The Death of Sleep (15 page)

Lunzie turned to Baraki Don, the Admiral's personal aide, a handsome man in his seventh or eighth decade whose silver hair waved above surprisingly bright blue eyes and black eyebrows. "I'm not suggesting that I should do the procedure, but shouldn't he have his inner ear rebuilt? Shouting at his listeners is usually a sign that his own hearing is failing. I believe the Admiral's file mentioned that he's over a hundred Standard years old."

Don waved away the suggestion with a look of long suffering. "Age has nothing to do with it. He's always bellowed like that. You could hear him clear down in engineering without an intercom from the bridge."

"What an old bore," one of their tablemates said, in a rare moment when the Admiral was occupied with his food. She was a Human woman with black-and green-streaked hair styled into a huge puff, and clad in a fantastic silver dress that clung to her frame.

Lunzie merely smiled. "It's fascinating what the Admiral has seen in his career."

"If any of it is true," the woman said with a sniff. She took a taste of fruit and made a face. "Ugh, how awful."

"But you've only to look at all the medals on his tunic front. I'm sure that they aren't all for good conduct and keeping his gear in order," Lunzie said and gave vent to a wicked impulse. "What's the green metal one with the double star for, Admiral?"

The Admiral aimed his keen blue gaze at Lunzie, who was all polite attention. The green-haired woman groaned unbelievingly. Coromell smiled, touching the tiny decoration in the triple line of his chest.

"Young lady, that might interest you as you're a medical specialist. I commanded a scout team ordered to deliver serum to Denby XI. Seems an explorer was grounded there, and they started one by one to come down with a joint ailment that was crippling them. Most of 'em were too weak to move when we got there. Our scientists found that trace elements were present in the dust that they were bringing in on their atmosphere suits that irritated the connective tissue, caused fever and swelling, and eventually, death. Particles were so small they sort of fell right through the skin. We, too, had a couple cases of the itch before it was all cleaned up. Nobody was that sick, but they gave us all medals; That also reminds me of the Casper mission . . ."

The woman turned her eyes to the ceiling in disgust and took a sniff from the carved perfume bottle at her wrist. A heady wave of scent rolled across the table, and the other patrons coughed. Lunzie gave her a pitying look. There must be something about privilege and wealth that made one bored with life. And Coromell had lived such an amazing one. If only half of what he said was true, he was a hero many times over.

The black-coated chief server appeared at the head of the dining hall and tapped a tiny silver bell with a porcelain clapper. "Gentlebeings, honored passengers, the dessert!"

"Hey, what?" The announcement interrupted Coromell in full spate, to the relief of some of the others at the table. He waited as a server helped him to a plate of dainty cakes, and took a tentative bite. He leveled his fork at the dessert and boomed happily at his aide. "See here, Don, these are delicious."

"They have Gurnsan pastry chefs in the kitchen." Lunzie smiled at him as she took a forkful of a luscious cream pastry. He was more interesting than anyone she'd ever met or had seen on Tri-D. She realized that he was just a few years older than she was. Perhaps he had read Kipling or Service in his youth.

"Well, well, very satisfactory, I must say. Beats the black hole out of Fleet food, doesn't it, Don?"

"Yes, indeed, Admiral."

"Well, well. Well, well," the Admiral murmured to himself between bites, as their tablemates finished their meals and left.

"I should go, too," Lunzie said, excusing herself and preparing to rise. "I've got to hold after-dinner office hours."

The Admiral looked up from his plate and the corners of his eyes crinkled up wisely at her. "Tell me, young doctor. Were you listening because you were interested, or just to humor an old man? I noticed that green-haired female popinjay myself."

"I truly enjoyed hearing your experiences, Admiral," Lunzie said sincerely. "I come from a long line of Fleet career officers."

Coromell was pleased. "Do you! You must join us later. We always have a liqueur in the holo-room during second shift. You can tell us about your family."

"I'd be honored." Lunzie smiled, and hurried away.

"That's nasty," Lunzie said, peeling away the pantsleg of a human engineer and probing at the bruised flesh above and below the knee. She poked an experimental finger at the side of the patella and frowned.

"Agh!" grunted the engineer, squirming away. "That hurt."

"It isn't dislocated, Perkin," Lunzie assured him, lowering the sonic viewscreen over the leg. "Let's see now." On the screen, the bone and tendons stood out among a dark mass of muscle. Tiny lines, veins and arteries throbbed as blood pulsed along them. Near the knee, the veins swelled and melded with one another, distended abnormally. "But if you think it's pretty now, wait a day or so. There's quite a bit of intramuscular bleeding. You didn't do that in an ordinary fall—the bone's bruised, too. How did it happen?" Lunzie reached under the screen to turn his leg for a different view, and curiously watched the muscles twist on the backs of her skeletal hands. This was state-of-the-art equipment.

"Off the record, Doctor?" Perkin asked hesitantly, looking around the examination room.

Lunzie looked around too, then stared at the man's face, trying to discern what was making him so nervous. "It shouldn't be, but if that's the only way you'll tell me . . ."

The man let go a deep sigh of relief. "Off the record, then. I got my leg pinched in a storage hatch door. It shut on me without warning. The thing is six meters tall and almost fifteen centimeters thick. There should have been a klaxon and flashing lights. Nothing."

"Who disconnected them?" Lunzie asked, suddenly and irrationally worried about heavyworlders. Perhaps there was a plot afoot to attack the Admiral.

"No one had to, Doctor. Don't you know about the Destiny Cruise Line? It's owned by the Paraden Company."

Lunzie shook her head. "I don't know anything about them, to be honest. I think I've heard the name before, but that's all. I'm a temporary employee, until we pull into orbit around Alpha Centauri, four months from now. Why, what's wrong with the Paraden Company?"

The engineer curled his, lip. "I sure hope this room hasn't got listening devices. The Paraden Company keeps their craft in space as long as it possibly can without drydocking them. Minor maintenance gets done, but major things get put off until someone complains. And that someone always gets fired."

"That sounds horribly unfair." Lunzie was shocked.

"Not to mention hazardous to living beings, Lunzie. Well, whistle-blowing has never been a safe practice. They're Parchandris, the family who owns the company, and they want to squeeze every hundredth credit out of their assets. The Destiny Line is just a tiny part of their holdings."

Lunzie had heard of the Parchandri. They had a reputation for miserliness. "Are you suggesting that this starship isn't spaceworthy?" she asked nervously. Now
she
was looking for listening devices.

Perkin sighed. "It probably is. It most likely is. But it's long overdue for service. It should have stayed back on Alpha the last time we were there. The portmaster was reluctant to let us break orbit. That's been bad for morale, I can tell you. We old-timers don't usually tell the new crew our troubles—we're afraid that either they're company spies working for Lady Paraden, or they'll be too frightened to stay on board."

"Well, if anything goes wrong, you'll be sure to warn me, won't you?" She noticed that his face suddenly wore a shuttered look, "Oh, please," she appealed to him. "I'm not a spy. I'm on my way to see my daughter. We haven't seen each other since she was a youngster. I don't want anything to get in the way of that. I've already been in one space accident."

"Now, now," Perkin said soothingly. "Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place."

"Unless you're a lightning rod!"

Perkin relaxed, a little ashamed for having distrusted her. "I'll keep you informed, Lunzie. You may count on it. But what about my leg here?"

She pointed to the discoloration on his skin. "Well then, except for the aurora borealis, and no one need know about that but you and your roommate, there will be nothing to draw attention to your, er, mishap," Lunzie said, resealing his magnetic seams. "There's no permanent damage of any kind. The leg will be stiff for a while until the hematoma subsides, and there might be some pain. If the pain gets too bad, take the analgesic which I'm programming into your cabin synthesizer, but no more than once a shift."

"Make me high, will it?" the engineer asked, pushing himself off the table with extra care for his sore leg.

"A little. But more importantly, it will stop up your bowels better than an oatmeal-and-banana sandwich," Lunzie answered, her eyes dancing merrily. "I never prescribe that mix for young Seti. They have enough problems with human-dominated menus as it is."

Perkin chuckled. "So they do. I had one working for me once. He was always suffering. The cooks grew senna for him. Didn't know much about him other than that. They're the most private species I've ever known."

"If you like, I'll also give you a liniment to rub in your leg following a good hot soak."

"Thank you, Lunzie." Perkin accepted the plastic packet Lunzie handed him and slipped out the door past the next patient waiting to see the doctor.

After that day, Lunzie began to notice things about the ship which weren't quite right. It was hard to tell under all the ornamentation, but the clues were there for eyes paying attention. Perkin was right about the lack of maintenance on ship's systems. There was a persistent leak in the decks around the methane environment, which made various passengers complain of the smell in the hallway near the fitness center. Perkin and the other engineers shrugged as they put one more temporary seal on the cracks, and promised to keep the problem under control until they made the next port with repair facilities, months away at Alpha Centauri.

Lunzie began to worry whether there was a chance that the ship might fail somewhere en route to Alpha Centauri. The odds of meeting with a space accident twice in a lifetime were in the millions, but it still niggled at her. It couldn't happen to her again, could it? She hoped Perkin was exaggerating his concerns. With an uncomfortable feeling that ill fate was just past the next benchmark, Lunzie started listening more intently to the evacuation instructions. True to her word, she didn't mention Perkin's confidences to anyone else, but she kept her eyes open.

Seating arrangements in the dining room had been changed over the course of the last month. Lunzie, Admiral Coromell, and Baraki Don had been given seats at the Captain's table, presided over at the early seating by the First Mate. This was a distinguished woman of color who was probably of an age with Commander Don. First Mate Sharu was very small of stature. The top of her head was on a level with Lunzie's chin. Sharu wore a snugly cut long evening dress of the same regimental purple as her uniform. Her military bearing suggested that she had been in the service before coming to Destiny Cruise Lines. The ornate gold braid at the wrist of the single sleeve showed her rank, and hid a small, powerful communicator, which she employed to keep in touch with the ship's bridge during the meal. The other arm, which bore a brilliantly cut diamond bangle, was bare to the shoulder. To Lunzie's delight, Sharu, too, loved a good yarn, so Coromell had a responsive audience for his tales.

Not that he appeared to appreciate it. He was still grouchy at times, and occasionally snapped at them for humoring an old man. After a while, Lunzie stopped protesting her innocence and turned the tables on him.

"Maybe I am just humoring you," she told Coromell airily, who stopped in full harangue and glared at her in surprise. "I've gone to school lectures where there was more of a dialogue than you allow. We have opinions, too. Once in a while I'd like to voice one."

"Heh, heh, heh! Methinks I do protest too much, eh?" Coromell chortled approvingly. "That's Shakespeare, for all you beings too young to have read any. Well, well. Perhaps I'm at the age when I'm at the mercy of my environment, in a world for which I have insufficient say any more, and I don't like it. Rather like those poor heavyworlder creatures, wouldn't you say?"

Lunzie perked up immediately at the phrase. "What about the heavyworlders, Admiral?"

"Had a few serving under me in my last command. When was that, eight, ten years ago, Don?"

"Fourteen, Admiral."

Coromell thrust his jaw out and counted the years on the ceiling. "So it was. Damn those desk jobs. They make you lose all track of intervening time. Heavyworlders! Bad idea, that. Shouldn't adapt people to worlds. You should adapt worlds to people. What God intended, after all!"

"Terraforming takes too long, Admiral," Sharu put in, reasonably. "The worlds the heavyworlders live on are good for human habitation, except for the gravity. They were created to adapt to that."

"Yes, created! Created a minority, that's what they did," the Admiral sputtered. "We have enough trouble in politics with partisanship anyway. Just when you have all the subgroups there are already getting used to each other, you throw in another one, and start the whole mess over. You've got people screaming about that Phoenix disaster, saying that the heavyworlders were dancing on the graves of the lightweights who were there before 'em, but you can bet they paid a hefty finder's fee to whoever helped them make landfall—probably a goodly percentage of their export income to boot."

"I've heard that planet pirates destroyed the first settlement," Lunzie said, angrily remembering the anguished two years she had spent believing that Fiona had been one of the dead on Phoenix.

"Doctor, you may believe it. Probably they cut off Phoenix's communications with the outside first, destroying their support system, traders and so on. Soon as a planet's population can't take care of itself, the rights go to the next group who can. My ship got the mayday from a merchant ship being chased by a pirate outside of the Eridani system. They had been damaged pretty heavily, but they were still hauling ions when we came on the scene. My communications officer kept up chatter with their bridge for three weeks until we could come to the rescue. Lose your spirit, lose the war, that's what I say!"