Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

“Because I realized during the meeting that he had done something that seemed close to impossible. When you sent me down to negotiate with the hijackers, he came with me. He was the one they had sent to tell us about their prisoners, and I thought he might be useful. As he proved to be much later.”

“He freed your hands? I know you said that.”

“Correct. Chelle was attacking while I was trying to get loose, and he told me that one of Kent-Jermyn’s men—Angel Mendoza—had escaped and told Chelle about the rest. Just now it struck me that he must have gone back up here while I was lying in the hold in the dark. He hadn’t known that Mendoza had talked to Chelle when he showed me his list of names—he would surely have mentioned it. But he knew it when he freed me. Obviously, he hadn’t been hiding in the hold all that time, which was what I had assumed.”

Skip turned to Achille. “You were in the freight elevator with me. I went out with my hands up, and that was the last I saw of you. Where did you go?”

“Up here, mon. Is big drum in elevator.”

“A big stainless beverage drum. Yes, I remember.”

“I hide back of him. When they take you away, I go back up. Talk lady.”

The captain said, “How did you get back down there?”

“I slide in air pipe, mon.”

Skip said, “You would have had one hell of a fall if the hold had been empty.”

Achille shrugged, and the captain said, “It isn’t. We’ve supplies enough to get us to Melbourne even if we run into a good deal of bad weather.”

“I was hoping,” Skip said slowly, “to get something we could use. As it is…”

The captain said, “We send ten fighters down in each elevator, and send the topmen down the ladders at the same time. Or we wait until we reach Grenada—and pray to God we don’t run into storms. You want to do the first, and I want the second. That’s what we have to thrash out.”

Gloomily, Skip nodded. “Thirty armed men and women in the elevators, plus the topmen on the ladders. Say thirty down each ladder. How many guns have we got?”

“Twenty-one, plus your pistol and your machine gun. So twenty-three altogether.” The captain’s face looked longer than ever. “You’ll be on one of the elevators?”

“Certainly. You’re counting Chelle’s mother’s little pistol?”

“I’m counting everything, including my own gun. We gained thirty-one in the initial fighting—I’m including your machine gun. I had six in the arms chest in my cabin, making thirty-seven. Your Chelle and Virginia had two more, making thirty-nine. We lost eight when that sergeant and his men went into the hold without authorization, leaving thirty-one. We lost eight more when your Chelle went down as well, leaving twenty-three.”

“Chelle had her own gun,” Skip said wearily.

“I’m counting that. She took seven other soldiers and former soldiers with her, giving the hijackers another eight guns.”

When Skip said nothing, the captain added, “So twenty-three people who can shoot will have guns, if we follow your plan. That’s what Valentine is telling the group right now. The rest will have knives and clubs, and they will be told to try to pick up guns as the fighting progresses. You may like that picture—”

“I don’t.”

“Nor do I. We could turn out their lights down there. That might help. I don’t know.”

“It might hurt more than it helped,” Skip said. “I think it would.”

“We could block their ventilators, too. That would at least make them uncomfortable.”

“After which they would threaten to kill Chelle if we didn’t—”

There was a knock at the door.

“That’ll be our coffee,” the captain said, and added loudly, “Come in!”

The young officer who opened the door had no coffee. “There’s a boatload of Mexicans alongside, sir,” he said. “They say they’ve come to rescue us.”

That was the wrong meeting. Nothing of importance was decided. Nothing happened. The one that mattered was the meeting we held after Mick and Soriano came aboard with their men—with their men and one woman. That was the meeting that mattered, but I was so exhausted by that time that I can’t remember who said what or even just what part I played in the discussions.

I know we shaped our plan in that meeting—my plan. I suggested it first and Soriano seized it, adding details. We’d need the best fighters, and a few good-looking women who would fight. We would not have to have me, Soriano said. I could remain on the deck above, I could wait for them on M Deck in safety.

I knew I had to go. My guts melted to slush while I argued with them, and it was all I could do to keep my voice steady and meet their eyes. I spoke just the same, knowing how bad I looked and how bad I sounded. “I’ve got to go.” I repeated that over and over. “I’ve been down there and I escaped from them. You’re going to need me. You’ve got to bring me along, dammit. Got to!”

It brought out the angels. Angel Mendoza was first. When I admitted I knew no Spanish, he said he’d go with me, tied up just like I would be, and interpret for me. Mick was standing beside me before Angel had finished. He was going to go, too, he said, leading the anglos he’d enlisted in the scant hours before his plane left Boswash.

I said we’d take only those who volunteered. A dozen of Soriano’s men volunteered at once; he said he’d make thirteen, an unlucky number, and in the end we took only ten. We’d need more, I said, more prisoners, and Soriano agreed. Don and Joe volunteered at once, with Sergeant Kent-Jermyn. After that, it was like pulling teeth. It was after we had gotten a few more men, all of them crew, that Soriano said we ought to have women, a few good-looking women that the hijackers would ache for. Vanessa’s hand shot up. There were tears in her eyes; one caught the light, and I’ll never forget it. The poor woman! The poor, poor woman!

We made her stand up and come up front with us so the rest could see her; and Soriano, who cannot have known her, hugged her.

A tall man’s hand was up then. He was one of Mick’s anglos, a lanky man with a handsome, pale face. He smiles easily, as I have seen since that meeting; but he was not smiling then. Mick said, “That’s the way! Come up here, Rick.”

It wasn’t until Rick Johnson had left his seat that I saw Susan behind him. I’ve never been more stunned. Owen Speidel told me quite casually that he had been guilty an hour after I’d gotten him acquitted, and this was like that, like being hit with a ball bat. I saw how frightened Susan was, and felt sure she’d seen how frightened I was. I’d loved her for years; but I’d never loved her half as much as I did then, when Chelle had returned to me and I no longer wanted Susan.

I never loved her half as much as I did when her hand went up and she came up to stand next to Vanessa. She had a short-barreled revolver holstered on the belt of her jeans. All Mick’s people had guns, handguns or long guns, and so did Mick. Later I learned that Mick had paid for them with money that Luis Ibarra had authorized, and that Soriano had introduced Mick to the people who had sold them. Luis had recommended Soriano to Mick, and Luis had been right. Luis had also told Soriano that Mick was on the way, and could be trusted.

But Susan with a revolver on her belt!

We think that we know a man or a woman, when so much of what we know is actually that man’s or that woman’s situation, his or her place on the board of life. Move the pawn to the last row and see her rise in armor, sword in hand.

Angel Mendoza, his hands wrapped with rope, stood beside Skip to interpret; Skip’s hands were wrapped as well.