Upon a Sea of Stars

by A Bertram Chandler

  “You are. But how do you know?”

  “Never mind that. And these rats—there are mutants among them, aren’t there? You’ve been coming a long time from Elsinore, haven’t you? Mannschenn Drive breakdowns . . . and fluctuations in the temporal precession fields to speed up the rate of mutation.”

  “But, sir, how do you know? We have sent no messages. Our psionic radio officer was killed by the . . . the mutants.”

  “We know, Captain. And now—may we board?”

  From the speaker came the faint voice of Sundowner’s Mate. “Rim Ghosts are bad enough—but when they take over Quarantine it’s a bit rough.”

  “Yes,” said Grimes. “You may regard us as Rim Ghosts. But we’re solid ones.”

  Chapter 21

  HIS BIG HANDS playing over his console like those of a master pianist, Williams, with short, carefully timed bursts from the auxiliary jets, jockeyed Corsair into a position only yards from Sundowner, used his braking rockets to match velocities. Grimes and his people stared out through the ports at the star tramp. She was old, old. Even now, at a time that was centuries in the past of Corsair’s people, she was obsolete. Her hull plating was dull, pitted by years of exposure to micrometeorites. Two of the embossed letters of her name had been broken off and never replaced, although somebody had replaced the missing U and W with crudely painted characters. Grimes could guess what conditions must be like on board. She would be one of those ships in which, to give greater lift for cargo, the pile shielding had been cut to a minimum, the contents of her holds affording, in theory, protection from radiation. And her holds were full of grain, and this grain supported pests that, through rapid breeding and mutation, had become a menace rather than a mere nuisance.

  “Boarders away, sir?” asked the Marine officer.

  “Yes, Major. Yourself and six men should do. I and Mrs. Grimes will be coming with you.”

  “Side arms, sir?”

  “No. That crate’ll have paper-thin bulkheads and shell plating, and we can’t afford any playing around with laser.”

  “Then knives and clubs, sir?”

  “It might be advisable. Yes.”

  Grimes and Sonya left Control for their quarters. There, helping each other, they shrugged into their modified spacesuits. These still had the tail sheaths and helmets designed to accommodate a long-muzzled head. This had its advantages, providing stowage for a full beard. But Grimes wondered what Sundowner’s people would think when they saw a parry of seeming aliens jetting from Cosair to their airlock. Anyhow, it was their own fault. They should have had their vision transmitter and receiver in order.

  The boarding party assembled at the main airlock which, although it was cramped, was big enough to hold all of them. The inner door slowly closed and then, after the pumps had done their work (Corsair could not afford to throw away atmosphere) the outer door opened, Grimes could see, then, that an aperture had appeared in the shell plating of the other ship, only twenty feet or so distant. But it was small. It must be only an auxiliary airlock. The Captain of Sundowner, thought Grimes, must be a cautious man: must have determined to let the boarding party into his ship one by one instead of in a body. And he’ll be more cautious still, thought Grimes, when he sees these spacesuits.

  He shuffled to the door sill. He said into his helmet microphone, “There’s room for only one at a time in that airlock of theirs. I’ll go first.”

  He heard the Major acknowledge, and then he jumped, giving himself the slightest possible push-off from his own ship. He had judged well and did not have to use his suit reaction unit. Slowly, but not too slowly, he drifted across the chasm between the two vessels, extended his arms to break his fall and, with one hand, caught hold of the projecting rung above Sundowner’s airlock door.

  As he had assumed, the compartment was large enough to hold only one person—and he had to act quickly to pull his dummy tail out of the way of the closing outer valve. There were no lights in the airlock—or, if there were lights, they weren’t working—but after a while he heard the hissing that told him that pressure was being built up.

  Suddenly the inner door opened and glaring light blinded the Commodore. He could just see two dark figures standing there, with what looked like pistols in their hands. Through his helmet diaphragm he heard somebody say, “What did I tell you, Captain? A bleeding kangaroo in full armor, no less. Shall I shoot the bastard?”

  “Wait!” snapped Grimes. He hoped that the note of authority would not be muffled from his voice. “Wait! I’m as human as you.”

  “Then prove it, mister!”

  Slowly the Commodore raised his gloved hands, turning them to show that they were empty. He said, “I am going to remove my helmet—unless one of you gentlemen would care to do it for me.”

  “Not bloody likely. Keep your distance.”

  “As you please.” Grimes manipulated fastenings, gave the regulation half turn and lifted. At once he noticed the smell—it was like the stink that had hung around his own wardroom for days after the attempted interrogation of the prisoner.

  “All right,” said one of the men. “You can come in.”

  Grimes shuffled into the ship. The light was out of his eyes now and he could see the two men. He did not have to ask who or what they were. Uniform regulations change far more slowly than do civilian appearance. He addressed the grizzled, unshaven man with the four tarnished gold bars on his shoulder boards, “We have already spoken with each other by radio, Captain. I am Commodore Grimes. . . .”

  “Of the Rim Worlds Confederacy’s Navy. But what’s the idea of the fancy dress, Commodore?”

  “The fancy dress?” Then Grimes realized that the man was referring to his spacesuit, so obviously designed for a nonhuman. What would be his reaction to what Grimes was wearing underneath it—the scanty rags and the rank marks painted on to his skin? But it was of no importance. He said, “It’s a long story, Captain, and I haven’t time to tell it now. What I am telling you is that you must not, repeat not, attempt a landing on Lorn until I have given you clearance.”

  “And who the hell do you think you are, Mister so-called Commodore? We’ve had troubles enough this trip. What is your authority?”

  “My authority?” Grimes grinned. “In my own space and time, the commission I hold, signed by the President of the Confederacy . . .”

  “What did I say?” demanded the Mate. “And I’ll say it again. He’s some sort of bloody pirate.”

  “And, in the here-and-now,” continued Grimes, “my missile batteries and my laser projectors.”

  “If you attempt to hinder me from proceeding on my lawful occasions,” said the tramp Master stubbornly, “that will be piracy.”

  Grimes looked at him, not without sympathy. It was obvious that this man had been pushed to the very limits of human endurance—the lined face and the red-rimmed eyes told of many, too many, hours without sleep. And he had seen at least one of his officers killed. By this time he would be regarding the enemies infesting his ship as mutineers rather than mutants, and, no longer quite rational, would be determined to bring his cargo to port come Hell or high water.

  And that he must not do.

  Grimes lifted his helmet to put it back on. In spite of the metal with which he was surrounded he might be able to get through to Williams in Corsair’s control room, to Williams and to Carter, to give the order that would call a laser beam to slice off Sundowner’s main venturi. But the Mate guessed his intention, swung viciously with his right arm and knocked the helmet out of the Commodore’s hand. He growled to his Captain, “We don’t want the bastard callin’ his little friends do we, sir?”

  “It is essential that I keep in communication with my own ship,” said Grimes stiffly.

  “So you can do somethin’ with all the fancy ironmongery you were tellin’ us about!” The Mate viciously swatted the helmet which, haying rebounded from a bulkhead, was now drifting through the air.

  “Gentlemen,” said Grimes reasonably, looki
ng at the two men and at the weapons they carried, automatic pistols, no more than five millimeter caliber but deadly enough. He might disarm one but the other would fire. “Gentlemen, I have come to help you. . . .”

  “More of a hindrance than a bloody help,” snarled the Mate. “We’ve enough on our plates already without having to listen to your fairy stories about some non-existent Confederacy.” He turned to the Master. “What say we start up the reaction drive an’ set course for Lorn? This bloke’s cobbers’ll not open fire so long as he’s aboard.”

  “Yes. Do that, Mr. Holt. And then we’ll put this man in irons.”

  So this was it, thought Grimes dully. So this was the immutability of the Past, of which he had so often read. This was the inertia of the flow of events. He had come to where and when he could best stick a finger into the pie—but the crust was too tough, too hard. He couldn’t blame the tramp Captain. He, as a good shipmaster, was displaying the utmost loyalty to his charterers. And (Grimes remembered his Rim Worlds history) those consignments of seed grain had been urgently needed on Lorn.

  And, more and more, every word was an effort, every action. It was as though he were immersed in some fluid, fathoms deep. He was trying to swim against the Time Stream—and it was too much for him.

  Why not just drift? After all, there would be time to do something after the landing at Port Forlorn. Or would there? Hadn’t somebody told him that this ship had crashed in mountainous country?

  He was aroused from his despairing lethargy by a sudden clangor of alarm bells, by a frightened, distorted voice that yammered from a bulkhead speaker, “Captain! Where are you, Captain? They’re attacking the control room!”

  More as the result of years of training than of conscious thought he snatched his drifting helmet as he followed the Captain and his Mate when they dived into the axial shaft, as they pulled themselves hand over hand along the guidelines to the bows of the ship.

  Chapter 22

  “THEY’RE ATTACKING the control room!”

  The words echoed through Grimes’ mind. They must be Sonya and the Major and his men. They must have breached the ports. So far there was no diminishing of air pressure—but even such a sorry rustbucket as Sundowner would have her airtight doors in reasonably good working order. All the same, he deemed it prudent to pause in his negotiation of the axial shaft to put his helmet back on. Luckily the rough treatment that it had received at the hands of the Mate did not seem to have damaged it.

  Ahead of him, the two Sundowner officers were making rapid progress. It was obvious that they were not being slowed down by emergency doors and locks. The Commodore tried to catch up with them, but he was hampered by a spacesuit.

  Then, faintly through his helmet diaphragm, he heard the sounds of a struggle, a fight. There were shots—by the sharpness of the cracks fired from small calibre pistols such as the Captain and his Mate had been carrying. There were shouts and screams. And there was a dreadful, high squeaking that was familiar, too familiar. He thought that he could make out words—or the repetition of one word only:

  “Kill! Kill!”

  He knew, then, who They were, and pulled himself along the guideline with the utmost speed of which he was capable. Glancing ahead, he saw that Sundowner’s Master and his second in command were scrambling through the open hatch at the end of the shaft, the hatch that must give access, in a ship of this type, to Control. He heard more shots, more shouts and screams. He reached the hatch himself, pulled himself through, floundered wildly for long seconds until his magnetized boot soles made contact with the deck.

  They ignored him at first. Perhaps it was that they took him—in his tailed suit with its snouted helmet—for one of their own kind, although, by their standards, a giant. They were small, no larger than a terrier dog, but there were many of them. They were fighting with claws and teeth and pieces of sharpened metal that They were using as knives. A fine mist of blood fogged the face plate of Grimes’ helmet, half blinding him. But he could see at least two human bodies, obviously dead, their throats torn out, and at least a dozen of the smaller corpses.

  He did not give himself time to be shocked by the horror of the scene. (That would come later.) He tried to wipe the film of blood from his visor with a gloved hand, but only smeared it. But he could see that the fight was still going on, that in the center of the control room a knot of spacemen were still standing, still struggling. They must either have lost their pistols or exhausted their ammunition; there were no more shots.

  Grimes joined the fight, his armored fists and arms flailing into the mass of furry bodies, his hands crushing them and pulling them away from the humans, throwing them from him with savage violence. At first his attack met with success—and then the mutants realized that he was another enemy. Their squeaking rose to an intolerable level, and more and more of them poured into the control room. They swarmed over the Commodore, clinging to his arms and legs, immobilizing him. Sundowner’s officers could not help him—they, too, were fighting a losing battle for survival.

  There was a scratching at Grimes’ throat. One of his assailants had a knife of sorts, was trying to saw through the fabric joint It was a tough fabric, designed for wear and tear—but not such wear and tear as this. Somehow the man contrived to get his right arm clear, managed, with an effort, to bring it up to bat away the knife wielder. He succeeded—somehow. And then there was more scratching and scraping at the joint in way of his armpit.

  He was blinded, helpless, submerged in a sea of furry bodies, all too conscious of the frantic gnawings of their teeth and claws and knives. His armor, hampering his every movement even in ideal conditions, could well contribute to his death rather than saving his live. He struggled still—but it was an instinctive struggle rather than one consciously directed, no more than a slow, shrugging, a series of laborious contortions to protect his vulnerable joints from sharp teeth and blades.

  Then there was a respite, and he could move once more.

  He saw, dimly, that the control room was more crowded than ever, that other figures, dressed as he was, had burst in, were fighting with deadly efficiency, with long, slashing blades and bone-crushing cudgels. It was a hand-to-hand battle in a fog—and the fog was a dreadful cloud of finely divided particles of freshly shed blood.

  But even these reinforcements were not enough to turn the tide. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—the mutants would swamp the humans, armored and unarmored, by sheer weight of numbers.

  “Abandon ship!” somebody was shouting. It was a woman’s voice, Sonya’s. “Abandon ship! To the boats!” And then the cry—fainter this time, heard through the helmet diaphragm rather than over his suit radio—was repeated. It is no light matter to give up one’s vessel—but now, after this final fight, Sundowner’s people were willing to admit that they were beaten.

  Somehow the armored Marines managed to surround the crew—what was left of them. The Captain was still alive, although only half conscious. The Mate, apart from a few scratches, was untouched. There were two engineers and an hysterical woman with Purser’s braid on her torn shirt. That was all. They were hustled by Corsair’s men to the hatch, thrust down the axial shaft. Grimes shouted his protest as somebody pushed him after them. He realized that it was Sonya, that she was still with him. Over their heads the hatch lid slammed into its closed position.

  “The Major and his men . . .” he managed to get out. “They can’t stay there, in that hell!”

  “They won’t,” she told him. “They’ll manage. Our job is to get these people clear of the ship.”

  “And then?”

  “Who’s in charge of this bloody operation?” she asked tartly. “Who was it who told the Admiral that he was going to play by ear?”

  Then they were out of the axial shaft and into a boat bay. They watched the Mate help the woman into the small, torpedo-like craft, then stand back to allow the two engineers to enter. He tried to assist the Captain to board—but his superior pushed him away weakly, sayi
ng, “No, Mister. I’ll be the last man off my ship, if you please.” He noticed Grimes and Sonya standing there. “And that applies to you, too, Mr. Commodore whoever you say you are. Into the boat with you—you and your mate.”

  “We’ll follow you, Captain. It’s hardly more than a step across to our own ship.”

  “Into the boat with you, damn you. I shall be . . . the . . . last. . .”

  The man was obviously on the verge of collapse. His Mate grasped his elbow. “Sir, this is no time to insist on protocol. We have to hurry. Can’t you hear Them?”

  Through his helmet Grimes, himself, hadn’t heard them until now. But the noise was there, the frenzied chittering, surely louder with every passing second. “Get into that bloody boat,” he told the Mate. “We’ll handle the doors.”

  “I . . . insist. . .” whispered the Captain. “I shall . . . be . . . the last . . . to leave . . .”

  “You know what to do,” Grimes told the Mate.

  “And many’s the time I’ve wanted to do it. But not in these circumstances.” His fist came up to his superior’s jaw. It was little more than a tap, but enough. The Master did not fall, could not fall in these conditions of zero gravity. But he swayed there, anchored to the deck by his magnetic boot soles, out on his feet. The two engineers emerged from the lifecraft, lugged the unconscious man inside.

  “Hurry!” ordered Sonya.

  “Make for your ship, sir?” asked the Mate. “You’ll pick us up?”

  “No. Sorry—but there’s no time to explain. Just get the hell out and make all speed for Lorn.”

  “But . . .”

  “You heard what the Commodore said,” snapped Sonya. “Do it. If you attempt to lay your boat alongside we open fire.”

  “But . . .”