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."