Mutiny in Space (13 page)

There was excitement at the ramp.

“Hey, the liberty party’s back … Aaah, that ain’t no woman!”

“That’s for sure. But look who it
is!
”

“Jory Cane!”

“Some people never learn, huh?”

The signs of slackness and ill-discipline lay everywhere around, from the unkempt clothing to the littered passageways. “Where’s Blaise right now?” one of Jory’s captors asked.

“Where is he usually? Up in officers’ country, laying plans of glory.”

The men sniggered, jerked him along.

“Excuse us, First Officer, the side-boys are busy right now, but maybe the Bosun himself will pipe you aboard.” Some of the light-units had gone dead, others blinked warningly. No one seemed to be doing any repairs. Men strolled around listlessly, not even bothering to look up when informed of Jory’s capture. Others laughed or jeered, offered him drinks. Here and there groups or single crewmen were busy boozing it up, and once or twice he heard female voices. Evidently not all the captive women were finding captivity unpleasant — which was to be expected.

Up in what had been officers’ country some measure of discipline still prevailed. Guards patrolled the corridors, and there was less dirt visible. What was left of the liberty party — most of it had dropped out on the way — turned Jory over to the guards.

“We figured Blaise would want him.”

“Probably. Okay — ”

“We want to see what Blaise is going to do with him.”

“He’ll send you a letter. On your way.”

Muttering and scowling, but with eyes on the guards’ guns, the others took themselves off. Jory was marched along the once-familiar passage by the silent guards. He did not know the men personally, but recognized the type: men who smiled seldom, had no friends, enjoyed cleaning their weapons more than almost anything else, enjoyed using them even more than cleaning them. Blaise had chosen his Praetorians well.

The tramp of feet echoed. Someone came suddenly out of an open door and all but ran into Jory — someone in the filthiest uniform he had yet seen. His exclamation, “Mr. Stone!” was a mixture of astonishment, pity, and revulsion. The guards halted.

Aysil Stone peered at him, tried to focus his red, dimmed, filmy eyes. A light of recognition shone, and something which might have been meant for a smile struggled a moment on his bloated face, then gave up.

“Jory Cane …” His drunkard’s breath stank worse than ever. Then the guards pushed him aside. There was not even contempt in the act. He might have been an object. They pulled at Jory’s arms, and he followed. Behind him, he heard the Leading Officer say, in a low, low voice, “See … you got to have the breaks …”

Not surprisingly, they halted in front of the Captain’s quarters. Surprisingly, this area was immaculately clean. A voice behind the door asked the ancient question, “Who goes there?”

“Duty guard, sir, with a prisoner.” The door opened, and the oddest sight Jory had yet seen in
Persephone
stood before him. He recognized the man at once, but did not know, had never known, his name. The rudiments of a handsome face were there, but they had somehow been pulled too long, twisted too much askew. The result was slightly grotesque. He wore an officer’s uniform which did not fit him. Two guns were at his hips, which were disproportionately low in relation to his height, and an elaborately ornamental dagger hung from his belt.

“I relieve you of your prisoner,” said the masquerader.

He drew one of his guns, gestured Jory inside. They passed through the outer cabins and halted outside the office. “Sir, request permission to come in with a prisoner.”

“Granted.”

Blaise Darnley sat at the Captain’s desk. His face was yellower then ever, and under the blue-white lights it even looked a trifle green. His hands lay half-open, thumbs up, before him — yellow-green hands, tufted with sparse bristles of black hair. There was a slight gummy deposit in one corner of the too wide mouth. He looked at Jory with wary interest, without anger or amiability. The effect was somehow of a huge and unfamiliar animal; it was not pleasant.

“Well …” said Darnley. Then, “I was forgetting introductions. Former First Officer Jory Cane — Brevet Lieutenant-Commander Brend Wace.” There had been neither brevet rank nor lieutenant-commanders in space service for centuries, but the 3-D costume dramas (upon which poor Wace had certainly drawn for his own getup) were still full of both. The two mutineers looked at him carefully, defying him to laugh or even display amusement.

He inclined his head just the slightest and said, “Sir.”

Darnley and Wace seemed to relax the least bit. “Mannerly fellow,” said the former. “You always were. Junked your uniform, I see. Gone native. Good idea. Squaw-man? Well, never mind. Where are you at and what are you up to?”

Addressing his remarks to Darnley, but intending them for Wace, Jory said, “I cannot tell you, Bosun. Loyalty to my men and my Commanding Officer forbids me.”

Wace’s eyes widened; he gave a little nod of approval.

Darnley, who certainly understood what Jory was up to, simply ignored it. “Too bad I didn’t have time to work on you and win you over, First,” he said. His rumbling voice seemed a little tired. “Instead of letting the old man bamboozle me into giving him and the other jackasses the pettyboat. I could use that boat now. And I could use you, now, too — hey, Commander.”

Wace nodded, violently. Jory said, “Thank you, gentlemen. But the carefree life in the Cluster doesn’t appeal to me.”

Darnley looked at him carefully. “It doesn’t appeal to
us
, either. You’re no fool. You know what would happen. These slobs would blow their money in about a year’s time — less, in some cases — and then they’d be on the beach. Looking for
us
. Wanting
us
to support them. Mad at
us
for still having something. No, no. That’s no good.”

Again he paused. Jory said nothing. He had a growing impression, not based on anything Darnley had yet said, of the man’s alienation. The human and familiar in him seemed submerged, replaced largely by something Jory was not able to identify and could but partly sense. Darnley resumed his discourse. The crewman thought he just wanted to find treasure here, precious cargo. In a way he did. Not for export — that was the old way of doing things, the way of the Guilds — buying, shipping, selling —
out
. The whole of Valentine’s Planet was one big treasure. Why look elsewhere? He hadn’t found out much yet about the other continents and island groups. But this one right here had the best, the toughest class of people.

What if the ruling caste were women? They could be used the same as men. With the right man behind them they could take over the whole planet.

“And I,” said Darnley, flatly, as if communicating some minor but incontestable piece of information, “am the right man.”

Jory did not bother to deny it. It occurred to him, with great force, that Darnley
was
the right man … if “right” could apply to the conquest of a planet.

Darnley went on, in his flat, echoing voice. Those ancient pre-T people, Pizarro and Cortez, hadn’t they conquered a continent apiece? They had, and with only a hundred men between them. “I could do the same,” he said, “if I had a hundred men — if they were a hundred good men. I’ve got more bodies, but that’s all they are … bodies. They had a chance, but I see it was no use.” He pondered a moment. “No use,” he repeated; and Jory for a moment felt his bowels turn, thinking of how easily Darnley would get rid of those useless “bodies” when he was ready.

“Never mind,” Darnley continued. “There are other ways. I’ll get the power. But, you know, First, there are more kinds of power than physical force. What people do depends on what they believe. There aren’t many men like me. You know that. Wace knows it. The people here on planet Valentine will all know it, soon. They won’t worship this midget anymore, Cane. They’ll worship
me
, Cane. Some of them are doing it already. I can feel it. Can you feel it, Wace?”

Jory didn’t hear Wace’s reply. He felt cold. There was a more than physical fear, too, and that was what he was feeling now. The alien thing inside Blaise Darnley was visible to him now. And, despite all he could do, he shuddered.

Blaise said, “You’re feeling it now, too, Cane. Don’t resist it. Ride with it. There’s nothing for you with the Guild anymore. Even if you could get back. You can’t.”

His voice went on and on, then it stopped. Then it said, “You won’t be stubborn. Not for long. You can be a king, possess countries and castles, slaves, women, power, glory, anything you want. You’ll come around. Don’t take too long.”

Wace took him and led him out. The door closed on the no-longer human thing which spoke with Blaise Darnley’s voice. “I’m cutting your bonds now,” Wace said. “Don’t try to escape. Remember what he said: ‘It was a mistake to leave you alive, but that can be rectified … one way or another.’ You better pick the right way.”

The guards took him, discussed among themselves where to put him, finally took him off to what had once been a chart room. There was a couch and a cloak, stacks of rations, and water.

“Blaise wouldn’t like you to try and escape,” one of them said. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind.” The look he gave him left no doubt that such an escape was not intended to succeed.

• • •

Eventually, Jory came to wonder if Blaise had not just forgotten about him. Days passed. He spent his time scanning the charts. The long-familiar names, with their power to summon up the past … Humboldt’s Two Worlds and Hudson’s Sun, the P’vong Cluster and Island L’vong, Harrison Binary, Trismegistus, and the blue-white and multitudinous stars of the Lace Pattern … Verdanth, Toranth, and Saramanth, Sartissa, Larnissa, Tarntissa, and the Moieties of Larn … no. No, that was wrong. Those names had nothing to do with the Lace Pattern. They belonged here, right here, on planet Valentine. They —

It was then that Jory decided two things. One: he had been on the ship too long. Two: if his being here was to accomplish anything at all, it had better not wait upon Blaise Darnley’s megalomaniac pleasure any further. What did the names on the star charts mean to
him
any more? Island L’vong was as far off now as the never-seen Homeworld; distant, distant Trismegistus, whose black skies held but two stars, which the autochthons believed to be the eyes of God — what was Trismegistus to
him
now? As much — and as little — as the Directorate of the Guild of the Third Academy. The once-august phrase now seemed to echo in a hollow and an empty chamber. They did not matter.

What mattered to him now? Answers crowded, thick and many. O-Narra mattered, Nelsa mattered, Little King Mukanahan and tall Levvis, the anguish in the eyes of Red Larn, the fate of the towns and cities of the Dales of Lan.
Planet Valentine mattered now, and almost nothing else!

And here he stood, locked up and useless….

The door, of course, was locked. That way out was no way out. He heard a voice, looked around to see its source, realized it was his own, paused to listen. “The way out is the way in and the way in is the way out …” What had he meant by it? What other way in was there, except the door? What came into the room, besides himself? Nothing, no one. Unless …

Water came in. And air came in — and, hence, had to go out again.

He scanned, very carefully, almost cunningly (for who knew but what Blaise Darnley might not have overheard?), the walls, one by one. There were the water fixtures plainly visible. But that way out was no way out for a man. The air? No visible vents. But vents there had to be. He took a chair, piled another chair on it, climbed, felt the bulkheads and overheads as far as his hands could reach. Nothing. He climbed down, moved the chairs, climbed again, felt again — and still nothing.

His neck and back began to ache. Once, he fell, lay in terror lest someone, alerted by the noise, come in. But no one came. He piled the chairs and began again. The overhead of the chartroom was, appropriately enough, one great chart itself, showing the sectors. He looked at it, dully. From this angle there seemed to be a slight distortion. In fact, from every angle, there seemed to be a slight distortion. Surely the Lace Pattern, despite its name, was by no means so symmetrical? Slowly, plainfully, he dragged his chairs over and under; painfully, slowly, he climbed once more and groped his hands over — no, no. That was wrong. He took his hands away, spit on them, rubbed them together, then — holding them palms up — a few inches below the inset chart, moved them slowly along. And so, at last, he felt the cool breath of the moving air as it entered and as it left, circulated by the great lungs of the great ship itself.

• • •

The lungs were shallow-breathing, now, but that was all right. There was little clearance in the ventilator conduits, but that was all right, too. Jory did not know exactly where he was going, but he knew — approximately — where he wanted to go. Haste was impossible, lethargy was gone. His rate was slow, but steady.

Officers’ country … The guards … Was Blaise so afraid of most of his crew that he needed to hide? Not likely — in fact, most unlikely. Why, then, the guards? If not to keep anyone
out
, then … to keep someone
in?

He slithered around corners like a snake, he hung by his heels like a bat, he climbed like a monkey. He peered, he squinted, at each opening he came to. Twice, he came to dead ends, and had to go back. Most of the rooms were empty and dead. Aysil Stone he saw, mooning and muttering over his carafe of greenruin. Second Officer Toms Tarkington’s room was still as it had been when he had rushed out to his death — book fallen open on the floor, bed somewhat rumpled where he had been lying on it. Another room looked familiar; he had passed it by before he realized it was his own. And he looked down on Blaise Darnley’s and Brend Wace’s heads.

“When?” the younger man was demanding.
“When?”

And Blaise said, his tones flat, calm, inhuman, mad, “Soon. Soon.”

And so, at length and at last, he saw what he had been looking for. He had never seen it from this angle before, probably no one ever had. But he recognized it at once — the dyed hair, the stiff posture unbent by imprisonment. The figure sitting as still and as straight as when he had first seen it being borne along in its white palanquin.