Starfarers (50 page)

Cleland shambled in. Brent, who sat crisply uniformed, cast him a hard glance. The planetologist was unkempt, his garments rumpled and not very clean. A smell of sour sweat hung around him.

“Attention!” Brent barked.

Cleland halted. “What?”

“You’ve gone slovenly again. It won’t do. We’re two men on the most important expedition ever made, with nine desperate prisoners to keep and a starship to bring home. We
won’t survive without discipline. That begins with self-discipline.”

“Sorry,” Cleland mumbled.

“And don’t take that sullen tone, either. Nansen was right about the necessity of maintaining form, rank, respect I am your captain, Cleland.”

“Yes, … sir.”

Brent eased. “Okay, enough. A word to the wise. We do need a little shakedown time. You don’t have to go back and clean up.” He smiled. “We’ll pretend you did. Sit down, help me celebrate, drink to our future.”

Cleland obeyed, filling a goblet, clinking it against Brent’s, and sipping without enthusiasm.

“What have you been doing today, anyhow?” Brent asked.

“Wandering around,” said Cleland dully. “Trying to rest Trying to think. I didn’t sleep a blink’s worth after we, uh, after we’d secured them.”

Brent frowned. “I’m going to have you take medication.”

Cleland stared. “Can you prescribe it?”

“I can read a medical database and use a medical computer program, same as any other kind.” Brent spoke sternly. “I’ve begun studying—plans, operating instructions, the captain’s and chief engineer’s logs. You should have. You will tomorrow. I’ll prepare assignments for you. Yes, the ship can run entirely robotic,
if
no surprises hit along the way. We’ve got to be prepared. You’ve got to get into shape.”

A servitor entered bearing a tray. If deposited the dishes between the place settings and rolled back out. The men helped themselves. Brent took a hefty bite of pork loin. Cleland picked at his vegetables.

“Eat, man,” Brent said. “Keep up your strength. You’ll be wanting it, and wanting your brains in working order.”

Cleland drank before chewing further. Brent savored the symphony. After a while Cleland ventured, “Uh, I did call on the Tahirians. To see how they’re doing. They aren’t happy.”

“I knew they wouldn’t be,” Brent replied. “This whole
business goes against their grain. Can’t be helped, and our three allies recognize that. But the sooner we deliver them to their planet, the better. Also our own prisoners.”

Cleland’s fork dropped to his plate. “Huh?”

“I haven’t quite decided yet,” Brent said. “But they’re a dangerous lot. Smart, tough, and outraged. I wouldn’t care to bet they can’t find some stunt to pull on us in the course of a year.”

Cleland swallowed twice before he could ask, “What … do you … intend to do?”

Brent shrugged. “What would you? Keep them penned, clear to Tahir and then to Earth? Fourteen months at least. Not humane, is it? Arid, as I said, certainly dangerous.”

“You promised—We can t-try to persuade—”

Brent nodded. “Between here and Tahir, I suppose we may as well, though we’d better plan our arguments first. But suppose they, or any of them, agree, how can we be sure they don’t mean to turn on us once they’re out, first chance they get?”

“One or two at a time, under guard. Cut a hole for them, reclose it when they’ve passed through?”

“Risky. And how can we tie ourselves down, guarding them every minute of the daycycle? No, right now my idea is, and I expect I’ll stay by it, is to have the Tahirians take them over when we arrive there. The Tahirians will, if we press our case. They can land the crew someplace isolated, an island or wherever, and leave them.”

Cleland gasped. “What?”

“They’ll be okay. The Tahirians aren’t cruel. They’ll synthesize Earth-type foods and such. Their scientists will be interested, after all. But I imagine otherwise they’ll leave the humans strictly alone—not to have any more of their disturbing influence—till everybody’s peacefully dead of old age.”

“No—”

“Don’t worry about children. We won’t reverse any sperm immunities.”

“But this is their ship, too!” Cleland shouted.

“No.” Brent’s voice rang. “It’s humanity’s, under my command. Taking them back with us would add a completely unnecessary complication. We’ll have plenty to do as is.”

Cleland shuddered. “Without witnesses against us.”

“Witnesses who at best misunderstand the truth. Or at worst will lie, perjure themselves, for revenge. We can’t have that It’d be treason to everything we mean to the future”

“Treason—”

“Eat, I say!” Brent exclaimed heartily. “Drink!”

“And be merry?”

“Why not? Listen, I’m open to argument. I’ll welcome any better ideas you may come on. Just not tonight, please. Tonight we celebrate. We’ve won, we’re free, we’re going home.”

To Cleland’s surprise, later to his faint pleasure, the next hour or so passed agreeably. Brent took the initiative. Liveliness sparkled in him. His conversation ranged from witty to serious, discussed diversions and occupations for the voyage, touched on his past rather tenderly, drew hitherto unshared memories from his tablemate, speculated with considerable imagination about what they might find on Earth and what they might accomplish but avoided loftiness, recited stirring passages from literature that most people had forgotten centuries before
Envoy
departed. It was as if he sought to evoke what had been best in his civilization and his species.

Meanwhile, though, he drank, goblet after goblet. That was not his custom. After dessert he ordered brandy and more champagne. Cleland, not wishing to fall asleep where he sat in his own exhaustion, held back, more or less.

With alcoholic suddenness, the mood mutated. Beethoven had left the room. Brent was with Shakespeare.

“—
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”

The words jarred to a stop. He looked before him, past the other man. His grip tightened on his goblet. He threw what it held down his throat “Justice,” he said. “Yes, Nansen, you’ll get justice.”

Whatever calm he had won drained out of Cleland. “What?”

“Simple justice, marooning Nansen. Give him his little kingdom. Let him rule over his little bootlickers.”

“Do you … really hate him that much?”

Brent shook his head. “No. Or maybe yes. I tell you, I want to give him justice. A tyrant, a murderer, a menace to the race. But mainly, he can’t see. He
won’t
. He is a strong man, like me. I respect that part of him Hate. Justice.

Yes,” Brent said slowly, “that Dayan bitch, she deserves more than marooning.”

Cleland’s voice cracked. “Hanny?”

Brent glowered at him. “She humiliated me, the slut, deliberately, and ever since then I’ve felt her gloat, oh, yes. Oh, yes. Hanny, dear,” he purred, “you’ve got a lesson coming.”

“What—what—”

“When we reach Tahir. The Tahirians who take the prisoners off, they’ll cooperate. They’ll do whatever we ask. They’ll even help. For all they know, I’ll be bidding her a sweet farewell.”

“No, no,” Cleland wailed.

Brent grinned. “And cute little Wenji and hot big Mam, how about them, eh? How’d you like a piece of that for yourself? Hey? It’d be a lesson to the men, too. Justice.”

Cleland sat dumb.

Brent observed. “Uh, just a thought,” he said quickly.

“Just a notion. We’ve a lot to do, a long way to go, before the question rises. … Rises,” he snickered. He refilled his goblet. “Come on, we’d better drink up and turn in. A hard day’s work ahead of us.”

“If … I can sleep—”

Brent summoned a degree of sobriety. “If you can’t, I’ll
fix that tomorrow. Trust me. Follow me, and I’ll lead you further than men ever went before.”

Nightwatch yielded
to mornwatch. Cleland sat in his darkened cabin. The only light was from the screen in front of him. He had evoked a close-in image of the black hole. Around and down into its absolute night swept the tidal vortex of fire.

“Jean, Jean, forgive me,” he whispered. “When you died, on top of everything else, I—I don’t know. It seemed like I had to lash out somehow. And Al was my friend, my last human friend—I believed—”

He bit his lip. Blood trickled. “No. Now I’m feeling sorry for myself. Again.”

Air stirred, a barren tiny noise among the shadows.

“What to do, Jean? What would you have done?”

Odd, how soon the answer came.

In the
dead of nightwatch he arrived at the wardroom. The subdued light of this hour glittered faintly off the scars on the door. The open wound in it yawned black.

Cleland laid down the equipment he bore and leaned close. Sounds of unrestful sleep, warmth, and odors of crowdedness rolled out at him.

“Wake up,” he called as low as could be heard. “Wake, but keep quiet. I’m here to help you.”

Stirrings and grumblings began to trouble the dark. “Quiet, quiet,” Cleland implored. He heard Nansen’s soft command, “Silence. Stay where you are.” The noise sank to little more than thick breathing.

The captain’s face appeared at the slot, etched across shadow. “Quiet,” Cleland whispered. Nansen nodded, expressionless.

The vigor that a stimulant forced spoke to him: “I—I’m going to cut you free. Brent’s armed. If he hears before you’re out, that’s it. I didn’t use the intercom because he may have a tap connected to an alarm in his cabin.”

“Good man!” Nansen gusted in the same undertone. He stuck a hand forth. Cleland took it, a hurried, awkward gesture. “I hoped you’d prove what you are.”

“No time. Stand back. Keep them quiet.”

Nansen retreated from view. Cleland scrambled into apron, gloves, helmet. He lifted the ion torch and took aim. A blade of flame hissed forth. Sparks flew. Metal glowed white. Cleland cut from the slot on the left side, almost to the deck. He brought the blaze diagonally to the right corner and guided it back downward.

Brent leaped into sight from the curve of the corridor. A pistol belt girdled his pajamas. The weapon was in his grip. “Hold!” he yelled.

Cleland cast a look at the gorgon face and kept his torch going.

The pistol barked. A slug whanged off a bulkhead and ricocheted along the passage. Brent sped nearer, slammed to a halt, slitted his eyes against the actinic glare, and took aim. “You Judas,” he rasped, “didn’t you think I’d rig a monitor?”

“Break out!” called Nansen from within.

Cleland swept the flame around at the other man. It didn’t reach, but, head-on, it dazzled. Brent fired, once, twice, thrice. Cleland staggered. He dropped the torch. It died. He toppled. Blood pumped from him.

Mass crashed against the door. Parted on three sides, weakened across the middle, struck with full force and high turning moment, metal buckled. A jagged tongue of it lapped outward. Nansen and Ruszek burst through the hole, Zeyd at their heels.

For an instant, Brent stood fast. He snapped two more shots. Still half blind, he missed. Ruszek bellowed and plunged at him. Zeyd followed. Brent whipped about and ran. Moving downspin, weight lessened, he needed about ten seconds to disappear where to the eye the deck met the overhead.

“Stop!” Nansen shouted. “Stop, Lajos, Selim!” Zeyd heeded. Ruszek pounded on. Nansen sprinted, overtook him, grabbed him by his sleep shirt, and pulled. “You’ll get killed. No sense in that.”

The mate obeyed. “We’ve got to smash him,” he panted. “He has that gun.”

“If necessary, one or two of us can get killed later,” Nansen said. “But we don’t want it to be necessary.”

They returned. Mokoena squatted at Cleland’s sprawled form. She had removed helmet and apron and rucked up his shirt The blood had spread impossibly far, impossibly bright, before outflow ended. Heedless of it, the others stood close and pale. “How is he?” Nansen asked.

“Gone,” Mokoena said.

“Revival?”

She pointed to a gap in the right temple and the gray material spattered opposite. “No.” She closed the eyes in the wet red mask. “Good-bye, Tim.” She rose.

Nansen signed the cross. Ancient words trembled on his lips. “He was one of us,” the captain finished.

Then, tone gone steely: “Brent’s loose, armed and frenzied. God knows what he’ll attempt. He may even try to destroy the ship.”

“
Götterdämmerung
,” Dayan whispered.

“We should have a short grace period while he finds a hiding place, recovers full vision, and thinks what to do. After that, we have to capture or kill him. Is everybody in active condition? We can do nothing for Tim till later. But take a moment to wash off his blood, if only because it’d leave tracks, and change clothes if you need to. Then we’ll arm ourselves.”

Hollowness met
them at the gun locker.

“I am a fool,” Nansen groaned. “I should have known he’d clean this out before he acted.”

“You couldn’t be sure,” Dayan said. “We had to verify it.”

“Where the fuck did he take the things?” Ruszek snarled.

Nansen grew thoughtful. “I would have hidden them well away. That Tahirian trip over to the hull. … Yes-s-s. …”

“Do the Tahirians hold the arsenal?” Zeyd asked sharply.

“I doubt that. Not designed for them, not in their psyche, and not something Brent would want them to have on hand. No, almost certainly, they stowed them in the hull for him. We’ll stop at the machine shop and collect whatever can double as a weapon.”

“Pardon me,” said Sundaram, “but could not Brent meanwhile cross over and take possession of the munitions?”

“¡Jesus Cristo, sí!”
Nansen exclaimed. “I
am
a fool.”

“You’re a strategist, darling, and never knew it,” Yu told Sundaram. Laughter crackled half hysterical from a few throats.

Nansen regained decisiveness. “The command center, it is critical. Hanny, Lajos, come with me there. The rest of you to the machine shop. If he gets into it, he can work every kind of mischief. Mam, Selim, proceed from there to the command center with stuff we can use for fighting; knives, crowbars, pipe wrenches, anything. Wenji, Ajit, stay behind, armed likewise. Keep the door closed and barricaded. If he tries to break in, call on the intercom.”