Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 11 - The Iceworld Connection

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Take one fifty-year-old man with a brain of a twelve-year-old who was dying of

myasthenia gravis. Take the body of one Jarp whose head had been crushed. Add

. . . some other things. Mix that together and put what was left into the tank

for awhile. Play with various combinations of arms, legs, mouths and "mouths",

tentacles, genitals, and pseudopods until a suitable combination is achieved.

Feed in memories and "memories"-some true, some false. Take it out of the

tank. Voila! SPACEWAYS #1 OF ALIEN BONDAGE #2 CORUNDUM'S WOMAN #3

ESCAPE FROM MACHO #4 SATANA ENSLAVED #5 MASTER OF MISFIT #6 PURRFECT

PLUNDER #7 THE MANHUNTRESS #8 UNDER TWIN SUNS #9 IN QUEST OF

QALARA #10 THE YOKE OF SHEN #11 THE ICEWORLD CONNECTION BERKLEY

by permission of author. SPACEWAYS #11: THE ICEWORLD CONNECTION A Berkley

Book / published by arrangement with the author PRINTING HISTORY Berkley

Cleve. Cover illustration by Ken Barr. This book may not be reproduced in

whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For

information address: Berkley Publishing Corporation. 200 Madison Avenue, New

York, New York, 10016. ISBN: 0-425-06067-5 A BERKLEY BOOK (r) TM 757,375 The

name "BERKLEY" and the stylized "B" with design are trademarks belonging to

Berkley Publishing Corporation. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA For

Jay and Vol, comers through A: All planets are not shown. B: Map is not

to scale, because of the vast distances between stars. SCARLET

HILLS Alas, fair ones, my time has come. I must depart your lovely home-

Seek the bounds of this galaxy. To find what lies beyond. (chorus) Scarlet

hills and amber skies, Gentlebeings with loving eyes; All these I leave to

search for a dream That will cure the wand'rer in me. You say it must be

glamorous For those who travel out through space. You know not the dark,

endless night Nor the solitude we face. (reprise chorus) I know not of my

journey's end Nor the time nor toll it will have me spend. But I must see

what I've never seen And know what I've never known. Scarlet hills and amber

skies, Gentlebeings with loving eyes; All these I leave to search for a

dream That will cure the wand'rer in me. -Ann Morris I believe fervently in

our species and have no patience with the current fashion of running down the

human being. On the contrary, we are a spectacular, splendid manifestation of

life. We matter. We are the newest, youngest, brightest thing around. -Lewis

Thomas, The Medusa and the Snail One problem with the Galactics-these "human

beings''-is that they think they are the brightest thing in the universe, and

that they somehow matter.' -Carnadyne of Ice world, Memoirs 1 Penejac's eyes

missed nothing as he walked boldly along the stark plasteel corridor of the

enemy ship. He made no attempt to hide or skulk. The bright lights and the

crowded ship-tunnels had become familiar to him. A big man and strong, he was

a welcome addition to the crew of these . . . slime. His scarred face was set

deep in thought. His image was that of icy calm, a man with a job to do. A man

who was doing it well. That was what Penejac showed. Inside were the dark

tendrils of nervousness and apprehension, all too familiar. Maybe even a

little fear. Penejac fought it, kept it under firm control. His training had

seen to that. Still, he was keyed. This is it. Today's the day. Now's the

time. A crewmate passing him in the tunnel reached out to clap him on the

shoulder. "Hello, Sparky." Penejac nodded and kept walking. The man was a

technician whom he knew and disliked. The fobber had fits of unpredictable

violence. Penejac did not-although he was more than capable of violence. He

was deep cover this time, posing as an engineer on the pirate spacer. It had

taken months to get this far. Months of lying and deceit among these swine.

Months of working side by side with men he couldn't stand. It was the ancient

cliche: a dirty job-but-someone-had-to-do-it. He had drawn the short

straw. Too much hijacking and too much drug traffic. It formed a pattern,

after a while. It had to be stopped. 2 Almost desperately, Tri-System Police

had sent him undercover. They had no idea that he had an even deeper

cover. The hijacker-ships' crews were drawn from the dregs of a multitude of

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planets. The one thing they had in common was a willingness to ride the outlaw

trail, to prey on human weakness. They dealt in the newly developed

permutation of tetrazombase. Para-TZ was the most insidious drug humankind had

ever developed. A microgram of para-TZ induced uncontrollable ecstasy. Taken

to excess-as it invariably was by those under its irresistible spell-it

brought on paralysis and a very ugly death. The thought of D'oona made

Penejac's jaw tighten. He could still remember the long black hair that

cascaded down her back, her friendly smile of greeting. She was the only

halfway decent person he had met on the ship. She had become almost a friend.

Perhaps she would have been, under different circumstances. Or more than a

friend. Instead, she had died. She had died horribly. D'oona's life had been

twisted by bad luck and bad companions. Fate had broken her back over the

years and led her to link herself with the pirates. After that it was all

downhill. She had seen something in Penejac- maybe a spark of goodness in the

man they knew as Sparky-even while he posed as one of them. A smuggler. He had

seen that decency in her, too. It was well submerged and even camouflaged, but

it was there. He had tried to pull it out. He had failed. She had taken the

easy way out, which was eventually the hard way. In a fruitless attempt to

sidestep the pain in her life, D'oona had turned to para-TZ. He could still

see her swollen face, twisted in agony, her once beautiful features lost in

the black rages of unbearable suffering. She had died in his arms, wanting

only more of the drug that was killing her. Penejac knew the agonies that had

rocked her fever- 3 ish mind in her last few minutes. It hurt him and the hurt

went in and in. So did his knowledge that similar ugly scenes were being

played out all along the spaceways. Across the galaxy, a hundred thousand

addicts a day were dying just such miserable deaths. The only freedom from

their suffering was that eventual, inevitable death. D'oona had made it

personal. Now Penejac hated the smugglers with a genuine personal passion. He

despised the drug and what it did to innocent people. Now at last it was time

to act-to bring down the roof on this slimy crew. Now he loved his job! The

ship was one of an incredible covey of four pirate craft. Big ships, all

heavily armed and stuffed with para-TZ. Extracted from broadleaf harvested on

a windswept planet, the pure drug in the cargo holds was the result of almost

a year's worth of crop-tending and harvesting. There's enough of the junk

onboard these four ships to poison a dozen planetary systems, he mused, tight

of lip. Soon the ships would scatter and distribute their deadly cargo

throughout the galaxy. Now was the time to hit them, before they went their

separate ways. The loss would be devastating. Penejac turned the tunnel and

entered the engineering room. Yasunari was on duty, soft-shod feet up on a

desk, face buried in a sex-flimsy with a lurid cover. Yasunari looked up from

his sleazine, frowned. "What're you doing here, Sparky? This ain't your

shift." He lowered his feet to the floor, frowning at the other man in obvious

suspicion. "Chief asked me to check out a couple of circuits. Seems to be a

loose connection or ... something." Penejac rolled his eyes. "I don't know. I

hope that's all it is! Want to call him?" Penejac hoped the Terasak wouldn't

call to check on him. That would only cause trouble. Premature trouble, and

probably Yasunari's premature death. But Yasunari was flipping his

fingers. 4 "Neg, neg. Try to be quick about it, will you?" And he went back to

his flimsy. He was well aware that the chief had an outrageous temper and

definitely didn't like being disturbed. Penejac had counted on this man's not

bothering the chief, and it looked as if he had counted right. "I just do what

I'm told," Penejac said, managing a little whine. "Good attitude," Yasunari

said. "Ya'll live longer 'at way, Sparky." He hoisted his feet back atop the

desk. Penejac went to the side of the main console and pried off the gray

plasteel hatch. The blinding mosaic of mite-sized chips inside, bright red and

gold, pale green to black, were the heart of the ship. They charted its

course, monitored its life-support systemry, kept its log and cooked its

meals. They even flushed the toilets and initiated the recycling process.

Destroy that iridescent orange one and the drive would die; touch that pair of

bright blue and metallic silver and half the comm-system would cease to

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function. Penejac pulled his test equipment from his belt and poked about for

a while, looking busy. Yasunari wouldn't know the difference. Penejac muttered

an occasional curse. The point was that all Yasunari ever did was push

buttons. He had no knowledge at all of the inner workings of the machinery he

used. Penejac had been doing most of the trouble-shooting and repair work

since he'd come onboard. The crew had been glad to have someone around to do

the real work, the dirty work. No one on the ship did any more than it

absolutely had to. Penejac tested a few circuits. They tested out fine, of

course. When he was satisfied that Yasunari wasn't looking, he carefully

bridged two chips and slid a printed board out of the way to reveal a hidden

microswitch. He worked slowly, with precision. One slip now could ruin the

whole plan. The chips were self-monitoring. Alarms 5 would begin to sequence

the moment his tampering was discovered. First the red trouble light for the

attention of the repair crew . . . and at last the all-ship klaxon that even

Yasunari couldn't miss. He'd move then, as if he'd been goosed! Penejac was

most careful not to damage the ship. Not yet, he thought, and his lips were

gone all tight again. He flicked the microswitch with the tip of his probe. It

had taken him a week to find the proper place to wire the switch where it

wouldn't set off the alarm and he could be reasonably sure it wouldn't be

discovered in a casual check or even search. It had taken him three weeks to

install the thing without being seen. He slipped the printed board back into

place and removed his temporary bridge between the two chips. Grunting, he

worked the heavy panel back into place. So, Penejac, he told himself. You have

five minutes. Five short mins! "Find anything?" Yasunari muttered. He didn't

look up. "Not much," Penejac told him, ready to kill to avoid a lengthy,

time-consuming conversation. "Just a loose connection." "Uh. Hey, you're due

back in six hours. Wouldn't hurt if you was to be a few mins early. I could

use some extra sack time." "I'll see what I can do," Penejac said over his

shoulder, redshifting the chamber. Just over four and a half mins left. He

swallowed. He strove to look casual as he headed along the beige-walled tunnel

to the crew's quarters. The switch he had thrown had already alerted the T-SP

ships he hoped were lying just outside normal detection range. They would wait

five minutes after receiving the signal. Then they'd attack, in something like

fleet strength. At precisely the same moment a time-delay would flip in the

microswitch-which would scramble nearly all the electronic equipment onboard

this ship. Although this was but one of four pirate spacers, it was the

flagship. 6 The resulting confusion would surely give T-SP an edge. With luck,

he could be off the ship before the attack, but he was walking a mighty thin

line and knew it. Nobody and nothing would wait for him to get clear. Oh,

they'd try to hold off hitting this big ship until he was off. But if it went

down to the limit, undercover agent Penevac was expendable. He walked to his

bunk and opened the locker, shielding its door with his back. He bent, pried

out the false bottom. He took out an object carefully wrapped in cloth. A

minicommsender dropped into his hand. He'd felt naked for the last few months

without it, out of touch. Yet he had not dared use it until now. Palming it to

the proper frequency, he hit the call switch. The unit worked by bone

conduction so that he could hear it by pressing it anywhere against his body.

A person standing a meter away wouldn't hear a thing. He closed his hand

around the transmitter/receiver and an almost forgotten voice spoke at

once. "Good work, Pen. Signal coming through fine. Estimate initial contact in

about two mins. Good luck." Just as he started to reply to T-SP control, a

strong hand grabbed him by the arm. He was twisted roughly around to face

Flasher, the DS man who had the bunk next to his. "What you got, Sparky? I

seen you sneak something." "Hey, it's mine. Come on now, Flash." Flasher was

tall and heavy, a (relatively) human bear who busted heads first and asked

questions later. Good man to have as a friend, and all Penejac could do was

try to bluff. The connection with T-SP had slipped away. No doubt they were as

busy as he was! Less than two minutes left. And Flasher wasn't buying the

bluff. He shoved "Sparky" back against the row of yellow lockers. Penejac

grunted and pretended to go limp. Flasher grinned. As the huge gunner bent

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over him, Penejac recoiled like a tight spring. He hit the larger man under

the chin 7 with both fists in a blow that lifted him off his feet to send him

sprawling on his own bunk. Penejac headed for the door, at speed. "He's got a

flainin' minicomm!" Flasher shouted, however mushily. "Sparky's a

sisterslicin' spy! Stop 'im!" Two others had been watching the brief fight,

from their bunks. Fights were hardly uncommon among the criminals manning the

hijacker-ships, and the outlaws genuinely worked at keeping their noses out of

each other's business-unless they were as big as Flasher. This was different.

A spy! An enemy, right here shipping with them! Take the bastard and get a

bonus sure! Both men pounced off their beds and one got a hand on Penejac

before he made it out the door. Here came Flasher and the other one right

behind him. With his mouth leaking blood, Flasher was mad. Penejac twisted,

jerked up a knee and shoved his accoster back into the other two. They reeled,

tangled, and went down in a twisted clump. The T-SP man yanked a bunk up to

tip it over on them, and took time to tangle the sheets among flailing arms

and legs. Then he ran. Halfway down the tunnel, alarms commenced to ring. A

siren sounded its ugly wailing warble while buzzers blatted at half-second

intervals. Red lights flashed on and off all up and down the ship's beige

corridor. "Hot alert! Hot alert!" a voice shouted from every loudspeaker. "We

are under attack. This is not repeat Not A Drill! All hands to battle

stations. Arm defense systemry!" Suddenly the tunnels were filled with running

men. Some were headed for their combat stations; others were looking in blind

panic for a place to hide-as if any safe place existed in space combat!

Everyone was yelling at once. Wonderful, Penejac thought, because the mass

confusion was excellent cover. He was also running horribly short on

time. 8 "We're coming in," his clenched minicomm told him. "Do the best you

can, man!" That was it. End transmission. Penejac swallowed hard and ran as

hard as he could. He knocked some others this way and that, and was knocked.

That was all right, now. Emergencies changed manners and priorities about

personal space. He turned into the bright yellow tunnel leading to the escape

pods. Here they waited, primed and ready for emergency exits. He tripped over

a body as he entered that tunnel, and it saved his life. A crackling burst of

raw energy split the air where he had been an instant before. Pulsar beamer!

It hit him then: in an attack, a lot of these smugglers and pirates (and

would-be pirates) discovered that they were cowards. They'd be trying for the

same method of escape he planned. Now he realized that. Two perfectly

normal-looking crewmembers stood with their backs to the pods. They had what

ship's rules forbade anyone else to possess: energy paks strapped to their

legs and belts, and pulsar beamers in their hands. Why not stoppers Penejac

couldn't imagine. With those weapons they didn't need an order to shoot to

kill; pulsar pistols wouldn't do much else. On the other hand, the pair wasn't

firing indiscriminately. Pulsar plasma wouldn't do the ship any good either,

and no one expected to lose, surely. The tunnel was a mixture of confusion and

nasty little explosions. Smugglers fought smugglers in their desperate efforts

to get out of the way of the two guards' kill-bursts. Penejac's stumble was

doubly lucky: he rolled, making himself loose and limp. The guards had too

much to do to pay much attention to one man, presumably dead. Penejac

wallow-crawled over/around a couple of bodies, hardly noticing that

unpleasantness in his apprehension unto fear, and worked his way behind a

suit-up bench. He rose carefully into a crouch, waiting for others to supply

him with the opportunity to make a 9 break past the ruthless guards. Oh, for a

weapon! The trouble with the bosses of this smuggling operation was that they

trusted no one. Except the two guards. . . . As he watched they coolly

slaughtered two more of their fellow crewmembers. The swift, efficient

ugliness of that afforded him no chance to try for a dash past them. Then T-SP

helped. The whole ship lurched under a sickening jolt. A muffled whunk was

quickly followed by an ear-shattering roar. A hit from policer ships of

Tri-System Accord, and mighty close by. Now time was running out a lot faster,

and Penejac's luck was right with it. His eyes narrowed. That explosion, he

saw, had proved too much for one of the guards. The bastard turned his weapon

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on his comrade and shot him at point-blank range. Presumably the man died

instantly, but right now Penejac wasn't giving many damns about anybody but

Penejac. He was sickened by the treacherous display, and yet now he saw his

own chance. He leaped for the nearest pod. He almost made it, too. The

renegade guard saw him at the last moment and squeezed off a quick bolt at the

same time as he pounced into another pod to flee his own ship. Penejac jumped

back, twisting away-and felt his leg buckle under him. Something cracked and

ice and fire seemed to lance simultaneously into his leg. He fell. His knee

was a mass of searing pain. He heard the subdued explosion of bolts and

ejector charge, and knew the guard had made it free of the ship. Penejac did

not wish him well. Dizzy, crazed and shivering with pain, he pulled himself

across the floor toward the open pod door. It seemed impossibly far away. He

was aware of voices yelling, but he couldn't make out the words. His body was

in pain and he wasn't sure that he was capable of thought. Yet something like

instinct thrust him on. He had to get to the pod. It was life, and it

was 10 his only chance at life. If only the damned pod were a few kilometers

closer. . . . It was a meter and a half and then a meter. Through the jagged

redness his knee sent up into his brain, he dragged himself to it. Never . . .

give . . . up. . . . Eternity was passing, and he'd never never. . . . He was

there! He dragged himself up by the frame of the hatch. His left leg useless,

he balanced himself on his right. He didn't dare just lurch inside the escape

craft; agony might well black him out. "Penejac," came the hurriedly

transmitted thought, and he thought he recognized Randy's voice. "Wherever you

are, take cover. We've got to hit that ship now! We're in trouble and it's

making an escape." The communication was cut off as suddenly as it had begun.

Penejac was extremely alone and profoundly on his own. He blinked sweat out of

his eyes and jerked his head to hear sweat patter on a unipolymer plasteel

surface. A figure loomed in front of him. Man. Brown coverall. Enemy] Out of

reflex, he drew back a fist-and stopped the action. It couldn't be! It was:

"Ekmit!" Penejac cried out, in disbelief. He had known Ekmit half his life,

maybe longer. A top-notch TGW captain, Ekmit had widespread respect. Five

years ago he had got into a hot one-too hot. He had gone Forty Percent

City-avoided certain death by dodging into the uncertainty of "subspace" with

no scanning and no warning. In other words, Ekmit had jam-crammed, and had

become a statistic: one of the forty-point-two-two-six-nine percent who did

not come out of tachyon conversion; whose fate was unknown; who was never seen

again. Five years ago! No one had seen Ekmit since, certainly. Now here he

was-how? Why? Save the questions for later, Penejac told himself, even as he

was speaking: "Ekmit! Help me, man-let's get out of here! This ship's about to

be Poofed all over the-" 11 Ekmit's eyes remained cold, dead, even though his

mouth twisted into a sardonic grin. He slid a knife out of his pak-belt and

lunged at Penejac. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Penejac saw the double

irony of being attacked by a friend with a knife. An old friend, and a

ridiculously primitive weapon; not even a vibeknife. And it didn't matter

anything could kill, and dead was dead. No matter who did the killing, or what

he used. Penejac dodged a thrust, coming down hard on Ekmit's extended arm.

The exertion cost Penejac his balance. He fell and came down a lot harder on

the other man's arm. The sharp crack of a breaking bone was followed by the

clatter of the knife. It spun off into the recesses of the pod. On the pod's

floor the two men wallowed in a cramped, intense battle. A battle of

cripples-broken arm against broken leg. Yet Ekmit's eyes continued to hold

that dead look while Penejac had fury on his side. He broke his old friend's

other arm. Penejac rolled him into a corner and reached up to slap the red

EJECT button. Then he tried to relax. ... The door closed. Penejac was slammed

hard against the bulkhead when the pod blasted away from the big ship. It spun

crazily, end over end, as Penejac fought his way to the controls. There was

the sound of pain in his gasping breathing, but he tried to keep voice out of

it. He succeeded, mostly. Abruptly the pod filled with a horripilating sound.

Laughter. Maniacal laughter. Sweating, leg shrieking silently, Penejac snapped

a look back at the other man. Ekmit was standing by the emergency hatch, a

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horrible sight with both arms hanging worse than unnaturally at his sides. He

was as bloody as the T-SP man. His eyes had all the humanity and feeling of a

pair of marbles. And he was laughing. "Oh no-hold on a sec!" Penejac yelled,

struggling to stabilize the spinning pod. "I'm saving us both, Ek!" 12 Ekmit

only laughed. Actually jerking his body away and then back, he made one broken

arm swing like a ghastly pendulum. It thudded against the striker plate to

fire the explosive bolts that would blow away the hatch. "No!" shouted

Penejac, and it was the last word he spoke. Just before the bolts blew, a new

gleam, a manic light came into the eyes of Ekmit. He seemed to flicker around

the edges like a bad hologram. Then he disappeared. Penejac had no time to

consider that. An instant later the hatch blew out into cold airlessness and

Penejac followed amid a briefly whistling wind. Vacuum swiftly swallowed that

gush of air the pod had held, and Penejac. 2 Rantanagar Ehm opened his eyes

slowly. Everything was white. Bright lights shone in his eyes and, seemingly

off in the distance, a pump whined with a regular rhythm. "He's regaining

consciousness, Kirema-daktari." A dim voice, soft, far away. A face, half

covered by a surgical shield, loomed over him. "You're going to be all right,

Randy," she told him. "I won't lie to you, though. You took a bad one. We're

on our way to surgery now. Try to relax." The face looked away for a second.

"Nurse, a little more sedative, please." The soft clank of instruments being

prepared. Whispery voices he couldn't quite hear. Randy felt a small pressure

on his left arm and heard the hiss of an exodermic syringe. He had many

questions to ask, but his mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton. Was he

still in deep space or someplace else? He'd lost track of time. How had the

battle gone? Something had gone wrong. What? ''Ratran Yao said to tell you he

was pleased with the overall operation. I understand there were

complications." The doctor's voice was soothing, as were her hands. She moved

Randy a little and made him more comfortable. "Try to rest," she said. It was

hard not to rest, with the medication running through his blood. Randy felt

drowsy. His eyes closed. 14 Ratran Yao. Smugglers. Para-TZ. Penejac. It came

back to him now, slowly, through a fog. Normally TGO would not have had the

slightest interest in smugglers, but this had been different. The new

permutation of tetrazombase had caught TGO's attention, but only marginally.

Drugs were drugs. They came and went. Like power structures, they had their

day and disappeared. If this drug killed a few more people than expected, that

was of little concern to TGO. Yet this time it was different. This time there

was something about the whole operation that didn't feel right. TGO got

curious. Ratran Yao sent down the word. The Gray Organization often does good

by doing bad. Just get the job done. Too many people were involved, too much

associated smuggling and hijacking accompanied the spread of the drug. More to

the point, the hijacked cargo just seemed to disappear. The few items that had

been recovered had been scattered all over the galaxy. They had been passed

from hand to hand until their origin was obscure and worse. Impossible to

trace. This was clearly a big one and TransGalactic Order had made it its

business to find out who was behind it. Not since Artisune Muzuni had an

illegal operation had such a major feel about it. First Penejac went out, deep

cover. First to infiltrate the policer force of the Tri-System Accord and then

to get himself onboard a smuggler ship. He succeeded, but he didn't learn

much. On the other hand he did have time to bait the trap. Yao had set the

whole thing up without ever making an appearance. Randy wasn't surprised.

Ratran Yao always had a lot of things going on at the same time; that was the

nature of TGO and of his near-the-top job. Randy Ehm had been in only on the

tail end of the project and at that only because Valustriana See had gone on

special detached duty with TGO's uniformed 15 arm way the hell out . . .

somewhere. She had been slated for this one, not her fellow Outreacher,

Rantanagar Ehm. He was supposed to be on vacation. Tightening his lips against

bitterness, he had gone the undercover route, sniffing for leads on three

planets and the satellite of another. That had accomplished little and he'd

actually been pleased to be riding along with T-SP on what was to have been a

rout of the smugglers. It hadn't worked out that way. The operation had been

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only a partial success and Randy wasn't sure who was to blame. They had

attacked with an armada of ten ships and lost seven, while destroying only two

of the smugglers' four craft. Worse, they had no prisoners. The other two big

spacers had escaped. How? They'd had the whole area locked up tight. Nothing

could get out without at least tripping drone-scanners. Something did get out:

two ships. Big ones. Randy could not remember how the fight had ended. The

T-SP ship he was on was hit. That much he was sure of. The rest was a

cluttered semi-memory of mass confusion. Too much yelling and too many people

dying. Noise, noise, a flash of pain- Then he had awakened here. Wherever

"here" is, he thought muzzily. Penejac! Damn. They'd lost Penejac.

(Again-why?) Randy remembered the time the two of them had been thrown out of

the Loophole Bar on Tera-no no, Thebanis. Now that had been a night. They'd

decked two spacefarers, a cyberbouncer, and two human ones before getting the

toss. Rantanagar Ehm sighed, or thought he did. There'd be no more nights like

that one. Not with Penejac Co30341b. "This is going to be a tough one,"

Kirema-daktari said. She sounded a million kloms away. 16 Randy realized he

wasn't supposed to have heard that. It didn't matter. As tired as he was, he

didn't care. He was not able to care. He was actually snoring when they rolled

him into surgery. 3 Rantanagar Ehm lay in his hospital bed and stared out at

the trees. Or rather at trees, not out at them. It wasn't a real window. They

weren't real trees. Everything was illusion. (Nice of them, though, to think

of a grove of bluebark, which grew only on his native Outreach.) His recovery

had been slow. A long, foot-dragging process. Only part of that had been due

to the extent of his injuries. His spirit had taken an even greater beating,

and didn't care to knit. The hospital was part of an underground TGO

installation, of course. Exactly where, Randy wasn't sure. Number Two,

probably, but he really didn't care. Probably deep inside some dead planet. He

could have pumped Nurse Appli for its location, and he hadn't bothered. It

wasn't worth the trouble. (He wasn't all that fond of talking with Appli,

either, and the male nurse, Brenit, was about as talkative as a

windowsill.) He was nowhere near Outreach, and that was all that mattered. The

holographic projection of the trees against the fake window failed to cheer

him. As a matter of fact, it was depressing. He wished he were sitting in the

Lode-stone sipping a Musla's Heaven. Or just a beer. He missed Forty Klom

Hill-wonderful name for a planetary capital, he'd always thought. Just a nice

bar, some good music, strong drink, good friends. A wriggly hust-lord, even a

little fight! Something to pass the time, to make it more bearable. Oh,

Theba's Holy Curse-I've earned it! 18 Flainin' drug-runners! Never was any

business of mine. Nothing therefor me. Nothin' but trouble. The door opened

and Kirema-daktari came in. Randy Ehm groaned. Here came more tests. More

foolishness. She never left him alone. He was getting tired of it. As a matter

of fact, he was tired of almost everything. Appli came in behind the

physician. Under other circumstances Randy might have been attracted to her.

Now, here, she was part of the problem. Part of the background, part of the

depression that engulfed him. She was attractive enough. Fine copper skin,

deep brown eyes, and a sensual mouth. Short walnut hair and a rounded body

that strained against her scrabbles. Randy shook his head and sighed. Another

time, another place. It could have been different. Interesting, even. She had

nice legs and explosive-looking warheads. Her hands were deft and competent.

And cool. She even knew how to smile. Unsmiling, Appli picked up the scanner

and took some quick readings while the doctor walked to the head of Randy's

bed. "No change," Appli said. "Stable. All stable." Kirema leaned over him and

flashed a light in his eyes. She pressed a small sensor to his forehead, read

it with an unchanging expression. Quick and efficient. So was a

cybercleaner-and just as personable. Kirema-daktari was a tall and lanky

woman, with deep-set onyxes of eyes and thin fingers. She was constantly in

motion, a very busy person of apparent-age forty. Her rumply uniforms-light

slate gray, always; about as exciting as soyameat stew-hid the rest of her.

Probably a blessing, Rantanagar Ehm had thought unworthily. "Ready to get up

and run around the block, Rantanagar Ehm?" He looked blank and sighed. "How

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are you feeling today?" (She reminded him of his mother. Neither had been able

to leave him alone. 19 One had wanted him to be a daktari, for the gods' sake.

This one insisted that he was fine, fine.) "Same as yesterday," he said. "Just

like the day before." "You have a visitor." "Uh? Who?" She shrugged. "Said

she's your sister, but I don't know. Not much family resemblance." She turned

to Appli. "I guess he's presentable. Send her in." (Appli was gazing at him,

eyes large, head on one side.) What sister? I don't have a sister. Appli

stepped into the hall and Randy wondered if she or Kirema had a stopper. At

least a nice hypo full of sleepy-by or worse. Sister? Then Appli came back

with his visitor. "Uh," he gasped. He was looking at the ugliest woman he'd

ever seen. She was a wreck, a short ugly wreck. Her face was covered with

warty growths and her eyes seemed a little off center under bushy eyebrows

that seemed in the process of turning her whole forehead into a hedge. Her

mouth was slack and lifeless. This brown hair, combed with a rake, fell to her

stooped shoulders. His "sister's" clothes looked as if she'd picked them out

of a sludgepile on Bleak. In a slum. Randy was speechless. Who was this hag?

She was so ugly he hated to look at her. Sister? Noflainin' way! She makes the

term "sisterslicer" a worse insult than ... he couldn't think of anything

horrible enough. "I'm sure you two have a lot to talk over," Kirema-daktari

said, and she took Appli's arm. "Firm, Daktari. Let's give these two some

privacy." And damned if Nurse Appli didn't wink at Randy as they left. Now she

winked! He sat up hurriedly and pushed himself back against the instadjust

pillow. (What he wanted to do was get up and run. Right through that

un-window, for instance.) Left alone with this-creature! Theba's

shinbones! 20 "Backing away, brother dear. Is that any way to greet your baby

sister?" She came lurch-hobbling toward the bed. Randy decided that he'd never

never let her touch him. He'd touch her first-hard. He didn't know whether to

scream, try to run, or throw something at the apparition. "No," he said,

pushing himself back as far as he could. "No. Don't do it." "Do what?" she

asked, opening her mouth in a twisted grin that revealed a full set of teeth.

Unfortunately they were the color of mold. "Just keep your distance! Who the

vug are you?" The crone laughed- -and vanished. In her place appeared a man of

medium height with a face neither handsome nor un-. He was grinning

satirically and his eyes shone like discs of black plass. Randy stared. He was

in bad shape; he'd been fooled by a holoprojecting aurasuit worn by one of the

galaxy's great disguise artists. "Ratran Yao!" "Sh. Call me Hacema. Got

that?" "But why . . . yukh! That was an ugly projection!" "Urn." Ratran Yao

was pulling over a chair. "I'm fond of it myself. You can practically smell

her." "Her! It! I was afraid she was going to rape me." "No such luck," the

other man said, showing the excellent musculature on his wiry frame in the

skintight aurasuit of charcoal gray. "She was just a way to get in here

without being identified. I want to talk with you, Rando. The fewer people who

know, the happier I'll be." "Supposed to be someplace else, Rat?" "Oh, I am

someplace else. And look-I meant it about the name." Randy nodded. "Sorry. So

talk . . . Hacema." The name was the ancient word for "beautiful." Most people

thought Rat had no sense of humor. Wrong. Rat had 21 a sick sense of humor.

Just as sardonic, as out of phase, as his "smiles"-which never were,

quite. Meanwhile the shock was gone and Rantanagar could feel the familiar

depression settling back in. His new companion-a numbness, a deadness in the

heart and that area of the mind supposedly reserved for giving damns. "I'm

talking. How long are you planning on staying in bed?" Randy returned the

stare. "As long as it takes." "Takes to do what? Tryst with Kirema? Rot,

maybe? She says you're doing fine." . "What does she know," Randy muttered.

"It's not her body." "She knows plenty, Rando, and it's not your body she's

worried about. Come to think, I never thought much of your body myself.'' That

was gratshit, Randy knew; his and his superior's bodies were almost identical.

The bodies of a pair of shortstops. Neither had ever played baseball, but both

had fought, sneaked, killed, and been killed-or nearly. "Well, I'm worried

about my body!" "Wonderful-so you let it waste away in bed. Come on, Ehm.

Don't give me that disabled veteran cess. You're too young for that, man. Too

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tough. They patched you up good as new. Better-some of those new parts are

better looking than the originals. Too bad they didn't do a head transplant.

You might have come out handsome." Randy couldn't hold back the smile. Damn

it, he had intended to take a hard line with this man of many names. But

Ratran Yao knew him too well. Yao knew everybody, eventually, him and those

staring black spots of eyes-and "eventually" usually was mighty fast. Now the

banter made it hard to be gruff. It also made it hard to say what he felt he

had to tell this high-ranking TGO man. He did have to, though, sooner or

later. Ratran Yao saw it coming and sidestepped. He was 22 good at that. "He

could read people like a book" was just a cliche-and in Rat's case it was also

true. "Remember Janja?" Randy frowned. "Jan-oh, the nutty pale blond fraggo

who was chasing Jonuta's tail all over the spaceways?" Yao nodded. "She got

him." "What?" "Pos, and firmed. Poofed him in her own planet-or just above it.

Aglaya. Jonuta is ... atoms. Part of Aglaya by now, probably. Or its

atmosphere." "I can't believe it! Captain Cautious! That one was

charmed!" "So's 'Janjaglaya.' That little woman was too much for him. She

ought to be. After all-I trained her." "Harrd work, I'm sure. Why'd you send

her after Jonuta, R-Hacema? When did he become the business of more than

traffic-cop local policers?" "You mean like the Tri-System Accord's?-we're

busily blackmailing a dozen people to come up with a new fleet for T-SP.

Anyhow ... I felt I had to. Should. She was carrying a massive grudge against

him. Vengeance. He killed her first lover, back on that iron-age planet. She

wouldn't have been worth a vug until she'd settled that score. Now she has. It

was her first mission." "Off to a mighty impressive start!" Randy tried to

intone drily. "No doubt she will develop into a fine agent and draw wonderful

assignments like my last one. Great." "Neg. She got chewed out. We had a man

with Jonuta, to keep us posted as to where to find him. He was also in the

lander with Cap'n Cautious when Janja blew it away." "Who?" Oh lord, lord,

another good man gone. Who this time? "You didn't know him, Randy." Yao leaned

back and opened the front of the snug aurasuit. "You had a pretty good start

too, I remember." 23 Randy grinned in spite of himself. "I couldn't believe

that Jarp!" "The woman was pretty good, too. At least that's what I

heard." "True." Randy smiled. The whole experience of his first assignment had

been a pleasant surprise. "On the other hand," he said, wiping the smile, "it

was hardly all fun and games." "Oh, really?" Yao's face didn't change. He

shrugged. "You bribed the man just as you were supposed to do, and now we own

him. And as to the swine you took out on that same mission-no one ever thought

of connecting it with us. Rando, you did a good clean job." The bedridden

Outie nodded. No bystanders. No mess. Quick. A little reward afterward, the

same night he made the massive illegal campaign contribution to the woman who

was now planetary Councillor. He had known that Jarps were horny

hermaphrodites and heard that they were sexually insatiable, but it was the

first time he'd experienced it. Unforgettable. As to the now-planetary

Councillor who was firmly, secretly in TGO's pocket-she'd aimed hard to

please, too. And succeeded. Pos; it had been a good start to his career. It

was the missions that followed that had worn him thin. And then this one. "I

didn't do so badly with you either, did I?" Yao almost smiled. Almost. "I

don't waste my time with Bleakers, after all." "Maybe you're wasting your time

now," Randy said dully, slipping down in the bed and back into his

depression. "Shit," Ratran Yao said succinctly. "You took some lumps-most of

us have. They were almost as bad as this time, and you came back for more.

Agent Rantanagar Ehm Reporting Sah! You always came back for me, looking ready

to take on an army of pirates-or horny Jarps. Sure, you fobbed off now and

then, but you . . . never . . . gave . . .up, Rando." 24 Randy nodded blankly

and stared past eyes he did not want to meet. "So why are you giving up now,

Randy?" "Who says I'm giving up? I'm recuperating." "Uh-huh. I know you,

Randy. You can't fob me, jacko-I trained you. I can see it in your eyes. This

time it got to you." He leaned forward and raised his voice. "What happened?

What's wrong, Randy? This isn't like you at all." Randy sighed. He was silent

for a long moment. He had tried to keep his doubts and worse-than-doubts

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locked inside, dammit, but this double-damned ever-competent devil Yao had

seen right in and through him. Maybe it was time to say it; get it out. Say it

and hear himself say it and maybe it would ease up this gnawing away at his

mind and spirit. "I think I'm through, Rat." Ratran Yao sat back and looked

long and hard at the man he had trained. "Just like that?" he asked. "All of a

sudden you want . . . what? A nice farm on Rahman's outback? A puter repair

shop on Outreach?" "I don't know what I want. I'm not sure it wouldn't be nice

to spend the rest of my life dead drunk in the darkest dirtiest bar I could

find in Forty Klom Hill. Or better still, Outreach's 'outback'-Negisina,

maybe." "Uh-huh. An alky Outie vegetable. You may have trouble believing this,

but when I trained you, I really expected better from you." "I'm ...

discouraged. Depressed. None of this makes much sense to me anymore. There's

too much . . . ambiguity in everything around me. Half the TGO operations I've

been in on had so little immediately visible purpose." That had the sound of

social science jargon even to the man who said it, and he added, "I can't see

any pattern, R-Hacema." "Forget the 'Hacema.' And you're not supposed to see

patterns. As to 'immediate visible purpose,' " Ratran 25 said, deliberately

wallowing the phrase around in his mouth to emphasize its sententiousness,

"that's the point. Our job is to maintain order among a bunch of habited

planets and billions and bil-yuns of people who aren't linked by anything

approaching a central government or direction-other than the Planetary

Accords. You can thank your Outreacher Theba for those! They enable us to

function. 'Maintaining order' means seeing to it that there are no wars. We do

that, Randy. We do that very damned well. History is through with 'Great

Conquerors'-all the mass murderers we've read about from Alexandras of Makedon

and Kyrus of Persia and Julius Caesar right up through such 'Great Military

Men' as Rommel and Patton and Dipali Thakur-and two men who were ruining

Franji and starting to take the failing demagogue's usual way out-blame

someone else and start a war. Oh-and a nut you never heard about. Sitting up

on one of Corsi's moons, busily working away at what would be a 'safe' atomic

weapons system." "Damn!" "Uh-huh." All the while he had spoken Ratran had been

staring at the other man with eyes hard and piercing enough to cut steel if

not plasteel. That stare did not abate now. "I got that one, while you were

nosing around on Eagle and Gem and Kauffman's, and I am damned proud of it."

He stood and walked jerkily to the door, swung back. Staring, staring.

Piercing. "I am also proud of yoif, and of Penejac, and convinced that this

smuggling business is something even bigger than that." Rantanagar Ehm stared,

interested. He couldn't help it. He was both human and TGO. He was interested.

And of course that was when Ratran showed him a satirical little twisty smile

that told the Outie he was not going to hear more about that-not right now.

Maybe not unless. . . . Randy bit down and tried again. "So where does

that 26 leave me? You're proud and we failed and Penejac's dead. You say

'something bigger' and here's Chamba-natan Ehm's little boy Rantanagar, in

hospital and in the dark. I'm tired of not knowing what's going on. I'm tired

of doing things without knowing why they're being done. I'm tired of getting

knocked around for no reason." "Lovely. I think I heard that you're tired. So

someone says placidate this person or get this person on this planet into our

pocket, and you ask why, and we bring you in and sit you down in front of a

screen for a few weeks to try to get you to know as much as the computer and I

know, and the answer is because centuries of experience tell us that person is

dangerous to galactic, small g, and thus to Galactic, capital G, society! Then

what do you do-suggest we sit down and talk it over with her/him/it and see if

it won't get into another line of work and be a goo-ood demagogue or would-be

general or whatever it is?" Ratran Yao suddenly shot out an arm with an

extended finger that looked ready to bore through Rantanagar's eye. "And you

know what, Jacko? You do not want to know as much as I do! I am on my third

liver now, and use so many reds every night I get a big discount!" "Damn you,

Rat!" "Right!" "So I do not want to be promoted either, then-you just

convinced me of that. Meanwhile-why? Why did Penejac have to die? He-'' "He

didn't." "I know that!" Rantanagar practically yelled, and his eyes flashed.

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Takeonefifty-year-oldmanwithabrainofatwelve-year-oldwhowasdyingofmyastheniagravis.TakethebodyofoneJarpwhoseheadhadbeencrushed.Add...someotherthings.Mixthattogetherandputwhatwasleftintothetankforawhile.Playwithvariouscombinationsofarms,legs,mouthsand"mouths",tentacles,genitals,andpseudopodsuntilasuit...

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Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 11 - The Iceworld Connection

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