Robert Reed - The Remoras.pdf

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ROBERT REED
THE REMORAS
QUEE LEE'S APARTMENT covered several hectares within one of the human
districts,
some thousand kilometers beneath the ship's hull. It wasn't a luxury unit by
any
measure. Truly wealthy people owned as much as a cubic kilometer for
themselves
and their entourages. But it had been her home since she had come on board,
for
more centuries than she could count, its hallways and large rooms as
comfortable
to her as her own body.
The garden room was a favorite. She was enjoying its charms one afternoon,
lying
nude beneath a false sky and sun, eyes closed and nothing to hear but the
splash
of fountains and the prattle of little birds. Suddenly her apartment
interrupted
the peace, announcing a visitor. "He has come for Perri, miss. He claims it's
most urgent."
"Perri isn't here," she replied, soft gray eyes opening. "Unless he's hiding
from both of us, I suppose."
"No, miss. He is not." A brief pause, then the voice said, "I have explained
this to the man, but he refuses to leave. His name is Orleans. He claims that
Perri owes him a considerable sum of money."
What had her husband done now? Quee Lee could guess, halfway smiling as she
sat
upright. Oh, Perri . . . . won't you learn . . . . ? She would have to dismiss
this Orleans fellow herself, spooking him with a good hard stare. She rose and
dressed in an emerald sarong, then walked the length of her apartment, never
hurrying, commanding the front door to open at the last moment but leaving the
security screen intact. And she was ready for someone odd. Even someone
sordid,
knowing Peru. Yet she didn't expect to see a shiny lifesuit more than two
meters
tall and nearly half as wide, and she had never imagined such a face gazing
down
at her with mismatched eyes. It took her along moment to realize this was a
Remora. An authentic Remora was standing in the public walkway, his vivid
round
face watching her. The flesh was orange with diffuse black blotches that might
or might not be cancers, and a lipless, toothless mouth seemed to flow into a
grin. What would bring a Remora here? They never, never came down here . . . !
"I'm Orleans." The voice was sudden and deep, slightly muted by the security
screen. It came from a speaker hidden somewhere on the thick neck, telling
her,
"I need help, miss. I'm sorry to disturb you . . . but you see, I'm desperate.
I
don't know where else to turn."
 
Quee Lee knew about Remoras. She had seen them and even spoken to a few,
although those conversations were eons ago and she couldn't remember their
substance. Such strange creatures. Stranger than most aliens, even if they
possessed human souls . . . .
"Miss?"
Quee Lee thought of herself as being a good person. Yet she couldn't help but
feel repelled, the floor rolling beneath her and her breath stopping short.
Orleans was a human being, one of her own species. True, his genetics had been
transformed by hard radiations. And yes, he normally lived apart from ordinary
people like her. But inside him was a human mind, tough and potentially
immortal. Quee Lee blinked and remembered that she had compassion as well as
charity for everyone, even aliens . . . and she managed to sputter, "Come in."
She said, "If you wish, please do," and with that invitation, her apartment
deactivated the invisible screen.
"Thank you, miss." The Remora walked slowly, almost clumsily, his lifesuit
making a harsh grinding noise in the knees and hips. That wasn't normal, she
realized. Orleans should be graceful, his suit powerful, serving him as an
elaborate exoskeleton.
"Would you like anything?" she asked foolishly. Out of habit.
"No, thank you," he replied, his voice nothing but pleasant.
Of course. Remoras ate and drank only self-made concoctions. They were
permanently sealed inside their lifesuits, functioning as perfectly
self-contained organisms. Food was synthesized, water recycled, and they
possessed a religious sense of purity and independence.
"I don't wish to bother you, miss. I'll be brief."
His politeness was a minor surprise. Remoras typically were distant, even
arrogant. But Orleans continued to smile, watching her. One eye was a muscular
pit filled with thick black hairs, and she assumed those hairs were light
sensitive. Like an insect's compound eye, each one might build part of an
image.
By contrast, its mate was ordinary, white and fishy with a foggy black center.
Mutations could do astonishing things. An accelerated, partly controlled
evolution was occurring inside that suit, even while Orleans stood before her,
boots stomping on the stone floor, a single spark arcing toward her. Orleans
said, "I know this is embarrassing for you --"
"No, no," she offered.
"-- and it makes me uncomfortable too. I wouldn't have come down here if it
wasn't necessary."
"Perri's gone," she repeated, "and I don't know when he'll be back. I'm
sorry."
"Actually," said Orleans, "I was hoping he would be gone."
"Did you?"
"Though I'd have come either way."
Quee Lee's apartment, loyal and watchful, wouldn't allow anything nasty to
 
happen to her. She took a step forward, closing some of the distance. "This is
about money being owed? Is that right?"
"Yes, miss."
"For what, if I might ask?"
Orleans didn't explain in clear terms. "Think of it as an old gambling debt."
More was involved, he implied. "A very old debt, I'm afraid, and Perri's
refused
me a thousand times."
She could imagine it. Her husband had his share of failings, incompetence and
a
self-serving attitude among them. She loved Perri in a controlled way, but his
flaws were obvious. "I'm sorry," she replied, "but I'm not responsible for his
debts." She made herself sound hard, knowing it was best. "I hope you didn't
come all this way because you heard he was married." Married to a woman of
some
means, she thought to herself. In secret.
"No, no, no!" The grotesque face seemed injured. Both eyes became larger, and
a
thin tongue, white as ice, licked at the lipless edge of the mouth. "Honestly,
we don't follow the news about passengers. I just assumed Perri was living
with
someone. I know him, you see . . . my hope was to come and make my case to
whomever I found, winning a comrade. An ally. Someone who might become my
advocate." A hopeful pause, then he said, "When Perri does come here, will you
explain to him what's right and what is not? Can you, please?" Another pause,
then he added, "Even a lowly Remora knows the difference between right and
wrong
miss."
That wasn't fair, calling himself lowly. And he seemed to be painting her as
some flavor of bigot, which she wasn't. She didn't look at him as lowly, and
morality wasn't her private possession. Both of them were human, after all.
Their souls were linked by a charming and handsome, manipulative user . . . by
her darling husband . . . and Quee Lee felt a sudden anger directed at Perri,
almost shuddering in front of this stranger.
"Miss?"
"How much?" she asked. "How much does he owe you, and how soon will you need
it?"
Orleans answered the second question first, lifting an arm with a sickly whine
coming from his shoulder. "Can you hear it?" he asked. As if she were deaf.
"My
seals need to be replaced, or at least refurbished. Yesterday, if possible."
The
arm bent, and the elbow whined. "I already spent my savings rebuilding my
reactor."
Quee Lee knew enough about lifesuits to appreciate his circumstances. Remoras
worked on the ship's hull, standing in the open for hours and days at a time.
A
broken seal was a disaster. Any tiny opening would kill most of his body, and
his suffering mind would fall into a protective coma. Left exposed and
vulnerable, Orleans would be at the mercy of radiation storms and comet
 
showers.
Yes, she understood. A balky suit was an unacceptable hazard on top of lesser
hazards, and what could she say?
She felt a deep empathy for the man.
Orleans seemed to take a breath, then he said, "Perri owes me fifty-two
thousand
credits, miss."
"I see." She swallowed and said, "My name is Quee Lee."
"Quee Lee," he repeated. "Yes, miss."
"As soon as Perri comes home, I'll discuss this with him. I promise you."
"I would be grateful if you did."
"I will."
The ugly mouth opened, and she saw blotches of green and gray-blue against a
milky throat. Those were cancers or perhaps strange new organs. She couldn't
believe she was in the company of a Remora-- the strangest sort of human --
yet
despite every myth, despite tales of courage and even recklessness, Orleans
appeared almost fragile. He even looked scared, she realized. That wet orange
face shook as if in despair, then came the awful grinding noise as he turned
away, telling her, "Thank you, Quee Lee. For your time and patience, and for
everything."
Fifty-two thousand credits!
She could have screamed. She would scream when she was alone, she promised
herself. Perri had done this man a great disservice, and he'd hear about it
when
he graced her with his company again. A patient person, yes, and she could
tolerate most of his flaws. But not now. Fifty thousand credits was no
fortune,
and it would allow Orleans to refurbish his lifesuit, making him whole and
healthy again. Perhaps she could get in touch with Perri first, speeding up
the
process . . . ?
Orleans was through her front door, turning to say good-bye. False sunshine
made
his suit shine, and his faceplate darkened to where she couldn't see his
features anymore. He might have any face, and what did a face mean? Waving
back
at him, sick to her stomach, she calculated what fifty-two thousand credits
meant in concrete terms, to her . . . .
. . . wondering if she should . . . ?
But no, she decided. She just lacked the required compassion. She was a
particle
short, if that, ordering the security screen to engage again, helping to mute
that horrid grinding of joints as the Remora shuffled off for home.
The ship had many names, many designations, but to its long-term passengers
and
 
crew it was referred to as the ship. No other starship could be confused for
it.
Not in volume, nor in history.
The ship was old by every measure. A vanished humanoid race had built it,
probably before life arose on Earth, then abandoned it for no obvious reason.
Experts claimed it had begun as a sunless world, one of the countless jupiters
that sprinkled the cosmos. The builders had used the world's own hydrogen to
fuel enormous engines, accelerating it over millions of years while stripping
away its gaseous exterior. Today's ship was the leftover core, much modified
by
its builders and humans. Its metal and rock interior was laced with
passageways
and sealed environments, fuel tanks and various ports. There was room enough
for
hundreds of billions of passengers, though there were only a fraction that
number now. And its hull was a special armor made from hyperfibers, kilometers
thick and tough enough to withstand most high-velocity impacts.
The ship had come from outside the galaxy, passing into human space long ago.
It
was claimed as salvage, explored by various means, then refurbished to the
best
of its new owners' abilities. A corporation was formed; a promotion was born.
The ancient engines were coaxed to life, changing the ship's course. Then
tickets were sold, both to humans and alien species. Novelty and adventure
were
the lures. One circuit around the Milky Way; a half-million-year voyage
touring
the star-rich spiral arms. It was a long span, even for immortal humans. But
people like Quee Lee had enough money and patience. That's why she purchased
her
apartment with a portion of her savings. This voyage wouldn't remain novel for
long, she knew. Three or four circuits at most, and then what? People would
want
something else new and glancingly dangerous. Wasn't that the way it always
was?
Quee Lee had no natural lifespan. Her ancestors had improved themselves in a
thousand ways, erasing the aging process. Fragile DNAs were replaced with
better
genetic machinery. Tailoring allowed a wide-range of useful proteins and
enzymes
and powerful repair mechanisms. Immune systems were nearly perfect; diseases
were extinct. Normal life couldn't damage a person in any measurable way. And
even a tragic accident wouldn't need to be fatal, Quee Lee's body and mind
able
to withstand frightening amounts of abuse.
But Remoras, despite those same gifts, did not live ordinary lives. They
worked
on the open hull, each of them encased in a lifesuit. The suits afforded extra
protection and a standard environment, each one possessing a small fusion
plant
and redundant recycling systems. Hull life was dangerous in the best times.
The
ship's shields and laser watchdogs couldn't stop every bit of interstellar
grit.
And every large impact meant someone had to make repairs. The ship's builders
had used sophisticated robots, but they proved too tired after several
 

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