Authors: David Feintuch
Fath said nothing.
“If you won’t, I’ll issue the orders. You’ve but to give the word. No, that’s too much to ask. Just don’t forbid it. I’ll Log them tonight before—”
“I forbid it.”
Tolliver wagged a reproving finger at me. “See what you’ve done?”
Fath said mildly, “Leave him be. I know you’re irked.”
“IRKED?” Tolliver’s voice soared an octave. “I’ll show him irked. The day he’s healed, I’ll irk his rump so fast—”
“Enough!”
Fath’s voice was a lash. “Randy, stand.”
Apprehensively, I did so.
“They’re right, you know. Frand and Ms Skor, and Edgar.” Fath paced before me. “When Romez summoned me from Lethe—”
“Huh?”
“Sleep, you dolt. The river of oblivion. Forgetfulness; we’ll need attend your classical education. Dr Romez wakened me, gave me stimulants. When I could prop open my eyes, I played back the holos of your sessions with Harry. Then I skimmed through the Log. Unbelievable. How dare you speak so to my first lieutenant?”
When did he mean? In Mr Tolliver’s cabin, or this afternoon, when I told him to go—
“Answer!”
I gulped. Fath slapped me hard. “That’s for foul language to an adult!” Another slap. My head rocked. “You’ll show courtesy to Mr Tolliver. To me. To every adult aboard, down to the merest middy!”
He raised his hand again. I squealed.
“What?”
“Yessir!” I spun away, hugged myself one-handed.
“Doesn’t that melt your heart?” Tolliver’s scorn was withering. “Our poor widdle joeykid is contrite. His shoulders shake, snot drips from his—please, sir, don’t hold back on my account. Slap him silly, but it won’t do the slightest good. And that’s my point. I ordered him out of that blessed section four and away from the alien. Despite his oath of obedience—you did extract one when he enlisted, didn’t you?—he not only ignored my command, he told me—”
“What he told Bishop Andori, at the start of this fiasco.” Fath’s tone was dry. “He has a penchant for the phrase. Next time, a bar of soap—”
“Damn it, Nick, you avoid the issue! He won’t obey orders, and we’re in mortal peril, with an outrider aboard and a fish standing off our beam!”
“All right, Edgar, I hear you.” Wearily, Fath sat. “What of it, son? You broke your oath of obedience?”
“Yeah, I did.” I wiped my nose with a sleeve; it was all I had. “But Harry was leav—”
“But?”
“I had to, don’t you see? Else when you went home—”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Haven’t you ever broken—”
“Once, son. It’s tormented me ever since.”
The woman Captain Seafort had shot, after giving his oath not to harm her; I’d heard the tale from Dad. By violating his oath, Fath had saved his ship. But to him, it didn’t matter.
Fath asked, “Don’t you see what you’ve done? An oath is a sacred commitment to God.” For a moment, he looked like a Patriarch, one of the old ones in the Bible.
I said defiantly, “I don’t believe in God.” I wondered if he’d strike me.
Fath took it rather well, considering. “I wouldn’t go about proclaiming the view.” A wry shrug. “You see the dilemma? If you won’t adhere to an oath, I can’t trust you. No one can.
“But I do! I mean, most of the time.”
“Oh, son.” For a moment, I was afraid he would weep. “It’s not nearly enough.”
A long silence, in which Tolliver waited patiently, and I struggled for calm.
“Very well, Edgar.” Fath’s tone was lifeless. “I’ll do as you suggest. I won’t banish him, that’s going too far. But he won’t be crew. I’ll keep him off the bridge. And away from the outrider.”
“Fath!” I rushed to him, grabbed his lapel, perhaps in entreaty. “Where’s Harry, right now?”
He glanced at the screen. “Working with Anselm.”
“And—”
“Thanks to you.” Despite the admission, his eyes held resolve. “But I can’t risk—”
“What words?”
“They’ve got ‘hour,’ ‘day,’ ‘year,’ more or less. ‘E’ for ‘fear.’ By the way, that was a brilliant leap of intuition. Even Edgar would agree, wouldn’t you? And ‘not fear,’ I suppose we could call it ‘calm.’ Anselm’s trying to extend it to ‘peace.’ He’s showing Harry … well, never mind. You did good work, but no more.” His tone had a finality I dreaded.
I contemplated my calamity.
I’d lost my role, my membership in
Olympiad
’s family. Yet, Fath refused absolutely to put me ashore. He still treated me as his son—he’d near slapped my head off, even before Tolliver.
I supposed I should be grateful. So why was I sick with loss?
“Satisfied, Edgar?”
I snorted; perhaps I ought to ask the same.
Heavily, one hand on my shoulder as if in consolation, Fath took up the caller. “Bridge? Ms Skor, an entry into the Log. As of this moment, Randolph Carr is—”
A chime. For a moment, I thought it was Fath’s frazzing clock. He looked around, annoyed. “Edgar; see what they want.”
Tolliver crossed to the holoscreen over Fath’s bed, dialed up the speaker. “Yes, Tad?”
“Joanne, ‘By order of the Captain’—today’s date, of course—‘Randolph Carr is dismissed from—’”
“Sir, we need the Captain.” Tad’s voice, from section four, was tense. “Right now, I think.”
“Nick …?” Tolliver.
“I heard. Just a moment, Joanne.” Clearly annoyed, he thrust me aside, peered into the screen. “Yes?”
“Harry’s just … Jess, a close-up on the latest plate. Sir, if I’m reading it right …”
“Out with it, joey!”
The screen lurched. An etched plate came into view, showing a stick figure of a man, the symbol we’d selected for “human.” “He was showing us people, God knows why. Uh, sorry. I kept erasing, to say we didn’t understand. Then this.” The screen lurched again. When the focus cleared, it showed another human.
It was off balance.
One of its arms was missing.
Fath blinked, eyed me curiously.
I protested, “I didn’t—”
“Sir, we said we didn’t understand. So it drew this.”
An outrider alone. An “E.” An outrider with a regular human. “E.” Fear.
An outrider next to a one-armed human. “Not E.”
Ice crawled down my spine.
Fath gaped.
Edgar Tolliver threw up his hands, stalked from the cabin.
I was on Harry’s detail, by the skin of my teeth.
I was still ship’s boy, by the same margin.
Fath had sent me down to reassure Harry. Though Tad Anselm watched me like a hawk, I’d used the opportunity to expand “not E,” devising a symbol for “like.” Harry likes Randy. Randy likes Harry. We agreed, and perhaps each of us even knew what the other meant. Finally, yawning and bleary, I turned the clock forward, pointed to the time, hoping he’d understand I’d be back in the morning.
A long trudge back to our cabin. No sooner had I arrived than Fath cornered me. I would remain crew—he had little choice, as the alien seemed to favor me—but by blessed Lord God, I wouldn’t step one inch out of line, did I hear? I’d be polite to anything that moved, and obey all orders. Most especially Anselm’s, or Ms Frand’s, when I was around Harry. Only once did I raise an objection, and earned a cuff. Derek Carr would be outraged at my behavior, and so was he. Yes, my intuition was brilliant—yes, I’d saved our negotiations—but that was no excuse; insolence and disobedience wouldn’t be tolerated. Was that quite clear, joeyboy?
Rubbing my cheek, I abandoned my defenses, agreed with whatever he said, determined to nurse my outrage through the night. Hell, through the cruise. Through my teens.
Fath seemed to take no notice. Instead, while I undressed for bed—and long after I’d climbed in—he perched on my bunk, recalling days long past, when he and Dad were shipmates. To be polite, of course, I had to listen. Ask a question now and then. Occasionally wipe a tear.
Sometimes adults were beyond reason.
I
F I WASN’T SO TENSE
, I’d have laughed at the procession. Fath, who’d excused himself from the bridge for the occasion, Corrine Sloan, hand in hand with Janey, and my brother Mikhael, all accompanied me down the corridor to sickbay, where Dr Romez was waiting to graft my prosth.
This one was a temp, a mechano powered by a tiny Valdez permabattery. The flesh and blood replacement derived from my stem cells wouldn’t be grown for three or four months yet.
I’d told Fath again that I didn’t want it—since liftoff I’d told him ’til I was blue in the face—but he’d merely smiled and told me to wash thoroughly before reporting to Romez.
Didn’t I have a right to make my own medical decisions?
Perhaps in theory, son, but he was exercising that right on my behalf, and get moving, joey, or would I rather knock on Mr Tolliver’s hatch and tell him you were still misbehaving?
Only middies were subjected to such scandalous mistreatment, I said darkly. If he was going to abuse me like a middy, why didn’t he make me one? But by then we’d reached sickbay, and he managed to avoid a reply.
Well, I’d done my best to prepare for my absence from section four.
It had been two days since our breakthrough with Harry. New words were coming fast, though we were never quite sure we truly understood each other. I mean, once you have “minute,” “hour” is simple. But abstracts are more complex. Did an outrider really mean what we did by “fear?”
Knowing I’d be laid up—three days minimum, Fath had ordered—I’d sketched out several concepts for Anselm and Ms Frand to work on.
Odd. It no longer seemed noteworthy that I casually advised joeys who were not only my superiors, but my elders by a decade or, in Ms Frand’s case, more.
Harry’s summoning me had brought about a subtle change even in Tad Anselm, whom I considered my friend despite his occasional sharp remarks. As long as I framed my suggestions with proper courtesy and masked my occasional impatience, Tad deferred to me more and more frequently.
I’d tried to tell Harry I’d be gone a day or two.
I hoped he understood.
I went to sleep with Fath patting my hand, and Mikhael perched at bedside chatting amiably.
I woke bathed in euphoria, my torso swathed in white bandages, a weird skin-toned limb protruding. It looked about as much like an arm as … I groped for a sufficiently odious comparison.
“Ah, there you are.”
I blinked. And blinked again, from sheer surprise. “What are you doing here?”
It was Mr Branstead who sat by my bed. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and he’d lost weight. His knee was bandaged, and he carried a cane. “I told Nick I’d keep an eye. He’s belowdecks, meeting with your, ah, friend.”
“What’re you doing
on
ship!” Did I sound surly? I certainly didn’t mean to; I’d missed him.
“Oh, that. I’ve been, well, expelled.” Mr Branstead grimaced. “Scanlen demanded I be tried. He proposes to try everyone, of late. Rather single-minded. Especially as to Nick and Corrine. But McEwan intervened. The Terran Ambassador.”
“I know.” Anthony’s enemy, and now mine.
“They’d framed a capital charge, but no doubt it occurred to them that I had friends in the U.N. bureaucracy. Felt a trial would stir up too much of a tempest, I suppose. Oh, did I mention that yesterday, with Scanlen’s full approval, McEwan declared recolonialization? They—”
“He WHAT?” I reared out of my pillows, quivering with indignation. Dad’s lifework, and Anth’s as well, swept away! We’d once more be slaves of the frazzing U.N. If there was a God, He’d strike down that mealymouthed McEwan and His Bishop with a bolt of—
But there was no God. I’d become ever more convinced, and this was the final proof. Somehow, I’d get Fath to set aside recolonialization, though he wouldn’t want to, for propriety’s sake. I fumed, barely hearing Mr Branstead.
“McEwan and the Bishop have appointed a government, and every member’s firmly in their pockets. Resistance groundside is sparse, though the Station’s holding out; they’re Anthony’s joeys. So it was best I be gotten quietly out of the way. McEwan put the choice to me in my prison cell. I’d be released if I consented to take passage on
Olympiad.
Otherwise … Given the alternative, I agreed. Now, the trick will be convincing Nick to sail, before they turn their petulance on him. How are you feeling?”
It caught me by surprise. I considered. “Good, actually.” I peered down. “Did it take?”
“You’ll have to ask Romez, but I saw something wriggle a moment ago.”
Despite myself, I flexed what would have been my muscles, and was surprised to feel something move against my stomach.
“So.” Mr Branstead beamed down at me. “I hear you’re a hero.”
“A what?” My voice soared to a squeak.
“Single-handedly, at great personal risk, you coaxed the outrider to stay. An amazing feat.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nick. He was quite proud.”
The hatch opened. Dr Romez peered in. “Tell me you haven’t been flexing it.”
“Once or twice.” My tone was defensive.
“Don’t. Not for a few days.”
“It’s hard not …”
“Use the self-control for which you’re famous.” The doctor’s tone was dry.
“Oh,” said Mr Branstead innocently. “Was there something I missed?”
Fath sighed, rubbing his back. “One gets used to light grav.”
Mr Tolliver was in our cabin for his customary nightcap. I was released from sickbay on what might be called medical furlough: I’d made enough of a nuisance of myself that Dr Romez had sent me away for a few hours. If I felt well enough, I might even be allowed to sleep in my own bunk.
Neither Tolliver nor Fath made mention of the depleted bottle, but I decided discretion was the better part of valor, and tried to be unobtrusive. It was hard, because my graft throbbed and ached. I wanted to flex my fingers, or whatever they were, but didn’t dare.
“If you won’t stay on Level 1,” Tolliver told Fath, “let me reduce the grav on Two. Harry can handle zero gee.”
“But the passengers can’t.”
“Sir, speaking of passengers …”
Fath rubbed his eyes. “I know, I know.” We were weeks late on our schedule, and Purser Li had his hands full with their complaints and restless irritation.
“And there are, um …” Tolliver shot me an uneasy glance. “… other reasons we should be on our way.”
“Scanlen and McEwan? Yes, I suppose they could persuade Admiral Kenzig to relieve me. Please don’t roll your eyes; I wouldn’t pour you a drink in the boy’s presence if I didn’t trust his discretion.”