Nebula Awards Showcase 2006 (39 page)

Such a human invasion left Helva mentally breathless, a luxury she thoroughly enjoyed for the brief time she felt she should permit it. She sorted out the young men. Tanner’s opportunism amused but did not specifically attract her; the blond Nordsen seemed too simple; dark-haired Al-atpay had a kind of obstinacy with which she felt no compassion: Mir-Ahnin’s bitterness hinted an inner darkness she did not wish to lighten although he made the biggest outward play for her attention. Hers was a curious courtship—this would be only the first of several marriages for her, for brawns retired after 75 years of service, or earlier if they were unlucky. Brains, their bodies safe from any deterioration, served 200 years, and were then permitted to decide for themselves if they wished to continue. Helva had actually spoken to one shell person three hundred and twenty-two years old. She had been so awed by the contact she hadn’t presumed to ask the personal questions she had wanted to.

Her choice did not stand out from the others until Tanner started to sing a scout ditty, recounting the misadventures of the bold, dense, painfully inept Billy Brawn. An attempt at harmony resulted in cacophony and Tanner wagged his arms wildly for silence.

“What we need is a roaring good lead tenor. Jennan, besides palming aces, what do you sing?”

“Sharp,” Jennan replied with easy good humor.

“If a tenor is absolutely necessary, I’ll attempt it,” Helva volunteered.

“My good
woman,
” Tanner protested.

“Sound your ‘A,’ ” laughed Jennan.

Into the stunned silence that followed the rich, clear, high “A,” Jennan remarked quietly, “Such an A, Caruso would have given the rest of his notes to sing.”

It did not take them long to discover her full range.

“All Tanner asked for was one roaring good lead tenor,” Jennan complained jokingly, “and our sweet mistress supplies us an entire repertory company. The boy who gets this ship will go far, far, far.”

“To the Horsehead Nebulae?” asked Nordsen, quoting an old Central saw.

“To the Horsehead Nebulae and back, we shall make beautiful music,” countered Helva, chuckling.

“Together,” Jennan amended. “Only you’d better make the music and with my voice, I’d better listen.”

“I rather imagined it would be I who listened,” suggested Helva.

Jennan executed a stately bow with an intricate flourish of his crush-brimmed hat. He directed his bow toward the central control pillar where Helva
was
. Her own personal preference crystallized at that precise moment and for that particular reason: Jennan, alone of the men, had addressed his remarks directly at her physical presence, regardless of the fact that he knew she could pick up his image wherever he was in the ship and regardless of the fact that her body was behind massive metal walls. Throughout their partnership, Jennan never failed to turn his head in her direction no matter where he was in relation to her. In response to this personalization, Helva at that moment and from then on always spoke to Jennan only through her central mike, even though that was not always the most efficient method.

Helva didn’t know that she fell in love with Jennan that evening. As she had never been exposed to love or affection, only the drier cousins, respect and admiration, she could scarcely have recognized her reaction to the warmth of his personality and consideration. As a shell-person, she considered herself remote from emotions largely connected with physical desires.

“Well, Helva, it’s been swell meeting you,” said Tanner suddenly, as she and Jennan were arguing about the Baroque quality of “Come All Ye Sons of Art.” “See you in space some time, you lucky dog, Jennan. Thanks for the party, Helva.”

“You don’t have to go so soon?” pleaded Helva, realizing belatedly that she and Jennan had been excluding the others.

“Best man won,” Tanner said, wryly. “Guess I’d better go get a tape on love ditties. May need ’em for the next ship, if there’re any more at home like you.”

Helva and Jennan watched them leave, both a little confused.

“Perhaps Tanner’s jumping to conclusions?” Jennan asked.

Helva regarded him as he slouched against the console, facing her shell directly. His arms were crossed on his chest and the glass he held had been empty for some time. He was handsome, they all were; but his watchful eyes were unwary, his mouth assumed a smile easily, his voice (to which Helva was particularly drawn) was resonant, deep and without unpleasant overtones or accent.

“Sleep on it, Helva. Call me in the morning if it’s your op.”

She called him at breakfast, after she had checked her choice through Central. Jennan moved his things aboard, received their joint commission, had his personality and experience file locked into her reviewer, gave her the co-ordinates of their first mission and the XH- 834 officially became the JH-834.

Their first mission was a dull but necessary crash priority (Medical got Helva), rushing a vaccine to a distant system plagued with a virulent spore disease. They had only to get to Spica as fast as possible.

After the initial, thrilling forward surge of her maximum speed, Helva realized her muscles were to be given less of a workout than her brawn on this tedious mission. But they did have plenty of time for exploring each other’s personalities. Jennan, of course, knew what Helva was capable of as a ship and partner, just as she knew what she could expect from him. But these were only facts and Helva looked forward eagerly to learning that human side of her partner which could not be reduced to a series of symbols. Nor could the give and take of two personalities be learned from a book. It has to be experienced.

“My father was a scout, too, or is that programed?” began Jennan their third day out.

“Naturally.”

“Unfair, you know. You’ve got all my family history and I don’t know one blamed thing about yours.”

“I’ve never known either,” Helva confided. “Until I read yours, it hadn’t occurred to me I must have one, too, some place in Central’s files.”

Jennan snorted. “Shell psychology!”

Helva laughed. “Yes, and I’m even programed against curiosity about it. You’d better be, too.”

Jennan ordered a drink, slouched into the gravity couch opposite her, put his feet on the bumpers, turning himself idly from side to side on the gimbals.

“Helva—a made-up name . . .”

“With a Scandinavian sound.”

“You aren’t blond,” Jennan said positively.

“Well, then, there’re dark Swedes.”

“And blond Turks and this one’s harem is limited to one.”

“Your woman in purdah, yes, but you can comb the pleasure houses—” Helva found herself aghast at the edge to her carefully trained voice.

“You know,” Jennan interrupted her, deep in some thought of his own, “my father gave me the impression he was a lot more married to his ship, the Silvia, than to my mother. I know I used to think Silvia was my grandmother. She was a low number so she must have been a great-great-grandmother at least. I used to talk to her for hours.”

“Her registry?” asked Helva, unwitting of the jealousy for everyone and anyone who had shared his hours.

“422. I think she’s TS now. I ran into Tom Burgess once.”

Jennan’s father had died of a planetary disease, the vaccine for which his ship had used up in curing the local citizens.

“Tom said he’d got mighty tough and salty. You lose your sweetness and I’ll come back and haunt you, girl,” Jennan threatened.

Helva laughed. He startled her by stamping up to the control panel, touching it with light, tender fingers.

“I
wonder
what you look like,” he said softly, wistfully.

Helva had been briefed about this natural curiosity of scouts. She didn’t know anything about herself and neither of them ever would or could.

“Pick any form, shape and shade and I’ll be yours obliging,” she countered as training suggested.

“Iron Maiden, I fancy blondes with long tresses,” and Jennan pantomined Lady Godiva-like tresses. “Since you’re immolated in titanium, I’ll call you Brunehilda, my dear,” and he made his bow.

With a chortle, Helva launched into the appropriate aria just as Spica made contact.

“What’n’ell’s that yelling about? Who are you? And unless you’re Central Worlds Medical go away. We’ve got a plague with no visiting privileges.”

“My ship is singing, we’re the JH-834 of Worlds and we’ve got your vaccine. What are our landing co-ordinates?”

“Your
ship
is singing?”

“The greatest S.A.T.B. in organized space. Any request?”

The JH-834 delivered the vaccine but no more arias and received immediate orders to proceed to Leviticus IV. By the time they got there, Jennan found a reputation awaiting him and was forced to defend the 834’s virgin honor.

“I’ll stop singing,” murmured Helva contritely as she ordered up poultices for this third black eye in a week.

“You will not,” Jennan said through gritted teeth. “If I have to black eyes from here to the Horsehead to keep the snicker out of the title, we’ll be the ship who sings.”

After the “ship who sings” tangled with a minor but vicious narcotic ring in the Lesser Magallenics, the title became definitely respectful. Central was aware of each episode and punched out a “special interest” key on JH-834’s file. A first-rate team was shaking down well.

Jennan and Helva considered themselves a first-rate team, too, after their tidy arrest.

“Of all the vices in the universe, I
hate
drug addiction,” Jennan remarked as they headed back to Central Base. “People can go to hell quick enough without that kind of help.”

“Is that why you volunteered for Scout Service? To redirect traffic?”

“I’ll bet my official answer’s on your review.”

“In far too flowery wording. ‘Carrying on the traditions of my family which has been proud of four generations in Service’ if I may quote you your own words.”

Jennan groaned. “I was
very
young when I wrote that and I certainly hadn’t been through Final Training and once I was in Final Training, my pride wouldn’t let me fail. . . .

“As I mentioned, I used to visit Dad on board the Silvia and I’ve a very good idea she might have had her eye on me as a replacement for my father because I had had massive doses of scout-oriented propaganda. It took. From the time I was seven, I was going to be a scout or else.” He shrugged as if deprecating a youthful determination that had taken a great deal of mature application to bring to fruition.

“Ah, so? Scout Sahir Silan on the JS-422 penetrating into the Horsehead Nebulae?”

Jennan chose to ignore her sarcasm. “With
you,
I may even get that far but even with Silvia’s nudging
I
never day-dreamed myself
that
kind of glory in my wildest flights of fancy. I’ll leave the whoppers to your agile brain henceforth. I have in mind a smaller contribution to Space History.”

“So modest?”

“No. Practical. We also serve, et cetera.” He placed a dramatic hand on his heart.

“Glory hound!” scoffed Helva.

“Look who’s talking, my Nebulae-bound friend. At least I’m not greedy. There’ll only be one hero like my dad at Parsaea, but I
would
like to be remembered for some kudo. Everyone does. Why else do or die?”

“Your father died on his way back from Parsaea, if I may point out a few cogent facts. So he could never have known he was a hero for damming the flood with his ship. Which kept Parsaean colony from being abandoned. Which gave them a chance to discover the anti-paralytic qualities of Parsaea. Which
he
never knew.”

“
I
know,” said Jennan softly.

Helva was immediately sorry for the tone of her rebuttal. She knew very well how deep Jennan’s attachment to his father had been. On his review a note was made that he had rationalized his father’s loss with the unexpected and welcome outcome of the Affair at Parsaea.

“Facts are not human, Helva. My father was and so am I. And
basically,
so are you. Check over your dial, 834. Amid all the wires attached to you is a heart, an underdeveloped human heart. Obviously!”

“I apologize, Jennan,” she said contritely.

Jennan hesitated a moment, threw out his hands in acceptance and then tapped her shell affectionately.

“If they ever take us off the milkruns, we’ll make a stab at the Nebulae, huh?”