Otha put the empty cargo board on the table first.
“That,” she said, “is what a medical turn costs before the engine starts.”
The board listed the freight Low Lantern would not carry while beds occupied its covered deck. Beneath it lay the wages, fuel, food and waiting time for the actual crew. None of those figures had become smaller because the passengers needed help more urgently than a box of metal.
Tavin read every line.
Two clinic keepers sat opposite him, one from each shelf. Nava had come from the shared return station with its repair account and the record of the attack. The corridor quartermaster stood near the door, looking as though a boat’s ordinary costs had been invented to inconvenience him.
Iven remained beside the open window, where he could see the lower basin’s air flag.
“Three-day trial completed,” Tavin said. “Now we fund the regular turn. Each side pays for its own assessed patients under one public schedule. Shared emergency cases use the reserve account we agree here.”
“The corridor won’t pay for League wounded,” the quartermaster said.
