Rift (35 page)

It seemed to Mitya that his position had considerably worsened since the first days in the dome. Then, people had disliked him for a stowaway. Now they suspected he was a traitor. Crew avoided him, figuring his new status with the Captain had somehow come at Oran’s expense. With no real work to do, Mitya felt the snubbing all the more, and found to his surprise that he missed the galley, and even Koichi’s gruff discipline.

Instead of working, he slept. If he didn’t sleep well at night—and he seldom did—he napped during the day, seeking out a hidden spot behind the water tank, where the cool darkness left him in blessed isolation.
There he would lull himself to sleep thinking of the starship.

Soon they would board the craft in successive cargo hauls, taking a few people and a few canisters up to the ship at a time, to be sure no one was left behind. It thrilled him to think of his turn to board the great vessel. It was the
Quo Vadis
, a new class of generation ship with tech and luxuries undreamed of when the Stationers set out from Earth. With three habitat spheres, it provided a variety of climates and simulated geography, urban nodes, quarters for thousands of inhabitants, a major industrial plant, and, Mitya was sure, its own mysteries. Sometimes, lying behind the water tank, he pretended he was onboard the great ship, in his private cabin, gazing out at the stars.

It was during one of these reveries that he heard angry voices approaching. Peering under the tank, he saw two pairs of boots. He recognized the voices—Stepan and Bonhert, going at it again. For all that Stepan had warned Mitya to keep his head down, it seemed that his uncle had no fear for his own safety.

“… any further, people are going to crack,” Stepan was saying.

“We’re all tired. It’s the damned truth.” Captain Bonhert spoke in a harsh whisper, making him hard to hear.

“But three weeks! We can’t shave three weeks off the schedule—it’s impossible!”

“Stepan. I agree with you. It doesn’t seem possible. But what can I do? We’ve got enough ash coming down to choke a turbine! No one expected a major eruption, and the breathers are running out. We’ve got five weeks left, on the outside. The
outside
.”

“Our people are working the filter problem!”

“I
know
that. We’ll coax things along as best we can, Stepan, but we’re in the direct path of the airstream. Have you looked outside lately? It’s a Lordly blizzard!”

Stepan swore. “I’ve got people who’re making basic mistakes just from lack of sleep.”

“Maybe you need to lower your standards.”

“My
standards
aren’t the problem. Some crew think it’s gone too far, especially posting guards at the shuttle.”

“Who thinks so?”

A pause. “Never mind that. I just don’t want you jeopardizing the mission because you’ve got some wild hair up your ass about an orthong raid!”

“It’s not that.” Bonhert shuffled closer to Stepan.

“What? Not the orthong?”

“Listen, keep your mouth shut about this, you hear?” A pause. “We’ve got more trouble than orthong.”

“What could be more trouble? Clavers?”

“Yes. Led by someone I think you know.” After a significant pause, Bonhert said: “Calder.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Cyrus made it down? In one of the shuttles?”

“No, not Cyrus. The boy. Reeve.”

A snort of derision. “
Reeve
? Now that’s a real threat!”

“Maybe. But he’s got a small army of hoodlums with him, and they’re bent on taking apart our dome, strut by strut. Maybe they’re stupid, but they could do damage.”

“How do you
know
this?” Stepan sounded more than a little skeptical.

Someone walked up to the two of them, mumbling a question. Bonhert answered the crewman, and then he and Stepan began walking away, with Bonhert saying, “Radio transmission. They left the mouth of the Tallstory two weeks ago, headed our way. In a
sailing
ship, if you can imagine it …”

Their voices were fading as they moved off.

“… a bunch of barbarians?” Stepan asked incredulously.

“No, no … could hardly hear for all the …”

Mitya strained for more, but they were gone.

Oran landed a punch to the side of Mitya’s face. If Mitya hadn’t ducked, his face would have caved in, he figured. Outside the galley, the larger boy stood over him, an apron tied around his thick waist. “Come on, you gunk-head.”

Mitya flew at him, propelled by a fury he didn’t know he could muster. Oran’s fists came up. Mitya didn’t care but ran at him, getting in one good blow before he found himself in a heap against the galley wall.

“How’d you like a cast-iron pot for a hat?” Oran asked, bunching his hands at his sides.

“It’ll look a lot better on
you
,” Mitya spat.

Oran grinned. “Let’s try it out.” He dashed into the galley, returning with a pot dripping with cooked gruel. As Oran lifted the gigantic kettle over his massive shoulders, Mitya had time to think that this was going to be a bad way to die—after surviving the Station explosion, to die now with a pot on his head—but then crew came running, pulling Oran back.

Lieutenant Cody strode up with Tenzin Tsamchoe. Tsamchoe took Oran by the ear and shagged him into the galley while Cody helped Mitya up to his feet. “What’s this about?” the lieutenant snarled.

From the galley, Oran shouted, “He’s an-ass licker, the little cheat!”

Mitya glared at Cody. “He got the job
I
should have had. Everybody knows
galley slave
is my job.” A week ago he would never have dared use this tone of voice with an officer. Now he didn’t care; in fact, he hoped that Cody would punish him.

She surveyed the gathered crew, many not bothering to hide their contempt of Mitya. And perhaps of
Cody. “OK, show’s over,” she said. “Unless anybody else wants to beat up on a youngster?”

“Line forms on the left,” somebody said from the back. Snickers. But the gathering began to disperse.

Across the dome, Mitya saw Bonhert and Stepan emerge from Bonhert’s quarters, watching them. The side of Mitya’s head felt like a water balloon. He would have liked to land one solid punch on Oran, except Cody had his elbow in a firm hold.

“You should know better than to rattle Oran.”

“I didn’t rattle him! He’s got
my
job. A kid job!” He tried yanking his elbow away, but she held on. “If you don’t want me to have any friends, you’re doing a great job.” From the expression on Cody’s face, he knew he’d gone too far. Mustn’t say everything he felt.

“And why would we not want you to have friends, Mitya?”

He scrambled for a more neutral stance. “Maybe you think we’re not working hard enough. Goofing off together. I don’t know.”

Cody fixed him with a hard smile. “You think we’ve got time to worry about your social life?”

Mitya decided it was time to hang his head in shame. “No, sir.”

Stepan joined them. As Cody passed custody of the boy over to his uncle, she said: “He thinks he should be back on galley duty. Maybe we should give him his wish.”

Stepan watched her retreat back across the dome before muttering, “Got yourself into a pickle, don’t you?” They walked away from the galley, strolling as Mitya tried to get his temper under control. Hammering noises erupted from the clean room, where work on the geo cannon proceeded at breakneck speed.

“You got a bunch of pressure from Bonhert to squeal on me,” Stepan said, “so I figure you tattled something on Oran.” Before Mitya could figure out what to say, Stepan held up his hand to silence him.
“It’s OK. Maybe that was the best you could do. But now Bonhert has you cut off from everybody, doesn’t he? You beginning to see how the man operates?” He caught Mitya’s eye with a fierce stare.

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to redeem yourself, Mitya?” They stopped dead center of the dome. The glow of daylight lit up a light suspension of ash in the air, despite the fans and filters.

“To who?”

Stepan smirked. “Politics got you spinning? That’s all right, boy. I know you can’t be going over to Bonhert. We’re still family, you and I. Aren’t we?”

Mitya looked at Stepan and nodded. He hoped that was true.

“Well, then. Bonhert has need of you to work the modeling.” He noted Mitya’s look of surprise. “Just little stuff. Data maintenance, cleanup. Maybe sling numbers for the calibrations. With crew lost and others assigned to security, we’re short, and that’s a fact. Comes at a bad time, this ash-fall. We’re pushing up the schedule, and everybody’s working double shifts.”

“I’d rather work the galley.”

Stepan sighed. “I know you would, right now. But your feud with Oran is kid stuff, Mitya. You’ve got a chance to be our man inside Bonhert’s gang. He controls the information flow. There’re things going on he doesn’t tell people. So you tell me.” He smiled at Mitya’s stricken look. “You’re not a child anymore, Mitya. We’re fighting for our lives, and we don’t trust Bonhert to be in charge. If you feel the same way, join us.”

Despite his better judgment Mitya blurted out: “Did you help blow up the Station? Because if you did, I’m not helping you.” He felt his eyes grow hot.

“No, Mitya! Most of us had no idea he’d go that far. We thought we’d come down here to set up a false terraforming mission and the Station folk would fend
for themselves. Still harsh, but we never would have slaughtered them!” He cast a venom-filled glance at Bonhert’s quarters. “That was Bonhert’s doing, and that’s why crew hates him.”

Mitya wanted to believe him. And because he was so weary of lies, he
decided
to believe him. “Then I’ll help you,” he said.

Stepan nodded, once. “I’ll be feeding you some things you can tattle to Bonhert. Don’t seek me out, but let me find you when it’s safe to talk. Act like the Captain’s your hero. That’s what he’d expect. It’s his Achilles’ heel.”

He snapped his gaze back to Mitya.

“Yes, sir.”

“Report to Lieutenant Roarke, and he’ll tell you your new modeling duties.” He turned abruptly and walked away. All part of the act. Mitya acted like he’d just had a lecture and headed to the computer banks, thinking maybe he was going to be a real member of the crew at last, even if it was mutinous crew.

5

“Loon!” the sailor cried out.

From the canyon walls, the echo came: “Loo, Loo, Loooon.” White birds, startled by the voices, lifted from cliff perches in swarms, cawing and screeching.

The
Cleopatra
tacked up the great river against a brisk wind. The towering canyon walls formed a respite against the relentless ashen sky, here in the upper reaches of the Tallstory River where even Kalid had never ventured. A few jinn gathered at the rails to coax echoes from the rocky folds.

“Princess Loon!”

“… cess, cess, Loo, oon!” came the ghostly cry.

A thudding up the stairs from the cabins, and Loon appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. She stumbled forward to the center of the deck, spinning around as her
name floated from every side. She looked like a small animal on high alert.

At her expression of alarm, Reeve hurried forward. “The jinn call your name. And it echoes back.” He took her by the hand, leading her to the rail. He thought she was frightened by the echoes, but when he looked at her he saw tears collecting on her eyelashes.

“What is it, Loon?”

“My people,” she said. “Not calling me?”

Reeve felt a keen stab of helplessness. “No,” he whispered. Then, to his surprise, he added: “Not yet.”

She looked up at him with childish trust, as though he had just promised her something. And had he? Before he could think of what to say, she retreated belowdecks, leaving the sailors to their game of echoes.

It had been three days since Isis’ funeral, and Dante had just this morning come on deck for the first time, his entourage trickling after him, taking clues from their king as to the prevailing mood. It was, more than ever, a ragtag group, their costumes bedraggled and tawdry, their pallid faces rendered even more faded by the gray light.

One of the courtiers took up the chant of “Isis, Isis,” but the name didn’t resound like Loon’s, and the effort fell flat. Miffed by this failure, Dante ordered his minions to swab the decks, a spectacle of great amusement to Kalid’s sailors. The moment of levity caught on, and even Dante laughed at the sight of his fops on their hands and knees with buckets and rags.