Ship Who Searched Read online

  It had been easier with Moira there. But if the transfer had been a journey through sensory-deprivation hell, waking up in the ship had been pure heaven.

  No amount of simulator training conveyed what it really felt like, to have a living, breathing ship wrapped around you.

  It was a moment that had given her back everything she had lost. Never mind that her “skin” was duralloy metal, her “legs” were engines, her “arms” the servos she used to maintain herself inside and out. That her “lungs” and “heart” were the life-support systems that would keep her brawn alive. That all of her senses were ship’s sensors linked through brainstem relays. None of that mattered. She had a body again! That was a moment of ecstasy no one plugged into a shell at birth would ever understand. Moira did, though . . . and it had been wonderful to be able to share that moment of elation.

  And Tomas understood, as only a brawn-partner of long-standing could. Tomas had arranged for Theodore Edward Bear to have his own little case built into the wall of the central cabin as his graduation present. “And decom anyone who doesn’t understand,” he said firmly, putting a newly cleaned Ted behind his plexi panel and closing the door. “A brawn is only a brawn, but a bear is a friend for life!”

  So now the solemn little blue bear in his Courier Service shirt reigned as silent supervisor over the central cabin, and to perdition with whatever the brawns made of him. Well, let them think it was some kind of odd holo-art. Speaking of which, the next set of brawn-candidates was due shortly. We’ll see how they react to Ted.

  Tia returned to her papers, keeping a running statistical analysis and cross-tabulations on anything that seemed interesting. And there were things that seemed to be showing up, actually. Pockets of mineral depletions in the area around the EsKay sites; an astonishing similarity in the periodicity and seasonality of the planets and planetoids. Insofar as a Mars-type world could have seasons, that is. But the periodicity—identical to within an hour. Interesting. Had they been that dependent on natural sunlight? Come to think of it—yes, solar distances were very similar. And they were all Sol-type stars.

  She turned her attention to her parents’ latest papers, letting the EsKay discoveries stew in the back of her mind. Pota and Braddon were the Schliemanns of modern archeology, but it wasn’t the EsKays that brought them fame, at least, not directly. After Tia’s illness, they couldn’t bring themselves to return to their old dig, or even the EsKay project—and for once, the Institute committees acted like something other than AIs with chips instead of hearts. Pota and Braddon were reassigned to a normal atmosphere water-world of high volcanic activity and thousands of tiny islands with a good population of nomadic sentients, something as utterly unlike the EsKay planets as possible. And it had been there that they made their discovery. Tracing the legends of the natives, of a king who first defied the gods and then challenged them, they replicated Schliemann’s famous discovery of ancient Troy, uncovering an entire city buried by a volcanic eruption. Perfectly preserved for all time. For this world and these people, it was the equivalent of an Atlantis and Pompeii combined, for the city was of Bronze Age technology while the latter-day sentients were still struggling along with flint, obsidian, and shell, living in villages of no more than two hundred. While the natives of the present day were amphibious, leaning towards the aquatic side, these ancients were almost entirely creatures of dry land. . . .

  The discovery made Pota and Braddon’s reputation; there was more than enough there to keep fifty archeologists busy for a hundred years. Ta’hianna became their life-project, and they rarely left the site anymore. They even established a permanent residence aboard a kind of glorified houseboat.

  Tia enjoyed reading their papers—and the private speculations they had brought her, with some findings that weren’t in the papers yet—but the Ta’hianna project simply didn’t give her the thrill of mystery that the EsKays did.

  And—there was one other thing. Years of analyzing every little nuance of those dreadful weeks had made her decide that what had happened to her could just as easily happen to some other unwitting archeologist. Or even—another child.

  Only finding the homeworld of the EsKays would give the Institute and Central World’s Medical the information they needed to prevent another tragedy like Tia’s.

  If Tia had anything at all to say about it, that would never happen again. The next person infected might not be so lucky. The next person, if an adult, or even a child unfortunate enough to be less flexible and less intelligent than she had been, would likely have no choice but to spend the remainder of a fairly miserable life in a Moto-Chair and a room. . . .

  “XH One-Oh-Three-Three, your next set of brawn-candidates is ready,” CenCom said, interrupting her brooding thoughts. “You are going to pick one of these, aren’t you?” the operator added wearily.

  “I don’t know yet,” she replied, levelly. “I haven’t interviewed them.” She had rejected the first set of six entirely. CenCom obviously thought she was being a prima donna. She simply thought she was being appropriately careful. After all, since she was officially assigned to A and E with special assignment to the Institute, she had gotten precisely what she expected—a ship without Singularity Drive. Those were top-of-the-line, expensive, and not the sort of thing that the Institute could afford to hire. So, like Moira, she would be spending a lot of time in transit. Unlike Moira, she did not intend to find herself bouncing brawns so often that her buy-out had doubled because of the fines.

  Spending a lot of time in transit meant a lot of time with only her brawn for company. She wanted someone who was bright, first of all. At least as bright as Tomas and Charlie. She wanted someone who would be willing to add her little crusade to the standard agenda and give it equal weight with what they had officially been assigned. She rather thought she would like to have a male, although she hadn’t rejected any of the brawns just because they were female.

  Most of all, she wanted someone who would like her; someone who would be a real partner in every sense. Someone who would willingly spend time with her when he could be doing other things; a friend, like Kenny and Anna, Moira and Lars.

  And someone with some personality. Two of the last batch—both females—had exhibited all the personality of a cube of tofu.

  That might do for another ship, another brain that didn’t want to be bothered with softpersons outside of duty, but she wanted someone she could talk to! After all, she had been a softperson once.

  “Who’s first?” she asked CenCom, lowering her lift so that he—or she—could come aboard without having to climb the stairs.

  “That’ll be Donning Chang y Narhan,” CenCom replied after a moment. “Really high marks in the Academy.”

  She scanned the databurst as Donning crossed the tarmac to the launch pad; he’d gotten high marks all right, though not stellar. Much like her; in the top tenth of the class, but not the top one percent. Very handsome, if the holo was to be believed; wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, sculptured face with holo-star looks—sculptured body, too. But Tia was wary of good looks by now. Two of the first lot had been gorgeous; one had been one of the blocks of tofu, with nothing between the ears but what the Academy had put there, and the other had only wanted to talk about himself.

  Movement outside alerted her to Donning’s arrival; to her annoyance, he operated the lift manually instead of letting her handle it.

  To her further annoyance, he treated her like some kind of superior AI; he was obviously annoyed with having to go through an interview in the first place and wanted to be elsewhere.

  “Donning Chang y Narhan, reporting,” he said in a bored tone of voice. “As ordered.” He proceeded to rattle off everything that had been in the short file, as if she couldn’t access it herself. He did not sit down. He paid no attention to Ted.

  “Have you any questions?” he asked, making it sound as if questions would only mean that she had not been paying attention.

  “Only a few,” she replied. “Wh
at is your favorite composer? Do you play chess?”

  He answered her questions curtly, as if they were so completely irrelevant that he couldn’t believe she was asking them.

  She obliged him by suggesting that he could leave after only a handful of questions; he took it with bad grace and left in a hurry, an aroma of scorched ego in his wake.

  “Garrison Lebrel,” CenCom said, as Donning vacated the lift.

  Well, Garrison was possible. Good academic marks, not as high as Donning’s but not bad. Interest in archeology . . . she perked up when she saw what he was interested in. Nonhumans, especially presumed extinct space-going races, including the EsKays!

  Garrison let her bring him in and proved to be talkative, if not precisely congenial. He was very intense.

  “We’ll be spending a lot of time in transit,” he said. “I wasn’t able to keep up with the current literature in archeology while I was in the Academy, and I planned to be doing a lot of reading.”

  Not exactly sociable. “Do you play chess?” she asked hopefully. He shook his head. “But I do play sennet. That’s an ancient Egyptian game—I have a very interesting software version I could install; I doubt it would take you long to learn it, though it takes a lifetime to master.”

  The last was said a bit smugly. And there had been no offer from him to learn her game. Still, she did have access to far more computing power than he did; it wouldn’t take her more than an hour to learn the game, if that.

  “I see that your special interest is in extinct spacegoing races,” she ventured. “I have a very strong background in the Salomon-Kildaire Entities.”

  He looked skeptical. “I think Doctor Russell Gaines-Barklen has probably dealt with them as fully as they need to be, although we’ll probably have some chances to catch things survey teams miss. That’s the benefit of being trained to look for specifics.”

  She finally sent him back with mixed feelings. He was arrogant, no doubt about it. But he was also competent. He shared her interests, but his pet theories differed wildly from hers. He was possible, if there were no other choices, but he wasn’t what she was looking for.

  “Chria Chance is up next,” CenCom said when she reported she was ready for the next. “But you won’t like her.”

  “Why, because she’s got a name that’s obviously assumed?” Neither CenCom nor the Academy cared what you called yourself, provided they knew the identity you had been born with and the record that went with it. Every so often someone wanted to adopt a pseudonym. Often it was to cover a famous High Family name—either because the bearer was a black sheep, or because (rarely) he or she didn’t want special treatment. But sometimes a youngster got a notion into his or her head to take on a holostar-type name.

  “No,” CenCom replied, not bothering to hide his amusement. “You won’t like her because—well, you’ll see.”

  Chria’s records were good, about like Garrison’s—with one odd note in the personality profile. Nonconformist, it said.

  Well, there was nothing wrong with that. Pota and Braddon were certainly not conformists in any sense.

  But the moment that Chria stepped into the central room, Tia knew that CenCom was right.

  She wore her Academy uniform, all right—but it was a specially tailored one. Made entirely of leather; real leather, not synthetic. And she wore it entirely too well for Tia to feel comfortable around her. For the rest, she was rapier-thin, with a face like a clever fox and hair cut aggressively short. Tia already felt intimidated, and she hadn’t even said anything yet!

  Within a few minutes worth of questions, Chria shook her head. “You’re a nice person, Tia,” she said forthrightly, “and you and I would never partner well. I’d run right over you, and you’d sit there in your column, fuming and resentful, and you’d never say a word.” She grinned with feral cheer. “I’m a carnivore, a hunter. I need someone who’ll fight back! I enjoy a good fight!”

  “You’d probably have us go chasing right after pirates,” Tia said, a little resentful already. “If there were any in the neighborhood, you’d want us to look for them!”

  “You bet I would,” Chria responded without shame.

  A few more minutes of exchange proved to Tia that Chria was right. It would never work. With a shade of regret, Tia bade her farewell. While she liked a good argument as well as the next person, she didn’t like for arguments to turn into shouting matches, which was precisely what Chria enjoyed. She claimed it purged tensions.

  Well, maybe it did. And maybe that was why her favorite form of music—to the exclusion of everything else—was opera. She was a fanatic, to put it simply, And Tia—well—wasn’t.

  But there was certainly a lot of emotion-purging and carrying on in those old operas. She had the feeling that Chria fancied herself as a kind of latter-day Valkyrie.

  Hoy-yo to-ho.

  She reported her rejection to CenCom, with the recommendation that she thought Chria Chance had the proper mental equipment to partner a ship in the Military Courier Service. “Between you, me, and the airwaves,” CenCom replied, “that’s my opinion, too. Bloodthirsty wench. Well, she’ll get her chance. Military got your classmate Pol, and he’s just as bloody-minded as she is. I’ll see the recommendation goes in; meanwhile, next up is Harkonen Carl-Ulbright.”

  Carl was a disappointment. Average grades, and while he was congenial, Tia knew that she would run right over the top of him. He was shy, hardly ever ventured an opinion, and when he did, he could be induced to change it in an eye-blink. However—“Carl,” she said, just before he went to the lift, making no effort to hide his discouragement. “My classmate Raul is the XR One-Oh-Two-Nine. I think you two would get along splendidly. I’m going to ask CenCom to set up your very next interview with him—he was just installed today and I know he hasn’t got a brawn yet. Tell him I sent you.”

  That cheered up the young man considerably. He would be even more cheered when he learned that Raul had a Singularity Drive ship. And Tia would bet that his personality profile and Raul’s matched to a hair. They’d make a great team, especially when their job included carrying VIP passengers. Neither of them would get in the way or resent it if the VIPs ignored them.

  “I got all that, Tia,” CenCom said as soon as the boy was gone. “Consider it logged. They ought to make you a Psych; a Counselor, at least. It was good of you to think of Raul; none of us could come up with a match for him, but we were trying to match him with females.”

  If she’d had hands, she would have thrown them up. “Become a Psych? Saints and agents of grace defend us!” she quipped. “I think not! Who’s next?”

  “Andrea Polo y de Gras,” CenCom said. “You won’t like her, either. She doesn’t want you.”

  “With the Polo y de Gras name, I’m not surprised,” Tia sighed. “Wants something with a little more zing to it than A and E, hmm? Would she be offended if I agreed with her before she bothered to come out here?”

  “I doubt it,” CenCom replied, “but let me check.” A pause, and then he came back. “She’s very pleased, actually. I think that she has something cooking with the Family, and the strings haven’t had time to get pulled yet. Piff. High Families. I don’t know why they send their children to Space Academy in the first place.”

  Tia felt moved to contradict him. “Because some of them do very well and become a credit to the Services,” she replied, with just a hint of reproach.

  “True, and I stand corrected. Well, your last brawn-candidate is the late Alexander Joli-Chanteu.” The cheer in his voice told her that he was making a bad joke out of the situation.

  “Late, hmm? That isn’t going to earn him any gold stars in his Good-Bee Book,” Tia said, a bit acidly. Her parents’ fetish for punctuality had set a standard she expected those around her to match. Especially brawn-candidates.

  Well, I can at least go over his records. She scanned them quickly and came up—confused. When Alexander was good, he was very, very, good. And when he was bad, he was abysmal. Often
in the same subject. He would begin a class with the lowest marks possible, then suddenly catch fire, turn around, and pull a miraculous save at the end of the semester. Erratic performances, said his personality profile. Tia not only agreed, she thought that the evaluator was understating the case.

  CenCom interrupted her confusion. “Whoop! He got right by me! Here he comes, Tia, ready or not!”

  Alexander didn’t bother with the lift, he ran up the stairs, arriving out of breath, with longish hair mussed and uniform rumpled.

  That didn’t earn him any points either, although it was better than Chria’s leather.

  He took a quick look around to orient himself, then turned immediately to face the central column where she was housed, a nicety that only Carl and Chria had observed. It didn’t matter, really, and a lot of shellpersons didn’t care, so long as the softpersons faced one set of “eyes” at least—but Tia felt, as Moira did, that it was more considerate of a brawn to face where you were, rather than empty cabin.

  “Hypatia, dear lady, I am most humbly sorry to be late for this interview,” he said, slowly catching his breath. “My sensei engaged me in a game of Go, and I completely lost all track of time.”

  He ran his blunt-fingered hand through his unruly dark hair and grinned ruefully, little smile-crinkles forming around his brown eyes. “And here I had a perfectly wonderful speech all memorized, about how fitting it is that the lady named for the last librarian at Alexandria and the brawn named for Alexander should become partners—and the run knocked it right out of my head!”

  Well! He knows where my name came from! Or at least he had the courtesy and foresight to look it up. Hmm. She considered that for a moment, then put it in the “plus” column. He was not handsome, but he had a pleasant, blocky sort of face. He was short—well, so was the original Alexander, by both modern standards and those of his own time. She decided to put his general looks in the “plus” column too, along with his politeness. While she certainly wasn’t going to choose her brawns on the basis of looks, it would be nice to have someone who provided a nice bit of landscape.