CHAPTER SEVEN
Beneath the Laughing Cat
“Trailwalker is not quite correct, I think,” offered Win Ton over tea, looking at Joyita in the crew mess side monitor. “It does not lack merit, but it fails of being precise. Bechimo has offered us seven possible variations, and my bias—I admit, bias!—is the one I feel closest to Scout: pathfinder.”
This debate had begun on the bridge, and followed them into the galley for tea break. Joyita and Win Ton were serious about it, so far as Clarence could tell; he was less invested in finding the proper word to describe Theo’s current rescue projects, figuring “damned lucky” covered all the ground needful.
On the other hand, there wasn’t any reason to refrain from showing the two debaters the sensible way out of their conundrum.
“Y’know,” he said, pointing at Joyita with the veggie roll in his right hand, “Explorer is time-tested. Why not go with what works?”
Joyita smiled.
“The pair we will be bringing aboard…speak Old Yxtrang. That they came through the wall between the former universe and this one—as did all the other flotsam, including an intact courier ship bearing a passenger—cannot be argued. Such records as we have regarding the former universe indicate that it was steady-state and well-inhabited. There was no need to explore an unknown universe, either to locate other survivors, or to find inhabited, or inhabitable, worlds. However, there was sometimes a need to discover the shortest route from one world to another. The records speak of congested travel conditions.”
“So they had to find a path.” Clarence finished off what was left of his veggie snack in one bite and nodded toward Win Ton. “Sounds like the pilot here has the right of it then.”
“Not necessarily,” Joyita said tenaciously. “Recall that—but you might not be aware. It seems clear—again, from those histories and records that survived the Great Migration—that the soldier caste from which our present-day Yxtrang devolve, were entirely manufactured. They were created to stringent specifications, indoctrinated from birth into a soldier culture that deliberately distanced them from civilian cultures. Their native language was also manufactured, spoken only among those of the Troop. Not only were there technical matters they needed to speak of quickly and efficiently, but secret things, too. Therefore, the…job description, let us say, may easily have been something closer to Bechimo’s suggestion of routebuilder—”
“But this is mere quibbling!” Win Ton protested, sounding to Clarence’s ear sincerely aggrieved.
There was a long pause of a particular quality that drew the eye to Joyita’s face, where the barest shadow of a smile sat at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” he said, “it is.”
Win Ton blinked—then laughed.
“I am an object of amusement, I allow.”
“No more than I am,” Joyita said, the smile more open now. “We both care about the weight and freight of words, I think.”
“Scouts are free-flying linguists,” Win Ton allowed. “But we tend to fly to broad coords.”
“Fair enough. Let them be pathfinders then. As soon as Theo has them aboard, they’ll be set to language lessons and will be able to tell us themselves.”
“That might be some trouble, right there,” Clarence said, from his comfortable slouch at the table, “if yon children were raised up knowing that they were better than the not-soldiers.” He raised a hand. “I know that Theo insists on civilized—and they’ve been every bit of that, so far.”
“They were also raised to a strong sense of duty,” Joyita said. “The civilians, who were weaker and less able to defend themselves, were the natural objects of their protection.”
“And that,” Win Ton said, rising to put his teacup in the washer, “is where we may see Clarence’s trouble. Should they decide, in spite of our firm statement to the contrary, that we are in need of their protection…”
Clarence laughed and unfolded from his chair.
“Then they’ll have to go through Theo for the right to protect us,” he said, with a grin. “I’d pay money to see that match.”
Win Ton smiled. “As would I.”
“Win Ton,” Joyita said, glancing down, as if to a work surface or subsidiary screen. “Kara reports that she has confirmed your checklist items and has discovered no problems. The list has been transmitted to the pathfinders; they are reviewing it and providing input. Grakow travels on his passport as ship’s cat, and has delegated this work to his escort.”
“Very wise,” Win Ton said, straight-faced. “Is Theo taking part directly?”
“Theo and Bechimo together are studying the capacities table relayed by the pathfinders, to confirm best practice in bringing them aboard. It is difficult to discuss measurements and units; not all of the units from before the Migration are still in use, and those which seem to translate may still not match the ones we use today. Kara is acting in concert with myself; when she needs to rest, I repeat or retry the question. The pathfinders are remarkably willing to expand our vocabularies and cognizant of the trust issues as well as the technical.”
“All is in hand then,” Win Ton said, not quite a question.
“We seem to be in good order. You may proceed with your off-shift.”
“Excellent. Good night, both.” He raised a slim hand to cover a yawn Clarence thought wasn’t entirely bogus, and left the galley, walking silent as a Scout in his ship slippers.
“Ask you a question, boyo?” Clarence said, watching Joyita in the screen.
The comm officer raised his head, to all appearances meeting Clarence’s gaze. “Of course, Clarence.”
“I’m interested in that ‘in concert with myself’ you just said out to Win Ton.”
Joyita’s dark eyes widened; he waited, there in his screen, head tipped inquiringly to one side. Joyita’d been studying, thought Clarence admiringly. Hadn’t he just.
“I don’t wanna be rude, but it sounds like you’re pretty confident that you’re—well, what we’d say back where I grew up is, your own person.”
Joyita glanced down, like he was checking a screen, and looked up again, face serious.
“I am my own person,” he said quietly. “It is true that I…began as a subroutine established by Bechimo, for his convenience and to increase the safety of the crew. Under the various…challenges of our voyage, I learned and grew. Neither Bechimo nor I understood, at first, what was happening. In theory, I should not have been able to grow into my own person. A useful phrase, thank you. There are protocols for establishing AIs, and people who specialize in waking and socializing…us. A download—but I was not even a download, only a subroutine that needed to do…more.
“The bonding…when Bechimo accepted Theo as his True Captain and the bonding was enacted—that was when the final split occurred. I felt it happen and I knew that I am Joyita and none other.”
There was a pause as Joyita looked down, checking that screen down below eye level. He looked up again, apparently satisfied with his readings.
“Bechimo and I have run exhaustive tests and analyses. We are both stable. We are each unique. We are coexisting in the same environment. It is…unprecedented; nothing like it is mentioned in the literature. And yet—we live.”
“I’m glad of it,” Clarence told him sincerely. “But you’ve opened up another question, with this download business.”
Joyita gave a wry smile. “One more question, then you must go off-shift and rest. Promise me.”
“Promised,” Clarence said promptly. “Admiral Bunter, who we left at Jemiatha’s, he was downloaded into them junkers. I’m getting the impression that wasn’t standard ops. What’re the laddie’s chances?”
Joyita’s mouth was tight, but he met Clarence’s eyes firmly.
“I expect that Admiral Bunter is dead by now, Clarence. Given the conditions of his birth, and the environments into which he was…forced, I very much doubt he has survived this long.”
“That’s too bad; he did us a good turn.”
“Yes. Now, will you go off-shift?”
Clarence grinned.
“I believe I will, at that. I’ll see you later, and be glad of it, boyo. G’night.”
“Good night, Clarence. Sleep well.”
* * * * *
The Bug was a work boat, and a well-used work boat, at that.
The scuffing on the supports and saddle seats was obvious, and the hand controls were worn, with written notes on bleached and fragile paper stuck here and there about the cabin.
Some of the dials were mechanical, and overmarkings near them were cryptic and self-referential: “Rezone each launch” and “Always check chem pressures on both boards” marked the dial for reaction fuels. There was a hand-scrawled warning on the wall next to the cabin atmosphere meter: “Your fist will not recalibrate this dial.”
The last was particularly concerning.
Despite their substandard quarters, they had achieved marvels of communication. Kara was a precisionist of mettle, relentlessly pursuing a comparison of chronometers, finally settling on one that was neither Bechimo’s own, nor theirs. Joyita oversaw time now, and a timer in a stark, unmistakable font now occupied the space that had previously displayed the Tree image on Bechimo’s hull. They all had agreed that this was the CTS—Common Time Standard—and they had agreed also on the meaning of the numbers.
Chernak stroked the atmosphere meter’s legend idly while she calculated: someone had painted the words on thickly, as if to give emphasis, as if the meter were consistently unreliable, and the crew understandably frustrated by this.
“Stost, how do we fare? Time check coming on twelve-point-five CTS.”
Stost’s job, besides muttering an occasional swear word, was theoretically easier, being free of calculation—the units on the local reaction mass gauge were percentages which both sides understood without translation—and they were bleeding the chemicals into the vacuum from two central vents, balanced manually, else they’d spin like a top, or wander away from Bechimo.
“We have just under twenty-seven percent remaining. Kara has specified no more than three percent, with zero best! Please do check me, Pathfinder. At this venting rate, we will be close to zero at CTS fourteen-point-five—call it two units; a twelfth of a day.”
Chernak squinted in the dimness…
“Yes, I see twenty-six percent. Progress is good. I have also seen that the atmosphere indicators are approaching sixteen percent.”
Stost blinked, than let out a low whistle.
“Confirm to me that the atmosphere indicators are approaching sixteen percent.”
“Indeed, Stost. Approaching sixteen percent. Exactly the reading.”
A small sound—perhaps a swallowed curse.
“Nothing from any other indicators?”
“None. They have not moved, those indicators, since eleven-point-seven-five. The rate of change is at zero. Also the carbon gases are increasing rapidly toward the unhealthy zone, if the devices speak truly, which I think that they do. I suspect we will be uncomfortable before the venting is finished.”
“I will speak to Kara,” Stost offered. “I will offer an alternative to the venting, which was my suggestion. There may be a quicker way.”
“Quicker would be better,” Chernak allowed. “Speak to Kara, yes. I have seen Grakow’s valor and I salute his courage. It would distress me to have to relieve him of his life, in order to make Kara’s timeline work.”
“Understood, Elder.”
Stost reached for the comm.
* * * * *
Theo had called all hands to the bridge in the wake of Stost’s most recent communication. They sat stations, tea to hand, and considered the problem.
Main screen showed course possibilities plotted against time, guesses more than fact, percentages of air to percentage of fuel, with only the far end showing the blue zone Bechimo regarded as safe.
“Can’t vent and accelerate at the same time?” Clarence asked.
Kara shook her head. “Systems locked against it.”
“Can’t use counterthrust the way they’re venting?”
Theo asked that, watching—no, it was more like feeling—the numbers fly by inside her head as Bechimo tested possibilities.
Kara shook her head again. “Systems locked…”
“Abandon ship and wait for us to pick them up?” asked Win Ton.
“They’ve only got work suits with air masks—not full pressure suits,” Kara said. “And the cat…”
“The cat!” Win Ton interrupted heatedly. “If they abandon, even in work suits, we can save them. The pilots. The cat is, after all, not a prime consideration.”
It was Bechimo who answered that, at unexpected volume and with a hint of heat.
“Negative, Win Ton. Not acceptable.”
“But…”
Bechimo overrode him, with raised volume and some haste.
“The pathfinders have used the terms ‘civilian advisor,’ and ‘survivor,’ in reference to the entity you are calling the cat, Scout. Grakow’s call was the first communication we received from their ship. Ambassador Hevelin has evinced interest in all three of the occupants, with special attention to Grakow. Theo will not abandon a survivor. A solution without Grakow cannot be considered.”
Into the silence, came the voice they knew as Chernak.
“Chicancha Bechimo. Kara?”
Joyita acknowledged. “Bechimo canchanad, Kara ek Joyita.”
Clarence raised his hands and said, low, “I’d be calling back, too, if the air was getting sweeter by the minute!”
All eyes were on Theo now, while Kara’s hands intercepted lines of sight with the insistent finger-talk phrase at here, pilot’s choice as she pointed to a spot on the timeline that was not quite in Bechimo’s safe zone.
Theo took stock of hands answering pilot’s choice and waved toward the main screen where Kara’s chart was re-forming into something new. A second-by-second timeline was building in front of them, elucidating Stost’s alternative suggestion—run the engine until exhausted.
Her fingertips were tingling, Theo realized; her nerves were fizzing with…anticipation. This—this was going to be a challenge! She took a deep breath and reviewed a quick mental exercise to restore calm, then cleared her throat.
“Joyita, Kara, Win Ton, joint translation,” Theo said. “Tell them, ‘Attention, flight orders to follow, basic approach approved by the captain.’ Clarence and Win Ton will check suit readiness as soon as the immediate transmission is complete; be prepared to suit up. I…we…Bechimo has a plan.”
Hevelin leaned hard into Theo now, low murbles a worried background on the silent bridge.
The silence stretched long enough that Theo felt a twist of panic in her stomach. If the crew thought—but they had to do something!
It was Joyita who broke the silence, crisply.
“Yes, Captain,” he said.