Transcendental by James Gunn

cover,” Riley said.
    “Is nothing,” Tordor said, but looked at Asha.
    “We had to make it convincing,” Asha said. “But what of your expedition?”
    “Return without guards,” Tordor said. It sounded like a question.
    “I bring good tidings,” Riley said. “That’s an ancient human saying,” he explained for Tordor’s benefit. He announced to the aliens within hearing range, “The captain wants to speak to us—not as an investigating officer, as before, but as a fellow voyager on this trip into the unknown.”
    The weasel looked up from a corner by the food dispenser. The Alpha Centauran turned from its contemplation of a crystal it held. The Sirian opened its hooded eyes.
    The word would get communicated, Riley knew, through the variety of mechanisms and languages represented among this group of aliens. Without further announcement, the pilgrims began to gather, some from the separate environments maintained for them, some bringing their environments with them. Even the coffin-shaped alien. They were together in whatever their cultures considered appropriate by the time the captain arrived, this time without his humanoid guards, as if announcing his new status as a pilgrim like the rest of the passengers.
    He walked to one end of the lounge in the characteristic glide developed by longtime spacers. He stood silent for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back, his head cocked as if listening to inner voices. Maybe he was listening to his add-ons, Riley thought. He hoped that the captain didn’t know about Riley’s.
    “This trip has had a troubled start,” the captain said. “But perhaps no more troubled than most voyages.” The message spread around the lounge in a mixture of modulated sounds, hoots, hisses, whispers, gestures, and light flashes, and perhaps other means imperceptible to human senses. “But this voyage is unprecedented. We are following a will-o’-the-wisp, a phantom that appears and disappears, leading us deeper into the swamp of space.
    “We all have our reasons for following this phantom,” the captain continued, “including me and members of my crew, and we need to work together and trust one another if we are going to have any chance of reaching our goal. We are all pilgrims here, all looking for transcendence, venturing our lives and our dreams, our everything, on a fable that has captured our imaginations because it represents the goal of all existence: to evolve, to achieve our ideal forms, to transcend our limitations.”
    Riley felt proud of Ham and his humanity. His eloquence was unexpected—and perhaps wasted on aliens who had it all filtered through inadequate pedias.
    “For that reason we are relaxing the customary rules of travel that restrict contact between passengers and crew,” the captain continued. “We cannot allow passengers unrestricted access to other parts of the ship—the crew cannot perform their jobs with strangers wandering among them—but we will allow a representative to occupy an adjunct position with the crew and serve as your spokesperson and representative, and report back to you.”
    Something that resembled a murmur arose from the passengers. Such a representative would be useful to the passengers in many ways, some unimaginable at the moment, but he or she or it also might acquire power that would be meaningful as the end of the voyage approached, as transcendence became reality, as perhaps only one might be chosen.
    Riley was the logical candidate. Everyone knew it. He was human; he could go anywhere without comment, without environmental aids. He was experienced. He had negotiated their new status.
    Ham could have made it so much simpler if he had named Riley as the adjunct. But Ham couldn’t do that, Riley knew. If named, Riley would have become the captain’s choice and the captain’s confederate; the captain would have gained nothing in soothing passenger unrest—and the representative would lose any power to shape