Alien Earth

“Well, we shall have to remedy that. I’ve made a study of Human literature, although John despises my abilities and infers that one must be Human to appreciate the Human creations. It is, of course, only his jealousy because I excel him. But as a Human, you should have some appreciation for the works of your race. I shall instruct you on our next trip.”

“Oh, really, I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself.” Connie demurred. There was a terrible sinking in her belly, the feeling that somehow she had just stepped out into a void. She didn’t want Tug trying to get close. It was easier not to have friends than to deal with the questions and misunderstandings that always arose among them. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she had become a Mariner, and the reason why she had slept so much this last trip? She couldn’t let Tug spoil her fresh start.

“I would be no trouble,” Tug began, but she dared to interrupt.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask it of you. Besides, you would soon find I had no aptitude for it at all. It was one of my lowest scores on the options test. I gave up trying to understand contemporary poetry or literature long ago.”

“We’ll see, shall we?” Tug suggested with such firmness that Connie grudgingly nodded. She was unsure as to how much authority the Arthroplana had over her. John was the captain, and theoretically the final authority over Humans on the ship. But Tug was the owner. Could he fire her? Could he report her as uncooperative, even maladjusted? The coldness squeezed up from the pit of her stomach. Don’t take a chance.

“Actually, it might be interesting to discuss Human creations with an Arthroplana. Perhaps a new viewpoint is what I need in order to enjoy them.”

“A delightful opinion! One that John, unfortunately, does not share. Which makes him most intractable about doing simple favors for me, when they involve Human literature, but perhaps you would be more helpful?”

This doesn’t sound good, Connie warned herself. Go carefully. “I’d like to be helpful,” Connie forced herself to say.

“Marvelous. It’s a simple favor, I assure you. I am in contact with certain collectors and enthusiasts on Delta Station. They have for me fresh copies of some very old Human literature. Copies which they say are remarkably intact and close to the originals; almost free of that annoying biotech drift that infects material stored too long on biodegradable media. And they’re offering it at quite reasonable prices. I can authorize your use of my station funds. It’s merely a matter of having you pick up the copies for me and bring them back to the ship.”

“Copies? From collectors?” Connie asked dubiously. Didn’t he realize what he was asking was unthinkable?

“Of course,” Tug assured her. “I told you it was a simple favor. All I need is for you to go and pick …”

“Couldn’t you just access from the public banks?”

Tug sounded disgruntled. “I suppose I could, on a very temporary basis. For whatever paltry number of hours we’re to be in port this time. A totally insufficient way to do research in depth.”

“But I thought Beastships were allowed to save from the public information banks onto the ship’s banks, because we’re away so long.” Connie didn’t just think this; she knew it. Every Beastship was allotted library space and privilege according to crew population.

“That? Our ship’s allotment was filled long ago. John’s reading habits and my needs for reference materials for my great work demand a vast amount of material. Unfortunately, having filled our legal allotment, neither John nor I can agree on what volumes can be dispensed with from our limited space to allow us to copy other material. And the Conservancy will allot us no additional space. It’s a very frustrating situation, especially as the Conservancy continues to delete books and information as they become Irrelevant or Outdated or Unnecessary. That’s by their standards, of course, not mine. As a scholar of your Humanities …”

“Information hoarding is no better than any other kind of hoarding,” Connie informed him, almost prudishly. The words came out automatically, like a conditioned response. My Readjustment? she wondered, but went on anyway. “Private collections of outdated information, especially fictional work, can have no benefit to our worlds, and only encourage consumer excesses, artificial values, and economic speculation, and …”

“Pish-tush, my dear. You forget to whom you’re speaking. As if I would ask for anything improper or disharmonious! Were we talking of ordinary Humans indulging in a mania for possession, I would concede your fundamental correctness. But we are speaking of myself, an Arthroplana. My life span lasts a multitude of yours, and my study of the Humanities will truly transcend time only if I have full access to the entire historical spectrum of Human creativity. I am sure the Conservancy would recognize my need were I to petition them. But until I have time to do so, I take my own small shortcuts. They needn’t concern you. Consider this: the material I bring aboard is then copied onto organic memory filament secreted by the Beast for precisely such a purpose, and the original medium is then biologically degraded with a thoroughness your technology can never hope of achieving. No one suffers, least of all the environment. I am surprised that I need tell you this. Another Arthroplana might actually be offended that you would even consider that one of our race might deliberately choose to do something that was not totally harmonious with the natural environment.” His tone had become progressively colder and more formal.

“I didn’t mean,” Connie began, flustered. She felt chilled, almost threatened by his words. She’d never been lectured by an Arthroplana, let alone scolded like a child with poor manners.

“You are, of course, quite young,” Tug conceded generously. “Even by Human standards, your experience is quite limited. So I forgive you, as is more divine than Human. This time. I don’t think I even need mention it to John.”

“Thank you,” she managed numbly, wondering if she weren’t missing half the conversation.

“Don’t mention it. It’s no trouble. Now, the information I need you to pick up for me should be available within an hour of our docking. Of course, I don’t need it quite that fast. My supplier will be waiting for your visit, and …”

The communication station beeped an alert. “Delta Station to Beastship Evangeline. Dock at Gate Ten for unloading, please.”

“Affirmed,” Connie replied, knowing it was only a formality. Tug would already have relayed the message to Evangeline, and she would already be responding even as Connie answered.

“We’ll talk of this again, later,” Tug said quickly, and surely it was only Connie’s nervousness that made his synthesized voice sound hurried and furtive. Tug switched intercoms abruptly. “Captain John Gen-93-Beta!” His voice rang out throughout all levels. “We’re docking. Your ship has come in!” The heartiness in his voice almost sounded real. “Best come chat with the docking crew while Evangeline and I perform the docking.”

Within his quarters deep inside Evangeline’s body, Tug hunkered into position. Tiny anterior hooks secured him in position within his host. He drew his shortened forelimbs carefully down a nerve trunk. When the ganglion bundle bulged, he darted in to lock minds with her again.

[Docking with Delta again.]

“Yes. Pay attention to the frequency emanations so you line up correctly.”

[I do. Evangeline will have Beast time?]

“Perhaps. Line up correctly.”

[I do. Evangeline would like a mating.]

A mating? Tug decided it wouldn’t fit into the schedule. He matched one of his modified nematocysts carefully to one of Evangeline’s nerve centers and expertly discharged it. So much for that impulse. He monitored her, felt her interest in mating fade as the inhibitor took effect. Docility returned to the Beastship.

[Docking with Delta Station. Tug will play a game with Evangeline?]

“Later. If Evangeline docks well, and does not complain about the unloading, then Tug will play a game. Pay attention to the frequency emanations and line up to match them. Then you will dock well.”

[Evangeline pays attention. Docking with Delta Station.]

2

IN COMPARISON TO the quiet of Evangeline’s gondola, the corridors of Delta Station swirled with life and its accompanying cacophony of noise. John felt all the symptoms of sensory overload syndrome: the headache, the vague nausea, the lassitude of permanent gravity. None of them were enough to completely distract his mind from his most gnawing discomfort: Norwich had expressed polite disinterest in renegotiating their contract. John clenched his teeth and resolutely jerked his mind away from considering it. He had business to conduct, and he’d better be alert about it. He nodded agreement to whatever pleasantry the garrulous little representative from Earth Affirmed was mouthing as John followed him through Delta’s corridors. It irked John that no one else had expressed any interest in hiring them.

Time was when he and Evangeline would have had a dozen offers before he’d even docked. But they’d worked steady runs for Norwich so long now that no one even considered them anymore. He’d posted Evangeline’s availability on the listings screen, but didn’t hope for much from that. Every captain knew that the only decent jobs were the ones that came looking for a specific ship and captain, and they’d been off the open market too long. He’d already had a couple of calls from other captains, wanting to know how he and Norwich had fallen out. Well, he was damned if he knew, he reflected bitterly. The only other call had been from Earth Affirmed, reiterating their interest and setting up this meeting.

“… disorientation and sensory overload when you first come back into a station?”

“Usually,” John replied shortly, guessing at the man’s question. “It’s a hazard of the profession. One learns to live with it.”

Deckenson insisted on talking to him as they walked. John wished he wouldn’t. He was only hearing about one third of what Earth Affirmed’s man was saying, and couldn’t keep his mind on that much. The sights and sounds of Human activity in the station corridors were overwhelming after the years aboard Evangeline. That those years had passed as a matter of months for John didn’t diminish the effect, but intensified it. How could so much have changed so greatly in what felt like such a short time to him?

The wide white corridors of Delta Station swarmed with people of all ages, dressed in every imaginable garment. The brightness diffusing from the high-domed ceilings made it eternally a summer morning. A light wind stirred the plantings and people’s garments, carrying with it a scent of flowers and only a trace of machine oil from the fans that generated it. The utilitarian corridors he remembered had blossomed into something more reminiscent of a botanical garden. Even the people looked cultivated for their diversity. Riotous colors and swirling fabrics of every sort had replaced the sedate white togas and brown leggings that had been in favor when he left. Even stranger was the population change. A Rabby had been a rare sight when last he’d been here. Now they made up about one quarter of the population, and at almost every corner there were discreet jets where they could recharge their breathing tanks. The Arthroplana had recently and somewhat grudgingly granted Humans the privilege of having unsupervised contact with selected Rabby individuals on a face-to-face basis. The grant had been accompanied by many dour warnings that Humans were as yet still too disharmonious in nature to be granted general access to the Rabby race as a whole. From the few Rabby John had ever communicated with, he wondered why anyone would want to talk to any of them, unsupervised and face-to-face or any other way. They were boring as hell. Yet the fact that the Arthroplana had the power to restrict Humanity’s access to the other sentient species still galled him. It all came back to the Arthroplana’s monopoly on interplanetary travel. Didn’t everything? he reminded himself sourly.

The population diversity wasn’t the only change in the corridors. Decorative art seemed to be enjoying a renaissance. The austerity of slag sculptures had given way to living embellishments. John could remember when the export of live plants to any of the dirty-tech stations, for other than edible use, had been a grave offense. He could still remember his very first trip to one of the tank rooms, his small hands secured in front of him lest he yield to any disruptive unadjusted impulses. He’d hated the plants then, because he’d believed they could never be his, could never be touched by him. So often they’d told him he could never be allowed around any living thing except another Human.

Now vinery draped doorways and blossoms dangled from sculptures. Fountains spattered and danced in enfoliated basins at every intersection. Music was playing, at an audio level that was so low he was barely sure he could hear it, yet it was annoyingly pervasive. Last time he’d been in port, public music had been illegal in the corridors. Noise pollution, they’d called it. All music had been confined to private residences and offices, so that those who didn’t enjoy it didn’t have to be annoyed by it. John turned to ask Deckenson about it, only to realize the man was a dozen steps ahead of him, still blithely chattering. Spotting him and catching up to him were not problems; John was taller than anyone he’d seen in the satellite corridors.

“Oh, there you are!” Deckenson exclaimed with asperity as John loomed up beside him. He reached up and took a firm grip on the right cuff of John’s orange flight suit. “Don’t wander off again. I’m trying to explain our position to you, and why this must be handled so delicately.”

The small man’s grip on his cuff annoyed John, but he didn’t shake it off. Part of why Mariner was his first option was because he could adapt to new customs, even within his own species. And this casual physical familiarity seemed to be the current custom. Everywhere, people clung to one another as they hurried down the corridors. Trios and quartets, all gripping hands or clothing as they bustled along, were not uncommon. Huddles of people cuddled on benches as they talked. So he tolerated Deckenson’s grip and tried not to put any emotional tags on it. Male/male bonding had also been unpopular last time he was here, but that, too, seemed to have changed. Or perhaps it was only that every time John docked somewhere, it seemed that the prepubes looked more asexual. He knew Deckenson was a male only because his secretary had referred to him as “him” when John had been waiting to see him.

He looked down on his escort as Deckenson hustled him along. At least the smaller man was trotting; John’s longer legs matched his stride effortlessly. Deckenson’s hair was long and pale and flounced with every step he took. Looking down on it made John feel like a giant in contrast to Deckenson’s fine-boned stature. He lifted a hand to his own scalp and ruffled up the scant growth of dark hair on it. Shaving the scalp and treating the follicles with inhibitor was a standard procedure before entering Waitsleep. His hair was as long as it ever got, and would soon be stripped back to bare scalp again; that is, if his negotiations with Deckenson went well, and he contracted a mission for the Evangeline.

For the hundredth time, he wished Norwich had renewed their shipping contract. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what had gone wrong. “Sorry. Our company no longer has any need for your services. We’ll be happy to supply you with an excellent reference.” John hadn’t even got past their outer offices. And that was it. No explanations. The only thing he could come up with was that someone had undercut his price. But no other Beastship in port had the vast cargo capacity that Evangeline had. She was practically the only “lifeboat” left unmodified since evacuation days. He couldn’t figure it out, and it was keeping him from concentrating on his dealings with Earth Affirmed.

Not that he especially wanted to concentrate on them. Earth Affirmed had a reputation among Beastship captains, and it wasn’t good. In a word, they were crackpots. Always stepping on the Conservancy’s toes, always pushing to the limits of the law. Fines, warnings, and cargo seizures seemed to follow in the wake of any deals with them. Earth Affirmed itself had too much funding to feel much of the Conservancy’s displeasure. So when their high-handed ways needled the Conservancy badly enough, the Conservancy’s wrath usually fell on Earth Affirmed’s minions. Like their ship captains. Years ago, Chester on the Beastship N’raltha had taken the scorching for bringing Rabby imports into Beta Station. The Conservancy had ruled them environmentally dangerous, and the captain, ultimately responsible for his ship’s conduct, had undergone complete Readjustment and two years of intensive environmental respect classes. Nowadays, the same raw materials routinely came into the dirty-tech stations for processing, under the supervision and taxation of the Conservancy. John idly wondered what Chester was doing now; whatever it was, it wouldn’t have anything to do with marinering.

John tried to sigh away the uneasiness the thought gave him. He wished he could just get a contract and be out of here. Too many rules in the stations, and if John was going to bend any of them, he was going to do it for his own benefit, not for some big corporation that would leave him to take the heat if things went bad. He didn’t need that kind of complications in his life. He didn’t need any complications in his life.

In fact, the older he got, the less time he liked to spend in port. The light and bustle of the corridor was already making him think longingly of the privacy of the Waitsleep womb and the quiet of Evangeline’s crew quarters. He still had his pickup of Ginger’s wares and his rendezvous with Andrew to look forward to. Even those errands carried some nerve-wracking risks of their own. About the only thing he was actually looking forward to was a visit to a semiscrupulous dealer for a rather esoteric poetry recording that he intended especially for Tug’s edification. He grinned at the thought, and found Deckenson was smiling back up at him, in mistaken interpretation of John’s expression.