Bravado's House of Blues by John A. Pitts Read Free Book Online Page B

of ochre that neither paint nor poem could capture.

TOWFISH BLUES

    R eflected light off the dirigible’s surface cast a bloody tint over the rigging, reminding Marta of the way the world looked when the migraines consumed her. She watched the surface of the water as the shadow of their dirigible passed over the bubbling primordial soup that was the focus of this expedition.
    She sat in the front observer post waiting for the lead engineer to certify the towfish before they started the next round of surveying. The heart and soul of their operation resided in that ten foot long, metallic tadpole crammed with electronic and sonar equipment.
    “Sonuvabitch,” Mitch swore loudly over the open commlink. “Bloody fu . . .”
    Marta quickly tapped down the volume as the familiar litany escalated. She and Mitch had worked on several surveys together since they had come to the bio-station at Long Night Bay. After a count of five, she raised the volume and listened to the silence.
    “Okay,” she said into the mike. “Start over again, with less volume.” She could see Mitch’s face, scrunched up in frustration as he composed himself to explain the obviously technical problem to her. She knew what the crews thought of her—Marta, Queen of fucking everything. She also knew she was the best damn party chief the Walsh corporation had, and even if the crew thought she was a bitch, she took her job seriously.
    “For starters,” Mitch growled, “once again we are short on spares and even shorter on good weather.”
    Marta took a deep breath. She was responsible for the first, but would be blamed for both. “What parts, Mitch?”
    “The number three guide completely snapped off the bulkhead. We can fabricate a replacement, but I need to replace the front sonar sensor from where the fish smashed into that rock formation. The current down there is exceptionally strong, and the torque we’ve been getting in this wind fractured the welds on the guide.”
    Marta looked out the side of her observation post. The stabilizer engines were aft of the living quarters, and therefore out of her view, but she couldn’t help looking.
    “Just a sec,” she said into the mike. She sighed and flipped her console up, tapped a few keys, and brought up the ship’s system grid. The wind was holding steady at thirty-five knots out of the north. The stabilizer engines were working at eighty percent capacity. They’d eked four hours of marginal readings in the last twenty-four.
    “Captain Bretherton,” she said into the command line. “We good here?”
    “You’re pushing it,” came the terse reply. “These stabilizers go over eighty-five percent and we bag this trip.”
    “Got a contract that says I call the pull-out, Captain.” Marta squeezed the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Let me know if the weather shifts.”
    “I’m not risking this ship for you.” The captain cut the line.
    He’s such a whiny ass, she thought.
    “Okay,” Marta said, clicking back over to Mitch. “Wind is steady, and within acceptable levels of risk.” She knew Mitch hated flying in anything over twenty-five knots. “The stabilizers are operating within tolerance. Can you have Steve reweld the number three and get the fish back in the drink?”
    The silence stretched. Marta tapped the console with her stylus, waiting for Mitch to answer. What was it with men and their pouting?
    “Give me five minutes,” he finally said. She could tell by the cold in his voice that he was not happy. “If Steve says no, then we need to return to port. I can rig the fish for another attempt, but I’m unhappy with the trailing sensors. We might get data, but I can’t guarantee the quality.”
    “Let me know,” she replied. She tapped through several more screens.
    Twenty-three days out and the customer was starting to get antsy. They’d been able to map a course for seventeen hundred kilometers of cable on this planet so far, but this trip out was proving to be