Almost, almost, he rose from bed and went to the pilothouse and had the radio operator send a message to the Rex. A message that he would like to make peace, to call off the battle and the hatred and lust for revenge.
Almost.
John would never agree anyway.
How did he, Sam, know that he wouldn’t unless he tested him?
No. John was incorrigible. As stubborn as his enemy, Sam Clemens.
“I’m sick,” Sam said.
After a while, he slid into sleep.
Erik Bloodaxe pursued him with his double-headed axe. Sam ran as he had run in so many nightmares about this terrible Norseman. Behind him, Erik screamed, “Bikkja! Droppings of Ratatosk! I told you I’d wait for you near the headwaters of The River! Die, you rotten backstabber! Die!”
Sam awoke moaning, sweating, his heart pounding.
What irony, what poetic justice, what retribution if Erik should happen to be on the Rex.
Gwenafra murmured something. Sam patted her bare back and said, softly, “Sleep, little innocent. You never had to murder anyone, and I hope you never will.”
But, in a way, wasn’t she being called on to commit murder tomorrow?
“This is too much,” he said. “I must sleep. I must be in top physical and mental condition tomorrow. Otherwise… an error on my part… fatigue… who knows?”
But the Not For Hire was too much larger than the Rex, too much more heavily armored and armed, not to win.
He must sleep.
He sat up suddenly, staring. Sirens were wailing. And from the intercom on the wall, Third Mate Cregar shouted, “Captain! Captain! Wake up! Wake up!”
Clemens rolled out of bed and crossed to the intercom. He said, “Yes, what is it?”
John was making a sneak attack? The rotten son of a bitch!
“The infrared operators report that seven people have gone overboard, Captain! Deserters, it looks like!”
So… his little speech about everybody having passed the test, about their proven courage, had been wrong. Some men and women had lost their bravery. Or, he thought, had come to their senses. And they’d taken off. Just as he had when the War Between the States had started. After two weeks in the Confederate volunteer irregulars in Missouri, after that innocent passerby had been shot by one of his comrades, he had deserted and gone west.
He didn’t really blame the seven. He couldn’t allow anyone to know that he felt that way, of course. He’d have to put on a stern face, rave and rant a little, curse the rats and so on. For the sake of discipline and morale, he must.
He had no sooner stepped into the elevator to go up to the pilothouse than the revelation came.
The seven were not cowards. They were agents.
They had no reason to stay aboard and perhaps be killed. They had a higher duty than to Clemens and the Not For Hire.
He walked into the pilothouse. The lights were on all over the vessel. Several searchlights showed some men and women carrying grails on the bank. They were running as if their deepest fears had been embodied and were about to seize them.
“Shall we fire on them?” Cregar said.
“No,” Sam said. “We might hit some of the locals. Let them go. We can always pick them up after the battle.”
The seven would undoubtedly take sanctuary in the temple. La Viro wouldn’t turn them over to Clemens.
Sam ordered Cregar to make a roll call. When the missing seven were identified, Sam looked at the list of names on the message screen. Four men and three women. All had claimed to have lived after 1983. His suspicions about this claim were valid. But it was too late to do anything about it.
No. Just now he couldn’t act. But after the battle he would find some way to abduct the seven and to question them. They knew enough to clear up at least half of the mysteries that perplexed him. Perhaps they knew enough to clear up all.
He spoke to Cregar.
“Turn off the sirens. Tell the crew that it’s a false alarm, to go back to sleep. Good night.”
It wasn’t a good night, though. He woke up many times, and he had some frightening nightmares.