Shanghaied to the Moon by Michael J. Daley Page B

armrest and the bulkhead. Passed out would be even better than asleep. But the bottle is only half-full. I doubt that’s enough to do it. He takes a sip, then looks at the clock. Again and again, like one of those water-filled bobbing ducks.
    â€œWouldn’t you be more comfortable in a sock?”
    â€œI’m fine right here, thanks.”
    He’s going to stay up, make sure I get the first check right. What am I going to do for the next fifteen minutes—watch him drink? I tap the Navcomp with the edge of the clipboard. “Any games in this thing?”
    â€œSolitaire.”
    â€œThat’s more boring than being bored!”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be playing games anyway. You should be training.”
    â€œHey, I’m willing. It’s not my fault I have to babysit this piece of junk.”
    â€œTrue enough. I don’t have any training routines on the system here. I’ll transfer some from the squid later. You’re not as good as I expected.”
    I shrug. “I always crash a lot.”
    â€œBecause you fly it like a computer.”
    â€œThat’s all I’ve ever flown! Dad won’t—”
    â€œYou told me.” His eyes go back to the clock.
    â€œWhy do you keep doing that? It’ll beep when it’s time.”
    â€œI’m not waiting for the maneuver.” He takes a big pull on the straw. “It’s a special day for me, too.”
    â€œIt’s your birthday?!”
    He shakes his head. “An anniversary coming up in a minute.”
    â€œYou’re married?”
    â€œNot that kind.”
    â€œWhat kind, then?”
    â€œSorry, kid, that’s one of those things I’ve gotta keep locked in a box.” He drains the bottle with a bubbly slurp, crushing it to get the last drop. He digs out another one and quickly sucks half of it down.
    â€œThis isn’t exactly a great day for me, either.” Going to the Moon ought to be the best birthday present ever.
    â€œKeep your mind on your job, kid. It’ll help.”
    Beep.
    I verify the maneuver and check it off. Next one in an hour.
    â€œShe’s all yours now.” He slips the bottle into a holder, then reaches for a pair of blackout eyeshades clipped to the ceiling. “Wake me in four hours.”
    â€œIs that enough?” I don’t want him sleep deprived.
    â€œDon’t need much sleep these days. A perk of old age.”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œHundred twenty-one Earth years. Seventy-six the way spacers figure it.”
    â€œThat’s a big difference.” He’s either traveled super fast, so that relativity effects slowed time, or been out on long, slow trips in cryogenic suspension. Maybe both.
    â€œBeen a spacer a long time, kid. Long, long time.” He pauses a moment, thinking something over. “After that trip to Venus, you couldn’t drag me back to Earth with a black hole.”
    â€œHey, Val Thorsten said that in Venus: Inferno Below the Clouds.”
    â€œI know. They stuck to the truth in the early ones.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? The 3-Vids are docudramas. They’re all true.”
    â€œAh, the innocence of babes …” He shakes his head. “You might find some bits of real history in them, if you look hard enough. But I never chased pirates. Never with Tony. Never with Bob. Never after the Jupiter disaster.”
    Oh great! Now he thinks he’s Val Thorsten!
    He brings the bottle to his lips.
    A deadbeat like him, borrowing Val’s glory. I’m insulted on Val’s behalf. Should I challenge him, or just play along? The more he talks, the more he drinks.
    I want him drunk. “So what happened on the way to Jupiter?”
    He broods over the straw. His mouth draws into a thin, hard line. Another long pull. “Damned Photrino drive. Trouble from the first. Old Man Lance saved a few nickels and Tony … Tony paid full price.”
    His voice softens,