Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

“He says they’ve got many more prisoners,” Mendoza whispered. “We are the most important, but just a sample. He’s got to exhibit us to the boss of all hijackers. Then the boss will understand what he’s come to say, and there will be an agreement and no shooting. If there’s shooting, he says, they will win. They will kill all the hijackers and keep all the money, but to join forces is better. There are beautiful women topside, and they throw the stick whenever they wish. If no partnership, they have gas. They’ll use it to kill everybody down here.”

Skip whispered, “Do they believe him?”

Mendoza shrugged. “They don’t shoot.”

Crates were moved aside, the barricade demolished. Skip hung back as though frightened, and was prodded (as he expected) with the barrel of a riot gun. A well-remembered passage, scarcely wider than a hand truck, ran down the center of the hull. For a short time that seemed long, they trudged between bulging cliffs restrained by cargo nets, with armed hijackers before and behind them and Soriano (whose Spanish Mendoza had been interpreting) swaggering in the lead. A long machete dangled from Soriano’s belt, a belt into which two stag-gripped pistols had been thrust. To Skip, who kept his head down as he stumbled along, they seemed very like Chelle’s—the new pistol, she had told him, recently adopted by the Army but in such short supply that almost nobody below the rank of colonel had one.

The little office near the freight elevator had not changed; they crowded into it: Soriano, Llanes, and Garcia; Skip and Mendoza; Mick Tooley; and the handsome, worried-looking man Tooley had introduced as Rick Johnson. All the rest—more than a dozen “prisoners” including Vanessa and Susan, and the rest of Soriano’s mercenarios —had to wait in the dimly lit passage with eight hijackers. There were introductions and handshakings.

Soriano addressed the older hijacker who had struck Skip, and Mendoza interpreted: “You see this man? Now he is the leader of those who defeated you and locked you up down here. Their captain fights us to his death, but this man surrenders and lives. These others we bring you, too. This man, he is your prisoner before we came?”

“Yes, he is an eel.”

“I give him to you again, Señor Ortiz, if you wish him.” Soriano twisted the tip of his black mustache. “This I do to show I am an honest friend. You desire to beat him? Do it! He is yours.”

“You have taken the ship?”

“We have. We shall return it to its owners, and for that they must pay very much.”

“Then you have no need of me, Señor Soriano. Nor of my men. Set us ashore, us and our prisoners. We will not fight you.”

“I could do this, but I will do more. Join us and you will be one with us. You tried to take this ship. You may have it and share our joy.”

“You are a man of much heart. It is not pleasant that I take advantage of you. No! Set us ashore, shake my hand in parting and wish us well, and when next we meet it shall be as friends.”

“Alas, señor, you shame me. I must confess that I—even I, whom men call the victorious and the crippler of his foes—require your assistance. I have the ship, and this you comprehend, but I have not mariners sufficient to work it as I would wish. Join us—”

Grunting, the older man pointed to Skip and Mendoza. He rose, left his desk, and cocked his fist. When he was almost near enough to strike, Skip let the rope that had looped his hands fall and Soriano’s arm hooked the older man’s throat from behind. The older man gasped.

Skip’s pistol joined Mendoza’s, thrust into the older man’s face. “We’ve twenty-one here already, and a hundred more on M Deck waiting for the sound of a shot. Tell your men to lay down their guns.”

* * *

Skip and Vanessa found Chelle bruised, bloodstained, and half naked, and freed her. Her first words were, “I think I need to see a dentist.”

Skip was on his knees beside her. “There may be one on the ship, Seashell.”

“And a psychiatrist.” Her voice was weak. “I’ll tell you about that later. Have you got my gun?”

He shook his head.

“You have to help me look for it.”

Vanessa smiled, “Do you know, I’ve never given you two anything? Not even a toaster. Do either of you know about weddings? It’s like contracting, only in church and not legally binding.” The ship heeled and seemed for a moment to tremble, and she added, “What was that?”

“We’re going about.” Skip rose as he spoke. “Heading for home. With control of the rudders, there’s no reason not to.”

“Lovely! You and Chelle can have a proper wedding. Do you want one?”

“I certainly do.” He helped Chelle stand; her right arm hung limp.

“One gives gifts.” Vanessa opened her purse. “There should be contract gifts, too. Don’t you agree? I haven’t any birdseed to throw, but I have a gift. Perhaps I should save it for the wedding.” Her eyes sparkled as she drew a corner out: mottled polymer.

“My gun!” Chelle held out her left hand; her right still dangled at her side.

“Well, certainly. Skip caught that horrible Ortiz and marched him off without a word. Only there was a man with Skip who made me uncomfortable. Possibly it was because of his tweed jacket. Who could stand tweed in this heat? So I stayed behind and went through the horrible man’s desk, looking for papers and so forth. I didn’t find any but I found this, and I knew you’d want it back.”

“You…” Chelle hesitated. “You came down to rescue me, Mother? To try to?”

“I don’t think I understand this gun at all. The bottle-shaped bullets and everything. I wanted to try it, but it didn’t seem safe. What’s that funny thing on the trigger? Don’t hold your hand out like that, Chelle darling, it’s not polite and I’m not going to give it back to you until you ask nicely.”

“¡A la puñeta!”

Vanessa smiled. “That was a favorite expression of Charles’s, and I never understood it. Now you can explain it to me.”

Chelle gave Skip a painful smile as he lifted her right arm into the sling he had knotted from his shirt. “Please kick the shit out of my goddamn mother, so I can hug her—that’s if she really came down here for me.”

Skip said, “She did.”

“Yeah, she must have if she went through that desk. Why did you let her do it?”

“Various reasons.” He adjusted the sling. “For one thing we wanted people who looked like harmless captives but could and would fight, if fighting were needed. For another—”

“And you thought Mother would?”

“No. I knew she would. As long as the hijackers had you, she’d fight like a tigress to get you back. I haven’t known her long, but—”

Mick Tooley had come in. “You found her, sir.”

“Indeed he did.” Vanessa looked demure. “Guided by a mother’s love, he could scarcely fail.” She spoke to Skip. “Perhaps you should introduce us?”

Swaying, Chelle said, “Give me my goddamn gun before I knock you down.” Skip tried to steady her.

“Please, Chelle darling. Not in front of strangers.”

Tooley stepped back. “If you’d rather I’d leave…”

“Stay,” Skip told him. “Your presence may prevent a murder.”

“Mine.” Vanessa’s eyes were bright with tears.

“Virginia,” Skip said, “this is Michael Tooley. You may remember that I gave you his number when Chelle and I were planning our cruise. Chelle, this is Mick Tooley. He’s the sort of young lawyer I was when you left Earth.”

Chelle offered her left hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mick. I’m your boss’s contracta. From this point on, a part of your job will be to convince him he’s not too o-old for me. Think you can do it?”