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figure in the mirror mimic my movements. The dark olive-green coat sported a single row of small brass buttons offset down the right side and rich chocolaty-colored leather trimmed the collar and sleeves. The cut resembled a military academy tunic and fell to just below my hip, much longer than the waist length jackets I was used to wearing.

“What do you think, Ishmael?” Bresheu said to me in the mirror. He smiled over my shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” I said and then sighed. “But is it me?”

Bresheu gave a little shrug. “It could be. But I’m not sure the fit is perfect yet. Please reach straight ahead.”

I did as he instructed and I could feel the material bind across my back.

Bresheu tsked. “As I feared. You are a runner?” he asked.

Confused at this I answered without thinking, “Yes. How did you know?”

“Your chest is larger and that’s what causes this binding here.” I could feel his fingers trace across just under my shoulder blades. He sighed. “This is just one half size too small for you. It needs a bit of fitting to be perfect.” He glanced at the chrono and tsked again. “I could have it ready by tomorrow…” he suggested.

I was still gazing at the me in the mirror. The coat seemed like it was the right one, but so much more dramatic than anything I had ever worn before. The flashy buttons and the leather trim seemed oddly theatrical. I blinked and noticed Brill had returned and was eyeing me critically. “What do you think?” I asked her. “Is it me?”

She smiled. “It’s spectacular, certainly. But, is it you?” She shrugged. “You’re the only one who can answer that.”

Then Bresheu’s words sunk in. “Tomorrow? No. I have duty tomorrow. And we leave for Dunsany Roads the day after,” I told him.

“Pity,” he said with a downward twist to his lips. “The coat is spectacular on you, Ishmael, but it needs just that bit of tailoring to make it perfect. Could I tailor it and have it sent to the ship, perhaps?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I told him peering once more in the mirror. “This is a fantastic piece, but I wonder if it’s perhaps—I don’t know—too dramatic?” I sighed. “I don’t know that I have the presence to pull this off.”

Bresheu smiled back at me from the mirror. He caught my eyes in the glass and leaned into my ear, “Ishmael, there is an old saying that the clothes make the man. Is this the man you wish to be?”

I broke the gaze and examined myself once more before looking back in his eyes. “I don’t know, Bresheu. I need to think and we don’t have much time.”

“You are a wise man, Ishmael,” he said and slipped the coat from my shoulders. A girl took it and disappeared. Bresheu slipped my own jacket back onto me and gave it his little tugs.

“May I suggest that you think upon this during your voyage, Ishmael?” Bresheu said. He slipped a business chip out of a sleeve and inscribed a single letter B on the case. “When you get to Dunsany, present this chip at the establishment of Henri Roubaille. If by the time you get there you know who you are, then Henri will be able to fit you.”

“Merci, Bresheu,” I told him. “My apologies for taking up your valuable time.”

He shook his head. “But why else am I here? Please do come and see me the next time your travels bring you to St. Cloud.” He offered his hand and a warm smile in parting.

I took the hand and gave my own smile in return. “I’ll be sure to visit you sooner next time,” I told him.

Just then, the warning pings sounded to let the shoppers know that the flea market was closing. I saw Brill still standing by the mirror and we joined the stream of people leaving the flea market.

“Why didn’t you get it?” she asked. “It was exceptional. You looked good enough to eat,” she said in a tone that took me off guard.

I chuckled. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right. I’m not that showy.”

“I can appreciate that,” she said. “But, still it was very yummy.”

Concerned with where this conversation was heading. I suggested we go find some food.

Chapter 4

ST. CLOUD ORBITAL

2352-FEBRUARY-19

End of day shoppers crowded all the restaurants that catered to the flea market and did not offer the best choices, so Brill and I went down a couple of levels. We found a seafood restaurant that specialized in local St. Cloud fish that looked good. A sign in the window proclaimed, “The fish you eat today, slept in Starvey Bay last night.”

Brill and I both laughed. “Is that just a little too much information?” I asked her.

“Yeah, it’s a little creepy, but I guess it’s better than the alternative,” she agreed.

The hostess was good. She took only one double take at Brill’s height and then seated us at a very pleasant table close to the kitchen but not in the main traffic pattern. Unlike a lot of the orbital restaurants, this one did not have every square meter jammed with tables, which made it feel open. The walls were adorned in lifesize digital murals of various seascapes—probably from St. Cloud itself. All in all, it was a very tasteful display in spite of the rather tacky commentary on the fate of our soon-to-be dinners.

“Thanks, Brill,” I told her when the drink orders were placed and we had settled in.

“For what?” she asked.

“Well, I was feeling a little—displaced—that’s not the right phrase, but something like that.”

“Displaced?” she prompted.

“Yeah. When you found me, I’d just finished moving and felt a bit lost. There wasn’t anybody in deck berthing when I left and nobody in engineering when I got there. I felt like—I don’t know—suddenly disconnected somehow. Does that make sense?”

“Oh yeah, I can see that.” Our drinks arrived—a nice bottle of white wine from a Dunsany vineyard—and interrupted our conversation with the rigmarole of uncorking and tasting. The wine was smooth, dry, and had a nutty aftertaste. “It’s funny how you get attached to a bunk like that. I know when I moved out of engineering and into chief’s quarters I almost cried. It felt like I was leaving home.” She smiled wistfully.

“Well, anyway when you came in, and asked me to come out with you that meant a lot. So, thanks,” I told her awkwardly.

The server returned to take our orders and I picked a grilled abo-iba steak and Brill went for the munta fillet. The abo-iba is a large, deep water fish—a fast swimmer and very streamlined. The flesh is dark and has a texture that is more fibrous than flaky. Munta is sort of a cross between salmon and sea bass. The restaurant began to fill up slowly around us as the evening crowds began filtering in.

“So? Why didn’t you get that jacket?” Brill asked after a small pause. “You didn’t even ask how much it cost.”

I shrugged. “It was tempting. Back on Gugara there was a black leather jacket with a beautiful silk lining and silver buckles that I passed by. I didn’t buy that one because it cost more than I had and it weighed three kilos. But I’ve kind of regretted that decision every time I’ve put on this thing,” I said indicating my coat.

“So, aren’t you afraid you’re going to regret not buying this one?”

“A bit, but Bresheu put his finger on it.”

She arched her eyebrow in inquiry. “I was too far away to hear what he said.”

“He told me clothes make the man and then asked if my reflection was the man I wanted to be.”