Ethan of Athos (6 page)

When the Population Council had finally sat down to calculate it, returning the shipment to Jackson's Whole with Ethan to demand their money back cost more than the dubious refund, so Jackson's Whole was scrubbed. Ethan was at last, after much debate, given broad discretionary powers to choose another supplier on the basis of the freshest information available at Kline Station.

There were subsidiary instructions. Keep it under budget. Get the best. Go as far afield as needed. Don't waste money on unnecessary travel. Avoid personal contact with galactics; tell them nothing of Athos. Cultivate galactics to recruit immigrants; tell them all about the wonders of Athos. Don't make waves. Don't let them push you around. Keep an eye peeled for additional business opportunities. Personal use of Council funds will be considered peculation, and prosecuted as such.

Fortunately, the Chairman had spoken to Ethan privately after the committee briefing.

“Those your notes?” he nodded to the clutch of papers and discs Ethan was juggling. “Give them to me.”

And he dropped them into his oubliette.

“Get the stuff and get back,” he told Ethan. “All else is gas.”

Ethan's heart lifted at the memory. He smiled slowly, sat up, tossed his map module in the air and caught it in a smooth swipe, pocketed it, and went for a walk.

In Transients' Lounge Ethan found the bright face of the tapestry at last by the simple expedient of taking a bubble car through the tubes to the most luxurious passenger dock, turning around, and walking back the other way. Framed in crystal and chrome were sweeping panoramas of the galactic night, of other branches of the Station shot with candy-colored lights, of the glittering wheels of the earliest sections turning forever for the sake of their obsolete centrifugal gravities. Not abandoned -- nothing was ever wholly abandoned in this society -- but some put to less urgent uses, others half-dismantled for salvage that Kline Station might grow, like a snake eating its tail.

Within the soaring transparent walls of Transients' Lounge rioted a green fecundity of vines, trees in tubs, air ferns, orchids, muted tinkling chimes, bizarre fountains running backward, upside down, spiraling around the dizzy catwalks, lively intricate trickery with the artificial gravity. Ethan paused to stare in fascination for fifteen minutes at one fountain, sheeting water suspended in air, running endlessly in the form of a moebius strip. A breath away, across the transparent barrier, a cold that could turn all to stone in an instant lurked in deathly silence. The artistic contrast was overwhelming, and Ethan was not the only downsider transient who stood transfixed in open wonder.

Bordering the parks section were cafes and restaurants where, Ethan calculated, if he only ate once a week he might dine, and hostelries where patrons who could afford the restaurants four times a day dwelt. And theaters, and feelie-dream booths, and an arcade which, according to its directory, offered travelers the solace of some eighty-six officially established religions. Athos's, of course, was not among them. Ethan passed what was obviously the funeral procession of some philosophic person who spurned cryogenic storage in favor of microwave cremation -- Ethan, eyes still full of the endless dark beyond the trees, thought he could understand a preference for fire over ice -- and some mysterious ceremony whose principals, a woman wrapped in red silk and a man in spangled blue, were pelted with rice by giggling friends who then tied dozens of strings around the pair's wrists.

Coming to the core of the section, Ethan got down to business. Here were the consuls, embassies, and offices of commercial agents from a score of planets who shipped through the nexus of Kline Station's local space. Here, presumably, he would get a lead on a biological supplier who could fulfill Athos's needs. Then buy a ticket for the chosen planet, then -- but Kline Station itself was sensory overload enough for one day.

Dutifully, Ethan at least peeked into the Betan Embassy. Unfortunately, its commercial directory computer interface was manned by what was obviously a female expediter. Ethan withdrew hastily without speaking to her. Perhaps he'd try later, during another shift. He pointedly ignored the collection of consuls representing the great syndicated houses of Jackson's Whole. Ethan did resolve to send House Bharaputra a stiff note of complaint, though, later.

Passing back through from this direction, Ethan's chosen hostel did indeed look staid. He estimated he'd walked a couple of kilometers through various levels from the luxury docks, but a curiosity that grew rather than faded with each new sight and discovery drew him out of Transients' Lounge entirely, into the Stationers' own sections. Here the decor diminished from staid to utilitarian.

The odors from a small cafeteria, tucked between a customized plastics fabricator and a pressure suit repair facility, reminded Ethan suddenly that he hadn't eaten since leaving shipboard. But there were a great many women within. He reversed the impulse and withdrew, feeling very hungry. A random walk led him down two more little tubes into a narrow, rather grubby commercial arcade. He was not far from the docking area by which he'd entered Kline Station. His wanderings were arrested by the smell of overused frying grease drifting from one doorway. He peered into the dimly-lit interior.

A number of men in a kaleidoscope of Stationer work uniforms were lounging at tables and along a counter in attitudes of repose. It was evidently some sort of break room. There was no women present at all. Ethan's oppressed spirits lifted. Perhaps he could relax here, even get something to eat. He might even strike up a conversation. Indeed, remembering his instructions from the Athosian Department of Immigration, he had a duty to do so. Why not start now?

Ignoring a queasy subliminal feeling of unease -- this was no time to let his shyness rule him -- he entered, blinking. More than a break room. Judging from the alcoholic smell of the beverages, these men must be off-duty altogether. It was some sort of recreational facility, then, though it resembled an Athosian club not at all. Ethan wondered wistfully if one could get artichoke beer here. Being Stationer, it would more likely be based on algae or something. He suppressed a homesick twinge, moistened his lips, and walked boldly up to a group of half-a-dozen men in color-coded coveralls clustered around the counter. Stationers must be used to seeing Transients far more bizarrely dressed than his plain casual Athosian shirt, jacket, trousers, and shoes, but for a moment he wished for the doctor's whites he wore at the Rep Center, all clean and crisp from the laundry, that always lent him their reassuring sense of official identity.

“How do you do,” Ethan began politely. “I represent the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization of the Planet Athos. If I may, I'd like to tell you about the pioneering opportunities for settlement still available there --”

The sudden dead silence of his audience was interrupted by a large worker in green coveralls. “Athos? The Planet of the Fags? You on the level?”

“Can't be,” said another, in blue. “Those guys never stick their noses off their home dirtball.”

A third man, all in yellow, said something extremely coarse.

Ethan took a breath and began again, valiantly. “I assure you, I am indeed on the level. My name is Ethan Urquhart; I am myself a doctor of reproductive medicine. A crisis has arisen recently in our birth rate -- “

Green-coveralls gave a bark of laughter. “I'll bet! Let me tell you what you're doing wrong, buddy --”

The coarse one, from whom alcoholic esters were wafting in high concentration, said something depressingly one-track. Green-coveralls chortled and patted Ethan familiarly on the stomach. “You're in the wrong store, Athosian. Beta Colony's the place to go for a change-of-sex operation. After that, you can get knocked up in no time.”

One-track repeated himself. Ethan turned to him, his outrage and confusion taking refuge in stiff formality. “Sir, you seem to have some sadly narrow preconceptions about my planet. Personal relationships are a matter of individual preference, and entirely private. In fact there are many communes, strict interpreters of the Founding Fathers, who take vows of chastity. They are highly respected --”

“Yeech!” cried Green-coveralls raucously. “That's even worse!” A roar of laughter went up from his co-workers.

Ethan felt his face flush. “Excuse me. I am a stranger here. This is the only place I've seen on Kline Station that is free of women, and I thought some reasonable discourse might be possible. It's a very serious --”

One-track made a loud remark in the same vein.

Ethan wheeled around and slugged him.

Then froze, horror-stricken at his own dreadful breach of control. This wasn't the behavior of an ambassador -- he must apologize at once --

“Free of women?” One-track snarled, scrambling back to his feet, his eyes red and drunken and feral. “Is that why you came in here -- bloody procuring? I'll show you --”

Ethan found himself secured abruptly from behind by two of One-track's burlier friends. He trembled, suppressing a terrified impulse to struggle and break free. If he stayed cool maybe he could still --

“Hey, fellows, take it easy,” Green-coveralls began anxiously. “He's obviously just a transient --”

The first blow doubled Ethan over, his breath whistling between clenching teeth. The two pinioning him straightened him up again.” -- what we do to your type,” wham! “around here!”

Ethan found he had no breath left with which to apologize. He hoped desperately One-track wasn't going to make a very long speech. But One-track continued, punctuating Ethan regularly.

“-- bloody -- damned -- nosing around our --”

A light, sardonic alto voice interrupted. “Aren't you a little worried by the odds? What if he gets loose, and gangs up on the six of you?”

Ethan twisted his head around; it was the mercenary woman, Commander Quinn. She bounced lightly on her feet, head cocked alertly.

Green-coveralls swore reverently under his breath; One-track just swore. “Come on, Zed,” said Green-coveralls, laying a hand on his comrade's arm, although never taking his eyes from the woman's face, “That's enough, I'm thinking.”

One-track shook himself free. “And what's this dirt-sucker to you, Sweetie?” he snapped.

One corner of the woman's carved mouth twisted up; Blue-coverall's lips parted in entrancement. “Suppose I say I'm his military advisor?” she said.

“Fag-loving women,” One-track swore, “are worse than the fags themselves --” and continued in crude-ness.

“Zed,” muttered Blue-coveralls, “can it. She's not a tech, she's a troop. Combat vet -- look at her insignia --” There was a stir in the back of the room, as several neutral observers made prudent exits.

“All drunks are a pain,” drawled the woman to the air, “but aggressive drunks are just plain disgusting.”

One-track shoved toward her, mouthing confused obscenities. She waited in stillness until he crossed some invisible boundary. There was a sudden buzz and a flash of blue light. Ethan realized as the weapon spun in her hand and melted soundlessly back into its holster that the pause had been for stunner nimbus; all others in the group were out of range and untouched.

“Take a nap,” she sighed. She glanced up at the two men still holding Ethan. “That your friend?” she nodded to the prone One-track, unconscious on the floor. “You should be more choosy. Friends like that can get you killed.”

Ethan was hastily dropped. His knees buckled as he folded over his aching belly. The mercenary woman pulled him back to his feet. “C'mon, pilgrim. Let me take you back where you belong.”

“I should have said, 'Why, are you missing yours?',” Ethan decided. “That's what I should have said to him. Or maybe --”

Commander Quinn's lips curved. Ethan wondered irritably why everyone around here seemed to find Athosians so amusing, except for the ones who acted like he was offering them a dose of leprosy. A sudden new fear put him so off-balance he very nearly clutched the mercenary's arm. “Oh, God the Father. Are those constables?”

A pair of men were nearing them in the corridor. Their uniforms were pine green slashed with sky blue, and an intimidating array of equipment hung from their utility belts. Ethan felt a sudden stab of guilt. “Maybe I should turn myself in -- get it over with. I did assault that man --”

Commander Quinn's mouth quivered with amusement. “Not unless you're incubating some rare new plant virus under your fingernails. Those guys are Biocontrol -- the ecology cops. Underfoot all over Kline Station,” she paused to exchange polite nods with the men, who passed on, and added under her breath, “bunch of compulsive hand-washers.” She continued after a meditative moment, “Don't cross them, though. They have unlimited powers of search and seizure -- you could find yourself being forcibly deloused, with no appeal.”

Ethan thought about that. “I suppose station ecology is much less resilient than planetary.”

“Balanced on a wire, between fire and ice,” she agreed. “Some places have religion. Here we have safety drills. By the way, if you ever see a patch of frost forming anywhere but a docking bay, report it at once.”

They re-entered Transients' Lounge. Her eyes were too penetrating, edgy with seriousness, for her quirking mouth, and they made Ethan hideously uneasy. “Hope that little incident doesn't put you off Stationers, ' she said. “What say I take you to dinner, to make up for my fellow citizens' bad manners?”

Was this some sort of proposition, a ploy to get him alone and helpless? He edged farther from her, as she paced softly beside him like a predatory cat.