Jebel Tarik
Real, Grimy, and exiled, he
eludes us.
I would show him books and bridges.
I would make a language we could all speak.
No blond fantasy
Mother has sent to plague us in the Spring, he has his own bad dreams, needs work, gets drunk,
maybe would not have chosen to be beautiful.
—from The Navigators
You have imposed upon me a treaty of silence.
—from The Song of Liadan
1
ABSTRACT THOUGHTS IN A blue room: Nominative, genitive, elative, accusative one, accusative two, ablative, partitive, illative, instructive, abessive, adessive, inessive, essive, allative, translative, comitative. Sixteen cases to the Finnish noun. Odd, some languages get by with only singular and plural. The North American Indian languages even failed to distinguish number. Except Sioux, in which there was a plural only for animate objects. The blue room was round and warm and smooth. No way to say warm in French. There was only hot and tepid. If there’s no word for it, how do you think about it? And, if there isn’t the proper form, you don’t have the how even if you have the words. Imagine, in Spanish, having to assign a gender to every object: dog, table, tree, can opener. Imagine, in Hungarian, not being able to assign a gender to anything: he, she, it all the same word. Thou art my friend, but you are my king; thus the distinctions of Elizabeth the First’s English. But with some oriental languages, which all but dispense with gender and number, you are my friend, you are my parent, and YOU are my priest, and YOU are my king, and YOU are my servant, and You are my servant whom I’m going to fire tomorrow if You don’t watch it, and YOU are my king whose policies I totally disagree with and have sawdust in YOUR head instead of brains, YOUR highness, and YOU may be my friend, but I’m still gonna smack YOU up side the head if YOU ever say that to me again: and who the hell are you anyway…?
What’s your name? she thought in a round warm blue room.
Thoughts without a name in a blue room: Ursula, Priscilla, Barbara, Mary, Mona, and Natica: respectively, Bear, Old Lady, Chatterbox, Bitter, Monkey, and Buttock. Name. Names? What’s in a name? What name am I in? In my father’s father’s land, his name would come first, Wong Rydra. In Mollya’s home, I would not bear my father’s name at all, but my mother’s. Words are names for things. In Plato’s time things were names for ideas—what better description of the Platonic Ideal? But were words names for things, or was that just a bit of semantic confusion? Words were symbols for whole categories of things, where a name was put to a single object: a name on something that requires a symbol jars, making humor. A symbol on something that takes a name jars, too: a memory that contained a torn window shade, his liquored breath, her outrage, and crumpled clothing wedged behind a chipped, cheap night table, “All right, woman, come here!” and she had whispered, with her hands achingly tight on the brass bar, “My name is Rydra!” An individual, a thing apart from its environment, and apart from all things in that environment; an individual was a type of thing for which symbols were inadequate, and so names were invented. I am invented. I am not a round warm blue room. I am someone in that room; I am—
Her lids had been half-closed on her eyeballs. She opened them and came up suddenly against a restraining web. It knocked her breath out, and she fell back, turning about to look at the room.
No.
She didn’t “look at the room.”
She “somethinged at the something.” The first something was a tiny vocable that implied an immediate, but passive, perception that could be aural or olfactory as well as visual. The second something was three equally tiny phonemes that blended at different musical pitches: one, an indicator that fixed the size of the chamber at roughly twenty-five feet cubical, the second identifying the color and probable substance of the walls—some blue metal—while the third was at once a placeholder for particles that should denote the room’s function when she discovered it, and a sort of grammatical tag by which she could refer to the whole experience with only the one symbol for as long as she needed. All four sounds took less time on her tongue and in her mind than the one clumsy diphthong in “room.” Babel-17; she had felt it before with other languages, the opening, the widening, the mind forced to sudden growth. But this, this was like the sudden focusing of a lens blurry for years.
She sat up again. Function?
What was the room used for? She rose slowly, and the web caught her around the chest. Some sort of infirmary. She looked down at the…not “webbing,” but rather a three-particle vowel differential, each particle of which defined one stress of the three-way tie, so that the weakest points in the mesh were identified when the total sound of the differential reached its lowest point. By breaking the threads at these points, she realized, the whole web would unravel. Had she flailed at it, and not named it in this new language, it would have been more than secure enough to hold her. The transition from “memorized” to “known” had taken place while she had been—
Where had she been? Anticipation, excitement, fear! She pulled her mind back into English. Thinking in Babel-17 was like suddenly seeing all the way down through water to the bottom of a well that a moment ago you’d thought was only a few feet deep. She reeled with vertigo.
It took her a blink to register the others. Brass hung in the large hammock at the far wall—she saw the tines of one yellow claw over the rim. The two smaller hammocks on the other side must have been platoon kids. Above one edge she saw shiny black hair as a head turned in sleep: Carlos. She couldn’t see the third. Curiosity made a small, unfriendly fist on something important in her lower abdomen.
Then the wall faded.
She had been about to try and fix herself, if not in place and hour, at least in some set of possibilities. With the fading wall, the attempt stopped. She watched.
It happened in the upper part of the wall to her left. It glowed, grew transparent, and a tongue of metal formed in the air, sloping gently toward her.
Three men:
The closest, at the ramp’s head, had a face like brown rock cut roughly and put together fast. He wore an outdated garment, the sort that had preceded contour capes. It automatically formed to the body, but was made of porous plastic and looked rather like armor. A black, deep-piled material cloaked one shoulder and arm. His worn sandals were laced high on his calves. Tufts of fur beneath the thongs prevented chafing. His only cosmetisurgery was false silver hair and upswept metallic eyebrows. From one distended earlobe hung a thick silver ring. He touched his vibra-gun holster resting on his stomach as he looked from hammock to hammock.
The second man stepped in front. He was a slim, fantastic concoction of cosmetisurgical invention, sort of a griffin, sort of a monkey, sort of a sea horse: scales, feathers, claws, and beak had been grafted to a body she was sure had originally resembled a cat’s. He crouched at the first man’s side, squatting on surgically distended haunches, brushing his knuckles on the metal flooring. He glanced up as the first man absently reached down to scratch his head.
Rydra waited for them to speak. A word would release identification: Alliance or Invader. Her mind was ready to spring on whatever tongue they spoke, to extract what she knew of its thinking habits, tendencies toward logical ambiguities, absence of presence of verbal rigor, in whatever areas she might take advantage of—
The second man moved back and she saw the third who still stood at the rear. Taller, and more powerfully built than the others, he wore only a breech, was mildly round-shouldered. Grafted onto his wrists and heels were cock spurs—they were sometimes sported by the lower elements of the Transport underworld, and bore the same significance as brass knuckles or blackjacks of centuries past. His head had been recently shaved and the hair had started back in a dark, static-electric brush. Around one knotty bicep was a band of red flesh, like a blood bruise or inflamed scar. The brand had become so common on characters in mystery novels five years back that now it had been nearly dr
opped as a hopeless cliché. It was a convict’s mark from the penal caves of Titin. Something about him was brutal enough to make her glance away. Something was graceful enough to make her look back.
The two on the head of the ramp turned to the third. She waited for words, to define, fix, identify. They looked at her, then walked into the wall. The ramp began to retract.
She pushed herself up. “Please,” she called out. “Where are we?”
The silver-haired man said, “Jebel Tarik.” The wall solidified.
Rydra looked down at the web (which was something else in another language) popped one cord, popped another. The tension gave, till it unraveled and she jumped to the floor. As she stood she saw the other platoon kid was Kile, who worked with Lizzy in Repair. Brass had started struggling. “Keep still a second.” She began to pop cords.
“What did he say to you?” Brass wanted to know. “Was that his name, or was he telling you to lie down and shut u’?”
She shrugged and broke another. “Jebel, that’s mountain in Old Moorish. Tarik’s Mountain, maybe.”
Brass sat up as the frayed string fell. “How do you do that?” he asked. “I pushed against the thing for ten minutes and it wouldn’t give.”
“Tell you some other time. Tarik could be somebody’s name.”
Brass looked back at the broken web, clawed behind one tufted ear, then shook his puzzled head and reared.
“At least they’re not Invaders,” Rydra said.
“Who says?”
“I doubt that many humans on the other side of the axis have even heard of Old Moorish. The Earthmen who migrated there all came from North and South America before Americasia was formed and Pan Africa swallowed up Europe. Besides, the Titin penal caves are inside Caesar.”
“Oh, yeah,” Brass said. “Him. But that don’t mean one of its alumni has to be.”
She looked at where the wall had opened. Grasping their situation seemed as futile as grasping that blue metal.
“What the hell ha’’ened anyway?”
“We took off without a pilot,” Rydra said. “I guess whoever broadcast in Babel-17 can also broadcast English.”
“I don’t think we took off without a ’ilot. Who did Slug talk to just before we shot? If we didn’t have a ’ilot, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be a grease s’ot on the nearest, biggest sun.”
“Probably whoever cracked those circuit boards.” Rydra cast her mind into the past as the plaster of unconsciousness crumbled. “I guess the saboteur doesn’t want to kill me. TW-55 could have picked me off as easily as he picked off the Baron.”
“I wonder if the s’y on the shi’ s’eaks Babel-17 too?”
Rydra nodded. “So do I.”
Brass looked around. “Is this all there is? Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“Sir, Ma’am…?”
They turned.
Another opening in the wall. A skinny girl, with a green scarf binding back brown hair, held out a bowl.
“The master said you were about, so I brought this.” Her eyes were dark and large, and the lids beat like bird wings. She gestured with the bowl.
Rydra responded to her openness, yet also detected a fear of strangers. But the thin fingers grasped surely on the bowl’s edge. “You’re kind to bring this.”
The girl bowed slightly and smiled.
“You’re frightened of us, I know,” Rydra said. “You shouldn’t be.”
The fear was leaving; bony shoulders relaxed.
“What’s your master’s name?” Rydra asked.
“Tarik.”
Rydra looked back and nodded, to Brass.
“And we’re in Tarik’s Mountain?” She took the bowl from the girl. “How did we get here?”
“He hooked your ship up from the center of the Cygnus-42 nova just before your stasis generators failed this side of the jump.”
Brass hissed, his substitute for a whistle. “No wonder we went unconscious. We did some fast drifting.”
The thought pulled the plug from Rydra’s stomach. “Then we did drift into a nova area. Maybe we didn’t have a pilot after all.”
Brass removed the white napkin from the bowl. “Have some chicken, Ca’tain.” It was roasted and still hot.
“In a minute,” she said. “I have to think about that one some more.” She turned back to the girl. “Tarik’s Mountain is a ship, then. And we’re on it?”
The girl put her hands behind her back and nodded. “And it’s a good ship, too.”
“I’m sure you don’t take passengers. What cargo do you haul?”
She had asked the wrong question. Fear again; not a personal distrust of strangers, something formal and pervasive. “We carry no cargo, ma’am.” Then she blurted, “I’m not supposed to talk to you none. You have to speak with Tarik.” She backed into the wall.
“Brass,” Rydra said, turning and scratching her head, “there’re no space-pirates anymore, are there?”
“There haven’t been any hijacks on transport ships for seventy years.”
“That’s what I thought. So what sort of ship are we on?”
“Beats me.” Then the burnished planes of his cheeks shifted in the blue light. Silken brows pulled down over the deep disks of his eyes. “Hooked the Rimbaud out of the Cygnus-42? I guess I know why they call it Tarik’s Mountain. This thing must be big as a damned battleshi’.”
“If it is a warship, Tarik doesn’t look like any stellarman I ever saw.”
“And they don’t allow ex-convicts in the army, anyway. What do you think we’ve stumbled on, Ca’tain?”
She took a drumstick from the bowl. “I guess we wait till we speak to Tarik.” There was a movement in the other hammocks. “I hope the kids are all right. Why didn’t I ask that girl if the rest of the crew was aboard?” She strode to Carlos’ hammock. “How do you feel this morning?” she asked brightly. For the first time she saw the snaps that held the webbing to the underside of the sling.
“My head,” Carlos said, grinning. “I got a hangover, I think.”
“Not with that leer on your face. What do you know about hangovers, anyway?” The snaps took three times as long to undo as breaking the net.
“The wine,” Carlos said, “at the party. I had a lot. Hey, what happened?”
“Tell you when I find out. Upsy-daisy.” She tipped the hammock and he rolled to his feet.
Carlos pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Kile’s over there. That’s all of us in this room.”
Brass had freed Kile, who sat on the hammock edge now, trying to put his knuckles up his nose.
“Hey, baby,” Carlos said. “You all right?”
Kile ran his toes up and down his Achilles tendon, yawned, and said something unintelligible at the same time.
“You did not,” Carlos said, “because I checked it just as soon as I got in.”
Oh well, she thought, there were still languages left at which she might gain more fluency.
Kile was scratching his elbow now. Suddenly he stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth and looked up.
So did Rydra.
The ramp was extending from the wall again. This time it joined the floor.
“Will you come with me, Rydra Wong?”
Tarik, holstered and silver-haired, stood in the dark opening.
“The rest of my crew,” Rydra said, “are they all right?”
“They are all in other wards. If you wish to see them—”
“Are they all right?”
Tarik nodded.
Rydra thumped Carlos on his head. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered.
The commons was arched and balconied, its walls dull as rock. The expanses were hung with green and crimson zodiac signs or representations of battles. And the stars—at first, she thought the light-flecked void beyond the gallery columns was an actual view-port; but it was only a great hundred-foot-long projection of the night beyond their ship.
Men an
d women sat and talked around wooden tables, or lounged by the walls. Down a broad set of steps was a wide counter filled with food and pitchers. The opening hung with pots, pans, and platters, and behind it she saw the aluminum and white recess of the galley where aproned men and women prepared dinner.
The company turned when they entered. Those nearest touched their foreheads in salute. She followed Tarik to the raised steps and walked to the cushioned benches at the top.
The griffin man came scurrying up. “Master, this is she?” Tarik turned to Rydra, his rocky face softening. “This is my amusement, my distraction, my ease of ire, Captain Wong. In him I keep the sense of humor that all around will tell you I lack. Hey, Klik, leap up and straighten the seats for conference.”
The feathered head ducked brightly, black eye winking, and Klik whacked the cushions puffy. A moment later Tarik and Rydra sank into them.
“Tarik,” asked Rydra, “what route does your ship run?”
“We stay in the Specelli Snap.” He pushed his cape back from his three-knobbed shoulder. “What was your original position before you were caught up in the noval tide?”
“We…took off from the War Yards at Armsedge.”
Tarik nodded. “You are fortunate. Most shadow-ships would have left you to emerge in the nova when your generators gave out. It would have been a rather final discorporation.”
“I guess so.” Rydra felt her stomach sink at the memory. Then she asked, “Shadow-ships…?”
“Yes. That’s Jebel Tarik.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what a shadow-ship is.”
Tarik laughed, a soft, rough sound in the back of his throat. “Perhaps it’s just as well. I hope you never have occasion to wish I had not told you.”
“Go ahead,” Rydra said. “I’m listening.”
“The Specelli Snap is radio-dense. A ship, even a mountain like Tarik, over any long-range is undetectable. It also runs across the stasis side of Cancer.”
“That galaxy lies under the Invaders,” Rydra said, with conditioned apprehension.
“The Snap is the boundary along Cancer’s edge. We…patrol the area and keep the Invader ships…in their place.”