no reason to believe otherwise—Eustace Faxborn had married the Comedian shortly before the bloody surprise attack that was the mission's unauthorized departure. She'd begun less as a member of
Newhope
's crew than as part of its life-support system: a living sex robot for the otherwise lonely second mate. In this sense, she'd done quite well for herself, and Bechs was careful to say so in his profile.
“You could run that ship by yourself,” he'd said to her in the interview, echoing the words of the Comedian. “You could fix any subsystem. You've a quick mind, and quick hands to go with it, for you've been using them all your life.”
He'd meant it in the best possible way—most of his viewers had no such practical skills, and admired them greatly—but her reply was characteristically prickly: “
Newhope
ran for five hundred seventy-eight years without any crew. After the accident it repaired itself with no help from me. It's smarter than a human being when it needs to be.”
Which was partly true and partly her own sort of modesty, but mostly it was an uncomfortable and vaguely hostile evasion. The Cactus seemed at ease only when reciting facts, or describing the emotions of others. Her own self, her own feelings, were a troubling subject she didn't care to examine. And why should she? She'd lived her life in a microcosm, with only two other people besides her husband. Plus the ship itself, yes, which could spin out robots and specialized personality constructs to suit any whim or need. But it wasn't human.
“I regret the accident,” the ship had said to Bechs in its own interview, conducted at distance over the Nescog voice channels, with hours of signal lag between question and answer. “I was aware of the divergence in the navigation solution, but I was unable to formulate a response. I failed to realize the debris shoal was within our position envelope, and failed to imagine the resulting collision. I was caught off guard.”
“What
did
you imagine?” he'd asked in response.
And the ship had replied: “Very little, sir. Imagination is an inductive trait, and difficult to mechanize.”
Of course.
At any rate, Bechs had buzzed and flitted his way back here on the news that the ship's first mate—the captain's husband—had finally been released from hospital. Bechs would round out his story and then rerelease the whole thing, with commentary, to a curious public.
Unfortunately, several dozen other reportants had beat him to it; he found Mursk seated at his apartment's tiny dinner table, swatting angrily at a cloud of them.
“Shove off, parasites. I'm done. I'm
eating
!”
And so he was: fax-fresh plibbles and bran flakes, steaming blood sausage and curried potatoes, with miso soup and the nutrient paste known as “mulm,” which Bechs had never seen eaten by anyone but navy crews and merchant spacers. It was far more food than a human stomach could hold, and there were three nearly full beverage mugs in front of him as well. Here was a man who hadn't
tasted
for decades. Not enough, anyway, or not the right things.
But still the cameras pestered him, spitting out questions, stepping all over each other in a haze of white noise. Most people had no idea how to run a press conference, even if they'd called it themselves.
“Welcome back to civilization,” Bechs said to him, raising his voice above the din. He could do that; he had a special volume license, along with other privileges. “You do realize, I hope, that you can order these cameras outside? They can't invade your home, nor peer through your windows, without permission.”
“Ah!” Mursk said. “Then my permission is revoked. Off with you pests. Off!” To Bechs he said, “Thank you.”
“Quite welcome,” Bechs assured him, while the others buzzed sullenly away. “I wonder if I could speak with you when you're finished, though. I've already interviewed your friends, and I'm hoping to round out my set.”
“You're Bernhart
Newhope
's crew than as part of its life-support system: a living sex robot for the otherwise lonely second mate. In this sense, she'd done quite well for herself, and Bechs was careful to say so in his profile.
“You could run that ship by yourself,” he'd said to her in the interview, echoing the words of the Comedian. “You could fix any subsystem. You've a quick mind, and quick hands to go with it, for you've been using them all your life.”
He'd meant it in the best possible way—most of his viewers had no such practical skills, and admired them greatly—but her reply was characteristically prickly: “
Newhope
ran for five hundred seventy-eight years without any crew. After the accident it repaired itself with no help from me. It's smarter than a human being when it needs to be.”
Which was partly true and partly her own sort of modesty, but mostly it was an uncomfortable and vaguely hostile evasion. The Cactus seemed at ease only when reciting facts, or describing the emotions of others. Her own self, her own feelings, were a troubling subject she didn't care to examine. And why should she? She'd lived her life in a microcosm, with only two other people besides her husband. Plus the ship itself, yes, which could spin out robots and specialized personality constructs to suit any whim or need. But it wasn't human.
“I regret the accident,” the ship had said to Bechs in its own interview, conducted at distance over the Nescog voice channels, with hours of signal lag between question and answer. “I was aware of the divergence in the navigation solution, but I was unable to formulate a response. I failed to realize the debris shoal was within our position envelope, and failed to imagine the resulting collision. I was caught off guard.”
“What
did
you imagine?” he'd asked in response.
And the ship had replied: “Very little, sir. Imagination is an inductive trait, and difficult to mechanize.”
Of course.
At any rate, Bechs had buzzed and flitted his way back here on the news that the ship's first mate—the captain's husband—had finally been released from hospital. Bechs would round out his story and then rerelease the whole thing, with commentary, to a curious public.
Unfortunately, several dozen other reportants had beat him to it; he found Mursk seated at his apartment's tiny dinner table, swatting angrily at a cloud of them.
“Shove off, parasites. I'm done. I'm
eating
!”
And so he was: fax-fresh plibbles and bran flakes, steaming blood sausage and curried potatoes, with miso soup and the nutrient paste known as “mulm,” which Bechs had never seen eaten by anyone but navy crews and merchant spacers. It was far more food than a human stomach could hold, and there were three nearly full beverage mugs in front of him as well. Here was a man who hadn't
tasted
for decades. Not enough, anyway, or not the right things.
But still the cameras pestered him, spitting out questions, stepping all over each other in a haze of white noise. Most people had no idea how to run a press conference, even if they'd called it themselves.
“Welcome back to civilization,” Bechs said to him, raising his voice above the din. He could do that; he had a special volume license, along with other privileges. “You do realize, I hope, that you can order these cameras outside? They can't invade your home, nor peer through your windows, without permission.”
“Ah!” Mursk said. “Then my permission is revoked. Off with you pests. Off!” To Bechs he said, “Thank you.”
“Quite welcome,” Bechs assured him, while the others buzzed sullenly away. “I wonder if I could speak with you when you're finished, though. I've already interviewed your friends, and I'm hoping to round out my set.”
“You're Bernhart
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