One more piece of writing for perusal...

This was a wacky, crazy idea... so crazy that it just might work. I had this great penpal, this girl who wrote beautifully and was deeply into an author I loved (Pamela Dean) and who adored Hamlet at the same time I did (inspired by Mel Gibson in the role). Together we came up with the idea to write a science fiction version of Hamlet. We decided that it would take place on a group of generation ships - slower-than-light spaceships that had been sent out from Earth to reach another planet far away. The trip would take far longer than any one human generation, thus the crew of the ships would have to plan to teach their children to take up the duties of ship maintenance until the distant arrival at another planet.
Hamlet (the play) takes place in Germany, Denmark and England - hence our three ships, Germany, Denmark and England. Our story takes place after the ships have been underway for multiple generations; thus changes have occurred that the original planners did not prepare for. There are anti-technology factions; Hamlet's father was instrumental in the pro-tech faction, and taught his children the lore that had been passed down to him. Also, we decided that Hamlet and Horatio are lovers, that Hamlet's father's name was Johannes (I forget what it was in the play - but we didn't like it).

And now, Hamlet in space. Note - this is not the entirety of what we wrote; there's more but I didn't feel like posting the entire thing. If you want more, let me know.


Something, somewhere was making a horrible noise, like a cat and a machine struggling over the corpse of a rat. Hamlet had seen that happen; the overburdened dusteater trying to stuff the rat into its disposal chute, the cat fighting with every wile to retain his meal. He had laughed.
He was not laughing now; struggling through layers of sleep and entangling blankets to reach Horatio's alarm and throw it across the room. Perhaps not such a good idea in zero G, but it worked. The noise stopped as the thing hit the far wall, and Hamlet managed to catch it in a fold of the blanket as it bounced back.
"Huh," he gasped, still breathing heavily, blinking in the grey light. There had been a dream, he didn't remember the details. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful to the alarm for waking him or not. He turned the sphere in his hands until he could see the luminescent readout. Only 700 hours, Germany time. Still early, but his body sense of time had been skewed by frequent trips between Denmark and Germany and he didn't think he could get back to sleep. Even given present company...
Horatio twisted slowly, half wrapped in blankets. Hamlet caught one outflung hand and towed him closer, taking quiet pleasure in the feeling of skin against skin. Horatio looked a little sharper than usual, his gaunt face drawn. Was he working too hard? Were Hamlet's frequent absences taking their toll?
"You know I wouldn't go if I could help it," he whispered.
"Mmmm?" Horatio stretched slowly and opened his eyes, and the gaunt face was suddenly enlivened by a smile.
"I'm sorry I got in so late," Hamlet answered. "Denmark time, you know, and my father had many matters to talk about."
Horatio rubbed a hand across his eyes and the smile left his face. "How is he?"
"Afeared. Things are moving, balances are changing. There are those among the kerns who are dying to get their hands on some real knowledge, but hatreds run deep. He doesn't know how fast to work..."
"There are few men who could do what he's doing."
"Yeah..." They drifted in silence for a moment, each with his own thoughts, until Hamlet exclaimed bitterly, "If only I knew what my mother thinks!"
"Does anyone?"
Hamlet looked up sharply, surprised by the tone in Horatio's voice, as though he had bitten into something sour. "Is there something I should know?"
"No, no." He didn't sound quite sure, but Hamlet didn't want to pry. Certainly he had enough secrets from Horatio that he shouldn't mind a little reticence going the other way. "She runs that court like a puzzle..." Horatio continued musingly, "thousands of tiny pieces, and she's always trying to fit them together in different ways. But what picture does she want to form?" He grimaced, then briskly gathered his mane of hair in both hands and tied it into a tail. "I just wonder how you can manage to go back there so often."
"Not by inclination, I assure you."
"Where is your inclination leading you today?"
"No further than here." They leaned toward each other as though drawn by gravity, Hamlet pushing the blanket aside and Horatio catching Hamlet's shoulders.
The terminal on the wall sounded a tone. "Incoming message. Priority one, arriving from Denmark, court of King Johannes. By the hand of his most illustrious lady Grace, greetings."
"Did you give her the access code?" Horatio hissed. Strong emotion flooded his face, but Hamlet wasn't sure just which emotions were involved.
"No!" he hissed back. "I didn't even know she knew I was here!"
"No video," Horatio ordered with commendable presence of mind, so they stared at a blank screen as the message rolled out its brutal and frightening tale.
"Johannes son of Shimon, King of Denmark and Captain of All Environs... is dead."


Chapter 1

There was a small entourage at the airlock to see Hamlet off. Horatio, of course, and a number of the other Students. Indigo didn't bother to wipe the tears from her face, solemn and steadfast as always. It hurt Hamlet to see them thus, clustered like a group of frightened children. He swallowed a painful lump in his throat and checked the seals on his jumpsuit.
"Come when you can," he said to Horatio. "I know you have things to attend to, but--"
"Don't doubt it."
Hamlet nodded. No point in saying anything more. Horatio watched through the airlock as Hamlet settled himself in the skipshuttle chair, then worked the controls himself to close the connection and release the shuttle from Germany.
"Let's watch," said Taylor, quietly. Of one accord they moved to the viewport. The port alignment modules were somewhat in the way, but a moment later the skipshuttle slid into view, moving on the momentum of that initial, magnetic push away from the hull, and then ignited its thrusters. It fell away and down. If they craned their heads and looked toward the bottom edge of the viewport they could just see the edge of Denmark, glowing with strands of green and red. Straight out and across was the vast bulk of England, like a collection of faceted spheres chained together and strung with bright lights.
Indigo shifted, glancing quickly at Horatio. "Looks like they have some burnouts in section A. Any expeditions planned?"
He blinked, and then seemed to see her. "Um, no. Do you want to organize one?"
"Indigo!" growled Bryant, looming behind her like a monstrous shadow. "Leave it be."
She looked from him to Horatio, indignant. "It has to be done. The world hasn't ended just because he left, you know!"
Bryant took a step back and pulled at his moustache. "I know. But don't you think a moment's silence is--"
"No I don't! Hamlet wouldn't like it. He's told us often enough that we have to go on no matter who we lose, no matter who is left. Well he's gone for now, but the work is still here!"
Taylor snorted. "He's not dead, Indigo. You said so yourself."
"Don't you use that tone with me, you--"
Horatio's hand slapped against the wall and brought with it sudden silence. "I need," he said slowly, "a little peace and quiet for a while. Is that all right? Too much to ask?" He stood there like a lanky brown statue holding up the wall.
"Sorry," muttered Indigo. Horatio didn't respond and after a moment she turned away. The rest of them were splitting up into groups, returning to tasks. Some of them would be shuttling to England on work crews, some returning to the classrooms. Horatio and Hamlet would have been teaching Data Access if--but she preferred not to think about that. The king is dead, thought Indigo to herself.



Chapter 2

The Queen was waiting for Hamlet on Denmark, the black of her gown making her look even whiter than usual. She held out her hands expressionlessly to Hamlet as he climbed out of the skipshuttle; they were bare of the rings his father had given her, and they looked weak and thin. But her grip on his hands was as strong as ever, and there was no corresponding vulnerability in her face. She said, formally, "My son, your father the king is dead."

"I--know," he said, inadquately. They stood still, in painful tableau, the court gathered silently around them. "He... How did he die?"
Grace's mouth twitched. "One of his snakes," she said, and let go of his hands. "He was in the garden, and they were restless, and it--I begged him to wear his shield, I put it on him and he would not take it. He said--" her voice broke. "I keep thinking," she continued raggedly after a moment, "I keep thinking, if only I had been a little more persuasive, if only I had--" She stopped again, shook her head fiercely. She was turning a worry-stone over and over in her hands as though unaware of it. "I told him so many times he should not have such uncontrolled beasts. He never believed me."
In the midst of baffled grief Hamlet found time to wonder what parody of justice would let his father die of the one thing with which he relaxed; in the garden where he let down his guard as he did not even behind layers and layers of defense. He began, awkwardly, "But they'd never attacked him before, never even started to."
The worry-stone stopped moving; his mother opened her mouth, shut it. Hamlet looked at her. After a moment he went on, "You couldn't have stopped him from going, anyway. He never listened about things like that."
"I know," she said, and sighed. "Oh, I shouldn't make you feel you have to absolve me for your father's death, Hamlet, I know! I'm sorry, honestly."
He was, through some twist he had not quite followed, now in the position of having to give her his forgiveness; and, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for, he hesitated. She waited, too, and he was aware suddenly of the hushed silence in the room, all eyes on the two of them.
She raised an eyebrow when it became obvious that he wasn't going to say anything more. "Well. Perhaps we should adjourn to the great hall. Your--" he voice caught suddenly, "father lies in state there. The service will begin as soon as we arrive."
"Let us go, then." He declined to give her his arm, and she didn't seem to notice the lack. Why, he wondered, falling into step with the assortment of courtiers, did she always present such a changing face to the world? The grief was genuine. He was sure of that. But what more could he believe of what he saw in her? He remembered something Horatio had said a few weeks ago, a remark he had almost forgotten in the rush of work getting classes ready for the new term.
"Your mother," Horatio had said. "You haven't told her about the files we found in the abandoned levels, have you?"
He hadn't, of course. The University was something that she had no part in; it was his life, his escape from the charade of the high court, his most precious posession. None of hers. All of his, Horatio's... and of course, the king his father's.
Horatio had nodded. "Good. It would be... ill-fortune for her to know your movements too closely."
I'll fortune? Perhaps, in that she invariably made things uncomfortable for him when she knew who he was spending his time with. But had Horatio meant something worse?
Grace stopped at the grand doors, turned to face the rest of the party with one white hand resting against the painted surface.
It was ironic in a very peculiar way; Grace's grandfather had painted that very scene, of the mythical unicorn kneeling to the maiden who would betray him. The men-at-arms were cunningly worked into the trees that surrounded the white creature, camouflaged unless one knew to look for them there. Their weapons were raised, ready to strike the unicorn. That grandfather had been a kern, and his granddaughter was now as close to the pinacle of the nobility power struggle as she could ever hope to be. It was a symbol of Johannes' beliefs. He should have married a woman of the nobility. Would have, if the court had had their way, but Grace had been a gardener, and he had fallen for her and let no barrier stand in his way. And ironically she had learned to be the noblewoman he had not wanted, and he had even helped her find the place she now inhabited. Only so far he could bend for her, though...
And where are the men-at-arms? Hamlet wondered. Who is watching us from the trees? Who was watching my father?
"Galvan," she was saying, speaking to the noble who had taken her arm, "do we have a robe for my son? He must have--ah, Hamlet." Her gaze caressed him as he came close.
"I wore black," he said, and even to his ears it sounded sullen.
"This is not England," she answered. "Appearances do matter, my son. In this especially. Would it be so difficult to please me?"
Galvan wordlessly held out a heavy robe, beaded with black pearls, a match to the one he wore himself.
Hamlet resisted the urge to fling it to the floor. "I am dressed appropriately. Take it away. Gods, mother, do we have to do this here? Now?"
"I merely thought," and her tone was suddenly icy, "that you might want to bow to tradition this once. For him."
A smile flashed across his face. "I follow his traditions." As quickly the smile was gone. "In this I won't bend. Lead on."
Grace met his gaze with a sharp tilt of her head, familiar to him since childhood. So many words compressed into such a small motion, he marvelled, and she taught me that language. How ever much I chose to resist her... though perhaps I had no choice in the matter. Seeing it every day of my life I couldn't help but learn the meanings.
Just now she was capitulating.
"Very well." She rapped on the door twice and slowly the great panels slid open, pulled by the doormen inside the hall. There they were, the gathered nobles of the Denmark court, flanked by commoners and workers. Lined up by rank, stacked in neat rows, glittering with bright colors despite the sober black of robes and capes. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but quickly reconsidered when he spotted Laertes. What better thing to do, after all, than exchange glares with a man who'd like to have your liver for dinner? Not the only one, either.
You're looking particularly dashing, Hamlet thought at Laertes. Positively vicious tonight. This morning, rather. The repeated trips between ships were playing hell with his internal clock, and he had to conceal a yawn with an elaborate turning up of his jumpsuit collar.
So there they were, the nobles. They filled the broad, high-ceilinged room. And at the head of the room the bier.
The bier. Hamlet couldn't tear his eyes from it.
In that lies my...
Wooden. His great grandfather had made it from a tree grown in the Denmark gardens, precious beyond calculation. They hadn't cut down a tree since then. It had held five bodies, five men, since that time.
In that lies the man.
"Hamlet?" A hand touched his shoulder, slid across his neck.
He shivered, from his head to the base of his spine, and turned his head a little. Grace's expression was hard to read, too many messages combined there. Sympathy, perhaps? He shrugged off her hand and blinked in acknowledgement.
"Will you be all right?"
He shook his head, stiffly. She left him alone after that. The next few minutes were very bad for him, as he watched the shifting flow of nobility and thought about what his father would have said. What his father would have done. It was a fragile creation that he had built, and his death was the equivalent of pulling the foundation out from under it. Hamlet wasn't sure if he could get under there in time to hold it up.
The trumpets sounded. The hum of conversation quieted. The shifting colors stilled as people found their seats and put them to use. Hamlet should have been up near the front; even as he thought of it he saw Grace gesturing furiously. It was too late, though; he didn't want to draw so many eyes by pushing through that mass of people. He pretended not to see her and waited for the speaker to appear.
The lights dimmed, except for a golden flood on the semicircle of open floor where the bier lay. And then a man stood behind it. Hamlet bit his lip.
"We are gathered here today," rolled out that mellifluous voice, "for many reasons. To mourn the passing of a great man, wrapped in the memories of great deeds and inspiring leadership. For those of us who knew him, he was almost more than a man."
"My ass," hissed Hamlet, and drew a few astonished stares. But his attention was all on that figure by the bier, and a thousand different hypotheses were coming together to form certainties in his head.
"Denmark will not be the same place without him. There can be no duplicating of his accomplishments, only a striving to fill the space he occupied. I am reminded," said Christian smilingly, "of a time when he and I were walking together toward a council meeting, and he walked with his eyes on the deck, deep in thought. I had injured my foot the previous day in the gym, and I was hard pressed to keep up with him. Still, he didn't seem to notice my efforts, and I was unwilling to interrupt his thoughts. When we reached the door he stopped, and looked up as though just remembering that I was there. His thoughts had obviously been lightyears away, but he looked at me and said, 'Christian. What in the world did you do to your foot?'"
A pause, and a murmur from the audience.
"That man," continued Christian, "was aware of more than any of us knew. How will we go on without him, without that knowledge of the many ongoing processes that make up this world of ours?"
A long pause. Christian slowly spread his arms, a fine figure of a man. He was tall, broad and well-built. His head was grey but held high, his arms, weighed down by the embroidered robe, were strong. The answer he made was obvious without words.
"I am his brother." The voice fell softly now. "I do not know all that Johannes knew, but I know what kind of man he was. We grew up together, playing side by side. Still, he was always the older, and I learned by his example. I think that I have learned something of governing from him."
"You snivelling--" began Hamlet under his breath.
"I know that time will show that I am a worthy successor. I wish to thank you, on this occasion, for the votes that put me in this place. I can't be Johannes, but I will strive to be the best Christian I can be!"
"The votes?" Hamlet said, his blood gone cold. He looked for Grace; she had vanished into the dark crowd. What was this? A funeral, but what else? He became aware, in a moment, that he was being watched. From every side; men in dark cloaks were moving through the crowd toward him. He recognized some of the faces. Samuel, Christian's dogsbody. Molloy, who had taught fencing. A tall man with inscrutable eyes and hair greying at the temples. They moved single-mindedly.
"Grace!" Hamlet bellowed. Christian's monologue stopped, the cloaked men stopped. Hamlet tried to catch Molloy's eyes and failed; the fencing-master was studying the toes of his boots. Hamlet realized that the whole of the crowd was looking at him, and wondered why they didn't just turn the spotlight on him. A moment later he sensed movement, and then saw that familiar regal head cresting a wave through the sea of black. Grace flowed rather than walked. She was absolutely expressionless as she came to stand before him, cold as the smooth surface of a ship.
"Come," she said, turned and gestured for him to follow.

Alone in her study they stood facing each other. Grace moved through habitual gestures, pouring wine into two glasses and handing one to him. He didn't think she was as relaxed as she made herself out to be.
Hamlet's face was very white. "Who voted?"
"Denmark," Grace said, as though it should have been obvious. "Your uncle is much beloved here."
His hand clenched slowly around the glass. "My father decreed general elections," he said, struggling for control. "You knew that. The whole populace was to vote on this. You knew."
His mother shook her head. "No one really knew your father well, Hamlet. He was--" Her voice broke. She bit her lip, continued with only a little shakiness in her voice. "He was a secret man, and he kept his opinions to himself."
"That's not true! Everyone knew he supported the general franchise!"
"He never put a word in writing," Grace said, and she who had lived with him for decades and knew the hours and nights and weeks the king had spent arguing for free votes was sincere. "We looked, believe me--"

"When?" Hamlet exploded. "He died last night! How could you not find it? There were books of his writings! He was--"
"Hamlet," she put a restraining hand on his, the one that was not holding the glass. "Calm yourself, my son. This rash anger does not befit the heir to the throne, the prince of--"
"I was the heir to the throne before the king died! Why am I still?"
"The nobles chose your uncle," the Queen said. "They did not choose you."
The glass shattered. Hamlet looked down at the red-streaked crystal, opened his hand numbly and let the shards fall to the table. Grace gasped and grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, fingers clamped over the arteries. "Medtech!" she called over her shoulder, voice high-pitched, and turned back to him.
He twisted his hand furiously out of her grip and stood, rocking the table. "You erased his writing, didn't you?" he hissed.
Grace shook her head, eyes wide. "Are you all right? You're bleeding all over your--"
"I know he wrote it," Hamlet said. "I know it! He would have hidden them better than you can find, I know it--"
Grace looked over her shoulder again, visibly distressed. "Medtech! Hamlet, what are you talking about?"
"I'll find it," he said shakily. "I swear it. Mother, that election should have been general and I would have won, and I will get it. I swear to you."
"I don't understand you at all," Grace whispered, leaning her forehead against her hands. "Please, please let the meds see to your hand..."
"Not your people," he rasped, and left the room.