Winter

by James Wittenbach

  Her whisper became curiously strong. “And since then, I’ve pulled him out of a lot of worse situations.”

  Constantine put a finger in his ear to listen to what Hunter was doing. He heard the sound of footsteps, of three hatches opening and closing, and finally a voice.

  The voice was not Hunter’s, nor anyone else he recognized. “Hey, Beauty, why is your face in my space? It’s not Firesday is it, ‘nless I slept through another Windsday.”

  “I’m not here for the drop…”

  “Magic, because I am tragically without comestibles. I have to put in my allotment request, see how I am?”

  “I need some information.”

  “If I know it, you can have it. If I don’t know it, you don’t want it.”

  “I want to know if you’ve seen anyone strange around here.”

  “Strange? Like in ‘never-seen-you-before’ strange, or as in, what’s-that-assol-doing-to-that-dog strange?”

  “The first… but also possibly the second if it relates to the first.”

  “Neg, beauty, I haven’t seen anyone new, but strange things are afoot.”

  “Like what strange things?”

  “This planet… the one where people live forever, it’s giving off a weirdness vibe, the strongest weirdness vibe since planet Eden.”

  “What about it?”

  “I said strange things were afoot, beauty, and it’s all because of the weirdness vibe. A cat came in and ordered a Jane and Tonic.”

  “That is odd.”

  “Za, he usually orders a White Borealan. Also, the band was jamming the other night, got stuck on the same riff for forty-five minutes. A tech-and-a-half from Enviro-core, never gets any luck at all, but last night drew four washes in a row playing Bongo, and one of the Watch-holes, Lazlo Replacement, had his Watch uniform stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “F’real, Not only, the way it was stolen. He was in the euphemism on Deck Minus 44 by the transport dock, all right. Next thing he knows, he wakes up naked, and its three hours later.”

  “He doesn’t remember what happened?”

  “Swears that’s what happened, beauty. Thinks he was being pranked. New to the Watch. Hazing and all that. They all deny it, but you know Watch-holes.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “She right. Listen, Beauty, you need snack items now? I was going to make the drop…”

  “Just make the drop as planned.”

  “I see how you are. Thanks very much. How’s Lady Ghost?”

  “She is well. Take care of yourself. Stay out of the weird.”

  “Of only I could, bud.”

  Constantine wondered who Hunter was talking to. It certainly wasn’t the voice of anyone he knew. He listened to a hatch opening and closing, and counted the footsteps as Hunter returned. “That was useless,” Constantine growled. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Are we?” Hunter asked. “I considered that exchange quite valuable.”

  “We already knew the attacker was dressed as a Guardian.”

  “Now, we know for sure he came from outside the ship,” Hunter said. “No one in the UnderDeck would have stripped a Guardian. Those of us that are left didn’t survive by attracting attention to ourselves. Anyone in the crew could get a Watch uniform without jumping a Watchmen, and why would they need to anyway?”

  Constantine was not convinced. “It doesn’t help him. Replacement’s access codes would have been changed after he reported the assault.”

  “Which he did, right?”

  Constantine consulted his data pad. “He did. We assumed it was one of you.”

  “Replacement was a Republicker, was his Ident Sliver intact?”

  “It was.”

  “His data pad?”

  “Also deactivated.”

  “Not immediately, though. Whoever hit him had at least three hours. You can get from one end of the ship to the other in less than three hours.”

  Constantine grunted.

  “Was anything accessed during the three hours between the assault and its deactivation?”

  “I can find out,” said Constantine. He lifted his own pad and retrieved everything Replacement had accessed. “Maps of the ship. Information about our propulsion systems. Aves. Technical schematics of our weapons systems.”

  “Weapons systems?” Hunter asked curiously.

  “I know what you’re thinking. That’s restricted data. He should not have been able to get more than cursory specifications, nothing we don’t teach the children about in school.”

  “Suppose he did,” Hunter asked drily. “Which weapons systems in particular?”

  “Hammerheads, Jack-hammers, Ass-Kickers, Nemesis systems…”

  “But nothing about the shields, or the particle cannons, or the phalanx guns. May I see that pad?” Constantine handed him the pad. Hunter activated its mapping function. “When I was attacked, I was in Forward Section 63:L25 on Deck Minus 25. If the attacker used Replacement’s pad to plot the most direct course from Deck Minus 44 Section 99 Zeta to Deck Minus 25 Section 63 …” Wheels turned in his head. “We may have a problem.”

  “Why?”

  Hunter showed him the map. “Your intruder is going for the Missile Hatcheries.” Winter – Collinstown

  Keeler, Ziang, Goldenrod, Queequeg, and Toto traveled on Zilla to Collinstown, a small settlement on the edge of the Southern Sea. Their ultimate destination was a place called Shipwreck, 700 km away on the opposite shore.

  “I still don’t see why we can’t just fly there by spaceship,” Keeler complained. He shared his landing couch with Goldenrod, who lay with her head in his lap. Queequeg had disappeared into the engine room, and was fast asleep on a heat exchanger.

  “Don’t people ever take voyages by sea on your planet?” Ziang asked, seated across from him on a comfortable couch in Zilla’s lower deck. Between them, on a low table, was an array of juices, fruit, and sweets from Zilla’s larder, Keeler’s attempt to repay the General’s hospitality.

  “Za, we have supersonic sea-skimmers for transport from one continent to another, and sail-powered pleasure ships. As a matter of fact, my estate back on my homeworld rests on the shore of our largest freshwater lake, Lake of the Loons. We have several lake yachts. Every Octember 4th, we hold a party on the largest one, Outstanding Folly, and pour glasses of wine over the side to commemorate my great ancestor August Keeler’s raid on the Moon’s Silver winery when he and a band of confederates, dressed as Borealans, dumped 1,600 barrels of wine into the lake. The waters washed red for days afterwards.”

  “Why did he do that?” Ziang asked. “Was it a protest of some kind? Did he oppose the consumption of alcohol?”

  “Neg, he just wanted to see if fish could get drunk. This was in the 6600’s, when the Keeler gene pool got a little bit, er, diluted. His brother was Hannibal Keeler. Now, that guy… that guy was a complete nut, but the less said about him, the better.”

  Ziang was inspecting the cabin. “Compared with the shuttlecraft of my day, yours leave something to be desired. Ours had bright lights, shining metal. All the instruments and controls were in plain view, not hidden behind opaque panels. The interior of this craft reminds me of a hospital, and the food is…” he paused, and gave a slight smile to show he was just being polite. “…marginal.”

  “So, tell me more about this library.”

  Ziang looked out his window at the bleak landscape passing below. “The decision to cut ties with the Commonwealth was not unanimous. A few of us still felt loyalty to the Commonwealth we had fought to preserve and purify. We were defeated, but we did fight to preserve the knowledge of the Commonwealth, and some memory of its culture. Some of those who thought the memory of the Commonwealth was worth preserving gathered together as many records and as many reference books on the Commonwealth into a central location, the last place anyone would look lest some Parliament Ball get out of hand and decide to eradicate them. I know that may sound like a ridiculous fear, that people would
destroy their own culture.”

  “Not so ridiculous,” Keeler reassured him. “On the planet Republic, there were several drives to destroy all records of pre-colonial knowledge. It was intellectually fashionable at one time to believe that knowledge of the past was an impediment to progress.”

  “So, you understand.”

  “What kind of knowledge did you store there?”

  “Star maps, descriptions and locations of thousands of worlds, including Earth, accounts of battles, depictions of art, recipes…”

  “Recipes?” Keeler asked.

  Ziang picked up a piece of chocolate and nougat from the tray in front of him. “Are you aware that in the Ancient Commonwealth, there was a planet where hydrocarbons combined in the atmosphere to produce sugars, and these sugars blew across the surface of the planet like great, sweet sandstorms.”

  “Are you making that up?” Goldenrod asked. “I’ve never heard of such a planet.”

  “It is real… I assure you. The sand was sugar, unfortunately, the atmosphere was quite toxic, and the surface almost completely dry and waterless. Nevertheless, some humans did adapt to life there. They harvested the excretions of native life forms, which were a powerful euphoric and hallucinogen.” Keeler interrupted. “I ask again, recipes? ”

  Ziang ignored him. “The planet became much fought over and was ultimately destroyed. Various factions within the Armies of Darkness wanted to possess it. The battle for it so distracted them, so consumed their resources, it actually helped us prevail in the Third Crusade.”

  “And what does this have to do with recipes?” Keeler persisted, unable to explain why he had gotten mentally stuck on this point.

  “There was a pseudo-Messianic figure who arose on the sugar planet and led its native … or I should say, its adapted human inhabitants … on a campaign to rid it of those off-worlders who were battling to possess it. Strangely, before becoming the leader of the planet’s people, he had been a cook in the house of the Duke who had claimed the planet. When the Duke was deposed by another Dark Lord, his entire staff was executed or cast into the wilderness. His cook was rescued by one of the sugar tribes, and eventually became their leader, and the leader of all the tribes. Still, though they revered him as a savior, a divine warlord-philosopher, his first interest was cooking. Half of his religious screeds consist of recipes. It is said when he overthrew the Dark Lord that had deposed his Duke, he served the lord and his minions a sumptuous feast seasoned with a slow-acting poison that gave them agonizing deaths.”

  “I think that same guy used to head the kitchen staff in my dormitory,” Keeler put in, just as the Aves began banking into a long, shallow curve. Toto was bringing his ship down through the cloud deck, and the first view of Collinstown was spreading below them.

  Collinstown looked like one of the small, quaint fishing villages that dotted the southwest coast of Boreala and the northeast coast of Carpentaria on Sapphire. It was even smaller, of course, the number of buildings in the town, narrow structures with sharp, black roofs, could not have been more than a dozen.

  These cowered at the foot of some stony hills, beyond a stretch of water protected by a high outcropping of rock about a kilometer from the shore, a natural breakwater.

  The intercom called for their attention. “You want me to set down next to the boats?” Toto asked.

  There were a handful of small ships parked along the shoreline.

  “No,” Ziang told him. “Find a flat area between the town and shore.” Toto said no more, and soon the ship was on the ground. The air was biting cold when they exited, damp, and sea-flavored. The other three stood before the hatch shivered as Toto brought the hovercraft round from the ship’s rear cargo bay. The hovercraft was a distant cousin to Pegasus’s intraship transport pods, but larger, much more rugged, and not shaped much like an egg. It had the curves of a ground vehicle, though, and four levitation pods that kept it 0.5 meters above the ground. Its color was off-white, trimmed in black and orange. Its passenger compartment could hold up to eight people in reasonable comfort. An automech helped load some cargo from General Ziang’s estate into its rear cargo trunk, and the four of them headed for the town.

  It doors opened upward, like gull-wings. “Shall we?” Keeler invited, gesturing toward the hovercraft.

  “Hold on,” Goldenrod said. She looked at Ziang. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “The man we’re going to see is a seaman, a trader who brings goods and travelers across the Southern Sea.”

  “Oh, no,” said Goldenrod. “You don’t mean… him. ”

  “The Shipmaster, yes.”

  “Not the man in the red shirt?”

  “Yes, the man in the red shirt.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Goldenrod told them. “I won’t be going with you. And if you value your life, Silly Billy Keeler, you won’t go either.”

  Keeler would not be turned back. This library could make the whole Odyssey Project worthwhile. He thought of all that data and sucked back a mouthful of salivation. “Who are we talking about?” She shook her head. “I will not say his name. He’s a walking disaster area. You can not even say his name on this planet except in conjunction with calamity.”

  Keeler turned to Ziang. “You’re sure we can’t go by spaceship.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not sure, or we can’t go.”

  “By sea, or I will not show you the library.”

  Keeler stroked his chin grimly. “Then it’s decided. Toto, get in touch with Gotobed. Let her know where I am. I haven’t been able to reach her.”

  “Then, you’re going anyway?” Goldenrod pouted. She slipped her arm around Toto. “Then you go without me. Perhaps, this lovely young man would fly me back to my humble mountain estate.” Toto’s eyes widened to the margin of his brow. “Za, ma’am.”

  “… and maybe you can stick around and help me… make my bed.”

  Toto and Goldenron returned to the ship, walking with her arm around his waist. “My boy is growing up,” Keeler muttered. “Well, General, it’s just you and I now.” They took the front two seats of the hovercar. Keeler had not driven since he had left Sapphire. He guided the vehicle from the landing site, catching a view of Zilla arcing skyward as they started down the hill.

  They exited the vehicle at the edge of the town. Ziang led Keeler down ancient, weathered stairs cut into the side of a hill. Over the sea, the sun was filtering through the slats of a gray cloud deck, washing the scene in a light that seemed somehow used and leftover from some brighter place.

  There was a small shelter at the base of the hill, not much bigger nor sturdily built than a hut. Ziang knocked, and there was no answer. He knocked harder, and there was still no response. He was about to knock again when the door swung open suddenly. Ziang dodged, but the door caught Commander Keeler in the eye, smarting severely. “My eye!”

  The man who emerged cowered back. “Oops, sorry.”

  Keeler rubbed his eye. “Quite all right, it doesn’t seem to be seriously injured. Just hurts like…”

  “Like getting hit in the eye with a door,” Ziang finished. “I should have warned you.” Through his good eye, Keeler checked out the man who had clobbered him. He was tall, very thin, and beneath the wisps of a goatee, he had a face that had grown wizened without growing wiser. He indeed wore a red shirt. An array of nautical gear was hung around his neck.

  Keeler extended his hand. “I’m Prime Commander William Keeler of the Pathfinder Ship Pegasus.”

  “Ishmael Gilligan, at your service,” said the man, saluting and managing to pop himself in the eye with his telescope with one movement. “Ow, well, at least I guess we’re even now.”

  “I suppose we are … Ishmael,” Keeler repeated. What an odd name, he thought. Wonder where it comes from?

  “Call me, Gilligan,” said Ishmael.

  Gilligan, Keeler thought, and shivered from something other than the chill of the sea. Gilligan was a mythological trickster d
emon of powerful significance, the principle figure in a series of stories in which characters representing the seven deadly sins were trapped on an island hell. It fell to Gilligan to keep them all trapped, to thwart their every effort to escape. His mother had told him those stories as he had gone to sleep as a child. Keeler shuddered at the memory. Why would anyone choose such a name?

  “Is the Little Fish still available for a passage,” Ziang asked.

  “No,” Gilligan answered.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it sank three years ago.”

  “I see, have you procured a replacement?”

  “No, but I bought a new ship.”

  Keeler shuddered. This speech pattern of negating, then repeating a speaker’s question was a hallmark of the ancient Gilligan, the trickster demon from the stories. He understood why Goldenrod had been afraid of him.

  “The point being,” Ziang persisted, as though unperturbed, “you have a vessel capable of carrying us to Shipwreck.”

  “Yes.”

  “We would like to engage your vessel for that purpose. When can we leave?” Gilligan shrugged. “How about today?”

  Ziang nodded. “Excellent! Then all that remains is the delicate matter of Shipmaster Gilligan’s remuneration.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Gilligan said. “I just want to know how you guys are going to pay me.”

  “In the vehicle at the top of the hill are four barrels of petroleum jelly, four barrels of kerosene, and six canisters of methane. Will that be sufficient?”

  “Not only that, it’ll be enough, too.” He turned away from his hut, leaving the door open. “Follow me.”

  Gilligan led them down to a wide pier that fronted the sea, constructed of thick planks that might have been stone, or might have been wood. It was coated with a faint trace of frozen sea ice, and the commander nearly slipped once or twice. They passed three small ships, each one a black, tube-shaped vessel lying mostly beneath the water, before coming to the end of the dock, where a sailing ship waited.

  It was smaller than an Aves, a little. Its hull was dhow-shaped – high in the back, low in the middle, and pointed in the front – and dark gray. Its sails were a rather elaborate array of convex lenses in various sizes articulated on long metal limbs.