The Rings of Apollo
Part 1 of 8
The yacht Orion’s Charm swept into Apollo’s embrace on a pillar of fire, decelerating at half a g. She was sleek, silver, and beautiful—the newest vessel from the Odysseus docks and the apple of Idris Pylotka’s eye.
Old Idris Pylotka wasn’t content to hunt lion and elephant on the savano or enjoy his country estates or town palaco. No, the hardscrabble prospecting legend who exploited a mountain of asteroidal uranium toured his mining outposts in a series of beautiful yachts. The Charm was two hundred meters of chromium, metaplastoc, redwood, mahogany, brass, and steel from engine deck to cooling vanes to passenger cabins to the shimmering vanity deck.
Her crew: a lantern-jawed captain, a dark-eyed first officer who’d been militia, a swarthy engineer, a wirey old bosun, two tough, heavy yeomen who’d played fielders in upper-school, and a rated chef from the finest hotel in Aulis.
The first officer had played fielders in Academy, but this was his first berth on a private yacht: headed to the cold, tangerine-colored giant Apollo and his vast silver rings.
“Mist’ Pylotka’s a rhinoceros, but he’ll carry a teacup if things go his way,” Captain Husra said. “As the saying goes. He likes a sharp uniform and a sharp salute. Stay crisp, and he’ll treat you like a son.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the first officer said.
Captain Husra marched him through the Charm, swinging down the companionways and showing him everything from the U-shaped loveseat on the vanity deck to the throbbing fusion tokamak below. The melamine button controls were new and stiff and made satisfying clacks, the dials and screens were wide, high-resolution, and informative, the sirens and tones satisfied, the new-ship smell of grease and pine tar and clean, polished oak decking invigorated. A yeoman polished the silver-plated ship’s bell daily. The Charm was a dream.
“Wait—No weapons bay?”
“No, no, Mist’ Orso. Not needed! Militia’s frowning on privately armed ships these days. Piracy’s rare in late years, and the Provisional rabble’s long since vanished into the Plutino Belt. That vanity deck? Pretend it’s the weapons bay, and you’ll do fine.”
“Will do, sir.”
They left the shipyard and took a shakedown from Odysseus to Agamemnon Station, around Tau Ceti, and fell in with the lovely dun-colored world Iphigenia, docking at the Station, where the grand old man himself would board.
The seven-man crew lined up at the docking foyer in blackest uniforms and knit toques (except the chef, who wore his white coat and red skullcap), and Pylotka boarded, followed by—women. To be precise, three of them, and the station’s loading crew with passenger trunks plastered with bright-colored luggage-labels.
“Oi,” muttered one of the yeomen. “Bad luck, this.”
“Belay it,” the captain said. “Mist’ Pylotka!” He snapped a salute.
“Captain Husra. Slight change of plans. We’re skipping the mines and heading for the Lodge at Apollo. Fueled up?”
“Topped off and steaming, sir.”
“Good. My wife, Captain: Miss Ursila Pylotka. My second child: Miss Phoebe. Vimber won’t join us this trip. He’s supervising the ore-sorting port.”
“We’ll miss him. Good young man.—This is my new first officer, Mist’ Orso. He’ll show you the quarters.”
“Mist’ Orso,” nodded the magnate.
“Miletes Orso, sir.” He tried not to look at the Pylotka heiress, but it was hard. She had a cloud of silver-gold hair floating around her shoulders, and she wore tall gold boots, a close-fitting silver jumpsuit, and a moonstone necklace drifting around her throat in the low-g environment. The other woman, olive-skinned and black-haired, was a handmaid with a brass neck ring. She carried a grip and wore a short white tunic, leaving her pleasantly leggy and barefoot. She stayed close to the gold-haired beauty, so he supposed Miss Phoebe owned her contract.
“This way, Misses, if you please,” he said to the two citizen women, and the doubtful yeomen took the trunks from the Station crew. The airlock seals clanked shut.
The two family cabins were expansive, with wide windows, comfortable furnishings, and no particular orientation since the ship swung one way or another when accelerating or decelerating. The golden beauty looked around. “I suppose it’ll do,” she said. “Girl, put my things away.”
“Yes, Miss.”
The heiress turned her back on him, and he conducted Pylotka matro to her cabin. “I suppose it’s fine,” she echoed her daughter. “My husband says it’s ten days to the Lodge. Is that accurate, young man?”
“Apollo is remote but worth the trip.”
“With remote in mind, how remote are the … crew quarters?”
“We passed them behind the bridge, Miss.”
“That’s too close,” she said, disapproving. “There’s no women’s quarters aboard to bar against the men?”
“None, Miss. But the cabin locks.”
She sniffed. “I expect none of them will lay a hand on my daughter.”
“I guarantee they won’t, Miss.”
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