“Have you ever discovered where the galley is, Explorer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go then; I want a snack. Mushrooms in hot chocolate…have you ever had that? Slice them, fry them, and float them on top. They look like fungus umbrellas in mud. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t think we should go to the galley, sir.”
“Why not?”
For some reason, it felt good to say no to an admiral, especially this admiral. “Your presence here is supposed to be a secret, sir. High Council’s orders. If you go to the galley, you’ll likely be seen by crew members—the night shift drop by the galley frequently.”
“Oh, take out the pickle, Ramos!” he thundered. “Five minutes ago you’re ready to mutiny, and now I can’t have a snack because it’s against orders? Be consistent, Explorer! That’s the first rule of command: be consistent! You can be sadistic, you can be lazy, you can be stupid, but if you’re consistent, the crew will still let you sit in when they play dominoes.”
“Admiral, about the mutiny—”
“Semi-stupid move, Ramos, but only semi-stupid. If you’d thought a little longer, you’d have guessed the Council would plan for contingencies. On the other hand, you still should have shot that prick Harque. He’s your subordinate; at this point, he’s a freebie.”
Chee winked broadly, then laughed when I looked bewildered. “Don’t know how to take me, do you?” he grinned. “I’m not as senile as you might think. ‘I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.’ Who said that?”
“Hamlet?”
“Damned right, and aren’t you glad I pressured the other admirals into requiring a Shakespeare course at the Academy?” He gave me a look, and this time I could see a glimmer of shrewdness hiding under the wild-eyed act. “The fact is, Explorer, I am not senile. My mind may wander from time to time, but mostly I am suffering from Don’t-give-a-shit-itis. The High Council, bless ’em, think it might be contagious, so here I am. I presume you have some idea of how they use Melaquin?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your idea is likely wrong, but who cares? Have you thought about the Landing?”
“We haven’t had much time,” I told him. “Or information.”
“You won’t get it either. Melaquin’s ten hours away, and we’ve been ordered to Land within two hours of making orbit. I say we go to the galley, talk things out for the length of time it takes to drink a cup of hot chocolate, then get some sleep.”
“It really would be better to stay out of the galley, sir. The orders—”
“Fuck the orders,” Chee interrupted. “I’m in the mood for pointless gestures of defiance. We will occupy the galley. We will sing dirty songs to draw attention to ourselves. We will accost crew members in the corridors and tell them our life stories. We will write CHEE WAS HERE in soy sauce on the servery wall, and carve our names in the tabletops, using a knife whose blade does not exceed twenty centimeters in length.”
“Admiral….”
“Yes?”
“Could we do all those things wearing pants?”
He heaved a mighty sigh. “Lighten up, Ramos. The best revenge is making them envy your freedom.”
But he slunk back into the infirmary for his trousers.
Our Advantage
While the admiral was gone, Yarrun returned from the weapons locker. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders sagged.
“Cheer up,” I told him.
“Why?”
“It’s an order.”
“Oh.”
He slumped heavily onto the wall beside me. I think we were both tired enough to be glad we had something solid to lean against.
“So what now?” he asked.
“I talked to the admiral. He suggests a few minutes of planning in the galley, then sleep.”
Yarrun stood a little straighter. “That sounds more…lucid…than I expected from the admiral.”
“Chee is lucid,” I replied. “Unstable and too damned whimsical, but I think he’s healthier than the High Council suspects. Healthier on the mental scales, anyway. Physically…well, it’s interesting that Harque and Prope are still in talking with Veresian. I suspect the good doctor found some medical condition that should legally keep the admiral out of any Landing party, and the captain is trying to convince Veresian to keep his opinions to himself.”
“Who’ll win?”
“Not us.”
“Mmm.”
Silence. The growing dizziness/giddiness of fatigue came sneaking into my brain, and it was only when Yarrun started speaking that I jerked out of near-sleep.
“If we look at this coldly,” Yarrun said, “Chee’s health is immaterial. He’s strong enough to survive another twenty-four hours, and that’s more than enough to get down and back…if we manage to get back. But the more clearheaded he is, the better for us.”
“He’ll be less of a burden, if that’s what you mean.”
“More importantly, he’s an admiral. And the High Council of Admirals may be the only people who know anything about Melaquin. Chee is a potential source of information.”
“Teams have landed with admirals before,” I reminded him. “It hasn’t helped them.”
“But if our theory is correct, most of those admirals have been senile,” Yarrun replied. “Our advantage is that this one still has brains we can pick.”
The infirmary door swished open again and Chee skittered out. He had put on the top half of his gray uniform, but the trousers were slung over one shoulder; instead, he wore the baggy mauve pants used during surgery. He also wore a surgeon’s mauve cap and thin rubber gloves. “Look at this great stuff!” he beamed.
I turned back to Yarrun. “Pick his brains fast—the crop’s rotting on the vine.”
The Admiral Proves His Sentience
[Conversation on the way to the galley.]
Chee: Do I really get to wear an Explorer suit?
Me: Yes, Admiral.
Chee: With the vanes sticking out the back and everything?
Me: Those are for ice planets. Melaquin is temperate, isn’t it?
Chee: Of course.
Yarrun: Are you sure?
Chee: If you want to get technical, it’s cold on the tips, hot in the middle, and temperate in between. But compared to ice planets and infernos, it’s shirt-sleeve weather from pole to pole.
Yarrun: Then the admiral has some knowledge about Melaquin?
Chee: Some.
Me: Do you have any…insights into what we might find there?
Chee: Insights? Why should I have insights?
Me: The Admiralty has sent a lot of parties to Melaquin. Considering that you’re an admiral….
Chee: Ramos, are you suggesting I would knowingly send a human being to her death?
Me: Not in so many words.
Chee: Look, you two: the League of Peoples classifies murderers as non-sentients, right?
Me: Murdering a sentient is a non-sentient act, yes.
Chee: A dangerous non-sentient act, Explorer.
Me: Yes, sir.
Chee: And what’s the penalty imposed by the League for taking a dangerous non-sentient into interstellar space?
Yarrun: Immediate execution of everyone who knowingly participates.
Chee: Have you ever heard of humans fooling the League? Smuggling killers, lethal weapons, or dangerous animals into open space?
Me: No.
Chee: And you won’t, either. Damned if we know how they do it, but take it from me, the League’s quarantine against homicide is absolute—a law of the universe, more certain than entropy. Am I here?
Me: Of course.
Chee: Then I never ordered anyone anywhere I thought they were sure to die. Q.E.D.
[Pause.]
Yarrun: Rather explains why the High Council of Admirals never leaves New Earth, doesn’t it?
Chee: You bet your ass, sonny. Those buggers would be vaporized if they jumped too high on a pogo stick.
In the Galley
The galley was brightly lit. Coming in from the nightdim corridors, we blinked like wakened owls.
Two ensigns lounged at a table near the door, one wearing the dark blue of the Communications Corps and the other in Life Support white. The woman in blue was laughing at something as we entered; she had her back to us. The other woman looked up with a smile on her face, saw the admiral’s gray jacket, and snapped to jittery attention. The laugher swung her head around and jumped up too.
“At ease,” Chee commanded, “at goddamned ease. It’s beyond me why the Fleet wants people to play jack-in-the-box when an officer enters the room. This hopping around is unsettling. I could name you five Fringe Worlds where they’d think you were drawing a gun.”
Under his breath, Yarrun murmured, “Herrek, Golding, Nineveh, Biscayne…”
“And Sitz,” I offered, when it became clear he was stuck.
“Bloody Explorers,” Chee complained to the ensigns. “Heads filled with trivia no one cares about.” He fixed his eye on the woman who’d been laughing. “What’s your opinion of bloody Explorers, ensign?”
“I don’t know, sir.” She ventured a worried glance at his mauve baggies.
“Of course you know. You’re just too chicken-shit to say anything.” He snapped around to the other woman. “What’s your opinion of chicken-shit ensigns, ensign? Take your time; whatever you say will offend someone.”
The woman took a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question, sir.”
Chee clapped his hands in delight. “Quite right, ensign, I was being a prick. I can’t understand why people put up with it. What’s your name?”
“Berta Deeren, sir.”
“Berta Deeren Sir, you have the makings of a human being. If you’re ever offered a command position, jump ship. Now get out of here, the two of you—we’re going to fill this place with the stink of death.”
The ensigns saluted quickly and headed for the door. Berta Deeren was blushing hot red. Yarrun and I stood aside as they left.
“Sir,” Yarrun said to the admiral after the ensigns were gone, “why do you do that to people?”
Chee smiled. “You could say I’m trying to wake the clods out of their rigid mental sets by forcing them to deal with unconventional behavior…or you could say I just like jerking folks around. For that matter, you could say anything you damned well want to. I do.”
He grinned at Yarrun. Yarrun gazed back thoughtfully. I said, “The hot chocolate is over there.”
Mushrooms
Mushroom slices floated on the surface of my hot chocolate like ocean flotsam. I sipped carefully so I didn’t get any mushrooms in my mouth. The damned things wanted to be swallowed—they nudged my lip in their eagerness.
No one serving in deep space could avoid mushrooms for long. Huge quantities were grown on every ship, station, and outpost. They grew quickly and cheerfully under conditions that would kill photosynthesizing plants: odd gravitational effects, artificial atmosphere, lack of natural germinating agents. Mushrooms were served as “fresh treats” in contrast to the synthesized food that made up the bulk of our diets. The Fleet expected us to slaver with gratitude.
I did not like mushrooms. I did not dislike mushrooms. I had long since transcended the urge to vomit at the sight of yet another mushroom-based meal (stuffed mushrooms, mushrooms au gratin, poached mushrooms with creamy mushroom sauce), and had achieved a lofty plateau of indifference to the nasty gray growths.
On Landings, however, I did delight in hacking up fungoid matter whenever a mission required biological samples.
Hot Chocolate
The hot chocolate was lukewarm because the pressure pot was being used for coffee.
Pressure pots were needed to compensate for the subnormal air pressure maintained on board ship. Low pressure meant that water boiled at a lower temperature, and that meant poor quality coffee, poor quality tea, and poor quality hot chocolate. To compensate, you wanted to make your coffee, tea, or hot chocolate in a pressure pot, where the water could reach a decent heat and your drink could pick up a decent amount of flavor.
Of course, you could only use the pot for one beverage at a time.
On board the Jacaranda, we had three complete engines in case of breakdowns. We had two spare Sperm-field generators and five redundant D-thread computers.
We only had one pressure pot. And it was always dedicated to coffee.
If you took the time to brood about that, the chocolate just got colder.
Planning (Part 2)
“You’re the ranking Explorer,” Chee said to me. “It’s your show.”
We sat casually around a table…or perhaps I should say we sat expansively. We were flagrant in our nonchalance. Chee leaned so far back in his chair that the springs squeaked every few seconds; a heavier man would have broken the clamps that attached the seat to its tracks. Yarrun sprawled sideways across his chair, one elbow on the table, the other hand toying with a napkin. I had both arms on the table, hands cupping my mug as if I were drawing heat from it. In fact, I was hoping my hands would warm the chocolate up.
“All right,” I said, “we’re agreed the planet is temperate?”
Both men grunted a yes.
“And it’s relatively Earthlike?”
“Don’t assume it’s too Earthlike,” Chee said.
“Eighty percent of an Explorer’s training is aimed at stamping out such assumptions,” I replied. “The specifics of each planet are different, but there are usually some general parallels. For example, do we think Melaquin has flora and fauna?”
“It must,” Chee answered. “If it’s an official exile world, it has to be able to sustain human life. Otherwise, banishment to an exile world would be as good as murder, and the League of Peoples would condemn Outward Fleet laws as non-sentient. No…there’s got to be a reasonable chance for survival on any exile world—Melaquin included. It must have breathable atmosphere, drinkable water, and edible food.”
“So Melaquin has all the comforts of home,” I said. “Why is it so deadly?”
“Microorganisms?” Chee suggested. “A planet with life must have bacteria, and thousands of diseases for which we have no immunity.”
“Unquestionably…but we’ll breathe canned air and wear the usual protective gear,” I told him. “The skin of a tightsuit can’t be penetrated by the smallest virus we know; and the pressure inside is kept higher than atmospheric pressure outside, so any microbe that comes close to penetrating the suit’s skin is blown right back out again.”
“What about organisms that can digest tightsuits?”
“There are five different kinds of tightsuits,” Yarrun explained, “each made from a different material. Standard procedure is for each party member to wear a different type of suit. It’s extremely unlikely that microbes would eat through each material at exactly the same rate, so if one of us gets a suit breach, the others should have some warning before their suits go too. And of course, death by disease is not instantaneous; even the most virulent bugs we know need at least an hour to multiply to lethal levels. During that hour, our suit sensors would surely notice some sign we’re in trouble—loss of suit pressure, spread of alien organisms through our bodies, deterioration of body functions—not to mention we’ll know we’re getting sick without any help from the electronics.”
“By then it could be too late,” Chee said.
“Almost certainly,” Yarrun agreed. “But we would still have time to communicate with the ship and describe the problem. Sickness is a valid reason to demand immediate pickup; and then we’d only have to hold out another five minutes before we were back on the ship. Even if we died on board, our bodies must be sent to the Explorer Academy for examination, at which point the whole secret would come out.”
“Not if the High Council suppressed the information,” I muttered.
Yarrun shrugged. “Secrets are flimsy things—spread them among too many people, and they get torn. Maybe the c
ouncil could suppress information about a single Landing…maybe even a handful of Landings. But if people go missing on a regular basis, there are too many leaks to catch. Admiral, how many people has the council has sent to Melaquin?”
Chee thought for a moment. “Maybe one or two a year. And they’ve been doing this for at least forty years. They certainly couldn’t suppress hard evidence that long.”
“Which means that whatever the danger is on Melaquin, it hits the party too fast for anyone to collect hard evidence.”
“Do you have any ideas what it might be?” Chee asked.
Feeling like a cadet reciting a case study, I said, “On Canopus IV, there’s a plant that spreads its seeds by exploding violently. In the right season, the vibration from a single footstep is enough to set it off. Five parties were killed there before one team spread out and put a hundred meters between each party member. In that team, one Explorer was killed; the others reported back and Canopus IV was eventually tamed.”
“So you think we should spread out?”
Yarrun snorted a small laugh. “The planet Seraphar has a race of semi-sentient shapeshifters who would quietly stab Explorers in the back and take their place in the party. Spreading out just made it that much easier for the shapeshifters to do their work. Six parties were killed before one stumbled on the truth.”
“Every decision is a gamble,” I told the admiral. “In this case, however, we don’t need to tax our brains. So many teams have landed on Melaquin, they must have tried all the standard approaches by now. None of those worked, so we’re free to do whatever the hell we want.”
We spent several moments of silence, contemplating the wealth of freedom presented to us.
No-Comm
“Of course,” I said at last, “there’s a more pleasant alternative.”
“I’m eager to hear it,” Chee answered.
“According to my old instructor Phylar Tobit, teams exploring Melaquin don’t necessarily go Oh Shit; they just go no-comm. Suppose there’s something on the planet that interrupts communications—some kind of interference field.”
Yarrun looked thoughtful. “Didn’t Tobit suggest that parties can broadcast for a while before being cut off? If the planet has natural interference, it should kill communications right from the start.”
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