Tom Lee’s loaders arrived just before midday. I don’t ask how they got a permit to bring a tanker in or who they had to pay: details like that are just business. Daisy has a bribes budget and the Company expects her to show a profit on it. Business. Even Gus ignored the men who ran the hose down to the Pig’s hold.
Transfer didn’t take long. They didn’t need me there, either, but I preferred to be around when someone’s collecting stuff from my boat, even when it’s paid for. I listened to the low hum of the hose sucking the tank dry, convinced myself I could feel the Pig lighten, and hoped Tom Lee would give the wine rather more than six months to recover from what we’d put it through.
The silent types who’d done the work were ready to leave when one of them recalled he had a message. He was the sort Tom Lee usually employed: muscled and close-mouthed and able to take care of himself as long as he didn’t have to think much about it. Remembering a message was more than he usually had to do and the effort was costing him.
“You the owner?”
I’d been sitting on deck while they transferred the load from my boat. Tom Lee must have described me and I was probably the only tall, thin red-head in the Port. It wasn’t much of a guess.
“Me.”
“Tom Lee said to tell you your man doesn’t show up dead on his files.”
My turn to look dumb. “What do you mean?”
The question was beyond him. He’d delivered the message, that didn’t mean he understood it. A shrug and a spit covered his answer.
I watched them drive off as I tried to work it out. The hatch cover I was sitting on was steel and neither warm nor soft but a move to somewhere more comfortable would mean asking arms and legs to work. I wasn’t sure they would. I wasn’t sure of anything. I couldn’t have imagined what I’d seen in the mortuary. I’d have given every credit on my chip to have been able to believe it was a bad dream but not even the worst of my nightmares are that convincing.
So had I been wrong about the identification?
I don’t like being wrong. I wasn’t going to like admitting it to Tom Lee or, worse, Daisy. But the face had been bloated and disfigured and I hadn’t seen Jon in months. Nor had we been that close. Could I be sure I’d even have thought of him if it hadn’t been for the bonehead tekkie who’d taken his place?
Now I understood Byron’s questions. He wasn’t sure if the ID I’d made was ignorance or if I’d been covering. He had more and faster access than Tom Lee and he knew Jon was alive: his files said so.
If Jon was alive I should be pleased, even if that meant a bit of embarrassment and an anonymous corpse on the table in the white room. Except that I was still certain it was Jon’s corpse.
And there was still a stranger living in the room Jon had called home.
I uncoiled myself from the hatch cover, creaking, and went below. The saloon was a mess. I picked a couple of cushions off the floor and tossed them on to the worn settee which doubled as a sea-berth, moved an empty plate from the chart table to the sink, and went down the companionway to my cabin.
There’s not room on a boat to hoard much. If I haven’t used something in six months I throw it away. It’s a system meant to stop me getting sentimental about old things and clinging on to pointless memories. Though it had taken me over a year to clean out Jack’s cabin.
I hadn’t done anything about a clear-out since I’d returned to Midway, so perhaps what I was looking for would still be here.
The lockers beneath the bunk were overfull. I had to empty them to discover that what I wanted wasn’t in either of them. I pushed everything back, including two remotes which I’d been given in trade on the promise they would give me control over all the ship’s functions from anywhere on board or off-shore up to thirty metres. Neither had ever worked. A second’s thought had me pulling them out again and throwing them to one side: they could be the first to go if I ever got round to the clear-out. Somewhere there was a malfunctioning autopad which could join them. Then I kicked the locker doors shut. The automatic catches failed but a turnbuckle held them just as well. I sat on the bunk, considering.
Where would I have stashed something unimportant which I didn’t yet want to throw out? Under the bed. Except that it wasn’t there. I thought back to the day Jon had given me the packet, wishing I’d thought it important at the time. I’d just thought I was doing a favour at little cost to myself.
But when I’d got back to the Port I’d found the small square object waiting in my mail chute. No message, unless you count “Thanx. Jon.” coming up on the screen when I put in a query. No comeback call number.
I’d dropped the thing into my sack without a thought. I hadn’t even looked at it closely. I’d assumed he wanted to pay a debt. I’d also known he had nothing of value to trade. I might have been wrong. At least if I found the square object it might give me a clue. At the moment I could barely recall what it looked like.
It had been solid, made of some sort of metal. I remembered now that I’d emptied out that sack because the shoulder straps were working loose. If you don’t want your sack snatched from your shoulders you keep the straps tight. I know plenty of people who deliberately keep them loose because they’d rather lose a bag than get into a struggle but I’ve never been able to think like that. So. I’d been mending.
I don’t use autobonding, though it’s fast and, whatever Jack said, the seals are strong. But he’d made me learn the old way – sail needle and waxed thread – and since he’d been gone I’d found I preferred it.
The mending things were buried deep in a box beneath the hold workbench. I had to go back on deck and down the hatch I’d been sitting on before I could squeeze my way through to the forward end of the hold, past the now-empty storage tank. The air was heavy with the sweetness of spilled wine. The muscle had managed to siphon a little side-benefit. I shrugged. Tom Lee’s problem, not mine.
The box was a mess. Tangles of thread of varying sizes. An autobond iron in case I got lazy. I tried the switch: it didn’t work. Two knives, both sharp. Needles. There was even an old leather sailor’s palm for pushing the needle through thicknesses of sailcloth. Real leather.
I swallowed. It was one of Jack’s more grotesque leftovers and I’d meant to throw it out years ago. Trouble was I could barely bring myself to touch it. I found an old rag and used that to lift it, trying not to think of skinned animals. Jon’s token was underneath.
I dropped the palm into the tide and the rag with it before I took a good look at what I’d found. It didn’t tell me anything. I was holding a cube of some pale, lightweight metal I didn’t recognise. I’d thought it was solid, now I wasn’t sure. Each face had a symbol on it but none of them meant anything to me: a circle with a line through it, a series of concentric squares, a diagonal cross. No way of knowing if the marks meant something or were someone’s idea of ornament.
There was some damage or wear which made three of the faces unreadable. The cube had probably been thrown out before it came to Jon but what it had meant or whether it had ever had a purpose I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t ask Jon. I could only hope it might mean something to someone else. It would probably turn out to be some sort of puzzle toy that Jon had given up on.
I laced on my boots, put the thing in my sack and set the Pig’s alarms behind me.