slimy savages down.”
Starbuck gives them a surprised look, then hurries off.
“Wh-who were they?” Billy asks the cook.
“Pirates.” Fleece positions himself on his stool. “Good-for-nothing scum of the oceans.”
“Where’d they come from?” Queequeg croaks painfully.
“Mostly ship deserters who’d rather maim and plunder than toil for an honest wage,” the cook says. “I must say, I’m glad this is my final voyage. I’m too far along in years and belt loops for this nonsense.”
“What about Charity?” asks Ishmael.
“I imagine that’s what Starbuck’s attending to right about now,” Fleece replies grimly, then aims a plump finger toward the mess. “Better start straightening up. They’re always extra ravenous after a good melee.”
Out in the mess, the nippers straighten tables and chairs and sweep up the broken plates.
“Anyone notice that those pirates didn’t seem to feel pain?” Ishmael asks. “I’m sure I broke that one guy’s finger, and he still kept choking Queequeg. I stabbed him in the arm, and he just kept climbing.”
Billy points at Gwen. “Sh-she practically broke a chair on the f-face of the one chasing Pip. And it barely stunned him.”
“Back on Earth, I used to hear stories about planets that were so overrun with deserters and renegades that we stopped sending missions to them,” Queequeg adds, a fraction above a whisper.
“Y-you think
this
planet’s overrun with them?” Billy asks nervously.
Before anyone can respond, the galley doors swing open and Fleece pushes a cart with two trays toward Ishmael. “One tray goes up to the first mate’s quarters. Take the officers’ lift. Knock first. If he’s not there, go in and leave his meal on his desk. The other tray goes to the A level. You’ll find a black door up there. Knock and say, ‘Your meal is here, sir.’ Then leave the cart. No dawdling. Proceed back here pronto.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fleece focuses on the other nippers. “Who said you could loll around yakking, you malingering mollusks? Back to your drudgery!”
Ishmael takes the cart and heads abovedecks. The ship’s superstructure has four levels — C, B, A, and topmost, the bridge. On the B level he knocks on Starbuck’s door. When there is no answer, he lets himself in and places the tray on the desk.
A low humming from beneath the desk draws his attention. Ishmael ducks down and finds a square lockbox about the size of a low stool. The light on the optical thumbprint scanner is glowing red. He wonders what’s in it; what sorts of things a man like Starbuck holds dear.
Before leaving, he pauses by the shelf to look more closely at the woman and children in the static holograph. They are smiling, and the woman wears a wedding ring. If ever there was a portrait of a happy wife and children, this is it. But didn’t he hear Starbuck say this was his sixth voyage with Stubb?
Why would the first mate stay away from his family for so long?
When Ishmael pushes the cart back out into the passageway, old Tarnmoor is there with his mop and bucket. The bent blind man presses himself against the wall. “The meal cart, aye, but who’s pushin’ it? Who? Not Charity, not hers. Poor lass’s at them pirates’ mercy. Who, then? Who?”
“Guess.”
The old man’s face lights up. “Ah, a fine, brave lad, I heared. Fought off them pirates, he did.” The light fades from Tarnmoor’s face. “And here’s how they rewards him? Pushin’ the dinner cart about? I’ll tells ya, lad, there’s queer times in this strange mixed affair we calls life. Times when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, is there nots?”
“What’ll they do about Charity?”
“Aye, that’s a hard one. Hard, indeed. Sometimes alls you can do is appeals to a higher authority.”
“Like who?” Ishmael asks.
“There be layers, lad. Stratums. Mysterious forces and behinds-the-scenes doings. One never knows around heres. Never.”
There are more
Starbuck gives them a surprised look, then hurries off.
“Wh-who were they?” Billy asks the cook.
“Pirates.” Fleece positions himself on his stool. “Good-for-nothing scum of the oceans.”
“Where’d they come from?” Queequeg croaks painfully.
“Mostly ship deserters who’d rather maim and plunder than toil for an honest wage,” the cook says. “I must say, I’m glad this is my final voyage. I’m too far along in years and belt loops for this nonsense.”
“What about Charity?” asks Ishmael.
“I imagine that’s what Starbuck’s attending to right about now,” Fleece replies grimly, then aims a plump finger toward the mess. “Better start straightening up. They’re always extra ravenous after a good melee.”
Out in the mess, the nippers straighten tables and chairs and sweep up the broken plates.
“Anyone notice that those pirates didn’t seem to feel pain?” Ishmael asks. “I’m sure I broke that one guy’s finger, and he still kept choking Queequeg. I stabbed him in the arm, and he just kept climbing.”
Billy points at Gwen. “Sh-she practically broke a chair on the f-face of the one chasing Pip. And it barely stunned him.”
“Back on Earth, I used to hear stories about planets that were so overrun with deserters and renegades that we stopped sending missions to them,” Queequeg adds, a fraction above a whisper.
“Y-you think
this
planet’s overrun with them?” Billy asks nervously.
Before anyone can respond, the galley doors swing open and Fleece pushes a cart with two trays toward Ishmael. “One tray goes up to the first mate’s quarters. Take the officers’ lift. Knock first. If he’s not there, go in and leave his meal on his desk. The other tray goes to the A level. You’ll find a black door up there. Knock and say, ‘Your meal is here, sir.’ Then leave the cart. No dawdling. Proceed back here pronto.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fleece focuses on the other nippers. “Who said you could loll around yakking, you malingering mollusks? Back to your drudgery!”
Ishmael takes the cart and heads abovedecks. The ship’s superstructure has four levels — C, B, A, and topmost, the bridge. On the B level he knocks on Starbuck’s door. When there is no answer, he lets himself in and places the tray on the desk.
A low humming from beneath the desk draws his attention. Ishmael ducks down and finds a square lockbox about the size of a low stool. The light on the optical thumbprint scanner is glowing red. He wonders what’s in it; what sorts of things a man like Starbuck holds dear.
Before leaving, he pauses by the shelf to look more closely at the woman and children in the static holograph. They are smiling, and the woman wears a wedding ring. If ever there was a portrait of a happy wife and children, this is it. But didn’t he hear Starbuck say this was his sixth voyage with Stubb?
Why would the first mate stay away from his family for so long?
When Ishmael pushes the cart back out into the passageway, old Tarnmoor is there with his mop and bucket. The bent blind man presses himself against the wall. “The meal cart, aye, but who’s pushin’ it? Who? Not Charity, not hers. Poor lass’s at them pirates’ mercy. Who, then? Who?”
“Guess.”
The old man’s face lights up. “Ah, a fine, brave lad, I heared. Fought off them pirates, he did.” The light fades from Tarnmoor’s face. “And here’s how they rewards him? Pushin’ the dinner cart about? I’ll tells ya, lad, there’s queer times in this strange mixed affair we calls life. Times when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, is there nots?”
“What’ll they do about Charity?”
“Aye, that’s a hard one. Hard, indeed. Sometimes alls you can do is appeals to a higher authority.”
“Like who?” Ishmael asks.
“There be layers, lad. Stratums. Mysterious forces and behinds-the-scenes doings. One never knows around heres. Never.”
There are more
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