Lost Harvest: Book One of the Harvest Trilogy Read Free Page B

conditions on Cygnus, the violent end to our last visit, and the urgency of our errand, I would sooner send an armada, but the forces against you at Privy are considerable. We must act swiftly, you say, and quietly, too, I think, to avoid bureaucratic entanglements. I can send a ship, but it will not be a ship of the line, perhaps not even a frigate. And her complement,” he raised an eyebrow, “will be modest at best. I have no post-captains at hand, and I will only be able to send a minimal squad of machrines.”
    “I doubt a frigate would be the best option at any rate,” Banks said. “The amount of tonnage we’re talking about, with the irrigation and support systems needed for seedlings, would be far more readily accommodated by a cargo vessel.”
    Exeter nodded, and ran a weary hand through one of his graying temples with a sigh, looking up at the image of the Drake.
    “A shame, really, that we don’t have her to send. I would have greater confidence in your plan.”
“As would I,” replied Banks, swirling his glass. “But I may have the next best option, to the extent that such a thing exists.”
    “One of her officers?” the Duke frowned at this, thinking. “Clark is commandant at Greenwich, and I can’t move him without attracting notice. Zhu is dead. Martinez and the Agincourt are out past Nelson Station, and won’t be back for a year or more. Who else is there?”
    “Pearce.”
    “Pearce? William Pearce?” The Duke’s brow furrowed as he tried to dredge up what he knew of the man. “A Lieutenant, wasn’t he? Commoner? Never made commander, if I recall. Last I heard, he had left the service to become a commercial cargo-runner.”
    “He’s an experienced navigator, my lord,” Banks said smoothly. “He’s been in space these last few years, not ashore growing fat and lazy on the captains’ list. Sailed with Jane on her last voyage, so he’s already been where we need him to go. He speaks some Cygni, and there are few enough in the service who can boast that claim. Besides,” he added, “who better than a cargo-runner to run some very precious cargo?”
    Exeter slumped back into his rocking chair. “So you propose we send a merchantman, commanded by a failed naval officer, with only a handful of machrines, to a planet that killed our greatest explorer and routed her crew.”
    “You sum it up aptly, sir. And yet it would seem to be our only hope.”

Two
 
    Pearce
     
    The Britannia was an old ship, and as she settled into her berth at Spithead Orbital Station, her ancient titanium-steel hull shuddered. All the same, Captain William Pearce wore a seldom-seen smile as he gave the orders from the command deck to reef home all gravity sails and make the ship fast to her moorings. Pearce’s starmanship was second to none, and he expected his crew to follow every order with precision and alacrity. Now, though, his commands were a little less brusque, his tone a little less grating than usual. Their just-completed run to the New Indies system had been his third in the last two years and by far the most profitable. The Britannia might be a relic, but she had a big belly, and her holds were stuffed with the rare liquors and exotic delicacies the New Indies were known for. Opal rum, greatfruits, actual meat -- the sort of food and drink only the very wealthy could afford, the very symbols of aristocratic status. The take from this voyage would vault Pearce and his family out of a working-class life and into the lowest tier of affluence.
    Born into the laboring world, without the benefit of exalted family name or inherited wealth or property, his prospects on Earth had been limited. Gone to space as a young man of eighteen, educated but not a gentleman, Pearce had learned the Royal Navy’s trade before the mast as an able-bodied starman. By virtue of his talents as a navigator and his own constant effort, he was soon rated a midshipman and eventually Lieutenant, but there his career had stalled.