by Adam Carter
At that moment, they were standing in the room adjacent to the docking port. The Buccaneer had drifted close to them and extended a thin tube-like walkway, which had attached to the Jupiter’s Glory. The tubes were of a standard size and allowed easy access between spacecraft – they would provide an especially useful tool for the pirates to invade their prey.
The ship rocked as the docking tube connected and there was nothing they could do but wait. Hawthorn had never liked the things, for they were almost always transparent, and walking through space was as unnerving as it was unnatural.
“Maybe we could detach the docking tube,” Hawthorn said. “You know, space the pirates and solve the problem that way.”
“Three things,” Arowana said. “Firstly, their captain would shoot holes in us before we could get back to the command deck; secondly, you’d be killing that poor girl along with the pirate; and thirdly, you can’t detach them. It’s a safety precaution.”
“You could have led with that argument and left it at that.”
“Just filling the silence.”
A dull thunk came from the door ahead of them. It was an old-fashioned circular metal door similar to something one might find on a submarine, with a wheel-handle in the centre. That wheel was presently turning and Hawthorn clenched and unclenched his sweating palms.
The door swung open and a girl was shoved through. She stumbled, but did not fall. While she managed to catch herself, she did not return to standing straight, and Hawthorn wondered how long ago that had been beaten out of her. He would have put her in her early twenties, if that, but it was difficult to tell with someone who had ceased being human. She was dangerously thin – far thinner than Arowana had been before Hawthorn had taken to fattening her up with his gourmet food – and held her carriage with the air of a zombie. Her hair was red – strikingly so – but this was the only bit of character Hawthorn could have noted about her. Aside from that she may as well have been a part of the furniture.
“You still alive, runt?” a voice called from the docking tube.
“Yes, sir,” the girl said.
“Then there wasn’t a trap.” The first mate strode onto the Jupiter’s Glory and looked around. He was almost too big to fit through the round door, and as he rose to his full height Hawthorn worried what they would do if it came to a fight. Buckled to the man’s side was a curved, flat sword big enough to slay an elephant. Tucked into his belt was a single-shot long-barrelled pistol. This man took being a pirate very seriously indeed.
“First Mate Damian Sturgeon, at your service,” he said, performing a slight bow. “Do you two have names? You don’t seem to like using them.”
“Gordon Hawthorn, Iris Arowana,” Hawthorn said. They had discussed whether to give false names, but that would require remembering them. Plus, if the Themistonians became involved, they wanted the two sets of people to have the same names. Handing out their names to everyone they came across might well cause them problems in the future, but that was a bridge they would have to swing from later.
“Arowana,” Sturgeon said with a grin. “The colourful fish.”
“I’m not a fish, I’m a woman.”
Sturgeon looked her up and down, not losing his grin. “So you are.”
“Wonderful start,” Hawthorn said sourly. “Ma’am,” he said to the girl, “are you named after a fish as well?”
“No,” Sturgeon said, “she’s just a runt.”
Arowana tensed, so Hawthorn spoke before she could do something stupid. “On this ship we have manners, Mr Sturgeon. And we all have names,” he added with narrowed eyes.
Sturgeon looked at him for several moments, then shrugged as though it was not worth the hassle. “Her name’s Hart.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” Hawthorn said directly to her. Then he noticed there was a manacle upon her wrist, with a chain connecting her to Sturgeon’s belt. “What the hell? Take that chain off.”
“Chain?” Sturgeon frowned. “Oh, that. Naw, that has to stay on. Runt might wander off, and you never know the damage runts can do. She knows too much, this one, you see. That’s why we nabbed her. She keeps the Buccaneer running with minimal crew, best decision we ever made, taking the runt like we did.”
“She’s not a runt,” Arowana said, “and she’s not going to be chained on our ship. Now take off the manacle.”
Sturgeon’s face lost some of its humour. “I’m a guest on your ship, and you’ll extend some manners to me.”
“You wouldn’t know manners if they stabbed you in the eyes.” Hawthorn took a step towards Hart but Sturgeon pulled back, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
“This is mighty unfriendly,” Sturgeon said.
“This is ungodly,” Hawthorn replied. “Our ship, our rules. If she wanders off and breaks something, she’s breaking something on our ship. What do you care?”
Sturgeon considered that, likely decided it was a fair enough point, and produced a key. Unlocking Hart’s manacle, he said, “In the interests of healthy relations, you understand.”
“Perfectly,” Hawthorn said. He reached out a hand but the girl shrank from him. “It’s all right, Miss Hart. I won’t hurt you.”
She glanced his way and for the briefest of moments he was blessed with seeing the most beautiful hazel eyes he had ever known.
“She don’t like to be touched,” Sturgeon said with a sniff. “Probably comes from me always hitting her round the head.”
“Again,” Hawthorn said, “not on our ship.”
“Sure, whatever. Gives my fist a break.”
“Gordon,” Arowana said in a tone Hawthorn knew well and tried never to have directed his way, “why don’t you get Miss Hart something to eat? The poor girl looks half-starved. And maybe get her to the infirmary to check for concussion? Mr Sturgeon and I can make a start on the negotiations.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sturgeon said. “I went to a lot of trouble to get my hands on that runt. I don’t much like the idea of her leaving my sight.”
“Gordon’s only going to look after her for a bit. I know the concept’s alien to you, but don’t look too much into it. Besides, are you afraid of being alone with me?”
The pirate straightened. “Lead on, Miss Arowana. Runt – do nothing, say nothing, do what Hawthorn tells you and meet us in the negotiation room.”
Hawthorn offered a slight smile of thanks to Arowana, but she was too furious to reply. As she led the big pirate away, Hawthorn found he was not worried for her in the slightest. If Sturgeon tried anything, Arowana would floor him in an instant: she was already looking for a chance to attack him.
“Miss Hart,” he said, “it looks like it’s just you and me now.” The girl gave no indication she had even heard him. “Do you have a first name? I can’t keep calling you Miss Hart this whole time.” Silence. “Or maybe I can.”
He walked slowly from the docking area and Hart followed, head bowed meekly. The sight roiled an anger in him fiercer than any he had known before. Gordon Hawthorn was not a lover of women. Throughout his life they had lied to him, cheated on him, treated him like the scum they were – but this girl had been treated far more harshly by her companions than Hawthorn ever had. Hawthorn’s experiences had made him angry, but Hart’s had broken her.
The sight of it disturbed him immensely.
They did not speak as they walked to the kitchen. It was a place of wonder, where Hawthorn worked his magic. Beside the kitchen was a spacious mess area, where the former crew would gather for their meals. Separating the mess and the kitchen was a counter, as though the designers had felt the need to erect a physical barrier to prevent hungry souls from storming the place from which such heavenly aromas did waft. He asked Hart to sit at the counter, for the tables were in a bit of a state following an animal infestation they had suffered when they had first taken over the ship. Hart obeyed without any reaction at all, and Hawthorn disappeared into the kitchen to see what he could whip up on short notice.
&nbs
p; He decided on an omelette, for it was one of the first things he had truly mastered. The art of quick cooking had been a staple for his courtship routines back when he was at university, and he was pleased to say his miraculous omelettes had met with reasonable success. He considered telling Hart the stories behind such omelettes, but decided against revealing his intimate youth.
The food took little time to prepare, and all the while he kept her in sight, in case she slipped away. But she did not. She sat there calmly, without emotion. About the only thing she did was absently rub at her wrist where the manacle had left a nasty red sore. Again his anger at the pirates rose and he hoped Arowana was giving the first mate hell.
Plastering a wide smile onto his face, he emerged from the kitchen and presented his masterpiece. “Voila, Mademoiselle Hart. Bon appétit.”
He had expected her to ask him why he thought the omelette was so special, or to tell him it smelled good, or even wrinkle her nose if she didn’t like it. Instead she took up the fork he set before her and slowly ate the thing.
Taking a seat on the other side of the counter, Hawthorn rested his chin in his hands and watched her. For several minutes they sat there like that – she eating, he watching. It was perhaps the saddest moment of Hawthorn’s life.
“Please tell me your name, Miss Hart,” he said at last. “I get First Mate Gorilla-chops told you not to say anything, but he’s not here. He’s not going to find out you talked to me. And I promise I’m not after pirate secrets, or where the treasure’s buried. I just want to talk to you.”
Hart paused, her fork halfway back to her plate. Then she resumed.
Hawthorn sighed.
“They don’t bury treasure,” she said, her voice small. “That pretty much came from Stevenson.”
“Stevenson?”
“Robert Louis Stevenson.”
“Treasure Island?”
She glanced his way again, and he was blessed with another flash of those perfect hazel eyes. But her gaze did not linger and he guessed she was afraid.
“I never read it,” Hawthorn admitted. “I’m thinking it’s not a true account of how pirates behave.”
“No.”
He had at last got her speaking, but if they had taken this long to progress to one word answers he was going to be there all night; and space had long nights. “What made you become a pirate, Miss Hart?”
She stopped eating again and stared hard at her plate of food.
“I’m sorry,” Hawthorn said. “Is that a sore point?”
“This is a good omelette, Mr Hawthorn.”
“Thanks. Cooking’s one of my strengths. It’s one of the only things I enjoy. That and mechanics.”
“Mechanics?”
“It’s my job. Or at least it was my job, before … you know, it wasn’t.”
Her momentary spark of excitement disappeared. She began playing her food around with her fork.
Hawthorn shook his head. “This has to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Can’t you at least talk to me?”
“If I talk to you, Mr Hawthorn, Sturgeon won’t like it. If you find out anything from me, anything at all, it’ll slip out when you see him and he’ll know I said something.”
“Something about what?”
“Anything. He doesn’t like me talking. Except the times where he wants me to talk and I don’t say anything. He never tells me which is which and I have a feeling he changes his mind depending on whether I’ve spoken.”
“All so he has an excuse to hit you.”
“He doesn’t need an excuse to hit me, Mr Hawthorn, but it justifies it for him. It’s a game he plays.”
“I don’t like that man.”
“No.”
Hawthorn noted it was not an admission that she did not much like him, either.
“Your wrist looks sore,” he said. “I should get some ointment for it.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“Used to pain? No one should be used to pain, Miss Hart. I don’t care why you signed on for that pirate ship, he can’t treat you like that.”
“I didn’t sign on,” she said, a brief flare of anger rising from her.
Hawthorn waited for more. “Then, what? They kidnapped you?” He remembered Sturgeon saying something about having nabbed her.
She offered a little shrug.
“Please,” Hawthorn said, “toss me a bone here.”
“Telling you my problems won’t solve them and would only make things worse.”
“They could be worse? Telling me your problems might make them go away. The worst that could happen would be Sturgeon kills you, and quite frankly isn’t that worth the risk?”
She stopped playing with her food, stopped doing anything. Hawthorn believed he might actually be getting through to her at last.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “I’ll tell you about me, everything about me, to show you how easy it is to bare your soul. Then, when I’m through, you tell me something about you. Deal?”
She gave a small shrug, which Hawthorn decided to accept as agreement.
“Once upon a time,” Hawthorn began, “I had a job with a security firm named Securitarn. If you haven’t heard of them, they’re one of the largest security firms in the Jupiter system. They wander space so they’re not officially based anywhere, which is a big tax-evasion scheme, let me tell you. Securitarn hire out security services to offices, some police forces, whatever. Anyway, I was an engineer working for them and Iris was a security guard.”
“Security guard?”
“Security firms need security guards. I know, it sounds silly, but there you go. So, the two of us worked for Securitarn, didn’t know one another at all. I was kind of happy in my job; but working on a tour through space did my marriage in. Without me there, my wife somehow forgot the vows we made on our wedding day, but who wants to talk about that cow?”
“You and Arowana aren’t married?”
Hawthorn shuddered. “Been there, got the burns, thank you. No, Iris and I live in sin, as the Themistonians liked to remind us.”
“I have a fair idea of living in sin,” Hart said in a small voice.
Hawthorn opted to ignore the comment. “Iris and I were thrown together because our bosses thought it was a swell idea to experiment on her brain – expand her mental storage capacity.” He tapped two fingers to the side of his head. “I think they were after the next generation in storage devices. And to think, there was a time years ago when floppy discs were all the rage.”
“They stopped making them about the same time VCRs went out the window.”
“I’m genuinely surprised you know that.”
“I know a thing or two about mechanics myself.”
“And part of knowing mechanics is being aware of past technologies. I’m impressed.” He was also glad she was beginning to open up.
“Then what happened?” Hart asked.
“With me and Iris? We left Securitarn. All the other test subjects died, Iris was the only one the process took to.”
“You’re on the run from Securitarn?”
“You could say that. They think we’re dead, but so long as we can keep it that way they shouldn’t be looking for us.” He had not meant to say quite so much, but it was all out in the open now. “So, that’s my darkest secret exposed. Is it worth trading all that for your name?”
She looked at him again and this time kept her beautiful eyes on him. “My name’s Bethany. And I became a pirate when Sturgeon kidnapped me two years ago. Since then I’ve watched as people were murdered, I’ve fired missiles myself that have killed our victims. I’m weak and I’m a coward and I deserve whatever that man does to me.”
“No one deserves to be treated the way he treats you. Me and Iris, we can help you. We can rescue you.”
Hart laughed. The sound was short and filled with sarcasm. “I’m a killer, Mr Hawthorn. I’m a coward and a murderer. There’s no rescuing me.”
“Anything you’ve don
e, you were forced to do it.”
“No. I did those things because I was afraid. That’s what I’d tell the judge if you rescued me. The penalty for piracy is execution, Mr Hawthorn. Europan pirates are the worst of the worst. They sell tickets for the hanging of a Europan pirate.” She set down her fork. “Thank you for the omelette, Mr Hawthorn. I think we can dispense with the medical treatment. I’d like to join First Mate Sturgeon now.”
Hawthorn did not know what to say, which was a first for him because he always liked to get the last word in. He had never before met someone so beaten down in life, someone whose soul had been battered to such a degree that she had surrendered the very concept of decency. But what she had said was correct. If she admitted her fear to the courts, she would be found guilty and hanged. To rescue her would be to kill her, and she was more afraid of dying than she was of living under a pirate’s heel.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” Hawthorn said. “I’ll take you to Sturgeon.”
Hart tried to offer him a slight smile, but could not manage it. Lowering her eyes once more, she meekly followed him from the room. Bethany Hart may have had no more tears to shed, but inside Gordon Hawthorn was weeping.
CHAPTER NINE
When Sturgeon had agreed to board the Jupiter’s Glory it was with a mind to seizing the sword-ship. Captain Danton had told him to be careful if he decided to attack the two fools who ran the ship, but Sturgeon had never once in his life been careful. However, with the man Hawthorn off in another part of the ship with the girl, even Sturgeon would not risk putting his plans into motion. So instead he had been taken into a room furnished with benches and several hard-wearing plants which needed little water. There was a carpet of thin grass which was likely artificial and a rockery complete with water gushing down it. There was even a small wooden bridge spanning what was probably meant to symbolise a river, all set against a backdrop of one gigantic window, looking out onto space.
Sturgeon had seen such places on spacecraft before, especially military ones. They were areas where the crew could re-humanise themselves, where they could forget they were faceless drones wasting their lives far away from anyone who gave a damn about them. Sturgeon had never seen the use for such places, but since Arowana had brought him there he assumed she had thought it cosier than a windowless meeting room.