Twelve weeks later.
Emmie always insisted a guard escort her through the Bridge to wherever the captain happened to be when she arrived, even though the captain had told her several weeks ago she was free to move around the Bridge area without a companion and that she actually should work her way through the Bridge from port to starboard.
The nautical references had given her another ten hours of reading and research through the never-ending annals of old Terra ships and customs, to naval culture and exploration, to maritime law, mutiny and rebellion and the culture and psychology of micro-communities…to the fragile peace and law-abiding balance of life on the Endurance. How easily all of it could slip into chaos and disaster had kept her awake for three nights.
His casual questions and references were making life interesting at the moment, although she insisted on the escort every time she came to the Bridge because she still had not fully decided she was going to accept her fate as the next captain of the Endurance. For the same reason, he stayed “the captain” in her mind and when she spoke, even though he had suggested several times she call him Grey as his inner staff did.
Today, the captain was back in his private office, the place she most frequently found him. He was sitting in his chair. This one was not tall and ornate like the one on the Bridge, yet he was still sitting with his elbow on the arm and his chin on his fist, scowling at nothing.
She hesitated in the doorway. All his aides were at hand—Yuli, Leanne Bachman, Joeri Geels, Paulie—and they looked just as grave. There was no screen showing anything to give her a hint about what was upsetting them, either. She wondered if she should back out and leave.
The captain waved her in, sitting up. “Emmie,” he said. “You figured out why the ship doesn’t lose water already?”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to worry about chocolate production because it’s a luxury and people trade for commodities, first. Besides, it grows in an artificial microcosm, which limits its production.”
“That took you four weeks,” he pointed out. “Not bad.”
Yuli raised his brow. “Economic theory in four weeks? It’s a bit slow.”
“I had to sleep. The Captain insists on it,” Emmie said defensively.
“Yuli was being ironic,” the captain replied.
“Should I come back later?” she asked. “You were all looking worried when I came in.”
The captain glanced at Yuli, who shrugged. Then he looked at her. “There have been one hundred and twenty-three mentor assignments in the last three days.”
“One hundred and twenty-three?” She breathed it out. “Are there even that many fourteen year olds on the ship?” Then she remembered the breakdown of age groups she had seen a few days ago. “No, there are about forty people for each year of age.”
“The assignments include thirteen year olds and twelve year olds,” the captain replied. “All clustered within three days of each other, while normally, assignments are handed out after the child’s Second Phase assessment, so they’re spread across the year.” He rubbed at his temples.
“I presume someone asked the AI what it was doing?” she asked.
Yuli snorted. “We got the same damn answer as always. ‘Statistical predictive analysis only shows what should be done, not why.’”
“Patterns repeating,” she said slowly. “They see a pattern repeat coming up. What’s the pattern? What do they think is going to repeat?”
She looked at everyone, who looked blankly back at her, except for the captain, who was frowning. “Something in our history,” he said slowly and looked up at Yuli.
Yuli sat down suddenly and heavily and let out a heavy, gusty sigh.
“Something you remember?” the captain said softly.
“Not directly, although they were still talking about it when I first started working on the bridge,” Yuli said, sounding tired. “A plague. It killed a lot of people.”
“And no one remembers?” Emmie asked, shocked. “How could something like that be forgotten by anyone? Why haven’t I ever been told about it?”
“History is a voluntary subject, remember, Emmie,” the captain said. “Only people like you and me care enough to look backward.” He looked at her steadily. She recalled what he had also said that day. We are the only non-specialists on the ship, Emmie. We must know a little about everything in order to make the best decisions. That includes knowing the ship’s history and the history of humans. Everyone else will know their own subject deeply while the vast sum of human knowledge passes them by.
“It might not be plague that is coming,” she said. “There are any number of disasters that could hit the ship and there have only been one hundred and twenty-three assignments.”
“That’s the maximum that could be assigned. Any child younger than twelve isn’t ready intellectually to begin training in a profession,” Yuli replied. “Nor can their aptitudes be determined at younger ages.”
“Even the older ones could be mis-assigned,” Paulie said. “It’s not an exact science.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Leanne said, with a shrug. “As long as they get them into the right profession, the professionals themselves will refine their specialty as the child is trained.”
Shock froze Emmie to the spot. She could feel her jaw loosen and her lips part and couldn’t get them to close again. Her first, her very first reaction was a sense of betrayal.
She had been lied to. All these weeks, when she had begun to think she was somehow different, that she had been chosen because she was unique, she had been absorbing the lie. Believing it.
Then anger swamped her. How could she have been so stupid…so gullible? How could she not have questioned this, when she had spent weeks asking questions about everything else? She had even spent two nights, damn it, reading about the energy cost of printers versus manual production and the impact on the economy if it was forced back to primary production methods, worried that her continual printing of garments for women in the district would somehow drain the ship resources.
How had she missed asking the blazingly obvious question? She was not unique. No one was. Not truly unique—her dip into basic biology had taught her that much. If she was not unique, then surely there were others who could do the essential, all-encompassing work of a captain?
Emmie got herself back under control. No one had noticed her reaction. No one was paying her any attention at all. Normally it bothered her but not today. Now she understood exactly how she fit into the Bridge hierarchy. She was a supernumery. A non-essential.
It meant she was replaceable by any half-way competent human, who could be trained just as she was to fill their assigned role.
She slipped out of the room and hurried down the passage.
“Emmie!” It was the captain, from behind her.
“You should go back to your emergency.”
“It’s not an emergency. Not yet. Will you wait for a minute? It’s important.”
“I doubt it!” She halted, anyway, to let him catch up with her.
He smiled at her. He had a nice smile and should do more smiling. Most of the time he scowled. “You were the only one in the room who thought of patterns and looking back into history to find an answer. Do you still have doubts you’re perfect for this job, Emmie?”
“I could do the job,” Emmie told him. “I know that now. Give me enough time and training and reading and I could do it. So could someone else!”
He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Am I? You’re telling me that out of the thousands of people on the ship and the hundreds of children, I am so unique not one other person has even the potential to learn how to do your job?”
“How would I know?” he asked. “The Accouchement Master is the one who understands these things.”
“Perhaps you should find out, then,” she said tartly. “Or maybe I will.” She turned and hurried away, before she said too much.
“Tell me what you find out!” he called after her. It was something he said nearly every time she left the Bridge.
Oh, I will absolutely let you know, she whispered to herself.
* * * * *
Normally, Emmie dressed to please herself. She liked the freedom of movement skirts and dresses gave her. This time, though, because it was a Master she was speaking to and because she was doing it in person, she dressed up in her best trousers and shirt.
She was nervous as she presented herself to the aide in the genetics complex tucked into the corner of the Aventine district. Her request to speak to Master Baki Hart was treated with deference, which told her they knew exactly who she was. Of course they did, they were the ones who had assigned her to the captain.
Master Hart waved her to a chair in the lounge itself, instead of showing her to his office, which told her she might be able to demand his attention, although he would limit the time she got by ensuring he could leave as soon as time was up, instead of trying to eject her from his office.
He was a small man, with close set eyes and a high domed head that was nearly completely bald. He was fit and energetic, middle-aged and tanned. Her research revealed he lived in the Palatine and his house had a lake next to it. He looked as though he used it a lot.
“You are Emmaline Victore,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you about my assignment to the captain. You can talk to me about that, can’t you?”
“Probably not in any way you might understand,” he replied flatly. “But your assignment to the captain does give you certain privileges. What do you want to know?”
“I have done a lot of reading about genetics and gene expression and psychology in the last two weeks—”
“You’ve been busy. Just one of those subjects is the study of a lifetime for most people,” he replied. His tone was condescending.
“I learn just enough to be able to understand and form answers,” she replied. It was something she had heard the captain say. It stopped Master Hart from smiling, too. “You have spectrums of aptitude and skills profiled for every profession on the Endurance.”
“That is correct. It is a primary tool for choosing assignments.”
“The AI doesn’t pick, then?”
“The AI draws our attention to suitable candidates with the spectrums dictated for each profession.” He sounded stiff and formal now.
“But it tells you who you need assignments for, doesn’t it? You don’t do that. The AI uses statistics to decide that this year, fifty new engineers are needed, or a dozen farmers or a new captain.”
“It is an assessment involving the most complex data anywhere on the ship,” Hart replied. “It is well beyond human computational range. But we do personally assess the candidates for those positions and make the best selection possible.”
“There was more than one candidate for the captain’s role, wasn’t there?”
He got to his feet. “That information is never shared with the public.”
“I’m not the public. Not anymore. I’m in this. I have a right to know.”
“Really?” he asked curiously. “What right would that be, Ms. Victore?”
“You just finished saying you personally assess candidates and make the final selection. How do you know you’re not wrong? How do you know you haven’t made a mistake? You’re human.”
Faint red painted his tanned cheeks. “I am a highly trained professional. Of course I don’t make mistakes.”
“I wasn’t the only one who could be captain. Why did you pick me?”
“Does it matter?” he asked. “You were the best and most suitable candidate. The decision is made.”
“But I don’t want the job! Doesn’t that count?”
He was backing away. He glanced over his shoulder as she got to her feet, looking for escape. “We all are assigned to the best fit for our personalities, Ms. Victore.”
“I don’t want it! That makes me a terrible fit!”
He turned and hurried away, behind the glass doors, his steps quick and short. He didn’t look back.
Emmie watched him go. “Damn,” she muttered to herself. How could she make people listen to her if they could just walk away whenever they wanted?
Because she was in the Aventine, she walked through the district to the trolley station on the border with the Capitol, thinking hard. On the way through the market, she swapped the bracelet she had made for a cup of soup and an orange and sat on one of the public benches to eat it.
It was later than she thought, because the buskers and entertainers were already setting up their little areas where they would work for the evening, attracting audiences and applause. The bigger the audience, the louder the applause, the greater the tribute would be at the end. Sometimes the very best entertainers, the ones who became so popular they could command their own venues, would attract patrons who would support them while they worked solely on their avocation…which became their vocation, because they gave up their assigned profession in order to entertain.
It didn’t happen very often. Most people had an avocation that didn’t lend itself to entertaining others. Avocations were always creative. Her mother made furniture. Her father painted…and he was good enough that sometimes he could swap a painting for food or other goods, too. But he mostly painted for himself and he loved doing it.
Emmie made clothes and other things, playing with recipes and colors and materials…she didn’t know what the avocation could be called. She did know it would never entertain people. Making clothes was never going to give her an escape out of this mess.
She heard the captain’s voice in her memory. The garments you have made will be turned into the recyclers to have their energy reclaimed in a few days or weeks or months, while what I have made, what I continue to make, will endure for centuries.
Emmie was starting to understand the essential difference in their individual passions with depressing clarity.
She finished her orange as the first of the entertainers, a writer, stood on his box and began to narrate a new story. There were only a couple of people standing in front of him, while across the square more than a dozen people stood waiting for a singer to finish setting up his equipment.
She looked from the larger audience to the tiny one.
Both entertainers were being listened to.
Emmie almost swallowed a piece of orange whole. She choked it back, as ideas cannoned off each other, moving faster and faster.
Then she went home, to shut herself in her room and think. While the entire ship speculated about the rash of new mentor assignments and what it all meant, she made her plans.