Starship Summer (Starship Seasons, #1)(3)

He leaned against the rail, surveying his domain, and he reminded me, in that piratical pose, of a superannuated buccaneer scanning the salvage of a long and eventful life.

Only then did I notice the ridge of bolt-like protuberances that lined his arms, his chest and spine.

Before I could think of a way of framing a question, Hawksworth said, looking at me, “I don’t have you down as a pilgrim.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment. No, I’ve come to Chalcedony to retire. The quiet life…” I finished lamely.

I took a long swallow of beer. It was good, with taste and bite. I could see myself enjoying the occasional drink on the veranda of my villa, overlooking the bay.

“From Earth?” he asked.

I nodded. “Vancouver.”

“Why Chalcedony, and why Magenta Bay?” He smiled, gesturing with his can. “Forgive the third degree. I don’t get many visitors.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I don’t know why, but I liked Hawksworth. There was something big and slow and inspiring in the man, a gentleness of spirit belied by his gargantuan frame. “I saw a holo-doc about the planet. It looked peaceful. Unspoilt. I picked up a brochure and read about Magenta Bay. It seemed my kind of place.”

He looked at me closely. “You weren’t drawn by the Column?”

“Not at all. I’m not religious.” He shrugged. “Only, we get lots of visitors hereabouts. They say they’ve come for the views, the peace—but in reality they’re looking for something. And that something is often, though they don’t know it, the Column.”

I drank, then said, “Not me.”

He gave me a penetrating look. “But you’re running from something, Conway?”

I wondered, for a second, if he were an accredited telepath—but there was no connected minds symbol tattooed on his face to signify the fact.

I glanced at the spars and braces that enclosed his frame, and the white scars that showed at his wrist and jugular, and I looked out over the landscape of derelict dreams and wondered why he had fetched up here, in this place.

“We’re all running from something, Hawksworth,” I said.

He smiled, the grin transforming his rugged face. “Friends call me Hawk.”

Perhaps encouraged, I said, “You flew these things, years ago?” He looked at me quickly, then glanced down at his exposed wrist,and the sealed jack interface that was now just an ugly pucker of scar tissue. He nodded and took a long swallow of beer. “Years ago,” he said, “before the Nevada run.”

I let a suitable interval elapse, then said, “What happened?”

He shook his head. “Later,” he said, and effectively closed that line of conversation.

We sat and drank and enjoyed the view, and he said at last, “So, you’ve found a place in Magenta?”

I told Hawk that I had paid a deposit on a plot of land.

As I said this, an absurd idea hit me. I looked back at the ship on which we sat, made out its interior. “You live on this?” I asked.

“The Avocet is my home,” he said, “and you couldn’t wish for better.”

I looked around the yard, picking out the smaller, complete craft dotted here and there among the wreckage.

“I might be mad,” I said, “but show me around this place. I might be in the market for a starship.”



So we finished our beers and Hawk gave me a conducted tour of his scrapyard.

He talked me through the various intact ships he had in stock, from tiny three man escape craft to big, ungainly asteroid wreckers, and everything in between. As well as giving me their specifications, he was a walking encyclopaedia of their varied histories, their missions, mishaps and mysteries.

“It was a wondrous age,” he said. “Space was an enigma. Exploration was fraught with danger. How many crews lost their lives opening up the way?”

And then Telemass technology came along, and almost overnight these beautiful starships were put out to pasture. A few exploration companies threw in their lot with the Telemass people—they still needed crews to map the worlds they found—but a hundred Lines went to the wall.

“And you found yourself out of work?” I said.

“The end for me came well before Telemass,” he said quickly, and moved on. “Now this one,” he said, standing in the shadow of a Norfolk Line scoutship, “this little pearl has aesthetics and comfort. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

His description was meant as a superlative, but the vessel did remind me of a pearl: oval and lambent, with a pale polymer re-entry carapace that almost glowed.

Inside it was slick and soulless. It lacked character. Evidently it was one of the last ships designed before Telemass came along, and featured what thirty years ago would have been state-of-the-art technology. But something about it was without the appeal of the other, older ships.

I wanted an old, battered tub that had soaked up the light of a hundred distant stars.

I think Hawk sensed this as we emerged once more into the glaring light of Delta Pavonis.

“Not for you?”

“Too new. Do you have anything more…more romantic?” I stopped there, because, across the yard, my eye had caught sight of just what I was looking for.

It was hard to describe why I fell in love with the horizontal hulk that squatted on its landing stanchions like a giant insect. It combined a graceful line with obvious age, was proud and at the same time defeated. Perhaps it called to me to be… if not loved, then cared for.