“What is that?” Joseph said, fascinated.
“I usta think it was Simeon in a grudly strange comedown,” Joat said, her fingers flying in a rapid taptaptaptiptiptip. “Only it isn’t. ‘S just a really neato AI program running on the station main computers. Fools ya, y’know? Real easy to get to thinking it’s a real person, but it isn’t. Smart piece of junk, but I can get around it. When it thinks you’re Simeon, it really comes down as an animal.”
Hello, Simeon, the screen printed. What’s up, boss? Huh? Huh?
Joat’s fingers scrambled. Nothing much, she keyed. Updating Shame on Me, she added.
Don’t rightly know that one, pardner, the machine replied. Uhyip. The tip of Joat’s tongue was clenched between her teeth in a rictus of concentration. At last, she leaned back and sighed, cracking her fingers two-handed.
“Now it thinks I’m Simeon again,” she said.
“ ‘Shame on Me’?” Joseph enquired.
“Fool me once,” Joat said, quoting, “shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”
Joseph’s laugh was quiet and appreciative. Joat felt the quiet glow of satisfaction you only got from another operator. Seld was neat, but he wasn’t a . . . Well, he wasn’t grown up, in the special way Joseph was grown up. She’d known a lot of people who were grown-up that way, but Joseph was the first one she had ever liked or trusted.
“So you manipulate the system through the central computer?” he said.
“Naw, not most of the time. Too con-spick-cue-us. Finkin‘ obvious, in fact. There’s a distributed node system, fambly thousands of little compus, all got backup authority, if you can cut in. And nobody cuts in like jack-of-all-trades, my man.”
Joseph clapped a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened and stared at it. He took it away, not snatching or lingering, either.
“How did you pick this up?” he said in admiration, pointing at her Spuglish.
“Dad.” Fardling swiney. “Learned more from the bastard who won me from my uncle,” she said. “He was smart, really smart, when he wasn’t drunk or—well, when he was sober. Knew his way around any system there was. Never got caught, except once.”
“Who by?” Joseph asked.
Joat turned her face toward him, and for a moment it was not a child’s face at all. “Me,” she said softly. “He forgot me. And I cracked his system. They think he’s still alive. He went thataway out the lock, peeing blood. His ship’s computer said everything was fine.”
“Well,” Joseph said with a cold smile, “if it’s good enough for the official records, it’s good enough for me. Now, show me how you decouple the local subsystems again.”
“Like, it’s got to be physical,” Joat went on, animated again. “You—”
“I am glad to see you two are friends,” Amos said.
Joat and Joseph had walked in the door laughing uproariously, slapping each other on the shoulder.
Joseph smiled at his leader and bowed formally, hand on heart. “My brother, you have done me a great favor by introducing me to this young sorceress,” he said. “And our cause.”
“You guys are brothers?” Joat asked suddenly.
“No,” was the spontaneous answer from Channa, Simeon, and Amos.
“Oh?” Joat looked from one to the other, frowning slightly, then she shook her head dismissing the problem. “Yeah, we had a great time!” she went on. “Joe here picks things up pretty good, for a grown-up.”
“For a grown-up?” Amos said, raising a brow.
“You know,” Joat explained kindly, “for somebody who’s old.”
Amos pursed his lips. He was a year older than Joseph. “I am glad to see you found him worthy,” he said dryly.
“Yeah, I did.” Joat frowned. “Can I ask you something?” she said.
“By all means, foster daughter of Channa,” Amos said.
“Most grown-ups are funny about kids knowing things,” she said. “You aren’t. How come?”
Amos blinked. “You are . . . what, twelve?” he said.
“‘Bout. Gets hard to tell when you do a lot of FTL ’n some coldsleep.”
“At your age, I was running my family’s estates,” Amos said. “Of course, I would not have been, had my father lived. Sons of poorer folk are apprenticed at twelve, doing a day’s work and paying for their own food. Should I be surprised if you can do likewise?”
Joat glowed. “At last,” she said, turning triumphantly to Channa. “Told you I’d learn more doing a real job!”
“What did I say?” Amos asked, flinching at the glare Channa leveled at him.
“Promised I’d go catch Seld,” Joat said, wolfing down the last of her breakfast and sticking a few pieces of fruit in the pockets of her shapeless overall. “Ta-ta, all.”
“Speaking of the Chaundras,” Channa said meaningfully, glancing at Amos. “I have to run. More—ack! pftht!—meetings. Don’t forget.”
Joseph waited until silence had fallen again, then looked at Amos with concern. “Something is wrong with you, my brother?”
Amos looked at his plate. “No,” he said. He gestured Joseph to a seat, but stood himself, his hands clasped behind his back. “There is nothing wrong with me. This concerns Rachel.” He held up his hand to forestall Joseph’s protest. “Let me finish. She came here the other night, furious, raving. She claimed we were betrothed. Her eyes, Joseph! They were wild, and she shook . . . her face was so white.” He looked at his friend. “Our Rachel is shaking to pieces before our eyes. I am going to tell Chaundra what I have told you, and if he decides that she needs treatment, then she shall have it.”
Joseph nodded jerkily, resting his face in one hand. His shoulders moved convulsively, then he steadied.
“I am grateful that you share your thoughts with me,” he said. “Though you now stand as her father.”
“We have no Healer of Souls here, Joseph,” Amos said with deep remorse.
“So Rachel must lose her soul’s privacy before an infidel, an outsider,” Joseph replied.
“I had not thought you so pious.”
Joseph sighed, shaking his head wearily. “It is strange how ingrained is the training of one’s childhood. At the last, I find I, too, am a son of the Temple.”
“If you truly are against such procedures, I will not force her,” Amos said.
Joseph rose and gave Amos the embrace of brothers. “Thank you,” he said, “but, if my heart rebels, my mind tells me you are right . . . damnably right. That is an irritating habit you have, Amos ben Sierra Nueva.”
Amos grinned. “So I have been told. To myself not least, brother. Do you wish to be with her?”
Joseph hesitated, then shook his head. “No,” he said, after a moment. “As she is . . . it would be no kindness. I will continue with my work.” His mouth quirked. “Work is truly the mercy of God, as the Prophet said. No?”
“I find more truth in his words every time I return to them,” Amos replied seriously, his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Truth too strong for the chains of dogma. Go in peace.”
“To make ready for war,” Joseph observed.
Amos laughed ruefully. “Another truth the Prophet left us: ‘If you would have peace, then prepare for war.’ ”
“What a pity the Elders thought that meant the spiritual struggle alone,” Joseph said.
“The Prophet was a surprisingly practical man,” Amos observed. “I strive to emulate him.”
“You do so. You do so very well,” Joseph replied and bowed formally: a rare gesture between them.
“Let’s go get Seld Chaundra,” Joat suggested when Joseph caught up to her at the elevator. “We’re supposed to go into hiding when the pirates show up, so he’ll need to see this stuff, too.”
“I have no objection,” Joseph said mildly.
“You and Simeon-Amos fighting about something?” she asked bluntly.
“No.” Joseph shrugged. “We are angry together, at what is and cannot be changed.”
“Yeah, life’s like
that,” Joat observed.
They reached the main corridor and took two people movers down from the wall. Joseph looked a little dubious as he stepped onto the disk. As it silently lifted from the floor, he gripped the handhold tightly with one broad spatulate hand. Joat showed Joseph the address to tap to reach the Chaundras’ home. The little floatdisks took off, dodging agilely through traffic and summoning elevators when their route took to the upper decks.
Seld himself opened the door.
“Hi,” he said somewhat nervously.
“Hi, this is Joseph ben Said,” Joat said indicating the swarthy man beside her. “Simeon-Amos suggested that I take him round, and I thought you might like to come.”
“Aw, I’d love to,” he said, all eagerness which dissolved the next moment. “I can’t. I’m grounded.”
“You’re what?” Joat asked, puzzled.
Seld blushed to the roots of his auburn hair; the colors clashed horribly. “I’m being disciplined. I can’t leave our quarters.”
Joat’s expression was amused and aghast, Glad I don’t have parents, she thought. I won’t get stuck someplace I don’t want to be.
“Geeze, Seld, your dad can’t seem to get it right. First it’s too much ‘go,’ now it’s too much stay.” She shook her head in awe. “You can’t win playing that way. So come anyhow,” she added, cocking her head at him.
“I can’t,” he repeated, glancing nervously at Joseph. The Bethelite crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling, humming an idle tune.
“He’s okay,” Joat assured him. “Why not?”
“‘Cause Dad’s gonna call and check up on me.”
Joat rolled her eyes. “So call in to the answering machine ev’ry so often. If he’s called, you can call back and say he caught you in the head. He’s so worried about your safety, Seld, he should worry more if you don’t know this. You gotta know your way around the backside of the station. Hey! If it really bothers you we can ask Simeon to help, or Joseph . . . ?” She turned appealing eyes up to his.
Joseph uncrossed his arms. “I believe it could be put to your father—” He broke off, his eyes focused on some one in the corridor beyond Joat. “Rachel?”
Rachel bint Damscus stopped, looking him coldly up and down. “Well, Joseph ben Said. I wonder, do you have any messages that you are withholding from me?”
He was nonplussed. “Whatever are you talking about, my lady?”
“No lady of yours, peasant,” she said, spitting the last word at him, her eyes wide and flashing. “Amos told me that he had delegated you to inform me that he was moving in with that lanky, sallow-faced slut. But you, apparently, chose not to tell me. Why is that?”
“We are at war,” he said shortly. “Time is short. Rachel bint Damscus, be known to Joat,” he said, gesturing courteously to her, “the foster daughter of Simeon. Be known also to Seld Chaundra.”
Rachel looked at the two young people as though he had introduced her to a pair of rodents. “Simeon . . . ?” she said, picking up what was important to her.
“Yes,” he hissed in a whisper, moving closer to her. Not now, his expression said. Spare these children.
“Who is this ‘Simeon’ that everyone addresses with such respect?”
“He and Channa run the station,” Joat told her.
“Ah,” Rachel said, looking at her with a false smile, “does that make you the whore’s foster-daughter, too?”
Joseph’s hand moved very quickly, deflecting Joat’s hand, which was halfway to delivering what it held.
“Drop it,” he said. “Now, Joat.”
Struggling against his grip, Joat drew her lips back from her teeth, but she had to comply. The grip on her wrist was not tight enough to hurt, but it had the implacable solidity of a mechanical grab. The Bethelite wrenched the small square box from her with his other hand.
“Weapon?” he said, turning it over briefly. “Do not strike without thinking, Joat. And rarely from anger. That causes problems, always,” He handed her back the gadget. “Wait.”
Rachel’s face had turned an ugly mottled color, partly from fright and partly from being humiliated. Her complexion went brick-red as Joseph grabbed her by the upper arm and began to pull her further down the corridor.
“Take your hands from my arm, peasant,” she shouted. Joseph ignored her stolidly, as he did her attempts to halt their movement. “Let go of me!” she shrieked.
Passersby turned at the sound of her voice. Joseph cast a look up and down the corridor. There was little privacy here and none within easy reach. He released her arm and spoke in a firm low voice.
“My lady, you are not yourself. The coldsleep medications have affected your . . . balance. Please, accompany me to the sickbay and—”
“Yes! Back to the infidel doctor, so he can drug me, poison me, leave so-wonderful Amos to wallow between the thighs of that slut, that whore—”
He reached out a hand, a pleading gesture. Rachel struck it away with the contempt she would have dealt a spider.
“Don’t touch me, you peasant whore’s-get! You make me sick. Don’t touch me!”
She struck again, a hard ringing slap across his face, backhanding him again and again. Joseph’s head moved only a little on his thick muscular neck, although a trickle of blood started from his nose and the corner of his mouth. On the fourth slap, he caught her hand. She began to thrash, trying to free herself from that implacable grip. He turned her hand, exposing bleeding cuts where her knuckles had smashed against teeth and bone.
“My lady,” he said, cutting through her shrill cries. “Strike me if you will, but you will hurt your hand using it so. Here, take this.”
His free right hand made a small flip, and a knife appeared in it: a short leaf-bladed dagger with a plain leather-wrapped hilt, looking sharp enough to cut light. Rachel shrieked and pulled back again, but Joseph’s hand made another movement, holding out the hilt. He waited, his eyes on hers. Silence fell broken only by Rachel’s rapid, gasping breath. The bystanders were crowding away, their voices sunk to a murmur. Then Rachel pulled loose and ran, blundering into a corner as she scrambled out of sight down a side aisle.
Joseph clicked the knife into its wrist-sheath, his eyes thoughtful. Wiping his face on a kerchief, he returned to the two adolescents.
“I don’t think I like her,” Joat said laconically.
“I apologize,” he said quietly. “Lady Rachel was gently reared. She is suffering from stress and adverse reactions to medication.”
“She’s bughouse,” Joat said bluntly. He’s gone on her, she thought. Geh! What a fardlin‘ waste. People should reproduce the way bacteria did, splitting cells. That was cleaner. Even ungrudlies like Joe got strange when they had the hots.
Joseph frowned at her. “Negative reaction, as I said.”
“Yeah, bughouse, like I said. . . . Okay, forget it. How did you do that thing with the knife?”
“Spring-loaded sheath,” Joseph said, obviously relieved to change the subject. He bent back his wrist and showed them.
Joat glanced at Seld, caught his eye. He shook his head in silent agreement. Adults! They’re nuts.
Channa stumbled into the lounge and fell facefirst into the cushions of the couch. “I hate commuting,” she said with a theatrical groan.
“Hah!” was Simeon’s mocking comment. “Call that commuting? Why, in my grandfathers’ day . . .”
“In your grandfathers’ day,” she said pulling herself into a sitting position, “they probably commuted by ox-cart through subspace and drifts of snow fourteen feet high, and that was in high summer, being dive bombed by stinging insects the size of ore-freighters, just to borrow a cup of sugar from their next-door neighbor three light years away. I,” she said, indicating herself with a delicate hand and a raised eyebrow, “am not as hardy. And I hate to commute.”
“Not a problem I’m likely to have,” he commented.
“No!” she agreed.
“So I should just offer sympathy and und
erstanding,” he suggested.
“Absolutely, and I, of course, will accept this with gratitude as the very balm my bruised and battered spirit craves.”
“Poor baby.”
“Ah,” she sighed. “Well! I feel better. What’s new on the home front?”
“Apparently Joat’s gotten Seld grounded until he turns twenty-one.”
“How’d she manage that?”
“Chaundra disciplined him for staying behind and she talked him into exploring the station with her and Joseph.”
“Poor Seld. What’s Joat’s reaction?”
“Oh, it’s all her fault, she’s got the kiss of death or something—”
“Seld staying behind is her fault?”
“No, no. It’s all her fault. The minute we decided to adopt her, Bethel was attacked, so that Amos escaped, the pirates chased him and the station is now endangered. You see the logical sequence of events. One of her depressed moods.”
Those tended to be temporary but of unpredictable duration.
“I can’t deny,” she said, fighting a laugh, “that the logic’s inescapable when the data is structured in that fashion.”
They were still laughing when Amos came in.
“What causes such merriment?” he asked, grinning.
Channa looked at his handsome face, and it seemed to her that for a moment the station stood still.
“Oh,” Simeon told him, “the horrors of being twelve.”
Amos shuddered. “Indeed,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Would that all horrors were both so transient and so amusing in retrospect. I fell in love with the cook. When that was over, I decided I was religiously inspired—and never recovered from that.”
Channa gave an involuntary snort of laughter, glanced over at him to be sure, then dissolved in whooping gales of laughter.
“At least,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, “you don’t take yourself too seriously.”
“I cannot afford to,” Amos said, bowing with hand on breast. “Far too many others do. If their prophet cannot laugh at himself now and then, they are lost as well.”
“My adolescence was worse,” Simeon said. They turned and looked at the pillar. “Imagine my pure, unsullied, young self thrust among hardened asteroid miners.”