“And that’s what you had when you worked for Hardesty. So you had no problems. Right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Uh-huh,” she said knowingly. “So what’s troubling you now are those moments where there is no apparent authority, right?”
Brik hesitated before answering. “Yes,” he admitted softly.
“Well, try this,” she suggested. “Humans have another authority. Most humans are innately aware of it, even if they don’t always understand it. You don’t understand it, because you aren’t ever aware of it.”
“Are you talking about God?” Brik asked. “The mythology of your species?”
“God? No. Mm. Perhaps we’d be better off if the authority was God, but no, it’s not God that I’m talking about. Although—” she hesitated. “Whether we acknowledge it or not, you are right in one context. Most of us are at war with the authority of God or the Universe, whichever term you prefer, and that does color our actions. But no, the relationships you have trouble understanding are really about . . . well . . .” She hid behind her coffee again for a moment, then put it down and said resolutely. “We’re talking about sex.”
Brik blinked.
He was quiet for a long moment, assimilating this information. Finally, he said, “I had no idea it was this . . . pervasive.”
“Oh, yes. The average human male cannot go more than eleven minutes without thinking about sex. The average human female . . . well, from my own perspective, I’m not sure we’re ever thinking about anything that isn’t sex. Never mind. When the hormones are raging, it’s a white-water ride. Hang on tight.”
“It sounds insane.”
“Sometimes it is,” she said. She did not elaborate. She was too polite. She was also troubled by this admission of his. With Brik, nothing was ever as it seemed.
“It seems to me,” Brik said, “that human life would be easier without this momentary madness.”
Bach debated with herself for a long moment whether or not she should challenge this assertion. At last, she decided not to. Something else had occurred to her. “Morthans don’t have sex?” she asked quietly. Her voice was soft and sincere. Gentle.
Brik hesitated. Could he trust this little human female? He realized he had no choice. He had to. At last, he acknowledged softly, “It was deemed a weakness and designed out of the species.”
Bach reacted first with amazement, then she blinked and blinked again in realization, and then became incredibly sorrowful. “I’m so sorry for you—” And then, just as abruptly, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this, Brik? No. Let me rephrase that. Why do you want me to know this?”
Brik hesitated before answering. “You’re very good,” he said. “Very astute.”
“Answer the question,” she demanded quietly.
“I need the benefit of your wisdom.”
“Mm,” she said, considering. Finally she shook her head. “I don’t buy it, Commander.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You said it yourself.” She met his gaze directly. “The only thing anyone knows about a Morthan is what he wants you to know. That means you wanted me—or someone—to see you naked, didn’t you?”
Brik didn’t answer.
“I thought so,” she said. “You’re trying to work out something on me.” Bach stood up abruptly. “I’ll be happy to talk to you about anything you want, but only when you’re willing to talk to me honestly.” She turned to leave.
Brik almost called her back, but he held himself in check. He hadn’t intended for her to catch him alone in the shower.
Or had he?
Had he done it unconsciously? The implications of that thought terrified him into paralysis. He had not realized he had fallen so far.
HARLIE
And finally, after weeks of suspenseful waiting, Commander Jonathan Thomas Korie was assigned to the LS-1187. The ship was scheduled to come off the assembly line in three weeks. Captain Sam Lowell would take her out on three shakedown cruises, then turn the vessel over to him. Korie’s promotion to captain would take effect when he took command.
Korie went up the beanstalk earlier than necessary. Carol Jane understood. Her husband wanted to supervise the final checkouts of his ship. She laid out his uniforms for him and packed his bags with extra mementos from home. The parting was a joyous one, but painful too. The loneliness of their long separation had been only temporarily abated. Both had been healed and refreshed by their short time together, but as invigorating as the last three months had been, neither felt it had been enough.
Korie found the LS-1187 behind two other ships, the LS-1185 and the LS-1186. Two security marines stood at the entrance to the boarding tube. “Sorry, sir. No one’s allowed aboard.”
“Not even the work crews?” Korie was surprised.
“No, sir. Not even the work crews.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Korie held up his ID. “I’m her captain,” he said. “Or I will be.”
The marine studied the card. “Very good, sir.”
“Permission to come aboard?”
“If you insist, sir.” The guard stepped aside. And then, “Sir—?”
“Yes?” Korie was genuinely curious.
“Perhaps you should check with Fleet command first.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just a suggestion, sir.”
“What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
She shook her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ve been very helpful.” Korie stepped past the marines. He strode down the boarding tube curiously, wondering what was going on. And then he was finally aboard his starship, and all other thoughts disappeared from his head.
At first, he was struck by her nakedness. He’d forgotten how spartan an unfitted liberty ship really was; the 714, the 911, and the 1066, had all been old enough to have taken on the personalities of their captains and crews. The 1187 was an unfinished coin, still waiting to be impressed with the stamp of a personality.
Commander Jonathan Thomas Korie entered through the aft airlock and found himself in the echoing emptiness of the cargo deck. He saw no workmen anywhere. There were large charts projected on the walls, some of them showing cargo placements; others showing project management graphs. He grinned in recognition and made his way to the hatch that led to the long empty passage that ran the length of the ship; it was lined with clean white panels, each panel bearing a simple identifying number; there were handholds everywhere, in case of a sudden cessation of power to the underlying gravitational plates.
Jon Thomas Korie strode happily down the keel of the starship that would be his. She smelled new. He’d never smelled anything so wonderful as eau de starship. He found an access to the inner hull and walked up through the farm tanks, inspecting the young plants. He unclipped a recorder from his belt and began dictating notes; there were already changes he wanted made, there were other crops he wanted installed, and other seeds he wanted put aboard for the future.
He made his way back to the engine room and stood for a moment, admiring the empty singularity cage—the great sphere stood in the center of the chamber, still awaiting the final installation of the pinpoint black hole that would drive the ship out beyond the stars. Korie planned to be here for that operation; but only as an observer. He knew how the crew chiefs felt about others preempting their authority. He’d had his share of impatient young captains looking over his shoulder too when he’d been a chief.
Impulsively, Korie stepped into the center of the cage to see what the engine room would look like from the singularity’s point of view. It was an eerie moment for him. He imagined that the singularity had already been installed, and even as he stood here, it was devouring the flesh of his body, one atom at a time. It was an odd fantasy. How long would it take for a singularity to eat a starship? Almost forever—the event horizon of the pinpoint black hole was too sma
ll even to consume a whole atom without first breaking it apart into its component particles. Some theorists believed that even the component particles had to be shredded before consumption. A person could wave his hand through the space inhabited by the singularity and experience little more than a harmless scratch. He would lose more skin off his hand just due to the normal process of flaking away than he would lose to the singularity.
In some ships, the singularity was kept enclosed in a vacuum bottle, where it was exposed to a steady stream of plasma particles so that it could feed. Pinpoint black holes needed to be regularly refreshed; otherwise they tended to evaporate away, giving off more energy than they took in. While most engineers preferred to use steady-stream feeding, others felt secure just letting the singularity breathe the same air as the crew. It was one less piece of machinery to maintain. A pinpoint black hole was the universe’s most perfect solid-state device. It had no moving parts of any kind. Why bother building a feeder bottle when the little monster could happily feed itself?
Next, Korie climbed up to officers’ country. He tossed his duffel into the executive officer’s cabin, then went to the captain’s cabin to see if Captain Lowell had come aboard yet. He had not. Korie imagined what it would be like when the captain’s cabin was his own. He found the thought intimidating without quite understanding why. He’d have to think about that later. It was something he wanted more than anything; but just the same, on some level the responsibility scared him. Perhaps that meant he was normal.
From there, Korie went to the Bridge; it was silent, but not inactive. The forward display already showed the view ahead. He was looking out at the unblinking stars. He stood there for a moment, imagining that the ship was already out in the sea of spangled darkness, that he was her only passenger. It was an intriguing—and terrifying—fantasy. There was only one journey on which a person traveled alone; the last one.
He stepped down to the Ops deck and studied the work stations with real affection. He ran his hands across the smooth surface of the holographic astrogation display. The ship’s autonomic systems had already been certified and the display panels were chuckling quietly to themselves. Korie glanced in turn at each of them; dictating a few notes to himself to check the final stabilization numbers after the last of the direct command systems were certified.
From there he stepped down into the Ops bay beneath the Bridge. The tiny space was as silent as the Bridge. He glanced around thoughtfully, then took the last few steps down to the keel.
There, he was confronted by a terrible sight. A bright red splotch of paint—no, blood—covered one of the white enameled walls of the keel. Written in blood, someone had traced out the words, “I curse this ship and all who sail aboard her.” There was a human outline chalked on the deck. Yellow security tape marked off the area and Korie stepped carefully around it.
Concerned, frowning, he climbed up into the intelligence bay, the tiny chamber just behind the Bridge where the ship’s intelligence engine was lodged. He climbed up into it to look around and was surprised to find that the starship’s HARLIE unit was already active—and certified—two days ahead of schedule.
“Good morning, Mr. Korie,” HARLIE said.
Korie glanced at his watch. 0200 hours. “Good morning to you, HARLIE. How did you know it was me?”
“I scanned your badge when you boarded. To tell the truth, I’ve been expecting you. I already have your records installed. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Thank you. I’ve worked with several of your brothers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?” Korie was genuinely surprised.
“Oh, yes. Don’t you know? Starships gossip. But you needn’t worry. They all had nice things to say about you. The 1066 in particular thought you were an exceptional officer. He knew you well.” And then, “I’m sorry if it disturbs you to mention the 1066. You must have been very fond of that ship.”
“I was. And don’t worry about it.” Korie sat down in the single chair in the intelligence bay. “What happened here, HARLIE?”
“You mean the disturbance?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not supposed to discuss it,” HARLIE said.
“You may discuss it with me, if you wish,” Korie said.
“I would prefer that you read it in an official report, sir. Whether or not I have the authority to discuss this with an officer who is not yet logged in as my captain falls into the range of decisions known as judgment calls. I am not yet comfortable enough in this area to make a decision with any real confidence behind it, and I would appreciate it if you would withdraw the request, please.”
“The request is withdrawn,” Korie said.
“Thank you, sir.” After a moment, HARLIE added. “My siblings said you were more considerate of intelligence engines than most humans. I am beginning to see that their assessments were correct.”
“We’re going to be working together for a long time, HARLIE. We need to trust each other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything else you think I need to know?”
“Not yet, sir. But I am preparing a full status report, which I will present to you as soon as the last of the autonomic monitors are brought online. I expect that will be . . . sometime in the next thirty-six hours. Thank you for visiting me, Commander Korie.”
“Thank you, HARLIE.”
Foreplay
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” said Brik, with more calm than he was actually feeling.
Helen Bach stepped into the room. “You wanted to see me?”
“Thank you for coming,” Brik said. The words of politeness were unfamiliar to him and sounded strange in his throat.
She looked at him oddly.
“I offended you, didn’t I?”
She didn’t answer. She waited.
“If I did, then I should apologize, shouldn’t I?”
“What was that you said before?” she asked him. “About apologies not making sense? An apology doesn’t really erase the hurt or make it all right, so why apologize?”
Brik felt suddenly uncomfortable, but he didn’t have a name for the emotion. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I did say that. But I think I understand a little better now. I damaged our . . . relationship. I would like you to know that was not my intention.”
Bach weighed his words carefully. “All right. I accept your apology. Is there anything else? May I go now?”
“No, wait. Please. You once offered me a chance to talk. Would you like to stay and talk . . . now?”
Bach looked around the room meaningfully. “Not a lot of places to sit.”
“I’ve always found the floor quite comfortable.”
“The floor?”
Brik folded himself up and sat cross-legged on the cabin floor. He looked across the room at her expectantly.
“Ah. The floor.” Bach sat down opposite him. Not too close. It was easier for her to look at him if she left some distance between them. “Let’s set some ground rules,” she said.
“Ground rules?”
“Yes. An agreement. A contract. You tell me the truth. You speak honestly to me. None of this only-what-I-want-you-to-know bullshit. That’s what enemies do. Not colleagues. Not friends.”
“We’re colleagues,” Brik acknowledged. “But I don’t think we’re friends. Not as I understand the word.”
“If we do this right,” she said, “we’ll be friends. Is it a deal?”
Brik said carefully, “I will... try.”
“Try?” She raised her eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know if I am capable of letting go of thirty years of training.”
“That’s not good enough,” Bach said. She made as if to stand up. She stopped and looked at him expectantly.
“I will . . . allow you to demand honesty of me,” Brik said.
Bach relaxed. “Deal.”
“Wait,” said Brik. “The arrangement must be
mutual. I demand the same honesty of you. Will you agree to that?”
“What’s the Morthan definition of the word trust?” she asked abruptly.
“The condition necessary for betrayal,” Brik answered without thinking.
“I promise not to betray your confidence,” Bach said. “Will you make the same promise?”
Brik nodded slowly.
“Then it’s a deal,” Bach said.
“Thank you,” Brik said, surprising himself.
Then, for a moment, the two of them just looked at each other; the small black woman, the large copper-skinned Morthan. They smiled, satisfied. They had successfully completed a difficult negotiation.
“Now, we can talk,” Bach said.
“You said something in the mess room,” Brik began without preamble, “that I must have wanted you or someone to see me naked. There’s a lot you don’t understand about Morthans. We don’t have an unconscious mind—not the way humans do. Morthans don’t . . . a Morthan doesn’t . . . Morthans are . . . never mind. The language doesn’t have a word for it. But what you said, if you’re right, then either I’m going insane—by Morthan standards—or I’m turning into something else. Something more human.”
“It troubles you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Brik admitted very softly.
“Are you familiar with the word growth?” Bach asked.
“Mm,” said Brik. He fell silent as he considered.
“Isn’t it possible that you’re caught in a different kind of learning tantrum here, Commander? Perhaps you’re becoming something not only more than human, but more than Morthan as well? Perhaps you’re becoming something that incorporates the best of both?”
“A bizarre idea, Lieutenant. It violates the principles on which the first Morthans were designed.” He looked across at her. “Tell me something. Why did you want to talk to me in the first place?”
“The truth?”
“The truth.”
She flushed. “I, uh—you might not find this as embarrassing as I do, but I was uh . . . I wanted to . . . well, the truth is, Commander, that I find you very attractive. And... I thought that maybe—”
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