Starplex

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.

Keith was left standing there, watching the Waldahud’s back recede down the corridor, angry with himself for not being able to deal with the situation. He rubbed his temples. We’re all prisoners of biology, he thought. Teshima unable to turn down the request of a pretty woman; Gatt unable to disobey a female’s orders.

Once Gart had disappeared from sight, Keith headed down the cold, damp hallway. Sometimes, Keith thought, he’d give anything to be an alpha male.

* * *

Rissa was sitting at her desk, doing the part of her job she hated—the administrative duties, the burden still called paperwork even though almost none of it was ever printed out.

The door buzzer sounded, and PHANTOM said, “Boxcar is here.”

Rissa put down her input stylus and straightened her hair.

Funny that, she thought—worrying about whether her hair was messy when the only one going to see it isn’t even human. “Let her in.”

The Ib rolled in; PHANTOM slid the polychairs to one side to make room for her. “Please forgive my disturbing you, good Rissa,” said the beautiful British voice.

Rissa laughed. “Oh, you’re not disturbing me, believe me. Any break is welcome.”

Boxcar’s sensor web arched up like a ship’s sail so that she could see onto Rissa’s desktop. “Paperwork,” she said. “It does look boring.”

Rissa smiled. “That it is. So, what can I do for you?”

There was a long pause—unusual from an Ib. Then, finally, “I’ve come to give notice.”

Rissa looked at her blankly. “Notice?”

Lights danced on her web. “Profound apologies, if that is not the correct phrase. I mean to say that, with regret, I will no longer be able to work here, effective five days from now.”

Rissa felt her eyebrows lifting. “You’re quitting? Resigning?”

Lights played up the web. “Yes.”

“Why? I thought you were enjoying the senescence research. If you wish to be assigned to something else—”

“It is not that, good Rissa. The research is fascinating and valuable, and you have honored me by letting me be a part of it. But in five days other priorities must take precedence.”

“What other priorities?”

“Repaying a debt.”

“To whom?”

“To other integrated bioentities. In five days, I must go.”

“Go where?”

“No, not go. Go.”

Rissa exhaled, and looked at the ceiling. “PHANTOM, are you sure you’re translating Boxcar’s words correctly?”

“I believe so, ma’am,” said PHANTOM into her implant.

“Boxcar, I don’t understand the distinction you’re making between ‘go’ and ‘go,’ ” said Rissa.

“I am not going someplace in the physical sense,” said Boxcar. “I am going in the sense of exiting. I am going to die.”

“My God!” said Rissa. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

“But you’re not old enough to die. You’ve told me enough times that Ibs live to be exactly six hundred and forty-one. You’re only a little over six hundred.”

Boxcat’s sensor web changed to a salmon color, but whatever emotion that conveyed apparently had no terrestrial analog, since PHANTOM didn’t preface the translation of her next words with a parenthetical comment. “I am six hundred and five, measured in Earth years. My span is about to be fifteen-sixteenths completed.”