The League of Peoples

by James Alan Gardner

  Yarrun’s hand touched my wrist, lowering the stunner for me. In a moment, he took my arm and nudged me out the door. As it closed behind us, I could hear Harque snicker.

  Yarrun said, “I’ll take the stunners back and lock them up.”

  I put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed lightly. “It was a childish plan anyway.”

  He slipped away and walked off slowly, tapping the guns against his thigh with every step. I slumped back against the bulkhead and tried not to think of how good it would feel to plunge my fist into someone’s face.

  Admiral’s Escort

  Admiral Chee poked his head out the infirmary door. He still had no pants on, just blue boxer briefs.

  “Are you a guard?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He slipped into the corridor with an ostentatious attempt at stealth. It was unnecessary—I could see that the people in Veresian’s office had closed the door, leaving the admiral unattended.

  “I’m not supposed to be out here,” Chee said with great satisfaction. “They thought they could stop me by stealing my pants.” He raised a hand to his mouth and blew a raspberry salute back toward the infirmary. “It didn’t work, did it? And do you know why? Because I’m an admiral and people are more embarrassed seeing my ass than I am showing it. Watch.”

  He spun around and hiked up the back of his shirt to give me a better view of his skinny flanks. Reflexively, I flinched and the old man cackled with glee.

  “Rank hath its privileges, Ramos! I’m not embarrassed and you are. You’re blushing something awful…one side of your face, anyway.”

  I was too stunned to react, flabbergasted by what he’d said. While I was still trying to decide whether to be hurt or furious, the admiral gestured at a blue jacaranda painted on a nearby door. “What’s this tree?”

  “A jacaranda,” I answered, still feeling numb.

  “A jacaranda…that sounds familiar.”

  “It’s the name of the ship.”

  “I know it’s the name of the ship,” Chee snapped. “I was making a joke.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “What’s behind this door?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “I’m an Explorer, sir. We don’t get to see much of the ship.”

  He snorted. “Can’t be much of an Explorer if you’ve been here six years and haven’t explored the ship.”

  Once again, I was taken aback: how did he know how long I had been on the Jacaranda? But he was already off on another tangent.

  “Have you ever discovered where the galley is, Explorer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go then; I want a snack. Mushrooms in hot chocolate…have you ever had that? Slice them, fry them, and float them on top. They look like fungus umbrellas in mud. You’ll love it.”

  “I don’t think we should go to the galley, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  For some reason, it felt good to say no to an admiral, especially this admiral. “Your presence here is supposed to be a secret, sir. High Council’s orders. If you go to the galley, you’ll likely be seen by crew members—the night shift drop by the galley frequently.”

  “Oh, take out the pickle, Ramos!” he thundered. “Five minutes ago you’re ready to mutiny, and now I can’t have a snack because it’s against orders? Be consistent, Explorer! That’s the first rule of command: be consistent! You can be sadistic, you can be lazy, you can be stupid, but if you’re consistent, the crew will still let you sit in when they play dominoes.”

  “Admiral, about the mutiny—”

  “Semi-stupid move, Ramos, but only semi-stupid. If you’d thought a little longer, you’d have guessed the Council would plan for contingencies. On the other hand, you still should have shot that prick Harque. He’s your subordinate; at this point, he’s a freebie.”

  Chee winked broadly, then laughed when I looked bewildered. “Don’t know how to take me, do you?” he grinned. “I’m not as senile as you might think. ‘I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.’ Who said that?”

  “Hamlet?”

  “Damned right, and aren’t you glad I pressured the other admirals into requiring a Shakespeare course at the Academy?” He gave me a look, and this time I could see a glimmer of shrewdness hiding under the wild-eyed act. “The fact is, Explorer, I am not senile. My mind may wander from time to time, but mostly I am suffering from Don’t-give-a-shit-itis. The High Council, bless ’em, think it might be contagious, so here I am. I presume you have some idea of how they use Melaquin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, your idea is likely wrong, but who cares? Have you thought about the Landing?”

  “We haven’t had much time,” I told him. “Or information.”

  “You won’t get it either. Melaquin’s ten hours away, and we’ve been ordered to Land within two hours of making orbit. I say we go to the galley, talk things out for the length of time it takes to drink a cup of hot chocolate, then get some sleep.”

  “It really would be better to stay out of the galley, sir. The orders—”

  “Fuck the orders,” Chee interrupted. “I’m in the mood for pointless gestures of defiance. We will occupy the galley. We will sing dirty songs to draw attention to ourselves. We will accost crew members in the corridors and tell them our life stories. We will write CHEE WAS HERE in soy sauce on the servery wall, and carve our names in the tabletops, using a knife whose blade does not exceed twenty centimeters in length.”

  “Admiral….”

  “Yes?”

  “Gould we do all those things wearing pants?”

  He heaved a mighty sigh. “Lighten up, Ramos. The best revenge is making them envy your freedom.”

  But he slunk back into the infirmary for his trousers.

  Our Advantage

  While the admiral was gone, Yarrun returned from the weapons locker. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders sagged.

  “Cheer up,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “It’s an order.”

  “Oh.”

  He slumped heavily onto the wall beside me. I think we were both tired enough to be glad we had something solid to lean against.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “I talked to the admiral. He suggests a few minutes of planning in the galley, then sleep.”

  Yarrun stood a little straighter. “That sounds more…lucid…than I expected from the admiral.”

  “Chee is lucid,” I replied. “Unstable and too damned whimsical, but I think he’s healthier than the High Council suspects. Healthier on the mental scales, anyway. Physically…well, it’s interesting that Harque and Prope are still in talking with Veresian. I suspect the good doctor found some medical condition that should legally keep the admiral out of any Landing party, and the captain is trying to convince Veresian to keep his opinions to himself.”

  “Who’ll win?”

  “Not us.”

  “Mmm.”

  Silence. The growing dizziness/giddiness of fatigue came sneaking into my brain, and it was only when Yarrun started speaking that I jerked out of near-sleep.

  “If we look at this coldly,” Yarrun said, “Chee’s health is immaterial. He’s strong enough to survive another twenty-four hours, and that’s more than enough to get down and back…if we manage to get back. But the more clearheaded he is, the better for us.”

  “He’ll be less of a burden, if that’s what you mean.”

  “More importantly, he’s an admiral. And the High Council of Admirals may be the only people who know anything about Melaquin. Chee is a potential source of information.”

  “Teams have landed with admirals before,” I reminded him. “It hasn’t helped them.”

  “But if our theory is correct, most of those admirals have been senile,” Yarrun replied. “Our advantage is that this one still has brains we can pick.”

  The infirmary
door swished open again and Chee skittered out. He had put on the top half of his gray uniform, but the trousers were slung over one shoulder; instead, he wore the baggy mauve pants used during surgery. He also wore a surgeon’s mauve cap and thin rubber gloves. “Look at this great stuff!” he beamed.

  I turned back to Yarrun. “Pick his brains fast—the crop’s rotting on the vine.”

  The Admiral Proves His Sentience

  [Conversation on the way to the galley.]

  Chee: Do I really get to wear an Explorer suit?

  Me: Yes, Admiral.

  Chee: With the vanes sticking out the back and everything?

  Me: Those are for ice planets. Melaquin is temperate, isn’t it?

  Chee: Of course.

  Yarrun: Are you sure?

  Chee: If you want to get technical, it’s cold on the tips, hot in the middle, and temperate in between. But compared to ice planets and infernos, it’s shirt-sleeve weather from pole to pole.

  Yarrun: Then the admiral has some knowledge about Melaquin?

  Chee: Some.

  Me: Do you have any…insights into what we might find there?

  Chee: Insights? Why should I have insights?

  Me: The Admiralty has sent a lot of parties to Melaquin. Considering that you’re an admiral….

  Chee: Ramos, are you suggesting I would knowingly send a human being to her death?

  Me: Not in so many words.

  Chee: Look, you two: the League of Peoples classifies murderers as non-sentients, right?

  Me: Murdering a sentient is a non-sentient act, yes.

  Chee: A dangerous non-sentient act, Explorer.

  Me: Yes, sir.

  Chee: Awl what’s the penalty imposed by the League for taking a dangerous non-sentient into interstellar space?

  Yarrun: Immediate execution of everyone who knowingly participates.

  Chee: Have you ever heard of humans fooling the League? Smuggling killers, lethal weapons, or dangerous animals into open space?

  Me: No.

  Chee: And you won’t, either. Damned if we know how they do it, but take it from me, the League’s quarantine against homicide is absolute—a law of the universe, more certain than entropy. Am I here?

  Me: Of course.

  Chee: Then I never ordered anyone anywhere I thought they were sure to die. Q.E.D. [Pause.]

  Yarrun: Rather explains why the High Council of Admirals never leaves New Earth, doesn’t it?

  Chee: You bet your ass, sonny. Those buggers would be vaporized if they jumped too high on a pogo stick.

  In the Galley

  The galley was brightly lit. Coming in from the night-dim corridors, we blinked like wakened owls.

  Two ensigns lounged at a table near the door, one wearing the dark blue of the Communications Corps and the Other in Life Support white. The woman in blue was laughing at something as we entered; she had her back to us. The other woman looked up with a smile on her face, saw the admiral’s gray jacket, and snapped to jittery attention. The laugher swung her head around and jumped up too.

  “At ease,” Chee commanded, “at goddamned ease. It’s beyond me why the Fleet wants people to play jack-in-the-box when an officer enters the room. This hopping around is unsettling. I could name you five Fringe Worlds where they’d think you were drawing a gun.”

  Under his breath, Yarrun murmured, “Herrek, Golding, Nineveh, Biscayne…”

  “And Sitz,” I offered, when it became clear he was stuck.

  “Bloody Explorers,” Chee complained to the ensigns. “Heads filled with trivia no one cares about.” He fixed his eye on the woman who’d been laughing. “What’s your opinion of bloody Explorers, ensign?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” She ventured a worried glance at his mauve baggies.

  “Of course you know. You’re just too chicken-shit to say anything.” He snapped around to the other woman. “What’s your opinion of chicken-shit ensigns, ensign? Take your time; whatever you say will offend someone.”

  The woman took a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s a fair question, sir.”

  Chee clapped his hands in delight. “Quite right, ensign, I was being a prick. I can’t understand why people put up with it. What’s your name?”

  “Berta Deeren, sir.”

  “Berta Deeren Sir, you have the makings of a human being. If you’re ever offered a command position, jump ship. Now get out of here, the two of you—we’re going to fill this place with the stink of death.”

  The ensigns saluted quickly and headed for the door. Berta Deeren was blushing hot red. Yarrun and I stood aside as they left.

  “Sir,” Yarrun said to the admiral after the ensigns were gone, “why do you do that to people?”

  Chee smiled. “You could say I’m trying to wake the clods out of their rigid mental sets by forcing them to deal with unconventional behavior…or you could say I just like jerking folks around. For that matter, you could say anything you damned well want to. I do.”

  He grinned at Yarrun. Yarrun gazed back thoughtfully. I said, “The hot chocolate is over there.”

  Mushrooms

  Mushroom slices floated on the surface of my hot chocolate like ocean flotsam. I sipped carefully so I didn’t get any mushrooms in my mouth. The damned things wanted to be swallowed—they nudged my lip in their eagerness.

  No one serving in deep space could avoid mushrooms for long. Huge quantities were grown on every ship, station, and outpost. They grew quickly and cheerfully under conditions that would kill photosynthesizing plants: odd gravitational effects, artificial atmosphere, lack of natural germinating agents. Mushrooms were served as “fresh treats” in contrast to the synthesized food that made up the bulk of our diets. The Fleet expected us to slaver with gratitude.

  I did not like mushrooms. I did not dislike mushrooms. I had long since transcended the urge to vomit at the sight of yet another mushroom-based meal (stuffed mushrooms, mushrooms au gratin, poached mushrooms with creamy mushroom sauce), and had achieved a lofty plateau of indifference to the nasty gray growths.

  On Landings, however, I did delight in hacking up fungoid matter whenever a mission required biological samples.

  Hot Chocolate

  The hot chocolate was lukewarm because the pressure pot was being used for coffee.

  Pressure pots were needed to compensate for the subnormal air pressure maintained on board ship. Low pressure meant that water boiled at a lower temperature, and that meant poor quality coffee, poor quality tea, and poor quality hot chocolate. To compensate, you wanted to make your coffee, tea, or hot chocolate in a pressure pot, where the water could reach a decent heat and your drink could pick up a decent amount of flavor.

  Of course, you could only use the pot for one beverage at a time.

  On board the Jacaranda, we had three complete engines in case of breakdowns. We had two spare Sperm-field generators and five redundant D-thread computers.

  We only had one pressure pot. And it was always dedicated to coffee.

  If you took the time to brood about that, the chocolate just got colder.

  Planning (Part 2)

  “You’re the ranking Explorer,” Chee said to me. “It’s your show.”

  We sat casually around a table…or perhaps I should say we sat expansively. We were flagrant in our nonchalance. Chee leaned so far back in his chair that the springs squeaked every few seconds; a heavier man would have broken the clamps that attached the seat to its tracks. Yarrun sprawled sideways across his chair, one elbow on the table, the other hand toying with a napkin. I had both arms on the table, hands cupping my mug as if I were drawing heat from it. In fact, I was hoping my hands would warm the chocolate up.

  “All right,” I said, “we’re agreed the planet is temperate?”

  Both men grunted a yes.

  “And it’s relatively Earthlike?”

  “Don’t assume it’s too Earthlike,” Chee said.

  “Eighty percent of an Explorer’s training is aimed at stamping
out such assumptions,” I replied. “The specifics of each planet are different, but there are usually some general parallels. For example, do we think Melaquin has flora and fauna?”

  “It must,” Chee answered. “If it’s an official exile world, it has to be able to sustain human life. Otherwise, banishment to an exile world would be as good as murder, and the League of Peoples would condemn Outward Fleet laws as non-sentient. No…there’s got to be a reasonable chance for survival on any exile world—Melaquin included. It must have breathable atmosphere, drinkable water, and edible food.”

  “So Melaquin has all the comforts of home,” I said. “Why is it so deadly?”

  “Microorganisms?” Chee suggested. “A planet with life must have bacteria, and thousands of diseases for which we have no immunity.”

  “Unquestionably…but we’ll breathe canned air and wear the usual protective gear,” I told him. “The skin of a tightsuit can’t be penetrated by the smallest virus we know; and the pressure inside is kept higher than atmospheric pressure outside, so any microbe that comes close to penetrating the suit’s skin is blown right back out again.”

  “What about organisms that can digest tightsuits?”

  “There are five different kinds of tightsuits,” Yarrun explained, “each made from a different material. Standard procedure is for each party member to wear a different type of suit. It’s extremely unlikely that microbes would eat through each material at exactly the same rate, so if one of us gets a suit breach, the others should have some warning before their suits go too. And of course, death by disease is not instantaneous; even the most virulent bugs we know need at least an hour to multiply to lethal levels. During that hour, our suit sensors would surely notice some sign we’re in trouble—loss of suit pressure, spread of alien organisms through our bodies, deterioration of body functions—not to mention we’ll know we’re getting sick without any help from the electronics.”