by Blaze Ward
Suvi took up watch above and behind, where she could see down the long hallway and over any of the bodies in the way. She was prepared, in case she needed to rescue him. Again.
Javier turned back to the door and placed his palm flat on the access plate. Given the circumstances, he could see someone actually locking it, but that would be an oversight, not a design feature.
The hatch clicked back a centimeter into the room and slid out of the way on powerful pneumatic sledges.
Javier reached out a hand and caught Sykora before she could complete her step forward.
“Not yet,” he whispered, almost intimately as she rounded on him. “Let it breathe.”
“Breathe?” she asked, almost as quiet.
“It has been closed up for a very long time. The air is likely to be a little foul with volatile trace elements.”
“What’s in there, Javier?” she asked, turning her head to scan the room beyond.
Javier? We’re back to Javier, are we?
“Not what,” he said, a little louder, of the other two to hear as well. “Who.”
“Who?” That got her head spun all the way back around to face him. A hand was on the pommel of the pistol, ready to draw and fire.
Javier leaned forward and sniffed carefully at the breeze blowing softly into his face. A little rank. Extremely dry. Cold, where the rest of the ship had been merely cool. Right about what he had expected, from the things he had read, once upon a time.
Some days, he hated being right.
Javier walked forward instead of answering, one hand still on Sykora’s arm, but more as a guide than a restraint. As if he could actually stop a woman like that if she set her mind to something.
She trailed along anyway, half a step behind him, probably prepared to throw him into the dragon’s maw to give her the half–second she would need to draw and kill it. It was how she thought.
The room was larger than he had expected. Or rather, the walls were where they should be, but less space was taken up.
Based on the size of the ship, he had expected two, or possibly three big boxes in here. Sarcophagi. Coffins.
There was only one, tucked back into the corner, although he could see the power couplings for two more coming out of the walls.
One was enough.
Javier walked to it quietly, hearing the slight hum of the device in the still air, feeling it in his feet when he got close and stood over it.
Ancient kings on the Homeworld had been buried like this. Big black box, three meters or so long, two wide, one tall. This was metal instead of stone, and the inscriptions on the sides were medical instead of propaganda.
The goal was still immortality.
He glanced over at the three women to make sure they were still with him. They were, but their faces showed growing apprehension. They were beginning to understand things, at least a little.
He heard Suvi shift a little forward just inside the door, where she had a good view of the room and could still interfere if someone tried to sneak up on them. They had cleared the ship room by room, but Sykora was a stickler for those sorts of details and he wasn’t in the mood to argue with her. Not right now.
Javier leaned forward for a better view. The top half of the sarcophagus lid was clear, covered over with a thin rime of frost. It was active. Whether it had worked was a different story.
He reached down pulled off a glove. He would need the body heat.
That warm hand wiped away the layer of frost ice from the glass.
Inside, the face of a young woman, instead of a desiccated mummy. She was dressed in a simple black shirt, with the same logo worked on both sides of the collar.
Javier blew out a breath he had forgotten he was holding.
“That’s who,” he said, quietly, reverently. Without a nav computer, he couldn’t even begin to guess the odds of success. Machines like this were supposed to be used for much shorter periods. Months. Maybe as much as a year, in a pinch. But centuries? The mind boggled.
“Who is she?”
Javier wasn’t sure who spoke. It was a quiet whisper, almost an intrusion into the realm.
“She is a Shepherd of the Word,” Javier said simply.
Part Seven
Zakhar looked down at the coffin. This was why they paid him the big money, so he could be in charge at moments like this. Life and death decisions. Command.
His Science Officer stood to one side, consulting quietly with the Chief Engineer. Andreea Dalca was a broad, compact woman, a product of high–gravity world. She was a first rate engineer, and a complete introvert. How she and Javier got along so well was a mystery for the ages. But it worked.
Right now, they were deep in a very esoteric, technical conversation. He followed about a third of it. Nobody else in the room probably got a tenth.
Sykora and her two pet pathfinders were here as well, staying mostly out of the way in a corner. The room wasn’t crowded, and he wasn’t sure they would leave if ordered, given the situation. It was certainly unique for him. Best let it slide for now.
Out in the hall, he could hear others moving around. Mostly Dalca’s people, doing the sorts of maintenance tasks any ship accumulated, even at rest. Given the age and state of the ship, they were already money ahead if they could get it to any port. If they could locate the right sort of collector or museum, they might be rich.
That would bring a new set of problems. He would burn that bridge when he got there. They had a much more interesting problem today.
What to do with the ship’s owner?
Andreea and Javier seemed to think that there was a good chance she could be revived with no long–term damage. At which point, she became his problem.
Zakhar hadn’t set out to be a slavemaster. He was a Concord Fleet veteran, retired, damn it. They had saved the galaxy when Neu Berne had set out to conquer it. That it had been done before his birth didn’t reduce the fact that they were supposed to be the good guys.
Javier looking at him that way didn’t help. It was a reminder that they were brothers, of a sort. Men who took the oath.
Unconsciously, he found himself playing with his class ring. Concord Fleet Academy, Class of ’49. An Officer and Gentleman, by Act of Congress Enshrined.
If he thawed her out, he would have a brand new kitten. What was the ancient saying? If you saved a life, you were responsible for that life. He could order the plug pulled instead, but he didn’t want to know which of his crew would actually obey that sort of order. Or how much of his crew he would lose, on a personal level, if he became that sort of Captain.
There really was no doubt what his answer would be. Javier and Sykora had to have known that. But they had been in complete agreement that he had to come over and make it. This was only the third time they had ever done something like that.
So here he stood.
Zakhar tried to remember what little he knew about the founding of the Union of Man, and the ancient Prophet, Rama Treadwell. Not much. Union of Man history had never been his thing, growing up. Too busy with racing speeders and sports teams.
He knew even less about the religious order known as Shepherds of the Word. Something about a group of wandering mystics looking for their lost Prophet in the depths of space, and carrying the Word like missionaries to all the worlds of the Union.
Javier had said that the Order still existed in a few places in the Concord, or the quieter corners of the worlds that had once belonged to the Union of Man. Before the Great War. Probably a museum somewhere on New London, if he cared enough to look. Maybe someday.
He leaned forward again to look down at this woman. She looked young. Sleeping peacefully, like the princess in the ancient fairie tale, or the strange little man who walked down into the fairie mound and lost centuries when the morning came.
Zakhar estimated her age to be in her mid–twenties, barely out of her childhood, although he had been commanding an armed pinnace at that age. Officer and Gentleman.
What to do with this kitten, after he found her by the side of the road and took her home?
Command.
“Javier,” he said firmly, projecting his voice clear into the hallway. It was a skill that made Captains. “How long to thaw her out?”
He noted how serious the man had become. Nothing like the normal class clown. That usually meant bad things. Today, it just meant serious. Like he was thinking the same things.
Javier had once been in command. He knew.
“Given the lack of a Ship’s Surgeon,” Javier replied, “I would recommend wiring the box to a portable generator and moving her close to Storm Gauntlet’s medbay first.”
He paused there and looked down at the coffin. Zakhar could see the wheels spinning in his head, calculating options and timelines. Were all Concord Fleet officers like that? Probably. Came with the territory. The Good Guys.
“After that,” the Science Officer continued, “I think we bring her out just about as slowly as the box will let us. Not like we’re rushed for time here.”
“You volunteering?” Zakhar asked gruffly.
The man shrugged eloquently. “You got anybody else?”
“No, mister, I do not,” Zakhar said. Command voice. Command decision. “You will take charge of the rescue.”
He turned to his Engineer. “Andreea, you are in charge of getting the ship ready to fly if possible. It’s too big to transport out inside Storm Gauntlet, and too valuable to section up unless we have to. Questions?”
She never once made eye contact. She never did. Sometimes, he felt like he should keep his shoes extra polished, just because she would be looking at them instead of his face.
“No, Captain,” she said quietly. “I estimate we will have a complete status in eighteen to twenty hours.”
“Good enough,” he replied. “Javier’s kitten first, Andreea.”
He turned and started to leave the room. Sykora fell into step with him, to his right and half a stride back. Just like always.
“Kitten?” she whispered as they walked. “What are you planning to do with her?”
“I’ll know that, Djamila, when he succeeds.”
“Aye, sir.”
Part Eight
Javier felt like the greater of two evils. Any two evils.
The Purser’s people had emptied out a nearby storage room for him, giving Kianoush Buday, his tea mug artist, a chance to see the whole affair unfold as he had several crewmembers sled the big sarcophagus over and then connect it to ship’s power.
It dominated the empty room, laying there like this was a state funeral.
He was the Science Officer, so he was in charge, right? Said so right there on the side of his mug. This was Science. Javier can handle it.
He looked at the hatch, as if it was transparent. Medbay was just across the hall, door locked open and machines on standby, in case something went wrong. He hadn’t bothered to tell them that if something went wrong during the thaw, she would be better off never waking up from whatever dreams had filled her long night. They wouldn’t understand until it was too late.
As far as he knew, nobody had ever been successfully kept alive this long under cryo. Not because the theory was flawed, but because there was no reason.
You found the survivors or you didn’t. She had had to be a prisoner of war, in a war that had ended five hundred and eighty–three years ago, to even be a candidate.
Javier sipped his tea and ruminated. How could you explain to someone the rise and fall of the Union of Man, the Great War with Neu Berne, or the rise of the Concord? Depending on how long she had been here, would she even know about the latter two?
What do you do when you wake up, Rip Van Winkled out of five centuries of history? Everyone you knew wasn’t even a footnote any more.
And then, to top it all off, you’ve been captured by pirates.
Javier was a well–treated and well–respected member of this crew. But he never forgot that he was here paying off a debt as a slave. Honor. Duty. But still a ransom.
If he brought her out of the fugue, wouldn’t she be just another slave? And did she have any skills that could make her valuable? Or would she be so hopelessly out of date that all she had to fall back on was a strong back on a mining colony?
Javier looked down at the sleeping face and realized that she might find a fate worse than being an agricultural slave. It was still, to some extent, a man’s universe.
The hatch opened before he could sink too deep into a funk. A body slipped in, closed it quickly. The lock keying into place got his attention.
Sykora.
He fixed her with a questioning stare. She had no business on this deck right now. None.
She was impervious to his look as she strode into the room and stood across the box from him. She stared back.
The quiet hung.
Usually, the air crackled with negative energy when he was around her. Today, nothing. Just silence.
She spoke first.
“Have you decided yet?” she said quietly. It was a tone he had never heard from her before. Calm. Serene. Inquisitive.
“Decided what?” Javier wasn’t going to play whatever game she was up to. Not right now. He would just keep score. There was always tomorrow.
“If she lives or dies,” the tall woman replied. She had a hard look on her face.
“I don’t make that decision, Sykora,” he said. “Sokolov does.”
“No,” she refuted him simply, “he decides what happens after that. You decide if she ever wakes up.”
Javier’s eyebrows threatened to crawl backwards over the top of his head. He tended to forget that underneath that tough killer exterior was a first–rate mind. Until she did things like this to remind him.
He would have been happier not being reminded.
“You look down and see a woman,” she continued, “and wonder if she can find a place in this world, or if she would be better off not having to make that choice.”
Javier shrugged, unsure where she was going but unwilling to gainsay her.
“You were raised to think of women as weak,” Sykora said. “The Union of Man was the worst, but the Concord is not much better. In Neu Berne or Balustrade, women are the equal of men, in all things.”
“And?”
She leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “If that was a man, would it be a question?”
He leaned in as well. “Would a man be at as much risk of finding worse things in life than being a slave in a mine?”
She looked down, considered the peaceful face between them. “Is it a fate worse than death, Javier? I’ve seen men and women indentured to brothels. As slaves go, they tend to be better kept than those in mines, or farms. It is a business, after all. She might be happier if that happened to her.”
“Oh, I know,” Javier replied finally. “There are a number of places the Captain might sell her. Me? I’d head to one of the big worlds and ask for a finder’s fee from one of the big universities to cover the expenses. They would love to have someone who lived that long ago, just to talk about what the world was like.”
“And what makes you think the Captain won’t do that?” she asked him, harsh vitriol creeping back into her voice.
“Because I’m a slave, Sykora,” he said flatly, harshly. “Dress it up all you want in fancy language, but I owe a bonded debt to that man. One of these days, maybe, MAYBE, I will be in a position to pay it off and get my own life back.”
“And are you treated poorly, Mr. Science Officer?” She leaned closer, getting right down into his face.
He leaned closer as well. “You killed my ship, cut her into parts so that I’ll never get her back,” he snarled hotly. “You drag me all over the damned galaxy doing pirate shit, so that I’ll hang with you if we ever get caught by someone big enough to do the job. And I am not a free man, Sykora. You could walk away from this ship if you wanted. Just walk out the hatch at the next station we visit and never come back.” He tapped his finger
on the top of the box as he spoke. “I do not have that luxury.”
“You were a mouthy punk who pushed as hard as you could, when I met you,” she snarled back, nose almost touching his, voices so low that someone at the doorway might have mistaken them for lovers. “You were offered the choice to be here or somewhere else, somewhere where you could have escaped if you wanted. You chose to stay. You do not get to complain now.”
The room was suddenly tiny.
“So I should just trust that you people will do the right thing?” he growled back. “That Captain Sokolov really is a good guy and it will all turn out? Based on what?”
She stopped and drew a breath.
It broke the spell.
She leaned back, flushed. She blinked.
“Because it is not your decision to make,” she said quietly, tapping on the sarcophagus. “It’s hers. Anything else makes you just as bad as Sokolov.”
If she had just slapped him, a good open–palmed right hand to the face, he probably would have been less surprised.
Javier bit back any retort that might have come out of his mouth. He leaned back as well, drew a breath deep into his chest, tried to burn off the surge of adrenalin that threatened to overtake him.
They stared at each other for several moments, neither moving.
Javier nodded, mostly to himself, partly to her.
He reached down and flipped open a panel by his right knee. Inside, a big red button. Obvious in its intent and purpose, scribed in half a dozen written languages, just in case.
He leaned into it, watched it start flashing slowly. Off. On. Off.
He straightened up and looked at the tall woman standing across the sarcophagus from him.
“Who are you?” he said querulously.
She straightened out to her own great height, towering a whole head above him in the tiny space.
“I am a woman who will not take any shit in a man’s world, mister.”
Javier nodded. That was about right.
Part Nine
It had been nine hours. Javier was keeping himself awake with heavily caffeinated tea and regular potty breaks. He had napped some, early on, with Sykora, of all people, keeping watch while he did, lights dimmed and all sound off.