Mutineer

by Sutherland, J. A.

  Alexis glanced sideways at the bosom in question. And was that a fancy or is there aught I’ll wish I could remember clearer?

  “So …” Alexis cleared her throat and glanced away. “So, we didn’t …”

  “Nae, lass, yer Philip-lad’s nae to worry aboot.”

  Alexis froze, eyes wide again. What on earth else did I say last night? Philip Easley from Merlin was a friend and nothing more. Yes, there’d been a moment or two and a bit of thought, but they’d never so much as spoken about anything more. He was far away, on another ship — and if they ever did again serve on the same ship, well, nothing could come of any feelings that might exist, for such things were forbidden between officers serving together.

  A chime started sounding, gradually increasing in volume.

  “That’s my tablet.” Alexis slid off the bed and dug through her uniform for the tablet. “It’s time I went back to the ship.” She started dressing quickly, blushing as she saw the man watching her. “Must you?”

  The man laughed and slid off the opposite side of the bed. He was, Alexis was relieved to note, wearing a bit more than the towel she remembered from the night before, then her gaze rose to his back and she gasped. The expanse of brown skin was marred with a crisscross mass of scars. He turned and saw her shocked look.

  “Oh, aye, spent a bit of time afore the mast, I did.” His face split in a wide smile. “Then found I were far too pretty to spend my days in a vacsuit.” He pulled a loose, white shirt from a drawer and slid it over his head. “I’ll say this aboot our talk, lass. Your lieutenant’s a worse man than that Captain Neals you told me of.”

  Alexis froze in buttoning her uniform jacket. Had he really just suggested that Lieutenant Williard was worse than Captain Neals?

  “That captain? He don’t know what’s wrong, or flat don’t care. The lieutenant, though? He sees the wrong and does nae a thing? How much worse is that?”

  Alexis frowned. “No lieutenant can stop a captain doing as he likes on his own ship.”

  “Nae what I’m saying, lass. Nae at all.” He pursed his lips in thought. “A man meets yer captain,” he said finally, “and he’s the worse fer it. Same man meets yer lieutenant, is he the better?” He frowned. “His way seems t’be just givin’ up. I dinnae ken givin’ up in the face o’ that. Fightin’ what y’can, e’en a wee bit, that I ken.”

  Alexis considered this. She wasn’t entirely sure that she remembered Lieutenant Williard’s words at dinner all that clearly, but she did recall being uncomfortable with them at the time. So much of what Williard had suggested to her seemed to be about protecting himself until he was in some better position to do something, with little thought to helping others, such as the crew, who had no such option. Still, she wasn’t at all certain what she could do.

  “I’ll think on that, thank you.” She smoothed her jacket and set her beret atop her head. “And thank you, as well, for … listening.”

  He came around the bed and slid the hatch to the hall open. He met her eye and grinned. “You paid for the time, lass. How we spend it’s up to you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Though, perhaps, next time …”

  Alexis flushed and hurried through the hatch and down the stairs. In the main room, she saw the woman she recognized from the night before speaking to another woman, younger and looking uncertain, dressed in the jumpsuit of a merchant shipping line. Alexis caught the younger woman’s gaze and they each looked away quickly as she hurried to the hatch back to the corridor.

  “Lass!”

  She turned at the hatchway to find the man from upstairs — now wearing a long robe, but having left it untied — on the stairs.

  “Cort,” he said, grinning broadly at her look of confusion. “Cort Blackmon. Case you were wonderin’ … or fer next time yer in port, if you come askin’.”

  * * * * *

  The chandler eyed the list of stores she’d transferred to his tablet and nodded.

  “Aye and I’ve most of this lot I can have aboard afore your ship sails, but not the last bit. Not if it’s the actuals you’re after,” he said.

  “The actuals?” With still several hours before she was due back aboard Hermione, Alexis had stopped into one of the many chandleries to have personal stores sent aboard. If they were to be pilfered by the others in the midshipman’s berth, then they’d be pilfered, but she’d no longer allow them to make her change her ways over it — or, at least, not in the way they might want or suspect. Fight what I can and not give up, aye.

  “Is it the actual Scotch whiskey you’re after? I’ve bourbons aplenty, rye if you want it, and Irish — well, anywheres there’re two brogues and a copper pot there’ll be the Irish made. But the Scotch now that’s different — there’s but three places it’s made, do you see? The home province back on Earth, a few areas of New London, and New Glasgow, a’course.” He ran his fingers over his tablet. “Now there’s Hendly & Sons, planet-side, they import a bit of it, but I’m not sure I could have it brought up a’fore your ship sails.” He paused and looked Alexis over. “Meanin’ no offense, sir, but it’d be right dear. An hundred or more pounds the bottle for the least …”

  Alexis raised her eyebrows, eyes wide. An hundred pounds for a single bottle? That was outrageous. A bottle of perfectly fine claret cost less than a pound, though she knew there were many vintages that would cost more. Still she’d never heard of anything that cost so much as that.

  It wasn’t entirely beyond her means. She still had over a thousand pounds on account from her time aboard H.M.S. Merlin and the Prize Court’s odd accounting of the captured pirate ship Grapple. Though Merlin had taken the prize, Alexis had been in command of the small prize crew that was sailing her back to port. The pirates left aboard to sail the ship had managed to retake her during a darkspace storm, making Alexis and the three surviving Merlins captive. One of them, Robert Alan, had pretended to go over to the pirates, and only through his actions were Alexis and the others able to retake Grapple a second time and sail her into port.

  The Prize Court, in reading about the taking, retaking, and then reretaking of the ship, had so bollixed up the events that they’d thought Alexis had been in command of a ship named Grapple that had taken a second ship, also named Grapple. They’d then awarded all of the prize money for the capture to Alexis and the three others, though Robert Alan’s award had been to his estate, as he’d been killed in fighting.

  Mister Gorbett, Merlin’s elderly sailing master, the surviving spacer, Peters, and Alan’s estate had each received over four hundred pounds in the award, while Alexis, having been placed in command, had received over two thousand — the three eighths of the award normally given to the commander of a ship under Admiralty Orders and not part of a fleet, as well as the two eighths that would have gone to any midshipmen or junior warrant officers aboard. Those two eighths she’d gotten the crew of Merlin to accept as their due, since they were the ones who’d originally taken Grappel, but the three-eighths remaining had still amounted to over twelve hundred pounds.

  Even after making sizable donations to the families of two marines who’d been killed aboard Grappel before she was retaken, and thus received no award from the Prize Court, Alexis had been left with a considerable sum. Added to that was her share, quite a lot smaller, of the other ships Merlin had taken while she was aboard.

  And the ships Hermione’s taken add up to a tidy sum, as well. Though the Prize Courts, after a shocking display of alacrity just as the war with the Republic of Hanover had begun, had reverted to their more normal course of spending months in deliberation before rendering a judgment on each prize. Neither Alexis nor any of the other crew of Hermione had seen aught but promises and dreams from the frigate’s captures. Naught but a stack of drafts promising a share of some future decision, though that doesn’t stop the crew from selling theirs at pennies on the pound to any prize agent they come across. Perhaps the one bright point to Captain Neals’ habit of confining his crew to the ship was that they weren’t to b
e so easily cheated out of their future awards by the temptations of a moment’s pleasure.

  “Sir?” the chandler prompted.

  Ah, yes, temptations. And a ‘dark path’, indeed, Lieutenant Willard. She considered the number of glasses that had been poured in Dorchester’s the night before. Baron must pay quite a bit better than lieutenant.

  “Could you, perhaps, recommend something?” she asked. “That would be a bit dear, but I was only introduced to this last evening — I fear I have no experience at all with whiskeys.”

  “Aye, now there’s a fine bourbon from right here on Penduli that I could recommend. Three shillings the bottle — not the least cost, but a decent drink and not the dearest, neither.”

  “I’ll be guided by you then. A bottle of that and I’ll return for more if it’s to my liking.” The chandler’s eyes lit up at the prospect of repeat business, but dimmed at her next words. “Please send it along with the other items to Hermione, will you? To the bosun’s attention, as he’ll be seeing to my packages for me.” Alexis had learned early in her life aboard ship to not trust pursers or chandlers, and the threat of the bosun, who wasn’t bound by the niceties of an officer, finding things amiss always kept them closer to honest.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And if I may, a bit of time alone with the things I’ve ordered before you send them off?” She shrugged. “I realize it’s unusual —” She made as if to leave. “— if you cannot accommodate it, perhaps another —”

  “No, sir, not necessary.” He furrowed his brow at her request, but was clearly unwilling to lose a customer. “No trouble at all. I’ll just put things together for you and leave you to it, yes?”

  * * * * *

  Alexis hurried back to the ship and found Boxer storing deliveries for the other officers in the pantry. She glanced quickly around to ensure they were alone in the gunroom and then slipped into the pantry with him. The empty shelves where her stores should have been made her clench her jaw. All the others had bottles of wine, canisters of tea or coffee, packages of biscuit, and a dozen more items, but hers were bare. And the gunroom’s freezers would be the same. Well, that’ll be changed shortly.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve some stores being delivered, Boxer, and I wanted to speak to you before they arrived.” She kept her voice low, so as not to be overheard if anyone entered the gunroom.

  “That’s good, sir, weren’t right. I’ll watch ‘em close — mayhap I’ll speak to the carpenter about a locking box fer ‘em.”

  “No, Boxer, I want you to treat them no differently than before, do you understand? Save in one very important way.” She caught his eye to be sure he was paying attention. “You’re not to serve me, nor give to the cook for sharing, any of these stores save what I’ve given you directly. Do you understand?”

  “Not rightly, no, sir.”

  Alexis laid a hand on his arm. “You don’t need to understand the reason, just the order, yes? Nothing to me, the cook, nor even for your bit that you haven’t had from my hand directly. Do you understand that?”

  “So if there’s a chicken needed?”

  “I’ll pull him out of the freezer myself and hand him to you. Can you do that?”

  “Aye, sir. Seems a bit of trouble, though.”

  “There’ll be more trouble if you forget, so follow me on this, will you?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good.” She turned to go, then spun back. “Oh, but there’ll be a bottle of something called bourbon in my things. That you can find a hiding place for, can’t you?”

  “One bottle? Of course, sir. Be nothin’ ter hide that. Safe as houses.”

  “Thank you, Boxer.”

  She slipped out of the pantry and back to her berth. She quickly stripped out of the dress uniform she’d worn onto the station and donned the simpler ship’s jumpsuit, glad that Timpson wasn’t yet back aboard. He never said anything and he was subtle about it, but he watched her change with a look that made her uncomfortable.

  She settled on to her bunk with her tablet. There were still no messages for her, which was a disappointment, but there were more articles from the Naval Gazette that told of several ships taken from the Hanoverese. Little about the cause of the war itself, though, which she was curious about. She’d studied little of the wider universe while at home on Dalthus, but felt she should gain some knowledge of more than the ships themselves now that she was in the Navy. Finished with the Gazette, she moved on to her studies.

  There were always ever more complex navigation problems to go through, ship’s systems to learn about, and tactical simulations to run through. Not that the captain nor any of the others will ever ask me about them. While Captain Neals grilled the other midshipmen more ruthlessly even than Captain Grantham had, he’d never once included Alexis. It wasn’t that she wanted to face the brutal quizzing — having scenario after scenario thrown at her with demands for what orders she would give — but it was designed to prepare the midshipmen for their lieutenant’s exam. An exam where three or more captains would demand answers to whatever they could dream up before finally passing the applicant to lieutenant or sending him back to the pool of midshipmen.

  So Alexis was reduced to studying on her own and keeping her own answers to herself when Neals quizzed the others. That she felt she came to better decisions than the lot of them was small comfort when it couldn’t be confirmed. Likely, though, if Neals ever did include her, he’d not accept anything she said, so perhaps his indifference was preferable.

  She was almost done with yet another treatise on navigation when she heard the other midshipmen begin to arrive back aboard, talking in the gunroom outside her hatch. Timpson came in to change his own uniform, ostentatiously stripping out of his dress uniform and underthings before pulling fresh clothing from the drawer beneath his bunk. It was one of the reasons Alexis didn’t mind, in fact preferred, having the upper bunk aboard Hermione, even though its height made it more difficult for her to get into. Taking the lower bunk would have put her right at eye level with things she honestly preferred not to think about.

  “Saw you got some fresh stores, Carew,” Timpson said, pulling on his boots. “About time, that.”

  “Yes, I received some good advice about giving up.”

  Timpson stood up and faced the bunks. “What’s that mean?”

  Alexis shrugged, never taking her eyes from her tablet. Timpson left and she returned to her studies.

  There was a loud scream from the gunroom and she quickly locked her tablet and slid off the bunk. She rushed through the hatch into the gunroom to find Timpson, Brattle, and Ledyard staring at Bushby in shock. The senior midshipman was staggering around outside his berth, eyes watering profusely and spitting on the deck. Well, then, that didn’t take long.

  “Bushby!” Brattle yelled. “What the devil—”

  Bushby spat once more and looked up at them, his chin was covered in streaks of brown and bright red spittle that leaked from his mouth. Alexis covered her mouth and tried to look concerned. Bushby looked around wildly and his eyes widened as he spied the wine bottles the others had on the table. Oh … I’d not recommend that, Alexis thought, doing her best to keep from laughing outright.

  Bushby rushed to the table and grasped a bottle, throwing his head back and draining it. He lowered it finally, looking relieved, but then his eyes widened. He gasped and clutched at his throat, then his chest.

  “Surgeon,” he croaked, rushing toward the companionway. “Where’s Rochford?”

  “Should we help him, do you think?” Timpson asked.

  “He can find the orlop deck on his own, I suspect,” Brattle said. He went instead to Bushby’s berth. “What was the man doing?”

  Alexis went to the pantry and examined her stores. She noted that a box of her chocolates was missing and took one of the others, carefully noting the discrete marks she’d made on the packaging. She returned to the gunroom as Brattle was coming out of Bushby’s berth with a simil
ar package, this one opened.

  He held it at arm’s length, his eyes squinted and watering, as he carried it to the table. He set it down and stepped back, as did all the others. One of the chocolates had been bitten in half and a viscous, bright red fluid seeped from it. It gave off fumes that didn’t seem to have a scent, they simply stung the eyes and nose viciously.

  “What is that?” Timpson asked.

  Alexis stepped over to them, squinting and sniffing as she opened her own box of chocolates. “I believe it’s a sauce of Shimea reaper chilies. I’ve noted the men challenging each other to try the stuff — quite soluble in alcohol, I’m given to understand.” She looked at each of the others, eyes wide. “I do hope my own chocolates don’t have the same issue.” She took one from the box in her hand and popped it into her mouth, feeling a bit of anxiety as she bit down that she might have grabbed the wrong package. “No,” she continued, chewing. “These are quite fine.” She held the box out to Timpson. “Would you like one? I’m quite happy to share, of course.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The shadows were closing in on her from every side. Dark, flowing masses, reminiscent of the darkspace clouds all around her.

  Alexis knew what was next — dreaded it, but knew.

  She turned and the shadows began to come together, solidifying into a figure. Head and face a mass of darkness, with barely the hint of features, but she could imagine them well enough. Dirty, pockmarked skin, long greasy hair, and a mouth filled with half-rotted teeth — the face of the pirate captain, Horsfall. Her last real sight of him vivid in her memory. His gloating, confident smile as he told her that she needed him to pilot the ship, Grappel, with its sabotaged navigation plot.

  The pistol had bucked in her hand, not even leaving time for his confident grin to falter before the bullet she’d fired struck him, punching a neat, dark hole just to the left of his nose. The part of her horrified that she’d killed a man warred with the part that was disappointed she’d been off-center at less than five meters distance. Followed quickly by a roiling sickness in her belly that she could even notice her aim when a man was dead, and fear of what that meant about her.