by Brian Daley
"Keep your boxtop on! I didn't mean you; I mean me! Redlock gave us flavorings, spices, mixes—lots of stuff. You won't be sorry. I've cooked before."
Amarok's anger left him. "One has no objection to that. But stay out of Someone's way. And neither of you enters the bridge or power section unless This One is there, do you understand, Fitzhugh?"
"Aye, sir," Alacrity responded, dead on the level, without a trace of sarcasm.
When Amarok was gone, Alacrity beamed at Floyt, who still wore a sour look. Nodding toward the departed Amarok,
Alacrity said, "Don't let him get to you. He's a skipper with lots on his mind, and a real young one at that."
"How could you be so—genial?"
"It works better this way. You should start seeing things from his side. After all, you're a starship owner now."
"Don't remind me." Floyt sighed, opening the meal tray and sniffing dispiritedly at the contents. "On Earth it's bad form to show any interest in offworld things. An offworld print on your wall would make you a pariah. Do you have the slightest idea what owning a starship will mean? A child molester with the plague would be more popular. Uh, do you really think anything can make this goo taste better?"
Alacrity dug into the pack, fetching out a large plastic bottle shaped like a grinning Buddha. Its metal-foil label glowed and pulsed in primary colors, seeming to project characters into the air—EPICUREAN MYSTERY SAUCE—FINEST CONDIMENT IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE!!!
"You could feast on compost with this stuff," Alacrity proclaimed. "Try it."
Floyt put his thumb on the bottle's trigger and tentatively sprayed a fine mist over a small section of his food.
"That's the way! Goom it over, goom it over, Ho."
Floyt tasted charily. His cheeks inflated and his eyes bulged out. "Tell them back on Earth that I went out gamely." He collapsed.
Alacrity clicked. "Come on!"
Floyt straightened. "No, really. No more, I beg of you; I'll tell you where my unit is located, you fiend."
Alacrity was happily strafing his tray. "Your problem is you haven't tasted this spew-up without the sauce."
Their tour of Pihoquiaq put Floyt in mind of a crawl through a kids' play-fort. There were only three places with no excess cargo stowed in them: the head, power section, and bridge, the last of which Alacrity, like most breakabouts, referred to as the Fuckup Factory.
Even the ship's escape capsule was packed, hardly leaving room for three bodies. Alacrity couldn't really fault that, though, since most of the stuff was food concentrates and other emergency supplies.
Amarok dogged their track for a while, but he was reassured by Alacrity's brisk, spacemanlike manner. When the Innuit was content that Alacrity knew his way around a monitor, he left the two friends to their own devices.
The bridge was located in the turretlike roundhouse. It was still a two-seat affair, despite all the automation, but nevertheless too confined for even Floyt to stand upright.
It offered a feeling of space, however; Amarok had left the forward viewports uncovered. They looked out at an infinite nullity. Floyt was never quite sure what it was he was seeing, though at times it seemed to suggest parts of the causality harp. He did know that none of those images registered on cameras or any other image-recording device.
The head, a mere stall combining several functions, was cramped for Floyt, torturous for someone the size of Alacrity or Amarok. Monitors had originally been designed for a crew of six, and nobody had been lavish with living arrangements.
The power section had been decorated with incised angat-kua, ritual images, Quaanaaq-Thule style. There was standing room and more; even the profit-fixated Amarok didn't dare block access to various systemry and the Hawking Effect generator.
It was the first one Floyt had ever seen, a wide cylindrical metal casing standing almost as tall as himself, painted who-cares green.
Alacrity took hold of one of the housing's grab irons, put his foot on a step, and hauled himself up to an imaging scope. The light from it made a faint bandit's mask across his face.
He descended again, making way for Floyt. "Want a look?"
Alacrity helped with the scope controls. Floyt had heard Alacrity refer to the "chandelier guts" of a Hawking generator. The scope's image of this one looked more to Floyt like an incandescent carousel of strung light, difficult to focus on for long.
It was hard for him to believe that this was—for humans and many of the nonhuman races, at any rate—the key to fast superlight travel among the stars. He felt overawed and disappointed at the same time.
Floyt pulled back from the scope to look around the rather grubby power section. "And it's just, just here like this? Where anyone could tamper with it? What if somebody bungles, or something?"
"What happens if you decide to stroll out a five-hundredth-story window?"
"Mmm."
"Only, in this case, it happens to everybody inboard." Alacrity checked the readings on the casing's instrumentation, which were also patched through to the Fuckup Factory.
"On a military vessel, a good one, the Hawking and its backup—which we haven't got one of—are usually a No Lone Zone, Deadly Force Used. In a one-man circus like Pihoquiaq, things get pretty casual. Don't let it bother you though; it looks like he takes good care of this crate."
"No, it's not that. I was just thinking; there's plenty of headroom in here."
"Only place in the ship. So what?"
"You'll see. It's easy to tell you never spent any time in an Earthservice urbanplex. What's next?"
While they wormed their way through the ship, visiting the galley-booth, lifeboat station, main gun turret—which had been hung with a Kikituk killing effigy—and the rest, Alacrity told Floyt the story of the monitors.
The ships had originally been sublight vessels, no-frills workhorses of the Spican fleet. Thousands had been built for the First and Second Spican civil wars; more for convoy duty during the Beguile spacelift. They'd been used for patrol purposes and, in many cases, pressed into action as ships of the line.
Development of the Hawking Effect coincided, for Spica, with invasion by a neighboring system. The Spicans had only the time and resources for retrofitting with simple, mass-produced Hawking generators and astrogational gear.
After winning the war, Spica phased out the monitors, disposing of something like fifty thousand of them as war surplus. The vessel became the Model-T of the Third Breath.
"So, you still find 'em all over the place, especially in the backwaters," Alacrity told Floyt as they hunkered along.
"But how old is this thing?"
"Whew, maybe a hundred, hundred and fifty. But don't lose your grip! She'll get us where we're going. Still, I'm surprised Amarok doesn't give himself a little more breathing room. Quaanaaq-Thule probably hasn't had a starship for long."
"It looks to me like he's poor."
"Nobody with a working starship is poor, Ho. It's just about impossible. You might be a little marginal if you owned a sublight scow in a poor star system, but a starship, uh-uh."
Alacrity tried to sound casual as he came around to his real point.
"In fact, if you've got your own starship, the only way you can be poor is by trying real hard."
"Alacrity … "
"What I'm saying is, every little gew-gaw Amarok's got stashed away in every cranny is worth a lot more, someplace, than he paid for it. He probably lives like this because he's only been in business a short time, has to pay off his backers or keep his family or tribe afloat or whatever. But at this rate it probably won't be long before he pays off the Pihoquiaq and starts trying to pick up another ship, especially with Redlock granting him trade concessions. That's how mercantile empires get started."
"Yes, that's all well and good, but—"
"I'm telling you, you give it another ten, twenty years and things'll be all different. More and more planets will be launching their own starships; competition will be murder. Oh, it'll always be a good life, do
n't get me wrong, but now is the time—"
"Alacrity, forget it."
"—when unlimited opportunities—"
"Will you kindly slap a seal on it? The Astraea Imprimatur goes straight back to Earth. Directly. No detours."
Alacrity felt a twist in his stomach and a sudden flash in his forehead, Earthservice conditioning endorsing Floyt's words in no uncertain terms. Floyt was rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger; his own conditioning had bedeviled him all through Alacrity's pitch.
"I'm sorry, Ho. Straight to Earth, aye. Once we find the damned thing. Um, is your conditioning going to keep you from learning about standing watch and helping run a ship? Because you might need to, once we've got the Astraea; I might need help."
Floyt considered that. He'd been warned by Earthservice bureaucrats that unnecessary exposure to offworld ways might mean radical reorientation and more behavioral meddling. Regardless, it wasn't fair to expect Alacrity to shoulder all the work if they had to ferry the Astraea Imprimatur themselves. Floyt felt no twist of negative reaction. He decided, To hell with the injunctions and resigned himself to Earthservice reorientation, if that's what it was to cost him. "Of course I can learn, Alacrity. How do we start?"
"First let's look over the food supply. I'll throw something together—something impressive—then we'll hit Amarok for permission to train you on the job." He paused, halfway into the galley-booth. "Can you cook, by any chance?"
"Alacrity, in an urbanplex you don't cook; you unwrap."
"Stick with me. Astrogation will take you a long way, but a really good slumgullion will make you popular."
They found Amarok sitting up against a unit for the manufacture of photovoltaic shingles. He was beginning a new voyage letter, having handed off his last one during his stay at Palladium to a captain bound for Quaanaaq-Thule.
The Innuit was reserved but pleased when he saw and smelled what Alacrity had done with the processed, irradiated, canned, and powdered foods from Pihoquiaq's galley. As they supped on muktuk bouillabaisse, Floyt asked about the voyage letter.
"It is a kind of extract of the log and commentary on the trip thus far," Amarok explained. "This One keeps it up to date as much as possible, so that when He meets another skipper going in the right direction—and that person seems trustworthy—it can be dispatched. When the letter is delivered at home, This One's people will know how the voyage proceeds."
He showed Floyt the screen he'd been using to compose. The voyage letter was couched in an indecipherable jumble.
"Our trading code," Amarok clarified. "The Pihoquiaq really belongs to Someone's family."
"You sure don't waste much operating money on hired help," Alacrity observed. "Did you ever think of going all the way and changing over to a headboarder setup?"
Amarok shook his great head vigorously. "No; getting a cranial switchboard doesn't appeal to This One. He does all right by Himself, just the way things are. In His homeworld tongue, Amarok means 'Lone Wolf.' "
Alacrity wondered privately if the big trader would feel the same way after, say, his twentieth voyage, or his hundred and twentieth, but didn't bother saying so.
It turned out Amarok had first shipped as a boy, with his uncle, learning the breakabout's trade on commercial vessels from other planets under Quaanaaq-Thule's trade-assistance agreements. The uncle was to have captained the Pihoquiaq, but was badly injured in an incident on Pesthole. Amarok took up mastery of the converted monitor.
"But with all this time on your hands—" Floyt broached a subject he'd been wondering about. "I mean, don't you sometimes wish for an induction helmet?"
Amarok was shaking his head again. "No, nor cachesleep unit, nor a sensory capsule. One has to keep His wits about Him. Someone spends most of His time during Hawking cataloging purchases and writing up sales descriptions and price guides. Then there are the ship's log, maintenance to run, the trade situation at the next port of call to study, appropriate trade items to select. This One plays chess against the computer when he gets the chance, which isn't often, and has a very interesting postage stamp collection."
A thought crossed his face. "Someone doesn't suppose by any chance that either of you know any cat's cradle? Too bad. Let's see, what else? Well, there's always cargo to be restowed and checked—" Here he gave them a rueful smile. "Especially since you two came inboard."
"What about exercise?" Floyt inquired.
That took Amarok a little by surprise. "Oh, a little dynamic tension, yoga, very restricted calisthenics. There's no room for Tai chi or martial arts, or for much else. Someone hopes you two weren't thinking of jogging."
Floyt grinned. "No, but I can show you something almost as good."
"Very well—within reason."
After Amarok brought his new voyage letter up to date and Floyt and Alacrity made minor adjustments to their meager living space, the three met in the power section near the Hawking generator.
"This One warns you, there'll be no nonsense with the Hawking," Amarok announced ominously. "No chinning on it or running round it or—in fact, maybe you'd just better forget whatever it was you—"
"Aw, give him a chance, Rok," Alacrity chided.
Floyt moved to the center of the maximum-headroom spot between the Hawking generator and the power-section hatch. He drew from his pocket a length of rope.
Shaking it out and taking it in both hands, he poised dramatically, then began jumping. He started slowly, not having done it in a long time.
"Yes? And?" Amarok said expectantly.
Alacrity intervened. "Um, Ho, is this your idea? Your whole idea?"
Floyt was jumping more confidently now, getting the rhythm and the feel of the rope. "Actually, I'd like to see either one of you do this for just fifteen minutes." The rope slapped the deck; Floyt skipped lightly, changing his lead foot.
"But if you can, you might give this a try."
Floyt began doing matador crosses so fast that he feared for a moment that he might get tangled up. But the skill he'd picked up as a kid came back quickly. He did some cross-jumps for them, and a few 180-degree turns. Despite the chill, he was sweating.
"Hmmm," Amarok said, reconsidering.
"I didn't know you could do that," Alacrity told him admiringly. "Let me try that."
"In a minute," Floyt answered blithely. He did a few cancan steps, some side taps, and went into double jumps. He was getting a little winded and his timing became ragged. The rope snagged on his feet.
Alacrity wanted to be next, but Amarok exercised captain's prerogative. It took a couple of seconds for him to discover it was tougher than it looked.
"On Quaanaaq-Thule the children sometimes do this in big groups, with long ropes, several at a time. Someone never heard of doing it solo in a starship for exercise."
He tried again, catching himself in the shins on the second jump.
"C'mon, Rok; give somebody else a turn."
"Be patient, be patient." Amarok panted, trying not to fall over as he tangled his legs again.
"Is that a joke, or what? You'll never get it." '
"Would you care to make a wager, Master Fitzhugh?"
"Sure. You make fifteen jumps without a miss and I pass on my next two turns."
Amarok considered. "And if This One loses?"
Alacrity thought it over. "You lose, you have to start using first-person singular pronouns."
Jumping rope in the power section and Alacrity's cooking, what he called the "bombs away" school of cuisine—livened by things like Red Shift Chili Peppers and Core Explosion Hotsauce—became fixtures of the voyage.
Alacrity and Amarok picked up jump rope skills quickly, coming to appreciate what Floyt had said about fifteen minutes' solid jumping. Amarok fitted the rope with revolving handles, built to Floyt's description of the ones used on Earth.
In the meantime, Floyt learned about running a monitor. He received instruction from both Alacrity and Amarok, who warmed to his passengers as he got to know th
em.
But one thing on which the trader was adamant was the temperature at which he kept most of the Pihoquiaq. He maintained that the dry chill was good for the cargo and ship's systems and beneficial to health. Alacrity disagreed, but not in their host's presence. Though the minuscule cuddy was warm, the rest of the ship was uncomfortable to the two friends if they weren't exercising or warmly dressed.
And so they dug out shawls that Dorraine had pressed on them, fringed ceremonial garments from Dunrovin', of rich twill-weave and patterned in eye-grabbing colors with stylized DNA chains and fractal diagrams. A shawl was much more convenient than a jacket or sweater, Floyt discovered; very comfortable, especially when standing watch—in an acceleration chair—in the coolness of the bridge. It was, like Alacrity's umbrella and the big bandannas he wore, more practical than it first appeared to Floyt.
The Terran became proficient as watch-stander, in that he knew in general what the indicators meant and when they said something was wrong. As an information accessor from the Earthservice bureaucracy, he showed skill at pinpointing something Amarok or Alacrity wanted to know. He absorbed just enough to be able to guess at how very much more there was to know.
"Alacrity, is there really any reason for me to stand watch? Or you either? Other than as backup in case all the automatics fail?"
"Affirmative; Rok's entering your time in the ship's log, Ho. That and the help you give during maintenance and repair work."
"And so I've learned which dial to watch and which tool to hand you two. But what of it?"
They were in the cuddy, relaxed as much as room allowed. Strangely enough, it was beginning to feel like home. Floyt's fingertips were a bit shriveled; it had been his turn to do their laundry, which involved stripping down and tackling it in the head stall.
Alacrity had pulled out the onyx kidney bean again. Most of the maintenance and repair work was caught up, and Amarok wanted to take watch for the next ten hours or so to double check everything personally.
Alacrity wasn't exactly ecstatic over the labyrinth of automated equipment Amarok had installed in order to crew Pihoquiaq alone. But having satisfied himself that it seemed to be working, he had made his peace with it. So, to stave off what he referred to as "an imminent attack of bulkhead fever," Alacrity convinced Floyt to join him in a time-honored breakabout tradition known as the Eight Hour Vacation.
