Catherine Asaro - Nebula Awards Showcase 2013

It was almost like a dance, the way they came out; each soldier had the same bulging foreheads of Themba’s escorts, a sure sign of vat-grown folks. And like Themba’s escorts, they wore reflective jet-blue uniforms with plastic gold piping on the shoulders, though these uniforms had a dullness to them; some of them had tiny, ragged holes.

Unlike Themba’s escorts, they clasped black needlers. They fanned out before the airlock in a triangle pattern, and when their eyes moved the tip of their rifles followed their gaze, ready to spray death at whatever they saw. Lizzie trembled as those rifle-barrels swept across her, but she locked her knees, determined not to show disrespect to a paying guest.

When they were done, they yelled “CLEAR!” The commander came striding out of the back, as calm as her troops were nervous. She was flat-foreheaded, tight-skinned as a drum, with a long rope of braided red hair tied neatly around her waist. Her suit was spotless, which could have meant she’d never seen combat, but to Lizzie that seemed unthinkable; she was thin, sharp, attendant.

The commander bowed deeply, palms touching.

“Hold no fear, little one,” said the commander. “Your reinforcements have arrived, free of charge and ready to sacrifice health for safety. Would you escort me to your mother, Elizabeth, so I might formally inform her of the transfer?”

Lizzie matched the commander’s stern politeness. But when Lizzie ushered the commander into the comm room, Momma stiffened. She stood up to her full height to greet the commander—though the top of her head barely reached the commander’s neck.

“I thank you for your assistance, commander,” Momma said. “But I also regret to tell you that we shan’t need it.”

“I think you’ll find that you will have great need of our aid in the months to come. I have tales of the depredations the Intraconnected Web have inflicted upon defenseless locales. But could I share these cautionary warnings in private, without… ?” And the commander jerked her chin towards Lizzie.

“My daughter is my tertiary command structure, and is privy to all conversations,” Momma snapped back, which surprised Lizzie. “And while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, it’ll only tear us apart.”

“You know war’s been declared, Mrs. Denahue,” said the commander. “You chose your position well; you’re one of three stations that stand between the Gineer empire and the Trifold Manifest. That’s been beneficial for tourism, but when war comes—well, do you really think the Intraconnected Web will respect your home-grown capitalism?”

“Actually, it was my great-gramma chose the location,” Momma said tightly. “And you know we support the Gineer. But if you surround us with gunships, then you make us not a waypoint, but a target . The Web might respect our neutrality, they might not, but they sure as hell will shoot if you contest us. You might win that battle, but we’ll lose everything.”

“We have a new line of ships specially designed to defend stations such as this,” the commander said. “And if something happens, we’ll reimburse you for any combat losses…”

Momma barked out a laugh. “And then we’ll be known as a Gineer station, and be drawn into every war after that. No offense, commander, but you think short-term. My family’s been here for five generations; I want it here for five more. I’m not getting drawn in.”

The commander pursed her lips. “And if we decide to garrison this station?”

Lizzie didn’t know what garrisoning meant, but the intent was clear enough Lizzie froze. But Momma simply looked sad, like she did when they caught customers trying to hack free time from the VDR machines.

“It’s that desperate?” she asked. “This soon?”

“We’re confident in our chances. But it would help to take this place.”

Momma eased her hand down into her pocket, gripping something.

“My faith is in the Gineer,” she said. “But my hand is always on the self-destruct switch.”

The commander frowned, pulling new creases into pristine skin.

“Look,” Momma added quickly, thumping her left breast. “I support you folks, my heart to God. As long as you don’t go bandying it about, I’ll give you folks six percent off of any refueling costs I have, to give you an edge on that Web menace.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty’s a lot in wartime. We could—Elizabeth, would you mind fetching the commander some sauerkraut?”

The negotiations took several hours. Momma called Gemma up to help set the terms, leaving Lizzie to serve hot dogs and kraut to the soldiers. But the soldiers didn’t relax; they ate like they expected someone to snatch it away from them at any moment, then asked for seconds.

By the time they took off, everyone was exhausted. Momma still took the time to comb Lizzie’s hair.

“I hate them,” Lizzie said. “They’re mean.”

“Who?” Momma asked, surprised. “The Gineer?”

“They were mean to you, and mean to Themba. They tried to take our home.”

“Actually, sweetie, I meant it when I said the Web are bad news. Themba’s people are no better…”

“ Themba wouldn’t try to rule our station.”

Momma shrugged. “We don’t choose allies,” she said. “That’s how we weather storms. Some day you’ll understand.”

Still, Lizzie felt her hatred of the Gineer burning in her. They were cruel, cruel people, and suddenly she feared for Themba.

Over the next few weeks, traffic picked up and ships docked every day, carrying harried-looking people away from the upcoming war. Momma had to start rationing fuel.

Predictably, the Gineer started shouting when Momma said she could only spare enough fissionable material to get them to Swayback Station, a mere five systems over. And when they stopped shouting they started begging, thrusting handfuls of cash at Momma, certain that everything was for sale. But Momma couldn’t afford to stock up too heavily on any one currency.

The Web folks were disappointed, but took the news with a grim resignation. They were used to shortages.

Web or Gineer, though, every guest was desperate for food—especially when Lizzie explained that sauerkraut didn’t go bad. They bought huge jars, so Lizzie had to stay up late at night chopping more cabbage.

But the Web folks seemed disheartened at having to spend money for food; they’d sigh, their pockmarked faces faded to a pale, overmilked coffee color thanks to weeks locked inside darkened ships.

“The Intraconnected used to provide for its citizens,” they said, gesturing to their families huddled miserably behind them. “I’m a stamp-press mechanic, not a soldier! They tried to make me switch tasks. They said my children would be provided for in the unlikely event of my sacrifice—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk it…”

They were so polite, so peaceful, so like Themba, that Lizzie gave them extra dollops of sauerkraut.

The Gineer were pushier. Their smooth faces were plastered with makeup, men and women alike, pancaking their cheeks to hide the blemishes that had cropped up once they couldn’t get their weekly gene-treatments. Lizzie didn’t see anything wrong with a pimple, but tell that to the Gineer. They held up suitcases packed with useless stuff—gameboxes and electric hair-curlers—and lamented that this was all they could carry.

Yet in their suitcases they carried photos of their families. They were eager to tell Lizzie stories about the beautiful house they’d saved for, the beloved husband they’d negotiated so cleverly for to get their marriage authorization. They stroked the pictures with their fingers when they talked about the past, as if they were rubbing a genie’s lamp for a wish—and then told Lizzie how the house had been bombed to splinters, the husband crunched under rubble.