Star Fall

by David Bischoff

  A smudged door behind him slid open with a rickety hiss. The man scratched an earlobe, thickly sprouted’ with hair. “Better hustle back there. Kid’s name is Halpine. Show him your card. He’ll fix you up good.” A crooked leer cracked the man’s blasé expression, as though he’d told a funny joke at Todd’s expense.

  Under the man’s penetrating stare, Todd entered, self-conscious of his usual shuffling gait. He picked his feet up as he stepped through. The door clattered closed behind him with a discernible grinding of gears.

  Todd winced at the fingernails-on-blackboard screech and scanned the lab room for Chiro’s replacement.

  A large room, the laboratory was crammed with all manner of equipment, most second-hand, the rest even more outdated. A warped worktable stretched along the entirety of one cracked wall, cluttered with gadgets, widgets, and wadgets of dubious nature. Various hued solutions bubbled under Bunsen burners; tubing ran from metal stand to metal stand like a complicated sewer network excavated from a miniature city. With the various mortars and pestles, books, and phials strewn about, it seemed more like a medieval alchemist’s table than a modern scientist’s. But then, Doctor Chiro was hardly the most modern scientist—a dabbler he called himself. Cannily scrunching his eyes to thin slits, his eyebrows blacker and bushier than before, he had alluded to the scatter of odd paraphernalia as simply his “chemistry set”; it had nothing to do with surgery. Absolutely nothing.

  Computer terminal faces composed the remainder of the walls. Squiggling oscilloscopes, darting dials, readout screens did their whirring and a chunk-a-chunk rhythms of the old-style computers. Two hundred years old they were, Chiro had said proudly. He’d gotten them for a song, he claimed. But these were merely back-up and monitoring devices for the tanks in the rear. The pride and joy of his life, however, (and the basis for the Parlour’s income, as well) dominated the chamber’s center: a bulky block that reached almost as high as the ceiling. Rounded edges and symmetrical planning lent it a more streamlined appearance than its mechanical predecessors surrounding it. Shaped like an old-style generator, squiggled on its surface with a multitude of cables, it looked almost alive ... a hungry, intelligent robot that supped on human flesh, spitting out the spirit when the body was digested.

  This, then, thought Todd, still impressed, was the Computer Surgical Unit that would change his life ... for eight months, anyway.

  A young man stood by the machine, jotting down certain readings on a clip boarded form, totally oblivious to Todd. Squinting at one particularly small set of readings, he scratched his head, shrugged, and looked for more to write down.

  “Mr. Halpine?” Todd inquired as he moved up behind the man.

  The youth started, dropping his clipboard, which clunked to the stained yellow linoleum floor. His electronic stylus slipped and streaked a thin black line across the back of his hand. He pivoted about unsteadily, peering at Todd nervously. “Yes?” he demanded. Large, sleepy blue eyes blinked from his boyish face murkily, as though they’d just as soon pull back their covers and go back to bed. A pale brown, straggly beard coated his chin and cheeks, a shade lighter than his ruffled long hair.

  Hesitantly, Todd tendered his ticket. Halpine plucked it away and studied it.

  “You’ve got it upside down,” Todd notified him gently. “What—? Oh, yes, of course.” He nodded, swept it once with his eyes, and handed it back absently.

  “Uhm ... excuse me, but I think you’re supposed to keep the card. I think Doctor Chiro has the folder I sent him someplace in his files, along with the computer card bearing the necessary information culled from the medical examinations. I think you’ll want to stick that in the computer in whatever slot it’s supposed to go in.”

  Halpine turned away—then stopped as though he had collided with some invisible wall.

  “Oh,” he muttered. “Ohhhhhhhhh!” He turned about with an amiable smile worthy of the most felicitous family doctor at the sight of a wealthy hypochondriac. “My goodness. You must want to rent—“

  God, it sounded so mercenary, so cheap that way. “Yes, yes,” Todd interrupted. “That’s right.”

  The smile spread up to the eyes, like oil on calm water. “Of course. Of course! I’m so sorry, Mr. Pigot.”

  “With an ’S’”

  “Mr. Pigots, you really must excuse me,” apologized the young man, oozing sincerity. “They called me in at five this morning, and I must admit I’m a little disoriented. Not quite awake, don’t you know.”

  Todd said impatiently, “Mr. Halpine! If you’ll just look at my folder, you’ll discover what I’ve come for! And I am in somewhat of a hurry!”

  “Ah. Hmm. Of course. I’ve not much use for folders, though. Used to use them back at Med School at St. Swithins. But of course everything’s in the computer back at CentHosp. Damned annoying things, files. Now, where does Doctor C ...” He looked about, trying to remember. “Ah yes, I believe he did show me last month ... just this way, Mr. Pigots, I say, that is an unusual name. Ancestors must have been pig farmers, what?” Halpine laughed jovially.

  “Excuse me, but you do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  Chewing a fingernail, Halpine scanned the file cabinets, seemingly baffled by alphabetical order. “Hmm? But certainly! That little machine over there is child’s play compared to some of the babies at the CentHosp. Let me tell you ...”

  “Look, Mr. Halpine, I don’t want specifics. I just want to get this done quickly.” His hands were shaking slightly with impatience. “I do have to catch a space shuttle!”

  “Don’t say!” Halpine trotted briskly to slot the magdisk with Todd’s specification into the Computer Surgery Unit. He inserted the disk, which promptly jammed. He banged the thing the rest of the way in with his fist. The machine quivered to life with a burp and an electronic gurgle. “A trip, eh. Business or pleasure?”

  “Pleasure, definitely. I’m taking the Star Fall cruise.”

  “Oh, jolly good.” Halpine tapped a well-manicured finger on the interior of the folder. “Right. We want section B. Blood type AB+. Super. This way if you please, Mr. Spigot. Let’s have a look-see at what’s available in our stock while old Sawbones here digests your disk and sharpens the old scalpels.”

  Todd cringed, but said nothing lest he impede the progress of events. Time was getting short.

  Jamming a dope-stick between his lips but neglecting to light it. Halpine marched toward the swinging doors. Todd followed, thinking that if this joker had more to do than push buttons on the machine, he would just forget this business.

  But would he really?

  Really, after all the months he had invested? Months he had laid awake nights, arguing with himself about this. The battle had been too hard-fought to turn away now at the last moment. All that pain and guilt was due now to be cashed in for the prize and that prize awaited him beyond the swinging doors.

  Halpine blithely pushed through the twin doors, allowing them to bat back into Todd’s face. Todd pounded through, oblivious at the prospect before him. To be free of it! To be free of this dreadful face, this half-baked dough sculpture. He could almost feel the prison cell opening; almost see the glorious light of a hopeful future stream in, boosted by triumphant trumpet chorales! Farewell Mother, my turnkey. Farewell Deadrock, my jail yard!

  These blissful anticipations were abruptly curtailed by the long room that opened up before him.

  Oblong glass boxes.

  Tanks.

  Sectioned rows of bio-support tanks—hundreds!—veined with complicated tubing networks, abubble with semi-colloidal nutrient fluid.

  In these tanks were human bodies.

  Like a bizarre aquarium, thought Todd, as he stared in fascination at these wired bodies floating behind the reinforced glassteel. Gurgling, pumping sound washed the room like an invisible tide susurrating on a sandy shore. The taste of brine in the air ... the smell
of flesh and metal. Cool, relaxed, hushed air lapped at Todd. “Come,” it seemed to say. “Step in. Come. Come.”

  Clipboard held tightly against his side, Halpine paced the length of the aisle, squinting at the small signs affixed to the ends of rows. “2B. 2B. Hmm, now where is it?” A facetious smile lit his face. “2B or not 2B, eh, Spigot? Well, it’s 2B for you, isn’t it?”

  The statement reassured Todd. “You don’t know how right you are, Mr. Halpine.”

  “Glad to have an enthusiastic customer. We aim to please. Ah yes! Here we go. 2B, and none other, and what a lovely section it is—well-stocked today.” He tugged at Todd’s blazer sleeve excitedly, pointing him down a narrow walkway. “Great bods, no? Why, this is the match of any Body Spa I’ve ever been in. This selection would do anyone of them proud. We’ve got short, tall, and muscular. Hair of black, blond ... my God, even red. Skinny, fat ... oh, uhm, I assume you’re not here for one of those, though, are you, Mr. Spigot. You’d be surprised at how much in vogue they are at some spas, though.”

  But the words had not connected with Todd at all. He stood oblivious to all else, transfixed before a length of green-tinted glass behind which a tall, lithe, naked body hung suspended on slips of supporting fabric. He swallowed, trying to suppress his excitement. “This—” He could hardly speak, his mouth was so dry. “This ... this is my ...” Oh God, please let it be! “... my right type?”

  Smiling, Halpine loped back from the other end of the aisle. “I should think so, Mr. Spigot. This is your right section.” He moved closer, stepping on a slip of paper that had fallen from the casing ... ignoring it. Pursing his lips, he examined the indicated body. “My goodness! You’ve made a fine choice. A fine choice. Had you not prior dibs, I might have been tempted to try this chap on myself!”

  He could not believe his good fortune. It was better, this body, than any anticipation could have possibly even hinted at.

  Firm, evenly proportioned muscle rolled along the tanned limbs and torso. Noble nose, imperious lips, high cheekbones, firm chin; the lines of which collected into a picture of proud masculinity. Although the eyes were closed, Todd knew that they could be no other color than chunk-of-sky blue. The hair, floating long and dreamy in the tank, seemed to be blond.

  “Yes,” Todd said, excitement spilling into his voice. “Yes, this one will be just fine.”

  “Well, then, we’ll waste no time if you’re in a hurry. Render thy body to be cast off nude, sirrah! I’ll fish Adonis here from the tank, and get him ready for the change. Doctor Chiro did tell you—“

  “Oh, yes. I know the preparations,” Todd said, hurrying away, almost skipping.

  This body he had chosen could not have been better if they had tailor-cloned it for him in some expensive acceleration chamber.

  This was going to be a fantastic trip, he could tell.

  * * *

  Blicia Ginterton sat down in the bar booth opposite her colleague. “We’ve been meeting too much lately,” she said, feeling nervous, slightly queasy. “I don’t think the scrambler is that good.”

  This was strange, Tracy taking all these chances. But he was getting desperate. Showed in the face. He’d been involved with the Star Fall a standard year and a half now, with absolutely nothing to show for it. Central had almost not even sent her on the cruise. Ort Eath was clean as a whistle as far as they were concerned. They didn’t care for financing an extra agent. But Tracy Marshack had insisted,

  “It’ll do,” stated Marshack tersely. “I want you to check up on something.”

  Oh, God. Not again. She’d been having a good time. Duty was getting to be a drag, what with all the things to do aboard ship. Too bad she couldn’t have brought Stephen along for the ride. She missed him badly. Seeing him back on earth would be so nice, with his lopsided smile and stinging humor ...

  “Okay. But how come it’s always me.”

  “You don’t believe me either.” Marshack’s eyes were hard—but a glimmer of hurt showed deep within. “I tell you, he’s up to something—“ He cut himself off. “Well. This should be fast. Something odd. I did a quick leech of the operational schedule for the orbit of Dead rock. Almost missed it, but there’s some kind of arrival by a really small ship at Hangar Deck Thirty-Four Sigma. Most likely nothing. I’d post myself, but I want to check up on the incoming passengers. Leech seems to indicate that there might be someone of interest boarding.”

  “Okay,” said Blicia. “I’ll be there.”

  She got up to go.

  For some reason, she still felt nervous. Still felt queasy.

  THAT WAS how it had been:

  They caught him just as he was lurching toward his Nebula parked on 89th and Brown Avenue. Four of them: Durtwood’s boys. He heard the violent scuffle of their shoes, the huffs of their breath, just in time to duck a converging of laser lines where his head had been. Hitting the sidewalk hard, he rolled and rolled and came up in throbbing pain with his gun in his hand. A bolt of his fire caught the foremost square in the stomach, boring a smoking hole you could stick a fist through. The man toppled hard, and the acrid stench of the flame licking up his turtleneck sweater carried fast. The other three dived for cover.

  Amber lost no time. He scrambled for his vehicle, head low, his throat full of bitter bile. Ramming his hurting body through the door, he punched out the ignition code immediately on the console. A flash of fire licked out from behind a GenMot Hawk sedan, playing across the metal of the door, kicking up spark sprays. He held up his hand to shield his eyes from the brilliance, while the streaking lights on the dashboard ran their starting sequence. The motors engaged, the fans grated into motion, the null-G filaments helping to hoist the car into the air.

  A lash of laser fire cut through the window, lopping off his hand at the wrist. It flopped into his lap, fingers wriggling.

  No bleeding; the heat had cauterized the wound.

  Figures running toward him. Overcoming the shock, knowing that the pain would convulse him soon, like a spike up the length of his arm; Amber squirted off a short blast, then jammed his foot on the accelerator.

  In his rear-view mirror, a spider’s web tracery of laser fire winked into existence, crisscrossing on their swinging paths to align with his departing car. The bastards most likely had their own car and would be on his tail soon ... but he had to attend to something first. Locking the craft into automatic, Amber rifled through the glove-compartment box, came out with an air-hypo. He selected the Zero-Pain squib, rolled up his tattered sleeve, and blew the whole capsule into his forearm. He slipped the selector onto Adrenaline and sprayed that in as well.

  Taking the car back into semi-manual, he essayed a sharp U-turn. The bastards wouldn’t expect that—and besides, he was headed in the wrong direction, anyway.

  Under his manic but expert direction, the car slued into the center lane, and he gunned the motor.

  Approaching dawn had paled the permacrete of the buildings and street into a uniform blocking of gray and black and white. Despite the Zero-Pain, helpless hot tears of agony dripped down Amber’s cheeks. This was the worst job in a long time. Maybe the worst ever, since it wasn’t over yet.

  Far ahead, the car of his pursuers emerged from the shadows, an avenging robot. A massive thing, it soared relentlessly forward toward him, big as one of the smaller tanks he’d been against in the Fortunata rebellion. It inexorably swallowed up the distance between them. It was just as well he’d turned around—that baby would have caught him quick anyway. He estimated maybe five seconds to impact. Already, concealed gun mountings in the car were swiveling up, glowing red with eager energy.

  Amber checked his wrist computer. Despite the fall, his suspensors still operated on seventy-five percent power—and his magnetic field held its full power. The car was convertible; he hit the button to lower the top and adjusted his mangled controls as best he could with the car controls on automatic.
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br />   Bright lines lanced out from Durtwood’s car, melting the front of the car to slag. Without further ado Amber struggled to a crouching position behind the wheel, adjusted the direction just so—and then sprang out of the car, flicking on a repulsor shield to interact with the metal of the car. The force was brutal, slinging him away at a forty-five degree angle. Only the stabilizing influence of the suspensors prevented him from hurling head over heels. The forward lasers of the other car swung immediately to burn him from the air like a clay pigeon, but Amber’s Nebula collided head-on into the monster, knocking them from their mountings.

  The crash was tremendous: metal rending, torn plasteel screeching. The Nebula accordioned and its energy coil exploded with a plume of fire-shot smoke. Sheets of flame swept the limo-tank. Amber could see that one man was bloodily pasted against the windshield. The other two staggered out, coughing; Amber picked them off even as he floated down to the pavement.

  That would teach the space-eaters!

  Using a piece of the wreckage, he splinted his broken leg with strips of his pants and hobbled away from the scene.

  This whole business was most unenjoyable. Things were bad and getting worse. Now he had to find himself another car before the rest of Durtwood’s lads zeroed in. Haven was eleven kays away, clear on the other side of town—and pretty soon the cops would sniff out his trail as well.

  Some minutes later, he had found no available transportation and was strongly considering finding a hiding place. He’d kept hold of his gun. He was not really ready for any further action, but nevertheless, he was expecting it.

  The further action suddenly pulled up alongside him in a compact hovercar.

  Dawn had pasted a sickly green glob in the sky like a low-watt neon bulb. The city’s smells were waking up with the percolating warmth; the garbage, the bleakness. Amber wanted to curl up somewhere, shut his eyes, and find out if he would wake up in Hell. He suspected it would be preferable to this.