Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy (9 page)

Ochoa turned, and shuffled toward the stairs. Watching him go, Fletcher was filled with the sudden premonition that she might never see him again, and that her last memory of him would be a rambling, disappointed lecture. It was more than she could bear.

“Papi,” she called, and he hesitated on the bottom stair. “I love you.”

“There is love and there is love,” he said again. He then turned, just enough to look over his shoulder at her. “Someday, I hope you find anything, on this Earth or off, to love as much as I have loved you and your sister.” His eyes were wet and ancient as he smiled. “Good night, Christine.”

In His Majesty’s Royal Navy

The orbital dockyards at Spithead were a busy place, with the loading and unloading of merchant craft, the human flow of passenger traffic, and naval vessels in refit. From the viewing platform she watched them all, rapt, her nose all but pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window like a schoolgirl less than half her age. She had never been off-planet before, never even to these orbital yards a scant thousand kilometers above the surface of the Earth, but she had always loved starships. The very idea of penetrating the black veil of space and groping into the unexplored corners of the galaxy both terrified and thrilled her.

Only twenty-two, Hope Worth was the daughter of an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and just that morning had put on her midshipman’s dress uniform for the first time, for her commissioning. She had modeled it for her parents, the crisp white pants, the trim blue jacket, even the ceremonial cocked hat resting atop her close-cropped brown hair. Her father, retired Captain Samuel Worth, towering over her by nearly a third of a meter, had smoothed the white turnbacks on her jacket collar, briefly polishing the gold buttons there with his sleeve. He had removed her hat then, handing it to her and saying, his voice little more than a raspy whisper, that she should never wear it indoors.

He’s proud of me
, she had thought.
My father’s proud of me
.

She thought it again now as she watched the ships, marveling at the size of them, as a massive Navy cruiser slipped its moorings and began to drift past. The HMSS
Cromwell
, as the proud markings along the shimmering silver-blue hull proclaimed, took nearly half an hour to ease its bulk out of the yards. If anything dimmed Worth’s excitement, it was her near certainty that she wasn’t posting to a battleship. HMSS
Harvest
, her orders had read, and that was no name for a cruiser. More likely a service tender, or a science vessel. In the end, it hardly mattered. She was going to space, as her father had thirty years before.

“That’s a big ship.”

Worth was momentarily startled to find she wasn’t alone on the platform, and then a little embarrassed she hadn’t even noticed the man at her elbow until he had spoken. Now that she turned from the window and looked at him, she realized the descriptor “man” was somewhat generous. Young as she was, he seemed younger still, little more than a boy, and yet he was dressed exactly the same as she was, even clutching his hat with the same awkward grip, careful not to ruin the brushed felt. He was short, though not as short as she was, thin and gangly, and pale, with splotchy patches of red creeping up from his collar into his cheeks. His eyes were an unremarkable muddy hazel, but sharp, focused intently on the stern of the
Cromwell
as she got under way. And he was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place him.

“Yes, she is,” Worth replied politely. It was only then that she realized she wasn’t only excited, she was lonely, too. She had gone from her family’s house in Boston to the Royal Naval College at Greenwich, where her days and nights had been filled with the noise and presence of instructors and fellow cadets. She had never really been alone before, and feeling suddenly and absurdly grateful for the company, she sighed. “I wish I were posted to her.” She smiled at him. No one had ever called Hope Worth beautiful. Instead, she suffered under the perpetual labels of cute, or perky, or something equally nauseating.
Starship captains aren’t perky, or cute
, she thought. But she had been told, and truthfully, that her smile was her best feature, and she used it now on her fellow midshipman. “Hope Worth,” she said, adding “midshipman,” unnecessarily.

The boy swallowed, and ventured a smile himself, which fell well short of hers. His teeth were crooked, the mark of common roots, but it was an honest smile that lit up his entire face. Her own family was no less common, of course, but her father’s rank had entitled her to advanced medical services, including dental work.

“Charles Hall,” he replied, and after a small pause, he, too, added, “midshipman,” holding out his hat as if it were some kind of evidence. They both laughed, a little, and nervously, at their own awkwardness. Into the silence, Hall ventured, “I know who you are, though. We were at Greenwich together.”

So that’s where I’ve seen you
, she thought, though even with the context she couldn’t cull a single specific memory of him from the last three years.

“I’m posted to the
Harvest
,” he said, filling what was fast becoming an awkward silence.

“Then we’ll be shipmates,” Worth said, her smile returning, and even broader than before. It made sense, of course. There couldn’t be that many Navy ships filling their crews at the moment, certainly only one that was ordering its midshipmen to report to Pier 12B on the evening of the seventeenth, no later than 1900 hours. Whoever the commander of this
Harvest
was, he clearly wasn’t afraid to go to space with junior officers right out of Greenwich.
Either that
, thought Worth with a twinge of unease,
or we’re all he can get
. As if by some unspoken mutual consent, Hall and Worth turned back to face the now much emptier spacedock, and it was then that they saw the HMSS
Harvest
for the first time.

After the elegant expanse of the
Cromwell
, even with her modest expectations, it was a disappointment. Certainly it was not the kind of ship Worth had dreamed of as a child, when she went to sleep picturing her father on the command deck. Far from the majesty of a star-cruiser, she was a dark, unlovely gray from stern to stem, her hull pockmarked by thousands of tiny encounters with countless meteorites and the galactic detritus of deep space. She was squat, her lines awkward and ungainly, little more than a bulbous cargo hold.

“A merchant ship,” muttered Hall, his voice as full of disappointment and disapproval as her heart. “Barely even refit.”

“And your home for as long as you last,” growled a low voice from behind them, “so you’d best learn to speak of her with some respect.” Turning around, the first thing both midshipmen noticed was the double yellow stripe on each dark blue sleeve of the man who had spoken. Worth quickly touched her forehead with a knuckle.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Y-yes, sir,” stammered Hall, following suit with a shaky salute of his own. The lieutenant was standing at ramrod attention, his feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, gripping his own ceremonial hat. His broad accent marked him as a native of the Australian District, or perhaps New Zealand. He was unremarkable in height and build, nearly bald but for a graying fringe of stubble, with a square jaw that at the moment was set into a stern scowl as he surveyed both junior officers with narrow, ice-blue eyes. Worth felt a tingle of terror until the expression softened, slowly becoming a wry smile.

“She is a right old dog of a barge at that, but I’m sure we’ll come to love her anyway. At ease, gentlemen.” Worth and Hall relaxed, if only a little. “You must be our new middies, right out of the womb. Lieutenant John Pott.” He held out a hand, and for a moment, Worth thought he meant to shake hands, before realizing he wanted their orders. She handed hers over, and Hall followed suit. Pott gave them a cursory glance, nodded, and beckoned to them with his other hand. “Grab your bags and follow me.” Without another word, he turned and left the observation deck, the midshipmen hurrying to trail behind.

Pott led them along the labyrinthine corridors of Spithead with the casual ease of a frequent visitor. It was evening, and fairly quiet, especially with the Cromwell gone, and they encountered few other personnel until they arrived at a cramped warehouse that was buzzing with activity. Men and women in the light gray worksuits of able starmen emerged in a steady stream from the mouth of a round hallway, seized large plastic containers, and carried them back where they had come from. One of them, a strikingly handsome Latino who was even shorter than Worth, noticed Pott and stopped to touch his forehead.

“No worries, Quintal,” Pott said, returning the salute. “Back to work with you.” The crewman nodded, and with the most fleeting of glances at Worth, returned to his labors. “That’s Matias Quintal,” explained Pott to the midshipmen. “One of our newly-assigned ables.” He leaned in a bit closer, and whispered roughly, “thinks he’s a bit much, hey? They’re good lads, most of them, right plodders, even the sheilas, but you’ve got to stay on them.” He winked at them. “Come on, then.” And he headed for the round doorway, dodging the crewmen, and once again Worth and Hall followed in his wake, lugging their heavy duffels.

As soon as Worth set foot into the tubular corridor, she felt the floor sag ever so slightly beneath her. She lost her balance just a bit, and with her free hand grabbed Hall’s elbow. She steadied immediately, and let go just as quickly.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, a trifle embarrassed. Hall said nothing, and looked a bit uncomfortable himself. Lieutenant Pott was grinning at them over his shoulder.

“This is the gangway to the
Harvest
,” he called. “Flexible polymer tubing. Takes a bit of getting used to, but strong as anything.” He rapped the waxy yellow wall, and it gave a healthy thrum. Then something barreled into Worth’s back, and sent her sprawling. She gave small yelp, more of surprise than pain.

“Out of the way,” snapped a voice above her. It was one of the ables, this one tall and well-muscled, sweating from his work, a dark green container in his arms.

“Oi!” barked Pott in return. “That’s an officer you just bowled, Lamb. Watch your step and your tone!” Hall was helping her back onto her feet, and Worth knew she was blushing fiercely, which she hated.

“It’s nothing, really,” she said, straightening her jacket and trying to preserve what little remained of her dignity.

“Like hell,” Pott growled. “This is His Majesty’s Navy and we do things properly. Right, Lamb? Apologize to the midshipman.” Worth wanted nothing more than for the whole thing to be over, but she knew that Pott was right. If the crew knew her for a pushover, they would never respect her, and she could never be an effective officer. She tried to stand a little taller, lift her chin ever so slightly, and look the able in the face.

“Sorry,” he said, almost spitting the word. “
Sir
. May I go back to work now?”

“Off with you.” Pott gestured, and the man disappeared down the gangway toward the ship, with his burden. The lieutenant shook his head. “A nasty piece of work, Saul Lamb. You’ll never love him, nor he you, but he’s a rip-snorting starman. Tough but fair, that’s the ticket with these fellows.” He crouched, picking up Worth’s hat from the floor of the tube. One corner was bent and the felt crushed, and Pott smoothed it as best he could before handing it back to her. She stared at it, wondering if all her excitement and anticipation from earlier that day would be as trampled, too.

Worth followed Pott in silence as they trudged down the remainder of the long gangway, Hall alongside, staring down, clearly lost in some thoughts of his own. At regular intervals crewmen passed them, and Worth made it a point to avoid their hustling bodies and their eyes. In a few moments, they arrived at the main hatch of the
Harvest
, and Pott stopped them with a raised arm.

“Left step, now.”

“What?” asked Hall.

“Your first step on your new ship,” Worth answered him, “should never be with your right foot. Bad luck.”

Pott smiled at her. “Your father tell you that?”

“Yes.” She blushed again. Stop that!

“I served under Captain Worth some years ago, as a middie myself,” Pott said. “Only a short local cruise, the Jupiter run, but long enough to know he was a top-notch officer.” He stared at her. “I look forward to seeing if you measure up.”

Worth loved her father, worshiped him, but found herself feeling the tiniest hint of resentment toward her accomplished name, and for the first time, the expectation that had always been more of a challenge now felt like a burden to bear. Clenching her jaw tight, she stepped across the threshold onto the
Harvest
, left foot first. Hall did the same, somewhat more diffidently, and Pott beckoned for them to continue to follow him. They did so, down a close, cramped hallway lit only by the orange emergency tracking lights along the seams where the floor met the walls.

“Something else my father told me,” Worth ventured, “is that Navy crewmen meet a certain standard. If Lamb and some of these others are so…nasty, as you put it, why are we taking them into space with us?” The look he returned was not unkindly, though there was the hint of amusement at her innocence.

“Not the ship you wanted, and now not the crew? No disrespect to your father, of course, but while Captain Worth could handpick his jacks, this ship and this commander weren’t exactly at the top of the list come assignment time.”

“For them,” muttered Hall darkly, jerking a thumb back toward where the crewmen were working, “or for us?” Worth remembered Hall’s deflated comments at the viewing platform.
He’s as disappointed as I am
, she realized.

“Funny thing about ladders,” Pott said icily, all trace of good humor gone, “so many of them seem to start at the bottom rung.” He tapped the breast pocket of his jacket, where he had placed their orders. “You’re in the King’s Navy now, lad. Best leave that petulant attitude ashore, both of you. This is a rowdy lot, to be sure, but they work hard, and it’s tough enough to maintain discipline without spoiled, sulking officers. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied, stung by the rebuke.

From there, the remainder of the evening was given over to their initial orientation on the
Harvest
. In the weeks ahead they would come to know her intimately, her every rivet and electrical subsystem, but now they were strangers, and Pott began by escorting them through each section of the ship in turn. They visited the cavernous main cargo bay, where able starmen were hurriedly erecting the strange constructs that Pott revealed to be hydroponic vats, but did not elaborate further. The galley and the officers’ mess were next, where Pott explained that the midshipmen would take their meals in the common mess belowdecks, with the crew.