“Exhausted.” Fath scratched the stubble on his cheeks. “Should that be?”
“It’s quite normal.” Romez busied himself with pulse and other minutiae.
“May I stretch?”
“Move with caution.”
Fath did, inwardly searching. “It feels … yes, most of the pressure is gone.” Carefully, a hand probed his lower back.
“That’s good. Another few days …”
“No, that’s impossible. We’ve the fish to attend to, and …” Fath blinked, sleepily, focused on me. “How’s that going, my boy?”
Truth, or bad news? “We have some new words. ‘I don’t understand’ is one.” There. It wasn’t a lie, and I hadn’t told him we’d made little other progress. Well, I’d thought to put “equals/not equals” together. True/false. It served as a question mark. And a question mark led to “why.” Now at least we could ask, rather than make endless declaratory statements. Next time Fath woke, we’d have a breakthrough. A Rose Stone, or whatever it was called, that would bridge the gap between us. Fath deserved it, and I’d give it to him, even if it meant licking Anselm’s boots to stay on the negotiating team.
Fath asked, “How’s Jerence? Any word from Centraltown? Call Tolliver, would you?”
I paged the bridge, masking my disappointment. He had no special interest in me. No, “How have you done without me, son? Been lonely?” Well, he was injured, and barely awake. I wouldn’t hold it against him.
He and Tolliver shooed me out for their conference, and by the time I was allowed back in, Romez was just putting him back into deepsleep. As he drifted off, Fath squeezed my hand, smiled reassuringly.
As if that were enough.
I debated curling in my bunk—if Fath could sleep, so could I—but then I’d wake for the night, which would leave me tired and irritable in the morning, when I’d need to be at my best to appease Anselm.
I wasn’t still confined to my cabin, was I? Fath and Tolliver had sent me out, which overruled Tad’s vague instructions. At least it was arguable, and that would do. My mood gloomy, I toured the lounges, found few familiar faces. No one I cared to pass the day with.
Perhaps Mikhael would be companionable, though he’d seen me lose my temper. He wasn’t one to carp at my behavior; perhaps he’d been too recently young.
I headed for the wardroom. At the hatch, I knocked immediately. This time, no one would accuse me of skulking about. In any event, Alon Riev was groundside, exiled to sleepy Admiralty House.
“Yes?” Midshipman Yost. Circles under his eyes, a wary look.
“I was looking for …” Alon Riev had been riding him. Had Mikhael also? Clumsily, I switched gears. “… someone to beat at Arcvid. Are you free?” I hated the game, and one-handed, couldn’t simultaneously fire and steer; I’d barely make it through level one. But it was all I could think of.
Tommy looked skeptical. “You mean it?”
“Sure.”
For a moment, he seemed ready to refuse. Then, “I’m off ’til third watch.” He slipped on his cap.
We headed for a lounge belowdecks.
To my infinite relief, the console was in use. We took a couple of softies, settled in a corner, talked about nothing at all. While I sized him up, I had the uncomfortable feeling he was doing the same.
Abruptly he broke off our inane chatter. “What do you want to tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“Goofjuice. No one’s given me the time of day since … we came aloft.” Since the fiasco in Centraltown.
“Except Alon Riev.” Who’d piled on demerits, and worse.
He said with dignity, “That’s a wardroom matter.”
“My brother’s in your wardroom.” I couldn’t believe myself: for the first time, I was pulling family connections, but it wasn’t Fath, it was Mik.
“Did Mikhael tell you?”
I hesitated, chose truth. “Not really. As you did, he said that it was private.”
Yost looked glum. “I suppose the whole ship knows. I’m at eight demerits. I’ve worked off five this week.”
“Did Mik give …” I bit my lip. “All right, don’t tell me. I understand.”
Tommy shot to his feet. “Come on!” He led me into the corridor. We strode from one section to another. His eyes were cast down, as if studying the deck. Then, abruptly, “When Mr Riev was first middy, Mik had no authority to issue demerits, but he was … he said …” silence, except for his breath, as we traversed another section. “… I suppose I deserved it.” A sideways glance, as if evaluating whether to trust me. “A day or so before Mr Riev left, Mikhael changed. Suddenly, I don’t know why, no more biting comments.” Mik and I had discussed Yost, over lunch that day; had he taken my advice to heart? Yost added, “No more looks that made me feel …” His mouth snapped shut.
I struggled to keep pace. If Tommy had no one to unburden to except me, his life must be torment. And I knew about that. If anyone would know what I was going through, he would.
I blurted, “It’s hell when they despise you.” It was my turn to color.
He took no notice. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “It’s hell. Is that what you want? Fine, I admit it. I’ve made my life hell. Andy Ghent is well avenged.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, please.” His voice dripped scorn. He stalked toward the ladder.
I raced after. If I had two hands, I’d have strangled him. How dare he assume I was cruel and mean-spirited, like—Leave him alone, you turd! I’ll tell Riev you cried like a joeykid. “Yost!” He paid no heed. I caught him, spun him about in utter violation of ship’s regs: him an officer, me, a mere ship’s boy. “Think I don’t know about hell?” My voice was ragged. “I brained the Captain! For a week, my jailers brought food, spat into it before tossing my tray on a chair. Mik beat the living …”
His eyes were bitter. “Want to tell them how Yost’s taking it? He’s not cracking, not yet. But he’s close.”
“Mr Branstead, Mr Dakko, Tolliver, Tad Anselm—they all loathed me. Even my friend Kevin!”
He snarled, “So Sutwin or Clark or Tamarov can stop leaving Ghent’s picture in my holo. It’s not necessary. I see Andy all through the night.” He spun on his heel. “Tell Mik, or whoever asked.”
I had to make him understand. “And now he’s my father, I owe him everything, and they’re talking of …” Burning. I swallowed. It was too obscene to say aloud. “They’ll put him on trial. Everything he’s done for them will be forgotten, ’cause he went against the Church. You know what would save him? No one would dare prosecute the man who brought home a peace treaty with the fish. We’re trying to give him that, Anselm and I, and no matter how hard we try, we can’t understand them, or they us! That’s hell!”
“Look, joey. I know you think I’m a crybaby and a whiner.” Had Tommy heard even a word I’d said? “You told Riev back then, and you’ll tell Mik now. I don’t care. Just leave me alone!” He stalked into the wardroom, slapped the hatch closed.
I gaped.
And Fath thought I didn’t have the maturity to be a middy.
30
TWO DAYS HAD PASSED.
I buried Fath’s bottle in the clothes drawer, wiped my mouth. The alcohol burned pleasantly in my gullet. It could get to be a habit. How many bottles did he have stored, and where? Certainly he’d brought more than one; Olympiad’s cruise lasted for nearly three years. On the other hand, liquor was readily available in Centraltown—to adults—and no doubt on Kall’s Planet as well. As long as Fath didn’t notice the level of the bottle going down, all would be well.
He slept, as always. Monitors recorded his pulse, his breaths, his blood oxygen.
Romez said he was getting better. That with luck, he’d be his old self. That in less than a week, he’d bring Fath out from deepsleep, let him go about the topmost deck in reduced lunar grav. That I had no need to worry. That in two days, they’d perform minor surgery to prep me for my temporary prosth, and learning to use that wou
ld keep my mind occupied.
I stole another look at the dresser drawer, reluctantly decided against it. I’d be meeting Mik shortly for dinner.
While I waited, I worked my way into a fresh shirt. I didn’t want a prosth, but I had to admit that at times it’d be useful. Like when you wanted to scratch your left side. And one hand doesn’t cup enough water to really wash your face.
Of course, what I’d be getting was an ugly mechanical, regardless of its flesh tones. But first they had to implant the interface, all chips and nanomechanisms, that would bridge the gap between my nerves and the prosth. Ugh. They might as well give me a hook, like that ancient captain wore in the stories.
Yesterday our team had reached new depths of frustration with Harry. Anselm, Lieutenant Frand, Mik, and I … even Joanne Skor had joined us at the table. We’d tried again to work on time and duration, with no visible success. Tad had even let me try again with the clock.
After lunch we’d barely settled behind the transplex barrier when Harry bestirred himself. He rolled onto a plate, drew a message. It appeared to be a dead fish.
We weren’t sure how to react. But Harry didn’t wait. His next plate was more ominous: a dead human. Tad and Mikhael exchanged glances.
Lieutenant Frand asked, “What’s it mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Anselm. “Jess, erase it. ‘We don’t understand.’ Randy …”
I jumped. “Yes, sir?”
“Don’t startle him. Don’t move without permission. No sudden gestures, leave your bloody clock alone. If Harry’s making a threat, we want to answer very carefully.”
I reddened. “You can trust me—”
“Stow it!”
Jess erased the plate.
Harry redrew it.
Ms Frand looked around. “All right, joeys, what’s he saying?”
No one had a guess. After a time I said, “Ma’am, I think … isn’t this the first time he’s spoken to us?”
“Nonsense, we’ve drawn back and forth about peace, about the war, about—”
“Yes, ma’am, but isn’t this the first time Harry’s spoken first?”
Silence.
“You know,” said Mikhael slowly, “I think he’s right.”
“What’s that tell us?” Anselm.
Again, no one had an answer. I ventured, “That he’s getting impatient?”
Tad grunted. “Him, or you?”
That wasn’t fair. I was doing my best. I jutted out my jaw, resolved to say nothing.
Anselm and the others dithered. Afraid to say anything that might be misunderstood, again they erased Harry’s message.
Harry roiled into a frenzy, etching plates as fast as Jess’s servo provided them. Dead fish. Dead humans. A broken ship. Three mysterious squiggles that looked rather like worms. Seven outriders, then six. Then five. While we puzzled out the plates Harry skittered back and forth along the corridor. He came to a halt near the transplex barrier and stood, quivering.
In desperation Anselm sent back seven humans, then six, and five. Harry erased them.
We conferred, but I had nothing to say. I was fresh out of ideas, and Anselm mocked those I’d had.
Now, in our cabin, I sighed. Where the hell was Mikhael?
Harry was beginning to give me the jitters.
That damned quivering was likely to drive me crazy.
A soft knock, and the hatch slid open. “Ready? How’s Pa?” Mik peered in.
“How’s he ever?” My tone was sour.
Mikhael sniffed the air, gave me a sharp glance, but said nothing. On the way to Dining Hall he said, “Nervous about tomorrow’s surgery?”
“Some. Romez says I won’t feel a thing.”
“He’s very good.” But Mik seemed preoccupied.
I gave him a few moments, said hesitantly, “Is it about Tommy?”
“Huh? No.” He shook his head with a grimace. “But don’t taunt the middy, he has troubles enough.”
“I didn’t—”
“Look.” Mik stopped short. “I heard it on the bridge, so I shouldn’t tell you. But you’re family, so I should.”
How did my conversation with Yost reach the bridge? I gaped.
“Something’s happened to Mr Branstead; Tolliver can’t reach him.”
A pang of loss. Jerence had been good to me.
“Vince Palabee’s surfaced in the Venturas. Made a speech, with Bishop Scanlen and Ambassador McEwan at his side.”
Mikhael rubbed his eyes. “And I haven’t told you the worst. Scanlen publicly excommunicated Corrine Sloan. Says she committed apostasy on Hope Nation soil, demands she be returned for trial and condemnation. Requires that all men proclaim her guilt, wherever she roams, and removes from office any who harbor her.”
“What’s that mean?”
“If Pa brings her home, he’s required to denounce her as excommunicate and hand her up for trial. And if he doesn’t, Pandeker will.”
I grasped at straws. “But when Scanlen excommunicated Fath, no one paid attention.”
“Pa holds a U.N. commission. Even the Church can’t revoke it. Though that frazball Scanlen just tried. Removes from office … fah!” Mik’s lip curled.
“But when Fath gets home?”
Mik pursed his lips. “I told you there’d be a trial.”
“Can he protect Corrine? Refuse to hand her over?”
“I don’t see how.” He tugged at my sleeve. “Let’s go, dinner’s starting.”
I wasn’t hungry, but I let him steer me to the Dining Hall. We’d barely slid out our chairs when Reverend Pandeker rose to give the traditional Ship’s Prayer.
“Lord God, today is March 7, 2247, ship’s time, on the UNS Olympiad. We ask you to bless us, to bless our voyage, and to bring health and well-being to all aboard.”
Pandeker moved to sit, hesitated, remained on his feet. “We further ask Lord God’s blessing to restore Olympiad’s Captain to health, that we may continue on our journey. That those guilty be punished, and matters of treason and heresy set right.”
“Mik!” I grabbed his wrist.
“Shush.” He freed himself. Then, softly, “We’ll see what Mr Tolliver does.”
“He’s sitting there, slurping soup.” I pointed to a nearby table, like ours, beginning their meal.
“Not now, you dolt. After.” He smiled at his neighbor. “What, ma’am? Yes, I agree. Quite flavorful.” Mik took another steaming spoonful of mushroom soup. “Quite.” But his eyes were watchful.
It was an outrage: Tolliver did nothing. I hung about near the bridge, to see if he would summon Pandeker or go to him. Mikhael spotted me, demanded I go to my cabin before Lieutenant Frand caught me. I shrugged. I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I was off duty, and lived on Level 1. And Tolliver had told me I was free to visit him.
After a time, though, I got bored with the gray, silent corridor, and trudged back to our cabin. Sourly, I made ready for bed.
That fraz Pandeker had called out Fath in his own ship. Corrine Sloan, too, and not a soul had risen to their defense. I should have leaped to my feet, called him what he was.
I paced, quietly, so as not to wake Fath. I snorted at my overcaution. Even the blare of an alarm wouldn’t wake him from deepsleep.
So. Tomorrow another dreary day with Harry.
No. Surgery, to graft an interface for my prosth. I made a face.
I hesitated.
The hell with it. I crossed to Fath’s dresser, dug out the scotch. If he didn’t approve, let him wake and parent me as he ought. I dug out the cork, took a sip. It didn’t seem enough. I took a longer swig.
Half an hour later, I decided to take the bull by the horns. Time to see ol’ Tolliver, find out what he would do about Pandeker. Reluctantly, I shoved the depleted bottle into Fath’s dresser, peered into the mirror, gave my hair a few licks with the brush. Tolliver was the sort to ignore my point, for a lousy shirt or a lock of hair.
I headed for the bridge, my stride unsteady. This damned low
gravity Fath needed … hard for a joey to get used to.
Anselm had the watch. I’d find Tolliver in his cabin, and didn’t I know a sailor wasn’t to approach the bridge without an officer’s escort? And why was I raising my voice, did I care to be placed on report?
Grumbling, I set off for Tolliver’s cabin. It wasn’t far. Most all the officers were bunked on Level 1. Closer to the bridge, I supposed. Even the wardroom was—
Hot voices, drifting from the next section.
“An oath of obedience can’t be abrogated!” Tolliver.
“Not by the person giving it, agreed. But in—” Who was that? It sounded like …
“That decides the matter.”
“—but in this case, the oath’s ordered broken by the one to whom it’s given.” Ah, yes. Dear old Lieutenant Frand.
“You swore obedience to the Naval Service.” Tolliver’s voice was harsh. “Until Admiralty releases—”
I slowed my step, which was just as well. My pace wasn’t as dependable as it ought to have been, and the corridor had an alarming tendency to drift.
“I swore obedience to the Service, but the oath was given to Lord God. And it’s His representative who—”
“Pure sophistry, Sarah!”
“A matter of conscience. May we follow … orders without risk of eternal …”
I leaned against the corridor bulkhead, straining to hear, trying to make no noise. It was like when …
I felt my face go beet-red. I’d promised. I’d sworn. I would not sneak about listening outside hatches. Reluctantly, I urged my feet forward.
I strolled round the bend. Mr Tolliver’s hatch was open. Lieutenant Frand leaned against the side of the hatchway. She faced the cabin. Tolliver’s voice came from inside. Neither saw me.
Just outside the hatch, I propped myself against the bulkhead opposite. I was in plain sight; no one could accuse me of skulking about. Sullenly, I stared at the tails of Frand’s crisp jacket.
“They excommunicated Seafort weeks ago.” Tolliver. “Why your sudden attack of conscience?”
Ms Frand folded her arms. Lucky old biddy. Well, after they grafted my prosth, I’d be able to fold my arms too, after a fashion—
“Until now,” she told Tolliver, “I could argue that Admiralty hadn’t removed the Captain. But today, Scanlen, the presiding Bishop, impeached any officer who—”
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