Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy

by Joe Pace

  The offenders secured, the machrines retreated, with the exception of Ogden-92, who remained nearby. Pearce stepped forward, a bound, old-paper copy of the King’s Regulations and Instructions of the Admiralty under his arm. It was traditional for each ship of His Majesty’s Royal Navy to carry one of these archaic books, even though the long list of regulations was more readily accessed via computer or vidscreen. Observing the requisite theater, the captain opened the book and read aloud from the centuries-old text, much of it still couched in traditional language.

  “Article Twenty-Three of the King’s Regulations and Instructions of the Admiralty,” Pearce began, his voice thick but clear. “If any person in the fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speeches or gestures, tending to make any quarrel or disturbance, he shall, upon being convicted thereof, suffer such punishment as the offence shall deserve, in keeping with the customs of the service.”

  “They ain’t persons though, are they?” grumbled Pratt.

  “Be silent.” One eye twitched, but Pearce retained control of his temper and the dignity of his rank. Pratt scowled, but held his tongue. “As captain of this vessel, I find these men in violation of this regulation. Machrine Ogden-92, do your duty.”

  Sergeant Crutchfield handed the robot a thick brown bag. Reaching inside it, Ogden withdrew a short metallic cylinder. At the press of a button, nine long, thin filaments sprouted and grew to about two meters in length. Already quiet, the crew somehow managed to become more silent still.

  The Cat O’Nine Tails. Pearce hated it. It was an ugly spectacle to watch, unpleasant in the extreme. Still, some discipline was needed, and even though it inflicted significant anguish, the Cat did no real structural damage to the body of those punished, unlike the far more barbaric floggings of centuries past that crippled or even killed. Even so, it was a brutal, inhumane instrument, one of the few vestiges of the old Navy that had endured into the modern, presumably more enlightened, age. The Cat was not used, as the lash had once been, for minor offenses; more lenient sanctions, such as confinement to quarters or docking of pay, sufficed for these. It was reserved, instead, for those crimes the Navy had once considered capital offenses. In deep space, crew were too valuable, too difficult to replace to simply shoot or even hang, as once would have been the case. So, they tasted the Cat instead.

  There was only one Cat on board, and with multiple wrongdoers to reprimand, Ogden-92 would apply each of the lashes to each crewman, in turn. Each of the nine filaments was preprogrammed to release a timed electrostatic charge directly into the nervous system, causing a set amount of pain for a set duration. Ogden began with Pratt, moving to Quintal, then Churchill, and finally to Briggs. The robot wielded the Cat with inhuman precision, striking all four within five seconds. The first lash discharged sufficient energy to cause slight discomfort, essentially a tingling sensation, lasting only a single second. During that time, none of the assembled crew moved, or spoke. Only Ogden knew when the second lash would fall, the silent alert of a random internal chronometer instructing him when to proceed, sometime between one and sixty seconds later. That second lash was somewhat more unpleasant, though still not truly painful, and lasted just two seconds. The punishment continued with rigorous, almost ritualistic precision through the third (three seconds) and fourth lashes (four seconds), each with a corresponding increase in the charge.

  When the fifth lash touched Churchill’s back, barely two minutes into the exercise, he cried out. The gut-punch lash, Pearce thought, recalling how he had heard it described by others who had felt it. The fourth lash was the first that really hurt, it was said, and the fifth could take your breath away. And it lasted for a full five seconds. The others under punishment remained impassive, though Pearce imagined he detected a note of disdain for his weaker crewmate in Pratt’s glower.

  Ogden went on to apply the sixth lash like the machine he was, impervious to the suffering of those he chastised, impervious to any pleas for clemency they might attempt. Churchill did not cry out this time, despite the increased intensity and longer duration of the charge, though a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth told Pearce the man had bitten his tongue. At the seventh lash, midway through the seven-second duration, Quintal betrayed his agony with a sharp intake of breath through his nose, while Churchill, by far the softest creature involved, had begun to weep, tears streaming down his face, body shaking with sobs. Pratt remained silent, though his entire torso was glistening with sweat, and the veins in his neck and arms stood out like thick red rope. Pearce looked at Briggs. Her demeanor had not changed once during the entire punishment. No grimaces, no grunts, not even the barest flicker in her impassivity. The captain marveled at her strength of will, even as he wondered at her humanity.

  The eighth lash, delivering eight long seconds of soul-crushing pain, finally drew a groan from Mathias Quintal, a low, guttural sound emitting from his closed mouth as his dark eyes rolled up into his head, becoming blank white orbs. He had tried to keep up with Pratt and Briggs, but they outmassed him by no small margin, and many their size and bigger had broken by number eight. Churchill, the poor weak fool, had urinated on himself and dropped to his knees. Ambrose-226 and Victor-11 swiftly drew him back up to his feet, though when they released him he promptly fell again. Crutchfield barked an order, and the machrines propped Churchill up again, between them, and held him fast.

  One more and this ugliness is over, Pearce thought.

  A full minute passed before Ogden-92 let fly the ninth and final touch of the Cat, and with it nine seconds of the kind of pain only encountered in the worst kind of nightmares. Two seconds into the discharge, Churchill’s body writhed in grotesque spasm, his screams giving way to a high-pitched, animalistic keening, and he vomited something brown. Quintal fell to the deck, twitching and moaning. Only Briggs and Pratt kept their feet, though at long last Pratt made a sound, a roaring bellow that echoed through the bay, throughout the entire Harvest. If not for the vacuum beyond the hull, Pearce thought, they’d hear him back in London. Briggs remained silent, her teeth now bared in a feral grimace, blood and saliva bubbling pink down her chin. Then the nine seconds were over, and the punishment with it.

  The entire exercise had lasted no more than ten minutes.

  “Dismissed,” Pearce said softly, and the machrines undid the restraints. It was an ancient naval tradition that once the penalty had been paid, wrongdoers were restored to status, the slate clean.

  Dr. Szakonyi came forward to check on the offenders, though their injuries were, by design, entirely psychological. Pearce watched as some of the other starmen went to their crewmates to offer assistance and commiseration. Saul Lamb gave Briggs an approving look as he and Xiang helped Quintal to his unsteady feet. She ignored him, ignored everyone, as she stalked from the bay, erect and unbowed, the only evidence of her ordeal the slightest red glow on her back, even now fading. Taryn Hadley brought Pratt into a less than motherly hug, pressing his sweat-soaked head against her pillowy chest. The task of tending to Churchill fell to Waugh, who looked none too thrilled with the detail. Churchill was held in fairly low regard by most belowdecks, largely (and correctly) seen as an insipid flunky.

  Pearce turned aside. There would be resentment for a time among the crew, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Put it out of your mind. You did what was necessary, nothing more. Then he made eye contact with Fletcher. There, he found reproach. Not for his demotion of her, but for his punishment of the ables. Grinding his jaw, he brushed past her, past his other officers, and out of the bay.

  ****

  “A glass of wine with you, Sir Green.”

  The aged knight held his glass aloft and toasted “to the King” before downing most of the contents in one prolonged swallow. Pearce returned the gesture, with a somewhat smaller sip.

  “To our success,” he addressed the table, “and to a speedy return home.” This drew echoes and a thump on
the table from Lieutenant Pott. Pearce did not truly enjoy hosting dinner for the officers and his civilian guests, but it was part of his duty, and whatever else his faults, inattention to duty was not one of them. Green, he saw, was perturbed.

  “I found the entire exhibition utterly barbaric.”

  The white flesh of Sir Green’s scalp glowed a mottled scarlet beneath his wispy gray flyaway hair as he visibly trembled, one hand clutching at the other. The steaming plate of ham cutlets and whipped squash on the table before him lay untouched, though Pearce noticed the man’s wine glass had been emptied.

  “I cannot disagree.” Pearce cut his synthetic meat with exaggerated deliberation and chewed mechanically at the piece he put in his mouth. He looked around the table in the officers’ mess. Fletcher stared at her plate, hands on her lap, unmoving. Pott ate with his usual enthusiasm, the indelible habit of a life in the service. Peckover was absent, on duty, and Szakoyni watched with mild interest. Green was nearly apoplectic, but Dr. Reyes was the soul of composure next to him, even as she arched an eyebrow.

  “You agree, Captain?”

  “Naturally,” Pearce replied. “Any sane creature would find the Cat a hellish device.”

  “And yet you ordered it used! You ordered it used and ordered every man and woman on the ship to observe the nasty business!” Green shouted, half standing.

  “Yes, and I will again, if required. In the meantime, Sir Eustace, please keep your seat and keep your voice down. I do not mind your questioning my authority here in private. Your status, of course, permits such…discourse. However, the Harvest has thin interior walls, and I would not appreciate any of the crew overhearing your kindly-intentioned sentiments.”

  “My…my what? And who bloody well cares if they do overhear?”

  “I do,” Pearce answered curtly, the slightest tinge of irritation creeping into his voice. “And for the same reason I ordered everyone to be present, in keeping with Navy regulations. There will be discipline on this ship, sir, and I will enforce it as needed.” He laid his knife and fork on his plate with a clatter. “We are a small community here, very far from home. And to succeed in our mission, indeed to survive at all, especially with such crewmen as the Admiralty has seen fit to give us, there must be discipline. And it begins with me. Here on this ship, I speak with the King’s own voice.”

  “The King!” Green choked. “What arrogance!”

  “Not at all,” interjected Reyes smoothly. “I think you will find that commanders of naval vessels enjoy precisely that station. I, for one, found the sanctions entirely appropriate. I had no idea you were such a humanist, Eustace. Not one of those punished was gently born, after all.” She turned to face Pearce, almost as an afterthought. “No offense, of course, Captain.”

  Pearce merely smiled thinly in response and chewed his ham, fairly certain offense had been intended. Her endorsement of his position was neither encouraging nor comfortable. He did not like her, nor trust her. What game is that woman playing? Reyes was aloof, cold, and thoroughly charmless. She was undeniably brilliant, of course – Pearce had sat in on a few sessions between her and Sir Green, and had swiftly given up on trying to understand their conversations about progeny tests, bare-root seedlings, and hydroponic reagent purity. He thought of the words they had exchanged after the encounter with the pirates. Maybe, he thought, she’s just a bitch.

  “Humanism hardly equates to egalitarianism, Dr. Reyes,” spluttered the Royal Gardener. “Believing in the inherent dignity of all people hardly qualifies as a call to end the monarchy. I merely abhor violence. Surely there must be some gentler way to enforce discipline? Some withholding of privilege, some reduction in rank?”

  “Captain,” mumbled Fletcher, standing abruptly. “May I be excused? I am not feeling well.”

  “No, you may not,” snapped Pearce. “Keep your seat, Lieutenant Fletcher.”

  “Sir,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast, “haven’t you embarrassed me enough tonight?”

  “If you are embarrassed, it is your own doing, not mine. Sit.”

  Fletcher sat down, heavily. Pott had the good grace to appear not to notice, and the rest of the table was well-bred enough to ignore the outburst.

  “You may have the King’s voice, Pearce, but I have his ear,” said Green smugly. At least he’s not shouting anymore, Pearce thought. I should be grateful for that, anyway. “And you can be sure that I will be complaining most strenuously upon our return about these infamous practices.”

  “Sir Eustace,” said Pearce, and he actually found himself smiling, “I would like nothing more. All else aside, it would mean that we had gotten home safe.”

  ****

  The servants were gone, and the sun had long since set. All the lights were out in the parlor where John Banks sat alone, his aquiline face lit only by the gentle, flickering glow from the fireplace. A solitary red light on the knee-high table in front of him blinked politely but insistently, announcing (as it had for the last half-hour) a new encoded message from Pearce. Banks took one more slow and fortifying sip of Chianti, set the glass down with a sigh, and activated the viewsceen. It flared to life, and with it the face of William Pearce.

  He seems so tired, thought Banks. Pearce’s face was drawn and even paler than usual.

  “My Lords,” he began. “The Harvest continues en route to Cygnus. We did experience a setback in the Lyra system and some subsequent crew discipline issues.” He proceeded, grimfaced and pale, to describe the encounter with the Procyean pirates, as well as the robot roulette incident, including his demotion of Christine Fletcher. “Despite these obstacles, I remain convinced we will arrive as scheduled at Cygnus, and accomplish our objectives. I will continue to update you as long as I can. Pearce out.” The screen went blank.

  Banks sat back in his sofa as the screen sank seamlessly into the tabletop. Given the communications restrictions that the Harvest was traveling under, all messages, including this one, came first to the Admiralty. That means Exeter has already seen this. He knew the Star Lord would be fuming. Pearce had been insistent on having Fletcher, and Banks had been insistent on having Pearce. So Banks had argued for her inclusion on the voyage over Exeter’s misgivings. And now she was giving Pearce trouble. Perhaps the Star Lord had been right, he thought. With no formal training and no psychological screening, they had made her a Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and second in command of a starship? It had all seemed so clear, so simple, in the cozy confines of Exeter’s offices.

  For the very first time, Banks began to worry in earnest about the success of the mission. About the people they had chosen to lead it. About his friend, Eustace. Sir Green had thought this his last chance for a grand adventure, to wander outside his well-ordered gardens and into the wilds of space. He’s not young, Banks thought tenderly. Neither of us are. He felt the old gardener’s absence keenly, missing his kind smiles, his erudite wit, his loving touch. Trying to imagine Eustace all alone out there, across billions of miles of frigid vacuum, made him shiver despite the well-regulated warmth in the room. The thought of Eustace never coming home, of a world without him…

  Old fool, he called himself. If Green never came back, if the Harvest failed, there would be no more world for anyone. Banks retrieved his wineglass, felt the warmth of the Chianti through the curve of the crystal, and tried to ignore the crushing weight in his heart. The uncertain future of all humanity hung from the slender thread he and Exeter had managed to spin. Staring at the blackness beyond the parlor’s authentic glass windows, he felt small. The universe, all of it, was out there. And the vast bulk of it was unexplored. Admiralty star charts resembled the world maps from the previous millennia, tiny regions of familiarity surrounded by a fringe drawn from rumor and scattered reports, and beyond that, the vast unknown. Banks had an ancient map like that in his Ministry office, and where the unknown or uncharted persisted, there were fanciful illustrations of undulating serpents or beckoning mermaids or other mythologic
al beasts, and in one place the scrawled warning, here there be dragons. It was all so much more romantic, and terrifying, than the Admiralty’s stark, sterile charts of empty quadrants, filled with untracked blackness.

  In the brief decades since human science had begun outwitting the paradoxes of mass and time and distance, the King’s ships had penetrated only a small corner of just one of the infinite galaxies known to exist, all spinning away from one another and from whatever shared birthplace they might have known. Even within the infinitesimal shard of space which humanity had managed to grope through, there was bewildering diversity. Among those planets considered Earth-like, enjoying sufficiently similar tolerances of temperature, atmosphere, and orbital distance, the native flora and fauna and other forms of life occupied every notch on the continuum of human imagination and beyond, in a stunning panoply of variety.