Six feet under and well tamped down, Cecelia thought. And it was indeed our fault that we didn't recognize you and put you where you belong.
"But you'll learn," he said. "You'll learn what we're capable of."
Wasting time making pompous speeches, Cecelia thought. The mark of a second-rate—no, make that third-rate—mind, was this tendency to pontificate.
"Take them to the brig," the commander said, with a wave of his hand. The menacing NEMs closed in.
The brig was much as she'd imagined military prisons: cramped, bare, ugly, and uncomfortable. And secure. What she hadn't expected, on a mutineers' ship, was the number of prisoners crammed into the cells. Why didn't they just kill the loyalists? Or were their own personnel so troublesome?
The guards shoved her and Miranda into a six-bunk cell with eight other women, who stared at them with sullen suspicion. One was curled up, arms clasped around her knees; she had given them only a brief glance before putting her bruised face down again.
"This is not what I had in mind," Cecelia said to Miranda, "when I suggested a trip for your health. Sorry."
Miranda looked around the cell, then at Cecelia as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard. "I scarcely think—"
"I know it's not my fault. But I feel the need to apologize. There we were, supposedly safe from all alarms until we arrived, and then—WHAM."
"What—who are you?" asked one of the women, whose pepper-and-salt hair was clipped close to her head. "Where are we?"
Cecelia gave her a direct smile. "I'm Cecelia de Marktos and this is my friend Miranda Meager. We were on our way to the Guerni Republic, and two hours into what should have been a safe jump, we were knocked loose and back into realspace."
The woman leaned closer, speaking softly. "But where—do you know where we—where the ship is?"
Could she trust this woman? Not yet, anyway.
"No," Cecelia said. "I got the course from a standard navigation package, and whatever knocked us out fouled up the drives and the navigation. When your captain picked us up, I thought we were being rescued . . ."
The other woman grimaced. "No such luck . . ."
"No. And I feel it's entirely unjustified. We're private citizens—"
"Wait—" the other woman said. "Miranda . . . Meager? Any relation to Brun Meager?"
Damn. She hadn't wanted to use the Thornbuckle name, but of course Brun had made the other just as notorious.
"I'm her mother," Miranda said softly. "Why?"
"And you're Cecelia de Marktos . . . aren't you that friend of Heris Serrano's, the one who shot Lepescu?"
"I didn't shoot Lepescu," Cecelia said. "Heris did. But I would have." If she hadn't fainted, something that still annoyed her. So she'd been in an old body at the time, that was no excuse.
"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!"
"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.