Robert Reed - The Remoras

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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.

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

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

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.

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

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Robert Reed - The Remoras

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