Tantamount

by Thomas J. Radford

  “Kitsune,” Sharpe commented.

  Violet's head jerked round, her skin flushed. “What about it?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.” Sharpe shrugged. “Tails are supposed to be good luck, that's all.”

  Violet drew her tail back behind her protectively. “What about my tail?”

  “Turned out to be my lucky day, that's all I'm saying,” Sharpe told her. “I don't mean anything by it, little princess.”

  “Princess.” Nel shook her head. “Watch your name-calling. You'll make the girl's head puff up to match that tail.”

  “Skipper!” Violet protested.

  “Skipper,” Sharpe repeated. “But you say you aren't the captain?”

  “First officer to you,” Nel corrected. “Or Nel. The crew call me Skipper but Horatio Phelps is the Tantamount's captain.”

  Sharpe nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Nel scowled, wondering if he was humouring her. She chewed on that as the bubble made its slow journey back to the ship. Sharpe didn't offer any more conversation and she was happy to leave it at that. A small crowd waited for them at the Tantamount's railing, including Jack and the captain. Getting a bubble back onto a ship involved reeling it back into a cradle. It was a finicky process that had to be done properly if the bubble wasn't to come crashing down on deck when it re-entered the ship's envelope and gravity. After what seemed an eternity, Cyrus and the crew working the crane wrestled the bubble into place and swung it back onto the ship.

  Nel felt weight returning as suddenly as it had left, a not altogether pleasant sensation that made her feel like she'd been overindulging in Gabbi's cooking. When the hatch opened she was the first through it, though that too was a drawn out process as they had to wait for the pressure inside the bubble to be adjusted to match the Tantamount's.

  “Found one after all, did you?” Horatio stood before her on the deck. He'd managed to find time to dress himself she noticed, was clad in his threadbare best coat and boots sorely in need of polishing. A battered captain's hat topped the ensemble. Not exactly dressed to receive guests but somehow she doubted Sharpe would care.

  Behind her Nel could hear Sharpe and Violet exiting the bubble, feet hitting the tar stained deck. She leaned in close to whisper to Horatio.

  “I don't like this. Is he really the only one we found?”

  “You were the one who didn't expect to find anyone alive, Nel,” the captain reminded her.

  “That's what I don't like about it. You have to be strong to survive what happened out there. As far as I'm concerned that makes him dangerous.”

  “I understand what you're saying, Nel. We'll talk to him, find out.” Horatio cocked an eyebow at her. “Do you want to get dressed or should we get started now?”

  Nel glanced round at the crew. She wasn't exactly undressed and they'd all seen her in less and she them. Being roused during an emergency didn't leave time for propriety and anyone who dithered to take the time wouldn't last long on her ship. But her aching body was crying out for gloves and boots and other fleece-lined clothes. She decided she could spare the time to get changed.

  “Jack can give him the once over.”

  Horatio nodded. “We'll meet in the chart room then.”

  “I'll be there,” Nel said.

  She retreated to her cabin, hobbling a little and realising just how frostbitten her feet were. She could barely feel heels or toes as she walked the short distance. It was with relief that she shut the door behind her and sank into the lone chair in the room. Away from the eyes of crew.

  She didn't allow herself more than a few minutes rest though. Her body ached and felt slow and ponderous, but her mind was racing along. An Alliance ship, smashed to pieces, one survivor. It felt like a bad tavern tale, the sort that ended in tragedy or at least with a cruel joke. She wanted no part of it. Not on her ship.

  With that thought overriding all other concerns she stood and grabbed clothes from corners of her cabin. For working on the ship during her watch she preferred fingerless gloves and calf high boots. Linen breeches replaced the ones she was wearing and a sleeveless leather jerkin completed the outfit. Her eyes fixed on one last item as she laced up the jerkin: her holster slung over a hook in the wall. A wall still studded with kitchen utensils, some embedded an inch or more deep, but what hung from the hook was more dangerous.

  It was simple and effective, though at first glance it appeared innocuous. A wand, her wand, not much more than a bronze hued rod in appearance, engraved, but not as intricately as some, the only exotic part the silver patterned basket-hilt above the grip. It didn't look dangerous, not being sharp or even heavy enough to bludgeon with, but the wand was thaumatically charged to a near lethal level. Nel didn't often want for her sidearm aboard the ship with only the crew she knew so well, but with a shipwrecked survivor aboard, then yes, she felt the need. She hitched the holster round her waist on the way to the chart room.

  “If this were a tavern brawl, you ain't coming drinking with me ever.”

  Nel heard Jack's voice as she entered the room. It was hard not to hear Jack's voice. Like the rest of him it was large, crude, and simple. It was useful having crew members who could pull double duty, but as Jack's double duties combined the roles of Gabbi's butchery assistant with that of ship's surgeon his approach to the latter was blunt and direct.

  “No,” Horatio insisted, “this wasn't a tavern brawl, Jack. The man survived a shipwreck. Be gentle with him.”

  It was quite the sight, the grey haired and knobbly kneed stick of a captain getting right up in the face of Korrigan Jack, interposing himself between the butcher-turned-surgeon and his latest patient. It reminded Nel that there was at least one world where Korrigan Jack always stayed aboard ship, a place where he'd done hard time. For a Korrigan, Jack was short but broad. Each of Jack's ears was fully half the size of his flattened face, which made him seem even wider. Most of his hair was tied back into three scraggly braids, one behind each flapping ear and a third atop his head. That and his walnut coloured skin made him look wizened like an old oak tree, all in all not someone whose appearance inspired trust.

  Sharpe for his part regarded both Jack and the captain somewhat warily. The man had taken a seat atop the chart table, which had been cleared of its normally heaped up contents to serve as a makeshift examination table. He'd been stripped of his shirt and his chest was marred by blue and grey mottling. Broken ribs, most likely. Nel agreed with Jack. Sharpe could have just come through a rather vicious tavern brawl.

  “I've been in a shipwreck,” Jack snorted. “Piper has too, and he got the rings to prove it. Didn't neither of us get banged up like this one.”

  “It's nothing, Captain,” Sharpe said in an attempt to alleviate the tension, running his hands down his ribs gingerly. “A few stiff drinks in front of a warm fire and I'll be fine. Your first officer got worse than I did.”

  “Foolish woman,” Horatio said. “Should have taken her time, no need to go getting exposed like that. No need at all.”

  “I heard that.” Nel strode into the scene, trying to ignore the pain in her feet that accompanied each step. “Just wrap his ribs, Jack. Captain's orders.”

  Jack shook his head doubtfully. “Soft, Skipper,” he said. “Soft folks don't make good crew.”

  “Not our problem if he is, Jack, 'cause this man's not crew, so don't be judging him like he is. Just wrap his ribs up good 'til we can drop him off at the next port.”

  Jack considered this before nodding in agreement. He turned to Sharpe and held up his scalpel suggestively. “I'll go get some bandages. We'll get you wrapped up then. You wait.” He made it sound like a threat.

  “Sure,” Sharpe agreed, leaning back on the table. “How about something to drink while you're at it? All this talk about taverns has got me thirsty.”

  That got a grin from Jack. “Yeah, I could do that. Brandy should do it. Captain's got some brandy.”

  “I do?” Horatio winced.

  “Yeah, you do.�
�

  “Well, I . . . ,” Horatio mumbled.

  “It's medicinal,” Jack growled.

  “Yes, but it's very strong medicine, Jack,” the captain stressed.

  “Yeah?” Jack said. He laughed at Sharpe and nodded. “Yeah, you're right. He's a bit soft, like I said. Aye, Captain, don't worry. I'll be testing it before I give him any.”

  “That wasn't quite what I —”

  “Be right back,” Jack rumbled, lumbering towards the door to collect his brandy and bandages.

  “Hurry back, Jack,” Horatio called after him. “And check on the rest of the crew, make sure there aren't any more injuries.”

  “Crew's fine,” Jack hollered back. “They ain't soft. Except that damned Kelpie.”

  “Go check on the crew, Jack.” Nel pushed him out the door. ”What was that about injuries, Captain?”

  “We may have a couple of bumps and bruises,” Horatio explained. “Some of that debris knocked a few holes in the ship. Ripped a few sails, that sort of thing.”

  “That sort of thing?” Nel shook her head. She'd forgotten to take a look at the ship as they came in on the bubble, not that she’d been able to see much with her bloodshot vision. “How bad is it? And what does Quill have to say about all this?”

  “Yes, well, with things being as they are I haven't gotten around to talking to him yet,” Horatio admitted.

  “I found him and Gabbi trying to tear a few holes in the ship themselves,” Nel told him.

  “He's still on the bridge,” the captain said. “We can talk to him later.”

  “Later,” Nel agreed, turning to their unexpected guest.

  Sharpe returned their regard unfazed. “Your ship's doctor is rather . . . direct.”

  “He knows what he's doing,” Horatio defended his crew quickly. More out of habit, Nel thought, than any real desire to defend Jack.

  “Most of the time,” Nel couldn't help muttering.

  Jack knew anatomy extensively from his work in the galley, so as far as fixing broken bones and patching up cuts and tears to the Tantamount's crew he was competent. It was his bedside manner that needed work. Korrigan Jack didn't have a lot of respect for anyone who wasn't tougher than he was. And if you got injured you weren't as tough as he was.

  Nel noticed Sharpe give her the once over, noticed that his eyes lingered on the wand holstered at her waist. He didn't show any reaction to it, but he definitely knew she was armed now. She took the time to have a closer look at him.

  With sailors it was usually easy to read them—they had their life stories written proudly on their own bodies. Hoops through the ears for years in the void, tattoos for ports and planets visited. Nel had some of her own, though she'd kept them confined to just a sleeve on one arm. But she knew how to match crooked dice to a sailor who had spent time at Vice or a manta-ray for someone who had traversed beyond the periphery and out into the Deep Lanes. But Sharpe didn't have any markings, not ink nor jewellery. Not so much as a good luck charm to keep him from being lost overboard. That was odd. Even the Alliance had their own brand of markings.

  “Thank you for the rescue, Captain Phelps,” Sharpe said. “You were timely.”

  “Yes, well, glad we could help, my boy.” The captain straightened his clothing as he spoke, beaming. “We were hoping you could tell us what happened out there. You were attacked, obviously.”

  “Who was it?” Nel asked directly.

  Sharpe's gaze shifted to her. “I'm afraid I can't help you with that. I was below deck when we were attacked. Got buried under the water casks and never got a good look at them.”

  “That's an Alliance ship out there.” Nel watched him carefully. “A warship at that, one that's had something big and solid driven right through it. You were rammed, Sharpe.”

  “Seems the way of it,” Sharpe agreed.

  “And you don't know who did it?” Nel said.

  He shrugged. “I'm not Alliance. I was just a passenger.”

  “What was the name of your ship?” Nel asked.

  “The Falchions Rise.”

  “And how many souls aboard her?” Horatio inquired.

  Sharpe sighed. “Over a hundred, Captain.”

  Over a hundred. The number hung in the air with an ugly sense of reality. The Tantamount ran with less than twenty, Alliance ships ran heavy it was true, but the number still sounded high. Nel had counted maybe two dozen bodies during her expedition. That left at least four score unaccounted for. Floating out there in the void.

  “A tragedy,” Horatio said uncomfortably. He motioned for Nel to continue the conversation.

  “Where were you bound? What port?” she asked.

  “Marching, on Thatch,” Sharpe told her.

  The port he'd named was on a distant planet and not one aligned with the Alliance. Lawless was too strong a word, independent might be closer. It wasn't the sort of place an Alliance vessel would go without a good reason.

  Nel was about to ask what sort of person could get passage aboard an Alliance warship when they were interrupted by a piping, high pitched voice.

  “Captain!”

  The thin voice belonged to Violet. The girl's hair was still a tangle of fairy locks and half undone braids, like she'd just climbed out of her hammock.

  “Captain, oh, Skipper!” Violet stared as she realised that Nel was present too. She didn't pay Sharpe so much as a second look, probably still ignoring him for that quip about her tail.

  “Piper sent me to find you, he needs to see one of you. Says it's urgent!”

  “Urgent, is it?” Horatio repeated. “Well, we'd best see about that then.”

  “I'll go,” Nel offered. “I want to see what's been going on while I was out in that damned bubble.”

  “As you say, Nel,” Horatio agreed. “I'd like a few more words with our guest in any case.”

  Nel hesitated. There was something about Sharpe she didn't like, but on consideration it wasn't likely he would do anything while aboard the Tantamount.

  “Take me to Piper,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  Sharpe had given Nel the impression of being dangerous, but if impressions were what to go by then Piper had dangerous written all over him. That writing took the literal form of extensive, intricate tattoos that ran from the backs of his hands to the balls of his feet, even making forays up one side of his face. Tattoos marking every port he'd ever sailed into; rays, dragons, cuttlefish, and other more obscure creatures Nel didn't even know the names for. On one shoulder he had the constellation surrounding his home planet, a map home if he ever needed it. Hoops ran up the top length of one ear, one for every five years a sailor. The opposite ear held a black pearl, evidence, as Jack said, that Piper had once survived a shipwreck, and a silver stud to pay for his burial, should he not survive a second one.

  Stripped down to not much more than shorts, there was plenty of bare skin to display Piper's artwork. The sweaty sheen on his arms and shaved head suggested he'd been working hard at something. Nel and Violet found him involved in an animated discussion with his constant companion, Bandit, in the deepest recesses of the ship. Piper was doing most of the talking.

  “Didn't I tell you to get rid of that thing?” Nel interrupted the one sided debate.

  Piper turned to her, his heavy features drawing down into a sulk. ”No,” he claimed.

  “No? You know damn well I did, Piper. Why is it still on board?”

  Her problem with Bandit was simple. She detested rodents. And the foot-high, furry mongrel was definitely a rodent. The animal, called a loompa, looked like a cross between a monkey and a raccoon, with a monkey's tail and ambidextrous limbs. The raccoon-like slitted mask of fur over his eyes was what Bandit got his name from. Uninspired, given the creative artwork covering his owner.

  “No, Bandit stays,” Piper told her firmly. “If Bandit goes, Piper goes. And right now we have to fix the ship so we can't go.”

  Nel groaned. This was all Horatio's fault; the man was forever picki
ng up strays. The scamp at her side that looked up to her with calf eyes and the deranged engineer in front of her were only two of the many that made up the misfit crew.

  “Vi,” she said. “Go keep an eye on the captain for me. If you see anything suspicious from our guest you come get me straight away. Got it?”

  “Aye aye, Skipper.” The cabin girl fired off another over-exaggerated salute and turned, disappearing with a flick of the bushy fox-tail she flashed every time she turned around. The tail made Nel shake her head.

  Misfits, all of them.

  “Something amiss, Skipper?” Piper asked.

  “You been teaching our girl signalling?” Nel said pointedly.

  “Yes,” Piper said slowly.

  “Teach her better.”

  Piper exchanged a long look with his pet but said nothing.

  Nel leaned wearily against the curved hull. “What's wrong with my ship, Piper?”

  “She is full of holes, Skipper.”

  “How?” Nel said. “Where?”

  Piper gestured around the hold. “Bits hit us. Big bits, Bandit says. They woke him up. Bandit tried to plug the holes but the holes are big and Bandit is so small.”

  Bandit scampered down from the rafters and onto Piper's shoulders, chattering constantly. The loompa held a mallet in its dark, wiry hand and Nel wouldn't have put it past the thing to have banged out the holes itself.

  “You're saying the hull is breached?” Nel concluded. “How badly?”

  “Badly,” Piper pointed at a pile of crates. Nel stared. What at first had looked like haphazard storage she now realised was, in fact, covering a gaping hole in the side of the ship.

  “There are more,” Piper said. “Bandit can crawl through most of them, all the way to the outside. We should watch where we step.”

  “Can she still fly?” Nel asked, pushing one of the crates aside to get a better look at the damage. It was bad—she could see straight through the breach to the outside, the swirling emptiness of dust and misty miasma. Bandit wasn't the only one who could have fit through the hole; Violet could, and with a bit of squeezing Nel herself probably could have too. Not good, not good at all.