Asimov's Science Fiction: June 2013 (7 page)

"I don't trust my crew," he said flatly

The Kajjas tapped one foot, agreeing with the sentiment.

"If our children thought they could fly home, they might try it."

"But what I wish to know: Do you have faith in our new captain?"

"More than I have in the rest of you," Pamir said. "I don't believe what you believe, old friend. Not about the galaxy's mysterious rulers. Not about the peculiar sameness of our brains. Not about mysterious foes diving out of the darkness to kill us."

"I believe quite a lot more than that," Tailor said.

"Of course our enemy could be more treacherous than you can imagine. For example, maybe toxic memes have taken control over me, and that's why I took charge of this primordial ship."

"I hope that isn't the case," said the Kajjas.

"And I'll share that wish, or I'll pretend to."

"And what's your impression of Tailor?"

Pamir shrugged. "The ancient boy dances with some bold thoughts. He sounds brave and a little wise, and on his best days profound. But really, I consider him to be the dodgiest suspect of all."

"Then we do agree," said Tailor. "I trust none of us."

They laughed for a moment, quietly, without pleasure.

"But again," Pamir concluded. "I don't accept your galactic sovereigns. Except when I make myself believe in them, and even then, I always fall back on the lesson that every drive-mechanic understands."

"Which lesson?"

"A reliable star-drive doesn't count every hydrogen atom. The machinery doesn't need to know the locations of every proton and electron. No engineer, sane or pretending to be, would design any engine that attempts to control every element inside its fire. And for all of their chaos and all of their precision, star-drives are far simpler than any corner of the galaxy.

"Maybe I'm wrong. You're right, and some grand game is being played with the Milky Way and all of us. But you and I, my friend: We are two atoms of hydrogen, if that. And no engine worth building cares about our tiny, tiny fates."

Robots could have been trusted with this work, if someone brought them and trained them and then insulated each of them from clever enemies. No, maybe it was better that the crew did everything. They worked through the boost phases, and they picked up their pace during the intervals of free fall. G'lene was the weakest: Clad in an armored lifesuit, suffering from the gees, she could do little more than secure herself to the hull's scaffolding, slicing away at the scrap parts set directly in front of her. Complaining was a crucial part of her days, and she spent a lot of air and imagination sharing her epic miseries. By comparison, the twins were stoic soldiers who reveled in their strength, finding excuses to race one another between workstations and back to the airlock at the end of the day. But Tailor proved to be the marvel, the prize. The Kajjas world was more massive than the earth, but his innate physical power didn't explain his dependability or the polish of his efforts. Pamir told him what needed to be cut and into what shapes and where the shards needed to be stored, and looking at the captain as his sovereign, he never grumbled, and every mistake was his own.

One day, Tailor's shop torch burped and burnt away his leg. He reacted with silence, sealing the wound with the same flame before dragging himself inside, stripping out of the lifesuit and eating one of the bottled feasts kept beside the airlock, waiting to supercharge any healing.

"Captains have a solemn duty," the twins joked afterward. "They should sacrifice the same as their crew."

"Yeah, well, my leg stays on," said Pamir.

The laughter was nearly convincing.

Two years were spent slowly dismantling the streakship. Every shard of baryonic matter had been shaped and put away, waiting to be shoved down the engine's throat after the hydrogen was spent. The only task left was to carve up the streak-ship's armored prow. Better than hydrogen, better than any flavor of baryonic matter, a slender smooth blade of hyperfiber would ignore compression and heat, fighting death until its instantaneous collapse and a jolt of irresistible power. But hyperfiber was a better fuel in mathematics than it was in reality, subject to wildness and catastrophic failure—a measure waiting for desperate times.

Shop torches were too weak. Sculpting hyperfiber meant deploying one of their plasma guns. Pamir ordered his crew to remain indoors, the humans maintaining the lights and atmosphere while Tailor was free to return to his obsessions. For five months, Pamir began every day by passing through the airlock to wake a single gun. A block of armor was fixed into a vice, waiting to be carved into as many slips of fuel as possible. The work lasted until his nerves were shot. Then the gun had to be secured, and he crawled back inside the ship. G'lene always threw a smile at him. The twins pretended to ignore him, their curses still echoing in the bright air. Tailor was muttering to the sovereigns or searching for cargoes that didn't exist, or he did nothing but sit and think. Pamir needed to sit and think. But first he had to kick his way to the engine, attacking its inevitable troubles.

When the sixth month began, the twins stopped cursing him.

Even worse, they started to smile. They called him "Sir," and without prompting, they did their duties. One evening Rondie was pleasant, almost charming, grinning when she said that she knew that his jobs were difficult and she was thankful, like everyone, for his help and good sense.

Pamir wasn't sure what to believe, and so he believed everything.

Tailor continued fighting with the sovereigns.

"I have a verdict," he said one day.

"And that is?" asked Pamir.

"These machines are not insane. They pretend madness to protect something from someone. And the problem is that they won't tell me what either might be."

"Can you break through?"

"If I was as wise as my ancestors, I would, yes." The Kajjas laughed. "So I am convinced and a little thankful that I never will be."

Three years and a month had passed since their launch, the voyage barely begun. Pamir shook himself out of a forty minute nap, ate a quick breakfast and then donned a lifesuit that needed repairs. But the hyperfiber harvest would end in another nine days, and the suit was still serviceable. So, alone, he trudged through the airlock and onto a gangway. The plasma gun was locked where he had left it six hours ago. The gun welcomed him with a diagnostic feed, and while it was charging, Pamir used three nexuses to watch the interior. The twins were sleeping. G'lene was studying a mechanic's text, boredom driving her toward competency. And Tailor was staring into a display panel, trying to guess the minds of his ancestors.

Sensors were scattered around the huge cabin. Some were hidden, others obvious. And a few were self-guided, wandering in random pathways that would surprise everyone, including the captain who let them roam.

The peace had held for months.

But Pamir had been strangled and packed away with the luggage, and every day, without fail, he considered the smart clean solution to his worries. Three minutes, and the problem would be finished, with minimal fuss.

Kill the crew before they killed him.

Temporarily murder them, of course.

But those cold solutions had to be avoided. Despite temptations, he clung to the idea that kindness and compassion were the paths to prove your sanity.

Everybody seemed to hold that opinion. G'lene still flirted with the only available man. Maxx offered to drink heavily with his friend Jon, once his hard work was done. And just last week, his sister tried defining herself to this tyrannical captain: Rondie and her brother shared very weak but wealthy parents. They had wanted strong children. Genes were tweaked, giving both of them muscles and strong attitudes. Rondie said that she was beautiful even if nobody else thought so. She said that her parents had wisely kept their wealth away from their children, which was why they joined the military. And then in the next breath, the girl confessed to hating those two ageless shits for being so wise and looking out for their souls.

At that point she laughed. Pamir couldn't tell at whom.

He said, "In parts of the multiverse, both of you are weak and happy."

"A Luddite perspective," she said.

"It is," he agreed.

"Who are you really?" she asked.

"I'm you in some other realm."

"What does that mean?"

"Think," he said, liking the notion then and liking it more as he let it percolate inside his old mind.

That was a good day, and so far this day had proved ordinary.

The twins slept, but that didn't keep them from conversing—secret words bouncing between each other's dreams. Tailor was on a high platform, muttering old words that his translator didn't understand. G'lene was the quiet one. She studied. She fell asleep. Then she was awake and reading again, and that was when the pulse engine fell silent.

Pamir lifted from the gangway. Then he caught himself and strapped his body down, focusing on the white-hot shard of hyperfiber before him.

The airlock opened.

He didn't notice.

Three average people, working in concert, could easily outthink the weary fugitive. Pamir saw nothing except what his eyes saw and what the compromised sensors fed to him. The twins slept, and while studying, G'lene played with herself. Pamir looked away, but not because of politeness. At this point, those other bodies were as familiar and forgettable as his. No, his eyes and focus returned to the brilliant slip of hyperfiber that had almost, almost achieved perfection.

From a distant part of the cabin, Tailor called out.

The shout was a warning, or he was giving orders. Or maybe this was just another old word trying to subvert the security system, and it didn't matter in the end.

The ex-soldiers had cobbled together several shop torches, creating two weak plasma guns. The first blast struck Pamir in his left arm, and then he had no arm. But Maxx had responsibility for the captain's right arm, and the boy tried too hard to save the plasma gun. Wounded, Pamir spun as the second blue-white blast peeled back the life-suit's skin, scorching his shoulder but leaving his right hand and elbow alive.

Quietly and deliberately, Pamir aimed with care and then fired.

Charged and capable, his weapon could have melted the ship's flank. But it was set for small jobs, and killing two muscular humans was a very small thing.

The first blast hit Rondie in her middle, legs separating from her arms and chest. Cooked blood exploded into the frigid vacuum while the big pieces scattered. Maxx dove into the blood cloud to hide, and he fired his gun before it could charge again, accomplishing nothing but showing the universe where he was hiding.

Pamir turned two arms into ash and a gold-white light.

But where was G'lene?

Pamir spun and called out, and then he foolishly tried to kick free of the gangway. But he forgot the tie-downs. Clumsier than any bouncing ball, he lurched in one direction and dropped again, and G'lene shot him with a series of kinetic charges. Lifesuits were built to withstand high-velocity impacts, but the homemade bullets had hyperfiber jackets tapering to needles that pierced the suit's skin, bits of tungsten and iron diving inside the man's flailing sorry body.

The plasma gun left Pamir's grip, spinning as it fled the gangway.

A woman emerged from shadow, first leaping for the gun and securing it. She was crying, and she was laughing. The worst possibilities had been avoided, but she still had the grim duty of retrieving body parts. The plasmas hadn't touched the twins' heads, and they remained conscious, flinging out insults in their private language, even as their severed pieces turned calm, legs and organs and one lost hand saving their energies for an assortment of futures.

G'lene grabbed Maxx first, sobbing as she tied the severed legs to his chest.

Rondie said, "Leave," and then, "Him."

"You're next," G'lene promised.

"No, no look," Rondie muttered.

Too late, the crying woman turned.

Every lifesuit glove was covered with high-grade hyperfiber. Pamir was holding his own dead limb with living fingers, using those dead fingers like a hot pad. That was how he could control the slip of hyperfiber that he had been carving on. A kiss from the radiant hyperfiber was enough to cut the tie-downs that secured him, and then he leaped at G'lene. The crude blade was hotter than any sun. He jabbed it at her belly, aiming for the biggest seam, missing once and then planting his boots while shoving harder, searing heat and his fine wild panic helping to punch the beginnings of a hole into the paper-thin armor.

G'lene begged for understanding, not mercy, and she let go of body parts, trying to recover her own weapon.

Pamir shoved again, and he screamed, and the blade vanished inside the woman.

Flesh cooked, and G'lene wailed.

He let her suffer. With his flesh roaring in misery, Pamir set to work tying down body parts and weapons. All the while the girl's round body was swelling, the fire inside turning flesh into gas, and then empathy stopped him. He finally removed her helmet, the last scream emerging as ice, the round face freezing just before a geyser of superheated vapor erupted out of her belly.

***

"You had some role," Pamir said.

They were sharing a small platform tucked just beneath the ship's prow. The alien had been crawling through an access portal where nothing had ever been stowed. The glass threads had pulled together, building the platform that looked like happy red grass. Pamir hated that color just now. The alien's eyes were clear, and he didn't pretend to look anywhere but at the battered, mostly killed human.

"Each of us has a role," Tailor said.

"You helped them," said the captain.

"Never," he said.

"Or you carefully avoided helping, but you neglected to warn me."

"I could have done more," the creature admitted. "But why are you distressed? They intended a short death for you, just long enough for you to reconsider."

Every situation had options. The captain's first job was to sweep away the weakest options.