Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy (26 page)

“Take the machrine,” he said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in his own ears. He looked at Arkadas, and the Cygni had the grace to not appear smug. “Promise me we will leave with what we need.”

“All that and more,
judar
.”

Fruitless

It was dusk when Pearce returned to Friendship Point and the waiting shuttle. He had heard the reports from Pott and Crutchfield. The deserters were aboard and in custody, as was Christine Fletcher. He had recalled Dr. Reyes and Sir Green from their field work, instructing them to collect whatever specimens they had, in whatever condition they existed, and prepare for departure. There was to be no more exploration, no more botanizing in the countryside, no more languid nursing of seedlings in the sprawling farms outside Horfa.

It was time to leave.

He stood in the gathering darkness on that tiny spit of land where Baker had died, where Fletcher had slapped his face, where the bookends of his adult life had been forged, and he wondered if any of it could have been any different. Venn Arkadas stood alongside him, his sole escort, the man who had saved his life ten years ago and yet was the architect of his troubles now.

“Do not look so sad,” the Cygni scholar/bureaucrat/schemer said, shadows falling across his aging but still-handsome face. “The holds of your ship are full of the plants you sought. Your mission will be a success, William. So the price was somewhat higher than you anticipated. What of it? You’ve been a trader long enough to know that negotiations are always part of the deal.”

Pearce stared at the sky, watching pinpricks of light grow among the rising stars, draw closer and then show themselves to be the running lights of the
Harvest
’s shuttle. He sighed.
Perhaps he’s right
, he thought. And if he was wrong, it hardly mattered. Let Banks and Exeter and others sort out the morality of it. Even his own promotion in the service mattered little to him at this point, as long as they delivered on their promise to help James. The two men stood in silence, watching the small craft approach. As it drew near, Arkadas put a hand on Pearce’s arm.

“This is for you,” he said, and he took from inside his robes a large package wrapped in brown paper. “Don’t open it now, but when you are alone, in your cabin.”

“What is it?” Pearce asked wearily. He took it listlessly, not caring what it contained.

“A gift. These are
tervis
berries. Very rare, and very precious. I am giving them to you as a symbol of our friendship,
judar
. A gesture of thanks. A hope that we will meet again someday, and we will recognize one another as the savior of our peoples.”

The shuttle had landed. Charles Hall emerged as the door opened, electrostatic engines still active.

“Thank you.” Pearce was gruff. “But I am telling you the truth when I say I’m never coming back to this damn planet ever again. Goodbye, Arkadas.” Without a look back, he strode to the small craft, package under his arm.

****

It was a wordless flight back to the
Harvest
, Kepler-22B shrinking behind them. Pearce had nothing to say and Hall had the good sense to say nothing. As the shuttle docked alongside its sister and the doors of the cavernous bay closed, Pearce felt a wave of relief crash over him. He was back on his ship, in a place where the world made sense.
I will never set foot on Cygnus again
, he vowed. The only planet he would ever see or walk upon again would be his own.

He was greeted by John Pott and Orpheus Crutchfield as he disembarked.

“Captain,” Pott said. “As per your orders, everyone is aboard, and the ship is ready for departure.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Well done.”

“Not everyone!” growled Crutchfield.

“That will do, Sergeant. I know your feelings toward your machrines, but Luther is staying behind on my orders.” He thrust out his chin, almost daring the massive red-jacketed officer to gainsay him.
I’ve already got three crew members locked up
, he thought.
What’s one more
? But Crutchfield deflated in front of him.

“Aye aye, sir,” he said meekly.

“I congratulate you on your apprehension of the deserters,” Pearce continued. “Once we have left orbit, we will see to their punishment. You will assemble the crew, and both Briggs and Lamb will taste the Cat twice in succession.”

“Good God,” swore Pott, not quite under his breath, while Crutchfield stood stock still, silent and aghast.

“You disagree?” roared Pearce. “By the letter of the King’s regulations, I am within my rights to have them lobotomized and sent back to the damned algae pits. I may yet. You have your orders!”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, and scurried away. Pearce turned to see Hall hanging back, near the shuttle.

“Come on then, Mister Hall. Step lively, now. Drop that package in my cabin and report to the Quarterdeck. Make preparations for our departure from orbit. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

Pearce moved down the corridor, intent on leaving the Cygnus system, but also aware that there was one conversation he had to have first. Alone, he went to the section of the vessel housing the officers’ quarters, and directly to Fletcher’s cabin. Without preface, he entered.

It was dark inside, and quiet. He had never been in these quarters before, and now he was struck by just how much distance had arisen between the two of them since the
Harvest
left Spithead months before.
Did I really misjudge her so badly
? Or had something changed her? The lights were on the lowest setting, casting the entire snug cabin in gray shadow. Dimly, he was just able to make out a seated figure on the rumpled bed.

“Christine,” he began, determined to keep his temper under control. He was still angry, but his experience in the hidden Cygni lab had shaken some of his certitude. She did not respond. He cleared his throat, loudly. What was he expecting? Contrition? “We are leaving,” he continued. “We are going home.”

“Home.” The word dripped like venom from her lips.

“Yes, home, damn you. Our home. Earth, not this fantasy land!” But he broke off, raising both hands in a gesture of forbearance. “I do not want to keep you locked in here the entire voyage. Cygnus is behind us, now.”

“Behind you, perhaps,” she said coldly. She had risen from her bed and moved into the half-light that spilled in from the corridor. Her eyes were red-rimmed, fuming and sad. “The best part of me is still there.”

“What you felt for Jairo,” Pearce started haltingly, seeking common ground. He fumbled for words, trying to express how he had felt when the priestess Kaitsma had come near, how his head and heart and lungs had all seemed to liquefy. “I know…”

“You don’t know shit,” Fletcher snapped, her voice full of invective. “You shut your mouth about him, Bill, you shut your lying mouth. If you came here to belittle me, to belittle what we had…”

“I came here to effect what reconciliation we can! We have been a long time in space together, you and me.” More than ever, he ached to tell her their entire purpose, to make her understand just how important their mission was, but just as he had weeks before in his cabin, he held back. It was then he noticed she was laughing at him.

“Why are you being so damn reasonable now?” she asked. “Where was my old friend Bill Pearce, this Bill Pearce, not the raging ass of a man he became down on the surface?” He began to say something then, shrugging off his building irritation at her insults, but she waved his words away unspoken, and her eyes narrowed.

“I’ll rot in this room until the end of time before I lift a finger to help you. So go ahead, drag us all back to Earth and parade your stupid plants before the King and get your promotion. Drum me out of your ridiculous Navy, too, as soon as you can. I was a fool to follow you, to trust you.” She was trembling now, tears spilling down her red cheeks. “I’ve lost everything, and it’ll all your fault. Get out.” This last was no more than a whisper, but it had the ringing finality of a scream.

There is no reconciliation here
, Pearce thought.
No understanding or accord to be reached
. He turned to go, all of the rage in his heart turned only to leaden sorrow at the stupendous waste of it all, at the loss of his old crewmate, partner, and friend.

“My log will reflect your insubordination, Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said over his shoulder, a tart formality back in his tone. “If you’re lucky, discharge is the best you can hope for. More likely, your future includes a sentence at Newgate Gaol.” He tried, without much success, to keep the snarl out of his voice. “Ten or twelve years in a cell, most like. And you can forget about any wild dreams of a return to Cygnus. You’ll never leave Earth again, not on so much as a cargo tug.”

Without further commentary, without a backward glance, he let the door close behind him, and tried not to hear the sobs coming from the other side as he left.

****

Much later, Pearce lay on the bed in his cabin, his eyes screwed shut, trying to ward off the monstrous headache that had been building for hours. The
Harvest
had broken orbit seamlessly some time before – he meant to include a glowing word in his log for midshipman Charlie Hall, whose navigation skills were good and getting better – and finally, they were headed home. The weeks in orbit around Cygnus had enriched the gravity engines and they were making swift progress already. While Sir Eustace had grumbled about the truncation of their expedition, Dr. Reyes had, in her characteristically terse way, assured him their collected specimens were more than sufficient for their needs. Through the starbursts of his pain, Pearce’s mind turned back to the kids, Hall and Worth.

I shouldn’t call them that
, he thought wearily. Even though both were very recent graduates of Greenwich, they had proven themselves on the outbound voyage. According to regulations, and practical considerations, the ship required two lieutenants. With Fletcher incarcerated in her quarters for the foreseeable future, Pott was the only one, and despite the man’s competence, he could not do a job designed for two. Pearce was within his rights, indeed his duty, to grant one of the mids a commission as acting-lieutenant. But which one?
Later
. He pushed it out of his mind as the door chime sounded.

“Enter.” It was Dr. Szakonyi, thin and pinched as ever, but deeply welcome. “Thank you, Doctor,” Pearce said, gratefully accepting the bright red pills and swallowing them.

“That should help a great deal,” Szakonyi murmured, “though I would further recommend some rest.” Pearce nodded.

“I suppose I can’t stay awake for two months, can I?” He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Lamb’s arm?”

“Attended to, Captain. He will be sore for some time, but he will heal.”

“Good. Good. Oh, Doctor – there was one other thing I wanted to ask you about.” Szakonyi raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Yes?”

Pearce rummaged underneath his bed and found the package Arkadas had given him. He untied the string and tore open the paper. Within was a handsome woven basket, full of fat purplish-blue berries.

“These were a gift from Venn Arkadas,” he said. He took one and handed it to the doctor. “Would you be so good as to run an analysis on them? He said they were rare, and I know I’ve never seen them before, on this trip or my earlier visit. I’m sure they’re fine, but just to be safe…”

“Of course.” Szakonyi took the proffered fruit in the small paper cup he had used to bring the captain’s medicine. “And now, Captain, get some sleep, before I make that a medical order. Lieutenant Pott has things under control for now.”

Pearce yawned and stretched out his arms. He suddenly felt endlessly weary, even as the sharp edge of his headache waned. With benign suspicion, he eyed his ship’s surgeon.

“Just something to help you sleep,” he said, and for the first time Pearce could remember, Szakonyi smiled. He wasn’t sure if the doctor left or if he fell asleep first.

He did not dream.

****

The
Harvest
carved its path through the stars for some days after that, the routine of shipboard life reasserting its control over the minutes and hours of officers, crewmen, and one prisoner alike. Briggs and Lamb were punished, and though Pearce had begun to regret his order of two lashings apiece, he kept his word. He knew that to do otherwise would weaken him. Starship captains relied on the appearance, if not the reality, of infallibility. While the order was carried out, and after, he heard the grumbling of the crew and noticed their stares, but he ignored them. It was a pitiless exhibition, forcing both offenders first to their knees and then to the deck. Lamb, strong as he was, his broken arm still in a splint, screamed on the eighteenth lash with such anguish that Pearce was sure the man’s lungs would rupture. But it was done, and he was determined to cultivate a happier ship for the remainder of the voyage home.

Szakonyi had analyzed the berries and found them not just harmless, but also a mild stimulant to the body’s immune system and the pleasure centers of the brain.

“A rare gift,” he had said, upon delivering the news to the captain.

There was an ample supply in the basket Arkadas had provided, so Pearce ordered a small allowance doled out to the crew along with their rum ration. In addition to their curative and intoxicating effects, they were remarkably tasty, with a sweet flavor not unlike ripe watermelon. They swiftly became popular amongst the crew.

A rare gift indeed
, Pearce thought as he sat in his command chair on the Quarterdeck, watching the stars glide past the viewscreen, the parsecs smoothly and slowly devoured by the
Harvest
’s deep space engines. The first days following their sudden exodus from Cygnus had seen a sullen, brooding ship, resentful over the cessation of the idyllic shore leaves, the grotesque reprimand of Lamb and Briggs, and the fall from grace of Christine Fletcher. It had the feeling of an ion engine running dirty, pulsing, an explosion in waiting. The
tervis
berries had been the perfect tonic for his people, easing some of the lingering tension. And the cargo, the precious cargo they had come for, was safe aboard. The vast holds of the Harvest had become a virtual jungle of sprouts, seedlings, and mature plants, floating serenely in their hydroponic vats, blithely and blissfully unaware of the human frailty surrounding them.