Robert Reed: Marrow

“When you’re clinging to your friend, do you feel safe?”

“I guess. Sure.”

“Safe.” The word was so important that it needed to be repeated. The Master said it a third time, then a fourth. Then again, she looked at the girl, smiled, and told her, “Fine. Thank you. Go on off and play some more, darling.”

“Yes, madam.”

“By the way. What’s your name?”

“Washen.”

“You’re a beautiful young woman. Thank you, Washen.”

“For what?”

“For your help, of course,” the Master purred. “You’ve been absolutely vital.”

Everyone was puzzled. The captains watched the girl walk away in that careful, slow way that children use when they know they are being watched. But before Washen had gone, Miocene blurted, “What does all this mean, madam?”

“You know perfectly well. Interstellar travel is less than safe.” A broad, bright grin spread across the Master’s golden face. “Even our largest, most durable starship can be obliterated by a chunk of nothing no larger than my fist.”

True, of course. Always.

“But inside this great ship, the passenger is perfectly safe. Today and forever, she is protected by hundreds of kilometers of high-grade hyperfiber, and protected by lasers and shields, and served by a cadre of the finest captains anywhere.” The Master paused for an instant, enjoying the drama. Then speaking over the rumble of the surf, she announced, “We are going to sell passages on this great ship. Passages for a journey around the galaxy—a journey like no other—and every wealthy customer will be welcome. Human, alien, or machine!’ Suddenly, the wind gusted.

The Master’s empty chair was pushed over on its side.

A dozen captains fought for the privilege of righting the chair, while Miocene, knowing what was best, joined the Master instead, bowing and smiling as she said, “What a fine and perfect and wonderful idea… madam…!”

Washen was a captain of consequence.

Fashionably tall, with an ageless strong body, she possessed handsome features wrapped around wise chocolate eyes. Her long obsidian hair was worn in a sensible bun, streaked with just enough white to lend authority. She conveyed a sense of easy confidence and relaxed competence, and with a little look or a gentle word, she lent her confidence to whoever deserved it. In public, she wore her mirrored captain’s uniform with a regal bearing and gentle pride. Yet she had the rare gift of keeping others from feeling jealous of her station or intimidated by her presence. And even rarer was Washen s talent for embracing the instincts and customs of truly alien species, which was why, at the Master Captains insistence, one of her duties was to greet their strangest passengers, explaining what the strip was and what it expected from its cherished guests.

Her day, like so many days, began at the bottom of Port Beta.

Washen adjusted the tilt of her cap, then gazed upward, watching as a kilometer-long taxi was lowered from the airlock. Stripped of its rockets, the bulky fuel tanks, and wide armored prow, the taxi resembled a great needle. Its hyperfiber hull glittered in the port’s brilliant lights as skilled mates and their AIs controlled its descent with hair-thin cable and squid-limbs, bringing it down with the smoothness of a descending cap-car.

Which was a mistake. Through an implanted nexus, Washen called for the mates’ boss. “Let it drop,” she advised. “Right now.”

An ice-white human face grimaced.

“But madam…?”

“Now,” she demanded. “Let it fall on its own.”

A captain’s word weighed more than any mates caution. Besides, the taxi’s hull could absorb much worse abuse, and both of them knew it.

With a low crackle, the squid-limbs pulled free.

For an instant, the needle seemed unaffected. Then the ship’s gravity—much more than earth-standard—took hold and yanked it down into the cone-shaped berth reserved for it. The impact was jarring, but muted by the hyperfiber floor and a heavy dose of antinoise. Washen felt the collision in her toes and knees, and she let herself smile for a moment, imagining the passengers’ delicious surprise.

“I need to fill out an accident report,” growled the white face.

“Naturally,” she replied. “And I’ll accept all the blame you can give me. Agreed?”

“Thank you… Captain…”

“No. Thank you.”

Washen strolled toward the berth and taxi, her smile fading, replaced with a theatrical grimness appropriate to this job.

The passengers were disembarking.

Flounders, they had been dubbed.

At a glance, Flounders resembled thick woolly rugs carried on dozens of strong and very short legs.They came from a superterran world, accustomed to five times the port’s gravity, and like many species from such worlds, they demanded a thicker, richer atmosphere than what they found here. Implanted compressors aided their quick, shallow breathing. Pairs of large, eerily human eyes were rooted at one end of each long body, staring up at Washen from what, for lack of a better term, was their heads.

“Welcome,” Washen announced.

Her translator made a low rumbling sound.

“I despise each of you,” she bellowed. Then, following the advice of exopsychologists, she bent over, making eye contact as she reminded these newcomers, “You have no status here. None. A word from me, and you are crushed in the most horrible ways.”

Human politeness had no place in that alien society.

Flounders—whose real name was a series of poetic ticks—equated kindness with intimacy. And intimacy was afforded only family members, by blood or by ceremony. The exopsychologists were adamant. If Washen couldn’t intimidate the Flounders, they would feel uneasy, much in the same way that a human would feel uneasy if a stranger approached, referred to her by a lover’s nickname, then delivered a sloppy wet kiss.

“This is my ship,” she told her audience.

Several hundred aliens were in shouting range, tiny ears tilted high, absorbing her voice as well as the thunderous rumble of her translator.

“You have paid for my patience as well as a berth,” said Washen. “Paid with new technologies, which we have already received, mastered, and improved upon.”

Long whiskers stroked each other, the aliens conversing by feel.

Again, she stared into a pair of eyes. Cobalt-blue, utterly alive. “My rules are simple, little monster.”

Whiskers suddenly grew still.

Her audience held its collective breath.

“My ship is the ship’ she explained. “It needs no other name. It is remarkable and enormous, but it is not infinite. Nor empty. Thousands of species share its labyrinths with you. And if you do not treat your fellow passengers with complete respect, you will be discarded. Evicted. Rung overboard, and forgotten.”

The breathing resumed, quicker than ever.

Was she playing this game too well?

But instead of holding back, Washen kept pressing. “An empty chamber has been prepared for you. As you begged us to do. Sealed, and pressurized. With plenty of space, and your ugly foods in abundance. In this new home, you may do as you wish. Unless you wish to procreate, which requires permission from me. And fresh payments. Since children are passengers, their status is negotiable. And if I have reason, I will personally throw them overboard. Is that understood?”

Her translator asked the question, then with a soft, sexless voice, offered a sampling of the aliens’ replies.

“Yes, Lord Captain.”

“Of course, Lord.”