In the Great Central Library of Deneb University
Moa Blue, Chief Assistant Librarian, snuffles his way back to the Historical Specialties carousel. His snuffling is partly constitutional—Moa is an amphibian—and partly directed at his current customers, two impossibly cheerful young Comenor. They are asking for a selection of Human fact/fiction from the early days of the Federation, “to get the ambience.” A selection! In Moa’s days as a student, you did the selecting yourself. The hard way. Now these two want to pick his brains.
Well, he can satisfy them. There’ve been a lot of similar requests this term—probably some ambitious instructor offering an “enriched” course. Moa sneezes definitively and punches up a readout.
When he comes back to the front, the young Comeno couple are leaning their upper arms on the counter, a sign of seriousness. Each also has an upper arm entwined with the other’s, a likely sign of mating intent. Moa Blue’s stern reptilian face softens; he has a tender spot for romance, if the truth be known. And also a soft spot for Comenor, who are known to like actual reading and learning alien psychology. In a student body full of engineering types briskly scanning tapes full of numbers, it’s pleasant to encounter students who like the touch and feel of old books, and who know that the real problems lie in living hearts and brains.
“As you doubtless know,” he tells them, “there’s been a long Human vogue for what they call fact/fiction. That is, taking a crucial event or epoch with all its known details, and reconstructing it as a dramatic story. They claim it makes history more easily memorable; I daresay they’re right. In any event, it gives you quite a hoard to choose from.”
“That’s why we need your help,” smiles the taller Comeno, in richly accented Galactic. “We took one look at the inventory and got lost, even with the summaries.”
“And you shall have help. Here’s a nice little one I picked for you to start with. It’s from way back before Humans had much FTL capability, and were just starting to explore the fringes of that great Rift that separates you from the Federation. In fact, I’ve chosen a group set in the Rift locale, both because you know it, and because it’s about the same time-period as that well-known story about the explosion-front from the Murdered Star passing the planet Damiem, which you were probably assigned in class—but it’s on the very opposite side of the Federation, so you’ll get some interesting anomalies and contrasts. You have encountered Damiem and the Stars Tears business, haven’t you? Brightness something, it’s called.”
“Brightness Falls From the Air—oh, yes, it was offered as an example of Human behavior toward other races. In fact, it started our interest in Humans. But it’s so localized—something in a totally different sector is just what we need. Does this one have the Moom shipping lines, for instance?”
“No. You must realize that in pre-FTL days all cultural diffusion took place incredibly slowly. And this was well after the Ziellor and you were using it routinely.”
“My goodness, you certainly have to know a lot of technological history!” says the smaller Comeno admiringly.
Moa smiles, a toothy effect that would have been intimidating in a different context. “Sometimes I think I should take every course in the syllabus, to serve our clients properly!... Now, I can’t issue more than this one at a time, but it’ll give you plenty to think over; it’s from quite an unusual point of view.”
“But is it all true?” the little Comeno asks anxiously.
“That’s the remarkable part—the story is almost entirely taken from actual tapes dictated by the little Human herself. All that is extrapolated is a group of highly predictable subjective responses corroborated by other sources. And it involves one of the Humans’ most extraordinary First Contacts, all in the alien’s own words... The Eeadron are well known now, of course—you may. have come across the quarantine regs.”
“I have,” says the tall Comeno. “So this explains that, too! Well you have found a star for us, Myr Blue. We thank you more than I can say.”
“Oh, yes!” chimes in his friend.
“And when you return I’ll have one almost as good, and then there’ll be a real treat for finale.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” And with a resounding ceremonial tail-clap, they hurry toward the door, carefully clasping the ancient text.
First Tale
The Only Neat Thing to Do
Heroes of space! Explorers of the starfields!
Reader, here is your problem:
Given one kid, yellow-head, snub-nose-freckles, green-eyes-that-stare-at-you-level, rich-brat, girl-type fifteen-year-old. And all she’s dreamed of, since she was old enough to push a hologram button, is heroes of First Contacts, explorers of far stars, the great names of Humanity’s budding Star Age. She can name you the crew of every Discovery Mission; she can sketch you a pretty accurate map of Federation space and number the Frontier Bases; she can tell you who first contacted every one of the fifty-odd races known; and she knows by heart the last words of Han Lu Han, when, himself no more than sixteen, he ran through alien flame-weapons to drag his captain and pilot to safety, on Lyrae 91-Beta. She does a little math, too; it’s easy for her. And she haunts the spaceport and makes friends with everybody who’ll talk to her, and begs rides, and knows the controls of fourteen models of craft. She’s a late bloomer, which means that the nubbins on her little chest could almost pass for a boy’s; and love, great Love, to her is just something pointless that adults do, despite her physical instruction. But she can get into her junior space-suit in seventy seconds flat, including safety hooks.
So you take this girl, this Coati Cass—her full name is Coatillia Canada Cass, but everyone calls her Coati—And you give her a sturdy little space-coupe for her sixteenth birthday.
Now, here is your problem:
Does she use it to jaunt around the star-crowded home sector, visiting her classmates and her family’s friends, as her mother expects, and sometimes showing off by running a vortex beacon or two, as her father fears?
Does she? Really?
Or—does she head straight for the nearest ship-fitters and blow most of her credit balance loading extra fuel tanks and long-range sensors onto the coupe, fuel it to the nozzles, and then—before the family’s accountant can raise questions—hightail for the nearest Federation Frontier, which is the Great North Rift beyond FedBase 900, where you can look right out at unknown space and stars?
That wasn’t much of a problem, was it?
The Exec of FedBase 900 watches the yellow head bobbing down his main view corridor.
“We ought to signal her folks c-skip collect,” he mutters. “I gather they’re rich enough to stand it.”
“On what basis?” his deputy inquires.
They both watch the little straight-backed figure marching away. A tall Patrol captain passes in the throng; they see the girl spin to stare at him, not with womanly appreciation but with the open-eyed unself-conscious adoration of a kid. Then she turns back to the dazzling splendor of the view beyond the port. The end of the Rift is just visible from this side of the asteroid Base 900 is dug into.
“On the basis that I have a hunch that that infant is trouble looking for a place to happen,” Exec says mournfully. “On the basis that I don’t believe her story, 1 guess. Oh, her ident’s all in order, I’ve no doubt she owns that ship and knows how to run it, and knows the regs; and it’s her right to get cleared for where she wants to go—by a couple of days. But I cannot believe her parents consented to her tooting out here just to take a look at unknown stars... On the basis that if they did, they’re certifiable imbeciles. If she were my daughter...”
His voice trails off. He knows he’s overreacting emotionally; he has no adequate excuse for signaling her folks.
>
“They must have agreed,” his deputy says soothingly. “Look at those extra fuel tanks and long-range mechs they gave her.”
(Coati hadn’t actually lied. She’d told him that her parents raised no objection to her coming out here—true, since they’d never dreamt of it—and added artlessly, “See the extra fuel tanks they put on my ship so I’ll be sure to get home from long trips? Oh, sir, I’m calling her the CC-One will that sound too much like something official?”
Exec closes the subject with a pessimistic grunt, and they turn back into his office, where the Patrol captain is waiting. FedBase 900’s best depot supply team is long overdue, and it is time to declare them officially missing and initiate and organize a search.
Coati Cass continues on through the surface sections of the base to the fueling port. She had to stop here to get clearance and the holocharts of the Frontier area, and she can top off her tanks. If it wasn’t for those charts, she might have risked going straight on out, for fear they’d stop her. But now that she’s cleared, she’s enjoying her first glimpse of a glamorous Far FedBase—so long as it doesn’t delay her start for her goal, her true goal, so long dreamed of: free, unexplored space and unknown, unnamed stars.
Far Bases are glamorous; the Federation had learned the hard way that they must be pleasant, sanity-promoting duty. So, the farther out a Base is, and the longer the tours, the more lavishly it is set up and maintained. Base 900 is built mostly inside a big, long-orbit airless rock, yet it has gardens and pools that would be the envy of a world’s richest citizen. Coati sees displays for the tiny theater advertising first-run shows and music, all free to station personnel; and she passes half a dozen different exotic little places to eat. Inside the rock, the maps show sports and dance shells, spacious private quarters, and kilometers upon kilometers of winding corridors, all nicely planted and decorated, because it has been found that stress is greatly reduced if there are plenty of alternative, private routes for people to travel to their daily duties.
Building a Far Base is a full-scale Federation job. But it conserves the Federation’s one irreplaceable resource—her people. Here at FedBase 900 the people are largely Human, since the other four space-faring races are concentrated to the Federation’s south and east. This far north, Coati has glimpsed only one alien couple, both Swain; their greenish armor is familiar to her from the spaceport back home. She won’t find really exotic aliens here.
But what, and who, lives out there on the fringes of the Rift—not to speak of its unknown farther shores? Coati pauses to take a last look before she turns in to Fuels and Supply. From this port she can really see the Rift, like a strange, irregular black cloud lying along the northern zenith.
The Rift isn’t completely lightless, of course. It is merely an area that holds comparatively few stars. The scientists regard it as no great mystery; a standing wave or turbulence in the density-texture, a stray chunk of the same gradients that create the Galactic arms with their intervening gaps. Many other such rifts are seen in uninhabited reaches of the starfield. This one just happens to form a useful northern border for the irregular globe of Federation space.
Explorers have penetrated it here and there, enough to know that the usual distribution of star-systems appears to begin again on the farther side. A few probable planetary systems have been spotted out there; and once or twice what might be alien transmissions have been picked up at extreme range. But nothing and no one has come at them from the far side, and meanwhile the Federation of Fifty Races, expanding slowly to the south and east, has enough on its platter without hunting out new contacts. Thus the Rift has been left almost undisturbed. It is the near presence of the Rift that made it possible for Coati to get to a real Frontier so fast, from her centrally located home star and her planet of Cayman’s Port.
Coati gives it all one last ardent look and ducks into the suiting-up corridor, where her small suit hangs among the real Spacers’. From here she issues onto a deck over the asteroid surface and finds CC-One dwarfed by a new neighbor; a big Patrol cruiser has come in. She makes her routine shell inspection with disciplined care, despite her excitement, and presently signals for the tug to slide her over to the fueling stations. Here she will also get oxy, water, and food—standard rations only. She’s saved enough credits for a good supply if she avoids all luxuries.
At Fuels she’s outside again, personally checking every tank. The Fuels chief, a big rosy woman whose high color glows through her faceplate, grins at the kid’s eagerness. A junior fuelsman is doing the actual work, kidding Coati about her array of spares.
“You going to cross the Rift?”
“Maybe next trip... Someday for sure.” She grins back.
A news announcement breaks in. It’s a pleasant voice, telling them that DRS number 914 B-and-K is officially declared missing, and a phase one search will start. All space personnel are to keep watch for a standard supply tug, easily identifiable by its train of tanks, last seen in the vicinity of Ace’s Landing.
“No, correction, negative on Ace’s Landing. Last depot established was on a planet at seventeen-fifty north, fifteen-thirty west, RD eighteen.” The voice repeats. “That’s in Far Quadrant Nine B-Z, out of commo range. They were proceeding to a new system at thirty-twenty north, forty-two-twenty-eight West, RD three D.
“All ships within possible range of this course will maintain a listening watch for one minim on the hour. Anything heard warrants return to Base range. Meanwhile a recon ship will be dispatched to follow their route from Ace’s Landing.” The announcer repeats all coordinates; Coati, finding no tablet handy, inscribes the system they’re headed to on the inside of her bare arm with her stylus.
“If they were beyond commo range, how did they report?” she asks the Fuels chief.
“By message pipe. Like a teeny-weeny spaceship. They can make up to three c-skip jumps. When you work beyond range, you send back a pipe after every stop. There’ll soon be a commo relay set up for that quadrant, is my guess.”
“Depot Resupply nine fourteen BK,” says the fuelsman. “That’s Boney and Ko. The two boys who—who’re—who aren’t—I mean, they don’t have all their rivets, right?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Boney and Ko!” The Fuels chief’s flush heightens. “They may not have the smarts of some people, but the things they do, they do one hundred percent perfect. And one of them, or both, maybe, have uncanny ability with holocharting. If you go through the charts of quadrants they’ve worked, you’ll see how many BK corrections there are. That work will save lives! And they haven’t a gram of meanness or pride between them, they do it all on supply pay, for loyalty to the Fed.” She’s running down, glancing at Coati to see if her message carried. “That’s why Exec took them off the purely routine runs and let them go set up new depots up north... The Rand twins have the nearby refill runs now, they can take the boredom because of their music.”
“Sorry,” the fuelsman says. “I didn’t know. They never say a word.”
“Yeah, they don’t talk.” The chief grins. “There, kid, I guess you’re about topped up, unless you want to carry some in your ditty bag. Now, how about the food?”
When Coati gets back inside Base and goes to Charts for her final briefing, she sees what the Fuels chief meant. On all the holocharts that cover the fringes of 900’s sector, feature after feature shows corrections marked with a tiny glowing “BK.” She can almost follow the long, looping journeys of that pair—what was it? Boney and Ko?—by the areas of richer detail in the charts. Dust-clouds, gee-anomalies, asteroid swarms, extra primaries in multiple systems, all modestly BK’s. The basic charts are composites of the work of early explorers—somebody called Ponz has scrawled in twenty or thirty star-systems with his big signature (BK have corrected six of them), and there’s an “L,” and a lot of “YBC” and more that Coati can’t decipher. She’d love to know their names and adventures.
“Who’s ‘SS’?” she asks Charts.
“Oh, he was a rich
old boy, a Last War vet, who tried to take a shortcut he remembered and jumped himself out of fuel way out there. He was stuck about forty-five Standard days before anybody could get to him, and after he calmed down, he and his pals kept themselves busy with a little charting. Not bad, too, for a static VP. See how the Sss all center around this point? That’s where he sat. If you go near there, remember the error is probably on the radius. But you aren’t thinking of heading out that far, are you, kid?”
“Oh, well,” Coati temporizes. She’s wondering if Charts would report her to the Exec. “Someday, maybe. I just like to have the charts to, you know, dream over.”
Charts chuckles sympathetically and starts adding up her charges. “Lots of daydreaming you got here, girl.”
“Yeah.” To distract him she asks, “Who’s ‘Ponz’?”
“Before my time. He disappeared somewhere after messaging that he’d found a real terraform planet way out that way.” Charts points to the northwest edge, where there’s a string of GO-type stars. “Could be a number of good planets there. The farthest one out is where the Lost Colony was. And that you stay strictly away from, by the way, if you ever get that far. Thirty-five-twelve N. That’s thirty minutes twelve seconds north, thirty-forty west. We omit the degrees; out here they’re constants: eighty-nine degrees north by seventy west. Radial distance—that’s from Base Nine hundred, they all are—thirty-two Bkm. Some sort of contagion wiped them out just after I came. We’ve posted warning satellites... All right, now you have to declare your destination. You’re entitled to free charts there, the rest you pay for.”
“Where do you recommend? For my first trip?”
“For your first trip... I recommend you take the one beacon route we have, up to Ace’s Landing. That’s two beacons, three jumps. It’s a neat place, hut, fresh-water lake, the works. Nobody lives there, but we have a rock-hound who takes all his long leaves there, with a couple of pals. You can take out your scopes and have a spree, everything you’re looking at is unexplored. And it’s just about in commo range if you hit it lucky.”
The Starry Rift Page 1
