Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy (4 page)

“I thought you said…” Pearce heard Mary whispering to the Duchess, who chuckled heartily in response.

“Oh, now, Dr. Reyes – she truly is no lady. Never fear, my dear, if she hears us say so, she will only take it as a compliment. She is a scientist, and brilliant, of course, but carved from ice, I think.” Pearce forced his attention back to the Duke, who was speaking to him directly.

“You sailed with Baker,” he was saying, steel eyes fixed on Pearce, who nodded. “The Fleet has never seen her like, I’m afraid,” Exeter grunted, and Banks sighed nearby.

“You will have to sit with us at dinner, Mr. Pearce, and we can entertain his Lordship as we swap tall tales of our old shipmate.”

For the first time, Pearce began to understand why they had been invited. He had been obtuse not to think of it before. Banks had sailed with Baker on her first voyage, Pearce on her third.
He merely wants to reminisce
, Pearce thought, and his breathing grew easier. So far, they had navigated the introductions to Banks and his eminent guests moderately well, and now he knew what was expected of him. It was, after all, a purely social call. And who knew? Perhaps the way might be paved for some future lucrative shipping commissions. He had quite forgotten, for the moment, his promise to Mary to remain on Earth.

“To table, then,” Banks announced, ushering them through a door into the most ornate dining room, featuring the finest laid table, Pearce had ever seen. Quite suddenly, his anxieties diminished; he realized he was famished.

****

Pearce took the glass of port that Banks offered him, and the seat as well. The men of the company, and Dr. Reyes, had retired to the parlor, while the Duchess escorted Mary on a tour of the house and grounds. Pearce had never known his stomach to be more full; he was replete with roast fowl and various imported greens, all real and not grain-synthetics, and warm, crusty rolls, followed by several bottles of exquisite wines. Importing his share of liquors in the past decade, he had become, if not expert, then certainly conversant, and the vintages were of staggering quality. He wondered if this was a typical dinner party for Banks, or a special effort, and he rather suspected the former. The end result was that he was not merely stuffed but warmly, pleasantly drunk as well, and when a cigar was pressed into his hands, already lit and smoking, he accepted that, too.

A man could get used to this
, thought Pearce, even as he did his best not to be seduced by the unattainable opulence. He knew Mary’s head had been turned by the food as well, but also by the antique china place settings, the sterling silver flatware, and the crystal goblets, not to mention the flurry of servants clearing each course before the next was set. For dessert there had been actual ice cream in chocolate sauce, and with the first spoonful he thought his wife’s face would shatter with delight. He had watched her, through a haze of spirits, caught up in the absurdity of their actually being at such a dinner, and saw her as he had when they were younger, when they had fallen in love.
Ravishing indeed
, he had thought, as a curled lock of scarlet hair fell to dangle alongside her white cheek.

Banks now sat alongside him on the couch, all grace and easy nobility. Exeter was in a rocking chair, head back and eyes half-closed, puffing contentedly on a cigar. Sir Green had found the sofa as well, on the other side of Banks, and Dr. Reyes was back at the fireplace, leaning against the mantel, holding neither cigar nor glass. Green had become more jovial as the night wore on, but Reyes had neither drunk nor spoken throughout dinner, and eaten only sparingly. She was staring into the fire, and it played sinister tricks on her sharp face, carving deep and flickering lines around the edges of her nose, her eyes, her thin lips.

Pearce found his own gaze drawn inexorably to the fire as well. He had never seen real fire before, except in vids. As a source for human light and heat it had been long since abandoned, though he knew that the very wealthiest still used true fire as a decoration. Imagine burning authentic wood! The stuff was so scarce, so protected, so expensive, that the idea of turning it into smoke and ash for a transitory visual effect was the height of vanity.
Which was, of course, the purpose
, thought Pearce.
Money enough to literally burn
. It was one of the great horrors of the starman, a fire in space, where oxygen was scarce and explosions were death, and yet, he could not deny the beauty of the flames. There was a kind of music to them, a soft staccato crackle with popping grace notes, and they moved as though alive, writhing in the black-lined stone hearth, casting as much shadow as light. It was hypnotic. He remembered reading as a student that the ancients had worshipped fire, and he could, for the first time, sense why.

“Thank you for indulging us at table,” Banks was saying, drawing Pearce from his drunken musings. “I fear we may have bored the others with our talk of times gone by.”

“Never in life,” Green interjected. His round face had gone from gray to very pink, especially in his cheeks and over much of his nose. “To hear from two men who knew our late Captain Baker so well was most edifying and enjoyable.” Exeter grunted his assent. Reyes, alone at the mantel, said nothing.

“I wish I could have been with you on Cygnus,” the Minister said, and it seemed to Pearce that even though he spoke to him, he exchanged a look with the Star Lord as he said it. A sudden chill descended upon him at the mention of the word, and he shuddered despite the warmth of the cigar in his hand and the radiating heat of the hearth.

“I am glad you were not, my Lord,” he said in a low voice, not lifting his eyes from his glass. “Would that we had never gone at all.”

“You think so?” Exeter was speaking now, gruffly, though his eyes opened no wider. “Tragic losses, of course, but such is the way of exploration.”

“We did learn a great deal,” said Green, leaning forward animatedly, nearly falling into Banks’ lap in his excitement. “Our knowledge of the flora and fauna of Kepler-22 revealed some exciting parallels to our own earthly life forms.” Now it seemed that Banks and Exeter shared a long glance.
Something is happening
, Pearce thought, and he wished all at once that he had not drunk quite so much. He set his glass on the table nearby, placed his cigar gently into the tray there, and folded his hands together in his lap.

“Far be it for me to argue with such men,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but the price, my Lords, was too high. For Captain Baker…for many of us that were there. It was…” he paused, gathering himself. As much as he had thought of Cygnus over the years, fought nightmares, he had never spoken of it aloud, not to Christine Fletcher, not even to Mary, not until now. “It was utterly horrific.”

It was silent for long minutes, until Banks placed a familiar hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“We need you to go back.” He said it quietly, but to Pearce it was as if a thunderclap had sounded in the middle of the parlor. Pearce tried to reply, tried to make his throat loosen enough to make meaningful sound, but all he could manage was a weak shake of his head. “I quite understand your reluctance,” Banks continued gently. “But Mr. Pearce, this is no idle cruise we propose. Our entire existence may depend on it.” Then, much as he had some days earlier at the Admiralty for the Star Lord, Banks presented his plan for rescuing the food stock of Earth by introducing fresh genetic material from Cygnus. Pearce watched the holographic presentation, comprehending only a few of the more technical scientific points. All the while, he found his mind, abruptly sobering, fighting back against a cascade of memories from that deadly voyage years before.

“I am sorry, Minister,” he muttered when Banks concluded. “But there is no way I am suitable. I am no longer a commissioned naval officer, and have been out of the service these dozen years.”

“A small matter,” dismissed Exeter. “You think I cannot make and unmake officers at my pleasure? I am prepared to reinstate you, Pearce, at the rank of Commander for the purposes of this mission. With…” his voice rose to drown out Pearce’s attempted protests, “…with promotion to Post-Captain upon your successful return.” Pearce blinked. It was tortuous, having the stuff of his dreams dangled before him, blockaded by the stuff of his nightmares.

“No,” he managed, somehow. “Please, there must be someone else.”

“There is not,” Exeter barked, his lidded eyes now bearing a tinge of disappointment. “And I was made to believe you were a sterner creature.”

“We were not there, my friend,” murmured Banks, placating, his arm sliding protectively around Pearce’s shoulder. “William,” he said, and Pearce looked up, surprised by the use of his first name, as though he were the social equal of this noble giant seated next to him. “We do not ask this lightly. But if the future of humanity cannot move you, will you consider a more…personal motivation?” He touched the pad he held, which he had used for his presentation moments before, and it illuminated again. A picture came into focus, of James.

The bastards
, Pearce thought.

“His illness can be cured,” Banks said soothingly, as if he were not engaged in overt emotional blackmail. “A grateful Empire can arrange just about anything.”

****

“Lieutenant.”

The whisper in his ear was urgent, the gravelly voice familiar. His eyes opened at once, with a star-mariner’s penchant for coming swiftly from deep sleep to instant wakefulness. It was just before dawn, a time he had never truly experienced before coming to Cygnus. He had developed affection for it in the weeks since their arrival. It was quiet, among other things, and he had never known quiet, either on Earth or on board ship. The grayness that lingered ahead of the rising sun had a texture to it, a near-tangibility that did not exist in the artificial light of apartments or corridors or city streets at home, where it was either bright or dark, with no in-between.

Formlessness faded, and from the gloom came features that Pearce knew, and from them a whisper.

“Quickly. Quietly.” It was Venn Arkadas. Pearce began to ask a question, but stopped when Arkadas placed a hand over his own mouth and shook his head. He swiftly pulled on his uniform shirt and pants. Whatever was afoot, it must be grave. Arkadas wore the usual brown jacket and trousers of the intellectual caste, but beneath a voluminous black cape, and his always impeccably coiffed white hair was hanging loose about his shoulders.

Pearce found his boots, shoved his feet into them, and stared intently at him while strapping his standard-issue hand laser to his hip. This was Arkadas’ house, here on the edge of town, not too far from the promontory where the
Drake
encampment was. Arkadas had been Pearce’s host, and had become his friend, teaching him the tongue and folkways of the local Cygni. It was Arkadas who had explained, at length, the ongoing feuds between the intellectual, military, and religious castes that made Cygni politics unstable and volatile. I can trust him, Pearce thought.

It was then that Pearce heard the first screams.

He was on his feet, heading for the main room of the house and the front door there, when Arkadas grabbed his arm, shaking his head again, furiously. No, he mouthed, and moved instead to the rear of the room, where there was a door leading into the back alley. Pearce followed, hearing again the sound of screaming, only it was different now, no longer human. It was the sound of the
karabin
, the strange Cygni weapon Pearce had seen at a staged demonstration weeks before. There was no crack like the ancient guns of Earth, nor the smooth whine of the pulse rifles the Royal Machrines used. Instead, there was a hiss followed by a terrifying sound, like the cry of a bird of prey, as the firearm expelled not a projectile but a column of rushing air that struck with murderous force. The technology involved was simple, barely industrial, and deadly.

Pearce hurried along the alley with Arkadas until they reached a small plaza that looked out and up at the
Drake
’s base. Point Friendship, they had called it, and the name had been fitting for the month that the explorers from the United Kingdom of Earth had been ashore. Captain Baker had conducted yet another successful first contact, establishing the beginnings of a relationship, with a world rich in natural resources that had long since become scare on Earth. Wood, water, foodstuffs, minerals; Cygnus appeared abundant in all of these, and a prime prospect for a long-lasting and mutually beneficial trade partnership.

Now, less than a kilometer from the
Drake
’s shuttle, Pearce saw open conflict. The telltale white arcs of pulse fire lit the gray stillness of the predawn sky, and from the sounds that carried with eerie clarity, found their marks. Much nearer, the sound of booted feet striking the flat-stoned streets approached, and Pearce flattened himself against the wall of Arakadas’ house, pinning the Cygni scholar behind him in the shadows. A column of blue-jacketed Cygni soldiers ran past the mouth of the alley, curved wood-and-iron
karabins
on their shoulders. Pearce held his breath, counting at least twenty of them before they were gone, headed toward whatever was happening at Point Friendship. Seizing his friend by the collar, Pearce leaned in so that his mouth was scant centimeters from his ear, and hissed his question.

“What the hell is happening?”

“The clergy,” whispered Arkadas, and Pearce could see the tears that were spilling from his eyes, eyes that were the crystalline blue of so many Cygni males. “Since you arrived, their leadership has been claiming that you are only here to plunder us, that you are conquerors from the stars, and we must repel you now if we are to survive.” Pearce did not even bother to argue the inherent foolishness of the assertion. He and Arkadas had spoken too many times of the clergy’s distrust of Captain Baker. Only the military’s coalition with the intellectuals had secured the government’s welcoming attitude toward the Earthers.

“Have they seized control?” Pearce asked, urgently, and Arkadas nodded.