Sassinak

by Anne McCaffrey

  "You've been out?" Despite himself, Tim couldn't fail to ask that.

  "Well, no. Not out exactly, but we all smelled it when they brought the injuries in. Worse than this . . . like organic lab." Turner leaned closer. "Listen, Tim—did you really fire on that transport?"

  "No! I put a tractor on the airsled, that's all."

  "I wish you had blown it."

  "I didn't have anything to blow it with. But why? The captain's mad enough that I caught the sled."

  "D'you know what that transport was?" Of course he didn't, and he shook his head. Turner went on, lowering her voice. "Heavyworlders."

  "So?"

  "So think, Tim. Heavyworlders, meatheads, in a transport—tried to tell the captain they were answering a distress beacon, but it scans like a colony ship. To a proscribed planet . . . which has heavyworlders on it already."

  "Huh?" He couldn't follow this. "The ones in the airsled?"

  "No. The ones on the ground . . . near the transport, and getting the victims out . . . you must have been watching, Tim, even you."

  "I saw them, but they didn't look like heavyworlders . . . exactly." Now he came to think of it, they had been big and well-muscled.

  "It's a heavyworlder plot," Turner went on quickly. "They wanted the planet—there was a mutiny, I heard, in a scouting expedition, and the heavyworlders started eating raw meat, and killed the others and ate them—"

  "I don't believe it!" But he would, if he let himself think about it. Eating one sentient being had to be the same as eating another: that's why the prohibition. He'd had an aunt who wouldn't eat anything synthesized from perennial plants, on the grounds that shrubs and trees might be sentient.

  "The thing is, if one heavyworlder can mutiny, why not all? There's already this bunch of them living free out there, eating meat and wearing skins—what's to stop the ones on this ship from going crazy, too? Maybe it's the smell in the air, or something. But a lot of us think the captain should put 'em all under guard. Think of the heavyworld marines . . . we wouldn't stand a chance if they mutinied."

  Tim thought about it a moment, while screwing the access port back on the filter he'd just cleaned, and shook his head. "No—I can't see anyone from this ship turning on the captain—"

  "But they could. They could be planning something right now, and if we don't warn her—"

  Tim grinned. "I don't think, Turner, that the captain needs our warning to know where danger is."

  "You mean you won't sign the petition? Or come with us to talk to her?"

  "No. And frankly I think you're nuts to bother her with this."

  "I'm glad you think so." Commander Sassinak, Tim saw, looked as immaculate as usual, though she must have gone through the same narrow passages that had smudged his uniform. She gave him a frosty smile, which vanished as she met Turner's eyes. "Tell me, Lieutenant Turner, did you ever happen to read the regulations on shipboard conspiracy?"

  "No, captain, but—"

  "No. Nor were you serving on this ship when heavyworlder marines—the very ones you're so afraid of—saved the ship and my life. Had they been inclined to mutiny, Lieutenant, they'd have had more than one opportunity. You exhibit a regrettable prejudice, and an even more regrettable tendency to faulty logic. The actions of heavyworlders on an exploration team more than four decades ago say nothing about the loyalty of my crew. I trust them a long sight more than I trust you—they've given me reason. I don't want to hear any more of this, or that you've been spreading such rumors. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, captain." At Sass's nod, Turner hurried away. Tim stood at attention, entirely too aware of his smelly, stained hands and messy uniform. The captain's lips quirked: not a smile, but something that required control not to be.

  "Learned anything, Ensign Timran?"

  "Yes, captain. I . . . uh . . . memorized the regulations—"

  "About time. As it happens, and I don't want you getting swelled head about this, things have worked out very well. From this point on, consider that you acted under orders at all times: is that clear?"

  It wasn't clear at all, but he tried to conceal his confusion. His captain sighed, obviously noticing the signs, and explained. "The other ship, Tim, the one that appeared from the Ryxi planet, was not a pirate: it was a legal transport, on contract to supply the Ryxi, replying to a distress signal."

  "Yes, captain." That was always safe, even though the rest of it made no sense at all.

  "For political reasons, which you will no doubt hear discussed later, your rash intervention has turned out to benefit Fleet and the FSP. It is necessary that those outside this ship believe your actions were on my orders. Therefore, you are not to mention, ever, to anyone, at any time, in any place, that your actions in the shuttle were your own bright idea. You did what I told you to do—is that clear now?"

  Slightly clearer, and from the tone in her voice he had better understand, with no more questions.

  "I've also told Gori, and all previous comments in the files have been wiped." Which meant it was serious . . . but also that he wasn't going to have that around his neck forever. Dawning hope must have shown on his face, for hers softened slightly. "Timran, listen to me, and pay attention. You've got natural good luck, and it's priceless . . . but don't depend on it. It takes more than good luck to make admiral."

  "Yes, captain. Uh—if I may—are the people all right? The ones in the airsled?"

  "Yes. They're quite well, and you may even meet them someday. Just remember what I said."

  "Yes, captain."

  "And clean up before mess." With that she was gone, a vision of grace and authority that haunted his life for years.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sassinak returned to the bridge by way of Troop Deck, as she wanted to manage a casual encounter with the marine commander. She had already realized that the combination of events might alarm some of the crew, and inflame suspicion of heavyworlders.

  She found Major Currald inspecting a rack of weapons; he gave her a somewhat abstracted nod. "Captain—if you've a moment, there's something—"

  "Certainly, Major." He led the way to his office, and Sass noticed that he had seating for both heavyworlders and smaller frames. She chose neither, instead turning to look at the holos on the wall across from his desk. A team of futbal players in clean uniforms posed in neat rows, action shots of the same players splattered with mud, a much younger Currald rappelling down a cliff, two young marine officers (one of them Currald? She couldn't tell) in camouflage facepaint and assault rifles. A promotion ceremony; Currald getting his "tracks." Someone not Currald, the holo in a black frame.

  "My best friend," said Currald, as her eyes fixed on that one. She turned to face him; he was looking at the holo himself. "He was killed at Jerma, in the first wave, while I was still on a down shuttle. He'd named his son after me." He cleared his throat, a bass rasp. "That wasn't what I asked to speak to you about, captain. I hesitated to come up to Main Deck and bother you, but—" He cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry to say I expect some trouble."

  Sass nodded. "So do I, and I wanted to tell you first what I'm going to do." His face stiffened, the traditional heavyworlder response to any threat. "Major Currald, I know you're a loyal officer; if you'd wanted to advance heavyworlder interests at my expense, you'd have done it long before. We've discussed politics before; you know where I stand. Your troops have earned my trust, earned it in battle, where it counts. Whoever that saboteur is, I'm convinced it's not one of your people, and I'm not about to let anyone pressure me into thinking so."

  He was surprised; she was a little annoyed that he had not trusted her trust. "But I know a lot of the crew think—"

  "A lot of the crew don't think," she interrupted crisply. "They worry, or they react, but they don't think. Kipling's bunions! The heavyworlder mutiny here was forty-three years ago: before you were born, and I was only a toddler on Myriad. None of your marines are old enough to have had anything to do with that. Those greedyguts would-be co
lonists set out months ago—probably while we were chasing that first ship. But scared people put two and two together and get the Annual Revised Budget Request—" At that he actually grinned, and began to chuckle. Sass grinned back at him. "I trust you, Major, and I trust you to know if your troops are loyal. You'll hear, I'm sure, that people have asked me to 'do something'—throw you all in the brig or something equally ridiculous—and I want you to know right now, before the rumors take off, that I'm not even thinking about that. Clear?"

  "Very clear, captain. And thank you. I thought . . . I thought perhaps you'd feel you had to make some concession. And I'd talked to my troops, the heavyworlders, and we'd agreed to cooperate with any request."

  Sass felt tears sting her eyes . . . and there were some who thought heavyworlders were always selfish, never able to think of the greater good. How many of them would have made such an offer, had they been innocent suspects? "You tell your troops, Major, that I am deeply moved by that offer—I respect you, and them, and appreciate your concern. But if no other good comes out of this, the rest of this crew is going to learn that we're all Fleet: light, heavy, and in-between. And thank you."

  "Thank you, captain."

  Sassinak found the expected delegation waiting outside the bridge when she got back to the main deck. Their spokesman, 'Tenant Varhes, supervised the enlisted mess, she recalled. Their concern, he explained in a reedy tenor, was for the welfare of the ship. After all, a heavyworlder had already poisoned officers and crew. . . .

  "A mentally imbalanced person," said Sassinak coldly, "who happened to also be a heavyworlder, poisoned officers—including the marine commander, who happens to be a heavyworlder—and crew, including some heavyworlders. Or have you forgotten that?"

  "But if they should mutiny. The heavyworlders on this planet mutinied—"

  "Over forty years ago, when your father was a toddler, and Major Currald hadn't been born. Are you suggesting that heavyworlders have telepathic links to unborn heavyworlders?" That wasn't logical, but neither were they, and she enjoyed the puzzlement on their faces as they worked their way through it. Before Varhes could start up again, she tried a tone of reasonableness, and saw it affect most of them. "Look here: the heavyworlders on this ship are Fleet—not renegades, like those who mutinied here, or those who want to colonize a closed world. They're our companions, they've fought beside us, saved our lives. They could have killed us many times over, if that's what they had in mind. You think they're involved in sabotage on the ship—I'm quite sure they're not. But even so, we're taking precautions against sabotage. If it should be a heavyworlder, that individual will be charged and tried and punished. But that doesn't make the others guilty. Suppose it's someone from Gian-IV—" a hit at Varhes, whose home world it was, "would that make Varhes guilty?"

  "But it's not the same," came a voice from the back of the group. "Everybody knows heavyworlders are planet pirates, and now we've found them in action—"

  "Some planet pirates are heavyworlders, we suspect, and some are not—some are even Ryxi." That got a nervous laugh, "Or consider the Seti." A louder laugh. Sassinak let her voice harden. "But this is enough of this. I don't want to hear any more unfounded charges against loyal members of Fleet, people who've put their lives on the line more than once. I've already told one ensign to review the regulations on conspiracy, and I commend them to each of you. We have real hostiles out there, people: real would-be planet pirates, who may have allies behind them. We can't afford finger-pointing and petty prejudices among ourselves. Is that quite clear?" It was; the little group melted away, most of them shamefaced and clearly regretting their impetuous actions. Sass hoped they'd continue to feel that way.

  Back on the bridge, Sass reviewed the status of the various parties involved. The heavyworld transport's captain had entered a formal protest against her action in "interfering with the attempt to respond to a distress beacon." Her eyebrows rose. The only distress beacon in the story so far had been at the Ryxi planet, the beacon that had sent Mazer Star on its way here. The heavyworlder transport had run past there like a grass fire in a windstorm. Now what kind of story could he have concocted, and what kind of faked evidence would be brought out to support it? She grinned to herself; this was becoming even more interesting than before.

  * * *

  The "native" heavyworlders, descendants of the original survey and exploration team . . . or at least of the mutineers of that team . . . were mulling over the situation but keeping their distance from the cruiser. The transport's captain had kept in contact with them by radio, however.

  * * *

  The Mazer Star, supply ship for the Ryxi colony, had managed to contact the survivors who'd been in cold-sleep. So far their statements confirmed everything on the distress beacon, with plenty of supporting detail. A mixed exploration team, set down to survey geological and biological resources—including children from the EEC survey vessel, the ARCT-10, that had carried them, highly unusual. Reversion of the heavyworlder team members to carnivory—their subsequent mutiny—murder, torture of adults and children—their attempt to kill all the lightweights by stampeding wildlife into the camp. The lightweights' successful escape in a lifeboat to a seacliff cave, and their decision to go into coldsleep and await the ARCT-10's return.

  Sass ran through the computer file Captain Godheir had transferred, explaining everything from the original mixup that had led the Ryxi to think the human team had been picked up by the ARCT-10, to the Mazer Star's own involvement, after a Thek intrusion. Thek! Sass shook her head over that; this had been complicated enough before; Thek were a major complication in themselves. Godheir's story, unlike that of the heavyworlder Captain Cruss, made perfect (if ironic) sense, and his records checked out clean with her onboard databanks. Mazer Star was in fact listed as one of three shuttle-supply ships on contract to a Ryxi colony in this system. She frowned at the personnel list Godheir had transferred, of the expedition members stranded after the mutiny. Lunzie? It couldn't be, she thought—and yet it wasn't a common name. She'd never run into another Lunzie. Medic, age 36 elapsed—and what did that mean? Then she saw the date of birth, and her breath quickened. By date of birth this woman was ancient—impossibly old—and yet—Sass fed the ID data into the computer, and told Com to ready a lowlink to Fleet Sector Headquarters. About time the Admiral knew what had happened, and she was going to need a lot of information. Starting with this.

  "Captain?" That was Borander, on the pinnace, with a report of the airsled victims' condition.

  "Go ahead."

  "The woman is conscious now; the medics have cleared her for transport. The man is still out, and they want to package him first."

  "Have you had a contact from their base?"

  "No, captain."

  "You may find them confused, remember, and not just by a knock on the head. Don't argue with them; try to keep them calm until you get a call from their base, or our medical crew gets to them." The message relayed from Godheir was that both crew were barriered by an Adept, and thought they were members of a Fleet cruiser's crew. They'd be more than a little surprised to find themselves in a different cruiser, Sass thought, particularly if the barriers had been set with any skill.

  And one of these was the team coleader—essentially the civilian authority of the entire planet. Governor? Sass wondered what she was like, and decided she'd better be set up for a formal interview just in case. Some of these scientist types didn't think highly of Fleet. She signalled for an escort, then went to her office, and brought up all the screens. One showed the pinnace just landing, and when she plugged in her earpiece, Borander told her that a message had just come from the survivor's base for the woman. Sass approved a transfer, and watched on the screen as Borander and his pilot emerged to give their passenger privacy. She presumed that the unconscious man was in the rear compartment, with a medic.

  When the woman—Varian, Sass reminded herself—came out, she seemed to be a vigorous, competent sort. She was certainly used
to having her own way, for she took one look around and began to argue with Borander about something. Sass wished she'd insisted on an open channel between them, but she hadn't expected that anything much would happen. Now she watched as the argument progressed, with handwaving and headshaking and—by the expressions—raised voices. She pressed a button, linking her to the bridge, and said "Com, get me an audio of channel three."

  "—Nothing to do with Aygar and anyone in his generation or even his parents'." The woman's voice would have been rich and melodic if she hadn't been angry—or stressed by the crash, Sass reminded herself. She followed the argument with interest. Borander let himself be overwhelmed—first by the woman's vehemence, and then by her claim of precedence as planetary governor. Not, Sass was sorry to notice, by her chain of logic, which was quite reasonable. She shook her head at the screen, disappointed—she'd thought Borander had more backbone. Of course the woman was right: the descendants of mutineers were not themselves guilty, and he should have seen that for himself. He should also have foreseen her claim of authority, and avoided the direct confrontation with it. Most of all, Fleet officers shouldn't be so visibly nervous about their captains' opinion—acting that way in a bar, as an excuse not to get into a row, was one thing, but here it made him look weak—never a good idea. How could she help him learn that, without losing all his confidence—because he didn't seem to have much.