Harry Heron: No Quarter

by Patrick G Cox

  Lieutenant Haäkinen nodded. “It’s best not to show off that ability. It won’t be easy.” He grinned. “You will make a lot of enemies very quickly if you get too cocky with it.”

  “Aye, sir.” Harry glanced at Ferghal. The Commodore had been quite definite about this. “Our guardian made it very clear that we should not exploit it, sir, and we have a device that allows us to block the connection.”

  “Good. Then I can leave it at that.” He consulted the desk display. “You are in Britannia Class. It’s the group to which we assign all the midshipmen and cadets who have specialist skills, or who have already shown particular abilities.” He swiftly outlined the programme, making sure they understood it all. “One last thing: if you have difficulty with anything, I expect you to discuss it with me.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” they replied in unison.

  A smile flickered as the Lieutenant nodded. “Good. I understand you had a contretemps with Midshipman Barclay on arrival. Fighting is forbidden and punishable under the discipline regulations. Don’t let him provoke you. If he persists in doing so, I want to hear about it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Harry shifted uneasily, aware that his instinctive response to Barclay’s well-aimed fist could be considered fighting.

  “See you do, please.” The Lieutenant frowned as he consulted his display. “I see you’re required as witnesses at the enquiry to look into the events that brought you here. Are you prepared for that?”

  Harry spoke for them both. “Aye, sir. It was supposed to have been held two months ago, but was postponed.”

  “So I see. Unfortunate, the timing, but there it is. You’ll be notified about transport and so on.” He stood. “Right, that’s it, I think. Better grab some dinner and meet the rest of the class. Just enter the words dining hall in your tablet.”

  “I DON’T SEE WHY I HAVE TO BE SADDLED WITH THIS.” Eon Barclay kept his voice low as he addressed the holographic image. “I want out of this dump. With our family’s connections, why can’t I have a position like Stuart’s with one of our subsidiaries?”

  His father looked weary. Why did one son have to be so difficult when the other was so easy-going? “Eon, we’ve been through this many times. Your uncle needs you in the Fleet for reasons that have been explained to you. He’d have used Stu if he could, but your brother is on the surveillance list.” Holding up a hand, his father signalled he wasn’t finished when Eon tried to interrupt. “It will be well worth your while, and it isn’t exactly fusion science. Heron’s cabin is directly opposite yours. How hard can it be to keep him under surveillance?”

  “That’s not the point. There are loads of others here who could do this. You don’t need me for it.”

  “We do. You’re in a position to be closer to him and that wild Irish O’Connor than any of our other operatives because you’re in classes together and on exercises with them. Damn it, Eon, at least make an attempt to stay on your uncle’s good books. He pays you very well for the information you supply him — more than it’s worth, I should think.” His expression hardened. “You know the family trusts have large investments in several of the Interplanetary Consortium companies, and the current problem of their being unable to trade with the Confederacy, the WTC and the North American Union is causing some serious cash flow problems. If you want to be part of the restoration of all of that, stay where you are and do what you’re told.”

  His expression surly, Barclay nodded. “Okay, okay, I get the message, but I hate the Fleet. I hate the way they order me around, and I hate having to play this stupid role. As soon as there’s an opening, I want out of here.”

  “That’s better. And you have my word. I’ll talk to your uncle about getting you something more in line with our standing in society once you’ve done what we require of you.” The elder Barclay smiled. “I’m assured it won’t be long before the Consortium forces have achieved our primary objective. Then we can force the Confederacy and others to accept our terms and enjoy the rewards.”

  Slightly mollified, Barclay nodded. Without a goodbye, his father closed the connection. Eon scowled as he recalled the humiliation of crumpling to the ground from Harry’s well-aimed counterattack to his groin.

  “I’ll get mine, Mr Harry-bloody-Heron. The hell with whatever my father says.”

  DURING THEIR WALK TO THE DINING HALL, Ferghal wasted no time getting back to what Harry had told him before their meeting with the Lieutenant.

  “That Barclay fellow — you reminded me earlier that we dealt with his ancestor, or someone of the same family, on Spartan. He is exactly as the one we knew.” Glancing about him, Ferghal added, “We’re safe from prying ears here. So what’s to do? At least I am no longer in danger of being hanged if I deal with him the way I want to.”

  Harry leaned closer to Ferghal to speak more quietly. “The Barclay who bullied me on Spartan was of the Raholp Barclays and my senior in the Gunroom. This one is not. Do not intervene on my part, Ferghal. You may not be charged and hanged for it, but this is my trouble, not yours, unless he makes it so. I think we may find this new Barclay is as difficult as the old one. There is a resemblance, though I could not place it at first.”

  “So you think this Bar….” Feghal lowered his voice, which was always at a level best described as booming. “This Barclay is the great great — however many greats — grandson or nephew as the one on Spartan, and he’s just as ill tempered? What are the odds?” He laughed so loud it resonated off the corridor walls, and Harry laughed him, their tension eased.

  Harry quieted. “Yes, it seems this bit of bad luck has followed me here.”

  “Tread warily, Harry. If he is of the same mould, he will not rest until he has made trouble for you.”

  Joining them, Keiron caught the tail of this exchange. “If it’s Barclay you’re talking about, you’re right. Take care, that family have money and political clout — enough to get a lot of his antics forgiven or overlooked, if you follow my meaning.” When they were at the dining hall entrance, he said, “I’m off the leash now, and it’s dinnertime. Follow me to the trough! You’ve the rest of the class to meet.”

  Chapter 3 –The Yotties

  Harry inhaled the savoury aroma of food. “It smells a great deal better than the boiled salt beef or pork did on Spartan. I confess, though, my stomach sometimes craves simpler fare than the foods we now enjoy.”

  “Mine too.” Ferghal’s nervous gaze took in the large refectory with its cacophony of conversation and laughter. The tables were arranged in a diagonal pattern, each one sporting an emblem identifying a class. “But I would not thank anyone for returning me to the rancid stuff from the casks after three years in the hold and God knows how long before that in a warehouse. And I would not wish to be deprived of such delights as the ice cream and other sweetmeats we now have for our pleasure.”

  Harry laughed. “Aye, I hear you, but do you not miss the wine and the rum?”

  “Aye, there is that.” Ferghal nodded, a grin flickering.

  Keiron looked surprised. “You guys drank rum and beer? But you must have been underage!”

  “We did not drink the water unless it was boiled for tea or mixed with rum. It was pretty foul after weeks in a cask, and drinking it meant days spent doubled over in the head — not a pleasant experience!” His sense of humour prompting him, Harry added, “And there were things living in it sometimes.”

  Catching his friend’s lead, Ferghal said, “Aye, and I do not miss the stench of bilges or the slop bucket.”

  Harry nodded. “And we no longer have to endure the smell of the commode while we dine.” Catching Keiron’s horrified expression, he laughed. “The nose soon adjusted.”

  Keiron led them to a table occupied by a number of midshipmen and cadets, and they took their seats. “These are some of our fellow sufferers.” To everyone at the table, he added, “Our latest additions, Ferghal O’Connor and Harry Heron.”

  “You’re joking,” said the mi
dshipman next to Keiron. “Not the Heron and O’Connor?”

  “I’m sorry?” Harry frowned, feigning mock puzzlement. “Which Heron and O’Connor should we be?” He smiled to set them at ease.

  This raised a laugh from the others, and Keiron intervened. “I think what Howard means is are you the infamous Heron and O’Connor from the Vanguard and the Pangaea battle?”

  Harry reddened. “The very same.”

  “Wow! I heard you guys had a bad time of it when you were taken prisoner and sent to that underground lab run by the Johnstone Group,” said a very neat young woman. “How did you escape? We heard you caused absolute havoc at the facility.”

  “Yeah, tell us the gory details.” Howard grinned. “Which one of you carved up the villager with this thing you call a cutlass?”

  Everyone laughed, and Harry and Ferghal reddened in embarrassment at this barrage of questions. They tried to make light of their part in it, mindful that the pending trials of the Consortium prisoners could be compromised if they said too much. Harry was relieved when Ferghal intervened.

  “Well, he asked for it. He tried to use his plasma pistol, so I stopped him.”

  “But how did you fellows get out?” demanded a youth named Senzile, who spoke with a lilting African accent. “We heard that you were pretty deep underground in holding cells.”

  “Our friend Danny got into the ventilation ducts. He is much younger and smaller than we are. Johnstone’s AI network had gone a bit mad, so we really just walked out. Sub-Lieutenant Trelawney led us out and down the hill, and you’ve probably heard the rest.”

  Wanting to divert their attention, Harry indicated the model of a small and rather neat looking ship with the name HMY Britannia emblazoned on its base affixed to the table. “What ship is this? She is patently not the old First Rater we knew, nor is she a ship of the Fleet.”

  “That’s the old Royal Yacht,” replied Keiron. “She was famous in the latter half of the twentieth century. She’s still preserved at Leith in Scotland, and that’s a pretty good model of her.” Eyeing Harry thoughtfully, he explained, “It’s why we’re called The Yotties by everyone else here.” He paused, his mind still on the previous tack of their conversation. “We heard that you were tortured. Is that true?”

  A bit surprised at the sudden shift in topic, Harry hesitated before replying. “Yes . . . that’s true.” He gave Keiron a brief smile. “I’d rather not talk about it if you have no objection.”

  “Fair enough.” Keiron winced as the young woman dug an elbow into his ribs. “I’m sorry to be so nosey.” He grimaced as she jabbed him in the ribs again. “Bad, was it?”

  “You don’t know when to stop, do you,” she said to Keiron. “Ignore him, Harry. I’m Elize, by the way, and I have the cabin next to Ferghal’s. I was on the flagship when you guys set off that blast in hyperspace. It freaked out the comms and the engineering people, and weapons went right off the board. What did it look like from your end?”

  “Like a small sun,” replied Harry, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He remembered all too well the terrible beauty of the night sky filled with brief bright stars as ships and men died in the battle over their heads. It was not a sight he was likely to forget. “It flared into existence and winked out again moments later. We saw it from the cutter as we sailed to Pangaea City.” He smiled to hide his very real sense of horror at the destruction that had been wrought. “I’m afraid we were rather distant spectators to most of it.”

  Keiron interjected. “We heard about this boat you chaps used to escape the island. Must have taken a fair bit of work to convert a cargo hulk into an ocean-going sailing ship.” His face lit up in a huge grin. “Hey, I’ve just realised — with you fellows in charge of our sloop, we have a chance of winning the Class Cup in the Regatta this year.”

  The amusing and lively chatter continued through dinner and into the evening. In the course of it, Harry told his new friends about their adventures under sail and the escape from New Caledonia. Ferghal imparted some of the details Harry skipped, and the group formed the beginnings of a plan for tackling the inter-class competitive events.

  Toward the end of the evening they witnessed a small disturbance at an adjoining table. Harry looked across to see Barclay browbeating a smaller midshipman.

  “Typical,” said Elize, her expression one of utter disgust. “How he’s managed to stay in the service this long, none of us can understand. He must know somebody important.”

  “Or he must be related to someone important,” Keiron countered. “If he keeps pushing his luck like that, he won’t be here much longer no matter who his daddy is.” He turned to Harry. “I saw you facing him down in the cabin flat. What was that about?”

  Before Harry could reply, Ferghal interjected. “We met Mr Barclay outside the entrance today. Lieutenant Haäkinen warned us not to follow his example, and the Master Warrant at the desk said we should mind how we deal with Barclay, didn’t he, Master Ha . . . Harry.” Outwardly calm, Ferghal’s anxiety at fitting into his new station in life betrayed him into using his childhood form of address toward Harry.

  “That he did now.” Harry smiled, and with his hand raised as if swearing an oath, he adopted a formal tone.

  “I promise all present that I shall mind my step and my temper.” Everyone chuckled, and the moment of tension passed.

  Howard looked interested. “Hold on — are you chaps saying you’ve already managed to have a run-in with the Barclay?”

  “We collided at the door, and I’m afraid my attaché case found a rather tender target when he attempted to strike me.” Harry waited a beat for perfect timing. “He crumpled to the ground in quite a bit of pain, I might add.”

  Keiron and the boys grinned, and Elize tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, which became infectious, and soon they were all doing their best to hold back their laughter with no success. The obvious display of mirth drew the attention of others in the dining hall. Some watched with grins on their faces, others with curiosity, and the perfectly behaved ones looked disgruntled because they weren’t having nearly as much fun at their table.

  “Oh, God!” gasped Keiron shaking with laughter. “No wonder he was spoiling for a fight. He’ll hate you for that. Better watch your back. He does have some friends and cronies, and he’s good at getting even. God, Harry, you and Ferghal are going to be a breath of fresh air.”

  Elize put her hand to her chin and pondered. “I wonder if he’s suffered serious damage from your well-aimed attack?” She grinned and winked.

  Laughing, the Yotties pushed back from the table and headed toward the door talking and bantering. Midshipman Barclay watched them depart, his eyes burning with plans for revenge.

  HARRY SLEPT BADLY AND WOKE FROM A NIGHTMARE in which the Court of Enquiry had become a different sort of court presided over by a scowling figure in laboratory garb who handed down a ruling that his new status was cancelled, and he must be returned immediately to the laboratory. With this, and the still troubling memories of the indignities he’d suffered on Pangaea in mind, he was shocked to find, when he reported to the swimming pool with the others, that he was expected to engage in mixed swimming.

  “We swim with the ladies?”

  Ferghal leaned close and murmured, “And why are they wearing only their undergarments — not that I’m complaining.” His face reddened so much it matched his hair. Their shocked incredulity amused their companions.

  Elize spoke up. “Yes, shippers, this is how we do it in 2206. You’ll get used to it. Besides, we’re all covered — at least the important bits are!”

  This reminded Keiron of something humorous. “I wonder if Barclay has recovered from meeting you? Do you think he’s feeling better now?” He grinned, and they all laughed.

  Seeing no alternative, Harry and Ferghal reluctantly changed into swimming trunks and joined the rest of the class poolside.

  As the women joined them, Keiron practically snorted b
ack laughter to smother his amusement at Harry’s attempt to look anywhere but at their toned shapely figures so clearly defined in their swimsuits.

  Elize took the initiative again. “Do you fellows swim? It’s a good way to keep fit.” She leaned closer to Harry. “Relax. You’ll get used to this.” She gave his arm a gentle nudge with her shoulder.

  Before Harry could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of the physical training instructor.

  “Right, ladies, gentlemen, double to that end of the pool, please. Then I want four lengths, in your own time. At the double, now!”

  Realising that Harry and Ferghal had not understood the order to mean run, Keiron said, “Double means we run!” and he took off for the far end with the two close behind.

  Despite the fact that Harry and Ferghal had spent many months aboard a sailing ship, neither were strong swimmers. Harry was somewhat better in the water, having had more freedom to swim on the voyage through the South Sea and along the New South Wales coast, but Ferghal struggled, as he’d had less opportunity and practice due to the restriction of the discipline imposed on him as a member of the lower deck.

  As such, Harry enjoyed swimming and found it stimulating, but he quickly discovered he lacked both technique and confidence. Ferghal was far less comfortable in the water than Harry, and struggled manfully toward the far end of the pool.

  The instructor soon spotted their lack of ability and called them aside. “Now then, gentlemen — your swimming needs a bit of work, doesn’t it?”