Climbing up and down the web-working that surrounded the stasis engines, checking for mechanical faults or signs of wear in the huge machines in the port bow of the Pegasus tended to be exhausting work at best. But ten days’ straight long-shift duty was really wearing him out. His loud grumblings about the extra work and dubious destination were actually only his way of letting off steam. He liked the job. He liked his pay. He enjoyed being a part of this little universe inside the ship; so much better than back on Earth. He felt important here. Significant. It was much better to be a small anchovy in a small pond, than a small anchovy in an ocean. Crawling about in the webbing, adjusting this and that, checking meters—the thought never occurred to him that the monitor attachment to the computer from the engines did most of his actual work—was tiring. Usually when he was done with a shift, he was ravenous.
He expected a decent amount of food supplied him to restore expended energy.
So when Chief Petty Officer Wilmo told him his tour of duty was over, he cried, “About goddamn time,” jumped down lithely from the strong nylon web, and headed straight for some chow. Although not as good as the stuff he ate at horne, the food here wasn’t bad. It was filling, and fairly tasty. A combination of soybean hydroponics, cultivated algae, and some synthesis of nutrient from inorganic chemicals, often spiced with specials from the growing rooms, it was somehow formed into palatable, varied meals. Not the real thing of course. And it took a while to get used to the idea that some of it was recycled wastes, but then when you got down to it, Earth wasn’t a hell of a lot better, really. As his sinewy, diminutive form made its way to Mess Hall Three, his mind was adding sensuous detail to the savory image of the dinner he was going to punch up. Steak. Gravy. A side dish of buttered spaghetti with a sprinkling of oregano and Romano cheese. Yeah. And some eggplant! Cooked in olive oil, simmered with tomato sauce, topped with mozzarella. And to drink: a nice glass of wine, A little over regular rations, sure. But he could cough up an extra expense unit. And a salad! Don’t forget the salad!
It would be worth it.
Entering the nearly empty mess an hour before his usual dinnertime, he had to swallow the saliva that had gushed into his mouth. Damn! He could almost smell it, and the computer hadn’t even put it together yet!
Eagerly, he bounced over to the Special Dinner section, slipped in his identicard, pondered the dials. After the necessary manipulations, he keypunched the specific directions: STEAK, EGGPLANT, SPAGHETTI AL DENTE, YOU LOUSY CHEF MACHINE—OIL AND VINEGAR ON THE SALAD AND DON’T COOK THE HELL OUT OF THE STEAK THIS TIME, HUH? RARE. RARE!
He ordered his wine, fingered the final control, and the machine came to life. Three minutes later—a little fast, he noticed—it dinged its completion, and he slid open the little door expectantly. He pulled out the tray.
There, on a single dish, was a pale gray patty of unornamented soy meat, a little puddle of algae-veg, and a glass of soy milk.
He put the tray down on the table, pounded on the console keys.
YOU MADE A MISTAKE. WHAT THE SHIT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I ORDERED—
The keys became stiff. The screen responded: BECAUSE OF SUPPLY PROBLEMS, CAPTAIN DARSEN HAS ORDERED SPECIAL RATIONING. PLEASE BEAR WITH US DURING THIS EMERGENCY.
He blew up.
He headed straight for an intra-ship communicator.
“Bridge Communications.”
After telling the bridge what it could do with itself, he demanded to speak to the captain. When bridge communications told him that the captain was unavailable and coldly asked him what the problem was, he told them. “What is this rationing shit? I got a tray full of dreck down here! You expect me to eat this? Listen—I just worked a backbreaking six goddamn hours on the frigging engines, and I want something to eat! If this is the sort of treatment we can expect on this harebrained trip light-years away from our intended course, I say we turn back!”
The other people in the mess, looking up from equally slim rations, added their cheers of approval.
“Just a moment, Mr. Thompson,” the voice comforted. “We’ll send someone down immediately to attend to the problem.”
When the security force got, there and asked him politely to come with them to speak with Lieutenant Commander Tamner, Thompson threw the food at them. The security men suddenly found themselves being showered with the other trays of food in the hall. After a small fracas, they managed to administer a quick stun to the rabble-rouser and carted him away bodily. The others were also subdued.
Tamner had Hendersons all ready for them.
They entered the amphitheater at 2013 hours. The dance was already in full swing.
There was no question in Mora’s mind why the dance had been scheduled. It was a proven fact that dancing—particularly the sort of frenzied dancing that was allowed in the large amphitheater—relieved tension. No doubt the new security chief, Jin Tamner, detected the tension that was building in the crew members and passengers as they speeded further and further away from known space, and wished to bleed it off the safest way possible.
She wore a streamlined jumpsuit, emblazoned with colored glitter. Ston was dressed in a simple coverall.
The center of the amphitheater had been cleared of seats for the “dance floor.” The walls, floor, and ceiling of the huge room were literally one entire sound system, augmented for this event by separate sonic boxes in the comers for special aural effects reserved for concerts and dances.
As they entered, she was immediately buffeted by the blast of sound that swelled around her from every direction. She could not merely hear the music—now a simple rhythmic composition, cleverly underpinned with a complex, entirely seprate melody that counterpointed the basic dance song—she could feel it over every square centimeter of her body. The sound was that penetrating. It coursed over her like a strong current of warm friendly water, buoying up her spirits with the emotion it imparted.
The darkened room was strobed with delicate light-interpretations of the music. Varied pulses and scintillations and dazzles splashed over the ceiling, ribbed with lasers. Colors throbbed. The blisters on the floor and wall that were the light machines fairly blazed like confused suns, now merely throwing off subtle flares of spectruming flashes, now exploding into fountains of resplendence. All flashed perfect visions of the tone and beat of the music to where the sound would not go.
The music itself was created by a single man, sitting off in the corner of the stage, almost invisible beneath an array of equipment. On his head was a helmet with dozens of attached wires snaking off into machines. A music man, his brain surgically implanted with special jacks and electrical connections, he literally plugged himself into a computer which translated the music he had in his mind into the varied sounds heard by the dancers. Some songs he would compose on the spot; most he drew from memory, subtly shading them with appropriate emotion. The cumbersome interface of musical instruments was thus eliminated. It was one step further in direct musical communication.
The sounds the music man could make were breathtakingly, soul-achingly beautiful.
Totally involved, augmented by other sensual accouterments, one could visit a dance and be totally swept away on a wave of continuous ecstasy. Portable taste and olfactory attachments that complemented both the sound and the sights were available. The dance floor consisted of a circular, flat area centered with a large, ceiling-high free-fall field. Dancers could, at will, hurl themselves into this and gyrate free of ship’s gravity.
Surrounding the dance floor were tables. By the spurious light, Mora searched out Leana Coffer . . . and found her, sitting near the back, alone.
Mora tugged Ston’s sleeve, pointed toward Coffer’s table. Ston seemed to be startled out of temporary immersion in the music—he nodded and, holding hands, they threaded through the tables and chairs.
Coffer waved hello and urged them to sit down. As they did so, she tapped the privacy f
ield over the table, shutting out all the sound.
“Hey,” complained Ston. “Do you have to do that? I was enjoying the music.”
“The dance lasts till at least midnight. This won’t take too long. Sound coming in means that sound can go out as well. I don’t want that.”
Ston shrugged and sighed. “Okay. What’s up?”
Pushing forward two filled glasses, Coffer said, “I got you beer. That okay?”
“Sure,” Mora accepted hers, sipped. “A bit weak.”
“Watered down. The rationing effective this afternoon.”
“Yes. Dinner was dreadful,” she said.
“It’s bringing a lot of the unrest on board to the surface,” said Coffer. “It might help our cause to a degree. For example, today a guy from Engineering really got bent out of sorts. I hear he threw his dinner right into Tamner’s face—but that’s only scuttlebutt, and you know how that’s distorted.” Her expression grew grim. “But I do know that he’s raised his complaints before, and Tamner ‘arbitrarily’ selected him and a few others involved in that minor riot to be placed in Hendersons for the duration of the ‘emergency’ to alleviate the food supply shortage.”
“And to effectively eliminate troublemakers,” put in Ston.
“Yes. I’m afraid that appears to be the ploy.” Coffer swallowed some beer, made a face.
“Okay, Leana,” said Mora, “Here we are, risking placement in Hendersons as well, Specifically, why did you want to talk to Ston and me?”
The woman sucked in breath, let it out contemplatively. “Things are very bad upstairs. We’re headed God-knows-where on a fool’s mission. Captain Darsen’s gone off the deep end. The course of action was not ordered by Galactic Command—I’m sure of that. And Tamner’s become a little dictator. Very bad.” She paused, staring away.
Crimson light streaked with white dots spilled across the table like a ghost of burning lava. Mora could almost feel the floor and the force screen vibrating with the thunderous music dashing itself against them, trying to get in, drown the party in sound.
“Are you suggesting mutiny, Leana?”
The executive officer looked into Mora’s eyes and nodded slowly.
TWELVE
Leana Coffer’s Journal
(Vocoder transcription authorized
by Leana Coffer. Original recording
voice-locked per program 774-D.)
I feel giddy, elated. Perhaps I’m a little drunk—certainly a novel sensation. I should have restrained myself at the dance where I talked with Mora and her friend . . . so much depends now on my being in complete control. Yet I’ve never been less afraid, more certain of success, than now. Perhaps . . . I remember my mother as a terrible drinker. Father pretended it didn’t bother him. He used to call it her “courage.” It made her so courageous that she killed them both in a traffic accident when I was thirteen . . . but I don’t want to think about that . . .
Learning that the exec had a mother would probably shock the crew worse than anything else in this journal.
I hadn’t seen Mora since the Tin Woodman incident. I think I’ve gained her trust—and I think she’s worried that maybe Darsen will find Tin Woodman and Div again, and do them harm. So mutiny is just fine with her. Seeing Mora tonight, I remembered the dedication with which she used to ply her so ineffectual trade. The role of shiplady, like so many service assignments and regulations, has always seemed an illogical one. In a universe top-heavy with psychologists, why are Talents needed on starships? There must be a reason for this foolishness—and tonight I’ve put it all together. Call it Coffer’s manifesto—the raison d’etre of the mutiny. Or is it a revolution? We’re all alone, out here on the ship; it’s the only world we have. Call it revolution, then.
The Triunion Space Service is a drain which keeps society stable. It’s a dream that every youngster has, to be a spacer and drift from star to star, or venture boldly out to find new worlds. Well, then, let them. They won’t be at home, making trouble.
There are over five hundred crew members aboard the Pegasus, too many of them officers. And they do unnecessary things—this ship could be run by twenty people; the ship’s computer does most of the work. However, if it were, how many ships would the service need to guarantee a place for representatives of every social, racial, national, and ideological group? We have a quota system operating here, I think.
Take Earth—dominated by six superstates so interdependent on one another that war is unthinkable. The threat to these governments is not each other, but the populations they each control. The service is set up as a shining example of courageous people expanding man’s knowledge, building a better world out among the stars. Everyone wants to join it—the governments can thus get their rebels, boat-rockers, overachievers and other likely troublemakers to volunteer for the service. Then they send them out to push buttons on useless machinery light-years from home; a much better thing to do than to let them hang about the Triunion home-worlds starting revolutions.
The colonies fit into this scheme as well. They can’t develop quickly enough ever to threaten or oppose the Triunion—and why should they want to? They’ve got their own worlds, all to themselves. This way, people who won’t fit, don’t qualify, or just represent too large a group to be in the Space Service can be disposed of. For example, Damilandor. Crysor didn’t want him and his fellow Christians, and certainly couldn’t expect them all to sign on for space duty. So they were offered a world of their own.
Now, as for the Talents; they’re disliked and treated with suspicion by most of humanity. The worst fear expressed is that they’ll coalesce into some sort of conspiratorial group. Most of them would never qualify for the service—they’d never pass the psych exams—unless there were a job that only they could do. Ergo, the shiplady/shipman position. One to a ship, and always under close supervision.
I’m only guessing at all this, but it has the ring of truth—–to me, at least. Perhaps I’m just getting as paranoid as Darsen. But consider—the major aim of all government is self-perpetuation. In the service, the governments have found a means of avoiding disruptive change which might threaten their hegemonies. It’s commonly observed that civilization on Earth has evolved very little since the late twentieth century, and I think my theory goes a long way to explaining why.
The service is a medieval solution to a modem problem; we’re a leech on the body politic, draining the bad blood —and the good blood, as well.
I’ve been trying to sleep, without success. My conversation with Mora and Ston keeps replaying itself. I had meant to set down the outlines here of the plan I discussed with them—but my involvement with my own theories ran away with me. I shall do so now.
Mora’s sympathy with my intentions was clear—she is as disenfranchised and suffers as greatly under Darsen as anyone. She has the ability to read emotions and therefore was easy to persuade as far as my own sincerity is concerned; for the same reason I’m willing to trust Ston Maurtan as long as she does.
Her Talent is central to my plan. I explained this to her—through brief nonverbal contact with others she can gauge their willingness to oppose Darsen. She can guarantee that we take no spies into our confidence; at the same time she can determine who among the many possible allies in each area of ship’s operations will be the most valuable to us.
I explained briefly what I would expect out of each recruit. I told her that I had settled on a code-phrase to trigger action, which would be broadcast by Gary Norlan, who’s already quite involved: “Compliments of the captain.” This will begin the mutiny. She is to pass this phrase on to those she recruits. I think it’s a good signal; it’s ordinarily attached to some general order relaxing restrictions or declaring special recreation for the crew, and therefore isn’t likely to be used in any regular broadcast from the bridge. Not while Darsen is in command.
Then the mutiny will begin
.
They were almost there, now: the destination.
Tucked at the heart of Tin Woodman like a baby in its mother’s womb, Div Harlthor was slowly learning who he had become, and who he had been before. More and more, in the wordless discussions between Tin Woodman and Div, he felt as though he were conversing with himself. But as hard as he tried he could not merge himself totally—there was an empty space in him, yet. He brooded much even as he learned to touch the vibrant energies of the universe, and to use them.
He thought about the people he had known. He thought often about Mora Elbrun. He needed to think as himself—not something more. He tried to withdraw his mind into the tiny part of the ship-being which was still totally separate—his.
“Why do you persist in keeping part of yourself removed, my love?” asked Tin Woodman, concerned.
“I don’t know. I just have to.”
“It is to be expected perhaps. It is not easy to cast oneself away from the things one has known all one’s previous life. Perhaps we can discuss this?”
But Div could not explain. He was beginning to comprehend how utterly and irrevocably he had cut himself off from his past, from other human beings. Those thoughts and feelings which he had once desperately wished to share with some other person in the frustrated hope that they might be reciprocated welled up in him now. But he had an other, now, didn’t he? And more love than he could imagine . . . yet maybe not the sort he had desired . . .
Div tried to open himself and communicate this undefined feeling—and Mora Elbrun seemed on his mind once more.
It had seemed so wildly beyond his reach, on the Pegasus—the possibility of feeling something more than his familiar uncertain empathy for another person—a particular person. His feelings for her had been unexamined and undiscovered while his fascination and obsession with the mystery of Tin Woodman had grown. Now he regretted-—
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