Nimisha's Ship Read online

  “A projection of its performance capability is twelve percent higher than the Mark Four,” the Designer replied. “It would take no longer to build than the Four, since much of the same basic design has been refined and can now be utilized. Based on current prices for top-grade materials . . .”

  “Have I ever economized on them yet, Designer?”

  “. . . the cost would take precisely sixty-two percent of the credit currently on deposit.”

  Caleb whistled.

  “I’d’ve expected a higher cost, considering the complexity of the AI units you’ve specified and the other refinements on our Mark Four designs,” Jeska said, knowing how much Nimisha depended on her opinions. “But I have new contracts just in that will recoup thirty-one percent of that credit within the next two years. Plus the usual maintenance contracts that come in regularly—and I suspect the Zynker-Deltoid Shippers intend to accept our tender for their fleet additions. In short, it’s doable,” she finished, “without your having to invest much of your own money.”

  “That’s a lot better than I thought,” Nimisha said, surprised. “And Lady Rezalla will be pleased that I don’t have to touch my capital.”

  “So, do we build?” Caleb asked, aware he’d been holding his breath.

  “We sure do,” Nimisha said. “Designer, let’s have one more look at those main AI circuits. They have to be in the most shielded part of the hull.”

  Meanwhile, Cuiva grew from a toddler to a graceful young girl who obediently did ballet training with her grandmother and was every bit as handy with a soldering tool or construction fastener as her mother had been at the same age.

  “How many generations is that wretched Yard going to consume?” Lady Rezalla demanded when she found Cuiva about to set off in the space skimmer when she had planned to take the girl to a new anti-grav ballet that had been sold out for weeks. She had had trouble enough obtaining tickets and was exasperated to find her treat preempted. Cuiva might be content enough to keep her grandam company when her mother was busy, but Nimisha had first call on the child’s loyalties.

  “Tionel’s family had it for nine generations, so Cuiva’s only the second for us,” Nimisha said.

  “Which would you—” Lady Rezalla began, bending down to the child.

  “Mother!” Nimisha interrupted, so abruptly that Lady Rezalla stared at her body-heir in amazement. Nimisha forced a smile as she dropped into old Terran language that Cuiva ought not yet understand. “Let us not descend to competition for her preference. I apologize if I neglected to inform you that I was taking her with me today and for your disappointment. Perhaps you can exchange the tickets.”

  Lady Rezalla confined her response to a curt nod and, pivoting on one heel, walked stiffly to where her driver awaited her at her skimmer’s door.

  Nimisha never told her dam that today she, Caleb, and Jeska were taking Cuiva on her first space walk. Nimisha had had a special suit constructed, and Cuiva was going to be able to go over the exterior of the now petralloy-clad Mark 5. Nimisha had promised the child that treat for her scholastic achievements. Cuiva was a better mathematician than Nimisha, Jeska, or Caleb. She was therefore also a better programmer. Nimisha wondered how long she would have to wait until Cuiva was old enough to work on the artificial intelligence programs that would manage the elusive ideal she was herself chasing.

  The four of them had a marvelous time and Cuiva showed no problem at all with inner ear dysfunction in the vacuum of space. She obeyed every order explicitly and the naval EVA trainer who attended the sessions remarked that some of his novices did not show as much confidence as the child did.

  “We must see that she doesn’t become overconfident,” Nimisha said.

  “Oh, next time she’s up, we’ll give her a little problem to solve,” Caleb suggested. “Nothing to frighten her, Nimi, but certainly something to remind her of the dangers inherent in an EVA.”

  “Cuiva’s sensible,” Nimisha said firmly.

  “Of course she is,” Caleb agreed, wondering if perhaps he had been out of line. But he was as fond of Cuiva as if she’d been his own offspring, and she, in turn, was certainly at ease in his company. “She’s your body-heir, and Lord Rhidian is a fine hunter but not a chance-taker like Lord Vestrin is.”

  Lord Tionel’s body-heir had had a shattering accident in a hunt stampede. Body sculpting would be needed, and even with the recent strides in the replication of body organs and bone replacements, he would not be active for a while. Meanwhile he lived in seclusion with his dam, Lady Vescuya, who attempted to amuse him during the process of revision.

  “By the way, Nimi,” Caleb said, as much to change the subject as to seize an opportunity to remind Nimisha that she’d promised to think the matter over, “have you decided on rejuv?”

  Nimisha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye so that he could not see her expression. “Rejuv would not have saved Vestrin when he insisted on being a carpet for a whole herd of Altairian antelopes,” she remarked. “But I’ve made the appointment. One reason why I’ve spent the day with Cuiva.” Then she gave an exaggerated sigh. “All these delays in getting what I want make me think in the long-term.”

  Caleb laughed. “I don’t think it’s going to take that long for you to get the long-journey yacht you’re aiming for. Design’s estimate is proving accurate from the work-reviews Jeska keeps filing.” He paused and then grinned roguishly. “Of course, I did rejuv long ago.”

  “You never told me.”

  “Admiral Gollanch required it. That’s where I spent my last leave.”

  “What? You weren’t dancing and dallying with tropical beauties as I so fondly thought?”

  Caleb appeared to think. “Well, there was one . . .”

  Cuiva approached them just then, waiting like the well-bred youngster she was until there was a pause in adult conversation.

  “Yes, Cuiva?” he said, seizing her presence to leave the fuller answer dangling.

  “Is ballet fun, Mother?” Cuiva asked.

  “Ah, I see your grandmother will keep you from missing me,” Nimisha said, giving her daughter a hug and a kiss.

  “And,” Cuiva went on, clinging shyly to Caleb’s hand, “would it be possible for you to take Belac and me out together, too?”

  “If Lady Rezalla permits . . .”

  Nimisha knew how well Cuiva and Caleb’s son got on despite a three-year age difference. She also was aware that one of the reasons Caleb liked his present assignment was the extra time it allowed him to spend with Belac. “I’ll make sure of that,” she said.

  Nimisha went for the weeklong rejuv procedure of which Lady Rezalla approved. She’d been trying to get Nimisha to take it, if only to protect Cuiva. The ballet was but one of the many activities she had planned, but it was the one that Cuiva enjoyed the most. The child was delightfully appreciative and talked quite excitedly about the various scenes she had particularly enjoyed. All that week she applied herself to her morning exercises and even reviewed vids from her grandam’s extensive ballet library. But the moment Nimisha returned, she was once again the center of the child’s universe. Cuiva greeted her mother as ecstatically as if she’d been gone far longer. And Lady Rezalla sighed with regret. It wasn’t as if the little girl hadn’t been given all sorts of toys to play with—from the very feminine to the same scaled-down toolkit her grandsire had given Nimisha. Nor had Nimisha influenced the child in any obvious way, except by her own example of dedication to her chosen profession.

  Therefore, Lady Rezalla was more pleased than concerned when Nimisha said she was going to solo her new Mark 5 prototype for an extended test run. Her absence meant Cuiva, now a charming eleven-year-old, would be available to her grandam for the duration of the six weeks’ trial run. All three were satisfied with that arrangement.

  It was a great day for the Rondymense Ship Yard when the Mark 5 prototype was freed from the last gantry umbilical and moored at the Naval Base station. While the Fiver looked small in the company of th
e battle cruisers, even destroyers, she had the sleekness of a stellar racer combined with the toughness of a military craft.

  “Dangerous,” Lady Rezalla said, with a delicate shudder. “Why can’t spacecraft be . . . pretty . . . like oceangoing yachts?”

  “She is,” chorused Nimisha, Caleb, and Cuiva, who was considered old enough to take part in the celebration.

  Cuiva never told her grandam just how well she knew the Fiver, inside and out. She did have to try very hard not to hang on to her mother, but she maneuvered to stay close behind Nimisha as the designer did the rounds of the invited guests and accepted official, and personal, congratulations on her achievement.

  “Let’s not be too optimistic,” Nimisha said, dismissing the more ardent comments. “I’ll be more sanguine when I’ve seen the results of the shakedown cruise.”

  The naval contingent nodded sagely at that remark. Caleb tried hard not to look smug, because he had no doubts himself that the Fiver would pass with flying colors. Then it came time for Nimisha to say farewell to her dam, to Jeska who would capably deal with problems during her absence, and to her beloved Cuiva. Despite the number of people surrounding them, Nimisha raised her body-heir into her arms, hugged her tightly, and kissed her six times before giving her into Lady Rezalla’s keeping. She waved to them all until the hatch of the Fiver closed.

  A week later, Nimisha brought the Fiver out of warp space at precisely the coordinates she had designated in the Delta quadrant. She was pleased but not surprised. If she’d been a degree off, she would have been upset.

  “Run diagnostics on all systems,” she told the artificial intelligence that managed ship functions.

  “Aye, ma’am,” said the tenor voice she had programmed into the AI. Her early years as a test pilot on long and lonely runs had taught her that it was psychologically reassuring to hear another human voice—and the AI, Helm, was the state-of-the-art in that regard, even to making independent queries and initiating standard procedure actions without direct command. She had another AI in the compact infirmary, Doc, and a less broadly programmed one in the galley who responded to “Cater.”

  She flipped open the safety harness that she had fastened at the sound of the warning bell of reentry and rose in a single graceful movement. “I’ll be in the galley.”

  A needless comment but part of the routine she had established with her AI units. This initial run should shake out the glitches that had escaped the grueling routines to which she subjected each part of a new ship. Responses from the AI’s were very much a part of a ship that she wished to produce and sell to both the Federated Sentient Planet Space Authority and private buyers among the wealthy of her acquaintance. Many of them enjoyed flitting about the star system. Many of them preferred to have little, if any, crew and some of them were not competent enough to be permitted to travel alone. Most needed as much backup and assistance as could be crammed into a compact vessel. And a Fleet ship with a single scouting pilot would need the “company,” spurious as it was.

  The large “day” room was spacious enough to hold large parties in. That would be a boon to those who wished to entertain at their ports of call. It could also be separated into four sections with privacy shields for discreet conferences. The galley was located on the long starboard wall, and the panels on either side of it enclosed additional dispenser units to accommodate an increase in guests. The main airlock was on the port side of the cabin. On either side of the galley facility were the passageways to the six private cabins, far more spacious and well appointed than a naval vessel could permit. A circular staircase on one side gave access to the lower level, which included a well-equipped gymnasium, one of the several hydroponics units, and additional storage space. On the other side, a quick descent pole reached the lower deck, closer to the escape pods. On the main deck, beyond the private cabins, were the main storage units and the larger hydroponics. Through a safety hatch, there was the skiff secured in its own garage, and, through an additional safety hatch, the engineering section and the ship’s propulsion system.

  The medical unit was directly to the port side of the bridge: compact enough to hold state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment, a life-suspension facility, and an AI programmed to deal with any esoteric disease so far discovered—or any condition a human could be reduced to, including being flattened by the stampede of quadrupeds. The AI medic was a baritone. Nimisha had borrowed his mellifluous voice from Lord Physician Naves, a longtime friend of her dam’s. In fact, she’d nearly asked him to sire her heir. Not that she wasn’t totally satisfied with Rhidian’s performance; his genes had abetted hers in producing beauty, intelligence, and character. She wouldn’t have had Rhidian as a long-term partner—hunting bored her and stimulated him—though he had a wry sense of humor that she liked. And he seemed to be rather proud of his biological daughter, evoking Lord Tionel’s continued interest in Nimisha. But Rhidian had never understood Nimisha’s fascination with space or her propensity to do hands-on work with machinery of all kinds. Which was why Cuiva’s early childhood interest in “tinkering” was such a delightful surprise. Obviously the Rondymense genes had dominated.

  Nimisha had no intention of pushing the child into her own profession since there were many options for an intelligent, well-trained mind. She was, however, gratified that Cuiva was so happy to play with building blocks and stick-togethers while she was busy at her design screen.

  Nimisha’s thoughts right now were more on something to fill her empty stomach than on her heir.

  “I’ll have a mixed fruit juice, a green salad, and Mercassian bread,” Nimisha said as she strode across the carpeted deck. A single chair and table emerged from the wall just as the dispenser chimed the arrival of the order. So Nimisha settled immediately to her meal with a pleasant thank-you.

  “You’re quite welcome. Let me know if you wish anything else,” said the dulcet dispenser AI. It spoke in a lilting tone and, while Nimisha didn’t need to respond, much less express appreciation, the habit of courtesy had been so ingrained in her that she was unable to break it. Some of her friends found it amusing but then, few of them traveled the distances she did and could appreciate the companionship of other voices, AI or human. And Nimisha had been well drilled by her womb-mother: Courtesy was the Mark of True Nobility and aided the Instillation of Loyalty. And No One of Any True Breeding assumed Service.

  She grinned, wondering how often she had heard that litany, as she tucked into the salad—crisply green with odd crunchy seasoned bits, just as she liked it. She remembered the day that she had auditioned voices. She’d had half a mind to use her mother’s sultry one. But Lady Rezalla would not have considered it in any way a compliment, nor were her mother’s highbred tones and elegant diction suitable for any AI on this ship.

  Nimisha had listened to voices on tri-d, selected those she liked and felt she could bear hearing constantly, and contacted an agency to act for her. The contralto was a young actress, determined to break into big-time tri-d, who dutifully read through the material supplied, enunciating culinary words and displaying no curiosity as to the limitation of the audition. She had certainly been grateful for the credit lodged to her account when she finished the day’s reading.

  The man she had chosen for Helm’s voice had been an entirely different matter: He was a well-known compeer, and he had agreed only after haggling with both her and his agent as to price. Once that was finally settled, he had rattled off the required pages of dialogue and vocabulary in a professional manner, but he was curious as to the usage.

  “Do I have to be . . . only . . .” and he had leaned toward her, his eyes and manner seductive.

  “Dear man, how would I survive listening to your voice thousands of systems away from your presence if we were to indulge . . .” She paused, smiling as she ran a delicate finger down his strongly modeled jawline. “. . . in an intimacy? I know—” And again she paused, this time in compliment. “—your reputation.”

  When he leaned forward acros
s the worktop that separated them, Nimisha rose from her chair in a graceful whirl toward the door and waved her hand across the control panel. “That’ll be all, pet,” she said, using her “business” voice, a tone guaranteed to reduce ardor.

  With a rueful smile, he tipped her a saucy wave as he exited. “You may be sorry,” he murmured. Annoyed, she pressed the fast-close stud of the door controls and just missed his left heel.

  Her mother’s long-term friend, Lord Physician Naves, had started his medical career as a diagnostician but was now more in demand as a body-sculptor. He had assisted in the massive sculpting necessary to put young Lord Vestrin back together into the handsome figure he had once been before his accident. He had been charmed by her request to use his voice.

  “Not that I’m expecting any trouble,” she assured Lord Physician Naves, “but when you roll off those unpronounceable diseases and suggest procedures in that gorgeous voice, one is instantly comforted and feels safe.”

  The older man, who had let his hair go silver—a contrast to his young and vigorous countenance—preened slightly. He was very fond of Lady Rezalla’s body-heir and thought her most original to have struck out for herself in a profession of her own: so different from the languorous women and men whom he was called upon to body-sculpt. He smiled and winked at her.

  “I’ve always considered my voice a professional asset. For you, Nimi, I’ll be happy to lend my vocal support.” Then he went on, repeating a familiar concern of his. “Far too many financiers, bankers, and entrepreneurs in our line. We need some diversity, some other role models for the next generation, or no one will be able to speak in anything except debentures, compound interest, and multiple mergers.” He effected a shudder. “There is, after all, only so much you can say about those.”