Damia's Children

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Th . . . thanks, I am.” Mentally Rojer was glad he’d kept his remarks neutral. He was amused, though, that all the startling events he had witnessed recently were unexceptional on the Genesee, and philosophically, resigned himself to the situation.

  * * *

  Mother, Father, Damia said, initiating a call to her parents, still at their breakfast on Callisto.

  Yes, Damia? her mother replied. Something is the matter. Jeff, I told you that yesterday when we exchanged Rojer’s capsule. And it’s . . . Zara? There was gratifying surprise in the Rowan’s tone. Whatever could be the matter with Zara? She’s the most pliable of your lot.

  Not anymore, Mother. And quickly Damia conveyed a summary of her daughter’s recent aberrant and capricious behavior. I don’t know where she gets these notions about the queen . . .

  Unusual that, the Rowan said. Especially across such distance, and with only a tape to stimulate the reaction . . .

  D’you mean—others have reacted the way Zara has?

  Yes, indeed, Jeff put in. There’s a growing minority who feel the Alliance has been authoritarian, peremptory and high-handed. Which is muddle-headed thinking. After all, the creature was humanely rescued from sure death. There was no planet on which she could have landed before oxygen and food supplies ran out. She may be isolated but that’s as much for her own good. There’ve been two attempts to . . . eradicate her from “Human soil” already.

  We hadn’t heard about them . . . Damia was indignant. The queen was in responsible protective custody: by observation alone much could be learned from her about others of her species. She wouldn’t be released but, on the moon, she was certainly no threat to anyone.

  You haven’t heard because it’s been kept top secret. Young Rhodri is to be commended once more for prompt and effective action, Jeff said.

  Mind you, the Rowan added in a terse caustic tone, there were a few snide remarks about the prolificacy of plummy jobs held by one particular Denebian family . . .

  Damia heard her father’s amused chuckle. Our critics simply fail to appreciate large families: but we’re by no means the only Denebian family with phalanxes of progeny. And certainly not one family at that: there’re Ravens, Eagles, Cranes, Gwyns, Lyons, and a healthy sprinkling of Terran Reidingers, Owenses, Grens, Maus, and Thigbits in the top echelons. That isn’t really a monopoly—just clever family planning.

  However, the remarks were just short of libel and slander, and decidedly snide, the Rowan said, irritated.

  Irrelevant, all of it, Jeff said. So far the queen has been cared for to the best of our small knowledge. High Council ’Dinis are in accord with ours that she be treated with care as any prisoner of war. The old Geneva conventions—and I don’t know how old they actually are—have been scrupulously applied. The difference here is that she has never seen her keepers, curators, whatever. Which may be pure serendipity.

  Why?

  We have to assume that, after centuries of space battles and the one landing the Hive managed on the ’Dini Sef colony, that her species know what Mrdinis look like. But they can’t know what Humans look like, never having encountered us in the flesh as it were. There is a school of thought that she could be approached by a Human representative, in a friendly manner. That way we may find out . . .

  Father, that is totally reprehensible! That’s . . . that’s taking advantage of a helpless . . .

  You too? The Rowan put in.

  Me, too, what?

  You feel that she’s helpless, alone, isolated, friendless, worldless? Her mother’s tone was sardonic.

  Not particularly, Damia remarked drily, but Zara does!

  Zara? Yes, she’s always been particularly sensitive, hasn’t she? But how would she pick that up from looking at a tape? That’s real distancing, the Rowan said thoughtfully. Still, there’s a use for that sort of Talent, too.

  Damia caught an undertone in her mother’s mind. Mother, she’s not fourteen yet. And . . .

  And . . . Jeff Raven prompted his daughter when she faltered, although what she was finding hard to say was the reason for her contacting her parents.

  Lately she’s been almost . . . dysfunctional as a Talent. Cross her off your list of prospective Tower candidates!

  Not fourteen yet? the Rowan repeated. And presently dysfunctional? She’s just started menstruation? Well, the dysfunction could right itself when her cycle settles. Is that what you wanted to tell us?

  Damia heaved a sigh. Yes, I felt you should know.

  The Rowan projected sympathy but again Damia felt that undertone, and a flash of keen interest and some satisfaction.

  I will not say that you were not a handful at that age, dear Damia, her father said, a ripple of fond amusement in his tone.

  I was never dysfunctional as a Talent.

  No, that you weren’t. There was a shade of irony in the affectionate wave that washed over Damia and she relaxed.

  I just wish I knew what to do to help Zara right now, she said wistfully. We’ve tried so hard to support and encourage her.

  There isn’t a parent in the universe who hasn’t felt inadequate and at fault at one time or another, Damia, Jeff said.

  Like your father, and the Rowan’s mental touch was as full of affection as Jeff’s, I feel that you are being unnecessarily anxious about Zara. Perhaps you aptly chose to name her after Elizara who has such amazing empathy for her patients. There’s no disgrace in having a Prime medical Talent.

  I doubt Zara has the stomach for a medical career, and Damia shot a tableau of Zara’s reactions to limp animal bodies and the preparation of meat for cooking.

  Surgery’s only a minor part of medicine. More is done through biofeedback, metamorphics, mental conditioning, and genuine compassionate therapy than intrusive methods, the Rowan said. Consult with Isthia and Elizara. Either would have some insights that will help you.

  I felt you two should know first, Damia added lamely. Why had she expected her parents to solve her parenting problems when neither she nor Afra could?

  Because you are closest to us, dear heart, said her father, having picked up on that thought. Don’t be hard on your daughter when she is what she is.

  She is what most people aren’t right now, sorry for that wretched queen. The mental tone in which Damia said “wretched” indicated that she didn’t apply the usual meaning.

  Leave it, Damia. Just love Zara, the Rowan said. And consult with Isthia and Elizara.

  Damia withdrew then, but not without a farewell surge of affection and approval from both parents. Wanting to sort this out now she’d admitted her reservations about her daughter, she checked the time differences. And swore under her breath. Isthia would not enjoy being awakened from sleep. When she tried for Elizara, she touched a mind that was intensely occupied in something vital. So Damia desisted, waiting for a more opportune moment to reach the two healers.

  Maybe her parents were right: Zara would settle when her cycle did. She’d wait a few months and meantime give Zara the benefit of unconditional support. That was, after all, what Afra had recommended. He’d lived through her mother’s vacillations and vagaries . . . and her own. He had always shown how much he understood—and loved—her. And he was very gentle and understanding with Zara. That might be all the child needed.

  * * *

  When Rojer, Gil, and Kat appeared at the captain’s mess for dinner that night, his presence was welcomed by officers keen to hear more details to flesh out the official communications that Rojer had brought.

  “Bare bones of the matter,” Captain Osullivan said. “I believe your brother went on with the KLTL to check on the exact location of the nova and where the Hive homeworld was supposed to be.”

  “Did you know about the great Hive wreck, sir?”

  “That was the last communique we’ve received,” Osullivan said.

  “Then you don’t know that three pods escaped . . .” Rojer asked.

  “Three? But they only mention capturing one . . .”
/>   “That’s the only one so far located, sir . . .”

  “Any survivors?” asked one officer.

  “Any live survivors?” asked another.

  Captain Osullivan held up his hand for silence as his usually orderly mess erupted into minor bedlam of information-starved queries. “Shall we let our guest explain in his own time? Then if there are additional questions, they can be dealt with in due course.”

  Rojer took a deep breath, sending his recall back to the proper sequence of events and gave as comprehensive a report as possible. The only thing he left out was his own participation, limiting it to mention of nameless Talents. He had “picked up” that most of them identified him as a “kid.” He didn’t want them to add “cocky” to that.

  “We have tapes, gentlemen,” the captain said when Rojer had wound down, “but these can wait until after a very good dinner. Provided, I might add, by the arrival of Mr. Lyon and eight supply drones. We’ll all be the better for a meal.”

  However, there were questions put to Rojer that he was not able to answer. Some he knew nothing about and others he replied to not as fully as he could, but as fully as he should. When pressed by the engineering officer, Rojer had the chance he wanted to describe how the great Hive ship was being painstakingly reconstructed. This venture, aided and abetted by so many autonomous groups throughout the Alliance, aroused the interest of many of the officers. They were suddenly obsessed with the notion of initiating their own piece table.

  Once again the captain’s table erupted into excited babble. When order was restored, Rojer had to disappoint them because he hadn’t brought his spec files with him. It hadn’t occurred to him that the Genesee wouldn’t have their own board. Every other ship, world, city, town, settlement in the Alliance seemed to.

  “While it would have been a nice leisure-time activity during the long pursuit,” Captain Osullivan said ruefully, “I think we will soon be concentrating on more immediate concerns, especially if that is indeed a Hive colonized system.” Then he leaned on one elbow toward Rojer. “With your permission, Mr. Lyon . . .” Rojer felt awkward being so formally addressed but he tried to look relaxed, “I feel you should personally report all these details to the Arapahoe and Captain Quacho, and the KTTS and Captain Prtglm. I’ll signal them to join us at 1230 tomorrow for the midday meal. Is that all right?”

  Rojer grinned. “Anything you say, Captain. Did you want me to ’port them aboard?”

  Osullivan cleared his throat and Rojer “heard” that the captain had overlooked that possibility. “Ahem, yes, that would save hours of time and a good deal of fuel that we might urgently require in the near future.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir.”

  Rojer saw amusement on faces about the table and “felt” a generally benign acceptance of him. The general opinion was that the “kid” was being very useful.

  * * *

  The next day Rojer was more fluent in his account of all that had happened since the last official bulletin had reached the three ships of B Squadron. Captain Prtglm was as large and charcoal grey a ’Dini as befitted its name. It was also the most fluent speaker of Basic that Rojer had encountered, even his parents’ friends, so, although he used more technical language and emphasized certain phrases with body movements, he knew the captain of the KTTS understood every word he said.

  “I doubt not that squadron approaches a Hive-held system,” Prtglm said, nodding its poll eye politely toward Rojer when he had finished. Then Prtglm added a gentle tlock. “Captains do not agree with whole mind but Prtglm is old captain. Longly pursued Hivers. Have also brought new device for early viewing. Not sensitive to sensors.”

  It gestured for one of its aides to bring over and unwrap a warty looking object which had the sheen of plastic, even about the obvious jet mouths that ringed one end of it.

  With eager excitement, Commander Metrios and the Arapahoe’s engineering officer leaned across the wide table to examine it and then looked at Prtglm for explanation.

  “Hive sensors read metal. No metal in this probe. Undetected is. Good look round gets.” Captain Prtglm emitted the rasping noise of ’Dini laughter and, when the aide who had unwrapped the probe said something a spate of ’Dini too fast for anyone but Rojer to translate, all the ’Dinis had a good rasp over that, too: even Gil and Kat joined in; more in courtesy, Rojer hoped.

  He pretended to look puzzled. The substance of the remark was that ’Dinis now had an instrument that would provide even Humans with as long a look as required to be sure of what to do next.

  Thian had mentioned something about the dichotomy of Human and ’Dini attitudes as far as aggressive or offensive action was concerned so Rojer wasn’t as upset about such subtle censure as he might have been. Someone who hadn’t lived with ’Dinis all his life might take umbrage to the subtle insult of such a remark.

  “A totally plastic probe, huh?” Captain Osullivan said. “Compact, and looking like a meteor or an asteroid. Just the sort of debris that litters space. But have we ascertained whether or not this system has an asteroid belt?”

  “All space has floating and flying objects of no definite description,” Prtglm said, stiffening its bottle neck.

  “The captain would certainly be correct in that, sir,” the Genesee’s astrogator replied, smiling at Prtglm and signing approval and respect.

  “I meant no disrespect, honored Prtglm,” Osullivan said suavely and inclined his body in apologetic movements.

  “I’d worry about ion trails, sir,” Commander Metrios said. “Those’d be picked up . . .”

  “What if it left no ion trail?” Rojer put in. “I mean, it doesn’t have to go there, I could send it. No trails then.”

  Slowly, with obvious elements of disbelief in its turn, Prtglm swiveled its poll eye down to Rojer, and blinked.

  RESPECTFULLY, LARGE HONORED PRTGLM, RJR IS ONE OF THOSE WHO CAN PUT THINGS AND PEOPLE WHERE THEY ARE NEEDED. SEND MESSAGES TO DISTANT MINDS. Then Rojer made a most obsequious bow. Beside him, Gil made a barely audible click of approval.

  Prtglm had ignored Gil and Kat from the moment it stepped into the ready room. So had the rest of its contingent because all the ’Dinis knew that it had immediately identified Rojer’s friends as younglings with few hibernations.

  THIS IS THE HUMAN TALENT RJR LN, Captain Osullivan added quickly, THIS SHIP IS ALREADY INDEBTED TO HIM FOR NEWS AND FOOD SUPPLIES, AND THOSE SUPPLIES FORWARDED TO THE KTTS.

  Prtglm clicked and clattered, even tlocked once in surprise but it regarded Rojer without blinking. With a very slight movement of its head, it also examined Gil and Kat who respectfully presented uncovered poll eyes to the KTTS captain.

  “Rijor,” and Rojer did not worry about misplaced vowel sounds: the fact that Prtglm would use his name at all was sufficient notice. “You are Tower?”

  RJR IS TOWER TYPE SENDER RECEIVER NOW. Which was true. Adding a title of any kind to his name, at his obvious age, would have been arrogant beyond excuse in the eyes of such a prestigious ’Dini.

  YOU ARE ABLE TO SEND PROBE TO HIVE SHIP, AROUND HIVE SHIP FOR PERFECT SCAN?

  RJR IS ABLE, HONORED PRTGLM.

  “Well, lad, that would certainly help a great deal in deciding what to do next,” Captain Osullivan said suavely. “We’ve got to know a lot about that system and whichever worlds the Hivers are using.”

  “I can send something that light and little,” and Rojer pointed to the lumpy meter long, quarter of a meter long probe, “anywhere you want it to go. And it won’t leave ion trails.”

  The briefing that followed was as heady an experience for Rojer as finding that first match of Hive ship pieces.

  “We’ll have to make certain there’s no sensor devices or mines outside or just inside the heliopause first,” Captain Osullivan said, “before we let you go inside.”

  “No such devices are used by Hives,” Captain Prtglm said and then flicked its forearms open in a gesture that meant it knew that its reassurance was insufficient fo
r its Human colleagues, and they’d complete that search first.

  By the time the squadron reached the heliopause, Captain Osullivan admitted there were no early warning buoys. “But there was no harm, and no delay, in making certain of it.”

  Once inside the heliopause, they examined the astrogator’s diagram of this solar system. It was so far from Earth and the Nine Star League that it hadn’t even a number on Human charts: the ’Dini ident was a long series of consonants and ’Dini numerals which were shortened to Xh-33. It had ten planets, having no asteroid belt where a fifth planet would have been in Earth’s system.

  When the ’Dini engineering contingent produced a round dozen of the plastic probe lumps, Rojer said that he was quite able to handle several in the air at one time.

  “A juggler, are you, kid?” Commander Metrios asked, mildly skeptical.

  From the beverage counter in the ready room, Rojer “lifted” four mugs and three glasses, two saucers and a knife, a fork and a spoon and had the cups gyrating like compass points, the glasses were circling the room—well above everyone’s heads—while the two saucers made a Möbius strip path around both groups as the knife, fork, and spoon dipped into either mug or glass at random. This sort of juggling had been a favorite pastime at home for him and his siblings as good practice for Tower work. He didn’t mention that his parents would have scolded him to show off in such a childish fashion or that the probes would take a lot more concentration—plus generator gestalt—but as soon as he figured he’d made his point, he neatly returned everything to its original position.

  “A most accomplished juggler you are, kid,” Commander Metrios said.

  “How much difference is there from that exhibition to handling the probes, Mister Lyon?” the captain asked.

  “To be honest, sir, I’d better stick to no more than three at a time.”

  “Even so, we’ll cover a lot of ground in a much shorter time than if we had to wait for the probe to get there by . . . ah . . . ordinary transport methods,” Osullivan said. “When you’re ready, Mr. Lyon.”