Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: June 2013 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online
Authors: Penny Publications
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innate physical power didn't explain his dependability or the polish of his efforts. Pamir told him what needed to be cut and into what shapes and where the shards needed to be stored, and looking at the captain as his sovereign, he never grumbled, and every mistake was his own.
One day, Tailor's shop torch burped and burnt away his leg. He reacted with silence, sealing the wound with the same flame before dragging himself inside, stripping out of the lifesuit and eating one of the bottled feasts kept beside the airlock, waiting to supercharge any healing.
"Captains have a solemn duty," the twins joked afterward. "They should sacrifice the same as their crew."
"Yeah, well, my leg stays on," said Pamir.
The laughter was nearly convincing.
Two years were spent slowly dismantling the streakship. Every shard of baryonic matter had been shaped and put away, waiting to be shoved down the engine's throat after the hydrogen was spent. The only task left was to carve up the streak-ship's armored prow. Better than hydrogen, better than any flavor of baryonic matter, a slender smooth blade of hyperfiber would ignore compression and heat, fighting death until its instantaneous collapse and a jolt of irresistible power. But hyperfiber was a better fuel in mathematics than it was in reality, subject to wildness and catastrophic failure—a measure waiting for desperate times.
Shop torches were too weak. Sculpting hyperfiber meant deploying one of their plasma guns. Pamir ordered his crew to remain indoors, the humans maintaining the lights and atmosphere while Tailor was free to return to his obsessions. For five months, Pamir began every day by passing through the airlock to wake a single gun. A block of armor was fixed into a vice, waiting to be carved into as many slips of fuel as possible. The work lasted until his nerves were shot. Then the gun had to be secured, and he crawled back inside the ship. G'lene always threw a smile at him. The twins pretended to ignore him, their curses still echoing in the bright air. Tailor was muttering to the sovereigns or searching for cargoes that didn't exist, or he did nothing but sit and think. Pamir needed to sit and think. But first he had to kick his way to the engine, attacking its inevitable troubles.
When the sixth month began, the twins stopped cursing him.
Even worse, they started to smile. They called him "Sir," and without prompting, they did their duties. One evening Rondie was pleasant, almost charming, grinning when she said that she knew that his jobs were difficult and she was thankful, like everyone, for his help and good sense.
Pamir wasn't sure what to believe, and so he believed everything.
Tailor continued fighting with the sovereigns.
"I have a verdict," he said one day.
"And that is?" asked Pamir.
"These machines are not insane. They pretend madness to protect something from someone. And the problem is that they won't tell me what either might be."
"Can you break through?"
"If I was as wise as my ancestors, I would, yes." The Kajjas laughed. "So I am convinced and a little thankful that I never will be."
Three years and a month had passed since their launch, the voyage barely begun. Pamir shook himself out of a forty minute nap, ate a quick breakfast and then donned a lifesuit that needed repairs. But the hyperfiber harvest would end in another nine days, and the suit was still serviceable. So, alone, he trudged through the airlock and onto a gangway. The plasma gun was locked where he had left it six hours ago. The gun welcomed him with a diagnostic feed, and while it was charging, Pamir used three nexuses to watch the interior. The twins were sleeping. G'lene was studying a mechanic's text, boredom driving her toward competency. And Tailor was staring into a display panel, trying to guess the minds of his ancestors.
Sensors were scattered around the huge cabin. Some were hidden, others obvious. And a few were self-guided, wandering in random pathways that
One day, Tailor's shop torch burped and burnt away his leg. He reacted with silence, sealing the wound with the same flame before dragging himself inside, stripping out of the lifesuit and eating one of the bottled feasts kept beside the airlock, waiting to supercharge any healing.
"Captains have a solemn duty," the twins joked afterward. "They should sacrifice the same as their crew."
"Yeah, well, my leg stays on," said Pamir.
The laughter was nearly convincing.
Two years were spent slowly dismantling the streakship. Every shard of baryonic matter had been shaped and put away, waiting to be shoved down the engine's throat after the hydrogen was spent. The only task left was to carve up the streak-ship's armored prow. Better than hydrogen, better than any flavor of baryonic matter, a slender smooth blade of hyperfiber would ignore compression and heat, fighting death until its instantaneous collapse and a jolt of irresistible power. But hyperfiber was a better fuel in mathematics than it was in reality, subject to wildness and catastrophic failure—a measure waiting for desperate times.
Shop torches were too weak. Sculpting hyperfiber meant deploying one of their plasma guns. Pamir ordered his crew to remain indoors, the humans maintaining the lights and atmosphere while Tailor was free to return to his obsessions. For five months, Pamir began every day by passing through the airlock to wake a single gun. A block of armor was fixed into a vice, waiting to be carved into as many slips of fuel as possible. The work lasted until his nerves were shot. Then the gun had to be secured, and he crawled back inside the ship. G'lene always threw a smile at him. The twins pretended to ignore him, their curses still echoing in the bright air. Tailor was muttering to the sovereigns or searching for cargoes that didn't exist, or he did nothing but sit and think. Pamir needed to sit and think. But first he had to kick his way to the engine, attacking its inevitable troubles.
When the sixth month began, the twins stopped cursing him.
Even worse, they started to smile. They called him "Sir," and without prompting, they did their duties. One evening Rondie was pleasant, almost charming, grinning when she said that she knew that his jobs were difficult and she was thankful, like everyone, for his help and good sense.
Pamir wasn't sure what to believe, and so he believed everything.
Tailor continued fighting with the sovereigns.
"I have a verdict," he said one day.
"And that is?" asked Pamir.
"These machines are not insane. They pretend madness to protect something from someone. And the problem is that they won't tell me what either might be."
"Can you break through?"
"If I was as wise as my ancestors, I would, yes." The Kajjas laughed. "So I am convinced and a little thankful that I never will be."
Three years and a month had passed since their launch, the voyage barely begun. Pamir shook himself out of a forty minute nap, ate a quick breakfast and then donned a lifesuit that needed repairs. But the hyperfiber harvest would end in another nine days, and the suit was still serviceable. So, alone, he trudged through the airlock and onto a gangway. The plasma gun was locked where he had left it six hours ago. The gun welcomed him with a diagnostic feed, and while it was charging, Pamir used three nexuses to watch the interior. The twins were sleeping. G'lene was studying a mechanic's text, boredom driving her toward competency. And Tailor was staring into a display panel, trying to guess the minds of his ancestors.
Sensors were scattered around the huge cabin. Some were hidden, others obvious. And a few were self-guided, wandering in random pathways that
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