Alien Earth. Megan Lindholm
or well-known voices, but she didn’t recognize most of them. And his use of antique idiom seemed expressly for the purpose of irritating John. This, at least, was an expression she recognized.
“I wasn’t really thinking, Tug. Just staring I guess, and daydreaming.”
“Already making shore plans?”
“Not really,” she replied, and realized suddenly this was true. Her plans consisted mostly of what she wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t look up old friends; she wouldn’t go to places she had once frequented; she wasn’t even going to check in at the Mariners’ Hall to see who else was in port. So what was she going to do? Just drift through the corridors, she supposed. See what was new in portable entertainment. Maybe get a massage, just for the body contact. She toyed with the idea of sex, but easily dismissed it. Masturbation sufficed. She didn’t even need that as often as they had taught her was healthy. But a massage would feel good, Human hands against her skin, manipulating her muscles. It had been part of her therapy during Readjustment; the only part she had enjoyed, and the only part of her shore-side regimen she was still faithful to. But none of this was anything to share with Tug. Arthroplanas were generally disinterested in the personal aspect of Humans’ lives, and even if Tug were interested, she wasn’t ready for the owner of the Evangeline to know that much about her.
“You are silent, again.” Tug made it sound like a rebuke.
“Just keeping an eye on our approach.” She tried to sound professional.
“Evangeline is doing that as she always does. Despite John’s command, you need not be concerned about it. He was merely being, as I commented before, a prick.”
Connie wiped sweaty hands down her uniform trousers. To have something to do, she switched the image on her screen. Now instead of Delta Station, she saw Evangeline. She had heard it said that no two Beastships were alike; looking at Evangeline, she could believe it. It wasn’t just that each Beast was the product of its diet. It seemed to Connie that some sort of intent entered into it. Trotter, the first ship she had ever crewed on, had been spiky and forbidding. Trotter had looked like some sinister weapon set adrift in space. His constantly rippling spikes had always looked threatening to her. But Evangeline was all crystal delicacy and airy beauty. Connie compared the graceful swaying of her trailing spinnerets to the blocky functionality of Delta Station. There were myths that some Beastships actually used those long filaments as some sort of weaving device to extrude fine threads that became nets or webs, and that the Beasts laid their eggs on those nets and set them adrift to snare mineral food for their hatching offspring.
Connie considered it all a pretty fancy. No one had any idea how the Beastships reproduced, or could even prove that they did. Still, to look at Evangeline made one wish that there could be others with her airy grace.
“Oh, she doth teach the beacons to shine bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich gem upon a black-skinned ear. Beauty too rich for use, for Humans too dear …”
Tug paused, waiting.
It took Connie a moment to realize Tug was quoting something at her. Probably old Earth poetry. John had mentioned something about Tug being interested in the Humanities. She shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t recognize it. The ancient literatures are John’s interest, not mine. I don’t even know if you’ve got it right.”
“It’s by a Human called William Shakespeare. And I’ve got it right, although John would disagree and fume and fret. He loses sight of the need for poetry to be contemporized in order for it to retain its beauty and its sense. Who is your favorite poet?”
“I don’t think I have one.” Connie kept her eyes on the gentle wafting of Evangeline’s draperies and lines.
“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,