Star Fall

by David Bischoff

  “I… I can’t do it,” whimpered the voice. “I ... don’t know… why.”

  “Come come, Miss Ginterton. Our monitors show that you entered that observation booth almost as soon as the miner ship docked. You heard the entire conversation.”

  “I ... I don’t ... remember,” the voice insisted.

  The alien glanced at the robot. “A blank of some sort?” Ominous.

  They couldn’t have infiltrated, he kept telling himself. He had screened all passengers, personally. They could not possibly have gotten wind of his intended activities ... no one truly knew them but himself.

  He stood awaiting the robot’s response. The thing hooked itself into the computer. Lights blipped. Red. Red blue. Green green. Black. “This brain,” announced the machine, “has the most subtle mind-blocks we have ever encountered.”

  “Specifics?”

  “Totally beyond our means. Web screens. Programmed defense systems. No way to pierce them.”

  “That is all we need to know,” Ort Eath said, fuming. “Somehow, they suspect. And this is one of their agents. If they’ve one agent on board, there may be more.”

  “Our conclusions exactly,” pronounced the machine. “The possibility is likely that the woman is merely a vessel—unaware of her service. Planted with programmed instructions. Everything could be true about her. Perhaps at necessary times she enters a fugue state in which preprogrammed behavior—spying, inquisitiveness—take over.”

  “Yes,” said Ort Eath. No reason to be upset. Of course they’d want an operative or two along for the ride, just to make sure things went smoothly. Nevertheless ...

  “Very well,” he said, strolling to the tub’s side, peering over into the green broth at the captive brain through eyes yielding no sign of emotion whatsoever. “We have time ... time enough to probe further. Plumb its depths thoroughly.”

  “Naturally. We shall commence procedures immediately.”

  “Spare no neurons. I want the blocks busted wide apart. But beware of booby traps. Destroy none of the information I seek.”

  “Process engaged.” The brain was suddenly bathed in a variably blue and milky-white glow.

  “Punch up visual and audio discoveries,” commanded Eath. “Record everything.”

  The previous frozen image in the hole-tank faded, like a dematerializing ghost. A mix of colors took its place, vaguely moving in sluggish patterns. Electronic fizzles and pops, crackles and snaps corresponded over the speakers. Blurry images faded in and out of the morass of colors bleeding softly into one another; garbled voices and music drifted loudly, then softly from the speakers. His face mottled by the soft light, Ort Eath watched intently, listened attentively. In each mutter there could be a clue; in each image, the vision of the truth.

  He stared. As though the intensity of the glare would extract the information, he stared long and hard.

  A fear grew in him, a vague uneasiness.

  He would not abide it ... he shut it out and concentrated.

  Minutes passed.

  The sounds from the speaker solidified again into the woman’s voice. “It hurts. Oh, it hurts. Stop. Stop. It feels ... as though I’m being violated, stretched upon a rack, whipped, hanged, drowned, cut open. Stop.”

  Ort Eath blinked. “Is there a way to prevent the pain?” he asked.

  “It is an unfortunate by-product of the process,” returned the computer.

  “Perhaps we can put it to use.” Quickly he returned to the com-stalk. “Miss Ginterton. The pain can stop. Help us. Cooperate. Use your will to flow with us, blend with our wants, fight your own defenses and we will be through very soon. The torture will stop.”

  “Torture. Is that what it is? Torture? You admit ... oh, I can barely form words. I’m burning ... help me!”

  Ort Eath returned to the tank. So be it.

  Did gods concern themselves with creature pain?

  No, he assured himself. Not strong gods.

  “We can’t break through,” reported the computer. “There’s an overall obstruction that just will not be broken. But wait. There’s something coming through. A curious pattern.”

  “Analyze it,” said Eath. “Immediately.”

  “No need. It’s an implanted memory. A voice, an image. It should be appearing on the screen any ...”

  Ort Eath turned back to the blurry hole-tank. And found himself confronted with a face.

  A man’s face, long blond hair tied in a quaint neo-eighteenth century style behind a well-formed head, green eyes, and a frown.

  It spoke.

  “If you are seeing me, Ort Eath, if you hear my words, then the worst of my fears are true. Shall it be another contest, as our many games were back on Raxes Three? You won most of those, Ort Eath. But perhaps you will not be so lucky with this one, whatever it is.”

  At first sight of the disembodied head in the viewer, Ort Eath’s eyes bulged wide. Odd-shaped veins throbbed on what served as its forehead. The sucker-like mouth clamped closed, hard. Then opened.

  He cried in a barely stifled speech from the orgabox, “You should be dead.”

  Convulsively, Ort Eath thrust his black-gloved hand into the nutrient tank. Four fingers gripped the floating brain and tugged it up.

  “... be sure I’ll find out what you’re up to ...”

  The alien’s hand ripped the brain from its protecting bath. Nutrient fluid sloshed out, slapping onto the floor sickeningly. The cerebellum, riddled with wires and tubes, began to expand and contract spastically. A violently disconnected wire fell away sparking and crackling furiously.

  “... and stop you.”

  Ort Eath, aghast, stared at the quivering lump. Haunted fires burned in his eyes, suddenly painfully expressive beneath their usual coldness. He began to shake violently.

  “No,” he said. “No!” Mightily, he squeezed his fingers together.

  With a squishing sound, the organ slowly collapsed, bits forced through the fingers like wet gushing clay. Blood squirted in several directions, jetting into the tank, turning the fluid a greenish brown. A stream of it leaked down the satin sleeve of Ort Eath’s tunic, crimson on lacy white. Sparks erupted from the wires transecting the ruined brain—then ceased. A burning smell wafted through the room, an olfactory specter.

  Bits of the gray matter plopped back into the tub. Oft Eath threw the rest to the floor, and ground it into jelly with a booted foot. “No,” came his voice through the orgabox. “No, you will not stop me. Not you, Tracy. Not anyone. I’ll find you. I will!”

  Chest heaving, he strode to a console desk and leaned upon it.

  Silent moments passed.

  Impossible, Ort Eath thought. Incredible!

  He had acted rashly, of course. Destroying the brain was foolish. Just what Tracy wanted ... just why the message was planted. The bastard knew him so well.

  His previous composure was once more lost. The taunting voices, the laughter, the hate, manacled with memory lashed at him.

  They would pay. They and their brethren.

  That was the irony. In their punishment, he would transcend them all into godhood, and transform them as well.

  All is one, came the voice of his teacher, lounging in calming mud streams of Rerpak under the huge amber sun. Time is nothing but the welder of all. In time, you shall know what you must do, Ort Eath, my poor crippled one. In time, you shall know the desire that torments you and quench it. You shall no longer be separated.

  Yes. Yes, he must not lose sight of his goal.

  He lifted his head. The robot stood in its same previous spot. “You will clean up,” Ort Eath commanded. “You will analyze all data culled from the woman’s brain. You will program an analog controller into her body. It may well be useful as an agent of our own. The enemy is aboard, computer. The enemy. I must ferret out that enemy.” He stood, avoiding the sigh
t of the mangled brain, the splotches of green and crimson. “Set about this immediately. I shall expect a report in three hours.”

  Not waiting for a reply, he strode from the room.

  To attain godhood, he reminded himself, one must suffer, terribly. And so must others.

  The cords of Wagner sang to him soothingly.

  TEXT OF INTERVIEW (Partial)

  TAKEN FROM INTRODUCTORY

  MULTIMEDIA PACKAGE

  FOR PASSENGERS:

  ANNOUNCER: I’m speaking today with Professor Herv Adshaw of the Terran Collective University. Professor Adshaw is perhaps the most respected authority on the Morapn race and its relations with Earth. Welcome aboard the Star Fall, Professor.

  ADSHAW: This won’t take long, will it? I’ve just programmed a real-fic, and I admit to being a little antsy

  ANNOUNCER: Not long. This is one of the reasons you’re here, if I may remind ...

  ADSHAW: Uhm, oh yeah. Sure. I’m getting a bit carried away. Right. Morapns. What would you like to know? By the way, could I get some drugs in this coffee?

  ANNOUNCER: Right beside you. Now, I think what weighs most upon people ... I mean, it really concerns me and it must concern everybody on this ship along for the ride is—well, I must be frank. These Morapns on board are pretty ... well, let’s just out and say it. They’re odd buggers.

  ADSHAW: Oh, absolutely. Things they can do ... hell, you won’t believe it. Cripes, this is good stuff.

  ANNOUNCER: Only the best, Professor, on the Star Fall.

  ADSHAW: Hey. What about doing one of these ships and making it a University of the Starways. Geez, that would ... Uh yes, Morapns. D’you know they can just flow themselves around machinery and make it part of them? Craziest goddamn thing you ever saw in your life. You should see their musical instruments, their transportation. You get tripped out just thinking about it.

  ANNOUNCER: Our director has just keyed up a holo behind us of this process which you describe.

  ADSHAW: Oh, hey! That’s it! Weird!

  ANNOUNCER: Just when and where did the two races make first contact.

  ADSHAW: I dunno. About 400 years after we got FTL and could leave our own solar system. Reason it took so long was that the suckers were in a whole other spiral arm of the galaxy. We sent out the usual exploration ship to check out that other arm, which is right by us, you know ... adjacent. Ran smack into a whole flotilla of Morapn ships. God knows why they didn’t blow us away immediately. They made contact with the Captain ... Guy named Erwin Michaels. What a chump! He underspaced a radio-transmission with full details of some beings who’d attained equal if not greater progress in the galaxy. That was his last message. That ship just disappeared! So two years pass. We send out a new ship, armed to the teeth. They brought back the Liberty and what was left of the crew, and a war.

  ANNOUNCER: Because of what the Morapns had done, messing around with the crew.

  ADSHAW: You bet. You should see the pictures. Evidently the Morapns thought that our gestures of friendship meant they could cut our “sacrificial” party up to see what makes humans tick. Well, you can imagine the way we took that. We fortified the Rim Worlds, got out our shotguns, and fumed for a while. Finally one of the admirals just couldn’t take it anymore, and we took about a zillion ships toward Morapn space, ready to blow the aliens away. The Morapns confronted the fleet and made their message pretty clear. They didn’t want to fight us, but upon the discovery of humankind’s predatory nature, they’d armed themselves pretty thoroughly as well with far superior weapons. They could break our tin swords anytime they wanted. They zapped a couple of our ships just to show us what they could do, and we got big fat scared grins and backpedaled fast.

  ANNOUNCER: But the Morapns did not take advantage of their superiority.

  ADSHAW: Nope. We kind of sniffed around each other for a while and slowly began to establish relations. They even allowed human missionaries on some of their worlds. Pretty bizarre. As a matter of fact, we’ve been pretty friendly these past decades. Oh, an occasional spat. But this little mission here ought to clean things up. That enough? Can I go now?

  ANNOUNCER: Just one question. The Morapn indifference toward humans is well known. Just what will they get out of the Star Fall voyage?

  ADSHAW: Who gives a shit? I’m having the time of my life. Now, if you want to hear something really interesting I’ll tell you about this cute little blond number I saved from a dragon yesterday ...

  * * *

  “There must be a mistake.” squeaked the buzz-unit, zipping back and forth before the two hulking security officers almost nervously. “This is Todd Spigot, a most worthy passenger, and my responsibility! You cannot harm him. I’ll— ”

  “Shuddup,” said the closest, who promptly reached out with a large, well-muscled hand, grabbed the little buzz-unit and broke it in two. The resultant crack was like that of a wishbone breaking. The Azinatin cast off the remains and turned his attention back to Todd Spigot.

  “God! Why did you ... it was harmless ...” Todd said, eyes wide. “You must think I’m ... Well, I’m not ... don’t point those guns at me!”

  No expression crossed the swarthy humanoid features. No sign of understanding, mercy, or thoughtfulness whatsoever. Todd stared despairingly at the scattered metallic bits that had clattered to the floor. He noted with discomfort that the two standing before him smelled like rotten tuna fish.

  “We know who you are,” was the only response. “We also know that you’re wearing illegal material.” The voice sounded like shattering glass.

  “What?”

  “Listen, don’t act dumb, buster.” Cucumber-nose pointed a scraggly finger. “That’s a MacGuffin Mark Twelve you’ve got on. They’re banned in most systems ... and just consider this one of them. Now just don’t move. We’ll count any fidget, any movement as attack. We’ve come to see you don’t cause no trouble. We’re taking this matter in our own hands and nixing you out, right now. Don’t know why we’re giving a speech about it, so ...” the word ground to a halt like a run-down record player. The two stood rigid like statues propped in the door frame for decoration.

  Hunk had struck again. But what was he doing?

  Todd carefully walked to the security officers. They remained still, inert. Todd peered over their shoulders, to the seashore. The sea breakers seemed to have abruptly transformed to ice. A seagull hung suspended in the air over them. It was like some 3-D seascape sculpture.

  Todd gazed at the seagull-and noticed that slowly, almost imperceptibly, its wings were moving. Slowly, the foaming waves were breaking as well.

  His time sense had changed ... and he was moving at an incredible speed. That must be it. He had read about things like this at school ... but the process was brutal on the metabolism, like concentrating years into weeks. It aged you, quick.

  Todd took rapid advantage of the change, tearing the weapons from the Azinatins’ hands. Almost immediately, things began to resume normality. The creatures’ mouths were gaping open with shock and surprise. As well they might. Todd squeezed through them and they fell over, in painful slow motion.

  Todd ran. He skirted the seashore and tossed the weapons away. He wanted nothing to do with guns if he could help it—and the last thing he wanted was for those things to get ahold of them again. The weapons splash-plopped into a wave-swell; a frothy breaker folded over them, tucking them safely away into the salty water. Todd wheeled about and saw the two lumber out, true fee-fie-foe-fummers, their broad noses flared. Slowly, quite slowly, time perspective for Todd resumed its former pace; each stride the Azinatins made was faster, each outraged gesture came quicker. Slowly the sounds they emitted slurred from groggy basso profundo to mere vibrato bass. The sand specks they kicked up sparkled in the artificial sun like a slow flow of backlit diamonds.

  Time to retreat.

  But to where? The only way Todd kne
w out was the way that the unfortunate buzz-unit Mercury had led him through. A simple-enough sliding door situated in the wall, painted and lit to look like the horizon. Perhaps the security officers had placed a guard there. Nothing for it, however; that was the way Todd had to go.

  With an ease that might have been pleasurable but for his present circumstances, Todd loped for the exit. The breeze sang sea songs in his ear. He could feel the healthy pumping of his blood. He could hear the waves lap at the beach; feel the warm rays of the controlled-fusion sun above. Lulled by his sense of physical well-being, he slowed a bit. But puffing sounds from behind brought his attention back toward the beach hut.

  The security officers were gaining, their faces wearing truly hellish aspects.

  His time sense had returned.

  Faster than he had ever run before, he high-tailed away, kicking up long trails of sand, which slapped into the monsters’ faces.

  * * *

  The man sat in the middle of the small room.

  Pills were scattered about him. Red pellets, blue tablets, black capsules like spilled confetti. He had taken many, but they had done no good.

  He clutched a half-drained bottle of Altairian liquor like a baby clutches its milk lest it be wrested away. He was bathed in a rank patina of sweat, and his eyes stared off into a corner, vacantly.

  A purpled tongue protruded like a bit of flesh about to be spat out.

  Over the omni-speakers, soothing muzak flowed like the rush of cool water. Against the wall, the 3-D held a play in progress. Shakespeare. Macbeth. Against brooding, dank, mist-shrouded castle walls stood Lady Macbeth by her doctor, trying to wipe something from her hands onto her nightgown.

  “Out, damned spot! Out I say! One: two: why, then ‘tis time to do’t. Hell is murky.”

  That politico on Onces. They’d wanted him to suffer, Amber’s employees had. An easy-enough job, with the firepower and men they’d allotted him. A piece of cheesecake to kidnap the man, strap him into that chair in that dingy basement. That was his part. He’d done that for them. He’d let a pop-eyed sadistic little flunky take care of the torture. He would have preferred something more sophisticated, something with a tad more élan. But it was the little man’s choice. He could never shake off the image of that needle-point, razor-edged knife, gleaming with metal fire as the man oozed into the basement to do his job.