Stafford responded with cheerful compliance. It was only when he and the young female had climbed to the quarterdeck that Krumm and his companions turned. Behind the reflective face masque of his helmet, the smaller of the two human figures gasped. The alien stiffened as well. His gloved hand went to something tucked into the front of his vacuum suit. He appeared, insofar as could be seen, to be staring at the girl. "You!"
Stafford released her. She blinked and looked round at the shocking damage wrought by Krumm and his men. Several of these, armed like Oplytes, guarded the Pelican's survivors. Not a spar or splinter of the brigantine remained untouched. The bleeding, broken bodies of the fallen lay everywhere. Paling, she nevertheless took a breath and stepped forward.
"Good day, sir." Clutching her borrowed clothing to her, she addressed herself to Krumm, sparing an accusing glare for Bowmore. "I believe I have you to thank for my freedom, and perhaps my life." With a cautious eye upon the alien which accompanied the brigands, she thrust out a hand which, she was proud to observe, only trembled a bit. "Your, er, officer has told me you are to be addressed as Mr. Krumm. Kindly permit me to introduce myself. I am Loreanna Daimler-Wilkinson. My uncle, Sedgeley Daimler-Wilkinson, is Drector-Advisory and Executor-General to Ceo Leupould IX of Hanover. Unless I am very much mistaken, he—my uncle—will be most generous when I am returned."
With an odd expression, Krumm lifted his own hand to the level of his waist and pointed a thumb toward the smaller human, who stepped forward.
"I regret," the figure in the vacuum suit told her, "that I must disabuse you of a false impression, Mistress Daimler-Wilkinson. You are by no means free to return to Hanover now, nor in the foreseeable future." As Krumm had, he reached to his helmet crest, pulled it from his head, ran a hand over the heat-reddened, sweaty face of a boy in middle
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teens with eyes which had looked into some unspeakable depth, and shook his hair out, the while continuing to address Loreanna. "You have simply changed hands. You are now the property of—" He dropped the hand and pointed a finger at his chest. Only Krumm knew that, between suit and skin, hung an engraved autothille upon a jeweled chain, which the duplicitous Bowmore had given him before betraying him to the nonexistent mercy of the Deep. "The infamous star-raider, Henry Martyn."
He turned to Krumm. "Pressed men or women who will not sign my articles will be set free in Nosaer to make shift for themselves. Put volunteers or officers you cannot trust through the §-field.*'
Chapter XXXVIII: Ten Months Earlier
"Pray tell, my dear Forbeth-Wethinghouth, which ith it to be with the gell, gavage or gavelleth?" A titter arose from the unseen audience.
Lightyears, and an altogether different way of life, further away, Arran Islay, soon to be fifteen (and still, upon occasion, surprised to be anything at all), shook his head, emptied of any emotion he might have named. Soul of wit, spirit of his times, unanswerable social arbiter or not, the fictional and famous Piotr Megrim-Boutade—or at least the celebrated parlor-pieces which had been enthilled about him—certainly got about.
Well, thought Arran—he gazed with unseeing eyes through the open door into the next compartment, where a swath of clean red and ivory-white lay draped over a towel rack just above the steaming surface of a hot bath (the one such luxury aboard)— for that matter, so have I.
He now knew all about a practice capital-world denizens called "gavage.*' It referred to the manner in which fowl were force-fed (their feet having been cyanoed to the floors
of their pens) so that their swollen, diseased livers might be compounded into an expensive delicacy. More generally, it signified variation after variation upon the act of rape, sexual and otherwise, which all humanity claimed to deplore, yet which, upon evidence, it could not do without, since it represented the very foundation upon which civilization, ot more to the point, those in authority over it, depended.
Arran wished he could feel something about that. In the place he looked for his feelings, he found nothing but cold reason. When he had first discovered this condition, he had believed he was being drugged. Yet he had never heard of a medicine which could strip away emotion, leaving a crystal-clear and unbefuddled mind. He doubted it had anything to do with chemicals.
The garishly furnished drawing chamber caught his eye again, but failed to hold his interest. Behind his silver kennedy, the juvenile lead grimaced at a question Arran had once found incomprehensible, as, synthechord playing in the background, the aristocrat in the machiavelli twisted his inhaler delicately and thrust it up his nostril. Arran's scorn was all it had ever been. If Megrim-Boutade could not have lasted an hour in the forest of Skye, he would not have lasted a minute upon the Gyrfalcon's gundeck. Something had changed, however, since he had first watched this thille, above all, his grasp of the realities behind the make-believe. The gold-chased thrustible tucked into a ruffled sleeve was a token that Megrim-Boutade, representative of his nonproductive class, would never be required to pass any such test of forest or gundeck. The system was designed to preclude it. Upon Hanover they were always fussing in cultured lisps and egg-shaped tones over trivia, but they ruled a universe entire. Arran had long since abandoned any notion that they were wanques in any meaning of the word.
". . . nay, nor even clavitheth, for I have it upon good authority your enamorata ploth her own courth, toward thome Jendyne gentle of a germane gender." The audience erupted with laughter. Arran, sadder and wiser than when he had first heard these words, extracted the thille from the viewer upon his blanket-covered lap and tossed it at a shelf across the cabin. Despite all that had befallen him, he was no more
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given to purposeless distemper than ever. His was a fury under such control that even he was not aware, as yet, of its extent. Any anger smoldering within him would henceforward make itself manifest in a more lethal and spectacular manner than self-indulgent display.
At his knee lay a less elegant, yet no less deadly, weapon than Megrim-Boutade's. Arran had just removed it; its mark was upon his flesh. Circuits switched so that only the designator functioned, at Krumm's insistence he had practiced daily since regaining consciousness, aiming at a bulkhead for hours until he could no longer control his trembling, overtaxed muscles. Misguided by fingers shaking with fatigue (or rendered clumsy by new tensions to which his kinaesthetics were not yet accustomed), the thille struck the wallow-proof shelf-edge, rebounded from a locker where his clothing was stowed, and fell to the deck. He made no move to correct his error. As he had discovered, should Krumm or either of his plump wives catch him out of bunk, there would be the Ceo to pay. That latter pair of self-appointed nurses had proven every bit as conscientious at what they considered their duty as Old Henry or Mistress Lia—"adopting" him through his prolonged recovery—and would have moved him into their quarters had their husband not put his massive foot down. It had helped that an alternative was available.
For the first time in a long while, Arran found himself thinking, for no accountable reason, of Waenzi, missing his demented squeak, wondering, to no useful purpose, what had become of the coarse-furred triskel. It occurred to him he should feel angry over all he had lost, but it seemed even this capacity had been stolen from him. At home among the everblues, retainers would be harvesting groundberries in the meadow. Birds would be singing ... He reached for another, more entrancing, thille, one he kept upon a chain about his neck, having learned, with some relief, that Bowmore had no daughter he would own to. Arran had no idea who the little dancing girl was—
A pair of raps within his quarters awakened him from reminiscent study. Through the many-paned commanddeck windows, a ghostly §-field flickered, backdrop for mizzentier yards devoid of starsail. The Gyrfalcon lay hove to, some-
where in the trackless Deep. The door opened inward, followed by Krumm, bearing a tray of doughnuts and a tankard the sight of which—rather the shudder with which Arran reacted to the sight—evoked less pleasant memories of Sky
e. Beside it lay another object the boy recognized. Noticing Arran's expression, the some-time baker set tray and tankard upon a table with raised edges similar to the shelving, gave the boy a broad grin and a wink.
"Feeling a touch better, are we?"
"Mr. Krumm," Arran sighed, "I have always wondered why, ^enever an individual falls ill, without apparent cause he becomes plural in number."
"Often wondered the same," Krumm laughed, nodding at the dreaded flagon. "Gulp it quick as y'can, vile though it be. I share the opinion indicated by your expression, but y'must admit it's makin' ye well. Though less rapidly than I expect ye'd hoped for." Waggling bushy eyebrows, Krumm lifted the container. Arran made a face and gave in. Krumm had that effect upon him. "Take it like a topman! Concussion, decompression, traumatic acrophobia, hypoxia, an' Deepchill all be serious matters, even one by one, as I, who've suffered 'em all, should know. An' serious matters—"
"Must be seriously treated. Somehow I have heard this before."
The man shook his head. "Ye'd be scarce rememberin' all the talkin' we done while y'wallowed unconsciouslike, wracked with fever an' drug-delirium, the goodwives thinking you were gonna jump ship." He set the flagon back upon the table, making no move toward the other object upon the tray. He grinned and stepped backward. "Valorously done. The crew an' all the carg—er, passengers are demandin' t'come pay respects to the lad as saved their hides. Before I allow it, we've some discussin' to accomplish." The giant offered Arran a hand. "So outa that bunk. Take caution not t'cause yourself undue strain. We'll talk, an' afterward see to such exercise as y'require." He indicated the steaming tub with the colors bright above it. Arran understood it was warmed by induction from the mast and, having risen from the gundeck (and set his old life aside as belonging to another universe), was scandalized at the sybaritic waste.
"P'rhaps ye can even enjoy a soak in the captain's accommodation, him havin' no further need of it."
The boy felt faint enthusiasm, not so much at the prospect of a bath, as the end of enforced inactivity. He threw back the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk for the first time in what he had been told was weeks. By the calendar upon the bulkhead, it was Yearday 143, 3010 by the ancient reckoning, a year and a day since he had first come aboard Gyrfalcon. It was also the forty-third day of Octto, fourth month of the 510th ponderous 708-day year since the founding of Hanover. After the Oldskyan manner, with its brief but familiar 230-day year, it was Octavus 11,1 568. Whatever day it happened to be, in whatever year, he was indeed better than when he had surprised himself by awakening in this cabin. When he placed his shoeless feet upon the mesh, he discovered that dizziness and infirmity still afflicted him.
Krumm straightened and cleared his great throat, all but a trace of his lower-class accent gone. "Ignoramus that I am, I am not altogether certain how this is done," he told the boy, "although I have seen reference from time to time in thilles and books from the ancient past..."
Arran supposed he was about to apologize for whatever part he had taken in what Bowmore had done. That, or something, would be mentioned again about the corsair. Arran found he took small delight in that vessel's destruction, and even less in that of the lives of those aboard her. But he was already aware of an amount of gratitude toward him upon the part of the crew.
"Ignoramus? Sir, you—"
"I've trouble enough beginning this," Krumm shook his shaggy head. *It would please me just as well if you didn't call me *sir,' Arran Islay, ever again.' He paused, at a loss for words. Curious, and a bit hurt, Arran nodded, knees weak with the unaccustomed effort of standing. He watched as Krumm tapped a hardened finger upon the object in the tray, with its ancient embossery. The man picked it up. It lay in his palm like a toy. With a giant thumb, he pressed the button which released the ammunition cassette, filled with just short of a dozen diminutive chemenergic cylinders.
It was, of course, Arran's walther-weapon which Krumm had brought him, gleaming blue-black, freshly cleaned, and—frail reed though it was—still workable. Overcoming his apparent (and to Arran, bewildering) embarrassment, Krumm resumed. "Today marks a start, I think me, of what'U prove the most dangerous time of your young life. The crew, grateful for their lives, and disgusted by your treatment at the hands of Bowmore, have, in absence of the rewards you were promised, chosen to give you the carrack Gyrfalcon. You are to be owner-in-command and their new captain."
Arran's reaction was a smile in remote appreciation of a fantastic joke. Krumm allowed him no time to enjoy it, demanding that he take the offer seriously. He had an ally. The red and white object draped over the towel rack, having spent the morning enjoying a temperature and humidity closer to that of its native planet than it and its fellows had previously endured aboard the Gyrfalcon, curled against the wall until it was half erect, and emitted a piercing whistle. Arran winced.
Krumm nodded. "It understands me better than I understands it. I think it says you should listen."
Sighing with resignation and fatigue, Arran sat again upon the bunk-edge. Over previous conversations, Krumm had explained that—as disgusted as the crewbeings which he, in truth, had always commanded, and convinced Arran had died in an elffbrt to save their lives—he had led the mutiny. Two passengers, Bowmore, and officers loyal to him had been set adrift in an auxiliary, more humane treatment than he had afforded Arran. This had satisj&ed the crew. In the boundless Deep, between star systems, it had amounted to a death sentence. Krumm had been relieved he need not kill his former captain outright.
At this point, an even more incredible thing had happened which neither Arran nor Krumm was satisfied he understood even yet. During the mutiny, the latter had noticed that the "carg—er, passengers" were restive, attributing it to the disturbance of battle. Uproar among the flatsies had continued long afterward. He managed to learn that they not only knew who Arran had been, but what had become of
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him. Insisting, to the limit of their communicative ability, that nothing supernatural lay in their insistence (but unable to explain it in terms which made sense), they had maintained that the boy was alive. Upon their account, while Bowmore and his party were being cast off, a search was made aft of the carrack. Stunned by the explosion, with his oxygen supply all but exhausted, he was plucked from the Deep at the last moment, hauled back aboard Gyrfalcon by mutinous— and grateful—crewbeings.
Arran spoke. "I see why you insisted I take these quarters. Thank you, Krumm, and I wish you would thank the crew for me. It is the most patently absurd idea I have ever heard. No one onboard is not better qualified than I, which, for the safety of all, is reason enough to reject this sentimental offer. Moreover, I have learned the hard way what a captain is."
Krumm had found a chair. Meanwhile, the flatsy had crawled from its rack to join the humans, halting in the middle of the floor to raise its front half, to all appearances as interested in the boy's answer as the first ofllcer. Krumm had the notion, with nothing for supporting evidence, that this one had been delegated by its brothers to keep the boy company every moment since he had come back aboard. "And what might that be?"
Arran was careful. "One of those power wielders who place higher value upon property and profit than people. Not only is a love of money the root of all evil, as the proverb has it, but of all which has befallen me, this poor being, and all my pitiable fellows among the crew." He took a breath. "Since joining the complement, I have watched myself change in ways I neither admire nor understand. I killed three men—it does no harm to admit it—and later something more than three hundred. It appears a terrible trend has been established which I do not wish to follow ftirther. I would not become one such as Bowmore. Although it sounds ridiculous to be required to say it, I will not be captain, of the Gyrfalcon or anything else."
Krumm nodded and frowned. Even the flatsy seemed lost in thought. "Were you aware, lad, that the Gyrfalcon was considered a lenient berth?"
Arran shook his head. "No, if I could
feel anything, I suppose I should be surprised to hear it. So much the worse for sailors aboard less lenient vessels. So much the better for the argument I have just made."
"What of the argument that you cannot blame the flour for the sifter?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that Gyrfalcon was captained by such as those who want a captain look for. A candidate lacking the failings you mentioned, if they are indeed failings and not virtues seen under a wrong-colored sun, would never pass the Mono-politan commission which licenses masters."
Arran's scowl matched Krumm's, wrinkle for wrinkle, yet it was a scowl of effort, conveying no more feeling than the wrinkles in his blanket. "You are saying none of the criminal inhumanities aboard this ship would be possible, were it not that the captain was licensed to commit them?"
Krumm nodded, watching the boy's face. The guardian flatsy shuffled closer, as if aware of Arran's emotional paralysis and concerned. "Son, if I were sailin' by your bearings, I'd be as lost. How came you by a notion that people and property are separate? Those things you value most about people, their lives and liberties, are property—" The boy opened his mouth; Krumm held up a hand. "The property they consider most precious." He stopped to take a breath. Arran looked more puzzled than before. "This ship," Krumm continued, "her cargo—excepting our friend, here—some hard-working soul spent himself io make or gain, risking it in hope of bettering himself upon the treacherous bosom of the Deep. A captain carries life itself within his holds, along with the dreams of a thousand lifetimes. Life is property, property is life, both indistinguishable from liberty. The root of aU evil—aside from forgetting that fact—lies in taking property (such as the liberty of this here flatsy) against its rightful owner's wishes."
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