by Joe Pace
“There is,” Green said, ignoring Pearce’s hint that the discussion was at an end. “Think about it from their perspective. You have shown them paradise and taken it away. And for what? So that I can bring a prize back for the King to coo over for an hour and then forget forever after? Are we on a greengrocer’s mission, a florist’s?” He shook his head. “They need a larger reason, a more compelling mission. They need to understand. Or I fear the grumbling will only get worse.”
“Sailors grumble,” said Pearce dismissively, though in the back of his head he could hear one of Captain Baker’s famous adages – “when crews grumble, officers crumble”. She had always had a special relationship with the belowdecks, something Pearce had hoped to achieve with Fletcher as an intermediary. And look how that turned out. “In the end, they will obey, Sir Green.”
“Will they?” he asked, and there was a certain timbre to his words. For the first time, Pearce began to feel a hint of resolve in this man whom the King had knighted and befriended, something deeper and more resolute than the elderly gentleman among his flowers. “Two of your crew tried to desert on Cygnus. Another, your first officer, disobeyed you as well.”
“Regulations,” Pearce grunted, trying to get back to comfortable ground, “are clear on these matters. I am bound by Admiralty Law.”
“Ah.” Green held up one long finger. “Laws and regulations you violated by leaving that machrine behind.”
“Necessary to accomplish our mission.”
“I am telling you that this might be necessary, too, Captain.”
“Sailors will grumble,” Pearce repeated, though somewhat lamely. Green stood.
“John Banks and the Star Lord felt you were the best man for this job,” the noble gardener said. “I believe they were correct to think so. We are very close to success, and all the rewards that come with it, for the Kingdom as well as ourselves. If you allow your pride and your stubbornness to ruin our chances, our failure will be on your head alone.”
And he left the captain there, alone with his thoughts.
****
When Dr. Zoltan Szakonyi showed up in her chambers, Christine Fletcher had no idea what the hell he wanted, but she doubted it was anything she cared about. What she wanted, no one could bring her.
“How are you, Lieutenant?” he asked, solicitous.
“Here to psychoanalyze me, Doctor?” Fletcher asked in scornful response. She was drunk and had been so for most of her imprisonment, even though it didn’t really help.
“Quite to the contrary,” Szakonyi said quietly. “I believe you to be one of this ship’s saner inhabitants. No, I am here to offer you a way out.” His smile, a thin curve on his wrinkled face, was a cryptic thing.
“Of this cabin?” She was puzzled, both by his words and his smile. If it hadn’t been for Peckover, the perpetually humorless boatswain, Szakonyi would have been the sourest creature aboard. Then again, thought Fletcher, maybe I am. Her world had descended into perpetual night, with no prospect of any morning. Surrounded by billions of suns, and yet dawn would never come for her again. “Or of this situation?”
“Both.”
“The only thing I want,” Fletcher said with a throaty growl, “is light-years behind us, and I will never have it again.”
“Don’t be so sure. Never is a long time, and the universe is full of possibilities.”
With a wry smile of her own, Fletcher got up from her chair and walked to the nutritional unit that was a perk of her rank, a perk she would hold onto until they could reach Earth and a court-martial would strip her of that, her freedom, and her dignity. A perk that makes this a convenient enough prison, she thought. She punched in the code for a serving of rum.
“Self-prescribed,” she said. “Sit down if you like, Doctor. My officer’s ration is more than enough for both of us.” She turned her attention back to the machine as it beeped at her, pleasantly but resolutely. Her cup, under the dispenser, was still empty. “What the hell? Have they cut me off?” She didn’t think she’d exceeded her ration, but with the use she’d been making of it lately, it was entirely possible.
“Not just you,” Szakonyi said, easing into the seat she had offered. “Everyone.”
“What? Even Bill’s not that crazy.”
“Oh, he might be. At least, once sufficiently provoked. You see, his cabin was broken into, and someone stole his tervis berries. He has stopped everyone’s rum. What’s more, he has ordered random whippings of the crew until the perpetrator is revealed.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Fletcher asked. “It’s awful, but someone will talk him out of it. Pott, or you. Maybe even himself, once he comes to his senses.”
“You know him better than anyone. Does he ever countermand his own orders, especially in matters of discipline?” She shook her head, and the doctor continued. “Lieutenant Pott may try, but he won’t be any more successful than I would be.”
“Who took them?”
“I have no idea. But I would be shocked if anyone were to own up to it now, given the captain’s current blood thirst. We are in for a rough time, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t tell me your troubles,” Fletcher retorted. “It won’t do any good. I’d have to care, and then I’d have to be able to help.”
“You are.” Szakonyi leaned across her tiny table, his eyes aglow behind his thick white beard. “It may be that our troubles have a common solution. I believe the crew is ready to follow someone else.”
Fletcher stared at this old man who she did not really know. It’s a trap, her gut told her. Pearce was setting her up for even bigger trouble. She rejected the thought. He might have become an enormous ass, but entrapment wasn’t the man’s style.
“You’re talking mutiny. You’re the damn doctor; why don’t you just declare him unfit?”
“Please. Crutchfield would never arrest the captain. And I’m fairly certain Pott would be even less supportive. No, a more radical surgery is needed.”
“You’re talking mutiny,” she repeated. It was crazy. There was no worse crime in the Fleet. You’re already a criminal, Christine. What did it matter if the fires of Hell were a thousand degrees hot or a million? She could think of no worse crime than what had been done to her. Everything she loved, her very life, taken away over a stupid robot. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“No one needs to be hurt. The crew will follow you, Christine Fletcher. And I’m sure many of them want to go back to Cygnus as much as you do.”
The word was a thunderclap in her ears. Cygnus. Jairo.
“The captain…the other officers…”
“We have two shuttles,” Szakonyi said simply. He rose abruptly. “You may be able to save all of us, and yourself along with us.” With a hiss of the door he was gone, and Fletcher was left with a sudden silence – and a decision – weightier than any she had ever known.
****
In the corridor, Szakonyi allowed himself a brief smile at his own cunning as he walked to Surgery. He had a coded report to compose for Djimonsu. And some excellent tervis berries to enjoy.
Fourteen
Seizure
The Quarterdeck was a quiet place during the middle watches, an ancient term that was still sometimes used in the modern Navy for the small hours of the morning. The ship’s boatswain, Thomas Peckover, handled the helm of the Harvest under the supervision of the Officer of the Watch, who tonight was Hope Worth. She didn’t mind the silence, or the middle watch; in truth she liked both. She had never been a boisterous person or felt at home in crowds, and the relative solitude was welcome.
A gentle chime sounded, the ship’s bell, announcing the time as two hours past midnight. Glancing at the Harvest’s position on the stellar chart monitor, Worth saw no reason to make any adjustments. Her trim was just right and she was sailing fair. With a nod at Peckover, Worth murmured the expected “steady as she goes”, and settled into the command c
hair for another hour of welcome tedium.
If nothing else, it gave her time to think about Charlie.
While the Harvest slept, her belly full of greenery bound for Kew, Worth allowed her mind to linger on her shipmate. Shipmate? Hardly, she thought, as a ghost of a smile crossed her face. Lover? That seemed a melodramatic descriptor, but when she thought of Cygnus and their time spent together there, she was hard-pressed to think of anything more apt. She was not an experienced romantic – her shy awkwardness had contributed mightily to that – and lacked the worldliness that might have allowed her to grasp a better word. They had been together as much as their duties allowed during the weeks ashore and since, and it had rapidly become very difficult for her to imagine a universe without him in it.
You’re in love with him, Hope Worth. So why not call yourselves lovers?
What did that mean, anyway? Was there any kind of future for them? They were homeward bound from what was, despite some hiccups, a successful mission. There would be rewards for all involved, including advancement on the promotions list. It wasn’t all that unusual for midshipmen returning from a deep space voyage to sit for their Lieutenant’s exam fairly quickly. If they both were to do so, and passed, the chances of them being posted together on a future assignment were remote. As she thought of that, of working a ship somewhere millions of miles from him, a weight pressed down on her chest. She might very well love him, but she was determined to make a career and a name for herself, to live up to both her father’s expectations, and more importantly, her own. How, then, to satisfy both demands of her heart?
This was the conundrum occupying Hope Worth’s mind when the door to the Quarterdeck hissed open and three men, armed with pulse-rifles, burst in. Saul Lamb came first, swarthy and cocksure. With him were the quiet Korean able, Xing Xiang, and Yancy Waugh, the boatswain’s mate. Waugh was utterly unremarkable in every way – average height, average build, forgettable face. In all the weeks on board, Worth couldn’t remember three words the man had strung together.
“What’s this, Mister Lamb?” asked Worth, bewildered. “Are we under some kind of attack? Are…” She never completed her second question. Lamb slammed the butt of his weapon into her stomach, driving the wind from her lungs and doubling her over. Black and yellow starbursts of pain exploded in her eyes, and she fell to her knees. There was a lot of shouting and cursing, and a loud crack. Thick fingers grasped Worth by the hair and forced her to her feet. The Quarterdeck had become a watery blur, but she could make out a still form on the floor near Peckover’s station. Waugh was there, standing over the body.
“He dead?” Lamb jerked his chin in the direction of Peckover as he asked, and Waugh prodded the boatswain, his immediate superior, with the muzzle of his rifle.
“Looks like it.”
“Hell,” spat Lamb. “We wasn’t supposed to kill no one. Why’d you kill him for, Yancy?”
“Because he was a pain in the ass.”
“Well, it’s your ass now. Wasn’t supposed to be no killing.”
Lamb bent Worth’s arm, painfully, and she stumbled forward. Xiang grabbed her other arm, and she was held firm between the two as they frog-marched her toward the door. Turning to look over his shoulder, Lamb shouted to Waugh.
“Unsteady as she goes, Yancy.” He chuckled, and along with Xiang, pushed Worth into the lift. She opened her mouth and began to ask a question, but Lamb seized her by the throat, slammed her into the wall, and leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched. Dark face mottled with red, the crewman squeezed so tight that Worth could scarcely breathe.
“Don’t bother, little girl. No one to hear you.” I don’t care what he said before, Worth thought. He’s going to kill me. To her surprise, she wasn’t afraid. She was angry. Promotion. Charlie. To have that future snatched away from her, so pointlessly, was more than she could bear. In a sudden burst, she drew her legs up in front of her, jammed her feet into Lamb’s chest, and pushed as violently as she could. The hands came free from her neck, tearing deep gouges in the soft flesh, as both of them fell heavily to the floor. Worth gratefully sucked in a few ragged breaths. Xiang was laughing nearby.
“Shut up, Xing,” growled Lamb as he pushed himself back up. “Not bad. But that was your last shot.” Raising his pulse rifle over his head, Lamb brought the butt of it down swiftly toward Worth’s face. There was a loud sound, a brief rush of pain, and then oblivion.
When Worth returned to consciousness, the floor she was lying on was cold, and she had the sensation of being in open space. Where the hell am I? Struggling to open her eyes, she became aware of a stabbing in her head, like a bolt of lightning every few seconds. I’m hurt. As she tried to rub her face with her hands, she discovered that they were bound at the wrists behind her back with some sort of strap. Images, blurry at first, began to penetrate the shroud of pain, well enough that she could perceive her location.
The shuttle dock.
Other than the main cargo bay, it was the largest interior space on the Harvest. The launches themselves were nearby, perched serenely in their usual spots, casting multitudes of shadows in the harsh overhead light of the dock. The rest of the huge room was mostly empty and featureless, except for the large reinforced window to the control room. And across from that, there was nothing. The door is open, Worth realized. Usually the dock was entirely enclosed by the outer hull, including the massive exterior door, but now the blackness of space was visible. As her vision cleared, she was able to see the vague crackle of static that told her that the thin energy field was in place, keeping the livable atmosphere inside the bay and the vacuum of space outside.
She wasn’t alone. She was able to see Lieutenant Pott, propped against the bulkhead a few meters away, slumped and dazed but alive. Zoltan Szakonyi, the surgeon, was there, too, as were Sir Eustace Green, the gardener, and Heywood Musgrave, the gunner. All looked unharmed, though all were tied in the same way that she was. Watching over them were Lamb, Taryn Hadley, Xing Xiang, and Tom Churchill.
Worth’s mind tried to assess the situation, even as white bursts of agony exploded in her brain from the effort. That had been some crack to her skull earlier. She probably had a concussion, or worse. What was going on? Where was the captain? Where was Fletcher? What about Crutchfield and the machrines?
The next thing she saw turned her soul to ice.
Charlie.
Two more people had come into the dock through the main access door. One was Peggy Briggs and the other was Charlie Hall. Briggs was pushing him in front of her, twisting his arm at an awkward angle, so that he cried out, which made the ables laugh. Briggs was in her duty uniform, but Hall had clearly been sleeping, and was dressed in no more than a long white shirt and a pair of gray shorts. His feet were bare, and his sandy hair was sticking out in all directions. The barest hint of a beard shaded his lip and jaw.
“Another one rounded up,” Briggs said, a cruel smile on her lips. “More to come.” Seeing Hall manhandled, in obvious pain, was more than Worth could bear.
“Let him go!” she shouted, trying to scramble to her feet, to go to him, but Lamb casually knocked her down again with his rifle. Worth’s head struck the flooring, and her ears began to ring. Even so, she could clearly hear their mocking laughter.
“We’ve got a few minutes,” Lamb was saying above her. “This bitch has been teasing me for weeks. Time to finish what we started back in the galley. Easy, girl,” he rasped, as Worth felt herself hauled roughly up. He easily enfolded both her wrists with one of his thick hands. His other arm he wrapped around her slender waist. To Briggs he said, “I won’t be long.”
“All the same to me,” Briggs replied.
“Hope!” Charlie tried to come to her aid, but Briggs cracked him in the leg with her rifle, and he collapsed heavily to the deck.
“No,” Hall croaked. Pushing to his knees, he tried to crawl. Peggy Briggs put a foot on his back, pushing him back down.
“I’d watch my own
ass if I were you,” she said. One more time Hall struggled to rise, until he felt the cold tip of a pulse rifle press behind his left ear.
“Down boy,” Briggs muttered, as Xiang chuckled nearby. “This is just the beginning.”
Worth struggled, but Lamb held her firm with one hand. With the other, he began to grope at her, but paused as another pair arrived. It was Mathias Quintal, and before him, arms held tight in his grip, was a shorter man in a long white nightshirt, missing several of the buttons from the front, barelegged, with what looked like a sack over his head.
Worth knew at once that it was the captain. He wore an officer’s jacket over the nightshirt -- his commander’s jacket, navy blue with the yellow braid of his rank, some absurd joke at his expense. A heartbeat behind them limped the massive Isaac Pratt, half-carrying, half-dragging the huge, still form of Orpheus Crutchfield. Pratt’s nose was clearly broken, the lower half of his face a scarlet mess, and he was panting.
“Fought like a damned demon,” he muttered thickly, spitting a gob of red phlegm mixed with a broken tooth. “Not his first alley scrap.” He dumped the sergeant heavily to the deck.
“Dead?” Lamb asked.
“Naw. Close enough, though. I almost had to kill him so we could get to Pearce. He got wind of this somehow, and went right to the captain’s cabin to protect him. Brave idiot. If he’d activated the machrines first, who the hell knows what would have happened.”
For the first time, a word percolated through Worth’s mind, through the pain and the fear.
Mutiny.
The crewmen were seizing the ship.
Quintal tore the bag off Pearce’s head, and the captain blinked in the sudden brightness. There was, Worth saw, no terror on his face, only a preternatural calm as the man drank in the sight of his captured officers and his rebelling crew. His shoulders were not slumped, his jaw, unshaven, was set and did not quiver. The only kinetic thing about him was a blazing wrath in his eyes, fierce and defiant. Despite having obviously been roused from slumber, standing there shorn of every badge of office except the mocking jacket, he looked like some ancient god out of myth, and while Worth had long admired the captain, she felt something closer to worship now, at the end of all things.