Ichiko nodded. “Point taken, and I have a question for you, Minister. Were any in the crowd back there Inish?”
Plunkett’s thick eyebrows climbed his head under his cap. “Inish? Neh. There was no one from the archipelago. Why would yeh be askin’ that?”
“As a sociologist, I’m curious about the island folk and the way they live. I want to learn about them as well as your townspeople.”
Hugh gave a scoffing laugh. “Good luck with that. The Inish ain’t the friendliest folk in the world, and if yeh think Dulcia is backward compared to what yer used to, just wait until yeh see their compounds on Great Inish. Even so, being a fair man, I made certain that yer people took a couple Inish up to yer ship with the other volunteer clanfolk so yer people could see if they can get rid of the local bugs and diseases and let us go back to Earth if we want. Of course, Clan Plunkett sent the most volunteers to yer ship because . . . well, because I made certain of that. But the Inish . . .”
“What about them?”
Plunkett shrugged. “Inishers like things the way they always were. They even claim yer technologies won’t work out on the islands. And I don’t think they give a damn about Earth. If you ask me, they’re all as mad as a box of pishmires.”
AMI answered before Ichiko could ask. “Is that true?” Ichiko said to Plunkett.
“Truth is a slippery thing with the Inish,” he answered. “Worse of all, they like those nasty arracht.”
“The what?” AMI sent Ichiko a mental image, evidently a painting by a local artist, of a sea creature with a hooded hard shell over its head, six limbs ending in a tangle of muscular tentacles, and the end of the body ending in a large horizontal fin.
“The arracht. Generations ago, all the clans used to hunt them for food and for their fat, which we could boil down to a useful oil. Dangerous work, that, but worth it. Or it was until the Inish stopped it, back in the mid-1800s. The arracht killed quite a lot of the fisherfolk from the other clans during that time. It’s old history, but the clans remember all too well.” He pointed ahead. “Yeh can slow down a bit. That’s Market Street just ahead. That big building right at the end of the quay is Fitzpatrick’s, the fishmongers. The butchers are there as well, and you can see the stalls for the farmers market; it’s open every 18 cycles—once a year.”
“Is that a pub at the end of the street, next to the bakery?”
“ ’Tis. Clan Murphy runs that one; there are four taverns in Dulcia,” Hugh answered. “Two more up on High Street, and another down at the far end of the harbor, which me own clan owns. One thing yeh can say for this place, our grains and water do produce some damn fine whiskey and beers. Dulcia has the best of any of the towns, and Clan Plunkett brews the finest liquor of all. My own tenth great-grandfather Robert Plunkett was the very first person to distill a batch of local grain poitín here on Canis Lupus. Too bad yeh can’t sample any . . .”
In the next several ship-hours, Ichiko would learn far more about the genealogy and history of the Twenty-Eight Clans, as the matriarchal family lines were called, and especially about Clan Plunkett as they cruised slowly above the town’s lanes—the majority simply unpaved paths, though Plunkett said nothing more about the Inish. By the time Plunkett had finished his guided tour of Dulcia, Ichiko was already exhausted. She decided to make her first day on-planet a short one and dropped off the minister back at the harbor.
“Thank you for the fascinating tour,” she told him. “I appreciate your being so helpful and open with me, and I promise I’ll be back soon.”
“If I can give yeh any assistance, just call at me office,” he answered. “Yeh know where it is now, so yeh can skedaddle aff if yeh wish.”
“I must, I’m afraid.” Or at least AMI will remember for me, she thought. “Give my best to your clan,” she told him, then closed the door of the flitter. She leaned back on her seat, closing her eyes.
she said to AMI.
* * *
AMI said, waking Ichiko from a nap she hadn’t intended to take.
Ichiko sat up in her bed, suddenly glad that Lieutenant Bishara had given her a private room. “Lights,” she said. “Mirror.” The room illuminated, and a patch of the opposite wall turned reflective. Ichiko scowled at the image, ruffling her hair. Sighing, she touched thumb to ring finger. she sighed.
A low reverberant chime, like a bronze bowl struck by a wooden mallet, sounded in Ichiko’s head and an oval portal appeared at the foot of the bed, with a man seated behind an office desk in the middle of the apparent opening. He wore his naval uniform, though the collar was open and unbuttoned, and his chin displayed gray-speckled stubble, as did his close-cropped hair. That man’s too old for you. Ichiko imagined that’s what her mother would have said if she knew she was sleeping with him. She was fairly certain that some of Odysseus’ crew felt the same—or, worse, thought she was simply trying to sleep her way into influence.
In reflective moments, she, too, questioned exactly why she’d allowed herself to become the commander‘s lover. In the past, back on Earth, she’d been rather omnivorous about those she’d allowed in her bed: men, women, whomever she found interesting and attractive. Most of those affairs had been purely physical in nature and also quickly over, but she’d been with Luciano for over two ship-years now. And (in those reflective moments) she wondered if that was because she actually loved him or if she stayed with him because of the possible complications if she ever ended things. Even with the new Fold Drive Odysseus had been fitted with, theirs was at minimum an eleven-year mission: five years out and five years back, with a planned Earth year or so in orbit around Canis Lupus. It could be a long and uncomfortable return trip if a split between them turned ugly, especially if Ichiko were the one to instigate the breakup. It would be easier just to pretend and get along as best as I can until we get back.
Luciano’s eyes—a pale blue that Ichiko found both foreign and attractive, and not unlike many of the locals’ eyes in color and shape—found her, and he smiled. “Hey,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Already in bed, I see. Wish I was there.”
In those same reflective moments, she also wondered why he had pursued her—was she just an attempt to reclaim his lost youth or was there something more? Why her? Was it because she wasn’t military herself and that just made it easier? Regulations stated that an officer wasn’t allowed to become involved with someone of lower rank without the express permission of the captain, and it was absolutely forbidden to have a relationship with a direct report at all, military or not. But Ichiko was—like several on the research staff aboard Odysseus—civilian. She had no rank at all, and she didn’t report to Luciano. In that sense, there was nothing in the regs forbidding their being lovers. Still . . .
We’re not equals aboard ship. Not even close. And am I really in love with him, or is he just convenient and comfortable?
Those were questions to which she didn’t have an answer.
“It’s after 2300 hours, ship-time,” she said. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“The captain kept me on bridge duty for a few extra hours, so she could attend to her weekly report. My relief arrived just twenty minutes ago.”
“Then we’ve both had busy days.”
“Did the Canines treat you well?” Luciano asked, and Ichiko’s eyes widened as Luciano chuckled; she remembered Lieutenant Bishara using the same term. “I know, I know—that’s not what we’re supposed to call them since they seem to find the term insulting, but we’re the only ones listening. My AMI says we have a secure, unrecorded channel.”
“You’d better hope so, or you might lose a pip or two from your collar if word gets back to the captain.” She shook her head at him. “I enjoyed finally talking t
o the Lupusians,” she said, deliberately using the term the locals used themselves. “And Minister Plunkett was just fine, if rather on the loquacious and narcissistic side. Would you like me to recite the genealogy of the minister’s family line? I can take you all the way back to Mary Anne Plunkett, who came from County Clare in Ireland back on Earth.”
Lucian grinned. “Y’know, that sounds utterly fascinating, but I think I’ll pass at the moment. I’m sure it’s already in your AMI’s report; I’ll be certain to read it if I have trouble falling asleep tonight.”
“Very funny. Actually, I did find it interesting. They don’t trace ancestry at all in the way we tend to do on Earth, and frankly I think their way makes sense given their circumstances. As Hugh said to me, ‘Here, the only thing you can be certain about is who your mother is.’ The family lines are matrilineal, and they’re evidently fairly casual about sexual relations in general. Within the clans, all the adult men are simply referred to as ‘Uncle’ and a woman who isn’t your mother or grandmother is ‘Aunt.’”
Luciano gave an amused sniff at that. “And did you come across any of those people from the archipelago you’re so interested in?”
“Not yet, though I did get the distinct impression that the Mainlanders and the Inish don’t always get along, at least for Plunkett and his people. There’s some mutual antipathy there that I don’t yet entirely understand. Only two of the Twenty-Eight Clans live out in the archipelago; they don’t mix with the mainland clans much—that’s probably got a lot to do with it.” Ichiko yawned involuntarily, covering her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I was actually asleep when you called.”
“Then I won’t keep you up any longer. Are you coming back soon?”
“I figure I’ll be here at least a local year—which is what? Only a little more than eighteen ship-days? If they do have seasons here, then I’ll get to see them all and celebrate every holiday. According to Minister Plunkett, humans have been living on Canis Lupus for close to seven thousand local years. Mind you, he also claims to be over a thousand years old himself.”
“I spoke with the man when we first arrived. Remarkably well-preserved for a millennarium, don’t you think? Birthday cakes must be a real fire hazard down there.”
Ichiko laughed with him at that. “Good night, Luciano. Now I’ll be dreaming about cakes and enormous numbers of candles.”
“Not me?”
“And you,” she added. Maybe. “Satisfied?”
“Not for at least another local year.”
“Good night, Commander,” she told him firmly. She touched thumb to ring finger. Nothing happened, so she pressed harder, and blue finally tinted her skin there. “AMI, disconnect.”
The portal at the foot of her bed collapsed and vanished.
Neither one of them had said anything about love. But then, they never did.
The Gesture Of A Pale Woman
THROUGH THE MISTY RAIN that speckled her glasses, Saoirse could see the Pale Woman at the end of Dulcia Head, pointing toward the opening of Dulcia Bay. The Pale Woman was a tall standing stone, painted a stark and unadorned white. A single arm jutted out from it to indicate the narrow opening to the bay, which was otherwise hidden behind Dulcia Head and difficult for boats returning from the Storm Sea to find. The sail fluttered, losing the wind as they passed Dulcia Head; Saoirse’s Uncle Angus and her brother Liam pulled hard on the oars of their currach, the canoe-like boats the Inish used for fishing and transportation.
Once past the headland, the water smoothed and the boat moved easily toward the quay at Dulcia’s harbor, at the sea-dampened terminus of the long slope on which the town had been built. At Saoirse’s feet, the bottom of the boat was filled with bluefins they’d found shoaling just off Great Inish; they’d fetch a decent batch of supplies in the town. Angus looked back at Saoirse handling the sail and nodded; she let the halyard drop and moved forward to furl the sail. That done, she pulled the wire arms of the spectacles from around her ears and cleaned the glasses on the hem of her shirt.
Saoirse found herself smiling at the prospect of reaching Dulcia soon; Liam, glancing back at her, grinned in response. “Look at her, Uncle,” he said. “She’s already wondering which one of those Mainlander boys might scratch her itch.”
Saoirse put her glasses in the pockets of her oilcloth jacket, then picked up one of the bluefins by its rear tentacle and hurled it at her brother. The fish slapped against the arm he lifted up as a shield, leaving a gelatinous trail on the sleeve of his own oilcloth Jacket. “At least my itch might get scratched,” she told her brother. “An’ it probably won’t be with a boy, as yeh already know. But with the way yeh reek, big brother, yeh don’t stand a chance either way.”
Both men laughed.
It was true that she was eager to reach Dulcia, though not for the reasons that her uncle and brother might surmise. The gossip had reached the Inish archipelago that one of the Terrans was regularly in the town, and Saoirse desperately wanted to see this woman. Like many on Canis Lupus, she’d been fascinated by the arrival of the Terrans, and the thought of being able to go back and actually see Earth—a near-mythological place—was like dangling a fat tartberry in front of a ravenous bumblewort.
I want to go there. I want that far more than following the same boring life me mam and aunts and uncles have here.
As the currach nosed into the quay near Fitzpatrick’s Fishmongers, Saoirse jumped out into the boards to wrap the bowline around the hawser there. Johnny Fitzpatrick—one of Clan Fitzpatrick’s many offspring—came lumbering up to them with a two-wheeled cart. He nodded to Saoirse, smiled at her a bit too much, then leaned over to look into the boat.
“Ah, that’s a fine lot of bluefins yeh have there, Rí Mullin,” he said to Angus—he held the titular title of “Rí” as the person who directed the fishing efforts for the island and who also served as the postmaster for the archipelago. It was Saoirse’s and Liam’s mother Iona Mullin who held the title of “Banríon,” the head of Clan Mullin.
“Then yer mam Doireann will be giving us a fine price for them, I hope,” Angus said.
“That’ll be between yeh and Mam,” Johnny answered. He leaned closer. “I shouldn’t tell yeh this, but she was just saying that she wished the bluefins were shoaling,” he added in a stage whisper. “We’re out of ’em an’ people have been asking.”
“Then bring yer cart over so we can get them to her before she changes her mind,” Angus said. “Liam, Saoirse, look lively now . . .”
Saoirse sighed audibly, and Angus gave her a sour look. Angus and Liam began tossing bluefins onto the dock. Saoirse could see greenish purple blotches on both their muscular arms; the skin fungi called “plotch” that infected many of the Inishers. Saoirse also had the blotches, though hers were mostly on her legs and abdomen, usually hidden from the Mainlanders by her clothing. Saoirse and Johnny loaded the catch into the cart. “I understand there’s a Terran been coming to Dulcia,” Saoirse said to Johnny as they worked. “Have yeh met the woman?”
“Ain’t met her proper-like, but I’ve seen her about,” Johnny told her. “Wears one of those belts they have, so she don’t breathe our air and none of us can touch her and she can’t accidentally touch us. Can’t eat or drink nothing either that didn’t come from their ship. Seems nice enough otherwise, but yeh never know with them people.”
“She here now?”
“Dunno. I ain’t seen her this cycle, but Mam’s kept me working inside.” He picked up another bluefin and tossed it on the cart, then stopped and looked down the length of the harbor. “That’s one of their flitters near Plunkett’s Pub. So I’d say aye, she’s here somewhere. No telling where, though.”
Saoirse squinted as she looked down the quay and saw a white blur there that she assumed was this flitter. “What’s the Terran look like?”
The misty rain had stopped for the moment, though darker thunderheads
still massed behind Dulcia Headland, promising a later downpour. Johnny pulled his cap from his head, smearing a track of bluefin slime over his forehead and the bill of his cap. Saoirse decided not to mention that; Johnny was never one of the young men she’d consider for “itch scratching” even though she suspected he found her interesting enough. For that matter, she had to admit that he and most of the Fitzpatricks were among the Mainlanders who didn’t harbor much bias against the Inish, most likely because Clan Fitzpatrick, here in Dulcia, depended on Inish fishing skills for much of the product they sold to the other clans. Johnny settled the cap back on his head. “She don’t look or dress like any of us, that’s for certain. Awfully damned thin, like she’d blow away in a good gale. Yeh’ll know when you see her, believe me. And her skin color . . . well, she’s just different—like a lot of the Terrans supposedly are.”
Saoirse nodded. She tossed the last of the bluefins into the cart as Angus and Liam stepped from their boat onto the quay, with her uncle also picking up the leather mail sack from Great Inish. They followed behind Johnny as he swung the cart around and headed for his mother’s store.
* * *
The haggling over how much Doireann Fitzpatrick would pay for the bluefins was quick enough. The Mainlanders and the Inish might have their long-standing clan quarrels, but Doireann was always polite even in bargaining and as fair in her pricing as any person could be who also had to make a profit. They eventually settled on 10p for each bluefin; Doireann counted out the brass coins into a small purse that she handed to Angus, though making quiet mutterings about paying too much even as she nodded to Angus and smiled at her son’s well-loaded cart.
Outside, Angus gave Liam and Saoirse each a pound coin for their own use and handed five additional one-pound coins to Saoirse. “Me and Liam will go to the post office and take care of business there, then we’re off to the ironworks for nails and hooks and to pick up a few other necessities,” he told Saoirse. “Yeh can check with the butchers about the meat the Banríon ordered, as well as to whether the weavers have ever made those bolts of heavy cloth she wanted—did yer mam tell yeh how much the cloth would be?”
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