Phantom Universe Page 17

CHAPTER 16: DIGNITY

  10 years old

  Respect is one of those things some of the crew members never learned while growing up. Summer knows that the crew members don’t have to express or show her any respect. Her place is to serve the ship and the people aboard. She’s a slave, and at any moment the Captain could decide to make her do ungodly, unspeakable acts. She’s been on the Cosmos for six years—she can handle a crude remark, an overly dirty room, or even a drink dumped at her feet. The one thing she refuses to lose, though, is her dignity. That’s when she’ll fight. So far she hasn’t run into any problems that could not be solved. Until today.

  The Captain tells Summer she’s on bunker duty. She hates this more than most chores—besides cleaning their toilets. She most definitely will always keep that at the top of her Least Favorite Things to Clean list. The thing with cleaning the crew’s personal area is that it’s their personal area. This is a rare chore, but she understands immediately why this task has been assigned when she steps into the first room. She isn’t quite sure where the laundry-carpet ends and the mold infestation begins. It’s really, truly horrific. Like the laundry is as stiff as an over-starched shirt kind of bad. With the most heavy-duty gloves she can find protecting her hands, she reaches down and picks up what looks to be a shirt with spilled soup on it, though who knows what it really is. It’s so awful she’s sure it must be a sin to live like this, or at least unsanitary. Her nose scrunches up at the rotting smell. She dumps it into a clothes basket and turns her head away so she can breathe—not fresh air, but less offensive odors.

  To her chagrin, the first room is the cleanest. Or the least vile—there is nothing clean about any of the rooms. Hours pass, and her cleaning supplies dwindle faster than the revolting stuff she scrubs at. At this rate she will need to have the Captain restock her supplies and use half of them on herself to remove the grime. She’s a slave and lives in a cleaner environment than the crew members. Maybe they liked living this way? Who knows?

  When the sun begins to set, she knows that she must shower and go to the kitchen to make dinner. It’s always at nine in the evening, and she hasn’t been late putting food on the table since she had food poisoning several years back. The whole crew was sick so they didn’t care—or notice, really—that she was also incapacitated.

  Tired, disgusting, and ready to take a scalding shower, Summer ambles down the hallway like an old woman. Her muscles ache with each step. She truly does hate to clean the crew’s quarters—a hate as pure and toxic as the air she’d been breathing in for the past several hours. Feet away from her room she notices the door is slightly ajar, and the light is on. That’s strange, she thinks as she takes a few more steps. Cautiously, she palms the door and pushes until it gradually reveals what she can only assume is the aftermath of a hurricane. She has few possessions and treats each of them with gentle care. Now they are scattered across the room with careless abandon.

  You can handle this, she tells herself unconvincingly. A few tentative steps into the room she finally sees the one thing that would break her. Her journal is crumpled, torn, and in slightly damp pieces. Her eyes well up with tears as she falls to her knees and frantically tries to put the pieces back together. Her journal is her one treasured possession. The one physical thing she actually cares about and can feel in the palms of her hands is gone. The journal that holds all of her memories from her childhood is now in shambles. Held the memories, she corrects mentally. Her dignity feels shredded just like the pages of her journal. She might not be able to write, but she drew what little she could, improving upon them as she aged.

  Summer remembers another slave on the ship sitting with her for hours as she told her childhood memories in picture format. Her name was Nina, and she helped to improve her skill with a pencil since Summer wouldn’t speak. Nina always promised she would teach her how to read and write one day, but was sold to another ship before she had the chance. Summer always told herself that she would one day learn so she could write the stories that went along with the pictures in her journal. But now it’s all gone . . . all the words meaningless in their scattered pages.

  Who would come in here and go out of their way to destroy this? she frantically thinks. Which crew member would care enough to do this?

  She kicks the bucket of cleaning supplies and heatedly stomps from her room, journal in hand, down the hallway, mentally picturing each of their faces under her feet. She does not run into anyone, which is good because she actually feels like she can have words—many unkind, derogatory, cruel words for the wanker who did this! She arrives in the kitchen and paces between the fridge and stove, listing every word she has ever wanted to say to the crew members. But as she stalks from one side of the kitchen to the other she can’t convince herself to tell them off. The memories of her time under Jag’s roof are still so raw and real that she automatically reaches under her shirt to her back and let’s her fingers feel the scars there. It’s the only thing that keeps her from exploding. She perches at the end of a chair at the prep table and stews like sauerkraut, probably smelling even worse.

  Her breathing is still heavy with her burning rage so she tries to control it first. Her journal smacks onto the metal prep table right before her elbows slam onto it with a clang, which only makes her vibrate. Even more infuriated, she bows over to fist her hands in her blonde hair. She wants to scream, curse, and yell. Nothing comes from her throat except a tiny hiccup. Pathetic, she thinks miserably. Several incensed minutes pass before she is able to calm herself down. Kind of. Her sapphire, red-tinted eyes suddenly focus on something that’s been sitting in the pantry and only collecting dust. As a joke, one of the crew, Aaron, brought aboard these insanely, and quite violently, hot peppers from China. A grin slowly creeps up her lips as an idea forms in the shape of a silhouette of a huge pepper.

  There is something about being infuriated that makes you forget the consequences of your actions, luring you to commit to and conquer in blinding revenge. Summer had time to cool down, but all during her nightly kitchen duties her fury only simmers as she makes sure to dump every last fiercely hot pepper into every last food dish. She dices, minces, crushes, squeezes, and peels every single pepper. Nothing goes to waste. She remembers back when Aaron offered a pepper to Dale, another crew member. Dale took one bite and sprinted to the kitchen to chug down half a gallon of milk before he became violently sick inside the sink (hence them being violently hot peppers). She hopes it’s worse tonight, that they eat several bites before they realize how incredibly hot their food is. To disguise why it might be so spicy, she makes fajitas.

  Aaron comes into the kitchen before Summer serves dinner. She seizes his arm (and she never touches the crew members) and yanks him away from listening ears—not that she is going to say anything, but he might. Aaron towers over her, but he’s always the nicest and most considerate to her. He even offers to help sometimes.

  He rubs at his blue eyes for a second before he asks, “What’s going on?”

  Summer bites her lip, trying to suppress a smirk.

  Aaron chuckles at her expression, undoubtedly curious now. He runs his hand through his bright red hair and looks around conspiratorial. “I don’t see anyone, you can tell me.” He looks apologetic for a second. “Sorry, you can show me.”

  She points to a tiny skillet still on the stove and gives a thumbs up.

  He nods patiently. “Ohkay. Food’s good tonight?”

  A smile over takes her as she pulls the empty container of peppers from behind her back. She walks over to the larger skillet, makes a dumping motion with the container, and then does a thumbs down.

  Aaron raises his eyebrows at her, his freckle covered face creasing as he grins widely at her. “This one is safe?” He points to the small skillet.

  She nods frantically, her smile the widest he has ever seen it.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he double checks.

  She nods again, even more vigorous. The thought of reve
nge is so sweet and delectable on her tongue that she wishes she would have thought of doing something like this sooner.

  He shrugs and chuckles as he helps her bring food out to the table. There are a few new crew members Summer doesn’t really know, and then the same bunch as usual: Captain, Dale, Peter, and Phil.

  After they all have food on their plates, she rushes into the kitchen and peeks through the small round window. They all begin to shovel their food like the pigs they obviously are. A few of them freeze, a couple of them take another bite, wipe their sweaty forehead, and down their beers. Then the coughing starts, and she’s so overzealous with triumph at her pay back—dancing, spinning, smiling—that she doesn’t realize when they all turn and gawk at her.

  Uh-oh, she thinks and backs away from the door and snatches her tattered journal from the prep table. The door bangs open as the crew members file in so quickly it’s like a freshwater stream colliding with the salty ocean water. Her eyes grow wide as she takes in their fuming, crimson faces, and then she takes off down the hallway at a full run. Feeling is the only thing she can think about. The pounding of feet echo behind her but she’s smaller and faster.

  Her mind frantically thinks of what to do next—she obviously didn’t plan this far ahead. She jumps over equipment in the hallways, slides across a wet spot, hits a wall, and turns down another corridor. The crew is still behind her, their shouts are full of hot fury, some of them still choking from the peppers. A door in front of her suddenly opens, and she almost runs right into it. She comes to a screeching halt as the door shuts, and a crew member she’s never seen before looks down at her, puzzled.

  “G’t her!” someone shouts.

  Her eyes widen before she ducks under the man’s arm and rushes away. Pieces of her journal flutter in her wake. More stairs lead down to a short hallway, and at the end, to the most important part of the ship. She skids into the loud room and right into another crew member. He grips her upper arms and glares down at her until he sees the look in her crazed, sapphire eyes.

  “Whatchu want g’rl?” he asks.

  She doesn’t know what do, but her mind’s wheels are turning over and over. She points outside the door and flails her arms around to try to convince him there’s some kind of emergency she needs him for.

  “Now?” He’s irritated at this.

  She nods with great exaggeration.

  “Fine,” he growls out and stomps away just as the crew in pursuit hit the bottom of the stairs.

  “G’t her!” they shout at him just as she slams the door in their faces and locks it behind her. Now she’s trapped.

  What was I thinking? She stares around her, horrified at her actions. She can only imagine the kind of punishment she will have to endure because of this.

  Fists bang without abandon on the other side of the door, hardly discernable through the rumble of the engines. She glances over her shoulder and see’s Captain Travis’s face through the tiny window in the door. He barks something to his crew, though she can’t hear but the pounding ceases.

  “Summer?” She can’t hear, can only see the Captain’s mouth move.

  Well, if I’m going to be punished, might as well get everything I can out of this little rebellion, she thinks smugly and then sticks her tongue out at the Captain.

  His bushy, black eyebrows raise, and she can swear through his beard he is smiling at her. She’s not sure if that’s a good sign, or a really, really horrifying one. She still remembers the smirk Johnny would get right before he whipped her, and shudders. How long can she last in this room without food or water? She doesn’t know, but has a feeling she’s going to find out.

  She turns her back to him and takes in the massive mounds of equipment and engines. The place reeks of oil and gasoline. She has no idea what any of it does, except that it makes the ship run. A blinding idea comes to her, so fast and quick it’s like a magic carpet lifts her into the air, making her stomach jump. She approaches what looks like a control station. She lays the journal down, all morbid and pathetic looking, on a clear spot. It taunts her with its torn pages and ripped binding saying, “Are you going to do something about this or not?” The blotted ink on the pages sticking out makes it look weepy even. Her journal is her only friend. This only makes her more determined as her fingers wiggle above the buttons and levers on the control panel. She wonders what will happen if she just starts randomly pressing buttons and pulling levers. Will she have control of the ship, and ultimately the crew on it? They’ll eventually find a way to break in, won’t they?

  She chances a peek at the door’s window and sees the Captain’s face drain of color as if he’s been uncorked and is being emptied. He wildly gestures for her to stop, but she wants to use this as leverage so she won’t be punished. Her fingers move closer and closer to the buttons, and she can see the panic rise in the Captain as he flounders with the door. He turns and shouts something, but the words dissolve into the roaring of the engine.

  The writing on the control panel doesn’t mean anything to her. For all she knows the one button she presses might blow up the whole ship. She hesitates after that thought. A blast of hot air rushes across the room as the machines do who knows what—something complicated, she’s sure. The journal’s torn pages scatter like wayward seagulls through the room. She becomes resolved as she witnesses her memories fall dismally to the ground. She leans forward to press the biggest, roundest, reddest button she can find. Surely that one will do the most damage. The blowing air stops abruptly, though the room is still in a raucous commotion of whirring machines.

  A pounding erupts from the door again, but she ignores it and moves closer to the button. She finally places one finger on the big, inviting button. You can do this, she tries to convince herself. Right before she adds pressure, she glances over her shoulder to the door. The Captain stops his banging and slams a notebook against the window. She pauses, curious now. The notebook is pulled away, and what looks like a memo pad is held against the glass. Was this his way of offering a truce? She moves her finger away from the button and steps closer to the door. The Captain lowers the memo pad and looks so relieved she wonders if he’ll cry. Another notebook, different color, is shoved against the glass.

  Summer sighs. She has no idea what she’s doing and knows it’s best if she just accepts her punishment and opens the door. How long can she keep up this ploy anyway?

  She moves forward to unlock the door, and the Captain backs away, even though it opens inward. She hesitantly puts weight on the handle until it unlatches and then takes several paces backward. Captain Travis places one foot over the threshold with an arm full of assorted notebooks and paper. Her heart beats so rapidly she wonders if it will grow wings and flutter away. She hasn’t been punished in two years—and last time was so painful she made sure to never make a mistake again. The Captain never laid a finger on her in an offensive way; it was always a crew member, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.

  He approaches her cautiously, like she’s a snake ready to strike, but it’s Summer that’s afraid he’ll strike with venom. He takes one more step, and she automatically recoils so violently that her back pops. At the same time she raises her arms over her head and ducks. She considers melting into the ground and joining the oily grease as she crouches on the floor, all dignity lost.

  Air explodes out of one of the machines again, and Summer’s blonde hair lifts into the air. She’s waiting for it to happen—her punishment. Or to at least be lead away roughly to some place where they will beat her—or whip her. Possibly starve her. She trembles at her thoughts and still nothing happens. After a few heart-racing seconds, the Captain’s sandpaper hand grabs her forearm and moves it away from her face. She realizes that she’s crying and is absolutely nauseous with the idea of this adding to the punishment.

  Irrationally she thinks, Punishment isn’t even a descriptive enough word. Hell isn’t either, though I’m sure this is it.

  But the Captain doesn’t do any
thing to harm her, only gestures for her to exit. She stares beyond the gapping door into the eyes of several crew members. Her eyes snap back to the Captain’s, his facial expression hidden beneath his scraggly beard. She shakes her head, one last show of defiance.

  The Captain stabs his finger toward the opening more forcefully this time. She gets to her feet and does the walk of shame to the door and past the threshold where the crew members part to let her pass. Any movement from the crew makes her twitch and flinch away, though none of them make a move to touch her. She contemplates fleeing again, but has no idea where she’ll go.

  The Captain catches up to her when she starts to climb the steps.

  “I know what happened, Summer,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft. She waits for the shouting. “I know who it was, and he’s gone the next time we reach port.”

  She nods in acknowledgement, wondering why he’s telling her this.

  “Ya’ve been a great asset to this ship, Summer. If ya pull this shit again there’ll be drastic consequences,” he threatens, his dark eyes backing his words like a blood promise. “I’m giving ya a pass because someone destroyed something important to ya. Ya acted irrationally, and no one’s perfect.”

  They continue their way down another rusted metal hallway, and the silence grows thick between them. He hands over the assorted paper and notebooks to her. She accepts them gratefully, but knows it’s useless—the only thing she knows how to write is her name, and the images aren’t easily replicable. These will just be a reminder of what she lost; not just her drawn memories, but her previous life. Her heart still aches for her mum, though she tries not to think about it too often or it only makes everything worse. Still, she holds them closely to her chest. Gifts are rare, and she never takes them for granted.

  “I’m gunna put a lock on yer door and give ya the key,” Captain Travis says, breaking the tension-filled silence. “But I’ll also have a key,” he warns. “That way no one’ll be able to do anything like this again, but at the same time I can make sure ya don’t do anything like what you did today.”

  This is the nicest thing the captain has ever done for her, and she nods fervently, not believing her luck.

  “Though what ya did with the peppers was quite clever. He deserved it.” The Captain actually chuckles.

  She looks up at his face questioningly, wondering who “he” is. She wants to make sure to spit in his dinner every night.

  “Oh no.” He laughs at the frown on her face. “Until he’s off my ship I won’t tell ya who it is. If ya try to pull any more tricks with him he’ll not tolerate them, and he’ll strike back. He’s been known to do some awful things to people.” The captain rubs his beard distractedly as they turn another corner, only feet away from her room. Aaron is waiting outside, smirking widely under his mop of fire-red hair. “I knew I should’ve never let that arrogant imbecile on this ship,” the Captain practically growls.

  “Hey, I can he’r ya, ya know? “ Aaron replies with a laugh.

  “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout you, boy.” Captain Travis stops outside Summer’s room and pivots to face her. “I’ve got to g’t my supplies so I can put the lock back on yer door. Aaron here’ll make sure—” He glances up at Aaron then back to Summer. “—that no one bothers you ‘til I g’t this lock in place. Ya burned many tongues tonight.”

  Aaron finds this hysterical. Not Summer. She knows that she’ll have to watch her step for a while. Captain Travis might not punish her, but that doesn’t mean the other crew members won’t.

  “Don’t ya worry,” the Captain tries to reassure. “I’m the only one allowed to whip ya over this incident. I’ve called dibs.”

  She nods. But there are much worse things they can do, she thinks internally as she rubs her upper arm where it’s blanketed with burn scars.