Hearts and Swords: Four Original Stories of Celta

by Robin D. Owens

  Chloe left.

  “Are you ashamed of me?” Fern asked.

  Anger buzzed in his ears. “You know better than that.”

  “I’m not sure I do.” Her expression was stormy, her violet eyes deepening to purple, her cheeks taking on color.

  “I want you safe.”

  “And I’ve always wanted you safe, too, but you were the head of the underground in NJNY when we met so I knew it was futile.” She walked up close to him, into his personal space. He’d never liked anyone in his space but her, and even with her, it had taken time. She knew that and used it.

  Tilting her head back, she said, “I’m going to the security guard tests with you.”

  “I heard that.” His face and manner closed down. He tried to roll his shoulders, and the shirt constrained him, so he ripped open the front tab strip. It made a long, tearing sound.

  He shucked his pants. They were too tight, also, and he went to the chair behind the console. When he looked down, he saw Moungala’s words . . . they’d been handwritten on a pad program. Kiet’s penmanship was beautiful. Kelse’s was crap.

  “He didn’t talk much about the conspirators,” Fern said. She came up and laid her fingers on Kelse’s shoulder. “He called the group irritants.”

  She was too close again. He wanted to take her and love her. In the chair, on the rug, back in bed.

  And he couldn’t.

  There had never been enough time for them, then they’d slept away two hundred and fifty years, and Awakened to face death again.

  Breathing in deeply—her scent, the faint odor of Kiet left on the leather of the chair, himself—Kelse just plain ached with inner pain at threats that he’d thought he’d never feel again.

  Fern lifted her hand from his shoulder. Her fingers hovered over the red “book” of Kiet’s diary that showed on the screen. “He didn’t passcode it. We’ll keep it, and all the other diaries, right?”

  “How many Captains were there?” Kelse asked.

  “You’re the sixth. All of them were Awakened, and some of them have left descendants in the crew . . . mostly the nose bridge.”

  His stomach clutched. They’d been able to live full lives, have children. “Six in two hundred fifty years, long time spans of command.”

  “That’s right. Kiet was going on his twenty-first year.”

  Kelse took her fingers, squeezed them, then slid open the crew biog program. “Dirk Lascom,” he said.

  The man’s vid came up, eyes sparkling, hands gesturing as he spoke to the tech recording him.

  “Greedy. Power hungry,” Fern said.

  Kelse jerked. He’d seen the greed, the need to be admired.

  “The ship would be in a world of hurt if he’d succeeded in killing the Captain and the rest of us in the cryonics bay and took over,” Kelse said.

  “He doesn’t have good leadership qualities,” Fern agreed. “Not for a community this size. Small groups, sure.”

  “He’s an ambusher.” Kelse met his wife’s eyes. “Which is why I want you to wear body armor.”

  “Kelse!”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll have a hard time concentrating on my job if I know you’re in danger. Wear the armor.”

  The slight moment of agreement between them vanished. She moved away and he missed her closeness. “If you will.”

  “Hell. I don’t even know where mine is.”

  “I’ll find our belongings in the ship’s stores and have our armor delivered and will check it out before the security officer selection.” She frowned.

  “There must be sparring clubs.”

  The alarm chimed and a monotone voice said, “Five minutes before leaving for Conference Room A.”

  Kelse stood, aligned his shirt tab and slid his thumb up the front, and grabbed his pants and put them on. “You check into those clubs. See which members are trying out for the security officer position, note if any might be with Dirk. See where and when the clubs have a schedule.”

  She nodded. “We can join.” She went to the closet.

  “I can. And I want you to stay in these quarters until our armor arrives.”

  Seven

  She turned on her heel, brows down, hands on hips. “Since when have you become such a coward regarding me, Kelse Bountry?” She flung out her hands. “I fought by your side. I can take care of myself.” She tapped her chest with her fist.

  “I always knew you could run if you had to, outside NJNY, to the sanctuary overseas, if necessary. Had that escape hatch. There’s no escape on this ship.”

  She stared at him. She’d had no idea he’d harbored such a fantasy. “What happened to live together, die together?”

  He glowered. “I always thought you could run,” he repeated.

  Shaking her head, she said, “The only running I’ve done is to you, Kelse.”

  “We don’t know these people or culture. We can only guess.”

  She lifted her brows. “More reason for me to look through the records?”

  “Yes. And you have more formal education, scientific education. Can you study the ship specs and see what the hell happened in the wormholes and what the fuel situation is?” He rubbed the scar on his scalp and his hair actually looked better afterward. He always looked great in “rough-and-ready” mode. “Lord and Lady know that I tried, but even the summaries were over my head. See if the other Captains understood what happened. Dammit. I should have that info for this meeting. The conspirators want to take a chance on the wormhole. They have a scientific genius.”

  They shouldn’t have taken time to make love, he meant. “I’ll do that,” she said.

  “I’m outside your door,” Chloe said over the intercom. “I’ll brief you on the way on the people and events.”

  More irritation unwound within Fern. She stared at Kelse. “So I’ll be doing busywork.”

  Kelse snorted. “You know I hate data from only one source.”

  That was true.

  He strode to her, grabbed her, and lifted her from her feet to kiss her hard, and she was surrounded by him, by the pulsing tension of arousal, the desire between them. He thunked her to her feet against the wall, out of blazer fire from the door. And banged a fist on the “open” button.

  Dragging in a breath, Fern said, “You look like shit in black.”

  His shoulders tightened, the fabric showing strain at the seams.

  The door opened. “You should wear a cape or cloak,” Chloe said.

  “No cape.” Fern muttered the words as Kelse said them. After the door closed, she went back to the console to check on their clothes and their body armor. A few of their other belongings sifted through her mind, precious mementos they’d packed to recall their old life when they’d reached a new planet.

  No, she didn’t want those. Not now. Irritated, she shook tears away.

  Kelse sat in a beautiful conference room with one whole side a large window into space—that unnerved him. Gorgeous but awful. He didn’t think the view would engender the same emotions in the people he was meeting with.

  But, to him, the vastness of inimical space burning with beautiful stars underscored their plight. Extraordinarily breathtaking from the inside of the ship. Literally breathtaking outside. No place for a human.

  He found himself rubbing a thumb over the lovely grain of the huge slab of redwood that was the table. He had no recollection of seeing money go to purchase the thing but hadn’t often looked at the expense sheets sent around to the Colonists. He’d let Fern tell him if there was anything that seemed dubious. He didn’t think he’d seen such a table in his life, but as a reminder of home, it was unbearably beautiful. A polished red, with a satin grain under his hands. Wood. So much warmer, richer than the cool metal of most of the ship’s furnishings.

  He was impressed. He hoped his adversaries would be, too.

  The double doors opened silently and Chloe, in a new uniform—dark green with a lot less gilt braid and buttons—walked in. “The Ships for Ourse
lves party members,” she announced brusquely.

  Only three men walked in. The first was Dirk Lascom, the second Randolph Ash, and the third a hulking guy with the blank eyes and stolid expression of a man who has given all his loyalty to another. Who would die for him.

  Who would kill for him.

  Kelse nodded to them. “Greetyou.” He stared at each one in turn. “Is this all of you?”

  “We have seventy percent of the people behind us!” Randolph said.

  “And the core group?” snapped Kelse.

  “Twe—”

  “Enough,” Dirk said loudly.

  Had that been twelve or twenty or twenty-some?

  “I wasn’t introduced to the third of your party,” Kelse said, nodding at the blond tough—muscle guard.

  “Jeremy Stinson.” Dirk smiled.

  “Greetyou,” Kelse said.

  The man nodded.

  “Please be seated.” Dirk and Randolph glanced at each other, Dirk sat at Kelse’s left . . . his back toward the window looking into space.

  Randolph sat to Kelse’s right. The guard sat next to Dirk and fixed his stare on Kelse.

  Chloe took her seat at the far end of the large table, becoming, again, the “flunky.” Randolph glanced at her, at Kelse, and scowled.

  Kelse turned his attention back to Dirk. “Tell me what you want.”

  Dirk laughed. “Our party says it all. The ship for ourselves.”

  “To do what?” Kelse asked.

  The other flung his arms wide. “To live. Not to follow outdated jobs, do tasks that make no sense.”

  “Ah,” Kelse said. He sat in silence until Dirk and Randolph gave him cues that they were uncomfortable. “But you will need most of those tasks to be done if you want to continue to travel, which I understand is your underlying goal.”

  Once again the men shared a glance. Randolph leaned forward, pale under his olive-toned skin. “We’ve had an excellent run, but though the ship is nanotech, and built for centuries, the fuel cells are depleted.”

  “And you don’t believe in the mission.”

  The younger man met Kelse’s eyes squarely. “I don’t think we have the fuel to reach the star systems.” He waved at the huge window on space; a hungry, hopeless expression molded his face for an instant. “I examined those analyses I was sent.” He shook his head. “We still can’t make it.”

  “But we have the resources to reach the wormhole,” Dirk said smoothly. He nodded to Randolph.

  The younger man’s eyes lit. “Yes, it’s much closer!” He pulled out a memory button and slid it to Kelse. “And I’ve studied the composition of its waves extensively. There are traces of molecules that belong to starship fuel in it! That indicates that beyond the wormhole is civilized space.”

  Kelse tapped the button on the table. “And did you scrutinize the figures for how the previous wormholes affected this ship? When it was much younger.”

  Randolph’s expression clouded. He stiffened and his nostrils flared. “I don’t—”

  “We believe the public figures and analyses are incorrect.” Dirk shrugged, opened his hands.

  Not looking at Chloe, wanting to keep her profile low, Kelse said, “I’ll double-check the public data against that I have.” He gazed at Randolph.

  “And if there are any discrepancies, I will forward the information to you. Tell me about the white star system that we launched our probes at.”

  “I think that Captain Julianna Ambroz is correct. The system and the planets in it are marginal for our colonization.”

  “I see,” Kelse said.

  “What has happened,” Dirk said lightly with a sharp smile, “is that the previously Awakened Captains squandered the resources of this ship.

  And you continue to squander them.” Still smiling, Dirk said, “And if we make . . . adjustments . . . we can arrive at those potential planets.”

  Kelse knew what he was intimating. Kill the sleepers in the cryonics bay. He stared straight at Randolph. “I didn’t take you for a man who would be easy with killing.”

  “Of course we wouldn’t kill anyone!” Randolph’s eyes went wide. Then he met Kelse’s hard stare and swallowed heavily. Not looking at Kelse, he said in a low voice, “I . . . uh . . . postulated that we could reduce the energy to the cryonics bay.”

  “To my friends and the people who launched this enterprise,” Kelse said. “I recall enough of my personal briefing regarding the stasis state to know that we chose to be moderate in the use of such energy.”

  “There are redundant systems,” Dirk said.

  “Yes,” Kelse agreed.

  “For the good of the ship, for us all, we need the energy for our standard systems,” Dirk said, mobile brows raised. “With that energy we can reach those star systems that you want.”

  “But it’s not your brain and body on the line, is it?” Kelse stood. “You can go now. But be aware of this. I don’t negotiate with murderers. And that seventy percent of the people you claim support you? You might have had them before you started killing people.”

  “We didn’t kill anyone!” Randolph protested.

  Dirk gave one twitch, then was unaccustomedly quiet. The guard rose slowly, threateningly. Kelse ignored him.

  “There aren’t other suspects,” Kelse said. “Kill the Captain, kill the people in the cryonics bay, and the ship is all yours. A good and daring plan.

  But it didn’t work.”

  Dirk stood, gave Kelse another false smile. “Oh, but you might have wanted the Captaincy.”

  “Moungala had other enemies,” Randolph said uncertainly.

  “And the security officers?”

  “You have no proof, and I promise you, my people would be in an uproar if you did anything to me,” Dirk said, walking confidently to the door, followed by his guard and Randolph, who shambled a bit.

  Kelse said, “Soon you will make a mistake. Then I’ll let the crew, our people, decide what to do with you.”

  The door hissed shut behind them.

  Chloe cleared her throat. “The boy was right; the public docs regarding the warping of our systems by the wormholes don’t match the engineering analyses.”

  “The public documents aren’t as frightening, are they?”

  “No.”

  “Transmit the engineering specs before and after each wormhole occurrence to Randolph Ash.”

  She tapped her handheld. “Done.” Her dark chocolate gaze met his. “You think you can save him?” she whispered.

  “Randolph? Yes.” Kelse stretched his arms and shoulders as much as his shirt allowed. “And I think we need him.”

  She wet her lips. “Something you should know.”

  “That he’s your grandson?”

  “I’m his Father’s Dam, FatherDam.” She closed her eyes. “And I hope you can save him. You’re handling him right, at least.” An ironic smile raised one corner of her mouth. “Not like I did. Completely alienated him. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Fern watched the whole meeting.”

  “I don’t have secrets from Fern.”

  Chloe snorted.

  “Window opaque, replace with view of the hallway outside Conference Room A,” Kelse said.

  As he’d suspected, the guard, Jeremy Stinson, lingered outside the door. There were five other large men in the corridor, too. And a lack of other passersby. Kelse shook his legs out, then sank back into his chair, attached the small memory button to his handheld, and watched as figures scrolled.

  He would rather try to take the six thugs in the hallway than pound his mind against these stats. He sent them to Julianna Ambroz instead.

  He leaned back and watched the hall, sure he could outwait the men. And the corridor was a busy one, people wouldn’t avoid it for too long.

  Dirk wouldn’t want witnesses.

  Fern’s heart thumped as her window changed from the view of the conference room to the corridor outside and she saw six men w
aiting to pounce on Kelse.

  He wouldn’t leave, would he?

  No, of course he wouldn’t. They were all younger than he, and he didn’t know how well they were trained.

  For the next hour she kept an eye on the view outside the conference room as she continued to skip back in time for data. When shift changed and the hallway teemed with people, the six men moved along and Kelse exited the room, greeted and spoke with people as he returned to her.

  Just as Kelse left the conference room, a knock came at her door. Screening, she saw two young women. One carried a stack of folded garments in forest green. That color was particularly flattering for Kelse and Fern didn’t look too bad in it, either.

  The second woman carried a small box. Fern could read the panglish tag: Bountrys’ armor, casual clothes, and sweats. She recalled there wasn’t much in there. Glancing down at herself, she knew she’d lost some weight and the clothes would be too big. Kelse’s might be, too, and she was sure his “sweats” were rags. She’d hide them in the far corner of the closet.

  By the time he returned, she’d checked and double-checked their body armor. The mesh unders were large on her, but the molded chest and back plates were adjustable and fit well.

  He glanced at her armor and his gaze became cool. Her heart picked up a beat. She wasn’t used to chill looks from him. “You’re insisting on going to the security officer application session,” he said.

  “I haven’t changed my mind.” She didn’t like being at odds with him and had to keep her voice steady in the wake of his disapproval. This new situation was affecting their relationship. But they were a couple and she wouldn’t let him forget that.

  His jaw flexed, then he turned away and stripped. He pulled on the new gi of dark green with a grunt of satisfaction. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I don’t want you sparring today.”

  “What!”

  He did a few lunges, then segued into a short pattern. Almost, watching him diverted her from their conversation—another one that was becoming an argument. He paused and bowed to an invisible opponent. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly than it had a week—two and a half centuries—ago.