For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  Each evergreen-like tree featured a central trunk, many of which appeared to be twenty or thirty feet tall, surrounded by a circle of thick vegetation. Some of the circular structures were intact, but many appeared to have been damaged, as if something heavy had ripped them open. Light green foliage had started to fill many of the gaps, as if the trees sought to reinforce their defensive screens.

  Maylo put the shuttle into a wide left-hand turn. There, on the opposite side of the river from Four Points, what passed for a spaceport could be seen. A defensive wall had been built around that as well. All manner of shuttles, lighters, and small freighters sat, crouched, and in one case lay within. Scorched metal showed where fire had consumed most of its port wing, causing the ship to slump onto its side. There was no sign of a control tower—and none of the messages one would expect from an automated landing system. “Shall I put her down? Or go around again?”

  “Go around again,” Booly instructed, “as slowly as you can. Let’s take another look.”

  The second circuit enabled the officer to get another look at the settlement’s layout. The first thing he noticed was that the defensive walls were made of what appeared to be steel-reinforced duracrete, and judging from their thickness, were extremely strong. A walkway circled the top of the wall and was accessed by both ladders and stairs.

  The second feature that Booly noted was that the walls formed a diamond, with one point directed to the east and the other pointed toward the west. Not an impossible shape for a fort, but minus some of the advantages that a six-pointed star, or a well-laid-out rectangle could offer. A fact which could be attributed to poor planning—or might say something about whatever the locals wanted to keep out.

  The third item of interest was that with the exception of the shantytown, and what looked like an extensive junkyard, both of which were located at the western end of the town—everything else lay within the protective walls.

  Interestingly enough, there were no antiaircraft emplacements or missile launchers aimed at the sky. That suggested that whatever it was the townspeople feared couldn’t fly.

  The river glittered as it pushed its way west toward one of the enormous lakes that dotted the planet’s surface. The shuttle passed over the tributary for the second time, lost altitude, and came in for a landing.

  Maylo took advantage of the runwaylike strip that bisected the spaceport, dropped the shuttle’s flaps, fired the repellors, and killed the main drive. Then, with her hands dancing across the controls, the executive turned the spacecraft on its axis, brought the bow up, and backed into a vacant slot.

  It was virtuoso performance, and Booly, who had never learned to pilot anything more complicated than an air car, clapped his hands in appreciation. “Nicely done! If the CEO thing starts to fade—we can put you to work as a shuttle pilot.”

  Maylo made a face. “I already have a backup job, remember Lonny dear?”

  Booly eyed his wife’s scanty two-piece outfit and raised an eyebrow. “It’s hard to forget. Are you sure you need to dress like that?”

  “Like what?” Maylo inquired innocently. “The metropolis of Four Points awaits . . . Let’s go.”

  Booly strapped a sidearm to his right thigh, stuck a second weapon down the back of his pants, and donned a short leather jacket. The black duffel bag contained their toiletries, two changes of clothes, and some extra ammo. More than enough to see them through a short stay. The officer carried the duffel in his left hand, which left the right one free. An old habit that had served him well over the years.

  Maylo used a remote to activate all of the shuttle’s defensive systems, clipped the device to her belt, and threw a cape over her shoulders. It hung almost to the ground and served both to conceal and reveal her long slim legs.

  They left through the lock, used the self-extruding ramp to reach the ground, and took deep lungfuls of unrecycled air. It tasted fresh and clean.

  Metal pinged as it cooled, a power tool rattled nearby, and a slightly out-of-tune engine roared as a disreputable-looking ground effect vehicle rounded a squat-looking freighter, threw a curtain of dust out to the starboard side, and accelerated up the runway. It had been red once, but that was a long time ago, and the paint had faded to a rosy pink.

  As the floater came closer Booly was able to make out the word TAXI stenciled across the vehicle’s rounded bow and removed his hand from the low-slung sidearm as the volume of noise dropped and the car coasted to a stop.

  The man who jumped out appeared to be middle-aged. He had short white hair, goggles that had been pushed up onto his head, and a two-day growth of beard. His clothing consisted of a much-washed orange ship suit with the name “Denny” embroidered over the left breast pocket, a worn leather belt, and a pair of military-style combat boots that hadn’t been shined in a long time. When he smiled two rows of yellow teeth appeared. “Hi! My name’s Jack, except most of my customers call me Jacko, which is fine so long as they pay what they owe! I saw you circle the town and thought you might need a lift.”

  Booly raised an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you Jacko, my name is Fargo, Lonny Fargo, and this is Star . . . What happened to Denny?”

  “Who the hell knows?” the taxi driver replied, his eyes roaming Maylo’s body. “I bought this ship suit in Shantytown. It was reasonably new then—but that was a couple of years ago. So, how ’bout it? You plan to ride or walk?”

  “That depends,” Booly replied cautiously. “How much is the fare?”

  “One hundred credits,” Jacko responded, “and a bargain at that.”

  “A bargain? I doubt that.”

  “Never been here before, have you?” the taxi driver asked knowingly. “You ain’t seen noth n’ yet! Most everything we have got here the hard way. Wait till you pay ten Cs for a cup of coffee! Makes a ride look cheap by comparison.”

  Fargo was supposed to be a high roller, the kind of person who would never walk if he could ride, so Booly nodded. “One hundred Cs it is.”

  Jacko ushered Maylo into the backseat, left Booly to fend for himself, and circled the floater to take his position behind the controls. The engine coughed, produced a puff of dark gray smoke, and caught. Lift fans sucked air in under the hovercraft’s skirt, the body of the vehicle rose off the ground, and the rear-facing propeller started to spin.

  Booly held on as the taxi turned and felt the air press against his face as Jacko guided the floater down the strip, waved to some colorfully plumed Prithians, and turned onto a well-graveled road. It led to a rusty steel bridge and the settlement beyond. There was traffic, quite a bit of it, most of which seemed to be headed into town. It was necessary for Booly to lean forward in order to be heard over the roar of the taxi’s engine. “What are the walls for?”

  “They’re to keep the humps out,” Jacko replied, half-turning to let the words float back over his shoulder. “Hold on . . . I’ll show you what I mean.”

  The floater slowed and came to a stop in the middle of the much-abused bridge. The decking was made of wood and in need of maintenance. A woman on a homemade four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle rattled past. She wore a helmet, a jumpsuit, and had a baby strapped to her back. There were other residents as well, including a man on an old-fashioned bicycle, a work-worn robot hitched to a heavily laden cart, and two men dressed in robes. They walked with heads down as if preoccupied by prayer.

  Jacko parked the hovercraft in such a way that it blocked the right lane, took no notice of the difficulties that caused, and gestured for his passengers to disembark. “Take a look at that!”

  Booly stepped up to the rail and followed the man’s index finger out toward a jumble of rocks, and the wild tangle of sun-bleached bones beyond. Many were huge, and there must have been tons of them, judging from the size of the pile.

  “They’re what we call humps,” Jacko said, “ ’cause of the big humps on their shoulders. They live in huge herds out east of here. Once a year, on what we call Hump Day, the bastards stampede toward the west and the winter gra
ss that grows there. You can see where they ran into the boulders, piled up, and died. “The first folks to land here didn’t know about the humps—and paid the price. Those fortunate enough to survive built the walls.”

  “Why not just move the town?” Maylo asked pragmatically. “Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jacko replied, “except for one thing. . . Right after the firsties landed they pushed a thermal tap down through the center of town. That’s where our power comes from . . . and they didn’t have the wherewithal to sink another. The walls were built, the humps were forced to go around them, and here we are. Gotta build some new ones, though ’cause it’s gettin’ kinda crowded. That’s why you’re gonna have to pay a five-hundred-credit wall tax as we pass through the south gate.

  “That’s the bad news . . . The good news is that the humps are on the way! They started running about three days ago and should pass through here sometime tomorrow. You’re in for a treat you are . . .’cause the whole town is gonna celebrate.”

  Booly looked at Maylo. She made a face. It was difficult to imagine how the celebration would help them find the people they were looking for. Still, there wasn’t much the couple could do about it, so they returned to the taxi. It started with a roar, another puff of smoke, and completed the journey over the bridge.

  Someone had mounted a huge hump skull over the gate and the creature’s empty eye sockets stared down at the newcomers while a bored-looking woman accepted the city’s wall tax. Judging from the bar code on her forehead the tax collector was a Clone. Maylo wondered what quirk of fate or free will had brought the woman to Nexus. There was no way to know.

  Jacko deposited his passengers in front of the town’s only hotel. It appeared to be fairly large, but was packed with Hump Day revelers most of whom were drunk. The desk clerk knew of a resident however, an ex-spacer, who occasionally let out his guest room, and wrote the address on a scrap of paper.

  The firsties had laid the settlement out on a simple grid pattern. That made it relatively easy to find the intersection of Ninth and Carson and identify the silolike structure that stood between a duracrete box and a fanciful-looking house constructed from native wood.

  The tower appeared to be about sixty feet tall, and if Booly was correct, had once served as a spacegoing tank. Now, with various fins and other items welded to its sides, the dwelling looked like an early rocket ship poised for takeoff. The words MAIN LOCK had been stenciled onto the slightly curved door. Maylo rang the bell.

  An old-fashioned droid answered. Its smooth humanoid face was devoid of all expression. “Yes? How can I be of assistance?”

  “We were told that the owner might be willing to rent us a room,” Booly replied. “Is that true?”

  The robot looked from one human to the other as if sizing them up. “Yes, we have a cabin for rent. The cost is one thousand credits per night. The first night is payable in advance.”

  Booly was still in the process of running a mental inventory of the cash on hand when his wife presented the android with two crisp five-hundred-credit notes. “We’ll take it.”

  The robot accepted the payment, stepped back out of the way, and allowed the humans to enter. There was no sign of the home’s owner, not directly anyway, although the bulkheads were covered with stats that showed a handsome man with dark wavy hair standing in front of various ships, watching cargo being loaded into holds and shaking hands with nameless dignitaries.

  A small lift tube had been installed to serve the dwelling’s upper reaches, and there was plenty of time to pursue Walker’s press clippings, commendations, and diplomas as the platform jerked its way upward.

  Then, once the elevator came to a halt, the couple were shown into what amounted to a nicely maintained guest room. The suite had a spacegoing feel, as if it had been lifted out of a small liner, and occupied all of one floor. It had its own bathroom, a couple of chairs, and what looked like a comfortable bed. The robot provided the guests with the front door code, showed them where the towels were stored, and left them alone.

  “So,” Maylo said, dropping onto the bed. “How ’bout some sight-seeing?”

  The room could be bugged, both of them knew that, which meant they would have to maintain their roles even while in the room alone. Besides, if the place was bugged, that could work to their advantage. The whole idea was to get the word out and it didn’t matter how. Booly shook his head. “What’s to see? Besides, we’ve got work to do . . . We need to find some customers. Those spares aren’t making any money sitting in the hold.”

  “Spares, smares,” Maylo said petulantly, “you work all the time.”

  “And you enjoy the money,” Booly replied. “So, let’s freshen up and make the rounds. There’s a whole lot of people in town, and that could work to our advantage.”

  It was early evening by the time the twosome hit the streets. The settlement was even more crowded by then, as people from miles around continued to flow in through the gates.

  Four Point’s bars seemed like a logical place to begin so they went from establishment to establishment, striking up conversations, talking up the spares they had for sale, and suffering the backslapping, loud laughter, and public drunkenness that was an integral part of the Hump Day celebration.

  Most of the revelers were too inebriated to talk business, but a few expressed interest until they learned that the spares were for huge cruiser-class vessels, and waved the couple off. It seemed that the market, such as it was, centered around smaller intersystem freighters, shuttles, and lighters.

  Finally, having already visited six of Four Point’s seven bars, the couple forced themselves to enter the last establishment on the list. It was called the Black Hole, and in keeping with the name, the interior was extremely dark. Both the ceiling and the walls had been painted flat black, the lighting was intentionally dim, and the air was thick with smoke.

  Booly noticed that the Hole was a whole lot less crowded than the other establishments they’d been in. Because of the depressing decor? A reputation for poor service? Or, because the place was downright dangerous? Yes, the officer concluded as he scanned the rough-looking clientele, the last answer seemed the most likely.

  Maylo had attracted a certain amount of attention in the saloons they had already visited, but it had been limited to some good-natured whistles, catcalls, and horny stares. But now, as the couple crossed the filthy floor and took seats at an empty table, there was almost complete silence as dozens of eyeballs stripped her clothes off. For the first time that evening Maylo felt frightened.

  Booly felt the difference as well, wished they hadn’t entered, but knew a sudden retreat could trigger the very kind of incident he hoped to avoid. Slowly, using the darkness for cover, the officer eased the backup gun out of his waistband and tucked the weapon under his left thigh. The same side his wife was seated on.

  Then, once they were settled, most of the eyes left them to caress the frail-looking stripper who had climbed up onto a disk-shaped platform, where she proceeded to remove what few clothes she had on. Almost everyone present had seen her charms on previous occasions, but they clapped anyway. “Take it off, baby! Shake that thing! Show me what you got!”

  But one pair of smoldering eyes remained where they were, glued to Maylo and the man she was with. They belonged to a man named Jurvis, Coster Jurvis, and he had two things on his mind: humiliate the man and thereby enhance his already substantial reputation—and take possession of the woman. Jurvis came to his feet and started across the room. Music pounded, the stripper removed her top, and audience shouted their approval.

  Booly watched the man approach. He stood well over six feet tall, was broad through the shoulders and narrow at the waist. The local wore what looked like a blaster in a cross-draw holster—and a knife on his right hip. He had a single eyebrow, perpetually hooded eyes, and hair that crawled down off his cheeks and onto his neck.

  The man grabbed a chair, turned it around so the back was forwa
rd, and took a seat. That meant that the back of the chair not only blocked Booly’s view of the blaster but would allow the local to move up and back without anything getting in the way. “Hi, my name is Jurvis—and who are you?”

  Booly removed the hideout gun from beneath his thigh. “My name is Fargo . . . This is Star.”

  Jurvis nodded agreeably. “Glad to make your acquaintance . . . especially yours, Ms. Star. It’s hard to tell, what with that cape and all, but I’m guessing that you have a very nice body. Why don’t you get up on the platform and show the boys what you got? We could pass the hat and split the money. Your boyfriend won’t mind . . . will you, Mr. Fargo? You’ve seen the goods—why not let someone else enjoy them for once?”

  Booly dropped his right hand down along his side. Not on his weapon but close. Jurvis had anticipated such a move, and with the chair to provide cover, pulled the blaster from its holster.

  “I suggest that you stand up and walk away,” Booly responded softly. “There are nicer places to die.”

  Jurvis laughed. It sounded unnaturally loud. That’s when Maylo realized that the music had disappeared and that all conversation had stopped. The confrontation was the entertainment—and nobody wanted to miss it. “Me?” the local said, his voice pitched so everyone could hear. “Walk away? I don’t think so . . . The woman belongs to me now. You’re the one who needs to leave. Unless you’d like to see her strip . . . in which case feel free to stay.”

  Two men had left the bar to take up positions next to Jurvis. They wore weapons and looked like they knew how to use them.

  “Okay,” Booly said calmly, “have it your way. Make your move.”

  Jurvis was surprised. He had used the ploy before and most men left. This one was either stupid, or extremely confident, and the question was which? Not that he had much choice since the whole bar was watching there was only one thing he could do.

  The problem was the solid seat back. He could blast a hole in it, but a second bolt would be required to take Fargo down, and the fraction of a second required to accomplish that might be critical. That meant the odds would be better if Jurvis came up off the chair, fired the blaster as cleared the top, and fired again. He sent the necessary message to his leg muscles and started to rise.