Blood and Fire (32 page)

Williger levered herself out of her seat and crossed to the robot, stopping several paces away to run a scanner up and down in the air before her. Having established background levels, she approached the machine slowly, still continuing to scan. “No traces,” she said, folding the instrument away and reattaching it to her belt. She and Quilla Gamma both stepped over to the robot then and began to unclip the rack of biosamples.

When they were done, Williger handed the tray to the Quilla and said, “Take this to Med Bay. Be extremely careful.” The Quilla nodded and exited.

“All right,” said Williger, facing Parsons. “The easy part of the problem is solved—” She pushed past the captain and headed aft, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “When this is over, I'm going to have a lot more to say. None of it pleasant.”

Parsons glanced forward. “Good job, Mr. Shibano. Take a ten-minute shower and a two-hour power nap. I'll want you back on duty at 1400 hours.”

“Aye, Captain.” Shibano followed Williger aft.

Parsons looked to Korie. “Any questions?”

Korie smiled. “No, Captain. No questions. Thank you for an instructive experience.”

“We're not done yet,” she said, pointing aft. “Wardroom. Let's get some chow. We have some other things to settle.”

Armstrong found Quilla Omega in the farm. The tall blue man was pushing a harvest cart along the rows of plants, gathering vegetables for the evening salad—tomatoes, corn, winged beans, celery, scallions, cucumbers, carrots, purple cabbage, chtorr-berries and several different kinds of lettuce.

Omega stopped what he was doing and looked up as Armstrong approached. “Yes, Brian?” he said.

“I came to apologize.”

“No apologies are necessary.”

“Not for you, maybe, but for me. I learned something today.”

“Yes?”

“I learned why there are Quillas aboard a starship. I never thought about it before. I always just took it for granted that you were here as servants and ... and ... and you know. Sex partners. I didn't think of you as fully human. Like the rest of us, I mean. I didn't understand. Even when you tried to tell me, I didn't hear it.

“But ... a little while ago, I sat with Easton. He's taking Berryman's death very hard. He cries. He rages. He's so angry, it's scary—except he doesn't know who to be angry at. So then he cries again. And I don't know what to do. I kept saying to him, ‘Let me get a Quilla. They're better at this. They know what to do. I don't know what to say.' But he'd grab my arm and say, ‘No, Brian—I don't want a Quilla. I want someone I can talk to. I tried to tell him I'm not a good talker, but he said he didn't care. He said, ‘That's okay, you're a good listener.'” Armstrong shrugged and half-smiled in rueful acknowledgment of his own embarrassment at the situation. “Anyway, that's when I realized that I was doing your job—the Quilla job. Listening. Being there for someone. And that's when I realized why you're all here. To help us stay human by being mommy or daddy or big brother or big sister or best friend ... or lover. Whatever's needed. You're caregivers, aren't you?”

Quilla Omega smiled warmly. “Not many people figure that out by themselves, Brian. You're very good.” He added, “We're glad you could be there for Daniel. He's going to be hurting for a very long time.”

“That's the other thing,” Armstrong said, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I felt ... I felt good doing it. Being there for him, I mean. Like I was finally doing something
real
.”

“You were,” agreed Omega. “Being there for other people is the highest form of service.”

Armstrong nodded as he considered that thought. Having experienced it himself, he could see the truth of the statement. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

“Is that what it's like to be a Quilla? I mean, being there for people all the time?”

Omega didn't answer immediately—for an instant, it was as if he were somewhere else—but when he replied, he was speaking with the voices of all the Quillas in the cluster. “Being a Quilla,” he began, “is not what you think it is. Some people think it's a religion, but it's not. There's no belief involved. Some people think it's a discipline, but it's not that either. Yes, there is discipline, but not the kind you think of when you hear the word discipline. Some people think it's an escape, but it isn't. It most definitely is not an escape.

“Being a Quilla,” said Omega, “is a commitment to others. So much so, that you give up your own ego, your own goals, your own identity. You give up your own
thing
-ness, so you can be a part of a larger domain. The highest state of being, Brian, is service to others. There is nothing higher. Do you know the old saying, ‘You can be either a guest in life or a host?' Guests come to the party and leave a mess behind. Hosts give the party and clean up afterward—but hosts are also the
source
of the party too. Quillas are the hosts for other humans. It's a way of being. It's a total commitment to the well-being of others. The job of the Quilla cluster is to make sure that the essential needs of everyone aboard the ship are taken care of, no matter what. This conversation, for instance, is part of what you need.”

“I get it,” said Armstrong, suddenly grinning. “I really do.” And then, as if to demonstrate just how fully he did understand the changes that were occurring in himself, he began to help Quilla Omega with the salad harvest. He moved down the row, carefully checking the ripeness meters before selecting each item. After a moment, he stopped and asked, “How do I get to be a host instead of just another guest?”

“Are you asking how you can become a Quilla?” Omega's blue look was suddenly penetrating.

Under such scrutiny, Armstrong felt naked—as if Omega were looking into the deepest part of his soul. He lowered his gaze in embarrassment, then raised it up again to meet Omega's eyes directly.

Williger caught up with Parsons and Korie in the wardroom, where they were catching a quick meal. She was swearing like a LENNIE with hemorrhoids.

She stormed in—interrupting their conversation as well as their lunch—and slammed an empty biotube down on the wardroom table, hard enough to rattle the dishes. Korie grabbed for his coffee mug to keep it from toppling. The biotube was unbreakable, but Williger had brought it down with enough force to deform it. Neither Korie nor Parsons had ever seen one bent out of shape before, and they both stared with astonishment.

“Empty! Dammit! Empty! The whole rack!” Williger shouted. “We put the ship at risk for nothing! For a decoy! There's nothing there! There never was! The damn things are all nice and neatly labeled—and they're so empty there's not even vacuum in them! I'm going to yank that bastard's testicles out through his left nostril!”

“Which bastard?” Korie inquired around a mouthful of sandwich. “Blintze or Jarell?”

“Yes!” snapped Williger. She hurled herself into a seat, nearly slamming it backward against the bulkhead. She glowered across the table at Parsons and Korie, her face red, her eyes burning, smoke pouring from her ears.

“Want some coffee?” said Parsons, pushing a mug toward her.

“Yes!” snapped Williger. She poured herself a cup with gestures so brusque Parsons was afraid she was going to spill the hot liquid all over herself—or throw it. But the doctor just took a drink, sat back down in her chair, took a second drink, draining the mug, slammed it back down on the table and resumed her glowering. “I'm going to kill something. Or somebody,” she said. “All that time. Wasted! We could have been synthesizing our own recombinants. We've lost—what? Half a day? A full day? Somebody lied to me! And I don't like it!”

“We're dealing with a LENNIE,” said Korie. “And LENNIE never gives anybody anything.”

Williger put her head in her hands, hiding her face. If she didn't look so angry, she would have looked tired. But her words betrayed her real feelings. “I don't know what to say, Captain—I'm sorry. I let you down.”

Parsons was sitting in her usual position at the head of the table. She glanced across the corner to her right, to where Korie was sitting. Williger didn't see the look that passed between them.

Korie took a breath and leaned forward. He looked to Parsons—
request permission to do this?—
Parsons nodded. Korie turned back to Williger. “Dr. Williger? Yes, you screwed up. And we're going to put a severe reprimand in your file—”

Williger looked up sharply, glaring across the table at Korie.

“—just as soon as we get home. Now get back to your lab and resume work on the recombinants. That's an order.”

For a moment, the doctor didn't get it. Then she did. She shook her head in annoyance. “Don't handle me, Korie.” Then she pushed her chair back and got up. “I'll be in the Med Lab, Captain, if you need me.” She pushed out, muttering.

Korie looked to Parsons. “I could have handled that better, couldn't I have?”

Parsons shrugged. “You got the job done, didn't you?” Then turning back to the issue at hand. “Let's get Jarell and Blintze in here.”

“Under guard,” suggested Korie.

Parsons nodded grimly. “Under guard.”

Armstrong was on security detail. He and Bach escorted Jarell and Blintze to the wardroom. They were followed by the ship's security chief, Commander Brik. Brik indicated chairs at the far end of the table and the two men sat. Then Brik dismissed the security detail.

Jarell looked impatient and anxious. Blintze, on the other hand, seemed haggard and worn. Jarell took his chair with a
let's-get-this-handled
air of authority, but Blintze seemed resigned, almost fatalistic.

At the opposite end, Parsons was sitting stiffly in her chair. The captain always sat at the head of the table. Korie sat at her right. Brik placed himself against the bulkhead, near the door. Parsons waited a moment before beginning, as if to establish that she was in control of the room, and when she finally did speak, her voice was harder than Korie had ever heard it. “Commander Jarell. I'm ready for answers.”

Jarell looked blandly across the table to Parsons. “I'm really not prepared to discuss this with you, Captain.” Beside him, Blintze sagged unhappily.

Brik spoke quietly. Accusingly. “We've decrypted the
Norway
's course log. Your astrogational records show a projected course through the heart of Morthan space.”

Jarell spread his hands wide before him, as if demonstrating that he had nothing to hide; but his manner was disingenuous. “Captain Parsons,” he began. “We're at war with the Morthan Solidarity.” He glanced to Brik. “May I ask, where do
your s
ympathies lie?”