Back From the Dead
narrow landing strip on one side for the occasional aerodynamic-lift sport craft. A dozen ships of various sizes and shapes are in port.
    The main road leads from the end of the widest concourse toward town. Meandering away from the other arms are narrower roads leading to warehouses and industrial areas scattered along that edge of town. A few smaller pads are scattered about near some of the beige outbuildings farther from the main terminal, with a collection of ship parts, wreckage, tarp-covered heaps, and personal aircraft and spacecraft. The flier zips down, heading for one of the midsized landing pads.
    Helton sits in a window seat looking out eagerly from the cabin of the flier, dressed in a new traveler’s coat with nice clothes underneath. Next to him sits Floyd, a young man in shabby-looking clothes, also craning his neck to see out the window.
    “Wow. Twenty thousand tons?” Floyd says. “Good-sized ship. Two hundred meters or more. Must be one of those on the outer ring.”
    “Hope so. They look nice. Shiny.”
    “Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ve been away a few months. Must be new here.”
    “Guess I’ll know soon enough.”
    Helton stands at an information counter in the spaceport concourse central hub. The young woman at the counter shakes her head. “I’m sorry sir, no ship registered by that name here.”
    “Are you sure? I had it confirmed before I left. It’s my ship. It must be here.”
    “Nothing on the computer. Do you know if it landed in the last thirty days?”
    “Actually, I, um, I’m not sure when it came in. Won it in a card game.”
    The Info Clerk is apologetic as she digs for more data. “Sorry, no commercial or private craft by that name registered with the port on any landing pad.” She tap-tap-taps on the computer. “No landings or takeoffs in the last year by any craft with that name.” Tap-tap-tap. “No fuel requests under that name. No quarantines on it. No bonded cargo listed as being from it. Or for it. No passengers, either. If it’s here, it’s a Flying Dutchman .” Info Clerk looks up at Helton, shrugs her shoulders and spreads her hands silently.
    “Is there anyone else here that I could talk to?” Info Clerk shakes her head. Helton takes a deep breath and leans on the counter.
    She glances over Helton’s shoulder, sees Floyd, waves him over. “Glad to see you’re back.”
    Floyd looks inquiringly at Helton, and gets a tired head-shake in reply. Surprised, he looks at the Info Clerk. “Not here?”
    “No. He says he checked before coming, but…” she shrugs.
    “Could it be one of the hulks?”
    “Maybe. Boneyard ships are a different company.”
    Worried, Helton says, “Boneyard?”
    “Ships that can’t fly,” Floyd explains. “Old wrecks and such. Used for parts and parties. Not likely, though. None of them are that big, unless it’s a small ore hauler. They’re something like 30k gross tonnes, I think.” Helton acquires a pained expression.
    “I’m headed that way. Work out past the end of Concourse 4. We could take a look out there first so I can check in, though there’s nothing anywhere close to that mass out there. Maybe one of the old guys knows something about it.”
    “Well, it’s a start. Lead the way.”
    Floyd heads down the concourse, Helton following.
    Allonia
    Helton walks along a dusty road on the outskirts of the port between a generic beige warehouse and a tarp-covered, dusty, crusty, old ship. He stops and looks at the number on the outbuilding, and he mutters to himself. “1701. Well, there’s the right building, and he said across from it.” He looks at the ship. Back at the building number. Back at the ship. He makes a skeptical face and shakes his head.
    The ship is a little more than 70 meters long, and half that wide. It looks like it’s been there forever. Streaked, dirty, large tarps over parts of it, uncertain color underneath the crud and graffiti. It’s a very simple and angular design, like a

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