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The
cab
started
downward
.
"
Footing
is
unstable
,
"
said
the
machine
redundantly
,
as
we
touched
down
on
a
rolling
deck
.
"
Please
take
care
.
"
I
fed
currency
to
the
slot
and
the
hatch
hinged
up
on
Ortega
’
s
safe
location
.
A
brief
expanse
of
gunmetal
landing
pad
,
railings
of
cabled
steel
,
and
the
sea
beyond
,
all
shifting
black
shoulders
of
water
beneath
a
night
sky
clogged
with
cloud
and
hard
drizzle
.
I
climbed
out
warily
and
clung
to
the
nearest
railing
while
the
cab
lifted
away
and
was
quickly
swallowed
by
the
drifting
veils
of
rain
.
As
the
navigation
lights
faded
,
I
turned
my
attention
to
the
vessel
I
was
standing
on
.
The
landing
pad
was
situated
at
the
stern
,
and
from
where
I
clung
to
the
railing
I
could
see
the
whole
length
of
the
ship
laid
out
.
She
looked
to
be
about
twenty
metres
,
something
like
two
thirds
the
size
of
a
Millsport
trawler
,
but
much
leaner
in
the
beam
.
The
deck
modules
had
the
smooth
,
self
-
sealing
configuration
of
storm
survival
design
,
but
despite
the
general
businesslike
appearance
,
no
one
would
ever
take
this
for
a
working
vessel
.
Delicate
telescopic
masts
rose
to
what
looked
like
only
half
height
at
two
points
along
the
deck
and
there
was
a
sharp
bowsprit
stabbing
ahead
of
the
slimly
tapered
prow
.
This
was
a
yacht
.
A
rich
man
’
s
floating
home
.
Light
spilled
out
of
a
hatchway
on
the
rear
deck
and
Ortega
emerged
far
enough
to
beckon
me
down
from
the
landing
pad
.
Hooking
my
fingers
firmly
on
the
rail
,
I
braced
myself
against
the
pitch
and
sway
of
the
vessel
and
picked
my
way
down
a
short
flight
of
steps
at
one
side
of
the
pad
,
then
across
the
rear
deck
to
the
hatch
.
Swirls
of
drizzle
swept
across
the
ship
,
hurrying
me
along
against
my
will
.
In
the
well
of
light
from
the
open
hatch
I
saw
another
,
steeper
set
of
steps
and
handed
my
way
down
the
narrow
companionway
into
the
offered
warmth
.
Over
my
head
,
the
hatch
hummed
smoothly
shut
.
"
Where
the
fuck
have
you
been
?
"
snapped
Ortega
.
I
took
a
moment
to
rub
some
of
the
water
out
of
my
hair
and
looked
around
.
If
this
was
a
rich
man
’
s
floating
home
,
the
rich
man
in
question
hadn
’
t
been
home
in
a
while
.
Furniture
was
stowed
at
the
sides
of
the
room
I
had
descended
into
,
sheeted
over
in
semi
-
opaque
plastic
,
and
the
shelves
of
the
small
niche
bar
were
empty
.
The
hatches
over
the
windows
were
all
battened
down
.
Doors
at
either
end
of
the
room
were
open
onto
what
seemed
to
be
similarly
mothballed
spaces
.
For
all
that
,
the
yacht
reeked
of
the
wealth
that
had
spawned
it
.
The
chairs
and
tables
beneath
the
plastic
were
darkly
polished
wood
,
as
was
the
panelling
of
the
bulkheads
and
doors
,
and
there
were
rugs
on
the
waxed
boards
beneath
my
feet
.
The
remainder
of
the
décor
was
similarly
sombre
in
tone
,
with
what
looked
like
original
artwork
on
the
bulkhead
walls
.
One
from
the
Empathist
school
,
the
skeletal
ruins
of
a
Martian
shipyard
at
sunset
,
the
other
an
abstract
that
I
didn
’
t
have
the
cultural
background
to
read
.
Ortega
stood
in
the
middle
of
it
all
,
tousle
-
haired
and
scowling
in
a
raw
silk
kimono
that
I
assumed
had
come
out
of
an
onboard
wardrobe
.
