Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology

by Amy J. Murphy

  In the end, nearly everyone got their way.

  Dary and those who wished to sail with him took Fancy and disappeared into the Dark, while Avrel took those who wished to find other berths to Kuriyya and set them in-atmosphere. They’d have the chance, at least, to find berths on honest merchantmen and leave their time with the Marchants behind them. Some might contact the company and try to reestablish themselves, but Avrel thought that a losing proposition for them. He doubted the company would have anything to do with any of Minorca’s complement again. Avrel, Kaycie, and those others who wished to tell their story set sail in Minorca—undermanned, but willing—for Penduli.

  Avrel kept Minorca in orbit around Kuriyya for three weeks, making the final repairs for the long haul back to Penduli. It gave the crew, those who were left, time to think about whether they truly wished to return to New London space with Minorca. Some few more decided it wasn’t truly in their best interests to do so.

  Avrel, on Minorca’s quarterdeck, sighed as the ship’s boat returned from the surface for the last time, three more short than it’d landed with. He tried hard not to begrudge them their decision, but it was hard when he had but two short watches aboard. The sail back home would be grueling for all of them.

  He stepped to the navigation plot, scanned the shipping to ensure no one else was about to leave orbit, and nodded. It was time.

  “Signal our intent to break orbit, Grubbs,” he said. He’d put the one-armed spacer on the signals console, as he needed every able-bodied man for Minorca’s sails. Grubbs was showing some aptitude for it, as well, and it would do the man no harm to add that to his resume for future ships. He might decide not to return to the tops, even once he had a prosthetic for his missing arm.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Kaycie stepped up to the navigation console beside him and laid a hand over his.

  “And next?” she asked.

  “Home. Home and make the bloody Marchants pay.”

  EPILOGUE

  Minorca’s speakers chimed once, marking half an hour into the morning watch. The quarterdeck was peaceful, as was the rest of the ship, with none of the bustle normally associated with the morning. None of the crew felt any particular need to clean or perform the small bits of maintenance typically done at the start of the morning while their breakfast was cooking.

  Avrel supposed he might have some of the crew who’d stayed loyal to Morell do the cleaning, but they were nearing Penduli—just a few days away, if the navigation plot were to be believed—and why should he take the risk? Besides that, once at Penduli they’d be turning the ship over to the authorities and likely never see her again.

  Perhaps at trial … perhaps they’ll ask to tour the hold where the spacers were kept on their way to whatever fate was in store for them.

  Or perhaps not.

  Avrel wasn’t entirely sure what to expect once they arrived at Penduli. Minorca’s officers would be tried, of course, but would the case ultimately be heard there or would it be moved coreward, perhaps to New London itself, in order to charge and bring others in the Marchant Company to justice?

  His lips quirked up in a grin.

  Either way, once word was out, Marchant would be badly hurt, perhaps even destroyed.

  His grin widened as he thought about the headlines.

  Marchant Company Stock Plummets, he thought. Frederick Marchant Brought Before the Dock. Slavers in our Midst!

  The press would have at the Marchants like spacers on the last pint, and the public cheer them on. There was nothing either liked more than a man-makes-good story, save a man-makes-good-and-now-it’s-bloody-time-to-tear-him-down one.

  “Sail!”

  “Where away, Grubbs?” Avrel asked.

  “To port, up fifteen,” Grubbs answered. “She’s small—single-masted. Looks to have just come about and is making toward us—she likely saw us before we saw her.”

  Avrel nodded. Minorca’s greater expanse of sail, and he had all she’d bear bent on now in his eagerness to make Penduli, would make her visible at a greater distance than smaller ships. They were close enough to Penduli, though, that this might be some revenue cutter set on inspection.

  “Keep a close eye on her for signals, Grubbs. If she’s Navy I’ll wish us to respond to her instanter, you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  Avrel nodded. Their initial greeting, whether in darkspace or on arrival at Penduli, would likely be a bit tense—until the facts were out about Minorca’s business. He wanted nothing to make the authorities tenser than they may be after whatever rumors of what had occurred about Minorca in the Barbary made their way back.

  “She’s signaling.”

  “What message?” Avrel frowned and glanced at the plot. The other ship was still quite distant, just at the most distant range she might hope for signals to be visible.

  “Heave-to,” Grubbs said after a moment. To his credit, the one-armed spacer had taken to his new post with a vengeance, studying signals and the workings of his console. He could often be found off-watch holed up with his tablet and Detheridge in some remote, private corner of the hold.

  Studying, Avrel considered with a half-hidden grin. But, for whatever else the two might be up to, Grubbs had learned his signals well. A revenue cutter, then—and bored, if she’s signaling so early. Wants to take no chance we’ll sail on before she has a look at us.

  “There’s some more,” Grubbs said. “So dim from the distance the computer’s having trouble with it, but I think she’s spelling out …” He squinted at the blurry image of the ship, fuzzy lights flashing in sequence. “Y … o … u … b … l … o … o … d … y … f … o … o … l … p … e … a … r …” He looked to Avrel, brow furrowed. “Then it’s Heave-to again—and they’ve added Imperative.”

  Avrel sighed.

  “That’ll be for me, then.”

  “You fool! You insufferable, bloody fool!”

  Eades was in a state.

  No sooner had Minorca’s hatch opened to the docking tube strung between her and the other ship, than Eades himself was through it. Avrel was a bit surprised at the skill with which the man grabbed the tube’s end and swung himself lithely from the tube to the artificial gravity within Minorca’s hull—all the while keeping on with a non-stop commentary on Avrel’s actions.

  “Mutton-headed, bespawling, addlepated dalcop!” Eades went on as Avrel ushered him in to Minorca’s master’s cabin and slid the hatch shut.

  Kaycie was staring at the man, her eyes wide with astonishment, but a growing grin.

  “Old friend, Jon?” she asked. “Appears to know you well.”

  “And you’re no better, Miss Overfield, to have participated in his lunatic endeavor.”

  Kaycie’s brows rose further at this, likely in surprise that this stranger so easily identified her.

  “Who —?”

  “I’d have thought you had better sense, by all reports,” Eades went on, “but I can see where any time around this one would make anyone into an equally blithering idiot.”

  Avrel assumed he was Eades’ “this one.”

  “Who exactly is this, Jon?” Kaycie’s tone had grown cold and Avrel hurried to usher the two to seats on opposite sides of the late Morell’s dining table. “And what does he mean by —?”

  “Let’s all sit for a moment, perhaps have a drink, shall we?” Avrel looked around, but had no idea where Morell’s stores were kept. He’d avoided making use of the master’s cabin, even after taking command of Minorca, as it hadn’t seemed quite right to take on the dead man’s possessions. He moved toward the hatchway. “I’ll send a man for a bit of beer, perhaps, and —”

  “There’s drink in that cabinet,” Eades said, pointing. “And lord knows I need one.”

  Avrel stared at him for a moment, torn between relief that the commentary on his intelligence had ended and bewilderment at how Eades would know where Captain Morell kept his stores. He went to the indicated cabinet, opened it, and found an ar
ray of bottles—spirits on the bottom and a rack of wine

  “Those are the ones he’d not trust his steward with,” Eades went on. “Bring back several and let’s get on with this.”

  “Jon —” Kaycie began.

  “Malcome Eades, Foreign Office,” Eades interrupted. “I know you because I’m the one who arranged for you to be aboard this ship, thinking—a now pointless exercise where you two are at work, I see—that you might be a sort of mitigating influence on young Mister Bartlett’s less endearing qualities.” He fixed Avrel with a cold gaze. “By which, I mean the whole of him, I assure you.”

  “Now see here —”

  Avrel set two bottles on the table with a loud thump.

  “Oh, let him talk, Kaycie. He’ll eventually tire of showing off his own cleverness and get to business.” He poured. A spiced rum he’d not have thought to Morell’s liking, and he hoped not to Eades’ either, then set glasses beside the other two before taking up his own. “Mister Eades,” he said, raising his glass. “My apologies for whatever it is I’ve done to muck up your, I’m certain, cleverest of plans. Please, do, explain your brilliance, my own stupidity, and how it is you shall go about fixing it now.”

  Eades’ eyes narrowed, but before he could speak Kaycie placed her palms on the table and half rose, leaning over and fixing her gaze on each of them in turn.

  “Gentlemen, though I do await an explanation I’m certain will be both edifying and —” She turned to Eades. “— admirable in its form, if ever either of you interrupts me again, I’ll box your ears bloody!”

  Avrel had to chuckle. He’d never heard Kaycie curse before, and for her to get it so wrong relieved a bit of the tension he was feeling.

  “If you’re going to curse, you should get it right,” he said. “The ‘bloody’ goes before ‘ears’, there, so it’d be —”

  “I don’t curse,” Kaycie said, quietly. Too quietly, sprang to Avrel’s mind. “And I spoke my meaning precisely, have no doubt.”

  “Oh —”

  Avrel’s hand went reflexively to his ear and he noted Eades’ fingers twitch as though to do the same.

  Kaycie stared at them for a moment, then, with a satisfied look, sat and raised her own glass.

  “Now, Mister … Eades, was it? Yes? Will you be so kind as to explain what it is we’ve done that’s upset you so?”

  Eades’ lips curved and he fixed his eyes on Kaycie, then gave Avrel a quick glance.

  “Yes,” he said, “I shall. The two of you, you see, have shattered any hope of using Minorca’s actions against the Marchant Company. I needed information, boy, not this … fiasco.”

  Avrel pondered this for a moment. He’d suspected there was some difficulty due to Eades’ distress, but couldn’t for the life of him figure what it might be. They had the ship, the ship’s officers, and some of the crew as those complicit in the transport of the slaves, added to his own and Kaycie’s testimony and that of the freed spacers themselves.

  “We’ve witnesses a’plenty aboard,” he protested, “and all but Captain Morell of the officers and ratings. I don’t see what the trouble is.”

  “Neither do I,” Kaycie added. “It all seems nicely wrapped to me. Just a matter of telling our stories.”

  “Your stories, yes. You don’t see it at all … no, you don’t.” Eades sighed. “You’re both a bit young to understand how the universe actually works, I suppose.” He held up a hand to forestall their protests. “Let us say, then, that you sail Minorca into Penduli as you intend. Rush to the station master, I suppose, or did you plan on going straight to the Naval offices and the port admiral?” He shook his head. “No matter.

  “Once the matter’s brought to the authorities, two things will happen. First, you two and all those you don’t have locked up will be charged with mutiny.” He held up his hand again at their protests, adding a “tut” sound to emphasize it, which drew narrowed eyes from Kaycie. “Charges will be brought. You did, after all, take the ship from her rightful captain, there can be no doubt of that, and, yes, there may be some justification to it, but that will be a matter for the court to decide, do you see?”

  Avrel nodded and, after a moment, so did Kaycie. He did see that. A ship whose captain had been deposed would see the crew tried for mutiny, no matter the circumstances—those charges might not result in conviction, depending on the circumstances, but there’d be charges nonetheless.

  Eades appeared satisfied that they understood that, at least.

  “And so,” he continued, “this will now become the testimony of accused mutineers against their former captain and officers. Mutineers and pirates, as those who weren’t properly part of Minorca’s crew will be charged with piracy.”

  Avrel realized Eades was talking about the rescued spacers, and moved to object, but Kaycie was nodding.

  “Yes,” she said, “there will be charges, won’t there … as many as can be thought of.”

  “Ah,” Eades said with a sad smile. “Miss Overfield is not, perhaps, so naive as I thought the both of you were.”

  “But —”

  “The courts work for Marchant, Jon,” Kaycie said softly. “We’ve both seen that, haven’t we? Whether directly bought or only because the laws favor the powerful by nature … they work toward Marchant’s interests and those interests are for all those who took Minorca to be painted black as pitch.” She nodded to Eades. “The station master?”

  “A lovely vacation home in Penduli’s Lakes District. Far beyond his means, I’m given to understand.”

  Kaycie nodded. “And the port admiral?”

  “Admiral Fitzsimon Ashwill. Strong Naval ties in that family … those not in merchant service, that is.”

  “I see. Merchant service with …”

  “Exactly.”

  “They’re everywhere, aren’t they?” Kaycie asked.

  Eades sat back in his chair and sighed. “Indeed.”

  “But the Marchants are in the slave trade,” Avrel protested. “When that comes out —”

  “How will it come out?” Eades asked.

  Avrel saw that Kaycie was nodding along with Eades, but didn’t see it himself. What did they understand that he didn’t? “We’ve a shipload of spacers who’ll bloody shout it to all who’ll listen!”

  “What is it you see that our young friend does not, Miss Overfield?”

  Kaycie closed her eyes as though pained. “Morell.”

  Eades nodded.

  “Yes,” Avrel agreed. “He commanded Minorca, took on the cargo of slaves, transported them, and he works for the Marchants. It’s their ship! He was their man!”

  “Morell is dead.” Eades said flatly. “And the Marchants, as they have in the past, will claim he was simply a rogue captain.” Eades’ voice took on a tone of righteous indignation. “‘We cannot police every action of every captain of every ship,’ they will say … again. ‘Were Captain Morell alive, he would be dismissed from our service forthwith and his pension forfeit, as an example to all our captains that actions outside the kingdom’s laws will in no way be tolerated.’” Eades shrugged. “That is the arrangement, I’m sure, between these captains and the Company. Follow orders and you will grow wealthy, disavowal if you are caught. And some promise of wealth or threat to their loved ones to maintain their silence, certainly.”

  Avrel thought he caught a note of recitation in Eades’ tone as well, as though the words had been heard by him far more than once.

  “The Marchant Company has an extraordinary number of rogue captains, you see. Had Morell been taken alive, he might have some evidence, some instruction, which could implicate those higher up in the Company.”

  “But —”

  Kaycie drained her glass. “The best we could hope for is that Morell alone would be condemned as a slaver, the worst would be that we ourselves are convicted of mutiny. And Morell is beyond justice now.”

  Eades nodded. Avrel almost thought his face held some sympathy.

  “There is, I’m afrai
d, no benefit at all to your returning to a New London system. No benefit at all, and far too great a risk, I’m afraid.”

  Avrel struggled to understand. He’d been prepared for a triumphant return—rescued spacers and evidence against the Marchant’s foul deeds. Now it was all crashing down.

  “This can’t be,” he whispered.

  Both Eades and Kaycie were silent, as though giving him time to accept what they already understood.

  “What do we do, then?” he asked finally.

  “You must return to the Barbary,” Eades said.

  “What? Why there?”

  “Because it is the only place where you won’t be taken up as mutineers and pirates. The word’s already spread from those crewmen you released on Kuriyya, and Minorca’s identity is now well known throughout the border systems. To the Republic, as well, even Hanover—the Marchant reach is long, at least when there’s no war on, and I’d expect you’ll be wanted in Hso-Hsi as well, before too much time has passed. They’ll have put a rather large price on your head, you see?”

  “They can’t do that,” Avrel whispered.

  Kaycie laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard.

  “We’re done, Jon,” she whispered. “You can see that.”

  Eades nodded. “Attacking the Marchants is not lightly done, nor quickly. I’ve been building a case for years, dozens of informants and hundreds of documented instances of their wrong-doing.” He glared at Avrel. “Now there’ll be loose talk of these events in the Barbary and they’ll tighten their ship.” He sighed. “I wasn’t bloody ready, boy.”

  Avrel flushed. It was his fault, then, that the Marchants wouldn’t be brought down by this? No, he couldn’t accept that. The alternative would have been to let all those folk, New London spacers, the women from Vólkerhausen, and those from the Barbary alike, be sent off into slavery—Kaycie herself, perhaps, as who knew what would have happened to her if she were put in-atmosphere on Kuriyya with no ship.