Palimpsest by Thunderfield (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

overheard a group of sceptics in the Piano Bar, ‘the distances surely were not great enough to put them that far out, so either something was wrong with the comms, or the distance to NA was more than being let on.’
And a lone drinker nearby interrupted the conversation and said ‘it’s odder than a cuckoo in a rats nest.’ He had a pinched, hard expression and the group ignored him.
‘Oi, I’m talking to you,’ he eased off his bar stool and took two steps towards the group when the barman intervened.
‘Leave it Riggs, or I’ll have to bar you again.
Riggs muttered about the ruling classes and returned to his bar stool, the others were visibly relieved and changed the topic of their conversation but Naismith thought there was some truth in Riggs’ statement.
Since launch Naismith had networked hard, focussed on building a business advantage for his arrival at NA. Now he re-set his agenda on the new circumstance. He mingled and eaves-dropped with the crew, mostly junior ranks as senior officers had become scarce, one crewman had joked how he enjoyed not having the lightweights float around all the time, and another complained that standards had slipped because Captain Pedantic had not been seen on the public decks since the shake-up.
In search of officers he idled time in the sumptuous Mayfair Club and mused.
‘Something is afoot,’ he said out loud.
‘Pardon me, Sir?’ said a matronly redhead who looked up from putting glasses away beneath the counter in front of him.
‘Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming.’
‘You said that something is afoot, that’s not day dreaming, you’re like me honey, you are observant.’
Naismith took to the theme, ‘NA comms down, meal portions down, senior officers not down here.’
She ducked below the counter again, a double crown visible within her thick curly red locks, when she bobbed back up she corrected him, ‘what you meant to say was; no comms, no food and no officers.’ She continued in a low voice, ‘I don’t hear so much on TopDeck, because it’s mostly passengers.’
‘But?’ said Naismith.
With a hushed voice she said, ‘the lower ranks live below Deck Twelve, and down there is talk, the extension has to be longer than two weeks, for all the reasons you said and more.’
Naismith leaned forward, ‘such as?’
She had finished with the glasses, put an empty tray to one side and scanned the bar. ‘Strange re-allocation of duties, a couple of guys moved and not seen since, rumour is they are on the AdminDeck. They are all clever clogs, young bright sparks you know.’
‘Why move to AdminDeck?’ Naismith pondered, and answered himself, ‘because they have skills and knowledge needed urgently and on the quiet.’
‘I also heard,’ she lowered her voice further, ‘they moved a passenger up there too.’
From the next day on Naismith followed a daily routine, he visited the Mayfair usually during the Redhead’s shift. He roamed TopDeck’s bars and restaurants, any public areas. He listened, ingratiated, and was very alert to the emerged pattern.
In a café off the Market Square he ran into the crewman, O’Boyle, and said, ‘I want to thank you for your help.’
O’Boyle looked up from his plate of toasted sandwiches, ‘No problem, just glad to assist, part of job.’
‘No uniform today, off duty? May I join you?’ Naismith sat down.
‘A few hours off, then I start again, and yes feel free, want some toast there isn’t much available.’
They chatted for a few minutes about food portions, then Naismith asked. ‘Do you work on the ServiceDeck?’
‘No I was passing through after my shift ended, I am a steward on the AdminDeck,’ said O’Boyle. He shifted a little, uneasy at Naismith’s question and his avoidance of eye contact.
‘I didn’t know there were stewards up there, so you don’t usually come down to the other passenger decks?’
‘Well I was accommodated up there, but yesterday had to move down to Deck Fourteen, swap my cabin with some guy.’
‘Why was that?’
‘No idea ‘cos I still have to get up there to do my job, right pain so it is.’
‘How many cabins are up there?’
Between mouthfuls of toast O’Boyle answered, ‘about twenty for senior officers and forty for the likes of me, but several of us have been moved down below now, right hassle getting onto the deck since that Murdo Munro poked his nose in.’
‘Who is Murdo Munro?’
‘A jumped up Scottish bully.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions there, what’s with it?’
‘I appreciated your help after the shake-out and am just interested in how the crew goes by its business on a ship this size. That’s all, no offence,’ explained Naismith.
O’Boyle took another bite, chewed and swallowed, ‘he’s the Master at Arms, which means his amateurish security operation stops folk getting up there and makes my life more tedious, well it would be if I stuck to the rules, but I know a way up there that he don’t. Not much of a security guard is he.’
‘I would have thought he expected an easy ride on this voyage, he is probably not experienced in crisis management. How do you get by him?’
‘Oh, it’s easy really, a ship this size has many routes most folk don’t know about. I have been on this crate a long time and know my way around far better than any officer I reckon.’
‘Such as?’
‘For example crew decks have access to interhull stairs, port and starboard. That is the bottom four decks and the top two used for admin and senior crew. The stairway links them but is out of bounds for passengers.’
‘But Deck Twelve is passenger accommodation isn’t it?’ said Naismith.
O’Boyle looked up and failed again to get eye contact. ‘Oh the modifications made a five years ago reduced crew numbers to make room for cheap fares, the redtags. Deck Twelve was converted to pax but the stairs are still there.’
‘But that would mean you have to climb a lot of stairs to get to the AdminDeck.?’
‘True, but there are always alternatives, I use a small elevator Munro has forgotten about, it’s by the morgue behind the medical centre on ServiceDeck, and it goes directly to a side passage, P5, near the bridge.’ O’Boyle munched away at the last of his toast. ‘This food is becoming a bloody disgrace.’
‘I will check it out,’ Naismith thanked him and got up to leave.
O’Boyle said ‘but the food is no better, why do you want to go up there?’
‘It’s where the power is,’ said Naismith.


* * *

They used gyroscoots to speed up the searches on TopDeck and BizDeck but still failed to find Ronan. Max wore his favoured field wear, a corded blue shirt and khaki trousers, pragmatic hardiness and multiple large pockets. He faced several large empty worktops which dominated the centre of the lab. Three students remained, Phil and Grant were engrossed in their project preparations and had a map spread out before them. It depicted their neighbouring research areas that spanned an ancient volcanic thrust belt in the Southern Ranger continent. The zone had been selected by Max’s sponsors because of the potential for rare minerals. Other geological and topographical maps of NA adorned the walls.
Enrique was at his preferred spot at the front, opposite Max’s desk. He was reading a science paper on his monitor. It was the evening of the third day since the event.
Max walked over to Enrique, ‘can I interrupt you with a quick question?’ he received a nod of approval, ‘you can read star charts and know about wormhole navigation correct?’
‘I know a bit, why?’
‘Hypothetically, how would you determine where you were if you were in a new bit of space?’
Enrique turned from the monitor, ‘why?’
‘Just that the extra couple of weeks journey time puts us further out from NA, I was wondering what was out there.’
The student shrugged, ‘just stars that aren’t close to wormholes probably, so we will never know.’ Enrique turned back to his monitor.
‘How do wormholes work?’
‘Oh come on, we all know the basics.’
‘So how do you pop out early and suddenly need only two more weeks to get to NA?’
‘Is that what they are saying? Not possible. A wormhole just links two points in space, bridging the folds in space-time to make a shortcut. Wormholes themselves don’t lengthen or shorten, as far as I know.’
‘So how come we need the extra time?’
‘Max I don’t know what you’re getting at, we are geologists, at least you are and I hope to be one day, we’re not astrophysicists. I don’t know.’
‘If you had a star chart of the region of space we are in now could you recognise some stars?’
‘Yeah, probably, why?’
‘I’d like to see that chart and you point out the stars.’
‘Ask ships-net to show you our position, it’s all there on the passenger information pages,’ said Enrique.
Max’s comtube rang, he pulled the slender black and silver tube from his pocket. Can you take a look for me now please?’
‘Okay’ Enrique answered with a sigh.
Max answered the comtube.
‘Hi fella, its K’
Max recognised the voice, ‘Hi, what’s up?’
‘Got some news about your boy, don’t worry he’s alive, can you come down, it’s urgent, with a bit more discretion this time.’ Kemp hung up.
Max popped the comtube away and announced, ‘got to go guys, see you tomorrow, lock up after you.’
‘One thing Max,’ said Enrique looking up from his monitor, ‘they’ve removed the star charts from the ships net, odd isn’t it.’
Max left the lab and sped down the stairs to Deck Twelve and then followed the familiar route to the triple interhull doors, onto the unused metal stairway and clanked his way down to Deck Fifteen. This time he zigzagged quietly along the route to Kemps secret office. As usual the deck seemed uninhabited, though he heard the odd bang and clunk from somewhere over towards the port side. Soon he was in the disused office but before he even knocked the creaky door opened with Kemps stained grin greeted him.
‘Better this time,’ said Kemp, behind him Max could see a mop of jet black hair.
‘Come in fella,’ Kemp stepped aside, and closed the door as Max entered. He faced someone small, in the green uniform of the crew, she was young woman of astonishing prettiness, oriental, and wide eyed, pale skin and pursed red lips.
Kemp gestured with his open hand ‘This is Asami, an occasional client of mine and a close friend of Ronan.
‘Hello Asami, tell me about Ronan, is he Okay? We’ve been looking for him everywhere,’ said Max.
‘Who are you sir?’ she said,
‘I am Max, his’…
‘Sensei, yes I know about you. Lonan is in a coma, I can’t wake him.’ she had a distinct Japanese accent, otherwise her English was excellent.
Max looked at Kemp, ‘What did you sell him?’ The drug supplier stroked his goatee in a fake gesture of trying to recall. ‘Come on man this is serious, no haggling.’
‘Some number six’ said Kemp flatly.
‘Jesus’ said Max, then to the girl he asked ‘where is he?’
‘He is in my loom.’
‘You can’t go on the crew decks Max,’ said Kemp.
Max thought Asami looked scared, both for Ronan and her job, drugs and passengers in her cabin meant she could be in serious trouble.
‘Don’t worry Asami I think I know someone who can help, please take me to him,’ he said.
‘No I can’t take you,’ she said, ‘it’s crew area only.’