Free Nebula Awards Showcase 2008 by Ben Bova Page B

enough for Penny to realize that there was some difficulty about answering Spur’s question.
    “What, is he stupid?” She scrutinized Spur with renewed interest. “Are you stupid, Spur?”
    “I don’t think so.” It was his turn to be embarrassed. “But maybe some people think that I am.”
    “This is complicated,” said Memsen, filling yet another awkward pause. “We understand that people here seek to avoid complication.” She considered. “Let’s just say that the L’ung are companions to the High Gregory. They like to watch him make luck, you might say. Think of them as students. They’ve been sent from many different worlds, for many different reasons. Complications again. There is a political aspect…”
    Ngonda wriggled in protest.
    “…which the deputy assures us you would only find confusing. So.” She patted the bench. “Sit, Pendragon.”
    The Pendragon collected a macaroon from the pastry tray and obediently settled beside Memsen, then leaned to whisper in her ear.
    “Yes,” said Memsen, “we’ll ask about the war.”
    Ngonda rose then, but caught himself against a bulkhead as if the change from sitting to standing had left him dizzy. “This isn’t fair,” he said. “The Cooperative has made a complete disclosure of the situation here, both to Kenning and to the Forum of the Thousand Worlds.”
    “What you sent was dull, dull, dull, friend Constant,” said the High Gregory. “I don’t think the people who made the report went anywhere near a burn. Someone told somebody else, and that somebody told them.” Just then the hover bucked and the deputy almost toppled onto Memsen’s lap. “You gave us a bunch of contracts and maps and pix of dead trees,” continued the High Gregory. “I can’t make luck out of charts. But Spur was there, he can tell us. He was almost burned up.”
    “Not about Motu River,” said Spur quickly. “Nothing about that.” Suddenly everyone was staring at him.
    “Maybe,” began Ngonda but the hover shuddered again and he slapped a hand hard against the bulkhead to steady himself. “Maybe we should tell him what we’ve agreed on.”
    Spur sensed that Memsen was judging him, and that she was not impressed. “If you want to talk in general about fighting fires,” he said, “that’s different.”
    Ngonda looked miserable. “Can’t we spare this brave man…?”
    “Deputy Ngonda,” said Memsen.
    “What?” His voice was very small.
    The High Gregory lifted the tray from the table and offered it to him. “Have a cookie.”
    Ngonda shrank from the pastries as if they might bite him. “Go ahead then,” he said. “Scratch this foolish itch of yours. We can’t stop you. We’re just a bunch of throwbacks from a nothing world and you’re—”
    “Deputy Ngonda!” Memsen’s voice was sharp.
    He caught his breath. “You’re Memsen the Twenty-second and he’s the High Gregory of Kenning and I’m not feeling very well.” Ngonda turned to Spur, muttering, “Remember, they don’t really care what happens to you. Or any of us.”
    “That’s not true,” said the High Gregory. “Not true at all.”
    But Ngonda had already subsided onto his bench, queasy and unvoiced.
    “So.” Memsen clicked her rings together. “You fight fires.”
    “I’m just a smokechaser.” Ngonda’s outburst troubled Spur. He didn’t know anything about these upsiders, after all. Were they really any different than pukpuks? “I volunteered for the Corps about a year ago, finished training last winter, was assigned the Ninth Regiment, Gold Squad. We mostly build handlines along the edges of burns to contain them.” He leaned against the hull with his back to the view. “The idea is that we scrape off everything that can catch fire, dig to mineral soil. If we can fit a plow or tractor in, then we do, but in rough terrain we work by hand. That’s about it. Boring as those reports you read.”
    “I don’t understand.” The High Gregory sprawled on the deck,