The City Who Fought

by S. M. Stirling

  The com chimed and the screen cleared, allowing communications specialist Keri Holen an unobstructed view of Channa slumped at the base of Simeon’s column. “Oh! What’s hap . . . I mean, Ms. Hap! Simeon, is she all right?”

  Channa was instantly on her feet, palm up in a calming gesture. “I’m fine,” she said, serenely adjusting her tunic blouse. “What is it?”

  “Uh . . . a message from Child Welfare on Central, from a Ms. Dorgan. If it’s convenient, she’s scheduled a conference call for 1600 today.”

  “Perfect,” Simeon said, “tell her thank you,” and he broke the connection.

  “I thank the powers that be that wasn’t Ms. Dorgan herself,” Channa said nervously.

  “I like that ‘if it’s convenient,’ ” Simeon said, musingly. “Channa, have you ever replied, ‘No, it’s damned inconvenient?’ ”

  Channa regarded him with a singularly blank expression. “No, actually I haven’t. But then, in my branch of the service, it shouldn’t ever be!”

  Simeon studied Joat nervously, wondering if they should have dressed her differently. All the other children her age wore the same shapeless clothes, disgusting and often raucous color combinations, but not necessarily what the prudent guardian would recommend for this kind of interview. The com chimed.

  Too late, he thought. Channa seemed calm, but then Channa always seemed calm. Odd when she can exude such depths of hostility. . . . Still, she always did them with a controlled and icy demeanor. Yeah, Channa was fine. Joat’s hands were clasped in her lap. Poor kid, her knuckles are white. But otherwise she seemed composed. I’m fine, too, he thought. I’m not calm, but I’m fine.

  Ms. Dorgan studied them from the screen, like a teacher assessing a class of delinquents, then smiled, a tight, superior little smile. Her hair was gray, cut short, combed in a simple disciplined style. She wore a severe dark blue suit with a prim white blouse and no jewelry. The view of background behind her was official and equally unsoftened by anything even remotely unofficial.

  I’ll bet she starches her bras, Simeon thought. He remembered Patsy Sue using that expression: entirely appropriate right now.

  Ms. Dorgan nodded to Channa, then fastened her cold little eyes on Joat. “Hello, dear,” she said in syrupy tones. “I’m Ms. Dorgan, your case-worker.”

  Joat’s face had hardened to wariness, her whole body going rigid. Simeon wondered how his nutrient fluid had suddenly gone so cold, but he didn’t dare divert an erg of his attention away from these proceedings. He didn’t even dare reassure Joat. She mumbled a barely audible “hello” in response.

  “Well, dear, you made some very impressive scores on the tests. Did you know that?”

  A nearly inaudible “no” answered her.

  Ms. Dorgan glanced down at something below the screen’s range, and then her right hand became visible, probably pressing the button to scroll her file forward.

  “You are, however, considerably behind your age group in a good many subjects, with the exception of mathematics and mechanicals, where you positively excel.” That much was said with some genuine enthusiasm. “You’ve no idea the excitement you’ve generated in some quarters. I think you may now anticipate a much brighter future than your past may have led you to expect, dear.”

  Simeon spoke for the first time, keeping his promise to his protégé. “Joat wants to study engineering. You obviously concur that she has a unique talent in that field.”

  Ms. Dorgan’s studied smile wavered and the tendons on her neck stood out with the strain of not obviously peering around the room. “You are the . . . shellperson?” She seemed to hold her thin lips away from the word as though it might soil them. Her eyes roved between Channa and Joat as though hoping one of them might be ventriloquising the male voice.

  “Yes. I am Simeon, the SSS-900-C. I’m applying to adopt Joat as a full daughter and full relation.”

  Ms. Dorgan’s hand delicately brushed a strand of hair back into place.

  “Yes, well, as to that,” she raised her brows as though surprised that he had spoken at all, “you realize that other prospective parents have put in applications for children with Joat’s potential. We usually give preference to couples.” There was a faint emphasis on the final word. She fingered her collar nervously. “In Joan’s case . . .”

  “Joat,” said Joat, Simeon and Channa in unison.

  “Joat’s case, I’ve shown her file to a quantum-lattice engineer, who is a professor of my acquaintance, and he immediately expressed an interest in her. He’s extremely enthusiastic about tutoring someone of such promise. He’s married, too, on a life-contract with a poet. Such a situation would have many advantages for the child.”

  Simeon watched Joat’s face go white. “As a station manager, I am intimately acquainted with a variety of sciences, including regular updates on state-of-the-art, so I am quite capable of tutoring her, on the practical level she prefers, in any specialty that interests her. Relax, Joat. Ms. Gorgon’s merely mentioning options and possibilities.”

  The case-worker loudly cleared her throat. “My name, Station Manager Simeon, is Dorgan, with a D. Which reminds me, Joat, somewhere on the application, ah, here it is, it says that your name is an acronym for ‘jack-of-all-trades.’ Where ‘Jack’ was a gender-inappropriate first name, ‘Jill’ was substituted. How would you feel about being called Jill?”

  “About the same as I’d feel about being called shit,” Joat replied, every inch the belligerent corridor-kid now, scornful and angry; no trace of her earlier diffidence remaining. “And I wouldn’t answer to it ‘cause it’s not my name.”

  “Joat!” Channa gasped.

  “Don’t you see it, Simeon, Channa?” Joat said, her blue eyes sparkling with contempt. “This is all a joke! This ol‘ Ms. Organ . . .”

  “Dorgan, if you please.”

  “ . . . bitch has made up her mind. What are we wasting our time and credit talkin‘ to her for?”

  “Calm down, Joat,” Simeon said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. Ms. Dorgan, although I have unlimited communication links, my time is heavily scheduled, and I was assured by the authorities that this was merely a formality. Shall we move to settling the details now?”

  Slightly pink in the cheeks, Ms. Dorgan took a deep breath and released it in a small huff.

  “I can’t believe that you would persist in this application, knowing that a human couple is interested in the child. It would be one thing if no one wanted her, but that is not the case. In the first place, since she’s at a very sensitive stage of development, there is no way that someone like you could appreciate what she’s going through.”

  “Because Simeon is male?” Channa asked quietly.

  “Because he is a shellperson. My dear Ms. Hap, as a professional brawn, you are surely well-acquainted with the peculiarities of these persons. Why deny that they are practically a different species? With no real understanding of what it’s like to be independently mobile? How could he possibly raise an active, growing child?” The slight emphasis on the two adjectives made Channa clench her teeth in disgust. Dorgan’s question was also rhetorical.

  “Well, now, Joat,” Simeon drawled, heavily borrowing from Patsy Sue again, “I guess you were right. Ms. Gorgon had made up her mind before she saw us.”

  “That’s Dorgan,” the case-worker said, leaning heavily on the “d.”

  “Toldja,” Joat said, “ol‘ Ms. Organ’s already decided.”

  “Dorgan. Dorgan. DORGAN!”

  “Stop it! All three of you.” Channa cast her glare over Simeon’s column, Joat’s flushed face, and finally settled it on the Child Welfare representative. “You have some very strange ideas about shellpeople, Ms. Dorgan, with a D. My advice would be to consider carefully before you make any more bigoted remarks. I particularly resent your denying Simeon his intrinsic humanity. I’ve never met a shellperson who wasn’t at least as able and responsible as a softperson. And indisputably more ethical! In fact, your remarks indicate active
prejudice on your part. Prejudice which is, I might remind you, legally actionable.”

  Ms. Dorgan raised her chin. “There’s no need, no need at all, Ms. Hap, to make threats. No doubt it is due to your long association with such persons that you no longer consider them . . . abnormal.” Before Channa could get over sputtering at that, the case-worker smiled smugly. “In the child’s best interests, I’m afraid that I shall have to deny this petition. I shall make arrangements for her transport to Central, where, after a short stay at our orphan facility, she will no doubt be adopted by a proper family.” Still smiling she broke the connection.

  “Well?” Simeon almost shouted into the ensuing silence. “You’re not going to let her have the last word on this, are you?”

  “Don’t she have it? Far’s this orphan child’s concerned?” Joat demanded bitterly. “I knew this’d happen. I told myself this’d happen. But you two trained brains were both so damned sure.” She sneered as she counted off her points. “You knew just where to go and just who to talk to and just what to do. But you know what? You don’t know ANYTHING! But after all, how could you?” she asked her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Everything’s always gone your way. Everything’s always just been handed to you.” She started to sob. “Shells, education, food, a living place. Well, they don’t get handed out, lemme tell ya. And look what you’ve done to me! Now they know I exist and where I am, and they’re coming to get me! For all I know, that lattice engineer wants to play diddly on my lattice work. Only he’s human and a professor and’s got an ‘in’ with her. You got me into this, but I’m sure not waiting for you to get me out. I’m not goin‘ anywhere with nobody I don’t want to!” Her voice had reached scream level before she pivoted and ran from the lounge.

  “Joat!” Channa moved to follow her, but Simeon closed the door in her face. “Simeon!” she said in disbelief.

  “Let her go, Channa. What could you do now? Lock her in her room until they come for her?” Channa looked as though he’d struck her. “She needs time and privacy. She needs to feel in control again. Let her alone.”

  “There are things we can do, Simeon. I’m not going to let that woman win. We can go over her head in Child Welfare. We can appeal to SPRIM and Double M for help. You taped that interview, didn’t you?”

  He laughed, for once pleased to see her so combative. “Yes, I did, and won’t the Mutant Minorities and the Society for the Preservation of the Rights of Intelligent Minorities dump on La Gorgon for her attitudes! Good thinking, Channa. I’m this very moment apprising them of this incident. Y’know, this could even be fun.”

  Late that night, Simeon noticed that a light came on in Channa’s quarters. He had assiduously kept to his promise, but the faint glow under the door was plainly visible. Well, to anyone with photonscanners like mine, he amended. Still, he was observing the principle of the thing.

  Channa heard a chiming sound and, after a surprised pause, called out, “Hello?”

  Simeon’s voice, carefully adjusted to low audibility, answered from the lounge, “May I come in?”

  She smiled and laid aside the reader she’d picked up. “Yes, you may.”

  She lay in bed, looking tousled and sleepy. Simeon thought that she looked little more than a kid herself. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  She shook her head, “I keep thinking of Joat, alone down there in the dark.”

  “Joat’s been asleep for hours.”

  “How do you know that? She might still be crying her heart out for all we know.”

  “I know because I can hear little Joat-sized snores issuing from one of her favorite haunts.”

  “She didn’t turn on her sound-scrubber?”

  “Nope. She was upset!”

  “No, she was thoughtful. She is becoming more civilized if she didn’t want us to worry.” And Channa laughed in relief, then sobered. “She’s such a good kid. She really didn’t deserve Gorgon on her case. Look, Simeon, B & B’s are considered couples by Central Worlds. Our contracts tend to last a lot longer than mere marriages. If I stayed on for say, ten years and applied for joint custody with you, most of Gorgon’s objections would be invalid.”

  “Joint custody, huh? Well, Gorgon can’t say a female brawn isn’t a good role model. I’ve got comlines hotting up, but what I don’t know is how many others at Child Welfare suffer from Dorgan’s prejudice. I’d hate to see you make such a ‘supreme sacrifice’ for nothing. Fighting Ms. Gorgon through the bureaucracy won’t turn us to stone, but it could bore our brains into oatmeal.”

  Channa gave a little “tsh” of scorn. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.”

  “I know, I heard about Senalgal. Sorry, Channa. I know what it’s like to lose an assignment you’d sell your soul to get.”

  She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “What was it for you, if you don’t mind my asking—a planet-based city, a scout ship? Or maybe you looked as high as a whole planet?”

  “I’ve got a city, more or less. Definitely not a scout ship. The brain/brawn scout ship is too claustrophobic and limited. I like dealing with a lot of people. I enjoy the give and take of various personalities and situations. More challenge on a station this size. I love being challenged.”

  “Not a city, not a ship. You’re after a planet?”

  “No, I wouldn’t want that much responsibility. And a planet’s too sedentary. But a ship, definitely, so I could get around a lot.”

  “Ah,” she said, making the connection between his leisure interests and the only ship assignment that applied, “a Space Navy command-ship.” She cocked her head. “Are you in line for one?”

  “Theoretically, yes. I’ve applied and what do I get? ‘You’re too important where you are,’ ” he began in a singsong monotone, “ ‘You’re too perfect where you are, there’s no one else as well-trained as you are for such a highly specialized situation.’ I’ve always,” he added wryly, “considered SSS-900-C to be a temporary assignment.”

  “Forty years is temporary?”

  “With shellpersons, of course it is.”

  “Maybe we aren’t so imperfectly matched after all.” She paused a moment, then in a flippant tone added, “With Joat to sweeten the deal, I don’t think I would regard staying here as a ‘supreme sacrifice.’ Ugh! Orphan facility, indeed! Pick her up? Like some sort of a package?” She peered out of her room towards his column. “Do you think we stand a chance of reversing Dorgan’s decision?”

  Simeon wouldn’t have taken bets, but he had barely tackled the task. On the up side, he felt something deep inside him beginning to uncoil. “With a B & B partnership, we have a chance. I appreciate your willingness to consider one very much, Channa. Right now though, dear lady, why don’t you sleep on it?”

  She sighed. “Mm, but I’m restless, and,” she played with an edge of the reader, “there’s nothing I really want to read.”

  “Then,” he said, gently dimming the lights, “I shall recite a bedtime poem for you. Settle in.” He waited until she had scooted down and adjusted covers and pillows, smiling as she did so. He began, “We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage . . .” Her eyes closed, and gradually she drifted off to sleep as Simeon recited.

  “ . . . softly through the silence beat the bells,

  Along the golden road to Samarkand.“

  Chapter Five

  Channa emerged into the lounge, heading for the table and her morning coffee. A wave of sound struck her—very much a wave, like plunging into a curling jade-green wall that seized her and bore her back towards the beach.

  She couldn’t help but recognize the music as “The Triumphal March” from The Empress of Ganymede by User.

  She paused with a slight frown when she realized that she had unconsciously altered her stride to suit the march tempo. She stopped, and her pause was the length of a measure. She laughed when she realized it. “Does this mean I get to be queen today?”

  “Actually, after your restless night, I decided something upbeat would
suit.”

  “Well, I sure got off on the right foot, then,” she said with a sound approximating a giggle.

  Simeon was pleased. Last night their relationship really had turned a corner. They were going to be all right.

  “So, a good morning to you, Simeon,” she said with an impish smile.

  “And a good morning right back atcha, as Patsy Sue would say.”

  Channa’s appreciative smile faded slowly into a frown. “I’d consider it a real good morning if I could see and speak to Joat as soon as possible. I’m very worried that she might jump ship on us, and that would ruin every step of progress we’ve made with her.”

  “Wish I could oblige you on that, Channa, but I don’t know where she is now. She turned on her sound-scrubber early this morning and effectively vanished.” He hurried on when Channa’s face showed her disappointment clearly. “I don’t think she’d leave on two counts. One, she knows her way intimately between the skins of this station, and it’s certainly big enough for her to change hidey-holes on an hourly basis if necessary. And two, none of the ships undocking today are the type she could stow away on or hire out on. I’ve got every sensor tuned to her registered patterns, and I’ve discreetly alerted key personnel.”

  Channa nodded and went to her console, pulling the notescreen towards her. “Then we had better get to work. SPRIM ought to be moving on that dispatch you sent off last night.” Her anxiety lifted at Simeon’s knowing chuckle. She ran her fingers in a tattoo on the console. “And I suspect Child Welfare won’t like being on their hit list.”

  “Hit list?” Simeon spoke with some alarm. “Are they that way inclined?” He didn’t wish Ms. Dorgan any physical harm.

  “The way SPRIM execs rave about humanocentric chauvinism is enough to turn even a tolerant person into a xenophobe. They’ve got money and they’re tireless in ensuring protection. That slur she made on shellpeople, well . . . And the MM make SPRIM look like a quilting party.”