knowing it would appear weaker than it actually was. When the ready light came on, I pulled a fresh mug from the rack and poured it about half full.
Looking in, I saw a beautiful, rich brown brew without any hint of rainbow or oil on the surface. A satisfying aroma steamed out of the mouth of the mug. I took the brew to Cookie and offered it to him without a word. He tilted the cup and examined the color. He pushed his nose below the brim and inhaled deeply as a smile began to form. He took a slurping sip and then a deeper swallow, his eyes closed in concentration. Pip fidgeted beside me, but I waited patiently for Cookie’s assessment.
He spoke without opening his eyes. “So, young Ishmael, is this the best you can do?”
Pip inhaled sharply in alarm, but I thought I knew Cookie’s game at this point. “I don’t know. It might be. There are just too many variables for me to know for sure.”
His eyes snapped open and he peered at me, hawkishly. “Such as?”
“Mainly, I need to determine the correct brewing time. If the pot brews too fast, the grind needs to be finer. That’s going to depend somewhat on the grav-settings. I’m assuming we’ll keep this general level of gravity all the time, or at least while we’re making coffee. Next, I need to know more about the beans themselves. How fresh are they? How are they stored? What are the characteristics of this particular bean? Last, I need to know the crew’s preferences.” I ended with a smile. “Judging from the sample you gave me, they like it strong, dark, bitter, and oily. I prefer to skip the bitter and oily part but we must always consider the tastes of the drinker when brewing a perfect cup of coffee.” My mother’s voice echoed in my head as I said the last part. I remembered her saying those exact words as we explored the mysteries of bean and water together. I found it comforting as well as saddening.
“Pip,” Cookie crowed. “You could learn from this one.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll make an excellent cook. Now both of you drain and clean the other two urns.” He filled his mug again before returning to the galley.
Pip grabbed china from the rack and drew off a mug of his own. He buried his muzzle into it and sucked down a swallow. His green eyes went wide as he dove for another drink. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My mom always said that coffee cost too much to make badly and she taught me how to brew at a young age.”
“This might be the best this ship has ever had.” Pip looked up to where I was working on the next urn with newfound appreciation. “And to think I knew ya when…”
While we worked together on the remaining machines, Mr. Maxwell entered absorbed in reading something from a tablet. He didn’t acknowledge our presence. I could feel Pip holding his breath while the first mate poured and then sipped. He kept right on moving back out of the mess, never looking up from his reading.
Pip and I exchanged glances and I’m sure he was wondering the same thing…did he even notice? My unasked question was answered when I heard his voice from the passage. “Good work, Mr. Wang. Carry on.”
Pip’s face split in a broad grin. “How do you suppose he knew it was you?”
Cookie was strolling over to refill his mug. “Because, Mr. Carstairs, he’s had your coffee.” He gave me a wink and returned to the galley.
I had to chuckle at the look on Pip’s face but I hid my grin by returning to scrub the urn.
My duties, at least in those first couple of days, were pretty easy. Pip showed me where to find the duty roster and helped me learn how to find ingredients in the various storerooms and pantries. Mostly, my job consisted of ensuring there were plenty of sandwich fixings in the cooler and keeping the urns filled with fresh coffee.
I learned that there were three main seatings for meals: 06:00, 12:00, and 18:00 ship standard time. Most of the crew went ashore when the ship docked so we only served watch standers and the few others who stayed aboard. Officers shared the mess with the crew, although they sat at one large table set aside for their exclusive use.
As the time for our departure approached, more and more people ate meals aboard. “Broke, most likely,” Pip explained. Knowing the prices on the orbital, and the nature of Neris Port, I judged he was probably right. The pace in the mess picked up accordingly. Cookie took care of the menu planning, but he had me and Pip crawling through the storage spaces, pantries, coolers, and freezers to check the computer inventory against the actual stores. Where we were going, it wouldn’t be possible to step out to buy a gallon of milk if we came up short.
“How much stuff is there?” I followed Pip to what felt like the tenth walk-in freezer of the morning.
“We carry stores for up to a hundred twenty days, but we’re seldom underway for more than sixty at a stretch.”
When he told me that, I got a strange feeling. “Sixty days? That’s two months.” During the short time I’d been aboard, I’d been too busy learning my new job and finding my way around to think much about being cooped up inside the ship for weeks at a time. What would it be like when I was trapped for two solid months?
Pip poked me. “Ish, It’s okay.”
I took a deep breath. “Sorry. It just hit me and I…”
“No worries. You’ll be fine. Just keep working.”
“I suppose, but the ship just seems so small.”
He looked at me oddly. “Small?”
“Yeah, everything all packed together. The narrow passages…you know…small.”
He paused and frowned at me for a moment. “You’ve never seen the ship, have you?”
“Of course, I have. I’m on it, aren’t I?”
“No, I mean the
He bipped Cookie on his tablet and asked, “Can I have permission to show Ish the way to the bridge?”
Cookie’s response came right back. “As long as you don’t get in the way up there, permission is granted. But don’t take too long, the crew will be back aboard in three stans and we’ll need more coffee.”
Pip led me up a couple of levels and down a passage. At the foot of a stairway-they called them ladders on the ship I reminded myself-he paused. “Don’t touch anything. Just look. Pay attention to any directions from the bridge crew,” he said quietly to me before climbing the ladder. At the top, he used a formal sounding voice to announce us. “Request permission to enter the bridge.”
“State your business.” A woman at the top of the ladder spoke formally but smiled at him.
“Orientation for new crew member.”
“Granted.” She grinned at me as I stepped off the ladder.
Subdued lighting revealed a relatively large space with comfortable looking chairs bolted to the deck in key locations. A collection of nearly identical work stations formed a phalanx around the room. A doorway, with a real door, not a hatch, opened at the back of the bridge and revealed a small conference room. Panels and consoles flickered giving the area an odd radiance. I could see one screen that displayed what I took to be a Neris schematic with the orbital base and planetary surface plotted. A larger scale display showed the whole system with a blinking, blue path curving across it. It took me a few moments to register that there were actually ports facing forward and I could see that the ship nuzzled up against the outside of the orbital. I’d seen pictures of the station, of course, and watched it on shuttle approach, but I’d never been this close. It looked near enough to touch. I could see little scratches and blemishes in the surface finish and some kind of polarizing filter blocked the glare reflected off the orbital’s skin. I turned slowly realizing that ports faced aft as well and I saw the rest of the
Leviathan never seemed so appropriate a term.
Gantry lights ran down the spine of the ship, illuminating the container tugs that wrestled the big, triangular cargo boxes ever-so-gently into place before locking them down. Twelve sections of containers extended into the distance. At the far end of the main spine, a small white light, twenty kilometers out, marked the stern post. In one instant, I went from feeling like I was crammed in a shoe box to something akin to a flea on a pachyderm. It was staggering.
Pip was watching my face. “You’ll get used to it. Do you still feel like the ship is small?”
