The City Who Fought by S. M. Stirling
Silence fell again. Conversations with Joat reminded Simeon of documentaries he had seen of catching trout by hand. You had to be very patient to succeed.
“Looks like trouble coming,” she said neutrally.
“Trouble’s over,” Simeon said. “Look, Joat, I do apologize for not checking on you during the alert, but . . .”
“No need. You gave me a suit, remember. That was all I needed,” Joat pointed out reasonably. “Something threatens you, the station, we’re all in deep kimchee. Right? Much better you spent your time keeping us from getting in so deep we have to shovel our way out.”
“You’ve an extremely realistic attitude, Joat,” Simeon said, with a certain tone of admiration for the independence in her that also worried him.
“I’m no sap,” Joat announced with satisfaction. “Troubles don’t come by ones and twos, either—you get ‘em by kilobyte loads. I’ll be ready.” She patted the riffler.
“I’m sure you will,” Simeon replied soothingly.
“Yuh. See you at dinner.”
“At dinner?” He sounded surprised but that pleased her. “Umm, yes, see you then,” he added, doing a good job of sounding casual.
Joat whistled soundlessly to herself as she felt Simeon’s attention withdraw—most of it, at least. She also switched on the white-noise maker and the scrambler she’d rigged up. She was no longer completely sure they worked, Simeon having had enough of a look at her contrivances to perhaps neutralize them. Not that he’d have had time to bother about her with so much else on his mind these days. Even a brain had some limitations.
She didn’t want an audience while she reran the stuff she’d recorded during Channa’s exploits on the intruder ship. First she screened something that had come in on the Central datablip just today. The watchman program Joat set up had cut it out and routed it to her system automatically.
Stretching luxuriously, she popped the tab on a can of near-beer. She stayed away from the real thing because it made her feel loggy and squiff. She bit a big hunk off a chocolate nut bar, grinning around the mouthful with vindictive delight as the scene played on.
A crowd surrounded the obviously official building and their chant ran shrill and menacing as they waved their placards which bore the same message they chanted.
“Dorgan the bigot! Dorgan out! Dorgan the bigot! Dorgan out!”
The ground-floor windows have been shattered and a line of riot-armed police were holding the SPRIM demonstrators at bay. The visual shifted to an interior room where Ms. Dorgan of the Child Welfare department, looking rumpled and alarmed, was gesticulating wildly.
“And I categorically deny saying that shellpeople are unnatural abominations with no right to live!” she wailed. “Or that they make me want to puke!”
Joat grinned. She wanted to be a systems engineer when she grew up—or maybe even a brawn—but editing was a nice hobby. Editing transmissions of recorded conversations sent to SPRIM and MM, for example. Channa had the right idea, but adults had no enthusiasm for taking an idea and running with it.
“Like the teacher said,” she muttered, taking another mouthful. “I gotta lot of buried hostility I got to learn to express.”
“I felt a good deal like screaming myself,” Joseph said.
Amos sighed and lowered himself into a chair. Once Joseph insisted, the doctor here—a man, oddly enough—had moved him into a small suite, with a private sitting room.
Apparently private, he reminded himself, though there might well be listening devices. Otherwise, it had the common strangeness of everything here, like soft synthetics for the walls which could alter shade or suddenly turn themselves into view screens. He had commanded that the space-scene transform itself into something more restful, and the holograph had turned to a neutral brown solidity. In its way, that made him uneasy too. What appeared to be plain bare plastic was obviously anything but.
“It is difficult to believe that we are safe,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, which had grown enough beard to rasp. He resolved to ask for a sonic, or the local equivalent. “To be frank, my brother, I never expected to wake again.”
“Neither did I,” Joseph said, prowling with slow restlessness. The gravity was slightly higher than Bethel, just enough to be noticeable. “But we do not know that we are safe—even from the Kolnari.”
Amos looked up sharply. “We do not?”
“The shell—Guiyon,” Joseph amended, at Amos’ frown “—said that it—”
“He.” Amos compressed his lips firmly after that correction; the more so since he himself had never felt entirely easy with Guiyon.
Guiyon saved us, he remembered. More than that. Guiyon had been the first to listen to his youthful doubts without recoiling in horror and ordering him to do penance. Only families descended from the Prophet were allowed speech with the Planetary Manager. Most Bethelites thought that entity was at best legend, at worst an abomination of the infidel. I am too old to believe in nursery tales, Amos thought. He was a man now, with many depending on him.
“He,” Joseph said, making a soothing gesture with both hands. “He intended to take us to Rigel base. This is not Rigel.”
“No,” Amos conceded. “SSS-900-C. Although they seem reluctant to tell us more.”
“Understandable, sir. Would you immediately trust fugitives who came so close to destroying them, though we knew it not? However, there are things they cannot help but tell us.”
“Yes,” Amos said slowly. “For one, that this is no military base.”
“Just so, my brother. These are a peaceful people.” At Amos’ dubious look, he went on. “I was raised dockside, you will remember. I know more of traders and trading than most. These are respectable merchants and spacefarers, by their own ethics, if not by Bethel customs. Dockside, we would have called them easy marks.”
They looked at each other, haunted by what neither would mention first. Amos took hold of himself. A respectable, an ethical people deserved the truth.
“And we cannot know if the Kolnari still pursue,” Amos whispered. Sickness tugged at the pit of his stomach. To achieve safety, even for so few, and jeopardize in turn their saviors. “We must talk to them!”
Chapter Eight
“All things considered, we didn’t come out of the day too badly at all,” Chief Administrator Claren said, once more running his stylus down his notescreen to be sure he’d missed nothing.
Ducking her head, Channa managed to hide a yawn. Meetings were meat and drink to Claren. When he had the opportunity to trot out his careful graphs and statistics for an audience, he positively glowed and inflated. Like a plain girl who’s just been asked to dance by a high-school hero, she thought mordantly.
“We’re down about three million credits,” she pointed out, reaching for the water carafe.
Two section chiefs sprang to fill the glass for her: fame was already a bit wearing. The meeting was supposed to have started as a working breakfast. Plates and crumbs were scattered around the table. Gusky was there too, looking a little pale—either from the medications, or from the party. Not only was he prominent in his own business, he was a section representative and, with the recent favorable publicity, looked likely to be re-elected.
Patsy was filing a fingernail. “Somebody has ta pony up the expenses,” she pointed out. “Fer example, we commandeered equipment from Namakuri-Singh—who arh not known to be a charitable organization.”
Gusky grunted. “I commandeered the equipment which will have to be replaced, which you, Simeon, authorized me to use.”
“Not me personally. The station!” Simeon said sharply. Brains tended to be sensitive about personal debt, having had to pay off such a whacking great amount for their early care and education. “No one could say that I didn’t do everything possible to minimize damage. Loss of the tugs was unavoidable and the station is morally obligated to compensate their owners for the loss. Which, Claren, we will recoup from Lloyd’s, invoking the force majeur clause.”
“The other unavoidable losses and damages which we’ve discussed today are going to wipe out the contingency fund.”
“It will?” Gus asked unhappy.
“Yes, it will,” Claren agreed in a lugubrious tone of voice.
“In a good cause,” Simeon said briskly.
“On this Lloyd’s claim,” Gus went on, “we’ll be dealing with bureaucrats, bureaucratic accountants at that. Government bureaucratic accountants, with lawyers in tow.”
“The withered hand on the controls,” Simeon intoned.
“We could just rely on their decency, good nature and inherent generosity,” Gus suggested. Even Claren laughed at that.
Channa shuddered. “So we should be prepared for accusations of mismanagement and hand-wringing over the cost of every rivet, bolt and coupling.” She affected a nasal tone. “Didn’t you realize that seventeen-point-three seconds boost would have done just as well as seventeen-point-seven?”
Chief Administrator Claren assured them that his entries would be meticulously checked, all forms would be properly made out, filed on time and to the proper bureaus.
“I won’t go so far as to guarantee prompt or even early payment,” he said, allowing himself a very small smile, “given that we’ll be dealing with departments over which I have no control. But, I can promise you that I will do my best, and that is very good indeed.”
There was a rumble of agreement.
“At least we,” Channa said firmly, “can authorize immediate release of the contingency fund to private persons who suffered damage and loss, or have to make repairs germane to station functions. Claren, just get the claims into the insurance companies as soon as you can.”
“Good luck,” said the owner of a minerals company in a wry tone. “I’ve noticed they’re always more enthusiastic about collecting premiums than paying claims.”
That brought another chuckle. Channa turned to the pillar and Simeon’s image. “As far as the station exterior damage is concerned, isn’t there a relevant clause in the station’s charter that guarantees immediate repairs?”
“Hmmm.” The holo turned static for a moment before Simeon smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact—emergency expenses for maintaining station integrity and saving life and limb are covered under the general station contract with Lloyd’s. We ought to be able to cover everything.”
“Excellent,” Claren said, tapping at his keyboard.
“‘Nuther li’l thing. Fo’ all them drills, Simeon, when we was supposed to know what to do iffen thar was a real one, thar was a mighty lot of folks ended up runnin‘ around like scalded roosters. Ought to be fined, to remind ’em to pay attention.”
“Fined? Yes, fined! Fine. Good notion, Patsy,” Simeon said. “And the longer they’ve been on station and should know better, the heavier the fine. Pinch a pocket, mark the memory. What bothers me is why didn’t they know where they were supposed to be. I call these drills—even if you’re always complaining about them—often enough for everyone to know exactly where to go and what to do. Their names are always checked off on the roster, so why the hell were they running around bumping into walls?”
“Aw, thar’s allus some folk who panic, Simeon,” Patsy said. “Mos’ of us was whar we shoulda been. And Lord knows, we got it all done, din we?” Patsy said.
“I’m inclined to think that perhaps we should give them the benefit of the doubt here,” Channa put in. “But perhaps you should keep an eye on the group leaders, in the event that they just automatically check off every name on their list without verifying that everyone is in position and accounted for.”
“Assign them a buddy,” Gus said. “If they’re too helpless to know where to go and how to get there, make it a joint responsibility.”
“Should be the group leaders,” Chaundra said in a disgusted tone.
“Joint responsibility! Excellent,” Simeon said, “just like B & B teams.”
The resolution was passed unanimously.
“Move that we break for lunch,” somebody said. “It’s 1300.”
“Seconded,” Channa said. “I think I need a full stomach to hear what our guests have to say. Spaceflot suggests they’ve got a fairly lurid set of adventures to tell us. Any objections? Adjourned.”
A little different from last night, eh Happy? Simeon watched as Channa munched on her thin sandwich. He hoped she was comparing this fare with the feast Mart’an had spread for her. The deck commissary was not up to Perimeter standards, although Gus claimed that they did an acceptable late-night pizza.
“So, brief us with what you know, Simeon, about our latest arrivals,” Gus said.
Simeon made a throat-clearing sound. “Data base describes ‘em as a ’tightly knit, religiously oriented group‘ in origin,” he said. “Judaeo-Sufi Buddhist roots.”
“Wow,” Patsy said. “Thassa mouthful. But do they believe in God?”
Wondering looks, sage nods and quizzical “ooh’s” went around the table.
“Probably worshipping snails and marrying their siblings, or some such genetically stupid custom,” Vickers said. The station security chief was a short, rather squat woman from New Newfoundland. “Buddhists, you said? No wonder they nearly crashed us. That kind don’t know much about mechanical stuff.”
“Wait, just a precise minute.” Doctor Chaundra held up a protesting hand. “To begin with, I saw no medical indications of dangerous inbreeding. They may have looked as if they didn’t comprehend directions or our comments, but they were all dazed from their experiences. They are needing rest and recuperation, but under that is health. Genetic diversity is low, but there are few recessives. I would hazard that they must have had a good screening program to begin with. The group is above the norm. One or two may have endocrine behavioral problems from the coldsleep drugs. They administered drugs well beyond their storage lives. The Bethelite leader is a very articulate man, educated and intelligent.
“Although,” he went on, with a slight frown, “he has not been particularly communicative.”
“Unfortunately, education and intelligence don’t always go hand in hand,” Simeon commented. “It’s not that I’ve got my heart set on the ‘religious fanatics drive the heretics away’ scenario, but it does fit the little I’ve been able to decipher of Guiyon’s log. Phrases like, ‘Damn rockheaded elders who said immorality and doubt in the young had brought doom’; ‘told them their children had a right to live’; ‘feared some of them might betray us’; ‘escaped as best we could’; and saddest of all, ‘had to leave some behind to face death.’ ”
Patsy put down her sandwich. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Nor am I,” Channa said grimly. “It’s time to get this from the mouths of the horses.”
Stallion, you mean, Simeon remarked very privately.
Amos ben Sierra Nueva was accompanied by the smaller, thickset man who had been found beside him on the colony ship. Two of Vickers’ guards were discreetly in attendance, more to guide the floatchairs than guard.
They’re weak as kittens, Simeon thought, not to mention unarmed and with no place else to go and nothing to go there in. Station personnel developed a special kind of paranoia as a survival trait: nothing, no one must harm their station. Any station, no matter how state-of-the-art and safety conscious, was totally vulnerable. Had he, in innocence, welcomed aboard terrorists fleeing ‘rockheaded’ elders? Oddly enough, the presence of Guiyon argued against that possibility.
As their chairs thumped softly off their air cushions to the floor, the two strangers looked with impassive expressions at those seated around the table.
Simeon heard Patsy murmuring under her breath; very faintly, almost subvocalizing. He focused, upping the gain on his receptors:
“Oh, my oh my, that one is pretty,” she was saying. “My oh my oh my.”
Patsy’s obvious interest in the man did not surprise Simeon but it did suggest he might
“Dr. Chaundra says that we mustn’t tire you,” Simeon said by way of calling the meeting to order, “but we’d appreciate your filling us in on a few details.”
Amos gave a start, and his eyes widened as he suddenly looked up to the pillar at the head of the table and saw Simeon’s synthesized face. So, he knows about shellpeople, but he’s surprised to find one here.
“We are grateful for your succor,” Amos began formally, bowed his head, touching forehead and heart with one hand.
“I am Amos ben Sierra Nueva, and my companion is Joseph ben Said.” The short man repeated Amos’s gesture.
Seeing it, Gusky frowned slightly and moved his fingers. Simeon read the message. I figure the short one for a hard case.
The brain accepted that verdict. There were some things that only personal experience could teach. Amos continued speaking, pausing as he sought the appropriate words but gradually becoming more fluent and his blue eyes began to warm with sincerity.
“We are of the colony on Bethel. I am loathe to tell you, in the face of your generosity, of a terrible scourge, a bright evil that flies upon us even now.”
“A . . . bright evil?” Channa asked uncertainly.
Scourge? Evil? Sheesh! Simeon wondered. The archaic syntax made the man sound as salted as a historical holoplay. What’s he talking about? Devils? So he can blame the whole disaster on the supernatural? There was a rustle as the others around the table leaned forward. They had expected to hear about something safely in the past, not a new threat to the station. Yesterday’s had been more than enough for a long while.
“Indeed, lady, you are in grave danger.” He caught the blank or startled expressions around the table. “Has Guiyon told you nothing?” he asked desperately.