Many vital data of this kind Arran absorbed while scraping, brushing, scrubbing, and—enveloped, ill-protected though he was, in the noxious fumes of solvents—helping refinish the resin coating of the mesh of which every square siemme of the Gyrfalcon had been fabricated. He was inspired, in aid of this pragmatic education, by the curses, threats, feet, fists, and knotted cabelles' ends of those placed over him. By the time the watch had ended, he had learned his lessons well, in particular the one about knees, which he had at last seen the sense of. Hands aloft were called down—"aft" was the word—and with those from the maindeck were formed into a queue again, at the terminus of which a table had been piled high with white plastic boxes.
It was an offense to complain of the food, punishable in various manners from simple starvation to being forced, if it amused the officers, to eat the plastic packaging or waste
150 HENRY MARTYN
from the troughs. The cnielest discipline is inconsistency. As Arran had expected, Paddy soon materialized, this time behind him. As they shuffled along, the man leaned down and whispered, "Y'can't hold out forever, Chicken Little, not unless y'wants t'starve."
Arran ignored him until they reached the table, took the oflfered box and stepped forward. Collecting his own ration, Paddy also snatched the box from Arran's hands. "See what I mean, chicken?"
Stepping back as if frightened, Arran leapt, bringing both feet up to kick Paddy's left knee with every fiber of his strength. The joint gave way with the sound of breaking celery. As the man slumped, Arran steadied himself, twisted and smashed his elbow into the man's right eye. Paddy fell to the deck, his hands to his face, screaming. Blood streamed between his fingers. With the ball of his left foot, Arran rolled the ruined knee experimentally. Paddy screamed louder and shifted his hands to his leg. Arran lifted a foot and brought his heel down upon the man's throat with another sickening crunch. Paddy gurgled and ceased breathing.
Expecting all the while to be struck by a cabelle's end, lashed to the rigging and flogged to death, or picked up and hurled into the §-field margin, Arran forced himself to inhuman calmness, collected both boxes from the deck, and glared his defiance round. All eyes were upon him. No word was spoken.
At the behest of an officer, hands bent to Paddy's body and dragged it oJ9f. Recalling the words, settle quarrels among yourselves in any manner you wish as long as it doesn't interfere with ship's routine, Arran neither knew nor cared. The queue shuffled onward. He went to find a safe place to eat against the broad base of the mast. No one ever touched him against his will again, save officers who struck one and all alike with rough egalitarianism, or called him "chicken."
He was learning.
Chapter XIX: The Footcabelle
"Islay?"
It seemed to Arran, huddled blanketless again beside the caliprette belowdecks, that he had scarcely slept a minute when he was aroused—albeit in a manner gentler than yesterwatch—by a hand upon his shoulder and a shyly spoken word.
"Islay?" Arran startled awake nonetheless, heart hammering. He would have been unsurprised to learn it could be heard by all sharing the gundeck. His inarticulate grunt and sudden movement must have been as startling to the one who awakened him, a thin, ragged boy his own age whom Arran had not seen before. The boy jumped back, out of what he believed was Arran*s reach, and swallowed. Word of what the stowaway had done the previous watch must have gotten round to all hands.
"What is it you want?"
"Beg pardon ..." The words tapered oflf before an unspoken "sir" as the boy realized he had addressed Arran as a person of rank. "I mean, Second Officer Van Merrivine's passed word he'll see you straightaway 'pon maindeck."
Well, Arran thought, here it comes. He wondered—not for a moment did he anticipate justice or extenuation—what would be done with fresh meat that killed a crewbeing. Perhaps he would be crisped upon the §-field like one of the first officer's loaves after all. Perhaps they had something worse in mind, although he could scarcely imagine what it might be. Likewise, he wondered why the punishment in store for him had not taken place before now.
Thus preoccupied, Arran nodded to the boy, never realizing it was the reflexive, impatient, condescending gesture of a bom aristocrat toward an unfamiliar servant. Nor did the
152 HENRY MARTYN
boy, at least nominally Arran's superior (like everyone aboard the Gyrfalcon), understand, in surrendering to Arran*s casual superiority, how he betrayed his own unconscious estimate of their relative positions and volumes more, besides. Had Arran been prepared to understand, he was being informed of the manner in which recent events were viewed by those who had witnessed or heard of them. The sleepy crewbeings all about them (disposed—yet another indication—a discreet distance from Arran's chosen place) were roused from fatigue-induced torpor by more than curiosity, although the fact was lost upon both boys.
Instead, as Arran seized the caliprette to pull himself to his feet, a shock of pain washed through him, every muscle— overworked by unfamiliar tasks, strained further by the fight, stiffened by what seemed less than an hour's sleep— screaming in dire complaint. Arran, who had thought himself fit, was torn between the urge to scream along and a more powerful compulsion to void his stomach. He did neither, maintaining silence by force of character, another unconscious aristocratic act. He found himself awakening to greater alertness than he was accustomed to. Whether this was attributable to the uncertainty of his circumstances, or the difference between physical labor and sedentary lessons, he was not in a position to say. Biting his lower lip and inhaling, he brushed shaking hands down the soiled surfaces of the clothing he had slept in, and—with a gesture similar in tone and meaning to the one he had earlier given—bade the messenger precede him, and followed.
Some, here upon the gundeck, were idlers, supposed neither to be working nor sleeping during this period. They remained below out of the way of the working watch or to avoid being assigned extra labor. A majority dozed in silence, catching—or accumulating—extra sleep, as was ever the practice of those under discipline, but some were active, telling tales or gambling. At the latrine, Arran and his companion watched four crewmen drag a young girl, screaming in a language neither understood but obvious in her pleading, from where she had been sleeping, to be gang-raped before the dull, uncaring eyes of any individual upon the deck too apathetic to look away. Despite every cruel lesson he had learned thus far, Arran started forward.
The boy beside him seized his sleeve. "Here, what y'think yer doin'?"
"Why, I—"
"She's propmarked, can't y'see?" The urchin pointed a bony finger at the girl, her screaming now stifled, held by three of the men as a fourth took a turn between her legs. Peering into the gloom for something he did not in all truth wish to see, Arran, numb and horrified, discerned a mark upon her flank.
" Tropmarked'?" For a second time, he fought the urge to vomit.
"Aye, biggest, toughest crew-quarters bosses'll bum or cut favorites, girls, faggots, all accordin' t'taste. Likeliest her prop's a noncom, loanin' her out. She'll learn soon enough: crewwomen as cause trouble gets chained t'maindeck hatch a watch or two, spread t'be used by anybody."
Arran gulped. "For refusing intercourse, they are given by their. . ."
"Their prop."
"Proprietor? They are forced to . . . they are given over to anyone unashamed to take his pleasure in public from an unwilling victim?"
The boy shrugged as if the rising and setting of the sun were being brought into question. "There be some as considers it an honor—bein' propmarked, not hatch-spread—a measure of protection from all comers, if ye'll pardon my expression. If I hadn't stopped ye, ye'd been hatch-spread in her place. Ain't no end t'be desired, since it's a deal harder upon us men."
Across the deck, the rapists stood joking with one another, straightening their filthy clothing, and abandoned their sobbing, disheveled victim. Arran looked at his companion, discovering he detested sight of the complacent boy as much as
he had detested watching what had happened. Almost as much as he detested himself for having watched without taking action.
"Upon us men, you say?" he asked at long last. The question was rhetorical. He was recalling what had happened to him his first hour aboard the carrack. "I wonder." With no further word upon the subject, he headed for the ladderwell.
154 HENRYMARTYN
Despite the general disinclination to educate "fresh meat," Arran had been neither too busy nor too unobservant during his first watch to have learned something of the circumstances he shared with them. Even now, despite his worries and the horror he had just witnessed, Arran had more time and composure than heretofore to look about him and absorb the significance of what he had thus far seen.
A starship typical of the period, Gyrfalcon was a carrack, a small, swift passenger-freighter of fifteen projectibles' strength, capable of reaching any destination within the explored galaxy, defending herself against predators, or, were it her wont, practicing predation herself. Penetrating all levels, integral with the great length of her mast, were inlaid traceries of metal and silica. The system was ancient and devoid of moving parts. The starsails, impermeable to tachyons which drove her through the Deep, were sieves for other energies. Like the §-field rider, they trapped quanta, channeling them through the yards to the mast circuitry, which altered them in curious ways to produce power beyond comprehension of an earlier age. Gyrfalcon boasted nothing resembling batteries or generators, having minimal need to store energy accumulated from the Deep. Her circuitry required scant attention from her crewbeings, the possibility of malfunction—save from damage so massive the entire starship would be destroyed in the process—being unheard of.
Divided into levels, Gyrfalcon afforded room for passengers, officers, and crew, the working of her defenses, and the stowage of cargo. The gundeck Arran knew: less fortunate crewbeings, without status, slung hammocks between nine primary projectibles and cargo partitions, for this level was, despite its belligerent name, in principal a hold. Also upon this deck, by the circumference of the ladderwell which was also the foot of the mast, was the galley, at most times padlocked, source of the boxes which had cost Paddy his life. (Arran discovered within himself no qualm concerning the older crewman; it might as easily have been Arran's life which was forfeit.) The two boys, alike and yet so different, entered the well within the mast, a hollow structure of strong, lightweight material spanning six measures at its foot.
whence it tapered to but finger's width a klomme forward.
Above the gundeck lay the boatdeck, named for six small annihilation-powered steam-rockets swung outside the Gyr-falcon's hull. She reserved her boats—more expensive to operate than the lubberlift and less reliable—for ship-to-ship travel, hull inspection, repairs, and emergencies. Upon this deck as upon others, ample stowage could be found. Here also were junior officers and less-pampered passengers quartered. Arran noticed, as they climbed past this level, no sign of a hatch. Access was through the commanddeck alone, a provision to protect passengers (in particular, female passengers) and boats from pressganged crewbeings given to mutiny and desertion. Under different circumstances, Arran knew he might approve this arrangement. As it was, he understood it, and this seemed sufficient for the time being.
In due course, they reached the level above the inaccessible boatdeck and left the ladderwell. The maindeck they stepped out upon was "outdoors," atop—^forward of—the hull. Crewbeings labored here, protected from rigors of the Deep by the all-enveloping §-field, in what forever had been called a "shirtsleeve environment." When conditions permitted, informal cooking was done here, and it served the secondary purposes of exercise and recreation. The maindeck's prime importance was as anchorage and workspace for thousands of cabelles, standing and running, by means of which sails were supported and manipulated. Rising to the foremost extreme of the §-field, the mast boasted three tiers of yardarms radiating outward in as many directions. Starships were oftentimes depicted bearing vast triangular expanses sometimes compared romantically to the wings of birds. Gyrfalcon's rigging was at the moment nearly naked, giving her greater resemblance to a winter-barren forest giant.
Had Arran expected special reception (beyond question of punishment, the thought never occurred to him), he would have been disappointed. The incident of the previous watch, although not forgotten—nor was it likely to be—was by now relegated to history, no more than another disbelievable item of crewlore. Practical considerations held sway: Gyrfalcon
Still lay above Skye, the moonring forming a dusty halo about the planet. Much remained to be accomplished by officers and crewbeings before she got under weigh.
As the boys emerged, the messenger glanced about until he spied the officer who had sent him. Gesturing Arran to follow, he made a winding way across the busy deck. Mr. Van Merrivine, the second officer, was the individual certain others called "Stewie," probably, Arran reasoned, because his duties included those of cargo steward, a task which, aboard a larger murchan-frigate with two decks of projectibles or a military dreadnought with a splendid and intimidating four, would likely be performed by a separate officer. They found him supervising the coiling of cabelles using a disciplinary aid of the same material. The boy halted—just outside reach of the improvised weapon, a cynical Arran observed—announcing completion of his mission. Van Merrivine eyed the boy as if searching for an excuse to stride forward and strike him. Finding none, with a disappointed expression souring his thin-lipped, arrogant face, Van Merrivine dismissed him.
"Islay." Arran's name, as uttered, carried not the slightest intonation indicating what the man meant by it. Arran had yet to learn that this was a species of cruel art, practiced to refinement by officers of this and other ships. A word thus spoken might encourage a guilty crewbeing (even one who was not guilty) into reading too much into it and betraying himself.
"Sir." This courteous appellation was delivered with equal —albeit unwitting and reflexive—neutrality, as none but one reared as an aristocrat might manage. The bodily attitude which the deliverer assumed, of stiffened attention, was something Arran had in recent days learned for himself.
"Islay, against my better judgment, I am ordered to elevate you from the sewer where you rightfully belong, and attempt —in vain, I assure you it will be—to make more of you than you'll ever make of yourself."
"Sir?"
"Do not take an innocent tone with me, you murderous prick-teasing little faggot! You are qualified for one duty
alone, as far as I can see, one which, however grudgingly, you have already performed. Were it left to me, which, to my deep regret it is not, you would be safely disposed of and forgotten. Yet you are to become a ship's boy—at the behest of Mr. Krumm—like the one who brought you here. Is that plain enough for you?"
Arran tried to straighten his tired body, to stand more at attention than he was. He sensed this as an urgent necessity. Although his words were delivered in a harsh whisper—a bellow only by intent—and Van Merrivine's expression was coldly superior, what Arran saw, deep within his eyes, was disbelieving terror. Men, he had learned from his father, capable of such disminded fear, were dangerous. Something even more dangerous—deep within Arran—chuckled to itself.
" Ware the margin!"
"Idlers below!"
"Riggin' hands aloft!"
Shouting seized the attention both of boy and man. Despite what he had suffered aboard her, Arran held Gyrfalcon to be a wonderous thing. He had once, before reality imposed the choice, imagined any starship a better place than planetside. Now, standing at the foot of the quarterdeck still undismissed by her distracted second oJB&cer—and upon this account not technically among the idlers ordered belowdecks—he beheld a spectacle to make all previous pale by comparison.
Devices employing electromagnetism—the motors driving Morven's chair—could not operate within a §-field. It was expected by those like Arran, whose education allowed them to speculate without engendering sufficient cynicism
to damage their belief in progress, that someday §-motors might be invented. Some visionaries (this, too, included Arran) believed that §-fields themselves might be used as starsails. Meanwhile, working a ship such as the Gyrfalcon remained labor-intensive. Uneducated and unspeculative sailors placed faith in the steam-winch (in sparing usage, as it consumed precious water) and in high-advantage hoists upon the maindeck, along mast and yards, and in their own impressive courage, strength, and skill.
Amidst shouted incomprehensibilities, dozens of men
158 HENRYMARTYN
and women scampered aloft with a semblance of enthusiasm. Some climbed the rigging, which seemed to stretch from every portion of the maindeck into the complicated webbery of cabelles overhead. Others scurried to the platform where Mr. Knimm had stood. In an instant they were whisked up the mast, outdistancing the chmbers, until they and the platform seemed to dwindle in the distance and disappear.
More commands were issued, relayed by high-voiced juniors stationed at intervals along the mast. With a titanic crack! the first of the voluminous triangles unfuried between two long yards at the mizzentier. Another opened thunderously, and another. Higher aloft, crewbeings spread the triple suite of the maintier and the foretier, while others manned curved staysails which stretched in a staggered spiral from tier to tier. Arran felt his weight, unnoticed until now, press down upon the deck, the pressure growing, stage by gradual stage, upon open blisters with which the previous watch had decorated his bare soles. The pain increased as well, but, for the moment, Arran was unaware. Beneath his feet, the starship herself began to throb with pent-up forces as her widespread starsails performed the double task of drawing her out of orbit and feeding her fresh and enormous appetite for energy.
Hove to, her modest requirements had been provided by a few smallsail, all but invisible from the maindeck, which kept her upon even keel and fed her galley. The lubberlift, regaining in the downward voyage most of what it consumed in the upward, required little to make up losses all machinery suffered. Now, §-fields heretofore maintained in somnolence roared and flared where they encircled the quarterdeck taffrail, dazzling Arran, making his eyes water. Augmented brilliance crept like a living thing, measure by inexorable measure, up the rigging, forward along the mast, into each of the sailtiers in turn. The carrack Gyrfalcon was cast off under all plain sail.
Coordinated Arm 01: Henry Martyn Page 17