Far from Ursa (The Last Man on Earth #2)
1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Tonight will be my first night telling my story to the Brethren of Blood, not as their prisoner, but as their guest.
Last night, the prospect seemed appealing.
Today, however, I find myself somewhat wary.
Not frightened, to be very clear. More like appropriately apprehensive.
It’s not necessarily that I believe the Brethren will double-cross me, although—hello, space pirates!
It’s more that I don’t quite understand what the dynamics will be now between us.
When I was a prisoner, forced to tell them my story to buy more time, I knew I had to perform, no matter what.
Now, as a guest, will I still be held to such a grueling schedule? What if I’m under the weather? Or simply feeling in need of a night off?
It doesn’t seem prudent to irritate the Brethren needlessly. They can decide to make me a prisoner again just as easily as they decided against it. So in that way, am I any less of a prisoner than I was before?
My food does seem to be better now that I’m a guest. It’s not great, mind you, but only so much can be done with travel rations, and I surmise it’s been a rather long time between ports.
1 My door is no longer locked from the outside, and in theory, I’m free to roam about the ship as I please—though I’m careful to do so only when it isn’t likely the men have been drinking.
A very rare occurrence, that, but I make the best of those opportunities when they arise.
I even found what appears to be a makeshift library. The selection of books is rather small and very eclectic, which leads me to believe they likely came from prisoners who did not go on to become honored guests.
I try not to think too much about those people..
I’ve been rather enjoying an old collection of poetry I found.
Sequestered as we are, out in the depths of space, with very little to occupy my mind and time, I’ve found poetry to be a surprising comfort.
All these quiet, precise words of longing and sorrow and solace.
All these fragile odes to human existence.
They make me think of how short and precious our lives really are.
They make me think of you, my love.
Someone else must have been equally touched by this collection; I’ve found extensive notes throughout the margins, and the pages are well-worn, the binding loose.
I wonder who the prisoner was who left all these abridgements and annotations behind.
Unless it was one of the Brethren? Perhaps Big Red, the man with a penchant for biting off fingers when he gets angry (haha). 2
So, to recap, my position as a guest has improved my situation thus: My food is slightly better, I have more freedom to roam, and I’ve been given access to some distracting objects to keep me occupied.
It strikes me all at once what I am—not quite prisoner, not quite guest.
I’m the Brethren’s pet.
I’m afraid this realization was only solidified when Rumbeard3 knocked on the door, fetching me for our storytelling session. “Ready for a walk, little missy?” he asked brightly.
Oh, bother.
I was taken to the nightly gathering as usual, though thankfully, not on a leash.
I can also happily report that I did not pause to mark my territory (ha).
When we reached the galley, I was handed a mug of warm beer.
Now that was nice, even if I might have preferred a glass of red wine. Beggars and choosers and all that.
As I sipped and waited for some of the men to bicker over their seats,4 I noticed a new piece of furniture at the head of the room.
It was a rocking chair, which looked welded together using various scraps of metal.
That probably makes it sound rather forbidding, but it had a quirky, homely, charming effect, accentuated by the cushions fashioned together out of various materials and fabrics.
Big Red was lounging in the chair, so I supposed it must be his. But as I approached to take a seat on a nearby wooden stool, someone cleared his throat behind me. “That’s her seat.”
Orion. I hadn’t noticed him in all the hubbub of the room. He had a way of disappearing into a crowd, of being seen only when he so desired.
As he spoke now, the room fell into an uneasy silence. The her in question was obviously me, and the seat was the new rocking chair. Which was currently occupied by Big Red—the man with a proclivity for biting off fingers.5 And Orion had essentially just told him to piss off.
This seemed like a terribly big fuss to make over a chair. “I don’t think . . .” I began but ceased when it became clear both men were too busy glaring at each other to pay me much mind.
Everyone waited to see how this standoff would play out, myself included. Big Red had a good four inches of height on Orion and at least twenty-seven kilos. He seemed the obvious victor.
As I watched on anxiously, Big Red rose to his feet, towering over Orion, who remained seated on his stool. It wasn’t fear, though, that kept Orion from standing, that much was clear from the unperturbed, almost indolent way he looked up at the bigger man.
Then, to my utter shock, Big Red stepped aside and motioned for me to take the rocker, with a gesture surprisingly gallant for a finger-biter. Equal parts gratified and befuddled at what had just happened, I took the proffered seat.
Big Red’s complacency did not extend long, however. “Move!” he barked at one of the men sitting on a nearby bench, and the man obediently scrambled out of dodge.
As the room returned to its usual easy volatility, I cast a surreptitious glance over at Orion.
He was quite an enigma, this man. At about thirty, he was one of the younger men in the crew, and as has been noted, he was not nearly the biggest nor the strongest—and yet, he was the quartermaster of the ship, second-in-command only to the captain.
6 What skill set had allowed him to rise so quickly through the ranks of the crew?
Why was he so respected and, it seemed, even a little feared?
As if drawn by my attention, Orion met my gaze. I don’t know why, but it made me feel quite flustered, to be caught staring at him. Clearing my throat, I turned my gaze briskly to the rest of the group.
“Well, then. Boys? Boys!” I found this group of men, like most, responded very well to being bossed about as if they were nothing but naughty children. “Take your seats, please. Quickly and quietly.”
When they had done so, and were waiting eagerly, I took a deep breath, then began.
1. Some context clues include the over-spicing of the food to try to conceal that it’s mostly bland protein mush.
2. If you cannot laugh at your situation, the only other option is to scream, and once you start, it is very difficult to stop again. Or so I’ve been told.
3. Have I introduced him yet? I can’t recall. There are so many Brethren, you see. Anyhow, Rumbeard has been aptly named, for reasons I don’t think I need to detail, even for the slowest reader who might happen to stumble across this.
4. There always was a rather strangely intense debate over seating—who got to sit where, etc. And this roster was not fixed either. It seemed to shift day by day! It must have had something to do with Brethren business I was not privy to, so I stayed well out of it.
5. Now, to be fair, I’d only seen him do it once, but believe me, that was plenty.
6. I realize I have been somewhat remiss in mentioning the captain.
To be honest, we have not interacted much, and from everything I’ve heard, this is for the best. Some captains like to build a camaraderie with their men, forming an almost democratic community, with everyone having an equal say.
Not so for Captain Nero. I assume he knew of my presence onboard and was fine with my being there, so long as I kept the men entertained. No pressure, ha.