Mind Over Ship

witnessed from this very spot several weeks ago. Meewee had not been expecting this, and the explosion blinded him for several moments.

<That was the launch of the advance ships> he said finally. <Not the Oships.>

More frames opened with case law and definitions. Meewee skimmed them and got an inkling of what Arrow was trying to show him. <Are you saying that the law considers an advance ship to be a material part of the main ship that it precedes? That the launch of an advance ship constitutes a “launch” for that main ship as well?>

<Possibly.>

<So that the main ship becomes the equivalent of a sovereign nation?>

<Possibly.>

<You mean a case could be made for it in court?>

<Yes.>

It took several long moments for the news to hit home, and then Meewee was jumping up and down, shrieking, pumping the air with his fist. He was even more excited than he had been at the original boost. He climbed the bank to his cart and said, “Call the IOPA leaders. Arrange a confab in my office in thirty minutes.” When Meewee reached the cart he realized that his pockets were still full of stones. So he returned to the bank and gleefully flung them into the pond by the handful. “Take that, you pigs,” he cried. “Eat stones, you snakes.”

A voice said <Stop that!>

Meewee stopped dead. It was no voice in the breeze this time. No squeaky hinge or crunch of snow underfoot. It was a real voice, and it had spoken in Starkese.

<Arrow, was that Eleanor who just spoke?>

<Yes.>

<Ask her where she is.> There was no reply for a full minute, and Meewee said <Well?>

<I have used all public and proprietary channels, but without a known destination, I cannot complete the task.>

Meewee bent over and picked up several hefty rocks. He tossed them one after another into all parts of the pond. Finally, a lone fish leaped out of the water, a slab of shiny silver muscle that reentered the water with a splash. <Merrill?>

<Yes, Eleanor, it’s me! Arrow, tell her it’s me.>

More fish jumped. <What the hell?>

<Where am I?>

<What is this?>

Meewee stared in wonder. <Eleanor, can you hear me?>

There was the sound of a hysterical giggle in his head, and then <Holy crap, I must be drunk. My head is swimming.>

<Eleanor, how is this possible?>

Gibberish, then nothing, and no matter how many more stones he threw, the connection was lost.

Training Baby

Inside the warehouse, the battered old taxi flew rapidly and unerringly through the obstruction course.

Oliver TUG and Veronica TOTE, his giant to her dwarf, stood beside a concrete blast barrier and observed.

But it’s never made an appearance in mentarspace, Veronica said, her elbow planted against his hip bone. At least, we’ve warned it to stay out of mentarspace.

Doesn’t matter, Oliver replied. Its very thought patterns mark it as a mentar, or at least a midem. The current mentar consensus, or so I’m told, says that it’s an autonomous adjunct of an as yet unidentified mind. You should keep it under wraps.

That’s not possible. We must train it in the real world.

All I’m saying — the taxi zoomed close overhead, and Oliver ducked — is that you should maintain secrecy as long as possible.

Perhaps. On the other hand, what harm is there in people knowing we’re raising a mentar? It’s a perfectly legal and innocuous activity.

The taxi finished the course, but instead of landing beside the track, it revved its hover fans to maximum RPM and hurled itself straight at Oliver and Veronica, who ducked behind the blast barrier. The taxi hit the barrier, cartwheeled over it, and slammed into the wall behind them, a total wreck.

Oliver pulled a bloody sliver of shattered fan vane from his calf, stood up, and dusted himself off. He pressed his knuckles hard against Veronica’s forehead. I’ve heard stories about its irrational behavior.

PUSH is still a juvenile, Veronica replied evenly. Its spunk is a positive trait.

Let’s hope it matures a bit before you place a starship under its command.

Replacement Crew

At 16:26 TET, the personnel transport ISV Fentan was completing its docking sequence at the Consolidated Receiving Port of Trailing Earth Main. Two TECA officers, both russes, watched the docking on monitors in a forward security shack. One said to the other, “How’s this supposed to work?”

“It’s for everyone’s own good.”

“They won’t all fit?”

“It can’t be helped.”

A trio of russ officers at the docking port waited as the last group of homebound workers, a contingent of 325 jacks, pulled themselves through the central gangway.

“In here. In here,” one of the russes called, floating in the center of the gangway outside the transshipment bay doors and waving his arms like a traffic cop.

The jacks moved clumsily with their overstuffed kit bags, bumping against the walls and each other. The men in the lead arrested their motion suddenly, causing their brothers to pile up behind.

“We’re not going in there,” one of them said. “There’s no room.”

The transshipment bay, large though it was, was already crowded with over a thousand jacks, lulus, jeromes, johns, and alices. The whole melange floated in a large tangle of arms and legs.

Hatch bolts clanged at the far end of the gangway, and the sound reverberated along the corridors. Motors whirred, and air valves hissed.

“In you go,” the russ said, escorting the lead jacks by their elbows. They hurried the jacks along and were deaf to their complaints. When the last of the outgoing workers were in the bay, the two russ officers on either side of the large bay doors pushed them shut and locked them. And not a moment too soon. The first of the replacement workers, in crisp, new gold and yellow overalls, were making their way from the transport ship.

“Follow Passage Charlie. Follow Passage Charlie,” the russes called out as the first ones went by. They were women, though they were no larger than girls. Their type was called xiang. Not particularly attractive, but they flew through the gangway with an assured flair that belied their short time in space. And the seats of their gold jumpsuits had modest cuffs for their tails.

The women were followed by a second type, male, the aslams. They, too, were small, agile swimmers, with tails.

Finally, the most numerous contingent came through, the one everyone had heard rumors of, the type called