Authors: Kay Kenyon
As Anton watched her in amazement, the boat began taking on water, rapidly soaking his boots, then suddenly swamping the entire skiff, leaving them floundering in the cool river. Maypong managed to say to him, “Having swum in the river, you have been vulgar, therefore being cordial is not acceptable today”
A shout went up from the barge, and several hoda jumped in to help them.
Surrounded by hoda, he swam with Maypong to the barge, where servants pulled them out of the river. They were now sitting in a puddle of water, like fishing catches.
When he looked up at Joon, he found her gazing at him with an intensity that made him uneasy. He stood to face her, as hoda assisted Maypong to rise.
“A poorly made skiff,” Joon said. “Did you make it yourself?”
Well, that rather settled the matter of what her mood would be. “Your pardon, Lady” was all he could think of to say.
The blue of her gown cast a stormy glow into her cheeks. “Thankfully we happened by at the very moment your boat gave up.” She turned knowing eyes on Maypong.
“Rahi, thank you,” Maypong said, looking innocent.
“How is my brother Lord Homish, Captain?” Joon asked, switching gears.
Homish was not her brother, but it was a convention to call him that. And apparently it was also a convention to spy upon Anton. “He did not look well, Lady.”
“He does not thrive,” she observed, without sympathy.
The expression called to mind their conversation on her roof deck, and the formidable intelligence of the woman. Someday she would have the royal pavilion, and her ideas about equality—if sincere—might mature. But she was not queen yet.
At a command, brocaded cloth was brought forward and draped over his and Maypong's shoulders.
Joon said, “While you were rushing out to meetings,
there have been occurrences, Captain. For instance, the hoda Gilar now enjoys the hospitality of the Second Dassa.” Joon flicked her eyes at Maypong, and then back at Anton. “You will recall that this hoda was one whose tongue clipping you observed in my father's plaza.”
“I know who Gilar is,” Anton said coldly.
“Yes, this hoda is one who has already offended my uldia. Thankfully, Oleel will teach her proper respect, such as she somehow has never learned.”
Maypong was shivering, eyes averted. This was ill news about Gilar, that Oleel had taken control of her. Anton wanted to comfort Maypong, but knew that must wait.
Joon turned from them, watching as several hoda dragged the ruined skiff onto the barge. Walking over to the craft, full of river weeds and trailing sticks, Joon remarked, “Oh, see how poorly this skiff is constructed, with two very bad holes in the bottom. It is a wonder it didn't sink sooner.”
She turned back to the two of them. “We have heard how difficult Gilar is to train. It was necessary to put a ball of human soil into her mouth until it melted.” She looked at Maypong. ‘Are you warm enough, Maypong-rah? You do shake.”
Maypong's voice was small. “Yes, rahi, my thanks.” Her hair had fallen from her chignon, and fell about her face, hiding her expression.
But Anton was gathering a temper. “So much for our talk of equality, Lady. It meant less than I hoped.”
Joon's composure ruffled for a moment. Perhaps she wasn't used to directness. “My pardon, Captain. I only report what I have heard, not what I have done, or
would have done.”
Suddenly he was weary—of the politics, of Joon. “Rahi, I will need a skiff. My duties call me, though I thank you for your help.”
Joon held him a moment longer with her eyes. She seemed on the verge of something more, perhaps something
more tender than she had shown in this exchange. But then she motioned to a hoda, and soon a good skiff was brought from aft stowage. They lowered it to the water.
Anton climbed in front and took the paddle. As they pushed off from the barge, he took the cloth from his shoulders and tucked it around Maypong, who was shivering.
The many poles of Joon's barge crashed down all at once, launching them in earnest downriver, setting up a wake that crested the skiff's gunwale, soaking Anton and Maypong again.
He set the paddle into the river and drew strongly on it, fueled by a simmering anger. “I'm very sorry, Maypong,” he said, forgetting the honorific.
After a moment her voice came: “No, Anton, I am sorry” She went on, “Oleel uses Gilar against you. Because of me. I am sorry to cause you such trouble.”
“Oleel is trying to provoke me. Because you and I are close.”
Her silence was his confirmation. He jammed the paddle into the water, drawing hard, thinking of the uldia, whose ambitions against the king included torture of youngsters. And he must not interfere, or give Oleel any reason to condemn him. Already, Bailey had given the uldia reason to complain. But that was only singing, and Bailey's popularity was not much tarnished. His own status was rather less secure.
He propelled the boat in the direction of his islet, hauling with the paddle until his arms grew weary. In the silence of the remaining trip, he had time to grow puzzled. Puzzled why Oleel thought that someone in his position—depending on the king—would react foolishly to cruelties against a hoda. How did she guess that his first inclination would be to interfere?
He let that question simmer, while the image came vividly to mind of a young woman with her mouth full of dung.
Rain lashed at the hut roof, making the radio hard to hear. The garble of sounds hurt Nick's ears: the noise of the rain, the noise of the river, the noise of the forest. In all this cacophony and in the dead middle of the night, he knew someone should be on guard, but they were all huddled around the radio, listening.
Zhen hunkered over the comm unit, adjusting the pickup, getting nowhere.
She'd been on guard duty when the transmission came in, but by the time she got Anton to the science hut, Sergeant Webb's voice had drifted into static.
Now all five of them sat along the hut perimeter, looking worried. He feared it was more bad news, since Webb wouldn't have called during their sleep period if it wasn't important. Nick had the sickening feeling the whole mission was starting to slide downhill. He carried it in his stomach, the shock and dismay of the last few weeks.
And then Oleel had dumped him.
She'd promised him the langva distillate,
promised
him. Guinea pig, for the mission. His big discovery, maybe. But now she'd cut him off, wouldn't see him. And the things she'd
said …
Maypong was sitting there so calmly, smoothing her tunic. Oh, Maypong was happy. Going off on high-level meetings with Anton, living with them as though she were—well, human. And next to her, Bailey, trying her hand at a little Dassa weaving project, as Maypong helped her. Bailey looked ridiculous.
They had sat for the past hour, talk drifting to this thing and that, but mostly of Anton's meeting with Homish and the planned expedition to the uplands. But Nick could tell them it didn't matter, that the answer was right here underneath their noses, in the chemistry. He would have told them, but now his proof was slipping through his fingers— he had no medicines; he was getting worse. Oleel had suckered
him, dragged all she wanted out of him, promising him life itself. And, perhaps better,
honor.
With an effort, Nick swallowed, his throat a tube of sores. He would have died for his people, would have died in honor. Now he would just die.
It was still possible that Zhen would find something. People would remember that it was Nick Venning who'd zeroed in on the langva and its immunological essences, Nick Venning who'd snatched the sample from Oleel. If that too were not just a sham.
Bailey looked up from her handwork. “Nick, go to bed. You look awful.”
Anton turned to Nick, looking at him with a fresh, almost startled, gaze. “Get some sleep, Lieutenant.” He smiled. “Permission to take it easy.”
Take it easy.
Nick could have struck him. Sweat poured down his face. Despite the storm, the night was ungodly hot.
“No thanks, Captain,” he managed to say.
Without looking up, Zhen fired off a shot: “That's what happens when you drink the local hooch.”
Before Nick could take the audio cables and strangle the woman, the radio whistled and gargled, drawing their attention.
“They're still sending,” Zhen said, though it was all noise.
Nick said, “When the message comes in, I think we ought to keep it among ourselves.” He flicked his eyes toward Maypong.
“Oh for heaven's sake,” Bailey said, pulling at a knot. “If Maypong were going to kill us in our beds, she's had plenty of chances before now.”
Nick observed that the captain let that be, let Bailey support Maypong, so he didn't have to, didn't have to stand up for his latest concubine. Though he wasn't completely certain she was.
Bailey grimaced as she yanked at a thread. “Damn this
stuff, anyway.” She shoved the mangled braid at Maypong, who looked bemused at the tangle. Patiently she began to pick at first one thread, then another. It made Nick edgy to watch such fiddling with string. Then his mind brought Oleel around again, like a nightmare carousel. Each time she came around, she said,
No pri can save you. You are dead already.
She swung off on the circle, her hair bun coiling like a snake. Then she was coming round again.
No pri can save you. Save you. Dead already.
The way she said it made it sound like it hardly mattered. So alone. Those who had been friends no longer were. Those who were against him smirked at his downfall. He wanted someone—maybe Bailey, maybe Anton—to say,
Nick, I need you to help me. God, man, are you feeling OK?
Just the little human things that were not happening on this mission from hell.
Now Anton was seeking out the Three Powers, finally, but not including Nick. They might even go up-country. And guess who wouldn't be going along?
A voice filled the cabin: …
check, over.
Restoration
calling Camp Shaw, over.
Zhen was on it. “We hear you,
Restoration.
Spill it—we have a storm here, bad reception, over.”
This is Sergeant Webb, are you present, Captain?
Webb's voice was so clear for a moment that he seemed to be hovering in the middle of the room.
Anton came forward. “I'm here, Sergeant, go ahead.”
Captain, this is for your ears only, over.
Anton paused for a moment, then turned to survey his small group. “I'm going to have you all stay”
Nick tried to restrain his incredulity. “Captain, respectfully, just the crew, no others.” He looked over at Maypong, who was studiously untangling knots.
“She's my chancellor, Lieutenant. It's a matter of trust.”
Nick stood up, dizzy, holding on to the corner post of the hut. “Damn right it's a matter of trust! I don't trust her, and maybe others don't.” He looked around, but no one
met his eyes. “As for chancellor, don't make me laugh. What are we, going native? She's Vidori's minion, for God sakes.”
Maypong rose. “I must excuse myself for a private thing.” Catching Anton's eye, she said, “My pardon.”
OK
, Nick thought.
The woman knows when to take a potty break, give her that.
With Maypong out of the room, he sat down again, under Anton's dark stare.
Anton turned back to the radio. “Proceed, Sergeant. I'm listening.”
The unit coughed, and then homed in on the signal.
Captain, the crew
—
nineteen of them
—
without me, and without my knowledge, have presented a majority petition.
The noise that followed sounded like a chorus of nonsense.
“Repeat, Sergeant, couldn't hear. What kind of petition, over?”
…
go home, Captain. The crew voted to go home. They want to go now.”
After a pause he added,
“They'reyoung and dumb, sir. I'd lock ‘em all up, but who ‘d run the ship?
“Understood, Sergeant. How serious is it, Webb? Do they make demands?”
No, sir, just saying the mission isn't working, and to go home. It's ugly, Captain. Hasn't come to arms yet, but some of the lads are sick; you know which ones. Some of ‘em aren't holding steady anymore.
Nick watched as Anton struggled to digest this blow. The mission was sliding downhill, oh yes, and it wasn't just Nick who thought so. He'd wondered how long they'd hold on with the virus passing among them like a hot rumor. They didn't want to die in the subzero universe, far from home.
“Sergeant. We're making some headway. I'm going up-country in a couple of days, pursuing a lead from the chief judipon. Maybe we can see something under all that cloud cover. Tell them, Sergeant, that we're making progress.”
i'll tell
them, Captain.
Anton caught Bailey's eye. She had dropped the needlework. Standing, she walked over to him, motioning for the
hand mike. “If it's a mutiny, perhaps I might be allowed a word with the young criminals?”
“That's not a word I'd use,” Anton said. “Don't call it mutiny. Not yet.”
A half-smile stabbed her cheek. “I'll leave such things to you, but let me speak to Sergeant Webb.”
She put her mouth to the mike. “Now, Ethan,” she began, calling the sergeant by his first name, “I want you to tell the boys and girls that there's a very good chance we'll all go home heroes. This is no time to get cold feet. The genetic codes are here, I'm sure of it.”
Webb answered,
Yes, ma'am. But what the crew is afraid of is they'll all be dead by the time you find them, begging your pardon.
“This was always a dangerous mission. Did I promise you anything different?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued, “Remind them, if you would, that I have no intention of being held hostage by my own employees.”
Bailey had a glint in her eye that Nick had seen only once before, when someone had put on a recording of her voice over the ship's systems, as a birthday surprise. She had stalked to the console and yanked the tronic wafer out of its slot as if pulling a bad tooth. Never said a word about it then or ever again.
“Remind them, if you would,” Bailey said, “that this isn't a union ship. We don't whine, and we don't vote.” She thrust the mike back to Anton, as though it were his turn to sing.