Crashlander Page 23

  The Amalgamated Regional Militia is the United Nations police, and the United Nations took a powerful interest in Carlos Wu. What was she, Carlos’s bodyguard? Was that how they’d met?

  But whenever one of us spoke of the ARM that afternoon, Feather changed the subject.

  I’d have thought Carlos would orchestrate our sleepfield dance. Certified genius that he is, would he not be superb at that, too? But Feather had her own ideas, and Carlos let her lead. Her lovemaking was aggressive and acrobatic. I felt her strength that afternoon. And my own lack, raised as I was in the lower gravity of We Made It.

  And three hours passed in that fashion, while the wonderful colors of the reef darkened to light-amplified night.

  And then Feather reached far out of the field, limber as a snake…reached inside her backpurse, and fiddled, and frowned, and rolled back and said, “We’re shielded.”

  Carlos said, “They’ll know.”

  “They know me,” Feather said, “They’re thinking that I let them use their monitors because I’m showing off, but now we’re going to try something a little kinky. Or maybe I’m just putting them on. I’ve done it before—”

  “Then—”

  “Find a glitch so I can block their gear with something new. Then they fix it. They’ll fix this one too, but not tonight. It’s just Feather coming down after a long week.”

  Carlos accepted that. “Stet. Sharrol, Beowulf, do you want to leave Earth? We’d be traveling as a group, Louis and Tanya and the four of us. This is for keeps.”

  Sharrol said, “I can’t.” Carlos knew that.

  He said, “You can ride in cold sleep. Home’s rotation period is fifty minutes shorter than Earth’s. Mass the same, air about the same. Tectonic activity is higher, so it’ll smell like there’s just a trace of smog—”

  “Carlos, we talked this to death a few years ago.” Sharrol was annoyed. “Sure, I could live on Home. I don’t like the notion of flying from world to world like a, a corpse, but I’d do it. But the UN doesn’t want me emigrating, and Home won’t take flat phobes!”

  The flatlander phobia is a bone-deep dread of being cut off from Earth. Fear of flying and/or falling is an extreme case, but no flat phobe can travel in space. You find few flat phobes off Earth; in fact, Earthborn are called flatlanders no matter how well they adjust to life elsewhere.

  But Feather was grinning at Sharrol. “We go by way of Fafnir. We’ll get to Home as Shashters. Home has already approved us for immigration—”

  “Under the name Graynor. We’re all married,” Carlos amplified.

  I said, “Carlos, you’ve been off Earth. You were on Jinx for a year.”

  “Yah. Bey, Sigmund Ausfaller and his gnomes never lost track of me. The United Nations thinks they own my genes. I’m supervised wherever I go.”

  But they keep you in luxury, I thought. And the grass is always greener. And Feather had her own complaint. “What do you know about the ARM?” she asked us.

  “We listen to the vid,” Sharrol said.

  “Sharrol, dear, we vet that stuff. The ARM decides what you don’t get to know about us. Most of us take psychoactive chemicals to keep us in a properly paranoid mind frame during working hours. We stay that way four days, then go sane for the weekend. If it’s making us too crazy, they retire us.”

  Feather was nervous and trying to restrain it, but now hard-edged muscles flexed, and her elbows and knees were pulling in protectively against her torso. “But some of us are born this way. We go off chemicals when we go to work. The ’doc doses us back to sanity Thursday afternoon. I’ve been an ARM schiz for thirty-five years. They’re ready to retire me, but they’d never let me go to some other world, knowing what I know. And they don’t want a schiz making babies.”

  I didn’t say that I could see their point. I looked at Sharrol and saw hope in the set of her mouth, ready to smile but holding off. We were being brought into these plans way late. Rising hackles had pulled me right out of any postcoital glow.

  Feather told me, “They’ll never let you go either, Beowulf.”

  And that was nonsense. “Feather, I’ve been off Earth three times since I got here.”

  “Don’t try for four. You know too much. You know about the Core explosion, and diplomatic matters involving alien races—”

  “I’ve left Earth since—”

  “—and Julian Forward’s work.” She gave it a dramatic pause. “We’ll have some advanced weaponry out of that. We would not want the kzinti to know about that, or the trinocs, or certain human domains. That last trip, do you know how much talking you did while you were on Gummidgy and Jinx? You’re a friendly, talkative guy with great stories, Beowulf!”

  I shrugged. “So why trust me with this? Why didn’t you and Carlos just go?”

  She gestured at Carlos. He grinned and said, “I insisted.”

  “And we need a pilot,” Feather said. “That’s you, Beowulf. But I can bust us loose. I’ve set up something nobody but an ARM would ever dream of.”

  She told us about it.

  To the kzinti the world was only a number. Kzinti don’t like ocean sports. The continent was Shasht, ‘Burrowing Murder.’ Shasht was nearly lifeless, but the air was breathable and the mines were valuable. The kzinti had dredged up megatons of sea bottom to fertilize a hunting jungle, and they got as far as seeding and planting before the Fourth Man-Kzin War.

  After the war humankind took Shasht as reparations, and named the world Fafnir.

  On Fafnir, Feather’s investigations found a family of six: two men, two women, two children. The Graynors were ready to emigrate. Local law would cause them to leave most of their wealth behind; but then they’d lost most of it already backing some kind of recreational facilities on the continent.

  “I’ve recorded them twice. The Graynors’ll find funding waiting for them at Wunderland. They won’t talk. The other Graynor family will emigrate to Home—”

  “That’s us?”

  Feather nodded. Carlos said, “But if you and the kids won’t come, Feather’ll have to find someone else.”

  I said, “Carlos, you’ll be watched. I don’t suppose Feather can protect you from that.”

  “No. Feather’s taken a much bigger risk—”

  “They’ll never miss it.” She turned to me. “I got hold of a little stealth lander, Fourth War vintage, with a cold sleep box in back for you, Sharrol. We’ll take that down to Fafnir. I’ve got an inflatable boat to take us to the Shasht North spaceport, and we’ll get to Home on an Outbound Enterprises iceliner. Sharrol, you’ll board the liner already frozen; I know how to bypass that stage.” Feather was excited now. She gripped my arm and said, “We have to go get the lander, Beowulf. It’s on Mars.”

  Sharrol said, “Tanya’s a flat phobe too.”

  Feather’s fingers closed with bruising force. I sensed that the lady didn’t like seeing her plans altered.

  “Wait one,” Carlos said. “We can fix that. We’re taking my ’doc, aren’t we? It wouldn’t be plausible, let alone intelligent, for Carlos Wu to go on vacation without his ’doc. Feather, how big is the lander’s freezebox?”

  “Yeah. Right. It’ll hold Tanya…better yet, both children. Sharrol can ride in your ’doc.”

  We talked it around. When we were satisfied, we went home.

  Three days out, three days returning, and a week on Mars while the ARM team played with the spacecraft Boy George. It had to be Feather and me. I would familiarize myself with Boy George, Feather would supervise the ARM crews…and neither of us were flat phobes.

  I bought a dime disk, a tourist’s guide to Fafnir system, and I studied it.

  Kzinti and human planetologists call Fafnir a typical water world in a system older than Sol. The system didn’t actually retain much more water than Earth did; that isn’t the problem. But the core is low in radioactives. The lithosphere is thick: no continental drift here. Shallow oceans cover 93 percent of the planet. The oceans seethe with life, five billion years evo
lved, twice as old as Earth’s.

  And where the thick crust cracked in early days, magma oozed through to build the world’s single continent. Today a wandering line of volcanoes and bare rock stretches from the south pole nearly to the north. The continent’s mass has been growing for billions of years.

  On the opposite face of a lopsided planet, the ocean has grown shallow. Fafnir’s life presently discovered the advantages of coral building. That side of the world is covered with tens of thousands of coral islands. Some stand up to twenty meters tall: relics of a deeper ocean.

  The mines are all on Shasht. So also are all the industry, both spaceports, and the seat of government. But the life—recreation, housing, families—is all on the islands.

  Finding the old lander had indeed been a stroke of luck. It was an identical backup for the craft that set Sinbad Jabar down on Meerowsk in the Fourth War, where he invaded the harem of the Patriarch’s Voice. The disgrace caused the balance of power among the local kzinti to become unstable. The human alliance took Meerowsk and renamed the planet, and it was Jabar’s Prize until a later, pacifistic generation took power. Jabar’s skin is displayed there still.

  Somehow Feather had convinced the ARMs that (1) this twin of Jabar’s lander was wanted for the Smithsonian Luna, and (2) the Belt peoples would raise hell if they knew it was to be removed from Mars. The project must be absolutely secret.

  Ultimately the ARM crews grew tired of Feather’s supervision, or else her company. Rapidly after that, Feather grew tired of watching me read. “We’ll only be on Fafnir two days, Beowulf. What are you learning? It’s a dull, dull, dull place. All the land life is Earth imports—”

  “Their lifestyle is strange, Feather. They travel by transfer booths and dirigible balloons and boats, and almost nothing in between. A very laid-back society. Nobody’s expected to be anywhere on time—”

  “Nobody’s watching us here. You don’t have to play tourist.”

  “I know.” If the ARM had Boy George bugged…but Feather would have thought of that.

  Our ship was in the hands of ARM engineers, and that made for tension. But we were getting on each other’s nerves. Not a good sign, with a three-week flight facing us.

  Feather said, “You’re not playing. You are a tourist!”

  I admitted it. “And the first law of tourism is: read everything.” But I switched the screen off and said, in the spirit of compromise, “All right. Show me. What is there to see on Mars?”

  She hated to admit it. “Nothing.”

  We left Mars with the little stealth lander in the fuel tank. The ARM was doing things the ARM didn’t know about. And I continued reading…

  Fafnir’s twenty-two-hour day has encouraged an active life. Couch potatoes court insomnia: it’s easier to sleep if you’re tired. But hurrying is something else. There are transfer booths, of course. You can jump instantly from a home on some coral extrusion to the bare rock of Shasht…and buy yourself an eleven-hour time lag.

  Nobody’s in a hurry to go home. They go by dirigible. Ultimately the floatliner companies wised up and began selling round-trip tickets for the same price as one-way.

  “I do know all this, Beowulf.”

  “Mph? Oh, good.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Feather asked. “Find an island with nothing near it and put down, right? Get out and dance around on the sand while we blow the boat up and load it and go. How do we hide the lander?”

  “Sink it.”

  “Read about lamplighters,” she said, so I did.

  After the war and the settlement, UN advance forces landed on Shasht, took over the kzinti structures, then began to explore. Halfway around the planet were myriads of little round coral islands, each with a little peak at the center. At night the peaks glowed with a steady yellow light. Larger islands were chains of peaks, each with its yellow glow in the cup. Lamplighters were named before anyone knew what they were.

  Close up…well, they’ve been called piranha ant nests. The bioluminescence attracts scores of varieties of flying fish. Or, lured or just lost, a swimming thing may beach itself, and then the lamplighter horde flows down to the beach and cleans it to the bones.

  You can’t build a home or beach a boat until the nest has been burned out. Then you have to wait another twelve days for the soldiers caught outside the nest to die. Then cover the nest. Use it for a basement, put your house on it. Otherwise the sea may carry a queen to you, to use the nest again.

  “You’re ahead of me on this,” I admitted. “What has this lander got for belly rockets?”

  “Your basic hydrogen and oxygen,” Feather said. “High heat and a water-vapor exhaust. We’ll burn the nest out.”

  “Good.”

  Yo! Boy, when Carlos’s ’doc is finished with you, you know it!

  Open.

  The sky was a brilliant sprawl of stars, some of them moving—spacecraft, weather eyes, the wheel—and a single lopsided moon. The island was shadow-teeth cutting into the starscape. I slid out carefully, into a blackness like the inside of my empty belly, and yelled as I dropped into seawater.

  The water was hip deep, with no current to speak of. I wasn’t going to drown, or be washed away, or lost. Fafnir’s moon was a little one, close in. Tides would be shallow.

  Still I’d been lucky: I could have wakened under water.

  How did people feel about nudity here? But my bundle of clothes hadn’t washed away. Now the boots clasped my feet like old friends. The sleeves of the dead man’s survival jacket tailed way past my hands until I rolled them up, and of course the front and back were in shreds. The pants were better: too big, but with elastic ankle bands that I just pulled up to my knees. I swallowed a tannin secretion dose. I couldn’t have done that earlier. The ’doc would have read the albino gene in my DNA and “cured” me of an imposed tendency to tan.

  There was nothing on all of Fafnir like Carlos’s ’doc. I’d have to hide it before I could ever think about rescue.

  “Our medical equipment,” Carlos had called it; and Feather had answered, “Hardly ours.”

  Carlos was patient. “It’s all we’ve got, Feather. Let me show you how to use it. First, the diagnostics—”

  The thing was as massive as the inflatable boat that would carry us to Shasht. Carlos had a gravity lift to shove under it. The intensive care cavity was tailored just for Carlos Wu, naturally, but any of us could be served by the tethers and sleeves and hypo-tipped tubes and readouts along one whole face of the thing: the service wall.

  “These hookups do your diagnostics and set the chemical feeds going. Feather, it’ll rebalance body chemistry, in case I ever go schiz or someone poisons me or something. I’ve reprogrammed it to take care of you too.” I don’t think Carlos noticed the way Feather looked at it, and him.

  “Now the cavity. It’s for the most serious injuries, but I’ve reprogrammed it for you, Sharrol my dear—”

  “But it’s exactly Carlos’s size,” Feather told us pointedly. “The UN thinks a lot of Carlos. We can’t use it.”

  Sharrol said, “It looks small. I don’t mean the IC cavity. I can get into that. But there’s not much room for transplants in that storage space.”

  “Oh, no. This is advanced stuff. I had a hand in the design. One day we’ll be able to use these techniques with everyone.” Carlos patted the monster. “There’s nothing in here in the way of cloned organs and such. There’s the Surgery program, and a reservoir of organic soup, and a googol of self-replicating machines a few hundred atoms long. If I lost a leg or an eye, they’d turn me off and rebuild it onto me. There’s even…here, pay attention. You feed the organics reservoir through here, so the machine doesn’t run out of material. You could even feed it Fafnir fish if you can catch them, but they’re metal-deficient…”

  When he had us thoroughly familiar with the beast, he helped Sharrol into the cavity, waited to be sure she was hooked up, and closed it. That made me nervous as hell. She climbed out a day later claiming that s
he hadn’t felt a thing, wasn’t hungry, didn’t even have to use the bathroom.

  The ’doc was massive. I had to really heave against it to get it moving, and then it wanted to move along the shore. I forced it to turn inland. The proper place to hide it was in the lamplighter nest, of course.

  I was gasping like death itself, and the daylight had almost died, and I just couldn’t push that mass uphill.

  I left it on the beach. Maybe there was an answer. Let my hindbrain toy with it for a while.

  I trudged across sand to rough coral and kept walking to the peak. We’d picked the island partly for its isolation. Two distant yellow lights, eastward, marked two islands I’d noted earlier. I ran my mag specs (the side that worked) up to 20X and scanned the whole horizon, and found nothing but the twin lamplighter glows.

  And nothing to do but wait.

  I sat with my back against the lip of the dead lamplighter pit. I pictured her: she looked serious, a touch worried, under a feather crest and undyed skin: pink shading to brown, an Anglo tanned as if by Fafnir’s yellow-white sun.

  I said, “Sharrol.”

  Like the dead she had slept, her face slack beneath the faceplate, like Sleeping Beauty. I’d taken to talking to her, wondering if some part of her heard. I’d never had the chance to ask.

  “I never wondered why you loved me. Egotist, I am. But you must have looked like me when you were younger. Thirty years underwater, no sunlight. Your uncles, your father, they must have looked a lot like me. Maybe even with white hair. How old are you? I never asked.”

  Her memory looked at me.

  “Tanj that. Where are you? Where are Tanya and Louis? Where’s Carlos? What happened after I was shot?”

  Faint smile, shrug of eyebrows.

  “You spent three weeks unconscious in the ICC followed by ten minutes on your feet. Wrong gravity, wrong air mix, wrong smells. We hit you with everything it might take to knock a flat phobe spinning. Then blam and your love interest is lying on the sand with a hole through him.