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All children, except one, grow up. While I had never considered that
the one
might be me, recent events had punctuated that reality. The thing to keep in mind about
up
is that it isn’t a destination like
grandmother’s house
or a condition you arrive at like
growing bored
or
becoming hungry
.
Up
is a process that ends—as the Bard has said—gravely. I was reflecting on this idea while on the afternoon watch and, to be truthful, more than a little remorsefully. The
Lois McKendrick
was three days out of port, clawing her way out of Dunsany’s gravity well bound for Betrus. Our stay at the orbital had been so surreal and bizarre that I wondered idly if someone had laced the air supply with an aerosol hallucinogen.

The console jarred me out of my reverie by initiating an Automated System Integrity Check. The status message blinked
Running
for less than a tick before changing to
Air Systems Nominal
and under that
Water Systems Nominal
. I acknowledged the message and went back to my funk.

The rollercoaster of the last week had been emotionally exhausting. It started with my self-absorbed exhibitionism at Chez Henri, continued with a rendezvous with the Second Mate of the
Duchamp
, and ended with my pathetic debacles with three of my shipmates. The fact that they were, as Henri Roubaille had said, “three of the most delightful and strikingly beautiful women on this end of the galaxy,” made me feel even more like a mooncalf. I was left with the singular and distinct impression that whatever else might have happened I had been an idiot. Given my gender—male—and my age—eighteen—that should have come as no surprise, but I had hoped for better from myself.

Even with all this berating, I had to admit that it hadn’t been all bad. I think I helped the new mess deck attendant, Sarah Krugg, come to grips with years of abuse she had suffered on St. Cloud. She was shaping up to be a crackerjack cook and might very well be the best natural born salesperson in the galaxy. As for her practicing a little South Coast shamanism on the side, well, we all have our individual faiths.

Pip—that’s Phillip Carstairs, cargo genius—and I had made a tidy profit on our last leg and we had some interesting cargoes for Betrus. The McKendrick Mercantile Cooperative, a trading club for the crew that I helped to setup, was going great guns. The group who was becoming known as the co-ed crochet team was seeing fantastic success. They bought yarns in one port, crocheted their goods in the Deep Dark, and sold the completed products at our next destination. They’d just been getting started going into Dunsany Roads and I was glad to see my little idea was working out so well for them.

The chrono clicked over to 16:00 and I realized I hadn’t done my Visual Site Inspections yet. I slaved my tablet to the watch stander station and pulled up the sensor overlay.

“Hey, B,” I called to Specialist One (Environmental) Brilliantine “Brill” Smith, “I’m going on VSI now.”

Brill was in her office with the door open. “Stay on the path. Write if you get work,” she answered back. This was one of those silly ritual responses we all used. She’d just told me to check the sensors in the specified order so that if something unexpected happened they’d be able to find me quickly. The last part was an instruction to notify her if I found something that needed attention.

“Aye, Chief,” I replied. I couldn’t help but smile. Brill had that effect on me, among others, and I sighed.

I headed out to check each environmental sensor package by working my way down the five hundred and twenty-eight meter spine of the ship. It was a good hike and helped to break up the monotony of a watch. The other benefit of the trip was that it’s hard to carry a good funk the whole distance. It gets too heavy and begins to fall along the wayside in pieces.