What an excellent quality that is! They should preach this philosophy to males everywhere.
"It wasn’t wrong tickling the girl to send a Mayday," the cloud man muttered. "Uclod clearly wanted that, and he’s her owner. So I was just carrying out the owner’s wishes, right? But actually linking myself to her, and seeing through her scanners… well, I had to keep watch, didn’t I? Uclod would want that too, even if he didn’t say so explicitly. He’d want to know if the Shaddill were coming, or the human navy…"
"So who is it?" Aarhus interrupted. He had allowed Nimbus to ramble in guilt-laden fashion about linking with his daughter, but the sergeant was obviously impatient for a Situational Report. "You only started sending the signal an hour ago," Aarhus said. "Who was close enough to respond in so little time?"
"I couldn’t see exactly," Nimbus replied. "Starbiter doesn’t have enough control to focus her scanners on anything in particular. And she doesn’t have much attention span either; I tried to keep her looking in one direction, but her gaze kept wandering all over the place." He added defensively, "That’s perfectly normal for a child her age."
"Sure, sure," Aarhus said. "But what did you see?"
"Mostly a bunch of blurs. Nothing large enough to be the Shaddill or even a navy ship. I think it’s a swarm of smaller craft: single-person runabouts or family-sized yachts."
"Hmm," Lajoolie said. "That explains the jostling when they took Hemlock in tow. This ship is so big, we’d have to be grappled by a whole pack of smaller vessels. They must have had trouble coordinating who pulled which direction when." She looked to Aarhus, obviously wondering if he agreed. However, the sergeant had other things on his mind; he was staring upward with an unhappy expression on his face.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Trouble," he said. "Unless I miss my guess, we’ve just been rescued by an outreach crusade." He grimaced, then looked around at the rest of us. "Hope you haven’t got anything planned for the next ten years — we’ve just become Cashling slaves."
Devising A Suitable Ransom
Lajoolie’s face blanched to an unattractive shade of yellow. "Are you sure?" she whispered.
"It’s a good guess," Aarhus said. "Before Hemlock got zapped, we were headed for the planet Jalmut. That’s a Cashling world; most likely, the ships that answered our Mayday are Cashling too. But the Cashlings almost never travel in groups — they’re too egotistical. Get a bunch together in separate ships, and five minutes later, they fly off in different directions. The only time Cashling ships stay in a pack is when one of their prophets organizes a crusade."
"And what is a crusade?" I asked. "A religious pilgrimage?"
"They get mad if you use the word ‘religious’ — most Cashlings are devout atheists, and fly into tantrums at talk of deities or souls. But the truth is that Cashlings are religious as hell. Fanatic believers. They just switch beliefs every other day."
"How can that be?"
"Doesn’t make sense to me either," the sergeant replied. "But Cashlings believe in something called Pu Naram… usually translated into English as ‘Godly Greed.’ Don’t ask me to define it, because every time you blink, a new prophet shows up to put a different spin on what Godly Greed means. One week, it’s all about taking care of yourself and piss on anyone else; the next week, it’s switched to everybody working in harmony so you can all get rich together; then it’s about compassion and helping others, because tossing pennies to cripples really boosts your ego." He rolled his eyes. "Cashlings always brag how they have a single unified culture, unlike humans and other species at our level of evolution… but the only unity I see is them flitting from one prophet to another, like flies trying to find the smelliest heap of manure.
"As for their outreach crusades," he went on, gesturing vaguely at some point beyond the ship’s hull, "it’s traditional for a prophet to gather his or her followers and wander through space every few years. Mostly they visit other Cashling worlds, picking up new converts at every stop and losing just as many old ones. The turnover in people is substantiaclass="underline" after three stops, a crusade seldom has anyone it started with… not even the original prophet. Someone new decides he or she is a prophet and takes over the whole flotilla."
Lajoolie favored me with a weak smile. "My husband once told me crusades have nothing to do with belief. They come from a powerful instinct to homogenize the population: to break up communities that are getting too insular and to shuffle around the breeding pool. Uclod says the Cashlings have had mass migrations throughout their entire history; crusades are just the latest excuse."
Aarhus nodded. "I’ve heard that too. But never say that to a Cashling either, unless you want to drive the bastard into a rage. Let’s not do that — we’re in enough trouble as it is."
"Because they wish to take us as slaves?" I said. "We should inform them that nice religions do not do such things."
"I told you, Pu Naram isn’t a religion; the Cashlings call it a ‘proven economic doctrine.’ " Aarhus made a face. "And even though the working definition of Pu Naram changes ten times a year, it always retains one core principle: screwing aliens, especially ones who can’t fight back. Over the years, outreach crusades have come across a lot of aliens in distress — the Cashlings don’t have a navy like ours, so crusades are the primary source of search-and-rescue. By long-established tradition, a passing crusade won’t save your life until you swear ten years of indentured servitude."
"But they must save our lives," I said. "Are they not required to do so by the League of Peoples?"
Lajoolie shook her head. "Not unless they caused our predicament in the first place. They aren’t obliged to help us, and if they do, they can charge whatever price they want."
"Hmph!" I said. "I do not think much of that policy."
"But the Cashlings love it," Aarhus answered. "They consider it a wonderful omen when a crusade scoops up slaves — it boosts the prophet’s prestige. Of course, if we’re really lucky, this particular prophet might be liberal enough to take a ransom instead: letting us hand over a bucket of cash instead of ten years’ hard labor."
He did not sound cheered by that prospect, but I thought it allowed us an excellent means of emancipation. "Then we shall hand over Royal Hemlock." I said. "It is quite large and splendid, even if it is broken. Parts of it even have carpet. The ship must be worth enough to pay all our ransoms."
"Probably," Aarhus agreed, "but we can’t use it for that. By Cashling laws of salvage, Hemlock already belongs to the crusade — the ship became theirs as soon they took it in tow. They’ll claim everything on board: even the clothes on our backs. If they accept a ransom at all, it’ll have to come from somewhere else." He gave me a sympathetic look. "Somehow I don’t think you have family at home with cash in their pockets." Turning to Lajoolie, he asked, "How about you?"
She bit her lip. "No one on my homeworld would pay a cent. As for my husband’s family…"
"I know," Aarhus said. "They’ve gone missing."
"What about you?" Lajoolie asked.
The sergeant shook his head. "My only family is the Outward Fleet; and at the moment, I don’t feel like turning to the Admiralty for help. Ten years of slavery is nothing compared to what the High Council intends for us — what they still might do if they hear we’re being held by the Cashlings. The council will swoop in, pay our ransoms, and take possession of us from the crusade… whereupon we’ll all disappear down some deep dark well."