Nimisha's Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  The first cluster took off the head; the second sheared the left wing, and pieces of the creature rained down to the ground, some of the carcass landing partially in one of the larger lakes. She definitely deserved her rating as crack marksperson, she mused. As she passed over it, the corpse was slightly twitching. She swung around for a second, closer look.

  “Zounds!” she exclaimed, swallowing.

  “That is phenomenal,” Doc remarked, evidently accessing her screens.

  “I’m beginning to think that the Poolbeg’s crew might have succumbed, too, if this is what they had to contend with,” she said ruefully as she watched the amazing amount and variety of scavengers that swarmed over the dead flier. They oozed out of the lake and from holes in the hillside; using many varying kinds of propulsion from feet to flippers to a smaller variety of the slime slug mobility, they began to feed. “Recording, Helm? We’ll need to register as many types as possible. All of them carnivorous.”

  “Omnivorous might be the more exact classification,” Doc remarked.

  She turned away from the gorging, rippling mass beneath her and aimed for the foothills.

  “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late for the party,” she said as she saw still more creatures gathering to partake of the feast. Did Erehwon give life to anything that wasn’t dangerous? What would have happened to her if she had taken a swim in the first of the tempting blue lakes? She shuddered. She would get enough water from the stream by the Poolbeg to bathe in safety in the Fiver.

  It was sunset on Erehwon when she reached the point indicated on the map as the Poolbeg’s base.

  They had chosen well: high up on an isolated plateau, backed against a precipice down which fell a graceful cataract, so they’d had fresh water in easy reach. They had even started to build dwellings out of rock. There was no sign of the larger shuttle they’d used to transport themselves. No sign of discarded equipment either. She landed the gig as close as she could to the half-finished dwellings. No, correction: The shelters had been finished. The roofs had collapsed inward. Could the avian she had just dispatched, or more of its kind, have dive-bombed the houses? She found no corpses, but she did find pots and eating utensils in one, messed up with the debris of the roof. She found scatterings of other possessions and a graveyard containing five larger and six smaller graves. She could see where markers had been hammered in, but no inscriptions remained. As she stood in the evening wind, watching Erehwon’s sun go down, she rather thought that winter winds could have blown away anything short of a stone slab. Had the winds blown in the roofs? Had the camp been untenable in the winter season? They would have had the weapons to defend themselves against aerial dive-bombers. Or had such forays continued until their weapons had been emptied? Where had they gone?

  “It is respectfully recommended that you return to the Fiver, ma’am,” Helm said after a longish pause.

  “I think you’re absolutely right. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  And she was, dead tired, and quite ready to eat seconds of the delicious meal Cater prepared for her.

  “May I respectfully request that further aerial reconnaissance be done by the Fiver? The bow is equipped with asteroid defense missiles,” Helm said the next morning as she entered the bridge in full protective gear.

  “A good notion. I can follow in the gig. It’s already been exceedingly useful so far, and I don’t think it will fit on the Fiver even if I were to remove the skiff.”

  The small skiff, suitable for either planetary use or short hops to a space station or between ships, would have to be abandoned in order to shoehorn the gig into the garage space. She didn’t wish to lose any equipment even if the skiff was unarmed and possibly too frail to withstand an attack by the aerial menaces Erehwon had spawned.

  “I recommend a high-altitude search, ma’am.”

  “I concur,” she said. “Patch it into the gig.” She hoisted the supplies she had collected—food, water, and some heavier weapons—and exited the Fiver to the gig.

  At three thousand meters, they leveled off and retraced her flight to the ruined base camp. She paused briefly at the lake, magnifying the site where the avian had fallen. There wasn’t a shred left to show her kill. This was a hungry world, as well as omnivorous. When they reached the base camp, they hovered to take aerial records of the deserted buildings.

  “If I were being attacked from under and over, I’d go somewhere no one could reach me,” she said. “Let’s continue to the mountain range. There may be caves that are suitable.”

  Humankind started off in caves, and they were still useful natural refuges on many worlds. Especially when colonists were starting off with only elementary tools with which to create new homes and societies. She had no idea what sort of equipment an exploratory vessel carried as standard supplies. They crossed another high plateau to the rough-toothed crags of the mountain range.

  “Metallic object to starboard, ma’am,” Helm told her as they traversed another deep valley. This one was covered with vegetation that resembled the Terran-type forests planted on Vega III, varietals that had adapted to slightly different soils. A robust river followed the course of least resistance toward a distant sea, foaming over rapids and flowing into pools that did not tempt her to bathe in them—just yet.

  The shuttle was visible on the ground. And suddenly a flare lanced into the sky.

  “Someone’s alive,” Nimisha said with a tremendous feeling of relief.

  “Three . . . no, four humans, one young,” Helm confirmed.

  “I think that river meadow will accommodate both of us,” Nimisha said. “I’ll go in first and explain why I’ve purloined their gig.”

  “I doubt they’ll mind,” Doc said. “I’ll want to check them over as soon as possible. This world breeds a lot of peculiar things.”

  “It does indeed,” Nimisha heartily agreed. As she swung down and circled to land, she saw that the roof of the shuttle was scarred and dented. She wondered which denizens had been able to leave combat marks on a petralloy hull.

  Two men, one of them with the child in his arms, and one woman came racing to the edge of the meadow, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. They wore uniforms and coverings of what must be local fur hides. The temperature outside registered as twelve degrees Celsius . . . cool. The woman wore a long tunic of the most beautiful gray-blue fur. The child was dressed in leather with a fur coat.

  “Ma’am, are we glad to see you!” cried the man who reached her first. The other was encumbered with the child and the woman had a noticeable limp. All three were grinning from ear to ear. The child burrowed its head into the man’s neck, suddenly shy in the presence of an unknown person.

  “Jonagren Svangel, ma’am,” said the man in the lead, reaching out his hand to grasp hers. “Lieutenant Commander and acting captain of the Poolbeg.”

  “Well done, Commander . . .” she started to say and then saw the ineffable sadness in his face. She was filled with an unexpected desire to see that sadness dispelled.

  “There’re only the three of us left—and Tim, of course,” he said as the others arrived. “This is jig Casper Ontell and Ensign Syrona Lester-Pitt.”

  They shook hands amid a babble of greetings until Jonagren held up his hand. “You’re not the rescue party, are you?” he said, his tanned and weather-beaten face losing the exultation of being found.

  “No, in fact, I’m trapped, too,” she said. “I’m Nimisha Boynton-Rondymense. I was doing a shakedown cruise on my ship, there, when it was captured by that damned wormhole. Come, the Fiver’s landing and I’m sure you’d like a change from whatever rations you might have left.”

  “We’ve been pretty much living off what we could find,” Casper said, spreading an arm in the direction of the meadow, river, and forest behind them. “Not everything is toxic.” He grimaced.

  “Just most,” Syrona said shyly.

  “I’ve a medical unit, Syrona,” Nimisha said, leading the way to where the Fiver had touched d
own as delicately as a fashionable lady not wishing to sully her footwear on soil.

  “How many in your crew? Were you able to launch a beacon back through the wormhole?” Jonagren asked eagerly.

  “As I said, I was doing a trial run on my ship . . .”

  All three adults stopped as they took in the sleek lines of the Fiver and her scratched hull.

  “No, I didn’t escape entirely without some damage,” she said, seeing them focus on the scrapes. “But nothing that breached hull integrity.”

  “You were lucky,” Jonagren said ruefully.

  “I’ve no other crew aboard. I use AI’s for Helm, Doc, and Cater,” Nimisha went on and wondered at Jonagren’s intense look of disappointment. She noticed that it was Casper, still holding the child, who took Syrona’s arm to assist her up the ramp.

  “Permission to come aboard,” Jonagren said at the hatch in the traditional request. His eyes glinted with just a hint of humor. A very likable man, was this Jonagren Svangel, Nimisha decided.

  “Permission most certainly granted,” Helm said, startling all four newcomers.

  “Oh!” There was a very professional gleam in Jonagren’s eye.

  “Any business for me?” Doc asked.

  “May I offer you refreshment?” was Cater’s query.

  “Syrona, would you like to go first?” Nimisha offered, gesturing toward the medical unit.

  “No, Timmy first,” she said anxiously. “I’ve been so worried he’s not getting a balanced-enough diet.”

  Timmy had other ideas, screaming with fright at being placed on the strange surface. An extendible snuck up behind him and administered a mild sedative and, when he had calmed down, he permitted himself to be laid supine on the couch. His eyelids drooped and his frantic breathing eased.

  Once the boy was settled, Nimisha gestured for the men to go to the dispenser while she asked Syrona what she’d like to drink.

  “Oh, anything with caffeine and restoratives in it,” Syrona said, a tired smile on her face. “Timmy doesn’t sleep well, and I’m pregnant again.”

  A deep sadness in her eyes suggested to Nimisha that she had lost more than she had birthed. That would account for some of the small graves at the ruined base camp. When Nimisha brought Syrona’s drink to the medical unit, Timmy looked to be fast asleep, his head angled to one side, hands lax and open at his sides while his mother watched. Syrona drank absently as she observed the visible reports the medical unit was processing.

  “He’s a bit underweight, Ensign Lester-Pitt,” Doc said at his most reassuring. “A course of vitamins and trace minerals this planet doesn’t seem to provide will fix up the deficits. You, ma’am, are far more in need of my assistance.”

  “How do you know my name?” Syrona asked in surprise.

  “The AI’s are patched into my system,” Nimisha said, touching the comunit on her belt.

  “Oh!”

  A quiet beep indicated the end of Timmy’s medical.

  “I’ll show you where you can put him,” Nimisha said. Syrona stood to pick up the boy.

  “I’ll do that,” Casper said, rising from the table and wiping his mouth with one hand. “You let the doc see to you, Syrie.”

  Nimisha led the way to the accommodations, and Casper whistled with soft appreciation at the amenities.

  “I did design it with long-distance travel in mind,” she said.

  “You designed it, Lady Nimisha?”

  “Let’s dispense with titles, Casper,” she said in mock-sternness. “We’re all the same rank—castaway.” She reached over the built-in worktop and flipped on the toggle that would allow them to hear Timmy should he wake. His father deposited him on the bunk and covered him tenderly with the thermal blanket, his fingers rubbing the soft, light fabric.

  “He’s the only one to survive,” Casper said once they had gained the passageway. “Syrie’s pregnant again.”

  “Well, Doc will doubtless report it.”

  “She keeps losing them. So did Jesse and Peri. They . . . died. We couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

  “What happened to the rest of the crew? The ship records indicated eight of you left.”

  Casper made a bleak sound. “Encounters with the unfriendly natives.”

  “Are there any other kind?” Nimisha stopped and he nearly ran into her.

  “Creatures. Nothing with any true sentience that we’ve found if, by ‘sentience,’ you mean capable of rationalization and learning. We had to give up exploring,” he said. His eyes went immediately to the medical unit, but it was now covered and the mist obscured Syrona’s form.

  “I’m doing a full diagnostic on her,” Doc said in a low voice. “She is pregnant. With proper additives and rest, she has every chance of bearing a live child. The leg bone can be repaired, of course. And I’m doing some other minor repairs while she’s under anesthesia. Nothing too bizarre, although I’ll know more when the lab reports are done. I estimate she’ll be with me for another two hours. Then I’ll tend to you two.”

  “Chatty type, isn’t he?” Jonagren commented with a grin. He had several plates of food before him, obviously favorites, and was talking with his mouth full.

  “Old family medical man,” Nimisha said after ordering a meal from Cater and bringing it back to the table to join the two men. “His bedside manner is marvelous, and his voice is reassuring all by itself.”

  Casper, with an apologetic nod to her, went back for more food.

  “We’re probably all just anemic and full of intestinal parasites,” Jonagren said. “Not much of a challenge to a highclass medic.”

  “I live to serve,” Doc remarked.

  Jonagren looked at Nimisha in surprise.

  “Helm and Doc are programmed for independent conversation. Cater prefers to stuff you.”

  “Glad to let her,” Casper and Jonagren replied in chorus, grinning at each other.

  “Do not be too greedy, gentlemen. Your stomachs are unaccustomed to very rich foods,” Doc said.

  “They aren’t going viand-wild,” Nimisha said, noting that the men had chosen high protein and complex carbohydrates as well as salad greens.

  “I asked my stomach what it wanted,” Jonagren said, showing an unexpected touch of whimsy, “not my taste buds. We’ve done pretty well, thanks to the bio unit in the shuttle, and no one got poisoned . . .” His face went bleak.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Commander,” Doc said. “From what we’ve already seen of the denizens of this planet, you did well enough to bring the four of you through the last sixteen years.”

  “He did, Lady Nimisha,” Casper said firmly. “The first duty of an officer on a hostile planet is to survive.”

  Jonagren gave him a queer look.

  “Well, it was as much up to . . . them . . . as it was to you . . . to see that they did,” Casper said, obviously referring to an ongoing argument. “You couldn’t be everywhere every minute.” He turned to Nimisha. “We lost three crew people when the avians attacked us early one morning our first winter at the base camp. We’d rigged a scanner to warn us, but they came in swarms. Those of us who could made it to the shuttle. The roofs caving in got Morissa’s baby and shattered her rib cage. Pluny was poisoned by some crawlie when he was fishing. Raez got trapped by a zonker.”

  “A zonker?”

  “One of the nastier pieces of work this planet evolved,” Jonagren said, pushing back his plate and wiping his mouth. “Sneaky thing, has lairs in the forest in some of what we took to calling Zonk trees. It also lies along branches and tries to snag unwary creatures. Powerful thing for all it’s not very large. But it makes up for its size with its craftiness. Once what it uses for arms traps something, the kindest thing to do is kill it. We got out of there as fast as we could . . .” He shrugged, his face falling once again in sad lines that were graven on his face.

  Sixteen years he’d been here, Nimisha thought, and estimated that he couldn’t have been much more than thirty when they’d been marooned. He didn’t lo
ok mid-forties when he stopped thinking guilty or sad. Fleet exploratory teams were given longev treatments, as well as implants. The women must have removed their implants in order to perpetuate their numbers on this wretched planet. Brave of them, actually, Nimisha thought.

  “Now that you’ve eaten, would you gentlemen care to freshen up? I even have new clothing, if you’d like a change.”

  “Too right,” Casper said with a wide grin, plucking a fold of his almost-threadbare garment away from his body. “We used up all we had in stock and are experimenting with leather pants.” He scrubbed his head, looking rueful. “Some hides just don’t tan.”

  “Some hides I wouldn’t wear if I had to go naked,” Jonagren added as Casper eagerly rose.

  “There are empty cabins down both companionways. Take your pick,” Nimisha said.

  “I really should formulate a report, Nimisha,” Jonagren said, looking over at the bridge.

  “It’s kept this long, Captain,” she said, touching his hand, “and you’ll feel better after a cleanup.”

  She was too polite to say that they badly needed cleaning-up; once in the warmth of the Fiver, a ripe odor had begun to emanate from their persons.

  “We need to be clean,” Casper said, pausing at the corridor. “We stink! Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Just dial your size from the cabin clothing dispenser,” she said. Casper hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the cabin where he had deposited his son. “I’ll listen for him.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  As soon as both had left and she’d heard the cabin doors slide shut, she programmed the air refresher for a rapid recirculation. The pong was rather obvious, mixed with noxious smells that made her nose itch.

  “Nothing dangerous in the smells,” Doc said.

  “How’s Syrona doing?”

  “She’s tougher than she looks. But she’s badly undernourished. Nothing that can’t be fixed. Like the left tibia.” Doc sounded professionally smug. “Three months pregnant with a female child. Good genes. Did some judicious tinkering to restore the pH factor and administered a rich IV.”