The Oilman's Daughter by Allison M. Dickson, Ian Thomas Healy

“Go to the Station store. We’ll need boots, goggles, and small valises with suitable clothing for travel. Meet me at the Lowside Docks. I’m going to see if I can find a ship to take us to the Lagrange Sargasso.”
    “Yes, sir.” He paused. “Sir, if I may . . . my brother Lincoln works on a schooner. The Palmetto . He’s been in space a long time. He must know people here. I know he’s been to the Albatross in the Lagrange Sargasso, because he wrote to tell me about it once. Surely he will be our best resource.”
    “Excellent idea, Jefferson. I’ll inquire about that ship down on Lowside. Meet me there after you’ve secured our supplies.”
    The dark-skinned man nodded and floated down the tube with practiced grace, never reaching for the tether to steady himself. Jonathan envied him that. Perhaps once he reached the end of this adventure, he would find his space legs once and for all.
    Although the designers of Pinnacle Station had worked hard to make its interior warm and inviting to travelers, they couldn’t disguise that it was still a structure made of steel. Every noise seemed to echo for minutes and filled the air with a generalized hiss and hum. Pipes carrying steam, air, and water clanked in the walls, and Jonathan could hear the clangs and bangs of Lowside, where cargo schooners loaded and unloaded. Portholes let in the blue-white glow of earth-light. The brilliant white lead paint covering the riveted steel plates gave everything a washed-out, sanitized appearance that reminded him of the hospital from which he’d just escaped. The lower air pressure in the Station made him feel as if he had a large rock sitting on his chest, and he couldn’t ever quite draw a deep breath. The few times he touched foot or hand to any surface, he could feel the gentle vibration of the atomic plant that powered the Station.
    Even with the magnetic boots, a few folks couldn’t get the hang of keeping their feet upon the ground, and two CR stewards were designated to retrieve these hapless drifters who’d floated away from the reach of the wall railings or tethers. Most of them shouted with laughter as the stewards threw them lines to haul them back down to the deck.
    A wide opening in the lobby floor led to the freight deck. Jonathan pulled himself along a waist-high iron railing and followed it down the hole, working hard to convince himself he wasn’t falling through a shaft, but approaching the freight dock along a large circular hall. He reached the mouth of the tunnel and looked down into the chaos of Lowside.
    Eight large airlocks connected to the sides of the octagonal freight deck. Fultons would dock their cargo holds against the airlocks and then discharge or take on goods and supplies. A maze of ropes and cables pulled cargo nets in every direction across the deck. Large fixed nets formed holding bays where longshoremen parked crates, barrels, and pressure canisters. Heavy hoses refilled the Fultons’ boilers from the Station’s own stock or else took on replacement water from docked tankers. The air stank of burnt coke, the Fulton captains’ fuel of choice. Through this bedlam of noise and motion danced the deckhands and supervisors in their intricate aerial ballet. Jonathan watched one man twist in mid-air to land upside-down, feet-first on a net full of crates, mark each one with a grease pencil, and then spin away like a Chinese acrobat, only to snag a line with his knees and revolve around it without using his hands so he could check his clipboard.
    Jonathan looked around until he spotted the deck manager’s office. Luck was with him, for he wouldn’t have to travel far in the busy confines. Nevertheless, a passing chain of oxygen cylinders nearly took his head off when he first poked it out. “Mind yer head, ye durn fool!” shouted the man drifting alongside the containers. He reached the office without further incident and knocked on the door.
    “Come in,” called a man.
    The interior of