Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  “I’m rich, too,” he pro­tes­ted.

  “Lot of go­od it do­es us now,” she ru­mi­na­ted. “Both of our fa­mi­li­es ha­ve the me­ans to ran­som us. That won’t mat­ter be­ca­use it’s li­kely we’ll fre­eze to de­ath be­fo­re the ne­ces­sary ar­ran­ge­ments can be ma­de.” It was not ne­ces­sary for her to see the co­lor-co­ded he­at-sen­si­ti­ve re­ado­ut that was part of the fab­ric of her day­su­it’s left arm to know that the in­teg­ra­ted che­mi­cal re­ac­ti­on that kept the su­it warm wo­uld ha­ve run the last of its re­ac­ti­ve co­ur­se by mor­ning. Then they wo­uld find them­sel­ves clad in su­its that kept out the wind but not the bit­ter cold. If the tem­pe­ra­tu­re ho­ve­red a few deg­re­es be­low fre­ezing they might still be ab­le to sur­vi­ve.

  This, ho­we­ver, was Tran-ky-ky-not so­me com­for­tab­le ski re­sort on one of the de­ve­lo­ped worlds. Na­ti­ve clot­hing-a lot of na­ti­ve clot­hing-wo­uld cer­ta­inly help. How dis­tant lay the abo­de of the Vi­rin? Co­uld they get the­re be­fo­re they fro­ze?

  By eve­ning they we­re far from the lit­tle is­land of the hot sprin­gs-and pre­su­mably al­so well be­yond the area li­kely to be chec­ked by any wan­de­ring se­arch par­ti­es. Wit­hin the fa­iling su­its a cold-in­du­ced let­hargy had be­gun to ta­ke hold. In this re­du­ced sta­te of awa­re­ness they we­re ba­rely ab­le to ap­pre­ci­ate the stun­ning sun­set as Tran-ky-ky’s star, warm and bright as Earth’s but mo­re dis­tant, be­gan to set in a sky as stri­dently blue as cor­n­f­lo­wer sap­phi­re. The gla­re of sun­light ri­coc­he­ting off the sur­fa­ce of the ice oce­an for­ced them to lo­ok away.

  Leastwise it did un­til one of the­ir cap­tors left his po­si­ti­on abaft and wal­ked for­ward to the star­bo­ard ra­iling. Hal­ting the­re he squ­in­ted in­to the dis­tan­ce, to­ward the set­ting sun, be­fo­re let­ting out a ro­ar that ma­de even the two hu­mans jump. In res­pon­se, his com­ra­des flew in­to a frenzy of ac­ti­on. Ra­cing back to the stern, Draz-ho­de jo­ined the ste­er­s­man in le­aning hard on the til­ler. The ice­bo­at he­eled over dan­ge­ro­usly, its star­bo­ard run­ner ac­tu­al­ly ri­sing up off the ice. Run­ning to that si­de, two of the crew grab­bed pi­ka-pi­na ro­pes and he­eled out, len­ding the­ir we­ight to the as­cen­ding si­de of the craft. Slowly, gra­du­al­ly, the run­ner in the air drop­ped down un­til it on­ce mo­re was in con­tact with the ice.

  The rest of the crew was ra­cing to bre­ak out a se­cond tri­an­gu­lar sa­il. It was not qu­ite a spin­na­ker, but it did al­low the ice­bo­at to put on ad­di­ti­onal spe­ed. The sturdy craft was tra­ve­ling with the wind ne­arly full be­hind it now. Draz-ho­de’s in­tent was cle­arly to ma­ke spe­ed as op­po­sed to ma­in­ta­ining his ori­gi­nal co­ur­se. The re­ason for this so­on be­ca­me ap­pa­rent.

  They we­re be­ing cha­sed by a mo­un­ta­in-and a fo­res­ted one at that.

  Arik co­uld see Jen’s eyes wi­den be­hind her fa­ce shi­eld. He won­de­red if she co­uld see his. We­re they as ref­lec­ti­ve of the shock he was fe­eling at the sight of what was be­aring down on them? The alarm evi­dent in the ac­ti­ons and ex­p­res­si­ons of the­ir cap­tors was hardly a con­so­la­ti­on. If tho­se sa­iling the ice­bo­at di­ed, so wo­uld the­ir in­vo­lun­tary pas­sen­gers.

  One of the re­asons he and Jen had co­me to Tran-ky-ky was to ob­ser­ve the lo­cal wil­d­li­fe-but not li­ke this.

  Closing on the fle­e­ing ice­bo­at was an enor­mo­us lump of ivory-hu­ed flesh. Slas­hes of gray and pa­le blue stre­aked its de­eply rib­bed flanks. What at a dis­tan­ce had ap­pe­ared to be tre­es tur­ned out to be wind-blown growths of anot­her kind. Evo­lu­ti­on had ca­used a do­zen or so hu­ge fins to grow wi­der, hig­her, and thin­ner. No lon­ger re­qu­ired by na­tu­re to push wa­ter, they now ca­ught air li­ke so many mac­ro­bi­otic bla­des. The mon­s­ter had no limbs. It had no eyes or ears. What it did ha­ve was a do­zen or mo­re in­teg­ral “sa­ils” prot­ru­ding from its back and si­des. Al­so a ca­ver­no­us mo­uth lar­ge and dark eno­ugh to swal­low the fle­e­ing ice­bo­at who­le.

  Projecting for­ward and out from the top of the blunt-he­aded ali­en at­ro­city was a dis­tin­c­ti­ve fleshy or­gan the si­ze of a bus and the co­lor of an ir­ri­ta­ted blis­ter. Eye­ing the bi­zar­re growth, Arik fo­und him­self won­de­ring how the cre­atu­re co­uld lo­ca­te prey wit­ho­ut eyes to see, ears to he­ar, or nos­t­rils to smell. What sen­ses we­re left?

  This was Tran-ky-ky, he re­min­ded him­self. Whe­re ever­y­t­hing was fro­zen so­lid ex­cept for iso­la­ted are­as of vol­ca­nism and-li­ving, or­ga­nic be­ings. Not be­ing ver­sed in the te­nets of exo­bi­ology he co­uld not be cer­ta­in, but it se­emed to him a re­aso­nab­le as­sum­p­ti­on the mas­si­ve pro­tu­be­ran­ce that do­mi­na­ted the he­ad of the on­co­ming cre­atu­re might ha­ve evol­ved to de­tect the he­at gi­ven off by li­ving things.

  Ironically, whi­le the ener­ge­tic kur­gal of Vi­rin we­re ra­di­ating he­at li­ke mad, the pre­da­tor might not be ab­le to sen­se eit­her him or Jen be­ca­use the­ir body he­at was bot­tled wit­hin the­ir day­su­its. Un­der dif­fe­rent cir­cum­s­tan­ces, it might ut­terly ig­no­re them.

  Despite the best ef­forts of Draz-ho­de and his crew the gap con­ti­nu­ed to clo­se bet­we­en the fle­e­ing ice­bo­at and that enor­mo­us mo­uth. It se­emed im­pos­sib­le that so­met­hing so mas­si­ve, flo­rid, and ali­en co­uld tra­vel so fast. What on ear­th-or rat­her on ice-enab­led it to do so? It was not un­til it was al­most upon them that the fa­ding day­light al­lo­wed him to ma­ke out the la­yer of glis­te­ning li­qu­id that bub­bled and frot­hed aro­und the cre­atu­re’s un­der­si­de.

  He re­mem­be­red what lit­tle he and Jen had be­en ab­le to le­arn abo­ut Tran-ky-ky’s re­mar­kab­le fa­una. The key to sur­vi­val of many spe­ci­es was the pre­sen­ce in the­ir blo­od of highly evol­ved com­p­lex glycop­ro­te­ins. The­se na­tu­ral­ly oc­cur­ring or­ga­nic an­tif­re­ezes kept the bo­dily flu­ids of ever­y­t­hing from the low­li­est ice-bur­ro­wer to the Tran them­sel­ves from fre­ezing when tem­pe­ra­tu­res drop­ped pre­ci­pi­to­usly. He co­uld now see for him­self that when exu­ded from spe­ci­al or­gans lo­ca­ted in the mon­s­ter’s un­der­si­de, they co­uld al­so be em­p­lo­yed for pur­po­ses of lub­ri­ca­ti­on. The mon­s­ter pro­du­ced and sec­re­ted a glycop­ro­te­ine­tic flu­id that pro­vi­ded a con­ti­nu­o­usly rep­le­nis­hed low-fric­ti­on li­qu­id cus­hi­on bet­we­en it­self and the ice. Or at le­ast it did so when it ne­eded to ma­ke spe­ed to cap­tu­re fo­od.

  Some pre­da­tors re­li­ed on ve­nom to sna­re the­ir prey, ot­hers on na­tu­ral glu­es, ot­hers on ex­ten­sib­le ton­gu­es or claws. This was the first he had se­en that re­li­ed on sli­me.

  Realizing that des­pi­te the­ir best ef­forts they we­re abo­ut to be over­ta­ken, two of the crew di­sap­pe­ared in­to the cen­t­ral ca­bin. They re­emer­ged mo­ments la­ter be­aring ar­m­fuls of spe­ars. Arik co­uld not ima­gi­ne the me­tal-tip­ped shafts ha­ving much ef­fect aga­inst the lo­oming mon­s­ter. He wis­hed only that his and Jen’s hands we­re not bo­und. Not that it re­al­ly mat­te­red. Even if the cre­atu­re did not eat them, even if it smas­hed the ice­bo­at but sub­se­qu­ently ig­no­red them, they wo­uld be ma­ro­oned out on the vas­t­ness of the open ice oce­an, unab­le to walk to a des­ti­na­ti­on even if one hap­pe­ned to be in sight.

  Then, ab­ruptly and unex­pec­tedly, the gar­gan­tu­an pre­da­tor ve­ered off to the right. Spe­ars in hand, the two Tran lo­oked on in be­wil­de­red si­len­ce as the pre­da­tor pul­led up next to them. It ma­de no mo­ve to swal­low, crush, or ot­her­wi­se at­tack the ice­bo­at. Hol­ding on­to the til­ler for de­ar li­fe, Draz-ho­de and h
is ste­er­s­man ma­in­ta­ined the­ir pre­sent co­ur­se. They did not want to do an­y­t­hing to star­t­le or dis­turb the spe­eding hulk that had inex­p­li­cably drawn har­m­les­sly alon­g­si­de. In any ca­se, chan­ging co­ur­se wo­uld ha­ve me­ant lo­sing wind and the­re­fo­re sac­ri­fi­cing spe­ed.

  The mon­s­ter be­gan to drift away to port. On bo­ard the ice­bo­at the baf­fled but re­li­eved Tran al­lo­wed them­sel­ves to re­lax ever so slightly. It was then that the gi­ant lan­ded in the­ir midst.

  Gray be­ard flying in the wind, fa­ce shi­eld flip­ped up in de­fi­an­ce of the ele­ments, he had le­aped from be­hind one of the mon­s­ter’s stiff-spi­ned sa­ils with a pis­tol clas­ped in his mas­si­ve left hand. Shod in bo­ots and not fur, his enor­mo­us fe­et we­re de­vo­id of ice-cut­ting chiv. Spe­ars flew and swords we­re drawn. The ice­bo­at was cre­wed by six war­ri­ors of the Vi­rin, bold and true. In such clo­se qu­ar­ters the sin­g­le mo­dern we­apon bran­dis­hed by the ar­ri­ving ap­pa­ri­ti­on did not enj­oy the ad­van­ta­ge it wo­uld ha­ve held at a dis­tan­ce.

  On the ot­her hand, Arik saw as he did his best to stay out of the way, the new ar­ri­val was tal­ler even than the Tran, and far mo­re sto­ut. The man sto­od well over two me­ters tall and must ha­ve we­ig­hed clo­se to two hun­d­red ki­los. This ex­p­la­ined how he was ab­le to pick up one war­ri­or and throw him in­to a pa­ir of his com­pa­ni­ons as easily as Arik wo­uld ha­ve tos­sed a ball.

  One of the wal­lo­ped was the ste­er­s­man, who had re­ma­ined at his post. Struck sen­se­less, he fell for­ward on­to the til­ler. The ice­bo­at promptly he­eled hard over to star­bo­ard. With the re­ma­ining Vi­rin oc­cu­pi­ed in trying to swarm the gi­ant the­re was no one to ha­ul out on the li­nes. The ice­bo­at’s star­bo­ard run­ner ca­me up, up off the ice. Arik felt him­self lo­osing his ba­lan­ce, fal­ling, and rol­ling hel­p­les­sly down the now sharply til­ting deck. So­mew­he­re ne­arby, Jen scre­amed.

  Darkness ar­ri­ved be­fo­re the sun had ti­me to set.

  ****

  A light that was bright te­ased his con­s­ci­o­us­ness back to wa­ke­ful­ness. Fa­intly, Arik re­mem­be­red that a bright light was what de­ad pe­op­le sup­po­sedly saw be­fo­re they pas­sed in­to not­hin­g­ness or on­ward to anot­her pla­ne of exis­ten­ce. As his vi­si­on cle­ared he saw that the light was co­ming from a fi­re. That was pro­bably not what dying pe­op­le saw, he de­ci­ded. Op­ti­mism res­to­red, he sat up.

  He was sit­ting on a pi­ece of flat wo­ody ma­te­ri­al. An un­mo­ving Jen lay on anot­her alon­g­si­de him. As he cri­ed out, a vo­ice that was ri­di­cu­lo­usly de­ep but not pon­de­ro­us ad­dres­sed him from the ot­her si­de of the crac­k­ling bla­ze.

  “Take it easy, yo­ung fel­ler-me-lad. She ain’t de­ad. Dre­aming may­be, but not de­ad.”

  Placing his hands on his spo­use, Arik was ab­le to re­as­su­re him­self that the words spo­ke the truth. He was fur­t­her per­su­aded when she be­gan to mo­an softly. At that po­int he tho­ught it might be ex­pe­di­ti­o­us to ha­ve a clo­ser lo­ok at the so­ur­ce of the vo­ice.

  Seated on the far si­de of the fi­re, the gi­ant who had le­aped from the back of the mon­s­ter on­to the deck of the ice­bo­at fed anot­her pi­ece of that shat­te­red craft in­to the bla­ze. Mo­on­g­low hig­h­lig­h­ted the rest of the ne­arby wrec­ka­ge. The spec­t­ral pi­le of splin­te­red pi­ka-pe­dan glit­te­red with ice crystals. Of the mon­s­ter that had cha­sed them down the­re was no sign.

  “September,” the big man rum­b­led aro­und a mo­ut­h­ful of fo­od.

  “Actually,” Arik rep­li­ed as he tri­ed to get com­for­tab­le on the ro­ugh bo­ard that ele­va­ted his bac­k­si­de abo­ve the tre­ac­he­ro­us ice, “I think it’s still July.”

  The gi­ant let out a snort. “No, fel­ler-me-lad-I’m Sep­tem­ber. You can call me Skua. Don’t know why I sho­uld let you, tho­ugh. By rights you at le­ast owe me pro­per for­ma­li­ti­es.”

  “We owe you ever­y­t­hing, I sho­uld think, Mr. Sep-Skua. You sa­ved our li­ves.”

  “I’ve go­ne and sa­ved yo­ur be­hinds,” the big man grun­ted thro­ugh his fla­ring gray be­ard. Ba­rely de­tec­tib­le be­ne­ath over­han­ging brows, his eyes we­re as blue as the sky of Tran-ky-ky. “As to yo­ur li­ves, tho­se re­ma­in han­ging in the ba­lan­ce un­less we can get you back to Brass Mon­key be­fo­re you fre­eze. To­mor­row we’ll know if it’s all one way or all the ot­her.”

  Jen blin­ked and sat up sharply. Arik was de­lig­h­ted to see that the in­teg­rity of her day­su­it had not be­en com­p­ro­mi­sed and that she ap­pe­ared to be un­hurt. As for him­self, he was bru­ised from he­ad to toe, but not­hing se­emed to be bro­ken. Hug­ging Jen tightly to him as she put both hands to her he­ad, he lo­oked back at the gi­ant.

  “You so­und up­set,” he ven­tu­red.

  “Upset?” Arik tho­ught the big man’s ga­ze was go­ing to cut right thro­ugh him. “’Pon my word, yo­ung fel­ler-me-lad, you’ve no no­ti­on of what you’ve cost me, do you?”

  Arik swal­lo­wed. Had they be­en sa­ved from the Vi­rin of kur­gal only to find them­sel­ves in the hands of a mad­man of the­ir own spe­ci­es? “Wha­te­ver it is, sir, my wi­fe and I will do our best to ma­ke it up to you if you’ll just help us to get back to the out­post.”

  “Bollocks and bot­he­ra­ti­on!” the gi­ant snap­ped. “What I sho­uld ha­ve do­ne was left the both of you fo­ols to ice cu­be yo­ur­sel­ves out he­re. You’ve cost me ti­me, is what you’ve cost me. How d’you ex­pect to pay that back?” He tur­ned sud­denly wis­t­ful. “I was all set to ta­ke tran­s­port away on the sa­me ship that bro­ught you he­re. Now I ex­pect it has va­ca­ted or­bit and go­ne on its merry chan­ge­over way.”

  “No it hasn’t.” Re­tur­ned to full awa­re­ness on­ce mo­re, Jen spo­ke up.

  The gi­ant glan­ced over at her. “No of­fen­se, yo­ung lass, but I don’t see any KK-dri­ve ves­sel out this way flo­uting its sche­du­le on my be­half.”

  “Not yo­ur be­half, sir. On ours.” She fa­vo­red Arik with an unex­pec­tedly af­fec­ti­ona­te lo­ok. “My new idi­ot hus­band and I are not par­ti­cu­larly im­por­tant pe­op­le, but we do co­me from fa­mi­li­es of so­me im­por­tan­ce. I don’t think the ship will le­ave wit­ho­ut us, or at le­ast not un­til our de­aths sho­uld be con­fir­med.”

  Skua Sep­tem­ber gla­red at her. “I’m af­ra­id you ha­ve a dis­p­ro­por­ti­ona­tely ele­va­ted opi­ni­on of yo­ur­self, yo­ung miss. It’s be­en my hum­b­le ex­pe­ri­en­ce that star­s­hips don’t hang aro­und wa­iting on tardy pas­sen­gers. No mat­ter who the­ir daddy is.”

  Daring to ra­ise her fa­ce shi­eld, she flas­hed blue eyes of her own at him. “I don’t li­ke to think that we­alth ma­kes me ar­ro­gant. Just re­alis­tic.”

  Arik step­ped back in­to the con­ver­sa­ti­on. “We might an­y­way ha­ve a few days be­fo­re the ship’s cap­ta­in fe­els he has to de­part. How so­on can you get us back to the sta­ti­on?”

  September con­si­de­red. “I’ll do my best, yo­ung fel­ler-me-lad. Out of per­so­nal in­te­rest as much for yo­ur sa­ke. I didn’t co­me out he­re with the in­ten­ti­on of re­tur­ning with a block of ho­ney­mo­oning ice in tow.” He smi­led. “Yes, I know abo­ut that. I just wo­uldn’t hold out ho­pe that you’ll be le­aving this pa­ra­di­se qu­ite as so­on as you’d li­ke.”

  “Whatever hap­pens, we’re in yo­ur debt, Skua.”

  “Your god­damn debt’s got not­hing to do with it. The so­oner we get back, the bet­ter the chan­ce I ha­ve of ma­king that ship.”

  “If you don’t mind my as­king,” Arik be­gan as he star­ted to shi­ver un­con­t­rol­lably, “how did you find us? And that cre­atu­re you we­re
ri­ding…?”

  Rising, the gi­ant di­sap­pe­ared in­to the dar­k­ness. When he re­tur­ned he was car­rying an ar­m­ful of ro­ugh-hewn Tran clot­hing. “He­re, put the­se on as best you can over tho­se fa­iling day­su­its. You’ll find the na­ti­ve at­ti­re sur­p­ri­singly in­su­la­ting.” Sit­ting back down be­si­de the fi­re, he used a Tran kni­fe to sli­ce off anot­her chunk of char­red me­at and sho­ve it in­to his mo­uth. Mel­ting gre­ase drib­bled off his lips to sta­in his be­ard.

  “When you didn’t check back in to yo­ur ac­com­mo­da­ti­ons last night or re­turn yo­ur ren­ted ice­bo­at, Ms. Stan­ho­pe-she’s the re­si­dent Com­mon­we­alth com­mis­si­oner for Tran-ky-ky-sent out a co­up­le of skim­mers to lo­ok for you. By law and Church edict that kind of tec­h­no­logy is not sup­po­sed to tra­vel be­yond Brass Mon­key un­til this world’s ap­pli­ca­ti­on for as­so­ci­ate mem­ber­s­hip has be­en vet­ted and ap­pro­ved. Gi­ven the cir­cum­s­tan­ces, she de­ci­ded to al­low an ex­cep­ti­on so a pro­per se­arch co­uld be con­duc­ted. Sin­ce she has less than half a do­zen ope­ra­ti­ves as­sig­ned to her staff, the com­mis­si­oner al­so as­ked for Tran and hu­man vo­lun­te­ers to jo­in the se­arch.

  “Unsurprisingly, the lo­cal Tran ha­ve no in­te­rest in was­ting ti­me lo­oking for a co­up­le of hu­mans dim-wit­ted eno­ugh to lo­se them­sel­ves out on the ice. Tho­se mo­re nob­le Tran who might ha­ve ta­ken the ti­me aren’t aro­und right now. They’re back ho­me north of he­re in Ar­su­dun. Ne­ed­less to say, no hu­mans vo­lun­te­ered-they’re not dum­ber than the na­ti­ves. Ho­we­ver you don’t get to be a Re­si­dent Com­mis­si­oner, even for an en­ds-of-the-ga­laxy ice­ball li­ke Tran-ky-ky, un­less you know how to ma­ni­pu­la­te he­arts and minds. A few of my fri­ends and I ha­ve in­ves­ted qu­ite a bit of ti­me and energy in hel­ping the lo­cals re­ach the po­int whe­re they qu­alify to apply for as­so­ci­ate mem­ber­s­hip in the Com­mon­we­alth. Com­mis­si­oner Stan­ho­pe, the old de­ar, bluntly po­in­ted out that the de­aths of an at­trac­ti­ve yo­ung co­up­le such as yo­ur­sel­ves fol­lo­wing so so­on upon such a sub­mis­si­on wo­uld ref­lect badly on the for­mal ap­pli­ca­ti­on.” He spat to one si­de. “Po­li­tics!”