Alien Earth

by Megan Lindholm

“What?”

  “Mutiny. Actually, that is not the correct term to use, but the proper word escapes me just now. We are only six days from orbit. The time to act is now.”

  “Oh.” Connie began packing up her tools. Preventing little encounters of this sort had been John’s purpose in ending her solitary Wakeups. But Tug still found times when she was alone to introduce subjects she would sooner leave alone. Usually he slipped them into the middle of some innocuous discussion or “instruction” that he was presenting to her. Since Tug had awakened her six days ago, he had regaled her with stories and poetry, and insisted on instructing her in the various hidden meanings he had pondered out for them. Connie often suspected that the alien assigned hidden meanings to perfectly straightforward statements, and found arcane connections between pieces of literature that were totally unrelated. But she found his musings as entertaining as they were bewildering. Nothing had prepared her for how much she would enjoy those stories of an earlier world.

  They had helped pass the long hours of “menial labor” as Tug referred to it. John seemed to be obsessed with maintenance; not that much on the ship ever needed maintenance. But he seemed to think she should know how to take everything apart and put it back together just in case it ever did. She hadn’t read so many manuals in all her career as she had on her last three Wakeups. Her training classes for Beastship crew had emphasized that the ships were virtually maintenance free other than periodic checking of components to be sure they hadn’t passed their biodegradable life expectancy. There had been one brief course on manual use and maintenance assembly. Even her instructor had regarded it as a nearly obsolete area of competence. As she had recalled, he had prefaced most of the modules with “Now, you’re probably never going to have to use this, but every crew should have some experience in this area.” Well, John had assigned her enough tasks that she now felt she could have instructed the instructor.

  But it had not all been mechanic work and tales from Tug. Grueling physical workouts had become part of her daily routine. There had also been hours of runging through parts of the gondola previously unexplored by her. John tacitly encouraged her explorations of the ship. She found a morbid fascination with the sections of the ship that had been designed for her ancestors’ use during the Great Evacuation. When she had asked Tug why they had never been dismantled, he had replied, “Nonrecyclable. No way to break them down, except into smaller pieces of plastic. So they were left as they are, for whatever use might be found for them.” So Connie had perched in their huge lounges, and fingered the slick plastics of their protective suits that loomed large on their racks, and studied the long disconnected instrumentation that had once served them. Her curiosity about their mission had been whetted. She found she was actually looking forward to her first sight of Terra.

  Taken as a whole, the times had been pleasant since John had revised her orders. Save for moments like this, when out of the blue Tug would try to stir something up. Connie suspected Tug had taken her silence about pirating John’s recording as consent to conspiracy. Usually Tug’s remarks were limited to pointing out ways she could legally refuse some order of John’s on a rights technicality.

  But the suggestion of mutiny, so calmly made, was a more serious thing. She didn’t answer him as she racked her tools. Instead she made a show of checking the time. “Nearly time to report to John. I’ll finish this up later.” She rolled her shoulders, surprised at how stiff she felt. As she stood, the lights at the far end of the bay dimmed, and then came back.

  “Wait a minute on the lights, Tug. I’m not quite out of here yet,” she reminded him.

  “Pardon?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

  “The lights at the other end of the bay. You just dimmed them, and I thought you were getting ready to shut down the ones at this end, too.”

  “Wait, please.” There was a momentary pause, then Tug’s voice came back. “Minor misadjustment. My apologies.”

  “No problem,” Connie replied, wondering at the preoccupied note in his voice. He was silent as she left the maintenance bay. The light faded and died behind her. Whatever had been out of whack had been corrected. She runged efficiently now, smoothly and effortlessly, and took pleasure in it. There was a lot to be said for John’s tougher physical requirements. Between that and all her recent technical work, she didn’t think she’d ever felt more competent. More in control, she realized. Odd. It did feel good, yet her Adjustment counselor had often told her that her drive to be in control of her life was unhealthy, that it prevented her from accepting her correct place in society. She pushed the thought away.

  In the command chamber, all the screens were still dead. There would be little to do until they were actually entering orbit. Evangeline and Tug knew where they were going and would make sure they got there. Humans were unnecessary for the deep-space portions of a flight. The blank screens were a depressing reminder that her current tasks were little more than busywork to fill the long hours of the necessary Wakeup. On other ships, she would have passed them in socializing, games, entertainments, and sex. She was coming to find she preferred the busywork. Connie ran her fingers over the sensors anyway, lighting displays and calling up readouts just to make the room seem more alive. She studied the absolute predictability of the screens.

  John would turn up any second now, looking rumpled and disorganized. He made a point of having her report to him several times a cycle, but she often suspected he saw her routine completion of ordinary tasks and the reporting thereof as mostly a disruption of his own schedule. She wasn’t sure what he was busy with, but it involved a lot of reading that somehow disgruntled Tug. Probably because John had found a way to exclude the Arthroplana from whatever he was screening. From John’s permanently distracted air, she suspected he was on sleep prep, incorporating it into his rest periods during Wakeups. She grimaced at the thought, and stepped to the server to punch up mugs of hot stim. It was only after the machine had chunked out two containers that she wondered at her own motivations. How would John react to her impulse? She considered trying to get rid of one of them, but they were both too hot to drink, and she was too deeply indoctrinated against waste to just dump one.

  She could hear him coming, the deep reverberation of Tug’s voice and John’s muttered nastiness like a counterpoint. Tug would have John in a completely foul mood by the time he reached the command chamber. She wished there were some soundless way she could plead with him to leave John alone, to stop the needling. She tried not to tune into their conversation, but John was too close now and Tug’s voice too penetrating as his words kept pace with John through the corridors.

  “‘Awake, for morning has tossed a rock into the bowl of night and scared all the stars away. And, look, the Eastern killer is strangling the Sultan’s tower.’ So, what do you think of my freehand translation?”

  “Abysmal. Leave me alone, and stop slaughtering the Rubaiyat.”

  “Perhaps something more traditional. ‘A bird with a yellow bill …’ No? Ah, how about this, then, ‘Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, Brother John, Brother John? Morning bells are ringing …’”

  “Tug!” Connie interceded, breaking through the boyish tenor he had adopted and backed up with jingling bells. “Tug, please!”

  She saw her error in John’s face as he entered the chamber. The brief remark had betrayed how completely her relationship with Tug had changed during this mission. She tried to read John’s expression but couldn’t. His narrowed eyes and pursed mouth could have been betrayal, jealousy, or a bitter amusement at her expense. Maybe it was even a kind of concern, or pity. For a moment she quailed before that look. Then some perverse devil took control of her. Keeping her face carefully neutral, she extended the mug of stim to him, saying only, “Your stim, Captain. Awaiting your commands.”

  The jolt of astonishment that briefly widened his eyes was worth the gamble. She kept her bland expression. He took the cup from her by reflex and then looked at it as if it were a foreig
n object. She turned aside to keep her amusement from showing. “All screens show normal readings, sir,” she managed. The fierceness of her triumph rocked her own perception of herself. Dammit, it was fun to push him off balance.

  She darted a glance at him. He had recovered his aplomb and was peeling the lid off the stim. He took a thoughtful sip, and glanced around at the readouts as if he were comparing them to Connie’s report. “How did the tear-down go?” he asked quietly.

  “Predictably,” she responded. “Worn bearings. I did a replace and recycle.”

  “I see.” John took a lingering sip of the stim.

  “I watched,” Tug interjected. “As that whole unit is due to be recycled two Wakeups from now, it seemed like a pointless exercise, just one more way for you to monopolize Connie’s time.”

  “Does Connie object?” John asked quietly. Connie could hear a test in his voice, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

  “No, sir,” she answered softly. “I’ve never done much work with my hands before, not like this, anyway. When I was growing up, I did a lot of agri work, of course, living in a horticolony, but not like this. I … I think I enjoy it, actually.” Her voice trailed off, and she waited for derision. She wasn’t quite sure where she expected it to come from, and in recognizing that, she put her finger on what so often sent anxiety ghosting through her: no matter what she did or said, she couldn’t please Tug and John at the same time. Anything she did put her at odds with one or the other. She constantly had to choose allegiance, and in the process surrendered any loyalty to herself. She felt a sudden spark of anger at the thought. “I enjoy it,” she said aloud, more firmly, daring either of them to find it amusing.

  “I thought you might,” John said quietly. Tug was mercifully silent. John suddenly rubbed his hands briskly over his bared arms. “Tug, are you adjusting temperature in this chamber? And if so, is there a reason?”

  “Temperature?” Tug’s voice sounded bland, but Connie suspected something lurked behind his tone.

  “Yes, temperature. I’d say this room has been cooling down ever since I entered it.”

  “Probably your metabolism changing, John. I’ve not been making any adjustments.”

  “Of course not.” John was skeptical. He turned brusque. “Connie, carry on with your assignments. That will be all.”

  He turned and ranged out of the chamber awkwardly. He seemed even more stiff and rumpled than usual. Maybe he’d been sitting still, reading, but it seemed more than that. He looked lanky and uncoordinated, all knees and elbows, wrists and ankles and long bony back. For the first time she realized that he habitually hunched his shoulders; if there had been any gravity, he’d stand slouched. And she’d never realized before how bony he was. His jaw seemed too wide for his skull, his chin too pronounced. Yet he looked more muscular than she remembered him. He’d definitely been growing.

  Her skin suddenly stood up in bumps. “Tug, it is cooler in here,” she said accusingly.

  “A minor misadjustment, perhaps.” He sounded annoyed that she’d mentioned it.

  “No problem,” she said again, and hoped it wasn’t. If this was how Tug was going to express his annoyances with John, it definitely could be a problem and an uncomfortable one at that. But a moment later she felt the chamber warming. She started to comment on it, then changed her mind. “Maybe you’d like to show me that comparison now,” she offered mollifyingly to Tug.

  “Perhaps later,” Tug replied, surprising her. Then, “You know, Connie, you’ve begun to sound different. More assertive at times, more self-confident. You’re changing.”

  “I guess I am. I wasn’t really aware of it.”

  “Well, now you are. And so is John. Very aware of it. Of course, he’s going through changes of his own.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think so? Of course, you don’t know him as well as I do. So perhaps you notice the changes less. They’ve been coming on for some time; started last trip, I’d say. But they’ve been much more rapid and evident during his Wakeups this trip. Of course, the body hair is still very slight. It will become more obvious as it goes on. I find it fascinating, as it’s a phenomenon I’ve never witnessed before. To you, I suppose it’s ordinary and to be expected.”

  Connie had felt a gradual sinking within herself, almost as if she were on the fuge and Tug had suddenly set the grav higher. All her observations tumbled into a new and disconcerting form. Puberty. That was the change Tug was talking about. That was why John looked so peculiar. He was going through his growth spurt.

  “Connie? You are silent. Is there a problem?”

  “It’s just … it can mean so many changes. Uncomfortable changes. And even though I know all about it, it’s never happened to anyone I knew before. I mean, knew personally.”

  “Surely your generation has gone through the change by now.”

  “Probably. I mean, yes. It’s been so long since I saw any of them. You know the saying, ‘A Mariner has no generation.’ That’s what it means. That we have no peer group, except for other Mariners.”

  “I see.” Tug’s voice was grave. “I had never reflected that the brevity of a planet-bound Human’s existence would affect you. But now that I consider it, I see it must be so.”

  “Yes.” There was too much to think about. She didn’t want to talk anymore, only think. How hadn’t she noticed? John had had all the symptoms, but spread out over so much time by Waitsleep that she’d thought they were simply a part of his personality. The irritability, the sudden bursts of aggression and territoriality, even his unwillingness to concede any authority or expertise to Tug on anything.

  Tug was blundering on cheerily. “Is it, perhaps, of some comfort to you that you and John are of an age in this? Does it confer some sense of kinship?”

  “What do you mean? Tug, I’m of a different generation from John. My change won’t come for years.” Connie felt stung that Tug would even suggest such a thing.

  “You’re certain?” Tug seemed perplexed. “From my observations of your growth and new confidence, I thought … but perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “I’m sure you are. I’ve always been large, both for my age and for my generation.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment. “I had rather hoped you would both change at the same time. The opportunity to witness sexual interaction between newly mature adults would be enlightening. I can’t recall that I’ve ever had a pair of pubescent humans of mixed sexes aboard at the same time. So much of your poetry deals with mating rituals, and my lack of firsthand observation makes it difficult for me to interpret it correctly. Of course,” he hastily added, as if fearing Connie might think such a reason trivial, “it would apply to my study of the mysteries. Sexual attraction, or jealousy, or lack of sexual faithfulness was so often a motive in those works. I confess, I fail to understand how a mating drive could be so maddening and debilitating.”

  “Well, don’t ask me. It’s something I’ve never understood. Humans aren’t that way anymore, anyway.”

  “Of course not,” Tug replied soothingly. “Of course not.”

  They were probably talking about him, right now. The thought shattered his concentration on his reading. He tried to decide why it bothered him so much. It was inevitable that Tug would find times to exert his influence on Connie. Inevitable that they would talk, even if his orders prevented any solitary Wakeups for her. He’d never expected to be able to keep her totally isolated from Tug, only to use his wakefulness as a way Connie could avoid conversation with Tug. If she chose to do so. He supposed he had believed she would choose his company more often. She hadn’t. And it bothered him. Perhaps because it made him feel outnumbered and vulnerable when Tug and Connie shared casual conversation that revealed their friendship. He envied that easiness; it was something he didn’t share with either of them. He felt an odd pang at the thought.

  He was in his bunk, his feet propped comfortably against the bulkhead. He ignored the reader screen in his lap and glared
instead at the short dark hairs now clearly visible on his ankles. Every time he woke up it was more obvious. Waitsleep could slow it down, but nothing stopped it. Damn puberty. It was a complication he didn’t need just now, not when he needed complete control of his emotions and full use of his intellectual faculties. Everyone knew puberty shot all that to hell. The Conservancy might deny it, might insist it treated all its citizens equally, but no one protested the way sexually active adults separated themselves from the normal population. They lived differently, ate differently, listened to different music, kept strange hours. Twenty years of madness, someone had once told him. Only a snap of the fingers for normal humans compared to their life spans, but for John it would be extended by the now-dubious benefits of Wakesleep. He supposed he should be grateful that science had been able to reduce the sexual span of life to a mere twenty years or so, but in his present situation, he couldn’t stir up much gratitude.

  He swung out of his bunk and studied himself in the mirror. Taller. Rangier. He straightened himself deliberately. That was better; with his shoulders back, he could see the delineation of muscle in his chest. Better schedule more workouts for himself. He’d need muscle on this mission. He ran his eyes over his reflection. Despite his misgivings, he wasn’t entirely displeased with the changes.

  Of course, he could tamper with his nutritional programming, reset the level of inhibitors in his food to try to delay the change. He shook his head at himself. It might slow it, but it wouldn’t reverse it. And all the manuals warned strongly against such action. Nature could only be staved off so long, and in most cases a Mariner was already pushing the limits simply by the time spent in Waitsleep. To try to hold it off longer could set off all sorts of biological reactions. No, he’d have to go through it. But dammit, it wasn’t going to be like all that stuff he’d read. He was going to run his life logically. No wild hormones were going to unbalance him. As for sexual drives, well, he’d control them. He’d heard of ships where the captain’s change had wreaked havoc on all concerned. Jamaica on the Constantine was damn near a legend. Her ruthless exploitation of her crew had led to total Readjustment for her and a career change, and to a Conservancy hearing on crew rights that added a clause that specifically forbade captains from initiating any sexual activity with crew members.