Colony worlds, p.31
Colony Worlds, page 31
"You're a little off course, Captain," said Henning, turning up the gain and filtering out the shrieking background.
"How so? Is this not the Cape of Good Hope?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"No matter. You have a port, do you not?"
"Several."
"Which is the closest beyond the Cape?"
"Do you require water to land?"
"What a curious question, I require sea room until I round the headland. Then I will need a port."
"Port Diaz."
"Is that not Portuguese?"
"Not this one."
"Then I shall put into this Port Diaz. I grow weary of my solitude. I crave the company of a kind woman." He paused and looked directly into the camera, a serious expression on his worn face. "It is my hope this Port Diaz is not devoid of the fair sex."
"You got it, brother," replied Willy, jumping in.
"Ah, the dulcet tones of a maiden are music to my ears. How are you called ma'am?"
With precise enunciation, Willy told him. "Wilhelmina Hendrikson."
There was an incredibly long pause.
"Indeed?"
"Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?"
"A strange one, but a good omen, I trust. A pity Wilhelmina, your device cannot show me you, as plainly, as I suspect, you see me. I will be interested to make your acquaintance as soon as I can make port."
Without warning, the camera jumped as if someone had jolted the hatch on which it rested. The view tilted, paused, then turned completely upside down.
"Blast and damn it," the captain said.
"The probe’s rolling," Henning explained.
The view continued to rotate, gathering speed, paused for a moment, blurred, then blanked out in quick succession.
"Damn, we've lost it. It must have dropped and smashed on the deck or gone overboard."
"I will deduct the cost from your commission, Hendrikson," Ronald said.
Henning and Willy replied in unison without due deference, "Piss off Ron."
* * *
Updated calculations of the approach appeared on the primary screen every thirty seconds. Someone had replaced the black U-1 tag with one labelled 'Flying Dutchman', coloured red for priority clearance.
Henning, having projected the Dutchman's end point from an analysis of his zigzag course, said, "He won't end up here."
"What are you talking about Laarson?" Ronald said. "If not here then where? The Planetary Defence Force needs to be told where this ET is touching down."
"An ET is it now," cut in Willy. "What happened to your hoax theory?"
Ronald ignored her. "Where?"
"Somewhere just west of the promontory. About two kilometres out to sea. It's going to be more a splash-down than a touch-down."
"Are you sure?"
"Does your bum have a hole in it?"
Willy burst out laughing, and Henning basked in her pleasure a moment before continuing.
"He is also slowing down as if being battered by a gale."
Willy held up her hand in a silencing gesture, cupped her headset earphone in an attitude of intense listening. Her eyes widened and her fingers slid up and down the glass adjusting several controls before she sat back.
"You're not going to believe this."
Henning grinned.
"What?" Ronald asked.
"He's bringing his weather with him. They're closing the Cape. We're in for one hell of a storm."
"That's not possible. Our atmosphere doesn't have the right atmospheric dynamics." Ronald looked pleased with his explanation.
"You know, princess, that's exactly what the Met said before the static cut them off. Want to go up and have a look Henning?"
"Sure."
"You can't, you're on duty."
"Haven't you heard Ron, we've just been closed," Henning said.
* * *
From the observation dome, Henning and Willy could see over both the flat expanse of fire-hardened black concrete and the promontory's low dunes to the sea. The dome was the only room in traffic control's complex above ground.
An impossible storm lashed the dark corrugated sea. Great roiling clouds fought for space in the sky. The dome trembled every few minutes. The words and images Henning had seen on his MO discs were coming to life.
Willy reached out and grasped Henning's ropy hand.
"What's up?" He asked.
"This shouldn’t be happening. It scares me."
"And me, a storm like this belongs to Earth's Cape of Storms, Diaz's original name for it."
A flash of light lit up the underbelly of the dark clouds. The crack three seconds later made Willy jump. She clung harder. Gently extracting his arm from her grasp, he put it around her shoulders, breathed the scent of her hair. She slipped her arm around his back and nestled into him.
"You're bony," she whispered. "Let's gets out of here, before this storm cracks the dome."
"It can't. The designers built the dome to deflect the occasional run-away spaceship," Henning said holding her close, not wanting to say or do anything more, savouring the moment, storing it in memory against future bleakness. "I want to wait awhile, see if I can catch sight of the Dutchman."
"Where do we look?"
"Southeast, right into the teeth of the gale."
Even as they looked, sheet lightning illuminated the galiot, heeled over, sails now furled, although how with only the captain aboard was another impossibility. It broke through the bottom of the clouds a hundred metres above a choppy sea and much closer inshore than Henning had expected. There was now no trace of the enveloping haze. With the ship’s breakthrough, the clouds opened and a heavy downpour started.
"Look, there's Hendrik."
Barely discernible through grey sleet, a lone figure stood at the helm, feet braced against the lean of the ship.
"How can we help him?" shouted Willy, against the roar of wind driven rain slashing the dome.
"We can't. We have nothing that will fly in this weather," he shouted back. A rolling wave of thunder rumbled across the dome.
"Let's go where we can talk," Willy mouthed.
The sudden quiet in the elevator, as they descended back to the operations centre, reimposed their daily reality, underground in a controlled environment.
A sense of doom invaded Henning as he recalled what he had researched of the legend. Sailors considered the Dutchman's appearance an ominous warning of disaster. No sailor would sail on her. Traders would refuse to deal in her wares. Any ship that met the Dutchman became a ship of ill fortune.
"As we've seen, only her captain remained, forever trying to round the Cape, but Earth's; not ours," he said.
"So, what will happen, if he does makes it?" asked Willy.
"I'm not sure. I know only what I've read and seen in the discs I compiled for you. There are multiple conflicting versions. What they have in common is he sails on unable to quit, unable to make port. Here I printed it out for you." He pulled out a scrap of paper with four lines on it.
.
My destined course and resolute career
The power of God I thus defy to stay
Nor shall the Fiend of Hell awake my fear
Though I should cruise until the Judgement Day
.
Willy was still reading when the pair exited the lift and headed down the short corridor. The operations centre was empty and dark. The silence preternatural.
"Scary, huh?"
"This?"
"No dummy, the story."
"Oh," Henning said, and a moment later, "We may as well go home."
"Bugger that, I want to go out and feel the storm," Willy said. "If Hendrik can sail his ship in it, barefoot, it won't kill me."
"A while ago you said it scared you."
"It still does, but you'll be with me, won't you?"
"Always," he said.
"Good."
They returned to the habitation levels just below the surface arm in arm. Henning's hopes surged. Despite the age difference, Willy seemed serious about wanting a relationship with him. It brought another fragment of the legend to mind that he was hesitant to tell Willy. Equally he felt it would be unfair not to mention it and besides, the events unfolding had an inevitability about them.
"There is one version, where his pact with devil had a release clause."
"What?"
"A woman's love," said Henning, and went on before his nerve failed him, "strong enough she'd be willing to die for him."
Even as he spoke the words, Henning glanced sideways at Willy, saw a mixture of dread and anticipation in her expression and knew her thoughts sailed a similar course.
"I'm not dying for anybody. Do any of them say what Hendy was like?"
Henning noticed her use of his shortened name with resignation. She might not be willing to die for him but as old as the captain was in one sense, physically, he was younger than Henning, closer to Willy's age and handsome. Henning had often noticed many couples looked alike. His brief elation collapsing, he attempted to stem the tide.
"If he existed at all, van der Decken was both fearless and fearsome. He also had an unsavoury reputation and few scruples. Despite his waterfront boasting, he was such a skilled seaman, the East India Company gave him the hardest routes with the stormiest seas. If this is really him, then he's about four hundred years old."
"I like older men," she said as they walked down the corridor into the main space terminal, now unusually quiet. Passengers, crew, and ground staff stood at the windows watching the approach of the storm-tossed galiot.
"The storm's weakening," Henning said. "If you want to feel its power, we'd better hurry." Onlookers cast curious glances at them as they ran out through the terminal doors and into the pouring rain.
Willy lifted her face to sky, "It's glorious," she shouted, holding his hand whirling around him, saturated hair plastered to her head and back. "Makes you glad to be alive."
As quickly as her elation came, it ended.
"What's up," Henning asked fearing the answer.
She looked up at him, water running down her face. "Come on," she blurted, "We don't have a moment to lose." She pulled his head down and kissed him.
He tasted salt.
* * *
Ronald was fuming. Wilhelmina had reported in sick and no one from the outgoing shift would work back. Henning watched him with something akin to pity. Children were innocent until coached out of it. Someone in Ronald's past must have planted the idea that he had to belittle others to rise above them.
"Typical. No sense of duty," Ronald shouted, as Peter's shift started leaving, heading to the Peninsula to view the ship. On the monitor, Henning saw the galiot rested at anchor in a small bay on the western side. The Dutchman had rounded his Cape in last night's unique storm. Henning wasn't the only one to suspect where Willy would be.
He paced around the operations room, unable to settle for more than thirty seconds. "After yesterday's fiasco, we’re going to be twice as busy today, catching up." He had pleaded with Peter to order one of his team to stay.
"That's not the way I operate, Ronald. Times like these are why we have three people on a shift that only needs two. Time for you to step up." He turned away before Ronald could answer. "Henning, we're heading down to look at the ship. If you have a remote, I can give you a look at everything we see."
"He won't have time for that. I'm shorthanded as it is."
Peter drew himself up to his full height and stared down at Ronald. His side-whiskers flared straight out, as if his cheeks were on fire. He surpassed Ronald in every dimension. "If he gets busy, he can always record it, princess."
Henning almost choked. It was the first time anyone, other than Willy, and occasionally himself, had used the nickname to his face.
Ronald spluttered, his fists clenching and unclenching. He walked stiffly over to Willy's chair and snapped on a headset.
As Peter was leaving, Henning handed him the remote with a quick glance at Ronald, "Try to keep Willy out of the picture."
Unsurprisingly, the predicted workload didn't eventuate, the event had stalled operations. Ronald returned to his office, leaving Henning to watch the show from the remote Peter carried. Henning guessed Ronald would also watch but deny it, unless someone caught him, and maybe even then.
* * *
As quickly, and as mysteriously, as it had arrived, the disturbed weather reverted to its balmy normal as soon as the dutchman splashed down. The meteorologist had no explanation other than to say that perhaps their alien visitor had capabilities beyond their understanding.
The remote showed the ancient sailing vessel riding at anchor. Solid, perfect, not a spar out of place and no sign of storm damage. Not a bad day's work for a lone seaman, thought Henning. Either that or the ghost ship's dramatic arrival was all an elaborate illusion.
The captain stood at the rail conversing with those on shore. Henning couldn’t hear what he was saying over the running commentary Peter was giving, "The captain has invited me and you-know-who aboard. Me, because she requested it when I told her about the remote."
Henning grimaced. Peter leaving Willy out of the picture no longer mattered. Her similarity to Hendrick put her on every other screen but the remote. Even if Ron didn't listen in on the remote, he would watch the news feeds, which constantly replayed Hendrick shouting across the water to invite Willy and Peter aboard.
The images wavered as Peter strode down the beach, stepped into the skimmer and pointed the camera across the oily sea to the magnificent old ship. Soon the galiot loomed over them, blotting out the sky, at odds with Peter's, "I can't believe how small the thing is, about half the size of the smallest shuttle. An interstellar transport could fit a dozen in its cargo bay."
"Hold on, we're going aboard," said Peter. "I'm putting the remote in my pocket." The screen blanked out and Peter's muffled voice added, "You-know-who is being lifted aboard, in some sort of sling. Apparently, I must climb up. There's a net made of coarse ropes."
When the picture returned, it showed the ship looking like a well-maintained museum piece: sails uniformly furled with hardly a wrinkle, no loose or broken ropes and the woodwork gleaming with fresh oil.
The camera swooped around the ship. Peter, true to Henning's request, never pointed the remote at Willy but her distorted image appeared, reflected from a highly polished brass bell.
The captain led them down a short companionway into the ship. It was a shock all over again to see Hendrik now. He had shaved off the moustache and tied back his honey-blond hair. The resemblance to Willy was remarkable. The captain sat on the other side of a small polished table in what Henning thought, judging from the latticed windows behind, must be his day room.
No doubt Willy's looks were having the same effect on the captain, as seeing his image had had on her. His face was immobile but for the slow movement of his eyes appraising her.
"Ah Wilhelmina, what does this mean?" Hendrik said.
Henning tensed, waiting for Ronald's outburst, relieved to hear the click of the intercom turning off. A smile crossed his lips at Ronald's dilemma. He couldn't respond to what he had heard without demonstrating he was eavesdropping.
"Did you leave any children back in old Amsterdam on your last voyage?"
The captain’s laugh was deep and throaty, almost musical "So you think to be a distant descendant." His laugh continued, tapering into a chuckle. "And I had such hopes for you of an altogether different kind."
"Yeah, well, there have been some changes in the last few centuries."
"My dear woman, I have not been entirely out of touch. He, whom you should never bargain with, permits me to anchor offshore for one lunar month, every seven years. I cannot leave my ship but people are curious. I have visitors and each time I hope for she who will secure my release."
"Has it been seven years?"
"I do not know. It is so easy to lose track. I suspect not for I have made port, but you have no wharves for me to put alongside."
His reply sent ants crawling up through Henning's neck hairs.
"If you'll excuse me Captain, I'd like to take a tour around the rest of your ship, before I go."
"By all means Mr. Smith."
"Call me Peter."
"I was hoping, Peter, that you and Wilhelmina would stay for supper. I have not had the pleasure of anyone's company for many seas."
"I'd like to captain, but I have to get some sleep before I go back on shift."
The camera rose.
Give her the damn remote, Henning shouted silently but Peter seemed to have forgotten the reason he had it. The view showed the cabin door, then the stairs in the companionway and Peter was commenting on how fantastic the ship was. In the background, he could still hear snatches of Willy's banter. "... say Hendy you... Henning's MO's... a lot of bad press..."
When Peter reached the deck, a light breeze hummed across the microphone, obscuring Willy's voice. Henning turned the feed off. A tear eased out of the corner of his eye. Alone again.
"Tough luck, old timer, you’ve lost her to a sailor," Ronald said from behind him, his sympathetic tone undeserving of Henning's response.
"Piss off, princess."
* * *
Willy and Ronald, embroiled in an all-out brawl, didn't notice Henning drag himself in for his next shift.
"You can't go until you fill out a termination agreement," shouted Ronald, tearing at his sparse hair.
"Watch me. Ah Henning," she said, beaming him an enormous smile, "I only came in, to pick you up. Come on, let's get out of here."
"If you go with her, Laarson, you're fired," screamed Ronald.
Nonplussed, Henning protested, "but..."
Willy reached up and kissed him softly on the lips. "Trust me, I had a long talk with Hendy; none of this," her gesture encompassed the operations centre, perhaps the entire base, "has a future. How would you rather spend your last days, with me or at work?"
Henning didn't understand. Her offer didn’t fit with her 'last days' comment unless she intended sailing away with Hendrik. Suddenly he didn’t care, his acceptance of her offer embedded in a single trusting nod.
