by Blaze Ward
This day had gotten completely and utterly weird.
Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
The sarcophagus had a timer function, but he had cranked the system down to the lowest setting to bring the woman out of her sleep. He figured that would do the least amount of damage, and let her recover best.
If the theory of this machine was the same, she was slowly being refilled with the same synthetic blood that had been keeping her alive for so long, with the anti–freeze elements slowly being weaned out. The longer she had to recover, the better. At least in theory.
Any Ship’s Surgeon, even the drunkard that Sokolov had apparently fired three years ago, would have made him feel better right now.
Javier wished he had Suvi handy to talk to, but that would raise too many questions from the crew as well. And he really wasn’t prepared to deal with Sykora again, any time soon, not if her latest gambit to drive him crazy was going to look like this.
He sipped his tea and thought dark thoughts.
The hollow thump caused him to blink. He didn’t think he had been asleep. Hell, with this much tea in him, he wasn’t sure when he would next sleep.
Thump. Right. Activity. Progress.
The sarcophagus suddenly started to hiss, just like a tea kettle reaching the boiling point.
Javier was out of his chair and across the room in almost one bound.
The machine had broken the internal seal.
He could smell the gases it was releasing. It smelled like a pickled artichoke he had eaten once, at a parish fair.
The room picked up the faintest hint of fog, even as the air circulation system kicked itself into overdrive and sucked the strange vapors down and away from him, probably to vent into space.
Below him, the glass slowly retracted into the belly of the system, like a vehicle window rolling down, with the faintest puff of dust.
Javier held his breath, mostly out of anticipation. He vibrated, but that was the adrenalin mixing badly with the caffeine. He rocked back and forth on his feet, like a kid waiting for his turn to open birthday presents.
Javier stopped when he caught himself.
I am a professional. I am this ship’s Science Officer. I need to act like a grown–up. At least for a little while.
He looked down at the girl asleep with bemusement.
Up until now, she had been a problem to solve. First, transporting her intact from the other ship over here, and then getting the power switched over. Finally, defrosting her like a ham.
He hadn’t taken the time to actually look at her.
Her hair had been tucked up under a knit hat to keep it away from sensors and probes, but a few stray hairs peeked out. Redhead. With a splash of cute freckles across her nose and cheeks.
A very feminine face, soft across prominent cheek bones and a soft jaw. Skin that his mother would have called porcelain.
He couldn’t see much more of her, other than the black shirt with her Order’s logo on both sides of her throat. A Shepherd of the Word. An honest–to–goodness missionary.
She wouldn’t have been old enough to know the Rama Treadwell himself, the ship wasn’t that old. But she would have remembered the Union of Man in the early days, before entropy and bureaucracy set it. Before the dream had soured.
Not that he would tell her. Let her find that on her own. Wasn’t that what Sykora had said? She deserved the chance to make her own decisions, rather than having them made for her, however well–meaning those decisions might be.
Eyelids fluttered.
Breath restarted with a gasp, drawing cold air hard down into her lungs.
Pretty blue eyes opened. They didn’t focus, but he didn’t expect them to.
He leaned back as the lid of the sarcophagus cracked along the edge and slowly began to pivot up and away. It was a well–designed system he had no intention of interfering with.
Inside, she was wearing a full bodysuit, made from some stretchy black material and covered with a mesh of sensors and tubes that had kept her safe and alive. A little more solid than he liked his women, but in relatively good shape for a woman who had just set the galactic record for a nap.
“Can you hear me?” he said in a quiet voice. Everything from now on was going to be intuition and luck.
He was rewarded with a couple of blinks.
“You are safe now,” he continued in his best bedside soothing voice. “Let me know when I start making sense.”
She turned in his direction and came back from a thousand kilometers away slowly.
Her whole vocabulary seemed to consist of blinks and alternating deep and shallow breaths.
Javier had had days like that.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, unable to help himself.
She croaked at him, so there was sound as well. She made a face, too, trying to find the words, or the concepts of the words.
“What can I get you?” he asked, leaning a little closer. That seemed to help, as her eyes began to focus on his face.
“Water,” she whispered back at him in a bone–dry voice.
Well, crap. That I can’t do without leaving you alone in here. Shouldn’t do that.
Javier looked down at his mug of slightly warm tea.
Oh, what the hell. She’s human.
He handed her his prize tea mug carefully.
“This is tea, young lady,” Javier said, carefully enunciating and hoping he was making sense. “It’s still a little warm, but also kinda chewy. Hope you like it green.”
He helped her wrap both hands around the metal cup and then let her tip it backwards slowly, sipping some of his prized green tea in small dribs.
After a few sips, she lowered it and fixed him with those bright blue eyes.
“How the hell did you get here?”
Javier smiled. This was going to take way longer than just one pot of tea.
Part Ten
Zakhar sat and watched Javier take his first sip of tea, after working his way slowly through the act of making it. It had seemed like meditation in motion, watching him move, almost like a robot.
The man looked exhausted.
The rest of the room sat dutifully quiet as well, although Zakhar was sure they were bubbling over with questions.
Javier finally sat his mug down.
Interestingly, the first person he made eye contact with was Djamila. Something subtle passed there. Something deep and intense.
She nodded back to him.
Whatever it was, it must be good. Zakhar wondered if he would ever get that story.
“Four hundred and eighty–eight years,” Javier said tiredly, answering one of the first questions, and by extension, several others.
He took another drink.
“Her name is Wilhelmina Teague,” he continued, “and she was born on New London in the early days of the Union Of Man.”
Zakhar let the room hang for a few seconds, but Javier was apparently done for now.
“What does she know?” Zakhar said quietly. The rest of the room appeared to be in some level of shock. It was one thing to envision that stretch of time, but it was something entirely else to have it there on the table in front of you.
He watched Javier shrug. Again, the eye contact with Sykora. Another message passed.
“She knows how long she was in there,” he said. “She knows that the minefield is still intact, but doesn’t know how we survived it. I don’t plan on telling her.”
He took another drink of his tea. Zakhar waited patiently.
“Right now, she’s asleep in medbay, being monitored by the robot. She didn’t want to sleep. We talked for nearly three hours, but she’s got no reserves to draw on. That will slowly change over a month or so.”
Zakhar nodded. About what he had expected.
Javier was taking all this way too seriously. It was possible that the man was planning to steal the ship and try to escape with it. Unlikely, but he had to consider the option.
“
Andreea,” he turned to the Chief Engineer, “what’s the status of the ship?”
She never looked up from her little portable computer as she spoke. She never would. “We will have to transit the minefield to get far enough away to test the Jumpdrives, but they appear to be in good order. I’m sure the calibration is off by an order of magnitude or more, but we can fix that after one test jump. The ship was rebuilt to run with only one crew member, but I wouldn’t trust it without at least an engineer, a machinist’s mate, and a navigator aboard. It is in remarkably sound condition, all things considered.”
Zakhar smiled. He knew a collector who would probably outbid everyone for such a ship, more so for one with such a history. And would keep quiet about the provenance of such a prize, at least until they could come back and do a more thorough job of looting the system.
He would be rich. They all would be wealthy.
His eyes fell onto his Science Officer. Javier might even make enough to buy his contract out on his share. Not the trees, but some things were negotiable. He did, after all, owe the man his life and his ship. They would have been dead ten seconds after the jump without him. And dead again in the minefield without his patience.
He would miss the man. Not that he would ever admit it. Javier had made Storm Gauntlet a better place.
Zakhar turned to his Navigator. “Piet, what are the Astrogation computers like?”
The big Dutchman smiled grimly. “Five hundred years out of date, Captain,” he said quietly. He did everything quietly. “I have taken the liberty of downloading the data to storage and replacing it with as much data from our own systems as I felt prudent. There is additional space for whatever course you wish to plot from here.”
“Good job, everyone,” Zakhar let his warm smile embrace them all. It almost felt like the old Concord Fleet days with this crew, especially when they were humming along like they were now. Although Javier and Djamila NOT bickering was a point of concern. Still, those were indeed problems he could trade up for.
“I know this has been much harder than we normally encounter, but it will all be worth it.”
He took a sip from his own half–forgotten mug of coffee.
“Javier,” he said, “when she is awake again, I would like to meet her.”
Again, the look exchanged with Sykora. What the hell were those two up to?
“First thing on my list, Captain,” the Science Officer replied, “right after breakfast. I had the medbot give her something extra to sleep, so she will be awake in about eight hours, famished.”
This time, Sykora nodded first. Something was going on and he had a feeling that it was a secret those two would take to their graves.
“Until breakfast then,” Zakhar said in his command voice. Would he ever get that story?
Part Eleven
Javier escorted Wilhelmina with one arm, like a proper gentleman and everything. He was pretty sure she was up to the walk, but best not to take chances. Not today.
She was dressed in an outfit Kianoush had picked out for her, from things carefully stored over in the little ship.
Black pants baggier than was the style these days. A tight, long–sleeve shirt, also in black, with a gray sleeveless tunic over it tabard–style and a black leather belt. The same logo from both side of her collar was emblazoned on her right breast, about the size of a goodly grapefruit, embroidered into the cloth.
The hair, once released from confinement and cleaned in a long, hot shower, had turned into a strawberry blond braid down to her shoulder blades in back, with cute little bangs in front.
Standing in her stocking feet, Wilhelmina had turned out to be a few fingers taller than Javier. Not in Sykora’s range, but probably the third tallest woman on the ship. He would have to line them up to be sure.
Javier felt like the hero escorting the magical Princess to meet the King. There was something to that. Not that he would ever say that out loud to Captain Sokolov. Man might get fancy ideas, and then where would they be?
The Officer’s Wardroom had laid out for a special affair this morning. It almost looked like a State Dinner, with fine china and silverware Javier hadn’t even known the ship still had, left over from the Fleet days.
Off to one side, Captain Sokolov and Sykora sat at a small table, obviously cleared and organized for such an affair. Javier led Wilhelmina to a chair across from the Captain, and seated her like they had trained him in the Academy days. It was amazing how quickly all those classes in deportment were coming back to him.
He was going to have to do something stupid and crass. Not now. But, later. Now was too important.
Javier slid into the seat across from Sykora and smiled at her. She nodded back with a smile. This was going to be even weirder if she was going to nice to him and everything. It might be time for a few good practical jokes on the woman, just to keep things light and stupid. Friendly Sykora was too much like Trapdoor Spider Sykora.
But right now, Wilhelmina. Her time. Her luck. Her fate.
Javier did a triple take when he realized that someone had brewed tea and steeped it already. His awesome mug was in place and steaming vaguely.
He tried to say something suave about his tea, but it came out more like a Tamarin, babbling and pointing ineffectively.
“Pixies,” the Captain smiled his evil smile.
That did NOT help the matters in Javier’s head.
The two women silently looked at each other, and then the two men. Javier felt an eyeroll coming on. Fortunately, Wilhelmina didn’t look anything like his second ex–wife, or that would have just been too much weirdness for one day.
“Ms. Teague,” Captain Sokolov began instead, “I am Zakhar Sokolov, Captain of the Storm Gauntlet. Welcome aboard. You’ve met my Science Officer. This is my Dragoon, Djamila Sykora.”
She shook hands with both across the table. Her manners were up to the test today. Javier kept his running commentary inside and smiled. The tea was even done right. Wonders.
“Thank you for rescuing me, Captain Sokolov,” Wilhelmina purred. “What would be the fastest and safest way for me to get back to New London?”
Oh, did I forget to mention she was a genius–grade intellect?
Javier smiled, remembering what it felt like to talk to her, even newly awakened. Him playing jacks. Her playing the ancient oriental game of Go. Her draining him of information until she finally had to sleep, and let him recover. She didn’t look like an intellectual vampire.
They never did.
Javier watched the Captain make a moue as he considered his response.
At no point had the word pirate come up in the previous conversation, but she was a very, very sharp woman.
“I realize,” she continued blithely, “that I represent an unexpected complication in your salvage operation, but I am prepared to work for my passage.”
This time, the Captain’s eyes darted to his Science Officer. Javier took a sip of a really good cup of tea to hide his smile.
Any response was defeated by the arrival of breakfast, served by the wardroom stewards.
Javier had a moment of panic as he considered that the pixies and their evil minions might be planning to poison him, but they would have done that already with the tea. So, this should be attacked like a proper final supper before the execution. Word to deed.
“Where did you get fresh eggs?” Wilhelmina said with wonder.
“I raise chickens,” Javier replied around a piece of marmaladed toast.
She put her fork down and turned to stare at him. “You RAISE chickens?”
“When you feel up to it, I’ll take you down to the arboretum and introduce you to them.”
That got him a look. Pirates didn’t have arboretums. Most pirates. They certainly didn’t keep chickens. Not in any of the stories she would have known.
Javier smiled. That would be an even longer story.
“Why New London?” Sykora asked as they got back to the task of eating. “Why not someplace like Bryc
e, the Capital of the Concord?”
“I considered that, Dragoon Sykora,” Wilhelmina replied.
“Please, call me Djamila.”
“Djamila. Thank you. Please, call me Wilhelmina.”
She took a sip of coffee to organize her thoughts.
“I was born on New London, five hundred and eighteen years ago, if the clocks are to be believed. I began my journey there, seeking to follow the footsteps and mission of Rama Treadwell. I would like to see my hometown, just once, before setting out on my mission again.”
“Mission?” Sykora asked.
Wilhelmina smiled. “Did they ever discover what happened to Rama Treadwell?”
“No, they never have,” Sokolov replied quietly.
“Just so. I am a Shepherd of the Word, Djamila. I might be the last of my kind, at least until I can train others.”
“But the Unification succeeded,” Sykora said, confused.
“No,” Wilhelmina replied firmly. “New London conquered a goodly chunk of the inhabited galaxy and proclaimed a Union of Man. That lasted until someone else decided they should conquer the universe and enforce their own definitions of good and evil on everyone. Rama Treadwell’s dream was a place where all people were free to define and encompass their own destiny. Not just the wealthy, or the lucky. Every man. Every woman. Every person. From what Javier has told me, the Concord is trying, but even more in need of the words of the Prophet than ever.”
Both Sokolov and Sykora turned to look at him. He stared back, challenging them to say anything. Prudence got the best of them.
“We’re trying, Ms. Teague,” the Captain murmured.
“We’re all trying, Captain,” she replied with empathy. “It is a hard road. But one that must be traveled. We must bring the light to even the darkest corners and darkest hearts. That is what Rama Treadwell taught.”
And that, was most certainly that.
Minutes passed in companionable silence as they ate.
The Wardroom stewards cleared the plates and brought fresh coffee. Wonder of wonders, a small pot of steeped tea, even done right. Obviously, pixies.
