by Adam Carter
She did not respond, but Hawthorn could see some of the aggression leave her face.
“Iris,” he said, trying to find a way of putting his own impotence into words. “Iris, it’s not our job to save the universe.”
“Then maybe it should be,” she said flatly. “We have this Carpoan sword-ship, Gordon, and all we do with it is fly around keeping out of everyone’s way. We could do some real good with this thing, we could right so many wrongs before Securitarn catches up to us.”
“Vigilante justice? Iris, if we went after those slavers, we’d be breaking the law.”
“We saved Beth, didn’t we?”
“We saved Beth from pirates. Last I checked, piracy was still illegal.”
“And how do you think Beth would feel about us freeing slaves?”
It was not something Hawthorn had not himself thought about. “We’re doing this, aren’t we?”
“I think we are, yes.”
“Then I’ll go talk to Beth. Wraith, be a dear and round up the others. Iris is going to explain the plan.”
“Who says I have a plan?” she asked.
“By the time I’m back with Beth, you’ll have a plan.”
“Because of my augmented brain?” she asked icily.
“No, because of the warmness of your heart.”
“That’s sweet, Gordon, but doesn’t make much sense.”
“All right, yes, I meant because of your augmented brain.”
Arowana did not shout at him, did not even seem annoyed. It was a sign he was at last getting through to her.
Leaving Wraith and Arowana to their tasks, Hawthorn headed through the corridors of the Glory, working out what he was going to say to Beth once he explained the situation to her. Bethany Eleanor Hart had spent the last few years of her life on a pirate vessel. Hawthorn had liberated her, but sometimes he felt it would have been more merciful to have let her die along with the other pirates. In her time spent with them she had committed atrocities for which she would never forgive herself. She was twenty-one years old and her life was pretty much already over. If Hawthorn could not break her out of her depression soon he knew there would be no hope for her at all.
He heard her before he saw her, for the clanging and banging resounded through the corridors in a steady rhythm. That was what Bethany Hart was – a steady rhythm, never quickening nor slowing.
Entering her workshop, he found it as he remembered. It was a large open area within which several hulks of half-finished projects were loitering. There were work tables littered with tools or overflowing with diagrams, sometimes with hammers holding down their edges as paperweights. Equipment lay strewn about the floor where Hart had gutted pieces of vehicles and heavy equipment that she might scavenge the parts for whatever she was working on. The pleasant odour of engine oil and sweat reached him immediately, for they brought back memories of when he would himself tinker in this workshop before he had handed it over to Hart in an effort to give her purpose. It also freed him up to be the Glory’s pilot, which had been handy. The decision had backfired, however, for more than giving her purpose, it had given Hart a reason to never emerge from the room.
“Beth,” he said as he entered. “It’s a little dark in here, don’t you think? You want maybe for me to fix the lights for you?”
“I can fix the lights.”
“Of course.” He flicked the switch and the lights came on. They had never been very bright in the workshop, but it unnerved him to think that Hart preferred working without them on at all.
Bethany Hart was a young woman with striking red hair, tied back while she worked, and deep hazel eyes. Sometimes Hawthorn imagined her in another life, in the life she should have led. She had been at university, studying flight engineering so far as he knew, and had been kidnapped from that life because pirates had seen a use for her skills aboard their vessel. If she had stayed there, if she had been able to live the life she had wanted, she would probably be on the verge of graduating by now and would already have a work placement set up. She’d have good friends, maybe a fiancé, parents who were proud of her. Now she had nothing and was so ashamed of herself that she would not allow Hawthorn to take her back to her family.
“What are you working on?” he asked. She was standing before a work table, hammering a piece of metal she was holding in place with tongs. Sparks flew at every strike, but she wore no eye protection, as though she was leaving the decision entirely up to fate as to whether she would be blinded by her work.
“Water purification,” she said without turning around. Her tone was flat, but not in a bored fashion. It always pained Hawthorn to hear her talk this way, for it was like she did not even know he was there, or that she thought he was a voice in her head or something. “I noticed our water purification system had a couple of faults. If I don’t make these repairs, it might break down in a few years.”
“A few years, sure.” He looked around the room. Back when it had been his workshop he had left several unfinished projects. It seemed Hart was on the verge of completing most of them and she had only been on the Glory for such a short period.
It took him a few moments to realise she was still rhythmically banging her hammer down on the metal.
“Shuttle worked a treat,” he said.
“I’m glad.”
“No problems at all.”
She said nothing.
“We even named it,” he said, laughing as he did so. “Well, Wraith named it, anyway. I would have called it something dazzling or heroic. The Comet or something. He went with the Bunnyhop Express.”
“It’s not an express, it’s a shuttle.”
“And you’re focusing on that part of the name?”
Hart paused, hammer midway into the air. “Oh. Bunnyhop. That’s Wraith trying to be funny.” She resumed the downward motion of the hammer.
Hawthorn cleared his throat. Suddenly the name of the shuttle did not seem so humorous after all. He decided he was going to come straight to the point. “We ran into a vessel while we were out there. A big one. The Obsidian.” He paused. “It was a slaver ship.”
She said nothing.
“Turns out slavery isn’t illegal in Malkavia. That’s on Io, by the way. They’re transporting people as though they’re corn or something. Can you believe it?”
She still said nothing.
“Iris wants to go free them all.”
“Why?”
“Because Iris is a better person than me. I think slavery’s bad, but she’s the one who’s insisting we do something about it.”
“No, I meant why are you telling me?”
She had not only stopped hammering by this point, but had turned to look at him. Her hazel eyes were flat, although not quite dead. They were smouldering coals which could be coaxed back to life if Hawthorn was able to find breath enough for the task.
“I thought you might want to help,” he said truthfully. “I thought it might do you good to get out of this room, breathe some air that isn’t so stifling, get away from the heat for a while.” Her expression did not change and his argument fell apart around him. “They’re slavers,” he said. “You know, I thought having been a slave yourself you’d welcome the chance to fight to set them free.”
Hart stared at him for several long moments before turning back to her work. She did not shake her head, did not sigh, did not so much as look at him strangely. She just turned around and went back to work.
After several further rhythmic pounds of the hammer, Hawthorn decided to slip away.
“Gordon.”
He stopped. “Yes, Beth?”
“I don’t want to fight anyone.”
Then she resumed her hammering and Hawthorn knew he would not be getting anything more from her. He walked slowly back to the command deck, wishing there was something more he could do for her. It hurt him to see her this way and he wished she would just allow herself to feel the pain; but it was something she would have to work through herself. He had already do
ne all he could for her.
With a heavy heart, he found everyone gathered on the command deck. Arowana’s eyes silently asked him how Beth was doing, and grimly he shook his head.
“So,” he said, “where are we at?”
“We have a plan, Gordon,” she replied. “Only, you’re not going to like it.”
Somehow he had already known she was going to say something like that.
CHAPTER THREE
Life was good. Life was really good. In fact, life was so fantastic that a positive, optimistic attitude had made the fates smile on him. For a long time now Wyatt Harman had been travelling the Jupiter system, avoiding honest work, gambling debts and the wrath of brothers, husbands, fathers and any other male relatives who might fancy stringing him up. And taxes; Harman avoided a whole heap of taxes. He came from a gypsy family, so was no stranger to wandering, yet it had never really got him anywhere in life. Certainly it had taken him from port to port, where he had experienced the finest drink, women and clinical check-ups money could buy – it was also true that he tended to pay for such things with an entertaining ditty or two on his flute. It was (to be honest) also true that most people thought he was joking whenever he said he would pay by playing his flute, but by the time they realised he was serious he was already out the window.
Recently, however, life had become truly grand. There he had been, on the verge of execution, and in the blink of an eye not only had he been rescued, not only had he somehow wheedled his way onto Jupiter’s Glory where he didn’t even have to play his flute for his board; but on top of all that he had been introduced to the charming, wonderful beauty that was Iris Arowana.
Arowana was the dark-haired temptress his mother had always warned him of. She was sin encapsulated into female form. She was the very woman who could well inspire Harman to play his flute well for a change. The moment he had seen her he had fallen madly in love with her. And she? Well, she claimed to be in love with Gordon Hawthorn, but Harman had seen that look in her eyes whenever Hawthorn was looking the other way. It was an enticing look, the beckoning shine which encouraged Harman to her bedroom whenever Hawthorn was not around. She was a wild one, that Arowana, and soon enough she …
“Wyatt, why are you staring at me?”
He blinked, looked away, decided that was a guilty move so looked back, and promptly looked away again when he saw her expression.
“Just thinking,” he said, coughing when he realised it had come out as a squeak.
“Well don’t. This doesn’t require you thinking.”
Harman shut up. The two of them were alone in a compact, two-person craft. They would have taken the Bunnyhop Express, but the shuttle would have been recognised so they had gone with the only other thing Hart had already cobbled together. The main body of the vessel had once been some form of fighter-craft, likely salvaged from several in the Glory’s hangar, although Hart had outfitted it with the hull of some form of pleasure cruiser. The result was monstrous, for the vessel was far too small to be a pleasure cruiser – it was like pimping a rowing boat with pieces from an ocean liner. Still, it was all they had to hand, so they could not be too choosy.
Ahead of them loomed the Obsidian. It had not been difficult to find the slaver vessel, for Hawthorn had been able to track the emissions from it engines, having an intimate knowledge of such things as he did. With the sight of so large an enemy, Harman felt the first twinge of doubt about the mission before them.
“Unidentified craft,” a pleasant female voice said through his console, “please identify yourself.”
Harman looked to Arowana, who gestured to the console. Licking dry lips, Harman flicked the communications toggle. “Greetings, Obsidian. This is Wyatt Earp. I’ve come to do a little business with you.”
Arowana shot him a look which told him she did not reckon much of his alias.
There was a pause on the other end; then the young woman asked. “That the name of you or your vessel?”
“Whichever you’d prefer, my dear. Would you please inform Captain Gardener that I am requesting an audience?”
“You say you have business? Buying or selling?”
“Oh, most definitely buying, my dear.” He cast a cruel smile to Arowana just to annoy her. “However, if a deal could be reached on the selling I would not be foolish enough to turn down any serious offers.”
“One moment, please.”
The communication cut off and Harman and Arowana waited in silence. It was not long before the woman returned.
“Captain Gardener has given you permission to dock. Please follow the lights.”
“They never gave Hawthorn lights,” Harman grumbled once he had switched off the communicator.
“Wyatt Earp?” Arowana asked in her tone which demanded an explanation.
“Hey, it’s the alias I always use.”
“And you’re still alive?”
“It’s a good alias,” he said defensively. “It throws people. All I have to do is tell people I had cruel parents and they accept it. I have a criminal record with that alias, it’s great. And at the end I get to ride off into the sunset and people at last connect me with the record.”
“Wyatt Earp didn’t ride off into the sunset.”
“Of course he did. He was a cowboy.”
“Wyatt Earp was not a cowboy. He was a lawman at a time when cowboy was a dirty word.”
“No, he was a cowboy. He wore a hat and everything.”
“He lived in the Wild West; of course he wore a hat.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re not confusing him with Nat Love?”
“No, of course I’m not confusing Wyatt Earp with … Who’s Nat Love?”
Arowana tapped the side of her head. “I know all the decent cowboys, Wyatt. You can stop arguing with me now.”
Harman had no idea how Hawthorn put up with her.
“What was Nat Love’s criminal record like?” he asked.
“What criminal record? He was a cowboy.”
“I thought you said cowboy was a dirty word.”
“It was. In Wyatt Earp’s time. Nat Love was before all that. Are you still arguing with me about this?”
Harman raised his hands. “Yielding to a beautiful woman is something of a pastime for me.”
To that Arowana said nothing.
Harman followed the lights and docked his craft in the Obsidian’s hangar. Disembarking the craft, he smoothed down his attire and hoped he still looked presentable. Harman wore the same clothes he always did: a green jerkin, dark trousers and a stylish shirt. He was going for the Robin Hood feel, and it was one which had served him well over the years. Just as long as he played Greenleeves sometimes on his flute, he was usually set for the night. (Arowana had once told him Greensleeves had been composed after the time Robin Hood had supposedly lived, but he had learned to ignore such comments from her.)
There were several people in the hangar, most noticeably the two people Hawthorn and Wraith had likely met. Carla Rayne and Captain Steve Gardener were precisely as they had been described to Harman, save for the fact Miss Rayne was ten times the jewel either man had described.
“Captain Gardener,” Harman said, offering a dignified bow. “An honour, sir. And who is this lovely young lady at your side?”
“Miss Rayne is my right hand,” Gardener said.
“How do you do?” she said, extending a hand.
Harman took it, ignoring any joke he might have made about it being her right hand, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “And at last I have a beautiful face to marry with such an angelic voice.”
She smiled, although it was a little uncertain.
Gardener stifled a laugh.
“You spoke of business, Mr Earp?” he asked.
“Indeed, indeed. May I present my lovely companion.”
He gestured to the craft, where Arowana was emerging. She had discarded her usual form-fitting black attire and was wearing a long flowing dress complete with enough small gems to rival the sta
rs with their sparkle. Her upper arms were bare, overhung at the shoulders with exquisite padding, while running down from above her elbows were white silken gloves, stainless and clearly expensive. Her hair had been put into a bun in the fashion of a Europan princess – something Harman had helped her with, although he had not betrayed how he knew so much about how to correctly style a Europan princess. Her face was somewhat haughty, her chin was raised, although there was warmth to her eyes.
Harman was fully aware every eye on the hangar – from crew to captain – was focused upon her. That, of course, had been the whole idea.
“Charmed,” Arowana said in something other than her usual voice as she too extended a hand. Captain Gardener dropped briefly to one knee in order to kiss that fine silken glove and Harman began to see the entire plan falling into place.
“And you say you’ve come to buy, Mr Earp?” Gardener asked. “And perhaps to sell?”
“Buy, definitely. Sell? Well, that all depends on how much you offer.”
“Really, though,” Arowana said in a slightly bored tone and something which Harman now recognised as a French accent, “money means little to me, Monsieur. And Mr Earp is truly an entertainment, do you not think? I would so hate to be deprived of his antics.”
“Entertainment, miss?”
“Mademoiselle Iris Dubois,” she replied. “My family owns so much land in New Marseille I sometimes think we own the place. Have you ever been to new Marseille, Captain Gardener?”
“I can’t say as I have, Mademoiselle.”
“Exquisite wine, exceptional weather, perfect company. A truly lovely little city overlooking Malkavia’s finest shoreline. Please, do drop by once you return to Io. It’s a bit of a journey from the main spaceport of Malkavia, but worth it. Mr Earp, what would be the travel time via commercial plane?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Comical,” she smiled. “Absolutely comical, Captain.”
Harman could sense the entire plan falling apart around him. The idea was to get aboard the Obsidian, for one of them to masquerade as a slave, the other a slave-owner, and to haggle over the business deal to keep Gardener occupied. It appeared, however, that Arowana had been somewhat vague in telling Harman which roles the two of them were going to fulfil.