Venera frowned past his tired skepticism. “I was,” she said. “We were on our way to the tourist station, because that's where the map is."
Dentius laughed. “You've got to be out of your mind,” he said. “Anetene's a legend. Sure, he lived and he was a great pirate. The less intellectually endowed members of my crew swear by him. But the treasure's pure myth."
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “But the map to it is real."
His lips curled in sly indulgence. “And what would an admiral of Slipstream be doing hunting pirate treasure in Winter?"
“As to that...” She looked away, making a faint moue. “Slipstream's finances are not in the greatest of shapes at the moment, if you get my meaning. The Pilot is not the cleverest of men when it comes to state funds."
“You've a deficit to pay off?” Dentius grinned.
“It's more like the Pilot has a deficit he's told the people about ... and then there's the real deficit."
“You're wanting to forestall a political scandal, I get that.” Dentius shook his head. “The whole story is preposterous on the face of it, and you know it. So why are you trying to put this one over on me?"
“Because the treasure is real,” she said. “But I realize that I can't convince you of that.” Now she hesitated: how far could she push this man? If she played the next hand, he might kill her. But if she gave in to fear, he would have won; the bullet would have won. “There's another consideration,” she said slowly. “I saw how you and your men fared during the battle. You have your own deficit now, Captain Dentius: you've just paid far more in men and ships than you've gotten back. Am I wrong in thinking that this is going to cause you some ... political problems ... of your own?"
Dentius's face flushed with anger. He stood up, knocking over the chair. “We're going to kill all of you for starters,” he said. “Very bloody, very visible. My men will have their revenge."
“Yes, but will that be enough?” Venera allowed herself a small, ironic smile. “You know that the other captains won't be impressed. You lost ships, Dentius."
He didn't answer. “Killing us will be a good diversion,” Venera continued. “But you need a better diversion. One that will last longer, until the memories of this debacle have faded. You've got to give your men hope, Captain Dentius, or else you may be out of a job."
“In other words,” he said, “it hardly matters at this point whether the treasure of Anetene really exists..."
“As long as there's a map. Something to give the other captains.” She nodded. “And there is a map."
Dentius leaned against the wall for a while; he was obviously not comfortable in gravity. Finally he nodded once, sharply. “Done. You show us to the map, you get to keep your life."
“And my virtue."
“Can't guarantee that. But let's say it's on the table.” He grinned and turned to leave. “Cabin's yours. Anything else your grace requires?"
Life, not death, lay ahead—at least for now—so Venera decided to ask about the one thing that Dentius might be willing to indulge. “There is something..."
Dentius turned, surprised. Venera knelt down and retrieved her jewel box. She plucked out the bullet and held it up, next to her jaw.
“We have a history, this bullet and I,” she said. “If I live, and if someday I gain my freedom again, I want to know where it came from."
He was obviously impressed. “Why?"
There was no pretense behind her smile now. “So that I can go there,” she said, “and kill everyone connected to it."
* * * *
A black wing lifted. Hayden blinked at a blurred jumble of shadows and silhouettes. Mumbles and tearing sounds came to his ears; someone was tugging at his shirt. He couldn't feel any surface under him, so he must be weightless. He was also very cold. And in the distance, the faintly annoying two-tone sound of the Rook's engines rumbled.
That meant something bad. “Hey!” he tried to shout. The word came out slurred and weak.
“He's awake.” He recognized the voice behind the tense whisper. “Pardon us, Griffin, we're sacrificing the hem of your shirt to a better cause."
“Wha—” Admiral Fanning's voice had been dry, almost raspy. But why was he of all people here? Hayden shook his head, which filled him with an awful vertigo and a pounding pain that radiated forward from behind his left ear. Don't throw up, he beseeched himself. Don't throw up. There's no gravity today.
The gray blurs became a bit clearer. He was curled in fetal position in some cramped space defined by metal bars. There was no light source nearby; everything was shades of speckled gray with no color. Crammed into this unlikely place with him were three men and a boy. One of the men was Fanning. Another—he wasn't sure—might be Venera's manservant, Carrier.
Hayden's stomach did another flip, but not because of his own pain. The third man held Martor by a hand and a foot, stretching him out like a sheet about to be folded while Fanning tried to staunch a dark liquid welling from his flank. Martor's foot stuck out one side of the cage, his hand out the other.
“He's ... stabbed?"
“Shot,” muttered Fanning. “The bullet's still inside."
The sight had brought Hayden alert like a dash of cold water. “We need to dig it out,” he said, focusing on making his uncooperative lips form the syllables.
“Really?” Yes, that was Carrier all right, his tone dripping sarcasm. “Keep your voice down,” he added in a hiss.
Hayden wanted to ask why they were in this cage, but didn't want to hear any of the possible answers. The strange electric silence of the ship, the way these men flinched any time there was a noise in the distance ... But overriding that curiosity was the need to know that Martor would be all right.
“Cut the man some slack,” Fanning said quietly to Carrier. “He's concussed.” He turned to Hayden. “The problem is that I can't reach the bullet with my fingers. And the only other thing we have is a couple of splinters of wood I pried off the hull.” He held up two sharp spikes of wood. “If I go noodling around in your friend's abdomen with these, I'm going to puncture something for sure, and probably leave some splinters behind. That's bound to fester."
“Maybe you can help,” said the man who was holding Martor like a sheet. Hayden recognized him as one of Fanning's staff. “We could heat the wood to sterilize it—without setting it on fire, of course. If we could reach that.” He pointed.
Now Hayden realized where they were: crammed into the framework of a rocket rack, somewhere near the stern of the ship. The rack was mounted to the hull and surrounded by boxes that blocked the light. But where the staffer pointed, the corner of one crate was brightly silhouetted. Just around that corner was a lantern. Hayden held out his hand and felt the faint movement of air coming from its wind-up fan.
A cough sounded nearby and gruff voices spoke. The men in the cage froze, only their eyes darting in the direction of the sound. Seconds ticked by, and eventually they all sighed as one and relaxed from their positions.
“None of us can reach that lantern,” said Fanning, as if nothing had happened. “But you're young and lanky. Care to try? We need these splinters heated, but not burned."
“Ah.” He took them in one shaking hand. “Okay.” Drops of Martor's blood were drifting past his nose, scented of iron. Hayden carefully ducked around them and pressed his shoulder to the bars of the cage. Once again in mid-distance he heard grating, accented voices: that was not the crew of the Rook. The pirates might see his hand groping around the corner of the crate—it was going to be brightly lit, after all—but he'd be damned if he was going to seize up like a busted engine every time one of them sneezed. He had to try his part to save Martor.
By straining until spots appeared in his eyes, he was able to get his hand around the corner of the crate. He knew the shape of the little lanterns intimately: they were like tiny bikes, open-ended cylinders with a wind-up fan at one end to move air past the lamp's wick. He pictured the device in his mind, and moved one of
the splinters until he figured it was near the flame. He waited a moment, then brought it back.
The splinter was still cool. He tried again, shifting position slightly. Five tries and he put it right into the flame, making it catch light so that he had to quickly blow on it while Carrier cursed him for a fool. But he was getting the hang of it now.
A few minutes later he gingerly handed two hot lengths of wood to Fanning, who grunted in approval. Hayden felt proud of himself, happy for the implied praise, and then angry at himself for valuing Fanning's opinion.
Now that Fanning was at work, Hayden felt he could finally ask the questions that were burning in him. “Who shot him?” he asked Fanning's staff member. The man looked over Martor's arm at him with a bemused look on his face.
“We were going to ask you the same question,” he said. “They threw you both in with us an hour after we lost the fight. I'd heard a shot ... Were you outside the ship?"
Hayden nodded. “Clearing mines.... Now I remember. He hit me on the head because I refused to return to fight. You'd ... already lost."
“Wisdom is often rewarded with a blow to the head,” said the other. “My name is Travis. This is Carrier. You probably know the—uh, Ensign Fanning, here.” Travis smiled ruefully. “You have the privilege of being stuck in the cage reserved for troublemakers. Fanning and I were caught sneaking outside the ship. Carrier made it all the way into the bridge of the enemy ship and killed six people before they subdued him. And apparently, you two attacked a fully-armed pirate ship with one bike and two pistols. We're a pretty worrisome lot, I guess."
“But we're alive,” said Carrier in a flat voice. “Stupid of them."
“They don't know...” Fanning's voice was distracted. “...Which of us might be valuable."
“They don't know who he is,” Travis whispered, jabbing a thumb at the admiral. “But they know there was an admiral on board. His ransom might be the only profit they see off this escapade."
“Thought I was him,” said Carrier with the first trace of amusement he'd shown. “Why they didn't shoot me on the spot."
“Ah!” Fanning hunched over, gritting his teeth as he slowly inched his hands back. At last he drew a gleaming metal slug into the dim light. “That's it. Let's patch him up."
They'd each torn strips off their shirts. Hayden reached to hand some to Fanning, and his hand faltered. “Just a sec—” he said.
Then the black wing descended again over everything.
* * * *
“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” said somebody. Hayden felt his body twitch once, then he was blinking around at a half-familiar vision of dimly lit bars and crowded bodies.
“Travis, I let you talk me out of surrendering myself when these criminals started torturing our men and now I feel ashamed of myself.” Admiral Fanning sat on the air, knees up and his hands tightly gripping them. His breath misted in the cold air as he spoke.
Martor drifted, face pale and limbs akimbo, in the center of the cage.
“But it was to protect the details of the mission—"
“Hang the mission! These men are my responsibility. If I can spare just one of them the agonies we heard earlier, then I have to."
“Not if that ultimately kills them,” murmured Carrier. “Quiet, someone's coming."
Hayden had been about to ask how Martor was. The sound of someone hand-skipping off the beams of the ship silenced him.
After a moment a lean, pale face appeared outside the cage. The pirate was young, almost grotesquely spindly, and dressed in layers of patched jackets, vests, and pantaloons. Keeping a safe distance, he shoved a couple of flasks in the general direction of the cage. “One's fer pissing, one's fer drinking,” he said as they sailed over. “Don't get ‘em mixed up."
Admiral Fanning cleared his throat. “Where are we going?” he asked in a calm tone.
“Voyeur's palace,” said the pirate. “After we catch up to the rest of our fleet.” He pushed off from the cage and began climbing away like a four-limbed spider.
“What's the voyeur's palace?” whispered Travis.
“I think he meant the tourist station,” said Fanning. “That's bad news. It means they found out what we're up to."
Travis sighed. “Great. So you're telling me the pirates know the purpose of our mission in Winter, while your senior staff still do not?"
Martor was breathing regularly, Hayden saw. He turned his attention to Fanning, who was looking chagrined.
“The revelation that we were looking for a famous treasure was to be kept from the men until we were actually there,” said Fanning. “We felt it might ... affect discipline ... among the press-ganged members of the crew."
Carrier guffawed. “They might mutiny so they could set themselves up like kings, you mean."
“Yes, Mr. Carrier. That is what I mean."
Hayden stared from one man to the other. What was this about a treasure?
“But why undertake such an expedition now?” Travis shook his head. “We're at war with Mavery. There are indications that Falcon Formation is going to take advantage of the fact and stage an invasion. Why go running halfway around the world for gold? Unless..."
“Belay that thought, Travis,” said Fanning. “We're doing this for the survival of Slipstream, and our present client nation.” Hayden started at this mention of Aerie. “The fact is,” Fanning continued, “our navy is no match for Falcon's. We need an edge, and since our Pilot has successfully alienated all our current neighbors, that edge can't be diplomatic. It has to be military."
“But a pirate's treasure?"
“Oh, forget the treasure, man. We'll divide that up between the men; I don't care about that. It's what's said to be kept with the treasure that interests me. Something that would be valueless to any of these men—or to pirates, for that matter."
“And that is... ?"
Fanning smiled enigmatically. “We sometimes forget, Travis, that we live in an artificial world—a world sustained by mechanisms so vast that we seldom realize that's what they are. And mechanisms built by Man have doors, and locks ... I've said too much. Suffice it to say, if we find what we're looking for, Falcon Formation should be easy to handle."
Travis—and Hayden—waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, Travis said in annoyance, “Didn't you say ‘hang the mission’ a few minutes ago? Now you're being protective of it again."
“That's because our benefactor there,” Fanning nodded in the direction the pirate had gone, “gave me an idea."
Hayden decided to reveal the fact that he was awake. “How's the kid?” he asked—though he also wanted to hear more about this treasure. His voice came out as a croak; he realized as he spoke how terribly thirsty and hungry he felt.
“The boy will recover,” said Carrier. “What are you thinking, admiral?"
Fanning reached up to pull on the bars of the rocket rack where they were riveted to the hull. “This ship wasn't originally designed for Winter,” he said. “It's a retrofit. Now, I once saw a rack like this pull free of the wall during a maneuver in Winter. It was due to frost-heaving in the planks."
“Oh?"
“If we inject water in between the boards, here and here...” The admiral pointed. “It may push the wood apart when it freezes."
Carrier looked disdainful of the idea, but Travis appeared to be giving it some thought. “Since the ship's been winterized, the chinks have been sealed with tar against bad air coming in,” he pointed out. “The water will have nowhere to go."
“Exactly,” said the admiral. “Now, I don't propose that we use our drinking water, here.” He held up the other flask. “Everybody piss. We'll use that."
Hayden shook his head as Fanning unlaced his own codpiece and proceeded to demonstrate. Maybe he was hallucinating. That would explain why he seemed to have heard Admiral Fanning talking about a treasure hunt, and why that same admiral was now proposing that they piss in the walls.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked sa
rcastically. “Are we four going to take the ship back with the strength of our own arms?"
Fanning shook his head. “Of course not. We will scuttle the Rook. Can't allow Slipstream military hardware in the hands of the enemy."
“Ah ... And how do we do that?"
“Got to get to the bridge. I suggest we find a porthole and crawl outside to the—” Fanning noticed Hayden vigorously shaking his head. “Why not?"
“Because when Winter pirates have a lot of prisoners, they hang the excess off the hull. So they'll have a man or two out there to keep watch."
All three men turned to look at him. “And how do you know that?” asked Carrier.
Hayden hesitated, but his last reserve of cunning was exhausted. “Because,” he admitted, “I was press-ganged by pirates five years ago."
Now they just frankly stared. Finally Carrier shrugged and looked away. “Things begin to become clear. Knew you weren't what you seemed. Pirates planted you in the Fanning household?"
“No! Nothing like that.” He'd done it now. Even if the pirates didn't kill him, Fanning would have him towed until he froze, or shot in front of the crew. There was just the faintest chance, if he told most of the truth—but not all of it—that he could avoid such a fate. “I ... I eventually escaped and made my way back to Rush. And yes, I made up a cover story, that's true, I'd learned how to do that from a station infiltrator I worked for. But I wasn't working for anybody. I really did need a job."
Carrier raised one eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “You actually expect us to believe that?"
“We'll deal with that question later,” said Fanning. “Right now I want to know why you're familiar with how Winter pirates deal with their prisoners."
“Uh...” Hayden blinked. Fanning didn't care that he'd wormed his way into the service of his wife under false pretenses? Or was he really as focused on the here-and-now as he appeared? “Well, sir,” he said, “I was brought on board the pirate ship Wilson's Revenge, somewhere in between being a slave and an apprentice. I couldn't leave; but I had the run of the ship."
Analog SFF, December 2005 Page 7
