The Mind Field (10 page)

“No, they never have,” Sokolov replied quietly.

“Just so. I am a Shepherd of the Word, Djamila. I might be the last of my kind, at least until I can train others.”

“But the Unification succeeded,” Sykora said, confused.

“No,” Wilhelmina replied firmly. “
New London
conquered a goodly chunk of the inhabited galaxy and proclaimed a
Union of Man
. That lasted until someone else decided they should conquer the universe and enforce their own definitions of good and evil on everyone. Rama Treadwell’s dream was a place where all people were free to define and encompass their own destiny. Not just the wealthy, or the lucky. Every man. Every woman. Every person. From what Javier has told me, the
Concord
is trying, but even more in need of the words of the Prophet than ever.”

Both Sokolov and Sykora turned to look at him. He stared back, challenging them to say anything. Prudence got the best of them.

“We’re trying, Ms. Teague,” the Captain murmured.

“We’re all trying, Captain,” she replied with empathy. “It is a hard road. But one that must be traveled. We must bring the light to even the darkest corners and darkest hearts. That is what Rama Treadwell taught.”

And that, was most certainly that.

Minutes passed in companionable silence as they ate.

The Wardroom stewards cleared the plates and brought fresh coffee. Wonder of wonders, a small pot of steeped tea, even done right. Obviously, pixies.

Javier wondered when the ambush was coming.

“So, Ms. Teague,” the Captain broke the silence, “If you are set on traveling to
New London
, that represents another complication. We aren’t likely to be in that sector any time soon. The closest we are likely to get in the next six to nine months is
Meehu
. Once in the near future for supplies before we return here to
A’Nacia
, and then again after a second trip.”

“I can work for my passage, Captain, both here and after I make it to
Meehu
” she said quietly. “It won’t be the first time. Ships are always looking for good crew. I have several degrees, including accounting. And, after a time to return to proper form, a strong back. I can learn most things quickly.”

She took a sip of her coffee and glanced sidelong at Javier. He fought a losing battle to keep the grin off of his face.

“One other thought,” she trailed off.

“Yes,” Captain Sokolov took the bait.

“Javier tells me that you don’t currently have a Ship’s Chaplain.”

He smiled. The looks on both of their faces was worth every bit of what was going to be coming to him for this.

Part Twelve

Zakhar tried to hide his surprise.

Djamila stomping into his office was a new experience. She was the most professional soldier he had ever known. Yet here she was, practically gnashing her teeth, assaulting the floor plates with her boots.

Starting with breakfast, today was just turning out to be all sorts of special. Zakhar could only imagine what fun Javier would bring, at this rate.

Before she even stopped moving to salute, he pointed at the chair. “Sit.”

As she did, Zakhar experienced some level of juvenile payback, watching her realize that the chair had already been adjusted to her height. The look on her face was priceless.

Normally, the first thing she did when her butt hit a chair was manipulate it for her so–much–longer legs. She was the tallest person on the ship. Nothing fit.

Unless you knew she was coming.

Zakhar refrained from smiling at her. Command face.

He let her stew for a few moments, composing herself from being knocked off kilter.

“I have a problem,” he opened the bidding strong. Jacks or better.

Her eyes got that cagey look that told him far more than just responding would have done. She really was up to something. And Javier was involved. Helping, perhaps.

Perfectly crazy.

He waited, but she had closed down and was happy to call. At least this round.

“I have found a lost kitten by the side of the road,” he continued, watching her like an owl might observe said kitten.

“Yes. Kitten,” she replied, all clammed up.

Apparently, this was not how she had expected the conversation to start out. Probably wouldn’t be the conversation she expected to have. Tough.

“Normally,” he continued, drawling out the syllables, “I would happily add such a kitten to the list of trade goods for sale at the next station or land–fall.”

The way she flinched said far more than words. The chair actually creaked with the stress of her suddenly gripping it with one hand.

He dangled that last part for an extra moment.

She wouldn’t take the bait.

“I have the impression, from more than one crew member on this vessel, that people would prefer that I make an exception to the normal rules, at least in this case.”

She nodded slowly, warily.

It dawned on Zakhar that his Mistress of Close Combat had learned some useful things about political maneuvering over the last few years. Probably from watching him. The Djamila who had joined his crew, once upon a time, would not have been able to hold her tongue right now. She would have been ranting at him, as was her style, in the privacy of his office, never a word whispered about it later.

This new woman had gone quiet, reserved, poised.

What the hell was going on?

“So,” he continued, “should we get out of the business entirely?”

He left it hanging.

“There are times,” she whispered, finally breaking her silence, “when it is appropriate to bend the rules.”

WHAT?

For a moment, Zakhar was nearly convinced that he had a doppelganger sitting in his office.

This woman embodied a life following the hardest rules and order. It provided her context, and, often, solace.

He took a sip of coffee to prevent the absolute shock spreading across his face at her words.

“For her,” he finally said, after he could swallow his shock and his coffee.

“For her,” Djamila replied, barely above a whisper.

What the hell was going on?

“What about others?” he said warily. “Javier Aritza, for example.”

The open palm slamming onto the top of his desk was loud enough to make him nearly jump clear out of his chair. Zakhar made a mental note to check the surface for a dent, later.

He would have broken his hand, hitting something that hard. She probably hadn’t noticed.

“That little punk had it coming,” she hissed savagely. “Still does.”

Okay, then. That settled that question. For a moment, Zakhar had been afraid that the two of them had patched things up and secretly started dating. Crazier shit had happened in the last seventy–two hours.

“So the rule is generally sound,” he nodded, drawing the words out, “but not in this instance?”

She nodded back, dropping back into her quiet place, breath still a little ragged. He watched her fight her heartrate back to normal.

Between Javier getting serious and Djamila getting flexible, Zakhar wasn’t sure the vessel wasn’t completely overrun by Aritza’s pixies. It made about as much sense. Perhaps more.

“Why?” he said flatly.

He was still the Captain. This was his deck, his vessel. But it only worked with a good crew. And something had changed.

It was like an infection, brought aboard by the Shepherd, without her ever saying a word.

And he would have never believed it, had he not been there.

Djamila took a deep breath, held it, released.

He wondered, briefly, if she would even tell him. Something was going on with her and Javier. And two less likely co–conspirators he had a hard time imagining.

The pause stretched. He could see the thoughts and words racing around in her eyes.

“Djamila,” he said quietly. “It’s not enough, even for you. I need to know why.”

He heard her breath catch. The room had gotten that quiet.

“Opportunity,” she whispered back, so quiet that he might have not heard it, had he not seen her lips move.

He fixed her with a quizzical stare, unwilling to speak and break whatever spell had taken this warrior woman and suddenly made her…something. Not vulnerable. She didn’t do vulnerable. Human, perhaps? Had he ever seen her
merely
human?

“I’m here because you gave me a chance, when
Neu Berne
was done with me,” she continued, still barely audible. “Andreea had run out of chances with the
Balustrade
Navy. For others, it was the same way. Aritza is working off his debt–bond, but even then, he has had an opportunity that he wouldn’t have had, if we, if you, had sold him to some colony as slave labor.”

“And Wilhelmina Teague?” he asked into that vast gap that had suddenly opened between them.

Djamila paused, composing her thoughts. For moment, her guard was down.

The look in her eyes was almost pain. From a woman who prided herself on being tougher, harder, meaner than anyone else. Always.

“When she’s little,” she said in a tiny voice, “her daddy takes her on his knee and tells her stories about princesses and dragons. And she grows up with those fairie tales. Sometimes she remembers them, and wonders what her life could have turned out like if it hadn’t go down the particular path it did. How it might have been different.”

Zakhar sat quietly, marveling at a side of Djamila Sykora he had never
imagined
existed. He sat perfectly still, unwilling to break the spell that had come over her.

“And Wilhelmina is a magical princess, sleeping for centuries and then awakened.”

The image of Javier Aritza as the dashing hero waking the princess with a kiss almost made him laugh out loud. Being the Captain was enough to hold it in.

What the hell was going on?

“We,” she said quietly, “you, have the opportunity to do something from a fairie tale. You can rescue the princess like the fairy godmother, or put her back to work scrubbing floors, like the evil stepmother.”

Zakhar had been called many things in his life. Officer and Gentleman. Captain. Warrior. Pirate. Other things less savory, sometimes only in the voices he heard when he tried to sleep.

He had never been an evil stepmother.

For a moment, the silence just hung. He seriously considered actually hiring that woman as Ship’s Chaplain, if for no other reason than to see what
Storm Gauntlet
might turn into. He had already seen sides to Aritza and Sykora he never dreamed he would.

What other surprises might the future bring?

Zakhar realized that Djamila was hanging on pins and needles, watching him.

Again, not vulnerable, but human. Perhaps vulnerable. Especially if she suddenly saw him as a fantasy king and Javier as a heroic prince rescuing damsels.

He nodded to her.

She breathed out and deflated a little.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, solemnly.

She nodded and rose. After a moment, the spit–and–polish Sykora made her appearance, ramrod straight and perfectly poised. She snapped off a salute, pivoted, and exited the room, once again every inch a recruiting poster Dragoon of a pirate ship.

Nobody would ever believe him, even if he had someone he could tell this story to.

Zakhar keyed the comm built into his desk. “Kibwe Bousaid,” he said, activating the system to locate his aide, wherever he was on the ship and beep the nearest comm.

“Bousaid here,” the voice came back after a beat. Rich, warm. A man with a background in radio. How had he ended up on
Storm Gauntlet?
What was his story? Zakhar realized that he had never asked.

He never did. They were pirates. Some things were better left unknown, and the rest were frequently far more mundane than esoteric.

“Sokolov. Please locate Ms. Wilhelmina Teague and ask her to join me in my office.”

“Will do, Cap’n.”

Zakhar leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands.

How had any of them gotten here?

Some time passed before a knock at the hatch. He opened it, expecting his aide and Teague.

Javier stood there.

“Two minutes?” the man asked hopefully.

Zakhar nodded and watched the next round of craziness ooze into his day.

Javier sat without asking, as was normal with the man.

The look of surprise on his face was almost as good as it had been on Sykora’s.

“So she’s already been here,” the Science Officer said as he adjusted the chair.

Zakhar nodded. This round was going to be two of a kind or better to open, and Javier was a better player than Djamila. Let him start the bidding.

“Did she get an answer she liked?”

Zakhar had to pause and deconstruct that question. It made no sense. Unless the two of them were up to something.

The two of them.

Together.

What the hell was going on?

Zakhar cocked his head sideways and looked at the man before him.

“Why?” he asked, every inch the Captain right now. He felt the deck threatening to slide out from under him.

“I have two speeches prepared,” Javier grinned back at him. “Didn’t want to waste your time rehashing things if you had already made that decision.”

Whatever it was, Zakhar was suddenly unsure if he should keep Teague around forever, or get rid of her immediately.

The ship had changed. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

“She’s a most amazingly interesting woman, when you actually get to know her,” Javier said, apropos of nothing.

Zakhar paused, considered, studied.

“Teague or Sykora?”

Javier gave him a frog–faced grin that made his eyes almost disappear.

“You spend time talking to someone like her,” the Science Officer continued, “and learn things. Sure about her, but also things about yourself you have forgotten over time. They come back and you remember them again from when things were good.”

“I see,” Zakhar said, unwilling to commit to more just yet. He didn’t, but it was a useful placeholder until he did.