Starfall

Looters and Wreckers

Next time was for real. No longer a holo, Tiffany dressed for trouble, pulling sturdy ship’s coveralls on over her clothes, stuffing gas filters up her nose. Halfway through the midwatch, Nightingale docked on the starport side of the hub. Pandemonium erupted. The rescue ship could take only a tiny fraction of the people screaming to get aboard.

The mob at the embarkation gate fell back before tangle-foot bullets and volleys of gas grenades, trampling one another in retreat. But as soon as the gas thinned, the crowd rebounded, rushing the gate with renewed fury. Insane to get aboard an outbound ship. A tight wedge of riot cops and roboguards beat a path through the howling mass with electro-shock truncheons, taking Tiffany with them.

She had a ship’s bag on her shoulder, holding three changes of outfit, plus personal effects, and a non-lethal plastic stinger—as much for moral support as self-defense. If she ended up having to fight, Tiffany didn’t much like her chances.

Jutes and Choctaws had taken over the starport. All outsystem lounges, staff areas, and stopover suites were in their hands. They ran baggage claim and the security kiosks. But their main concern was shaking down anyone lucky enough to be headed outsystem. Pay or stay. They killed, maimed, and assaulted in the course of doing business. Or to mark turf, or to maintain their image. Or for the malicious satisfaction of thwarting the more fortunate.

Luckily, Tiffany was headed insystem, something so unheard of it took everyone by surprise. Insystem lounges were no-man’s-land. Incoming slide-walks were barely worth blocking. Faith was the one who had to run the gauntlet of Jutes, Choctaws, freelance footpads, and families begging tickets. Tiffany wished her luck.

Her robo-cop escort hustled Tiffany past crying babies and disbelieving parents, desperate to get where she was coming from. The starport lacked Belt City’s chaotic charm. Floor-to-ceiling energy fences snaked through packed lobbies, past people sleeping sitting up. Garbage had not been collected for months. Stuffy, unrecycled air reeked of urine and excrement. Attempting to use a public toilet had become an act of suicidal bravado.

She exited through a Choctaw checkpoint, a gap in an energy fence festooned with shock wire and anti-bomb mesh. Overarmed boys in leather pants and war paint looked through her bag, laughing at her little non-lethal stinger. One of them pocketed it. Their leader scratched his head with the business end of an assault pistol, trying to figure out what to make of her. “You have business in the Belt?”

“Just passing through.”

He grinned boyishly, “Ain’t we all. Where to?”

“Floreal.” That got a good laugh.

Tiffany stared into his mirror shades. “It’s true.”

The young gunman looked back at her, amazed, puzzled, then saddened, seeing something lovely going to waste. Lowering his recoilless pistol, he turned to the riot cops. “Crazy lady can pass. You can’t.”

None of the riot cops wanted to pass. They had all been promised outsystem berths. The robo-guards were programmed not to leave the starport.

Turning back to her, the Choctaw’s voice softened. “If you change your mind and come back this way—it will cost you.” He said it half as a warning, half as an invite. If she wanted to straighten out and submit, he was the boy to see.

Tiffany nodded. “I know.”

They painted her face to show she was Choctaw property, then passed her through. Pulling the filter plugs from her nose, she was on her own, one more anonymous inmate in a system careening toward disaster.

Faith had programmed the lock and scooter to take Tiffany’s thumb and voice print, and the v-suit was an adult woman’s adjustable. Exiting the lock on the insystem side, Tiffany attached her suit to the scooter seat. Belt City’s high-g section arched across the void overhead, backed by neon fingers of gas. The angry white eye of Orion 4673 dominated the crowded starscape, hurtling toward the doomed system. Firing up the thrusters, she coasted through the orbital graveyard, hoping she had picked the right ship, and the right pilot.

Parking her scooter in orbit, she told the Archangel’s lock to cycle her though. Miko laughed at the Choctaw paint. “Going native?” Living under a death sentence had not stifled her sense of fun. She had on something colorful and Japanese-looking, a sort of ship’s kimono that came only to the knees. “Stow your stuff in the port stateroom. I’ll get us hopping.”

The port stateroom had the bluegrass carpet. Holographic effects turned the interior into a forest clearing amid tall trees draped with strangler vine. Birds sang in the green canopy. Sunlight splashed down onto the bed and sideboard. Tossing her bag on the bed, Tiffany took a moment to strip off her coveralls, and wash the paint off her face in a rock basin waterfall. Her new digs made the four-star cabin aboard the Nightingale seem like a prison cubicle. But beneath all the finery, Archangel was still a slowboat, using 3V effects to fight boredom and claustrophobia.

Tiffany stepped back into the leather-lined saloon, with its auto-bar and Picasso pen-and-inks. Tiny gold robot insects with crystal wings and jeweled eyes flitted about the light panels. The comforts of home, and then some. Right now, Faith was sharing Tiffany’s four-star cabin with two families of refugees. Some comedown. Not that Faith could complain. Everyone crammed aboard the Nightingale was in a holiday mood.

The command cabin was more Spartan, like the cab of a luxury ATV. Simple instruments, soft command couches, plus an attached washroom, mini-galley, and sleeping quarters. The crew could live and stand watches without intruding on passenger country.

Archangel’s sole crew member grinned as Tiffany entered. “Glad to see you.”

Sensors said it was true. Now that they were face-to-face, Tiffany read Miko five-by-five. Heartbeat, GSR, pupil dilation and voice modulation were all analyzed by microsensors grafted onto Tiffany’s skull. So long as she paid close attention, no one could hide their feelings from her. Not that Miko tried.

“Not too late to change your mind,” Miko reminded her.

Tiffany shook her head. It was way too late. By now the Nightingale was boosting outsystem, accelerating toward light speed. Nightingale might at best make one last round trip, but heaven knows what she would return to. Belt City was in bad shape already.

Miko did not see it that way. Bad as Belt City was, Floreal figured to be worse. The whole B system had long been written off. Always the lesser half of the double system, 3645B had fewer people and slimmer prospects. 3645A might actually emerge from the coming catastrophe in fair shape. Belt City would be a memory, but there were schemes to recolonize the emerging G-type system, even using some of the same people. No one had any such plans for 3645B. It would be pulled into the white giant’s incandescent zone, never to escape. Whatever circled that tiny red sun would be burned clean, torn apart, or vaporized. Maybe all three. Tiffany was dragging Miko into the eye of the storm.

“What’s in Floreal anyway?” Miko genuinely wanted to know.

Tiffany shrugged. “That’s what I am going to find out.”

“Hell of a time to get curious.”

“I have reasons. Why did you agree to take me?” Tiffany felt oddly protective toward the smaller woman, not wanting to see her hurt more. Miko could still back out, letting Tiffany pilot the ship.

Miko shrugged. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You might have angled for the ticket out.” Faith’s claim to Archangel sounded dubious, even by Belt City standards. And Miko was the one getting Tiffany where she had to go.

Miko gave her head a swift shake that said drop the subject. Interfacing with the ship’s computer, she set up a course for Floreal. “You are an odd one.”

“Me?” If anything, Tiffany considered herself way too simple. Her mission left no room for complications.

“You act more concerned with me than with your own survival. You are not a holo anymore, remember?”

“But I am a volunteer.”

“Just what confuses me.” Miko punched the go code. They were off. Tiffany relaxed into the tedium of space travel. Dullest form of transportation this side of a submarine—with no feeling of movement, and only microscopic changes in scenery. Belt City shrank behind them. The B system got bigger ahead.

To pass time, she reshaped her stateroom, dumping the jungle motif that meant nothing to her, turning her living quarters into a grass-floored chalet in the Aesir Alps. Green meadows sloped down on all sides, dotted with bear grass and columbines. The Quartz Peaks shone in the background. She did it from memory, since her home world, Aesir III, was not in the Archangel’s files. Few things felt more satisfying than having your surroundings fit you perfectly. In the end, she got the bluegrass to blend so neatly into the meadow she had to show it off, and went looking for Miko.

Miko’s stateroom was a beach house on Kikku, Chi Draconis IV—so Tiffany traveled better than a thousand light years just by crossing the saloon. The beach house was floored with fresh green-smelling tatami. Miko was out in the 3V area, on a long curving beach, splashing in the surf beneath china-blue skies.

Tiffany called out. Miko had to be only a few paces off; virtual effects made it look like a hundred meters. Someone was with her, playing naked in the waves. Tiffany shaded her eyes to see. Bright as the light seemed, it had been toned down. Chi Draconis was an F7 sub-giant, and romping in the surf at noon would knock you dead. She could not make out the second woman’s face, but her hair and figure were unmistakable. It was Faith.

Suddenly, Miko appeared naked in front of her, dripping salt water on the tatami. Telescoped distance took Tiffany by surprise. She turned away, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t be.” Miko reached for a towel. “I’ve got no secrets.” A mild reproof—she was not the one hiding things. A minute later, Miko sat beside her on the alpine meadow, still wrapped in her towel, hands clasped across her knees, smelling like the sea. “Utterly stupendous,” she declared. “So this is your home world?”

Tiffany nodded. “From time to time, I miss her.”

“What made you leave?”

“Wanderlust. My training’s in offplanet diplomacy. Figured it had to take me somewhere.”

“Diplomacy? You mean the Peace Corps?”

“Yep.” No harm in admitting that.

“A diplomat. Does it mean you’re wired for lie detection?”

“I’m reading you right now. Hope you don’t mind.” Tiffany could turn it off. “Why should I?” Miko had nothing to hide. Nothing she said ever registered remotely like a lie. Tiffany liked that. “What’s a diplomat doing headed for Floreal? Shouldn’t you be teaching Jutes and Choctaws to love their neighbors?”

Tiffany deftly switched the subject. “I don’t suppose you come from Kikku.”

Miko shook her head. “Born in a habitat. Never been outsystem. Never breathed open air.”

“Might happen,” Tiffany told her.

Miko gave her a long look. “Not the way we’re headed.”

“There’s time.” Tiffany felt awkward talking about the future, especially since there might not be one. She switched subjects again. “Are you in love with her?” If so, it explained a lot.

Miko stared out at the shining peaks. “Who wouldn’t be?”

Tiffany shook her head decisively. “Not my type.” She admired Faith’s determination, but not her methods.

“I suppose you’d prefer a man?” Miko said it casually, still studying the mountains.

“Depends on the man.” Tiffany meant it.

Miko shrugged. “Never saw the need myself.”

“Really?” Tiffany felt natural curiosity starting to get the better of her.

“Sure.” Miko looked her over. “You’re cute enough to get whatever you want from guys. Blonde hair, big caring eyes, that willing smile—bet they can’t wait to get their pants down.”

“Thanks. But I try to aim a bit higher in my social life.”

“I’ll bet.” Miko stared off again. “Me, I’m a hopeless romantic. Never wanted to have some guy grunting on top of me, whenever he was in the mood. I always wanted it all. The soft caress and tender kiss. Warm embrace, giving and getting. Smooth curves sliding with each other, faster and harder when the time is right. Loving that lasts. And not just in bed.”

Tiffany shook her head. “At the moment, I’ve given up anything that doesn’t get me where I’m headed.”

“What a strange, obstinate obsession.” Miko turned to rest her head on her knees, studying Tiffany intently. “Why won’t you tell me what you’re looking for in Floreal?”

“I will if you come with me.” Tiffany meant that too.

“I’ll think about it,” Miko promised. Sensors put her down as undecided. But naturally curious.

Truth was, Tiffany wanted someone to share her troubles with, and Miko would be just about perfect, sharp, resilient, and caring. It was the sexual edge that scared her. Too bad Miko was not a man, with maybe Anton’s body. Or looking like that young Choctaw at the starport.

With nothing to do but enjoy yourself, billions of klicks went quickly. They drank rare wines from lacquer cups, and picnicked off antique porcelain from Old Earth. Internal fields supplied various different gravities—ship standard, Aesir III normal, Kikku standard, low-g recreational, or whatever you felt like putting up with that morning. Archangel worked hard to take the sting out of space travel.

Entering B system, they began burning fuel to reduce speed, matching velocities with Floreal, orbiting close to the tiny nameless red sun. Orion 3645B had always been a backwater. Now it was a nearly empty one. The only people left were those who could not get out, and the looters and wreckers preying on them.

At a hundred million klicks out, they picked up a bogie, a high boost starship dropping downsun, rapidly closing the range. Miko called it to Tiffany’s attention. Tiffany stared at the stereo imaging. “Have you tried contacting them?”

“Sure. Got a bunch of bullshit back.”

“What sort of bullshit?”

“They are rushing to render assistance. Claim they have space to take people outsystem, and want to know how many they have to accommodate. Just jerking us off. Trying to find out who is aboard.”

The notion of some random starship roaming a doomed backwater, offering priceless berths outsystem, was an insulting absurdity. The Choctaws at the starport had been more honest. Name and registration were given as the Hiryu, out of Azha system, Eta Eridani, a K-type star in the Far Eridani, 135 light years from Old Earth—sufficiently distant that there was no chance of confirming the registration within anyone’s conceivable lifetime. The ship’s spokesperson was a concerned female face and torso, so bland that she had to be synthesized. It did not take lie detection to know the starship’s crew was laughing up their sleeves. Tiffany guessed the Hiryu was dangling hope in front of her victim, just to see what had been caught. “Can we make Floreal before they match velocities?”

“Barely,” Miko decided.

It was an odd sort of chase. Both ships were slowing down, Archangel to match orbits with Floreal, and the Hiryu to match with them. The starship was catching up because it could slow down faster. Though not much faster. A gravity drive starship’s big advantage was the ability to accelerate continuously over interstellar distances. This deep in a gravity well they had to operate at normal speeds just to stay insystem.

“Bullshit them back,” Tiffany decided. “Thank them. Tell them who’s aboard—but don’t mention me being Peace Corps. Agree to rendezvous at Floreal. Ask if they have room for the Picassos too.” Miko grimaced.

“If you don’t want to, let me do it,” Tiffany offered. “I’m the diplomat. It’s not well known, but Floreal has a docking port. If we stall them off, we might be able to slip in before they know what’s happening.”

“No. I’ll do it.” Miko meant to be the pilot, for as long as it lasted.

They arrived ahead of the starship, which was in no particular hurry to run them down. Floreal was an old, old style habitat, a brown ashcan-shaped cylinder 80 klicks long and 20 klicks in diameter, rolling between the tiny ill-fated red sun and the fiery backdrop of the Orion Nebula. No superstructure or solar panels showed on her pitted surface. Belt City’s spoke and hoop construction looked incredibly modern by comparison.

“Where is this docking port?” Miko sounded skeptical. Incommunicado for ages, Floreal had long been left to her fate.

“It should be at the upsun end of the cylinder. A chance search in electronic archives on Vanir came up with the entry codes, along with the original specs for Floreal.”

“What were they doing there?”

“They were downloaded from files aboard the outward-bound survey ship Sacajawea when it called at Vanir II.”

“Why would a survey ship have obscure data on an already settled system?”

“Good question. We signaled an immediate query to the Sacajawea, but she is currently on assignment deep in the Orion Spur of the Cygnus Carina Arm. Should take about forty centuries to get an answer.”

No one had that sort of time. Miko maneuvered to put them into position to beam a tight coded signal at the docking port. Tiffany took over the computer and started signaling.

No response.

She ran through variations on the signal, emergency alternatives, then close random combinations and fanciful permutations, assuming Floreal’s programming had deteriorated over time. She might as well have been beaming to a rock.

Tiffany was still bombarding the port lock with entry codes when she felt Miko’s hand on her shoulder. “They’ve matched velocities. And are going to dock.”

After coming trillions of klicks, through hazards aplenty, Tiffany had come up short, right at the brink of where she needed to be. And she had dragged Miko down with her. She shot her an anguished look, softly saying, “I’m sorry.” Miko gave an I-was-dead-anyway shrug, paining her even more. Tiffany did not like being the last bit of bad luck Miko had to swallow.

Grapples hit the hull. Hiryu had seized hold of Archangel. There was nothing to do but see what came through the air lock. Tiffany got up, occupying herself by changing into a loose black silk gi. Stylish, comfortable, yet fit for close combat. Way more, fit than she felt. She had nothing vaguely like a weapon. Her silly little stinger was the property of some young Choctaw.

Tiffany heard the click of adhesive boots on the hull. The lock cycled. Her breathing stopped, as if some huge weight suddenly pressed on her diaphragm. This was it.

What came through was worse than expected. She had hoped for something at least half human. Instead she got a beast in a vacuum suit and body armor. The v-suit was unsealed, with the helmet thrown back, letting her see a tawny chest, a brainy fur-covered head, and two long saber-shaped canines curving down from beneath cat’s eyes. The most chilling bit of bio-engineering Tiffany had ever confronted. A SuperCat, Homo smilodon, bred centuries back from human and big-cat DNA, mainly as mercs and bodyguards, or for any task that needed inhuman ferocity and intimidation. Jutes and Choctaws were truant school kids compared to this lab-bred killer.

A second SuperCat followed the first one in. They took up stations on either side of the lock, leveling 20mm machine-cannons. Tiffany’s belly tightened. With effort, she made herself exhale. Black holes at the ends of the recoilless cannon barrels looked big enough to stick a fist into.

She wanted to tell them to point the muzzles somewhere else, but knew the SuperCats would not obey. They were meant to scare her, and succeeded admirably. There was no sign of the solicitous young woman who had signaled them. She had been a polite bit of digital fakery.

Next came a man, alert and good-humored, with black tousled hair and attentive eyes. His v-suit, open to the navel, revealed a tattooed chest. A dragon inked into his left breast stared back at Tiffany. Whistling happily, he surveyed the saloon, mixing frank curiosity with open admiration. Then he bowed slightly, presenting himself, “Commander Hesse of the Hiryu at your ladies’ service. Pleased to render assistance.”

Sensors said he was giving his real name and rank. Why not? But Tiffany detected a mental hesitation at Hiryu, as he searched for the name his ship went by. The rest was pure formality.

“We don’t want assistance,” Miko retorted. It did not take sensors to tell she was angry, and frightened. Tiffany felt for her. Miko had every reason to be terrified.

Hesse smiled, “Don’t you know this system is about to be ripped apart? Your ship has no hope of escaping on her own.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Tiffany told him. Better a cosmic collision than the courtly Commander Hesse.

His attention wandered, admiring the pictures spaced around the saloon. “I have never seen a real Picasso before—only 3V. Amazing what the ancients could do with crude hand tools. All our technology cannot hope to match it.” Hesse turned back to them with a grin. “Clearly the man knew women and bulls.”

Neither woman responded. Miko was still furious. Tiffany felt sickened. She had important things to do, and would not let herself be played with. Hesse sighed. “Well, I suppose you see them every day. To business then. What are you doing in this forsaken system?”

Miko had no good answer for that. But Tiffany did. “I am doing what you should be doing.”

Hesse raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Helping people escape.” At the moment she was doing no great job of it, but the thought counted. “You have a high boost vessel. You could be taking ship-loads of people to safety.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Hesse assured her. “We are taking people outsystem. Cooperate, and you can come with us.”

The first part rang true. The rest was a lie. Hesse was giving no guarantees. The dragon tattoo marked him as an Eridani slaver. Hiryu meant “Flying Dragon” in a dead language; that and the Eta Eridani registry made an archaic pun. Hesse was scouring the B system for anything, or anyone, worth taking—knowing the coming catastrophe would cover any crime. And here he had a truly lucky find, a rich ship, stuffed with fine wines and works of art, crewed by two marketable women. Hesse was simply savoring his catch. Cooperate meant submit. Do what he wanted, when he wanted it, and they might be taken outsystem.

Hesse unhooked the larger of two pressure suits hanging in the lock, saying, “So, will you come with us?”

Tiffany shook her head. She had not come trillions of klicks to end up in the hold of an Eridani slaver. “Take the paintings. Take anything what you want. But leave us be.”

“Why?” Hesse was genuinely puzzled.

“I am going to Floreal.”

He laughed. “Floreal is not taking customers. It is us or nothing.”

“In that case, nothing.” Saying it made her gut go hollow.

Hesse cocked his head. “You are a odd one. And pretty to boot. But right now women are plentiful, and I am not in the mood to pamper. Will you go, or not?”

“I don’t want to go.” Tiffany found she had to force the words out, telling herself she had no real choice.

“Too bad. I could force you. But I won’t.” This had to be a boring business for a freebooter, like hunting house pets with a line-of-sight laser. He tossed the v-suit at her feet. “Suit up. It’s cold outside.”

Tiffany stared at the crumpled suit. She had always pictured being set adrift in a v-suit as a particularly terrible way to die. Hesse must have thought so too, hoping that that might make her see reason. In the old days, you died in hours from hypoxia. But modern recyclers meant that your oxygen lasted days, even weeks. Death came slowly as body heat and wastes overwhelmed the recycler. Like being buried alive in vacuum.

“Put it on,” he told her. “Or you have my word you will go out the lock without it.”

Tiffany silently pulled on the suit. She would have had a better chance appealing to the SuperCats. Sealing the v-suit up to the neck, she looked over at Miko, forcing on a smile, trying to give Miko a free choice. “I am sorry I got you here. Do what you must. You have been nothing but good to me.”

Miko nodded, standing alone in the middle of the saloon, arms folded inside her short cut kimono, looking scared, angry, and horribly sad. Mirrored bulkheads reflected her into steadily shrinking infinity.

Hesse made an “after you” bow, and Tiffany sat herself down in the open air lock. Hesse reached in and took Miko’s v-suit, then closed the inner door. The lock started to cycle.

Tiffany sealed her suit, telling herself she had no true choice. At absolute best, she would end her days as a concubine to Hesse, or someone like him. Giving up whatever gave life meaning—her hopes, ambitions, and any trace of dignity. Life at the lowest possible level. Maybe. If she was lucky.

Slavers operated with huge bounties on their heads. Every civilized world strove to shut them down; less civilized ones killed them out of hand. So victims never went free to testify.

And bad as slavers were, their customers were worse. Way worse. The utter scum of creation. In an age of 3V thrills, no one risked life and liberty buying from slavers—unless their tastes went beyond virtual rape and torment. The life Hesse offered could be lived in some obscene collector’s harem, or in a locked brothel with her speech and memory centers erased. Not tempting.

But the alternative was death in a truly horrible manner. And Tiffany desperately needed to live. Listening to the air hiss away made the knot in her gut tighter. Horror welled up. She had been so close. Now she would die for nothing. Unless…

The lock stopped cycling. Then reversed itself. Was Hesse going to give her one last chance? Tiffany steeled herself. Just say no.

The inner door opened. Miko came in wearing her vacuum suit, the helmet unsealed and tipped back. Without saying a word, she sat down opposite Tiffany. The lock closed behind her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Tiffany unsealed her right glove and held out a bare hand. Miko unsealed her glove and took it. Her hand felt small and fine-boned, her skin cool and comforting. She squeezed. Tiffany squeezed back.

The lock started to cycle again. Tiffany sealed up her suit, saying, “Grab an EVA pack.”

Miko looked at her like that was some last sick joke. But Tiffany picked out an EVA pack, along with the lock emergency kit. Miko grabbed a pack and sealed up.

The lock stopped cycling. The outer door sprang open. A residual puff of air propelled them out of the lock into the void beyond.