by K. T. Hunter
"Leave it," Christophe said.
He traced some of the spatter with his index finger. Rather than revulsion, he felt an odd comfort in the wall's blemish. With it there, he could almost feel Miguel's presence in the chamber.
"Sir?"
"Yes, leave it as it is. Just bolt a new panel over it. We will deal with it when we get back to Earth."
The mate sighed with relief. "Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."
~~~~
Gemma
Gemma paced in her shrinking cage. Waiting was a slog through a deep sludge in which she never seemed to move forward. The captain did not come. Frau Knopf came and went with a tray, and still he did not come. Muddy time sucked at her ankles, and she strained her ears until she thought they would pop in listening for his footfalls.
No message. No crackle from the speaking tube. No hastily dashed missive on a scrap piece of paper. No frenetic whisper carried by a trusted crewmember. Nothing. The only thing she could feel was the eye of the unknown Watcher upon her, so close that the hairs on her neck stayed at attention. Her skin crawled with gooseflesh.
She did not know what she hoped for, really, except to know that Philippa's child was now safe. The strength she had felt in the captain's voice as he had given his orders had struck some chord deep within her, but she could not get her mind around the sound it made. Nothing beyond that bore thinking about.
Frau Knopf brought her another tray and escorted her to the head, but she had no news for her other than Mr. Humboldt's report that things were still in motion.
It was odd how the ship contracted and expanded around her. It was such a peculiar metal beast, all at once as tiny as an anthill or as large as the globe. At the moment, it was a single cabin with a very large engine. She thought she would go mad just thinking about it. She would rather face her Watcher head-on than suffer through this interminable limbo.
As she changed into some nightclothes, she discovered Nigel's watch in her pocket. She popped it open. Philippa was still inside it; she had not imagined it all.
Gemma pulled the lock of hair out of the watch and stroked it with the tips of her fingers. She could almost catch Philippa's scent in it. With trembling hands, she peeled off a few strands and set them aside. She opened her own locket and boiled with fury as she gazed at that stony face. In a frenzy, she scraped Brightman out of it with her fingernail. She bared her teeth at the ravaged face and fantasized spitting venom at the beast for separating her from the one she loved. She scratched away until her nail ripped, but by then most of the picture had been shredded.
Questions boiled in her mind and bubbled in every hidden nook of her heart. Had Philippa gone willingly? Or had she simply escaped a life that she no longer wanted? Had she missed Gemma? Had she sent some message, some secret code, along the way that Gemma had missed? How could Philippa have left her bereft, except at this monster's command?
Many satisfying minutes later, Gemma slipped the smaller lock of hair into the photograph's former home. She shut the locket with a sense of finality. Then she tucked the remainder of the hair back into Nigel's watch and closed it. She set the timepiece beside her pile of books to keep it safe until she could return it.
She tried to rest as ship's night rolled around on the cabin's clock, but sleep refused to come. She opened the Cyrus Smith journal. She was still furious with Pugh and not inclined to assist him, but research was better than boredom. The castaways of Lincoln Island were receiving assistance from some unseen benevolent being, much as she, unseen, was trying to aid a child out of her reach. Agitated by the similarities, she put it down and picked up the book that the captain had lent her. Even Twain's famous humour could not soothe her; after re-reading the same paragraph a dozen times, she put it down as well. The Lyell book lurked on her desk with an accusing stare. She stuffed it into the armoire and slammed the door. She then tried to read Jane Eyre, but the bits about the mad woman in the attic won it a spot with Lyell.
Night and morning blended into one another. Her internal clock had lost all sense of the sun. She gave up trying to sleep and wearily resumed her browns.
She examined her mirror and found grease pencil droppings wedged into the edges. As she dug them out, she noticed how pale her reflection was. It brought to mind what Frau Knopf had read at the Knitting Circle. The fate of the Lady was still a mystery to her, and the mystery made her think of Philippa's strange words about being half-sick of shadows. She wasn't sure she wanted to know how the poem ended.
A sudden rap on the door startled her.
"Fraulein?" a voice called through the door. "Almost time for the memorial service. The captain has asked me to escort you there."
Gemma opened the door to admit Frau Knopf, who bore a tray of tea, toast, and a side order of handmade black lace. Knopf placed it on the desk and studied Gemma's uniform with a critical eye. She strode over to the armoire, opened it, and examined the few dresses there.
"You did not pack any mourning clothes?" she asked. "How optimistic of you." She stepped back over to the desk. "Ah, I suppose it is just as well. Most of the others will be in uniform as well, so no harm done. They will have armbands, though. I made you this one," she said as she held up the length of intricate stitches. "Nice and ladylike, ja? House of Worth it is not, but it will do." She tied it around Gemma's upper arm with a firm hand. "You may keep it, Fraulein. No doubt you'll need it again."
Gemma had thought they would be going to the parlour, but Frau Knopf led her in the direction of the cargo bay. Frau Knopf moved with an economy that Gemma could appreciate, almost too swiftly to read the signs on the doors as they passed: "Atmospheric Control", "Orrery Gearage", and "Armoury", amongst others. Still, Gemma was relieved to enjoy the relative freedom of the corridors after her confinement.
They approached a growing cluster of crewmembers in front of a completely different sort of chamber. It was similar to the entrance they had used when they had first boarded the ship, but much smaller.
The crowd rustled in hushed whispers. They tugged on their black armbands as they watched a group inside the windowed room. Four men huddled over a man-shaped mass of shroud in the floor. They lifted it into a metal canister that gleamed in the bright light of the chamber.
Frau Knopf halted at the side of the gathering, and then the matron left her to seek out her husband. Gemma stared into the enclosure, the airlock that was the terminus of so many worries and the butt of so many jokes. No one was laughing now.
Humboldt emerged from the milling crowd and nodded at her. "It's all settled at last," he said quietly. "Jules and his Missus have the babe. Bar blokes managed to get her out of there without anyone following. At least, they think so. They're all a bit knackered at the moment, but honestly I think it all worked out for the best."
Gemma thanked him. She was glad for some good news. She just hoped that they had evaded the Watchers. She knew too well how quietly Brightman's people could slink about.
Humboldt struggled with his black armband. Gemma admonished him to stand still, and she adjusted it for him. He gave her a grateful look, and they stood side by side in silence to watch the others come in.
The captain passed by with Pugh and Wallace. Along with Alfieri, they stopped in front of the glass enclosure and turned to face the crew. There was a brief murmur as the chain of command asserted itself, and the crowd organized themselves into neat columns and rows.
Gemma, already on the edge of the crowd, stayed put next to the Booleans. Nigel was there with his crew, looking weary but lucid. As the Cohort entered, they collected around her. Hui and Bidarhalli actually seemed relieved to see her, and just as they were about to inquire about her health, the captain called for attention.
The command rippled down through the ranks. The captain's voice was measured and steady as he spoke. "We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to our comrade, First Mate Miguel Cervantes. Before we continue, however, Father Alfieri would like to say a few words."
The cap
tain moved back into line with Dr. Pugh and Mr. Pritchard. The priest stepped forward and addressed the assembly.
"Eros. Storge. Philia. Agape. These are the names for love we have inherited from the ancient Greeks. There are many forms of love, and we have need of them all. Love for a sweetheart. Love of a parent for a child or the child for the parent. Love for a brother or sister. Love for our friends. Love for our fellow man and love for our Creator. All of these bring us here today. We are here to celebrate and honour the love that we have seen in Miguel Cervantes, our first mate, and Jennie Davies, beloved wife of Chief Nigel Davies and mother of his child.
"Each of them laid down their lives so that others might live. Cervantes' quick thinking saved the lives of the gun crew and possibly the entire ship. Jennie Davies yielded up her life so that a new life might come into this world. Our Lord tells us that there is no greater love than that."
As she listened to Alfieri's words, Gemma watched the reactions of the people around her reflected in the airlock window. It was much easier than staring into the knot in her own heart that tightened every time Alfieri mentioned Nigel's wife.
"We need this love. We need to see all the faces of love, especially now, with this great journey before us."
Humboldt had his eyes on the priest, but she could feel the corner of his eye catching her face every now and then. Rathbone and his crew were just beyond the Booleans, looking dark and worried.
"Love for our fellows binds us to one another, as gravity binds the Earth and Mars to the same sun, and allows them to influence one another, even at distances immeasurable to us."
Caroline and Nigel were on her other side, steady at attention. Caroline had a determined look on her face, as if to tell the world that all the Martians in the universe could not drag her away from her brother. Her fierceness was contagious, for Gemma decided, then and there, that she would think of Philippa as the winsome girl in Nigel's pocket watch and not a victim of Mrs. Brightman's scheming. She would never think of her as Philippa again. In her heart, she would only ever call her Jennie. There was little else she could do for Nigel, now, but she could do that, even if he never knew about it. The knot in her chest relaxed at the thought.
"Love heals us. Love transforms us. Love is the light that we carry with us into the darkness ahead."
Like a statue surrounded by water, the captain rose up from the pond of all those reflections. Christophe looked straight at her, straight into her. This was not the laughing lad on the gazebo bench. This was not even the spine-of-steel captain that dared confine her to quarters. Here was a complete stranger, with a veil across his eyes that concealed any sentiment concerning the figure in the cold and lonely chamber behind him. The inscrutability of his face disturbed her as she returned his gaze. She held his mute eyes, and he held hers, as Alfieri continued to speak.
"We never know where love will lead us. We never know to what heights of ecstasy we will rise or to what depths of sorrow we will sink along the way. But love, given its way, will lead us home in the end, even if not to the home that we expected."
Home, Gemma thought, as she turned her head away from the captain. She could bear that indecipherable stare no longer. I no longer have one. If one could even call that place a home.
"Never underestimate what love can accomplish, at whatever distance. We live and we love and we pass that spark forward -- through our children, through our ideals, our deeds and our courage.
"Whether for a lover, a friend, a parent, a brother or a sister, or for a complete stranger, or for the world entire... do not be limited in your love for yourself or for each other. Love is an inexhaustible resource. It feeds upon itself. Love fully. Love freely. And live."
Alfieri raised his hands in blessing.
"May the Lord be with us and show us mercy, as we show mercy to those we encounter in our travels."
He continued the service, but now he sounded a bit more official. She guessed that what he was performing now was some sort of Catholic ritual. She could never hope to comprehend such things. Mrs. Brightman was the head of her own form of religion; she would brook no other. Gemma fought to keep the boredom and frustration from her face. It might not mean anything to her, but it meant something to her new friends, and she would not take that away from them.
"Lord God, by the power of your Word you stilled the chaos of the primeval seas, you made the raging waters of the Flood subside, and calmed the storm on the sea of Galilee. As we commit the body of our brother Miguel Cervantes to the deep, grant him peace and tranquility until that day when he and all who believe in you will be raised to the glory of new life promised in the waters of baptism. We ask this through Christ our Lord."
Alfieri finally closed, and after his resounding "Amen", the captain barked a sharp "Terra vigila!"
"Terra vigila!" the crew cried back, and their chant echoed throughout the cargo bay.
The captain then turned to face the airlock doors and led them in a salute with a crisp command. Gemma watched the reflection of his face in the glass, and it never wavered as the outer doors opened. The canister was sucked away by the vacuum of space; it vanished in a blink, as if it had never been there. The knot in her chest convulsed again at the sight. Would it be that quiet and quick for a living person? She hoped she never found out.
Christophe lingered in his salute for a brief eternity. Being a civilian, Gemma did not have to salute, but she did notice the quivering of the aloft elbows around her. He finally gave the command to end the salute, and Gemma felt a silent sigh of relief wash through the room.
"Company, dismissed," the captain said, his voice devoid of emotion.
As the assembly broke up, Gemma whispered to Humboldt, "I wonder why the captain did not speak. He and Cervantes were old friends, were they not?"
Humboldt tugged at his armband. "I think he wanted to, Miss L. Seems the words might have just been too heavy to let go, just yet." He nodded at her. "I have to head back to Informatics. I have a little research I'd like to complete on your request. I will send word if I find anything. Good day, Miss L."
He touched her forearm with an absentminded pat and strolled away. The gathering wound down as crewmembers left by ones and twos. Caroline fussed over Nigel. Gemma paid her respects to them as she pressed Nigel's watch back into his hands. She could not bring herself to say much to him, not yet. He grasped her hands and choked on his words as he expressed his gratitude. He was not in any shape for conversation, so she let them be.
Gemma could not bear the thought of additional, possibly indefinite, confinement in her quarters. The captain was deep in conversation with Mr. Pritchard. She saw an opportunity, and she took it. She slipped out of the bay unseen. She thought Christophe might look for her in the Gardens first, so she headed for the orrery instead.
It was quiet there. The normal squeaks, rings, and roars that inhabited the corridors of the ship were a reassuring background rumble here, like far away thunder. All she could hear was the eternal grinding of the planets around the little sun, and again rotating themselves, showing day and night, night and day, season upon season, on each of the planets. There was the ever-present scribble-scrabble-skitter somewhere in the walls, but it no longer bothered her. She had been haunted by the Man from Shanghai for so long that another ghost would not matter.
She turned down the lights. As they dimmed, the model of the sun lit up like a roaring fire. It lit her way to the observation platform on the far side of the room. She wanted to open the shield door and have a look at what lay outside by herself.
With a trembling hand, she lowered the lever. The shield rumbled as it rolled back into the wall. She found no end to the stars that spilled across her view. She allowed her eyes to relax and go out of focus. One after another, more stars appeared. The more she looked, the more she saw, until the view filled her eyes with countless points of light. It was not just white light; every colour was there, from icy blue to fiery crimson, so many hues that she became giddy. The power
and majesty of them all overcame her. Her knees gave way. She landed on the deck floor, but she barely noticed the frigid metal beneath her. She was enraptured. The stars beckoned her onward.
Never in London had she seen such a night sky. The street lamps there concealed the view in their closer light. Once, during her time in Sicily, she had had one brief night alone on a dark beach during a new moon, and she had swooned at the wash of light across the sky.
That glorious night on the beach paled next to this.
She had never known such beauty existed. She was filled with a sudden rage that Mrs. Brightman had kept her from this, not only from this beauty and grace, but from the very capacity for loving it. Out here in the wilds of the solar winds, there was nothing to hold her back. Not even her Watcher could restrain her now. She had severed her last anchor line to Earth, and she was ready to sail free.
She knew those lights were far away, mind-numbing numbers of miles and years away; but for the moment, she could touch them by only reaching out her hand. The stars did not care where she had been or what she had done. They only wanted her to soar among them. The Milky Way surged before her like a vast and deep ocean of night, with the light of the stars sparkling like the moon on the sea. She had never seen such pure beauty in all her life, even in her imagination. She had never had an inkling that it even existed.
What other wonders waited beyond Mars? Would she ever be able to go there? Her heart began to race with the possibility ... could she just keep going, keep exploring? She felt she had finally found her heart, her purpose. It was a purpose far, far away from Mrs. Brightman.
She wished Jennie could have seen it. Jennie would have loved it, too. She should have come. She should have been there. The scar of her loss was reopened, and the pain was both fresh and sweet. She longed for some message, some reassurance, that her friend had still loved her at the end. But, other than that wish, nothing bound her to Earth.