Expendable

Part III PLANS

Planning (Part 1)

After a long while, Yarrun asked, "How do you want to try the Landing?"

I had been pondering the same question — self-pity could only hold my interest so long, and then training took over. "Thylar Tobit claimed Melaquin was more like Earth than Earth," I said. "If he was right, we won't need extreme heat or cold equipment."

"Suppose there's some natural phenomenon that produces bursts of extreme heat or cold."

I shook my head. "It's possible… but the drop-ship would be watching from orbit, and anything like that would be picked up by sensors."

"Of course. But would they tell us?"

"What?"

Yarrun didn't look at me. "Even if the High Council knows what is deadly about Melaquin, would they tell us? They don't want a successful mission. They want the admiral to die."

"Oh shit."

"Precisely."

A Possible Out

Harque and Prope came through a hatch halfway down the hall, saw us, nodded, and dropped their eyes. The captain asked my chest, "Is Admiral Chee still with the doctor?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that a long time for a simple examination?"

"No doubt Dr. Veresian wants to be thorough," Yarrun answered. "One doesn't like to misdiagnose an admiral. And this particular admiral is unlikely to be a cooperative patient."

"True." Prope looked at her watch. "It would still be nice to get some sleep."

Harque produced a smarmy expression and an unctuous voice. "Perhaps, captain, you could ask the doctor to hurry things along. The examination is just a formality, after all. Isn't it?"

He smiled more at us than at Prope, to see if we understood what he meant. We understood indeed. At least Prope had the decency to be uncomfortable that this was all a sham. She muttered, "I'll speak to the doctor," and entered the infirmary with Harque on her heels.

"Before the Landing, I'd like to kick Harque's teeth out," I said. "What could they do about it?"

Yarrun closed his eyes a moment, searching through the vast fund of regulations stored in his brain. "Maximum penalty for striking a subordinate officer is six months imprisonment, plus demotion."

"Hmmm." I tapped my fingers on the bulkhead behind me. "That's a lot better than landing on Melaquin."

Yarrun's eyes narrowed in thought, then he shook his head. "It's a secondary offense — punishment can be deferred if the offender has duties of overriding importance."

"Like accompanying an admiral to his execution."

"Mmm."

I considered the possibilities a little longer. "Of course, punishment can't be deferred for a primary offense."

"No…"

"Primary offenses: treason, mutiny, desertion, homicide, possession of a deadly weapon on an interstellar vessel… anything else?"

"Assaulting a superior officer."

I contemplated the options. "Pity. I'd have to attack Prope instead of Harque. You could do Harque, though. A knee in the testicles would be appropriate, don't you think?"

"Dislocating his shoulder would be better — I'd like the crew to admire my restraint."

"Black both his eyes," I suggested, "and the crew will pay you a bounty."

"Where would I spend it? Melaquin?"

The joking died. We were ourselves again, in the night-lit corridor of a silent ship.

Still… I was appalled at the thought of dying stupidly.

"What's the penalty for a primary offense?" I asked quietly, though I knew the answer.

"Banishment," Yarrun replied. "There's no other penalty possible."

"The nearest exile world would be Mootikki, right?"

"It's the only one in this sector."

"Mootikki… ninety percent ocean, and semi-sentient water spiders that eat anything with a pulse?"

Yarrun nodded. "That's Mootikki."

Pause.

"A cakewalk," I said. "Wouldn't faze the greenest cadet."

"We've seen worse," Yarrun agreed.

A long silence trickled by. My palms were sweat-moist behind me as I leaned them against the wall.

Yarrun finally spoke softly. "Are we going to do it, Festina?"

"The High Council is sending us to a planet that has killed who-knows-how-many teams already. They are providing us with no information, not even a standard AOR summary. They've put us under the command of a man who is clearly unstable, possibly senile, and certainly ignorant of the principles of exploration. To all appearances, they are dispatching us to die just to rid themselves of an embarrassment. What's a few bruises compared to that?"

Yarrun, in a whisper: "We'll need witnesses."

I pointed to the door in front of us. "If we go for Prope and Harque while they're in the infirmary, Dr. Veresian and the admiral will see everything."

Another long silence. At last, Yarrun said, "We'll just shoot them with stunners, won't we?"

"Of course," I replied. "We don't really want to hurt anyone, do we?"

Weapons

Stunners were Landing weapons, intended to stop alien animals without killing them. They fired an invisible cone of hypersonic white noise, intended to disrupt electroneural activity for two and a half seconds. Sometimes, the shock stopped whatever was trying to eat you; sometimes, it didn't. On a human, a single stunner blast caused about six hours of unconsciousness followed by a vicious bitch of a headache, but it did no true physical damage.

Every Explorer longed for a more powerful weapon now and then; but the matter was out of our hands. The League of Peoples utterly forbade lethal weapons of any kind on board starships, and as far as anyone knew, the ban had never been broken. No one could say how the League did it… although there were rumors that the races known to humans were merely the tip of the League iceberg, that there were far more advanced and mysterious creatures who simply hadn't bothered to contact us. It was suggested that these creatures watched us invisibly, maybe even living amongst us without being seen: gaseous things or sentient patterns of radio waves, monitoring our actions or even our thoughts.

Certainly, the League seemed to pick up intentions clearly enough. After all, you can kill a person with almost anything, from laser drills to a plain old brick; but the League permitted such things to pass freely through their quarantine, because they weren't intended as weapons. On the other hand, if you had murderous thoughts about strangling someone with your shoelace… Well, if you had murderous thoughts at all, you'd never leave your home planet ever. Somehow, the League simply knew.

Always.

It was disturbing when you thought about it — like magic. Any sufficiently advanced technology, et cetera.

Our Assault

When I took my stunner from the locker in the Explorer equipment room, the butt felt oddly cold and metallic. I had seldom touched the pistol with my bare hand — on a Landing, we wore tightsuits covering our whole bodies. Even on a planet with good atmosphere and temperate climate, there were a thousand reasons to remain sealed off from the environment. I couldn't remember the last time I had touched a stunner ungloved.

Yarrun and I exchanged glances at the door of the infirmary. We hadn't said a word since we left to get the weapons. Now he smiled… a hideous sight. I nodded and palmed the ENTER plate.

Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant. Dr. Veresian had drawn Harque and Prope into his office, and was talking to them in a low voice. The admiral sat without pants in an examination chair, drumming his fingers on the arm-rests.

Prope turned at the sound of our entrance and saw the stunners. "Is there some problem, Explorers?"

"In a manner of speaking," I said. "We're unhappy with this mission."

"That's understandable," she replied. "It's an open secret that Explorers have been Lost on Melaquin. But the order came directly from the High Council."

"It seems foolish to throw away our lives for no reason." I raised the stunner. "What would you do in our position?"

Prope calmly lifted a hand. The ghost of a smile played about her lips; maybe all her life she had been waiting for a chance to show how relaxed she could be at gunpoint. She turned to Harque as if there were no weapon trained on her. "Lieutenant, what's the punishment for a primary offense?"

Harque quoted the regulation with a smirk. "The offender shall be set down on an approved exile world with no less than three days food and water rations, two changes of suitable clothing, and a knife whose blade does not exceed twenty centimeters in length."

"And what is the nearest exile world, lieutenant?"

"I imagine it would be Mootikki."

"But suppose I were shot by a stunner and was unconscious for a few hours. Another hour to convene a court martial, perhaps two hours to go through the formalities… Where would we be then, lieutenant?"

"Not far off Melaquin."

"And Melaquin," Prope said, turning back to us, "is also an approved exile world."

"That's not in the registration catalogue," I objected.

"There's a lot that isn't in the registration catalogue." Harque grinned nastily.

I tried to keep my face steady, but my stomach had been carved hollow with one sweep of an invisible scythe. The captain put on the look of a big sister who's caught you playing with yourself. "My orders from the Council mentioned that some Explorers try to… waive this sort of mission in various ways; but all the loopholes have been plugged, believe me. You two can choose to be banished to Melaquin as criminals with little more than the clothes on your back, or you can land as Explorers with all the preparation and equipment the Jacaranda can muster. Now if you want to fire, go ahead. It's five o'clock in the morning, and I could use the sleep."

Yarrun's hand touched my wrist, lowering the stunner for me. In a moment, he took my arm and nudged me out the door. As it closed behind us, I could hear Harque snicker.

Yarrun said, "I'll take the stunners back and lock them up."

I put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "It was a childish plan anyway."

He slipped away and walked off slowly, tapping the guns against his thigh with every step. I slumped back against the bulkhead and tried not to think of how good it would feel to plunge my fist into someone's face.

Admiral's Escort

Admiral Chee poked his head out the infirmary door. He still had no pants on, just blue boxer briefs.

"Are you a guard?" he asked.

"No."

He slipped into the corridor with an ostentatious attempt at stealth. It was unnecessary — I could see that the people in Veresian's office had closed the door, leaving the admiral unattended.

"I'm not supposed to be out here," Chee said with great satisfaction. "They thought they could stop me by stealing my pants." He raised a hand to his mouth and blew a raspberry salute back toward the infirmary. "It didn't work, did it? And do you know why? Because I'm an admiral and people are more embarrassed seeing my ass than I am showing it. Watch."

He spun around and hiked up the back of his shirt to give me a better view of his skinny flanks. Reflexively, I flinched and the old man cackled with glee.

"Rank hath its privileges, Ramos! I'm not embarrassed and you are. You're blushing something awful… one side of your face, anyway."

I was too stunned to react, flabbergasted by what he'd said. While I was still trying to decide whether to be hurt or furious, the admiral gestured at a blue jacaranda painted on a nearby door. "What's this tree?"

"A jacaranda," I answered, still feeling numb.

"A jacaranda… that sounds familiar."

"It's the name of the ship."

"I know it's the name of the ship," Chee snapped. "I was making a joke."

"Sorry, sir."

"What's behind this door?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Why don't you know?"

"I'm an Explorer, sir. We don't get to see much of the ship."

He snorted. "Can't be much of an Explorer if you've been here six years and haven't explored the ship."

Once again, I was taken aback: how did he know how long I had been on the Jacaranda! But he was already off on another tangent.

"Have you ever discovered where the galley is, Explorer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go then; I want a snack. Mushrooms in hot chocolate… have you ever had that? Slice them, fry them, and float them on top. They look like fungus umbrellas in mud. You'll love it."

"I don't think we should go to the galley, sir."

"Why not?"

For some reason, it felt good to say no to an admiral, especially this admiral. "Your presence here is supposed to be a secret, sir. High Council's orders. If you go to the galley, you'll likely be seen by crew members — the night shift drop by the galley frequently."

"Oh, take out the pickle, Ramos!" he thundered. "Five minutes ago you're ready to mutiny, and now I can't have a snack because it's against orders? Be consistent, Explorer! That's the first rule of command: be consistent! You can be sadistic, you can be lazy, you can be stupid, but if you're consistent, the crew will still let you sit in when they play dominoes."

"Admiral, about the mutiny— "

"Semi-stupid move, Ramos, but only semi-stupid. If you'd thought a little longer, you'd have guessed the Council would plan for contingencies. On the other hand, you still should have shot that prick Harque. He's your subordinate; at this point, he's a freebie."

Chee winked broadly, then laughed when I looked bewildered. "Don't know how to take me, do you?" he grinned. "I'm not as senile as you might think. 'I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.' Who said that?"

"Hamlet?"

"Damned right, and aren't you glad I pressured the other admirals into requiring a Shakespeare course at the Academy?" He gave me a look, and this time I could see a glimmer of shrewdness hiding under the wild-eyed act. "The fact is, Explorer, I am not senile. My mind may wander from time to time, but mostly I am suffering from Don't-give-a-shit-itis. The High Council, bless 'em, think it might be contagious, so here I am. I presume you have some idea of how they use Melaquin?"

"Yes."

"Well, your idea is likely wrong, but who cares? Have you thought about the Landing?"

"We haven't had much time," I told him. "Or information."

"You won't get it either. Melaquin's ten hours away, and we've been ordered to Land within two hours of making orbit. I say we go to the galley, talk things out for the length of time it takes to drink a cup of hot chocolate, then get some sleep."

"It really would be better to stay out of the galley, sir. The orders— "

"Fuck the orders," Chee interrupted. "I'm in the mood for pointless gestures of defiance. We will occupy the galley. We will sing dirty songs to draw attention to ourselves. We will accost crew members in the corridors and tell them our life stories. We will write CHEE WAS HERE in soy sauce on the servery wall, and carve our names in the tabletops, using a knife whose blade does not exceed twenty centimeters in length."

"Admiral…"

"Yes?"

"Could we do all those things wearing pants?"

He heaved a mighty sigh. "Lighten up, Ramos. The best revenge is making them envy your freedom."

But he slunk back into the infirmary for his trousers.

Our Advantage

While the admiral was gone, Yarrun returned from the weapons locker. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders sagged.

"Cheer up," I told him.

"Why?"

"It's an order."

"Oh."

He slumped heavily onto the wall beside me. I think we were both tired enough to be glad we had something solid to lean against.

"So what now?" he asked.

"I talked to the admiral. He suggests a few minutes of planning in the galley, then sleep."

Yarrun stood a little straighter. "That sounds more… lucid… than I expected from the admiral."

"Chee is lucid," I replied. "Unstable and too damned whimsical, but I think he's healthier than the High Council suspects. Healthier on the mental scales, anyway. Physically… well, it's interesting that Harque and Prope are still in talking with Veresian. I suspect the good doctor found some medical condition that should legally keep the admiral out of any Landing party, and the captain is trying to convince Veresian to keep his opinions to himself."

"Who'll win?"

"Not us."

"Mmm."

Silence. The growing dizziness/giddiness of fatigue came sneaking into my brain, and it was only when Yarrun started speaking that I jerked out of near-sleep.

"If we look at this coldly," Yarrun said, "Chee's health is immaterial. He's strong enough to survive another twenty-four hours, and that's more than enough to get down and back… if we manage to get back. But the more clearheaded he is, the better for us."

"He'll be less of a burden, if that's what you mean."

"More importantly, he's an admiral. And the High Council of Admirals may be the only people who know anything about Melaquin. Chee is a potential source of information."

"Teams have landed with admirals before," I reminded him. "It hasn't helped them."

"But if our theory is correct, most of those admirals have been senile," Yarrun replied. "Our advantage is that this one still has brains we can pick."

The infirmary door swished open again and Chee skittered out. He had put on the top half of his gray uniform, but the trousers were slung over one shoulder; instead, he wore the baggy mauve pants used during surgery. He also wore a surgeon's mauve cap and thin rubber gloves. "Look at this great stuff!" he beamed.

I turned back to Yarrun. "Pick his brains fast — the crop's rotting on the vine."

The Admiral Proves His Sentience

[Conversation on the way to the galley.]

Chee: Do I really get to wear an Explorer suit?

Me: Yes, Admiral.

Chee: With the vanes sticking out the back and everything?

Me: Those are for ice planets. Melaquin is temperate, isn't it?

Chee: Of course.

Yarrun: Are you sure?

Chee: If you want to get technical, it's cold on the tips, hot in the middle, and temperate in between. But compared to ice planets and infernos, it's shirt-sleeve weather from pole to pole.

Yarrun: Then the admiral has some knowledge about Melaquin?

Chee: Some.

Me: Do you have any… insights into what we might find there?

Chee: Insights? Why should I have insights?

Me: The Admiralty has sent a lot of parties to Melaquin. Considering that you're an admiral…

Chee: Ramos, are you suggesting I would knowingly send a human being to her death?

Me: Not in so many words.

Chee: Look, you two: the League of Peoples classifies murderers as non-sentients, right?

Me: Murdering a sentient is a non-sentient act, yes.

Chee: A dangerous non-sentient act, Explorer.

Me: Yes, sir.

Chee: And what's the penalty imposed by the League for taking a dangerous non-sentient into interstellar space?

Yarrun: Immediate execution of everyone who knowingly participates.

Chee: Have you ever heard of humans fooling the League? Smuggling killers, lethal weapons, or dangerous animals into open space?

Me: No.

Chee: And you won't, either. Damned if we know how they do it, but take it from me, the League's quarantine against homicide is absolute — a law of the universe, more certain than entropy. Am I here?

Me: Of course.

Chee: Then I never ordered anyone anywhere I thought they were sure to die. Q.E.D.

[Pause.]

Yarrun: Rather explains why the High Council of Admirals never leaves New Earth, doesn't it?

Chee: You bet your ass, sonny. Those buggers would be vaporized if they jumped too high on a pogo stick.

In the Galley

The galley was brightly lit. Coming in from the night-dim corridors, we blinked like wakened owls.

Two ensigns lounged at a table near the door, one wearing the dark blue of the Communications Corps and the other in Life Support white. The woman in blue was laughing at something as we entered; she had her back to us. The other woman looked up with a smile on her face, saw the admiral's gray jacket, and snapped to jittery attention. The laugher swung her head around and jumped up too.

"At ease," Chee commanded, "at goddamned ease. It's beyond me why the Fleet wants people to play jack-in-the-box when an officer enters the room. This hopping around is unsettling. I could name you five Fringe Worlds where they'd think you were drawing a gun."

Under his breath, Yarrun murmured, "Herrek, Golding, Nineveh, Biscayne…"

"And Sitz," I offered, when it became clear he was stuck.

"Bloody Explorers," Chee complained to the ensigns. "Heads filled with trivia no one cares about." He fixed his eye on the woman who'd been laughing. "What's your opinion of bloody Explorers, ensign?"

"I don't know, sir." She ventured a worried glance at his mauve baggies.

"Of course you know. You're just too chicken-shit to say anything." He snapped around to the other woman. "What's your opinion of chicken-shit ensigns, ensign? Take your time; whatever you say will offend someone."

The woman took a deep breath. "I don't think that's a fair question, sir."

Chee clapped his hands in delight. "Quite right, ensign, I was being a prick. I can't understand why people put up with it. What's your name?"

"Berta Deeren, sir."

"Berta Deeren Sir, you have the makings of a human being. If you're ever offered a command position, jump ship. Now get out of here, the two of you — we're going to fill this place with the stink of death."

The ensigns saluted quickly and headed for the door. Berta Deeren was blushing hot red. Yarrun and I stood aside as they left.

"Sir," Yarrun said to the admiral after the ensigns were gone, "why do you do that to people?"

Chee smiled. "You could say I'm trying to wake the clods out of their rigid mental sets by forcing them to deal with unconventional behavior… or you could say I just like jerking folks around. For that matter, you could say anything you damned well want to. I do."

He grinned at Yarrun. Yarrun gazed back thoughtfully. I said, "The hot chocolate is over there."

Mushrooms

Mushroom slices floated on the surface of my hot chocolate like ocean flotsam. I sipped carefully so I didn't get any mushrooms in my mouth. The damned things wanted to be swallowed — they nudged my lip in their eagerness.

No one serving in deep space could avoid mushrooms for long. Huge quantities were grown on every ship, station, and outpost. They grew quickly and cheerfully under conditions that would kill photosynthesizing plants: odd gravitational effects, artificial atmosphere, lack of natural germinating agents. Mushrooms were served as "fresh treats" in contrast to the synthesized food that made up the bulk of our diets. The Fleet expected us to slaver with gratitude.

I did not like mushrooms. I did not dislike mushrooms. I had long since transcended the urge to vomit at the sight of yet another mushroom-based meal (stuffed mushrooms, mushrooms au gratin, poached mushrooms with creamy mushroom sauce), and had achieved a lofty plateau of indifference to the nasty gray growths.

On Landings, however, I did delight in hacking up fungoid matter whenever a mission required biological samples.

Hot Chocolate

The hot chocolate was lukewarm because the pressure pot was being used for coffee.

Pressure pots were needed to compensate for the subnormal air pressure maintained on board ship. Low pressure meant that water boiled at a lower temperature, and that meant poor quality coffee, poor quality tea, and poor quality hot chocolate. To compensate, you wanted to make your coffee, tea, or hot chocolate in a pressure pot, where the water could reach a decent heat and your drink could pick up a decent amount of flavor.

Of course, you could only use the pot for one beverage at a time.

On board the Jacaranda, we had three complete engines in case of breakdowns. We had two spare Sperm-field generators and five redundant D-thread computers.

We only had one pressure pot. And it was always dedicated to coffee.

If you took the time to brood about that, the chocolate just got colder.

Planning (Part 2)

"You're the ranking Explorer," Chee said to me. "It's your show."

We sat casually around a table… or perhaps I should say we sat expansively. We were flagrant in our nonchalance. Chee leaned so far back in his chair that the springs squeaked every few seconds; a heavier man would have broken the clamps that attached the seat to its tracks. Yarrun sprawled sideways across his chair, one elbow on the table, the other hand toying with a napkin. I had both arms on the table, hands cupping my mug as if I were drawing heat from it. In fact, I was hoping my hands would warm the chocolate up.

"All right," I said, "we're agreed the planet is temperate?"

Both men grunted a yes.

"And it's relatively Earthlike?"

"Don't assume it's too Earthlike," Chee said.

"Eighty percent of an Explorer's training is aimed at stamping out such assumptions," I replied. "The specifics of each planet are different, but there are usually some general parallels. For example, do we think Melaquin has flora and fauna?"

"It must," Chee answered. "If it's an official exile world, it has to be able to sustain human life. Otherwise, banishment to an exile world would be as good as murder, and the League of Peoples would condemn Outward Fleet laws as non-sentient. No… there's got to be a reasonable chance for survival on any exile world — Melaquin included. It must have breathable atmosphere, drinkable water, and edible food."

"So Melaquin has all the comforts of home," I said. "Why is it so deadly?"

"Microorganisms?" Chee suggested. "A planet with life must have bacteria, and thousands of diseases for which we have no immunity."

"Unquestionably… but we'll breathe canned air and wear the usual protective gear," I told him. "The skin of a tightsuit can't be penetrated by the smallest virus we know; and the pressure inside is kept higher than atmospheric pressure outside, so any microbe that comes close to penetrating the suit's skin is blown right back out again."

"What about organisms that can digest tightsuits?"

"There are five different kinds of tightsuits," Yarrun explained, "each made from a different material. Standard procedure is for each party member to wear a different type of suit. It's extremely unlikely that microbes would eat through each material at exactly the same rate, so if one of us gets a suit breach, the others should have some warning before their suits go too. And of course, death by disease is not instantaneous; even the most virulent bugs we know need at least an hour to multiply to lethal levels. During that hour, our suit sensors would surely notice some sign we're in trouble — loss of suit pressure, spread of alien organisms through our bodies, deterioration of body functions — not to mention we'll know we're getting sick without any help from the electronics."

"By then it could be too late," Chee said.

"Almost certainly," Yarrun agreed. "But we would still have time to communicate with the ship and describe the problem. Sickness is a valid reason to demand immediate pickup; and then we'd only have to hold out another five minutes before we were back on the ship. Even if we died on board, our bodies must be sent to the Explorer Academy for examination, at which point the whole secret would come out."

"Not if the High Council suppressed the information," I muttered.

Yarrun shrugged. "Secrets are flimsy things — spread them among too many people, and they get torn.

Maybe the council could suppress information about a single Landing… maybe even a handful of Landings. But if people go missing on a regular basis, there are too many leaks to catch. Admiral, how many people has the council has sent to Melaquin?"

Chee thought for a moment. "Maybe one or two a year. And they've been doing this for at least forty years. They certainly couldn't suppress hard evidence that long."

"Which means that whatever the danger is on Melaquin, it hits the party too fast for anyone to collect hard evidence."

"Do you have any ideas what it might be?" Chee asked.

Feeling like a cadet reciting a case study, I said, "On Canopus IV, there's a plant that spreads its seeds by exploding violently. In the right season, the vibration from a single footstep is enough to set it off. Five parties were killed there before one team spread out and put a hundred meters between each party member. In that team, one Explorer was killed; the others reported back and Canopus IV was eventually tamed."

"So you think we should spread out?"

Yarrun snorted a small laugh. "The planet Seraphar has a race of semi-sentient shapeshifters who would quietly stab Explorers in the back and take their place in the party. Spreading out just made it that much easier for the shape-shifters to do their work. Six parties were killed before one stumbled on the truth."

"Every decision is a gamble," I told the admiral. "In this case, however, we don't need to tax our brains. So many teams have landed on Melaquin, they must have tried all the standard approaches by now. None of those worked, so we're free to do whatever the hell we want."

We spent several moments of silence, contemplating the wealth of freedom presented to us.

No-Comm

"Of course," I said at last, "there's a more pleasant alternative."

"I'm eager to hear it," Chee answered.

"According to my old instructor Phylar Tobit, teams exploring Melaquin don't necessarily go Oh Shit; they just go no-comm. Suppose there's something on the planet that interrupts communications — some kind of interference field."

Yarrun looked thoughtful. "Didn't Tobit suggest that parties can broadcast for a while before being cut off? If the planet has natural interference, it should kill communications right from the start."

"Not necessarily," I answered. "Suppose Melaquin has some kind of standing interference field; but when a ship drops its Sperm tail to land a party, the tail disrupts the field. The Explorers land, the tail is withdrawn… and for a few minutes the party has normal communications. Then the interference reestablishes itself and the party goes no-comm."

"Wouldn't there be some warning?" Chee asked. "Static or something, as the field closed back in."

"If the field closes fast enough, it doesn't matter," Yarrun told him. "To pick up a party, the ship has to drop the Sperm tail in exactly the right spot; and the only way to do that is to lock onto the tracking signal put out by a communicator. The signal is a sort of hypermagnetic anchor that seizes the end of the Sperm and drags it to the party's location. If the signal isn't working, there's no chance a ship could ever plant its tail stably on the surface."

"So you think," Chee said, "there's some kind of field— "

"No, Admiral," I interrupted, "I'm just saying it's one possibility. There must be a dozen other ways to disrupt communications: a trace chemical in the atmosphere that corrodes D-thread circuits; bacteria that like to chew on transducer chips; semi-sentients with the equipment to jam transmissions; periodic bursts of positronic energy that are drawn to communicators like lightning rods…"

"You're pulling my leg on that one, Ramos."

"I hope so," I told him drily.

"The point still stands," Yarrun said. "I'd rather believe in a phenomenon that blanks communicators than one that kills whole parties in the blink of an eye."

Silently, I agreed. I could live with the thought of machines breaking.

The Poles

"You know," Chee said, "perhaps our future isn't so bleak after all. We know the planet is Earthlike. The weather won't be a problem if we pick our landing site carefully enough. We'll have food and water and breathable air — it's an official exile world, so that part is guaranteed."

I shook my head at his naivete. "If we're really planning to survive for any length of time, we'll put down on the edge of polar permafrost and hope we can subsist on scrub vegetation."

"Why?" Chee sounded outraged.

"Because," Yarrun explained, "the colder the region, the less microbial activity there is. When we land, we'll each have twelve hours of canned air; after that, we have to start breathing local atmosphere. Our tightsuits do their best to filter microorganisms from incoming air, but don't expect a hundred percent effectiveness. Theory says we'll live a lot longer if we go where the airborne microbe count is low."

"Theory says?"

"Actual evidence is skimpy," Yarrun shrugged. "No Explorer has come back to tell us either way."

Kicking a Lion in the Ass

"Are we really going to land near the poles?" Chee asked with conspicuous lack of enthusiasm.

Yarrun answered for me. "Festina was joking, in her way. When we land, we want the Jacaranda to remain in geosynchronous position above us so they can pick us up at a moment's notice. However, the Jacaranda was designed as a deep-space ship, and its sublight engines are not very efficient. If it parks close enough to the planet to pick us up, it has to maintain a reasonable speed relative to the planet's center of gravity, or else expend a lot of energy trying to hold altitude. Close to the poles, a hovering flight path is just too slow for the ship to hold very long. We're pretty well restricted to the region between, say, forty-five degrees north and south latitude."

"Which gives us plenty of land to choose from," I promised Chee, "and many types of terrain. To land safely, we'll choose somewhere fairly flat. To survive the first few hours, we'll pick a place with sparse vegetation and little animal life…"

"But not too sparse," Yarrun added. "We don't want to find ourselves in the middle of a desert if we suddenly go no-comm."

"Close to fresh water, far from any oceans…"

"I like the ocean," Chee protested.

"So do thousands of other lifeforms," I told him. "We must think defensively, Admiral. We know nothing about this planet except that it's dangerous. If we set down near an ocean, we have to worry about nasty ocean things as well as nasty land things. The fewer environments and ecologies we have to contend with, the fewer variables we need to think about and the more likely we are to be here this time tomorrow, drinking lukewarm chocolate and mushrooms. All right?"

"You don't have to snap, Ramos," he pouted. "I'll bow to your expertise on every point… which is generous of me, considering that standard Explorer techniques work like shit on Melaquin."

"Admiral," Yarrun said quietly, "we recognize the standard methods have proved inadequate. Even so, we shouldn't abandon them entirely. Sometimes all the procedures in the book can't protect you from the perils of a planet; but that's no reason to walk up to something that looks like a lion and kick it in the ass."

"On the contrary," Chee answered with a gleam in his eye, "suppose the first thing I did on Melaquin was boot some large toothy animal in the butt. What would happen?"

"Depending on its ecological niche," I replied, "it would run, kick you back, or bite off your foot."

"And what would you do?"

"Depending on the size of its teeth, we would run, laugh, or shoot it with a stunner."

"What would happen to me?"

I threw up my hands. "There's no way to know. How fast is the animal? How deadly is its attack? How susceptible is it to stunner fire? Does it sever a major artery or just give a flesh wound? Does its saliva happen to be poisonous to human life? How fast can we get you back to the ship's infirmary?"

I stopped, realizing what I just said.

Chee nodded happily. "Standard policy says when a party member is injured, you must request immediate pickup."

We all pondered that a moment. Yarrun said, "Suppose the Admiralty have ordered Prope not to pick us up."

"They can't do that!" Chee snapped. "Get it through your head — the Admiralty, the Technocracy, the whole damned galaxy, is constantly monitored by the League of Peoples." He suddenly broke off. "Look," he said in a lower voice. "Let me tell you a story."

And he did.

Chee's Story

"Off in the Carsonal system," Chee said, "there's a planet with the stimulating name of Carsonal II. And living on Carsonal II was a species called the Greenstriders. Looked a lot like six-armed watermelons the size of a man, with long spindly legs.

"Now," he continued, "the Greenstriders joined the League of Peoples long before humans did, but they aren't one of the ancient races. They still have physical bodies, they still have to eat and excrete… in other words, they're small potatoes compared to the big boys in the League. But the Greenstriders had pretensions; they did indeed. And for a long time, the only contact between them and humanity was the occasional communicator message: 'You are attempting to colonize a planet in Greenstrider territory. Please to vacate it immediately.'

"The first time that happened, the Technocracy said, 'Sorry,' and left. The second time, we said, 'All right, we'll go, but give us a map of the territory you claim, so this won't happen again.' The third time, we said, 'This planet wasn't on your map, and it's time we had a heart-to-heart talk… in front of League arbitrators.'

"That's where I came in," Chee told us, "because the Admiralty always sent as many people as it could to an arbitration. Not to take part, but to watch. Or to spy, if you want a more colorful word. A few were assigned to spy on the Greenstriders, but most of us kept our eyes on the three arbitrators, to gather as much information as possible about the high mucky-mucks who really hold power in the League. In this case, the tribunal was a cloud of red smoke, a glowing cube, and a chair that sure as hell looked empty. But forget it, that's not the point.

"The point is that the hearing took place, the arbitrators asked a lot of questions, blah, blah, blah, everything you'd expect; and at the end, the tribunal decided the Greenstriders had been acting too highhanded. They got a slap on the wrist, and we got rights to colonize several new planets.

"Admiral Fewkes, who was fronting for our side, tried to soften the blow in good diplomatic style. Too bad, he said, that there were misunderstandings in the past, but now the problems had been straightened out, Fewkes hoped that humans and Greenstriders could open friendly diplomatic relations… You can fill in the rest. And then Fewkes held out his hand for a cordial little handshake.

"Now you have to understand," Chee said, "that as far as we knew, this was the first time humans and Greenstriders had ever been in the same place together. All previous communications were by radio and hypercom. And throughout the hearing, we had always been kept separate from the Greenstriders by order of the tribunal. Fewkes wanted this handshake to be a memorable moment, first contact, a photo-op to please the folks back home. But when the head strider chiggered over to shake the admiral's hand, the moment was even more memorable than Fewkes expected. Within five seconds, he was lying on the floor gasping, and ten seconds later, he was dead."

Yarrun and I nodded gravely. "Secretions on Greenstrider skin," Yarrun said. "Their perspiration acts as a lethal nerve toxin on human beings. We learned that in the Academy."

"Thank Fewkes for the information," Chee replied. "He learned the hard way. Looked hellishly painful too, the way he screamed just before the end; but these things happen. It wouldn't be the first time that alien lifeforms turned out to be intrinsically deadly to each other — just a tragic accident.

"But… the arbitrators were still in the hearing room, and the cloud of red smoke said, 'That was a non-sentient act.' Seems there had been previous contact between humans and Greenstriders, and the red smoke knew all the details. A pair of Explorers had met some strider scouts, when both sides were checking out the same planet for possible colonization. There'd been diplomatic handshakes back then too; the Explorers had died so fast, they couldn't report why.

"So the Greenstriders knew what contact would do to us. Or more accurately, the knowledge existed somewhere in Greenstrider society. The strider who shook Fewkes's hand didn't personally know what would happen, but the cloud of red smoke said that was no excuse. A warning should have been conveyed to all striders who might come in contact with humans. Anything else was homicidal negligence on the part of the Greenstrider government as a whole."

"Harsh," Yarrun murmured. "If the strider who shook Fewkes's hand really didn't know…"

"The tribunal said he should have known," Chee answered. "When the Explorers died that first time, it was truly an accident. But after that, someone should have passed the word. I agree with the League on this. Someone in the chain of command was blatantly non-sentient if the information wasn't deemed important enough to be conveyed through channels. Not even the Admiralty is that sloppy; every Explorer in the Corps is meticulously instructed in how to interact with known alien races for maximum mutual safety. Right?"

"We hope so," I replied.

"You are," Chee said. "If only because the High Council wants to avoid what happened to the Greenstriders. Their entire governmental system was declared non-sentient: negligently careless. The whole damned race was grounded — barred from interstellar travel until they reorganized into a more conscientious society. A few of them tried to defy the ban… and for the next few years, our fleet kept finding strider ghost ships drifting through space, every strider aboard killed the second they tried to leave their home star system. Not a mark on the bodies. Just dead. The League has no qualms against exterminating non-sentients to protect the rest of the galaxy."

Chee paused to let that sink in.

"One question," I said. "If the red smoke knew the handshake would kill Fewkes, why didn't the smoke do something? Even if it had just shouted 'Stop!' before the strider made skin contact…"

"The high echelons of the League prefer not to interfere with the actions of lower species," Chee replied. "They say it has something to do with free will."

"Or," Yarrun murmured, "giving us enough rope to hang ourselves."

The Admiral Volunteers

"So," Chee started again, "we were talking about Melaquin… and I was saying the High Council has to tread carefully. They can order us to explore a planet where there's only a slim chance of survival, but they can't send us on a total suicide mission. That's why they use Melaquin so often: they've found they can get away with it. And they can't get away with ordering a ship to refuse aid to the injured. That's a blatant non-sentient act. The League would never let another Outward Fleet ship into interstellar space."

There was a long silence. I thought about Chee's suggestion: deliberately getting hurt as an excuse to abort the Landing. It would have to be a real injury; faking or lying was dereliction of duty and we'd all be exiled back to Melaquin. But a genuine life-threatening wound was reasonable cause to cut short a mission… as was the death of a party member, for that matter. Whether or not Yarrun and I could save Chee's life was immaterial.

I turned to Chee. "Are you really volunteering to take the risk? It's much greater than you may realize. Infection, for instance. Any wound exposed to alien microbes…"

"Nice of you to care," Chee replied, "but I have nothing to lose. If we stay too long on Melaquin, we'll end up dead like the others. Even if we're just stranded no-comm, I can't survive long without YouthBoost — in case you were wondering, I'm fucking ancient. On the other hand, if I take a wound three minutes after we land, there's a chance we'll get back to the ship and I'll pull through. I'd get a kick out of that… not just living but thumbing my nose at the High Council. Think of the looks on their faces when I come back from Melaquin again. I'd give 'em a raspberry so loud it'd be heard on every ship of the Fleet. Do you want to spoil an old man's fun?"

I looked at Yarrun. He murmured, "It would be more fair if we drew lots for who takes the risk."

"I'm an admiral," Chee told him. "I don't have to be fair. Besides, if someone gets chomped, it's better to have two competent Explorers taking care of the victim than one competent Explorer and one senile old beanbag. Right?"

Chee looked to Yarrun for agreement. Yarrun shrugged and looked at me — he chose the most annoying times to defer to my rank. "All right, then," I sighed, "we'll pick a Landing site where we can expect to find large predators. Anything else?"

"I'll wear a tightsuit without the helmet," Chee said. "I may as well test the atmosphere and bacteria while I'm at it."

"Without a helmet, the rest of the suit is useless," I snapped. "We might as well send you down naked."

"You wish," Chee smirked. "But I'm going to wear a suit anyway, because I deserve it. I'm an Explorer now, aren't I?"

"I suppose so…"

"Right," he said, raising his mug. "Here's to being an ECM." He waited for us to raise our mugs too, then drained off the dregs of his chocolate in one loud slurp. In almost the same motion, he hurled the mug sideways into the galley wall. The mug shattered, scattering ceramic shards in all directions.

Chee turned back to us with a satisfied smile. "Now that's what 'expendable' means."