Glancing over at her with his hard face on, he said, “You aren’t fully recovered from the cryonic stasis sleep.”
She’d have liked to deny that, but she’d done a couple of katas herself and didn’t like her shape. “I bet I could beat a few.”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know who trained them and whether that training has stuck. We don’t know their moves or how their fighting has changed.”
She chuffed a breath. “I saw your ‘fight’ with Lascom.”
That surprised a smile out of him, but it was all too brief. He came over and put the edge of his hand under her chin, tipped her head up. Not something he usually did or she usually allowed. “I want them to think of you as an unknown quality.”
She grimaced. “They will.” Then she pointed to the console with her chin. “There are two fighting clubs, and they seem to be based on ship class structure. One is for tech levels ten to five—lower class. The other is first level through fourth. And of both clubs there are only two women, both in the upper level.” Women had fought long and hard for equality on Earth, and the ship wasn’t such an environment that brute strength would be a predominant need. Fern wasn’t sure what went wrong, but something had.
“Is that so?” Kelse asked.
“So.”
“Then they will definitely underestimate you.” He dropped his hand and stole a kiss.
“You’re not going to get around me by sex.”
His laugh was short, and he began moving again. “I never have. I should get so lucky now.”
She sighed. “I’ll observe the tryouts.”
“Good. The best thing you can do.”
“All six of the men in the hallway outside of the conference room were in the higher-level sparring organization.”
“Of course they were. Along with Dirk Lascom and Randolph Ash?”
“Ash is lower class.”
That stopped Kelse. “The hell he is. He’s Chloe’s grandson.”
“He’s illegitimate.”
Kelse just stared at her. “That matters?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and swore.
The timer pinged. “NoonBell,” said the flat tone.
Fern took off the gi she wore over her armor and put on her loose sweats. She gave Kelse a hard hug. “Come on, I hear they have some wonderful chicken noodle soup in Cafeteria A.”
“Show mobile route to Cafeteria A,” Kelse said. The tiny cameras along the route flickered in real time. There were no threatening men, the walkways were busy. She and Kelse left.
“If anyone comes up to us at lunch, I’ll introduce you,” Kelse said. They weren’t touching now, both free to deal with any threat. “But I don’t think that will happen.”
It didn’t. They ate solitarily, but under the gazes of many . . . and more arriving every minute. The soup wasn’t bad, but it was blander than Fern had expected, and she knew it was better than usual.
The winnowing out of the men for security detail took hours. No women applied. One of the toughs who’d waited for Kelse after his conference with the mutineers was there—and sat with another muscular man in intent conversation. Stupid. Now they knew one more of Dirk’s cadre. Kelse dismissed them both.
Fern got a hinky feeling about two other men, and though Kelse seemed to be fine with them, and their skills were as good as the rest, he sent them away, too.
Finally, they ended up with ten men. All of whom were close to becoming Kelse loyalists.
They all escorted her back to the quarters, then went to a gym, where Kelse would begin forming them into a squad.
She was left out and she didn’t like it.
There was sex and loving that night, but despite that, Fern thought the day had ended overall on a low note.
Kelse wasn’t the same hopeful man she’d last seen smiling down at her before the cryogenics mist weighted her eyelids. She’d loved the change in him once he’d discovered the colonization project. For that, more than anything else, she’d gone along with the plan. She’d wanted to leave NJNY and the USTATES for the Southern Confederation. Kelse had been sure there was no place on Earth that the USTATES assassins couldn’t find and quietly kill them—just in case Kelse decided to return. And Kelse’s stature was such that people would want him to mix into politics. The colonization scheme had been a perfect plan.
Now they were Awakened before the ship had landed, and Kelse was back in “battle-hardened warrior” mode.
The next morning they awoke to a bouncy jingle and a vid of Dirk Lascom.
“Greetings, friends and supporters!” Dirk flashed a gleaming, cheerful smile. “It’s me, Dirk Lascom of the Ships for Ourselves party.” His expression saddened, but there remained glee in his eyes. “Our meeting with Kelse Bountry didn’t go as well as we wished yesterday.”
Kelse cursed and rolled from bed. “Gotta see if I can break his speech like he broke mine.” He stomped to the closet and yanked on his uniform, took a brush from a drawer, and pulled it through his hair. Then he was behind the console, muttering low commands and fingers jabbing programs to tie in with Dirk’s vid.
Eight
Bountry revealed that the public records regarding the wormhole events in our ship’s past were falsified.” Now Dirk Lascom’s hands fisted. “We have been lied to all along.” He shook his head. “But we must recall that those who funded their precious mission to colonize another planet were criminals. They can’t return to Earth. But other Earth colonies and ships waiting through the wormhole would welcome us. We’ll be able to pick up more fuel, more food, live on a planet or make our ships exactly as we want them—colony ships.” Lascom spread his hands. “Let’s consider all our options.” Another shake of his head. “The options they’ve left us with after burning our resources.” His eyes flickered to the left. “Signing off.”
Kelse missed the hookup by two seconds. When his image flooded the screens, Fern winced. He was in fearsome mode. “Greetyou, friends and fellow travelers. I will be courteous and respond to Dirk Lascom as he has styled himself, the leader of the Ship for Ourselves party.” Kelse’s voice scraped roughly from him. No, he wasn’t nearly as charming.
“Yes, we were outlaws. Every one of us was with the psi underground. We were born with Flair and we used it. For that we were persecuted.
How many of you have Flair now? Would you chance to go back to a place that may have wiped out every person who had psi? Governmentapproved persecution of people with Flair had begun. Mobs were organized against us. We wanted peace, not violence. But violence has found all of us here on our ship.” He drew a breath and his chest expanded. The dark green shirt with minimal insignia—two golden leaves on the upright collar—suited him. He looked solid, authoritative. A man you could trust.
Fern was pretty sure that even as the dimmest crew member, she would trust Kelse over Dirk.
“As for the falsification of records, I would remind you that two hundred forty-five years ago most of the people on this ship did not consider it home.” Kelse’s silvery glance met hers. Were they the only people alive now who didn’t consider Nuada’s Sword home? She thought so. “We are on a starship. If those people panicked, there was nothing but their home to wreck, their very livelihood. So less dire records were given to them.”
“Offer them Captain Whitecloud’s log and journal notes about the event and situation,” Fern said. “They’re touching.” She’d found them so. His worry for his community, the son he’d convinced to come with him. The Captain’s line still lived, and she was glad of that, because she’d liked him. A wisp of memory touched her, but Kelse was speaking again.
“I will make Captain Whitecloud’s log and journal public regarding the first and second wormhole events.” He paused. “Also a translation of panglish and cursive handwriting.” A line grooved between his brows. “I am pleased to announce that I have chosen ten fine men as new security guards.” He reeled off the names. “They are here to protect you. To protect us all.
But since the disappearance of Jose Moncrief, Altai Rye, and Sid Beranik, I hope that you will protect them, too. If you see them being provoked and attacked, notify me via the ship intercom or photo them with your handhelds. We do not want any more people vanishing on this ship.” He’d cautioned the new men against being arrogant, and to be aware of the people around them, and not to go off with anyone they didn’t know. “That said, I hope you are enjoying the new menus of the cafeterias and your visits to the great Greensward. I’ve approved the requests for painting the cafeterias and private quarters. Blessed be to each and every one of you.”
The vid faded and Kelse cursed again, scrubbed his face. “A fliggering propaganda war.”
“Looks like it,” Fern said. She walked over and put her arms around him. He held her and rubbed his chin on her head.
“Did I do wrong in answering him?”
“He’s one of them, born and bred. You’re the outsider. I don’t think you can afford to ignore him. You have to be seen and accessible. Kiet Moungala wasn’t.”
Kelse grunted. “Sooner or later Dirk and his men will slip up and I’ll pounce. I’m not forgetting the dead.”
“No, of course not.”
“But this word war is a damn nuisance.” He stepped away and looked down at her, smiling, and her heart simply turned over. “I found my old sweats in the corner of the closet.”
“You mean your rags?”
“I knew you’d unpacked them because you had yours.” He glanced at the time on the console. “We have an hour before breakfast in the cafeteria, let’s work out.”
They’d made love twice in the night, but that had been slow and easy and aching.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, lifted to kiss him on the mouth. “Fine.”
He searched her face and nodded. “We were always good at living in the moment.”
“Yes.”
For the next week, every day, at some part of the day, Dirk Lascom would broadcast allegations against Kelse and Fern, the sleepers, the other Captains, and the mission.
Usually Kelse tapped into the agitator’s vid before he was done—and Dirk rarely answered Kelse.
The ship was energized by the messages, and the crew viewed them as prime entertainment. Which was dangerous because they were enjoying Dirk and didn’t think of him as a deadly threat.
On the whole, though, Fern believed Kelse’s side was winning. Julianna Ambroz, with her grandmotherly look, her sharp scientific mind, and especially the dress she wore, made a good impression.
The youth, Randolph Ash, also appeared by vid one morning after Dirk spoke smoothly about wormholes. He glanced often to the side of the vid, as if needing encouragement. Again he stated that he believed the current, ever-nearing wormhole could lead to civilized space. But he didn’t have the same passion for the notion as previously. Fern wasn’t surprised. Randolph and Chloe were speaking again, and she could have translated the engineering specs and Whitecloud’s log easily for him.
That led to Fern’s particular favorite response of Kelse’s. He’d looked out of his vid with a mocking smile, and asked, “What makes you think we won’t all go boom?” Kelse had mimicked an explosion, closed hands flying apart, with excellent sound effects.
The wormhole wasn’t mentioned after that.
Her Kelse had never been a speaker, but Fern found herself impressed with him. At least on the vid. He continued to shut her out, which led to her own irritation and anger at him . . . a nasty cycle. She’d ask about his feelings, minimize her own, and they’d hold on to each other with despair and make love with desperation.
Then the first results of the probes they’d sent to the planets of the white star returned.
Fern and Kelse consulted with the other Captains in the large conference room. All her nerves shivered under her skin, and the hair on her nape rose as the opaque window was filled with the white star’s solar system, and almost straight ahead, the other two systems they were headed for. Those seemed very far away.
Kelse had invited a representative of the Ship for Ourselves party to the meeting. To Fern’s surprise, Randolph Ash showed up. He appeared more pale than ever, with dark circles under his eyes. Confronting hard truths did that.
She and Kelse shared a look, then Kelse’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. Dirk had made a mistake in sending a man who was having doubts about his cause. Kelse would capitalize on that.
“Preliminary shots of the planet appear good,” Umar Clague, the Captain of Lugh’s Spear, said. He was old now, but just as stern. He and Kelse had never gotten along because Umar had been in the military. It appeared they’d resolved their differences.
“We’ve received the mini samples from the sixth planet. They’re . . . acceptable,” Julianna said gravely.
“What’s your concern?” asked Kelse.
“The atmosphere seems fine. The gravity measurements very close to Earth normal, slightly more than one grav.” Her face relaxed in a smile. “If we land, those who are Awakened could tell no difference.”
“But?”
“I don’t like the looks of the mixture of soil and atmosphere and sea. There are combinations that concern me.”
“In what way?”
“There could be effects upon us that aren’t noticeable at first but could be cumulative.”
“Looks beautiful to me,” Umar said truculently.
Julianna drew in a breath. “I vote we don’t risk it. We want a home, not a planet that will kill us. The other solar systems are more promising.
We’ve got probes back from them, too. Definitely fourteen worlds considered in habitable zones.”
Fern wanted to fiddle with something, square the sheets of the reports, pick up the writestick and roll it in her fingers. She didn’t. She’d learned stillness from Kelse. But she spoke, “Fourteen planets,” she agreed. “But the farthest ones are the most promising.”
“And that’s close to being too far for our fuel reserves,” Kelse said softly.
Randolph spoke for the first time. “I would like to see the probes’ data.” His jaw firmed and he stared at each one of the Captains. “All the data, and unfiltered.”
“Sure,” Kelse said. “Streaming our data to Lugh’s Spear, Arianrhod’s Wheel, my console, nose bridge, and Randolph Ash.”
“Same,” said Umar.
“Ditto,” said Julianna. Then she turned to stare at Kelse. “Surely you don’t think we should change course for the white star, take such a chance.
We only have one shot at this—the white star or the good systems.”
“I think we should launch a lab,” Kelse said.
Fern’s spine stiffened in surprise. He hadn’t spoken to her about this, and he should have. As far as she knew, she was the most experienced person with a planetary laboratory.
“We only have one lab. I forbid—” Julianna stopped, but her face had flushed and gone hard. “I strongly recommend saving the lab for later.”
“I’ll consider it,” Kelse said.
Julianna inclined her head.
Umar cleared his throat. “The anticipated time to reach the new systems for close scrutiny is two years?”
“For optimal testing, twenty-two months, nine days,” Julianna said.
“And we would land shortly after, say within another six months?” Umar pressed.
An uneasy expression passed over Julianna’s face, but she said, “That was always the timetable, though I believe that eight months might be a better schedule for an unknown planet, and that was agreed at the beginning of my term.”
“That’s two and a half years. I have an announcement. I plan on Awakening our Pilot, Netra Sunaya Hoku. He will take the title of Captain, though I, of course, will still consult.”
Julianna shifted. “You’re anticipating that we will find a good planet to colonize.”
“I’m expecting that we will find home. Our Celta.” Umar stared at her a full ten seconds. “Julianna,
you may have other alternatives, but neither I nor Kelse do, our fuel will run out. That’s a fact.” Umar looked at Kelse. “Though I will say that I, personally, like the idea of less time on the ship, and wish the news about the sixth planet was better.” He gave a sitting bow. “Merry meet.”
“And merry part,” Fern echoed along with Julianna. Kelse lagged; he’d come late to their spiritual beliefs and the culture they’d create on their planet.
If they ever made landfall.
That night Kelse couldn’t sleep. He’d made tender love to Fern, and she had responded, but he knew there was distance between them. He wasn’t sure why that was, only that it existed and he didn’t know how to breach it. If he had the time. He’d never had so many lives resting on his shoulders. He didn’t like it. Especially since they were civilian lives—soft, regular people . . . with psi power.
Everyone who joined the psi underground knew they would be a soldier, knew they were fighting for their people. Knew their lives could be forfeit.
Not here in the ship. This morning he’d officiated at a Naming—and had been appalled that he’d had to hold a newborn. He was sure that hadn’t shown, and Fern had watched on, smiling, but the event had twisted something inside him.
That baby’s fate rested in his hands.
He wasn’t sure he could bear the thought, and it seemed to him that he was shoving too many thoughts and emotions away until the box they were in would soon burst.
So he gazed down on his love, his Fern, for a moment, then put on his raggedy sweats and walked the hidden way to the gym. He wasn’t too surprised to see Peaches in the walkway.
He’s making a mistake, the FamCat said.
“Randolph?” Kelse asked.
“Yessss.” The cat actually hissed the word. Kelse was impressed.
Peaches thrashed his tail. I am Randolph’s FamCat. I am loyal to him.
“Of course. But he’s making a mistake.”
He wanted better conditions for all. Others who pretend to be friends don’t want this. Don’t believe in the mission or a new planet. They only want power and chaos here.
Hearts and Swords: Four Original Stories of Celta Page 8