by Philip Hamm
“She’s gone back into the town,” said Driver, peering into an access panel in the side of a console that stretched across the front of the room. “Hand me the screwdriver, Chick,” he said. “I can see where it’s loose...”
When he’d travelled with Rao Quern, Nacyon been forbidden to enter the bridge and he still felt as though he was trespassing. Before he could be thrown out, he looked around, at the big map table to his left, the consoles for the life-support and cooling systems on either side and at the complicated multitude of levers, lights and switches of the ship’s helm. There were clocks around the walls and the captain’s seat, the leather faded and cracked, was in the centre. He wondered what the chair would be like to sit on but chickened out of trying.
Through the windows at the front, he could see across the buildings on the platform and the walkways in between. They could have been in a port on the ground except there was nothing but sky beneath them. He saw the crowds milling about the wharves and jetties, squeezing between the narrow streets and all around the balconies of the shops and workshops above. And here he was, with an entire deck to himself and a few companions for company. He could hardly believe his luck.
He left the Dunlins, Clocks and Radio to their work and went up to the observation deck on the roof of the bridge. There was a big water-tank in the middle and the wire for the radio-aerial came down at the back. At the front, he found a telescope attached to the rail and he used it to spy on the folks in the town. He saw them talking and arguing, getting in each other’s way, pushing and shoving or moving aside politely; all classes and categories but every one of them was Quill. He thought about the next time they made landfall and about the varieties of human and quasi-human he might see.
Then he saw the captain returning. She didn’t have to push her way through; people seemed to leap aside. He could see her lips moving and before long she was close enough to the ship for him to hear her shouting. He sighed and imagined what it would be like to win her affection.
Behind her, he could see Wayfinder struggling with an armload of maps and charts. Though the Quill Merchant Marine fleet travelled to many parts of the Third Sphere, the Apus wasn’t one of them and suddenly he felt frightened for the crew; they were heading towards Astra Incognita and there really were monsters in the oceans of the void. He knew, without a doubt, Prince Rhatany had chosen this vessel because he was hoping they would fail.
*
Just as the captain had predicted, it wasn’t possible for the ship to be ready in two days; there were not enough of the right supplies on the Merchants’ Platform and they had to wait for the next delivery to bring more from Rhizic’s surface. While they waited, Nacyon spent time with Wayfinder, studying the maps and charts. He also tried to get on friendlier terms with the captain, but she was having none of him; it was obvious to her as well that his mission could kill them all.
He took his meals in the mess with the rest of the crew. Stuggy Plover had asked Quail if the Rao wanted to eat at a table on his own, with a cloth and silver cutlery, but Nacyon told Quail he didn’t want special favours. “If we’re going to share the dangers of this journey together,” he said, “It’s only right I share their table too.”
It was bad enough that his cabin was so far from the others (and from the captain in particular). But there was only one spare room in the men’s quarters and they gave that to his servant. Nacyon had to be content with sleeping at the bottom of the ship while spending the rest of his time at the top.
During their last breakfast on Rhizic, Captain Tringa stood up and said, “I want to thank everyone for your hard work. I didn’t think we would do it but you’ve pulled together and I’m certain we’re as ready as we’ll ever be for this mission.” She might have said ‘fool’s mission’ but managed to refrain. “In the coming days and weeks, it’s going to be hard-going. With the exception of Clocks, none of us have sailed so far from home and I’m sure you must be feeling worried.” Despite her own doubts, she added, “But this is an important duty, given to us by the King, and we will see it done, won’t we?”
The crew nodded and whistled. Though they didn’t understand what the real dangers were, they were going to meet them bravely.
“To your posts,” she said. “Let’s get this voyage under way.”
Nacyon stared at the captain with nothing but love in his heart as she led them out of the mess. Quail saw his master’s expression and shook his head. “Madness,” he said as they followed on behind.
The captain gave orders to cast-off the mooring ropes and her three children ran to obey. Rigger Knot started the Pavonine generator and Driver Dunlin adjusted the field. The Apus reversed slowly from the forks that supported the hull and people gathered along the quay to watch her leave, some waving to the crew, others wondering if they would ever see them again.
As soon as the Apus was free and clear, Driver turned the ship towards space and pushed the accelerator levers forwards. Slowly at first and then gathering speed, they sailed higher and higher until the atmosphere thinned and they left Rhizic behind. An hour later, they left the system entirely and joined the Ouroboros Road to the north.
The captain used an astrolabe to record the angles of the stars, Wayfinder checked the co-ordinates, Clocks measured the intervals between observations, and Driver made corrections as instructed. Nacyon kept out of way.
Rigger Knot reported the generator was working smoothly and the batteries were at full capacity. The sails, catching trans-dimensional particles rather than photons from the stars, were doing their job efficiently. Apart from Stuggy in the galley, everybody else was on the open deck, either looking back at the shrinking light of Rhizic’s star or ahead into the empty volumes of the Clearway.
The euphoria of leaving soon died down as the darkness and the green swirls of the Great Barrier below them began to creep like a chill into their bones. They switched on the lamps around taffrails and inside the bridge. It would be three weeks before they felt the warmth of a sun on their faces again; three weeks of vacuum and every minute, hour and day took them further from what they knew.
The captain asked her engineer, “Rigger, did you check the air-conditioners?”
“Checked and re-checked a dozen times,” he replied.
“And the cooling systems...?”
“Performing normally, Captain.”
“Check them again,” she said. “And every four hours – if the filters get blocked or the water freezes in the pipes, I want all the warning you can give me. Whimbrel, make sure we always know the quickest way to the nearest planet. Driver, make sure there isn’t the slightest deviation from our course. Clocks, keep an eye on everything.”
She left the bridge, scowling at Nacyon as she went past him. Outside, she shouted, “All hands to your duties – stop gawping at the stars and get to work. There are crates in the hold that haven’t been sorted, decks that haven’t been swept for a week and somebody needs to help Stuggy in the galley. Cargo, I want an inventory before this evening. Boatman, why are those tools still lying beside the winch?”
She shouted until there was nobody left to shout at and then climbed up to the observation deck to look through the telescope. Nacyon followed. He said nothing but stood beside her with his hands behind his back and stared ahead at the vistas of nothing. She soon got irritated by his presence. “What do you want?” she snapped.
“I was wondering when we were going to hold a thanks-giving,” he replied.
She grunted, “Giving thanks for what exactly?”
“The start of our journey together; I know the crew is feeling uneasy about the mission and a small celebration might help to lift the mood.”
“My people are just fine,” she said.
Never-the-less, after supper that evening, Captain Tringa told her son, Snipe, to fetch the beer and for the rest to bring their instruments, their dancing feet and their best humour onto the open deck for a thanks-giving to the King, the ancestors and even to the Rao who had
suggested the idea. The crew didn’t need further encouragement.
Clocks Calidris brought his hurdy-gurdy, Wayfinder his bagpipes and Chick Dunlin his penny-whistle. Cargo Capella (a slightly smaller version of the captain) grabbed Driver Dunlin by the hand as the music started and Stuggy Plover homed-in on Quail. Stilt and Stint argued over who was going to dance first with the handsome Boatman but his sister, Radio, beat them to it. Rigger Knot tried and failed to inveigle the captain onto the dance-floor.
Nacyon watched as the crew drank the beer, danced to the music and began to shed some of their fears. As partners changed with each tune, Cargo asked if he might take a turn with her and he accepted gladly.
He wasn’t good at many things but dancing was the exception. Despite his growing girth, he was still light on his feet and had been well-taught in his youth by the Royal Household’s finest dancing-masters; he knew the proper forms and movements and he was soon in the centre of a circle, being cheered by his new companions. Even the captain was smiling at him.
When he went to bed late that night, he began to hope that he had caught her eye. He had escaped the trifling duties of the Royal Household, was far from Rhatany’s spite and was travelling across space in a ship that was, to all intents and purposes, his. Was it too much to believe his luck had changed? Could he imagine the miracle of a liaison with the captain too?
In the morning, Quail brought him his chicory coffee and Nacyon voiced his hopes as well as his fears: “I thought she looked on me with slightly less loathing last night,” he said. “But do you think Rigger is after her too?”
“Stuggy says he’s been trying for years but has never got anywhere, sir.”
“That’s good – did you notice she smiled when I was dancing?”
“That’s because you looked a fool, sir.”
Slightly crestfallen, Nacyon said, “But at least I was joining in and I believe her crew appreciated my effort...”
“True,” the servant conceded. “But I think it would be unwise to pursue the captain, sir, on many levels, not least because she is the captain and if you should offend her, you could find yourself floating in the void.”
“I’m not going to offend her, Quail. I’m going to make love to her, just as the Pater and Mater command.”
“There are other objections, sir...”
“Such as...”
“She’s married.”
“Wayfinder won’t mind; I’ve seen the look in his eyes and he’d welcome somebody else to help him lighten the load, so-to-speak.”
“It’s a fair remark, sir, but I would also point out that you’re married as well...”
“My wife is having an affair and my children detest me. None of them could a give a bird-dropping what I do with my life. Anything else...?”
“She’s so big, sir.”
“Yes, she is,” Nacyon grinned. “Fantastically big...”
His servant despaired, “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, sir, and don’t expect me to put you together again when she tears you apart, limb from limb.”
But Nacyon wouldn’t be dissuaded. He made discrete enquiries of Wayfinder, just in case the navigator still harboured delicate feelings for his wife, but discovered they had lost interest in each other after the twins were born. As Nacyon had guessed, he was glad of a chance to share the burden of her temper. “But be warned,” he told him, “She can be very demanding in the bedroom, if you know what I mean. It might be best if you pretended to have a delicate heart just so she’ll be easy on you to begin with.”
Much encouraged, Nacyon pursued his dream with quiet vigour. He sat next to her at every meal. He paid her small compliments. He stood nearby when she was on the bridge and followed her around the ship when she was making her daily inspection. When he sensed he was annoying her by his presence, he took himself down to his cabin and wrote endless reams of bad poetry – none of which was good enough to give her. He also paid attention to her children. He helped her son, Snipe, with his language lessons and learnt how to tell Stilt and Stint apart (something their mother frequently got wrong). Little by little, he gained the captain’s attention.
Meanwhile, the ship sailed its way steadily north. After a week, they reached the Meros and the gap through the equatorial empire of Penti. Then they were sailing with the empires of Rickoby to port and Xramarsis to starboard. A few days later, they turned east onto the Nicol Road with just nine days to go before they reached Agnatha.
They saw no other ships on their journey but that wasn’t unexpected; the speed they were travelling at was too fast and the volumes too great to make physical sightings possible. Occasionally, Radio Crake detected a signal, especially when they passed through the Penti Empire, but as nobody spoke Penti it was impossible to know what they were saying. And even when they crossed Xramarsis and could hear the traffic between the planets, their ships and the hubs high above, the captain ordered Radio not to reply. “It’s better if nobody knows we’re here,” she said. “I don’t want to attract any pirates.”
At some time along their route, they passed the Cissoid Corindon. According to the schedule, the most likely place was Kajawah in Xramarsis, the ship’s home port. The captain did ask Nacyon if he wanted to stop and check but he told her to carry on to Agnatha. “I’m sure the Princess will resent us turning up so soon,” he said.
At dinner one night, Captain Tringa asked what Zizania was like and he was brutally honest: “If she was your daughter, you’d probably lock her in a cabin until she was better behaved.” He told her about the tantrums and the tricks, her selfishness and her vanity. “I expect she’s causing trouble even as we speak.”
Tringa was unimpressed, “Why hasn’t the King taken a whip to her behind?”
“Because she’s the Princess,” Nacyon sighed. “The heir to all and he would rather send her away for a few years than deal with the problem now.”
His remarks surprised everyone around the table and to a certain extent, he lost credit for being critical of the Royal Household. As far as the crew of the Apus was concerned, King Tragacanth and his dynasty were beyond reproach. For Nacyon to imply they were less than perfect was like criticising the Junopta themselves.
But the captain agreed with him, “There’s no reason to think they don’t have the same troubles as the rest of us when it comes to the odd-birds in the family. Let’s just pray her time on the Cissoid knocks some sense into her before she becomes Queen.”
Nacyon doubted it but kept his thoughts to himself. The only important fact at that moment was her hand on his as she defended him from the frowns of the crew.
It was a short step from a hand on his to an invitation to her cabin. He had finally managed to impress her, not with his dancing or by being attentive, but by his honesty. He was unworthy of her in every other respect but he spoke his mind and she liked him for that.
9 – Agnatha
The next five years were the happiest of Nacyon’s life and for that reason alone, he felt he was doomed. Nothing he’d ever had before had lasted very long before fate had a way of taking it from him again. But for the moment, he enjoyed his new life on the Apus, with his new family, and the enormous bosom of his mistress.
Before they even reached Agnatha on his first trip, he’d moved into her cabin. There wasn’t room for his things so he kept them in the ambassadors’ quarters and still used the desk in its spacious lounge when he wanted to write his reports. But he spent his days on the upper decks and his nights in her bed.
From the very start of their relationship, it was clear that she was in charge. He may have been an aristocrat but he had to do as he was told. Occasionally, there were bitter fights and arguments, which he always lost, and then there would be tears and apologies, always his. But generally, their arrangement suited him well.
And she could be surprisingly gentle when she wanted to be. Though she always pecked at him in front of the crew, in private she plumped his pillow, brushed his coat and made sure he looked his best w
hen he was out on deck.
Nine months later, their daughter, Dot (short for Dotterel) was born. She was so full of joy it was like having a Junoptan on board; everyone worshipped her and vied to spend as much time in her presence as possible. Even Quail, on whom the burden of her care fell (because he wasn’t doing anything else very useful), clucked and fussed like an old hen.
The only real hardship he experienced was having to face the Princess every three months. She took enormous delight in humiliating him in front of Kalmia and the other students. She would call him ‘her old parrot’ and dared him to tell her father the truth about the numerous affairs she was having – given in graphic detail whenever he asked, ‘what have you been up to lately?’
“Up to?” she would reply. “Up to ten or twelve since last time – and it’s always them up me and not the other way around.” And then she would laugh as his face went red and he couldn’t look her in the eye.
According to Kalmia, she couldn’t go a week without losing her temper over some trivial matter. There was a barely a stick of furniture left in her cabin that hadn’t been broken and she’d slammed her door so often it was weakening the wall. Her maid had a nervous breakdown and had to be replaced. Worse than that, she was leading the confident students astray and the less confident ones lived in fear of her.
If it hadn’t been for the King’s money and patronage, Kalmia might have expelled her. She certainly had enough reasons. But Nacyon bribed the tutors and paid for all the damage she caused and if the King noticed the enormous sums his daughter was costing him, he never made a comment.
Nacyon’s reports were masterpieces of evasion. He had always prided himself on his ability to write fiction and this skill became essential when he returned to Rhizic to inform the Household of Zizania’s progress. When her tutors told him about their constant arguments with her, usually to do with how much time she spent dressing in the morning and the clothes (or lack of them) she wore, he put ‘spirited defence of Quill ideals’. When they said, usually in an embarrassed tone, she cared more about balls (of the fleshly kind) than her lessons; he re-interpreted their words as ‘takes a keen interest in the societies of the Third Sphere’. And because nobody else wanted his job, his words were accepted without criticism – even when, during her annual visits home, it was obvious she was just as god-awful as she’d always been.
