Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 10 - The Yoke of Shen

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BEFITTING A GOD

The gnawing hunger consuming Hinun did not stem from the physical needs the Great God shared with his

worship-pers. To provide for his body requirements, Hinun supped on a normal variety of food and drink. For in

form, at least, Shen's one and only god was human.

Human in body and in appearance, Hinun was more, and more too than the creatures he had created to populate

his world.

He was Hinun, and he was the Devourer of Souls ...

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

BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

SPACEWAYS #10: THE YOKE OF SHEN

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley edition / March 1983

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: 0-425-06063-2

A BERKLEY BOOK 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

Geo. W. Proctor, Lanatian

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

Prologue

Most cosmological -questions, especially those involv-ing the creation of the universe, were explained as the direct,

divine action of one or more superhuman beings. -William J. Kaufmann, Black Holes and Warped Spacetime

First they waited for her, overnight. Next morning they began to seek her. That became a search, and that became

frustration.

For four days the four of them searched Yamato. They queried and requested, bribed and threatened, cajoled and

castigated, demanded and urged, blustered and pleaded with tears. Late in the second day they even enlisted the aid

of the city's policers. Or tried to.

After being shunted from one department to another and another and from one minor official to another, they

gained the agreement of Yamato Guardian Agency: the Terasak policers would be on the lookout. Yes, they would

even check around, a little.

None of the searchers learned anything, including Y.G.A.

She had come down into Terasaki's capital city from space station Ukiyo. She had come alone, secretly and indeed

sneakily, for she had told her companions that she intended merely to do some shopping, onstation.

They traced her to the small hotel where they would never have stayed. She had arrived alone, meaning that she had

not been forced off Ukiyostation, and so had 1

intended to deceive and avoid them. They discovered that she had appeared wearing stylish local clothing, which told

them that she had done some shopping. They traced her back to that store. The trail ended there-or rather formed a

loop. They could find no way out of it. From station to store to hotel to ... disappearance.

She had not checked out. She had made no calls and received none. She was gone, just the same, as if she had

vanished into the wall. Her go-bag was gone, too. There had been no sign of a struggle, the hotel staff assured.

The absence of that ancient cliche, the man in the broad-brimmed hat pointed out to his companions, could merely

mean that her kidnapper was the careful sort. A professional, perhaps. At least someone competent.

On the other hand she might merely have redshifted, with a care to leave no trail. Her mental-emotional state, after

all, had been rotten. Devitalized.

"She knew we'd try to find her," one of the red-suited searchers said.

They were five, crew of a ship called Sunmother and former crew of one called Satana, all but one of them. They

searched for Sunmother's owner, who was also their friend.

They were the spacer's captain, Quindarissa, who was very shapely and very black; and Cinnabar and Sweetface of

Jarpi, who were very orange; and Trafalgar and Kalahari Cuw of Outreach. The latter were presumably brother and

sister, without one feature in common. A quintet in uni-form: all five wore attractive crimson jumpsuits with

wide-bottomed legs and black sashes. One of them also wore a (prodigiously) wide-brimmed hat, and one of the Jarps

wore no translahelm but spoke Erts as well as any Galactic.

In quest of Janjaglaya Wye they haunted the streets by days and bars night after night, but got neither drunk nor

laid. Every hotel had been checked. The fourth day passed, and then the fourth night.

That evening, in a persimmon-walled bar-lounge hung 3

with smoky purple fronds, the one who wore the eleven-gallon hat said, "She was all torn up and mixed up. She lied to

Quindy and left us, and she vanished. I say she intended to vanish. We're looking for Janja-and so is Janja. She

doesn't want to be found. Not until she finds herself, anyhow-herself and some new purpose, direction for her life."

"Oh dammit damn it," his lean sister-supposed sister- said, wearing a padded bra under her red clingsuit as part of

her disguise because her figure provided nothing what-ever to change the suit's drape in front and she had after all

until recently been a pirate wanted on various planets and by various extraplanetary policer agencies.

She stared down at the tabletop and said, "How could she! We're her friends! We-we 1 ... 1 ..."

Her companions did not comment on her inability to say the word "love" or comment on the fact that never before

had they seen her so much as try. They had never seen her display this kind of emotion; the caring kind.

They were two, her companions. Captain Quindarissa and Cinnabar were in another lounge or roaming the nighted

streets of Yamato, hopeful of spotting Janjaglaya Wye who had been Janja of Aglaya.

"How . . . could . . . she!"

Trafalgar drew deep breath and Sweetface said, "Please don't answer. We all know. It was a retourniquet question.''

"Rhetorical," Trafalgar said without thinking, and quickly put on his best boyish smile while he gave the Jarp a wink

to prove that the correction had been automatic and under stress, not serious or really critical.

Sweetface neither returned the wink nor smiled. Kalahari stared down at the tabletop. The silence was dark brown.

They were all edgy.

"You know what I think?" That was the Outie-the real Outie.

"No," Kalahari told the tabletop, "but I'll bet I'm going to find out."

"I think we should quit holding back, and get drank."

Kalahari's only reply was to reach for her plass, made shiny to resemble lacquer. She picked it up and drained its

orange-amber contents. Then she held it above her head, at the horizontal. A waiter saw and nodded; Kalahari

lowered the plass.

"I'm with you," she said. "No more reds."

The orange hermaphrodite and the man from Outreach nodded. No more little red antintoxicant tabs. They would

drink to get drank. In their society that was a matter of choice, as was obesity or even being overweight; and hair

color. Kalahari Cuw's, which had been prass (by her own choice), was now jet.

Stupid to be sitting here paying for it, really, when up on the ship they had free source of alcohol! But what the

vug-all of them were rich, anyhow. Except Sweetface.

Sweetface was one of them, but it was not a member of the Satana Coalition. The other four were. And Janja was.

They had been enslaved on the "unknown" planet Knor and had escaped with enough jewelry-mounted gemstones to

make them wealthy. Sweetface was the latecomer. They had also fled their Knorman captivity with that free source of

alcohol up on the ship.

After that they drank morosely to get drank, and they succeeded.

They came too to a momentous decision-another one., of more import than getting drank-and agreed solemnly to it.

The trio toddled back to their hotel to tell the others, but the black woman and the orange hermaphrodite weren't there.

Kalahari and Sweetface and Trafalgar decided to split another bottle and wait so they could apprise the others of their

plan, but they fell asleep instead.

Next day, since they had not used antintoxicants and hadn't even taken any vitamin B-l, they all had headaches.

So did Quindy and Cinnabar, who had arrived at the same decision. The first one. All five of them moped and

moaned most of the day, but they did agree on their course 5

of action. It was about as sensible as it could be under the circumstances, which was not very.

Kalahari Cuw was wealthy. Her ship-Satana-v/as gone, traded off to Janja who had traded it off to a banker on

Franji for the newer and better-equipped spacer she had named Sunmother. The captain of Satana (Hellfire, a pi-rate),

badly used and hurt and scared, full of intimations of mortality not to mention jail cells and worse, had decided to

retire as Kalahari Cuw.

For the present, she would "retire" on Terasaki, in Yamato under the suns Durga and Hubble. Find

something to do to occupy herself. And keep looking for Janja. Janjy, Kalahari Cuw called her.

The others would do the logical insanity of clearing ship-Quindy was, after all, captain of Sunmother and there'd be

no problem in gaining clearance-to begin the impossible mission of scouting the spaceways for Sun-mother's owner.

What else did they have to do, Quindy said, hoping the question was rhetorical and glancing ner-vously at Trafalgar

Cuw, who should have something else to do. But he nodded. It was his idea, anyhow, or his and Kalahari's.

The plan was ab.out as practical as Socialism, but it was what they felt they had to do.

Sunmother's owner was Janja and she had been recruited/ kidnapped from the other hotel, and she didn't know

where she was, either.

Strangely, by the time they redshifted Terasaki's orbit-ing docking station, one of her five former companions did.

Before noon of the fifth day-Terasak, spaceship Sun-mother had clearance and, without even taking on cargo,

departed Ukiyostation. In quest of Janja. 1

Not how insignificant our bodies are, but rather how potent the human mind is-this is the real lesson of modern

astronomy. -William J. Kaufmann, Black Holes and Warped Spacetime

The Great God Hinun awoke. Not with a resounding cho-rus of thunder and lightning that split the heavens as if

bellowed up from a majestic mountain peak to proclaim the indomitable power and might that coursed through divine

sinews. No; Hinun the Eater of Minds came awake with a startled jerk of his head and a half-flutter of time-wearied

eyelids.

Hinun, He-Who-Has-Lived-And-Died-A-Thousand-Times (an exaggeration of truth that Hinun cultivated to fan

flames of awe and terror among his worshippers-al-though his reign had spanned a millennium). His body betrayed by

the rapid approach of the never-ending life/death/life cycle, he felt no surge of unrestrained strength, godly or

otherwise.

Today he merely hungered.

Today he would eat.

When the sole deity of the planet Shen dined, feasting tables were not strewn with a bountiful banquet of exotic

meats and sweets befitting a god. Neither did Hinun par-take of ambrosia or nectar, the classical epicurean cuisine of

the now-forgotten gods of Urth called Homeworld. 67

The gnawing hunger consuming Hinun did not stem from the physical needs the Great God shared with his

worshippers. To provide for his body's requirements, Hinun supped on a normal variety of food and drink. For in

form, at least, Sheh's one and only god was human.

This day Hinun would fill a deeper need, sate a deeper desire. One that had ruled the designer of destiny on Shen

for a thousand years. The very essence of human existence would be his fare. Human in body and in appearance,

Hinun was more, and more too than the creatures he had created to populate his world.

He was Hinun, and he was the Devourer of Souls.

The sharp sound of buskined feet on polished marble drew the god's attention. To wipe away the cottony vestiges

of lingering sleep, Hinun dragged a spidery hand over his face; a shriveled face, lined with wrinkles like fissures.

Aqua-irised eyes casually shifted rightward to greet the ten Hinuri who double-filed into the throne chamber of their

god.

In silent approval, Hinun watched their entrance; his private guard. Their faces all bore the same determined clench

of jaw, the narrow slant to the eyes. In fact the ten faces were identical. What need for variety, when ma-chined men

were what a god required to protect his personage?

How smart they were in their plumed helmets and gleam-ing bronze breastplates! Double-edged short swords

dan-gled from studded belts about their waists. Round shields, emblazoned with two air dragons entwined, were held

smartly before their chests to gleam like mirrors beneath the glo-lamps that hovered near the ceiling of the throne

room.

Energy weapons or even projectile pistols would have been more practical, efficient, and suitable for the Hinuri.

They were after all bodyguards to a god. Yet it was because he was a god that Hinun's personal soldiery bore only

ancient armaments. It was by far a simpler task to quell a rebellious element whose most potent weaponry

was bow and arrows, whether that element be outside the Hinuri or within their ranks.

(Several inquiring individuals on Shen had discovered gunpowder during the Great God's thousand-year reign.

Those individuals had been put to the sword and their explosive discovery obliterated and forgotten. Gunpowder was

not an element Hinun had woven into the design of his planet, or wished to have altering the pattern.

(Nor did Hinun deign to provide the half-million inhabi-tants of Shen with the simple conveniences of the internal

combustion engine, or electricity. Power exceeding the strength of domesticated beasts was reserved for the Eater of

Minds. So it had been for a millennium. So it would remain for another millennium, and another.)

The Tyrant God, his worshippers whispered; the Bloody God. These, too, were Hinun, the Devourer of Souls. He

placed little value in appellations. More important was Shen's design . . . and Hinun's personal fulfillment.

"Great One."

The foremost of the Hinuri stepped forward as he spoke, toward the jewel-flashing throne of the purple-robed god.

While his fellow guardsmen positioned themselves about the chamber's marble pillars, he doffed his helmet and knelt

at Hinun's feet. He spoke reverently, head bowed.

"The woman you summoned awaits outside."

He-Who-Has-Lived-And-Died-A-Thousand-Times toyed casually with a spectmond that hung, the size of a child's

fist, from a chain about his spindly neck. Only his lips moved.

"Bring her to me," he intoned. "She is to become one with Hinun."

He ignored the tremor of revulsion that he sensed course through the guardsmen when he stood. He allowed his

gaze to rise to the massive doors of steel on the opposite side of the chamber. They slid open. Two Hinuri, perfect

replicas of the ten already within, entered. They half-dragged, 9

half-carried their captive. At once the young woman com-menced to struggle.

She was entirely naked. Behind her, mockingly, a third guard bore the shredded remnants of her clothing, a gray

uniform with touches of maroon.

A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her ebon nudity as she twisted and lurched against her captors. Her gyrations

were to no avail. The Hinuri's massive hands bound her like bands of steel. For this rather delicate beauty who had

fallen from the stars, there would be no escape from union with the Great God of Shen.

Her head jerked up and her eyes flashed at the satin-robed god. "You grat-buggering brother-loving bastard!"

Lunging with all the might contained within her lithe and very female body, she threw herself toward the

leathery-skinned monster who sat in judgment over her right to continue living.

With what appeared to be no more than the slightest tug, the two Hinuri jerked their prisoner back. Her body went

rigid for an instant. Then a long quiver trembled through her. Liquidly her knees gave way and she sagged toward the

floor of pink marble. Her guards provided the only support for that limp form amove now only with quakes.

"You promised! You son of a bitch!" Tears glittered in streaks down the sculptured jet of her cheeks. "You

prom-ised I'd live! You promised!"

Well reduced, Hinun observed. Hardly the officious and confident person she had been within the shell of that

gray-and-maroon suit! And he nodded, remembering the acts she had performed with seven of his Hinuri, in order to

win his promise. It had been an illuminating evening. She had employed every orifice of that supple body as well as

both her hands to conquer his seven sturdy studs. She'd been impressive, too. Hardly a squeaky maiden with no idea

what it was about!

Of course, she had had no choice . . . since death could hardly be considered a viable choice.

In a resonating voice that belied the crevasses etched into his face by time, he deigned to make intoning reply.

"That promise will be kept, my Midnight Flower. You will live forever-in union with Hinun. Immortality shall be

yours!"

On the right arm of the golden throne, Hinun's thumb located a multifaceted ruby and depressed it. A whispered

hiss floated through the vaulted room. The marble floor at Hinun's sandaled feet opened onto a gaping rectangle of

nothingness. From that dark, a spotless altar of stainless steel thrust upward to flash like silver.

The Great God motioned to the two Hinuri and their captive.

The moment of truth catalyzed the young woman's strength. She wrenched and twisted in a final attempt to free

herself of dual painful grips. She was no weakling, and knew it.

As before, her struggles were fruitless.

Each guard released his hold on one of her arms and grasped her legs. Fingers, several shades lighter in hue than

her midnight pigmentation, dug callously into her thighs. Effortlessly the Hinuri lifted their captive atop the metal altar.

Black leather straps studded to the smooth steel were opened. Deft and uncaring, hands securely bound the victim

with limbs outstretched atop the shining altar.

"They'll search for the ship, you dried up old Bleaker-lizard!" She threw herself against the leather and spat upward

toward the Great God. "There'll be other ships. When they come, they'll make a cinder out of this shit-ball you call a

planet! Can't you see that, you old idiot?!"

With a wave of a robed arm, Hinun motioned away his guardsmen. Were he not a god, Hinun would have said a

silent prayer. Other ships were what he wanted! What he needed, to relieve the monotony of his thousand-year

exis-tence. Ships-spaceships, spacers-were crewed now with human spacefarers. 11

Lives! Life; fresh minds to bind to mine . . . to bond with mine!

His fingers found an opal inset in the arm of his great chair beside the ruby. He depressed it. The hum of electric

motors awoke. The bottom face of the altar slid down. From the opening extruded an elongated oval dome of crysplas.

It folded upward on hinges, then floated gently down to encase the woman still twisting atop the altar.

What a magnificent contrast, the god thought; that black jade flesh, those clean black limbs sweat-gleaming against

the silvery sheen of the steel altar!

Hee-noon, she was screaming at him. Hee-noon . . . but the cries of a prisoner within a transparent half-egg were

muted to mere squeaks.

As though examining an insect pinned to a specimen board, Hinun's gaze roved the spread-eagled form of this

fortuitous "visitor" to his planet. A true beauty, he al-lowed himself to think. Such night-hued skin was un-known on

Shen. And her movements . . .! But now the lust that had once fired him was only memory; a mere hint that taunted his

desiccated loins.

How exotic she is!

His attention was drawn by the taut breasts that juddered and heaved with her efforts to tear herself free. So

abun-dant, he mused, those mounds of ... meat. Of equal temptation was the mound of her sex-stash, he corrected

mentally, for from her he knew the currentmost of the endless euphemisms for vagina.

And soon he would know so much more, from her!

Would that he stood at the beginning of the life/death/life cycle rather than its end! He would have enjoyed more

than one pleasure with this woman (who called her race "Galactic" as if there was no Shen in the galaxy!), before time

came for her ultimate union with the Devourer of Souls. He sighed. So fetchingly erotic, this one from afar!

Alas, he was indeed at the end of the cycle. It was not

the delights of the flesh that Hinun craved, but this delicate black orchid's mind.

Ah, and her face had changed now; she was pleading. No doubt promising. Hinun looked away. Did she not know

that he could not hear her-a useless butterfly under glass?

Hinun sank back. Reaching above him, he grasped the helmet-shaped crown attached to the high back of his godly

seat. He eased it down over his divine (and balding) head. For the third time spidery fingers walked the gem-stones

adorning his throne-chair's arm. This time he de-pressed the emerald positioned between ruby and opal.

A scream, a woman's agonized scream into the face of death, filled the throne room despite the sound-muffling shell

of plass. Hinun did not hear.

The Great God of Shen was oblivious to all. While his bound prisoner expired in a delirium-like horror, the De-vourer

of Souls dined-he feasted on the mind of this one who had been a spacefarer.

In an electric ~deluge, all that had been the woman he called Midnight Flower poured into his brain. Hinun soared,

reveling in the ecstasy of the invigorating flow, the total union of minds.

From the instant of birth to her final outcry, she melted into the mind of a god who had reigned for a thousand

years. She merged with that multitude of souls who had met a similar fate during that millennium. Her essence, her soul

was devoured. It became his. She was no more. She was but a small portion of the ever-expanding mind of a minor

deity forgotten amid the parsec abyss except on this one insignificant ball of clay.

Her joys, her pains, her loves, her angers . . . Hinun took and savored each. Relishing the delightful variety that had

flavored her short, though full life! This instant was supreme! For this and only this Hinun existed. The union of

minds, the gathering of their total experience. This was 13

the reason why Hinun had first stepped onto the surface of Shen. In the union, the Great God was fulfilled.

Hinun's age-wearied eyelids opened with a flicker of vitality that had been missing only moments ago. Even this

close to the end of his unending cycle, the union brought a renewal of strength. A pleased smile lifted the comers of

his age-spotted lips.

His gaze shifted to the still form beneath the encasing bubble of crystal plastic. He thumbed the opal. The shell rose

from the altar of steel and slid back into its resting place. The woman it had pleased him to call Midnight Flower did

not move. Strange, that though undiminished physically, she looked smaller! Only the rise and fall of breasts like

eggplants gave indication that she still lived- physically.

Mentally, Midnight Flower was no more. Her brain had been drained, fed into the mind of the Great God Hinun. Her

existence had ended.

Those on whose minds Hinun dined were not allowed to retain one flicker of memory. Their memories, their life

experiences could belong to one and only one being, for Hinun was a jealous god.

The biologically alive remains of the woman from the spaceways would not be required to endure physical

hard-ship or torment. A benevolent serenity masked the ancient face that stared at her.

For I am not, after all, a cruel god, he mused serenely.

He waved a robed arm at the naked stillness that sec-onds ago had been a functioning human being. "Remove that.

Have your way with its shell and then dispose of it. That can no longer serve Hinun-but she who inhabited that shell

has been exalted by him!"

The sole deity of Shen did not consider the use of Midnight Flower's mindless body by thirteen men-perhaps more

than once each-as either torment or abuse. After all, she was no longer present in that shell.

And I have exalted her. I have made her part of the Great God.

Replaying memories, sampling the life that had been Midnight Flower's in his mind, the Devourer of Souls watched

his Hinuri lift the limp body from the altar and bear it from the throne chamber. His smile of pleasure widened as he

closed his eyes to immerse himself in the fresh sensations and emotions that were now his, of this unphysical and yet

total union.

How different she was! So delightfully different!

Oh, Hinun knew. He had dined on countless minds from among his Shenese worshippers. They were usually

tedious. At best, banal with a few moments of interest. What, after all, could such minds impart? Had he not created

them? Created them-and all the life on this planet!

But this woman with skin of deepest jet and her two companions who also survived the crash here of their

galaxy-traversing craft . . . ah! Now they were truly feasts for a god!

And now they. were so blessed as to be one with the god.

As with those who had first brought Hinun to Shen, the stars belonged to those spacefarers. It was easy to

under-stand the pompous appellation they had bestowed on their homo sapiens race-Galactics! It spoke of strength,

of star-spanning power, of a billion alien suns to be conquered!

Ah, if only the other three members of the ship's crew had lived . . .

Hinun had discovered a wealth of knowledge in the three minds he had joined to his. It was not enough. He could

not construct a ship-a spacer-to carry him from the monotony of this world. Nor could he navigate a spaceship along

the space- and time-warping avenues of the Tackyon Trail. He could not . . .

The Great God's digression was shattered. Pain tore at his withered chest. He doubled over, coughing in racking

heaves, body shaking, caught in an uncontrollable spas- 15

modic seizure. Again and again he sucked in gulps of air to combat the onslaught. Eventually, weakened and

gasp-ing, he succeeded.

Trembling, Hinun lifted his head and touched the ann of his violet robe to his lips. Droplets of crimson spattered the

immaculate sleeve in a fine spray. A silent curse eased from the lips of the Eater of Minds. Why did the end of the

life/death cycle always have to be this way?

Why must I ever endure this pain? Why does . . .

The Great God shook his head. Self-pity was worthless and less than divine. What matter his death-pain, when the

beginning of the cycle lay so near? He had endured far worse in previous cycles.

And now there was reason to continue. New experiences awaited him. Out there amid the vast dark of space, amid

the glowing suns, were the Galactics-and alien races as well-with which to unite!

"Other ships will come," Midnight Flower had prom-ised, so ringingly.

Would come in search of their sister ship lost among the myriad of stars. Other spacers bearing men and women in

their crisp uniforms of gray and maroon; granite and bloodstone.

That was Hinun's hope for the beginning of the new cycle. Hope. How strange the word rolled within his stuffed

mind. It was not a word the god had used often during his endless existence.

Hope!

Delicious shivers of anticipation moved in goosepimply waves up Hinun's spine as he sank back into his great chair

of state. Once again he would parade Midnight Flow-er's memories before his mind's eye. (Their minds' eye!) Later,

hours, maybe days hence, he would neatly catego-rize each and every thought and sensation that had been the

Galactic woman, and tuck them all neatly away within the appropriate niches of his mind.

Until then Hinun would savor, with relish. 2

White noise. The constant din of voices spattered with forced laughter competing with, the blaring of wiggle, writhe

and flash pop tunes ("Wig-Wri-Fla," to those in the know) from corn-amplified, multi-voiced synthesized instruments;

the clink-a-dink of cyberbartenders and wurrr-spiiinn of gaming wheels, the angry shouts and squeals of glee, the

occasional profane curse . . . White noise. Back-ground audio clutter that the ears and brain accepted and toned down

or tuned out.

Fifteen minutes after entering the Free Fall Palace of Chance, the acute ears of a massive giant had done just that. He

bore the name Captain Tober Kiff of the spacer Lanatia Lady and he was at the bar. For the past hour and a half, Kiff s

attention had been appropriately occupied by three now-empty potties of the legendary beer of Thebanis-

Starflare-and occasional appraising glances and even more lengthy gazes at well-turned calves, long oval or

super-nally rounded backsides, or free-swinging breasts enticingly displayed by the homebaked cakes of planet

Thebanis's capital city.

Like the riotous noise of the Free Fall-a mere name, that, since the place's gravity was Thebanis's nigh-standard

1.011-the titillating glimpses of ultrafeminine anatomy were easy for Kiff to tune out. Oh, he gave the occasional

second look to a flashing silver strap-titser on a very female female whose chin flaunted the dimple-scar given her at

birth (and promising that she was expert at esoteric

16 17

exotic erotica). In general his mind wandered elsewhere among memories entirely his own, and roved the star-strewn

path to the galaxy's edge that stretched before him in the immediate future.

A journey across the parsecs that would resurrect the dead-or allow Lanatia Lady's captain to bury memories and

ghosts.

For Kiff, this night in Raunch of Thebanis was nothing more than an elaborate charade, a magnificent deception.

Kiff and his ship were lies. So were the nut-brown of his skin and the raven-black, over-the-ear wig he wore. The

convoluted digressions that wove through the giant's mind were not.

Beneath the dyed skin, wig and the name "Tober Kiff" was Songan of Harb, friend and former genius master

planner to the ultra-thief of the spaceways, the man called (among other things) the Demon Cat. Songan of Harb, who

now stood as master of spacer Fleet Return.

The disguises for captain and craft stemmed from years of habit. The Demon Cat and his cohorts were wanted by

every planetary authority in the tightly packed cluster of star-worlds here at galaxy center. Not to mention

Trans-Galactic Watch, the uniformed branch of TransGalactic Order, often-mentioned but seldom seen law

enforcement organization that spanned the galaxy and maintained order along the spaceways-by its definition.

Spooks or super-spooks, all would relish snaring the elusive thief as much as they would celebrate capture of the

equally elusive Jonuta of Qalara. Though those riders of the outlaw trail had never met, each was master of his trade,

which existed well around the bend from legality.

His encephaloboosted genius of a mind wandering the avenues of the past and the possibilities of the future, his

ears attuned to filter out the noise of his surroundings, Songan seemed far from the Free Fall. As a matter of fact he

didn't turn from his stool at the sound of shattering glass behind him.

It was a voice that snapped his bewigged head around; a feral snarl-growl that fair dripped its lust for blood.

The nasty looking bruiser appeared to be the direct result of crossbreeding a Jasbiri gorilla and a grat. He stood in a

classic defiant stance at one end of the Escher table. Square-cut hair cropped close to his simian-shaped skull. A large

prass earring dangling from his left ear. It had no mate, because the ugly's right ear was missing.

"My stells . . . or ya ass!" The apish fellow raised a tree trunk of an arm that ended in a balled fist the size of a

sledgehammer. "What'll it be, pretty boy?"

The sledgehammer shook menacingly at the end of the tree trunk. The motion raised a clanking from multiple

chain-like necklaces around the bruiser's neck-which looked big enough to swallow a liter of beer, pottle and all.

Beneath the chains and open black equhyde vest ex-panded a barrel of a chest that confirmed Songan's suspi-cions

that the man was descended from a gorilla. About one generation back, Songan mused unscientifically.

That hadn't been glass he had heard shatter, either; this one-eared gorilla had just busted an "unbreakable" plass

pottle!

"Let's not be hasty, my garrulous friend: There is absolutely no substantiation for your hasty accusations." That

replying voice was calm and chill as an iceberg. "In a sporting establishment such as this, there must be losers as well

as winners. You have my sincerest condolences as to your weighty losses, but please do not expect recom-pense for

your lack of fortune."

Songan craned his neck to see the object of the gorilla's anger and owner of that voice, although he didn't need

visual confirmation. He would know that silver-tongued glibness anywhere in the galaxy. It belonged to one

Varnalgeran Yuw, native of planet Outreach and First Mate of Fleet Return, not to mention Lanatia Lady.

The overweight Outie sat calmly at the opposite end of the Escher table. Before him glittered a small fortune in 19

neatly stacked stells. The tricolored Thebanian notes were testimony to his luck at guessing the path of a ball bearing

randomly tossed by constantly reversing energy fields.

Another might have acquiesced to the gorilla's demands and tossed over the man's losses plus a tidy sum to

placate his rage and outrage. Another might have scooped up his winnings and made a fear-inspired scramble for the

door in hopes of making it outside before the bruiser caught the back of his neck and snapped it with a single flick of

an island-sized paw. A panicky fobber would have drawn stopper and fried the one-eared gargantuan where he stood.

The seated Varnalgeran Yuw chose D: none of the above. Instead he raised a hand to edge back the wide-brimmed,

feather- and bead-banded Wayne he wore atop his head. His eyes, alight with an impish glint, rolled upward playfully.

He smiled.

The two gamers nearest him saw that idiocy and put distance between him and them.

They had mistaken the Outie's casual reaction for the fatal misjudgment of a fool. Songan did not. During the long

years he had crewed with Yuw, he had learned that the Outreacher-who often dressed and occasionally played the

part of jester-was anything but a fool. In that one flippant glance, Yarn Yuw had appraised the mountain of a man who

towered before him-all one hundred eighty sems of him.

And two equally ponderous and chain-bedecked gorillas who shifted out of the crowd to position themselves

beside Varn's glaring accuser.

Songan slid from his barstool and did some shifting of his own. A slight uplift of Varn's smile was his only

acknowledgment of his captain's approach.

"It's stells-stells ya stoled from Magenquy of Havoc- that I want, jacko. Not ya smartass lip!" The words hissed in a

snarl through the 'Vocker's clenched teeth. "Ya cheated! Ain't no fancy, frilled Outreacher gonna do that to Magenquy

. . . not an' keep his hide!"

With a clank of chain, the 'Vocker's heavy-browed head nodded. In willingly obedient response, his companion

uglies bulled around each side of the gaming table and vectored straight for the still seated Outie.

Magenquy took the shortest route between himself and his desired destination. In a bound his booted feet were

planted firmly on the edge of the Escher table. Plasteel floor-anchors groaned; the table held. Magenquy crouched,

threw his tree trunks of arm forward and, with a bestial scream tearing from throat and chest, launched himself

headfirst at Varnalgeran Yuw.

A considerably taller man was meanwhile thrusting aside gawking onlookers. His name was Songan and he threw

out an arm of bioengineering-enhanced muscles that matched the tree-bole circumference of Magenquy's. Like a finely

machined vise, the disguised captain of Fleet Return clamped a big hand around the forearm of the gorilla closest to

him.

"Tober Kiff" was merely a spacer captain of uncom-mon size. Songan of Harb was another matter. A man who

abhorred physical violence, he was uniquely prepared to deal with it-and with this man bent on assaulting his friend.

Songan was a lifetime practitioner of the internal discipline of Tao Chi. More importantly, the giant had been bred for

the Games on his native Harb. There, with his winged friend Dorjan-known to the galaxy as the Demon Cat-he had

been part of the deadliest gladiatorial team ever to step into the Harbian arena.

In one fluid movement, Songan jerked Magenquy's fel-low 'Vocker toward him. His arm, which had been ex-tended

firm and rigid as a beam of unipolymer plasteel, bent. He released the chain-adorned bruiser and snapped his elbow

upward, painfully smacking it into the fellow's upper lip.

Had the carefully placed blow been a centimeter higher, it would have driven the gorilla's nose upward into his 21

brain and brought death. Songan had no wish to kill. He intended only to disable, quickly. He did exactly that.

Magenquy's companion, aided by a long, long leg thrust between his stumbling feet, went down howling. He rolled

on the unshining scarlet floor. Both hands clutched his face in a useless attempt to staunch the crimson flow

streaming from a split lip ... a lip that only a daktari and a dozen stitches would be able to make whole again.

Songan's movement ended when he whirled to the blood-lusting 'Vocker who catapulted himself toward the plump

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BEFITTINGAGODThegnawinghungerconsumingHinundidnotstemfromthephysicalneedstheGreatGodsharedwithhisworshippers.Toprovideforhisbodyrequirements,Hinunsuppedonanormalvarietyoffoodanddrink.Forinform,atleast,Shen'soneandonlygodwashuman.Humaninbodyandinappearance,Hinunwasmore,andmoretoothanthecreaturesheha...

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