Starfishers Volume 2: Starfishers by Glen Cook Page A

fear.
    He had known Mouse as early as their Academy days. They had shared their moments then, both in training and the play typified by sunjammer racing in the wild starwinds of an old supernova. They had crewed their sunjammer victoriously, and had shared celebrations during leave. But they had refused, persistently, to become anything more than acquaintances.
    Friends were strange creatures. They became responsibilities. They became walking symbols of emotional debits and personal obligations.
    He was getting too close to Mouse. Growing too fond of the strange little man. And he suspected that Mouse was having the same trouble.
    Friendship would be bad for their professional detachment. It could get them into trouble.
    The Bureau had promised that they would not be teamed again after the operation on The Broken Wings. The Bureau had lied. As it always did. Or this really was a critical, hurry-up, top-man job.
    He wondered. The Admiral apparently would do or say, or promise anything to get the work done.
    Always there was a rush but he had no good reason to complain. Hurry was inherent in the modern social structure. Change came about so swiftly that policy, operational, and emotional obsolescence developed overnight. Decision and action had to be sudden to be effective.
    The system shuddered constantly under the thundering impact of precipitous error.
    BenRabi was now involved in one of the Bureau’s few old, stable programs. Catching a starfish herd had been a prime mission before his birth. He suspected it would continue to be one long after his death.
    He might die of boredom here. He now saw little hope that he and Mouse would be recalled early. The presence of Sangaree altered all the rules.
    He had abandoned all hope of enjoying the mission.
    Somehow, sometimes, because of the Sangaree woman or otherwise, he or Mouse would get hurt.
    A clang rang through the shuttle. The vessel shuddered. BenRabi ceased flaying himself with the tiny, dull knives of the mind.
    The lighter nosed into its mother ship like a piglet to a sow’s belly. Moyshe followed the crowd moving to board the starship. He worked his way close to the pale Seiner girl. Could he pick up where he had left off?
    He wondered why she intrigued him so. Just because she had been kind?
    Guides led the way to a common room where several high-powered command types awaited them. Another lecture , Moyshe thought. Some more shocks set off by a lot of boredom .
    He was half right.
    Even before they were comfortable, one of the heavy-duty lads said, “I’m Eduard Chouteau, your Ship’s Commander. Welcome aboard Number Three Service Ship from Danion , a harvestship of Payne’s Fleet.” That was enough ceremony, evidently. He continued, “We’ve contacted you as emergency replacements for technicians Danion lost in a shark attack two months ago. Frankly, Fishers haven’t ever liked or trusted outsiders. That’s because outsiders have given us reason. But for Danion ’s sake we’ll do right by you till we get our own people from the. schools. All we ask is that you do right by us.”
    BenRabi felt that little feather tickle again. Half-truths were fluttering around like untamed butterflies. The man had something on his mind. There was a smoke screen rolling tall and wide, and behind it something he and Mouse just might find interesting. He made a mental note.
    The Seiner schools were unique. Most ground-siders knew a little about them. They made romantic, remote settings for holonet dramas.
    Those shows, naturally, had borne little relation to reality.
    The Seiner creches were hidden in dead planetoids somewhere in deep space. The old and the young of the Fisher fleets dwelt there, teaching and learning. Only healthy Seiners of working age spaced with the fleets and hazarded themselves against disasters of the sort that had overtaken Danion .
    Unlike Confederation parents, Starfishers yielded their children to professional surrogates out of love. They did not