The City and the Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  "Hiding away all that stuff was smart of Channa," she said thoughtfully. "Always gotta have supplies in your bolt-hole unless you're fardlin' stupid."

  "Sound strategy," Amos said seriously.

  He certainly seems to be good with children, Channa thought, stirring her food around with her fork. Girls don't bother him. Not pre-pubescent ones, at least.

  In her inner ear, Simeon began to croon an ancient song: "Across a croooowded room . . ."

  "Shut up," she subvocalized.

  "This place has got more back-alleys than you'd believe," Joat was saying. "Not like a ship at all, really. You can get anywhere from anywhere and ain't nobody can stop you, if you know where you're goin'. Some of the places pinch grudly, but they're in-able if you're sveltsome."

  "I would have thought it much like a ship of space," Amos replied courteously. Channa could see his lips move silently for an instant as he puzzled out Joat's slang. That was no wonder. Half of it was her own invention.

  "A whole other order of magnitude," Simeon said. "No mass limits on a station—the SSS-900-C wasn't expected to go anywhere. The outer shell was fixed, as well as some of the major facilities, but the rest was intended to allow organic growth up to a couple of hundred thousand people, max. We've found natural expansion is the best way to stabilize a real community, as opposed to a transient community, like a passenger vessel."

  "That is good sense," Amos said meditatively. "On my family's estate, planning towns was similar. If you set down every detail, the place has no life. When Uncle Habib decides to put his tobacco store next to Aunti Scala's pastry shop or Brother Falken's saddlery, and that brings an ice-cream parlor, it then follows that the town becomes a living and efficient entity."

  "Why do you talk so funny?" Joat asked.

  "Why do you talk so funny?" Amos parried, and they both laughed. "Because Bethel was cut off for so long. We did not even screen or broadcast data from other worlds, so our people's way of speech changed little, and those changes differed from those in the Central Worlds, which had dealings with many other worlds and cultures."

  "Central Worlds?" Joat asked. "Oh, you're fardlin'—'cuse me—way off there. This is the hikstik, frontier, you know."

  "To you, not me." He paused. "I think, Joat, that someone besides yourself should know of these hidden ways of yours."

  "You should see it," she said enthusiastically. "You wouldn't believe what's back there!"

  "I would very much like to see it," he told her gravely. "But, I have not much time left for my studies." Her face fell. "Still," he said, "I think that it is important that trusted people, other than just you and Simeon, should know these back ways of yours. Would you be willing to show my friend, Joseph?"

  "He's your head honcho, hey?"

  "My brother and my right hand," Amos said seriously.

  "Okay, if he's nanna grudly."

  Amos gave up trying to interpret that remark and glanced over at Simeon's image in the screen.

  "Grudly," the brain said in his most professorial. "An all purpose negative. In this context—'not too grudly'—straight-laced, conventional, boring, unimaginative."

  "No, no. To tell the truth and shame the devil, Joseph was, in fact, a dockside desperado when I met him," Amos said.

  Joat lit up, her urchin smile taking a year or two off the extra time life had dealt her, so that she looked twelve. "Sure! I'll be glad to show Joseph around. Whenever you like."

  "Thank you. And now I must return to my studies." He sighed theatrically and rose.

  "I know how you feel," Joat said, shaking her head in resignation.

  "He's made a conquest there," Channa subvocalized. "Wonder how he did it?"

  "Joat is no longer a feral child," Simeon pointed out. "We broke the ground for him. Being glamorous doesn't hurt. And he listens to her. He's naturally interested in people, I think, under the weird socio-religious stuff they rammed down his throat."

  "You're right," Channa said aloud, looking dreamily at the now closed door of Amos' quarters.

  Well, Simeon-Amos, Simeon thought, you're a hit with both my girls. A petty observation, but couldn't he indulge in pettiness in the privacy of his own mind?

  "'Course I'm right," Joat said. She was having more of the pineapple slices, fresh from the vats, lavishly dolloped with ice cream. "You flipping the sheets with him yet?"

  "Joat!" Channa said warningly, reaching over to flick her on the ear with thumb and forefinger.

  "Watch it!" Joat said, rubbing the offended lobe. "I'll report you to Gorgan the Organ." She grinned unrepentantly. "I know all about it, y'know."

  "You may have observed—and I wouldn't put that past you for a nanosecond, but you don't understand what you've seen. You also have no manners."

  "Yeah, that's true," Joat said complacently.

  "You needn't act so smug about the lack," Simeon cut in.

  "Why not?" Joat asked. "Lots of way-neat stuff you can't do if you've got manners."

  * * *

  My God, Channa thought, looking up from her notescreen.

  All of them were looking terrible, but Doctor Chaundra looked old. And haunted as well. Channa was a little surprised. She would have thought him one of the ones who could handle the fear.

  "Here it is," he said bitterly, holding up a small synthetic container.

  Channa automatically glanced down at the box, a capsule dispenser, standard model, but looked more closely at him.

  "Are you all right, Doctor?" she said anxiously. There were other medicos on the station, but only one Chaundra. Personal factors aside, he was also the only specialist with experience in original viral research.

  "Tired is all," he said. The non-Standard accent in his voice was stronger than usual, a trace of liquid singsong. He stood for a moment by her desk looking at the box he carried, then he placed it in front of her. "They're ready," he said, pointing to it.

  Channa touched the dispenser slot and it dropped a gelatin capsule filled with clear liquid into her palm.

  "The virus," she said.

  "Yes," he murmured. "I, who am a healer, have created for you a weapon."

  "A nonlethal weapon for self-defense," she said in gentle correction.

  "Hopefully nonlethal. How can I be sure, with a genetically nonstandard target population? I cannot even be certain nobody on the station will die of it!"

  "The probability—" Simeon began in a firm tone.

  "—is vanishingly small, yes, indeed," Chaundra said. Then he sighed. "There is no sense in complaining after the fact. We have made enough so every man and woman on the station gets five. I can't imagine anyone being unlucky enough to need more than that. What you do, is bite down on it. Don't swallow and breathe it all over the Kolnari nearest you. It is contagious even if swallowed, you understand, but more so with direct contact. If the pirate wishes to kiss you, by all means let them."

  "Ugh!" Channa said, making a face.

  "I've alerted the group leaders to call in at the clinic to collect dispensers for distribution to their people," Simeon said.

  "Remind them, will you," Chaundra said, "that anyone who uses a capsule should report as soon as possible to the clinic for the protective shot. They'll get a light dose then, but their . . . um . . . victim will get very sick indeed."

  "Symptoms?" asked Channa.

  "Headache, nausea, diarrhea, fever, possible delirium." He shivered. "I must get back to my lab. So much more needs to be done, and there is so little time to do it all in."

  "You need to sleep," Channa said firmly. "Go to bed for a minimum of six hours."

  "That's an order, Chaundra," Simeon told him, "as of now, you're off duty until tomorrow morning."

  "Yes, of course." Chaundra nodded abstractedly. "And the volunteers," he continued, "have them in the hospital as soon as the pirates appear. We can accelerate the onset—"

  "Go to bed!" Channa took him by the arms and gave him a little shake, finally getting his startled attention.

  "
Oh . . ." He smiled. "Good idea. Um . . ." He paused at the door and blinked. "Oh, yes. Joat—I have met young Joat. She is a bit . . . more mature than I thought she was." He frowned, looking concerned. "Do you think it will be all right, their being together so much? Her and Seld, I mean."

  Channa blinked. At least nobody has been unkind enough to mention any grisly tales of Joat's life story, she thought.

  "Uh, I don't think it will matter," Simeon said, slightly amused. "They'll be kept well-occupied, you know, and they are neither of them physically adult."

  "You are very off-handed for a proper father of a daughter," Chaundra said owlishly.

  "Well, I am her father—or will be when the papers are completed. Truly, Chaundra, I think we can depend on Joat to be responsible. I trust her. She may operate on her own code of ethics, but she is more consistent about it than many adults I have encountered. I'm not worried."

  Chaundra sighed. "I wish I had a credit for every time someone has told me that they are not worried. They're at a volatile age and they can't even trust themselves. Hell," he said throwing his arms wide, "under all this pressure, the adults on this station can't trust themselves. How can we expect these kids to?"

  Channa felt her color rise. "We can only anticipate the problem and talk to them and hope for the best. If they're so inclined," to her surprise, she couldn't force herself to be more specific, "they'll find a time and place where we can't interfere. So let's not wear ourselves down worrying about it."

  A whole new set of problems, she thought. Correcting the damage done to Joat's psychosexual development was probably going to take many years. Right now the girl needed Seld to be her friend, not her bed partner. He was definitely her friend but . . . Channa remembered what boys were like at that age, too. There's more of a danger that she'd break his arm. But she needs a friend. Something else to lie sleepless and worry over. Or had anyone told Joat about Seld's medical problems? Privacy, she thought. Seld had the right to deal with that in his own time.

  "Hey!" Simeon said. "Yoohoo! Channa! Chaundra. You're both tired. Everything looks manageable when you've had some sleep. So go sleep. We'll take care of the capsules and we'll organize the volunteers. Don't worry about a thing."

  Chaundra sighed again and assumed a wry expression. "Amateurs," he mumbled. "What you're experiencing, Simeon, is denial. You can't avoid such problems by pretending they don't exist." His shoulders fell "I'll have Seld bring her home with him after they're through working today." He waved goodbye and left.

  "Denial," Simeon said musingly. Strange, knowing what he did of her past, he knew that sex was the last thing Joat would think of as a recreational activity. That was the commonest symptom of the particular form of abuse she had suffered—and still the idea made him uneasy. Fatherhood.

  "I don't want to talk about it," Channa told him, and marched briskly back to her desk. She sat down and spun the box of capsules around with one finger. "I was thinking," she said, "wouldn't it be great if we could up the ante on these?" She looked at Simeon's column.

  "Yeah, it would. But we're already putting our people at risk. I'm not willing to do the enemy's work for them. Y'know?"

  "Mmm. True. What if we could make them believe it's worse than it really is?"

  "Hard to say without knowing their physiology, tissue samples . . . Oh. You're talking about a con game, aren't you, Happy?"

  "It all depends on their psychology, of course. And I'm not happy."

  "Well," Simeon said dubiously, "the Navy psych reports aren't too detailed. These splinter groups are usually aberrant. Generally speaking, the reports say the Kolnari are extremely aggressive towards those they perceive as weak, treacherous but willing to bargain with their equals in power, and have a flight/submission reflex towards superiors—until the superiors let down their guard, which is a sign of weakness."

  "Oh, what a love-feast their culture must be!" Channa said. "Hmmm. They'd be vulnerable to status and power anxieties, then. And lots of internal rivalries."

  "You betcha. According to the reports, they're also as superstitious as horses. They know some science, but they're not scientific, if you know what I mean."

  "I think I get the picture. So?"

  "We could modify some of the holo-projectors beside the security cameras and flash 'hallucinations' for the benefit of those who've had the virus. Auditory hallucinations are no problem. I could project them and no one would be the wiser."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Yeah," he seemed to be whispering directly into her ear, "and without using your implant."

  "Wow," she said, touching her ear, "that's spooky. How did you do that?"

  "Just threw my voice—heterodyning waves from multiple sources. It takes practice, but as you saw, the effect is worth it."

  She shook her head, wide-eyed. "If you can come up with something visual to go with that, they'll be running for their ships the first day."

  "Can't overdo it. It'll be easiest if they're alone when they see these things, otherwise it could be considered suspicious. I'll sound Joat out. That girl's a fountain of ideas."

  Channa winced and forbore to ask what kind. Chaundra's comments almost visibly flooded back into her conscious mind.

  "Don't let it worry you, she's a good kid," Simeon said emphatically.

  "I don't want to think about it."

  * * *

  "You really are concerned about Rachel's sanity, aren't you?"

  Amos and Channa were settled comfortably on the settee. Simeon had tactfully withdrawn his image from the pillar screen, leaving a strikingly realistic crackling fire in its place. Somehow he had even manage to replicate the scent of burning cedarwood. Amos had had to tactilely reassure himself that the fire was an image.

  "Yes, she is definitely unstable," he said, his shoulders sagging hopelessly. "Among all the other problems, I must worry about this! It is so . . . so petty."

  "Humans can be a remarkably petty species," Channa said philosophically. Particularly that hysterical bitch Rachel. "When you get down to cases, lots of 'big issues' have been decided on personal matters. From Harmodias and Aristogetion on down." Amos looked blank. "Two ancient Greeks. Never mind. Briefly, a government was overthrown because of a love-triangle."

  Amos sighed again and reached for his snifter of brandy. "I care nothing about her and my best friend would give his life for her," he said, shaking his head. "Channa—"

  "Yes?"

  "I know here—" he touched his head "—that this . . . delusion of hers has nothing to do with me. But here—" he touched his heart "—I cannot help but feel that I must somehow be to blame. I was a . . . caller-of-spirit: you would say a preacher. Oh, yes, I knew that half the women in those crowds were in love with me. What of it? I would never touch any of them, for that would be dishonorable and destroy my cause more surely than any other offense. The folk of Bethel are . . . inflexible about such matters. Yet if I knew and accepted love, if it flattered my vanity, am I not in some manner responsible? How desperate she must be, and how lonely. It is sad."

  Channa patted his arm and smiled soothingly. "From your description, it was never this bad before. If you're to blame, then so is every charismatic politician and holo star since time began. Her . . . delusion . . . may have been aggravated by those drugs, although she's not responding to medication. Simeon, has anyone talked to Chaundra about this?"

  "Not yet," he said, after a tactful pause to suggest he hadn't been listening.

  "I have decided to keep her under my eye," Amos said, adding reluctantly, "Mental care, the cure of souls. It is part of our religion that only those consecrated can perform cures of the human soul."

  "Mmm." Your religion sucks wind, she thought silently. No sense in offending Amos, of course. Humans shouldn't be forced to take religion. That should be free choice. "Maybe we'd better let Chaundra know that Rachel isn't responding to treatment. She may need stronger calmers. Let's face it, when the pirates arrive, you're going to have a surfeit of problems t
o keep under your eyes."

  "I can keep my eye on more than one thing at a time, Channa," Simeon cut in abruptly. "Simeon-Amos?"

  He nodded. "I agree with Channa. I will speak with the doctor of this. This is my burden, my obligation. I will do it." He rose and disappeared into his room, shoulders bowed.

  Channa shook her head, "You'd think he was sending her off to be executed."

  "Who knows how his people view psych treatment? Confession seems to be a major element in their religion. To him, treating this as a medical problem could be equivalent to blasphemy."

  "Hmph." She turned to squint at his column. "By the way, don't try to tell me that you didn't enjoy that little interruption, Simeon. I know you too well by now."

  "Okay." His voice was downright cheery.

  She smiled ruefully. "Just don't make a habit of it, okay?"

  "There are no guarantees in life, Channa."

  "Oh, no? If I ever get the idea that you're engineering any more little disruptions of my love life, I guarantee that you'll regret it."

  "Hey, be reasonable, Channa! What could I possibly have to do with Rachel going bonkers? I didn't even let her into the lounge. I could have, y'know."

  Channa shrugged and grunted.

  "I thought about not telling you she was trying to beat the door down, I really did. But then I figured she'd go grab a laser and cut her way in. And, of course, if she had caught you two in flagrante delicto, she wouldn't have stopped at cutting up doors."

  "Oh, thank you, Simeon, you are such a hero, saving me from a fate worse than death and death itself. Consider yourself hugged and slobbered over in an ecstasy of gratitude."

  "That's short for 'my attitude's back,' isn't it?"

  She got up and started for her room. "Yes, Simeon, my attitude's back."

  "Well, why? What did I do?"

  She spun on her heel and threw up her hands. "I'm horny, all right? I'm horny and I'm frustrated!" The door snapped shut behind her.

  Simeon shut down his pickups in the lounge, escaping the charged atmosphere in the only way he could. Sheesh, he thought. Softshells were strange.