jimmy sighed and pulled on his gloves. “Can’t argue that.”

“Take it easy, Jimmy,” Flanagan said with a small wave.

Jimmy watched him heading for the train station for a few moments before the cold reminded him that he had warmer places to be.

Jimmy unzipped his parka and stuffed his gloves into its pocket. The door to Personnel stood open so he stuck his head in. “Hey, Stella?”

“Good afternoon, Jimmy. What can we do for you today?” She always smiled at him like she knew where his missing socks were and he’d never find them.

“Can you have somebody look up the first shaman for me?”

She tilted her head to the side a bit. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

He laughed. “No. I want to know who and when this shaman rule started.”

She settled back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “I don’t know.” She stared at him, almost a challenge.

He stepped into the office and leaned against the wall, pulling his coat open and unwrapping his scarf. “Care to elaborate?”

“Sooner or later, I figured somebody would ask,” she said. “There’s no record of the first shaman.”

Jimmy felt his eyebrows scaling his forehead. “No record as in what?”

“The rule is in the original CPJCT lease contract. Your father executed it in 2256.” She shrugged. “No shamans designated in the database.”

“I thought we counted everybody,” Jimmy said.

“I thought so, too.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if afraid of what she had to say.

“Just tell me, Stella.”

“The first shamans show up in the records in 2270.”

“You have his name?” Jimmy asked.

“Their names, but yes.”

“Their names?”

She nodded. “Fifty-four of them.”

Jimmy groped for some rational answer. “I thought we counted everything.”

Stella nodded. “We do. Now. Then?” She shrugged. “Everything else is there, just zero shamans until 2270. January 1. Fifty-four men exempted from deportation.”

“Tell me how that’s possible.”

Stella shook her head. “Sorry, boss. The only way it can be possible is if there wasn’t one shaman to begin with.”

“Pre-signing data?” Jimmy asked.

“Before the Combine signed?”

Jimmy nodded. “We had people here for a decade before the official paperwork.”

“That’s all there, too. No shamans listed.”

“How did we get from fifty-four to over four thousand?” Jimmy asked.

Stella’s eyebrows rose. “Well, when a shaman and a woman love each other very much ...”

Jimmy snorted. “It’s only what? Three or four generations? Even if they doubled every stanyer, that’s just over five hundred.”

“Funny you should ask,” Stella said. She tapped on her console for a few moments and peered at the screen. “By 2275 those fifty-four became three hundred.”

Jimmy felt his jaw drop and closed his mouth with a snap. “That’s a lot of kids in just five stanyers.”

Stella nodded. “Census data shows that about seventy-five were natural born. The rest were all adults. The shamans held a moot every stanyer until 2300. They recognized a couple of thousand new shamans.”

“They stopped holding the meetings?” Jimmy asked.

Stella shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but that’s when the number of new shamans settled down to what you might expect from biology.”

“That’s when the Old Man went to Dunsany.” Jimmy stared at the deck. “Something smells here.”

“Yeah,” Stella said. “You want to get to the bottom of it? You’re going to have to talk to your father or find somebody who was here then.”

He looked up at her. “Not just here, but active and aware of what was happening in the company. A rep, maybe.”

“How about a shaman?” Stella asked.

“Any of them still alive?”

“No, but one of the shamans on the 2270 list? His son is still alive. He might know.”

“Where is he?” Jimmy asked.

“He’s the shaman at Troy Harbor. Been there since his father died.”

“Troy Harbor? Montgomery?”

The usually unflappable Stella raised her eyebrows. “You know him?”

“I’ve been there. Talked to him.”

“Small world,” Stella said. “If your father won’t spill, maybe Montgomery will.”

Jimmy scrubbed his lips with his hand. “Maybe.” He sighed. “Anybody else we can talk to?”

Stella shrugged. “I didn’t find them, but I can look again. I might have overlooked something.”

“I doubt that.” A thought intercepted his tongue. “How did you know that off the top of your head?”

“What?” She gave him the innocent eyes.

“That the shamans didn’t show on the record until 2270 and there are exactly fifty-four.”

She shrugged and scanned her desk. “Curiosity. The grievances have been coming through pretty regularly.”

“Curiosity?” Jimmy asked. “Really?”

“My uncle was a shaman up-country. Stanyers ago. There were stories going around when I was a kid.” She shrugged again. “I looked him up and found he was a third-generation shaman. My grandfather before him and my great-grandfather are on the list.” She looked up at him. “They’re all gone now. Uncle Ned had three daughters, so the shaman line stopped with him.” Stella turned to her console, glancing at Jimmy as if to see if he was still there. “Anything else, Jimmy?”

“Thanks, Stella. I appreciate the info.” He sighed and slipped out of the office. The whole thing stank of cover-up but he couldn’t imagine what they might have been trying to hide. He considered another trip to Troy Harbor but remembered something Steve McCord had said. He settled at his desk and began running queries against the passenger shuttles up to the orbital. Perhaps Montgomery would come to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Cape Grace: February 22, 2346

SARAH CROSSED HER ARMS and glowered. “I don’t understand why I have to do this.”

Otto sighed. “It’s just the way it is. You need to show the administration that you can make a contribution to the company or they’ll deport you when you turn eighteen.”

“But filing is boring. It’s all I can do to stay awake. Scan and tag, scan and tag, scan and tag. I had no idea there were so many different documents.”

Otto smiled in sympathy. “If you can think of something you’d rather do, some other job that the company needs, you can train for it.”

“I want to be a shaman like you,” she said.

“And I want you to, sweetie, but the company doesn’t think the gift exists. They grant me an exemption on religious grounds and they’re very, very fussy about who they let stay.”

“Just because I wasn’t born a boy.”

“Yeah. It’s unfair. I agree.”

“Can I get a sex change?”

Otto considered it for a few moments. “Possibly, but it would take a lot of credits and there’s no guarantee the company would accept you as a shaman if you became a boy.” He paused and looked at her across the table. “Do you feel like a boy?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “How would I know? I just feel like me.”

“Good answer.” He sighed and shook his head. “Anyway I want you to be a shaman, but it’s probably going to come down to being a shaman on the side while you work a day job to stay on planet.”

“Isn’t there any other way?”

“I’m working on getting the rule changed on humanitarian grounds. I’m not holding out a lot of hope with that. Or you can find a nice fisherman and get married. That would keep you on St. Cloud but not keep you tied up doing soul-sucking labor all day.”

“What if I marry a shaman?”

“That might work. Do you know any?”

“Just you and Grampa.”

“We’re taken.”

She smiled at his small joke. “Do you know any?”

He shook his head. “Not off hand.”

She sighed and dragged herself out of her chair, taking her dishes to the sink on the way. She grabbed her coat and scarf from the hook by the door. “I’ll be back midafternoon. Tide’s wrong for walking the beach, isn’t it?”

Otto shrugged. “It’ll be half tide and coming in but there’s nothing that says we can’t walk. High tide’s around dinner time tonight. It’ll be cold.”

She snorted. “Maybe it’ll clear my head.” She stepped out and slammed the door behind her.

“Or maybe you’ll catch your death of cold,” Otto said to the empty house. He cleared the table of the remains of their breakfast and did up the few dishes.

She grew more like her mother every day. It reminded him of all he’d lost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Callum’s Cove: March 25, 2346

OTTO STEPPED OFF THE tram with Sarah close on his heels. The familiar smell of the bay mingled with the hot-electronics-and-ozone cloud that seemed to wrap each car.

“Otto!” His mother waved from the side of the platform.

Otto waved back and led Sarah through the rapidly thinning crowd of arrivals and departures. Before he’d gotten halfway there, the tram doors whooshed closed and the humming magnets pushed the three-car train out of the station and on to its next stop.

Rachel gave Otto a quick hug before transferring her attentions to her granddaughter. “You’re looking so grown up. Lemme look at you.” Rachel’s smile lit up the morning.

Sarah hugged her back and grinned. “Hello, Gramma. It’s wonderful seeing you.”

“Good to get out of town, I bet,” Rachel said, with a sly grin. “You know you don’t need an invitation to come visit.”

Sarah looked down at her shoes for a moment before nodding. “It’s harder to get away these days. I got a job.”

Rachel’s eyes widened and she glanced at Otto before looking back to Sarah. “A job? What’re you doing?”

“I’m working in the company admin offices. Scanning and tagging.”

Rachel shook her head. “Oh, you poor dear. That’s got to be very hard for you after being on the beach so much.”

Sarah nodded and glanced at Otto. “Papa says I need a job so I can stay on planet.”

Otto took a deep breath but Rachel cut off anything he might have added.

“Well, let’s head back to the cottage and you can tell me all about it,” Rachel said. “I’ve got a fresh granapple cobbler just coming out of the oven and it won’t take a moment to get the tea going.”

Sarah’s eyes brightened at the mention of cobbler and she led the way off the platform and down the street toward the cottage.

Rachel offered her arm to Otto and let him walk her along. Her steps slowed him. “A job?” Rachel asked.

“Ed Comstock’s idea.”

“I thought you were going to apply for an exemption.”

He nodded. “Comstock said I needed to try to find her work before he’d submit the form.”

“Can he do that?”

“It’s not a bad idea. Help her realize that she’s going to have to make her own way in the world. I’m not going to be around forever.” He smiled at his mother. “Sound familiar?”

“Well, you always had the shaman’s title to fall back on, but yeah. Seems to me I heard something like that, too.” She shook her head. “But I always wanted to fish, so it wasn’t hard for me to get work. When I married your father, I moved to data analysis and it’s been good to me.”

“She wants to be a shaman.”

“The company will never stand for that.”

“I don’t know. I think I might be able to convene a quorum to rule on her gift. All the other challenges were on the basis of sexism and a lack of due process.”

“They all got shot down, though, right?”

“Yeah. If I can put her forward as a developed gift, I may be able to make the case on her own merits and not as my offspring.”

“Like your grandfather?”

“Exactly.”

“Will it work?”

Otto shrugged. “No idea. It’s something to try that hasn’t been tried before. Getting the quorum and getting them to agree could be difficult.”

“How many do you need?”

“Twelve, but only two-thirds need to agree on the assessment. It’s a simple up or down vote.”

“Where are you going to find twelve shamans?”

He grimaced. “I’m hoping I can get Father to call the quorum here in Callum’s Cove.”

She walked beside him in silence for a time. “What are you going to do if it fails?”

“That’s why I didn’t argue with Comstock. If she’s employed, they can’t deport her.”

“Any suitors on the horizon?”

“She’s only sixteen, Mother.”

“Seventeen in a few weeks. It’s only a matter of months before she’s eighteen, Otto.”

“That’s why I need that exemption.”

“And if you don’t get it?”

“Comstock promised.”

“Did you get it in writing?”

Otto chuckled and shook his head. “No, I took his word for it. He’s only got to pass it along and I can submit it over his head using the community ombudsman if it comes to that.”

“The company still needs to approve it,” Rachel said.

“I’ve got a good feel for it. I’m widowed, single daughter. I can play the sexist card as well as they can and claim I need her to take care of me. Poor, pitiful wretch that I am.”

Rachel laughed. “I suspect you’re right but you’re the least poor, pitiful wretch I know.”

“Ssshh. I’ve got a reputation to earn here. Don’t spoil it right off.” He grinned at her.

Rachel picked up the pace. “We’d best move along or she’ll have that cobbler gone before we make the last bend.”

Otto felt his mood lightening and found himself smiling at the familiar trees along the path that led to his father’s cottage.

Richard stared at Otto. The old workshop still smelled of drying herbs and wood smoke. Otto sat propped in his old corner while Richard leaned on the bench. His hair, what was left of it, had gone completely gray. He kept it cropped. His scalp sported a deep tan from being outdoors, even in winter.

“You want me to what?” Richard asked.

“I need to prove to the company that Sarah has the gift.”

“So you want me to convene a quorum of shamans to evaluate her? A girl?” Richard sighed.

“She’s also survived boxfish toxins while in the womb.”

Richard nodded. “I know, Otto. I’m familiar with boxfish.”

“I know you are, Father. It’s why I’m asking you. If anybody can appreciate the effect of that neurotoxin, it’s you.”

“Even if they find in her favor, that’s not going to make any difference to the company. They’re not going to open that door.”

Otto hung his head. “Probably. It’ll make it harder for them to turn their backs on her if she’s a recognized shaman.”

“What makes you so sure she’s got the gift?”

“She’s been picking up driftwood with whelkies in it since she was old enough to walk the beach with me.”

Richard’s mouth twisted in a sour grimace. “I suspect there’s a whelkie hiding in every piece of loose driftwood that floats up on any beach on the South Coast. You’re going to need more than that.”

Otto slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a small figure, and handed it to his father.

Richard took it and held it up to the light. “This is fine work. I’m glad to see your carving has gotten more refined. I never liked that rough, gouged style.”

“That’s not my work.”

Richard frowned at the fox resting in his palm. The purple heart shell gleamed on its chest. “No.”

“Yes.”

“She’s what? Sixteen?”

“She’ll be seventeen in May.”

“How long has she been carving?”

“Couple of stanyers.”

Richard’s rigid stance loosened as he slouched back against the bench and held the fox in the fingertips of both hands, turning it back and forth in the light. “Two stanyers.” He stiffened slightly. “What’s she using for a knife?”

“The one you gave me for her before she was born.”

Richard took in a deep breath and blew it out, the sound of it loud in the quiet of the shop. He handed the fox back to Otto. “Glad it’s in good hands.”

Otto slipped the fox back into his pocket. “Now you see.”

Richard nodded.

“Will you convene a quorum?”

Richard rolled his tongue around in his mouth a bit. “I can ask. I can’t compel.” He looked over at Otto, his tired eyes holding little hope in their depths.

“I can accept trying and failing,” Otto said.

“Can you?”

Otto thought about it for a few heartbeats. “She’s all I have left of Carla. I have to try.”

Richard’s face softened and he nodded. “I know.”

“Any idea when?”

Richard ran his fingers over his lips and looked the toes of his boots. “Everybody’s tied up with fleet launches and spring celebrations. A couple of months at the earliest. Maybe May?”

“She’ll be seventeen in May.”

Richard nodded. “That’s a good age for an inquiry. Old enough for it to mean something. I’ll see if I can get a quorum around the end of May.”

“Thank you,” Otto said, his eyes starting to sting.

Richard shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet. We got a long beach to walk before we’re done and the tide’s runnin’ against us.”

“Always is.”

Richard grinned. He shifted his weight and nodded toward the cottage. “Suppose there’s a cuppa tea and a bit of that cobbler left?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Otto led the way through the deepening dusk and felt his father’s arm drape across his shoulders.

“You’ve made me proud, Otto. You’ve made me proud.”

Otto nodded but didn’t trust himself to speak.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Troy Harbor: April 12, 2346

JIMMY STEPPED OFF THE tram and stared down the length of the street. He’d spent most of the ride staring out at the coastline streaming by. The trip from the Inlet had taken almost ten stans but it gave him a chance to get a look at the operation from the ground. He felt a little gritty and more than ready to get off the train.

The afternoon sun cast slanted shadows across the street. Boats lined the pier, the crane booms pulling buckets of fish from the holds and dumping them onto the conveyors. The onshore breeze brought the scents of fresh-caught fish, hydrazine exhaust, and the sea along with the grumble of engines and the occasional shout.

The tram pulled out, the whistle of its passage dopplering down to nothing before it even cleared the far turn toward the next stop.

He hefted his shoulder bag and headed for the Muddy Grounds. The same sandwich board stood on the sidewalk outside. He shouldered the door open and stepped into a whirlwind of activity. The place wasn’t standing-room only, but almost every stool at the counter had a butt on it and all the tables had at least three or four people. The smell of fishermen—part wool, part rubber, part honest sweat—carried over the aromas of fresh bread, fresh coffee and some kind of baked fish.

A waitress scurried by with a tray of food and nodded. “Grab a seat, hon. Somebody will get to you.” She continued on to a table beside the door and began distributing plates around to a group of smiling, windblown workers.

Jimmy smiled to himself and started for the counter, slipping between the tables and chairs, holding his bag in front of him to keep from banging anybody as he passed. He gathered a couple of curious looks and cautious nods as he worked through the crowd. He’d almost reached the counter when he heard his name called over the din.

“Jimmy.”

He glanced at the corner and spotted Nan waving at him. She pointed to an empty chair at the table. He changed course and worked his way over, hooking the strap of his bag over the back of the chair and settling into the seat. He nodded. “Thanks. You’re just the person I was looking for, actually.”

She grinned and sent an elbow toward the redhead on her left. “Told ya.”

The redhead smiled but seemed uneasy; she fiddled with a coffee mug in front of her and looked at Jimmy in short glances.

Jimmy held his hand across the table. “I’m Jimmy. You already knew that. Who are you?”

The redhead looked up at him, eyes a little wider than before. She glanced at Nan before shaking his hand. “Gloria. Gloria Marks.”

The waitress swung by the table with a fresh mug and a carafe of coffee. She plopped the mug down and topped it off. “You need anything in it?”

Jimmy shook his head. “But I’ll take a bowl of chowder.”

She grinned. “Gotta love a man who knows what he wants. Comin’ up, hon.”

Jimmy looked at Nan. “You knew I’d be back?”

Nan nodded. “Rumor is you’re getting hammered by grievances.”

He took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “They’re still coming but I’m more interested in you.”

She raised her eyebrows and picked up her knitting from an open bag beside her chair. She took a moment to get the needles working before glancing at him. “What d’ya wanna know?”

The waitress came back with chowder and a biscuit. “Anything else?”

Jimmy shook his head. “This’ll do for a start.”

The woman nodded, topped off his cup, and left.

Jimmy slathered butter on the biscuit and asked, “How’d it start?” He took a bite and let the warm buttery flavor fill his mouth.

“Son of the shaman?” Nan asked. “Why ask me?”

He swallowed and took up his spoon, grabbing some chowder and blowing on it. “You were here then,” he said. “Thought you might remember.”

Gloria sucked in a breath. “You’re not that old, are you?

Nan chuckled. “Yes, m’dear. I’m that old. Older than that, actually.”

Gloria’s eyes all but bugged out of her head. “You can’t be.”

“Good genes and clean livin’,” Nan said. “I’ve got at least one of those runnin’ in my favor.” She paused her knitting to take a swig of coffee and give Jimmy a side-eyed look. “What do you know already?”

“I know you were here for the pre-lease period, that we established the lease in ’56, and that nobody was designated as shaman until ’70.”

“Anything in that surprise you?” Nan asked.

“Only that the first mention of them shows just over fifty shamans and that we had three hundred by ’76.”

Gloria looked back and forth between them. “And they talk about rabbits,” she said.

Nan’s fingers picked up the knitting again and she nodded. “The moot was busy covering their asses. That lasted until the turn of the century.”

“Why’d they stop?” Jimmy asked.

Nan shrugged. “They still recognize a few here and there.”

“But something happened in 2300,” Jimmy said.

Nan glanced at him without letting up the pace on her knitting. “Nothin’ to do with me.”

“That was when I took over from the Ole Man,” Jimmy said.

“You must remember as well as me, then,” Nan said. “You were born in—what? ’70?”

“No. ’68.” Jimmy took a moment to grab more chowder, enjoying the fish and real tarragon. “By the time I took over, there were a couple of thousand shamans. The population’s doubled since then.”

“What? Of shamans or people?” Gloria asked.

“Both.” Nan and Jimmy said it at the same time.

Nan gave him a grin and he shrugged.

“What do you really want to know?” Nan asked after a moment.

“Two things,” Jimmy said. “Why is this rule in place, and why is the Ole Man so dead set on killing it before he’ll let a woman be recognized as a shaman?”

Nan pursed her lips and looked down at the needles dancing in her fingers. “The rule protected the first people designated as shamans.” She glanced over at Jimmy. “Some people aren’t cut out for the standard working life. We wanted to make sure they had a place.”

“We who?” Jimmy asked.

“Your father.” Nan paused. “Me.”

Jimmy let that statement lay on the table for a few moments as he sipped his coffee. “You know who the first shaman was.”

She nodded but then shrugged. “The first shaman is still alive but has never been recognized.”

Jimmy nodded. “I figured as much.”

Gloria stared at Jimmy and then looked hard at Nan. “How can you be a shaman but not recognized?” she asked.

Nan’s fingers stopped and she looked at Gloria, her eyebrows raised.

“The first shaman was a woman,” Jimmy said.

Gloria’s lips formed an O.

Nan turned back to her knitting. “Nothing much can be done about it.”

“There’s a story here,” Jimmy said.

Nan nodded but didn’t look up. “Not my story to share.”

“Your grandson’s?” Jimmy asked.

Nan smiled and shrugged. “What little he knows. You’ll have to ask him about it.”

Jimmy frowned at the exposed bottom of his bowl, making one last scrape around with his spoon to get the last of the chowder. “Somebody else,” he said.

Nan nodded.

Jimmy lifted his mug and held it in both hands in front of his face. “Why so many?” he asked after a few moments. “Why so late?”

Nan shook her head. “Not my story.”

“But you know,” Jimmy said. It wasn’t a question.

She gave a micro-shrug. “I have my suspicions,” she said.

Jimmy sighed but felt a smile growing. “Obfuscation,” he said.

She glanced at him.

The waitress cruised by with the coffee carafe, filling cups around the table and picking up Jimmy’s empty bowl. “Anything else?”

“Apple pie?” he asked.

“Ice cream?” she asked.

“Just the pie.”

She nodded and sailed away toward the kitchen.

“You just came here for the pie,” Nan said.

Jimmy chuckled. “It’s a long way to come for pie, but I’ll admit I planned on having a slice or two before I left.”

“Oh?” Gloria asked. “You staying long?”

“Tram back in the morning.”

“You’re staying in transient?” she asked.

Jimmy nodded and took a slug of coffee. “Isn’t anywhere else, is there?”

Gloria looked down at her hands and shook her head. “No. I just thought maybe you had friends to stay with or something.”

“He has no friends here,” Nan said.

Gloria shot her a startled look. “That seems kinda mean.”

Jimmy shook his head. “It’s the truth. I’ve only ever been here twice. Hard to have friends when you’re not around.”

Gloria settled back in her chair and pursed her lips. “Still seems mean.”

“No offense,” Nan said, a tiny grin teasing her lips.

“None taken,” Jimmy said.

The waitress came back with the pie and a smile. “There’s more where that came from.”

Jimmy nodded his thanks and picked up a fork. “One will do me. For now.”

The waitress looked at Gloria. “Aren’t you supposed to be picking up the kids?”

Startled, Gloria glanced at a big clock over the door and gave a little “eep”. “I’m so dead,” she said, grabbing a bag from beside her chair and pulling a wrap off the back. “Put it on my tab, Helen?”

“Scoot,” the waitress said with a grin and stepped back out of the way.

Jimmy caught the waitress’s eye. “Put it on my tab.” He nodded at Nan. “Hers, too.”

The waitress nodded and continued on her path.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Nan said.

“No, but I wanted to.” He ate a couple of bites of pie. “Anything you want to say now that the ears are gone?”

She pursed her lips, apparently concentrating on the way her knitting needles plied the yarn. Eventually she paused and shook her head. “Your father is a stubborn man.”

The non sequitur caught Jimmy’s funny bone and he snorted. “I don’t think that’s news to anybody.”

“When I met him, he wasn’t as harsh as he is now,” she said. Her voice took on a dreamy quality and her focus went to someplace in the middle of the table, even as her fingers never lost the rhythm of her knitting.

“You’ve seen him recently?” Jimmy asked.

Her head gave a little shake. “Not in decades, no.” She sighed and looked at Jimmy. “But I’ve seen his fingerprints on all this shaman business. You’re right. It goes back to the beginning and no, I’m not going to tell you. I said it’s not my story to tell.” She gave another little shake of her head and looked back at her knitting, tugging on the yarn from her bag to gain a little slack.

“You’re sure?” Jimmy asked.

She didn’t say anything for a long time, just plied her needles in a clicky-clicky rhythm. The early evening crowd noise all but drowned out the sound as the locals gathered.

The waitress came back and offered a refill as she scooped up the empty pie plate.

Jimmy nodded and pushed his mug to the corner of the table so she could fill it

Nan glanced up and shook her head. “I’m at my limit for the day, dear.”

The woman nodded and left.

Jimmy looked around at the crowded dining room. “Whose story is it?” he asked.

“Your father’s now,” Nan said. “Maybe Monty’s.” Her needles paused for a few heartbeats before resuming their clicking. “I don’t know how much of it he knows.”

“Monty?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah. It’s not something we’ve had a lot of conversations about.”

Jimmy sipped his coffee and thought about that. “Autism,” he said.

Nan’s needles picked up their pace and a frown creased her brow as she stared at the work in her hands.

“Asperger’s?”

“You’re just guessing now,” Nan said. Her hands stopped and she peered at him from under her frown. “Talk to your father. He’s the one with the answers.”

Jimmy stared back at her, rolling the idea around in his head. “What can I do to help?” he asked.

Her face blanked for a moment, smoothing out the frown before it reappeared as a scowl. “What makes you think you can help anybody?”

Jimmy shrugged and looked into his nearly empty coffee mug. “I don’t know that I can. That’s why I asked.” He sloshed the coffee around in the bottom of the cup for a bit. “Seems to me something went really wrong somewhere along the line. Before my time. I’m betting you know what it was, but you’re not going to tell me because it’s something my father did.” He glanced over at her. “Something he did to you.”

She swallowed hard and picked up her knitting again, looking at the needles as if they required her attention. “Something I did to him, too,” she said. “You’re not wrong.”

“How many women here would be shamans if they were male?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know and it’s a stupid question.” She knit furiously for a few moments, her scowl deepening but her focus elsewhere. “There’s two things. Separate things,” she said, her voice sounding old and whispery. “The title and the gift.”

Jimmy nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

“The gift,” she said. “That’s rare. That’s the thing. It’s not just the callin’. It’s not just the empathy for the people around ya. It’s being in tune with the world.” She didn’t look up. “Lots of people have the title. Lots more have the calling, the empathy.” She shook her head, biting her lip and frowning at the needles flashing in her hands. “Not everybody has both and fewer still have the gift that makes it all make sense.”

Jimmy nodded and drained the now-cold coffee from his cup, snapping it down on the table. “It’s beginning to be a little clearer.”

She glanced at him. “You think so?”

He nodded again and looked around for the waitress. “What’s the word for the son of a half-brother?” he asked.

Her hands froze and she stared at him, her face blank.

Jimmy spotted the waitress and flexed his thumb in her direction. She nodded and held up a “one sec” finger.

He pushed his chair back from the table and turned in his chair to face her. “You were here in the beginning. Young, beautiful. My father was here. Older. Rich. Powerful. Alone and just as stupid then as he is now.”

She blinked. “Stupid?”

Jimmy nodded. “Men don’t start wise and get stupid as they age. They tend to start dumb and either grow out of it or work to maintain it.” He shrugged. “My father might have been smart in business.” He paused when the waitress came over and presented the tab. He keyed in a big tip and thumbed it, handing it back with a smile.

“Thanks. Come again,” she said and went back to her other tables.

Jimmy looked back at Nan. “He might have been really smart in business or at least at fishing. He got Umber going before coming here. Left a couple of ex-wives and my half-sister there when he set up the deal for St. Cloud.” He looked into her eyes for a moment, seeing the truth in them. “But you knew that already.”

She nodded, tentatively, almost like she didn’t want to.

“So, you’re both here. Small populations. Crossing paths.” He paused, unsure about continuing.

She nodded again, deliberately. “Shaman,” she said. “That’s what you’d call your half-brother’s son.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Troy Harbor: April 13, 2346

JIMMY WOKE EARLY AND left the transient workers quarters just after sunrise. The day had dawned cloudy and cold. The wind smelled of rain in the not too distant future. A quick check of the waterfront confirmed that the tide was about halfway out, so he zipped his windbreaker and climbed the headland toward Monty’s cottage.

He crested the ridge and looked down the length of the wide expanse of beach. The chimney on Monty’s cottage tossed a thin plume of smoke into the onshore breeze, tattering and tearing into nothing almost as soon as it cleared the metal chimney. He picked his way down the rocky path toward the cottage and was about to knock when it opened, startling both of them.

“Well, good morning,” Jimmy said.

Monty frowned. “I’m just going out for my walk. What do you want?”

“Thought I might walk along with you, if you don’t mind,” Jimmy said, moving out of the way.

Monty stepped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him with a slam, forcing Jimmy to take another step back. “What if I do mind?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, that tells me something but not what I really want to know.”

Monty stared at him for a few heartbeats as if weighing him with his eyes. “You plan on doin’ a lot of talkin’?”

“I’m hoping to do a lot of listening,” Jimmy said.

Monty’s eyebrows rose a bit, but he shrugged and headed down the trail to the beach. “Tide’s goin’ but it’ll turn soon.”

They walked along the hard-pan, Monty keeping to the higher ground where the waves had pushed piles of sticks and weed. He kept glancing at Jimmy. After a few yards, he asked, “What you want to listen to?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I was hoping you might tell me about your father.” He looked out to sea, squinting against the light and letting the cool wind wash his face.

Monty grunted but shook his head. He took a sudden detour up the shore to a chunk of driftwood in a small indent in the sand. He poked around with the toe of his boot and rocked the driftwood from side to side before dragging it off to reveal a cache of smaller sticks and shells underneath. He reached down and pulled up a few shells and a small twisted stick. He scrubbed each of them on the leg of his pants before thrusting them into the voluminous pockets of his coat. He straightened, still peering into the depression. After a moment, he nodded to himself and continued on down the beach.

Jimmy watched the performance without comment and trailed along, keeping pace with Monty’s long legs.

“What about him?” Monty asked after another few yards.

“How well did you know him?” Jimmy asked.

Monty scowled at the ground and kicked a pile of rockweed up the beach. “He was my da. What d’ya think?”

“Did you know he was on the spectrum?” Jimmy asked.

Monty snorted. “Fancy asshole labels for shit you don’t understand.”

Jimmy nodded and listened to the hissing sound that the waves made as they rolled back down the sand.

Monty glared at him but resumed his walk.

Jimmy followed along.

“Were you close?” Jimmy asked.

“You close with yours?” Monty asked, shooting the question out of the side of his mouth as he stooped to pry apart a different pile of weeds.

Jimmy shook his head. “Haven’t seen him in—a long time. It’s been a decade at least since I’ve seen him in person.”

“You heard from him? Recently?”

Jimmy shrugged. “A few stanyers ago. He sent me a message. Business.” Jimmy picked up a smooth stone from the beach and bounced it in his hand. The cold rock warmed to his touch. “About shamans, actually.”

Monty grunted and stood, brushing his hands off against the back of his coat. He took a few steps down the beach. “That why you’re here?”

“About my father?” Jimmy shook his head. “No. Well, not directly. About yours.”

Monty grunted and thrust his fists into the pockets of his coat. “So you said.”

Jimmy side-armed the pebble into the ocean and stretched his stride to match Monty’s.

“What do you want to know?” Monty asked, not raising his gaze from the sand.

“Your grandmother seems to think the story isn’t hers to tell,” Jimmy said.

“My grandmother?” Monty asked.

“Nan, yeah.”

“When’d you talk to her?”

“Yesterday. We had a nice chat. I wanted to know who the first shaman is.”

Monty’s jaw worked as he chewed his words a little before spitting them out. “He’s dead.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I think she’s still very much alive.”

Monty stopped in his tracks and turned a glower on Jimmy, thrusting his head forward. “She?”

“Yeah. Your grandmother was the first shaman. Your father ... well, let’s just say I wasn’t aware of just how closely tied I was to him.”

Monty drew his head back, his pugnacious glower turning into a thoughtful frown. He squinted a little. “What are you getting at?”

“I believe he was my half-brother and that your grandfather and my old man have a lot in common.”

Monty stared into Jimmy’s face, like he hadn’t ever seen him before.

“You didn’t know?”

Monty shook his head. “That make you my uncle or something?”

Jimmy grinned. The whole experience gave him a strange kind of feeling in his stomach. “I don’t know. Half-uncle?” He shrugged. “I asked Nan what I’d call the son of my half-brother.”

“What’d she say?” Monty asked, his face relaxing just the tiniest amount.

“Shaman,” Jimmy said.

Monty started nodding and pursed his lips. “She’s got a way with words.”

“So I’m learning.”

Monty spun into action, taking several long strides down the beach, kicking at the piles of weed in his path.

Jimmy watched for a moment before following him, playing catch-up again.

“You’re about my age, aren’t ya?” Monty asked.

“Younger. I think you’ve got me by a decade or so.”

Monty tossed a side-eyed glance at Jimmy but nodded. He stopped suddenly, skidding a little. He crouched and picked something off the sand. He stood and held a broken piece of shell in the palm of his open hand. He flipped it over and a deep purple color showed on the inside of the otherwise unremarkable fragment. Monty grinned and held his hand toward Jimmy. “See that? That’s whelk.”

Jimmy nodded. “Rare?”

Monty gave a half-shrug. “As a thing? Not really. Not common but you can usually find the odd piece or two any time you come to the beach. What’s rare is the color.”

“It’s a pretty color,” Jimmy said, not looking so much at the shell as watching Monty’s face change while he talked.

“Mostly they have a little purple tinge to them. Almost white but you have to be looking close to see they’re not. Story I got was they darken with age, but I ’spect it’s got as much to do with diet as anything.” He polished the glossy shell with the ball of his thumb. “You see color like that maybe once a year.”

“What’s the significance?” Jimmy asked.

Monty stared at him. “Whelkies? You’ve heard of them?”

“I thought they were driftwood,” Jimmy said.

“Well, yeah. Mostly, but they all have a heart inlaid in them.”

“A heart?”

Monty nodded. “Well. We call it the heart. Some carvers don’t get much in the way of the heart shape. Just a bit of whelk shell.”

“Like that?” Jimmy asked.

Monty nodded again. “Lore says the color of the shell tells you the power of the whelkie.”

“Darker is better, I take it?” Jimmy asked.

Monty wrapped the shell in his fist and scowled at Jimmy. “You screwin’ with me?”

Jimmy took a half step back and held up his hands, palm out. “Seriously. I have no idea.”

“You’re the Pirano man and you don’t know whelkies?”

“I know of them. It’s not something I’ve ever really come into contact with.” He snorted and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Probably because I’m the Pirano man.”

Monty pursed his lips and nodded slowly. His scowl loosening to a frown. “Yeah. I can see how that might be.” He thrust his hand into his pockets again and resumed his walk down the beach.

Jimmy followed along, wondering at the strange trip and feeling an odd sense of peace. The waves washed the lower edge of the sand in quiet gasps. Gulls creaked above him as they soared on the onshore wind. Even the wind itself made sounds in his ears as it carried the scent of brine and something else to his nose. He paused and lifted his face, trying to place the aroma but unable to get a good whiff.

“What are you doin’?” Monty asked.

Jimmy shook his head and took a few steps to catch up. “Nothing. I thought I smelled something. Seemed familiar but I couldn’t place it.”

Monty lifted his head up and inhaled. “Rain coming.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Not rain. I know rain smell.”

Monty shrugged. “Dunno. Seems like rain. Might be somethin’ else.” He shrugged again. “What else you want to know?”

“Pardon?” Jimmy asked.

“You came here to find out something. Wanted to listen. Remember?”

Jimmy nodded, suddenly at a loss. “I need to figure out how to deal with the shaman rule and the women challenging it all the time.”

“Why?” Monty asked.

“Why what?”

Monty sighed. “Why do you need to figure it out? What is there to figure?”

The questions seemed to rattle around in Jimmy’s head for a few heartbeats. “Why do they keep filing grievances?”

“Because it’s a bad rule,” Monty said. “Unfair. Sexist.”

Jimmy sighed.

“What?” Monty asked. “You don’t agree?”

“No, actually.” Jimmy turned to look out to sea. “I agree with you.”

“Then why doesn’t the company change it?” Monty asked. “Why don’t you change it?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I’m the caretaker here. I don’t set policy. My father does. If I don’t enforce those policies, he’ll replace me with somebody who will.”

Monty stepped up beside Jimmy, his extra height making Jimmy feel less like the uncle and more like the nephew. “Maybe it’s time to change the beach.”

The idea itched in Jimmy’s brain. “Change the beach?”

Monty nodded, pursing his lips and squinting out to sea. “Sometimes the beach here gets picked over. I come out and don’t find anything. Same sticks I saw yesterday. Too much sea glass, too little whelk.” He nodded, as if in confirmation of his own words. “So I take little trip up the coast. There’s a nice little patch of beach off to the east’ard. Sandy Harbor. No shaman there.” He glanced at Jimmy. “No cottage. Only four boats.”

Jimmy nodded. “Lots of places like that along the coast.”

“If the tide and the tram are right, I can jaunt over there. Walk the beach and listen to the world from there. Sometimes I hear something different. Sometimes it’s the same. Nobody walking the beach there, so better chance of finding something good.”

“Different perspective,” Jimmy said.

Monty nodded.

Jimmy pondered the problem for a few long moments. “A new beach,” he said at last.

Monty nodded again. “Tea?”

“Tea?” Jimmy asked.

Monty glanced at him. “Want some?”

“Wouldn’t say no, but I don’t want to take you from your walk.”

Monty’s grin wrinkled most of his face. “We’ll have to walk back. I didn’t bring any with me.”

Jimmy looked around, only then realizing they stood near the far headland. He looked back along the sand. Their footprints meandered off into the distance. “Oh.”

“Sometimes it goes like that,” Monty said. “You’re walkin’ along. Payin’ attention to what’s in front of you and lose track of how far you’ve come. It can go either way. You think you’re at the end and look up to find out you’re only a few steps from the front door. Other times you’re halfway up the next headland and don’t remember leavin’ the beach. Time’s funny like that. Brain don’t necessarily agree with reality.” He shrugged and turned back toward the cottage. “Come on. I need a cuppa.”

Jimmy trudged alongside Monty. “So this is what being a shaman is like?”

Monty snorted. “Some. It’s not really ‘like’ anything. More like you get up in the morning and the things need doin’ so you do ’em. Then you find it’s night and you go to bed.”

“How do you know what needs doing?” Jimmy asked.

Monty frowned and kicked a pile of rockweed over with the toe of his boot. He bent to pick up a stick, brushing the sand off and holding it up to the light. After a close examination he flipped it away and brushed his hands off. “Don’t know,” he said, continuing along the beach. “How do you know what needs doin’?”

Jimmy laughed. “Seems like there’s always somebody wants something and needs me to do it.”

“Yeah. That’s how I know, too.”

“Somebody wanted you to walk the beach this morning?” Jimmy asked.

“Apparently,” Monty said, casting a small grin at Jimmy. “You.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Cape Grace: May 12, 2346

OTTO KRUGG WATCHED as his daughter and father walked down the path toward the beach. He stood at the kitchen sink and smiled.

“What do you suppose they’ll talk about?” his mother asked, leaning in beside him to look out of the small window.

“Father doesn’t talk much while he’s walking.”

“Even after?”

“Even after.” Otto smiled at his mother. “You know he didn’t have the gift before his accident, don’t you?”

Rachel offered an eloquent shrug. “I married him because he’s a kind, gentle, generous man.”

“And he worships the ground you walk on,” Otto said.

She answered with a tiny smile. “Perhaps.” She dried a couple of bowls and set them in the cupboard. “I didn’t marry him because of his position.”

The two figures disappeared over the headland toward the beach and Otto focused his attention on finishing the dishes. “Thank you for coming out for her birthday.”

“Thanks for inviting us.” Rachel leaned a hip against the counter and leaned in to catch his attention. “How’s the job going?”

Otto shrugged. “Jobs. This is number three, I think.”

“Since March?”

“Yeah. Between not going in, going in and not getting the work done, and going in and doing it badly, she’s not getting the best reputation as a reliable company employee.”

“What does she say about it?”

He shook his head. “She’s easily distracted. She’ll start for the office and wind up over on the far side of the bay climbing on the rocks. Forgot where she was going. A couple of weeks ago we found her wandering on the tide flats five kilometers east of town.”

“You have her checked out?”

Otto nodded. “A couple of times, just in case they missed something the first time.”

“They find anything?”

“Perhaps a bit of attention deficit but nothing treatable. No sign that it might be latent neurotoxin damage.”

Rachel relaxed visibly. “I was afraid to ask.”

“Tell me about it.”

She chuckled. “How is she otherwise? Friends? People she hangs out with?”

“She shows absolutely no interest in anything going on in the village. She’d spend all day every day out on the beach when the tide’s low enough. Up on the rocks when it’s not.”

“Sounds like somebody I know,” she said. “I swear if your belly hadn’t driven you home, you’d never have come in.” She smiled at him.

He sighed. “Yeah.” Otto rinsed out the sink and ran a cloth over the counter.

“So what’s next?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Keep trying to find a job she can do and go see Ed Comstock about the exemption in January.”

“Think he’ll put it forward?”

Otto thought about it for a few moments and shrugged. “I’ve no reason to think he won’t. He’s been pushing hard to get her a job. He keeps finding places for her to try. The exemption will give him a bit more time and give her a chance to stick in one.”

Otto filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

Rachel settled at the kitchen table. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Otto shrugged and joined her there. “All right, I guess. Why?”

She gave a little side to side nod of her head. “She’s seventeen. It’s been a long time since you lost Carla. Anybody special in your life?”

“Sarah. I don’t really have time for anybody else.”

Rachel bit her lip. “You’re going to have to let go of her, you know.”

“Sarah?”

“Her, too, but I was thinking of Carla.”

Otto swallowed but couldn’t move the lump in his throat. “I’m fine. Sarah takes up all my free time.”

Rachel’s left eyebrow lifted just slightly.

“She does.”

“You walk the beach. Visit with the people in town. What else?”

“There’s always somebody sick, seems like. Trying to keep track of her and make sure she’s not lost in town somewhere. We collect driftwood and carve. We fish. She’s gotten quite good with a handline.”

“You two could run a crabber here.”

“Comstock would love that.”

“You used to want to fish.”

“Not since I was thirteen.”

“You did well with me on the Patty.”

The kettle’s shrill whistle interrupted and Otto set the tea to steep.

“There’s only two crabbers here in town,” Rachel said.

Otto stared at her. “You looked it up?”

She nodded. “Of course. It’s something to consider.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Rachel sighed and leaned forward. “Don’t be that way. She’s going to have to find something here or the company is going to kick her off.”

“I know, Mother.” Otto turned to the teapot and pulled the infuser out. “I said I’ll think about it.”

She sighed again but didn’t press it.

Otto glanced out the window. “They’re on the way back.”

“So soon?”

“Sun’s going to be down soon. Probably getting too dark to see well.”

“I’ll get the cobbler out of the oven. Do you have candles?”

Otto pulled a small package out of a drawer and they set the table for dessert.

Sarah entered first and disappeared straight to her room.

Richard followed her through the door a sour look on his face.

“What happened, dear?” Rachel asked.

Richard slipped out of his jacket and hung it beside the door. “She’s probably the most talented shaman I’ve ever met. She doesn’t just listen to the world. I’d swear she talks to it.”

“Then you’ll convene a quorum?” Otto asked.

Richard shook his head and dropped into a chair at the table. “I tried. I can’t get enough other shamans to go along. Even lobbied with Jack Flanagan. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help, either.”

“Who’s Jack Flanagan?” Rachel asked.

“Senior shaman. He knows almost everybody and where they’ve buried the bodies. No go. I’ve sent invites to every shaman on the South Coast. Literally. All four thousand plus.”

Otto felt the floor tilt under him and he groped for a chair.

“About half have sent regrets. The others just never answered. Only one said he’d attend. Jack Flanagan. I’m pretty sure it was only so he could spike it from the inside.”

“Four thousand?” Rachel asked. “I knew there were a lot of shamans, but that’s a staggering number.”

Richard shrugged. “Even at that, some villages don’t have one.”

“I don’t understand,” Otto said. “Why won’t they help?”

“Politics.” Richard spat the word as if it were a bad granapple.

“They don’t want to get between a girl and the company?” Rachel asked.

“Basically. There’s apparently noise going around that the company wants to do away with the shaman exemption. They don’t want to rock the boat by expanding the number of shamans while the company is thinking about doing away with them.”

Rachel bit her lip and glanced at Otto.

Otto took a deep breath and blew it out again slowly. “You told her, I take it?” he asked with a nod at Sarah’s bedroom door.

Richard shrugged. “I thought it would be best she heard it from me.”

“Probably.” Otto looked back and forth between his parents. “Now what?”

Richard said, “She’s got three choices. Job, marriage, or leave.”

Otto sighed. “Looks like I’m going crabbing.”

“Say what you will, it’ll get you out and working for yourself. Sorta,” Rachel said. “Days you need to tend to your flock here, you can stay in. Go out when the tides not good for walking the beach.”

“You can listen to the world out there almost as well as here,” Richard said. “It’s weak, but it’s something. Long as she’s crew, she’ll stay here. Comstock can’t challenge that.”

Rachel reached across to pat Otto’s forearm where it lay on the table. “Who knows? In time, she may well find somebody to marry and the point will be moot.”

“Things could be worse,” Richard said.

Otto looked over at him, surprised at his comment.

“This could be her eighteenth birthday and she’d have ninety days to get off St. Cloud.”

In spite of himself, Otto grunted a single laugh. “There’s that.”

Rachel pulled plates from the cupboard and ice cream from the freezer. “Meantime, this cobbler’s getting cold. We need to get the birthday girl out here to blow out the candles before they puddle all over the place.”

Otto rose and crossed to the girl’s room. Knocking once, he opened the door and slipped through.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Cape Grace: May 22, 2346

OTTO ENTERED ED COMSTOCK’S office with a flutter of trepidation in his gut. “You wanted to see me, Ed?”

Ed waved him into a chair and took a seat beside him. “Thanks for coming, Otto.”

“When the company calls ...” Otto shrugged.

Ed chuckled a little, but it sounded more like nerves than amusement. “I’ve got a problem that I hope you can help me with.”

“I will if I can, of course.”

“Yes, well.” Comstock dithered and stared at his hands. “When I said I thought I could get Sarah settled in a job, I guess I over spoke.”

The admission startled a laugh out of Otto. “You’re giving up after a stanyer?”

Comstock smiled and offered a shrug. “She’s a brilliant girl. Just ...”

“Scattered? Unfocused? Not quite there?” Otto asked.

“Yeah. You knew this would be a problem?”

“I know my daughter. She’s a shaman. You put her on the beach, let her wander through town, let her do anything that has to do with the wider world and she’s a hundred percent there. Put her in a room with a boring, repetitive task with no interaction beyond a display terminal? She’s not going to make it.”

“So, what kind of job do you think I could get her to do?”

“You mean a job where she’d actually show up and do it?”

Comstock laughed. “I have to admit that day we found her on the far side of town scared me a little. When she didn’t show up for work, I didn’t know if she was just sick or if something had happened to her.”

Otto nodded. “I figured she was all right, but I also thought she was at the office all day.”

“How can I help?” Comstock asked. “I heard through the grapevine that you’re unable to get a quorum together.”

“And I heard that the company may try to remove the shaman exemption.”

“Over four thousand nonemployees on planet. It makes home office nervous.” Comstock shrugged. “That’s the rationale, anyway.”

“Four thousand plus people you don’t pay but who help keep the employees more or less happy and healthy. Most of whom won’t be going anywhere because they’re married to a company employee.” Otto stared at Comstock for a few heartbeats. “If they weren’t shamans, most of them would still be nonemployees on planet. This makes no sense unless they think it’ll save them legal fees. Fees they’d save anyway if they just released the gender clause.”

“Granted.” Comstock sighed. “Personally, I think it would be a mistake to remove the exemption. I know what the shamans mean to keeping the machine going. That’s neither here nor there.”

“True.” Otto shifted his weight in the chair and looked at Comstock. “Why do you care?”

“About Sarah?”

Otto nodded.

Comstock took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I hate losing people. Losing Carla was a blow to the whole community, not just you. I take it personally when I lose people like that.”

“We’ve lost people to boxfish before. My father almost died from one.”

“Really?”

“Just about the time Jimmy Pirano started looking offshore for fishing grounds. He had everybody who could fish out on a boat. He even went out himself.”

“I remember,” Comstock said.

“My father got volunteered to work as crew. Brushed up against a boxfish one day just off Callum’s Cove. The medics got him ashore in time. He’s never been quite the same since.”

“I had no idea.”

“Long time ago.”

“Otto, I want you to know I think Sarah is a very special young lady. I want to keep her here in Cape Grace, if possible, but on planet where she can be near family and friends.”

“We have common ground there.”

“So help me help her. The only way she’s going to stay is if she gets a job or gets married.”

“I need time,” Otto said. “She’s just turned seventeen. Even if there was somebody she wanted to marry, she’s too young.”

“I’ll file the exemption as soon as you sign it,” Comstock said, looking down at his hands. “I know the year’s not up, but I didn’t really understand what I was up against.”

“How’s the crabbing?” Otto asked.

“Crabbing?” Comstock looked at Otto with a frown. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I said no fishing but I might have been a bit hasty.”

“We only have two crabbers in Cape Grace. It’s not exactly a booming market here.”

“You’ve got Steve and Marty Grosvenor in one boat and Arlene Sanmarco crabbing with her grandmother.” Otto asked. “What if you had a third boat? Fifty percent increase in crab landings. I hear that’s a nice luxury niche.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother.”

“Isn’t she a data analyst for Pirano?”

Otto smiled. “She also did the prototype work on the crabbers and pots. Those are her designs you’re fishing with.”

Comstock tilted his head to the left and raised an eyebrow. “Who’d run this hypothetical third boat?”

“Me.”

“You? What do you know about crabbing?”

“Who do you think crewed for my mother?”

Comstock’s face relaxed into a grin. “Brilliant.”

“Get me a boat and about fifty traps. Set up an account for it at the chandlery and increase your bait order.”

Comstock’s face fell. “Bait has always been tight. That could be a problem.”

“Who’s running the long lines for you?”

“We don’t have anybody here.”

“Who do you need to keep out of trouble?”

“That Tatum kid. Bobby.”

Otto frowned. “I know that name. I’ve met his father. He’s a problem?”

“His old man has a temper. You ever met the missus?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You’d remember.” Comstock glanced away and then back at Otto. “If you get a chance, you might look in on her.”

“Isn’t Bobby fishing with his father?”

Comstock shook his head. “Father’s working the line in the freezer plant. None of the captains will take him and I can’t transfer him out unless he asks.”

“He hasn’t asked?”

Comstock shook his head again. “I think he likes the line. Good pay. Been on evening shift for a couple of stanyers now. It’s not a bad job and he seems to have made some friends. At least they all seem to get into trouble together.”

“Why won’t the captains take him? He seemed like a nice enough guy the few times I’ve met him.”

“He doesn’t play well with others. Especially when he’s liquored up.”

“Oh. Not good.”

“Like I said. If you get a chance, you might wanna look in on the missus. In an unofficial official capacity.”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime we’ll need bait. Is there a reason you’ve not set up a line for it yet?”

“With two boats? Don’t seem worth the effort.”

“You’re the Pirano guy here. What do you think of expanding the crabbing?”

“The two boats are earning good. It’s pretty easy money for them and you’re right about the crab being a premium product. We use everything they catch right here in town. That’s just the hotel and restaurant trade, plus what they sell direct off the boats.”

“Company takes a cut?”

“Of course, but it’s minor. Ten percent and we give them the boat and gear. They just need to take care of the fuel, bait, and maintenance.”

“Sounds fair. So, boat? Traps?”

“I’ll have to put a req into the Inlet, but they’ve never given me any push back on hulls.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “What’d it take to set up a bait operation here?”

“One of the five-meter utility boats, some tubs for the bait, and a few thousand meters of trawl line with hooks. Couple of buoys. Couple of anchors.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, somebody to do it and a decent place to run the lines. We used to run them outside of the crabbing grounds. Couple of kilometers offshore is usually good. Doesn’t take much skill. Just the ability to run out, drop the line, then go back and pick it up the next day. Pull the fish, rebait the hooks, and set it out again. It’s a lot less gear than a dragger but a lot smaller take, too.”

“What if we put the word out to the fleet to keep the trash fish instead of tossing it back overboard?”

“Worth a look. I’m not sure how much trash they’d pull off the grounds during the season. A hundred crab pots would need two or three hundred kilos of bait a week.”

“I think they’ve only got a hundred traps between them now.”

“Well, I could probably double the landings, then.” Otto shrugged. “My mother ran a hundred most of the time.”

“Seems like a lot of traps for a small area.”

Otto grinned. “Would be if we only fished in the harbor.”

“All right, Otto. You got a deal. I’ll submit this exemption and requisition a crabber with running gear from the Inlet. You hire that daughter of yours as crew and we’ll be all straight with the company.” Comstock offered hand. Otto shook it.

“One thing?” Comstock asked.

“Yeah?”

“If you know so much about crabbing, why haven’t you been doing it all along.”

“It’s hard to be shaman and fish, too.” Otto shrugged. “Besides? Didn’t need to. Invested Carla’s life insurance and we’ve been living off the income from that ever since.”

Comstock’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t look so surprised. I’m a pretty cheap date.” Otto grinned. “Now where’s this form you need thumbed? I need to go see a woman about a whelkie.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Cape Grace: June 15, 2346

SARAH STOOD ON THE dock and looked at the boat. “You want me to do what?”

Otto looked up at her from the cockpit. “I want you to listen to the world.”

“That sounds like something Grampa would say.”

“Where do you think I learned it?”

Her lips squirmed into a grimace and her brow furrowed in a frown.

“Here’s the deal. You need a job. There’s a lot more to being a shaman than just walking on the beach and carving whelkies.”

“Like what?”

“Like figuring out what’s going on in the village. What do people need? How can you help them?”

“You do that?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Of course. What do you think I do with all the whelkies I carve?”

She blinked at him several times as if trying to process the question. “Um. I’m pretty sure that a lot of them are just tucked into drawers and cans in the shop.”

He laughed. “Yes, well, there are some there. I’ve built up a bit of a stockpile over the stanyers. I think it’s a holdover from my time at Maggie’s Landing when I couldn’t find enough decent wood to carve.”

“When were you at Maggie’s Landing?”

He shook his head and motioned her down into the boat. “Come down here and we’ll talk. We need to get this out for a little shakedown cruise before we load it up with crab traps.”

“You’re serious?”

“Oh, yes. You and me, we’re going crabbing, now get aboard and let’s go take a little cruise around the bay.”

She stepped onto the rail and then onto the deck. “All right. I’m aboard. Now what?”

Otto grinned. “Well, first we check to make sure the safety equipment is here.” He opened a large box tucked under the rail. It was stuffed with dayglow-yellow flotation vests. “Vests, check.” He turned to the engine cubby and pointed to a fire extinguisher bolted to the box. “Engine extinguisher, check.” In the cockpit proper he pointed to another one latched onto the control console. “Secondary extinguisher, check.” He straightened up and dusted his hands together. “That’s the easy stuff. We’ve got navigational aids, and there’s a life raft up on the bow.”

Sarah walked around the console to the front of the boat and looked at the raft. “This isn’t much more than an oversized life ring. Are we supposed to float in that?”

“I suspect that if we have to choose between floating in the water with one of those yellow vests or sitting up a little on the raft? The raft will win.”

She considered the raft again. “Good point.”

“Well, shall we see if it’ll start?”

“Why wouldn’t it? Didn’t the company just sail it over here from the Inlet?”

“Yes, but it’s been sitting here for a couple of days. It might not.” Otto clicked the engine override switch off and powered up the electronics. “Looks good so far.” He checked the throttle, then pressed a red button on the console. The engine fired on the first turn. It coughed a bit of gray-blue smoke from the exhaust near the stern and then settled into a low murmur.

“I think the washing machine makes more noise,” Sarah said.

“Idling here at the dock, I suspect you’re right. It’ll be louder when we put some load on it, but not a great deal.”

“What do I do?” she asked.

“Get the mooring lines off.”

She started to untie the ropes from the cleats on the gunwale.

“Ah, no. Go up on the dock again. First we need to single up the lines. Then we can pull in the mooring lines except for a spring line to pull against. Then we can get the boat moving away from the dock, and then we let go the spring line and you jump in before I get too far away.”

Her eyes went as large and round as a pair of teacups. “I what?”

He laughed. “One step at a time. You can do it. If you can walk the stones out on the point, you can do this. I promise.”

“Should I put on a vest first?”

He shook his head. “Just get up there on the dock. I’ll walk you through it.”

In less than five minutes, Otto backed down against the spring line and the bow started to swing away from the dock. He pushed the throttle forward a bit to take the strain off the line. “All right. Loosen that last line from the cleat up there and drop the end over the rail into the boat. Just step onto the rail and into the boat near the stern. It’s wide enough to walk on and the boat’s big enough it won’t capsize.”

“It’s moving!”

“Not very fast and it’s not too far for you to step yet. Just do it before it gets too much.”

She unraveled the line, tossed it into the boat, and all but ran the four or five steps she needed to get to the stern. In two easy strides she stood safely in the stern with the dock slipping away as Otto steered out into the channel. The engine purred quietly under the deck housing. She grinned at him.

“It’s easy as long as you keep your head and don’t try to rush it,” Otto said. “Even when the tide’s higher, it’s pretty easy. Worst case, you slip and fall between the boat and the dock.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

“Be glad I didn’t tell you before you had to do it.” He grinned at her. “You’ll be fine. It’s just another slippery rock to step on.”

“Rocks don’t move,” she said.

“But they’re harder than water if you fall on them.” Otto glanced over his shoulder and pushed the throttle up a bit more. The boat picked up speed and moved into the main channel. A bit of swell from the open ocean made it into the harbor, lifting the vessel up and down ever so slightly.

Sarah grabbed the back of Otto’s seat and held on, knuckles white against the tan of her hand.

“This is where you listen to the world,” Otto said.

“I can’t hear much over the wind.”

“Listen with your legs.”

“What?”

Otto stood up from his seat and gripped the wheel along the top edge. His body swayed as the boat rose and fell on the waves. He hooked the wheel in one finger and held out his free hand. “Easy. Be ready to grab something if we get an odd wave, but you’d have to be hanging half over the rail to fall overboard. Worst case, you’d fall onto the deck and bruise your ego.”

“Are you going to be doing this worst-case thing much? It’s not helping.”

Otto chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just not as bad as you think. You’ll see.”

Sarah looked back at the dock. “How far are we going?”

“Not far. I want to get out of the harbor and run up the engines in the open water a bit.”

Sarah gulped. “Are you serious? In this little boat?”

“Yep. This little boat was built for doing exactly what we’re going to do with it.”

“Catch crabs?”

“Yep.” He looked at her death grip and her locked knees. “Loosen up. Let the boat rock under you but keep your body balanced on your knees. When the bow comes up, lean into it a little. When it drops, just lean back on your heels. Don’t hold on so tight that you have to move with the boat.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“Try it.”

She cast him a look that could have melted steel, but she tried. She stood in a kind of crouch, letting her knees take some of the movement of the boat. Her knuckles regained a bit of normal color but she didn’t let go. After a few ticks, she seemed a bit more steady on her pins.

“Look. The cottage.” Otto pointed to starboard where their cottage rested against the headland. Its red shutters and grassy roof showed clearly in the midmorning sun.

Sarah straightened her knees and stretched her neck to see around Otto. She stepped toward the stern and away from the console. She grinned at him. “It looks kinda pretty out there.”

Otto grinned back at her and pointed to where she wasn’t holding the seat any longer. “Long as you don’t think about it, your body will cope.”

Her eyes widened in alarm and she grabbed for the back of the seat again.

Otto laughed and watched as she pulled her hand away, hovering it over the seat back while she experimented with keeping her balance. By the time they cleared the harbor, she was leaning on the seat with a hip and shading her eyes with a hand.

Once they cleared the headland, Otto turned to starboard and ran up the throttles.

Sarah grabbed on with both hands as the small craft came up to plane, skimming across the surface and bounding along the rollers coming in from the south.

The rush of wind subsumed the engine noise as they raced along.

Otto pointed to the sandy shoreline. “Our beach.” He had to almost shout.

“Looks small from here.”

He nodded and kept them on course for a few ticks, letting the wind and the sun and noise remind him of a time long gone. He put the wheel over in a gentle turn to take them back toward the headland and the harbor beyond. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah grinning into the wind, her face flushed and reddened from the wind and sun. “What do you think now?” he asked.

She pointed to her knees. “I’m listening with my legs.”

Otto nodded and continued on his course back to the dock.

At the outer marker, he pulled the throttle back to about half and let the boat come down off its plane. It settled into the water and began lumbering along. The engine noise and wind-roar subsided to the point where they could talk easily again.

“Wanna take the wheel a bit?” he asked.

“Can I?” Sarah’s voice squeaked with excitement.

Otto stepped aside and Sarah stepped into his place, grabbing the wheel with both hands. The boat started shifting from side to side.

“Keep it between the buoys,” Otto said. “Red ones on that side, green over there.”

“How do I know which side to go on?”

“Red, right, returning. Your grandmother used to say that all the time.”

“Oh. So we’re going back to dock. The red buoys stay on the right?”

“Yep.”

“Now how do I keep it straight?”

“Stop steering.”

“What?”

“You’re oversteering. Loosen up on the wheel a little. Let the boat find its way.”

She stared at her hands. Each finger released its grip and then clamped back down. “How?” she asked.

“Give me your hand.” Otto held out a hand to her.

She grabbed the hand and held on, squeezing it hard enough to make Otto wince.

“Now the other one.”

“What?”

“Let go of the wheel, then just rest a couple of fingers on the top and feel the boat.”

“Listen with my fingers?”

Otto nodded. “Good idea.”

After a few moments she asked, “How’m I doing?”

“Look back at the wake.”

It lay arrow straight behind them and then started curving.

“Now look back at the bow and stop turning the wheel when you turn your head,” Otto said with a short laugh.

Sarah overcorrected but soon had the boat back on course.

“Pull the throttle back to about a quarter.” He held his finger on the throttle housing to point out where it should be.

She grabbed the throttle handle and tugged it back to where he’d indicated. The boat seemed to settle a little more and the engine noise dropped to a mere murmur.

“When we get close to the dock, I’ll take the wheel again. You go get the lines ready.”

“I’m not going to have to jump onto the dock, am I?”

“Not this time.” Otto nodded at their slip. A man in a blue Pirano windbreaker stood on the dock.

“Is that Mr. Comstock?”

“Unless somebody else has a windbreaker like that.” Otto sidled in beside Sarah and she relinquished her place to him. “Grab that spring line and get ready to toss it to him.”

She pulled the line up from the deck and leaned a thigh against the gunwale for support while her hands worked the rope.

Otto grinned at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothin’.”

Otto angled the boat into the pier and popped the throttles to neutral and then reverse for a few moments before returning them to neutral. “Toss him the line,” he said.

Sarah gave a respectable toss to the coil of line. Comstock caught it on the fly and lashed it down with a few practiced turns.

In a matter of moments the boat rested beside the dock with lines out fore and aft. Otto killed the engine and looked up to where Comstock crouched on the dock.

“For a shaman, you handle a boat pretty good there, Otto.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle.”

Comstock laughed. “How’s she go?”

Otto nodded. “She’ll do.”

“Good thing. The traps will be here on the next shipment from the Inlet. Around midday on the eighteenth.”

“Bait?”

“They’re bringing a few containers. We should be catching our own soon.”

“Good.”

Comstock turned to Sarah. “What did you think?”

Sarah beamed. “I was scared at first, but that was kinda fun.”

“Excellent. Let’s hope it lasts.” He cast a meaningful look at Otto.

Otto shrugged. “One day at a time. Best we can do.”

Comstock stood up and grunted. “Can’t argue that.” With a wave, he strolled away and disappeared in the direction of his office.

“What should we call her?” Otto asked.

“Call who?”

“The boat. She needs a name.”

“I don’t know. What would be good?”

“I asked you first.”

“Bobber?” Sarah asked.

“Descriptive but not very flattering.”

“Sea Trapper?”

“Not bad. What else you got? What does the boat say her name is?”

Sarah looked at him like he’d sprouted another head.

He shrugged.

She closed her eyes for several moments. “Sea Mist,” she said without opening her eyes.

“We have a Sea Mist.”

“Hm.” Several more moments passed. “Harbor Fairy.” She opened her eyes and they sparkled in the sun. “Like a fairy with wings.” She made a butterfly gesture by hooking her thumbs together and flipping her fingers.

“Is that her name?”

Sarah laid her hand on the gunwale and looked down at the deck. “Yes. I think so.”

“Works for me, then.” Otto smiled. “I’ll get somebody from the chandlery to paint it on the stern.”

Sarah’s fingertips made small circles on the gunwale and she stared off into the middle distance for so long Otto almost began to worry. “Yes, that’s her name. I think she likes it.” She turned to him. “So how is it you know so much about driving a boat?”

Otto grunted and climbed up onto the dock. “Let’s get moving and I’ll tell you on the way.”

Sarah clambered up beside him and they strolled toward home.

“All right. Give,” she said.

“Well, when I was a bit younger than you, the Piranos needed to meet some huge quotas ...”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Cape Grace: June 16, 2346

OTTO KNOCKED ON THE door of 1432 East Shell Drive. The smallish house looked like every other company-built house on the block. The drab green paint set it apart from the drab blue on one side and the drab gray on the other. The composite siding would probably last another century but the bonded pigment in it couldn’t stand up to the weather. A pleasant enough house and neighborhood, it still gave Otto a frisson of fear. In another life, he could have been living there instead of his cozy stone cottage.

A woman opened the door a crack and peered out, one eye and mouse-brown hair showing around the door. “Yes?”

“Hi. I’m Otto Krugg? The shaman?”

“I know who you are. Why are you here?”

“You’re Bobby Tatum’s mother?”

She opened the door wider to stare at him, her expression still guarded. “What’s he done this time?”

Otto offered her a smile. “Nothing that I know of. I just wanted to chat with you for a few minutes about what I’d like him to do. Get your opinion on it.”

She frowned and opened the door even more. Her flowered blouse had seen better days and hung on her like a trash bag on a fence post. Her dark blue slacks had darker stains on the thighs. The shadow of a bruise lurked just under her left ear.

“You another Pirano man?”

“Just the shaman. I’m also the newest crabber in town and I need somebody to get me the bait I need.”

Her eyes sharpened. “You think you’re gonna force Bobby to do it?”

“I’m hoping the company will hire Bobby, and maybe one or two of his friends, to do it.” He smiled. “Could we maybe sit and talk about this for a bit?”

“My husband’s not here,” she said, pressing the door partly closed again.

“I just want to chat with you, if I can?”

She eyed him up and down for a moment and then swung the door open. “Sure. All right.”

He stepped into the house and followed her to the kitchen.

“Cuppa tea ... um ... Your shamanship?” Her fingers twined the hair over her ear. “Sorry. Never talked to a shaman before.”

“I’m Otto. You can call me that.”

She nodded, dropping the hair but tugging the collar on her blouse, not looking in his direction. “Otto.”

“Cuppa would be lovely.” Otto settled at the table and folded his fingers together in front of him.

She filled a kettle and set it to boil while her hands fluttered like birds across the cupboards, finding the pot, cups, tea. Setting things just so. Adjusting everything over and over.

Otto picked out bruising on her forearms when she pushed her sleeves up to work in the sink. “Tell me about Bobby? He gets into a lot of trouble?”

She turned to him, leaning back against the counter, fingers in her hair again. “He’s a good boy. Just has trouble following rules, you know?”

Otto smiled. “Been there myself.”

“So what is it you want him to do exactly?” She talked to him without actually looking at him. Her head turned this way and that.

“I’ve convinced Ed Comstock to set up a bait line here. I need bait for my crab traps. With only two boats, it wasn’t cost effective. With three, it makes more sense. I think more people will do it once they see what it involves and that means we’ll need a lot more bait.”

“And you want Bobby to do what?”

“I want him to run a trawl line to catch bait fish.”

“One of them long lines with a lot of hooks on it?”

“Yep. He’ll need a buddy to help him. I assume he’s got some?”

Her lips twisted. “He does. Nobody I’d trust, but he does.”

“What about Bobby? We’re bringing in a boat and the setup. It’ll be a big commitment for him because he’ll have to make it work.”

The kettle whistled and the woman poured boiling water onto the leaves. “What’ll he have to do?”

“He’ll be responsible for the boat and gear. He’ll have to deliver bait to us. He’ll have to manage his budget. Normal things for a fishing boat.”

“You’ll pay him?”

Otto shook his head. “Not exactly. I’ll buy his bait from him. Or the company will. It’s up to him to figure out how to make that work. He’ll need to buy fuel and pay for the maintenance to the boat.”

She crossed her arms and bit her lower lip as she looked at the scarred flooring. “Might be just what he needs.”

“Why d’ya say that?”

“He’s got too much time on his hands. He’s almost eighteen and the company’ll deport him if he don’t find a job. It’s hard when you’re looking at the packing plant or some service job that barely pays a living wage.”

“He like to fish?”

She shrugged and poured the tea. “I don’t know that he gave it much thought. Was a time it was all he cared about. Pestered all the skippers on the waterfront to let him crew.”

“What happened?”

“They all got kids of their own to bring along. Nobody got room for a stray.” Her words sounded flat, almost bitter. “Once Art came ashore and started working on the line, Bobby’s been kinda cut off from the waterfront. No excuse to go down there. Nobody willin’ to help him even if he did.”

“He looking forward to moving away?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Every time I try to talk about it, he’s got something else to do. Somewhere else to be.”

“Where is he now?”

She shrugged and stared into her cup. “Left around midafternoon. Just before Art went to work. He’ll be back eventually. He’ll want his supper.”

Otto nodded and sipped the tea. “What do you want, Mrs. Tatum?”

She looked up, her eyes wide. “What’d ya mean?”

“What do you want for Bobby? You want him to leave? Stay? What?”

She stared back into her mug and pressed her lips together in a tight line. “I’d like him to find somebody, find somethin’. Make a go of it.” She looked up at him, something in her eyes that Otto couldn’t read. “What else is there?”

“Think he’d like fishing?”

Her lips turned up at the corners in the tiniest of smiles. “I think he might.”

Otto tipped his mug up and drained most of it. “Thank you. That’s all I needed.” He stood and he thought the woman flinched. “I should be getting home myself. Thanks for the tea and chat.”

“You’re welcome. Otto.” She said the name like she was trying it on for size.

Otto reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wooden figures. He picked one out and held it up. A fish hawk perched on a broken branch, its eyes staring straight ahead and its heavy bill half open as if to speak. The deep purple shell nearly blended out of sight against the dark wood.

Mrs. Tatum’s eyes went wide and she gasped. “It’s lovely.”

Otto extended his hand. “It’s yours.”

She started to reach for it but pulled her hand back as if afraid the bird might bite her. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” She looked at Otto and then back at the bird in his palm. “You’re a shaman. That’s ...”

Otto nodded. “A whelkie. I have lots of them. This one’s yours.”

She put her hands behind her back. “No, that’s not possible.”

Otto placed the hawk on the table beside his mug. “Yes. It’s quite possible.” He turned to go. “Thanks again, Mrs. Tatum. When you see Bobby, would you have him stop by Ed Comstock’s office about the fishing thing? If he wants the job, that is.”

She stood staring at the bird, her mouth half open and her eyes wide. “Yes. I’ll do that. Sure.” Her reedy voice sounded as if she might be talking in her sleep.

Otto smiled. “I’ll just let myself out.” He left her standing in her kitchen, her eyes fixed on the small carving on the table.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Cape Grace: October 28, 2346

OTTO AND SARAH STOOD on the dock and watched the crane lift their boat from the water. The winterization crew guided it to a cradle and the yard tractor dragged it to its winter quarters along with the rest of the fleet. Otto smiled as it disappeared among the much larger draggers.

“Well, that’s it until spring,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sarah shook her head. “It was fun. Kinda. Once I got used to the bait.” She grimaced and shook her hands as if they still had dead fish slime on them.

“We ate well.”

“I love crab. I’m going to miss fresh crab over the winter.”

“We can still fish for some, you know.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Before your grandmother started the prototypes for Pirano, I caught crab off the rocks all the time.”

They turned toward home and met Ed Comstock coming toward them.

“Hello, Otto. Hi, Sarah.” He smiled. “Just the two I wanted to see.”

“Hello, Mr. Comstock,” Sarah said.

“I see they got your boat out of the water. How do you two think the season went?”

Otto thought about it for a few moments and shrugged. “Not bad for a short season with a new boat. I haven’t followed the landings numbers but we made enough to pay for bait and fuel and put together a nice contribution to the company by selling to the locals.”

“True. The bait operation paid off, too. Bobby and Henry stepped up. We didn’t need to order any bait from the Inlet for the whole last half of the season.”

“Is there a ‘but’ I’m not catching?” Otto asked.

Comstock gave a small shrug. “You outfished both the established boats combined.”

Otto shook his head. “I don’t understand. Is that a problem?”

“Is for them.”

“What’s that mean? Exactly.”

Comstock looked at his feet and kicked a small pebble around with the toe of his boot. “Shaman don’t need a job. Some see it as taking away from those that do.”

Sarah started to say something but Otto gave her a little shake of his head.

“Is there somebody who needs the job?”

“Nope. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on is all.”

“Much hard feeling?”

“Hard to judge,” Comstock said, squinting out over the harbor. “I’m only getting low-level rumbles. Thought you might keep an ear open over the winter. You may hear more than I do.”

“They’re not likely to complain where I can hear, but thanks, Ed.”

“Sure thing.” Comstock turned, sauntered past the crane and into the storage yard.

Otto started for the cottage with a nod to Sarah.

“That’s stupid,” Sarah said, the words hissing between her teeth.

“Not really. I should have expected it.” Otto glanced at his daughter. “Let it go. I may not need the job but you do. You had fun this summer, right?”

“I did.”

“Can you see yourself doing that for a few seasons?”

Sarah looked at him with a frown on her face. “Probably.” She looked out over the bay. “I had to listen differently out there. It’s harder.”

“As long as you’re employed by the company, you’re safe.”

“Or married to somebody who’s employed by the company,” she said.

“You’re only seventeen. Let’s cross that bear when we get to it, huh?” Otto grinned at her.

They walked along in silence for a few paces before Otto asked, “You got anybody in mind?”

Sarah laughed. “No. When would I have time? For the last six months, I’ve been on the boat, on the beach, or on my back sound asleep.”

Her words made Otto laugh in sympathy. “Yeah, well. We got a late start. You’ll have more time this winter.”

“Maybe.”

“You know you can spend more time in the village if you’ve a mind to.”

“Yeah.” Her sunny mood seemed to evaporate right before his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Is there a problem?”

She shrugged and scowled at the path, not looking at him.

“So, that’s a yes but you don’t want to tell me about it?”

Her lips twitched in to a quick smile before going back to a firm line.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

They rounded the last turn and the cottage came into view.

“The other kids think I’m weird.”

Otto’s brows shot up. “Even the ones you went to school with?”

“That was a long time ago and most of them aren’t around much anymore.”

“Weird isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Otto said.

“Is when they won’t talk to you. Won’t let you even sit near them.”

Otto sighed and led the way into the cottage. It promised to be a long winter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Callum’s Cove: November 11, 2346

SARAH STOOD IN THE kitchen and tried to imagine her father growing up in this cottage. “What was he like?” she asked.

“Who? Your father?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah.” Sarah looked out the window over the sink. “I have a hard time thinking of him as my age at some point.”

Rachel laughed. “I think everybody has that problem with their parents. I can show you some digitals if you want. I have a few.”

“I’ve seen some. He looked so serious. Even as a little boy.”

Rachel sat back from her console and turned her seat to face Sarah. “He had his moments. I think he was happiest working with me on the boat.”

“That when you were crabbing?”

“Yeah.” Rachel sighed. “It was just a short time. Things were such a mess.”

“He said he wanted to be a fisherman,” Sarah said.

“Oh, yes. He worshiped the fishermen. Your grandfather wouldn’t have it.”

“Why not?” Sarah asked.

Rachel shrugged. “Part of it is that your grandfather has a very strong sense of duty. That shamans are called to service. He took that very seriously and felt that it required him to step back from the world of fishers and farmers.”

Sarah took a seat at the table. “I think Pop has that, too.”

“He does now. As a boy of ten or twelve? He really struggled with the whole son of the shaman thing.”

“I know that feeling,” Sarah said, almost under her breath.

Rachel laughed. “I understand, hon. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this.” She crossed to the stove and put the kettle on, rummaging for tea in a cabinet. “Your father hated walking the beach as a kid.”

“Really? How could he hate that?”

Rachel bit her lips between her teeth and arranged empty mugs on the counter. “Let’s just say, he didn’t find a lot of joy in it.”

Sarah weighed that in her mind for a few moments. “I don’t get it.”

“Well, he never understood the point of it as a kid. Your grandfather might not have been the best teacher.” Rachel shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. “Honestly, I don’t think Richard really came into his gift until after that fish nearly killed him. He’s been a much-changed man since then.”

“Was that when my father started changing?”

The tea kettle started screaming. Rachel pulled it from the burner and poured the boiling water into the tea pot to steep. “No. He’d started before that. Sometime after his fourteenth birthday, I think. Maybe before.” She smiled at Sarah. “A bit younger than you are now.”

“I can’t imagine not being on the beach.”

Rachel set the timer and joined Sarah at the table. “I think it was frustration at not understanding what he should be looking for on the beach while looking out to see the boats heading out to fish. They tantalized him with what his father wouldn’t let him have. Not the best foundation for a relationship.”

Sarah felt a small giggle working up in her chest. “I bet.” An image came to mind of her father walking the beach, his staff in hand and a ready smile for her. “I’m lucky.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow.

“Other than his obsession with me getting married before the company kicks me off the planet, we’ve got a good relationship, I think.”

“You walk the beach with him?” Rachel asked.

“I keep track of the tides,” Sarah said, feeling the grin on her face. “The cottage is behind the headland and you can’t really see where the tide is from any of the windows. I try to always know where the tide is so we can go out.”

“He wouldn’t fib to you about that, would he?” Rachel asked, eyes wide in surprise.

“Not anymore.” Sarah grinned back. “Not for quite a while actually.”

The timer went off. Sarah poured the tea into the waiting mugs and slid one across the table to her grandmother.

“He only wants what’s best for you, you know,” Rachel said before taking a sip.

Sarah nodded. “I know. It’s just ... hard. If I were a boy, this wouldn’t even be an issue.”

Rachel sighed and nodded.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” Sarah said, hearing the wistfulness in her own voice. “I can’t imagine not walking the beach. Every pile of weed could hold a treasure. Every bump and hole in the sand might be hiding something interesting. Every day it’s something new. Every step changes what I can see.” She sighed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Maybe you’ll find somebody.”

“What? On the beach?” Sarah asked. In her mind she saw a body stretched out on the sand for a moment before she realized what her grandmother meant.

Rachel laughed. “Maybe. People other than shamans walk the beaches, you know.”

“I know but for a just a heartbeat I thought you meant a body on the beach and couldn’t imagine how that might help me.”

Rachel laughed again and looked down into her mug. “It’s not much help, I know, but something to factor into your thinking. Sometimes what we want isn’t what we need. When we’re still young, we have this picture of how things should be. We spend so much time fretting over why they’re not that we sometimes overlook what could be.”

Sarah sighed. “What did you want when you were my age?”

“I wanted to get my captain’s papers,” Rachel said. “From the time I was old enough to walk the deck, I wanted my own boat.”

“What changed?”

“I did.” Rachel’s smile seemed a bit sad.

Sarah squinted a bit sideways at her grandmother. “You don’t say that like you mean it.”

Rachel laughed. “Oh, I mean it. I was definitely the thing that changed. I believe that it was the best thing for me. Truly. With all my heart.”

“But?”

“But no matter how old or wise or foolish or ... old you get, there’s always that little piece of you that will whisper ‘if only...’ in your ear.”

“What do you do?” Sarah asked.

Rachel shrugged and sipped her tea. “Every branch in the road takes you someplace new. It’s the journey that makes you who you are. Trying to go back again seldom works out and nobody can choose your path for you. Sometimes even you.”

Sarah focused on not burning her tongue on the hot tea as she tried to digest her grandmother’s words.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Cape Grace: November 12, 2346

OTTO FOUND THE SILENCE a bit unnerving. He had the place to himself for the first time since she’d been born. He found himself wandering from room to room. Touching a picture here, a piece of rock there. He peeked into Sarah’s small bedroom and tried not to look at the photograph. There was only one. The picture of Carla on her boat. The picture from the funeral.

The knock on his door gave him a start. He opened it to find an old man hunched a dark blue peacoat, a black knit cap pulled down almost to his brows. “You Krugg?” he asked before Otto could speak.

“Yep. Otto Krugg. Can I help you?”

The man’s cornflower blue eyes stared at him. “Mebbe. Kin I come in? Freezin’ out here.”

Otto stepped out of the doorway and the man entered.

“Jack Flanagan,” the man said, pulling his cap off and stuffing it into a pocket. “You know me?”

“Your name is familiar, but I can’t remember how I know it.”

“Your father’s Richard Krugg. Perhaps he mentioned me?”

“Senior shaman?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I remember. My father mentioned you when I was trying to put together a quorum to approve a new talent.”

“Your daughter.” Flanagan’s mouth twisted into a grimace and he looked down at his shoes. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t be helped. Not then. Not now. Company politics. Might get us all kicked off planet.” He looked up at him, his eyes flashing. “She’s not here, is she?”

“Nope. Visiting her grandparents in Callum’s Cove. Cuppa tea?”

“Love one. Thanks.”

Otto led the way to the kitchen and set the kettle on. “Why?”

“If you mean the tea, it’s cold and I like tea.” He plunked himself into a kitchen chair and unbuttoned his coat. “If you mean why I want to know where Sarah is, just checking.”

“It’s just us.”

He nodded once. “Good. I’m not here. We didn’t speak. This isn’t happening. I’m over in Maggie’s Landing this week.”

“How am I seeing you? Astral projection?”

He chuckled. “Your father said you’d be pleased to meet me.”

“You’ve taken a lot of trouble to get me alone,” Otto said, taking the seat across from the old man. “Why?”

Flanagan thrust his hands in his coat’s pockets and slouched back in the chair, stretching his legs out under the table. He pursed his lips and appeared to stare at the salt shaker. “I signed a non-disclosure agreement with the company. I can’t tell you what it’s about. You should have heard enough rumors about the company and shamans that I don’t have to say anything more about it?” His sharp gaze met Otto’s across the table.

Otto nodded. “This isn’t about the contract, though, is it.”

Flanagan shook his head back and forth once. “Crabbing.”

“You want some crab?”

“I want you to stop.”

The old man’s quiet words smacked against Otto’s head. “Stop?”

“Yeah. You can’t be on the company payroll. Not now.”

“Why not?”

Flanagan’s lips pinched together and he gave his head a little shake. “You’re a shaman. You’ve got protection under the contract. For now.”

“So?”

“So if you stay on the payroll, you’re going to lose that protection.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“No. That’s in the contract. Nobody’s ever paid that much attention to it, but it’s there.”

“But I’ve worked for the company before.”

“You were crabbing with your mother when you were a kid. Yeah, on the payroll, but nobody pays attention to kids until they get old enough to be kicked off planet.”

“I worked as a deckhand in Maggie’s Landing.”

He shook his head again. “One season. Economic hardship, right?”

Otto felt the heat climbing the back of his neck but nodded. “I needed the credits for food and heating fuel.”

“Extenuating circumstances and nobody was watching back then. They are now.”

“Why?”

“Can’t say, other than what you’ve already heard.”

Otto bit his lip. “It must be serious or you wouldn’t be working under an NDA.”

“Your father said you were smart.”

“What’s the problem with crabbing now?”

“Company job. Company payroll. You’re still carvin’ whelkies and tendin’ the village, right?”

“Yeah. What I can.”

“So, if you can be a shaman and still work for the company, the argument might be made that all the other shamans should be working for the company.”

The kettle’s shrill call pulled Otto to the tea pot and he set some leaves to steep. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Maybe they should.”

“You know that’s not going to work. One season, sure, but long term? You can’t be part of the solution if you’re part of the problem.”

“I’m a shaman. I carve whelkies. I walk on the beach. Sometimes I help people who need a shoulder to cry on or an arm to lean on.”

“You listen to the world.”

“I listen to the world.”

“What’s the world sayin’ right now?”

Otto looked down at the floor and felt his lips tighten. “It’s been pretty quiet.”

“How’s the company treating the people here?”

“Comstock’s a good man. He’s looking out for them. He’s even helping me with Sarah.”

“Ever wonder why?”

Otto stood very still, just his eyes moving as he looked into the old shaman’s face. “You?”

“Let’s just say, I never had a conversation with Ed Comstock.”

Otto poured the tea and joined Flanagan at the table. “Like you never had this conversation with me.”

Flanagan smiled and blew across the top of his mug.

“She’s too unfocused. Keeps wandering off,” Otto said.

Flanagan sipped. “She carve?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me?”

Otto picked up his mug and nodded. “Shop’s this way.” Otto led the older man to the workshop and spilled a can full of whelkies onto the bench. “These are some of hers.”

Flanagan stepped up to the bench and set his tea aside. He leaned down and practically stuck his nose on them. He turned his head this way and that, not touching anything. Just looking at the oiled wood. He turned to look up at Otto. “Where are yours?”

Otto pulled a small drawer out of the back of the bench and upended it. “Some of mine.”

Flanagan stood up straight and stared at Otto, a crooked grin angling his mouth. “You didn’t learn to carve from your father, did ya.”

Otto shrugged. “He did what he could.”

Flanagan chuckled. “I’ve known your old man since he was a boy. Had as much gift as the average sand crab. He could make pretty whelkies but they had nothing behind the shell until he had that run-in with a fish.” He glanced at Otto. “I s’pect you know that.”

Otto shrugged again. “He did his best.”

“Oh, that he did. Did his best.” Flanagan’s gaze raked the figures scattered across the workbench. “Knew your grandfather, too. Now he was a shaman. He did things I’ve never understood. He carved his own way.” He waved a hand at Otto’s whelkies. “You got the gift. It shows here. These are fine work. Your granddad would be proud. You say you’re not hearing much from the world these days?”

“It’s been pretty quiet.”

“Engine noise drownin’ it out,” Flanagan said. His eyebrows danced on his wrinkled forehead. “There’s a reason we walk the beaches and it ain’t the driftwood.”

Otto nodded. “I wondered. Father has been out on the floating cities a lot lately. He says he hears better there.”

“Does he, now? Hmm. Interestin’.” Flanagan picked up his mug and took a loud slurp, his gaze running over the other half of the bench. “Some of hers, you said. She’s got more?”

“There’s another can full up there. These are the most recent.”

“She’s the real deal, Otto. You see somebody like this once a century. Maybe. I’ve only seen one other.” Flanagan’s voice barely reached Otto’s ears but the words hit him like a stone.

“What are you saying?”

Flanagan looked him in the eye. He looked sad. “Damn the company. That girl belongs here. On St. Cloud. She’s got more gift than almost anybody I’ve ever seen. You’re good. Damn good. You’ve got power to burn. She’s better. She’s got power and subtlety.” He flicked a fox over. “Look at that inlay. That’s a fox, sure as I’m standin’ here. She’s never seen a fox except maybe in pictures. Have you?”

Otto shook his head. “Pictures is all.”

Flanagan pointed to one of Otto’s whelkies, a fox sitting with his tail around his front paws. “You can carve it, though.”

“So what do we do?”

“About Sarah?” Flanagan shook his head. “I don’t know. You filed the exemption, right?”

“She’s good for a couple of years.”

“You need to get her off that boat, too, but it might be the best place for her right now.”

Otto shook his head to try to clear it. “What?”

“You’ve had decades to listen to the world. You’re just barely able to hear it now because of that damned boat. Too much engine. Too much commerce. You’d make a hell of a fisherman, Otto, but you’re a better shaman. The boat takes too much of your focus.”

“And Sarah?”

Flanagan’s eyebrows danced on his forehead again. “She’s strong enough she can probably hear over the noise, but she doesn’t know what she’s listening for.”

“I’m not sure I know,” Otto said.

“You know it when you hear it. She’s still learnin’. So she needs to get off the boat. Problem is that she’d be worse off in one of the company offices. She lacks the trade skills for anythin’ better.” Flanagan poked at the whelkies, stirring them around with his fingertip. “She needs to be walkin’ the beach, but if she does, the company would have to toss her off the planet.”

“So what’s that leave?”

Flanagan pursed his lips, still gazing at the whelkies. “Married would do it. She needs a husband who’d give her room to be her.”

“She barely has anything to say outside the cottage.”

Flanagan grinned at Otto. “You’re not listenin’ to her either, I bet.”

Otto started to correct the old man’s presumption when Flanagan held up a calming hand.

“Easy. You’ve done real good with her. Just what I see on this bench tells me that.” His expression changed from one of assured confidence to the look of a man who’s heard something that he can’t quite believe and isn’t sure he heard at all. He looked back at her whelkies. “Maybe her beach is somewhere else.”

“Where else would it be?” Otto asked, his frustration mounting by the moment.

Flanagan looked up at the ceiling. “Seems to me there’s a lot of choices.”

Otto felt an icy chill down his spine and his stomach nearly revolted. “What would anybody out there know?” He tried to rein in his anger, but Flanagan’s expression told him he’d failed.

“Might be surprised,” he said. “There’s beaches and beaches. Not all of them are made of sand.”

“I can’t lose her,” Otto said. “I lost her mother. I can’t lose her, too.”

Flanagan offered a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Truth is? You can’t keep her. Best you keep that in mind.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Callum’s Cove: November 12, 2346

SARAH STARED OUT THE window, watching her grandfather stride off into the morning. “He drives me crazy.”

“Who?” her grandmother asked. “Your grandfather?”

Sarah offered a short laugh and turned, leaning back against the counter. “Well, him, too, I suppose but I was talking about Papa.”

Rachel’s eyebrows rose a bit but her lips curved into a wry smile. “That doesn’t surprise me. Richard won’t be back until tomorrow. You can walk the beach if you want. Walk off the angst.” She gave Sarah a one-armed hug and poured mugs of fresh tea. “Or we can have tea and I can tell you embarrassing stories about your father.”

Sarah returned the hug and took up the mug before taking a seat at the table. “Logically, I know he grew up here. In this cottage.” She looked around the room. “Every time I visit, it feels surreal. Has it changed any?”

“Well, the appliances got an upgrade a decade ago,” Rachel said, joining her at the table. “But you’re sleeping in his old bed. The bedding is new but the frame’s the same.” She sipped her tea. “Wanna talk about it?”

Sarah closed her eyes and let the quiet settle around her. She closed her fingers around the mug, feeling the heat of the hot ceramic. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.”

“He worries about you,” Rachel said.

Sarah let the refrigerator’s quiet hum pull her eyes open. “I worry about him, too. He’s so alone.”

Rachel’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s quite an observation. Is that what drives you crazy?”

Sarah laughed and hid her embarrassment by taking a sip of the hot tea. “No. He’s always harping about having to find a job or get married or I’m going to be deported.”

Rachel nodded and took a sip from her own mug. “Parents always worry about what their kids will become. How they’ll make their way in the world.”

“If I had a Y-chromosome, it wouldn’t be an issue.” She could taste the bitterness on her own tongue.

Rachel leaned over the table, resting her forearms on the varnished wood. “Yeah. There would still be an issue. Just not the same one.”

Sarah felt the muscles in her shoulders tense up and her lips press together against the angry rebuttal. The quiet sound of the world turning took her attention and she let the moment pass. “If I were a boy, I couldn’t be deported for being a shaman.”

Rachel’s soft smile helped ease Sarah even more. “I worry about him still. He’s how old? Fifty-five?”

The idea took Sarah sideways. “What is there to worry about? He’s a grown man.”

“He’s still my boy. I’m proud of him, of what he’s become. But parents all worry. Will their kids grow up to be happy, fulfilled? Safe? St. Cloud isn’t a dangerous place by itself but the ocean is unforgiving. Emotions even less so.” She sipped her tea again, not taking her gaze from Sarah. “And, as you say, he’s so alone. He’s still grieving over the loss of your mother.”

Sarah let that idea take a couple of laps around her brain. “It’s been seventeen stanyers.”

Rachel nodded.

“Is that normal?”

Rachel shrugged. “Normal doesn’t really apply to people. The statistical distribution of characteristics are sometimes useful for looking at big pictures but are totally useless when dealing with the individual.”

Sarah wrestled that idea into submission. “So you know how many restrooms to put in the meeting hall but not who’s going to use them.”

Rachel laughed. “Yeah. That.” She took another sip. “What do you think would be different?”

“If I was a boy?”

Rachel nodded.

“Well, he wouldn’t be pestering me about getting married or getting a job, for one.”

“How do you figure?”

“For starters, I wouldn’t be facing deportation.”

“How would you eat?” Rachel asked. “Where would you live?”

Sarah shook her head. “Right where I am.”

“For how long?” Rachael asked. “Village doesn’t need two shamans.”

Sarah hunched over her tea and pondered the dark liquid swirling in the mug. “Maybe it should. Not everybody would want to talk with him.”

“How many would talk with you?” Rachel asked.

“Young people haven’t got anybody to go to,” Sarah said, testing the idea and feeling the dare in her words but tossing them onto the table anyway.

“Young people like you?” Rachel asked.

The calm-voiced lack of judgment made Sarah look up from her tea. “Yeah.”

“It’s the weakness in the system,” Rachel said. “Otto ran into it with his father.”

“Really?”

Rachel nodded. “When he was younger than you, he just wanted to be a fisherman.”

“I remember,” Sarah said.

“Well, his father wouldn’t abide it. Forbade him to work on the draggers. Made his wishes known along the waterfront. Scuttled whatever small chance he had there.”

Sarah felt her jaw sag. “Why?”

Rachel shook her head. “I thought it was a mistake. Told him so. He just told me to wait and see.”

“I don’t understand how a father could do that to his son.”

“I didn’t either.” Rachel bit her lips for a moment. “We had a lot of adult discussions about it.”

“But he became a shaman,” Sarah said.

Rachel’s shrug barely lifted her shoulders. “He was always a shaman. His father is, so he was always going to be.”

“Son of a shaman,” Sarah said.

Rachel nodded. “Not all the men with the title actually have the talent. It skips generations sometimes and shows up under different circumstances. Your great-grandfather—Richard’s father—came into his talent later in life. He’s quite a character but practices mostly up north among the ranchers.”

“He wasn’t born the son of a shaman?”

“No. His father was a sheep rancher out on the eastern rocks.”

Sarah shook her head. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Shearing sheep one day and then, what? Listening to the world? Does he carve whelkies?”

Rachel shrugged. “I know he used to. He’d come collect some driftwood and shells every so often. Sometimes he’d stop in.” A brief smile tweaked Rachel’s lips so fast that Sarah wasn’t sure she’d seen it.

“What was that?” she asked. “That little smile.”

Rachel bit her lips together and shrugged. “My husband, dear man that he is and always has been, didn’t really seem to have much of a gift until he almost died when Otto was younger.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s odd. One of those before-and-after things that you didn’t realize was missing until you see the change.” Rachel sipped her tea. “He always looked out for the village. It was his reason for being. He saw the call to service as the be-all and end-all. Carving the whelkies was about the art.”

“His carving is amazing,” Sarah said.

“Compare that to your father’s,” Rachel said.

Sarah rolled that idea around. “How could you? They’re so different.”

“What about yours?” Rachel asked, not quite hiding her smile behind her cup.

“What about mine? I learned from Papa.”

“Your whelkies look nothing like his.”

“Well, why would they? We’re different people.”

“Richard thought that your father’s whelkies lacked.”

“Lacked what?”

“I’m not sure. Artistic merit? Adequate technique?” Rachel shrugged again. “Your father wanted to be a fisherman but he was born with a talent, a gift. It didn’t really blossom until he was well into puberty but once it did, it eclipsed everything else. He started carrying a staff even then.”

“He still does. Only time I’ve never seen him without it is indoors.”

“People used to snicker behind his back about it when he first started carrying it. I don’t know if he even noticed.”

Sarah sighed and looked into her cup. “People laugh at me, too. I notice.”

Rachel set her cup on the table and reached a hand across. “People don’t do well with somebody who’s different.”

“I don’t want to be different.”

Rachel stretched to touch Sarah’s hand. “We’re all different, hon. It’s just some are more obviously different. What do they laugh about?”

Sarah looked down at Rachel’s hand. “They think I’m weird.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Rachel said. “You’re a shaman. You were born with it. It’s been part of you since you first took breath. You see differently. You hear differently.”

“How do you know?” Sarah asked, hating the plaintive whine in her voice but incapable of correcting it.

Rachel smiled and Sarah felt the warmth of her gaze. “Because I see you. I hear you. I’ve been through it twice. Once with Richard and once with your father. It’s something people recognize, even if they don’t know what it is. It’s part of who you are. I don’t have it, whatever it is. This ‘listening to the world’ thing. I don’t know what you hear. I can’t see what you see. But I know—without a hint of doubt—that you hear and see something wonderful.”

Sarah blinked back the sting in her eyes and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Rachel laughed. “That’s not being a shaman.”

“What?”

“Not knowing what you’re doing? That’s not the shaman part.” She grinned. “That’s the human part. Most people don’t know what they’re doing at least half the time. They just pretend they do.”

The words surprised a laugh out of Sarah. “That’s not really helpful.”

“Just laying it out there.” Rachel picked up her mug and took another sip. “What do you hear?”

“What? When I listen to the world?”

Rachel nodded.

Sarah lifted her own cup, mirroring Rachel’s action and taking a sip. “I don’t know. It’s not something I can put a finger on. Or describe. Sometimes it’s a feeling.” She paused and set her mind free to wander for a moment. “Sometimes it feels like I just know something that I shouldn’t be able to know.”

“Like what?” Rachel asked.

“Like I’m going to find a good piece of shell in the next pile of weed or that Papa is looking for me.”

“Does it always happen?”

Sarah shook her head. “Sometimes, I think it’s just wishful thinking. I need a piece of shell and wish I’d find it soon.”

Rachel chuckled. “Everybody does that, too.”

Sarah smiled back. “I figured that much.”

“What do you hear now?” Rachel asked.

“Here?”

Rachel nodded. “I know you’re indoors but do you hear anything now?”

Sarah let the little wave of embarrassment pass before she tried to listen. The quietest of gusts of wind wafted through the eaves of the cottage, momentarily audible above the hum of the fridge and the quiet drone of the network terminal in the corner. The tea kettle ticked as the metal cooled. In the distance she heard a gull call and the quiet that said a storm lay just beyond the horizon. “There’s a storm coming.”

Rachel’s eyebrows rose, slow as the tide. “A storm?”

Sarah nodded.

“You know when?”

Sarah shook her head. “It’s beyond the horizon right now. Just starting to form. Can’t tell.”

“But you feel it?”

“I can hear it in the wind. It’s faint.” She took a slurp of tea and shook her head. “Dumb. There’s always a storm forming somewhere. I don’t know why I said that.”

Rachel settled back in her chair, her gaze seeming to measure Sarah’s face. “Right, then. How about we make some biscuits to go with dinner? Your grandfather’s not coming back until tomorrow, but we can have our own little feast.”

Sarah grinned. “Will you show me how to make biscuits? Papa always talks about yours.”

“Stick with me, kiddo. I’ll make you the biscuit queen of Cape Grace.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Cape Grace: November 18, 2346

SARAH LOOKED AT OTTO with a scowl as dark as a gust front. “One season and you’re quitting?”

Otto shrugged. “It’s not helping the village to have me fishing.”

“You mean being on the company payroll?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “What did you hear?”

“You heard Mr. Comstock. It’s creating a problem in the village.”

“And you decided to give in while I was away?”

Otto smiled and shook his head. “We just need to find somebody else to run the boat. You’ll still be crew.”

“I don’t want to work with somebody else. I thought we made a good team.”

“We do. It’s not something I can do any more without jeopardizing my position here. People need to trust me. Accept me. This is the kind of rift that can get us—me—booted out of town. I can’t risk it.”

She flounced back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “Something else is going on.”

Otto sat and drank his tea.

“You’re not going to say anything?” she asked.

“There’s nothing to say. I need to meet with Ed Comstock and arrange another skipper to take over the boat.”

“What if there isn’t anybody?”

“You’ll be eighteen in May. You could run it.”

“By myself?”

“Hire a crew.”

“I’m not a fisherman,” she said, her brows lowering in a scowl. “I don’t know anything about handling a boat.”

“You were fine with me.”

“Papa, I can’t believe I’m having to be the voice of reason here. This is insane.”

Otto shook his head. “Actually, it’s pretty common for a youngster to start out with something like crabbing—or long-lining—before they move up to draggers.”

“What’s common is learning to handle boats before you can walk and working alongside your parents and sibs for a few stanyers before taking a boat out on your own.”

“You may have a point.”

“I’ve been working alongside you on the beach and learning to carve. One summer of crewing on a crabber doesn’t qualify me to be a fisherman.”

“I’d rather you didn’t work on a dragger.”

“I don’t want to work on a dragger.” Her words echoed from the appliances, making the house ring.

“No need to yell.”

She hung her head forward, bouncing it on her neck.

It made Otto smile a little, but he tried to hold it in. “Maybe it’ll all be moot,” he said after a few moments.

“How so?” Her head came up and she glared at him.

“Maybe Mr. Comstock won’t be able to find anybody and you can go back to working scanning and tagging.”

Her eyes hardened. “Not. Happening.”

“Never know.”

“I can stay until I’m twenty-three.”

“What are you going to do until then?” Otto asked.

She stopped glaring at Otto and started staring at her feet. “I don’t know.”

Otto sighed. “You know there are lots of things you could do that aren’t scan-and-tag. Did you look at any of the education catalog?”

“Gramma tried to talk me into being a data analyst while I was there.”

“How’d that look?”

Sarah all but shuddered in her seat. “Not for me.”

“What else did you do while you were visiting?”

She smiled. “She showed me how to bake biscuits.”

Otto’s stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. “She taught you how to make biscuits? Her biscuits?”

Sarah rolled her eyes before giving him a hard stare. “I assume they were her biscuits. Does she usually bake somebody else’s?”

“It’s just. I love her biscuits.”

“I’ll make a batch for supper. What’ll we have with them?”

“Chowder?”

“Make it lamb stew and you’re on.”

“We don’t have any lamb.”

“I’ll run over to the chandlery and get some. What else are we out of?”

“We could just order it and get it delivered.”

Sarah glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “Not in time to make stew for dinner.”

Otto grinned. “Grab a couple onions and some carrots, then. If we’re going to make lamb stew we probably should do it right.”

“I’ll pick up some fresh baking powder, too. That stuff in the cupboard expired last January.”

“Maybe you could be a cook,” Otto said.

Sarah smiled at him. “Keep pitching, Papa.” She stood and started wrapping herself in her outdoor clothes against the icy, damp wind coming in off the harbor.

“What’s wrong with being a cook?”

She paused and thought about it. “I’d need to know how to bake more than biscuits.”

“That’s easy enough to fix.”

She pulled her knit cap down over her ears and headed for the door. “Might not be a bad idea,” she said. “Back in a bit.” She slipped out and pulled the door closed with a snap.

“Biscuits,” he said. “I’d never have thought of biscuits.”

He took his tea and went into the shop to carve.

Bobby Tatum stood behind the counter at the chandlery and stared at her. Sarah wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Something about him always seemed off but she couldn’t put her finger on it. His lips curved into a smile that stopped just one dimple short of a smirk.

She’d been staring at him too long and felt the heat rush up the back of her neck. “Hi,” she said.

“Hello, Sarah. How can I help you today?”

“I didn’t know you were working at the chandlery.”

He shrugged. “Norman’s off at the Saving Grace for the winter. I can use the extra credits.”

“Saving for a rainy day?” she asked.

“Something like that.” He paused. “Can I help you with something?”

“I need some groceries. A piece of lamb for some stew. Carrots. Onions. Baking powder. Probably some cake flour.”

He nodded for her to follow him back. “Let’s see what we got. We got some root vegetables from Allied the other day. Carrots, onions, some rutabagas. They’d be good in lamb stew.”

“Fresh lamb?” she asked.

“I thought I saw some come in. If it hasn’t got tossed in the freezer yet.”

It only took them a few minutes to round up the lamb and vegetables. “What else did you say?” Bobby asked.

“I’m making biscuits. I’ll need some fresh baking powder and some decent cake flour.”

“Bread flour, too?” he asked.

Sarah nodded. “I’ll need some yeast. You got some that’s not dead?” she grinned.

They went through the baking section and Bobby pulled out the ingredients she needed, setting them on the counter with the rest of her goods.

“Anything else?” he asked.

She eyed the array and shook her head. “That’ll do for now.”

“Good enough, then,” he said and ran the order down. “I can give you a discount on the root veg. The rutabagas would last a while but not everybody likes them.”

“Thanks,” she said.

The order came in under their monthly allotment amount so she thumbed the tab as Bobby started bagging her purchases.

She started to gather the bags when Bobby grabbed a parka from the hook behind the counter. “Lemme give you a hand with those.”

“I can get it,” she said.

“No doubt, but it’ll be easier with two and gets me out for a bit. My legs need stretching.” He smiled and took half the bags from her. “Come on. Day’s wasting.”

He’d just finished roughing out an owl he’d found in a knotty bit of driftwood when he heard the door open and voices. One of them was Sarah. He took his mug of cold tea dregs and went to see who the other one belonged to.

“Thanks, Bobby. You didn’t have to do that,” Sarah said.

“Hey, it got me out of the shop for a while. This time of year it’s kinda borin’.” The young man stood a few centimeters taller than Sarah. He looked tanned but without the ruddy complexion of a man who spent a lifetime on the water.

They turned to him as he joined them in the kitchen.

“Father, this is Bobby Tatum. He’s been running the bait line all summer.”

Otto held out his hand and Bobby shook it with a nod.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Krugg.”

“You can call me Otto, Bobby. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Bobby’s working part time in the chandlery this winter,” Sarah said. “He helped lug the groceries back.” She pointed to the bags on the table.

“Wouldn’ta thought Marty needed extra help in the winter,” Otto said.

“Norman’s helping out at the Saving Grace for the season. Wants to learn how to brew beer, so Marty needed somebody to fill in. I can always use the extra credits.” Bobby shifted his weight and reached for the door. “Better be getting’ back. Somebody’ll need an extra kilo of sugar or somethin’ for dinner.” He nodded at Otto. “Nice to meet you finally.”

“You, too, Bobby. Stay warm out there.”

“Bye, Bobby,” Sarah said.

He shot her a bashful grin and escaped through the door.

“What all did you get?” Otto asked, peeking into the bags.

“A nice piece of lamb and some root vegetables. They just got a shipment from Allied Ag. Bobby gave me a good price on them. Also got some shortening and cake flour to go with the baking powder for biscuits. And some yeast and bread flour.”

“Bread flour? You gonna bake bread?”

“Gramma makes delicious bread.”

“I know very well.”

“She gave me the recipe, but told me the only way to learn how to do it is practice.”

“She gave you the recipe? She must like you or something.”

“She said I’m her very favorite granddaughter.”

They both laughed and Otto stepped back to let her take care of her purchases.

“If you’d make the stock, I’ll get going on peeling vegetables,” Sarah said.

“Deal.” Otto pulled out a heavy pot and set to work. After a few ticks of quiet collaboration, he said, “Bobby seems like a nice enough guy.”

“He was just helping me. It’s a long walk with ten kilos of food on a cold day.”

“Indeed,” Otto said. “I understand completely.”

“Well, he was.”

“I know.”

“Hmmpf,” Sarah said.

Otto smiled into his stock pot, stirring the onions around in the bottom without looking at his daughter.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Cape Grace: February 15, 2347

COMSTOCK CHEWED ON the inside of his cheek and glowered across his desk at Otto. “One season?”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Otto said.

Comstock scowled. “I thought you’d be able to work around it.”

“I didn’t consider how it would affect the village. I can’t do my job if people won’t talk to me.”

“What am I supposed to do with the boat and traps?”

“Use them. Sarah still needs a job and she’s spent the winter studying up on crabbing.”

Comstock shifted in his chair and rubbed a hand across his lips. “She any good?”

“You mean was I carrying her all last season?”

He shrugged.

“She’s pretty good. Knows how to bait a trap. How to manage the deck well enough.”

“She needs a boat handler,” Comstock said.

“Yep. Somebody who knows the local waters right around the harbor. We never dropped a trap more than a few kilometers off the outer markers.”

“Huh. Well, maybe we can make this work.”

Comstock’s answer surprised Otto. “I thought you’d scream louder.”

“Actually, I got a couple of smaller problems that this might just solve. Lemme work on it and I’ll get back to ya.”

“Sounds good.” Otto unfolded himself from the chair and started for the door.

“Say, did you ever visit Barbara Tatum?”

“Artie’s wife? Yeah. While back. Right around the time we got the boat from the Inlet. Why?”

“What’d you think?”

Otto took a deep breath and blew it out his nose. “Can’t be easy.”

“She’s left Cape Grace.”

Otto nodded. “I figured she would. Where’d she go?”

“Your old stomping grounds. Taken an admin job at Maggie’s Landing.”

“How’s Artie taking it?”

Comstock scratched his cheek with one fingertip and grimaced. “I’m not sure he’s noticed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s crawled pretty far into a bottle.”

“He got a girlfriend or something?”

“Not that I know of. Why?” Comstock leaned over his desk, his head cocked to one side.

“How’s Bobby doing?” Otto asked.

“Seems fine. Working with Marty over at the chandlery.”

“Then Artie’s noticed.”

“How do ya figure?” Comstock asked.

“His punching bag is missing. He’s noticed.”

Comstock nodded, his eyes looking tired, his lips turned down at the corners.

“Daniels still the Pirano director over there?” Otto asked.

“At Maggie’s Landing? Yeah.”

“Might wanna give him a heads up. Let his constables know to keep an eye out for Artie.”

Comstock raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll pull something?”

“Man won’t let that kinda thing go without a fight. I suspect he’ll crawl at least halfway out of that bottle and hunt her down. Won’t be pretty if he does.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Comstock said, a sour twist to his lips.

“I figured you already knew and just wanted a second opinion.”

“Yeah.” Comstock shook his head. “Thanks, Otto. I’ll keep ya posted on the boat.”

Otto nodded and slipped out of the office, pulling his collar up around his neck to ward off a chill that was only partly due to the wind off the harbor. A waft of something foul drifted under his nose and he scrubbed it away with his hand.

The aroma of freshly baked bread greeted him when he got back to the cottage. “Somebody’s been busy.”

Sarah grinned at him and finished rubbing a bit of butter on the top of the steaming hot loaves. “I think I’m getting the hang of it. How’d Mr. Comstock take the news?”

“Better than I expected.” Otto hung up his coat and hat. “You seen much of Bobby Tatum lately?”

Color climbed up her ears and she gave a small shrug without looking at Otto. “I’ve seen him a couple of times. At the chandlery.”

“Uh huh.” He would have grinned if his next question hadn’t troubled him. “He say anything about his mother?”

“She’s visiting his aunt over at Maggie’s Landing for a while.”

“He say why?”

She looked up at him. “Not in so many words. I think his parents had a fight. She went over to cool off. Why?”

“Heard about it from Ed. Wondered if you’d heard anything more.”

“You worried about her?” she asked.

“A bit. Why do you ask?”

“Just little things I’ve heard from Bobby. Don’t think his parents get along very well. That’s usually something a shaman deals with, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

Otto crossed the kitchen to smell the bread. “How soon before we can cut one of these open? It smells wonderful.”

She shrugged. “Give them a few ticks. I’ll start the tea.” She turned to the kettle.

“So, you talk to Bobby often?” Otto asked.

She stiffened a little and then gave a shrug. “I’ve seen him a few times. At the chandlery.”

Otto smiled. “So you said. Winter’s almost over. He planning on going back to bait fishing?”

She put the kettle on the burner and leaned against the counter. “Unless he can find something else that pays better. Norman’s coming back to the chandlery when the season starts.”

“He’s not going to stay at the Grace?”

“I’m not sure how it’s going to work. Just that Bobby needs to get something going for the season.”

“He eighteen yet?”

“Yeah. His birthday was in January.”

“So he has to find something or leave?”

“Yeah. He’s got big plans, but I think he might be planning too big.”

“How’s that?”

“He thinks he’s going to convince Ed Comstock to let him take a crew out to the offshore platforms in a couple of seasons.” She shook her head and sighed. “Company isn’t going to give him a dragger. He doesn’t have the experience for it. At least not right now.”

“It’ll take him more than that to earn a captain’s certificate.”

“That’s what I told him. He seems convinced that he’s right.”

“A little stubborn, is he?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”

Otto grinned. “You didn’t happen to mention that I’m not crabbing this season, did you?”

She paused, teapot poised. “Not that I remember.” She settled the teapot, tossed in a few pinches of tea and poured the boiling water over the leaves. “I’m pretty sure it never came up. Why?”

“Something Ed said. Could you work with Bobby on the boat this season?”

Her jaw hung open as she stared at Otto. “Bobby?”

Otto shrugged. “Could you?”

She seemed to gather herself. Her gaze turned inward and her mouth closed, her lips pressing together. “He knows the water. He’s been handling a boat for a while.”

“He probably doesn’t know crabbing,” Otto said.

“He knows bait.”

“Who’ll help Henry with the trawl lines?”

She shook her head. “There’s a half dozen kids in town who could do it. Older sibs get priority on the boats. Leaves the seconds and thirds waiting for big brother or big sister to move on.”

“That many?”

“Yeah. Maybe more. That’s only the ones I know about.” She poured tea and handed Otto a mug before taking up a bread knife. “How big a piece you want?”

“Don’t get too carried away. I can always get a second one.”

She laughed and sawed off a pair of slabs, steaming and redolent with yeast and flour. She spread butter on each and handed one of them to Otto. “Hot, hot,” she said, juggling the bread in her fingers.

The rich, chewy bread touched something in Otto that reminded him of home. He closed his eyes to savor the moment. “This is wonderful,” he said around a mouthful.

“Thanks.” She peered at her slice with a small frown.

“Something wrong with it?” Otto asked.

“Just trying to figure out if I could do any better.”

“It tastes perfect to me.”

She giggled. “Tastes pretty good to me, too, if I do say so myself.” She chewed another bite and swallowed it. “I’ll have to ask Gramma.”

“If you decide you want to quit crabbing, you’ve got a career as a bread baker.”

“Only bakers the company hires are the industrial ones for the plants at the Inlet. There’s another one somewhere off to the west that I can’t remember.”

He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You already looked it up?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got to find something or I’ll have to leave.”

Her offhand reminder struck Otto in the heart. “I’m glad you’re payin’ attention to this,” he said.

“You’ve no idea,” she said.

Looking at the young woman standing there in the kitchen with a slice of fresh bread in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, he felt like he saw her for the first time. She’d shed her childish appearance in favor of an almost svelte frame. She looked at him with a frank and open gaze that displayed a hint of the pain behind her eyes.

“It’s kind of a raw deal, isn’t it?”

She laughed and Otto flinched at the bitter edge to it. “That’s one way of putting it. There isn’t a kid in this village that doesn’t feel that sword over their neck. It’s a bit hard to think about what you want to do when the knowledge that you have to do something or be deported is hanging over you.”

“Most of them find something.”

“Yeah, but how many of them find something they want?”

The despair in her voice cut him. He sighed and held out his arms to offer a hug.

She stepped into them to let him hug her, but she didn’t hug him back.

CHAPTER FORTY

Cape Grace: April 5, 2347

ED COMSTOCK LAID ON a good show every year. Otto stood on a box erected on the end of the main pier for the occasion, staff in hand and a public address microphone on the rail in front of him. All the boats in the fleet rumbled about in the harbor, some decorated with flowers and streamers. Many of the boats carried extra passengers of friends and family, all dressed in their finest. If some of the girls looked chilly in their frilly dresses, they wouldn’t have to be out very long. Everybody not on the boats lined the harbor’s docks to observe the parade.

At exactly 1000, Ed pulled the lanyard on his ceremonial cannon. The concussive boom felt to Otto like somebody punched him in the chest. A donut of white smoke drifted from the muzzle and was eaten by the wind. The milling boats straightened into a parade, each following the next at a crawl across the chopped-up harbor. Ole man Jenkins had the pride of place by virtue of being the oldest fisherman in the village. Otto saw him smiling through the wheelhouse door as the heavy dragger lumbered toward the podium.

As the vessel passed, Otto stamped his staff on the box—creating a hollow thump that echoed the earlier cannon shot, if not as loud—and said the traditional “Good hunting and safe return” blessing. The PA picked up his words and lifted them into the wind while the boat gave a single blast of its horn before moving back out into the bay to make room for the next.

The Harbor Fairy with Bobby Tatum at the wheel and Sarah in the stern ended the long parade of boats. Bobby had run paper streamers from the crabber’s canopy so they trailed out behind in the wind of their passage. Otto raised his staff for the last time, his face nearly frozen from the icy wind off the water, but warmed at seeing Sarah waving as they passed. “Good hunting and safe return.”

As the Fairy turned out into the harbor all the boats laid on their horns, filling the air with a raucous chorus and sending every sea bird within a kilometer radius into the sky.

Otto stepped down from the podium and shook Comstock’s hand. Ole man Jenkins was nearly back to the dock and the rest of the fleet wasn’t far behind.

“Party’s at the Saving Grace,” Comstock said. “You’re welcome to come.”

Otto shook his head and pulled his coat up around him a little tighter. “Thanks. I’ll leave the partying for the crews. I need a fresh pot of tea and a fire before I do anything.”

Comstock’s nose and cheeks glowed red from the cold wind. “Don’t blame ya. Just wanted ya to know, you’re welcome there.” He nodded at the Harbor Fairy just pulling into the dock. “That was nicely done.”

“All I did was get the boat and then step aside.”

Comstock gave him a knowing smile. “Sure you did. Tatum’s a good lad at heart, I think. Had a rough go of it with his old man. P’rhaps your Sarah is just what he needs.”

“How’s Barbara doing over at Maggie’s Landing?”

“I hear she’s doing good. Going out with one of the draggers as crew this season.”

Otto blinked. “Really?”

Comstock nodded. “Apparently she’s taken it into her head to be a fisherman. Not exactly sure why. She never even thought about it here, far as I know.”

“Maybe something in the water.”

Comstock shot a glance at Otto and grinned.

“What’s Artie up to?” Otto asked. “Still over at the Inlet?”

“Yeah. Pirano gave him the choice of drying out and keeping his nose clean or shipping out and keeping his ass off the planet. Last I heard, they’d smartened him up a little. He’s working transport now.”

“Think it’ll last?”

“No clue. Guys like that, you can’t tell. Could go either way.” Comstock shrugged. “He’s on his last ticket. Next one is passage upstairs and nobody’s gonna stop it.”

Otto sighed. “Then he becomes somebody else’s problem.”

“Probably.”

“No, definitely. He’ll just move on to somebody else. At some point he’ll take one step too far into the dark.”

“Maybe he’ll straighten out this time.”

Otto didn’t say anything.

“Yeah. I don’t think so either,” Comstock said. “Anyway. Thanks for the blessings. Party’ll run late so you’re welcome to drop in later if you have a mind. Tonya’s laying on a buffet around dinner time for those who haven’t passed out.”

Otto laughed. “Some traditions don’t change, huh?”

“Some are worth keeping.” Comstock grinned and shook Otto’s hand. “Stay warm and enjoy the peace and quiet out there on the point.”

“It’ll be the only quiet place in town,” Otto said.

“You got that part right.” With a jaunty wave, Comstock headed back down the dock toward the gathering throng of fishermen and families.

It looked like the whole village converged on the tavern as Otto turned his steps toward the cottage.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Cape Grace: April 7, 2347

THE MORNING SUN STRUGGLED through the clouds as Sarah made her way along the trail to town. She huddled in her coat, hands thrust into pockets. The unfairness of it all grated on her, leaving tiny flakes of her being adrift on the morning breeze. It had been bad enough working with her father. Bobby Tatum knew nothing about listening to the world. Nothing about the sea or the beach or the land beyond. She sighed and turned her steps to the stone pier.

Most of the slips lay empty, the draggers long gone out to the fishing grounds. She walked around the utility cart parked beside Tara Li’s Frayed Knot. The sounds of men talking wafted up from the engine room at the stern. Something about the carburetor and a fuel line. It had given them trouble during the blessing of the fleet and they still hadn’t found the problem. She shrugged and kept moving.

Harbor Fairy waited in her usual spot halfway down the pier, tied up with the other two crabbers and one of the company’s utility boats. Crab pots covered almost every square meter of deck space, rising four and five high, each stack with its own coil of line and buoy. The load seemed incongruously large on the hull but the sturdy boat shouldered the burden without complaint.

She saw no sign of Bobby. The day would get away from them if he didn’t show up soon. Impatience heaved her chest and she blew out a frustrated breath through her nose as she stepped aboard and stowed her lunch in the cuddy. She leaned out see around the piles of traps to look back down the dock.

Still no Bobby.

Out of habit she went through the inspection, ticking off the safety gear knowing it was there without looking but following the routine she’d worked with her father. Life vests. Fire extinguishers. First aid kit. Life ring. It took only a few moments, but her frustration grew with every beat of her heart.

The small chore complete, she cast around looking for something else to do and finding nothing.

She stepped off the boat and stared down the dock. Still no Bobby. She checked the time and chewed her lip, feeling the emotional squall building inside.

The sun broke through and washed the pier in warmth. She turned her face up to it, eyes closed, letting the light bathe her. She listened to the world—the quiet gurgle and squeak of the Fairy being shifted by the small harbor waves, the call of a seabird somewhere over the bay. The solid stone pier under her feet lacked the feel of packed sand but anchored her to the seabed below. She felt for the harbor’s bottom under its few fathoms of water, cupped by the headlands that kept it protected from the wide ocean’s might.

She stood that way for what felt like only moments before she heard the scuff of footsteps approaching. She looked down the pier and smiled at Marty Grosvenor. “Mornin’, Marty.”

The older man smiled at her, his face crinkling up in all the corners. “Good morning, Sarah. How’s your father?”

“He’s well, thanks.”

Marty stopped beside her and looked out over the bay. “What d’ya think about the season?”

She shrugged. “Not sure.” She lifted her face up and inhaled the cool, salty air deep. “Could be a good one.” She looked at him. “You guys gonna lay down in your usual spots?”

He glanced over at her and then looked back out, his head turning as he scanned the bay. “You and your father did pretty good offshore.” He didn’t quite ask it as a question.

She nodded. “There’s a shelf about a kilometer wide just outside of the headlands. Little deeper than the harbor but the crabs like it just fine.” She glanced up. “You thinkin’ of coming out?”

He shrugged and looked at his feet, scuffing his boot on the concrete. “Might do. We picked up another twenty traps for this season. Need someplace to put them.” A slow swell of anxiety wafted off him.

She nodded again and pointed to the eastern headland. “If you put down your strings just inside the headland like normal, it’s an easy loop around the outside of the harbor there. More than enough room for twenty more traps.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You think so?”

A laugh bubbled up. “Oh, yeah. Probably enough for twenty more boats. There’s a lot of crabs out there.” She lifted her face to the sun and took a whiff of the breeze. “Yeah. Lot of crabs.”

He nodded. “Didn’t want to step on any toes.”

She smiled. “Nothing to worry about on my part.”

“Thanks,” Marty said, giving a little shrug and shifting his weight. “Well, I better get the boat ready. I’m picking up Steve at the bait dock.”

“Good hunting,” she said.

He smiled and shuffled down the pier to his boat and disappeared behind the pile of traps.

“What did he want?”

Sarah looked over her shoulder to find Bobby scowling at her. “Marty? Nothin’.”

“You two looked pretty cozy. What did you talk about?” Bobby asked.

She shrugged. “Traps. Where to put them. Crabs. They’ve got twenty more traps this season.”

Bobby’s scowl deepened. “Where to put them? He’s not taking any of our territory, I hope.”

She shook her head. “They’re going into the same corner of the harbor and I suggested they run a few strings just on the outside of the headland.”

Bobby’s lips tightened to a thin line. “That’s where we put down.”

Sarah shook her head again. “Not this season. We need to be off the channel to the west and about half a kilometer offshore. The water is better there.”

“Oh, really?” Bobby sighed. “And who made you the boss of this operation?”

His anger washed over her like a bucket of hot water. She stared at him, floundering for words.

“I’m the captain of this boat.” He bit the words off as he spit them at her. “We put down where I say we put down. Is that clear?”

She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, reaching for the seabed through the soles of her boots and the pier below. The cool reassurance settled her, letting the heat of his words chill to calmness in her. “You’re the helm. I’m the crew. I’m also the one with the experience in finding the crabs that pay us. You drive. I’ll tell you where.”

He threw up his hands and turned away from her. “That’s not how this works.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “You tell me where you want to put the traps and I’ll tell you where I want to put the traps. We’ll see if we agree.”

“No,” he said. “You’re the crew. I’m the captain. What I say is what we do. Period.” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself in front of her, legs braced as if for a fight.

“Or what?” she asked, more curious than furious.

“Or I get one of my guys to take your place and you can go back to your little carvings and get kicked off the planet.”

Where his anger had been hot, this new turn blew cold as a winter gale. She all but shivered. She looked out at the horizon, weighing her options. The harbor and ledge beyond teemed with crabs. She sighed. “As long as they’re in the water, it probably won’t matter where.” She looked at him and then glanced at the sun. “Daylight’s wasting.”

He smiled, his frostiness melting. “That’s better.” He stepped onto the boat and waved at the lines. “Single up the lines and let’s get going. I want to be back by midafternoon and you’ve already cost us half the morning.”

A hot flush of anger singed her ears but she bit down on the retort. It would do no good and just delay them longer. She shook her head and started releasing the lines while Bobby fired up the engines and revved them. The exhaust plume coughed from the stern, shredded by the onshore breeze.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Cape Grace: May 3, 2347

BOBBY KILLED THE ENGINE as Sarah wrapped the stern line around a cleat. She checked the angles and nodded to herself.

“What ya gonna do now?” Bobby asked.

She looked up at him. “What?”

“We got the crabs delivered. We’re done here, aren’t we?”

She nodded. “Far as I know. I want to wash down the deck. That last string left a lot of muck and I don’t want to be slipping in it all day tomorrow.” She paused, waiting to see if he’d offer to help.

“Ah, I see.” He looked around the cockpit as if calculating how much mud lay on the deck.

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Just wonderin’.”

She stepped into the boat and pulled a bucket and swab out from the storage. “Well, make yourself useful while you’re wondering and grab a bucket of water.” She thrust the pail into his hands.

He leaned over the outboard side of the boat and scooped a half-pail of water from the harbor while she dunked the head of the mop in the bay before using the salty water to loosen up and scrape the mud toward the scuppers in the back. After a few swipes with the swab she stepped back and he sloshed the water toward the stern. She pumped the swab in the bay and squeezed the excess water out before using it to push the excess seawater out through the scuppers. They repeated the effort a couple of times until she felt satisfied with the deck.

“That’ll do,” she said. “We’ll make a mess of it again tomorrow.”

He grinned. “We make a pretty good team, don’t ya think?”

She glanced at him as she stowed the bucket and swab. “Well, it’s only been a few weeks, but yeah. Seems like it’s going pretty good.” She straightened and flexed her back. “I’d be happier if you could show up on time, but I just add half a stan to whatever time you say you’ll be here.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You’re always late. You say you’ll be here at nine and it’s half past before you show up.” She shrugged. “I just mentally add half an hour and I usually have time to single up the lines and get the boat ready before you show up.”

“That’s bull.” His fists balled and he braced as if he might take a swing at her. “I’m always here right on time. I can’t help it if you’re always early.”

She shook her head. “If you say so. All I know is I’ve been coming in half an hour late and I’m still waiting for you to drag your ass down here so we can get to work.”

“All right,” he said. “What time tomorrow?”

She glanced up at the sun and over at the level of the tide on the pier. “Let’s try for 1000. That’ll let me get a walk in before we get underway.”

“A walk?”

“Yeah. A walk. On the beach.” She jerked a thumb at the long headland.

He blinked a few times, his face almost blank. “Why?”

“Why what? Why a beach or why a walk?”

He gave a little shake. “Either. Both.”

“I like it,” she said. “It calms me. I find wood to carve. Whelk shells.” She shrugged.

“Oh, that’s right,” Bobby said. “Shaman stuff.”

Sarah nodded. “Shaman stuff.”

A sly smile eased onto his face. “You know you can’t be a shaman, right?”

She took a deep breath and squelched the anger rising in her chest. “We’re working on it.”

He smirked and glanced around the tidy boat. “At least you got a skill to fall back on.” With that he clambered over the side and onto the pier. “See ya at ten,” he said, turning to stride along the pier toward town.

She sighed and shook her head, pulling her gear from the cuddy in the steering pylon. “As if,” she said.

“At least I got a walk in,” she muttered and settled down on the edge of the pier with her knife and a piece of driftwood. She eased the blade along the grain, freeing the shape of a fish hawk from the wood. The work went slowly but centered her. As the small shavings fell into the water, she tuned into the world around her. The small lapping sounds of the wavelets against the stone formed a counterpoint to the working of the blade. The warm sun played hide-and-seek in the small, puffy clouds, alternately shining full on her and then giving her a respite from the heat as a cloud blocked the direct rays. Part of her mind extended to the bay and the life it held. A school of bait fish found its way into the harbor’s mouth and the sea birds held a raucous feast, diving into the stippled water and rising with their silvery prizes.

The calm morning soothed her jagged edges and the fish hawk took shape. She held it up to the light. She hadn’t put in any detail yet, but the overall shape of the bird perched on a branch appeared in the grain. She traced the hunched intensity of its body with tip of her finger.

She heard footsteps coming up the pier and glanced over to see Bobby approaching. She folded her knife and tucked her work away in a pocket. A check of the time showed 1030. She shook her head and clambered to her feet.

“Ready to go?” Bobby asked when he got up to the boat. He stepped aboard and tossed his gear into the cuddy.

“Been ready since ten.”

He shot her a sour look. “Don’t be a pain in the ass. I don’t have time for your attitude today.” He punched the starter and the engine coughed a couple of times before it fired up and the low rumble drowned out anything short of a shout.

She sighed as he stepped up to the wheel and turned an impatient look in her direction. His pursed lips and raised eyebrows clearly said “Are you coming or what?”

She released the bow and stern lines, gathering them as she went and tossing them into the boat. She stood by the spring line as Bobby backed down against it to start the bow swinging out before putting the boat in gear and giving the line enough slack for her to release it. Just as she stepped for the gunwale, Bobby goosed the throttle making the boat lurch. She only just barely made the adjustment and got aboard without falling into the drink. She banged her arm against the gunwale as she fell into the boat instead.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” she yelled from the stern.

He smirked at her over his shoulder. “Sorry. Throttle stuck for a sec.” He faced the bow and the boat lumbered away from the pier and into the channel heading for the bait shack and fuel dock.

Sarah shook her head and started stowing the loose cordage to clear the deck. “Asshole.”

Sarah pulled the bow line out and stepped onto the dock as Bobby killed the engine, letting momentum carry the boat to the dock. She gave it a couple of wraps around the bollard and went aft to set the stern line. When she got the lines set, she pulled her stuff from the cuddy and cast Bobby a sour glance before leaving the boat for the day.

“Silent treatment?” Bobby said. “That what this is?”

She stopped and looked down into the cockpit.

“Really?” he asked, shaking his head and sighing. “All right. What time tomorrow?”

“Why? You won’t show up on time anyway,” Sarah said.

He sighed and looked out over the bay. “Look, I’m sorry, all right?”

“Sorry for what?” she asked, spitting the words at him, wishing they were venom. “Sorry for being late every damn day? Sorry for nearly dumping me in the drink this morning with your stuck throttle stunt? You ever think what would happen if I quit? You can’t run solo. Company rules. How old are you? Same age as me. You think I’m the only one that needs this job? Is that it? You think the company won’t kick you off planet?”

He looked up at her, his face going a bit pale under the summer tan.

“Didn’t think of that, did ya?”

“I can get another crew,” Bobby said, sticking out his jaw. “There’s a dozen guys here that would jump at the chance to work with me. It’s a company boat, remember.”

“Really? All those friends of yours that finally got berths on the draggers? They’re going to quit those? Lose their seniority and chance to move up to skipper someday?”

Bobby’s face clouded over and folded into a dark scowl. His fists balled at the end of his arms, hammers looking for a nail. “You’re not the boss on this boat, kid. Your old man won’t protect you out there. You best keep that in mind.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear but anger overwhelmed it. “You keep this in mind, Bobby Tatum. You pull that stunt again and I’ll report it to Comstock.”

He sneered. “You think he’s going to believe you?”

“Yes,” she said, but doubt sank a hook into her.

Bobby’s posture changed and he settled back, opening his fists and rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs. “All right, look,” he said, licking his lips. “Things got a little hot. I’m sorry.”

“You said that before. Sorry for what?”

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out through his nose, the passage of air audible even over the sounds of the harbor. His face relaxed into a smile. “All of it. Whatever it was that has you upset. I’m sorry.”

“Nine o’clock,” she said.

“What?”

“Tomorrow. Be here at nine.”

She watched his face start to crinkle into a frown. His hands twitched like they wanted to fist again but he nodded. “Nine o’clock.”

“Sharp, Bobby. Straight up.”

He nodded, his head a jerky puppet on unseen strings.

Sarah made the turn onto the pier and started toward the boat. She checked the time. 0855. “Five minutes, Bobby,” she said. “Five minutes.”

At the boat she dropped her pack into the cockpit and started singling up the lines. It took only a few moments to prep the boat but by the time she had the extra mooring lines stored, Bobby had come strolling up the dock. She nodded. “Morning.”

He nodded back. “Ready to catch a bunch of crabs?” He offered a tentative smile. A porcelain peace offering.

“Yup. Season’s been good so far,” she said, jumping up onto the pier and pulling in the bow and stern lines. “Your buddies are doing well with the bait operation.”

He nodded. “Glad we’re not having to pay transportation costs.” He checked the engine and pushed the starter, holding it until the engine coughed and caught. He eyed the gauge and held up two fingers.

She pulled the spring line loose, keeping just a loop around the bollard, waiting for the engine to warm up a bit.

He checked the console and put his hand on the throttle, giving Sarah a look and a nod.

She nodded back and he put the boat in reverse for a few heartbeats then popped the throttle back to neutral. She slipped the spring line free as the bow swung out and the tension left the rope. After so many weeks of doing it, she didn’t even notice she’d done it until she had the lines secured and Bobby had the boat cruising into the inner harbor channel. She looked back at the pier, remembering the first time. How frightened she’d been.

Bobby kept his eye on the channel markers, easing the throttle up as they cleared the inner harbor and slewing the boat to starboard to pick up their first buoy.

Could she do this for the rest of her life? Putting around the harbor pulling crab pots? She caught a whiff of rock weed on the wind, and she gazed out to the headland and the long beach she called home.

She grimaced and sighed as she pulled on her work gloves and jerked the gaff from its brackets under the gunwale. She stared at the water sliding by and leaned out to spot the buoy. For all his other flaws, she had to give Bobby his due—he could maneuver the boat even better than her father. She felt her lips press together, thinking about her father.

Bobby glanced over at her. “You all right?”

The question surprised her. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged, stretching his neck up to look at the approaching float. “Looked like you were gettin’ ready to kill this buoy.” He shot her a grin.

She leaned over, catching the line and pulling it aboard, taking a couple of turns around the winch and letting the motor do the heavy work.

Bobby idled the engine and swung the stern to give her a straight line to the string of five traps.

Sarah pushed the thoughts of her father and his constant drumbeat of “married or employed.” She sank into the routine of the traps, the rhythm of it.

“Pull ‘em up, put ‘em down again,” Bobby said.

She laughed a little and nodded. “Kinda peaceful.”

Bobby nodded, the tiniest of smiles on his face. “You ready?” he asked, nodding at the string.

“Let’s do it.”

Bobby put the boat in gear and aimed it at some landmark she couldn’t see from the stern. When he gave her the sign, she dropped the float and first trap over the side, guiding the line and traps as they slid off the sideboard and into the drink, pulling the terminal buoy off. He gave the engine a little more throttle and headed for the next string.

She watched him when he wasn’t looking. He seemed in his element while running the boat. The tightness around his eyes seemed less, somehow. The bitter turn of his lip lost its scorn. He looked almost like a boy, totally immersed in the moment. Totally where he wanted to be, where he belonged.

He pulled the throttle back and she leaned over to grab the next string. If only he could find that peace ashore. His life—and probably hers—would be so much better.

The thought shocked her so much she almost flubbed the pickup, but managed to pull it together and get the line on the winch before it all came apart.

Bobby glanced at her. And she shrugged. “Wool gatherin’,” she said.

He laughed and waved it off. “Long as you didn’t fall over. We can always make a second pass.”

She tended to her line and the pots. The crab population seemed to be growing instead of shrinking as the season went along. The crab box filled up faster every week. Her hands and arms worked mechanically, almost free of mental intervention. Pull the line, settle the trap, pull the pinchy little buggers out and toss them in the box. Fill the bait bag. Repeat.

In her head she heard the gulls, the water bumping against the sides of the boat. The engine’s throb masked the deeper sounds of the world, but she could pick out that slow heartbeat if she listened hard for it, like picking out a conversation in a crowded room. Eavesdropping on the planet. The thought made her smile as she leaned out to grab the next buoy.

Bobby secured the engine and sighed. He glanced at Sarah. “Better?” he asked.

She finished swabbing down the cockpit and rinsed the swab in the bay. “What’s better?”

He made a swirling motion with his hand. “Today.”

She clipped the swab back into storage and stretched her back. “Yes. Can you do it like this every day?”

He stuck his hands into his pockets, leaned back against the console, and stared out over the bay. “You mean can I show up on time and not be a dick?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Showing up on time is really the key, I think.”

He looked at her, a puzzled frown on his face. “Not all the rest?”

She shrugged and crossed her arms. Even though the boat was no longer moving, a chill washed over her. “Once we’re in the groove, you’re really into it. You’re not trying to boss me around, tell me what to do.”

“So what’s the big deal about being late?” he asked.

“It’s insulting.” She shook her head and looked away from him. “You don’t care enough about my time to not waste it. You’re setting yourself up to be the bottleneck because you don’t think I matter. If you want to start later, don’t agree to start at ten but then show up half a stan late.” She waited until he looked at her. “It sets the tone for the day where you’ve already slapped me in the face and I’m supposed to ignore it knowing you’re going to do it again. And again.”

He nodded.

“And that stunt with the throttle. What if I’d broken my arm?”

His lips pressed into a line and he looked at his feet. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I guess I wasn’t thinking.” He shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”

She stared at him, wondering if she really believed it. If she could trust him to remember.

“Today was better,” he said.

She nodded and pulled her pack out of the cuddy. “We got off on the right foot.”

He nodded. “What time tomorrow?”

“Same time? That work for you?” Sarah asked.

“See you then,” Bobby said.

Sarah started down the pier already thinking about getting a short walk in. The tide would be full in a few hours. She might get her feet wet coming back, but the beach called to her. She smiled and picked up her pace.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

St. Cloud Orbital: September 17, 2347

SARAH STEPPED OFF THE passenger shuttle and into a madhouse. People hurried everywhere in all directions. It seemed like everybody needed to be someplace else immediately and they weren’t afraid to push past her to get there. She stepped to the side of the arrival lounge to let the crowd thin out a little and hefted her bag to the other hand.

Once the herd had departed, she followed the passageway marked with a green exit sign. Almost everybody had gone that way even as they had swirled and crowded around her as they streamed off the shuttle from the surface.

Sarah walked along the passage for just a few meters before it opened up into a wide plaza. Cargo haulers zipped along marked lanes while people in a bewildering array of clothing strode along singly and in groups. The smell of floor wax and some kind of minty oil seemed to stick on the inside of her nose.

“Sarah?” A voice beside her caught her attention. She turned to see her great-grandmother standing beside the passage she’d just left.

“Hi.” The word just bubbled out of her without conscious thought. For a moment she couldn’t think what to call the tall slender woman waiting there.

The woman’s face split into a wide smile. “My goodness. Look at you.” She spread her arms wide. “Give me a hug, child, and let’s get off the docks before we get run over.”

Sarah wrapped her arms around her great-grandmother and felt an unexpected strength in the woman’s rail-thin frame. “Good to see you, Gram.”

“I’m so glad you came up to visit. I haven’t seen you since you were a wee tyke. You probably don’t remember.” She ushered them through an unmarked door on the inside of the curving wall. The passageway on the other side felt much warmer and the door itself closed with a solid chunk.

Sarah looked over her shoulder at the door.

“Air tight.” Her great-grandmother looked back at the door. “It’s air tight. If the docks lose atmosphere, that door won’t open. It seals against the vacuum.”

“Does that happen often?” Sarah asked, feeling a little frisson of fear tickle her back.

“Nope. Hardly ever.”

Sarah gulped but the older woman slung an arm over Sarah’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, dearie. I’ve been living up here for going on four decades. I feel safer up here than I do on the ground.” She hugged Sarah. “You’ll get used to it.”

Sarah felt a laugh just under the surface. She smiled. “I hope so.”

Her great-grandmother led Sarah a short way down the passage before taking a confusing series of left and right turns. After they’d traveled for just a few ticks, Sarah felt completely lost.

“Where are we going?”

“First my office,” her great-grandmother said. “I need to check on a shipment. Then home. It won’t take long.”

Sarah strode along, doing her best to keep pace with the energetic older woman. “I had no idea the station was so big,” she said.

Her great-grandmother chortled. “First, it’s an orbital. Stations are something different,” she said. “Second, it’s not as big as it feels at first. You’ll get used to it. At least I did.”

“How do you find your way around?”

Her great-grandmother laughed. “I’ve been here a long time. You begin to learn a few things by walking the same passages every day.”

They bustled through a normal looking door into a tidy office space with a young clerk sitting at a console just inside the door.

“Lette, good. You’re still here. This is my great-granddaughter Sarah. Sarah, this is Lette Beale. She keeps me honest. Most days.”

Lette stood and shook Sarah’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to Bundles.”

“Bundles?” Sarah asked, speaking before thinking.

“It’s the name of the company,” Lette said. “Speaking of which. Your 1400 appointment canceled, Marta. He’s re-sked for tomorrow in your 0900 block. You’ve got six open reqs in your queue for approval. Two need to be handled before close of business.”

“Can you bring them up?”

Lette nodded. “Of course.” She sat and pulled up a screen, leaning to the side so Sarah’s great-grandmother could see.

“We’ve got capacity for all of these?”

Lette nodded again. “Yes. The only tricky one is this shipment of frozen ova. We’ve got a fast packet going in that direction in the morning, if we can get it aboard.”

“Who’s the skipper?”

“Peter Gold.”

“Send him an invitation to dinner at Scotty’s on the Eight. Tonight. 1900. Make a reservation in the company name.”

Lette’s gaze flickered to Sarah before she asked, “Can you make it?”

Her great-grandmother looked at Sarah and pursed her lips. “No,” she said. She looked back at Lette. “How about you? Feel like an expensive dinner with a dashing ship’s captain on the company credit?”

“Peter’s is old enough to be my father.”

“I’ve met your father. He didn’t seem that old to me.”

Lette gave the older woman a sour look. “This orbital doesn’t seem that old to you.”

The old lady grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “True, but I wouldn’t kick him out of the bunk for eatin’ crackers.”

Sarah felt a bit out of her depth. “If you need to do a business meeting, Gramma, I’m sure I can survive for a few stans on my own.”

“Nonsense, my dear.” Her great-grandmother looked back and forth between Lette and Sarah for a few moments. “All right. New plan. Lette, can you show Sarah around a little bit while I’m tied up with Peter?”

Lette grinned up at Sarah. “I’m game. She’s buying.”

Sarah shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“Shall I swing by the apartment at like 1800?” Lette asked.

Marta nodded. “Thanks, Lette. You’re a dear.”

“And you’re buying me a nice dinner,” Lette said with a cheeky grin. She gave Sarah a wave. “See you later.”

Marta led Sarah out of the office and down the corridor to a small passenger lift. The door opened as they arrived and they took the car up four levels. “Brokers and dealers get office space on the dock level. I’m on four with some of the other permanent party.”

“Permanent party?” Sarah asked. Visions of all-night party goers wandering the halls gave her pause.

“We’re part of the permanent orbital staff and crew. Permanent party,” Marta said. There’s a couple of other decks but I moved into this place when I first came up back when your great-grandfather died. It was shortly after your grandmother married your grandfather. He’s a much nicer man now, your grandfather,” Marta said, pressing her hand against the palm plate by the door. “In those days, he had a stick up his ass so far it made a point on his head.” She sighed and shook her head, pushing through into the apartment. “That boxfish was the best thing that ever happened to him, far as I’m concerned.”

Sarah followed her great-grandmother into the apartment, impressed with the size. “This looks bigger than our cottage.”

Marta grinned. “Probably is. I bought the one next door a decade ago and knocked the wall down. Your room is through there. Anything you need, let me know. I’ll get it delivered from the chandlery.”

Marta kicked off her shoes and checked the time. “We’ve got a couple of stans before we need to do anything. How are you holding up?”

Just then Sarah’s stomach grumbled so loud they both heard it.

“All right then. Snack time. Go throw your bag on a bed in there and come join me in the kitchen. I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

Sarah followed the pointing finger through a short hall into a suite with a conversational grouping on one end, a private bath, and a separate bedroom to the side. She put her bag on the floor, not wanting to make the bed cover dirty with whatever might be stuck on the bottom of her ratty valise. Following her great-grandmother’s lead, she toed off her shoes and took a quick survey of the room. It looked like a palace compared to her room in the cottage.

“I could get used to this,” she said and retraced her steps to find the kitchen.

Marta stood at an island counter in the middle of a compact galley. It was only slightly larger than the one Sarah was used to but the lighting made everything seem bright and airy. “This is nice,” she said, looking around at the appliances and fittings.

Marta looked up from a cutting board filled with fruits and cheeses. In the galley lights she seemed only slightly older than Sarah’s grandmother, but Sarah could see the family resemblance in her nose and eyes. “A little snack to tide us over until dinner. Lette will give you the tour. She’s a dear. She also loves to eat. I hope you’re not one of those picky eaters?”

Sarah laughed. “I’ve never been accused of that. Why?”

Marta shrugged. “Young women seem to go through phases. Your mother did. Always worried about her weight and whether this color made her look heavy or those slacks made her ass look big. Silly woman. She was always gorgeous. Even when she came back from the boat covered in oil-skins and fish guts.” She popped a small chunk of fruit into her mouth and closed her eyes, rolling the morsel around in her mouth. She waved Sarah over. “Come on, dearie. You must try these ... they’re fresh off the vine in hydroponics.”

They took turns picking morsels off the board.

Marta kept glancing sideways at Sarah.

“What is it?” Sarah asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Marta smiled. “Yes, my dear. You are the charming reminder of my daughter when she was your age. She was boat-crazy in those days. Always prowling the docks, checking out the new hulls coming out. Every trip we made to Aram’s Inlet, I could always count on finding her in the hull shop talking to the workers printing up the new models.”

“She seems pretty sedate these days,” Sarah said, snagging another piece of the white cheese from the board. “Of course, I only see her a few times a year and for short periods at that.”

Marta nodded. “The curse of grandmothers since Seth begat Enos.”

“Who?”

Marta shook her head. “Old reference. Not important.” She took a bit of the orange melon and popped it into her mouth. “Your grandmother,” she said, talking around the food, “found a new calling.” She chewed a couple of times and swallowed. “Richard Krugg.”

“Grandfather?”

“Yeah. Him. Arrogant, self-righteous prig. Took his title as a gift from on high, even though he only inherited it from his father—a sheep farmer from up-country who survived getting gored by a goat and came out of it a changed man.”

“I don’t know him.”

Marta shook her head. “I’m not surprised.” She picked up a cube of cheese and stared at it, somewhat dreamily. “Lovely man, though. How he sired Richard is beyond me.” She tossed the cheese in the air and caught it with her mouth. She gave it two chews and swallowed.

“What did Grandfather do?” Sarah asked.

Marta picked up the next to the last bit of fruit and slid the board toward Sarah. “He made Rachel give up fishing.”

Sarah almost choked on the fruit. “He what?”

“He told her that he wouldn’t marry her unless she gave up fishing. He wouldn’t sit at home every day and wonder if she wasn’t coming back.”

Sarah slumped against the counter, emotional shocks echoing in her whole body. “How could he?”

Marta shrugged. “Rachel was not happy.”

Sarah glanced at Marta. “Doesn’t sound like you were either.”

Marta shrugged again. “It was her decision.”

“Obviously she went along with it.”

“Oh, yes. Clearly,” Marta said. “I never did learn what their deal was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I figure she got some concession out of him in return for picking him over boats.” Marta sighed. “She never told me. Eventually I stopped asking.”

“She seems content,” Sarah said, a kind of peace offering.

Marta smiled. “Your father came along and everything changed. Of course, then that fool Richard got hit by a boxfish and nearly died. Now he’s gallivanting all over the planet. She stays home and tends the company’s business. Damn good at it, too.”

“What would you have had her do?” Sarah said.

Marta smiled and grabbed a towel to wipe down the counter. “Just what she did. Not my place to tell her how to run her life. Once kids get to be a certain age, it’s really up to them. What will they reach for? How hard will they push? What will they settle for? As a mother, I always wanted what was best for her, but there comes a time in every parent’s life that they have to accept that their child is the one who has to decide what’s best for themselves.”

Sarah couldn’t help but needle a bit. “But you don’t like my grandfather.”

Marta wrinkled her nose. “That’s too strong. I didn’t like the prat he was when they first started hanging out.” She rinsed off the board and knife, stowing them away. “Now? Half a century later? They’re still together. That says something. Might not be the relationship I’d want, but it’s not my relationship now, is it?” She smiled at Sarah. “She’s still my daughter. Your father is my grandson. Now you’re my lovely great-granddaughter come to spend a week on the orbital.” She sighed, a sappy smile curving her lips. “What’s better than that? Certainly better than complaining about things that never were or might have been.”

A yawn swept Sarah’s breath away before she could catch it. She covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what hit me.”

Marta smiled. “Time change. It’s afternoon here. What time is it in Cape Grace?”

Sarah shook her head. “Probably late. I’ve been traveling for—I don’t know how long.”

“Go take a nap. I’ll wake you in time to change for dinner.”

“If I sleep now, I won’t sleep tonight,” Sarah said.

Marta laughed. “Trust me, sweetie. Once Lette gets you back here, you’ll sleep again. I’ll probably have to wake you for lunch tomorrow.”

Another yawn started to build, but Sarah stifled it. “You win. Maybe I should.”

Marta nodded and gave her a quick hug. “I’m delighted you’ve come up to visit an old lady.”

“Thanks for having me,” Sarah said and made her way to the royal-sized bedroom down the hall.

She draped her blouse and jeans over the back of a chair before crawling under the covers. The bed itself felt heavenly. Cushiony but not too soft. The covers felt like nothing she’d ever touched before in her life. She settled onto the pillow and wondered if she could fall asleep so far from the ocean. She discovered a quiet whooshing sound that must have been part of the orbital. If she focused, it almost sounded like the low sound of a continuous wave breaking on the sand.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

St. Cloud Orbital: September 17, 2347

A VOICE CALLED HER from a peaceful dream. “Sarah?”

“Hmm?” she said, blinking and slowly coming back to life. She remembered where she was and lifted her head to look around.

Marta stood in the doorway of the bedroom wearing a terry cloth robe cinched around her waist, a smile on her lips, and some kind of white coating on her face. “You managed to get a nap, I see.”

Sarah felt muffled and off balance. “Yeah. I guess I needed it.”

Marta nodded. “Help yourself to the fresher. There’s a robe in the closet. I’ve got to go finish making myself beautiful.” She blew Sarah a kiss and disappeared back down the hall.

It took Sarah a couple of moments to recover enough to pull herself out of the bed. It was so warm and snuggly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Curiosity drove her out and she found the robe, a mate to the one her great-grandmother wore, in an upright wardrobe in the corner. She slipped it on over her underthings and started rummaging in her bag for something fresh to wear. The chrono on the wall said barely 1700. How long it could it possibly take to get ready to go out?

By 1730 she had her answer as she poked around the sitting room in her suite wondering what to do. From the sounds coming down the hall, her grandmother was still making herself beautiful. The suite, although well appointed, lacked any kind of personal touch. Why have a whole other apartment, if not to live in?

Eventually, she found the broad cabinet doors that opened onto the biggest entertainment unit she’d ever seen. A control wand rested just inside the cabinet and she keyed the power button to turn it on.

The screen came to life showing a scene of the planet below them. The terminator line appeared to be stalled with the rightmost arc of the planet gleaming with sunrise while over two-thirds of the planet lay in darkness. It took her a moment to remember that the orbital held a geosynchronous orbit over Starvey Bay. She tried to identify it on the coastline but couldn’t make out enough detail in the dark to be sure she saw even the large installations at Starvey, let alone the quiet village of Cape Grace.

A quiet murmur of longing worked through her chest. Home seemed so near, yet she knew it lay so far away. To be able to see where it must be, even if she couldn’t make out the details, made it all the more tantalizing. She pressed the power button and turned the unit off, closing the cabinet doors over the device, hiding it completely.

She was on the orbital now. Best she make good use of the time and not spend it mooning over the pointless view of a home she wasn’t even sure she could keep. She looked around the suite and wandered back into her grandmother’s main living area. She listened to see if she could hear this man-made world but all she heard was the quiet whoosh and the occasional click of an automated switch from somewhere in the kitchen.

What would it be like to live up here all the time? To never see the sun or feel the wind?

The murmur resurfaced with a vengeance, bringing a longing and a sadness that nearly brought her to tears.

What would she do to stay on St. Cloud?

“Sarah? You all right?” Her grandmother stood in the doorway leading into her sleeping quarters, still wearing the robe but with her hair done up in an elaborate coif and subtle makeup around her eyes and on her lips.

“Yes,” she said, shaking herself and afraid that she’d been staring too long. “Just wondering what it would be like to live up here all the time.”

Marta’s smile seemed to light up the room. “I love it, but it’s not for everybody. Any time you want to try it, you’re more than welcome to come and live here with me.”

Sarah swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Grandmother. That’s very generous.”

Marta made a tut-tut sound. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. You’re family. What kind of great-grandmother would I be. I’ll warn you, it’s an acquired taste.”

Sarah nodded and felt the frown growing on her brow. “I can see that. I have a question, though.”

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“There’s a whooshing sound. I can’t place it. I assume it’s normal but what is it?”

Marta stood very still in the door frame and tilted her head just a few degrees to the side. “That?” she said, holding her hand up as if to point to something where nothing actually was.

Sarah heard the sound. “Yes. It’s a really low background noise.”

Marta pointed to a grill set high in one wall. “Is it coming from there?”

Sarah crossed to stand under the grill and turned her head to and fro to get a sense of the direction. “Yes. I think so.”

“Air conditioning. The orbital has to keep the air circulating all the time. There’s an intake behind that chair.” She pointed to a large comfy-looking armchair set in the corner.

Sarah peaked behind it and saw the grill. “Ah. I see it.”

“Fresh air blows in up there. The heavier, cooler, staler air gets returned down there,” Marta said. “It’s like the orbital’s lungs.”

Sarah nodded. “Makes sense. Thanks. I thought I was going crazy hearing the surf from way up here.”

Marta grinned. “You’re so used to hearing it, your mind is probably supplying the sound.”

A chime sounded—a single pong.

“That’s the door. Should be Lette. You want to get it?”

Sarah nodded and Marta headed back down the hall.

When Sarah opened the door, Lette breezed in. “You ready?”

Sarah shrugged. “I guess. I don’t really know what to expect.”

Lette gave her outfit an up-and-down look. “Hmm. All right. We can work with this. What do you want to see?”

“Where do the big ships dock?”

Lette grinned. “Come on. There’s a gallery that runs all the way around the orbital. We can go see who’s in.”

“See who’s in?”

“Yeah. We can look out and see what ships are docked. It’s fun to see all the different ships snugged into the side of the orbital. Come on.”

Sarah nodded. “One sec.” She walked back to the passageway leading to her grandmother’s space. “Gram, we’re leaving!”

Her grandmother’s voice floated down the hall from somewhere back there. “Have fun, girls. Oh, take the key card on the counter so you can get back in.”

Sarah spotted a flat plastic card on the clean counter. “Thanks, Gram. Have fun.”

A throaty laugh came as answer.

Sarah glanced at Lette who wore an amused expression, her lips twisted to the side and mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Great-grandma not exactly what you expected?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head. “I didn’t really know what to expect.” She grabbed the card and thrust it into her hip pocket. “I guess I’m ready.”

Lette stopped right outside the door. “You have a peda?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s make sure you can find your way home. Open it up and let’s get you connected.”

Sarah pulled the device from her pocket and Lette walked her through the simple process of linking into the station network. Once she completed the connection, an app on the device showed her where she was on a schematic diagram of the orbital.

“Use this button to mark this spot in the station as home,” Lette said.

Sarah pressed the button and a gold ring surrounded the tiny blip that marked where they were.

“Now whenever you need to get home, you can use this home key to get directions from where you are back to this point. You shouldn’t need it because you and I are going to be really close friends for the next few stans, but in case the unforgivable happens and I lose you, at least you can get home.”

Sarah nodded. “Got it.”

“Perfect.” Lette grinned. “Let’s go see some big ships.”

They traveled through the corridors to a promenade around the core and went along it until they reached a lift. “It’s a big ring. There are lifts on four sides. Just keep walking and you’ll hit one. We’re on Four Deck now. We’re going down to Two Deck.”

The lift opened to a large car that already had a half dozen people in it. They shuffled to the side to let the two women enter and the door slinked shut behind them. Two decks later, nobody had spoken and Sarah followed Lette out into another promenade. This one had subdued lighting and big windows looking out.

Lette trotted across to the nearest and peered through the glass. She waved Sarah over. “Come see.”

Sarah stood beside Lette and almost gasped. A huge ship seemed to be parked right under her feet. She looked out along the length of the hull and saw a white light shining in the distance. She felt like a flea must feel on the back of a dog. “What is that?” Her voice barely broke a whisper.

“That, my lovely landrat, is a multi-freight hauler. It carries seventy-two cargo containers along the central spine. Right under us here is the bow. It’s docked in the ring on the deck below. Way out there under that light is the engineering section.”

“That’s amazing,” Sarah said, staring out into the gloom trying to make sense of what she was looking at.

“Look down there,” Lette pointed down close into the orbital. See that little boxlike thing?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the bridge. If you’re here when they get pulled out, you can look right in and see the crew.”

Sarah let the words wash over her. She had nothing for them to latch onto but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Lette grabbed her arm and dragged her a few meters along the promenade. “Come on. Let’s see who else is here.”

About a third of the way around, they stepped into full sunlight, thanks to the angle of the system primary and its relationship to the planet below. Sarah went to the windows and stared out at the scene spread out before her.

Ships. Huge ships. Some round. Some almost square. A few that were egg-shaped. They looked like toys gleaming in the unfiltered light of the star at the center of their system. The ships’ shapes and colors looked almost fake—too bright, too sharp. Small craft seemed to swarm just beyond the sterns of the behemoths.

“What are those?” Sarah asked, pointing.

“Cargo haulers. Some are going on station to pull cargo cans. Others are going back to the marshaling yard to pick new ones up. A few are provisioners. They deliver food and supplies.”

A larger yellow and black ship floated past. A big M showed on the side of the hull.

“That’s a tug. They’re probably going to pull a ship out so it can get underway.”

Sarah stared, her gaze jumping from detail to detail, from the various shapes of the huge ships nuzzled up to the station proper to the swarming vehicles just beyond. They came in a mind-boggling array of shapes and colors. The light seemed too bright, the shadows too dark. The striking contrast made the entire scene feel unreal.

She turned to find Lette looking at her, a huge toothy grin pasted on her face. “What?”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Lette asked.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Come on. Let’s get some dinner. What do you like to eat?”

“Everything,” Sarah said.

“What can’t you get down below?” Lette asked.

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. We eat a lot of fish.”

Lette laughed. “All right. No fish joints. What else? You like Asian?”

“Asian?” Sarah asked. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Lette paused and stared at Sarah for an uncomfortably long time. “What did you have for dinner the last night you were at home.”

“Fish chowder,” Sarah said.

“The night before?”

“Baked mouta.”

“The night before that?”

“Leg of lamb.”

Lette made a dramatic sweeping motion of her hand across her brow. “Oh, thank heaven. If you’d said fish I’d have died.”

Sarah laughed at Lette’s antics, not really sure if she should feel like she was being made fun of or not. “I told you. We eat a lot of fish.”

“All right.” Lette pressed her lips together into a tight line and stared at Sarah. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?”

“Probably, but I haven’t found it yet.”

Lette blinked a couple of times. “Not the answer I expected but I can work with it.”

“I don’t get out much.”

Lette laughed. “All right. Let’s try this. Will you trust me to get you some delicious food that you probably have never heard of, let alone tasted?”

“Sure. Why not?” Sarah asked.

Lette shrugged. “Some people aren’t very adventurous.”

“What if I don’t like it? I’d hate to waste it.”

“Don’t let that worry you. Your great-gram can afford it. I don’t go for the spendy places myself.” She looped Sarah’s arm in hers. “Come on. I know a place that makes ramen to die for.”

“What’s ramen?” Sarah asked.

Lette gave her a look and shook her head. “This is either going to be great or a catastrophe.”

“What?” Sarah asked. “Are you making fun of me?”

Lette hugged Sarah’s arm and smiled at her. “Never. I’m delighted to be able to introduce you to what looks like a whole new world of food.” She paused and bit her lower lip. “I’m just not sure how you’re going to take to it.”

“Does it taste good?” Sarah asked.

Lette nodded. “Heavenly.”

Sarah smiled back. “Let’s do it.”

Lette took them to Six Deck where a long string of walk-up food joints along the promenade provided a bewildering variety of foods. The aromas alone made her mouth water although she had no idea what she was smelling.

“This might be more people than I’ve ever seen in one place before,” Sarah said, leaning in to Lette. “Do they all live here?”

Lette snorted. “This is nothing. Probably half these people work on the station. Some of them are on a meal break, I suspect. The people in the jumpsuits all have the station logo on the chest.” She nodded at a pair of women in matching coveralls.

Sarah noticed the patch on the upper left. She couldn’t make it out in detail, but enough to get a feel for it. She looked around and spotted more people wearing the same outfit. “What about the rest?”

Lette shrugged. “Not sure. Some are spacers on liberty from their ships. This is a good place to grab a cheap meal. Some are flea market peddlers. They come up from the surface to offer their goods for a few days before going back down.”

“You can do that?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a pretty good market. Locals mostly selling to spacers but there’s a pretty wide variety of goods. Art work, textiles. Yarn is big because of the sheep.”

“You have sheep up here?”

Lette laughed again. “No. You have sheep down there.”

It took a few heartbeats for Sarah to catch up. She laughed. “Sorry. I’m a little dazed.”

Lette patted her arm. “I promised you ramen. Come on.”

They walked arm in arm through the crowd. Lette pointed out various kinds of foods. Some were things that Sarah knew—like pizza—but others were completely strange.

“What’s shawarma?”

They stopped for a moment. Lette pointed to a collection of vertical, rotating spits in the back of the booth. Each had some kind of meat on it as it rotated slowly around. The workers behind the counter took orders, sliced the meat off the spit, and wrapped the resulting meals in a waxy paper. “It’s a spicy meat dish. Very old. Very traditional. Those workers probably learned it from their parents and grandparents back through the ages. Some say thousands of years ago. Back before the Great Diaspora.” She stopped. “You know what that is, right?”

Sarah nodded and grinned. “I’m sheltered, not ignorant.”

They continued on their way until they came to a booth that had a few stools in front of a counter. One older-looking woman stood behind the counter, tending a big pot on a burner against the back wall. A couple of people sat at the stools, hunched over their bowls.

“Ramen,” Lette said. She dragged Sarah to a pair of open stools and sat down.

The woman turned to them and raised an eyebrow.

Lette raised two fingers.

The woman nodded and pulled a pair of large rounded bowls from a pile. She pulled some cooked noodles from a vat in the back with a pair of tongs, dropping a helping in each bowl before adding some vegetables from another pan in the back. With a big ladle she scooped hot broth from her pot and poured it over the noodles. “Chicken? Pork?” she asked.

“Chicken,” Lette said.

Sarah shrugged. “Chicken.”

“You’ve had chicken, right?” Lette asked, leaning over to speak quietly in Sarah’s ear.

The question struck Sarah’s funny bone and she giggled. “I’ve even seen a live chicken.”

Lette made an “I’m impressed” face and grinned. “Look at you, all rural and farmy.”

“I know more about fish,” Sarah said.

“Fish?” the lady asked, tongs poised.

“Chicken,” Sarah said. “Please.”

The woman smiled and looked back and forth between Lette and Sarah a couple of times. She nodded and finished the dishes by adding more chopped vegetables on top. She placed a bowl in front of each of them and set a set of utensils rolled in paper beside each bowl. “You want something to drink?”

“Water?” Sarah asked.

“Hot tea,” Lette said.

The woman nodded and looked back at Sarah. “Hot tea?”

“Just water, thanks.”

“You bet,” the woman said and returned in a few moments with the drinks. “Enjoy.”

Sarah opened the packet to find a fork, an odd spoon with a short handle and a flat bottom along with a chunk of wood. She looked at Lette who had already opened her packet and chosen the fork. Sarah gave an inward shrug and followed suit. She took a few noodles wrapped on the fork and tucked them into her mouth. The flavors exploded across her tongue and she froze for a moment.

“You all right?” Lette asked, leaning close.

Sarah nodded, savoring the noodles as she chewed and swallowed. “What is this?”

“Ramen.” Lette grinned. “Good, huh?”

“It’s noodles. Like noodle soup.”

“Yeah. Ramen means noodle in some old Earth language where this came from. There are about four different booths here, each with its own broth. I like this one best.”

Sarah picked up the block of wood and raised an eyebrow.

Lette nodded at the other diners down the counter. A few of them used sticks as pincers to grab the noodles from the broth. Sarah looked at the wood and realized it was perforated. “Chopsticks,” Lette said. “I never figured out how to use them. Don’t have the patience for them. But they’re traditional.” She shrugged. “Fork works for me.”

“What about the spoon?” Sarah asked.

Lette grinned. “You don’t want to leave the broth. That’s the best part.”

Sarah grinned back and addressed her bowl once more. Every bite tasted as good as the first, yet each slightly different. The chicken melted in her mouth and the broth filled her. She came to the bottom of the bowl and sat up looking around, feeling a little embarrassed that she’d apparently wolfed down an entire bowl of ramen without taking a break.

“Good?” Lette asked.

Sarah looked at her and nodded. “I might have gotten a little carried away.”

Lette laughed and gave her a one-armed hug. “You’re adorable.” She raised a thumb to the attendant who nodded and brought the tab. Lette thumbed it and stood up from the stool. “Shall we wander a bit?”

Sarah pushed her bowl back from the edge of the counter and stood up, straightening her back and stretching. “That was delicious.”

Lette nodded. “I know. Come on, we’ve got more treats to try.” She hooked her arm in Sarah’s and they started along the promenade again.

As they walked Sarah couldn’t help but think of the curved walkway as a different kind of beach. The tide brought people instead of water, the ebb and flow timed to a different kind of moon. She tried to listen to this tiny, metal world the way she would have listened to St. Cloud on a sunny morning with the tide receding.

She felt the peace of a full belly and no worries. The orbital felt different. Only a little more than a whole day away from her father, away from the cottage. She found it so completely strange on so many levels but still with so much in common.

She let her mind wander over the shrinking crowd, smelling the aromas in each kiosk and stall, feeling the heat of the cooking as they passed those places that sold hot food. They got about halfway around the promenade when the sense of wrongness drew her. She stiffened and stopped.

“What?” Lette asked, turning to Sarah. “You’re not getting sick or anything?”

Sarah shook her head and scanned the people passing by. “Something’s not right.”

“What’s not right?” Lette asked, looking around herself. “It looks fine to me.”

Sarah shook her head as the sense grew stronger. A weight grew in her chest, heavier in each passing moment. She found herself panting, trying to draw breath. She pushed a hand to her breastbone and held it there, feeling her heart beating under the surface and hearing the whooshing of blood in her ears.

“You’re not allergic or anything are you?” Lette asked, tugging at Sarah’s arm. “It’s not something you ate?”

Sarah shook her head. “No. Not me.” She kept scanning the crowd and then she saw him leaning against the outer wall of the promenade, partially curled over, sweat making his face shiny. He wore one of the station jumpsuits and hugged his own chest. “Him.” She pointed and Lette looked.

Sarah pulled out of Lette’s grip and all but ran to the man’s side. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head as his knees buckled and he fell to the decking, curling into a ball.

Lette caught up to her and shook Sarah’s shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“I think he’s having a heart attack. Call for help.”

Lette pulled her peda out and punched some keys. A crowd gathered around, growing thicker by the minute. “They’re coming.”

It was less than a tick before the medical team pushed through the onlookers and began assessing the man lying on the deck. Sarah stood up and backed away. The wrongness nearly overwhelmed her but it eased as time went on and she pulled back more.

The medics pulled out a folding stretcher, got the man on it, and started running down the promenade, one of them rattling off a series of statements that made no sense to Sarah. As they got farther away, the wrongness faded until it suddenly clicked off.

Sarah took a deep breath and leaned against the wall, propping herself up with her knees locked.

The crowd thinned out on its own, only a few people stopping to stare at her for a moment before moving on.

Lette put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “How are you?”

Sarah nodded, not quite ready to trust her voice.

Lette looked around them before stepping closer. “You knew,” she said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the people walking by.

Sarah shrugged. “Apparently.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I was listening to the ... well. Listening to the orbital, I guess. Then I felt it.” She shrugged again. “I can’t explain it.”

“What do you mean, listening to the orbital?” Lette asked. “Like the sounds?”

Sarah shook her head, still trying to steady her breathing and get a handle on her emotions. “No, it’s more than sounds. It’s opening up to the whole place. Becoming aware of everything. Everybody around you. We do it on the beach back home all the time. My father calls it listening to the world.”

“You walk on the beach with your father?” Lette asked, her head tilting a little. “Really?”

Sarah shrugged. “Sometimes alone. I’ve been walking the beach all my life. As soon as I could walk. I think he took me out even before I could walk.” She blew out a big breath and straightened up. “There. I think I’m better now.”

Lette frowned at her. “What’s your father do?”

“He’s the village shaman.”

“There are really shamans?” Lette asked.

Sarah nodded. “Sure. Thousands of them. Why?”

Lette shook her head, her eyes widening. “I’ve heard of them. I thought they were some kind of myth.”

“A myth?” Sarah felt the incredulity bubbling just inside.

“Yeah.” Lette looked up and down the promenade for a moment. “You know. Like everybody knows about the whelkies. Some kind of magical spirit animal totem thing carved by the shamans on the South Coast. I thought it was like a marketing thing.” Her voice trailed off as she looked into Sarah’s eyes.

“That’s silly,” Sarah said after a moment, trying to process what she’d just heard.

“Silly?” Lette asked.

“Yeah. All the shamans carve whelkies. Even the ones up-country and in the crofts. I have no idea where they get the driftwood and shell, but every shaman does it.”

“And there are thousands of shamans?” Lette asked.

“Yeah. My father’s one. If I were a boy, I’d be one.”

“If you were a boy?”

“Yeah. I’m not the son of a shaman. You have to be the son to be recognized as a shaman.” Sarah shrugged. “Where are you from?”

Lette blinked. “Me? Here. Born on the orbital. Grew up here.”

“Never been down to the surface?” Sarah asked, intrigued by the idea that somebody might be born in space and never see the ocean.

“No, I’ve been down. My class took a trip to Starvey Bay to see how the fishing industry works. We were supposed to visit an Allied Agriculture farm but the weather turned bad and we came back up.” She shrugged. “I’ve vacationed down there. Long weekends sometimes, just to get a break from the orbital. It’s a little weird being outside like that.”

“You’ve been down but you don’t know about shamans?” Sarah asked.

“It never came up,” Lette said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your father or anything. It’s just not something I ever came in contact with.”

“You know about whelkies, though.”

“Sure. Everybody knows about whelkies. I just thought the whole shaman thing was part of the lore. Make the customers think the whelkies are worth more or something.”

“Worth more?” Sarah asked.

“Sure, they’re collectibles.”

“Collectibles?”

“Yeah. You know. People like to collect them. Like art.”

“Art,” Sarah said.

Lette nodded. “They’re beautiful things. Your father must carve them.”

Sarah nodded. “He does. I wouldn’t call them beautiful but they’ve got a certain power to them.”

Lette started to say something but closed her mouth before it got out. “Honestly, I’ve only seen the ones for sale here in the flea market.”

“For sale?” Sarah stiffened. “Somebody’s selling them?”

“Sure. There’s a guy who comes up every so often. Has a table full of them. Sells them over a few days and goes back down. Claims to be a shaman.”

“Does he carve them?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know. I thought he did but maybe he just gathers them up and splits the take when he gets back.”

Sarah shook her head. “Shamans don’t sell whelkies.”

“What?”

“Shamans don’t sell whelkies,” she said again. “It’s just not done. It’s like ... well ... I don’t know what it’s like. It’s just not done. Ever. Shamans give whelkies to the people who need them. Whelkies find the people who they’re supposed to help. It’s what they do.”

“I’d suggest we go up to see if he’s there but it’s closed now.” Lette stared at her, looking into her eyes. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, biting off the word. “I’m fine.”

Lette nodded. “All right. I’m just checking.” She offered a tentative smile. “Wouldn’t want my boss to think I wasn’t looking out for her great-granddaughter.”

Sarah took a deep breath and placed a hand on Lette’s shoulder, feeling the concern in the other woman like heat rising off a rock. “Sorry. Everything is so strange up here. It almost feels like a different world. On the surface it looks like we are all alike but inside we’re struggling just to communicate.”

Lette chuckled. “That’s true even among the people you grow up with. You share a common existence but everybody sees it differently.”

Sarah nodded. “I can see that. None of the kids in the village know what my life is like.” She paused and considered that. “For that matter, I don’t really know what they go through. Most of them have jobs on a fishing boat by the time they’re my age.”

“You don’t?” Lette asked.

“No. I want to be a shaman. It’s all I’ve ever wanted as long as I can remember.”

“You carve whelkies?”

“I’m learning.”

“Really?” Lette asked, her eyes widening. “How does that work?”

“First you have to find the driftwood that has the animal in it. You carve them out, get a piece of purple shell and inlay it. It’s not complicated. The inlay technique is the hardest.”

“How many have you carved?”

“I have no idea. Dozens.”

“But you don’t sell them,” Lette said.

“Of course not. I told you. Shamans don’t sell whelkies. They give them to people who need them.”

“But you also said you can’t be a shaman because you’re not a boy.”

The logic of it felt like a slap on the back of Sarah’s head. She could find no words to respond.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” Lette said.

Sarah shook her head and blew out a breath. “I didn’t take it as one. I just never thought of it in those terms.”

“So you could sell them,” Lette said.

Sarah let that idea roll around in her mind for a bit. “I’ll have to think about that. It’s not something I’d ever have considered.”

“Well, somebody is selling them,” Lette said.

“I’d like to see them,” Sarah said. “Talk to him. You know his name?”

Lette shook her head. “No, never asked. He’s just the whelkie guy.”

“You ever bought any from him?”

She shook her head again. “No. Looked at them often enough but never bought any. They’re really popular with spacers.”

Sarah nodded and tried to reconcile the new information with her understanding of the world. It bothered her that it didn’t fit.

“What would you like to do now?” Lette asked.

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know. What’s there to do?”

“What do you do in the evenings at home?”

“Carve. Sleep.” She grinned. “What else is there?”

“You watch holos?”

“Sometimes.”

“You dance? Listen to music?”

“What? Like concerts? We have concerts sometimes.”

“No, like listen to recorded music.”

She shook her head. “Not much. My father does, a little.”

“All right. Still trust me?” Lette asked.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I wasn’t very kind earlier.”

Sarah shook her head. “Neither one of us knows how the other thinks. I’m open if you are.”

A flash of something like longing blinked on Lette’s face before she nodded and took Sarah’s arm. “All right then. There’s a band I know does a regular gig. They should be getting warmed up about now. Let’s go listen to them for a while.”

“A gig?”

“A job. A performance,” Lette said.

“Oh, well, sure. I trust you.” She grinned.

Lette grinned back but something didn’t feel right to Sarah.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Lette nodded but didn’t say anything.

Clearly she wasn’t all right but Sarah wouldn’t pry. She patted Lette’s arm. “Well, let’s go find this gig.”

The band turned out to be a trio of women. One sang while the other two played instruments. The music was like nothing Sarah had ever heard before. Some sounded so sad, that they brought tears to her eyes. Some had her tapping her foot to the beat and bobbing her head. Every time she looked at Lette, she found Lette smiling at her and not watching the band at all.

When the set was over, Lette went up and hugged each of the band members. Clearly they were friends of some standing. After much smiling and nodding, Lette left them on the stage and nodded toward the door.

Sarah joined her as they left. “You know them pretty well, then?”

“Yeah. We go back.”

“I’m not keeping you from time with your friends, am I?” Sarah asked, suddenly aware of how much time Lette had spent on her.

Lette shook her head. “Not at all. They’re working tonight. I would have just sat home and watched holos probably. This has been way more fun than my normal evening.”

“Well, thank you for showing me around. I appreciate the effort,” Sarah said. “Maybe it’s time we headed back. I’ve got a lot to digest.”

“The ramen not sitting well on your stomach?” Lette asked.

Sarah smiled. “Not that. Just I’ve seen a lot of things I never knew existed and need time to think about them.”

Lette nodded. “I can understand that. You remember how to find your way home?”

Sarah pulled out her peda. “I think so.”

“Well, you try it and I’ll come along to make sure you get there safely, how’s that?”

Sarah smiled and pressed the button.

Returning back to the apartment took only a few ticks. The only rough part was interpreting the lift instruction correctly.

“And here we are. Out and back all the same day,” Lette said when they stopped in front of the door. “Does your key work?”

Sarah fished the card out of her pocket and held it up to the palm reader. The light flashed green and the lock buzzed. She pushed the door open and stepped in. She turned to see Lette still standing in the hallway outside. “Yes. Thank you.”

Lette nodded. “It was nice meeting you, Sarah. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you for showing me around.”

Lette gave her a wry grin, not at all in accordance with the low-level sorrow that seemed to flow off her body like some dark smoke. “Just doin’ my job.” She nodded again and walked away.

Sarah closed the door, pressing until the latch clicked. She stood there in the entry pondering those last few moments. She had no reference for the emotions she felt rolling off her new friend. Sorrow? Desire? Curious.

A yawn caught her and pushed her away from the door and the odd thoughts.

She went into the kitchen, listening for sounds but hearing nothing but the whooshing of the air circulation. “Grandmother?”

The word hung in the air for a moment but garnered no response. The chrono clicked on the wall. It read 2200. Dinner must have run long. She shrugged and went to find her bed. The nap had helped but she felt those lovely sheets calling her name as her eyelids fought to stay open.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Starvey Bay: September 26, 2347

SARAH’S FATHER STOOD in the terminal. She saw him immediately through the crowd of departing passengers but he seemed unaware. She so rarely saw him as a face in the crowd, she slowed her steps. He looked out of place. His heavy coat, unbuttoned and hanging open, looked almost shabby in comparison to the company people pressing through the terminal on their way to somewhere else. Each of them seemed to pass by in a shadowy flash while he stood solidly in that space that wasn’t his. Real in a way that none of the transients around her were real. Perhaps it was only that she knew him.

The time with Marta had changed her somehow. She didn’t know what was different, or how it happened. Perhaps the old lady had simply shown her a different view of life. Lette’s assertion that some shaman regularly visited the orbital to sell whelkies still made her uneasy—a dog’s bark on the beach where the only sounds should be ocean, wind, and gulls.

He spotted her. She saw the moment when his face shifted from a neutral observer to a pleased father. She crossed to him and hugged him.

“How was the trip?” he asked, releasing her and taking a half step back.

“Strange, but fun.”

They turned toward the exit at the same time.

“Strange how?” he asked.

“Well, for one, my great-grandmother is a bit of a crazy woman.”

He laughed. “She always walked her own beach. My grandfather—her late husband—worked the docks for Pirano over at Langille’s Point. When he died, she took his insurance, went up to the orbital, and started her brokerage. She’s been there ever since as far as I know.”

“She seems very happy in her life,” Sarah said. “Every morning when she got up, she was like electricity. Lightning just before the storm.”

Otto looked at her from the corners of his eyes. “Was she, now?”

“We had fun. She showed me around the station. I got to meet the stationmaster.”

“What’d you think of him?” Otto asked.

“He seemed tired of it all.” She shook her head. “We didn’t stay long. Grandma wanted to get to a freight auction. It was sort of in passing.”

He nodded. “What was the most fun thing you did?”

The answer sprang unbidden into Sarah’s head, but she bit her lip and glanced at her father.

“What is it?” he asked. “Did you meet somebody?”

The tone in his voice made her laugh. “Yes, but not that way. The first night on the orbital, Grandma had a business dinner so her helper took me out to show me the station and give me a little pre-tour tour.”

“Was he young?”

“She was a few stanyers older than me, I think.” Sarah shook her head. “She had to be to be living on her own on the station, didn’t she?”

“You didn’t ask?”

“It never came up.”

Sarah shifted the strap on her bag and followed her father through the exit door and onto the street.

“So? What did you and this young woman do that was the most fun?” he asked.

“She showed me how to find my way home, for one. That place is huge and it’s confusing.”

He laughed. “Yeah. I bet it was.”

“Have you ever been up?”

He shrugged. “We made a few trips up to the flea market when I was a kid. I haven’t been up there in a long time.”

“Lette took me to see the ships in their docks. When we started it was mostly dark but we walked around the promenade until we got to sunrise. They’re beautiful.”

“The ships?” he asked.

She nodded. “The light up there is unreal. They looked almost fake.”

“Yeah. No air to diffuse the light.”

“Then we went for dinner.”

“She took you to dinner?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Well, Grandma was out with a client and asked Lette to take me out.”

“Ah,” he said. “What did you eat?”

“Ramen,” she said. The word alone conjured up the tastes and aromas. “It was amazing.”

“Noodles?” he asked.

“Yeah. The broth. I have no words. The noodles were all yummy and the vegetables weren’t just something on the side. They were like part of the whole thing. I think I inhaled it.”

He laughed. “Then what?”

She frowned remembering the man who had the heart attack. “Weirdest thing,” she said. “We’d finished eating and were walking around the promenade when this guy had a heart attack right in front of us.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Heart attack?”

“It was awful.”

“I bet. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. Lette called the medics. They came in—like—seconds. The guy was in pretty rough shape by the time they got him on a stretcher and took him off.”

“Was he talking?”

“The guy?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think he could draw enough of a breath to talk.”

“How’d you know it was a heart attack?” he asked.

The quiet question caught her off guard. She paused before answering. “I don’t know,” she said. “I could just feel it. We were walking along and I was trying to listen to the world to see if it sounded any different up there because it’s an orbital.”

His eyes widened. “Really. How did it sound?”

“What, the orbital?”

“Yeah.”

“Hard to describe. Different. Smaller but somehow connected.” She shrugged.

“But you heard that guy have a heart attack?”

“More like felt it. Right here.” She pressed a fist against her chest. “Tightening up and getting harder to breathe.”

“That must have been terrifying,” he said.

“Well, I knew it wasn’t me. Not knowing where it came from? Yeah. But I spotted him pretty fast. He was leaning against one of the walls. He looked terrible. He kind of curled up and fell over before we got there so I asked Lette to call for the medics.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know how to do it up there and didn’t want to fumble around with it.”

Otto pursed his lips and nodded. “I can only imagine.”

Sarah felt the waves of alarm coming off him. “What’s the matter, Pops?”

He looked at her, his eyes wide. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You. You seem pretty upset about something.”

“Do I?” he asked. The waves built a little bit.

“Yeah. Something I’ve said has you upset.”

He stopped at the entry to the tram station and turned to look at her. He smiled. “My little girl is growing up,” he said.

The waves of alarm subsided, less like breakers on the beach and more like the lapping of waves against a dock.

“Am I better now?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little. You’re still upset about something.”

“You’re my kid. Your welfare will always concern me.” He paused for a moment, seeming to weigh something on his tongue before speaking. “You think you could live up there?” he asked.

She looked him in the eyes, trying to figure out what he was really asking. “Live where? On the orbital?”

He nodded.

The image of Lette standing outside the door flashed through her mind only to be overwhelmed by the longing she’d felt looking down on the planet through the armorglass on the promenade. She shook her head. “No. Well, maybe. Looking down and seeing the coastline. Knowing the beach was here and I was there.” She shook her head again. “That would be hard.”

He gave her a smile and held his arms open for a hug. “You’ve been gone a week and you seem a year older.”

She returned the hug, sliding her arms around him under his heavy coat. She realized with a start that they were nearly of a height. “I don’t feel any different,” she said.

He broke the hug and opened the tram station door for her. “You do to me.”

She glanced at him, but didn’t question the odd feelings of sadness that hid just under his surface. Curious.

He followed her through the door and into the station. She pretended not to notice his odd sideways glances while they waited for the tram to take them back to Cape Grace.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Cape Grace: September 28, 2347

SARAH STEPPED OUT OF the house intent on a walk along the beach. Her time on the orbital had made her homesick for the quiet solitude of Five Mile Beach. She crested the headland and kicked herself. The high tide looked to be about another stan away and it would be at least four before the water receded enough for her to walk the beach.

An odd smell drifted in on a stray breeze. Smells spoke to her sometimes. She could identify a lot of them without much effort. Once in a while a pile of rockweed rotted abnormally, but she knew the difference between dry and rotting weed. She worked through her inventory of smells trying to place this particular one. Not quite dead animal. Nothing vegetable smelled like that. She followed her nose, testing the air as she walked along the path toward the village on the far side of the cove.

The smell was unusual, sometimes nearly overwhelming, like standing in fresh dog poop. Other times it was a thready scent like crushed rosemary on a garden path or the sweet aroma of rugosa from across the street.

Eventually she stood outside a house on a back street in the village. It didn’t look any different but whenever she tried to walk past, the smell petered out until she turned back. The aroma of decay became something more like the stench of fear and despair. She stood on the street looking at the house for what must have been some time.

A woman passing on the sidewalk stopped and looked at her. “You want something?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head.

After a few moments the woman shrugged and walked on.

The smell nearly faded out and then came back stronger than ever. It drew her to the door. She rang the bell.

No answer.

She smelled the odor strongest near the door. Something thunked inside the house. Like a door closing or a chair falling over.

She rang the bell again.

The smell almost faded away. She heard the sound of footsteps, soft, padded thumps like somebody stamping their stockinged feet.

Just as she was about to ring the bell again, the door jerked open and a girl snarled at her. “What?”

The stench billowing out of the house nearly watered Sarah’s eyes. She cleared her throat and tried not to retch. “Is everything all right here?” she asked.

The girl blinked several times. “What?”

Maybe the stench was getting blown away or perhaps Sarah got more used to it. “Do you smell something?” Sarah asked.

“I smell lots of things,” the girl said. “What’s it to you?”

Sarah shook her head. “No, I mean, like do you smell something bad?”

“What, bad? Like a dead fish?”

Sarah gave a noncommittal shrug. “Something like that, yeah?”

“Nothing like that in here,” the girl said, pushing the door closed.

“Wait!” Sarah said.

“What?” the girl asked. “I’m kinda busy here. I don’t smell anything.”

The girl wore a long-sleeved jersey but one of the sleeves had been pushed up. Sarah saw scars running up her forearm.

The girl grunted and pulled the sleeve down, covering the skin. “What?” she asked again, less belligerent now.

“I know you,” Sarah said, seeing the girl’s face more clearly. “We were in school together.”

The girl stood still for a moment and stared at Sarah. “You’re the shaman’s kid.”

Sarah nodded. “Yes. You’re Milly? Millicent?”

“Mary,” the girl said. “What of it?”

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked.

The aroma vanished like somebody had flipped a light switch and turned it off. She moved her face around, sniffing to find it again.

“What do you care?” Mary asked.

Sarah shrugged. “I ...” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Can I help you with something?”

Mary gave a dark and bitter laugh, short and sharp. “As if. Nobody can help me.”

“What’s the problem?” Sarah asked.

“The problem is that I got nothing. I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do. My parents—who can’t be bothered to help me figure it out—are never here. Everybody is getting their shit together and I’m bouncing around in this house by myself all day every day. Why? What’s the point?” The words vomited from Mary, spraying Sarah and the front yard with her frustration and fear.

Sarah nodded. “I know the feeling.”

Mary blinked. “How could you? You’ve got it all sussed out already, don’t you? Marry some meal ticket. Carve your little figures. Practice your woo on the down-low for the rest of your life?”

Sarah shook her head. “What?”

“Isn’t that what girl shamans do?” Mary asked. “You can never be called a shaman. You need to get a job at the company, marry somebody who has a job, or leave the planet, right?”

Sarah nodded. “That seems to be about the size of it. Yeah.”

“So what’s it going to be? Marry or leave because you’re never getting a job with the company.”

“I’m working for the company now,” Sarah said. “I’m crabbing. It’s not much but it’s a job.”

“Really?” she asked. “That counts as employed?”

Sarah nodded. “It’s just for the time being. My father thinks we can change the rules so I can stay and be a shaman.”

Mary’s bark of a laugh echoed from the house across the street. “As if,” she said.

“So what’s with your arm?” Sarah asked.

“What?” Mary asked.

“Your arm. I saw it. It’s got scars on it. You have an accident?”

“No, dumbass, I did it on purpose.”

Sarah felt the answer like a slap in the face. “You did, didn’t you.”

Mary froze like maybe she just realized that she’d told the truth. “You believe me?”

Sarah shrugged. “Oh, yeah. No doubt. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Mary stared at her. “How could you know?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I just know stuff. It’s weird. Like last week I knew this guy was having a heart attack. Out of the blue.” She shrugged again. “I just feel it.”

“Or smell it?” Mary asked.

“Or that.”

Mary nodded. She stared at Sarah for a moment, gnawing her bottom lip. “Ya wanna come in?”

Sarah stood on the stoop and considered. “Do you want me to come in?”

Mary shrugged. “You came all the way from the point?” Mary nodded at the headland across the harbor. Sarah could just make out the cottage in the distance.

“Yeah. I suppose I did. I was going for a walk but the tide’s wrong.”

Mary laughed. “Well, you got your walk in.” She paused and seemed to be weighing Sarah with her eyes. “May as well come in. Rest your feet before you head back. Cuppa tea?”

Sarah nodded. “Thank you.”

Mary held the door open and stepped out of the way, allowing Sarah to enter before closing the door. “Kitchen’s this way. Pardon the mess. It’s the maid’s year off.”

Sarah tried to parse the meaning behind the words. She followed Mary through a living area, down a short corridor, and into the kitchen.

Mary filled the kettle and set it on the burner, cranking the heat up before pulling down two mismatched mugs from a cabinet. “Take anything in it?” she asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Water? Tea by itself is kinda crunchy and unsatisfying.”

Mary chuckled. “Did you just make a joke?”

Sarah shrugged. “I’m not very good at it.”

“It made me laugh,” Mary said. She leaned against the counter while Sarah slid into a chair at the kitchen table. “What’s it like being a shaman?”

Sarah grinned. “I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s always been there.”

“Is it hard?”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s nothing to compare it to.”

“You carve?”

“Oh, yes. Carving is like a meditation. You and the wood and the blade. You work together to find the figure.” She smiled and looked at her fingers twining on the table in front of her. “It’s relaxing.”

“Don’t your hands cramp?”

“What? From holding the knife?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah shook her head. “No. I don’t need to hold it that tightly and the blade is sharp. I just ease the wood off in shavings. My father always told me it was easier to take the wood off than put it back.”

Mary laughed and the kettle came up to boil. She busied herself at the counter.

“What do you do?” Sarah asked.

Mary didn’t turn around, just gave a quick shrug. “Tried to get a job on one of the boats. Nobody’s hiring this season. Worked in the packing plant for a while.” She sighed. “It didn’t work out.”

“What do you want to do?” Sarah asked.

Mary turned with a mug in each hand and slid one across the table to Sarah before taking a seat across from her. “I don’t know.” She cupped her mug in her palms and shrugged, staring at the center of the table. “That’s the problem. I can’t think of anything I want to do.”

“Well, where would you like to live?”

Mary looked up and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to stay here. If you could live anywhere, where would you live?”

Mary’s gaze focused somewhere over Sarah’s left shoulder. “My uncle has a croft out east. We visited one summer. Stanyers ago. It was peaceful. Quiet.” She gave a little laugh. “You ever notice it’s never quiet here?”

Sarah shrugged. “I listen to the sounds. I like the ocean. It’s comforting.”

“What about the storms?” Mary said, not looking up.

“Storms are exciting.”

“People die in storms,” Mary said.

Sarah nodded and sipped her tea. “More people die in pleasant weather,” she said.

Mary looked up, wide-eyed. “How can you say that?”

“Logic. How many storms do we get in a day?”

Mary shrugged. “No idea.”

“Do we have a storm now?” Sarah asked.

“Of course not. You just came in.”

“Most days there isn’t a storm,” Sarah said. “Most days at least one person dies. With as many millions of people as there are here, I suspect that more than a hundred people die every day. Heart attacks, accidents, old age.” Sarah shrugged. “Lots of things to die from that don’t involve storms.”

“Suicide,” Mary said, looking down at the table again.

“Suicide,” Sarah said. “You don’t need to die today.”

Mary looked up. “You knew?”

Sarah shook her head. “No idea.”

“You just smelled something on the wind?”

Sarah nodded. “Didn’t know what it was but it brought me here.”

Mary sipped her tea and placed the mug back on the table. “It’s too much.”

Sarah listened.

“I don’t know what I want to do. Living with my uncle in a croft is just taking the problem somewhere else.”

“It’s somewhere peaceful,” Sarah said.

“Where do you find peace?” Mary asked.

“On the beach.” She shrugged. “In the shop with wood in my hand.”

“Do you get lonely?”

Sarah thought about that, looking at the ripples on the top of her tea. “I don’t know. I never feel like I’m really ever alone. Closest I got was actually up on the orbital last week. Which is odd, because there are so many people up there in a really small volume.”

“You went up to the orbital?”

“Yeah. My great-grandmother is a broker up there. We had a nice visit.” Sarah grinned.

“What’s that grin?” Mary asked.

“She’s crazy. I mean really old. She’s my grandmother’s mother so ... you know ... old.”

Mary nodded. “Got it.”

“She runs a really successful business. I guess. I really don’t know for sure, but she has a nice apartment up there. She has a really nice assistant.”

“That doesn’t sound crazy to me,” Mary said.

“The first night I was there, she took a client out for dinner.” Sarah leaned forward. “She didn’t come home until morning.”

Mary blinked. “Really? Your great-grandmother was mashing on her clients?”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t say anything when she got back other than to ask how my evening went. She showered, changed her clothes, and went to work. That was it.”

“Why is that crazy?” Mary asked.

Sarah pondered that. “I guess because it’s not what I’d expect from an old woman.”

“Your father’s single. Does he date?” Mary asked.

Sarah shook her head. “We’re pretty much focused on the beach. He works with the company rep some, helping people, but no. We’re both in the workshop most nights.”

Mary frowned. “And that isn’t that lonely?”

“I’ve never felt lonely. At least I don’t think so.”

“Lucky you.” Mary took a swig from her mug. “I get so lonely I just want to scream sometimes.”

“Do you have any friends?” Sarah asked.

“I used to. They’ve all gone off to work the boats. When they get back, they hang together. We don’t have much in common anymore, I guess.” Mary scratched her forearm through the jersey. “They can go out, do things. I can’t afford to go and I’m not gonna skim off them, yanno?”

Sarah nodded. “Yeah. Not a lot of unallocated funds around my house either.”

Mary looked up. “How does your father make a living? He doesn’t get a paycheck from anywhere.” Her eyes went wide and her mouth made an O. “I’m sorry, that just slipped out. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Sarah laughed. “We’ve been living off investments from my mother’s insurance.”

“Didn’t she die when you were born?”

“Yeah. We don’t need much.” Sarah shrugged. “My great-grandmother paid for me to go up to the orbital and visit. That’s not something we would normally be able to afford.”

“Still. That’s a long time.”

“The cottage is rent free,” Sarah said. “We get a food allowance from the chandlery. It’s part of the agreement we have with the village. We don’t need to buy much. Clothing. Utility costs.”

“So, the village pays him, sorta,” Mary said.

“Yeah. We’re lucky. Not all villages are so generous. Mr. Comstock and the elders seem to think having a shaman here helps more than it costs.”

Mary shook her head. “I never really thought about it before.”

Sarah grinned. “I never have either. It’s just normal life for me.”

“And you’re a shaman?” Mary asked.

“I’m pretty sure. I don’t have the title or anything, but I carve whelkies. I walk the beach and listen to the world.”

Mary shook her head. “What does that mean? Listen to the world?”

“Hard to explain.” Sarah closed her eyes and thought about it. “It’s like you settle into the place you’re at. You push out and try to feel what’s around you without looking at it. It’s not exactly listening but that’s the nearest way to think about it.”

“What do you hear?” Mary’s voice sounded far away in the tiny kitchen.

“It’s busy,” Sarah said. “The world is always busy. It’s like listening to the ocean at night. You can’t see it, but you can hear the waves always making some kind of noise. The splash of the breaker and the hiss of the water on the sand. There’s a rhythm to it but it’s never the same.”

“Wow,” Mary said, the word more exhaled than spoken.

Sarah opened her eyes and grinned. “Sometimes I feel what people are feeling. Like, I said something to my father the other day and I could tell it upset him. I could just feel it rolling off him even when he didn’t show it.”

“What? Like mind reading?” Mary said.

“No. More like mood reading. It happened a lot on the orbital. Strong emotions.” Sarah shrugged. “It’s not something I can control apparently.”

“Have you tried?” Mary asked.

“What? Controlling it?”

Mary nodded.

“Not really. It’s just something that happens.”

Mary took a swallow of tea and shifted in her chair. “You smelled me,” she said.

Sarah sighed and took a sip of her own tea, buying time to consider her response. “I think so. Well, I smelled something. It wasn’t like smelling you. And you didn’t smell it, so it probably wasn’t a real smell.”

“I wouldn’t have smelled myself, anyway, would I?” Mary asked. “I’d be too used to my stink.”

Sarah laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Probably not.”

Mary took the last mouthful of tea and stood, putting her mug in the sink. “Would you like another cup?”

Sarah shook her head and emptied her mug before sliding it across the table toward Mary. “No, but thank you.” She stood. “I should be going.”

“Shaman stuff to do?” Mary asked.

Sarah grinned. “Something like that. I was going to walk on the beach but the tide’s wrong. After being on the orbital surrounded by all those people, I felt like getting away for a bit.”

“Instead you came here.”

Sarah shrugged. “Yeah. Well. We don’t always do what we want, I guess.” She smiled at Mary. “I’m glad I did. You asked questions I’ve never thought about before.”

Mary folded her arms over her chest and looked at the linoleum floor. “You saved my life.”

Sarah shook her head. “No. I just rang your doorbell.”

“I know a place,” Mary said.

“What?”

“To walk. When the tide’s in. I know a place.” She looked up. “Wanna see?”

The idea tickled the back of Sarah’s mind. She spoke without really thinking about it. “Sure. I’d love to.”

Mary grinned. “Lemme get some walking shoes on. Be right back.” She disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sarah alone in the kitchen.

In a matter of a couple of ticks, Mary led the way back to the street and around the corner, heading away from the bay toward the escarpment behind the village.

“I found this place stanyers ago,” Mary said as they cleared the back line of houses where the developed land ended and the rougher terrain at the foot of the escarpment began. She pointed to a set of concrete stairs leading up from the flat, coastal plain to the plateau fifty meters above.

They crossed the verge and began climbing the steps. Sarah felt her thigh muscles complaining on the last half and had to stop to catch her breath at the top. “Whoosh. That’s a climb,” she said, leaning forward with hands on knees to pant.

Mary shook her legs, one at a time. “Yeah. I come up here a couple times a week. I’m getting stronger but it’s still a workout.”

“You didn’t warn me about that part,” Sarah said with a laugh.

“Didn’t think of it, but look.” Mary pointed out to sea.

From the top of the bluff, Sarah’s view of the village and the harbor beyond expanded to the open sea beyond. What had been a gentle breeze at street level became a salty blast at the top. She stood tall, flexing her back, and taking a lungful of the cool, fresh air. “This is spectacular.”

Mary nodded. “I come up here sometimes just to get away.”

“Get away from feeling lonely?” Sarah asked.

Mary laughed. “Yeah. I guess.” She stood and gazed out to sea. “It’s hard to feel anything but awe up here.” She turned and pointed inland. “That’s pretty spectacular, too.”

Sarah turned and looked out across a vast sea of grasses, the wind rippling the blades in waves as far as her eye could see. The ripples mesmerized her, the horizon flat in the distance.

“It’s all grassland. It’s at least a hundred kilometers before the first farms. Flat as a sheet of glass,” Mary said.

“It’s amazing.” Sarah closed her eyes and leaned back into the wind, stretching her senses out, feeling for the land the same way she reached for the sea. She felt calmness settle on her like a cloak. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Come on. There’s a path. We’re not the only ones who come up here.”

Mary led the way down a narrow path along the edge of the bluff. It meandered around the edge, never getting too close nor too far. The escarpment had peninsulas and bays, just like the coastline.

Sarah felt a different kind of peace walking along between sea and soil. “Your arm?” Sarah asked.

Mary stopped and looked into the wind. It blew her hair back from her face. “What about it?”

“Want to talk about it?” Sarah asked.

Mary shrugged and looked down at the path, taking a few steps along. “Not really.”

“Does walking up here help?” Sarah asked, looking out over the waving grass.

Mary sighed. “Yeah. I think it does. I don’t think about it up here.”

“Where do you think about it?”

“In my room.” She took a few more steps. “It’s not something I really think about. I just do it.”

Sarah nodded. “Does it hurt?” She tilted her face to peek at Mary without letting the wind blow grit into her eyes.

Mary laughed. “Yeah. I suppose.” Mary nodded at Sarah. “You ever cut your finger carving?”

“Once in a while,” Sarah said, a little chuckle bubbling out of her. “Stings a little.”

“That’s about it,” Mary said. “It stings a little.”

“Can I see?” Sarah asked.

Mary pulled her shoulders in and tugged her sleeves down. “See? No. Sheesh.”

“Sorry,” Sarah said.

Mary shook her head and bit her lips between her teeth. “Sorry, that was weird.” She swallowed hard and looked anywhere but at Sarah. “Why did you want to see?”

“Don’t know,” Sarah said. “Seemed like the thing to do. Don’t do it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Mary pulled a blade of grass from a tuft at her feet and started shredding it with her fingernails. “My parents want to see all the time.”

“What do they say?”

“They keep yelling at me. Telling me that I need to stop it.”

“Yelling?” Sarah asked. “Really?”

Mary shrugged and frowned at the grass in her fingers. “Well, mostly being real intense, you know? Like they won’t leave it alone. They just keep going and going.” She shook her head and clamped her jaw.

“They’re scared,” Sarah said.

Mary looked up at that, eyes wide. “They’re scared? You think they’re scared?”

“I would be,” Sarah said. “At least I think I would.”

“Scared of what?”

“Scared that you needed help I couldn’t give you.” Sarah looked away. “Scared you might do something worse.”

“That’s dumb,” Mary said.

Sarah looked back. “Is it?”

Mary pressed her lips together and looked out to sea, shaking her hair back from her face. “Yes.”

They stood there on the bluff without speaking for several minutes. Sarah felt a coil unwinding in Mary. A hot metal spring that she hadn’t felt before cooled slowly, easing the tension in the woman’s body.

“It’s peaceful here,” Sarah said.

Mary nodded. “It is.”

“You wanna see my workshop?” Sarah asked.

“Your workshop? What? Where you carve?”

Sarah nodded. “It’s in the cottage. We’d have to walk over.”

“Won’t your father mind?”

“Why would he?”

“Well, it’s shaman stuff. I’m not a shaman.”

Sarah laughed. “Not like it’s secret and—technically—neither am I.” The image of Lette staring at her that night appeared in her mind. “It’s nothing special. Workbench. Little stove for heating in the winter.” She paused. “Unless you got something else to do this afternoon.”

Mary gave Sarah a kind of side-eyed glance, pulling a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah. I’d like to see your workshop.” She took a deep breath and blew it out her nose. “I got nothing planned for the rest of the day.”

“Do we have to go back to the stairs?” Sarah asked looking back the way they’d come.

“There’s another set just ahead. Drops down behind the tram depot.” She started off along the path, purpose in her stride.

Sarah smiled and followed along, pulled by Mary’s resolve. It seemed there was more to walking the beach than actually walking the beach. She glanced upwards to the unseen spot in the sky where the orbital would shine later when the sun wasn’t so high in the sky.

When Sarah stepped into the cottage, she found a note on the kitchen table. “He’s at the chandlery. We’ve got the house to ourselves.” She turned to see Mary peeking into the house from the doorway. “Come in. Close the door. You’re letting the inside out.”

Mary laughed but stepped in. “I’ve never been in a shaman’s cottage before.”

“Other than being stone, I suspect it’s a lot like your house.”

“My house doesn’t have a workshop.”

Sarah laughed. “I hope you don’t have this built up as some big production. It’s an oversized closet.” She beckoned. “Come on. This way to the side show.”

Mary snickered and followed, her head on gimbals as she peered at everything they passed.

Sarah opened the door and led the way into the nook where she and her father shared a work bench. She tried to look at it through Mary’s eyes. The solid workbench against the narrow end wall. The paired chairs, both battered and looking like rejects from a fire sale. A small woodstove tucked against the wall with a sheet of aluminum behind it to reflect heat away from the stone and toward the room, its chimney a thigh-thick pipe arrowing through the roof. “It’s not much, but we like it.”

Mary approached the bench as if it were an altar of some kind, her lips parted in awe, her eyes raking back and forth across the surface. “You carve here?”

Sarah pointed at her chair. “Actually, I sit there. My father sits over there.”

“What do you use the bench for?” Mary asked.

“Tea, mostly.” Sarah shrugged. “It’s a really sturdy tea table.”

Mary laughed. “I can see that.”

“It’s handy when we need a solid surface to do the inlays. That’s not something you can do in your lap,” Sarah said. “But it takes a lot of carving to get a piece ready for the inlay, so mostly it’s a handy place to put our mugs.”

“I can’t believe you carve whelkies,” Mary said, her head still swiveling to take in all the corners. She glanced up at the cans on the shelves above the bench.

“That’s mostly my father’s stuff. I’ve got a can of older work up there, too.” Sarah pulled out a small drawer from the back of the bench. “These are some of mine.”

Mary leaned forward and looked into the drawer. “Oh.” The single syllable sounded almost breathless. She looked up at Sarah. “Can I touch them?”

“Sure, why not? I do.”

Mary picked up a whelkie and held it to the light. “It’s a seal.”

“Yeah.” Sarah made an ‘urk-urk’ sound and clapped her hands together like flippers. “You get the seal of approval.”

Mary laughed. “That joke is so old.”

“My father does it every single time,” Sarah said. “He can still make me laugh with it.”

“You carved this,” Mary said, turning the small figure back and forth to look at it from all angles.

“Yeah.” Sarah watched Mary’s face. “You like it?”

“It’s amazing,” Mary said.

“It’s a seal,” Sarah said. “A mazing has more right angles.”

“What?” Mary blinked and looked at Sarah.

“Nothing. Joke. Not worth it.” She pulled out another drawer. “These are some of my father’s. You can tell we have really different styles.”

Mary looked into the drawer and her eyes widened. “Those are ... something.” She leaned down almost as if to smell the wood. “They’re ...”

“Shocking? Brutal? Primitive?” Sarah said, supplying some of the adjectives she’d heard in the past.

“They’re wonderful,” Mary said. “How does he do that? So jagged and rough but still perfect.”

Sarah shook her head. “No idea. He gets a lot of crap from some of the other shamans about his style when they get together. I think they’re jealous.” Sarah fitted the drawers back into their slots, and slid them shut.

“What about this one?” Mary held up the seal.

Sarah shook her head. “That’s not mine anymore.”

Mary frowned, her eyes blinking too fast. “What?”

“That one’s yours now.”

“That’s not right,” Mary said, trying to put the small figure on the bench.

Sarah closed her hand around Mary’s. “Whelkies find the person who needs them. That one found you. It’s yours now.”

“But I can’t take this. It’s ... it’s perfect.”

“It’s also yours. Better you have it and love it than it sits in the drawer here,” Sarah said.

“You don’t have to give me things,” Mary said, her lips pressed together. “I’m not some kind of charity case.”

Sarah smiled at her. “I know. That’s not how I see you at all. That whelkie found you. It’s why I carved it. Hoping that someone might need it someday.” She shrugged. “Honestly, that’s the first one anybody’s ever got from me.”

“You think I need it?” Mary asked, her eyes hard.

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “Well, yes. But that’s not important. Whelkies are funny. You had the chance to look at two drawers full of them. A couple of dozen. You picked that one out of the bottom of my drawer. You went past a few that are probably better carvings to find that one. You haven’t put it down since. You had a chance to pick up one of my father’s. You found them astonishing, powerful, but you held on to the seal. Look at how you’re holding it.”

Mary looked at her hand, wrapped in a fist around the body, just the seal’s nose peeking out.

“You don’t want to put it down. You don’t even want to risk it getting away from you.” Sarah grinned. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see.”

Mary looked at Sarah and shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“I carved a whelkie, Mary. A whelkie that found the person who needs it. I carved that way last fall, long before I knew who would have it. I just carved it. Now it’s found you. Don’t you see?”

Mary shook her head.

“I’m a shaman.” Sarah felt filled to bursting.

Mary laughed. “Did you have any doubt?”

Sarah shrugged. “Well, yes. Actually. I mean, my father thinks I am. Odd enough things keep happening, but this?” She waved her fingers at the whelkie still clasped in Mary’s hand. “This makes it real.”

Mary chuckled and opened her fist to display the whelkie in the light again. “Whatever you say. Are you sure I can have this?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure.”

“Sure about what?” The voice came from the doorway.

Sarah looked up. “Sure she can have that whelkie. Hi, Pops. Did you get what you needed at the chandlery?”

He nodded and walked up to the bench. “Hello, I’m Otto Krugg.” He held a hand.

She shook his hand. “I’m Mary Kraft. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“And you have a whelkie,” he said, tilting his head to look at the seal in her hand.

“Sarah said I could have it.” Mary’s voice sounded a little unsure.

“Oh, indeed. No question.” Otto looked at Sarah with a raised eyebrow.

“We were talking earlier. She showed me a path to the top of the bluff. I brought her here to show her the workshop.”

“We don’t have anything like this in our house,” Mary said.

Otto’s smile fell like a blessing on Sarah. “I dare say. And you found that whelkie?”

“I showed her my drawer. It picked her,” Sarah said.

Otto’s eyebrows shot up. “I see.” He looked at Mary, his smile still in place even as he seemed to peer deep into her eyes. “I see,” he said again. “Well, then that’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Mary blinked and nodded. “I should be going.”

“Oh, don’t let an old man drive you off,” he said.

She looked down for a moment before shaking her head. “I really should get some chores done before my parents get back.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you out,” Sarah said and led her out of the shop, through the house and onto the stoop.

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,” Mary said, casting a nervous glance back at the door.

“Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Sarah shrugged. “He didn’t seem angry to me.”

“You bring people here a lot?”

Sarah shook her head. “You’re the only one so far.”

“Really? Why me?”

“Why not you?” Sarah shrugged. “Pops and I don’t get out much. Off to the beach and back again. I don’t think I’ve been down to the village except to visit the chandlery in a stanyer.”

“You should get out more,” Mary said.

Sarah nodded. “I think so, too.”

Mary looked at the whelkie still clutched in her hand. “Thank you for this.” She grabbed Sarah in a fast hug and stepped back almost as quickly. She looked as surprised as Sarah felt. “So, uh. See ya.” She turned and hurried off down the path toward the village.

Sarah chuckled and glanced up at the sky before heading back inside.

Her father stood at the stove, a tea kettle coming up to boil. “That was unexpected.”

“In more ways than one,” Sarah said.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know what to say. I went to go for a walk on the beach but the tide was wrong. I smelled something bad and the next thing I knew I was ringing Mary’s bell.”

Otto nodded. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“She’s having trouble. She’s lonely and needed somebody to talk to,” Sarah said.

Otto nodded again.

“You think she’s in danger?” Sarah asked.

Otto’s eyebrows rose just a fraction. “Do you?”

She considered the idea carefully before speaking. “No,” she said. “Not at the moment.”

“Was she in danger?” Otto asked.

“I think so. Yes.”

He smiled. “Then you’ve done well.”

“Is it always like that, Pops?”

He shrugged. “It’s always the same. You never know what is going to happen. Who will need help or how you’ll find them. That’s always the same.”

“That makes no sense.”

He laughed. “And carving whelkies does?” The kettle started shrieking so he turned to fixing tea.

Sarah considered his words as that forlorn image of Lette came back to her mind.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Cape Grace: April 30, 2348

OTTO WATCHED FROM THE headland as the Harbor Fairy worked the traps. The figures aboard were no more than shapes against the watery background but he smiled. They seemed to be working together well. Bobby’s hand on the helm got them on station and Sarah managed the traps fluidly as they made the rounds.

He leaned on his staff and closed his eyes, listening to the world. The scent of spring blew on the offshore breeze. The hints of winter seemed fewer now. The water hadn’t warmed much yet, and still carried the salty winter tang in the air. He knew the summer would bring a greener scent and the tidal flats would contribute their iodine stink as the season rounded.

He heard steps and turned to find Jack Flanagan striding along the beach toward him.

“I love this time of year,” Flanagan said without preamble. “Air filled with promise and the ice and cold behind us.”

“At least for a time,” Otto said.

Flanagan grinned. “That your shaman out there pullin’ traps?” He nodded toward the boat.

“Yep.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Welcome. Any news?”

“They’re still going to try to pull the shaman language from the contract.”

Otto frowned. “What’s their problem with it, anyway? Too many witnesses?”

Flanagan squinted out to sea. “Just between you and me? I think it’s just cussedness. They only want company employees on the planet so they have some kinda leverage over them. The numbers don’t make that much sense in terms of percentage, but they’re sweating them anyway.”

“That’s easily fixed.”

“Really? How?”

“Put the shamans under contract. Pay a stipend. Problem solved.”

Flanagan stared at him. “What?”

“Look at how many villages already offer a small stipend. Most places have a cottage like the one I’m living in set aside for the shaman’s use. I had to fish for my supper enough times at Maggie’s Landing. If it weren’t for Carla’s life insurance, Sarah and I would have had to do the same thing here. Only reason my father manages to keep clothes on his back is my mother’s job with the company. How many shamans are there that aren’t married to an employee?”

Flanagan scratched his cheek. “Not many.”

“So most would be here anyway as dependents. Even the men. They’re not gaining much by removing the language.”

“That’s true.” Flanagan grimaced.

“You live with an employee?”

“Yeah. My partner’s the plant supervisor over in Langille’s Point. I’m too close to see it.”

“I found out the hard way when I left Callum’s Cove and tried to make a go of it.”

Flanagan nodded. “Been so long for me, I guess I’d lost sight.”

“How much is it worth to the company to keep shamans on the South Coast?”

“They say we’re not worth it, but I think we’ve got enough leverage to support the idea that we do the kinds of things that regular employees can’t or won’t.”

“I think Ed Comstock would agree with you. I know my father works closely with the company even though he’s not on payroll.” Otto cocked an eyebrow at Flanagan. “You can’t tell me you’re not working for the glamour and honor of bein’ a shaman.”

Flanagan snorted. “Hardly.”

“None of us are. If the problem is that the company doesn’t want noncompany personnel on planet, hire us. Doesn’t have to be much. Then they can take the shaman rules out of the contracts and we’re all one big happy family.”

“You think they won’t try to tell us how to do our jobs?”

“No more than they do now.”

“Once they’re payin’ the credits, they’re going to think they have some say.”

Otto watched the traps splash off the stern of the small boat far out in the bay. “Maybe they will. Maybe they should.”

“You want Comstock tellin’ you when to walk the beach?”

“He can tell me. I can walk. You know as well as I do, that’s not what being a shaman is.” Otto shrugged. “If he got too pushy, I’d move to another village. There are still more villages than shamans.”

Flanagan chewed his lower lip and kicked a small rock around with the toe of his boot.

“Besides,” Otto said.

Flanagan looked up.

“Employment contracts can’t restrict by gender. Confederated Planet Joint Committee on Trade regulations. The only way they get away with it now is we’re not employees.”

Flanagan looked out at the small boat and a grin worked its way across his face.

“So what brings you all the way out to my point on the coast?” Otto asked. “You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

“Funny you should ask. I was sittin’ on the dock at Langille’s Point a couple days back. I heard somethin’ on the wind and thought I’d come see you about it.” Flanagan grinned. “Guess I was right.”

Otto laughed.

“Anyway. That’s a great idea. Been struggling to keep the rules in place so long, I guess I didn’t think somethin’ else might be better.” He turned back toward the village and started walking away.

“What’d you hear?” Otto asked, raising his voice above the surf.

Flanagan turned back. “What?”

“On the wind. You said you heard something on the wind.”

“Oh, yeah. Storm’s coming and it seemed like somethin’ I should talk to you about. Glad I did.”

Otto nodded. “Thanks.”

Flanagan waved and headed back toward town.”

Otto looked back at the two kids working their traps. The spring smell mixed with an undertone of meat left out too long. Of something gone rotten. He looked around the rocks but didn’t spot anything. With a sigh he turned to look straight out to sea and worried about a storm that everybody seemed to know about but him.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Cape Grace: September 4, 2348

SARAH FELT THE PRESSURE building inside. Days of it. Seasons of it. The world sounded distant, muffled with the boat and the bait and the crabs. Being on the water every day during the season and only being able to walk the beach, to listen to the world clearly. She lunged for the buoy and missed the line. She screamed her frustration into the wind.

Bobby looked over his shoulder. “You all right? That’s the second one you’ve missed today.”

She nodded, shrugged, shook her head. “I know. I know.”

He spun the wheel and came around for a second pass. She hooked the line and looped it onto the winch. The capstan spun, pulling the line up in a wet, slimy pile. Her fingers felt like icicles in the wet gloves but the rope would turn her hands to ground meat without them.

She got the string up, emptied, and prepped to drop—forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. One thing at a time. The wind carried the smell of exhaust and crab bait in a ring around her head.

“We ready?” Bobby asked.

She nodded.

He worked the boat around into position and gave her the high sign.

She dropped the first trap and let the movement of the boat pull the rest. She had a few ticks to get ready for the next string so took off her gloves, wringing them out and scraping some of the slime off before she needed to catch the next buoy.

“You know,” Bobby said, talking over his shoulder as he lined up. “I’ve got a couple of the guys who’d love to take your slot here.”

Sarah stared at the back of his head. “Where would that leave me?”

Bobby didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the buoy in the water ahead. He throttled back and nodded to it. She hooked it on the first pass and started hauling the string in while Bobby angled the boat clear.

“You’re not answering me,” she said, yanking the first trap up onto the sideboard and tossing crabs into the box.

“Well,” he said. “You need to be working or married.”

“I think we’ve already been around this harbor a couple of times, Bobby. This is my job. I’ve been through all the other jobs in Cape Grace.” She slopped some rotting fish into the bait bag and slid the trap aside to make room for the next one.

“Yeah. Probably so.”

She glanced up from the trap to see him poised at the wheel, one hand on the throttle, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “You haven’t told any of those guys they can have my job, have you?” She yanked the trap up and slammed it onto the sideboard. “I swear by all that’s finny in the sea, Bobby Tatum, I’ll cut you into bait and hide the evidence in the traps if you have.”

“Easy,” he said. “I haven’t said anything to anybody.”

“So what are you proposing?” she asked.

“Exactly,” he said.

She finished with the trap and moved on to the next. “What?” She glanced at him while the winch pulled the trap to the surface.

“I’m proposing.” He shrugged.

“Proposing what?” she asked. The exasperation filled her chest and she wanted to throw a crab at him but she tossed it into the box instead.

“Marriage,” he said. “I thought that was obvious.”

She felt like she’d been slugged in the chest. She couldn’t catch her breath and almost lost the trap over the side. “To me?”

He nodded. “Nobody else here. I ain’t marrying any of those crabs.”

She stared at him, one hand on the crab trap and the other on the line to the winch. “You’re crazy.” She pulled the last of the crabs out of the trap and refilled the bait bag before pulling the last trap onto the boat. She cleared it away and got the string ready to go back into the water.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

She rounded on him. “That’s a you’re out of your mind. Get your head back in the boat and let’s get these traps back in the water.”

He put the engine in gear and slewed the stern around to point back the way they’d come.

Sarah stared at the back of his head and shook her own. He kept shooting her smirks over his shoulder. He slowed the boat and she pushed the first trap off the end of the sideboard, letting the boat handle the rest until she could toss the marker buoy off and clear of the stern. He swung the boat again and goosed the engine a little to send them on their way to the next string.

“Why would I marry you?” she asked.

He grinned at her and shrugged. “Anybody else asked ya?”

The audacity of the man kept her speechless. She found the handle on her tongue as he lined up the boat again. “You’ve never even asked me on a date. Now you want to marry me?”

He pulled the throttles back, disengaging the engine. “Okay. How about a date? What would you like to do?”

She sighed and hooked the buoy as it came into reach. She looped the line on the winch and started the traps coming up. “How should I know?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about dates.”

“Well, why did you bring it up?” he asked.

She glanced at him before leaning over the side to wrestle the trap aboard. The trap was almost full of crabs and it nearly pulled her out of the boat when she relaxed the line on the winch.

Bobby grabbed the line and stuck a hand over the side to help heave the trap up onto the sideboard. “That’s a lot of crabs,” he said, his eyes round. “How’d they all get in there?”

Sarah looked around the harbor, getting her bearings from the shore. “Something down there likes them.”

Bobby stepped back to the wheel and nodded. “Or something isn’t eating them here.” He shook his head. “Not like we haven’t put a trap here before.”

“You mean, like yesterday?” she asked.

He nodded and shrugged. “Must be a fluke.”

She pulled the door open and crabs started falling out of the trap faster than she could grab them and toss them in the box.

“Let ’em fall,” Bobby said. “We can get them after we’ve got the string out of the bay and I don’t have to keep that line from tangling with the boat.”

She nodded and did her best, tossing the squirmy buggers as fast as she could without getting nipped. After a while the whole thing began feeling ridiculous. First Bobby, then the crabs. She shuffled her boots to keep them from getting under her feet while she kept pulling more and more of them out. She finally got the last one and reset the bait bag. “I’m almost afraid to see what’s in the next one,” she said.

He laughed.

The rest of the pots had normal amounts of crab and took almost no time for Sarah to get squared away. Bobby left the boat idling and helped her corral and box the loose crustaceans. “There,” he said, stepping back to the wheel and resting a hand on the throttle. “Bonus pay today. Wanna go to dinner?”

She looked up at him, feeling her jaw unhinge. “What? Tonight?”

He shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a better offer.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Ginny’s?” he said. “Unless you fancy hitting the Saving Grace.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t happening. No. No dinner.”

He shrugged and put the boat in gear. “Another time,” he said.

She peeled her gloves off and wrung them out while he lined up for the next string of traps.

He kept shooting glances out of the corners of his eyes. If he didn’t have that self-satisfied smirk on his face, she might just reconsider. She sighed and shook her gloves out before putting them back on. They felt cold and clammy, but she pulled the gaff up and leaned over to look ahead. The next buoy bobbed just ahead of the boat.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Bobby said, pulling the throttle back to idle just as she reached for the buoy.

She caught the line and pulled it up, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I will not marry you. I’m not quitting this job.”

He shrugged and grinned at her. “We’ll see.”

She focused on the line and the trap and the water. She ignored that cheesy grin and the smug attitude standing behind the wheel of the boat. Marry Bobby Tatum? She’d have to be crazy to even consider it. Whatever possessed him to ask her anyway?

She spent the rest of the trip in a daze. Her hands and arms did their work while her brain spiraled around and around.

Sarah pulled the last of her gear off the boat for the season. The last few months had paid well but she kept getting that weird feeling from Bobby. He’d crossed the line somewhere with the proposal. She steadfastly refused to discuss it.

She glanced down the dock to where the boatyard crew set up. Bobby and her father stood beside the boat lift. Bobby’s arms waved as he talked. She couldn’t see her father’s face but Bobby looked—not angry, exactly. More like earnest. The situation made her skin crawl a little but she couldn’t say why.

One of the yard gang trotted down the pier and gave her a big grin. “All ready for us to take it?” he asked.

“Yep. She’s good to go.”

He pulled the lines in and fired up the engine to take it to where the lift waited. When the engine fired, Bobby looked in her direction and said something to her father. He clapped him on the shoulder and waved to her before thrusting his hands in his jacket’s pockets and strolling off through the yard.

She walked to meet her father and they watched the lift pull the Harbor Fairy out of the water.

“Good season?” he asked.

She shrugged. “We turned a profit. Caught a lot of product.”

“Gonna go again next season?”

She glanced at him. “Unless something better comes along. I’m mostly just planning to walk the beach this winter. Do some carving.”

He nodded and they turned their steps toward the cottage.

“What was Bobby on about?” she asked.

Her father snorted. “Nothing. Big tales. Small fish.”

“Oh?” A chunk of ice fell into her stomach.

“He thinks he can get onto a dragger next season. Wanted to know what I had planned for you if he quit.”

A laugh burst out of her in a short bark. “If he quits?”

Her father shrugged. “He’s got a lot of room to grow yet. He’s still a little too big for his britches. I don’t know what Comstock will say about it but it’s good he’s got his sights set higher than Cape Grace.”

Sarah swallowed hard. “That’s not a path that’s open to me.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s not.” He sighed. “Maybe look around town. Find your friend—what’s her name? With the whelkie?”

“Mary?” she asked.

“Yeah. Mary. What’s she doing. Would she like to work with you?”

Sarah blinked. “Why would she do that?”

He glanced at her. “Well, you’re not the only kid coming of age and facing a trip off planet.” He grinned. “You could save each other, if she’ll play along.”

“Does she know how to run a boat?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t know the side rail from a stern line not that long ago.” He glanced at her as they strolled along the path. “He’s not going to quit.”

“No, he’s not,” Sarah said. “He’s already old enough to get booted so he has to have a job lined up by spring.”

They walked in silence for a time, the shells on her father’s staff clinking in the wind. “How is it, working with him?” he asked. “Any problems?”

She thrust her fists into the pockets on her coat and shrugged. “He doesn’t like showing up on time.” She grimaced. “Well, he didn’t like it at first.”

“Oh?” he asked. “What changed?”

“I don’t know that it has, but I got mad at him one morning. We may have had a bit of a spat but he apologized and he’s been pretty good about it since then.”

“Good for you,” he said.

“I also carry my knife and a carving while I wait so it’s not too onerous.” She grinned at him. “It’s actually kinda peaceful. Sitting there waiting. Carving. Listening to the world.”

He smiled at her and nodded. “I could see that.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll quit. I don’t think he can get a job on the draggers.”

“Even over the winter?” he asked.

“We don’t fish over the winter,” Sarah said.

“They fish the mid-ocean ridge year round.”

“Oh. I knew that but didn’t realize people from Cape Grace went out.”

“You don’t hear the flitter taking crews out on Wednesday mornings?” her father asked. “It’s loud enough to rattle the windows in the cottage.”

“I thought all our seasonal crews just worked here.”

He shrugged. “Fish to catch. Credits to earn. I suspect it’s time on deck for some who are trying to get better jobs.”

She bit her lip and pondered that as they walked. “Like Bobby?” she asked.

He shrugged again. “Dunno. Maybe.”

“No,” she said. “He’s not going to quit.” Was he?

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Aram’s Inlet: November 15, 2348

JIMMY LEANED BACK IN his chair and ran both hands over his scalp. The quarterlies looked good. The equatorial ridge let the crews work through the winter. It helped with quotas but played hell with logistics. He really needed to get a handle on the crew situation. Trying to figure out who wanted to work through the winter, then getting them the support they needed without playing favorites, and getting the crews out and back without disrupting the existing crews already had him pulling his hair out.

He looked up at a knock on his door jamb. He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t even heard footsteps in the hall.

Tony stepped through the door followed by Maisie McIlheny. “All right, Jimmy. I think you know your new assistant?” Tony said.

Jimmy stood up from his desk and looked at Maisie. “You? Who’s running things out at Potter’s Landing?”

She shrugged. “I got the word that Mr. Spinnelli was looking for an assistant to the director and applied. He hired me and my assistant stepped up to take the harbormaster job.”

Jimmy glared at Tony. “You hired her?”

Tony nodded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Of course. You told me to.”

“I didn’t tell you to hire her.” Confusion washed over him, drowning out rational thought.

“You told me—and I quote—’Find me an assistant.’” He waved a hand at McIlheny. “Here you go.”

“You didn’t ask me? After the last fiasco?”

Tony shook his head. “No. I should have known better with him. That one is on me.”

“I’m standing right here, boss.” McIlheny punched the last word hard and folded her arms. “You have a problem with me?”

Jimmy paused and took a deep breath, trying to calm the unexpected panic rising in his chest. “No,” he said after too long a pause. He swallowed. “No. Not a problem with you. I would have appreciated some opportunity to offer feedback on any candidate first.” He looked at Tony.

Tony shrugged. “You needed an assistant. You told me to get you one. Here she is.” He turned to McIlheny and offered a hand. “Welcome aboard, again, Maisie. You’re going to be great.”

McIlheny smiled and shook Tony’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Spinnelli. I’m really looking forward to getting my feet under me. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will,” Tony said. He waved a hand at Jimmy and disappeared down the hallway.

Jimmy stared at the empty door frame for a moment and found he didn’t know where to put his arms. They felt awkward just hanging there so he crossed and uncrossed them, eventually leaning forward with his hands on the desk. “All right then,” he said.

“Is there a problem?” McIlheny asked.

“Yes. No.” Jimmy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He caught me flat-footed.”

McIlheny grinned. “I figured that much out on my own.”

Jimmy took a deep breath and blew it out before waving at a visitor’s chair. “Have a seat.”

She lowered herself into the chair and looked right at home there.

Jimmy settled into his own chair, feeling better once he had the solid desk between them. “So. He’s hired you already, I take it?”

She nodded. “I’ve gotten the orientation from Stella already.”

He nodded. “When can you start?”

She tilted her head a little to the left. “I started this morning.”

“Don’t you have to find a replacement? Move?”

“My assistant harbormaster is already running things very nicely, thank you very much.” McIlheny laced her fingers together in her lap. “Mr. Spinnelli arranged for a nice little apartment just around the corner from the office here. I moved in last week.”

Jimmy sighed and stared at her, admiring the way the light shone on her hair.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” He struggled to find something to say. “Why?”

“Well, you’re looking at me rather oddly. Would you prefer somebody else?”

“Not that,” he said. He gathered his limited wit and tried to start over. “Why do you want this job?”

McIlheny nodded. “Because I wanted to be higher up the food chain and you need the help.”

“Higher up the food chain?” Jimmy looked around his office, peeling paint, dented furniture and all. “This is higher up the food chain?”

She shrugged. “You’re the apex predator. Other than maybe Violet Austin. Everything that happens along the South Coast starts here. I’ll be where the action is, even if all I’m doing is getting coffee and making sure you’re eating regularly.”

“I don’t need a keeper,” Jimmy said, a bit of anger beginning to coil in his gut.

“You need an assistant, according to Mr. Spinnelli. If I’m going to be a problem, I’m sure I can find another job in the company.”

Jimmy swallowed and stood, crossing to peer out the window over the bay. “No,” he said. “I do need an assistant. I keep leaning on Tony every time I need something. It’s a bad habit.” He found it easier to talk to her when he wasn’t looking into her green eyes.

“That’s what he told me,” she said. “What do you need me to do?”

Jimmy thrust his hands in his pockets and shook his head, still staring out over the bay. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I was going to have an assistant this morning. I don’t have anything lined up.”

“What’s the most pressing problem you have at the moment?” she asked.

He turned to look at her.

“Besides me,” she said, grinning. She paused for a long moment. “What’s the problem, Mr. Pirano?”

He leaned against the wall beside the window. “Your grievance failed,” he said.

She nodded. “We both knew it would.”

“But you still want to work for—or with—me?”

“You said it yourself,” she said. “It’s not under your control. Home office dictates and you have to do what they say.” She shrugged. “I don’t hold that against you. How could I?”

Jimmy nodded. She sounded reasonable enough.

“So, here I am. What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. You’ve caught me out. I wasn’t expecting an assistant to just show up.” He shrugged.

“What’s your biggest problem right now?” she asked.

Jimmy looked at the display on his console. “Winter scheduling.”

She nodded. “What’s the issue?”

“It’s a jigsaw puzzle,” Jimmy said, staring into the middle distance. “We don’t require anybody to go to the Deep Sea platforms. It’s strictly voluntary.”

McIlheny nodded. “Yeah. I knew that.”

“So some people want to work through the winter. It’s good because it means we can give the offshore crews down time, but it makes for uneven logistics.”

“What does that mean?” McIlheny asked. “Uneven.”

Jimmy nodded, pursing his lips and measuring his words. “During the normal season, we have enough boats and crews. Everybody’s working. That includes the Deep Sea platforms where we rotate the crews to keep the boats working all the time without requiring the same crews to be stuck out there.” He paused and looked at her.

She nodded. “I get keeping the boats working.”

“In winter, when the coastal fisheries shut down, all the boats are idle, so we’ve got more people than boats. I’ve been trying to use that to get the offshore crews some extended downtime.” He shook his head. “Not everybody wants to work year round. Not everybody wants extra down time.”

“As I understand it, the offshore boats have regular crews. They’re working two weeks on, two off,” McIlheny said.

“Yeah. So we swap whole crews. Fly one out, bring one back. The boats keep working year round.”

“So, winter?” McIlheny asked.

“I’ve got people asking to go out to the ridge for the winter. Lot of single people. Younger people wanting to get more time on deck.”

“Logistics?” McIlheny asked.

“Skippers tend to like their winters off. So we have people wanting to crew but not enough skippers.”

“You need somebody to find skippers to make full crews?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Jimmy said, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “We also need more boats out there. They’ve all got two crews already.”

“Boats that will be idle during the season,” she said, nodding. “And the fishing season is longer than the winter season.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“What’s the company’s side on this? How would it affect the landings?”

Jimmy released his hands and shrugged, turning to look out over the bay. “Depends on how many want to do it. Whether we can get enough full crews out there to make a difference.”

“Deep Sea landings are a lot higher per boat,” McIlheny said. “How many boats do we have out there now?”

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder at her. “Something over a hundred.”

“That’s what? About sixteen per Deep Sea station?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Jimmy ran the numbers in his head and nodded. “Yeah. I think Deep Sea Five has twenty.”

“So what’s the incremental cost of moving one extra boat out to have a spare at each Deep Sea?” she asked.

Jimmy crossed his arms, put his back against the wall, and stared at the floor. “Six more boats against a fleet of a hundred?” He shook his head. “Not that much really.” He looked at her. “What about during the season?”

“Backup. You have a spare on scene in case one of the boats has some mechanical problem.” McIlheny shrugged. “How do you deal with breakdowns now?”

“Each Deep Sea has a small chandlery for common parts. They’ve all got mechanics out there to help in case of breakdown.”

“How many days do they miss because of mechanical issues?” she asked.

Jimmy shook his head, feeling like he was failing an oral exam. “I don’t have the details.” He shrugged and grinned. “I should have my assistant look that up and see what a cost-benefit analysis says on the subject.”

She grinned back at him and stood up. “I’ll have those numbers for you this afternoon.”

Jimmy blinked at her. “You sound pretty sure you can find them.”

“I’ve been plugging numbers into that database for the last ten stanyers. I think I can get some numbers out.”

“You have an office?” he asked, abashed that he hadn’t thought about it.

She pointed to the wall. “Next one over. Tony’s arranging to install a door. Carpenters will do it over the weekend. I’m all settled in.”

Jimmy felt his jaw sag a little. “And nobody thought that perhaps I’d like to know what was happening?”

McIheny folded her hands behind her back and looked down a little, her red hair swaying in the morning light. “Tony didn’t think you’d take kindly to having me as your assistant. What with the grievance and all.” She shrugged. “After you took off that day at Bleak Harbor, I wasn’t sure you’d accept me either.”

“So he figured asking forgiveness would be better than permission?” Jimmy asked, feeling a bubble of amusement in his chest.

McIlheny shrugged. “Something like that.” She bit her bottom lip for a moment. “Was it something I said?”

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“That day when you came out to talk to me about the grievance?”

“I’m not following.” He swallowed, a chill working its way down his back.

“Well, things seemed to be going pretty well, then next thing I know, you’re bolting off the deck and flying away.”

Jimmy swallowed again, trying to push down the lump of embarrassment in his throat. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He nodded. “It felt a little too ... intimate?” He glanced up at her. “It made me uncomfortable. Felt inappropriate.”

Her lips twitched a little, almost as if she wanted to smile but fought the impulse. At least she wasn’t laughing.

She nodded once, an abrupt bob of her head. “I see. Thank you.” Her eyes narrowed just a fraction. “And now?”

“Now?” he asked.

“Is it going to be a problem? Do you feel this is too intimate?” She tilted her head to one side. “Will I be able to work with you?”

He stared into her eyes, seeing something there that hadn’t been there before. A challenge, perhaps. Or a fear. “I think the question is whether or not I can work with you,” he said, the words tearing at the base of his throat.

A tiny smile worked its way from her lips up to her eyes. “You’re the Pirano. You can pretty much work with whoever you want, can’t you?”

An imp of the perverse made him grin. “I try not to work with people I want. Too much tension.” He clamped his mouth shut, feeling the heat in his face. He turned away and looked out the window.

She laughed. “Fair enough.” Her footsteps echoed in the hallway as she left and Jimmy heard them through the wall as she entered her office. “That went well,” she said. Jimmy heard her keyboard clacking and realized he’d been hearing it for almost a week.

He swallowed a curse and rested his forehead against the cool glass.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Cape Grace: September 7, 2349

BOBBY KEPT LOOKING at her funny. Nothing overt. Just little glances like she had something weird on her face. She did her best to ignore it but after they secured the boat for the day, she asked, “Is there something wrong?”

He grinned at her. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“You’ve been looking at me sideways all day. Do I have a zit on my forehead or something?” She brushed her salty fingers across her forehead. She regretted it almost immediately as she realized where her hands had been all day.

“Nope. Just wonderin’ if you had any plans for when the season’s over.”

“Plans?” she asked. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Going back up to the orbital to visit your great-gran?”

“We’ve still got a few weeks of crabbing,” she said.

“Yeah, but after that?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Mostly stepping back from the boat. Catching up on my carving.” She bit back a comment about getting away from the noise and the mess of crabbing. The stink of the bait didn’t bother her half as much as the exhaust fumes. She actually enjoyed the roaring of the wind in her ears but enjoyed the rumble of the engine only when it stopped at day’s end. It made it hard to listen, but that wasn’t something Bobby needed to know.

He pursed his lips and nodded. “You really don’t like doin’ this, do you,” he said.

“What? Crabbing?”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Working every day during the season.”

“We don’t work every day,” she said.

“Darn near,” he said. “Only time we don’t work is when the weather’s too bad to take the boat out.”

“True,” she said. “But we’ve got three or four months completely off after they pull the boats for the winter.”

He shrugged and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Why?” she asked. “You have plans for the off-season?”

“Maybe,” he said, giving her another of those funny looks.

She sighed. “All right. Give.” She braced herself, unsure of where the conversation would go but certain she wasn’t going to like it.

“Comstock’s letting me work the relief crews out on the ridge this winter,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” His face lit up with enthusiasm. “Big time, finally. If I do good out there, I might get a better slot here next season.”

The pit of her stomach fell away as she drew the connections. “You wouldn’t be crabbing?”

He shook his head. “Nope. No sense piddling around with crabbing when I could get a real job.”

His words scoured her, stripping her bare. “This is a real job,” she said, nearly strangling on the hot lump in her throat.

He shrugged. “Maybe to you,” he said. “But really? Is it? If you wanted to get married, settle down? Could you live on what you’re making here?”

She blinked at him, trying to process what he was saying. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

“You’re gonna live with your old man forever?” he asked, a sneer in his voice.

“That’s dumb. Of course not.”

“You can’t be a shaman,” he said.

She blinked back the burn in her eyes and stared out over the bay. “Maybe not, but at least he understands what being a shaman is.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” he asked. His voice had changed tone, no longer confrontational. Almost soft.

“You couldn’t,” she said, staring at him. “How could you?”

He shrugged and pressed his lips together. “Maybe I don’t know exactly, but I know a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like you walk the beach and listen to the world. That you carve whelkies.” He shrugged again. “You don’t seem to enjoy being on the boat. Wrestling the traps.”

She rocked back on her heels. “You say those words but you don’t know what they mean.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “I only know because you told me. I don’t know what it really entails, but it must be fun—or at least pleasant, because it’s all you want to do.”

She clamped her jaw closed and breathed through her nose, trying to keep calm.

He ran a hand through his hair, displacing his cap momentarily, and looked at the deck. “Look, I’m sorry. All right. I’m messing this up.”

“Messing what up?” she asked.

He sighed. “You remember last year, I proposed?”

She nodded.

“You never gave me an answer,” he said, looking up from the deck.

“I gave you an answer. I said no.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, but that wasn’t really an answer. You didn’t even think about it. All you said was we never even went out on a date.”

“We still haven’t,” she said.

“I want to fix that,” he said. “I want to fix all of this.”

“All of what?”

He waved his hands around. “This. Crabbing. Settling down. Getting married. Making it so you can walk the beach and listen to the world and whatever else you shamans do.”

A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in her head. A maelstrom of feelings roiled in her chest. “You think getting married will solve all that?”

He shook his head. “No. Not solve.” He looked out to sea for a moment as if weighing his words. “If I do good this winter, I’ll be on the road to getting a dragger job. That’s a job that could support us both. We could live in our house. My old man isn’t coming back and there’s nothing here for my mother to come back to. We could live there. I could work for the company and you could shaman your heart out.”

“That sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”

He sighed. “No. It’s just what I’m thinking. I’m asking what you think.”

She blinked and shook her head. “You can’t ask me that.”

“I just did.”

“I can’t answer. My brain is having hiccups.”

He smiled. “You can’t say it’s sudden. I did ask you last year.”

Something about the situation made it difficult for her to catch her breath, to form coherent thoughts—to say nothing of expressing them. She shook her head. “I need time to think about it.”

His smile widened. “I can accept that.”

“I’m not saying yes,” she said.

“You’re not saying no, either.”

She sighed. “I’m not saying no, either.”

“We’ve got some time,” he said. “There’s still a few weeks left in the season. I’ve still got to show I can cut it on the draggers this winter.”

She swallowed, suddenly afraid of her own mind. Could she really go through with this?

“In the meantime,” he said. “It’s just about dinner time. Lemme take you to dinner.”

She shook her head.

“Come on,” he said, his tone teasing. “You can’t say we’ve never even been on a date if you never give us a chance.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “All right. Sure. Dinner.”

He grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard was it?”

He surprised a short laugh out of her. “Yeah. Actually it was.”

He stepped onto the pier and held a hand out to her. “Come on then. I’m hungry and Ginny’s making shepherd’s pie for the special tonight.”

She took his hand and let him lead her off the pier. It didn’t feel right, but it would shut her father up if she married Bobby. At least about being deported. Just the thought of that weight being lifted from her shoulders for the first time in her life made her think that maybe—just maybe—Bobby was right.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Cape Grace: October 5, 2349

THE TWO KIDS LOOKED nervous. Otto wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they had to be nervous about, but he schooled his features and settled at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.

Sarah looked at Bobby.

Bobby swallowed and turned to Otto. “Sir, I’d like to marry your daughter.”

“Well, that’s really up to her, isn’t it?”

“I’ve asked her already.”

Otto looked at Sarah. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want to work on the boat anymore.” She glanced at Bobby. “I can’t stop unless I’m married.”

“Is that enough foundation for getting married?” Otto asked.

She hugged Bobby’s arm. “He’s a good guy.”

“Do you love him?”

Bobby looked over at her and their eyes met. “I think so,” she said. “How do you know?”

Otto looked at Bobby. “Do you love her?”

Bobby nodded. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Bobby asked.

“Why do you love her?”

He looked at him and then at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just do. I never thought of why.”

Otto nodded. “Well, that’s as good an answer as any.”

“So I have your permission, sir?”

Otto laughed. “You don’t need my permission.” He looked at Sarah. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. You’ve always said I needed to make up my mind about what I wanted to do. I think this is a good path for me.”

“Have you listened to the world lately?”

“We went for a long walk just this morning.”

“What did you hear?”

Bobby looked back and forth between them but Otto kept his gaze fixed on Sarah.

“There’s a storm coming,” she said, her voice quiet.

Otto felt a streak of ice slide down his back. “You’re willing to weather the storm with him?”

Sarah bit her lip and cast a side-eyed glance at Bobby. “I am.”

Otto blew out a breath he didn’t know he held in. “Well, let’s plan for a wedding next year, then. I’m sure your grandmother will have a lot of ideas. I know she did when I married your mother. You wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.”

“Really?” Sarah asked.

“What? You expected I’d say no?”

“Just ... I didn’t know.”

“I’ve said all along that you’d need to get a job or get married if you want to stay on St. Cloud.” Otto shrugged. “Seems like you’re on the path.”

“All right, then,” Bobby said, a grin splitting his tanned face.

“I’ll need to stay on the boat for one more season,” Sarah said, almost to herself. “I can do that.”

“I thought you liked it,” Otto said.

She shrugged. “I do, but it’s hard to focus sometimes. The season starts out fine, but I get more and more distracted. When the season’s over, I can come ashore, walk the beach, carve. It centers me.” She shrugged again. “I can’t explain it.”

Otto grunted. “Don’t need to. I know exactly what you mean.” He turned to Bobby. “You know she’s a shaman, right?”

“She can’t be a shaman,” he said. “I know she carves and thinks she’s a shaman, but unless she’s a boy, she can’t be one.” He shrugged.

“You two haven’t talked about this?”

Sarah looked down at her hands on the table. “We’ve talked about it some.”

“You’ll need to sort this out between you,” Otto said.

Bobby’s brow furrowed as he looked back and forth between Otto and Sarah. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m going to go into my shop and let you two talk for a bit.” Otto stood, took his mug of tea, and went down the hall to the shop. He stoked the fire in the stove up with a couple of pieces of waste wood and settled in to finish up the inlay on a parrot. He heard low voices but made no effort to try to make out what they were saying. Fear lay like a rock in his belly, cold and hard and scratching every time he moved. An odd aroma drifted in the air—not smoke from the stove and not the fresh cut wood. Something else. Whenever he tried to focus on it, it disappeared. Eventually the voices became quiet. He heard the door open and close.

Sarah joined him in the shop and took out a whale carving that she’d nearly finished. She didn’t look at Otto, but sat hunched over the piece and kept her eyes on the work.

Otto bit his lip to keep from speaking and finished the inlay.

“Some fish chowder for dinner?” he asked, working to keep his voice level. Keeping away from the question he needed an answer to.

“Sounds good.” She shot a quick glance out of the corner of her eyes. “Let me finish this fluke and I’ll come make some biscuits for us.”

Otto accepted the offering. “Sounds good.”

He left her hunched over, her blade scraping the final shape from the wood. Her words haunted him.

There’s a storm coming.

He’d done what he could to help her. He hoped she could weather the storm on her own.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Cape Grace: November 2, 2349

RACHEL SMILED AT THE people around the table. “It’s settled then.”

“You don’t have to do all this, Gramma,” Sarah said.

“You’re my only granddaughter and by all that’s finny in the sea, I’m going to do this. I’m only going to get one chance.”

Sarah glanced at Bobby who smiled and nodded. “I think it could be fun,” he said.

“So, June fifteenth is the big day,” Rachel said, looking from face to face until each one nodded.

Otto asked, “What’ll you do for a crew on the boat, Bobby?”

He shrugged. “There’s a couple of guys that have asked me about it. I’ll see who’s serious over the winter. Don’t suspect it’ll be a problem.”

“Any idea where you’ll live?” Rachel asked.

“I’m still livin’ in Dad’s house. He won’t be back any time soon. Mom’s got a sweet berth over in Maggie’s Landing. Probably stay there.” Bobby cast a glance at Sarah.

“Will she come for the wedding?” Rachel asked.

“Maybe,” Bobby said.

“Maybe?” Rachel’s eyes went wide. “Her only son getting married and she won’t be here?”

“Depends on Dad.”

“He coming?” Sarah asked.

“Dunno.” Bobby stared at his hands. “We don’t talk much.”

Rachel shared a glance with Otto. He shrugged and said, “We’ll work it out. Plenty of time between now and then.”

“Maybe we could visit her at Maggie’s Landing after the wedding,” Sarah said. “Spend a few days there?”

Bobby didn’t look up from his hands but shrugged. “Sure.”

Otto stood and started pulling utensils out of the kitchen drawers. “You stayin’ for dinner, Bobby?”

Bobby glanced up at the chrono and shook his head. “I gotta get over to the chandlery. Marty’s expecting me.”

“I’ll walk you over,” Sarah said, rising and pulling her coat from the peg.

Bobby followed suit and in a few moments, Rachel and Otto had the house to themselves.

Otto glanced at his mother. “Ask away.”

She gave a small quiet chuckle. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not really. The kids probably didn’t notice. Father would have.”

“He the right boy for her?”

Otto finished chopping an onion before answering. He tossed it into the pot with a bit of oil where it hissed and sizzled. “He’s the only one who seems interested.”

Rachel sighed. “That’s pretty thin sauce.”

“That’s what I said. Flanagan thinks maybe she shouldn’t stay on planet.” Otto kept his attention on moving the onions around.

“What? When did you talk to Flanagan?”

“According to him, I’ve never talked to him. Never met the man.” He shrugged. “Last spring.”

“Sounds like Flanagan.”

“You know him?”

She shook her head. “Not directly. Know of him through your father’s interactions. Never met the man myself. Really. Never met him.”

“Father mention anything about the contract?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

“What about it?”

“Rumor is the company wants to tighten up. Doesn’t want as many nonemployees working on planet.”

“And a shaman’s not an employee,” she said. “How long has this been going around?”

“First you’ve heard of it?”

“Your father never mentioned it.”

Otto nodded. “Not sure what they’re worried about. There’s been shamans here almost since the beginning.”

“Most of them are dependents like your father.” Rachel shrugged. “You’re the only one I know that’s not married to an employee.”

“And I used to be.” He started pulling food out of the chiller. “It was pretty tough going before that.”

“Even with the stipend?”

Otto nodded. “I put my hand-lining and crabbing experience to good use over in Maggie’s Landing. I didn’t starve.” He paused and grinned at her. “I about pulled my hair out over the lack of good driftwood for carving, though. That was so frustrating.”

She laughed.

“I got a couple of buckets of shells while I was there, but I think I found about two good pieces of wood a month there.”

“No beach?”

“All I had was a small shelf at low tide and it was inside the harbor. The outer headlands dropped straight into the water. The only way to get to a beach would have been to take a boat out to one of the barrier islands.”

“Sounds dreary.”

“You never been?”

She shook her head.

“You and Father should make a trip out there. It’s really striking with the mountain right behind the town and the cliffs surrounding the harbor.” He grinned at her. “No tram. You’d have to fly in or take a boat.”

“Maybe we will one day.” She tipped up her mug and finished off her tea. “But Flanagan thinks she should leave?”

Otto glanced at her.

“No, I didn’t lose track of that,” she said.

“He didn’t say as much. Just suggested that her beach might not be on St. Cloud.”

“You’d let her go?”

“Well, once she’s reached majority. Not much I can say if she decides to leave.”

“It’d break your heart, though.” Rachel’s low voice barely carried over the sound of sautéing onions.

Otto bit his lip and didn’t speak.

The door opened and Sarah breezed in, closing the door with a firm slam. “Brrr. It’s cold out there. What’re we having for dinner?”

“I’m making fish chowder. Maybe you can prevail on your grandmother to make some biscuits.” Otto grinned at the two women.

“Pshaw,” Rachel said. “She can make them as well as I can by now.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t had yours in ages,” Otto said.

Rachel laughed. “All right. All right. Not fair makin’ a poor old woman work for her dinner. And a guest, too.”

“Well, you poor old woman. The bowl’s up there and your granddaughter can show you where the rest of the fixin’s are.” Otto pointed with his wooden spoon.

For a time, he focused on food. There’d be time enough to worry about the rest later.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Cape Grace: January 18, 2350

ED COMSTOCK LEANED back in his chair with a grin. “I don’t know how you did it, but it looks like your shaman problem is working itself out.”

“How so?” Otto asked.

“I just got the wedding request.”

“Is there a problem?”

Comstock shook his head. “Nope. Best thing I can think of. I was a bit concerned that we’re too small a pond for your special fish.”

“We’ll see. It’s a long time until June. A lot can happen.”

Comstock frowned. “You’re not usually so pessimistic. Anything I should know about?”

“Just a feeling. Bobby seems to be a nice enough kid. I think Sarah has warmed up to him.”

Comstock leaned forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “I don’t hear the L-word being bandied about.”

“Me, either. I heard it out of Bobby’s mouth once and I’m not sure Sarah is aware of it. Maybe that’s not a conversation that fathers are privy to.”

“So, what? Bobby’s a good worker. Doesn’t need a wife to stay.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe they’re bonding together out of desperation.”

“I get Sarah’s problem. Bobby?”

“He’s not the most popular young man on the waterfront.”

“Body odor?”

“Guilt by association. Apparently his father left a lot of hard feelings around the docks.”

“He’s been gone for a couple stanyers now,” Comstock said.

“Some folks have real long memories.”

“You have any reservations, Otto?”

“Of course. She’s my daughter. She’s got a ticking bomb in her gut and a need to follow her calling. Personally, I suspect she’s just marrying him for his residency.”

“Well, it’s one way to stay on planet.”

“And the other ways are closed off to her. One way or another,” Otto said, tasting the bile on his words.

“Otto, it’s not like there’s a gun to her head.”

Otto sighed and rubbed a hand across his lips.

Comstock shook his head. “I’ve got Bobby on the short list for dragger crews. It’ll be a nice step up for him if he can get on one of the big boats.”

“What about the crabbing?”

“Half a dozen people have asked me about it. Looks like the crab business is going to take off. Lots of second and third kids aren’t waiting for older brother or sister to move on. They’re looking to get a bit of experience themselves.”

“And it pays good for what it is,” Otto said.

Comstock smiled. “Also, true.”

“So, you’re going to approve the marriage license?”

“Of course.” He paused and looked at Otto from under lowered brows. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What’d Flanagan say?”

“When?”

“When you quit crabbing after one season. He was behind that, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We never met. We never had a discussion about the problems with the shaman clause.”

Comstock nodded. “And I never had a discussion about Sarah and her gift.”

“You think they’ll boot the shamans?”

“I’m not sure what they’ll do, but there’s something got the home office people scratching and I think they’re looking at the shamans as fleas.”

“Changing the contract will only affect people like me.”

Comstock’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Why?”

“I’m not married to the company.”

“You were.”

“I’m not now.” Otto shrugged. “How long would they give a person to grieve before they forced them out?”

Comstock took a deep breath and stared hard at his desk for a long moment before blowing it back out. “Good question.”

“I’d have to find somebody to marry.”

“You always have a career crabbing.”

Otto let that idea roll around the office a bit. “Who’d do the unofficial calls?”

“Like Barb Tatum?”

Otto nodded.

“You don’t have to convince me, Otto. I’m just dancing to the music here. Somebody else is calling the tune.”

Otto nodded again. “Yeah. We’re all on the dance floor but I’m not sure everybody hears the same music.”

Comstock chuckled without much humor.

“Flanagan didn’t visit me twice,” Otto said.

“Really?”

“We didn’t have a discussion about the shaman rule.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Comstock chewed the inside of his lower lip.

“You know, it occurs to me that one of the problems the company has with shamans is that we don’t fit in the structure.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, a company concerned about too many nonemployees on a planet might look at this shaman thing as a threat. They have no leverage to have us toe the line.”

“Not like company admins,” Comstock said, his lips curled into a wry grin.

“Exactly not.”

“So, what’s the answer? Hire you?”

Otto nodded. “We’ve talked about this before. Lotta villages offer stipends already. They see the value in having a shaman in town.”

“You got one at Maggie’s Landing, didn’t you?”

“Yep. It was small but it helped.”

“Would that be a problem for you? Company butting into your business like that?”

“Nope. Not sure why it would. What would you have me do different?”

Comstock stared at him for several long moments. “If you were on my payroll? I can’t think of a thing.”

Otto shrugged. “Not like you could tell me how to exercise the gift. And unlikely that you’d want to have me punch a clock or something while I’m walking the beach.”

“Might mean I’d call on you more often to look into stuff I can’t.”

“Or sooner.” Otto shrugged. “Wouldn’t be a bad thing. Finding problems earlier.”

“Or sooner,” Comstock agreed. He squinted his eyes a little as he looked across the desk. “You wouldn’t have had this conversation with somebody like Flanagan, would you?”

“Me? Never met the guy.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Cape Grace: May 11, 2350

SARAH WATCHED HER FATHER head down the trail toward the village and considered her options for the morning. The tide wouldn’t change for another stan and she didn’t have a whelkie in progress to take up her time. She went to the top of the headland and looked along the flooded beach, its character so drastically changed at high tide compared to the long flat stretch at low. Perhaps a walk on the escarpment. She’d gone a couple of times since Mary had shown it to her. She had time now.

When she turned, she found Mary coming around the corner of the cottage. Sarah waved, drawing the girl’s attention. “Hey.”

Mary waved back and met Sarah halfway. “Hi. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Nope. I was just wondering what to do with myself this morning. Thought about walking the escarpment and here you are.”

Mary bit her lips and nodded. Waves of anxiety streamed from her. “I saw your father on his way into town.”

Sarah nodded. “Would you like to come in? I can make us a pot of tea.”

Mary shook her head, glancing back the way she came. “No.” She looked up the path to the beach. “Is this where you walk normally?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Sarah led the way to the top of the headland. “High tide. It’ll be a couple of stans before there’s even much of the beach exposed to see.”

Mary nodded and pushed her hair back from her face only to have the wind whip it back again almost immediately. She glanced at Sarah before looking back at the waves rolling up the shore. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is. It’s always different, but it’s always beautiful.”

Mary took a deep breath and stepped in front of Sarah. “You can’t marry him.”

The wave of anxiety and fear rolling off the girl nearly staggered Sarah. “Who? Bobby?”

“Yes. He’s not a nice guy.” She swallowed hard. “You probably don’t see it. He’s probably nice to you.”

Sarah blinked, struggling to understand the roiling emotions buffeting the headland like some emotional gust front. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s broken. Something isn’t right with him,” Mary said.

“Has he hurt you?” Sarah asked.

Mary shook her head and looked away down the beach, squinting into the wind that blew the hair back from her face. “No. Not me. Other girls. He’s vicious. Doesn’t take no for an answer.” She looked at Sarah. “You know what I mean?”

“No,” Sarah said, feeling the truth in Mary’s words but having no anchor for them in her mind. “What does he do?”

“Angela Stewart went out with him for a while. She said he forced her. When she didn’t like it, he slapped her.”

“Really?” Sarah said, the ugly information failing to connect to her image of her future husband.

“She’s not the only one. Half a dozen girls. He’s poison.”

“Was this recent?” Sarah asked.

Mary took a half step back and looked into Sarah’s eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

Sarah reached out to touch Mary’s arm. “I do. I can feel it. You’re telling me the truth. I just don’t know how to deal with it.”

Mary nodded and looked away. “No. Not recent. Before he started the bait thing.”

“Before we started crabbing together?” Sarah asked.

Mary nodded again.

“Do you think he might have grown up a little since then?” Sarah asked.

Mary looked up at her again. “No. I don’t.” She bit her lip but wouldn’t look away. “He’s broken. He won’t let you see it until it’s too late, but I had to try to warn you.”

Sarah swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

Mary’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “You’re going to marry him anyway, aren’t you.”

Sarah turned her face into the wind and let its fingers stroke her hair. “Probably.”

“You don’t need to do this, Sarah,” Mary said, tugging on Sarah’s arm.

Sarah sighed and faced her friend. “I don’t see any other choice.”

Mary nodded, her lips pressed into a line. “I know that feeling,” she said. “Having no choice.” She paused. “Then you rang my doorbell.”

Sarah nodded. “I remember.”

“You gave me a whelkie,” Mary said. “You gave me a choice.”

“No,” Sarah said. “You always had a choice. The whelkie just gave it substance.”

“You have a choice, too,” Mary said. “Do you have a whelkie?”

Sarah laughed. “I have dozens.”

Mary bit her lip and shook her head, just slightly. “You know what I mean.”

Sarah looked back down the beach. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

Mary pulled her into a quick hug and turned away, picking her way down the path down the headland. “You saved my life. I needed to warn you.”

Sarah watched her go for a moment. “Thank you.”

She thought the wind had eaten her words until Mary stopped at the bottom of the path, turning to look back up. “You’re welcome.” The sadness in the young woman’s face nearly toppled Sarah but Mary turned aside once more and strode out of view around the cottage, heading back to town.

Sarah hugged herself against the wind’s chill and stared out to sea. Mary had come to warn her. Could she believe the warning?

Did it make a difference?

Otto returned to an empty cottage, a sudden foreboding washing over him when he stepped through the door. No note awaited him on the kitchen table. “Sarah?” He walked through the cottage, peeking into her bedroom and checking the shop. Swallowing his fear he climbed the headland and looked down the beach. The tide had only just turned. The narrow strip of sand provided a path, albeit one blocked by stones and piles of driftwood along its length. Surely she hadn’t tried to navigate it.

“Sarah!” he shouted into the wind before spotting her sitting on a rock at the foot of the trail, her red windbreaker like a splash of blood against the stone and sand.

She looked up and waved before pushing herself off the stone and starting the climb up.

He met her halfway. “Are you all right?” He stared into her face, noting the bloodshot eyes.

She sighed and put on a smile that must have been for his benefit. It looked fake as hell. “Of course, Papa. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He took her upper arm and fought the urge to wrap her in a hug. “I don’t know. I came back and the house was empty and I panicked, I guess.”

She nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t think.” She looked up the trail. “Tea? Did you accomplish what you needed to in town?”

He took her cue and started back up the trail, glancing at her as they went. “Tea sounds good. Yes. I think it went well.” He took a few steps. “Anything happen here?”

“Remember Mary?” she asked.

He nodded. “Your first whelkie.”

“Yes,” she said. “She came to visit.”

Otto nodded. “I think I saw her on my way into the village.”

“Probably.”

They crested the headland and started down the far side. “Did you have a good visit?” he asked.

Sarah sighed and pursed her lips. “She came to warn me about Bobby.”

Otto stopped dead in his tracks, the faint aroma of dead meat wafting past on the breeze, gone almost before it registered. “Warn you?”

“Apparently he wasn’t nice to girls when he was younger,” she said, looking into his eyes as if searching for the answer to some unasked question.

Otto looked away first. “I see.”

“Do you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “No, not really.” He stopped, his hand on the door. “Do you believe her?”

Sarah nodded.

The fear burned inside him but he forced himself to ask the question. “Has he ever been ... not nice to you?”

Sarah shook her head. “Never.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, swallowing against his fear.

Sarah looked away. “Do people change?”

“Every day,” Otto said.

She squinted up at him. “You believe that.”

He nodded. “Every day.”

“What if they’re broken inside?” she asked.

Otto sighed and shook his head. “It depends. Different people heal different ways.”

“You haven’t healed,” she said.

Her words took his breath. He tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but she wasn’t. “No,” he said, finally. “Not completely.”

She nodded. “But some.”

“Some,” he said. “Having you has helped me heal.”

“I see,” she said and nodded again. “Thanks.” She looked down for a moment before looking back at him. “So? Tea?”

He’d meant the words as hopeful, encouraging. The pain behind her eyes told him how badly he’d failed. “Sounds good,” he said and held the door for her.

She went in, slipping her windbreaker off and hanging it on its peg before going to the kitchen to fill the kettle.

He took off his coat and hung it beside hers. His eyes stung and he turned away, afraid she’d see the fear in his eyes.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Cape Grace: June 15, 2350

SARAH TATUM—NOW—LOOKED at her husband. He stood in the doorway, his clothes looking like he’d only just thrown them on—one shirt-tail untucked, his jacket hanging off him like a trash bag. His belt hung open, the buckle making little ting-ting sounds as he shifted his weight. Even from across the room, he reeked of beer and leered at her in a way that curdled her stomach, raising bile to the back of her throat.

“Quite the party, huh?” he said, bracing an elbow in the door jamb.

“Not every day a Krugg gets married, I suppose,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry your parents couldn’t make it.”

He took a breath and belched loudly with great vigor. He looked pleased with himself after. “I’m not,” he said. “My father would have been drunk under the table within half a stan and my mother would have been shrieking at him to stand up and be a man.”

Sarah swallowed hard. The Bobby Tatum she’d known for stanyers couldn’t have been this drunken lout. Not all that time. “I didn’t know them,” she said.

“I did.” Bobby took a step forward before taking his arm down. The sudden loss of support cost him his balance and he nearly fell on his face before recovering in a stagger that went two steps too long and landed him on the bed. “He beat her, you know.” He said it like it was lunch time. Like it really didn’t matter. “She took it like a woman, too.” He nodded and rolled over on his stomach, lifting his head to stare at her. He grinned at her for a moment before his eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out, the weight of his lower body dragging him off the bed and onto the floor.

Sarah sighed. Some wedding night. She stood from the chair and pulled the zipper down, sliding the dress off her arms, holding the neckline while she stepped out of it. The fancy lingerie that her grandmother provided was nothing more than scratchy nylon, although the glimpse she caught of herself in the mirror made her smile. Tough luck, Bobby.

She draped the gown on a hanger and hung on the end of the rod in the closet. She’d never wear that dress again.

She stripped out of the underthings, put them into the hamper and pulled out a pair of her comfy pajamas. She still wasn’t used to this place. Bobby had insisted they move into his parents’ house, but she missed the ocean outside the cottage.

Wrapping herself in a robe, she went to the window that looked out toward the sea. She couldn’t see it. A house and tree stood in the way, but she could feel it out there. She could feel the swells growing and sloshing over the sands. She was married. The company wouldn’t deport her.

Her father would be pleased.

She sighed. Unfair. She couldn’t imagine leaving St. Cloud. Even if they moved somewhere else along the coast, the ocean would be right there. Eternal. Always moving. Breathing the slow, deep waves in her tides. The hissing crashes of her waves on the rocks.

What was it like before? Before humans. Before mankind shaped her. How did the boxfish come to be and how did they stay, their neurotoxins making people die or worse?

She opened the window but the far-off sounds of waves on the cape couldn’t overcome the sound of the freezers humming at the warehouses along the shore. Even the calm night worked against her, keeping the waves quiet when she needed to hear their crashes, when she needed them angry. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of houses and people and vehicles and pets. The solitary rosebush in the neighbor’s garden too sweet on the night air, too tame to be a rugosa thicket heavy with hips and dangerous with thorns.

She closed the window, latching it against the intruders who would never climb to test the opening when they only needed a solid kick to open the front door. She forced the muscles in her shoulders to relax, focusing on them, willing them to let go. She took a breath deep through her nose and then out again through parted lips. A wave of air over the beach of her body. Again. The cresting wave and the slow retreat. She made her own waves, standing there, staring into the night.

She turned and looked at her husband. Passed out drunk on the floor beside the bed. Too many toasts. Too many glad-handing “buddies” who leered at her when he wasn’t looking at them. While he was leering at everybody else. And another toast, another pint. A couple of shots. She sighed and grabbed his collar, dragging him from beside the bed—off the rug at least—and almost to the bathroom. She lost her footing on the slick flooring in the bath and settled for getting his torso almost over the threshold. She lowered him to the floor. At least if he puked—more likely, when he puked—it would be easier to clean up there.

She stepped around him, working her way out of the bathroom. She made it to the bed and sat, looking at him. Half in, half out of the bathroom. Face down on the tiles. Pants half off, showing the top of his skivvies, shirt untucked and hanging out of his jacket. Somewhere he’d lost his tie. She kept hearing the half slurred non-jokes about “gettin’ some” and “tappin’ that” while her father and grandparents seemed all but oblivious to the disgusting testosterone cocktail being mixed in front of them. About what would happen after the party.

Tough luck, Bobby. You’re not getting any tonight.

She lay back against the coverlet, arms flung over her head. Her eyes stared at the spot in the ceiling that hid the orbital from sight. What was Lette doing tonight? Was her great-grandmother “gettin’ some?”

Congratulations. You’re married. The company can’t deport you.

Yay.

Mary’s words echoed in her head. “He’s broken.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Cape Grace: August 1, 2350

BOBBY CAME INTO THE house ready to do battle with somebody. “Sarah? Where are you?” He slammed the front door behind him.

She poked her head in from the kitchen. “Right here. What’s the matter?”

“Where’s my dinner?”

She checked the timer. “Be up in a couple of ticks. Just waiting for it to finish baking. You want a beer?”

He stormed at her, his fish boots tracking mud across the entry way. “Damn right I want a beer. But I want my dinner. I want it now.” His voice echoed off the walls, rattling Sarah’s ears with the volume. He threw himself into his chair at the table and sat back, arms braced on the surface. “Why isn’t the table set?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

He glared at her, eyes narrowing. “Why isn’t the table set?” His words hissed from between his teeth.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “China and the good silver?”

“I’m sitting at the table. Dinner is almost ready? Really? What am I going to eat off? The table?” He pounded the surface, making the salt and pepper shakers jump. “You were going to get me a beer, I believe. What happened to that?”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked.

“Nothing. Not a damn thing.” He crossed his arms. “Look. I’ve just spent the day at sea, working my fingers bloody, and I’m wrecked. My feet hurt from standing on them all day. My arms are going to be lame tomorrow from all the lifting and pulling and crap. I’m home. I’m tired. I want my dinner and I don’t want any crap from you. That answer your question?” He sat, seething in his own juices and staring at the empty spot on the table in front of him like he expected the utensils would appear as if by magic.

“All right then,” she said, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a can of the vile brew he favored. She crossed to the table and held the can up. “Would you like a glass? Perhaps you need me to open it for you?”

He grabbed the can from her hand and slammed it onto the table. “All I want is a little consideration.”

“Well, let me get you a plate and some silverware. You sure you don’t want a glass?”

His head turned slowly toward her. “Did I ask for a glass? No. You asked before. Did I say yes? No, I did not.” He took a few moments to glare at her. “Now, you are going to serve my dinner and stop asking stupid questions.”

She froze for a moment, looking at him staring at her, something akin to hatred in his eyes. She felt nothing from him. She never had. Other people she could get a feel for, get a sense of what they were feeling, if not what they were thinking. Bobby had been a cipher from the first time she met him in school, hadn’t he?

“Well?” he snapped, jolting her from her reverie.

“Of course.” She crossed to the cabinet and pulled down a couple of plates. She stopped at the silver drawer and pulled out two full settings. She added two placemats from the linen drawer before crossing to the table. In a matter of moments she had a full place setting for each of them on the table.

The timer dinged.

“Just in time,” Sarah said. “Let me get this served up and we can eat.”

He pulled the tab on his beer and upended the can in his mouth, gulping as the beer flowed down his gullet. He pulled the can away and sighed. “That’s better.”

Sarah wiggled the baking dish out of the oven with some mitts and placed it on a hotplate on the counter. She dished up the fish, adding some mashed tubers, and a helping of greens to the plates. She placed one in front of Bobby and took the other to her place across the table. She sat and smiled at him, only to see the storm clouds in his face.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low like the distant rumble of thunder.

She looked down at her plate and then at his. “Baked stuffed mouta. There’s a little cheese in the stuffi—”

“It’s fish,” he said, cutting her off.

“Well, yes.” She shrugged. “Is that a problem?”

“I’ve been up to my ass in fish all day and I come home to find more fish?” His voice swirled around the kitchen, a gust front of anger. “Whatever made you think this was an acceptable meal?”

She sat back in her chair. “It’s just a baked mouta,” she said. “I made it all the time at home. I learned from my fa—”

He stood, slamming his chair backwards so it fell over with a clatter. “It’s fish.” He screamed it into her face, leaning across the table, a spray of beery spittle catching her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Bobby. You never said you didn’t like fish.”

He slapped the plate off the table, batting it toward the sink where it smashed into the cabinet before cascading to the floor. “Do not ever serve me fish after I’ve been out fishing.” He stomped around the table.

For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was going to bat her, too, but he just stormed past, grabbing a jacket from the hall closet and slamming out the front door.

“That went well,” she said, eyeing the mess smeared on the cabinet doors and streaking down to the floor. With a shrug she began to eat. The fish came out just right, the white flesh flaking perfectly and the savory stuffing adding a nice counterpoint. It would only get cold and the mess would keep until she’d finished her meal.

A single tear escaped her burning eyes, but she caught it with her napkin before it fell.

Sarah curled up in the bed, pulling the covers up around her shoulders. She heard Bobby stumble through the door, dropping his boots with a pair of thumps before he climbed the stairs to their bedroom. She closed her eyes and focused on long, slow breaths.

The smell of beer arrived before he did. How much did he spill on himself to get that much stink? Maybe it was just her nose expecting it.

He shambled into the bath and peed for what seemed like half an hour. At least some of the beer got into him, judging from the amount coming out. She bit her lower lip to keep from giggling. Fear coiled in her gut and she focused on her breath. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The noises from the bathroom, the sound of his clothes dropping to the floor. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.

The bed lurched as he fell onto his side. Please don’t let this be one of those nights.

In through her nose. Out through her mouth.

He wrestled with the covers for a few minutes, then scrunched around shaking the bed for another minute or two. Eventually he stopped. His breathing evened out and he started to snore.

In through her nose. Out through her mouth. She focused on her breath, feeling the movement in her body. In a couple of hours he’d leave again. Would he sleep on the boat? Take a nap between hauls? She lay very still, eyes closed. With any luck she’d sleep a little before the crew came to pick him up.

In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The air filling her, moving in her, and leaving her.

Her life had become one breath after another. Why had she thought this would be satisfactory? Why did her father think this was a good idea? The shaman is supposed to look out for the people.

Who looks out for the shaman?

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Cape Grace: September 3, 2351

OTTO SMELLED IT IN the air. The stink wafted past, sometimes as a bare whisper like wood smoke from a distant fire, sometimes as a tear-inducing searing of his nostrils. It distracted him from his walk. He turned his head this way and that, a bloodhound on the trail, but he couldn’t find it. It seemed the same wherever he went. He sighed and poked a pile of weed with the foot of his staff.

The beach felt empty without Sarah along. She hadn’t walked the beach with him for a month. The wedding took her away as surely as if she’d been forced to leave St. Cloud.

A piece of wood caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up and brushed some crud off it to get a better look. He straightened, holding it to the watery light of an overcast afternoon. For just a moment, he saw a whale in the curve of the wood, its eye staring back at him. He nodded and slipped it into his bag. It didn’t get any easier as he got older.

He shook the idea out of his head and leaned on his staff, tilting his face up toward the sky and turning so the onshore breeze hit him full in the face. Even that didn’t drive the stench completely away.

“Maybe I should get a dog,” he said. He snorted and continued down the beach.

Odd that he’d never felt alone before. How many years had he walked the beach and listened to the world? His gaze raked the sand in front of his boots but he had to stop and look closer every few steps. He stopped again. The end of the beach looked very far away. He turned and looked back toward the cottage.

“Five Mile Beach,” he said. “When did it get so long?”

Maybe a dog would be a good idea. Lots of people talked to their pets. At least he wouldn’t feel like quite such a fool if he was talking to a dog.

The stench wafted around his head, curling under his nose before slipping away again.

He shook his head. It had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Cape Grace: January 28, 2352

OTTO ENTERED THE MED center and the attendant pointed him to a curtained alcove. “She’s resting now. She’ll have another couple of days before we can let her out.”

He nodded, numbness eating into him. Fear for his child, anger at the man who put her there, and a healthy dose of self-recrimination. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He entered the alcove and the attendant wheeled in a stool for him to sit on. It took him a moment to gather his wits. He almost didn’t recognize her. The autodoc had her covered from the waist down, just the upper hatch open. Her face, swollen and discolored, looked out of place, her lower lip swollen to twice normal size, her cheek sporting a bruise around a bandage. Her hair lay flat on her scalp. Her eyelids flickered as if she were dreaming. Dark bruises showed on her forearms where they stuck out of the gown. She looked for all the world like a broken doll, something he might find washed up on the beach. Behind it all the regular beep of heart monitor kept a monotonous beat.

He swallowed hard.

The attendant touched his shoulder and pulled him out of the alcove, taking him back to the entry.

“She needs sleep. It’s nature’s anesthetic and helps her heal.” She paused and looked at him. “She’ll be fine physically. There’s no concussion. No broken bones. A couple of cracked ribs but they’ll be mostly healed by the time we let her out of the autodoc. A few more days.”

“Does that look like she fell down the stairs?” he asked her.

The attendant shook her head. “That’s the story we got.”

“It’s not what happened,” he said.

She took him by the arm and led him outside. An icy wind cut off the bay, roaring past Otto’s ears, but she pulled the door closed until it latched. She crossed her arms over her chest in a huddle against the cold. “It’s the story we have. As long as she keeps corroborating it, our hands are tied.”

“That’s not what happened,” he said again.

She nodded. “I’d say somebody beat her.”

“Somebody?”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen this before. You’re the shaman. You know how these things work.”

Otto turned his face to the scouring wind, letting it tear at his eyes and cut his cheeks. “I do. If they don’t file charges, everybody’s hands are tied.”

The attendant nodded. “And what happens if she does?”

Otto looked at her. “She’ll be away from him. She’ll be safe.”

The attendant shrugged and gave a short nod before looking up. “She’ll be away from all of us unless she’s got a job.”

Otto nodded and looked up at the sky. Maybe he’d had it wrong. “Maybe Flanagan was right,” he said.

“Pardon?” the attendant asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Something somebody said a long time ago. Not important.”

She nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “She’s pretty drugged up right now. I wouldn’t expect to get too much out of her for the next twelve stans.”

“Can I sit with her?” he asked.

“As long as you’re quiet. I don’t think you can wake her up, but I’d rather not find out I’m wrong.”

Otto nodded. “I can be quiet.”

She stared into his eyes. “Do you know where her husband is?”

Otto shook his head. “No idea.” He paused. “He hasn’t tried to see her?”

She shook her head.

“Comstock should know,” Otto said. “I heard the bus leave for the ridge earlier.”

“You think he was on it?”

Otto shrugged. “Who found her?”

“She called EMTs. They found her at the foot of the stairs.”

“Was she lucid?” he asked.

“She was talking to the EMTs for a few ticks after they arrived. She passed out as they were loading her on a stretcher. The autodoc worked on her for about two hours but she’s been decanted since then.” She paused. “That was a few hours ago. How did you find out?”

“Chandlery. Martin asked me how she was doing.” He rubbed his palm over his lips. “I didn’t know.”

“Sorry. Hell of a way to find out.”

He nodded.

She shivered and opened the door. “Come on. Sit with her if you like. Just. Quiet, yeah?”

He nodded. “Quiet.”

The attendant took him back inside and settled him on the stool. He nodded his thanks and unbuttoned his woolen coat. He stared at the autodoc, the status lights on it mostly green with a few yellows. In his mind he went back to the day she’d been born. The red lights. The flat-lined display. He glanced at the readouts above her head, feeling reassured by the steady blip and the numbers on the screen. She was alive.

He sat there—lost in his own thoughts—for some unnoticed amount of time. The medical staff changed shifts somewhere in there.

A different tech came into the alcove. “Mr. Krugg? Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low. “Can I get you anything?”

Otto shook his head. “I’m fine.” He offered a smile. As fine as he could be while his only child lay in the autodoc.

“Her vitals are stronger,” the tech said. “We’re cutting back on the medications. She may wake but she’ll be groggy. You never know what she might say.” He gave him an encouraging smile. “You sure I can’t get you a cup of tea or something? You’ve been here for a very long time.”

Otto stood, suddenly aware that his butt felt numb from sitting without moving for so long. He stretched and shook his head. “I’d like to stay if that’s allowed?”

The attendant nodded. “You’re welcome to, but you’re not doing her any favors by not eating or drinking.”

Otto’s stomach agreed with a loud rumble. He smiled in spite of himself. “I’m fine. I’ll go home and sleep soon.”

“If you’re sure,” the attendant said. “It’s no bother.”

Otto shook his head and took his seat again.

The attendant patted him on the shoulder on the way out, drawing the curtain behind him with a hissing of metal on metal.

A few hours later, Sarah’s eyes fluttered and blinked open and the attendant came into the alcove, smiling. “You’re awake?” he asked.

Sarah blinked several times, her head turning toward the sound. “Yuh. Wake. Autodoc?”

“Yes. Rest. You’re fine. We’re just helping you heal up.”

Her eyes drifted shut. “Stairs. Fell.”

The attendant sighed and made a notation on his tablet before giving Otto a sad smile and leaving the alcove again.

“Papa?”

Otto looked over to see her looking at him. He wanted to rush to her, to hold her, to comfort her, but felt frozen in place by the enormity of the situation. His muscles wouldn’t move. “I’m here,” he said.

“You got what you wanted,” she said, her eyelids fluttering closed for a moment before opening again with a jerk. “I’m married. I can’t be deported.”

“Not like this,” Otto said, ice sliding into his chest. “Not like this.”

She shook her head, just the tiniest movement back and forth. “Didn’t matter, did it? You wanted me here. Here I am.” Her eyes closed again.

Otto glanced at the lights, assuring himself that she was still alive. The beeps spread out and her breathing settled down. The ice in his chest felt like fire.

The attendant came back. “Good. She’s asleep again. Did she say anything to you?” he asked.

Otto stood, barely able to straighten his back. He nodded.

“She’s still drugged. Was it something funny?” He grinned at him. “Patients say the damnedest things sometimes.”

Otto pulled his coat around him, fingers managing the buttons without his will. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t funny.”

The attendant nodded, peering into Otto’s eyes for a moment. “She’s sedated. Don’t put too much stock into anything she might say.”

Otto sighed and swallowed. “Thank you. I’ll be back in the morning.” He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “Well, later in the morning.”

The attendant nodded and held the curtain open for him.

Otto shuffled out of the alcove, feeling old and defeated. Afraid for Sarah and buried in a blanket of remorse. Had he forced her into marrying? Should he have been less accommodating? Less willing to let her follow her path? After stanyers of telling her to get a job or get married, could he have said “Not Bobby” and meant it?

The night sky glowed with the light of millions of stars. The wind had died down, leaving an icy stillness that matched his own. He turned his steps toward the cottage but didn’t remember the walk, only surprise that he arrived.

He woke early the next morning, dragging himself out to the kitchen to make tea. The cottage felt cold, too quiet. He’d been there alone for months but the cold seemed to come through the floor, the quiet echoed in his head. The kettle shrilled and he slopped boiling water on his hand trying to charge the tea pot. A handy towel blotted it off and he ran cold water on the burn. Compared to the pain in his gut, the burn served as only a minor distraction.

He finally got a cup of tea and took it to the shop. He started a small fire in the stove, the warmth and crackle giving him something to think about besides the cold and silence. His stomach rumbled but he ignored it. It might be empty but that only meant there was nothing to come back up. He took a deep breath and pulled a stick out of the pile. A raven stared out at him—one wing high, the other low. He nodded in greeting and began roughing it out. His knife growled against the wood, pulling the raven forward, freeing it from the stick. He focused on the bird, on the moment, on the next cut. He didn’t forget, but the familiar movements of fingers and hands let his heart relax. He took a sip of tea and found it cold. Glancing around, he saw the small fire had consumed its fuel and burned out.

He placed his knife on the bench and examined the raven taking shape. He nodded. The shape looked right, nearly there. He had another stan of rough work before he’d be able to pull the final shape out. He’d have time later.

He stood and swept the chips off his lap, brushed down the front of his shirt and cleared the seat of his chair with a hand. The chips crunched under his feet. He’d sweep them later. Feed the evening fire with them. Taking his cup to the kitchen, he dumped the cold tea from mug and pot, rinsing both and placing them in the drainer. The tide would be high in another stan. He had time to visit the clinic.

He let his body remember how to put on the heavy coat, how to pull on the knit cap. He didn’t think. He wouldn’t let himself think. He could think later. Now he had to dress for the weather. He had to step out into the cold sun. His staff reached for his hand and together they led the way down the familiar path. He arrived at the clinic after some nameless amount of time. The door opened as he approached and Ed Comstock stepped out, blinking in surprise.

“I was just on my way out to see you,” he said, zipping his parka up. The brilliant yellow Pirano logo blazed against the blue nylon shell.

Otto nodded. “What can I do for you?”

Comstock shook his head. “That’s my line, Otto.” He paused, blocking the door. “How are you holding up?”

Otto shrugged. “My daughter’s been beaten within an inch of her life by her husband. I’m not happy.”

Comstock nodded and took him by the arm. “I just got kicked out. She’s sleeping now. Let’s get some tea, huh?”

Otto pulled his arm away. “I’m fine. I just want to see her.”

Comstock stepped aside and waved at the door. “I’ll wait. You won’t be long.” He smiled. “Then we can get some tea.”

Otto nodded and stepped into the clinic. The attendant looked up. “Mr. Krugg. She’s resting comfortably.”

“Can I see her?”

“You can look but she’s asleep. It would be best if she stayed that way.”

“She’s medicated?” he asked.

The attendant nodded. “She became restless overnight. The autodoc closed up for some follow-up treatment after you left.”

“But she’s all right?”

The attendant nodded. “She’ll be fine. The supervisor says another day here and then she can go home.”

“Home?” Otto asked, feeling his eyebrows climbing his skull.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Comstock has arranged for an aide to stay with her for the time being. He was just here. You must have seen him leave.”

“May I see her?” Otto asked.

The attendant pressed his lips together but nodded. “Quick look, but then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He led Otto to the alcove and pulled the curtain aside enough for Otto to peek in. Sarah’s face had lost some of the swelling, but the bruises stood out against the light colored gown. The autodoc held her in its cocoon; several of the lights had turned yellow. He looked at the attendant. “You sure she’s better?” He kept his voice to a whisper, barely louder than the monitoring equipment.

The attendant nodded and motioned Otto to follow as he went back to the front of the clinic. Once there he nodded again. “Yes. She’s getting better. An infection flared up in the night but it’s being taken care of.” He shrugged. “As good as the autodoc is, as much as we know, the human body is still driven as much by spirit as muscle.”

Otto looked down. “Her spirit isn’t as strong as it might be,” he said. He knew why.

The attendant patted Otto on the shoulder. “She’s strong. There’s nothing life-threatening. It will just take time to get her patched up.”

Otto nodded and turned his steps to the exit. Outside he found Comstock lounging against the building, basking in the warmth of the sun even as the icy wind from the ocean slashed across the village.

“Tea?” Comstock asked.

Otto paused.

“Lemme rephrase it,” Comstock said. “Either come have tea with me at Ginny’s or I’ll follow you home and you can make it there.” He grinned.

The suggestion startled a laugh out of Otto. He nodded. “Ginny’s.”

Comstock straightened and nodded. “Good man.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and clapped Otto on the shoulder. He urged Otto onward with a subtle pressure. After a few steps he asked, “Wanna talk about it?”

Otto didn’t look up, just trudged along. The weight of his error seeming to drive him into the ground.

“She’ll be all right,” Comstock said.

Otto shook his head at that. “No. She won’t.” He shook his head again. “I’ve broken her.”

Comstock stopped short, the hand on Otto’s shoulder turning them face to face. “It’s not your fault. It’s that damn Tatum kid.”

Otto didn’t look up and he didn’t stop shaking his head.

Comstock shook him. “Look at me, Otto.”

Otto looked up. “Tatum is the symptom.”

Comstock’s eyes shot open wide for a moment before a frown narrowed them and wrinkled his brow. He gave Otto another shake. “You didn’t make Tatum into a wife-beater. This is not your fault.”

Otto sighed and looked into Comstock’s eyes. “We knew about Tatum. We knew about his father. We knew the cycle. We didn’t do anything to stop it.” He paused looking down at the ground between them, ashes on his tongue. “I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“Otto. Look at me.” Comstock crouched down and got into Otto’s view. “Yes. You’re right.”

The admission startled Otto and he blinked, focusing on Comstock again.

“We didn’t do anything to stop it,” Comstock said, emphasizing the “we.” “The company didn’t follow up. I didn’t follow up. Bobby Tatum was a bomb waiting to go off and we—the company—we didn’t defuse him. I helped him. I figured that getting him working, getting him away from his father and showing him that he had a future would make the difference. If you’re to blame for any part of this, then I’m the guy who made it happen.”

Otto shook his head. “I’m the one who told her she had to marry.” He swallowed hard. “Over and over. When the job didn’t work out, what did that leave her?”

Comstock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Tea. We need to talk. There’s something you should know.”

Otto let Comstock lead him into Ginny’s Diner. Ed held up two fingers to the waitress and pushed Otto into a booth, sliding in beside him, blocking him in.

The waitress brought over a metal carafe and two mugs. She took one look at the men and left without saying a word.

Comstock poured the tea and slid a mug over to Otto before pouring one for himself. They sat there, sipping without speaking, until the heat forced Otto to struggle out of his coat.

“You gonna spill it, Ed?” Otto said, his voice a low growl.

“Bobby’s out on the ridge,” Comstock said. He sipped his tea without looking at Otto. “Left three days ago.”

The time frame skipped across Otto’s brain. He couldn’t quite do the math. “He was gone.”

Comstock nodded.

“She fell down the stairs?” Otto said. “Falling down the stairs did all that?” He realized his voice got out of control and he clamped his mouth shut when the other patrons looked in his direction before quickly looking away.

Comstock shook his head. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Otto asked.

“Sarah ever mention anything about Bobby beating her?”

Otto shook his head. “No.” He stared into his mug. “I don’t know if she would have.”

“She wouldn’t have mentioned it to you?” Comstock stared at Otto. “Her father?”

Otto sighed. “You don’t have kids, do you, Ed?”

“No. Not yet anyway.”

“Sometimes kids don’t tell their parents. I’ve seen it enough.” A sigh clambered up his chest and exited his nose. “I thought ... I thought maybe Rachel and I wouldn’t have that problem. She was always an independent cuss.” He sipped his tea. “I encouraged it.”

Comstock nodded. “She close to anybody else in the village?”

Otto shook his head. “Not that I know of. She walked with a girl named Mary a few times. Something about a path up on the bluff.”

“Recent?” Comstock asked.

Otto shook his head again. “No. Not since before she got married. She’s been living in that house ever since. I only see her occasionally.”

“Never noticed anything?”

Otto sighed and let his head hang forward, bouncing slightly on his neck. “Never saw anything. Never sensed anything.”

Comstock leaned forward, hunching over his tea. “Otto. If she doesn’t file a complaint, my hands are tied.”

Otto looked over at Comstock. “What if she does? Will your hands be tied then?”

“We can do something about Bobby,” he said. “Get her out of his hands.”

“Then what?” Otto asked. “Where does that leave her?”

The air seemed to flow out of Comstock as he shrank into himself, the realization painted on his face.

“Exactly,” Otto said. “Damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t.”

Comstock took a deep breath and faced Otto, a shadow in his eyes. “At least she’ll be alive.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Cape Grace: January 30, 2352

OTTO WALKED THROUGH the darkened village, his feet dragging against the ground. The cold, wet evening kept everybody inside unless they had a good reason to be out. He wasn’t sure about his own motivations but he needed to see her. Needed to talk to her. He stopped in front of the Tatum residence—1432 East Shell Drive. It didn’t look any different from the last time he’d visited. The time he’d left a whelkie for Bobby’s mother. Years ago, but the house bore the passing time with good grace. Perhaps the foundation plantings were larger. The maple beside the house now reached into the sky. Time does that. He hadn’t been here since? He shook his head. The wedding and reception had been in town. He had never called before.

An owl hooted in the distance, loud enough for him to hear it over the heavy compressors at the refrigeration plant at the shoreline.

He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out before crunching along the path to the front door. He stopped on the landing and knocked—a quiet three-knock pattern with his index-finger knuckle. He eyed the doorbell but didn’t want to reach for it. If Sarah was sleeping, he wouldn’t want to wake her.

He heard footsteps inside the house before the snap of a latch. The door swung open and an older woman in medical scrubs peered out. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Sarah’s father,” he said. “May I come in?”

She stepped back, holding the door open, closing it behind him after he’d entered.

“Is she awake?” he asked.

The attendant considered him, her gaze sweeping him from head to foot and back again. “Why?” she asked. Her quiet voice carried steel.

“I’m concerned. She’s my daughter. I thought we might talk.”

She gave him a quiet harrumph. “Wait here. I’ll see if she’s awake.”

Otto nodded and stood by the door. “Thank you.”

The woman padded up the stairs, her rubber-soled shoes making no noise. After a few moments, he heard quiet voices but no words. When she returned, she nodded to the stairs. “She’s had her evening meds and will be asleep soon. She’ll see you but I’m timing you. Five ticks. No more.”

“Five ticks,” he said, nodding. “Thank you.”

She nodded at the stairs again. “Straight down the hall. Door at the end.”

He climbed the stairs and made his way along the hallway. A bathroom on the left. A second bedroom on the right. The door at the end stood open a crack, pale light shining in the dimness. He took a cleansing breath, trying to calm himself before swinging the door open.

She lay on a double bed, pillows propping her up. The swelling in her face had subsided slightly but the dim light made the bruises stand out. A narrow bandage on her cheekbone seemed to glow. “Hello, Papa. Sorry, I can’t give you a hug.” Her right arm lay in a sling on top of the covers.

He crossed the room, his footsteps slow, his gaze taking in the furnishings. The door to an attached bath stood open, the bright light over the vanity glared on the fittings. “Sarah ...” His throat closed. He tried to swallow the lump down but couldn’t. He shook his head. Started again. “I’m so sorry.”

She nodded. “Me, too, Papa. Me, too.” She stared at him, pain in her eyes and metal in her voice.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

Her eyes blinked slowly and she drew a breath. “How did what happen?” she asked. “How did I get beaten up? How did I fall down the stairs? How did I marry that asshole? How did I stay with him all this time? How did you not know?” Her voice rose with each question until she practically screamed at him.

The nurse pounded up down the hallway and stepped in front of Otto, putting the palm of her hand on his chest. “I think that’s about enough,” she said.

“It’s alright, Rose,” Sarah said. “We need to talk.”

The nurse glanced at Sarah for a long moment before dropping her hand. “You don’t need to do it tonight, do you?”

Sarah’s shoulders twitched in what might have been a shrug, but she winced. “Tonight. Tomorrow. A week from now. It won’t change it.”

The nurse nodded to Sarah before casting a stink-eyed stare at Otto. “I’m watching.” She left, but Otto knew she hadn’t gone far.

“How many times did you tell me, Papa?” Sarah asked. “How many times? A hundred? A thousand?”

Otto swallowed and looked down. “I wanted you to stay. To walk the beach. To listen to the world.”

“To be a shaman,” she said. “Yes. I know.”

“You are a shaman,” he said. “I wanted you to stay. I wanted people to know.”

“I am a shaman,” she said. “But you told me I needed to be married. You pushed Bobby at me. I’m here. I can’t be deported. You got what you wanted.”

He shook his head. “Not like this. This isn’t what I wanted.”

She took several breaths, her eyelids flickering, as she sank into the bed, the tension bleeding out of her with each breath. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

“She’s out,” the nurse said behind Otto. “That’s your cue.”

He nodded. He pulled a small figure from his coat pocket and slipped it onto the nightstand beside the bed.

“What’s that?” the nurse said, voice low but still suspicious.

“A whelkie,” he said.

Rose grunted but left it, standing aside with a pointed look at Otto.

He nodded and left the room, finding his way down the stairs and out into the chill night. The door closed behind him, the latch snapping into place.

Clouds had closed in, blocking the sky. A faint mist fell, giving the streetlights a halo. He sighed and hunched against the weather as he made his way back to the cottage, wondering if it would ever feel like home again.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Cape Grace: February 12, 2352

THE VIEW BETWEEN THE cottages wasn’t ideal but Otto didn’t dare get any closer. So much had gone wrong. Sometimes you just had to let the world unfold.

Sarah sat on the back stoop, her straight hair forming curtains that shielded her face. The sinking sun drew all the color in the world up into the sky leaving only grays and blacks. Even at a distance Otto saw pain in the way she hunched over the small object she held in her hands. Her fingers flashed in the gathering evening, rolling it round and round as she fiddled with it.

A stray breeze from the harbor brought the whiff of rotting rock weed and rattled the shells lashed to the top of his staff. The locals found him colorful with his feather and shell bedecked walking stick. The son of a shaman is a shaman. It wasn’t just a saying on St. Cloud. It was a way of life.

Her fingers stopped their restless flipping. She leaned forward just a bit for a moment, then tilted her head back to look up into the sky. As she gazed, her fingers wrapped around the small carving and Otto saw her posture stiffen from a resigned slouch to a vibrant resolve. She held the whelkie up once more and gazed at it for a long moment before turning her face to the sky once again.

Every real whelkie in the universe had been carved by a South Coast shaman. Otto reached into his pocket and pulled out the familiar carving—a small sand crab. The shape of the shell, the way the pincers and legs folded under yet still, unmistakably, belonged to the crab. His fingers had smoothed patches in the wood and the oil from his hand had darkened it over the stanyers. A true whelkie with a purple shell for its heart, carved by a real South Coast shaman, given to him according to custom and tradition many seasons gone. He rubbed a thumb across the crab’s broad back and blinked back the moisture.

She stood and entered the small cottage, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

Otto sighed and turned away. He glanced up at the sky and saw the diamond jewel of the orbital in geosynchronous orbit over Starvey Bay to the west. Even as he watched, a tiny sliver of light detached itself and coasted silently toward the universe beyond the sky of St. Cloud.

The sound of his staff hitting the ground with each step and the rattle of the shells against each other seemed loud in the quiet hush of evening. He heard the occasional seabird call and—in the distance—the faint crashing of the ocean’s waves against the breakwater at the harbor’s mouth. The quiet thrum of the world’s turning resonated at his core like the lowest string on some ineffable stringed bass. When he listened to the world, he sometimes heard the truth.

He stopped then, letting the wind rustle the shells and feathers, smelling the iodine on the salted breeze. He told himself that it was the wind that coaxed the tear from his eye, the salt that stung them.

The world knew the truth and Otto heard it.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Cape Grace: February 17, 2352

OTTO STOOD ON THE HEADLAND, looking out over the beach and the sea beyond. He lifted his nose and got a good whiff. Rockweed. Sea salt. A bit of dead fish. A seagull soared over his head, heading out along the beach. Perhaps looking for whatever died. Whatever that nasty scent had been, he hadn’t had even a touch of it for days.

“Otto!”

He turned, half expecting to see Flanagan. Comstock hustled up the trail from the cottage, his bright blue parka hissing as he arms swung. He puffed a few cloudy breaths as he finished the climb. “I’d have come down,” Otto said.

Comstock shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve been out here since, well, ever. Thought I’d come take a look.” He scanned the horizon. “I see why you like it here.”

Otto nodded. “It’s peaceful. I can see a long way. Not a lot of noise.”

A wave crashed against the headland, sending a finger of spume almost to where they stood.

“Well, except for that,” Comstock said, nodding at the rocks.

“Yeah, well. Listening to the world. It comes with the job.” He eyed Comstock. “You didn’t come all the way out here on foot just to look at the scenery.”

“No. Actually, I came out to see you.” He paused. “The crew is due back from the ridge tomorrow.”

“Bobby’s crew?” Otto asked.

“Yeah. Well, Bobby’s ex-crew.” Comstock stopped talking, words on his lips.

“He got fired?” Otto asked.

“I just got off the horn with the Inlet.” Comstock looked at Otto. “Bobby’s dead.”

Otto felt it like a punch. “How?”

Comstock looked down at his feet and then out to sea. Anywhere but at Otto.

“How?” Otto asked again.

“I was going to ask you,” Comstock said, glancing over at him.

“Me? What would I have to do with it?”

“Seems young Mr. Tatum was screwing around on deck when they were putting the twine back in the water. Nobody’s really sure what happened—well, they know what but not how.” He took a breath. “Bobby went over the side with the net. Nobody’s sure if he slipped or hooked his gear in the twine or what.” Comstock shrugged. “By the time they got the boat turned and pulled the net back aboard he was dead.” Comstock cleared his throat. “They flew the body back to the Inlet day before yesterday. Medical examiner said he drowned.”

Otto nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “That’s it then.”

“There’s one detail,” Comstock said. “Insurance. He died on the job. Goes to surviving family.”

Otto looked at him. “Me? I’m not family.”

“Sarah was,” Comstock said.

“Can you find her?” Otto asked.

Comstock shrugged. “Company, maybe. There’s got to be a record of the ship she went on.” He paused. “I thought you might have heard from her.”

Otto looked up, his gaze aimed at the daylight star in geosynchronous orbit over Starvey Bay. “I doubt I’ll ever hear from her again. She’s on her own now.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Otto.”

Otto sighed. “She thinks it was.”

“What do you think?” Comstock asked.

“I think she’s right,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of wind and wave. He shrugged and looked sideways at Comstock. “I think she is.”

Comstock drew in a deep breath and blew it out. He gave Otto a pat on the shoulder. “Heavy load to carry.”

Otto nodded.

Comstock headed back down the trail.

“Hey,” Otto said. “Why were you going to ask me how Bobby died?”

Comstock turned and looked up at him, a sheepish smile twisting his mouth to the side. “Well, you’re the shaman ...”

It took a second for Otto to see where Comstock was going. “You think I hexed him to death or something?”

Comstock shrugged. “No. Not really. Just thought, you know, I’d ask.”

“That’s not how it works, Ed.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “Just coincidences.”

Otto nodded and looked back out to sea, listening to the world.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Cape Grace: February 21, 2352

THE FEBRUARY WIND STUNG Otto’s cheeks and cut through his coat. It flapped his pants against his legs and picked up the spray from the waves breaking over the headland. The brushed metal canister weighed almost nothing in the crook of his arm. A gull creaked out a long call over his head.

He stared out at the sea, gray-green in the afternoon sun. The rollers broke on the rock with quiet crashes. The sea, even more than the cottage they shared so briefly, had been her home. He tried to remember an image of her. Something besides the picture from the funeral. He closed his eyes, letting the wind buffet his face while he rolled back the calendar in his mind. Her standing on the dock after a day at sea. Her peeling potatoes at the counter in the kitchen, a pot of chowder in the making as onions sweated in the pan. The smell of her hair after her shower. He tried to remember how it felt to hold her. Her lips.

He opened his eyes, unable to recall much more than the surface of her, vaguely disappointed in himself that he felt so hollow. He pulled off his gloves, stuffing them deep into the pockets of his coat, keeping them safe from the plucking fingers of wind that threatened to carry them out to sea.

The canister felt icy cold to his bare hands, the screw top scrolling off after only the barest of objection to having been closed all that time. He stepped closer to the water’s edge, uncorking the bottle to release a genie of ash into the sky.

The wind carried the plume out over the rocks and water, into the sky and away from him. He stood there for several long moments, watching the wind shred her final remains. In one last unexpected fit of anger he drew back and threw the empty metal jar as hard as he could, watching it flip end-over-end with a wuffling sound until it fell with a splash so quiet he couldn’t hear it over the wind roaring in his ears. White water marked the spot that seemed much too close to the rocks to have been caused by his efforts. He snorted and flipped the top after it, watching it dance and skitter over the rocks before plopping into the sea. It would wash up on some beach perhaps. Or not.

He looked up into the sky, watching a trio of sea birds soaring on the updraft from the headland. It was over. She was gone. All those years of holding on, now, finally, come to an end. A sadness welled inside him. Not for the loss as much as the consideration of what trying to hold on had left him with. What it had cost him. His tongue traced the windburned chapping of his lips and his hands sought the protection of this gloves.

He turned and started picking his way across the rocks, back toward the empty cottage.

A figure approached from that direction, an arm waved in greeting.

Otto didn’t recognize him at first, the wind blowing tears into his eyes and turning the world to water. He blinked them clear and saw Flanagan’s craggy grin.

“Where’s Sarah?” Flanagan asked, a frown wrinkling his brow.

Otto looked at Flanagan, then up at the sky. “She’s walking her own beach.”

Flanagan rocked back on his heels. “So it’s true.”

Otto nodded. “Couple weeks ago, now.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Out there somewhere.” He waved an arm toward the sky. “They said she got a job on a freighter.”

Flanagan ran a hand across his lips, his dark eyes peering out from under bushy brows. “So she’s really gone.”

Otto nodded.

Flanagan shook his head and groaned. “Ah, dammit. I’m sorry, Otto.”

“Not your doing, Jack. A long time ago you told me I couldn’t keep her. You were right.”

Flanagan snorted and scuffed a boot on the rock.

“Come on, then,” Otto said, striking off for the cottage once more. “It’s too cold out here for standing around talking. Got time for a cup of tea?”

Flanagan fell into step and walked along with Otto. “Wouldn’t turn it down.” After a few steps in silence, Flanagan glanced at Otto out of the corners of his eyes. “What’ll you do now?”

Otto pulled his coat around himself and took a deep breath. “Well, now I guess I’ll be the shaman. Carve. Listen to the world.”

Flanagan clapped him on the shoulder. “About all we can do, I suppose.”

Otto stopped by the door and glanced up at the daylight star hanging over Starvey Bay to the west. An outbound shuttle, silent at this distance, carved a white condensation trail arcing across the blue-green sky.

Flanagan turned his head to follow Otto’s gaze. “Suppose she’ll be able to listen to the world out there?” he asked.

Otto shrugged, an eldritch joy bubbling up inside him. “I think she’ll do more than listen.”

Flanagan raised an eyebrow.

“She’ll hear it,” Otto said, holding the door open for Flanagan. “It just won’t be this one.” He cast one more glance at the sky, listening to a world without Sarah, without Carla. A stray breeze said the storm had passed.

He sighed and followed Flanagan inside.

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About the Author

Nathan Lowell has been a writer for more than forty years, and first entered the literary world by podcasting his novels. His science-fiction series, Trader’s Tales From The Golden Age of the Solar Clipper, grew from his long time fascination with space opera and his own experiences shipboard in the United States Coast Guard. Unlike most works which focus on a larger-than-life hero (prophesied savior, charismatic captain, or exiled prince), Nathan centers on the people behind the scenes—ordinary men and women trying to make a living in the depths of space. In his novels, there are no bug-eyed monsters, or galactic space battles, instead he paints a richly vivid and realistic world where the “hero” uses hard work and his own innate talents to improve his station and the lives of those of his community.

Dr. Nathan Lowell holds a Ph.D. in Educational Technology with specializations in Distance Education and Instructional Design. He also holds an M.A. in Educational Technology and a BS in Business Administration with a minor in marketing. He grew up on the south coast of Maine and is strongly rooted in the maritime heritage of the sea-farer. He served in the USCG from 1970 to 1975, seeing duty aboard a cutter on hurricane patrol in the North Atlantic and at a communications station in Kodiak, Alaska.

He currently lives in the plains east of the Rocky Mountains with his wife and two daughters.

Read more at Nathan Lowell’s site.