The Sundering, page 3
At the docking ring, Beezan snagged an express belt and let it haul him around in nogee to the Drumheller berth. People were so scarce in that section that Beezan was doubly surprised to see someone at the lower lock. A young man, 19 maybe. Regular coat, not a ship jacket. He was tethered to the wall and floating with an old backpack. A carrier was open and he was cradling a podpup, both of them sound asleep. Oh no, thought Beezan. Someone wants a free ride on a cargo ship. Unusual, but not unheard of. How did he get through security? Unless? No. He couldn’t be at the wrong lock; the Drumheller was the only ship docked out here.
Well, I’ll have to turn him away. A survivalist mode had kicked in and Beezan just snuck past. Quietly opening the lock he started up the flexible tubeway. He pulled all the way to the Drumheller lock when he realized that the lower lock had not shut. Of course his lock wouldn’t open until the other was closed. Beezan hauled himself back down the curved tubeway until he could see what the problem was. It was the teenager, awake and braced in the lower lock so that it wouldn’t close. And waiting for Beezan to come back.
Beezan steadied himself with a strap and stopped, instinctively cautious when he saw the look on the teen’s face. Worried. Desperate and calculating. Exhausted. He was thin, and very tall, his almost-black eyes sunken. Dark, very curly hair, cut short and flat on top. Caramel skin, but blotchy and pale. This was the stress of weeks, not of the time since the newsbreak. If anybody ought to visit Counseling it was this person. Beezan checked the armband, expecting to see a red tie. But it was green. Beezan paused in confusion. Green was the leader band, the most mature, most reliable. That didn’t make sense.
“Please move out of the lock,” Beezan said.
The teen did not seem surprised by Beezan’s rudeness, but he did not reply in kind. “God is Most Glorious,” he said in a deep, quiet, almost tearful voice, raising his free hand to signal a request for consultation.
Beezan calmed himself. He’s just a teenager in shock after the drill and the Firelight news. Be a good example. “God is Most Glorious. Please move out of the lock.”
“Captain, please forgive my informality. I’m here to help you get your clearance, honor.”
“Clearance?” Beezan was completely taken aback. How could this kid know he needed crew? He’d only known himself for an hour.
“Did someone send you?” Beezan asked, confused.
“No, honor. I thought you would be in a hurry and could use me.”
“How did you know?”
He turned his hand over like a little shrug. “Lots of people know, Captain.”
“You’re too young. Besides, I can’t decide now.”
“Honor, I’m ship-raised. I’m trained. I can help.” He stopped in the face of Beezan’s obvious impatience.
“Please move out of the lock,” Beezan repeated. The teen did not move, but looked at the deck and steeled himself for whatever would come next. The podpup he was holding now squirmed in his arm so he held it closer. “Captain, please.”
“No,” said Beezan, surprised at how coldhearted he was being about this. He couldn’t just hire some stranger who showed up at his lock. It would be like picking a random person off the dock to become part of your family. But this teen was stubborn. He was not moving. “I’ll call security,” Beezan said finally, pulling out his s’link.
“No!” the teen squeaked in near panic, now ready to bolt. This person was in some kind of trouble.
“What are you running from?” demanded Beezan.
“I’m . . . honor, please give me a chance.”
“How do you expect me to even consider taking you on if you can’t be honest with me?”
The teen’s head sunk again. “Captain, I’m not unstable, I just need to go to Harbor. I want to see my . . .” he trailed off and swallowed.
Well, Beezan could understand that. In the panic of the situation, people would want to get home. Maybe he was cutting school. “I’m not going to Harbor,” Beezan said.
“You can drop me at Redrock, honor.” How does he know where I’m going? “Then you can go another year solo. It works out for both of us, honor.”
Calculating. Knows too much. Too many honors. However, there was a certain logic to it.
“No.” Beezan forced himself to use his good sense.
Silence. Tension. They stood. The teen was headstrong, but young and no match for a test of will against Beezan, who could drag ships across the stars. He looked down at his squirming pup, suddenly defeated. Then, in a shaky voice, trying to maintain some dignity, the teenager said, “Please. I’ll go away, honor.” A great burden of hopelessness overcame him, “but I can’t take care of her,” he said, indicating the podpup. God please, thought Beezan, now feeling like a mean person. The teen came up the tubeway, very good in nogee, letting the lock shut behind, and put the pup into Beezan’s instinctively raised arms. “She’s not young, and she needs someone to take care of her. I won’t . . . I won’t be able to now, honor.”
Her big, black, worried eyes looked up at Beezan, and then searched for a glimpse of her person. Not another one! Beezan protested, “You can’t leave her, she’s too old to rebond.”
“She’ll have to. She’s pregnant, so she’ll switch if she has to survive. She’s ship raised, Captain,” he said in a rush. The teen stopped to wipe a tear as he tried to control his voice. He swung back to the door and then brought up a carrier of stuff. “This is hers. And here,” he fished around in his pocket and brought out a box of med patch refills, which caused something else to fly out of his pocket. Beezan caught it reflexively, ignoring the proffered refills. The teen froze with one hand extended, looking between the refills and the caught object—a s’link—not a personal link, like everyone had, but a security / ship / station / suit link.
Interesting, thought Beezan, turning it in his hand. A level 3! Beezan had a level 2, just one level more powerful than the teen’s. That one object revealed a lot. Ship captains and station commanders usually had level 2, but otherwise, s’links were restricted and essential tools used by expert monitors, the people who ran ship and station operations. They were only issued by the government. It meant that the government trusted him. And level 3 was a high level of trust. Regardless, Beezan didn’t trust him. Then he had a sudden inspiration. He could test him first . . . and then, like he said, just to Redrock. One jump. Then he could go solo again for a year.
“Can you install a cargo mass tester?” Beezan asked. The teen backed off by the sudden turn of conversation. Now he was suspicious. “Part of it is in an unpressurized work area.”
“I’m qualified,” the teen said, taking back his s’link.
Beezan nodded, “My new unit’s just sitting there. You install it and I’ll pay you by taking you to Redrock.”
The teen nodded nervously, whispering “Yes, honor,” and stuck the refills back in his pocket.
Beezan pulled up the tubeway with the teen following. Inside the Drumheller, Beezan took him on the long haul to the Cargo Control Booth and left him with the mass tester and a box of tools. “Call me when you need to suit up.”
What Beezan didn’t tell him was that it couldn’t be installed correctly without the part that he was still waiting for. Would the teen be honest when he was so desperate? Beezan took the podpup and left him alone on a strange ship with false hope. As he headed back to the Command Bay he was troubled. If he was just being cautious, why did he feel like a monster? Because I’m not being honest, he scolded himself. Beezan said a little prayer for forgiveness and a big prayer for guidance.
* * *
Just keep working. Beezan synced his s’link when he got to the Command Bay and the list of approved crew popped up on the screen. Toazair must have set it to do that, he thought with annoyance. He glanced at it without much attention. If this teen’s plan worked, he wouldn’t need the list. He’d get the part tomorrow, catch up with the other jump ships, and be gone. He’d have the teen for 3-4 weeks, drop him at Redrock, and then be on his own again.
He watched on another screen as the teen unpacked the unit and worked on it in the Cargo Control Booth. It had been almost two hours. Beezan had yet another snack and fed a few sips of juice to the pup, now balled up in his lap. Her soft gray fur was sparse over her pregnant belly and she was showing signs of age. For her to be pregnant now was unusual, but podpups were their own bosses in this matter. Beezan picked her up and held her to his face. She whined. “If only you would talk, little one.”
Beezan thought back to the time he was a young boy, aboard the Drumheller, his grandfather the Captain. He was in charge of his first podpup, Lemm. Beezan had not wanted one. He had wanted a personal robot. Pups were used for various chores aboard ship, but no one denied their purpose was mainly companionship. Beezan thought a robot would be much more useful, and he argued with his grandfather that he would learn a lot more by repairing it and programming it. Captain Grandfather had insisted on the pup, and personally supervised Beezan’s training of it. When Beezan became overly impatient with his charge one day and yelled at him, swift correction had come from his grandfather, and later a long talk.
His grandfather had tried to explain why people held in high regard the training of a podpup rather than something more technically useful. Beezan remembered clearly, sitting in the kitchen, his grandfather holding the pup, his patient voice. “You must understand, Beezan, that pups are living beings. They have their innate characteristics and they are also shaped by their environments. They do not have factory personalities or programs. Programming with pups is real time. You can’t delete your mistakes and start over. You get out of a pup what you put into it. If you are patient and kind and take good care of your pup, you will be rewarded. Any child, cruel or impatient, could have a loyal and faithful friend of a robot.
“Your actions are important with a pup; there is a kind of justice. If you are cruel or thoughtless to a robot, what are the results? It might need servicing more often. What is the point of all this? If we become more automated we lose our compassion for living beings, because we do not see the results of our actions. When a robot runs down, you sell it and buy a new one. When your loyal pup runs down, you take care of it. Why is a pup’s life built short, compared to a person’s? So that a boy like you could have a pup and grow into a man who’s seen the life span of one in his care, or lack of care. Maybe this man will be better prepared to care for his young and untrained children or his aged parents, or grandparents, who need some help to fulfill their lives. Maybe this same man will make humane and compassionate decisions when he commands the lives of others, or wields power over others.
“The lesson of a robot is service through programming. The lesson of a pup is service through loyalty and trust. If you grow up with robots, you might feel that loyalty can be bought and that you automatically deserve it, and that service to God or your fellow men is a kind of programming or brainwashing. But if you grow up with a pup you might learn instead that service to another being is through love and loyalty and the sign of a civilized creature.”
Then his grandfather had put Lemm in Beezan’s hands. “Many pups will be loyal even if you don’t deserve it. That is sometimes in their nature. That’s why they are good for young people. I hope that by the time you are a man you will be deserving of the trust of many.”
Beezan hung his head in despair. He could not think straight. His instinct told him not to trust the teen, but some higher feeling urged him to trust, not in the teen, but in God. He could almost feel his grandfather’s disappointment in him. He would go back and talk to the kid, be honest with him, give him a chance. The pup, disturbed by Beezan, was now trying to get out of his lap. “Easy,” he soothed, realizing he hadn’t even bothered to learn her name.
He felt around her collar until he found her tag. “Sarcee,” it read. “Hi Sarcee,” Beezan greeted her finally. He flipped Sarcee’s tag over: Protected by Jarvie E.G. Atikameq, TTC Hamada, 1-910-693.
Beezan stared. He’d just seen that name . . . where? He glanced back to Toazair’s list. Yes, right there. Jarvie E.G. Atikameq, 19, Youth Leader. On a school break? Or a work opportunity? Beezan got the strange feeling that all this was meant to be and there was no escaping it. Sarcee was squirming and whining again. She didn’t want Beezan to hold her. “Come on then, Sarcee,” he said and let her hold on so she could ride on him back to the Cargo Control Booth.
* * *
He was a little out of breath from the long trip back when he opened the door to the Cargo Control Booth. The teen was floating there, just looking at the tester, frozen.
“It can’t be installed,” he said in an almost wooden voice. Then he suddenly turned, holding to the edge of the unit, his anger flaring. “You knew, didn’t you? You set me up!”
Beezan felt bad. The teen hadn’t tried to trick him after all. “I’m sorry. I came down to tell you.”
The teen shook his head in defeat. “Captain, you don’t understand. I’m risking my life to offer you a chance out of here. You’ve lost too many people. No one else will crew with you. Counseling considered pulling your license, but decided to give you a chance.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Beezan asked in disbelief. The kid shook his head and didn’t answer. The teen’s anger was ebbing and the podpup squirmed, so Beezan handed her back. He collapsed in, hugging her.
Was it possible that he had that bad a reputation? Was that why Toazair had sent him a special list?
“None of those deaths were my fault! I was cleared. Anything else you hear is rumor and nonsense.” A surge of rebelliousness took Beezan. “So, when the part arrives tomorrow, you can still install this thing. I’ll take you to Redrock as payment.” The teen nodded. Not happy, not grateful. “Just promise me one thing,” Beezan continued.
The teen looked up, worried.
“When we get there, you have to take her with you. I can’t have two podpups around.”
Now he looked relieved. Now Beezan wanted him to stay, if only to make up for his earlier bad treatment. The kid buried his head in Sarcee’s fur for a moment. He seemed much younger than 19. It’s been a terrible day, thought Beezan. Then the teen pulled himself together as if at attention. Beezan could almost see him offer a mental prayer. “Jarvie Elaine Gary Atikameq,” he stated formally, “Captain.”
“And Sarcee,” he added, indicating the pup, “honor.”
Beezan offered his own mental prayer for forgiveness and protection. “Beezan Jaleh Sonn Mirage.”
The solemnity of the moment was more than symbolic and weighed on Beezan. He had crew again.
4 MYSTERY CARGO
The door slid shut behind Jarvie as he floated down the stairwell into the cabin Beezan assigned him.
Safe.
Well, for now. He hung limp and exhausted, hungry, freezing, and scared. And, he had to admit to himself, ashamed from his day of deceit.
Too late to turn back. If Beezan was unreasonable, it was nothing more than Jarvie deserved. Pilots were supposed to be serene, detached, compassionate, and patient. Beezan wasn’t any of those. He had been agitated, moody, sneaky, and mean. He didn’t even appreciate how lucky he was to get someone for crew.
Sarcee wiggled out of her carrier to inspect the cold, empty cabin. The stairs that led down from the rimway spiraled around and landed by the facilities. Sarcee went right in the little podpup door to investigate. A glider rail ran along the wall below the railing—but Jarvie had seen no robots here to use it. They must be somewhere. No single person could run a ship without them.
The cabin was one room, with a workpanel, two adjustable chairs, closets, a bunk that was folded away, and a sleeping sack for nogee.
However empty, it was his own space, away from Beezan until morning, and for that, Jarvie was relieved. He unlatched and tugged open a squeaky drawer to put away the food packs Beezan had given him, except for one in his pocket. He stowed Sarcee’s things and his few personal items: two changes of clothes, skateshoes, prayer book, and his small box of treasures. He kept his s’link, p’link, and breather on him at all times, of course.
He fed Sarcee. She ate double now that she was pregnant, and double for a podpup was a lot of food. Tomorrow he would have to face Beezan again, and evade too many questions, and install that unit, and load cargo. And they would be in a hurry to catch up to the jump group. He should try to sleep. He just wanted to watch the news packets to see what happened with the drill. He opened his food pouch and tapped a pop-up screen on the workpanel.
Jarvie accessed the news through the Drumheller. With a mouthful of food unchewed, he stared at it in confusion. What was this “Sundering” they were talking about? Suddenly, everything dropped into place: why Beezan was so agitated, why he thought he’d heard crying on the dock. Beezan had just assumed Jarvie had already heard the news, but he’d turned off his p’link and s’link so he couldn’t be tracked.
Jarvie couldn’t even take it in. He had never been near Earth, but without Firelight, in Sector 5, the main resources for the outer sectors were cut off. Without Sector 4, there were no marginally habitable planets, without Sector 3, no robots, without Sector 2, no major ship repair. Without Sector 1, no Earth . . . no Central Authority, no more people, no more help. The outer sectors were doomed.
Jarvie had an overwhelming longing for his parents. He even considered going to Beezan, just to talk with someone, but it didn’t seem likely Beezan would accept him. So he hung in the sleeping sack watching, clutching Sarcee, until he fell into a troubled sleep.
* * *
17-Speech
On his first morning of duty aboard the Drumheller, Jarvie realized Beezan hadn’t given him a uniform. Embarrassed, he shyly called the Captain and asked where to find one.
Beezan was unconcerned. “It’s a cargo ship. Don’t worry about it. Whatever you have on is fine.”
“Yes, honor.” Jarvie looked down. He was in his long underwear.
