Rebellious Stars

by Issac Asimov

  “Fire?”

  “It is not yet known, sir.”

  Aratap thought to himself, Great Galaxy! and stepped back into the room. “Where is Gillbret?”

  And it was the first anyone knew of the latter’s absence.

  Aratap said, “We’ll find him.”

  They found him in the engine room, cowering amid the giant structures, and half dragged, half carried him back to the Commissioner’s room.

  The Commissioner said dryly, “There is no escape on a ship, my lord. It did you no good to sound the general alarm. The time of confusion is even then limited.”

  He went on, “I think it is enough. We have kept the cruiser you stole, Farrill, my own cruiser, on board ship. It will be used to explore the rebellion world. We will make for the lamented Autarch’s reference points as soon as the Jump can be calculated. This will be an adventure of a sort usually missing in this comfortable generation of ours.”

  There was the sudden thought in his mind of his father in command of a squadron, conquering worlds. He was glad Andros was gone. This adventure would be his alone.

  They were separated after that. Artemisia was placed with her father, and Rizzett and Biron were marched off in separate directions. Gillbret struggled and screamed.

  “I won’t be left alone. I won’t be in solitary.”

  Aratap sighed. This man’s grandfather had been a great ruler, the history books said. It was degrading to have to watch such a scene. He said, with distaste, “Put my lord in with one of the others.”

  And Gillbret was put with Biron. There was no speech between them till the coming of spaceship “night,” when the lights turned a dim purple. It was bright enough now to allow them to be watched through the tele-viewing system by the guards, shift and shift about, yet dim enough to allow sleep.

  “Biron,” he whispered. “Biron.”

  And Biron, roused from a dull semi-drowse, said, “What do you want?”

  “Biron, I have done it. It is all right, Biron.”

  Biron said, “Try to sleep, Gil.”

  But Gillbret went on, “But I’ve done it, Biron. Aratap may be smart, but I’m smarter. Isn’t that amusing? You don’t have to worry, Biron. Biron, don’t worry. I’ve fixed it.” He was shaking Biron again, feverishly.

  Biron sat up. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right. But I fixed it.” Gillbret was smiling. It was a sly smile, the smile of a little boy who has done something clever.

  “What have you fixed?” Biron was on his feet. He seized the other by the shoulders and dragged him upright as well. “Answer me.”

  “They found me in the engine room.” The words were jerked out. “They thought I was hiding. I wasn’t. I sounded the general alarm for the storage room because I had to be alone for just a few minutes—a very few minutes. Biron, I shorted the hyperatomics.”

  “What?”

  “It was easy. It took a minute. And they won’t know. I did it cleverly. They won’t know until they try to Jump, and then all the fuel will be energy in one chain reaction and the ship and us and Aratap and all knowledge of the rebellion world will be a thin expansion of iron vapor.”

  Biron was backing away, eyes wide. “You did that?”

  “Yes.” Gillbret buried his head in his hands and rocked to and fro. “We’ll be dead. Biron, I’m not afraid to die, but not alone. Not alone. I had to be with someone. I’m glad I’m with you. I want to be with someone when I die. But it won’t hurt; it will be so quick. It won’t hurt. It won’t—hurt.” Biron said, “Fool! Madman! We might still have won out but for this.”

  Gillbret didn’t hear him. His ears were filled with his own moans. Biron could only dash to the door.

  “Guard,” he yelled. ‘Guard!” Were there hours or merely minutes left?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The soldier came clattering down the corridor. “Get back in there.” His voice was sour and sharp.

  They stood facing one another. There were no doors to the small bottom-level rooms which doubled as prison cells, but a force field stretched from side to side, top to bottom. Biron could feel it with his hand. There was a tiny resilience to it, like rubber stretched nearly to its extreme, and then it stopped giving, as though the first initial pressure turned it to steel.

  It tingled Biron’s hand, and he knew that though it would stop matter completely, it would be as transparent as space to the energy beam of a neuronic whip. And there was a whip in the guard’s hand.

  Biron said, “I’ve got to see Commissioner Aratap.”

  “Is that what you’re making a noise about?” The guard was not in the best of humors. The night watch was unpopular and he was losing at cards. “I’ll mention it after lights-on.”

  “It won’t wait.” Biron felt desperate. “It’s important.”

  “It will have to wait. Will you get back, or do you want a bit of the whip?”

  “Look,” said Biron, “the man with me is Gillbret oth Hinriad. He is sick. He may be dying. If a Hinriad dies on a Tyrannian ship because you will not let me speak to the man in authority, you will not have a good time of it.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. Will you be quick or are you tired of life?”

  The guard mumbled something and was off.

  Biron watched him as far as he could see in the dim purple. He strained his ears in an attempt to catch the heightened throbbing of the engines as energy concentration climbed to a pre-jump peak, but he heard nothing at all.

  He strode to Gillbret, seized the man’s hair, ana pulled his head back gently. Eyes stared into his out of a contorted face. There was no recognition in them, only fear.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s only me—Biron. How do you feel?”

  It took time for the words to penetrate. Gillbret said, blankly, “Biron?” Then, with a quiver of life, “Biron Are they Jumping? Death won’t hurt, Biron.”

  Biron let the head drop. No point in anger against Gillbret. On the information he had, or thought he had, it was a great gesture. All the more so, since it was breaking him.

  But he was writhing in frustration. Why wouldn’t they let him speak to Aratap? Why wouldn’t they let him opt? He found himself at a wall and beat upon it with his fists. If there were a door, he could break it down; if there were bars, he could pull them apart or drag them out of their sockets, by the Great Galaxy.

  But there was a force field, which nothing could damage. He yelled again.

  There were footsteps once more. He rushed to the open-yet-not-open door. He could not look out to see who was coming down the corridor. He could only wait.

  It was the guard again. “Get back from the field,” he barked. “Step back with your hands in front of you.” There was an officer with him.

  Biron retreated. The other’s neuronic whip was on him, unwaveringly. Biron said, “The man with you is not Aratap. I want to speak to the Commissioner.”

  The officer said, “If Gillbret oth Hinriad is ill, you don’t want to see the Commissioner. You want to see a doctor.” The force field was down, with a dim blue spark showing as contact broke. The officer entered, and Biron could see the Medical Group insignia on his uniform.

  Biron stepped in front of him. “All right. Now listen to me. This ship mustn’t Jump. The Commissioner is the only one who can see to that, and I must see him. Do you understand that? You’re an officer. You can have him awakened.” The doctor put out an arm to brush Biron aside, and Biron batted it away. The doctor cried out sharply and called, “Guard, get this man out of here.”

  The guard stepped forward and Biron dived. They went thumping down together, and Biron clawed up along the guard’s body, hand oyer hand, seizing first the shoulder and then the wrist of the arm that was trying to bring its whip down upon him.

  For a moment they remained frozen, straining against one another, and then Biron caught motion at the corner of his eye. The medical officer w
as rushing past them to sound the alarm.

  Biron’s hand, the one not holding the other’s whip wrist, shot out and seized the officer’s ankle. The guard writhed nearly free, and the officer kicked out wildly at him, but, with the veins standing out on his neck and temples, Biron pulled desperately with each hand.

  The officer went down, shouting hoarsely. The guard’s whip clattered to the floor with a harsh sound.

  Biron fell upon it, rolled with it, and came up on his knees and one hand. In his other was the whip.

  “Not a sound,” he gasped. “Not one sound. Drop anything else you’ve got.”

  The guard, staggering to his feet, his tunic ripped, glared hatred and tossed a short, metal-weighted, plastic club away from himself. The doctor was unarmed.

  Biron picked up the club. He said, “Sorry. I have nothing to tie and gag you with and no time anyway.”

  The whip flashed dimly once, twice. First the guard and then the doctor stiffened in agonized immobility ana dropped solidly, in one piece, legs and arms bent grotesquely out from their bodies as they lay, in the attitude they had last assumed before the whip struck.

  Biron turned to Gillbret, who was watching with dull, soundless vacuity.

  “Sorry,” said Biron, “but you, too, Gillbret,” and the whip flashed a third time.

  The vacuous expression was frozen solid as Gillbret lay there on his side.

  The force field was still down and Biron stepped out into the corridor. It was empty. This was spaceship “night” and only the watch and the night details would be up.

  There would be no time to try to locate Aratap. It would have to be straight for the engine room. He set off. It would be toward the bow, of course.

  A man in engineer’s work clothes hurried past him.

  “When’s the next Jump?” called out Biron.

  “About half an hour, the engineer returned over his shoulder.

  “Engine room straight ahead?”

  “Ana up the ramp. The man turned suddenly. “Who are you?”

  Biron did not answer. The whip flared a fourth time. He stepped over the body and went on. Half an hour left.

  He heard the noise of men as he sped up the ramp. The light ahead was white, not purple. He hesitated. Then he put the whip into his pocket. They would be busy. There would be no reason for them to suspect him.

  He stepped in quickly. The men were pygmies scurrying about the huge matter-energy converters. The room glared with dials, a hundred thousand eyes staring their information out to all who would look. A ship this size, one almost in the class of a large passenger liner, was considerably different from the tiny Tyrannian cruiser he had been used to. There, the engines had been all but automatic. Here they were large enough to power a city, and required considerable supervision.

  He was on a railed balcony that circled the engine room. In one comer there was a small room in which two men handled computers with flying fingers.

  He hurried in that direction, while engineers passed him without looking at him, and stepped through the door.

  The two at the computers looked at him.

  “What’s up?” one asked. “What are you doing up here? Get back to your post.” He had a lieutenant’s stripes.

  Biron said, “Listen to me. The hyperatomics have been shorted. They’ve got to be repaired.”

  “Hold on,” said the second man. “I’ve seen this man. He’s one of the prisoners. Hold him, Lancy.”

  He jumped up and was making his way out the other door. Biron hurdled the desk and the computer, seized the belt of the control-man’s tunic and pulled him backward.

  “Correct,” he said. “I’m one of the prisoners. I’m Biron of Widemos. But what I say is true. The hyperatomics are shorted. Have them inspected, if you don’t believe me.”

  The lieutenant found himself staring at a neuronic whip. He said, carefully, “It can’t be done, sir, without orders from

  Officer of the Day, or from the Commissioner. It would mean changing the Jump calculations and delaying us hours.”

  “Get the authority, then. Get the Commissioner.”

  “May I use the communicator?”

  “Hurry.”

  The lieutenant’s arm reached out for the flaring mouthpiece of the communicator, and halfway there plummeted down hard upon the row of knobs at one end of his desk. Bells clamored in every comer of the ship.

  Biron’s club was too late. It came down hard upon the lieutenant’s wrist. The lieutenant snatched it away, nursing it and moaning over it, but the warning signals were sounding.

  Guards were rocketing in upon the balcony through every entrance. Biron slammed out of the control room, looked in either direction, then hopped the railing.

  He plummeted down, landing knees bent, and rolled. He rolled as rapidly as he could to prevent setting himself up as a target. He heard the soft hissing of a needle gun near his ear, and then he was in the shadow of one of the engines.

  He stood up in a crouch, huddling beneath its curve. His right leg was a stabbing pain. Gravity was high so near the ship’s hull and the drop had been a long one. He had sprained his knee badly. It meant that there would be no more chase. If he won out, it was to be from where he stood.

  He called out, “Hold your fire! I am unarmed.” First the club and then the whip he had taken from the guard went spinning out toward the center of the engine room. They lay there in stark impotence and plain view.

  Biron shouted, “I have come to warn you. The hyperatomics are shorted. A Jump will mean the death of us all. I ask only that you check the motors. You will lose a few hours, perhaps, if I am wrong. You will save your lives, if I am right.”

  Someone called, “Go down there and get him.”

  Biron yelled, “Will you sell your lives rather than listen?” He heard the cautious sound of many feet, and shrank backward. Then there was a sound above. A soldier was sliding down the engine toward him, hugging its faintly warm skin as though it were a bride. Biron waited. He could still use his arms.

  And then the voice came from above, unnaturally loud, penetrating every corner of the huge room. It said, “Back to your places. Halt preparations for the Jump. Check the hyperatomics.”

  It was Aratap, speaking through the public-address system. The order then came, “Bring the young man to me.

  Biron allowed himself to be taken. There were two soldiers on each side, holding him as though they expected him to explode. He tried to force himself to walk naturally, but he was limping badly.

  Aratap was in semidress. His eyes seemed different: faded, peering, unfocused. It occurred to Biron that the man wore contact lenses.

  Aratap said, “You have created quite a stir, Farrill.”

  “It was necessary to save the ship. Send these guards away. As long as the engines are being investigated, there’s nothing more I intend doing.”

  “They will stay just a while. At least, until I hear from my engine men.”

  They waited, silently, as the minutes dragged on, and then there was the flash of red upon the frosted-glass circle above the glowing lettering that read “Engine Room.”

  Aratap opened contact. “Make your report!”

  The words that came were crisp and hurried: “Hyperatomics on the C Bank completely shorted. Repairs under way.”

  Aratap said, “Have Jump recalculated for plus six hours.” He turned to Biron and said coolly, “You were right.”

  He gestured. The guards saluted, turned on their heels, and left one by one with a smooth precision.

  Aratap said, “The details, please.

  “Gillbret oth Hinriad during his stay in the engine room thought the shorting would be a good idea. The man is not responsible for his actions and must not be punished for it.” Aratap nodded. “He has not been considered responsible for years. That portion of the events will remain between you and me only. However, my interest and curiosity are aroused by your reasons for preventing the destruction of the ship. You are surely not afrai
d to die in a good cause?”

  “There is no cause.” said Biron. “There is no rebellion world. I have told you so already and I repeat it. Lingane was the center of revolt, and that has been checked. I was interested only in tracking down my father’s murderer, the lady Artemisia only in escaping an unwanted marriage. As for Gillbret, he is mad.”

  “Yet the Autarch believed in the existence of this mysterious planet. Surely he gave me the coordinates of something!*

  “His belief is based on a madman’s dream. Gillbret dreamed something twenty years ago. Using that as a basis, the Autarch calculated five possible planets as the site of this dream world. It is all nonsense.”

  The Commissioner said, “And yet something disturbs me.”

  “What?”

  “You are working so hard to persuade me. Surely I will find all this out for myself once I have made the Jump. Consider that it is not impossible that in desperation one of you might endanger the ship and the other save it as a complicated method for convincing me that I need look no further for the rebellion world. I would say to myself: If there were really such a world, young Farrill would have let the ship vaporize, for he is a young man and romantically capable of dying what he would consider a hero’s death. Since he has risked his life to prevent that happening, Gillbret is mad, there is no rebellion world, and I will return without searching further. Am I too complicated for you?”

  “No. I understand you.’

  “And since you have saved our lives, you will receive appropriate consideration in the Khan’s court. You will have saved your life and your cause. No, young sir, I am not quite so ready to believe- the obvious. We will still make the Jump.”

  “I have no objections,” said Biron.

  “You are cool,” said Aratap. “It is a pity you were not born one of us.”

  He meant it as a compliment. He went on, “We’ll take you back to your cell now, and replace the force field. A simple precaution.”

  Biron nodded.

  The guard that Biron had knocked out was no longer there when they returned to the prison room, but the doctor was. He was bending over the still-unconscious form of Gillbret.