The Iceman's Lament
The Quartermaster

Quartermaster Flanagan wore the standard Phoedran uniform of blue overalls but with a white dress shirt underneath against which his ample belly strained. He gave the impression of too many bagels with cream cheese and a life in a comfy chair. He could have been jolly, avuncular, but then you saw the eyes. They reminded Tom of a pig they’d had on the farm: blue, almost pink, eyes that were devoid of interest in anything.

He was rubbing his face tiredly, scrolling through emails, slapping heavily at the keyboard. Tom stood at parade rest before him, staring fixedly out through the cantilevered windows of the control room at the chaos of the docks below.

“Its very hard for me to understand that you didn’t realize who this…lady…is, Lieutenant” Flanagan sighed.

He was one of the administrators of Eleanor Station. They called him The Quartermaster because he’d begun his career here passing out supplies to the first prospectors, the early mining crews who’d flocked to Phoedrus to harvest the riches below the pock-marked surface. Now he commanded the fleet of ice haulers.

Ronak Desai, a huge ox of a man from the Indian Subcontinent, sat sprawled on the sofa next to them. He represented The Croft, the union of space workers of which Tom was a member.

“It’s not a hard thing to understand, Joe,” he said amiably to Flannegan. “She wasn’t all dolled up for the cameras. Hell, I barely recognized her….”

Flanagan hammered furiously at the keys of his computer. He was one of those people who needed a big, tough keyboard. No softscreens or tablets. He needed something he could beat the shit out of.

“Fucking Croft fucking Union,” he scowled. “Look at this shit…from the Commander of the Fleet, no less…Look!” He smacked at the screen to swivel it towards them.

“”Immediate Action’” Ronak read.

Tom stiffened.

“They want you on the next ship going back down The Well” Flannegan growled.

“Well no, that’s not quite what it says, Joe,” Ronak said reasonably. “Read the whole thing, perhaps?”

“Fucking Croft fucking Union,” said Flannegan again. “Sent me a murderer and now look what happens…”

“Nothing to do with anything!” Tom snapped.

“At ease Lieutenant!”

“I am at ease, sir!”

“…a security agent in the infirmary… Channel Ten! You know what kind of story they’ll spin out of this? Lieutenant?”

Flanagan was goading him; Flanagan could give a shit about brawling in the Scurvy Dog. Nor was he correct in referring to Tom by his rank. Tom had no rank. Not now. And as Flanagan rattled on he could feel the violence beginning to percolate. He would only take so much of this before he would convert the Quartermaster into kit form.

“Alright alright lads,” Ronak held up the palms of his hands, defusing them. “No sense in this…” He stood up. His powerful bulk loomed over them.

Tom shifted his weight, as if preparing to defend himself. Ronak placed a hand on his shoulder, draped over him like a side of beef. Then Tom remembered Ronak was Hindi so that analogy wouldn’t work.

“I apologized,” he muttered. “Profusely…”

“You did, Tom, you did,” Ronak soothed him, but his grip on Tom’s shoulder tightened, warning him.

Flannegan smiled. He had molars like a wolf.

“There’ll be a hearing,” he told them.

“Sure,” Ronak replied. “That’s OK. Tom will apologize again. These things happen, Joe. We’re all a long way from home.”

“Three runs, docked,” Flanagan announced. “For a start.”

“Ah the hell with that!”

“Tom!” Ronak applied more pressure to his shoulder.

Tom knew damn well where the money would go. Straight to the Flanagan Retirement Fund.

“Bullshit,” he muttered.

“Three runs, Lieutenant, and a written apology. Right away.” He pulled the screen back and began to type. “Channel fucking Ten!” He glared up at them. “They already think we’re a bunch of savages. Why do you think they’re here? Looking for a story, that’s what. And now you’ve given them one. ”

“Actually, Bill,” Ronak held up a hand. “They’re here because their ship needs repair, that’s all.”

“Buncha savages…”Flanagan muttered.

Ronak gave a short laugh. “If they’re looking for a story here, well…good luck to them. They’ve come to the wrong place.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Lieutenant,” Ronak sighed as he cracked the seal on the bottle of scotch and poured them both a generous measure.

“Not for me,” Tom put his hand over his glass. “Much as I’d like to…I’m leaving in two hours.”

“Right…yes you are,” Ronak drained his measure and reached for Tom’s glass. “I swear I never drank before I came to this god-forsaken rock.”

“And look at you now,” Tom grinned.

“Seriously Tom, you were one of the best pilots UNSA ever had…”

“Had…” Tom grunted.

“You used to net asteroids, now you’re driving an ice hauler…”

“Hey, it ain’t so bad.”

“Who did you piss off, Tom?”

And Tom gathered up his ready bag. He looked back balefully as he exited the cabin.

“Everyone, Ronak” he sighed. “Everyone.”