Ghost Ship Orlova

Scene 1

"Out of the nebula came the Ghost Ship Orlova!"

Stacy threw a glance over her shoulder at the spacer sitting at the bar. His skin was the brown of tanned leather, oddly smooth for the shock of white hair that stood straight up in fright an inch above the pate. He looked to be seventy, and a vision haunted his gaze.

"Where's my draught!" growled a voice from the other end.

"Comin' right up!" Stacy slung the brew to the bar in front of a cold-faced sailor, its head of foam dribbling down the side.

The sailor snatched it off the bar and swigged, his eyes probing the old salt across the room. "Bad luck to hear the name, death to see the ship itself," he muttered. He wore a lazgun at his side.

"That old legend?" said the mate beside him. She wore the epaulets of an officer and carried herself with the ramrod posture of one, her twin barrels straight, proud, and ample. "Hey," the officer said, looking straight at Stacy, "Don't I know you?"

She half-turned to half-hide her face. "Must be mistaken," Stacy mumbled. "I get it all the time. That screen star, Lyubov Orlova, cousin thrice removed of my grandfather." Looking toward the old salt, she saw the spacer slap a coin on the bar and turn away.

"Named the space liner after her, didn't they?" the mate behind her said.

The old salt stumbled out the door as Stacy went to collect his glass and coin.

No one paid in coin anymore; it was all retinal. But she glanced at her register and saw he hadn't imprinted. Which meant he was unknown to the Imperium. I hope his coin's good, she thought, glancing at it.

A rim of sliver encircled a disc of copper, embossed upon it the word "one ruble" and a bust of Nikolas the Tsar, the cold-faced oligarch who'd ruled the Imperium with an iron fist some eighty years ago.

Stacy hadn't seen its like in her three years tending bar.

The cold-faced sailor who'd swilled down his beer scanned his eyes across the reader and headed toward the door.

"Did you see that?" the buxom mate said to Stacy. "Couldn't get him to give my twins a glance." She framed them for Stacy as though holding a pair of binoculars to her chest. "He's either homey or a droid."

Outside lights flickered, the telltale flash of a lazgun.

Stacy exchanged a glance with the first mate, and they both leaped for the door.

Halfway to the corner lay a body, a fleeing figure just ducking behind the building.

Stacy stopped and knelt beside the old spacer.

His body was cut in half, the stench of burnt flesh clotting Stacy's nostrils. His eyes flickered open. "Find the Ghost Ship Orlova before the droids do, Princess!" And then he died.

The first mate checked his breast pocket, her lazgun ready at her shoulder. A boarding pass and an ID. No one carried such documents anymore, except those who'd never had the retinal implants. Old and old fashioned, the religious zealots, criminals or rebels. "What'd he call you?"

Stacy'd hoped she hadn't noticed. "That actress resemblance again."

The flash of emergency vehicles reflected off surrounding buildings.

Stacy sighed, preparing herself for hours of interrogation.