When the cloud man used the word "kick," I could not help picturing the way I needed to kick elderly persons on Melaquin in order to elicit any response. Hesitantly I asked, "What do young people think of this, Nimbus? The young Fasskisters and Cashlings. Do they ever look around and say, Why are things not better? What is wrong with us that we cannot accomplish great deeds? Why do we waste hours and days and years on activities we know achieve nothing? How can we stop being broken?"
The cloud man’s mist floated close to me, becoming fog all around my eyes. I had the feeling he had actually surrounded me, wrapped himself about my body, enfolding me until I too looked like a creature of mist. "Of course they ask such questions," he whispered. "Once in a while. When they can force themselves to concentrate. Out in the depths of space, lightyears away from anything, I’ve watched Cashlings weep over who they are… who they aren’t… what their race has become. That’s how prophets are born: a moment of clarity, the desire to transform themselves and the universe.
"But," he continued, "it never lasts. They can’t make it last. They’re damaged, Oar — even if they experience a flash of profundity, they can’t sustain it, they can’t use it, they can’t preserve the desire to change. I’ve watched them; they can’t become anything else, not even with other species to learn from. They simply lack the capacity. The Cashlings are lost, and other races are following them into the darkness. On their best days, they long to be truly alive… but they’re physically incapable of pushing themselves past the emptiness." He paused. "You can’t imagine their heartbreak when they realize they can’t make it work."
"I believe I can imagine it," I said. My eyes had gone misty… and the mist was not cloud.
20: WHEREIN I FEEL SORRY FOR FISH
Exclusive Rights
I still had my eyes shut, squeezing them tight to choke off tears, when the twittering Lady Bell clapped her hands with jubilation. "Then it’s settled!" she said in a gleeful voice. "Your lives for your story!"
My eyes snapped open. While I was conversing with Nimbus, Festina had apparently negotiated our freedom… which irked me no end since I had wished to be the one who persuaded the Cashlings to set us free. How else could I show the world I was not a worthless idle-head? I swiped the tears from my cheeks and stormed across the transport bay. "So," I demanded, "what is this sinister deal you have worked out behind my back?"
Festina blinked in surprise. "Nothing sinister, Oar. Lady Bell has agreed to transport everyone on Hemlock to Jalmut and let us go free once we get there… in exchange for which, she gets exclusive rights to our story."
"Exclusive rights!" Bell crooned. "The most wonderful phrase in your language!"
"Of course," Lord Rye said, "tomorrow, the rights will be mine. Because then it’s my turn to be prophet."
"Uh, yes, certainly," Bell replied. "It will be your turn." She whirled back to Festina. "No time to waste. We have to record your statement and broadcast it immediately. We have to record everybody’s statement." She moved to my side with a single step of her long-legged gait and took me by the arm in a manner oozing with unearned familiarity. "Your statement particularly, dear. You were the one who suffered most; and you’ll come across fabulously on camera. The moth-eaten jacket… the woebegone expression… the childish speech patterns… you’ll tug like mad on everyone’s heartstrings. Especially the prime demographic of men who like watching grown women behave like eight-year-olds. Boy, do those guys have disposable income!"
Festina seized my other arm before I showed Lady Bell what "disposable" really means.
No Such Thing As An Immediate Departure
"So," Uclod said to Bell, "you can do the broadcast right away?"
The lady whooshed gusts of air from several apertures in her skin. I believe this was a Disdainful Scoff. "We’re running a crusade," she told the little orange man. "We have an instant-play contract with four major news-wires and enough broadcasting wattage to saturate every star system from here to the globular clusters. When we preach a sermon, we preach a sermon."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Uclod asked. "Let’s go!" Alas, it was not so easy as that. Arrangements had to be made. While the prophets’ ship (called Unfettered Destiny) could hold those of us scheduled to give testimony, the rest of Hemlock’s crew had to be offloaded in ones and twos to other vessels in the flotilla. This would require significant coordination of effort, and neither Lady Bell nor Lord Rye wished to supervise the work: such "petty details" were beneath the dignity of important prophets. Moreover, Lady Bell insisted her broadcast witnesses could not possibly spare the time to help clear the navy ship. We had to start recording without delay; otherwise, she might decide to make us slaves after all.
This was merely an empty threat — anyone could see she did not care about slaves half so much as she cared about the broadcast. Bell literally jiggled with joy at the prospect of disseminating our testimony; she clearly expected to reap substantial benefits. No doubt she would become famous as the person who brought my poignant tale to the universe. Moreover, I suspected the broadcast was not going to be delivered free of charge — the audience would have to pay a fee in order to see my beauty. This meant Lady Bell would surely become rich, for everyone enjoys watching a person as lovely as I, especially when the person has a Sobering Tale To Tell.
The promise of forthcoming largesse explained why Bell grew upset with Festina. My Faithful Sidekick wished to remain on Royal Hemlock long enough to ensure there were no slip-ups in the evacuation… whereas Lady Bell desired to leave right away, and stamped her foot impatiently at waiting even a little bit. "If you must hang around here," she told Festina, "I’ll take the others and get started without you."
But that did not please Festina: she had the air of a person who believes everyone else will make an Awful Cock-Up of giving testimony, emphasizing the wrong details, skipping important evidence, and generally creating a flawed impression with the viewing public. She did not trust us to do things correctly unless she was there to supervise.
In the end, Lady Bell agreed to wait just long enough for Festina to find Captain Kapoor and put him in charge of the evacuation. This, as it turned out, was merely a ruse on the lady’s part — as soon as Festina left the transport bay, Bell attempted to persuade us to depart immediately.
"Can’t do it," Sergeant Aarhus said, "even if we wanted to. No spacesuits."
"Why do you need spacesuits?" Bell snapped.
"Don’t like breathing vacuum," Aarhus answered. "I hate the part where my eyes get freeze-dried. So while the admiral is gone, let’s just mosey on down to where the Explorers keep their suits."
"No, no, no," Bell interrupted, "you won’t need suits. Unfettered Destiny is docked directly outside. An airtight link." She waved her hand toward the exit hatch. "You can go over right now."
"So why are you and Rye wearing suits?" Uclod asked.
Lady Bell made another whooshing sound with multiple orifices. "We didn’t know how much air you’d have," she said. "You were floating derelict, no FTL field, no electrical readings… for all we knew, you might not have oxygen either."
"Exactly," Lord Rye agreed. "We didn’t know you’d fried your own ship; we thought maybe all your power systems had been disabled by that thing on your hull."
For a second, nobody spoke. Then we all howled in unison, "What thing on our hull?"
"I don’t know," Lord Rye said. "It looked like a big stick."
Questions Of Security
Lajoolie fairly threw herself against Uclod, as if the little man was the only creature in the universe who could protect her; she nearly bowled him over, but somehow he stayed on his feet. He put one arm around her hips and gave a comforting squeeze… but his eyes turned toward the exit airlock as if he desperately wished to run for it.
The rest of us were unencumbered by large timid women. We did run for the airlock — not because we were fleeing cowards, but because the foolish human ship had no means of looking at its own exterior. I
wanted to see with my own eyes what this big stick looked like. Nimbus and Aarhus clearly felt the same.
"Where are you going?" Lady Bell asked as we passed her.
None of us answered. I reached the airlock first, with Nimbus gusting straight behind me, and Aarhus pounding through the hatchway a moment later. The sergeant grabbed the door as he passed; with a strong yank, he slammed it shut while the Cashlings still gaped at us from outside.
"Spin that wheel," Aarhus yelled, pointing at a spoked metal ring that stuck out of the wall. I grabbed the wheel and heaved; it moved so grudgingly, I was not certain I was turning it in the correct direction, but one does not like to embarrass oneself by sheepishly switching to go the other way, so I just pulled the wheel harder. Much harder.
The floor lurched beneath our feet.
"Hey," Aarhus said, "take it easy!"
"I did not do anything," I told him, "I just turned the wheel."
"The wheel’s attached to gimbals," he said. "They change our orientation to match the direction of gravity on the other ship — the last thing we want is to step out of the airlock and plummet straight up toward the floor."
"Why are spaceships so complicated?" I grumbled. "If I were in charge of the galaxy, I would pass a law that all ships must fly flat and level instead of at odd angles."
But I spun the wheel more slowly after that. I could feel the airlock chamber rotating and rolling in accordance with the wheel’s revolution… but the direction of down continued to be more or less beneath our feet, as if gravity was continually rearranging itself to match our gyrations. Quite possibly, if I had been patient enough to move the wheel at a snail’s pace, we could have turned completely upside-down while barely noticing the change.
"You know," Aarhus said as he watched me work, "technically speaking, what we’re doing could be considered hijacking. Boarding someone’s ship without permission."
"Do not be foolish," I told him. "The Cashlings can follow us as soon as we have gone through."
"I know that. But what will the Cashling security systems think? When strangers show up unaccompanied, the ship might consider us illegal intruders."
Nimbus made a dubious noise. "In my experience with Cashlings, half the time they forget to activate security systems when they leave the ship."
"That leaves the other half of the time," Aarhus said. "The half of the time when the ship-soul incinerates your ass and stomps on the cinders. Anyone know what anti-personnel weapons are popular in the Cashling Reach?"
"Gas," Nimbus answered immediately. "Doesn’t hurt Cashlings because they adapt so quickly to airborne contaminants… but with humans, it makes you retch till you pass out from the dry heaves."
"Lovely," Aarhus muttered.
"Do you wish to go back?" I demanded. "Do you relish groveling before Lady Bell and apologizing for your rashness?"
"Nope," Aarhus said. "I just want to know what might happen when that door opens."
The wheel in my hands clicked and stopped turning. Aarhus smiled at me, then at young Starbiter inside the cloud man’s stomach. "I’m tempted to say women and children first," Aarhus murmured, "but AdmiralRamos would never let me hear the last of it."
He grabbed a lever on the airlock hatch and threw the door open.
Why It Is Good To Have Airlocks
For a moment, I feared we were under attack by some noxious gas — a foul stench assailed my nostrils, like midsummer swamp rot combined with the scent of skunks and boar feces. Of course I held my breath; but even without inhaling, I could feel the horrid reek pressing in upon my nose, like the sharp tip of a knife just waiting to plunge to the hilt.
"God damn!" Aarhus cried, throwing up his hand to cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils shut. "Holy fucking shit!"
He reached out to close the door again, but Nimbus said, "Wait." The cloud man’s top half separated into a dozen foggy ribbons, while the lower half of his body — the part containing baby Starbiter — retained a vague eggly shape. "Wait. Wait. Wait."
Nimbus swirled out of the airlock, his upper half combing the air in long strips, turning a full circle horizontally, then rotating back in the reverse direction. At first, I did not understand what he was doing… but then I remembered how he had originally sensed me as a "chemical imbalance" (hmph!) back on Starbiter Senior. His little misty bits must possess the ability to analyze the air for toxicity; now he was testing to determine if the smell was harmful or just foul.
After another two circles, the streamers of his upper body coalesced into his former egglike shape. "The air’s not dangerous," he told us. "Not in the short term anyway. It’s just putrid as hell."
"But why?" Aarhus demanded… though it is difficult to sound truly demanding when one is muffling one’s mouth with one’s hand. "Have they sprung a leak in their sewage recyclers?"
"No. Cashlings simply have an impressive capacity to counteract atmospheric pollutants. Their stibbek automatically compensate for extreme degrees of… uhh… odorous infelicity. Therefore, I’ve noticed — in the times I’ve served on Cashling ships — they don’t maintain high standards of sanitation."
The sergeant’s expression turned aghast. "You mean they leave garbage lying around?"
"Anything and everything. They simply can’t be bothered to clean up after themselves. If they’re eating something as they walk down a corridor, they’ll drop whatever they don’t want and leave it to rot. Then they’ll step over the mess for weeks afterward, rather than bend down and pick it up. As for personal hygiene…" A shudder went through Nimbus’s body. "You don’t want to know. Every few years, they have to dock their ships at an orbital station and get robots to scour all exposed surfaces. You and Oar should watch your step; personally, I intend to hover at least half a meter off the floor."
"Christ Almighty," Aarhus muttered. "Now I understand why the navy sends Explorers to enter alien vessels. We ordinary swabbies aren’t cut out for stomaching hostile environments."
"You are not the one with bare feet," I told him. Then I headed out the hatchway, my eyes most diligently watching the ground.
A Glimpse Of Unfettered Destiny
The Cashling ship Unfettered Destiny was indeed a most God-Awful Mess. Not only was the receiving bay besmirched with organic substances of disgusting provenance (discarded fruit turned spongy brown, hunks of desiccated meat, stains of spilled liquids in a variety of colors and degrees of stickiness) but the bay was full of bric-a-brac: possibly gifts or tribute from the prophets’ disciples, but maybe just foolish knickknacks procured on impulse and tossed aside two seconds after arriving on ship.
How else to explain at least thirty bolts of cloth piled haphazardly against the wall — with every bolt displaying the same pattern. (Jagged green and red zigzags moving jerkily across an electric blue background… and I do mean electric, since the cloth occasionally gave off sparks.) There were also statues lying about, some recognizable (trees, horses, arches) and some depicting objects that did not exist in nature… unless somewhere there is a spherical creature who has a habit of shoving both hands all the way down its throat until they come out the other end.
I will not bother to describe the other items heaped around the room — and there were many heaps indeed, including mounds of gold coins, stacks of data-bubbles, and buckets of glittery crystals that might have been genuine jewels — but I must note the cages, crates, and pens that once contained living animals.
Now those same containers held corpses, many in advanced states of decomposition.
I could not identify any of the species. Some were clearly alien — things with eight legs, or with shells shaped like flat orange octagons. Others might have been creatures I knew, but were too dried and withered to recognize anymore. Skeletons covered with shriveled skin. Mounds of decaying fur still pressed desperately against the wire of the cages where they had died.
All these animals perished from neglect: unfed, unwatered, uncleaned. I suppose they had been brought to the prophets as p
ious offerings, then simply ignored. They might have been nice pretty creatures — fluffy and gentle, or scaly and playful — but the Cashlings apparently could not be bothered to fill up food and water dishes. These "holy sacrifices" had suffered most horrible deaths from sheer lack of attention… and the sight made me sad and angry, both at the same time.
Had Lady Bell and Lord Rye been the ones responsible for such starvation and thirst? Or were these creatures left over from previous prophets — prophets who accepted live offerings from their followers, then left the animals to rot? I did not know. I strongly hoped the two current prophets were not the guilty parties; but even if Rye and Bell were innocent of these animals’ deaths, they were obviously not much different from their predecessors. Whatever awfulness they had inherited, they had simply allowed it to continue: a dirty, messy, stinky ship that made one want to cry.
The most tragic part was that Unfettered Destiny was made of glass — beautiful, beautiful glass, so grimy and grubby it broke one’s heart.
The floor tiles were see-through: if you looked past the crusty smudges and mounds of rubbish, you could stare at the next level below (chockfull of machinery that might have been the ship’s engines, its computers, or its entertainment systems). Through the walls, one could see more machines — some with screens that flashed pictures, some with screw-like attachments that spun at high speeds, some that just brooded silently over their dour lack of ornamentation. As for the view through the glass ceiling… the entire length of Royal Hemlock rose straight above us, like a great white tower jutting into black space.
It made me dizzy to look at — as if the giant white ship might topple onto my head at any second. I could barely stare up at it without going woozy. Perhaps it might have been easier if I had lain down flat on my back, but I was not about to lie on this floor.
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