Starplex

One of the things humans did that he knew bugged the hell out of everyone else was spending endless time trying to come up with cute words made from the initial letters of phrases. All the races called such things "acronyms" now, since only the Terran languages had a word for them. Early on in planning Starplex, some human came up with the term CAGE for "Common Access General Environment," referring to the shipboard conditions in those areas that had to be shared by all four races.

Well, it felt like a goddamned cage, thought Keith. Like a dungeon.

All the races could exist in nitrogen-oxygen atmospheres, although Ibs required a much higher concentration of carbon dioxide to trigger their breathing reflex than humans did. Common-area gravity ended up being set at .82 of Earth's — normal for a Waldahud, light for a human or dolphin, and only half of what an Ib was used to. Humidity was kept high, too: Waldahud sinuses seized if the air was too dry. Common-area lighting was redder than humans liked — similar to a bright terrestrial sunset. Further, all lighting had to be indirect. The Ib homeworld was perpetually shrouded in cloud, and the thousands of photosensors in their webs could be damaged by bright lighting.

Even so, there were still problems. Keith moved to one side of the corridor to let an Ib roll by, and as it passed, one of the two dangling blue tubes coming off the creature's pump pushed out a hard gray pellet, which fell to the corridor floor. The pod's brain had no conscious control over this function; for Ibs, toilet training was a biological impossibility. On Flatland, the pellets were scooped up by scavengers that reprocessed them for the nutrients the Ib had been unable to use.

Aboard Starplex, little PHARTs the size of human shoes served the same function. One such came zipping along the corridor as Keith watched.

It sucked up the dropping and rolled upon its way.

Keith had finally gotten used to the Ibs defecating everywhere; thank God their feces had no discernible odor.

But he didn't think he'd ever get used to the cold, or the damp, or any of the other things forced upon them by the Waldahudin—

Keith stopped dead in his tracks. He was coming to a T-intersection in the corridor, and could hear raised voices up ahead: a human male shouting in — Japanese, it sounded like — and the angry barking of a Waldahud.

"PHANTOM," Keith said softly, "translate those voices for me."

A New York accent: "You are weak, Teshima. Very weak. You don't deserve a mate."

"Have sex with yourself!" Keith frowned, suspecting the computer wasn't doing justice to the original Japanese.

The New York accent again: "On my world, you would be the least significant member of the entourage of the ugliest, puniest female—"

"Identify the speakers," Keith whispered.

"The human is Hiroyuki Teshima, a biochemist," said PHANTOM through Keith's implant "The Waldahud is Gatt Daygaro em-Holf, a member of the engineering staff."

Keith stood there, wondering what to do. They were both adults, and although they reported to him, they could hardly be said to be under his command. And yet—

Middle child. Keith stepped around the corridor.

"Guys," he said evenly, "you want to cool it?"

All four of the Waldahud's fists were clenched. Teshima's round face was flushed with anger. "Stay out of this, Lansing," said the human, in English.

Keith looked at them. What could he do? There was no brig to throw them into, no particular reason why they had to listen to his orders about their personal affairs.

"Maybe I could buy you a drink, Hiroyuki," said Keith. "And, Gart, perhaps you'd enjoy an extra leisure period this cycle?"

"What I would enjoy," barked the Waldahud, "is seeing Teshima flied through a mass driver into a black hole."

"Come on, guys," said Keith, stepping closer. "We've all got to live and work together."

"I said stay out of this, Lansing," snapped Teshima. "It's none of your damned business."

Keith felt his cheeks flushing. He couldn't order them apart, and yet he couldn't have people brawling in the corridors of his ship, either.

He looked at the two of them — a short, middle-aged human, with hair the color of lead, and a fat, wide Waldahud, with fur the shade of oak wood.

Keith didn't know either of them well, didn't know what it would take to placate them. Hell, he didn't even know what they were fighting about.

He opened his mouth to say — to say something, anything — when a door slid open a few meters away, and a young woman — Cheryl Rosenberg, it was — appeared, wearing pajamas. "For Pete's sake, will you keep it down out here?" she said. "It's nighttime for some of us."

Teshima looked at the woman, bowed his head slightly, and began to walk away. And Gatt, who likewise by nature was deferential to females, nodded curtly and moved in the other direction. Cheryl yawned, stepped back inside, and the door slid shut behind her.