The END of Chapter 14. Didn't think I'd ever get here!

All copyrights as stated in earlier chapters, etc., etc., etc. Thank you, Mewitti, for beta-reading and for all your help.

PIRANHA
Chapter 14 - The Black Hole, Part 5c:

Clattering through the dark, segmented metal corridor linking the two ships, Piranha could sense, from the other side of the metal partition separating his small passageway from the huge one to which it was attached, a low vibration, the sheer weight of so many hundreds of trudging feet – slaves still being transferred to the Black Hole.

That wasn't helping to settle the anxious flutter in his chest. He wouldn't calm down until he was back on the Insurrection.

It wasn't just the irrational but urgent sense that he had to race home – "home," gods! – before the ships undocked.

(But yes. After experiencing the Black Hole, the Insurrection, abruptly, was home.)

He shivered. His feet, strangely uncertain of their footing, strangely blind, slowed and stopped. He put a hand against the wall. That was faintly vibrating too. Or was it his hand?

What was going on? All right, you pissed him off royally, but that's nothing new. You've practically made a profession of it. It's expected.

Maybe, but something was new this time. His internal alarms, unimpressed by rationalization, wouldn't stop shrieking.

He turned to lean his back against the cold metallic wall.

Anaconda had struck him. He'd never done that before.

Often as Piranha had imagined it happening, this was the first time.

All right, so Anaconda had hit him. He hit people. It wasn't unusual.

But he'd never hit Piranha.

No. That wasn't it. Not all of it. There was too much fear.

He nearly had – he had nearly violated his contract. That was it. Without thinking, carelessly, negligently, he had —

Refused an order.

Refused? But he hadn't, surely a – a gift wasn't in the same category as an order? He'd rejected the Boss's whims before. That was what he'd been doing this time – he'd thought. Then Anaconda's word refusing had split through him like lightning.

He shivered again. Some invisible line he'd witlessly stumbled across. Or had Anaconda finally reached terminal exasperation and just abruptly changed the rules?

Wasn't there any air in this claustrophobic tunnel?

And in the depths of his terror he smiled a little. This was pirate life on the Insurrection. How all of them felt, all the time. Isolated. Vulnerable. Savagely defensive and defenseless. Each one of them at the whim of the Boss; crowded, elbowed, kicked, kneed, and stabbed by equally terrified rivals, all in a ferocious struggle to bash their way into the slightly safer zone, the Boss's ever-fluctuating, ever-temporary circle of approval.

Okay. Okay. Fine. He'd always rejected the thought, with violence, but ... all right. It was true. He had been Anaconda's "little pet."

Given an illegal weapon to help him survive. Permitted to hide out in the Old Section instead of living in regular officers' quarters. Allowed to get away with endless insubordination.

Bubo, of course, had warned him. More than once. You couldn't count on anything. The Boss played favourites. His favouritism shifted all the time. He liked a little rivalry between his officers. Don't trust him for a moment.

He hadn't trusted the bas—

He'd thought he hadn't. But yes. Ground that he hadn't even realized he'd been standing on, had just been jolted from under his feet.

The tectonic concussion was still shaking him. And no doubt, further aftershocks to come.

So congratulations! On your crowning pirate graduation. Ph.D. status, you might say. Truly a full, complete, and equal member of the crew. At last as terrorized as the rest of them.

He gave his head a shake and straightened up. Rapidly he set off again, skittering over the rough, slightly ribbed segments of the floor.

A little rivalry... Had that buffoon Hacker weaseled his way back into Anaconda's good graces, clowning, whispering, lying ... Could that have played any role in this change? He smiled again, sardonically. For an officer on the Insurrection, there was only one sin that mattered – causing Anaconda ennui.

He shouldn't have lost track of what game he was playing. He'd gotten too preoccupied, too serious about too many serious things, and forgotten he was entertainment. And now Anaconda, bored, wanted a new game.

Well, Piranha could oblige. He had already thought of a new one.

That mountainous sneaking rustheap was of no value to anyone, and most definitely not to Piranha.

Which Bubo had also told him. Repeatedly.

And he had told Bubo he wasn't about to become just another remorseless, rival-annihilating automaton of a pirate.

He sighed, trotting rapidly through the dark. His situation was becoming more comical by the minute.

The enormous docking area, as he emerged from the tunnel, was nearly empty now, only perhaps a couple of hundred slaves still bunched at the entrance of the gangway. He hurried away across the dirty, scuffed metal floor, heading swiftly for the elevators at the far side.

Then, with an uneasiness quite separate from his personal anxiety, stopped and turned.

In front of the slaves and their herders was the Slaver himself, half a head taller than most of them. He was sonorously berating a group of human pirates and one very unimpressed robot officer, flinging out a grandiloquent arm towards the bowed grey bodies. Piranha couldn't make out what any of them were saying.

Nor could he recognize any of the slaves. Were those Anaconda's little joke? Had Grouper detected something after all?

Then, with a pang, he thought perhaps he spotted Rinfo, his almost reprehensibly competent chief manager. To think of using that brain for such —

And – that one – distant, unimaginably transformed, yet still somehow suggestive of – Old Fungus? No, not poor Old Fungus! Surely even Anaconda wouldn't —

He clamped himself down. No impulses. Understand?

The mass of slaves began once again shuffling into the black depths of the passageway; it looked like the dispute had been resolved.

For another moment he watched as they all moved quietly, resignedly, to whatever awaited them at the end of that dim tunnel. The Slaver appeared to be wrapping up his business with haste, barking sharp orders to various of his underlings scurrying around, impatiently shooing slow-moving merchandise into the tunnel, seeing that various cases and bundles were picked up and carried in there too, exchanging papers and other items with the bored robot in charge, and then vigorously dusting off his ample robes as though to remove any last trace of contamination from the pirate ship.

Unnoticed, Piranha gave him a sardonic salute and sped off.

It was going to be embarrassing, but he needed to talk to Bubo first thing. Well, second thing.

As he began a little apprehensively to push open the door of the remote cabin where he'd hidden Elly, Piranha was bowled back into the hall again by a berserker hug that landed both of them sprawling on the floor.

He gathered her and himself together and swept everything into the cabin. Elly was still clamped to him, silent, motionless, her face pressed against his chest.

After a moment, he laid a quiet hand on her back. For a few breaths they stood, neither moving, neither speaking.

Then they clutched at each other again, staggering with a sharp jolt; there was a deep rumbling vibration as the two ships undocked.

Piranha took in a long breath. He heard Elly's own small sigh of relief.

Gently he turned her face to look at him. Smiling a little, he unhooked her grip; took her by the shoulders, and, with his sombre gaze on hers, held her away from him in a gesture simultaneously of affection and separation. As she started to open her mouth, he put a silencing finger to his lips then held the palm upright towards her, his other hand lightly touching her shoulder. She closed her mouth, tried to smile a little.

And he turned and raced back out the door.

As he had come charging in through the entrance to the Old Section, Piranha hadn't seen Bubo, nor was he there as he charged back out again. "I think he's upstairs looking for you, First Mate," one of the guards explained. So Piranha took off for the sixth and seventh levels. The corridors were swarming with the remaining Insurrection slaves, frantically at work cleaning up the wreckage of the past couple of days' carnival.

"Yes, Mr. Bubo came through here a while ago, Master First Mate Sir Your Honour," one of them told him (evidently still in a paroxysm of gratitude that the Angel of Bulk Sales had passed him over). "He said you should meet him in the officers' bar."

Bubo wasn't at the officers' bar – apparently he hadn't been able to hold still very long and had set off again. Piranha sat down for a moment to think. He considered sending out a message to Bubo over the shipwide intercom, instantly rejected the idea, and for a short time sat tapping his fingers on the countertop. Every mote of energy in him was twitching, anxious to move, to act. But he needed advice.

And, still more unnervingly, what was up that Bubo was looking for him?

"Would you like a little something while you wait, First Mate? Likely Mr. Bubo will be back."

"No. Thanks. That's a good idea, though; I think I'll wait."

And in about a half an hour, Bubo burst in. Piranha jumped to his feet, even more anxious. This wasn't his usual easygoing deputy. Bubo, spotting him, gestured with subdued urgency.

Together they left the bar.

"Where've you been, Piranha?"

"Didn't you know I was on the Black Hole?"

"Thought you'd be back sooner."

"What's —"

"Wait."

And they ended up in one of the ship's locations where a conversation was least likely to be overheard – the roaring, unpleasantly galvanic, unmanned engine room. Piranha, his personal worry compounded by Bubo's unusual agitation, had been growing steadily twitchier, and the sharp charges of static and bellowing noise didn't help.

"Bubo, what the hell is the matter?"

The big scarred pirate turned to face him. He didn't speak. Piranha, snarling silently at himself, nevertheless felt his body begin to quiver.

Bubo said, "Tulik's dead."

Piranha sat down suddenly.

Bubo stood still, darting nervous glances around at the huge blocks of the engine casings, as if to seek out lurking eavesdroppers. The physical battering of sound in the room gave the feeling of being half-blind as well as nearly deaf.

"Bubo," Piranha said, slowly hoisting himself back to his feet. "Bubo. What happened?"

The pirate shook his head. "Don't know all the details. I don't think many people have heard yet. Slave told me. He was got at in his cabin, they said."

Piranha's body became ice. "Got at? Murdered? Somebody – broke into his cabin?" He bit off the thought before it could escape – That fortress? How?

The huge gunbots? Would they fit? Could —

"That's what they said," Bubo went on. "Broke in, maybe ambushed."

"But why? Why would—" He shook his head dazedly. "Who would want to – kill him? He wasn't anybody's enemy!"

"Piranha, there's no such thing. You know that. Anyway, who actually liked him?"

Piranha was panting slightly. "But – but he —" He took in a long breath. "When did it happen?"

"Not sure. Don't think he'd been seen for days, but that was nothing unusual. I just found out a couple of hours ago. Kinfel the cleaning slave got it straight from a little repair bot he works with."

Piranha began pacing in erratic circles. "I – just – It doesn't make sense —"

"There was this – weird detail he mentioned," Bubo added. "Too weird to be made up. Said when his body was found, there was a circle gouged into his chest. You know, a big round —"

Piranha halted, stared at him blankly. Then gasped, and tears spilled from his eyes.

"Oh, my god," he sobbed. Then snarled. "Those filthy – those pathetic — They don't even know what it means."

"Means?" said Bubo.

Piranha turned away from him. His body was wavering slightly, as though the sheer pressure of air moved by the roaring engines might knock him over. For a few moments he didn't stir. Then he looked around. His eyes met the pirate's with a forlorn, almost childlike gaze. "Bubo. I ... I don't suppose there's any way – I mean, he couldn't – could he be – fixed?"

Bubo raised his shoulders. "Repair bot said his head was yanked clean off. Metal scrap all over the place. Backup power sources busted. Somebody knew what they were doing."

Piranha's gaze drifted slowly up towards the dimly-lit ceiling, then down to focus, or rather not focus, on the floor.

He was trembling visibly now – unclear if from horror, terror, or rage. "He – he lived and worked among them for tens of thousands of years. He – was devoted to the – to the ship."

"Tens of —" Bubo eyed him but didn't go on.

"He —" Piranha couldn't say it. He talked to me.

There was a silence. After a time, Piranha drifted over to stand close to the pirate.

"Well, Bubo," he said. His voice was low, dreary. "Looks like – looks like you'd better not hang around me anymore. Not safe."

Bubo laughed shortly. "Dunno – Kinda think it'd be safer to stick good and close to you. Have to be pretty damn full of yourself to try to sneak up on Piranha."

Piranha's attention snapped onto him.

"Sneak? You're thinking, then ... what I've been thinking." And began to quiver again, a small subdued ripple of fury. "Thinking who I'm thinking."

Bubo gave him a small noncommittal smile.

"All right," Piranha said. His hands flexed slowly in their black gloves. "That big lummox wants war, he's got war. I just – have a hard time believing the skulking weasel would make such an open declaration." He took a few steps away, steady now, then turned back towards Bubo, his eyes like curdled mercury. "I'm going to —"

"Piranha. You totally sure it's Hacker?"

Piranha raised his eyebrows. "Who else?"

"Not that it would hurt any to get Hacker, regardless..."

"Any other suggestions, I'll get them too."

"And, you gonna start a war right now? When we have a landing in a couple of days?"

"What?"

"Lots of rumours tonight."

Piranha was grimly inspecting his knives, rearranging his armoured vest. "Fine. First, Hacker."

Bubo chuckled. "No proof, and you're all ready to take him apart. Now that's being a pirate, Piranha."

Piranha halted, glaring. "You think I shouldn't?"

"Oh, I think you should. Just funny, that's all."

"Yeah. Hilarious."

"I mean it's a good idea. But maybe you might not want to jump Hacker just like that, without any scouting. It might be, you know, a trap."

Piranha closed his eyes. "Should be a little more calculating in my evil, eh Bubo? A little less impulsive?"

"Self-defence ain't evil. Hey, paying them back for a friend, that's not evil."

"Bubo, there isn't one single action I can take in this place that's not evil. Talking. Saving lives. Not saving —" He laughed, gloomily. Then clapped his hands over his eyes.

"I'm nothing, just a – little blip in their history," he moaned. "How could they murder him because of me?"

Bubo looked at him. He sat down on the floor, as if to match the First Mate's size. Piranha came back over and sat beside him. For a time neither spoke. At last Piranha said, "All right. I'll – get more information first. Look around before I do anything. ... Besides, come to think of it, I'm supposed to be on the bridge to see Anaconda any minute now."

"Oh?"

"For 'orders.' I guess about the landing."

"Yeah." Another silence. Then, glancing at the fading red welt on Piranha's face, Bubo added, diffidently, "So ... you run across anything, uh, notable on the BH?"

Piranha gave him a savage look. Then lowered his eyes.

"The place is a – bad dream. A dream of sickness. Delirium."

"Well, I'm glad you made it back, Piranha."

"What, you thought that too? Elly was convinced she'd never see me again."

Bubo grinned crookedly, shaking his head. "After hearing about poor old Tulik —"

Piranha was staring blindly at the floor again. "... Do I curse everybody? All the old slaves. They worked so hard. So grateful for a tiny bit of decent treatment, of recognition. Tulik. Tulik? How could any of them — Do they not know how many times he – how many more times he'd have saved their witless mechanical carcasses from their own — Haven't they got even the most basic —" He closed his fists, then flung out his hands in something like desperation. "Don't they care if they survive?"

Bubo gave him a sharp look, the first faint touch of emotion Piranha had ever seen in him.

"You have noticed this is a pirate ship, right, First Mate? Nobody survives."

[End of Chapter 14]