The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  Amos, as far as Simeon could tell, was sulking slightly.

  Aha, Simeon thought. With those looks, plus brains and charisma and high position, he's probably used to women succumbing to his every ploy. And, he noted charitably, the Bethelite was only in his early twenties. All the textbooks said softshells were highly subject to hormonal influences at that stage in their pitifully short development spans.

  Nine gets you ten, he told himself, that there's a worn-down track in the carpet between their doors within a week. The notion was oddly unpalatable. He put it aside and launched into some of the nineteen million things Amos would have to become familiar with about station management.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ahhha, gotcha! Simeon crooned to himself. "Channa? You awake?"

  "You can always tell when I'm awake. Why ask?"

  "Because it's polite," he replied.

  "What is it?" Her tone noted that the sleep period was three hours gone and, in barely five more, she would have to be awake for more of the interminable meetings and briefings.

  "I've found out something about our expected and uninvited guests," he went on.

  That brought her alert, sitting up in bed and reaching to key up the lights and switch off the soft fugue she had been playing to court sleep.

  "Couldn't sleep anyway," she said. "Let me have it."

  "Got a download from Central. Had to burn some butts to get it released. It's not much. Planet named Kolnar, settled way, way, way back. Quite a ways from here, too, as such things go. About forty times as far as the sun Saffron, further in on the spiral arm."

  Channa frowned. "That's really out in the boonies, settled in the second or third waves."

  "Uh-uh. It was first wave."

  She pursed her lips in a silent whistle. "Right at the beginning of interstellar colonization."

  He went on. "Involuntary colonization. Translation program running . . . Okay, a whole bunch of bad-hat groups; the Khimir Reddish Rice Cosmetic, the Temil Large Striped Felines, the New Council Men, the Resurrected Aryan-Germanic Statewide Associationist Employees Party, the Sons of Chaka, the Luminescent Footway, the Darwin-Wilson Society, the—"

  "What's so amusing?" she said as she caught the laughter ripple in his voice.

  "You'd have to be a historian to understand, my voluptuous popsie," he said cheerfully. "Anyway, according to the records, they sent out about ten thousand of these oscos, and about three thousand reached their destination."

  "Bad voyages?"

  "Internal fighting in the holds," Simeon said. "With fists and teeth and soft plastic cups, since they didn't have anything else. Then when they got there, they realized they'd have to interbreed, like it or not."

  "What sort of planet is Kolnar?"

  "Nickname was 'Hell's Orifice.' They picked it because it was easier on tender consciences. Society could pretend the planet killed the convicts, who deserved it, from the records. One-point-six gees, hot sun, enormous heavy-metal concentrations, thick but low-oxygen air, superactive and largely poisonous biosphere. No ozone layer. Vulcanism, unpredictable climatic shifts . . . the whole nine yards! Not much visited since. When the Grand Survey went through a few centuries later, they were fired on. Evidently the locals have a nuclear war about once every forty years or so, and the ship got in the way of one. Their descriptions of the physical type match what Amos and the others say. There's been some contact with them since. That incident with the survey seemed to remind them that the rest of the universe was still there, unfortunately."

  "Unfortunately?"

  "Well, I've got cross-references under piracy, brigandage, police actions, war crimes and aggression. Also entries in the anthro files under genocide, slavery, cultural pathology, xenophobia and societal devolution. There are apparently pockets of the descendants of the original social aberrants scattered through a number of systems in the area nowadays. Little asteroid colonies, freebooter dens, unsurveyed worlds."

  "Urk. Characteristics?"

  "Apart from not being very nice? Dark skin is a climatic adaptation—all that UV—and the hair and eye color genetic drift you'd expect in a small initial population. They breed like, hmm, rabbits, though. Puberty at eight, all children twins or triplets. Overall, the Kolnari subrace seems to have very efficient immune systems. They're extremely strong and fast. You'd expect good reflexes on a planet like that—those with bad ones didn't survive. They can see in the dark like cats, and they've got an amazing tolerance for ionizing radiation. There's so much fallout and natural background radiation on Kolnar that they've genetically adapted to it. The scientists seem to disagree whether their paranoia is inbred or just cultural."

  "Hard to get rid of, I'd expect."

  "Like cockroaches," Simeon said, deliberately misunderstanding. "One Space Navy type a few generations back said the only way to solve the Kolnari problem would be to drop antimatter bombs from orbit. Even then, you wouldn't be really sure of destroying them all."

  "Very depressing, thank you, and now can I get some rest?"

  * * *

  Later that night, still unable to sleep, Channa called out his name softly.

  "You should be sleeping, Channa."

  "I know, but I've got to clear my mind first. Will you talk with me?"

  A pause hung in the air. She took a breath and went on. "I know I haven't been as good a brawn as—"

  "Ancient history," Simeon said. "You've been handling a hellacious emergency better than most anyone could. I can certainly listen. What's on your mind?"

  "He is," she said, as if the two words covered the problem adequately.

  "Ah. Not what you expected, huh?"

  She sighed, "No, the opposite. Too much what I expected. He's . . . I'm afraid I won't be able to work with him."

  Why am I not surprised? Simeon thought. "Why? What's wrong?"

  "Aside from his being a smug, pushy, egotist, you mean? Well, he doesn't have any faith in my competence and I expect to have to fight to keep him from trying to usurp my position. He's very much a take-charge kind of person, you were right about that. And he has no respect for women."

  "What makes you think that?" Let's hear how you came to that difficult conclusion. Simeon enjoyed the challenge of following the workings of her mind.

  "For crying out loud, Simeon, he expected me to cook for him! Oh, yes, he got over that. He's always ready with an apology for 'different customs.' But, deep down, he doesn't really believe it. He thinks 'customs' is whether you sit on the floor or on a chair, stuff like that. He doesn't grasp the difference in fundamental cultural views."

  "Channa-my-sweet, back on Bethel, there aren't any fundamental differences. This quarrel he had with the Elders, it's hard to grasp exactly what it was about . . . but it seems overwhelmingly important to them."

  "Oh, I understand why he's that way," Channa said, striking the pillow with a frustrated fist. "And it's not as if he's stupid. He's intelligent and he notices things, but that makes it more irritating, not less. You could ignore what a stupid person does. What's more, suddenly he's living in my pocket. I'm just a little surprised he didn't ask to see the other rooms in order to choose the one he preferred." Her face suddenly flushed a becoming rose.

  Simeon noted that. After all, he could see in the dark, too. "And he came on to you like the colony ship he flew in on, didn't he?"

  "Damn right he did," she muttered, half under her breath. " 'I like attractive women,' " she said in exaggerated imitation of his manner and accent. "What do you suppose he does when he has to deal with an un-attractive woman? Carry a bag to put over her head? I hate men like that!" She thumped the bed with both fists for emphasis.

  "I thought you were attracted to him," Simeon said in a calm and mildly curious tone.

  "I am," she said with exasperation. "I hate that part of it the most."

  "I'm a little confused here. How can you be attracted to someone you can't stand?"

  "I don't know," she said grimly.

  "Pheromones?"
Simeon asked slyly.

  "Maybe. It happens." She sighed.

  The mysterious pheromones strike again, he thought. There are times I'm extremely glad I'm a shellperson. At least I can adjust my own hormone feeds. The thought of having his biochemistry unpredictably mucked about by emotional factors was nerve-wracking.

  "You mean," he said carefully, "this has happened to you before?"

  A look of annoyance crossed her face. "Not just to me. It's happened to a great many people."

  He waited expectantly and patiently.

  With a resigned sigh, she went on. "He was a professor of economics, of all people! I fell for him like a stone. And the weird thing was, I never liked him. Quite the opposite. He was attractive enough, but he was sarcastic and lazy and snide—ugh! Never to me, but it bothered me to see him doing it to other students. One day I was sitting there and I looked up at him and I said to myself, I'm in love with him." She widened her eyes and held out her hands in a "go figure" gesture and let them flop back onto the bed. "Hmmp."

  "So . . . you're in love . . . with Simeon-Amos?"

  "No! Of course not! I said I was in love with my professor, not Simeon-Amos. They're two different cases." She started to laugh. "I'm older and wiser now, Simeon-Simple."

  "As long as you're not sadder, love."

  She chuckled. "No, not sadder."

  "Naturally you and Simeon-Amos will have to undergo a bit of a period of adjustment," he said seriously, "but he really wants to help. And he's going to be very busy helping. That'll go a long way in curbing any ardent tendencies he may have. Try to cut him a little slack, Channa; he's the victim of an inbred culture. Besides which, we're all under threat of death."

  "Mmm. Tell that to the subconscious—it interprets threats of death as a reason to get more interested. I do wish this crisis wasn't so immediate." She sighed again, wearily. "Maybe they're not out there. Maybe they gave up and went back to Saffron, to Bethel. All we'd have to do is file a report, while the fleet floats by us."

  "I wouldn't bet on it, babe."

  "I must be mellowing," she observed, "I've allowed you to call me 'love' and 'babe' and . . . I actually let you get away with 'luscious popsie,' didn't I?"

  "Yeah. I'm counting coup. Maybe you like me?"

  "I wouldn't count on it," she said grinning. "Goodnight, Simeon."

  "'Night, Channa."

  * * *

  "Oh, God, not another meeting," Channa mumbled to herself around the light-pencil clenched in her teeth. In one hand, she held the notescreen she was studying and, in the other, a cup of coffee. Hot as hell, black as death, sweet as love: not the way she generally drank her caffeine, but the proper dose to jolt a body into action after inadequate sleep. For something stronger, she would have to go to Doctor Chaundra.

  "Why meetings?" she continued to herself as she stumbled into the lift at the end of the corridor. "Why can't I just send memos?"

  "Mornin', honeybunch," Patsy's voice said.

  Channa started so violently at the presence of two other people on the lift that she almost slopped the hot coffee over her hand. Gus put a steadying grip under her elbow.

  "Why meetings?" Gus repeated, "because they're civilians. They're not used to facing a military emergency. They need to be told the information again and again before it'll seem real to them."

  The lift hissed to a stop. "Fortunately, I don't need to be told so often, so I can get right on with my work," he said. "See you later, ladies."

  Channa looked across at Patsy. The older woman was leaning into the padded corner of the lift, eyes closed and a dreamy smile on her lips. "Patsy?"

  One eye opened reluctantly and a sweet smile lightened her expression as she stretched languorously. "Yeah?"

  "You look almost as exhausted as I am. Aren't you getting enough sleep?"

  Patsy's eyes widened, and she worked her eyebrows melodramatically. "Not much," she said with some enthusiasm. "Unless you use 'sleep' in the euphemistic sense."

  "Anh hanh. Gus?"

  "Con mucho Gusto!" Patsy giggled. "Ah've read about this. People in crisis, they jest get together, y'know? You ask Simeon about it. He'll tell ya."

  "I wouldn't presume to ask Simeon about private matters. I suspect he's morbidly fascinated by the subject. Besides, I know what you mean."

  "Ohho! Ah heard about yoah pretty li'l roommate," Patsy said with a wink. "Hubba hubba." She nudged Channa with her elbow.

  Channa cleared her throat, stuck the light-pencil over one ear and took a sip of her coffee. Ghastly, she thought. "Simeon told me that 'hubba hubba' meant 'sexy lady.' "

  "Did he? Well, when he says it, it probably does. No, really, it jest means somethin' sexy, anythin' sexy. What, is up to the beholder." Patsy rose onto her toes and clicked her heels together a couple of times. "Ah think Simeon-Amos is sexy," she said teasingly.

  "Right now you'd think taffy was sexy," Channa said repressively.

  "Oooh, yeah, ya can puulll it . . ."

  "Patsy!"

  "Loosen up, girl! If ya get too tense, all yore hair falls out. Doncha know that?" She grinned and waved as she got off on her floor.

  "Damn," Channa said, leaning against the wall. The padding held a faint trace of Patsy's body heat. "It's been entirely too long since I went to work with a smile like that."

  * * *

  "Great Lord, we cannot determine whether the craft we pursue left the area of the station or not," Baila said, tugging at the cupid's bow of her lower lip.

  Belazir tapped a meditative thumb against his lower lip. "Why not?" he said mildly.

  The technical officer swallowed. "There is too much traffic here, lord. Individual trails fade in the background clutter."

  Belazir raised his brows, the only outward sign of an icy stab of concern. According to their best calculations, the way the fugitive ship had been pushing its engines, it should have blown itself to a ball of plasma and fragments long before now. Granted that, in the old days, ships had been built to last, still . . . If, by unforeseeable fortune, they reached a well-traveled zone first, the unthinkable could happen. The Clan would be in danger. He would be in even more danger—from the rest of the Clan.

  "Computer," he said, the command-voice that slaved its attention to him. "Extrapolation: the vector of the prey, matched against last definite location and possible destinations, as updated from the chartlogs of that captured merchantman."

  A spray of possibilities flicked out in the 3-D tank. "Now, eliminate all those that would require more than four days' transit from last known location."

  All faded but one. "Ah, that station," he said. It was the most probable search vector in any case. "We must continue the pursuit. Comments?" he asked the other captains' faces. They were present by holo, a ghostly ring of faces on the shadowed command-couches of their respective bridges, similar to the Bride's.

  Aragiz t'Varak, of the Age of Darkness; Zhengir t'Marid, of the Rumal—Strangler, in the old tongue—Pol t'Veng, of the Shark, old and scarred and the only woman among them, the only one with an independent command in the Clan fleet. Enemies and rivals; his ability to make them move in concert was another test the Clanfathers imposed. That which does not kill us, makes us stronger, he reminded himself.

  "Captains and kin," Belazir said. "You have the data. We must decide whether to continue the pursuit, or break off. My recommendation is that we continue."

  Aragiz's face pushed forward, tensing like an eagle held by jesses to a hostile wrist. "If you had not stopped to loot, we would be closer on the prey's trail," he said sharply.

  Pol cut through his words with a snort. "Irrelevant. We must continue the mission."

  Belazir nodded at her.

  "I do not like it," Pol said in her guttural rumble. She was known to be a canny and prudent commander. "Something is just slightly out of kilter." She made a rocking gesture with the claw-scarred hand.

  Belazir considered her remark. What had that contractor—one of the ones the Clan fenced loot to
occasionally—said? "There are bold pirates, and old pirates, but there are no old, bold pirates."

  "Still," she went on, "the balance of risk is clear. We must know if the prey reached this station. To do that, we must take it in our fist."

  "And if it did?" Aragiz said.

  "We kill, send a message torpedo to the fleet, and we run," Pol said. "With as little as one week's lead, we can lose the Navy among the stars and dust. Nothing is lost save time."

  "And the effort we put into subduing Bethel!" Aragiz snapped. "Stopping for that merchantman—"

  "Was irrelevant and consumed no significant expense of time!" Belazir said. "In any case, there is a substantial chance nothing was left alive on the prey-ship by the time it reached this station. If it did reach them. In which case, there is the station itself."

  "Ah," Zhengir said. He was a close relative, and a man of few words. "A target of great opportunity."

  "Risky," Pol said, rubbing her chin.

  "We come in fast at the limits of their sensor capacity and launch hyper-velocity anti-rad missiles to knock out their communications," Belazir said. "We pulse our engines to jam subspace for the time required. It will look natural to those who come to investigate later. A black hole evaporating, or some such."

  "Hmmm."

  Pol rasped a hand over the horrible keloid scars that furrowed one half of her face. Since cosmetic repair would be easy enough, Belazir suspected she kept them as an affectation. But with those scars, even the most arrogant seldom remembered that Pol was a woman. Those grooves had been made by the claws of an animal which Pol had subsequently strangled with her bare hands. She wore its tanned hide around her shoulders.

  "Hmmm," she said again. "That would be minimum-risk strategy. However, we cannot find out if the prey reached the station if we obliterate the station. We must be sure that no warning of us has gone out. On the other hand, a swift raid, catching them unawares, would discover the truth and we can act accordingly."

  "Taking with us whatever the station holds," Belazir said, grinning avariciously. Greed was quickly kindled, since everyone knew what the merchant ship had yielded: the merest trifle in comparison to what a full station would render up. "Depending on what we find, we might even have time to call for the Clan's transports to come and haul the loot. Even what we could load on our frigates makes a raid more than worth our while."