The Tar-aiym Krang

by Alan Dean Foster

  Bran’s body was steady, but he was trembling ever so slightly inside. He was older.

  “Tru, uh, did you spot any HIP drugs in that emergency locker?”

  “Heightened IP? Three point five . . . you know that stuff’s almost as carefully watched as the SCCAM circuitry. Oh, there’s some of the bastard stuff back there, the kind that’s available on any black market. All that will do, my friend, to borrow a saying, is ‘screw up your bod’ . . . three point four . . . not to mention your reflexes . . . screw it down, more likely. Relax.”

  “I know, I know!” His eyes never left the screen. “But, vertebrae, I wish I had some now!”

  “Obscenity is better . . . three point three . . . pretend you’re back at the University working over old man Novy’s thesis. That ought to generate enough anger for you to take those ships apart with your bare hands . . .”

  Bran smiled, and the tenseness left him. Back at the University old professor Novy had been one of their pet animosities.

  “. . . three point two. . . .”

  He could see the bastard’s ugly face now. He wondered what had finally happened to the old boy after. . . . His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “. . . three poi. . . .”

  Already the pressure-stud was being depressed.

  In the nothingness of nowhere a lancet of emerald green brighter than a sun leaped from the Gloryhole across a second of infinity. A milli-instant later it impinged on the drive fan of the nearest AAnn warship, which happened to be the Unn. There was a soundless flash of impossible scintillating gold flame, like the waves of tortured hydrogen that march across the skin of stars. It was followed by an explosion of vaporized solids and an expanding, rapidly diffusing cloud of ionized gas.

  The battlescreen showed one white dot and one tiny nebula.

  In the gun housing, Bran was frantically trying to reline the laser for a shot at the second ship, but he never got a real chance.

  At the instant of silent destruction, Malaika had permitted himself one violent cry of “Oseee-yeee!”

  Then, “Wolf; Atha, get us moving, watu!” Atha slammed over a connection and the Gloryhole leaped forward at her maximum acceleration.

  On the still existing AAnn ship, the Arr, panic reigned only in those areas of the vessel where Baron Riidi WW’s control was peripheral. Around him the crew only reflected fatal resignation. The one pleasant thought in all their minds was what they would do to the people on their quarry once the commander and the techs had extracted whatever it was they wanted from them. None glanced at the Baron’s face for fear of meeting his eyes.

  The Baron’s polished claws scraped idly at the scales on his left arm. There was a voipickup set by the right one.

  “Enginemaster,” he said calmly into the grid, “full power, please. Everything you can spare from the screens.” He did not bother to inquire if they were now up.

  He turned back to the huge battlescreen which dominated the bridge. On it a white dot had shrunk rapidly but had not succeeded in disappearing completely. Now, it could not. Without taking his eyes from the screen he addressed the crew over the comm-system.

  “No one is to blame for the loss of the Unn. Not expecting interspace weaponry on a private craft of that type, only debris screens were up. That error has since been rectified. The enemy is faster than originally estimated. It apparently hoped to pass out of detector range in the confusion engendered by the loss of our sister-ship. This has not occured. It will not occur. We are through playing polite. Bend your tails to it, gentlemen, we have a ship to catch! And when we have done I can promise you at least some interesting entertainment!”

  Inspired, the crew of the Arr dipped to their tasks with a will.

  Bran cursed once, briefly, as the surviving AAnn ship shrank out of range.

  Truzenzuzex was busily disengaging himself from his makeshift harness. “Relax, brother. You did as well as we’d hoped. Better. They had their screens down, all right, or they wouldn’t have gone up like that. We must have hit their generator dead on. Metamorphosis, what a show!”

  Tse-Mallory took the advice and relaxed as well as he could. “Yes. Yes, you’re perfectly correct, Tru. A second time we wouldn’t have been so lucky. If we’d had a second time.”

  “Quite so. I suggest now a return to our cabins. This toy will be of no further use. If we had a real gun, now . . . oh, well. After you, Bran.”

  Truzenzuzex had reopened the hatch and they dived down the pullway. Heading back through the murky green hollows they missed Malaika’s congratulations as they poured over the now untended mike in the gunshell.

  “Ships and novas, ships and novas! By the tail of the Black Horse nebula! They did it! Those effete, simple, peace-loving nduguzuri did it! Taking out a warship with one shot from that antique!” He shook his head. “We may not get out of this but, by mitume, the prophets, those lizards’ll know they’ve been in a fight!”

  Wolf brought the merchant back to reality. Not that his mind had ever really left it, but his spirit had—momentarily. It had been refreshing, anyway.

  “They’re beginning to pick up on us again, sir. Slower than before. Much slower. But we’re running on everything we have and they’re still making up distance on us.”

  Atha nodded concurrence. “The screen may not show it yet, but it’s here in the readouts. At this rate we’ve got maybe three—no, four hours before they’re within paralysisbeam range.”

  “Je! That’s it, then. Pepongapi? How many evil spirits?”

  He sat down in his seat. Once they got that close they’d make mummies out of everyone on board and then unwrap their minds at their leisure. The methods might vary, but they would undoubtedly be unique in their unpleasantness. That could not be permitted to happen. As soon as the AAnn got that close he’d see to it that everyone had a sufficiently lethal dose of something from med supply to insure that questioning would remain an impossibility. Or possibly a laser would be better. Burned down to ashes, the AAnn technicians, good as they might be, couldn’t reconstruct. Yes, that was a better choice. After he finished with everyone else he’d have to make certain not to miss the brain. He’d have only the one shot. Better start looking for a mirror, Maxim!

  If there were only some way they could pick up enough speed to swing out of detector range! Even if only for a few microseconds, it might be enough. Space was vast. Given that one precious interval the Gloryhole should easily shake her pursuers. Unconsciously, he put his hand over Atha’s.

  “There’s got to be a way to pick up another half multiple!”

  He didn’t notice the way her hand trembled when his covered it, nor the way she looked down at it. He removed it abruptly without being aware of the effect he’d had on his copilot. It joined the other in digging at their owner’s hair.

  Flinx was also considering the problem, in his own way. He knew little about stellar navigation, and less about doublekay units . . . but Malaika had forgotten more than he might ever know. He couldn’t match the merchant’s knowledge, but he could remember for him. The links in the trader’s mind branched a million ways. Patiently, he tracked down now this, now that one, bringing long-forgotten studies and applications to the surface where Malaika’s own system would pick them up, look them over, and discard them. In a way it was like using the retrieval system at the Royal Library. He kept at it with a steadiness he hadn’t known he possessed, until. . . .

  “But akili! Commonsense . . . !” He paused, and his eyes opened so wide that for a moment Atha was actually alarmed. “Atha!” She couldn’t prevent herself from jumping a little at the shout.

  He had it. Somehow the idea had risen from its hiding place deep in his mind, where it had lain untouched for years.

  “Look, when the Blight was first reached, survey ships went through it—some of it—with an eye toward mapping the place, right? The idea was eventually dropped as impractical—meaning expensive—but all the information that had originally been collected was retained. That’d
be only proper. Check with memory and find out if there are any neutron stars in our vicinity.”

  “What?”

  “An excellent idea, captain,” said Wolf. “I think . . . yes, there is a possibility—outside and difficult, mind—that we may be able to draw them in after us. Far more enjoyable than a simple suicide.”

  “It would be that, Wolf, except for one thing. I am not thinking of even a complicated suicide. Mwalizuri, talk to that machine of yours and find out what it says!”

  She punched the required information uncertainly but competently. It took the all-inclusive machine only a moment to image-out a long list of answers.

  “Why yes, there is one, Captain. At our present rate of travel, some seventy-two ship-minutes from our current attitude. Coordinates are listed, and in this case are recorded as accurate, nine point . . . nine point seven places.”

  “Start punching them in.” He swiveled and bent to the audio mike. “Attention, everybody. Now that you two minions of peace and tranquility have effectively pacified half our pursuit, I’ve been stimulated enough to come up with an equally insane idea. What I’m . . . what we’re going to try is theoretically possible. I don’t know if it’s been done before or not. There wouldn’t be any records of an unsuccessful attempt. I feel we must take the risk. Any alternative to certain death is a preferable one. Capture is otherwise a certainty.”

  Truzenzuzex leaned over in harness and spoke into his mike. “May I inquire into what you . . . we will attempt to do?”

  “Yes,” said Wolf. “I admit to curiosity myself, captain.”

  “Je! We are heading for a neutron star in this sector for which we have definite coordinates. At our present rate of speed we should be impinging on its gravity well at the necessary tangent some seventy . . . sixty-nine minutes from now. Atha, Wolf, the computer, and myself are going to work like hell the next few minutes to line up that course. If we can hit that field at a certain point at our speed . . . I am hoping the tremendous pull of the star will throw us out at a speed sufficient to escape the range of the AAnn detector fields. They can hardly be expecting it, and even if they do figure it out, I don’t think our friend the Baron would consider doing likewise a worthwhile effort. I almost hope he does. He’d have everything to lose. At the moment, we have very little. Only we humans are crazy enough to try such a stunt anyway, kweli?”

  “Yes. Second the motion. Agreed,” said Truzenzuzex. “If I were in a position to veto this idiotic—which I assure you I would do. However, as I am not . . . let’s get on with it, captain.”

  “Damned with faint praise, eh, philosoph? There are other possibilities, watu. Either we shall miss our impact point and go wide, in which case the entire attempt might as well not have been made and we will be captured and poked into, or we will dive too deeply and be trapped by the star’s well, pulled in, and broken up into very small pieces. As Captain I am empowered to make this decision by right . . . but this is not quite a normal cruise, so I put it to a vote. Objections?”

  The only thing that came over the comm was a slight sniffle, undoubtedly attributable to Sissiph (she had given in to curiosity and flipped on her unit). It could not be construed as an objection.

  “Je! We will try it, then. I suggest strongly you spend some time checking out your harnesses and spreading yourselves as comfortably as possible. Provided that we strike the star’s field at the precise tangent I am almost positive that the Gloryhole can stand the forces involved. If it cannot it will not matter, because our bodies will go long before the ship does. Haidhuru. It doesn’t matter. Physiologically I have no idea what to expect. So prepare your bodies and your spirits as well as possible, because in sixty . . .” he paused to glance at the chronometer, “six minutes, it will be all one way or all the other.”

  He cut the mike and began furiously feeding instructions and requests into a computer auxiliary.

  If they had one consolation, thought Flinx, it was that there would be no horrifyingly slow buildup of gravity within the ship. They would either fail or succeed at such a supremely high speed that it would be over in an instant . . . as Malaika had said, all one way or all the other. He did not care to imagine what would happen if they missed their contact point and dived too close to the star. Dwell in the well. Not funny. He saw himself and Pip mashed flat, like paper, and that proved unamusing also.

  The chronometer, oblivious of mere human concerns, continued to wind down. Sixty minutes left . . . forty . . . twenty to . . . ten tofivetothreetotwo. . . .

  And then, unbelievably, there were only sixty seconds left till judgment. Before he had time to muse on this amazing fact, there was a slight jar. A silent screaming from the farthest abyss of time flowed like jelly over the ship. He hung on the lip of a canyon of nothingness, while it tried desperately to ingest him. He refused to be ingested. REFUSED! A pin among other pins in a bowl of milk, while somewhere a million fingernails dug exquisitely scratching on a thousand hysterically howling blackboardssscRRRREEEEEEEE. . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  On board the destroyer Arr the chief navigational officer blinked at his detector screen, then turned to stare up at where the Baron sat in his command chair.

  “Sir, the humanx vessel has disappeared from my screens. Also, we are rapidly approaching a neutron star of considerable gravitonic potential. Orders?”

  Baron Riidi WW was noted for his persistence. The idea of a trapped quarry escaping him was most unappealing. Neither, however, was he a fool. His eyes closed tiredly.

  “Change course thirty degrees, right to our present plane. Cut to cruising speed, normal.” He looked up then, eyes open, at the battlescreen. Somewhere out there was a white dot. Out there also, an invisible bottomless pit of unimaginable energy masked an impossible retreat. Or a quick suicide. An inkling of the human’s intentions percolated through his cells. He did not feel the least inclined to try to duplicate the event. Whether the idiot was alive or dead, he would not know for many months . . . and that was the most infuriating thing of all.

  He flexed his long fingers, staring at the brightly polished claws whose length was suitably trimmed to that for a high member of the aristocracy. Colloid-gems shone lavalike on two of them. He locked them over his chest and pushed outward. Those among the crew who were more familiar with the actions of the nobility recognized the gesture. It indicated Conception of Impractical Power. Under the circumstances it constituted a salute to their departed foe.

  “Set a return course for Pregglin Base and signal our industrialist friend the following missive. No, I don’t wish an interstar hookup. Just send it. ‘Intercepted anticipated vessel and made positive audiovisual identification. Repeat, positive. Chased to points . . . give our current coordinates, shipmaster . . . ‘where contact with same was irretrievably lost due to,’ ” he smiled slightly, “ ‘an unexpected turn of speed on the part of the pursued vessel. In hostile action with same, the destroyer Unn was lost with all hands.’ Add this note, communicator, and scramble it to my personal code. ‘Sir. Your request has proven expensive in the extreme. Contrary to your indications we did not encounter, as you led me to believe, a terrified shipload of frightened moneylenders. As a result of your bungling, I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to account for my off-base time to my good friend Lord Kaath, C. How good a friend he is will now be put to a considerable test. As will your ability to place judicious bribes. I hope, for both our sakes, that the latter will be sufficient. Explaining the loss of the Unn will be rather more difficult. Should the true circumstances surrounding this idiocy leak out it would be more than enough to condemn us both to death by nth degree torture at the hands of the Masters. Kindly do keep this in mind.’

  “Sign it, ‘yours affectionately, Riidi WW, Baron, etc., etc.’ And get me a drink.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was autumn. Mother Mastiff had closed up the shop, packed a lunch, and taken them both off to the Royal Parks. It was a cloudless day, which was why.
Literally cloudless. On Moth this wasn’t merely a pleasant exception, it was an event. He could remember staring endlessly at the funny-colored sky. It was blue, so different from the normal light gray. It hurt his eyes. The thoughts of the animals, the birds, were odd and confused. And the hawkers sat listlessly in their respective booths, cursing softly at the sun. It had stolen all their customers. It was a softer sky, and softness of any kind was rare in Drallar. So everyone had taken the day off, including the king.

  The Royal Parks were a great, sprawling place. They had originally been created by the builders of the first botanical gardens to use up the space left over from those great constructs. By some monstrous bureaucratic error it had been opened to the general public and had remained so ever since. The great flashing boles of the famous ironwood trees shot straight and proud to impossible heights over his boyish head. They seemed much more permanent than the city itself.

  The ironwoods were molting. Every other week the royal gardeners would come and gather up all the fallen leaves and branches. Ironwood was rare, even on Moth, and the scraps where far too valuable to be swept away. The guards in their lemon-green uniforms sauntered easily about the park grounds, there more to protect the trees than the people.

  Children were playing on the marvelous gyms and tangles that an earlier king had set up. As long as the people had abrogated the park, he felt that they might as well enjoy it to the fullest. The kings of Drallar had been greedy, yes, but not exceptionally so.

  He had been too shy to join the giggling, darting shapes on the funchines. And they had all been frightened of Pip, silly things! There had been one little girl though . . . all curls and blue eyes and flushes. She had shuffled over hesitantly, trying hard to appear disinterested but not succeeding. Her thoughts were nice. For a change, she was fascinated by the minidrag rather than repelled by it.

  They had been on the verge of making introductions in the simple but very correct manner that adults lose so quickly, when a great leaf had drifted down unseen and struck him fair between the eyes. Ironwood leaves are heavy, but not enough to produce injury, even to a small boy. Only embarrassment. She had started giggling uncontrolably. Furious, he had stalked off, ears burning with the heat of her laughter, his mind frozen with her picture of him. He had thought momentarily of siccing Pip on her. That was one of the impulses he had learned to control very early, when the snake’s abilities had been glass-gruesomely demonstrated on a persistent tormentor, a stray mongrel dog.