Against the Odds

by Elizabeth Moon

  "But I thought you were old," the woman said.

  "I am," Cecelia said. "But I rejuved a few years ago. Someone poisoned me, and it was the only way to full recovery."

  "I saw something about that," said another woman. "And it was after that you were with Commander Serrano at Xavier?"

  "Yes." From the looks on their faces, they all knew about Heris Serrano. They would, of course, especially if they were loyalists. "I gather you're all loyalists?"

  "Yeah," said the first woman who had spoken.

  "Why didn't they just kill you?" asked Cecelia, who hadn't been able to get that off her mind.

  "Cecelia!" Miranda looked as shocked as she sounded.

  "It is the operative question," the first woman said. "She has to wonder if we're decoys or something, to sneak information out of you." She grinned complicitly at Cecelia and stuck out her hand. "I'm Chief Jones, by the way, milady."

  "Call me Cecelia," Cecelia said. "Or `Dammit Cece!' if you're in a hurry."

  "Right, then. I'm not entirely sure why they haven't killed some of us—but some of us are serving as entertainment for their troops." She nodded at the silent young woman huddled on the bunk, who hadn't yet looked up. "Besides the obvious, they seem to get a lot of fun taunting us about how stupid we were not to join them at the beginning."

  "I see. They must be pleasant to live with. . . ." Her mind raced as the words drawled out in her most ladylike manner. She saw a moment's shock, then Chief Jones grinned.

  "You could say that."

  Miranda spoke up. "Does this place have a . . . er . . ."

  "Head, milady?" Miranda, Cece noticed, still received an honorific. But she looked utterly confused at the term. "Just over there—it's not flushable, sorry." That attempt at humor also passed Miranda by, Cecelia saw by the momentary horror on her face as she saw the stinking bucket. "They like this part best, I think."

  Miranda drew herself up and managed to grin back. "Well, a fascination with excretion does define a certain kind of mind." She made no move to use the bucket, but instead held out her hand to Chief Jones. "Let's forget the whole ladyship business—I'm Miranda to my friends, and you look more like a friend than anyone I've seen on this ship yet . . . except Cece."

  "Right, Miranda." Chief Jones looked around. "You might as well get to know all the crowd." She pointed them out as she gave their names. "We have Sgt. Tiraki—Gwen's our engineering specialist—" Gwen Tiraki had a small, earnest face and the calloused hands of someone who used them for something other than pushing buttons. "She can fix just about anything, or build something that works better. Then there's Sgt. Dirac—we call her Dusty because her mother named her something no one can say—who's a scan specialist."

  "You worked with Koutsoudas, didn't you, Lady—uh—Cecelia?"

  "Amazing man," Cecelia said. "I'm a total idiot; he taught the ones who could learn." She had recognized the enthusiast hoping for enlightenment; this was no time for it, even if she'd had the knowledge Dirac wanted.

  "Petty Light Donaldson—Gerry's also a scan specialist. Petty Major Sifa—Pilar was in charge of the repair section for communications and scan. Petty Light Kouras—Jen's a drive technician; so is Petty Light Hartung." She glanced at the huddled figure. "Pivot Anseli Markham. She's here to keep us quiet." Her voice hardened. "If we do something they don't like, they torment her."

  "How bad is she?" Cecelia asked, keeping her voice down.

  "Physically—one day in a regen tank would help, but she's not in danger without it. Mentally, she's close to the line if not over it. She was a nice kid, but one of those who really depended on all the rules. Now they're gone, and she's . . ." Chief Jones made a wavy motion with her hand.

  Cecelia glanced at Miranda, whose face was white; she realized that Miranda saw Brun in that huddled figure, Brun who had suffered alone, far away from anyone who cared. She glanced back at Cecelia, and Cecelia nodded. "Miranda can at least sit with her," Cecelia said. Chief Jones nodded.

  It had not escaped Cecelia's notice that Jones had not given her first name, but she thought it was a matter of command—something she had begun to understand while traveling with Heris.

  Miranda merely looked at the space next to Anseli, and Pilar Sifa stood up; Cecelia fought her stubborn mouth and managed not to grin. Miranda sat down and somehow—without seeming to move—made an inviting curve of her arm. Still without looking up, Anseli leaned into it, her shoulders beginning to shake. Miranda leaned over her.

  "Mothers," Chief Jones said. She sounded more resigned than anything else. "I don't know how they do it . . . but I'm glad she's here. None of us have children."

  "Nor do I," Cecelia said. "Never wanted any, myself. I have relatives enough."

  Chief Jones chuckled. "One of my sisters has six, and the other four. One of 'em claims I joined Fleet just so I wouldn't have to help her diaper them . . ."

  "I was the oldest of six," Sgt. Tiraki said. "I'd done all the child care I ever want to do by the time I joined Fleet."

  "You're sure you don't have any idea where we are?" Chief Jones asked.

  Cecelia glanced around the cell; Jones nodded. "All I know is what the emergency locator system told me." She gave the coordinates. "That's supposed to be a couple of jump points away from Copper Mountain, the closest inhabited system."

  "It's the commander's bucket," Chief Jones said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's an Academy thing, sera. Officers tend to pick places—off the usual routes—where they can rendezvous with friends. They call it their bucket."

  "Sounds like a recipe for conspiracies to me," Cecelia said.

  Jones nodded. "It certainly can be, but in my experience young officers just like to feel they have something private, some secret. The Academy pushes them hard, turns them inside out. Probably most of them never use their bucket once they're well into their careers. Did your locator tell you whether this system had an ansible?"

  "It does." Should she tell Jones that she'd tried to get a message out, but was sure she'd failed? No. What good would that do?

  * * *

  "I think you fancy ladies should have the shit detail this time," the guard said. "Let's see now—Red or Blondie?"

  "Oh, I think both," the other guard said. "Both of 'em need to learn a few basic skills." Cecelia looked at Miranda, but could not read her expression beyond mild distaste.

  "Pick up the bucket," said the first guard, with no more humor in his voice. "Each of you—one hand. You'll both carry it."

  The bucket stank and was within a few centimeters of overflowing. The round handle on the bail wasn't big enough for both their hands, having been intended for one-hand carries, and it was hard to grasp part on, part off. The thinner bail dug into her fingers; the bucket was heavier than she'd expected.

  They lifted together, but Cecelia was taller, and the bucket tipped slightly; a few drops spilled.

  "Messy, messy," the guard said. "You'll have to clean that up when you get back." The guards gave each other a smug grin.

  It was remarkably difficult, Cecelia discovered, to carry an almost full bucket with someone of a different height, someone whose rhythm of movement you didn't know. Harder, when it was necessary to sidle through the half-open cell door . . . a trail of smelly drops followed them out of the cell, down the corridor.

  "Keep going, girls," the guards said, falling in behind them. Cecelia's back crawled; she hated having people behind her like this anyway and these . . . she concentrated on the slithery movement of the liquid in the bucket, trying to compensate for Miranda's movement with her own, trying not to spill.

  Another guard stepped out in front of them suddenly. "That's far enough!" he said. One of the guards bumped into Cecelia; she lurched forward, and a splash of liquid filth hit the deck.

  "You're a clumsy bitch," the guard said. He sounded more pleased than angry. "Now you have more to clean up, Red."

  "It's not my fault!" Cecelia said. "You pushed me!"

&nbs
p; "Wrong answer, Red," the guard said. "Blondie—take your hand off the bucket." Miranda let go, but slowly enough that Cecelia could take the weight of the bucket without spilling any more. "Blondie, turn and face the bulkhead . . . the wall, you stupid civvie. Snuggle right up to it."

  When Miranda stood, face to the wall, the guards surrounded Cecelia. One after another gave her a sharp nudge; she managed to stand balanced, not spilling any more.

  "You're going to clean it all up, Red, by yourself. And there'll be plenty to clean—" Instead of a nudge, this was a hard shove, that sent her careening into one of the others, who pushed her back.

  * * *

  It took her hours to clean the floor to their satisfaction, with the single small rag they allowed. Meanwhile, Miranda struggled back and forth with the slop pails from the other cells, emptying them and scrubbing them clean. Her guards harrassed her verbally but didn't make her spill any more. Yet. Cecelia knew more harrassment would come.

  Just when she thought they were finished, the guards told them both to clean the guards' latrine; they gave Miranda a little rag like hers and pushed them both into the latrine. It had two urinals, two stalls, four sinks, and a shower. That took another hour or so, because the guards swore they had missed a speck here in this corner or on top of that mirror or behind that pipe.

  At the end of that first day, Cecelia hurt from her toes to the top of her head and all the way past her fingertips. Her knees were sore and her back hurt; her hands were red and raw; her bruises were darkening. Miranda looked tired too, her palms marked with the red lines of the bucket bails, but at least she hadn't had to crawl around on her knees all day.

  But they were alive, she reminded herself, and alive was better than dead. So far.

  Supper was a meagre bowl of some unflavored gruel, sipped without utensils from a plastic bowl which had to be handed back. Someone from another cell was brought out to wash the bowls afterward.

  Then the lights dimmed, and Chief Jones explained that they were allowed to sleep only during this shift—so four of the ten had to sleep on the deck, with barely room to stretch out.

  "We rotate bunk and floor assignments," she said. "You're numbers nine and ten, so I've redone the rotations. Six nights out of ten, each person gets a bunk. Four nights, the floor. What we did was put numbers in a pile, and draw them out—what was left was yours. You're four, Miranda, in the rotation, and Cecelia, you're nine. We're starting fresh, so that means Miranda has a bunk the next four days. Cecelia, you have the floor."

  "But she worked harder," Miranda said. Chief Jones cocked an eye at Cecelia.

  "That's all right," Cecelia said. "I'm tired enough to sleep on anything."

  "Good. Pipe down, everyone."

  Despite what she'd said, Cecelia found the floor hard and unforgiving, with a nasty cold draft. No matter what position she lay in, something hurt, mostly a fresh bruise. She slept, off and on, but it was nothing like a real rest.

  She woke to a clangor that turned out to be the guards hammering on metal buckets.

  "Rise and shine! Get off those bunks, you lazy bums!"

  * * *

  After some days of this, the guards abruptly handed them mops and sponges. "Use these—you've got more to clean than just this head, and the way you work, it'd take you a month with rags." After they'd cleaned the guards' latrine, they were taken out of the brig area and down the corridor. Cecelia glanced through doorways they passed and saw stacked bunks in rows. Crew housing? It must be. The guards kicked open a door into a huge tiled room . . . urinals on this wall, toilet stalls on that, rows of shower stalls, rows of sinks. "Start at that end, and don't miss anything!" one ordered.

  "And you'll need these," the other said. He unlocked a cabinet in which were toilet bowl brushes and jugs of chemicals labelled for their intended use.

  Cecelia headed for the far end and dipped a brush in a toilet bowl; Miranda, without saying a word, went to the urinals. Aside from choosing a urinal she'd already cleaned to use, the guards didn't harrass them that day. Cecelia scrubbed, polished, mopped, and cleaned, as if she'd been born a janitor. The guards lounged near the door, clearly bored.

  Within a few days they were spending all day every day cleaning four latrines—the guards', and three others on the crew deck. Cecelia was able to describe to Chief Jones, in detail, what equipment was being stored where: exactly what chemicals were in the equipment closets where they picked up and returned mops, brooms, sweep-vacs, brushes, and sponges, exactly how many people were usually around in each corridor and head (she'd finally taken to using the military term, when the Chief kept reminding her of it).

  Day by day, she brought in more information, a snippet at a time . . . and day by day, their guards became more and more bored. To amuse themselves, they occasionally dirtied an area the women had cleaned and demanded that it be cleaned again, and as they'd decided the women feigned exhausted submission. That wasn't much fun; the guards began sneaking off singly. They never actually left the women alone and unwatched, but they weren't anywhere near as alert as before. Cecelia had time to think. And one sleep shift, she told Chief Jones what had occurred to her, the answer to a question that had puzzled her since her capture.

  "I know what they want you alive for," Cecelia said.

  Chief Jones shrugged. "Prisoner exchange . . . ransom . . ."

  "No. They want you for prey."

  Chief Jones stared at her, expressionless except for the slight widening of her eyes. "Prey."

  "When I was on Sirialis, when Admiral Lepescu was killed—when Heris Serrano shot him—that's what he was doing. Hunting people. As sport."

  The Chief's eyes narrowed and focussed far behind Cecelia's face. "They want a hunt, do they?" Then she refocussed on Cecelia's face, and her mouth widened slowly to a feral grin. "Fine. We'll give them a hunt . . . we start now. Here."

  Cecelia had been prepared for shock, for anger, but not for this almost glee. "But—" she started but Jones shook her head.

  "No. There is only one answer. It must not be their hunt, but ours."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  R.S.S. Indefatigable

  Heris Serrano, having finally got her ship in order—or mostly in order—explained their mission.

  "We're looking for mutineers by watching jump points and looking for out-of-range ansible transmissions. We engage and destroy mutineers, change out the recognition codes on ansibles and system defenses. If we find minefields, we'll clear them."

  "What if they leapfrog us?" Seabolt asked.

  "They may, but if we work our way through the jump points in between, we should pick up their trail before that happens. That was the reason for rushing crews onto ships and getting them into space, to move into this area and interdict their movement. That still gives them a lot of space, but at least it protects our most vulnerable civilians."

  "Do you think they'd attack civilians, Captain?"

  "I imagine they will, unless all they wanted was to run off and set up somewhere on their own. But so far no one's reported direct commmunication with them. All we have is that one report from Vigor, which had the sense to run like a rabbit with the distress message when it realized there was trouble. By the time we come out of jump, I expect to hear more. If they were agents of a foreign power—"

  "The Black Scratch," someone muttered.

  "The Benignity or any other," Heris corrected. "I suppose someone might even have fallen in love with the lifestyle of a NewTex religious fanatic." There was a chuckle from the younger officers. "My point is, it's too early to form conclusions about what these mutineers are like, except dangerous. We know they took over the Copper Mountain orbital station and freed prisoners from the high-security brig. It's our job to keep them penned up until someone figures out who they are and how to deal with them."

  "Captain, won't this concentration leave border defense in jeopardy?"

  "As I understand it, units are being pulled only from friendly borders. Nobody seriously thinks th
e Lone Star Confederation or the Guerni Republic or the Emerald Worlds want to invade us. There may be more smuggling than usual, but we can stand that."

  Seabolt lingered when the others left. "I'm worried about security," he said.

  "In what way, Commander?" Heris had learned not to assume she knew what his concerns were.

  "Well, as you know—" Heris repressed a sigh. Seabolt insisted on starting off by telling her what she knew—what anyone with a brain knew—before finally coming to his point, and nothing she'd done had cured him of it so far. "As you know, there's a mutiny."

  "I had gathered that," Heris said. "And your point is?"

  "This crew is full of people with no shipboard experience—" Something else she already knew, and he himself was an example. "We don't know if they're qualified," Seabolt said, and hurried on, perhaps warned by her expression. "We don't know if they're part of the conspiracy. Since everything's going smoothly now, I want to start working on their dossiers. Did you know we have five people aboard who belong to the Church of Unified Brethren, and they have been holding meetings in a squad bay?"

  Heris said, "No."

  "It's true. And there was an advisory out only six months ago about all religious groups, that they might harbor extremists—"

  "I mean, no, you may not start witch-hunting. I did know about Corporals Sennis and Solis, and Pivots Mercator, Januwitz, and Bedar . . . they're not extremists, and the Unified Brethren have never been any problem."

  "But Captain—"

  "Commander, everything is going as smoothly as it is—not nearly as smoothly as it should—because I am working very hard to find and nurture those who have competence. Among those people with competence is, for instance, Petty Major Tanira, who is also one of the Unified Brethren—there are at least fifty, not five, aboard. Tanira is the reason we didn't have a level three incident when some idiot clerk out of your former office didn't see why a valve had to be shut to three point two exactly. I will not have you upsetting him, or any of the others, on the basis of some crackpot report generated a long way from real ships or real combat."