Mutiny in Space by Rod Walker

said Murdock. “You plant it. Or you grind it up into flour and turn it into bread and stuff. I have no idea what you’re babbling about!” He glared at the captain. “How drunk did you get before you sold us all out anyway?”
    Williams stepped back, his fingers tightening against the gun, and he might have shot Murdock then and there, but then he saw me looking at him.
    “He’s awake!” he shouted. “Alesander, the young one woke up! Maybe he’ll know!”
    I jerked upright to a sitting position, my head swimming, and braced my hands against the deck to keep from falling over. Williams shifted his pistol to point at me, as did one of the commandos.
    “Um, hi,” I said uncertainly. “Don’t shoot.”
    “That will rather depend,” said a familiar voice with a rolling accent, “on what you say in the next five minutes.”
    I turned my aching head, and Alesander Ducarti swaggered into my line of sight.
    He was dressed better than anyone else on the bridge, but more for movie combat than the real thing. He was wearing combat boots, cargo pants, tactical vest, and a leather jacket, but they all looked brand new. He was carrying a lot of weapons too, with pistols on both hips, grenades on his harness, and a K7 slung over his shoulder. His head was tilted to the side, as if in speculation, and his dark eyes looked amused as they stared at me.
    “He’s Corbin’s brat,” said Williams, walking to Ducarti’s side. Despite his paunch, Williams was a tall and imposing man. Nevertheless, he sort of hovered at Ducarti’s elbow, almost like a teenage girl meeting her favorite rock star for the first time. “He’s Corbin’s little pet.”
    “Nephew,” said Ducarti absently.
    “What?” said Williams, blinking.
    “The correct term is nephew,” said Ducarti. “A sibling’s child. In this case, a brother’s.”
    “That’s my point,” said Williams, puffing up as if he had done something useful. “He’s family. Corbin will have told him everything.”
    “Indeed?” said Ducarti. “Well, then. Do tell us everything, Nikolai.”
    I took a deep breath. “My name is Nikolai Rovio, and I am an apprentice crewer aboard Starways Hauling Company freighter
Rusalka
, registry number…”
    “Yes, yes,” said Ducarti with a smile. “I am quite familiar with the formalities, thank you. But we are old acquaintances, are we not, Nikolai? Surely we can speak candidly.”
    “All right.” I glared at him. “Fine. You’re a murderer. You killed my mother and my brother.”
    “Nonsense,” said Ducarti. “They killed themselves. No one forced them to do anything.”
    “You killed them,” I spat. “You murdered them and a lot of other people all for your stupid Revolution!”
    Williams bristled. “Watch your mouth, boy!”
    “Now, now, Captain,” said Ducarti with perfect calm. “We already know that young Nikolai and his uncle are reactionaries. Which means that it is possible that Nikolai knows everything that we need to know.”
    “I’m not telling you anything,” I said.
    It was pure bluster, and we both knew it. I had heard about the kind of things Social operatives did to their prisoners, the drugs and the neural jammers and the more conventional methods of torture. If Ducarti wanted, he could force me to tell him anything and leave me a physical and mental cripple in the process.
    I had a feeling he would enjoy that.
    “Let’s find out, shall we?” said Ducarti. “Where is the key to the harvest? Tell me where it is, and you may well save the lives of all of your crewmates.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said in all honesty. “How can a harvest have a key?”
    Williams snarled and punched me in the face. It wasn’t much of a punch. I guess he never had the benefit of a big brother teaching him how to fight. Nevertheless, I wasn’t ready for it, so it was enough to knock me backwards to the deck.
    “Belay that, Captain,” said Ducarti, strolling forward. “There is