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thing else, snorted. "But, Your Excellency, there be such a wealth of'suasive substances t'choose from, an' all the time in the galaxy to experiment, 'board a vessel in transit." The battered veteran of many a Deep-voyage often lost track of time upon a planet's surface, never seeming to recall the lack he had of it aboard ship. "Once conditioned, who's t'know?"
To be fair, the ambassador gave the suggestion full consideration. "I, for one, my dear Captain. And what I know, for a variety of reasons, political, financial, even artistic, can indeed hurt me."
Wrinkling the disfigurement he called a face, Bowmore looked a question.
"Take the matter of pleasure," came the answer. "It is commonly assumed that the prohibition against compulsion represents a hallmark of civilization, or a simple courtesy which might be reciprocated in some agreeable manner."
Greasy braids bobbing, Bowmore nodded, hoping the man would spit it out.
"Centuries ago, and I assure you I do not digress, another such hallmark was an agreement among nation-states to exclusive use of weapons designed to wound their victims rather than kill. This, too, was hailed as an humane advance." The diplomat paused, arising from his desk, thrust hands into his pockets, and began to pace. Bowmore, sitting silent, drink upon one loose-trousered knee, was unconvinced that this was not a digression. Demondion-Echeverria stopped, turned to face him, and extracted a hand, turning it palm upward. "Nothing could have been further from the truth. A wounded soldier consumes more of an enemy's resources than a dead one. The agreement, which many thought to represent disdain for cruelty, was made without regard to kindness, and may even have increased human suffering."
This Bowmore could understand. The eyelid sewn shut over its empty socket gave the impression of a knowing wink. Otherwise he kept his peace.
"It is often the case," the ambassador continued, "that the facts of a culture point in deceptive directions. The interactions of quintillions of beings are scarcely ever what they
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appear. We live in an age of power, when a majority (women are not alone in this, nor is the motivation principally sexual) discover themselves unable to refuse whatever is demanded of them. Recognition of their helplessness, the expressions upon their faces as they submit—without recourse to drugs or physical compulsion—furnishes a better part of the pleasure of wielding power. Under the discerning scrutiny of a true connoisseur, it cannot be counterfeited."
At this, Bowmore laughed, rendering his features even more grotesque. "Excellency, y'got me. I'm a simple man. I fear me these cerebral pleasures y'speak of with such ellyquence are outa me depth."
Demondion-Echeverria gave Bowmore a shrewd, disbelieving look. "My dear sir," he replied, "I greatly doubt whether anything I have spoken of is out of your depth. My point with regard to the recalcitrant Mistress Loreanna is simply this: why incur unnecessary risk, when her refusal appears immutable. She is, after all, being sent away in disgrace."
"Oh?" It was the first Bowmore had heard this. He was inclined to take it, to whatever degree it was reliable, as argument in his own favor.
"Indeed. And, just as cold pragmatics may be mistaken for humanity, she does not appear to recognize an impressive generosity upon her uncle's part, and is reported, instead, to resent it."
"Ah, now digress we do. Whether she chooses t'go t'Homeworld or exile, it'll be upon Ballygrant's brigantine she'll be travelin', is it?"
The ambassador smiled. "It will not be difficult to arrange. By coincidence, you will be bound for wherever she ultimately decides to go."
The captain nodded. "Ye'U understand. Excellency, it means I can't plan my cargo. What I'd be takin' t'Homeworld varies from haulage t'some colony."
"Let me reassure you. Captain," annoyance crept into the ambassador's voice—as he strode to his desk, he gave the curtain an impatient tug—"you will be handsomely compensated, whatever the outcome. Lay your schemes accordingly. Take any cargo you desire, or none. It is all the same to
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me, as long as you succeed with our plan to . . ." Here, the diplomat hesitated, searching for a euphemism which might convey his meaning.
"T'icidnap,'* he supplied, "the niece of Leupould's right-hand henchman/*
Demondion-Echeverria drew himself up. "As a representative of the Jendyne Empery-Cirot, Captain, I am given to more delicate phraseology."
"As a politician, you're given t'circumlocution as recreation. Lemme tell you, a Deep-captain finds direct expression much the safer habit."
The man chuckled. "My dear Captain, your point is well taken. In any case, by another coincidence, a corvette will be following just behind your own vessel, out of instrumental range."
"A Jendyne naval corvette?"
"A private corvette, shall we say. You will put up a nominal defense, heave to, and hand our little Hanoverian beauty over."
Bowmore nodded. The bands upon his braids made tinkling music.
"From there," suggested the ambassador, "several options arise. If her uncle and his master accept a fait accompli —they intended her for Ribauldequin, after all, not realizing he has no use for her—that is well and good. If not, we shall claim she was killed in the confusion of battle or suicided in the §-field. You run no risk, being able to testify that you had no choice under the projectibles of a privateer."
Thus the voyage had commenced.
Bowmore thought the plan through, realizing that any fairy story fit to tell the Ceo and his Executor-General was fit to tell the ambassador, as well. He had looked his cargo over at close hand, realized the thille he had once carried had failed to do her justice, and no longer planned to return her intact to his sometime employer. Let the rapespawn get his own giri.
Belowdecks, a midday meal being prepared could be smelt even here upon the quarterdeck. In this he betrayed humble beginnings, for it was a good, familiar odor to him, evoc-
ative of his youth, and made his mouth water, although a worthier repast awaited him and his guest in the more luxurious circumstances of the commanddeck. Thought of satisfying one appetite led to thoughts of satisfying another. He raised his saw-edged voice. "Mr. Preble!"
"Aye, sir?"
Rings and thrustibles glittering, Bowmore signaled the officer-of-the-watch of his intention to go below, strode to the break of the quarterdeck, and, taking the ladder rails in each hand, swooped down, cloak billowing behind him, without benefit of treads and risers. He had been wrong about not having fresh meat aboard. Nothing like such a prospect to put a spring into one's step! Stooping to enter his cabin—no matter how luxurious the quarters, they never afforded sufficient overhead—he saw the table laid with keffliinen and iridium, heard preparations for his meal in the small galley off the anticlockwise quarter of the room. His feet took him to the right, toward a door to an adjoining compartment which, had they not had a special passenger, would have been occupied by his third officer.
He knocked. "Mistress Daimler-Wilkinson, luncheon wants only minutes of bein' ready." No answer being audible, he knocked again. "Mistress—"
"Thank you," her voice came muffled through the door. "I am not feeling well. If it is all the same, I shall lie down a while and take some later."
Bowmore just missed cracking his head upon a rafter. He placed his hands upon his hips. He would not have his campaign frustrated in this manner. Taking several deep breaths, he came to a decision. "Mistress Daimler-Wilkinson, this'U be Last Call. I shan't take no for an answer."
He had awaited silence this time. In what manner had her gentle upbringing prepared her to reply to so uncivil an utterance? Without pausing to find out, Bowmore raised a booted foot and thrust, the full weight of his stout body behind it. The door crashed against the wall and swung again. Before it could close, Bowmore crossed the threshold, shut it behind him, and took three steps to the center of the cabin. Loreanna sat upon the bed, startled upright, hands raised in gesture of defense. Bowmore's scarred visage
334 HENRY MARTYN
cracked with a hideous grin. He strode to the bedside and peered down with one good eye, his jeweled braids swinging above her face.
"We run, sweet cuntling, traceless 'pon the black bosom of the Deep. Well past time you paid your fare."
Terrified and trying not to show it, Loreanna fastened her gaze upon his seamed countenance, his breath rank in her nostrils. "I trust you understand what a fatal error in judgment you have just committed, sir."
Bowmore gave a mighty laugh, seized her by one arm, and, enjoying the gasp which escaped her lips, caught the fabric at her breast and tore it. Another brief effort she was helpless to resist and he had stripped it from her shoulders so that she lay bared to the waist. He tossed her onto the bed and stood back, elbow in one hand, chin in the other.
"Small," he informed her with a judicious tone and appraising expression, "but serviceable. More'n a mouthful's wasted, but there are those'll tell you I've a big mouth. By the Ceo's balls, you upperclass bitches are late bloomers. B'time me mother was fourteen, she'd a pair—"
"Why not go molest her, you animal, as you no doubt already—"
Bowmore raised a broad, ring-heavy hand and swung it, catching her a blow upon the cheek with its hairy back. Wide-eyed with pain and fear, Loreanna opened her mouth to scream, but found the same rough hand there first, shutting off her breathing. He pushed her backward, lowered his bulk onto the bed, half kneeling. Holding her down, he mauled her with exploring fingers. At once he heard a pounding upon the doorframe, along with a harsh, excited voice. Keeping Loreanna's mouth shut, Bowmore whirled. "What in the name of obscenity d'you want? It'd better be good!"
"Sir!" Whoever stood outside neither showed his face nor made to open the door wider. The instant Bowmore had disappeared below, yet had not sat at table, whispered word had gone to every quarter of the Pelican that the captain was taking his long-awaited pleasure of the Hanoverian passenger. Perhaps when he was through with her...
"Speak up!"
"Compliments of the first officer, sir! Sign in the field of an approaching vessel. Intersection fifteen minutes, and no word of who she be, sir! Old hands say she's of a size to be a privateer, sir!*'
Bowmore exhaled, arising with a look in his eye combining aspects of annoyance, frustration, and dire warning for Loreanna. "Compliments t'Mr. Borchert. Tell him General Quarters. Mr. Grafenstein to his projectibles. I'll be 'pon the quarterdeck directly. Pass word t'Blackmon the carpenter t'bring his toolbox here 'pon the double."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"You, fresh meat, stay put! I'll soon take up where I left off!"
Bowmore passed the tool-laden carpenter, gave instructions for securing Loreanna's door, ordered him to wipe that expression off his face, and went upon deck. Not many minutes later he had determined—by instrument, conferral with his officers, and long experience with the subtle, shifting colors of the §-field—that the vessel reaching upon them was the corvette ordered to travel in the PelicarCs wake and overtake her. The corvette's appearance, unexpected by everyone aboard save Bowmore, was days premature. He was certain she was sent to fetch Loreanna early by order of a cynical and, in this case, well-advised Demondion-Echeverria. Bowmore was prepared for the eventuality. Judging by the thrum arising from the gundeck, the brigantine's twenty-one projectibles were being charged and manned as ordered. His crew were taking battle stations, clearing obstructions upon the maindeck as they would be doing below, manning the rigging to make sail according to the standing order of battle and the ship's moment-to-moment necessity.
Bowmore allowed himself a satisfied chuckle. His pursuer was due for a walloping surprise. All of the ominous Deepmanlike bustle below and aloft was the merest window-dressing compared to the disaster he was about to wreak upon her. He reached into his pocket for a small, rounded, oblong box he had carried every moment, waking and sleeping, since they had broken from orbit about Hano-
ver. Having thus assured himself, he removed the hand, lifted it, and called a ship's boy, standing by to act as a runner.
"Me compliments to the officer-of-the-watch.*' The boy, judging from his look, could be no more than months younger than the girl-child below. For a moment he was reminded . .. but the thought was lost in anticipation, as well as the notion that, once the girl was broken, it might be interesting to combine what pleasures he could have of her with whatever might be had of this boy. "He's to allow that ship to overtake us an' the §-fields t'merge. When they've done, Mr. Glass will send across to her captain that there's a change of plans. That's all, say, 'A last-minute change of plans.' Should he or Mr. Preble desire clarification, I'll be here."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Bowmore could not resist slipping a hand into his pocket again. Here lay proof, had he required it, that an old dog can be taught anew. He had learned much, losing Gyrfalcon, and had found time to think during the dreadful voyage afterward. He had changed his ways regarding discipline among his crew—no longer allowed to fight over food or anything else—and his visibility among them. Presented opportunity to start with a fresh ship, crewbeings who knew him only by his recent—and expensive—reputation, he had studied practices of the Hanoverian Navy. It was obvious, from the order of the vessel and the celerity with which she came to General Quarters, that they worked. Whatever worked was the ticket. To the Ceo with whatever was customary or expected. This new philosophy had led him to the object he fondled. Since the tactic had worked before (that he had ended set adrift was irrelevant), he had caused an atomic to be implanted within the hull of the corvette as she lay in orbit near the Pelican. As he had improved the method of delivery, so had he improved the method of ignition. It was a remote detonator which he held in his hand, useless until envelopes of the starships merged.
"Signal officer's compliments, sir—"
Bowmore started. "Er, go ahead, boy."
"A message, Mr. Glass says, from the corvette. Many a
threat, sir, amounting to a demand we heave to for boarding."
Bowmore smiled. "Thank Mr. Glass for me. Ask him to return: 'Sheer off, excretory orifice, or FU blow you into your constituent quarks.'"
The boy gulped—Bowmore savored his discomfiture—not daring to mention that the vessel closing upon them mounted half again the Pelican's projectibles. A captain was supposed to know these things. "Aye, aye, sir.'*
"Inform Mr. Anderson he should be prepared t'make his best speed 'pon my command." Anderson was sailing master, in theory under Mr. Borchert, in fact the technical authority regarding finer points of working the vessel. This command suited the boy better. Bowmore made a mental note to keep an eye upon a youngster to whom showing heels seemed better tactics than baring teeth.
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Bowmore extended some age-old captain's clairvoyance for a feel of the vessel. Deckmesh and rigging creaked as Pelican gave a show of running for it, at no more than half the speed of which she was capable. He need not see belowdecks to know the tension with which projecteurs sat at their weapons, the nervousness of their helpers. Nor must he look aloft to see the same attitudes displayed by riggers, topmen, even oflftcers distributed about the maindeck. With them, traditional black bag in hand, stood Dr. Luttrell, the ship's chirur-geon, and his assistant, Mr. Graham. More ominously they had with them Blackmon the carpenter. All strained forward to catch the first faint wavefronts of his spoken command.
The captain alone was relaxed. He sauntered to the taffrail, all senses open to a sign the §-fields were about to merge. He climbed the rigging a measure or two and leaned out, feeling the tingle of the field upon his face, informing himself of many things and with greater subtlety of detail than instruments could offer: an unmistakable edgy feeling, metallic tartness under his tongue, a slight discoloration, like being inside one soap bubble, surfaced with a swimming rainbow, as it fused with another. He lifted the remote, opened his mouth to command destruction of the corvette while he accomplished it himself, when he was jerked
<
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from his feet, almost overside by the rail, but recovered and was only dashed to the deck.
Thrusting! It had not come from the Pelican or the corvette. Some third party, some interloping bandit, was attacking his vessel!
Part Six: Henry Martyn
Yearday 70, 3011 A.D.
Marre 44, 510 Hanoverian
Primus 8, 1570 Oldskyan
"so lower your starsail and reef up your mizzen, And under my lee you shall keep.
Or I SHALL DELIVER A FAST FLOWING THRUST,
Flowing thrust. Flowing thrust. And your dear bodies expose to the Deep. ''
With broadside and broadside and broadside they went,
For fully two hours or three.
Till Henry Martyn gave to them the death thrust,
The death thrust.
The death thrust. Shattered from liftdeck to foretier was she.
Chapter XXXVII: The Port of Hanover Complement
Cursing, Bowmore tightened the straps of his thrustibles and looked up. Through interpretation of overlapping §-fields, now merged into a shifting, colorful trifold display, he watched the unknown intruder draw near from the direction both brigantine and corvette were headed. It could not have been her best point of sailing. The speed of her approach, from the hue and saturation of the distortion representing her, was almost leisurely, even added to the considerable velocities of the Hanoverian and Jendyne vessels.
No more, yet, was to be seen. Bowmore's practiced eye was accustomed to extracting maximal information from minimal perception. For a corsair, he determined, she was small, little more than a converted caravel, incapable of bearing greater armament than a dozen, medium-sized, half the strength of his brigantine, less than a quarter that of the Jendyne. Nonetheless, he did not relish, as he might under differing circumstances, what he believed was about to happen. The approaching vessel's initial thrusts demonstrated an eerie accuracy and impossible cycling pace, which spoke to him of endless drill and considerable technical preparation. Moreover, it seemed to concentrate upon his rigging, rather than, as might have been expected, reaching through the starsails to the solid taiiget of the brigantine's huU.
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