Starrigger s-1

by John Dechancie

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  An exciter bolt sizzled from the ship, coming from above us and to our left. The eye steamed, then exploded, its liquid humors gushing out and running viscously down the side of the head. A high-pitched gurgling yell split the night. The monster began to withdraw, dragging its mass of limp tentacles away from the horde of defending Arfies. Within a minute, the last of it had retreated into the water.

  When it was all over and we were back inside, relaxing over brandy and cigars, I remarked to Pendergast, "I'd say there was no question that the Arfies are sentient. They're tool-users."

  "Many species use tools," he said, sounding a little defensive, "even have language abilities ― Terran apes, for example, if you remember the old experiments in which they were taught sign languages ― but no one accuses them of being truly sentient. After all―"

  "I wasn't making a political statement. Captain," I said to soothe whatever sore point I had touched. "It's also apparent that the Arfies have a definite niche here which humans can't compete for. No, I merely meant that it's hard to understand why the Skyway goes through here at all. It would seem that the Arfies have at least the potential to evolve into a technologically advanced race. Whoever built the Skyway seemed to want to avoid linking up worlds populated by advanced tool-users. None of the races we know have direct access to the Skyway from their homeworlds. The access portals are usually more than half a solar system away."

  "I understand," Pendergast said, sipping brandy from a huge snifter. "But I can't give you a satisfactory answer."

  "Which brings up another point," I went on. "To whom does this maze belong?"

  Another sensitive area, if the strained expressions around the table were any indication.

  "We think it may be a part of the original Terran Maze," Dr. Gutman said. "A lost part. I take it you've noticed we can breathe here unaided."

  "So can some aliens. What makes you think it's a lost section of the Terran Maze?"

  "What makes you doubt it?" Gutman riposted. "Surely not because it's so far removed from most of the Maze."

  "I don't doubt it. I was merely asking." Gutman was right, but why was he being so touchy? It's true that as far as Euclidean space is concerned, mazes ramble all over the place, with some planets as much as a thousand light-years away from the home system.

  "There is only one portal on Akwaterra," the Captain intervened. "However, there is another stretch of Skyway, also submerged, that leads to a dead end. No portal. We think it was the proposed site of the double-back portal to Seven Suns. You may be aware that there is an ingress spur on Seven Suns that no one seems to use."

  "Could the portal be underwater?" I asked.

  "No. It was never installed. Why not, is anyone's guess."

  "Ran out of funds, no doubt," Gutman quipped, eyes atwin-kle. "The bond issue didn't pass."

  "You seem to be all questions tonight, Jake," the Captain observed.

  "I have one more, possibly more important." I gestured around the room. "Where does all this come from? You said the brandy is domestic. Does that imply that you can sometimes get imported? Imported from where, and by whom?"

  "Congratulations," Pendergast said. "You've asked a question that never occurs to most luck-throughs. They see we have some home industries here, and they assume that all goods must be homemade. Take the titanium this ship is made of, as an example. We have domestic steel here, but we haven't been able to locate any rutile deposits. No doubt they're submerged. We lack many things here. But what we can't make, the Ryxx sell to us."

  "The Ryxx?" John gasped. "You mean there's a way back to Ryxx Maze from here?"

  "Not by Skyway. But through normal space, yes."

  John looked at him blankly. "Normal space?"

  I said, "Do you mean that the Ryxx haul goods here by Skyway and return by starship?"

  "Yes." Pendergast lit a slender, bright-green cigar. "A remote world of theirs happens to lie only twelve light-years from one of ours, which makes it a hell of a long trip at sublight speeds, but they don't seem to mind." He smiled. "Nobody thinks much of space travel on the Skyway, not when you can get in your vehicle and drive ten parsecs without leaving the ground. But the Ryxx never gave up their development of interstellar travel. Gives them a competitive edge."

  "What do they take back?" I asked.

  "In the mood for riddles?" he asked with am impish grin. "What's yellow and looks like gold and is worth going a long way for?"

  "I see." It made sense. Gold and a few other precious metals are always worth the trouble. "You have gold here, I take it."

  Everybody laughed. "Yes," the Captain said, looking around at the lustrous walls. "You'd never know it, would you? Yes, we've plenty of it, but we can't eat it. Perfectly useless substance, which makes it a perfect medium of exchange, even among alien races."

  A steward came in and whispered something into the Captain's ear. Pendergast looked at me.

  "Seems there's a call for you at the desk, Jake."

  20

  On the way to the desk I was worried. Only Lori would be calling, and that possibly meant trouble. I had received her code-note just before leaving to shop. I was worried for other reasons too. I'd come away from the dinner with the vague impression that Pendergast was in on everything. That meant we could be prisoners on this ship. I was concerned for the Teelies especially. I had told them to get lost after dinner, get out into the nightlife, go to the casino, go dancing, anything. Keep to public places. But where were they to go now?

  The clerk on duty put a phone in front of me, a boxy affair made of a coarse-grained wood, like the ones in the room. I picked up the receiver.

  "Yes?"

  "I have your jacket," a male voice said. "Want to come and get it?"

  "Who is this?"

  "The guy who owns the car you stole."

  The pill made my mouth work before I knew what I was saying. "The guy who owns the car I stole. Well, well. No fooling. What can I do for you?"

  "You can come up to my cabin and get your jacket, and let me take a poke at you."

  "Least I could do. Right? Let me ask you this. How do you know I stole your vehicle, or that I stole anything?"

  "A little birdie told me."

  It was an expression I hadn't heard in a long while. In fact, something about his accent rang bells all the way back along my lifeline. He had a true American accent, and to me he sounded like what most people accuse me of sounding like ― an anachronism. I remembered what he had yelled at us as we had pulled away in his vehicle: lousy bastards.

  "Your little birdie is full of merte."

  "Look, Mac. Next time you steal a car, don't leave a jacket with your name on it lying around… like on the front seat. Dig?"

  Dig? "Okay," I said. "You have me. Now what?"

  "Like I said, come on up and get it. I'd like to meet you anyway. It's not everyone who can handle my car and survive." He chuckled. "Don't worry, I won't start swinging at you. It was a hell of a merry chase, but I got my car back. So, no hard feelings. I was going to shoot that potluck anyhow."

  "You were? How did you get here? And how did you know I shot the potluck?"

  "How did I know? You must be kidding. Half of Maxwellville was on your tail, pal. I just got in line. How did I get here? I bought an old bomb at the used car lot, that's how. Paid top dollar for the goddamn thing. Cleaned me out! On second thought, I ought to punch your lights out just for that."

  I was marveling at the grammar, the vocabularly―"bomb" for substandard vehicle, the use of "dollar" ― the red-white-and-blue, good-natured gaucherie of expression. It was a voice from the past, my past, eons ago, hundreds of light-years away.

  "Well? You gonna come up?"

  "What's your cabin number?"

  "Three twenty-two, B Deck. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  "I'll be here." He hung up. '

  First, I had a call of my own to make. I automatically stabbed a finger at the base of the instrument,
then saw there were no touchtabs. I asked the clerk how to put a call through.

  "The operator, sir. Just hang up and pick it up again."

  I did, and a woman's voice got on the line, asked me for a cabin number. I gave her Paul Hogan's.

  "Yes?" He sounded uneasy, his voice hoarse.

  "Paul? Jake. Wanted to know if you'd had dinner."

  Silence. Then he asked thickly, "Did you send them?"

  "Send who?"

  "You're lying."

  "No, really. What happened?"

  His breath came noisily into my ear. "Three men. They wanted your Cheetah. Thought I had it."

  "I see. No, I didn't send them. Did you recognize them?"

  Another pause. "Yeah."

  "Corey Wilkes' boys, right?"

  "You son of a bitch!"

  "I said it wasn't me, Paul. He's your connection ― correct?"

  A burst of obscenity, then he hung up.

  "Weird Bastard," I muttered into a dead phone.

  Darla had done her job well.

  I was flying. The Purple Pyrotechnic Pill was shooting off the grand finale as I stood in front of Cabin 322. It took me a while to settle myself down. I knocked, and the door immediately flew open, startling me a little. By that time, seams in the carpet were unsettling me. But my emotional states were changing rapidly, like a flutter of card faces in a shuffled deck.

  A young man had opened the door. He was tall, with fight close-cropped hair, wearing a white pullover shirt and black trousers, black boots. He looked very young without benefit of anti-g's, maybe twenty or so. When I saw him, I forgot about being startled and felt fine. He looked friendly enough, but then I got edgy again and balked at going in, even when he smiled amiably, stood aside, and gestured me through. Then in another second I was okay again and stepped in.

  But as soon as I was astride the open hatch, I got an overpowering urge to shove it away, back against the bulkhead. I did it forcefully, and the hatch hit something, connecting with a body behind it, someone hiding. I drew the.44 and threw my weight up against the hatch and pushed. The kid leaped toward the other end of the room, but I didn't worry about him; he looked as if he was on my side at the moment. He flew over an armchair and surprised another ambusher hiding behind it. Meanwhile, I shouldered the hatch and squashed whoever was back there one more time for good measure, then threw it aside. One of Wilkes' bodyguards stood there against the wall, rocking back on his heels, looking at me abstractedly. Then the whites of his eyes rolled around and he slid to the floor with his back against the bulkhead, squatted for a second, and fell over. I kicked the dropped gun away and turned to see the kid wrestling with another man behind the overturned chair. I went over and whacked the bodyguard's head when he came rolling around, the pill making me misjudge the force of my swing. I hit him very hard. His head crinkled like a hotpak carton under the heavy wood-and-metal grip.

  The kid hauled himself off the floor, and I went to check the corridor. I closed the hatch and kept one eye on him as I looked over the first man. This one was merely out cold, but his comrade would need medical attention. The kid picked up a gun and tucked it into his belt, then came toward me.

  "Nice move," he said. "How did you know he was behind there?"

  "I didn't," I told him. "Any more of them?"

  "There was another one, but he left. These two had their guns at my head all during our phone conversation. What's this all about, anyway?"

  "Wish I knew exactly," I answered, "but the gist of it is, they want something I have."

  "Really? And here I thought they wanted my car."

  "The Chevy?"

  He was mildly surprised. "You know antique vehicles? Most people don't."

  "Not really. But I've been wanting to talk to you about that buggy of yours. Exactly where did you get it?"

  He went over to the dry bar and poured himself a drink. "Care for a snort?" he asked.

  "No, thanks. Is it an alien-made vehicle?"

  "It's a long story," he said. "Some other time." He walked to the bed where a pile of clothes lay heaped and pulled out my leather jacket. "Here," he said, tossing it to me.

  I let it drop, still holding my gun at my side.

  "Take it easy," he laughed, going back and pouring himself another drink. "If these jokers are out to get you, you have my sympathy. Not necessarily my help, but my sympathy. Aside from the sock in the nose I owe you, we don't have any problems. Put that six-gun away."

  I did, and sat down on the bed. "One thing. Did they tell you to call at the desk and have me paged?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "You didn't try my room first?"

  "No, but they did mention you were dining with the Captain. That help?"

  "Yes, thanks." I picked up the jacket and put it on. It felt strange to get back inside it. "Sorry about your vehicle. It was a case of desperate need."

  "So I gathered. And I was stupid enough to leave it at the curb with the motor running. If you'd've tried starting it―"

  "We found out what happens then, believe me."

  "I figured as much. You have to disarm the antitheft gear before you start. Is that why you ditched it?"

  "Ditched? Uh, yeah, that was why."

  I watched him pour another bolt of straight liquor from a dark brown bottle, down it, then grimace. "Rotgut," he gagged.

  "You said you were going to shoot the potluck on Seven Suns. Why?"

  "I'm trying to get back home," he said, as if the statement were self-explanatory. I made no comment.

  After a moment, I asked, "When you found your car, did you see anyone lurking around there? Reticulans, maybe?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did see two Rikki cars, but that was down near… what's the matter?"

  I was on my feet, ripping off the jacket. I flung it to the floor and stared at it. As soon as I had put it on, I had had a relapse of the itchy creeps, but this time it was stronger, and different. There was something on that jacket. Bugs. No. Not bugs. Something else, but I couldn't see what it was. But it was right there. A convulsive shudder went through me.

  "Hey, arc you all right?"

  I sat down and tried to get a grip on things. "Do you see something?" I asked, a panicky breathlessness in my voice.

  "Your eyes look kind of funny. Arc you on something?" He looked around. "Where?"

  "Right there," I said, pointing. "The jacket."

  "No," he said. "What do you see?"

  I tore my eyes from it. "Nothing. Forget it." I sat there while my mind raced in neutral. I felt compelled to get up and run from the room, but couldn't quite come to a decision to make the first move. "Maybe I should have that drink," I said.

  "Sure. You seem jumpy as hell. Not that I blame you." He stepped to the bar and poured me a glass. "These two punks arc enough…" He stopped and laughed to himself. "You know,

  where I come from, that word doesn't mean what it does here. I have to watch myself sometimes in mixed company."

  "Word?" I said emptily, not really listening.

  "Punk. The way I learned it, the word has nothing to do with sex, except when one of them tries to put a move on your kid sister."

  With difficulty, I plodded back to the conversation. "Where are you from? I mean, on Terra. You weren't born out here."

  "I'm from the States. L.A. Santa Monica, really."

  "'The States'? Not too many people call it that anymore."

  "I guess not." He brought the drink over. "I'll never get used to calling the country I was born in 'New Union of Democratic Republics.'"

  I took the glass of whiskey and upended it into my mouth. I tasted nothing at all. "We should leave," I said.

  The one by the hatch groaned.

  "You're right. What the hell should we do with them, though?"

  "Leave them. Pack up and go down to the desk, get another cabin. Say you have some noisy neighbors. If you can't get one, you can move in with us."

  "Good idea. Thanks." He dragged out a satchel from und
er the bed and began to stuff it with the mound of personal effects and rumpled clothes. "Are there more where these came from?" he asked.

  "Yes," I answered. "And Rikkis, too."

  "Jesus, those mothers give me the willies. I hear once they start chasing you, they don't quit. I've also heard that―" He stopped, straightened up, and wiped his forehead with a sleeve.

  "What is it?"

  "Goddamn headache," he said, his expression pained. "Jesus! That came on quick. Must've racked my head up against something."

  I sprang to my feet and stood there, immobilized. "Let's go," I said. "Now!"

  "You're a bundle of nerves, do you know that? Take it easy. Didn't you lock the door?" He knitted his brow, rubbed the back of his neck, then looked around. "Do you hear something?"

  "Like what?" I said breathlessly.

  "A buzzing sound. What the hell is it?"

  21

  The next few minutes… hours… I couldn't tell which, were a dream remembered, then dreamed again. The last thing I recall clearly was watching the kid put his hand to his head and slowly sit down on the bed. I was rooted to the spot. Gradually, I grew aware of people around me, then of hands gripping my arms and leading me down corridors, endless corridors, then finally into another room.

  Voices. I was seated in a chair but couldn't move, staring at the ceiling, watching pretty afterimages from the glare of the overhead lights. For the first time, I noticed that they weren't biolume panels, but glowing tubes, fluorescent tubes, recessed into the ceiling.

  "Do you think he knows?" somebody whispered. Another voice: "Careful. He may be coming out of it." The second voice I recognized. Corey Wilkes. "Darla-darling," the first voice said, "can you think of anywhere the creature might be?"

  "No," Darla answered. "Is Pendergast searching?"

  "I assume. Corey?"

  "Yes, but the crew's busy as hell," Wilkes said. "Something about another ship out there, following us."