Fournier shook his head. "Grow up, Atal. Human rights are for the human. And you're not paid to be a cosmic Harriet Jefferson."
"Tubman."
"All right, dammit, Tubman. You knew who I meant – the black abolitionist who was Jefferson's slave and lover. I could care less. Terran history is nothing but a collection of trashy scandal anyway, and best forgotten. And now, Captain, Professor," he added a deferential nod for Mors, "I must attend to other crises of the ego. Goodbye."
He vanished, as the other party always did. Atal envisioned his disappearance being the result of a blaster fired from his own hand, and smiled, as he always did.
Mors leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "I don't see any legal way out of this mess, Jan. He's wrong, but he's got you. And you realize," he said carefully, inclining his head and narrowing his eyes, "that his little invitation to you to purchase the girl is nothing but entrapment."
"I'm a veteran of his entrapment schemes. He'd appease the slavers with one hand and have me court martialled for trafficking in slavery with the other. If I stand against this 'investigator,' he's invited, I'm bucking Varthan law and probably violating treaty. Meanwhile, all I'm doing is abiding by my oath as an officer and the principles of the Confederacy. 'All sentient creatures are of equal standing.'"
"Unfortunately, every republic which has ever incorporated such a statement into its laws has also, somewhere along the line, legalized some form of slavery. Would you believe some societies actually mandated it as part of an educational curriculum? At any rate, there will never be a cure for the disease which makes some humans wish to possess and control others."
"Ah, but she's not human, by our definition."
"Nor are you, by that of many Terrans."
"Says the mind-reader with the disabled reproductive system."
"Slander, sir! My reproductive capacity is merely untried... thus far."
"Stop it, professor, you're shaking my faith in my own sanity."
"Then my work here is done... except for one more pointed question: what are you going to do now, Jan?"
He didn't need to ask. He knew Atal too well to need to ask. He was just employing one of the tricks from his teacher's arsenal: make the student put his thoughts into words, to be certain the student understood them.
"If the law can't be used to do what I know must be done, then I'm going to find a way around the law..." Atal grinned. "Or through it."
Chapter Six
The Arbiters' Society
Terry Metcalfe believed in God – several of them, in fact. This made him something of an oddity in the community of the Inner Worlds, for few of its people had what would traditionally be called religion. (Those who did, like the Hecatians, usually came from colonies founded specifically to provide a haven for people of a given faith. Also like the Hecatians, such people tended to stay away from mainstream Confederate civilization. It wasn't a comfortable environment for the religious.) The core of faith for the Church of Terra, in which he'd been raised, was The Book of Heroes. It was filled with tales of deities coming to walk among humanity, where they accomplished wonderful feats. The jaded among the Terran population pointed out that it was odd that the gods only visited in long ago times, and couldn't be troubled to appear now. This had never troubled Metcalfe. He'd always been secure in his faith that the gods were there, and that, if it suited their purposes, they would once again walk among their children.
He was pretty sure that was happening today, for, if Pallas wasn't a goddess, then Terry Metcalfe didn't know a goddess when he saw one. To Metcalfe's eye, she was too inhumanly beautiful to be classed among mere mortals. All Confederate woman were beautiful, save those odd few whose design had been focused on achieving some other end. Surely, though, human genetic planning was too flawed to design such perfection. There had to be a divine source for her radiance.
When they'd completed their tour, she'd asked him if he'd have some off-duty time to spend with her later. Terrans, she explained, were of particular interest to her in her studies. Until today, she
hadn't actually met one. Though only partly recovered from his awkward inability to speak when in her presence, Metcalfe had been more than happy to assist her in her research.
"What made you want to leave, to come out here?" she now asked. They were on the public concourse, where she'd refused to allow him to pay for her dinner. They'd found a seat in one of the many carefully manicured indoor gardens that dotted its length.
"You mean among the hostiles?" He asked.
She smiled. "We're not all hostile."
"No, but I haven't exactly been popular."
"With whom?"
He shrugged. "Inworlders."
"All of us?"
"Only ninety per cent of those I've encountered. To be honest, I've mostly encountered those in the Navy."
"And me."
"And you. You don't seem hostile."
"I don't see any reason to be. Actually, I'm curious."
"To find out how savage I really am?"
"I didn't expect you to be savage. I don't believe every racist slur I hear."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For admitting that knee-jerk hatred of my people is racist. Most people believe that we're a special group they're entitled to hate, because their stereotype of us is that we're narrow minded, uncultured bigots."
"And of course that's racism. That's simple logic. Racism is the application of an unproven assumption, based on limited observation, to all the members of one genetically similar group. It results in actively hostile treatment of members of that group by people who know nothing about them. That certainly describes the way you were treated at Hestia."
"So you know how I was treated on Hestia?"
"Of course. Dr. Mors has told me quite a bit about you."
"And do you believe all of that?"
"Naturally. Dr. Mors wouldn't lie unless it served a higher purpose. And I doubt he could lie to me if he wanted to. He's far more experienced, but I'm a more powerful natural telepath than he is."
"I'm impressed."
"Why?" She asked. "It's just a fact. I was designed that way. Anyway, I questioned him extensively about you."
"About me?"
"Of course. I needed anecdotal data to guide my research."
"So... any unconfirmed hypotheses I can address for you?"
"Quite a few. Dr. Mors and I have particularly been studying myths and taboos of human reproduction."
"I thought your people weren't interested."
"Those are some of the taboos we're investigating – those of our own culture. Many of them stem from yours, so we're very interested in learning more about Terran attitudes and particulars."
"And I'm the first Terran you met. How lucky for me. What can I tell you?"
"Would you be willing to spend some time with me on my project?" She seemed genuinely excited. "It would be a great opportunity to get some real personal feedback from a Terran native. I mean, I realize you're just one person, but you could give me valuable insight. There are a lot of misconceptions I'd like to clear up, a lot of stereotypes I'd like to investigate."
"I feel like a lab rat. Are you going to stick electrodes into me?"
She looked surprised, hurt even. "No, why would I do that? That would be painful."
"I'm kidding."
"Oh, good. I'm relieved. But do you mind if I measure your penis?"
"Excuse me?" He blurted.
She had said it with such a straight face. Metcalfe gathered she was serious. "For my records. I have to start somewhere."
"Start with what, might I ask?"
"Collecting data on penis size. There's a long-standing perceived correlation between male sexual performance and the size of the erection. That, too, seems to come from your world, where the males are purported to have very large penises."
Metcalfe cleared his throat and wondered absently if something was wrong with the ship's cooling system.
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Looking at him, Pallas's eyes widened. "Are you doing that intentionally?"
"Doing what?" He demanded.
"Causing your skin color to change like that. A minute ago you were as pale as I was. Now you're... well, you're red. Bright red."
"Don't they blush on Phaeton?"
"Blush – oh, I think I remember! Wasn't it a symptom of a plague, or –" She took a small step back.
"It was not," He said, too emphatically. "It's a simple, biological reaction to –"
" – sharp emotional reactions, of course!" she said. "I knew I'd read about it. It's brought on by anger or –"
" – embarrassment."
"Yes. I'm sorry, did I cause that? Are you angry? It's because I've repeated a stereotype, isn't it?"
"I'm not angry."
"But you're... oh." She asked in a small voice, "did I embarrass you?"
"You... would have embarrassed most Terran males."
"How?"
"By talking about my..."
She waited patiently, encouragingly.
"...about the size of my..."
"Your penis!" She looked delighted for a moment at solving the mystery, then she became puzzled. "Why?"
"I – well, it's – I don't think I can explain."
She thought quietly for a moment. "I suppose I've broached a taboo subject," she said slowly. "But I really can't understand. You've been away from your world for several years, and you seem quite intelligent. Why should a taboo subject evoke such a profound emotional reaction?"
"Because it's my... taboo."
"What?"
"Men – Terran men, anyway – don't like having their penises discussed. Especially in public, by women."
"But we're alone."
"But I just met you."
"Oh. Can we discuss your penis tomorrow?"
"No. I mean... "
"Are there any other parts of your body I shouldn't mention? Just so I can be prepared? Your ears?"
"What's wrong with my ears?"
"Well, they sort of stick out, too, and I thought maybe –"
"Can we stop talking about this?"
"I just want to understand."
"I guess it's a Terran taboo. We don't like to be... that is, we consider that a private part."
"Private part?"
"Of our bodies."
"You have public parts? In what sense?"
"I – oh, god! – a private part is one we don't... display."
"So your ears are public," she thought out loud. "That's funny."
"Would you please leave my damn ears out of this?"
"Are you angry?"
"No. Maybe."
"Why aren't you turning red?"
"I – Would you like to go somewhere and get a drink?"
"No."
"Well, I sure would."
* * *
They called themselves "The Arbiters' Society," or, more formally, "The High Order of the Sublime Arbiters." The name had been coined – no one remembered by whom – while they were still at the academy. "They," in this case, being Metcalfe, Kaya, Cernaq and Carson. The four of them were already a recognized group of misfits when they'd learned that they would share a posting after graduation, and that that posting would be CNV Arbiter. The habit of referring to themselves as "The Arbiters" had stuck, through and beyond their assignment to that ship.
Best of all, the name, which was now more or less public knowledge, really irked people like Phyn Darby and Georg Fournier. To these worthies, the title "Arbiter" referred to an official elected to the governing body of the Confederacy, a representative of an entire planet's population. It was an honored title, a solemn title. The very idea that it should be used to describe a gathering of young officers intent on over-imbibing alcohol and encouraging each other to lewd acts was repulsive to anyone who had a genuine respect for the Confederate government.
Consequently, since coming to the Inner Worlds, Metcalfe, Kaya, Cernaq, Carson and their later inductee, Aer'La, had taken to using the title more often.
On Arbiter, meetings of "the Society" had been their only social outlet. There were others their own age among Arbiter's crew, but these were casual crewmen with rough backgrounds. They tended to look with scorn on the midshipmen. Even Aer'La had done so, at first. Somehow, though, she'd gravitated away from her enlisted companions (whom she saw only as sexual playthings, anyway) and toward this group of young upstarts from the Academy.
On Arbiter, they'd gathered at least weekly – more, if the duty was slow and boring – and debated the evils of the universe, and how they might be solved. They also drank, told sexually oriented jokes, and sometimes went to bed in twos and threes to finish off the evening.
On Titan, it was already clear, their meetings were going to be more frequent. They were going to be needing each other's support, as well as an emotional outlet.
Tonight's was a scheduled meeting. Metcalfe, now approaching the cabin door, could already hear Carson expostulating on some subject with the loudness he attained after tossing back a few. Metcalfe hadn't really wanted to be there. Although she'd made him exceedingly uncomfortable several times during the course of the day, he'd wanted to stay with Pallas. There was an unspoken pledge, however, that you didn't stand up the Society on grounds of sex or romance. You wouldn't find romance anyway, someone (probably Carson) had cynically declared, and there was always time for sex. Sometimes that time was during the gathering itself.
Besides, hosting was the obligation of the holder of the largest cabin, which Metcalfe had shared with Carson on Arbiter, and which he now occupied himself on Titan, as senior-most midshipman. If he didn't show up, they would still use his cabin, and confronting its state upon his return would most likely be an unpleasant experience.
So here he was, come to drink and laugh with his friends. Tonight, however, while potential conquests were a popular topic of conversation, he would keep silent about his infatuation with Pallas. It was just possible that something very serious could develop between the two of them. He'd never felt this... longing... before, for anyone, not even Kaya. And right from the start, too. It had taken him weeks to really even notice that the sharp-tongued younger Atal was even female, she'd put him off so when they'd met.
This could just be, he thought, the oft-rumored love at first sight. He would not endanger its growth by discussing it with his friends. With a sense of resolve and peace of mind, he opened the door to his cabin.
"Holy shit, Metcalfe's in love!"
Peace of mind fled with all speed and astonishing fanfare. Peace of mind had always been a fleeting commodity, for Metcalfe. The exclamation which had cruelly murdered this particular instance of peace came from Carson. He was kicked back on Metcalfe's bed, quite at home, Metcalfe's best bottle of whiskey in one hand, an empty glass in the other.
"I am not," said Metcalfe. Then quickly, "Don't drink all of that. You'll just vomit it all back up anyway, and I'll be out two days' pay."
"Don't change the subject," said Kaya. "And why shouldn't you be in love? She's beautiful... if you like the tall type. And, if she's... open minded, Phaetonians are incredible lovers." She ran her nails gently through the hair at the back of Cernaq's head.
"Are they?" Cernaq asked, with only the faintest smile. "And when have you had the opportunity to have sex with a Phaetonian, Kaya?"
She removed her hand and lightly slapped the area she'd only just been caressing. "Louse! Denying me in front of our friends... Oh, the shame!" She coughed out several sobs.
Carson applauded. "Ah, the theatre! Did you really do her, Cern? She any good?"
"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me." His dignity intact, he sipped his own glass of scotch. After a swallow, he added, "Besides, Carson, you have no reason to ask. You've had every female on this ship."
"Not every!" Kaya corrected. "There's a few engineered wildebeests in the livestock pen that I think he's missed."
"I am so there!" He leapt up
from the bed, lost his footing, and landed again. By some miracle, the bottle survived intact and un-spilled.
And thus was the meeting called to order.
While Metcalfe repossessed his whiskey bottle from Carson and poured himself a drink, Cernaq drifted up to him. There was an amused twinkle in the Phaetonian's golden eyes. "So, you're... impressed with Pallas."
"You're old friends, aren't you?"
"Yes. She's only about my age. When I chose to leave Phaeton, she chose to enter a rigorous program of study as a fellow of the University. I expected her to be entombed in the Hall of Wisdom by now."
"That would have been a waste."
Cernaq nodded agreement. "So... you want to have sex with her?"
"Jesus, Cern!"
"What?"
"Well, that's just a little... blatant."
"You don't want to have sex with her?"
"No."
"You find her repulsive?"
"God, no!"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but I sense definite sexual desire in you. Unless you've newfound lust for me, I believe –"
"I just meant... It's not just about sex! I think... She's just..."
"What is it with all of you?" Cernaq demanded, loudly, "Do you want to fuck the girl or don't you?"
The others turned and looked at Cernaq in disbelief. He didn't often speak so crudely. Metcalfe glared at him.
Meeting his gaze, Cernaq asked, "Why do you want to do that?"
"Do what?"
"'Deck me,' as you so quaintly put it?"
"Asks Mr. 'I-don't-read-minds-it's-beneath-me.'"
"My dear Metcalfe, sensing that thought could hardly be called 'reading.'Why did you feel an impulse to hit me?"
"Because that was such a vulgar thing to say about..."
"A goddess?"
"Stop it!"
"I can't help it! Turn down the volume!"
"How?"
"Someday, perhaps, I'll take you to Phaeton for training in the telepathic arts. I can just imagine you at the University, learning telepathy." Cernaq began to laugh quietly.
"Think I wouldn't cut it?"
"With your overwhelming volume, I think you'd probably shout everyone down and take over. You'd be the universe's first telepathic school bully."
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