John Maddox Roberts - Space Angel

by John Maddox Roberts

  I have exhausted much of my power. I might not be capable of such a journey.

  "How far do you need to go?"

  To the center of this galaxy.

  That gave them all a start. They looked at each other incredulously and all began protesting at once. The skipper silenced them with a glare.

  "Look, Sphere, you don't seem to understand. Our species has never traveled so much as a thousandth of that distance. It's debatable whether we could even survive the radiation and stresses ait the Center. I might add that we are a short-lived species, by your standards. Even with the Whoopee Drive, we would all die of old age long before we reached the center of the galaxy."

  I will change your drive. It is crude even by the standards of mechanical devices. I can protect you from harmful radiation. You will not age significantly during the journey. You must understand that, to me, you are tiny, insignificant specks of life, as inconsiderable to me as the smallest units of living matter on your planet are to you. I who am communicating with you am a minute subdivision of the intellect of the thing you think of as Sphere, detailed for this purpose. The greater part of that intellect is quite unaware of you, and is as oblivious of your function and mine as you are of the cells of your bodies.

  You may as well cooperate. You are a primitive and isolated species, obscure even in this little galaxy. At the Center the stars are dense, and you may find many species of planetary beings like yourselves. Surely you will learn things that will be of use to you? It will be the beginning of a new era for your species. If Your culture is still based on the exchange of goods, you will find much to your profit.

  "Retro me, Satanas," Bert muttered.

  Sphere certainly knew how to tempt spacers. Already, they could feel the itch, the intoxicating pros-pcct of getting into unknown space. They would not have been serving in the tramps if they had not had a C,ood deal of the adventurer's spirit in them. The skipper had it worst of all. She looked around at her crew. Even Kelly, who was new to space, was plainly eager to go. Finally she turned to the factor. "Sorry, Sergei. It looks like Minsk gets its crystal a little late."

  "So it would seem. We'll renegotiate the contract so that Minsk Mineral gets a percentage of whatever we find. Since we have no choice, we might as well make the best of it."

  "An admirable attitude," said Torwald. "And, under the circumstances, the only "one possible."

  "I don't believe for a minute that we're going to accomplish this without risk," Finn complained. "If we're going to be exploring about unknown places, I'd feel better doing it in a battlewagon instead of in the dear old Angel." The others conceded his point.

  "I think we could use a Viver." Torwald's suggestion was greeted with astonishment.

  The skipper regarded him with suspicion for a moment. The Vivers were the most notorious smugglers in known space. "You've had dealings with Vivers?"

  "I worked a few smugglers when berths were hard to come by. I know the code to open negotiations with one of their clan ships. If Sphere will let us stop at New Andorra or one of the other smuggling bases, I can find their location. We could pick up some heavy armament, too."

  What are Vivers?

  "A subspecies of our race developed before genetic engineering of humans was outlawed in the last century," explained the skipper. "They're adapted to survive under extreme conditions and our own chances of survival would be greatly increased if we had one or more of them among the crew. If you will let us pick up the Viver and some special equipment, we'll willingly help you all we can."

  Very well. The time element is insignificant, but our motion must continue to be toward the Core.

  "We're agreed, then." The skipper turned to Ham. "Mate, set course for New Andorra, and as soon as we're far enough out, cut in the Whoopee Drive."

  That will not be necessary. Indicate the location of this planet on your instruments and I will transfer you there.

  "Gertie?" Perplexed, Ham turned to the skipper.

  "Do what he says, Ham." Ham left for the bridge, put in course data for New Andorra, and, when nothing further happened, returned to the mess. As he entered, the customary gentle hum of the real-space engines stopped. Achmed jumped up and ran for the engine room with Lafayette in close pursuit.

  "Have we stopped?" the skipper asked, looking at Sphere.

  No, we are now traveling much more rapidly than the speed your drive is capable of producing. When 1 have absorbed your computer information, I shall give you equivalent speeds comprehensible to you.

  Achmed returned sheepishly and sat down, bewilderment gleaming in his dark eyes. "Go have a look," lie said. "Craziest thing I've ever seen." They all filed down to the engine room. Through the hatch they could see that the room was glowing, as if the air inside had taken on color and light. Streaks of red und yellow chased one another in convoluted patterns around the room, and points of bright green flitted about like tiny insects. There was no sound at all.

  "Very pretty," Ham said, trying without much success to sound unperturbed.

  When they returned to the mess, Michelle remembered that they hadn't had breakfast yet. Michelle, Kelly, and Torwald got busy, while the others sat silently, bemused expressions on their faces. They were finishing their coffee when the Sphere spoke up again.

  We have reached your destination.

  By this time, the crew had stopped doubting. The skipper went forward to the bridge to check. Sure enough, Sphere had set them neatly in a parking orbit around New Andorra.

  Truro, sole urban center of New Andorra, was a sprawling collection of buildings large and small, many of them warehouses, surrounding a spaceport. Most of the population was transient, mainly smugglers, their customers, and middlemen who did business with both. There were no government and no law, but violence was not all-pervasive. The population saw itself as consisting of peaceful business people. The sole organized body was the Port Authority, which saw to the running and upkeep of the spaceport.

  Truro was the largest transshipment point for smugglers in known space. If a buyer wanted drugs, luxury goods, arms—anything that might be illegal, highly taxed, or government-controlled where he came from—Truro was the place to find it. The inhabitants of New Andorra would sell the merchandise there or deliver it for a fee. New Andorra was far enough from the centers of space travel so that most governments never found it worth their while to clean it out. Besides, a fair number Of governments did a little clandestine business with the New Andorrans.

  Kelly was ready for some time on planet. The novelty of spacing was quickly wearing off, and he had found that confinement in a small ship, seeing the same few faces every day, could dim the strongest enthusiasm for space travel. There was a price, though. Torwald had made him repaint the supply room and machine shop lab before getting any shore time, a job he'd been dodging for weeks. He caught up with the planetside party just as it was about to leave.

  "I'm finished," said Kelly.

  "I guess we'll have to let you come along," Ham said, wrinkling his nose. "You need airing out. You smell like paint."

  "Let's go," said the skipper, taciturn as usual. The captain, Ham, Torwald, and Kelly, composed the arms-buying expedition. The others were off locating supplies for their departments, to be laid in later by the quartermaster. It would be another headache for Kelly, who would be doing most of the work. Torwald took the boy's training seriously and believed in on-the-job instruction.

  The Space Angel's port fees were paid before the crew left for the city. They received some strange looks from the approach-control officers, who were puzzled at the way the Angel had popped directly from hyper into parking orbit. There were no questions, though. Truro was one port where a spacer was safe from embarrassing inquiries.

  Torwald, who was familiar with Truro, took charge of the arms-buying expedition, quickly making inquiries about the best dealer from whom to obtain arms. He was advised to try a bar callcd the gun Runner. Kelly gawked and rubbernecked as they walked through the crowded
streets. New Andorra was still a frontier world, and most of the buildings were of local woods, the streets hard-foamed rather than paved.

  The inhabitants were a colorful mixture—men and women in spacer garb, merchants in expensive fabrics and furs, tough-looking types, many of them frankly, theatrically piratical. Almost everyone was armed. For that matter, so were Torwald, Ham, and the skipper. The shops were stuffed with valuable merchandise at suspiciously low prices. The skipper stopped at a display window. The wares inside consisted mainly of delicate sculptures of ethereal lightness, made of precious metals mounting tiny jewels, unmistakably the work of the Taliesin art colony.

  "Ham, what was the name of that ship they found in orbit around Ivanhoe with no crew and no cargo?" The skipper was visibly upset.

  "Ebony Star, Black Star Line."

  "That's the one. Ebony Star was carrying a lot of Taliesin art work. The insurance company published the manifest in the Spacer's Newsletter." Her face was bleak. "I don't care much for pirates."

  "She was probably hijacked by her own crew," Torwald said. "Officers might have been in on it, too. It happens often enough, Skipper."

  "Not in the Black Star Line. They recruit officers better than that. I don't like mutineers, either. Come on, let's go find that bar."

  There were few real offices in Truro. Most business was transacted in bars, and> particular bars had become associated with a special trade. The Gun Runner had a hand-carved wooden sign depicting a human figure sprinting with a bag on his back. From the mouth of the bag protruded the barrels of forcebeam rifles. Inside, the public room was dimly lit, the little light provided by glow-disks stuck to the massive overhead beams. The interior was smoky and full of odd smells; the walls were decorated with clusters of edged weapons and obsolete firearms and beamers. The skipper chose a table against a wall, beneath an arrangement of old Space Marine sword-knives. Kelly noticed that nobody had asked his age.

  Torwald sauntered over to the bar and ordered a bottle and four glasses. When the barkeep returned with his order, Torwald brought up business.

  "Who's selling arms today?"

  "Well, now, let's see." He scanned the room. "Ames, over there, the one with the blue braids, sells light infantry weapons, and Yussoupov, back at the corner table, just got a load of heavy artillery. Chung has bombs up to the Devastator class—"

  "I just need some medium ship artillery, maybe some light rocket torpedoes."

  "Then, you want to see Sturges. He's not in just now, but he usually opens up shop about this time. Have a seat and I'll send him over when he comes in."

  "Fine. By the way, would you know if Ortega's still in his old place across the street from the Dead Spacer?"

  "Last I heard, he was." The barkeep began eyeing Torwald with a different expression. "But that's no part of town for an honest man." Torwald gave the man a sizable tip and carried the bottle and glasses back to the table. He poured four glasses full of a deadly looking purple liquid.

  "Genuine Old Rocket Wash, aged twenty years, or so it says on the label," Torwald proclaimed. Kelly took a hesitant swallow, then tried to keep his eyes from watering as the fluid burned a path down his esophagus and cleared his sinuses.

  "Smooth," Ham commented. Kelly tried another swallow, and sure enough, it was beginning to taste smooth. They were halfway through the bottle when a tall, portly man stepped up to the table. He was heavily jeweled, and his clothes were of gaudy Sirian crab-silk: a tight-fitting shirt with balloon sleeves, wide trousers stuffed into heavy reptile-hide boots, a vesi that didn't quite conceal a laser under the left arm and a dagger or forceblade beneath the right. He bowed slightly, touching his chest with the spread fingers of his right hand, a wide smile separating his mustache from his curly, yellow beard.

  "My name is Omar Sturges, and I understand you gentlefolk have business to discuss with me?"

  "Captain HaLevy of the Space Angel." The skipper stuck out her hand. "This is my mate, Hamilton Sylvester, Quartermaster Torwald Raffen, and Ship's Boy Kelly." They shook hands all around. Torwald noticed that Sturges's palm was hard and calloused, and he could feel metal caps implanted beneath the skin over his knuckles. It would not pay to underestimate this man. The skipper poured him a drink and he took a chair.

  "I understand that you deal in ship's arms, Mr. Sturges."

  "That is true, Captain. I have singlebeams suitable for small scouts, pulse-lasers from scrapped cruisers, and so on—up to heavy armament for battlewagons. Price includes installation. What are you interested in?"

  "We just need some explorer-ship defensive gear," Ham replied. "Can you sell us a six-beam long range cutter on a hex mount? We can mount the hex around the Angel's nose."

  "Yes, I have several of those. Anything else?"

  "How about a turret-mounted twin depolarizer?"

  "No problem."

  "And four subnuclear torpedoes, Class M?"

  "I have some Class Ks. The Cernunnans bought up all my Class Ms for their little war with Ganpati."

  While Ham and the skipper haggled with Sturges over price, Torwald excused himself and beckoned Kelly to follow. They went out and blinked for a few moments in the brilliant light, then set off with Torwald in the lead.

  "Stick close by me, Kelly. We're heading for a rough part of town, and the man we're going to see is uncommonly suspicious. If you think somebody's following us, let me know."

  Kelly looked about in alarm. The part of town they were in seemed sufficiently rough. He was no stranger to tough neighborhoods; the slums of Earthport were notoriously unruly, but the boy felt a bit out of his depth in a city where almost the whole population was engaged in one criminal undertaking or other. Kelly was reassured by the laser pistol on Torwald's hip, and he knew that the slug pistol was somewhere beneath his friend's vest.

  As they walked the surroundings became shabbier and more dilapidated. The people in the streets, instead of swarming indiscriminately, congregated in small clusters on corners and, occasionally, in front of doorways. Richly dressed merchants were no longer to be seen, and the groups Torwald and Kelly passed looked them up and down in casual speculation. The sight of a well-armed spacer seemed not to tempt them, and the loungers, mostly young men, returned to whatever discussion had been interrupted.

  Eventually, the two reached a bar with a sign depicting a figure in a spacesuit with a ruptured helmet, floating against a field of stars. Undoubtedly, this was the Dead Spacer. They crossed the street and entered a nondescript warehouse. Torwald signaled Kelly to imitate him, then entered, hands well away from weapons, walking slowly. Kelly followed. Inside, the light was as dim as it had been in the Gun Runner.

  Amost immediately a small dark man emerged from behind a pile of boxes. His face was hideously scarred, and he had artificial eyes that gleamed blankly, giving away nothing. He looked the two newcomers over without fear. Shadowy figures were visible among the boxes behind him. Finally, he seemed satisfied.

  "Been a long time, Raffen. You look prosperous."

  "Not as prosperous as you, Ortega." Torwald turned lowly, surveying the loot that filled the warehouse. Seems you've picked up some new eyes since I last saw you."

  "They gouge eyes for smuggling on Quetzalcoatl. What do you need? Want to get back into the profession? If so, I know a few skippers who could use a good hand like you."

  "Thanks, Ortega. I just need some information this time. I'll pay the usual rate. I need the location of the clan ship K'Tchak."

  "This one safe?" Ortega nodded toward Kelly.

  "He's my squire." Kelly wondered at this. He had not realized that he had a status other than ship's boy. But Ortega was answering.

  "K'Tchak's in orbit around Donar until end-of-cycle. That leaves you plenty of time. After that, she heads for the Homeworld." Nobody except the Vivers knew where Homeworld lay. Torwald handed the man a stack of metal plates.

  "Thanks, Ortega. I'd like to talk over old times, but we have to get back to the ship—urgent assignment. Maybe
next trip."

  "Torwald," Ortega called just as the two reached the wide wooden doors of the warehouse, "you have enemies here. Some of 'em still remember the Jonah. Don't drop your guard before you reach your ship."

  "Thanks, Ortega." Torwald turned, reached beneath his vest, and extracted the slug pistol. "You ever use one of these, Kelly?"

  "No."

  "Remind me to give you lessons sometime. Don't worry about it just now. If we get hit in these streets, it'll be at short range. Just stick that in somebody's belly and pull the trigger. You've got thirty shots. One or two ought to be enough. Shift your sticker to the back of your belt, where you can get at it with either hand."

  "But I'm right-handed."

  "Suppose the first warning you get that the fun's about to start is a bullet through your right arm?" Kelly stuffed his knife sheath into the crease of his back. The slug pistol went into his belt.

  The sky was quickly darkening when they left the warehouse. Truro was located just north of New Andorra's equator, near the sea, so the transition from day to night was brief. The streets were dim, and the lengthening shadows of the buildings formed inky pools across the thoroughfare. Torwald headed for the spaceport, Kelly following a few steps behind, ears cocked for following footsteps. They were not long in coming.

  "Tor," Kelly whispered, "I hear two men behind us."

  "There's three in front. I'm going to do some talking, but there's no talking our way out of this. Don't go for your gun until I go for mine. You take care of those two behind us." Suddenly the three ahead made their appearance. In the light of a doorway, they appeared to be street thugs of the standard variety— youngish men in gaudy clothes, their dissipated faces wearing arrogant smirks. They looked stupid, unpredictable, and dangerous.

  "Just hold it right there." The biggest of the three, a tall man with gold studs decorating his vest, spoke.

  "You boys have business with us?" Torwald asked. Behind Kelly, the sounds of the other two ceased. He gave no sign of noticing their presence.

  "Just wanted to ask you about your ship," Gold Studs said, scratching his slight paunch. "Thought you could maybe use some crew, times being kind of lean around here."