by B. V. Larson
“Skilled engineers and spare parts. Many of our best were killed by the Korven. For repairs to our drive systems, damaged in the attack. Unlike in open space, where we could cruise as long as necessary on inertia, this nebula’s currents of gas and particulates must be overcome, and then we must have enough momentum to push through the membrane.”
“And once you’re outside... ”
“Our sidespace generators are intact. We’ll find another Homeship and seek help from our own. We won’t bother you dirtsiders anymore.”
“General... ” Salishan said, catching his eye.
“Dromian, please stand by. Comms, mute the vidlink. Yes, Mercy?”
She lowered her voice as she stood beside him. “I was thinking about alliances.”
“Me too,” Straker said, nodding.
“I was thinking if we’re, ah, generous with our help, we might generate a lot of goodwill. As long as we don’t increase our own risk, this seems like one of those Pascal’s Wagers you’re always on about.”
“Small bet, big payoff?” Straker asked thoughtfully.
“Just so,” Salishan said. “As long as we’re not delayed long... ”
“What would you consider to be too long?”
“Five or six hours would be useful to analyze the data we get from them anyway.”
“Agreed. Get it started. Unmute.”
While Salishan issued orders for Gurung to take a repair party across to the Homeship, Straker finalized the deal with Dromian.
* * *
Chief Vedayan Gurung stropped his kukri one more time. There were sharper knives, modern ones with molecular edges, but this one harkened back centuries to Old Earth, where his Gurkha people lived in the Himalayas of Nepal. There was something comforting and proper about forty centimeters of cold steel rammed into the guts of an enemy, or drawn across his throat, something that made a warrior who he was.
Would his blade taste blood this time? Probably not. But it was good to be prepared. Perhaps he should have transferred to the ground forces after all, for the greater opportunity to fight with honor.
Yet he’d begun in his youth as an engineer and a spacer, and now a spacer he was, a spacer he would always be. There was honor in this too.
And it was his spacer skills that were needed now.
His thirty men, women, and Ruxins loaded aboard a pinnace and shuttled across to the Furmian Homeship. None had firearms—after all, the Trollheim could shatter the Homeship with weaponry to spare, or her battlesuited marines could overwhelm the Furmian civilians, battered as they were. No, the biggest threat from these nomads would be losing valuable tools to their pilfering. He’d briefed his people to keep careful track.
There was also the possibility of a duel. The male Furmians were prickly, and often got into knife-fights, he’d heard. As a nod to local customs, he sheathed a kukri behind his back, hidden beneath his tunic.
When he stepped off onto the Homeship’s grass-covered flight deck, the smell hit him. It wasn’t fetid, but it was strong, the reek of exotic spices overlaid with a background of animal rankness. The small herd of sheep-like creatures placidly eating the ground cover no doubt contributed—as did their dung, which a pair of youngsters hastened to collect with a scoop and bucket. That would go to crops somewhere.
Every centimeter of the walls sported murals, some garish and simple, some three-dimensional and complex. It made Gurung feel as if he were in a bizarre blend of farm and city slum—or a post-apocalyptic landscape where nature was reclaiming civilization.
A buxom older woman in stained coveralls met him with a firm handshake, speaking good Earthan. “I’m Engineer Camdian. Call me Cam.” She had a wide, open face, with short hair-feathers and a no-nonsense demeanor.
“Chief Gurung. Call me Ved, if you like. We brought what you asked for.” He gestured to his people filing off the pinnace, carrying cases with tools. Two six-wheeled mules pulled utility trailers piled high with spare parts.
“Excellent. Let’s get started.” Cam waved at a couple of other Furmians to shepherd the group down wide corridors, which were also filled with an eclectic collection of wall-art. Something like a dog joined them, sniffing around the newcomers and spinning its curled tail in a friendly wag.
“Is your whole ship decked in grass, with animals?”
“Mostly. Our ships are our worlds, Ved. They’re a living environment. We can survive in space indefinitely, unlike conventional ships. As long as we have power and can collect comets for water and asteroids for raw materials, the rest we can trade for.”
“Very interesting.” He kept his eyes open as they traveled, viewing the passageways with the eye of an engineer and a spacer. He noted damage, some very old, some fresh and new. Everywhere there were patches atop repairs atop rebuilds. It appeared as if the ship had been assembled over generations, welded together out of modules and hulls of other ships.
When they entered the main engine room he stopped in open dismay. Wreckage and scars of battle masked the underlying problem: all three of the great fusion motor housings were holed with openings he could walk through.
“We’ve only got five hours, guaranteed,” he said. “Maybe a little longer if the General approves. This looks like a two-week job.”
“Don’t let the holes worry you. We only need one engine running, and we’ll weld plating over them once you’ve repaired it. It’s the mechanism your help is for.”
“Right. Show me.”
They sought to get the least damaged engine running. Gurung and Cam fell immediately into engineering jargon and problem-solving. He found her cheerful, sensible, and hardworking—qualities he much valued in a woman and an engineer. Gurung ended up wishing he could get to know her better. She showed hints of deep pain and sadness, held in check and compartmentalized, yet retained her underlying poise and carriage. He admired her fortitude.
Five hours passed quickly, her people and his working well together, and he found himself wishing it would not end so soon. He wiped his hands on a rag as the Breakers finished and reported all in order.
“Fire it up,” he said to Cam.
The low-level ignition test showed nominal, and then five percent thrust rumbled briefly through the big room before Cam idled the engine again. “Amazing,” she said, showing strong, even teeth. “Your people are well-trained.”
“Thanks. We’re proud of our work.”
“That’s why I have to apologize.” She looked pained.
“For what?”
“For keeping you here.” The Furmian repair crew, mostly women and youths, opened lockers and took out firearms. They didn’t exactly point their weapons at the Breakers, but they seemed alert and determined. More importantly, they were on their home territory.
“We need a lot more repairs than just this,” Cam continued, “and I have my orders. Your ship will have to go on without you, and come back later to pick you up. You understand, I hope.”
“You must be kidding. Straker can blow your Homeship apart.”
“Dromian believes your General won’t do that. Not as long as you’re aboard. There’s no way to locate you here, no way to get you out unless you want to fight ten thousand of us.” She coughed and her expression turned bleak. “Sorry, seven thousand. Look Ved, we’ve had a horrible time of it, and more than a quarter of our people died in the attack. Both of my husbands and my eldest son were murdered by those Korven bastards. Don’t let my calm fool you. I’ve lost more than you can know. I’ll do what I have to do, for my Homeship and my people. Would you do any less?”
Gurung looked into her eyes and saw the truth there. He shrugged and smiled, his usual response to surprises. “I understand following orders. Now you need to understand this. We won’t do anything until we talk to General Straker. If he tells us to stay and work, so be it. If not, nothing you can do will force us.”
Cam sighed. “We’ll see about that.” She held up a handcomm and spoke into it. “Dromian.”
“That’s
Senior Dromian,” the device said with a crackle.
Cam rolled her eyes. “Senior Dromian, the repair crew chief insists on speaking with their general.”
“He’s in no position to insist.”
She moved away and spoke urgently into the device in the Furmian language. After a minute, she returned. “Sorry, he says no. And I’m sorry about this, really.” She nodded to one of the armed Furmians, who separated four Breaker women out at gunpoint. “These will be hostages to your work. If you don’t do the work, they’ll suffer.”
One of the youths kicked first one, then another Breaker woman in the backs of their thighs, driving them to their knees. He appeared to relish the act, and had to be ordered to stop kicking them, a hint of frenzy in his eyes. Cam’s face was frozen, zombie-like, a woman caught between necessity and conscience.
Gurung continued smiling, despite his discomfort with the outrageous situation—less discomfort than the Furmians expected, though. The Breakers were all adults. They could take some pain, and they all had the Bug to fix injuries. He forced himself to think rationally. What would keep his people safe and get them out of this mess?
He thought back to how he felt after his young wife and son had died in a Hok attack on Gorkha-3, an event that propelled him into the Hundred Worlds military and a search for revenge. He remembered his own savagery and delight in the thought of slaughtering the “aliens,” and his confusion when he’d found out they weren’t so alien after all. The kid who’d kicked the women—that could have been him at that age, wanting to lash out, not caring who he hurt, as long as he could vent that rage at something alien.
Gurung examined Cam’s face again, overlaid with disgust, but still determined to do what she thought necessary. That feeling was dangerous, the desire to do whatever it takes, the sense of having nothing to lose. It was only when he’d risen in the ranks and regained his dharma—his responsibility for people under his supervision, his sense of rightness and place in the universe—that he’d had something to lose again. In regaining that, he’d reclaimed his own soul and purified his karma.
But Cam’s soul was far from her right now. How to recall it to her?
He put on his most sympathetic face. “I know how you feel, Cam. My family was killed by an attack too—my wife, my child. I was filled with hate and rage, and I killed many enemies... but that path led nowhere. This path you are on—”
“Spare me the lecture,” Cam snapped, resolute, angry—at him? No, at herself, ashamed of the situation, he was sure. “Pam, take those four to Holding. The rest of you will get to work on the defense grid. The sooner you complete repairs, the sooner you get out of here. That’s... that’s all we want.”
Gurung thought of the kukri in the small of his back, under his tunic. Cam was unarmed and within reach, and had no idea how dangerous a Gurkha could be at close quarters. Would the Furmians respond to counter-hostage-taking? He turned his eyes to Pam, the young woman Cam had addressed, who was separating out the four battered Breakers. There was a resemblance stronger than merely “all Furmians look alike.” Cam... Pam... He wasn’t sure about Furmian naming conventions, but he had a hunch, a gut feeling that seldom failed him.
He took one long stride to Cam, whipping out his kukri as he stepped, wrapping his left arm around the woman’s throat. The knife’s point he set just under Cam’s jaw. “Pam!” he called.
The Furmians, not being trained soldiers, reacted too slowly to stop him. They aimed their weapons at him and others, yelling and threatening. The Breaker techs raised their hands. This was the most dangerous moment, the moment when desperate civilians might do something stupid.
“Pam! Pam! Stand down or I’ll cut your mother’s throat.” He backed up to a bulkhead and spoke in Cam’s ear. “Tell her!”
“Pam, stop!” Cam called. “Lower your weapons. Lower them!”
The older woman’s authority slowly prevailed, and the Furmians lowered their weapons, still fingering their triggers, wild-eyed.
“Cam,” Gurung said gently as he moved his blade away from her face, “is this the example you want to set for your daughter? For the others of your family here?”
“We just want to get home,” Cam whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She sagged in his grip. “I want my son back, my husbands, my nephews... but they’re gone. All gone.”
“Yes, your family. You Furmians are one big family, yes? Something like us Gurkhas. My family group, my people. We know each other when we meet, and we celebrate. We take care of each other. We keep each other on the right path. Does this look like the right path to you?”
“I... I have to follow my Senior.”
“I heard Dromian’s mad father led you into this situation... and your new Senior is twenty years younger than you. Is he fit to lead your clan? Don’t you have ways to change your leaders?”
“We can’t. Turning on each other in the middle of a crisis is idiotic.”
“So is turning on us. Cam, I can see you’re a good woman in a bad spot. What would it take to change Dromian’s mind?”
“Nothing. He’s a stubborn fool... but he’s all we have right now. Until the Council appoints a new leader, he’s in charge.”
Gurung sighed. “There has to be a way out of this other than by killing or hostage-taking. General Straker won’t negotiate with Dromian under threat. He has enough troops aboard to assault and capture this ship, but that would kill even more of your people and leave you in far worse shape than you already are. Have them put down their weapons, let us go, and everyone will be better off.”
“If I did that, I’d be spaced.”
“Spaced—as in shoved out an airlock?”
“Yes. So I’m dead anyway... and worthless without even one husband.”
Gurung lowered the blade a few centimeters more in surprise. “You’re a trained engineer. Are women so disdained in your society?”
“A woman without a husband might as well be a eunuch.” She spat on the grassy deck. “It’s a saying of ours.”
The saying didn’t entirely translate, but he got the gist of it. Cam felt worthless, desperate, and faced a cliff—two cliffs: her orders and her wrecked ship. She had no way down. The strategist Sun Tzu said never to corner an enemy without giving him a way out—physically, or by diplomacy. A way to save face, a way to fix the situation, however radical...
“Is there a way to depose Dromian?” Gurung asked.
“Depose?”
“Remove him. Change leadership.”
“A man of status would have to challenge him to a duel and win.”
Gurung chuckled. “I could do that.”
“Only a Furmian of this Homeship is eligible. Not an outsider—a dirtsider to boot.”
“I’m no dirtsider. I’ve lived aboard ships my whole life.”
Cam grunted noncommittally. “You’re not Furmian. You’re not of our Homeship.”
“Do I absolutely have to be Furmian? Racially, I mean—do I have to be of your species?”
“No. There have been a few aliens who lived among us, gained status. There is a famous story of Timron the Black, a Clarbin warrior who rose to be Senior of the Homeship Voldimian and sired many sons, enriching their bloodline even now.”
“He... married into your people? And sired offspring, despite not being Furmian?”
Cam smiled and shook herself slightly, twisting gently. Gurung loosened his grip enough for her to turn and look him in the face. “We Furmians are a fertile and welcoming people, when we wish. There’s an old joke that all a man must do to get a Furmian woman with child is smile at her. We’ve successfully cross-bred with many humanoid species. One great-grandfather of mine was Earth-human, and he sired many.”
To Gurung it seemed as if they were embracing rather than captor and captive, despite his naked blade. Yet, he kept her between himself and the armed civilians—civilians who’d also relaxed a little. Along with the Breakers, they were all watching and listening to the conversation.
They all wanted to find a way out, he realized.
Gurung saw one. He thought maybe Cam was getting an inkling too.
It was radical. It was unprecedented… but it might work.
He wondered if Straker would approve. Mentally, he shrugged. “So if someone were to marry into your clan, he’d be a Furmian? Legally part of your Homeship?”
“Yes.” She cocked her head in interest—and understanding dawned. “He’d acquire his wife’s status until he established his own.”
“Tell your daughter and your people to remain calm, please. I’m going to put away my blade.”
“Pam, stow your weapons and back off.”
“Mother—?”
Cam said something in rapid-fire Furmian, and Pam slung her firearm and backed up, sulking, as did the others.
Gurung raised his voice. “Breakers, stand at ease. No sudden moves.”
Once he was sure everyone was relatively calm, he allowed Cam free from his embrace, but held fast to her hand. He ceremonially nicked his left forearm with the kukri in order that the blade not be put away unblooded, before wiping it and sheathing it in one smooth motion.
Then he dropped to one knee. “Miss Camdian—”
Her face lit with pleasure. “Pelline is my intimate name.”
“Pelline Camdian, would you do me the honor of taking me as your husband?”
Chapter 20
Aboard Cassiel, in sidespace.
In his usual seat at Cassiel’s copilot console—there was little peace and quiet elsewhere—Loco read over the hardcopy info and used the displays to bring up the surprisingly extensive data on the stick Chiara had given him. He didn’t know where it had come from—no doubt from her underworld connections.
Also, the phrasing, while perfectly understandable, made him think it had been written by someone with Earthan as a second language. Perhaps it had been machine-translated.
