Flotsam

by R J Theodore

  Her crew had sacrificed too much on this one. All traced back to that muck-crusted contract. She thought of the moment when Jasper told her about it, sitting at his desk, sharing a drink. A successful job behind them and a great opportunity in front of her. She thought of the moment when they found Jasper’s body. Opened her eyes again, staring hard at the stars beyond the broken hull. Tried to clear her mind of the memories.

  And what had she sacrificed, with a hold full of riches and all her belongings intact?

  Maybe her crew.

  Bracing herself against the bulkhead edges and fighting a tug of vertigo, Talis leaned forward and looked down. She could see the round silver forms of alien ships freshly added to the flotsam layer. Now an undeniable part of Peridot’s sordid history. There were Veritor ships down there, too, but their dull wooden hulls blended with the older detritus: just more of the same.

  The hull breach extended down past the floor to the deck below. A portion of the cargo hold where everything was fortunately tethered to the decking and not the bulkhead. She chose not to seek out further damage.

  Something in her mind twitched a note that she probably ought to make sure their payload was still in the hold, if they were going to requisition the kinds of repairs Wind Sabre needed.

  But Tisker was alone on deck, keeping his blistered hands to Wind Sabre’s wheel. She owed him haste, and then some.

  She gathered up two metal mugs and filled a pitcher with water from the barrels that, thankfully, were stacked along the inner bulkhead. She put them on a tray, then made her way to the med bay.

  Hankirk was struggling to tourniquet his arm. It was a rough enough job one-handed, and he’d lost a lot of blood. He was pale, and sweat beaded on his brow. His lips were tinged with blue.

  “You actually listened to me,” she said, and pushed aside the litter from his self-care so she could put the tray down on the counter.

  Scrimshaw lay on the bunk in the corner, watching them with those big sapphire eyes. She nodded to xin, and xe lightly fluttered the fingers that rested on xist chest over the blue scarring. The stump of xist right leg, not much more than half xist thigh, was elevated. The Yu’Nyun field kit lay open on the deck beneath the bunk, in a sticky puddle of blue blood.

  “Not much choice,” Hankirk replied, voice weak. His teeth were chattering. His shoulders flinched with involuntary shudders.

  She grabbed a pair of shears and took over. “You’ve gotta get that jacket off. This needs to be tight.”

  He nodded, shifting awkwardly to try and peel the ruined sleeve off, but she put a hand on his good arm and he stilled. She cut up the back, through the expensive trimmed jacket and the ruined cotton shirt beneath. It was soaked, more with the moisture from his cold sweat than with blood, except past the shoulder. She peeled it back. The blood had gone sticky, but for Hankirk it was only a matter of time, so she wasted none for gentleness. He clamped down on a roar of pain, and she flung the tattered clothing into the corner. The wound pulsed with fresh blood. The flow was not as strong as it should have been.

  That infernal Veritor sigil was tattooed on his chest, over his heart. The black ink lines were soft and tinged with green. It was old, though she didn’t remember it from their academy days.

  “You chose the wrong friends,” she told him.

  She held out a hand and he placed the rubber tourniquet into it. Cleaning the wound was pointless until the bleeding stopped.

  “But I wasn’t wrong.” His voice was weak.

  Instead of answering, she tied off his arm and cranked the tourniquet. She had to get to Tisker. She hated that Hankirk’s wound took priority. That she couldn’t make herself just leave him to it. His pale skin went whiter as it tightened. He only looked at her.

  She sighed, then cringed even as the words came out. “You were right about ‘fixing’ Peridot, weren’t you? All along, The Five just never did it.”

  He had the sense not to gloat, or perhaps he just didn’t have the energy. He watched her treat his arm and moved his fingers a little bit, with difficulty. They spasmed instead of wiggled.

  She went to the cabinet for loose cotton, strips of bandaging, and a bottle of astringent. She held it all out for him to take with his good hand.

  He secured the bottle between his knees so he could lift the cap and pumped the liquid onto the cotton. His gaze had regained some of its intensity. He looked at her sideways as he gently wiped at the blood on his arm.

  “They betrayed me,” he said. “They would have replaced our gods with the Yu’Nyun. Talis, what were they thinking?”

  She involuntarily glanced over at Scrimshaw, but if xe reacted to Hankirk’s mention of xist race, there was no outward sign of it.

  Hankirk held out a mess of reddened cotton expectantly. She looked at it, disgusted, and used a foot to slide the bin closer so he could drop them in. He moistened another piece of cotton and turned back to his arm. It would take all the cotton they had to mop up that mess. Thick, half-dried blood stuck to the wound. The flesh was ruined, looked more like a badly butchered hock, and she could see far more of the bones of his forearm than she cared to. Her doing.

  She turned to the sink and scoured his blood off her hands. Didn’t answer him. Didn’t have an answer for him, but his words reminded her of something. “Did either of you ever read, in all that research, that the planet used to be called Meran?”

  Scrimshaw didn’t reply. Xist eyelids were closed. Possibly xe’d passed out. Or had sedated xist-self with something in the kit.

  “No… She tell you that? Huh.” He was quiet a moment. “Makes sense.”

  His arm was stable. Talis dried her hands on a cotton cloth, then gathered up gauze and ointment for Tisker’s burns.

  Hankirk said no more, focused on tying up his arm in a sling with the strips of bandage, using his teeth to make a knot.

  She put her supplies on the tray with the water and started to leave, but his voice made her pause in the doorway.

  “Help me, Talis. I’ll make it right. We’ll fix it all together.” His voice sounded earnest, but the words were still nonsense.

  She’d helped him plenty already. She could only shake her head at him in disbelief.

  There were people aboard she actually wanted to survive. She headed above-decks to tend her wounded pilot.

  Chapter 42

  The condition of Tisker’s hands let him off the hook for cooking dinner. Talis decided to handle it herself, letting the others rest or work as they wanted.

  To keep the wind out, Sophie and Dug had hung a sheet of oilcloth across the breach in the galley’s bulkhead, and stretched it as tight as they could. They nailed it into place along the fractured edges of the hull. The oiled canvas flapped, pushing in and out against the air currents like an enormous exposed lung. Put Talis on edge.

  With the breach in the hull as big as it was, they’d been lucky to only lose the spice rack and not all their food, though the spice supply was something Talis relied on to disguise her lack of grace in cooking. The bench on that side of the table was gone, too. Even if they could tolerate the flapping of the oilcloth or the pervasive smell of linseed it gave to the room, there’d be no place for everyone to sit and eat a meal in the galley.

  To compensate for the lack of spices, she cubed and fried a slab of salt pork from the barrels in the hold. Then she steamed a pot of rice and spooned tallow into the water. It was a trick she’d learned in her days as crewman on a ship whose captain considered spices a frivolous expense: extra fat would enhance the flavors and make plain taste less plain. They needed to replenish their energy, anyway. There were wounds to heal, and no small amount of work to do to make sure Wind Sabre made it to Heddard Bay.

  She added a cutting board full of vegetables to a second pot, choosing those that were starting to soften rather than coordinating flavors. Boiled them with more bits of salt por
k and lard. It’d fill them, whether or not it would satisfy them.

  She tasted a bite of the greens to check their firmness and made an involuntary face as the food hit her tongue. It would fill them, anyway.

  “Need a hand, Captain?” Sophie hovered in the doorway behind her, leaning one forearm against the frame above her head.

  Talis put the lid from the vegetables in the sink and killed the burners.

  “Just about done. You wanna set places at the table in my cabin?”

  But Sophie moved to the stove and filched a piece from the mound of steaming vegetables. Blew on it a moment, then popped it in her mouth.

  Her face contorted. She grabbed for a napkin and spit the barely-chewed piece out.

  “The rice should help. Though I salted that, too.”

  Sophie shook her head vehemently, as if trying to shake the flavor loose from her tongue. Her short tousled hair flopped with her enthusiasm. “Get away from the stove, please.”

  Sophie leaned into the depths of their icebox, digging until she retrieved their jar of cream with one hand and a smaller cotton-wrapped jar in the other.

  “Here,” said Sophie, letting the cooler hatch drop back into place. “By your leave, Captain. Tisker can drink his coffee black until we get to Heddard Bay.”

  Talis took a step toward the drawer for a peeler, but Sophie grabbed a pile of plates and pushed them into Talis’s arms.

  “I’ve got it, Captain, not to worry. Old family secret.” Sophie held up the little jar like a talisman that could repel her captain from the galley. She looked as though she was worried Talis might object.

  No chance. The burn of over-salted food was still on Talis’s tongue. She gathered the plates onto a tray with napkins and cutlery and withdrew to dress the table, trusting Sophie to do what she could for the meal.

  Plates were traded for bowls once Sophie transformed Talis’s botched efforts into a thick chowder. She’d used all the cream, plus added the okra Talis had skipped over. Each bowl was served with a piece of hardtack floating in the center, soaking up what moisture could make it through the bread’s near-concrete surface.

  Talis and Sophie stood back after placing the filled bowls at each seat, overlooking the softly lit table. Talis eyed the fifth and sixth place settings at the table as though they might brandish spoons at her without warning.

  “I don’t know which of them bothers me more.”

  Sophie crossed her arms. “Really, Captain? They’ve each proven where they stand at every opportunity. I think the choice is pretty clear.”

  Talis raised an eyebrow. But it was true, wasn’t it? With a self-pitying sigh, she went below to find Hankirk and Scrimshaw while Sophie fetched Dug and Tisker.

  Hankirk sat at the far end of the table, closest to the door of Talis’s cabin. He still wore what was left of his shirt and jacket—the half Talis hadn’t cut free with the shears. He’d found a rough-spun blanket in the cargo hold to cover the rest of him. The blanket was one they used to protect the corners of crates underway. It was probably full of splinters.

  Talis didn’t have to debate whether or not to give Hankirk something more respectable. Spare blankets had been stowed in crew quarters. He might have borrowed a sweater from Tisker or Dug, but crew clothes had been stowed in crew quarters. There was nothing left to offer him.

  Scrimshaw was still asleep, and she didn’t figure it was worth it to rouse xin for a meal xe probably couldn’t stomach. What xe was going to do for food now was beyond her. They’d returned that barrel of whatever edibles xe’d brought aboard, and xe hadn’t eaten since they left Talonpoint. If that leg didn’t kill xin, they’d lose xin to starvation.

  Sophie and Tisker took the seats on either side of Talis. Dug sat next to Sophie. They grouped tighter than they’d normally pull up to her table, as if shielding her from their pathetic guest. There wasn’t much he could do to her one-handed, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t glad of the defense.

  Then again, maybe they were protecting him from her.

  Maybe she ought to blame Hankirk for all the misery that had befallen her ship and her crew. But she didn’t have room for the anger around her shame and self-loathing. From the moment she took that sour contract, every decision she’d made had led them further and further into this mess. She’d always relied on the compass of her instincts, but they’d led her wrong this time. And by following them, she’d led her crew wrong.

  They ate quietly, slurping from their bowls. The loudest noises came from anyone attempting to break off a piece of the hardtack, either with their fingers or, in the case of Hankirk and Tisker, whose hands were not up for further strain, between their teeth.

  A captain’s first duty was to the well-being of her ship and crew. That failure swirled in her mind. She kept her head down and ate without seeing or tasting the food. Which may have been for the best, bad as she’d botched it to start with.

  But that wasn’t fair, amid all the other unfairness she’d cast on Sophie. She focused for a moment, took a bite more mindfully.

  It was good.

  There were spices, gods knew how she’d managed that. Some savory, earthy flavor that Talis didn’t recognize but which seemed to balance and cut the burn of the over-salting. A little heat, and the familiar sweet tang of garlic, complementing the mix and accentuating the creaminess.

  She looked up sharply, letting her eyebrows lift on her forehead in wonder. Only Sophie wasn’t watching her. She and Tisker were grinning at each other, eyes twinkling in the half-light of the chandelier above them.

  Dug was smiling, too. Actually smiling, with the sharp edges of white teeth catching the candle light. He squinted and his skin creased with muffled laughter.

  “What?” Talis winced at the icy tone in her voice. So she did have room for anger, it seemed.

  Whatever had dammed their laughter broke. Unable to answer her, Sophie, Tisker, and hells, even Dug shook in the grip of their secret joke. Tisker slapped a hand on the table, winced, but kept laughing. Dishes, cups, and spoons jumped and rattled in response. Sophie held a hand over her mouth, lest she spit out the bite she’d just taken.

  Talis felt a tug at the corner of her mouth, though it hung slack in confusion. Trying to comprehend the impossible mirth that spilled across the table and washed up against her. Opposite her, Hankirk looked up and his eyes met hers. There was no wonder there. Just… sadness, or something like it. The whole scene felt like a fever dream.

  “What?” she asked again, a tiny bit of the laughter contagion creeping into her voice. It was hard enough to resist Sophie, but that Dug had reason to laugh, that overrode her senses. The part of Talis’s mind that only wanted to wallow in her misery flared briefly in annoyance at the lack of explanation.

  But her crew was lost to her, laughing too hard to answer. Tears gathered in the corners of Tisker’s eyes. Their guffaws echoed off the bulkhead and buffeted her eardrums.

  Sophie wiped a tear from her eye and put a hand out, clasping Talis’s wrist. Like being zapped by static, Talis understood.

  She let the smile that was pulling at her lips have its way. Tentatively, laughter followed. A chuckle first. It shook her gently by the shoulders, before seizing her round the middle. The anxiety that had found a home in her gut uncoiled, loosened.

  Sophie squeezed her wrist, and Talis rotated her hand so she could grip Sophie’s wrist in return.

  Talis’s shameless laughter joined the din. Her aches and bruises protested, shooting with flares of pain at the staccato movements. It only made her laugh more. Whether they were tears of pain or tears of relief, or just the water chased out by the pressure of the hysterics, she didn’t care. She wiped her eyes on the cotton wristband of her jacket and leaned back, slouching comfortably into her seat.

  There were no words for what had brought on the mirth. But she knew, somehow, after everything, that they�
�d be okay.

  Chapter 43

  The dregs of the chowder hardened inside their bowls long before they left the table. Tisker rose after they ate and put a drum on to play, a collection of shanties with driving rhythm. Talis opened a new bottle of spiced rum, courtesy of the restock back at Subrosa, and they—all five of them—emptied it. In celebration for once, rather than as a salve.

  It seemed all during dinner that their laughter couldn’t reach Hankirk, wherever his mind had strayed. Except, when Sophie and Tisker got up to dance, the fingers of Hankirk’s ruined arm, blue from the tourniquet, twitched as if trying to match their steps.

  By then, Talis must have had more than her captain’s ration of drink, and she watched in horror from the back of her mind as her body got up and invited the bastard to dance. They didn’t speak. They just danced, their frivolous movements intended, finally, not to run for cover or to start a fight. Just to move. Just to be alive.

  Hankirk’s eyes were still guarded, but he at least found the wherewithal to smile. Talis could almost remember what she’d found appealing about him all those years ago. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his hair a tousled mess instead of the usual careful combing. It suited him. Or rather, it suited her preferences. She laughed louder then, caught off guard by the thoughts she was entertaining. There wasn’t enough rum in all the captains’ cabins in all the ships in all of Peridot to be letting those thoughts run unchecked.

  It wasn’t long until Hankirk grew pale from the effort and excused himself from the dance, and from their company. Talis dragged Dug from his seat to take Hankirk’s place, and the four of them whooped and hollered and jigged until the metal cylinder ran to its end.