Yondering Read online

  “OK,” I said to Ned, “let’s try to get through the door. It’ll probably knock us back.”

  It knocked us back. The repulsion field kicked in with a vengeance despite Ned yelling the first verse of Gert-by-Sea and thumbing his nose at the scanner. The Delegate’s systems had no idea who we were. The last two remaining drunks cheered as Ned dusted himself down.

  “Good try,” one of them said. “I’ll have a word with the beast, appeal to its better nature.”

  As the guy passed through the door he yelled, “Let them in, you half-witted lump of incharitable space debris, give the poor sods an even break, why don’t you, you moth-eaten.…”

  He was still cursing the ship and all its systems as he and his companion disappeared round a corner in the far passage. We were now the only people left in the muster area.

  “Well, I’m stuffed if I’m going to spend the whole trip in a waiting room,” Ned said. “Howabout we go back to Earth?”

  “Please state your name and crew number,” an automatic voice demanded from a concealed speaker.

  “Emceesquared Gonzalles della Harpenden,” I said. “I have no crew number.”

  “Please remain where you are, Ms. Harpenden. Will the other access-denied person please identify him or herself.”

  “I am the Ambassador for Yoof on Earth, Edward Malley, aka Ned. My number is twenty-two million, six hundred thousand, and thirty-four and a half. And like the guy said, let us in.”

  “Your Excellency will please remain where your Excellency currently is. An authorized admissions officer will contact you soon.”

  “It seems polite enough,” Ned said to me.

  “Don’t get smart,” I said. “The last thing we want is to be sent back to Earth. You know that.” We retreated to a row of chairs against one of the walls. Nothing happened for a while. For the first time in hours we were in complete silence.

  “This joint’s a bit light on for windows,” Ned said, waving at the walls.

  “It’s a spacecraft, for pete’s sake. Windows would be a design fault. And anyway, even if there were windows, they’d have to be in the floor. We’re in a spinning drum, remember?”

  “You make us sound like balls in a lottery.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  A flustered officer walked through the door. She was wearing a crisp uniform and was perfectly sober. She looked at us, looked around the muster room as if she was in search of someone else, and then walked over to us.

  “I take it one of you young whippersnappers claims ambassadorial status.”

  “We both do,” Ned said. “We are the Special Ambassadors for Yoof.”

  “How did you get onto the runabout?”

  “Sue-Ellen Harrison drove us there.”

  “Oh, her,” said the officer. “Ms. Sue-Ellen Harrison is an official translator provided by the Earth authorities; she is not Crew Recruitment.”

  “She’s great mates with Ulrike Lewis,” Ned said.

  “It is true that Her Excellency Ulrike Lewis is the most revered and honored member of this ship’s company,” said the officer. “But Her Excellency is not the captain of the ship. And she is no more in charge of crew recruitment than Ms. Harrison is.”

  “Lewis wants us to carry messages of youthful peace and good will to the Skyroans and Kovalevs,” Ned said. “We are prepared to shoulder that burden.”

  “Who taught you to speak Newharp?” the officer snapped.

  “She did,” Ned said, pointing at me with his thumb.

  “Well, she hasn’t done a very good job,” the officer said. “It is customary in polite Newharp discourse to use the terms of address and honorifics to which a person is entitled by virtue of his or her rank and social standing. Do I make myself clear, young man?”

  “What’s this old goat on about?” Ned said to me in English.

  “She wants you to refer to Lewis as Her Excellency,” I said in English.

  “Oh, god, one of those,” Ned said. Then he switched back to Newharp and said to the officer, “I’m sure Her Imperial High Majesty Ulrike von Lewis is most anxious that her Special Ambassadors for Yoof be given every assistance as they settle into the life of this esteemed spacecraft.”

  The officer looked as if she was going to give Ned another lecture, but she checked herself and said very primly, “If—and I stress if—you are permitted to remain on board The Delegate, you will be required to diligently discharge your duties.”

  “Sure,” Ned said. “We’ll be tip-top ambassadors, crash hot diplomats.”

  “The nature of the ceremonial duties you will be required to perform once we arrive at Skyros will be a matter for Her Excellency. However, while the ship is in flight you will perform the more mundane tasks allocated to you by an officer of this ship.”

  “I take it you are severely understaffed,” Ned said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Half the crew have jumped ship.”

  “It is possible that some vacancies may have arisen during our stay on Earth. We will only know this after the runabout has made its last shuttle flight. Now, what specialized work skills do you each possess?”

  “I’m an organ salesman,” Ned said. “Em’s a waitress and language teacher.”

  “An organ salesman?” The officer said, “You sell musical instruments to Christian churches? Hymns?”

  “Body parts,” Ned said. “Kidneys, eyeballs, hearts, arteries, the odd pancreas, all sorts of bits and pieces. I sell them door to door. I’m a rep.”

  “You will appreciate that there is no scope for your line of work on The Delegate.”

  “That sounds like defeatist talk to me,” Ned said. “A good salesman never sleeps. He’s always making one last pitch.”

  “We have a fully trained medical team on board. In cases where organ replacement therapy is indicated, the team can perform its duties without help from a salesman. Or rep.”

  “What if trade’s slack?”

  “It is not a trade.”

  “A good transplant surgeon needs constant practice. Use it or lose it, I say. With someone like me counseling the troops, the surgeon guys will never be out of work.”

  The officer shrugged and turned her attention to me. “Now, Ms. Harpenden, I understand from your companion here that you have waitressing skills.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “In what sort of establishment have you practiced this profession?”

  “The Dog and Harp,” I said. “An ethnic Newharp entertainment complex in Jackson’s Port.”

  “And this is a high-class establishment? Top end of the market?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Beside me Ned managed to turn a snort into a coughing fit. It was less than six hours since he’d burned the Dog to the ground, the whole greasy box of dice. The officer looked at Ned coldly but didn’t say anything. She returned her attention to me.

  “Do you think you could handle the formalities of the officers’ mess on this ship, Ms. Harpenden? The standards required of the serving staff are high.”

  “High!” Ned exploded. “High standards for that gang of bums?”

  “Mr. Malley!” The officer said.

  “Lady, we’ve just come up in the runabout. You can’t lecture us about high standards. We know these guys. We’ve got the measure of them.”

  “I’m talking about the officers’ mess. Not the crew’s. I am glad to say that the crew’s mess is entirely self-service, and no intoxicating beverages whatsoever are available. Your recent companions on the runabout have had the last drink they are going to have for a very long time. A very long time indeed.”

  “So what’s the price of moonshine in this tub?”

  There was a moment’s tense silence. You could tell that Ned had got it right: The Delegate was well served with illegal hooch stills. I broke the silence by telling the woman that I was sure I could handle the requirements of the officers’ mess.

  “Good,” she said. “A
nd I hope Malley here can handle the duties of a washer woman.”

  Ned burst out laughing. “A what?”

  “We have reason to believe that there will be a vacancy in the Ultra-c Accelerated Drive Tunnels Maintenance Detail—a dedicated group of men and women known colloquially as ‘the washer women’—both genders.”

  “These would be the guys most likely to jump ship?” Ned said. “We’re talking zero job satisfaction here?”

  “We believe there may be at least one vacancy.”

  “Well, it will have to do for a start, won’t it?” Ned said.

  * * * *

  Ned Talking

  The ambassadorial quarters were a bit mean, a bit cramped. Em and I each got a spin dryer to live in. They were in a bank of spin dryers stacked up three high along both sides of a narrow corridor. The corridor curved around the circumference of the ship. You were always at the bottom of the hill, and however much you tried to climb the hill, you stayed at the bottom. Not that it was hard work, it was just like walking on level ground. But you felt you were a rat on a treadmill. The spin dryers were clean and shiny, and once you got through the door, the hatch, there was enough room to lie full length or to sit up—but that was all. Us ambassadors weren’t going to do much pacing around our spacious suites. At the far end of the spin-dryer was a small telly screen and a few drawers to keep stuff in. Not that Em or I had any stuff.

  I climbed out of my dryer and stood in the corridor. Em climbed out of hers.

  “Roomy,” I said. “The spacious elegance of a Scott-Wok mansion.”

  “You’re not wrong, Idiot-boy,” she said. “This whole bloody ship is a palace.” She wasn’t joking.

  “Compared to what?” I said.

  “Compared to the smugglers’ rat-trap that Harri and I came to Earth in. What do you think?”

  “Depends what you’re used to,” I said. “Let’s go and find the mess. I’m starving.”

  “I just want a shower and then sleep.”

  “OK,” I said, “see you in the morning.”

  * * * *

  The crew’s mess, when I finally located it, was bleak. The crew was bleak. But what could you expect?—they were all hung over. Not really feeling up to solid food. There weren’t many present, and those that were were sitting around with their heads in their hands—groaning quietly. I didn’t reckon the kitchen staff were going to be run off their feet with demands for second helpings. Not that there were any kitchen staff in evidence. All the food came out of self-service machines. You just spoke your order and a tray appeared out of a slot with the required tucker onboard.

  I said, “Bowl of seaweed soup and a double helping of nine spice rolls with piquant sauce.” Then, just to be nice to the dumb machine, I said, “Please.”

  The dumb machine whizzed and groaned and the tray appeared. The food looked quite good, smelt good. And I wasn’t hung over, I was keen for a feed. I took the tray to a table and sat down.

  There was no cutlery—neither on the table nor on the tray. I went in search. I could find none. I tapped a hungover dude on the shoulder.

  “Hey, mate. About spoons and forks. You know, knives.”

  “There aren’t any,” the guy said without looking up. “The officers have got them all.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Someone flogged the silver.”

  “What silver?” I said.

  The guy took his head out of his hands and looked at me through bloodshot eyes. “You new?” he said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Earthling?”

  “Yep.”

  “You poor sap. You’re shipping out on a Newharp spacetub?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well listen, yeppster. What you’ve got to understand is that anything that isn’t nailed down walks.”

  “This happens on Earth as well,” I said.

  “Yeah, but on a spacetub, once stuff has walked out onto a planet, it can’t be replaced until you hit the next planet, get it?”

  “Yeah, I reckon I’ve got it. Somebody took all the knives and forks and sold them on Earth.”

  “No,” said the guy, “not all the knives and forks. Just all the knives and forks from the officers’ mess. You know, the real silver and gold stuff that they use every day. Whoever it was also took the ceremonial stuff with the precious stones and the rare metals and the inlays and all that crap. Fetch a packet on Earth. Those primatives’ll buy anything flashy—beads, tomahawks, blankets, brightly colored cloth….”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No offense meant, yeppster. But it’s your greedy Earthling mates who’ve left us with no eating irons.”

  “I thought you said it was only the officers’ stuff that got flogged.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So how come…?”

  “Well, the goddamned officers aren’t going to eat with their fingers, are they?”

  “They’ve gone and stolen the crew’s utensils?”

  “Stolen? You’ve a blunt way of speaking, yeppster. The officers don’t steal, they requisition, they commandeer, they reallocate, they.…”

  “So how are we meant to eat?”

  “Fingers. Rusty nails. Toothpicks.”

  “All bloody voyage! You seriously reckon we’ll be eating with our fingers until we reach Skyros?”

  “We could give up eating. I can’t say I feel very peckish myself at the moment.”

  “Gentlemen,” said a voice at my shoulder. “I couldn’t help overhearing your mournful discourse.”

  “Oh god,” said the first guy, lowering his head into his hands again. “Bloody Doe.”

  “At your service,” said John Doe. “You will be pleased to know that I just happen to have at my disposal a limited—and I stress limited—supply of very serviceable knives and forks that I picked up in a flea-market on Earth. Some metal, some plastic. I may even be able to run to a spoon or two.”

  “It figures,” mumbled the first guy.

  “It pays to do your market research,” John Doe said. “That way the honest trader can be in a position to satisfy the pressing desires of his customers.”

  “Market research,” the first guy said, still looking at the table. “Insider trading, more like. It was you who flogged the officers’ stuff in the first place. So you knew the crew was going to have a shortage of eating irons.”

  “This is a gross slander,” John Doe said without any anger that I could detect. “I would no more dispose of the ship’s possessions than.…”

  “Save us the lecture, Doe. We’ve heard it before. Or, at least, I have.…”

  “Let us leave this cynic to his own delusions,” Doe said to me. “Come, our food is getting cold.”

  He led the way to the table where I had left my soup and nine-spice rolls. There was now a second tray on the table, heaped with food.

  “Let us dine,” Doe said, producing a knife and fork from his sleeve like a conjurer at a kids’ party. He sat down and started to feed his face. I sat down in front of my own food. Doe didn’t offer me any eating implements. I took hold of the soup bowl and raised it to my lips. For a while we ate in silence, Doe using his implements, me just drinking from the bowl.

  “You’ve got some on your chin,” Doe said. “Here, allow me.” He leaned across the table, a silk handkerchief in his hand. In a second the guy had wiped my chin and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “I always find spoons make things easier to control,” he said. “Show me soup and I’ll show you a certified spoon opportunity.”

  “Sounds a bit fancy-pantsy to me,” I said. “Show me soup and I’ll show you an opportunity for animal behavior.”

  “Spoons raise us above the level of the beasts,” Doe said. “Knives and forks also.”

  “How many of the things have you got?”

  “As I said, a limited number.”

  “If I don’t buy now, I might miss out. That your message?”

  “You’re a bright boy.”

/>   “Also skint.”

  “Skint?”

  “Broke. Devoid of cash.”

  “Credit can be extended.”

  “By the way,” I said. “What do you get paid on this ship?”

  “Not enough,” Doe said. “It’s an advantage to have a second source of income.”

  “I’m an organ salesman myself.”

  “Got any organs to sell?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “You’d be better off in spoons. Here, have one. Also a knife and a fork. Pay me back next payday.”

  * * * *

  Em Talking

  The officers’ mess had all the charm of a leftover palace. It was ornate, covered in deep carpet, richly patterned; the tables, which curved with the curvature of the ship, were wooden, richly polished; hunting trophies adorned the walls; old flags of long dead intergalactics hung from poles that jutted out from the bulkheads. The lighting was subdued; there were silver candlesticks on the tables, and fresh flowers, most of which I recognized from Earth, but some from home. Did the ship have its own greenhouse? The cutlery was pretty ordinary: great solid clunky knives and forks made of stainless steel. Spoons like ladles. Tamara, the shift supervisor who was showing me around, said, “The officers aren’t too thrilled with these things; the proper stuff got stolen.”

  “Who by?”

  “It pays not to know.”

  * * * *

  Waiting on the tables wasn’t too hard once I’d learned the ritual. Anybody who could handle the Dog and Harp could handle this place. I didn’t get to wait on High Table, but I got to see Ulrike Lewis in person for the first time in my life. It was a bit of a shock. I knew she was old, but I was unprepared for the wizened crone who held court at High Table. Still, as far as I could tell, looking quickly sideways while purveying food to the junior officers, she managed to hold her own. The glittering, high-ranking officers at High Table all laughed at Her Excellency’s jokes.

  One of the regulars at a table I did wait on was the officer who’d allowed Ned and myself onto the ship. I suppose I was indebted to her, but I can’t say I warmed to her. She seemed to be in a constant state of suppressed fury. Her name was Flight Regulator Montesquieu. Her fellow officers addressed her as Monty. Usually she hardly acknowledged my presence. But one evening, after we’d been in-flight for about a week, she spoke directly to me while I was dishing out plates of battered darkfish.