Nebula Awards Showcase 2006

by Gardner Dozois

  “Hello, anyone at home?” Tanner wisecracked.

  “Of course,” replied Helva logically, activating her outside scanners. “Are you my partner?” she asked hopefully, as she recognized the Scout Service uniform.

  “All you have to do is ask,” he retorted hopefully.

  “No one has come. I thought perhaps there were no partners available and I’ve had no directives from Central.”

  Even to herself Helva sounded a little self-pitying but the truth was she was lonely, sitting on the darkened field. Always she had had the company of other shells and more recently, technicians by the score. The sudden solitude had lost its momentary charm and become oppressive.

  “No directives from Central is scarcely a cause for regret, but there happen to be eight other guys biting their fingernails to the quick just waiting for an invitation to board you, you beautiful thing.”

  Tanner was inside the central cabin as he said this, running appreciative fingers over her panel, the scout’s gravity-couch, poking his head into the cabins, the galley, the head, the pressured-storage compartments.

  “Now, if you want to give Central a shove and do us a favor all in one, call up the Barracks and let’s have a ship-warming partner-picking party. Hmmmm?”

  Helva chuckled to herself. He was so completely different from the occasional visitors or the various Laboratory technicians she had encountered. He was so gay, so assured, and she was delighted by his suggestion of a partner-picking party. Certainly it was not against anything in her understanding of regulations.

  “Cencom, this is XH-834. Connect me with Pilot Barracks.”

  “Visual?”

  “Please.”

  A picture of lounging men in various attitudes of boredom came on her screen.

  “This is XH-834. Would the unassigned scouts do me the favor of coming aboard?”

  Eight figures galvanized into action, grabbing pieces of wearing apparel, disengaging tape mechanisms, disentangling themselves from bedsheets and towels.

  Helva dissolved the connection while Tanner chuckled gleefully and settled down to await their arrival.

  Helva was engulfed in an unshell-like flurry of anticipation. No actress on her opening night could have been more apprehensive, fearful or breathless. Unlike the actress, she could throw no hysterics, china objects d’art or greasepaint to relieve her tension. She could, of course, check her stores for edibles and drinks, which she did, serving Tanner from the virgin selection of her commissary.

  Scouts were colloquially known as “brawns” as opposed to their ship “brains.” They had to pass as rigorous a training program as the brains and only the top one percent of each contributory world’s highest scholars were admitted to Central Worlds Scout Training Program. Consequently the eight young men who came pounding up the gantry into Helva’s hospitable lock were unusually fine-looking, intelligent, well-co-ordinated and adjusted young men, looking forward to a slightly drunken evening, Helva permitting, and all quite willing to do each other dirt to get possession of her.

  Such a human invasion left Helva mentally breathless, a luxury she thoroughly enjoyed for the brief time she felt she should permit it. She sorted out the young men. Tanner’s opportunism amused but did not specifically attract her; the blond Nordsen seemed too simple; dark-haired Al-atpay had a kind of obstinacy with which she felt no compassion: Mir-Ahnin’s bitterness hinted an inner darkness she did not wish to lighten although he made the biggest outward play for her attention. Hers was a curious courtship—this would be only the first of several marriages for her, for brawns retired after 75 years of service, or earlier if they were unlucky. Brains, their bodies safe from any deterioration, served 200 years, and were then permitted to decide for themselves if they wished to continue. Helva had actually spoken to one shell person three hundred and twenty-two years old. She had been so awed by the contact she hadn’t presumed to ask the personal questions she had wanted to.

  Her choice did not stand out from the others until Tanner started to sing a scout ditty, recounting the misadventures of the bold, dense, painfully inept Billy Brawn. An attempt at harmony resulted in cacophony and Tanner wagged his arms wildly for silence.

  “What we need is a roaring good lead tenor. Jennan, besides palming aces, what do you sing?”

  “Sharp,” Jennan replied with easy good humor.

  “If a tenor is absolutely necessary, I’ll attempt it,” Helva volunteered.

  “My good woman,” Tanner protested.

  “Sound your ‘A,’ ” laughed Jennan.

  Into the stunned silence that followed the rich, clear, high “A,” Jennan remarked quietly, “Such an A, Caruso would have given the rest of his notes to sing.”

  It did not take them long to discover her full range.

  “All Tanner asked for was one roaring good lead tenor,” Jennan complained jokingly, “and our sweet mistress supplies us an entire repertory company. The boy who gets this ship will go far, far, far.”

  “To the Horsehead Nebulae?” asked Nordsen, quoting an old Central saw.

  “To the Horsehead Nebulae and back, we shall make beautiful music,” countered Helva, chuckling.

  “Together,” Jennan amended. “Only you’d better make the music and with my voice, I’d better listen.”

  “I rather imagined it would be I who listened,” suggested Helva.

  Jennan executed a stately bow with an intricate flourish of his crush-brimmed hat. He directed his bow toward the central control pillar where Helva was. Her own personal preference crystallized at that precise moment and for that particular reason: Jennan, alone of the men, had addressed his remarks directly at her physical presence, regardless of the fact that he knew she could pick up his image wherever he was in the ship and regardless of the fact that her body was behind massive metal walls. Throughout their partnership, Jennan never failed to turn his head in her direction no matter where he was in relation to her. In response to this personalization, Helva at that moment and from then on always spoke to Jennan only through her central mike, even though that was not always the most efficient method.

  Helva didn’t know that she fell in love with Jennan that evening. As she had never been exposed to love or affection, only the drier cousins, respect and admiration, she could scarcely have recognized her reaction to the warmth of his personality and consideration. As a shell-person, she considered herself remote from emotions largely connected with physical desires.

  “Well, Helva, it’s been swell meeting you,” said Tanner suddenly, as she and Jennan were arguing about the Baroque quality of “Come All Ye Sons of Art.” “See you in space some time, you lucky dog, Jennan. Thanks for the party, Helva.”

  “You don’t have to go so soon?” pleaded Helva, realizing belatedly that she and Jennan had been excluding the others.

  “Best man won,” Tanner said, wryly. “Guess I’d better go get a tape on love ditties. May need ’em for the next ship, if there’re any more at home like you.”

  Helva and Jennan watched them leave, both a little confused.

  “Perhaps Tanner’s jumping to conclusions?” Jennan asked.

  Helva regarded him as he slouched against the console, facing her shell directly. His arms were crossed on his chest and the glass he held had been empty for some time. He was handsome, they all were; but his watchful eyes were unwary, his mouth assumed a smile easily, his voice (to which Helva was particularly drawn) was resonant, deep and without unpleasant overtones or accent.

  “Sleep on it, Helva. Call me in the morning if it’s your op.”

  She called him at breakfast, after she had checked her choice through Central. Jennan moved his things aboard, received their joint commission, had his personality and experience file locked into her reviewer, gave her the co-ordinates of their first mission and the XH- 834 officially became the JH-834.

  Their first mission was a dull but necessary crash priority (Medical got Helva), rushing a vaccine to a distant system plagued with a viru
lent spore disease. They had only to get to Spica as fast as possible.

  After the initial, thrilling forward surge of her maximum speed, Helva realized her muscles were to be given less of a workout than her brawn on this tedious mission. But they did have plenty of time for exploring each other’s personalities. Jennan, of course, knew what Helva was capable of as a ship and partner, just as she knew what she could expect from him. But these were only facts and Helva looked forward eagerly to learning that human side of her partner which could not be reduced to a series of symbols. Nor could the give and take of two personalities be learned from a book. It has to be experienced.

  “My father was a scout, too, or is that programed?” began Jennan their third day out.

  “Naturally.”

  “Unfair, you know. You’ve got all my family history and I don’t know one blamed thing about yours.”

  “I’ve never known either,” Helva confided. “Until I read yours, it hadn’t occurred to me I must have one, too, some place in Central’s files.”

  Jennan snorted. “Shell psychology!”

  Helva laughed. “Yes, and I’m even programed against curiosity about it. You’d better be, too.”

  Jennan ordered a drink, slouched into the gravity couch opposite her, put his feet on the bumpers, turning himself idly from side to side on the gimbals.

  “Helva—a made-up name . . .”

  “With a Scandinavian sound.”

  “You aren’t blond,” Jennan said positively.

  “Well, then, there’re dark Swedes.”

  “And blond Turks and this one’s harem is limited to one.”

  “Your woman in purdah, yes, but you can comb the pleasure houses—” Helva found herself aghast at the edge to her carefully trained voice.

  “You know,” Jennan interrupted her, deep in some thought of his own, “my father gave me the impression he was a lot more married to his ship, the Silvia, than to my mother. I know I used to think Silvia was my grandmother. She was a low number so she must have been a great-great-grandmother at least. I used to talk to her for hours.”

  “Her registry?” asked Helva, unwitting of the jealousy for everyone and anyone who had shared his hours.

  “422. I think she’s TS now. I ran into Tom Burgess once.”

  Jennan’s father had died of a planetary disease, the vaccine for which his ship had used up in curing the local citizens.

  “Tom said he’d got mighty tough and salty. You lose your sweetness and I’ll come back and haunt you, girl,” Jennan threatened.

  Helva laughed. He startled her by stamping up to the control panel, touching it with light, tender fingers.

  “I wonder what you look like,” he said softly, wistfully.

  Helva had been briefed about this natural curiosity of scouts. She didn’t know anything about herself and neither of them ever would or could.

  “Pick any form, shape and shade and I’ll be yours obliging,” she countered as training suggested.

  “Iron Maiden, I fancy blondes with long tresses,” and Jennan pantomined Lady Godiva-like tresses. “Since you’re immolated in titanium, I’ll call you Brunehilda, my dear,” and he made his bow.

  With a chortle, Helva launched into the appropriate aria just as Spica made contact.

  “What’n’ell’s that yelling about? Who are you? And unless you’re Central Worlds Medical go away. We’ve got a plague with no visiting privileges.”

  “My ship is singing, we’re the JH-834 of Worlds and we’ve got your vaccine. What are our landing co-ordinates?”

  “Your ship is singing?”

  “The greatest S.A.T.B. in organized space. Any request?”

  The JH-834 delivered the vaccine but no more arias and received immediate orders to proceed to Leviticus IV. By the time they got there, Jennan found a reputation awaiting him and was forced to defend the 834’s virgin honor.

  “I’ll stop singing,” murmured Helva contritely as she ordered up poultices for this third black eye in a week.

  “You will not,” Jennan said through gritted teeth. “If I have to black eyes from here to the Horsehead to keep the snicker out of the title, we’ll be the ship who sings.”

  After the “ship who sings” tangled with a minor but vicious narcotic ring in the Lesser Magallenics, the title became definitely respectful. Central was aware of each episode and punched out a “special interest” key on JH-834’s file. A first-rate team was shaking down well.

  Jennan and Helva considered themselves a first-rate team, too, after their tidy arrest.

  “Of all the vices in the universe, I hate drug addiction,” Jennan remarked as they headed back to Central Base. “People can go to hell quick enough without that kind of help.”

  “Is that why you volunteered for Scout Service? To redirect traffic?”

  “I’ll bet my official answer’s on your review.”

  “In far too flowery wording. ‘Carrying on the traditions of my family which has been proud of four generations in Service’ if I may quote you your own words.”

  Jennan groaned. “I was very young when I wrote that and I certainly hadn’t been through Final Training and once I was in Final Training, my pride wouldn’t let me fail. . . .

  “As I mentioned, I used to visit Dad on board the Silvia and I’ve a very good idea she might have had her eye on me as a replacement for my father because I had had massive doses of scout-oriented propaganda. It took. From the time I was seven, I was going to be a scout or else.” He shrugged as if deprecating a youthful determination that had taken a great deal of mature application to bring to fruition.

  “Ah, so? Scout Sahir Silan on the JS-422 penetrating into the Horsehead Nebulae?”

  Jennan chose to ignore her sarcasm. “With you, I may even get that far but even with Silvia’s nudging I never day-dreamed myself that kind of glory in my wildest flights of fancy. I’ll leave the whoppers to your agile brain henceforth. I have in mind a smaller contribution to Space History.”

  “So modest?”

  “No. Practical. We also serve, et cetera.” He placed a dramatic hand on his heart.

  “Glory hound!” scoffed Helva.

  “Look who’s talking, my Nebulae-bound friend. At least I’m not greedy. There’ll only be one hero like my dad at Parsaea, but I would like to be remembered for some kudo. Everyone does. Why else do or die?”

  “Your father died on his way back from Parsaea, if I may point out a few cogent facts. So he could never have known he was a hero for damming the flood with his ship. Which kept Parsaean colony from being abandoned. Which gave them a chance to discover the anti-paralytic qualities of Parsaea. Which he never knew.”

  “I know,” said Jennan softly.

  Helva was immediately sorry for the tone of her rebuttal. She knew very well how deep Jennan’s attachment to his father had been. On his review a note was made that he had rationalized his father’s loss with the unexpected and welcome outcome of the Affair at Parsaea.

  “Facts are not human, Helva. My father was and so am I. And basically, so are you. Check over your dial, 834. Amid all the wires attached to you is a heart, an underdeveloped human heart. Obviously!”

  “I apologize, Jennan,” she said contritely.

  Jennan hesitated a moment, threw out his hands in acceptance and then tapped her shell affectionately.

  “If they ever take us off the milkruns, we’ll make a stab at the Nebulae, huh?”

  As so frequently happened in the Scout Service, within the next hour they had orders to change course, not to the Nebulae, but to a recently colonized system with two habitable planets, one tropical, one glacial. The sun, named Ravel, had become unstable; the spectrum was that of a rapidly expanding shell, with absorption lines rapidly displacing toward violet. The augmented heat of the primary had already forced evacuation of the nearer world, Daphnis. The pattern of spectral emissions gave indication that the sun would sear Chloe as well. All ships in the vicinity were to report to Disaster Headquarters
on Chloe to effect removal of the remaining colonists.

  The JH-834 obediently presented itself and was sent to outlying areas on Chloe to pick up scattered settlers who did not appear to appreciate the urgency of the situation. Chloe, indeed, was enjoying the first temperatures above freezing since it had been flung out of its parent. Since many of the colonists were religious fanatics who had settled on rigorous Chloe to fit themselves for a life of pious reflection, Chloe’s abrupt thaw was attributed to sources other than a rampaging sun.

  Jennan had to spend so much time countering specious arguments that he and Helva were behind schedule on their way to the fourth and last settlement. Helva jumped over the high range of jagged peaks that surrounded and sheltered the valley from the former raging snows as well as the present heat. The violent sun with its flaring corona was just beginning to brighten the deep valley.

  “They’d better grab their toothbrushes and hop aboard,” Helva commented. “HQ says speed it up.”

  “All women,” remarked Jennan in surprise as he walked down to meet them. “Unless the men on Chloe wear furred skirts.”

  “Charm ’em but pare the routine to the bare essentials. And turn on your two-way private.”

  Jennan advanced smiling, but his explanation was met with absolute incredulity and considerable doubt as to his authenticity. He groaned inwardly as the matriarch paraphrased previous explanations of the warming sun.

  “Revered mother, there’s been an overload on that prayer circuit and the sun is blowing itself up in one obliging burst. I’m here to take you to the spaceport at Rosary—”

  “That Sodom?” The worthy woman glowered and shuddered disdainfully at his suggestion. “We thank you for your warning but we have no wish to leave our cloister for the rude world. We must go about our morning meditation which has been interrupted—”

  “It’ll be permanently interrupted when that sun starts broiling. You must come now,” Jennan said firmly.