What had her husband done now? Quee Lee could guess, halfway smiling as she sat upright. Oh, Perri … won’t you learn…? She would have to dismiss this Orleans fellow herself, spooking him with a good hard stare. She rose and dressed in an emerald sarong, then walked the length of her apartment, never hurrying, commanding the front door to open at the last moment but leaving the security screen intact. And she was ready for someone odd. Even someone sordid, knowing Perri. Yet she didn’t expect to see a shiny lifesuit more than two meters tall and nearly half as wide, and she had never imagined such a face gazing down at her with mismatched eyes. It took her a long moment to realize this was a Remora. An authentic Remora was standing in the public walkway, his vivid round face watching her. The flesh was orange with diffuse black blotches that might or might not be cancers, and a lipless, toothless mouth seemed to flow into a grin. What would bring a Remora here? They never, never came down here…!
“I’m Orleans.” The voice was sudden and deep, slightly muted by the security screen. It came from a speaker hidden somewhere on the thick neck, telling her, “I need help, miss. I’m sorry to disturb you … but you see, I’m desperate. I don’t know where else to turn.”
Quee Lee knew about Remoras. She had seen them and even spoken to a few, although those conversations were eons ago and she couldn’t remember their substance. Such strange creatures. Stranger than most aliens, even if they possessed human souls.…
“Miss?”
Quee Lee thought of herself as being a good person. Yet she couldn’t help but feel repelled, the floor rolling beneath her and her breath stopping short. Orleans was a human being, one of her own species. True, his genetics had been transformed by hard radiations. And yes, he normally lived apart from ordinary people like her. But inside him was a human mind, tough and potentially immortal. Quee Lee blinked and remembered that she had compassion as well as charity for everyone, even aliens … and she managed to sputter, “Come in.” She said, “If you wish, please do,” and with that invitation, her apartment deactivated the invisible screen.
“Thank you, miss.” The Remora walked slowly, almost clumsily, his lifesuit making a harsh grinding noise in the knees and hips. That wasn’t normal, she realized. Orleans should be graceful, his suit powerful, serving him as an elaborate exoskeleton.
“Would you like anything?” she asked foolishly. Out of habit.
“No, thank you,” he replied, his voice nothing but pleasant.
Of course. Remoras ate and drank only self-made concoctions. They were permanently sealed inside their lifesuits, functioning as perfectly self-contained organisms. Food was synthesized, water recycled, and they possessed a religious sense of purity and independence.
“I don’t wish to bother you, miss. I’ll be brief.”
His politeness was a minor surprise. Remoras typically were distant, even arrogant. But Orleans continued to smile, watching her. One eye was a muscular pit filled with thick black hairs, and she assumed those hairs were light sensitive. Like an insect’s compound eye, each one might build part of an image. By contrast, its mate was ordinary, white and fishy with a foggy black center. Mutations could do astonishing things. An accelerated, partly controlled evolution was occurring inside that suit, even while Orleans stood before her, boots stomping on the stone floor, a single spark arcing toward her.
Orleans said, “I know this is embarrassing for you—”
“No, no,” she offered.
“—and it makes me uncomfortable too. I wouldn’t have come down here if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Perri’s gone,” she repeated, “and I don’t know when he’ll be back. I’m sorry.”
“Actually,” said Orleans, “I was hoping he would be gone.”
“Did you?”
“Though I’d have come either way.”
Quee Lee’s apartment, loyal and watchful, wouldn’t allow anything nasty to happen to her. She took a step forward, closing some of the distance. “This is about money being owed? Is that right?”
“Yes, miss.”
“For what, if I might ask?”
Orleans didn’t explain in clear terms. “Think of it as an old gambling debt.” More was involved, he implied. “A very old debt, I’m afraid, and Perri’s refused me a thousand times.”
She could imagine it. Her husband had his share of failings, incompetence and a self-serving attitude among them. She loved Perri in a controlled way, but his flaws were obvious. “I’m sorry,” she replied, “but I’m not responsible for his debts.” She made herself sound hard, knowing it was best. “I hope you didn’t come all this way because you heard he was married.” Married to a woman of some means, she thought to herself. In secret.
“No, no, no!” The grotesque face seemed injured. Both eyes became larger, and a thin tongue, white as ice, licked at the lipless edge of the mouth. “Honestly, we don’t follow the news about passengers. I just assumed Perri was living with someone. I know him, you see … my hope was to come and make my case to whomever I found, winning a comrade. An ally. Someone who might become my advocate.” A hopeful pause, then he said, “When Perri does come here, will you explain to him what’s right and what is not? Can you, please?” Another pause, then he added, “Even a lowly Remora knows the difference between right and wrong, miss.”
That wasn’t fair, calling himself lowly. And he seemed to be painting her as some flavor of bigot, which she wasn’t. She didn’t look at him as lowly, and morality wasn’t her private possession. Both of them were human, after all. Their souls were linked by a charming and handsome, manipulative user … by her darling husband … and Quee Lee felt a sudden anger directed at Perri, almost shuddering in front of this stranger.
“Miss?”
“How much?” she asked. “How much does he owe you, and how soon will you need it?”
Orleans answered the second question first, lifting an arm with a sickly whine coming from his shoulder. “Can you hear it?” he asked. As if she were deaf. “My seals need to be replaced, or at least refurbished. Yesterday, if possible.” The arm bent, and the elbow whined. “I already spent my savings rebuilding my reactor.”
Quee Lee knew enough about lifesuits to appreciate his circumstances. Remoras worked on the ship’s hull, standing in the open for hours and days at a time. A broken seal was a disaster. Any tiny opening would kill most of his body, and his suffering mind would fall into a protective coma. Left exposed and vulnerable, Orleans would be at the mercy of radiation storms and comet showers. Yes, she understood. A balky suit was an unacceptable hazard on top of lesser hazards, and what could she say?
She felt a deep empathy for the man.
Orleans seemed to take a breath, then he said, “Perri owes me fifty-two thousand credits, miss.”
“I see.” She swallowed and said, “My name is Quee Lee.”
“Quee Lee,” he repeated. “Yes, miss.”
“As soon as Perri comes home, I’ll discuss this with him. I promise you.”
“I would be grateful if you did.”
“I will.”
The ugly mouth opened, and she saw blotches of green and gray-blue against a milky throat. Those were cancers or perhaps strange new organs. She couldn’t believe she was in the company of a Remora—the strangest sort of human—yet despite every myth, despite tales of courage and even recklessness, Orleans appeared almost fragile. He even looked scared, she realized. That wet orange face shook as if in despair, then came the awful grinding noise as he turned away, telling her, “Thank you, Quee Lee. For your time and patience, and for everything.”
Fifty-two thousand credits!
She could have screamed. She would scream when she was alone, she promised herself. Perri had done this man a great disservice, and he’d hear about it when he graced her with his company again. A patient person, yes, and she could tolerate most of his flaws. But not now. Fifty thousand credits was no fortune, and it would allow Orleans to refurbish his lifesuit, making him whole and healthy again. Pe
rhaps she could get in touch with Perri first, speeding up the process…?
Orleans was through her front door, turning to say good-bye. False sunshine made his suit shine, and his faceplate darkened to where she couldn’t see his features anymore. He might have any face, and what did a face mean? Waving back at him, sick to her stomach, she calculated what fifty-two thousand credits meant in concrete terms, to her.…
… wondering if she should…?
But no, she decided. She just lacked the required compassion. She was a particle short, if that, ordering the security screen to engage again, helping to mute that horrid grinding of joints as the Remora shuffled off for home.
* * *
The ship had many names, many designations, but to its long-term passengers and crew it was referred to as the ship. No other starship could be confused for it. Not in volume, nor in history.
The ship was old by every measure. A vanished humanoid race had built it, probably before life arose on Earth, then abandoned it for no obvious reason. Experts claimed it had begun as a sunless world, one of the countless jupiters that sprinkled the cosmos. The builders had used the world’s own hydrogen to fuel enormous engines, accelerating it over millions of years while stripping away its gaseous exterior. Today’s ship was the leftover core, much modified by its builders and humans. Its metal and rock interior was laced with passageways and sealed environments, fuel tanks and various ports. There was room enough for hundreds of billions of passengers, though there were only a fraction that number now. And its hull was a special armor made from hyperfibers, kilometers thick and tough enough to withstand most high-velocity impacts.
The ship had come from outside the galaxy, passing into human space long ago. It was claimed as salvage, explored by various means, then refurbished to the best of its new owners’ abilities. A corporation was formed; a promotion was born. The ancient engines were coaxed to life, changing the ship’s course. Then tickets were sold, both to humans and alien species. Novelty and adventure were the lures. One circuit around the Milky Way; a half-million-year voyage touring the star-rich spiral arms. It was a long span, even for immortal humans. But people like Quee Lee had enough money and patience. That’s why she purchased her apartment with a portion of her savings. This voyage wouldn’t remain novel for long, she knew. Three or four circuits at most, and then what? People would want something else new and glancingly dangerous. Wasn’t that the way it always was?
Quee Lee had no natural lifespan. Her ancestors had improved themselves in a thousand ways, erasing the aging process. Fragile DNAs were replaced with better genetic machinery. Tailoring allowed a wide-range of useful proteins and enzymes and powerful repair mechanisms. Immune systems were nearly perfect; diseases were extinct. Normal life couldn’t damage a person in any measurable way. And even a tragic accident wouldn’t need to be fatal, Quee Lee’s body and mind able to withstand frightening amounts of abuse.
But Remoras, despite those same gifts, did not live ordinary lives. They worked on the open hull, each of them encased in a lifesuit. The suits afforded extra protection and a standard environment, each one possessing a small fusion plant and redundant recycling systems. Hull life was dangerous in the best times. The ship’s shields and laser watchdogs couldn’t stop every bit of interstellar grit. And every large impact meant someone had to make repairs. The ship’s builders had used sophisticated robots, but they proved too tired after several billions of years on the job. It was better to promote—or demote—members of the human crew. The original scheme was to share the job, brief stints fairly dispersed. Even the captains were to don the lifesuits, stepping into the open when it was safest, patching craters with fresh-made hyperfibers.…
Fairness didn’t last. A kind of subculture arose, and the first Remoras took the hull as their province. Those early Remoras learned how to survive the huge radiation loads. They trained themselves and their offspring to control their damaged bodies. Tough genetics mutated, and they embraced their mutations. If an eye was struck blind, perhaps by some queer cancer, then a good Remora would evolve a new eye. Perhaps a hair was light-sensitive, and its owner, purely by force of will, would culture that hair and interface it with the surviving optic nerve, producing an eye more durable than the one it replaced. Or so Quee Lee had heard, in passing, from people who acted as if they knew about such things.
Remoras, she had been told, were happy to look grotesque. In their culture, strange faces and novel organs were the measures of success. And since disaster could happen anytime, without warning, it was unusual for any Remora to live long. At least in her sense of long. Orleans could be a fourth or fifth generation Remora, for all she knew. A child barely fifty centuries old. For all she knew. Which was almost nothing, she realized, returning to her garden room and undressing, lying down with her eyes closed and the light baking her. Remoras were important, even essential people, yet she felt wholly ignorant. And ignorance was wrong, she knew. Not as wrong as owing one of them money, but still.…
This life of hers seemed so ordinary, set next to Orleans’ life. Comfortable and ordinary, and she almost felt ashamed.
* * *
Perri failed to come home that next day, and the next. Then it was ten days, Quee Lee having sent messages to his usual haunts and no reply. She had been careful not to explain why she wanted him. And this was nothing too unusual, Perri probably wandering somewhere new and Quee Lee skilled at waiting, her days accented with visits from friends and parties thrown for any small reason. It was her normal life, never anything but pleasant; yet she found herself thinking about Orleans, imagining him walking on the open hull with his seals breaking, his strange body starting to boil away … that poor man…!
Taking the money to Orleans was an easy decision. Quee Lee had more than enough. It didn’t seem like a large sum until she had it converted into black-and-white chips. But wasn’t it better to have Perri owing her instead of owing a Remora? She was in a better place to recoup the debt; and besides, she doubted that her husband could raise that money now. Knowing him, he probably had a number of debts, to humans and aliens both; and for the nth time, she wondered how she’d ever let Perri charm her. What was she thinking, agreeing to this crazy union?
Quee Lee was old even by immortal measures. She was so old she could barely remember her youth, her tough neurons unable to embrace her entire life. Maybe that’s why Perri had seemed like a blessing. He was ridiculously young and wore his youth well, gladly sharing his enthusiasms and energies. He was a good, untaxing lover; he could listen when it was important; and he had never tried milking Quee Lee of her money. Besides, he was a challenge. No doubt about it. Maybe her friends didn’t approve of him—a few close ones were openly critical—but to a woman of her vintage, in the middle of a five thousand century voyage, Perri was something fresh and new and remarkable. And Quee Lee’s old friends, quite suddenly, seemed a little fossilized by comparison.
“I love to travel,” Perri had explained, his gently handsome face capable of endless smiles. “I was born on the ship, did you know? Just weeks after my parents came on board. They were riding only as far as a colony world, but I stayed behind. My choice.” He had laughed, eyes gazing into the false sky of her ceiling. “Do you know what I want to do? I want to see the entire ship, walk every hallway and cavern. I want to explore every body of water, meet every sort of alien—”
“Really?”
“—and even visit their quarters. Their homes.” Another laugh and that infectious smile. “I just came back from a low-gravity district, six thousand kilometers below. There’s a kind of spidery creature down there. You should see them, love! I can’t do them justice by telling you they’re graceful, and seeing holos isn’t much better.”
She had been impressed. Who else did she know who could tolerate aliens, what with their strange odors and their impenetrable minds? Perri was remarkable, no doubt about it. Even her most critical friends admitted that much, and despite their grumbles, they’d want to hear t
he latest Perri adventure as told by his wife.
“I’ll stay on board forever, if I can manage it.”
She had laughed, asking, “Can you afford it?”
“Badly,” he had admitted. “But I’m paid up through this circuit, at least. Minus day-by-day expenses, but that’s all right. Believe me, when you’ve got millions of wealthy souls in one place, there’s always a means of making a living.”
“Legal means?”
“Glancingly so.” He had a rogue’s humor, all right. Yet later, in a more sober mood, he had admitted, “I do have enemies, my love. I’m warning you. Like anyone, I’ve made my share of mistakes—my youthful indiscretions—but at least I’m honest about them.”
Indiscretions, perhaps. Yet he had done nothing to earn her animosity.
“We should marry,” Perri had proposed. “Why not? We like each other’s company, yet we seem to weather our time apart too. What do you think? Frankly, I don’t think you need a partner who shadows you day and night. Do you, Quee Lee?”
She didn’t. True enough.
“A small tidy marriage, complete with rules,” he had assured her. “I get a home base, and you have your privacy, plus my considerable entertainment value.” A big long laugh, then he had added, “I promise. You’ll be the first to hear my latest tales. And I’ll never be any kind of leech, darling. With you, I will be the perfect gentleman.”
* * *
Quee Lee carried the credit chips in a secret pouch, traveling to the tubecar station and riding one of the vertical tubes toward the hull. She had looked up the name Orleans in the crew listings. The only Orleans lived at Port Beta, no mention of him being a Remora or not. The ports were vast facilities where taxi craft docked with the ship, bringing new passengers from nearby alien worlds. It was easier to accelerate and decelerate those kilometer-long needles. The ship’s own engines did nothing but make the occasional course correction, avoiding dust clouds while keeping them on their circular course.
The Year's Best SF 12 # 1994 Page 14
