He tapped out the serenade from Haydn’s string quartet Opus 3 number 5.
Ysyvry smiled: “All right, Mr. Halloran. Looks like the UNSN made a good choice—not that they had much choice.”
“I don’t need your respect, either,” Halloran said, a little surprised at how deeply he had been hurt. I thought I was way beyond that.
“What she’s saying,” Olsen elaborated, “is that we were asked to isolate you, and harass you a little. See if you’re as much of a show-off as your records indicate you might be.”
“Fine,” Halloran said. “Now it’s back to the silence?”
“No,” Ysyvry said. “The music is beautiful. We’d appreciate your playing more for us.”
Halloran swore under his breath and shook his head.
“Nobody said it would be easy, being a hero … did they?” Ysyvry asked.
“I’m no hero,” Halloran said.
“I think you have the makings for one,” Olsen told him, regarding him steadily with her clear green eyes. “Whatever kind of bastard you were on Earth. Really.”
Will a flatlander ever understand Belters? They were so mercurial, strong, and more than a little arrogant. Perhaps that was because space left so little room for niceties.
“If you accept it,” Ysyvry said, “we’ve decided we’ll make you an honorary Belter.”
Halloran stopped playing.
“Please accept,” Olsen said, not wheedling or even trying to placate; a simple, polite request.
“Okay,” Halloran said.
“Good,” Ysyvry said. “I think you’ll like the ceremony.”
He did, though it made him realize even more deeply how much he had to lose…
And why do I have to die before people start treating me decently?
* * *
The Belter pilots dropped the hulk a hundred and three hours after his induction into the ranks. They cut loose the kzin lifeship, with Halloran inside, five hours later, and then turned a shielded ion drive against their orbital path to drop inward and lose themselves in the Belt.
There were beacons on the lifeship, but no sensors. In the kzinti fleet, rescue of survivors was strictly at the discretion of the commanding officers. Halloran entered the digitized odor-signature and serial number of Fixer-of-Weapons into the beacon’s transmitter and sat back to wait.
The lifeship had a month’s supplies for an individual kzin. What few supplements he dared to carry, all consumable, would be gone in a week, and his time would start running out from that moment.
Still, Halloran half hoped he would not be found. He almost preferred the thought of failure to the prospect of carrying out his mission. It would be an ordeal. The worst thing that had ever happened to him. His greatest challenge in a relatively peaceful lifetime.
For a few days, he nursed dark thoughts about manifest destiny, the possibility that the kzinti really were the destined rulers of interstellar space, and that he was simply blowing against a hurricane.
Then came a signal from the kzinti fleet. Fixer-of-Weapons was still of some value. He was going to be rescued.
“Bullshit,” Halloran said, grinning and hugging his arms tightly around himself. “Bullshit, bullshit bullshit!”
Now he was really afraid.
* * *
Wherever you are, whether in the crowded asteroid belt or beyond the furthest reaches of Pluto, space appears the same. Facing away from the sun—negligible anyway past the Belt—the same vista of indecipherable immensity presents itself. You say, yes, I know those are stars, and those are galaxies, and nebulae; I know there is life out there, and strangeness, and incident and death and change. But to the eye, and the animal mind, the universe is a flat tapestry sprinkled with meaningless points of fire. Nothing meaningful can emerge from such a tapestry.
The approach of a ship from the beautiful flat darkness and cold is itself a miracle of high order. The animal mind asks, Where did it come from?
Halloran, essentially two beings in one body, watched the kzinti dreadnought with two reactions. As Fixer-of-Weapons, now seating himself in the center of Halloran’s mind, the ship—a rough-textured spire with an X cross at the “bow”—was both rescue and challenge. Fixer-of-Weapons had lost his status. He would have to struggle to regain his position, perhaps wheedle permission to challenge and supplant a Chief Weapons Officer and Alien Technologies Officer. He hoped—and Halloran prayed—that the positions on the rescue ship were held by one kzin, not two.
The battleship would pick up his lifeship within an hour. In that time, Halloran adjusted the personality that would mask his own.
Halloran would exist in a preprogrammed slumber, to emerge only at certain key points of his plan. Fixer-of-Weapons would project continuously, aware and active, but with limitations; he would not challenge another kzin to physical combat, and he would flee at an opportune moment (if any came) if so challenged.
Halloran did not have a kzin’s shining black claws or vicious fangs. He could project images of these to other kzinti, but they had only a limited effectiveness in action. For a moment, a kzin might think himself slashed by Fixer-of-Weapons’s claws (although Halloran did not know how strong the stigmata effect was with kzinti), but that moment would pass. Halloran did not think he could convince a kzin to die…
He had never done such a thing with people. Exploring those aspects of his abilities had been too horrifying to contemplate. If he was pushed to such a test, and succeeded, he would destroy himself rather than return to Earth. Or so he thought, now…
Foolishness, Fixer-of-Weapons’s persona grumbled. A weapon is a weapon.
Halloran shuddered.
The battleship communicated with the lifeship; first difficulty. The coughing growl and silky dissonance of the Hero’s Tongue could not be readily mimicked, and Halloran could not project his illusion beyond a few miles; he did not respond by voice, but by coded signal. The signal was not challenged.
The kzinti could not conceive of an interloper invading their fold.
“Madness,” he said as the ships closed. Humming the Haydn serenade, Lawrence Halloran Jr. slipped behind the scenes, and Fixer-of-Weapons came on center stage.
* * *
The interior of the Sons Contend With Bloody
