Sweet Starfire (17 page)

“I can imagine,” Cidra said, trying to sound appropriately academic about the whole thing. Unfortunately she could imagine the scene all too well.

Desma cast her a keen glance. “Field research tends to be a bit raw compared to the work done in Clementia’s nice clean labs.”

“You can say that again. The labs in Clementia focus on computer modeling and elaborate cell techniques. I’ve never seen live animals in a research facility.”

“Wolves like me do the dirty work in the field and leave a lot of the fancy analysis and application work to Harmonics. It’s a good system.” Desma grinned at Cidra’s pale face. “What I always need after a day in this joint is a good stiff drink,”

Desma Kady announced. “And I see it’s getting close to a decent drinking hour. Come on, Cidra, the men are away. We might as well play.”

It occurred to Cidra that she should spend the evening in the local Archives pursuing her research. But after two weeks in space with a short-tempered male and the unnerving demonstration of the local fauna, a drink sounded like an absolutely wonderful idea. For the first time she thought she understood the fundamental appeal of alcohol for Wolves.

“I’ll change into my evening robe,” Cidra said.

One hour and one large mug of Renaissance Rose ale later, Cidra realized that she was enjoying herself very much. She had discovered that one could become accustomed to the heavy, tart ale. Considering the fact that the tavern was crowded, noisy, and only inefficiently cooled, she was interested to find herself having a good time. There were other factors, too, that ought to have hindered her sense of pleasant relaxation. When she had first arrived with Desma, she had attracted a fair amount of covert interest. Initially it had made her uncomfortable.

“We don’t get too many Harmonics here on Renaissance. And when they do come, they tend to keep to themselves.”

“But I’m not a Harmonic,” Cidra had begun to explain with painful honesty.

“You look like one at first glance. Don’t worry, they’ll lose interest after a while.” Desma dismissed the clutter of company uniforms, ship suits, and lab-tech outfits that sat, lounged, or slouched around the smoky room. Not only was the air-conditioning machinery having trouble with the heat, it wasn’t doing a particularly good job of filtering the air, either.

Still, by the time she finished the first mug of ale, Cidra didn’t really care. When Desma came back from the drink dispenser with a fresh mug for herself, Cidra picked up the conversation where it had been left off.

“There’s no doubt in your mind, then, that life on Renaissance shows the same evolutionary and genetic background as life on Lovelady?”

“We’ve still got a long way to go to be certain, but so far we’ve found nothing to contradict Maltan’s Theory that species on Renaissance are evolved from the same genetic sources as species on Lovelady.”

“Which means that the Ghosts must have evolved either here or on Lovelady and then colonized the neighboring planet, taking their flora and fauna with them.”

“It makes sense,” Desma explained. “We know from the few records that survived the crash of the First Families’ colony ship that statistically life is an exceedingly rare event in the universe. The odds are certainly against two planets in one star system developing life independently. And the odds of them developing similar life forms is just astronomical.”

“But the creatures you showed me in the lab look so different from the common life forms on Lovelady. Hard to believe they’re related. Everything here on Renaissance seems so much more violent by nature.”

“Ain’t adaptation a wonderful thing?” Desma observed cheerfully. “And believe me, here on Renaissance it’s a case of adapt and conquer or die. There are winners and losers here but nothing in between.”

Cidra glanced around at the boisterous crowd. “Where do humans fit in, I wonder.”

“Right now we’re learning to adapt. In some small areas we’re even doing some exploiting and conquering. But that could change overnight. We could still run into something here on Renaissance that is capable of flicking us off the planet the way a torla flicks off a scatterbug. We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“It seems wrong to think in terms of exploitation and conquering,” Cidra said thoughtfully. “This is a lush, primeval world. It has its own intrinsic harmonies. It would seem that a more positive approach to exploration would be one that took a different philosophical basis. We should be looking for the underlying harmonic rules, trying to fit ourselves into them.”

“Spoken like a true Harmonic.” Desma laughed. “The problem is that nature has no qualms about changing the rules on us without much warning. Nature isn’t static, and therefore I don’t think it’s possible to ever be completely in harmony with it. Remember the glitterbugs. No matter what we come up with, they blithely keep mutating—”

“A perfect example of what I’m trying to say,” Cidra interrupted happily. She found nothing more entertaining than an intellectual debate. And it was even better, she was discovering, when conducted over a mug of ale. “The glitterbugs mutate in an effort to reestablish the basic harmony humans have destroyed with pesticides.”

“Nonsense. The mutation occurs as a means of adaptation in an effort to continue exploiting and conquering. If glitterbugs had a brain and a set of vocal cords, they’d tell you they could care less about harmony. They’re out to take over as much of the world as they can get. Just like everything else that’s really viable.”

“But philosophically that’s an approach that leads to a constant state of imbalance, even warfare among various life forms.

It is a destructive theory and leads to a destructive methodology of exploration.”

“Maybe that’s why Harmonics don’t visit Renaissance very often. They can’t quite approve of the way we’re attacking the planet. The principles of company exploration don’t follow the principles of the Klinian Laws. The folks back in Clementia are hungry for new knowledge, but getting it sometimes conflicts with their basic beliefs.”

“It can be an uncomfortable quandary,” Cidra explained diffidently.

“You bet your Book of Ritual it can.”

Cidra smiled. “You’ve studied it?”

“Had to a long time ago.” Desma chuckled. “My husband, Fence, and I were married in a full-scale Harmonic High Ritual wedding ceremony. Well, almost full-scale. We did skip the two hours of meditation and telepathic communion that’s supposed to take place in the middle. The guests would have been bored stiff during the meditation, and nobody present was telepathic.”

“It’s a very beautiful ceremony,” Cidra said softly, knowing many non-Harmonics used it to lend solemnity and ritual to the nuptials.

“It’s supposed to be a lucky way to start marriage, and I guess it’s worked so far for us. I’m still married to the man, although he can be a pain in the rump on occasion.”

“Luck? There’s no luck involved in a High Ritual ceremony! It’s a matter of philosophy and focusing, not luck.”

Desma grinned. “Another matter of adaptation. Wolves use the ceremony because they think it’s lucky, among other things.”

“That’s a terrible misunderstanding of the underlying philosophy of the ceremony,” Cidra protested.

“Ummm.” But Desma was no longer paying any attention to her companion. She was gazing with narrowed eyes at a man who was levering himself away from the bar and starting toward the table occupied by the two women. “Speaking of unharmonious principles,” Desma murmured, “did Severance ever tell you he once had a partner?”

“You mean his brother?”

“No. A man named Racer.”

Cidra frowned thoughtfully and turned to glance at the man in a khaki ship suit who was weaving his way through the crowd. “Severance mentioned something about a partnership that was dissolved some time back. He didn’t talk much about it or about the other man.”

“Hardly surprising. The two of them hate each other’s guts.” Desma leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do me a favor. If Severance ever asks what you did or who you met this evening, don’t mention Racer.”

Cidra wrinkled her brow. “You want me to lie to him?”

“You will if you’re at all interested in maintaining any semblance of harmony in the universe.” Desma broke off with a superficial smile as the man halted beside the table. “Hello, Racer. I didn’t know you were in port.”

“Life,” said Cord Racer, looking down at Cidra, “is just one renegade’s surprise after another.”

Severance stepped out onto the tough membrane that served as pavement on the streets of Try Again. Behind him the door panel of the building mat had once housed the offices of ExcellEx snapped shut to the accompanying hiss of the antibug deflector screens. Severance wished that the local ExcellEx rep were a bug. He’d like to see him sizzled by the screen’s electronic impulses. Damn Quench, and damn the whole fast-moving ExcellEx corporation.

Severance kept to the side of the street although it wasn’t difficult to dodge the few runners and sleds that were zipping from one end of town to the other. Try Again was not big enough to warrant a lot of vehicular traffic. Most people walked from one point to the other.

Above him the night sky proudly displayed Renaissance’s twin moons, Borgia and Medici. A record of the words had survived the colony ship’s crash two hundred years ago, but the references had been lost. Some research indicated that they were linked to the term Renaissance, and so the names had been attached to its moons. There was a constant hum from the jungle on the other side of the triaton walls. As he walked toward Desma’s house Severance batted absently at one or two night-flying insects that somehow escaped a deflector screen. His mind was occupied with the task of telling Cidra that plans had changed.

She wasn’t going to be thrilled. She had been counting on at least five days here at Try Again. Time enough to consult local archives and the tall tales of exploration men. She was going to be upset when he informed her that they were leaving the day after tomorrow.

Well, he couldn’t help the inconvenience, Severance told himself. Cidra was the one who had insisted on a crew contract. She would just have to learn to accommodate herself to the unpredictable schedules of a mail ship.

He turned a corner, heading down the street that was lined with the majority of Try Again’s company stores and taverns. The distant hum of the jungle was a familiar sound, and he tuned it out. After a year as a bonus man he had developed fairly good instincts for Renaissance. A man either learned when to get nervous or he died learning. Companies didn’t pay huge bonus credit for ordinary manual labor. Bonus credit was paid for risks, and risks on Renaissance were usually in the life-and-death category.

“Hey, Severance.” A man emerging from a nearby tavern hailed him. “You the one who just hit port with a Harmonic in tow?”

Severance halted. “Hello, Craft. As usual you’re up to date. A man would think you’re telepathic yourself, the way you always seem to know the latest gossip. How did you know about Cidra?”

Craft chuckled, unoffended. He’d known Teague Severance a long time. “No magic this time. Saw her with Desma Kady ‘bout an hour ago. They’re in the Bloodsucker.” He nodded up the street.

Severance swore in disgust. “Desma took her there?”

“It’s not like we got a whole lot of choice when it comes to night spots in this town,” Craft reminded him. His faded, friendly eyes assessed Severance in the poor light. “Nothing to get upset about. Looked to me like they were both having a good time.”

“You wouldn’t think someone raised in Clementia would have developed a fascination for dives like the Bloodsucker, would you? The lady’s taste seems to be degenerating.” Severance sighed and moved off purposefully. “See you, Craft.”

“Sure.” The older man nodded, but Severance was no longer looking at him. He was heading toward the Bloodsucker. Craft chuckled again to himself and decided that he could use another drink after all. He went back into the tavern from which he had just emerged. Bound to be some folks inside who’d want to hear about Severance and the little Harmonic. And Cord Racer’s presence added a nice extra fillip, too bad he hadn’t had a chance to mention Racer to Severance. No matter. They’d find each other soon enough, and word had it that Racer had already found the little Harmonic.

Desma watched Racer settle into conversation with Cidra. There wasn’t much she could do to stop it, short of making a scene and hauling the younger woman out of the tavern. A woman born in Clementia, Harmonic or otherwise, would be thoroughly humiliated at being the object of the kind of attention that would garner.

Objectively speaking, there was nothing wrong with Racer. He was reasonably well mannered, especially compared to the majority of Try Again’s population. He was good-looking in an open, breezy kind of way. Red-haired with blue-green eyes and a disarming sprinkling of freckles across his nose, Racer was tall and physically well proportioned. He wore the snug-fitting khaki ship suit and boots with a certain swagger that was not offensive. Women tended to find it endearing, in fact. About the same age as his former partner, Cord Racer was also doing very well for himself as a mail pilot. And he was better educated than the average pilot. Desma had already sensed that for Cidra, intelligence and a good education were vastly more alluring than physical attractiveness in a man. The result of her Harmonic upbringing, Desma supposed.

The only thing wrong with Racer was the hostility that simmered just below the surface whenever he and Severance came in contact. No one, not even that professional gossip, Georg Craft, knew what had dissolved the partnership three planet years ago, but whatever it was, it had been traumatic and probably violent. Everyone was amazed that one of them hadn’t made sure the other suffered some sort of unpleasant accident over the years. Perhaps they avoided it by taking pains to avoid each other.

Cidra responded warily to Racer’s cheerful conversation. She used formal politeness as a facade behind which she could hide while she analyzed the man. If Severance disliked him as intensely as Desma seemed to think, there had to be a reason. But for the life of her Cidra couldn’t find anything particularly jarring or dismaying about Cord Racer. He seemed quite pleasant.