“No contact, just leave it—”
Killeen’s ears screamed the horrible sound of circuit ringing—a long high oscillating twang as a load of electrical energy bled off into space, acting as an involuntary antenna as raw power surged through it.
“Gianini! Gianini! Answer!”
Nothing. The ringing wail steepled down into low frequencies, an ebbing, mournful song—and was gone.
“Cermo! Suit trace!”
—Getting nothing.—Cermo’s voice was firm and even and had the feel of being held that way no matter what.
“Damn—the mainmind.”
—Figure it was on a trigger mine?—
“Must’ve.”
—Still nothing.—
“Damn!”
—Maybe the burst just knocked out her comm.—
“Let’s hope. Send the backup.”
Cermo ordered a crewman out to recon the mech vehicle. But the man found Gianini floating away from the wrecked
craft, her systems blown, her body already cold and stiff in the unforgiving vacuum.
THREE
Killeen walked stiffly down the ceramo-corridors of the Argo, his face as unyielding as the walls. The operation against the mech was a success, in the sense that a plausible threat to the ship was removed. They had detonated the charge Gianini had left behind on the mech, and it had blown the vehicle into a dozen pieces.
But in fact it had been no true danger, and Killeen had lost a crewwoman discovering that fact.
As he replayed their conversation in his mind he was sure he could have said or done nothing more, but the result was the same—a second’s carelessness, some pointless close approach to the mainmind of the vehicle, had fried Gianini. And had lessened Family Bishop that much more, by one irreplaceable individual.
Numbering fewer than two hundred, they were perilously close to the minimum range of genotypes which a colony needed. Any fewer, and future generations would spiral downward, weighed by genetic deficiencies.
This much Killeen knew, without understanding even a smattering of the underlying science. Argo’s computers held what they called “DNA database operations.” There was a lab for biowork. But Family Bishop had no Aspects who knew how to prune genes. Basic bioengineering was of marginal use. He had no time and even less inclination to make more of such issues.
But Gianini, lost Gianini—he could not so brusquely dismiss her memory by seeing her as simply a valuable carrier of genetic information. She had been vibrant, hardworking, able—and now she was nothing. She had been chipstored a year ago, so her abilities survived as a spectral legacy. But her ghostly Aspect might not be revived for centuries.
Killeen would not forget her. He could not.
As he marched stiffly to his daily rounds—delayed by the assault—he forced the somber thoughts away from him. There was time for that later.
You are acting wisely. A commander can feel remorse and can question his own orders—but he should never be seen to be doing that by his crew.
Killeen gritted his teeth. A sour bile settled in his mouth and would not go away.
His Ling Aspect was a good guide in all this, but he still disliked the calm, sure way the ancient Cap’n laid out the precepts of leadership. The world was more complex, more darkly crosscurrented, than Ling ever allowed.
You assume too much. I knew all the tides that sweep you, when I was clothed in flesh. But they are often hindrances, not helps.
“I’ll keep my ‘hindrances,’ little Aspect!”
Killeen pushed Ling away. He had a role to fulfill now and the small chorus of microminds that he felt calling to him could be of no help. He had followed Ling’s advice and decided to continue with the regular ship’s day, despite the drama of the assault. Returning to ordinary routine, as though such events were within the normal course of a ship’s life, would help settle the crew.
So he had told Cermo to carry on as planned. Only now did he realize what that implied.
Killeen rounded a corner and walked toward the open bay where the crew of the morning’s watch waited. Halfway there Cermo greeted him with, “Punishment hour, sir?”
Killeen stopped himself from clenching his jaws and nodded, recalling the offense from yesterday.
Cermo had caught a crewwoman in the engine module. Without conferring with his Cap’n, Cermo had hauled her—a stringy, black-haired woman named Radanan—unceremoniously out into the lifezone, barking out his relish at the catch. The deed was publicly exposed before Killeen had a chance to find other means to deal with it. He had been forced to support his officer in the name of discipline; his Ling Aspect had drilled that principle into him.
“Yeasay. Proceed.”
“Could give her more, y’know.”
“I said proceed.”
He had firmly resolved to speak as little as possible to his officers during ordinary ship operations. He was like a drinker who could not trust himself to stick to moderate amounts. In Family meetings he gave himself a little leeway, though. There, eloquence and even outright oration served his ends. He knew he was not very good at talk, and the briefer he was the more effect it had. As Argo had approached this star system he had gotten more and more terse. There were days when most of the crew heard him say only a short “ah-mmm” as he pointedly cleared his throat at some demonstrated inadequacy.
As they made their way to the central axis Killeen set his face like stone. He was ashamed of his aversion to watching punishment. He knew that to punish a crewmember was a sign of his own failure. He should have caught the slide in behavior before it got this far. But once the event had occurred there was no turning back.
In this case, Radanan had been trying to sneak into the thrumming dangers of the engine zone as they decelerated. This alone would have been a mild though flagrantly stupid transgression. But when Cermo caught her she had bristled, bitterly angry, and had called on some friends nearby, trying to provoke a minor mutiny.
A wise Captain hands out rougher justice than this.
