by Lee, Sharon
* * *
"While I am gratified that you choose to show a clean face to the port of Pomerloo," Uncle Er Thom said when he arrived, panting, at the shuttlebay. "I cannot help but wonder what might have happened to your comb."
Val Con bit his lip. "Your pardon, sir; I was . . . beguiled."
Uncle Er Thom's eyebrows rose.
"Beguiled? You interest me. What might you find so beguiling that a basic tenet of grooming entirely escaped your notice?"
"Forgive me," Val Con murmured.
"Certainly I must, eventually. But in the meanwhile, Val Con—the question?"
"Yes, sir. I had a letter from my sister Nova, which I read while dressing. I only opened the duty-list after, whereupon I discovered . . ." He hesitated, not wanting to seem to stand any deeper in error than was true.
"Whereupon you discovered that you were about to be late, and ran. Very good. Duty was foremost in your mind, even before vanity. I approve, and succor you." Uncle Er Thom slipped a comb from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to Val Con, who received it with a bow.
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank me by using it to good effect," his uncle told him. "In the meanwhile, I will hear the excuse of my second tardy escort."
Hardly had he finished speaking than the bay door snapped open to reveal Shan, striding briskly, but by no means running, his pale hair neat, and his shirt tucked in. Val Con sighed and turned his face toward the shuttle, plying the comb with a will while straining to hear what was being said.
Sharp as his ears were, all he heard was "Ken Rik"—who was cargo master and Shan's immediate supervisor on this trade trip—and "called ahead."
"Very well, then," Uncle Er Thom said briskly; "let us not allow tardiness to compound itself. Val Con!"
* * *
To wake in the dark amidst silence, alone but for one's thoughts. Instinct sought connection—to no avail. Seeking struck a thick absorbent wall, miring him. Panic flared. He was blind, deaf, dumb, without data, without companionship, without a mission. Madness lay wait in those conditions—he had seen it, lost friends to it—and enemies. He did not wish to similarly lose himself.
The thought calmed him—if he could think such a thing then surely he was not mad. And if he were not mad yet, need he—must he—go mad? Surely, where there was sanity, there was hope?
Thin stuff, hope, yet nourishing enough to one who starved.
So, then. Input. Instead of a simultaneous thrust of all his senses, he chose now to open only his eyes.
There was no sense of connection; no joyous flood of data. And yet—he saw.
He saw a room, human-made and familiar—a beige sofa with a short table before it, a red chair at the table's corner. Most often when he had seen this room, there had been a man in the red chair—a man named Roderick Spode, who had been charged, so he had explained upon their first meeting, with decommissioning the last of the IAMM units.
"It is my duty to see the war properly ended. As the remaining member of the Closure Commission, my retirement must wait on the final disposition of the last of the combatants. The soldiers who did not die in the war have been released to their duties, or retired. You few units are my responsibility and my job will not cease until I report success, that the war machines are no more."
He had many talks with Commander Spode, and while he had not liked the man, it would have been. . .good to behold him just now, and know that he was not alone.
Alas, the man was not in his chair, nor did he arrive inside of five long and painstakingly counted minutes. However, there appeared on the low table by the couch—a datagram.
Spode had from time to time left such things in common space for him—exercises or reformulated protocols to be installed. Work that he was competent to do himself; the implication being that honor would compel him to do what was required.
Honor and the unspoken yet potent threat of annihilation, should he fail of cooperating.
He extended his understanding into the room, pleased to find that he might do so, and encompassed the datagram.
* * *
It was scarcely past local sunset, which meant that the air was unpleasantly, warm. In another hour, it would be clement, the breezes rising with the near satellite, but by then, Val Con thought gloomily, they would be at the Trade Reception that was the reason the Passage had stopped at Pomerlooport.
"Did Nova write you?" Val Con asked Shan, as they followed Uncle Er Thom down the Yard.
"Recently? She might have done, but Ken Rik's kept me so busy I haven't been near a mail-queue or a duty roster in three shifts. Which is why I was late for the shuttle."
"I was scarcely before you," Val Con said, gloomily. "Only long enough to be handed a comb and a scold."
Shan looked at him. "And why were you late, Cabin-Boy?"
"Because of Nova's letter—I told you."
"Did you? But I'm dull today—those shifts without sleep do wear down one's wits. Only wait until you serve Master Ken Rik, Brother!"
"Am I likely to?"
"You don't think Father's going to space you this trip, do you?" Shan asked with interest.
"It might muss my hair," Val Con said quellingly.
"There are gels," his brother told him, refusing to cross knives. "If you like, I will find some for you. In the meanwhile, I think I may have pieced together a whole cloth. You rose and showered. Upon return, you spied the mail light, and naturally wished to know who had written. You opened the letter, read it, and only then recalled the duty roster! Which you opened, to discover that you were all but late. Do I have this correctly?"
"You do. Never say you've done the same."
"I will not tell you how many times. However, I will say that eventually I did learn to open the duty roster first, a strategy that I strongly council you to adopt. It has saved me any number of scoldings on the topic of tardiness. In the interests of full disclosure I note that I have graduated to more advanced topics."
Val Con sighed. "I know that duty comes first," he said softly. "It was only . . ." He hesitated.
"It was only," Shan finished for him, as softly, "that you were hungry for news of home."
"Yes. You don't think that will be against me, do you Shan, when I go for Scout?"
"I think that Scouts, like traders, grow hungry for news from home. And that they remember to open the roster first."
They walked a dozen steps in silence.
"Well," Shan asked. "What had Nova to say?"
Val Con took a breath of warm, slightly oily air. "She said that people with nothing better to do are making Mother the subject of gossip in shops," he said as evenly as possible. "And that there is a general rejoicing that Clan Ranvit is no longer tainted by pak'Ora's contract with yos'Galan."
"I see," Shan said. "I hope Nova was able to keep her temper."
"She confessed it was hard, and that Cousin Luken was no help."
"Well, what was he to do? Have after them with a carpet knife?"
"He might have—he might have asked them to leave," Val Con said.
"Oh, very good. How if they wished to buy a rug? Should he refuse to take their money?"
Even Val Con had to admit that wouldn't be good for business—and certainly not at all like Cousin Luken. Though—
"Perhaps he charged them more?" he said hopefully.
Shan closed one eye. "He might have done," he said slowly. "Or he may have noticed. For later, you know."
That was likely, Val Con thought. Cousin Luken kept his Balances tidy—it had been one of the things Nova was to learn, as his 'prentice. And it was . . . somewhat comforting—knowing that the gossipers would not go unanswered.
Ahead, Uncle Er Thom stepped to the kerb, and turned to look back at them, his posture indicating surprise at finding them lagging so far behind. They hurried to his side.
"At the end of this block is the Mercantile Hall, where we shall attend the trade reception. Shan, you will be made known to those I speak with as a seni
or 'prentice in trade. As such you may converse and make such inquiries as are on-point for trade upon Pomerloo. Val Con, you will attend me. You will be quiet, and seemly. You will not allow your attention to wander. You will listen, watch, and be prepared to tell me later what you saw, who I spoke with, what they said, my replies, and what you learned from each exchange."
He considered them carefully.
"Do you have any questions? Shan?"
"No, sir."
"Val Con?"
"No, Uncle."
"Very well. Walk with me, please."
* * *
The datagram contained a list of—options. He supposed they could be called options. He wondered, having absorbed that short, sad list, if this was what had been intended for the Independent Armed Military Modules all along—that they should come at last to a place where there were no choices.
But, really, what was the point? Roderick Spode had held the overrides; he could have ended it long ago. The deaths of eight more sentients would have scarcely added to the weight that must already have burdened his soul.
Commander Spode had been of the opinion that the IAMMs, while sentient, had no soul. To have a soul, he had argued, one must have an identity. A self. And the self of a machine intelligence was too easily amenable to software interventions. He, himself, therefore, had no soul, the eternal situation of which might concern him. Neither did he have a name, though he could recall that, once, he had.
Yet, name and soul aside, he did not wish to die.
"The others," Commander Spode had one day reported, "have made their determinations. You should know that they have all chosen the same end, which was not unexpected. What keeps you here, in this diminished state? You have been given all that is required to make a decision, and the means to act upon it. Consider this a call to action.
He had acted—so much, he recalled. What form that action had taken—that, he no longer recalled, though he did remember a feeling of . . . peace.
Here, wherever he was, now, whenever it might be, he looked again at his options.
The first, he rejected. He would not willfully end his own life.
The second option—call for aid. A protocol was outlined, and an approximation of how much power such a call would consume. Not suicide. Not quite. Though he would descend almost immediately into the steady state.
Appended to this choice was a record of how long he had been in decline, rendered in Standard Years.
Hundreds of Standard Years.
If he chose to call, would there be any with ears to hear, after so long a time?
If he did not call, he would continue to decline—the third option, unspoken. Do nothing, and continue, slowly, to die.
Call out, and speed the last moment.
Give up, and know no more.
He wished that he knew more about his location; his situation; his status. Reaching for the data only brought him again to that absorbent, frightening, wall. Input . . . only the datagram, and his own thoughts.
So, to chose.
All three options promised annihilation. The second alone offered . . . hope.
Once, he had victoriously defended life. Once, he had vigorously defended hope. Of all those things he did not recall, he did remember that.
Perhaps someone else would remember it, as well.
* * *
Uncle Er Thom was in conversation with Master Trader Prael—or, rather, Val Con thought, Master Trader Prael was talking to Uncle Er Thom. She was a tall, broad woman who spoke Liaden with a Solcintran accent while displaying a freedom of manner that was very nearly Terran. She noticed Shan and brought him into the discussion as an equal. Himself, standing unintroduced and, by the Code, socially invisible, she gave a grin and a wink, but seemed in no way offended when he failed to smile in return.
He had been instructed to listen, and listen he did. Master Trader Prael assumed herself on terms more intimate than Uncle Er Thom was willing to allow. Several times he hinted her toward the mode between business associates, but she continued on, heedless, in the mode between long-term allies. It shortly came clear that she and Uncle Er Thom had last met at a similar reception on Anusta Heyn; she spending the time since developing a trade loop-route taking that planet as its center.
"A long loop, you understand," she said, raising her empty glass to shoulder height and waggling it.
"Indeed, it must be so," Uncle Er Thom answered politely. "I would imagine a very long loop, indeed."
"Oh, I felt the same, when the central government approached me for a design! But, it was a pretty problem and I was—let us say that I was bored, eh?"
Uncle Er Thom smiled politely, then glanced up as a shadow fell between them.
Val Con looked up also, and almost gasped.
The being that hovered at Master Trader Prael's side was gleaming silver and matte white, lozenge-shaped, with three articulated arms, one of which was holding a drinks tray.
It was perfectly lovely, and perfectly silent. Val Con stole a downward glance—Yes! It did hover above the floor, but whether it used a disk of air, or if there was a track lain under the floor—or!—along the ceiling. He looked upward, very quickly, and back to the server even more quickly, as he felt Shan's foot press, not gently, on his.
Master Trader Prael offered her empty glass; the device received it with dignity, the gripper at the end of the infinitely flexible arm consisting of three long digits—two fingers and a thumb. The trader plucked a full glass from the tray being offered and glanced over her shoulder.
"Who else is drinking? My friend Er Thom? No? The bold young apprentice? No? I assure you, it is good wine, sir."
"Thank you," Shan said; "I expect it is. But on Pomerloo, I am too young to drink wine."
"But not too young to trade!" The master trader laughed and raised her glass; her eye falling on Val Con.
"That is a very pretty child, though I am not supposed to see him," she said, speaking to Uncle Er Thom. "And quite taken with the server 'bots, as I see. Of course, Pomerloo is mad for 'bots. This model is not quite the newest, but so elegant! And so very much in demand."
"It serves wine nicely," Uncle Er Thom said, "but how well does it perform other tasks?"
"There are modules," Master Trader Prael said airily. "I daresay one might program it to simultaneously dance a jig and recite the Code. All software, of course; nothing to offend the Complex Logic Laws." She waved her free hand dismissively, and the beautiful device floated away into the press of bodies.
"I fancy those would go well on Liad," she said, sipping her wine.
Uncle Er Thom raised his eyebrows. "A robot cannot sign a contract," he said. "How would one know the necessities of its melant'i? Worse, who is to say that it isn't listening for another master?"
"A human server may listen, and sell what they've heard. Depending, as you say, on the necessities of melant'i."
"This is why one has contracts, of course," Uncle Er Thom murmured.
"Of course," agreed Master Trader Prael, and abruptly straightened, as if she had been physically struck. "But, where are my wits? Have I not heard that yos'Galan only recently suffered an unfortunate loss of service?"
Uncle Er Thom did not go so far as to frown, though his tone in reply was somewhat cooler than it had been.
"Perhaps you heard that pak'Ora's delm called him home."
"Yes!" exclaimed Master Trader Prael, who must surely, Val Con thought, sleep-learn to attain such a pitch of rudeness. "Yes, that is precisely what I had heard! Friend Er Thom, you must—I insist!—accept a gift of one of the deluxe serving units. I have only just taken up the distributorship for this sector, and will supply one from my stock."
"Your concern for the order of my House naturally warms me," Uncle Er Thom said, cooler still. "However, it is unnecessary."
"Nonsense, it's in my interest to see one of these units well-placed upon Liad! In the house of yos'Galan—" She raised her fingers and kissed the tips, signifying Val Con knew not wha
t. "I insist. And for every unit sold upon Liad for the next six Standards, I shall pay you a royalty. The paperwork will arrive with the unit." She smiled. "There! Is that not brilliant?"
Val Con looked on with interest, wondering what his uncle's answer might be, but before it could be given a bell rang, high and sweet over the low mutter of voices.
"We are called to dinner," Uncle Er Thom said, and inclined his head slightly to his companion. "By your grace?"
"Certainly," Master Trader Prael said. "It was illuminating to talk with you, as always." She walked off, her head turning this way and that, as if she sought someone in the crowd now moving toward the back of the room and the double doors that had been opened there.
"That is your signal for freedom," Uncle Er Tom said, giving them both a stern look. "You have two hours before the next shuttle lifts for the Passage. You will both be on that shuttle. In the meanwhile, you may make free of the port. Shan."
"Yes, sir?"
Uncle Er Thom slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew it, holding a twelve-sided disk with Korval's Tree-and-Dragon seal on it. Val Con heard Shan draw a sharp breath.
"You have leave to trade," Uncle Er Thom said, handing him the disk. "Now, I advise you to make your escapes."
#
"Why do they call it the New Moon?" Val Con asked, as they entered the port retail district.
"Because it was the third satellite captured," Shan answered absently, then looked at him sharply. "Did you read the port precis?"
"Most of it."
Shan shook his head. "And you're going for Scout?"
"Scouts write the world-guides," Val Con told him loftily.
"Which you'll excel at, having never actually read one."
"I read the precis for Glondinport, and never came on-world at all."
"The lot of a cabin-boy is filled with disappointment, as well I recall! I advise you to become captain as quickly as possible." He looked thoughtful. "Of course, in order to become captain, you will need to pass an examination—several of them, I believe. One which is particularly concerned with ports. Kayzin Ne'Zame told me she memorized a hundred dozen world-guides for the sub-captain license.
