Starplex

So far, boomerangs had reached twenty-one additional shortcuts within a radius of 375 light-years from one or another of the three homeworlds. Originally, these sectors were explored by small ships. But the Commonwealth had realized a more comprehensive solution was needed: a giant mothership from which exploration surveys could be launched, a ship that could serve not only as a research base during the crucial initial exploration of a new sector, but also could function as embassy for the Commonwealth, if need be. A vast starship capable of not just astronomical research, but of undertaking first-contact missions as well.

And so, a year ago, in 2093, Starplex was launched. Funded by all three homeworlds and constructed at the Rehbollo orbital shipyards, it was the largest vessel ever built by any of the Commonwealth races: 290 meters at its widest point, seventy decks thick, a total enclosed volume of 3.1 million cubic meters, outfitted with a crew of a thousand’ beings and fifty-four small auxiliary ships of various designs.

Starplex was currently 368 light-years due galactic south of Flatland, exploring the vicinity of a recently activated shortcut. The closest star was an F-class subgiant a quarter-light-year away. It was surrounded by four asteroid belts, but no planets. An uneventful mission so far—nothing remarkable astronomically, and no alien radio signals detected. Starplex’s staff was busy winding down its explorations. In seven days, another boomerang was due to reach its designated shortcut target, this one 376 light-years away from Rehbollo. Starplex’s next scheduled assignment was to investigate that sector.

Everything seemed so peaceful, until—

* * *

“Lansing, you will hear me out.”

Keith Lansing stopped walking down the cold corridor, sighed, and rubbed his temples. Jag’s untranslated voice sounded like a dog barking, with occasional hisses and snarls thrown in for good measure. His translated voice—rendered in an old-fashioned Brooklyn accent—wasn’t much better: harsh, sharp, nasty.

“What is it, Jag?”

“The apportioning of resources aboard Starplex,” barked the being, “is all wrong—and you are to blame for that. Before we move to the next shortcut, I demand you rectify this. You consistently shortchange the physics division and give preferential treatment to life sciences.”

Jag was a Waldahud, a shaggy piglike creature with six limbs. After the last ice age ended on Rehbollo, the polar caps had melted, flooding much of the land and crisscrossing what remained with rivers. The Waldahudin’s ancestors adapted to a semiaquatic lifestyle, their bodies becoming well insulated with fat overlain by brown fur to keep out the chill of the river waters they lived in. Keith took a deep breath and looked at Jag. He’s an alien, remember. Different ways, different manners. He tried to keep his tone even. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”

More dog barks. “You give special treatment to life sciences because your spouse heads that division.”

Keith forced a small laugh, although his heart was pounding with repressed anger. “Rissa sometimes says the opposite—that I don’t give her enough resources, that I’m bending over backward to appease you.”

“She manipulates you, Lansing. She—what is the human metaphor? She has you wrapped around her little finger.”

Keith thought about showing Jag a different finger. They’re all like this, he thought. An entire planet of quarrelsome, bickering, argumentative pigs. He tried not to sound weary. “What exactly is it that you want, Jag?”

The Waldahud raised his upper left hand, and ticked off stubby, hairy fingers with his upper right. “Two more probeships assigned exclusively to physical-sciences missions. An additional Central Computer bank dedicated to astrophysics. Twenty more staff members.”

“The staff additions are impossible,” said Keith. “We don’t have apartments to house them. I’ll see what I can do about your other requests, though.” He paused for a second, and then: “But in the future, Jag, I think you’ll find that I’m easier to convince when you don’t bring my private life into the discussion.”

Jag barked harshly. “I knew it!” said the translated voice. “You make your decisions based on personal feelings, not on the merit of the argument. You are truly unfit to hold the post of director.”