“And where are we flying?”
“Don’t know.”
“Purpose?”
“Don’t know that, either.”
“Sounds marvelous, Captain …”
“I know how it sounds. But I have already accepted the offer.”
“Perhaps you just didn’t have a choice?”
She had guessed right, so Alex decided it would be better to say nothing.
“All right … I’m Janet Ruello, forty-six years of age, doctor-spesh, cargo technician …” She hesitated a split second and continued, “… gunner-spesh, linguist-spesh, junior pilot-spesh, ready to consider your offer.”
Alex pushed away his sake cup. Looked hard at Ruello. She was absolutely serious.
“Four specializations?”
“Five. But the fifth one is irrelevant.”
“I’d like to know what it is anyway.”
An angry irony appeared in the woman’s dark eyes.
“Executioner-spesh. Officially, it has another name, but that’s what it is. Actually, that is my main specialization.”
“You’re from Eben!” exclaimed Alex, finally catching on. “Damn …”
“Yes, I am.” The woman glared back at him. “The planet Eben is quarantined. I was born there. I served in the Mutual Understanding Corporation until the age of thirty. Was taken prisoner of war during the battle of Pokryvalo. Five years of psychotherapy. Temporary citizenship of the Empire, with a permit to work and reproduce.”
Now it was clear to Alex why this woman with five—well, let it be four—specializations was wearing the pin of a cargo technician, a profession she had acquired on her own.
“What is your decision?” she asked dryly.
“May I ask you something, off the record?”
“Yes. I think that would be fine …” She looked suddenly embarrassed.
“Do you have any experience with determining specialization?”
Janet shrugged.
“Well, I’m not an expert, of course, but I have some experience. It’s standard procedure in our fleet to determine which specialization will turn out to be the dominant one, and whether there are any physiological conflicts in the body. For example, the work of a doctor and a detective cannot be combined for psychological reasons, and the jobs of a navigator and a pilot because of physiology. Everybody knows that, but there are many situations which are much more complicated.”
Janet, it seemed, was happy to talk. Alex nodded, satisfied with her answer, and then asked, “And why did you lose the war so quickly? Ten years ago, Eben’s fleet almost matched the firepower of the Imperial forces. And you had all that training … each person had at least three specializations, right? I mean, what happened?”
“You really don’t know?” A slight note of surprise flashed in Janet’s voice. “We had not been trained to fight against humans! Quite the opposite … We believed that the human race had to rule the universe. Another six months, or a year, and nothing could have stopped us, believe me. Oh, Deus Irae! Our Liturgy-class space cruisers could have blasted off a star’s photosphere, turning it into a supernova! The cleansing fire that would have burned away all the planets of the Others!”
“Good thing you didn’t have the time to build those cruisers!” said Alex, closely watching Janet’s reaction.
“Not so. Two cruisers were ready. They couldn’t have broken through to the sectors of the Others, but to blow away the Sun or Sirius—child’s play!” she laughed without mirth. “My dear Captain, we could not fight against humans! It was a shortcoming of our own propaganda. We could cajole, or beg, or explain … take prisoners and brainwash them … but to kill our own kind …”
“The Empire also suffered losses …”
“Mostly by accident. Sometimes as a result of nervous breakdowns. Some officers shot to kill and then sent a ray into their own heads, as soon as they realized that they had killed their blood brothers. You didn’t have such problems.”
“Last question, Janet. Forgive me, but I have to ask.”
“Go ahead. I understand.”
“What is your present attitude toward Eben’s ideology? Put yourself in my shoes … to have a person aboard who was born to exterminate any non-human intelligence …”
“I still hold firm to my view that the human race is the ideal one in the universe. Chosen by the Creator.” Janet was silent for a moment, and then added rather dryly, “Alex, you do understand that the consequences of a specialization are irreversible. Absolutely irreversible.”
“But how do you manage to lead a normal life, if you still believe that so strongly?” Alex looked around to see if he could find at least one of the Others. Quicksilver Pit was far from the frontier, but some trading vessels of the Others did fly here. Too bad—there were no non-humans in the cafe. Not a single bulky, clumsy Fenhuan, wrapped into folds of pseudo-feathers, nor a small and agile Bronin, nor a Zzygou … not that those “fragrant” creatures would be allowed to come into a restaurant.
“Now I am convinced,” said Janet very firmly, “that the xenocidal methods of our ruling church were a disastrous mistake. They are unacceptable for moral and ethical reasons, because by killing the Others without being threatened ourselves, we would be dropping down to their level. The human race must conquer the galaxy by peaceful methods, by perfecting our technology and biotechnology, expanding to other planets, creating beauty, and multiplying vigorously. That is the way to drive the defective races to extinction, clearing the galactic space for us humans. I am even inclined to think that we would then have a duty to preserve their cultural monuments, establish museums and memorials, and use every opportunity to keep the remnants of their worlds’ biodiversity in zoos and on reservations.”
“And you live your life based on these convictions?”
“Yes, of course. In the ten years since my liberation, I have given birth to four healthy and intelligent children, and specialized them in socially useful, peaceful professions.” She thought for a moment, and then added, “Well, nominally peaceful … You don’t have to worry, Captain. When I see one of the Others, I won’t remember any methods to exterminate it. Unless there is imminent danger.”
“All right, then. If the contract and the ship suit you …”
Janet nodded. A slight smile appeared on her face.
“I think they will suit me. I would prefer a job in cargo, but being a doctor won’t be bad. All my other specializations are much more unpleasant. You need recommendations from previous employers?”
“Yes, please. I have no doubt that your qualifications are excellent, but that’s the procedure.”
Alex handed her one of the copies of the contract he had brought with him, and they had another drink to seal the preliminary agreement. Then Janet left.
Alex’s cigar had long smoldered to ashes. In any case, he was supposed to order another one, and so he did.
A medical doctor from Eben … that was a great irony of fate. Well, fate was a master of irony.
He had absolutely no doubts about Janet’s professional qualities. All of her other specializations were a definite plus, even if she never got to use them. She was practically incapable of aggression towards humans because of the shortcoming of Eben’s propaganda machine, the shortcoming which had enabled the Empire to quarantine the planet, to seal it off from the rest of the galaxy.
But would Janet lose it at the sight of a non-human? Would she remember her specialization of executioner-spesh? No, that was hardly possible. She had, after all, been released by the military psychologists, free to interact with society, even have contact with the Others. The psychologists must have been sure of their tactics. Come to think of it, that was a very clever solution to the problem. They did not touch the main postulate of the Ebenian worldview—namely, the idea that humanity was the master race. All they did was convince the POWs of the necessity of using peaceful means to achieve galactic domination. So out of a hundred thousand raging prisoners who would never again see
their unfortunate home world, they got a hundred thousand well-qualified speshes who were also fanatically loyal to humanity. The military was forbidden to recruit them, as far as Alex knew. In the military, their faith might acquire thousands of new believers, and the psychological blocks could be dashed to pieces.
“Captain?”
This fellow was very young, barely twenty. Obviously right out of the academy.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a vacancy for an engineer-spesh?”
People were all so impatient today for some reason! Alex had had occasion to witness a hiring ritual conducted by his former captain, Richard Klein—or Roaring Richard, as others used to call him behind his back. During the hiring, Richard seemed to be a completely different person—thorough, patient, even somewhat drowsy. And those who approached his table behaved the same way …
“Yes, I do.”
“Will I suit you?”
The guy was also a typical Europeoid, and, of course, a spesh—otherwise he could not be an engineer. His skin was really pink, ruddy. He had a bit of a baby face, with sparkling, slightly bulging eyes. His long dark-gray hair lay heavy on his shoulders like a lead screen, which was its function, after all. Making a person resistant to radiation was no easy task. To give just one example—while at work, his testicles had to be retracted inside the pelvic cavity.
“Take a look at the contract,” said Alex, handing the fellow a copy. “Gluon reactors, have you had any experience with them?”
“No real work experience,” replied the youth absently, reading through the contract. “But I know them well. My last year of school, that’s all we studied. And I got here on a ship with gluon engines.”
“Did you get your training on Earth?”
“Yes, of course.” He paused to think about one of the contract stipulations, and it occurred to Alex that the young fellow might not be as naive as he looked.
A sudden thought made Alex ask, “And what was the name of the ship that brought you here?”
“The Intrepid. It was a yacht, with a name like a military cruiser …” The fellow looked up from the contract, then nodded. “I like your offer. I don’t really want to fly large ships, just yet. If you agree to take an engineer with only two weeks’ work experience, I’ll be on my way to pack.”
“Well, we’ll risk it, son,” said Alex, unsuccessfully trying to give his tone of voice a dash of Richard Klein’s haughtiness. “We all had to start somewhere, right?”
Naturally, he wouldn’t tell the youth that the post of engineer was the only one where a young recent graduate would actually be preferred. The reason was that any experience working with one type of reactor did nothing to prepare you to work with another type. The behavior of the gluon stream was not statistically predictable, and taking aboard a young novice who was not overloaded with habits would be better than working with an experienced veteran.
“Thank you,” said the youngster candidly. “You won’t regret it, sir! I, Paul Lourier, nineteen years of age, engineer-spesh, accept your contract.”
Unlike all the others interviewed so far, he did not even ask to see the ship. He just signed the contract. Alex promised himself that he’d fight to get the fellow a bonus at the first opportunity. Such acts of trust should be rewarded.
“May I?”
The next candidate was wearing a plaid kilt and a loose-fitting bright blue shirt. He was sturdy, and red-headed, but with his almond-shaped eyes, he looked positively Asian. He had an earring in his left ear, and a clip player in his right. His long hair was tightened into a braid. His cheeks bore iridescent spiral drawings—maybe tattoos, maybe just cosmetics. For a few seconds, Alex tried to determine the man’s specialization, then gave it up and nodded. Poured a cup of sake.
This candidate also chose to take the bull by the horns.
“Do you need a navigator?”
“Yes.”
“Then take a look at this.”
He produced a pack of recommendation letters and put them down before Alex.
The collection was impressive. Five years of service in the Imperial Forces on a great variety of different types of vessels, from torpedo boats to battle cruisers. He had changed ships suspiciously often, but at the same time, his recommendations were stellar. “Energy conservation” … “Calculation of hyper-jump in a battle situation” … “During an instrument failure, accomplished ship orientation manually” … “Successfully repaired equipment … guided solely by intuition, despite a complete lack of experience in the area …”
“Puck Generalov, you’ve changed your place of employment rather frequently,” noted Alex. And something else bothered him about the stellar recommendations. But what was it?
“That’s just my personality.” The navigator straightened a fold on his kilt, threw one leg over the other. Took a tiny sip of sake. “Just personality. But no one has ever had any complaints about me as a professional.”
“Are you conflict-prone?”
“That would be reflected in the documents, Captain.”
“That’s right. Still … I have a small ship. Will a job as a navigator on a yacht suit you?”
“Absolutely. I like small and fast ships.”
Generalov took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, took one out, struck a match on the tabletop, and lit up. Then he inquired, “By the way, I’m gay. Does that bother you?”
“Should it?” said Alex, confused.
“Well, you know, there are many different approaches to ethics …”
“I’m from Earth. You don’t have to worry about me being prejudiced,” answered Alex dryly. Something was still bothering him, but what was it? “I guess you’d want to see the ship? I expect all the crewmembers to show up for a meeting tomorrow morning.”
The navigator nodded again. And mentioned casually, “Oh, and by the way, I am also a natural. Would that be a problem?”
Alex was stunned, speechless.
Of course, not all astronauts were speshes. Only a few occupations absolutely required a modified body and mind—engineers, tactical commanders, linguists, and a few other rare professions. All the rest were theoretically open to the naturals. Alex knew some among ship doctors, among gunners … he had even met one natural who had been a pilot, though the guy was very old. But to become a navigator! To hold in your mind the five-dimensional picture of the universe, fifteen hundred main hyper-channels, a minimum of thirty thousand known routes, and at least three hundred thousand gravitational peaks …
A navigator did not just have to have increased intuition and a sense of space as good as a pilot’s. First and foremost, he had to have a mind that worked like a computer, a transformed nervous system, with strengthened logical capacity and reduced emotional reactions … This was what had roused Alex’s suspicions. In all the recommendations, however stellar and laudatory, there was no mention of the word “spesh.”
“I don’t have to worry about your being prejudiced, right?” asked Generalov politely. Alex forced himself to nod.
“No … You don’t have to worry … I’m taking you aboard … that is, if the ship and the contract suit you.”
The kilt-wearing man watched him, picking at his ear clip. Maybe he was trying to tune it to another station, or maybe he was simply nervous.
“There’s the answer to your question,” he said all of a sudden.
“What question?”
“Why I change ships so frequently. You fell into the usual trap. It’s hard to admit to being prejudiced, but working alongside a natural is unpleasant. You’ll take me aboard and then try to get rid of me at the first opportunity. With the best of references, of course, because pilots can’t lie.”
“Yes, we can.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Captain. We haven’t signed the contract yet—I can ignore seniority for the moment. So let me just say …” Generalov puffed his cigarette, smiled. “… this would, by the way, be another chance for you to back out. Who needs a troublemaker for a navigat
or? And no, Captain, you are not capable of lying. The capacity for love is removed in all pilots, and that’s very useful. Those who love are not inclined to take risks, except, of course, for the sake of those they love, and a pilot must be ready to die at any moment. But to balance it out, all your other moral qualities are enhanced—integrity, kindness, loyalty, generosity. I bet you’re the kind of guy who would jump out on the road to save a lousy mutt, and rescue kittens from a tree, and contribute to charity funds, and give alms to every beggar you pass. So, for you, lying is an agonizing process, extremely unpleasant and almost impossible. Pilots prefer to keep things back, or to dodge the question, rather than lie. You do resent me, don’t you?”
“No,” Alex forced himself to say.
Respect lit up Generalov’s eyes for a moment.
“You are a strong man, Captain. What’s your sign?”
“Aries.”
“And I’m a Virgo.” Generalov smiled. “It’s a good combination, you know. We’ll get along. Give me that contract of yours!”
Alex silently handed him the form.
Puck looked through the standard lines, shrugged at the numbers.
“Not bad …”
He licked his finger and pressed it down to the identification point. Then he separated the sheet in half, gave one part of it back to Alex, and stuck the other into a pocket on his kilt.
“You are now a crew member of the spaceship Mirror,” Alex told him.
At this, Generalov straightened up, as though he had been pierced through with a stiff pole, and his face lost the smirk he’d been wearing.
“Your orders, Captain.”
Only his eyes still retained a tiny spark of irony.
“To change into a standard navigator uniform. Get rid of facial paint. Be at the ship tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“That will be all.”
“Permission to spend the evening in the bar, Captain.”
“That is your business,” said Alex after a moment’s contemplation. “But I need you to be in top working shape in the morning.”
“Of course.” Puck seemed to be waiting for other orders.