by Brian Daley
With differing attitudes, the three men watched Luna's crescent shrink behind them. The forward screen registered little change. Then there was a distinct rise in the sensation of activity within the compartment, something impossible to define but vividly felt.
"Breakers," Alacrity toasted solemnly, raising his goblet. Floyt held up his as well, and they clinked with the purser. An unprecedented feeling coursed through Floyt, like enormous velocity without movement, as the Bruja's captain cut in the Breakers and the Hawking Effect generator set the craft thrumming. Then there was an over-the-top sensation, and the outboard screens went blank.
The purser left to attend to his duties. Floyt looked around the cramped compartment for a reader, drawing from his pocket one of the info chips given him by Supervisor Bear. It was labeled:
PROJECT SHEPHERD
MISSION BRIEFING FILE
EYES ONLY: HOBART FLOYT
"Are they serious?" Alacrity sniggered as he reached for it. "I have to see this."
Floyt held it away from him. "I'm sorry, Alacrity. This is classified Earthservice material."
"Ho, from here on in, you are the Earthservice. Or at least, that's the attitude a lot of people'll take. Aren't you going to feel a bit stupid arresting yourself for a security breach?" To his surprise, the breakabout felt an odd twinge even joking about that, perturbations from his conditioning.
"It's still a sensitive document, Alacrity."
"It's a coprolite, is what it is. You never handled a sensitive document in your life, Ho, because Earthservice'd never let you." He was leaning over the bar, ransacking.
He came up with a reader. Floyt decided that he had little to gain by losing his temper with the breakabout, who did seem to be doing his job. The Terran hesitantly handed over the chip; Alacrity popped it into the machine.
He skimmed the projected data, chuckling, then began reading. ' "Citizen Floyt is enjoined and warned against unnecessary exposure to or indulgence in off world habits, attitudes, customs, practices, turns of phrase, and/or other aberrations. Individual is warned that failure to comply may require postmission measures including, but not limited to, conditioning, deconditioning, behavioral engineering, attitude modification, memory adjustment, sequestration, radical reorientation, and partial or total loss of Earthservice privileges, rights, and prerogatives.' "
He looked around at Floyt. "You traded grips with that kid Angle, back at the lashup. Think you ought to stick your arm in a sterilizer?"
"That's not fair! You know, like it or not, they're going to debrief me when I get home. It's nothing to joke about."
"I agree, but it's that or puke."
Floyt tried to grab the reader, but Alacrity pulled it out of his reach and scanned on.
"Blah, blah, jibber-jabber-oho! 'Undue fraternization with escort or other offworlders could prove prejudicial to postmission disposition of this case.' "
"Alacrity, that's enough!"
The breakabout wasn't listening. The radiant yellow eyes were slitted now. "They even talk about contemplated misconduct." Floyt reached for the reader again, but the other was much taller and longer of arm.
"Maybe you'd better start sedating yourself; wouldn't want any impure thoughts."
Floyt lost patience. "I just want to complete this mission with a minimum of trouble, Fitzhugh. Now, give that back!"
Though there'd been the reference to their common dilemma, it was more the tone of Floyt's voice that inadvertently triggered Alacrity's conditioning. The derisive smile vanished; Alacrity seemed paralyzed for a moment.
He suddenly felt contrite. Here was likable Hobart Floyt, coping as best he could with a predicament that was none of his fault, and he, Alacrity, was adding to the man's problems needlessly, acting like a delinquent.
"I—I'm sorry, Ho." A little benumbed, he slid the reader along the bar, back to Floyt. "That was out of line, I know."
But deep inside, something was shrilling, How much of me did they get? and was terrified.
It dawned on Floyt what had happened. "No, no harm done. Forget it, Alacrity."
The breakabout nodded absently, distracted and confused. Floyt tried to see the matter as an unfortunate but minor incident. At least things will proceed more smoothly, the Terran thought. Or is that my own conditioning talking?
Capitan Valdemar saw no reason to assign the deadheading Alacrity quarters alotted for paying passengers, even if there weren't any others. Since there was room in Floyt's cabin, they'd been billeted together.
As Floyt studied the glowing instructions etched by the entrance to the head, Alacrity dug into his warbag, tossing things onto the fold-down conform-bunk he'd chosen. There were long, heavy gauntlets, a few wads of clothing—mostly standard spacer's attire—and a personal kit. Strapped to the bag was a sheath, from which he drew a metallic-looking umbrella.
Alacrity sat and changed from the pathfinder boots into soft tabi with separate toes. Then he opened the front of his shipsuit so that the chain carrying his wonderment could be seen.
He rose and took up the umbrella. "I'm going to look around a bit. If you need me, use the intercom." He didn't have to add that it would be a better idea all around for them not to be pent up together just then.
The Bruja had been scheduled for a lunar call before Weir's death, and made no changes in crew. It was pro forma that all inloaded cargo had been carefully inspected. Too, passage for Floyt and Alacrity had been negotiated in strictest secrecy; Alacrity was therefore fairly sure that Floyt would be safe in transit.
Such basics of shipboard life as hadn't been explained by the purser were easy enough to find out about. Spanglaterra was the Bruja's official tongue, but there were few breakabouts who didn't speak at least passable Terranglish.
"They won't mind you touring the ship if you feel like it," Alacrity said. "The off-limits areas are all secured and marked, like the power section and the Fuckup Factory."
"The what?"
"The bridge, the control room." Floyt nodded, still perusing the instructions. Alacrity left.
* * * *
It wasn't hard to find the ship's broker; most human or mixed vessels had one, whether they were called that or fixer, or fo'c'sle chaplin.
Gabriel was a well-fed little hornet of a man with reddish hair and mustachios and quick gray eyes. He was obviously doing well, having a tiny cabin to himself though he was only a common crewman. He invited Alacrity in and asked what he could do for him.
"Well, you can tell me what the ship's game is, just as a point of origin. Poker? Wari?" Then Alacrity remembered that the ship's homeport was Bolivar. "No, wait; dominoes, right?"
"Monopoly. Do you play?"
Alacrity came up with his lucky playing token, a racy little one-seater sky coupe. It was a real spacer's piece, with freefall stickum on the bottom. "But I haven't got much cash. What're the stakes?"
"Fifty ovals to get in, I'm afraid."
In due course Gabriel was looking the umbrella over with an experienced eye. "It's a Viceroy Imperial, from Outback," Alacrity told him. "Practically new."
Aside from footgear, an umbrella—or "gamp" or "brolly"—was often more useful than anything a breakabout took groundside, including guns and commo equipment. The Imperial was top of the line, rugged and extremely versatile.
Gabriel opened it, examining the ribs and gores, working the runner, checking tacks and joints. A brolly was also a parasol, walking stick, seat rest, and weapon. The Imperial was big enough to serve as an emergency shelter of sorts and had drop-down protective netting.
"Twenty's the best I can do," Gabriel pronounced mournfully. Alacrity played out the scene, hunching his shoulders at the proper moment so that Gabriel caught sight of the chain. Gabriel whistled when he opened the cross and saw the sliver of decayed wood. He wasn't fooled, but he knew there were always those who could be.
They finally agreed that it would be collateral—unless Alacrity lost—and the fifty changed hands. As Gabriel saw his customer to
the door, an odd-looking little being bustled toward them along the passageway.
Evolution had given it shape, coloring, and texture that suggested to Alacrity a potato augmented by eyestalks, tentacles, and stubby podia.
The being was preceded by an incongruous aroma of powerful cologne.
The thing waved a bouquet of tentacles at Gabriel. "Ah, there you are, charmer of engines! Well met!"
"Hello there, Squeeb. Alacrity, meet technician-in-training Squeeb, from—" The name of the planet sounded as if Gabriel were clearing his throat.
"Or as you humans call it, Hyperbole," Squeeb put in brightly, speaking in a birdlike voice from an organ located at his top, in the center of all those eyes and tentacles. "Nice to meet you."
"Squeeb's the first of his people ever to go space traveling," Gabriel said.
"Hi-ho, for the life of a breakabout," Squeeb joked nervously. "Gabriel, the others invited me to join the game, but they forgot to tell me where it would be." Squeeb held up a membranous purse that clinked.
"Number four cargo lock," Gabriel told him. "Do you have a playing token?"
"Oh, the good-luck fetish; no. I was going to beg your council."
Gabriel held out a miniature wheelbarrow of some blue substance that looked like ivory. Squeeb's eyestalks gathered around it curiously.
"I can let you have this one for a very reasonable … " Gabriel began, then stopped. "Oh, here you go. Just make sure you bring it back." He dropped it into a curl of tentacle.
"I'm forever in the vastness of your largesse," Squeeb assured him, then scooted off.
Alacrity blew his breath out, shaking his head with pity. "Supper's on, hm?"
"Oof," Gabriel agreed. "They're going to skin him for sure. Too bad; he's a decent little troll."
"Except for his taste in after-shave."
Gabriel sniggered. "When he was assigned to a berth, he naturally thought to scent-mark his personal area. They almost cycled him out an airlock. So he started wearing Shore Leave to avoid offending anybody."
"I never saw a—Hyperbolarian?—before."
"I think Squeeb got stuck with the job of evaluating space travel for his people. All Hyperbolarians really care about is getting themselves an allocation of ground and having offspring."
"Limited living space?"
"Absolutely. The elders dole it out; when you've got your personal domain, your 'ramazz,' you can start a family, but you can only have as many children as the ramazz can support. The more important you are, the more ramazz you get."
"And Squeeb?"
"Nada, zero. He's trying to resign himself to being a bachelor all his life."
"But how is he as an apprentice?" Alacrity wasn't at all sure he liked the idea of Squeeb fooling around in the chandelier guts of a Hawking Effect generator.
"Not bad at all. But he's worried about fitting in with the crew. He tries too hard."
"Do they ride him?"
"The usual. You know: sending him out after left-handed emery paper or a bag of dried squelch. That's why he's so happy they asked him to join the game. I don't think it'd bother him to lose all his money. He draws his pay through some kind of trade assistance program; I'm not sure he even understands money."
"He'll understand it if he loses it all."
* * * *
"Six!" hissed Juan-Feng. "Chance! The Question Mark!"
Alacrity stoically hopped his sky coupe the six spaces and reached for a Chance card.
"The Capricious Curlicue of Cash," Juan-Feng barkered. "The Loony Loop of Luck. C'mon, show us the card, Fitzhugh! What's it say?"
"Sez, 'All Sino-Hispanic Players Kiss Your Ass.' " Alacrity glared.
Number four cargo airlock was a loud, humid den of banter, laughter, recreational substance abuse, and horseplay, but that drew some catcalls anyhow. Juan-Feng took it gracefully.
He toyed with the chain that held his union book around his neck, wrapping it around his finger. The tiny info wafer held his history as a spacer: disciplinary, medical, and technical details were all there. "Now I know you picked yourself a good card." He leered.
For answer, Alacrity buried the Chance card and, opening his playing till, began disbursing money around the circle. Even though it was early in the game, he was careful to let none of the others get a look at how much game currency he had or remind themselves what properties he'd bought.
Ortega, the dignified senior crewman who was acting as banker, silently registered the transaction on his master till. Everyone trusted him; he was also keeper for several of the ship's hand-throws, wherein crewmen pooled their money and took turns spending the jackpot groundside.
Ortega officiated without payment, for the prestige and respect involved. In the case of the game, someone had to make sure nobody smuggled in extra money.
"I always preferred dominoes anyhow," groused Alacrity, who'd lost quite a few gamebucks when the Chance card designated him Chairman of the Board. He'd been in Monopoly games where bluffing and side bets raised the ante, but this one was straight entry stakes, winner take all. It promised to be a long game.
A dozen men and Squeeb were present. The Hyperbolarian wasn't devoting much concentration to the game; he hunkered in his place, bouncing happily every now and then, the powerful aroma of his Shore Leave dissipated. His comprehension of the rules was vague, but he wasn't particularly worried about losing. He was doing his best to take part in the wisecracking and camaraderie.
"You sure the captain won't figure out something's going on?" Alacrity asked Juan-Feng. Only paying passengers were supposed to be able to carry on in Bruja, but covert rips were common on most ships where they were prohibited.
"Valdemar's too busy cooking the books, covering what he skims," was the answer.
Juan-Feng gloated over the money Alacrity had paid him, passing his benefactor a hip flask of knurled silver. Alacrity took a swig; his eyes popped and he fought for breath.
"Zhopa s ruchkoi, you scum! You got a prescription for this stuff?"
"Piquant, isn't it?" Juan-Feng took a long pull at the flask.
The board had been set up in one corner of the lock, the six players and the banker crowded around it. The set was a breakabout's model, and could have been used in freefall or on the bulkhead or ceiling.
Onlookers circulated between the game and the general mingling. Someone was playing torrid love songs sung in Spanglaterran by a woman with a pure and sultry voice. Drinking vessels clinked and sloshed. A fragment of conversation drifted to Alacrity, " … so we houdini'd out of there before you could say, 'Breakers, please!' "
"Who were you running from?" someone asked.
"Langstretch."
There were growls and guffaws. The Langstretch Detective Agency's network of operatives was more widespread than any government, and for the right money, Langstretch was relentless.
"Can I have your locker when they come and get you?" Juan-Feng called playfully.
"I heard the Spicans are thinking about sending another expedition to the Core," Abascal, who'd just come in, was saying. "It'll take years and years."
"It won't come back, anymore than the others," said Duarte, a lean, handsome youngster who held a beaker of effervescent red stuff. He sipped it, staring at the bulkhead. Listening with one ear, Alacrity was contemplating building a habitat dome on Ventnor.
"Why not?" someone objected. "The Heavysets do it all the time, and they do it a helluva lot faster."
"Heavysets also think going through the middle of a blackhole's a religious experience," Duarte shot back. "And they ain't about to teach us how they do it."
I've heard this conversation a thousand times, Alacrity thought. Any second now, somebody's gonna bring up the Precursors.
"The Precursors traveled faster than the Heavysets can," challenged the other crewman.
Duarte sneered, "The Precursors are long gone, brother, and nobody's ever gonna figure them out."
Juan-Feng landed on the Energy Syndicate and Alacrity collec
ted his rent. Squeeb, swaying with the music, hadn't noticed Conklin's landing on one of his properties. Now Conklin rolled and moved, raising a middle finger to the Hyperbolarian. Squeeb wasn't in the least upset. Twittering, "Salud!" he merrily tried to return the gesture. It translated poorly in terms of tentacles.
Unexpectedly, Ortega commented, "1 don't know that that's true—about the Precursors. I once saw the White Ship, saw them working on her. There's never been anything like her."
Alacrity gauged the responses around him. The White Ship had been conceived to solve the mysteries of the vanished Precursors. Thirty years abuilding, she was more legend than starship. She'd been designed, begun, halted, redesigned, fought over, and redesigned again. She'd been the subject of endless corporate and bureaucratic bloodletting and very nearly caused several wars. Her official name had been changed a number of times, but she remained the White Ship, unfinished.
"Hell with it," Duarte spat. "Me, I'd rather crew for some rich man in the next Regatta for the Purple."
"Or rich woman!"
"Especially a rich woman." Duarte grinned.
"That's not for you," Abascal scoffed. "Those high and mighty amateurs racing around in their little butterflies. That's not for a working spacer."
"But the money, old-timer," Duarte crooned. "And the good living. And the women, more beautiful even than a ship." A number of those present went along with that.
Squeeb happened to notice that Juan-Feng's token, a scotty dog with prominent tusks and a single horn, had landed on one of his properties. The crewman handed over the rent smugly. "I'll get it back soon anyway." He motioned to Squeeb's wheelbarrow, "You're bound to land on my real estate soon, Squeeb."
"Real estate?"
"Property. Land. Um … " Juan-Feng closed his eyes for a second, concentrating. "What d'you Hyperbolarians call it? Ramazz!"
The effect was amazing. Squeeb froze. "Ramazz?" He singled out one of his deeds with a tentacle tip. "You mean, this represents ramazz?"
