THE TUNNELERS
After tucking away her two pieces of luggage (which Sissix had approved of — “packing light saves fuel”), Rosemary followed her guide back down the stairs. Something caught her eye, something she hadn’t noticed on the way up. Each grated metal step was carefully covered with a thick strip of carpet.
“What’s this for?” Rosemary asked.
“Hmm? Oh, that’s for me. So my claws don’t catch in the grating.”
Rosemary cringed. “Ugh.”
“You have no idea. I snapped one clean off a few years back, before Kizzy put the runners down. Shrieked like a hatchling.” She stepped off onto the next deck, nodding toward doors. “Rec room’s over there. Exercise machines, gaming hub, comfy couches, all that stuff. The hub’s got a few good outdoor sims you can patch into. Everybody’s supposed to use it for at least a half-hour every day. In theory. It’s an easy thing to forget, but it is good for you. On a long haul, this” — she tapped the top of Rosemary’s head — “needs to be the most important thing you take care of.”
Rosemary paused as they walked down the corridor. “Is it just me, or is it getting darker in here?”
Sissix chuckled. “You really haven’t lived out in the open, have you?” she said, though not unkindly. “The lighting in the corridors and communal areas gets lighter and darker as the day goes on. What you’re seeing now is sunset, or an approximation of it. You can turn on the work lamps in individual rooms whenever you need more light, but having ambient lighting throughout the ship helps us keep a rhythm.”
“You follow standard days here, right?”
Sissix nodded. “Standard days, standard calendar. Are you still on Solar time?”
“Yeah.”
“Go easy your first tenday. Adopting a new body clock can really take it out of you. Honestly, though, as long as you get your work done and know what day it is, it doesn’t matter what sort of schedule you keep. None of us get up at the same time, and we all work weird hours. Especially Ohan. They’re nocturnal.”
Rosemary wasn’t sure who Ohan was or what Sissix had meant by the plural pronoun, but before she could ask, Sissix grinned toward the door ahead. “I’m going to let you go through first.”
There was a hand-painted sign affixed to the wall beside the door. “THE FISHBOWL,” it read. The bright letters were surrounded by smiling planets and cheerful flowers. New as Rosemary was to the ship, she had an inkling that the sign was Kizzy’s doing.
She opened the door, and gasped. Before her was a wide, domed room, constructed from interlocking sheets of plex. It was a window, a giant, bubble-like window, with the entire galaxy spilling out beyond. And on their side, everything — everything — was green. Large hydroponic planters were arranged in spiraling rows, bursting with broad leaves, perky sprouts, and dark, fat vegetables. Handwritten labels were affixed to skewers at regular intervals (the alphabet used was not one that Rosemary recognized). Some of the plants were flowering, and delicate trellises encouraged the climbers to grow tall. A branching path stretched out from the doorway, lined with re-purposed cargo crates and food tins filled with bushy tufts of grass. Bits of tech junk painted with bright shapes peeked out here and there, adding dabs of color. At the end of the path were three steps, which led into a sunken garden. A ramshackle fountain chattered quietly there, with a few benches and chairs nearby. Behind the benches, small decorative trees stretched up toward the sun lamps that hung overhead. But once Rosemary noticed the lamps, her attention was drawn back to the bubbled window, to the stars and planets and nebulae waiting just outside.
After a few seconds of gaping, Rosemary had the presence of mind to note the smaller details. The window frame looked worn, and of a completely different make than the rest of the room. The hydroponic planters were of all shapes and sizes, and were banged up enough to suggest that they’d been purchased second-hand. But the room was one of those strange, wonderful places that benefited from a lack of uniformity. The plants were healthy and well-tended, but somehow, the scuffs and dents and painted scraps were what made them truly come alive.
“This...” Rosemary blinked. “This is incredible.”
“And necessary, believe it or not,” said Sissix. “It may seem like an extravagance, but it’s got three useful purposes. One, living plants ease the strain on our air filters. Two, we can grow some of our own food, which saves us money on market trips, and is healthier than eating stuff kept in stasis all the time. Three, most important, it keeps us from going crazy after being cooped up in here for a few tendays. The sim room’s good for a moment of quiet, but this is where we all come to really slow down. A lot of long-haul ships have places like this. Ours is the best, though, if you’d like my entirely unbiased opinion.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Rosemary, tearing her eyes away from the window. She thought for a moment, remembering the opaque dome she’d seen from the deepod. “Why couldn’t I see this coming in?”
“Neat trick, isn’t it?” said Sissix. “It’s made out of switch plex, so it’s only transparent when we want it to be. Gives us some privacy, and keeps things cool if we’re near a sun. It used to be part of some Harmagian’s yacht. Kizzy and Jenks have a whole network of scavenger buddies who give us a call whenever they find some scrap we might put to good use. The dome has been the jackpot so far.” She gestured for Rosemary to follow her. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the guy who grows all this stuff.”
They followed the right side of the path to an oval-shaped dining table, set for dinner. The chairs surrounding the table were mismatched, and about a third of them designed to fit non-Human posteriors. Soft lights hung from long wires over the table, capped with shades of different colors. It was far from the fanciest table Rosemary had ever seen — the napkins were faded, a few plates had dents, the condiments were all cheap brands — but it felt inviting nonetheless.
Near the table was a counter, with three stools on one side and a big kitchen on the other. The smell of baking bread and sizzling herbs flooded Rosemary’s nostrils, and her body reminded her of how long it had been since she last ate. Her entire torso felt hollow.
“Hey!” Sissix called over the counter. “Come meet our new crewmate!”
Rosemary hadn’t seen the curtain covering the doorway in the back until a member of the strangest species she’d ever seen threw it aside and lumbered forward. The sapient — he, Sissix had said — was at least twice Rosemary’s size. He was rotund and fleshy, with dappled gray skin. She would have pegged him as some sort of amphibian if it weren’t for the tufts of long whiskers that stood out from his balloon-like cheeks. The majority of his face was dominated by a broad, split upper lip, which Rosemary found endearing, though she couldn’t say why. She thought back to the picture programs of ancient Earth animals she’d poured over as a kid. If you crossed an otter with a gecko, then made it walk like a six-legged caterpillar, you’d be getting somewhere.
The sapient’s legs were especially difficult to categorize, because they could have just as easily been arms. He had six of them, whatever they were, all identical. When he came through the door, he’d been walking on one pair, and holding two tubs of food with the others. But once he set the tubs down, he folded his body down onto two pairs and walked to the counter.
“Well, well, well,” the sapient rumbled. There was a weird harmony to his voice, as if five people were talking at once. As she continued to process his appearance, Rosemary noticed that he was wearing Human style clothing. His upper torso — if you could call it that — was covered by a huge short-sleeved shirt printed with a logo of a green Human thumb zooming through space. The surrounding text was printed not in Klip, but in Ensk: Littlejohn’s Plant Emporium – Your One-Stop Shop for Transgalactic Hydroponics. Extra armholes had been cut into the sides to allow for his middle pair of limbs. His lower section was covered by an enormous pair of drawstring pants. Or not pants. More like a pouch with room for legs.
The sapient’s whole face curved
upward in a surreal approximation of a smile. “I bet you’ve never seen one of me before,” he said.
Rosemary smiled, relieved that he’d broken the ice. “Can’t say that I have,” she said.
The sapient bustled about behind the counter as he spoke. “Interspecies sensitivity training always falls a bit short when you see something new, doesn’t it? The first time I saw one of you lanky brown things, I fell dead quiet.”
“And for his species,” Sissix said, “that’s really saying something.”
“That it is!” said the sapient. “Silence doesn’t suit us.” A sound exploded from his mouth — a warbling, rumbling coo.
Rosemary glanced at Sissix as discordant bursts continued to flow from the sapient’s strange mouth. “He’s laughing,” Sissix whispered.
The noise cut off, and the sapient tapped his chest. “I’m Dr. Chef.”
“I’m Rosemary,” she said. “You have an interesting name.”
“Well, it’s not my actual name, but I cook the food and I work in the med bay when the need arises. I am what I do.”
“What species are you?”
“I am a Grum, and I’m currently male.”
Rosemary had never heard of a Grum. Had to be a non-GC species. “Currently?” she asked.
“Biological sex is a transitional state of being for my species. We begin life as female, become male once our egg-laying years are over, then end our lives as something neither here nor there.” Dr. Chef reached over the counter and placed a cup of juice and a small plate of thick, grainy crackers in front of Rosemary. “Here you go. Sugar, salt, vitamins, calories. Dinner will be soon, but you look ready to faint.” He shook his head at Sissix. “I hate deepods.”
“Oh, stars, thank you.” Rosemary fell upon the crackers. In some distant part of her head, she knew that they were nothing special, but in that moment, they were the best thing that she had ever eaten. “May I ask your given name?” she said, once her mouth was less full.
“You won’t be able to say it.”
“Can I try?”
Again, the warbling laugh. “Okay, get ready.” Dr. Chef’s mouth opened, and a cacophony fell out, layers upon layers of baffling sounds. It lasted a full minute. His cheeks puffed three times once it ended. “That’s me,” he said. He pointed at his throat. “Branching windpipes, six sets of vocal cords. There’s not one word in my language that doesn’t have several sounds blended together.”
Rosemary felt a little stunned. “Learning Klip cannot have been easy for you.”
“Oh, it wasn’t,” said Dr. Chef. “And I won’t lie, it’s still tiring at times. Synchronizing my vocal cords takes a lot of effort.”
“Why not just use a talkbox?”
Dr. Chef shook his head, the skin on his cheeks shivering. “I don’t like implants that aren’t medically necessary. Besides, what’s the point of talking to different species if you don’t take the time to learn their words? Seems like cheating to simply think things and let a little box do the talking for you.”
Rosemary took another sip of juice. Her head was already feeling better. “Does your name mean something in your language?”
“It does. I am ‘A Grove of Trees Where Friends Meet To Watch The Moons Align During A Sunset in Mid’...I’d guess you’d say ‘autumn.’ Mind you, that’s just the first bit. It also includes my mother’s name and the town in which I was born, but I think I’ll leave it there, or else you’ll be listening to me translate all night.” He laughed again. “And you? I know most Humans don’t put much stock in names, but does yours have any meaning?”
“Er, well, I don’t think my parents meant anything by it, but rosemary is a kind of plant.”
Dr. Chef leaned forward, resting his weight against his upper arms. “A plant? What kind of plant?”
“Nothing special. Just an herb.”
“Just an herb!” said Dr. Chef, his whiskers trembling. “Just an herb, she says!”
“Uh oh,” said Sissix. “You said the magic word.”
“Rosemary, Rosemary,” said Dr. Chef, taking her hand. “Herbs are my very favorite thing. They combine both the medicinal and the gastronomical, which, as you may have guessed, are my two best subjects. I am an avid collector of herbs. I pick up new specimens wherever I go.” He paused, grumbling and whistling to himself. “I don’t think I’ve heard of your namesake herb. Is it for eating or healing?”
“Eating,” said Rosemary. “I think it goes in soups. Breads, too, I guess.”
“Soups! Oh, I like soups,” said Dr. Chef. His solid black eyes shifted to Sissix. “We’re making a stop at Port Coriol soon, right?”
“Yep,” said Sissix.
“Someone there will have it for sure. I’ll send a message to my old friend Drave, he’ll know where to look. He’s good at finding food-related things.” His mouth curved up as he looked back to Rosemary. “See? You’ve got a proper name after all. Now, you finish those crackers, I’m going to check on the bugs.” He bustled back into the kitchen, growling and sighing as he bent over the grill. Rosemary wondered if he might be humming.
Sissix leaned close to Rosemary and whispered, her voice shielded by Dr. Chef’s vocalizations and the general sounds of cooking. “Don’t ask about his homeworld.”
“Oh,” Rosemary said. “Okay.”
“Trust me on this. And don’t ask about his family, either. It’s…not good dinner talk. I’ll explain later.”
Dr. Chef proudly lifted a large arthropod from the grill with a pair of tongs. Its shell was blackened, and its legs curled under in even rows. It was about the size of Rosemary’s hand, wrist to fingertip. “I hope you like red coast bugs. Fresh, too, not from the stasie. I have a few breeding tanks in the back.”
Sissix gave Rosemary a friendly nudge. “We only get fresh ones for special occasions.”
“I’ve never had them, but they smell wonderful,” Rosemary said.
“Wait,” Sissix said. “You’ve never had red coast bugs? I’ve never met a Human who’s never had red coast bugs.”
“I’ve always lived planetside,” Rosemary said. “We don’t eat many bugs on Mars.” She felt guilty just saying it. Insects were cheap, rich in protein, and easy to cultivate in cramped rooms, which made them an ideal food for spacers. Bugs had been part of the Exodus Fleet’s diet for so long that even extrasolar colonies still used them as a main staple. Rosemary had, of course, at least heard of red coast bugs. The old story went that a short while after the Exodus Fleet had been granted refugee status within the Galactic Commons, a few Human representatives had been brought to some Aeluon colony to discuss their needs. One of the more entrepreneurial Humans had noticed clusters of large insects skittering over the red sand dunes near the coastline. The insects were a mild nuisance to the Aeluons, but the Humans saw food, and lots of it. Red coast bugs were swiftly adopted into the Exodans’ diet, and nowadays, you could find plenty of Aeluons and extrasolar Humans who had become wealthy from their trade. Rosemary’s admission that she’d never eaten red coast bugs meant that she was not only poorly traveled, but that she belonged to a separate chapter of Human history. She was a descendant of the wealthy meat-eaters who had first settled Mars, the cowards who had shipped livestock through space while nations starved back on Earth. Even though Exodans and Solans had long ago put their old grudges behind them (mostly), her privileged ancestry was something she had become ashamed of. It reminded her all too well of why she had left home.
Sissix eyed her with suspicion. “Have you eaten mammals? I mean the real thing, not vat-grown.”
“Sure. There are a few cattle ranches on Mars.”
Sissix recoiled, making sounds of amusement and disgust. “Oh, no, yuck.” She looked apologetic. “Sorry, Rosemary, that’s just so…blech.”
“Psh. They’re just big sandwiches on hooves,” said Jenks, walking in with a grin. “I’ve had planetside beef too, y’know. It’s awesome.”
“Oh, gross. You’re all gross,” Sissix said, laughing.
“I’ll stick with bugs, thanks,” said a male Human voice. Rosemary turned, and stood up. “Welcome aboard,” Captain Santoso said, shaking her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“You as well, Captain,” Rosemary said. “I’m very happy to be here.”
“Please, just call me Ashby,” he said with a smile. He glanced around, looking for someone. “Did Corbin give you the grand tour?”
“He started it off,” Sissix said, taking one of Rosemary’s crackers. “I took over so he could run some tests.”
“Well. That was…nice of you,” Ashby said. He stared at Sissix for a moment, asking a question that Rosemary couldn’t discern. He turned his attention back to her. “I’m afraid I won’t have much time to show you the ropes over the next couple days. We’re tunneling tomorrow, and there’s always some odds and ends to take care of afterward. But I’m sure you need some time to settle in anyway. Once we’ve put this job behind us, you and me can sit down and start going through my reports.”
“You have my sympathies,” Sissix said, patting Rosemary’s shoulder.
“They’re not that bad,” Ashby said. Dr. Chef cleared his throats pointedly. “Okay, they’re pretty bad.” Ashby shrugged and smiled. “But hey! That means you have a job!”
Rosemary laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m one of those weirdos who likes formwork.”
“Thank the stars for that,” Ashby said. “We’re a good crew, but formwork is not one of our strengths.”
“Sissix!” Kizzy cried, entering the room. “I need to talk to you about this super scandalous sexy vid I saw today.”
Ashby’s eyes fell shut. “Neither is tact.”
Sissix looked bemused. “Kizzy, I told you, I am done watching your vids. I swear, Humans are the only species who can make coupling tacky.”
“No, listen, it’s important.” Kizzy strolled behind the counter, inspecting Dr. Chef’s cooking. She had shed the grubby jumpsuit in exchange for a smart yellow jacket, a skirt that could only be described as a short petticoat, bright orange polka dot tights, a massive pair of boots trussed up in all manner of buckles and straps, and a scattering of cloth flowers woven through her hair. The ensemble would’ve been clownish on anyone else, but somehow, Kizzy made it work. “It was a multispecies vid, and I now have a bucketful of questions about Aandrisk anatomy.”
The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet Page 4