Quarus

by S J MacDonald

  ‘I would love to, skipper,’ said Owun, and confided, ‘People are saying some crazy stuff and I’d like to set the record straight on what my people really believe.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Alex agreed, and looked at Shion. ‘I’ll leave it with you to organise.’

  The debate took place the following afternoon in the lecture theatre. Three chairs had been placed on the stage, each with their own lectern and the usual big screen behind. The title of the seminar – they had decided to call it a seminar – was given as The Cabin Mystery, with a subtitle of Sci-tech vs Angel vs Alien.

  They had a full house, and as he stepped up to go first, Alex was well aware that most of his audience were in the Angel camp, though quite a few had embraced Shion’s suggestion already and there was already a book running on whether they’d get another visit on their homeward run.

  Alex kept it brief. It had been agreed that each of them would have five minutes at the start of the seminar to lay out the basis of their argument, then questions would be allowed from the floor – managed by Buzz – which they would then discuss and debate their answers.

  Alex was very confident in his own position. Absolutely confident, in fact. He laid out the steps of his case, the fact that there was existing tech which could produce all the so-called ‘mysterious’ events in his cabin without recourse to any more esoteric explanation, and made the ‘When you find a hoof print, think horses, not unicorns’ point that the simplest explanation was overwhelmingly more likely.

  Shion then did the same for her own theory that it had been a visit from a Chethari ambassador, laying out the points just as she had discussed them with Alex.

  Then it was Owun’s turn. He spoke well, speaking about the prevalence of belief in angels throughout human cultures, and the fundamental similarity of those images and beliefs even amongst cultures which were widely different in other respects.

  ‘Even on worlds where they have virtually no religious beliefs,’ he said. ‘Angels appear in the role of supernatural beings, rarely seen but believed to be protective. This,’ he put up an image on the screen behind him, ‘is a three thousand year old statue created long before first contact was made.’ It showed three figures – a kneeling woman and a crouching man, holding on to one another in a pose expressive of grief in every line. Behind and above them was the third figure, a recognisable representation of an angel, great eagle-style wings folded like arms as if attempting to shield or embrace the couple. The face of the angel was ageless, genderless, wise, stooped with compassion. ‘It is called ‘Sorrow’, Owun said. ‘One of the treasures in the system art museum at Novaterre.’

  Alex had recognised it at once. The Sorrow Triptych was so ubiquitous in Novaterran culture that it was used in advertising, an instantly recognisable meme.

  All the same, he turned his head and looked at Owun with a little surprise. He had not expected the crewman to be so direct, taking the fight for his case straight to the skipper’s own homeworld.

  ‘This,’ said Owun, apparently unaware of his gaze, ‘is a range of ‘get well soon’ gifts available in hospital gift shops, also on Novaterre…’ There were message-holders, small items generally offering some kind of gift which, when activated, would play a recorded message from you to the patient. There were puppies with flowers, birds with blossom-twigs and, yes, angels, one hand raised in benediction.

  ‘And this,’ said Owun, ‘is from the pre-boarding shops at Novaterran spaceports…’

  Images of charms, now, lucky tokens, blessing tokens, for those embarking on a journey. They were also angel-themed. Alex kept his face expressionless.

  ‘The point is,’ said Owun, ‘that belief in angels is virtually universal, even on worlds with next to zero involvement in religious organisation or practices. That has been explained – dismissed, I would say – by anthropologists who have traditionally described anything they don’t quite understand as ‘Dark Age Religious’. Current thinking – and it has been current for several centuries – is that angels and other supernatural beings are pantheistic; god-like beings which developed independently in so many cultures because the same stimuli were operative in each case. They believe ‘angels’ arose from a need to feel guarded and comforted when living in very harsh conditions, an association of light with life, and an admiration for the flight of birds, combining to the belief that winged, radiant beings are watching over us. Because that has been the prevalent thinking for so long it has acquired the status of knowledge, and is taught as such in our schools and universities. Even in our own universities on Camae, students are told that they can’t say ‘angels are real’ in history or sociology essays, only in religious studies. In wider academia, belief in the existence of angels is regarded as fringe – on some worlds, extreme fringe – and such views are never given credibility through publication in serious academic journals. I believe that is wrong. I believe that angels are real, actual historical fact, and that their existence, and their nature, should be the subject of serious academic discussion. So – how do I know that there are angels?’

  He put up a series of images – archaeological digs and ancient works of art – to illustrate his points as he spoke, laying out the evidence that his people had been transported to Camae as colonists, and that their art from that time, preserved in stone, had shown them being carried by angels.

  ‘There are many opinions on my world about the true nature of angels,’ Owun said, ‘From hard-line religious fundamentalists who won’t hear anything other than that they are the agents of God to those who believe that they are an alien species which we only remember as angels because we couldn’t understand them any other way. Me, I have an open mind. I believe that ‘angels’ is a term which covers many possibilities, so until the day when I can meet one myself and ask them some questions, I can only say that I have an open mind, that I believe there are beings in our cosmos which we perceive as angels and whether they are spirits or multidimensional beings or an alien species we haven’t properly met yet, well, that’s a matter of belief which is necessarily founded in faith, in the absence of fact.’

  He got cheers and whoops of applause as he sat down, and Alex gave him a nod of acknowledgement, too. He’d known that Owun Glyn was bright, and that he was opinionated, passionate about the language and culture of his homeworld. He had not realised, though, how eloquent the crewman could be. Even Alex himself had to concede, in the light of what he’d just said, that Owun’s belief in angels was not as irrational and superstitious as he’d imagined it to be.

  In the debate which followed, in fact, Alex found himself obliged to admit, when cornered on the subject, that he had no more hard evidence for his conviction that the image had been produced by nanotech than there was to support either of the other two theories, other than the fact that he knew that such nanotech existed. Shion’s countering point that they knew the Chethari existed too was promptly matched by Owun asserting that there was ‘proof of angels’ in his own world’s history.

  ‘We all three have reasonable explanations,’ the crewman said, when they each had their turn to conclude at the end of the seminar, ‘based on our knowledge, and our beliefs. And I don’t believe that there is a contest here over which of us is ‘right’, I don’t believe that we can say that we are ‘right’ by asserting our own beliefs as stronger than those of other people. I think we should keep an open mind, open and enquiring, and be prepared to modify our beliefs in the light of increasing knowledge.’

  He won the debate with that, no question, if success was measured in the volume and enthusiasm of applause for each speaker when Buzz brought the seminar to a close. The applause for Alex was polite, for Shion it was warm, for Owun it was a standing ovation.

  Alex conceded with good grace, shaking hands with the crewman and giving him a smile.

  ‘Impressive, Mr Gwyn.’

  ‘Thank you, skipper.’ Owun was pleased, but composed, smiling back as he shook the skipper’s hand. ‘You did well, too,’ he as
sured, him, quite kindly.

  Alex was still grinning about that hours later. But it had worked, as he acknowledged when he thanked Shion – the furtive discussions about ‘the thing’ which had started to embed as superstitious anxiety amongst the crew had given way under the light of open debate. It was still a topic of conversation, but very much on the same level as discussing which of the flickball teams people supported might have won an intersystem series… mildly interesting to chat about but ultimately pointless, since they couldn’t possibly find out until they got home. The Cabin Mystery, it was agreed, would just have to wait until they had more evidence, one way or another.

  And they had, meanwhile, increasing preparations for Quarus to occupy them. With five weeks of their Gulf crossing to go and another two weeks beyond that to reach Quarus, Silvie reported that everyone aboard had completed swim training. This didn’t just mean that everyone had had the opportunity to get in the tank and learn how to use the wrist jets and masks; it meant that Silvie had trained all of them to the limit of their confidence, the point at which enjoyment became anxiety. A human instructor might have continued to push, trying to get people over their fear, but Silvie recognised when people would be working outside their comfort zone and drew the line right there.

  ‘I’ve done you a scale,’ she told Alex, the day after the last trainee had peaked at the highest level of skill and confidence possible for a human swimmer to achieve. ‘I’ve done it one to ten, I know you like that. And there’s a risk assessment with a map.’

  Alex could see that, in the documents she’d passed to his screens. The ‘map’ was a set of colour-coded charts of Quarus’ oceans, linked to the ten point scale she’d created for the swimmers. For each point on the scale there was a chart showing where they could swim freely, where they must be supervised and where they must not swim at all. For each zone, too, there was specified safety equipment.

  ‘This is perfect, thank you!’ Alex looked at her with deep appreciation for the work that she’d put in, not just in the paperwork but in all the training she’d provided, hours every day in the tank showing people the same things over and over. For a quarian, that was social generosity above and beyond. ‘Thank you, Silvie.’

  ‘I know, I’m brilliant.’ Silvie twinkled at him. ‘So, you do something for me, now – I want something.’ She saw his surprise and informed him, proudly, ‘I’m negotiating!’

  Alex grinned broadly.

  ‘It doesn’t really count as negotiating,’ he informed her, ‘if you’ve already handed over your side of it without stipulating conditions.’

  ‘Oh.’ She reconsidered. ‘Calling in a favour, then.’ She demonstrated her understanding of the concept by explaining, ‘Reminding someone of things you’ve done for them when asking for something to be done in return.’ She regarded him with slightly suspicious curiosity. ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘Because you have done so much for us,’ Alex said, ‘that we owe you more than we could possibly ever repay. And besides, irrelevant, because you know that if I can give you whatever you want, I will do it. But okay, yes, I’ll go along…’ he could see that she was really wanting to try to make this agreement human-style. ‘So, what is it that you want, Silvie?’

  ‘I want to get Ecky to clone Lucky.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Lucky, their mascot gecko, was, as Rangi had put it, drawing to the end of his natural life. In fact, he was already considerably beyond the average lifespan for his species. An early period living on pizza and sandwiches and not much care from his first owner had been more than compensated for by the five star care provided by Rangi. In recent weeks, though, the now very elderly gecko had begun to deteriorate. Rangi had told the crew, trying not to cry as he said it, that Lucky was now on medication for age-related conditions, and approaching the stage at which only multiple organ replacement and strong drug treatments could prolong his life.

  This, Rangi would not do. Human patients had the ability, and the right, to decide for themselves at what point they wished to move from increasingly desperate life-prolonging measures into palliative care. There came a point in most people’s lives when the prospect of more surgery, more rehab, more drugs with their unpleasant side effects, just became too much. Few people pushed it all the way to ending up on total life support only to be turned off when brain function finally degenerated into clinical death.

  Animals, though, had no such ability to decide for themselves. Vets would not prolong the life of pets beyond the average lifespan of their species when doing so involved treatments which would be distressing to the animal. The license under which the Fourth were permitted to have Lucky on their ship required that they comply with all care and ethical conditions. Lucky, therefore, would be provided with pain relief for the arthritis which had developed in one of his legs, and palliative care for the discomfort of slowly failing organs, but he would die, Rangi said, most probably in another three to four weeks – almost certainly before they reached Quarus. Cloning him, preserving cells and having him cloned at Quarus, was already something the crew were discussing and which, Alex knew, they were strongly in favour of. Lucky was more than a much loved pet, he was their mascot, and now that they had the idea firmly embedded that it was lucky to have the gecko on board, they were doubly reluctant to lose him. His fault, Alex knew, for naming him Lucky in the first place.

  ‘Come on, you know you’ll miss him just as much as everyone else,’ Silvie said. ‘Don’t imagine people don’t know how often you pop in there to give him a nut and a tickle.’

  Alex attempted to look dignified. He defined his visits to Lucky’s habitat as ‘inspecting the welfare’ of the gecko, and if he gave him one of his little treat-nuts and a tickle under the chin to make him do his funny little happy-chirrup, well, nobody should interpret that as the captain going soft on having a pet on a warship.

  ‘Well, it will be sad for everyone,’ he acknowledged, tacitly including himself in that ‘everyone’. ‘But if…’ he checked himself, recalling that Silvie wanted to try this human-style. ‘Cloning, though…’ he assumed an air of dubious reserve. ‘I don’t know that that’s really…’

  He got no further, as Silvie burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, this is absurd!’ She declared. ‘You know you’re going to say yes, I know you’re going to say yes, you know that I know that you’re going to say yes, everyone else knows you’re going to say yes…’ she gestured around the command deck and the surreptitiously half-watching crew, ‘and you know that they know that you’re going to say yes. Sorry, skipper, I did try, but this is too bonkers! So just say yes, okay – the only person who does need to be convinced is Ecky. So…’ she opened a comlink and gave the kind of encouraging whistle with which she might summon a puppy. ‘Here, Ecky!’

  He was there in eight seconds, blushing but practically trotting over to the command table.

  ‘Morning…’ he greeted everyone, before singling out the two people he felt merited individual greetings, ‘Morning, Silvie – morning, Alex.’

  ‘Here – sit.’ Silvie patted the seat next to hers as everyone else returned the greeting politely, and the ichthyologist hurried to sit down. ‘Isn’t he cute?’ Silvie observed, to Alex.

  Alex grinned at the post-grad student, who giggled. Ecky – more formally known as Ecklan Jumar, MSc, BSc (1st), BioSci (Cert), did have a certain puppyish charm evident even to those without empath abilities. He was loose limbed, slightly clumsy and impetuous in his movements, with a scruff of untidy hair and a habit of tipping his head to one side to gaze at his interlocutor with an endearing, earnest gaze.

  Ecky, of course, was the last minute slide-in for the cabin which was technically Kate’s but which she wasn’t using. To say he’d been no trouble at all would be unfair; he’d been a positive addition both to the Lab and to the ship. His aquarium had turned out to be, in fact, a dozen smallish tanks which he’d managed to fit in around the lab without too much difficulty, and his willingness to help ou
t other people had made him a valued member of the team within days of his coming aboard. It had been his observation, indeed, which had been instrumental in solving the SEP problem. He got on very well with the crew, pitching in with enthusiasm to space-safety training and doing a couple of stints a week as a galley hand. He was always happy to show people his tanks, too, and to talk about his work. It hadn’t taken the Heron’s people long to realise that Ecky was obsessed with molluscs. Molluscs of all kinds were the absolute pinnacle of interest as far as he was concerned, but his own mollusc, the chiton he was bioengineering both for his doctorate and as a new introduction to the biosphere of Serenity, was the absolute bees knees. Alex himself, having asked politely how his research was going, now knew more about the life cycle, breeding habits and general wonderfulness of Acanthopleura Adapta than he had really wanted to know.

  ‘I expect Silvie has talked to you about the possibility of cloning Lucky?’ Alex asked, and when Ecky nodded rapidly, enquired, ‘Is that something you are able to do, Ecky?’

  Ecky gave him the look of a nuclear tech engineer asked if he knew how to change a fuse.

  ‘Er… yes?’ he said. ‘Easily. But I’m not allowed to.’ His earnest manner kicked up several gears into intense, troubled sincerity. ‘Genetic engineering laws are very tight, you know. Getting a license for any experimental engineering at all is like running a 5K steeplechase with the hurdles getting bigger and bigger every time – you just wouldn’t credit the effort involved to get permission to bioengineer a new species of chiton, and that, you see, is the only thing that I’m allowed to do. Using my equipment for anything else would get my project, and my doctorate, pulled at once. And I’d probably be arrested and charged with illegal bioengineering, too.’ It was clear from the order in which he put those calamities, and from his tone, that it would be the loss of his beloved chitons which would really hurt. ‘I’m sorry, I really truly am, I’d love to be able to help, but I honestly can’t.’