The Big Book of Science Fiction

by The Big Book of Science Fiction (retail) (epub)

  “What do you think, Quee Lee?”

  Orleans had asked the question, and she answered it again, in a soft awed voice. “Lovely.” She shut her eyes, remembering how the hull itself had stretched off into the distance, flat and gray, bland yet somehow serene. “It is lovely.”

  “And even better up front, on the prow,” her companion had maintained. “The fields there are thicker, stronger. And the big lasers keep hitting the comets tens of millions of kilometers from us, softening them up for us.” He had given a little laugh, telling her, “You can almost feel the ship moving when you look up from the prow. Honest.”

  She had shivered inside her lifesuit, more out of pleasure than fear. Few passengers ever came out on the hull. They were breaking rules, no doubt. Even inside the taxi ships, you were protected by a hull. But not up there. Up there she’d felt exposed, practically naked. And maybe Orleans had measured her mood, watching her face with the flickering pulses, finally asking her, “Do you know the story of the first Remora?”

  Did she? She wasn’t certain.

  He told it, his voice smooth and quiet. “Her name was Wune,” he began. “On Earth, it’s rumored, she was a criminal, a registered habitual criminal. Signing on as a crew mate helped her escape a stint of psychological realignment—”

  “What crimes?”

  “Do they matter?” A shake of the round head. “Bad ones, and that’s too much said. The point is that Wune came here without rank, glad for the opportunity, and like any good mate, she took her turns out on the hull.” Quee Lee had nodded, staring off at the far horizon.

  “She was pretty, like you. Between shifts, she did typical typicals. She explored the ship and had affairs of the heart and grieved the affairs that went badly. Like you, Quee Lee, she was smart. And after just a few centuries on board, Wune could see the trends. She saw how the captains were avoiding their shifts on the hull. And how certain people, guilty of small offenses, were pushed into double shifts in their stead. All so that our captains didn’t have to accept the tiniest, fairest risks.”

  Status. Rank. Privilege. She could understand these things, probably too well.

  “Wune rebelled,” Orleans had said, pride in his voice. “But instead of overthrowing the system, she conquered by embracing it. By transforming what she embraced.” A soft laugh. “This lifesuit of mine? She built its prototype with its semi-forever seals and the hyperefficient recyke systems. She made a suit that she’d never have to leave, then she began to live on the hull, in the open, sometimes alone for years at a time.”

  “Alone?”

  “A prophet’s contemplative life.” A fond glance at the smooth gray terrain. “She stopped having her body purged of cancers and other damage. She let her face—her beautiful face—become speckled with dead tissues. Then she taught herself to manage her mutations, with discipline and strength. Eventually she picked a few friends without status, teaching them her tricks and explaining the peace and purpose she had found while living up here, contemplating the universe without obstructions.”

  Without obstructions indeed!

  “A few hundred became the First Generation. Attrition convinced our great captains to allow children, and the Second Generation numbered in the thousands. By the Third, we were officially responsible for the ship’s exterior and the deadliest parts of its engines. We had achieved a quiet conquest of a world-sized realm, and today we number in the low millions!”

  She remembered sighing, asking, “What happened to Wune?”

  “An heroic death,” he had replied. “A comet swarm was approaching. A repair team was caught on the prow, their shuttle dead and useless—”

  “Why were they there if a swarm was coming?”

  “Patching a crater, of course. Remember. The prow can withstand almost any likely blow, but if comets were to strike on top of one another, unlikely as that sounds—”

  “A disaster,” she muttered.

  “For the passengers below, yes.” A strange slow smile. “Wune died trying to bring them a fresh shuttle. She was vaporized under a chunk of ice and rock, in an instant.”

  “I’m sorry.” Whispered.

  “Wune was my great-great-grandmother,” the man had added. “And no, she didn’t name us Remoras. That originally was an insult, some captain responsible. Remoras are ugly fish that cling to sharks. Not a pleasing image, but Wune embraced the word. To us it means spiritual fulfillment, independence, and a powerful sense of self. Do you know what I am, Quee Lee? I’m a god inside this suit of mine. I rule in ways you can’t appreciate. You can’t imagine how it is, having utter control over my body, my self…!”

  She had stared at him, unable to speak.

  A shiny hand had lifted, thick fingers against his faceplate. “My eyes? You’re fascinated by my eyes, aren’t you?”

  A tiny nod. “Yes.”

  “Do you know how I sculpted them?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, Quee Lee. How do you close your hand?”

  She had made a fist, as if to show him how.

  “But which neurons fire? Which muscles contract?” A mild, patient laugh, then he had added, “How can you manage something that you can’t describe in full?”

  She had said, “It’s habit, I guess….”

  “Exactly!” A larger laugh. “I have habits too. For instance, I can willfully spread mutations using metastasized cells. I personally have thousands of years of practice, plus all those useful mechanisms that I inherited from Wune and the others. It’s as natural as your making the fist.”

  “But my hand doesn’t change its real shape,” she had countered.

  “Transformation is my habit, and it’s why my life is so much richer than yours.” He had given her a wink just then, saying, “I can’t count the times I’ve re-evolved my eyes.”

  Quee Lee looked up at her bedroom ceiling now, at a curtain of blue glows dissolving into pink. In her mind, she replayed the moment.

  “You think Remoras are vile, ugly monsters,” Orleans had said. “Now don’t deny it. I won’t let you deny it.”

  She hadn’t made a sound.

  “When you saw me standing at your door? When you saw that a Remora had come to your home? All of that ordinary blood of yours drained out of your face. You looked so terribly pale and weak, Quee Lee. Horrified!” She couldn’t deny it. Not then or now.

  “Which of us has the richest life, Quee Lee? And be objective. Is it you or is it me?”

  She pulled her bedsheets over herself, shaking a little bit.

  “You or me?”

  “Me,” she whispered, but in that word was doubt. Just the flavor of it. Then Perri stirred, rolling toward her with his face trying to waken. Quee Lee had a last glance at the projected sky, then had it quelched. Then Perri was grinning, blinking and reaching for her, asking:

  “Can’t you sleep, love?”

  “No,” she admitted. Then she said, “Come here, darling.”

  “Well, well,” he laughed. “Aren’t you in a mood?”

  Absolutely. A feverish mood, her mind leaping from subject to subject, without order, every thought intense and sudden, Perri on top of her and her old-fashioned eyes gazing up at the darkened ceiling, still seeing the powerful surges of changing colors that obscured the bright dusting of stars.

  —

  They took a second honeymoon, Quee Lee’s treat. They traveled halfway around the ship, visiting a famous resort beside a small tropical sea; and for several months, they enjoyed the scenery and beaches, bone-white sands dropping into azure waters where fancy corals and fancier fishes lived. Every night brought a different sky, the ship supplying stored images of nebulas and strange suns; and they made love in the oddest places, in odd ways, strangers sometimes coming upon them and pausing to watch.

  Yet she felt detached somehow, hovering overhead like an observer. Did Remoras have sex? she wondered. And if so, how? And how did they make their children? One day, Perri strapped on a gill and swam alone to the reef, le
aving Quee Lee free to do research. Remoran sex, if it could be called that, was managed with electrical stimulation through the suits themselves. Reproduction was something else, children conceived in vitro, samples of their parents’ genetics married and grown inside a hyperfiber envelope. The envelope was expanded as needed. Birth came with the first independent fusion plant. What an incredible way to live, she realized; but then again, there were many human societies that seemed bizarre. Some refused immortality. Some had married computers or lived in a narcotic haze. There were many, many spiritual splinter groups…only she couldn’t learn much about the Remoran faith. Was their faith secret? And if so, why had she been allowed a glimpse of their private world?

  Perri remained pleasant and attentive.

  “I know this is work for you,” she told him, “and you’ve been a delight, darling. Old women appreciate these attentions.”

  “Oh, you’re not old!” A wink and smile, and he pulled her close. “And it’s not work at all. Believe me!”

  They returned home soon afterward, and Quee Lee was disappointed with her apartment. It was just as she remembered it, and the sameness was depressing. Even the garden room failed to brighten her mood…and she found herself wondering if she’d ever lived anywhere but here, the stone walls cold and closing in on her.

  Perri asked, “What’s the matter, love?”

  She said nothing.

  “Can I help, darling?”

  “I forgot to tell you something,” she began. “A friend of yours visited…oh, it was almost a year ago.”

  The roguish charm surfaced, reliable and nonplussed. “Which friend?”

  “Orleans.”

  And Perri didn’t respond at first, hearing the name and not allowing his expression to change. He stood motionless, not quite looking at her; and Quee Lee noticed a weakness in the mouth and something glassy about the smiling eyes. She felt uneasy, almost asking him what was wrong. Then Perri said, “What did Orleans want?” His voice was too soft, almost a whisper. A sideways glance, and he muttered, “Orleans came here?” He couldn’t quite believe what she was saying….

  “You owed him some money,” she replied. Perri didn’t speak, didn’t seem to hear anything. “Perri?”

  He swallowed and said, “Owed?”

  “I paid him.”

  “But…but what happened…?” She told him and she didn’t. She mentioned the old seals and some other salient details, then in the middle of her explanation, all at once, something obvious and awful occurred to her. What if there hadn’t been a debt? She gasped, asking. “You did owe him the money, didn’t you?”

  “How much did you say it was?”

  She told him again.

  He nodded. He swallowed and straightened his back, then managed to say, “I’ll pay you back…as soon as possible….”

  “Is there any hurry?” She took his hand, telling him, “I haven’t made noise until now, have I? Don’t worry.” A pause. “I just wonder how you could owe him so much.”

  Perri shook his head. “I’ll give you five thousand now, maybe six…and I’ll raise the rest. Soon as I can, I promise.”

  She said, “Fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “How do you know a Remora?”

  He seemed momentarily confused by the question. Then he managed to say, “You know me. A taste for the exotic, and all that.”

  “You lost the money gambling? Is that what happened?”

  “I’d nearly forgotten, it was so long ago.” He summoned a smile and some of the old charm. “You should know, darling…those Remoras aren’t anything like you and me. Be very careful with them, please.”

  She didn’t mention her jaunt on the hull. Everything was old news anyway, and why had she brought it up in the first place? Perri kept promising to pay her back. He announced he was leaving tomorrow, needing to find some nameless people who owed him. The best he could manage was fifteen hundred credits. “A weak down payment, I know.” Quee Lee thought of reassuring him—he seemed painfully nervous—but instead she simply told him, “Have a good trip, and come home soon.”

  He was a darling man when vulnerable. “Soon,” he promised, walking out the front door. And an hour later, Quee Lee left too, telling herself that she was going to the hull again to confront her husband’s old friend. What was this mysterious debt? Why did it bother him so much? But somewhere during the long tube-car ride, before she reached Port Beta, she realized that a confrontation would just further embarrass Perri, and what cause would that serve?

  “What now?” she whispered to herself.

  Another walk on the hull, of course. If Orleans would allow it. If he had the time, she hoped, and the inclination.

  His face had turned blue, and the eyes were larger. The pits were filled with black hairs that shone in the light, something about them distinctly amused. “I guess we could go for a stroll,” said the cool voice. They were standing in the same locker room, or one just like it; Quee Lee was unsure about directions. “We could,” said Orleans, “but if you want to bend the rules, why bend little ones? Why not pick the hefty ones?”

  She watched the mouth smile down at her, two little tusks showing in its corners. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Of course it’ll take time,” he warned. “A few months, maybe a few years….”

  She had centuries, if she wanted.

  “I know you,” said Orleans. “You’ve gotten curious about me, about us.” Orleans moved an arm, not so much as a hum coming from the refurbished joints. “We’ll make you an honorary Remora, if you’re willing. We’ll borrow a lifesuit, set you inside it, then transform you partway in a hurry-up fashion.”

  “You can? How?”

  “Oh, aimed doses of radiation. Plus we’ll give you some useful mutations. I’ll wrap up some genes inside smart cancers, and they’ll migrate to the right spots and grow….”

  She was frightened and intrigued, her heart kicking harder.

  “It won’t happen overnight, of course. And it depends on how much you want done.” A pause. “And you should know that it’s not strictly legal. The captains have this attitude about putting passengers a little bit at risk.”

  “How much risk is there?”

  Orleans said, “The transformation is easy enough, in principle. I’ll call up our records, make sure of the fine points.” A pause and a narrowing of the eyes. “We’ll keep you asleep throughout. Intravenous feedings. That’s best. You’ll lie down with one body, then waken with a new one. A better one, I’d like to think. How much risk? Almost none, believe me.”

  She felt numb. Small and weak and numb.

  “You won’t be a true Remora. Your basic genetics won’t be touched, I promise. But someone looking at you will think you’re genuine.”

  For an instant, with utter clarity, Quee Lee saw herself alone on the great gray hull, walking the path of the first Remora.

  “Are you interested?”

  “Maybe. I am.”

  “You’ll need a lot of interest before we can start,” he warned. “We have expenses to consider, and I’ll be putting my crew at risk. If the captains find out, it’s a suspension without pay.” He paused, then said, “Are you listening to me?”

  “It’s going to cost money,” she whispered.

  Orleans gave a figure.

  And Quee Lee was braced for a larger sum, two hundred thousand credits still large but not unbearable. She wouldn’t be able to take as many trips to fancy resorts, true. Yet how could a lazy, prosaic resort compare with what she was being offered?

  “You’ve done this before?” she asked.

  He waited a moment, then said, “Not for a long time, no.”

  She didn’t ask what seemed quite obvious, thinking of Perri and secretly smiling to herself.

  “Take time,” Orleans counseled. “Feel sure.”

  But she had already decided.

  “Quee Lee?”

  She looked at him, asking, “Can I have you
r eyes? Can you wrap them up in a smart cancer for me?”

  “Certainly!” A great fluid smile emerged, framed with tusks. “Pick and choose as you wish. Anything you wish.”

  “The eyes,” she muttered.

  “They’re yours,” he declared, giving a little wink.

  Arrangements had to be made, and what surprised her most—what she enjoyed more than the anticipation—was the subterfuge, taking money from her savings and leaving no destination, telling her apartment that she would be gone for an indeterminate time. At least a year, and perhaps much longer. Orleans hadn’t put a cap on her stay with them, and what if she liked the Remoran life? Why not keep her possibilities open?

  “If Perri returns?” asked the apartment.

  He was to have free rein of the place, naturally. She thought she’d made herself clear—

  “No, miss,” the voice interrupted. “What do I tell him, if anything?”

  “Tell him…tell him that I’ve gone exploring.”

  “Exploring?”

  “Tell him it’s my turn for a change,” she declared; and she left without as much as a backward glance.

  Orleans found help from the same female Remora, the one who had taken Quee Lee to him twice now. Her comma-shaped eyes hadn’t changed, but the mouth was smaller and the gray teeth had turned black as obsidian. Quee Lee lay between them as they worked, their faces smiling but the voices tight and shrill. Not for the first time, she realized she wasn’t hearing their real voices. The suits themselves were translating their wet mutterings, which is why throats and mouths could change so much without having any audible effect.

  “Are you comfortable?” asked the woman. But before Quee Lee could reply, she asked, “Any last questions?”

  Quee Lee was encased in the lifesuit, a sudden panic taking hold of her.

  “When I go home…when I’m done…how fast can I…?”

  “Can you?”

  “Return to my normal self.”

  “Cure the damage, you mean.” The woman laughed gently, her expression changing from one unreadable state to another. “I don’t think there’s a firm answer, dear. Do you have an autodoc in your apartment? Good. Let it excise the bad and help you grow your own organs over again. As if you’d suffered a bad accident….”A brief pause. “It should take what, Orleans? Six months to be cured?”