Starbridge

by A. C. Crispin

  "Our quarters?" Mahree repeated blankly. "But we can't--"

  She broke off when Rob gave her a meaningful nudge with his elbow. The doctor nodded vigorously. "That is very thoughtful and kind of you, Honored Dhurrrkk'!" he said. "This cabin will be very comfortable indeed."

  "Yes, it will," Mahree agreed, trying to sound enthusiastic. It was thoughtful of Dhurrrkk' to remember that the environment they were used to was at least ten degrees cooler than his own. The room was considerably less humid, also. She tried not to stare at the single mound of bedding. "Thank you very much."

  Her Simiu friend appeared touchingly pleased. "I am glad that you like it." He turned back to the door. "Remember to keep the portal closed, so the cooler atmosphere will not be dissipated. Right now, I must check our course. Rest now, honored friends. You have had a wearying time of it this day."

  He dimmed the overhead lights, then the Simiu was gone, the portal sliding shut behind him. Mahree turned to Rob. "Thanks for saving me from blurting out something churlish," she said.

  Rob grinned cheerfully as he stuck his hand out. "Hiya, roomie. Won't this be fun? Just like camping out!"

  She returned his smile feebly, as she shook the offered hand. "Yeah.

  Camping out."

  "Don't look so dismayed," he said. "I only snore when I'm drunk, or so I've been told. I won't keep you awake."

  "Right now not even a gun at my head could keep me

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  awake," Mahree said, yawning. "We can divide up those comforters into two piles . . . there are plenty of them."

  Her yawn was contagious, and Mahree giggled as Rob also yawned

  suddenly, widely. "I don't know," he said, casting her a sardonic glance as they began wrestling with the pile of bedding, each dragging half of it to opposite corners of the little cabin, "having a gun pointed at you gives a helluva adrenaline rush." He sat down and unsealed his shoes. "Sure woke me up."

  Miserably self-conscious, Mahree pulled off her own shoes and lay down.

  "G'night ..." she mumbled, feeling exhaustion engulf her like a warm wave.

  "Good night ..." he murmured, then, after a moment, she heard his voice again. "Hey, kiddo ... would you really have shot me?"

  Mahree rolled over and lay staring up at the low, inward- slanting ceiling of the little cabin. She did not speak for a long time, but, finally, she replied,

  "Yes. I'd have felt terrible for doing it, but I would have."

  "I figured," he said gently. "Go to sleep, kiddo."

  Mahree listened to his soft, regular breathing as he fell asleep, and thought that she might cry, but sleep took her before any tears could fall.

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  CHAPTER 11

  Breathing Space

  Nothing ever happens in space.

  Where have I heard that complaint before? Well, it's truer than ever.

  We've been underway for over a week, and I've already read all my books, viewed all my holo-vids, and watched all the films Rob brought--twice. It's amazing how many hours there are in each day to fill up. (It doesn't help that the Simiu "day" is longer than ours. The time is still the same, but, psychologically, the hours seem longer.)

  Dhurrrkk' and Rob and I spend hours each day talking, and still there are times I end up staring at the four inward- slanting walls. Wish I'd thought to toss in my textbook cassettes. Right now, I'd love to peruse the history of the Martian Colonies.

  (Rob told me some of his ancestors were settlers in the First Martian Colony, that grand and glorious failure. I asked him if there were any espers in his family. He said that one of his maternal great-aunts was a telepath--as well as a cranky old terror ... so much for the notion that complete understanding promotes serenity and kindness . . .)

  Sheer physical discomfort adds to the tedium. I'm hot and sticky all the time, and there's no way to bathe. We have to take turns washing at the cold-water fountain, using a minimum amount of water. Bathing is low priority compared to drinking or

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  irrigating the plants in hydroponics. Used water gets recycled, true, but a certain percentage is always irretrievable.

  (Simiu do not bathe; they groom, which is why Rosinante's water supply seems small. Dhurrrkk' spends an hour or so each day licking himself, then he combs his fur with his nails. Simiu have some kind of secretion beneath their fingertips that leaves the hair soft and shiny. That secretion is the source of their slightly spicy, musky scent.)

  Speaking of hair, mine is getting to be a nuisance. Yesterday I took it down and poured a cup of water over my scalp, then rubbed it hard with a towel, which made me feel better. I really ought to cut it, I suppose.

  The food is worse than I thought it would be. Since it's unprocessed, it's impervious to spoilage, but the texture is grainy and the taste is awful. Both of us have lost weight.

  (And, trust me, you've never lived until you've used Simiu sanitary facilities.

  The way they're shaped makes me feel like a contortionist. I won't depress you with the details.)

  My language skills continue to improve, though I wouldn't call myself fluent.

  For that, I'd have to be able to think in it, and I'm still mentally translating everything Dhurrrkk' says to me into English or French, then translating my reply into Simiu before giving it.

  We've definitely eluded pursuit. Dhurrrkk' listened for any mention of our escapade on Rosinante's radio, but there was none. The High Council must be keeping the entire thing quiet-- probably because they're embarrassed to admit that the Simiu chance to attain full membership in the CLS has gone so sour.

  However, Dhurrrkk' did pick up a broadcast aimed at us--at least, he caught the tail-end of an ID code that matched Rosinante's. The message was very neutrally worded--any other ship who intercepted it wouldn't tumble to what it was about. Dhurrrkk' thought he recognized the speaker as Rhrrrkkeet', though he couldn't be sure due to interference. She said, in essence, "Come home and all will be forgiven."

  But we've gone too far to turn back, so Dhurrrkk' just turned off the radio without replying.

  Rob and I have tried reading and viewing some holovid programs aboard Rosinante, but with limited success. Oh, they were fascinating to study as a reflection of Simiu society, but a bust as entertainment. It's hard to get emotionally involved in a

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  story where the protagonist's sole conflict consists of figuring out obscure and clever ways to accrue honor-debts (which doesn't equate to getting rich, though that's what I thought at first), or the protagonist spends the entire program in an attempt to redeem his/her own, or a sibling's or friend's, honor.

  Sad endings are preferable to happy ones ... as long as the protagonist's death is excessively honorable. Most Simiu stories are concluded by an honor-duel.

  They're strangely beautiful to watch---the ritual-hence ones are as orchestrated, in their way, as ballet. But they don't touch me emotionally, and, during the blood-duels, I can't help remembering that this is a representation of a real event, and that people die.

  Mahree sat cross-legged before the main holo-tank, watching a Simiu holovid. She shifted uncomfortably in the Earth-plus gravity, and discreetly rubbed her tailbone.

  On the screen, the Simiu protagonist, Arrrkk'u, finished his final speech to his assembled kin, then stepped through the archway into the Arena-of-Honor.

  He squatted down on powerful haunches, his crest rigid with anticipation, teeth bared in the ritual threat-display. Waiting.

  It reminded Mahree of stories about ancient Rome, and the gladiatorial combats, except that all the Simiu were silent; it was dishonorable bad manners to cry out during an honor-duel.

  As the challenger entered the fifty-meter-wide Arena, Mahree saw Dhurrrkk's crest begin to sag. His gaze shifted away from the holo-screen. She had noticed before that he seemed uncomfortable watching honor-duels, and it bothered her. Several times she'd been tempted to ask him what was wrong, but she didn't want to bring up a sensitive subject unless they were
alone.

  Which they were now; Rob was taking a nap.

  "FriendDhurrrkk'," she began, "I do not wish to cause you pain, or dishonor myself by asking unwelcome questions. But I cannot help sensing your discomfort when you see one of these honor-duels on the screen."

  Dhurrrkk's powerful shoulders stiffened, and Mahree knew by the expression in his eyes, the infinitesimal wrinkling of his muzzle, that he was angry. She hastily cast about for a way to take back her implied question.

  Then her friend's violet eyes softened, and he nodded. "It is 159

  true, FriendMahree," he admitted. "I can barely stand to watch the events in the Arena-of-Honor, even when they are part of a fictional tale. You see, I have fought only two honor-duels in my life--far less than most of my peers--

  and during both of them, I was the one who declared ritual hence. In your language, you would say that I lost, and that my loss was not a particularly honorable one. What is your phrase?" The Simiu keyed for a translation. "

  'Lost by default.' "

  "You mean you quit? Or ran away?" Mahree didn't believe it.

  Dhurrrkk's eyes flashed indignantly. "No, if I had done either of those things, I would no longer be a son of my mother!" Then his shoulders slumped, his crest drooped. "But in neither case did I battle even so far as the first blooding--mine or his. I declared ritual hence far too early, and my actions made me an outcast among my associates at school."

  Mahree glanced up at the screen. "You fought in that Arena?" she breathed.

  "Oh, Dhurrrkk' . . . you told me you hadn't!"

  "I told no untruths," her friend insisted, rather indignantly. "I have been in two honor-duels, but neither was in the Arena-of- Honor, nothing as major as that. These were what you might term 'schoolyard fights.' "

  "I understand," Mahree said. "And I know how important these honor-duels are to you. But speaking as a human, I would have to say that it was smart of you not to let yourself be wounded--possibly seriously."

  "You do not understand, FriendMahree. My peers now regard me as one without courage. To us bravery is basic--not merely an admirable trait, but an essential one."

  "Well ..." she considered, "couldn't you pick a fight with someone else after we get home, then stick it out until blood is drawn? Wouldn't that fix the situation?"

  "Perhaps," Dhurrrkk' said gloomily, his crest absolutely flat against his neck,

  "but to do so I would have to choose a younger, weaker opponent, because none of my peers would consider me a worthy challenger. And I do not like the idea of using my age and size against another who is less experienced."

  "You mean you do know how to fight?"

  "After my second disgrace, Rhrrrkkeet' saw to it that I was coached by one of the foremost champions of his day--the Honorable K't'eerrr. But . . .

  FriendMahree . . . and this also is

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  something I have never told another . . . my will-to-battle is weak. That is a shameful thing. I hope that I do not shock you too greatly in admitting it."

  "No, Dhurrrkk', my friend," Mahree said gently, "I am not shocked. And I truly feel that in helping to prevent a possible war, you have demonstrated a great deal of courage. More courage than it would take to fight an honor-duel."

  Dhurrrkk' brightened. "I felt that was so, inside me," he confided. "But it is gratifying to have someone else say it."

  Mahree pointed at the screen. "Why don't you turn that off? I don't like watching Arrrkk'u die."

  Her friend nodded. "Very well." He glanced over at the program. "It is not something that I enjoy watching, either, because my teacher, the Honorable K't'eerrr, is playing the role of Arrrkk'u."

  "Really? Wait a moment. That's K't'eerrr?"

  "Yes."

  Onscreen, another Simiu had entered the Arena, a huge, heavily maned chestnut and salmon-dappled gladiator. "Why does it make you sad to see your former teacher?"

  "Because Arrrkk'u's opponent in this challenge is played by Hekkk'eesh, the champion who, a year after this program was made, bit off K't'eerrr's left hand when they were selected to represent different clans in a blood-duel over a border dispute. K't'eerrr had acquitted himself well in the duel, but he is much older than Hekkk'eesh. For a crucial second, he was too slow."

  Dhurrrkk' switched off the pictured honor-duel with a saddened expression.

  "How awful!" Mahree cried. "You said that permanent injury or death almost never happened."

  "I spoke the truth. But there was bad feeling between the two champions, and Hekkk'eesh took full advantage of it."

  "Wasn't his action considered dishonorable?"

  "Yes, and Hekkk'eesh has been trying to redeem himself ever since, without much success. He is no longer retained for the most honorable challenges--

  only for the ones the other honor- vessels consider beneath them."

  Mahree frowned. "What kind of challenges are those?"

  Dhurrrkk' sighed, a very human-sounding sigh. "Unfounded or illicit challenges against unwilling, unable, or smaller opponents," he explained.

  "Little more than killings-for-profit--" he

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  keyed in a translation request, then added, " 'assassinations,' or 'executions,'

  you would call them."

  "Do they happen often?"

  "Not as often as wars, murders, and crimes appear to happen in human society."

  She shook her head and said quickly, "The holo-vids that you have viewed are as distorted for the sake of drama as your own, FriendDhurrrkk'. Crimes are frequent in human society, yes, but not nearly as frequent as they appear in holo-vids. Just as in your programs honor-duels are almost all blood-duels and death-duels, involving the death of one of the combatants, which you tell me is not the case in reality."

  "I understand. I should have guessed as much."

  The Simiu slid off his lounge with fluid ease. "I must check our course. You will excuse me?"

  "I'll come with you," Mahree said. "I want to work on that program I'm trying to develop to translate Mizari into Simiu, then into my language."

  "How has your progress been?"

  "Slow." Mahree made a face. "It's hard enough programming for translation from one language to another, but for two alien languages--! And the database and vocabulary you have aboard are pretty basic."

  "I wish that I spoke the language better myself. Then I might be able to help you more--although they tell us Simiu tongues are poorly constructed to produce the sibilants the Mizari language requires. Human tongues may do better."

  She smiled wryly, careful not to show her teeth. "Don't bet on it, my friend. I spit all over the navigation console this morning during my language lesson.

  Even if I learn to reproduce those sounds, I may have to keep my mouth shut! It would never do to spray saliva all over the founders of the CLS!"

  Dhurrrkk' nodded, his violet eyes twinkling. "Sound diplomatic reasoning, FriendMahree. Your caution does you credit."

  "Did . . . you . . . have ... a ... happy . . . childhood?" Rob gasped as they jogged in place in their quarters the next morning.

  "Why d'you ... ask?" Mahree countered, forcing herself not to break stride.

  She glanced at her watch. Sixty seconds to go . . .

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  Rob did not reply until they had sunk down onto the padded floor, and their breathing was returning to normal. He sat up, slowly. "Getting old," he grumbled, still puffing. "This gravity makes me feel about ninety."

  Mahree, who had grown up in Jolie's slightly less than one- gee gravity field, could only nod.

  "I asked because I want to know," Rob said, a minute later, in response to her previous question. "Sometimes, your eyes look . . . well, I get the impression that it's been a long time since you were happy, kiddo."

  Mahree stiffened, hardly daring to breathe.

  Rob mopped sweat off his forehead with a towel, then gave her a sidelong glance. "Tell me to go to hell and M.Y.O.B. if you want. I deserve it."

&nbs
p; "No, that's all right." Mahree didn't look at him. "I guess the only answer has to be an equivocal one ... yes and no. I was never the kind of kid that's popular, the kind that you just know is happy. The girl who has the cutest boys- dying to go out with her, whose clothes are always perfect, whose grades are top of the class. The one who's Class President, Valedictorian, winner of the Creative Writing contest and the WestingDupont Science Search, whose biggest problem is choosing which two of a possible six terrific careers she'll decide to pursue. You know the kind I mean. There's one in every class."

  He nodded.

  "But I had friends ... I wasn't lonely all the time. Besides, I had a wonderful dad and maman . . . they loved me, even if I wasn't pretty or popular. That's important." She kneaded her calf muscle, eyes downcast. "And I had other friends who were always there, just a glance away ..."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You may know them . . . Tarzan of the Apes, Jirel of Joiry, and Kim, and Jo March, and King Arthur. Cirocco Jones, Raz of Padseniro . . . D'Artagnan . . .

  Aslan the Lion, the Crystal Crusader and Frodo and Jane Eyre. Lots more.

  Sidney Carton ... the Scarlet Pimpernel, and Kaththea of Estcarp. Even Dracula and Dr. Frankenstein's poor misunderstood creation."

  Rob grinned, nodding with recognition. "Yeah, I know a lot of them. I had a collection of adventure stories that filled an entire cassette file. Most of them you couldn't call classics, but they were--Mw/ Ever read The Prisoner ofZenda?"

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  "No, I never did."

  "I'll lend it to you. Great stuff. Lookalike cousins and royal impersonations and swordfights and noble sacrifice. Pure melodrama, but a hell of a lot of fun. I have the movie, too."

  Mahree grinned back at him. "Did you ever read Twain's The Prince and the Pauper?"

  "Sure. Ever read Cyrano de Bergerac? Talk about swordsmen!"

  "Mais oui--enfrancais, naturellement."

  "Snob."

  She laughed. "You're just jealous."

  He sobered. "I am, a bit."

  Mahree was startled. "I was kidding! What could possibly make someone like you jealous of me?"