Alien debt, p.4
Alien Debt, page 4
part #5 of The Long View Series
No new input, also as usual.
Well, time for lunch.
V. IVAN
He hadn't intended this. Nobody
but Ilse, he'd told himself-not ever. Yet now as his pulse slowed again, it was Dacia his arms held. Red hair, not blonde, against his cheek-and a sturdy, full-bodied young woman instead of his tiny, wiry Ilse.
Perhaps his breathing changed, for Dacia said, "Ivan? Are you all right? You're not sorry, are you?"
"I-we shouldn't have, that's all. But-"
"You are sorry. Well, I'm not-except for how you feel. And surely you didn't plan to be some kind of monk the next two or three years?"
"I hadn't really thought it out." In his boyhood, years of UET's brutal "aversion therapy" had left him impotent. Later, under drug hypnosis, after Tregare had sprung UET's killer booby traps, Rissa had done something for his mind. So that the same day he met Ilse Krueger, he made love with her. And moved into her ship Graf Spec, working up to First Hat in short order. And never had any other woman.
He had now, though, and warm Dacia Kobolak looked unhappy. Trying not to be noisy about it, Ivan took a deep breath. "It's how I saw myself, you understand? All solid and permanent. Finding out I'm something different, it's a jolt. But no, Dacia-" A quick kiss, he gave her. "I'm not sorry. Just having a bit of trouble adjusting."
Her frown lines smoothed. "Then this won't be all of it?"
"You bet your little pink-I mean, sure not, Dacia."
"I'm glad." Up along his sides, to tickle, crept her fingertips. Slowly and gently, because he'd warned her of his reflexes and cited Ilse's broken wrist. So Dacia gave those reflexes due
23
24
notice that here was no attack. "Back on Earth, if you and Ilse are pair-closed, I won't argue. But now-"
Enough tickling; not harshly, he caught her hands. "Now? A little soon, wouldn't you say?"
"Not if you let me finish the sentence. Now, I meant, we can be together. And right now, aren't you hungry? I am." Pushing just enough, she rolled free of him and they dressed.
On their way up to the galley, Ivan tried to think. Ilse had told him to be free, hadn't she? But still...
They ate quickly, for Dacia was due on watch soon. As she was about to leave, Rissa joined them, and after a little talk, Dacia hurried away. Ivan stood also, but Rissa said, "Oh, stay a while; keep me company." Feeling somehow uneasy, he sat.
Eating slowly, Rissa asked no questions, but under her gaze his tension built. Finally he said, "All right, we're lovers. Just now, though; not before."
Her eyes moved slightly; that was all. "Ivan, I did not ask."
Even to him, his laugh sounded nervous. "No. You merely read me like a book."
"If so, a book I enjoy and respect. And what of this is my business? And what, that you think I might disapprove?" Rissa spoke softly, and in her face he saw no mockery.
He moved, not quite a shrug, and found himself telling Rissa his earlier thoughts. "I want it to be all right. Do you think it is?" And how had she come to be his arbiter?
Rissa pushed her empty plate away. "Ivan, our total experience shapes each of us. Yours has fixated you more upon Ilse than is-well, usual. More so than she could possibly be on you, for instance, since her life has been more varied." She smiled, then shook her head. "Between you and Dacia I see nothing wrong. Would it be better, on this ship, for you to share yourself only with your memories?"
While he was thinking that one over, she changed the subject, and Ivan found himself explaining his ideas, as Gunnery Officer, for best utilizing the seven-turret configuration Rissa had designed. Ordinarily a ship's nose carried eight turrets arranged in a circle, each with traverse and separate range and convergence controls. Inconnu Deux had a larger, much more powerful central turret, firing along the ship's axis only, without traverse capability, ringed with six traversible projectors that were also beefed up, somewhat, from standard. Considering the possibili-
25
ties of the new setup, trying to adapt usual fire-control techniques, had cost Ivan more sleep thao he'd care to admit. He did, though, have a few ideas.
"I've rigged some circuits. Tie all turrets to central control and fire strictly line-of-flight; in a tight spot you've got a lot of punch. Or hang the six peripherals together, traverse and all, under one gunner, and play 'Chopsticks' with 'em, against Big Baby in the middle. And-" He knew he sounded overly enthusiastic, like a kid, but what the hell? Until Rissa had to leave, they talked on.
Then Ivan went to his quarters-normally First Hat's billet, but of course Rissa shared captain's digs with Tregare. Pouring himself a mild drink, he sat to think a few things out.
First he tabled some questions. Whether he'd done right to agree to Ilse's desire for a separation, and to come on the Deux, made no difference. He was here; she wasn't. Case closed.
He hadn't realized, though, how much the trip would increase their biological age-difference. Let's see; he was thirty, and Ilse about thirty-eight. And if he had it right, she'd pick up seven or eight while he was adding maybe three. Well, that shouldn't matter, not really. And Dacia was how old? Twenty-six.
Dacia. Ivan had never minded the scars Ilse had from her brutal training at UET's "Slaughterhouse." But Dacia's unmarred skin-Ivan shook his head. Fixated, Rissa had said. Would he become fixated on Dacia's youth and beauty? To Ilse's cost? No, he must never let himself downgrade Ilse Krueger; she'd given him too much.
Which, for now, left him only one question. Should Dacia move into his quarters? Or rather, he realized, when!
A week before the gunnery contest, Ivan showed his file of combat-simulation tapes to Jeremy Crowfoot. "Your job now, Jere, to pick a good variety for competition. The coding on each run tells you whether it's a straight shot, skew curve, or whatever."
Tregare, sitting in, suggested leading off with easier runs, to help the novices get their feet wet. Crowfoot agreed. While the records showed him as part-Amerind, Ivan didn't think he looked the part: brown hair, ruddy skin, and freckles. Now the man said, "UET had these contests between ships' crews, right?" Tregare nodded. "What was the format?"
"Two ways," said Tregare, "depending on who ran the show. Butcher Korbeith liked one-hour sessions, nonstop. Wear
26
everybody out and then call 'em quitters when their reflexes sagged."
"Whatever the other way was," Ivan said, "I like it better."
"Me, too," said Bran Tregare. "Okay-still an hour for each squad, but ten minute chunks, rotating between squads."
"Fine," Crowfoot said. "I'll do up six ten-minute sets, progressively harder but not predictable by pattern. All right?"
The session broke up. Checking practice logs, Ivan shook his head. Some novices had leveled off at their natural limits of skills, but a few had skimped practice. On Ivan's own team, for instance, Comm-Tech Jenise Rorvik.
Rorvik? Oh yes, the blonde that Arlen Limmer was chasing, lately. Except that he did it more when Dacia was there to see. When Dacia moved away, Arlen's gaze followed her.
Silently, Ivan groaned. Now, if he wanted to help his own team's scores, he had to spend time with Limmer's new girl friend. Marchant-if you've got any tact, now's the time to use it!
Finding Jenise and Arlen in the galley, Ivan approached them. Limmer looked up under lowered brows; the woman smiled. Well, say it right out. "How shakes it? Rorvik, with a week left before our shootout, you're short of practice. If you have time for a session now, so do I." And before the boy could react, "Like to come along, Limmer? Turret Six, plenty of room." He paused, then moved-knowing that if he'd timed it right, they'd follow. They did, and the three climbed to the turret.
Leading, Ivan took the gunner's seat. "I'll make sure everything's working right." He hoped for a complex run, a chance to show his skill, and that's what he got. He scored a sixty. "It's all on the money, Rorvik. Your turn."
Her first run was pathetic; she had the reflexes, but hadn't trained them. Ivan said nothing. Arlen looked at him, then turned to Jenise. "You have to coordinate your controls. Keep your eyes a little out of focus, to cover the screen and range lights both, without looking back and forth." She nodded. "Now imagine your left hand's connected to the lights; just move it toward the one that's lit, to put it out. No-not so hardl" Surprised, Ivan saw the boy was sweating. "And Jenise-imagine your right hand on that ellipse, and push just enough to straighten it up into a circle. Yes; and now-"
27
As he talked, her performance improved. At the run's end her score was still nothing to brag about, but most of the hits came toward the finish. Ivan punched the stop-button. Arlen looked at him, "Did I do something wrong?" "No. You did a lot of things right. Care to take over now, on your own? You don't need me, and I've got work piled up." "Well, of course," said Limmer, "if you think I'm qualified." "I think you are." Before leaving, Ivan turned back. "One hour. Ten-minute sessions, five-minute breaks. Agreed?" The two nodded. "And the same every day, from now to shootout?" Nods again. "Good. Thanks for helping, Limmer." Arlen cleared his throat. "Glad to, Marchant." A good line to end on, so Ivan went downship. By then he was hungry-and also a bit satisfied with himself.
First he went to quarters, to bathe and change clothing. Then to the galley, climbing fast-"on the high lope" as Tregare liked to say. And there he found the captain sitting with Dacia's brother, Second Hat Anders Kobolak. Lean and brown-haired, Anders didn't much resemble his fraternal twin. Ivan filled a tray and joined the two, half his attention on listening to the talk and half on eating. When he was down to coffee, laced with spicemix and sugar and something that pretended to be cream, he listened more.
"This awards setup, now," Tregare said. "To put a little zip in the gunnery contest. You tell it, Anders."
The way Kobolak put it, it sounded simple enough. Personnel scoring in the top third-except control officers and team captains-got graduated bonuses if they weren't in gunnery as a job, and points toward promotion if they were.
Ivan nodded. "Sounds good to me."
Tregare stood. "Me, too. Write up the skeds, will you, Anders, for the points and bonuses?" The Second Hat nodded, and Tregare walked away, leaving Ivan with Anders Kobolak and a fresh cup of coffee Ivan didn't really want. But now he could hardly leave without drinking it, and it was too hot to gulp.
His own cup dry, Kobolak sat silent. What is he thinking? Then, abruptly, the man said, "Is there anything we need to talk about?"
Ivan's sip scalded his tongue. "You're the one who asked."
Anders nodded. "Yes. Well-Dacia seems happier lately. To my mind, she's always been too much of a loner. I know that
28
whatever happens here is temporary. But I hope she doesn't get hurt.''
Looking, Ivan knew the man didn't mean his statement as any kind of threat. "I hope the same," he said. "I'll try-"
"That's what I figured. But I'm glad you said it." The Second Hat stood, and left Ivan to drink the coffee or not.
That night, Ivan dreamed. A little girl was calling his name-a child with a red dress and long dark pigtails. He tried to go to her, but someone larger pulled him away. He shouted; they had to let him be with her. But between them the door closed. He woke, chilled but sweating, and realized that whatever the hour he was done with sleep. He got up, made coffee, and sat thinking.
The dream: the day, when he was eight and Rissa five, that they'd been taken to Total Welfare. It hadn't been quite that way, though. He couldn't remember directly, after the hashing his mind had taken from the Welfare Center's "discipline," but from Rissa he knew the Welfare agent had made them exchange their own clothes for grey-blue jumpsuits before taking them to the Center. So the red dress was earlier than the separation.
The dream still bothered him. By choice, he never looked back at the Welfare years. His insistence on wanting to see Rissa had hooked him into the punishment cycle immediately, and through all his twelve years in Welfare he'd never worked clear of that brutal routine. He didn't even remember meeting Rissa- after the lottery had sprung her loose and she in rum bought him free-at Erika Hulzein's, where the psych-techs had put his mind into somewhat better working order. He did recall the meeting, two bio-years later on the Hidden World called Number One, when Tregare's drug hypnosis defused his mind of UET's lethal booby traps. So then he'd joined Tregare, met Use, and.. .
His cup was empty. Filling it, he began scanning up, in the way he'd learned at Erika's, through his life from then to now. When he reached "now," he nodded and considered the dream again-but from outside it, not inside.
Whatever his subconscious was trying to say, he couldn't make the symbolism fit. Well, maybe the purpose was to do what he'd just done: review his entire past. But he'd found no new insights. / could chew on this all night and get no place.
Chew? Yes, now he noticed hunger, and nibbled slowly on some mixed-grain wafers, dunking each in his hot coffee first. Then he sat back and tried to let his thoughts float freely, toward
29
whatever the dream's purpose might be. Relaxing, he almost dozed. Then a flash of violent memory brought him upright. Why this?
So clear, the visualization: almost as though he could scan it for details he'd missed at the time. The control room of Graf Spec, command ship for Falconer squadron when Tregare's fleet went from Stronghold to battle for Earth. Ilse at the controls, hell-bent for Ozzie Newhausen's UET ships. Good action, the gunners spiking targets, holding the missiles for later. Then crossfire-the hits-a turret blown, the beam slashing across Use's head! She sagged but her fingers moved on the board; Spec bucked and pulled free. Then another hit flung her sprawling to the deck; Ivan scrambled to the console and completed the ship's escape. Then heard himself yelling for the Second Hat to take over, so Ivan could go to Ilse.
The scene faded, but the rest of it he knew. Ilse dying, he thought, so only one purpose left. He called Tregare, removed Graf Spee from squadron command. And took that ship up the inside of Admiral Newhausen's cone formation and blew Ozzie to plasma.
And if Use hadn't come to consciousness and told him a better way to do it, Ivan fully intended to ram.
Memory ceased to grip him; he shook his head. Why that? Nearly half an hour he'd spent in a state close to trance; why? It has to mean something.
An answer came. He didn't like it, but all his pushing wouldn't make it go away. I cling to blind impulse, and fail people.
Maybe at age eight he had an excuse-scared and hurt, yelling at the Welfare goons and too stubborn to give up. Well, he'd paid, in years of pain and a messed-up mind. And was that mind back to "normal"? Or did he just think it was?
But his actions on Graf Spee, in the fighting-he tried to see them as Rissa might, or Tregare. Squadron coordination officer, a command ship's First Hat, sees his woman dying-so he pulls the ship out of pattern and goes for one-man revenge. Did he ask if the crew-nearly a hundred persons-wanted to die to avenge Ilse? No. Ivan Marchant was drunk on personal rage and desolation, so the rest of the ship could bloody well come along. And the fleet, Earth's fate hanging in the balance, could go hang.
The more he looked at it, the worse it got. Tregare-what must the man think of me? At this late-date, he could hardly ask.
30
Tired, but curiously at peace, Ivan dressed and went upship. He had his answer: from now on, to put tighter rein to his fierce, sometimes berserk, impulses.
The dream had, after all, made sense.
Hungry again, he entered the galley. Rissa and Tregare sat with Anders Kobolak's wife, Alina Rostadt; Ivan filled a plate for himself and joined them. "... nearly to the point," Tregare was saying, "where a sub-light ship would be making turnover. Seems funny, not having to do the maneuver on this bucket."
"I've never understood that," Alina said, so Tregare explained how, on FTL ships, you ran most of the way on accel and then simply cut the Hoyfarul Drive, cold. Well, Ivan already knew that the excess velocity-derived mass, collapsing back into the ship's own universe, slowed it below light-speed fast.
"Then," Tregare added, "a few days' decel gets you down to zerch. If you've gauged your distance right, you're close to where you're going. That's the tricky part. Right, Ivan?"
"Right." Done eating, Ivan stood, took his empty tray to the disposal counter, and left the galley.
And found that Rissa had followed him. "Ivan-may we talk?"
He didn't want to, but paused while she caught up. "What about?"
"Whatever concerns you. Obviously, something does."
It was odd, he thought, that their childhood rapport had survived so strongly. After all, the Welfare system had separated them quite young-and then each had lived roughly thirteen bio-years until their next real meeting. During those years which had nearly crushed his own mind, Rissa's had been toughened instead. Disparate experience .. .
