captain–”
“All missions are important,” she interrupted.
The harum-scarum paused, perhaps considering his choices.
“If I fail to win your cooperation,” Washen said, “a second, much higher-ranking captain will be sent. Or twenty subordinates wielding heavy legal weaponry will descend on your empire. As you say, captains are stubborn souls, and this one in particular is obstinate. He intends to step through your door at a specific hour, two days after tomorrow, and no one can halt the inevitable.”
“Do I look helpless?” Hoop inquired.
“My name is Washen,” the young captain repeated. “I just made my service files available to you. Absorb them at your convenience, and I will lie to my superior. I’ll claim that you wish to meet with me tomorrow, and the two of us will come to terms with this nagging problem in our lives.”
Then before Hoop-of-Benzene could respond, the young captain turned her back to him and strode off—in effect, making it difficult for a proper harum-scarum to refuse the little creature, when and if she found the courage to come to his door again.
2
A singular voyage through the wealthiest, most civilized regions of the galaxy: That was what the Great Ship offered. In principle, every individual and entire species could buy passage. Humans and aliens alike paid their way with simple capital, or they surrendered claims to starships and lucrative asteroids and sometimes entire worlds. But the Ship’s owners had a weakness for deeper abstractions. Fresh science and raw, uncut data were popular trade items—subjects didn’t matter as much as novelty. They also accepted revolutionary machinery and old-fashioned tools made better. And when some new species was powerful or peculiarly well-regarded, the Master Captain would make warm covenants between the newcomers and humanity, winning allies as the long thorough loop around the Milky Way began to take shape.
The Ship’s builders, whoever they were, insured that every cubbyhole and grand ocean could be modified, matching the precise needs of alien physiologies. But what was not so easy—what was exceptionally difficult if not even possible—was to keep this menagerie happy enough and distracted enough to live under the same hull for hundreds of millennia.
The captains were the highest authority, steady hands on the tiller while their hard boots ruled every other facet of life onboard the Ship.
Harum-scarums were among the most important and abundant passengers. Older than humanity, they evolved on a watery, metal-starved world. Tiny continents and scarce resources shaped their long history; relentless, unapologetic competition was the hallmark of their mature civilization. Tens of millions of years were spent defending the same patches of dry ground, evolving elaborate codes of formal, trusted rituals. While proto-humans still brachiated their way through jungle canopies, harum-scarums were refining aluminum and building spaceships. Before
Homo habilis
jogged across Africa, the aliens had acquired hyperfiber and enhanced fusion star-drives, plus a collection of powerful tools that made both their bodies and minds functionally immortal.
Harum-scarum was the human name. The Clan of Many Clans was one inadequate translation of what the creatures called themselves. Like most high-technology species, once the Clan learned how to extend life spans, it stopped evolving. On thousands of worlds, the creatures still clung to their original natures—physically powerful entities filled with calculated rage as well as a startling capacity for acquiescence.
From the Clan’s perspective, Washen’s people were newcomers to the galaxy—untested and laughably optimistic, like children or pampered meat. For every air-cloaked rock that humans colonized, the Clan ruled a hundred mature worlds. Trillions of citizens were scattered across an entire arm of the galaxy, and they had more
“All missions are important,” she interrupted.
The harum-scarum paused, perhaps considering his choices.
“If I fail to win your cooperation,” Washen said, “a second, much higher-ranking captain will be sent. Or twenty subordinates wielding heavy legal weaponry will descend on your empire. As you say, captains are stubborn souls, and this one in particular is obstinate. He intends to step through your door at a specific hour, two days after tomorrow, and no one can halt the inevitable.”
“Do I look helpless?” Hoop inquired.
“My name is Washen,” the young captain repeated. “I just made my service files available to you. Absorb them at your convenience, and I will lie to my superior. I’ll claim that you wish to meet with me tomorrow, and the two of us will come to terms with this nagging problem in our lives.”
Then before Hoop-of-Benzene could respond, the young captain turned her back to him and strode off—in effect, making it difficult for a proper harum-scarum to refuse the little creature, when and if she found the courage to come to his door again.
2
A singular voyage through the wealthiest, most civilized regions of the galaxy: That was what the Great Ship offered. In principle, every individual and entire species could buy passage. Humans and aliens alike paid their way with simple capital, or they surrendered claims to starships and lucrative asteroids and sometimes entire worlds. But the Ship’s owners had a weakness for deeper abstractions. Fresh science and raw, uncut data were popular trade items—subjects didn’t matter as much as novelty. They also accepted revolutionary machinery and old-fashioned tools made better. And when some new species was powerful or peculiarly well-regarded, the Master Captain would make warm covenants between the newcomers and humanity, winning allies as the long thorough loop around the Milky Way began to take shape.
The Ship’s builders, whoever they were, insured that every cubbyhole and grand ocean could be modified, matching the precise needs of alien physiologies. But what was not so easy—what was exceptionally difficult if not even possible—was to keep this menagerie happy enough and distracted enough to live under the same hull for hundreds of millennia.
The captains were the highest authority, steady hands on the tiller while their hard boots ruled every other facet of life onboard the Ship.
Harum-scarums were among the most important and abundant passengers. Older than humanity, they evolved on a watery, metal-starved world. Tiny continents and scarce resources shaped their long history; relentless, unapologetic competition was the hallmark of their mature civilization. Tens of millions of years were spent defending the same patches of dry ground, evolving elaborate codes of formal, trusted rituals. While proto-humans still brachiated their way through jungle canopies, harum-scarums were refining aluminum and building spaceships. Before
Homo habilis
jogged across Africa, the aliens had acquired hyperfiber and enhanced fusion star-drives, plus a collection of powerful tools that made both their bodies and minds functionally immortal.
Harum-scarum was the human name. The Clan of Many Clans was one inadequate translation of what the creatures called themselves. Like most high-technology species, once the Clan learned how to extend life spans, it stopped evolving. On thousands of worlds, the creatures still clung to their original natures—physically powerful entities filled with calculated rage as well as a startling capacity for acquiescence.
From the Clan’s perspective, Washen’s people were newcomers to the galaxy—untested and laughably optimistic, like children or pampered meat. For every air-cloaked rock that humans colonized, the Clan ruled a hundred mature worlds. Trillions of citizens were scattered across an entire arm of the galaxy, and they had more
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