The Starry Rift

by James Tiptree Jr

  “Is that your ship? The New ?”

  “Um-hmm—” She was weeping. “We—we were the hope of, of another colony. Fleetdown, the L-Lost Colony. Everybody got a terrible brain parasite, but they sent away us children with a few adults who weren’t affected... Those older people were the ones they killed. They just shot them down like—like—”

  “All right. I’m sorry.” Raven was thanking his luck he hadn’t gone to Cambria to refuel and perhaps been caught by the pirates coming back. “Where’s their base? Where did they keep you?”

  “They don’t really have a base in air. They’re staying on a weird thing, a big kind of junk-pile, orbiting some star, way out. It’s all old ships and satellites, smooshed together. Some of the bodies hold air, see. They have hydroponics. But it’s awful and dirty.”

  Raven’s ears have been tingling at what he heard. Unless he was much mistaken, Jangoman and his godlost crew had run across one of the fabled treasures of space, more mythical than real. A salvageman’s dream. The story is that there are gravity-null points in space, in which millennia of junk have been slowly accreting. Now he’s apparently hearing of a real one! Pity the Feds’ll probably get to it first, when this story comes out... He shakes himself.

  “How many pirates are there?”

  “Just Jangoman and Steer and Mickey there is all we’ve seen. And maybe one left on Cambria, to—to oversee work. We were supposed to harvest for winter, see, but the pirates made them dig gems.”

  “And Bobby here?”

  “They made him run the ship, so they could be free to—to fight here... Is he all right?” Her face is so dirty the features can be anything.

  “As far as I can tell,” says Raven. But Bobby speaks up groggily:

  “I’m all right, Laine, are you? Did someone rescue us?”

  “Yes, I think so,” the girl says doubtfully. “I hope so.”

  “If your story checks out, you have nothing more to worry about, Myr Laine... That’s your name?”

  “It’s Illaine, really, but everyone calls me Laine. Oh, please, could you take us back to Cambria?”

  “In due course, Myr Laine. First the Feds’ll be right over to Cambria to see if there are more of those characters. It’s1 no use trying to message them first.”

  “N-no...”

  “Raven, don’t be so cold-hearted,” Illyera exclaims suddenly. “Let me help this poor girl, she’s been through all hells. Let me untie her and Bobby.”

  “Right.” Raven is a shade reluctant. “Now we have a set of facts, I hope. Conference time.”

  Illyera has moved to the girl and is picking at Raven’s knots. Unwillingly, he gets up and helps her release the girl and the pilot. He is nagged by the notion that he has forgotten something... dangerous... And the girl bothers him. He is delighted when she vanishes with Illyera into her cubicle.

  “I see no need for any conference,” bar Palladine says when Raven rejoins them. “If you’ll kindly get these thugs off my ship, and submit your bill, I can start for home as soon as possible. I’m overdue already.”

  “Wrong on both counts, Myr-and-Ser,” says Raven. “I don’t charge for my duty as a Federation citizen to rescue other citizens in peril; and if I charged for endangering myself in the process, you couldn’t pay it. Next, duty as a citizen is to report this to the nearest FedBase. That’s Nine hundred. They won’t keep you long, and you have to go back that way to pick up your beacons. But you must check in. And I may have to take back some of your fuel to get these ships to FedBase Nine hundred. Moreover, my Blackbird only sleeps one; we may need some of your cold-chests. And I could charge you with endangering citizens’ lives by failing to heed official warnings, but I’ll charge that off to crass inexperience.”

  Bar Palladine blazes. “Absolutely no—”

  “Pavel! Pavel!” Illyera pokes her head out. “Don’t you think we should thank Myr Raven for coming back and saving us? Those collars—”

  The other men, silent till now, speak up. “You’re right, Illyera,” the bald man says, rubbing his neck. “Illyera is right, Pavel. We’ve forgotten the decencies. I fear the shock affected us. Myr Raven, please accept my apologies and my gratitude. I’d very much enjoy hearing how you did it! And permit me to introduce myself: I’m Cameron di Connor.”

  The two others chime in. “Well done, indeed,” says the fat younger man in an admiring tone. He turns out to be called Roy. The other older man gives the single name Danta.

  Bar Palladine, assuming a more courteous demeanor, adds his thanks. “But I still do have to get home.”

  “Right. I’ll put in my word to see they hurry things at FedBase,” Raven tells him.

  And so matters are decided, not without further talk and work, until two shocks make it all come unglued again.

  The first is minor—the discovery that two of Mira’s sleep-chests have been hit by projectiles fired by Jangoman’s gun. One is right behind the emergency port. When they open up the chests they see the damage is so extensive that the chests are unusable.

  “They must have been explosive pellets,” Cameron di Connor says thoughtfully. “I hate to think what would have happened to anyone in them.”

  “Never wake up,” says Raven. “Why sleep-chests, Jangoman? What have you got against them?”

  The white-blond pirate is now awake, watching them out of his space-blackened face and sleepy eyes. To their surprise, he replies, in a curious high-pitched drawl that Raven recognizes as a Black World specialty.

  “As any fool would know, bullets are dangerous in a ship.” His tone is more educated than Raven had expected; “The chests make good bunkers.”

  “Hmra,” says Raven. “Remind me not to be asleep next time I’m—” And he has to close his mouth because the second shock has arrived.

  It’s Illyera, pulling a reluctant Laine out of the cubicle, where she’s been helping the girl clean herself and don fresh clothes.

  “Look, everybody!” She pushes her forward.

  And Raven sees.

  Two Illyeras—rather, Illyera and a blond counterfeit.

  Oh, gods...

  Raven, clutching a chair back, looks thunderstruck at his old love—exactly his girl, Iliya, mint-fresh, black-haired, and perfect. He shakes his head like a wounded beast, unable to comprehend how this can be, unable to grasp what Illyera is saying so excitedly.

  “My clone!—I mean, my grandclone! My clone’s clone! My clone was Illandra, who went to that colony; she had herself cloned before the tragedy that wiped them out. And this is her—my—Illaine! Oh, Raven, isn’t she sweet?”

  “Sweet” is not the adjective, Raven thinks—though, looking closer, he sees she is sweet, too—fresh, new-made, a genuinely young girl, his young Illyera all over again.

  But this Illyera does not remember Fairhaven U. This Illyera never loved and left young Raven. This Illyera has never seen a rose.

  Beside her, Illyera looks—looks different. But she is the Illyera Raven loved... Loves... He is staggered, dumbfounded by double love. So beautiful, so young, so young, so beloved—He realizes he is about to become unstuck, longs to be back in Blackbird.

  And yet, for all the surrounding eyes and ears, he must contrive to say feebly, “Yes... amazing.”

  “This changes things,” says Illyera.

  And so it is decided all over again. There are five functional, if unappetizing, sleep-chests on New Hope, and five left on Mira, in addition to the one in Blackbird, which is Raven’s own.

  “I’ll hitch Blackbird to New Hope, and pilot the big ship till her tanks run dry. Then I’ll tum around and pull her on in to FedBase with Blackbird. I’ll take Jangoman, and Bobby, and the—the girl. But I think you should take these two henchmen, Myr-and-Ser. And if you can, spare a couple of volunteers to come with me. We’ll have to stay awake a while until the switch-over. If we put everybody asleep, the out-of-fuel alarm will wake us and we can’t get back to sleep for the safety period.”

  “I’ll come!” Illyera
exclaims. “I insist on it, Pavel, this is my only chance to talk with my own dear clone! My own flesh and blood. Oh, I’m so happy!”

  “And I will,” unexpectedly says the fat man, Roy.

  “Oh, but our card games,” says Cameron. “What’ll we do for a fourth?”

  “I’d have preferred to take the two women,” says bar Palladine icily.

  “But Rama Roy—” says the full-haired older man, Danta, who, Raven has learned, had brought Roy along as a spiritual adviser and fourth at play.

  “You must remember,” says the fat Roy, quietly, “that these men are headed toward certain death at the hands of the Federation. I cannot forgo a chance to talk with their leader. If I have any healing powers—”

  “Oh, you do, Rama Roy, you do,” puts in Danta.

  “It’s my duty to do what I can, in that interval of grace, to change his heart.”

  This is said with so much solemn conviction, the fat face looking momentarily quite different, that the others fall silent. Raven remembers that during the talks Roy had found occasion to give the raiders some water.

  “I’d have preferred you to take the women,” says Raven grimly to bar Palladine. “But frankly I’ve got to get some sleep, and I don’t feel prepared to have those three animals aboard and awake with me during the first hours of the run.” Danta and Cameron make understanding noises. “If you wouldn’t mind? I’ll see your two safely in their chests before we separate.”

  “No need, no need,” says bar Palladine stiffly, but the other two add:

  “Thanks, Raven. We’d be grateful!”

  One of the pirates, Steer, speaks up hopefully: “I play a pretty good game, Myrrin.”

  Nobody answers him, then. Raven wonders if dedicated card players will forever resist the bait, even if the proffer comes from, technically, a dead man.

  “Right,” says Raven. “Now I’ve got to go out and get these boats apart.”

  And thus, presently, they set out for FedBase, with II, freed from the larger ship, in the lead and drawing away. Her pirates are already locked in cold-sleep, their wrists and ankles fettered. She’s following her own trail record back to a star configuration where she can pick up a FedBase beacon. A copy has been made for the other crew, who are following in the bulky shape of New Hope with Blackbird mated to its stem.

  In New Hope’s pilot area, the two women are curled together in one of the big pilot couches. Behind them Raven sits on a cold-chest that has been put there as an observer’s bench. On the other end of the bench sits Bobby, looking disconsolate despite a clean-up and a fresh shirt with a Bohemian Club logo donated by Danta. Back in the big cargo-space, Rama Roy is talking With Jangoman; only a faint murmur can be heard up here.

  The women are chatting.

  “—and you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Fed Central,” Illyera is telling her grandclone. “The hub of the whole great Federation! Humans and aliens of all kinds, and—What? You mean you’ve never seen an alien?”

  “No,” says the beautiful dark-haired girl shyly. She who has faced rapes and pirates seems bedazzled by the other’s account of civilized life.

  “Oh, my goodness, Raven, we have to do something about this.”

  “Maybe there’ll be an alien or two on FedBase,” says Raven sleepily. He’s preoccupied with a weird feeling of happiness. His girl, his girl he’d lost forever, is here. The fact that she’s in two bodies seems only to make it richer, more complete... as though he had her very life.

  He’s playing with the idea of accompanying them on from FedBase; he can tell that the light Illyera has Fired in the younger girl’s eyes won’t be quenched by a quick return to colony life. Why not go with them? His credit account would stand it handsomely, if he stays away from rava-down coats.

  “Oh, Moom, and Swains,” says Illyera loftily. “1 mean real aliens.”

  “I’d love to,” says Laine, wide-eyed. “You know so much...”

  “But we can’t stay anywhere,” Bobby puts in sharply. “You know we’ve got to get home to help with the harvest... if there’s any left.”

  “That’s right,” says Laine. “Oh-h-h...”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Raven tells them. “The Fed will send over a whole squad of help to put everything right, when people are attacked.”

  “They will?” Bobby is incredulous. “But we were told and told never to expect help.”

  “That’s right, that’s the normal rule of colonies. You have to make it on your own. The Fed’ll evacuate you if you’re dying, that’s all. But when some disaster strikes that they’re commissioned to guard you against, like raiders or alien attack, it’s their duty to put you back on your feet. See? You’re free to go sight-seeing. Plenty of volunteers from FedBase for bringing in a harvest.”

  “Will you go, Raven?” inquires Illyera, smiling that incredible, loving, teasing smile.

  Raven snorts. He has been keeping one ear tuned to the muttering from the big far compartment. Blackbird’s open work tunnel is hitched to the stem exit of the old colony boat. Raven’s wondering if he shouldn’t go back and shut off the tunnel, in case Roy gets wanderlust. But no, Roy’s too fat for that work lock.

  “That’s great!” Bobby has cheered up notably. He yawns. “D’you know, I’m falling asleep. Maybe I could go back and crawl in one of those chests for a nap? That’s where—where they slept.”

  “Good. I’ll escort you.” Raven has no more formal doubts of the innocence of the two captives, but he has to move or fall asleep himself.

  Back in the dim aft chamber they find Jangoman lounging in his bonds, on a sleep-chest by the single porthole. He has his face turned to the port, ignoring the fat Rama who is sitting beside him on the chest, hands clasped in prayer position, apparently talking to the pirate’s back.

  Bobby picks out a sleep-chest near the aft lock where Blackbird’s moored. “This is the one I used.” He props the lid open and gets in. Raven checks that the prop is solid—that the lid seals airtight.

  “I’ll wake you at switch-over. Rest well.”

  “For the first time in a long while, Myr Raven,” the young man replies somberly. “I’ll never thank you right.”

  “So all’s well that ends well,” says Raven jovially. He wants to check on something he’s seen.

  But before he can get back forward, Roy calls to him.

  “Myr Raven? I wonder if you could loosen one of this poor man’s bonds? You can see he’s in distress.”

  “This poor man,” says Raven levelly, “has tortured, raped, and killed people.”

  “But look. You wouldn’t treat an animal so,” Roy points out.

  Jangoman makes no move to show his trouble but continues to stare out at the starfield. But Raven can see, behind his back, that he has unduly tightened the wire around one arm. The hand is blue and swollen.

  “All right. Call him an animal... Bend over, if you want that fixed.”

  Jangoman makes no reply, but only lets his eyelids droop, as if to shut out an annoying sound.

  “Please, Myr Jangoman,” the fat priest begs. “You could lose that arm.”

  At this, the pirate gives a disdainful laugh. And as though a spell has been broken, he bends forward so Raven can cut the wires, saying in his high, nasal, oddly refined voice, “The flesh is weak.”

  “You realize that, my brother?” Roy asks eagerly. “Then you are on the first step on the Path.”

  “Path”? Ah, Raven has him now. This is a man of the Path, a Human-alien cult from the South. But Pathmen are supposed to take a poverty vow; the only other Pathman Raven has seen was in very plain gray, while that embroidered robe of Roy’s is no poverty item. Things must have prospered with the Path.

  “Flesh is dirt,” says the pirate scornfully under Raven’s ministrations. “Out there”—he jerks his chin at the star-fields—“that’s real. That’s where I belong. Alone.” His voice is strained, but not druggy.

  “For a loner,” says Raven, finishing the wire, “yo
u’ve surrounded yourself with quite a pack of people. Whom, incidentally, you’ve led to their deaths.”

  “People are cattle,” returns the pirate distantly. He turns his face back to the starfields and says over his shoulder, “When they... finish with me... do you suppose they could shoot the leavings back out there?”

  “They may grant you a last request, though I don’t see why.”

  The fat Rama is shaking his head mournfully, but he persists. “Beauty is out here... that’s true. But don’t you see, by denying your Humanity, you deny the very senses that appreciate the stars?”

  Raven leaves them.

  On his way back to the girls, he stops at the spot where the chamber narrows to the nose-section and flashes his torch around the top and sides of the hull. His other hand comes up with an iron prybar with which he prods and taps, giving grunts of confirmation.

  “What’s the matter?” Illyera calls languorously.

  “Laine, did you know that this ship is a glued-together job?” Raven is fiddling with a worn plastic hanging beside the narrow waist. “Somebody welded an old freight booster onto the tail of a supply tug. This is the old air seal they used while they finished the job.”

  “I didn’t know,” Laine says. “I was too young when we came to Cambria, and I wasn’t born when they first used it.”

  “Well, it is. That explains the position of the drive, and some other things... Done a long while ago. It’s leaking. I’d hate to be in here if we had a high-gee turn.”

  “J-Jangoman used to pull that old curtain across when he wanted to be alone—or—” the girl says, and shudders visibly. The gods knew what had happened to her behind this curtain, Raven thinks savagely.

  Illyera hugs her gently. “Forget it, darling. Forget it all. It never happened... I’ll see that you forget it all—”

  The girl gazes at her hopefully, the beginning of a smile on her face. It’s a beautiful smile. But she doesn’t have Illyera’s magic, this nice colony girl who happens to be outrageously beautiful. There’s no irony, no mischief in her. Her black curls are swaying toward Illyera’s shoulder; she must be exhausted.