The Oilman's Daughter by Allison M. Dickson, Ian Thomas Healy

had more steel in her spine than all the men on his crew.
    “You don’t want to fight me, lass.”
    “Oh yes? Prove it to me then. Or are you a coward?”
    If this was how she wanted to play, so be it. Phinneas raised his fists and lowered his chin in his well-practiced fighter’s posture. He didn’t expect to hold it for long. “Ye do understand I don’t get my jollies hittin’ ladies.”
    “We’ll see if that’s true.” She took a swing and landed a decent clip on his jaw. He would feel sore for the next day or so, but in the lunar gravity, her blow wasn’t powerful enough to throw him off his stride. “That was a freebie. Out of chivalry.”
    “Ha! What do you know of chivalry?”
    “This is about the extent of it.” He dropped his fists. “I’ll see ye in a few hours.”
    Cecilie frowned and lowered her hands. “A few hours? You mean—”
    Phinneas grinned and delivered a sucker punch to her temple. He caught her before she could hit the ground. “Leastaways I’ll get some bloody peace and quiet,” he muttered. After stuffing her into the passenger seat of the stovepipe’s cramped interior, Phinneas settled in for a long, hot ride. This chore wouldn’t be over soon enough.
     

    Chapter Seven
     
    Mikhail Gusarov was a bearish brute of a man who would have towered over Jonathan had his legs not ended midway down his thighs. On Earth, a man like him would have been consigned to a clunky wheelchair and made a reject of a modern society enamored with narrow doorways, stairs, and disdain for the handicapped. In the microgravity of orbital space, it didn’t affect him in the least, or so he explained to Jonathan and Porter between India rubber squeeze bulbs filled with Polish vodka, a drink Jonathan had sampled once and found to be rather like drinking paint thinner. Gusarov’s black hair and skin bronzed from constant exposure to solar energies gave him an exotic appearance that was at odds with his accent, which placed his origins somewhere along the Volga River.
    Where Jonathan and Porter had belted themselves into chairs at the table, Gusarov floated above it, making no pretense at hiding his stumps. “ Da , friends, it was live steam shunt that did it.” He smoothed down his thick black walrus mustache. “We were three days out from a Melbourne drop when meteorite holed us. Space rock went through three pipes and blew all portside jets. Pressure change split pipe beside me. Cut legs off like hot knife through butter. At least heat sealed them shut.” He sucked his bulb dry and eyed the nozzle. “You still buy, Gospodin Orbital?”
    Jonathan took a deep breath. Dockmaster Guidry had said he wouldn’t like the sole option of Mikhail Gusarov, but no other pilot or crew at Pinnacle would forgo their scheduled runs to track down a freighter that could be anywhere in space. They’d found Gusarov in Cantina del Vuelo , a seedy spacer’s tavern, trying to wheedle a drink from the barkeep. Jonathan mentioned a business proposition and bought the man a vodka to quiet him down.
    So far, the alcohol had only loosened the expatriate Russian’s tongue and Jonathan hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise. Gusarov had himself an audience, and the man intended to tell a few stories. Nevertheless, Jonathan nodded and motioned to the barkeep.
    “Another vodka, Billy.” Gusarov reached down and touched the table to steady his drift. “Now then, where was I? Ah. My legs. I was in bad way, and crew couldn’t patch up damage. We crammed into stovepipes and scuttled Hannibal’s Bride . She was lovely ship, friends.” In gravity, the barkeep might have slid a full pint mug down the bar, but in microgravity he gave a gentle toss to another rubber squeeze bulb and it floated into Gusarov’s waiting hands. He raised it in salute. “To Hannibal’s Bride . May she rest in peace.”
    Jonathan and Porter glanced at each other. Jonathan nodded, so they pulled their own steel drink containers from the magnetic