Washen said, “I see,” even when nothing quite made sense.
“The tritium bombs simply had to belong to our enemies,” Hoop reported. “My father digested every report, and doubt was impossible. The weapons were ceremonial Death-bringers, authentic to their isotope yields and the markings on their diamond jackets. They were launched from an enemy base in high orbit, and they were shielded by our usual methods, and lying about the blame just made the horror worse. Which was why another enemy city had to be destroyed, in punishment for the lie. And then the other clan annihilated three more of our cities, plus the honored site where our species first landed on our sweet world. Then for the rest of those three days, we ceased to be the Clan of Many Clans.” The giant face dipped, eyes losing all focus. “We became what you call us. The harum-scarum. We were madmen filled with blind rage, wild actions devoid of thought and reason. Only when most of us were dead did we dare make peace, and then only on the condition that both of our miserable clans abandon our home, poisoned as it was by radiations, and worse, sickened by our own stupidity.”
Washen was crying now. With a soft, slow voice, she asked, “Did your father die in the war?”
“No.” Hoop’s spines straightened, in reflex. “He survived and returned to his good friend, Ishwish, and did what he believed was best. He begged for help from the human. Which was given. The captain met with all of the colonists, and in a gesture of extraordinary compassion, our human friends offered us that little world to which they had been traveling. ‘It isn’t much,’ Ishwish admitted, ‘but as a place for fresh beginnings, it might serve you well.’”
Washen blinked. “Your father met with every colonist?”
The alien showed a forest of little teeth inside his eating mouth. “Yes. While we were slaughtering one another, the colonists had suddenly made their own peace.”
Washen breathed quickly, the air tasting stale and hot.
“Just enough ships for our journey were available,” he continued. “My parents left for the new world, while the other clan retreated deeper into the galaxy, if only to place distance between the two of us. Twelve light-years had to be covered, and the voyage was productive. Even after the war, there were more of us than there had been humans, and we had experience enough to make any new world habitable, if not comfortable. So my clan made its plans and refined them until we felt ready. And we received messages from our good allies. The human colonists were quickly cleaning up poisons and repairing the ecosystems. In the proper ways, they thanked us again for our charity, they promised to make our old home prosper, honoring our memories, and buried in their words was news that their mission’s captain, dear Ishwish, had been awarded a tenth of the colony’s future value – in thanks for his guidance and considerable bravery.”
Washen had always known that the Submaster was wealthy. But Tidecold-6 was an exceptionally rich world today – a favored destination for emigrants and every species of money – and ten percent of that single planet would make any man into a king.
Hoop had fallen silent.
Remembering that platform of ground waiting empty in the hallway, Washen said, “Your father. What’s the rest of his story?”
Quietly, the alien confessed, “He suffered. A moment of clarity took him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He woke one morning, as our new sun was growing bright. . . he woke and felt strong enough finally to ask questions that he hadn’t dared pose until then. He turned to my mother and wondered aloud, ‘But what if my very good friend, dear Ishwish . . . what if he was not what he seemed to be . . .?’”
Washen bit her bottom lip.
“Then as his strength drained, he asked, ‘And what if everything was other than it seemed to be . . . the civil war, the humans in despair, the three weapons that appeared above our heads . . . what would all of that mean, darling . . .?’”
Tasting blood, Washen said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Hoop agreed.
“A captain could have played the colonists against each other. Fomented war, but kept it under control. And he could have coached a few of the rebels, perhaps without even telling them his entire plan.” She closed her eyes, envisioning what would have both possible and necessary. “He could have bought those tritium bombs somewhere else, using his military connections . . . brought them all that way and prepositioned them in a higher orbit, ready to accelerate the hostilities . . .” Her voice sputtered, then came back again. “But that would mean that the son-of-abitch had everything planned out, starting centuries before . . .”
“This was what my father realized,” said Hoop. “And that is why a great despair took hold of him and claimed him. And about that good honorable man, I wish to say no more.”
His father was dead, she realized. A suicide. No other conclusion to life was as dishonorable, not for a creature such as that, which was why there was no fatherly statue standing guard over his son’s home.
Washen took them past that awful moment. “Help me now,” she said. “When you purchased your home, this room and that hallway, did you know exactly who had lived here before?”
The black eyes brightened. “I knew about the Higgers,” he said. “For years, I was cleaning their silicone out of the cracks and pores.”
“But these past human owners?”
“Never. I suspected nothing. I had no idea.” He paused for a thoughtful moment. “Until an acquaintance mentioned Ishwish to me, I was ignorant.”
“An acquaintance?”
“A Clan woman. She mentioned the name and asked if I knew who he was. Had I ever seen him with my eyes? And after I explained what the man might be, she asked how it felt. What was it like to know that this awful human once shit in these rooms of mine?”
Washen nodded, considering. “And when was this?”
“A year ago.”
“Just a year ago?”
“Plus a few days more,” Hoop reported. Which was the same as yesterday, when your life stretched for millennia.
“This is a spectacular coincidence,” Washen mentioned. “Of all possible passengers, you end up living in the Submaster’s old home.”
Hoop rolled his face – the Clan equivalent of a nod. “I have asked these question many times. What are the probabilities? In a vessel of this size, with all these possible addresses to claim for myself. . . why must this be the home that I find for myself. . .?”
“The odds are long,” she allowed.
“Which is why you and I are wondering along the same lines,” he replied with quiet amazement. “What agent or force or malicious spirit is responsible for this conundrum . . .?”
A bowl of excessively sweet tea sat cooling on the tabletop. Washen stood close enough to smell the alien spices. When the temperature dropped to a critical point, the Submaster took a pinch of sucrose from a second bowl, one at a time sprinkling grains into the vaporous brew. The reaction was swift and dramatic. Like a sudden snow, supersaturated sugars fell out of solution, and what had been a fragrant brew turned into thick white syrup that could be spooned into dishes and served as a rare dessert.
The Submaster helped herself. Then she glanced at Washen, remarking, “You are early today. And Ishwish has been delayed. Some critical matter has ambushed his attentions, it seems.”
“Yes, madam.”
“If you would like, sit. Join me.”
“I’d prefer to stand, madam.” Washen was dressed again, in a full uniform. “But thank you, madam.”
“As you wish.” Miocene was an elegant creature, tall and lovely, cold and effortlessly forbidding. But she had a rich dark voice, and when it was useful, a surprisingly engaging smile. After the first mouthful of dessert, she showed her smile. Then after a thoughtful silence, she asked, “Is something on your mind, my dear?”
“I’m thinking about Ishwish, madam.”
“Yes?”
“And Tidecold-6.”
The Submaster said nothing. But judging by her face and manners, she f
elt ready for the subject.
“Was my superior directly responsible for that tragedy?”
Miocene shrugged. “I’m not free to give details. But yes, there were questions. And then, official inquiries. Investigations were carried out by various agencies, among our people and the harum-scarums too.” She pursed her lips for a moment, perhaps using a nexus to access old files. “Most of the original colonists were interviewed, and each crewmember was interrogated. Ishwish himself underwent years of suspicion. But no credible account has shown that there was any plan to cheat or in any way harm the harum-scarums. The humans involved were left clean, officially.”
With a nod, Washen said, “Good.”
Then she bit her lip, adding, “He is a very careful man.”
“He is.”
“And shrewd.”
Miocene laughed softly. “You like our colleague. Very good. The man has shown a small interest in your career, and it is important to appreciate the qualities of your superior.”
“Yes, madam.”
Miocene treated herself to a second bite of syrup and tea.
“Do you like Ishwish, madam?”
She tipped her head for a moment, swallowing. Then with a knife-like voice, she said, “I hope you can imagine what I think of the man.”
Washen nodded.
“Tell me my mind,” Miocene prompted.
“Your colleague is ambitious, which is a wonderful trait. He is calculating and subtle, when he wishes. And those, as well, are excellent qualities to find in any captain.”
“Go on.”
“But the authority and responsibilities that Ishwish carry with him . . . they stem directly from decisions made thousands of years ago. Tidecold-6 made him exceptionally wealthy. That wealth helped bring him to the Great Ship. Once here, his ambition helped elevate him to the rank of Submaster. Is that a fair accounting of his story, madam?”
“Don’t dismiss the wealth that brought him,” Miocene admitted. “Remember how difficult it was for us to reach the Ship . . . how tenuous our hold was, and still is, on this ancient machine. With one transmission, Ishwish was able to mobilize a world, sending us more engineers and lines of credit to help us repair these old pumps and environmental systems. And with a second message, he guaranteed us thousands of wealthy human passengers, paying bodies who migrated from dozens of thriving worlds.”
“He bought his rank,” Washen said, with distaste.
“In my mind,” Miocene replied, “I prefer to think in different terms.”
“You accept his position, do you?”
“As I accept each passing day.”
“But do you think about Tidecold-6? On this day, for instance . . . has it ever left your thoughts, madam?”
“Will it leave yours, Washen?”
“But I’m a lowly captain, not a Submaster.”
“And you are modest in the worst ways.”
“Perhaps.” Washen offered a brief nod. “I’ve been given my orders, and I intend to carry them out to the best of my ability.”
“As is right.”
“The investment group,” said Washen.
For an instant, surprise worked its way across Miocene’s narrow face. “To whom do you refer?”
“I’ve made inquiries,” Washen explained. “By several means, I think I can see that only one person stands behind the corporate mask. This unidentified human owns properties in an assortment of districts. And she once held title to a comfortable little apartment that now, purely by chance, belongs to an angry fellow named Hoop-of-Benzene.”
The smile was respectful, perhaps even impressed. “Please, dear. Go on.”
“More than two thousand years ago, while Hoop was searching for a home, an agent with ties to that investment group aided him. The terms of the sale were very lucrative for the buyer. Someone made certain that this one passenger was placed inside that particular apartment, and that’s where he has remained until today.”
“A captain did this?”
“I know what I know, even if I can’t prove anything.”
The dessert was cooling, losing its delicate, precious flavors. Yet the Submaster seemed unconcerned, setting her spoon aside, focusing on the novice captain standing beside her.
“Recently,” said Washen, “Hoop learned who once lived inside his home. You have no connections with the harumscarum who delivered the news. As far as I can see, you are blameless. If there is any blame to be given, that is.”
“That is good to hear.”
“Hoop doesn’t want that man to walk inside his house.”
“I would imagine not.”
“He intends to fight the invasion with every tool at his disposal.”
“Which will lead him where?” Miocene showed a big grim smile. “To his ruin, I would think. That’s the only possible destination for the poor fellow.”
Washen sighed. “But this decision to give Ishwish an award, and to give it at this time and to hold the ceremony in that location . . . I find it easy to believe you were the one who set this slippery business into motion . . .”
With a chilled glance, Miocene asked, “Is there anything else?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
Washen bent closer, explaining, “Until yesterday, Ishwish didn’t realize what Hoop-of-Benzene thought of him. Until I delivered the refusal, he assumed that the harum-scarum would love the idea of a famous captain strutting about in his rooms. But if he suspects trouble, the Submaster will do whatever is possible to make this problem vanish.”
“Whatever is possible,” Miocene agreed. Then with a tiny wink, she added, “At this moment, my colleague is meeting with a team of advisors. Yes, my dear, he has given up on you and your patient ways. New plans and brutal consequences are being considered. And by the end of this day, his problem will be solved.”
“What kinds of plans?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Miocene replied. “But several minutes ago, one of Ishwish’s functionaries learned that we have a murderer among us. A brutal criminal who happens to be male, and better yet, is also a harum-scarum.”
“Not Hoop,” Washen muttered.
“This is a matter for our courts, my dear. Not captains.”
Washen wanted to scream.
For moment, Miocene said nothing. Then she softly asked, “Why are you here? What did you believe would happen, if you and I spoke?”
“What am I supposed to do, madam?”
Miocene shrugged.
“Thousands of years ago, you put Hoop into Ishwish’s home. In some fashion or another, you are responsible for this entire situation. And now I’ve become your agent . . . although I don’t see what it is you hope to gain . . .”
“Are you a captain, or aren’t you?”
Washen threw back her shoulders. “Yes. I am.”
“This ship of ours is still almost entirely empty,” Miocene mentioned. “But before the end of our voyage, we will be walking these hallways with a hundred thousand species, and nothing will matter more than having a cadre of good captains . . . wise captains . . . human leaders who deserve the respect this multitude of odd entities . . .”
“Yes, madam.”
“If you want to become an important officer of the Ship,” said Miocene, “you must be able to navigate your way to the best destination available. Without the help of anyone else, I might add. And even if this means, in one fashion or another, doing something that happens to be right.”
One last time, Washen returned to the diamond door. For an instant, it seemed as if Hoop was pleased to see his new friend. But then she told him what she wanted, offering no explanations why. Instincts took hold, and Hoop placed his feet squarely on the floor, shoulders tilting forward and the eating mouth pulled into a tight pucker. And again, the young captain made her very simple demand, adding, “If you will not give this, then I will fight you.”
“No,” Hoop replied. “I refuse your challenge.” There was little t
ime left. With one nexus, Washen was tracking an order-of-arrest as it moved through the courts and past amiable judges, while by other nexuses, she watched teams of security officers being gathered in nearby bunkers, preparing for the moment when every signature was in place.
“You can’t refuse,” she said. Then she pulled off her mirrored uniform and took the proper stance for combat. “I demand this,” she cried out, citing codes more ancient than her species.
Hoop nearly turned away from the door.
But then a set of figures appeared – towering creatures wearing the distinctively painted spikes that marked them as members of another clan. As it happened, they belonged to the clan that once fought against Hoop’s, while standing on a world that neither of them would keep.
The harum-scarum looked at the bystanders, and then glared down at tiny Washen. “You brought them,” he complained.
“In their presence,” she said, “I challenge you.”
“And I will kill you,” he said.
“Break my bones and smash my heart,” she reported, “and I will heal again and stand here again. And I will launch a second challenge.”
The diamond door opened up.
Out stepped the giant figure, peeling off his clothing while half-heartedly taking the defender’s pose. Then very quietly, he asked, “What is happening?”
“You have lost,” she whispered.
“No.”
“But there are different ways to lose,” she added. Then again, in full view of the harum-scarums, she declared, “I challenge, and now I strike.”
Hoop smoothly deflected the first blow.
And the second.
And after that, twenty others.
Washen’s arms were sliced open by the spines, and every finger was shattered by the impacts against the tough armor. Yet she kept swinging, and under her increasingly pained breath, she told the giant again that he was beaten and it didn’t matter how and the only rational course at this point was to trust a friend to find the best route on which to make his retreat.
It was the forty-third blow that astonished every witness.
The harum-scarum was covered with his opponent’s blood but he seemed invulnerable. Yet as happens in these situations, he allowed his guard to fall, lifting his head too much and giving his tiny, frail opponent a target that only an expert in alien physiology would recognize.
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction Page 32