CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT HAD TAKEN some time to get things sorted out. Happily, the victim’s fingers had been retrieved intact and there was an excellent chance that they would be successfully replaced. The incisions, the doctor told Mr. Ing over the comm, had been almost surgically precise.
That out of the way, it had taken rather longer than Ing had hoped, though no longer than he had expected, to coax information from the young Clutch person seated on the other side of his desk, seriously taxing the structural integrity of the sturdiest chair available on the Station. Finally, however, Ing had the short-form name of a kinsman.
The blur on his screen became the head and shoulders of another Clutch person. “Yes?” it inquired.
Ing inclined his head. “May I have the honor,” he began in Trade, “to speak with he who is named in the short form Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River’s Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of The Spearmaker’s Den, The Edger?”
The big eyes blinked. “You are, please?”
Extremely brief, for Clutch. Ing began to entertain hopes of putting it all neatly to bed in another three or four hours. “This person is called Xavier Ponstella Ing, Dayside Supervisor Prime Station Municipality of Lufkit.”
The person on the screen inclined its head. “I shall inform the T’carais. Please do not sever the connection.” The screen was abruptly empty of Clutch persons, displaying instead an abstract design in blue, green, and orange.
Ing glanced over the comm at his prisoner. “Perhaps,” he tried, “it would be well for you to come here, where your kinsman will be able to see you and where you will be able to speak with each other more easily.”
There was a pause long enough to let Ing wonder if his words had been understood. Then the youngling levered himself out of the chair and came around the table, shuffling, to stand behind Ing’s shoulder.
On the screen the abstract was replaced with the countenance of yet another Clutch person. This one was old, Ing saw: his shell nearly covered his shoulders.
“I am he with whom you requested speech, Xavier Ponstella Ing. To save your time, it should be said immediately that, among humans, I have no objection to the name Edger,” the big voice rumbled through the speakers, picking up some static. Ing adjusted the gain and bowed his head profoundly.
“This person is most often addressed as Ing,” he said. “I’m afraid there has been an altercation on Prime between your kinsman, whom you left to watch your vessel, and a human.” He paused, but Edger seemed willing to hear him out completely.
“I am not sure how it came about,” he continued, “for the human was in shock from his injuries when aid arrived, and your kinsman appears to have less than a good command of the trading tongue. The short of it is that your kinsman seems to have bitten two fingers from the hand of a human person on this station. This is a criminal offense—it is called Assault and Battery—for which we have punishments. Since this incident involves your kinsman, however, I would not presume to punish him without your knowledge and consent.” Ing hoped the old boy was a reasonable sort.
“This human person,” Edger said. “What was the name?”
“Herbert Alan Costello,” Ing said, wondering.
“Ah. And the condition of Herbert Alan Costello? It seems that I have heard it dangerous for humans to experience the state called ‘shock.’”
The old gentleman was really concerned, Ing thought. He hadn’t expected that, considering the kid’s attitude.
“I have recently spoken with the doctor, who assures me that the fingers will be able to be replaced and that function should return, perhaps wholly, but certainly to the ninetieth percentage. It was most fortunate that we were able to recover the fingers in such excellent condition.”
“Most fortunate, indeed,” Edger agreed. “You spoke of punishment. It is the custom of our Clan to mete punishment to members of the Clan. It would shame me to have it said that I am so lacking in propriety that I allowed a kinsman of mine to be corrected by one of another Clan, no matter how shamefully he had behaved. It would mean much to me, were you to honor this custom. I assure you that this person will be punished in full measure for his crime.”
“It would also mean much to me,” he went on, “if you would ascertain the sum of Herbert Alan Costello’s medical expenses, as well as the cost of maintaining his household while he is unable to pursue his rightful occupation. I will pay this sum to Herbert Alan Costello, and also whatever blood-price is appropriate. I depend upon your advice in the matter, since I cannot presume to place a price on such damage to a human, who may not regenerate what he has lost. I would do everything that is proper, so that this disgrace does not mar the goodwill that exists between the Clutch and the Clans of Men.”
Ing blinked. “You are very generous,” he began.
Edger waved a large hand. “I am mortified that one of my Clan should have acted in such a manner. I repeat that he will not go unpunished. He is young and without experience, it is true, but there is no excuse for the lack of courtesy that you have brought to my attention. It is mine to rectify, and to hope that Herbert Alan Costello regains the full use of his hand.”
Edger shifted his gaze upward and back, his large eyes hardening. Ing felt a moment’s sympathy for the kid behind him.
“I am also ashamed,” Edger said, speaking to Ing, though his eyes were on Watcher, “that you have somehow been led to believe that my kinsman does not speak Trade. His knowledge of that language is adequate. It is beyond my comprehension that he would not have spoken when addressed in that tongue and thereby made an accounting of himself to an Elder-in-Charge.”
Ing would have sworn that Watcher cringed.
“Maybe,” he offered, “your kinsman was also in shock of some kind. The condition does sometimes rob persons of language for a time, even the tongue they have spoken since birth.” Hell, it was only a kid.
“You are kind,” Edger said with awesome dignity. “I take note of your effort to soften the blow to our honor, but I am not persuaded that this was the case.
“Watcher!” he snapped, still in Trade. “You will come to me. You will come with whatever person or persons Xavier Ponstella Ing deems proper to send with you, so he might be assured that you will damage no other beings before you are under my eyes. You will come in whatever haste or deliberateness Elder Ing adjudges proper. Above all, you will speak when spoken to, and answer all questions honorably and in the best fullness that time allows. You will think upon the uses of courtesy among and between all peoples, and you will have an accounting of yourself and your actions to lay before me when you arrive. Have you understood all that I have said to you?”
“Yes, T’carais.” Watcher’s voice was barely audible.
“And will you obey?”
“Yes, T’carais,” Watcher replied even more softly.
“I leave you then to the care of Elder Xavier Ponstella Ing, to remove you to me within his own customs and traditions. Goodbye.” This last had apparently been meant for both. The screen went suddenly dark.
The kid looked decidedly shaken, Ing thought. “Okay, Watcher, why don’t you have a seat while I arrange transportation? We’ll have you on-world within the next day.”
No matter what other punishment awaited him should he show further lack of courtesy, Watcher could not bring himself to thank Elder Ing for this consideration of him.
EDGER CERTAINLY HAD an amazing number of books, even granting that fewer than a third were written in a language that Miri could read. A brief search among those produced The Young Person’s Book of Space Drives, by Professor Thos. Swift, and A Beginner’s Course in High Liaden, by Anne Davis.
Anne Davis? The name was vaguely familiar. Miri scouted up a reader, curled up comfortably on the upholstered ledge that seemed to be the Clutch’s answer to overstuffed chairs, and fed that tape in first.
“Anne Davis,” the bio at the beginning told her, “was a Heidelberg Fellow and respected comparative linguist. Her work included compilations and cross-checks of the major Terran dialects, and is considered a touchstone of contemporary linguistic research. However, she is best known for her in-depth study of High Liaden, as well as the several grammars and self-paced study texts of this complex and beautiful language. A manuscript outlining the grammar and following the structural shifts of Low Liaden was left uncompleted at the time of her death. She is survived by three natural children: Shan, Nova, and Anthora yos’Galan; and a fosterchild: Val Con yos’Phelium.”
Miri blinked, remembering his story of the aunt who had taught him to play the ‘chora. Just your luck, Robertson, she thought. Leave off wondering who he really is and up pops verification.
She rewound the book and set it aside for later study, then fed the other into the reader, arranging herself more comfortably against the ledge and manipulating the forward control.
“There are four kinds of space drives in use in the known Galaxy at the present time,” Chapter One informed her cheerily. “The three best known are the Terran, or Congruency Flaw Drive; the Liaden, or Quark Retraction Drive; and the Clutch, or Electron Substitution Drive. The fourth kind of drive is that used by the Yxtrang, but no one has yet been able to discover exactly what kind of drive it is.”
“Bloody guess not,” she commented. Yxtrang never let a ship fall to capture, instead destroying full battle crews if necessary. A few ships had, nonetheless, been taken—mostly by the sneaky Liadens who, to be fair, had been trying longer. Those captured ships had destroyed themselves when entry was forced, taking the boarding parties with them. The best thing about Yxtrang ships was that there weren’t many of them. The worst thing was that there were any at all.
“Terran and Liaden ships,” the text continued, “make use of a mathematical probability called the Similarity Constant, which allows ships to cover great distances very quickly. Since Terran and Liaden mathematicians envision this concept in slightly different ways, the Congruency Flow and the Quark Retraction Drives are not exactly equal in terms of the time it takes vessels to cover a given distance.
“For instance, a Terran cargo ship might traverse 50 light-years within 50 seconds. The same journey might take a Liaden freighter 50 hours. This comparison, of course, is for ordinary purposes of calculation.
“It has been reported that Liadens possess some vessels at the one-and two-man size which, though not necessarily faster than Terran ships, are able to perform close-in maneuvers that allow them a head start on a vessel that must put several light-hours between itself and the nearest planetary body before commencing the Congruency maneuver.”
Yeah, so Liaden Scout ships are fast and do tricks and you’re jealous, Miri thought. What about Clutch ships?
“The Electron Substitution Drive utilized by the members of the Clutch takes advantage of the ability of an electron to appear in a new orbit before leaving its original orbit.” Huh? “This means that Clutch ships move along in a series of physical ‘burps’ of about one light-day, always making sure that there is room for it where it is going before it leaves where it is.”
Miri closed her eyes and scrubbed her hands vigorously over her face before reading that last bit one more time.
“This method of travel,” the book continued, “is extremely efficient of energy as it utilizes the mass available around the ship to aid propulsion. It is this aspect of the drive that accounts for the Clutch’s navigation through densely populated starfields, rather than attempting to avoid these, as do Terran and Liaden vessels. The Electron Substitution Drive is also much, much slower than the other two drives we’ve discussed, but time is rarely of the essence to Clutch people . . . .”
Working with the forward, she scanned the rest of the book quickly, looking for reports of side-effects of the Clutch’s goofy drive. She found nothing. Apparently humans didn’t ride in Clutch ships. Which made sense, in a way: Why take three weeks when another ship can make the trip in two days?
She shook her head and leaned back. That was another problem with being so short-lived, she guessed. One had to risk one’s life for a chance to live more. She wondered what the psychedelics were like for Edger.
Pushing the reader to one side, she stretched and fished in her pouch for a ration stick, then stopped with her fingers on the seal-rip. There’s supposed to be real food somewhere on this tub, she thought. Tough Guy—Val Con—probably he knows where.
She rolled to her feet and headed leisurely for the control room.
IT TOOK A LITTLE over half an hour to line up a special shuttle and guard. Watcher would be escorted on the shuttle from Prime to Econsey Port, and in the truck that would bear him from there to the hyatt where his kin awaited him. He should, Ing told Watcher, be with Edger within the next planet day.
Watcher bowed his head, as was proper when addressing an Elder-in-Charge, and spoke as politely as he was able, though the tongue called Trade barely lent itself to courtesy. “Thank you for your care of me. I regret the inconvenience.”
“Well, I regret it, too,” Ing said frankly. “But it’s done now, and you’ll have to take your punishment. Just take what’s coming to you and then shape up, okay? Nothing like this needs to ever happen again.”
Watcher murmured that there was no doubt much in what Elder Ing said. Watcher would devote thought to his words.
Ing left it at that and showed the kid to a holding area where he would be guarded by a nervous security woman until the transport personnel showed up to claim him.
TAKING THE LEFT hand hallway from the library, rather than the right, Miri bypassed the swimming pool and came instead to a garden. Plants hung in pots, climbed trellises, and crept along the ground, surrounding artistic little clearings and comfortably shaped benchstones. It was a pleasant place, except that the light was a little dull and the temperature rather more sultry than Miri, bred on cold Surebleak, could like. Still, she lingered for a time, inspecting some purple and yellow flowers creeping along the floor, and studying a cheery red cluster of fruit on a trellis-climbing vine. She wondered idly if these were grapes and what sort of wine they’d make.
Eventually she moved out of the garden, going down a short corridor that intersected the hallway of the sleeping rooms, which in turn led very quickly to the control room.
Val Con was not in the control room. No reason why he should be, she allowed, with the facilities of a ship this size at his command. Still, she was irked and, spying the pile of—things—on the table, worried.
She approached the table cautiously and stood with her hands behind her back, frowning as she sorted the items by eye.
Well, there was his gun. And that was surely the throwing blade he’d shown her in the alley outside her hideout—how long ago? But that was only the cord from his shirt, and the flat metal rectangle looked for all the worlds like a creditcard, and those were his boots. . . .
He entered the room silently at her back and she turned on the instant, eyebrows up.
“What’ve you been doing to your face?” she asked. “It’s all red.”
He smiled and came over to the table. “Edger’s soap is sand. I’m pleased to have skin left of any color.”
She surveyed him without comment: hair damp, face slightly abraded, shirt unlaced, sleeves rolled up revealing more abrasion on his arms, and she wondered about the force he’d used with the soapsand. He was beltless and barefoot. She flicked her eyes to his face and discovered no trace of last night’s horror. He returned her gaze calmly, his eyes a clear and bottomless green.
Breaking that gaze, she waved her hand at the pile on the table. “Cleaning house?”
“These are weapons, Miri. I want you to hide them, please.”
“How come I get all the fun jobs? And why? And even if I do, boots ain’t weapons, friend. Neither is a belt, except under certain exceptional conditions I’m willing to risk. Man shouldn’t walk around with his shirt unlaced—ain’t genteel. And you oughta keep the creditcard—never know when you’re gonna need cash.”
He picked up the black cord that had laced his shirt, slid it through his fingers, and allowed his hands to go through the proper motions.
“Garrote.”
The creditcard he used to shave a curl of rock from the wall behind him. He offered her the shaving.
“Guillotine.”
He flipped the belt to reveal the inside surface and its three distinct layers.
“Explosives, electronic picklock, sawblade.”
He laid the belt down and pointed.
“The right boot has an explosive charge built into the heel, as well as a climbing spike that extrudes from the toe. The left has the climbing spike and a manual picklock in the heel.”
He sat, abruptly drained, and waved a hand to include the jumble of wires, pins, and metal doodads.
“Whatever the moment demands. Push a pin behind an ear; drive a piece of wire into an eye—death. Or—”
“I get the picture,” she interrupted and then stood for a long, silent time, surveying the pile. Something caught her eye and she pulled it to her.
A black sheath of the finest suede, enclosing and caressing the blade within. The handle was made of something that gleamed like polished obsidian, yet was warm to her touch.
Gently, she curled her hand around it and pulled the blade free.
It glittered in the light, catching and dispersing rays—a live thing, she would swear it, made all of green crystal and black.
With reverence she slid the blade back into its nest—the fit was not proper for her hand, and she knew that the knife had been made for one grip alone. Silently, she held it out to him.
His hand jumped forward, clenched, then dropped.
“Edger gave you this.” It was not a question. “Let’s keep it simple, kid: You kill me with the knife Edger gave you, and I won’t argue that I didn’t need killing.” She pushed it at him. “Take it!”
Hesitantly, he obeyed, running his fingers over the handle in a caress.
Miri turned sharply, flinging her hands out. “And all the rest of it, too! Put it on, put it back, throw it out—I don’t care! It don’t make sense to hide ‘em, so I won’t.” And she suddenly sat, breathing a bit too hard and hanging on tight to her temper.
“Miri, listen to me. I can kill you—”
She snorted. “Old news, spacer.”
He shook his head. “I-can-kill-you. At any time. I—believe you may be right and that I am—walking on the knife’s edge.” He paused to even his breathing. He had to make her understand! “You might take your gun out to clean it, and I would react only to the gun—not the cleaning—and you would die. Last night, I very nearly did kill you—”
Her fist hit the table as she snapped to her feet “With your hands, you cashutas! You never went for one of those damn things, and it’s my belief you won’t!”
She sat as suddenly as she had stood, swallowing hard in a throat gone dry, eyes fixed on the shine and glitter that was a silver snake holding a blue gem fast in its jaws. “I don’t believe you’ll kill me,” she said. “I won’t believe it.”
He waited for her to look up, then spoke with utmost gentleness. “Miri, how many people have I killed since first we came together?”
She rounded her eyes. “Weren’t you counting?” A sharp shake of the head followed. “Those were strangers. In self-defense. War conditions. And last night was a special case. You were out of your head—battle shock. I’ve seen it before. Knew you’d come out of it like a tiger fightin’ a cyclone. My mistake was thinking I could get out of range in time. So we screwed up and we’re alive to argue about it. Some people have all the luck.”
“Miri—”
“No!” she yelled. Then she continued more calmly. “No. I don’t wanna hear any more about it. The only way to convince me you’ll kill me is to do it, accazi? I think you’re the craziest person I ever met—and that’s a compliment considering what you’ve managed to get done while quietly going bats. And I think the thing responsible, the thing that’s making you so bats, is that damn—estimator—sitting in your head talking to itself.
“People ain’t ciphers, and situations with people in ‘em are by definition random, subject to chance, mischance, and happy circumstance. You can’t calculate it.” She rubbed her hands over her face and took a deep breath. “You derail that thing and you’ll be sane as a stone; chuck this damn job and get one playin’ the chora somewhere ritzy . . . .” She let her words trail off and rubbed at her face again.
He waited, watching her.
“Aah, I talk too much.” She pushed to her feet, waving a hand at the pile between them. “Here’s the deal: You point me in the direction of food and I’ll make us something to eat, okay? And while I’m doing that, will you for Great Panth’s sake get rid of this stuff?”