Nimisha's Ship

by Anne McCaffrey

  Half an hour later, Helm announced that both men appeared to be resting in their cabins.

  “Resting?” Nimisha asked. Jonagren had wanted to start his report, not take a nap, as soon as he had bathed and dressed.

  “A little something I asked Cater to add to the last helpings they had,” Doc said. “They need the rest more than they need to report or be reminded of those crewmates who died.”

  “I’ll just take a turn round their camp.”

  “That’s inadvisable, ma’am,” Helm said instantly. “You heard the list of the dangerous creatures, some of which you might not recognize. I would await the escort of one of the survivors.”

  “Then let’s test the river water and do other tasks that don’t put me in any danger whatever,” Nimisha said somewhat acidly, although she knew Helm’s remark was sensible. Crawlies and zonkers and murderous avians and slime-throwing slugs. “I promised to listen for Timmy, too.”

  Using the scanners, she was able to get a look at their campsite. It was well laid out. She could see spy-eyes in the trees at the edge of the meadow. There was a newly seeded garden plot; the shimmering that surrounded it suggested they’d used a repeller field to keep it from being invaded. They probably had dug the garden out first, laying the repeller field under as well as around and over the garden. She noticed the solar panels mounted to provide power for the shuttle. She also saw the ladder leading to a cave in the cliff side. A hoist had been rigged at one side, to bring up supplies. She saw piping that indicated they must have running water in both the cave and the shuttle. They had done well with what they had. They had probably turned off such unessential power users as their comunit so that they hadn’t heard the Fiver’s initial call broadcast. Only sensible since they had given up hope of any rescue. Though they’d been quick enough with a flare when they’d heard the incoming aircraft.

  “Helm, did you access data profiles from the Poolbeg on these three survivors?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” and the small data screen on the pilot’s control panel lit up.

  Lt. Commander Jonagren Svangel, the current captain, was forty-four years old. Right now he was lean and obviously fit. His face had acquired lines from sixteen years of stressful responsibility, not usually seen when longevity treatments keep a face youthful looking. While nowhere near the masculine beauty of Lord Rhidian, or Caleb Rustin’s more rugged looks, he was definitely attractive. He had exhibited a ready sense of humor. His records said that he had joined Exploratory after two exemplary tours on the cruisers and a commendation for his quick response during an on-board accident that might have left more dead without his leadership. He had study credits for biology and xenobiology, and had passed in the top percentile the survival courses required by the Exploratory Arm of the Fleet. He came from a Fleet family whose members invariably reached captain’s rank during their careers.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Casper Ontell was forty-six, also a career naval man from the Bodem system. This was his second tour of duty with Exploratory. He, too, had taken study credits for botany and chemistry, and had done very well in the required survival courses.

  Ensign Syrona Lester-Pitt, now thirty-six, was from Demeathorn Blue City and, before she had joined the Fleet, had major Kill credits of some of the worst predators that hunting planet produced. She had been communications officer, and had taken advanced medic courses.

  “Wonder if she knows anything about the coelura,” Nimisha murmured. One of Lady Rezalla’s few unfulfilled desires was to own a coelura spin. She and hundreds of other First Family women! The ultimate in a natural fabric that molded itself to its owner’s body and could alter shape, color, and form at its wearer’s discretion. Coelura spins were severely limited by the Cavernii, who had developed a way to keep the gullible avians from being spun to death with demands for their “weavings.” At one time, the coelura had been close to extinction. The little avians, far more compliant than anything on Erehwon, were limited now to two spins a year, one for profit, and one to make a nest for their offspring. Their numbers were increasing, but a coelura spin was costly and the waiting list for available spins very, very long.

  Nimisha whiled away the time her guests were asleep by inserting into the record what they had told her about the deaths of crew members. She’d learn about the occupants of the smaller graves later. That Svangel still keenly felt that he ought to have been able to protect his crew did him no disservice. Survival courses were useful, but none of them could catalog all the disasters that could befall a team on an alien planet, especially a team that had no escape. FSP Navy exploration issued parameters to their teams, indicating what “normal” hazards could be overcome on a suitable M-world. If the team found more dangers than a well-equipped colony could deal with, they could indicate that the planet wasn’t worth the effort. This would be one she thought she’d put on that list. Unless, of course, all these ferocious types were limited to this continent. That didn’t seem likely. She wondered if the team had had time to investigate the other landmasses. Certainly they had early realized that they were stuck in this quadrant and chances of rescue were slim.

  While the Poolbeg would never take off from Erehwon, now that there was the Fiver, the other two habitable planets could be explored to see if one was less dangerous.

  There were also two more metallic anomalies to be investigated here. Maybe the cycle of the wormhole was shorter than fifteen years. Maybe some other unwary ship, not yet considered missing, had also been spat out in this sector. That might give a larger genetic pool to the survivors. Nimisha felt her spine twitch. With Syrona already producing children, obviously they had considered procreation one method of surviving—even if this generation was never rescued. For herself, she hadn’t anticipated having more offspring . . . Oh, dear, dear Cuiva . . . there would never be another as wonderful as her anywhere in the galaxy!

  V

  THE TWO MEN woke almost simultaneously and appeared, dressed in new clothing and obviously refreshed. As soon as she had heard the faint sounds of activity in their cabins, Nimisha asked Cater to produce a snack for them. Cater, having seen what their appetites were like, produced several platters of sandwiches, bowls of fruit, pitchers of juice, and a thermal carafe of coffee.

  “We ran out of coffee too soon,” Casper said, inhaling deeply, a broad smile on his face when he saw the carafe and smelled the brew. “Timmy’s still sacked out. His color’s better, too.”

  “I would have expected that,” Doc replied though Casper hadn’t addressed the medical unit directly. The man looked surprised by the spontaneous answer. “Syrona is progressing nicely but, since she’s in here, I took the advantage of doing a little more repair. Analysis only confirmed what was obviously lacking in diet and you’ll find her much improved when I log her out, Casper.”

  “Yes, well, thanks, Doc,” Casper said with a nervous grin.

  “You’ll get used to them,” Nimisha said with a little laugh. “I forgot their participation might be a surprise to you. Join me. I was just about to have a snack.”

  Casper cocked an eye at her. “If that’s what you call a snack, I’d hate to have to plow through a feast.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d manage fine.”

  Jonagren had lost some of the more obvious signs of tension with the rest and shower. He really could use a bit more weight on his bones, thought Nimisha. Maybe his face would fill out, too, taking away some of those rawboned planes. Abruptly she decided that no, she liked his face the way it was—full of character. Some of the lines around his mouth and eyes were laugh lines. The ship suit was the right length for his body, but he looked gaunt in the standard sizing.

  “What a relief not to have to forage for a meal,” he said, rubbing his hands together before he settled at the table. He also commented on the coffee. “That’s the best treat of all,” he said and poured a cup for himself before Nimisha could. He held it up to his nose and inhaled the wonderful aroma.

  He had a nice smile, which echoed i
n his eyes as he made contact with hers over the rim of his cup. He took a long pull and allowed himself a sigh of deep satisfaction before reaching for the nearest sandwich.

  “Lettuce?” he exclaimed in amazement.

  “We have some in the lower deck hydro-garden,” she said. “I’ll have to plant more, since I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “There are edible greens here, but it’s not the season for the best ones yet,” Casper said, reaching for his second sandwich and licking his lips of the crumbs left over from the first.

  “Did you by any chance explore the other two M-type planets in this area?” Nimisha asked.

  With their mouths full, both men shook their heads.

  “Not with . . . the damage . . . we sustained reaming our way through that wormhole,” Jonagren said, managing to speak through his food. He looked down at the sandwich he held as if remembering it wasn’t the best of good manners to talk while chewing.

  “Go ahead,” Nimisha said. “I don’t mind if you talk around it.”

  “We couldn’t fix it short of a Fleet facility,” Jonagren said. “And the exterior nodes were sheared off. Pluny tried to jury-rig some sort of receptor, but we’d been knocked about a good deal in the passage. That’s why we didn’t even get off a beacon when we were dragged in. Might have saved you a few problems if there’d been one.”

  “On the other hand, I wouldn’t be here now, would I? It’s usually the Navy that rescues us civilians, isn’t it, not the other way round.” She smiled at the two men, focusing her eyes longer on Jonagren, wanting in some way to let him know that his burden was now being shared.

  “While it certainly is a treat to see a fresh face—and a beautiful one,” Jonagren said, unexpectedly dealing her a compliment as easily as Rhidian could, “with a fine ship to give us more mobility in any future plans, we would just as soon not have wished anyone else to be stuck here with us.”

  Nimisha was delighted to hear him sounding more cheerful. Good food, rest, and “a fresh face” seemed to have improved his morale considerably. “Did you notice the other three metallic anomalies?”

  “Yes, we were able to get a good look at that ancient heap on our fly-by. By then we realized our first landing of the Poolbeg would be her last stop. Pluny jury-rigged exterior comunits. Captain Querine hoped we might salvage something from one of the other two and the plan was to use the shuttle to have a look.” He sighed and once again the lines of stress were prominent in his expressive face. “Plans change.”

  “So you don’t know if those ships had any survivors?”

  “We saw them on our way in and detected nothing,” Casper said. “Not that that means anything. They could have holed up somewhere away from the ferocious stuff.”

  “Well, I’ve those two sites next on my list. So you couldn’t have gone on to the other two M-types even had you wanted to?”

  Both men shook their heads, Jonagren evidently regretting it more than Casper did.

  “Well, then, we’ve things to do and plans to make,” she said, trying not to sound too fatuous. “I did manage to get a beacon out, hopefully well beyond the reach of the wormhole. I have placed another at the point we came into this space. It’s a standard omnidirectional FTL model. How long the pulses will take to reach a destination, or even make contact, is debatable. I’ve been updating the beacon this side. It’ll be stripped once contact is made, so you might want to send a report for it to pass on. You’re no longer missing.”

  “But you,” Jonagren put in with unexpected whimsy, “are.”

  “You did say that you were designing this as a long-range vessel,” Casper began.

  “Not quite this long-range,” Nimisha replied with a grin.

  “The Rondymense Ship Yard has done a lot with the Fleet designers,” Casper continued, warming to his theme, “so is it possible they’d be very keen to recover this one?” He looked around him, enviously. “It’s stars above anything Exploratory has ever offered scouts.”

  Nimisha nodded, pleased at his perspicacity. Jonagren’s eyes were sparkling again.

  “They shall leave no turn unstoned,” she said, “to find it.”

  “That—and your appearance, ma’am—are the best news we’ve had in almost two decades!”

  “The only news we’ve had,” Casper added.

  The two men had worked their way through most of the sandwiches while she had consumed one.

  “I’ll just get more coffee,” she said, rising, just as they all heard a wail of fright, muted by a partially closed door.

  “It’s all right, Timmy. I’m coming,” Casper called. In his haste, he knocked over his chair, then hesitated, unsure whether to pick it up or get to the boy to comfort him.

  Jonagren gestured for him to go and picked up the chair.

  “There have been several babies who didn’t survive?” she asked Jonagren in a low voice.

  He shook his head. “Miscarriages, two stillborn, for Jesse. Peri’s girl lived only a week. None of us has the expertise to do an autopsy—even if we’d wanted to—and we weren’t able to get back to the ship. A fever took their first when he was ten months old, and weird allergies and an accident took the other surviving toddlers even though we guarded them night and day. Timmy’s nearly a miracle for us. Maybe we should have started having kids earlier, when we were all healthier. I don’t know.” He gave a shrug.

  “Cater, please prepare something appetizing for a—” Nimisha paused, looking at Jonagren to supply Timmy’s age.

  “Six-year-old,” Doc said, as if he had been waiting for a chance to get a word in. “Preferably high protein and complex carbohydrates made to look like his favorite food?” Now Doc waited for Jonagren to speak.

  The commander grinned as he shook his head slowly from side to side. “He’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat him first. I’d say that’s why he’s still alive: an iron digestive system.”

  “Oh, it’ll be so nice to cater for a child,” Cater replied with a lilt in her voice. A plate appeared on the dispenser with a glass of white liquid. “Is he familiar with milk?”

  “Excellent food for a growing child,” Doc said. “Good idea, Cater.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cater replied demurely.

  “Does she lower her eyes and blush, too?” Jonagren asked in a muted tone.

  “Sure sounds like it,” Nimisha said. She collected the food just as Casper entered, leading the boy by the hand.

  Timmy looked much refreshed and subtly healthier. He saw the glass and pointed.

  “You have milk?” His eyes were wide in his tanned face. “Syrie, Casper, and Jon keep telling me about it, but I’ve never had any but hers when I was a baby.”

  He took a sip and tasted it going down, making his swallow audible to the adults watching. Then a big smile crossed his face and there was a definite resemblance to Jonagren, not Casper. So, Nimisha wondered, who was Syrona pregnant by this time? Casper seemed so attentive and loving that she’d originally assumed that Casper and Syrona were partnered. Well, they had said there had been other children: doubtless they had done what they could to provide a larger gene pool, even if disaster, fever, and miscarriages had ruined their attempt.

  “That’s good!” Timmy exclaimed, not quite catching the entire milk mustache on his upper lip.

  “Try the sandwich, Tim,” Jonagren said. “The kind of bread we haven’t been able to make here.” He turned to Nimisha. “We got a wild yeast and we did find a wheat-type grain cereal and ground it to flour consistency. But the bread had a tough texture. Hard to chew.”

  “The crackers turned out well,” Casper said, winking at Jonagren before he turned to Nimisha with mischief in his face. “He likes cooking.”

  “And damned lucky I knew how,” Jonagren said with a sharp nod of his head.

  “You all had survival training,” Nimisha said, quite aware of the fact that she had only a modicum.

  “Yes, but Jon turned out to have a gift for making”—Casper wrinkled his nose—
“what edibles we tested safe taste pretty good.”

  “The trick was tenderizing the flesh—”

  “He’d beat it for hours.”

  “—and then using the herb-types we found to take away its natural taste.”

  Jonagren leaned back in his chair, extending his legs and assuming a very relaxed pose. That he and Casper were able to joke about the shifts they had been reduced to was admirable in both men. She hoped that Syrona would prove as compatible. When she had a chance again, she’d see if Helm couldn’t access their psych profiles and see just what she should watch for and avoid. So often in long-term forced relationships little petty matters assumed an importance out of proportion.

  “How’s that sandwich, Tim?” Nimisha asked into the easy pause that followed that exchange.

  “Best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he said with a charm all his own. “May I have another when I’ve finished this one?”

  “You certainly may, or you can ask Cater to prepare—” Nimisha paused, realizing that Timmy had little experience with “normal” foods. “—a burger,” she finished hastily. “I used to adore them when I was your age.”

  “On a bun, please, with what d’you call it . . . the red sauce . . .” Casper said, waving one hand as if to drag the lost word out of the air.

  “Ketchup,” said Cater, who could respond to any catering question.

  “What is it?” Timmy was slightly dubious.

  “High protein and tender enough to chew with no problem.” Jonagren replied.

  “I’d like to try it, please,” Timmy said, popping the last of the sandwich into his mouth.

  This time Casper collected the plate and the aroma of charcoal-broiled meat wafted through the room.

  “I wouldn’t mind one of those myself,” Jonagren said, and Nimisha realized that all the sandwiches had been eaten. “Medium rare.” There was such an expression of wistful anticipation on his face that Nimisha suspected all the indigenous meat had been well done or destroyed to sear parasites out of the flesh. That much she remembered from her survival lessons: You cooked any unknown meat very well or abstained.