Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy (10 page)

“Another reason to get along with them,” the lieutenant said. “Otherwise they can make your life fairly miserable. Remember, there are nine of them and only two of you, and some of them have been in the service since before you were born. They’ll salute you, but if you come over as if you know a damned thing, they’ll laugh at you in their cups. Better to listen, to learn, and to earn their respect through work and not rank.”

In the Surgery, they met the ship’s surgeon, the elderly, white-bearded Zoltan Szakonyi, who chased them out so he could continue his own preparations. They passed then through the cramped engine room amidships, the domain of the boatswain, Thomas Peckover. Responsible for the massive gravity sails that powered the deep-space drives of the
Harvest
, Peckover was thoroughly professional in his description of how the sails functioned – and utterly devoid of personal warmth or charm. During the entire hour he spent showing his guests the sail housings, and the complicated rigging used to manage the massive but delicate crystalline sails, he never smiled once.

“Humor can be overrated,” Pott observed as they clambered up the long, narrow companionway leading from the engine room to the command deck. This was the interior of the slender fin that rose up from the hull, midway between the Harvest’s broad shoulders. It was just cold enough that Worth could see her breath. “Even if human warmth is wasted on him, Peckover is extremely competent. Don’t sweat the climb, by the by. The tower lift should be functional again soon. Something about power conduits. Just one more item on the punchlist for our lovely old girl.” The ladder ended in a hatch that Pott slid aside, and beyond was a snug, poorly-lit, circular room. “This,” Pott said, “is the conn, the command center. We just call her the Quarterdeck.”

It was smaller than Worth had expected, but if she had learned anything in the last couple of hours, it was that her expectations were all but worthless. It seemed like every story her father had ever told her involved the sprawling, shining bridges of sleek battle cruisers, where the lifts were never off-line and the crewmen were never rude pricks.
Why would he tell me stories like that
? she thought.
He had been a midshipman once too, right
? Surely Captain Worth had served on boring science vessels, or grimy cargo carriers. What was it Pott had said?
Funny thing about ladders...

She tried to look at it dispassionately. Everything was the same ugly gray-black she had seen throughout the ship –
had they never heard of paint
? – with a wide viewscreen that dominated the forward wall. There was one chair in the middle, slightly raised -- the command chair -- with others arrayed nearby.

“You’re the Navigator, Hall. This is your pilot’s station.” Pott patted the back of one of the chairs near the screen, directly in front of and below the command chair. The captain’s knees would all but brush his back. Hall sat, ran a palm across the top of the instrument panel, its displays all dark, then took the manual nav-stick almost lovingly in his hand.

“Can’t imagine you’ll need that much,” laughed Pott, clapping a friendly hand on the midshipman’s shoulder. “Even an old girl like the
Harvest
flies mostly by instrument panel. And you, Worth – you’re over there, at Operations.” He pointed to the front left corner. She sat, too, though not quite with the same reverence Hall had shown. She knew from the Royal College that navigators were a breed apart, talented and high-strung, with a sort of manic reverence for their equipment. Operations officers were more pragmatic. Instruments were tools, no more.
And that’s why command officers come out of Ops and not Nav
, she thought. Her father, of course, had been Ops.

It was after eleven by the time the two tired midshipmen made it back to their berths belowdecks.
2300
, Worth corrected herself.
Navy time
. The
Harvest
was not a big ship, and most of her tonnage was taken up by her spacious cargo holds. The captain and the other senior officers, “including me,” Pott had explained, had slightly roomier quarters on the main deck, nearer to the command center. Down here, in the section of the Harvest’s belly nearest her fat bow, was where the midshipmen would bunk, sharing a corridor with the able starmen and other lower-ranking crew members such as Yancy Waugh, the boatswain’s mate, and Orpheus Crutchfield, the sergeant in charge of the Machrine detail, among others. Worth mumbled an exhausted good night to Hall before slipping into her quarters. She knew they would be tiny, and for the first time that night, her expectations were met. The lights came on automatically as she entered, illuminating a small bunk with drawers underneath, and a narrow closet. There was a multi-use panel on the wall, currently dark, and Worth activated it with a touch, dropping her bag on the bed. It chirped to life, displaying its various functions.

Standard fare
, she thought as she cycled through the options. She could communicate with other crew members, watch vids, study ship specs, or choose from a variety of static images to bring some personalized décor to the room. With another touch she selected the mirror function, and watched as her own face leapt into view. She knew she was exhausted, that she must look awful, but the girl in the screen looked so sad, so deflated, in such stark contrast to her buoyant excitement earlier that day, that she nearly burst into tears. Purple lines sagged under her eyes, her skin waxen and gray in the dim light, her hair an unkempt, mousy brown, but the worst was the disappointment in her rounded shoulders, her drooping chin, her flat gaze.

You’re on a starship
! she cried silently, forcing herself to push her shoulders back, thinking of her father. This was what she had dreamed of since childhood, what she had always wanted and worked for. Seizing her hat from the wall hook where she’d left it, with every intention of putting it on and trying to recapture the magic from her family’s living room, all she could see was the corner where the hat had been crushed during her encounter with Lamb. It was too much to bear. She threw down the hat, turned off the screen, and sat on the bed, ready to give in and weep.

No.

Her small mouth screwed up in a defiant scowl, her smooth brow knitted with anger, mostly at herself. At her sides her hands clenched fistfuls of thick gray blanket.

No.

She was a Worth, a daughter of the Royal Navy, a commissioned officer of the King, and she would damn well not crawl under the covers and cry over a damaged hat. With a sudden fervor, she opened her bag and searched through the contents until she found what she was looking for.
Didn’t think I’d need this on the first night
. Opening the small black folding case, she set about working to repair the hat. The kit included a card-sized instruction pad, and she consulted it carefully, mimicking the movements shown, fighting through the clumsiness of fingers new to the task and the fog of fatigue.
If I can just make this right…

The morning came early, and yet the chime of her alarm found Worth already awake. She had slept without dreams, at least none she could recall, and despite the short hours, felt rested. Her eyes were drawn to that cockaded hat, hanging on its hook. Perhaps not as crisp as it had been once, but it was more than serviceable. Like the
Harvest
herself…not perfect, but a start.

It was not long before she was up and dressed, in the snug gray pants, white shirt, and blue jacket that was the midshipman’s working uniform. In the closet of her quarters hung the dress blues from the night before, and Worth vowed to store her disappointments there as well.
The bottom rung is just the first one
, she thought as she made her way down the short corridor to the common mess. It was a narrow room, with polymer aluminum tables, benches that folded down from the walls attached. At the far end was the dispenser array, fully automated. Once, she knew, there had been cooking staffs on board ships, working around the clock to prepare meals for their crew. In antiquity, in the era of sailing ships on the open ocean, there had been actual fires in the galley, which made her shudder. What it must have been like, surrounded by dry wood and pitch and canvas, knowing that the slightest inattention or mishap could lead to an all-consuming inferno.

There were no fires on the
Harvest
, just the usual range of selections that the nutri-computer would process and deliver, currently set to the breakfast assortment. Worth punched in the code for toast and coffee. She had never been much of a morning eater, and wasn’t sure her stomach could handle anything heavier on this particular morning. Despite her newfound resolve from the night before, she remained nervous, with a persistent fluttering just behind her navel. In less than two minutes a slot opened and a tray emerged with her toast, just the right amount of black, and a steaming mug of coffee. She cupped a hand on the drink and felt its warmth. It was chilly on the ship.

“Cold?” The voice startled her, but she managed not to spill her coffee. It was Saul Lamb, the able-bodied starman who had bumped into her the day before. He was in a plain white short-sleeved shirt, tight across his chest, and brown working-pants. He wasn’t smiling, but neither did he seem unfriendly. His black hair was clean and neatly combed, though his cheeks were dark with new growth.

“A bit,” Worth replied. “They warn you at Greenwich about the temperature on board, but I never really thought about it until now.”

“Colder on the other side of the hull,” he grunted. “Excuse me, sir.” He had moved to within a foot of her, and Worth realized she was blocking his access to the dispenser.

“Oh. Sorry.” She scooted out of the way, and Lamb spent the next few moments silently obtaining his breakfast, which turned out to be a single banana. He peeled it deftly, looking vaguely simian with his long arms and unshaven jaw. He took a big bite, and scowled.

“I had a real one once,” he said thickly, his mouth full of the yellow fruit. “They still grow them on Ganymede, in them big greenhouses. Fruit for the nobles, you know. Like as can’t get them here on Earth.” He shoved the rest of the banana in his mouth, as if he couldn’t finish it fast enough. “Anyway, that was with Strickland, a right old bastard but a good captain, merchant service and all.” He finally swallowed, sparing Worth the ongoing spectacle of him talking while he chewed, his mouth wide open. “Made some money with him, we did. And he gave us bananas at Ganymede, for work done right.” His laugh was a bark, moist and mirthless. “Thought he was doing us a favor, old Strickland. All he done was ruin bananas for us. After the real thing, these synthetics are like insulator caulking.”

“Then why do you eat them?” Worth had no idea why he was telling her this story. For some reason, this familiarity was more unsettling than his surliness the night before.

“To remind me who and what I am.” He shrugged, and stared at her in a way that chilled her to the core. It was a look that saw not her rank but her body, stripped of its clothes, suddenly naked before the appraising gaze of a man who generally took the things he wanted. “And in case I ever get my hands on another real banana, I’ll be able to appreciate it proper.” He leaned in close to her, and she shied away, keeping her tray between them, but he just dropped the empty peel in the recycler behind her. Saying no more, Lamb turned and walked toward the exit, stretching his hands high above his head, the bones in his back and arms cracking with the morning. When he reached the door, the crewman turned around briefly.

“By the way, since it was late last night when you and the other lady came on board…”
“Hall,” she blurted. “Midshipman
Charles
Hall.” She tried to put an emphasis on his rank and his first name, but her voice cracked midway through.

“Hmph. Could have sworn you was both girls. My mistake. At any rate, it was late, so we put off the wetting ‘til Friday night.”

“Wetting?”

“Seems there’s some other things they left out at Greenwich. If it’s a surprise, well, then I won’t spoil it. Friday night. Sir.” And he was gone.

What was that about
? Worth had lost her appetite for toast, for anything, but she ate it anyway, mechanically, dutifully. Others had begun to trickle into the galley, singly or in pairs, touching their foreheads with a knuckle in casual salute to the low-ranking officer in their mess. She recognized Quintal from the night before, and a few of the others Pott had pointed out during the orientation. Before long the room was almost full, with ten or so men and women sitting at the tables, eating oatmeal or sausage and eggs or simply having their coffee. None of them spoke to her, absorbed in their morning routines or speaking together in low voices. It was as though she did not exist at all, and it was the loneliest moment she had ever known.

“Hey.”

She hadn’t seen Charles Hall come in with the others, but there he was, next to her. Again, as on the viewing platform the night before, he had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, without so much as a sound.
How does he do that
? He was wearing the same duty uniform she was, though it seemed overlarge on his thin frame, as though he wore his older brother’s castoffs. In one hand he held an egg sandwich, and in the other a cup of what seemed to be –

“Milk,” he said, when he saw her looking at it. He took a sip, and shrugged. “What can I say, I like it. I know they’ll make fun of me for it. They sure did at Greenwich.”

“How is it I didn’t know you there?” she asked. Hall laughed, just a little.

“Don’t feel bad, Hope. Nobody did, not really. I sort of…kept to myself, is all. Not everybody can be Sam Worth’s daughter.” She felt the tips of her ears start to burn, and her face must have given away her annoyance, because Hall held up his milk defensively in front of him. “Come on, you can’t say you didn’t know you were sort of famous. Your father wasn’t just a starship captain, he was one of
those
captains. The ones we all read about, the ones who made us want to go to space ourselves. Baker, Li Ying, Ingram, Worth.”