20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (26 page)

Someone was sitting on one of the benches
with his back to her. A tall man in a sleeveless undershirt lounged
next to his navy blue jacket, draped across the gazebo's railing.
All was quiet for a moment, and then she heard the rasp of a page
turning, then another far more quickly than she would have guessed.
He chuckled for a moment, and then he threw his head back in a full
rolling howl. The laughter was contagious, and she found herself
smiling at it in spite of herself. She took a step back and turned
to leave him alone, but one of his hoots pulled his head in her
direction. He must have caught her out of the corner of his eye. It
was the captain! Of all people!

"Oh, hullo, Miss Llewellyn," he said as he
wiped a joyous tear from his cheek. He chuckled again, only
slightly embarrassed, and gestured for her to come closer. "Glad to
see someone else enjoying the night air."

"I beg your pardon," she replied. "I did not
mean to disturb you. I thought--"

"It's quite all right, Miss. Please, join
me." He pointed to the bench on the other side of the gazebo door.
"I assure you, I won't bite. Company would not be amiss right
now."

Her hand wandered to her cheek, and she
fretted about the disheveled state of her hair, more for the sake
of a mentor leagues upon leagues away than the sake of the man
before her. It felt most unladylike, and she could hear Mrs.
Brightman's chiding in the back of her mind. Then she noticed his
bare feet, with his long toes wiggling in the freedom of the cool
air. His boots and socks lay askew beside him on the bench, just
underneath his jacket. She decided that her hair matched the
situation perfectly and let it alone.

He held the book out to her. "Ever read any
Twain?"

Here he was, the one she was supposed to
observe, asking her to sit with him. It wasn't supposed to be this
easy. At the same time, she knew that people showed more of their
true selves in the quiet of the night. She walked up the stairs
with her skirt slightly lifted to avoid tripping on the hem and sat
down on the bench opposite him.

She observed him for a moment before
answering. He held a hairy fruit in his other hand. A few bites
were missing from it, showing green flesh flecked with tiny black
seeds. As he moved, she could see the dark outline of a tattoo on
his right arm. The limbs of an inky Martian flashed in and out of
view as the captain turned and settled himself into a more
comfortable position.

"I can't say that I have, Captain."

"Oh, please, there is no one else here. I
insist that no one stand on ceremony after midnight. Especially
while I'm reading Mr. Twain here. Call me Christophe."

She hesitated.
Just us chickens
, Nigel
had said earlier. It wasn't just the Booleans that were tired of
all the Mr. Wallaces of the world. She flashed a coy smile at
him.

"Christophe, then."

"At least while we're here, in the gazebo.
Outside the Gardens, I still have to be Captain, you know." He
stuck his thumbs underneath the narrow straps of his undershirt,
and his face melted into a frumpy expression. "Must keep up the
show for the crew."

She raised an eyebrow at that. This was not
the person that she had expected to find, not at all.

"Tell me, Miss Llewellyn, how is it that an
educated lady such as yourself has not had time to enjoy
Following the Equator
? I find Mr. Twain's humour quite
refreshing." He took a bite out of the fruit in his hand, sucking
in his breath a little to keep the juice from dribbling onto his
thin shirt.

She took a deep breath before answering. His
eyes were so bright in the gazebo's light. The boorish captain had
been left at the door; here before her was a jovial lad that she
had never seen before.

"My expeditions do not usually leave time for
leisure."

"How sad! I think if we all had a daily dose
of him, we'd all be more relaxed. I find that we're a bit stuffy
here on the
Fury
."

"Oh, my, what would Mr. Wallace say to that?"
she replied with a chortle that wasn't entirely false.

It was part of her role to titter at jokes,
no matter how banal they were. She had not had an honest laugh in
so long that it fell onto her mind like a rain shower in a parched
valley. It seemed that Mr. Twain was contagious. She could not help
but notice that Christophe had a wide and generous mouth. His smile
occupied half the acreage of his elastic face.

When the moment had passed, she asked, "Might
I inquire after Mr. Cervantes? I haven't heard any updates. I
understand that his injuries are rather severe."

He slumped his long frame forward, a little
deflated, the spell of laughter shattered.

"Not good," he said, more soberly than
before. "He's resting now, under sedation. Dr. Hansard didn't want
me hovering over him as he worked. He couldn't -- or wouldn't --
give me a prognosis, but I'm certain that his situation is rather
dire. The doctor ordered me to get some rest, but I am far too
restless for sleep."

"I know the feeling," Gemma replied. "I
apologize. I did not mean to bring you down."

She could see more of the tattoo now, as he
hunched over in silent remembrance. Two of the Martian's tentacles
intertwined above its head in the shape of a heart, and the name
"Maggie" emerged into the space between.

"We were raised together, you know," he said.
She returned her gaze to his face as he spoke, hoping he would
continue volunteering information. "Miguel lost his family in the
Invasion. Pugh caught him picking his coat pocket in Madrid. We
were both just boys, then. I asked Pugh if we could keep him. I
wanted a brother more than I wanted anything else. He was so
raggedy and hungry, like a Spanish Oliver Twist, that even a cranky
old scientist couldn't say 'no'. He didn't even remember his
surname, so I gave him one."

"You named him? You named him Miguel
Cervantes
?"

"Yes! I was very fond of
Don Quixote
.
And, as it turns out, he's a better sailor than I am." He paused
and considered her as he took another bite of the fruit. He flicked
a bit of the juice from the edge of his mouth and swallowed before
speaking again. "Were you orphaned in the Invasion, Miss
Llewellyn?" he asked gently. He hesitated when he saw the slight
scowl on her face. "I'm sorry, perhaps that was a bit too forward."
He waved the words away. "Forget I asked. Tell you what, then. Ask
a question of me, to make us square."

"Just one."

"Yes?"

"What is that hairy little fruit you are
eating? I have never seen its like."

"Ah," he said, looking at the object in
question. "This is a kiwi, from New Zealand. Lovely country,
wonderful people. And the food! Oh, such food you have never seen.
I loved this particular fruit so much that Pugh suggested I name my
ship after it."

He popped the last bite of the kiwi into his
mouth and chewed it with a thoughtful look on his face.

"Your ship?"

"Oh, I've been on several, in my time. This
being the first
space
ship, ever, they had to train me on
what they had available." He ran the fingers of his now kiwi-less
hand through his hair and down to his neck, which he scratched
languorously. "Tall ships. Small ships. Steamers. Airships.
Anything they could get their hands on. Even a submarine! But there
was one little boat that was all mine. The
Kiwi Clipper
. Oh,
a lovelier sea bird you've never seen, all teak and hemp and sail,
with the most beautiful mermaid on the figurehead, you could see
her--"

He stopped for a moment, realizing that his
hands were tracing curves in the air. He dropped his hands to his
knees. "Well, she was very pretty. Cervantes served with me on most
of those ships, including the
Kiwi
."

His voice drifted off. Christophe licked his
lips and absently wiped his other hand on his trousers. "I think
when I return to Earth, I will retire to the sea. And you, what
would you like to do once this mission is over? Is there anywhere
you'd like to call home?"

Gemma averted her gaze to the path leading
away from the other side of the gazebo. A few trees were visible in
the chandelier's light and in the sparkling cords of lights wound
through the trees, but soon everything faded into the darkness of
the chamber. She did not know how to answer. She had never thought
about what was next. No one had ever asked her what she wanted,
until now. She simply moved from job to job, mission to mission,
always the errand-runner for others and never for herself, with
occasional breathers in the College's dormitory in Guildford. She
sat in stunned silence. She listened to the rustling of the trees
and the distant croak of a frog. She heard a plop afterward, as if
the frog had decided it was time for a swim.

If her face became well known after this
journey, would she still have a place as one of Brightman's
computers? Or would an Earth-bound scientist recognize her from a
previous mission? It had not occurred to her that she might be
difficult to place upon her return.

After a long moment, she uttered one of the
most truthful sentences of her life: "I don't know."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be busy with the Mars
findings for years and years after our return. Lectures and papers
and symposia and all that, you know. You'll be famous!" He chuckled
again. "I highly recommend a lecture tour in New Zealand. The rocks
near Christchurch are quite lovely, I hear."

He rambled on. The sound of his voice painted
colorful pictures in her mind that distracted her from her present
danger. The
Aurora Australis
hovered in her mind's eye as he
described it, a curtain of eerie light casting a veil over the
night sky. His hands carved the air as he told tales of the
Turquoise Sea, off the coast of Italy, where the water was so clear
that ships seemed to float on air. The sunlight sparkled on the
waves like diamonds scattered by the hand of Neptune himself.

"And watching the full moon rise upon the
water!" Christophe exclaimed. "It is so very big, so very, very
big, enormous! Like nothing you've ever seen. I watched it rise
every time I had a chance, knowing that someday I'd be sailing
there. I -- I didn't know -- I never knew how big it really was
until I got there."

He rested his hands on his knees and stared
down at them. She knew he was thinking of that ill-fated maiden
voyage. He finally spoke again. "And now I'm taking us to
Mars."

She found that just watching and listening
answered more questions than she could have asked. He took his
duties seriously, but he seemed to crave kiwis and salt water more
than power. His worry over Cervantes and his feeling of
responsibility tempered his arrogance. That cockiness merely
concealed the sailor that lingered deep in his heart, the one that
liked the feel of his toes around the rough rigging of sails.

Would he hold up under the pressure? Or would
he waver?

He had trained all his life for this mission,
he told her. She realized, in a way, so had she. She had been
taught to hate the Martians, so carefully, carefully taught. She
had learned to grasp science, even if she did not have a full
appreciation of it. She had been taught to observe, to analyze, and
to evaluate; but she had not been allowed to conclude. All of that
was coming to the fore on this journey, as Pugh sought her opinions
in a way no one ever had.

They had something in common, after all.

Christophe stretched and yawned. His toes
wiggled and clenched. With his arms above his head and his legs
extended halfway across the gazebo, he seemed twice as tall as
usual. He pulled himself back in and retrieved a wayward sock.

"Well, Miss Llewellyn, we both have duties in
the morning. I appreciate your listening to my ramblings. I do
believe I can follow Dr. Hansard's orders now. I think the same
prescription would apply to you."

Gemma stood up, feeling lighter than she had
in a while. "I believe you are correct."

She turned, shuffling her feet a little on
the boards of the gazebo, unsure of which path to take.

"Oh, sorry," he said as he pulled on his
jacket. He pointed to his left. "The fastest route to Ladies'
Country is that way. My quarters are in that direction." He pointed
to the opposite path. "Would you care for an escort?"

She smiled and shook her head. She had made
some headway in gaining information on him, and she felt much
better, but she didn't need to give him any improper ideas.

"I think I can find my way. Sleep well,
Christophe."

Gemma turned and made her way down the
stairs. She could feel his eyes on her back as she strode away.

"Good night, Miss Llewellyn," he called after
her.

She turned back and watched him button his
coat for a moment. Then she said, "It's Gemma. Just Gemma. And good
night."

~~~~

Christophe

Christophe settled in a chair next to
Cervantes' cot and shuffled typewritten pages in his hands.

"Time for our staff meeting, Mr. Cervantes. I
have to catch you up on the news so you won't be behind when you
get back to work."

Cervantes, thickly bandaged and pumped full
of Dr. Hansard's most powerful sedatives, lay still and sleeping as
Christophe's words spilled over him.

"Mr. Pritchard is helping out whilst you are
under the weather," Christophe continued. "You've taught him well!
The Oberths are running smoothly, and the navigational shields are
keeping the growlers out of the way. I know how you worry about
that. One less thing to fret about whilst you recover.

"You would have enjoyed tea yesterday, old
sport. Frau Knopf made flan with that recipe you found. Mr. Holomek
was especially fond of it. Once you're up and about, we'll ask her
to make it again." He flipped to the next page. "Oh, and a baby
goat was born this morning on the stable deck."