Song of the Navigator (20 page)

Tover entered the cargo control deck and all of his coworkers smiled and welcomed him back, none seeming to sense the danger emanating from Tover's new escorts. And if they noted the way these men flanked the navport chair, hands casually resting on their belts, jackets open enough to give Tover a glimpse of their pistols, they said nothing about it.

A few friendly faces asked if he felt better, and someone looked as though they'd pat him on the back. But a stern glance from one of the negotiators ended that.

As they waited for the first load of the day to be towed into position, Tover glanced at the navchair and the console, and started to sweat. Delia's advice had at least helped enough to allow him to sit down, although his brain kept urging him to get up, to run. Gull approached with a concerned look and seemed hesitant to open the cuffs. When she did, a visceral pain knifed through Tover's gut, but he clenched his teeth and worked through his visualization exercises. He didn't offer his hands and so Gull had to gesture. Finally he lifted them. She gently closed the cuffs around his wrists.

“You okay?” she whispered. Her glance traveled to the men flanking the chair, and she looked frightened.

“Didn't you hear?” Tover faked a smile. “I'm in negotiations.” He was about to enter a full-bodied panic attack at having his hands trapped in front of him. He counted backward to avoid throwing up, and concentrated all his will on the star charts above, hoping routine would kick in, overpower the terror that racked his body.

Gull reached for the helmet. Sweat plastered Tover's hair to his forehead and soaked through his shirt. He must have been pale, because Gull looked about to cry for him and mouthed a silent apology as she gently pulled the helmet on and strapped it tight.

Every part of Tover screamed in protest as the mouthpiece swung into place.
No no no no no
…

Gull gently pushed the mouthpiece into his mouth and Tover gagged. Panic rushed through him. God, he was going to throw up with the mouthpiece in. He clenched his eyes shut, tried to calm himself down.
Breathe, breathe
…

“Christ, Chief, the nav's gonna puke!” Gull cried. “We can't jump safely.”

“The navigator is fine.” This came from the negotiator on Tover's right, Wert. At once, everyone on the control deck went quiet. Tover could see their expressions change with the realization that something strange was happening.

Wilson made eye contact with Tover and nodded coldly. His hand rested near his gun.

Tover swallowed. He had to get it together. He focused on the coordinates, felt his route, and before he could think any further about the men ready to shock him for disobedience, before he could think what cruel keepers his employers truly were, Tover switched on the outside speakers, turned on the microphones, and listened to the vibration of the universe.

He slowed his heartbeat, opened his mouth.

Years of training made this part simple. He sang and punched through space. His voice was pure and the exaggeration capacity enormous on a system of this magnitude. He moved the cargo and nearly a kilometer of vacuum. All the power of this vessel, at his mouth, and he couldn't even enjoy it.

He completed the fold and then it was too much, he had to get out, immediately. He tried to spit the mouthpiece out but he couldn't. He couldn't pull off the head unit. He thrashed in the restraints, and Gull rushed to his assistance.

“Goods arrived intact,” the communicator called. Everyone applauded, even the negotiators.

As the mouthpiece slid free of his mouth Tover felt the vomit rise up in its place. He had to get out of the chair before he ruined it.

“Get me out! Get me out!” he cried, in full panic, yanking desperately against his wrist restraints. Gull flipped the switch to free him, and Tover stumbled off the dais, crawling to the second level where he puked into the nearest waste receptor. He shook violently. He heard the applause die out and knew everyone watched him. He felt shame, but had no control over his own actions.

“We need a medic!” Gull shouted, rushing to Tover's side. Tover gagged again.

“He's fine,” Wilson said. He frowned down at Tover. “Get yourself cleaned up. We have thirteen more shipments to move before lunch.”

Tover completed twenty-one jumps before the negotiators gave the cargo chief a nod and Tover was allowed to go home.

Gull helped him off the dais looking pale, and even Chief Kulshan appeared somber as Tover walked from the room. No one bothered to applaud anymore.

Tover headed straight to his aviary, where he sat for several hours, figuring out the answer to a simple question: What did he want?

Not this,
he thought, staring down at the red marks around his wrists. It wasn't only PTSD. The job itself now sickened him. Cruz had been right. He was the property of cruel masters.

He had nothing to look forward to other than more of the same sort of days in the future. He could get used to it again. Maybe he'd even enjoy the prestige and the praise once more.

But that hadn't been what had sustained him for the last year. It had been Cruz's visits. That is what he had continued to wait for. And now that was forever gone.

Part of him wished for his old ignorance. It was so much easier to believe he was a demigod whom the world worshipped, who could have anything he wanted. Now that he knew the truth, he could never go back to the way things were.

He fell asleep in his aviary, exhausted from the night before and the day's brutal beginning. When he woke up, neck stiff from sleeping on the floor of the aviary, he glanced up at the majestic sight of his birds in flight.

A deep sadness filled him. His birds would never know the freedom of those rubies on Carida. Keeping them here, caged for his own pleasure, was hardly a life they deserved.

I'm a monster.

But cages were all they knew. They wouldn't survive on any terraformed planetary wild. They were domesticated, and this was their life. They'd have to make do with the cage.

Tover studied his hands. His wrists had healed completely, Lourdes had taken care of that. But he could still feel where he'd been held down.

Poor choices
, he thought to himself, looking back up at his birds.
I've made poor choices
.

But then Cruz's voice came to him. He'd never really had a choice, had he?

Until now.

Chapter Nineteen

One valuable lesson Tover had learned on Jarrow was the benefit of shutting up, giving in and doing one's job.

After his first confrontation with the negotiators, Tover offered no further protest. He allowed them to escort him to the navport chair every morning, standing guard as he completed jump after jump, he let them congratulate him on a good day's work as they walked him home.

He tried to put a brave face on it. It wouldn't do anyone any good if they knew how miserable he was—himself most of all. If the rough pieces of a plan he'd developed in his mind were going to come together, it would take a miracle—and everyone's belief that he'd returned to normal.

It was hard. His body still reacted physically to the mouthpiece and cuffs. It took every ounce of his will to force himself to appear calm as his wrists were bound in place. But his convincing performance eased tensions in the cargo control deck. More importantly, the negotiators relaxed. A little.

After two weeks of obedience, Wert lingered behind in Tover's suite after they deposited Tover back home. He handed Tover a data drive.

“Your reward,” Wert said. Tover reached for it but Wert pulled it back, smiling cruelly. “By the way, I can't help but notice you're losing weight.”

Tover had been losing weight—his appetite disappeared after the misery of a shift in the navport chair.

“You will need to work harder at eating. We can't have you get sick, can we?”

Tover did his best to look shamefaced. Wert handed over the drive and Tover took it.

“Thank you,” Tover managed to say. Every part of him wanted to strike out at the smug expression on Wert's face. Instead he turned away.

“I've ordered up a couple steaks. Finest quality, from Earthport no less. Let's have dinner together.”

Tover sighed. Would his torment never end? “All right.”

He had to endure another hour of Wert's company, in silence, both of them blankly staring at the media screen while Tover forced bites of steak down his throat. But his own plans required him strong and fit, not emaciated, so he had as much incentive to improve his appetite as his captors.

Only once Wert departed could Tover read through the materials on the drive. It was a shock when the first image file he opened revealed his own face.

Well not exactly—but very close. He was undoubtedly Ray Duke's son, seeing what looked like his own face at first, albeit older and with sandier-colored hair. But they had the same blue eyes, high cheekbones, and long, thin nose.

His father was a contractor for an aviation manufacturing firm, and a citizen of Arland.

Tover's mother, Marna, had been a scientist, specializing in the analysis of mineral deposits collected from sites at remote outposts. Several of the documents were from a laboratory archive, with her explaining technical details about soil samples that Tover only half-understood.

Both of them were dead, of course. Amongst the scattered collection of media files, their obituaries caught his eye first and foremost. Apparently they died less than a year after Tover had been
voluntarily
handed over to Harmony for sensitivity testing. There were no specifics on the cause of death, although he wasn't sure if this was censorship on the part of Harmony or that no such data was ever made available.

Bitterness surged through Tover and strengthened his resolve. He copied the files onto his wristpad for safekeeping, and so that he wouldn't forget.

By day, Tover tried his best to play the part of dutiful, repentant Harmony employee. Nights, however, he carefully transferred files from Cruz's wristpad onto a new memory drive. To avoid transferring the files over Harmony's main servers, he had to circumnavigate them, which took time. It was a trick he'd been taught many years ago by a lover, showing him how to bypass Harmony's content filters to download gay pornography. Tover almost smiled at the thought that all those years furtively secreting videos of men fucking each other could end up saving a planet.

Once he'd transferred all of the newscasts Zoya and Cruz had edited, he now had the more difficult task of getting it to a neutral media source.

Alexey Jade had spoken correctly when he described Jemma Rose as a journalist Tover respected, but they weren't friends. In fact, Jemma was one of the few reporters on DK Station who openly questioned the monopoly Harmony had on navigators, and the power such resources represented, concentrated in the hands of a single private entity. If anything, they had been at cross-purposes for the years he'd worked at DK Station.

But now he needed to get in touch with her. If anyone on the station would be willing to risk the exposure such a story would evoke, it was Jemma.

Yet the negotiators watched his every step. His movements had been restricted to work, his suite and the gym. Food requests were delivered. His access to the media had been limited to only the sight of those persistent reporters, lingering in the public spaces of DK Station where even Harmony executives couldn't clear them away.

He put in a formal request to resume his therapy sessions with Delia Yu, and this was under consideration but had yet to be approved. Likewise, his desire to speak with his publicist also required vetting from some higher power at Harmony. Who that higher power was, the man or woman who had replaced Peter Owens, was a mystery.

Tover operated in a confined world. It was nicer than
The Baroque
, to be sure, full of kind people on the fringes, smiling and telling him he looked healthier, that he'd been sorely missed. It had feather beds and workout equipment and all the media libraries he could ever want.

And it was as lonely, confining and demoralizing.

Only news sources based on Carida provided any updates regarding the Pulmon Verde arrested in conjunction with Tover's kidnapping. He learned, through the help of a Spanish translation program, that Cruz and one other terrorist had been docketed for trials in the larger, more serious venue of Great Arland. Which meant they would be temporarily detained at DK Station for transfer.

That set Tover's timeline.

Three weeks after his failed attempt to quit, Tover earned the right to have dinner with Alexey Jade. That the dinner had to be in his suite confirmed Tover's suspicions that his rooms were monitored, but at least he got that much out of begging with the negotiators.

Jade seemed pleased to see him, but puzzled.

“Care to tell me why my access to you has been restricted?” he asked, looking over the menu. Tover had requested the night's meal to come from a barbeque joint. He'd taken to eating as much protein and fat as he could, hoping to bulk up.

“I'm being punished,” Tover said. At Jade's look of concern, Tover flashed him one of his most charming smiles. “I've been a disobedient employee, and they want to make sure I don't go blabbing to the press about the errors of my ways.”

Jade's eyebrows came together. “Is that legal?”

Tover shrugged. “Probably.” He turned to the waiter, who had to stand next to Tover's bed in a tux as though he were in a fine dining environment. “I'll have your fattiest piece of pork, a side of potatoes, a salad, the garlic bread, the pasta salad and a milkshake.”

Jade snorted. “Not worrying about your figure anymore, are you?” He handed the menu to the waiter. “I'll have the fish with the side salad. Some of us actually
do
have to watch what we eat.”

As soon as the waiter departed, Tover dropped his voice. “Any chance you can set up an interview with me and Jemma Rose?”

“Because your last one went so well?” Jade smirked. “I'll see what I can do. You are on a restricted access card at present, and that means I may not get the execs to approve of
any
media outlets, let alone someone as controversial as her.”

“Try, please,” Tover urged. “It's important.”

Jade nodded. He looked as if he would ask something, but changed his mind. He instead filled Tover in on some of the repercussions of the Samantha Show interview until their food arrived. As soon as the waiter had finished serving their meals, he rushed off, and Jade lowered his voice.

“Hey, Tover?”

“Yeah.” Tover cut large pieces of meat and chewed them methodically. Eating had lost all of its pleasure. He counted the number of chews it took to swallow each precious piece of meat down.

“Seriously. You okay?”

Tover glanced up at Jade. “Why?”

“There's something fishy going on.” Jade leaned forward again, voice getting even quieter. “I've never had my press releases regarding you censored. It's like Harmony has tightened its control of everything that is said about you. Any idea why?”

As Tover chewed, he studied Jade's curious expression. How much was pure speculation, and how much was Jade's concern? Were they friends? Tover didn't trust him. But he didn't have any allies if he couldn't trust the people he'd worked closest with for so long.

“I'm not at liberty to go into details,” Tover said softly. “I might get…in trouble.”

Jade scowled. “From who?”

“Who do you think?”

Jade sat back in his chair, staring at Tover in disbelief. “What the hell is going on?”

“You should ask. See what kind of answers you get. As for me, I'm going to tell you I'm perfectly fine. I love going back to work. I love Harmony and I'm so very glad to be home.”

Tover looked down at his plate and started seriously shoveling the food in. It was gross, and he could detect Jade's distaste without having to see it. It didn't take long for Jade to politely excuse himself.

“Ask about permission to do the interview,” Tover insisted, looking up from his plate as Jade made his way to the door. “I won't talk about me. I want to talk about the bastards who did this to me. Make sure Harmony knows that.”

Jade nodded once, and departed.

The following day, Jade gave him a response via text.

Tover's request had been denied. Harmony corpexecs insisted the navigator was not to participate in any media events until he fully recuperated from his ordeal.

It was expected but still disappointing. His time was running out. Once Cruz was incarcerated in the capital of Arland, the levels of security would make it impossible to get him out. It would sap all of Tover's energy to make an unprotected jump to Arland, let alone leave the security compound.

Tover's break came in the unexpected form of his therapist, Delia Yu. One evening, after he'd returned from a particularly long day in the chair, there was a knock on his hotel suite door.

He assumed it was one of the negotiators, or the hotel footmen bringing one of the dozens of complimentary meals and fruit baskets various sycophants around the station had sent to him on a regular basis.

Instead, little Delia Yu stood there, looking surprised that he opened the door.

“Can I come in?” she asked in a rush.

Tover opened the door for her, saying nothing in his own shock. He locked the door behind her, then realized that probably seemed creepy. Yet for his own safety he couldn't bring himself to unlock it.

Delia glanced around his hotel suite, taking it in as if it offered a side of Tover's psyche that she had previously not entertained. She sat down at his table uninvited.

“I'm not supposed to be here,” she stated. She looked nervous.

“Oh?” Tover went to his fridge and took out a beer. He held up the bottle. “Want one?”

“Do you have any wine?” Delia asked.

Tover found one of the gift baskets along his counter and pulled out an expensive red that had been sitting there, unwanted, for weeks. He dug out a corkscrew and a wine glass, all the while watching Delia fuss with the floral centerpiece of the table, fidgety and restless.

Tover handed her the wine, and he held up his bottle of beer for a toast. “To Harmony,” he offered.

Delia frowned but clinked her glass against his beer bottle.

Tover took a deep swig and sat down. “Why are you here if you're not supposed to be?”

“Because you're my patient, and I promised your interests are more important to me than those of my employer.”

Tover narrowed his eyes.

“The thing is, I haven't been allowed to call you, make follow-up appointments, anything. Access to you has been cut off. And yesterday a goon of a man came into my office and reassured me that you no longer need treatment, you are fully capable of doing your job now. He
thanked
me for my service.” Delia looked disgusted. “Like I did
him
a favor.”

“Well he's right in one sense,” Tover told her. “I am back to work.”

“How is it going?” Delia asked, and she genuinely meant it.

Tover felt something fragile tremble in his chest. No, he had to hold it together, just a little longer. “You mean how many jumps can I make before I puke all over the place? It's getting better each day.”

“Oh, Tover.”

“You wanted exposure therapy? I guess I got it.”

“Not like this. God, no.” Delia looked a little queasy. “Therapy like that is controlled, under specific circumstances with a trained psychologist. That's not what this is.”

“No,” Tover agreed. He drank more beer, trying to quelch the tremulous thing inside his breast that threatened to burst out and ask her for help.

“I told the goon that you were months, if not years away from a full recovery after your experience, and he laughed at me.” Delia pursed her lips. “So I came here to check on you myself.”

A flood of caged emotions threatened to overspill, so Tover took a deep breath to hold them in. “Thank you.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It's nice to know I have a few people around who genuinely care.”

“Are you in fear for your life?” she whispered, her voice beginning to tremble. “Because I don't think I can keep working for Harmony if they are threatening you in any way—”