Star Winds

Zhorga did not seem at all surprised. With scarcely a pause he took down the cutlass that was clipped to the cabin wall, then flung open the door. He stepped out, while Clabert and Rachad crowded the doorway behind him.

Four men stood under the air balloon, their faces bearing a ghastly pallor in the eerie light of the sails. Obvious leader of the party was Sparge, a bear of a man recruited just before the voyage from one of Olam’s taverns—an unsavory character, Zhorga recalled, who rarely got work because of his reputation as a troublemaker. The others came from Zhorga’s former crew. All were armed—Sparge with a saber and a flintlock pistol the others with knives and axes—and all had removed their helmets.

“The game’s over, Captain,” Sparge said bluntly. “We’ve talked it out among ourselves, and we are agreed that as we value our lives we’re turning back. The ship’s in our hands, so lay down your cutlass and we’ll settle it in peaceable fashion.”

“Do you aim to pilot us to earth?” Zhorga asked Sparge, looking at him askance. “For you may be sure I won’t.”

“We’ll go down on the night side, where there’s less turbulence. Then since there’s a charge of piracy hanging over us in Olam, we’ll divide everything between ourselves and split up. That’s our plan, Captain, and it makes no difference whether we take you alive or dead.”

“If you imagine I’ll give up this enterprise now, you don’t know me,” Zhorga said. He wasted no more time in words, but launched himself at Sparge, ignoring the gun that was pointed at his chest. So sudden was the attack that Sparge failed to fire, and Zhorga knocked the muzzle of the pistol aside.

Blades clashed and rang as the two hacked at one another. It was exaggerated, awkward swordplay. Chary of moving their feet for fear of losing control over their bodies, they swung grotesquely this way and that, while Sparge’s followers edged nervously forward, looking for an opening.

To avoid being surrounded, Zhorga backed himself against the rail, near the wall of the air balloon. It was then that Sparge found a moment in which to aim his flintlock, and he fired.

The shot, deafening in the enclosed space, was both clumsy and stupid. The ball missed Zhorga and punctured the air balloon behind him. The balloon began to deflate with a shrill whistling noise, but Zhorga, as if unaware of it, grinned and pressed a fresh assault.

Everything had happened so fast that neither Clabert nor Rachad had so far been able to react. But now, without thinking, Rachad plunged past the three with axes, dodged Sparge and Zhorga, and threw himself toward the puncture.

It was about the size of a fingernail, and as he got closer the evacuating air became like a miniature whirlwind. He slapped his hand over the hole. Air pressure immediately clamped his palm to the slick material, and he could feel the hole sucking at his skin like a ravenous little mouth.

“A patch, bosun, a patch!” he yelled desperately. He closed his eyes, frightened by the grunting of men and the clanging of steel behind him. He guessed that the balloon had already lost a fair amount of air, for he felt dizzy and short of breath.

Then the clashing stopped. A hand fell on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes. It was Clabert, with a patch. The bosun helped him to force his hand sidewise of the puncture, substituting the square of adhesive. It flew to the hole, sticking itself down and sealing the puncture.

Sparge lay on the deck. Blood oozed from a wound in his neck and flowed down into his suit. The other three mutineers cowered against the starboard rail, weapons hanging in limp gloves.

Zhorga spoke. “All right, Boogle. Who organized this charade?”

Boogle rolled his eyes. He was a stooped, cadaverous figure and he looked even more deathly in the light of the sails. “Sparge and Boxmeld mostly, Captain,” he muttered, then broke into a spluttering rush of words. “We don’t want to die in space, Captain. The Queen isn’t built for this kind of thing. Mars is too far away … Let’s go home.”

Clabert grunted with disgust. “Just look at it.”

“They’ve got a touch of panic, all right,” Zhorga agreed. “I’ve quenched mutinies before. We’d better go down below and stamp on this one.”

“What about these three?”

“Take their helmets off them and leave them here.”

The would-be mutineers put up no resistance as they were disarmed. Zhorga found powder and shot in a pouch on Sparge’s belt and loaded the flintlock, handing it to Clabert together with Sparge’s saber.

He handed Rachad an axe. “Hold this for show, lad, but if it comes to a fight—best stay out of the way.”

Rachad nodded. Little else was said—Zhorga seemed completely in command, completely confident. They suited up, then carried the additional helmets and weapons through the sphincter, stowing them in a locker on the open deck.