Final Flight by Beth Cato Page A

a pugilist, I might have been fool enough to take the punch, but I now had to think of my Sheridan, and two dozen crew besides.
    â€œOff duty as much as a captain ever is.”
    â€œI’m on the way to join my man in the control cabin, just to keep an eye on things. Have you seen Mrs. Starling about?”
    â€œNo.” Damned if I cared. I needed to find my lad. He was most likely in the promenade, and failing that, up in the gas bag access where he liked to read.
    â€œI’m sure she’ll turn up soon. She’s always up to something.” With a tip of his black trilby, he continued downstairs. I grimaced as I headed upward. The Wasters had pummeled me when I resisted their takeover of the Argus ; my legs had taken the worst of it. Now I moved like an old man. I felt like an old man for the first time, despite years of white hair and wrinkles.
    Most of the lights in the promenade were shut off, though sun shone through the long row of port-­side windows. The view beyond showed the greenery of Caskentia. Set dining tables wore white tablecloths as if to masquerade as squat ghosts.
    I heard Sheridan’s voice, still high as a girl’s, and stopped in the doorway.
    â€œYes, m’lady, I’ve officially been yeoman electrician on board for years, but I work where I’m needed.”
    â€œWell, you’ve done a fine job on this automaton band. These figures are far older than you, but they’re in fine condition.”
    It took me a moment to find the speaker, as Mrs. Starling wore a black mourning gown from nape to ankle and stood in a shadow between windows. In that attire, she’d blend in anywhere in Caskentia. Widows and mourning mothers were legion.
    â€œThank you, m’lady,” said Sheridan.
    â€œAre you reading these books now?” I heard the flutter of pages. My sense of alarm blared like klaxons. I knew nothing about this woman but her name and that she traveled with Corrado. I assumed no innocence on her part.
    â€œI’ve read them before, m’lady. They’re favorites of mine.” My Sheridan, never without books. When he first came aboard at age nine, I berated him for reading on duty. I did not hold with nepotism.
    â€œIt’s rare to find a boy your age who can read, much less one who favors Dhalgren’s poetry or histories of Caskentia.”
    â€œI credit my mother, m’lady. She was fond of books.”
    â€œSuch a tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. You were what, nine, when she succumbed to pox?”
    He hesitated, and my own breath caught in surprise. How had she known that? My crew wouldn’t have gossiped about such an intimate detail.
    â€œYes, m’lady,” Sheridan said slowly.
    Just weeks before, I read in the paper of Caskentia burning whole villages to contain the spread of pox. Ill and healthy, immolated together. It was a firebreak strategy, a damn fool one. By Caskentia’s “death village” logic, Sheridan should be dead, too, even though he never contracted the dreadful illness from his mother.
    Caskentia. Logic. Those words shouldn’t be used in the same sentence.
    It’d shock my crew if I said such things aloud. I displayed absolute loyalty to Caskentia, but I was no fool. I did whatever was necessary to manage my business—­my ship—­and take care of Sheridan. I paid bribes to officials at every moorage. I simpered and groveled, and in the privacy of my berth, washed away the foul taint with a tawny port.
    Maybe that’s why this requisition of my gal Argus was especially aggravating. All my posturing had been for nothing.
    â€œMothers are often our best teachers, though your father’s role in recent years is not to be ignored. You’ve raised an intelligent son, Captain Hue.” She still faced away from me. Had I been so loud in my approach?
    Sheridan scrambled to his feet and saluted me. “Sir!” He wore a crimson crew