by Glen Cook
He shuffled forward with the line, finally reached the table. One of the Seiner men asked a few questions. He replied numbly.
“Sign and thumbprint this please, Mr. benRabi. Give it to the lady with the rest of your paperwork.”
Shaking, he completed his contract. The Seiner girl at table’s end smiled as she shoved his papers into the maw of her reducing machine. She said, “Just through that door and take a seat, please. The shuttle will be ready shortly.”
He went, bemused. That pale Seiner girl, with her pale hair and harsh cheekbones, reminded him of Alyce, his Academy love. That was not good. More than a decade had passed, and still the pain could penetrate his armor.
Was that why he had trouble with women? Every affair since had, inevitably, fallen into emotional chaos. Each had become a duel with swords of intentional hurt.
But there had been no prior affairs to stand comparison. Maybe he was just consistent in picking unstable women.
He took a chair in the waiting room. Out came the tattered notebook, a traveling companion of many years. This time, he swore, he would finish Jerusalem.
The unbreakable fetters which bound down the Great Wolf Fenrir had been cunningly forged by Loki from these: The footfall of a cat, the roots of a rock, the beard of a woman, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird.
—The Prose Edda
Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that was the best possible opening quote. It had an indisputable universality.
Every life had its Loki capable of binding it with chains as tenuous but strong.
Those wormwood memories of Academy returned. They were indestructible memorabilia of an affair with a fellow midshipman who had been the daughter of the Vice Commandant and the granddaughter of the Chief of Staff Navy.
He had been an idiot. A pig-iron, chocolate-plated fool. How had he made it through? In the context of Alyce, he still thought his survival a miracle.
And the cost? What if he had not, as ordered, dropped the affair? What if he had persisted? She had demanded that he do so, defying what to him had been terrifying concentrations of authority.
To her those people had been family. Mother and grandfather. To him they had appeared as behemoths of power.
And the night beast with guilt-fangs longer than any of his other haunts: What of the child?
Come on, he grumbled at himself. What is this? Let’s ditch the memories and romantic nonsense. He was a grown man. He should get back into Jerusalem; that would be a blow against the dread empire of his soul.
One of his favorites, from Pope’s Dunciad:
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos, is restored;
Light dies before thy uncreating word . . .
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
He looked up. What now? Ah. A last-chance-to-get-out briefing.
It was conducted by an officer with a voice so infuriatingly scratchy that it had to be technically augmented. “We don’t want you on our ship. You’re not our kind of people,” the officer said for openers.
“Why’re you here? What are your motives?”
Good questions, benRabi thought.
“Two reasons. You’re either bemused by the Seiner myth, which is a holonet fabrication, or you’re here spying. I’ll let you in on the secret now. This isn’t going to be any romantic adventure. And you’re not going to get at any information. All we’re going to give you is a lot of hard work inside a culture unlike any you’ve ever known. We’re not going to ease you into our world. We’re not going to coddle you. We don’t have the time.”
The man was deliberately trying to upset them. Moyshe wondered why.
“We’ve assembled you for one reason. It’s the only way we can meet next year’s harvest quotas.”
BenRabi had a sudden feeling. A premonition, he thought. The man had more than harvests on his mind. Some worry, or fear, was racketing around his brain. Something terrible and big had him half spooked.
Admiral Beckhart liked using benRabi because he had these intuitions.
Moyshe also sensed a ghost of disappointment in the speaker, along with a taint of distaste for landsmen. He spoke as if tasting the sour flavor of betrayal.
It was inarguable that these Seiners were desperate. They would never have sought outside technicians otherwise.
BenRabi quelled a surge of compassion.
The speaker’s home was a harvestship somewhere out in the Big Dark. To survive it needed a massive input of competent technicians. The man was sour because of all of Confederation’s billions, only two hundred people had come forward. And most of those could be considered suspect.
The Seiner fumbled in the pockets of his antiquated tweed jacket. BenRabi wondered if the man was an Archaicist. His preconceptions of the Seiners did not include the possibility that they were faddists too.
The man produced a curious little instrument. He thrust it between his teeth. He gripped it with his right thumb and forefinger, puffing while he held a small flame over its bowl. Only after he had begun expelling noxious clouds did benRabi realize what was happening.
“A pipe!” he muttered. “What the hell?” Tobacco stench assailed his nostrils. “I can’t believe this much bad taste.” He shuddered.
His reaction was not unique. His companions buzzed. A woman rose and started to leave, then gagged and returned to her seat. Even Mouse looked appalled.
How many of these crude horrors lay in ambush ahead? This was carrying Archaicism to the point of boorishness.
Much as the pipe disgusted him, benRabi applauded the psychology behind its appearance. The man was easing them in after all. The impact of later cultural shocks would be blunted a little.
“As I said,” the Seiner continued, once his pause had his audience squirming, “there’re spies here. Spy is a nasty word, I know. And spying is a nasty business. But a realist recognizes the existence of espionage, and we’re all realists here. Aren’t we? Espionage is all around us today. We’re drenched in it. Up to our heinies in it. Because almost anybody with any power at all will do almost anything to get control of a starfish herd.”
He assayed a little smile. It mocked them all. He was doing a show, putting on the pompous ass to prod somebody into reacting. BenRabi sensed a quiet, self-assured competence behind the showmanship. In fact, there was something about the man that screamed Security Officer.
“You spies won’t learn a thing. Till your contracts terminate you’ll see nothing but the guts of a ship. Even then you’ll see only what we want you to see, when we want you to see it. Everybody. Hear this. Security rules will be observed at all times. That’s the Eleventh Commandment. Engrave it on your souls—if you have any. Even a slight irregularity might spook us into hasty reaction. Since we’re not sure what information the spy-masters would consider valuable, we’re going to do our damnedest not to give away anything at all.”
BenRabi grimaced. Was the fool trying to impress them with Seiner paranoia and xenophobia? He could rave for a week and not intimidate the professionals.
“I reiterate: outside agents simply won’t be given a chance to contact anybody who might possess critical information. There’ll be penalties for trying to reach such people. Am I making myself clear?”
Someone made a snide remark.
The speaker responded, “You’ve got to realize that we consider ourselves a nation unto ourselves. We’re not Confederation. We don’t want to be Confederation. We don’t give a damn about Confederation. All we ever asked from it was to be left alone. Which is what we ask of any gang of strongmen. Archaicism is our way of life, not just a crackpot hobby. Just for example, we still execute people once in a while.”
That blockbuster fell into an ocean of silence.
BenRabi wondered how many times Confederation had tried coaxing these strange, fiercely independent people into the government fold. Dozens, at least. Luna Command was persistent. It was a long-toothed hound that did not turn loose of a bone.
And for a centur
y and a half the Starfishers had managed to evade Luna Command’s “protection,” mostly by remaining so damned hard to find, but also by making it clear they were willing to fight.
Luna Command had never given up. It never would. Even these people had to recognize that, benRabi thought. They had to recognize the government’s stake.
Nervousness pervaded the waiting room, fogging in like some unexpectedly conjured demon. The briefing officer met pairs of eyes one by one. The romantic flinched before his stare. They were finding their legend had teeth and claws.
No one executed people anymore. Even the barbarians beyond Confederation’s pale recycled their human garbage, if only through cyborg computation systems.
The civilians were learning what people in benRabi’s trade learned early. Adventures were more fun when it was somebody else getting the excelsior ripped out of his crate.
“In view of what I’ve said, and knowing that your futures may not be exactly what you anticipated when you applied,” the man said, “anybody who wants to do so can opt out now. We’ll cover expenses as advertised.”
BenRabi smiled at his lap. “Thought that’s where you were headed,” he whispered. “Trying to spook the weaklings, eh?”
There was a stir in response, but no one volunteered to go home. The weaklings seemed scared that they would look foolish. The Starfisher shrugged, collected his notes, and said, “All right. I’ll see you all upstairs.” He left the room.
Time to sit, to wait for the shuttle; benRabi returned to his notebook and Jerusalem.
He was having trouble with the story. His mind seemed to be too ordered and mundane to produce the chaotic, nonobjective symbolism of a McGuhan or Potty Welkin. His maliciously intentional obscurantisms refused to remain obscure. That could have been because he knew what he wanted to say.
Maybe he should do the story as straight narrative, Moyshe thought. He could strive for what the Archaicist reviewers called “a refreshingly anachronistic flavor.” It might then survive the Archaicist marketplace, where the unsophisticated arts of the past still had appeal.
Jkadabar Station is six months long and two years wide, fifteen minutes high and a quarter of nine forever; there are songs in its skies and trumpets in its walls. The Roads have neared their ends . . .
Was he wrong? Was he alone in his feeling that all people were exiles in time? No matter. What could he do about it? Not a damned thing. That was the passion that should drive the story. Raging impotence.
People began moving excitedly. The volume of conversation picked up. BenRabi dragged himself back to reality. He muttered, “Shuttle must be ready.”
Yes. His companions had begun filing onto the field already. These Seiners were frugal. They had not bothered to lease an attached landing bay.
The air outside was cool and on the move. A raindrop touched his cheek, trickled like a tear. A ragged guerilla band of clouds hurried over, firing off a few scattered water-bullets that made little mud balls in the dust lying thick on the tarmac. An omen? Rainy weather at Blake City was almost a nevertime thing. Water was too scarce in this part of Carson’s.
He laughed nervously. Omens! What was the matter with him? “Into the shuttle, caveman,” he mumbled.
The ship had been an antique when his grandfather was wetting diapers. It was no commercial lighter, and never had been. Broomstick, from Century One, it was a go-powered coffin with no comforts from strictly-for-gun-power days. He saw nothing but stark functionalism and metal painted black or grey. It appeared to be Navy surplus, probably from the Ulantonid War.
The part of him that was still line officer noted that she was well maintained. Not a spot of dirt or corrosion showed anywhere. The ship had that used but kept-up look sometimes seen in rare antiques. These Seiners were lovingly careful of their equipment.
The passenger compartment was the antithesis of luxury. BenRabi had to suspend disbelief to credit it as suitable for human use. Yet the converted cargo bay did have ranks of new acceleration couches, and soothing music came from hidden speakers. It was old stuff, quiet, perhaps something by Brahms. It put a comforting gloss over the unsteady whine of the idling drives.
They would lift blind, he saw. Weedlike clumps of color-coded wiring hung where view-screens had been removed. They were taking no chances.
This seemed to be taking security a bit far. What the hell could the screens show if the Seiners kept them switched off? For that matter, what could they betray if turned on? He knew where he was. He knew where he was going, at least for the short run.
Was it some subtle psychological trick? A maneuver to accustom them to flying blind?
He dithered over a choice of couches.
The knot behind his ear, containing the non-dispersible parts of the instel-tracer, seized him with iron, spiked fingers. He had been switched on by the Bureau.
Why now? he wondered, staggering with the pain. They were supposed to wait till the lighter made orbit.
The thin, pale girl who had done the form reductions rushed toward him. “Are you sick?”
Her expression was one of genuine concern. He was more shaken by that than by this Bureau treachery. He had lived under the gun for years now. He was unaccustomed to strangers caring.
Her concern was not the bland, commercially dispensed pablum of a professional hostess, either. She wanted to help.
I want fired across his mind.
“Yes. A migraine attack. And my medicine is packed.”
She steadied him. “Sit down here. I’ll get you something.”
He dropped onto the couch. A devil kicked the back of his skull with a steel-toed boot. It was a vicious little critter. It kept hammering away. He could not restrain a groan.
The headache became a bass drumbeat overshadowing his other pains. He looked up into the girl’s pale blue eyes. They were perfectly suited to her pale complexion and colorless hair. He tried a smile of gratitude.
“Be back in a minute,” she told him. “Hang on.” Off she hurried, her hips moving in a languorous way that belied her haste. BenRabi’s head left him no time to appreciate the nicety.
His frayed nerves jumped. They had migraine tablets on hand? That was strange. And her curiosity. Why was she interested in his health? She had become intrigued and apprehensive the instant he had mentioned migraine.
He had stretched the truth this time, but he had had headache trouble all his life. He had gobbled kilos of painkillers in his time.
Still, he had not been bothered recently. The susceptibility was noted in his medical file as a cover for the pain his tracer would cause . . .
Why the hell switch him on now?
His headaches were a mental thing, Psych had declared. They were caused by unresolved conflicts between his Old Earth origins and the demands of the culture into which he had climbed.
He did not believe it. He had never met a Psych he trusted heaving distance. Anyway, he had had headaches even before he had begun to consider enlisting.
For at least the hundredth time he asked himself why the Bureau had implanted an imperfect device. He answered himself, as always, with the observation that the tracer was the only way they had to follow a Seiner ship to a starfish herd.
Completely nonmetal, the tracer was the only device that could be smuggled aboard without being detected.
There was no satisfaction in knowing the answers. Not when they were so damned unpleasant. He wished to hell that he could take a vacation. A real vacation, away from anything that would remind him of who and what he was. He needed time to go home and get involved in something with known, realizable, and comfortable challenges. He longed for the private universe of his stamp collection.
The Seiner girl returned with another of those big, warm smiles. She carried a water bottle in one hand, a paper pillbox in the other. “This should put that right,” she said. That damned smile tried to eat him up. “I brought you a dozen. That should last the whole trip.”
He frowned. How long would they be ab
oard this piece of flying junk?
“I asked if I could stay with you till we make orbit. Jarl turned me down. Too much else for me to do.” She smiled, felt his forehead.
He had had a feeling she would report him to somebody. It was the way she had reacted to his mention of migraine.
What was so remarkable about a headache? Even a migraine? Something was wobbling on its axis and he could not get a grip. The pain just would not let him think.
Hell. He was probably just feeling the first ground tremors of culture shock. Fly with it, Moyshe, he told himself. You’ve raced a sunjammer in the starwinds of the Crab . . . What could the lady do that was less predictable, or more terrifying?
She was leaving. He did not want her to go. “Wait.” She turned. His heart did a teenager’s flop. “Thank you. My name’s benRabi. Moyshe benRabi.” Now wasn’t that a gimp way of feeling for an opening? But she responded with a quick little smile.
“I know, Moyshe. I remember from your papers. Mine’s Coleridge. Amaranthina Amaryllis Isolte Galadriel de Coleridge y Gutierez.” She yielded a half-laugh because of his rising eyebrows. “Mother was a reader. Amy’s good for everyday.”
There was a long, unsure moment. It was that period of uncertainty preluding potential relationship where he did not know if he dared open up a little more. She said, “I’m in Liquids Systems too.”
He nodded. She had left the door open a crack. It was plain that it was up to him to use or ignore it.
Some words finally came, but too late. She was walking away. Maybe later, then.
I want returned to his mind, stimulated by the girl’s invitation. Could a woman be his need? No. Not all of it, though having one around might be oil on the seas of his mind.
He had been hunting his Grail for a long time. Though he believed himself a cripple when dealing with them, the occasional woman had fallen his way. None of them had been panaceas. Alyce’s ghost usually got in the way.
