The New Space Opera

by Gardner Dozois

  “Hullo, baby,” Been said. “You’re very lucky to have such a devoted mother.”

  The babyface regarded him with blue seriousness.

  “And a famous father, captain of this marvelous slipship.”

  Zola gasped. Not only had she warned Been not to mention Illona’s ex, but the pod had reached consensus that he shouldn’t. Harlen Quellan was the reason Ilona still suffered through her endless pregnancy. After the divorce, she had refused to give birth to their son until Harlen agreed to honor a prenuptual agreement giving her a third of their joint assets, which included the Nine Ball.

  A shadow passed over Ilona’s features. “This baby doesn’t speak to strangers, sir.”

  “Really? I’m very good with children.” Been spoke with an easy obliviousness. “You know, I’m still hoping to meet your husband someday, Ilona. We’ve been a year aboard and I’ve only seen him on the lightboards, never in the flesh. That’s odd, don’t you think? It’s not that big a ship.” He peered into the babyface. “If your father has visitation rights, baby, would you put in the good word?”

  The little mouth on the babyface twisted. “Googoo, gah, gah, gah.”

  Ilona’s head dropped so that her chin rested against the babyface. She covered her mouth with her hand and murmured to it. The babyface burbled back. As this went on, Been was pleased to see that mother and baby were arguing.

  As one, Been and his entire pod leaned toward Ilona Quellan, hoping to catch some of the conversation. The rumors were that baby Quellan had long since achieved consciousness in the womb, but nobody knew what it did with it.

  Finally, Ilona let her hand fall to her side. She gave Been a prickly glare. “On your birthday,” she said, “there is to be a party?” The babyface was watching him intently.

  The question caught Been by surprise. He glanced at his podmates, but they just gawked back at him like he had sprouted another ear.

  “Not that I know of,” he admitted.

  “It doesn’t speak well of you, Been Watanabe, that no one cares to celebrate your birthday. These people, for instance.” She gestured at Zola, Nelly, and Sandor. “Zola tells me you have been living together for the past year.”

  Zola shook herself. “We think Been is wonderful. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “And we support his decision to . . . um . . . change himself,” said Nelly. “Definitely.”

  Consensus on this subject was also enthusiastically confirmed.

  “It’s just that he doesn’t quite fit—”

  Ilona interrupted before Sandor could finish. “This baby thinks your friend should have a birthday party.” She pushed her chair back and stood up with difficulty, her belly barely clearing the edge of the table. “If there is a party, this baby would like you to invite both it and its father.” She rested her hands on the table wearily. “I can’t speak for Captain Quellan, but I can assure you that this baby would be certain to attend.”

  Throwing a party on the Nine Ball was so complicated that very few of the colonists had managed it. Members of a single pod could gather easily enough in their common room, and they might invite a few guests, depending on whether they could reach consensus about intruding into one another’s personal space. But if more than one pod wanted to socialize, it would have to be in public space, which was at a premium on the Nine Ball. The AgCore had room enough, but was not particularly party-friendly. There was a pungent iron stink in the abattoir where Molly, the Nine Ball’s amiable fatling, sloughed off slabs of her living light and darkmeat. And the CO2 in the greenhouse ran to six percent—good for the hydroponic plants, fatal for parties. There wasn’t much open space in the library. The virtuality shells lining the VRCore were ninety percent singles and ten percent doubles. The cafeteria was in continuous use, with the eighth seating for any given meal being immediately followed by the first seating of the next meal. When the two meeting rooms weren’t booked by one of the colonists’ sixteen Infrastructure Planning Groups or the harmony circles, they were being used by the various meetups which had formed during the run to Little Chin. These ranged from Amateur Astronomy to Zen League Baseball. The Space-Friendly Pet Meetup alone had a dozen subsections: spiders, ants, pretters, frogs, turtles, snakes, mice, gerbils, hamsters, ferrets, squee, and birds.

  The other complication with throwing a party was drawing up a guest list. In a society where everyone was friendly but nobody was much of a friend, how were Been’s podmates to decide who to invite to his birthday party? For there was going to be a party, and in a most unusual place. To the general astonishment of all aboard, even the crew, Captain Harlen Quellan himself had offered the ControlCore for Been’s birthday party. It was widely assumed, at least among the colonists, that this meant the Captain would be making his first public appearance of the run. The guest list Been and his podmates finally decided upon was an odd mix of crew and colonists—especially odd because these two groups did not usually have much to do with one another. The colonists regarded the crew as outrageously idiosyncratic; almost all of them had been recast with custom bio or mechmods. Crew could be quarrelsome and vulgar. They held grudges. Sometimes they solved problems by screaming at one another.

  The crew thought the colonists were boring.

  The colonists who attended Been’s party were Tedia Grossman, Grel Laconia, and Ydt, whom Been knew from the Artful Exaggerators Meetup. They were some of the worst liars he had ever met, but for Consensualists, they were fair company. Gala Lysenko, Beth Fauziah, and Foxcroft Allez came from the Future Farmers Meetup. They had spent the last few months subjectively trying to get Been to reveal what wonder food was stowed in the CargoCore. Been had hinted and dodged for months, since his credentials as a genetic agronomist were nothing but well-crafted lies. He didn’t even like vegetables. Dizzy and Henk Krall, who were subsidizing the run to Little Chin, had invited themselves, no doubt to protect their interests. And of course, Nelly, Zola, and Sandor were there, hoping that the party might somehow help them move their superfluous podmate out. From the crew—aside from Harlen Quellan, baby Quellan, and of course, his mother—invitations went to Matty, Ment, and Vron Zink, who were the factors in charge of dividing the sustain so that the Nine Ball could slip through the folded dimensions. Everyone was eager to hear the Zinks’ latest estimate of when the slipship would arrive at Little Chin. Zelmet Emsley was invited, as well as Kinsella Frecktone, who managed the Nine Ball’s AgCore and was presumably a professional colleague of Been’s, although they had hardly spoken since leaving Nonny’s Home. Nobody could quite figure out why Kastor maven Lodse, the assistant cargo steward, was on the guest list.

  Been rode the lift to the frontmost level of the Nine Ball with Nelly and Sandor; Zola had volunteered to bring the birthday cake from the cafeteria. Been was feeling a little flushed; Zelmet Emsley’s sprites had been having their way with his genome for not quite a day now. He worried that his skin was getting tighter; he could almost feel his fingerprints.

  The lift hatch slid away and he was gazing into the dazzle of the ControlCore’s lightboards.

  “Hmm.” Zelmet Emsley sounded as if he were a swarm of bees. “Here’s the man of the hour.”

  Been blinked, distracted by the way the lightboards were singing their status reports.

  “We’re here, Been,” hissed Nelly. “Step off.” When she nudged Been in the small of the back, her knuckle pricked him like a knife and he felt a surge of terror. How long had he been paralyzed by the sights and sounds of ControlCore? Sandor had a hand clamped over the shivering lift hatch to keep it from closing. Been realized then that he was having an unexpected reaction to the sprites. Adrenaline skittered through him and brain cells that had too long been dormant began to fire. He had to get in control of himself. This might be his chance to talk to Harlen Quellan.

  “Is the Captain here?” said Been.

  When Emsley’s thinking head grimaced, its face looked as if it were pressed against a w
indow. “Not yet,” said his talking head.

  Been let Gala and Beth peel him away from Emsley. They wanted him to see how Kastor maven Lodse could pull up real-time images of any single cargo container on board and then inspect their contents virtually.

  “So that means you can tell us what’s in any container?” Gala rested a hand lightly on Lodse’s shoulder. “Say, for example”—she shot Been a mischievous grin—“Y7R in cold locker three?”

  Lodse gestured at the lightboard. It sang back to him and then a green Lifetec container appeared on it. “Could.” He nodded at the lightboard. “But won’t. Not my job. My job is getting stuff from here to there.”

  “Please, Kastor. We’ve heard rumors that we’re carrying some revolutionary new seed stock that could save Little Chin.” Now Beth was testing Been to see if he would react.

  Been thought he could see malice curling off her smile like smoke. “We’re planting seed, Beth, not rumors.”

  “You won’t talk to us, Been Watanabe, so now we’re not talking to you.” Gala closed her hand on Lodse’s shoulder. “What about it, Kastor? Aren’t you interested?”

  “Not really.” Lodse waved at the lightboard and it went back to the default overview of the CargoCore. “To us, cargo is nothing but bins, barrels, and bulbs. Some of them have to be kept warm, some cold. Some of them need to breathe, others want to be airtight. All we care about is whether someone is coming to sign for them at the end of the run.”

  More people arrived at the party and then Gala and Beth were gone and a drunken Henk Krall was leaning against him so hard that Been had to brace himself to keep from pitching backward. At first, Been thought Henk might be flirting with him, but then the conversation turned rancid.

  “I’m sorry to say, Been, that there have been some who question whether you are truly committed to Consensualism.” Henk’s voice slurred and he added a couple of unnecessary syllables to “Consensualism.” “I intend to bring this problem to Lars Benzonia once we make planetfall. You are a serious disappointment.”

  Been looked to Dizzy to pull her drunken husband off him, but she just shook her head. “Henk, I’m wondering if Been’s personality dampening might not have been completely effective,” she said. “Do you think that’s possible, Been dear? Might that be why you are taking such drastic steps?”

  “Have taken.” Been stepped away from Henk suddenly, and when the old man lost his balance, Been danced him to a bulkhead and parked him against it. “You want to see drastic steps?” he called out to the room. Dizzy watched, astonished, as he continued to dance away from Henk. “Draa-stic steps, fan-tastic steps,” he crooned and caught a smirking Kinsella Frecktone up in his arms; he fit there like the key to Been’s lock. Been wondered if Emsley might not have been wrong and he had become fully gay overnight. “Come with me, darling, and together we’ll take enthusi-ass-stic steps to the stars.” Been swung him into a cross-body lead and Kinsella actually followed along for a few beats.

  Then a lot of people were laughing and Been was laughing too and someone gave him something dangerous to drink and he took a sip that looked bigger than it was and when no one was looking, he spilled the rest into a trash container just before he fell in with the Zinks.

  “So when are you going to post a hard estimate for planetfall?” Been could never tell Matty from Vron Zink, especially when their datacords were melded together. The brothers were wide, dark, grim men with breath bad enough to make engineers flinch. They never got jokes, no matter how obvious the telling. Their niece Ment was younger and blonder. She had come aboard the Nine Ball to learn the family trade.

  “The sustain has been very folded tight,” said the brothers, speaking in unison as they always did when they were sharing mind.

  Young Ment Zink wandered over, as if sensing that her uncles were talking business. The segmented datacord began to uncoil from around her neck. “Want me to meld too?” she said to her uncles.

  “Not necessary,” they said. “We have enough processing capacity for this conversation.”

  Ment wound her datacord back behind her hair in disappointment. “Happy birthday, Mr. Been Watanabe,” she said. “This is quite a coup. What do you know about the captain that we don’t?”

  “Never met the man.”

  “He’s asking that we’ll make planetfall when,” said the uncles.

  “I’d say we have at least two scant folds to slip through,” said Ment.

  “Tomorrow,” said the uncles. “Or the after day.”

  “Tomorrow?” said Been. “You mean ship subjective tomorrow?”

  “No, standard tomorrow,” said Ment. “In the broad dimensions. They must be thinking in real time.”

  “So what’s that going to be in ship subjective time?”

  “We pass currently twenty-three ship subjective days for each standard day,” said the brothers, “but the sustain very crunches our subjective space-time fast.”

  Ment polished the tip of her datacord with her thumb. “This is all probability-driven, but it’s most likely we’ll reach one-to-one subjective-to-standard time in under two weeks.”

  “But two weeks is also error margin,” said the uncles.

  “Two weeks subjective?” It had always made Been dizzy when he thought about time dilation in the sustain of the six folded dimensions, so he didn’t.

  “Subjective, yes,” said Ment. “And when we close the sustain, we should be just a day from planetfall.”

  Been shut his eyes and tried not to look stupid.

  “But what will we find there?” Zola had her arm tight around Nelly and was playing nervously with the ends of her podmate’s hair. Been was in the midst of a knot of colonists. He couldn’t see the Zinks anywhere.

  “Ydt claims that the colony on Little Chin voted to dissolve,” said Nelly.

  “He heard it from the Captain.”

  “Actually, the crew heard it from the Captain. I had it from Kastor maven Lodse.”

  “Lars Benzonia has gone stale because the teachers blocked consensus on a recast.” Foxcroft Allez’s cheeks were flushed. “There’s nobody to lead them.”

  “Us,” said Nelly.

  Ydt peeked over her shoulder. “Everyone on Little Chin will cram onto the Nine Ball. Once we get pushed off, they’ll come swarming. Captain booked the entire colony yesterday.”

  “Is he here?” Foxcroft glanced around the ControlCore.

  “Not yet.”

  “He can’t possibly have heard any such thing.” Now that Been had to think about subjective and standard time again, it filled his head with fizz. “We’re still dividing the sustain, Ydt. No message can get from the broad dimensions to the folded dimensions because of time dilation.”

  “Go ask Kastor if you don’t believe me,” said Ydt.

  Sandor turned to look for the cargo steward.

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself.” Been caught Sandor by the arm. “I don’t know how you can step onto a slipship without learning the first thing about interdimensional physics.”

  “It isn’t true?” Nelly slumped against Zola in relief.

  “It could be true.” Ydt beamed at his fellow colonists. “That’s the beauty of it. We just have no way of knowing.”

  Been poked Ydt in the chest. “Ever think of trying out for the Artful Exaggerators, Ydt?”

  Ydt grinned and poked him back. “I recruited you to the Exaggerators, Watanabe.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “You’re hot, Been,” Zelmet Emsley traced a medfinger just under Been’s hairline. “Your temperature is 39.3 degrees. Maybe you should go back to your hutch to rest?”

  “Is the captain here yet?” said Been.

  “At least sit down.”

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear . . .”

  Been found that he was holding a plate with a slab of spice cake with a light green frosting that rippled like waves on a pond. On top of the frosting floated the dark green letters p, y, and B.r />
  Ilona’s huge belly was hard as a fist. It bumped against him as she went up on tiptoes to whisper into his ear.

  “Harlen put you up to this.” Her voice tickled him. “He’s using you to harass me. Make me let him go.”

  “But I’ve never even met the Captain,” said Been.

  Her face was too close to his. “That doesn’t mean anything.” Been could feel her anger burning his cheek. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her. No part of her personality had been dampened: she’d probably punch him.

  “Is the captain here?”

  She snorted.

  “There’s a secret, isn’t there?”

  “There are always secrets.” Her hand rested on the shelf of her belly. “Come down to my cabin,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

  Zola had been right, Been thought. The common room of Ilona Quellan’s cabin was a showcase for the creative-discomfort style of interior design. Her deckscape pitched and changed levels without warning, but at least it didn’t move. Panels of varying solidity slowly dripped from the overhead or melted back into the deckscape. They were not hard to avoid, but the point was that they had to be avoided. Mobile floodlights crawled across the overhead and down the bulkheads. The furniture was snug enough: a wide particolored couch, a scatter of low and high chairs. Three hutches, a food prep bay, and a head opened onto the common room. The hatch to each of the sleep hutches was a lightboard showing scenes from old 3D vids or alien landscapes. They rotated ninety degrees at random intervals, so that Been had to lean over and cock his head to make sense of them. Been knew that research showed that people who moved into a challenging environment showed measurable gains in intelligence and lived years and even decades longer without needing to be recast. But he had no interest in spending his life fighting his way through an obstacle course every night just to climb into bed.

  However, he could put up with it for a couple of weeks, assuming the Zinks had estimated planetfall accurately. “It’s an amazing place you have here,” he said.

  Ilona sprawled on the couch with two pillows under her head and one between her legs. She had changed into a pair of loose silk pajamas, the top of which crept up her belly, showing a grin of white skin.