42. Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Two
Well, most of them.
It was touching how sentimental the men were at my departure.
Some of them. True, a good share of them simply ignored me now that I had served my purpose and would no longer be of use to them.
Captain Nero didn’t even come out of the bridge to wish me well, even though I’d made him such a nice card.
I was saddened that some of my favorites—like Rumbeard, Jim, and Orion—weren’t present at breakfast to send me off, but I supposed they were probably on duty and it couldn’t be helped.
When the time came, I took my meager possessions and prepared to deboard—then stopped in surprise at the small entourage who were standing on the gangplank: Rumbeard, Big Red, Jim. Some whose names, I confess, I can’t quite recall. And Orion.
He did not quite meet my gaze as I approached, so I looked instead to Rumbeard, questioningly. “What’s this?”
“Need to see how the story ends, don’t we?” Rumbeard explained, and some of the others made various noises to show their agreement.
I admit, I was quite touched to see them showing their support—even Orion, who I had so recently rejected, and who maybe secretly still believed I was making Ursa up. Honestly, their presence made me weepy, more moved than I had any right to be.
I don’t want to romanticize the pirates, or to excuse any of their behavior.
They did murder, to my knowledge, at least four people purely for their own entertainment.
They would have murdered me, had I not persuaded them to do otherwise by telling my stories.
Their lives were hard and dangerous, full of betrayal and murder and chaos, largely of their own making.
But they were also fiercely loyal. Terribly brave. And they could be unexpectedly sweet on occasion. After all, it seems even bloodthirsty pirates like a good love story.
So it was that I found myself on Haven 3 with an escort from the Brethren.
Not all of their number had come with me, of course; most men were needed to oversee the loading/unloading of stolen goods, ransom negotiations with family members of hostages, and whatever else it was that space pirates did for money when they reached their place of port.
Some others, I suspected, were more interested in spending their leisure time gambling, drinking, and whoring.
But I had accrued a small group of devoted disciples who were determined to see the story through to its ends, and who had promised to relay the events back to the rest of the crew.
I confess, heading for a potential confrontation with Rawley, I was infinitely more confident knowing that I had a group of Brethren at my back.
Whether they would actually fight for me and Ursa, I had no idea, but hopefully their mere presence would be menacing enough to give me some authority.
Their commentary on my appearance was less welcome, however. “Mayhaps you should stop somewhere and get cleaned up,” Rumbeard suggested, more than once, as we made our way to the solarcarriages that would take us to the city center. “Buy a new outfit. Do something with your hair.”
Of course there wasn’t time for such vanity.
Ursa could be trapped in a cage as we spoke, subject to unspeakable torture and agony.
There was no time to waste on superficial things like showers or shopping.
Was I thrilled about potentially seeing him for the first time in two months with my hair wild and tangled, my skin coated with sweat and grime?
No, I was not. But all that mattered to me was finding him before too much damage had been done.
The best place to start, I imagined, was the records office.
I know—it’s not the most glamorous place to begin a rescue, and I could see some of the Brethren were disappointed, too.
I think we may have even lost a couple to the gambling halls as soon as I announced it as our first destination.
Nevertheless, I knew it would be the best place to start gathering some data points: When the Trojan Horse had arrived back on Haven 3.
When Rawley’s expedition had returned. Whether Rawley was still in the settlement, or if he’d departed again.
Narrowing down this information would help me paint a better picture of what had happened to Ursa once he arrived.
First, however, we would have to negotiate transportation. Perhaps understandably, given the physical description of myself I’ve just offered, along with the presence of a handful of swarthy and burly Brethren of Blood, no drivers seemed keen to take us on.
“Please,” I begged one who was just sitting outside his shuttle, pointedly ignoring me. “I know I look a fright, but I’m actually a very respectable mycologist”—only a very slight lie, that—“and I’ll have access to funds, lots of funds, as soon as I make it to my bank.”
I cast a glance at Rumbeard and Big Red, who weren’t doing me any favors, entertaining themselves by throwing laser blades at a nearby crate. “And those gentlemen will be on their best behavior, I assure you . . .”
But I was invisible to the driver, who did not bother to even reject me, I was so below his notice.
Everyone else in the crowded port was similarly dismissive, giving us a wide berth, as though they feared our dirtiness might be contagious.
I had always thought Haven 3 was such a liberal, fair-handed place; it quite astonished me to see such terrible treatment of those perceived to be “less than.” But then, I suppose it is always easy to be complacent from a place of comfort and privilege.
Take, for example, the handsome, well-kempt gentleman in his fine suit and expensive shoes, walking down the street without so much as a glance at me or my companions.
His mind must have been so preoccupied with his own personal matters that he didn’t even register us, standing a few feet away.
We were mere meters apart, but our worlds could not have been more isolated.
I was so distressed about the seeming futility of ever finding Ursa that it took me a long moment to realize that the fine gentleman I’d been musing about was, in fact, Ursa.
His facial hair had been trimmed, his dark hair swept back into a neat ponytail, and his clothes were far nicer than anything I’d seen him in.
He was so altered that I’d been staring at him without even recognizing him, and it took me so long to process this that by the time I did, he was several yards down the street, his brisk, efficient stride carrying him further and further away.
Ashen, I pivoted after him, wanting to call out but feeling too overcome to find the right words now that the moment was finally here.
Before I could open my mouth, though, Ursa suddenly stopped and stiffened. When he turned slowly around, he was inhaling deeply, his eyes searching the crowd from down the road.
His gaze found mine, and for a long moment, we simply stared at one another. “Ursa,” I said, little more than a whisper.
And then we were rushing to each other. I moved as fast as my legs would carry me. Ursa shoved people out of his path to reach me. We collided with such force it would have knocked me off my feet if Ursa hadn’t pulled me up, holding me to him in a crushing embrace.
For a moment, it was only us, the rest of the world insignificant as we simply held each other.
I had been so worried for so long—for him, for me, for us.
It had seemed so impossible that we would ever find each other again, I found it difficult to believe this was truly happening.
I was terrified of waking from some cruel dream only to realize I was back on Elba, slowly dying of starvation and oxygen deprivation and Ursa was locked in some cage being tested on like a lab rat.
But he was here. He was . . . safe? How was he safe?
I would find that out later, I was sure.
For now, I clung to him with all of my might, taking comfort in his warmth, his strength.
Burying my nose into his neck, I inhaled the comfort of his scent, impossible to identify but uniquely Ursa all the same.
“Ursa,” I kept saying again and again.
He said nothing, just held me tighter, in a grip that would have been painful if it was not so very needed.
We were interrupted by a woman’s voice. “Philip, are you all right? Is this urchin attacking you?”
Ursa sighed into my shoulder and set me back down on my feet.
There was too much happening at once for my brain to fully process it.
To be reunited with Ursa! To be interrupted by some woman, who had apparently taken me for a violent vagrant.
1 She had called him “Philip,” too, and Ursa had responded, which was beyond strange—since, strictly speaking, that hadn’t even been his name before he became lost in the wild.
At least according to the name scrawled around his parents’ ship, his birth name was Ben.
The woman glared at me as she approached. “Neo! Gerard!” Over Ursa’s shoulder, I saw two burly men who looked like bodyguards approaching.
With another sigh, Ursa stepped back, meeting my gaze for a brief, searching moment.
I thought I would see some explanation or clarity in his eyes; we had always been able to read each other so well.
But to my surprise, and worry, Ursa’s expression was guarded.
From me, I wondered, or from the men approaching?
As if in answer, Ursa’s hands fell away from me.
“She is no threat,” Ursa said—not to me, I realized, but to the other woman. He positioned himself between me and the two men. “She is my friend.”
His . . . friend? The word hit me like a blow, somewhere roughly in the region of my sternum. Who was this woman who had changed Ursa’s name and wielded some kind of authority over him? Authority that it seemed Ursa felt he had to answer.