by Sharon Lee
Instead, he had been given a budget, a ship, crew and…a mission. A glorious mission to realize the promise in his greatest find for the Troop.
He was to go out into the Unaffiliated Worlds, seeking a worthy power before which the Troop might lay their knives, and swear allegiance in the name of—peace.
The mission was in its nineteenth Standard Year and was no closer—was perhaps farther away—from being realized than it had been at the start.
The mission, so he had come to understand, would never be realized. He had several times, in recent years, considered abandoning the mission, putting in to some small port or another, and simply walking away from ship and from command.
Honor…
And was it not an odd thing, that honor which was not enforced by the design, nor mandated by biology…
Was it not an odd thing, that honor should be so difficult to ignore?
Walk away from the ship, and what of Erthax and Ochin?
Shot for being Yxtrang, if they dared step out onto any dock. Shot for having failed in their assigned duty, if they raised Temp Headquarters again.
Vepal might abandon the mission, but he could not abandon his command.
The only option then, was to be certain that they all attained glory together.
Or that he found some way—soon—to save his race.
* * * * *
The chimes sounded, the pathfinders rose and made themselves ready in their ship-given clothing. It was notable, thought Chernak, alert for anomaly, as she and Stost had agreed that they must be until their situation clarified…It was notable that Joyita’s screen remained blank. She considered summoning him, then decided not. Better to let events flow.
Win Ton arrived punctually and gave them good shift in an accent that was somewhat improved. Chernak weighed this, recalling that it had been Win Ton who had recognized the language of the Troop and who had first spoken it with them. His accent had been terrible and his grammar beyond mention, but he had a grounding. Further, to their observation, he was quick-witted and he, with the rest of the crew and captain, would have been studying. His improvements, weighed thus, fell within the parameters of normal human learning.
Chernak acknowledged that she felt relief.
“Follow me to mess,” Win Ton said now, and they stepped out into the hall, forming up behind him.
They walked not so far—Bechimo was not Troop transport, after all—merely to the cross-corridor, where they turned right and very shortly raised the galley.
Again, by the standards of Troop transport, it was not a large room, though certainly roomy enough to accommodate Bechimo’s normal crew levels. The addition of themselves did, Chernak thought, have the effect of making the room seem smaller, but that was often the case when Troop entered rooms made for and by civilians. Even Ms, with their smaller form factor, could overfill such a room through mere exuberance.
Win Ton paused just across the threshold.
“Pathfinders, here is Kara ven’Arith,” he said, as a yellow-haired woman of very modest height moved to join them. “Kara, here are Pathfinders Chernak and Stost.”
She looked up at them, her face impassive and her carriage erect. Chernak approved. It might well be that Kara ven’Arith was frightened, for she looked to be a sensible woman, but that was not for them to know.
“Kara,” Stost said, making his voice soft, perhaps in respect of that militant calmness, and speaking his newly acquired Trade language, “Chernak and I thank you for your part in our recovery. Captain Waitley is fortunate in her engineer.”
Most of the words slid by her ear, but Chernak knew her junior well enough to easily understand his intent. A compliment to skill was always in order. Accordingly, she smiled her civilian-soothing smile and added: “Kara, is fine.”
There might have been the tiniest easing of the eye muscles, otherwise Kara maintained her expression and her stance.
“Chernak, Stost,” she said, speaking the pidgin they had developed for, Chernak realized, her benefit. “Is fine.” She glanced to Win Ton. “Translate, please?”
He bowed slightly, hand over his heart. A flicker of expression crossed Kara’s face, but Chernak did not know her well enough to recognize either irritation or humor.
She faced them and spoke, Win Ton translating into the language of the Troop.
“In addition to my duties as engineer and third board, I am also the ship’s medical technician. You were, of course, scanned when you came aboard. However, the scans look for large problems—contagion, broken bones—and often miss smaller concerns. If you have any wounds or worries, please bring them now to my attention.”
“Chernak fine,” Chernak assured her.
Stost pushed his sleeve up and offered the wounds Grakow had inflicted. Kara stepped forward, holding his arm steady with one fragile hand under his elbow, while she slipped an instrument from her pocket with the other.
It was perhaps a hand-scanner, though different in form from others Chernak had seen. Stost appeared to experience no discomfort as the beam moved down his arm. The device emitted a faint buzz; a telltale glowed green and Kara nodded, slipping it away and releasing Stost’s arm.
“There is no infection; the wounds are healing normally.” She paused and deliberately looked up to meet Stost’s eyes.
“You were wise to bring those to my attention. Cat scratches are tricky. Is there anything else?”
“All fine,” Stost assured her.
“That is well, then. I leave you to your meal.”
She bowed slightly, as had Win Ton, though without placing the hand over the heart, and moved away into the room.
“We continue,” Win Ton said, beckoning them forward.
They followed him to the left, past a screen—and there was Joyita, still in his tower. No, Chernak thought, surely it was again in his tower. He wore a different shirt—beige, when last shift it had been green. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular brown forearms, and a broad bracelet clasped ’round one wrist, of the same silvery brown metal as his rings. He was turned half away from them, his attention on something to his left. The top of a desk was in view of the camera, and there, a carelessly flung book, the cover offering familiar, readable script: Recompiled Troop to Trade Dictionary with Notes and Comments, Copy Two.
“These devices will provide a hot beverage.” Win Ton’s voice drew her away from screen and book, but not before a hopeful thought occurred. Was it possible that Joyita was a savant? There were such—some Ms achieved that level of function, able to absorb in a matter of hours maths and languages previously strange to them.
A comforting thought, yes, but there was still Hevelin to—
“These dispense hot beverages. Touch the green unit lightly on the white pad, and it will deliver tea; the brown unit dispenses coffee,” Win Ton continued, interrupting the thought. “Stimulants. There is juice in the coldbox.”
He moved a hand, showing them the next counter, which displayed foodstuffs familiar to them from their previous meals.
“Take what you will, eat your fill. We do not ration here.” Win Ton turned to them.
“Unless you want my company, I will also leave you to your meal. The captain will arrive soon and will have questions.” He smiled, very slightly. “It is the nature of the captain to have questions.”
“We will eat and make ourselves ready for the captain’s questions,” Chernak told him, and Stost added, in the Trade tongue, “Thank you.”
* * *
They gathered food and juice, not wishing to risk the effects of unknown stimulants. A bench, somewhat larger than the other seating options in the room, had been placed before a small table. This, they took for their own, Stost arguing that it had been placed deliberately for them.
As they ate, they watched. Stost watched the room, which held Kara and Win Ton and Clarence. Chernak watched the screen, Joyita apparently busy at various tasks. Was there comm traffic in this new location? There had been none, except that between the repair bug
and Bechimo, in the previous location.
“I wonder…” she began, and stopped herself, looking over her shoulder at the sound of a nearby step.
Clarence raised his hands, palm out, an effect that was slightly spoiled by the fact that he was holding a mug in one hand and a half-eaten muffin in the other.
“Don’t mean to disturb you,” he said, pausing well within Stost’s reach and pointing at Stost’s plate.
“That,” he said. “Veggie roll. Is fine?”
“Fine,” Stost agreed, and Chernak added her own affirmation.
“Veggie roll,” she said. “Fine.”
“We make,” Clarence said. “Kara grows veggies, I make roll.”
“Fine,” Chernak said again.
Clarence grinned. “You learn today,” he said to her, badly, in the language of the Troop. “Soon, we have better than fine.” Another grin. “Fine, eh?”
Stost snorted lightly, so the comment had been meant as a joke. He tipped his head slightly to one side.
“Trade language for Chernak? Reading?”
“Captain orders. Both.”
Stost showed the soft fist. “Fine,” he said.
“Now?” asked Chernak.
“After captain,” Clarence said. “Soon.”
He moved in the direction of the drink dispensers, where Win Ton was drawing a mug from the green. They exchanged a greeting and Win Ton turned, moving rapidly toward the galley door.
It slid aside in the instant before he extended a hand to the plate and he stepped back, bowing with an air far different than that in which he had bowed to Kara.
The captain entered, giving him a nod of acknowledgment, looked around the room, and walked toward their table.
Win Ton continued out into the hallway; the door whisked shut behind him.
The captain arrived. They began to rise to her honor and were peremptorily waved back down.
“This is a civilian ship,” she said. “We do not keep military protocols.” She pulled a stool out from under another table and sat on it, facing them.
“Stost, are there any ill effects from yesterday’s session in the learner?” she asked. She was very fluent today. Within another shift, Chernak thought with dismay, her accent would be indistinguishable from theirs.
“Captain, no ill effects.”
“Good. Chernak, have you concerns about your session today?”
“No, Captain. Stost has explained the process. I will be glad to be able to converse in Trade, with all members of the crew, and to review the histories.”
The captain nodded.
“Have you eaten enough?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Stost, and Chernak allowed his answer to stand for both.
“Good. Before Clarence takes Chernak to the learner, there are a few things we must discuss.
“First, you may move about the ship freely. Certain areas, such as the bridge, are off limits, but you do not need to stay in your quarters. You are not prisoners, not overtly or specifically; you have access to the exercise room, to the galley, to hydroponics and other areas. Am I clear?”
“Captain,” said Chernak respectfully, “you are clear.”
“Good. Are you done here? I would like to show you something.”
They were done. They quickly cleared their table and crossed the room with the captain, to Joyita’s screen.
“When you were being brought in, did you notice the pod that we carry?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Stost.
“It appeared to be a ship,” added Chernak.
“It is a ship. What I need to know is what sort of ship it is. Joyita, may we have a visual, please?”
“Yes, Captain.”
There was the ship-pod on the screen, very clear.
“Are you familiar with this class of ship?”
“Captain,” said Chernak, “it is a small cargo ship, or possibly a packet boat. We are familiar with the class.”
“Do you know what it ought to have, in the way of standard equipment? Would you be able to pick out nonstandard equipment—anomalies?”
Chernak looked at Stost, Stost looked at Chernak. They both looked back to the captain.
“We have been on such ships, Captain,” Stost said carefully. “We know the standard equipment and most common add-ons.”
“Good. I may have need of your expertise very soon. Tell me now, do you have any immediate needs?”
“No, Captain,” said Chernak.
“Then Clarence will escort Chernak to the learner,” said the captain, looking past them and lifting her hand.
“If that route passes our quarters,” Stost said, “I will walk with them, and resume my studies. There is…a great deal of data to sort through.”
Captain Waitley nodded.
“If you need any high-level data crunching done, apply to Joyita. He will run the numbers—through the ship’s computers.”
Stost saluted.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Ready?” Clarence asked, arriving at Chernak’s shoulder.
She took a breath and met Stost’s eye. He smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “Ready.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bechimo
Exercise Room
Theo was sprinting hard, grimly making for the top of the incline.
Bechimo was talking.
“I have been comparing my results with the suggestions of the other pilots, Theo, and I am unsure, which is to say that I do not find their calculations superior to my own. Some suggested ports are completely unacceptable.”
Her hair was sticking to her forehead; she was breathing deeply, but not struggling. There was a worrisome sensation of pushing harder off the left leg than the right. If that was so, the readouts ought to report it, but she saw nothing save the usual—blood pressure, oxygen use, how far she had run up the inclined repeating track, how far she had to go. No, she felt that slight unevenness in her stride, which meant Bechimo was feeding the information to her directly. She should be able to smooth—
“Landsdowne, for instance, is far too risky a port, in my estimation, and yet several of the projected travel sets take us there. In the meantime, I—”
“Let me concentrate on this,” she said to the ceiling, there being no one else about. “A quarter shift without analysis won’t hurt anything, will it?”
There was a pause. Theo sensed currents shifting and felt a degree of…separation, though not a complete withdrawal. She could still feel the uneven pace.
“Yes, Theo,” Bechimo said. “It won’t.”
Theo sputtered. Had it been Joyita she might have expected intentional wordplay, but from Bechimo, she wasn’t sure. He had a sense of humor. She thought. If he was trying to expand his repertoire, then that was good.
She put that thought, with the suggested routes and ports of call, out of her mind, and concentrated on her pace and stride.
* * * * *
Theo pushed, hard and harder, sweating with the work she demanded of her body. Bechimo monitored her vital signs anxiously. He knew that work was necessary for strong muscles and a healthy biologic system. Exercise was key, also, for a balanced mind. It was only…she was so fragile. If she fell from the machine, she might break a bone; certainly, she would be bruised, which she would shrug away as an inconvenience, if even so much.
She increased the running rate still more, and though he also knew that she was…made irritable sometimes by such attentions to her comfort, he angled a fan and increased its airflow, so that it cooled her more efficiently. He adjusted the lighting, too, so that there was less strain on fragile optic nerves, and reversed the direction of a second fan, so that the flow from the first was softened into something he hoped resembled a “breeze.”
She voiced no complaint of these adjustments; indeed, her concentration was such that she might not have noticed them. If he was wise, he would adjust nothing further, but relax into the bonding space and learn.
Learn, for insta
nce, what it felt like to use muscles, to feel strain; to feel strength rise to match it. There was joy, fierce and bright; and a sense of well-being.
He had been bemused by her insistence on the sprint mode, thinking that she would exhaust herself and be unable to address the several important issues before captain, ship, and crew.
Now he knew—he felt!—how wrong he had been! Far from a wanton expenditure of energy, this was a renewal!
And, for him, a revelation.
* * * * *
It was good to be really working out, Theo thought; the dances, stretches and other exercises were fine, but there was nothing like a good hard run to sharpen up all systems.
The incline was gently falling back to zero, and the tread was slowing into the cool-down phase. She sighed, in mingled pleasure and regret.
She’d ask Bechimo to put a run on her schedule every third shift. Wouldn’t be good to overdo, but she’d been underdoing—and that was definitely not good.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and raised both hands to run her fingers into her hair, and lift it off of the back of her neck.
“Chong chong,” came a low voice, imitating a call tone. “Chong chong. The…Captain. Chong chong.”
The imitation was quite good—and that was yet another sign of recovery.
Theo opened her eyes, automatically adjusting her stride as the tread slowed again.
Win Ton bowed, a complex, subtle thing that she wanted held in Bechimo’s cache so she could study and decode it at leisure.
Right now, she saw that the bow was not entirely shipmate to shipmate, nor crew to captain; that it held a stronger stance, a flutter of hand and shoulder indicating…something. He had managed to warm the movement with a touch of comrade and nothing at all of former lover and mentor. Also missing was the dip of the shoulder that indicated one was barely a pilot. Which was, Theo realized, completely accurate. When he had first emerged from Bechimo’s special healing unit, he had been prone to tangling himself in his own feet; he had been frail and, frankly, weak. Now, she saw a pilot when she looked at him, if not a completely recovered Scout pilot. In desperate times, he might even take them into Jump.
Dismounting, she pulled a fresh face wipe from the dispenser, sighing at the pleasure of the low humidity breeze from overhead. She smiled, too, at Bechimo’s subtle failure to mention Win Ton’s arrival. Another step taken for AI personhood, there.
