by Glen Cook
“Just curious.” He could not explain. She did not have the experience to understand.
“Anything else I should know about your mother? I want to make a good impression.”
“Stop saying that,” Amy snapped. “Stick to literary things. You can’t miss. Duck an argument. She’s contrary as hell. She’ll start a fight just to find out how stubborn somebody is.”
He looked at her askance.
“We had some beauts when I was young. Nothing I did and nobody I knew was ever good enough. Talk libraries if you know anything about them. She’s librarian for Stafinglas.”
The more Amy talked about her mother the less he wanted to meet the woman. He had encountered dragons before. They rolled right over him.
“We’re here.” Amy stopped at a door, reluctant to take the last step.
“Well?”
Biting her lower lip, Amy knocked.
Four hours later they excused themselves to go out for lunch. Neither spoke till they had drawn their meal trays. As he settled at a table, Moyshe said, “Jesus, do I have a headache.”
“Headache? Not here?”
“Tension headache. Not migraine.” It had been bad. Much worse than he had expected. The woman was a classic. He glanced at Amy. Want to know what a woman will be like in twenty-five years? Have a good, long look at her mother.
“I’m sorry, Moyshe. I… I can’t even make excuses for her. There isn’t any excuse for that kind of behavior.”
“Uhm. Maybe I’d better get used to it. Maybe she was just saying what a lot of people think. Me and Mouse and the others may have to live with that the rest of our lives.”
“You should have fought back.”
“Would that have changed anything? No. It would’ve kept her going that much longer.”
Moyshe was still numb. As an Old Earther he had been fighting prejudice since entering the Navy. He had thought he possessed a thick hide. But never had he encountered anyone as virulent as Amy’s mother. Outworlders went through the forms of equality, keeping their prejudices subtle and silent. Amy’s mother was open and vicious and adamantine about hers. Neither suasion nor force would alter her thinking in the least.
She had disowned Amy before it was over.
“You want to try again?” Amy asked.
He was startled. “What?”
“She is my mother, Moyshe.”
He reached across the table, took her hand for a second. “I know.” She was doing her brave act to conceal her pain. “I know. I’ve got one too. And she isn’t that much different.”
“They want the best for you. And they think they’re the ones to decide what’s best.” Amy gulped several mouthfuls. “Mother never was good at expressing feelings positively. Maybe that’s why I’m a little weird. I spent a lot of time with her while I was growing up. She never qualified for fleet duty. That was the big disappointment of her life. Till we gave her something else to feel sorry for herself about.”
Amy almost never mentioned her father. All Moyshe ever learned was his name and the fact that he had been killed in an accident here in the nebula. Apparently, despite protestations to the contrary, Amy’s mother had found the accident convenient.
“We’d better not go back, Moyshe,” Amy decided. “Not today. Let’s give her a chance to calm down and get used to the idea.”
“Okay.”
They had to kill four hours before a shuttle became available. Moyshe thought Amy would use the time to visit old friends. She did not. She said all her real friends were aboard Danion. She became defensive. She did not want to face any more disapproval. The stay-at-home Seiners were, apparently, less cosmopolitan than the people of the harvestfleets.
Going back, Amy suggested, “If you want, tomorrow we can sneak over and see those alien ships. The research center isn’t that far.”
Moyshe perked up a little. “All right. That’s a good idea. I’ve been looking forward to it. What do we do about our work assignments?”
“I’ll take care of everything.”
Amy took sleeping pills as soon as they reached their cabin. Despite a long, long day, Moyshe was not in the mood for bed. He strolled down the passageway and awakened Mouse.
“How’d the get-together go?” Mouse asked. And, without awaiting an answer, “That bad, eh?”
“It’s a whole different world, Mouse. I thought I knew how to handle prejudice… I never saw anything like it. Her mother was the worst, but there was plenty everywhere else we went, too.”
“I know. Grace took me for a little tour this morning.”
“You guys got out of bed long enough?”
“Hey, you got to do something the other twenty-three hours of the day.”
“So tell me. And where’s the board? I’ve been here three minutes and I still haven’t seen a chess board.”
“Sorry.” Mouse grinned. BenRabi had accused him of being unable to relate with the human male unless a chess board was interposed. “Guess I’m preoccupied.”
“She show you anything interesting?”
“I’m not sure. You can’t break the habits of trade-craft. So you look and you listen. But you don’t find anything that gives you a handle on these people.”
“Where’d you go?”
“To some kind of office complex first. Like a government and trade headquarters. We hunked around there for five hours. They had everything out in the open… You know, like no confidential files or anything, and nobody getting excited because you pick up a paper and read it. You take white. But there wasn’t anything there. I mean, nothing anybody back home would give a damn about. I didn’t see a damned thing worth remembering.”
“What the hell kind of weird move is that?”
Mouse smiled. “Some Seiner pulled that on me the other day.”
“And lost.”
“Yeah. But I was better than him. Hey. You know what they’re doing? They’re getting ready to go back to Stars’ End.”
“That isn’t any secret.”
“No. But they’re so damned serious. I mean, Grace and I went to this one asteroid they were making into a dry-dock. After we left the other place. I got to talking to this engineer. Her husband is on the team that’s adapting a shuttle to piggyback the Stars’ End weapons to orbit.”
BenRabi raised his attention from the board. “Curious. Everywhere you go… They’re so damned sure of themselves, aren’t they?”
“Awfully. Maybe we’re too sure they can’t do it. Maybe they have an angle.” Mouse’s attention had left the board too. He seemed to have a question he was afraid to ask. Moyshe felt the intensity of it, boiling there behind his friend’s eyes.
“I’ve got a hunch that they do. Through the starfish, somehow.”
Mouse returned to the game. His unorthodox opening got him into trouble early. BenRabi had him on the ropes, but let him wriggle loose by making a too-eager move. It cost him a knight.
“You always did get too excited,” Mouse observed. “How has your head been?”
“I had a headache today. Just tension, though. Why?”
“Just asking.” A move later, “What I meant was that disorientation stuff you had because of the Psych program. Any trouble?”
“Not much. Not like it was. I have my moments. You know. Blanking out for a second, then coming back wondering where I am and who I am. They don’t amount to anything. They don’t last long enough for anybody to notice.”
“Good. I was scared when you were doing that Contact stuff. Thought you might get mixed up while you were in, and come back somebody else permanently.”
“You didn’t, by chance, have anything to do with getting me transferred, did you?”
“I would have if I’d thought I had the drag. For your own good. But I didn’t.” Mouse rose, indicated that Moyshe should follow him. He stepped into the passageway, tapping his ear.
“What is it?”
“Don’t want them to know I know this. The order
s came from up top. Way up top. I know this woman who works in Communications. She told me a couple things she thought I already knew. Naturally, I played along.”
“Naturally. If it’s female, you’ll go along with anything.”
Mouse grinned. “One of these days I’ll tell you about the Admiral sending me to pimp school. Whoring isn’t the oldest profession. Pimping is. You’d be knocked on your ass if you saw what a really good pimp can do with women.”
“He sent you to school?”
“Yeah. Hell, Moyshe, it’s the oldest trick in the spy business. You teach a guy how to make a woman fall for him, then turn him loose on the women who work for the organization you want to penetrate.”
“I thought it worked the other way around. Women seducing men.”
“It’s done. It doesn’t work as well. Men don’t respond the same to emotional blackmail.”
“What did your friend have to say? We can’t stay out here too long.”
“Buddy, we’re headed for the top. Somebody upstairs has decided we’re the medicine Seiner foreign relations needs. This auction project is a test. If we come through, they’ll give us a shot at setting up our own secret service.”
BenRabi had had a few hints. He had formed a few suspicions. Still, he was not ready for the truth.
“A real fleetwide secret service. Inside and out. Intelligence and counter-intelligence. The works. For all the Starfishers. The way it sounds, they’ll give us anything we want and turn us loose. They’ve got friends landside who try to keep them informed. The friends have fed them enough, the last couple of years, to get them worried about what’s going on in Luna Command.”
“Ah. I begin to smell the rat. We’ve got connections. We could turn a few of our old buddies.”
“You’ve got it.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I was about to ask you, Moyshe.”
“After you.”
“All right.”
“All right. It would be a challenge. We’d be going head to head with the Old Man. It would be a hell of a match-up.”
BenRabi was not pleased. “I take it you’re excited.”
“Damned right I am. Not meaning to brag, but if we’d gone back, I’d have had Beckhart’s job eventually. He said so himself. And you’d have become my Chief of Operations. He thought we had what it takes, Moyshe. You see what I’m driving at?”
“I think so.” BenRabi was disappointed for a moment. There was not a shred of loyalty in Mouse. His attitude was wholly mercenary… What the hell am I crying about? he wondered. I started this side-changing stuff.
He cast Mouse a sharp glance. More and more, he suspected his partner had stayed here only because he had, not out of conviction. What did that mean when taken with this sudden enthusiasm for directing an organization targeted against their former employer? What had become of his obsession with destroying the Sangaree?
“So what I think you should maybe be thinking about,” Mouse said, “is how we could set it up. Who we should use, where we should keep our eyes open, like that. And structure, too. You’re more of a theorist than I am.”
“Communications would be the big problem, Mouse.” He tried not to take Mouse’s chatter seriously. The obstacles to creating an effective Seiner secret service were insurmountable. “How do you run an S or K net without communications? See what I mean? We’re out here and the targets are the hell and gone somewhere else.You and I were always where we could use a public comm if we had to. Or we could use the Navy nets. Say we got somebody into Luna Command. He finds out something we should know right now. What does he do? Run outside and yell real loud?”
“We’ll figure it out, Moyshe. Don’t worry about the details that way. Don’t be so negative all the time. Instead of saying, ‘It’s impossible,’ say, ‘How can we do it?’ Figure a way, then organize to fit it. Let’s get back in there before they get too suspicious.”
They exchanged a couple of moves. Moyshe said, “I yield. I would’ve had you this time except for that one stupid move.”
“It was a bad opening. I deserved to get stomped. Another game?”
“Just one. Then I’d better turn in. Amy’s sneaking me out for a look at their xeno-archaeological project tomorrow.”
“Wish I could go. But Jarl will have fits enough about you.”
The main research station was awesome.
“What they did,” Amy explained, “was take over one of the drydock asteroids. So they could study the ships inside.”
The planetoid was smaller than the one that had engulfed Danion, but still was vast. At least a hundred ships floated in its interior. Some were so alien their lines almost hurt the eye.
Around the inner face of the asteroid lay an office and laboratory level. It was roofed by a layer of glassteel. The researchers and their staffs could look up at the ships floating overhead. People in the bay could see what was going on in the offices and labs. The asteroid had been given spin along its longitudinal axis instead of using artificial gravity generators, which would have been in continuous imbalance by facing inward.
Moyshe and Amy entered through a lock in the asteroid’s end, and observed briefly from a lookout there. Moyshe was impressed. The line of ships marched on till it vanished in the distance.
“They bring them in this end,” Amy said. “They look them over, study them, and the ones that aren’t useful they move up the line.” She indicated a remote vessel. Tugs were guiding it away. “The far end is industrialized. The ships the scientists don’t want they break up for raw materials or refit for us to use. Let’s see if we can find a scooter.”
An hour later Amy introduced him to a woman named Consuela el-Sanga. “Consuela is an old friend, Moyshe. Consuela, Moyshe might be able to give you an idea or two.”
Consuela el-Sanga was a small, dusky woman in her early fifties. She bore the stamp of the preoccupied researcher, of a person who had devoted a lifetime to her curiosity. Moyshe liked her immediately, and as quickly felt a kinship. She was a shy, diffident individual in matters outside her expertise.
“Are you a xeno-archaeologist, Mister benRabi?”
“No. Amy’s exaggerating. I’m not even a gifted amateur. My only claim is that I followed the Lunar digs close till a year ago. I had a friend on the project.”
Darkness hit him. It had the impact of a physical blow. A woman’s face floated before him. He had not seen that face in years. Alyce. Academy love. The girl who had worked at the Lunar digs…
“Moyshe!” Amy sounded frightened. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
He held up a hand, patted at the air. “Okay. Okay. I’m okay.” He shook his head violently. “Just a delayed reaction to the spin here,” he lied. “I’ve never been in centrifugal gravity.”
Inside, panic. What the hell was this? It had not happened for months. He realized he was talking, and talking fast. “I was at the digs a year and a half ago. They’d just opened a new chamber, in almost perfect condition. They thought some of the machinery might still work.”
Amy and Consuela watched him carefully. “You sure you’re all right?” Amy asked.
“Sure. Sure. Miss el-Sanga, what could I do to help?”
“I really don’t know. We could walk you through one of the ships we think relates to the Lunar base, for a layman’s opinion. We’re sure there was a connection, but, because of politics, we can’t work with the people there.”
“It’s a pity, too.”
“Come along. We’ll start with artifacts recovered from the ships. So you’re married now, Amy.”
BenRabi caught an odd note in what could have been either statement or question. He gave the women a closer look. There was a slight tenseness between them, as if there had been more to their relationship than friendship and shared interests. He filed it in the back of his mind.
“Took me long enough, didn’t it?” Amy tried to sound light. She failed.
/> The moment of disorientation had turned something on inside Moyshe. His mind went to work agent-wise. The cameras rolled. The cross-reference computer clicked. His surroundings took on more depth, more meaning. They became brighter and more interesting. His movements became quicker and more assured.
“This is what we laughingly call the museum,” Consuela el-Sanga said, pausing before opening a door. “It’s not, really. It’s just a storage room. Whoever those people were, they didn’t leave much behind. Mostly just trash. But that’s all archaeologists ever have to work with. Broken points, potsherds, and whatever else the ancients threw out behind their huts.”
Moyshe moved up and down rows of metal shelves. They contained hundreds of items, each tagged with a date, ship number, inventory number, and brief guess as to what the object might be. Some were referenced to other inventory numbers.
Twice he paused, reexamined an item, said, “I saw something like this at the Lunar digs. I’d say there’s a definite connection.”
The second time, Consuela el-Sanga responded, “Not necessarily. Parallel function. Say a comb. Any creature with hair would invent a comb. Wouldn’t you say? So the existence of a comb wouldn’t prove anything but a common physical trait.” And when Moyshe finished with the racks and shelves, she said, “Now into my office. I’ll show you our two real treasures.”
Moyshe and Amy followed her through another door.
“You haven’t seen these either, Amy. We found them while you were out. They were both part of the same find.”
Consuela El-Sanga took two plastic cases from her desk. She handled them with loving care.
Moyshe accepted one, Amy the other. The item benRabi held was a piece of paper that had been torn into small fragments. A very few faded marks were visible.
“Is it a photograph?” Amy asked.
“Good guess,” Consuela said. “We had a hell of a time with them.” Moyshe traded with Amy. The second object was an extremely faded, flat, two-dimensional photo. It had been torn in two.
Consuela continued, “First we pieced all the tears together. Then we did scans with low-intensity lasers and computer enhancements. We came up with these.” The woman glowed with pride as she handed over reproductions of the items.