Black Hull by Joseph A. Turkot Page A

waterfall of tight gold silk pushed her way
toward a broad-shouldered man in black. Dark handsome eyes turned to receive
the luminous form. Her lips curled with awkward excitement—sprightly eyes wove
a net about the man’s future, and the woman who’d earlier that night dug into
his side released her hold, slipped away into the warmth of the dinner party.
     
    “Dance?” she asked.
    “To this?” he replied.
     
    She held out her hand, he took it.
     
    Where have I seen her before? Somewhere,
a long time ago. She’s not a student. Somewhere distant, close.
     
    Violins caressed his neck and arm.
Foreign movement confounded them both, and the heat of the hall increased.
Gentle gold upon a smooth black suit—her hair eased out, flew about, the cosmos
intact therein. The wild scent of flowers twined with the musk of man. Mick
sighed, believing his luck couldn’t get better: a F.R.I.N.G.E. interview the
following Monday, and her tonight. His being engorged, flooded with optimism.
     
    “From what time and place do you come?”
he asked, smiling.
     
    They twirled about in strange harmony,
spirits destined to know one another and on the cusp of understanding that
truth: his arm explored, his fingers vagabonds. She breathed a hot secret into
his ear:
     
    “Here I am,” she said.
     
    She’d said that. And what had it meant?
     
    The night wore on between dance and wine
and concertos. A separation began, spirits departing, leaving one another to
rejoin their solitary dreams.
     
    “Where are you staying?” he asked.
    “Helen’s dorm.”
     
    Helen Reisman, a bright underclassmen.
     
    “Will I see you later?” he asked.
    “There is no later,” she smiled. “Just
now.”
     
    I could never admire Helen. She’s not
clever. But this girl? I’m enamored.
     
    Mick pulled her into his chest. Kissed
her. Strange new flavor. The bravado of now, roused by her, swept over him and
took control. Enough to show I understand?
     
    She departed into the alien night, her
fingers the last to slip away. Blue eyes under dark brows went, with them the
heat of unified desire.

26
     
    “Are you sure you want to do this Mick?”
Jason asked.
     
    They were already upon the platform, the
question an obvious formality from an old friend.
     
    “It’s no gamble,” Mick said. He tried to
smile.
     
    Another black hull mission. Who’d have
thought I’d sink to this? Can it make sense somehow, later?
     
    “A Zubenalgubi run is no joke,” Jason
said. “And that ship’s a piece of shit.” He laughed, looking at the black hull
behind them. 
    “Well, what can you do?” Mick said,
feigning interest in his friend’s concern.  
     
    He knows why. He’d do the same thing.
     
    “Alright, well,” he said. “I’ll be here,
a little greyer I suppose, but I’ll keep a beer cold for you.”
    “Thanks,” Mick said.
     
    He walked into the ship, waved. His
criminal crew was waiting for him.
     
    Karen, Christopher, little Mickey,
Selby. Not one of them to see me off. Better that way.
     
    The image of a splintered skull rent the
thought of family from Mick’s mind as he entered the ship. Red and black, rage,
and a delicate arrangement of interaction had occurred, and so he had to leave
his home world for ten years.
     
    Has it been a year since the funeral?
     
    “Ion propulsion engaged—ready to launch…”
said the captain.
     
    Come to me Lethe of space, oh sweet Cryo .

27
     
    “Do you know what I’m going to do to you
if we survive this?” Mick said.
     
    Sera drilled into the floor of the
cruiser, penetrated the hull of the Cozon, and dropped inside.
     
    “Keep your suit tight,” she said, then
disappeared into the ship. The unknown light-class flew in close to the
cruiser.
    “Mick, transmission coming in,” XJ said.
     
    Mick ran into the cockpit.
     
    “Put it through,” he replied.
    “This is light-class Fogstar—undock your
vessel immediately,” commanded a woman’s voice.
    “Sorry—we have a