"Ah, my dear and valiant mademoiselle!" He snapped his heels together and bowed crisply from the waist. "I salute you. We of the Perimeter Restauran' would like to thank you for your extraordinary bravery which has saved the station." His arm swept out gracefully, indicating the serving trolley. "A mere token of our esteem, I know, but we put our hearts into everything that we prepare, and this evening, I think that we have even surpassed ourselves. As our gratitude is surpassing." He bowed again, a more modest version, with his right hand spread across his heart.
Channa smiled stupidly at him for a moment until she could gather enough of her wits together to tell him that he was very kind.
He offered her his arm and led her to a chair. Instantly his cohorts flowed into action. A table was brought, a cloth spread, service laid, wine poured, napkin spread and food appeared on her plate. The arrangement alone was a work of art. Simeon recognized actual Terran truffles decorating the appetizer and the entree was no less than carre d'agneau Mistral. A file said the recipe was by Escoffier, Mart'an's boyhood hero.
I bet they'd chew it for her if she asked them to, Simeon thought, amused.
"Ah, Monsieur Simeon." Mart'an exhaled a tragic sigh, his face wearing the blank expression softshells adopted when addressing someone unseen. "How we wish we could offer a similar tribute to you."
Simeon put his likeness up on his column-screen, made it smile appreciatively and bow slightly. "By coming to the aid of my brawn in this manner, monsieur, you are serving both myself and the station superbly. I cannot begin to express my appreciation."
Channa's eyes widened; her mouth, however, was fully occupied.
Ha! he thought, triumphantly. Didn't think I had it in me, didja, Happy? Diplomacy 'R Us.
"I wonder," he said confidentially to Mart'an, "if it would be possible for you to clear away at a later time? Ms. Hap is extremely weary and I need to bring her up to speed on station business before she retires. . . ."
"Of, course," Mart'an said heartily. With a flutter of his hands, he gathered his magic minions together and the whole group departed as smoothly as they had arrived.
Channa sipped her wine with an appreciative glow on her face.
"Go easy on that," he cautioned her. "I know you're thirsty, but water would be a better choice."
"Yes, Dad." She picked up her fork and began eating again, chewing appreciatively. "Too bad you can't taste foods, but I assure you this lamb is deeelicious." She rolled her eyes. "So, bring me up to speed. What else is there to crown today's glad tidings?"
"Nothing more really," he said, "except that the computer has finally regurgitated a translation program for me. The language was extinct—Chuvash, whatever that is. The AI worked back from loanwords of known languages, but it's warning me that there are gaps in vocabulary and most certainly in shades of meaning . . ."
"What does Central Worlds say about this disaster?" She yawned deeply. "Or don't we have enough comsat capability left?"
"I gave them an outline of events and the reappearance of . . . Guiyon. They were more concerned that I was still operational. Which I am. They expect a full report, of course, but I'm hoping to include more information about the ship. They can wait. They've the bones of the matter."
"Any news on Joat?"
"Nothing specific," he said with a sigh. "With everyone suited up, it was impossible to tell who was who. Not all suits have nametags and skill-codes. I haven't heard a sound from the engineering section."
"Well, I want to be sure she's all right," Channa said, exploding in angry anxiety. "You open up a channel down there and tell her that we need to know if she made it. One lousy 'yes, I did' will be sufficient." She picked up her fork again but was merely pushing food around the plate, her expression almost sulky.
Simeon regarded her with a mildly exasperated mental smile. When she was tired, Channa was amazingly like Joat. Sending the necessary discreet query, he was also relieved to have received a prompt reply, though he puzzled over Joat's odd undertone.
"She made it. I told her one word would do it, and she gave me two. Quote, I'm okay, end-quote. You should try to get some rest, Channa." A pause. "No, wait a minute. She's adding something. Oh, really? Quote, Tell Channa she did a neato job."
Unutterably relieved, Channa pushed the table aside. Somehow, knowing that Joat was safe released the tension that had kept her going so long. Like a robot, she moved toward her quarters, made it to the door before she stopped, holding onto the frame.
"Simeon," she said, looking over her shoulder at his column, her head of its own accord resting against the cool metal panel, "I am your brawn, remember. You are required to inform me of any untoward incident. Yes?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.
She nodded sharply: a "you'd better" gesture, and entered her quarters. The bed beckoned irresistibly; she had a dreamlike memory of fumbling with the sickbay wrapper and crawling onto the bed, of a servo pulling the covers up around her. Soft music hummed her to sleep.
* * *
"Good morning," Simeon greeted her the next day. "You look rested," he said. I'm learning, he congratulated himself, I didn't say, you looked like hell on a rampage last night, or even, you look a lot better, I'm acquiring sensitivity, he thought smugly, suppressing the thought that she had made him so. Hope it doesn't wreck my style.
"I feel rested, too," she said in some surprise. "After yesterday, I'm surprised I woke up today. You didn't," and her tone became suspicious, "let me oversleep?"
The essential Channa has not altered overnight! "Nothing new to report. I'm still parsing through the language, but it's odds on we'll get more out of the passengers than the logs."
"How are they? Anybody else awake yet?"
"Doctor Chaundra says that poor bastard the screeching Valkyrie cold-cocked is their leader, name of Amos ben Sierra Nueva. The valkyrie is Rachel bint Damscus. I knew you'd like to put names to the face . . . es," he added hurriedly, not wishing to single the man out for her attention in any way. "The doc says he'll be able to join us at the meeting."
"Who else?"
"Leader Amos and his sidekick, a guy called Joseph ben Said."
Channa took a sip of the coffee she'd made. "When are they due here?"
"We've a station officers meeting in about an hour. Chaundra, too, if someone's not critical. Whenever we've finished that, I'll call down for Sierra Nueva and this Joseph fellow."
"Do me a favor," Channa said, "call him Amos, would you please? Sierra Nueva makes him sound like one of those dances that are supposed to make your blood boil and your libido unhinge."
"You got it. We don't want forbidden passions running riot all over the station, now do we?"
"Well," she said with a grin, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, "that part's negotiable."
Well, well, Channa ma belle, nothing like dying to loosen a person up, eh? Let's hope the "mellow" lasts a while in you.
He noticed a visitor in the corridor and opened the door before the boy outside could ring for admittance: a tall thin twelve-year-old, dark and slender of face but with green eyes and a reddish tint to his brown hair. The boy stood there a moment startled, his mouth a perfect O.
"Come on in," Simeon invited. Channa looked up from her notescreen and reinforced the welcome.
"Uh, hi," the kid said nervously. Simeon noted that he walked with a cane. "I'm Seld Chaundra? I'm in Joat's class?"
"Oh, really?" Simeon said helpfully.
"Yeah." Seld's free hand bunched the material of his trouser leg. "Um, is she here?"
"Not at the moment," Channa told him, resting her chin on her fist. "We'll give her a message," and Channa added a mental I think. "Is there a problem?"
"Oh, no," he shook his head in wide-eyed denial. "It's just . . . Well, she wasn't in class today and I was worried that she might of got hurt or something yesterday."
"That's very kind of you," Channa said approvingly. "But she came through . . . okay!"
"We'll tell her tha
t you were asking about her, Seld," Simeon told him.
"Will she be in school tomorrow?"
"Quite possibly," Simeon said mendaciously. "I'll let her know you were asking for her and tell her to contact you. Does she have your call code?"
"Yes, sir, she does, sir." Like all station-born youngsters, Seld was not unaccustomed to Simeon speaking from the nearest sound cube, but he had the good manners to bow to the column. "Sorry to have bothered you." He waved at Channa and stepped back through the door.
"Well!" Channa said, pleased. "She has a peer who cares enough about her well-being to beard you in your lair."
"You think that's enough to entice her back out?"
Channa deliberated. "I think it will certainly alter her thinking. When you're sure no one cares about you, it's easy to be depressed and feel hopeless. Go on," she said with an encouraging smile at his column, "tell her Seld was here, worried she might have been hurt, and looking for her in class."
* * *
"Yeah, he's okay—Seld is, sort of," Joat said. "Bit of a kid, y'know?"
"Chronologically speaking," Simeon remarked blandly, "you're a kid yourself."
Joat laughed with more than a trace of bitterness; it was a sound like a yelping coyote. "Never had the time or chance to be one. So it's a little late, like, to expect me to act like one."
Silence fell in the improvised nest at the intersection of the ducts, but the girl heard just the softest sigh of regret issue from Simeon.
Softie, she thought, with a rueful affection. Even if he was . . . what was the jingle? Spam-in-a-can? Nice guy, she decided. He needs someone to look after him. Besides Channa Hap, that was. Channa might be his brawn, but she seemed to have looked after everyone else yesterday instead of him.
"Yeah, Seld's not a bad osco. Sorta knows his way around a keyboard, in a kid sorta way. Can't fight worth shit, though."
"He says they miss you at school," Simeon replied noncommittally.
Joat gave a second bark of sour laughter. "Not that bitchite Louise Koprekni, she doesn't."
"Pushing her face in the toilet bowl was a bit extreme, wasn't it, Joat?"
"She said I smelled."
"You did smell. Then! That's about the time you considered regular washing wasn't such a bizarre notion."
Joat's lower lip stuck out, and she turned back to her keyboard and the collection of miscellaneous electronic junk which Simeon had been trying to identify.
"What's that you're contrapting?" Simeon asked.
"Riffler."
"Dare I ask what a riffler is?" Do I want to know?
"Ultrasonic. Pops the caps." At Simeon's interrogative sound, she explained. "Bursts the capillaries, like, you know, instant really, really bad sunburn?"
"It what?" Then he modified his tone to a more conversational level. "We hadn't planned on dragging you out, you know."
"I didn't figure you would."
"You haven't . . . ah . . . tried it out, have you?"
"Not yet."
"How will you know it works?"
"It will!" The confidence in that reply was unnerving.
"Is it . . . umm . . ."
"Wouldn't kill anyone, but it'll sure make 'em think twice about following me."
"Ah, I see."
His visual picked up just the hint of a grin as Joat bent her head to continue her handiwork.
"Some things," she said cryptically.
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 rememb
ered. 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.
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