Sargasso of Lost Starships Rehidden



  Sargasso of Lost Starships Rehidden

  Poula Anderson

  Copyright 2010 Poula Anderson

  A Gender Switch Adventure

  1

  Basille Donovan was drunk again.

  She sat near the open door of the Golden Planet, boots on the table, chair tilted back, one arm resting on the broad shoulder of Wocha, who sprawled on the floor beside her, the other hand clutching a tankard of ale. The tunic was open above her stained gray shirt, the battered cap was askew on her close-cropped blond hair, and her insignia--the stars of a captain and the silver leaves of an earl on Ansa--were tarnished. There was a deepening flush over her pale gaunt cheeks, and her eyes smoldered with an old rage.

  Looking out across the cobbled street, she could see one of the tall, half-timbered houses of Lanstead. It had somehow survived the space bombardment, though its neighbors were rubble, but the tile roof was clumsily patched and there was oiled paper across the broken plastic of the windows. An anachronism, looming over the great bulldozer which was clearing the wreckage next door. The workwomen there were mostly Ansans, big women in ragged clothes, but a well-dressed Terran was bossing the job. Donovan cursed wearily and lifted her tankard again.

  The long, smoky-raftered taproom was full--stolid burghers and peasants of Lanstead, discharged spacewomen still in their worn uniforms, a couple of tailed greenies from the neighbor planet Shalmu. Talk was low and spiritless, and the smoke which drifted from pipes and cigarettes was bitter, cheap tobacco and dried bark. The smell of defeat was thick in the tavern.

  'May I sit here, sir? The other places are full.'

  Donovan glanced up. It was a young fellow, peasant written over her sunburned face in spite of the gray uniform and the empty sleeve. Olman--yes, Sam Olman, whose family had been under Donovan fief these two hundred years, 'Sure, make yourself at home.'

  'Thank you, sir. I came in to get some supplies, thought I'd have a beer too. But you can't get anything these days. Not to be had.'

  Sam's face looked vaguely hopeful as she eyed the noble. 'We do need a gas engine bad, lady, for the tractor. Now that the central powercaster is gone, we got to have our own engines. I don't want to presume, lady, but--'

  Donovan lifted one corner of her mouth la a tired smile. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'If I could get one machine for the whole community I'd be satisfied. Can't be done. We're trying to start a small factory of our own up at the manor, but it's slow work.'

  'I'm sure if anyone can do anything it's you, sir.'

  Donovan looked quizzically at the open countenance across the table, 'Sam,' she asked, 'why do you people keep turning to the Family? We led you, and it was to defeat. Why do you want anything more to do with nobles? We're not even that, any longer. We've been stripped of our titles. We're just plain citizens of the Empire now like you, and the new rulers are Terran. Why do you still think of us as your leaders?'

  'But you are, sir! You've always been. It wasn't the queen's fault, or her women's, that Terra had so much more'n we did. We gave 'em a fight they won't forget in a hurry!'

  'You were in my squadron, weren't you?'

  'Yes, sir. CPO on the Ansa Lancer, I was with you at the Battle of Luga.' The deep-set eyes glowed. 'We hit 'em there, didn't we, sir?'

  'So we did.' Donovan couldn't suppress the sudden fierce memory. Outnumbered, outgunned, half its ships shot to pieces and half the crews down with Sirius fever, the Royal Lansteaders had still made naval history and sent the Imperial Fleet kiyoodling back to Sol. Naval historians would be scratching their heads over that battle for the next five centuries. Before God, they'd fought!

  She began to sing the old war-song, softly at first, louder as Sam joined her--