Starrigger s-1

by John Dechancie

  "Kay!"

  "You'll be a good girl?"

  "G'gowull!"

  "Huh? Oh, yeah, good girl." I cracked the hatch and looked out, then closed it. "Almost forgot. We need a way to communicate. I don't trust the room phones. Can you get a written message to me?"

  "I think so."

  "Good. After you hide her, send this message to stateroom 409-B. Got that? 409-B. Send this: 'Your suit will be ready tomorrow morning.'"

  She repeated it.

  "Right. That's tonight's message. For emergencies, send… um, let's see. Send, 'The galley regrets it can't provide the special wine you ordered.'"

  She repeated that and said, "Got it."

  "Now, can I leave messages at your cabin?"

  "Yeah, just slip it under the door. I'll be there when I'm off-duty. I get so worn out, most of the time I'm sacking anyway."

  "Okay. Here." I took her hand and pressed a wad of bills into it.,

  "No, you don't have to."

  "Take it, and no back talk. You're taking a risk and you should be paid. Never be an altruist. It'll kill you in the end."

  "What's an altruist?"

  "It's what everyone wants the universe to think they are, but the universe knows better. Never mind." I looked out again. "Right. Get going, and don't let anyone see you with Winnie if you can help it."

  "Right. C'mon, Winnie."

  I watched them tiptoe down the dark passageway, then turn a comer.

  17

  And who should I see on my way back up? None other than the Weird Bastard stepping out of his cabin, catching sight of yours truly and slithering back into his hole like a mudsnake. I sprang forward and shouldered the hatch, wedging my boot between it and the frame.

  "A word with you, sir."

  "Get out of here!"

  "We really have to talk."

  He threw his weight against me hard and nearly took my foot off, but I shoved back.

  After a struggle, he stopped pushing and leaned against the hatch. "I'll call security!" he said.

  "You can reach the phone from here?"

  He thought it over. No, guess not. "What do you want?"

  "As I said, a few words with you."

  "Say 'em."

  "Actually, I wanted to take you to dinner. Have some friends I want you to meet. They live in the ocean, you see, and they have big, nasty teeth."

  Suddenly his weight was off the hatch. I threw it open and dashed into the room where he was already rifling through a satchel on the bed. I kidney-punched him and maneuvered him into a full nelson, made sure he hadn't gotten to the gun, then threw him against the bulkhead. He hit it with a thud and crumpled. I went through the satchel until I found it. A good little piece, a Smith & Wesson 10kw with a Surje powerpack grip, compact, lightweight, and deadly.

  He was on the floor with his back against the bulkhead, groaning but conscious, looking at me worriedly. I went to the hatch, closed and locked it, then walked toward him, twirling the pistol.

  "Maybe you'd like to explain that little episode on the beach," I said, "while you still have a working mouth."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You'll have to do better than that."

  He ran a hand through his unruly salt-and-pepper hair, then spent a good deal of time scraping himself off the floor. I stood well back, watching for the sudden move. He was a big man, but if I was any judge he didn't have any fight in him, just a streak of guile that he was trying to hide now with a merte-eating grin. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I remember now. I did see you on the island. Sure." He shrugged and threw his arms wide. "What's the problem? Must be some kind of misunderstanding here." '

  "I asked you if the water was safe, and you said yes. It wasn't."

  Innocence bloomed on him like mold. "I didn't know! I see people swimming in there all the time!"

  "How long do they usually last?"

  "Huh?"

  He was lying, of course, but right then it occurred to me that I didn't need another enemy on board. He could have other uses. "You didn't know about the danger?"

  "No, I swear. Look, kamrada, it's just a misunderstanding, believe me."

  I didn't bother to ask why he'd run at the sight of me, deciding to live the lie with him. "Well," I said, "if you're telling the truth, it looks like I owe you an apology."

  "It's the truth, I swear it." He stepped away from the wall and straightened his clothes. "I don't swim myself, but I have seen people in the water from time to time."

  "Uh-huh." I gave him a conciliatory grin. "Well, I guess it's all been a mistake then. Hope you'll accept my apologies."

  He was all eager smile, his body sagging in relief. "No problem, no problem," he said. "I can understand. I guess you were hopping mad. Don't blame you, I really don't. These things happen."

  "Yeah." I handed him his gun. "No hard feelings, I hope."

  "No, no, none at all. Like I said, I don't blame you a bit. Would've felt the same way myself." He slipped the gun into a pocket of his bright-blue jumpsuit. "Tell you what. Let me buy you a drink."

  "Sounds great."

  I let Paul Hogan buy me a drink. The lounge was crowded, noisy, and the drinks were expensive. We talked pleasantly for a while over mugs of local brew. Turned out he was a slave trader by profession.

  "Indentured servitude?" Hogan said. "You could call it that. There's a contract involved and a term of service specified, but the contract can be bought out at any time by the contractee. Slavery?" He shook his head in protest. "No, not at all. It's strictly a business relationship. Lots of people luck through to this maze with nothing but the clothes on their backs, their vehicles, and a pocketful of worthless currency. They need jobs, and I can get 'em. I'm a broker… an agent, that's all." He lit a funny-looking, bright-green cigar. "Ever tried these? Give you a real nice buzz." He blew smoke out one side of his mouth. "No, the reason I came over to you on the beach was because of the Cheetah. The Hothouse creature."

  "Really?"

  "They make great domestics. Not many of 'em in this maze. I was going to ask you if you wanted to sell it."

  "Sell Winnie? No, I wouldn't think of it."

  "I could offer a good price." He took 'a long pull of his drink, eyeing me like a specimen on a slide. "Uh, it seemed as if you lucked through traveling pretty light. How's your money situation? Need a loan?"

  Ah ha. The Bait. "We're okay for the moment. 'Course, we'll have to do something to earn a living eventually." Nibble, nibble.

  'Tell me, how'd you happen to shoot a potluck? I'm just curious. Different people have different reasons."

  "Really? In our case it was a mistake. Missed a sign, and before we knew it the commit markers were on us."

  "Uh-huh, uh-huh." He puffed the cigar thoughtfully. "Some people do it on purpose. Did you know that? In fact, we get more and more of those every day. Don't ask me how the word got back to T-Maze that there was something here to luck through to, but something makes 'em come. They want to get out from under the Authority's thumb. Freedom, that's what we got out here. High technology, forget it. Modem medicine, the same. Lots of things are in short supply here ― but if you don't mind roughing it, this maze is wide open. We're young and growing. Lots of opportunities." He sat back and crossed his legs. "You're right about having to do something about money eventually. Prices are high around here, believe me. You should give some serious thought to selling the Cheetah. In fact, I'm going to sweeten the deal for you, give you something to think about. I'll pay part of the price in drugs."

  "Drugs?"

  "Antigeronics." He snorted. "You didn't think you could get 'em here as easy as you can back in T-Maze, did you?"

  "I can't imagine anything being under tighter control than anti-g's," I said. "My last treatment was after a four-year wait and a dozen different permits. And it cost a fortune."

  "Sometimes you can't get them here at any price, and you'll die waiting. But I have good connections."

  "How much are we talking
about?" I asked, stringing him along.

  "I can give you, say, a quarter-treatment's worth. The full oral series."

  In a dark comer of the lounge, a quartet struck up a vaguely Latin American number. The instruments were acoustic ― marimba, trap drums, and double bass ― except for the lead omniclavier. I listened to the music for a while, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at a night sky aglow with moonlight over a silver-flecked sea.

  "Paul, a quarter-treatment's not going to do me any good if I can't get the rest."

  "Best I can do, Jake. We're talking big money here."

  "If you can swing a full treatment, forget the cash. I'll take just the drugs."

  "Can't do it, Jake. Like I said, my connection is good, but the supply is short."

  "Who's your source?"

  He flashed a smug grin. "My source is the source, friend.

  None better, but that's the deal. Think about it." He drained his mug and wiped his mouth with two fingers. "Here, let me give you my card."

  He gave me his card, which read PAUL HOGAN ASSOCIATES, EMPLOYMENT SPECIALISTS, with an address in Seahome. I finished my beer, made my excuses, and got out of there.

  When I got back to the stateroom, nobody was there. I knocked on the connecting hatch and opened it. No one.

  I sprawled on one of the double beds and keyed Sam.

  "Yo!"

  "Keeping busy down there? Anything interesting?"

  "Oh, sure, nothing like watching a stomach wall ooze."

  "It's oozing?"

  "Yeah, but they keep spraying the place down with some kind of stuff. How's it going up there? Any trouble?"

  "Things are coming to a head, but I keep getting the feeling I'm the pimple." I filled Sam in about Lori and Winnie, then ran down all the new bits of data I'd picked up, especially what I'd gleaned from Hogan.

  "This is all getting very interesting," Sam said, "It's also getting a lot clearer."

  "There're still some big murky areas, but I think…"

  "Yeah, what?"

  "Sam, just a thought. I know we're wedged in pretty tight down there, but could you muscle your way out if you had to?"

  “No problem. May have to flatten a few buggies to do it, though. Why? Where do we go then?"

  "I have an insane idea."

  "Oh, God."

  I heard the hatch opening. It was Darla, letting herself in with her key. She stopped dead when she saw me. "Jake! Where the hell have you been?"

  'Talk to you later, Sam."

  "Any time."

  "Hi, Darla."

  She came over and sat on the bed beside me. "You disappeared."

  "Sorry. We went for a walk."

  "Where's Winnie?"

  "Wanted to talk to you about that. I gave her to somebody."

  Her face didn't change expression, but a submerged ripple of surprise crossed it, once, and was gone. "You gave her to somebody? Who?"

  "Uh, guy by the name of Paul Hogan. Deals in exotic animals, for zoos and such. I thought it best." I put my hands behind my head nonchalantly. "Had to do something sooner or later. Right?"

  "Zoos? They have those here?"

  "Apparently. Well, he didn't say zoos exactly. Now that I think of it, it seems improbable. Exotic pets, maybe." She frowned at me. "Darla, I don't like it any better than you, but it had to be done. He said he'd find her a good home."

  She didn't like it, but said nothing. She was thinking.

  "Where's the gang?"

  "Hm? Oh, they're out shopping."

  "Did you go with them?"

  "No, I was looking for you."

  "I should have let you know, but we got to wandering, then we met Hogan, and then… well, I wanted to get the matter taken care of. Sorry."

  She didn't quite know what to make of it. "Where did you ―?"

  Voices in the next room interrupted her. A knock came on the connecting hatch.

  John poked his head in. "Hello?"

  "Come on in," I said.

  John stepped in, decked out in a bush outfit. He looked like a khaki beanpole. "What do you think?" he said, turning like a ballerina.

  "Nice outfit," I said. "Yours too, Suzie."

  Susan's was more conventional, a green all-climate suit with brown knee-high boots. "We got backpacks too," she said, proudly displaying hers. "And some camping equipment, new eggs, everything."

  "Yes," John said. "We thought we'd be proper starhikers for a change. Spent a bloody fortune. The prices!"

  Roland walked in wearing a match for Susan's outfit. "Jake! Where the punking hell were you? ― if you don't mind my asking."

  "With Winnie. I found someone to take her."

  "Oh, Jake, you didn't!" Susan was shocked.

  John, in a sudden reverie, said, "Odd… I was wondering where all this stuff comes from. I didn't think to check the labels. They seem good quality."

  "I checked them," Roland said. "The labels were all from Terran Maze. Where else?"

  John furrowed his brow. "But I was under the impression…"

  "You get the door prize, Roland," I said. "The Outworlds aren't as far out as you think."

  "Lots of things don't make sense here," Roland said.

  "You mean goods are being shipped here from back home?" John said.

  "Exactly," Roland answered.

  "But how are the suppliers getting paid? I mean how…?" He was lost in thought.

  "I don't know," I said. "But nobody dumps goods through a one-way hole, do they?"

  "Not likely," Roland said.

  "Then there's a way back?" John said, shocked at his own conclusion. Susan was round-eyed, hope springing to her face.

  "Apparently somebody knows a way," I said, "but they may not be telling."

  "But if we could find it," John said.

  "If this maze is as big as most are," Roland said, "that could take years. A century. And I have a feeling a great deal of this maze is unexplored."

  "Well." John sighed and sat down. "Food for thought."

  Susan looked crestfallen.

  "Speaking of food," Roland said, thumping his stomach. "I suppose they have cabin service."

  "I'm for the dining room," I said, drawing a strange look from Darla. "I want good food, civilized conversation, wine, and wit."

  A knock at the outer hatch, and everyone froze.

  "Come in!" I yelled.

  Darla's Walther was in her hand before I could see her move. "Jake! What're you doing?" she gasped.

  "Roland, get the hatch, will you? I keep forgetting the thing locks automatically."

  Roland gave me a puzzled look, then went to answer it.

  "Darla, put that thing away. We have guests."

  "Mr. McGraw?"

  "No, he's over there."

  A ship's officer stepped in. "Mr. McGraw?"

  "Yes?"

  "Good evening. Jean Le Maitre, Executive Officer." "Bon soir, Monsieur Le Maitre. Comment ca-vas?" "Bon, Monsieur. Et vous? Comment allez-vous ce soir?" "Tres bien. Et qu'y a-t-il pour votre service?" "Le Capitaine presente ses compliments, et il voud-rait… excuse me. Does everyone speak French here?" "I've just exhausted my knowledge," I said. He laughed. "Then I'll speak English. Captain Pendergast presents his compliments, sir, and requests the honor of your company at dinner this evening, at his table."

  "Tell the Captain," I said, "that we'd be delighted."

  "Would eight bells be convenient for you?"

  "That'd be fine."

  "Excellent. The Captain will be expecting you. Until eight, then… mesdames et messieurs." He clicked his heels together, bowed, and left.

  "La plume de ma tante est sur le bureau de mon oncle," Susan said dully.

  18

  I needed a weapon. I had been getting and losing them at a rapid rate lately. Another squib would be just the thing, but I doubted one could be found, as they aren't a popular item. Everybody wants a hand-cannon, for some reason. True, you can't cut through vanadium steel with a squib, but I know of
few dangerous beings made of steel. You get few shots with a palm-size weapon, but you only need the one that does the job. There was a hitch, however. From the shootout at Sonny's everyone knew I favored a squib and knew exactly where I kept it hidden, if they didn't know before. All right; I'd get a shooting iron too.

  The shopping area was large, divided up into stores that sold anything and everything, with no particular emphasis on any one market. I browsed through one that offered clothing, toiletries, camping equipment, food, and shelves of miscellaneous bric-a-brac. They sold weapons too. A pretty middle-aged woman showed me to a display case. The selection wasn't much; there were half a dozen odd pieces in various models, an S & W like Hogan's among them. I had second thoughts about getting a wall-burner. Maybe the 10kw would be enough. She took it out of the case for me. It was basically the same as the slave trader's, but the powerpack was a different, earlier design and was a good deal bulkier, awkwardly so. I didn't like it, but the alternatives were few. There were two Russian slug-throwers, a Colonial-made beamer, and one antique replica that qualified as a hand-cannon by anyone's lights, if you didn't mind throwing a barely supersonic projectile.

  "Let me see that one," I said.

  She chuckled. "Are you going to shoot it out with the sheriff?"

  "I think you have the wrong period. It's a nice piece, though. What's its rating… er, caliber?"

  "I wouldn't know, sir," she said.

  I looked. "Oh, it says right here. Forty-four magnum. Hm. Have any ammunition?"

  "I only have one box of twenty shells. Sorry, but I let someone talk me into taking that thing on a trade. Thought I could get a good price from a collector. No takers."

  "It's authentic?"

  "Oh, yes. Reconditioned, but it's the genuine article."

  I doubted it. In fact, it looked as if it had been doctored up to look the part. She'd gotten stung, all right, and she was trying to off-load it on me. "No kidding?" I said innocently.