by Joe Pace
“That will do, Sergeant. I know your feelings toward your machrines, but Luther is staying behind on my orders.” He thrust out his chin, almost daring the massive red-jacketed officer to gainsay him. I’ve already got three crew members locked up, he thought. What’s one more? But Crutchfield deflated in front of him.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said meekly.
“I congratulate you on your apprehension of the deserters,” Pearce continued. “Once we have left orbit, we will see to their punishment. You will assemble the crew, and both Briggs and Lamb will taste the Cat twice in succession.”
“Good God,” swore Pott, not quite under his breath, while Crutchfield stood stock still, silent and aghast.
“You disagree?” roared Pearce. “By the letter of the King’s regulations, I am within my rights to have them lobotomized and sent back to the damned algae pits. I may yet. You have your orders!”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, and scurried away. Pearce turned to see Hall hanging back, near the shuttle.
“Come on then, Mister Hall. Step lively, now. Drop that package in my cabin and report to the Quarterdeck. Make preparations for our departure from orbit. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
Pearce moved down the corridor, intent on leaving the Cygnus system, but also aware that there was one conversation he had to have first. Alone, he went to the section of the vessel housing the officers’ quarters, and directly to Fletcher’s cabin. Without preface, he entered.
It was dark inside, and quiet. He had never been in these quarters before, and now he was struck by just how much distance had arisen between the two of them since the Harvest left Spithead months before. Did I really misjudge her so badly? Or had something changed her? The lights were on the lowest setting, casting the entire snug cabin in gray shadow. Dimly, he was just able to make out a seated figure on the rumpled bed.
“Christine,” he began, determined to keep his temper under control. He was still angry, but his experience in the hidden Cygni lab had shaken some of his certitude. She did not respond. He cleared his throat, loudly. What was he expecting? Contrition? “We are leaving,” he continued. “We are going home.”
“Home.” The word dripped like venom from her lips.
“Yes, home, damn you. Our home. Earth, not this fantasy land!” But he broke off, raising both hands in a gesture of forbearance. “I do not want to keep you locked in here the entire voyage. Cygnus is behind us, now.”
“Behind you, perhaps,” she said coldly. She had risen from her bed and moved into the half-light that spilled in from the corridor. Her eyes were red-rimmed, fuming and sad. “The best part of me is still there.”
“What you felt for Jairo,” Pearce started haltingly, seeking common ground. He fumbled for words, trying to express how he had felt when the priestess Kaitsma had come near, how his head and heart and lungs had all seemed to liquefy. “I know…”
“You don’t know shit,” Fletcher snapped, her voice full of invective. “You shut your mouth about him, Bill, you shut your lying mouth. If you came here to belittle me, to belittle what we had…”
“I came here to effect what reconciliation we can! We have been a long time in space together, you and me.” More than ever, he ached to tell her their entire purpose, to make her understand just how important their mission was, but just as he had weeks before in his cabin, he held back. It was then he noticed she was laughing at him.
“Why are you being so damn reasonable now?” she asked. “Where was my old friend Bill Pearce, this Bill Pearce, not the raging ass of a man he became down on the surface?” He began to say something then, shrugging off his building irritation at her insults, but she waved his words away unspoken, and her eyes narrowed.
“I’ll rot in this room until the end of time before I lift a finger to help you. So go ahead, drag us all back to Earth and parade your stupid plants before the King and get your promotion. Drum me out of your ridiculous Navy, too, as soon as you can. I was a fool to follow you, to trust you.” She was trembling now, tears spilling down her red cheeks. “I’ve lost everything, and it’ll all your fault. Get out.” This last was no more than a whisper, but it had the ringing finality of a scream.
There is no reconciliation here, Pearce thought. No understanding or accord to be reached. He turned to go, all of the rage in his heart turned only to leaden sorrow at the stupendous waste of it all, at the loss of his old crewmate, partner, and friend.
“My log will reflect your insubordination, Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said over his shoulder, a tart formality back in his tone. “If you’re lucky, discharge is the best you can hope for. More likely, your future includes a sentence at Newgate Gaol.” He tried, without much success, to keep the snarl out of his voice. “Ten or twelve years in a cell, most like. And you can forget about any wild dreams of a return to Cygnus. You’ll never leave Earth again, not on so much as a cargo tug.”
Without further commentary, without a backward glance, he let the door close behind him, and tried not to hear the sobs coming from the other side as he left.
****
Much later, Pearce lay on the bed in his cabin, his eyes screwed shut, trying to ward off the monstrous headache that had been building for hours. The Harvest had broken orbit seamlessly some time before – he meant to include a glowing word in his log for midshipman Charlie Hall, whose navigation skills were good and getting better – and finally, they were headed home. The weeks in orbit around Cygnus had enriched the gravity engines and they were making swift progress already. While Sir Eustace had grumbled about the truncation of their expedition, Dr. Reyes had, in her characteristically terse way, assured him their collected specimens were more than sufficient for their needs. Through the starbursts of his pain, Pearce’s mind turned back to the kids, Hall and Worth.
I shouldn’t call them that, he thought wearily. Even though both were very recent graduates of Greenwich, they had proven themselves on the outbound voyage. According to regulations, and practical considerations, the ship required two lieutenants. With Fletcher incarcerated in her quarters for the foreseeable future, Pott was the only one, and despite the man’s competence, he could not do a job designed for two. Pearce was within his rights, indeed his duty, to grant one of the mids a commission as acting-lieutenant. But which one? Later. He pushed it out of his mind as the door chime sounded.
“Enter.” It was Dr. Szakonyi, thin and pinched as ever, but deeply welcome. “Thank you, Doctor,” Pearce said, gratefully accepting the bright red pills and swallowing them.
“That should help a great deal,” Szakonyi murmured, “though I would further recommend some rest.” Pearce nodded.
“I suppose I can’t stay awake for two months, can I?” He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Lamb’s arm?”
“Attended to, Captain. He will be sore for some time, but he will heal.”
“Good. Good. Oh, Doctor – there was one other thing I wanted to ask you about.” Szakonyi raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Yes?”
Pearce rummaged underneath his bed and found the package Arkadas had given him. He untied the string and tore open the paper. Within was a handsome woven basket, full of fat purplish-blue berries.
“These were a gift from Venn Arkadas,” he said. He took one and handed it to the doctor. “Would you be so good as to run an analysis on them? He said they were rare, and I know I’ve never seen them before, on this trip or my earlier visit. I’m sure they’re fine, but just to be safe…”
“Of course.” Szakonyi took the proffered fruit in the small paper cup he had used to bring the captain’s medicine. “And now, Captain, get some sleep, before I make that a medical order. Lieutenant Pott has things under control for now.”
Pearce yawned and stretched out his arms. He suddenly felt endlessly weary, even as the sharp edge of his headache waned. With benign suspicion, he eyed his ship’s surgeon.
“Just something to help you sleep
,” he said, and for the first time Pearce could remember, Szakonyi smiled. He wasn’t sure if the doctor left or if he fell asleep first.
He did not dream.
****
The Harvest carved its path through the stars for some days after that, the routine of shipboard life reasserting its control over the minutes and hours of officers, crewmen, and one prisoner alike. Briggs and Lamb were punished, and though Pearce had begun to regret his order of two lashings apiece, he kept his word. He knew that to do otherwise would weaken him. Starship captains relied on the appearance, if not the reality, of infallibility. While the order was carried out, and after, he heard the grumbling of the crew and noticed their stares, but he ignored them. It was a pitiless exhibition, forcing both offenders first to their knees and then to the deck. Lamb, strong as he was, his broken arm still in a splint, screamed on the eighteenth lash with such anguish that Pearce was sure the man’s lungs would rupture. But it was done, and he was determined to cultivate a happier ship for the remainder of the voyage home.
Szakonyi had analyzed the berries and found them not just harmless, but also a mild stimulant to the body’s immune system and the pleasure centers of the brain.
“A rare gift,” he had said, upon delivering the news to the captain.
There was an ample supply in the basket Arkadas had provided, so Pearce ordered a small allowance doled out to the crew along with their rum ration. In addition to their curative and intoxicating effects, they were remarkably tasty, with a sweet flavor not unlike ripe watermelon. They swiftly became popular amongst the crew.
A rare gift indeed, Pearce thought as he sat in his command chair on the Quarterdeck, watching the stars glide past the viewscreen, the parsecs smoothly and slowly devoured by the Harvest’s deep space engines. The first days following their sudden exodus from Cygnus had seen a sullen, brooding ship, resentful over the cessation of the idyllic shore leaves, the grotesque reprimand of Lamb and Briggs, and the fall from grace of Christine Fletcher. It had the feeling of an ion engine running dirty, pulsing, an explosion in waiting. The tervis berries had been the perfect tonic for his people, easing some of the lingering tension. And the cargo, the precious cargo they had come for, was safe aboard. The vast holds of the Harvest had become a virtual jungle of sprouts, seedlings, and mature plants, floating serenely in their hydroponic vats, blithely and blissfully unaware of the human frailty surrounding them.
Pearce’s musings were interrupted by a chirp on his arm console.
“Go ahead.”
“Captain.” Szakonyi. “You’d best meet me in your quarters.”
“Doctor?” Before a response could come, Pearce stood, and tapped Hall on the shoulder. “Your ship, Mister Hall. Steady as she goes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pearce rode the lift down the Harvest’s command fin, wondering what the doctor could possibly want. He made his way swiftly to the upper deck and the officers’ quarters, and there he found Szakonyi waiting in the corridor, alongside a door that had clearly been forced open.
“What’s all this?” he asked the waiting surgeon.
“What it looks like, I believe,” came the reply. “Someone’s been in your cabin, Captain.”
Pearce brushed aside his mounting feelings of violation and studied the door mechanism.
“How could someone have done this without setting off the alarm?” Szakonyi shrugged.
“I’m a doctor, not a burglar. I merely noticed this on my way from the Surgery to the Quarterdeck and thought I should report it.”
“Of course.” Pearce ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Quite right. Is anything missing?”
“I did not search,” Szakonyi replied. “I thought it best to leave that to you.”
Pearce entered his chambers, trailed by the doctor. He didn’t see anything amiss at first glance, no drawers left open or items out of place. Then, with sudden apprehension, he checked under his bed and found nothing.
“The berries,” he said. “They’re missing.” He stood up, feeling the familiar building of anger in his throat. He let it build. “Thank you, Doctor.” Tapping his wall unit, he sounded an all-ship communication. He coughed once, gathered himself, and then spoke.
“All personnel report to the shuttle bay,” he snarled. With the cargo holds full of plants, it was the only area of the ship large enough to accommodate the entire crew. “Five minutes, please.”
“Captain, is it worth it?” asked Szakonyi, his hands spread in a conciliatory pose. “They are only berries.”
“The berries are the least of it!” Pearce roared. “Someone broke into my cabin, damn them! You think this is about berries? This is about my authority! Proper shipboard behavior! No, we’ll get to the bottom of this.” And he stormed out, the doctor trailing behind. They reached the shuttle bay quickly, and there Pearce waited, pacing, while the crew assembled. They were minus Hall, a few others responsible for piloting the ship, and of course Fletcher, still ensconced in her cabin. When they had arrived, he stared at them for long minutes, glowering, silent. Then he spoke.
“I do not doubt the lot of you are fine starmen,” he began, a tremor in his voice the only hint that his control was wavering. “I have seen your conduct on board ship and ashore, in crisis and quiet, and most of you do the service proud.” He looked at each of them in turn as he talked, looking for furtiveness, for guilt, for shifting eyes or shuffling feet. “We have had our troubles, our mistakes, but in the best traditions of the Fleet, once fair punishment is given and received, we are back on square footing and no grudges are held.” Still, no telltale signs. Frustrated, his emotions getting the best of him, Pearce exploded.
“We have a liar and a thief among us,” he bellowed. “Those of you who have served long know there is no Jonah aboard worse than a scoundrel who would steal a shipmate’s property.” He drove one fist into an open palm as he spoke, punctuating his words with the slapping of knuckles on flesh. Waiting, breathing heavily, he forced himself into a smile he meant to be reassuring. In reality, it was anything but. “If the perpetrator comes forward to me, if the stolen property is returned, I am prepared to be lenient. Indeed, if any of you knows anything…” he broke off that line unspoken, knowing none of these ables would rat on their mate. And he was fairly sure it was an able. What officer would conduct himself so abysmally?
“I see,” the captain said after a lengthy, gravid pause. “Whomever the thief may be is also a coward. Very well. Sergeant Crutchfield?” The towering officer stepped forward crisply. “The rum ration is hereby stopped.” A wave of whispered remarks swept the room, but Pearce rose his voice above it. “Until further notice! If the guilty party comes forward and the property is returned, I will consider reinstituting the privilege.” He glowered at them all, savage justice on his face. “If, by this time tomorrow, we are no closer to a conclusion to this sorry business, I will order a random crew member subjected to the Cat every twelve hours.” At this there was a chorus of gasps.
“He’s inhuman, he is,” called a voice from behind him. Pearce spun around, but not in time to identify the speaker.
“Who said that?” No one moved. “Do not blame me,” he said, his voice calm again, his control returning. “Blame the criminal in your midst. Perhaps in light of these measures, some of you will be motivated to uncover the thief. That is all. Dismissed.”
The crew melted away like spring snow, many shaking their heads in disbelief and exasperation, with the exception of John Pott.
“Sir,” he said, low and submissive, “I am not questioning your orders or your authority. However…”
“However what, Lieutenant?” Pearce snapped. “You have some gentler means of addressing the matter? Something more effective? I am happy to hear it!”
“The Cat, sir. You know it works best when used sparingly.”
“And I have used it sparingly! Good God, I have been nothing but indulgent with this rabble!” Pearce pressed his knuckles
to his temples. “We’ll talk no more about it. You have duties, Mister Pott. I suggest you be about them.”
****
Pearce was not surprised when Eustace Green appeared at the doorway of his star cabin not long after his accusatory, and probably futile, speech. With a sigh of fatigue and resignation, he turned his attention away from the report he was working on to the elderly gardener.
“Yes, Sir Green? Come to criticize shipboard discipline?”
Green stepped into the office, the door sliding shut behind him.
“Tell them,” he said. He glanced around the cabin, anywhere but at Pearce’s eyes as he spoke, but his voice was level and firm.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Pearce replied, and it was true, he didn’t. “Tell who what?”
“The crew.” Green crossed the small room in two steps and sat in the chair before the desk. Pearce ignored this breach of protocol, as he had when Green had entered uninvited. The usual courtesies extended to the captain of a naval vessel were clearly not observed by knights and friends of the King. “Tell them our true purpose.”
“I will not.” Pearce responded stonily. “I was ordered not to do so in the strongest language by Lords Banks and Exeter. I believe you and Dr. Reyes are under similar constraints, though somewhat more voluntarily, but I am an officer of the King, and my orders carry the force of law.” Green nodded at this.
“Nevertheless, Captain, I am afraid that if you do not impress upon the crew the absolutely vital nature of our errand, we may be courting disaster.”
“How so?” Green had said “we”, but Pearce had heard the distinctly implied “you”.
“They are unhappy. Yes, your floggings are part of it, to be sure. They understood when offenders like Lamb and Briggs were punished, but to subject random crewmen to the lash…”
“I am not interested in your opinions of my management of my crew,” responded Pearce icily. “We have had this conversation before. If there is nothing else?”