David Falkayn: Star Trader (Technic Civlization)

by Poul Anderson

  "I think not, now." Latimer's reply sounded equally exhausted.

  "Whoo-oo. How about relaxing? We've a tedious ride ahead of us."

  "How can you relax, with that thing in your hand?"

  "Sure, sure. We keep our personal deterrents. But can't we take it easy otherwise? Open our helmets, light each other's cigarettes."

  "I do not smoke," Latimer said. "However—" He undogged and slid back his faceplate concurrently with Falkayn. A sigh gusted from him. "Yes. It is good to . . . to uncramp."

  "I don't bear you any ill will, you know," Falkayn said, not quite truthfully. "I'd like to see this dispute settled without a fight."

  "Me too. I must admire your courage. It's almost like a Shenn's."

  "If you could give me some idea what the quarrel is about—"

  "No." Latimer sighed, "I'd better not say anything. Except . . . how are they, back on Luna? My friends of Serendipity?"

  "Well, now—"

  Latimer shifted position and Falkayn saw his chance. He had been prepared to wait for it as long as need be, and do nothing if it didn't happen to materialize. But the sled had already gotten so far away from the battleship that no scanner could give a clue as to what went on in this cockpit. There was no contact in either direction, apart from Muddlehead's beam and Gahood's tracking radar. In the low weight of acceleration, Latimer's tired body had settled into his seat harness. The blaster rested laxly on one knee and the face lolled in its frame of helmet near Falkayn's right shoulder.

  "—it's like this," the Hermetian continued. Here goes—for broke! His left fist, with the grenade to lend mass, swept about, battered the gun barrel aside and pinned it against the cockpit wall. His right hand darted through the faceplate opening and closed on Latimer's throat.

  XVII

  The blaster flared once, while the man tried to struggle. Then both were still. Panting, Falkayn released the judo strangle. "Got to work fast," he muttered aloud, as if to offset the hiss of escaping air. But that hole was sealing itself while the reserve tanks brought pressure back up. He stuffed the blaster into his tool belt and strained his eyes aft. Nothing stirred in the Shenn fleet. Well, it had always been unlikely that one little flash and brief puff of water mist would be seen. Getting rid of the grenade was more tricky. Falkayn cut the main drive and swiveled the sled transversely to its path, so that the minilock faced away from the battleship. On this model, the valves had been simplified to a series of sphinctered diaphragms on either side of a rigid cylinder. It meant some continuous gas leakage, and comparatively high loss whenever you went in or out. But it compensated with speed and flexibility of use; and the sled wasn't intended for long hops through space anyway. Helmet reclosed, Falkayn braced feet against the opposite side of the cockpit and pushed head and shoulders out into the void. He tossed the grenade, flat and hard. It exploded at a reasonably safe distance. A few shrapnel chunks ricocheted off the vehicle, but no serious damage was done.

  "Wowsers!" His left hand ached. He flexed the fingers, trying to work some tension out, as he withdrew to the interior. Latimer was regaining consciousness. With a bit of reluctance—rough way to treat a man—Falkayn choked him again. Thus the Hermetian won the extra few seconds he needed, undisturbed, to put his sled back on acceleration before Gahood should notice anything and grow suspicious.

  He placed himself with care vis-a-vis Latimer, leveled the blaster, opened his helmet, and waited. The captive stirred, looked around him, shuddered, and gathered himself for a leap. "Don't," Falkayn advised,

  "or you're dead. Unharness; back off to the rear; get out of your suit."

  "What? Logra doadam! You swine—"

  "Oink," Falkayn said. "Listen, I don't want to shoot you. Quite apart from morals and such, you've got a lot of hostage value. But you're most certainly not returning to help Gahood. I have my whole people to worry about. If you cause me any trouble, I'll kill you and sleep quite well, thank you. Get moving." Still dazed, by his stunning reversal as well as physically, the other man obeyed. Falkayn made him close up the spacesuit. "We'll eject it at the right moment and your boss will think it's you," he explained. "His time loss collecting it is my gain."

  A growl and glare through the shadows: "It is true what I was told about your sort, what I observed for myself. Evil, treacherous—"

  "Desiccate it, Latimer. I signed no contract, swore no oath. Earlier, you types weren't exactly following the usual rules of parley. I didn't enjoy the hospitality I received in your Lunar castle, either." Latimer jerked backward. "Falkayn?" he whispered.

  "Right. Captain David Falkayn, M.M.P.L., with a hydrocyanic personal grudge and every reason to believe your gang is out for blood. Can you prove this is a pillow fight we're in? If it is, then you've put bricks in your pillow. Which led me to put nails in mine. Be quiet, now, before I get so mad I fry you!" The last sentence was roared. Latimer crouched rather than cowered, but he was certainly daunted. Falkayn himself was astounded. I really pushed that out, didn't I? The idea was to keep him stampeded, so he won't think past the moment, guess my real intentions, and become desperate. But Judas, the fury I feel! He trembled with it.

  Time passed. The enemy receded farther, Muddlin' Through came nearer. When they were quite close, Falkayn ordered Latimer to shove the empty spacesuit through the minilock: an awkward job, eardrum-popping if one had no armor, but performed in tight-lipped silence.

  "Haul us in, Chee," Falkayn said.

  A tractor beam clamped on. The drive was shut off. A cargo hatch stood open to one of the after holds. No sooner was the sled inboard, protected by the ship's gee-field from acceleration pressures, than Chee started off under full drive. The hum and bone-deep vibration could be felt. She scurried below to meet the humans. They had just emerged, and stood glaring at each other in the coldly lit cavern. Chee hefted the stun pistol she carried. "Ah, s-s-so," she murmured. Her tail waved. "I rather expected you'd do that, Dave. Where shall we lock this klong up?"

  "Sick bay," Falkayn told her. "The sooner we begin on him, the better. We may be hounded down, you see, but if we can launch our other capsule with something in it—"

  He should not have spoken Anglic. Latimer divined his intention, screamed, and hurled himself straight at the blaster. Hampered by his spacesuit, Falkayn could not evade the charge; and he did not share the prisoner's desire that he shoot. They went to the deck, rolling over and over in their struggle. Chee Lan eeled between them and gave Latimer a judicious jolt.

  He sprawled limp. Falkayn rose, breathing hard, shaking. "How long'll he be out?"

  "Hour; maybe two," the Cynthian answered. "But I'll need a while to prepare anyway." She paused. "I'm not a psychotechnician, you realize, and we don't have a full battery of drugs, electroencephalic inducers, all that junk they use. I don't know how much I can wring out of him."

  "You can get him to babble something, I'm sure," Falkayn said. "What with the stuff left over from curing me, and the experience you got then. Just the coordinates of Dathyna—of the enemy's home system—would be invaluable."

  "Haul him topside and secure him for me. After which, if you aren't too shredded in the nerves, you'd better take the bridge."

  Falkayn nodded. Weariness, reaction, had indeed begun to invade him. Latimer's body was a monstrous weight over his shoulders. The thin face looked tormented even in slumber. And what waited was a will-less half-consciousness. . . . Tough, Falkayn thought sarcastically.

  Coffee, a sandwich, a quick shower, grabbed while he related via intercom what had happened, made him feel better. He entered the bridge with his pipe at a jaunty angle. "What's the situation, Muddlehead?" he asked.

  "As respects ourselves, we are bound back toward the rogue planet at maximum thrust," said the computer. It was the only way to continue the bluff of armed support. "Our systems check satisfactory, although a fluctuation in line voltage on circuit 47 is symptomatic of malfunction in a regulator that should be replaced next we make port."

  "Repaired," Falk
ayn corrected automatically.

  "Replaced," Muddlehead maintained. "While data do indicate that Freeman van Rijn is describable, in terms of the vocabulary you instructed me to use, as a cheapskate bastard, it is illogical that my operations should be distracted, however slightly, by—"

  "Great Willy! We may be radioactive gas inside an hour, and you indent for a new voltage regulator!

  Would you like it gold-plated?"

  "I had not considered the possibility. Obviously, only the casing could be. It would lead to a pleasing appearance, provided of course that every similar unit is similarly finished."

  "Up your rectifier," Falkayn said. His teeth clamped hard on the pipe bit. "What readings on the enemy?"

  "A destroyer has put a tractor beam on the suit and is bringing it near the battleship."

  "Which'll take it aboard," Falkayn predicted without difficulty. Things were going as he'd anticipated . . . thus far. The Dathynan ships were delayed in their recovery operation by the need to get detailed instructions from Gahood.

  They had electronic speed and precision, yes, but not full decision-making capacity. No robot built in any known civilization does. This is not for lack of mystic vital forces. Rather, the biological creature has available to him so much more physical organization. Besides sensor-computer-effector systems comparable to those of the machine, he has feed-in from glands, fluids, chemistry reaching down to the molecular level—the integrated ultracomplexity, the entire battery of instincts— that a billion-odd years of ruthlessly selective evolution have brought forth. He perceives and thinks with a wholeness transcending any possible symbolism; his purposes arise from within, and therefore are infinitely flexible. The robot can only do what it was designed to do. Self-programming has extended these limits, to the point where actual consciousness may occur if desired. But they remain narrower than the limits of those who made the machines.

  To be sure, given an unequivocal assignment of the type for which it is built, the robot is superior to the organism. Let Gahood order his fleet to annihilate Muddlin' Through, and the contest became strictly one between ships, weapons, and computers.

  Didn't it?

  Falkayn sat down, drummed fingers on his chair arm, blew acrid clouds at the star images that enclosed him.

  Chee's voice pulled him from his brown study: "I've got your boy nicely laid out, intravenous insertions made, brain and vagus nerve monitored, life-support apparatus on standby, everything I can do with what's available. Should I jolt him awake with a stim shot?"

  "M-m-m, no, wait a while. It'd be hard on his body. We don't want to damage him if we can possibly help it."

  "Why not?"

  Falkayn sighed. "I'll explain some other time. But practically speaking, we can pump him drier if we treat him carefully."

  "They can do still better in a properly equipped lab."

  "Yeh, but that's illegal. So illegal that it's a toss-up whether anyone would do the job for us on the q.t. Let's get what we can, ourselves. We're also violating law, but that can be winked at if we're well beyond civilization. . . . Of course, we can't predict whether Gahood will give us the days you need for a thorough and considerate job of quizzing."

  "You met him. What do you think?"

  "I didn't get exactly intimate with him. And even if I knew his inner psychology, which I don't except for his tendency to make all-out attacks at the first sign of opposition—even then, I wouldn't know what pragmatic considerations he might have to take into account. On the one hand, we have his trusty man for a hostage, and he has at least some reason to believe we may have husky friends waiting at Satan. He should cut his losses, return, and report. On the other hand, he may be so bold, or so angry, or so afraid Latimer will reveal something vital to us, that he'll strike."

  "Supposing he does?"

  "We run like hell, I guess. A stern chase is a long chase. We may throw him off the scent, like in Pryor's Nebula. Or we may outrun his heavy ships altogether, and he recall his destroyers rather than—Whoops!

  Hang on!"

  Muddlehead spoke what flickered on the 'scope faces: "They are starting after us."

  "Rendezvous point?" Chee demanded.

  "Data cannot yet be evaluated with precision, considering especially the velocity we have already gained. But." For an instant, it hummed. "Yes, the destroyers are lining out on courses effectively parallel to ours, with somewhat greater acceleration. Under such conditions, they will overhaul us in slightly less than one astronomical unit."

  "Their shooting can overhaul us sooner than that," Chee stated. "I'm going ahead on Latimer."

  "I suppose you must," Falkayn said reluctantly, half wishing he had not captured the man.

  "Commence hyperdrive," Chee ordered from sick bay.

  "No," Falkayn said. "Not right now."

  " Chi'in-pao? "

  "We're safe for a little while. Keep driving toward Satan, Muddlehead. They might just be testing our bluff."

  "Do you really believe that?" the Cynthian asked.

  "No," Falkayn said. "But what can we lose?"

  Not much, he answered himself. I knew the chances of our coming out of this web alive aren't good. But as of this moment, I can't do anything but sit and feel the fact. Physical courage was schooled into him, but the sense of life's sweetness was born in. He spent a time cataloguing a few of the myriad awarenesses that made up his conscious being. The stars burned splendid across night. The ship enclosed him in a lesser world, one of power-thrum, ventilator breath, clean chemical odors, music if he wanted it, the battered treasures he had gathered in his wanderings. Smoke made a small autumn across his tongue. Air blew into his nostrils, down into the lungs, as his chest expanded. The chair pressed back against the weight of his body; and it had texture; and seated, he nevertheless operated an interplay of muscles, an unending dance with the universe for his lady. A sleeve of the clean coverall he had donned felt crisp, and tickled the hair on one arm. His heart beat faster than usual, but steadily, and that pleased him.

  He summoned memories from the deeps: mother, father, sisters, brothers, retainers, old weather-beaten soldiers and landsmen, in the windy halls of the castle on Hermes. Hikes through the woods; swims in the surf; horses, boats, aircraft, spaceships. Gourmet dinners. A slab of black bread and cheese, a bottle of cheap wine, shared one night with the dearest little tart. . . . Had there actually been so many women?

  Yes. How delightful. Though of late he had begun to grow wistful about finding some one girl who—well, had the same quality of friendship that Chee or Adzel did—who would be more than a partner in a romp—but hadn't he and his comrades enjoyed their own romps, on world after wild world? Including this latest, perhaps last mission to Satan. If the rogue was to be taken away, he hoped the conquerors would at least get pleasure from it.

  How can they tell if they will? None of them have been there yet. In a way, you can't blame Gahood for charging in. He must be eager too, I think, to see what the place is like. The fact that I know, that I've landed there already, must hone the edge of his impatience. . . . Wait! Drag that thought by slowly. You'd started playing with it before, when Chee interrupted—

  Falkayn sat rigid, oblivious, until the Cynthian grew nervous and shouted into the intercom, "What ails you?"

  "Oh." The man shook himself. "Yes. That. How're we doing?"

  "Latimer is responding to me, but deliriously. He's in worse shape than I realized."

  "Psychic stress," Falkayn diagnosed without paying close attention. "He's being forced to betray his master—his owner, maybe his god—against a lifetime's conditioning."

  "I think I can haul him back into orbit long enough at a time to put a question or two. What about the enemy, Muddlehead?"

  "The destroyers are closing the gap," reported the ship. "How soon they will be prepared to fire on us depends on their armament, but I would expect it to be soon."

  "Try to raise the battleship by radio," Falkayn ordered. "Maybe they—he—will talk. Mean
while, prepare to go hyper at the first sign of hostile action. Toward Satan." Chee had evidently not heard him, or was too intent to comment. The mutter of her voice, Latimer's incoherence, the medical machines, drifted unpleasantly over the intercom. "Shall I revert to normal when we reach the planet?" Muddlehead inquired.

  "Yes. Starting at once, change our acceleration. I want nearly zero kinetic velocity with respect to goal," Falkayn said.

  "That, in effect, involves deceleration," Muddlehead warned. "The enemy will come in effective firing range correspondingly faster."

  "Never mind. Do you think you can find a landing spot, once we're there?"

  "It is uncertain. Meteorological violence, and diastrophism, appeared to be increasing almost exponentially when we left."

  "Still, you've got a whole world to pick and choose from. And you know something about it. I can't guess how many billion bits of information regarding Satan you've got stashed away. Prepare to devote most of your computer capacity to them, as well to observation on the spot. I'll give you generalized instructions—make the basic decisions for you—as we proceed. Clear?"

  "I presume you wish to know whether your program has been unambiguously comprehended. Yes."

  "Good." Falkayn patted the nearest console and smiled through his gathering, half-gleeful tension. "We come through this, and you can have your gold-plated regulators. If need be, I'll pay for them out of my own account."

  There was no perceptible change of forces within the ship, nor in the configuration of light-years-remote stars or the luridness of Beta Crucis. But meters said the ship was slowing down. Magnifying viewscreens showed the glints that were Gahood's vessels growing into slivers, into toys, into warcraft.

  "I've got it!" ripped from Chee.

  "Huh?" Falkayn said.

  "The coordinates. In standard values. But he's spinning off into shock. I'd better concentrate on keeping him alive."

  "Do. And, uh, don safety harness. We may dive right into Satan's atmosphere. The compensators may get overloaded."