To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (43 page)

“The emergency generator!” almost yelled Grimes. But he, too, could feel that command
inside
his brain, the imperious demand for attention, for . . . love. Here, at last, was something, somebody whom he could serve with all the devotion of which he was, of which he ever would be capable. And yet a last, tattered shred of sanity persisted.

He said gently, “We must start the emergency generator.
She
must not be cold or hungry.”

Beadle agreed. “We must start the emergency generator.
For her.
”

They started the emergency generator and the ship came back to life—of a sort. She was a small bubble of light and warmth and life drifting down and through the black immensities.

The worst part of it all, Grimes said afterwards, was
knowing
what was happening but not having the willpower to do anything about it. And then he would add, “But it was educational. You can’t deny that. I always used to wonder how the Establishment gets away with so much. Now I know. If you’re a member of the Establishment you have that inborn . . . arrogance? No, not arrogance. That’s not the right word. You have the calm certainty that everybody will do just what you want. With
our
Establishment it could be largely the result of training, of education. With the Shaara Establishment no education or training is necessary.

“Too, the Princess had it easy—almost as easy as she would have done had she broken out of her cocoon in the proper place at the proper time. Here she was in a little ship, manned by junior officers, people used to saluting and obeying officers with more gold braid on their sleeves. For her to impose her will was child’s play. Literally child’s play in this case. There was a communication problem, of course, but it wasn’t a serious one. Even if she couldn’t actually speak, telepathically, to the rest of us, there was Spooky Deane. With him she could dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

“And she did.”

And she did.

Adder’s
officers gathered in the cargo compartment that was now the throne-room. A table had been set up, covered with a cloth that was, in actuality, a new Federation ensign from the ship’s flag locker. To it the Princess—the Queen, rather—clung with her four posterior legs. She was a beautiful creature, slim, all the colors of her body undimmed by age. She was a glittering, bejeweled piece of abstract statuary, but she was alive, very much alive. With her great, faceted eyes she regarded the men who hovered about her. She was demanding something. Grimes knew that, as all of them did. She was demanding something—quietly at first, then more and more insistently.

But what?

Veneration? Worship?

“She hungers,” stated Deane.

She hungers . . .
thought Grimes. His memory was still functioning, and he tried to recall what he knew of the Shaara.

He said, “Tell her that her needs will be satisfied.”

Reluctantly yet willingly he left the cargo compartment, making his way to the galley. It did not take him long to find what he wanted, a squeeze bottle of syrup. He hurried back with it.

It did not occur to him to hand the container to the Queen. With his feet in contact with the deck he was able to stand before her, holding the bottle in his two hands, squeezing out the viscous fluid, drop by drop, into the waiting mouth. Normally he would have found that complexity of moving parts rather frightening, repulsive even—but now they seemed to possess an essential rightness that was altogether lacking from the clumsy masticatory apparatus of a human being. Slowly, carefully he squeezed, until a voice said in his mind,
Enough. Enough.

“She would rest now,” said Deane.

“She shall rest,” stated Grimes.

He led the way from the cargo compartment to the little wardroom.

* * *

In a bigger ship, with a larger crew, with a senior officer in command who, by virtue of his rank, was a member of the Establishment himself, the spell might soon have been broken. But this was only a little vessel, and of her personnel only Grimes was potentially a rebel. The time would come when this potentiality would be realized—just as, later, the time of compromise would come—but it was not yet. He had been trained to obedience—and now there was aboard
Adder
somebody whom he obeyed without question, just as he would have obeyed an Admiral.

In the wardroom the officers disposed of a meal of sorts, and when it was over Grimes, from force of habit, pulled his pipe from his pocket, began to fill it.

Deane admonished him, saying, “
She
wouldn’t like it. It taints the air.”

“Of course,” agreed Grimes, putting his pipe away.

Then they sat there, in silence, but uneasily, guiltily. They should have been working. There was so much to be done about the Hive. Von Tannenbaum at last unbuckled himself from his chair and, finding a soft rag, began, unnecessarily, to polish a bulkhead. Vitelli muttered something about cleaning up the engine room and drifted away, and Slovotny, saying that he would need help, followed him. Beadle took the dirty plates into the pantry—normally he was one of those who washes the dishes
before a
meal.

“She is hungry,” announced Deane.

Grimes went to the galley for another bottle of syrup.

So it went on, for day after day, with the Queen gaining strength and, if it were possible, even greater authority over her subjects. And she was learning. Deane’s mind was open to her, as were the minds of the others, but to a lesser degree. But it was only through Deane that she could speak.

“She knows,” said the telepath, “that supplies in the Hive are limited, that sooner or later, sooner rather than later, we shall be without heat, without air or food. She knows that there is a planet within reach. She orders us to proceed there, so that a greater Hive may be established on its surface.”

“Then let us proceed,” agreed Grimes.

He knew, as they all knew, that a general distress call would bring help—but somehow was incapable of ordering it made. He knew that the establishment of a Hive, a colony on a planet of ZX1797 would be utterly impossible—but that was what
she
wanted.

So Adder
awoke from her sleeping state, vibrating to the irregular rhythm of the inertial drive and, had there been an outside observer, flickered into invisibility as the gyroscopes of the Mannschenn Drive unit precessed and tumbled, falling down and through the warped continuum, pulling the structure of the ship with them.

Ahead was ZX1797, a writhing, multi-hued spiral, expanding with every passing hour.

It was von Tannenbaum who now held effective command of the ship—Grimes had become the Queen’s personal attendant, although it was still Deane who made her detailed wishes known. It was Grimes who fed her, who cleansed her, who sat with her hour after hour in wordless communion. A part of him rebelled, a part of him screamed soundlessly and envisaged hard fists smashing those great, faceted eyes, heavy boots crashing through fragile chitin. A part of him rebelled—but was powerless—and
she
knew it. She was female and he was male and the tensions were inevitable, and enjoyable to one if not to the other.

And then Deane said to him, “She is tiring of her tasteless food.”

She would be, thought Grimes dully. And then there was the urge to placate, to please. Although he had never made a deep study of the arthropedal race he knew, as did all spacemen, which Terran luxuries were appreciated by the Shaara. He went up to his quarters, found what he was looking for. He decanted the fluid from its own glass container into a squeeze bottle. Had it been intended for human consumption this would not have been necessary, now that the ship was accelerating, but Shaara queens do not, ever, feed themselves.

He went back to the throne-room. Deane and the huge arthroped watched him. The Queen’s eyes were even brighter than usual. She lifted her forelimbs as though to take the bottle from Grimes, then let them fall to her side. Her gauzy wings were quivering in anticipation.

Grimes approached her slowly. He knelt before her, holding the bottle before him. He raised it carefully, the nippled end towards the working mandibles. He squeezed, and a thin, amber stream shot out. Its odor was rich and heavy in the almost still air of the compartment.

More!
the word formed itself in his mind.
More!

He went on squeezing.

But . . . You are not a worker . . . You are a drone . . .

And that word “drone” denoted masculinity, not idleness.

You are a drone . . . You shall be the first father of the new Hive . . .

“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker . . .” muttered Deane, struggling to maintain a straight face.

Grimes glared at the telepath, What was so funny about this? He was feeling, strongly, the stirrings of desire.
She
was female, wasn’t she? She was female, and she was beautiful, and he was male. She was female—and in his mind’s eye those flimsy wings were transparent draperies enhancing, not concealing, the symmetry of the form of a lovely woman—slim, with high, firm breasts, with long, slender legs. She wanted him to be her mate, her consort.

She wanted him.

She . . .

Suddenly the vision flickered out.

This was no woman spread in alluring, naked abandon.

This was no more than a repulsive insect sprawled in drunken untidiness, desecrating the flag that had been spread over the table that served it for a bed. The wings were crumpled, a dull film was over the faceted eyes. A yellowish ichor oozed from among the still-working mandibles.

Grimes retched violently. To think that he had almost . . .

“Captain!” Deane’s voice was urgent. “She’s out like a light! She’s drunk as a fiddler’s bitch!”

“And we must keep her that way!” snapped Grimes. He was himself again. He strode to the nearest bulkhead pick-up. “Attention, all hands! This is the Captain speaking. Shut down inertial and interstellar drive units. Energize Carlotti transceiver. Contact any and all shipping in the vicinity, and request aid as soon as possible. Say that we are drifting, with main engines inoperable due to fuel shortage.” He turned to Deane. “I’m leaving you in charge, Spooky. If she shows signs of breaking surface, you know what to do.” He looked sternly at the telepath. “I suppose I can trust you . . .”

“You can,” the psionic communications officer assured him. “You can. Indeed you can, captain. I wasn’t looking forward at all, at all, to ending my days as a worker in some
peculiar
Terran-Shaara Hive!” He stared at Grimes thoughtfully. “I wonder if the union
would
have been fertile?”

“That will do, Mr. Deane,” growled Grimes.

“Fantastic,” breathed Commodore Damien. “Fantastic. Almost, Mr. Grimes, I feel a certain envy. The things you get up to . . .”

The aroma of good Scotch whisky hung heavily in the air of the Commodore’s office. Damien, although not an abstainer, never touched the stuff. Grimes’s tastes were catholic—but on an occasion such as this he preferred to be stone cold sober.

“It is more than fantastic,” snarled the Shaara Queen-Emissary, the special envoy of the Empress herself. Had she not been using a voice-box her words would have been slurred. “It is . . . disgusting. Reprehensible. This officer
forced
liquor down the throat of a member of
our
Royal family. He . . .”

“He twisted her arm?” suggested the Commodore.

“I do not understand. But she is now Queen-Mother of Brooum. A drunken, even alcoholic Queen-Mother.”

“I saved my ship and my people,” stated Grimes woodenly.

Damien grinned unpleasantly. “Isn’t this where we came in, Lieutenant? But no matter. There are affairs of far more pressing urgency. Not only do I have to cope with a direct complaint from the personal representative of Her Imperial Majesty . . .”

Even though she was wearing a voice-box, the Queen-Emissary contrived to hiccough. And all this, Grimes knew, was going down on tape. It was unlikely that he would ever wear the ribbon of the Order of the Golden Honeyflower, but it was equally unlikely that he would be butchered to make a Shaara holiday.

“He
weaned
her on Scotch . . .” persisted the Queen-Emissary.

“Aren’t you, perhaps, a little jealous?” suggested Damien. He switched his attention back to Grimes. “Meanwhile, Lieutenant, I am being literally bombarded with Carlottigrams from Her not-so-Imperial Majesty on Brooum demanding that I dispatch to her, as soon as possible if not before, the only drone, in the Galaxy with whom she would dream of mating . . .”

“No!” protested Grimes. “
NO!
”

“Yes, mister. Yes. For two pins I’d accede to her demands.” He sighed regretfully. “But I suppose that one must draw some sort of a line somewhere . . .” He sighed again—then, “Get out, you
drone
!” he almost shouted. It was a pity that he had to spoil the effect by laughing.

“We are not amused,” said the Shaara Queen.

The Wandering Buoy

It shouldn’t
have been there.

Nothing at all should have been there, save for the sparse drift of hydrogen atoms that did nothing at all to mitigate the hard vacuum of interstellar space, and save for the Courier
Adder,
proceeding on her lawful occasions.

It shouldn’t have been there, but it was, and Grimes and his officers were pleased rather than otherwise that something had happened to break the monotony of the long voyage.

“A definite contact, Captain,” said von Tannenbaum, peering into the spherical screen of the mass proximity indicator.

“Mphm . . .” grunted Grimes. Then, to the Electronic Communications Officer. “You’re quite sure that there’s no traffic around, Sparks?”

“Quite sure, Captain,” replied Slovotny. “Nothing within a thousand light years.”