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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: October, 2020

For anyone who thinks it's the end of the world.

Keep breathing.

CHAPTER ONE

Aram’s Inlet: April 7, 2352

Jimmy Pirano stared out over the bay for what must have been the ten thousandth time. “I can’t believe the Ole Man is gonna pull me off St. Cloud.”

“You don’t have ta go.”

Jimmy snorted his reply and turned to face his friend and sometime fishing partner. “You know better.”

Tony Spinelli shrugged one shoulder and lifted a heavy china mug of coffee to his lips. “Who’re they sending to replace ya?” he asked over the rim before taking a loud slurp.

“What makes ya think he’s not going to stick you with it?” Jimmy turned back to the gleaming green sea that stretched between the headlands at the mouth of the cove and on out to the horizon.

“I know better.” Tony’s voice held an amused lilt.

Jimmy was silent for a long moment. He gazed out the window. “Forty standard years, Tony.”

“Forty-five, but who’s countin’.”

“I’m still young.” Jimmy sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “I’ve got stuff I still wanna do here.”

“You’re still young, but this ain’t about you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy pulled a breath slowly through his nose and deep into his lungs before letting it out with a sigh. “Yeah. It’s about the Ole Man.”

“It’s always about the Ole Man. Always will be. Right up to the day you’re the Ole Man.”

Jimmy felt his forehead wrinkle into a scowl and took a moment to relax his face before turning back to Tony again. “You think that’s it?”

Tony gave another one-shouldered shrug. “What else?”

Jimmy slouched back to his desk and threw himself into the chair. “Maybe he’s not happy with our catches.”

Tony’s eyebrows twitched once. He snorted.

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“We’re over quota for the last six seasons running. Opening up the mid-ocean ridge with those floating platforms gave us an enormous new fishery. Adding in the crab fleets? Spreading out the season and increasing the product lines?”

Jimmy shrugged and reached for a steel bolt lying on his desk. Scowling, he flipped it around in his fingers. His hands weren’t as tanned as they’d been back then.

“We had some fun on the old Sea Horse, didn’t we?” he said, musing aloud as much as asking the question.

“That Keefe kid kept us honest.”

“Casey?” Jimmy smiled as he remembered the lithe blonde scampering around the deck keeping Tony Spinelli from falling overboard—or worse. “Never thought she’d settle down and get married.”

“Happens,” Tony said. “The numbers out of Fairfax are good. I’m betting she’s got a lot to do with it.”

Jimmy grunted in agreement. “Spark plug, she is, and a good one. Doesn’t matter what motor she’s in, it’ll run better.”

A breeze whispered through the eaves as the wind quartered. “Front’s comin’ in,” Tony said, sipping from his mug again.

Jimmy looked over at the broad windows overlooking the inlet, where a solid line of clouds was edging in from the west. He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. “Right on time. Having the orbital up there makes it hard for weather to sneak up on us.”

“The satellite network don’t hurt.”

Jimmy gave a low chuckle. “Yeah, that too.”

The old-style comms console on Jimmy’s desk bipped once. Jimmy glanced at it out of the corner of his eyes. The new-message light glowed.

“You shoulda upgraded that a decade ago, Jimmy.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows at his old friend. “What? And lose the only excuse I got? You have no idea how often this thing loses messages.”

Tony snorted and stuck his beak back into the mug. “I got a good idea. I think half of them are from me.”

“Not even close. Most of them are from legal, complaining about the number of non-company employees on planet.” Jimmy chewed his lower lip and glared at the glowing icon.

“If you lost ‘em, how’d ya know?”

“I didn’t say I lost ‘em. I said I had an excuse.” He nodded at the battered device crouched on the corner of his desk. “Nobody doubts when you blame the machines.”

“You know that won’t work on me anymore, right?” Tony said, a smirk twisting his lips.

Jimmy slapped a key and the new message opened. He read it twice to make sure he had it right and then turned to gaze out over the inlet again.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“Won’t have to work on you anymore, Tony.” Jimmy swiveled back to smile across the desk. “My replacement’s here.”

“What?” Tony asked, sitting upright in his chair so fast he almost slopped his coffee. “At the inlet?”

Jimmy tilted his head back and cast a glance at the ceiling. “Upstairs in the orbital. Be down on the next shuttle.”

“Who is it?” Tony asked. “Do you know yet?”

Jimmy grimaced. “Yeah. I’ve known for a while.”

The connecting door to his assistant’s office opened and Maisie stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Jimmy. I have a message from an Angela Pirano asking for accommodations and transportation from the shuttle port at Starvey Bay this afternoon.”

“Your sister?” Tony asked

“My half-sister.” He nodded to Maisie. “Have Aram House prep the penthouse and send the company flitter over to Starvey to pick her up, if you would?”

Maisie glanced back and forth between them for a moment before nodding. A frown puckered her brow. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

The sun hung low over the western horizon. A few puffy clouds added their picturesque touch. Down in the harbor, the last fishing boat of the day chugged back to dock, her gunwales near the water and her bow rolling a heavy white wave.

“Looks like Davy got into ’em good today,” Tony said with a nod at the laden vessel.

Jimmy nodded and grunted. “He’s haulin’ back three times a day. Most of them are hittin’ quota on two haul-backs.”

“Davy’s breakin’ quota almost every day.”

“New wife,” Jimmy said. “She likes new things.”

Tony snorted. “More like he’s puttin’ some aside for when the kid is born.”

Jimmy eyed him with a raise brow. “Ya think?”

“Davy’s married to Janet Humphrey. She ain’t exactly the prissy kind that likes all her appliances to match.” Tony glanced at Jimmy and shrugged. “I grew up with her father over in Cape Heron. Kept in touch.”

The whooshing of flitter fans drew their focus back to the landing field as the vehicle flared up before leveling off to settle on its skids. The engines whined down to silence and the passenger hatch popped open.

Nothing happened after that. Jimmy and Tony had time to share a look before a dark-haired woman emerged and walked down the short steps onto the pavement. Although she carried a smart shoulder bag, her cropped hair, tanned face, and no-nonsense boots marked her more as a fisherman than one of the company executives.

Jimmy raised a hand in greeting.

She smiled at him and her teeth flashed white against the tan. She crossed to where the men waited and held her arms out for a hug.

“Hello, Angie. It’s been ages. You look great,” Jimmy said.

Angela stepped back, holding Jimmy at arms’ length and looking him up and down. “I look like the bottom fathom of anchor rode, but I try to keep up. You look like you haven’t been getting out much.”

Jimmy nodded. “Haven’t been out at all. The office needed me too much for us to get out.”

“Us?” Angela’s gaze flicked to Tony.

“This is Tony Spinelli. Head bean counter and pretty decent deckhand.”

Angela held out a hand.

Tony shook it and murmured, “Good ta meet ya.”

“Pop’s been telling me about you. You never went out before this lummox made you go as deckhand?”

Tony shrugged and examined the tarmac near the toes of his shoes. “Never had much need to until then.”

Angela shot Jimmy a look.

Jimmy just shrugged.

The flitter’s engines powered up and the vehicle lifted into the sky again.

“Where’s your luggage?” Jimmy asked, looking back and forth between his sister and the departing limo.

Angela patted the body of the bag slung over her shoulder. “Right here. What’s not there, I can buy. Don’t need much.”

Tony looked up at that and Jimmy frowned.

“Why? What’s the matter?” Angela asked.

“What’d the Old Man tell you about this trip?” Jimmy asked by way of answer.

“Said he needed me here to help get the mid-ocean ridge developed. Why? What’d he tell you?”

“He’s pulling me back to corp. You’re the new Pirano on planet.”

Angela cocked her head to the left a few degrees. “He’s pulling you back to corp.”

“That’s what he said.”

“And I’m supposed to run this show while you’re gone?” Her gaze flipped back and forth between Jimmy and Tony. “Seriously? How long is this supposed to last?” Her brow furrowed in a scowl and her entire body seemed to vibrate.

“Indefinitely, as far as I know. The Ole Man told me to pack my stuff and be ready to get off planet as soon as you arrived.”

Angela opened her mouth but closed it again without saying a word. She folded her arms as if to hug herself and turned to stare out over the inlet. Jimmy watched her eyes blink several times in rapid succession.

“The bastard,” she said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the afternoon breeze and the growing rumble of engine noise from the bay.

“Come on. No sense standing out here getting windblown and giving the employees too much to talk about. Let’s get up to Aram House and get you settled. You musta had a long trip,” Jimmy said, turning toward the terminal building.

Angela seemed to shake herself and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. We need to get under cover and get our heads together.”

“Under cover?” Tony asked.

Angela nodded at a low cloud bank forming in the northwest. “Storm’s comin’.”

Tony smiled at her. “You been here five ticks and you’re already readin’ the weather?”

She chuckled and her face lit up in a smile. “Been in-system for six weeks and I can read the weather reports as well as anybody.”

Jimmy snickered. “You gotta watch her, Tony. She’s smarter than me. You won’t be gettin’ anything past her.”

Tony smiled and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I hate to break it to ya, boss, but I’ve got a desk chair that might be smarter than you.”

Jimmy turned to his sister with a wounded expression on his face. “See? This is what I have to work with. It’s impossible.”

Angela grinned at Jimmy. “Well, I don’t know about his desk chair but you never were the brightest Pirano in the family.”

Jimmy blew out his breath in a mock sigh. “From my own family. There’s no justice in this world.”

Angela patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, baby brother. If family won’t tell ya, nobody will.”

They all laughed and headed for the hotel. As they walked Jimmy kept glancing at Angela. Her brow stayed furrowed the entire time. He could practically see the wheels turning behind her forehead. By the looks of the wrinkles there, it was an expression she used a lot.

He shook his head and sighed. The Ole Man was famous for putting his foot into things. Looked like the family dynamic wasn’t immune.

Jimmy caught Tony glancing at Angela out of the corners of his eyes. He made a mental note to ask his longtime companion what the silly grin was for.

* * *

Angela stood on the roof and let the sea breeze rake through her hair. “This view is spectacular, Jimmy.”

“Yeah.” He stepped up beside her and offered a mug of tea, handle first. “You can see everything from here.” He pointed at a pair of gantries. “Boat yard over there. Behind them is the fish dock.”

She sipped the tea and nodded. “You’ve got something here I haven’t see in decades.”

“Shoreline?” Jimmy asked.

She turned her back on the view and leaned against the patio rail. “Yeah. Not much shoreline on Umber.”

“You’ve been there—what? Fifty stanyers?”

Tony stepped out of the residence and joined them on the patio. His gaze went to Angela and he smiled.

Angela felt a flush rising up her neck and reached back to smooth her hair. “You make it sound like such a long time,” she said shrugging it off.

Jimmy glanced at Tony before looking to his sister. “Yeah. Sorry.” He coughed once.

“How’d you get those pads to float?” Tony asked, settling in a lounger and putting his feet up. “I’ve seen pictures. Those things are huge.”

“It’s all about the displacement,” Angela said, a small grin trying to work its way into the corner of her mouth. “They’re big, but they have a huge displacement and sea water’s heavy.”

Jimmy grinned at Tony. “If you’d spend more time on the water and less steering that desk, you’d know that.”

Tony grinned back. “Somebody’s gotta keep your assets above water. I can’t do that out there.”

“It’s all in the mix and design,” Angela said, her face toward Tony but her gaze turned inward. “We use a mix that includes Styrofoam beads as well as aggregate and a binder. The binder has a bit of flex in it, just a bit more than standard concrete, but it lets us make the pads larger and when we foam it, it floats quite nicely.” She turned to look at Jimmy. “Who you got working the construction?”

“Some outfit the Ole Man sent in. CoFoam.”

“Don’t know them,” she said. “Lemme guess. Low bidder?”

Jimmy shrugged. “It’s the Ole Man.”

“Low bidder,” Angela said. The words sounded like a curse

“Well, you can run out to the banks and see what we’ve got going on. We’ve been working with barge-mounted equipment until now. It’s worked out and it scales as we expand.”

“But they’re bumpy in rough weather and nobody wants to live on them?” Angela asked.

Jimmy nodded and took a pull from his mug.

“How many of these sites you got running now? Briefing documents said eight.”

“Still eight, but Deep Sea Three is our test bed for building the floats.”

“Meaning, nobody’s fishing out of there at the moment?”

“Yeah.”

Angela looked at Tony and found him staring at her. “What?”

He shook his head and looked down at his hands like a schoolboy caught with a cookie. “Nothing.” His ears turned red.

Angela held back a giggle, clearing her throat to keep from laughing. “So, what’re the landings?”

Tony didn’t look up before speaking. “A bit ahead of quota. Deep Sea Five and Eight are making up for what Three isn’t pulling. The shoreside fisheries are recovering nicely and landings there are up about five percent over last year at this time.”

Angela grunted and glanced back at Jimmy. “So, the Old Man’s footing the bill for this?”

Jimmy shook his head. “We are. The Old Man put out the RFPs and sent us the company. It’s coming out of our hides. Capital expense.”

“Cash flows holding up?”

Tony said, “Thin but holding. We had a bit of reserve built up and the Deeps are all sunk costs at this point.”

“When can I get out there?”

Jimmy glanced at the cloud deck closing off the sky. “Soon’s that blows past. Maisie can arrange a pilot to fly you out.”

She nodded. “Good enough. When are you taking off?”

Jimmy grimaced and sighed. “I’m supposed to be on the next shuttle. I’m leaving on the same ship you arrived in.”

Angela snorted. “He’s not wastin’ any time, is he?”

“Nope. He’s not.” Jimmy sighed. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, well.” Angela took a deep breath and blew it out through her nose. The smell of the ocean felt wrong in her nose, but the wind off the bay cut in an all too familiar way. “It’s the Old Man.”

Jimmy stood and crossed to his sister. “Hang in there, Angie. You’re getting the short end of this deal, but I’ll make it up to you if I can.”

She wrapped an arm around him in an awkward hug. “Don’t let the bastard make you forget.”

“Forget? Forget what?”

She turned to cast her gaze out over the harbor and the ocean beyond. She flourished her mug. “That,” she said. “That’s where we belong. That’s where he belongs, if he’d only just remember it.”

Jimmy’s chuckle sounded low in his chest. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”

He turned to go, holding out his hand for Tony’s as he passed. “Keep her steady,” he said.

Tony looked up into Jimmy’s face and smiled as he gripped the offered hand. “I’ll do my best.”

Jimmy snorted. “Well, that will have to be enough, I suppose.” He grinned and pulled Tony up into a bear hug. “Take care.”

Jimmy shambled toward the entry but stopped to look back. “He shoulda tapped you for the corporate job, Angie. You earned it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “It’s the Old Man. Who knows what he’s cooked up? Not me. Not you.” Her face relaxed. “Anyway, I don’t think I’m ready to trade my oilskins for a corporate straitjacket just yet.”

Jimmy smiled and disappeared into the building. After a few moments the lift chime sounded, audible even over the whispering winds and gulls’ cries.

“Did you mean that?” Tony asked.

Angela folded one arm over her stomach and braced her tea near her face with the other. “About the corporate straitjacket? Yeah. I did.” She sipped and let the truth seep into her.

“You sure?”

She smiled and nodded. “I was peeved when I found out that Jimmy got the nod. Seemed like a slap in the face, you know?”

Tony nodded. “Yep. Woulda seemed that way to me.”

She turned and looked out over the bay. A pair of vessels labored around the headland and into the sheltered water. The cloud cover oozed over the sun, casting a pall across the town and the bright water beyond. She took another deep breath, smelled the rain on the wind and the not-quite-right tang of ocean water. A puff of wind riffled the hair at the back of her neck. “You ever been to corporate, Tony?”

“Nope. Born here and never got any farther out than the orbital.”

“Corporate has most of one deck in the orbital over in Dunsany Roads. It’s cramped, closed, and stinks of lube oil, cooking food, and people.”

“Sounds grim.”

She tilted her head back and let the freshening breeze wash under her chin and around her neck. “It’s where the power is. Where the money is.”

Tony snorted. “Maybe. But the heart? It’s out there.”

Angela turned and found Tony standing behind her, his gaze focused on the ocean. “You talk pretty for a bean counter.”

The blush crawled up his neck again. “Jimmy made me go out.”

“I heard. There’s gotta be a story there.”

He glanced down at his feet and shrugged. “Probably.”

“You’ll have to tell me sometime.”

A fat drop of rain spatted onto the patio stone.

“Sometime,” Tony said.

They turned to the shelter of the residence, sliding the glass doors closed as the gust front broke over the railings and rattled the first of the rain against the windows.

“What do you want to do first?” Tony asked.

Angela shook her head. “Probably eat and then sleep. I need to get my body clock reset.”

“What time do you think it is?”

“Well the clock says dinner time, but I’m still on yesterday and this should be breakfast.”

“You can order room service.”

Angela looked around as if seeing the suite for the first time. “No kitchen?”

Tony grinned. “Lemme give you the tour and then you can figure out what you want to do from there.”

CHAPTER TWO

Aram's Inlet: April 10, 2352

Angela pulled a Pirano polo shirt from her bag and made a mental note to buy some more clothes. She’d need to send word back to Umber to get her apartment there packed up and moved. She took a moment to curse her father for springing the whole thing on her and debated ordering room service for breakfast. Her eyes still felt a little gummy from sleep but the hot shower and fresh clothes did wonders for her outlook.

The morning looked and felt gorgeous from the balcony. Chilly with the scent of sea mixed with an earthiness that she never found on her floating islands at Umber. She knew what the smell was, and liked it, but it still made the day feel decadently exotic.  She decided against room service, choosing to grab a coffee and bagel from Barney’s on the way to the office.  Tony recommended the place as both convenient and excellent. She had to admit, it looked good and the aroma of fresh coffee and pastry had her all but drooling before she left the store.

She thumbed the tab and the counterman smiled at her.

“Welcome to the Inlet, Ms. Pirano.”

His greeting made her pause and look around.

“News travels fast,” he said, grinning. “You need anything? Give us a call.”

His grin infected her and she smiled back. “Thanks.”

The Pirano office building sat just around the corner and she found it without difficulty. The place looked like it might have started life as a storage shed. Knowing her father, it probably had. The building itself seemed to be in good repair: no obvious streaks of rust on the metal shell, but dingy and a bit worn-looking. She felt her brows pull together and forced herself to relax.

If the counterman at Barney’s was any indication, the admin staff would be watching for her arrival. The last thing they needed to see was a thoughtless bitch-face first thing out of the box.

She hooked the door open with her free hand.

Tony met her just inside. “Saw you coming,” he said. “Welcome to Pirano World Headquarters. You sure you don’t wanna take some time to get the lay of the land?”

She laughed. “I caught up on my sleep. Right now, I want to see what’s up with the company and get some lines of communication open with the rest of the staff.”

Tony nodded up the stairs. “Our offices are up one. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

The next few ticks passed in a kind of blur as Tony escorted her down the single corridor with stops at HR, Payroll, Accounting, and—finally—Jimmy’s office. Her office now. Tony stood at the door and gave her some space to take in the room and the view beyond. She put her coffee and bagel on the scarred desk and looked around at the place. She felt her frown coming back. “When did he move out?”

Tony stepped in and leaned his shoulders back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “Other than a few desk ornaments, he didn’t.”

“No pictures? No artwork?” she asked. “No awards?”

Tony shook his head. “We had some charts up for a while. That was years ago now. They’ve gone back to the archives. Jimmy’s kind of a minimalist guy.”

Angela sighed. “Well, that leaves me a blank canvas, I guess.”

“Restroom in there,” Tony said, with a nod to a closed door on one side of the office. “Your assistant’s office over there.” He nodded to the other.

Angela crossed to check out the bathroom. Spotlessly clean and even had cloth towels instead of the paper dispenser she’d expected.

The door across the room opened and a young woman with a tablet came in. “Good morning. I’m Maisie McIlheny. You must be Angela Pirano.” She thrust out a hand. “I was Jimmy’s executive assistant. I’d like to be yours, if you’ll have me.”

Angela shook the woman’s hand, feeling the strength in her grip and the warmth in her face. “Nice to meet you, Ms. McIlheny. You can call me Angela.”

“I’m Maisie, although your brother sometimes used other terms.” Maisie’s cheeks stretched with the grin.

Tony levered himself off the wall. “Maisie joined the staff a little while back and she’s been keeping us on track ever since.” He smiled at Maisie. “Whatever you need done, Maisie will see to it that it’s done right.”

Angela nodded. “Well, I’m glad there’s some modicum of continuity here. I was half afraid I’d have to figure the place out on my own.”

“That’s my cue,” Tony said. “I’ll leave you two to plot the course while I go try to balance the books.” He gave a little wave on the way out the door.

Angela crossed to the desk and settled into the chair. “Well, Maisie,” she said, prying the lid off her coffee. “What’s on fire?”

Maisie settled into one of the visitors’ chairs and pulled up her tablet. “Nothing that needs immediate attention. Jimmy cleared his calendar and told everybody you’d be taking over.” She paused. “So, the question for you is what do you want to do first?”

“Where are we on quotas?”

“Season’s still early. Boats have been out just a couple of weeks. Landings are good, but they always are in the spring.”

“Any problem ports?”

Maisie shook her head. “The company reps are mostly stable. At the moment there aren’t any problems big enough to need the Inlet to get in the middle of them.”

“How soon can I get out to the Deep Sea stations?”

“Tell me when you want to go. I’ll arrange it. I can have a flitter ready in an hour. Takes about three hours to get out to the nearest one.”

“Where’s CoFoam doing the work?”

“Deep Sea Three. That’ll take a little longer to get to.”

Angela pried the lit off her cup and took a sip of her coffee. “What was he like to work for?”

“Who? Your brother?”

Angela nodded.

Maisie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Always had something going. Trying to help out where he could.”

“He took a dragger out with Tony?”

Maisie nodded. “Long before I came to the Inlet, but yeah. They fished for a season. That was before we had the Deep Sea fisheries up. I was just a kid, but it was a big deal when Jimmy took a boat. I remember the adults all big-eyed over it.”

“What’s the biggest problem now?” Angela asked.

“Depends on whose perspective. Company problem, probably women shamans filing grievances to be recognized.”

“I got some background on that from Dunsany Roads. What’s the scuttlebutt here?”

“The rule is ‘son of the shaman is a shaman.’ If you’re a shaman, you get a pass on being kicked off planet when you age out.”

Angela nodded. “Yeah, we didn’t have that problem on Umber. If you couldn’t get a job with the company, you went upstairs to the orbital. Most people found jobs. I think we only had to remove a few people the whole time I was there.”

“St. Cloud loses about half a percent of every generation,” Maisie said. “Almost everybody either gets a job with the company or marries somebody who has one.”

“So, shamans? What’s the deal?”

“If your father is a shaman and you’re a boy, you can’t be pushed off planet. If you’re a girl?” Maisie grimaced and shrugged.

“So, the way the Old Man said it, women were lining up to file a grievance to fight the rule,” Angela said, sipping her coffee.

“I was one of them,” Maisie said.

Angela felt her eyebrows flash upwards. “Was that before or after you took this job?”

“Before. It’s how I met Jimmy. He came out to Potter’s Landing to visit me before the hearing.”

“And you decided—after losing the grievance—to go to work for the man who turned you down?”

Maisie colored a bit around the ears and shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t really a shaman. I just wanted to make a statement. I knew I was going to lose before I even filed. Jimmy came out to tell me and to talk to me about it.”

“If you knew you were going to lose, why file?”

“It’s my right to file a grievance, and nothing gets through to Pirano like having to pay for something they don’t want.” The woman’s lips stretched to the sides of her face and a light danced in her eyes. “I already had a job as harbor master at Potter’s Landing but when Tony posted the opening for Jimmy’s assistant, I applied and got it.”

“Tony hired you for Jimmy?”

Maisie nodded. “Jimmy hates surprises but by the time he knew I was on payroll, I already had an office and a paycheck.”

“And Jimmy let it ride?” Angela said, trying to find a sensible handle on the story.

“He complained bitterly for the first few days,” Maisie said. “Tony just laughed and told me to keep going. Jimmy could have fired me but he didn’t.” Maisie looked to the side before shrugging. “I don’t really know why.”

“Do you want to go to home office and work for him there?” Angela said, the question popping out before she could bite down on it.

Maisie laughed. “No. He’s a good man, your brother. He knew the rule was wrong, but he felt caught between the pier and the tide. He worried that if he didn’t follow through, that your father would replace him with somebody who would.”

Angela nodded and dug into the bag for her bagel. “Pardon me for eating in front of you.”

Maisie shook her head. “I had breakfast. If I’d known you were coming in this morning, I’d have had something laid on. Barney’s caters for us all the time.”

Angela snorted. “Just as well. I don’t like surprises any more than Jimmy. He’s probably right. The Old Man would have chopped him up for bait and not given it a second thought.” She took a bite of bagel and washed it down. “You ever meet him? The Old Man?”

“No. He’s not been here since I’ve been at the Inlet.”

“Haven’t missed anything. He’s my father, but that’s about as much as I can say about him beyond he’s stubborn, always looking for the next opportunity, and as cutthroat in person as he is in business. If you can’t help him, God help you.”

“But he put you in charge of Umber,” Maisie said. “Brought you here.”

Angela nodded. “He wasn’t always like that. Something happened to him here. I have no idea what. I only ever saw him on odd-numbered years. He cared about feeding people and saw fishing as the best way to do that.”

“Jimmy was like that, too. He cared so much about the people. I think it’s why I wanted to work with him.” She colored again and looked away, biting her lips together.

Angela gave the young woman a hairy eyeball. “You have a crush on him.”

Maisie shrugged and offered a crooked smile in return. “I did.” She paused. “Still do, I suppose, but it never came to anything. He’s a good man with a singular focus.”

Angela snorted and looked around the room. “It certainly wasn’t the office.”

Maisie laughed. “Yeah, well. He spent a lot of time looking out that window and keeping the company moving. I think he’d rather be on the docks than in here.”

Angela nodded and grinned. “I know the feeling.”

“Well, how can I help you?” Maisie asked.

“What are your duties?”

“Whatever you say they are,” Maisie said. “I screen incoming comms, handle some of the routine outgoing. I managed Jimmy’s calendar. Made sure he left at the end of the day.” She chuckled. “My duties are basically fetch and carry. Nag and pester.”

“All right. I came here with a single bag and the clothes on my back. In order, I need a place to live that’s not Aram House, some clothes, an account at the chandlery for personal purchases, and a note sent back to Umber to have my goods packed and shipped here.”

Maisie nodded. “Jimmy’s apartment is around the corner. It’s not fancy but it’s got a door that locks and a view of the harbor. We can go over anytime you’re ready to check it out. You can decide if you want to take it or find something else. There are other places to live, including at least two open housing units that we can see today.

“As for clothing, I can order anything you want. Give me a list with your sizes and I’ll have it delivered. If you prefer to be hands-on, I can point you to some of the local shops, but if you want something nice that’s not Pirano blue, you’re probably better off up at the orbital.

“I set up your account at the chandlery already. You just need to go in and register your thumbprint. As for the note, you can draft it, dictate it, or just tell me what you want to say and to whom. I’ll give you a draft you can send yourself.” She smiled. “And while I’ve got your attention, what would you like done tomorrow?”

Angela felt a knot loosen in her chest and a smile stretch over her face. “All right. Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER THREE

Cape Grace: April 20, 2352

Otto Krugg leaned on his staff and stared out over the open ocean. The headland offered enough elevation to see a trawler far out, barely a spot of white against the blue-green water. The system primary played peekaboo in the puffy clouds, peeking out for a moment before ducking behind them again. He turned away from the view and picked his way back down to the beach. The tidal flat gleamed with moist sand. Sea birds soared along in the onshore breeze, their calls a counterpoint to the regular sound of the waves on the sand.

He stood there for several moments, wishing that the long walk out didn’t demand an equally long walk back. He snorted and started picking his way through the driftwood and seaweed, choosing a path several paces away from the tracks he’d left on his way out.

When had it become such a chore? Twenty-something stanyers he’d walked this stretch of sand and stone, every nook and cranny as familiar as the scratches on his workbench. He’d found almost nothing on. A few scraps of driftwood. No shell at all. Wrong season for good whelk shells, although the high tide brought a new bounty of flotsam every day.

Or had.

Now loose sand above the tide line clutched at his boots, dragging him down. Every step a slog. One step after another.

A pile of weed drew his attention. He stopped and stirred it with the foot of his stick. A bright knot of driftwood poked out from the tangled strands. It almost shimmered as the sun appeared and sent a blaze of light and heat for a moment. He reached down and plucked the stick from its nest. He brushed off the bits of weed and particles of sand, rolling the wood in his fingers. A badger stared at him for just a moment, its baleful eye glaring in accusation.

He almost dropped it but then laughed and stuck it into his gather bag.

He resumed his plodding toward the cottage and lunch. It hadn’t been much of a laugh. More of a breeze over dry grass. Still, it helped.

The grunting of an engine off the beach drew his attention to one of the crabbers backing down to lift their traps from the water. One of the new boats. The new ones all looked the same to him. Stamped from the same mold. Sprayed with the same paint. Squinting into the sun, he couldn’t make out which one it was until the helmsman leaned over to lend a hand. Her bright yellow hair shone like a beacon. “Suzy Hampton,” he said, nodding.

He talked to himself more these days. Seasons of talking to Sarah lifted the blanket of silence from him only to smother him with it again when she left. He glanced up at the sky toward Starvey Bay and the orbital he knew was there. The clouds and the brightness obscured it, but he felt it just the same. Its pull was a gravity he couldn’t ignore. Not that he’d follow her but he felt her out there somewhere in the Deep Dark beyond the sky.

He sighed and turned his attention to the weed and wood scattered across the beach.

It never used to feel like a chore.

* * *

Otto had no sooner settled into his chair when he heard the knock at the cottage door. He frowned and placed the carving on the work bench. He made his way to the door. Ed Comstock stood on the stoop, a small smile on his lips and trouble in his eyes. “Ed. Come in. Cuppa tea?”

“Thanks.” Comstock followed Otto to the kitchen. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Otto topped off the kettle and set it on the burner. His hands followed the familiar ritual without much thought. “What brings you out to the point? Trouble?”

Comstock slipped his blue windbreaker off and hung it on the back of a chair before sitting. “Maybe,” Comstock said. “I need a second opinion.”

Tea pot primed and ready, Otto turned, leaning against the counter. “Shoot.”

“I’m worried about a longtime resident. Always been a pillar. One of the rocks I’ve been able to count on.”

Otto sighed. “Asking for a friend?”

Comstock shrugged and offered a smile. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What do you need from me, Ed?”

“I need to see you. When was the last time you came into the village?”

The kettle’s whistle gave Otto something to do with his hands. He poured boiling water over the redolent leaves, drawing the musty scent in. “I was there just the other day.”

“Not the chandlery, Otto. The village.”

Otto shrugged and punched the timer. “Does somebody need me?” He leaned against the counter again and folded his arms so they’d be out of the way.

“You’re the shaman. You tell me.”

“Village feels pretty solid,” Otto said. He stood very still and listened for a moment. “Yeah.” He nodded. “Funny. I guess I was so tied up in things I didn’t notice before. Now that Bobby’s gone, things seem quieter.”

“You listening to the world?” Comstock asked. “Or to yourself?”

Otto winced.

“Sorry,” Comstock said.

“No. No, that’s a fair question.” The timer pinged and Otto poured a couple of mugs full, joining Comstock at the table. He pushed one of the mugs toward Comstock and lowered his face to his own, inhaling the moist aroma. “I don’t know,” he said after a few moments.

Comstock took a tentative slurp off the top of his tea and put the mug down, cradling it between his palms. “I can’t carve you a whelkie, but you can talk to me, Otto.”

Otto chuckled and looked up. “Thanks.” He took a sip of tea and let it burn his tongue a little. He sighed. “It’s been hard.”

“You saw your daughter leave—not just home, but the planet. You said your final farewell to Carla after what? Twenty-something stanyers?”

Otto nodded. “Yeah.”

“That Tatum kid,” Comstock sighed and sipped his tea. “I don’t even know what to say about that.”

“I had nothing to do with him dying, Ed.” Otto looked across the table. “That’s not how it works. At least as far as I know.” He tried for a grin but couldn’t be sure he succeeded.

Comstock shook his head. “It wouldn’t bother me if it did. I feel bad that we let Bobby get so damaged. That’s on me. I’ve known the Tatums for decades. It was already too late by the time I sent you to see the missus.” Comstock sighed and took another sip. “Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

“I should have seen it,” Otto said. “Speaking of wishful thinking.” He paused to sip his tea, letting the silence grow around them. “She blames me, you know.”

Comstock gave him a noncommittal shrug. “How much of that is just normal development? Kids have to break free to really stand on their own two feet. Sometimes that ‘break free’ part is more ‘break’ than ‘free.’”

Otto stared down into his mug. He had to admit Comstock had a point. He’d seen it often enough. He snorted. “The difference between intellectual and emotional response.”

“Easy to say, harder to live,” Comstock said.

Otto drew a deep breath and let it out, not quite a sigh. He sipped a mouthful of tea from his mug and held it on his tongue, letting the complex flavors roll around in his mouth before swallowing it. “She’s a shaman.”

“Yeah. Nobody’s questioning that,” Comstock said. “At least not in my hearing.”

“That got in her way,” Otto said. “Maybe mine, too.”

“Tell me about it,” Comstock said.

The words formed slowly, sketches of the ideas that worked in his mind. “She had to break free of me and the beach. St. Cloud. She had to go out there.”

“Because of the rules?” Comstock asked, his brow furrowing.

Otto felt his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug that seemed like somebody else controlled his body. “I think she was called there. Rather than helping her answer her call, I fought it.” He sighed then, a chest-deep ache rolling in the air of his lungs.

“Otto,” Comstock said. “Look at me.”

Otto did so, unaware that he’d lowered his head to stare into the murky depths of his tea.

“You did what you thought was right. Nobody blames you for what happened. Except maybe you,” Comstock said.

“She does,” Otto said. “She’s right.”

Comstock shook his head. “It’s not a binary. There’s no right. There’s only what is.” Comstock paused and raised his eyebrows. “You did what you needed to do. What you thought she needed. You were working in unknown territory and none of us knew it. Yes, she’ll blame you. I still blame my parents for all kinds of crap. I’m not worried about her. She’s an amazing young woman. She’ll thrive. You gave her a solid foundation, even if it’s not the building you wanted for her. It’s not your building she’s raising.”

Otto nodded. “You sure you’re not a shaman?”

Comstock laughed and drained his mug. “I’m sure, Otto. I’m also sure you need to do whatever you need to do to heal. You’re an open wound walking, and I need you healthy. The village needs you.”

Otto felt the words strike him like blows. He opened his mouth to deny them, but he couldn’t speak.

“What do you need from me?” Comstock asked. “Time? Credits? A job? How can I help?”

Otto shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Referral to the district psych guy? I know he’s not in your normal circle. Maybe that’s what you need?”

Otto sighed and shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He felt the frustration rising inside him change to anger. “I don’t know.” He finished his tea and put the empty mug down, forcing himself to place it gently. “I’ll think about it.”

Comstock nodded and stood, pulling his windbreaker off the back of the chair. He slipped it on. “Thanks for the tea, Otto.”

Otto rose and walked him to the door. “You’re welcome. Anytime, Ed.” He bit his lip. “Sorry for being a bad host.”

“No apologies necessary. Just don’t hide out here on the point. There’s a village full of people there that need you. That care about you.”

Otto nodded and held the door for him. He had no words. He tried a couple of times but only shrugged.

Comstock stepped out and zipped up his windbreaker. The wind had quartered and blew in off the ocean, cutting like a wet knife. “Will you at least come see me in a couple of days? Check in?”

Otto nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“If you don’t, I’m coming back out here to kick your ass,” Comstock said with a grin.

Otto laughed in spite of himself. “Fair enough.”

He watched Comstock pick his way down the path back toward town. He gazed across the bay at the docks and processing plant along the shore, the houses and offices against the bluff behind. For the first time in his life, he let himself doubt.

They might care about him like Comstock said, but did he care about them?

The thought settled in his gut like a bad piece of fish and washed him in cold sweat.

* * *

A cold drizzle blanketed the point. When he’d left the cottage, there had only been a light mist. Halfway down the beach the wind shifted, bringing more water. By the time he’d reached the end of the beach, the drizzle and fog obscured the view, the beach having disappeared into a gray haze that masked the shapes beyond. He stripped the water from his hat brim with two fingers and settled into the long walk back.

The loose sand at the top of the beach proved to be too much for him. He retreated down almost to the waterline to walk on the hard-packed sand left by the tide. The small puddles did little additional damage. The drizzle had already soaked him down to his skivvies.

By the time he got back to the cottage, he’d started shivering. He stood his staff against the wall and entered to the smell of fresh tea.

“Ah, good. I was about to come out lookin’ for ya.” Jack Flanagan stood at the stove, pouring tea into a couple of mugs. “Hope you don’t mind. I let myself in and made myself at home. Figured you’d need tea when you got back.”

The warmth shut down his shivering almost immediately and he nodded at Flanagan, unable to work up any anger over the invasion. “Thanks,” he said. “Lemme put on something dry and I’ll join you.”

Flanagan grinned. “Well, it’s your kitchen, after all.”

It only took him a few ticks to pull off his sodden clothes and hang them in the shower. A brisk rubdown with a dry towel made him feel almost human again. Fresh clothes completed the transformation before he joined Flanagan in the kitchen.

“Better?” his visitor asked.

“Yes. Thanks.” Otto sat at the table.

Flanagan put a mug of hot tea in front of him. “This should help,” he said before taking a seat himself. “Other than nearly drowning, how you doin’?”

Otto shrugged, delaying his commitment to words by sipping the hot tea.

Flanagan lounged back in his chair and pursed his lips. He didn’t speak, just watched Otto.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Just waiting for you to answer the question. A shrug isn’t going to cut it.”

“I’m doing all right,” Otto said.

“No, you’re not.”

Otto felt his eyebrows rise and had to tamp down a spike of pique. “If you know so damned much, why ask?”

Flanagan shrugged and sipped his tea. “Just being polite. Easing into the conversation.”

“What makes you so sure I’m not all right?”

“To begin with, you’re walking the beach in the rain. Alone.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” Otto said. “I always walk alone.”

Flanagan sighed. “No. You haven’t always walked alone. You started out walking with your father. Not too long ago you were walking with your daughter and the memory of your late wife. Now? Who you walking with?”

“Should I get a dog?” Otto asked. He took a swig of hot tea, feeling the burn on the roof of his mouth and back of his throat. He tried to swallow his anger with the tea.

Flanagan leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and settling his tea cup. “Well, that might not be a bad idea. Give you somebody to talk to besides yourself.”

The words surprised a snort out of Otto. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But you thought about it,” Flanagan said. “Didn’t you.”

Otto shrugged. “Yeah. The thought crossed my mind.”

“That’s something, at least,” Flanagan said, lifting his mug to take a sip. “Carving anything good?”

“Nothing special. Can’t find much by way of wood lately. Got a nice badger the other day. Other than that, the pickings have been slim.”

“That so?” Flanagan asked. “Seasonal variation? Wrong time of year?”

Otto shrugged again. “Weather’s been gray and nasty, but the tides haven’t been running that high. No storm surge to speak of for weeks.”

Flanagan chuckled. “Don’t like the weather? Wait a minute.”

“I can’t complain. Fewer storms, fewer losses, more fishing,” Otto said. “Still better picking here than Maggie’s Landing was.”

“Think about Maggie’s much these days?”

Otto sighed and closed his eyes, taking a moment to relax the edge off his tongue. “Comstock put you up to this.”

“No,” Flanagan said. “He was glad to see me, but I came on my own.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” Otto said. “What brings you to lovely Cape Grace on such a miserable day?”

“I need you,” Flanagan said.

“You’re not exactly my type, Jack.”

“Suddenly you’re twelve? I’ve got a village that needs a shaman. I think you’re the guy for it.”

“Why me?” Otto stared into his tea. “What makes you think I want to move?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t,” Flanagan said. “That’s kinda why I want you to take this on.”

Otto looked up at him. “What’s the problem? Find one of the new guys to take it.”

“One of the new guys has it now. He’s not cutting it.”

Otto squinted. “You’re going to need to give me more than that if you expect I’m going to pack all this up and hike off into the hinterlands.”

Flanagan shrugged. “Fair enough. It’s not exactly the hinterlands. Although you can see it from the porch.” He paused and took a swig of coffee. “Son of the shaman. Young guy. Nice enough but all title, no gift.”

“The village has a problem?”

“Company rep thinks it does. Boats not going out. Nets getting torn up. Lots of fights. Mostly bar fights but some domestic stuff.” He paused and looked at Otto. “Thought you might be the right guy to help sort it out.”

Otto felt the bile rise hot in the back of his throat. He shook his head and stared into his cup. “Like I did such a good job with it here.”

Flanagan sighed. “You did the best you could with what you had.” He paused. “You gonna wallow in this for the rest of your life? If so, then why not do everybody a favor and walk off the end of the point now. You’re not doing anybody any favors by taking up space in this cottage. I got five shamans can take your place here.”

The old man’s words and harsh tone sent a shock through Otto’s system. His head snapped up and he stared at Flanagan.

Flanagan grinned. “But you’re not that kind of guy or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Why don’t you put one of those five guys in this problem village of yours?” Otto asked. He swallowed his anger, or tried to.

“Because I need you,” Flanagan said. “I need somebody who’s been around the beach a while and learned more than his father taught him. I need somebody who can listen to the world and sometimes hear it.”

Otto snorted and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can hear the wind in the eaves anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Flanagan said. “You’re one of the strongest shamans on planet right now. Your problem is that you’re not listening. Not really. You’re going through the motions, but the screaming in your head keeps drowning out the world.”

“How is moving me going to help that?”

Flanagan shrugged. “Maybe it won’t. Maybe I’m overestimating you. Maybe getting you away from the constant reminders of what you’ve lost here in Cape Grace won’t make any difference and you’ll be stuck with your head in your past.”

“So where is this place?”

“Finwell Bay.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’d have been surprised if you had. Off to the west’ard. Twenty boats. Three banks. Some crabbing.” Flanagan grinned. “Good beach on the open ocean.”

“So a little bigger than here?”

“Yeah. About a third larger.”

“What’s the company man think about the situation?”

“She’s the one who asked for a replacement shaman.”

“What about the guy that’s there now? He gonna take kindly to getting booted?” Otto asked.

“Would you?” Flanagan asked.

Otto chuckled in spite of himself. “No, probably not.”

“Maybe don’t put Comstock in the position to do it then?” Flanagan’s voice seemed barely more than a whisper.

“He wouldn’t,” Otto said, doubt making him feel like a liar.

“Probably not, no,” Flanagan said. “He’s going to be pissed about losing you, but he’d feel worse if you stayed.”

Otto gave his head a little shake as Flanagan’s meaning sank home. “If I stayed and didn’t get better.”

Flanagan nodded.

Otto looked around the kitchen, wondering if he could even breathe in a different place.

“There’s a cottage. And a stipend.”

“I thought the company wanted to get rid of shamans. What’s happened to that?”

Flanagan screwed up his face like he wanted to spit. “Seems like every time they turn around they’re facing into the wind and pissing on their own shoes. There’s been nothing out of the inlet for a few months now. Back channel says Jimmy’s assistant is killing it. She handles all the grievances. Handles all of Jimmy’s travel and admin. The operation is running like a well-oiled machine these days.”

Otto shook his head. “Go figure. Wouldn’t have thought any woman who lost a grievance would want to help the company.”

“Maybe she thinks she can change them,” Flanagan said with a shrug. “Maybe she’s the reason the company keeps changing its mind.”

“Have the complaints tapered off?”

“No,” Flanagan said. “Picked up over the last couple of years. Regular as clockwork. About one a quarter. As soon as one ends, somebody files another.”

“She behind it?” Otto asked. “That seems pretty regular.”

Flanagan looked into his mug then brought it to his lips. “Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s handling the scheduling.” He drained the cup then shook his head. “But no, I don’t think she’s beating the bushes to find new women to step forward.”

“And no more talk about removing the exemption?”

“Nothing I’ve heard.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there.”

“We’re coming up on the lease renewal. Been almost a century.”

“What’s that mean?”

Flanagan shrugged and stood, pulling his poncho off a peg by the door. “They’ll send an audit team eventually. See if we’re living up to CPJCT’s terms for the lease. If we are, they’ll renew for another century.”

“If we’re not?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Flanagan pulled the poncho over his head, tugging the bottom down around his hips. “I suspect CPJCT doesn’t want to go to the time and trouble to evict the company and find a new tenant. The real question is, what will the company try to do to the lease while it’s in flux? A new lease might not have the exemption in it.”

Otto sighed. “You’re just filled with good news today.”

“Finwell Bay needs you, Otto. I think you need Finwell Bay.” Flanagan pulled a billed cap out of his pocket and settled it on his head before raising the poncho’s hood. “Think it over.” Before Otto could do more than nod, Flanagan slipped out into the rain, closing the door behind him with a thump.

Otto sighed. “Nice to see you, Jack. Come again sometime when you can’t stay so long.” He took the dirty mugs to the sink and rinsed them out, leaving them on the sideboard to wash later. He looked out the window at the headland. The rain had mostly passed. The low clouds still looked like they might still leak, but the sun was trying to burn through.

He turned to look at the kitchen, his gaze settling on one thing after another without actually registering anything. Could he move? How would he move?

And where the hell was Finwell Bay?

* * *

Ed Comstock looked up, eyebrows rising. “Well, hello, stranger. You look familiar. Have we met?”

Otto chuckled and held out a hand. “You were just out at the cottage last week. You forget me already?”

Comstock stood to shake Otto’s hand and waved at a chair. “Have a seat. It’s good to see you.”

Otto settled and felt a sudden loss of words. “Did Flanagan talk to you?”

Comstock chewed the side of his mouth a little and nodded. “Yeah. You don’t have to go.”

Otto shrugged. “I wasn’t worried.” It was a lie but a small one. “What do you think about it?”

“I think it’s really up to you, Otto.”

“A new shaman here?”

“Maybe it’s what we need,” Comstock said, with a shrug. “If it has to happen, I’d rather it happen when things are pretty calm. Everybody’s working hard but nobody’s sick, nobody’s exhausted. Near as I can tell, nobody’s planning to overthrow the king.”

“I thought you said you needed me in the village.”

Comstock shrugged. “We need you well more than we need you here.”

Otto sighed and nodded. Comstock made a lot of sense. If he couldn’t put his ghosts behind him, he wasn’t much use to the village.

Comstock leaned forward, putting a hand palm down on his desk. “If you need to stay here, I’m happy to have you. Take all the time you need. If you need to go?” He shrugged. “I’ll be sorry to see you leave, but I’ll help you any way I can. You’ve done too much for us for me to turn my back on you.”

“Thanks, Ed.” He sighed, hung on a fence and not knowing which way to jump.

“Life finds a way, Otto,” Comstock said. “But only if you meet it halfway. You can’t let the fresh air in if you don’t open the window.” He looked down at his desk and laughed. “Sorry. That sounded cheesy.”

Otto shook his head and stood. “No. You’re right. Thanks for the time.” He headed for the door.

“Seriously, Otto. Whichever way you go, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Otto nodded. “Thanks, Ed.”

* * *

Otto stood in the middle of the living room and turned in a slow circle. How much of his life had he lived there? The memories crowded his head. Each one sweet but in aggregate they overwhelmed him with the awareness of what he’d lost.

He wandered into the shop, his gaze going to the empty chair where Sarah had grown from  toddler to gangly child to teen to woman. Her hands and blade had shaped wood and shell, each season bringing more nuance to her carvings, more power to the shapes.

He started a small smudge in the wood stove, as much ritual as warmth. The tang of smoke took him back to working in his father’s shop as a teen. He drew in the aroma and closed his eyes. His father came to his gift late, but that hadn’t stopped him from carving, from caring. He felt the smile tug at his lips as he remembered his father’s frustration with him. To be fair, he’d been pretty frustrated with his father. The endless walks on the beach, for no more apparent purpose than picking up firewood.

Sarah never had any doubt about being a shaman. She’d found whelkies in sticks from her earliest days on the beach. Even pieces that he’d passed on. He pulled out the crab that she’d given him. One of her first carvings. He saw his influence in that early work. The angularity. The shape. He pulled out a drawer of her last work and dumped it on the bench, placing the crab beside the pile. Seeing her work in that light, the comparison between the old and the new, he had to blink away the burn in his eyes.

One piece drew his eye. One of the coastal birds, flat-bottomed as if swimming in the sea. It took him a moment to recognize it as one of the pelagic species—a western fulmar. Without the definitive dark stripe around the base of the tail, it could have been any of the chunkier seabirds around Cape Grace. He reached for it, but at the last minute just extended a finger, stirring the pile of whelkies on the bench’s scarred surface. Even mixed back into the pile, the fulmar drew his eye. He held the drawer at the edge of the bench and scraped all of the carvings into the drawer with the side of his hand. He slotted the drawer back into its place before realizing he’d pushed his crab into the drawer with the rest.

He looked in and spotted the fulmar sitting right on top. He stirred around in the drawer but didn’t spot the crab. He swallowed hard and pulled the bird off the pile and closed the drawer.

CHAPTER FOUR

Finwell Bay: May 10, 2352

The long tram ride ended just after sunrise. Otto felt like he’d been riding for days. He’d taken a local from Cape Grace to Starvey Bay in order to catch a western bound express as far as Woontana—about a third of the way around the planet. That ride had taken three days. He had a comfy recliner and the tram offered refreshments, even some opportunities for entertainment and social engagement. He didn’t feel very sociable. He’d told Flanagan he wanted to see Finwell Bay before making up his mind, but he’d lied. He’d made up his mind already and just wanted to see where he’d be living before he tried to pack up the cottage. The last leg of the trip, from Woontana to Finwell Bay, seemed interminable. The western side of the continent had a lot more smaller villages, and the local stopped at every one, some no more than a few ticks apart. Finwell Bay wasn’t the last stop on the line. The tram personnel assured him there were three more beyond Finwell.

When he finally stepped off the tram onto solid ground, his legs felt a little wobbly. It took him a moment to realize he’d gotten used to the small movements of the train, like he would have on a boat. Train legs. He laughed to himself.

The tram station offered a good view out over the town and the bay beyond. The rising sun cast slanted shadows across the village and the processing plants along the shore. He picked out the oblong shape of a freezer plant and what looked like a shuttle pad off to the side of the town. Finwell looked to be a lot bigger than Cape Grace. Flanagan had said twenty boats, but the docks looked big enough to handle more.

In the distance, nearly at the horizon, he saw a few of the draggers in what looked like a tight cluster. At that distance they could have been kilometers apart. He suspected one of the fishing grounds lay straight out there.

The tram slid out of the station, leaving Otto and his bag standing on the platform. A woman in Pirano company colors stepped out of a booth at the end of the station.

“Good morning. Don’t see many new faces. Can I help you?”

“I don’t know,” Otto said. “I may be moving here.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really. What would you like to see first?”

He smiled. “Transient quarters? It’s been a long trip.”

She grinned. “You coming from Woontana?”

“Cape Grace,” he said. “Almost over to Starvey Bay.”

“Mercy,” she said. “What is that? Two days?”

“Just over three. I slept on the tram but I could use a shower and a bed that doesn’t move for a while.”

“That’s fair.” She motioned to the end of the platform where a wide lane ran all the way to the bay. “Go down this street. You’re looking for the intersection with Fifth Avenue. Transient quarters is on that corner. There’s a sign.” She looked him over. “It’s also pretty—um—bare.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need much.”

“How long you planning on staying?”

“Just until I get a feel for the place.”

“That won’t take you long.” She grinned. Amusement seemed to roll off her in bright waves.

He shrugged. “I understand you have a shaman here?”

The mirth evaporated quicker than rain on a hot rock. “Why?”

“Why what? Why do I want to know?”

She nodded.

“Just curious about the town. I figured you have a few bars, some restaurants. A chandlery.”

“It’s a Pirano town. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen most of them.” She tilted her head. “Why do you want to know about the shaman?”

“Finwell Bay is a little bigger than Cape Grace.” He let his gaze sweep across the town. “A lot bigger, I think. They have a shaman, but not every town does.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You sick? Need something?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

She shrugged, not exactly as friendly as before, but the shutters that had slammed closed cracked open a little. “You a whelkie collector or something? You’re wasting your time with him.”

“No, I’ve got one. Don’t need another.”

She took a half step back and looked him up and down. “Get out. You don’t have a whelkie.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the fulmar, holding it flat in the palm of his hand.

The woman’s eyes went round as bottle caps and she leaned in to look at the bird, her face close enough that Otto felt her breath warm on his hand. “Yeah. You got a whelkie, all right.” She gave herself a little shake and stood up. “Shaman’s cottage is at the base of the headland.” She raised her arm, pointing to the point of land on the left side of the bay. “There’s a trail to it. Once you’re on the crest of the trail, you’ll see it.”

“What’s his name? The shaman.”

“Jonas Deering.” She didn’t exactly spit but clearly Deering was not in good odor with the station attendant.

Otto nodded and picked up his valise. “Corner of Fifth,” he said.

She nodded. “Welcome to Finwell Bay.”

Otto started down the long road, glad he packed light and wasn’t trying to carry a ton of stuff. The main drag had a coffee shop at the corner of Fifteenth Avenue that nearly derailed him with the scent of fresh coffee and bread. He kept going, promising himself a treat after he got the stink of travel washed off. His grumbling stomach didn’t quite believe him, judging from the complaints it made as he walked by. He met few people on the way but that didn’t surprise him. Fishing towns ran on two clocks—fishermen on one, regular people on the other. The fishermen were all at sea by dawn. The regular townspeople wouldn’t be out and about for at least another hour.

Beside the door of the hostel a light illuminated the “Pirano Transient Quarters” sign on the wall. The building itself could have been transplanted intact from Cape Grace. Say what you might about Pirano, they were consistent.

He pushed through the door, the movement ringing a tinny bell.

A skinny kid with close-cropped brown hair jerked upright behind the counter, stretching his face as if to appear awake. “Good morning. Can I help you?” he asked, his voice cracking a little. He cleared his throat as if nothing had happened.

“Got a room for Krugg? I made a reservation.”

The kid glanced down and pulled up a small folder with Krugg scrawled on the front in block letters. “You Otto Krugg?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

He nodded. “Here’s your keys. Didn’t expect you this early.” He shrugged and grinned. “Not like we’re ever full.”

Otto took the key and thumbed the receipt, stifling a yawn. “Sorry,” he said. “Long trip.”

“All the way from Woontana?” the kid asked.

“Starvey Bay,” Otto said, just to see the kid’s reaction.

The wide-eyed stare didn’t disappoint him. “Long trip on the tram, isn’t it?”

“It is that,” Otto said. “Right now I need a shower and some sleep.”

“Oh, room’s at the top of the stairs. Turn left on the landing and all the way to the end. You’re on the bay side. Got a good view.”

Otto nodded his thanks and took his bag up to find the room. On the way he debated which to do first—shower or sleep. Shower won.

* * *

The sound of heavy engines woke Otto from a restless sleep. His eyes still felt gritty and his stomach complained that it had gone too long without food. He threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, letting his balance settle before trying to stand. Eventually he pushed up from the mattress and made his way to the closet-sized bathroom. Luxury, it wasn’t. Efficient? Yes. He’d give the company that much. He did the needful and splashed water on his face. That helped wake him up. He rummaged in his valise for clothing and dressed before throwing the drapes back to look out over the harbor.

The fleet had started coming in. At the moment only three or four of the draggers lay snugged up to the fish pier, bobbing cranes pulling baskets of fish from their holds. Two more vessels plowed into the harbor, their heavy bow waves rolling white. The fishing had been good for these boats. Made sense the boats with full holds would come in first.

His stomach growled. He placed a hand on his belly and pulled himself away from the view.

A middle-aged woman with brown hair shot with gray and smiling eyes held the front desk. “Good afternoon. You must be Mr. Krugg. Feeling a little better?”

“Yes. Thank you. I think a hot meal would help. Suggestions?”

“You probably walked past the coffee shop back at Fifteenth? That’s going to be your best bet. There’s a pub down off Third but they’re going to be swamped with fishermen for the next few stans.”

“Thanks,” Otto said.

She grinned. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

Otto nodded and stepped out into the full afternoon light, blinking a little. The wind funneled the sound of engines and voices up the street. He strolled along, nodding to the few people he passed. Most of them gave him at least a nod and a smile back. A few seemed lost in their own worlds. The walk in the fresh air cleared his head of the residual fog and the scent of coffee drew him in. A sign beside the door announced the place as “Ginny’s Kitchen.” Inside a long counter ran along the back, booths lurked around the edges and a small herd of square and rectangular tables filled the space in between. Other than the name and the color scheme, it could have been the diner at Cape Grace.

A couple of the tables had people at them. A pair of women shared a booth to the left and men in fishermen’s garb hunched on five of the stools, their backs to the door. A man in a white apron stood behind the counter and waved him in. “Don’t wait on us,” he said. “Sit anywhere.”

Some of the heads glanced in his direction as he made his way to the counter and an empty stool on the end, the click of utensils and clatter of dishes making a counterpoint to a music track playing on unseen speakers.

He mounted the stool and the server met him with a disposable place mat and a packet of utensils wrapped in a napkin. He wore a name tag on his apron. Doug. “What can I get you?” he asked. “Need a menu?”

“A cuppa tea would be good,” Otto said. “Something in a brunch?”

“What kind of tea?”

“Whatever. Generic black.”

Doug nodded. “Breakfast all day. What d’ya fancy?”

“Scrambled eggs, a couple rashers, some potatoes?”

“We got all that. Toast? Pancakes?”

“Got whole wheat toast?”

“Of course,” Doug said with a grin. “Coming up.”

The nearest fisherman glanced at Otto and nodded. “New in town?”

“Yeah. Thinking about moving here. Wanted to check it out.”

The man gave Otto a long look. “Company moving you?”

Otto shrugged. “I’m mostly just looking for some new scenery.”

“Where you coming from?”

Doug brought the tea in the ubiquitous heavy china mug. “Milk? Sugar? Honey?”

“Thanks, no. This is fine.” He took a sip before answering. “Cape Grace. It’s a ways off to the east.”

Doug chuckled. “Pretty much everything is from here.”

Otto grinned. “Yeah. I suppose that’s true.”

“What’s your line?” the fisherman asked. “Accountant? Fish cutter?”

Otto shrugged. “Shaman.”

Doug’s eyes grew round and the fisherman frowned.

“That so?” the fisherman asked. “You know there’s a shaman here already?”

“No,” Doug said. “There isn’t.”

The fishermen at the counter all stared at Doug.

“What happened to Deering?” the closest one asked.

Doug glanced at Otto before answering. “He packed up his gear and left. Three days ago.”

“He say where he’s going?”

“He got an offer for a village up north. Sheep country. He seemed pleased to be moving.” Doug looked at Otto. “You knew he was gone?”

Otto shook his head. “I’d hoped to meet him.”

“But you thought you’d replace him,” the fisherman said.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Otto took another sip of tea.

A bell chimed in the kitchen and Doug strode off through the swinging door.

“Would that be a problem?” Otto asked. “If I replaced him?”

The fishermen all looked at each other and shrugged before the closest one turned back to him. “Tell ya the truth? Having no shaman might be better than having Deering.” He gave Otto a hard look. “Where’d you come from again?”

“Cape Grace. It’s out nearer Starvey Bay.”

“Whoosh. That’s a long haul. You musta left there just about the time Deering left here.”

Otto nodded. “About that. Yeah. I didn’t know he was leaving.”

Doug returned with Otto’s breakfast, sliding it onto the counter in front of him.

“He never fit in,” the fisherman said. “Sheep farmer got no business on the waterfront.”

The news tickled the back of Otto’s brain, but the smell of bacon and eggs drew his attention and he focused on filling the empty hole in his stomach.

“What’s your name anyway?” Doug asked.

Otto finished chewing and swallowed, washing the food down with a swig of tea. “Otto. Otto Krugg.” He extended a hand to the server, who shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Krugg.”

“Otto, please. You’re Doug?”

“Doug Avery, yeah. I help manage this place for Ginny.”

The fisherman on the end pursed his lips and nodded. “Don’t have much call for shamans, but good luck.” He pushed back off his stool and shrugged into a windbreaker.

“Thanks,” Otto said. “Good hunting.”

The fisherman blinked at him a couple of times before thumbing the tab Doug presented to him. “Yeah. Sure.” He and his buddies trooped toward the door.

“Don’t mind Nick. He’s had a stick up his ass about shamans ever since Deering came here.” Doug shrugged and warmed Otto’s tea from a carafe.

“How long ago was that?”

Doug frowned into the ceiling. “Wasn’t last winter. Musta been the winter before.”

“Didn’t fit in?” Otto asked, finishing off the breakfast and washing it down with tea.

“More like too young for his job,” Doug said. “He got dropped into the bay before he knew how to swim and couldn’t figure out why he kept drowning.” Doug shrugged. “Being young, he never thought to look to himself.”

“Young guys don’t have the corner on that market,” Otto said with a grin. “I know some older guys with the same problem.”

Doug chuckled. “I can’t argue that. We got some of those here, too.” He glanced at the door. “If you know what I mean.”

“So, what’s it like here?” Otto asked.

“Compared to what?” Doug asked. “Company rep’s a good woman. Abby Hawkes. She keeps the company out of our hair and cares more for the people than the profits.”

“That make her popular with the inlet?” Otto asked.

Doug’s mouth opened but he closed it before speaking. He shrugged. “Tell ya the truth, I don’t know. We make quota. Every year. Always have.”

“You got any offshore fisheries out this far west?”

“What? That mid-ocean ridge stuff?” Doug shook his head. “No. Everybody keeps talking about it coming soon, but I think the nearest one is still a thousand kilometers away. It’ll be a while before Pirano gets around to circling the world with ’em.”

“Cape Grace is pretty small. What do you do here, besides eat, sleep, and fish?” Otto asked.

Doug chuckled. “Drink, but as far as I know, it’s not a problem. Every so often somebody goes on a bender but Abby snaps a leash on that pretty damn quick. They either dry out or ship out.”

“Sounds like a good person to have in charge.”

“She grew up here. Her father was the harbor master before he died. She worked the freezer plant and did such a good job of it, slid over into company rep when the slot opened. Must be a decade or more now.”

“She have office hours? I should introduce myself.”

Doug glanced at a chrono over the door. “She should be there now. Don’t think you need an appointment.”

Otto slid off the stool and flexed his thumb in Doug’s direction.

Doug shook his head. “First one’s on me.”

“You think there’ll be more?” Otto asked, faintly amused.

Doug shrugged. “You’ll fit in here, if that’s what you’re asking. Besides, you’ll be the center of gossip around town for at least a week. I got ya first and I can cash in on that.” He grinned.

“Thank you,” Otto said. “Appreciated.”

Doug collected the dirty dishes and nodded. “Welcome to Finwell Bay.”

* * *

Otto stepped out of the diner and into the wind off the bay. It smelled of exhaust and fish. He strolled along toward the docks. If the company stayed true to form, he’d find the offices somewhere closer to the docks. The sounds of a working harbor seemed so familiar that he could have closed his eyes and thought he was back at Cape Grace. The shouts. The engine noises. The underlying thrum of the refrigeration units on the packing plant. He listened hard and heard a compressor’s whistling motor in the mix, the big freezer unit contributing to the sound of commerce along the waterfront.

Under it all he heard a quiet, a rightness, disturbed by a few discordant notes. He stopped short, off balance without his staff. He tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes. The quiet remained. The sound of the world so strong he heard it in the middle of town in a way he hadn’t heard in Cape Grace for decades. He drew in a deep breath and let it out, clearing his lungs, feeling his heart beating in his chest.

A boy’s voice roused Otto from his reverie. “You all right, mister?”

Otto opened his eyes and looked down to see a dark-haired kid of about ten staring up at him. “Yes, thank you. I was just enjoying the sun on my face.”

The kid glanced up at the sun and then back to Otto. “You’re new in town.” He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “You plannin’ on making trouble?”

Otto shook his head. “Nope. I’m planning on not making trouble.”

The boy blinked. “How do you not make trouble on purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Otto said. “I just try to mind my own business and help out where I can. It cuts down on trouble.”

The kid nodded but he didn’t look convinced. “What’s your name anyway?”

Otto held out his hand. “Otto Krugg. And you are?”

The boy looked at Otto’s hand for a beat and then shook it, his small hand feeling tiny in Otto’s grasp. “Samuel Bagley. You can call me Sam.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sam. You can call me Otto.”

His eyes grew round. “My da says I need to show respect for my elders and call them by their right names.”

“Well, I can understand your father’s point. I suspect that a lot of adults would feel odd if you went around calling them Joe or Jane instead of Mr. Smith or Ms. Jones. You don’t call your father by his name, do you?”

“No,” Sam said. “He’s just Da or sometimes Papa.”

Otto nodded. “So that’s what he wants you to call him or he’d tell you different, wouldn’t he?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I s’pose so.”

“So, if you don’t know what somebody wants to be called, you call them mister or missus, right?”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Never thought of it like that.”

“Well, I’d be pleased if you called me Otto instead of Mr. Krugg.” He paused. “Think you can do that, Sam?”

“I think so. Otto.”

“Excellent. So, you know your way around town?”

He nodded.

“Think you can show me where the company rep’s office is?”

“Ms. Hawkes? Sure, but she’s down at the docks. I just saw her there.”

“Think you could point her out to me? Maybe introduce us?”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Introduce you? To Ms. Hawkes?”

“Is that a problem?” Otto asked, worried that he might have overstepped some unstated boundary.

Sam drew in a deep breath and blew it out. He glanced down the street at the dock, then back at Otto. “Never done it before.”

“You never learned in school?”

“Well, yeah. But that was last year.”

“Can you tell me how you’d do it?”

Sam sighed and shrugged. “Introduce her to you and then you to her?”

“Hmm.” Otto made a show of thinking about it. “Why?”

“Well, you’re a lot older. She gets introduced to you.”

“What if I’m not as old as her?” Otto asked.

“If she’s older, you’d get introduced to her.”

“Except she’s the boss here, isn’t she?” Otto asked.

Sam frowned. “Yeah. That matters, too, huh?”

Otto nodded. “Does she know you?”

“My name?” His eyes widened. “I—I don’t know.”

Otto laughed. “All right. I’m sorry. I’m making this too complicated. If you’d point her out, I can introduce myself and then introduce you to her. You can see how it’s done for real instead of just in school. How’s that sound?”

Sam raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He didn’t really look convinced, but he fell into step as Otto headed for the docks.

When they got to the main fish pier, Sam stopped before stepping onto the apron. He nodded to a woman in a Pirano windbreaker talking to a couple of men. “That’s her, in the blue jacket.”

“Who’s she talking to? Do you know?”

Sam nodded. “The bald guy is Mr. Mason. He’s in charge of the lumpers. They’re the people that take the fish out of the boats. The tall man is Jake Lewis. He’s the skipper on that trawler they’re unloading there now.”

“What’s your father do, Sam?” Otto asked, watching the conversation but unable to hear it because of the noise of the wind blowing past his ears and the engine noises from the other boats lined up for unloading.

“He works in the freezers,” Sam said.

The conversation broke up with nods all around. Abby Hawkes turned to walk in their direction, her gaze focused on Otto with a small frown.

Otto stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Ms. Hawkes?”

She took his hand. “Yes?”

“I’m Otto Krugg. It seems I might be your new shaman.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, then blinked a couple of times. “What new shaman? Didn’t we just get rid of the last one?” She scowled at him.

Otto froze. “Hm. Perhaps I’m working under a misconception. I’m sure we can clear it up, but first, I’d like you to meet the young man who was good enough to be my guide this afternoon. Ms. Abby Hawkes, this is Sam Bagley. His father works in your freezer department. Sam, I know you know her but this Ms. Abby Hawkes.”

Sam stepped forward and offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hawkes.” He glanced at Otto who nodded back.

Hawkes frowned but shook the boy’s hand. “Mr. Bagley.” She released the boy’s hand and looked at Otto. “What’s going on here?”

“I asked Sam here if he’d introduce me to you, but he said he didn’t really know you or how to do it. To repay him for his kindness in showing me the way here, I said I would introduce myself and then him.” He looked at Sam. “See? Nothing to it.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks, Otto.”

“It’s my pleasure. Why don’t you run along? I think Ms. Hawkes and I have some boring adult stuff to do.”

Sam nodded again. “All right, but if you need any more guiding? I’m your guy. Right?”

Otto grinned. The boy seemed like a little live wire, full of sparks and light. “Sounds right to me, Sam.”

Sam turned and sprinted up the street, leaving Abby Hawkes staring at Otto as if trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Otto felt the confusion wafting off her. “My apologies, ma’am. I seem to have gotten off on something of a wrong foot.” Without his staff, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He thrust them into his pants pockets.

Her eyes tightened at the corners and she glanced after Sam. “What was that about?”

“He found me woolgathering up the street and asked if I was okay. I asked if he knew where the Pirano office was. He told me, but also informed me that you were on the dock. Since we’d never met before, I asked him to introduce us but he seemed rather perplexed by my request. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped some boundary.”

“And you’re the new shaman?” she asked.

Otto shrugged. “That’s actually your call, I think.”

“Nobody asked me,” she said. “Not about that last idiot. Not about you.”

Otto nodded. “Flanagan said the man wasn’t working out.”

“Flanagan.” She said the word like a curse and looked to the skies as if for help. “I should have known he’d be behind this.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe we can get some tea and have a little chat, if you’ve the time? If this isn’t convenient, I’ll be around for a couple of days,” Otto said.

She glanced over her shoulder where the boat captain still chatted with the loading supervisor. She gave Otto another long look. “Yeah. I think we can do that. Come up to the office. I’ve got tea.”

Otto fell into step beside her as she strode off the dock and crossed the frontage road, ducking between the vehicles, waving at the drivers.

“So, Flanagan sent you out here on this wild goose chase?” she asked, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Yeah. He seemed to think the shaman here might be out of his depth.”

She barked a single laugh. “Out of his depth. That kid would have been out of his depth in a bathtub at low tide.” She paused, her hand on the handle of the building’s main door. “And the hell of it? If he’d just stopped to think, listen once in a while, he probably would have been all right.”

“Not much on listening, huh?” Otto said.

She sighed and pulled the door open for him. “He’s the shaman. He knows better. Better than everybody else apparently.”

“Anything in particular?” Otto asked, pausing in the foyer so she could lead the way.

“Well, he seemed to think we were fishing in the wrong place, for one.”

Otto blinked. “The wrong place?”

She nodded. “The main bank is straight offshore, due south out of the harbor. It gets hit pretty hard during the season.” She shrugged and led the way around the corner and up one level, her steps echoing in the quiet hallway.

“You’ve got more than that, though, right?”

“Yeah. We do. There are four within our service range. Not too surprising that the nearest gets hit the hardest. Dead Dog Bank. We got two others—Mudbug Grounds and the Teabag. Both smaller, but if you head there out of the gate, only takes another half hour to get out to them. Last one is another hour, hour and a half off to the south-south-east. It’s good fishing. Monte’s Bank. Most of the boats won’t take the extra running time out and back so it doesn’t get hit too hard over the season and it always recovers.”

“Not uncommon, from what I understand,” Otto said. “Human nature being what it is.”

She grinned at him and led him into a small break room. She filled an electric kettle with water and plugged it in. “The kid wanted us to fish off to the west’ard more. Kept insisting that’s where all the fish were. Got all pissy when we ignored him.”

Otto frowned. “That’s both interesting and disturbing. He say why?”

“Why he was pissy or why we should fish there?”

“Either. Both.”

“Claimed he’d listened to the world and the world told him there was a lot of fish there.” She took a couple of mugs from the cupboard and ran some hot water into a stained china tea pot. She paused and shook her head. “The hell of it is? He’s probably right. No idea about this shaman stuff. Maybe he did hear them. There’s probably a lot of fish there.”

“But no bank?” Otto asked. “No way to reach them?”

She nodded. “Got it in one. He showed us on the chart. Pointed right to the deepest canyon within a thousand kilometers. Kept insisting we just needed to add more cable to the nets.” She shook her head. “There’s no way we’re fishing in a thousand fathoms. The cable alone would sink the boats. There might be a world’s worth of fish down there, but that’s where they’ll stay.”

“And that made him pissy?”

She nodded and unplugged the whistling kettle, pouring boiling water into the pot before hitting a timer on the counter. “Well, if you are not going to listen to me, there is no reason for me to tell you, is there?” she said, her voice low and stilted. She shook her head. “So he camped out in that cottage over there and did whatever you shamans do by yourselves. Stopped coming into the village altogether except for food.”

Otto frowned. “How’d he pay for it? The food?”

She shrugged. “Lived off the stipend, I suppose. Maybe his parents gave him the credits. For all I know, he was selling them whelkies to the tourists.”

The idea shocked Otto. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

She shrugged again as the timer dinged. She poured two mugs and handed one to Otto. “I’m just being a little pissy myself, I guess. Not like we get that many tourists here. It’s not exactly the end of the line, but it might as well be.”

Otto took the mug and followed her out of the break room and down the hall before turning into an office that looked out over the docks and the bay beyond.

“Have a seat,” she said, waving at a visitor’s chair while she walked around her desk and plunked herself down.

Otto settled, glancing around the office. It could have been Ed Comstock’s except for the wall of digitals. “Pirano is consistent,” he said.

She grinned. “What the office? Yeah. Not much on variety of designs. I could have taken a different room but I can’t fault the view.”

He sipped his tea and took a deep breath. “So you don’t want a shaman here?”

She sighed and looked down at the mug she had cradled between her palms. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Just not that one?” Otto asked.

She shrugged and didn’t look up. “The old guy we had here before him. He was nice enough. Did a hell of a job blessing the fleet in the spring. He did a lot of good, especially in the winter.” She glanced up at him. “Winter’s hard.”

He nodded. “Yeah. People used to being out on the water now all cooped up with each other.”

“How do you deal with it?” she asked. “Not you personally, but what do you do to help others?”

Otto took a sip of the hot tea and let it settle for a moment before speaking. “For me, the winter lets me hear the people better. At least I always thought so.” He swallowed hard and looked into his mug. “My daughter left the planet recently. I found out a lot of things about myself that aren’t really in sync with who I thought I was.” He shrugged, but didn’t look up.

“Your daughter. Are you married?” Abby asked.

“Not anymore. She died some time ago.”

“I’m sorry.” She paused. “So why did Flanagan think you’d fit in out here on the back end of nowhere?”

Her question surprised a chuckle out of him. “I don’t really know. I think he just wanted me out of Cape Grace.”

“What’d you do to him?”

He looked up to see her smiling at him. “Nothing, I don’t think. After my daughter left? It just wasn’t the same. Too many memories. Hard to focus.”

“How long ago was this?” she asked.

“Last winter. February.”

“How are you doing now?”

He shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. Part of me clings to Cape Grace because that’s where my wife is. Was. My daughter.” He took a swig of tea to try to wash down the lump in his throat. “Part of me thinks Flanagan’s right. I need to make a break from that. I’ve a few good years left. Still lots of whelkies to carve. Lots of time to walk the beaches.”

She pursed her lips, her head nodding a little. “You worked with the company rep there?”

“Yeah. Year round. He helped me out a lot. I like to think I helped him.”

“Who’s the rep?”

“Ed Comstock.”

“What’d you do for him?”

“I’d let him know if there was a problem in the village. Sometimes he’d let me know. I did a lot of—I suppose you’d call them home visits. Drinking. Domestic abuse. Suicidal. Kids involved with self-harm. Mostly the kinds of things that can get out of hand without some kind of intervention.”

“Were you successful?” she asked.

Otto shook his head and tried to keep his voice steady. “Sometimes. Not always. No.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Some people you just can’t help.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier to lose them,” Otto said, taking another swig of tea.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Do you think you want another shaman?” Otto asked. “I heard the last one left for someplace up-country a few days ago. I was already on my way out here.”

She blew out a long breath. “He notified me that he was leaving. His family has some kind of position in the sheep business. They’ve got him moving to one of their outposts.”

“Flanagan’s doing?” Otto asked.

“Maybe. He needed to go somewhere if Flanagan wanted you here.”

Otto nodded. “Well, Flanagan aside, if you don’t want me here, I’ll not get in your way. Ed will take me back.”

“You left there already?” she asked.

“No, I started packing up stuff but I’m ... I guess I’m kind of in limbo at the moment.”

“You been out to the cottage yet?” she asked.

“No, I got in on the early morning tram. Slept most of the day away. I’ve only been up long enough to get a solid meal and meet you.”

“The dawn tram? Holy mackerel. And you came from Cape Grace? What is that, a two-day trip?”

“Just over three. I slept some on the run between Starvey Bay and Woontana. “

“Gah, that’s brutal. I’m surprised you’re even coherent.”

Otto laughed. “Yeah. Well, I had a lot to think about. I’ve never been on this side of the coast before.”

“All looks the same after the first thousand kilometers, doesn’t it?”

He laughed again. “Yeah. Mostly. Some of the scenery is dramatic. Sunrises and sunsets. I had a couple of good books.”

“You have to go back?” she asked.

Otto shrugged. “I suppose so. Need to finish packing. Clean out the cottage for the next shaman.”

“You have much to go back for?”

He felt his forehead furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Stuff? People you need to say goodbye to? Personal business to tie off?”

Otto swallowed. He opened his mouth to say one thing but what came out was “Not really.”

“Household goods? Anything a mover couldn’t pack up?”

“No,” he said, after pondering all the various answers he might give. The work bench with all its wood and shell. The hundreds of whelkies. Somebody might pocket one but only if they needed it. The spare clothing, kitchen gear. “It feels funny thinking about somebody emptying my house while I’m not there.” He paused. “I’d probably find a lot of junk I didn’t care about and wouldn’t want to ship all the way out here just to throw it away.”

She nodded. “Fair. Maybe you should see the cottage before you decide if you want to stay.”

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

Her head tilted to one side a few degrees. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Well, you weren’t expecting Flanagan to stick you with another shaman so quickly, either, were you?” he asked.

She laughed at that and threw back the rest of her tea. “No. That’s fair. I wasn’t.” She stood. “Come on. I’ll walk you over. I need to see what kind of wreck that little snot left in his wake, anyway.”

Otto stood and followed her out. She stopped at an office near the front door and stuck her head in. “Edith? I’m walking over to the shaman cottage if anybody’s looking for me.”

A young woman looked up and nodded. “You have your comm?”

Abby patted a pocket in her jacket. “Yeah.”

“I’ll bip ya if we need ya.”

* * *

Abby led the way out and they fell into step on the walk down the frontage road. Most of the traffic seemed to have dissipated. The engine noise from the harbor had died down.

“All the boats back already?” Otto asked, glancing at the angle of the sun over the western headland.

“No,” she said. “They come in waves, seems like. I’m pretty sure they don’t do it on purpose but it works out that way. They go out at the same time but the difference in condition on each of the banks means some days they’ll fill up sooner than others. By early afternoon they’ve done two hauls and have to decide whether it’s worth a third.” She chuckled and looked out to sea. “They’re like a flock of chickens. One starts back and the others follow. That batch earlier came in from the closest bank. Some good landings but only two hauls.”

“That what you were talking to Captain Lewis about?”

She shot him a sideways glance. “In town less than a day and you already know one of the captain’s names?”

“Sam told me.” He shrugged.

“Yeah.” She glanced at him then looked out over the bay. “I wanted to know why he came in early and brought his little pack with him.”

“Did you get a good answer?” He paused. “Sorry. Not my business.”

She shrugged and glanced at him again. “Maybe,” she said. “He says there’s a storm on the way. Wasn’t time for another haul-back before it hit.”

Otto nodded. “Satellites don’t show it?”

“Yup. Exactly nothing. At least from above.”

Otto shrugged. “Sometimes they don’t come from above.”

She grinned. “This some of your shaman mojo?”

He laughed. “No. Just water cycle. Unless there’s enough water in the atmosphere to form a cloud, the satellites can’t see it.”

“It’s over the ocean. How could there not be enough water?” she asked as they climbed the path up the headland.

“Wrong temperature?” Otto asked. “You got a direct feed on your tablet?”

She nodded.

“Check it for temperature. See if there’s a cold front moving in.”

“Well, I know there’s a cold front. They’ve been predicting that for a couple of days.”

He nodded and stopped at the top of the headland. A long, long beach stretched out to the east. “Wow.”

Abby laughed. “Wow? What? The cottage?”

He looked down at the near end of the beach where a stone cottage lurked back among the trees. It reminded him of his father’s house at Callum’s Cove, compact with a small stone outbuilding. “That’s nice,” he said. “I bet I already know the layout inside. But I was talking about the beach. That might be the longest beach I’ve ever seen.”

She grinned at him. “Yeah. It’s actually the longest on the South Coast. Twenty-something kilometers from here to the next headland. It curves around such that the next point is hidden from here.”

“Flanagan told me it was a good beach.” Otto shook his head. “I had no idea.”

They stood for a moment. Otto admired the view. He turned all the way around and looked back at the town arranged around the bay. A stray breeze touched his face and he turned toward it, closing his eyes, letting the air wash over him. In the distance, something. He opened his eyes and saw the clouds out at the horizon. “Is that where Captain Lewis was fishing?”

“Where?” Abby asked.

Otto pointed at the low bank of clouds. “There.”

She turned and squinted into the bright sun. “Son of a ... yeah. That’s it.”

“Cold front blew in, the hot, wet air rose over it and started moving,” Otto said. “Probably blow itself out in a stan or two, but look for that line to propagate all the way along the boundary.”

“Weather, I know,” she said. She shook her head. “That’s what I get for trusting the satellite.”

“Satellite can only answer the questions you ask,” Otto said.

She looked at him as if finally seeing him. “Let’s go see if you like the cottage.”

He nodded and started down the trail on the far side of the headland. Somebody had taken the time to put in paving-stone steps down the steeper trail there. They stopped at the foot.

“I grew up in a cottage very much like this one,” Otto said, looking up the trail at the building.

“Really?”

“Yeah. That outbuilding? My father used it for his shop. He carved his whelkies, stored his extra wood and dried herbs.”

“Don’t all cottages have them?” She nodded at the outbuilding.

“No, the one I have at Cape Grace has a bigger footprint, but the shop is part of the house. Great in the winter. Don’t have to go outside to get to the kitchen from the shop. And vice versa.” He grinned at her. “I’m a bit spoiled on that front.”

She shrugged. “Nothing says you have to use that as your shop. Let’s go see how badly he trashed the place.”

She struck off up the trail, leaving Otto to cast one more admiring look down the beach and out to sea.

He caught up with her as she reached the front door.

She pulled a key out of her pocket and put it in the lock, wobbled it a bit, and tilted her head. “Huh,” she said, and turned the knob, pushing the door open. “He never locked it.”

He followed her inside. The door opened to a kitchen that could have come from his father’s house. The arrangement of sink, stove, chiller looked identical—probably within a few centimeters of the one he’d grown up with. He looked behind the door and found the closet and a bathroom right where he’d have expected them. He reached out and flipped the light switch.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“This is the mate to the house I grew up in.” Otto shook his head, the oddest feeling filling his chest—part amusement, part incredulity, and part love. He took a deep breath and nodded. “I always heard my grandfather built our cottage with his own two hands.”

Abby shrugged. “He probably did, but he used company plans. Company records say Roger Meredith built this one about sixty years ago, shortly after the village got established.”

“Alone?”

She laughed. “I doubt it. He probably had a crew to help him. Pirano Fisheries has a whole team of builders, pavers. Laser cutters. The equipment’s still out in some warehouse, I bet. I don’t know that we’re building villages anymore.”

“Not on shore,” Otto said. “Too easy to float them out there.” He nodded toward the ocean.

“Good point,” she said. She crossed to the chiller and opened it. A few jars of condiments and a six-pack of beer waited inside. She leaned in and peered at it for a moment before looking back over her shoulder at him. “It’s for you.” She stepped back with a grin plastered on her face.

Otto crossed to look in and saw the note taped to the rack of beer. He pulled it off and read it aloud. “Otto. Thought you’d like the layout. Enjoy the beer while you make up your mind.” The block printed “F” at the bottom told him all he needed to know.

“Flanagan?” Abby asked.

Otto nodded. “He really wants me out here.”

“You wondering why?”

Otto shook his head. “No. Not really. He’s got a hard job. Between the shamans with the title and no gift, the shamans with the gift and no title, the politics of four thousand men, half of whom are jockeying for choice postings, and the rest just sort of coasting along on a wing and a prayer? No. I wouldn’t have his job if they paid me to do it.”

“So why you here?”

Otto shrugged and pulled a bottle of beer out of the rack. “Want one?” He offered the one in his hand.

She shrugged and took it. “Why not? It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

He snorted and pulled a second bottle out. He reached for the drawer his parents used for bottle openers and serving utensils, finding it empty. The sound of a bottle hissing open made him turn his head. Abby had just twisted the top off. He chuckled and followed suit. He held his bottle toward her in a toast. “To overthinking.”

She grinned and tinked the neck of her bottle against his. “To new beginnings.”

They both took solid hits of the cold brew and Otto began to think there might be a way out of his darkness after all.

He wandered down the short hall to the mate of the room he’d had as a bedroom growing up. It looked a lot smaller than he’d remembered, and it contained nothing by way of furniture.

“You could use this as your shop,” Abby said. “Save you going out in the winter.”

He grinned. “Back home, this room used to be my bedroom. Bed there. A desk there. Dresser beside it.”

“Nothing says you have to use it as a bedroom,” she said.

He went around the corner to the master bedroom, such as it was. It wasn’t a space he’d spent much time in as a kid. It had a window that looked out into the trees, enough space for a double bed. It might have been a bit smaller than the one at Cape Grace but if so, it wasn’t by much. “Did he have furniture in here?”

Abby shrugged. “He drew it from stores. Returned it when he left.”

“He’s been gone three days?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Didn’t take the crew long to clear the place out,” Otto said. “That normal?”

She shrugged. “Not sure what’s normal. Not like we had a lot of turnover out here. Not until he came.”

“How long was he here?”

“Year and a bit, I think.”

“The shaman before?”

“Another single man. He got into a long-distance relationship with a woman out on the eastern reaches. Went on, gosh, ten years? Something like that. She finally put her foot down and he went out there to marry her. Raise little shamans, I suppose.”

Otto chuckled and took a pull from his beer. His feet carried him out of the bedroom and back into the common room. “It never seemed to be crowded growing up, but it feels kinda small now.”

“It’s cozy,” she said, going to the wood stove in the corner. “You know how to use this?”

He nodded. “Have one in my place now. I wish I’d had one at Maggie’s Landing.”

“Wow. That’s about as far east as you can get. You’ve covered a lot of ground.”

He nodded. “Maggie’s Landing was interesting but the beach there is rough on shamans. Almost no driftwood.”

She laughed. “You won’t have that problem here.”

“No,” he said, with a little chuckle. “That’s for sure.”

“So what do you think?” she asked, taking another pull off the bottle.

“About the beer? Pretty good,” he said, following suit.

She grinned. “No. About the place.”

He nodded and took another scan of the cottage. “I think I could love it here.” He squinted at her. “What about you? You up for another shaman?”

She gave him a long look. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking but eventually a smile teased the corners of her lips. “Yeah. I think so. If you’re willing to come out here, work with us?” She nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, then,” he said.

“All right, then,” she said.

They stood there looking at each other for a few moments before she seemed to remember she held a bottle of beer in her hand. She looked down at it and finished it off.

His brain spun ahead to the trip back to Cape Grace and packing up. He drained his bottle and rinsed it in the sink. He held his hand out for hers.

She looked at him for another long moment before handing him the empty. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “No problem.” He rinsed the bottle and stood it beside the other one on the counter.

“Wanna see the other building?” she asked.

He nodded. “Probably should.”

She stopped to pull the key from the lock at the door and used it on the shop door. She swung it open and Otto stuck his head in.

“No bench in here,” he said.

Abby flipped on the light switch to reveal a completely empty building.

“Not even a stove,” he said.

“What did your father’s shop look like?” she asked.

“A workbench with drawers and cubbies along that short end wall. A small wood stove about there,” he said, pointing to a spot about halfway in.

“Well, if you’re going to put in a workbench, you’d need a stove, but you’ve got the option to put your bench in that small bedroom.”

Otto nodded. “I’ve got some time to think it over.”

She looked at him. “You’re thinking of setting up out here, aren’t you.”

He nodded. “It’s just going to be me, out here, but winter has never been that much of a hardship.” He shrugged. “Part of me wants to recreate my childhood home. Part of me wants to make this place my own.”

“What would you use this place for if not a shop? Storage?”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out in a long breath. “Have to be for stuff that didn’t mind the cold. No heat.”

She shrugged. “It’s yours to do with. However you want is fine with me.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You have any problems you want me to look at while I’m here?”

She led the way out of the shed and locked the door behind them. “If you could figure out why we have so many fights lately, that would be a godsend.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Aram’s Inlet: May 10, 2352

Maisie knocked before entering the office. “Angela, we have a problem.”

“What now?” she asked, looking up from the overnight reports. She reached for her coffee cup and braced herself.

“You haven’t checked your message queue lately?” Maisie asked.

She shook her head. “Trying to figure out how to sort out why Clydesport’s landings have tanked.”

“They’ve got too many boats for the available grounds. Happens every year.”

“This early in the season?”

“Early landings are good. Their grounds bounce back in the winter but they’re so badly over-fished, they struggle after just a few weeks.”

“Can we shift some?”

“To where?” Maisie asked. “Out to one of the Deep Sea ports?”

“Would make the most sense.”

“It’s worth a try, but you’re going to run into some resistance.” Maisie flopped into her usual chair. “They met their seasonal quota, didn’t they?”

Angela nodded. “Just barely.”

Maisie shrugged. “Yeah. Well. The problem is the kids.”

“Kids?”

“Every time one of the kids earns a skipper’s license, the supervisor there orders a new hull.”

The implication impaled itself in Angela’s brain. “So, the kids don’t want to leave home.”

Maisie shrugged. “I suspect some do, but the parents and grandparents want their kids near.”

Angela flipped a couple of screens. “They only have the one bank out that way? Scotty’s Reef?”

“Yes. They’re hemmed in on both sides by other villages.”

Angela pulled up the historical data, frowning at the screen. “That end of season dip keeps getting worse.”

Maisie nodded. “Too many boats for the bank.”

“We’re going to have to move some of those boats,” Angela said.

“Glad that’s your problem,” Maisie said. “And speaking of problems ...”

She snorted. “Something new?”

“The Combine’s lease is up in ten years. The auditors have arrived at the orbital.”

“The lease? What?”

“On the system. CPJCT auditors will be down tomorrow. They’ve booked the entire fourth floor of the hotel.”

Angela felt the blood drain from her face as a cold wave. She scrambled to her inbox and read the official notice waiting there. “We’re not breaking any regs, are we?”

Maisie shrugged. “Not that I know of, but there’s a reason they give us ten years to resolve any infractions.”

“I’ve never done one of these.” Angela chewed her lip and reread the message. “Well, given that they only happen once every century, they can’t expect us to know what’s what.”

“A given,” Maisie said. “Maybe we should contact Violet Austin at Allied Ag to coordinate.”

Angela nodded. “You find it odd that we don’t have a common boss?”

“Who? You and Violet?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really. Each of us has a sphere of influence. We’re not in competition for any single resource. The Ole Man pulls the strings on the consortium contract but he doesn’t micromanage.”

“Why isn’t he being audited, then?”

Maisie gave a short, dry laugh. “I suspect he is—or will be. That’ll happen at home office.”

Angela sighed and read the message a third time. “This won’t end well.”

“Why do you say that?” Maisie asked.

“Premonition. St. Cloud is not quite normal. I’ve only been here a little while, but it’s long enough to discover that much.”

“No argument there.”

“My limited experience with auditors makes me worry.” She shook her head. “Auditors don’t like ‘not quite normal.’”

Maisie nodded. “That’s why I said we’ve got a problem.”

Angela flipped open a message window. She’d just started to type out a message to the Allied Ag exec when Violet’s name popped up in her inbox. The message contained a single line attached to her copy of the auditor’s notice.

“Conference call?”

Angela pulled up the comms interface and placed the call.

Violet picked up in a few seconds, a frown furrowing her brow. “How do we handle this?” she asked without preamble.

“No idea. It would have been nice to have a little more lead time.”

“My inclination is to meet with a unified front,” Violet said. “Either here in Fairfax or there in the Inlet.”

“That would seem to be more logical, but I have no idea what to expect. They’ve booked an entire floor at the hotel.”

“Same here,” Violet said.

“What’s your take on this?”

Violet shrugged. “Let them take the lead and follow as best we can.”

“That’s my take as well. The more we try to orchestrate things, the more it’ll look like we’ve got something to hide. That they’re putting a team at each of our administrative seats is telling.”

“True.” Violet’s frown deepened a bit. “Do we have anything to hide?”

Angela shrugged. “Not that I know of, but it’s the stuff I don’t know of that bothers me.”

“I don’t think they can just take the planet away,” Violet said. “If there’s a problem, my understanding is that we’ll have time to resolve any issues.”

“But at what cost?”

“Whatever it is, it has to be less than shuttering the operation. The Combine has a huge investment here.”

“I can’t imagine CPJCT has any interest in shutting us down for no good reason,” Angela said.

Violet’s frown loosened its grip a bit. “True.” She sighed. “But I’m with you. I hate not knowing what to expect.”

Angela shrugged. “Don’t need to be a weatherman to know a storm’s coming. All we can do is try to make sure we’re battened down and hope for the best.”

Violet snorted. “Yeah. It’s that hoping part that bothers me. At least with a storm, we have the satellites to give us a head’s up on it.”

Angela nodded, thinking about the brewing issue at Clydesport. “Yeah, but there’s a lot of things that don’t show up on radar.”

Violet barked a short laugh. “Ain’t that the truth, sister.”

“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Angela said. “Shall we touch base after our initial meetings with them?”

Maisie cleared her throat.

Angela looked up at her. “What are you thinking?”

“They’ve put a team in each operation. They’re treating each as its own entity. Trying to coordinate now when we don’t have that much communication on a regular basis looks fishy. We want them to see what we do under normal circumstance. Not to see us operating differently when they’re here. Let’s just let them lead. It’s the first time for all of us, but credits to crullers the team has done this before. My advice would be just let them do their due diligence and ignore them as much as we can.”

“That’s a good point,” Violet said.

Angela chewed on the idea for a bit but nodded. “We probably should coordinate more regularly.”

Violet shrugged. “Not like our operations teams don’t talk to each other, but the more I think about it, the more I think Maisie’s right.”

“Let them lead?” Angela asked.

“I have no idea how long the song is,” Violet said. “We don’t have a lot of say in it. It’s their dance.”

“That’s what bothers me,” Angela said.

Violet nodded. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER SIX

Finwell Bay: May 10, 2352

Abby took Otto to the security office in the Pirano building. The desk clerk nodded to her. “Hey, Abby.”

“Afternoon, Willem. Is the chief in?”

Willem nodded toward an open door in the back of the office. “Wrapping up. I think. Go on back.”

Abby smiled at the clerk, who gave Otto a raised-eyebrow stare as she led him back to the office. She knocked on the door jamb. “You busy, chief?”

“Always,” he said, looking up from his console. The man looked to be in his seventies, gray hair along the sides of his head where he had any left. He had the wiry look of somebody who stayed in shape even while working a desk. His sharp eyes jumped from Abby to Otto and back again. He pushed back from his desk, straightening in his chair. “What’s up?”

Abby ushered Otto into the office. “I’d like you to meet Otto Krugg. I hope he’s coming to live here. In spite of some rude opinions I may have expressed.” She gave Otto a little smile. “Otto, this is our security chief, Larry Granger.”

The chief’s eyebrows flicked up in surprise but he stood and reached across the console. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Krugg.”

“Otto, please,” he said, shaking the chief’s hand.

The chief nodded. “Have a seat. This a social call?” Granger asked, a couple of wrinkles forming on his brow as he lowered himself back into his chair.

“Half and half,” Abby said. “Otto is thinking of becoming our new shaman.”

The chief’s jaw slid sideways for a moment before he spoke. “You all right with that?” He looked at Abby with the question.

Abby nodded, giving Otto another little smile. “I am. Even after Deering.”

The chief gave a short nod and frowned at Otto. “Where you coming from, Otto?”

“Cape Grace. Ed Comstock is the company rep there.”

“You there long?”

“Over twenty years.” Otto thought a moment. “Closer to twenty-five.”

“That’s a long time. Why you moving now?”

“Chief ...” Abby said.

“It’s all right, Abby,” Otto said. “I’d want to take a hard squint at anybody who came to town all of a sudden, myself.”

The chief settled back in his chair a fraction, his head tilted a couple of degrees to the left.

“My wife died twenty-four years ago. Box fish. She left me with a newborn who had the shaman’s gift. I stayed in the village to raise her.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “She’s now off the planet and I think I need a new place to live. Too many ghosts.”

“She?” Abby asked.

“My daughter. She has the gift. She couldn’t be a shaman, so she had to leave.” He sighed. “It wasn’t an easy situation. Ed Comstock can fill you in on any details you might need.”

“Women can’t be shamans,” Granger said.

“They can have the gift. They can’t have the title.” Otto shrugged. “Some men have the title and lack the gift. It’s the title that matters. She had the gift. She had to leave.” He let out a deep breath. “Last winter. It was the right thing for her to do.”

“I’m sorry,” Granger said. The words seemed heart-felt. He looked to Abby. “So, social half done. What’s the business?”

“He’s offered to look into any problems we’re having. See if he can offer any insight.”

Granger looked back and forth between the two of them, a bemused smile growing. “Which problems?”

“The fights,” Abby said.

Granger’s bemused look evaporated and his eyebrows moved together. “What about them?”

“You know what about them. We’ve gone from once a month to practically every night. What used to be black eyes and hurt feelings are now broken arms and broken families.” Abby’s voice carried steel.

Granger’s face clouded and his face reddened. “Yes, I know that,” he said, biting his words. He sighed and his color returned to normal. “I’m working on it.”

“I want you to tell Otto what’s going on. Give him access to the files, the timeline. Whatever he wants,” Abby said.

“Abby,” Granger said, a warning tone in his voice.

“No,” Abby said. “Don’t fight me on this, Larry.”

“What do you think this jumped-up preacher’s going to do about it?” Larry asked, his anger boiling out all at once.

Abby paled and looked at Otto. “I—”

Otto smiled at her and shook his head. “It’s fine. He’s right. What I do is odd.” He looked at the chief. “I offered to help with any problems Ms. Hawkes might be having. The last thing I want to do is step on anybody’s toes, and I certainly haven’t been in town long enough to get the lay of the land.”

Granger sighed and glanced at his boss, whose tight lips and hard eyes promised serious consequences, at the very least. “What do you want to know?”

“When did they start? These fights?” Otto asked. “Are there any commonalities? Anybody claiming a slight?”

“About ten weeks ago. Just before the season opened up. At first it was just an occasional extra fist fight. Too many people with too much energy. Too much alcohol,” Granger said. “It happens about the same time every season. I figured it would calm down.” He glanced at Abby again.

“Anybody seem to be instigating it?” Otto asked.

“Nobody in particular,” Granger said. “Seems like a different crew every night. Now everybody in town is in on it. Grudge fights. ‘You beat up one of mine so I’m going to beat up one of yours’ kind of things.”

“What changed when the season opened?” Otto asked.

Granger snorted. “What didn’t? Everybody went from snug and warm to full-on fishing. Boats getting rigged up and then out to sea every day. One week everybody’s lounging around town and the next they’re at a dead run.”

Otto nodded. “Seen it. Lived it. Cape Grace is a little smaller but I suspect Ed Comstock saw a similar pattern. Once the season burns in a little, just getting up and going back out every day takes some of the spunk out of ya.”

“It’s not burning out this season,” Granger said. “Every time we think we’ve turned a corner, another run of trouble breaks out.”

“What did your shaman say? Anything?”

“Deering? What good would he do?” Granger asked. “Give everybody a whelkie?”

Abby stiffened.

“Sorry,” Granger said. “Sorry. It’s just ... He never came into town in the evening. Barely during the day, and only for supplies.”

“He’s gone now,” Abby said.

“Have the fights tapered off?” Otto asked.

“Been one every night for the last week,” Granger said.

“Can I see the reports?” Otto asked.

Granger blinked at him. “What, you’re a security officer now?”

“Larry.” Abby’s one word snapped in the air.

Otto shook his head. “Nothing like it. I’m an outside observer. Things might stand out to me as curious where they’re so commonplace to you, they’re invisible. Fresh eyes sometimes see best.”

Granger sighed and nodded. “Sorry, Otto. Of course.” His words sounded right but they felt wrong. Granger kept glancing at Abby.

“Can you let me see the first four or five and the last four or five?” Otto asked. “I’ll be in town a couple of days. I can’t promise anything but I can bring a fresh perspective.”

“You’re not staying?” Granger asked.

“I came to check out the lay of the land. It’s a big move, halfway around the planet. I wanted to see the place before I committed to making the move.” He shrugged. “I’m booked into the transient hostel for a couple of days. I’ll take the tram back.”

Granger nodded. “See Willem. He’ll give you anything you ask for.”

Abby stood, cutting the meeting off. “Thank you, Larry.”

The chief offered his hand to Otto. “Sorry. It’s been a bit tense.” He glanced at Abby and shrugged.

“No harm,” Otto said and clasped the man’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time.”

The chief nodded and gave Abby an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

She sighed and shook her head before turning on her heel and striding out of the office.

“Sorry,” Otto said, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t realize.”

The chief snorted and waved him off. “She’s got a lot on her plate.”

Otto nodded. “Nice to meet you, Chief.” He hurried his steps to catch up with Abby as she hit the front desk.

“Willem, the chief said to give Otto whatever he wants about the fights.” Her voice still carried overtones of anger.

Willem reacted like an animal in the headlights, looking back and forth between Otto and Abby but not moving.

Otto stepped up and smiled. “If you could send me the files for the first four or five fights and the last few?” He pulled out his peeda and placed it on the counter. “I’m not sure my device can handle more than that.”

Willem nodded. “Of course.”

He queued up some data files and got them flashed over to Otto’s device with a minimum of trouble.

“Thank you, Willem. I’m Otto Krugg, by the way.” He extended his hand across the desk.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Krugg. You a security analyst?”

Otto chuckled. “No. Just a jumped-up preacher.”

Willem’s eyes flashed open all the way, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline.

“He’s the new shaman,” Abby said with a touch of asperity in her voice. “At least I hope he is.”

“Oh,” Willem said. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Otto shrugged. “Guess it depends on who you ask.”

“It’s good,” Abby said, turning for the door.

Otto nodded to Willem before following Abby out into the corridor.

“Sorry about that,” she said, glancing back with a frown.

“Don’t worry about it,” Otto said. “The chief has valid concerns.”

“He’s a territorial Neanderthal.”

“I’m a jumped-up preacher who’s got the ear of his boss and is interfering in an important security problem in the village.” He shrugged. “Town. It really is a lot bigger than I’m used to.”

“Flanagan didn’t tell you?” Abby asked.

“He said it was bigger. I think he may have been somewhat disingenuous about how much bigger.”

Abby glanced at him as they came to the main doors of the Pirano building. “Does it bother you?”

Otto shook his head. “No. It’s not as big as Starvey Bay. It might be almost twice as big as Cape Grace. I’ve got a longer beach to walk here. That’s all. It’s not a bad thing.”

She smiled. “If you can help, that would be wonderful. If you can’t? Well, I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

“What’s your fear with this?” Otto asked.

“My fear?”

“Yes. What are you most afraid will happen?”

She sighed and cast her gaze out through the glass in the doors. “That the community gets too fragmented to recover.”

“Valid fear,” Otto said. “What are you willing to do to prevent that?”

She looked back at him. “My knee-jerk reaction is ‘anything’ but that’s not true.”

He smiled. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes. Anything is not on the table. That’s good. That means you’re willing to do the work to restore the balance, but you’re not willing to destroy the village—sorry, town—to get it together again.”

She blinked at him. “Would somebody do that?”

Otto shrugged. “Some people think in absolutes. Yes. No. Black. White. Light. Dark.”

“My way or the highway?” Abby asked.

He chuckled and nodded. “The problem with light and dark is that you miss the beauty of the twilight at dusk and dawn.”

“You think that’s what’s going on here? Too many absolutists?”

He sighed and gazed out at the street. “No. At least not yet. What was your beef with Captain Lewis coming in early?”

She shook her head. “I thought he was just being unreasonable. You ever see a herd of sheep?”

Otto shook his head.

“Sheep like being in a flock. If one of them decides to go in a particular direction, the rest will follow. It doesn’t have to be a particular sheep. Not like the alpha ewe or something. Just any. They find safety in numbers. It’s built into them. They’ll follow any of their flock who decides the pasture looks better over there. They tend to fall in line behind the elders of the herd.” She waved a hand. “Fishermen are a lot like sheep. They like being in a fleet. It’s safer for them if there’s another boat a couple of kilometers away in case something goes wrong.”

“And Lewis is an elder in the herd?” Otto asked.

She grinned. “Yeah. He always has a certain number of followers who wait for him to leave in the morning and follow him out. I don’t know if they do it on purpose, or if it’s subconscious, or what.”

“You could find out,” Otto said. “See if the same boats go out when he does. You’ve got—what? Three banks that get fished most often?”

She nodded.

“So you have Lewis who takes his flock. Who are the other elders?”

“Shannon Murphy. She’s actually senior captain in the fleet. Everybody expects her to hang up her oilskins every season.” Abby grinned. “She’ll go as long as she can walk, I suspect.”

“She good?” Otto asked.

“She’s the best skipper I’ve ever seen. Reads the water. Reads the crew. Reads the wind. I’m half convinced she reads the scales on the fish. Been doing it for nearly a century.”

“That kind of experience only comes with time,” Otto said. “She follow behind Lewis?”

“Oh, hell, no.” Abby grinned. “I think she just waits for him to leave in the morning so she can go the other way.”

“Who takes the third group?”

“This season, it’s Abe Norton. He’s got more experience than Lewis by a couple of seasons, but never stepped forward.”

“Who was it last season?”

“Tammy Burnett. She’s not fishing this season. Got a new bebe and her crew chief has the boat with a couple of the greener hands.”

“Crew chief qualified?”

“Oh, yeah. Pat Peters. By rights, he should have a boat of his own.” She shrugged. “I’ve got three people I’d slap a boat under if I could.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Probably will next season. I’ve got some next-generation kids coming up through, but I don’t have three extra crews at the moment.” She grimaced. “And I’m losing them to injury as it is.”

“The fights?”

She nodded. “Four boats already shorthanded. Or would be if not for the kids working alongside their parents.”

Otto pursed his lips and looked down at the floor. How much should he say?

“Spit it out,” Abby said. “You’re thinking something. I can smell the gears burning.”

He chuckled. “At Cape Grace and Maggie’s Landing both, we always had too many kids for the available berths. Third and fourth kids didn’t get deck time much, if at all. They wound up in the cull and cut operations. Went to the bigger villages to work freezers.”

Abby frowned. “What are you getting at?”

“Why aren’t there more kid working the boats?” he asked.

“Birth rate’s been falling for the last five, ten stanyers.” Abby shrugged.

“Young Sam Bagley? What’s he do? His father works in the freezer.”

“I don’t know.” She frowned. “What are you thinking?”

Otto sighed. “Nothing yet. Just a feeling. Every other village, town, I know of has growing pains. Too many kids. Too few slots. Too few jobs. Adding new hulls so fast they’re straining their fisheries. You’ve got skippers and capacity but not enough crew to justify expanding your fleet.”

“You seen a lot of other places?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, and that makes me pause. There might well be more like here. The aging population of fishermen, growing out of their child-bearing years. Adults who got their skipper’s license a couple of decades ago and no pressure coming from the youngsters who want to be crew.” He sighed. “It raises the other question.”

“Where do the other kids go?” Abby asked.

“No,” Otto said. “What’s the population of St. Cloud? Or more accurately, what are the demographics of that population?”

She blinked at him. “You think that has something to do with the fights?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I wouldn’t rule it out, but that seems like something else.”

“Really? You haven’t even looked at the files yet.”

He shrugged. “Hunch.” He looked up at her. “You’ve been in admin for a while. You know. These spats come and go. Sometimes a week. Maybe two. Somebody gets a nose out of joint and it escalates a bit before calmer heads prevail.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what has me looking at this as something deeper.”

“It might just be something so small, nobody noticed. A grain of sand in the shoe.”

She blinked. “That seems almost like wishful thinking.”

He frowned, trying to come up with the words. “You get a tiny pebble in your sock. It gets into the top and you don’t notice. You’re not putting any pressure on it.”

She nodded.

“When it works down beside your anklebone, you might notice it as it chafes a little but you’re not going to stop and strip off boot and sock for a minor annoyance.”

“I’m with you,” she said. “You think it’s been something here all along?”

“That would be my guess. Like the pebble that finally worked down under your foot. Every time you step, you step on it. If you do it long enough you’ll develop a callus, but most people just stop and dump it out.”

“We have a pebble.”

He nodded. “That’s my guess. I could be wrong.”

“How will you know?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I might never find out. It might be something else.” He paused. “Think there’ll be another disturbance tonight?”

“Odds are good,” she said. “If not tonight, then tomorrow for sure.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

She gave him a curious look, her brows furrowed as she stared at him like she might be trying to read his mind.

“Do you have a whelkie?” he asked.

Her eyes popped open. “Me? No. Who’d give me a whelkie? Why would I want one?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.” He went to push open the door. “I’ll go review these records. See if anything pops out. Can I bip you if I find anything?”

“Send it to the chief, too,” she said.

He nodded. “I will.”

“Do you?” she asked as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Have a whelkie?”

He grinned. “I do. Given to me by a real South Coast shaman fairly recently.”

“Does it help?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve only had it for a few days. I’m willing to give it time.” He let the door close and let his feet carry him back to the transient hostel. He had a lot to think about, but his stomach thought he’d forgotten it. He’d only just had breakfast a few stans ago, but he wasn’t above having another meal, just to tide him over.

* * *

Otto roused himself from his studies around 2200 when he heard a commotion somewhere down closer to the docks. His open window funneled the noise of raised voices into the room. He stood up from the desk and slipped his peeda into a pocket. After three hours of reading he felt restless anyway and leaned out to listen.

Somewhere off in the side streets, several voices shouted in anger. Two men and at least one woman. He sighed, wishing for Sarah’s level of gift. She’d probably be able to tell what the problem might be even from this distance. He’d have to get closer.

He sat to tie on his boots and grab his coat.

In a matter of moments he’d slipped down the stairs and out into the streets, moving toward the noise.

He met a couple of fishermen going the other way. “You don’t want to go down there, mate,” one man said. “Security’s there already. No need to get dragged into it.”

Otto nodded and the man resumed a long-legged stride in the opposite direction.

With a shrug, Otto continued on his path. He only had to go a couple of blocks down before he saw the altercation on a side street and headed toward it. Three men, two women, all in fisherman clothes—heavy trousers, pullovers in layers. The women both had knit caps holding their hair down. One of the men looked like he’d lost his hat somewhere. His hair stood up all over his head. All had their hands restrained behind them. A pair of uniformed security officers seemed to be herding the noisy group down the street toward him.

“You started it,” one of the men said. “Why are you taking us in? This is bullshit.”

“This is resisting arrest,” one of the officers said, a smile in his voice. “Keep talking. I’m sure we’ll find more to charge you with.”

One of the women turned and screamed at the officer. “You can’t get away with this, you know.”

“Come on, Jackie,” the other said. “Just keep going. We’ll sort it out when you’re sober, all right?”

“Fer the love o’mud, I’m not drunk!” she said. “Gimme a test.”

“Yeah, yeah. If I had a credit for everybody who tried that one, I’d retire,” the first officer said. “Keep moving.”

Another pair of officers came from the direction of the Pirano building. They stopped when they got to Otto. “Move along, sir. Nothing to see here.”

Neither of the new officers seemed too bothered, but they both stepped in front of Otto to bar his progress.

Otto walked back to the corner and leaned on the lamp pole while the newcomers joined their colleagues.

“What ya got this time?” one of the new officers asked.

“Normal drunk and disorderly. The two women having a fight over this guy.” The officer nudged the guy without the hat.

“Are you insane?” the other woman said. “We weren’t fighting over him. He’s an idiot. We were trying to get away from him.”

“Aw, come on, baby, you know you love it,” the guy said, his words slurring out so badly they were hard to understand. He staggered a couple of steps before the officer grabbed his arm and straightened him out. The man jerked his arm out of the officer’s grasp and nearly fell, recovering his balance at the last minute. He would have been all right if the other officer hadn’t stuck his foot out to trip him. The man fell on the pavement, hard.

“See?” the officer said. “Too drunk to walk.”

“What about us?” the first woman said. “You think we’re blind as well as drunk and stupid?”

“Easy, Jackie,” one of the new officers said, taking her by the arm. “Let’s just wander on back to the station. We’ll get your buddy fixed up, take your statements, let you go. What do you say?”

With some more wrangling, the four officers got the five people around the corner and soon disappeared into the Pirano building.

Otto wandered down along the street, looking for the pub. He found it around the next block. A couple of fisherman types lounged on the steps in front while music leaked out of the doors behind them. “Gents,” Otto said.

They nodded. “How do,” one said.

“You see what happened?” Otto asked, nodding back the way he’d come.

“What, with security?” the talkative one asked.

Otto nodded.

He shook his head. “Didn’t see nothing. Didn’t hear nothing.”

The other one said, “Neither did you unless you want them camping your doorstep.”

Otto nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You new here?” the first man asked.

“Just this morning.” He paused. Was it still the same day? “Yeah. Just this morning.”

“Planning on staying?”

“Couple of days. Just come to see about housing. Thinking about moving here.” Otto raised his eyebrows.

The man eyed him. “You’re not a fisherman.”

Otto shook his head. “Sometimes do a little crabbing.”

The man shrugged.

“Anything I should be aware of? Stuff the company wouldn’t want me to know?”

The men glanced at each other before shaking their heads.

The talkative one lifted his chin. “Nothing personal, mister. We don’t know you. We don’t want or need any trouble. Not with security. Not with the company.”

“Not with you,” the other one said.

Neither of the men seemed particularly hostile, but both had razor-wire fences up.

Otto nodded and took a step back. “I can respect that. Have a good night.” He turned and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets as he strode away, shoulders hunched.

Neither of the men spoke again within his hearing.

He made his way back to his room in the hostel. He had a lot to think about. He wasn’t sure Chief Granger or Abby Hawkes would be too receptive to the way his thinking seemed to be going.

* * *

The boat engines firing up in the harbor woke him in the pre-dawn. He lay in his bed and listened to the sound of commerce playing out in the darkness a few hundred meters away. For the most part, it sounded like any waterfront in the chill of morning. Few voices. A lot of rumbling engines. Even when the boats started pulling out into the bay, long practice required little in the way of shouts or commands. Everybody knew their job. Everybody did their job. Sooner underway, sooner they can huddle over tea and coffee in the deckhouse or forecastle.

He listened as the next wave of engines rumbled to life, wondering if he’d hear the third wave or they’d all blend together.

He fell asleep again before he could decide. The noise of fishing boats was insufficient to keep him from sleep in the wake of the long tram ride.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 11, 2352

Angela sighed and scanned the sky toward Starvey Bay. “Twenty minutes late?”

“Maybe they had equipment problems,” Maisie said.

Angela forced her foot to stop tapping. “Not exactly making a good first impression.”

“Well, we don’t have to wait for them here,” Maisie said, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “That wind is a bit harsh.”

Angela took a deep breath of the sea breeze coming in off the harbor and chuckled. “I never noticed it.”

“A little steamed, are we?” Maisie asked, a smile teasing her lips.

“Maybe a little.” She eyed Maisie. “I’m also dressed for it. You’re just in a windbreaker?”

Maisie drew herself up in mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I have a shirt under this very sturdy—well, actually, not all that warm—windbreaker.” She shrugged. “Didn’t figure it would be this long.”

Maisie’s peeda chimed.

“Wanna bet?” Angela asked.

Maisie glanced at the screen and shook her head. “Talking about not making a good first impression.” She turned the screen to face Angela.

“They’re at the tram station?” Angela asked, peering at the note.

“I’ll have a car pick them up and take them to the hotel,” Maisie said. “We can meet them there.”

She shook her head. “Yeah. Do that. Can you clear a meeting room for us over there?”

“Already done. They’re using the West Wind room as a base while they’re here.”

Angela looked across the bay toward the train station. “Talk about getting off on the wrong foot.”

Maisie pressed the send key on her message and nodded. “Somewhere, somehow, somebody crossed some wires.”

Angela shook her head again. “Well, let’s go greet our guests.” She turned on her heel and tried to walk normally but found herself marching out her impatience and chewing on her lower lip. If these were the expert auditors that CPJCT sent to evaluate the operation, it didn’t bode well for their report.

* * *

The team of auditors trailed into the West Wind room behind one of the hotel staff. Their leader, a whip-thin woman who marched rather than walked, gave the bland meeting room a quick once-over and sniffed. “This will do.”

The staffer scuttled out as the last of the five auditors cleared the doorway.

“Welcome to St. Cloud,” Angela said, crossing to greet them. “I’m Angela Pirano. This is Maisie McIlheny, my executive assistant. How can we help?”

The woman stared at Angela for a moment before answering. “Monica Delacourt.” She cast a negligent head nod toward the auditors behind her. “My team. We’re here to ascertain whether or not CPJCT will offer a renewal to St. Cloud Combine.” She paused and gave Angela a hard look, her face a neutral mask that didn’t quite hide a supercilious smirk.

“Is there anything you need from us?” Angela said, tamping down an urge to either laugh or slap that smirk off the woman’s face.

Delacourt faced the room. “I presume we can get the hotel staff for whatever furnishings we need?”

“Of course.” She looked to Maisie. “Event coordinator?”

“Nell’s on her way,” she said, waving her peeda.

A young woman wearing hotel livery and carrying a tablet breezed into the room. “Nell’s here,” she said, giving everybody a nod in greeting as she entered. She crossed to Delacourt and offered a hand. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Delacourt. I’m Nell Lamont. How can the hotel be of service?”

“These narrow tables need to go. I need full-sized. A couple of keyboard desks. Chairs to match. A coffee service. I assume there’s network access in here?”

“Wired outlets around the room and wireless everywhere in the hotel, ma’am. Do you want snack service with the coffee? Any tea drinkers?” Lamont asked, taking notes.

Delacourt glanced at her team. “No snacks. Coffee is fine.”

A burly guy from Delacourt’s team lifted his chin to speak. “A small pot of decaf would be welcome.”

Delacourt favored him with a frown.

He gazed back at her. It wasn’t a confrontation, exactly, but he certainly wasn’t apologizing for speaking up.

“Of course,” Lamont said. “Anything else?”

Delacourt’s gaze raked the room and her eyes narrowed. “Not at the moment. I assume this room will be locked when we’re not in it. We’ll need keys.”

Lamont nodded. “Of course.” She pulled three plastic keys from her pocket and handed them over. “We can get more, but I thought you’d want to keep access to a minimum. We’ve re-keyed this room so that those three keys are the only ones that can open the door.”

Lamont smiled. “That also means somebody will need to be in here for the custodial services. Would a morning sweep work? Start the day with a fresh room?”

“Yes. How much time will you need?”

“No more than half an hour. Probably more like ten ticks. We’ll clear the litter, run a sweeper. Make sure the coffee service is ready for the day.”

Delacourt flapped the plastic cards against the palm of her hand for a few moments. She tossed one of them to the burly guy. “Nelson. You’re the designated janitor. Be here at seven.”

Lamont smiled at him and made a note. “I’ll make sure there’s a cleaning team ready for you, sir.”

Nelson grinned. “Works for me. Thanks.”

“Is there anything else Aram House can do for you, ma’am?” Lamont asked.

Delacourt pursed her lips for a heartbeat. “Our luggage?”

“Already in your rooms. We’ve given each of you an ocean view on the ninth floor. Whenever you’re ready, just stop by the main desk and thumb in.”

Delacourt sniffed and looked around the room for a few heartbeats, obviously weighing something in her mind. “That should do for now. How do we get assistance when it’s required?”

Lamont pointed to the wall beside the door. “Call button there for assistance in here. Your room keys are tagged. Every room has one. Comm access to concierge, housekeeping, front desk, and event planning. You can always use your personal devices to access the hotel.”

Delacourt nodded as a team of hotel workers appeared at the door and looked at Lamont.

Lamont smiled at Delacourt. “If we could just ask you all to step outside for a moment? We can get this set up real quick. Maybe take the opportunity to thumb in at the desk? Make sure your rooms are satisfactory?”

Delacourt’s face turned from stony mask to sour grimace, but she nodded. “Let’s get on with it.”

* * *

Delacourt sailed into Angela’s office, her gaze raking the room like a mother trying not to shudder while surveying the wreck of her teenager’s bedroom. One of her assistants trailed behind, a recording pad in his hand and a pinched look on his face.

Angela didn’t bother trying to hide her grin as she stood behind the desk. “Good morning, Ms. Delacourt. I trust you slept well?”

Delacourt continued her survey, eventually getting around to Angela. “Yes. Thank you. The accommodations are satisfactory.”

Angela came around the desk and approached the assistant. She held out her hand. “Good morning. We haven’t officially met. You already know I’m Angela Pirano. You are?”

He looked startled. He glanced at Delacourt before taking Angela’s waiting hand for a minimalist shake. “Bradley Olson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Olson.” She waved them into chairs on the visitor side of the desk and crossed to put the desk between. “There’s coffee? Pastry? Would you care for anything?” she asked, ignoring the frost forming around the edges of the room.

Olson’s mouth opened but Delacourt spoke first. “Nothing, thank you. We just have a few questions to get started with.”

Olson bit his lips between his teeth and settled into his chair, the recorder prominently displayed on his lap.

Delacourt glanced at Olson, then the recorder, before folding her long-fingered hands into her lap. “On the way here, it came to our attention that you’ve only recently been named head of this operation, Ms. Pirano,” Delacourt said.

“True. I replaced my younger brother.”

“That would be James Pirano?”

“Yes.” Two could play this game. Angela had met enough petty bureaucrats to recognize the type.

“Why was he replaced?” Delacourt asked.

“The board called him to the home office in Dunsany Roads.”

“A disciplinary recall?” Delacourt asked.

Angela pondered that for a moment. “I’m not privy to the reasons. I was directed to come to St. Cloud for a temporary assignment. When I got here, I discovered that my brother had no plans to return.”

“So you’re expecting someone else to relieve you? What will you do then?” Delacourt asked, one perfectly formed eyebrow arched.

“No, this will be my new home.”

Delacourt raised the other eyebrow. “I thought you said it was a temporary assignment.”

“That’s what I was told. Like you, I only recently discovered that I was named the head of the Pirano Fisheries operation of the St. Cloud Combine.”

Delacourt frowned. “Just like that?”

Angela nodded. “Just like that.”

“You came from Umber. Who’s running the company there?”

“My second got moved up. He’s a good man. Knows the planet and the people. He’ll do a good job.”

“Who’s your number two here?”

“Anthony Spinelli. Finance chief. He was my brother’s second. He’s been here forever.”

Delacourt looked at Olson, who nodded in reply. “What’s he think about all this?”

“Who? Tony?”

Delacourt nodded.

Angela shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. In fact you’ll probably have to ask him about all of it. I’ve barely been here a month. I’ve spent most of that time running up and down the coast, trying to get a feel for the people.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t have the background to talk about the company and its plans for the St. Cloud Combine?” Delacourt asked. The question floated across the desk like a soap bubble filled with poison gas.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Ms. Delacourt. My father’s a lot of things. By turns hard-nosed and generous. Sometimes he appears to be capricious but everything he does has a reason. Everything. I learned that early on. Just because I don’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

Delacourt’s frown deepened. “That’s not the question I asked.”

“You asked if I have the background to talk about the company and its plans for St. Cloud, didn’t you?”

Delacourt nodded.

“Here’s what I know. My grandfather set up Umber and my father ran that operation until the St Cloud Combine opened up this planet. My father lives for this business. His plans? Make it bigger. Make it more productive. Expand Pirano Fisheries into a new lease in another system if he can.”

“He told you this?” Delacourt asked.

Angela felt a chuckle bubble out. “You’ve never met my father, have you?”

“I fail to see the relevance.”

“Yeah. You’ve never met him or you’d understand the relevance. What exactly do you want to know about the plans for Pirano’s participation in the St. Cloud Combine, Ms. Delacourt?”

“Do you have a strategic plan? What’s the goal?” she asked. “The normal kinds of documentation any well-run operation maintains.”

“I’m sure they’re here somewhere. Tony will know.”

“Do you believe that plan will change now that you’re in charge here?”

“My plan will be the same as it was on Umber, Ms. Delacourt. It was the plan my grandfather laid out when they floated the first city. It was the plan my father followed when Gramp didn’t come back one day. It’s the plan he left to me when he made me head of the Umber Operation. Even without seeing the documentation, I’ll bet you credits to crullers that it’s the same plan he brought here.”

Delacourt’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing. “Would you care to share?”

“Feed the people,” Angela said.

Delacourt stared for several long moments. “That’s it?”

Angela nodded. “That’s it.”

Delacourt sniffed. “I was expecting something a little more ... comprehensive.”

Angela felt the hot anger bloom inside and took a deep breath through her nose. She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the surface of the battered metal desk. She opened her mouth and let the pent-up anger in her gut ride the sigh out of her. She smiled at Delacourt. “Lemme tell you about feeding people,” she said. “You know what people need to eat?”

“Food?” Delacourt asked, frowning.

“Yeah, but they need a place to eat it and usually a place to prepare it. Not all of it comes in nicely warmed plates as if delivered from on high. They need people to eat it with, Ms. Delacourt, because a meal is more than food. It’s a ritual that’s been passed down from when the first proto-humans gathered around the fire in a cave back on Earth. It’s part of who we are. It’s part of what helps us stay human. That’s what ‘feed the people’ means to me. It means keeping the wolves from the door, whether those wolves have four legs or just two. It means making sure that the people scattered across this minor arm of a nondescript galaxy have the basic means to feed themselves by harvesting food, real food, fresh food. Food that’s not grown in a vat. Food that our ancestors might recognize as food as they huddled around that meager flame.” Angela paused, feeling her smile grow. “That’s what ‘feed the people’ means. That’s what Pirano Fisheries and our friends at Allied Ag are doing here on St. Cloud. That’s what we intend to keep doing. That’s my goal for this company and my position in it.”

Delacourt’s eyes narrowed. “Lovely sentiment. Not something we can really hang an audit on, is it?”

“What would you like to see?” Angela asked, giving just the sketch of a shrug. “You’ve got the run of our operation. Just ask.”

“I’d like to see the corporate books for the last decade.”

“Tony has the files. He’s waiting for you,” Angela said. “What else?”

“Contingency planning for natural disasters.”

“We have several. Each village along the coast has one tailored for their specific location. We have a regional plan for the forty-eight regions along the coast. We’re still developing the Deep Sea plans but each station out there has a full set of contingency plans based on best practice.”

“How were those developed?” Delacourt asked.

“For the Deep Sea?” Angela asked.

Delacourt nodded.

“I sent my templates from Umber. The ones we use each time we floated a new city.” Angela shrugged. “The Deep Sea platforms don’t have all the same kind of problems as floating cities, but the plans developed on Umber evolved over the last century or so. They’re a good foundation to evolve here to meet the local conditions.”

Olson leaned forward. “Can you say more about that?”

Delacourt shot him a sour glance.

“Umber’s cities are anchored to sea mounts at least a hundred meters below. While there are areas of shallow reefs and deep trenches, having that extra buffer of water means that storms don’t pile up water on rapidly shallowing bottoms. That means we see a more uniform rise in sea level that lifts the cities up without having huge swells breaking over the walls. We still get some, of course, but they’re much less than they might be. Here the wind blowing water across the ocean ridges can get waves high enough to break. One of the first recommendations they implemented was to move the anchored barges into deeper water and rely less on classic breakwaters. Each of the new floating platforms has a least a hundred meters under it. Some have two hundred.”

“What if a platform breaks?” Olson asked, curiosity shining from his eyes.

“Thank you, Olson,” Delacourt said, biting each word off at the stem. “That’s quite enough.”

“We have copies of all the contingency plans on file, Ms. Delacourt. I can order a full set for you, if you like.”

“One or two representatives would be fine,” Delacourt said.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Angela asked.

Delacourt stood, gathering Olson with a glance. “We’ll be in touch.”

Angela stood and offered a hand but Delacourt was already halfway to the door.

Olson shook her hand and gave her a wink. “Thank you, Ms. Pirano. I’m looking forward to working with your team.”

Delacourt snorted. “Come along, Olson,” she said before sailing through the doorway.

Olson grinned and shook his head, taking a few quick steps to catch up with his boss.

Angela settled back into her chair and took a sip of the cold coffee. She wasn’t sure how Delacourt was going to make life difficult, but she felt damn sure that woman would find a way.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finwell Bay: May 11, 2352

In the morning, Otto went up to the coffee shop at Fifteenth St. and grabbed a breakfast special while he perused the overnight newsie on the town net. Nothing particular stood out. No news about any fights or disturbances in the night. He shrugged and finished a delicious plate of pancakes and syrup with bacon, crispy the way he liked it.

The server swung by with a carafe in each hand. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.

“Tea, please,” Otto said, sliding his mug closer to the man.

“You were in here yesterday afternoon, weren’t you?” he asked, topping up Otto’s cup. “Transient?”

“Yeah. I’ll be around for a couple of days.” Otto looked around. The diner had mostly cleared out. ”You’re up early for the crews?”

“Yeah. Open just after midnight, actually. We’ll shut down for a couple of hours around ten tonight. Cleaning crew does a number on the place and we’ll start all over again.”

“Two shifts? Three?”

“Yeah. Three basic shifts. Evening is the easiest one. Also the shortest.”

“Where do people go for dinner?” Otto asked.

The server grinned. “We’d like them to come here, but there are a half-dozen places in town. Pirano has another eatery that’s only open in the afternoon and evening. Just past the office building down on the frontage road. A group of the spouses run a bakery out on East Tenth. Great baked goods but they specialize in bread. I think everybody in town gets their bread there. Even us.” He grinned. “There’s a pizza and pasta joint up near the tram, and most of the pubs have some kind of food. Some better than others but nobody can agree on who’s best. Crab Shack has the best crab cakes. Hands down.” He shrugged.

“What’s with the fights?” Otto asked.

“Fights?”

“I heard there’s a lot more fights these days. Been going on for a few weeks. People injured. All that?”

The server shrugged. “Oh, yeah. I suppose. I guess it depends on who you ask.”

“You don’t think it’s dangerous to be out at night?” Otto asked.

The server shrugged again. “Not any more than normal. Almost everybody knows everybody else. You’re the first new face I’ve seen in here since that shaman guy last year, I think.”

“You know he’s gone?” Otto asked.

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Really. No. I didn’t know that but I probably wouldn’t. He was kind of a stick in the mud. I don’t think I saw him more than four times in the last year.”

“Stick in the mud?”

“Yeah. Kept trying to get the company to fish in different places. Had a problem with the number of pubs. Not sure what his issue was, but if he’s gone? I’m not sorry.”

“Any problems with security?” Otto asked.

The server glanced around the nearly empty diner and licked his lips. “What do you mean?”

Otto shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Eh, you know. Sometimes the security people begin to think they are the law rather than just the people who are supposed to enforce it. I’ve seen it before. Anything like that here?”

“No.” The server’s voice sounded a little loud in the quiet, like he’d spoken too quickly. He lowered his voice. “Nothing like that. Nothing I’ve seen.” He put some emphasis on the last word.

Otto nodded. “So, basically, nice, quiet town? Nothing much happening?”

The server chuckled. “Well, we’re almost at the end of the line out here. Sometimes things get a little weird. We do a founders day parade. Usually the blessing of the fleet is a big deal.”

“Usually?”

“Yeah, the last guy didn’t like it much, I guess. He showed up, blessed them all at once from the end of the pier, and left again. Didn’t wait for the parade of boats. Nothing.”

“I’m sure that went over well,” Otto said.

The serve laughed. “Oh, man. A few of the skippers were ready to drag his skinny ass out of that stone house and keel-haul him right in the harbor.”

“What stopped them?”

“Abby Hawkes. She’s the company rep. You do not want to get on her bad side.”

“Temper?” Otto asked.

“No, nothing like that. Long memory. She’s here to make sure the town runs as smooth as possible. Get in the way of that and you’re on the top of her get-out-of-town list.”

“I’ll watch my step,” Otto said. He took a sip of his tea.

“You find what you came for?” the server said.

“I think so,” Otto said. “I looked at a house yesterday. It’s available. I kinda like it.”

“What do you do, anyway?” the server asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m a shaman.”

The man blinked a couple of times, pressing his eyelids together in a series of squints. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

The cogs continued to turn in the man’s head. “So you’re what? Here to take that last guy’s place?”

“That’s the thinking. What do you think? Good idea? Bad idea?”

The server looked around the diner like he thought maybe somebody was pulling a prank on him. “Me?”

“Yeah, why not you?” Otto asked. “You see a good cross section of the people. Most of them sober when they’re here. You’ve been here a few seasons yourself. What do you think? Town need a new shaman?”

“You’re really a shaman?” he asked with a tinge of lingering incredulity.

“Yep. All my life. My father and grandfather before me.”

The man laughed. “That’s kinda how it works, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s hereditary. Like baldness. Boys get it from their fathers but don’t learn to appreciate hair until it’s gone.”

“You looked into the stone house by the point,” he said. “That’s the house you looked at.”

Otto nodded.

The man leaned back on the counter behind him, a carafe in each hand. “I can’t believe I’m talking to a shaman.”

“Why? You think we don’t talk to people?”

“The last one didn’t.”

“I’m the next one,” Otto said with a little shrug. “I just need to go home to pack a few things, then I’ll be back.”

“Seriously,” the server said. “You’re the new shaman?”

“Yeah. Think I can help things out here?”

“Dunno,” the guy said. “Not sure what shamans do besides walk the beach and carve driftwood.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

Otto chuckled. “Nothing to be sorry about. That’s what we do, a lot.”

“What else do you do?”

“We talk to people. Try to help where we can. Surprising how much good you can do by listening.” Otto smiled. “You know that yourself, don’t you?”

“Some customers like to talk,” the server said, glancing around.

“And sometimes they’ll talk more to a stranger than their kid or spouse,” Otto said. “Bartenders and waiters been doing that as long as there’ve been bartenders and waiters.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be magical or something?” He clamped his mouth shut and looked away for a second. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“We’re just people. I don’t know that we have any particularly useful gifts, but we spend a lot of time walking around and staring at the ground.”

The guy chuckled. “You seem all right to me.”

Otto extended his hand. “I’m Otto.”

“I’m Benny,” he said, pointing to the name tag pinned to his apron. He shook Otto’s hand. “That thing about the fights?”

“What about it?” Otto asked.

“I heard some of the crews talking. Seems like the problem isn’t with the crews.”

“They getting their heads together about it?” Otto asked.

Benny shrugged. “Just a comment or two. Their friends winding up with broken arms and busted heads.”

“That’s an odd turn of phrase,” Otto said. “Winding up with?”

“Seems like at least a couple people didn’t have broken arms before they went into the lockup.”

Otto nodded. “I see.”

“I think they’re just spouting off.” Benny shrugged and looked away. “But they might not be.”

“Always a possibility,” Otto said. “I should get on with my morning and let you clear this away.” He stood and Benny presented him with a tab. He added a good tip and thumbed the total. “Thanks, Benny. Maybe I’ll see you around again before I leave.”

“Thanks, Otto. Good luck. Moving sucks.” He grinned.

Otto chuckled. “Yeah. I suspect I’ll agree with you soon. I haven’t moved in over twenty years.”

The morning light felt soft on his face as he left the diner and began the walk down to the Pirano building.

The streets weren’t deserted but he didn’t see that many people out and about. He shrugged it off for the moment. Perhaps there are other places besides the main line between the tram station and the dock. He pulled out his peeda and looked for the chandlery on the town map. He changed course slightly and angled over that way. It lay on the frontage road but east of the Pirano offices. In Cape Grace, most people moving in the middle of the work day wound up at the chandlery for one reason or another. He really wanted to see what the rest of the town thought before he faced Abby Hawkes or Larry Granger.

He suspected neither of them would want to hear what he thought about the matter.

His plans derailed as soon as he stepped onto the frontage road and Abby Hawkes hailed him from the sidewalk in front of the office building.

“Otto,” she said, waving a hand and striding in his direction.

He crossed the street to meet her on the corner. “Good morning, Abby.”

“There was another fight last night.”

“Yeah. I heard it from my window at the hostel.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the reports?” She grimaced. “Sorry, that’s pushing. You only got them yesterday afternoon.”

He shrugged. “I read them. You want to have this conversation here?” He glanced around.

She frowned. “You found something?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe. I can tell you what I found. You can decide what you want to do about it.”

“My office?” she asked, turning toward the office doors.

Otto stood his ground and looked out at the pier. “It’s a lovely morning. Let’s take a walk.”

She froze in place for a moment before nodding. “All right,” she said. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

Otto smiled and crossed the frontage road, strolling along the length of the empty pier. “Kinda peaceful out here with all the boats out.”

She nodded, but tension rolled off her like smoke from a bonfire. “You’re not going to be like Deering, are you?” Her question carried equal parts teasing and concern.

“I hope not. I’m here at the will of the company. If you—as the company rep—don’t want me here, just tell me to leave.” Otto looked over at her, wondering if she heard the message.

“I’m not known for mincing words,” she said.

He chuckled. “No, you’re not, but you’re well liked. Respected.”

They reached the end of the pier and Otto turned his face to the onshore breeze that came straight off the southern ocean, through the mouth of the harbor, and into his face. He pulled in a deep lungful of it. Cool and crisp. Refreshing and invigorating.

“You gonna spill it or do I have to push you in?” Abby asked.

“There aren’t as many fights as the reports might indicate,” he said. “At least, I don’t think so. I only have a couple of snapshots.”

“Of course, there are,” she said. “There was one last night. Five people involved at one of the pubs. One of the crewmen came in all bloody, for crying out loud. What do you mean there aren’t any more fights?”

“There are more arrests,” Otto said, turning his head to look into her eyes. “There aren’t more fights. The man injured last night was not injured until one of the officers tripped him. He fell face-first into the street while his hands were restrained behind his back.”

“That’s preposterous. How can you know that?”

“I was there. I watched it happen.”

She blinked. “What?”

“When I heard the noise, I went out. I’d just finished reviewing the records. I heard the commotion and went to see for myself.”

“Go on,” she said.

“Five people—three men, two women. Two officers had them in restraints and were herding them toward the station. They were met by two others who came to help.”

“Standard protocol,” she said.

“One of the men was pretty sloshed. He started to lose his balance, staggered, but after he’d regained his footing, one of the officers tripped him from behind. He fell on his face.”

“What else?” she asked.

“One of the women—I think they called her Jackie. She insisted she hadn’t been drinking. Demanded a sobriety test. Claimed that the whole encounter happened because the one drunk guy forced his attention on her and her friend. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Abby frowned and turned her face to the sea. “That’s not supposed to happen,” she said after a few moments.

“Did Jackie ever get her sobriety test?”

“I haven’t seen the report yet,” she said. “Only heard there was another fight. They were all fined and released to their crews this morning.”

“I found a detail in the reporting.”

“Which is?”

“The same two officers.”

“Not too surprising. They tend to work the same shifts.”

“Five on and two off?” Otto asked.

“Yes.”

“The first four, the last four. Same two officers. A gap of two days in each run of four.”

She turned to face him. “That’s pretty circumstantial.”

“Less if the two were on last night and involved in the fight.”

“Why would they do that?”

Otto shrugged. “Bored? Something to do?”

“They can’t like writing up the reports,” she said.

“Maybe they like being in off the street.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Most of the fights happened between 2130 and 2200. That’s a pretty narrow window but it leaves a couple of hours in the station to file the reports before they go off shift, doesn’t it?”

She looked back out to sea and shook her head. “I don’t know. I can find out.”

“You think Granger knows?” he asked.

She stayed quiet for so long, Otto looked to see if she’d heard him.

“I’d hate to think so,” she said.

“A suggestion?”

“I’d love one,” she said.

“Tell Granger to focus on something else. Not the fights. You and he and maybe a few officers are the only ones who seem to know about them. They don’t show up in the local newsies. The only word I’ve found is from crew members pissed at security for rousting them without cause.”

“What good will that do? If the officers are doing it now, why would they stop?”

“Because you’re going to look real hard at the next fight that shows up,” Otto said. “You’re going to run sobriety tests, interrogate the supposed fighters, and go talk to witnesses at the site.”

“And I’m going to look real hard at a pair of officers,” she said.

“I’d get some sleep. It’ll probably be a couple of late nights,” Otto said.

“What if it is fights?” she asked after a few moments.

“Put that pair of officers on desk duty for a week.”

“You’re assuming it’s the same pair,” she said.

Otto nodded. “I am. I may be wrong. If you bench them for a week and there are no fights?” He shrugged.

“Is this part of your shaman thing?” she asked.

Otto chuckled. “Not as such. No. I don’t sense anything. Hear anything. That’s what makes me suspicious.”

She frowned over at him. “You need to explain that.”

He shrugged. “The town has a calm, peaceful air. Everywhere I went yesterday and today. There doesn’t seem to be some seething core of resentment anywhere. No shadows. Nothing that would make me think there was some kind of feud brewing between crews or families.”

“Would you know?” she asked.

He shrugged again. “I’ve felt it before. No guarantee that I’m just not seeing it here. I can’t help think that if there were some kind of underlying cause for the violence, I’d get a sense of it.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” he said. “I’d expect that—unless you knew me better than you do—you’d probably think I was blowing smoke up your skirt and cashing in on my shaman mumbo-jumbo.” He grinned at her.

She chuckled. “All right.”

“Look at it this way. You ever have a single potato go bad in a bag?”

“Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“When you open the pantry, you can tell without seeing there’s a rotten potato. You can smell it.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I’m not smelling. No rotten potato in your pantry when you’d expect to find one.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You realize that sounds like so much crap.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Most of what I do sounds like crap. The other side of that coin is that I’ve been doing it a long time and—with a couple of exceptions—have had some success with it.”

She nodded. “All right. It’s something I can check without relying on mystical means.”

He nodded. “The question of Granger’s involvement is murkier.”

“You think he has something to do with it?”

“The pattern seemed clear to me. Right off the bat. The only officers in the eight cases I saw were all the same pair. I don’t know if there are others that I didn’t see. Some of the fights might be real and happen on nights when that pair isn’t on duty. He may just overlook it because those officers have most of the nights. Of course they’re going to bring in most of the people who get into trouble.”

“You’re overlooking something,” she said.

“I’d be crazy to think I wasn’t.” He grinned at her. “I’m just throwing spitballs out here.”

“They’re not the only officers on duty in the evening. Each shift has at least six. Day shift has ten.”

“That makes it even more remarkable that so many of these fights are coming in with these two officers.”

Abby sighed and looked out over the bay. “Well, that wasn’t what I expected when I asked you about the fights.”

“I may be wrong,” Otto said. “At least it’s something to look at.”

“More than that. You’ve given me some solid ideas about how to test the theory.” She shook her head. “If these idiots are screwing around like this, I’ll have their hides.”

“If it’s not them, blame me,” Otto said.

“Blame you? For the fights? You weren’t even here until yesterday.”

“No,” he said. “For the blow-back from security for suspecting the officers are behind it. That’s going to leave a political bruise that I can deal with better than you.”

CHAPTER NINE

Finwell Bay: May 12, 2352

Otto took a few minutes to wander through the chandlery. The familiar scents of cord and detergent mingled with the low murmur of shoppers. A few people wandered the aisles, particularly in the grocery section. Most nodded to him and smiled. A few ignored him. The place seemed well stocked, the polished concrete floors, clean. He made his way through the store to a counter in the back where an older man stood watching the store, wearing a bib apron emblazoned with a Pirano logo.

He smiled as Otto approached. “Morning. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m getting ready to move here. What kind of documentation do you need for me to open an account?”

“Got a company ID?”

Otto pulled it from his pocket and showed it to the man. “That do?”

The clerk looked at it. “You’re not an employee or a dependent?”

“Widower,” Otto said. “And a shaman.”

The clerk looked at him, eyes wide. “You taking over from that Deering character?”

“So it would seem. Yes.”

“You wanna set it up now? I can enter you into the system so when you’re getting settled, you’ll have one less thing to worry about.”

Otto went through the transaction with the clerk—a minor effort of keying his ID number, authorizing it with his banking code, and thanking the man for his assistance.

“You’re welcome,” the clerk said. “I’m Seymore. Seymore Wickham. I manage the place. You have a problem, lemme know, right?”

“Thank you, Mr. Wickham. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Just Seymore,” he said with a grin.

“Just Otto,” Otto said. “It’ll be a week or more before I get back. I still need to pack up my cottage and get the goods shipped.”

“You moving into the shaman shack on the other side of the point?”

“That’s my plan.”

He nodded. “Good to know. Can you do me a favor?”

“I can try. What is it?”

“Gimme a day’s lead time on delivery?”

“Of course,” Otto said.

“That Deering cuss used to just order and expect it in an hour. He’d order a hundred kilos of goods at a time and want it immediately. It’s a lot to ask of a runner if everything has to be man-handled up and over the point, right?”

Otto felt a pang of sympathy. “If I ever do that, please come out and hit me with a stick.” He grinned.

“If you can give me a day, I can schedule it with the harbor launch. Float it around the point and land it on the beach. Smooth hauling with a standard grav pallet. Easy, right?”

“Thank you for telling me. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. My current cottage has a fairly level path, so I never think of it.”

“Appreciate the consideration, Otto. Good luck with the move.”

Otto turned away from the counter, but Seymore offered one more bit of advice. “Oh, and tell them at the warehouse so they can move your furniture the same way, right?”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Seymore nodded and gave him a jaunty salute with two fingers.

Outside on the street, the sun began playing peekaboo around a few clouds that had appeared in the warming air. He felt at loose ends. He suspected Abby Hawkes and Larry Granger had their heads together. No more to do there; he’d done what he could. Granger wouldn’t be a fan if it turned out Otto was wrong about the two officers. Abby intrigued him. He’d worked so long with Ed Comstock and his laid-back, almost laissez-faire approach to management, he wondered how things would work with Abby.

He turned his face to the sun and pulled in a lungful of the salty air.

“Hey, mister.”

Otto looked down to see Sam Bagley looking up at him. “Good morning, Sam. What are you up to this morning?”

“Nothin’. Just wondered if you wanted to play or something.”

“I was just wondering what to do next, myself,” Otto said. “What did you have in mind?”

Sam shrugged. “Do you need to do any shaman stuff?”

Otto looked around, letting the world speak to him if it needed to. Listening to see if he heard it. “I don’t know,” Otto said. “The world seems peaceful this morning. You need to do any Sam Bagley stuff?”

The boy giggled. “Like what?”

Otto shrugged. “I don’t know. Your mother set you any chores? You supposed to be helping around the house? Running errands?”

Sam looked down. “Naw. Pop’s sleeping now. He’ll get up for lunch and go to work later.”

Otto measured the angle of the sun and nodded. “Noon’s not that far off. What do you like to do? When your father’s sleeping?”

Sam shrugged. “I just wander around town. See what’s going on.”

“Are there other kids you play with? Friends you hang out with?”

“They’re in school.”

“Should you be in school?” Otto asked.

Sam shook his head. “Nope. I don’t haveta go.”

“Really?”

Sam nodded. “I gradiated last year.”

“So, what? You’re eleven now?”

He nodded and grinned. “No more classes. No more books.”

Otto felt his eyebrows rise. “You ever read a book? A real book with paper?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Just the books we had on the desks. Do they still make books like that? Real books? I’ve seen pictures.”

“I’ve seen a few. Reference manuals, but not so much. No.” Otto looked around. “Where are your classmates? The kids you went to school with?”

He shrugged and looked down at the street. “They’re busy.”

“They’re all out on the boats, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Lucky. They get to go out fishing every day.”

“I know the feeling,” Otto said.

Sam blinked up at him, squinting against the bright sun. “You do?”

“Yeah. I wanted to be a fisherman when I was your age.”

“Why didn’t ya?”

“What? Become a fisherman?” Otto shrugged. “Turns out I was a shaman instead.”

“Couldn’t ya do both? Ya have to do shaman stuff when you should be fishing?”

Otto nodded. “Something like that. Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

Otto shrugged. “Walk the beach. Listen to the world. Carve whelkies. Try to help people when I can.”

Sam nodded and frowned, his brain working around the ideas. “What’s a whelkie?”

“It’s a little carving of an animal. Has a bit of whelk shell in it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the fulmar. He held it in the palm of his hand. “This is a whelkie.”

Sam’s eyes widened and his jaw fell. “Wow. That looks like one of the seagulls around here.”

Otto nodded. “It’s a western fulmar. They’re shaped different than other birds.”

“Did you carve it?” Sam asked, looking up at Otto.

Otto shook his head and closed his hand around the carving, tucking it back into his pocket. “No. Another shaman carved it.”

“But you carve them, right?”

“I do, but I don’t have any of mine here. They’re back at my old home.”

“If I walk on the beach and listen, could I be a shaman?” Sam asked.

Otto sighed. “It’s not impossible, but I’m a shaman because my father’s a shaman. That’s usually how it works.”

Sam scowled and looked out at the bay. “That’s not fair. Just cause my father works in the freezers?”

“Yeah. It’s not fair. It just is,” Otto said.

Sam sighed and nodded. “That’s what my father says all the time.”

“If you could do anything when you grow up, what would you do?” Otto asked.

Sam shrugged and scuffed one foot against the paving. “Gonna grow up and work in the freezer, I s’pose.”

“That what you want?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. People from school kept askin’ that all the time. What do ya wanna do? What do ya wanna do? Over and over.” He sighed. “Don’t matter what I wanna do. Gotta take a company job. They all look really boring.”

Otto swallowed a lump and blinked to deal with the sting in his eyes. He straightened up and looked out to sea, wishing he’d brought his staff with him. He’d had one forever and now it felt like part of his arm was missing. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths.

“You all right, Otto?” Sam asked.

Otto looked down at his upturned face. Only eleven. Already worried about his future. Already frustrated by the opportunities. “Yes, Sam. As all right as I can be.”

“You looked sad there for a second.”

Otto nodded. “I’m old. That happens when you get old.” He shrugged. “Who do you think has the most interesting job in town?”

Sam screwed up his lips and frowned, looking down the street. “Captain Lewis.”

“What makes his job so interesting?” Otto asked.

Sam shrugged. “He gets to run the boat. Go fishing. Seems interesting.”

“Ya know,” Otto said. “Fishing is mostly waiting around, right?”

“What do ya mean?” Sam frowned. “They get out there in the early morning. Spend all day, come back with buckets of fish. Where’d the fish come from?”

“You know how the nets work?”

“Well, sure. They showed us a video in school.”

“How do they work?”

“The boats go out to the fishing places and put the nets in the water, then they bring them back full of fish to fill up the boat.” He shrugged.

“How long do you think it takes to get out to the fishing places?” Otto asked.

Sam blinked, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Stan?”

“Probably two or three hours.”

“Each way?” Sam’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

Otto nodded. “You know how many times they put the nets out?”

“No. Must be a lot. They get so many fish.”

“Two, sometimes three times.”

Sam laughed. “That’s dumb. Must be more than that.”

Otto shrugged. “That’s how many. Then they come back in.”

“So what do they do out there for the rest of the time?” Sam asked.

“Wait.”

Sam blinked. “Wait?”

Otto nodded. “Wait. Think about what that day’s like. Get up when it’s dark. Get on the boat and ride for a while. Put the nets over. That takes, maybe ten, twenty ticks. Then wait for two or three hours to bring them up. They dump the fish on the deck, put the nets back in the water, and sort through the catch. That takes—maybe—another hour. Then they wait some more. Pull the net up, dump the fish and the skipper decides if there’s time for another catch or if they should come home.”

“And it takes them three hours to get back?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. However long it takes to get there? Same amount of time to get back.”

Sam folded his arms and stared out to sea. “That’s dumb.”

“It’s a long day, the work—when they’ve something to do—is hard. They earn every credit they make, but it’s a lot of hard work with a lot of waiting in between jobs.” Otto let that percolate through the kid’s head for a bit. “What’s your father do in the freezer?”

Sam shrugged. “Gets cold.”

“You ever ask what his day is like?”

“He works at night.” Sam gave him an exasperated look.

“You ever ask what he does at night?”

Sam shook his head. “Just works.”

“There’s work and there’s work, Sam. It’s one thing to say work, but it’s another to actually think about what people do when they’re at work. Are there a lot of puzzles to solve? Problems to fix? Machines to repair and keep in good shape? Places that have to be cleaned all the time? Do you have to deal with people? Or mostly machinery? Or maybe dead fish?” He grinned. “You know that’s what they do in the cutting plant, right? Deal with dead fish all day.”

“Eww,” Sam said. “How do they do it?”

“Just like anything else. You get good at it. You pay attention to your job. You have workers around you.” Otto shrugged. “It’s not a bad job.”

“What’s the worst job?” Sam asked.

Otto laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I think it depends on who you are. What you want. I wanted to be a fisherman when I was little. As I got older, I changed. I wanted different things. I found out being a fisherman was mostly sitting around waiting. I didn’t have a choice. I had to be a shaman.”

Sam frowned. “Somebody made you be a shaman? Can they do that?”

Otto rocked back on his heels, weighing his answer. “In a sense, yeah,” he said at last. “Somebody made me be a shaman. Or at least they made me take the first few steps down that path. Once I started, I grew into it, I think.”

“Who?” Sam asked. “Who made you be a shaman?”

Otto grinned. “My father. You never heard the rule? Son of the shaman is a shaman?”

Sam shook his head. “You make that up?”

“No. That saying’s been around as long as there’s been people on St. Cloud, I think.”

His eyes grew round and then his face crumpled into a grimace. “Well, that sucks.”

“It could have been worse,” Otto said. “I’ve grown into the job. The good news is that I’m my own boss. The bad news is that I’m my own boss.”

“How can that be both good and bad?”

“A question for the ages,” Otto said. “Since I’m my own boss, I have to answer to myself. If I cheat, I’m only cheating me. The good part is that I can take the credit for things I do.”

The boy’s frown deepened. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re not alone in that, Sam. Believe me.” He glanced at the sun once more. “What time are you expected for lunch, again?”

“Dad’ll get up around noon,” Sam said.

“You might want to head in that direction. It’ll be noon pretty quick.”

Sam squinted at the sun and shrugged. “Yeah. Probably.” He headed up the main drag. “See you around, Otto.”

“Take care, Sam. Ask your father what he does. See if he thinks it’s boring.”

Sam glanced back for a moment and then grinned. He nodded and then sprinted off.

“You have a new fan?”

Otto turned to see Abby coming from the Pirano building. “Sam Bagley. Apparently he’s the only one in his cohort whose parent isn’t a fisherman.”

“Cohorts are small,” Abby said. “His had only eight students. The current one will graduate five. Three are from fishing families.”

“And you’re short on deck hands,” Otto said.

“Yeah.” Abby shook her head. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Never would have expected this. When I was a teen, I couldn’t get on a boat. Too many kids. Not enough captains. Not enough hulls.”

“You got an answer?”

“Try to attract some new couples? Maybe see if there’s a village needs a place to offload people.” She shook her head. “Not sure where they’d come from or why they’d want to leave.”

“What happened to the natives?”

She shrugged. “Most of my cohort left town. Went to Woontana. Went to the Inlet. Some left the planet.”

“You stayed.”

She nodded and looked out at the bay. “I stayed. I can’t leave. This is my home. I’m lucky. Took some crap jobs in the beginning but worked up through the Pirano chain. Lotta people would think I’m crazy.”

“Lotta people are crazy,” Otto said. “I’m pretty sure you’re not one of them.”

She grinned at him. “Sweet talker.”

“You gonna tell me? Or you gonna make me ask?” Otto asked.

“Granger looked at the data. All the data. You’re right. A preponderance of the ‘fights’ have come in with either Lamb or Brock or both. The written reports look similar. All invoke drunkenness at some point. Resisting arrest. Failure to disperse. The majority come in around 9:30 or 10.” She shook her head. “Statistically, that’s damn near impossible.”

“What’s he going to do about it?”

“Stakeout,” she said. “All but five of the reports in the last year have come from one or two of the local pubs.”

“The two closest to the station?” Otto asked.

She nodded. “Granger and I are going to take some officers in civvies. Hang out in both of them where we’re not easily spotted. See what happens.” She eyed him for a moment. “Feel like joining us?”

“Haven’t I done enough damage?”

“How?”

“Undercutting your chief of security? He can’t be happy about this.”

She cleared her throat and looked down at her feet. “Yeah. About that.”

He waited for her to explain.

“That’s on me. Not him,” she said.

“How so? Seems like managing his crew would be his job.”

Abby sighed. “Yes. And that’s something I should have remembered.”

“What did you do?” Otto said. “Or what do you think you did?”

“Got too close to it. Insisted that he find out why all these fights were happening. Asked for reports about what he’s doing to keep people calmed down. Badgering the hell out of him to solve the problem that didn’t exist.”

“And he never found it, because it wasn’t there,” Otto said.

“And he couldn’t put that search down long enough to ask the questions he needed to ask because I was in his office every day. Sometimes twice.”

Otto shrugged. “Outside eyes.”

She nodded. “Thanks. You’ve already helped the town and you’re not even a resident yet.”

“I got an account at the chandlery,” Otto said with a grin. “I’m getting closer.”

“You want to pick out some furniture? We can have it moved over and set up while you’re packing up back in Cape Grace.” She paused. “That is, if you still want to come here.”

Otto nodded. “I do. I already feel better, just having gotten away for a while.”

“You want to talk about it? Maybe over lunch?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. I’m not ready for that yet.”

“A man who doesn’t want to talk about himself. Where’ve you been all my life?” She smiled at him. “Offer for lunch is still open. I’m buying.”

Otto felt the tug of the beach but Abby’s overtures struck chords he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“We can hit up stores after. Get you some basics for the cottage.” Her voice made a little sing-song out of it, a girlish affectation that made Otto laugh.

“All right. Lunch. Then stores.”

“And tonight?”

Otto shook his head. “You and Granger have fences to mend and neither of you needs me sticking my nose in the process.”

She sighed but nodded. “Fair enough. What do you like to eat?”

“Seafood,” he said, not even thinking about it. “I eat a lot of fish.”

She laughed. “You know,” she said. “I happen to know this little seafood place around the corner. The seafood is so fresh, you’d swear they caught it right out of the harbor.”

Otto chuckled. “And did they?”

“Yeah. They did.” She nodded down the street. “Come on. My sister runs the place. You like crab?”

“I do, as it happens.”

“Did you know Pirano never used to pay attention to crab as a marketable product? We only started gearing up for it here a couple of seasons ago. It’s really taken off.”

“Really?” Otto said. “I would never have guessed. What do you do for bait?”

She grinned. “We got one of the utility boats out of Woontana. Couple of the retired fishermen run a long-line just outside the harbor.”

“How many traps you got out there?” Otto looked out over the bay. “That’s a lot of water.”

“Last count, six hundred.”

“Six boats?” he asked.

She glanced at him, a narrowing squint. “You know crabbing.”

He shrugged. “Got in on the ground floor, so to speak. My mother did the initial work up on the hulls and traps. We built the first prototypes in a barn at Callum’s Cove.”

She stopped in her tracks. “No.”

He nodded. “I ran traps with her for a while before I got too shamany.”

“Can you, maybe, help us expand?”

“What do you mean? Six boats. That’s a lot of traps.”

“We’re selling it all. Every claw we can haul in. We could sell ten times more if we could catch it.”

“What’s the limiting factor?”

“Woontana won’t give us more traps.”

“Order them from the inlet.”

She blinked. “Aram’s Inlet?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. We expanded Cape Grace not long ago. Went from two to five boats and still can’t catch enough crabs to make a dent in them.” He looked at the harbor again. “It’s a fraction of this much water. They run traps outside the headlands, too.”

“Five boats? A hundred traps each?”

“Two of them only run fifty. Didn’t want to work that hard.”

She snorted. “Hobbyists?”

“Mostly. Only one boat runs a hundred traps. Long-line there gets enough bait they wind up only going out every other day. Don’t have enough to sell it back to the inlet, but more than enough for local consumption.”

“Sell bait?”

“Takes bait to catch crabs. Smaller villages don’t have enough crabbing to warrant running their own bait ops.”

She stared at him.

“What?” he asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“How soon can you get moved?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. It’ll take me half the week just to get back.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What if I fly you back to Starvey Bay?”

“You have a flitter?”

“No, but I’ve got a contractor flying in this weekend. Specialist to work on the freezers. Routine maintenance. The flitter can take you back.”

“That would be great.” Otto felt the weight of that return tram journey lifting off his shoulders, a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying. “That’s a long ride.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Come on. I owe you a hell of a lot more than lunch.” She struck off up the street, her long legs eating up the distance.

He chuckled and picked up his pace to keep up with her.

“Where did Flanagan find you, anyway?”

“Is that good?” he asked.

“I may have to upgrade him from ‘that damned asshole Flanagan’ to just ‘that damned Flanagan.’”

“To be fair, he probably sent you Deering, too.”

She grinned. “I’ll hold that over him until his dying day, but I should probably thank him for it, too.”

“I thought you hated Deering.”

“I did. Still do. Kid wasn’t ready for prime time. He was so horrible, people here are going to welcome you with open arms.”

Otto thought about that for a few heartbeats. “Thanks, I think.”

She laughed. “Sorry. That sounded better in my head.” She made the turn at the end of the block and walked to the next intersection. Stopping at the entry, she pulled the door open and held it for him. “Let’s get something to eat and you can tell me about crabbing.”

He laughed and looked at the sign over the door. Shaped like a stylized crab, it read “Katie’s Crab Shack.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“Something wrong?” Abby asked.

“No. Nothing.” He entered the restaurant. The inside was furnished with picnic-style tables covered in cheerful red and white plastic. A few of the tables had groups of people.

“Abby!” An older version of Abby—same bones, same cheeks, a few more wrinkles, a lot more gray hair—rushed from the back and enveloped her in a hug. “How you doing?”

“Hi, sis. Two for lunch?”

“For you? Always.” She looked past Abby. “Who’s this then?”

“Katie, this is Otto Krugg. He’s going to be our new shaman.” She grinned at Otto. “Otto? My ne’er-do-well crab-cooking sister.”

Katie’s eyebrows rolled almost to her hairline. “You’re a lot older than the last guy.”

“I get that a lot,” Otto said, grinning.

“Where is his majesty, anyway?” Katie asked, looking at Abby. “Haven’t seen him scowling in the windows for a few days.”

“He’s found a new position,” Abby said. “Left town a few days ago.”

“And you already found a replacement?”

Abby shrugged. “Things just worked out.”

Katie gave Otto an appraising glance and then turned the same look on Abby for a moment before shaking her head. “Come. Sit. Eat. You know what you want?”

“I’ll have my usual,” Abby said. She looked at Otto. “Crab cakes, slaw.”

Otto felt his stomach wake up and take notice. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Katie grinned. “How many? Three, four?”

“Three?” he asked.

Katie nodded. “I’ll start you with three. You can order more.” She pressed them onto a bench at one of the tables. “Tea?”

Abby nodded.

“Yes, please,” Otto said.

“How you take it, hon? Black? Milk? Sweet?”

“Black is good.”

She grinned and looked back and forth between them. “I’ll be right back.” She scurried off to the back while a couple of servers hustled place mats and napkin wrapped utensils in front of them. They both cast shy smiles at Abby and polite nods to Otto.

“Sorry about my sister,” Abby said. “She’s so shy and retiring. We’ve been trying to get her to come out of her shell for years.”

Otto laughed. “I like her. I take it the crab cakes are good?”

Abby nodded. “I’d eat here every day except I try to spread my business around.” She glanced down at the Pirano windbreaker. “I get in here once a week or so.”

Otto felt himself settle. The smell of cooking crabs wafting from the kitchen had his mouth watering.

One of the servers brought their tea and a small salad for each of them. “What kind of dressing would you like?” the server asked. “The raspberry cream is killer.”

“Sounds good,” Otto said, eyeing Abby’s. “That’s what you’ve got?”

Abby nodded. “They know what I like.” She kept glancing in his direction.

“What?” he asked. “You keep looking at me like there’s something stuck to my nose.”

She shook her head and lifted her mug of tea. “I was just marveling. It was just yesterday, wasn’t it? When you introduced me to young Mr. Bagley?”

He nodded and the server brought his dressing, sliding it across the table with a little grin at Abby. “Yeah. Seems longer.”

“Sorry I was so rude to you,” she said.

“Think nothing of it.” He drizzled a bit of the dressing across the fresh greens and dug in. Before he knew it, he’d hit the bottom of the plate. He gave Abby an embarrassed glance. “That was so good. You must think I’ve never had food before.”

She grinned and shook her head, nodding down at her own empty plate. “You don’t see anything left of mine, do you? Wait till you try the crab cakes.”

* * *

The flitter landed at Starvey Bay just after dark. “Here you are, Mr. Krugg. Safe and sound.” The pilot shut down the craft and helped Otto clamber out of the passenger compartment. “It’s a long flight, isn’t it?”

Otto nodded. “Not as long as the tram.”

The pilot laughed. “You took the tram? How long was it?”

“Here to Woontana was three days. Another half day to Finwell.” He arched his back, feeling the bones up and down his spine crackle into place. “I’ve still got a few hours on the tram to get back to Cape Grace.”

“Well, thanks for flying Pirano,” she said with a grin. “I appreciate the company.”

“That mechanic you dropped off? Is somebody going back to pick him up?”

“Oh, probably. You thinking of hitching a ride back?”

He nodded. “If I can get my act together.”

“Check with Dispatch. If there’s a seat open, you can have it. Company’s going to pay for the flight. You may as well use it.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“For whatever it’s worth, he said he’d be about a week. Keep your eyes open.”

“Thanks again,” he said and headed for the flitter terminal and a restroom. It had been a long flight. He was glad he’d only had the one cup of tea with breakfast.

CHAPTER TEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 13, 2352

Delacourt and her crew had turned the West Wind room into a command center. Angela counted seven displays lined up on tables along the far wall, each showing a different view. As she watched, the views all shifted.

Delacourt looked up from a desk near the front of the room and nodded to Angela. She leaned down to point out something to her colleague, another one that Angela hadn’t met.

The young woman nodded, cast a glance at Angela, then focused on the work on the table.

Delacourt’s crocodile smile did nothing to make Angela trust her, but she offered her own “Polite Professional Lip Curl” in response.

“Thank you for coming,” Delacourt said. “We’ve got just a few questions.”

Angela bit back a retort about the tersely worded summons that had drawn her. “Your work is important to us,” she said. “How can I help?”

“Let’s go someplace a little quieter, shall we?” Delacourt asked. Without waiting for a reply she sashayed out of the West Wind and into a smaller room across the hall that had been outfitted with a few easy chairs and a coffee table. “We might as well be comfortable.”

Angela felt her figurative hackles rise as Delacourt waved her into one of the chairs. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Delacourt?”

Delacourt settled into her chair and folded one ankle over the other, a prim duchess at audience. “We’ve discovered some oddities in our review.”

“I’m not surprised,” Angela said, deliberately sprawling, stopping just short of hooking a leg on the arm of her chair. “There are a lot of things I find odd about St. Cloud, myself.”

Delacourt barely blinked. “Yes, well, I’m sure. In this case we’ve discovered that Pirano Fisheries has failed to provide necessary support services to their workers.”

Angela felt her brain rattle a little in her head. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Combine contract calls out specific physical and psychological support for every worker and dependent on planet. Are you familiar with this?”

“Of course. What do you think we’re not doing?” Angela tried to imagine where this woman was going.

“While your medical infrastructure fulfills the physical, we can find no corresponding contributions to psychological and emotional needs of the workers.” Butter wouldn’t melt on Delacourt’s tongue. “Can you explain this?”

“I cannot,” Angela said, her mind turning the contract over and over, trying to figure out what the self-satisfied bitch might be getting at. “I’m not aware that we’ve neglected the workers in any way so it’s difficult for me to explain a situation that I don’t believe exists.”

“Your chart of accounts has no entry for psychological expenses. Can you explain that?”

“Not off hand, no. All of that was folded under medical on Umber. The rationale for that operation being that medical covered everything from birth to death in terms of the minds and bodies of our workers.”

“I see,” Delacourt said. “Then can you tell me how many psychologists you have working on planet? How many psychiatrists?”

“Not off the top of my head, no.” Angela shrugged. “I assume you’re about to tell me.”

“None,” Delacourt said.

The answer brought Angela upright in her seat. “None?”

“We haven’t discovered a single person on the planet listed on the company rolls whose duties even include social welfare, let alone the psychiatric specialties.”

“That has to be a mistake,” Angela said.

“I agree, Ms. Pirano. One I hope you’re going to take seriously and correct.” Delacourt unfolded herself from the chair, standing for a moment to look down her nose at Angela. “Failing to correct this ‘mistake’ would be grounds for denying a renewal on your lease.” She paused for a moment to smile. “Thank you for coming in this morning, Ms. Pirano.”

Angela watched her stride out of the room and across the hallway, stunned by the turn of events. She had to shake herself and stand up to get her brain in gear. She grabbed her peeda and flashed Tony to meet her in her office.

Somewhere, somebody had made a critical mistake. The icy finger running down her spine made her think that it wasn’t Delacourt who’d made it.

* * *

The look on Tony Spinelli’s face told the tale as he flopped into the chair across the desk from her. “Spill it,” Angela said.

“She’s right. Sort of.” He scowled at his peeda and shook his head. “We’ve got exactly five psychiatrists and three psychologists on planet.”

Angela felt her stomach drop. “Is there a ‘but’ hiding in there?”

“None of them are practicing,” Tony said. “Of the eight, five are serving in management roles in the villages. Of the other three, one’s a boat captain, one runs a pub, and the last one shears sheep in the north country.”

“How did this slip through?” she asked.

Tony shrugged. “Somebody dropped the ball somewhere. According to the archives we had one mental health practitioner for every three straight medical. As the Combine grew, we didn’t keep pace on any of this. She’s probably going to ding us on the doctor shortage as well.”

Angela sat back and let her gaze sweep the faded paint and scuffed flooring in the office. “Why didn’t Jimmy paint this place?”

Tony looked around, a bemused smile. “Never seemed important enough, I guess.”

“Why are we not drowning in mental health issues?” she asked, staring at a gouge in the flooring under the desk’s leg.

“I’d say the shamans are doing the heavy lifting on it,” Tony said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The autodocs can deal with issues founded in brain chemistry.” He shrugged. “They can’t help much with cognitive behavior.”

“Who do you talk to?” Angela asked, raising her gaze to Tony’s face.

He shook his head. “Used to be Jimmy. Now?” He shook his head again. “Might take a walk with Richard Krugg when he comes back from Deep Four.”

“Krugg?”

“Yeah. Shaman. He’s kind of adopted the Deep Sea project as his parish.” He offered her a sideways grin. “He’s an odd duck. You ever meet him?”

Angela shook her head. “I’ve heard of the shamans here. Haven’t met any.”

“I suspect we’ll find a reduced incidence in behavioral issues in villages with a shaman compared to those that lack them. I know it’s probably not the same as a trained social worker, but I know that a lot of the villages have open requisitions for a shaman.”

“So your thesis is that the shamans are doing the base-level social welfare support?”

“Yeah. Along with the bartenders, hair dressers, and company coordinators. I have no way to confirm or contradict that assumption.”

“The autodocs are adjusting the brain chemistry where needed but we’ve still got a hole I could sail a dragger through,” she said.

Tony nodded again. “It gets better.”

“Better?” she asked.

“Well, better is probably not the right word.”

“Spill it.”

“They’re not on payroll.”

“Who?”

“The shamans. They’re not on the company payroll. They have an exemption that’s in the contract. They don’t work for the company. They’re allowed to stay without being employed by us or married to somebody who is.”

“So, from Delacourt’s view? What’s that going to look like?” she asked.

Tony snorted. “Yeah. Not exactly a flattering picture.”

“They have any kind of training to be handling these kinds of issues?”

“Maybe. They’re under no obligation.”

Angela propped her elbows on the desk and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, resting there for a moment. “So we have non-employees on planet who practice social services to our workers. We don’t pay them. Since they’re not employees, we have no leverage to ensure they’re trained. The data would indicate that maybe—and I stress that word—maybe they’re effective in keeping people from serious crises, but we really don’t know because we have no actual data on the people doing it.”

“Nice summation,” Tony said. “You know they’re all men, right?”

Angela lifted her head to stare at him. “Who?”

“The shamans. The son of a shaman is a shaman.”

Angela felt a panicked chuckle bubbling up from her chest. “So it’s a hereditary title?”

“Mostly. Some men come into their title later in life, but yeah.”

“And we’re talking—literally—only the son? Only men?”

Tony nodded. “As long as they’re not employees, they can police their ranks however they want. There’s no requirement that they offer equal opportunity to everybody.”

Angela dropped her face back onto her hands. “She’s going to crucify us.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 13, 2352

Stella Marsenstone stared at Angela. “You need what?”

“I need to know what the CPJCT regs are on mental health professionals.”

Stella looked around the personnel office like she expected to see some kind of hidden camera peaking around a cabinet. “Can you narrow that down for me a little bit, Boss? There are a lot of regs about all kinds of medical professionals. What do you need to know?”

“How many do we need?”

“Regs?” Stella asked.

“Psychiatrists.” Angela swallowed a nervous laugh. “The auditors say we don’t have any.”

“Oh, that Delacourt woman and her henchmen?” Stella grimaced and took a slug from her mug of tea.

“That’s them.”

Stella nodded, her henna-colored perm bouncing around her ears. “We have some. Most of them are in the database under medical professionals. We don’t differentiate among the various schools for hiring, but we know who’s the OB-GYN and who’s the dentist.”

“Can you find them?”

“Oh, sure. Autodoc can only go so far and then you need somebody who knows which end to look in, if you know what I mean. Lemme dig a little and get back to you this afternoon?”

“Thanks, Stella.”

Angela left the personnel office and headed down the short corridor to her own. She stopped at finance and stuck her head in. Tony had a flock of clerks fluttering around backed by a low-key clacking of keyboards. He looked up at her and grinned. “Something we can do for you?”

“Gotta minute?” she asked.

He nodded, passed a final comment to the young man at the keys, and crossed to her. “Delacourt?” he asked.

“No.” She nodded for him to follow her out into the hallway.

His eyebrows rose a little but he came along without comment.

“Why does this place look so run-down?” she asked, leaning against the wall and folding her arms across her chest.

“What place?” Tony asked. “St. Cloud?”

A little laugh escaped but she shook her head and pointed at the flooring. “The office.”

Tony blinked a few times, his head turning this way and that. “Which office? Your office?”

“When was the last time this corridor got a coat of paint?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Been a while. Why? Is there a problem?”

“Let’s call it a maintenance issue.”

“I’m not following,” he said.

“We’re standing in the world headquarters of Pirano Fisheries,” Angela said.

“Yeah, and ...?”

“And I’ve seen fish plants that looked better than this.”

“Well, sure.” Tony shook his head. “I’m still not following.”

“What kind of message do we send when people come to visit the office?” Angela asked.

Tony’s mouth opened in a silent “oh” and his eyes narrowed just a touch as he surveyed the hallway again. “Well, it’s clean. The floors are polished, if a bit scuffed. People aren’t sitting around their offices. We’re up and about. Like we are now, having a meeting in the hallway about things of importance.” He paused and looked at the wall. “Paint’s a bit faded but anybody who’s going to draw a conclusion from a bit of faded paint may not be somebody we want to do business with. Employees all know we spend our money where it matters. On the boats. On the people. On the facilities that handle our products.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. What message do you get?” A smile teased his mouth but never broke out.

“What did Delacourt see?” Angela asked.

Tony took up a piece of wall across from her and crossed his arms in a mirrored pose. “Well, that’s a good question. It’s hard to tell if she saw a shabby office building on a backwater planet or the result of a thoughtful tactical application of assets. Given her propensity for finding the worst in everything, I’m going to bet that this could be a palace with hot and cold running butlers and she’d still see a shabby office building on a backwater planet.”

“And we confirmed her assumption,” Angela said.

Tony shrugged. “She’s right. It is a rather shabby office building. St. Cloud isn’t exactly a stellar example of cultural excellence.”

Angela nodded. “Fair, but tell me. Did you put on a fresh shirt this morning?”

He frowned and looked down at his chest. “Of course.”

“Clean pants? Socks?”

“Yeah. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair, too.” He frowned at her, his head tilting a little off center.

“Why?”

He grinned. “Way I was raised, I guess.”

“Yeah. So you can put your best foot forward, right?”

“Something like that, I suppose,” he said.

“But you don’t see anybody new hardly ever, do you?” she asked.

“Not regularly, no. I’m pretty well known after all this time.”

“So you don’t need to impress anybody. They all know you.”

“You’re going somewhere with this,” he said.

“I am,” she said. “This hallway is dingy. The paint’s faded. That light up there is so dusty, it’s probably cutting out half the lumens. It’s enough to see by, but we’re heating dust. Why? Because we’re running so close to the bone that we can’t afford a fresh coat of paint every decade or so? That we can’t afford to pay somebody to take those few extra steps? We don’t have anything we can hang on the walls besides safety posters from half a century ago?” She paused. “Feed the people.”

Tony rocked his head back and bumped the wall with it. “Haven’t heard that in a while. It’s so ingrained we don’t think of it.”

“Who’s in charge of this facility?” she asked.

“George Williams,” he said. “His office is right at the foot of the stairs in the basement.”

“Are we actually running so close to the bone that we can’t afford to do a little paint and polish?” Angela asked.

Tony shook his head. “You’ve seen the numbers. We’ve got some discretionary lines we can use without breaking the bank.” He paused and looked at her. “You’re not planning anything extensive?”

She shook her head. “Paint. Some art.” She looked down. “I’d like to update this flooring and get the window fixed in my office.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. Gimme a budget and I’ll make sure the funds are there to cover it.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

He started back to the finance department but stopped at the door. “It’s not going to matter to Delacourt, you know.”

Another laugh bubbled up. “Yeah. I know. It matters to me. Feed the people doesn’t mean starve yourself.”

Tony nodded. “Best foot forward.”

She nodded back. “A fresh shirt now and again.”

* * *

Angela found Williams’s office just where Tony said it would be. She flipped a wall switch and the overhead flickered on. An empty desk with its fine layer of dust lurked in the dimness, a skeletal chair behind it. A placard with his name stood on the front left corner, a tombstone with the only epitaph reading “Maintenance Engineer.”

“Mr. Williams?” Angela asked, her voice loud enough to echo from the far end of the darkened basement. She stood, waiting, listening to the dark, hearing only the footsteps and low voices from the rooms above. Feeling the itch of frustration building in the back of her brain, she clicked the light off and started up the stairs.

A sound caught her attention just before she reached the second floor landing. A deep humming sound with a thrumming hiss under it. She climbed to the next landing and the sound got louder. She pushed through the door and there found a man with a floor buffer working his way along the corridor, his back to her.

She walked toward him, opening her mouth to speak just as his head snapped to look at her. He jumped, releasing the handle so the buffer spun down and the low humming stopped.

“Damn! Don’t sneak up on a man.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Like to give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Angela said, a wash of concern flooding through her. “I’m really sorry. Are you all right?”

He blew out a breath and nodded. “Just never expected to see anybody up here.”

“I’m looking for Mr. Williams? The maintenance engineer?”

He nodded and thrust his hands into the pockets of his green coverall. “Found him.”

“I’ve got a request, if you’ve got a moment.”

He nodded. “I’m listening.”

“I want to spruce up the office building.”

He pulled a rag out of his pocket and mopped his face. “Spruce up how?”

“Nothing major. Paint, mostly. There’s a cracked window in my office that I’d like repaired.”

“Get it cleared through channels and I’ll get it on the schedule. Anything else?” He turned back to his buffing machine without waiting for her response.

“Yes, actually.”

He looked over at her. “Yeah?”

“Why are you buffing this floor?”

“It’s on the schedule. I always do the floors up here on Wednesday.” He shrugged.

“What day do you do the other floors?”

“Oh, that’s harder. Have to do it on the weekends because somebody’s always usin’ them during the week.”

“Which day?”

He sighed and scratched his cheek. “Well, generally the first Saturday but sometimes the second. Depends on the month.”

Angela felt her brain bouncing around in her skull. “Just so I’ve got this right. You do this floor every Wednesday, but the first and second floors where people actually work only once a month.”

He grinned at her. “Got it first on the first try.” He pointed at the buffer. “I’d like to get this done before dinner, if that’s all right with you?”

“Why don’t you do the other floors every Saturday?” she asked, feeling the heat rising up the back of her neck.

He grimaced. “Well, there’s a cap on the number of hours I can work a month. There’s no time in the budget. Why? Something wrong down there?”

“Who do you report to, Mr. Williams?”

“What do you mean? Report to?”

“Who’s your supervisor?”

Williams shook his head. “Dunno. I just turn in my time card at Personnel and my pay gets deposited in the bank.”

“Who signs your time card?”

“Nobody as far as I know, why?” Williams’s brows grew together above his nose. “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m Angela Pirano.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Jimmy got married? I didn’t think he was even dating.”

“No, Mr. Williams. I’m Jimmy’s older sister.”

“Huh.” He turned back to the buffer. “Well, nice to meet ya, Ms. Pirano, but I got work to finish.” He fired up the buffer and keyed the dual triggers to start the heavy machine humming again.

Angela watched for a few moments before retracing her steps down the lower floor. She wondered if the man was just pulling her leg or if he really was a few sardines shy of a school.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Aram’s Inlet: May 14, 2352

Stella looked up from her display when Angela entered the office. “Oh, good. You’re back. I’ve got some good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad news,” Angela said. “I’m apparently being masochistic today.”

Stella gave a single laugh. “We don’t have enough psych people.”

“What’s the good news?”

“We’ve got almost half the social welfare people we need already.”

“Better than I thought,” Angela said. “Now I’ve got another question.”

“Let’s finish up the bad news,” Stella said. “We need to hire at least a hundred more psychiatrists and probably that many psychologists as well.”

Angela’s brain stuttered. “What?”

“We’ve got about forty-five million residents. It breaks down to ten thousand people per village. A lot of them are really small. Barely a thousand. The top ten settlements account for about twenty-five percent of the population.”

Angela grabbed a chair and sank into it. “How many?”

“People or settlements?” Stella asked.

“Forty-five million?” Angela asked.

“Give or take. There are about forty-five hundred settlements scattered across the planet. Ours and Allied Ag’s. Each one needs at least one social worker, and it goes up from there depending on population size. If I’ve done the math right, we need around eight thousand social workers and about four hundred psych types. We only have half that many now.”

“Tony said we only had eight,” Angela said.

“Tony’s wrong.” Stella shrugged.

“How many social workers do we have employed?” Angela asked.

Stella frowned. “None. There’s people doing the job but we don’t pay any of them.”

“The shamans?” Angela asked.

“The shamans. They do all that kind of social worker stuff.”

“Tony mentioned them. They’re not on payroll.”

“Correct,” Stella said. “They’re not on payroll. They’re just doing the job. Comes with the title. Always has.” She shrugged. “We’re going to need to augment them because we don’t have enough, but the latest data from Jack Flanagan is about four thousand. We’re short by half.”

“That’s the good news?” Angela asked.

Stella shrugged again. “Well, it was better news than having to hire two hundred licensed psych people.”

“The shamans don’t need to be licensed?” Angela asked.

“Not according to our charter. They only need to be the designated front-line social welfare troops. The examples from the documentation include religious leaders, local community activists, and the like.”

“So, the shamans are religious leaders?”

“As good a name as any, isn’t it?” Stella asked.

Angela thought about that for several long moments. “I suppose.”

“We’ve got a history with them,” Stella said. “They’ve been here from the beginning. The community reps all look to them to handle morale and as the early warning system for social welfare problems.”

“Will Delacourt accept them as social workers?” Angela asked.

Stella shrugged. “I can’t see any reason in the regs why she wouldn’t.”

Angela shook her head. “This is a CPJCT auditor. I’d be willing to bet she’s got regs we’ve never heard of.”

Stella laughed. “Hard to hold us to a regulation that hasn’t been published to us.”

“I hope you’re right.” Angela started for the door before she remembered why she’d stopped in the first place. “George Williams?”

“Building maintenance?” Stella asked. “What about him?”

“Who’s he report to?”

“Facilities management. They’ve got a big garage and warehouse over by the tram station.”

“That’s where. Who’s in charge?”

“Nancy Markham. You haven’t met her yet?”

Angela shook her head.

“You’re in for a treat.”

The grin that Stella bestowed upon her made Angela wonder exactly what kind of treat it would be.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cape Grace: May 16, 2352

Otto stepped into the cottage and stood for a few moments. He scanned the familiar furnishings, the little things that had always seemed to be there. He looked at it as if seeing it with a stranger’s eyes. It already felt like somebody else’s house.

He dropped his valise on the end of the couch and hung his coat on the peg beside the door. It looked out of place. He felt the tiredness of the long trip in his bones; even taking a night in the hostel at Starvey Bay hadn’t refreshed him. He’d thought getting into his cottage again would restore his balance. Instead he couldn’t see it as home. Even the empty stone doppelgänger in Finwell Bay had felt more like home. The pull of it, palpable.

Shaking his head, he went to the stove and filled the kettle. A cup of tea wouldn’t make things right, but it would help. Perhaps a walk on the beach would set him right. Later. After some tea.

The kettle started to whistle just as somebody knocked on the door.

He added another pinch of tea to the pot and pulled the kettle off the burner, filling the pot before answering the door. Ed Comstock grinned at him from the door step. “I heard you were back in town.”

“You’ve got good ears. I just walked through the door a few ticks ago.”

“I know. I was following you out of town.”

Otto laughed. “Come in. I just put the tea on.”

Comstock came in and stripped off his blue Pirano windbreaker, hanging it on the peg. “You made friends fast.”

Otto checked the timer and pulled some mugs from the cupboard. “Why do you say that?”

“Got a query from my counterpart in Finwell Bay along with one from their security chief.” He took a chair at the table. “What do you think?”

“When I left, they seemed happy with me. Did you set them right?” He grinned.

“No, I lied. Told them what a great guy you are and how sorry I was to see you move on.” Comstock grinned back.

The tea timer dinged. Otto busied himself with the mundane, wondering if the cottage he’d called home for so long would feel strange from now on. He poured tea and took the mugs to the table.

“So you’re going,” Comstock said. “When?”

“If I can get packed in time, I may be able to hitch a ride with a flitter going back from Starvey Bay in a week.”

Ed looked around the kitchen. “Can you? Get packed up that quickly? How you gonna get your stuff down there?”

“I’ll ship some of it.”

“Company will pay for whatever you want shipped. I can find a mover to haul it to the freight terminal for you.”

“You that anxious to be rid of me?”

Comstock chuckled and sipped his tea. “No. I’m sorry to see you go. You and that damned staff of yours have been a constant in this village for decades. You’re going to be missed by a lot of people.”

Otto didn’t know what to say to that. He ducked his head and sipped his tea.

“So? Tell me about it. What’s Finwell Bay like?”

“Big. Well, bigger than here. The harbor alone would swallow Cape Grace, town and all. They’ve got an odd generational problem. No new crew coming up. The residents have aged out of child-bearing for the most part. Abby said she’s got a few people she could move up to skipper but doesn’t have enough people to crew new hulls and replace the deck hands moving around.”

Comstock’s eyes widened. “What happened? We’re up to our armpits in crew without boats and no skippers.”

“I don’t know. It’s an odd dynamic. The town has probably twice as many people as here. The school graduated fewer than ten students last term. I don’t think they have more than forty students. Total.”

“Seniors blocked the next generation, I bet. Those cohorts left town for fresher pastures.” Comstock took a swig of tea. “The new stations out at the mid-ocean ridge took a ton of manpower. Fast promotions because they can get deck time year round. Good pay because they’re killing it with the landings.”

Otto tried to do the math in his head but he kept being distracted by what he needed to do to get packed. “The timing would probably be right,” he said. “They siphoned off a whole generation that felt blocked off.”

Comstock nodded. “That’s going to be a tough problem to fix. They’ll probably lose more people unless they’re careful.”

“I was thinking about that on the flight back from Starvey Bay. I think they can solve a few problems with one swat by actively recruiting from the small and mid-sized villages.”

“Bumper crops of fresh crews and not enough room for expansion?” Comstock asked.

“Yeah.” Otto let the idea rummage around in his head for a while. “Cape Grace is stable. Can’t really expand because the neighboring villages hem us in. Finwell doesn’t have that problem. They’ve got a ton of boats but they’ve got an almost untapped fishery straight offshore. Neighbors can’t reach it. The crabbing potential there is huge. I suspect there are a lot more places like Cape Grace than Finwell. If they could get some of those younger people to move to Finwell, they’d solve the population distribution problem in a few years.”

Comstock grinned into his tea.

“What?” Otto asked.

“Oh, nothing.” He looked up, still grinning.

Otto tilted his head and grinned back. “All right. Yeah. I’m excited.”

Comstock laughed. “I haven’t seen you this animated since … ever.” He leaned forward, a more serious shift in his tone. “How do you feel about leaving this place? It’s been your home for almost thirty years, hasn’t it?”

“What? Cape Grace?”

Comstock shrugged. “I was thinking more about the cottage. The beach.” He paused. “The memories?”

Otto took a deep breath and let it out, staring at his tea. His mind roiled with images and feelings, all moving so fast he couldn’t even identify them before they’d been replaced with others. He blinked back a sudden stinging in his eyes and hid behind a sip of tea. “I suspect this is going to be harder than I imagine,” he said at last, looking across the table. “But weren’t you the one who told me I needed to leave?”

Comstock shrugged. “Probably. I suspect Flanagan had some words with you about that, too, didn’t he?”

“A few.” He took a deeper swig of tea and let it wash down his throat. “Has he got a replacement for me yet?”

“If he does, he hasn’t said anything about it. I think he’s waiting to see if you’ll take Finwell Bay.”

Otto chuckled. “Oh, he knows I’m going to take it. He pulled the last shaman out of there three days before I arrived.”

“Three days? You were on the tram out there then, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s a hell of a long tram ride.” Otto shrugged. “Gave me time to think.”

“What’d you think about?”

Otto shrugged. “How much of the South Coast I haven’t seen. All the things I didn’t do because I was holding the past in both fists, afraid to let it go and be left with nothing.”

Comstock blinked. “So, just sitting around reading trashy novels and eating cookies?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Otto said, feeling cheered by Comstock’s banter.

“What are you going to do with all the whelkies?”

Otto shrugged, his mind snagging on a thorn. “Mine, I’ll take with me. They don’t take up much room.”

“What about Sarah’s?”

The sudden lump in his throat made Otto reach for his tea again. Only a small slurp remained in the mug. He blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask Flanagan.”

“You can’t leave them,” Comstock said.

Otto shrugged. “I could. Put them in a box. Leave them for the next guy. See if any of them find homes.”

“What if he burns them?”

“I could leave them with you.”

Comstock laughed and shook his head. “I’m not in the shaman business.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Otto said.

Comstock drained his mug and put it back on the table with a firm snap. “Well, I’ve got a village to oversee, I suppose. You got some packing to do.” He looked across the table at Otto. “You need anything? Ask. I mean it. I hate to see you go, but you’ve done so much for us since you’ve been here. I haven’t forgotten.”

Otto nodded. “I’ll let you know.”

Comstock stood, glancing around as he shrugged into his windbreaker. “You think you’ll be out of here in a week?”

“The furniture will all stay. You’ll be able to put most of it back in stores if the new guy doesn’t want it. Sarah’s stuff is gone. Carla’s stuff is gone. I can’t take the work bench. It’s built in.”

“What’s the cottage look like in Finwell?”

“It’s a clone of the one I grew up in at Callum’s Cove. Literally. Same floor plan. Roughly the same size, I think. Shop is an outbuilding.”

Comstock paused, one hand on the door knob. “How’d that feel?”

“Weird,” Otto said with a chuckle. “I liked it, but it felt really weird.”

“If you see Flanagan, tell him I’d like to talk to him,” Comstock said.

“You’ll see him before I do, I expect. If I know Jack, he already knows I’m heading west as soon as I can get there.” Otto grinned. “He’s going to have a new shaman in this cottage before the dust has settled.”

Comstock laughed. “Probably so.” He shrugged. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thanks, Ed.”

Comstock let himself out, leaving Otto sitting at the kitchen table doing a mental inventory of what he wanted to take and what he needed to leave.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 17, 2352

Tony sashayed into Angela’s office, paper cups from the Beanery in his hands and a scowl on his face. He held a cup out to Angela and planted himself in one of the guest chairs across from her.

“What news of the war?” Angela asked. “Something the matter?”

“Delacourt.” He spat the name onto the floor. “You talked to Stella?”

“Not recently. I had her going over the psych problems. She seemed to think we’re in good shape.”

“We’re short,” Tony said.

“Yeah. I knew that. She was putting together the paperwork to hire more.”

Tony shook his head. “The numbers are huge. We need a few hundred psych people. Between the psychiatrists and the psychologists, I don’t know if there are that many spares in the whole Western Annex.”

“Can we hire the graduating class of some university?”

“We’d need to hire several classes’ worth.” Tony took a delicate sip from his cup. “We can make some inquiries. I’m sure the CPJCT keeps a record. I don’t think any one school would have enough to fill the hole in our support staff.”

“We have a few years to recruit them. What are they going to do, take our lease away?”

Tony shrugged and took another sip.

Angela sighed. His lack of answer didn’t exactly fill her with confidence.

“Did you find Williams?” he asked.

“I did,” Angela said. “He’s a bit of a character, isn’t he?”

Tony snorted. “Any success in getting him off the third floor?”

“You knew?” she asked.

“I think everybody does.”

“Then why did you send me to the basement?”

Tony grinned. “Hazing the new boss. His office is there.”

“There’s a layer of dust on his desk. If I hadn’t heard the buffer, I’d still be looking.”

“I had faith in you,” Tony said, sipping his coffee.

“Why do we keep him? Polishing the floor upstairs isn’t where we need the work.”

“Other than his fetish with the floor buffer, he does a decent job.” Tony took another sip. “He does get the floors down here. Eventually.”

“He said he can’t do it while people are walking in and out,” she said.

“That’s probably true. The newly polished floor shows every footprint. For Evans? That’s a serious problem.”

“There’s a crack in my window.” Angela pointed to the offending pane.

“Jimmy did it. He was being stupid,” Tony said. “Ten stanyers ago, I think.”

“Why isn’t it fixed?”

“Jimmy left it to remind himself not to be stupid.”

Angela sighed and shook her head. “I’ve been here, what? A month?”

Tony’s gaze turned toward the ceiling for a moment. “Something like that.”

“It feels like I’m still trying to find my way around and I’m floundering through every day.”

“To be fair, the plague of locusts descended shortly after you arrived and we’ve been dancing to the tune that Delacourt’s been piping.”

The sound of tapping heels preceded Delacourt’s appearance by a few moments. “Did I hear my name?”

Angela took one look at the satisfied smirk on the woman’s face and placed her coffee cup on the desk to keep from throwing it.

“We’re just wondering how the audit is going,” Tony said, rising and turning to face her.

“Well, the audit is turning up a lot of interesting data points,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Come in. Have a seat. Fill us in,” Angela said, trying for a cordial welcome but having to be satisfied with not gritting her teeth.

“I can only stay a moment. The rest of the team is wrapping up over at the hotel. We’ll be on the next tram back to Starvey Bay. We’ll send you the preliminary report before we leave the system.”

“Good news, I hope?” Tony said.

“Well, the good news is that you’ve got ten stanyers to bring the planet up to CPJCT standards. I have no idea what the Contracts Committee will do with the report, but the health and welfare of your workers leaves a great deal to be desired. You can read all about in the report.”

“Is this about the psych practitioners?” Angela asked.

“In part. I understand you rely on unpaid personnel to handle the first-line social work?”

“The shamans,” Tony said.

“Yes,” Delacourt said. “Quaint. Might be useful as a tourist attraction. You might consider that. The planet is quite lovely.” Her wrist alarm chimed. “That’s my ride. Thank you for a wonderful time. Perhaps we’ll meet again on some other world.” She flickered her fingers in a child-like wave before leaving the office, the measured tap of her heels on the floor fading into the distance.

“Did she come down here just to be a bitch?” Angela asked.

Tony settled back into his chair, taking a sip of coffee before answering. “No, I think she just wanted to see the face of her enemy one last time before delivering the coup de grace.”

Angela felt her jaw unhinge. “What?”

“She’s recommending that the lease be terminated rather than renewed. It’ll be in the preliminary report.”

Angela blew out a breath in one long stream. “That explains the smirk. Why didn’t she deliver it in person?”

“They’re still putting their boats in a fleet,” Tony said. “But that’s where she’s going.”

“How do you know this?”

“Remember Olson?”

She nodded.

“Olson really liked the beer at Grace’s. We’ve shared many a pint over the last few days. He’s about ready to shove Delacourt out an airlock. She’s the kind of boss who avoids currying favor with her underlings. Sees it as weakness.”

“He tipped you off?”

Tony nodded. “Last night. I didn’t know they were leaving today. I don’t think Olson knew, to be honest.”

“What’s her grounds for cancellation?”

“Slavery,” Tony said. His face sagged a bit, causing his usual jovial expression to drip from his chin. “She’s charging the company with slavery.”

Angela heard the words but couldn’t parse the meaning. “Slavery? Who are we supposed to have enslaved?”

“Her definition,” Tony said, staring at his coffee cup as if it were the first one he’d ever seen in his life. “Unpaid workers at the mercy of the company. Slaves.”

The credit registered. “The shamans,” she said.

Tony looked over at her and nodded. “The shamans. They all have to be released to CPJCT authority to ascertain their well-being and emotional state.”

“When?”

“I didn’t get that much. Olson was into his fourth pint and madder than a wet cat over it.”

“Soon?”

“Well, presumably before the end of the current lease, but we might expect to hear from some TIC people about the slavery charge.”

“You know this?” she asked.

He shook his head. “CPJCT isn’t stupid. At least not as a group. It’s the logical course.”

“So they’ll send a team down to find out where we lock up our slaves?”

Tony grinned, enough spunk left in him to light up his eyes. “Well, if they send down a local team, I’m pretty sure they know who and what the shamans are here.”

“What if they import a team to make sure there’s no cover-up in their ranks?” Angela asked.

“It’ll depend on who they send and how much leeway they have.”

“You’re not making me feel any better about this,” she said.

“Look at the bright side. That cracked window doesn’t seem that important anymore, does it?”

She glanced at the offending pane and had a quiet laugh, almost to herself. “There is that.”

“They’ll be on the afternoon shuttle up to the orbital. Olson said the final draft is still being tweaked, so it’ll be a couple of days yet before we see it. She’ll make us stew for at least that long.”

“The last thing she wants is to hear an appeal.”

Tony nodded. “That’s what Olson said, too. She’ll be off planet and on her way to the Burleson limit before we see anything.”

“Coward,” Angela said. “Tossing a rock and running?”

“Bully. She had to come in and gloat. She knows something you don’t know and wanted to lord it over you for a bit. I’m surprised she didn’t stay longer,” he said.

“Charming,” Angela said and focused on the coffee. It was still hot enough to burn her tongue, but she took sips and wondered if the report would be as bad as she feared.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cape Grace: May 20, 2352

Otto surveyed the cottage from the middle of the denuded living room. A pile of shipping boxes stood stacked beside the door. Given how long he’d lived there, he felt a bit of surprise at how few there were. Granted, many of the things in the cottage belonged to the company and would stay. He’d packed his favorite mugs and the tea pot his mother had given them as a wedding gift, but almost all the glassware, utensils, and cooking gear belonged to Pirano and would go back to stores. He’d pull what he needed from Finwell stocks when he got there.

Five of the boxes held his clothing. Several bundles of clothes that didn’t fit—or didn’t suit—him had already gone to the local donation center. Some of it was usable. The rest would be recycled. One box held his whelkies along with the spare knives and his favorite sharpening stones. One held Sarah’s carvings. He’d found her knives—the one he knew about and another, cheaply made one that he hadn’t. He kept both of them and packed them with his own tools. He’d kept a few mementos of his time in Cape Grace: their wedding rings, which had been in a box in his dresser for two decades; a few bright beach pebbles that Sarah had squirreled away; a clam shell that Carla had picked up on their first walk down Five Mile Beach. His digital images all traveled virtually. He’d given his display frames an extra layer of padding when he’d packed them. They weren’t expensive or large, but they were his and he’d enjoy seeing them in the new place.

He took a quick tour. Sarah’s room stood empty except for the big pieces of furniture that would stay. The bathroom gleamed, only a few toiletries in the cabinet. The shop stood empty except for the bucket of kindling and a small pile of firewood. He’d cleaned out the stove and taken out the ashes. The broom and dustpan hung in their clips. Nothing remained in the living room beyond the shipping crates and the big pieces of furniture. The kitchen held nothing but another day’s worth of food and the Pirano cooking gear. His bedroom held his two valises—the old one and a new one that he’d purchased for his overflow clothing. He’d need more than one bag’s worth of clothing to take to Finwell while he waited for the shipment to make its way from here to there. Carla’s picture hung over the dresser. He didn’t know what to do with it. He’d taken it from Sarah’s room when she left home. He considered it for a few moments, still unable to throw it away and unsure about taking it with him.

He nodded his satisfaction and checked the chrono. If the tide had been better, he’d have taken a walk on the beach, just to listen. He still had two days before the flitter left. He’d checked in and asked for the seat. He’d need to go to Starvey Bay the night before but found himself at loose ends. The five days of frenetic effort had burned through him, leaving him drained.

He pulled his jacket off the peg, slipping into it and clapping his hat on his head as he stepped out into the afternoon breeze. High tide blocked the beach but he could get some fresh air. He picked up his stick and headed for town, the shells tinkling as he went. He nearly ran into Flanagan when he stepped around the corner of the cottage.

“You look like a man on a mission,” Flanagan said.

Otto laughed. “Man at loose ends, to be fair.”

“I figured you’d be pulling your hair out trying to get packed up and out of here.”

“Pretty much done. Shippers will pick everything up tomorrow morning. I’m taking the tram to Starvey Bay tomorrow afternoon. Catching a ride on a company flitter heading west the next morning.”

“What’d you do with Sarah’s whelkies?”

“Packed them. Couldn’t leave them. Didn’t know what else to do with them.”

Flanagan nodded and looked out to sea. “I might be able to find them a home.”

Otto stared at him for a long moment. “A home? You?”

Flanagan squinted at him. “You know Monty Montgomery? Shaman at Troy Harbor?”

“Sounds familiar, but what’s that got to do with Sarah’s whelkies?”

“Company won’t recognize women. Don’t mean there aren’t women shamans.” Flanagan shrugged. “You know that better’n anybody, I think.”

The familiar anger and frustration bloomed in his chest. “Yeah. Safe to say.”

“Sarah’s not the only woman carving. A lot of whelkies sitting in boxes around the South Coast. A lot of women who needed help and support.” He shrugged and looked out to sea again. “Sarah had you. Lotta women had nothing. Scraping by just to stay on planet.”

“What’s that got to do with Montgomery?”

“He collects their carvings and takes them up to the orbital. Sells them. Nominal price. Collectors siphoned them up. Spacers take them all over the Western Annex. Monty brings the credits back and distributes them to the carvers.”

“He sells them?” Otto didn’t know if he should be shocked and appalled or admire the man for his support for the women shamans.

“Why not? Nobody on planet would value them as whelkies.” Flanagan shrugged. “Women needed help. He gave them some. More than the company was doing.”

Otto stared at him for more than a few long moments.

Flanagan stood there, staring out to sea.

“You got a new shaman for here?” Otto asked.

Flanagan nodded but didn’t look at Otto. “Think so. One of the boys up north got a hankering for seafood and a wife born on the coast. I think she’d take to crabbing and he’d be a good fit for Comstock.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d bring them down to look the place over once you’re out.”

“Like you moved Deering out of Finwell Bay before I arrived?”

Flanagan coughed up a laugh. “That kid has less sense than a flounder on a tide flat. I’d never have put him there on purpose. He wasn’t ready for that big a responsibility. He can barely wipe his own backside.”

“You don’t do all the placements?”

“Dah. I didn’t have anything to do with bringing you here out of Maggie’s Landing. Nothing to do with your father going out to the floaters. I generally let the winds blow and the tides roll where they will.” He grinned at Otto. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have that kind of power.”

Otto laughed. “But you’re going to do this one? You’re managing Finwell Bay.”

He shrugged. “Every storm leaves a mess. Sometimes good comes from it. I figure I owed you. I know I owed Abby Hawkes. Deering will pull his head out of his ass, or his new wife will kick it out. One way or another, he’ll be better off.”

“I thought he was single.”

Flanagan grinned. “He is, for the moment.”

“The new guy coming here?”

“I didn’t do more than let him know there’s an opening coming. We’ll see how the wind blows.”

Otto nodded. “I’ll ship the crate to Monty at Troy Harbor.”

Flanagan nodded. “That’ll work. Ed Montgomery, although just ‘Monty’ would probably work.” He offered a hand. “Good hunting.”

“Safe return,” Otto said. “And thanks.”

Flanagan winked and grinned. “Don’t thank me yet.” He turned and headed back down the trail toward the village.

Otto went back into the cottage to put a shipping label on Sarah’s whelkies. The idea of selling them rubbed against his grain, but the thought of her work helping other women let him get over it.

* * *

Otto felt the blood rush out of his face when he opened the door and saw his mother’s frown. “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s how you greet your mother? You couldn’t be bothered to let us know you’re moving to the end of the planet? A message? A note? Something?” She shook her head. “I show up at your door and all I get is ‘oh?’”

Otto stepped out of the doorway and invited her in.

“I could at least get an ‘oh, shit’ and a hug.” She grinned at him, holding her arms out.

The hug felt good. He was suddenly ten again. “Sorry. It’s been pretty hectic.”

She stepped back and scanned the place. “So I see. You have any tea left?”

“Of course. Come in. Let me have your coat.” He hung her coat on the peg and led the way to the kitchen. “Just take a tick for the kettle.”

“So, tell me about Finwell Bay,” she said, taking a seat at the table and folding her hands in front of her.

He busied his hands with the ritual of water and leaf while talking to her over his shoulder. “Bigger place than here. About half the size of Starvey Bay. Nice town.” He put the kettle on and leaned back against the counter. “You’ll probably laugh.”

“What?”

“The cottage is a clone of yours.”

“What do you mean, clone?”

“Same size. Same floor plan. Even has the shop out back, like Father’s.”

“I thought they were all different,” she said.

“Apparently some are. Clearly not all.”

“That must have felt odd, seeing your childhood home transplanted all the way on the other side of the world.”

“It did,” he said. “But comfortable, too. Not exactly a ‘coming home’ feeling. At least not yet.”

“What about this place?” She looked around the kitchen. “Sorry to leave it?”

He pulled in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “No. Not really. It’s time to move on.” He turned to pour boiling water into the pot and hit the timer.

“Flanagan put you up to it?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“All right. Maybe a little.” He shrugged. “Flanagan told me about it. Ed Comstock pushed me to look into it.”

“Good,” she said.

Her acceptance made him laugh. “You don’t have to sound so glad to get rid of me.”

“Hey, you’re the one running off to hell and gone without even saying goodbye. Your poor old mother had to come over in person to find out.”

“You knew before you left or you wouldn’t have come.” He frowned. “How did you find out?”

“Your father.” She shrugged. “Sent a message from the platform.”

“How’d he know?”

She pursed her lips and shrugged. “Who knows. He’s your father. Maybe a seagull told him.”

“Or Flanagan.”

She grinned. “Or Flanagan. How’s Ed taking the news?”

“He’s helping me. Company’s moving my stuff. I’ve arranged a ride on a company flitter day after tomorrow.”

“Is he getting a replacement?”

“Probably. It’s too good a slot to go begging. I asked Flanagan just this morning. He’s got a candidate in mind.”

“Good,” she said again.

The timer dinged and he poured the tea, took the mug to her and sat across the table.

“So? You haven’t said much about the town.”

“It’s a town. Great beach.”

“Abby Hawkes?” she asked.

“Company rep. She seems nice.”

“Mhm.” She sipped her tea. “She seems nice.”

“You know her?” Otto asked.

“Only by reputation. Finwell is positioned to be a significant production center for that end of the continent. They’ve already got most of the infrastructure in place. They need to produce more product themselves, but they already handle about half of everything on that side of Woontana.”

“They need more crews.”

She raised her eyebrows. “More crews?”

He outlined the problem for her. “I’m thinking they could probably find enough people willing to locate if they get the word out about jobs there.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “Probably true. How you gonna get the word out?”

“I’ll suggest she put in the requisition for the hulls. Once they’re delivered and she has skippers assigned, she can use the company net to put out a call for crews, can’t she?”

“Probably.” She sipped her tea. “What’s stopped her from doing it already?”

“She didn’t want to break up the crews she has.”

“You sure?”

He shook his head. “No. Not in the least. There may be another reason. I was only in town for a few days.”

She nodded to the pile of shipping crates. “You’re all set to go?”

“A few things left.”

“Sarah’s whelkies?”

“Going to somebody who’ll give them good homes.”

“Could I have one?” She smiled at him. “A memento.”

“Sure.” He got up from the table and pulled the crate off the pile again, putting it on the sofa and removing the cover. “Take your pick.”

His mother came from the kitchen and stared into the jumble. “You’re just going to ship them loose?”

“They’re wood, not glass.”

“You shipping yours the same way?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Do us all a favor? Get some packing beads from shipping? Put a layer of beads down, a layer of whelkies, another layer of beads. Do that until it’s full.”

He looked at her. “Seriously? You think they’re going to break in transit?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do. That box is going to get thrown, tossed, dropped, run up conveyors and piled with others. Who knows how many bumps and jumbles. Every single time that happens, those precious things are going to bang together. First time, probably nothing happens. Thousandth time? A beak breaks off or a shell pops out. The beads will keep them from moving as much and cushion them so they’re not banging around against each other.”

He opened his mouth to protest but she gave him that look. His mouth closed of its own accord.

“Humor your mother on this, Otto.”

He nodded.

She held her mug in one hand and stirred through the box. “There are so many.”

“She only gave away one that I know of. Well, two. Three, but one came back.”

His mother gave him a sideways glance and grin. “You sure? Do I hear a bid for four?”

He laughed. “No. She gave me one. I thought it was the first one she’d carved but I think now she’d been carving for a while in secret.”

“Really?”

“I found two knives. The one on the bench and another in her gather bag.” He shrugged. “A cheap Barlow. I never saw her use it.”

“What makes you think she carved in secret?”

“Hunch. She took to the knife I gave her like a pro. It’s stuck with me all this time. I thought it was raw talent for carving. Now I think she’d been carving out on the beach.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I made her wait. Sharp steel. Soft fingers.”

His mother chuckled. “Yeah. I guarantee she was carving out on the beach. She went alone?”

“Oh, yes. We still walked together sometimes but she went out alone at least a few times a week.”

She nodded. “You can only do so much. Any idea how she got it?”

“No. Chandlery, probably. She collected a lot of sea glass for a while. I should have realized something was up when it disappeared.”

“The details don’t always make sense except in hindsight.”

“You sure you’re not a shaman?” Otto asked. “You sound like one.”

She laughed. “Just old. You’ll get there some day.” She trailed her hand through the box again. “Which one did she give you?”

He rummaged through the pile but gave up after a few moments and dumped it out on the sofa. He picked the crab out almost immediately. “This one.” He handed it to her.

She held it in the palm of her hand and let the light reflect off it. “Why’s it in the box if she gave it to you?”

Otto pulled out the fulmar and held it up. “I got a new one.”

“That’s exquisite,” she said, leaning over to look at it. “You returned this one?”

“Yeah. Seemed right at the time.”

She nodded. “I’ll take this one then. Something to link the three of us together. Yes. I like that.” She nodded, wrapping her fingers around the small carving in her palm. She sighed and looked at Otto. “You’re still my little boy, you know. No matter how old you get.” She took a sip from her mug.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He grinned at her. “How do you feel about me moving to the end of the world?”

“You’re healing. You’ve already made more progress in the last two months than the last two decades. I can’t find it in me to be fussed about a little thing like moving.” She shrugged. “Your father spends most of his time on the Deep Sea stations these days. I can cope with you being at Finwell Bay.”

“You miss him?” he asked.

“Sometimes.” She gave him an enigmatic smile. “The homecomings are nice. He stays a few days, picks up some sticks, and goes back on the next rotation.” She sighed. “Yes. Honestly, I think I might prefer having him out there. The cottage is quiet. Peaceful. I can work, and it’s only a few steps to the tea kettle.”

He wanted to ask if things were still all right but didn’t know how.

“Don’t look at me like that, Otto,” she said, her little grin back. “He’s changed. For the better, I might add. I’ve changed. I hope for the better. I feel calmer. More centered.”

“You can always take up crabbing again,” he said.

She laughed. “It’s a hot commodity. Decades later, it’s finally catching on. Finwell Bay is the largest settlement to take it on and the only one doing it in any serious way.”

“Six hundred traps,” Otto said. “Just going by the surface area of that harbor, they could probably double it without making a dent. Add in the area outside of the headlands, it could probably be five times larger.”

“But Abby’s still focused on the draggers?” she asked.

He nodded. “There’s a dynamic there. I don’t know exactly what it is.”

“A couple of days, huh?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“You were only there a couple of days and you’ve already got this much insight into what’s happening?”

He laughed. “I have almost no idea of what’s happening. I only scratched the surface.”

“Mhm.” She scanned the living room and kitchen. “You’ve been here a long time.”

“I have. I’m not sure how I feel about leaving. For a few stans I feel like ‘let’s go’ and then I’ll get hit with ‘but this is home.’” He shook his head. “Finwell Bay’s calling, and I’m ready to answer.”

She wandered around, peaking in doors. She stopped at Otto’s bedroom. “What about that?” she asked, gesturing at Carla’s portrait with her mug. “It’s not packed.”

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he said, swallowing hard. “I love the image. The graphic itself? It’s from the memorial service. I kept it. Sarah found it and had it in her room until she left.”

“If you won’t want it, I’ll take it,” she said. “I have one of Sarah on the beach with your grandfather that I’ve always loved. I’ll get it reprinted to match.”

The thought warmed him. “Sure. You want to try to wrestle it home on the tram or should I have it shipped?”

“You have some wrap? I can take it on the tram. It’s not heavy and I didn’t bring a bag.”

“You’re not staying?”

“No, dear boy.” She sighed. “I only came to wish you well. I’m catching the tram at 1630. You don’t need an old woman underfoot, but I couldn’t let you go without coming over for one last hug. Maybe I can take a digital of you standing on the point with your hat and your stick?”

Otto glanced at the chrono, or where the chrono would have been if he hadn’t packed it. “What time is it now?”

“I’ve got about enough time to finish my tea and watch you wrap that before I need to head for the terminal.” She grinned. “Wanna walk with me?”

He nodded and dug around in the packing materials for some of the padded wrap and packing tape. “Just give me a tick,” he said, feeling a load lifting from his heart.

* * *

When the movers had finished, the house echoed. Otto’s two valises waited by the door. He took one last circuit. Comstock had promised a cleaning crew, but he wanted to leave the place as clean as he could. The chiller stood empty and powered down. He’d run the self-clean cycle on the oven and wiped it out. His boots sounded loud in the emptiness. He listened for the sounds of his life there, but all he heard was the never-ending rhythm of the waves on the shore and the echoes of his boots on the flooring.

He took his coat off the peg, aware of how many “last time” things he’d done. Each one another step away from Cape Grace. The sadness, offset by a sense of hope for the future. Every step away from Cape Grace, simultaneously a step toward Finwell Bay. Toward Sam Bagley. Toward Abby Hawkes.

He felt a smile on his face as he clapped his hat on his head. For the last time, sure. Here. He hefted his bags, one in each hand, stepped out of the cottage, and pulled the door closed, leaving the key in the lock for the crew.

The wind gusted past him, jingling the shells hanging on his staff. He didn’t have a spare hand for it and it wouldn’t fit in the flitter. He put his bags down on the stoop and took the staff in both hands. He’d walked with it for stanyers, but it wasn’t his first. He’d always had one, but this one came from the beach here. He grinned and walked it up to the top of the point and out onto the rocky headland. It took only a few ticks for him to find a place for it between the rocks. He jammed the foot into a crack and used some smaller rocks to hold it in place. Dusting the sand from his hands, he walked back to his bags. He picked them up and started down the trail toward town. Behind him, the staff stood upright in the rocks—tilted a little, feathers and shells alive and spinning in the wind. It wouldn’t last beyond the next good storm. Wind and wave would return it to the sea.

The beach at Finwell Bay would give him another.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 20, 2352

Angela found Nancy Markham under a truck, just her lower legs and booted feet sticking out. “They told me I’d find you here,” she said.

Nancy laughed and pulled herself out from under the vehicle, sliding on a creeper with one hand wielding a serious-looking wrench. “You Angela?”

“Yeah. This a bad time?”

Nancy shook her head. “Not at all. Just making sure the new kid got the nuts all threaded right.” She clambered to her feet, slipped the wrench into a pocket, and wiped her right hand off on the thigh of her coveralls before offering it to shake. “Pleased to meet ya. Glad to see the Ole Man kept it in the fambly. You were running Umber, right?”

Angela shook the woman’s hand and nodded. “I was. They told me this was just a temporary move so I only brought a day-pack.”

Nancy laughed again, the joyous bray echoing around the maintenance hangar. “So, Jimmy goes to dance with the devil, leaving the work to the women?” She shook her head. “Lucky for them we’re more competent. How can I help ya, Ms. Pirano?”

“George Williams,” she said. “What’s his story?”

“He causing a problem?” Nancy asked.

“Apparently not, but I’m trying to get the main offices spruced up a bit and he gave me a song and dance about clearing it through channels.”

Nancy nodded. “He’s a good worker. Took a while to learn the rules, but once he’s got a routine, it’s just better if we let it run.”

“He’s buffing the third floor.”

“Only once a week. He’s got a routine. Window washing. Office cleaning. Floor washing and buffing.”

“Only on the third floor?” Angela asked.

“No. Well, he’s not supposed to be. He runs from 1400 to 2300 with an hour for dinner. Once the office closes up, he’ll run through and grab trash, sweep up, that kind of thing. He does a Saturday afternoon on overtime to get the corridors on the main floors buffed up.”

“And that works for you?” Angela asked.

Nancy shrugged. “It worked well enough for Jimmy. Least I never got a complaint from him.” She lowered her head and peered at Angela from under snowy brows. “Am I getting a complaint from you?”

Angela shook her head. “I’ve been here a little more than a month. I’ve seen more of the coastline than I have my office. I’m just trying to figure out how it works here.”

“Tell me what you want done,” Nancy said.

“I want visitors to the office to think we’re a real going concern instead of an afterthought.”

Nancy’s face seemed to crinkle up as she grinned. “Jimmy liked the ‘we spend money where it matters’ look. You see his apartment?”

“I’m living in it,” Angela said.

“Kinda bland?”

Angela laughed. “Bland isn’t exactly the word. I’ve lived in hotel rooms with more character.”

“Hard to believe he lived there going on forty stanyers, ain’t it?”

The news set Angela back on her heels for a moment. “Same place?”

Nancy nodded. “Ask Tony about it. He and Jimmy used to fight about it back in the day.”

“What happened?”

“Jimmy just told him to butt out. He liked the place and saw no reason to spend more money on a bedroom with a view.”

“It’s handy to the Beanery, I’ll give him that.”

“So, sprucing up? Remodeling?” Nancy asked.

“It’s clean enough, but it needs fresh paint and I wouldn’t object to fresh flooring.”

“Simple enough,” Nancy said. “You want just the corridors or the office spaces too?”

“All of it, if I can have it.”

Nancy laughed. “You’re the boss. You get to have whatever you want.”

Angela shook her head. “I know better than that. The logistics of getting flooring done and keeping the office running makes kitchen remodeling a cakewalk. To say nothing of paint.”

“My advice?” Nancy asked.

“Please.”

“Wait until the boats come in for the winter.”

Angela let that suggestion sink into her brain for a few moments. “How does that help?”

“Less office processing. It’s when Jimmy used to do the catch-up and planning work. Most of the office staff takes vacation then.” Nancy shrugged. “We can hire some of the hands who want to do a little moonlighting and get it all done that much faster, then, too.”

“So? January?” Angela asked.

“That’s when I’d do it,” Nancy said.

Angela shrugged. “Can I get the window fixed in my office before then?”

“I’ll cut a work order this afternoon. Fix it tomorrow.”

“All right. Sounds like a plan,” Angela said.

“Do you know what you want for paint? Any budget on the flooring?”

“Something off-white for the ceiling. Maybe a pale green on the walls?” Angela asked. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m just seeing if it’s possible and what the correct channels are.”

“You seem to think there are correct channels,” Nancy said, a smirk twitching her lips.

“It’s a Pirano operation, isn’t it?” Angela asked.

Nancy nodded. “That’s what I mean.”

Angela laughed. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll let you get back to your truck inspection. I’ll go sort out some colors.”

“Good luck,” Nancy said, lowering herself to the creeper again. “You can just message me next time.” She gave Angela a jaunty salute and slid back under the vehicle.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Finwell Bay: May 24, 2352

Abby met him at the flitter pad with a big smile. “Hey, stranger. Long time, no see.”

“You afraid I wouldn’t come back?” Otto asked.

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Maybe a little.” She nodded toward town. “You’ve made quite an impression on the fishermen already.”

He hefted his two bags out of the flitter and fell into step with her. “How so?”

“Those two officers? Let’s just say they won’t be bothering anybody anymore.”

“So that worked out?”

She nodded. “Oh, yeah. They’re now banned from security work anywhere on the planet. They can stay, but there’s a big red file on them now. They’ve got a year to find other jobs before they’re booted upstairs.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry,” Otto said.

“Once we started connecting dots, turned out they’d been doing a lot more than faking fights. A whole list of shake-downs and abuses showed up. Enough to justify the red folder.”

“You’re not going to prosecute?”

“Granger convinced me to boot them out of town and prevent them from working security. They’ll be lucky to get jobs as lumpers somewhere. They can’t leave it behind, either. They get off planet, that folder goes with them. That’s enough prosecution for me.”

Otto sighed. “What about the people they hurt?”

“We’ll pay restitution to those more egregiously harmed. It won’t go very far, but it’s the best we can do as a goodwill gesture.”

“How’s Chief Granger taking it?”

“He’s your biggest fan, I think.” She paused and gave him a sideways smile. “Maybe second biggest.” She led him into the Pirano building and into a store room just inside the main doors. “You can drop your bags here. Restroom’s just around the corner. Come see me in my office when you’re ready. I’ll put on the tea.”

A strange flow of energy seemed to drift around her. She seemed nervous for a company rep greeting a shaman. He shrugged and dropped the bags. “I’ve got stuff coming down the coast. Movers said it’ll be a few days.”

She nodded and secured the doors. “They’ll be safe there. I’ll have Mike or one of the runners take them over to the cottage for you in a bit.”

“Thanks.” He would have just as soon gone directly to the cottage. He hadn’t slept well at the hostel at Starvey Bay and had napped fitfully on the flight down the coast. The use of the restroom gave him a chance to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. Feeling revived, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and followed the signs to her office.

A group waited for him, along with an urn of tea and trays of food. He stopped at the door but Abby spotted him and waved him in.

“Come in. Come in. Everyone? This is Otto Krugg. He’s agreed to join us as our new shaman.”

All eyes turned to him, making him wish he’d done more to spruce up. He smiled and nodded, hoping his disheveled appearance didn’t make a poor first impression. As he scanned the faces, nods spread around the room. Granger stood with a small group near Abby’s desk. His smile felt honest and welcoming. Captain Lewis stood on one side of the room with a cluster of fishermen. He gave a smile and a nod that Otto didn’t trust very much. A hawk-faced old woman—slender as a reed with a shock of white hair—stood with another group of fishers on the other side of the room. She gave him a squint and a short nod.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Abby rescued him from the door, walking him to the table. “Tea. Food if you want some. I wanted you to meet some of the key players.” Her voice stayed below the general level of conversation that had resumed almost immediately. “Sorry to spring it on you.” She gave him an apologetic look.

“Wasn’t your idea, was it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Granger’s on the town council. They wanted to meet you. Seemed a bit miffed that I’d acted without their approval.”

Otto filled a disposable cup with tea and glanced at her. “That normal?”

“What? That they’re miffed? No.” She grinned. “Normal for them.”

“Anyone I should look out for besides Lewis?”

She blinked at him. “Lewis?”

“He doesn’t like me already.” He sipped his tea, keeping his back to the room.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Hunch.”

“Nobody I know of,” she said. “No reason I can think of that Jake Lewis might not like you.”

He shrugged and took another sip. “I may be wrong.”

“You ready to meet them? Need something to eat?” She nodded at the finger foods arrayed on the table.

“Maybe after I’ve run the gauntlet.” He smiled and turned to face the group.

Abby took him toward the nearest group, the one with the old woman leading it. “Shannon Murphy, this is Otto Krugg. Otto, Shannon is the senior captain in the fleet.”

Shannon extended a hand. “Krugg. Welcome to Finwell Bay.”

“Ms. Murphy,” Otto said. The woman’s hand felt bony in his palm. Her strength didn’t surprise him, nor did the calculating look in her eyes. “A pleasure.”

The others in her small group offered hands and names. He shook the hands and nodded. He’d never be able to remember them all, but he noted a good mix of people. Men and women. Some captains. Some crew. Some looked to be nearly Murphy’s age, while others weren’t much older than Sarah.

“Nice to meet you all,” he said.

“Any idea what to do about the crews?” Murphy asked. She had a mug of tea instead of a paper cup and peered over the top of it, a raised eyebrow in challenge but tempered with a tiny grin.

“Yes, actually,” Otto said. “I was just talking about it over in Cape Grace.”

“Really?” Abby asked.

“Do tell,” Murphy said.

“Have more babies,” he said with a grin. “It’s a long-term plan but guaranteed to work.”

Murphy cackled with a nudge to the younger woman on her left.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” one of the men asked. “Chicken-egg?”

“Yeah,” Otto agreed. “Answer for that is always going to be ‘more chickens.’”

Abby’s brow furrowed.

Otto could feel the questions building in her. “Cape Grace has the opposite problem,” he said. “They’ve got lots of people who want to fish, young people mostly.” He nodded at a couple of the younger members of Murphy’s little group. “Older village. Well-developed fishery. Almost no room for growth within their reach. Villages hemming them in on both sides. The only reason they’re growing now is that the offshore fisheries are giving their young people a chance to move up the ladder.”

“Why would they come here?” Abby asked.

Otto shrugged. “Life at the Deep Sea stations isn’t all that pleasant. You might be surprised.”

Shannon’s eyes narrowed, but the sense Otto got was interest rather than suspicion. “You think there’s enough people on the South Coast willing to relocate here?”

“I don’t know. It would take some effort. It’s worth a shot.” He shrugged.

Abby nodded. “Let me introduce you to the city council.” She took a step away. Otto followed. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I also had an enlightening conversation with my mother while I was in Cape Grace.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Your mother?”

“Yeah. One of Pirano’s market research people. I’ll try not to get ahead of you before we’ve had a chance to talk about it.”

She chuckled. “Thanks. Appreciated.” She turned to Larry Granger. “Larry, you already know Otto. Why don’t you introduce him to the rest of the council.”

Granger’s smile widened and he offered a hand to Otto. “First, thanks. You’ve already made a big contribution to the town.”

Otto shook Granger’s hand. He meant what he said. “You’re welcome. Glad I could help.”

He introduced him to the council, a collection of men and women of later years. A couple of retired fishermen. The head of the processing team. A few dependent relatives. The general tone varied from sincere welcome to outright skepticism.

“What do you think about the quality of life here in Finwell?” one of the men asked. His oily smile telegraphed a trap. He seemed to be the most skeptical of the small group.

Otto shrugged. “Honestly? I haven’t been here more than a few days and I really don’t know what it’s like to live here.”

“But you moved all the way from Cape Grace,” he said. “I have to wonder why.”

Abby stiffened at his side. “What are you asking, Jesse?”

The man, Jesse Gresley, shrugged. “Nothing. Just thinking what would motivate me to leave home and hearth and travel all the way to the other end of the coast to take a shaman’s post.”

“What would?” Otto asked.

Gresley blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“What would motivate you?” Otto asked.

Gresley looked at the other members of the group. “Better pay. Nicer working conditions. The normal things.”

“Seems reasonable,” Otto said. He smiled and waited.

Gresley stood there for several moments. “You’re not going to answer the question?”

“I’m sorry. Was there a question? You asked what I thought of the quality of life here. I answered it.”

Gresley’s lips tightened. “What attracted you to our town?”

“I didn’t even know about it until somebody put a bug in my ear a few weeks ago,” Otto said. “I came out and visited for a few days last week and thought I might be able to do some good here.”

“Good?” Gresley asked. “Beyond breaking up a few fights? What’s a shaman going to do?”

“That’s enough, Jesse,” Granger said.

“What do we know about him?” Gresley asked. “That last clown didn’t know a mouta from a trash bag. All this shaman noise. I want to know what he’s going to contribute to the community for his rent and stipend. Town council has a right to know.”

Abby took a breath but Otto stepped into the gap. “Yes,” he said.

Everybody looked at him. “Yes, what?” Gresley asked.

“Yes, you have a right to know.”

“Well?” Gresley asked. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear.”

“I don’t know,” Otto said. “I have no idea what the challenges might be here, beyond an aging population that could suffer a collapse without some intervention. It’s not my place to tell you how to run your town. My job—such as it is—consists largely of walking the beach, listening to the world, and offering an open shoulder and mind to anybody who needs it.” He shrugged. “I’m here at the sufferance of the company rep.” He nodded to Abby. “If she decides I need to go, there are hundreds—if not thousands—of towns and villages where I would be welcomed.”

“What do you mean, collapse?” one of the women asked, elbowing Gresley aside.

“As I understand it, the town lacks crews for an expanded fleet.” He looked to Abby who nodded. “Also, the birthrate for the town is such that the educational cohorts number in the single or low-double digits. What happens when those kids coming up have no jobs. No slots on the boats to learn to be crew and move up to skippers in their own right?”

“They’ll leave,” the woman said. “Go where the grass is greener.”

“Just like they have been,” Abby said.

“So? You’re saying we should keep them?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Otto said. “Not all of them. Obviously some will be lured away by better, different opportunities. Some will get bumped upstairs.” He shrugged. “I haven’t seen a demographic breakdown, but I suspect we have a problem with too many people in the upper age brackets and not enough in the young-to-middle.”

“That’s what you said over there,” Gresley said nodded at Murphy.

“Yes.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Gresley asked, the tiniest of sneers curling his upper lip. “All us adults should—what? Retire? Get out of the way?”

Otto frowned at him. He honestly believed that. He looked at Abby. “What’s this about?”

“It’s been a theme for years now,” Abby said. “No jobs here. Even the youngsters who want to stay can’t get work.”

“So, we’re back to chicken-egg scenarios, right?” Otto said.

She nodded. “Some”—she cast a side-eyed glance at Gresley—“think that the answer is let them go.”

Otto shrugged. “Why don’t you want more jobs?” he asked, looking at Gresley.

“Where are we going to get more jobs? Every one we have is full. Shoreside production already has as many people as we need. You can ask Lewis about the boats, but they’re full as well.” Gresley seemed more frustrated than angry.

“Maybe I can help with that,” Otto said.

“What? You gonna take on apprentices?”

“Jesse.” Abby’s single word crackled.

“How about you give me a few weeks,” Otto said. “Let me work with Ms. Hawkes here. How many new jobs would you like to see?”

Gresley blinked. “What do you mean?”

The woman who’d spoken up before said, “Twenty.”

Otto nodded. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m terrible with names. Would you remind me?”

She smiled. “Audrey Winchell. I run the educational programming here in town.”

“Ah, of course. Thank you.”

“Mr. Gresley? Would twenty new jobs by the end of—say—third quarter be enough to at least make you believe that I can help with the situation?”

He scoffed and looked around at his cronies for support. He swallowed when he didn’t find it. “Of course. Twenty new jobs? That would be excellent.” He glanced at Abby. “Can we afford them?”

Abby stared at Gresley for a few heartbeats. “Are you going to get in the way of expansion again?”

Gresley held up a hand, palm out. “I’ve documented my objections in the past. If Mr. Krugg here can answer them, I’m all for it.”

“Then maybe you’ll let us actually have a little time to sort out some details—like getting Otto settled in the cottage with some furniture and a change of clothes—before you start throwing your weight around to obstruct progress?” Her voice carried steel. “I’ll see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Now, Abby—”

“No, Jesse. No ‘now, Abby.” Abby stared for a beat. “Be back here at 8 a.m.”

A distance seemed to open up between Gresley and all the people standing around him, although not a single person moved. The silence grew as all eyes focused on Abby and Gresley.

“Captain Lewis,” Otto said, turning to the last group. “Otto Krugg. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He thrust out a hand.

“Krugg,” Lewis said, shaking his hand. “Seems like Finwell Bay’s about to get more exciting.”

Otto laughed. “Well, I’m not going to start demanding you fish in the deeps.”

“You know about that?” he asked, a glance going to Abby, who’d stepped up behind Otto.

Gresley left the room, his sudden departure feeling like a weight had been lifted—or a window opened.

“My predecessor has left a sour taste. I hope I can sweeten that, given time.”

Lewis nodded. “I can support that. Just don’t get in the way.” He glanced at Abby again.

Ah, there it was. The reason Lewis didn’t like him.

“I’m flattered that you think I could.” Otto gave him a nod. “Crews the biggest challenge for you, too?”

Lewis shrugged. “If you know fishing, you know nothing’s easy.”

“I understand the main banks don’t suffer much from the seasonal pressure here. That’s already an advantage. How many more boats could the existing fishery support, do you think?”

Lewis pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. “I don’t really know. Five, certainly. Maybe as many as ten, but we’d want to add them slowly, perhaps two or three per season.”

Otto looked to Abby. “What’s the company position on that?”

“If I had the crews, we’d already be doing it,” Abby said.

Otto nodded. “We definitely need more chickens.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aram’s Inlet: May 24, 2352

Angela ran through the report one more time and shook her head. “It doesn’t work, does it?”

Tony shrugged. “The TIC people gave us some slack but they have to take the worker exploitation charge seriously. At least they threw out the slavery charge.”

“What do we do?” Angela asked, rocking back in her chair and rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

“We have a decade to sort it out,” Tony said. “License runs through 2364.”

“We need to solve this social worker problem now. I don’t want Delacourt coming back here again.” Angela shook her head. “No. I don’t want us to rely on unpaid people to run the company. That’s ... just wrong.”

Tony sat back in his chair. The smile on his face reached all the way to his eyes and he steepled his fingers in front of his nose.

“What’s that for?” Angela asked.

“What?”

“That smile.”

He shrugged and pursed his lips. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Hire them,” Angela said.

“They don’t have credentials, as you’ve pointed out at least a few times in the recent past.”

She grunted. “I know. Rub it in. Asshole.” She shook her head. “We can get them certified. Hire a couple of trainers. People from the psychology school over in Ciroda.”

“There’s a social welfare department in Tellicherri. Probably more in line with what you want.” Tony bit the corner of his mouth and stared at her.

“You knew this all along and you didn’t say anything?”

He shrugged and folded his hands over his stomach. “I’m the adviser. You’re the boss. I can help you but I can’t make up your mind for you.”

“Can we get them to take the training?”

Tony shook his head. “Not all of them. Even at that, we don’t have enough official shamans.”

Angela felt the frustration crawling up her neck, stiffening her muscles, and threatening her sanity. “What question am I not asking?” The words flew from her without conscious awareness, surprising even her.

“Where are the women?” Tony said.

“What?”

“That’s the question you’re not asking.”

“Where are the women?” she asked.

“Yeah. Son of the shaman is a shaman.” Tony pressed his lips together and widened his eyes at her. “A century of shamans.”

The realization burst into her brain like a slap at the back of her head. “Where are the women?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Tony said. “It’s the question Jimmy tried to answer before he got side-tracked.”

Angela sat up straight in her chair, feeling a little whipsawed by the reversals. “Why did you ask?”

“Because it’s the question you’re not asking. It’s the question that might have the answer you’re looking for.”

“How could there be women shamans?”

Tony shrugged, his face a blank slate. “How could there not be? Maude knows we’ve had—what? At least a dozen adjudications in the last four years? I’ve lost count.”

“You know this?” Angela asked.

He nodded. “The adjudication cost us a boatload. The records are all in the files if you want to see them.”

“We won every case?” she asked.

He nodded again. “Yeah. Work rules established the precedent for allowing the son of the shaman to remain on planet as a shaman. It was specified in the original documentation. Company defended it on that precedent and religious grounds.”

Angela let that roll around in her head for a few moments. “We’re getting them certified as social workers on that same basis, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. Plus the fact that the company people see the shamans as spiritual guides and have for as long as I’ve been here.” He paused, his gaze focused somewhere in the distance. “When somebody has a problem they’d rather not talk to their boss about, they go to the nearest shaman.”

Something in his tone made Angela pause. “You ever go to a shaman?”

His focus locked on her eyes. “Yeah. I suspect almost everybody who’s been here longer than a decade has.”

“The rest?” Angela asked.

“They’re not old enough yet.” Tony’s smile came back, daring her not to laugh.

Angela shook her head to see if it would help rattle her brain back on the trail. “The women. You’re implying that this isn’t just a ceremonial title? This shaman thing?”

“I’m saying that the title is hereditary but over my lifetime there have been titled shamans and the other kind. The ones with what they call ‘the gift.’”

“It’s real?”

Tony shrugged. “Faith is funny. People are complex. We’re some insane distance from where we started on some grassland on old Earth. On a planet that didn’t have people until a little more than a century ago.” He shrugged again.

“You know any?” she asked.

“People? Sure.” Tony’s grin kept peeking out around his lips but his eyes danced nonstop.

“Shamans. Gifted ones.”

“Maybe. Why? You wanna see for yourself?” He raised an eyebrow. “What would you hope to learn?”

The question spread across her scattered thoughts like oil on water. “A calling is a calling,” she said.

Tony nodded. “There you go.”

“Who’d know where the women are, if there are any?” she asked.

“Jimmy spent some time out in Troy Harbor. Seemed to think he knew who the first shaman was. He started with Jack Flanagan,” Tony said. “Flanagan may not admit to knowing, but I’ll bet he knows somebody who might.”

“I’ve heard that name. Who’s Flanagan?”

“Sort of the de facto chief shaman. He’s the point man when there’s a shaman issue.”

“How do I get in touch with Flanagan?”

Tony laughed.

“What?” she asked. “That’s funny?”

“Yeah. Jack’s a funny guy. He’s got a place over at Langille’s Point. Married to the plant supervisor there.”

“What’s funny about that?” she asked.

“You’d think you could just call over and talk to him, wouldn’t you?” Tony asked, resettling himself in his chair.

“No, huh?” she asked.

“No. You want to see him? Call. Jimmy kept his number in his contacts file. It’ll bip a few times then disconnect.”

Angela snickered. “How does that work?”

“Don’t know, but it does.”

“Then what? He just shows up?”

“Generally,” Tony said.

“You’re just messing with me now.” Angela shook her head and smiled at him. “How’s that even possible?”

“Shaman magic as far as I know,” Tony said. “Do it. Call my bluff.”

Something about his confident half-smirk made her pick up the comm and find Flanagan’s connection. She punched it through and waited. “It’s connecting.”

Tony nodded but didn’t offer any comment.

The line went dead. “Disconnected.”

Tony nodded again. “Feel like coffee?” he asked.

“I thought Flanagan was supposed to show up,” she said.

Tony shrugged. “He usually does. Barney’s? Come on. Get some fresh air on the way. My treat.”

Angela stood and grabbed her windbreaker from the rack. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Anthony Spinnelli, but if it’s screwing with me, I’m going to be seriously peeved.”

Tony bit his lip as if to keep from saying something.

Angela stared at him. Hard. “What?”

He shook his head. “Coffee. Maybe a muffin.” He led the way out of Angela’s office and stopped at his own only long enough to get a jacket, shrugging into it as he strode down the corridor.

Angela shook her head, confused by his sudden desire for coffee but following along.

Barney’s Beanery was just around the corner from the Pirano office. The late spring sun felt good on her face. “I probably didn’t need the jacket,” she said.

“Me, either. Force of habit,” Tony said. “Won’t matter. We’re here.” He held the door for her and she felt him watching her as she walked by.

“You’re acting really weird, Tony.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “Just wait.”

Barney waved from the counter. “Pick a spot. What’ll ya have?”

The earthy scent of freshly ground coffee and the sweetness of pastry enveloped Angela. “Usual for me,” Angela said, heading for the counter.

“Add a muffin to mine,” Tony said and angled over to a booth to the side of the cozy shop.

Angela looked at him, feeling her frown of confusion.

Tony slipped off his jacket, tossed it on the bench, and slid all the way in, pushing the coat along until it was crushed against the wall.

Angela opened her coat but left it on. She slid onto the seat across from Tony and sighed. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Barney stopped by with two coffees and a granapple muffin on a small plate. “You sure you don’t want one, Ms. Pirano?” He brandished the dish before placing it in front of Tony.

She nodded. “Thanks, Barney. Not today.”

He grinned and nodded. “Holler if you need anything.”

Tony took a careless swig off the mug and made a production of peeling the paper off the muffin, pulling the top off, and then applying a liberal dollop of butter to each open face.

“Tony?” Angela asked. She sipped her coffee and scowled at him.

He looked up at her, that devilish smile still working around different parts of his face. “Patience. You’ll see.” He took a bite of muffin and washed it down with the coffee.

She bit back her frustration. Something was going to happen, but she couldn’t figure out how coming to Barney’s was going to get her any closer to finding the women.

Somebody else came into the shop, rattling the door in its frame and setting the bell tinkling.

“Hey, Jack,” Barney said, his affable smile welcoming the newcomer. “How’s life treatin’ ya?”

Angela only heard the conversation with half her brain, focusing her attention on Tony.

His smile grew fractionally wider and he took another bite of muffin.

“Tea?” Barney asked. “Need to steep a fresh pot if you wanna wait.”

“If you have it,” the man said. “Wouldn’t turn it down.”

Angela glanced up as the newcomer turned toward their table and sauntered over.

Tony put down his muffin, brushed the crumbs off his fingers, and held up a hand. “Jack. Good to see ya.”

Jack nodded and shook the offered hand. “Tony.”

“This is Angela Pirano,” Tony said. “Angela, Jack Flanagan.” He scooched over and patted the open seat on the bench. “Have a seat.”

Angela threw off her surprise long enough to reach across and shake his hand. “Mr. Flanagan. Nice to meet you.”

Flanagan laughed. “Call me Jack. Nice to meet you, too, but you’ve got more than a social call in mind, I’d wager.” He took his seat and leaned his elbows on the table in front of him. “How can I help Pirano Fisheries today?”

Angela looked to Tony who only raised his mug and stared back at her. “I’m short a few thousand shamans,” she said.

Jack blinked. “You’re what?”

Barney swung by the table, dropped off a steaming mug of tea and what looked like a scone. “There’s more where that came from, Jack.”

“Thanks, Barney.”

Barney nodded and slipped back to the kitchen.

“Now,” Flanagan said. “You’re what?” He picked up the mug and blew across it before taking a tentative sip.

“I need about four thousand more shamans.”

He shook his head. “I thought you were trying to get rid of them. What happened?”

“You haven’t heard?” she asked.

“Nothing since the company started playing with the work rules.” He sipped again, not breaking eye contact. “That was never going to work, you know.”

Angela took a swig of coffee and leaned on the table. “That was then. This is now.” She raised her eyebrows. “That good enough, or do you need an apology?”

Flanagan laughed. “That’s good enough.” He took a bite of scone. “I heard the company got in trouble for taking unfair advantage of nonemployee workers?”

She sighed and nodded her head. “Yeah. I have a plan.”

Flanagan glanced at Tony. “Am I gonna like this plan?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends.”

“You need social workers to augment your psych people,” Flanagan said. “Or CPJCT won’t renew the license, right?”

Angela nodded. “I thought I could hire enough to do the job. Turns out I was wrong.”

“How many do you need?” Flanagan asked.

“About eight thousand total.”

Flanagan whistled. “That’s a lot of new people to bring on board.” He took a nibble off the end of his scone and lifted the tea. “You want shamans to do it?”

Angela lifted her own mug. “You’re already doing it. I just need to deal with the nonemployee part. Maybe set up a certification process to satisfy the paper pushers.” She took a sip and waited.

She saw the moment when Flanagan realized what she meant. A scowl exploded on his face like a pie plate full of anger. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“She is,” Tony said. He looked over at Flanagan. “Can you sell it?”

Flanagan hunched over his tea and stared at the table. “Maybe.”

“It’s getting paid for what they’re already doing, Jack,” he said. “You know that better than anybody.”

Flanagan seemed to chew the idea around in his mouth before answering. “Certification?”

Angela nodded. “Shamans are doing the job but they’re winging it. We need to make it a little more professional. Not much. I’m thinking a couple of tiers. Maybe three.”

“A serious social services program?” Flanagan asked.

She nodded.

“You’ll need psychiatrists and psychologists to back it up,” he said.

She nodded again. “We’ll get them. Legal affairs, financial advisors, too.”

“That’s why you need thousands more,” he said.

She nodded a third time. “Where are the women?”

Flanagan’s eyes widened for just a moment before his face closed down. “Son of the shaman is a shaman.”

“Yes, but women have challenged that rule in the past. How many times?”

Flanagan squirmed on the bench and slurped his tea. “I don’t know. Five? Six?”

“Dozens,” Tony said, not looking up.

“Didn’t we just go through this with Jimmy a few months back?” Jack asked.

Tony nodded. “We did. She didn’t.”

“So where are the women who didn’t challenge the rule, Jack?” Angela asked.

“Son of the shaman,” Flanagan said, the words snappish and bitter-sounding.

“Uh, huh.” Angela took a moment to take a swig of coffee, watching Flanagan fidget. “Or, more likely, they’re hiding. Probably in plain sight.”

Flanagan’s gaze flicked to her, then Tony and back again. “Yeah,” he said at last.

“You’re married to the company, aren’t you, Jack?” Angela asked.

His scowl flipped to a puzzled frown in a heartbeat. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Only thing a woman would need is a mate,” she said. “Marry the company. Keep the shaman stuff down to ‘concerned neighbor’ levels.” She shrugged. “Wouldn’t have to be an employee to stay on planet as a dependent.”

Jack stared at her as he lowered his head toward his mug of tea. “Not my place.” His words barely registered before he looked away, staring into the mug as if looking for some kind of message in the tea leaves.

Angela nodded, as much to herself as anybody. “Fair enough.” She let the words settle while she took a swig from her own mug. “Back to the business at hand. Will the shamans accept being employees?”

Flanagan rocked his head side to side—not a nod, not a shake. “Maybe. Got terms?”

“Standard employment. CPJCT will have a salary scale. We can have a bottom level for everybody until they earn the certifications to move up. Just like any career track.”

He leaned back against the seat, propping himself back with his arm against the table, and nodded. “You thinking janitor or fisherman?”

She grinned. “Actually those pay scales are about the same when you factor in the shares that fishermen earn.”

Jack looked at Tony.

“Fishermen come out a little ahead in total, but they have the more dangerous working conditions,” Tony said. “Skippers earn more than mates. Mates more than deck hands.”

“We can argue the details later, Jack,” Angela said. “Right now, I need to know whether or not this is a viable path. You’re the point man for the shamans.”

Jack pursed his lips and stared at her for several long moments before responding. “I can’t speak for any of them.”

“Bullshit,” Angela said.

Jack snorted a laugh. “All right. I can’t speak for all of them. Some of them are just cussed for the sake of being cussed.” That two-syllable pronunciation, a hallmark of old-timers.

“I know people like that,” Angela said with a pointed glance at Tony. “What’s your sense? I’m not asking for commitment. I just need to know if this might be viable.”

Flanagan nodded, his head bobbing ever so slowly. “Yeah. Probably is. The big concern will be not having the company in our business.”

Angela nodded. “I get that. The other way to look at it? We’re getting the shamans in ours. I think we can do better for everybody if we work together. Shamans aren’t going to be any more restricted than fishermen. Maude knows I’ve seen housecats less independent than the average fisherman. That seems to be working out.”

Flanagan chuckled at that. “Good point.”

“How many shamans are eking out life at a bare subsistence level?” she asked.

Flanagan bit his lower lip and nodded. “Some of the villages already have support for shamans. Housing, usually. Some give a stipend.”

Angela nodded. “What if every shaman becomes an employee with the base-level wage. The company can cough up enough to make sure every village has support funds for housing, since that’s already in place.”

Flanagan glanced at Tony before looking back at Angela. “You’re changing the work rules. No more son of the shaman.”

She felt the smile spread across her face. “I know.”

Flanagan nodded and took a swig of tea, swishing it around in his mouth, maybe tasting it for meaning before swallowing. “You want to talk to Edwin Montgomery. Everybody calls him Monty.”

“About what?” Angela asked.

“About the women.”

“Who’s Edwin Montgomery?” she asked.

“Shaman out at Troy Harbor,” Flanagan said. “Challenge will be getting him to talk to you.”

“He talked to Jimmy,” Tony said.

“He doesn’t like the company?” Angela asked.

Flanagan took a long pull from his tea. “Not that he doesn’t like you. Doesn’t trust you.” He shrugged. “Not my story to tell. You’ll have to burn that bear when you get to it.”

Angela’s brain stuttered for a moment before she laughed. “Fair enough.”

He finished his scone and washed it down with the last of his tea. “Anything else?”

“You’re going to sound out the shamans on coming on board?” Angela asked.

He nodded. “I’ll put out some feelers.”

“How’d you know?” she asked. “How’d you get here so fast?”

Flanagan frowned. “Know what?”

“To meet us here.”

“It’s where we always meet,” he said, nodding at Tony. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Angela watched Tony studying the inside of his coffee mug for a few heartbeats. “No. Actually he didn’t. All he said was you live out at Langille’s Point and if I wanted to talk to you, I should ring the number in Jimmy’s contact list.”

Flanagan nodded. “Usually works. Why?”

“How’d you know that I’d called?”

Flanagan pulled out his peeda and waved it. “Got the message a few ticks ago.”

“You got all the way here from Langille’s Point in that amount of time?” she asked.

Flanagan frowned and shook his head. “I’ve been here at the Inlet for the last three days. Heading back day after tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed and he stared at Tony. “You didn’t tell her we talked this morning.”

Tony shook his head. “She didn’t ask.” He glanced up at Angela and offered a quick shrug followed by a sly smile. “Why? That a problem?”

Angela shook her head. “Someday, Anthony Spinelli, you’re gonna push me too far.” She couldn’t hold back the smile that broke out at his boyish grin.

Flanagan stood and shrugged his jacket onto his shoulders. “Watch yourself, Spinelli. Woman using your full name like that. Danger sign, for sure.”

Tony chuckled. “I’ll risk it.” He looked at Flanagan. “I know where the money’s buried.”

Flanagan laughed and headed for the door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finwell Bay: May 24, 2352

By the time the welcoming event wrapped up, Otto felt like he’d been put through a wringer. Everybody wanted to get him aside and talk about what shamans did, or what his vision for the village was, or where they could find their grandmother’s hidden stash of jewels.

“Sorry about that,” Abby said as the last of the attendees drifted out of her office and down the hall. “I didn’t think it would drag on that long.”

Otto sank into one of the chairs, taking the load off his feet. Walking the beach was one thing. The floor was another. “I’m sorry if I sandbagged you about the growth thing.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been trying to get them to approve it for a decade. Gresley always convinces them to ‘study the proposal’ until it dies.”

“What’s with the council anyway?” Otto said. “You’re the voice of the company here.”

“Something the first rep did. I’m only the third, but the precedent got set in stone. Your perspective as an outsider will be suspect, but you’re also not bound by the precedent.”

“So, you’re seeing me as what? Catalyst?”

She plopped into one of the chairs and gave him an apologetic shrug. “Yeah. Something like that. I’ve been beating my head against the wall, but maybe they’ll listen to you tell them what I’ve been saying for so long it’s just like waves on the shore.”

“Nobody hears it anymore?”

She nodded. “You want to head over to stores? Pick out some furniture? We should have done that when you were here before.”

He glanced out at the setting sun. “Anybody there now?”

“Yeah. Vic should be there. You can pick it out and I’ll have a crew take it over tomorrow morning.” She grinned. “Company will put you up in the hostel if you want.”

“Hostel is fine. Quiet.” He stifled a yawn. “It’s been a long day.”

She pulled out a tablet and keyed a short message. “Rory will take your bags up.”

“I can carry a couple of bags.”

“That’s what he gets paid for,” she said. “Let him do it.”

A young woman came to the door and paused. “Oh, sorry, Abby. Didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Lily. Sorry.” Abby waved her into the room. “Otto Krugg. Lily Dickenson. Lily’s my good right hand. Otto’s our new shaman.”

Otto stood to shake her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Dickenson.”

“Lily, please,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. The commissary staff is here to clear this away if you’re done.”

“That’s our cue,” Abby said, pushing herself up out of the chair. “Come on, Otto. Let’s clear out and let them work.”

“I’ll lock up when they’re done,” Lily said.

“Thanks. You’re a doll.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Krugg,” Lily said.

“I’m just Otto,” he said with a smile.

Abby led him out and down to the storage room where they met a kid with floppy hair and a grav pallet loaded with Otto’s bags. “Oh, I was just about to ping you. Where do you want these?”

“Transient hostel?” Abby asked, raising an eyebrow at Otto.

“Yes, please.”

“Tell Lionel we’ll be along shortly, would you?”

“Will do, Abby.” He winkled the grav pallet out the door in a flash and disappeared down the street.

“Rory’s one of the people I want to keep in town, but he’s going to outgrow being an errand boy soon.”

“I can see that.”

She nodded at the doors. “You hungry? You didn’t get much chance to eat.”

His stomach growled in response.

“I think that’s a yes,” she said. “You want to hit up my sister’s or try something new?”

“I’m open,” Otto said. “Probably someplace new so I can get a feel for the place.”

“You in the mood for anything in particular?”

“Surprise me,” he said.

She laughed. “I don’t know you well enough to know what might surprise you, but come on. I know a bunch of people who’ll give you a warmer welcome than you’ve had so far.”

She led him out of the building and around the back. “You’ve been here before, I think.”

Otto frowned for a moment and then recognized the street and the pub at the far end of the block. The sign out front read “Fin and Foam.” He grinned at the stylized fish holding a beer mug. “Another of your relatives?”

“No. Remember Audrey Winchell?”

“Educational programs?”

She glanced at him. “That was a lot of names all at once. I’m impressed you remembered. Her father started this pub. Her brother runs it now and the next generation is picking up when he retires.” She led him in and over to the bar.

The bartender—a ruddy-faced ginger with a prosperous belly—grinned at her. “Abby. How’s life at the top?”

She shook her head and grinned back. “Still miserable. How’s life at the bottom?” She reached over with both hands to shake his meaty paw. “I brought somebody to meet you.” She turned to Otto. “This here’s the guy who figured out what was going on with security.”

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won a million credits. “Otto Krugg? Here?” He reached across the bar. “Can I shake your hand, Mr. Krugg?”

Otto laughed and shook. “Just Otto.”

“This overly dramatic SOB is Gideon Davenport—owner, scallywag, and part-time bartender,” Abby said.

“Pshaw,” Gideon said. “You know how many of my people got tagged by those twerps?” He scowled at her. “And what did you do about it?”

Abby sighed. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Gideon. I should have known better. I apologize.”

He shrugged. “That tide’s gone, new one’s comin’. It was a tense few months.”

“They won’t be bothering you anymore,” she said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gideon said.

“You’ll drink to anything,” one of the fisherman propped up down the bar said, eliciting a round of laughter.

“What can I get ya?” Gideon asked, waving down the crowd.

“What’s the special tonight?” she asked.

“Al’s got a killer fish stew coming, and I think he’s baking some fillets.” He eyed a chrono over the bar. “We’ll start serving in a bit. Want a beer while you wait?”

Abby raised an eyebrow at Otto. “Fancy a pint?”

“If I have a beer now, I’ll probably keel over. Got tea?” he asked.

“Long day?” Gideon asked.

“Started it in Starvey Bay,” Otto said. “Long flight. My body thinks bedtime was two stans ago.”

Abby’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Otto. I didn’t think of that.”

He shrugged it off. “A cup of tea would be just fine right now.”

Gideon nodded and waved a server over. “Chuck, set them up at four, would you?”

The server nodded. “Sure thing. This way?” He led them through the sparse crowd to a quiet corner in the back. “Tea for you?” he asked, looking at Otto.

“Yes, please.”

“Abby?”

“Same,” she said. “Thanks, Chuck.”

He smiled and nodded, disappearing through a flappy door beside the end of the bar.

“Thank you, Otto,” she said. “I didn’t think far enough ahead.”

“It’s not a problem. I’d rather get things started sooner rather than later. You may need to remind me of some of the names and faces.” He grinned.

Chuck returned almost immediately with the tea. “If you know what you want, I’ll make sure you get served first.”

“I liked the sound of the stew,” Abby said.

Otto nodded. “Same.”

Chuck grinned. “Al says another ten ticks or so and he’ll be ready.”

“We can wait that long, I think,” Abby said.

Benny moved on to the next table, leaving them in a bubble of quiet.

Otto took a sip of tea and settled back against the padded booth. He felt himself unwinding, the tension leeching from his body.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

“About what?”

“Whatever. Gresley was beyond rude. I plan on ripping a strip off his carcass in the morning. You handled him better than I would have.”

Otto shrugged. “Don’t get too down on him on my account. In his position, I might be asking the same questions.”

“How are you going to get twenty new jobs here in a few weeks?”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just the shaman. I can’t hire people.” He smiled at her, wondering if she’d take the logical step.

She frowned at him for a several long moments. “What am I going to hire them to do?” she asked. “Without more product, I can’t expand the production lines or add support staff. I can’t get two new hulls in less than a quarter, let alone a few weeks. They need a lot of gear. Skippers. Deck hands. Even if I could get the hulls, I don’t have the people. I’d just be robbing one boat to outfit another.”

“You can’t get new draggers,” Otto said. “I don’t think Angela Pirano herself could get that many on short notice.”

She frowned at him. “You gonna share or are you going to play the mystical shaman all night?”

“Before I left, I talked to my mother.”

“Yeah. Crabbing. You said that.”

“Crabber needs cheap utility hulls. Standard load-out’s on the company database. They can print the hulls in less than a day. Traps use a different printer and have an assembly time.”

“What are you saying? I just order ten crabbers?” she asked.

“No. Twenty jobs. Each crabber needs two. Each bait line needs two. You’re working what? One bait and six crabbers now?”

She nodded. “Good memory. The bait crew is struggling to keep up with demand.”

“If it were up to me, I’d bring in eight crabbers and two of the utility boats for bait lines.” He shrugged. “Twenty new jobs.”

“We don’t have the people for that.”

“Wanna bet?” he asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What’s that kid’s name? The one that took my bags?”

“Rory?”

“Yeah. Him. He have any experience on the water?”

“Almost everybody here has at least some,” she said.

“Split the six crews you have now. Put one of the experienced people in charge of the boats. You only need twelve people like Rory to fill in the crews.”

“What about the other two boats?”

“Get the word out that you’re looking for experienced fishermen. Same for the bait lines. Split them up. Teach the next generation to run long-lines and crab. Give them some water experience. When you order the new draggers, you’ll have people to put on them.”

She sat back and reached for her tea. She never took her eyes off him. “You make it sound so easy.”

He shook his head. “Not easy. Some will jump on it and realize that it’s still a lot of hard work. Some will stick with it. Some won’t. If you only have people to crew twelve new boats—or ten—that’s what you crew. The question isn’t how efficient you are with the boats. A spare boat costs you almost nothing, doesn’t it?”

She nodded as her brow furrowed.

“Open jobs mean you have the capacity to hire more people.” He grinned. “I never promised Gresley twenty new hires. Only twenty new jobs.”

She froze, her hand on her mug as her eyes slowly widened. “You’re crazy.”

“Quite likely,” he said. “But that’s not one of the symptoms.”

Chuck cruised out of the kitchen with a tray balanced on one hand. He doled out utensils and bowls of fish stew. He ended with a towel-covered basket that smelled of fresh bread. “Anything else?” he asked. “Warm up on the tea?”

Otto nodded. “I’ll take a little more.”

Abby nodded, too.

“Be right back.” He bustled off.

“They’ll never approve it,” she said.

“Who?” Otto asked. “The council?”

She nodded and reached for the basket of bread. “They’ve always blocked any effort to expand the number of boats.” She pulled the towel back and offered the basket to Otto.

He took a slice and put it on the side of his bowl. “Don’t ask them,” Otto said. “You’re Pirano here.” He slapped some butter onto the bread and gave it a moment to melt in. “Besides, what boats did you ask for?”

She paused, bread halfway to her mouth. “Draggers.”

He shrugged. “You have to ask for utility boats?”

“Never have in the past.”

“How’d you get six crabbers?”

“Word of mouth. Everybody out there now is there because they saw somebody crabbing and wanted to do it, too.”

He shrugged. “So? You’re just getting ahead of the curve.”

She took a bite of bread and chewed, staring off into the distance. “Are there enough crabs?”

Otto nodded. “I suspect you’ve got enough crabs within five kilometers of the harbor to keep fifty boats going. You’ve got six.”

“All this from a chat with your mother?” she asked dipping into the stew.

“Well, she’s one of the senior product analysts for Pirano. She thinks Finwell Bay could be the anchor for a new fleet of crabbing boats. St. Cloud’s only been scratching the edges of a trillion-credit market.”

Abby’s eyes widened. “Crabs?”

Otto shrugged and addressed his own bowl of stew, redolent with spices and fish. It smelled heavenly and tasted even better. “You said it yourself. You could sell every claw you catch. She agrees with you, but she’s looking at interstellar markets.”

“Why isn’t somebody already doing it?”

“Most don’t have the fishery that we do here,” he said. “The water’s good. We don’t have any competition for a hundred kilometers on either side.”

She grinned at him.

“What?” he asked. “What’s that look?”

“You said ‘we.’”

He shrugged. “What else would I say? I live here now, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Finwell Bay: May 25, 2352

Otto spent the morning measuring the cottage. The place echoed strangely—not just the sounds of his footsteps in the empty rooms, but in his head. He drew the floor plan on his peeda with rough dimensions before hiking back over the headland to the company stores warehouse. Abby had given him an unlimited budget but only so much would fit. He picked out a couple of beds, basic kitchen appliances, and furniture. He chose a relatively small but sturdy kitchen table and matching chairs. The place was too small for a separate living room so he didn’t need a couch. He’d need a workbench and a stove for the shop. That would have to wait until he had the place livable.

“That all?” the attendant asked.

Otto went through his list and nodded. “Am I overlooking something?”

She shrugged. “Most people pick up an easy chair or two. Some kind of entertainment unit.”

“It’s a pretty small place.”

She nodded. “Some advice?”

“Sure.”

She pointed to his floor plan. “Kitchen here. Table here. Galley style. Push the table against this wall. Leaves most of the floor free unless you throw a dinner party.” She grinned. “I got a nice sectional that would go in that corner. Put a desk here with a screen on it and you can connect to the company net. Useful for weather if nothing else.”

Otto recognized the layout as similar to his mother’s workstation. He’d not had much use for the screen after Sarah left, but had to admit the suggestion made a great deal of sense. He’d need that unit to order from the chandlery. How had he not thought of it? “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. I was so focused on getting a bed to sleep in and enough kitchen to make breakfast, I hadn’t really thought beyond it.”

She laughed. “If there’s something that doesn’t work out, you can always return it for something else. No need to get it all today.”

“It’s a lot of work for you. I’d like to get it right the first time.”

“Not to worry. Not much going on right now. Middle of the season. Not too many people moving in or out.”

“What did my predecessor have out there?”

She rolled her eyes. “A huge bed. Table so big it only went through the door in pieces. Came out the same way. We made trips out there at least once a month.”

“I’ll try to keep my demands to a minimum.”

“Mr. Krugg, you’d have to work a lot harder just to come up to the standard employee’s demands. Half of them don’t even come in with a floor plan, let alone an idea of what they want.”

“Good to know,” he said. “You don’t have to float their furniture around the point in a boat, do you?”

She laughed. “No. That’s true. We don’t.” She looked at her tablet. “So? Anything else you can think of?”

He shook his head. “That’ll do, I think.”

“We’ll have this stuff around the point this afternoon. Tide’s coming in and we’ll want to use that to get as close as we can.”

“I’ll be able to sleep there tonight, then?”

She pursed her lips and frowned at the tablet. “Maybe. Probably. The bed should go in without any trouble. It’ll need assembly but the crew will handle that. Appliances just need to be plugged in. They’re all standard sizes, even out there. Not like you’re filling a four-bedroom house.” She shrugged. “Linens? You’ll want to get some bedding. Some basic cooking gear and a few dishes. Chandlery has all that, although I suspect you’re bringing some over from your last place?”

He nodded. “My household goods from Cape Grace will be here in a few days.”

“Good enough to camp out there until they arrive, I should think.” She smiled. “Depending on how comfy you want to be. Not like you’re off in the wilderness, a day’s ride from civilization.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I’m sure it’ll feel that way sometimes.”

“That’s a cute little place,” she said. “When my spouse is around, we take walks out there sometimes. Hope that won’t bother you.”

“It’s a long beach. Plenty of room for everybody in town, I think.”

She laughed and turned back toward the office. “You say that now. You may have to put up a fence to keep the tourists out. Come on. Let’s get this order placed and I’ll get my gang to work.”

He followed her back to her neat cubby. Tourists?

* * *

The crew—three men and two women—left him with a fully functional cottage and leads for getting a stove and workbench for the shop. They’d beached a barge just before high tide and pulled all the furniture off, stacking it just outside the cottage so the utility boat could pull the barge out while they worked to plug in, turn on, assemble, and otherwise turn the empty cottage into a home.

“Just tell us where you want it,” the supervisor had said. “We’ll handle it.” She smiled and pointed him to one of the chairs sitting outside the door. “Plant yourself, Mr. Krugg. This will go much faster if we’re not working around you.”

He’d taken his assigned seat and watched as the team worked.

In less than an hour, she came for his chair while the rest of the team swept the floors, gathered the extraneous pieces, and made the place presentable. “We’re ready for your inspection.”

He stood and followed her inside. He smiled, seeing the image in his mind brought to life. A quick pass through the rooms took almost no time. “Wonderful.”

She offered the tablet. “If you’d thumb the receipt, we’ll get out of your hair.”

He thumbed and they all left, streaming up over the trail on the headland toward town. After the activity of the afternoon, the silence descended all at once. All he heard was the wind in the trees and the quiet wash of waves on the sand. He stood in the open door and breathed deep, feeling knots of tension beginning to loosen in his back and shoulders.

He went to the shop and grabbed the bedding he’d picked up at the chandlery. He’d ordered supplies for delivery but he could sleep in his own bed, even if he had to go to town for dinner and breakfast. He found himself smiling as he made up the bed and smoothed the covers.

A dusky evening had fallen by the time he got done with the bedding and walked around his new house a few times. He stood in the kitchen for a few moments, eyes closed, listening to the world. The steady beat of the town just touched the edge of his mind. He wrapped the sense of peace around himself, a blanket to warm the cold stone that he’d carried in the pit of his stomach since that horrible day.

He heard footsteps approaching and clicked on the outside light. When he opened the door, Abby stood with a bag in one hand and a smile.

“Housewarming,” she said, holding up the bag. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, come in.” He stepped back from the door and ushered her in.

She stopped just inside the door and smiled as she surveyed the interior. “Came together nicely.”

“Thanks. I’m expecting a chandlery order tomorrow, but I’ve got a place to sleep.”

“I brought food.” She placed the bag on the counter and started pulling take-out boxes from it. “Crab cakes and slaw, courtesy of my sister. Some hand-thrown tea cups from the potter whose partner had run-ins with the rogue security officers.” She pulled out a small pasteboard box. “And tea. From me. Welcome to your new home.”

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow when I have a kettle,” he said, grinning and tamping down a fleeting embarrassment from not having thought of bringing one from the chandlery with his linens.

“Fair deal.” She filled the cups with cold water from the faucet.

They settled at the table with the boxes of food and some disposable utensils. He dove into the still-warm crab cakes, suddenly aware of how long it had been since lunch.

“So how are you finding it so far?” Abby asked.

He took a sip of water and smiled, his initial hunger satisfied for the moment. “Everyone seems pretty friendly.” He looked around the cottage. “It’s familiar and yet not.”

“You’ve got a lot of functionality in a small space here.”

“The woman at the stores warehouse helped me sort it out. The cottage at Cape Grace was a lot bigger but this just feels right.”

“Not weirded out by the floorplan?”

He looked around again, shaking his head. “No. It’s been a long time since I lived there. It felt a little funny at first. I think because it was empty. Now?” He shrugged and picked up another crab cake. “Now, it’s looking like somebody lives here.” He took a satisfying bite of the crab.

“You figure out what to do about the shed?” she asked, scraping the last of her slaw from the little tub.

“The stores crew left me with some leads. Stove should be easy. There must have been one out there before. The roof has a cut-out for the chimney.”

“What about the bench?”

“I don’t need much. A solid slab of wood and a few cans.” He shrugged. “I’ll make do.”

“What do you use the bench for?” she asked. “I’ve always had this image of shamans sitting around whittling sticks.”

“The inlay work needs a solid foundation to work on. The shell is really hard.”

“You cut it with a knife?”

He shook his head. “My father used a little grinding tool. The chips are really small, flakes, really.”

“What do you use?”

He grinned. “Hammer.”

Her eyes went wide and she laughed. “Hammer?”

He shrugged. “Break them up. A bit of diamond sandpaper on the sharpest edges. I’ve a pair of pliers to hold the flakes so I can shape them. Carving the wood to hold them is the challenge.”

She chuckled. “My image of shamans is being changed every day with you.”

“We’re just people,” he said. “Some have the gift. Some have the title. A few have both.”

“That sounds like something Flanagan would say.”

“I think I heard it from him.”

“Not from your father? He’s a shaman, too, right?”

“Yeah. Otherwise I’d have been a fisherman.” Otto picked the last crab cake out of the box. “He had the title but came into his gift later in life.” He popped the cake into his mouth, savoring the flavor of the flaky meat and seasonings. “These are really good. What’s she use for spices?”

“Not sure. She claims it’s an old family recipe, but my father never made crab cakes like these.”

“You grew up here?”

“Yeah, Mom retired from Pirano ten stanyers ago. She ran the maintenance crew. I don’t think there’s anything she can’t fix.”

“She still live here?”

Abby shook her head. “She and Dad moved to Woontana when she retired. Bigger place. More things to do. She’s taken up painting. Water colors.”

“What’s your father do while she’s painting?”

“He’s taking it easy. Has a little boat and goes out fishing with a few of his cronies. A few of their friends all migrated at about the same time. I suspect they went to be with their friends.” She crumpled the paper and wrappings into a compact ball, dropping it in the trash by the sink. “There. I did the dishes for ya.” She grinned.

“Much appreciated,” he said.

Abby stood. “I should get back. Big day tomorrow.”

Otto walked her to the door. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we’re installing the new printers.” She grinned. “I’ve opened one of the warehouses to production. We’re going to start making crab traps.”

“Already?” he asked. “How’d you get that going so fast?”

“We’ve had a couple of printers in storage and a small warehouse we used for weatherization supplies before we started getting regular freight runs from Woontana. I found the plans in the Pirano network. We’ll print the frames from standard feed stock and see how it goes. Just a prototype operation for now.”

“You ordered the boats?”

She nodded. “Last night. A utility hull for the long liner along with another crabber.”

“They say how soon they’d have them here?”

“Next week.” She grinned.

“You break it to the council yet?”

“No. I’ll wait until they come into the harbor. I’ll need the harbor master to assign them space. The cat will be out of the bag by then.”

“How many people you going to have making traps?”

“Just a couple for now.”

“So, that’s what? Six new jobs in the first week?” Otto grinned at her. “You’re making me look really good here.”

She shook her head. “I never would have thought of it. Too much tunnel vision.”

“Chicken-egg,” Otto said. “It’s hard to let go.” He sighed, a stab in his own heart.

She gave him a long look. “Yeah,” she said. “Well.” She nodded. “Welcome to the town, Otto. I’m really happy with that damned Flanagan at the moment.”

He grinned and held the door for her. “I’ll do my best to keep him in your good graces.”

She laughed and walked off into the night, her footsteps blending with the sound of the waves, a shadow against the water.

He watched until he lost sight of her against the darker mass of the headland. He closed the door and clicked off the outside light. The house did feel warmer for having had a visitor. The crab cakes had been just as good as he remembered.

He looked around the cottage, trying to replay the memory of his mother’s kitchen against the reality and found he couldn’t, really. Only a few hours. Already he felt at home.

Already he felt like he could breathe again.

* * *

The quiet whoosh of surf on sand pulled Otto up out of a warm dream. The bare room seemed both strange and familiar. Sunlight filtered through the trees and patterned the wall. He lay there for a few moments listening to the sounds of the sea before his bladder convinced him that he should roll out and tend to business.

He wanted his tea but settled for a shower to wash the night off and some clean clothes to set him up for the day. A bounty of beach awaited his footsteps, exposed by the receding tide. It would be low in just a couple of stans and start back in, but he had time to get some breakfast before taking his first walk. He left the cottage and crossed the headland, the mild exercise warming his legs and getting his blood moving. It only took a few ticks to make his way to the diner on Fifteenth and find a seat.

The server—Benny—smiled when he came through the front door. “Hey, there, Otto. You’re here for good now, huh?”

“Looks like it,” he said, sliding onto a stool at the counter.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please. Ham and eggs, scrambled. Toast?”

“Coming right up.” Benny poured a mug of tea before going back to the kitchen.

Otto made a quick survey of the other patrons. A couple of young women sat with their heads together in a booth while another solitary diner held down a stool at the other end of the counter. None of them wore Pirano colors. The girls gave him a few glances but kept to themselves. The man stared at his breakfast as he methodically worked his way across the plate.

Otto sipped his tea and pondered the day ahead. A long walk, definitely. He wanted to get a stove and bench installed in the shop. His household goods would be a few days yet, but the chandlery had promised delivery of some basics. He’d be able to make tea. Perhaps he’d practice his bread-making skills. Abby would be putting together the crab pot prototypes. He could stick his head in later to see how it was going.

Benny put a plate filled with ham and eggs in front of him along with some utensils. “That’ll get you started right.”

Otto smiled his thanks and dug in. The smell of breakfast pulled the last of the morning cobwebs from his mind. It took him almost no time to inhale the ham and eggs, polish off the toast, and empty his teacup. He leaned back on the stool and flexed his shoulders.

Benny grinned at him. “You want to go around again?” He waved at the empty plate.

Otto chuckled. “No, that’s all right. Thank you. I want to get out on the beach this morning before the tide starts back in.”

Benny glanced at the chrono. “Low’s still an hour out. I’d say you had some time.”

“That’s what I figure, too.” He thumbed the tab and nodded his thanks.

The morning breeze carried the faint smell of fish and a little residual exhaust up from the harbor. The boats had gone out stans earlier, but he saw a utility boat making its way toward the harbor mouth, two people on deck—no more than shapes at that distance. The bait crew, no doubt.

As he made his way back to the cottage, he felt that mantle of peace descend on him again. He stopped only long enough to pull his battered gather bag out of one of the valises. In the bottom of the bag lay his favorite knife. He pulled it out and slipped it into his pocket. He might not get any carving done, but it felt right to take it along.

The pristine beach seemed to stretch out to the horizon. He pulled out his peeda and set a timer for one stan. Without a headland on the far end, the long beach could tempt him to keep walking. He’d have to learn where to stop or he might find himself too far away and have to race the tide home.

The sun hung well up in the sky as he began the trek eastward. His hat brim kept the worst of the glare out of his eyes, but he barely noticed as he started down the beach. Every few steps held new treasures. He kept his eyes open for a long straight stick but kept being drawn into the piles of wrack and weed. In a single tangle he found three good sticks, two whelkies, and a bundle of twine. He stuffed it all into his bag along with a couple of pieces of kindling. The beach had tons of firewood. He only needed to collect it. Without knowing when he might get a stove in the shed, he felt no pressure to start. Still, the thought of it made him throw a few sticks into the bag.

When the timer went off in his pocket, he turned to look back along his path. His footprints meandered back and forth across the high tide line but he’d barely gotten half a kilometer from the cottage. He could still make out the stonework peeking through the trees and undergrowth. Laughing at himself, he found a straightish stick about as long as his arm. He sank it into the sand, a signpost for his first day’s walk, before turning back toward the cottage. He could see piles of flotsam he’d missed on the outward leg, and his gather bag still had some room in it.

By the time he got back to the cottage, that bag fairly overflowed with the bounty. He hadn’t found a new staff, but he felt the easy tiredness that came from a long, successful walk. Part from being windblown and sunbaked, but mostly from being in the world for a time without consideration for past or future, only now. His whole body felt alive, his legs tired but his lungs filled with fresh air, his heart pulsing steadily.

He dumped his bag out on the ground by the door and started sorting the bounty into piles. Overhead, the wind sighed in the trees, punctuated by the regular beat of the waves against the headland.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Finwell Bay: May 26, 2352

The chandlery had no stoves in stock, or more precisely, none of the small units Otto wanted for the shop. When the sales associate showed him a catalog of options, none of the choices looked small enough. He left unsatisfied and more than a bit frustrated.

He checked his notes about the bench and set his course for the northwest corner of town. The sound of a power saw drew him toward the carpenter shop—a large garage-like structure with a roll-up door at the front. A sign above the door proclaimed Ursula Ramsbottom, Custom Carpentry. A woman wearing heavy work boots and coveralls over a black T-shirt stood at a table saw, her attention focused on the piece of lumber working across the blade. Otto waited until she’d finished the cut and turned off the machine before stepping into the open doorway. The spicy scent of fresh-cut wood filled his head and tangled in his heart.

She looked up from the wood and nodded. “Mornin’. Can I help you?”

“Good morning. I’m Otto Krugg, the new shaman. I need a workbench built.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That so? What kind of workbench?”

“Has to fit in the end of my shop. Maybe a meter deep. Two wide. Has to be solid.”

She nodded. “How soon you want it?”

He shrugged. “How soon can you make it?”

“This is my busy season,” she said. “Be at least a couple of weeks.”

“Long as I have it by the time snow flies, I’m fine,” Otto said.

She nodded. “How fiddly do you want it?”

“Fiddly?”

“Any cabinets, drawers, cubby holes. That kind of thing?”

He laughed. “A single solid slab would do it. I need a place to work on inlays and it has to be solid.”

She pointed to a rectangular bench at the back of the shop. “Like that?”

Otto crossed to it and looked it over. He put his weight onto his arms and pressed down. “Yeah. Like this.”

“Price any object?”

He grinned. “Of course.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. What’s your budget?”

“A couple hundred credits?”

“A hundred would be more than enough,” she said. “Custom built?”

He nodded. “You’ll need to come see the spot. Measure.”

“Any time good?”

“High tide,” he said. “I’m likely to be out on the beach otherwise.” He shrugged. “The shop’s not locked. Help yourself. I want it built along the short wall opposite the door.”

“After dinner tonight?” she asked. “You don’t walk in the dark, do you?”

He laughed. “That would work. Like 1900?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I can do that. Sooner I have the work in the queue, the sooner I’ll get it done.”

“See you this evening, then,” Otto said. He turned to the door.

“Hey,” she said.

He turned back.

“You don’t want to see any references? Examples of my work?”

He looked around the tidy shop. The workbenches. The cabinets. The carefully maintained tools. He smiled. “I think I already have.”

She grinned. “Krugg, right?”

“Sorry. Yes. Otto Krugg.”

She held out a hand. “Ursula. Welcome to town.”

He felt the strength in her grip, not just her muscles but her character. She felt like an ancient tree. Her roots, deep in the land; her leaves, stretching to the sky. “Pleased to meet you.”

She nodded and smiled. “Likewise.”

He turned to leave again, but paused at the door to look at a small, round stove in the corner of the shop. A flue ran up the wall and through the roof. “Nice stove.”

She glanced at it. “Handy in the winter.”

“I need one of those, too. Where’d you get it?”

“Built it. Well—I designed it. Had a welder buddy put it together. Great for dealing with scraps of wood.” She grinned.

“Think he’d make me one? Little smaller?”

“Smaller?” she asked. “That’s made from a standard drum. What you thinking?”

“My shop’s not even a quarter this size in volume.”

She frowned at the stove and pursed her lips. “You got stone walls.” She nodded once. “I’ll take a look when I come over tonight.”

“Thanks. Much appreciated.”

She shrugged. “Happy to help.”

He left the shop as the saw started its whine again. At a bit of a loss, he sauntered back toward the cottage and the beach. The woman’s stove looked homemade, even crude. A metal drum with a door cut in the side. The roughness of it, the general aesthetic appealed to him. He really didn’t need anything fancy. His memory of the commercial models slowly slid away from the cast iron fittings and moved to something less fiddly, as she’d called it. Something that burned wood and produced heat. He chuckled at the idea of just starting a fire pit and opening the hole in the roof.

As he meandered diagonally across the town, the idea grew on him. A fire pit and a hole would be neither safe nor efficient, but a simple stove? He nodded to himself.

* * *

His chandlery order arrived on the afternoon tide. Two workers in Pirano coveralls towed grav pallets from a beached barge up the slope to his front door. They grounded the pallets outside and helped him carry the goods in. For the rest of the afternoon he unpacked his new cooking gear and supplies. He grinned when he pulled out the two hand lines with packages of weights and hooks.

He celebrated by brewing the first pot of tea and sorting the contents of his gather bag, using the cardboard boxes to hold the various materials until he could get a better system in place. If he needed to, he’d buy a couple of empty bait buckets. They made good storage for the loose sticks and kindling. With a mug of tea in hand, he stood in the open frame looking out over the receding tide. He breathed in the musky aroma of hot tea and felt the peace seeping into his being.

For the moment, he had nothing to do. Nowhere he needed to be. He considered the front of the cottage. Perhaps a chair where he could sit in the evening and have his tea. A place to carve when the weather permitted. It seemed a shame to hide away in the stone shop when such an inspiring view was right here. Just because that’s where he’d always carved didn’t mean that’s where he had to stay.

He breathed a contented sigh and sipped his tea.

* * *

Ursula knocked on his door just before sundown. She still wore the coveralls. Sawdust gleamed in the seams of her work boots and speckled her graying hair. She’d thrown on a jacket but smelled of wood and varnish. “Evenin’. I’ve come to see the shed.”

He laughed. As if she’d come for any other reason. “This way.” He led her back to the shed, swung the door open, and clicked on the light. “Not much to look at. My father has a shop just like it. I don’t necessarily want to recreate his but ...” He shrugged.

She nodded, almost absently, and pulled a tape measure out of one of the cargo pockets on her thigh. “So, across here?”

He nodded.

“Right up against the stone?”

He thought about that for a few heartbeats. “Your recommendation?”

“Free standing. Leave about two centimeters all around. Air space. Keep the wood longer.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Also gives me some room to work around the stones. Not like that’s a smooth wall.” She grinned at him. “How deep?”

He stepped up to the wall and extended his hands, palm out against the end wall. He shuffled back a half step or so. “About here.”

She nodded. “You want shelves or something up there?”

“If I can.”

She grinned. “You’re the client. You can have whatever you want. How to do it is my problem. How about under?”

“One shelf, just to keep stuff off the floor?” he asked.

“That’s what I’d do,” she said. “Something like that workbench in my shop?”

He nodded. “I really liked that.”

“Me, too,” she said, stepping back to look at the wall and around the floor as if measuring the overall dimensions. “You’ve got room for a nice little stove in here. Wouldn’t take much.” She looked up at the roof. “You want some skylights? Maybe something with some vents?”

He blinked and looked up at the roof above. “I never thought about it.”

She nodded and pointed. “This thing is built like a vault. Nice and tight but if you’re going to be in here, you might wanna have a little more natural light and a vent to let out excess heat and moisture.” She took the five steps needed to get outside and checked the directions. “Yeah. Long axis is about east-west. If we put three panels along the north side, you’d get some nice light and the solid roof would still face the onshore wind.”

Otto nodded. “What’s the cost on that?”

“Still under a hundred credits.” She squinted up at the roof. “Maybe a few credits over. Not more than one-ten. The silicate glazing is more expensive, but about ten times stronger than the next cheaper alternative. If it gets to be too much, we could do two and still get a nice amount of fresh air and light.”

“I like the sound of it.”

“You talked to Neil about a stove?”

Otto shook his head. “Thought I’d see what you had to say about the bench first.”

“Get him to come look before you buy anything.” She looked back inside the shed. “You can probably get away with something really small. He may have something in stock.” She surveyed the shop, walking all the way around it, looking up at the eaves of the roof and down at the concrete floor. “Yeah. Solid piece of work. Been here longer than I have and still sound.”

They drifted back to the front of the cottage. “Thanks for coming out.”

She nodded and stood there gazing out to sea. “My pleasure. Nice view.”

“Yeah. I like it.”

“Worried about storm surge?”

Otto measured the distance from the high-tide mark to his cottage with his gaze. “Not really. We’ve got a couple of meters extra rise. That’s going to take a heck of a storm to reach me and if it gets that bad, being in town won’t help.”

She chuckled. “Probably true.”

He glanced at the cottage. “It’s pretty solid. Even if it gets flooded, I can’t see it being swept away. Contents might be ruined but that’s just things. We can replace things.”

She nodded and held out a hand. “I’ll have a bench for you in a couple of weeks,” she said. “We’ll need some parts for the skylights. I’ll order the sheets of silicate from Woontana and we’ll fab up a couple units. Do all the work at the same time.”

“Thank you. I’ll see Neil tomorrow.”

“I’ll stop by and let him know what we’re doing,” she said. “We can probably do all the work at the same time. Save ya some time and bother.”

He shrugged. “Nothing much to bother me out here.”

She grinned and looked around. “It’s real peaceful, isn’t it.”

“It is that.”

With a nod she headed back down the path to the beach. “I’ll let you get on with the evening,” she said.

Otto watched her go. Interesting character. Certainly seemed to know her craft. He went back to the shed to close it up and shut off the light. He looked up at the inside of the roof. He’d never thought of having skylights. The more he pondered, the better he liked the idea. With a shrug, he secured the shop and returned to the house.

Her comment on storm surge echoed in his head, and he made a mental note to ask Abby about emergency measures. He knew she had them—just not where he fit into them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Troy Harbor: June 1, 2352

Angela stepped off the tram at Troy Harbor after a long day’s ride west from the office. Her butt felt pinched from the hard seats. She wanted a cup of coffee and something to eat before she tried to track down Edwin Montgomery. Looking around the deserted platform and out at the village beyond, she realized she could almost count the houses. A blocky building with the Pirano Fisheries logo emblazoned on the side hunkered down at the end of a single stone pier.

The onshore breeze brought hints of summer along with the scent of coffee and bacon. She followed her nose down the steps and onto the street leading into town. A weathered sandwich board on the sidewalk a few meters ahead touted “Fresh Coffee! Made Weakly!”

She laughed, the sudden surprise breaking up the tension in her shoulders. A jingly bell above the door announced her presence when she entered. She paused a moment to let her eyes adjust from the bright afternoon sun, taking in the tidy dining room—half a dozen tables and a counter. All four women inside looked up at her.

The one sporting a clean white bib apron behind the counter nodded. “Howdy. What can we do ya for?”

“Coffee? Food?” Angela said.

“Got both,” the woman said. “Have a seat. Don’t matter where.”

Angela crossed to the counter and perched on one of the stools in the middle. The menu board above the serving area listed some soups and sandwiches.

The woman brought a clean mug and the coffee pot to her, filling the cup on the counter. “Need anything in it?”

“Black is good,” Angela said. “What’s the specialty?”

The woman nodded, a broad grin splitting across her face. Close up, she looked a lot older than Angela had first thought. “Stews and chowders, mostly. Good and filling and I can make ’em in big batches. I’m Eunice, by the way. Eunice Winston.”

“I’m Angela. What’s your favorite?”

One of the three women around a table in the corner tittered and Eunice put the pot back on a warming plate. “None of ’em anymore. I eat here all the time and they’re all about the same to me. Soup’s good today. Chicken stew. Fresh bread. Usual kinds of sandwiches. Nothing fancy.” She shrugged. “Got pie and ice cream for dessert.”

“That stew sounds good,” Angela said.

The woman nodded. “Get it right up for ya.”

Angela glanced over to find the ladies at the corner table giving her the once-over as they huddled over knitting needles and crochet hooks. She smiled and nodded to them but returned to her coffee mug.

Eunice returned almost immediately with a heavy white china bowl filled with a stew that had Angela’s mouth watering just from the aroma. A small plate with a couple of slices of steaming bread took its place beside the bowl. “Enjoy,” Eunice said.

Angela dug into the bowl, surprising herself with how quickly she worked through the bowl and the degree to which it kept her attention. She looked up to see Eunice smiling at her.

“You were either really hungry or you liked the stew.”

Angela pushed a napkin across her lips, feeling a little self-conscious. “Well, it’s been a long time since breakfast, but that was fantastic stew. I’m surprised you don’t have people waiting for seats.”

Eunice looked around the nearly deserted dining room and gave a half-shrug. “We get busy at breakfast. It’ll pick up a little later when the boats start comin’ in.” She nodded at the three in the corner. “They keep me busy between.”

“We’re the only people in town not workin’ on boats or takin’ care of wee ones,” one of the ladies said, raising a mug in salute. “Although Betty’s last will be fishin’ by mid-summer. She’ll be joining us soon enough.”

A round of nodding agreement met that last statement.

Eunice took away the empty bowl and freshened up Angela’s coffee. “Dessert? Pie? Cake? Got some ice cream in the freezer.”

Angela settled down with her coffee and shook her head. “Not for me, but thanks.”

Eunice nodded and cozied up to the counter. “So? What can I do for ya?”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Do for me?”

“We don’t get many outsiders here. Troy Harbor isn’t ’zactly the social hub of the eastern reach, if you know what I mean.”

Angela nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“So?” Eunice asked. “What can I do for ya?”

“I’m looking for a shaman,” Angela said.

“Here?” Eunice asked. “Why?”

“I need to talk with him about being a shaman.”

Eunice’s open smile faded into a tightly closed frown. “Son of the shaman is a shaman. Everybody knows that.”

Angela nodded. “So I’ve been told.” She took a sip of coffee and looked into Eunice’s eyes. “What do you think about that rule?”

Eunice glanced at the three ladies in the corner who’d suddenly gone very, very still.

Angela saw when Eunice made up her mind from the hardening around her eyes when she looked back at Angela.

“Made by men. Works for men,” Eunice said.

“Doesn’t make it right,” Angela said. “I need to see Monty.”

Eunice’s eyes widened just a little, a quick flash of surprise. “Monty?”

“Edwin Montgomery? I’ve been led to believe that he’s the shaman in Troy Harbor. Isn’t he?” She glanced at the table in the corner and into the three blank-looking faces staring back. “Was I misled?”

Eunice said, “He’s got a cottage. Near the headland east of the dock. I doubt he’s there now.”

“Where is he?”

“This time of day, the tide’s right for him to be walkin’ the beach,” Eunice said.

Somebody in the corner took a sharp breath loud enough for everybody to hear.

“Which beach?” Angela asked. “I could use some exercise.”

Eunice shrugged. “There’s a short beach east of the dock. Runs up to the headland and then a longer one on the other side.” She paused, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “Who’d you say you were again? Angela what?”

“I didn’t say,” Angela said. “But it’s Pirano.”

Eunice’s eyes widened just the tiniest amount. “You took Jimmy’s place. You’re the new boss.”

Angela nodded. “That’s me.”

Eunice glanced at the ladies. Her tongue flickered across her lips. Nerves?

“Is that a problem?” Angela asked.

Eunice shook her head. “No. Not a problem. Your brother was here a few years ago askin’ the same questions.”

Angela sipped her coffee and let that statement settle into her head for a moment. “Asking about shamans?” she asked.

Eunice gave a little nod and glanced at the women in the corner before looking down at the towel in her fist. “Nothing came of it as far as I can see.”

“So? Monty? Is he out on the beach?” Angela asked.

“You fixin’ to walk out there to meet him?” Eunice asked.

Angela shrugged. “Might be. I didn’t exactly wear my walking shoes, but I could manage.”

“Why do you want him?” Eunice asked.

“I’m looking for some shamans,” Angela said. “Maybe you know who I mean.”

Eunice’s face closed around her frown. “I’m sure I got nothin’ to do with shamans or their business.” She pulled out a damp towel and started scrubbing down the counter, her whole attention focused on the spotless stretch of formica, her movements hard and jerky.

Angela drained her mug and slid it away from her side of the counter. She looked at the women in the corner. Only one of them, perhaps the eldest, looked her way. The other two seemed intently focused on the work in front of them. She weighed her next words carefully. “Just so you know, I’m not happy with the shaman rule.”

Eunice looked over from the corners of her eyes but didn’t stop the vigorous elbow-greasing.

Angela waited.

“Oh?” Eunice asked, after several long moments. “Last I heard, you want to get rid of shamans altogether.”

Angela shrugged. “The company might have thought so.”

Eunice stopped, her arm in mid-stroke. Her gaze came up to meet Angela’s as if she might be afraid of what she’d see. “Thought so?”

Angela nodded. “The company was wrong.” She paused. “We don’t need fewer shamans. We need more.”

The oldest woman at the table stood up and turned toward Angela, steadying herself with one hand on the tabletop. “What do you mean ‘more?’”

“Don’t you be starting anything, Annette Nelson,” Eunice said, an unexpected level of vehemence behind her words.

The old woman, Annette, gave Eunice a squint-eyed stare for a moment before drilling into Angela with her needle-sharp gaze. “What do you mean ‘more?’” she asked again.

“I mean all the women who can’t call themselves shaman now,” Angela said. “The ones that married the company rather than leave St. Cloud.” Her words seemed to hang in the sudden stillness. “The ones that took job in the pubs. And the diners.” She looked at Eunice.

“Why?” Annette asked. “What do you want them for?”

Angela looked from face to face, each woman appearing to hang on her next statement. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know how fast Inlet gossip makes its way out here,” she said.

“Faster than you,” Annette said. She grinned and it stole the sting out of her voice.

“Fair enough.” Angela looked at Eunice. “Can I get another coffee? This might take a while.”

Eunice nodded, tossed her cleaning rag into a sink under the counter, and refilled Angela’s cup. She turned to the ladies. “Anybody else need a refill?”

They all shook their heads.

Angela sipped the coffee. “Here’s the deal. The real deal,” she said. “We—the company—got audited a few weeks back.”

“We heard that much,” Annette said, settling back into her seat.

“We failed,” Angela said.

“We heard that, too,” Eunice said. “What’s it mean to us?”

“It means that unless we get some things fixed, we don’t keep the license for this system past 2363.”

“How can they evict us from a planet?” Eunice asked.

Angela shrugged. “I’ve never seen it happen. I’m doing everything I can to keep it from happening here, but they have the authority. I’m going on a basic assumption that the CPJCT would rather not have to spend the credits to kick us off because it’s cheaper for them if we keep paying.”

Nods circulated around the room.

“What’s that got to do with Monty?” Annette asked.

Angela sipped her coffee. “Honestly, I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to him.”

The ladies looked at each other.

Eunice spoke first. “You think Monty knows who the women shamans are.”

Angela shrugged. “I hope he’s not the only one, but yeah. I asked Flanagan. Flanagan said I should talk to Monty.”

“Jack?” Eunice’s voice cracked. “Why in the name of all the fish in the sea would Jack Flanagan tell you about Monty?”

Angela turned sideways on the stool, propping her elbow on the counter to face all of them more directly. “Because I’m changing the rule.”

“You can’t do that.” Annette shook her head and pursed her lips. “You need to change the contract.”

Angela nodded. “Probably. There might be other paths.”

“Do you have enough time?” Annette asked.

Angela shook her head. “No, but I might be able to get a rider to adjust the terms as they relate to shamans.”

“Don’t you need agreement from the shamans?” Annette leaned forward over the table, her gaze boring into Angela’s face.

“I do,” Angela said.

The woman reeled back in her chair. “What?”

“I said I do need agreement from the shamans.” Angela took a moment to look at every one of them. “All the shamans. Not just the men. I want the women to stop hiding. I want them all to stop having to scramble for a living or rely on the largesse of small communities.”

“How the hell are you going to do that?” Eunice asked.

“That’s the easy part,” Angela said, feeling the smile growing on her lips. “I’m going to hire them.”

“Hire who?” Eunice asked. “The shamans?”

“Yes.” Angela took a sip of coffee while that news sank in a bit. “If we change the rules so that shamans are not here because of some stupid misogynistic and arbitrary rule, but because they’re employees? Well, we can’t discriminate on the basis of gender identity. CPJCT licensing rules.”

“What are you going to hire them to do?” Annette asked. “Nothing personal but Pirano Fisheries is not known for throwing credits around just to feel good.”

Angela grinned. “It’s a good point and you’re right. We’re not. We expect—I expect that the shamans will do just what they’re doing now. They’re walking the beaches, carving whelkies. What do you call it? Hearing the land?”

“Listening to the world,” Annette said.

Every other eye in the place turned toward her.

“What?” she asked. “The cat is well and truly out of the bag. Ms. Pirano ain’t spinning yarn out of straw here.” She stared Angela in the eye. “You aren’t, are you.”

“No, I’m not.” Angela looked around, trying to get a read on the room. “We almost lost our license. It’s mostly just because one auditor dinged us for not having enough social workers.”

“What?” Eunice practically spit the word onto the counter. “You have to have social workers?”

“We have to have social workers,” Angela said, placing a solid emphasis on we. “It’s in the regs. It’s under the required ratio of support staff we need to keep everybody healthy and productive. It makes good sense from a business perspective, and it’s the right thing to do.” She shrugged. “We don’t have enough and haven’t for some time.”

Annette leaned forward again. “What do you mean by that? How many is not enough?”

Angela took a deep breath and let it out, organizing her thoughts around the question. “Lemme rephrase it and tell you the story you already know.” She paused until everybody gave a nod. “So, we’ve been following this ‘son of a shaman’ rule here—well, you’ve been following the rule. I just got here. But the rule has worked. Sorta kinda. The shamans have been filling in for the absent social workers. They don’t just walk around staring at driftwood and thinking pure thoughts.”

Annette laughed and nudged the red head on her right, who colored a bit around the neck and ears.

Eunice cleared her throat with purpose, staring hard at the group for a moment before looking back at Angela.

“The shamans have been the go-to people across the South Coast for as long as Pirano has been here. The reports are clear. Our administrators, from the biggest port to the smallest village, from the coastal fisheries to the farms and ranches to the smallest crofts in the hills—all of them have relied on the shamans to help manage when people need help.”

A series of small nods followed her words.

“And the shamans have always been there to help. Always. I’ve not found one instance where the company reached out when the shamans didn’t answer.” She sighed and took a swig of coffee. “I wish I could say the same for the company.”

They all stared at her, silent. Waiting her out.

“When women started petitioning to be shamans, we turned them down. ‘Son of the shaman is a shaman,’ we said.” She shook her head. “It’s written into the company policy. For almost a century we, the company, have said that only men can be shamans.” She shook her head again. “And here’s the problem. When we told the auditors that the shamans filled the role of social workers, they agreed. Then they charged us with slavery for not paying for the services we got.”

“That’s stupid,” Eunice said. “Volunteers aren’t slaves.”

Angela laughed. “That’s true, but volunteers can quit and walk away.” She looked Eunice in the eye. “Can a shaman stop being a shaman? Can they walk away?”

Eunice started at that, her eyes widening for a moment before she looked down and away. “I wouldn’t know,” she said.

Angela didn’t believe her but she let it go, looking at the women in the corner instead. “The auditors filed a complaint with CPJCT charging the company with slavery. CPJCT investigated. They know the situation here, so they dismissed the charge. What do you think?”

They looked around at each other for a few moments before Annette leaned forward again. “I think you’ve got a problem and you think we can help. What is it?”

“I need about eight thousand social workers. Official. There aren’t that many official shamans on St. Cloud according to Flanagan.”

“He’d know,” Annette said.

“And if I hire the men, I can’t not hire women shamans because that’s against the CPJCT regulations.”

“You think there are thousands of women shamans?” Eunice asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that for a while, now,” Angela said. “I’d be surprised if there weren’t.”

Annette shook her head. “You’re workin’ from the wrong end. Only some of the shamans have the gift. Others just have the title. There are a hell of a lot more men who inherited the title than who earned it.”

“You have numbers?” Angela asked, leaning forward, hoping to hear more about this distinction. “I’m new to St. Cloud. I’ve only been here a little while. Will you tell me more?”

“You said it yourself,” Eunice said. “Son of the shaman. Every shaman who had a son added a shaman. Not all shamans are the same. Some have scary levels of the gift. They know things. I don’t know how they know, but they do. They bless fleets and those fleets stay blessed. They can look at you and tell you’re under some kind of distress.” She bit her lips closed and pulled back, looking back at the floor. “That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”

“What kind of distress am I in?” Angela asked.

Eunice shook her head but didn’t look up. “I wouldn’t know. Don’t have the gift.”

“Don’t have the gift or don’t have enough of it?” Angela asked.

Eunice shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Pirano, but the company has never given me any reason to trust them about women and shamans.”

“Please, call me Angela, and I understand. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Eunice looked up at that.

“I try to really do what I say I’m going to do. I’m going to do my damnedest to get a program together to hire anybody who wants the job. The entry level position will be a trainee social worker. I’ve got people setting up a training program back at the inlet now. With time on the job, some formal training, workers will be able to work up the ladder just like on the boats or in the plants. The more you learn, the higher you go. I’m going to need supervisors, program coordinators, regional directors. You name it.” She stopped and looked around at each of them. “I don’t care if you’re a shaman, but I’m going to offer the job to shamans first because they’re the most at risk. If you just happen to be a woman who has a gift for carving little driftwood figures and empathy, well, I’ll hire you, too.”

The room was silent except for the low hum from one of the overhead lights.

“Does that sound fair?” Angela asked.

“You’re not going to tell the shamans how to do their job, are you?” Annette asked.

“No.” Angela pursed her lips and thought for a moment then shook her head. “I’m going to tell them how to do the social worker job. It’s what they’re doing already. I’ve got files full of reports from villages all over the planet. I’ll ask for some standard reports. I’ll remind them that there’s some confidentiality issues that need to be respected, but basically, if all a shaman—man or woman—wants to do is walk the beach and listen to the world, I’m still going to offer to hire them to be a social worker.”

“Why would you do that if you’re not going to put them in an office and tell them what to do?” Eunice asked.

Angela smiled. “Because being a shaman is a part of being a social worker on St. Cloud. I’d bet you credits to crullers that no shaman worth their salt could turn their back on a problem in their own village. You wanna take that bet?”

Eunice gave a small shrug and shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

Annette frowned. “Your brother couldn’t change the rule. What makes you think you can?”

“Jimmy didn’t have an emergency to deal with, did he? One way or another, I need eight thousand social workers. Since the shamans are doing the work, I need more shamans. Letting women have the title to go with their gifts?” Angela shrugged. “The Old Man can fight me on it, but he’s going to have to come out here himself to override or replace me.”

“Seems like you made up your mind,” Annette said. “Why do you need Monty?”

“I need to know how many women shamans he’s protecting.”

“Then what?”

“Then I know how many people I need to bring into St. Cloud to make our required head count before the license renews.”

“You’ve got a problem,” Eunice said.

“That being?” Angela asked.

“They’ve already got jobs. Or families,” Eunice said. “Why expose themselves now?”

Angela’s heart sank. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Annette slapped the table with her palm. “Don’t get all No-No-Nancy on us, Eunice. Just because you like what you do, don’t mean every woman shaman on the South Coast or up north is happy where they are. Ms. Pirano’s offering a good deal. ’Sides, think of all the housewives and cottage minders who would love a little extra income to be busy-bodies. They’re doing it for free now.” She laughed. “Might sign up myself. Don’t have to be a shaman to look out for your neighbor, do you?”

Angela shook her head. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“See, Eunice? Give it a chance,” Annette said.

“So, where can I find Monty?” Angela asked.

“He’s on the orbital today. He’ll be back in a couple days.” Eunice looked down at her hands.

The idea of a shaman on the orbital shifted Angela’s image of the shamans. “On the orbital?”

“Yeah.” Eunice scowled. “Don’t look at me like that. We may live halfway around the world in a podunk village but it’s not like we don’t travel.”

Angela shook her head. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just surprised he’d get so far from the beach.”

“Don’t know much about shamans then,” Annette said. “Up-country’s full of them. They’re not just here on the coast.”

“Fair enough,” Angela said. “I knew that. Just hadn’t thought it through.” She looked at Eunice again. “You have any idea when he’ll be coming back down?”

“Like I said. Couple of days. It’s almost a day’s tram from the shuttle port at Starvey Bay. He goes up one day, spends a day at the flea market. Two if it’s slow. Comes back the next day.”

“So you were just going to let me go wander the beach until I got fed up and left?” Angela asked.

Eunice shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

The frank honesty startled a chuckle out of Angela. “Why?”

“I don’t generally trust strangers. We don’t get many and those we do?” Eunice shrugged, her lips flattening into a line.

“So,” Angela said, filling the silence with the single syllable. “I’ll catch him at the shuttle port. We can have a little chat, just the two of us.” She looked at the women in the corner for a moment, weighing their gazes. “Here’s the straight scoop. I need to hire a lot of social workers to satisfy CPJCT. I’m setting up a planet-wide infrastructure and starting a training program. I’m paying CPJCT scale for anybody who wants the jobs and I’m giving first priority to shamans because I want to keep them here. All shamans,” she said. “Even those who don’t have the title. The days when women are forced off the planet for having the gift are over. I wouldn’t take that kind of discrimination and I’m not going to allow my company to play that game anymore. I’ll tell Monty that when I see him. Whether he believes me or not, I can’t do anything about.” She shrugged. “But I’m putting Pirano’s money where my mouth is. The shamans will have to judge whether or not I’m serious.”

“If you’re going to do it anyway, why do you need Monty?” Eunice asked, a solid challenge in her eyes.

“Because I hope to convince him to spread the word through his network. If I can convince him that it’s legit, hearing the news from him will carry a lot more weight than hearing it from me.” Angela shook her head. “It’s a dumb rule. It shouldn’t be in place, and by all that’s holy, I’m going to change it.”

Eunice nodded then glanced at the trio in the corner. “Well? You got something to say?”

Annette raised her mug in a toast. “Here’s to a new chapter in the story of St. Cloud. Figgers it would take a woman to finally put this right.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Starvey Bay: June 5, 2352

Angela waited in the terminal for Montgomery to disembark. The onshore wind had felt good after the heat of the day, but she didn’t want to take the chance that she’d miss Monty.

The shuttle made its way to the ramp and the pilot killed the engines. The ground crew made all the connections and after a few moments, people started streaming into the terminal.

Angela leaned against the wall and watched as the parade passed her. He wasn’t the last one off, but most of the passengers had disappeared into the terminal before he stepped through the door. He glanced both ways as he came into the concourse, almost as if he expected to be run over by passersby. Or maybe picked up by security. She wasn’t sure.

Angela straightened up and stepped in front of him. “Excuse me, but you’re Edwin Montgomery, aren’t you?”

He stopped and took half a step backward. “Yes. Can I help you?”

She stuck out a hand. “Angela Pirano. I’d like to talk to you if you’ve got a tick?”

He gave her a sour frown but shook her hand. “What relation are you to Jimmy?”

“Replacement,” she said. “Why?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Yeah. I figgered that much. What are you, his sister?”

Angela blinked a couple of times, resetting her brain. “Half-sister. Why do you want to know?”

“He didn’t tell you anything before he hauled ass out of here?”

She shook her head. “We passed at the flitter pad. He was leaving on the same ship that brought me.”

“Figgers.” Monty’s sour look relaxed a little. He looked up at the ceiling, before blowing a loud breath through his pursed lips. He looked back at her. “I heard you’d been asking for me at Troy Harbor. Something about giving women the shaman title?”

Angela nodded. “More like hiring all the shamans I can find to be social workers, but basically. You’re eligible for the program, in case they didn’t mention it.”

He nodded back at her. “Yeah. They mentioned it. What if I don’t wanna work for the company?”

“Then you go back to Troy Harbor and I hire one of the women there to be the social worker. Maybe Annette Nelson.”

“Eunice Winston would be a better choice. My grandmother is dialed in but she’s a bit—” He paused and chewed on whatever he was going to say for a moment. “She’s a bit biased when it comes to the company. She’s also pushing toward her second century.”

“Your grandmother?”

Monty nodded and the hint of a grin twitched the side of his mouth. “Jimmy didn’t tell you?”

Angela tamped down a growing impatience. “Jimmy didn’t tell me anything. I had to get the keys to his apartment from his assistant. If it hadn’t been for Tony Spinelli, I wouldn’t have known where my office was.”

Monty bit his lips between his teeth. “Well, Aunt Angie. You and I have a lot to catch up on. Fancy a cup of tea?”

His words slapped her in the brain pan. “What?”

Monty grinned and nodded. He took a deep breath and looked around at the few people still in the terminal. “Perhaps we might find someplace a little quieter? This is going to be hard for you to take in, and I know I want to sit down for it. It may take a while.”

“What’s this Aunt Angie crap?” she asked.

Monty nodded toward the exit. “Unless you want this spread all over the newsies by tonight, I’d suggest we adjourn. There’s a nice little tea room just around the corner.” He started walking, giving her a glance as if to say “you coming?”

Angela fell into step with him. “Do you have a bag?”

“Yeah. As it happens I do.” He kept glancing at her as they walked. “We can stop on the way.”

Angela sighed. “You’re going to make me drag this out of you?”

“Years ago and miles away,” he said. “Not quite once upon a time, but it’ll have to do. A young woman met a dashing man who swept her off her feet. In the way of such things, a child was born.” He glanced at her with one raised eyebrow.

“You’re serious,” Angela said, his words slotting into place with a devastating finality.

“Oh, very serious.” Monty scanned his luggage tag and claimed a battered green canvas satchel. “Come on. I need tea and maybe a sandwich.”

He led her out of the terminal and into a nearly empty tea shop around the corner. The place smelled of teas, floral and tannic aromas blending together in a heady whole.

Monty turned to her. “You want anything?”

Angela shook her head. “Information.”

He nodded and looked at the young man behind the counter. “Breakfast blend, Davy. Do you have any of the blueberry scones?”

Davy nodded. “Coming up, Monty.” He looked at Angela. “Ma’am? Nothing for you?”

“Coffee?” she asked.

“I have a pot in the back,” Davy said. “Something with it? Chocolate cookie?”

Monty nudged her. “Go on. You know you want it.”

The unexpectedness of it drove a laugh from her. “All right. Yes.”

Davy smiled and waved at the nearly empty room. “Pick a place. I’ll be right out.”

Monty led them to a small table in the corner, settling his luggage behind his chair and taking a seat.

Angela sat opposite and stared at him. Now that he’d said it, she saw the familiar nose bump and the shape of his eyes. If she squinted a little, she might mistake him for Jimmy.

He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, I thought I’d have to work harder to convince you.”

She shook her head but Davy interrupted her by delivering their order.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

Monty nodded and Davy wandered off.

Angela took a sip of the coffee and nibbled the edge of the cookie before answering. “Jimmy knew this story?”

Monty shrugged. “Part of it. He told me we were related. I can appreciate your current inner turmoil.” He grinned as he took a slurping sip of his tea. “I took my grandmother aside and got her to spill the rest.”

“So what? Your father? He’s no longer with us?”

Monty shook his head. “Dead and gone since I was a sprat. He and my mother both. I hardly remember them. Nanna Nelson raised me.”

“Your father was the first shaman,” Angela said.

Monty shrugged. “Your father’s doing.”

“You know how it came about?”

Monty sighed. “You’d have to ask my grandmother but I don’t know if she’d tell you. All I’ve been able to get out of her is that she and your father had a falling out after my father was born.” He sipped his tea and seemed to weigh her with his gaze. “Your father was a bit of a tom cat.”

“Still is as far as I can tell,” Angela said. “His coffin better not have any knotholes.”

Monty nearly spit his tea.

Angela held her coffee cup between her palms. “So, my father and your gran had a thing. They had a fight after your father was born. Then what?”

“My father was on one of the spectrums. Autism, probably. I don’t know. What I do know is that, as a young man, he wasn’t going to be getting a job with the company before he got booted off.”

Angela shook her head, hoping that the pieces of the puzzle might fall into place.

“So, what? The rule was there to protect your father from being deported?”

Monty gave a one-shouldered shrug. “That’s what my grandmother said.”

“And all this time? What? Why fight it?”

Monty sighed and ate the last bite of his scone before answering. “According to Gram, your father did it to try to win her back. I have no idea what he might have been thinking.”

“Or if,” Angela said, taking a long pull from her coffee.

“Well, he’s your father,” Monty said. “I couldn’t say. I never met the guy. According to Gram, he established the rule and got himself caught in a bind when she spurned his magnanimous gesture to keep his illegitimate son hidden away. He couldn’t rescind it.”

“So he’s fighting it out of spite?” Angela asked, feeling the anger rising up the back of her neck like a wave.

“That would be my guess. Gram’s mellowed some in the last century and moved on. Seems maybe he hasn’t.”

“He’s going to blow a gasket when I tell him I’ve changed the rule,” she said, feeling only the slightest bit of remorse and washing it away with a hefty helping of satisfaction.

Monty snorted. “You don’t sound too broken up over it.”

She shook her head. “The bastard pulled me out of Umber to take Jimmy’s place so he could give Jimmy the company, in spite of the fact that I’ve got more experience and seniority. He’s always been kind of a dick about women, but to find myself the butt of his misogyny?” She shook her head again. “And to learn that this whole shaman fiasco is because some woman was smart enough to kick him to the curb? Hell, no. He’s lucky he’s not here right now or I’d kick his fragile old ass.”

“You’re going to change it, aren’t you,” Monty said.

Angela nodded. “I was going to change it before I knew. Now? I don’t know how, but I’m going to make sure this sticks in his craw until he chokes on it.”

Monty’s peeda chimed and he pulled it out to look. “Well, I’m glad we’ve had time for a little family reunion, Aunt Angie, but I’ve got a tram to catch.” He stood and offered a hand across the table. “You know where to find me. Don’t be a stranger.”

Angela stood and shook his hand. “Just one thing. Please don’t call me Aunt Angie.”

His eyebrows rose and he blinked.

“It’s Aunt Angela. The only person who calls me Angie is Jimmy.” She smiled. “I’ve never been able to get him to stop.”

Monty laughed. “Brothers and sisters, man. Sometimes I’m glad I don’t have any.”

Davy brought the tab and Angela thumbed it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Monty said.

“Company business. I’ll expense it,” she said with a grin. “But I have to ask. How many women are there?”

“Why?”

“So I know how many outsiders I need to find. I’m hoping that you’ve got more than a couple of dozen, because Flanagan says there are only about four thousand men.”

He nodded. “I don’t know exactly. I’m in contact with twenty or so. They each have their own connections but I never wanted to know more than I might be coerced to tell.”

“If you could put the word out? I don’t need to know names or locations. Just a rough count for planning. They don’t have to commit to it. I suspect some are happy where they are, doing what they’re doing, and staying under the radar. I hope some will see the extra income as enough incentive to give it a try.”

“Eunice said you mentioned training?”

“Yeah. Dr. Perez is developing some training programs. The more training, the higher you go, the more you get paid. Same as any other career path on St. Cloud.”

He nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“That wasn’t exactly the conversation I thought it would be when I came to meet you.”

He chuckled. “It may not be enough but I’m willing to give Pirano the benefit of the doubt on this. We’ll have to see what’s on the beach when we get there. I’ll message you later in the week after I’ve had a chance to put out some feelers and get a bit of sleep.”

“I look forward to hearing from you, Monty.”

His grin widened. “I’m looking forward to finding out how this is going to work out.”

She laughed. “That makes two of us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Aram’s Inlet: June 6, 2352

The HR Department seemed quiet when Angela walked through the door. “Stella, I need your help.”

Stella looked up from her console. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

“Where’s the son of the shaman rule?”

Stella chuckled. “I wondered when you’d get down to that.”

Angela slung herself into a visitor’s chair and leaned forward. “Dish.”

“The rule is in the original CPJCT lease contract. Your father executed it in 2256. The first shamans show up in the records in 2270.”

“You know this off the top of your head?”

Stella nodded. “Jimmy had me do the research a few years ago when the grievances started piling up. Why do you ask?”

“We’re hiring the shamans. All of them.”

Stella nodded. “I’ve been in touch with Phyllis over in Psych. It’s the right solution. We’d never be able to hire enough off-planet social workers in time. We’d go broke before we lost the lease.”

“Did you know we were short?” Angela asked, feeling a fool for just beginning to suspect that Stella might be the asset she’d been overlooking since she landed.

“I knew we were short, but I never realized how bad the problem was. Unless somebody rocks the boat, you never think of stuff like that.” Stella grimaced. “Sorry. It just never occurred to me to look.”

“We’ll get it sorted out,” Angela said. “What do you think about the training program?”

“Personally? I think it’s smart. From a corporate standpoint it’s a good way to cap the additional personnel expense as long as the shamans don’t get too grabby. Do you know what they’re going to want?”

Angela let the question roll around in her head for a few heartbeats. “Not really. Even if I thought I did, I’d want to hear it from them. I’ve got enough problems of my own without projecting solutions onto them that don’t address problems they actually have.” She shrugged. “I suspect that housing is a problem for single shamans. Their income is effectively zero, which makes it difficult for them to get food and pay for shelter.”

“It’s why most of them marry the company,” Stella said. “You know there’s a marriage broker for them, right?”

Angela took a deep breath and blew it out. “Why didn’t I spend more time with you before this?”

“You had bigger fish to fry when Delacourt flipped us all into the fire with her audit and TIC investigations.”

“How’s the marriage broker work?” Angela asked, too curious to focus on her immediate goal.

“Shamans register to find employed spouses. There’s usually some contract language involving various levels of intimacy and conjugal privileges.”

“Really?” Angela asked, simultaneously fascinated and horrified.

“Yeah. Usually it’s ‘you can be my husband but you have to agree that we never do anything together except eat a meal at the same table and live in the same house.’”

“What do the spouses get out of it?”

“Mostly they get somebody who can help around house and run errands while they’re working.” Stella shrugged. “Probably helps cut down on the number of assholes hitting on them.”

Stella’s matter-of-fact pronouncement surprised a laugh out of Angela. “What do you think the biggest need is?” she asked.

“Acceptance,” Stella said.

“Acceptance?” Angela shook her head. “I thought they had that already.”

Stella’s head rocked side to side for a moment. “They’re a special case. They aren’t normal people.”

“Who’s to blame for that?” Angela asked. “As a group, they’re the only people immune to deportation at age eighteen.”

“Twenty-three,” Stella said. “Almost everyone who’s at risk for getting the boot files a five-year extension.”

“So the women have a chance to get married before they’re kicked off?” Angela said.

“Or a little extra time to find a job.” Stella shrugged. “Most find one or the other. We haven’t forced a deportation from St. Cloud in decades.”

“What? People just leave?” Angela asked.

“Sure. What would you do? Get the boot and the stigma that goes with it or leave on your own?”

“Good point. We didn’t have that extension rule on Umber, but we hardly ever had to deport anybody. There were just too many jobs going begging. Without land, we had to build and maintain everything. We never had enough workers to do everything we wanted.”

Stella grinned. “That must have created its own challenges.”

“It did. Umber is an artificial culture at its heart. We didn’t even have anyplace to build a house until we floated the first city,” Angela said.

“All cultures are artificial,” Stella said. “It’s only what the people do with it that matters, and it’s more about the people than the place.” She gave a little shrug. “I suppose that’s just basically true anywhere. Orbital. Planet. Ship. You name it.”

“So. Anyway. I want to rewrite the rule.”

Stella’s eyebrows shot up. “On shamans?”

“Exactly. Keep the hereditary title for shamans, but one change.”

Stella seemed to shrink back a little in her seat.

“Child of the shaman is a shaman,” Angela said.

“What?” Stella asked. “Any child?”

Angela shrugged. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s typically just the first male child.”

Angela shook her head. “Not the way I heard it.”

Stella’s brows dropped back down. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve always heard ‘son of the shaman is a shaman.’ That’s not first son. Just son.”

Stella nodded. “I’ll grant you that, but they’re gonna complain about it.”

“Good,” Angela said.

“Good?”

“Yeah, if they’re complaining about that, they’re going to be missing that all the children of the shaman are shamans.”

“Even the girls,” Stella said, her eyes wide.

“Even the girls,” Angela said. “How do we add that to the personnel manual?”

Stella frowned and started working her console. “We can initiate a change request from here, but it’ll need to be vetted by home office.”

“Will they accept it?” Angela asked.

Stella shrugged. “No way of knowing. It’ll take months to get it approved.”

Angela settled back in her chair. “Emergency response clause?”

Stella looked up at her. “What about the emergency response clause?”

“I’m Pirano Fisheries. Violet is Allied Ag. Between us, we have the authority to respond immediately to emergency situations if we both agree.”

Stella’s eyes blinked several times and she nodded. “That’s true.”

“Losing the lease would be an emergency.”

Stella nodded. “Can’t argue that.”

“We need every shaman we can find. Scratch that. We need every person we can find to fill these slots as quickly as possible. Ideally, we need new people at every level of the personnel plan by the time we submit our final renewal papers.”

Stella nodded again. “Agreed. Given that, why change the shaman language?”

“I want everybody to have a shot at staying here. I want it codified in the manual so that when I’m replaced, the figurative rug doesn’t get pulled out from under.”

“Everybody?” Stella said. “Really?”

Angela nodded. “Shamans are a start. The precedent exists. We extend it to all children. It’s a small percentage now, but over four or five generations?”

“If every child of every couple where at least one parent is a shaman?” Stella nodded. “Yeah, that’s going to make shamans really common.” She looked at Angela. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Angela steepled her fingers in front of her mouth and thought about it. “What would change on St. Cloud if a significant number of us thought like shamans?”

Stella shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Me, either.” Angela grinned. “Once the activity gets diluted across whole families, I’m not sure that we’ll be able to really see the shamans.”

“They’re also going to be working for the company,” Stella said.

“On the record, sure, but I’m not expecting we’re going to see huge jumps in social work interventions. I would hope not.”

“We’re going to be placing more emphasis on it,” Stella said. “What we pay attention to matters.”

“That’s the thing,” Angela said. “As I understand it, the shamans have been our acting first line of support for decades. All we’re doing is formalizing that relationship. Giving the local company reps some additional resources at the second tier.”

“I read the proposal from Psych,” Stella said. “It’s pretty good, but the reality is that we’ve not dropped the ball on a single identified case.”

“It’s the identified part that concerns me,” Angela said. “A disconnect between a shaman’s nudge and the rep’s actions to follow up.”

“Sometimes it goes the other way,” Stella said. “The company rep steps back and asks the shaman to intervene.”

“Intervene or investigate?” Angela asked.

Stella sat back and pursed her lips. “Good question. I don’t know.”

“So, here’s what I see happening,” Angela said. “Most of the shamans will take the obvious carrot. Just making cottages available in every village will make the single shamans’ lives easier. Younger ones will have a path to practice as formal members of the company if they wish.”

“The stipend is going to be attractive,” Stella said.

“I’m hoping that I can lure some of the people who have the title but lack the gift to move up the ladder and fill the second- and third-tier jobs. Those salaries should be a lot more attractive to shamans who aren’t feeling the pull to the beach every day.”

“You going to restrict the jobs to shamans?” Stella asked.

“No, I can’t do that. CPJCT regs?”

Stella shrugged. “You can get around the regs, but it can be tricky.”

“I don’t want to get around them. I want to hire as many people as I can. I suspect the first cadre will be shamans just because they have the most flexibility. The second wave will have more women. Some of them will be shamans, but none of them will claim the title.”

“You sound pretty sure of that,” Stella said.

Angela nodded. “I am. By this time next year I want to have at least two thousand new social workers on the payroll.”

“The lease isn’t up for a few years yet,” Stella said.

“I know, but if we can show solid growth and a new system in place and working when they come back, I think we can get a little slack if we don’t quite make the numeric goal.”

“I could see that. Long as it’s not Delacourt.” Stella grinned.

“Where are we on the personnel manual for hiring social workers?” Angela asked.

“We’ve amended the existing manual. The changes have to be finalized by home office but the prototype job is already in our database. It’s only a matter of establishing that the job has people who do it.”

“Fair enough. I want to get the first applicants into the pipeline as quickly as possible. You’ll write and promulgate the application?”

Stella nodded. “It’s what we do.”

Angela stood. “Thanks, Stella.”

Stella grinned. “Happy to help, boss.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Finwell Bay: July 5, 2352

After breakfast, Otto packed the hand lines into his gather bag and headed out to the end of the headland. He found a nice flat rock on the town side of the point and poked about between the rocks until he found a few whelks to use for bait, and settled down for a morning of fishing. The tide would crest by mid-morning, leaving his afternoon open. He needed to visit Neil Asherman about the stove, but in the meantime, he’d see what was biting.

He tossed the line out and settled down to wait, keeping an eye on the shoreline. He didn’t have to wait long before Sam Bagley picked his way out along the rocky shore.

“Morning, Otto.”

“Hey, Sam. How’s the day treating you?”

Sam shrugged, glancing at the sky. He squinted at the few puffy clouds. “Kinda early to say.”

Otto stifled a chuckle.

“What cha doing?” Sam asked.

“What’s it look like?” Otto asked.

“Looks like you’re fishin’ but without a pole.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Why don’t ya have a pole?”

“Don’t need one,” Otto said. He gave the line a little tug, just to make sure it was still there.

“How will you reel in a fish if you catch one?”

“Hand over hand.” Otto picked up the square frame holding the line and showed it to him. “I might just use this and wrap it. Depends.”

“On what?”

Otto felt a tiny tug on the line. “On how big the fish is and how hard it pulls.”

“You don’t need a pole or something?”

“They don’t use poles on the boats, do they?”

Sam shook his head, staring at the braided line stretching out into the water of the harbor. “Are there fish there?”

“Yeah. First time fishing for me here, but I think so.” He shrugged. “If I don’t catch something, I’ll move.” He felt another little tug. “I think there’s something down there playing with my bait right now.”

“Really?” Sam’s eyes grew round and he stared into the water.

“I can feel it here.” He pointed to the line where it ran out over his index finger.

“How will you know when you’ve caught it?”

The line pulled Otto’s hand down sharply and he pulled back. “Just like that,” he said and began pulling the line in, faking down on the smooth rock. He smiled to himself, the old habit coming more from muscle memory than intent. He stepped down off the rock into a crevice between the boulders so he could get down to the water’s edge. He pulled the line until the silvery form of a harbor mackerel flashed in the shallows and then up onto the tiny beach. He pulled it back from the water’s edge, but it flipped the hook at the last moment, flopping a couple of times before finding the water again and disappearing.

Otto laughed and looked up at Sam. “Well, that one’s not going to be dinner, but I guess we’ve answered the question about whether there are fish here or not.”

Sam’s eyes looked as round as bottle caps. “He got away.”

“That’s fishing,” Otto said. “Sometimes you catch dinner. Sometimes, you don’t.”

“You were going to eat it?”

Otto nodded. “That’s kind of the point. I don’t eat much, so a fish like that would make a good meal for me.” He clambered back up on the rock and began putting his line in order and getting it ready to throw out again.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I need to try again. I’d really like to have some fish for dinner.” He took a rock and smashed open another whelk, pulled the flesh from the shell, and threaded it on the hook.

“Ew. You killed it.”

Otto nodded. “Yeah. Kinda how it goes. The fish eat the whelks when they can. I’m just making it easier for them, but when they do, I’m going to try to catch one to eat myself.”

“Big fish eats little fish,” Sam said. “That’s what my father always says.”

“He’s right. Whelks are little fish with shells. If something wasn’t eating them, they’d be everywhere—at least until they ran out of food. If that happened, they’d start to die off.”

“Really?”

Otto nodded. “Really.”

“So you just killed some. Won’t that—I don’t know—upset things?”

Otto shook his head. “A few here and there, there are millions of them up and down the coast. If everybody starting running to the shore and smashing every one they could find, that might make a difference, but I believe that hundreds of them get eaten by starfish and other predators every hour of every day. I’m just feeding them to the fish without the shells on. If I’m lucky, I’ll then eat the fish.”

“You’re not a big fish.”

“True in the strictest sense, but humans are one of the highest-level predators. Very few things are able to eat humans, but we’re able to eat almost anything.” He grinned at Sam. “What do you like to eat?”

“Cookies,” Sam said. “But they’re not animals.”

“I like cookies, too, and you’re right.” He picked up the line and motioned for Sam to step back. “Watch out. I’m going to throw this line out again.”

Sam stepped back, his eyes still wide.

Otto gave the line a little swing and let the weight pull out as much line as it could.

“That wasn’t very far,” Sam said. “Don’t cha have to get it way out there?”

“Nope. The water is plenty deep here, even at low tide. The bottom drops down really fast.” He picked up the line and held a little tension on it. The shifting tide had begun flowing fast enough that he could feel the water pressure vibrating the line. He settled down on the warm rock.

“Now what?” Sam asked.

“Now we wait,” Otto said, glancing over at the boy. “Most of fishing is waiting.”

Sam pursed his lips and folded himself down onto the rock beside Otto. “You have any kids?”

“One,” Otto said. “A young woman, now. She’s out there somewhere.” He waved a hand toward the sky.

Sam’s brow wrinkled. “She grew up and went away?”

“Yes,” Otto said. He sighed and looked over at the boy.

“Why’d she leave?”

“She couldn’t get a job with the company. She couldn’t stay.”

“My mother doesn’t work for the company,” Sam said. “Does she have to leave?”

“No, Sam. She can stay because she’s your mother and she’s married to your father.”

“Would she have to leave if they got a divorce?”

Otto shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Ms. Hawkes about that.”

“Why?”

“She’s the company representative. It’s her job to look out for the company and one of the company rules is that you have to work for the company or be the partner of somebody who is. Your mother’s your father’s partner.”

Another fish tugged on Otto’s line and he pulled it in, successfully landing it this time.

Sam’s eyes grew wide as Otto cut the fish’s head off and cleaned it there on the shore. “Yuck. What are you doing that for?”

Otto shrugged. “I’m leaving the parts I can’t eat here so that the other creatures will have it. Most of them will find it a handy feast.”

“Like the whelks?”

“I don’t know about them, but smaller fish, the crabs. Those will find this pile quite tasty.” Otto wound up his fishing line and clipped the hook into the frame.

“You’re done?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. Got my dinner. All I need today. Maybe I’ll fish again tomorrow.” He picked up his gather bag, looping it over his shoulder and picking up the fish. “I better get this on ice.”

“Then what?” Sam asked.

Otto looked at the beach. The long sandy path called to him but he shrugged. “I have to see a man about a stove.”

“A stove?”

“Yes, for my shop. It’ll be too cold to work in this winter without heat.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “That makes sense.”

“What about you?” Otto asked. “What are you up to today?”

Sam shrugged. “Don’t know. Hang out, I guess.” He shrugged again and followed Otto back down the headland, leaving him at the trail to wander back toward town.

Otto watched him go, wondering what—if anything he could do for him. Sam seemed a bright young lad with too much time on his hands and too little direction. He sighed and turned his steps to the cottage. He needed to take care of the fish and get cleaned up before heading off to find Neil Asherman.

* * *

Asherman’s shop backed up to the chandlery in a repurposed Pirano building, mostly concrete and steel. The sound of a grinder screaming against metal drew Otto in. He waited inside the door until the burly man in a leather apron and face protector finished.

Asherman stood back from his work and placed the tool on the nearby bench, pushing the face protector up to his forehead. “How do.”

“Morning, Mr. Asherman?”

“Neil, but yeah.”

“I’m Otto Krugg, the new shaman? I need a stove.”

Asherman nodded. “Ursula mentioned you. Something small for your shop?”

“Yes. The chandlery doesn’t have anything small enough in their catalog. She suggested I talk to you. Said you made the one in her shop.”

Asherman nodded. “Yeah. I did. What’s the inside dimension of that building? I assume you’re thinking of the stone outbuilding?”

“About three meters by four. Walls are a couple of meters tall.”

Asherman nodded again. “Yeah. That’s small. What did you have in mind?”

“My father has a shop about the same size. He’s got a small metal box stove.” Otto held his hands out to show the dimensions. “Basically a cube of metal with a smoke stack.”

“Door on the front to put in the wood and take out the ashes?” Asherman asked.

“Yes. And a slotted damper on the front.”

“I know the type,” Asherman said. “Like this one?” He led Otto to the back corner of his shop and pointed out a larger model that looked surprisingly like the one he’d grown up with.

“Yeah. Except about half that size.”

“I can make you one like that.”

“Ursula mentioned a sand heater?”

Asherman grinned. “She did, huh?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Basically a high-efficiency wood-burning stove that heats a jacket of sand. Sand holds the heat and lets it out slowly. Once it’s hot, it stays hot a long time. Regular stove is hot while there’s fire, but it also cools fast when there isn’t. The more metal, the longer it takes to get hot and then cool, but sand is cheap, gives a good thermal mass.” He shrugged. “You wanna cook on it? Or just a heater?”

“Just a heater,” Otto said. “The kitchen’s only a few steps away, even in winter.”

“How about this?” Asherman asked, pointing at a five-gallon metal bucket with straight sides. “Something with that footprint?”

“Is it big enough?”

“For a fire? Oh, yeah. I’m thinking two of them.” He pulled a second one out and flipped it upside-down and placed it on the first. “Like that. Put a burn chamber at the bottom, add a clean-out door. Run a flue up the middle and pack it with sand.”

“Would that work?” Otto asked, his brain not quite keeping up with Asherman’s.

“Tell ya what,” Asherman said. “I’ll build it. If you like it, you can pay me for it. If you don’t, I’ll take it out and put in a box stove.”

“What’s the advantage?”

“Buckets are cheaper than cast iron. Easier to work with. Sand’s free. Box stove will burn bigger chunks of wood and heat up faster. This would burn small sticks, heat up slower, but stay warm a lot longer.”

Otto pursed his lips and let the two ideas roll around in his head.

“Lemme ask you this,” Asherman said. “Where did your father get the wood for his stove?”

“Had it delivered. Lots of people burned wood in town. Wood cutters brought it in by the ton.”

“That’s not true here. A few people burn wood, mostly because they like it, but every house in the village—including your cottage—has a heating unit in it. If you’re not planning on cutting and hauling your own firewood, you’ll get more heat from less wood with the sand heater.”

“Sold,” Otto said.

“You should still order some wood,” Asherman said with a grin. “One load that you can keep in case you can’t get out to collect enough.”

Otto laughed. “Fair enough. When can you have the stove ready, and how much will it cost?”

“I’ve got the materials on hand. Probably fifty credits’ worth including the chimney and cap. Another fifty for the labor. I’ll cart it out and install it for ya.”

Otto extended a hand. “Done deal.”

Asherman shook his hand. “I can come out tomorrow to start. I wanna see what I’ve got to work with out there.”

“I’ll leave the shed unlocked but I should be around. Depending on the tide.”

“Low tide’s around noon tomorrow,” Asherman said.

“I’ll be back by then. I like to walk in the morning when it’s cool this time of year.”

“That’s a long beach. You done much walking on it?”

Otto shook his head. “Not as much as I want, but getting things settled now means less on my mind while I’m walking.”

“Does it help with the walk?”

“Fewer things I carry out means fewer things I have to carry back,” Otto said.

Asherman grinned at that. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Otto shrugged. “Been doing it a while.”

Asherman nodded and pulled the two buckets out to the middle of the floor. “I’ll see ya tomorrow then.”

“Thanks,” Otto said and made his way back to the street. He hadn’t walked much and the tide wouldn’t be high for at least a few hours. He made a circuit around the block and headed for the cottage. Plenty of time to get in that walk, and he still needed a new staff.

* * *

When Otto crossed over the headland, he met Flanagan coming up the other side. “I wondered if you’d stop by,” Otto said.

Flanagan grinned and stopped at the crest. “I figured to find you out on the beach this time of day.”

“Still trying to get settled. Wasn’t expecting to move into a duplicate of my father’s cottage.”

“It’s a little more up to date,” Flanagan said, turning to look at the stone cottage lurking in the trees. “This whole town’s only about fifty stanyers old. You’re only the third shaman to live there.”

“You counting Deering?”

Flanagan laughed. “Not one of the better postings. He’s doing a lot better up-country with the shepherds. He understands them better.”

“You talked to Abby Hawkes yet?”

“Saw her first.” He squinted at Otto. “You walk on water in her book.”

Otto shrugged. “Just the sand.”

“You solved her fighting problem.”

“No, I solved the security problem. People see what they expect to see. I didn’t expect to see anything.”

“Still,” he said. “It was well done.”

“You got time for a cuppa tea? You didn’t come all the way out here just to check up on me.”

“Wouldn’t turn it down,” Flanagan said.

Otto nodded and led the way back to the cottage.

“You don’t have a stick,” Flanagan said. “Almost didn’t recognize you.”

Otto chuckled and put the kettle on. “Haven’t found a new one yet. Left the other one in Cape Grace.”

Flanagan took a seat at the table. “The new shaman’s finding his feet there. Comstock’s working with ’em.”

“So, what’s coming out of the Inlet?” Otto asked, throwing a few pinches of tea into the pot.

“The company’s failed their renewal audit.” Flanagan folded his hands on the table and looked at Otto with a bland expression.

“What?”

“Audit team came for their lease renewal. It’s up in a few stanyers. The Confederated Planets sent a team to make sure the company hasn’t been acting up for the last century.”

Otto leaned back against the counter, taking in the words but having trouble making connections with them. “And the company failed?”

Flanagan nodded. “Audit team filed slavery charges.”

The words surprised a laugh from him. “Slavery? How?”

“There’s some other stuff about inadequate social workers for the size of the population, if I heard it right.”

“How’s that going down with Pirano?”

“You knew Jimmy got called home?”

Otto froze. “What? Died?”

Flanagan laughed. “No, although he may have wished he had. The Ole Man called him to the home office in Dunsany Roads.”

“Who’s the Pirano on planet?”

“Angela. Jimmy’s half-sister. Doing a hell of a job with the offshore stations, too. Came over from Umber.”

“How long ago was this?”

Flanagan shrugged. “After Sarah left. You were occupied.”

Otto slopped some boiling water into the teapot and punched the timer. “Slavery?”

“Audit team claims shamans are slaves. Doing work without pay and can’t leave the planet.”

“Clearly that’s not true,” Otto said. “Sarah had to leave.” He tasted the bitterness on his tongue.

“Any of us could leave whenever we like, but it’s not like we’ve got a wealth of experience on our resumes to open doors for new jobs.” Flanagan shrugged. “Whoever they sent did a number on the company. I’m pretty sure Trade Investigation will throw the slavery charge out. There’s still the social worker problem.”

“They say anything about women not being shamans?”

Flanagan shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard about it.” He paused. “Angela’s been out to Troy Harbor.”

The timer dinged. Otto poured a couple of mugs and joined Flanagan at the table. “What’s she doing?”

Flanagan shook his head. “Looking for women shamans, if I had to guess. She’s still finding her feet here on St. Cloud. The few times I’ve spoken with her, she’s been mad as hell. Hides it well but being passed over for home office in favor of her younger brother must sting a bit.”

“Guess that would depend on why Jimmy got tapped, wouldn’t it?” Otto took a sip of the scalding tea, pulling air in over his tongue to try to cool it.

“Supposition is that the Ole Man is getting ready to retire.” Flanagan blew on his tea and put it back down without drinking. “Man’s got to be into his second century by now.”

“Angela must be older than Jimmy.”

“Been running the Pirano operation on Umber since the Ole Man came here to start up St. Cloud.”

Otto felt a shock of surprise. “She’s got to be what? Pushing a hundred?”

“About twenty stanyers older than Jimmy, so yeah. Something like that, if she’s not already.”

“One of these people needs to have some kids,” Otto said. “Pirano Fisheries isn’t going to be much more than a name.”

“Happens. Not the worst thing in the world. I think the Ole Man’s skeletal fingers have kept the company from growing the way it should have. ’Specially here. I can’t speak for Umber. I think Jimmy will be a good man at the helm, but he’s not going to be able to hand it off to another Pirano.”

“That we know of,” Otto said. “The Ole Man’s been gone for a long time.”

Flanagan shrugged and took a sip of tea. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

“So? You came to gossip?” Otto asked, taking a sip of his own.

“Wanted to see how you were doin’, mostly.”

“It’s been good,” Otto said. “Still getting things settled. Getting the shed set up. My household goods from Cape Grace are due any day.”

“What do you think about the town?”

Otto looked out the window and let the question roll around in his head. “That town council is a menace.”

“It’s not so bad,” Flanagan said.

Otto squinted at Flanagan. “They’ve throttled the town’s development.”

“You think that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s put them in a labor bind,” Otto said.

Flanagan sighed and leaned over his tea. “Yeah. That’s true. You’re going to fix that.”

Otto felt his eyebrows climbing his forehead. “I am?”

“Already started. Got Abby thinking about jobs and not about who could fill ’em.”

“It’s going to take a while.” Otto sipped his tea. “People don’t just pick up and leave at the drop of a hat.”

“Be surprised,” Flanagan said. “You did. Cape Grace bled off most of their pent-up labor to the Deep Sea stations in a single season, but places like Troy Harbor? Potter’s Landing? They’ve got a lot of little birdies who need to spread their wings.”

“You think they’ll come all the way out here?”

Flanagan shook his head. “Not all of ’em, no. Enough of ’em?” He nodded. “Then there’s the people who get fed up living cheek-by-jowl with their relatives. There’s a few of them.” He grinned. “Finwell’s a nice town. Developers did a good job laying things out. Kept it neat without being sterile.”

“I’ve been here a month but I haven’t taken the chance to just walk around in town,” Otto said.

“Might wanna,” Flanagan said. “See how it feels.”

“You thinking there’s another storm coming?”

Flanagan shook his head and took a swig of tea. “No. I’m not feeling anything like that in the wind.”

“What then?”

“How would you feel about being an employee?”

The question caught Otto sideways. “Of what? The company?”

Flanagan nodded and spun his empty mug on the table.

Otto stared at him for a few long moments. “They’ll pay us to get out from under the slavery charge?”

“I don’t think it’s going to come to that, no. TIC knows better. Somebody got up on the wrong side of the annex. All reports are that the team had an ax to grind and used St. Cloud as the stone.”

“What then?”

“Social workers,” Flanagan said. “They’re short on social workers.”

“So? Why don’t they just bring in a few?”

“That’s what Angela’s trying to do now. Offering to hire whole graduating classes out of Ciroda at the moment.” Flanagan slid the mug into the middle of the table. “Pissing against the tide.”

“How many does she need?”

“Assuming she gets all the shamans, she’ll need that many again. Confederated Planets says we need to have something like eight thousand.”

“She’s not going to get that by hiring off planet, is she?”

Flanagan shook his head. “I seriously doubt it. She can probably pick up a few hundred here and there, but thousands? That’s going to be a tall order. You think getting people to move out here from Bleak Harbor is hard? Try getting people to move from Ciroda.”

Otto shook his head. “If she can’t, what? They lose the lease?”

“Not sure at this point,” Flanagan stood and reached for his jacket. “I’m not in that loop.”

“If that were on the horizon, that would be a pretty big storm.”

Flanagan shrugged into the coat and pulled the zipper halfway up. “Only if it was a storm. What if we’re already in the storm and what’s coming is clearer weather?”

Otto let that thought settle a bit and stood to see Flanagan out. “Hard to tell, isn’t it?”

“Kinda my point,” Flanagan said, stepping out the door and looking down the shoreline. “I’m jealous of this beach.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Otto said. “Even got a spare bed if you want to stay.”

Flanagan laughed and shook his head. “I might take you up on it one of these days. When I retire, maybe.”

“Retire?”

Flanagan shrugged. “I’ve been trying to herd this pack of cats for decades. Might be time to step down and let somebody else take it over.”

Otto felt a flash of panic. “You’re not thinking of me, are you?”

Flanagan chuckled and flickered his eyebrows.

“You’re not making me feel any better,” Otto said.

“Good. Keep you on your toes.” Flanagan strode down the path to the beach and the headland beyond.

Otto watched him go. He couldn’t mean it. Retire, sure, but who’d replace him?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Finwell Bay: July 6, 2352

The morning dawned clear and cool but Otto felt muzzy-headed. His eyes didn’t seem to focus right. He got a cup of tea and made himself some toast with jam. Asherman had promised to check out the shed around midday and the tide was on its way out. Feeling a little better with food in his stomach, he grabbed a jacket and his gather bag. The beach was calling to him and he had no good reason not to answer. He made sure the shop door wasn’t locked before heading down the path to the beach.

Sunlight raked through the trees on one side and flashed off the waves on the other. The smell of drying weed wafted on the breeze and drew him forward. His arms felt awkward and wrong without a staff to walk with. He’d gotten so used to the one at Cape Grace, he felt completely off balance. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets to keep them from flapping and marched down the high-tide line, looking for a stick he could use.

He laughed at himself. Like the stick would make that much difference. Perhaps he should learn to walk without one, if not having one caused him so much trouble.

He glanced out to sea. A few gulls soared in the onshore breeze. Occasionally one folded its wings and arrowed into the water, coming up with a silvery fish in its bill.

Could the company really be on the edge of failure? Surely the Confederation wouldn’t close them down if management was actively working to correct the problems. It seemed beyond short-sighted.

He sighed and looked down at the beach again. He wouldn’t find a new staff by staring out at the water.

A pile of weed drew his eye. He kicked it over and spotted a couple of pieces of driftwood tangled in the wrack. He crouched to pick them up, blowing the sand off and brushing them with his fingers. He saw some kind of fish in the curving grain of each of them. He couldn’t tell what kind of fish, but he tucked them into his gather bag. He also saw a bunch of loose sticks just a meter up the beach. Nothing special about them but they looked like good firewood. Solid and dry from being above the tide line.

He took the few steps to grab them and put them into his bag. Not a lot of weight but the bag had room for a lot of wood and the beach hadn’t been picked over much.

Did Deering not carve? It seemed weird to him. A shaman who didn’t carve. Did he even walk the beach? Being from up-country, maybe he was more used to walking in the woods, such as they were. The small trees that filled in the land between high tide and the bluff farther inland would have given him much more walking room than the beach and required no special timing to keep his feet dry.

Glancing at the tree line only a few meters away, he spotted a straight stick half buried in the loose sand. He picked it up, brushing it off. It stood a full two meters, taller than Otto—but felt light in his hand. Some kind of soft wood, no doubt. The sea had scoured the bark and rough parts off, leaving a smooth satiny finish on the bleached wood. It felt good. He wasn’t sure it felt right, but it would do until something else appeared.

He kept his eye open for bits of twine and the odd feather. Neither had been common at Cape Grace but he’d found more than enough there to decorate his old staff. He hadn’t added anything new to that staff for a very long time. The last shell had been one Sarah had presented to him when she’d been barely big enough to walk with him.

The staff helped to ground him. He continued on down the beach, forgetting everything for the moment. Each new step revealed a new possibility. A heavy log hid a veritable trove of sticks and shells behind it. Piles of weed held whelks and sticks. His gather bag grew fat and heavy with the load. He straightened up from pulling a white and black feather from a pile of weed and looked back along his track. The headland seemed far away, gray in the distance. The sun had risen high in the sky and his stomach grumbled.

He laughed and turned his path back toward home. The longer beach would take some getting used to. Without the headland to block his way, he risked walking off the end of the earth.

He listened as he walked. He heard the occasional creak of the seabirds over the whoosh of waves on the sand and wind in his ears. From the forest, a sharp call that he didn’t recognize. The knots in his chest seemed to loosen and he breathed more easily with each step.

* * *

Asherman took one look at the shop and grinned. “Yeah. The double buckets? They’ll work great. I see what you mean about the size. You’ve got a bit of room to walk around, but you really want it against the stone so you’re not brushing against hot metal when you’re walking past.”

“The one in my father’s shop sat parallel to the wall.” Otto demonstrated with his hands. “Only came up to my knee, with a chimney that ran through the roof.”

“Where’d he stack his wood?”

“Inside, beside the door there.” Otto pointed to a corner. “He also had a good-sized pile outside under a slanted roof.”

“Which you don’t have on this one.”

“True. I could add it.”

Asherman nodded. “You could. Did you have to chop wood?”

“A bit. He always kept a hatchet and a block in the shop beside the stove so we could split off kindling when we needed it.”

“I think you’re going to be surprised by the mass heating you’ll get. Have you collected any wood for burning?”

“Yeah. About a bucket full.”

“So, basically a few handfuls of sticks and twigs?”

“Probably ten kilos of it by now, but yeah. Sticks and twigs.”

Asherman nodded and pulled out his tape measure. “You want it on the weather side?”

“Ursula’s putting skylights in the lee side. What do you recommend?”

He shrugged. “Six of one, half-dozen of the other. Lee side you can probably get warmed up a little easier than the weather side. All told, if I do it right, you’ll need to keep the door open to let some of the heat out regardless of which side it’s on.”

“Weather side then,” Otto said.

Asherman pulled out a tape measure and ran it up to the peak of the roof. “So I know how high the chimney needs to be. Needs to be higher than the ridgepole.” He took a few more measurements and nodded to himself. “Yeah. This will work nicely. I’ll need to figure out the ash clean-out at the bottom. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He pursed his lips and glanced at Otto. “You feel like doing some shoveling?”

“What? The sand?”

Asherman nodded. “It’ll be a lot easier to put the stove in empty and make sure it works before we fill it up. If you’ve got the sand here, already?” He shrugged and nodded at the beach. “That’s handy.”

“Got a couple of buckets I can fill?” Otto asked.

“I can do that,” Asherman said. “You got a shovel?”

Otto chuckled. “No. Not something I’m in the habit of using.”

“I can loan you one,” Asherman said. “Come on back to the shop with me and I’ll get you set up.”

“How soon before you need the sand?”

“You mean how soon before I have the stove ready?” Asherman asked.

Otto grinned. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Three days. Maybe four.”

“I should be able to fill a couple of buckets in that amount of time.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” Asherman said, and struck off down the path toward the beach.

* * *

“Hey, you. Shaman.”

Otto turned to see who’d called to him, the buckets clanking together at his side.

A thirty-something man wearing a Pirano jumpsuit marched down the sidewalk toward him. The scowl on his face might have chipped granite. “What’s the idea of filling my boy’s head with all that crap?”

Otto put the buckets down and grounded the shovel. “Since the only boy I’ve talked to is Sam Bagley, you must be Mr. Bagley.” He offered his hand but Bagley ignored it.

“Damn right and what call do you have to teach my boy anything?”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, Mr. Bagley. The only thing I taught Sam was how to introduce people.”

Bagley shook his head. “He already knows that. I’m talking about killing snails and fish guts.”

“Oh, I see.” Otto nodded. “To begin with, I was fishing. Sam joined me. I didn’t teach him anything.”

“You killed some whelks right in front of him. What do you call that?”

“Bait,” Otto said. “He wanted to know why I was doing it. I told him.”

“Then you caught a fish and dressed it out.”

“Yes,” Otto said. “One fish. For my dinner. It was delicious.”

“Right in front of a ten-year-old kid.”

Otto frowned. “I’m not sure I understand the problem here, Mr. Bagley.”

“How could you expose him to that brutality?”

“I apologize, sir. I had no idea that it was some kind of moral issue.”

“How could you not?” Bagley asked, getting right up into Otto’s face. “Are you some kind of monster? You don’t have any kids of your own, do you?”

“Actually, yes. A daughter. She was forced off the planet.”

Bagley blinked a couple of times and rocked back on his heels. “Well, did you bash snails and gut fish in front of her when she was ten?”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t let her play with the knife or hooks but we frequently fished together. I gave her a knife when she was old enough to have the hand strength and dexterity.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Tell me, Mr. Bagley. What is it you’re objecting to?”

“You smashed snails. You cut open a fish. Right in front of my boy. What’s wrong with you?” Bagley’s face had turned a dark red and passersby began to gather.

“You work in the freezers, right?” Otto asked.

“Yes, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“You freeze cut-up fish.”

“Of course, but—”

“Every day boats line up to pull baskets of dead fish out of their holds and send to the processing plant where the fish are gutted and prepared for your freezers.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, Mr. Bagley. No buts. This town is built on dead fish. The bay is alive with crabs in large part because of the offal stripped from them right there in that building. Your son asked me some legitimate questions about whelks—not snails—and he observed me practicing a craft that he might well pursue on his own when he’s old enough. It’s unlikely that he’ll find a place on one of the draggers, but he could very well fish for his own dinner one day. Have you considered that?”

“What do you mean, ‘fish for his dinner?’ Why would he have to do that?”

“I do it because I like fresh fish. I’m probably going to start tossing a crab trap out once in a while because I like fresh crab, too.” He paused. “Tell me, Mr. Bagley, what truth is it that you object to? That whelks get eaten by starfish and snappers? Or that fisherman slaughter fish by the boatload so you can have a job?”

“I object to you parading that kind of stuff in front of my boy. Why are you having such a hard time with that?” Bagley practically screamed it into Otto’s face.

The crowd had grown, practically hemming them in.

“Has your son said anything about it? That what I did was offensive in some way?” Otto asked.

“He said it was gross,” Bagley said.

Otto fought to contain a laugh. “He’s not wrong. It is gross. Lots of things are gross. Children tend to find them fascinating. I know my daughter did at that age.”

Bagley’s hands fisted at his sides. “You’re not taking this very seriously. Do I have to take this to the council?”

“I don’t know,” Otto said. “Do you? What would you tell them? That you wanted to protect your son from the reality of life on the South Coast and some uppity new resident showed him how to bait a hook and catch a fish? Is there an ordinance prohibiting fishing until you’ve reached puberty?” Otto paused. “I hadn’t actually considered that. Is there?” He looked around at some of the faces watching the show. “There isn’t, is there?”

A lot of heads shook.

“Oh, good. I’m sorry. I’d hate to start off on the wrong foot.”

“You’re getting off on the wrong foot with me, buster. I don’t care if you’re a shaman or the head of Pirano Damn Fisheries—”

“Can it, Peter.” A gruff voice broke in from the crowd and Larry Granger elbowed his way into the conversation.

“Chief Granger. Good. It’s about time somebody put a stop to this,” Bagley said.

Granger nodded. “I’m glad you see it my way, Pete.” He turned to the crowd and waved his hands. “Move on. Nothing to see here. Clear out.”

The crowd broke up in fits and starts, most of them with grins and more than a few with their heads together. Snickers and outright laughs came from some.

“You can go, too, Otto. I’ll handle it from here,” Granger said.

“What? Wait,” Bagley said.

Otto picked up the buckets and shovel, being careful not to club somebody with one or the other.

“You can’t just let him wander off,” Bagley said.

“Really? Why?” Granger asked.

“He’s a menace to the community. He’s behaving inappropriately around our children.”

“By showing your boy how to fish?” Granger asked.

“By smashing snails. Gutting fish. It’s gross.”

“Drop it, Peter. Last warning.”

“Last warning? What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just trying to stand up for some decency around here.” He pointed at Otto. “You can’t just let him walk away.”

“Unlike you, he’s broken no laws, Peter.”

“What do you mean? What law have I broken?”

“Assault, disturbing the peace?” Granger asked. “Sound familiar?”

“That’s ridiculous. I never hit him.”

“You need to look up the definition of assault, I think. You might also see what the town ordinances have to say about standing in the middle of the street screaming at an innocent person for doing something he has every right to do. Even if your son watched him.” Granger waved a hand. “You drew a crowd. I could hear you in my office, for crying out loud, Peter.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You want some advice? Shut up. Go home to your wife and kids. Have some dinner. Go to work tomorrow and tend to your job.”

“Or what?” Bagley asked, a clear challenge.

Granger shook his head and nodded at a couple of the officers nearby. “Rogers? You wanna see that Mr. Krugg’s not molested on his way home?”

An officer nodded and followed in Otto’s wake, taking a few long steps to catch up with him.

Otto continued down the frontage road toward the point, the ongoing discussion behind him fading into the background noise now that Bagley wasn’t yelling.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Krugg,” the officer said.

“I’m honestly surprised,” Otto said. “Had I known it would be an issue, I’d have found someplace less likely for young Bagley to find me.”

The officer laughed. “Sam will find you if he wants to find you. The less you want him around, the more he’s likely to show up.”

Otto grinned and shifted the shovel a little on his shoulder.

“You want me to carry something for you?” the officer asked.

“I got it,” Otto said. “Thanks for offering.”

Rogers glanced over his shoulder as they reached the end of the road. “Do you need me to see you home from here?”

“I think it’ll be fine,” Otto said, looking back down the street. “Chief Granger still has him tied up.”

“Bagley’s not usually a troublemaker,” Rogers said.

“Was I wrong?” Otto asked.

“What? With Sam?” Rogers asked.

Otto nodded.

“I don’t see how you could be. You don’t strike me as the kind to glorify gore. You’re right about fishing.” Rogers shrugged. “Not like you were slinging fish guts around or smashing whelks to hear them crunch or something.”

“Then why has Mr. Bagley reacted so strongly? What’s he afraid of?”

Rogers’s eyebrows lifted. “Afraid?”

Otto glanced back at the small knot still in the middle of the street. “Fight or flight. He’s fighting so he must feel threatened.”

Rogers shook his head. “Quiet guy. Usually. I have no idea.”

“Well. Thank you for the escort. I’ll be all right from here, I think. I’ll just get home and out of sight.”

“Out of sight, out of mind?” Rogers asked with a grin.

“Something like that.” He turned to the path and began the walk up the headland. Bagley’s response seemed off, way out of proportion. What about fishing could he object to? Or was it something else?

* * *

Otto had just settled in for his dinner when he saw Abby making her way up the path toward his front door, a frown on her face. He met her at the door before she had a chance to knock.

“Sorry to disturb you, Otto.”

“It’s fine. What brings you out here?”

“About Bagley,” she said. “What in the world happened?”

“Come in,” Otto said. “I’ve just brewed tea.”

She nodded and followed him into the cottage. “I’m sorry. I’m interrupting your dinner.”

Otto shook his head and picked his plate off the table, tucking it into the oven to keep it warm. “Nothing that won’t keep a few ticks. What about Bagley?”

“Larry has him on watch.” She shook her head. “I still think he should have locked him up.”

Otto poured her a mug of tea and placed it on the table. “Sit. Tell me about it.”

She sat and took a sip of tea. “I’m afraid of what Bagley might be capable of.”

“Start at the beginning. What set him off about Sam?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “What happened?”

“I was fishing on the harbor side of the point the other day. Hand-lining for dinner. Had a second hand line in my bag for young Sam. I figured he’d show up.”

“Did you give it to him?”

Otto shook his head. “I had second thoughts about it. Sharp hooks. Some fish have teeth. I didn’t want to take that step without at least checking with his parents.”

She nodded. “I was fishing from the dock at ten myself, but I always had somebody with me.”

“Sam doesn’t have that kind of support, does he?” Otto asked.

“No, he doesn’t.” She took another sip. “He wasn’t bothering you, was he? Sam?”

“Not at all. I quite enjoy seeing him see the world.” He hid behind his own tea for a moment.

“You’d make a great teacher,” she said, looking down at the table. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

Otto swallowed. “Thanks.”

“So you smashed a whelk, caught and gutted a fish. Tell me about that.”

Otto went through the morning as best as he could remember.

“What was Bagley’s issue this afternoon?” she asked.

“Chief Granger probably knows better than I do. I couldn’t tell if it was killing the whelk for bait, catching the fish for dinner, or that I’d spent time with his boy.”

Her eyebrows rose at that last. “You think that might have something to do with it?”

“I’m convinced he’s afraid of something. That reaction seemed way over the top for some pretty innocent activities.” Otto took a sip. “Does he have some kind of ideological objection to killing?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I suspect that he’s afraid I’ll take his son away from him.”

“What? That you’re grooming him?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Perhaps not that extreme. More like becoming a father figure to him. Usurping his position in Sam’s life by virtue of being available when he’s tied up at work.”

Abby slumped into her chair, shoulders drooping as she stared into her cup. “I could see that.” She looked up. “He’d have to be pretty insecure to think that a stranger, an outsider, could take his place.”

Otto shrugged. “Kids and novelty. I’m different. Strange. Apart from the town. For a lonely boy? I can see where he’d have things to say about me at home.”

“Where his father hears,” Abby said.

Otto nodded. “I can try to discourage Sam from hanging about, I suppose.”

“How?”

“For starters, I can not be where Sam’s likely to find me.”

“That seems cruel.” She looked over at him with her head tilted to one side. “Unless you’d rather he not be underfoot?”

Otto shrugged. “I admit, I kinda like having somebody to talk to, but a lot of what I do isn’t going to be very attractive to an active youngster like Sam Bagley.” He chuckled. “Most of it is pretty boring.”

She laughed. “How are you settling in?”

“I’m feeling rather proud of myself,” he said. “It’ll feel more like home when the shop is ready. My household goods—such as they are—are due shortly. I’ve already made progress here.” He glanced up at her. “How are things going with the council?”

“Gresley is beginning to think he’s been played, much to the amusement of several of the other members.”

“Crab traps?”

“They’ve got a few parts printed up. It takes a while and it’s still a small-scale operation.” She sipped the tea. “I’m holding off on ordering more printers and feed stock for the moment. We could really ramp up production by getting dedicated printers for each piece, but the cost-benefit analysis says it would probably be cheaper to just buy the pots from Woontana.”

“Any word on the hulls?”

“Should have the first two tomorrow. A crabber and a second bait boat. We’ll have enough traps for the crabber by the time I can get a crew together.”

“How’s the town taking the news?”

“Pretty well. I’ve got an extra hand on two of the boats right now, seeing how it all works. A few of the regulars have volunteered to take a boat when they’re available, so expanding the fleet should go pretty smoothly.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Otto said with a grin.

She laughed.

“What do you want me to do about Sam?” Otto asked.

“Play it by ear. What are you planning on doing for the next couple of days?”

“Filling a couple of buckets with sand. Walking the beach. Waiting for my goods to arrive.”

“Sand?”

“Neil Asherman is making me a stove that uses sand as thermal mass.”

“For the shop?”

Otto nodded. “That’ll make it more comfortable during the winter.”

“Do you walk the beach in the winter?” she asked.

“Sure. I bundle up. Don’t go when the weather’s bad, but of course. Feels good to get back in after a brisk walk.”

She laughed. “A brisk walk.”

He grinned. “It’s not that bad if you’re dressed for it. Most days it’s not that much below freezing.”

She shook her head. “Don’t make me send a team out looking for you.”

“Wait till spring,” he said. “I have a peeda. Even out there, I can call for help if I need to.”

She pursed her lips and frowned. “What if you can’t?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter the season, then, does it?”

She bit her lips together and sighed. “So Neil’s making you a stove made of sand?”

“Made of recycled steel buckets, I think. The sand is just the filler. Claims the stove’s more efficient and uses less wood than a box stove. I told him I’d give it a try.”

“The man’s brilliant at stove building,” Abby said, her tone almost begrudging. “Always looking for a better stove design.”

“Honestly, I thought about just building a fire pit and putting up a chimney. But it wouldn’t be very efficient and the smoke could be a problem.”

She laughed. “You could always turn it into a smoke house.”

“I do like smoked fish,” he said. “Is anybody smoking fish in town?”

She shook her head. “Nobody I know of. I know a couple of people have backyard smokers and barbecue pits.”

“I’ve smelled the barbecue,” Otto said.

She finished her tea and stood. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I just wanted to hear your side of it.”

Otto showed her to the door. “Nothing really to it. I’ll try to give young Bagley a wider berth. It does him no good if hanging out with me spoils his relationship with his father.”

A sour look pickled her face. “I suspect the reason he’s so threatened is that he knows his relationship with his son is already on shaky ground.”

“I didn’t want to say it,” Otto said with a shrug. “Maybe this will be a good thing.”

“How’s that?” she asked, stepping out of the cabin.

“Give Bagley senior a little extra incentive to give Bagley junior a little more attention?”

She grimaced. “Let’s just hope it’s the right kind of attention.”

Otto sighed as she turned and started back toward the town. She was right on that score. He hoped for the best but he knew that frightened people didn’t always pick the best course of action.

Particularly for their own children. A cold chunk of stone settled in his gut at that thought and he closed the door.

* * *

Asherman and the movers both arrived at the same time. Otto opened the door to find a veritable herd of people in front of the cottage. A barge lay pushed up on the sand at the beach. “Good morning.”

“I’ll start work while you sort this out,” Asherman said. “If that’s all right?”

“Shop’s unlocked. Have at it.”

“Mr. Krugg?” A woman in Pirano colors had a tablet out. She smiled. “I have to ask.”

“Yes,” he said. “Otto Krugg. You’ve got my household goods?”

She nodded. “And a couple of grav pallets to move it up the beach. Where do you want it?”

“If you’d just stack the boxes here inside the door? I can sort them out and put them away. Not like I’ve got a lot.”

She nodded and pointed to two of her crew. “Get that first pallet up here and we’ll get out of Mr. Krugg’s hair.”

Otto stepped out of the way as one man pulled a grav pallet up to the door and they formed a chain to pass the boxes hand-to-hand into the cottage, stacking them where Otto pointed. It took less than half a stan to put everything in a pile inside.

She offered him the tablet. “If you’d just thumb the receipt? Twenty-four cases shipped. Twenty-four received.”

Otto went into the cottage and double-checked his count. He nodded and thumbed the tablet. “Sorry. I just needed to check.”

She grinned at him. “I would have, too. Have a good day, sir.”

She turned and joined the parade back toward the barge while Otto went around to the shed to see how Asherman progressed.

He found the man up a ladder propped against the shed and working on the roof.

“Oh, hey. Got your stuff settled?” Asherman asked, peering down at Otto.

“Not exactly settled yet, but the crates are all in the house. How’s it look out here?”

“Take a look inside, see what you think.”

Otto stepped into the shop. A black cylinder stood on the concrete floor. If he hadn’t known to look for it, he wouldn’t have realized it was just a couple of buckets on some kind of support structure, with a slanted hopper attached to the bottom. The whole thing had a coating of flat black paint. “Looks good,” he said, raising his voice a little.

“Not too big?” Asherman asked, his voice a muffled a little by the roof.

Otto walked around it a couple of times. “It’s perfect.”

A piece of the roof lifted up with a squealing of nails. A shaft of light shone in around Asherman’s head as he grinned down at Otto. “I’ll put the chimney in first, then we can make sure the stove’s positioned correctly.”

Otto stood back to let Asherman work. It took a little more than an hour. Once the first chimney piece went in, Asherman had Otto help him shift the stove and arrange the hopper where Otto wanted it.

“You drop the wood in here. Gravity feeds it to the fire box down there.” He pointed to a small opening in the base of the stove. “Stuff a little kindling or paper in there, torch it up, and then you can keep it fed with sticks in the hopper.” He pointed to a small panel at the very bottom. “Ash disposal.” He reached over and slid out a shallow drawer. “Just take it out and dump it. Nothing to it really. You won’t get much ash.”

The chimney lay close to the wall and a couple of elbows lined up the central flue in the stove with the stove pipe to the roof.

“I added a damper up here. That’ll keep cold from coming down the pipe, but don’t forget to open up when you’ve got a fire going.”

“I’ll be reminded pretty quick if I do, won’t it?” Otto asked.

Asherman laughed. “Yeah. You got the sand?”

“Two buckets full.”

“Let’s light it up. Make sure it’s drawing right and then we’ll fill in the sand.” Asherman pulled some wads of paper from his pocket and handed them to Otto. “Here you go. You got some sticks?”

Otto fetched some of the sticks he’d set aside from his walk and stuck them into the hopper. He got down on the floor and stuffed the paper in so it met the sticks. “This will keep me limber, won’t it?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t thought of that. You want me to lift it up?”

“Will that screw up the alignment or anything?”

Asherman shook his head. “Only question is how high? The higher it gets, the colder the floor.”

Otto bit his lip and thought about it. “Leave it. I only have to light it once a day, right?”

Asherman nodded. “That would be my guess. As long as you keep feeding sticks into the hopper, it’ll keep burning.”

“Leave it. I’ll adjust and I’d rather have warm feet.”

Asherman handed him a long-nosed lighter. “You can get long stove matches at the chandlery, but I prefer these.”

Otto nodded and reached down, flicking the trigger to get a flame at the end before touching it to the paper. Every speck of smoke disappeared into the stove.

“Good draw,” Asherman said, stepping back to look at the joints and the chimney. “Looks like we got the chimney tall enough, too.”

“How do we get the sand in?” Otto asked.

Asherman grinned again and fetched a step stool from his grav pallet. “Get the sand.”

Otto dragged the buckets of sand in, while Asherman stepped up on the short stool. He flipped a latch on the top of the stove and lifted a hinged cover. “Hand me one of the buckets?” Otto heaved one up by the bail. Asherman grabbed it easily in one hand and lifted it up high enough to pour the sand in through the top. The sand hissed against the metal, the sound rising in pitch as the stove filled from the bottom. He finished the first bucket and handed the empty back to Otto before closing the hatch. He went to the other side, opened the matching hatch, and repeated the process. The stove filled up before the sand ran out. He had to push some of it around to level it off and then topped off the stove. He repeated the finishing step on the other side and handed the bucket back to Otto. “There. That’s got it. What do you think?”

Otto stood by the stove, listening to the crackling of the flames in the bottom of the hopper. “Won’t the fire run up the sticks?”

“Unlikely. It’s why you use smaller pieces. The ends burn off faster where there’s more air coming in from the bottom. The rising column of air creates a lot of suction, which you can control with the damper to keep some of the heat in while still letting the smoke out.” He demonstrated by turning the damper handle a few degrees off vertical. “Once it gets going, that sand will heat up, which will keep the metal warm, which will keep your shop warm.”

“I’ll be interested to see how it works in the cold of winter,” Otto said.

“If it’s not enough, let me know. I’ll swap it out for a box stove. No charge.” Asherman grinned. “I want you to be happy with it but if you’re not, I’ll make it right.”

Otto shook Asherman’s outstretched hand. “Fair enough.”

Asherman collected his loose gear and piled it on the grav pallet before heading off down the path toward the waiting barge.

Otto had sometimes considered getting a grav pallet of his own to take on the beach but kept ruling it out as somehow wrong. Perhaps he needed to consider it again. He closed the shop door and stood beside the stove, smelling the wisps of smoke and listening to the crackling of the fire. The summer temperatures outside kept the shop plenty warm—too warm, really. Having the skylights to act as vents would make a big difference. The small sticks burned a long time, giving Otto a chance to think about Finwell Bay and what he might accomplish there.

Peter Bagley featured prominently in his thoughts. He suspected the man needed professional help. Help at a level Otto couldn’t provide. The more he considered it, the more sure he became.

He also doubted his own involvement made him the best person to make such an evaluation. He’d have to talk to Abby about it. Get her take.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Finwell Bay: July 8, 2352

After a few weeks of walking the beach, Otto became more aware of its length. Usually the shape of the forest kept him from walking too far. His gather bag seemed to fill up fast enough that he found himself stuffing bits of shell into his jacket pockets. He pondered the idea of a grav pallet again as he made his way back to the cottage and a cup of late afternoon tea. The onshore breeze pulled in the clean smell of ocean, and a tickling sense of balance made him chuckle at himself.

He had no need to gather quite so much. While he hadn’t brought all the wood from Cape Grace, he’d brought several kilos of prime carving material. What he needed was some time with his knife.

As he made his way up the gentle slope to the cottage, he paused and looked back out to sea. He hadn’t seen Sam Bagley since the incident with his father. He didn’t like the feeling that crept up on him at that thought. He’d been staying away from town except for some early morning forays to the diner for breakfast. He hadn’t heard anything untoward there, but the hour after dawn wasn’t exactly prime time for business.

He stood his staff against the cottage and took his collection bag to the shop, unloading the kindling in a rough pile just inside the door and putting the potential carving materials into one of the shipping containers his household goods had traveled in. Rough and too large but it would do until he got the bench installed. He eyed the end of the shop and nodded. He decided to take a trip across town to see Ursula. If he ran into young Mr. Bagley on the way, so much the better.

* * *

Ursula looked up from her belt sander when Otto stepped into the shop’s open doorway. “Just the man I wanted to see,” she said, lifting her safety goggles up to her forehead. “What do you think?” She waved a hand at the sturdy table she’d been sanding.

“That’s my bench?”

“Yup. Looks big, but it should fit.”

“Will it go through the door? It looks huge.”

She grinned and pointed to the other end of the bench. “Gimme a hand.”

Otto went to the far end and raised an eyebrow.

“Grab the edge and lift,” she said, grabbing her end.

He lifted, expecting it to be heavier. The top lifted off the base easily.

She grinned. “We’ll take it in pieces. Top comes off. Base comes apart. We’ll peg the pieces together once it’s in the shop and set where you want it.” She pointed to a set of shelves resting on her bench. “That’s the topper. How’s that look for spacing?”

“Looks good. I like the taller shelf at the bottom and the short one at the top.”

“I don’t know what you need to put there but I figured some variation would help keep things neater.”

“This looks almost done. I didn’t think you’d have started it yet.”

She shrugged and gave him a shy smile. “I had some time. The polycarbonate for the skylights came in, too. What you doing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” Otto said. “Installing the new bench?”

“If you’ve got the time,” she said. “Just take a couple of small things to finish it. I want to give it a coat of oil to protect it. You have any preferences?”

“I thought just wood.”

She shook her head. “You can. I’d recommend at least one coat of an oil-based stain to protect the wood. We can use oil alone if you prefer, but the ocean’s tough on wood. Even in the shed.”

He shrugged and looked at her workbench. It had a dark sheen that enhanced the look of the wood. “What did you use on that?”

“It’s a light oak stain. Satin finish. Gives the wood some protection and stands up well to abuse.”

“Go with that.”

“That would have been my choice, too. Keeps enough of the original wood but makes it look richer.”

He looked around the shop.

“Is there something else?” she asked.

“Will you be using the boat to bring the bench and skylights?”

“Probably.”

He nodded. “I’ll stop by and place a grocery order. Maybe save a trip.”

“I’ll check with them,” she said. “Give me a little extra time with the stain.”

“Thanks, Ursula.”

She nodded and pulled her safety goggles back down.

Otto left the shop to the high-pitched whine of the sander.

* * *

As he rounded the corner toward the chandlery, he saw Sam Bagley standing on the sidewalk outside. The boy seemed to be staring out to sea, rocking slowly to a music only he could hear. He looked over as Otto approached and his eyes grew wide and round. Without saying a word, he turned and ran in the opposite direction, taking the turn at the end of the block and disappearing.

Otto sighed and shook his head. He changed course and headed for the Pirano building. He met Abby leaving as he arrived.

She smiled. “Hi, Otto. How’re things on your side of the point?”

“Good,” he said. “Got a tick?”

“Just about. Walk with me?”

He fell into step as she walked along the sidewalk. “Sam Bagley just saw me and took off running in the other direction.”

She frowned. “You think something’s up?”

Otto sighed and shrugged. “I’ve a bad feeling about Peter.”

Her frown deepened. “This your shaman sense?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Just makes me edgy.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Peter’s outburst. That wasn’t normal for him, was it?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I think it was way out of proportion,” Otto said. “But I’m not from around here.”

“No, you’re right. It was over the line, even for Peter.”

“You say that like he has some history,” Otto said.

She grimaced and shrugged. “He’s a bit of a control freak. He’s great in the freezer. Works alone most of the time, which is good because he’s known to not play well with others.”

“I think he needs some professional help,” Otto said. “I’m worried about what he’s doing to Sam and his wife. He doesn’t have any other kids, does he?”

“One, a little girl—Tabitha. She’s a couple of years behind Sam, I think.”

Otto nodded. “I’m not saying Peter’s got a problem. Just saying he might need help.”

Abby stopped in front of the chandlery. “You might pay a visit to his wife.”

“Does she work outside the home?” Otto asked.

“Not that I know of. Peter’s on the day shift at the freezer right now, but I don’t think Maryann has a job.”

Otto sighed and shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. Sorry to take up your time.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome. I’ll keep an eye and an ear open. I’ve got resources I can call in, if we need to.” She gave him a shrug. “But I need something more than a shouting match in the street.”

“I don’t think all is well in the Bagley household.” Otto sighed. “But that’s all I got.”

She nodded. “I’ve got a meeting, but thanks for bringing this to my attention.” She disappeared through the front door of the chandlery.

Otto decided he didn’t need to deal with the chandlery and turned his footsteps toward home. He had the materials he needed to make a crab trap, now that his goods from Cape Grace had come. A little fresh crab would go nicely to supplement his diet.

* * *

The barge pulled up to the beach just before noon and Ursula steered her grav pallet off. The bench parts hung over the sides, but the pallet carried them all easily as she towed it up the slope from the water. She grinned at Otto. “I thought you were going to order some stuff at the chandlery.”

“Changed my mind,” he said. “You got here early enough.”

She nodded. “Tide’s turning but they made the run for me.” She dragged the pallet around the cottage and grounded it at the shed. “First things first. I’ve got a helper coming. Can you help me lug this stuff inside?”

Otto grabbed the end of the bench and between them they maneuvered the big slab into the shop, leaning it against the wall to one side. They went back for the pieces of the base, Ursula pointing to where she wanted them placed.

“What do we do first?” Otto asked, looking around. “Put the base together?”

She shook her head and pointed up. “First, we put in the skylights. Then we put the base together.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Honestly? Go make some tea,” she said.

He laughed. “In other words, get out of the way.”

She shrugged and eyed the stove. “Neil did a good job on this. If I didn’t know better, I’d never guess it was made of buckets of sand.”

“I’m still leery about it,” Otto said. “I understand the physics but have a hard time believing a few twigs will heat it up.”

She shook her head. “I think the problem is your definition of few. A lot will depend on the actual wood. Wood stores more energy than most people believe when compared to other fuels.” She ran a hand over the outside of the buckets. “If Neil Asherman says this will heat the shop, I’d bet on Neil Asherman.”

A lanky youth stepped up to the open door and knocked on the frame. “I made it.”

“Otto, this is my helper, Herb Pyle. Herb, Otto Krugg. He’s about to get out of our hair so we can put the skylights in.”

Herb stuck out a hand. “Nice ta meet cha.”

Otto shook the man’s hand and sidled out the door. “You know where to find me. Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll stay in there.”

Ursula grinned. “I’ll be gentle.”

Otto laughed and went back into the cottage, took the hint, and put on the kettle.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, the loudest sounds of saws and voices had quieted. Otto stepped out of the cottage and peeked around the corner. “Anybody want tea?”

“Give us five ticks,” Ursula said from somewhere up on the roof.

“Sandwich?” Otto asked.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” she said peeking over the ridge pole. “But you don’t have to feed us.”

“I’d hate for you to be weakened by hunger and do a poor job,” he said, grinning up at her.

She laughed and waved a hand at him. “Five ticks.”

He went back inside and set the tea to brew while he pulled out bread and sandwich fillers, laying it out on a big platter on the table along with some condiments.

The timer dinged just seconds before the knock on the door. “It’s open,” he said, pulling mugs out of the cabinets. “Either of you take milk, sugar? I don’t have lemon. Sorry.”

“Black for me,” Ursula said. “Can I wash up in your sink?”

Otto stepped back out of the way and pulled a towel out of the nearest drawer. “Soap in the dish. Have at it.”

“Black for me, as well,” Herb said.

They washed up and Otto waved them into the chairs. “I’ve eaten. You two sit. Take a break. Help yourselves.”

“You set a pretty fancy table for a bachelor,” Ursula said, sliding into one of the chairs and building a sandwich on the plate in front of her.

“Wasn’t always a bachelor.” He braced himself for a pang of sadness that didn’t come. He smiled and blinked against a sting in his eyes.

Herb grinned but Ursula cast him a glance. She didn’t ask the question, just gave him a short nod and a tight-lipped smile.

“How’s it look out there?” he asked, pouring the tea for them.

“Why don’t you go see?” she asked. “Just don’t go climbing any ladders.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said and scooted out the door and around the back. He felt a lightness and excitement he hadn’t had in ages. It seemed ridiculous that he should be so excited by skylights and a bench in his shop, but he couldn’t help himself.

He went around the back, but couldn’t see much of the skylights from the outside. Inside was a different story. The clear crystalline windows in the roof showed him the green leafy canopies of the trees outside. It took him a moment to realize that the shop lights were off. The bench parts hadn’t been moved but the two skylights kept him staring up in delight.

He pulled himself away and returned to the cottage. “It’s wonderful.”

Ursula grinned at him and Herb smiled.

“We’ve still got some waterproofing and such to finish securing them. They hinge up from the base, but I need to bring you the pole. I forgot to put it on the pile this morning,” Ursula said. “You’ll be able to open and close them without having to stand on a chair.”

“Are they strong enough?” he asked. “What if a limb falls?”

“They’re probably stronger than the roof,” she said. “It’s not really glass. It just looks like it.”

She upended her tea cup and placed it back on the table. “You ready?” she asked, looking at Herb.

He tucked the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs in his mug. “Yup.”

“Let’s see if we can get this done before dark, shall we?”

He stood and led the way out of the cottage.

“You don’t need to stay inside,” Ursula said, stopping at the door. “The overhead work’s pretty much done. I don’t think we’ll drop anything on you.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. Thanks.”

She nodded and followed Herb back around the cottage.

* * *

Otto wondered what he’d make for dinner, but a knock on the door derailed his thought process. Ursula waited on the stoop. Herb and the grav pallet had gone.

“Come see,” she said. “We’re done.” He followed her back to the shop and she waved him ahead at the door. “See what you think,” she said.

He stepped in and felt the smile spreading across his face. The bench fit perfectly and looked exactly like he’d hoped it would. A couple of steps took him close enough to run a hand over the surface. He reached for the top shelf and had no trouble spanning the distance. He leaned on it, tried to shake it, but it felt bolted to the floor.

“Once you get some stuff on the lower shelf, it’ll take a bulldozer to shift it. It’s pretty solid now. I put the same level of cross bracing in it that I have on mine.”

“It’s great,” he said. “It feels like home.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Like it didn’t before?”

Otto chuckled. “Well, last week it was empty. Now I’ve got a stove, a workbench. Places to put stuff.”

“What do you put on the shelves? Tools?”

He shook his head. “Not so much. I only really use my knife and a sanding block. My father’s bench had a lot of little drawers in the back, but he was always trying to find the drawer that had what he wanted in it.” He ran his hand over the surface of the bench, feeling the smooth wood sliding like velvet under his palm. “I’ve got a couple of small boxes that I store finished whelkies in. I usually keep raw driftwood that I want to carve up there.”

“What’ll you put underneath, then?”

He stepped back and looked. “In my old shop that would be for kindling. Firewood went beside the stove, but with this new one, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll find something.”

“You’re happy with the work, then?” she asked.

“Ecstatic,” he said, glancing up at the treetops above. “This is wonderful. Amazing.”

“You’re quite the topic of conversation in town these days,” she said.

“What are they saying?” he asked.

“You got into it with Pete Bagley?” she asked.

“Not exactly. I still don’t know what happened.”

“Don’t put much stock in Pete. He’s not quite right some days,” she said.

Otto nodded. “That’s what worries me. You know his son?”

“Sam? Sure. I think everybody in town knows Sam by now.” She grinned. “Nice kid.”

“Seen him lately?” Otto asked.

She frowned. “Not in the last day or so, no. He’s probably found somebody to follow around.”

“He do that often?”

She shrugged. “He’s just looking for company, I think.”

“Or guidance,” Otto said.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the bench. “Think there’s a problem?”

“I don’t know. He’s a good kid, what little I’ve seen of him. Bright. Eager to learn. Limited in his universe of options at the moment.”

She nodded. “He is that.”

“Having his father react so strongly to him seeing me whack a whelk and gut a fish?” Otto sighed. “I don’t know what things are like here. I’m too new. Somebody reacted that way in Cape Grace, I’d be recommending some serious counseling.”

“How does that work?” she asked.

“What? Counseling?”

“No, the recommending part.”

“I worked with the company rep in Cape Grace and before that out at Maggie’s Landing.”

“One end of the coast to the other?” she asked, eyebrows climbing her head.

“Yeah. I think Maggie’s Landing is closer to here than Cape Grace is, but there’s nothing but water between us.”

She nodded. “I’m pretty sure you’re right. But the recommendation?”

“In both places, the company rep might see a hint of a problem and ask me to pay a visit to see if there was anything going on. Sometimes I caught wind of something and took it to the rep myself.”

“What kind of things?”

“Mostly domestic violence. Alcohol abuse. People talk about ‘normal’ but there’s a whole lot of different kinds of normal. Autodoc checkups can balance brain chemistry issues pretty easily, but it doesn’t stay balanced all the time.” He shrugged. “For some it’s a constant struggle.”

“Then what?”

“Well, then the rep steps in and maybe will set them up with a therapist to work on the issues. Programs to break addiction exist but the person has to recognize there’s a problem first.”

“Does it work? This intervention?”

“Sometimes.” Otto sighed. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”

“So here you’d go to Abby?”

Otto nodded. “There’s nothing she can do about it at the moment. It just set off an alarm in my head but my triggers are cranked up. I’m new here.”

She frowned and nodded. “You have some whelkies to give out?”

“I do. I usually keep them in the shop.” He shrugged and waved at the shelves. “Didn’t have a place to put them until today.”

She glanced at the empty shelf and chewed on her lower lip.

“What? You want to see some?”

A grin illuminated her face like he’d flipped a switch. “That obvious?”

“Well, give me a hand. I’ve got a few dozen done.”

He led her into the cottage and hefted up one of the boxes of carving wood he’d brought from Cape Grace. He pointed to a box that contained his horde of whelkies.

“If you’d grab that one?”

She picked up the box and followed him back out to the shed.

He slid the box of wood onto the bottom shelf and took the box of whelkies from her. He popped the lid open and started sifting through the packing beads and pulling out finished pieces. He scattered them on the bench, trying to keep the beads in the box while fishing around for the carvings. When he was done, he put the box full of packing under the bench and corralled the loose carvings into a pile.

Ursula looked like she’d been shown a pile of diamonds. The wonder in her face made Otto grin.

“You carved these?” she asked, then shook her head. “Of course, you did. Why did I ask that?”

“I usually keep them in cans on the shelf.” He lined them up in roughly chronological order. “These are some older ones. Those are among the newest. I think I just finished that one a couple of months ago,” he said, pointing at one of them. “It’s hard to remember when I did them after a while.”

“They’re brutal,” she said. “And gorgeous.” She frowned. “I’ve never seen one. I thought they’d be all smooth and detailed and ...” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Now that I’ve seen these, I don’t know what I thought.”

Otto pulled the fulmar from his pocket and balanced it on his palm. “Like this?”

A breath sighed out of her. “That’s beautiful.” She looked back and forth between the fulmar and the scattered whelkies on the bench. “You didn’t carve that one.”

“No, my daughter did.”

She frowned. “I didn’t think women could be shamans.”

“They can, but the company doesn’t recognize them.” Otto swallowed. It got easier to say, the more he said it, but he still had a lump in his throat every time.

Ursula scowled. “That’s why she left, isn’t it?”

Otto nodded. “She didn’t fit here. The company wouldn’t let her stay.”

“But you know where she is, right?”

Otto shook his head. “Out there somewhere.”

Ursula bit her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s all been said, I think.” He sighed. “You have kids?”

She nodded. “Two from my first husband. They’re out working the fleet now.”

“You work for the company?” he asked.

“Yeah. Not full time but one of three contract master carpenters here in Finwell Bay.”

Otto nodded. “Makes sense. They can’t keep a carpenter busy full time?”

“They probably could, but when a big project comes along, they have three they can call on. We get to do our own things in between.”

“How often do they have a project?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes they get backed up. Heavy storm damage. Roof rework. They’ve got maintenance crews for most of it but when the damage gets into structure, one of us will scope it out and supervise.” She shrugged again and shook her head. “I’m happier with sawdust in my hair than a blueprint in my hand.” She looked at the whelkies on the bench, shaking her head. “That’s a lot of whelkies.”

“I’ve been doing it a long time,” he said. “I don’t hand out that many.”

“You just give them away?”

“Yeah. The lore says they find the person who needs their guidance. I’m just the guy who frees them from the wood and gives them their hearts.”

“You’re a romantic,” she said, her eyes dancing.

“Yeah. A bit.” He nodded at the whelkies. “See any there that call out to you?”

She looked at them, scanning from one end of the row to another. “They’re all nice.”

He nodded and started scooping them up, depositing them in the cans he’d brought from Cape Grace and lining the cans up on the shelf. He glanced at her and grinned at her crestfallen look. He pulled down one of the cans and upended it on the bench. Whelkies clattered across the surface like a wave.

“What are you doing?” she asked, holding her hands up to the edge of the bench, catching a couple that might have fallen off. “I thought you were putting them away.”

“Just seeing how well they fit on the shelf. How about these? Any one of them speak to you?” He put the empty can on the end of the bench and leaned against the stone wall, arms folded.

She laughed, a bell-like tone that sounded almost girlishly giddy. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Look ’em over.”

“Is this a test?” she asked.

“Of a sort.”

“All right.” She leaned forward, scanning over the tumbled whelkies, occasionally straightening them or untangling them. She scanned the whole field once but returned to a badger curled back on himself in an odd pose. She frowned at it for a few moments and then looked all of them over again. She shook her head. “They’re all amazing but I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

He nodded and plucked the badger out of the group, standing it on the shelf above the bench.

“What?” she asked, glancing at it before looking at Otto.

“Just checking,” Otto said. He started scooping the small figures into the empty can. In a few moments he had the bench cleared. He repeated the process with another can, dumping them out of the can so they scattered across the bench.

“What are you doing?” she asked, chuckling a little. “You looking for something?”

“I am, yes,” he said. “I’ll know it when I see it.” He nodded at the bench. “Anything in that lot that speaks to you?”

“You keep saying that,” she said. “What do you mean, speaks to me?”

“Humor me,” he said, lounging back against the wall again. “Look ’em over.”

She gave him a small frown and a smaller laugh but started scanning them from the far end of the bench. As before, she occasionally reached in to untangle or straighten up the small figures. About a third of the way down the bench she picked up a tortoise and placed it upright on its feet. She grinned at it, pushed the other whelkies away from it, then continued her perusal. Every so often she’d pause and glance back at it. Once she started to reach for it again but pulled her hand back in a loose fist before it touched the carving, like it had been hot and she didn’t want to burn her hand. Eventually she got to the end and shook her head.

“Nothing speaks to you in all those whelkies?” Otto asked.

She took a half step back from the bench and tucked her hands behind her back. “No,” she said, shaking her head.

“You sure?” he asked. “Want to look again?”

She shook her head, looking up at the skylight and out at the door. “I’m sure.”

“What about that tortoise?” he asked.

Her head snapped around to look at it. “What about it?”

“Well, you stood it on its feet. It’s sitting in a perfectly clear circle of whelkies.” He shrugged. “When I mentioned it, you looked right at it.”

“Well, of course, it’s the only tortoise there.”

Otto reached out and pulled four other carvings of tortoises, sliding them to the edge of the bench. “Really?” He pulled out two other carvings of turtles.

She blinked and frowned at the bench for a moment before looking at Otto with the same quizzical stare. “I don’t understand what happened.”

Otto shrugged. He picked up the empty can and started pulling the whelkies into it, leaving the one tortoise where she’d left it. He picked up the last few, adding them to the can before putting the can back on the shelf.

Ursula looked at him, then the can, then the solitary tortoise sitting on the bench.

“You can pick it up,” he said. “It’s yours now.”

She shook her head. “No. You can’t mean it.”

He shrugged. “I do mean it.”

She stared at him, but her hand moved to the edge of the bench. “Aren’t they supposed to be for people who have problems?”

He grinned. “Like me? I have one. Do I have a problem?”

She looked at the tortoise again. “What does it mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean. Might mean nothing. Might be just an interesting knick-knack.”

“You do this to people?” she asked. “Give them whelkies to carry around?”

“Sometimes.” He looked at the cans. “Clearly not very often, or I wouldn’t have cans of them waiting around to find owners.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why?”

“You said they find their owners. What if the real owner comes in and I’ve taken it?”

He laughed. “You are the real owner. You are taking it.”

She stared at him. “You believe this.”

“Of course.” He gave her his very best serious expression. “Step back. Consider this.”

She nodded.

“You’re having a strong emotional reaction to this situation. Yes?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak but stopped. “I suppose I am.”

“You saw two cans’ worth of whelkies, and other than that badger, none of them spoke to you. Out of something around a hundred carvings, you picked that tortoise. You cared for it. Stood it up on its feet. Cleared a space around it to keep the other animals away. Am I wrong?”

Her forehead flexed as it furrowed and relaxed, furrowed and relaxed. “No. You’re not wrong.”

“You’re fighting yourself over accepting it for reasons that are more emotional than rational. Why?”

“That’s a whelkie. You worked hard on that for several days if not weeks,” she said. “I can’t just take your work from you.”

“So, you’d rather I just tucked it back into the can with the rest?” He reached for the tortoise but her hand flashed out, stopping just shy of picking it up. He grinned. “It’s yours now.” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall.

She took the whelkie and balanced it on her palm. “This is crazy.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But it’s harmless.”

She frowned at him, even as her fingers closed over the tortoise’s shell. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked up at the darkening sky above. “It’s getting late.”

He shrugged then turned and walked out of the shop. She followed him to the door of the cottage. “You want a cup of tea before you go?”

She shook her head, still holding the whelkie close to her chest. “No. I’m good.” She took a deep breath and blew it out.

The calm and peace settled on them as the sun sank closer to the western horizon. It would disappear behind the headland before it set. The long shadows already hinted at the night to come. A night bird called in the forest. The waves on the sand sounded muted.

Otto watched her taking in the peace, seeming to pull it into herself. A faint smile curled her lips and her face seemed to glow. A few specks of sawdust in her graying hair gleamed like jewels in the last light of day.

“It’s peaceful,” she said.

“Yes. It’s why shamans live on the edges. Away from the noise of life. Makes it easier to listen to the world.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe that.” She looked around the front of the cottage, measuring it with her gaze before looking up into the tree tops above and then out to sea through the scattered trunks.

“Don’t believe what?” he asked.

“You’re not on the edge out here. You’re in the middle.”

He laughed a little. “Perhaps so.”

She nodded and looked back at him. “Thanks for this.” She held the tortoise up.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the bench and for pointing me at Neil. And the skylights.”

She nodded and for a moment he thought she might step toward him. He realized how close together they stood. Before it all registered, she took a half step back and turned to the path. “I should head back. Still got work to do.”

He nodded and swallowed, watching her pick her way down the trail to the beach, her whelkie in her hand.

She stopped and gave him a wave and a smile. “Good night, Otto.”

“Night.”

She turned and strode the last few steps to the beach and began the climb up the headland, arms swinging, legs pushing. For a moment he saw her as she must have been, sleek, coltish. Her movements carrying her up the path in flashes between the tree trunks. Her power, her strength glowing in her loose-limbed stride. Goddess incarnate.

He shook himself and ran a hand down the back of this neck.

He went into the cottage and set the kettle on. He needed some tea. Maybe something to eat. There were still moving crates to unpack, and he’d need a stool for the shop. His fingers seemed to itch with the desire to carve, but he settled for chopping an onion and sweating some bacon for chowder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Finwell Bay: July 13, 2352

Morning brought wind in gusts that rattled the tree limbs over the cottage and thrashed a chop on the sea. Not enough to raise the waves, but more than enough to blow spume onto the beach. Otto grinned into the force of it and set out on his walk. The tide rode fairly high on its way out, so he had plenty of time. He felt the call of the long stretch and the fresh air.

He stopped, just leaning on his staff and looking out to sea. The wind blew through him, taking with it a last heaviness. Not grief.

Well, maybe grief.

He continued his stroll, kicking over piles of weed, filling his gather bag with sticks for the new stove. The warmth of the summer covered the chill of the wind from the ocean. He had time to gather fuel before the ice and snow took hold and shook the world. At least his part of it.

The morning gave way to afternoon before he turned his feet back toward the cottage. His bag hung heavy on his shoulder. He’d found another shell for his staff, and three new feathers: a white one from a sea bird and two blue ones from the edge of the forest, narrow and small. A hank of twine had caught on the heel of his staff so he grabbed the tangle and stuffed that into his bag with the rest. He’d need to bore a hole in the shell, but a careful application of the point of his knife should handle it.

He’d walked a long way but felt lighter than he had in a while. The wind blew at his back, hastening his steps. He should have brought a water bottle, and made a mental note to add it to his gear. Still, he made it back to the cottage with a spring in his step, looking forward to a late lunch, early dinner. Perhaps the leftover chowder and some biscuits. He walked up the path to the cottage and stopped a few meters away.

A new bench sat beside the door. A simple plank-built construction, stained dark, it gleamed in the afternoon light.

Ursula sat on the bench smiling at him, leaning back against the stone. Sam Bagley sat beside her, looking restless and unsettled. His hair had been cut almost to the scalp, leaving a stubble. He looked back and forth between Otto and Ursula, biting his lower lip.

“Hey, Otto. Got a spare whelkie?” she asked.

“I think I might have a few,” Otto said. “How you doing, Sam?”

Sam looked at the dirt in front of his feet. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“That’s fair,” Otto said. “Maybe tell Ms. Ramsbottom here how you’re doing.”

“Interesting haircut,” Ursula said. “Who gave it to you?”

“My mother.”

“Did you ask for it?”

He shook his head.

“Was there some reason she clipped it so short?”

Sam glanced up at Otto and shook his head.

“No reason, or no reason you want to say.”

He shook his head again.

Ursula raised an eyebrow in Otto’s direction. “Young Mr. Bagley here came past the shop just after lunch. I asked him to help me lug this new bench down for you. He agreed.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“She said I should wait for you,” he said, still looking down at the ground.

“I’m glad she did. I’ve been worried about you. Haven’t seen you around the town for a few days.”

“Had to stay home.”

“I see. You’re not grounded anymore?”

“No, but if they catch me talking to you again, I’ll be grounded for a week next time.”

“I’ll do my part,” Otto said. “Perhaps Ms. Ramsbottom and I can have a chat later?”

Ursula nodded. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Why don’t you see that Mr. Bagley gets back to town safely and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, standing up. “Come on, Sam. Let’s make sure you don’t get into trouble on the way back, huh?” She extended a hand and Sam took it, sliding off the bench.

Otto stood clear of the path so they could walk by him. He watched them go for a few moments before making good on his offer to make tea. He had a pot brewing by the time Ursula got back.

“What was that about?” Otto asked.

She sat heavily and ran her fingers through her hair. “Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Thanks for the bench, by the way. What do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Gift. Trade for the whelkie.”

He poured two mugs of tea and put one in front of her before taking his own seat. “Sam showed up at your shop?”

“Not exactly. The Bagleys live up near my neighborhood. I saw him scuffing down the street like his best friend had died. You mentioned him the other day. That you hadn’t seen him.” She paused to sip her tea. “I called him over. I thought he was gonna run away but he came. Eyes red. Puffy.”

“Crying?” Otto asked.

“He wasn’t at the time. No sniffles, but ...” She shrugged. “That’s what I’d guess.”

“The haircut?”

“Turns out it’s a punishment in his house,” she said. “Remind him to pay attention. That’s what he said.”

Otto blew out a long breath. “I’d be happy to give him a whelkie but that would just cause more problems for him.”

She nodded and took another sip. “I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to talk to you or I wouldn’t have asked him to help. I thought maybe you could—I don’t know—do your shaman thing and help him.”

He smiled. “Well, my shaman thing is probably what got him in hot water to begin with.”

“Yeah. He didn’t mention it before.”

“Why now?” Otto asked.

She looked up. “Not following.”

“I haven’t seen him to talk to since the day on the point. What was that? A week ago?”

“A few days, anyway. His father’s escapade was only a couple days ago. Just seems longer.”

“So, his father got a talking-to by security and went home to shave Sam’s head?” Otto asked.

“I suppose it’s better than taking him to the woodshed,” she said.

Otto frowned into his mug. “It’s worse.”

“Worse?”

He nodded. “It’s an attack on his person. On his identity. He probably can’t put it into words, but that’s a violation, a branding that he has to walk around town with for weeks while it grows out.”

She sighed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“What’s the daughter’s name?”

Ursula shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s hardly ever out of the house. Her mother takes her to school and brings her back. I see them walking by, but they don’t stop.”

Otto took a sip of tea, trying not to jump to conclusions—but he had a very bad feeling about the Bagley household.

* * *

Otto knocked on Abby’s door frame. “Got a tick?”

She looked up from her console and glanced at the chrono. “Five, actually. Come in.” She frowned. “What is it?”

He took a seat. “It’s the Bagleys.”

“Has Peter been after you again?” she asked.

“No. I just saw Sam. I wasn’t supposed to. He’s been told not to speak to me. Not to be near me. He was grounded for a couple of days for having been on the point with me.”

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “All right. That seems a little harsh, but I’m not sure where I come in.”

“They shaved him nearly bald as punishment.”

She shook her head. “Again. Parents. Children. Not exactly the company business.”

“I think it’s the missus.”

She blinked. “You think what is the missus?”

“I think she’s the one who pushed Bagley to accost me in the street. I think she’s abusing her kids. I think she needs help.”

“You’ve never met her, have you?”

Otto shook his head.

“But think she’s abusing her husband? Her kids?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, yes.”

“You want me to do what, exactly?”

“Bring in a family counselor from Woontana to evaluate them.”

“On what grounds?”

“Do you need grounds?” he asked.

She nodded. “As far as I can tell, they’ve been model citizens. Peter does his job. Does it well. Maryann keeps a neat house and cares for the kids. The kids are generally well behaved, clean, dressed.” She shrugged. “Why do I single them out for what might be considered to be company interference?”

“What do you need?” Otto asked.

“Something,” she said. “They’re perfectly within their rights to discipline their kids. They’re not beating them, denying them food or shelter. There’s no sign of abuse. What would you expect me to do?”

Otto shrugged. “I see your point.” He stood and headed for the door. “Thanks for the time.”

“Otto,” she said.

He turned to look back at her.

“You believe there’s a problem,” she said.

“I do.”

“I believe you,” she said. “I just can’t do anything about it. The company’s relationship with parents isn’t good at the best of times. We can’t just step in and tell parents how to raise their kids.”

Otto nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been on the parent end myself.”

She frowned.

He walked out the door, struggling for control. Abby wasn’t the problem. She just wore the blue windbreaker. He left the Pirano building and walked to the end of the pier to stare out at the harbor and the ocean beyond. He took deep breaths and watched a pair of gulls soaring over the headland. Eventually he got himself under control enough that he could think straight.

Emotional abuse didn’t show on the body until it was too late. He feared for young Sam Bagley and his sister. He worried that whatever demons drove the Bagley family would win in the end and that the kids would pay the price.

Standing at the end of the pier, staring out to sea, he felt the pulsing heartbeat of an open wound in the town behind him. The wind stirred the shells on his staff, chimes of bone rattling in the breeze. His mind cast about for a solution but kept coming back to Abby’s words. “We can’t just step in and tell parents how to raise their kids.”

They could, and did, when the abuse showed on the skin, when the problems showed visible symptoms.

Would Sarah have been better off if the company had taken her away as a child? Raised her away from the beach? Away from him?

His eyes stung. He blinked the sting away, shook his head, and turned his steps back toward the cottage. He needed to listen to the world, and the noise from the town overwhelmed him.

* * *

Otto tried to settle into his new routine. At the chandlery he found a stool for the shop, remembered to pick up a broom and dustpan. The long beach drew him like a drug. He filled his bag every day, mostly with loose sticks destined for the stove. He found at least a few pieces of driftwood for carving and, once, a trove of a dozen potential whelkies in a single day.

For a week, he stayed on “his side” of the point and tried to tend to his own business. In the evening, he sat on the bench and carved as the sun set, the headland’s shadow slowly overtaking him. The faint sounds of the town occasionally drifted over on the breeze.

The activity kept him busy. The carving engaged his mind.

Flanagan jolted him out of his fugue when Otto opened the cottage door one morning and found him sitting on the bench, staring out to sea.

“Nice view.” Flanagan looked up at Otto. “How’s the town treating you?”

“They leave me alone, for the most part,” Otto said. “Want some tea?”

Flanagan shook his head. “Thanks. Not this time. I just came from breakfast. They make a hell of an omelet. You ever have one at the diner on Fifteenth?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Little bird says you’ve got a problem with the Bagleys.” Flanagan crossed his arms and leaned back against the cottage wall, staring out to sea.

“More like they have a problem with me, I think.”

Flanagan frowned. “You been over here pouting because Abby Hawkes won’t bring down a family therapist to evaluate them.”

Otto opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and looked out to sea himself.

Flanagan glanced up at him. “There’s a problem, isn’t there.”

Otto drew a deep breath of fresh morning air in through his nose. The scent of salt water and green leaves filled him. “There is,” he said.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Otto looked over at Flanagan. “I’ve done what I can. I brought it to the attention of the company rep. That’s as far as I can go.”

“Is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Winter’s not that far away. This kinda thing gets messy in the winter.”

“You think I’m right?”

Flanagan shrugged. “I think you’re one of the best shamans on the coast. You live beside it every day. You tell me.”

“I’m also a catalyst.”

“You’re just the excuse, I think,” Flanagan said.

“If I hadn’t come here, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Flanagan chuckled. “Get over yourself. If you hadn’t come here, Deering would have been the problem. Come spring, there’s going to be a royal mess here.”

“This another one of your storm’s comin’ talks?” Otto asked. “The last one didn’t work out so well.”

“Was I wrong?” Flanagan asked, not looking up.

Otto sighed.

“I could be wrong this time,” Flanagan said. “You tell me. You listening to the world?”

“Seems like that’s all I’m doing,” Otto said.

“Yeah. Seems like that to me, too.” Flanagan stood up and clapped Otto on the shoulder. “Gotta catch a tram.” He turned and walked down the path toward the beach.

Otto stared after him. He wanted to tell him he was wrong. To yell after him to ... say what? He sighed.

Flanagan hadn’t been wrong about the storm. Otto hadn’t seen it, heard it. He’d been swept up in it anyway. He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t helped, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sarah had been right. That he’d caused at least some of the problem—if not directly, certainly indirectly.

He looked at the level of the tide. He had half a day before he’d be able to walk the beach. Perhaps there was another path he could walk.

* * *

His footfalls crunched the crushed-shell path to the house. He knocked on the door. The late-morning sun played peekaboo in the clouds and somebody in the neighborhood had a blossoming lilac bush or two. The fragrance drifted on the breeze. He heard the heavy steps inside just before the door jerked open. A thin woman in dungarees and a T-shirt scowled at him.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Ms. Bagley?”

“You expecting somebody else to answer the door?” she asked.

“I’m Otto—”

“I know who you are, shaman. What do you want with me?”

“I wanted to make amends,” he said.

Her eyebrows shot up at that. “Make amends? Now that you’ve done the damage? Now that you’ve scarred my boy? Now you want to make amends?”

“I am truly sorry for whatever damage I might have caused,” Otto said. “I had no idea that having Sam watch me fishing from the point would be a problem. That it would result in Sam being punished.”

She scoffed. “How could you not know? You stupid? What did you think it would look like to an innocent child to see you kill that whelk? To watch you cut the head off that fish and slit its belly? Huh?”

“I never considered it might be a problem.”

“You never considered it. You got that right. What kind of monster are you? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of holy man or something? You never had any kids of your own, did you.”

“I do, yes.”

Her tirade derailed. “You do what?”

“I do have a child. A daughter. She’s an adult now.”

Her scowl changed into a frown. “You’re lying.”

He shrugged. “No reason to lie about that. You can check. Her name is Sarah Krugg. She left the planet last winter.”

She blinked. “What do you mean, left the planet?”

“She couldn’t get a job with the company. She had to leave.” He shrugged. He didn’t know how to get into all the complicating factors with this woman who so clearly distrusted him.

“She ran away,” she said.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Otto sighed. “She ran away.”

“That should tell you something. She’d rather be out there than near you.” She waved a hand up at the sky. “You even know where she is now?”

He shook his head. “No. She’s got a job on a freighter. That’s all I know. I don’t know which one or where they might be now.”

She smiled at him, an ugly smile. “Serves you right.”

“Probably, but it’s neither here nor there,” he said. “I came to apologize and to offer you a token of my sincerity.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of whelkies. He held them on the palm of his hand. “I have little to show my sincere regret, but I carve whelkies. You can have any of these.” He shrugged. “All of them if you wish.”

Her frown returned. “You think you can buy my goodwill with little stick carvings?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t expect anything of the kind. These are all I have to offer you. It seemed the least I could do. Sadly, the most as well since I’m unable to turn back time and undo the harm that you’ve suffered.”

She stared at the collection in the palm of his hand. “You carved these?”

“Yes.”

“They look liked they’ve been hacked out with an axe. That the best you can do?”

“Yes.”

He thought she might slam the door in his face but she reached out and plucked a figure out of his hand—a rabbit. “You stay away from my children,” she said.

“I have no desire to get between you and your family,” he said.

“You are not to speak to my son. Am I clear on that?”

He nodded. “Yes. Very clear. He’s a great kid. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am.” She sniffed and folded her hand around the whelkie. “Now if there’s nothing else? I’ve got work to finish before I pick my daughter up from school.”

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Bagley.” Otto stepped back from the door.

She closed the door in his face, but didn’t slam it.

He sighed and turned away, heading toward Ursula’s carpentry shop.

Ursula saw him coming and met him at the open door to the shop with a welcoming grin. “What brings you to this side of town, stranger?”

“Trying to patch things up with the Bagleys.”

She frowned. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Ms. Bagley disagrees.”

“What about Peter? I thought he was the one hating on you.”

“He’s got to live with her.” He shrugged. “He saw an opportunity to confront me over something that bothered her. He took it. Was he wrong?”

Her frown deepened but her gaze turned inward. “Put it that way.” She shrugged and twitched her mouth around. She eyed him up and down. “You look unscathed. How did it go?”

He shrugged. “I said my piece. She said hers. I gave her a whelkie and an apology. She warned me away from the kids.”

“You know that’s bull, right?”

“I know it’s her right to raise her family by her own standards. As long as there’s nothing visible, I can’t make a case for abuse.”

“You know that’s bull, right?” she asked again, a grin tilting her lips to one side.

He sighed. “I know. I think winter will bring a world of hurt, but I’m hoping a little preventative attention can mitigate the worst of it.”

“You think a whelkie will make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all I got at the moment. Not much I can do for Sam. At least not directly. His sister? I have no idea what’s going to happen with her. Peter? He’s the one to watch.”

“Peter?” She laughed. “He’s no danger.”

He sighed. “I’m worried about his survival, to be honest.”

“What? You think she’ll kill him?” Her face stretched in incredulity. “I mean, she’s harsh but that seems extreme.”

“Winter does funny things,” Otto said.

She shook her head. “He’s not the type to snap.”

Otto snorted. “You know that’s what people always say after somebody hits the end of their tether, right? ‘I never would have expected it of him.’”

She rocked back on her heels and tilted her head. “You’re seriously worried.”

He nodded. “I am. I’ve got no leverage with Abby on this. I can sort of see her point. Shaving the kid’s head isn’t exactly beating him. But just because it leaves no visible wound doesn’t mean it’s not painful.”

“She does have to be careful,” Ursula said.

Otto sighed. “Yeah. Anyway. Thanks for the bench. What do I owe you?”

She shook her head. “Housewarming present. I told you that.”

“Thanks.”

“You wanna get some lunch?” she asked. “I’m just wrapping up here.”

Otto glanced up at the sun. “Yeah. I hadn’t realized how late it was getting.”

“Come on up. I’ve got a pot of stew and some fresh bread.”

“Up?”

She pointed to the ceiling. “I live up there. Handy in the winter.”

He followed her up a stairway at the back of the shop and into a cozy apartment above. The main room held a few pieces of furniture, mostly wood. The glassed-in south wall gave a spectacular view of the town and the harbor beyond. A slider opened onto a deck with some rustic wooden furniture—a small table and a couple of chairs. “This is beautiful.”

She grinned. “Thanks. Labor of love. I think I got it the way I want it now.” She led the way into a small galley-style kitchen that would have been at home on an actual ship. She puttered about for a few moments, getting the stew out of the chiller and onto a burner. She pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and slapped it on a cutting board. “Just be a tick or three,” she said. “Tea?”

He nodded.

She put a kettle on another burner and pulled a tea pot down from a cupboard, adding a few pinches from a canister on the counter.

Otto kept finding new details in the construction. The way the exposed rafters formed triangular patterns above, echoed by the floor boards laid out on the diagonal. The window and door frames highlighted in a slightly different stain, giving them an identity of their own that still contributed to the whole. He closed his mouth with a snap. “This place is gorgeous.”

“Kept me busy for a while,” she said. “When I moved into the shop, this wasn’t much more than wood storage. No kitchen. No bath. Just one big, dirty room.”

“You can’t see any of this from the street,” he said.

“The roof shows, but the street’s so narrow that you can’t get the angle. You can see it from the docks.” She smiled. “Make yourself at home. It’ll only be a tick.” She busied herself setting up a table with cutlery.

He watched her move about the room, completely at home in her space. No wasted movements. Graceful in her utility. He smiled and turned away, afraid she’d catch him staring. “How long have you lived here?”

“Here here? Or here Finwell Bay?”

“Either. Both,” he said.

She paused, dish in hand, to look at the ceiling. “I’ve lived in Finwell Bay all my life. I got the shop when I got my master carpenter license. Took it over from my teacher, who went down the coast to Parson’s Point.”

“That the end of the line?” Otto asked.

She chuckled. “Yeah. As far as you can go before you start back on the other side.” She finished adjusting the table and poured boiling water into the tea pot. “When Xavier decided he liked somebody else more than me, we divorced and I started getting this place in shape.” She looked around, a satisfied smile on her face. “That was a decade ago. It’s come together nicely, I think.”

“You like Finwell Bay, I take it?”

“I do, yes. Hometown girl, I suppose.” She shrugged. “My exes both left town so I don’t have to deal with them, which is a blessing.”

He looked around the place. “I’m in awe. This place is beautiful.”

She grinned. “Thanks. I don’t get to do that much designing on this scale. Most people come to me with a plan in mind and just need hands to make it. Company plans, company houses.” She shrugged again. “When the company calls, I answer and they pay me good.”

“How’d you get into carpentry?”

“Always loved the smell of wood. When I was a kid, Finwell still had some growth and the company was putting up a new house about every other week. I got onto one of the work crews and worked up to foreman for my own team. The master carpenter took me under his wing and helped me get my license so I can initiate and oversee my own projects.” She rolled her eyes. “Still have to get permits through the town council.”

“That a problem?”

“It’s the town council. Everything has to be double-checked, cross-referenced, cited for code. It goes on a while, but eventually they’ll cough up a permit.” She stirred the stew with a long wooden spoon and nodded. “Moratorium on new construction at the moment. I think there are five or six company houses empty.”

“Out of how many?”

“Couple of hundred. Twenty boats don’t need that many people. Even with all the support personnel.” She shrugged. “Bigger than a village. Smaller than a city like Woontana. I like it. How big is Cape Grace?”

“About half this size. I think they’ve got fifteen trawlers, but a lot of their fishermen work the Deep Sea platforms now. No freezer, much smaller company footprint.”

She nodded. “Probably describes half the villages on the South Coast.”

“Yeah.”

“Soup’s hot. Let’s eat,” she said.

He took a seat at the table while she ladled a rich lamb stew into crockery bowls. “Smells great.”

“Thanks. I have a connection for fresh lamb.” She winked at him, settling a bowl in front of him. “Makes for a nice break from chicken and fish.”

Otto dug in and had to agree.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Aram’s Inlet: August 5, 2352

Dr. Perez flipped the folder closed and slipped it onto Angela’s desk. “I cribbed a lot of it right from the Handbook of Social Services Practice. That’s what it’s there for.”

“If we hire every shaman, will that be enough to satisfy CPJCT?” Angela asked.

“Depends on how many shamans there are.” Perez grinned.

“I know there are around forty-five hundred men,” Angela said. “So far I haven’t gotten a count on the women.”

“The program is sound. They can’t complain about it since it’s based on their manual. Numbers will be key. Will they go along with us?”

“The shamans?” Angela asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m waiting to hear from Jack Flanagan. He’s supposed to be sounding out the shamans.”

Maisie stepped into the empty door frame and rapped a knuckle against the jamb. “Got a minute?”

Angela looked at Dr. Perez. “Are we done?”

Perez nodded and stood up from her chair. “I think so,” she said. “Let me know when you get the final numbers.” Perez smiled at Maisie as she left.

Maisie took the recently vacated seat. “Speaking of Flanagan.”

“You heard from him?”

“He’s running into opposition.”

“From the shamans? Over what?”

“Company interfering with their practice.”

Angela sighed and shook her head. “How many?”

Maisie shrugged. “He didn’t say. It’s got to be a significant problem or he wouldn’t have said anything.”

Angela closed her eyes and let the new information roll around in her head a moment. “We need to talk to him and find out.” She opened her eyes and looked at Maisie. “You know where he is?”

“Up-country, somewhere.”

Angela pulled up her console and started typing.

“What’re you doing?” Maisie asked.

“Contacting Violet Austin. I owe her an apology.”

“For what?”

“For not keeping her in the loop. I’m going to kick myself if it’s screwed up this deal.”

Violet picked up. “What’s going on with the shamans?” she asked without greeting.

“I owe you an apology. I haven’t been very good about keeping you informed. I take it you got a copy of Delacourt’s report?”

“Yes, and thank you for taking point on that with the slavery thing with TIC. We need to talk about the lack of licensed social workers.”

“That’s what’s going on with the shamans.”

“What? They’re social workers?” Violet asked.

“Not exactly. I looked into hiring enough to satisfy the regs,” Angela said. “The report didn’t specify how many we needed to have.”

Violet snorted. “Sounds like Delacourt. You’ve screwed the pooch but we’re not going to tell you which dog.”

“According to Sheila in HR, it’s something around eight thousand,” Angela said.

Violet choked. “How many?”

“More than are currently looking for jobs in the entire Western Annex if my inquiries are to be believed.”

Violet didn’t speak for a few heartbeats. “That’s what you want the shamans to do.”

“Right. They’re already our first line of support down here.”

“Same up here,” Violet said. “What’s Flanagan doing?”

“Trying to see if they’d be willing to make the arrangement a little more formal.”

“More formal? Like hire them,” Violet asked, her voice flat.

“Exactly,” Angela said. “Walks around that slavery charge and gives us almost everything we need without the expense of bringing another eight thousand people.”

“Are there that many shamans?” Violet asked.

“Not quite.”

Violet chuckled. “Not quite by how much?”

“There are only about four thousand on St. Cloud. Maybe forty-five hundred. At least that’s what Flanagan said.”

Violet paused for a moment before answering. “You think there are more?”

“Yeah. He only knows the sons of shamans.”

“Well, that’s kind of the definition, isn’t it?” Violet asked.

“Not exactly. What about all the women who have the gift or curse or whatever it is?”

Violet went silent for so long Angela double-checked the connection.

“You still there?” Angela asked.

“Yeah. Still here. Why do you think there are women shamans?”

“Well, my first clue was the number of arbitration hearings.”

“They all sided with the company,” Violet said. “How does that help?”

“It suggests that the women exist but that they’ve gone into hiding. Without some means of staying on the planet, they’d have to leave.”

“So, a job or a spouse,” Violet said, finishing the thought.

“Right. Doesn’t mean they’re not shamans. Just means the company doesn’t recognize them,” Angela said.

“How does this help?”

“CPJCT’s regs say we can’t discriminate in our employment practices.”

Violet gasped. “So, if they’re shamans, we have to hire them as well?”

“Yes.”

“What about the licensing?”

“I’ve had Dr. Perez write up a training plan. We’re not bound to any particular licensing schema, just so long as we’ve covered some basics.”

“Well, they’ve had nothing so far, so anything would probably be an improvement,” Violet said. “Can we afford them? That’s a lot of new people on our payrolls.”

“I’m working on that. Company housing in all the villages. A stipend for the entry levels and salaried positions as they move up the ranks from district to regional to corporate. Anyway we slice it, it’s going to add to our overhead costs, but I suspect it’ll be a lot cheaper to use as many as we can of the people we already have on the ground than if we try to bring in a whole new cadre.”

“You’ve been busy,” Violet said.

“I’ve had help.” Angela winked at Maisie.

“How soon can you get to Meridian?” Violet asked.

“What’s Meridian?”

“A town. It’s about six hundred kilometers north of Starvey Bay.”

“I can probably get a ride. When do you need me?”

“Tomorrow morning would be best. Noon local time there. You’d have to leave really early to make it.”

“Lemme check,” Angela said, muting the call. “Meridian? You know it?”

Maisie shook her head.

“She says it’s north of Starvey Bay about six hundred kilometers.”

“You want to lay on a shuttle?” Maisie asked.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. I’d like to be there by noon if possible.”

Maisie nodded and pulled out her peeda. “On it.”

Angela un-muted the call. “Maisie’s working on transport for tomorrow. When I get an ETA, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t you want to know why you’re going to Meridian?” Violet asked.

“Only if there’s anything I need to prepare for. I’m showing up with an overnight bag and good intentions.”

“I heard Flanagan’s got a few hundred shamans cornered there. From all reports there’s some argument going on about the future of shamans on the South Coast. If Flanagan’s there trying to recruit them, that would explain why they’re not thrilled.”

“They don’t have to be,” Angela said.

“What? Thrilled or recruited?” Violet asked.

“Either or both. My feeling is that anybody who doesn’t want in, doesn’t have to come in. They can keep on just the way they’ve been doing.”

Violet didn’t say anything for several heartbeats. “Walk me through this?” she asked.

“We still have the son of the shaman legacy. Changing that would be like fighting the tide.”

Violet laughed. “Probably true.”

“So you ever talked to a shaman?” Angela asked.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“I don’t know what it’s like up there, but a lot of them really struggle to make ends meet. They don’t get paid. They generally rely on the villages for housing and food unless they’re married to the company, which probably explains why so many of them are. It’s less about staying on the planet as having a meal on a regular basis.”

“Seriously?” Violet asked.

“Seriously. I’m offering them a way to keep their practice without having to worry about their next meal, just like any other specialist in our employ.”

“One correction,” Violet said.

“What’s that?”

“We’re offering them a way to keep their practice. I’m not letting you have all the glory here just because you did all the work.”

Angela laughed. “Well, I think we both have to agree to make a planet-wide change, don’t we?”

“Yeah. They come up so rarely, I’d have to look to see if there’s any particular protocol we need to follow.”

“You’ll be at Meridian?” Angela asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Angela said.

“Later.” Violet hung up.

“Trouble in paradise?” Maisie asked.

“Flanagan has a few firebrands who need a little cold water.”

Maisie snickered. “You can’t win them all.”

“I don’t intend to. Do we have transport?”

“Yes. You have transport. You need to be at the shuttle terminal in Starvey Bay at oh-dark-thirty tomorrow. The company jitney will be waiting when you get off the tram.”

“I better get to bed early tonight,” Angela said. “Looks like a long day tomorrow.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Meridian: August 6, 2352

The flitter dropped to the landing pad without a bump. “Here you are, Ms. Pirano. I’ll refuel and stand by for the return flight.”

Angela unbuckled and pushed the hatch open. “Thanks for the ride, Quince. I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know.”

He nodded and turned to his work at the pilot’s station. “Good luck.”

She snorted and stepped out into the full light of day, the glaring heat of the sun hammering her into the concrete pad.

A ground car pulled up and Violet Austin opened the door from the inside. “Get in before you melt.”

Angela reached back to pull out her carry-all and slammed the hatch closed. “Why here?” she asked, as she slithered onto the seat, pulling the heavy door shut with a solid ka-chunk.

“No idea. Maybe it’s a mystical nexus with ley lines just under the surface.” Violet’s mouth seemed to twist a little sideways.

“You don’t think much of shamans?” Angela asked.

“I haven’t had much call to interact with them. Those that show up on my doorstep usually have an attitude and an ax to grind.” Violet shrugged. “You’ve not been on planet that long. Know many?”

“Flanagan. He seems a decent sort.”

“Yeah. Well. This should be enlightening.” Violet tapped on the seat in front of her. “Let’s go see what’s waiting for us, Sammi.”

The driver, a gray-haired woman with wraparound shades, nodded. “Ten ticks, ma’am.” She put the vehicle in gear and rolled it off the tarmac, through a security gate, and onto a highway.

“Don’t see this kind of infrastructure on the coast,” Angela said.

“You’re working against the cliffs down there. Everything moves by tram, flitter, shuttle, or boat.” Violet pointed out the right-hand side. “Up here, it’s all flat. Elevation only varies by a meter or two for as far as the eye can see until you get way up north.”

“Natural?” Angela asked.

“Not a lot of tectonic action. I suspect it’s an old planet, cool core. No idea what it might have been before we got to it.”

The ground car pulled into a curved drive beside some kind of pavilion. “Civic Center. You need me to go with you?” Sammi asked.

Violet shook her head and nodded at Angela. “Stay close, but we should be fine. She’s the one going to be standing in front of me today.”

Sammi looked back at Angela, giving her a careful stare before nodding. “Watch yourself, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” Angela said, feeling a little off balance. “They’re friends.”

Sammi snorted but the door locks clicked open. “I’ll mind the ride. Panic button if you need me.”

Violet nodded and stepped out of the vehicle.

Angela followed her out onto the curb and looked at the hangar-sized building. “Civic Center?”

“General meeting hall. Rents out for events. Graduations. Conventions. You don’t have conventions on the coast?”

Angela shrugged. “We did on Umber. Haven’t been here long enough to know.” She nodded at the door where a group of men huddled, casting furtive glances in their direction. “Shall we?”

“May as well.”

The clusters of men parted as they approached, almost as if afraid of some contagion. They didn’t leave their groups; more like schools of fish, they simply moved the whole group out of the way. None of them met Angela’s eyes. They barely acknowledged the women’s presence.

All except for the burly guy standing in front of the doors, feet apart, arms folded. He stared as Angela and Violet approached.

“Kin I he’p you ladies?” he asked, his gravely bass voice cutting through the background murmur, shutting down all the conversations around them.

“I don’t know,” Violet said. “Can you?”

His head swiveled to look at her. “Private meeting, ma’am.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.” The guy was so tall, Violet had to look up to stare him in the eye. “I’m Violet Austin. This is Angela Pirano. We’re here because of Jack.”

His massive shoulders flexed in what might have been a shrug. “You could be Queen of the May, but you’re not a shaman. Shamans only.” He flexed again. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Violet looked at Angela, a wry smile on her lips. “I don’t think he understands the situation.”

“You may be right,” Angela said. “On the other hand, maybe we’re the ones who don’t understand the situation.”

The man-mountain in front of the doors grinned. “See? That’s the right outlook.”

Angela stepped forward and got up in the guy’s face, crowding him so he had to take half a step backward. “How about it, big guy? You wanna tell the heads of Allied Ag and Pirano Fisheries why it is exactly that you think you have some special right to block us from speaking to your group of shamans?”

He glared at her. “Look, lady, I don’t know you two from sweet Fanny Anne. All I know is I’m not supposed to let anybody who’s not a shaman into through this door.”

“Who told you to do that?” Angela asked.

“The guy running the show here.”

“Jack Flanagan?” she asked.

“Yeah. What’s it to you?”

“Why don’t you just get Mr. Flanagan out here and maybe we can sort this out before somebody gets hurt,” Angela said.

He held his hands up palm out. “Hey, I’d never hurt you.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Angela said. “Flanagan?”

He blinked a couple of times and made a placating gesture with his palms. “Easy, lady. I’m just doin’ my job.”

“And I’m just doing mine,” Angela said. She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Where’s your beach?”

“My beach?” he asked.

“Yeah. You’re a shaman. You have a beach you walk when you listen to the world?”

The words almost seemed to bounce off him but after a couple of heartbeats he shook his head. “I live in a farming village out west. Murray’s Crossing.”

“Where do you go to listen to the world?” she asked.

He lowered his arms and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “There’s a path runs by the river there. Some woods.”

She nodded. “You ever hear the world?”

The frown on his face smoothed out. “Oh, I don’t know if anybody actually hears it. The point is to listen.”

She smiled and nodded. “I’m not surprised. Now, you were going to get Flanagan out here, weren’t you?”

He looked back and forth between Angela and Violet a couple of times before fishing a battered peeda out of his jacket pocket and tapping a message with one broad index finger. He pressed one last key and pocketed the device. “I told him.”

“Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Bill.”

“Thank you, Bill. We’ll just wait until he comes out, all right?”

Bill shrugged again. “Suit yourselves.”

“Are all these gentlemen shamans?” Angela asked, looking around at the clusters dotting the entry.

“I suspect so,” Bill said. “Not like we carry ID cards.”

“How do you know we’re not shamans then?” Angela asked.

He laughed. “I’m pretty sure neither of you is the son of a shaman.”

“You know there are women shamans, don’t you?” Angela asked.

Violet gave her a hard look but Angela watched Bill’s face.

He started to say something, got his mouth open to speak, but something stopped him. He snapped his jaw shut and worked it a little. “That’s not how it works.”

“Does that seem fair?” Angela asked. “Not every shaman is the son of a shaman, is he?”

Bill blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m led to believe that some come to the gift later in life. Is that true?”

Bill looked around at the men who’d moved closer. “Yeah. I suppose.”

“So, they’re not sons of shamans, are they?”

“Well, no, but they have the gift.”

“Who gets to say if they have the gift or not?” Violet asked, stepping up beside Angela.

“Well, there’s a jury,” Bill said. “Shamans recognize the gift. You can see it in their carving. Just the way they act.”

Angela glanced around at the reluctant nods breaking out around the plaza. “But not women.”

“Not women,” Bill said.

“What would you say if I told you I know at least four,” Angela said.

Violet’s head snapped around. “Do you?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure they’re shamans but they won’t admit it out loud to me.”

“Why not?” Violet asked.

Angela looked up at Bill again. “Why not, Bill?”

“If they’re women, they’re not shamans,” Bill said, recrossing his beefy arms as if to settle the point.

“Right, and if they’re not shamans, what happens to them if they don’t have a company job or a partner who does?” Angela said.

Bill frowned. “Well, I don’t know. They have to leave St. Cloud, don’t they?”

“Just like anybody else,” Angela said. “Except you guys with your hereditary exemption.”

His frown deepened. “It’s not like that.”

“That’s why they won’t talk to me,” Angela said, addressing Violet’s question but still staring up into Bill’s face. “They’re afraid that I’ll have them deported.”

“Oh,” Violet said. “I can see that.”

“Why would you have them deported?” Bill asked. “I mean the company, sure, but why you?”

Violet started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Bill asked, glaring at her.

“You weren’t listening earlier,” Violet said between chuckles. “She’s Angela Pirano. She’s the Pirano who runs the Pirano Fisheries operation for the consortium.”

Bill looked at her with wide-eyed astonishment. “I thought Jimmy ran it.”

“He did. He’s been promoted to home office. I took over the operation about four months ago.”

His face went pale. “You’re that Pirano?”

“Yup. Not exactly Queen of the May, but I get my licks in.”

He looked at Violet. “You’re with her?”

Violet shook her head. “No, actually, I work for Allied Ag.” She bit her lower lip and gazed up at him in wide-eyed pseudo-innocence.

He shook his head, slowly at first but picking up speed. “No. You don’t just work for Allied Ag, do you.” It came out as a flat statement.

“Well, actually, Allied Ag works for me. I run the operation.”

“Austin,” he said.

“Yes. Violet Austin. You’re not an employee, but I’d have expected you might have heard the name.”

He swallowed hard. “Yes, Ms. Austin. I have. I expected somebody ... different.”

“I look taller on video,” Violet said.

Flanagan burst out of the door and skidded to a stop beside Bill. “Angela? Violet? What are you two doing here?”

“Heard you were having a bit of a party and thought we might help,” Violet said.

“Help how?” Flanagan said. He frowned at Bill and seemed to notice all the men around them, taking in every word. “Come on inside. We’re going to start the afternoon session in a bit.” He held the door for them and then pulled it shut behind them. He led the way around the corner to what looked like a coat room. “Now, what have you heard?”

Violet shrugged. “Only that some of the shamans weren’t happy with the idea of becoming company employees.”

Flanagan looked back and forth between them for a moment or two. “They’ll come around.”

Angela shook her head. “They don’t have to. They can stay broke, if they want.”

“That’s not what they’re worried about,” he said.

“What is it then?” Violet asked.

“That if they don’t sign up, they’ll be kicked off the planet.”

“What? Like all the women shamans have been?” Angela asked, feeling the heat rise up the back of her neck. “How unfair.” She crossed her arms to keep from slapping him.

“That’s not in the works,” Violet said. “It’s not, is it, Angela?”

Angela shook her head. “No. The rule is still the rule. Son of the shaman is a shaman. We’re in trouble with CPJCT and need the social welfare workers. Shamans are the best source we have on planet and are probably better than any we could bring in. We’ll pay them to do what they’re already doing.”

“But you’re going to make them go to training. To do things the company way,” Flanagan said, scowling at her.

“Is that what you told them?” Angela asked. “Because that’s not the deal. We talked about this, Flanagan. I specifically told you I’m not going to force them to do anything. If they’re so stupid or so pigheaded that they want to fight me on it, why the hell would I butt heads with them?” She glared for a moment. “And that goes for you, too.”

He heaved a sigh and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “So why are you here?”

“I want to address them myself,” Angela said.

“We want to address them,” Violet said. She gave an apologetic glance to Angela. “My people won’t believe you. Your people probably won’t believe me.”

“Why would they believe either of you?” Flanagan asked. “You’re just—” He clamped his mouth closed so hard his teeth clicked.

“Just what, Jack? Just women?” Violet asked.

Flanagan sighed again and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Just management.”

“Not just management,” Angela said. “We’re the management. Nobody on the planet can override what we say.”

“What about the Old Man?” Flanagan asked.

“He’s not on planet now, is he?” Angela said. “Yeah. The home office at Dunsany can force us to do stuff, but that’s not going to sit well with me if they come in and screw up our operations because of this.”

“Besides,” Violet said. “If we don’t get our social welfare department up and running, we may not get the lease renewed and then we’re all screwed. Not just the shamans. We’d all get the boot.”

A tone sounded from Flanagan’s pocket. He pulled out his peeda. “Five minutes before they reconvene.” He shoved the device back into his pocket and shook his head. “Come on. May as well let them have at you directly.” He led the way deeper into the complex and through a door that opened backstage.

Angela saw a podium on an otherwise bare stage through a gap in the heavy curtains.

A small huddle of men, most in rough clothing and looking too warm in the close confines behind the curtains, all looked in their direction when Flanagan closed the door to the corridor.

A beetle-browed man with black hair and a patchy beard scowled at them. “What now, Flanagan? These aren’t shamans.”

“Junius, gentlemen. These two are the heads of Pirano Fisheries and Allied Ag, respectively. They’re here to explain the program themselves.”

“What? They can’t speak at the moot,” one man said.

“Why not?” Angela asked. “What are you afraid of? That somebody might listen?”

The huddle shared looks and shrugs all around. The man backed down with a sigh. “All right. I warned ya.”

Flanagan led them out onto the stage and rapped on the podium with his knuckles. “Afternoon, gents.”

A wave of silence swept across the auditorium as the men stared at Violet and Angela.

A man in the front row wearing a short sleeved pull over and jeans stood up. “What’s going on, Flanagan?”

“Gimme a minute and I’ll tell you, Milton.” Flanagan looked around the crowd. “Now that I’ve got your attention, this is Violet Austin. She’s the head of Allied Ag here on planet.”

Violet gave a little wave with her left hand.

“Her friend is Angela Pirano. She’s the current head of Pirano Fisheries. Between them they manage the company here. They’d like to talk to you themselves.”

“What do company people know about being a shaman?” Milton asked, still standing, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed.

Flanagan started to speak but Angela held up a hand, cutting him off. “Here’s what I’ve learned since I took over from my brother Jimmy. Shamans are the company’s first line for social welfare among our employees. If there’s trouble in a village, it’s usually the shaman who gets wind of it first. That’s a valuable contribution.”

A general mutter of agreement swept the auditorium.

“And what do we do for the shamans?” Angela asked.

Everybody looked at his neighbor and murmuring faded out.

“I’ll tell you what. Nothing. Worse than nothing,” Angela said. “We leave you hanging out to dry, forcing you to make a living however you can—or to marry somebody who works for the company.” She paused and looked around at the faces staring up at her. “Some of you may have heard we’re due to get the planetary license renewed.”

Somebody in the back shouted, “I heard we failed.”

Angela shrugged. “We haven’t failed yet. The audit team had some problems with the way we run things here. Particularly the shamans. They filed a slavery complaint on your behalf.”

The room broke out in laughter.

“Yeah, funny. They also said we don’t have enough social workers for the size of our population. That is a serious problem that we have to address or we will fail. If we don’t get the renewal, everybody will have to leave St. Cloud and they’ll turn it over to the next lucky company. Think about what that will mean.”

A man in the front shook his head. “They won’t kick us off. They may change the management team but they’d be stupid to pull all of us out just to replace us with their own people.”

“That’s a good point,” Angela said. “But remember, the shamans don’t work for the company. I’m not exactly sure how it got started, but we’re not allowed to deport shamans. Will that be the case with a new company?” That seemed to get their attention. “So, here’s the deal. I need to build a social welfare department for the employees. I can try to hire enough people from off planet to come in and replace the shamans as our first line of support. How many want to see that happen? Raise your hands.”

A few hands went up in the back row, but every face Angela could see wore a frown.

“My plan has two goals in mind. First, the shamans have demonstrated effective intervention for decades here. I don’t want to lose that connection, but we need to be realistic about what the company can do going forward. Second, I want to make it up to the shamans for leaving you all out in the cold for so long.”

A different man in the front row stood up. “Why should we believe you? We don’t know you. Hell, we didn’t know your brother.”

“That’s fair,” Angela said. “I don’t know any of you either. Not personally.” She scanned the crowd looking at faces. “At least I don’t think so. Anybody out there ever met me before?” When nobody stood up, she shrugged. “So, no. Maybe you shouldn’t believe me. At least not on faith.”

“What are you saying?” the man asked.

“Hear me out. See what we’re planning on doing. Understand that if we don’t get this program—or one like it—underway and operating before the lease comes due, the CPJCT won’t renew the lease and then all bets are off.”

“All right. Spell it out,” he said.

Angela nodded. “First. Every village will have a shaman’s cottage available. My understanding is that some villages already have them.” She saw nods around the room. “So you know these aren’t going to be some kind of fancy mansion. They’re going to be cottages. We can talk about what they need to have, but every village will have a place for the shaman to live.” She looked down at the man.

He nodded. “What else?”

“We’re going to hire any shaman who wants the job to officially join the company as a trainee in the new social welfare department. We already have one, but it’s too small, doesn’t meet the CPJCT guidelines on social welfare, and relies on unpaid volunteers. You people.”

“And in return, what do you want us to do?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I want you to continue to be the shamans. Listen to the world. Listen to your neighbors. Find the problems before they become entrenched. Exactly what you do now. Trainees get a salary. I don’t know what amount that is yet, but you won’t have to pay for housing out of it.”

He nodded again. “Training?”

Angela nodded. “We’re developing a training program now with our existing mental health people. We’ll give you a short training program to help you spot, help, and report up the line. It’s going to be important to know how to move a problem along and that’s the basic training we’ll offer.

“If you want to move up the chain and earn a few more credits, you’ll be offered more training to help coordinate over a wider area. We’re envisioning about three or four steps where the trainees can take a problem up the ladder to get help, and to offer trainees the chance to move themselves up the income ladder by taking on more responsibilities.”

“How are we supposed to walk the beach if we’re working for you?” he asked. His tone lacked the anger he’d displayed earlier.

“How do you find out about people in trouble now?” Angela asked.

He shrugged. “I just know.”

“But how do you know?”

“Well, I’m part of the community. It’s usually pretty obvious.”

“And you listen to the world,” Angela said.

“Of course.”

“What’ll be different if you just keep getting paid for doing what you’re already doing?”

“You said training.”

“Yeah. It’s a couple of weeks’ worth. We’re designing it so you don’t need to leave your cottage to take it.”

“Do we have to pass?” he asked, a grin glowing in the dim auditorium.

“Not really, but if you do, you’d get paid more.”

“So you’re saying you’re going to pay us to do what we do and improve our living conditions in return for taking a course and paying attention to our various villages?”

“In a nutshell, yes.” She paused and leaned over to look at him. “What exactly are you worried about?”

He shrugged. “I’ve learned not to trust things that seem too good to be true.”

Angela nodded. “Probably wise.” She looked out across the audience. “Anybody else? What are you worried about?”

A hand went up in the back. “Getting us on the payroll, then firing us and saying we have to leave.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked. “I need social workers. Your group seems exceptionally well suited to the task. Why would I damage the company that way? I’d be back to where I am now, having to hire a bunch of strangers on short notice to satisfy the CPJCT.”

He got a sly smile. “So, you’re telling us that we’ve got you over a barrel?”

“Sort of. I see it more like a symbiotic relationship.” She grinned. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I think we should get a pay raise.”

She laughed. “You’re already getting one.” She shrugged. “But if you want to help with the process, I’m open to suggestions. Get with Jack. He can coordinate with the development team.”

Violet stepped up beside Angela. “For those of you who are in the Allied Ag camp, I’m on board with this plan. It’s time we made some significant changes to this relationship between the company and the shamans. This isn’t something the Combine wants to do alone. We all share the planet. We all need to support each other, but we can’t tell you what you need. You have to tell us. We’ve identified a couple of key elements. Housing and income. You already can get health care at any of our medical facilities. Most shamans are registered dependents of an employee, so most aren’t starving or living under a tarp somewhere. We want to honor your experience in a way that is respectful of your views, not some idea of what we think you should want. We’re going to need your help in this.”

Flanagan stepped up on Angela’s other side. He stared out at the crowd in general, taking a few moments to look at the man standing up front. “This is a change. Change is sometimes hard. We’re shamans. We know that everything changes. Even the world under our feet changes. We see it change. We know change. The question is, can we accept change when it comes to us. When it means we change our traditions to adapt to the new conditions.”

He looked at the guy in the front. “Thom, isn’t it? Wilkerson?”

The man nodded. “Wilkinson, but ya.”

“I’ll task you to form a group to figure out what the shamans need from the company.”

Thom grinned.

“No more than six others. Some from the South Coast, some from the uplands, and make sure you get at least one from the island crofts.”

Thom’s expression went from a grin to a frown. “How’m I supposed to do that?”

Flanagan laughed. “Most of the people you need are in this room. If you can’t figure it out, I know a few people who could do it instead.”

The crowd laughed and Thom laughed with them, waving a hand at the people behind him. “All right. I got it.”

Flanagan looked up. “One more thing. Well, two actually. First. We’re shamans. We know change. We also know balance. Before you all get excited about how much you’re going to stick it to the company, remember the balance. The company needs our help and they’re willing to compensate us for it. If we get grabby, we get nothing because the company can’t sustain this kind of hit to their financial position. If you’re too expensive, everybody loses. Not just the company. Everybody.” He looked around the room as if reading the faces, before staring at Thom again. “Am I clear?”

Thom nodded and a quiet murmur accompanied head-bobs around the auditorium.

“What’s the second thing?” Thom asked.

Flanagan sighed and looked at Violet and Angela. “I haven’t known Angela long, but I knew Jimmy for decades, back when the ties between Allied Ag and Pirano Fisheries were closer.” He shot a glance at Angela, who gave him a crooked grin in return. “Violet and I go back a ways.” He paused and looked at his shoes for a few moments before looking back up at the crowd. “I trust them. Violet, because I know her. Angela? Well, she’s been straight with me and everybody around her. She’s Jimmy Pirano’s big sister and ran the operation over on Umber before she came here. She’s working to solve a problem that we all have, and I trust that she’ll do what’s right for all of us, not just for Pirano Fisheries.”

Angela felt a lump forming in her throat.

“Now,” Flanagan said. “Who’s concerned about becoming a company employee?”

A skinny man in the back stood up. Angela couldn’t see him well in the dimness of the room. “There’s no way I’m going to work for them.”

Flanagan nodded. “Steve Elias, right?”

“Yeah.”

Flanagan shrugged. “You don’t have Leon Murphy and Kenny Blake with you today?”

The man shook his head. “They’re out listenin’ to the world the way I should be instead of wasting time with all this foolishness.”

“Then go listen, Steve. Nobody’s keeping you here,” Flanagan said.

“Do I need to pack my kit and be ready to leave St. Cloud?” he asked.

Flanagan looked at Angela and Violet.

“As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Elias, you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before,” Angela said. “Are you on the South Coast?”

“No, ma’am. Crofter.”

Violet stepped up. “You’re welcome to go back to your croft and continue your practice however you see fit, Mr. Elias. I’ll note that if you’re not going to be helping your croft as their social welfare representative, I’ll have to assign somebody else.”

Elias stood there for several moments. “Why wouldn’t I help my croft?”

“Oh, I expect you will. I just need to have somebody on the payroll who’s assigned to your area. They’ll be the one who’s going to be representing the company and looking out for the crofters’ welfare.” Violet shrugged. “Since you don’t want to be that person, I respect your choice. Since I have to have somebody assigned to satisfy our lease renewal, I ask that you respect my need to put a name and a person to go with it there.”

“Do you have a sister, Mr. Elias?” Angela asked.

“A sister?”

“Yes, somebody you grew up with? Was probably a young woman at the time?” Angela grinned.

Elias grimaced. “I know what a sister is. Yes, I have one.”

“She live in the croft?”

“’Course she lives in the croft. Fruit don’t fall far from the tree out there.”

Angela looked at Violet. “There’s your candidate.”

“She’s got a husband and two kids,” Elias said.

Violet frowned a little. “Why his sister?”

“The gift seems to breed true,” Angela said, keeping her voice down.

Violet’s eyes widened and she looked at Elias. “What’s your sister’s name, Mr. Elias?”

“Juliett, but she’s Juliett Crabbe now.” He paused. “You’re going to offer her the job?”

Violet shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Elias. I’m going to put her on the list of people I want to ask.” She pulled out her peeda and made a notation.

“You got anything else to add, Steve?” Flanagan asked.

Elias shook his head and took his seat.

“I thought you were going to go listen to the world,” Flanagan said.

Elias stood. “I’m not done listenin’ here yet.”

The room erupted in laughter and cat-calls.

Elias waved his hat at the crowd but took his seat again.

When the hubbub died down, Flanagan said, “Anybody else have anything to say?”

Angela waved a hand at him. “I do.”

He shrugged and stepped back.

“So, here’s the bone in this fillet. We’re going to keep the son of the shaman rule, but we’re going to add daughters.”

The silence became absolute. Angela could hear the breeze blowing through the eaves of the building in the stillness inside the auditorium.

“You can’t do that!” somebody yelled from the middle of the crowd.

A rumble of agreement muttered through the hall.

“Who said that?” Flanagan asked, stepping forward to the edge of the stage again.

A middle-aged man in a battered coat rose. “I did. Patrick Nowlty. You can’t add daughters.”

“Why is that, Mr. Nowlty?” Angela asked.

“Everybody knows women ain’t shamans.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Angela said.

“How could you? With all due respect, ma’am, you ain’t from St. Cloud. You got no more idea about what bein’ a shaman is than my chair does.”

“Well, with all due respect, Mr. Nowlty, I know that the company has gone to CPJCT arbitration over women claiming the gift dozens of times over the last few years. The number of credits we’ve spent on winning that argument would finance a twenty-boat fleet for a standard year. I know that at least three of those women were forced off planet and the other three married employees. Now, are you prepared to tell me that those women did not have the gift?”

“I am, ma’am.”

“Can you prove it?” Angela asked.

He straightened. “Prove it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you prove they did not have the gift?”

“Of course,” he said, the exasperation clear in his voice.

“How, Mr. Nowlty? You don’t even know who they are.”

“They’re women, ain’t they? Women don’t have the gift any more than they got a pizzle. That’s a fact. Men don’t have babies. Women don’t have the gift.” He folded his arms over his chest and stuck out his jaw.

“Do you have the gift, Mr. Nowlty?” Angela asked.

“Course, I do,” Nowlty said.

“Can you prove it, Mr. Nowlty?”

He came upright, his head cocked to the side. “Prove it? My father was a shaman. That’s the only proof I need.”

“So you have the title, Mr. Nowlty. Do you have the gift?”

Nowlty grimaced. “Lady, you really don’t know nothin’ about bein’ a shaman.”

“Quite possibly true, Mr. Nowlty. Help me understand. Do you have the gift?”

Nowlty looked around at the faces all turned in his direction. He grimaced again and chewed some idea around in his mouth before spitting it out. “Yes. Course, I have the gift.”

“Can you prove it, Mr. Nowlty?”

“Prove it? How?” he asked.

“That’s what I’m asking,” Angela said. “You tell me that only men have the gift. All right. Not all men have the gift. My brother didn’t.”

“Well, your brother wa’n’t son of a shaman, was he?”

“No, Mr. Nowlty. But I’ve heard that some people come into the gift later in life. Is that true?”

Nowlty looked at Flanagan who folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at Nowlty.

“Well, yes’m. That’s true.”

“How does that happen, Mr. Nowlty? Is there a test? Maybe a blood test or something that proves they’re suddenly a shaman?”

“Well, no.” Nowlty looked down and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, Mr. Nowlty?”

“It’s a jury,” Flanagan said. “Somebody can be named a shaman by a jury of peers. You have to present yourself to the jury with any of your work to prove that you’ve become a shaman.”

“Thank you,” Angela said. “Do you agree with that, Mr. Nowlty?”

“Course. Jack’s the main shaman. What he says goes, generally.”

“So, did these women who went to arbitration go before a jury?” Angela asked.

Nowlty scowled. “Course not. Why would they? They couldn’t be shamans.”

“Because they were women,” Angela said.

“Yes,” Nowlty said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya.”

“Tell me, Mr. Nowlty, do they raise livestock in your croft?”

“Course.”

“What kinds?”

“Sheep. A few cows. Chickens.”

“So you’re aware that traits get passed down from parents to offspring?”

“Course.”

“So you’re asserting that women can’t inherit the gift from a gifted parent,” Angela said.

“Yes’m. I am.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

He blew out in exasperation and shook his head. “Because she’s a woman.”

“But women don’t get juries, so how do you know?”

“What do you mean, how do I know?” Nowlty asked. “I don’t need to look under a bull to know he’s not hiding an udder.”

“But we’re not talking about udders or pizzles or tits, for that matter, Mr. Nowlty. We’re talking about a gift that has no outward signs at all. Shamans aren’t born with an extra finger or their father’s eyes.”

“Well, the son of the shaman is the shaman,” Nowlty said. His argument sounded a bit less vehement.

“That’s the title, Mr. Nowlty. I’m sure it’s wonderful growing up as a lad knowing that you’re the shaman’s son. I wonder at the shaman’s daughters. You claim you have the gift. You claim you inherited it from your father along with the title. Isn’t that right, Mr. Nowlty?”

“Course, it’s right. It’s how it’s done.”

“Yet you can’t point to your gift. You can’t say ‘This marks me.’ We have to take your word for it that when you’re out walking the beach, you’re listening to the world and not just strolling along on a pleasant afternoon, having a spot of tea on the go while everybody else is working, now don’t we?”

Nowlty clamped his jaw shut as several members of the audience snickered. “We got no beaches at the croft.”

“Well, wherever you go, Mr. Nowlty. I assume you do go somewhere?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“My point remains. If you, a man who asserts that he is, in fact, a bona fide shaman with the title and the gift, cannot prove that you have the gift without asking a dozen of your friends to vouch for you, then how can you claim that no woman has the gift?”

“It’s thirteen,” Nowlty said.

“Thirteen then, Mr. Nowlty. My question stands. How can you claim that no women have the gift simply because they’re women?”

Nowlty shrugged. “It’s not natural.”

“No, Mr. Nowlty. None of it is natural. This rule we have here leaves women out of the party. Maybe women don’t have the gift, but I have evidence that at least some women do. I’ve met some women who can’t claim to be shamans but I believe have the gift.” She paused to let the rising susurrus die down. “So, yes. You men are not going to have a corner on the shaman market from today forward. You can’t, because I need every shaman on the planet to satisfy our need for social workers. All right, you want to claim that you’re all the only possible members of the he-man club for shamans on St. Cloud. Great. But I’m going to find the women like your sister, Mr. Elias. I’m going to offer all those women jobs, just like I’m offering jobs to each of you. Every one of them who wants it will become a company employee, just like every one of you.”

Nowlty shook his head. “Well, then they’re going to be employees, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mr. Nowlty, they are.”

“How’re you callin’ them shamans then?”

“Because I’m giving them the same dispensation that you and Mr. Elias up there have. If they’re shamans, they can stay on the planet and just be shamans.”

“You can’t do that,” Nowlty said.

“Why, Mr. Nowlty?”

“Because that’s not the rule.”

“I’m making it the rule, Mr. Nowlty,” Angela said.

“I’m joining her,” Violet said.

Every face in the room turned to Jack Flanagan.

He laughed. “Don’t look at me. I’m with them. This son-of-the-shaman thing has gone on for a century and for no good reason that I can see. These two women are the actual, honest-to-Maude leaders of the St. Cloud Combine. Their policies can only be overturned by an act of the Confederation, by some kind of legal challenge by Trade Investigation, or by their home office in Dunsany. If they say it, it’s going to be the policy.”

“So what do you say, Mr. Nowlty?” Angela asked. “You going to rise with the tide or are you going to drown?”

Nowlty scowled and took his seat.

The audience settled and looked to the stage.

Flanagan stepped forward. “Anybody else have anything to say?”

Angela saw a lot of shaking heads and more than a few thoughtful-looking frowns around the room.

“In the absence of further business, I declare this shamans moot disbanded,” Flanagan said. “Go home. Listen to the world.”

“Watch for the employment notices to go up,” Angela said. “St. Cloud needs you.”

The men rose and started streaming to the exits at the back of the auditorium, clotting up in the aisles for short conversations, throwing occasional glances at the three on the stage.

“That went better than I expected,” Violet said.

“I gotta say, when I saw you two outside, I had my doubts,” Flanagan said.

“You knew you couldn’t do this on my turf without my knowing,” Violet said.

“Yeah, but I didn’t figure you’d actually come down here. Or bring her.” Flanagan grinned at Angela.

“Somebody tipped off my security people that you’d called a moot for here and you’d run into some resistance, so I called in reinforcements,” Angela said.

Flanagan shrugged, watching the men drain out of the auditorium, only a few laggards huddled in small clusters at the back. “I could have handled them, but to be honest, I’m glad you’re here. Both of you. Lots of those guys would have been happy to shoot the messenger to try to get my place.”

“Literally?” Angela asked.

He laughed. “Not literally, but I suspect that I could have become a lightning rod. I’ve been the shaman herder for a long time. I can’t say I’d be sorry if somebody stepped forward to take it over.”

“Are there women shamans?” Violet asked.

Flanagan looked at Angela. “You met Monty?”

She nodded.

“Monty Montgomery has been the de facto leader of the women shamans for decades,” Flanagan said. “Yes, there are women with the gift. Mostly they keep a low profile, take jobs that don’t interfere too much with walking the beaches and listening to the world. A lot of them are first-class carvers, although they don’t call their carvings whelkies.”

“What do they call them?” Angela asked.

“Carvings,” Flanagan said with a little laugh. “Monty takes them up to the orbital and sells them to help finance their operation. It helps support the women who don’t have family to help until they can get settled. There are jobs that they can take, but sometimes those businesses are marginal. Monty’s efforts help keep them going.”

“But not company jobs?” Violet asked.

“Some are, but company dependents tend to run the support businesses around the company operations,” Angela said.

Violet nodded. “I knew that. I figured they must be profitable enough with a captive audience.”

“Most are,” Flanagan said. “Some, particularly in the smaller villages and crofts, tend to operate on a shoestring and good wishes. Not all the management understands accounting.” He grimaced. “Some just aren’t good managers. Monty and his flock help mitigate that. Sometimes with the proceeds from selling the women’s carvings as whelkies.”

“I didn’t think you would sell whelkies,” Violet said.

Flanagan shook his head. “Well, see, that’s the thing, isn’t it? If the women aren’t shamans, then the carvings aren’t whelkies, are they?”

Violet settled back on her heels and frowned at Flanagan. “Because only shamans carve whelkies?” she asked.

“That’s the reasoning,” he said.

Angela snorted. “Monty must go through some kind of mental gymnastics to make that practice work in his own head.”

“Not as much as you might think,” Flanagan said. “Whelkies have a way of finding the people who need them. Yeah, it’s probably superstitious malarkey, but who’s to say that the people who need Monty’s whelkies aren’t out there somewhere?” He nodded to the ceiling. “That selling them at the flea market on the orbital doesn’t put them on the path to where they need to be?”

Angela felt the rightness of that observation at her core. “How else would whelkies ever leave the planet?”

Flanagan nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“Does it mean that any whelkie out there somewhere isn’t really a whelkie?” Violet asked.

“Only if you believe that there are no women shamans on St. Cloud,” Angela said.

“You don’t think that’s true,” Violet said.

“I know it’s not true,” Angela said, heading for the door at the back of the stage.

“But can you prove it?” Flanagan asked.

“Yes,” Angela said. “That’s a sucker bet.”

Violet laughed. “You just put Nowlty through the wringer on that.”

“Yeah, but my argument is different.”

“How?”

“He had to prove that there were not women shamans. You can’t prove a negative.”

“So what’s your argument?” Violet asked.

“That there are women shamans.”

“How do you do that?”

“I find one,” Angela said. “And I already met a half-dozen of them, so women shamans exist. QED.”

“But can you prove they’re shamans?” Flanagan asked, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow.

“No more than you can prove you’re a shaman, Jack,” Angela said. “I don’t need to.”

“I don’t follow,” Violet said, stopping beside the exit.

“I don’t either,” Flanagan said.

“What makes you a shaman, Jack? Other than your father?” Angela asked. “How do you know you have this ‘shaman’s gift’ thing that we’ve been throwing about as a theoretical construct for the last couple of stans?”

Flanagan paused, his frown deepening. “I do shaman things. I listen to the world.”

“Do you hear anything?” Violet asked.

“Sometimes,” Flanagan said. “At least I think I do.”

“Is it actual hearing? Like the world says ‘I need better drainage’ or something?” Violet asked.

He shook his head. “It’s more like a feeling. That I’m needed somewhere to do something. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do until I get there.”

“But you go there,” Angela said.

“Of course.”

“On nothing more than a feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“A belief?” Angela asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Angela asked.

“Because I’ve learned to trust that feeling.”

“That’s the answer,” Angela said.

“What is?” Flanagan said.

“You learned to trust the feeling. You believe you’re a shaman.”

“Well, of course, I believe I’m a shaman,” he said.

“That’s the answer,” she said again.

“What? I’m a shaman because I believe I’m a shaman?”

She nodded. “Every one of those men in there, gifted or not, believes they’re a shaman.”

“Well, of course they do,” Flanagan said. “How does that help?”

“Because being a shaman may be about having the gift, but I’m willing to go with the notion that the gift is belief, not some mystical mumbo-jumbo.”

“What about that ‘breeding true’ thing?” Violet asked.

“Think about it. Family of origins. If the head of household believes he’s a shaman, how is that household run?”

Violet’s eyebrows rose slowly. “You think that there’s nothing beyond that?”

“What about the cases where men come to the gift late in life?” Flanagan asked. “Where do they come from?”

Angela smiled. “How many men come to you for a jury every year?”

Flanagan shrugged. “A year? None. One appears about every three or four.”

“How many of them are men who’ve been sitting around the house and just decide it would be nice to be a shaman?”

Flanagan barked a short laugh. “None. They’ve all just recovered from some trauma or other. One guy got crushed by a tree. Another contracted some weird viral infection and didn’t go to medical until he was all but dead. His kids packed him up and transported him.”

“Box fish toxins?” Angela asked.

Flanagan grimaced. “Yeah, that’s probably the single most common factor.”

“So these men come face to face with mortality in a really personal way? They nearly died. They survived some kind of scarring life event and came out of it—well—scarred.”

Flanagan nodded. “Yeah. Basically.”

“So maybe what happens is that they’re looking at life differently. They’ve been given a new chance and they see things they never noticed before. They interpret actions that might have been beneath notice before in ways that become significant to them.” Angela lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “So, they look for a model to help explain their change in outlook. Rather than see that they’ve just been saved from certain death and that makes life more precious, they see shamans who also tend to see life as more precious. The world as more connected. The belief that there is a spirit that can be used. Even harnessed.”

Flanagan stared at her, his mouth half-open.

“Am I wrong? Is that how a shaman sees the world?”

Flanagan closed his mouth and swallowed. “I’ve never heard it put that way before.”

“Think about it,” Angela said. “It might be helpful going forward if we start from a few fundamental notions. First, there is no magic. Second, belief is what makes a shaman a shaman. Third, that belief is the common denominator that binds all shamans and gives them a common perspective on life and its value. It’s the idea that matters to all shamans who have the ‘gift.’ But it’s a gift of belief—not something mysterious, but certainly wonderful.”

Flanagan ran his tongue around his lips and frowned. “You’re going to make a lot of shamans uneasy with that kind of talk.”

“It’s not my goal, but I need something we can work with as we’re rolling out this new social welfare program. The girls raised in shaman households are no less inculcated in that belief structure than the boys are. Not all of them will pick up and follow it. They lack the advantage that men have with the son-of-a-shaman thing, but the fundamentals are the same. The family-of-origin values will be the same. Some women believe they are shamans. Some hear the calling. That’s all it takes as far as I’m concerned.” Angela shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s not real. I’m saying that it’s absolutely real.”

“But you’re calling it a matter of belief than actual function,” Flanagan said.

Angela grinned. “Don’t short-change yourself. Belief might be stronger than gravity.”

“I won’t buy that,” Flanagan said. “I might doubt my belief, but I’d never doubt gravity.”

“Ever been in zero-gee?” Angela asked.

“That’s still gravity,” Flanagan said.

“And a crisis of faith is still faith,” Angela said. She held out a hand. “Thanks for letting us in, Jack. I appreciate the risk you took.”

He shook her hand and nodded. “You’re welcome, I think.”

Violet gave him a hug before opening the exit door. “We’ll be in touch,” she said.

He nodded again, but the frown on his face and the unfocused look in his eyes made Angela think he hadn’t really registered their departure as the door closed behind them.

“Think I was too rough on him?” Angela asked as they crossed to the waiting ground car.

Violet shrugged. The driver held the door for them to enter the vehicle.

“You gave them a lot to think about,” Violet said, settling into the seat. “You really think there’s no actual shaman’s gift?”

Angela buckled up and shook her head. “No, I think there is. I just don’t think it’s what it’s been built up to be. I think it’s a fundamentally human reality based on strong empathy, a willingness to suspend disbelief, and a core of service. Shamans want to help people. They need the empathy to know who needs help. That’s listening to the world. Walking the beach. Or path. Or whatever. That’s meditation. It’s getting thoughts out of the way so the mind can process. Little hints, things you’re not even aware of can trigger actions you can’t explain.”

“Intuition?” Violet asked.

“Sort of. Less about the short period of exposure time and more about the level of awareness you have of the hint. Looking at a pantry shelf and not being able to see what’s missing but knowing that something has run out. It’s that level.”

Violet looked at Angela as the driver pulled out onto the highway. “You believe that?”

Angela nodded. “I do, yeah. I’m not making light of it. I suspect many of the shamans and their siblings all score highly on empathy and service scales.”

“But not because of genetics,” Violet sad.

“Correct. It’s the old nature-nurture thing. What St. Cloud as a whole has been observing as an innate ability makes much more sense as a trained skill.”

“Does it help us?” Violet asked.

Angela shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. We need to find the women who believe they’re shamans. We need to find all of them so they know they can be recognized as shamans in their own right.”

“Think they’ll step forward?” Violet asked.

“No. Not at first anyway. Not until the first few get through the process and aren’t taken away wrapped in a carpet some night.” She grinned at Violet. “I wouldn’t trust me. I can’t expect them to.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Finwell Bay: August 19, 2352

Gresley looked like he might spew steam from his ears. “What kind of charade is this?” he asked, staring at Otto. “You said twenty new jobs.”

“He did, Jesse. We all heard him.” Larry Granger sat back in his chair at the council table and grinned at Otto. “Seems to me he delivered.”

Gresley rounded on Abby and slapped the table with his palm. “You brought in crab boats and bait barges.”

“Twenty new jobs,” Abby said.

“We never approved that expenditure,” Gresley said. “You never once brought it to us for approval.”

The woman in charge of education, Audrey Winchell, leaned forward. “To be fair, she doesn’t actually need to. Frankly, I’m just as pleased she didn’t.”

“How can you say that?” Gresley asked. “Every credit she spends—”

“Is a company credit,” Winchell said, spearing Gresley with a cold stare. “You’ve been holding this town down for a decade with your study groups and approval processes and basic bullshit that does nothing except improve your position in the eyes of a bunch of toadies and sycophants.”

“Audrey,” Abby said, her voice low.

Winchell pressed her lips together in a tight line but settled back in her chair. She nodded to Abby.

“Jesse, the boats are almost fully crewed already. We have three bait lines running full time and we’re net ahead on the quarter on the basis of the expanded bait fishery alone. The crab fishery expansion is gravy. We could use some more freezer space, will probably need more freezer space when we get all the boats crewed and working. That’s something you should be planning for now, by the way. We’ve also got people interested in moving here for the first time in stanyers. That’s a hell of a lot of progress in just a few weeks, wouldn’t you admit?”

Gresley shot Otto a venomous look. “We didn’t need him to tell us that. We could have done it ourselves.”

“We did do it ourselves, Jesse,” Granger said. “But that’s a good point. We could have done it last season. Or the season before. Or the season before that.”

“Darn right,” Gresley said.

“But we didn’t,” Granger said. “You know why?”

Gresley’s eyes narrowed. He drew himself up in his chair. “We couldn’t afford it. I’ve made that point time and again.”

“We didn’t think of it,” Granger said, his voice low and calm in the face of Gresley’s bombast.

“What?” Gresley asked.

“We didn’t think of it,” he said again. “You know why?”

“If you’re trying to lay this at my door—” Gresley said.

“We were too close to it. We kept trying to solve the wrong problem. We needed somebody from outside to point out the obvious,” Abby said. “I should have seen it but I didn’t. That’s on me. That gets laid at my door.”

Gresley’s eyes widened and he stared around the table.

“Now, you owe Mr. Krugg an apology,” Abby said.

“What for?” He frowned.

“For being rude, for starters,” Abby said. “For moving the goal posts for another. That’s shoddy work, Jesse. Just a few weeks ago you said you’d be pleased with twenty new jobs. We have them. Now you’re popping your cork because they’re not the jobs you wanted? Because I didn’t ask ‘mother, may I?’ before I did my job?”

“The fleet is our bread and butter, Abby,” Gresley said.

“And you want to make sure that we always rely on the fleet,” Winchell said. “Every single time. The fleet. Yes, we need to expand the fleet, but why did you lobby to shoot down the budget to do that last season?”

Gresley shook his head. “You know as well as I do that we don’t have the crews to support a new dragger.”

“We do, actually,” Abby said. “Or we will by next season. I’ve already requested two new hulls from Woontana.”

“You can’t do that,” Gresley said.

“Really?” Abby asked, her voice quiet but edged with steel. “You want to explain that to me?”

“You’re supposed to bring those decisions to the council.”

“No. I’ve been bringing those decisions to the council for a decade, just like Julian did before me. Look where it’s gotten us. It was always a courtesy, Jesse. It’s become an anchor. Why should you be involved in Audrey’s business with education? Or Larry’s security problems? Why should they have to sit here and listen to you week-on-week when the freezer operation is under control?”

“What are you saying?” Gresley asked, pulling back into his chair just a fraction.

“I’m saying you owe Mr. Krugg an apology.”

“I’m sorry,” Gresley said. “You said twenty new jobs and we have twenty new jobs.”

Otto nodded. “Thank you. Apology accepted.”

“Now about these new draggers,” Gresley said.

Abby grinned and shook her head. “No. Not on the table right now. We have two new hulls coming. We’ll need to outfit them and sort through skippers and crews over the winter. There’s time.”

“I still say—”

“No,” Abby said. “You and I will have a meeting after this one. You can say whatever you want then. Am I clear?”

Gresley had the sense to swallow whatever he might have been going to say.

Abby looked at Otto. “Thanks for coming in. I wanted to thank you in person for the guidance and for being the first of what I hope will be many new residents in Finwell Bay.”

He smiled and nodded. “You’re very welcome. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone in town and getting to know more about what happens here.”

“With that business taken care of, I hereby adjourn this meeting,” she said. “Sorry to cut it short but we have some personnel issues to discuss and, as you know, those are not public.” Otto stood to leave with the rest, but Abby said, “If you could stay, Otto? I’d like you and Larry here. Jesse. You too, please.”

The remaining half-dozen people gathered themselves and left the conference room, their voices audible as they made their way down the corridor.

“Larry? If you’d get the door?”

Granger stood and pulled the door closed. He sat and nodded to Abby.

“Peter Bagley,” Abby said. “What’s the story, Jesse?”

Gresley frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine,” Abby said. “Peter assaulted Otto on the street over something completely innocuous.”

“I’d hardly call it innocuous,” Gresley said.

Abby sighed. “Just once, Jesse. Just once. Try to agree with me about something.”

“I agree with you all the time,” Gresley said.

Abby sighed again. “What’s Bagley’s problem with Sam fishing with Otto?”

Gresley shrugged. “First I heard about it was when Peter started yelling in the street.”

“About cracking whelks and gutting fish,” Abby said.

“Well, yeah.” Gresley nodded.

“Did you talk to him about it afterward?” she asked.

Gresley frowned. “No, why should I? He’s got a right to protect his kid.”

“Larry?” she asked.

“I talked to him for the better part of a stan. He seemed almost irrational. Spouting off about violence and killing whelks.”

“What happened with Sam, Otto?” she asked.

“I took a hand line out to the point and started fishing in the harbor. I thought Sam might come investigate. He did.” Otto shrugged. “I showed him the hand line, caught and lost a fish. Cracked a whelk with a rock and baited up again. I caught a harbor mackerel for dinner and cleaned it there on the shore, leaving the guts for the crabs.”

“Did Sam say anything?” Larry asked.

“He seemed a bit surprised that I’d just killed the whelk and the fish. I explained that it was the nature of whelks and fish. He seemed all right with the notion that big fish eat little fish and that people are the biggest fish.” Otto grinned. “He made all the same ‘ew’ sounds at the appropriate places that my daughter did at his age.”

“Peter have some kind of objection to fishing?” Abby asked.

Gresley shrugged. “He’s been working the freezer since he got married. Solid worker. Quiet. Keeps to himself.”

“Doesn’t work well with others?” Larry asked.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“He have any trouble at home?” Larry asked.

Gresley frowned. “Nothing he’s ever talked about. Why? Where’s this going?”

“Sam’s mother shaved his head and grounded him for hanging out with Otto,” Larry said.

Gresley shrugged and glanced at Otto. “No offense, but can you blame her?”

Otto shook his head. “I’m grown up enough to understand how parenting works. I visited her to apologize. Gave her a whelkie. Have stayed away from Sam ever since.”

“What’s the problem, then?” Gresley said.

“Peter’s in the autodoc,” Larry said.

Gresley blinked. “What?”

“Last night. Somebody beat the hell out of him.” Abby looked at Otto. “Not you.”

“Where are Sam and his sister?” Otto asked.

Larry shifted in his seat and glanced at Abby.

“They’re home with their mother,” she said.

“Who beat up Peter?” Gresley asked.

“We don’t know,” Larry said. “He was unconscious when the medics picked him up.”

“Sam called the medics,” Abby said.

“Sam?” Otto asked.

“They were all home last night,” Larry said. “Maryann said he came home beat to hell and passed out on the living room floor.”

Gresley shrugged. “Why would she lie?”

Abby’s face twisted into a sour grimace.

“What? You think she beat up her own husband?” Gresley asked.

“She won’t let us talk to the kids,” Larry said. “Which is why I wanted to talk to both of you.”

Gresley pushed back from the table. “Peter’s always just Peter. Comes in. Does his job. Leaves.”

Larry nodded. “Otto? What are you thinking?”

“I’m afraid for the kids,” he said.

“You think Peter is a threat to them?” Larry asked.

“No. I think Peter got in the way. Maryann is the threat.”

“You know that?” Larry asked.

“No. I don’t know that. I had my doubts about her before I went to visit.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t follow up on that,” Abby said.

Larry looked at her.

“He came to me a while ago. Just after Peter blew his fuse in the street.” She shook her head. “He recommended bringing in some psych help. I shut him down.” She looked down at her hands for a moment before looking back at Otto. “I should have known better. You’ve seen this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”

Otto nodded. “Yeah.”

“What do we do now?” Larry asked, looking back and forth between Otto and Abby.

“Now we call in a family counselor from Woontana,” Abby said. She gave Otto an apologetic look. “What I should have done before.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Finwell Bay: August 24, 2352

Ursula showed up at his door out of the blue. She gave him a grin when he opened the door. “Busy?”

He shook his head. “Just finishing up the dinner dish,” he said.

“Dish?”

“I only need one,” he said, smiling back. Just seeing her smiling face made him feel happy. He waved her in. “What brings you all the way out here on this fine summer night?”

“Well, you’ve been kinda scarce. Figured if I wanted to see you, I’d have to cross the point.”

“I’ve been in town. Your door’s been closed and the shop quiet. Figured you were out on a job.”

She nodded. “I was. Got a couple of days off while the company inspectors do their thing.”

“Tea?” he asked. “Hot chocolate?”

Her eyes widened. “You have hot chocolate?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody?”

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll fix that.”

She hung her coat up on the peg and kicked off her boots, leaving them beside his by the door before moving to the sectional in the corner. “You’re settling in pretty well, I hear.”

He shrugged and busied himself with cocoa and milk. “I’m still feeling my way around town. More people. More politics than I’m used to.”

“The town council?”

He nodded. “Ed Comstock kept the chain of command pretty lean.”

“Gresley’s the only real thorn, but he’s the thorn in everybody’s side. If you ever need somebody to tell you night was day or black was white, he’s the man for the job. Every time.”

Otto chuckled. “He seems completely oblivious.”

“Oh, he is. Just be thankful you don’t have to work for him.”

“I am. Very.”

“I hear you may be getting a real job soon,” she said, settling herself down on the couch, stretching her legs out, and flexing her stockinged toes.

“Nothing set yet.” Otto kept the milk moving in the pan with a wooden spoon.

“Angela Pirano’s in a bind.”

He nodded. “So I heard.”

“What do you think about it?” she asked. “Getting a paycheck from Pirano?”

“I’ve said it all along.” He added some chocolate syrup and a dash of vanilla to the milk. “Some places already offer a stipend as well as a cottage. Some of them are even right in the middle of the village. A lot of them are stone, which I’ve never really understood.” He shrugged. “Early development set the precedent, I guess.”

“Won’t that put a crimp in your style?” she asked. “Having to answer to the company?”

“Eh. I can’t imagine it would. It’s not like they’re going to be paying by the hour. You’re a contractor. How’s that work out?”

She nodded. “Fair enough. They’re not after me to do things faster or cheaper. The fishermen get hammered for quotas but even when the quotas went up, the management wasn’t standing behind people with sticks.”

“The big thing for me on this would be they couldn’t discriminate against women.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not following.”

“Son of the shaman is a shaman,” he said. “They get a grievance almost every quarter now. Women who aren’t recognized as shamans.”

Her eyes widened. “Your daughter was a shaman.”

He nodded. “It’ll be too late for us. She’s gone. I doubt she’ll ever be back.” He swallowed back against the lump in his throat. “But there are thousands more women out there who it would help.”

“You think they’ll do it?”

He nodded again and poured the chocolate into mugs. “I do. If they’re as short on social workers as I hear, they’ll have to do something. There’s also the slavery angle.” He crossed to the sofa and handed her a mug.

“Slavery?”

“The auditors classified shamans as slaves because they were doing involuntary work as front-line social welfare workers.” He took the angled portion of the couch and settled carefully to keep from slopping his cocoa.

She laughed. “It didn’t stick.”

Otto shrugged. “Don’t see how it could have, but I suspect the company got a wakeup call.”

“So you’d do it?” she asked. “Take the job.”

Otto nodded. “Of course. If I was part of the larger network myself, I wouldn’t have to rely on Abby to take action on situations like Maryann Bagley.”

“That really bothered you.”

“Of course. Sam’s a bright young boy. He’s probably got some scars but he’s resilient. If we’re careful and smart, we’ll help him heal. He’s going to be the senior member of the fleet one day.”

She smiled at him, her brown eyes gleaming a little in the light. “You see things differently.”

He shrugged and sipped the hot chocolate. “I’m supposed to be listening to the world.” The words slipped out before he realized it.

She shifted her weight on the couch to turn toward him, one knee drawn up on the cushion. “Supposed to be?” She sipped her cocoa. Her tongue flicked out to clean her upper lip.

He couldn’t look away from her mouth. “It’s part of the mythical gift. If you listen, the world speaks to you.”

“And does it?”

“It has,” he said. He felt self-conscious talking about it and hid behind his mug for a moment. He forced himself to look away from her.

“Not lately,” she said.

“Losing my daughter was hard,” he said. “She suffered more than she should have.”

“And, like any parent, you blame yourself.”

“She blames me. I think she has a case.”

Ursula took a sip of her cocoa. “Sometimes we act with the best intentions only to learn that we’re on the road to hell.”

He blinked at her.

“Ancient saying. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” She grimaced. “Kids don’t come with owner’s manuals.”

“You have two kids?”

She nodded. “Proud of them. They live their own lives. Stand on their own feet.”

“See them often?”

She shook her head. “They reach out when they need me. I’m always there for them. Would I like to see them more?” She shrugged. “Opportunity cost. Time is the only resource we can’t get more of.”

They sat quiet for a few moments.

“You don’t hear the world?”

“It’s there.” He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see her mouth. He tried to relax his breathing. “Sometimes I can hear a little bit.”

“You going deaf in your old age?” she asked, a lilt in her voice.

He shrugged and looked at her again. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just out of practice.”

She sipped her cocoa. “What do you need to do?”

“Do?” The question perplexed him.

“To practice?” she asked. “Will you know it if you hear it again?”

“Oh, well. Walk the beach. I think I need to walk in town more. I used to do it all the time when I first moved to Cape Grace.”

“You stopped?”

He sighed. “When Sarah was born, it was hard to get her bundled up and walking through town with a baby just made things ... awkward.”

“I imagine,” she said.

“It was safer to walk the beach,” he said.

“For whom?”

He chuckled. “Good point.” He stared into his cup. “She started walking the beach with me as soon as she could walk.” He stopped and drew a breath. “I guess I just never got back into the habit of walking around town.”

“From what you’ve said, Cape Grace is a lot smaller.”

He nodded. “There are a lot more things going on here. More places to eat. More pubs. Only one there is the Saving Grace.” He grinned. “Is there another breakfast diner besides the one on Fifteenth?”

“Yeah. The pub behind the Pirano building opens for breakfast. Night-shift people go there for dinner but you can get breakfast anytime, too.”

“Where will we put the shuttle pad?” he asked.

She blinked. “Shuttle pad?”

“Yeah. We’ll need to have a place for the orbital shuttles to land once the town reaches its potential.”

She laughed. “You think we’ll need what? Heavy lift to get product out?”

He nodded. “I do. We ship by tram now, don’t we?”

“Freezer barge. We fill one a week during the season.”

He sat back. “I never noticed.” He sighed. “I never noticed so much.”

Ursula slid a little closer to him on the couch, a quiet smile on her lips. “Too busy trying to listen to the world you got distracted from what’s in front of you?”

“The leaves have changed. I started the fire in the shop this morning.”

“How’d it work?” she asked.

“It warmed it a little. I wasn’t there to keep feeding it, but just a few sticks made a noticeable difference when I got back from town.”

She nodded. “When the weather closes things down, you’ll get a better chance to warm things up.”

He nodded. “Maybe that’s the reset I need.”

“Maybe,” she said, glancing at his lips and then up to his eyes.

His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed.

She drained her mug and stood, taking it to the sink. She rinsed it out and put it on the sideboard. “Well, I better get back. Need to get to the job site on the morning tram.”

He followed her to the sink, finishing off his cocoa on the way. “Where you building?”

“Nance Point. Next town down the line to the west. They’re expanding the Pirano office to include a community building. The framing is up and the electric and data runs have been installed. Inspectors make sure we connected everything right, but it takes them some time to trace and flag.”

He nodded and rinsed his mug. “Must be gratifying to see the building when it’s done.”

“It is,” she said. “Even more when I can look at the buildings I worked on decades ago and know they’re still in use. Still have people living there.” She picked her boots up and sat in one of the kitchen chairs to slip them on. It took only a few moments for her to lace and tie them. She pulled her coat off the peg and shrugged into it.

Otto opened the door for her. “Thanks for coming to visit. It was nice.”

She stood very close to him and nodded. A smile trickled across her lips. “It is nice. It’s what friends do.” She leaned close enough that he could smell the sawdust on her clothing. “I’ll be back home around eight tomorrow night, if you’d like to return the visit.”

He nodded. “Good to know.” For some reason his brain and his mouth weren’t cooperating with each other.

“Would it be all right if I gave you a hug?” she asked.

He opened his arms. “Yes.”

She stepped into him, placed her arms around him, and touched her cheek to his. His arms folded around her of their own accord and he felt the tightness in his chest relax at the scent of woman and fresh-sawed wood.

She stepped back a half step. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed that.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “I think I did, too.”

She smiled and slipped out of the cottage, disappearing into the night.

He stood there for a moment and watched her go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Finwell Bay: September 9, 2352

Otto took a stroll along the waterfront, smelling the familiar scents of sea and fish. An occasional puff of hydrazine exhaust wafted on the breeze. He walked up to the pub and saw the “open” sign. He wondered if they ever closed. During the season, the night shifts at the cutting and processing plants started at midnight and ran through morning. Pirano was efficient in that regard, always willing to use a tool when it was needed and leave it to rest when it wasn’t. In the winter, these same facilities would be shuttered, the workers at home with their families.

Now he felt the hum in the soles of his boots. Vibrations from the machinery gave the air texture as much as noise. The water, sloshing only meters away, couldn’t compete with it.

He still carried a warm kernel in his chest but wasn’t sure what to do with it. He had no name for it. It seemed familiar, but his mind wouldn’t accept that he knew it. For the moment, he accepted it as it was and held it close.

He turned to enter the pub for a cup of tea when Sam came pelting down the street.

“Mr. Krugg, Mr. Krugg,” he said, panting and out of breath.

“Are you allowed to talk to me now?” Otto asked.

He nodded. “I am.”

“How are you?” he asked. “Your hair seems to be growing out nicely.”

He nodded again. “It’s fine. Papa says I’ll need a hat come winter but it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

“How are you and your sister doing?”

Sam made a sour face. “We have a baby sitter in the evening when Papa has to go to work in the freezer.”

“And?” Otto asked.

“It’s all right. She’s kinda nice actually, but she has a list of rules and we have to follow them.”

Otto nodded in sympathy. “I’ve found most people do. Have a list of rules, that is.”

“Do you?” Sam asked his eyes widening.

“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”

“Do you have to go to bed at nine?” Sam asked.

Otto pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. When I was your age, I couldn’t wait to get old enough to stay up as late as I wanted.”

“And can you now?”

“Yes, my boy. I can. Now I find I want to go to bed at nine.” He grinned. Sharing the old joke with the boy gave him a jolt of joy.

Sam’s sour-faced reaction just made it that much better. “Can you eat ice cream for breakfast?” he asked.

Otto made a show of pondering that. “I probably could, but I much prefer tea and toast.”

Sam frowned. “Really?”

Otto nodded. “What would you have for breakfast?”

“I really like bacon and eggs,” the boy said, his face alight.

“Then not having ice cream isn’t a big deal, is it?”

Sam screwed his face up. “I suppose not.”

“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” Otto asked.

“Oatmeal.” Sam made a gagging noise.

“What’s wrong with oatmeal?” Otto asked. “I quite like it, but I’m too lazy to make it.”

“It’s boring. It’s just like gray and milky.” He made the gagging noise again. “It’s like eating paste.”

“Really?” Otto grinned at him. “Have you eaten paste?”

“Well, no.” Sam looked down.

“You know how I like oatmeal?”

“You really like it?” Sam said. “You’re not just sayin’ that because you’re an adult?”

Otto chuckled. “Yes. I’ll never just tell you something because I’m an adult.”

“How?”

“So many different ways, but I particularly like it without milk but with a big dollop of peanut butter melted in it. And maybe some raisins and cinnamon.”

Sam’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “You eat it with peanut butter?”

Otto nodded. “Sometimes. The peanut butter is good for me and so is the oatmeal.”

“Do you like, cook it with the oatmeal?”

“No, no. I just cook the oatmeal and when I dish it up, I put a big spoonful of peanut butter in it and mix it around.”

Sam nodded. “I like peanut butter.”

“Your father cooks breakfast for you?” Otto asked.

Sam nodded.

“Ask him if you can have peanut butter instead of milk. See what he says.”

“Won’t he think I’m weird?”

Otto shrugged. “I don’t know. Will he? If it tastes good, would it matter?”

“What did you have for breakfast?” Sam asked.

“This morning? I had tea and toast.” Otto made a long face. “It wasn’t as good as oatmeal but I wanted to get to town this morning and walk around a little.”

“Are you gonna walk on the beach and listen to the ocean?”

Otto nodded. “I suspect I’ll do some of that when the tide gets a little lower.”

“Can I come?”

“You wanna walk on the beach?”

Sam nodded.

“We’ll have to ask your father.”

“Cause of the fishing?” Sam asked, looking down at his shoes.

“Well, partly, but mostly because you’d be walking on the beach and out of sight of the town. Your father might worry if he couldn’t find you. It’s better to ask permission so that he knows where you are and who you’re with.”

“You don’t have to ask permission, do you?”

“I did when I was your age. My parents wanted to know where I was all the time. I always thought that was terrible, but when I had a daughter of my own I realized that it was just because they wanted to make sure I was safe.”

“Papa says I need to stop bothering people.”

Otto laughed. “Well, when everything is new and exciting, it’s hard, isn’t it?”

“I don’t bother people,” Sam said. He looked up. “Do I?”

Otto shrugged. “You’re not bothering me. I can’t speak for everybody. I haven’t actually known you all that long, now, have I?”

“Papa’s having a nap.”

“Does he wake up to get your sister from school?”

Sam nodded. “Then we make lunch.”

“Well, I’m not going to walk until after lunch. I’ll come by your house around lunch time and we can ask your father together. How’d that be?”

“Roz will want to come,” Sam said. “She’s just a baby.”

“I thought she was seven.”

Sam shrugged. “She’s just little.”

“You’re her big brother, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah. Course.”

“You should be looking out for her, shouldn’t you?”

“She always wants to do what I’m doin’.”

“I haven’t got a sister, but I suspect that’s true of all of them.” He leaned down. “You should be glad she’s not an older sister. I heard they can be really bossy.”

“Really?”

“Just what I heard,” Otto said with a shrug. “If I had a younger sister, I’d be really glad that I could help her learn all the stuff I had to learn for myself.”

Sam pondered that. “She might not wanna come.”

“Would it be so bad if she did?”

“Would you take her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sam frowned at that, his brain working away in his head. “Cause she’s too little?”

“She’s seven, isn’t she?” Otto shrugged. “My daughter walked with me when she was only three.” Otto smiled at the memory of Sarah toddling along, tripping in the soft sand and laughing. That warm kernel in his chest expanded a fraction. “We didn’t walk very far, but seven should be old enough.”

Sam sighed and shook his head. “Maybe she won’t wanna come.”

“We’ll just have to ask, won’t we?”

He sighed again. “I suppose. What are you gonna do now?”

Otto eyed the pub’s door before looking around. “I think I’m going to go for a walk around town.”

“You do a lot of walking.”

“I do.” He nodded. “I do a lot of listening.”

“You talk much?” Sam asked.

“I mostly just listen. Listening is harder than it looks. I’m still practicing.”

“I talk a lot,” Sam said. “That’s what Papa says.”

Otto started down the street, going slowly until Sam fell into step. “Why’s that, do you think?”

“Why does he say that?” Sam shrugged. “Probably cause I talk a lot.”

“What happens if you don’t talk?”

Sam frowned and looked up at him. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think about talking? Or does it just happen?”

He shrugged. “Jus’ happens, I guess.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“It does?” Sam asked looking up, wide-eyed.

“It is what it is.” Otto looked down at the boy. “Try this.” He stopped and pointed down the street to where it ended at the frontage road. “Look down there. I’ll ask you a question and you say the first thing that comes to mind.”

Sam nodded and turned to look down the street.

“What did you have for dinner last night?” Otto asked.

“What?” Sam asked looking up at him, laughing. “What’s that got to do with down the street?”

“Nothing. It has to do with thinking before you speak,” Otto said with a grin. “You just blurted the first thing that came into your head.”

Sam frowned. “That’s what you told me to do.”

“I did, yes. Now I want you to think before you speak. Breathe. Even a single breath can give you time to think about what you want to say.”

“What I want to say?”

Otto nodded. “I surprised you with the question. You reacted without thinking. Let’s try it again. This time, take a deep breath and think about the question before answering.” He pointed back down the street.

Sam gave him a side-eyed glance but looked down the street again.

“Why does the company freeze the fish it catches?” Otto asked.

Otto heard Sam’s breath. “So it doesn’t spoil before people eat it.”

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” Otto asked.

“It was silly.” Sam scowled up at Otto. “I didn’t need to think about that. I knew it.”

Otto raised his eyebrows. “Did you breathe first that time?”

Sam blinked. “You want me to do that every time?”

Otto shrugged.

Sam drew a deep breath and held it for a few heartbeats before blowing it out again. “I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“Takes practice. Something to think about,” Otto said. “Sometimes when people think I talk too much, it’s because I’m not saying anything.”

Sam started to speak but took a noisy breath first. “How can you talk without saying something?”

“An excellent question. Adults do it all the time. If you listen to them, really listen, you’ll hear them say the same things over and over. Make comments that are silly, even hurtful. Some people never learn to think before they speak.” Otto continued up the street, his staff thumping on the sidewalk.

“It seems like a lot of work,” the boy said, falling into step.

“It can be, I suppose,” Otto said. “Some people don’t really care what they say. They only want to be heard.”

“Is that bad?”

Otto shrugged. “Who am I to say? The thing to think about is how you want to be in the world. Do you want to be kind? Thoughtful? Considerate?” He looked down at Sam. “Or do you just want to be heard?”

Sam screwed up his mouth and frowned. He took several breaths. “Can’t you be both?”

“A good question. Can you?”

“You ask hard questions,” Sam said, looking up at Otto.

Otto nodded. “I try to, yes.”

“Because they’re hard?”

Otto grinned. “In part. Mostly because the easy questions have easy answers. Once I’ve answered them, I need to think of other questions.”

“What if there’s no answer?” Sam asked. “Don’t you get stuck?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“That doesn’t seem like much fun,” Sam said.

“I’m used to it,” Otto said.

“Not having fun?” Sam looked up at him, eyes round as bottle caps.

Otto laughed. “Not having answers. I try to have fun every day. At least a little bit.”

“What do you do for fun?”

Otto’s brain stuttered. What did he do for fun?

They covered most of a block before Sam asked, “Are you thinking before you speak?”

Otto laughed. “Yes, Sam. It was a good question and requires some thought. When I was a little older than you, fun was fishing off the rocks. Running on the beach. Playing in the tidepools to see what the ocean had left there.”

Sam nodded. “I like to play games. There aren’t many kids around to play with.”

“I’m hoping there’ll be more kids someday,” Otto said. “You’ll have to make your own fun for a while yet.”

“What do you do for fun?” Sam asked.

“I walk the beach. I carve whelkies.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Sam looked up, squinting a little in the bright sun. “Shamans are s’posed to do that stuff, aren’t they?”

Otto nodded. “It’s true. What’s fun? Think about that for a while. What makes something fun? What makes something work? Why do we call one thing play and another work?”

“You get paid for work,” Sam said.

“What about chores?” Otto said. “Do you get paid to do chores?”

“Like clean my room?”

Otto nodded.

“No,” Sam said. “That’s different.”

“Isn’t it work?”

“It’s not fun,” Sam said. “Mother insisted I make my bed and put all my dirty clothes in the hamper and ...” He ran out of steam.

“So there’s play and chores and work?” Otto asked.

Sam nodded. “I’m too young to get a job.”

Otto took a loud, deep breath. He grinned at Sam and nodded. “You have time to find out what calls you.”

“What calls me?”

“Everybody has a calling. Sometimes more than one. At some point in your life, you’ll discover the thing you’re meant to do. It will call you.” His eyes started to sting and his breath hardened in his throat. He looked up at the sky, struggling to keep himself under control. “You might find that you get called more than once. You might find your place as a fisherman. Or as a production worker. That might just be something you do so that you do the thing you love the most.” He sniffed and worked on breathing. “You might find that the thing you want to do most means you have to leave Finwell Bay. Even St. Cloud.”

Sam looked up at Otto and then into the sky beyond. “Leave here?”

Otto shrugged. “We go where we’re called.” The words echoed in his heart.

“You’re called to the beach?”

Otto nodded.

Sam nodded, pursing his lips and staring at the ground as they walked along. He didn’t say anything for a very long time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Finwell Bay: September 11, 2352

Otto rang the bell at Ursula’s house just after eight. The crisp autumn night augured a change in the weather. He smelled rain and wind in the air. The door latch buzzed and he pulled it open.

“Come on up.” Ursula stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, outlined in the warm glow from her living room.

He left his staff in the doorway and climbed up to meet her. “How’d things go today at the site?”

She shrugged. “I had to get the power crew to rework some lines on the second floor. Tedious, but they thought they had the specs right.”

“Company inspectors disagreed?”

“It happens.” She took his coat and hung it up for him. “I’m the master carpenter, not the master electrician. I thought it looked fine, but ...” She shrugged.

Otto didn’t know what to do with his hands. They wanted to reach for her.

“Come in, come in.” She led him into the living room and the couch that looked out over the town. With the indoor lights low, the windows offered a spectacular view of the moon rising over the bay. “I’m having a glass of wine. Want anything? I can make tea if you’d prefer.”

Otto sank down onto the soft cushions. “I’d take a glass of wine.”

She slipped into the kitchen and returned in only a moment, wine glasses in hand. She handed him one and joined him in looking out over the town. “Tell me about your day,” she said.

He took a sip and let the fruit and smoke flavors wash over his tongue. “You first,” he said. “I spent a most interesting day with young Sam Bagley and his sister, Roz. I’m still processing it.”

She took a sip of her wine and raised her eyebrows. “That sounds much more intriguing than my day on a job site.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know about intriguing. It may take a while to get through it all.” He took another sip and shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. She slid herself along the couch toward him and laid her arm along the back of the sofa to touch his shoulder. “The power crew will be busy tomorrow. I don’t have to go in until the day after.” She gave him a warm smile. “I’m in no hurry. Are you?”

Otto felt the world click into focus when he looked into her eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt the smile grow on his lips and the glowing knot in his chest expanded. “No,” he said. “No hurry.”

“Good,” she said, sliding closer and slouching a little so she could pull his free arm over her shoulders. She put her feet up on the coffee table and leaned against him. She looked up at him. “Is this all right?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Now tell me about this most interesting day.” She sipped her wine and settled in.

So he did and looked out at the clouds skipping across the face of the moon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Finwell Bay: October 4, 2352

Otto walked the beach and carved. The days came and went—each bleeding into the next until he went outside one morning and saw his breath. He shivered a little, returning to the cottage to layer on an extra sweater and grab some gloves. He went out to the shed to light up the stove. He hadn’t really noticed the need for it, but with fall well underway without him even noticing, he wondered what else he hadn’t noticed.

“Pretty poor for a guy who says he’s listening to the world,” he said to himself, stuffing sticks into the hopper and shaking his head. He shoved a fistful of paper into the slot at the bottom and used the torch that Asherman had left for him. He adjusted the damper so it allowed the maximum airflow and watched as the tinder caught and started consuming the ends of the sticks he’d thrust into the burner. The smoke whisked away up the chimney. Putting his hand on the stove pipe at the top, he felt it warm up under his palm. He closed the damper just a bit to slow the flow and looked around the shop.

He had a pile of wood to augment the sticks and had taken a page from his father’s book by setting up a stump beside the stove with a hatchet to split some of the larger chunks.

The skylights showed the changing leaves above. Soon they’d be bare sticks but the early morning sun on the colorful foliage made him smile.

He stood still and closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and blew it out his mouth, expelling every bit of air he could before doing it again. He let his breathing return to normal and let his mind go blank. The waves on the beach hissed and splashed. He heard the waves breaking on the point and some birds chirping in the woods. The stone walls blocked some sounds, but he wasn’t listening for sound. He listened for the heartbeat of the world. After a few moments he opened his eyes and lowered himself to his stool.

He sighed. The world seemed empty. Surface sounds only.

He stuffed some more sticks into the slanted hopper and left the shop. He grabbed his staff and headed for the beach. At the end of the path he stopped. Habit drew him toward the solitude of the beach. He looked down the long stretch of sand, his foot prints still evident in the soft sand above the tide line. Turning toward town he climbed the headland, pausing at the windy summit to breathe and look out at the harbor. A couple of the crab boats worked their traps along the far shore.

The season still had a few weeks to run before winterization began, before the fleet wouldn’t go out. Most of the crews would be shorebound until spring. He took a deep breath of the ocean air. It smelled sweet and clean and it refreshed him.

His path took him to the diner on Fifteenth and a stool at the counter.

“Hey, stranger.” The server—Benny—grinned at him. “What’ll ya have?”

Otto smiled. “G’morning. Cuppa tea. You got a pastry to go with it?”

“Some apple fritters today.”

“Sounds good. One of those please? I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“Comin’ up.” Benny poured a mug of tea and left it on the counter before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Otto took a sip and surveyed the dining room. Nobody else sat at the counter, but a group of women sat in a booth. They shared easy smiles and low conversation. Occasionally one or another would laugh. A pair of old men sat opposite each other in a booth in the corner. Neither seemed to have much to say as they worked their way through breakfast.

Benny appeared with a warmed apple fritter, the aromas of apple and cinnamon roiling around Otto’s nose. He took a good sniff. “Smells great.”

“We make them here when we can get the apples,” Benny said. “Ginny’s private recipe. Fall specialty. I think she’s got enough apples to get us through year end.”

Otto took a bite and the sweet roll melted in his mouth. He savored it and then chased it with a sip of tea.

“So how are you liking Finwell Bay?” Benny asked, lounging against the back counter.

“It’s been pretty quiet lately,” Otto said.

Benny nodded. “It’ll get a lot more lively when the draggers shut down for the winter.”

“What do people do when they’re not fishing?”

“Hang out here. All the pubs and taverns open for lunch, too.”

“Entertainment?”

“Abby has a full schedule of game tournaments going in the community hall all winter. The bowling league will start up in November and the Winter Theater is already starting auditions. There’s a pretty big network gaming community that plays year round. Abby approved the extra server space a couple seasons back. That’s pretty popular.”

“You play?”

Benny shrugged and a smiled. “I dabble. I’m not good enough for the league play.”

“Sounds like people manage to stay busy.”

“Most do.” He shrugged. “Winter’s not anybody’s favorite season, I don’t think.”

Otto took another big bite of the fritter. He probably should do a little more cooking himself.

“How about you? How’s the hermit life working out?” Benny asked, smiling.

“Hermit life?” Otto asked with a chuckle.

Benny shrugged. “You don’t come over the headland that much.”

Otto nodded. “Yeah. That’s something I need to work on. I never was one for getting out and about. Single parent with a kid. Kinda kept me close to the cottage.”

“Yeah. I can see that. Kid left the nest now?”

“Has her own life to live,” Otto said, taking a sip of his tea. “I’m not sure what to do with myself.” The words surprised him as they left his mouth.

“You’re still the talk of the town,” Benny said, lowering his voice to a bare murmur.

Otto chuckled. “So was Deering, wasn’t he?”

Benny shrugged. “He was just an asshole. You’re the mystery man.”

“Not exactly a mystery.”

Benny made a dismissive noise with his lips. “You come to town, stir up the town council, new boats show up on the waterfront, open job reqs show up in the company boards. New people move into town. More new hulls coming in the spring.” He shook his head. “People wondering how you did it.”

“I didn’t do anything except point out that there’s more to Pirano than draggers these days.” He leaned forward. “My big secret?”

Benny leaned in, eyes wide and nodded.

“My mother is a product analyst for Pirano. She tipped me off about crab.” He grinned and shrugged.

Benny laughed. “Yeah. I believe that. Sure.”

Otto tucked the last bite of fritter into his mouth and followed it with tea. “It’s true.”

“Your mother tip you off about Pete and Maryann?” Benny asked, lowering his voice even further.

Otto froze. “What about him?”

“Rumor is you had something to do with getting them some help.”

Otto pressed his lips together for a moment, not sure which way to go. “I didn’t do anything.”

Benny held up a carafe. “Warm up?”

Otto shook his head. “I’m good.”

Benny put the carafe back before looking at Otto. “Pete’s been on the wrong end of the stick since he married that woman. I’m just glad he’s getting some support and she’s getting the help she needs.”

Otto shrugged and stirred, uncomfortable about the direction the conversation had taken. He flexed his thumb for the tab.

Benny shook his head. “On the house. Least I can do.”

Otto frowned. “I haven’t done anything.”

Benny snorted. “That might work for some. Pete’s my brother. I’m pretty pissed about Maryann getting away with all the crap she’s pulled, but at least there’s a light shining on it and he’s not alone anymore.” He picked up the empty dishes. “Least I can do is buy you a cup of tea and a fritter.”

Otto felt a warm glow in his core. “Thanks.”

“Don’t be such a stranger,” Benny said and stashed the dishes in a tub under the counter.

Otto left the diner and made his way across town. Just a quick survey. He let his feet carry him where they wanted to go. His staff made a comforting thump on the sidewalk and the shells rattled. One of the newest shells sounded wrong to him. He couldn’t tell whether it was because of the shell or because his ear kept wanting it to sound like the staff he left in Cape Grace.

He looped up to the tram station and crossed the width of the town. The core of the town filled the cup between the headlands, but more houses sat up on the bluff behind the tram tracks as the town had expanded beyond the readily available land.

Before he realized it he stood outside Ursula’s shop—the big rolling door closed, the shop silent. He sighed and kept walking.

He went around the corner and walked past the Bagley residence. The whole block seemed quiet. It didn’t look any different but it felt different. Less fragile. Less like a glass standing too close to the edge of the counter. He frowned, pleased with the change but sorry that it hadn’t come sooner.

Somewhere a dog barked a couple of times. In the distance he heard some music playing. He followed the tune to the next block and an open window in one of the houses there. He made his way to the waterfront where the mechanical noises from the cutting house and freezer plants overwhelmed even the sound of the ocean.

He walked out to the end of the pier and looked down at the water. He closed his eyes and leaned on his staff, letting the sense of the harbor touch him. The sheer scope of it made him smile. Seasons of fishing had turned the harbor into a haven for crabs and scavenger fish. The boats fishing the harbor now couldn’t hope to do more than thin the population. The surrounding waters held even more. His mother’s assessment seemed right on the mark. Finwell Bay had the capacity to be a significant player in the crab fishery along the South Coast. Coupled with the four banks offshore, he suspected it could rival Woontana.

Otto turned to look at the shoreline. Abby smiled at him as she strolled toward him, hands thrust in the pockets of her jacket.

“Howdy, stranger,” she said. “What you doing?”

“Wondering how to manage the growth boom,” he said with a grin.

“Growth boom?” she asked.

“Where would you put a boatyard?” he asked.

“What would I do with a boatyard?”

“Build the boats locally, rather than tying up Woontana’s capacity.”

She laughed. “You think we need that many boats?”

“I do. You’ll need at least double, if not triple, the freezer capacity, too.”

She tilted her head and squinted at him. “You’re serious.”

He shrugged and looked back over the bay. “The resources are there. The crab fishery could overshadow your fin-fish operation in a few seasons. The bay is practically alive with them. More than the bay can support, I suspect. If the population densities are consistent, there’s a million metric tons of crab within ten kilometers.”

“Sustainable?” she asked, frowning at the water surging around the concrete pier.

“Yeah. I don’t know what the villages west of here are doing but I suspect they’ve got a substantial population as well.”

“We’re only landing a quarter million fin-fish now,” she said. “Season on season.”

He nodded. “You can probably get that up to almost half a million.”

“You know this how?” she asked.

“Hunch. Smell.” He shrugged and looked out over the water. “I could be wrong. A solid, step-wise development plan would give you a lot of security.”

“Five seasons?” she asked.

“Ten would be better,” he said. “You planning on retiring soon?”

She laughed. “I’m only a stanyer older than you. You planning on retiring?”

He shook his head. “Shamans don’t get to retire.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” she said.

He shrugged. “Would be like me saying I could retire from living. It’s not so much what I do as what I am.”

She looked at him and nodded. “Good point.” She shrugged. “Sorry. I haven’t had that much contact with shamans.”

“Even the guy before Deering?”

She nodded and thrust her hands in her jacket pockets. “He was a nice enough guy but seemed more concerned with the beach than the town.”

“And then Deering came along,” Otto said.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Seems naive now but it was our first actual transition.”

“What would you do differently?” he asked. “What will you advise your successor to do when I leave?”

“You leaving?” she asked with a sharp side-eyed look.

“Eventually. I may die one of these days.” He shrugged and grinned at her. “Never know. It could happen.”

She laughed and looked out to sea. “I don’t know. I cursed Flanagan but I have no idea if he’d been involved.”

“Look to the council,” Otto said.

“The council?”

He nodded. “How long was the cottage empty?”

“Maybe a week.”

“I’d see who had connections in the village Deering came from. Or to his family.”

She frowned down at the water. “You think somebody on the council set that up?”

“If he was as reclusive as you say, I don’t know who else in town might have known he was gone,” Otto said. “It might be nothing, but Jack Flanagan wouldn’t put a kid here, even as a second posting. Particularly one who didn’t come from the coast to begin with.”

“He sent you,” she said.

“He did. Prodded me to take it, more like. I wasn’t doing my job and he thought I needed a new horizon to stare at.”

“Was he right?”

Otto shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think so.” He sighed and shifted his weight. “Funny thing about the horizon.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“At sea, it’s all the same.”

She laughed. “Good insight.” She sighed and cleared her throat. “Listen, I’m sorry about the Bagley situation.”

He shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. You made the right decision with the information you had.”

“You warned me. I blew it off.”

“No. It’s hard to know where the line is. Until somebody steps over it.”

She grimaced. “She’s getting help.”

Otto nodded. “Might want to look into some child trauma specialists for the kids.”

“You worried about Sam?”

“I think I’m more worried about his sister.” He shrugged. “She needs some adult women as role models.”

“Sam doesn’t need adult men?”

“He does, but he’s at least had the opportunity to get out from underneath for a little bit. What is he now? Eleven?”

She nodded. “Twelve soon.”

“Both of them could use some trauma therapy.”

“Peter’s filed for a divorce,” she said.

“Hard to rebuild trust,” Otto said. “What’s the company position on Maryann?”

“He’s not pressing formal battery charges. She’ll have a year after the final decree to find a job, a new husband, or get off the planet.”

Otto winced. “Will you hire her?”

Abby sighed. “If you’re right about the expansion, she could have a place here. She’s going to have to deal with her anger issues.”

“The kids?”

She shrugged. “Magistrates usually favor the mothers, but in this case? I’d recommend they go with Peter.”

“He getting therapy, too?”

“He got a clean bill of health, mental and physical, but he’s still in counseling.”

“Where’s he living?”

“Same place. Maryann’s been moved to transient quarters and Larry’s put a security officer there.”

“So, not locked up but may as well be?”

Abby nodded. “Without Peter pressing charges, the company has no grounds.”

Otto nodded. “It’s not a perfect system, but I think that’s because it has to manage people.”

She chuckled. “And it’s run by people, too. Don’t forget that.”

“Good point,” he said. They stood there for a while, the shells on Otto’s staff clacking in the wind. “You wanna tell me?” he asked.

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever it was you walked out here to tell me,” he said, smiling at her.

“You heard from the inlet lately?”

“Nothing official.” He looked back out to sea. “Flanagan said they’re having trouble with a lease renewal.”

“They don’t have enough social workers on planet,” she said.

“That’s what I heard.”

“Would you take the job?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “What? Social worker on the company payroll?”

She nodded.

He shrugged. “I’ve said we should be on the company payroll for a long time now.”

“Shamans?” she asked.

He nodded. “We’re part-time troubleshooters for the company now. Making it official wouldn’t make that much difference.” He paused and looked down for a moment. “You want me to show up at an office?”

She opened her mouth but closed it without speaking. She gave him a sideways look. “Would it matter?”

He shook his head. “Just wondering what you’d want from me.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “You’ve been here—what? Four months?”

He nodded. “Something like that.”

“How’s your own mental health?” she asked.

“Not great,” he said. “I think I’m getting better.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

He shrugged. “Patience.”

“I can do that.” She turned to face him. “You didn’t answer the question. Would you take the job?”

“Yes,” he said.

She blinked. “Just like that?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I like it here. There’s a lot of challenge here and it’s going to get a lot more interesting when Finwell Bay starts overshadowing Woontana.” He grinned at her.

“You really think that’s likely?”

He nodded. “Almost inevitable.”

“My sister’s having a two-fer special on crab cakes today. Wanna grab some lunch?”

He glanced at the sun. He’d been out longer than he realized. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

As they strolled back down the pier, she asked, “So what did bring you into town today?”

“Dunno,” he said. “Thought I might need to spend some time walking the beach here. See what’s happening on this side of the headland.”

She smiled at him. “I’m glad you did.”

He smiled back. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Aram’s Inlet: March 19, 2353

Angela looked around the table. “Stella? Where are we?”

“We’ve got about eighty percent of the men identified as shamans as employees now. We’ve also picked up about a thousand women and an equal number of men who weren’t on the radar before. Getting the applications all processed has been a challenge. We’re still short, but we’re growing fast,” Stella said.

“Nancy? How’s the training going?”

“Pretty smooth. The front-end work paid dividends and some of the early adopters have already moved up to mid-tier. The additional credits helped, I think.”

Angela raised an eyebrow at Tony. “I’m seeing the hit to the bottom line.”

Tony shrugged. “We had some reserves but that was a hell of a shock to our budgets. It’ll smooth out. Cash flow will cover the shortfalls and we can defer some of the capital expenditures from the housing. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been.”

“What are we not doing that we should be?” Angela asked.

Maisie raised a hand. “Check with Violet Austin?”

Angela grinned and nodded. “Good point.”

Tony cleared his throat. “I’m in regular contact with their finance department. We’re working together to help balance the hit. They had more villages with stipends already, but fewer with cottages. We’re just the reverse, so the Combine’s books are in better shape than either of our two divisions.”

“That mean the Old Man won’t try to fight us?” Angela asked.

Tony laughed and shook his head. “No idea. Not having the arbitration hearings once a quarter will help. That was a serious stone in his shoe.”

Angela sighed. “Not enough to make him pull it back and allow women.”

“Did you ever find out why? Where it came from?” Nancy asked.

Angela nodded. “Nothing for public consumption but I got most of the pieces out of Troy Harbor.”

Nancy frowned. “Troy Harbor?”

“The first shaman on St. Cloud lives in Troy Harbor.”

Stella sat up straight in her chair. “Still?”

Angela nodded. “I talked to her.”

“Her?” Stella asked. “How—?”

“Technically, the first shaman was her son. Apparently somewhere on the autism spectrum. Would have been booted upstairs to the orbital without a job but the Old Man granted a dispensation for him and his sons.” She shrugged. “It just grew from there.”

“Why would he do that?” Stella asked.

Angela shrugged and kept her own counsel.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up but he bit his lips together without speaking.

“Do we have anything else?” Angela asked, steering the conversation away.

Heads shook around the table so Angela stood up. “Adjourned. Great work on this. Thanks all.” She turned and left the small conference room, heading for her office.

Maisie caught up with her in the corridor. “The quarterlies are looking good. The remodeling here is finished. You’ve solved the shaman problem. What’s next?”

Angela pursed her lips and sighed, but didn’t stop walking. “We need to get the fleet back in the water and I’ve lost ground on getting Deep Sea Four up and running.”

“The contractor wants a meet,” Maisie said. “Claims he’s found the issue with the mix.”

Angela turned into her office and crossed to the window. “He finally figured out what I’ve been telling him all along?”

Maisie chuckled. “Probably. He didn’t say what he wanted. Only that he needed an hour in the next week.”

“Set him up tomorrow afternoon. I think I’m clear.”

Maisie nodded and made a note. “You are. Anything else?”

Angela looked out over the bay. She pressed a finger to the corner of the window that had been cracked when she arrived. “Do you think he knew?”

“Who knew?” Maisie asked. “Knew what?”

“Jimmy,” Angela said, turning to look at Maisie. “Before he left. Did he ever say anything about his half-brother?”

Maisie shook her head. “Not in my hearing, but I doubt he would have.”

Angela nodded and sighed. “I never met Jimmy’s mother. Knew of her, of course.”

“You think there’s some connection between this shaman and ...” Maisie’s voice trailed off.

“And Stephanie stepping off the roof?” Angela asked.

Maisie bit her lip.

Angela shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll probably never know. Whatever happened has happened, I suspect my father will take that secret to his grave.”

Maisie nodded. “I’ll set that meeting up.”

“Thanks, Maisie.” Angela turned back to the window and stared out over the sea. Perhaps she could take some time off and do a little fishing of her own again. Movement in the boatyard caught her eye and she grabbed her windbreaker from its hook behind the door. The yard wasn’t busy this time of year.

Maybe rank had a privilege or two she could leverage.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Finwell Bay: April 4, 2353

Sam ran up to Otto with a chunk of driftwood. “More firewood.”

Otto took the stick and rolled it over in his hands. A glimmer of wing showed in the arch of the stick. “Thanks. This looks promising.”

Sam grinned and scampered back to the piles of wood and weed that lined the high-tide mark.

Roz reached up and took Otto’s free hand. She squinted against the bright sun. “You gonna carve it?”

“Maybe,” he said, giving her small hand a squeeze. “I usually look for the shapes in the wood but somebody wise once told me that he thought every stick on the South Coast held some kind of animal in it.”

“Why don’t they come out?” she ask, walking along with him as he continued down the beach.

“Well, they’re not real animals. I have to carve away the wood that’s not them.”

She nodded. “Makes sense.”

Otto chuckled. “How’s school?”

She grimaced. “It’s boring.”

“What are you reading in class?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Something. Don’t remember.”

“What are you reading at home?”

She gave him a sly smile. “A book about rabbits in space.”

“Rabbits in space? What do they do?”

“They fly around and have adventures.” She shrugged. “It’s fun.”

“What’s fun about it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just is. Can’t it just be fun?”

He nodded. “That’s an excellent question. Did you ask your teacher about it?”

She sighed. “No.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What if he says I’m not supposed to be reading dreck like that?”

Otto felt his eyebrows rise. “You think he would?”

Roz pursed her lips and shrugged. “Why risk it?”

He laughed. “That’s fair.”

As they approached the headland, a figure appeared at the crest and he smiled.

“Look, there’s Ms. Ramsbottom,” Roz said, lifting her arm to wave.

“Indeed it is,” Otto said.

Ursula waved back and started down the path toward the beach.

Sam came running up with a handful of sticks. “More firewood,” he said.

“You don’t think there’s anything worth carving in all this wood you bring?”

Sam shrugged. “Mostly I just look for dry stuff. Winters get cold in your shop.”

Otto freed his hand from Roz and held his gather bag for Sam. The boy stuck the sticks in and turned to wave at Ursula.

“What have you lot been up to this afternoon?” she asked when she got close enough to talk without yelling.

“Just walking the beach,” Roz said. “Sam’s been collecting firewood.”

Ursula nodded. “So same thing you always do.”

Roz nodded. “Yeah.”

Ursula fell into step with them, looping her arm in Otto’s and offering a hand to Sam. “You find anything good, Sam?”

Sam took her hand and they walked toward the headland and town. “Mostly firewood. Might be something worth carvin’.”

“What are you two going to do next winter when it’s too cold to be out here?” she asked.

“Stay in and read, I guess,” Roz said.

“Sam?” she asked, looking down at him.

He shrugged. “Don’ know. Don’ like winter much.” He looked up at her. “Boring.”

“What do you do in the winter?” she asked, tugging on Otto’s arm.

“Carve. Cook. Sleep.” He grinned at her. “Read.”

“Are you his girlfriend?” Sam asked, tugging on Ursula’s arm.

“Well, I’m a girl and I’m his friend. Does that count?” she asked, giving Otto the tiniest of grins.

Sam huffed. “You know what I mean.”

“We’re still figuring that out,” Otto said. “When you get old, things get more complicated.”

“Are we?” Ursula asked. “Still figuring it out?”

He felt that warm kernel in his chest expand even more. “I hope so,” he said. “I sincerely hope so.”

“When will you know?” Sam asked.

Ursula bit her lips together in a suppressed grin. Her eyebrows danced above her laughing eyes. “Yes, Otto. When will we know?”

Otto shrugged and grinned at her. “The world will tell me.”

Sam sighed. “All this listening. All I hear is gulls.”

“Waves,” Roz said. “I hear waves. And the wind.”

“And gulls,” Sam said. “Boring.”

Otto shook his head. “They’ll tell you stories if you listen long enough.”

“Really?” Roz asked, looking up at him.

He nodded and gave her hand a little squeeze. “You’ll have to listen very closely. It may take some time.”

“Boring,” Sam said.

Otto laughed. “Come on, Boring-Boy. We need to get back to town so you can say good night to your father before he goes to work.”

“Then what?” Ursula asked. “Dinner?”

Otto nodded. “I need to check in with Abby.” He glanced down at the kids. “File a report.”

“Your new job suiting you?” she asked.

He smiled at her. “Funny the things the world can tell you when you listen with your heart.”

Other Books

Golden Age of the Solar Clipper

Traders Tales

Quarter Share

Half Share

Full Share

Double Share

Captain's Share

Owner's Share

Seeker's Tales

In Ashes Born

To Fire Called

By Darkness Forged

Smuggler's Tales

Milk Run

Suicide Run

Home Run

Dark Knight Station: Origins*

Shaman's Tales

South Coast

Cape Grace

Finwell Bay

Tanyth Fairport Adventures

Ravenwood

Zypheria's Call

The Hermit of Lammas Wood

Other

Shackleford House

The Wizard's Butler

The Wizard's Cat*

* Forthcoming

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.