“Pardon?”
“No,” Hoop repeated. “This human creature may not visit my home.”
Washen had imagined this turn but never expected it. Concealing her surprise, she asked, “What is the difficulty, sir? Is it a matter of timing?”
“Why?” asked the breathing mouth. “Would the good captain accept a different day?”
“Possibly,” she said.
“Yet I think he wouldn’t,” Hoop decided. “Captains are exceptionally stubborn humans, and I believe you are trying to mislead me.”
Washen allowed a grin to emerge. “Yes, sir. You’ve seen through my thin apeskin, yes. The captain’s schedule is quite busy, and he will probably not return to this district for a long, long while.”
The harum-scarum stared at the human. Even among his species, Hoop-of-Benzene was an enormous creature – a towering biped whose muscular body was covered with glistening armored plates and long golden spines. Beneath a pair of broad black eyes were two mouths, one for speaking and breathing, the other intended for eating and delivering the worst insults imaginable.
“My schedule is equally rigid,” announced the breathing mouth. “And since I do not wish to entertain visitors, not in three days or for the next three thousand years, I will not allow him to enter my home.”
The eating mouth made a soft, abusive noise.
“It is my right to turn away visitors,” the alien continued. “I know the codes. I can quote the relevant statutes, if you wish. Even the Master Captain is forbidden from entering any premise where she is not welcome. The only exceptions demand sturdy legal causes, which do not apply in this situation. And even in the most urgent circumstances, mandatory warrants must be drawn up, sealed and registered, then delivered by the appropriate agents of the law.”
Again, he made the rude sound.
Washen’s eyes were nearly as dark as Hoop’s. Her expression was curious and patient, with just a trace of nervous concern.
“You still haven’t offered any name,” the alien pointed out.
“I have strict orders. My superior intends to remain anonymous.” With a thin smile, she added, “I can tell you that he is a powerful figure onboard the Great Ship. A force to be reckoned with, and once angered, he can be quite vindictive.”
Harum-scarums had an instinctive respect for tyrants.
Yet Hoop clucked a tongue as if amused. “I suspect, young captain, you must feel rather uncomfortable just now.”
Washen swallowed and said nothing.
“So tell me this . . .”
“Sir?”
“Why would a powerful, vindictive creature care who strolls through these little rooms of mine?”
“I cannot guess his mind, sir.”
“I’m not discussing the captain’s mind,” Hoop replied. “Perhaps I should remind you: two powers are at play here.”
“A worthy point,” Washen conceded. Then with a wink and bright smile, she added, “And you should consider the poor intermediary standing before you. She doesn’t know the name of your game, much less its rules.”
Again, the tongue clicked.
“This must be an important mission,” Hoop observed. “To select such a quick-witted captain—”
“All missions are important,” she interrupted.
The harum-scarum paused, perhaps considering his choices.
“If I fail to win your cooperation,” Washen admitted, “a second, much higher-ranking captain will be sent. Or twenty subordinates wielding heavy legal weaponry will descend on you. As you say, captains are stubborn souls, and this one in particular. He intends to step through your door at a specific hour, two days after tomorrow, and no one can halt the inevitable.”
“Do I look helpless?” Hoop inquired.
“My name is Washen,” the young captain repeated. “I just made my service files available to you. Absorb them at your convenience, and I will lie to my superior. I’ll claim that you wish to meet with me tomorrow. Alone. And then the two of us will come to terms with this nagging problem in our lives.”
Then before Hoop-of-Benzene could respond, the young captain turned her back to him and strode off – in effect, making it difficult for a proper harum-scarum to refuse the little creature, when and if she found the courage to come to his door again.
Humans discovered the Great Ship wandering on the outskirts of the galaxy: a derelict vessel larger than most worlds, older than the sun, and empty of everything but mystery. Those first lucky explorers claimed the Ship for their species, refurbishing its engines and hull at their own expense, and then they set off on a voyage meant to last for the next quarter of a million years. To recoup the enormous costs, they recruited wealthy passengers from the passing solar systems. Aliens were as welcome as humans; in principle, every species had a berth waiting for it. The Ship was laced with giant caverns and true oceans, plus nameless chambers of every size, and it was a relatively easy trick to configure the local environments to suit the delicate needs of most alien physiologies. But what was not easy – what was an exceptionally difficult business – was to keep this menagerie happy enough and distracted enough to live under the same hull for hundreds of millennia.
Supporting the peace: that was every captain’s most essential, pride-giving duty.
Harum-scarums were among the most abundant and important passengers. Older than humans, they evolved on a watery, metal-starved world. Tiny continents and scarce resources shaped their long history; relentless competition was the hallmark of their mature civilization. Tens of millions of years had been spent defending the same patches of dry ground, evolving elaborate codes of formal, trusted rituals. While proto-humans still brachiated their way through jungle canopies, harum-scarums were refining aluminum and building spaceships. Before Homo habilis jogged across Africa, the aliens had acquired hyperfiber and enhanced fusion star-drives, plus a collection of powerful tools that made both their bodies and minds functionally immortal.
Harum-scarum was a human name. The Clan of Many Clans was one worthwhile translation of what the creatures called themselves. And, like most high-technology species, once the Clan learned how to extend life spans, it nearly stopped evolving. On thousands of worlds, the creatures still clung to their original natures – physically powerful entities filled with calculated rage as well as a startling capacity for acquiescence.
From the Clan’s perspective, Washen’s people were newcomers to the galaxy – untested and laughably optimistic, like children or pampered meat. For every air-cloaked rock that humans colonized, the Clan ruled a hundred mature worlds. Trillions of citizens were scattered across an entire arm of the galaxy, and they had more starships and better starships than anyone. If they had seen the Great Ship roaming across the deep cold, they would have reached it first and claimed the artifact as their prize. But they didn’t notice the giant wanderer in time. Humans did and, because of that blessing, humans achieved something that was deeply unlikely. Which was one reason why Hoop and his people took such pleasure in insulting their hosts. “Monkey-men” was a popular barb. And “bare-fleshed babies”. And perhaps the most caustic, damning name: “Luck-fattened souls.”
Most humans assumed that harum-scarums were embittered, jealous and occasionally vengeful creatures. But any responsible captain knew better than to read too much into a little hard noise. Once humans took legal possession of the ancient derelict – in accordance with the galaxy’s ancient laws – the Clan turned their attentions elsewhere. Ownership had been established. A contest won was a contest done. And if you were a good citizen of a good family, you turned away and carefully sharpened your spines, returning to the business of living of your magnificent life.
Grudges and second acts were the province of weaker species.
Humans, for one.
“This makes no sense to me,” the Submaster confessed. “You assured him that I was an important captain.”
“Which you are,” said Washen.
“I’m still anonymous, am I?”
; “Absolutely, sir.”
“Yet the creature still refuses to capitulate.”
“For the time being. But I’ll meet with him tomorrow and try to reach some understanding.”
“Harum-scarums,” the Submaster muttered. “I’ve dealt with them many times, and with much success. Once you push past their manners and moods, they’re perfectly reasonable monsters.”
Washen restrained a grimace.
The man’s name was Ishwish. By human measures, he was ancient and extraordinarily well traveled. Countless stories were told about the old Submaster, but remarkably little was defined in his public biography. Ishwish had fought with distinction in several human wars, rising to a high rank in at least two militaries. More than once, he had employed alien mercenaries, including brigades of harum-scarums who helped make his career. Then after earning a chest full of medals, he retired to a quiet life, commanding colony starships during the first human expansion across the Milky Way. Those millennia made him a wealthy man with lucrative political connections. When the Great Ship was discovered, Ishwish used his own fortune, fitting a small asteroid with enormous engines and a minimal life support system and hiring a crew to race out beyond the edges of the Milky Way. Centuries later, his starship was among the first to arrive at the Great Ship. And from that moment, Ishwish worked tirelessly to see that he was given his rightful high rank among the first captains.
For a few moments, the Submaster remained silent, most likely using a nexus to examine Hoop’s files. The eyes flickered for a moment, meaning something. But what? Then he sighed softly, and with a disappointed shake of the head, he said, “Frankly, I expected better things from an ambitious young captain.”
Washen nodded, twisting her mirrored cap in her hands.
“There is no task that a captain cannot achieve,” he reminded her.
“I know this, sir.”
Ishwish’s task of the moment was to sit before a large oak table, alone, occupying a back corner of what was a very small eating establishment. This was the favorite haunt of the Master Captain, which made it popular to all of her loyal Submasters. The man was exceptionally tall in his chair; Washen stood beside him, yet their eyes were nearly level. Handsome in an ageless, heavily polished fashion, Ishwish had bright gold eyes and a sharp joyless smile, and with every word and little motion, he betrayed enough arrogance to fuel two successful captains.
“What are little jobs?” he asked.
“ ‘An impossibility of nature,’ ” she quoted from her training.
“And what are little honors?”
“ ‘Blessings that fall on little souls,’ ” she said, quoting words he had used on more than one occasion.
Ishwish nodded, and the smile dimmed as he explained, “I have been awarded a declaration of merit from the Master Herself.”
“Congratulations, sir.”
“For my long service to this fabulous ship, I will be given this tremendous honor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our Master asked me, ‘Where do you wish the ceremony to be held, my good friend? On the Ship’s bridge? Or at the captains’ dinner?’ But after careful consideration, I decided on a small, quick ceremony held inside the apartment where I first lived. Linking my success with five thousand years of safe, profitable starflight, I should add.”
Even as she repeated her congratulations, Washen doubted the explanation. A creature like Ishwish would want the largest possible audience to watch his treasured moment. And like the flickering of the eyes, the fact that he was lying now about the circumstances meant something. Though what might be meant, she couldn’t yet say.
The Submaster glanced at her. “My memory tells me,” he said quietly. “You were born in the Great Ship, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your parents were not captains?”
“They were engineers,” she admitted. But Ishwish surely knew that already, just as he seemed to remember everything about her tiny life.
“You’ve never left the confines of the Ship,” he stated.
There was nothing confining about a machine with the mass of Uranus and enough caverns to explore for the next ten billion years. But she simply dipped her head, admitting, “I have not traveled. No, sir.”
“So you haven’t walked on the harum-scarums’ worlds.”
Washen shook her head. “No, sir.”
“I have.”
She waited for advice, or at least some tiny insight.
But Ishwish offered none. He lifted a utensil – a heavy crabpincer – while glancing across the room. A colleague had just arrived, and in the smallest possible way, he waved the pincer and his elegant hand, offering his greetings to a fellow Submaster.
Washen bowed to the newcomer, then asked Ishwish, “Do you have any advice for a novice captain?”
“The Great Ship always needs new engineers.”
His threat earned a small nod from Washen. But she was watching the newcomer stroll toward an empty table reserved for no one but her. Miocene was the woman’s name, and she was said to be the Master Captain’s most loyal and dangerous officer. Since becoming a novice captain, Washen had spoken to her perhaps half a dozen times. None of those conversations held any substance. Yet the tall, imperious woman was looking at her now. Just for a moment. And for no good reason, Miocene tipped her head at the young officer, offering a dim but lingering smile . . . a smile that for no clear reason felt important . . .
“Where is your uniform?” asked Hoop-of-Benzene.
“Doing its own business this morning,” Washen confessed with a two-foot stomp. She was standing before the diamond door, wearing civilian clothes, including sandals and slacks and a pair of simple silk belts. If not for the small mirror-patch on the shoulder of her blouse, she would have been completely out of uniform, subject to a multitude of deserved punishments. “As I promised, I am here. And now I wish to step inside your apartment.”
“No.”
She nodded as if unconcerned. “Tell me why not.”
“I don’t crave visitors. Why is this so difficult to comprehend?”
Washen sighed. “As I understand these matters, your family clan is one of the largest. Your relatives stand tall on half a hundred worlds.”
“We are great, yes.”
“Success brings responsibility,” she said.
“For more species than mine,” Hoop added.
“According to your laws and honored conventions, you cannot turn away the weakest mouths. If a citizen with no status comes to your door begging for a small meal, it is your duty to feed her enough to live out the day.”
Both of the harum-scarum’s mouths snorted, amusement mixed with warm disgust. “You are far from weak,” he pointed out.
“Am I?”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, my dear. But even a lowly captain commands respect from the multitudes.”
“Not from you, sir.”
“You do have my respect. I honor your office and rank. I’m just refusing to surrender my home to any captain.”
With her best impression of a harum-scarum smile, Washen asked, “But what if I wasn’t captain any more?”
The black eyes stared.
“If I surrendered my rank and authority . . . what would that mean to you . . .?”
“Nothing,” he claimed.
Yet Washen acted as if she’d heard a different response, removing her blouse and the mirrored emblem attached to it, folding them into a small wad easily thrown over her naked shoulder. Then she kicked off the sandals and unfastened both belts, her slacks falling into a heap around her bare ankles. “As a traveler without rank or privilege,” she said, “may I enter your home?”
“No,” said Hoop.
She kneeled and bent low, slowly licking the granite floor of the avenue. Then employing a passable harum-scarum, she said, “Without food, I die.”
“You are being silly,” the alien assured her.
“I’m only following your examp
le,” she countered.
Hoop refused to answer. For a long while, he remained perfectly motionless, spines and fingers held in relaxed positions. But there was a steady stream of pedestrian traffic in the avenue, and eventually half a dozen humans strolled past, pausing to watch this very peculiar scene. A Janusian couple joined them, and then a herd of Fume-dogs. Eventually half a hundred passengers stood in a patient half-circle, enjoying the spectacle of a former captain going mad, naked and splayed out on the hard chilled ground, muttering again and again in that harsh alien language, “Without food, I die.”
When a pair of harum-scarums appeared down the avenue, Hoop was left with no choice. This human creature had done nothing but follow orders, and the only worthy response was to invite her inside.
Yet just the same, he still hesitated.
Only when Hoop’s brethren started pushing Fume-dogs out of the way, trying to see what was so interesting, did he surrender. Letting out a low wet sound, he backed out of sight, and an instant later, the thick diamond door split along every invisible seam.
* * *
No public record linked Ishwish to the apartment; but that was expected, since captains usually kept their private addresses private. This had been the man’s home only for his first few centuries onboard the Ship. Then the local district lost its cachet, and the Submaster acquired a more spacious and impressive apartment. Through masking corporations, he sold the apartment to a human couple – early passengers from a rich colony world. Over the course of the next thousand years, that couple raised eight children from embryo to adulthood. Then came a difficult divorce and a quick sale to a gathering of Higgers – machine souls that promptly flooded the chambers and long passageways with hot, pressurized silicone through which they happily swam. But Higgers have accelerated minds and painfully low thresholds for boredom. Fourteen years was enough time in one location, which was why they sold to an investment conglomerate that was gathering up properties scattered throughout the backwater districts. The investors paid little, but they knew that the Ship’s population would grow, and with patience, the district would eventually fall back into favor.
Like many shipboard homes, Hoop’s apartment began as a tiny portion of an enormous cavern. At convenient points, walls had been erected and tunnels closed, limiting the floor space to a cozy ten hectares. For twenty-five centuries, Hoop-of-Benzene had lived nowhere else, and in that time he had carefully renovated his home until it perfectly suited his needs.
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction Page 30
