Rift (41 page)

The last stop was the propulsion plant, an enormous industrial hold filled with massive machinery and banks of controls at two levels. In the darker upper regions, Mitya noted, the crew did not wear black and gold, but common civilian clothes, perhaps signifying their more menial tasks. Then Captain Kitcher was thanking “Station Lithia,” as he called it, for its assistance with the raw ores they would process onboard. He ended with a warning to orthong monitoring
this transmission that the mission was a friendly one to rescue human survivors, but that if a threat presented itself, the
Quo Vadis
had powerful weapons at its disposal and would mount an aggressive defense. Kitcher ended by saying “Good luck to us all,” as though luck had anything to do with their destiny, as though the
Quo Vadis
needed luck, with its power and brilliance.

As the holo snapped from view, spontaneous clapping broke out as tired faces grew animated, and even Bonhert’s enemies set aside their resentments to revel in their good fortune. But nearby, Mitya heard Tsamchoe mutter to someone, “A ship that big, seems like they had room for everyone on Station. A ship that big could’ve tucked in four hundred, easy. Stingy, our
fellow Terrans
.” As Mitya pondered this remark, he caught sight of Stepan, who slowly shook his head.
Keep your nose out of crew grumbling, Mitya
, he’d told him.
You’re Bonhert’s man now. Act like it
.

Mitya stood in Bonhert’s quarters, reporting as he’d been told. It was very late, with the science team still watching the modeling runs, while the rest of the crew had dimmed the main lights and begun settling down to sleep. Bonhert was sitting in the semidark, his data screen the only illumination. A small glass of amber liquid sat next to the Captain’s elbow.

“Sit down, Mitya.”

He sat on the edge of the Captain’s bunk, keeping his expression pleasant. It was hard to remember how he was supposed to be. He guessed he made a lousy spy if it took so much concentration, but despite this he produced what he hoped was an eager attitude.
Act like the Captain’s your hero. It’s what he expects
.

“Tell me again, Mitya, exactly what crew said about Lieutenant Cody.”

Mitya repeated what he’d said before, trying to
evade Bonhert’s probes with
I don’t know
and
Probably it’s nothing
. By the expression on Bonhert’s face, he wasn’t improving the man’s mood. The Captain’s head and shoulders were backlit by the data screen, making him a cutout silhouette, his face a dark well. But his voice conveyed much.

“
Sneaking
in. What constitutes sneaking? She came in; she has business in that room.…” He took a sip of his drink, savoring it. “Val Cody has enemies, same as me. Maybe
exactly
the same as me. Could be people are saying things to drive a wedge between us.”

He wasn’t looking at Mitya, and Mitya squirmed, not knowing why he was there, and fearing suddenly, that Bonhert knew he was lying.

But the Captain raised his glass at Mitya. “Sorry I can’t offer you some, lad. You’re young to be taking up drinking.” He sighed, and in the pause that followed, Mitya felt he should say something, so he offered:

“I’m sorry if your friend’s done something wrong, Captain.” Then, at the snap of Bonhert’s gaze, he added, “It’s not fair. After everything you’ve done for us.”

Bonhert snorted. “I’ve done my best, Mitya.” After tossing off the rest of his drink, he said, “We both know how harsh it is to be isolated.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir.” It was a bad feeling, to be cut off. But damn if he was going to feel sympathy for this man. “I’m sure Lieutenant Cody would never do something against you. She’s been a lieutenant a long time; she’s used to taking orders.” That was a line Stepan had suggested.

Bonhert was pouring another drink from a bottle at his feet. “And maybe she chafes at taking orders, eh, Mitya?”

The conversation had now gone beyond Mitya’s level of comfort. As he struggled to compose an answer, Bonhert waved the subject away.

“We won’t settle this tonight. Most problems, I find, are happy to sleep over and greet you in the morning.”

“Sometimes they look worse at night,” Mitya said, repeating something his mother had often said, and shocking himself that he was saying these very words to Station Captain, trying to comfort—and not comfort—him, a thing that would have been an inconceivable intimacy six weeks ago.

“Night terrors, eh? Well, we have many worse problems than anything Val Cody can dream up. We’ve still got ash clogging the vents, the modeling work that everything depends on, and then there’s Captain Kitcher to worry about. It never ends, Mitya. If you ever fancy leadership, think twice.”

“Captain Kitcher?”

Bonhert rose from his seat, stretching his massive arms. “Oh, you were no doubt impressed with our visiting captain and his gold brocade, were you not?”

“Well …”

The Captain waved away the response and began pacing, swinging his arms slowly as though warming up to hit something. “He may look like a high-and-mighty starship captain, but never forget, the man’s a politician first. He manages the ship, yes, but most important, Mitya, he manages people. And now he’s trying to manage us.”

“Manage us, sir?”

Bonhert glanced at Mitya suddenly, as though he’d forgotten he was there. “Yes, manage us! He’s short on resources, so we negotiate for every last benefit. He’s giving us nothing, Mitya; we’re paying for this mission of mercy. And even then we won’t end up with much!”

Bonhert laughed at what Mitya’s expression must have conveyed. “Oh, it looks like a great ship, doesn’t it? And it is, it is! By our standards, Mitya, they do have great opportunities. But they’ve been mismanaged, squandered. Kitcher is weak; he’s tried to democratize everything to avoid the hard decisions. It’s
no way to lead. In short, Mitya,
Quo Vadis
is in trouble.”

Mitya’s heart sank. “Trouble?”

In a spurt of energy, Bonhert strode to his data station and punched in a command. “Look here, if you don’t believe me.” More scenes of the ship interior, but this time crowded with people. People winding their way through crowds of shipmates, people sleeping in corridors, balancing trays of food on their knees, eating on the floor. Where had all these people come from? Where were the sparkling great rooms, the tidy compartments? People dressed in assorted clothes, dingy and ill-kept, squads of children running wild, and cabins crowded with makeshift beds and piles of belongings. A view of the agricultural biome showed that its fields were little more than garden patches among shanties and tents.

Mitya felt sick.

“This is the worst of it, these scenes. I’m sure Kitcher picked the worst to show me, to lower my expectations, to justify his damned quota.”

“What we saw this afternoon …” Mitya tried to reconcile the two images.

“He cleaned it up a bit, didn’t he? No sense alarming our people. But between Kitcher and me, we’ve gotten past the bullshit.” He called for the screen to darken, and slumped into his chair again.

“Is the ship full, then?”

“No, it’s not full! They’ve shut down an entire biome because of malfunctions and deterioration. If that had been Station, by the Lord, we would have bloody well fixed it! But they’ve got factions and feuding, and nothing gets done.” His voice lowered. “Things will change when we get there, Mitya. They need new blood, and by God they’re going to get it.”

Bonhert sipped his drink, watching Mitya. “How’d you like to have your own quarters on the ship, Mitya?”

His own quarters? But he’d
assumed
he’d have his own room, dreamed of it, decorated it.… Now he saw how naive he’d been. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

“Those who serve well will be rewarded. And the rewards will be very great, Mitya, very great. If you stand by me, you shall have your cabin.” He grinned, a broad and unsettling smile. “And wear the gold and black of
Quo Vadis
, eh?”

Before Mitya could formulate a response, a knock came at the door.

Bonhert blanked the computer screen as Lieutenant Roarke entered. His face was flushed with late-night euphoria. “Captain,” Roarke said. “We hit home. Ground zero.”

Bonhert rose. “How many?”

“Two. Two of the moles made it. Smack down to mid-mantle, sir.” He wiped strands of hair off his forehead. “Blew it to kingdom come. Lithia went up like an insect in fire.”

The Captain stood immobile, except that Mitya noticed he was nodding very slowly, as though the surface of the man was stirred by an unseen current. “Well done, Lieutenant,” he said softly. Roarke, exhausted and elated, smiled and left the Captain and Mitya to savor the news.

Bonhert glanced at the dark screen, where he might have seen the
Quo Vadis
still.

“Gold and black, my boy,” he said. “We’re on our way.”

11
 

1

Day forty
. Dooley shooed the guards out of the room. “Leave us, leave us, leave us!” He shook his head as the Somas departed. “They’re afraid this office isn’t suitable for you, because you’ll arm yourselves with stones or something. You won’t, will you?”

Reeve, Loon, and Spar stood in a cluster, taking in their new joint quarters, a perk Brecca had finally managed after three days. Tables and shelves were littered with computer components, dust-covered office equipment, stray clipboards, and shards of broken coffee cups. The entire far wall had caved in, thrusting into the office a huge fist of rock and rubble, making the room a dusty hybrid of geology and architecture.

“Because if you cause any trouble here, they’ll calm you down with injections that’ll make you so drowsy you won’t be able to enjoy your transformation at all, and probably won’t remember a thing about it. Then what will you have to tell your grandchildren?” Dooley’s thin face rippled with a worry tic. “I went out on a limb for you, getting you together. So promise you’ll be good.”

“We promise,” growled Spar, unconsciously reaching to rest his hand on his empty sword hilt.

Dooley faced Spar. “You called me names the other day. That wasn’t nice.”

“I got just two lives left, boyo.” Spar strutted into the ruined storeroom, kicking at the shelving and raising clouds of dust. “That means I don’t have time to wait till you finish talkin’.”

A worry frown dipped into Dooley’s forehead as Loon began sorting through the rocks at the slumped wall. “You can’t get out that way—it’s a rock slide that goes back thirty feet. It plugged up the whole western wing of the Lab two hundred years ago. We get tremors now and then, but that was a big one.” Ignoring him, Loon had picked up a fist-sized stone and was licking it. Dooley watched her dubiously. “You sure she’s not a defective genome?”

Reeve patted Dooley on the back. “Don’t worry about her, Dooley. She and I, we’re … base pairs. That’s all you have to know.”

“You’re what?” came from Spar.

“I knew it!” Dooley’s eyes crinkled in pleasure. “Mind your Qs and As and Brecca will do your codes and arrange the match! You see, you can be happy here. I know you’re apprehensive; it’s only natural. There was one time—this was even before Gregor arrived—this one inturn …”