Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

Skip said, “Please don’t hurt her.”

“But I feel sorry for her, and for you, too.” Susan paused for so long a time that he feared she would hang up. “I still love you. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. I still love you, too, Susan. I love you and I’m terribly sorry I hurt you.”

“I love you, but I love him more and we’re going to kill her.” The words brought the ghost of a smile. “It will be fast, I promise. And soon. He’s promised me that.”

“Who is he, Susan?”

“But I’m going to let you talk to her first. Just for a few minutes, because I’m not sure when he’s coming back. I think you should have a chance to say goodbye.” Susan’s face disappeared from the tiny screen.

Chelle’s replaced it. “Don? Is this Don?”

There was a knock at the door, which Skip ignored. “I’m afraid not. I’m S. W. Grison, Don’s attorney. How can I help you?”

“I want to tell Don how much I love him. I—I’m going away again. Going away for good. That’s what they say. Please let me speak to him.”

The captain had risen and admitted Rick Johnson.

“He’s not here, I’m afraid, but I’ll find him and send him to you at once. Where are you?”

“In Jerry’s room.” Chelle turned to speak to someone out of frame. “This is Jerry’s room, isn’t it?”

Susan’s face replaced Chelle’s. “Did you say goodbye? I hope so.”

The screen went black as Johnson whispered, “Something up?”

Skip snapped his phone shut. “We need the number of Sergeant Kent-Jermyn’s cabin. That’s where Chelle is.”

“Half a minute.” The captain turned to his computer. “Thank God his name’s not Smith.”

Defending criminals doesn’t bother me in the slightest, and I ought to have told the captain that. Criminality depends upon circumstances much more often than not. “I know you to be a man of the most scrupulous honor, one who cannot be tempted to a shameful or dishonest act, save by money.” I read that somewhere.

It’s not me. If defending criminals is somehow dishonest, why, I can be tempted by nothing at all. I often take pro bono cases.

Nor is it Susan. I would be amazed to learn that the man using her has tempted her with money. Or jewelry, or any such thing. With the offer of a contract? Perhaps, but I would bet against it and give odds. Susan has found a new Mr. Grison, a Mr. Grison who has not betrayed her yet. How I wish that I might find a new Mr. Grison!

Don Miles will never find a new Jane. He will find another girl, and why not? He’s levelheaded, decent, and quite smart. Get him a good job—and I will—and he’ll be able to pick and choose. But not another Jane. For him there can never be another Jane Sims.

Just as there can never be another Chelle Sea Blue for me. We hurried to the elevator, and now we wait. In the elevator we will wait again. And I know that I must save Chelle if I can, and that I’ll lose her—and very soon—whether I save her or not. I long to be the white knight riding to her rescue, Sir Galahad in spotless armor, astride a white stallion. I’ll save her from the bastard who’s got her; and after that, for a night or two, possibly three, I’ll be Sir Galahad.

No longer than three, I’m sure.

What is it women look for in a man? Don’s wanting his Jane back, I understand easily. But why did Jane want her Don all over again? Was it the shared background? They’d been schoolmates after all.

Or was it just that Don was someone she could rely upon? There could not have been many such men, for her. She would’ve had to look for spies everywhere, just as we—but here’s the elevator.

The captain inserted his master cabin card and twisted the knob. With his submachine gun off-safe, Skip kicked the door open and burst into the room. Rick Johnson was at his heels, gun drawn.

A pretty brunet looked up from her book and screamed. Skip froze. Johnson pushed past him, flung the bathroom door open, and stepped in.

“Please,” Skip said. “Please. It’s all right.”

The brunet screamed again.

Over Skip’s shoulder, the captain asked, “Are these men bothering you, ma’am?”

“I … You’re searchers.”

“We are,” the captain said. “We’re sorry we disturbed you. Both these men will apologize, I’m sure.”

“I do,” Skip said. “Profoundly. I’m very sorry.”

Johnson shook his head. “Not until I’ve looked in the closet.” He did, and apologized.

The brunet smiled weakly, although she seemed on the point of tears. “I knew the ship was being searched. I … I guess I just never thought they’d search here.”

“We’ll leave at once,” the captain told her.

“Almost at once.” Skip sat down on the bed, with his submachine gun across his lap. “Please let me introduce myself. My name’s Skip Grison.”

“I know that,” the brunet said. “I’m Nan Olivera.”

“You know our captain? Captain Kain?”

“I know who he is.”

The captain cleared his throat. “I don’t get to see as much of the passengers in this class as I would like, Ms. Olivera. You’re here with Sergeant Kent-Jermyn?”

She nodded. “We’re contracted. I—well, I know that Mr. Grison is contracted with Mastergunner Blue, the woman they’re searching for. I don’t think I’ve said I forgive him yet, but I do. I know Gerald would look for me until he was too tired to stand up.”

She turned back to Skip. “You are, you know. You ought to see yourself.”

He shrugged. “Nothing a few hours’ sleep won’t fix. You spoke of the sergeant a moment ago. You called him Gerald?”

“Yes. That’s his name.”

“I know it is. Don’t you call him Jerry sometimes? I thought people did.”

“Oh, no! He hates it. I’ve got—sometimes I use a pet name, only never in public. I won’t tell you what it is.”

“Not even if it might help us find Chelle? Find Mastergunner Blue? Because it might. You could whisper it, if you like.”

The brunet’s mouth opened, then closed again.

“I’ll go,” the captain said. “I’m sure Mr. Johnson will, too.”

Johnson nodded.

“Will you promise never to tell anybody? All three of you? It’s supposed to be something private between Gerald and me.”

Johnson said, “I promise.”

Captain Kain added, “We all do.”

“All right. It’s Pickle. That’s what his mother called him when he was little, only she’d never tell me why. But I’ve called him that ever since, when … You know. When we’re in bed and like that.”

“I see. There was a party—”

He was interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hello! May I come in?”

The brunet stood up. “Aren’t you Mastergunner Blue’s mother? That’s what somebody said.”

“Yes, indeed!” Vanessa’s smile would have charmed a queen. “I remember you from the party, Nan. You were the prettiest girl there.”

“Oh, I wasn’t! But come in, please. I’m surprised you remember me at all. We only met for a minute or two.”

“I could never forget you,” Vanessa declared. She took Skip’s hand. “I said I had to talk to you, remember? It was during that meeting. I’ve been waiting for you to call, but you didn’t, so I went looking for you. Raimundo told me you’d gone in here—Raimundo’s the steward on this deck, and very nice.”

“I’m sure he is. That party you mentioned a moment ago—the one at which you met Ms. Olivera. Was that the one you arranged for the soldiers?”

“Yes, of course. It was a very nice party, if I do say so myself.”