Starrigger

by John Dechancie

  “What’s that noise?” Roland asked.

  I tore the beeping key from my pants pocket. “Sam! Sam, is that you?”

  “Who the hell were you expecting, the Chairman of the Colonial Politburo? Of all the goddamn stupid things you’ve done, boy, this has to be the grand prizewinner. There’s three things any moron can learn in life without too much trouble, but you can’t seem to get ‘em straight. Want to know what they are? I’ll tell you. Don’t spit out the port at Mach one, don’t eat blue snow on Beta Hydri IV, and don’t ever poke your nose through a potluck portal! Common sense, right—and you’d think any pudknocker’d pick that up real easy, but not you, boy, not by a long shot—”

  We laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Chapter 14

  AND ANOTHER THING,” Sam was saying when we finally found him, “what the hell’s the idea of not telling me where you’re going?” He was mad as heck.

  “Too busy at the time. Sorry.”

  “Well, maybe you were, at that,” he grumbled.

  “I hate to bring it up, but where the hell have you been?”

  “Rescuing Petrovich, or whatever his name is.”

  “Petrovsky! I thought he was cylinder-skin. My god, Sam; how? And why?”

  The others were crowded in the aft cabin, discovering how many bodies could fit into a sauna stall—except for Darla, who was whipping up a quick brunch. They were making a lot of noise. It was good to be back home.

  “Well, it was like this,” Sam said. “There I am, cutting vacuum like pobody’s business. Must’ve hit Mach point four five there for a stretch—Stinky’s a genius, by the way—and I’m calling you and calling you and not getting an answer. Then I see the flash and sure enough it’s gammashine, and I’m saying to myself, well, scratch one male offspring, but I think, maybe not, what with that strange buggy you were driving. I figure maybe you’re just disabled and can’t key for help. So I start scanning on infrared for survivors. What did I know? Last thing I expected was that you’d shot the portal. Anyway, I pick something up out there about three klicks from the commit markers, and I pull off the road onto the ice and go on out. And there’s this cop in a vacuum suit lying on his back in the middle of nowhere, no sign of his batmobile, but his ejection sled’s in pieces all over the place. He’s frozen solid to the ice and there’s something funny about his left hand.”

  “Hand?” I said.

  “Yeah, he didn’t have one. Instead, there’s this big frozen gob of blood on the end of his arm, looking like a cherry ice pop. Damnedest thing you ever saw. But the rest of him was in one piece … and he was alive.”

  “Jesus.” And I knew what he’d done too. He’d angled the blast of his descent rockets to push him away from the cylinders’ grav field instead of setting him comfortably down, but how he’d survived that desperate gamble was beyond me. The severed hand wasn’t hard to explain either. It was a miracle that the tangled line hadn’t cut him in two. “How’d you get him into the cabin?”

  “First I had to unfreeze him from the ice. I put the exciter gun on wide beam and cooked him a bit until he could move. Then he hauled himself in. There couldn’t have been an unbroken bone in his body, but he did it. Then there was the problem of his arm. If I recycled the cab and brought it up to room temperature, he’d bleed to death. If I kept it vacuum, he’d have frozen. The suit had self-sealed but he was half icicle already. So I had to figure out a way to pressurize and keep the temp below zero. They just don’t make life-support gear like that—had a hell of a time bypassing the right systems.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  Sam hesitated the barest second. “Not much, just groaned a lot.”

  I looked back just then and noticed Darla standing at the kitchette, listening intently—eavesdropping. “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Well, I grabbed slab back to the Ryxx cutoff, but there wasn’t any traffic. Had to go all the way back to the T-Maze road. Gave a yell on the skyband, and two riggers picked him up. Incidentally, on the way I saw our Rikki friends.”

  “I know, they’re here. Do you think he pulled through?”

  “He was out cold by the time they got to him, so I really don’t know. But he’s one hell of a survivor type.” Sam paused. “What d’you think, did I do wrong?”

  “Hell, no, you did the right thing.”

  “Well, my conscience is clear anyway. And one way or another, he’s out of the picture.”

  Darla came forward and handed me a bowl of beef stew and crackers. I thanked her, then tore into it, finishing it off in record time. I washed it down with a can of Star Cloud Ale. The burp was thunderous. I smiled at Winnie, who was in the shotgun seat, finishing off the remnants of her picnic lunch. She burped and grinned back. Some things are truly universal.

  “Shameful the way young women run around these days without wearing so much as a blush,” Sam said.

  “I heard that, Sam,” Darla called out. “Tell me you don’t enjoy it.”

  “I’m getting old. Hell, I am old. In fact, I’m dead.”

  “Sam, cut the merte,” I said. “You’ll never die, and you know it. Did I ever tell you they had to bury you three times before you’d stay down? You kept popping back up like crabgrass.”

  “Such talk. Where’s your respect for the deceased?” Sam chuckled. “Darla, I was kidding you—back in my day prudes were saying that morals couldn’t get any worse. I happen to agree. It was a decadent period, if the term means anything. Spend a weekend with me on New Vegas and I’ll tell you all the juicy details.”

  “Name the date, Sam.”

  He laughed. “Jake, tell me more about this whale we’re going to get swallowed by. Sounds like it’s got the iceberg fish hack on Albion beat to hell. Did I ever tell you about the cxozoological expedition I went with to trace their migration patterns? This was while you were still in school. Must have been twenty-five, no, thirty Standards ago…

  Sam went on with a yarn he’d run into the ground years before, and I wondered what he was doing until I heard his voice over the bone-conduction transducer in my ear.

  “Son, brace yourself. Darla’s an agent. I think she’s working for Petrovsky.”

  Well, it was out. I would’ve had a hard time keeping the ugly thing’s head submerged any longer. I realized that I’d known for some time.

  “That’s it, just keep a poker face. No hard evidence, but listen to the playback.”

  It was Petrovsky, babbling Russian in my ear. “He was delirious by this time. Listen.”

  Babble, then a name, then more babble, and again the name, over and over. The name sounded like Dar-ya. It had been a long time since I’d studied Russian, but I didn’t think Dar-ya was the Russian equivalent to Darla, if there was one. I turned toward Sam’s eye and silently shook my head.

  “No? Christ, I’m sorry, son. I have a hell of a time picking up some words now and then, especially from non-Inglo speakers. Thought it was ‘Darla,’ but it did sound funny.”

  But it very well could be Darla, I thought, as I heard Petrovsky now saying, “…Darishka, Darishka…” And then another name, suddenly: “…Mona…”

  “What d’you make of that?”

  I’d heard through the roadbuzz circuit that Mona’s current liaison was with a Militia Intelligence officer, and a highranking one, so it tracked. Could Petrovsky have fallen madly and instantly in love with Darla? Knowing the man even to the limited extent I did, it didn’t make sense.

  “Well, it’s something to think about, Jake.”

  Sam’s understatement only pointed out to me the need for less thinking and more facts. “Sam,” I said aloud, “sorry to interrupt your enthralling story, but I want you to do a search for me.”

  “I was just getting to the exciting part. Okay, what is it?”

  “Do you still record news feeds whenever you can?”

  “Every chance I get, just like the program says. I even got the six o’clock on Goliath. Why?”

  “How long do you ke
ep ‘em?”

  “Thirty Standard days, then I pitch them.”

  “Merte. Okay, listen. I want you to fetch anything from your news file with these tag-words. ‘Corey Wilkes,’ ‘intelligence,’ ‘Colonial Assembly,’ ‘Reticulan,’‘Militia,’ and … um, let’s see, what else…”

  “ ‘Roadmap’?”

  “That’s a long shot, but go ahead.”

  “Why ‘Colonial Assembly’?”

  “A hunch.”

  “Right. Wilkes should turn up like a bad penny. He loves hobnobbing with the great and near-great, makes the feeds all the time. Okay, then, let me go down to that dusty basement where I keep old newspapers. Want me to start now?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but hold off reading it out until I tell you. Meanwhile, I’m due for a shower.”

  Everyone was out of the stall by then, all fresh and scrubbed and settled down to eat. I went to the ordnance locker, got out the liter of Old Singularity, and had a jolt. The tidal forces were terrific. Then it was into the locker-size stall for a steam treatment followed by a fog bath. Standing in the swirling mist, I shut my mind off and the pattern of the last few days emerged crisp and clear. The fine detail was missing, but the overall view was enough. I was beginning to see things, understand things. With a little luck, I’d soon know more. The biggest unknown was still Darla, but even she was slowly taking shape like a wraith in the mist. The fog had parted fleetingly back there on the beach. What had I seen? Could her vulnerability have been grief, her passion the widow’s consolation?

  After a shave and a change of clothes—and a second shooter of Old Singy—I had evolved up to human form again. I went forward.

  We spent another twenty minutes in line before we got down near the row of fare-takers. I was in the wrong line if I wanted to see Krause, the sociable sailor, again, so I jockeyed for position and cut somebody off in the next line over. An alien warning signal buzzed angrily behind me.

  “Hi, there!”

  Krause was looking down, shuffling tickets in his hands. Glancing up he said, “How’s it going, kamr—” Then the recognition. “Oh. Thought you … uh, had a breakdown.”

  “Fixed her up real good. Now, about those fares. You were about to tell me about how we can exchange metal for currency aboard ship, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Forgot to mention it. Sorry.” He took a red disk out of his pocket, attached it carefully to the front port, and smoothed it over. “Sure, you just drive right in, park, then go up to the purser’s office and make the exchange. He’ll give you a chit, and you hand that over when you debark. Oh, and the sticker won’t come off… um, without a special chemical.”

  “Wouldn’t think of trying to remove it. What d’you think the fare’ll be for this rig?”

  “Uh, wouldn’t know offhand, sir.”

  “Guess.”

  “About fifty consols.” He thought about it. “Maybe less.”

  “Lots of bodies in here. What about those extra charges you mentioned?”

  He looked away. “Not this trip. Only special runs.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pointed to the gaping throat. “Gee, do you mean we’re actually supposed to drive in there?”

  He chortled, his manner turning suddenly chummy. “Yeah, it’s a shocker, isn’t it? Naw, we’re in our fifth year with this boat and we haven’t digested a passenger yet. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Through there?”

  He turned and pointed. “Yes, sir, that big opening over—”

  I took his hat. “Nice hat,” I said.

  “Hey!”

  “Here you go-whoops! Sorry.” When he bent over to get it, I grabbed a handful of greasy yellow hair and fetched his face up against the hatch. He kissed it hard.

  “Jake, you shouldn’t have,” Susan said as we moved away.

  “I know. I did enjoy it, though.”

  I drove into the mouth of the beast.

  Chapter 15

  THE THROAT WAS a yawning cavity that narrowed into an esophageal tube tunneling downward into the bowels of the island-beast. The walls of the passage were pale and sweaty, heaving with peristaltic motion. It was slippery going, but the rollers handled it fairly well. After a quarter klick or so the tube opened onto a vast dark chamber. There were hundreds of vehicles already parked here, many others in the process, their headbeams moving in the darkness a long way from the entrance. I followed the line of buggies heading toward them.

  “I’ll be…” Sam began. Then he said, “I can’t think of anything that fits the occasion. I’m speechless.”

  We all were. It took a good while to get to the parking area, and we spent it in silence. Finally we could see sailors in white tops with red and white striped bell-bottoms directing traffic, slicing the gloom with powerful torches. I pulled alongside one of them, a skinny, baby-faced kid, and cracked the port. A faint odor of decayed fish came through, plus a whiff of brackish stagnant water, but the overall smell of the place wasn’t hard to deal with. It simply smelled like the sea.

  “Where to, sailor? Looks like you’re running out of room.”

  “Over against the wall, starrigger!” the sailor yelled, playing the torchbeam against a glistening area of greenish-white tissue. I eased the rig forward until the front of the engine housing kissed the wall. The tissue quivered and drew back slightly, then slowly came back to meet the rig and began oozing over the housing, then stopped.

  “Drive into it!” the kid shouted over the din of engine sounds. “Push it back!”

  I did. The wall receded before us, billowing out like a giant curtain. Before long I felt it resist, and I hit the brake.

  “Go ahead,” the kid told me in a high voice. “It’ll stretch a klick before it tears a c-meter. C’mon, move that punkin’ pigmobile!”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n!” I gunned it, and the wall shivered and yielded. I rammed the rig forward until I heard

  “Ho-o-o!”

  “Are we the main course, or just the appetizer?” John wanted to know.

  “There must be five hundred vehicles in here,” Roland said.

  “More,” I ventured.

  Somebody rapped smartly on the hatch. I turned to have a torchbeam stab my retinas. “Hey, swabbie!” I growled. “Want me to show you how that thing doubles as a suppository?”

  “Take it easy, truckie.” It was the same sailor who’d directed us. She was young, very young—no more than sixteen or so. Antigeronics can’t give you that kind of baby-skin. She wore her hair cropped short under a traditional Dixiecup hat, but the hat was gold, not white. And she wasn’t all that skinny, either. She was blooming under that deckhand outfit.

  “You can’t stay here, you know,” she said.

  Blinking, I looked around. “What about non-oxy breathers?”

  “Them we don’t care about, but all humans go topside. Insurance regs.” She started to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” I called after her. “Don’t get testy, now. Just a few questions.”

  “Make ‘em short. We’re way behind schedule.”

  “Consolidated Outworlds—is that a human-occupied maze?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Hmm. Okay, now, are we actually in the stomach of this thing?”

  “No, a predigestive sac. Fiona’s got two of these and twelve stomachs, but we don’t like to use those unless we have to. Have to spray ‘em down with gastric inhibitors—and they smell bad.”

  “Fiona? It’s a female?”

  “Hard to say one way or the other.”

  “Huh? Oh…”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it, except to ask if all the deckhands are as good-looking as you.”

  “Ah, shut up.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.

  “Hey! One more thing.”

  “What?” she answered impatiently.

  “How do we get topside?”

  “Elevator!”

  “Elevator?” Elevator.

  And there it was, a circular metal-framed sh
aft rising through a hole in the roof. The juncture of frame and roof was sealed by a white spongy collar that seemed to be there to protect the surrounding organ-tissue. The elevator car was bullet-shaped and transparent, suspended by thick metal cables.

  “Any construction you’d do inside this beastie,” Roland said as we boarded the car, “would be more like a surgical procedure.”

  “Yeah, but the patient’s sturdy enough to withstand it,” I said, then added sotto voce, “Did you plant that transponder?”

  “Yes, at the base of the frame.”

  “You agree it’ll shoot Sam’s signal up this shaft?”

  “Don’t see why not. But how do you get it out of the shaft and through the doors?—if there’re doors.”

  “We put another one up top, of course.”

  The car was filling up, and we got scrunched to the back. A tall, blue, webfooted alien trod on my instep as he backed up, then turned his piscine head and wheezed something that sounded apologetic.

  The trip up was a long one. The outer door at the top of the shaft was an ornate gilt folding gate which opened onto what looked like the plush lobby of an ancient Temdn hotel. There were red leather settees and armchairs, matching ottomans, coffee tables, freestanding ashtrays, and potted plants. The walls were done up in red and gold fabric. It was a scene out of the past—tastefully done too, nothing like the usual quickie/functional décor you see back in the Maze. It was a big place, packed with sentient flesh.

  “Ah, atmosphere,” John said.

  I turned to Darla. “Spot anybody?”

  She took a long look around the place. “No.”

  “Yeah, but they’re here, or will be. Everybody who was chasing us. Maybe even Wilkes.”

  “He’ll be here,” she said, as if she knew. Maybe she did. Another long wait, this time to get a cabin, and that was after standing in line at the purser’s office. I gave Darla back her coins and traded about a quarter of my gold stash for consols, paid C-38.5 for the fare, and gave John some cash in partial payment for the hospital bill he’d picked up back on Goliath. When it came time to register for the cabin, I had my fake ID in hand, but the clerk waved it off.