by Robert Reed
The girl is no captain. She may never hold any rank onboard the Ship. After all, she is only ten years old, and though more mature than her peers, that means nothing. Maturity is a quality that humans will gather up eventually, in small doses. Physical strength and physical beauty are just as arbitrary. But these are her blessings for the moment, and Washen likes to use her strong muscles to swim the sea beside her home city.
Washen is no social creature, at least compared to her species’ norms. She will swim and swim across open reaches of water, no one beside at the beginning or ever, and sometimes she will pause for no reason except to float—on the surface or deep below. The girl can hold her breath forever. Forever. Humans are rich with alternate metabolisms that ride secretly on their old mammalian organs, and better than most adults, the floating girl can close her eyes and blow the damp air from her chest, allowing her bones and hard muscle to carry her to depths where no light is welcome, where a soul can hover on the brink of hibernation while the frigid water holds tight.
She does not notice any mysterious voice or presence.
Yet she doesn’t deny these ingredients either. And that is a small critical point, unnoticed at first and then well worth considering.
She hears nothing, but she appears willing to hear.
Perhaps this is why she floats in the dark, for a full hour of nothing; but eventually some urge comes and she touches a necklace that inflates into a vacuum collar that carries her to the surface where she remembers to breathe in deep long happy and very wet breaths.
The girl has many friends but doesn’t require companionship. Being alone for a day or ten years wouldn’t scare her. But walking the shore again, for the rest of that day and always, Washen is the person who is watched most closely. She is the golden child at the center of the classroom and the playground and at home. Adults and children alike tend to follow her motions, hang on her words, and if she is silent for a long while, they unconsciously and happily wait for whatever smart good or funny words will be worthy of breaking the silence.
Charisma is a rare talent, and sometimes it can be a fine talent.
But she remains more blind than not, more ignorant than not, more human than is probably best, and there is no compelling reason to single her out.
Yet the eyeless gaze continues to study her.
* * *
One day she sits on the basalt beach of her home sea, rump on rock while talking to the waves, to birds. She talks to no one. “I was born on the Great Ship,” she says to no one. “I will never go anywhere else.
“I know this,” she says.
“I don’t know why I know this, but when the thought found me, I realized that I had always been aware of the truth,” she says.
Then she rubs at the warm rock with both hands and both bare feet, saying, “I will live here as close to forever as I can, and do you know why?”
The wind gusts, carrying an affirmative urge.
But Washen doesn’t feel or hear or even guess what passes through her, which is another fine reason to ignore her in favor of a thousand finer, more deserving candidates.
Except she offers an answer not expected.
“I love you,” she says.
Who does she love?
“I love this big round puzzle of a spaceship,” she says.
The wind gusts again, hard this time.
No ripe meanings come to her. Yet she holds her pretty face high, eyes tearing and the mouth open as if anticipating a first kiss, and there is no way to know exactly what will happen next.
Hoop-of-Benzene
1
A young captain was chosen because the task seemed quite minor and higher ranked souls had more vital and interesting duties to perform. What the officer knew was minimal: the apartment’s location, a sketch of its history, plus the name and species of its current owner. But she brought clear orders and the sanctity of her office, and after centuries of training, she was accustomed to the mirrored uniform as well as its natural authority.
“Hello, sir,” the captain began, offering the standard two-stomp greeting. A tall and naturally graceful woman, she was pretty in a human fashion, with an easy smile kept hidden for the moment. Employing a crisp, slightly angry voice, she announced, “My name is Washen.”
The alien stared through the diamond door, saying nothing.
“Hoop-of-Benzene,” she called out. Harum-scarums often appreciated a brash tone. “If that’s your name, I wish to speak with you. And if you are someone else, bring Hoop-of-Benzene to me.”
The breathing mouth opened. “I am Hoop,” the alien replied.
She repeated the two-stomp greeting. “Three days from now, one of my superiors will visit your district, and the good captain has expressed interest in touring his former home. Which happens to be your apartment.”
The mouth puckered. “Does this good captain carry a name?”
“For the moment, he does not. He prefers confidentiality. But I assure you that he’s among the Master Captain’s favorite officers.”
“A Submaster, is he?”
“Perhaps,” Washen allowed. “And perhaps not.”
“In three days, you say.” An enormous hand pressed against the door. “But why in three days? Can you surrender that much?”
Washen considered her audience. Harum-scarum society was built upon ceremony and rank, status and noisy bluster. “As I’m sure you are aware, sir…five thousand years ago, my people threw open the hatches of this great vessel, inviting all the species of the galaxy to share in our grand voyage. Fifty centuries of unrivaled success, and during this milestone year, to mark our countless accomplishments, the captains are holding a series of celebrations.”
“I have heard about this business,” Hoop allowed.
“The Master Captain is scheduled to visit your district. Her Submasters will be in attendance, plus a hundred lesser captains, and she will enjoy two feasts given in her honor, and a Janusian wedding, and the new Ill-lock habitat will be christened. As for the nameless captain, his stay here will last moments. Little longer. The man is not a sentimental creature, and I assure you, any disruption to your life will be minimal.”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“The human creature may not visit my home.”
Washen had imagined but never expected this turn. Concealing her surprise, she asked, “What is the difficulty, sir? Is it a matter of timing?”
“Why?” asked the breathing mouth. “Would the good captain accept a different day?”
“Possibly,” she said.
“Yet I presume he wouldn’t,” Hoop decided. “Captains are exceptionally stubborn humans, and I believe you are trying to mislead me.”
Washen allowed a grin to emerge. “Yes, sir. You’ve seen through my thin ape-skin, yes. The captain’s schedule is quite busy, and he will probably not return to this district for a long, long while.”
Even among his species, Hoop-of-Benzene was an enormous creature—a towering biped whose muscular body was covered with glistening armored plates and long golden spines. The broad black eyes stared at the young captain. Beneath the eyes were two mouths, one for speaking and breathing, the other intended for eating and delivering the worst insults imaginable.
“My schedule is equally rigid,” announced the breathing mouth. “And since I do not wish to entertain visitors, not in three days or for the next three thousand years, I will not allow him inside my home.”
The eating mouth made a soft, abusive noise.
“It is my right to turn away visitors,” the alien continued. “I know the codes. I can quote the relevant statutes, if you wish. Even the Master Captain is forbidden from entering any premise where she is not welcome. The only exceptions demand sturdy legal causes, which do not apply in this situation. And even in the most urgent circumstances, mandatory warrants must be drawn up, sealed and registered, then delivered by the appropriate agents of the law.”
Again, he made the rude sound.
“You still haven’t offered any name,” the alien pointed out.
“I carry orders. My superior intends to remain anonymous.” With a thin smile, she added, “I can tell you that he is a powerful figure onboard the Great Ship. A force to be reckoned with, and once angered, he can be quite vindictive.”
Harum-scarums had a genetic respect for tyrants.
Yet Hoop clucked a tongue as if amused. “I suspect, young captain, you must feel rather uncomfortable now.”
Washen swallowed and said nothing.
“So tell me this…”
“Sir?”
“Why would a powerful, vindictive creature care who it is that strolls through these little rooms?”
“I cannot guess his mind, sir.”
“I am not discussing the captain’s mind,” Hoop replied. “Perhaps I should remind you: Two powers are at play here.”
“A worthy point,” Washen said. Then with a wink and bright smile, “And you should consider the poor intermediary standing before you. She doesn’t know the name of your game, much less its rules.”
Again, the tongue clicked.
“This must be an important mission,” Hoop observed. “To select such a quick-witted captain–”
“All missions are important,” she interrupted.
The harum-scarum paused, perhaps considering his choices.
“If I fail to win your cooperation,” Washen said, “a second, much higher-ranking captain will be sent. Or twenty subordinates wielding heavy legal weaponry will descend on your empire. As you say, captains are stubborn souls, and this one in particular is obstinate. He intends to step through your door at a specific hour, two days after tomorrow, and no one can halt the inevitable.”
“Do I look helpless?” Hoop inquired.
“My name is Washen,” the young captain repeated. “I just made my service files available to you. Absorb them at your convenience, and I will lie to my superior. I’ll claim that you wish to meet with me tomorrow, and the two of us will come to terms with this nagging problem in our lives.”
Then before Hoop-of-Benzene could respond, the young captain turned her back to him and strode off—in effect, making it difficult for a proper harum-scarum to refuse the little creature, when and if she found the courage to come to his door again.
2
A singular voyage through the wealthiest, most civilized regions of the galaxy: That was what the Great Ship offered. In principle, every individual and entire species could buy passage. Humans and aliens alike paid their way with simple capital, or they surrendered claims to starships and lucrative asteroids and sometimes entire worlds. But the Ship’s owners had a weakness for deeper abstractions. Fresh science and raw, uncut data were popular trade items—subjects didn’t matter as much as novelty. They also accepted revolutionary machinery and old-fashioned tools made better. And when some new species was powerful or peculiarly well-regarded, the Master Captain would make warm covenants between the newcomers and humanity, winning allies as the long thorough loop around the Milky Way began to take shape.
The Ship’s builders, whoever they were, insured that every cubbyhole and grand ocean could be modified, matching the precise needs of alien physiologies. But what was not so easy—what was exceptionally difficult if not even possible—was to keep this menagerie happy enough and distracted enough to live under the same hull for hundreds of millennia.
The captains were the highest authority, steady hands on the tiller while their hard boots ruled every other facet of life onboard the Ship.
Harum-scarums were among the most important and abundant passengers. Older than humanity, they evolved on a watery, metal-starved world. Tiny continents and scarce resources shaped their long history; relentless, unapologetic competition was the hallmark of their mature civilization. Tens of millions of years were spent defending the same patches of dry ground, evolving elaborate codes of formal, trusted rituals. While proto-humans still brachiated their way through jungle canopies, harum-scarums were refining aluminum and building spaceships. Before Homo habilis jogged across Africa, the aliens had acquired hyperfiber and enhanced fusion star-drives, plus a collection of powerful tools that made both their bodies and minds functionally immortal.
Harum-scarum was the human name. The Clan of Many Clans was one inadequate translation of what the creatures called themselves. Like most high-technology species, once the Clan learned how to extend life spans, it stopped evolving. On thousands of worlds, the creatures still clung to their original natures—physically powerful entities filled with calculated rage as well as a startling capacity for acquiescence.
From the Clan’s perspective, Washen’s people were newcomers to the galaxy—untested and laughably optimistic, like children or pampered meat. For every air-cloaked rock that humans colonized, the Clan ruled a hundred mature worlds. Trillions of citizens were scattered across an entire arm of the galaxy, and they had more starships and better starships than anyone. If they had seen the Great Ship roaming the deep cold, they would have reached it first and claimed the artifact as their prize. But they didn’t notice the giant wanderer soon enough. Humans did, and because of that blessing, humans achieved something that was deeply unlikely.
This was one reason why Hoop and his people found such pleasure insulting their hosts. “Monkey-men” was a popular barb. “Bare-fleshed fetuses.” And perhaps the most caustic, damning name: “Luck-fattened souls.”
The average human assumed that harum-scarums were embittered, jealous and probably vengeful monsters. But the responsible captain knew better than to read too much into a little hard noise. Once humans took legal possession of the ancient derelict—in accordance with the galaxy’s ancient laws—the Clan had finished grieving. Ownership had been established. A contest won was a contest done. And if you were a good citizen of a worthy family, you turned away and carefully sharpened your spines, focusing on living your magnificent life.
Grudges and second acts were the province of weaker species.
Humans, for one.
* * *
“This makes no sense to me,” the Submaster confessed. “You assured him that I was an important captain.”
“Which you are,” said Washen.
“Am I still anonymous?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Yet the creature refuses to capitulate.”
“For the time being, but I’ll meet with him tomorrow and reach some understanding.”
“Harum-scarums,” the Submaster muttered. “I’ve dealt with them many times, and with much success. Once you push past their manners and moods, they’re perfectly reasonable ogres.”
Washen restrained a grimace.
The man was named Ishwish. By human measures, he was ancient and extraordinarily well traveled. Countless stories were told about the old Submaster, yet remarkably little was defined in his public biography. Ishwish had fought with distinction in several human wars, rising to a high rank in two militaries. More than once he had employed alien mercenaries, including the brigades of harum-scarums who helped make his career. Then after earning a strongbox full of medals, he retired to a quiet life, commanding colony starships during the first human expansion across the Milky Way. Those millennia made him a wealthy man with lucrative political connections. When the Great Ship was discovered, Ishwish expended his personal fortune, fitting a small asteroid with enormous engines and a minimal life support system and then hiring a crew to race out beyond the edges of the Milky Way. His starship was among the first to arrive at the Great Ship. And from that moment, Ishwish had worked tirelessly to maintain his rightful high rank among the first captains.
The Submaster remained silent for a few moments, most likely using a nexus to examine Hoop’s files. The eyes flickered for a moment, meaning what? Then he sighed softly, and with a disappointed shake of the head, he said, “Frank
ly, I expected better things from an ambitious young captain.”
Washen nodded as if agreeing, twisting the mirrored cap in her hands.
“There is no task that a captain cannot achieve,” he reminded her.
“I know this, sir.”
Ishwish’s task of the moment was to sit alone before a large oak table, occupying the back corner of what was a very small eating establishment. This was the favorite haunt of the Master Captain, which made it popular to all of her Submasters. The man was exceptionally tall in his chair; Washen stood beside him, yet their eyes were nearly level. Handsome in an ageless, heavily polished fashion, Ishwish had bright gold eyes and a sharp joyless smile, and with every word and little motion, he betrayed enough arrogance to fuel two successful captains.
“What are little jobs?” he asked.
“‘An impossibility of nature,’” she quoted from her training.
“And what are little honors?”
“‘Blessings that fall on little souls,’” she said, quoting words he had used on more than one occasion.
Ishwish nodded, and the smile dimmed. “I am going to be awarded a declaration of merit, and it will come from the Master Herself.”
“Congratulations, sir.”
“For my long service to this fabulous ship, I will enjoy this stupendous honor.”
“As is your right, sir.”
“Our Master asked me, ‘Where do you wish the ceremony to be held, my good friend? On the Ship’s bridge? Or at the captains’ dinner?’ But after careful consideration, I decided on a small ceremony held inside the apartment where I first lived. I relish the image. And frankly, I am extremely fond of those little rooms and alcoves and such.”