And the worst of it, Cal now knew with every fiber of his exhausted being, was that the Federation existed not because it was good or bad but because it worked. And the reason for its existence was to continue working … to survive … to carry on its machinations … to spread its machinery like webbing from star to star ….
Cal suddenly realized he was lying on the floor, doubled up. The room seemed to be closing in on him, then ballooning out. Colors throbbed, skewed, ran in rainbows across the floor to vortex into a maelstrom of meaninglessness, and Cal knew that there must have been something weird in that food because music suddenly boomed soft in his pulsing head and a …
DARKNESS
… opened up to another room.
Cal was lying upon his back. He got up, and was immediately aware that he felt better. In fact, he felt great. He wore a freshly washed pair of coveralls. He could no longer smell his own body odor. His hair was cut, and his beard shaven.
The new room was smaller and less well lit, but otherwise as featureless as the other room, except for a door, which was slowly opening.
“Hello?” Cal said.
An alien stepped into the room. It was about four feet tall, with five eye stalks squiggling above a wartlike protrusion between its shoulders. It wore a robe and carried a rod, which crackled with electricity at one end.
Cal held up his hand as a sign of peacefulness.
The rod blazed. A beam ripped through the air, and before Cal could even feel the pain, his hand was just smoking ash. A bare bone rose up out of cauterized skin.
Cal screamed. Instinctively he turned and ran.
With a crackle, the energy beam blazed again. Cal was aware of an impact, a pressure on his back. Abruptly the ray blazed ahead of him, emerging from his chest.
Cal Shemzak froze, noted the blackened hole, the gaping ribs, and realized that he was dead, and before the pain could arrive there was …
DARKNESS
… which seamlessly raised its curtain to the sounds of some sort of animal in nearby trees.
The air had a strange sweetness to it, an alien tang. The sky was softly bright, with scatterings of pale pink clouds and a mountainous horizon. Wind-stirred water slapped the sides of a permacrete swimming pool. The air tasted of chlorine.
Cal lay on a deck chair, beneath an umbrella. He looked at his right hand, which was intact, and then down at his chest, which was fine, covered by a silken robe.
He felt immensely peaceful, as though he had just awakened from a long, reviving sleep.
Ice cubes tinkled as a tray was placed on a glass table beside him.
“Gin and tonic, sir,” said the butler.
“Where … where am I?” Cal demanded.
“An atmosphere dome on a planet called Baleful, Mr. Shemzak,” said the man, straightening his tie. He was perhaps fifty, and wore a uniform—a suit with tails, and a raised collar, neo-Edwardian style.
“Are you a Jaxdron?” Cal demanded.
“Goodness no, sir. Merely a colonial in the service of the present Masters of this world. My orders are to see that you are kept comfortable until things are prepared.”
“Things? What things?” Cal looked around. Behind him was a large, beautiful house. “What is going on here? What do they want from me?”
“May I advise you, sir, that I have learned that, when dealing with the Jaxdron, questions of why are quite ill advised, because the answers, when received, are more confusing than the original condition in which the questions were conceived.”
“I’m beginning to get that impression as well.” Cal Shemzak said. “Baleful, you say. Right on the Underspace fault … dead-center mathematical correspondence!”
“If you say so, sir.”
“So that’s why they wanted me,” Cal said, picking up and sipping his drink. It was startlingly good, crisp, chill, with a limey tartness. “When do I get to meet my new employers?” Cal asked.
“That is difficult to say, sir,” replied the butler. “I am not entirely sure I have actually met them myself.”
“You’re a great help … whoever you are.”
“Wilkins, sir. At your service.” The butler bowed.
“Damn,” Cal said. “If I’m so close to Federation space … ” He looked at the butler. “I have a sister.”
He looked up at the pseudo-sky.
“She’s going to try and rescue me.” Cal Shemzak was not sure whether to be pleased, worried, or distraught at the notion.
“I believe, sir, that that is what the Jaxdron are counting on,” Wilkins said. “Dinner is at six, sir. I think you’ll be pleased with Cook’s menu.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mankind dreamed of Underspace long before mathematicians and physicists declared, through computation, its probable existence. It took some time to develop the technology to enter the noncausal time/space fabric and learn to traverse its strangeness. But it was physicists like Cal Shemzak who were truly coming to understand the implications of the fact that Underspace existed only when it was used to travel the starways, a clearly proven case of viewer-participation quantum physics which, at heart, went against everything Albert Einstein and Sir Isaac Newton stood for.
Laura Shemzak did not understand the principles at all. She was simply an intuitively brilliant pilot, as she was happy to explain to anybody who cared to listen.
“They taught me just about everything there is to know about flying one of their boats” she said, standing with Captain Tars Northern by the docking berth, arms folded, leaning jauntily against a railing, and chewing on a stick of moodgum. “They fooled around with my body so they could connect me up right. But that’s not what makes a pilot, is it?”
Northern did not speak, letting a nod suffice.
For a brief moment, Laura felt a strange bond with the man. Somehow he knew what she was talking about, in the way no one but other blip-ship pilots could. How did this jerk know, she wondered, but then she was distracted.
“Hey!” she screamed at one of the robots. “Colonel Blimp! You missed a spot. I want this ship spotless, you hear me?”
“Please,” said the robot, hanging in its harness, dripping soapy water from its squeegee and its bucket. “The name is Kitchener. General Kitchener.”
“Well, right now you’re General Janitor in my book, so do a good job,” Laura instructed. “Dr. Mish made this guy, huh?”
“Yes. So you were telling me that there are new features to this XT Mark Nine?” Captain Northern commented.
“Oh, hell yeah! The engineer didn’t even have the chance to tell me all of them. I’ve got the manual in there somewhere. I guess I should take a look tonight, shouldn’t I?” Actually, after escaping Shortchild, she had practically memorized the documentation Logir had provided; she just liked to appear casual to show off.
“Yes. Anything will be of definite value when dealing with the Jaxdrons on Baleful,” Northern said with a sigh. “It’s not exactly going to be a milk run.”
“The real value of these babies, I guess,” said Laura, examining her ship with pride and wonder, “is that they’re so damned maneuverable, anywhere. They can skim right on down into atmospheres just like airplanes, pretty as you please, or function like the most advanced Federation starships in space, or travel on land or even underwater.”
“What kind of armament do you have?” Northern asked.
“Standard blip-ship. Lasers, a proton zap, plus a force screen that’s supposed to be a real killer in this model.”
“Cloaking device?”
“Do Devonian fish-men pee in H2O?”
Northern smiled at that. “Can I have a look inside?”
“Sure, just don’t touch anything.”
Northern climbed the ladder and peered into the tiny cabin. “Nice. I don’t suppose Dr. Mish could have a look at all this, could he?”
“Federation wouldn’t like that at all,” Laura said.
“But I suppose I could say you tied me up.”
“No. Brainwash. Which might just get you off the hook in regard to your bit of derring-do on Shortchild.”
“What makes you think I’m going back, Captain?”
“Come now. You’re a Feddy through and through. What’s that old saying about the leopard changing its spots?”
“And what do you suppose I’m doing now, Captain Northern?” she asked, annoyed.
“A brief whitewash?”
“And what about you, Northern? Naquist tells me you used to be Federation, too, and so did the Starbow, until you and Dr. Mish stole it.”
Northern’s face hardened, his slightly sunken eyes turned inward. “That is not a subject that bears discussion, Pilot.”
“We can discuss me and the Federation. Why not you and the Federation?”
“You know they want my hide for tanning, don’t you?”
“I got that distinct impression on Shortchild. Overfriend Zarpfrin seems to have rather a bug up his ass about you.”
“Zarpfrin. Yes, of course, this would be his jurisdiction, and he would have the power.” He directed at Laura a long, hard look that gave her an uneasy feeling. Then his expression softened, and he let go a laugh.
“I’d have loved to see his face when Kat told him what ship she was from, who her captain was!”
“You care to fill me in on the joke?”
“Sure. Why not? Zarpfrin used to be my boss. When Mish and I … turned bad”—Northern seemed to savor the words—“he was left holding the bag.”
“So why did you do it?”
“Steal the Starbow? Become a pi-merc? Maybe we were bored. Maybe we decided that the Federation was just too confining in its attitudes.”
“There’s a hell of a lot more than that, Northern, which for some reason you don’t want to tell me.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Same way I know how to fly that ship there,” Laura said. “From my gut.”
“You seem to fit quite a bit in that narrow waist of yours.”
“Looks to me like there’s plenty of room for what you’ve got in that swelled head of yours. So how come you won’t let some of it go? My brother always told me I was a good listener.”
“No, no. That’s not a part of our bargain, is it, Laura? I’m just supposed to lend you help and support in your efforts to locate your brother. There was nothing about spilling one’s past sins in your lap.”
“Sins?”
“A few, here and there, hither and yon,” Northern said distantly. “But I’ve a ship to show you, haven’t I?” he said, cheerfully. “And perhaps there are things I can tell you about, Pilot Shemzak. Interested?”
“Captain Northern, I’m all ears.”
The Starbow seemed a hive of activity; robots worked on shuttlecraft, repaired weapons, did any number of odd jobs; crewmembers hurried from one room or level to another, with barely a salute for their captain. Northern explained that he had ordered a complete maintenance check of the starship. If she was going into Jaxdron space, the Starbow had to be in top shape from stem to stern.
Beyond certain cosmetic differences, the interior of the Starbow was fitted quite like any large Federation military starship, which was appropriate, since it used to be one. However, Northern spoke of it in such glowing terms, showing Laura this modification to the Underspace drive engines, or that innovation in the null-grav capabilities, that it was clear the man had a fixation even greater than a ship’s captain usually develops. Indeed, Northern spoke of everything as though he had personally placed every single rivet and grommet, as though the Starbow were his child or, in a peculiar way, his father.
Although the ship was every bit the technological wonderland, from biochip components to sleek neo-Tao design, Laura could not quite understand the captain’s obvious affinity with this one particular vessel. After all, though she was a pilot as well, she approached blip-ships like clothing, or perhaps armor or a second skin, unique and usable, but sheddable and interchangeable. But when Northern ran his hand along a railing, or showed her an interesting design in the furniture, it was as though he were doing some kind of strange striptease, revealing private things about himself.
When she asked about the pods radiating out from the fuselage of the Starbow, Captain Northern replied that only certain members of the crew had access to those parts of the ship.
Laura, in a curiously generous mood even though her curiosity was piqued, replied that she understood: her relationship with the Federation not quite certain, she shouldn’t know anything that might hurt the Starbow eventually.
They had coffee in the mess, and their conversation assumed a quieter, more relaxed tone. Northern asked her about her experience with the Federation, about what she did for it, if she’d ever participated in any battles with the Jaxdron.
The most curious aspect of the vast interstellar conflict that was the Human-Jaxdron war, waged now for almost five years, was how few battles had been fought. The Free Worlds, after all, were principally interested in their own defense. Some had mutual protection treaties with the Federation. Most Free Worlds considered this tantamount to foxes guarding hen houses, but thus far the Federation had been true to the agreements, confirming its fear of the Jaxdron.
The aliens had taken over perhaps ten worlds, all in their own spiral arm, not yet even venturing across the gulf. They seemed to be poking and prodding the bulbous mass of Free Worlds and Federation, testing before taking any kind of big bite. The Federation officially claimed that this maneuvering was because of the sound thrashing Admiral Tarkenton and his fleet had given to a Jaxdron armada in the second year of the war in the Aleph sector, but Laura knew that since only two or three Jaxdron whip-ships had actually been destroyed, this was more propaganda than anything else.
Because of this lack of direct confrontation, Laura had never participated in any move or defense against the Jaxdron. Her function, besides test piloting, had been intelligence work among the Free Worlds with some peacekeeping (and head-banging) on potentially rebellious Federation-held planets. This was the first venture of a blip-ship and its pilot into Jaxdron space.
How ironic, she mused, that a pi-merc vessel should serve as transport!
Northern’s attitude toward the Jaxdron seemed nebulous, as though he had no real feelings about the war and would not until he and his starship were actually threatened. Beyond his clear love for his ship and his crew, his loyalties were mysterious. When Laura attempted to delve into his past, Northern diverted the conversation, discussing the merits or history of this or that crewmember, not himself.
The crew of the Starbow had apparently been recruited in a strange, disorderly fashion. The Starbow had plied the Free World backwaters, lighting here and there, lugging cargo, hiring itself out as a mercenary ship, or, eventually, preying on Federation trade vessels and selling the ill-gotten goods to the many black markets that existed in non-Federation space.
During this time, Northern and Mish often encountered individuals with merit who might be suitable for the Starbow, but the ones they actually invited aboard had to have one very special quality.
“Desperation,” Northern explained to the blip-ship pilot as he poured himself another cup of genuine coffee and added artificial cream and a touch of glucose. “That’s what they’ve got to have. They’ve got to want something so badly, they’re willing to commit themselves, body and soul, not to me necessarily, but to the Starbow, and whatever the Starbow is involved with, be it raiding a Federation vessel or taking shore leave on some rec planet. Each of their situations is not dissimilar to yours. Oh, of course, there are a few like Dansen Jitt who are desperate in the sense that the Starbow is their last chance. But mostly each of the crewmembers wants something very badly and cannot get i
t without help. Fornoran Kax, the hydroponics technician, for example … a gentle, kind fellow … saw his parents killed by a group of raiders on a Betelgeuse planet named New Washington. No one else cared how much he wanted vengeance. We needed him, and he needed us. Last year we found out who those pirates were, and we ran into them at a trading post. We kidnapped their captain and left Kax alone with him and various unsavory torture devices.”
Laura had met Fornoran Kax and was shocked.
“Kax? Did he kill the guy?”
Northern took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “No. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t split a hair. But the captain was pretty shaken at the end of it all, I’ll tell you. We let him go.” Northern shrugged. “Kax seemed pleased at the outcome and at the end of his commitment time signed on again.” Northern smiled. “Says this is his home now, and claims to be very attached to his plants.”
“It sounds to me as though another important quality of crewmembers is general weirdness.”
“It doesn’t hurt, believe me,” Northern answered, assaying her with an unreadable look to his eye. “Welcome to the club … for the time being.”
“Do I have to sign my name in blood anywhere?” Laura asked with an ironic tone.
“Perhaps you already have,” Captain Northern murmured. “But finish your coffee,” he said brightly. “Dr. Mish is waiting for us in his”—Northern paused as though considering just the right word—“playroom.”
Dr. Mish’s “playroom” proved to be a large compartment, occupied by tables strewn with half-finished contraptions; robot heads, torsos, and limbs and odd weaponry. Dr. Mish, looking like a toy maker from some fairy tale, was fiddling with something on a workbench. He barely noticed his visitors until Captain Northern called out his name.
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