by K. T. Hunter
She dreaded ship's night. The squid refused to leave her dreams alone. One night it curled up on the other bed in her stateroom with Christophe, who was reading the Aronnax journal to it. Yet another night, it waltzed with the Man from Shanghai.
One night her mind simply refused to rest. She slipped into the carpeted corridor outside her cabin and paced along the wall sconces; the ever-present scratching sounds in the wall seemed especially loud in the hush of ship's night. When she approached a turn, she heard a soft whisper.
Years of training pressed her against the wall. As silently as she could, she slid down into a crouch and peered around the corner. Expecting to find some male intruder, she instead saw Caroline, who was whispering into an air vent and scribbling in her notebook. Gemma retreated to her stateroom and allowed the Yeoman to do her ghostly research in peace.
She was not the only one under strain. Hui looked tousled and weary as he slaved over the cannon he was building. Nigel's nerves were stretched to the limit as the time of his wife's delivery approached, and he distracted himself with long nights in the orrery. When she saw Christophe, the shine in his eyes was still there, albeit accompanied by ever-deepening lines around his eyelids. She suspected that he was spending more nights in sick bay than he was in his own cabin.
Everyone was on edge since the heat ray incident. No one had mentioned "sabotage" officially, but it was still widely whispered in the mess hall. The theories ran the usual gamut, from the ridiculous to the sublime, of what would happen next. They grew wilder as the number on the "Days Til Braking Day" banner grew ever smaller.
Cervantes seemed to be the only one on the ship getting any real sleep.
The following Friday, thirteen days until Braking Day, she was re-reading parts of the Aronnax journal, wondering what in the world Pugh could be thinking in assigning her such a task, when she could have been assisting in his investigation.
Agitated, she flipped to the back of the journal and read the last page. She found some handwritten notes on the inside of its back flap. It contained a list of names in various scripts, a "COMPUTER ROSTER" for the Aronnax Laboratory, E. Pugh assisting, dated two years prior to the Invasion. Out of curiosity, Gemma skimmed the names on the list and stopped at a very familiar name: "PEARL ADDISON".
She brushed the tip of a finger across the name. She knew that script almost better than her own; "Pearl Addison" was one of Mrs. Brightman's favourite aliases, from her days before the Invasion. Her pulse raced. Dr. Pugh had all but admitted that he had a connection with Mrs. Brightman, and here it was, inscribed in fading ink. Mrs. Brightman rarely talked of her days before the School. Was this the "discrepancy" that Dr. Pugh had asked her to find?
She looked up, halfway anticipating that the captain would stride through the door at any moment. He had been curiously absent that day. She glanced around the lab at the other scientists. Hui measured and calibrated away in his own little world. Bidarhalli muttered to himself in his own language. She could hear the faint bickering of the Germ Sciences team in the next room.
She checked the clock above the door. It was far past the time for his usual check-in with the Cohort. She tapped the tip of her pencil against the lab desk, lost in thought, until she saw Berndsen glowering at her. She held the pencil still, and he returned to his microscope.
She flicked her eyes to the door. No captain. The change in pattern -- as Humboldt would have remarked -- was disturbing. Before she knew it, she was walking towards the corridor. She had half a mind to search for him and half a mind to call herself an idiot for doing so.
At the door, she met none other than Dr. Pugh, who looked considerably more rumpled than usual.
"Ah, Gemma, just the person I was looking for." His voice was heavy with weariness. "Come with me, please. I need you."
"Dr. Pugh, I--"
He loped away toward the lift and gestured at her over his shoulder to follow.
"No time, no time," he said. "We have to go now. We're needed. The captain needs us."
Father Alfieri met them as they entered sick bay. The place smelt as strongly of antiseptic as Gun Control had smelt of blood and smoke. It was not as large as she had anticipated. There were only ten beds, two of which were occupied by victims of more pedestrian accidents. A group of men spilled out from behind a privacy screen. She recognized the ship's surgeon, now dressed in a white version of the ship's uniform, and a few other officers. The top of Christophe's head stuck out just above the top of the screen, and she caught a few glimpses of him as he chopped at the air with his fists. His hair was tousled, and his normally starched uniform dripped wrinkles. He lobbed harsh words at the other men as her group approached.
"Dr. Hansard, I cannot possibly allow you to do this!" The desperation in his voice was even louder than his words.
The surgeon, clutching an unlabeled bottle, replied, "I don't want to do this either, Captain, but my orders for this kind of situation are quite clear. With these injuries, we cannot hope that Cervantes will see Earth again, even if we make it back. Neither will he die right away. He will linger for weeks, Captain. Weeks. And he will be in agony the entire time."
Mr. Wallace took up the thread when the doctor had finished. "The TIA has given you special dispensation in these cases, Captain. I've reviewed the protocols, and they certainly apply here. His burns are deep, so deep that his body cannot repair the damage, and neither can we. Please, in the name of mercy, Captain." He turned to see the approaching priest. "Ah, Father Alfieri." He noticed Gemma standing next to Pugh. The Cultural Officer stepped in front of the bed, shielding Cervantes from her view. "Why did you bring this young lady? She does not need to see this!"
"I requested her," interjected Dr. Pugh. "Miss Llewellyn is now my assistant, and I need her."
Behind Wallace was Frau Knopf, by the head of the bed, glowering at the rest of them. Gemma could feel Christophe's gaze on her as Dr. Pugh leaned down to speak, but the captain did not stop his passionate discourse.
"I am afraid he's quite wild now," Dr. Pugh whispered. "He has the power to end Cervantes' ordeal, but he refuses to use it. He can't see that we can't fix this. Leaving Cervantes like this will only prolong the lad's suffering."
"So soon?" Gemma hissed back. "This just happened."
"Look, we've seen injuries like this before, on the previous voyage. We kept the victims alive because we were so close to Earth that we could get them home within a few days. Frau Knopf's son was among them. We couldn't help them. They took a long time to die, child. A long time. It was horrid, horrid! We can send people into space, but we cannot heal these kinds of injuries!" The beseeching in the elderly scientist's voice was as earnest as that in Christophe's, which carried over the entire chamber. "The Admiralty created some new regulations for this very situation. We'll be out here for quite some time, remember. It's the only thing we can do for him. The only thing. I cannot bear to see him like this. I know you of all people can understand."
"Such an act belongs in the doctor's hands," Gemma replied with irritation at the hinted request. "Why do you need me?"
"Christophe has to give the order." Dr. Pugh swallowed hard. "They can't do it without his approval. But he won't give it. He won't listen to me. I thought he might listen to you."
"To me?"
"After your... conversations."
"What?" Gemma asked in shock. How could Christophe have told this man about their private moments, as innocent as they were?
"How do you know--"
Dr. Pugh shook his head and rested his hand on her narrow shoulder. "Never mind. Later. Talk some sense into him. Please, Gemma."
Dr. Pugh released her, and they rejoined the group of men at the foot of Cervantes' bed. She stood at the corner and looked at the mummy that lay upon it. Only the mouth of the first mate emerged from the swaddling bandages, and the breath that came out of it was laboured. She sensed that the only reason he wasn't screaming was the heavy sedation.
The dispute burned around he
r, and no one would agree with Christophe. Pugh's words about Christophe and "The Order" trailed across her memory. It dawned on her now that he might not be capable of giving such an order, when it came down to it.
Christophe turned to her as he looked for support, any support at all.
"Gemma! Tell him we cannot do this! Please!"
The others started, stunned at his familiarity with her. Pugh glared at her with a get on with it expression.
Gemma wrangled Christophe away from the cluster of men and into the doctor's small office. He argued with her every step of the way. She latched the door behind her as firmly as she could without slamming it. To pull punches now would be foolish. They had no time for this nonsense. The Fury had already lost its capable first mate. It could not afford to lose its commander to grief and mawkishness. How in the world could the TIA have put faith in such a man?
"Enough!" she exclaimed. "Christophe Moreau, you must do this."
The stunned expression on his face only strengthened her resolve, even though her words struck him like bullets.
She pressed on in his silence. "You are not here to play at being Sinbad the Sailor," she continued, using the same tone Mrs. Brightman had used with her after the Shanghai Incident. "We. Are. At. War. If you are going to be Captain Moreau, you are going to have to make the tough decisions."
"Even if it means that I am signing the death warrant of a man who has been my friend since childhood? My brother?" His voice grew louder with each word. The barest hint of water shone on the lower lid of his left eye and threatened to emerge.
What would she do, if it were dear Philippa on that bed with no hope of recovery? Would she make the same decision if it had been her friend's porcelain skin that had been melted, her dear one's glossy black hair that had been scorched away?
"Yes, even so," she said. She spoke slowly and evenly. "You are the commander. The lives of the crew, even mine, even your own, are in your hands, Captain! You have to make this call."
"How can you be so cold?" His voice rasped in disbelief. She could feel anger coiling up within him, an anger that surprised her after her talk with the happy young lad in the Gardens, the barefoot one that read Twain. "Gemma, I am not a machine. Are you? I thought you of all people would understand."
"Why, because I'm a woman?" she asked.
"I thought--"
"You're not thinking. At least not with your brain. That's the problem. Think, Captain. Remember. On your last voyage, you lost half your crew, but you survived that particular loss. You will survive this one."
"Do not presume to lecture me. I've seen death before, many times. Don't you think I have?" He blinked, hard, and sat down on the doctor's desk. "When you're at sea, Death is a member of your crew! Sometimes it's brutal. Scurvy eating away their teeth. Gales sweeping them overboard like toys. Water so cold that they freeze to death before we can pull them out. But it was Death's decision to take them, not mine. I've never had to murder a member of my own crew before. I've never had to give such an order before."
This man had been hailed as a Deliverer, a Warrior; up close, his much-vaunted iron will was no more substantial than Sophie the Steamfitter's garter belt. Gemma confronted an awful truth: that this man lacked the will to do what must be done. If he could not give The Order once they reached the Red Planet, the Fury would be lost. Gemma could not allow that. She had a mission to complete, even if she did not yet understand it.
"Pugh has sheltered you far too much," she declared. "You are in a savage land now, far more savage than the sea. You cannot give any quarter, for you will receive none. Death is also on the Fury's roster. Are you his commander, or is he yours?" She poked his chest with rapid taps, like a radio operator sending a telegram. The pokes grew harder with every word. "Get this through your thick pate: Cervantes is only the first. Get used to it."
"You're just a geologist, Miss Llewellyn." He knocked her hand away. It was hard enough to feel but gentle enough to avoid injuring her. "You play with rocks all day. What do you know of holding a life in your hands?"
The Man from Shanghai would have told him that she knew plenty. Her icy gaze bore into him. Her face was blank of sentiment.
"He is your friend, Christophe. You owe him release."
She reached for his hand and held it between her two smaller ones. It was clammy. He looked at that hand and pursed his lips. He pressed his trembling fingers into the top of her hand in silent response.
She continued, "I am not saying this won't haunt you. It will. Of that I have no doubt. But that does not relieve you of your responsibility. The only thing you can do for him now is find the cause of his demise. Like it or not, this is the job you took on when you put on that uniform."
"You question my courage?"
"No. Your judgment."
He jerked his hand away from her as if her palms were burning coals. He squeezed his eyes shut, removing her from his sight so he could avoid her words. A single hot tear escaped from his shut eyelid. It ran down his face, dripped off his jaw, and splashed onto the floor. When he opened his eyes again, they brimmed with fury.
"You heartless beast," he snarled.
He wiped the cuff of his sleeve across his cheek and marched out the door. She let him go without a word. It was his turn to act.
Gemma stood there, frozen to the spot, her heart a glacier, listening through the open door as he gave the order to Dr. Hansard. He was the courageous captain, the darling hero of the CDVs, once more; the lighthearted lad was back in the Garden where he belonged. As Christophe spoke to the surgeon, she could feel the fragile connection that they had formed over the last few days snap. Whatever it had been -- friendship, attraction, simple commiseration, she did not know -- it was gone now.
She slipped out into sick bay and leaned against the wall, forcing herself to witness that which she had advocated. She owed Cervantes that much, stranger though he was, because she would have done the same for Philippa.
At least the captain got to say goodbye. At least he had that much. With Philippa, there had been no hand to hold, no forehead to kiss, no eyes to close, no body to bury. She had simply not returned.
She remembered the day that Mrs. Brightman had told the Girls that one of their number was not coming home. Mrs. Brightman had always discouraged displays of sentiment. All Gemma had been able to do was stare out the window, into the grey misty rain, and let the sky weep for her. The wind had wailed in her stead. When she had been exhausted enough, she had simply sat back in the chair in front of the fire in Brightman's third-best parlour and stared into the flames. She had simply listened to the thunder.
Even now, she could not tolerate passionate scenes. On that dark day long ago, she had closed the door -- forever, she had thought -- on attachments to any other person. That chamber inside of her, that aspect of Gemma Llewellyn, was dead. It only felt a flicker of phantom pain every now and then, like the itching an amputee might feel in a missing arm. She knew what this action would cost the captain.
Mrs. Brightman had not allowed her to wallow in her grief then, and she could not allow Christophe to wallow in his own grief now. The rest of the ship depended on him to hold it together. She would rather have him hate her for knocking him about with the baton of reality than see him as a pitiful and pathetic creature lashing about for comfort. She could offer him neither succour nor absolution, but she could offer him the distraction of anger.
Everyone has a key that you have only to grasp and turn, Mrs. Brightman had said.
Gemma had found the captain's key, and that key was cruelty.
She leaned her head back against the wall, letting the background hum of the ship sing to her. Even the skittering and scratching in the walls had a wretched tone to them. Part of her wished she were back on Earth, where she could hear it rain, where she could just lean back and listen to the thunder. That was all she could do here, lean against the wall to witness a dying man's last rites and listen to the thunder in his captain's heart.
~~~~
Christophe
"Cervantes' death was a complete and utter waste."
Christophe's words lashed out across the table at Pugh and Wallace. He felt the loss keenly, as if someone had hacked off his right arm. Anger and frustration thrashed inside him, threatening to break free. It was a struggle to stay in his seat.
Wallace responded in a calm, composed voice. "I disagree, Captain. Our late first mate is a hero. He died in the line of duty. In the hands of the right journalist, no death is ever wasted."
"What, what?" Christophe snarled in growing disbelief. Was the geologist's coldness infecting the rest of the ship? It was bad enough that he remembered every frozen word she had uttered in perfect detail. The conversation replayed in his head, even when he tried to stop it. Did he have to hear it from everyone else?
Wallace's tone was arid and precise. He might as well have been discussing train schedules. "You've provided us with a genuine hero, Captain, and that's precisely what we need at the moment. Sophie the Steamfitter has taken our friend to her plump white bosom. People will devour that image. They will remember him with every cry of Terra vigila."
"Not to mention enshrine him over the lager taps at the Badger and Tentacle," Pugh growled.
Wallace waved the response away. "Why, there are memorial CDVs on the presses as we speak."
"So soon?" asked Dr. Pugh.
"Why do you think we took photos of the crew before we launched? We only missed the geologist, and, well, no one would miss her."
Christophe had noticed the busy photographers that had swarmed the launch site for weeks, and he had noticed their absence on the day he had departed. He had assumed that all the photographs had been for historical purposes. Apparently, history had not been their only motive. He felt a chill go down his spine as he thought about the TIA, preparing to commemorate the deaths of his crew, one at a time or otherwise.