deprivation and the lingering effects of radiation

poisoning, had done much to reshape Nancia's feel-

ings towards the pallid brawn who'd boarded her on

Vega 3.3. She felt a grudging respect for the man she

saw spending hours in her exercise facility, working

out with gyroweights and spring resistors to restore

wasted niusdes.

 

The man who had accepted her initial hostile at-

titude as no more than his due, who'd shut her out of

his mind at once and had not spoken a word to her

since. They had traveled in silence through the three

days it took to move between the suns of Vega 3 and

Vega 4, while Nancia waited impatiently for Simeon to

resume communications so that she could ask what

she wanted to know. Finally she'd begun battering at

the Vega Base brain's frequencies with ever-increasing

bursts of communication that must have given him the

equivalent of a softperson's "headache."

 

Nancia condensed the newsbytes she'd read and

transmitted them in three short bursts to Simeon, just

to convince him she'd done her homework.

 

"So what else do you want to know?"

 

"How. Did. He. Lose. His. Ship?" Nancia punctuated

each word with a burst of irritated static

 

"You read the newsbytes."

 

"WE'RE SHIELDED AGAINST — sorry." She

started over at normal intensity. "We're shielded

against radiation. He shouldn't have been harmed,

 

84

 

Anne McCaffrey &f Margaret Ball

 

unless he was being careless — leaving the ship

without checking radiation levels? And there's no way

his ship could have been affected. What could have got

through her column?"

 

"His column, in this case," Simeon corrected, as if

that mattered.

 

Unless Caleb used the access code to open his brninskip's shdL.

That was the nightmare, that was what she wanted reas-

surance about. No brawn was supposed to know both

the syllables and the musical tones that comprised his

brainship's access codes. One sequence was given to the

brawn on assignment, the other deeply classified in

CenCom's codes. But Polyon's casual dabbling in the Net

had left Nancia deeply suspicious of computer security

systems. Any code invented could be broken... and how

else could the CL-740 have been lost to something as

minor as a radiation burst?

 

"Nothing did get through the column," Simeon told

her. "The CL-740 was one of the first Courier Service

ships commissioned, though. Three hundred years

ago they didn't know as much as we do about shielding

the synapse connectors. The radiation burst they were

subjected to wasn't enough to harm the major ship's

systems, but it fried the connections to die shell,

leaving CL-740 in total isolation — unable to com-

municate or to receive signals, completely unable to

control the ship. Caleb brought the ship back on

manual controls, but by the time they got to Vega the

CL-740 had gone mad from sensory deprivation,"

 

"But the Helva System — " Nancia protested. It had

been a long, long time since any brainship had been

subjected to sensory deprivation; shell-internal

metachips, named for the legendary brainship who'd

survived the ordeal and suggested the modification,

should have been invulnerable to any outside

interference.

 

"The Helva modifications are not universal, though

 

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85

 

God knows they should be." Simeon sounded very

tired. "It's a traumatizing procedure for those of us

who aren't lucky enough to have it built into our first

design, young'un. Some of the older brainships, those

who'd paid off and continued in the Courier Service as

free agents, had a right to refuse retrofitting. CL ...

exercised that right"

 

"Oh." It was a brain's worst nightmare, that being cut

off from the world with a thoroughness no softperson

could even imagine. Nancia dosed down all her sensors

for a moment, imagining that absolute blackness. How

long would she be able to bear it? No wonder her super-

visor at Lab Schools had canceled the first newsbyte

about the CL-740. No wonder the newsbyte files made

available to her now had been censored. No one wanted

a brainship to start thinking about the worst that could

happen. Nancia didn't want to think about it any longer.

With an internal shudder she threw open all her sensors

and comm channels at once.

 

The minor clatter of everyday life was a warm, reas-

suring tide about her, connecting her with the rest of

humanity, the rest of all sentient life. Nancia

catalogued the details with surprise and gratitude.

How strange and wonderful all this is ... to see, hear, feel,

think, know... and I have been taking it all for granted! For

a moment, the smallest input was precious to her, a gift

of life. Caleb was hanging between two spring-resis-

tors in the gym, the display screens in the central cabin

were dancing with their elegant geometric screen-

saver patterns, the stars outside burned with then-

distant fire, Vega 4 was a ruddy glow before her, some-

one was chattering between Vega 4.3 and 4.2 about

Central synthsilk fashions. Someone else was crying

into a satellite link....

 

And Simeon was still talking. "Levin." The databits

transmitted like a whisper. "His name wasn't CL-740.

His name was Levin, and he was my friend."

 

86

 

At Vega 4.2, Governor Thrixtopple and his family

spilled aboard Nanria like a pack of cruise passengers,

dropping their luggage anywhere for the patient ser-

vants who followed to pick up, commenting loudly on

any feature of Nancia's interior that caught their

attention.

 

"Hey! Look at these display screens!** The youngest

Thrixtopple, a weasel-faced brat in his early teens, lit

up on sight of the three wall-size display screens in the

central cabin. "Sis, where's my SPACED OUT hedron? I

could play all the way home — "

 

"/don't have to keep track of where you drop all

your junk," his older sister whined. "Mama, there's

only one storage bin in my cabin. My Antarxian ruffe

will get all wrinkled!"

 

"Who cares? They still won't make any difference to

your ugly face!" Thrixtopple Junior stuck out his

tongue at his sister. She hurled a globe of something

pink and slushy at him; he ducked out of the way and

Caleb caught the globe in a neat one-handed catch.

 

"Now, kiddies," Thrixtopple Senior mumbled,

"mustn't upset your mother or the servants." He held

out one skinny hand to receive the pink globe his

daughter had thrown; glance and gesture included

Caleb among those "servants." Nancia bristled. He

might not be her official brawn, she might still have

her reservations about the way Psych was trying to

throw the two of them together for the convenience of

CenCom, but Caleb was still a trained brawn and

deserving of more respect than that!

 

"Governor Thrixtopple, I'm afraid I will have to ask

all of you to enter your personal cabins and strap

down for lift-off now," Caleb said tonelessly.

 

"Already? Why, these clumsy servants haven't begun

to unpack for me yet! I'm not nearly ready to send

them away!" Trixia Thrixtopple complained without a

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

87

 

word of gratitude or fere well to the servants who had,

presumably, waited on her through the twenty years

of Governor Thrixtopple's service. It was dear where

her daughter had learned that penetrating whine.

 

"My apologies, ma'am," Caleb said, still without any

inflection that they could react to, "but I am bound by

regulations. Section 4, subsection 4.5, paragraphs ii to

iv. Courier Service ships are not permitted to dally for

any reason; a prolonged stop here could upset urgent-

ly needed communications elsewhere."

 

He personally escorted the Thrixtopple family to

their bunks and made sure each of them was secured

against the high-grav stresses of lift-off. Nancia kept

the cabin sensors open to double-check every move,

but Caleb made no mistakes.

 

Once the passengers were strapped down and their

luggage stowed, Caleb returned to the central cabin

and waved one hand towards the door. "Would you

close us off, please, XN?" He sighed with exaggerated

relief. "If only we could keep them out of here for the

entire flight. People like that are a disgrace to Vega.

Why, they didn't even have the manners to greet you!"

 

"Neither did the passengers I took on the way out,"

Nancia told him. "I was beginning to feel invisible."

 

"Not to me," Caleb told her. His eyes scanned the

entire cabin with a look of longing that surprised Nan-

cia. "Never to me.... If I don't get a new assignment,

this could be my last voyage on a brainship. And we

had to be saddled with these, these ..." He threw up

his hands as though words failed him.

 

"It is a pity," Nancia agreed, "but there's no reason

we can't be professional about doing our jobs, is

there?" While she made conversation with Caleb, she

was rapidly reviewing the volumes of Courier Service

regulations with which her data banks had been

loaded upon commissioning. There should have been

something in the third megahedron.... Ah, there it

 

88        Anne McCaffreytf Margaret BaU

 

was. Precisely what the situation called for. But she

wouldn't mention it now. Caleb was eager to escape

the surface of Vega 4.2 before the Thrixtopple family

started complaining about their restraints, and she

couldn't blame him.

 

In deference to Caleb's weakened condition, Nanria

made this lift-off as slow and gentle as she could. After

all, it wasn't his fault that Psych Central was practically

forcing their personal codes into one datastream. And

she didn't want to kill the man on the way home.

 

When they entered freefall again, Caleb unlatched

himself from the support chair and moved about the

cabin with none of the languor he'd shown after the

previous lift-off. "Being gentle with the civilians?** he

inquired. "I seem to recall that you can lift consider-

ably fester than that when you're so inclined, XN."

 

"I... um... I didn't see any need to hurry," Nancia

muttered. Damn the man! Too stiff-necked to admit

that he, too, could benefit from a slightly gentler

takeoffl

 

Caleb looked faintly amused. "No. Considering that

now there's no excuse to keep them strapped in, and

we'll probably have the brats in our laps until you

reach Singularity.... I wouldn't have wanted to hurry,

either."

 

As if on cue, the Thrixtopple boy punched through

the iris-opening of the door. Nancia winced at the

damage to her flexible membranes. She left the door

iris open so that Governor Thrixtopple, proceeding

down the corridor at a stately pace behind his son,

wouldn't inflict further violence on her.

 

"Ok, we're in space now, lemme play with the com-

puter!" the boy demanded.

 

Nancia slid her datareaders shut as the boy ap-

proached and deliberately blanked her screens. Tm

sorry, young sir. Courier Service Regulations, volume

XVIII, section 1522, subsection 6.2, paragraph

 

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89

 

mcmlii, strictly prohibit allowing unauthorized pas-

sengers access to the ship's computer or free

movement within the central cabin. The prohibition is

intended as a protection against illegal interference

with Courier Service property."

 

"Hear now, you — you talking shell, that's not

meant to apply to people like us!" Governor Thrixtop-

ple blustered as he entered the cabin.

 

"The official orders which were transmitted to me

by CenCom at the beginning of this voyage make no

reference to your family, Governor Thrixtopple,**

Nancia replied. She paused slightly between words

and gave her voice a slight metallic overtone to make

the Thrixtopples feel they were talking to a machine

that could not be threatened or bribed. "I am not

myself authorized to change such orders save on direct

beam from Central Command.**

 

"But Vega Base told you to ferry us to Central!"

 

"And I am always happy to do my good friends at Vega

Base a favor," Nancia replied. "Nevertheless, it is not in

my power to change regulations. Should Central Com-

mand retroactively authorize you to access my

computers, I will—retroactively — permit you to have

done so. In the meantime, I must request that you return

to your personal cabin areas. I should be reluctant to en-

force the order, but you must know that I retain the

power to flood all life support areas with sleepgas,"

 

Governor Thrixtopple grabbed his son's collar and

dragged him out of the central cabin. The iris of the

door membrane slid together.

 

"That," said Caleb reverently, "was brilliant, XN.

Positively brilliant. Ah — I suppose there is such a

regulation?"

 

"Of course there is! You don't think I'd IwT

 

"My deepest apologies, ma'am. It was only that I

had no personal recollection of the paragraph in

question—"

 

90

 

Anne McCaffivy & Margaret Ball

 

**I understand that softperson brains are quite

limited in their storage and retrieval powers," Nancia

said loftily. Then she relented. "It took me several

minutes of scanning to find something applicable,

actually. And I never would have thought of it if you

hadn't quoted regulations to get them out of here

before lift-off."

 

"If it weren't for meals," Caleb reflected aloud, "we

wouldn't have to speak to them again all the way back

to Central...."

 

"I have the capacity to serve meals from any room in

the living quarters," Nancia informed him. Unlike the

older models ... She cut that thought offbefore voicing

it. It would be sheer cruelty to remind Caleb of what he

had lost

 

"Okay, XN, try this one." Caleb manipulated the

joyball to bring up a display of a double torus contain-

ing two simple dosed curves. Three disks labeled Al,

B, and A2 contained sections of the torus. "You're in

Al; A2 is your target space. Find the Singularity points

and compute the decompositions required."

 

"No fair," Nancia protested. "It's never even been

proved that there is a decom sequence that'll navigate

that structure. Satyajohi's Conjecture." She quoted

from her memory banks, "If h is a homeomorphism of

E3 onto itself that is fixed on E3 — T, need one of

h(Jl), h(j2) contain an arc with four points of A+B

such that no two of these points which are adjacent on

the arc belong to the same one of A and B? If so, the

decomposition space H does not yield E3, And in this

application," she reminded Caleb, "E3 is equivalent to

normal space."

 

Caleb blinked twice. "I didn't expect you to know

Satyajohi's Conjecture, actually. Still — let me point

out, XN, it's only a conjecture, not a theorem."

 

"In one hundred and twenty-five years of deep-

 

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91

 

space mathematics it's never been disproved," Nancia

grumbled.

 

"So? Perhaps you'll be the first to find a counter-

example.''

 

Nancia didn't think there was much point in even

trying, but she set an automatic string-development

program to race through the display, illuminating

various possible Singularity paths as lines of brilliant

blue light, then letting them fade out as the impos-

sibility of one after the other was proved. There was

something else on which she very much wanted

Caleb's advice, and now — with the Thrixtopple fami-

ly intimidated into staying in their cabins, and Caleb in

as good a mood as she'd ever seen him after his

demonstration of Satyajohi's Conjecture — now was

the best time she could have to bring it up.

 

"I haven't been commissioned very long, you know,

Caleb," she began.

 

"No, but you're going to be one of the best," Caleb told

her. "I can see it in the way you handle little things. I

wouldn't have thought of finding a regulation to get the

Thrixtopples out of our hair. And I don't think I'd have

tested Satyajohi's Conjecture the way you're going about

it right now, either." Two possible Singularity lines

flashed bright blue and then vanished from the screen as

he spoke, while a third snaked through Al and into the B

disk around the double torus.

 

"Some things," Nancia said carefully, "get more

complicated than that. In mathematics a conjecture

either is or isn't true."

 

"The same is true of Courier Service Regulations,"

Caleb pointed out

 

"Yes, well... not everything. They don't tell you

what to do if a brainship happens to hear her pas-

sengers making illegal plans."

 

"If you've been eavesdropping on Governor Thrix-

topple in his cabin," Caleb said sternly, "that's a

 

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Anne McCaffrey fcf Margaret Batt

 

dishonorable action and I hereby formally request you

to stop it immediately."

 

"Oh, I haven't," Nantia assured him. "But whatif—

if a brainship had some passengers who didn't know

she was sentient, and they liked to sit in the central

cabin and play SPACED OUT, and they just happened

to discuss some possibly illegal plans while they were

doing it?"

 

"Oh — a hypothetical case?" Caleb sounded

relieved, and Nancia felt the same way. At least he

hadn't guessed immediately, as Simeon had, that she

was talking about her own previous experience.

Everything Nancia had learned or seen of Caleb—the

newsbeams of his heroic solo return to Vega, the

dedication with which he put himself through a gruel-

ing exercise program, his respect for Courier Service

regulations — made her think of him as a man of

supreme integrity, one whose word she could trust

under any circumstances. She would not have wanted

to hear him laugh at her as Simeon had done, or sug-

gest — as Simeon had done — that her own actions in

this instance had been morally culpable.

 

"Well, in such a case—if it ever arises — you should

remember that a sentient ship is morally obliged to

identify herself as such to her passengers at the first

opportunity."

 

"That's not in the regulations," Nancia defended

herself against a charge Caleb didn't know he had

made.

 

"No, but it's common sense. Anything else would be

like — like me hiding in a closet to catch Governor

Thrixtopple counting his ill-gotten gains from bribes

while in public office." Caleb said this with so much

disgust in his voice that Nancia shrank from pursuing

die subject.

 

So, evidently, did Caleb. He looked up at the central

display screen, where a network of dim gray lines

 

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93

 

showed Nantia's repeated attempts to compute a path

of Singularity points through the topological con-

figuration he'd defined.

 

"Let's just take it that Satyajohi's Conjecture is

upheld in this particular case," he suggested, "and

now it's your turn to put up a problem. I don't know

why we're discussing hypothetical ethical problems

that are never likely to arise when we could both be im-

proving our Decom Math skills. Nor do I understand

why — " He bit his lip and blanked out the screen with

a swift roll of the joybalL

 

"Why what?" Nancia asked.

 

"Your turn to pose a problem," Caleb reminded her.

 

"Not until you finish that sentence."

 

"All rightl I don't understand why you're asking for

ethical guidance from a brawn whose greatest achieve-

ment to date has been the loss of his first ship!" Caleb

bit out the words with a frustrated savagery that

aroused Nancia's sympathy. She remembered

Simeon's grief for his lost friend Levin, the CL-740.

How stupid she had been.

 

"I'm sorry," she told Caleb. "1 should have realized

that discussing such issues would remind you of Levin.

Do you miss him so very much?"

 

Caleb sighed. "It's not that, XN. Levin was a good,

competent brainship, and he trained me when I was a

new brawn, and I'll always owe a debt of gratitude to

him. But we weren't — we never just talked, like this,

you know? Five years I served with him, and I don't

feel I ever really got to know him. No, I'm not in

mourning for Levin. But he had a right to look for-

ward to hundreds more years of service, and I lost him

that time. And I myself had rather hoped to spend

more than five years as a brawn."

 

"You may yet," Nancia pointed out. "Just because

you haven't got a ship assignment yet—"

 

"And what brainship is going to accept the brawn

 

94

 

Atme McCaffrey 6? Margaret BaH,

 

who let the CL-740 die?" Caleb snapped back. "You

yourself have made that little point tolerably dear, XN.

Now drop it Next problem, pleasel"

 

Nancia started transmitting to CenCom — on a

private beam — the moment she exited Singularity

and entered Central Worlds subspace. She wanted to

have everything arranged, with no possibility of argu-

ment, before Caleb was ready to leave the ship.

 

All proceeded as planned. Dahlen Rahilly, her Ser-

vice Supervisor, requested permission to enter even

before the Thrixtopple family had gathered their

numerous items of luggage and departed.

 

"Arrogant snit," Rahilly commented as they

watched the last of Governor Thrixtopple's bony

shoulders through Nancia's ground viewport. "He

could at least have credited you with a bonus for doing

him the favor of this quick transport home."

 

"I didn't expect it," Nancia replied with perfect truth.

The only bonus she expected—or wanted — was sufl in

his cabin, using the cabin comm board to enter a job ap-

plication letter that somehow kept getting wiped from his

personal file storage area. This was his third attempt, and

Nancia could tell by the emphatic way Caleb's voice

snapped out the words for the dictaboard that he was

losing patience. If she didn't get matters settled soon, he

would quit trying to use the ship's comm system and

make his application personally, at CenCom offices. And

that wouldn't suit her at all.

 

"Well... there will have to be a few changes. Paper-

work," Rahilly said. "We ... weren't expecting this,

you know, XN. In feet, VS at Vega seemed quite cer-

tain that you had formally refused the assignment"

 

"He ... may have misinterpreted my words," Nan-

cia said demurely. "How soon can it be arranged?"

Shellcrack! While she was talking to Rahilly, Caleb had

managed to dictate the complete text of his application

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

95

 

letter. He was getting ready to transmit it to CenCom.

That mustn't happen... not yet Nancia shut down all

outgoing beams at once.

 

"Oh, we can finish the paperwork in a day. If you're

sure that's what you want?"

 

"I am," Nancia said firmly. There was another party

to be consulted, but Rahilly didn't seem to think that

would be necessary.

 

Caleb stalked into the central cabin, brows drawn

together. "XN, what do you mean by shutting down

my beam to CenCom?"

 

"Your beam?" Nancia replied. "Oh, dear. All my ex-

ternal beams seem to have lost power for a moment"

 

"Well have a tech out to fix the malfunction imme-

diately," Rahilly promised.

 

"Oh... I don't think that will be necessary," Nancia

told him. "I've been investigating while we talk, and I

believe I have found the source of the problem. It

should be easy enough to correct internally." All she

needed to do was reopen the power gate....

 

"Very well, CN-935." Rahilly sketched a Service salute

in the general direction of Nancia's titanium column,

"The remaining paperwork will be completed within the

day, and then you and Brawn Caleb will be requested to

hold yourselves ready for a new assignment—there was

one pending, actually; Central wiU be happy not to have

to wait while you choose a brawn."

 

He left as soon as the last word was snapped out,

and Nancia was grateful for that. Caleb was staring

around the cabin with an expression she could not

read. If he was going to be angry with her for going be-

hind his back, she'd just as soon have it out in private.

 

"I... don't understand," he said slowly. "You aren't

waiting to choose a new brawn? You're going to go out

solo again?"

 

"Hardly that," Nancia told him. "I've had enough of

solo voyages, thank you very much; I find that I much

 

96

 

AnmMcCaffrey & Margaret Ba&

 

prefer to travel with a partner."

 

"Then..."

 

"Didn't you hear the man? From now on I'm the

CN-935. I've decided that Psych Central was right,"

Nancia said. It was a struggle to keep her voice projec-

tions calm and even. "We make a very good team."

 

Caleb was still speechless, and Nancia felt her one

fear approaching.

 

"If... if that's all right with you?"

 

"All right, all right, all rigktl" Caleb exploded. "The

woman gives me back my life — and with the perfect

brain partner—and she wants to know if it's all right? I

— Nancia — oh, wait a minute, would you? There's

something I've got to take care of before you restore

external beam transmissions."

 

He hurried off to his cabin, presumably to erase the

job application letter that had taken so long to create,

and Nancia permitted herself a small coruscating dis-

play of stars and comets across her three wide screens.

It was going to be all right.

 

More than all right. "Nancia," she repeated to her-

self. "He finally called me Nancia."

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

Angalia, Central Date 2750:

Blaize

 

Blaize Armontillado-Perez y Medoc stared in dis-

belief at his new home as the exit port of the XN-935

slid shut behind him. The mesa top that had served

Nancia as a landing field was the only level bit of solid

ground in sight. Behind the mesa was a wall of crumb-

ly, near-vertical rock that rose in jagged peaks to block

out the morning sun. The long black shadows of the

mountains fell across the mesa and down into a sea of

oozing glop that looked like the Quagmire of Despair

as displayed in the latest version of SPACED OUT. The

only variation in the brownish sea was that at a few

locations large, lazy bubbles rose from the glop and

burst with a sulfurous stink.

 

At the very edge of the mesa, cantilevered

precariously out over the Quagmire of Despair, was a

gray plastifilm prefab storage facility. Bulging brown

sacks stenciled with the initials of Planetary Technical

Aid hung from hooks on one side of the shack, dan-

gling right out over the sea of glop. On the side of the

shanty nearest Blaize, the plastifilm roof had been ex-

tended with some sort of woven fronds to create a

sagging awning. Beneath this awning lounged an im-

mensely fat man wearing only a pair of sweat-stained

briefs.

 

Blaize sighed and picked up the nearest two pieces

of his kit. Staggering slighdy under a gravity consider-

ably higher than ship's norm, he made his way

 

98

 

Anne McCaffrey & Margaret Ball

 

towards the obese guardian of Angalia.

 

"PTA tech-trainee Armontillado-Perez y Medoc,

sir," he introduced himself. Who is this guy? He's got to be

one of the corydum miners. They're the only humans on An-

gatia — except, of course...

 

"And the top of the morning to you, Sherry, me lad,"

- said the sweating man-mountain cordially. "Never was

so glad to see anybody in m'life. Hope you enjoy the

next five years here."

 

"Ah — PTA Grade Eleven Supervisor Harmon?"

Blaize hazarded. Except my new boss.

 

A richly alcoholic wheeze almost knocked him off his

feet. "You see anybody else around here, kid? Who

d'you think I am?"

 

"The corytium mine — "

 

"Dead. Defunct Abandoned. Kaput, all gone splash,

stinko," Grade 11 Supervisor Harmon said with relish.

"Went bust. Owner sold the mine to me for a case of

spirits before he pulled out."

 

"What went wrong?"

 

"Labor. Company couldn't keep miners here for

love nor money. Not that they offered much love —

even a corycium miner ain't desperate enough to try

and get it on with a Loosie, heh, heh, heh." Another

wave of alcohol-flavored breath washed over Blaize.

 

"Loosie?"

 

"Homosimlis Lucilla Angalii to you, m'boy. The veg-

heads Lucilla Sharif discovered, damn her soul, and

reported as possibly intelligent on the FCF, double-

damn her, and for her sins we're stuck administering

Planetary Technical Aid to a bunch of walking zuc-

chini. All the company I've had since they closed the

mine. And aHyou'U have for the next five years. Next

PTA transport comes by here is taking me off-planet."

Harmon looked enviously at the sleek length of the

XN-935, her tip now gleaming in the sun that peeked

over the jagged mountains. "Nice perks you High

 

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99

 

Families kids get, transport like that. I don't suppose

you could persuade that brainship — "

 

"I doubt it," Blaize said.

 

Harmon chortled. "No, didn't much sound like it,

way you come out yelling and screaming over your

shoulder, with it dumping your luggage after you. You

musta pissed it off real handsome. No matter. Next

PTA shipment oughta be along any day now. And

when it comes, my new assignment should be ready."

He stretched luxuriously, took a deep drink from the

bottle beside him, and sighed with anticipated content-

ment. "Reckon I've earned myself a nice long tour of

duty on Central, in a nice office tower with air con-

ditioning and servos and no need to pay any bloody

attention to bloody nature unless you happen to feel

like looking out the window. Sit down, Madeira-y-

Perez, and don't look so miserable. Do your five years

and maybe they'll post you back in civilization. You're

in luck, coming when you did."

 

"I am?" The sun was over the mountain by now, and

it was hot on the mesa. Blaize pulled his largest grip

under the shade of the awning and sat down on it

 

"Sure. Today's feeding time at the zoo. Put on a real

show for you, the Loosies will." Harmon waved again,

this time as if beckoning the cliff that towered above

them to come on down. Blaize stared in shock as crag-

gy bits of mountain broke loose and trickled down to

the mesa top, shambling like crazy puppets made of

rocks and wire. Strange costumes — no, they were

naked; that was their skin he was looking at.

 

"Yaohoo! Feeding time! Whoeel" Harmon yodeled,

simultaneously jerking the cord that ran along the side of

the PTA prefab. One of the sacks overhanging the muddy

basin opened and brownish-gray ration bricks spilled out

in a torrent, piling up in the mud below the mesa,

 

The Loosies scurried to the edge of the mesa and let

themselves down into the muddy sea, fingers and toes

 

100

 

Anne McCaffrey & Margaret Ball

 

clinging to crevices in the rocks. The first ones down

threw themselves on the ration bricks as if they were

greeting a long-lost lover; the later arrivals piled on

top of them, swinging uncoordinated limbs and wrig-

gling to burrow into the muddy heap of rations.

 

Blaize felt a rumbling vibration coming up through

the soles of his feet.

 

"Look out!" Harmon roared.

 

Blaize jumped and Harmon chuckled. "Sorry to

startle you, kid. You wouldn't want to miss the other

big show of Angalia." He pointed to the western

horizon.

 

It seemed to be moving.

 

It was a wall of water. No, mud. No — Blaize strug-

gled for the right word and could only find the one

that had first occurred to him: glop.

 

The "Loosies" had ignored Harmon's shout as if

they were deaf, but something — perhaps the rum-

bling vibration that Blaize felt — alerted those still at

the bottom of the quagmire. They swarmed up the

sides of the mesa, clutching their ration bricks in teeth

and fingers. The last one got out of the way just before

the advancing tide of glop struck the mesa.

 

The whole desperate, squirming consumption of

ration bricks had taken place in total silence. Now, less

than three minutes later, it was over and the mesa was

surrounded by a sucking, slimy tide of glop. As Blaize

watched, the tide receded, sliding back down the sides

of the mesa until the new mud melted into the same

soggy configuration of puddles and bubbles that had

greeted him on arrival.

 

"That was a small one," Harmon said with regret.

"Oh, well, there'll likely be some better ones before

you go. Bound to be, in feet."

 

In response to Blaize's questions he explained,

without much interest, that the erratic climatic pattern

of Angalia produced a constantly moving band of

 

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thundershowers in the mountains which surrounded

this central basin. Whenever the storms stayed in the

same place for a while, the rainfall built up into a flash

flood which raced across the plain, picking up mud as

it went, and sweeping away anything that might be

foolish enough to remain in its path.

 

"Terraforrning," Blaize mused. "Dams to catch the

rainfall and release it slowly..."

 

"Expensive, and who'd bother? Nothing here to

repay the investment. Besides," Harmon explained,

"it's fun. Damn sure ain't much else to watch out

here!"

 

Blaize gathered that one of Harmon's amusements

was trying to predict the times of the mud-floods so

that he could feed the natives just before one, forcing

them to scramble first for ration bricks and then to save

themselves from the tide of mud.

 

"Ain't it the damnedest thing?" he demanded as the

rock-like natives climbed back to their mountain

heights, some clutching a few ration bricks for later

consumption, some still chewing the last mouthfuls of

their haul. "You ever see anything like it?"

 

"Never," Blaize admitted. Are the — the Loosies starv-

ing'? Is that why their skin hangs loose like that? Or is that their

normal appearance ? And how does this fat creep get away tuith

putting them through sitch a degrading performance1?

 

"I know what you're thinking, Port-Wine-y-Medoc,"

the fat man said, "but wait'll you've done six months

out here, you'll forget all the PTA regs about respect-

ing the natives' dignity and all that crapola. Damned

Loosies don't have any dignity to respect, anyway.

They're a bunch of animals. Never developed agricul-

ture —or clothing—or even language."

 

"Or lies," commented Blaize.

 

"What?" For a moment Harmon looked startled,

then he chuckled and wheezed with amusement.

"Righto. No language, no lies — gotta say that for

 

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Arme McCaffrey & Margaret BaU

 

them, anyway! But they're ootpeople, young Claret-

Medoc. Waste of resources, this whole operation —

some paperpusher's mistake. Only encourages the

veg-heads to breed more little veggies. We oughta pull

outa here and let 'em starve on their own, /ask me."

 

"Maybe they could be trained to work the mine,"

Blaize suggested.

 

Harmon snorted. "Yeah, sure. I did hear about

some prisoners in olden times who amused themselves

trying to train their pet rats to run errands. You could

do that sooner'n you could teach a Loosie anything,

kid. I tell you, there's just three amusements on An-

galia: feediri time for the Loosies, drinkin' time for me,

and playing computer games. And I've mapped every

damn level of the Maze of the Minotaur so many times

I can't stand to look at it no more."

 

Blaize felt in his pocket The datahedron recording

the wager wasn't the only item he'd copied from

Nancia's computer. "Does your computer—"

 

"Yours now, Sake-ArmontUlado," Harmon inter-

rupted with a cheerful belch. "PTA issue.**

 

"Does it have enough memory and display graphics

to run SPACED OUT? Because," Blaize said, "I just hap-

pen to have a copy of the latest version here.

Pre-release — it's not even on sale at Central yet" He

winked at Harmon.

 

"Is that so!" Harmon oozed to his feet "C'mon in-

side, Burgundy-Champagne. Pass the time in a li'l

friendly game until my transport gets here.** He

scratched his bare chest, squinting at Blaize with the

rudiments of a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Have to name some stakes, of course. No fun playing

for nothing."

 

"My sentiments exactly,'' Blaize agreed. "Lead the way.*1

 

Five days later, exactly as scheduled, the PTA

transport touched down to deliver new supplies and

to pick up Supervisor Grade 11 Harmon for the

 

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103

 

months-long FTL journey to his new assignment.

Blaize remained behind with the Loosies and his

winnings: two partially depleted cases of Sapphire

Ruin, Supervisor Grade 11 Harmon's hand-woven

palm-frond sun hat, and the title to an abandoned

corycium mine.

 

Deneb Subspace, Central Date 2750:

Nancia and Caleb

 

"That," said Caleb as he and Nancia left Deneb

Spacebase, "was one of our more satisfying

assignments."

 

"Out of a grand total of two?" Nancia teased him.

But she agreed. Their first scheduled run out of

Central, delivering medical supplies to a newly settled

planet, had been worthwhile but hardly challenging.

And they had both been apprehensive about this as-

signment: transporting some semi-retired general,

another High Families representative, into the middle

of a particularly nasty conflict between Central Worlds

settlers and Capellan traders. But General Micaya

Questar-Benn had proved completely different from

the spoilt High Families children Nancia had taken

out to Vega subspace on her first assignment. Short,

competent, unassuming, the general had won Caleb's

heart at once with her in-depth knowledge of Vega's

complex history. She'd proceeded to spend much of

the short run to Deneb subspace talking shop with

Nancia; half the general's body parts and several

major organs were cyborg replacements, and she was

interested in the possibility of improving her liver

functions with one of the newer metachip implants

such as kept Nancia's physical body healthy within its

shell. Nancia had never envisioned herself discussing

something so personal with anybody, let alone a high-

ranking army officer, but something about General

Questar-Benn's unassuming manner made intimate

 

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Asms McCaffrey & Margaret Ball

 

talk unthreatening and easy.

 

Nanria wasn't too surprised to learn that before she

and Caleb had even prepared for the return journey,

General Questar-Benn had drawn human and Capellan

antagonists into negotiations and worked out a settle-

ment that would allow each side to feel they had "won."

 

"And here I thought we were warmongering,

delivering somebody with authority to send in the

heavy armored divisions!" Caleb went on.

 

Nancia chuckled. "The galaxy could do with a few

more 'warmongers' like Micaya Questar-Benn. Ready

for Singularity, partner? Central should have a new as-

signment for us by now."

 

Bahati, Central Date 2751:

Alpha

 

Alpha bint Hezra-Fong stared down in distaste at

the writhing body of her experimental subject. What

had gone wrong? The molecular variations of Blissto

which she'd been preparing should have rendered the

patient calm and tractable. Instead he was contorting

his limbs and moaning uncontrollably, trying to break

the restraint straps on his stretcher.

 

Alpha tightened the straps until the patient stopped

thrashing and passed a medscanner over his forehead.

She frowned at the results. Instead of generating

soothing hormones, Blissto.Rev.2 was invading and

replicating itself within the man's nervous system like a

cancer gone wild.

 

"Damn! I haven't got time for this," she muttered.

Quickly she considered her options. If she could keep

the patient alive and in isolation for a few days, per-

haps she would be able to find out what was causing

this invasive replication and find a way to stop it. But if

anybody questioned her work —

 

The man's convulsions increased. One leg broke the

reinforced restraint strap and kicked out wildly.

 

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105

 

"Too dangerous," Alpha decided. She pressed a

hypospray to the man's neck and watched his body sag

back against the stretcher. His eyes rolled upwards and

the thrashing stopped.

 

So did all other movement.

 

Alpha had papers prepared for just such an emergen-

cy. Tlie clinic director was an old fool, too lazy to check

her reports; nobody else would dare to question her.

Charity Patient B.342.iv would be listed as having died of

heart feilure brought on by a preexisting medical condi-

tion which the clinic had not had time to reverse.

 

The only trouble was, that made the third such

death in the year since Alpha had begun testing her

improved version of Blissto. Sooner or later, if she

didn't get the drug dosage right, somebody was going

to notice the string of identical sudden-death reports

and ask questions.

 

Alpha seriously considered returning to ex-

perimenting on rabbits. But rabbit cages stank, and

taking care of the beasts was a lot of work, and there

was even more probability that somebody would ques-

tion her sudden interest in raising pets.

 

She'd just have to think up a few more excuses for

sudden deaths on the charity wing. A little variation in

the paperwork would help disguise these unfortunate

accidents.

 

Procyon Subspace, Central Date 2751:

Caleb and Nancia

 

"This is boring,'1 Nancia complained as she watched

workers on Szatmar II unload die cases of vaccine she

and Caleb had transported there.

 

"It is important to see that children's vaccinations

are kept up regularly," Caleb told her.

 

"Yes, but it's hardly an emergency. At least, it

wouldn't have been one if PTA would keep its records

up to date." A horrified bureaucrat had discovered

 

106

 

Arme McCaffrey &? Mwgore* Ball

 

that some incompetent named Harmon, working out

of PTA on Central Worlds, had forgotten to ship last

year's supplies of vaccine to any PTA client planets in

the Procyon subsystem. In consequence, Nancia and

Caleb were getting an extended tour of that subsys-

tem, delivering measles and whooping-cough vaccine

to several dozen settlements on widely scattered

planets. "I've got a good mind to speak to my sister

about this idiot Harmon," Nantia grumbled. 'Jinevra

would never tolerate such inefficiency in her own

branch of PTA; maybe she can get Central to transfer

Harmon to a spot where he can't do any harm."

 

"Nancia, you wouldn't seriously consider using

your family connections for personal interest!"

 

Caleb sounded shocked. Nancia apologized imme-

diately. She hadn't realized that trying to get an

incompetent bureaucrat ousted came under the head-

ing of "personal interests." But Caleb was doubtless

right; he always was. And she felt quite guilty as he lec-

tured her about the consequences of being flighty and

expecting glamorous assignments. He was right about

that, too. Service loyalty demanded not only that she

go where she was needed, but that she do so willingly

and cheerfully.

 

Nancia closed her loading dock and tried to lift off

for their next vaccine delivery with a willing and

cheerful heart,

 

Bahati, Central Date 2752:

 

Darnel!

 

Darnell leaned back in his upholstered stimuchair

and activated the interoffice transmitter. "You may

send Hopkirk in now, Julitta mlovely."

 

"Oh, Mr. Overton-Glaxely!" Julitta's delighted gig-

gles came clearly through the transmitter. Darnell

activated the double display screens as well and en-

joyed two views of his secretary. The top screen

 

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107

 

showed her tossing her pretty yellow curls and preen-

ing with delight at his compliment; the lower screen

displayed her shapely legs, crossing and recrossing

restlessly beneath the desk. Darnell noted with

pleasure that J ulitta's petiskirt had ridden up almost; to

her waist Such a delightful, twitchy tittle girl.

 

Darnell considered Julitta, like the second display

screen and die vibrostim units in his executive chair and

the view of Bahati from his glass-walled executive office,

to be one of the perks appropriate co a Man Who Had

Made It He let Hopkirk wait awkwardly in front of his

desk while he contemplated with equal delight his own

rapid success, his immediate plans for Julitta, die view of

her legs in the lower display screen, and the fact that

Julitta didn't know about die second screen.

 

"Hopkirk, I've got a job for you," Darnell ordered.

"Productivity in the glimware plant dropped by three

thousandths of a percent last month, I want you to get

out there and send me a full report of any contributing

factors.''

 

"Yes, Mr. Overton-Glaxely," the man called Hopkirk

murmured.

 

"It's probably cumulative worker fatigue due to the

poor design of the assembly line," Darnell continued

Ah, that was better; a flash of pain crossed Hopkirk's

features. Six months ago the man had owned,

designed, and managed Hopkirk Glimware,

producers of fine novelty prismaglasses for the luxury

trade. And managed it damn poorly, too, Darnell

thought; the place would have gone bankrupt soon

enough anyway, even without his interference. Now it

was a profitable, if small, addition to Darnell's revital-

ized OG Shipping (and other) Enterprises.

 

"Questions, Hopkirk?" Darnell snapped as the man

remained standing instead of speeding to his task.

 

"I was just wondering why you did it diis way," Hop-

kirk said.

 

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ArmeMcCaffrey fc? Margaret Ball

 

"Did it what way?"

 

Hopkirk shrugged. "You know and I know that

Hopkirk Glimware would have done all right if you

hadn't manipulated the Net to bring my stock prices

down and cut off my credit"

 

"That's a matter of opinion," Darnell told him.

"Admit it, Hopkirk. You're an engineer, not a

manager, and you didn't know how to run the com-

pany. It would have crashed eventually in any case. All

I did was help it along."

 

"But why do it this way? Why ruin me when you

could have bought the company for a fair price and

still made your profit?"

 

Darnell was pleased that the man didn't argue the

basic point He'd been an incompetent manager and

he knew it

 

"You're a brilliant businessman," Hopkirk went on.

"Look at how you turned OG Shipping around in just

a year!"

 

With a little help from my friends... Darnell quashed that

thought Sure, Polyon's ability to hack into the Net and

get advance information had been useful. But it was also

true that Darnell had discovered within himself a true

talent for efficiency. Cut out the deadwood! Fire the in-

competent, the lazy, and those who've merely foiled to get

results! And know everything! Those were DarnelTs new

mottoes. Those who'dbeen fired talked about the Reign

ofTerror. Those who hadn't been fired yet didn't dare to

talk. And OG Shipping prospered ... leaving Darnell

free to amuse himself again.

 

There was Julitta, of course. There were an infinite

number of JuHttas. But Darnell had discovered that no

number of willing girls could give him quite the thrill

of victory that his business manipulations brought

 

He regarded Hopkirk thoughtfully. The man

seemed to intend no offense; perhaps he honestly

wanted to understand the workings of Darnell Over-

 

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109

 

ton-Glaxel/s brilliant mind. A laudable impulse; he

deserved an honest answer.

 

"Sure, I could have done it straight," he said at last

"Would have taken a little longer. No prob. But," he

winked at Hopkirk, "it wouldn't have been as much

ftm... and that way I wouldn't have had you working

for me, would I? Get on with the job, Hopkirk. I've got

another assignment for you when you get back."

 

Now that he'd as good as admitted his illegal use of

the Net to Hopkirk, Darnell thought, the man had to

go. It had been fun to keep him around for a little

while, using him as a clerk and gofer, but one couldn't

risk disgrunded victims getting together to compare

notes. Once OG Glimware was taken care of, Darnell

would "reward" Hopkirk with a free vacation at Sum-

merlands Clinic. The Net revealed, among other

things, that Alpha bint Hezra-Fong's patients on the

charity side of Summerlands had an unusually high

death rate. He'd "suggest" to Alpha that it would be

convenient for both of them if Hopkirk never came

back from Summerlands. That way nobody would talk

about Darnell's use of the Net; and in return, he'd get

Polyon to fix the Net records so that nobody would

raise inconvenient questions about the number of

charity patients Alpha had lost

 

Achernar Subspace, Central Date 2752:

Caleb and Nancia

 

"I wonder if he'll really be able to resolve anything,"

Nancia said thoughtfully as she and Caleb watched

their latest delivery being greeted at Achernar Base on

Charon. The short, spare man whom they'd brought

halfway across the galaxy wasn't doing much to take

control of his first meeting with the Charonese offi-

cials. He was just standing there on the landing field,

listening to the speeches of welcome and accepting

bouquets of flowers.

 

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Anne McCaffrey fc? Margaret Ball

 

"None of our business," Caleb reminded her.

"Central said, take Unattached Diplomatic Agent

Forister to Charon, and do it fast. They didn't say to

evaluate his job performance. And we've got another

assignment waiting."

 

"Don't we always?" But the little group of pompous

Charonese officials that surrounded Forister was

moving off now, leaving the spacefield clear for

Nancia's liftoff

 

"It's just that I like to feel we've accomplished some-

thing," she lamented as Caleb strapped down for

liftoff, "and I do feel this Charonese situation calls for

somebody a bit more ... more forceful." Somebody

like Daddy, for instance. With his brisk, no-nonsense

manner and willingness to enforce his decisions, Javier

Perez y de Gras would have made short work of

Charon's seven feuding factions, the continual war be-

tween the Tran Phon guerrillas and all seven

provisional governments, and the consequent

destruction of Charon's vital quinobark forests. He'd

have been using Nancia's comm facilities and working

the Net every minute they weren't in Singularity,

preparing for his descent on the Charonese, arming

himself with every last detail of the conflict, softening

up the principal offenders with stern warning

messages.

 

This Forister had spent the three days of the voyage

reading ancient books — not even disks, but some ac-

count of an Old Earth war too minor to have been

transcribed to computer-readable format. And when

he wasn't reading about this place called Viet Nam, he

wasted his time in relaxed, casual conversation with

her and Caleb, chatting about their families and

upbringing, their hopes and dreams. Too soft to stop a

war, Nancia thought contemptuously. Oh, well, Caleb

was right — the results were none of their business.

They were Courier Service; they went where they

 

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111

 

were sent, quickly and efficiently. Sticking around to

report on the failure of the resulting mission was not

in the CS job description.

 

Bahati, Central Date 2753:

Fassa

 

"You can't just leave me like this!"

 

Fassa del Parma y Polo paused at the door and blew

a mocking kiss at the gray-faced, potbellied man who

was looking at her with such pain in his eyes. "Watch

me, darling. Just watch me." She touched her left

index finger to the charm bracelet on her wrist.

There'd been an empty prismawood heart there, just

the right size to hold the minihedron recording this

stupid bureaucrat's sign-off on the Nyota ya Jaha

Space Station contract. "Our business is done." All

their business, including those boring maneuvers on

the man's synthofur rug. At least it hadn't taken too

long. These old guys had dreams of grandeur, but they

really couldn't do much when they did get the chance.

You're past it, sweetheart, and the future belongs to me. Some-

thing uncomfortable writhed under the triumphant

thought, some question as to why she exulted so much

in the moral destruction of a small-time civil servant

old enough to be her father; but Fassa pushed the

question away with the ease of long practice. She had

got what she wanted. It was as simple as that

 

"But we were going to live together. You were going to

quit this messy, unfeminine job, now that you've got

enough money to pay for your sister's metachip pros-

thesis, and we were going to retire to Summerlands..."

 

Fassa laughed out loud. "What, me? Spend my last

hundred years tending to some old man in a Summer-

lands retirement cottage? You've been popping too

much Blissto, my friend." She paused to let the rejec-

tion sink in before delivering her final warning. "And

don't even think about blowing the whistle on me.

 

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Arms McCaffrey fcf Margaret Ball

 

Remember, you've got more to lose than I have." She

always set it up that way.

 

There was an unwelcome surprise waiting for her

when she reached her offices. Two, in feet. One was

minor; some kid was slumped in the corner sackback

chair in the outer office, fiddling with forms. Employment

applications were supposed to be handled in a different

office; the kid should have been sent there to begin with.

 

Before she had time to point this out, her secretary

lowered his head and apologetically informed her that

Bahati CreditLin insisted on one more palmprint

before they would release the final payment for the

space station construction into her Net account. Just a

formality, the secretary quoted the CreditLin officials.

 

Fassa's brows snapped together as the man assured

her there was nothing to worry about. "Inspection?

What inspection? Everything's been passed and

signed by Vega Base." Or rather, by the befuddled old

fool she'd just left, who hadn't even bothered to take a

transport up to the station and walk its corridors in

person, much less assign a qualified engineer to the

task of a detailed structural inspection.

 

"That's what I told them," the secretary said, "and

I'm sure this will take no time at all, since Vega's en-

gineering division has already signed off on all the

main structural elements. Just a formality," he

repeated. "It seems there's been a new law passed;

CreditLin is obliged to send one of its own inde-

pendent inspectors to verify that our construction

meets standards before they can transfer the credits."

 

A new law... Damn! I thought all the Bahati Senators had

been paid off. Do I have to do everything myself?

 

Fassa suppressed the thought with a quick frown.

She'd deal with the legislature later. For now—so there

was one more fool of a man to deal with, to wheedle and

distract and please into forgetting the obvious checks that

would reveal her substandard materials. Annoying, that

 

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113

 

was all. She didn't like surprises. But it would, after all, be

one more minihedron to fill her charm bracelet

 

Fassa caught a flicker of movement in the corner, just

enough to distract her for a moment The kid in the sack-

back was stretching, rising out of the enveloping chair.

Notnow. Go away. I ^w other things to thJnkaboiU.

 

"Miss del Parma y Polo?"

 

Not such a kid; a man grown, older than she was

herself— but not by so very much. Fassa took in his

appearance with growing appreciation. Broad

shoulders, legs long enough to carry off his out-

rageously psychepainted Capellan stretchpants, black

hair and eyes whose blue was set offby slashing streaks

of ochre face paint. A pretty peacock of a man. Maybe I'll

hire him after all, even if he did bypass the employment office.

Who cares whether he can do anything? Keep him around just

to look at.

 

"I should introduce myself now, I guess." He smiled

down at her and enveloped her hand in his. "Sev

Bryley, chief inspector for Bahati CreditLin. I reckon

it'll be a pleasure working with you, Miss del Parma."

 

Cor Caroli Subspace, Central Date 2753:

Caleb and Nancia

 

Caleb slammed one fist into the opposite palm and

paced the width of the central cabin, growling deep in

his throat. He paused opposite a purple metalloy

bulkhead with silver-gilt stenciled borders and raised

his fist again.

 

"Don't even think about it," Nancia warned him.

"You'll only hurt your hand and damage my nice new

paint job."

 

Caleb lowered his fist. A reluctant smile twitched at

the corners of his lips. "Don't tell me you like the paint

job?"

 

"No. But it seemed suitable for our role. And I don't

wish to return to Central looking as if I'd been through

 

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Anne McCaffrey fcf Margaret Ball

 

a clawing match with some of Dorg Jesen's popsies,

thank you very much."

 

They had been undercover for this mission, Caleb

posing as a debauched young High Families scion who

wanted a cut of Dorg Jesen's secret metachip supply. In

return, he was to have offered the feelieporn king secret

information on certain of his High Families customers.

 

"Could be dangerous," Rahilly had warned them,

back on Central Base. '[Jesen doesn't like awkward

questions. Try to keep the meetings on shipboard.

Nancia, you'll have to protect yourself and Caleb if

Jesen tries anything."

 

But they hadn't even lured Jesen into one ship-

board meeting. He'd taken one look at Caleb's vidcom

image, listened to Caleb's stiff delivery of the speech

he'd been assigned to make, and burst out laughing.

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on," he taunted Caleb.

"And next time Central decides to send someone to in-

vestigate me, tell them not to make it an Academy boy

with a Vega accent you could cut with a knife, in a

brainship with a tarted-up central cabin. If you're

High Families, I'll eat my..."

 

Nancia cut the sound transmission at that point.

 

"Perhaps," she said now, "undercover work is not

our metier"

 

"I hate lies and spying," Caleb confirmed moodily.

"We should have refused this mission." He looked up

with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Unless... did you

get anything?"

 

Nancia had used the brief minutes of the vidcom link

to insert feelers into Jesen's private computer system, so

private that it didn't even have a Net connection. Central

had surmised he might have such a system in addition to

the open accounts he maintained via Net, but nothing

could be checked until they arrived planetside.

 

"Nothing," she told him. "I did get into his supply

acquisition database, but all the metachips in the

 

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115

 

records there show perfectly legitimate Shemali Base

control numbers."

 

Caleb made a fist again. "Then you didn't get into

the right records. Somebody's counterfeiting

metachips, and Jesen could lead us to the source ...

could have led us. He must be keeping three sets of

books. Do you think if I got him on vidcom again..."

 

An incoming transmission reached Nancia, and she

activated her central display screen. Dorg Jesen's nar-

row face appeared. "Been doing a litde research of my

own," he announced, almost pleasantly. "Got your

Central ID now to add in to my report. CN-935, lift

your Courier Service tail fins offplanet in fifteen

minutes and we'll forget this episode ever happened.

Otherwise I'll file a formal complaint with CS, charg-

ing you and your brawn with entrapment.''

 

"You can't win them all," Nancia tried to soothe

Caleb when they were offplanet and on their way back

to Central. "We do many things well. Lying doesn't

happen to be among them, that's all." But fm lying,

right now, by saying nothing. Nancia made an internal

playback of the datacordings she'd made four years

earlier, on her maiden voyage. There was Polyon,

cheerfully announcing his plan to slip metachips past

the SUM board and sell them to unauthorized opera-

tions like Dorg Jesen's feelieporn empire. If only Caleb

knew what she knew, he could make a report to

Central that would send them straight to Shemali.

 

Except... he wouldn't do it In the four years of then-

partnership, Caleb had never once wavered or com-

promised his moral principles. He would never stoop to

using a datacording made without the knowledge or con-

sentofthe passengers. And he would neverrespectNancia

again,oncehe knew whatshe'd doneon thatfirstvoyage.

 

Sadly, Nancia ended the replay and slapped five

more levels of security classifications on the datacord-

ing. Caleb must never know. But there must be some

 

116

 

way to point Central's investigations towards Shemali,

to stop them thinking in terms of counterfeit

metachips and start them thinking about the prison

factory.

 

Shemali, Central Date 2754:

Polyon

 

Polyon slapped the palmboard built into his

armchair and activated a vidcom link with Bahati.

 

"Summerlands Clinic, Alpha bint Hezra-Fong,

private transmission, code CX22." That would

scramble his message so that only someone with the

CX22 decoding hedron would be able to see and hear

anything but gibberish. "Alpha, my sweet, you were

just a tad premature in announcing that you'd

finished your Seductron research. The free sample

you sent up has one of my key techs too blissed-out to

do any useful work. I've no idea when he'll stop con-

templating his toenails, so you'd better find out—and

fast Unless you want to be the next test subject." He

smiled sweetly into the vidcom unit. "I can arrange it,

you know."

 

The next message went to Darnell, using a similar

scrambling technique. In a few words Polyon in-

formed Darnell that IntraManager, the small

commlink manufacturing company Darnell was

presently trying to take over, was not to be touched.

"It's one of mine," he said pleasantly. "I'm sure you

wouldn't have made a takeover move if you'd known

that, would you now? By the way—did I show you the

latest vids of the metachip line?" A tap of his fingers on

the palmboard called up a datacording from the lowest

circles of Hell: suited and masked workers toiling amid

clouds of poisonous green steam. This was the last and

most dangerous phase of metachip assembly, when

the blocks between the polyprinted connection pat-

terns were burned off with a quick dip into vats of acid.

 

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117

 

The burn-off process released a gaseous form of

Ganglicide into the atmosphere. Before Polyon's time,

this phase had been handled — rather badly — by

automated servos that misjudged the depth and

timing of the burnoff phase, dropped metachip

boards, and quickly self-destructed in the poisonous

atmosphere. Expensive and wasteful. By contrast,

prison workers in protective suits could process more

than three times as many metachips in a session, and

only a few of them were lost each year to leaks in the

suit sealing.

 

"See the third man from the left, Darnell?" Polyon

spoke into the vidcom while the images unreeled. "He

used to be High Families. Now he's a Shemali assem-

bly worker. How are the mighty fallen, eh?"

 

He cut the connection on that — an implied threat

was ever so much more effective than a specific one.

Actually, Polyon had no idea who the masked workers

on the line might be. They were the scum of the prison

system, the expendables who had neither tech train-

ing nor business sense to justify keeping them in the

safer areas of design and preprocessing. And while

there was indeed a High Families convict on Shemali,

the man had been sent there for a particularly revolt-

ing series of crimes involving the torture of small

children. Polyon didn't really think he could frame

Darnell for something like that and make it stick;

anybody would see the rich boy didn't have the guts to

torture anybody.

 

But I won't need to, will I? The threat witt be enough to

keep old Darnell in line.

 

The last call was to Fassa. He was lucky enough to

catch her in person. Polyon enjoyed the sight of Fassa's

eyes widening while he explained in detail just how

unhappy he felt about the collapse of his new

metachip assembly building, how personally hurt he

was to discover that Polo Construction had supplied

 

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Anne McCaffrey fc? Margaret Ball

 

the substandard materials used in the building, and

exactly what he might do to assuage his sense of loss

and betrayal. The only trouble with the live connec-

tion, Polyon thought, was that he didn't get to finish

outlining the list of things he could do to Polo Con-

struction as a company and to Fassa personally. Before

he was half through, she was stammering apologies

and practically begging to be allowed to rebuild the as-

sembly facility. Free of charge, naturally.

 

Polyon graciously accepted the offer.

 

Just one more item ofbusiness to clear up. "Send in

4987832," he commanded.

 

A few minutes later, a pale-faced man in the prison

uniform of green coveralls came into the office. He

gave Polyon a confident smile. "Thought it over, have

you?"

 

"I most certainly have," Polyon agreed. He smiled

and shrugged with palms outspread. "Can't say I'm al-

together happy about the idea — but I see you leave

me no choice. You're a clever fellow, 4987832- Who

were you, before?"

 

^ames Masson," the prisoner said. "Head of re-

search for Zectronics — you've heard of them? No?

Well, it's a large galaxy. But it so happens I personally

directed the metachip design effort there. That's how I

happened to recognize the changes you've introduced

in the chips."

 

"My hyperchips will be fester and more powerful

than die old metachips by at least two orders of mag-

nitude," Polyon said. "They'll revolutionize the

industry. It didn't take any genius to recognize that.

The genius was in figuring out how to do it."

 

"And that's not all the hyperchips will do, is it, de

Gras-Waldheim? Industry isn't the only thing about to

suffer a... revolution."

 

Polyon inclined his head slighdy. "YouTI have a glass

of Stemerald with me, to celebrate our arrangement?"

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

119

 

Masson's eyes widened and he licked his lips. "Why,

I haven't tasted Stemerald in — in — well, it must be

ten years! Not since I came here! I must say, de Gras-

Waldheim, I didn't think you'd take our little

arrangement so well."

 

Polyon's back was to Masson as he poured out the

Stemerald into two sparkling globes from OG GUmware.

 

"A lot of men would be petty about cutting me in on

the profits," Masson babbled on, accepting his globe

and draining it between words, "but that's you High

Families type, you know how to accept defeat gra-

ciously. And after all, giving me a small cut isn't much

when you think of what it would do to your plans if I

told Governor Lyautey about all the hyperchips'

programming." He swallowed the last drops of

Stemerald, ran his tongue round his lips once more to

savor the taste, then sat back with the slightly dazed ex-

pression of a man who'd just had his first strong drink

in ten years.

 

"As I said," Polyon repeated, "you leave me no

choice in the matter." He frowned quickly. "You have

honored your end of the agreement, haven't you,

Masson? No word to anyone else?"

 

"No word," Masson agreed. He spoke more slowly

now. "I wouldn't... want... anyone else .., cutting

in ..." His eyes glazed over and he sat staring into

space with a blissful smile on his face.

 

"Very good. Now, Masson, I have a special task for

you." Polyon leaned forward. "Hear and repeat! You

will go to the dip chambers."

 

"I... will... go... to... the... dip ... chambers,"*

Masson droned.

 

"I want you to make a surprise inspection. You will

not announce yourself."

 

"... not... announce... 'self."

 

"You do not need a protective suit."

 

Masson nodded and smiled. All the intelligence had

 

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Anne McCaffrey &? Mwgorrf Ban

 

left his face now. Polyon felt a twinge of regret. The

man had been brilliant; would be again, if the

Seductron wore off. He could have been a useful sub-

ordinate if he hadn't made the mistake of trying to

blackmail Polyon. But as it was ... well, there was no

point in waiting, was there? Damn Alpha. If she'd only

developed the controlled Seductron she kept promis-

ing, with doses ranging from ten-minute zaps to a state

of mindless, permanent bliss, there would be no need

for this last distasteful step.

 

Polyon finished his orders to Masson and snapped a

dismissal. "Go. Now!"

 

Masson stood unsteadily and left Polyon's inner of-

fice. Polyon sat back and began sketching a metachip

linkage plan with one forefinger, tracing glowing

paths across the design screen.

 

Five minutes later, his vidcomm lit up to show the

face of the afternoon shift supervisor. "Lieutenant de

Gras-Waldheim? Sir? There's been a terrible accident.

One of your designers just... the man must have

gone mad, he walked right into the dip room without a

suit... if only he'd knocked they could have kept him

waiting in the outer lock until the gases were cleared

out... they didn't even know he was there.... The

room was filled with Ganglicide in gaseous form, he

didn't have a chance...." Screams sounded in the

background. "Oh, sir, it's terrible!"

 

"A most distressing accident," Polyon agreed.

"Begin the paperwork, 567934. And don't blame

yourself. Sometimes it just takes them like that, you

know, the lifers. Better any death than a lifetime on

Shemali, they think, and who knows? Perhaps they're

right. Oh, sorry, 1 forgot — you're a lifer too, aren't

you?"

 

He didn't start laughing until the connection was

broken.

 

• CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Spica Base, Central Date 2754:

Caleb and Nancia

 

Nancia limped into Spica Base on half power, depend-

ent on Caleb for reports on the lower deck damage

where her sensors had self-destructed to preserve her

from shock when the asteroid struck them.

 

"Freak accident," commented the Tech Grade 7

who came out to survey the damage in person.

 

Nancia mourned the sleek gloss of her exterior finish,

now pitted and gouged around the torn metal shreds of

the entrance hole. "Ishould have takena different route."

 

"Freak ship." The tech snapped his IR-Sensor gog-

gles down, hiding his eyes behind a band of black

plastifilm. "Ain't natural. Ship talks, pilot don't."

 

"The correct terms, as I'm sure you are aware, are

'brainship* and 'brawn,' " Nancia said frostily. "Caleb

is... it's none of your business. Just leave him alone,

okay?" She'd seen him plunged into these unreason-

ing depressions before, whenever one of their

missions was less than one hundred percent success-

ful. He'd retreated into himself without speaking for a

week after the disastrous undercover assignment with

Dorg Jesen, while Nancia tried to tempt his appetite

with fancy dishes from the galley and interesting tid-

bits of news picked up from the gossipbeams.

 

"I'll need somebody at the other end to help me link

the hyperchips into the ship's system," the tech

protested. "Somebody who knows the ship. My guys

are good, but this is a small base. They ain't never

 

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Anne McCaffrey £*f Margaret Ball

 

worked on a talking ship before. And nobody's got that

much experience with hyperchips. They might not in-

terface with these sensor setups just like the old

metachips did."

 

"Then," said Nancia, "perhaps you should explain to

them that a talking ship can, in fact, talk. There's no need to

trouble my brawn for information; 111 manage the installa-

tion myself" She didn't feel nearly so cheerful and carefree

as she tried to sound; the thought of some dolt like this tech

fooling around with her synaptic connectors made her feel

sick and weak. But she did not want him bothering Caleb.

One thing she'd learned in the last four years of partner-

ship was that Caleb only stayed depressed longer ifhe was

forced to talk to people before he was ready to.

 

The tech grunted acquiescence and twiddled some-

thing she couldn't see, "Sensor connection to

OP-N1.15, testing."

 

"If you mean can I see what you're doing," Nantia

responded, "the answer is no."

 

The tech gaped but recovered himself quickly.

"Hah! OP-N1 series . . . optic nerve connections?

Sorry, lady — ship — whatever you are. What I'm

looking at, see, it's just schematics. 1 didn't think ..."

His voice trailed off for a moment. "Awesome, really,

when you think about it that way. That there's zperson

somewhere inside this steel and titanium."

 

"Correction," Nancia said. She was becoming used

to this tendency among softpersons; they insisted on

equating her with the body curled inside the titanium

column, as if that was all there was to her. "I am a per-

son. That's my lower deck vision you're twiddling with

now, and I'd very much like to have it — Thank you!"

A partial visual field opened as she spoke. Now she

could see the tech again, and one gloved hand reach-

ing up into the tangle of fused metal and wires that

had been her lower deck sensory system.

 

"OP-N 1.15 restored," the tech noted. "Now if— say,

 

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123

 

this is going to be easy. Don't need this stuff" He clipped

a test meter to his belt and used both hands to rejoin

severed wires. "OP-N1.16 functioning now? Good. 17?"

He worked through the full series rapidly, while Nancia

kept him informed of the status of each repair.

 

"Thank you," she said again when he'd restored her

full optic series for the lower deck. "It's... most trou-

bling, being unable to look at a part of myself"

 

"Imagine it would be," the tech agreed. "Glad to

help a lady, any time."

 

Nancia noted that in the course of one short repair

session she had advanced from "unnatural talking

ship," to "person" to, apparently, "lady in distress." By

the time the repairs are finished, he'll be wanting to sign up for

brawn framing... and most distressed to learn he's over age.

 

"And this is just the beginning," the tech promised.

"We'll have you fixed up good as new in a day or so.

Better than new, really. You had any hyperchips in-

stalled before? Thought not. They're — I dunno —

about a thousand times better than the old line

metachips. You're gonna like this, ma'am." His fingers

twisted, seating one of the new chips. It felt strange to

see the movements without feeling the slight pressure

and hearing the dick as the chip slid into place.

 

"Can you feel anything when I do this?"

 

"No—yes. Oh!"

 

"Hurt you?"

 

"No. Just — surprised." Nancia felt as if her sensors

had been turned up to full volume, without sacrificing

the slightest accuracy. Every movement was dear; the

world sparkled like crystal around her. "How many

more of those do you have? Can you replace my upper

deck sensor chips too?"

 

The tech shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, ma'am.

It's a new design out of Shemali. There's not enough

hyperchips out yet to go around to all the folks who

need them for repairs, let alone bringing in functional

 

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Anne McCaffrey &? Margaret Ball

 

equipment and retrofitting it. Shemali Plant estimates

it'll be a good three-four years before they can

produce enough to retrofit all the Fleet ships."

 

"Oh. Of course." Nancia remembered the plan

Polyon had described on her maiden voyage. "I sup-

pose," she said, feeling very crafty, "I suppose a lot of

the chips are failing QA tests? It being a new design,

and all," she added hastily.

 

The tech shook his head. "No, ma'am. Actually,

these new chips don't fail in testing near as often as the

old design. Pretty near the full production run is being

cleared for distribution, most times. It's just that even a

year's full production runs out of Shemali don't

amount to that much when you consider all the places

the chips have to go these days. It's not just the Fleet,

y'know. Hospitals, Base brains, cyborg replacements,

defense systems — seems like we just about couldn't

run the galaxy without "em!"

 

Nancia felt first disappointed, then relieved. She had

expected Co hear that the new design somehow caused a

great many metachips to foil in the QA phase and that

nobody knew what became of the substandard chips

rejected by the SUM ration board. That would have been

evidence she could mention to Caleb, something to steer

his mind in the direction of Polyon's illicit activities

without revealing that she already knew about the plan.

 

Instead, it seemed that Polyon had given up his plan

altogether. He was brilliant. Perhaps the hyperchip

design was his idea; and perhaps, Nancia thought op-

timistically, he had forgotten his original notion of

stealing metachips in favor of the honest pleasure of

seeing his design accepted and used galaxy-wide.

 

Angalia, Central Date 2754

 

The third annual progress meeting of the Nyota

Five was held on Angalia, an arrangement which

pleased no one — least of all the host

 

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125

 

"It was your idea to rotate the annual meetings,"

Alpha bint Hezra-Fong pointed out, somewhat snap-

pishly, when Blaize apologized for the primitive

accommodations. "We could have been comfortably

settled in a Summerlands conference room, but nooo,

you and Polyon had to fuss that it wouldn't be fair if

you two had to travel to Bahati every time just to suit

the three of us who had the good luck to be stationed

there. So we have to rotate. Two nice meetings on

Bahati, now this godforsaken dump, and next time,

stars help us, Shemali. You and your bright ideas!

Send someone to unpack for me — you must have

some help around the place, surely?"

 

" 'Fraid not," Blaize said with a sunny smile. He was

beginning to enjoy the prospect of Alpha's discomfort

on Angalia. Rotating the meeting sites had really been

Polyon's idea, not his, but Alpha was obviously afraid

to take out her bad temper on Lieutenant de Gras-

Waldheim. Blaize glanced sidelong at Polyon, very

straight and correct in his Academy dress blacks, and

admitted to himself that he didn't blame Alpha. Given

a choice of tongue-lashing the enigmatic technical

manager of Shemali MetaPlant, or the little red-haired

runt from PTA, who wouldn't choose to lash out at the

PTAwimp?

 

But this understanding didn't make him love Alpha

— or the rest of the Nyota Five, including himself—

any better.

 

"Welcome," Blaize said with a sweeping bow that in-

cluded all four of his guests, "to the Angalia Tourist

Center. A modest facility, as you can see — "

 

Darnell's snort of laughter testified to the truth of

that statement

 

" — but vastly improved from its humble begin-

nings," Blaize finished. "If the winner were to be

chosen on the basis of progress rather than of absolute

wealth, I'd have no doubt of succeeding next year."

 

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Anne McCaffrey 6f Margaret Ball

 

And that, by God, was the absolute and unvarnished

truth! The rest of them might sneer at Blaize's long,

low bungalow with its thatched roof and thatch-

shaded balcony, the garden of native ferns and grasses

and the paved path leading from there to the

corycium mine. Never mind. He knew what it had

taken to create these amenities from the mud-hole that

Supervisor Harmon had left him with.

 

"All done with native labor?" Fassa interrupted his

explanation. "But everybody knows the Loosies are

too stupid to do anything useful."

 

Blaize put one finger to the side of his nose and

winked, a gesture borrowed from an old tri-D show

called Fagm and His Gang. "Amazing what even a veg-

head can do with the proper... incentive," he drawled.

 

"Where d'you store the whips and spiked sticks?"

That was pudgy Darnell, bright-eyed as if he actually

expected Blaize to produce a panoply of torture in-

struments and demonstrate their use.

 

"You've no subtlety, Overton-Glaxely," Blaize

reproved the man. "Think. The — er — Loosies were

starving when I came here, kept alive only by PTA ra-

tion bricks. The task of distributing the ration bricks,

naturally, belonged to the PTA representative on An-

galia. Me."

 

"So?" Darnell really was amazingly slow. Not for the

first time, Blaize wondered how he'd made such a suc-

cess out of OG Shipping and the smaller corporations

that OG Enterprises had swallowed up over die years.

 

"So,** Blaize drawled, "I saw no reason togrw away

PTA ration supplements when they could perfectly

well be used to train the natives. We have a simple rule

of life now on Angalia, my friends — no work, no eat"

He pointed towards the entrance to the corycium

mine. "And it's not just applied to building the master's

bungalow. I hold the title to that mine. United

Spacetec abandoned it because they couldn't keep

 

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127

 

human miners on Angalia. / use the native resources

to mine the native resources, so to speak — you'll see

the day shift coming out in a few minutes."

 

"And you pay them with ration bricks, which come

free via PTA?" Alpha gave Blaize an approving smile

that chilled him to the bone. "I must admit, Blaize,

you're not as stupid as you look. Anything you make

from the corycium mine is profit, free and dear."

 

Blaize opened his mouth wide in simulated shock.

"Dr. Hezra-Fong! Please! I am deeply shocked and dis-

illusioned that you should think such a thing of me.

Any profits accruing from the corycium mine natural-

ly belong to the natives of Angalia." He waited a beat

before continuing. "Of course, since the natives of An-

galia do not have Intelligent Sentient Status, they can't

have bank accounts — so the credits do, perforce, go

into a Net account in my name. But held in trust for

the Loosies—you understand?"

 

The others chuckled knowingly and all agreed that

they did indeed understand, and that Blaize was a

clever lad to have found such a good way of covering

his tail in the event of a PTA inspection. All but Polyon

de Gras-Waldheim, who was tapping one finger

against the seam of his black trousers and staring at the

thunderclouds on the horizon.

 

"You've done pretty well, considering," Darnell ad-

mitted, "but with creatures as dumb as these, surely

you have — er — discipline problems?" He was get-

ting that whips-and-chains expression again.

 

"If he does, maybe regulated doses of Seductron

would be the answer," cooed Alpha. "I've just about

got the bugs worked out of the dosage schedule now,

and it might be interesting to test it on non-humans."

 

Blaize forced himself to smile. Time for his

demonstration. He'd planned it beforehand, in case

there was need to make an additional impression on

the others, but had hoped it wouldn't be necessary.

 

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Anne McCaffrey & Margaret Ball

 

Messy, it would be. And wasteful. But apparently they

still weren't convinced of his firm control over the

Loosies.

 

"Thanks, Alpha, but Seductron wouldn't quite do

the trick; the Loosies are passive and malleable

enough already. What they need is occasional stimula-

tion, and that," he said with a low laugh, "that I can

arrange for myself." He raised one hand in the air and

brought it down with a swift chopping motion.

 

Two of the tall rock pillars beside the garden wall

moved forward in the shambling, awkward gait char-

acteristic of the Loosies. With movement, their

features and humanoid shapes could be clearly seen,

although until a moment earlier they had blended in

with the real stones making up the rest of the wall. Be-

tween them they hauled a third "rock," a native whose

double-jointed legs sagged under him and whose flap-

ping liplike folds of skin opened and closed with a

mimed display of silent terror.

 

"They may not talk," said Blaize, "but they've

learned to understand simple sign commands quite

well. Most of them have, anyway. This fellow in the

middle dropped a serving dish when he was waiting

on me at dinner yesterday. I've been saving him to

make an example of in front of the miners, but since

there's an audience here already" — he allowed his

eyes to roam lazily over his four co-conspirators —

"why wait any longer for the pleasure?"

 

He pointed over the side of the mesa with a

deliberate downward motion, three times repeated.

The two Loosie guards bobbed their square heads and

half carried, half dragged their prisoner over the edge.

 

"You make 'em throw themselves over the cliff?"

 

"Not at all," Blaize cackled. "Too fast, that'd be.

Come and watch!"

 

By the time everybody had crowded around the low

wall at the mesa's edge, the three Loosies were already

 

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129

 

down on the mud flats, approaching one of the areas

where bubbles rose and burst in the glop with a stench

of sulfur. The two guards hauled the prisoner to the

edge of this bubbling area and thrust him into the soft

mud. As he writhed and struggled to escape, they

picked up the long sticks that had marked the site of

the bubbles and used them to thrust him back into the

steaming mud.

 

"Natural hot springs under there," Blaize ex-

plained. "Very hot. Takes a couple of hours to cook

'em through. Fortunately, the Loosies are real patient

Those two I use as guards will keep pushing him down

until he quits trying to get out, even if it takes most of

the evening."

 

He turned away from the spectacle of torture and

bowed once again to his guests. "Well, ladies and

gendemen," he inquired with a benign smile, "shall we

begin the business meeting?"

 

Even Polyon, Blaize noted, was pale against the

dead black of his uniform; while the other three were

shocked into silence. So much the better. It would be a

while, he thought, before any of them underestimated

little Blaize again.

 

After the shocking scene Blaize had just provided,

the third annual progress meeting began more quietly

than the previous meetings had gone. The underlying

tensions in the group were still present, however, and

all the sharper for another year's fermenting.

 

As host, Blaize claimed the honor of giving the initial

report While Polyon gazed over his head in unfeigned

boredom and the two girls sat pale and silent, he began

reciting facts and figures to back up his earlier assertions.

In earlier years he'd had little to report This year he was

at last coming into his own. He fancied a glimmer of

respect in Polyon's eyes as Blaize explained how he was

using the first profits from the corycium mine to finance

 

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Anne McCaffrey fc? Margaret BaU

 

the purchase of heavy mining equipment that would

open up even more of the planet for exploitation. Dar-

nell twitched and muttered to himself during this pan of

the report, but he didn't explode until Polyon pointedly

inquired as to how Blaize had financed the initial startup

costs of the mine.

 

"Reselling surplus PTA shipments," Blaize replied

prompdy.

 

"Dear me," commented Polyon, "I thought the —

ah — 'Loosies' were starving. Didn't this move reduce

your potential worker population somewhat?"

 

"Waste not, want not," Blaize waved his hand in

vague circles. "There's a lot of surplus in any

bureaucracy. I just — as you might say — cut the fat

out"

 

It was perhaps unfortunate that his eyes met

DarnelTs at this moment, and that the airy circles his

hand was sketching could have been taken for an in-

dication of DarnelTs growing paunch.

 

"The hell you did!" Darnell exploded, surging to his

feet on a wave of red-faced fury. "Cut it right out of my

hide, you mean!" He turned to the others as if appeal-

ing for their sympathy. "Little bastard blackmailed me

to ship extra food here —free — while he was selling

the supplies that ought to've gone to the natives!"

 

This accusation did not have quite the effect he

might have been hoping for.

 

"Really, Darnell?" asked Polyon with bright-eyed in-

terest. "And what were you doing that he could

blackmail you for, I wonder?"

 

Darnell puffed and stammered and Alpha inter-

rupted him. "Who cares? I'm delighted somebody finally

nailed you. Ever since you took over Pair-a-Dice I've

wanted to pay you back!"

 

"What do you care whether I buy out a crummy

casino?"

 

"That 'crummy casino,' " Alpha informed him, "just

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

131

 

happened to be my primary outlet for Seductron at

street prices. The gambling was only a front — once

you pay the Bahati cops off for a gambling operation,

they're too dumb to check and see if that's really where

all the money is coming from. Pair-a-Dice — Paradise

__ get it, stupid? That's the street name for

Seductron."

 

"I thought you didn't have the dosage schedules

worked out yet!" Fassa sounded appalled.

 

Alpha shrugged thin, elegant shoulders. Her face

was sharp as a knife under the elaborate Nueva Estrel-

la style of tight braids piled high in a prismawood

spiral frame. "So a few Blissto addicts go out happy.

Who cares? I've got to start making something off

Seductron before next year. Even if I work around all

the side effects, it's too late to patent it now. So it's street

deals or nothing." This reminded her of her

grievance. "And since you took over my best outlet,

Pudge-face, it's been nothing. You owe me!"

 

"So do you," Fassa told Blaize, "Del Parma was low

bidder on the corycium processing plant. By govern-

ment regulations you ought to've given us the job.

How much did the winning contractor slip you under

the table?"

 

"That," Blaize replied stiffly, "is between the two of

us, and nothing to do with you, Fassa! Besides, know-

ing what I do about del Parma's construction methods,

what made you think I'd be fool enough to let you

build a latrine trench on Angalia?"

 

"Huh! Angalia already is a latrine trench! Ha-ha-

ha!"

 

Nobody except Fassa paid the least attention to

Darnell's lame jest. She whirled and stabbed a long

iridescent corycium-sheathed fingernail at his chest.

"And you! Remember the Procyon run? That's the last

time OG Shipping gets any del Parma business!'*

 

Darnell smoothed down his green synthofur jacket

 

132

 

Anne McCaffrey &f Margaret Ball

 

and smirked. "Can't see what you're complaining

about," he replied. "Switching good construction

materials for substandard ones is standard practice for

del Parma."

 

"Only," Fassa said, "when / keep the profit. I'm not

running a charitable association for the benefit of OG

Shipping."

 

"Can't see why not," Darnell leered. "The word is

you've been charitable to enough of Bahati's male

population already."

 

Fassa sat down abruptly, holding her head in her

hands. "Don't remind me," she wailed, "as if you and

everybody else cheating me weren't enough, can't I at

least forget about that inspector from CreditLin for a

little while? I gave him what he wanted, the space

station's paid for, I can't understand why he won't go

away."

 

"I can," suggested Blaize helpfully. "Fraudulent QA

records, shoddy materials, slipshod building practices,

non-union workers..."

 

"Cheat!"

 

"Bloodsucker!"

 

"Shark!"

 

The meeting dissolved into the usual chaos while

Polyon sat back, arms crossed, and murmured,

"Naughty children."

 

• CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Kailas, Procyon Subspace, Central Date 2754

 

The Central Diplomatic Services office tower was a

lacework of steel and titanium needles, wrapped in

translucent green synthofilm that trapped and

redistributed natural light in a soft, unchanging glow.

Midnight or noon, the CDS offices on Kailas were lit by

a gentle, slightly green-tinged light that was energy-

efficient, situation-appropriate, and psychologically

proven to be simultaneously soothing and

inspirational.

 

It made Sev Bryley feel as if he was about to suffer a

recurrence of the jungle rot that had attacked his skin

on Capella Four. He tried not to think about the light

It was a minor matter, not worth wasting the precious

minutes this important man had granted him.

 

"Youhate this, too, don'tyou?" the important man said.

 

"Sir?"

 

An impatient grunt "The blasted light Something

Psych and EcoTech dreamed up between them. Makes

me feel as if I were back on Capella Six."

 

"For me it was Four," Sev confessed.

 

Another grunt. "Different war, same jungle. I'd

open a window if this place had windows. Can't peel

plastifilm open, more's the pity."

 

"It's very good of you to make time to see me at all,

sir," Sev said cautiously. So they had a common back-

ground — service in the Capellan Wars? Was that why

this highly placed diplomat had given a mere private

investigator ten minutes out of his crowded schedule?

 

"Not at all. Do the same for any friend of the family

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

135

 

who needed help. So. What's your problem, d'Aquino?"

 

Sev stiffened. "I didn't intend to call on family con-

nections, sir— "

 

"Then you're a damned young fool," said the gray-

haired man in the conservative blue tunic. "I've been

checking your Net records. Your full name is Sevareid

Bryley-Sorensen d'Aquino—why didn't you use it when

you requested this appointment? You could have gotten

in to see me three days sooner. And why me, if you didn't

mean to call on High Families connections?"

 

"I was not aware that there was a relationship be-

tween our families. Sir," Sev said stiffly. "I came to

Kailas because it was the nearest world with any CDS

representatives high-ranking enough to deal with my

problem. And I approached you because you have the

reputation of being one of the two Central Worlds offi-

cials on this planet who cannot be bribed, threatened,

or suborned."

 

"So you found two honest men, my Diogenes? I'm

flattered."

 

"Sir. My name is Bryley, not Dio — whatever."

 

"A classical reference. No matter. What do they teach

them in University these days? But then, you didn't

finish your schooling. Why didn't you cash in your

veteran's benefits after Capella IV to complete your

education at Central's expense?"

 

Sev tried without success to conceal his surprise.

 

"The Net can supply — um—rather a lot of detail,"

his interlocutor explained gently. "Even about a

rather obscure private investigator who's recently lost

his position with Bahati CreditLin — yes, I found out

about that too. Something about a gambling scandal at

the Pair-a-Dice, wasn't it?"

 

"It was a lie!" Sev leaned forward, burning with in-

dignation at the memory. "My supervisor — he had

anonymous letters about me. I know who sent them,

but I can't prove it,"

 

"And who might that be?"

 

The same man who transferred credits into my Net

account and played under my name at Pair-a-Dice —

or maybe he sent one of his flunkies to play the part.

When I went to the casino, they wouldn't tell me any-

thing about the man who used my name."

 

"No. They beat you — rather badly—and threw you

out into the ecocycler in the back alley." The gray-eyed

man surveyed Sev with eyes that took in every feint mark

of healing bruises and scraped skin. "Lucky you didn't

wind up being recycled into somebody's rose garden; we

suspect that's what has happened to a few other people

who annoyed the proprietor of that particular estab-

lishment So. \bu came to your senses, crawled out of the

ecocycler before it began its chop sequence, got treat-

ment for your more obvious wounds from some shady

blacklisted ex-doctor among your underworld friends,

and... came halfway across the galaxy to wait three days

for an interview with me. Want me to get you reinstated

with Bahati CreditLin, is that it? Favor for a friend? Teach

them not to act on anonymous accusations against a

High Families lad — even one who's rebelled against his

background and is working incognito?"

 

"Sir!"

 

"It can be arranged, you know," said the gray-eyed

man, watching Sev closely. "A word from this office,

and Bahati CreditLin will reinstate you, full back pay,

no questions asked. If that's what you want..."

 

"No, sir."

 

The gray-eyed man nodded briskly. "Good. I didn't

think so, but one has to be sure. You want to track

down the people who framed you, then."

 

"More than that." Sev dropped his eyes. "I think I

know who framed me. And why. But it's a long story,

and there are High Families involved. That's why I

came to you, sir. Somebody without that background

might be tempted to shove everything under the car-

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

137

 

pet for fear of offending someone powerful. And of

those in Central Administration who are High

Families — well — " He spread his hands helplessly." I

don't know the lineages and their reputations. The

only two people whose integrity everyone is absolutely

sure of are you and General Questar-Benn — and

she's on some kind of secret assignment, nobody

would tell me where."

 

"How flattering," purred the gray-eyed man.

 

Belatedly, Sev realized the implications of his words.

"Sir. I didn't mean — 1 am most grateful that you

agreed to see me, truly I am."

 

"Take that as read. Now why don't you tell me

what's going on?"

 

Sev's cheekbones reddened. His tongue felt like a

wad of cotton in his mouth. Where could he begin? In

this cool green-lit office, the madness that had seized

him on Bahati seemed like a dream.

 

"There was — a girl."

 

"Ann. You know, there quite often is, in such cases.

And you — made a fool of yourself?" He looked at Sev

sympathetically. "You know, I can remember the urge

to make a fool of oneself over a young lady. I'm not so

old and dried-up as all that. But if this story is going to

be personal, perhaps you'd feel easier continuing it in

a less formal environment? Sometimes I go across

town for lunch — there's a cafe in Darkside. Nothing

fancy. But at least it gets one out of this damned jungle

light-

Fifteen minutes later, feeling somewhat as if he'd ac-

tually been through the ecocycler's processing

sequence, Sev and the man he'd come to see were

seated at a table in the back of a cavernous, dimly lit

cafe. The one window that might have admitted a little

sunlight was curtained by dusty streamers of glitzrib^

bon and prismawood light-dangles. In one corner of

the room, a weedy boy with long red hair tied in z\

 

black velvet bow tinkered with his synthocom set,

producing occasional bursts of strident sound that

grated on Sev's eardrums.

 

Even his sleazy story seemed no more than normal,

here. He wondered if that was why they'd come to this

dingy place. It seemed an odd setting for a man who

spent his working life meeting with presidents and

kings and generals.

 

"It's quiet here," said the only honest man on Kailas,

"and more to the point, I know there won't be any un-

authorized datacordings made of our conversation;

I'm acquainted with the proprietor of this place. She

has quite a number of visitors who don't want their dis-

cussions overheard or recorded."

 

"I can believe it," said Sev with feeling.

 

"So. If that answers your curiosity about why we

came here — why don't you tell me about this girl?

 

"She was — " Sev stopped, swallowed, searched again

for a place to begin. "She is head of a construction com-

pany based on Bahati. Their most recent contract was for

a space station to catch Net signals and route small-pack-

age traffic between Vega subspace and Central. As pan of

my routine duties for Bahati Creditlin, I was asked to do

a final walk-through inspection of the station. It was—it

should have been just a formality; the head of Contracts

Administration had already signed off on the work."

 

"I take it," murmured the gray-eyed man, "there

were, in fact, some deficiencies in the construction

methods?"

 

"It was a. joke" Sev's hands moved freely and he for-

got his nervousness as he sketched the discoveries he'd

made. "Oh, everything looked good enough on the

outside. Fresh new permalloy surface skin. Interior

corridors painted and glowlit, shiny new sensor

screens to scan the exteriors. But once I opened up a

few panels and started looking at what was behind the

fresh paint—" He shook his head, remembering. "She

 

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Anne McCaffrey 6? Margaret Ball

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

139

 

tried to distract me. No. That's not fair. She... did dis-

tract me. For a while." Three days and nights in Fassa

del Parma's private cubicle on her personal transport

ship, wheeling around the space station, watching the

blazing dance of the stars through the clear walls

above and below and around their own dance...

 

Sev felt himself on fire again, remembering. And

regretting. Even now, some part of him wanted noth-

ing better than to be back on the Xanadu with Fassa del

Parma y Polo. Whatever the cost.

 

"She was... annoyed," he said slowly, "when I told her

I'd have to complete the inspection according to form."

He looked up at the man seated across the table, search-

ing for a hint of condemnation in the level gray eyes. "I

should have done the inspection immediately. I'd given

her three days." No, shegave them to me. Three days FU never

forget. "She'd had her people working overtime to con-

ceal their cheap work. Panels behind panels. Fake safety

numbers stenciled on the recycled supporting beams.

Warning signs about chemical danger areas in front of

the rats' nests they called an electronic system — as

though that would've stopped me!" Sev snorted.

 

"If 7 had put up signs warning of chemical dangers,"

the other man commented, "I would have made sure

that you did indeed run into such dangers the first time

you removed a panel. Nothing fetal, of course. Certainly

nothing really nasty, like gaseous Ganglicide. Maybe a lit-

tle sinoidal stimulant Or Capellan fungus spores."

 

"She thought of that," said Sev grimly. "So, unfor-

tunately for her, did I... I wore a chem-pro suit and

gas mask while I checked out the electronics."

 

"And?"

 

"The place never should have passed the most cursory

inspection," Sev said tonelessly. "ltdidn't pass mine. I

transmitted a full report via the Net — enough to stop

payment on the space station and put Polo Construction

under investigation. The lady was, ummm — not

 

auo>-"———      i

 

right ear. Nothing more than the feint memory ol scars

now, but the lines still tingled whenever he thought of

Fassa. Being clawed by Fassa del Parma wasn't nearly as

much fun as the things they'd done on the Xanadu, but it

vras still a remarkably stimulating experience. Even now,

Sev reckoned he would rather have a fight with Fassa

than party with any six other girls ofhis acquaintance.

Not that the opportunity was likely to come his way

 

again....

 

"You said your report should have shut down the

space station," his companion prompted gently. "In-

stead...?"

 

"Damned if I know." Sev spread his hands. "When I got

i i^__^jrt "-"™*rvM-f wa* crone. All mv fifes had been

 

erased by some treaic computer HIUUUIA.UUU, ««.«* *___,

had bothered to copy it to a datahedron first... or so they

said. And I was up on charges of sexual harassment.

Specifically, faUingtocompletea schedukdinspection, and

.i_—„—;—„ Vr>*& Hf>l Parma v Polo with a bad inspection

 

jportifshe didn't comply witnmy pci vci itw^v-suv—

"She got there first," the other man murmured.

"She's fast," Sev admitted grudgingly. "And smart.

And ... well, it doesn't matter. Not now." FU never get

back on the Xanadu now. And if I did, she'd nail me to a wall

 

and flay me. Slowly.

 

"It was her word against mine, no evidence on either

side. Or so my supervisor told me. Asecond inspection, a

second honest inspection, would have found the same

flaws I detailed in my report. But they weren't going to

send me, not after her complaints. And while they were

waffling around looking for somebody else with the tech-

nical background to do the inspection, Senator Cenevix

pushed a special bill through his committee. He's in

charge of the Ethics Committee," Sev explained. "This

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

141

 

bill made second inspections in the same class as trying a

man twice for the same crime — placed a construction

company under the protection of the old double jeopar-

dy rule. So we weren't allowed to go back and collect the

evidence. Then the letters started coming — about me

gambling at the Pair-a-Dice — and, well, you know the

rest of it."

 

"What I don't know, though, is what you expect me

to do about it You've said you don't want me to get you

reinstated at Bahati CreditLin — and I think that's a

good idea; if you went back to the Nyota ya Jaha sys-

tem, I don't think your life would be worth much. And

you must know Central doesn't interfere with other

worlds' internal legislative affairs. If this young lady

has bribed a senator, that's most deplorable, but we

must wait for the people of Bahati to recognize the feet

and remove him by due electoral process."

 

"Not," said Sev grimly, "if I can get incontrovertible

evidence of what she's been up to."

 

"My dear boy, you'll never get close to a Polo Con-

struction job again. From what you've told me, I'm

quite sure she's too bright to let you anywhere near

her operations."

 

"True," Sev agreed."/ haven't a chance of catching her

now. And there aren't many investigators — male or

female — whom I'd guarantee to be immune to Fassa's,

umm, methods of distraction." He paused for a moment

of brief; intense, almost painful memory. "Maybe none,"

he concluded, opening his eyes again. "But a brainship

would be safe enough, don't you think?"

 

"Tell me," said the gray-eyed man, "exactly what

you have in mind." He hadn't moved by so much as

the flicker of an eyelash, but Sev could sense the sud-

denly heightened interest. He outlined his plan,

accepted several corrections and emendations to the

basic strategy, and all but held his breath with hope

and excitement. It had been a long shot, coming to this

 

man, and one he hadn't really expected to pay off.

 

"I thinkitcanbedone," was the final verdict "I think it

should be done. And I do believe I can arrange it."

 

"Then it only remains to find a brainship capable of

carrying out the plan."

 

"Any Courier Service ship would be capable" There

was a hint of reproof in the level, passionless voice.

"But we can do better than that. You want integrity,

brains, diplomatic skills, and the ability to pass as a

droneship. There's one ship fairly recently commis-

sioned — about five years — that should suit your

purposes. I can guarantee her personal integrity, you

see, and that's what is most important in this opera-

tion. For the rest — "a brief, ironic smile that puzzled

Sev — "well, let's just say I've been following this par-

ticular ship's career with some interest."

 

He stood, and Sev followed suit. As they passed the

music platform, the synthocommer broke into a

raucous burst of primitive melody—annoying, Jar too

loud, but with a compelling rhythm behind the raw

sounds. Sev rather liked it, but his companion dosed

his eyes and shuddered faintly.

 

"I apologize," he said as the door closed behind them,

"for the music. It's not one of the cafe's attractions, in my

opinion. Still, it is the other reason why I come here."

Sev frowned in puzzlement.

 

"You'd think a young man of High Families stock,

with a good education and a family eager to help him

get started in a worthwhile profession, could find some

better career than playing synthocom in a dusty bar on

the wrong side of town, wouldn't you?"

 

It was dearly a rhetorical question. Sev nodded his

head in agreement.

 

"So," said the only honest man on Railas, "so would

I. But evidently my son is of a different opinion."

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

143

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

Rahilly, Nancia's CS supervisor, ordered her to take it

easy while she was getting used to the hyperchip im-

plants. "Cruise back to Central and take your time about

it," he ordered her. "You'll have several assignments to

pick from when you get here, but there's nothing urgent

and no reason for you to strain yourself with too many

Singularity transitions while you're getting up to speed

with your new capabilities." So Nancia chose a lengthy

return route that required only one very small transition

through Singularity, while she reveled in the enhanced

clarity and speed of thought she enjoyed wherever the

hyperchips had been installed.

 

After the jump she was inclined to grumble at the.

caution displayed by the Courier Service.

 

"That was the best jump I've ever made," she told

Caleb. "Did you feel how cleanly I ripped that dive into

Central subspace?"

 

"Ripped a dive?" Caleb inquired.

 

Nancia realized that in all their time together, she'd

never discussed how she felt about Singularity, or

mentioned the Old Earth-style athletic metaphors that

came to her when she was diving through decompos-

ing three-space. "It's ... a term athletes use," she

explained. "There were some newsbytes of the Earth

Olympics once . . . anyway. I just meant it was a per-

fecdy wonderful jump. Don't you think so?"

 

"It was over faster than most," Caleb allowed. "Let's

see what our next assignment is."

 

They had a choice of three, but as soon as Nancia

scanned the beam she knew there was only one she

 

wanted to take. Abrainship was needed for an under-

cover assignment investigating the methods of BLEEP

Construction Company on planet in the star system

CENSORED. The matter must be handled with ex-

treme discretion; details would be available only to the

brainship accepting the assignment.

 

"Two weeks travel. One major Singularity point. I

bet I know where it is," Nancia said.

 

"That could describe any number of routes," Caleb

 

pointed out.

 

"Yes, but..." Nancia created a pattern of dancing

lightstrings on her central panel. She would have been

willing to bet her four years' accumulated pay and

bonuses that at least one of the spoiled brats she'd

carried out to the Nyota ya Jaha system was im-

plementing the plans she'd discussed. Fassa del Parma

y Polo. Polo Construction. Bahati. Hadn't there been

something on the newsbytes about a delay in financing

the new space station off Bahati, some question about

the inspection? ... It had to be Fassa's company. And

here, at last, was Nancia's chance to stop one of the un-

ethical litue beasts. "Caleb, let's take this one. I like it"

Caleb sniffed disapprovingly. "Well, I don't Under-

cover —that's next door to espionage. Vega Ethical Code

considers it the same thing, in feet. I didn't sign on to

Courier Service to become a dirty, sneaking spy." He

made the word sound obscene. "And look at this.'' He

overrode Nancia's pattern of dancing lights to display a

copy of the assignment description on the central screen.

A laser pointer highlighted the wait-code inconspicuous-

ly marked on the top left corner of the message header.

"See that? Somebody specifically routed this assignment

to us, even if it meant waiting three weeks for us to come

back from Spica subspace by the longest route. With a lit-

tle checking the Net we could probably find out who —

no, that would be unethical," Caleb conceded with a

small sigh. "But I don't like it, Nancia. Smells of High

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

145

 

Families meddling and pulling strings. I think we ought

to take one of the other two assignments. Something

that's presented in a straightforward manner, something

we can do without compromising our integrity."

 

But even Caleb couldn't work up much enthusiasm

for their other two choices.

 

The first, they were warned, might be a relatively

long-term assignment. A ship was required to

transport the Planetary Technical Aid inspection com-

mittee on its five-yearly rounds, remaining at each

planet while the committee inspected the situation and

prepared a report.

 

"I guess there are worse chores," he said. "And maybe

it wouldn't take so long. If they do this trip every five

years, the last inspection ship should have been coming

back just before you were commissioned. Want to check

the records and find out how long the round trip took?"

 

Nancia began checking the Courier Service's open

records while Caleb studied the third assignment

choice. "Taking a bull to Cor Caroli subspace? This is a

Courier Service assignment?"

 

"Improving agriculture," Nancia suggested, and

then, "but they can't be serious. Surely all we'd have to

take out is a sperm sample."

 

But it turned out, when they checked, that nobody

had ever successfully taken a sperm sample from

Thunderbolt III, the prize bull bufialo of die Central

Worlds Zoo. And since die only surviving cow bufialo

was on Cor Caroli VI, and since the zoo keeper diere

claimed Shaddupa suffered from terrible Singularity

stress and couldn't possibly handle spaceflight, the

preservation of the species required that Thunderbolt

III be transported to Cor Caroli VI.

 

" I think even a PTA committee would be better com-

pany than Thunderbolt Three," Caleb commented.

"Nancia, isn't there any CS record of how long the pre-

vious inspection tour lasted?"

 

"I just found it," Nancia told him. She'd had to check

through more years of records than she anticipated.

 

"And?"

 

"And they should be returning some time next year.

They're still out in Deneb subspace. I've been reading

the interim reports. It seems the PTAbylaws prohibit die

inspection committee from leaving any planet until diey

have all agreed to and signed the report for that planet**

 

'And?'

 

This time Nancia did sigh. "Caleb, it's a committee."

Three hours later Sevareid  Bryley-Sorensen

d'Aquino came aboard to explain his plan in detail.

 

"1 don't like the paint job," Nancia complained

when the retrofitting was done.

 

Caleb glared at her control panel. She wished he

would turn around and look at her central column,

now hidden behind fake bulkheads. "It was your idea

to travel under false colors. Don't complain now."

 

"It's not being disguised as an OG Shipping

droneship I mind," Nancia said. "It's Darnell's choice

of colors. Puce and mauve, ugh!"

 

That wasn't quite true. She did mind the OG Ship-

 

-*----*. —.-..-, Lm*. ., j~wf*Ar\v

 

feeling to Know mat suangwio .»v,^«.—— — __

see pan of Darnell Overton-Glaxely*s rapidly growing

empire. But she wasn't about to admit that to Caleb,

not after arguing so hard to convince him that they

should take the assignment.

 

Sev Bryley's plan had been simplicity itself. Fassa del

Parma seduced men when she needed to, but she was

economical with herself as with all Polo Construction's

resources: very few strangers were allowed dose enough

to the construction company's operations to become any

sort of a threat. Herworkers were fanatically loyal to her—

 

"Let's not discuss that part," Caleb had interrupted

Sev at this point. "It's not fit for Nancia to hear."

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

147

 

"I believe," Sev said carefully, "that their loyalty is pur-

chased by stock options and high financial bonuses. Not

to mention the feet that a number of them are rumored

to be wanted by Central under other IDs; somebody

seems to be doing a fine business in supplying Fassa with

lake Net identities for her workers."

 

Polyon. Nancia remembered the ease and dexterity

with which he'd hacked into the Net accounts via her

own computer. And that had been five years before. He

was probably much, much better at it now. She could tell

Sev Bryley where to look for the Net forger... or just

drop him a hint. A hint might be enough for this deter-

mined young man; look how quickly he'd dredged up

the connection between Polo Construction and OG

Shipping, the very basis for their hastily executed plan.

 

Fassa's business required heavy transport facilities.

For the most part Polo Construction ran their own

ships, but when she had too many contracts Fassa

rented droneships from OG Shipping. The drones

were the safest way for her to transport illicitly ac-

quired materials; there would be no witnesses except

her own men, loading materials at one end, and the

customer's men unloading at the other end of the run.

Neither would be inclined to bear witness against a sys-

tem that brought them so much profit

 

Sev had worked out all this from a combination of

studying partial Net records, interviewing anybody

with even casual interest in Polo Construction, and

putting the bits together with his own flashes of bril-

liant insight. He lacked just one thing: the testimony of

an unimpeachable eyewitness to confirm his deduc-

tions. Somebody needed to see the substitution of

materials going on... somebody whose integrity could

not be questioned... somebody who could get close to

operations without warning Fassa.

 

The integrity of Courier Service brainships was beyond

question. And Fassa, accustomed to the services of the

 

suspect thatbehind painted ovuiuieausiiiju ciupvy r^o^u^

docks there resided a human brain with the sensor

capacity to hear and see all that went on aboard the ship ...

and the intelligence to testify about it later.

"It's a brilliant plan," Nancia declared when Sev first

 

explained it.

 

"1 don't like it," Caleb glowered. "Sending Nancia

out alone — without me to tell her how to do things?

What if she panics?"

 

"I won't panic." Nancia made her voice as calm and

 

soothing as possible.

 

"And I'll be with her," Sev pointed out. "1 won't risk

coming out where they can see me, but I'll track every-

thing via Nancia's sensor screens and send her cues if

she needs help."

 

Caleb folded his arms. "That," he said grimly, "is not

a satisfactory solution. Why can't I go too? I'm her

brawn. I should be wherever she is."

 

"Minimizing the risks," Sev said briefly. Actually, his

original plan had called for the brainship to go complete-

ly unattended, just like a drone. But he was damned if he

would miss out on the culmination of his careful plans.

He trusted himself to have the self-control to stay out of

sight until Fassa had completely incriminated herself; he

didn't trust Caleb to display the same good sense. But ex-

plaining all that would hardly mollify the brawn.

 

Caleb appealed directly to Nancia. "You're too

young," he said. "You're too innocent. You won't

recognize their dirty tricks until too late. You — "

 

"Caleb" Sev Bryley*s voice cracked like a gunshot The

brawn stopped his rompulsive pacing around the narrow

perimeter of the remodeled cabin. "You aren't helping

Nanria," Sev said once he had Caleb's attention. "Don't

make her nervous. Why don't you go to the spaceport bar

and have a drink? I'll join you as soon as Nancia arid I have

run through her final checklist ofinstrucdons."

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

149

 

Caleb opened his mouth for an angry retort and

then shut it again. Nantia wished she had a sensor that

could report on the rapid ticking of his brain. He was

thinking something behind that quiet, tight-Upped ex-

terior —but what?

 

"Consumption of intoxicating beverages is against

the Vega Ethical Code," Caleb said at last, and Nancia

relaxed connections that she hadn't realized were so

tight. Whatever Caleb's thoughts, they weren't leading

him into a fight with Sev that would very likely abort

the mission at this late date. "I'll, I'll, I could have a

vegosqueeze, though."

 

"You do that, then," Sev agreed. "See you in a few

minutes."

 

He leaned against a fake bulkhead, arms folded.

The temporary wall squeaked in protest and Sev

straightened up quickly. "Crummy construction job

they did on your interior," he remarked as Caleb's

footsteps echoed down the central stairs.

 

"Then it should m-match the rest of the work around

P-Polo Construction." Where had that stammer come

from? Nancia ordered her vocal circuits to relax. They

only tightened up farther, making the next sentence

come out in a squeak. "What final checklist?"

 

"What? Hmm? Oh, there isn't one. I just wanted to

get Caleb out of the way. He was making you nervous,

wasn't he?"

 

"I'm fine," Nancia said, this time more gruffly than

she had intended.

 

"You'll need to get better control over your vocal ]

registers if you want to sound like a dronetalker," Sev '\

warned. "Drones' synthesized voices don't wobble." '

 

He sank to the cabin floor, long legs folding under him

with no apparent strain, and gazed at the fake wafl con-

cealing Nancia's titanium column. "Undercover work is

always a strain,'' heconfided. "I used to do half an hour of

yoga meditation before taking on a false identity."

 

Nancia rapidly scanned her data banks. Apparently

yoga was an old-style Earth exercise designed to induce

tranquility and spiritual enlightenment.

 

"Too bad you can't do the same thing," Sev

commented.

 

"A brainship can do anything you softpersons can,"

Nancia snapped, "only better! Tell me about thisyoga."

 

Sev grinned. "Well. Maybe you can. It just requires a

little translation. Let's see, start with regular breathing...

Not heavy," he said reprovingly as Nancia flushed dean

air in and out through her ventilation ports, "just

regular. Even. Smooth. That's the idea. Now dose

your... umm, deactivate your visual sensors."

 

Usually Nancia hated the blackness that accom-

panied temporary loss of visual sensor connections.

But this time it was voluntary. And Sev's voice con-

tinued, low and soothing... and it was restful not to be

scanning her remodeled interior.

 

Caleb must be exiting her lower entry port now; if she

opened an external sensor she'd be able to see him walk-

 

'•>•(•     l_l^-_ ___J__ ».!_„ *~*n.^cmn-r+ rvanli—il

 

the exercise now; Sev's patient instructions were work-

ing. She felt perceptibly less nervous as she followed his

suggestions to feel the energy in her lower engines and

let it flow through her propulsion units without actually

releasing it A warm glowing sensation bathed her fins

and exterior shell. Caleb's near-quarrel widi Sev, the ap-

proaching confrontation off Bahati, even the exciting

suspicion that Daddy had personally recommended her

for this assignment... all these doubts and fears and

hopes seemed very small and far away. Nancia con-

templated herself, a tiny speck in the universe; as was the

planet on which she sat, the sun that lit the sky around

them. All little floating dots in an infinite pattern; dots

winked out or came into existence, but the pattern

swirled on and on forever....

 

150      Anne McCaffrey 6f Margaret Ball

 

"Restore full sensor connections." Sev's calm order

was like a gentle wake-up call. Nancia opened her sen-

sors one by one, feeling anew the wonder of existence.

The gritty spaceport floor beneath her landing gear,

the smell of engine oil in the air outside, the sights and

sounds of an ordinary working spaceport were all

bright and trembling with new meaning.

 

"I think you'll do now," Sev said with satisfaction.

 

"I think so, too," Nancia agreed.

 

Out of habit, Nancia lifted offas gently as if she were

carrying a full committee of Central Worlds diplomats.

Just because she was decked out in the revolting colors

of OG Shipping didn't mean she had to slam on-and

off-world like a mindless drone. Besides, rapid move-

ment would destroy the trance of peace in which she

was still floating. And, she thought guiltily, it would

also bounce Sev around. If Caleb had been aboard, his

comfort would have been her first thought; Sev

deserved the same consideration.

 

The work of outfitting her as an OG drone had been

done at Razmak Base in Bellatrix subspace. Razmak

possessed the very useful quality of being located just

one hour's spaceflight away from a Singularity zone

opening directly onto Vega subspace near Nyota ya

Jaha; Nancia would not have to risk a long flight

during which some authentic OG Shipping employee

might notice and report her presence. She arced

through the sky like a silver rainbow and made one

sleek rolling dive into Singularity.

 

The disadvantage of this particular transition, from a

softperson's point of view, was that the transition

through Singularity was subjectively longer than usual.

Sev had considered this a reasonable tradeoff for the ad-

vantages of Razmak Base; Nancia hoped he would feel

the same way when they exited into Vega subspace.

 

For herself, Nancia had been looking forward to the

 

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151

 

jump- She skimmed the rolling waves of collapsing sub-

space, dove and surfaced and spiraled through the

spaces until the decomposition funnel drew her whirling

into its shrinking space. Systems of linear equations fol-

lowed their orderly dance; space shrank and expanded

about Nancia, colors sang to her and the inexorable

regularity of the mathematical transformations unfolded

with the beauty of a Bach fugue. She came out into Vega

subspace with an exuberant shout of joy, the golden

notes of a Purcell trumpet voluntary echoing through

concealed passages and empty loading bays,

"CUT THAT OUT!"

 

The outraged shout, echoing where no human

voice should have sounded, was like a spattering of

high-frequency power along Nancia's synaptic

connectors.

 

She opened all sensor connections at once. The world

was a faceted diamond of images: painted bulkheads,

pseudosteel corridors, Sev still strapped to his bunk for

the Singularity transition, the central cabin viewed from

three angles at once: all framed by the external sensor

views ofblackness spattered by the fire of distant suns.

 

And Caleb, coming from one of the angles where

temporary walls blocked Nancia's sensor view of her

own interior, resplendent in his Courier Service full-

dress uniform and still green in the face from the

extended period in Singularity. Nancia dosed down all

the other sensors and expanded the image of Caleb.

Her brawn wasn't usually inclined to Service frip-

peries; she had forgotten just how fine a man could

look in the uncomfortable full-dress black and silver of

the Courier Service, with the stiff collar forcing his jaw

up and the silver-and-corycium braid winking in rain-

bow lightfires every time he drew a deep breath.

 

"You've developed a distaste for classical musk?" It

was the only thing she could think of to say — the only

thing that was even remotely safe to say.

 

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153

 

"You were half a tone flat on the high notes," Caleb

informed her, using the same carefully remote voice

that Nancia had employed. "And much too loud."

 

"I suppose I should apologize for the unintended

assault on your delicate sensors," Nancia said. "I had

turned off the cabin speakers, and I wasn't aware that

there was another softshell aboard."

 

"Awhat?"

 

Had Caleb really spent four and a half years as her

brawn without ever once hearing the slang term that

sheUpersons used for mobile humans? Nancia rapidly

reviewed a selection of their communications. It was

indeed possible. She had never realized how much of

her communication she censored for Caleb's benefit,

how careful she'd been to avoid offending against his

standards of speech and action.

 

Maybe she'd been too careful, if he thought he

could get away with a stunt like this.

 

"I think you can figure out what the term means,"

Nancia told him. Then, as she absorbed the emotional

impact of what Caleb's action meant, her hard-won

control cracked like a faulty shell. "Caleb, you idiot,

you could have been killedl What if I'd lifted off at full

speed? Hiding in that corner, you'd have been

bounced around like three dice in a cup!"

 

"You never do bruising takeofls or landings," Caleb

pointed out. "Too fond of showing off your land-on-

an-eggshell, turn-on-a-dime navigational skills."

 

Nancia was momentarily distracted. "What's a

dime?"

 

"I'm not sure," Caleb admitted. "It's an Old Earth

phrase. I think it refers to some kind of small insect.

Want to check your thesaurus? We could call up the

Old English language files via the Net, too. Something

to pass die time."

 

"Stop trying to change the subject! Why didn't you

tell me you were going to be aboard?"

 

"Would you have let me come?"

 

"Well. •. no," Nancia admitted. "I'd have had to tell

Brytey. Your presence could compromise the mission,

Caleb, don't you realize that? I'm supposed to be an

unmanned droneship, remember?"

 

"I know," Caleb said. "Don't worry. I won't com-

promise the bloody mission. But I couldn't let you face

this gang of diieves alone, Nancia. Don't you see that?"

 

She wasn't alone; she had Sev, who knew all about

investigative work and undercover missions. But she

couldn't very well berate Caleb for wanting to protect

 

her, could she?

 

"Just keep out of sight," Nancia said finally. "Please,

Caleb?" Oh-oh. Sen is using his cabin. He isn't going to Uke

that. "Work it out with Sev. If one of you can hide, I

guess two of you can. But—he's in charge for this mis-

sion. I agreed to that, and you'll have to do the same."

She took the set of his jaw and the brief upward jerk

of his head for all the assent she was going to get

"Oh. One other thing."

"Yes?"

 

"Why," Nancia inquired, "did you choose to wear

full Service uniform for this little jaunt? Not that it isn't

becoming, but I'd have thought something a little less

conspicuous...."

 

Caleb explained, patiently and at length, about tradi-

tions of honor on Vega. There seemed to be some

connection in his mind between wearing uniform and

being taken for a spy. Or not taken for a spy. Nancia

couldn't quite follow the argument, and when he went

from Vega history to Old Earth stories about somebody

called Major Andr£, she quit trying. Caleb was Caleb. His

sense of honor wouldn't let him send his brainship

without him into what he considered a dangerous and

morally ambiguous situation. Apparently his sense of

honor also wouldn't let him dress sensibly for the oc-

casion. His sense of honor was a royal pain in the

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

155

 

synapses at times, but it was part of Caleb. Part of what

she respected in him.

 

While Caleb discussed the laws of war, the concept of

a just war, the Truce of God, and the Geneva Conven-

tions, Nantia found and activated her files of baroque

brass music. With all speakers off, she ran the Purcell

trumpet voluntary through her comm channels three

times and was going on for a fourth before Caleb final-

ly ran out of things to say.

 

Fassa del Parma paced the loading dock of Bahati

SpaceBase II, biting her lip. Ever since that near-

debacle over SpaceBase I, she had been unwilling to

delegate the ambiguous details of her business. That

had been a near thing. Who'd have thought Sev

Bryley would be so persistent? She'd taken him aboard

the Xanadu and given him what he wanted, hadn't

she? And when that hadn't proved sufficient to shut

the man up — Fassa stopped pacing and bit her lip. All

she'd wanted from Darnell was to fake a minor gam-

bling and embezzling record that would discredit Sev

with his employers. There'd been no need to go as far

as he had, even if Sev had come sniffing around the

Pair-a-Dice to find out who was framing him. There

were other ways to discourage people besides dump-

ing their unconscious bodies in a recycling bin. She

should have recognized DarnelTs sadistic tendencies,

she should have remembered the whispers about

mysterious disappearances from the Pair-a-Dice.

 

Oblivious to the soft thump and the vibration

through the base walls that announced the docking of

DarnelTs OG Shipping drone, Fassa leaned her head

against the wall for a moment. It gave slightly where

her forehead pressed against it; that was what hap-

pened when you replaced the contracted synthosteel

with steel-painted plastiflim. Not that she cared. Not

that anybody cared about anything. That was how the

 

world was, and nobody bothered to stop any of the

corruption. Why should she trouble herself about one

man caught up in the general unfeeling way of the

world? Nobody had ever cared about her> had they?

 

Certainly not Sev Bryley. All he'd been after was a

scandalous case that would build up his career. He'd

taken what she offered and then attacked her again as

if none of it meant anything. Well, it didn't.

 

Did it?

 

Fassa blinked rapidly and activated the series of locks

that would automatically check on the seal between an

attached ship and the spacebase itself, equalize pressures

and open the spacebase for loading and unloading. She

hadn't economized on that part of the work. She was

dever enough to keep well above standards on any part

of a contract that might jeopardize her personal safety.

Clever enough, she thought as the spacebase doors irised

open, to handle any problem that came up ... except,

maybe, her own memories.

Which were no problem!

 

She was about to call the loading crew to shift the

permasteel beams and other expensive materials onto

Darnell's drone when a thought stopped her. You

couldn't be too careful these days. She walked through

the spaceport iris, through the extruded pressure

chambers and into the empty loading bays of the OG

Shipping droneship.

 

Everything seemed to be as it should. The loading

layout was rather strange, but Darnell had a habit of

taking ships from the other companies he acquired

and retrofitting them to suit his own needs. Certainly

there was plenty of space. And everywhere she looked,

on columns and walls and internal panels, Fassa saw

the puce-and-mauve logo of OG Shipping stenciled.

Rather sloppily stenciled, in some cases: lines wobbled

and droplets of paint spattered the borders of the sten-

cils. Looked like a rush job. Darnell didn't take the

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

157

 

trouble to oversee his people personally as she did

hers, she thought, and the difference showed.

 

"Droneship, are you prepared to accept cargo?" she

queried the air.

 

"Prepared. To accept. Cargo. Begin. Transfer." The

answer came back from a speaker somewhere behind

her, metallic and uninflected like all AI speech. Fassa

remembered reading that AI linguists were perfectly

capable of designing a more human-sounding speech

system, especially with the help of the sophisticated

metachips of Shemali design, but that marketing for-

ces wouldn't let them release it. Drones and other AI

devices weren't supposed to sound too human; it

made people nervous.

 

"Credit transfer, please," Fassa requested briskly.

Darnell had stiffed her on one load of supplies, resell-

ing it and pocketing the profit himself and blandly

denying that any of his drones had been anywhere

near SpaceBase I. And her own excessive caution, her

own refusal to leave any records behind, had given her

no way to fight him. Now she demanded payment in

advance before a single roll of synthosteel made it onto

one of the bastard's drones.

 

"Your credit transfer will be. Approved. As soon as

the. Loading is complete."

 

Fassa grinned to herself. That speech had sounded

considerably more like human inflections than most

dronetalk did. She wouldn't put it past Darnell to have

diverted some of the new metachips for frivolous ap-

plications like improving dronetalk. He hadn't got it

quite right, though. She could still tell she was talking

to a machine.

 

And she wasn't about to let a damned droneship

cheat her out of the rights to this expensive shipment!

 

"Credit transfer to be produced when loading is

twenty-five percent complete," she said, "as by usual

agreement. Or I stop loading there and you don't

 

leave SpaceBase until the credit slip is approved."

 

"Agreed." The last word from the droneship had a

very human sound of resignation to it. Darnell had

been fooling with the Shemali metachips in his ships;

Fassa was now willing to bet on it

 

She still felt a vague unease about the operation, but

brushed it off. She was just brooding over the Sev

Bryley fiasco, that was all. No reason to suppose any-

thing like that would happen again — not with the

number of senators and bankers and inspectors Fassa

now had personally dedicated to her welfare. Fassa ac-

tivated the spacebase's comm link and called her

hand-picked loading crew to complete the transfer.

 

With drone-powered lifters and other automated

devices, loading the construction materials was a quick

job, calling for no more than three men, all of them

bound to Fassa by personal loyalty — and by the stock

which they had vested in Polo Construction, Those stock

options were an expense Fassa regretted, but it was

necessary to ensure the absolute silence ofher assistants.

Once again, while the men went about their business,

she cursed the underlying chauvinism of contractors

who insisted on building their lifters to the specifications

of a six-foot, muscular male body. There was no reason

the lifters couldn't be designed so that their controls were

within the reach and strength of a smallish woman; the

real muscle involved here came from the machines, not

from the men. But Fassa was too small to operate the

machines. When she calculated what this one feet was

costing her in stocks and bonuses to keep her loading

crews silent, she was tempted to start her own heavy

machinery factory, with lifters and forks and cranes all

built so that anybody could operate them at the touch of a

button.

 

Someday, she promised herself. When I have enough

money. When I feel strong enough... and secure enough...

when I am enough.

 

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PARTNERSHIP

 

159

 

Somehow she felt that such a day would never arrive.

 

But the twenty-five percent mark on transfer had ar-

rived ... and it was time to claim her credit slip. Fassa

motioned to die loading crew to stop. While they waited

in position, lifters frozen in mid-arc, she walked back into

the partially filled cargo bays of the droneship.

 

"Credit transfer," she rapped out "Now!"

 

"Regret that I do not have facilities to issue credit

slips in loading bay area," the droneship replied. "Re-

quest that del Parma unit transfer self to cabin area to

receive payment."

 

The inflections were almost human, but the

awkward wording was pure dronespeak. Smiling as

she waved her hand before the lift-door sensors, Fassa

reflected that she would have to recommend some bet-

ter linguists to Darnell.

 

The lift-door irised open and Fassa, wrapped in her

satisfied thoughts, took one step forward before she

took in the glitter of silver and corycium braid against

the deep-space black of a Courier Service uniform.

 

Startled, she flung herself backwards, but the

uniformed man grabbed her sleeve just before she was

out of reach. Fassa fell back onto the loading dock

floor, dragging her assailant with her. He landed

heavily on her midsection, knocking the breath out of

her. Where were the damned loading crew? Couldn't

they see something had gone wrong?

 

"Fassa del Parma — I arrest you — in the name of

Central Worlds — for embezzlement of SpaceBase —

construction and supplies," the bastard wheezed. Both

his hands were around her wrists now, pinning her to

the floor. Fassa gasped for breath, brought up a knee

into the brute's crotch, and wriggled free in one move-

ment. Her brain had never stopped working. So there

was a witness! Darnell had double-crossed her? All

right; dispose of the witness, that was the new prob-

lem, then she would deal with the rest

 

"Kill that man!" she screamed at the dumbstruck

idiots on her loading crew. She raced towards the

safety of the spacebase.

 

The droneship's loading doors slammed shut. How

had the bastard managed to transmit the command?

He should still be writhing in agony.

 

He was. But as Fassa looked, he rose to his knees.

"Under—arrest,** he panted.

 

"That's what you think," Fassa said with her

sweetest smile. What did this fool think, that she was

too weak and sentimental to kill a man face to face? He

was still on his knees, and she was standing, and the

needier in her left sleeve slid into the palm of her hand

with the cool solid feel of revenge. Time slowed and

the air shimmered about her. The Courier Service

brawn was lunging forward now, but he'd never reach

her in time. Fassa aimed the needier until she saw a

face neatly framed in the viewfinder. Who was he? It

didn't matter. He was a total stranger, he was Sev, he

was Senator Cenevix, he was Paul del Parma. All turn-

ing green around her, and her fingers almost too weak

to squeeze the needier; what was happening? Fassa

swayed on her feet, squeezed the needier handle and

saw an arc of darts ripping wildly through the thick

green clouds that surrounded them now. So dizzy ...

her eyes wouldn't stay open to track the darts to their

target... but she'd been too dose to miss. So close.,.

 

Fassa collapsed in the cloud of sleepgas with which

Nancia had, just too late, flooded the closed loading

bays. So did Caleb, going down just in front of Fassa

with his black and silver uniform all spoiled by blood.

 

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161

 

• CHAPTER TEN

 

"Don't gas the lift! Don't gas the lift!"

 

The shouted commands, coming from a dosed-off

area behind the fake walls, startled Nancia. She shifted

views rapidly, cursing the quick and dirty remodeling

job that had left large areas of her own interior cut off

from her visual sensors.

 

Sev Bryley, white-faced, appeared from behind one

of the puce-and-mauve pseudoboard walls. "I'll get

him out of the loading bay," he snapped without so

much as a glance towards Nancia's sensor unit. "You

can keep the sleepgas confined to that area?"

 

"Yes, but—"

 

"Don't have time for a mask." Bryley was in the lift

now, and Nancia could watch him on die agonizingly

slow passage down to the loading dock. His chest rose

and fell rapidly as he took the deep, rapid breaths of

clean air that would keep him going in the loading bay.

 

Nancia kept the lift door on three-quarter pressure,

just enough to let Bryley squeeze through the flexible

opening that shut behind him. At the same time she

flushed the loading bay with the ventilation system on

high power, replacing as much sleepgas as she could

with dean air.

 

Sev's back and shoulders bulged awkwardly half

through the lift door. Nancia released the flexible

membrane just long enough to let him drag Caleb

through into the lift. She kept the ventilation system

on high for the long seconds of the ride back. By the

time the lift was at cabin level, she could find no

measurable trace of sleepgas in the air. But Sev had

 

inhaled enough to make him slump against the wall,

too woozy to carry himself and Caleb farther.

 

"Antidote... ?"

 

"In the corridor," Nancia told him. "In the c&rridorF

She had no housekeeping servos within the lift itself.

Sev had to stagger forward, out of the lift, fetching up

against the freshly painted corridor wall with a thump.

At least it was one of Nancia's true walls; only a few

steps away from Sev was an opening from which the

servos could dispense stimulants and medical aids. Sev

took two gasping breaths of the dean air, reached into

the shallow dish presented by the opening in the wall,

grabbed a handful of ampules and crushed them

under his nose.

 

"More," he commanded.

 

"You've already exceeded  the recommended

 

dosage."

 

"1 need a dear head now" Sev growled.

 

Was there more blood on Caleb's uniform? Impossible

to tell what he'd been hit with, or how bad the damage

was. Nancia sent another set of stim ampules to the servo

tray. Sev broke these more cautiously, one at a time. After

the third deep breath of pungent stimulant, he dropped

the rest back in the tray. "Medical supplies!"

 

"What?"

 

"I'll tell you when I know." He was on his knees,

blocking Nancia's view as he peeled back the front of

Caleb's spoiled uniform. "Something to stop bleed-

ing ... there shouldn't be so much from a needier ...

ahh. The ..." he used a Vega slang term that was not

in any of Nancia's vocabulary hedra. "She loaded it

with anticoagulant. And . . . other things, I think.

Analyze?" He dropped a torn and bloody strip of doth

into the servo tray. Nancia transferred it to the medical

lab and replaced it with ampules of HyperClot which

Sev injected directly into Caleb's veins.

 

"That*s stopped the bleeding," he said finally, rising

 

162

 

Anne McCaffrey fcf Margaret Ball

 

PARTNERSHIP

 

163

 

to his feet. "But I'm not happy about his color. Does

that look like normal sleepgas pallor to you?"

 

"No." The one word was all Nancia could manage.

 

"Me neither. Can you analyze what else was in the

needier?"

 

"No. Organics of some sort, but it's too complex for

me." Concentrating on the technical problem helped

to steady her voice. "I haven't the facilities here. I am

contacting Murasaki Base for Net access to medtechs."

 

But Murasaki Base could suggest only that she

transport Caleb to the nearest planet-based clinic as

quickly as possible. If Fassa's needier had been loaded

with Ganglicide —

 

"It wasn't Ganglicide," Nancia said quickly. "He'd be

dead by now. Besides, no one would do such a thing."

 

"You might be surprised," said the infuriatingly

calm managing brain of Murasaki Base. "But I agree,

probably not Ganglicide. There are, however, slower-

acting nerve poisons which, untreated, can be just as

fetal. From what you report of his convulsive reaction,

I would suggest immediate medical treatment by

someone experienced with nerve poisons and their

antidotes."

 

"Thanks very much," Nancia snapped. Sev had

wrapped Caleb in all the blankets he could collect, but

nothing stopped Caleb's incessant nervous shivering.

And every once in a while his spine arched backward

while he cried out in delirium. "We came from Raz-

mak Base in Bellatrix subspace. You're not seriously

suggesting I take a man in this condition through Sin-

gularity, are you?"

 

"There happens to be an excellent clinic on Bahati,1*

the Murasaki Base brain replied. "If you were calm

enough to check the Net records I'm transmitting,

CN, you'd see that the assistant director there has a

strong background in nerve poison research. With

your permission, I will alert the Summerlands clinic to

 

receive an emergency patient for the direct care of Dr.

Alpha bint Hezra-Fong."

 

Time stopped. Snatches of conversation forgotten

for nearly four years echoed in Nancia's memory. An

 

gxbert in Gangliade therapy right there at the Summerlands

dime.. • testing Ganglicide on unwitting sitbjects ... so far

vane on BUssto they didn't even know what was happening to

 

them..-

 

She had the full conversations recorded and safely

stored away. She didn't need them. Her own human

memory was mercilessly replaying words she'd tried to

 

forget

Did she dare put Caleb in Alpha bint Hezra-Fong's

 

hands?

 

Did she dare not take him to the clinic?

 

There was really no choice.

 

They were only a few minutes from Bahati, but the

time seemed like hours to Nancia. She blessed the

multiprocessing capability that allowed her to perform

multiple tasks at once. While one bank of processors

controlled the landing computations, Nancia assigned

two more to maintaining the comm link with Murasaki

and opening a new link with Bahati. She reached the

director of Summerlands and explained her require-

ments while simultaneously assimilating Murasaki

Base's calm instructions.

 

The combination of Fassa's arrest and Caleb's

wounds presented a complex political problem. Nan-

cia was almost grateful for the complications; they

gave her something to think about during the endless

minutes before touchdown.

 

Courier Service policy strictly prohibited the

transport of prisoners on a brainship with no brawn.