Joan Vinge: Heaven Chronicles

He thought about Mythili Fukinuki, Goody Two-Shoes, I-don't-put-out-for-the-passengers, wondered how the hell she'd ever won the old man's alleged heart. A woman pilot, for God's sake—one of those women who put selfish interests and personal ambition above their own biological role as women, as childbearers, as the preservation of mankind's future.

Before the Civil War there had been no reason why women could not work or travel in space; but the war had changed many things, even for the Demarchy. The Demarchy still had the resources to preserve sperm, but not ova; because of the high shipboard radiation levels men were exposed to—both from solar storms and from the dirty atomic fission batteries of their own ships—they were usually sterilized, and a supply of undamaged sperm was put aside for the time when they were ready to raise a family. Sound, fertile women had no similar recourse, and so they were encouraged, even forced, to remain in the relative safety of the cities, protected by walls of stone, supported by their men. But with the comparatively high background radiation from the dirty postwar power sources, even in the “protected” cities, the percentage of defective births was on the rise. Women who could produce a healthy child were considered to be one of the Demarchy's prime assets. But to some of them, that still wasn't enough.… She had contacts. That's the only way anybody ever gets anything.

He heard someone moving in the commons on the next level; he got up, taking his camera with him. Mythili Fukinuki was heating containers of food in the pantry. He drifted up behind her, looked over her shoulder.

“Lunchtime?”

She twisted to face him, startled; light danced along the tines of the fork in her hand.

Chaim jerked back, awkwardly, through half a somersault. He righted himself, hands raised. “Hey, all I want is lunch!”

Her face eased into a mocking smile; he wondered who was being mocked. “There are the bins, pick out what you want. Remember to close the lids tightly. This is an infrared heater, there's the trash. Eat when you want to, clean up after yourself.” She turned back, fixed her containers with a clack onto the magnetized tray, and moved away to the table.

He joined her with his own tray, half-sitting on air in the near-normal gravity of the ship's constant acceleration. She frowned faintly, went on eating, in silence. Uncomfortable, he began, “I'm impressed. This is a hell of a nice ship, I—”

“Well it looks like the two of you are getting along even better than I imagined.” Siamang drifted down through the ceiling well. “Put in a good word for me, Red; if you get any further—”

Dartagnan looked up, feeling the edge on Siamang's voice. He offered a grin. “I sure will, boss … if I get any further.”

The pilot picked up her tray wordlessly, made a wide circuit upward to the entry well, and disappeared. Chaim heard the door of her cabin slam to, and, in the silence, the click of a lock. This time it was Siamang who laughed too loudly. Siamang glanced at the pantry, the empty table, the fork spearing a sticky lump of vegetable-in-sauce halfway to Dartagnan's mouth. Siamang raised his eyebrows, used his eyes.

Dartagnan lowered the fork, noticed something new and peculiar about the eyes. “I just started, boss, if you want to take mine. I can heat up some more.” He offered with his hands, pushed himself away from the table.

“You're sure you don't mind? thanks, Red.” Siamang moved complacently in toward the table as Chaim moved away. His voice slurred, barely noticeable. “One thing you must have that I don't is a way with women … if you could call that one a woman. Must come from all the lies you tell.” He picked up the fork. “You impress me, Red. How can you mediamen tell so many lies, so convincingly? Are you born that way?”

Chaim focused on Siamang's eyes for half a second, trying to be certain of what he saw; Siamang's eyes probed the private darknesses of his mind like a spotlight. He looked away, unfocused. An aggressor … The disjointed word burned on his eyelids like an afterimage. But the eyes were too bright, glassy, the pupils dilated until he couldn't see an iris. Siamang was high on something; Dartagnan didn't know what, didn't want to know. He smiled inanely. “No, boss, nobody's born that way. It takes practice; a hell of a lot of practice.” He flipped the cover casually down over his camera lens, drifted toward the pantry. He had the sudden unhappy thought that there wouldn't be many scenes worth recording during their transit to Planet Two. He said a quick, silent prayer to no one in particular that Siamang would give him some decent footage when they got there.

“Tell me something else, Red—” Siamang's voice went on, teasing, vaguely condescending.

Dartagnan grinned, not seeing Siamang, or the room, or even the ship, but only the starry void beyond. It's going to be a long trip. It better be worth it.

After the first few hundred kiloseconds, Dartagnan stopped carrying his camera, stopped doing almost everything that brought him into contact with the others. Siamang stayed closed in his room, passing the time in a world that Chaim was not interested in visiting; he came out only for meals, for an occasional, teasing attack on Dartagnan's scruples, or a casual pass at the pilot. The pilot stayed locked in her own cabin, doing what, Dartagnan didn't know, didn't care; she came out only to eat and check readings in the control room, avoiding them both.

But he used the opportunity of her absence, eventually, to ignore her arbitrary restrictions and get into the control room himself. He filmed the view of stars that showed on the screen; stayed, watching the screen in the comfortable, clicking silence, escaping from the blank-walled boredom of his cluttered quarters below.

His eyes began to drift from the central viewscreen, studying the projected strings of numbers, the intricate geometric filigrees that showed on the peripheral screens. He frowned absently at the angle of the sun, the position of the lightweight screen beyond the ship's hull that kept sunlight from striking directly on the landing module. He murmured an inquiry to the computer, watched as the string of figures changed on the screen, began to flash, on and off.

“What do you think you're doing?”

He jerked guiltily, caught hold of the panel as the pilot rose up into the room. “I think one of the propellant tanks on the landing module is heating up; you might want to adjust the sunshade—”

“Get away from there. I told you the control room was off limits! What have you done.…” She pushed off from the rungs that circled the well's perimeter, came up to the panel. “Of all the stupid—” Her eyes went to the flashing figures on the screen, back down to the panel. She queried, got the same answer. “You're right.” She looked up at him again as if she'd never seen him before. “How could you know that?”

“Mediamen know everything.” He saw her expression begin to change back. “Well—actually, I'm a qualified pilot.”

“ You?” She blinked. “I didn't think—”

“Funny, I think the same things about women.”

She turned back to the panel; he watched her reposition the sunshade. She said, very softly, defensively, “I don't usually make those mistakes. But I haven't been coming up here as much as I should … I shouldn't let him get to me!”

“Siamang?”

She nodded, not looking at him, the soft, shadowed curve of her mouth drawing tight.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Not exactly what you'd call easy to love, is he?” But believe me, I've known worse .

“He's a sadist!” Her voice shook.

Dartagnan felt his throat close, swallowed. “What do you mean? You mean he—”