by K. T. Hunter
She remembered the Gardens as suddenly as she had remembered Humboldt earlier. Why not? She did not know if they were locked down at night, but she had plenty of time on her hands to find out. A little time in the green might settle her mind, though she could not imagine ever sleeping again.
Soon she found herself in front of one of the Garden doors; there were four, according to the schematics, on various sides of the chamber. There was a slight hiss as the door released, and she could feel moisture stealing out of the opening.
A bill next to the door sported a flirty Sophie the Steamfitter outfitted with a speech bubble and little else, admonishing the reader to "KEEP DOOR CLOSED TO KEEP MOISTURE AND PESTS WHERE THEY BELONG". So, this must be the place from which Humboldt's bug had escaped, only to be crushed in the gears of the A.E.
Despite her fretfulness, she did manage to smirk at the "Hats Required" sign next to the bill as she passed through the door. There were a few caps and hats on pegs, along with a gaudy straw hat for the ladies, covered in horrid faux cabbage roses and a wide mauve ribbon. A matching parasol hung next to it. Gemma left them untouched. Surely, the very proper Cultural Officer was abed at this hour, and such niceties could be set aside. Unless, as Humboldt had indicated, he was busy composing wireless messages. Instead, she released her hair from its braid. She shook it loose and let it hang free.
She stepped through the lock and inhaled the humid air, refreshingly wet after the arid corridor. After she secured the door, she was left in darkness, with only a series of what appeared to be streetlamps illuminating a brick path ahead. Apparently, the Gardens followed the ship's clock and let the trees sleep. The sudden nightfall startled her a little, after her near-continuous time under harsh lights.
She meandered along the path, breathing in the smell of earthly things, things that she didn't know she missed. Here was the perfume of roses, and there the scent of turned soil. She smelt water, running water, here in the depths of space! She thought she heard the gurgling of a current over stones in the distance. It felt luxuriant, almost sinful, to just walk and take it all in. No secret signals to watch for, no messages to pry out of hidden places, no bullets to dodge. There was no Man from Shanghai to haunt her footsteps here, as he did far too often these days. Just one foot in front of another. How long had it been since she could do that? Just walk?
She ran her hands through her loose hair, enjoying the privacy of the late-night path. The crew's night shift was much smaller than the day shift, and most of them were on the bridge or the Oberth deck. She was certain she would have as much time alone here as she wanted. She just hoped that the Watcher, whoever that happened to be, hadn't followed her.
The sound of water faded a little as she passed through an iron gate between two tall maple trees. The light of the nearby lamp glinted off the feathers of a brass eagle perched on one of the posts.
The path turned and moved farther away from the rippling of water. In its place was a new sound: raucous laughter. Someone was having a grand old time here. She sniffed in irritation, disappointed by the interruption. She turned to work her way back to the corridor when she thought she detected a familiar tone in his merriment. Curiosity got the better of her, and she continued in her original direction. Soon she caught sight of a gazebo on a small hill, and she made her way towards it. The lights grew brighter and more numerous as she closed in on it. The juniper trees that lined the path dripped with tiny flecks of illumination, like nests of fairies.
Someone was sitting on one of the benches with his back to her. A tall man in a sleeveless undershirt lounged next to his navy blue jacket, draped across the gazebo's railing. All was quiet for a moment, and then she heard the rasp of a page turning, then another far more quickly than she would have guessed. He chuckled for a moment, and then he threw his head back in a full rolling howl. The laughter was contagious, and she found herself smiling at it in spite of herself. She took a step back and turned to leave him alone, but one of his hoots pulled his head in her direction. He must have caught her out of the corner of his eye. It was the captain! Of all people!
"Oh, hullo, Miss Llewellyn," he said as he wiped a joyous tear from his cheek. He chuckled again, only slightly embarrassed, and gestured for her to come closer. "Glad to see someone else enjoying the night air."
"I beg your pardon," she replied. "I did not mean to disturb you. I thought--"
"It's quite all right, Miss. Please, join me." He pointed to the bench on the other side of the gazebo door. "I assure you, I won't bite. Company would not be amiss right now."
Her hand wandered to her cheek, and she fretted about the disheveled state of her hair, more for the sake of a mentor leagues upon leagues away than the sake of the man before her. It felt most unladylike, and she could hear Mrs. Brightman's chiding in the back of her mind. Then she noticed his bare feet, with his long toes wiggling in the freedom of the cool air. His boots and socks lay askew beside him on the bench, just underneath his jacket. She decided that her hair matched the situation perfectly and let it alone.
He held the book out to her. "Ever read any Twain?"
Here he was, the one she was supposed to observe, asking her to sit with him. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. At the same time, she knew that people showed more of their true selves in the quiet of the night. She walked up the stairs with her skirt slightly lifted to avoid tripping on the hem and sat down on the bench opposite him.
She observed him for a moment before answering. He held a hairy fruit in his other hand. A few bites were missing from it, showing green flesh flecked with tiny black seeds. As he moved, she could see the dark outline of a tattoo on his right arm. The limbs of an inky Martian flashed in and out of view as the captain turned and settled himself into a more comfortable position.
"I can't say that I have, Captain."
"Oh, please, there is no one else here. I insist that no one stand on ceremony after midnight. Especially while I'm reading Mr. Twain here. Call me Christophe."
She hesitated. Just us chickens, Nigel had said earlier. It wasn't just the Booleans that were tired of all the Mr. Wallaces of the world. She flashed a coy smile at him.
"Christophe, then."
"At least while we're here, in the gazebo. Outside the Gardens, I still have to be Captain, you know." He stuck his thumbs underneath the narrow straps of his undershirt, and his face melted into a frumpy expression. "Must keep up the show for the crew."
She raised an eyebrow at that. This was not the person that she had expected to find, not at all.
"Tell me, Miss Llewellyn, how is it that an educated lady such as yourself has not had time to enjoy Following the Equator? I find Mr. Twain's humour quite refreshing." He took a bite out of the fruit in his hand, sucking in his breath a little to keep the juice from dribbling onto his thin shirt.
She took a deep breath before answering. His eyes were so bright in the gazebo's light. The boorish captain had been left at the door; here before her was a jovial lad that she had never seen before.
"My expeditions do not usually leave time for leisure."
"How sad! I think if we all had a daily dose of him, we'd all be more relaxed. I find that we're a bit stuffy here on the Fury."
"Oh, my, what would Mr. Wallace say to that?" she replied with a chortle that wasn't entirely false.
It was part of her role to titter at jokes, no matter how banal they were. She had not had an honest laugh in so long that it fell onto her mind like a rain shower in a parched valley. It seemed that Mr. Twain was contagious. She could not help but notice that Christophe had a wide and generous mouth. His smile occupied half the acreage of his elastic face.
When the moment had passed, she asked, "Might I inquire after Mr. Cervantes? I haven't heard any updates. I understand that his injuries are rather severe."
He slumped his long frame forward, a little deflated, the spell of laughter shattered.
"Not good," he said, more soberly than before. "He's resting now, under sedation
. Dr. Hansard didn't want me hovering over him as he worked. He couldn't -- or wouldn't -- give me a prognosis, but I'm certain that his situation is rather dire. The doctor ordered me to get some rest, but I am far too restless for sleep."
"I know the feeling," Gemma replied. "I apologize. I did not mean to bring you down."
She could see more of the tattoo now, as he hunched over in silent remembrance. Two of the Martian's tentacles intertwined above its head in the shape of a heart, and the name "Maggie" emerged into the space between.
"We were raised together, you know," he said. She returned her gaze to his face as he spoke, hoping he would continue volunteering information. "Miguel lost his family in the Invasion. Pugh caught him picking his coat pocket in Madrid. We were both just boys, then. I asked Pugh if we could keep him. I wanted a brother more than I wanted anything else. He was so raggedy and hungry, like a Spanish Oliver Twist, that even a cranky old scientist couldn't say 'no'. He didn't even remember his surname, so I gave him one."
"You named him? You named him Miguel Cervantes?"
"Yes! I was very fond of Don Quixote. And, as it turns out, he's a better sailor than I am." He paused and considered her as he took another bite of the fruit. He flicked a bit of the juice from the edge of his mouth and swallowed before speaking again. "Were you orphaned in the Invasion, Miss Llewellyn?" he asked gently. He hesitated when he saw the slight scowl on her face. "I'm sorry, perhaps that was a bit too forward." He waved the words away. "Forget I asked. Tell you what, then. Ask a question of me, to make us square."
"Just one."
"Yes?"
"What is that hairy little fruit you are eating? I have never seen its like."
"Ah," he said, looking at the object in question. "This is a kiwi, from New Zealand. Lovely country, wonderful people. And the food! Oh, such food you have never seen. I loved this particular fruit so much that Pugh suggested I name my ship after it."
He popped the last bite of the kiwi into his mouth and chewed it with a thoughtful look on his face.
"Your ship?"
"Oh, I've been on several, in my time. This being the first space ship, ever, they had to train me on what they had available." He ran the fingers of his now kiwi-less hand through his hair and down to his neck, which he scratched languorously. "Tall ships. Small ships. Steamers. Airships. Anything they could get their hands on. Even a submarine! But there was one little boat that was all mine. The Kiwi Clipper. Oh, a lovelier sea bird you've never seen, all teak and hemp and sail, with the most beautiful mermaid on the figurehead, you could see her--"
He stopped for a moment, realizing that his hands were tracing curves in the air. He dropped his hands to his knees. "Well, she was very pretty. Cervantes served with me on most of those ships, including the Kiwi."
His voice drifted off. Christophe licked his lips and absently wiped his other hand on his trousers. "I think when I return to Earth, I will retire to the sea. And you, what would you like to do once this mission is over? Is there anywhere you'd like to call home?"
Gemma averted her gaze to the path leading away from the other side of the gazebo. A few trees were visible in the chandelier's light and in the sparkling cords of lights wound through the trees, but soon everything faded into the darkness of the chamber. She did not know how to answer. She had never thought about what was next. No one had ever asked her what she wanted, until now. She simply moved from job to job, mission to mission, always the errand-runner for others and never for herself, with occasional breathers in the College's dormitory in Guildford. She sat in stunned silence. She listened to the rustling of the trees and the distant croak of a frog. She heard a plop afterward, as if the frog had decided it was time for a swim.
If her face became well known after this journey, would she still have a place as one of Brightman's computers? Or would an Earth-bound scientist recognize her from a previous mission? It had not occurred to her that she might be difficult to place upon her return.
After a long moment, she uttered one of the most truthful sentences of her life: "I don't know."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be busy with the Mars findings for years and years after our return. Lectures and papers and symposia and all that, you know. You'll be famous!" He chuckled again. "I highly recommend a lecture tour in New Zealand. The rocks near Christchurch are quite lovely, I hear."
He rambled on. The sound of his voice painted colorful pictures in her mind that distracted her from her present danger. The Aurora Australis hovered in her mind's eye as he described it, a curtain of eerie light casting a veil over the night sky. His hands carved the air as he told tales of the Turquoise Sea, off the coast of Italy, where the water was so clear that ships seemed to float on air. The sunlight sparkled on the waves like diamonds scattered by the hand of Neptune himself.
"And watching the full moon rise upon the water!" Christophe exclaimed. "It is so very big, so very, very big, enormous! Like nothing you've ever seen. I watched it rise every time I had a chance, knowing that someday I'd be sailing there. I -- I didn't know -- I never knew how big it really was until I got there."
He rested his hands on his knees and stared down at them. She knew he was thinking of that ill-fated maiden voyage. He finally spoke again. "And now I'm taking us to Mars."
She found that just watching and listening answered more questions than she could have asked. He took his duties seriously, but he seemed to crave kiwis and salt water more than power. His worry over Cervantes and his feeling of responsibility tempered his arrogance. That cockiness merely concealed the sailor that lingered deep in his heart, the one that liked the feel of his toes around the rough rigging of sails.
Would he hold up under the pressure? Or would he waver?
He had trained all his life for this mission, he told her. She realized, in a way, so had she. She had been taught to hate the Martians, so carefully, carefully taught. She had learned to grasp science, even if she did not have a full appreciation of it. She had been taught to observe, to analyze, and to evaluate; but she had not been allowed to conclude. All of that was coming to the fore on this journey, as Pugh sought her opinions in a way no one ever had.
They had something in common, after all.
Christophe stretched and yawned. His toes wiggled and clenched. With his arms above his head and his legs extended halfway across the gazebo, he seemed twice as tall as usual. He pulled himself back in and retrieved a wayward sock.
"Well, Miss Llewellyn, we both have duties in the morning. I appreciate your listening to my ramblings. I do believe I can follow Dr. Hansard's orders now. I think the same prescription would apply to you."
Gemma stood up, feeling lighter than she had in a while. "I believe you are correct."
She turned, shuffling her feet a little on the boards of the gazebo, unsure of which path to take.
"Oh, sorry," he said as he pulled on his jacket. He pointed to his left. "The fastest route to Ladies' Country is that way. My quarters are in that direction." He pointed to the opposite path. "Would you care for an escort?"
She smiled and shook her head. She had made some headway in gaining information on him, and she felt much better, but she didn't need to give him any improper ideas.
"I think I can find my way. Sleep well, Christophe."
Gemma turned and made her way down the stairs. She could feel his eyes on her back as she strode away.
"Good night, Miss Llewellyn," he called after her.
She turned back and watched him button his coat for a moment. Then she said, "It's Gemma. Just Gemma. And good night."
~~~~
Christophe
Christophe settled in a chair next to Cervantes' cot and shuffled typewritten pages in his hands.
"Time for our staff meeting, Mr. Cervantes. I have to catch you up on the news so you won't be behind when you get back to work."
Cervantes, thickly bandaged and pumped full of Dr. Hansard's most powerful sedatives, lay still and sleeping as Christophe's words spilled ove
r him.
"Mr. Pritchard is helping out whilst you are under the weather," Christophe continued. "You've taught him well! The Oberths are running smoothly, and the navigational shields are keeping the growlers out of the way. I know how you worry about that. One less thing to fret about whilst you recover.
"You would have enjoyed tea yesterday, old sport. Frau Knopf made flan with that recipe you found. Mr. Holomek was especially fond of it. Once you're up and about, we'll ask her to make it again." He flipped to the next page. "Oh, and a baby goat was born this morning on the stable deck."
He waited a moment, listening to his first mate's slow and laboured breathing, looking for any sign of movement. When he saw none, he cleared his throat and adjusted the cloth-covered privacy wall behind him.
"There is some news from back home, as well. In Paris, they're protesting at the local Ministry of Culture. Some nonsense about dress patterns. Some corset-burning going on down on Rue de Passy. What a sight that must be! The Rational Dress Society is behind that one, I'll wager."
Christophe looked up from the paper. Had Miguel stirred? He waited for a few heartbeats to see, but the injured man did not budge.
"Admiral Thorvaldson has wired more serious news. He sends his regards to you, by the way, and wishes you a speedy recovery. The next captain in the fleet needs to be in top shape!"
Christophe's forced cheerfulness tasted sour in his mouth, but he pressed on.
"The Tsar and the Kaiser have put their heads together -- they're cousins, you know -- and are registering a joint protest against the TIA. They want the Science Division to release their research on Martian technology to the general public. Apparently, they are a bit chagrined that the French got to keep what they salvaged. The Alliance is pushing back, though. They've bottled up both straits around the Sea of Marmara -- remember those beautiful beaches on Gallipoli? -- and only TIA-owned ships make it through. Shipping is piling up in the Black Sea and the Aegean. I don't have your head for politics. I have no idea how that one's going to end up. But that needn't concern us now. There's nothing we can do from here, anyway. So long as the crew doesn't take sides, we should be fine."