Mute (10 page)

It didn’t look like much; just sixteen dots in a neat square, forming little horizontal, vertical and oblique rows of two, three and four. But now, seeing it as a 36-dot square, or as two numbers abreast, six lines deep, he developed the meaning . . . . was 7, followed by —. which was 1. Then the second line: — for 0 and - . - for 2. Thus, laboriously, through the whole number: 71 02 25 43 06 13. A twelve digit number economically rendered by sixteen dots in a square. Then the alphabet of letters, rendered into numbers for general speech.

“Does it hurt?” Finesse inquired. “Let me kiss and make well.” She took his arm, lifting it toward her face.

“Leave alone!” he snapped, shoving her away.

“Sorry.” She drew as much apart from him as the seats permitted.

Immediately he regretted his impulsive reaction. He had acted just the way she had about her ankle, and for similar reason. His pride was involved. The CC pattern was an obscene mark on him, a devil’s signature he wished he could erase—and knew he could not. This devil proffered many things Knot wanted—at a price it galled him to pay. Yet he should not blame Finesse.

Does she hate me?
he thought to Hermine.

No, she understands. She calls it imprinting trauma. We all went through it.

You, too? You disliked being numbered?

There is freedom in anonymity. Mit was horrible right after. He pinched my tail with his big pincers.

Knot had to smile.
Tell Mit I understand.
And to Finesse: “I apologize.”

“Only a person of no spirit can take imprinting without reaction,” she said. “You have made a sacrifice.”

Tell her I’m three quarters in love with her,
he thought to Hermine.

I am not good at fractions.

Well, tell her—

She knows.

Finesse took his hand in hers. He wanted to kiss her, but suddenly he was unable to move. The stasis field had taken hold. The shuttle launched, accelerating at flesh-pulping level, like a shell in the barrel of the big gun it was. As they shot out of the muzzle the chemical rockets ignited, boosting it to yet higher velocity. Then the stasis field cut off; it had lasted perhaps five seconds. Knot was pressed into the cushion as though dropped on it from a high tower; now his mass was his own. Bad as it seemed, the acceleration was only two gravities and diminishing; the worst had been over before he felt it. That was of course the point of stasis.

Finesse squeezed his hand reassuringly. “One gets used to it,” she assured him.

So it seemed. The acceleration eased, and finally they were back at standard gravity. Then less, until it was virtually free-fall.

Then he wondered, belatedly: had she referred to the acceleration, or to the imprinting, when she said he would get used to it?

Both,
Hermine thought.

The shuttle drifted in semi-orbit, converging on the galactic vessel. There wasn’t much to see, as the shuttle did not have windows, only a pseudo vid screen on which the positions of spaceship and shuttle were marked in glowing symbols. There was some maneuvering, as no shot was perfect; then the two bumped together, much as a dinghy might have bumped an ocean liner in the ancient days. Things never really changed much, he thought; the details merely became more sophisticated.

“You are gawking like a child,” Finesse chided him. “Do you want the whole galaxy to know this is your first trip in space?”

Knot smiled, mildly intoxicated by free-fall and a rebound from his gloom of imprinting. “Hey, Galaxy!” he exclaimed loudly. “This is my first trip in space!” The other passengers looked away, embarrassed for him. “And hers!” he added, jabbing at Finesse with one thumb.

“You nebulahead!” Finesse swore, her color rising instantly.

“Don’t worry,” he said confidentially. “They won’t remember I said it.”

“But they’ll remember
me
”

He shrugged. “You’re worth remembering.”

She’s thinking about kissing you or boiling you in oil,
Hermine thought with weasel glee.

What’s the difference?
he thought back. He was still off-balanced, emotionally, at the high extreme of the pendulum-release from his depression. He would soon swing back to the tensions of space baptism and his coming encounter with CC. But right now he was giddy, and he intended to make the most of it.

The oil is cooler.
There was more animal mirth.

“I trust you mutants are enjoying yourselves?” Finesse inquired coolly.

“If you get mad again, I’ll grab you and kiss you violently in front of all these people. With a loud smacking sound.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Then she listened to what Hermine was telling her. “Oh, no!”

“Mit says it’s inevitable?” Knot asked, catching on. “Let’s find out.”

He grabbed her and kissed her. There was a chuckle elsewhere in the compartment. “Hermine is right,” Knot said. “The oil is cooler.”

“You haven’t experienced it yet,” Finesse said warningly.

The other passengers were leaving the shuttle, staring straight ahead as they pulled themselves along the free-fall hold-bars. All except for one elderly gentleman following a woman who looked like a harridan. The man winked. That was the extent of his rebellion.

But, oh, what he’s thinking!
Hermine thought.
He hoped you would go on to tear off her clothes and—

Finesse made a little sniff of warning that must have had a mental component, because the weasel cut off the thought.

They got out of their cushions and joined the floating line. Soon they swam through the porthole into the larger ship. Here artificial gravity took over, providing orientation. They were in a low-ceilinged room with a slight concave curvature above, and a convex floor. Knot noticed that the people on one side of the chamber stood at a slight angle with respect to those on the other. “Down” was toward the center of the ship, and though it was much larger than the shuttle, it was minuscule compared to a planet
.
He could form a fair notion of its diameter by considering the visible rondure of the floor.

A holograph of a man in a dashing spacer uniform formed in a cubby ahead of them. “Welcome to space,” the holo said. Had Knot not seen it form, he could not have told it from the original. It was life-size and perfectly reproduced, not at all ghostlike the way back-planet holos tended to be. “This is the galactic diskship
Starstep
. Enjoy your voyage.”

“Thanks, I will,” Knot answered.

Finesse elbowed him. “Must you be a complete boor?” she whispered. “That’s just a recording.”

The holograph-man chuckled. “That’s what you think, miss.”

The elderly gentleman burst out laughing as Finesse blushed. “I can see this is going to be a fun journey,” he said.

The harridan beside him glared. Evidently she did not approve of fun. Knot wondered how such couples ever got together, the fun-lovers with the fun-haters; he had seen such combinations even among mutants.

Didn’t Finesse check with you about the holo?
Knot asked Hermine. Already he was depending on the weasel for information and companionship.

She didn’t bother. Usually they are recordings.

“We try to make up in camaraderie what a tub like this lacks in elegance,” the holo-Captain said. “Please take your assigned deck seats for the precog-verification. After we weigh anchor you will have free run of the ship. Any questions?”

“Anchor?” Knot asked.

“Figuratively speaking,” the Captain said, smiling. “Till anon, then.” He faded out.

Finesse grimly led Knot to their deck seats in an adjacent chamber. The walls of this room were vision screens, showing what presumably would have been visible outside: heart-grabbingly deep space, with the local planet hanging hugely in the middle ground, all its clouds and land masses and oceans manifesting in compelling color. Knot was fascinated.

“Mutant,” a voice behind Knot said.

Knot turned in his seat, remembering that he was among normals now, and so had become an object of curiosity. By law, mutants could not be segregated from normals physically, but socially certain barriers existed. “You address me, normal?”

“I do.” It was a nondescript man of middle age. “Please take no offense. My daughter is mutant. Has gills; she lives in an ocean. I just wanted to say it has been a pleasure to meet a mute with spirit and humor. Many lack these qualities.”

Knot knew it well. But he was sure the same could be said of many normals. “Thanks,” he said. He was privately irritated that the man saw him as a mutant, not as a person.

Finesse wants to know why that man remembers you,
Hermine thought.

Because I’m still with him. Memory of me continues until separation or sleep; then it fades. Everyone on this ship should remember me until the voyage ends, with some lacunae for those who nap.

“If I had a girl like that,” the other passenger continued, “I’d kiss her too.”

“Be my guest,” Knot said. Finesse made an angry squeak of protest.

“Oh come on,” Knot told her. “You’re highly kissable, and there is nothing wrong with normals.”

Naughty man!
came the weasel’s familiar thought.

“You rascal, you!” the man said.

“You complete oaf!” Finesse swore.

“Normals have feelings too,” Knot reminded her. “Prick them, and they bleed. Green blood.”

“Blue blood,” the man behind corrected him.

“I don’t kiss strange men!” Her color was rising again.

“You kissed me, and I’m as strange as they come.”

“That’s for sure!” she cried. But she was unable to maintain her anger.

You’re fun!
Hermine thought.

The Captain formed in holo again, in the front of the compartment. “Hello, passengers; long time no see. I am required to remind you that this is a trans-galactic disk voyage. Males are subject to temporary mutation of their sperm that may affect their offspring conceived within thirty standard Earth days of their return to planetary residence, possibly even longer. Any males who wish to avoid this complication should not make this voyage, and may return now to the shuttle.” He paused.

“I thought it was ninety days,” Knot said.

“We have improved the shielding,” the Captain said. “Beyond thirty Earth-days, the chances are prohibitively minor. Any other questions?” He paused again. “’Sokay, now let’s have the precog’s formality.”

There was a longer pause. Then the Captain looked startled. “Uh oh, folks. We have a technicality.”

“Oh, no,” the passenger behind Knot lamented.

“I have been called many things,” Knot said. “But this is the first time I’ve been called a technicality.”

The holo-Captain smiled. “Character, yes. Technicality, no. In this case, it seems our precog foresees a problem.”

There was a general murmur of alarm.

“Now take it easy,” the Captain said. “It merely means there will be a delay until we get a clear reading. No ship ever takes off on a trans-disk voyage without proper precog clearance. If it isn’t safe, we don’t go, period. All we have to do is hold off until we know it is safe. So there is absolutely no risk, just inconvenience. Could be a random meteorite scheduled to knock out our guidance mechanism. A few minutes delay will abate that.”

“Doesn’t your precog know what the threat is?” Knot asked.

“No, unfortunately. Distance precognition is not very specific on details. All we know is that we can’t afford to head into deep space right now. Meanwhile, we’ll call in the clairvoyant for a routine check.”

“We’re going to crash in space!” a woman cried.

“A manifest impossibility,” the holo-Captain snapped. “There is precious little to crash into, in space. That’s one reason we travel outside the galactic disk; by definition, deep space is virtually empty. We could have a drive failure, however, or decompression.”

“Oh!” the woman cried × “I’m going to be sick!”

“Save it for the decompression,” the oldster said. “Easier to puke, then.” There was a thud as the harridan kicked his leg.

“But we won’t do any of these things,” the Captain continued firmly. “Because, as I said, we are able to read ahead. We do have excellent distance precogs, and if our voyage is slated for trouble, we simply won’t go. There is no danger.”

“Now I wonder about that,” Knot said. “A precog told me I was going to do something, once, and I swore I wouldn’t—but I think it came to pass anyway. If this ship is fated for trouble—”

“Oh!” the woman repeated, horrified.

“There’s a bag on the seat ahead of you,” the oldster said. “My grandpa called them barf—” He broke off as he fended off another kick.

“There are distinctions between precogs,” the Captain said, “and between the specific and the general. Our precog says ‘If you take off now, you will have trouble.’ So we avoid trouble by postponing takeoff. We are shifting, as it were, to an alternate reality. Your precog may have given you a short-range, highly specific reading; much greater definition is possible when scope and time are limited. Beyond a few hours, there is no such thing as predestination; advance knowledge can always change it, with certain gross exceptions such as supernovas and the temper tantrums of women.”

“Thank you; that makes absolute sense,” Knot said, appreciating Finesse’s glare.

“I regret to advise you that our clairvoyant consultant reports that there is a person on this vessel who is apt to cause a mishap,” the Captain said. “It seems this is what is stymieing our precog clearance. We shall have to make a telepathic verification of passenger motives.”

“You can’t do that!” Finesse exclaimed. “Invasion of privacy.”

“I’m afraid the welfare of the majority pre-empts personal privilege,” the Captain said. “I can quote the applicable clause of the space-flight code if—”

“That depends.” She fished a card from her purse and held it up where the holo-Captain could see it. “My companions and I will be verified last. If you don’t locate your culprit before reaching us, we’ll leave the ship.”