20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (39 page)

Christophe stood, his brow furrowed and his
jaw set. "Elias, we must interrogate him. Immediately. The rest can
wait. If there is a danger to the crew, we have to know." He looked
down at Gemma, every trace of warmth drained from his face. "I
leave you here in Maggie's care. I assure you, you could have no
better Protector. Rest. That's an order." His eyes softened, ever
so slightly. "When we return, if you are up to it, I will take you
to see Mr. Humboldt myself. I am certain you would do wonders for
each other."

Before she could protest, Christophe swept
Dr. Pugh out of the room through a door that revealed a narrow,
dimly lit tunnel. It looked like nothing else she had seen on the
ship.

As the door shut, Gemma locked her gaze onto
the gruesome brute skulking in the corner of the chamber, unsure of
which of them was the most afraid.

~~~~

Christophe

"She'll come round."

He could hear Elias behind him, huffing and
puffing his way along the corridor. Christophe did not answer.
There was too much that he needed to say, and too much that he did
not want to.

She was no lady. She was a thief.
Thieves
. There were thieves among his gallant crew, thieves
bent on murdering each other. Pugh had tried to warn him, and he
hadn't listened. The knowledge burned him. He could not have it. He
would not have it.

"Think, son. Gemma's in shock," Pugh
continued. "She's injured. I'm certain she's not thinking straight.
Forgive her! We did throw a lot at her at once. She's just not used
to the idea." His words came in ragged spurts. "Remember, she
could--"

"I need to get to the bridge first,"
Christophe barked. "I need to check in with Pritchard. I want to
know the ship is safe before I start with Rathbone."

"Christophe! Stop! Look at me!"

Christophe whirled upon the other man. His
face was a chunk of stone, as if some gorgon had slithered out of
the wall and pinned him with its stare.

"Please, son, listen to me," Pugh said, bent
over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. He grunted a few times
before he continued. "She was not ready. You grew up with this.
Miguel grew up with this. She did not. Something that is normal and
humdrum to us is, well, is miraculous to others!"

Christophe growled, "I have no time for this
nonsense." He turned on his heel and continued his course up the
slope. "Go on to the brig and tell the master-at-arms to have
Rathbone ready. I'll be there directly."

"What are you going to do?" The elderly man's
words echoed in the narrow corridor. "Please, please tell me."

"You can't protect me forever, Elias,"
Christophe replied. He didn't look back, and he didn't wait.

He arrived at the Ready Room exit. The terror
he had felt last time he had passed through it, and the reason
behind that terror, came back to him in a rush, and he had to pause
for a heartbeat or two. Was that reason still there? All he could
see now, when he thought of Gemma, was her face twisted into a knot
of revulsion. It was etched into his mind's eye with absolute
clarity, a part of his redundant memory whether he willed it nor
not. For once, he cursed his perfect recall.

He pushed his dark thoughts aside as he
emerged onto the bridge. Mr. Pritchard towered over the back of the
captain's chair. Christophe paused at the door to catch his breath.
He watched his new first mate as the man slowly turned this way and
that, reading the glass panels and calling to the various stations
for reports, then conferring with Mr. Adebayo and Mr. Goldman. The
responses were smooth and rapid. It felt odd, watching it from the
outside.

One of the officers looked up from his
station and called out, "Captain on the bridge!"

"As you were," Christophe responded. "Mr.
Pritchard, a word, if you please."

The first mate nodded and joined him by the
door. Christophe took him by the elbow and turned the man so that
the crew could not see his face.

"Things sound well in hand, here, Mr.
Pritchard," Christophe said in a low voice. "I'm just checking in.
Anything unusual?"

Pritchard chuckled. "'Unusual' is relative
these days, Captain, but we seem to be flying straight. A few
wireless messages have come in, but they were all for Mr. Wallace.
They've kept him out of our hair."

"Anything from Thorvaldson?"

"Not since this morning. Mighty quiet on that
front." Pritchard cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, sir,
but may I inquire as to Miss Llewellyn's condition? Scuttlebutt has
it that Rathbone and Humboldt tussled over her down in the orrery
and that all three of 'em got hurt. I do hope the little lady's
going to be all right. We're all worried about her up here. We
can't get word on her since she's not in sick bay."

"How do you--"

"Orderlies. They're worse than a henhouse,
sir."

"Of course. Put your mind at ease, Mr.
Pritchard. She is recovering. Safe as houses down in Ladies'
Country. Away from the hens."

Mr. Pritchard nodded. "Good to know. Begging
your pardon, sir, but why'd they get all rowdy, you think? Seems
mighty strange to me. Fights always starting 'round her. That don't
sit right with me. I'm thinkin' about having a comin' to Jesus
meetin' with a few of these boys. They need to keep their hands off
the ladies. Sir."

Christophe could not help but smile at that.
"It certainly seems that way, doesn't it? I'm on my way to
ascertain exactly what happened. I'll be in the brig. Contact me
right away if anything, anything at all, seems out of line, all
right? You have the conn, Mr. Pritchard."

~~~~

Gemma

The Thing was staring at her. Gemma could
feel it.

The chamber was cozy, or as cozy as such a
brute's nest could be. It was just a bit larger than Dr. Pugh's
office. With only a short distance between the two of them, it
would take a scant moment for "Maggie" to reach out with her
tentacles and drain her dry of blood.

Gemma tried to shake off the notion as her
long years of training took over. She took her eyes off the
creature and studied her surroundings. Strange symbols sprawled
across the otherwise white walls. The walls shone, reflecting the
light from the ceiling in bright spots, and she realized that glass
panels floated over the bulkheads. Maggie moved slowly, picking up
three of the grease pencils that littered the floor, and scribbled
more symbols in three directions on a relatively blank portion of
the wall.

A movement at the door made them both pause.
Gemma shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Instead of
Christophe's long strides, she heard the determined march of Frau
Knopf, accompanied by the alluring scent of fried pork. Gemma
risked cracking open one eye to watch the matron set down a tray
and a folded bundle of cloth on the table at the head of the bed.
She hummed her way across the room to Maggie, who stretched out a
free tentacle to her.

"And how are you today,
Liebchen
?"
Frau Knopf asked Maggie as she scratched the limb as one would a
cat's ears. "Is the Fraulein being a good girl and getting some
rest?"

At that last question, she turned to look at
Gemma, who gave up the game and returned her gaze.

Gemma grimaced. The sight of the proper
matron cooing over that squirming mass made her queasy. Finally,
she managed to say, "You are the last person that I would expect to
pet a Martian."

"A Martian?" Frau Knopf blinked. "On this
ship?
Ausgeschlossen
! Don't be ridiculous. Maggie would be
the first to let us know if we had been boarded. Do not worry. You
are safe here, Fraulein." She tickled the underside of the
tentacle, and Maggie fairly trilled at the touch. "Isn't she,
Liebling
?"

"H-how long have you known? About Maggie, I
mean."

"Oh, I have always known, Fraulein. Why else
do you think I am here? I have been with Dr. Pugh for many years. I
have cared for Maggie since she was smaller than a kitten. She
trusts me." She marched back over to Gemma's bed. "Essen! Eat, eat!
I brought your favourites. We had some fat rascals left from tea,
as well. You need your strength to heal." She pointed to the
tumbler next to the plate. "And that will help you sleep."

Gemma recognized the scent, the same
evergreen and cinnamon blend that Knopf had enjoyed at the Knitting
Circle. "What is it?"

"Gin. My husband's secret recipe. He is a bit
of a scientist, himself! Why else have juniper trees on a space
ship? It goes down better with some blues, but we will have to make
do for now." She poked around the room for a moment, straightening
this and tidying that. "Can you believe some people wanted to
outlaw such spirits? Fortunately, the TIA is made up of more than
just steel tycoons. The major breweries would not stand for
it."

She snatched up the pile of fabric at the
foot of the bed. "Your uniform!" She clucked her tongue at the
sight. "Such a tragedy here. A real villain, that Rathbone, more
than just a
Funkmeister
! Perhaps we can get some of this
grease off. Bah! The sleeve is torn! You cannot wear this! I
brought you some fresh clothes." She pointed at the bundle she had
brought in with the tray. "Eat and rest. Have Maggie fetch me if
you need anything."

With that, she swept out of the room before
Gemma could utter another word, leaving the two to stare at each
other once more.

Gemma reached for the tray and immediately
collapsed back into the mattress. The plate with the tantalizing
smell was just out of reach, and stretching was pure torture. At
her moaning, Maggie stirred. She dropped her grease pencils and
rolled across the room. Gemma was certain it was all over now, but
Maggie simply pushed the tray closer to her with the tip of her
smallest tentacle. She barked out one high-pitched squeal.

Somewhere in the depths of Gemma's brain, a
foggy image of the Man from Shanghai emerged. This time, he was
whole and unharmed, without a wrinkle in his tweed suit. He
adjusted his cravat and remarked in a deep voice, "I mean you no
harm. And I do regret the damage to the cabbages."

Gemma bit her lip as she looked from the tray
to Maggie and back again. She reached for the bacon again (unburnt,
she noted) and grasped a strip between her thumb and index
finger.

"If I really am dead," she muttered between
nibbles, "this is a very strange sort of hell."

~~~~

Christophe

Rathbone rested on the edge of the narrow cot
anchored to the wall of his cell. Sweat glistened on his brow, and
a nasty half-grin slithered across his mouth.

"So, the abomination comes out at last," he
said.

Christophe did not flinch at the taunt. He
had expected no less from this ruffian. "I am still the captain of
this ship. You will address me as such."

"Oh,
Captain
Abomination, then. Pardon
me. So the monster is your pet, I see. Taking her back home, are
you?"

"You must be mad, Rathbone," Pugh replied.
"There are only Terrans on this ship. Terrans and a traitor."

"Ah, traitor. Now you come to it. A traitor,
you got that right, but it's not me. 'Traitor' implies I was on
your side at some point. I never was. No, no, no. 'Mole'. That word
fits much better, don't you think? Gemma? Now,
she's
a
traitor, but not to you, so she don't count here. No, no, you have
a traitor of your own."

"Who, then? And what proof do you have?"

"Knowledge has its price."

"You're the prisoner here, Rathbone. You are
in no position to negotiate."

"That's what you think. Look, I know the regs
as well as anyone on this ship. I know what's in store for someone
like me. I want immunity!" He stood up from the cot and stepped up
behind the bars, just out of Christophe's reach. "If I say nothing,
I got nothing to lose! If I don't tell you, we all die. If I tell
you what I know without something in return, I die alone. I'd
prefer to have some company."

"Immunity? You are mad! Do you honestly think
we'd let you loose inside this ship after what you did to Miss
Llewellyn?"

"Ha-ha, oh, no, no, my Lord Monster! Of
course not. Why I went after her ain't important, anyway. Just
don't let me loose
outside
the ship. Anything else is
negotiable. Guarantee that I won't get the premature Cervantes
treatment, and I'll give you the secrets of the ages." Rathbone's
voice dropped to a husky growl as his lip curled in a mixture of
distaste and amusement. "I'll tell you all about our little Miss
Llewellyn. You want to keep that little tart alive, don't you?
Smart lass, that one. Almost as smart as her old man!"

Rathbone spit in Dr. Pugh's direction.
Christophe heard the old man's gasp, but he never took his eyes off
Rathbone.

The prisoner wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand and continued. "Grant me immunity and oh, she won't have
anything to fear from me. But she might be afraid of you when I
tell you all about her. About the secrets she's stolen. The hearts
she's broken and the lives she's left in ruin. The men she's
seduced. The man I watched her kill. When you know you might not
want her any--"

The impact of his face upon the bars cut off
his speech. Christophe's reach was longer than Rathbone had
calculated. Rathbone simply hooted, as if he had received a mere
tickle, at least until Christophe's other arm snaked through the
bars and helped the other one slam him into the bars again, over
and over, until they were slick with spit and blood, until Pugh
called for the master-at-arms to pull Christophe off him.
Rathbone's breath rattled in his throat as he spit out a broken
tooth. He shuffled back to the cot and wiped his mouth on the edge
of a blanket.