Alexandrian Librarians

Few of my colleagues find headhunting all that appealing, but I rather enjoy sitting behind my lonesome table in Armstrong Hall once a year and watching the greenies go by.

Ivesta Outward Lines is set up next to me, and they always draw a good crowd. Some of the greenies getting pitched there glance my way, their gazes sliding disinterestedly away again when they see the ugly hand-drawn placard reading

Sometimes they hold their noses or mime yawning.

I don’t let their reaction bother me. Our reputation is something we all work very hard to maintain.

It isn’t always easy, but I do my damndest to be backSol for the Academy’s pre-graduation Recruitment Day. This time I cut it especially close, coming in from the big digs on Bloor mojke II late last night, just in time to kill a few post-midnight brandies with Serafina and let her know that her best eye for fresh meat was ready for the hunt.

The greenies filling Armstrong Hall all look so young—seemingly younger every year thanks to the Doppleresque effect of my own aging. I can see their dreams shining on their faces and gleaming in their eyes. Now and then one of them will have just enough of that certain something I’m looking for to make me access the AdMem socketed behind my ear, but so far none of them have made my pulse jump.

So I just drink my coffee and stroke my shaggy mustache and watch and wait. My modest hangover fades as time passes.

Then a new face emerges from the crowd’s youthful Brownian motion. One look and my heart begins to beat a little faster.

She is tall and black and broad-shouldered. Her head is shaved, and she has a stubborn chin. Judging from the sheaf of flimsies in her hand, I would guess that she’s hit every table here—every one but mine. Unlike most of her classmates, who have the faces of children set loose in a candy store, she wears the faintly displeased frown of someone looking for something she isn’t finding.

A directed thought starts my AdMem, and it begins telling me about her. Alessandra Desmond is her name; Cerean, age 25; top 15% of her class in terms of classwork, top 5% in simulation skills; her overall rating quite a bit below that because of a fairly hefty infractfile. The info spools on, but I’m not really paying it any mind. I know she is a perfect candidate for our motley, rustbucket Prezzie fleet.

She senses my attention and turns to stare at me.

I smile and beckon her over. Her frown deepens. She looks around to see if anyone is watching, gives a little shrug and approaches my table with an air of glum challenge.

“Good day to you,” I say, sitting up a little straighter so she will take my captain’s insignia a little more seriously—though probably not enough to cancel out my mud-brown, ineptly cut bad joke of a uniform.

“Captain,” she answers grudgingly. “Sir.” It worked.

“Tell me,” I say, offering a dog-eared, crudely produced flimsy, “Have you ever considered signing with Historical Preservation Operations?”

Her frown dissolves into a truly wonderful grin. “You must be joking,” she says with a laugh.

I laugh along with her, positive she’s just what I’m looking for. As I laugh I tag her dossier and register it with Placement. Historical Preservation Operations may not get much in the way of money or publicity, but one thing we do get is incontestable pick of three greenies each year. Some years we find them, some years we don’t.

I’ve just found this splendid creature, and even if I don’t find two more, my trip will have been a success.

Of course when she finds out that she’s been assigned to the Prezzie fleet she’s going to feel completely misplaced and screwed over. They all do.

I know I did.

Graduation was behind me. It was my very first cruise as an actual crewmember of a real starship.

I was off-duty and holed up in my quarters, adding a few more bitches to the long and bile-filled tacx I planned to send my friend, former classmate and occasional lover Ivania Bleinstein, when my horrible misbegotten sentence to the hellhull I was on ended and I finally got backSol. My grievances began with the majbitch which had made me subject to the mins; namely the rotten, royal and utterly unbelievable screwing over Placement had given me.

Every so often I would pause to take gloomy stock of what had become my lot in life; my lumpy, grav-controless bunk, obsolete percomp and antique vertainment console. A previous occupant with bizarre tastes and too much time on his hands had painted the scratched plazic cabin walls with some sort of hideous mural. The aliens in it always seemed to be laughing at me, which at least wasn’t as unnerving as what the ones in my hygiene cubicle were doing.

The rest of the ship was just as disheartening to behold. While the Gibbon was stardriver equipped, she was also a dumpy old rustbucket whose systems were decades out of date, and whose raddled, run-down condition marked her as at least ten years past the time when she should have been junked.

The manifest injustice of my assignment was so glaringly obvious that I still couldn’t believe that the one appeal I’d had time to register with Placement had been turned down. With my grades I should have been a junior officer on one of the big sleek interstellar liners, my crisp white uniform drawing the adoring eyes of rich and nubile fem passengers, and my destinations exotic ports of call like Neu Paris, Sunflash or Glimmermere. Or I should have been a JO on one of the huge colony ships, giving adventurous settler fems a chance to add to the genetic diversity of the worlds they were going to help populate. Or a JO on one of Contact Corp’s swift, subtly armed ships. Or—

In other words, I should have been anywhere other than stuck on a fugitive from the scrapyard geosynched over a dead world, waiting around while a bunch of uffy braincases got their rocks off pawing over a bunch of crap so old you couldn’t even tell what it was.

It was boring, unfair, unbearable, and if I couldn’t get Placement to give a serious hearing to my next appeal it was a guaranteed dead end, my career slagged before it even began.

I was not a happy crewper, and I was caught completely by surprise by the eardrum-rattling, blood-curdling whoop of the ship’s emergency siren.

My pad went flying off my lap as I leapt to my feet, and I nearly broke my nose when my compartment’s sluggish door opener didn’t get it out of my way quite fast enough. Seconds later I was running down the corridor toward Command, hand cupped around the pain in the middle of my face and cursing nasally around it.

The siren died just as I squeezed past that still-opening door. “Present, ma’am!” I puffed as I reached the command console, coming to attention and saluting the Gibbon’s captain.

Captain Serafina Chandaveda was a chunky, brown-skinned woman in her late thirties, whose concept of proper uniform leaned toward baggy shorts, garishly patterned shirts with the sleeves torn off, and no shoes. She looked up from her glum contemplation of her boards. “That’s good, Ornish,” she said mildly. “Very prompt response.”

“Thank you, ma’am—” I began, but she’d turned her attention back to her boards. So I waited at attention for my orders.

In the hundreds of emergency simulations I’d been through back at the Academy things had always happened very quickly, potential disaster averted by fast decisive action. But Captain Chandaveda just sat there, kinetic as a chess player.

And sat there…

After a couple minutes of this I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Isn’t there an emergency, Captain?” I asked cautiously.

She sighed and rubbed her round brown chin. “Well, we’ve got a problem, anyway. Come on in and take a look.”

“Yes ma’am.” I hustled partway around the compartment’s circumference to enter the horseshoe-shaped command area. That inner deck was supposed to rotate, but it was stuck in one position.

When I came up behind her she pointed to one particular screen. “See those areas flashing red?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Any idea what they are?”

I concentrated on the various reads. “That’s K’leven’s moon.” The planet the Prezzies were down on was cataloged as K11-21B/G271/B3, but we’d all been calling it K’leven for short. “The sensor readings seem to suggest some sort of, uh, gravitational anomalies on its surface.”

She nodded. Her chair squeaked as she turned to face me. “Very good. Any idea what they are?”

I didn’t have a clue, but that wasn’t something I wanted to admit. “First I’d need, uh, more comprehesive scanning and first order extrapolation, which, ah—”

“Which this old tub hasn’t got in her,” she finshed with a faint sarcasm. “In other words, no.” She crossed her arms before her ample bosom. “You may have noticed that the planet and its satellite look like they’ve had large chunks torn out of and blown into them. Does that suggest anything?”

“Dr. Xan said they had a war, ma’am,” I began uncertainly. The leader of the Prezzie expedition had said lots of things, but to be honest I had tuned most of them out. Every conversation seemed to turn into a class, and I’d already graduated.

The captain let out a derisive snort. “They had their own personal vulking apocalypse, Ornish. These folks discovered at least some crude form of gravitic control, and they used it to take potshots at each other using chunks of their worlds bigger than this ship as ammo.”

I tried to imagine such a thing, and came close enough to not want to get any closer. That much mass impacting at even meteoric speeds would release the same sort of energy as a several gigatonne bomb. It was no wonder there were no overt signs the place had ever been inhabited.

“So what we’re seeing here is big trouble brewing,” she went on, snapping me out of my appalled daze. “It looks like either our arrival, or something our friends down on K’leven did has managed to wake up a weapons system left over from the war fought here.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “But they said both K’leven and its moon have been dead a thousand years!”

She shrugged. “Hey, every military wants its weapons built to last longer than the targets they’re used on. It looks like our lobster people got their money’s worth. According to what the Gibbon’s guts can predict, the area where the expedition is working is going to get hammered with half a dozen chunks of rock weighing a few hundred tons each less than four hours from now.”

I don’t know which I found scarier; what she had just said, or the matter-of-fact way she said it. “So what do we do, ma’am?” I stammered.

She squinted up at me. “First quit ma’aming me every vulking time I turn around!”

I went to parade rest, head bowed meekly. “Yes’m.”

“As for what we do about it, I plan to stay right here, monitor the situation, and have the Gibbon somewhere other than geosynched between the moon and ground zero when the rocks start to fly.”

She stood, looked me up and down. The expression on her face said she wasn’t too excited by what she was seeing. “And you,” she said, “Are going down to get our passengers the hell out of there.”

Shortly afterward I was sitting in the cockpit and at the controls of the Gibbon’s shuttle, rerunning the preflight checks as I waited for Captain Chandaveda to return.

Saying that I was a bit nervous would be placidifying my mental state by a twitch or twice. In the five minutes since the captain had left me there to wait while she went to get something, I’d made two dry and fruitless trips to the head.

When I first learned that I’d been sentenced to a Prezzie ship, and that while I would technically be first officer—the entire crew consisted of myself and the captain—I’d envisioned endless scutwork as my inglorious and undeserved fate.

There had been scutwork, of course, but not quite as much as I’d expected. Spit and polish wasn’t Sara fina Chandaveda’s style. Her attitude seemed to be that if something worked more or less properly, leave it the hell alone.

One thing I hadn’t expected was this sort of sudden serious responsibility. JO’s were supposed to watch and learn and leave the critical work to more experienced hands.

“I can do this,” I kept muttering. I was the one who had taken the Prezzies and their equipment down in the first place, so piloting the shuttle was nothing new The only difference this time was that their lives depended on me getting them back off again. I repeated my mantra and began another check.

“OK, Ornish,” Captain Chandaveda said, nearly making me jump out of my skin. Those bare feet had let her sneak up on me like a ninja. “Here’s one last piece of equipment for you.”

I stood up and faced her, almost falling back into my chair when I saw that she had a gun. It was old and big and chemo-mechanical, and it appeared extremely deadly.

“Ma’am?” I asked, my voice an octave or two higher than normal.

“Just take it,” she said tartly as she offered it to me butt-first. She scowled. “They still give weapons training at the Academy, don’t they?”

“Yes’m,” I answered, taking it and wondering if this was the time to mention that I had only passed the course because my instructor had taken pity on me. I was an ace at weapons safety and maintenance. The problem came when I actually tried to hit something. I checked the safety, then looked around for a safe place to put it.

“I want you to carry it, Ornish,” she said, sounding more than a little exasperated. “Put it in your waistband under your jacket. Keep it hidden and on you at all times. It might just come in handy if they try to pull an Alexandrian Librarian on you.”

“A what? I don’t—”

She sighed. “Just do it, Ornish. Now get your ass in gear and get the job done. I’m counting on you.” She turned on her bare heel and headed for the airlock, glancing back over her shoulder just as she went through. She gave me an odd look, then said, “Be sure and bring them back alive!”

“What?” I called, but the lock door was closing between us.

All I could do was jam the gun into my waistband as ordered, sit back down in the pilot’s seat and initiate separation. The clamps released, there was a slight lurch, and my rescue mission began.

The shuttle’s under-juiced and over-aged gravitic propulsion systems gave it a fairly limited payload capacity and speed; like everything else they owned, it seemed to be a fifth generation hand-me-down. Ferrying the Prezzies and all their gear down to K’leven had taken three trips, and given me plenty of time for sightseeing.

But this trip I was seeing the planet’s battered surface with new eyes. The closer I got, the more chilling the picture became.

When Captain Chandaveda had said that the war which had been fought between the inhabitants of the planet and its major satellite had been their own personal apocalypse, she hadn’t been hyping the scale and scope of destruction below me. Deep craters pocked K’leven’s surface, some of them still fuming sullenly these thousand years later, the wounds deep enough to have created volcanic vents. There were fissures and chasms large enough to swallow the Gibbon whole, the skeletal remains of rivers boiled dry and seas turned to ashy mud. Of cities, or roads, or other fingerprints of civilization there was not the faintest trace. It had been a living world, and now it was not. The difference, and just how awful the changeover had been, was finally coming clear to me.

It was hard to believe that anything could have survived intact through such a deadly barrage. But something had. Buried deep under the splintered stump of what had once been a mountain there was a thick-walled vault containing objects which the K’leven had felt worthy of such a calculated attempt at preservation. The Spyter which had first scouted out this system discovered this hidden repository on its half light-speed scan-run through. When it had come back Sol at the end of its two year mission and disgorged the information gathered on its travels through uncharted systems, evidence of this vault had come to light. The Prezzies had immediately mounted an expedition to investigate. That’s what Prezzies do.

I had eagerly awaited the first images of what was inside, imagining gold and jewels and priceless works of art, or strangely beautiful alien machinery which might give us whole new technologies. When Dr. Xan and his colleagues had begun proudly showing off what looked like halfmelted bars of rock, piles of dirty plastic-plate-looking things, and heaps of what appeared to be blobs of either brown gravel or fossil turds, I lost interest pretty quickly.

Not my captain, though. She pored over anything they transmitted like it was the latest episode of some sizzy new vidrama. Too long hanging around dead planets with a bunch of yawners like the Prezzies, I figured. That was one more reason to get replaced as soon as I could. I didn’t want the same sort of brain damage to happen to me.

The shuttle bucked slightly as it entered the edges of what remained of the planet’s tainted atmosphere, steadied, continued its slow descent. On one hand I wanted it to go taster, on the other I was dreading the moment when I had to step out onto the bull’s-eye below This didn’t do much to help me relax.

After what seemed like an interminable trip I finally landed at the Prezzies’s base camp, a flat area near the foot of the mountain. Since they were on what had become the most dangerous spot in the whole system, and these were supposedly rational people, I had expected to find them standing by and impatient to climb aboard.

There were several tarp-covered piles of extra equipment and who knew what else off to one side of the ellzee, but the only member of the expedition in sight was Shelby, the big, old-style all-metal free aidroid who was part of their team.

“What is it with these crazy vulk ers?” I grumbled angrily as I rechecked my envirosafe generator and waited for the lock to cycle through. First Captain Chandaveda acts more like she’s in the middle of a tax audit than an emergency, and now the over-educated yozos I’m supposed to rescue don’t even bother to show up. Was it something wrong with the Gibbon’s air?

“Good afternoon, First Officer Ornish,” Shelby greeted me when the lock finally opened and I stepped out onto K’leven’s cold, inhospitable surface. “It is indeed a pleasure to see you again.”

I wasn’t in the mood to swap pleasantries. “Where the hell is everybody?” I demanded.

The aidroid smiled, impervious to my obvious pique. “Why, they’re inside the vault, of course.”

I bit back the urge to yell that I wasn’t an idiot and knew there wasn’t anywhere else for them to be in this godforsaken place! “Why aren’t they ready to go?” I asked, trying for brusque but sounding more like my shorts were in a swiftly tightening slipknot.

“Let me assure you that preparations are well under way.” Shelby gestured toward the tunnel mouth with a blue-steel hand. “If you would accompany me, I’ll take you to Dr. Xan.”

I nervously looked up at the ghostly disc of K’leven’s moon, back inside the shuttle airlock, then at the aidroid. “Isn’t he coming out?”

“Please,” he said, starting toward the tunnel mouth. “He is expecting you.”

I followed after, grinding my teeth together and thinking that at least somebody would get what they expected.

“Nice tunnel, Shelby,” I said to break the uneasy silence of the last few minutes, my voice echoing eerily along the rock-walled tube. The grade was gentle, but there was no mistaking that we were going down—and still farther away from the shuttle. If it hadn’t been for Shelby’s taglite the darkness would have been absolute.

“Why thank you,” the aidroid replied, sounding pleased. “The newest generation of matter compactors are said to be faster, but I find that the old Mark Threes do just as good a job with considerably more modest power requirements. Now the Mark Fours draw—”

“How much farther is it?” I asked to keep him from going on to tell me everything I ever wanted to know about matter compactors but was afraid to ask for fear of a lecture just like the one he was more than willing to give me.

“Not far. Just a bit over 221 meters.”

“They are getting ready to evacuate, aren’t they?”

“Rest assured, preparations are well under way.”

We were just passing through the templock set up between the tunnel and the vault when I got this nagging feeling that he hadn’t quite answered the question I’d asked. But I passed it off as just nerves.

Dr. Xan looked up from the thinga-magrubby he was examining, chubby cheeks dimpling as he smiled. “Ah, there you are, Ornish! So glad you’re getting a chance to see our little treasure trove.” He surveyed his subterranean kingdom proudly. “Isn’t it remarkable?”

Hoverlites drifting near the domed ceiling three meters above us cast a not particularly flattering light across the alleged treasure trove. The inside of the vault was a roughly thirty-meter square box made out of some sort of thick, mold-green concrete-like stuff. Either the effects of the earlier bombardments had been felt even this far underground, or the concept of level floors wasn’t one the K’leven had come up with before they turned each other to vaporized bisque, because the surface under my feet sloped slightly toward one corner.

There was ton after ton of stuff in there, all in piles and heaps and drifts; shelving must have been another undiscovered concept. The only things I could see which appeared to have even the slightest intrinsic value were pieces of the equipment the Prezzies had brought with them, and most of that looked like it belonged in the scrapyard. For instance the areola tor which was keeping the air inside the vault breathable chuffed and wheezed as it did its work. Some of its exposed parts were repaired with tape and wire.

My first inclination was to tell him it looked like the back room from Hell’s Thrift Shop. Instead I let his question pass, facing him with my shoulders back and what I hoped was a properly stern look on my face.

“Dr. Xan,” I said, shooting for the authoritative tone of a ship’s first officer, “You and your people must evacuate this place immediately.” I’m afraid it came out sounding ever so slightly desperate, but at least I hadn’t gone to my knees and begged, an option I was considering.

“Don’t worry, young man,” he said with a fatherly smile. “We are quite cognizant of the precarious nature of our situation. There are just a few last-minute tasks to be seen to, mostly a matter of completing the recordings we want to go on the shuttle.”

“But this place is going to get smutched in—”

“We are well aware of the time constraints. Serafina has seen to that. If you wish to hefp expedite the process, you might assist Clotilde.” He gave me an oddly conspirational smile. “You might even find what she is doing somewhat interesting.”

“What is it?” I asked unhappily, looking around for her.

Tarps had been used to create several work areas. We were in one, the Fritlanders were busy in the one nearest to where we stood. He pointed to another over in the far corner. “Why don’t you go ask her?”

As I’ve mentioned once or twice, the Gibbon wasn’t exactly a state-of-the-art starship. It had taken 48.6 days for her sluggish old stardriver unit to carry us the measly 579 light-years from Sol to K’leven. That included twelve two-hour dropouts back into real-space to let her cranky old statex-citers calm down. We had learned about dropouts as an emergency procedure at the Academy, but plugging them into the flight-plan ahead of time the way Captain Chandaveda had done was something definitely not written into the curriculum.

So it was a rather long trip, made longer by my knowledge of how much faster a decent ship could have covered the distance. By the end of my first week I was bored out of my skull. For the first few days, when I wasn’t standing watch—my orders were that if something went wrong I was to yell for help and for Shiva’s sake not touch anything!—or attending to my other duties, I went to the ship’s salon and tried to make conversation with our Prezzie passengers.

Dr. Fu Xavier Xan was a nice man, and friendly in his way, but he spent most of his time communing with his percomp. Just once I asked what he was reading. Five hours later my head was literally spinning from the highly compressed three credit course I’d just been given on “rotational kak-istodemocracy,” a political system practiced by a race which had died out some half million years before I had been dumb enough to ask my question. After that I just left him to his reading.

The tall, spindle-limbed T’thiggan who insisted that everyone just call him Elvis spent most of her time (T’thiggan’s are both) sprawled in a recliner, custom headphones over all four ears and his eyes rolled back in her head, listening raptly to presec-ondmill Earth music. Sometimes he sang along. Her voice was actually quite good, if a little strange. While I was tempted to ask what Lew-weeee lew-eye, whoa-ho meant, I had learned my lesson with Dr. Xan.

Shelby spent most of his time plugged directly into the Gibbon’s systems, fighting simulated wars with the ship’s main computer. We could always tell when the ship was losing because it either overcooked our meals or served them still half-frozen. Shelby was quite the general, which meant that we ate badly most of the time. Nobody complained, they just offered tactical advice.

The Fritlanders, Doctors Lars and Lessie, were a husband and wife team of linguists who had been together for so long that they had begun to look like each other. Lessie was the one with the shorter hair and bigger bust-line. They spent most of their time locked in their stateroom, and had remarkably little to say when they did come out. According to Dr. Xan they were translating a Langoozyle sex manual; an over thirty million entry compilation of every sex act performed by every member of that race over a one-year period. The noises that came from their room sometimes suggested that parts of it might have been pretty hot stuff.

Completing this scholarly sextet was the most junior member of the expedition. Dr. Clotilde Miskovitch was her name, she was about my age, and the reason why by the end of the second week of our voyage, I was spending most of my spare time hiding in my compartment with the door locked.

The Prezzies were a bookish lot. Clotilde was built a little like one; kind of squarish and thick-bodied, a little frayed at the corners, and of course containing one hell of a lot of words.

For the first few days she scarcely spoke to me. She just sort of observed me with an intensity which made me wonder if she was considering dissection as a route to further knowledge. Then suddenly about seven days out she turned up in the salon dressed to kill—or at least cause eye damage-wearing quite a bit of inexpertly applied makeup and even more perfume. She cornered me in a lounger, hung her modest, heavily fragranced breasts a few inches from my nose and began her studied seduction.

Now I found Clotilde nice enough, and actually kind of cute in a sturdy, foursquare, overly bookish sort of way. The problem was, her idea of flirting was to combine her somewhat shaky concept of feminine charm and her insanely overdeveloped intellectual skills and use them to try to bludgeon me into submission.

Except for the little lovetacxes she kept sending, I’d had a few Clotilde-free days while she and the others were down on K’leven. Any overture I made now would probably be seen as proof that Cupid had done his work, beating me senseless into compliant mush—probably using a couple dozen textbooks, a dictionary, and an entire set of Encyclopedia Astrica. But if offering to be her slave was what it took to get them in gear and off that damn planet, then duty demanded that I take the risk.

Back behind the tarp she was examining something that looked like a fossilized turd with an old Omniscan. I took a deep breath to brace myself, then went and told her that Dr. Xan had sent me to help.

“That’s very sweet of you, Tephillip,” she cooed, batting her stubby eyelashes at me. My guard immediately went up. Big words meant an intellectual assualt, small words meant physical persuasion. The fact that her coverall’s front closure gaped open halfway to her navel gave me further warning.

I shrugged uncomfortably. “I just want to get you folks out of here as fast as I can.”

“Of course you do.” She looked around at the heaps of stuff surrounding us. “We really hate the thought of quitting so soon. We’ve hardly begun to scratch the surface of what’s here.”

“I wouldn’t want any of this crap under my nails,” I joked.

That got me a blank look, then a slightly condescending smile. “I see, you’re making a joke.”

“So what are we supposed to be doing?” I asked to get things moving and reduce the risk she’d bust a gut laughing.

She showed me the brown blob in her hand. “Quick-scanning these.”

“What are they?”

“Something between a holopix and a kinesthetic sculpture.”

I figured she probably knew what she was talking about, but it still looked more like a coprolite than a Cornavecchi. “Not very, um, evocative.”

That did make her laugh. “The archived material is encoded inside it, silly.”

“So you crack them open, or what?”

More hilarity. “Here, I’ll show you,” she said when she got control of herself, moving the object into the scanner’s field.

A holo sprang into being before us. It showed two of the lobsterlike K’leven wrestling. She turned it slightly. The one on top got a little closer to pinning the one on bottom.

“So what is this, like the sports page?”

She gave me that dissecting look, only this time she was smiling. “Actually, we believe it to be a form of erotica. There seem to be both textual and musical components encoded in the artifact s structure. I’d hoped to crack them and make fully translated recordings, but now it looks like the best we can do is take static scans and hope all the information will be preserved so it can be decoded later.”

I gave the holo a closer look. “So you’re saying that this could be part of their Astra Sutra?”

“Or a pillow book, or a religious text, or a honeymoon memento, or a school sex manual. We’re a long way away from understanding these people well enough to put what we’ve learned so far into any social or historical context.” She handed the thing to me, her fingers lingering on mine.

I put it back in the scanfield for one more look, turning it this way and that to see if the lobsters did anything familiar. They didn’t. I wondered if maybe this was just foreplay, and the steamy stuff came later. “Do you know how they, you know…”

“Yes.” Clotilde took the lobster porn back again. “Now if you’ll get more of these from that pile over there and scan them, I’ll tag and register them. All right?”

“Sure.” Then I remembered that we were about to get flattened—after actually forgetting it for a couple minutes. “But we have to hurry!”

“Don’t worry,” she said, fondling my shoulder reassuringly, “We’ll be done when it’s time for the shuttle to go”

Before long we got a rhythm going. It was kind of mindless work—or at least my end of it was—and after a bit my mind began to wander. I found myself wondering if handling all this sexy stuff was making her feel, well, sexy. My mind being what it was at that age, this and occasional glimpses of her cleavage led me to wondering what she’d be like in a clinch, and I’m sure you can guess which gutter my thoughts headed for after that.

The upshot was that I was caught completely by surprise when Dr. Xan came bustling around the tarp. “Time to give me your scan data, Clo,” he said as he joined us.

I took a look at the dat on my wrist, my insides congealing when I saw what time it was. “We should have left an hour ago! ” I moaned.

“Don’t worry, Tephillip. We’re right on schedule,” she said as she powered down the Omniscan and pulled a per-mem from its innards. “Here’s my data, Xav.”

“Excellent.” He took it from her and slipped it into the battered metal briefcase he carried. “Shall we away?” Nobody needed to ask me twice. I headed out, looking around when I got past the tarp curtain. “Where are the others?”

Clotilde and Xan came up behind me. “They are already up at the shuttle,” he said. “Our preparations are complete.”

“Come on, Tephillip, you can’t hang around here any longer,” Clotilde said, making it sound like I was the one who was keeping them waiting. She hooked my arm in hers and began towing me across the vault toward the tunnel.

Dr. Xan followed behind, wearing the benevolent smile of a man who is finally seeing a chance to marry off his spinster daughter.

Much to my relief the others were waiting by the shuttle. By the time we got there, I’d realized that I was going to have to take control of the situation and keep it.

“Good,” I said, sounding brisk and businesslike. “Everyone’s present and accounted for.” I pointed at the already open airlock. “Now if you will all get aboard we can get out of here.” Nobody moved, and a funny look passed between them. The Fritlanders shared small, identical smiles. Elvis shuffled her big flat feet and sang something like can’t get no uh huh hum in a low voice. Shelby looked mildly embarrassed. Clotilde would not meet my gaze, her expression almost guilty.

Dr. Xan laid a chubby hand on my arm. “We’re staying here, Tephillip.”

It took me a couple seconds to make sense of what he’d said, and another couple to make myself believe I’d heard it. “You’re what?”

“Staying here. Holding the fort, as it were.”

“Are you vulking nuts?” I wailed.

A calm smile. “I assure you that we are all in complete command of our faculties. Our decision is a logical one. Our consensus is that the vault has survived everything thrown at it so far, and should come through one more barrage unscathed.”

I shook my head in denial, disbelief and desperation. “No way! I order you to get on that shuttle right this instant!”

“I am afraid that’s logistically impractical, if not outright impossible. It is already carrying its maximum payload in artifacts. Shelby is quite the master at calculating payloads, you know. Our combined mass added to what is already aboard would take the craft far over its operating limit.”

I looked around. Sure enough the big covered piles were gone. Loaded on while Clotilde kept me distracted. I shot her a black look, and she at least had the decency to blush.

Inside I went from panic to anger to outrage to a weird sort of calm in three seconds flat. When I looked at Xan I was smiling myself. “So let me see if I have this straight,” I said. “I’m supposed to rescue a bunch of junk—”

“Artifacts,” he corrected with a sniff.

“Artifacts, then. I save that stuff and leave all of you here to risk that vault surviving another barrage. The logic behind this being that if you and the vault survive, no harm done. If it doesn’t, at least all the incredibly valuable artifacts you put aboard instead of yourselves will be saved.”

They all nodded in unison. “You have an excellent grasp of the situation,” Dr. Xan said approvingly. “You are a most perceptive young man.”

“Thank you, sir.” My smile began showing less humor and more teeth. “I also happen to be a very pissed off young man, and I have an excellent grasp of one other thing.”

“What might that be?”

I pulled out the gun Captain Chandaveda had given me.

“This,” I said.

The response to this gambit wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be. Nobody looked particularly frightened—or even impressed. I knew the gun looked scary, so it had to be me.

“You wouldn’t shoot us, Tephillip,” Clotilde informed me in the tone you would use on a backward child. “Now put that thing away before you hurt someone.”

Now what? I asked myself, painfully aware of how fast time was running out. Once again my Academy training had let me down by not covering the threatening and/or shooting of passengers in a real depth. I stared at Xan, who radiated a calm confidence that I wouldn’t hurt the people I’d come to save. The problem was, he was right.

But my captain had sent me down to rescue him and these other maniacs, and I intended to complete my mission.

They always speak of inspiration striking. That’s what happened to me next. My brain gave a sort of hitch that made me blink, then I lowered the gun so its muzzle was pointed at the briefcase Xan carried.

“No,” I said in as menacing a voice as I could muster, “But I’m perfectly willing to blow your data all to hell.” His round face went pasty white. “You wouldn’t! This material is priceless and irreplacable!”

“So are all of you. So is my commission. So—” I jerked my thumb toward the airlock. “I suggest you get your over-educated asses in there this instant.”

Nobody moved.

I pulled the briefcase out of Xan’s hand and jammed the gun up against it. “I said move!” While that didn’t exactly start a stampede, they didn’t dawdle either.

Once inside, I learned that not only had they filled the shuttle cargo hold, they’d stuffed the cabin section full of K’leven leftovers as well.

There wasn’t time to clear off the passenger couches, or to see if I had enough control over them to get them to toss some of their precious artifacts overboard. So I had Shelby lie down on the one bare patch of decking and the others sit on him. Once they were settled in, I put the manual restraint field on at full power to keep them out of my hair.

I had to climb over piles of stuff to reach the pilot’s chair. The briefcase went between my feet and the gun went back into my waistband, but I made sure it was within easy reach.

My first look at the boards told me that my problems were still far from over. The payload indicators were showing me big numbers in an ominous red, the hazard avoidance systems were flashing ultra-urgent warnings that several giant chunks of K’leven’s moon were hurtling toward where we were sitting, and my captain wanted to have a word with me.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, initiating lift. Then I opened a tacxline to the Gibbon. Captain Chandaveda’s face appeared on the screen. She looked somewhat aggravated.

“It’s about time, Ornish. I was beginning to think you’d gone AWOL. Are you having a problem down there, or did you just plan to hang around for a while and get stoned?”

“I’ve got a problem, ma’am.” The shuttle shuddered and began to lift with agonizing slowness. “The vulking Prezzies stuffed the shuttle full of junk from the vault.”

“Artifacts!” came a chorus behind me.

“I had to hold their data at gunpoint to get them to board. Now we’re so overloaded we can barely move.”

“Sounds like you have your hands full,” she commented with a marked lack of sympathy. “I’ll stop being a distraction. See you when you get up here.” With that she broke the connection, leaving me staring at a dead screen.

“Thanks for all your help,” I growled, searching my boards for some clue as to how to get out of this predicament. Then I looked again, hoping there was something I missed. No such luck.

Less than four minutes remained until impact, we were less than a hundred meters up, and while our rate of ascent might have made an arthritic vulture carrying off a dead heifer proud, all it was giving me was a sour, sinking feeling that my next flight would be on angel’s wings.

My fingers did a fast, sweaty flamenco, asking the shuttle’s computer a dozen questions.

I started getting answers I didn’t really want to hear. The shockwaves impact was going to cause would be far nastier than the shuttle’s shields and hull could withstand. To survive them, we had to be almost halfway around the planet or pretty much clear of the atmosphere. The fastest way to clear air was to go straight up—right toward the oncoming Rocks of Doom—and our present rate of climb just wasn’t fast enough to get us to vacuum in time. I compromised, peeling us off at a slight angle so we weren’t on a head-on heading.

The only thing in our favor was that escape velocity wasn’t a problem for the shuttle since it used gravitic propulsion. You just keep negating gravity until there isn’t any more. It was getting clear of that shockwave which was our deadline. One we were going to miss by a considerable margin.

Back in the Academy simulators we called a situation like this a phillips head, so named because no matter what you did, you were completely screwed and in the crapper.

What we needed was more acceleration. The gravgrid under the shuttle was running at redline. I had the small maneuvering thrusters running at full. While making the SOBs who had gotten us into the mess get out to push might have made me feel better, that wouldn’t help either. The only propulsion system not running flat out was the other gravgrid on top of the shuttle.

Gravitic propulsion needs either a gravity field or at least a reasonable amount of mass to either react against or pull toward, the amount of lift and delta V constrained by several factors: the class and power rating of craft’s systems; the mass of the craft itself; the mass and gravitational pull of the bodies you are heading to and/or from, and the distance to those bodies. Much complex math here, but of a kind the shuttle knew how to do.

In other words, to use the topgrid I needed something above us to hook onto. So I ran some numbers.

Another dead end. K’leven’s moon was too far away to add all that much lift. The Gibbon was closer and suffci-iently massy, but the geometry sucked. Heading toward her would force me to take a longer flight path through more atmosphere, and we’d still be in air thick enough that the odds of the shockwave smutching us were seventy to thirty.

On our present course the odds were seventy-two to sixty-eight. So I loaded the course correction to veer us off toward the Gibbon and gain us that pointless increment of lift.

Just as my finger touched the surface of the pad which would initiate the change I froze. It was another case of inspiration striking, only this time it hit like a ten-ton gumball. I let out a strangled sound of dismay at the insane idea which had just stepped out onto the front of my brain, looked me in the inner eye, grinned and said, hey sailor, what do you think of ME?

“Are you all right, son?” Dr. Xan called from behind me.

I ignored him, moving my hands and preparing to run the numbers on the plan my possibly snapped mind had just given me.

A crazed chuckle rose up out of some deep and strange place inside me. “To hell with it,” I said, still cackling dementedly as I laid in the new instructions and initiated them.

The overloaded shuttle shied onto its new vector, moaning in protest. Noticeable acceleration settled over us as the topgrid sank its ethereal hooks into those oncoming rocks and began hauling us right toward them in a game of megalithic chicken.

Now I was getting a readout that was less than encouragingly labeled TIME TO IMPACT. It started at just over three minutes, and the numbers were changing faster than realtime because the closer we came to those stony spitballs, the more acceleration I could wring from them. I watched them flicker madly, sweat trickling down my sides.

When less than thirty seconds remained until we occupied the same space as those baby mountains I put my hand over the pad which would initiate our final, but hopefully not final course correction.

“Better hang on—” I called to my passengers. Ten seconds left.

“—This just might—” Five seconds. The slap of a pad unlocked the topgrid from the Stones of Death, stood the shuttle nearly on its side and latched onto the Gibbon.

“—Get a little—” A fiery chunk of K’leven’s moon, the size of Gagarin Hall back at the Academy, roared by us with less than five hundred meters to spare. The shuttle bucked as the pressure wave its passing created hit us, but that too added another bit of acceleration.

“—Rough!” One screen tracked the monster buckshot on its flaming descent. The shields were on full, and while we had reached the uppermost edges of the atmosphere, we still weren’t completely clear of it. The rocks’ kamikaze death-dive ended in a blinding blue-white light so sudden and so bright some of it made it through the shuttle’s luma-reactive ports.

The wait for the Shockwave seemed to take an eternity, one I spent pounding on the arms of my chair and going, “Come on baby, just a little faster, you can do it, just a little farther—”

When the wave front hit it was like a massive hand had come up under us and flung us like a shotput. My boards erupted with dire warnings and reports of systems failure.

The wonder of it all was that I was still alive to deal with them.

Just about an hour later I was still sitting in the shuttle’s cockpit. The boards were quiet, and there was no sense of motion. That was because it was snugged safely into its bay aboard the Gibbon.

My passengers had already debarked. They had interrupted their heated discussion as to whether the vault might have survived (it was one to one with four abstentions), and whether there might be well-hidden military emplacements the Spyter had missed worth investigating on K’leven’s moon, to each thank me for saving their artifacts and data—and by the way, their lives too. Clotilde slapped a vigorous liplock on me, then whispered that if I came by her quarters later I might just be given a proper hero’s reward.

I just sat there in the silence. My plan was to get up and leave the shuttle once I stopped shaking. I had high hopes that would happen before my thirtieth birthday, which was a mere four years away.

Captain Chandaveda materialized beside me on her bare and soundless feet. For once she didn’t startle me. My nervous system was beyond such responses.

“Shutdown checkout going a little slow, Ornish?” she asked, one eyebrow arched in inquiry.

I shook my head. “No ma’am. It’s done.”

“Good.” She parked a meaty hip on the edge of the control board. There was a bottle and two glasses in her hands. She filled both glasses, handed one to me. “Here, drink this.”

“What is it?” I asked dully.

“Nerve tonic. Go on, have some.”

“Yes’m.” I accepted the glass. She tossed off hers like it was water. I tipped my head back and took a swig, nearly choking as what felt like liquid antimatter ate its way down my throat.

“It’s 170 proof nerve tonic,” she added with a smile. “Maybe you’d better just sip it.”

When I could breathe and see again I looked at her through watery eyes and gasped, “Thanks for the warning.” Her smile turned into a big grin. “You did a good job, Ornish. I’m damned proud to call you my first officer, and I’d like to make it a habit. I hope you’ll reconsider trying to get out of serving on the Prezzie fleet ”

I gaped at her in open-mouthed surprise. “How did you know I—”

She laughed. “Honey, when they first dragooned me into this fleet and my appeal was turned down I seriously considered mutiny as a way to get out”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She refilled our glasses. “Nope. I was fit to be medicated. Then toward the end of my first voyage things got kind of interesting. Not as interesting as they did for you today, but enough to make me hold off taking my captain hostage I don’t know what I found harder to believe: her story, or her matter-of-fact attitude about what had just happened. “You call what I just went through interesting.?”

“Sure wouldn’t call it dull.” She took a swallow from her drink. “You weren’t really in all that much danger. The Gibbon has gravities too, and a little atmospheric scorch wouldn’t have made her any uglier. I was locked onto you and ready to haul your ass out of there if I had to ” She saluted me with her glass. “Never had to lift a hand, though. You cut it pretty close, but you pulled it off all by yourself.”

I shook my head in dazed amazement. “I never even thought of asking you to do that.” In fact, the two fields working together in gravitosynchronicity would have given the shuttle all sorts of lift, even if she hadn’t dropped orbit.

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t exactly encourage you to ask for help, and your first thought was to get yourself out of the jam you were in. Which you did. I was betting you were up to the job, otherwise our headhunter wouldn’t have picked you for Prezzie duty in the first place. We know how to pick the best and brightest, Ornish.”

I appreciated the left-handed compliment, but I’d been chewing on my own liver about getting assigned this duty for so long I still had a bad taste in my mouth. “But why me?” I demanded. “Others had better marks than I did.”

“Lots of reasons. Here’s one. Tell me, had you settled on what branch you wanted to enter after graduation?”

“No ma’am,” I admitted miserably. “Of course you hadn’t. Because none of the other services offered what you were looking for.”

“I guess. But I still don’t know what it is I wanted.”

“Well, I do. It was something none of the others said they had. You wanted to be more than one small uniformed cog in a big well-greased machine. You wanted challenge and excitement. You wanted adventure— which isn’t what you thought you’d get dragging a bunch of fusty bookworms around to dead planets, is it?”

“I guess not.”

She patted my knee. “Now not every trip gets this wildly interesting. Sometimes the payoff is a few years down the line, when you find out that you were there when the Prezzies found some new music or literature, some scientific or medical advance, some new piece of the Big Puzzle that changes the way we look at the Universe. Every trip is a crapshoot. lake this stuff you just brought up from K’leven. Who knows what sorts of secrets and wonders Xav and his people might extract from it? Shiva, if nothing else you just helped keep a race that has been dead a thousand years from being completely forgotten.” She shook her head. “That’s no small thing, Ornish. It’s a very great tiling.”

“I guess.” I drained my glass and sighed. My brain hurt from absorbing all of this on top of my earlier excitement.

“OK,” I said after a moment, “Maybe this duty isn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. But if the stuff the Prezzies save is so valuable, then why can’t they afford better ships? And why does their reputation, well, vac so bad?”

My captain’s smile said she was pleased with me for having asked those questions. “The information learned and artifacts gathered on an expedition like this are freely published and displayed for those who have the wits to see their value. Historical Preservation Operations are done for the love of knowledge, and for the value of adding to that knowledge, not for money or fame. And as to the other—”

She laughed and spread her arms. “We re greedy! If everybody thought this was a way to get rich, they’d try to horn in on our action. Better our branch remains dull, poor, and boring. That way we get to keep all this for ourselves.”

I sat there mulling over what she’d just said, realizing that the Prezzie lile —and being part of their fleet—was like one of Clotilde’s blobby rocklike thingies. Not much to look at from the outside, but inside there was wild music and lobster orgies.

I drained my glass again. I could really feel the effects of what I’d been drinking. “I still have one question, ma’am—uh, Serafina.

“What’s that, Tephillip?” Hearing her use my first name made me shiver. It made me feel like I had just become her peer, and I kind of liked the feeling.

“Teph. My friends call me Teph. Just before I went down, you gave me that gun and said something about Alexander’s Libraries. What was that all about?”

She looked toward the shuttle’s airlock to make sure we were alone, then leaned close. Her voice dropped to a conspirational whisper. “That was the Alexandrian Librarians. It’s one very important part of the job, and one we don’t talk about around our passengers. A long time ago, back before the first millennium, there was a great library in a city named Alexandria. It was the greatest repository of learning and literature of its day, and it was sacked and burned by an invading army. Around the year 2000 a minor, obscure writer named Byrne or something like that asked the question, What happened to the Alexandrian Librarians? The answer he suggested to his question was that they probably died trying to save the library’s contents. We don’t remember the guy’s name, but we never let ourselves forget his conclusion that people who love learning so much that they’ve dedicated their lives to it are quite likely to put the survival of that learning ahead of their own.”

“Like they did today.”

“Just like. Running a ship is just half our job. The other half is protecting them and what they learn. They can be completely blind to risk, sometimes. We have to be their shield.”

She stood up. “Speaking of our dusty band of scholars, I believe they are in the salon, waiting to throw a party in your honor. Shall we attend, First Officer Ornish?”

I stood up as well, swaying from the effects of the nerve tonic. Then again my nerves felt a lot better than they had in quite a while. “Will there be something to drink? I think I could use one more ”

“Count on it.” She eyed me critically. “But maybe you’d better hold off for a while. Much more alcohol and Clotilde is going to start looking good to you.”

I pulled myself to attention and saluted my captain. “Then maybe I’d better have two, ma’am.”

I served as first officer under Serafina for eight years—conducting a loose but highly educational affair with Clo for the first three—then became the captain of the Gibbon myself. Nine years after that I turned her over to my first officer and took on the job of converting a worn-out heavy cruiser named the Leonardo into a functioning Prezzie craft. A few years later I handed her off the same way as I had the Gibbon.

Now I captain the Marie Curie. Serafina is still my boss, only now she’s in charge of the whole slap-patched Prezzie fleet. It’s one of the high points of my year to come back-Sol, renew our friendship, and sit at our table in Armstrong Hall and watch the greenies go by.

Alessandra Desmond is still laughing at the absurd notion of signing on with us.

I laugh with her, but some of my pleasure comes from having found such a fine candidate to help protect our precious Alexandrian Librarians.

I know she’s going to hate it at first.

I think maybe I’ll ask Serafina to assign her to me, just so I can enjoy watching her get over it.