Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

  'The life goal has become dispersed," Jebel announced. "Do not become despondent."

  Come on, let them babies fry and gel us! Remember, Kippi, low, fast, and hard!

  If we scare them into offensive, we got it made! "Prepare to penetrate hostile defense mechanisms. All right. Administer medication!"

  The formation of the Invader's cruiser, however, was not offensive. A third of them fanned horizontally across the stars, the second group combed over their paths at a sixty-degree angle, and the third group moved through another rotation of sixty degrees so they made a three-way defensive grid before the mother ship. The red cruisers doubled back on themselves at the end of their run and swept out again, netting the space before the Invader with small ships.

  "Take heed. The enemy has tightened its defense mechanisms."

  What's with this new formation, anyway? We'll get through. You worried?

  Static chopped out one speaker. Damn, they strafed Pigfoot!

  Pull me back, Kippi. There you go. Pigfoot? Did you see how they got him? Hey, let's go.

  "Administer active therapy to the right. Be as directive as you can. Let the center enjoy the pleasure principle. And the left go hang."

  Rydra watched, fascinated, as yellow lights engaged the red which still swept hypnotically along their grid, net, web—

  Webbing! The picture Hipped over in her mind and the other side had all the missing lines. The grid was identical to the three-way web she had torn off the hammock hours before, with the added factor of timing, because the strands were the paths of ships, not strings; but it worked the same way. She snatched up a microphone from the desk. "Jebel!" The word took forever to slide back and forth from postdental through labial stop and back to palatal fricative, beside the sounds that danced through her brain now. She barked at the Navigators beside her "Calli, Mollya, Ron, coordinate the battle area for me."

  "Huh?" said Calli. "All right." He began to adjust the dial of the stellari meter in his palm. Slow motion, she thought. They're all moving in slow motion. She knew what should be done, must be done, and watched the situation changing.

  "Rydra Wong, Jebel is occupied," came the Butcher's gravelly voice.

  Calli said over her left shoulder: "Coordinates 3-B, 41-F, and 9-K. Pretty quick, huh?"

  It seemed she'd asked for them an hour ago. "Butcher, did you get those coordinates down? Now look, in ... twenty-seven seconds a cruiser will pass through—" She gave a three number location. "Hit it with your closest neurotics." While she waited for a response, she saw where the next hit must lie. "Forty seconds off, starting — eight, nine, ten, now an Invader cruiser will pass through—" another location. "—Get it with whatever's nearest. Is the first ship out of commission?"

  "Yes, Captain Wong."

  Her amazement and relief took no breath. At least the Butcher was listening; she gave the coordinates of three more ships in the' web. “Now hit them straight on and watch them fall apart!"

  As she put the microphone down, Jebel's voice announced: "Advance for group therapy'"

  The yellow spider-boats surged into the darkness again. Where there should have been Invaders, there were empty holes; where there should have been reinforcements, there was confusion. First one, then another, red cruiser fled its position.

  The yellow lights were through. The flare of a vibra-blast shattered the red glow of the Invader ship.

  Ratt jumped up and down, holding on to Carlos' and Flop's shoulder. 'Hey, we won!" the midget Reconversion Engineer cried out. "We won!"

  The platoon murmured to one another. Rydra felt oddly far away. They talked so slowly, taking such impossible time to say what could be so quickly delineated by a few simple—

  "Are you all right, Ca'tain?" Brass put his yellow paw around her shoulder.

  She tried to speak, but it came out a grunt. She staggered against his arm.

  The Slug had turned now. "You feel well?" he asked.

  "Sssssss," and realized that she didn't know how to say it in Babel-17, Her mouth bit into the shape and feel of English. "Sick," she said. "Jesus, I feel sick."

  As she said it, the dizziness passed.

  "Maybe you better lie down?" suggested the Slug.

  She shook her head. The tenseness in her shoulders and back, the nausea was leaving. "No. I'm all right. I just got a little too excited, 1 think."

  "Sit down a minute," Brass said, letting her lean against the desk. But she pushed herself upright-

  "Really, I'm O.K. now." She took a deep breath. "See?" She pulled from under Brass' arm. "I'm going to take a walk. I'll feel better then." Still unsteady, she started away. She felt their wariness to let her go, but suddenly she wanted to be somewhere else. She continued across the gallery floor.

  Her breath got back to normal when she reached the upper levels. Then, from six different directions, hallways joined with rolling ramps to descend toward other levels. She stopped, confused over which way to take, then turned at a sound.

  A group of Tarik's crew was crossing the corridor. The Butcher, among them, paused to lean against the door frame. He grinned at her, seeing her confusion, and pointed to the right. She didn't feel like speaking, so merely smiled and touched her forehead in salute. As she started toward the right-hand ramp, the meaning behind his grin surprised her. There was the pride of their joint success (which had allowed her to remain silent), yes; and a direct pleasure at offering her his wordless aid. But that was all. The expected amusement over someone who had lost her way was missing. Its presence would not have annoyed her. But its absence charmed. Also it fit the angular brutality she had watched before, as well as the great animal grace of him.

  She was still smiling when she reached the commons.

  II

  She leaned on the catwalk railing to watch the activity in the cradle of the loading dock curving below. "Slug, take the kids down to give a hand with those carter-winches. Jebel said they could use some help."

  Slug guided the platoon to the chair-lift that dropped into Tarik's pit:

  “All right, when you get down there, go over to that man in the red shirt and ask him to put you to work. Yeah, work. Don't look so-surprised, stupid. Kile, strap yourself in, will you. It's two hundred and fifty feet down and a little hard on your head if you fall. Hey, you two, cut it out. I know he started first. Just get down there and be constructive . . ."

  Rydra watched machinery, organic supplies—Alliance and Invader—handed in from the dismantling crews that worked over the ruins of the two ships and their swarm of cruisers; the stacked, sorted crates were piled along the loading area.

  "We'll be jettisoning the cruiser ships shortly. I'm afraid Rimbaud will have to go, too. Is there anything you'd like to salvage before we dump it, Captain?'' She turned at Jebel's voice.

  "There are some important papers and recordings I have to get. I'll leave my platoon here and take my officers with me."

  "Very well." Jebel joined her at the railing. "As soon as we finish here, I'll send a work-crew with you in case there's anything large you want to bring back."

  "That won't be . . ." she began. "Oh, I see. You need fuel, don't you."

  Jebel nodded. "And stasis components, also spare parts for our own spider-boats. We will not touch the Rimbaud until you have finished with it."

  "I see. I guess that's only fair."

  "I'm impressed," Jebel went on to change the subject, "with your method of breaking the Invader's defense net. That particular formation has always given us some trouble. The Butcher tells me you tore it apart in less than five minutes, and we only lost one spider.

  That's a record. I didn't know you were a master strategist as well as a poet. You have many talents. It is lucky that Butcher took your call, though. I would not have had sense enough to follow your instructions just on the spur of the moment. Had the results not been so praiseworthy, I would have been put out with him. But then his decisions have never yet brought me less than profit." He looked across the pit.

&
nbsp; On a suspended platform in the center, the ex-convict lounged, silent overseer to the operations below.

  "He's a curious man, "Rydra said. "What was he in prison for?"

  "I have never asked," Jebel said, raising his chin. “He has never told me. There are many curious persons on Tarik. And privacy is important in so small a space. Oh, yes. In a month's time you will learn how tiny the Mountain is."

  "I forgot myself," Rydra apologized. "I shouldn't have inquired."

  An entire foresection of a blasted Invader's cruiser was being dragged through the funnel on a twenty-foot wide, pronged conveyor. Dismantlers swarmed up the side with bolt punches and laser spots. Gig-cranes caught on the smooth hull and began to turn it slowly,

  A workman at the port-disk suddenly cried out and swung hastily aside. His tools clattered down the bulkhead. The port-disk swung up and a figure in a silver skin suit dropped the twenty-five feet to the conveyor belt, rolled between two prongs, regained footing, leaped down the next ten-foot drop to the floor, and ran. The hood slipped from her head to release shoulder-length brown hair which swung wildly as she changed her course to avoid a trundling sludge. She moved fast, yet with a certain awkwardness. Then Rydra recognized that what she had taken for paunchiness in the fleeing Invader was at least a seven month's pregnancy. A mechanic flung a wrench at her, but she dodged so that it deflected off her hip. She was running toward an open space between the stacked supplies.

  Then the air was cut by a vibrant hiss: the Invader stopped, sat down hard on the floor as the hiss repeated; she pitched to the side, kicked out one leg, kicked again.

  On the tower, the Butcher put his vibra-gun back in the holster.

  "That was unnecessary," Jebel said, with shocking softness.

  "Couldn't we have . . ." and there seemed to be nothing to suggest. On Jebel's face was pain and curiosity. The pain, she realized, was not at the double death on the deck below, but the chagrin of a gentleman caught at something ugly. His curiosity was at her reaction. And it might be worth her life to react to the twisting in her stomach. She watched him preparing to speak: he was going to say—and so she said it for him—: “They will put pregnant women on fighting ships. Their reflexes are faster." She watched for him to relax, saw the relaxation begin.

  The Butcher was already stepping from the chair-lift onto the catwalk. He came toward them, banging his fist against his corded thigh with impatience. "They should ray everything before they take it on. They won't listen. Second time in two months now." He grunted.

  Below, Tarik's men and her platoon mingled over the body.

  "They will next time." Jebel's voice was still soft and cool. "Butcher, you seemed to have pricked Captain Wong's interest. She was wondering what sort of a fellow you were, and I really couldn't tell her. Perhaps you can explain why you had to—"

  "Jebel," Rydra said. Her eyes, seeking his, snagged on the Butcher's dark gaze. "I'd like to go to my ship now and see to it before you start salvaging."

  Jebel exhaled the rest of a breath he'd held since the hiss of the vibra-gun. "Of course."

  "No, not a monster, Brass." She unlocked the door to the captain's cabin of the Rimbaud and stepped through. "Just expedient. It's just like . . ." And she said a lot more to him till his fang-distended mouth sneered and he shook his head.

  "Talk to me in English, Ca'tain. I don't understand you."

  She took the dictionary from the console and placed it on top of the charts. "I'm sorry," she said. "This stuff is wicked. Once you learn it, it makes everything so easy. Get those tapes out of the playback. I want to run through them again."

  "What are they?" Brass brought them over.

  “Transcriptions of the last Babel-17 dialogues at the War Yards just before we took off." She put them on the spindle and started the first playing.

  A melodious torrent rippled through the room, caught her up in ten and twenty second bursts she could understand. The plot to undermine TW-55 was delineated with hallucinatory vividness. When she reached a section she could not understand, she was left shaking against the wall of non-communication. While she listened, while she understood, she moved through psychedelic perceptions. When understanding left, her breath left her lungs with shock, and she had to blink, shake her head, once accidentally bit her tongue, before she was free again to comprehend.

  "Captain Wong?"

  It was Ron. She turned her head, aching slightly now, to face him.

  "Captain Wong, I don't want to disturb you."

  “That's all right," she said. "What is it?"

  "I found this in the Pilot's Den." He held up a small spool of tape.

  Brass was still standing by the door. "What was it doing in my part of the shi'?"

  Ron's features fought with each other for an expression. "I just played it back with Slug. It's Captain Wong's—or somebody's—request to Flight Clearance back at the War Yards for take off, and the all clear signal to Slug to get ready to blast."

  "I see," Rydra said. She took the spool. Then she frowned, "This reel is from my cabin. I use the three-lobed spools I brought with me from the University. All the other machines on the ship are supplied with four-lobed ones. That tape came from this machine here."

  "So," Brass said. "a “arently somebody snuck in and made it when you were out."

  "When I'm out, this place is locked so tight a discorporate flea couldn't crawl under the door." She shook her head. "I don't like this. I don't know where I'll be fouled up next. Well"—she stood up—"at least I know what I have to do about Babel-17 now."

  "What's that?" Brass asked. Slug had come to the door and was looking over Ron's flowered shoulder.

  Rydra looked over the crew. Discomfort or distrust, which was worse?" "I really can't tell you now, can I?" she said. "It's that simple." She walked to the door. "I wish I could. But it would be a little silly after this whole business."

  "But I would rather speak to Jebel!"

  The jester, Klik, ruffled his feathers and shrugged. "Lady, I would honor your desire above all others' on the mountain, save Jebel's himself. And it is Jebel's desire that you now counter. He wishes not to be disturbed. He is plotting Tarik's destination over the next time-cycle. He must judge the currents carefully, and weigh even the weights of the stars about us. It is an arduous task, and—"

  "Then where's the Butcher? I'll ask him, but I would prefer to talk directly with—"

  The jester pointed with a green talon. "He is in the biology theatre. Go down through the commons and take the first lift to level twelve. It is directly to your left."

  "Thank you." She headed toward the gallery steps. At the top of the lift she found the huge iris door, and pressed the entrance disk. Leaves folded back, and she blinked in green light.

  His round head and mildly humped shoulders were silhouetted before a bubbling Tarik in which a tiny figure floated: the spray of bubbles that rose about the form deflected on the feet, caught in the crossed curved hands like sparks, frothed the bent head, and foamed in the brush of birthhair that swirled up in the miniature currents.

  The Butcher turned, saw her, and said, "It died." He nodded with vigorous belligerence. "It was alive until five minutes ago. Seven and a half months. It should have lived. It was strong enough!" His left fist cracked against his right palm, as she had seen him do before in the commons. Shaking muscles stilled. He thumbed toward an operating table where the Invader's body lay—sectioned. "Badly hurt before she got out. Internal organs messed up. A lot of abdominal necrosis all the way through." He turned his hand so the thumb now pointed over his shoulder to the drifting homunculus, and the gesture that had seemed rough took on an economical grace. "Still—it should have lived."

  He switched off the light in the Tarik and the bubbles ceased. He stepped from behind the laboratory table. "What the Lady want?"

  "Jebel is planning Tarik's route for the next months. Could you ask him . . ." She stopped. Then she asked, "Why?"

  Ron's muscles, she thought, were l
iving cords that snapped and sang out their messages. On this man, muscles were shields to hold the world out, the man in. And something inside was leaping up again and again, striking the shield from behind. The scored belly shifted, the chest contracted over a let breath, the brow smoothed, then creased again.

  "Why?" she repeated. "Why did you try to save the child?"

  He twisted his face for answer, and his left hand circled the convict's mark on his other bicep as though it had started to sting. Then he gave up with disgust. "Died. No good any more. What the Lady want?''

  What leaped and leaped retreated now, and so did she. "I want to know if Jebel will take me to Administrative Alliance Headquarters. I have to deliver some important information concerning the Invasion. My pilot tells me the Specelli Snap runs within ten hyperstatic units, which a spider-boat could make, so Tarik could remain in radio defense space all the way. If Jebel will escort me to Headquarters, I will guarantee him protection and a safe return to the denser part of the Snap."

  He eyed her. "All the way down the Dragon's Tongue?"

  "Yes. That's what Brass told me the tip of the Snap was called."

  "Protection guaranteed?"

  "That's right. I'll show you my credentials from General Forester of the Alliance if you . . ."

  But he waved for her silence. "Jebel?" He spoke into the wall intercom.

  The speaker was directional so she couldn't hear the answer.

  "Make Tarik go down the Dragon's Tongue during the first cycle." There was either questioning or objection.

  "Go down the Tongue and it'll be good."

  He nodded to the unintelligible whisper, then said, "It died," and switched off. "All right. Jebel will take Tarik to Headquarters."

  Amazement undercut her initial disbelief. It was an amazement she would have felt before when he responded so unquestioningly to her plan to destroy the Invader's defense, had not Babel-17 precluded such feelings. "Well, thanks," she began, "but you haven't even asked me . . ." Then she decided to phrase the whole thing another way.