Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 07 - The Manhuntress

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THEY HAD BREAKFAST IN BED, SERVED BY A CYBERBUTLER. Chane ate ravenously while

listening to Lizina's plan for revenge. "You're a total lunatic," he said.

"Mad as a rabid grat. But you'll try it whether I'm here or not." Before she

could protest, Chane continued. "No point sitting around while you get

yourself killed-so I might as well help you." Lizina shrieked with joy and

flung her arms around him, upsetting the breakfast tray Chane returned the

embrace-and more. "Is this the way I'm supposed to earn that exorbitantly high

salary you've promised me?" Lizina matched his motion with her own. "This is

just a (uh!) fringe benefit, guaranteed to promote a better employee/employer

relationship. Oh 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 PLAYBOY PAPERBACKS SPACEWAYS #7: THE

of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in

any form by an electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording means or

otherwise without prior written permission of the publisher. Published

simultaneously in the United States and Canada by PBJ Books, Inc., formerly

PEI Books, Inc., New York, New York. Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 82-81380. The poem Scarlet Hills

0-867-21175-X First printing October 1982. 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 A shark circled in space. To be certain, this

shark's lineage could not be traced to the flesh- and blood-eating machine

that swam the oceans of now forgotten Homeworld. Nor was it biological. It was

a shark, just the same. And it was an eating machine. An eater of other

machines-and of men. A sleek, finless shark, it was designed to slice through

the infinitely stretching light-years of space. A shark of gleaming naked

metal that bore the single marking Lung T'ou emblazoned in crimson along its

prow. Shark and spacer-both predators. Both preyed on the weak, the injured,

and the crippled. In an earlier age, millennia in humankind's past, Lung T'ou

would have been constructed of wood and pitch. Its bow would have cut through

the waves of Homeworld's neglected seas. Sails, hung from strong masts, would

have billowed in the wind. Atop the highest of those masts would have flown a

flag-skull and crossed bones on a field of jet. Lung T'ou was a direct

descendant of such a craft. The men and women who rode its decks bore the same

infamous title given those who trod the decks of those wooden

ships-pirates. Like a shark that srnelled blood, Lung T'ou circled its prey.

It-or its captain-bided his time, waiting for the moment to move in for the

kill. That moment rapidly approached. 9 1 Through eyes that were not eyes,

Dorjan of Harb scanned the control console's flashing lights, monitors, and

mini-displays. Each told him something, whether he wanted to know it or not.

He narrowed his three-hundred-sixty-degree telepresence vision to focus on a

green phosphor screen to his left. A trajectory readout listed down the left

side of the monitor. Right of the column of figures, high resolution graphics

bracketed the other spacecraft's minute course change. "Bastard!" Dorjan's

fingers danced over a series of glo-red buttons on the console's face. A hint

of vibration ran through the deck. Maneuvering rockets ignited to synchronize

the ship-his ship, Misfit-with the trajectory of the other, which floated

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twenty-five kloms out in space. Prow facing prow, the death-dance of the two

spacers had continued in a sort of slow-motion tarantella for five hours. Lung

T'ou led; Misfit followed. Neither captain exposed his ship's sides to the

other. To have done so would have been instantaneous suicide for the captain

making that elementary mistake in tactics. When humankind sailed wooden ships

across the oceans of Homeworld, warring vessels maneuvered for hours in an

attempt to expose the cannons positioned 10 11 along their great lengths to

their opponents. If a vulnerable bow or stern were presented to an attacker,

the ship was soon raked by a bellowing broadside. The tactic was called

crossing the T. Cap'n Harry Morgan loved it. So did once-pirate Captain John

Paul Jones. And so did Captain Jonuta. In space the name remained. With

Defense Systernry located in the prows of most spacers, the tactic was

reversed. To expose a side to an aggressor was to create a prime target-a

broad indefensible target for forward-mounted gunnery. Spaceships faced

nose-to-nose presented smaller targets for enemy gunners (human or automated).

And it was far easier to maneuver out of the line of direct fire. So it was

that Misfit and Lung T'ou danced in circles twenty-five kilometers from each

other. Neither ship fired on the other. For Lung T'ou there was no need to

attack. Misfit was already crippled. A polarization cell in the spacer's

double P drive had done its best to vaporize when the ship punched from the

Tachyon Trail-"subspace"-for a navigation check in the Ahura Mazda System. For

Misfit to attack its pirate opponent would have been yet another form of

suicide for Dorjan and his six crew members. Misfit's tachyon propulsion

system was now vulnerably open and totally useless. Songan, Misfit's massively

tattooed First Mate, labored within the drive's housing to replace the

dis-functioning polarization cell. Inside with him-as they had been for the

past six hours-were crewmates Iniko and Hedeon. Dorjan had only his ship's

chemical maneuvering rockets at the command of his fingertips. And those . .

. "MR system check?" Dorjan brought the mentally controlled necklace-like row

of TPs inset in the skin at the base of his neck back to full

three-hundred-sixty-degree scope. 12 "Two-minute continuous burn. Five minutes

worth of short bursts. If Lung T'ou makes a radical change in its course ..."

Varnalgeran Yuw's answer faded in hopeless silence. Dorjan suppressed the

panic that squirmed in his gut. Five minutes-at most! Then? Misfit's

maneuvering rockets weren't designed for sustained use. They were meant for

the precision trajectory corrections needed during docking alignment at space

stations. The rockets were chemical. Depletable chemical agents. Fuel that had

to be replenished each time the ship was berthed. That they had lasted this

long bordered on the miraculous. One miracle wasn't going to be enough today.

Not if Dorjan intended to save ship and crew from the circling, stalking Lung

T'ou. The man hunched over SIPACUM to Dorjan's right glanced at his captain.

Varnalgeran Yuw's expression contained the same helplessness that had been

implicit in his silence. The computrician's eye-blinking red shirt lay matted

against his overweight body. Soaked with five hours of sweat. And fear! The

same sweat drenched Dorjan's own clothing. The same fear set his temples

pounding as though they contained bass drums gone berserk. The Outie's

appearance provided no reassurance of Dorjan's ability to extricate ship and

crew from their perilous position. Dorjan had never seen the man sweat-

before. While others might crack and crumble under pressure, Varn remained

cool, iceberg cool. For this native of the planet Outreach to ... A blip on

the green monitor broke Dorjan's digression. His fingers jabbed at the console

once more, matching Misfit's trajectory with the pirate ship's. "One minute,

forty-five," Varn called out the time remaining to the maneuvering

rockets. 13 Dorjan toed open intraship communications. His voice came from his

throat in a harsh bark. The strain of five hours of unrelenting tension

crackled through Misfit. "Damn it, Songan, how much longer! I can't keep

SotKil off Misfit forever! Stop playing with yourself and get the drive up!" A

grille hissed on the console before the master of Misfit. The words that

crackled from the speaker sounded less than human-mechanical. They were. Years

ago on Harb, Songan's vocal cords had been severed. He spoke through a voice

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box inset in the small of his throat like a chainless medallion of

gold. "Dorjan, if you think that you ..." The speaker grille went dead for a

long silent moment. When Songan's voice returned, it was restrained. "The

polarization cell is repaired and functioning perfectly. We need at least ten

minutes for final adjustments and closing the housing." "You've got less than

five!" Dorjan saw Varn's eyes narrow. The Outie wasn't accustomed to hearing a

sharp exchange between captain and Mate. Nor did Songan deserve it. No man or

woman who roamed the spaceways could ask for a better Mate than Dorjan's

fellow Harbian. The two had once been slave-gladiators on the outworld planet

Harb. Both still carried permanent reminders of that former life. For Songan

those souvenirs of bondage were, his tattoos (from the top of his shaven scalp

to the soles of his feet with no sem between left unembellished), his

genetically engineered strength, his voice box . . . and a good brain that had

been encephaloboosted beyond mere genius. Dorjan's chromosomes had also been

manipulated while he had been in his mother's womb. He was a sport, a genetic

freak, An albino (though his skin was now subcutaned to a deep nut

brown). 14 As an adult he had been blinded, his vision restored via the

TP/telepresences in his neck. Bioengineered wings of ultra-thin unipolymer

plasteel were attached to his back. Retractable plasteel claws (each a full

three sems in length) were surgically implanted to replace his fingernails.

(The claw in each forefinger could become a mini vibe-knife with one conscious

mental command). The alterations of mind and body were the gifts of their

former owner Murrah an Rahmyne. To Murrah the two men had been prized

possessions whose bodies were to be honed to total killing machines. Dorjan

had accidentally killed Murrah. Slaves were slaves and masters were masters.

The first did not kill the latter-even accidentally. Dorjan and Songan had

fled the galactic rim aboard Misfit-Murrah's private pleasure ship-to the

star-crammed center of the Milky Way. There, among the worlds and stars

humankind (whose members now bore the self-applied appellation Galactics)

called the Farther Reaches, they had used Misfit to develop a successful

freight trade. With Songan, the captain of Misfit had discovered an abandoned

asteroid colony in the planetless star system Pascal. A colony they reclaimed

and converted into a haven for escaped slaves just such as they. The same

colony they named HOME (Habitat Orbiter: Modular Environment). For eight

years they had labored to revamp HOME, transforming it into a massive ship,

five kloms long and capable of exploring the stars. The colony-spacer now

awaited Misfit's return to begin its maiden voyage. Financing that gargantuan

conversion had given birth to another shared venture for the two ex-slaves of

Harb. The creation of The Shadow Walker-master thief among the settled worlds

of humankind. Will with the Wisp, The Demon Cat, The Invisible 15 One,

The-Thief-Who-Is-Not-There-his names were legend and so were his exploits. In

truth The Shadow Walker was two people. Songan, whose intelligence had been

encephaloboosted beyond genius, masterminded each of The Demon Cat's

escapades. And Dorjan, the adventurer, the man who actually performed the

daring thefts.* The high resolution image of spacer Lung T'ou leaped upward on

the green phosphor monitor. Dorjan's fingers jabbed the console. Misfit's prow

rose to follow the pirate ship's abrupt course change. ' 'MR reads one minute

remaining.'' Yuw was repeating the figures provided by that marvelously

engineered necessity of space travel: SIPACUM (Ship Inboard Processing and

Computing Unit [Modular]). Dorjan inwardly cringed. Another radical trajectory

modification like the last one and Lung T'ou would be on Misfit in a manner of

minutes. Move it, Songan. Move it, damn it! Stuck in this barren star system

far beyond the Carnadyne Void, trying to outmaneuver a pirate, was no place

for a thief. Nor would Dorjan have been here, crippled in unfamiliar space,

were it not for Lizina and Kefira altRusalka. Lizina. The name evoked a tidal

wave of memories. Lizina-the woman he loved. The woman who now carried his

unborn child. And Kefira. That woman of the alien Akil race was unique to the

Galactic worlds. She was the only member of her race humankind had

encountered. Saucer-eyed, furred in white gold, the sensuous Akil also held a

special place in Dorjan's heart. Both women had been under his protection when

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HOME was attacked by Ganesa of Resh, mistress of the spacegoing brothel Be

Lively. Lizina and Kefira had been kidnapped by the Reshi madam. Spaceways #5:

Master of Misfit. 16 After searching the Farther Reaches for months, Dorjan

had caught up with Ganesa at the Barbro Transfer Station two days ago. The

woman had revealed that Lizina and Kefira had been sold on the mining planets

Mirjam and Ginneh, respectively. Leaving Ganesa and crew bound and gagged,

Dorjan had programmed Be Lively for Forty Per Cent City, then escaped Barbro

with a TransGalactic Watch destrier on Misfit's tail. Whether Ganesa survived

the jam-cram into subspace was a question that might never be answered. The

tactic, usually reserved for desperate situations, was one of the gray areas

of traveling the Tachyon Trail. The probability was just above seventy per

cent for survival with undefined damage and 59.773}-to-infinity per cent for

survival intact. That left 40.2269 per cent probability of utter destruction,

presumably. Those who had become a part of that last statistic were not around

to tell about it. Dorjan no longer thought about Ganesa. He had given her a

chance. More than she had given the fifty HOMErs butchered in Be Lively's

attack on the asteroid colony. Though sold into slavery, Lizina and Kefira

still lived. So long as they lived, Dorjan could hope. He clung to that hope.

It was more than Songan had. Yoluta, the young Lanatian whom Songan was to

marry, had been killed in the raid on HOME. Misfit's First Mate now traveled

the spaceways seeking the technology needed to clone Yoluta from ceil samples

taken from her body by HOME'S physician. The search for three lost women had

brought Misfit to the Ahura Mazda System. That the Lung T'ou had happened upon

the crippled ship during the repairs of the malfunctioning polarization cell

was a matter of fate. The phosphor screen burped an emerald blip. Dorjan fed

new coordinates into the console. Varnalgeran Yuw 17 informed his captain that

SIPACUM registered thirty seconds burn left to the chemical rockets. Come on,

Songan! Move your tattooed backside! Dorjan tapped intraship comm open with

the toes of his right foot. "Status?" "Five minutes more," Songan said. "We'll

be out of here in five minutes, Dorjan. Give us five more minutes!" Varn shook

his head as Dorjan turned to him. Songan might as well have asked for the

universe on a reelsilver platter. "Songbird: Edrek?" Dorjan checked with the

two crew members who manually manned Misfit's DS. An ear-piercing "tweet"

answered, followed by an "affirmative." The non-human whistle belonged to

Songbird, a Jarp. Songbird was neither male nor female, but both. It was

hermaphroditic, possessing breasts, a penis, a testicle, and an ovary.

Songbird's shockingly orange skin and deep wine-red hair were common to all

natives of the planet Jarpi. The "affirmative" was from Edrek, the youngest of

Misfit's crew. Edrek had a double stake in Misfit's success. Yoluta was-or had

been-his sister. Kefira had been his lover since Dorjan and crew had rescued

the brother and sister from slavery on the planet Thebanis. "Stand ready,"

Dorjan said. "We've got one last move in us, then . . . when Lung T'ou tries

to take us, show them we have some fight left in us." Dorjan sensed

teeth-gritted determination in the ''tweet'' and ''affirmative'' that answered

his command. "Intraship comm, captain," Varn said. "It's SotKil again." "Bring

it up-minus visual." SotKil. Lung T'ou. The names sounded as though they had

been taken from a martial arts edutape. SotKil-the 18 Hammer Fist. Lung

T'ou-the Dragon's Head. Charming. The type of names a certain sort of man

selected for sheer showmanship. That was, if one were not from the planet

Saiping, SotKill was Saipese. (Dorjan knew. He had listened to the pirate

captain's demand for surrender twice an hour during the long standoff.)

Saipese did not assume such names. They were given. An honor for achievement-

for an outstanding attribute! The Hammer Fist! The name rang ominously. But

then so did Death. And that was the name Dorjan had been given while in the

arena of Harb. "Ah, Captain Dasan, we speak once again." SotKil's voice

crackled from the speaker grille. "This time I hope you will be more amiable

to my request to board Nobigthing and relieve your ship of the burden it

carries.'' "Once again, captain, I must inform you Nobigthing's holds are

empty." Dorjan did his best to remain calm, to infuse a casual conversational

tone in his voice. "We're en route to Mirjam seeking cargo. Not

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carrying." "Captain, I grow weary of the charade. It is well-known along the

spaceways that this portion of the Tachyon Trail is a main artery in the TZ

trade ..." The only charade Dorjan played was his assumed identity of Captain

Dasan and Misfit's temporary registration as the spacer Nobigthing. For the

Invisible One- master thief of the galaxy-disguise for captain, ship, and crew

were essential to the continued prosperity of all. Misfit/Nobigthing's holds

were empty. Were they not, Dorjan would never carry TZ-tetra-zombase. The

will-and-mind-robbing drug was illegal on every Galactic-settled planet along

the spaceways. It was an essential tool for many slavers. Though often on the

wrong side of legality, Dorjan never engaged in the trade of flesh, human or

alien. 19 His ten years of freedom had been dedicated to spoiling the profits

of those slavers who crossed his path. "... I've tracked your vessel from

Ginneh, captain. I grow tired of this grat and mouse game. Allow the boarding

and you and your three crewmates will live. Deny me again and the four of you

will spacewalk- without suits!'' The green monitor blipped. Dorjan punched in

the correcting course that keptMisfit/Nobigthing face-to-face with the pirate

craft. Varnalgeran Yuw raised a hand, forefinger and thumb touching. The

silent signal's connotation was far from its usual meaning. The MR was

depleted. Zero! There would be no more maneuvering for Misfit. SotKil, the

Hammer Fist, had to be reckoned with. The Hammer Fist. "Captain SotKil, I

assure you that you have mistaken Nobigthing for another spacer ..." Dorjan

had said it all before. Now he repeated himself to buy time. Something SotKil

had said niggled at the back of his mind. Three! SotKil had said three crew

members. Misfit carried a captain and a crew of six! How could Lung T'ou's

scans and sensors have misread the persons onboard Misfit? It made no sense.

It . . . Songan! Dorjan almost stumbled over his words as it came to him.

Songan, Iniko. and Hedeon were within the drive's housing. That housing

contained half a centimeter of lead shielding. The sensors and scans couldn't

penetrate the lead. SotKil doesn't realize I've got six men onboard with

me. "... Captain SotKil, there seems to be but one way of convincing you of

your mistake." Dorjan paused, trying to quell the doubt knotting his gut. He

could be wrong. "You and your crew may board Nobigthing." 20 Varn's head

jerked around. Shock filled his expression. Dorjan toed off intraship comm,

switching to intership, "Songan! You and Iniko and Hedeon stay where you are.

If any of you step out of the drive housing before I give the order, I'll

personally have your hides before SotKil has a chance at them, "Varn, give me

another reading on SotKil's crew. Now!" Dorjan tapped intraship communications

again. He had missed only a few words of SotKil's reply. "... you and your

three crew members waiting at the airlock. Unarmed. Understand?" Yuw held up

four fingers as Dorjan said, "Understood. We'll be waiting as requested.

Unarmed." Intership comm off again, Dorjan swiveled to his computrician.

"We've got ten, maybe fifteen minutes, until SotKil arrives. With luck, just

enough time to prepare a suitable welcoming for the sisterslicer!" Dorjan

smiled. The Tao taught that one should meet hard with soft. And Dorjan was a

Taoist, a follower of The Way. When the Hammer Fist strikes, it will strike

water. And no hammer has ever injured water! 2 Thrusting rockets ignited.

Thunder reverberated within the shuttle to fold back on itself in a deafening

chorus. An invisible hand reached down and pressed itself flat against

Lizina's face and chest. She offered no resistance. She relaxed and allowed

the mashing force to shove her into the padding of the contour

couch. And-a-one-and-a-two-and-a-three-and-a-four-and-a-five-and-a . . . She

tried to ignore the ever-increasing pressure that sought to squeeze the breath

from her lungs. The pilot had assured her the shuttle would clear Mirjam's

gravity well in seventy-eight point eight-three seconds. So she counted,

mentally clicking off each agonizing second of the launch. Many of the planets

within the Farther Reaches were connected to their space stations via

beanstalk elevators. The counter weight of upward and downward traffic to the

torus-shaped stations eliminated the brute force required to reach escape

velocity under rocket power. Mirjam was not a planet of the Farther Reaches.

It was an underdeveloped mining world out beyond that eerie starless expanse

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called Camadyne Void. Mirjam, despite its highly profitable copper trade, had

no elevators rising into space. Mirjam still awaited the construction of a

full-fledged space station. The shuttle's hull vibrated around its lone

passenger 21 22 as if intent on tearing itself apart at the seams. Lizina's

teeth rattled even while she did her best to clamp her jaw firmly closed. . .

. and-a-fifty-and-a-one-and-a-fifty-two-and-a-fifty... In the two couches

ahead of her, Lizina saw the pilot's and co-pilot's hands lazily drift over

the flashing array of the ship's control console. Here and there, fingertips

dipped to jab and punch in multiple-gee slow motion. Outside, beyond the

shuttle's blunted nose, Mirjarn's pale blue sky darkened. Fluffy, rolling

banks of clouds were left behind the soaring craft. Stars winked into

sparkling life like distant diamonds atop the blackest of velvets. . . .

sixty-nine-and-a-seventy-and-a-seventy-one-and-a-seventy . . . The crushing

hand abruptly released her. Replacing it was the weightlessness of null-gee.

Air rushed in to fill Lizina's lungs, now free of the restraints of normal

gravity raised to the sixth power. She swallowed hard. The thunder of

thrusting rockets faded to a lingering buzz in her ears. She raised a shaky

hand to push a stray strand of copper-hued hair from her forehead. She

smiled. Free! I made it! I'm free! The smile broadened to a wide

self-confident grin. She was free! After the months of abuse, fear, plotting,

and dreaming! It seemed so easy! It had taken her only thirty-six hours

standard to find a way offplanet. The shuttle lazily rolled to its

side. Lizina leaned to the right. A small, round porthole presented her with a

view of Mirjam. Her last, she hoped with all her being. From here, above the

mining world, the planet's reds, coppers, and occasional streaks of electric

greens 23 appeared deceptively magnificent. Mirjam was anything but

magnificent. Mirjam was an apartment of hell for those living on its surface.

A desert world, the planet provided no natural haven for the men--and rare

woman-who came to rob her of her precious copper. Mirjam offered only heat,

sand, and wind. Lizina's broad smile remained. She was free! Free of Mirjam

and her life of bondage there. She was on her way home. Home! Home to Panish.

And the comforts of a rich widow that awaited her there. Panish. The word

rolled through her mind with an alien feel. It sounded so distant; so

estranged to her enslaved existence of the past months. The months stretched

like years in retrospect-in sheer endurance. In actuality, less than six

standard months had passed since she had been kidnapped from the security and

comfort of Panish. In those months she had lived two to five lifetimes. Now

it's time to go home. She closed her eyes and leaned against the couch's

headrest. Panish wasn't home anymore. It had never truly been home. Though in

a not too distant past, it had appeared to be everything she had ever

wanted. Now she knew differently. Dorjan had shown her that. For the majority

of her twenty-eight years, Lizina had called Lanatia home. Captain Jonuta of

Qalara had changed that. (She lied to herself. Her own stupidity had brought

the change.) A would-be singer and sometime hust on Lanatia, Lizina had taken

part in a less than successful assassination attempt on the infamous slaver.

When Jonuta and his crew were through using her (and use her they did, 24 in

every orifice her body provided), she had been abandoned in Harmony on planet

Panish with a dress, a few stells for room and board for a night, and the name

Coppertop.* In Harmony (not spiritually, mentally, or physically; that was the

strange world's capital city) Coppertop had been forced to ply her talents in

the galaxy's oldest profession.. She had been a bust, a cake to slice,

spreading for any man-or woman-with the right price. Garold Harith, one of the

wealthiest men onplanet, had entered Coppertop's life. And made a respectable

woman out of me. The eons-old phrase floated through Lizina's mind. Garold

bought her from the brothel where she was employed. He cleaned her up, gave

her a job, and returned her self-respect. He also gave her something she had

never known before-love. Then he gave her his name. Coppertop became Lizina

Harith, wife of Garold Harith. The marriage lasted six months. Garold Harith

was killed in a freak industrial accident, something that should not have

happened in a place where he should not have been. Lizina had mourned his

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death, for she had loved him as she had never loved before. When the socially

prescribed period of Panish mourning had passed, Lizina shed the black

garments of a widow and went in search of a casual lover for a night. The

selected man had been one Thax Wilanu. The evening had not ended as she had

planned. Instead, Lizina was drugged and sold in bondage to one Captain Kukis

of Shankar. Thax and a taxi driver she knew only by the name Mikk had been

responsible for the transaction. Thax and Mikk. They were the top names on a

mental list she kept. When she reached Panish, she * Spaceways #1: Of Mien

Bondage. 25 would see that the kindness they had shown her was repaid in like

currency-with interest added. Lizina also intended to reciprocate the

hospitality tendered her by Kukis and his First Mate Degula on the spacer

Forerunner. The two had shown a decided relish for inflicting pain both mental

and physical before they sold her as a hust onboard that Reshan Ganesa's Be

Lively. Only a few days ago Lizina had completed her recovery from the

tetrazombase programming of her personality--compliments of Kukis and Degula.

With repeated small dosages of the will-robbing drug they had stolen

everything Garold had given her. No, not money. They stole more. They

transformed her into the perfect, ever-obedient, ever-willing slave. Exactly

the type of woman Ganesa needed for Be Lively! Dorjan. The name came now like

a silent prayer to her mind. Dorjan. She would be with him again. No one would

stop her. No one! Dorjan and his crew of motley misfits had rescued her from

Ganesa. Had shown her their world within an asteroid. HOME, they called it. To

her the colony was simply home. A real home, to which she would eventually

return. The home in which she would give birth to the child she now carried.

Dorjan's son. She would still be within the security of HOME had it not been

for Ganesa. The Reshi had searched the spaceways for her stolen property. Had

found that property-Lizina Harith. Had reclaimed her. And in the treacherous

process the spacegoing madam had kidnapped Kefira. Lizina had no inkling of

what had happened to the Akil woman. She tried not to think of her fate.

Lizina 26 prayed to Booda that it had been-was-better than her own. In revenge

for Lizina's rebellion, Ganesa had sold her on Mirjam to a man named Sofian

Mahir. Lizina was supposed to be the mine foreman's wife. Legally, she

was. Since Mirjam was a woman-poor planet, Mahir saw his purchased wife as a

means for making a small fortune on the mining world. Lizina was forced to

hust. On her back and on her knees, she survived. Survived. Lived. She thought

of that, of the future, rather than to ponder the endless line of miners Mahir

had brought to share his wife's bed. For a price. His price. Lizina glanced

down at Mirjam. She had no regrets at leaving the planet. None at all . . .

No, wait. One regret, perhaps, she admitted to herself. His name was Chane.

The young miner had shown her kindness and love when all the others who had

come to her bed had wanted only a cake to slice. Chane was no longer on

Mirjam. He had left the mining world a day before she gathered the courage to

make her own escape. She smiled again. Escape had not come without the

sweetness of revenge. When she had last seen Mahir, the swine was dancing

beneath the sonic beam of that universal weapon of Galactics, a stopper.

Lizina had personally arranged that with relish, wedging the gun between two

big stones so that it would continue to function until its power-pack was

depleted. The stopper was the modified version carried by those who traveled

the spaceways beyond the Carnadyne Void. It had the usual three settings. One

merely jangled the nerves to make its victim dance uncontrollably. Setting Two

brought instantaneous unconsciousness. Three killed and incinerated the

victim's body to a pile of gray ash, if left on long enough. Oh-so-tidy

and 27 oh-so-efficient, that rod-shaped little single-handed weapon! Lizina

had left Mahir dancing within a beam generated by the stopper's first setting

(with him naked and in the middle of a Mirjam desert). While the sonic beam

wouldn't kill, sustained exposure would turn the man's brain to curd.* And

there was at least three days-standard worth of beam in the pistol's

power-pack. Did Mahir still live? Lizina hoped so. Death would be too easy for

him. Too simple a repayment for what he had done to her. The shuttle rolled

again. Mirjam was replaced by a field of stars outside the porthole. "There's

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Lanna's Run." The co-pilot's head turned back toward the lone passenger. He

pointed to three mated metallic spheres directly in front of the ship's

nose. "It doesn't look like much from here. But it's a good, sturdy ship," he

assured her. "Captain Bururia is as good as they come. She's been making the

run between here and the Barbro Transfer Station since Mirjam was first

opened." Lizina nodded pleasantly. She didn't give a damn what Lanna's Run

looked like. All it had to do was get her to Barbro. From there, she would

find a way to Panish. If she had to pay every stell she carried for passage,

she would. If she had to share the bed and embraces of a lusty spacer en route

to the planet, she would. The vibration of maneuvering rockets ran through the

shuttle. Gently it swung into a parallel course with the larger ship. "Soon as

we're alongside, we'll ran an S-corridor to Lanna's Run." The co-pilot turned

to Lizina again. Spaceways #5: Master of Misfit. 28 "That'll be easier than

suiting up and floating to the airlock." She nodded her thanks. Actually, she

would have preferred the latter. She had never donned a spacesuit and stepped

outside the hull of a spacer, and she had learned to cope with new

experiences. Some were even fun. Lizina remained silent. There was no need to

stamp on the fellow's display of courtesy. Besides, before she completed what

she intended to do, space would no longer be an alien environment. Lizina

edged to the front of her couch. She peered at the growing form of the ship

that would transport her to the Barbro Transfer Station. Excitement tingled

through her. Lizina, you've done it. You're on your way home. On your way

HOME! Captain Bururia was long, tall and stringy. Her hair was a cup of jet

close-cropped to her skull. Practical rather than attractive. She was also one

hundred and twenty per cent business. "We don't see many passengers onboard

Lanna's Run." The red-jumpsuited woman led Lizina down a cylindrical tunnel.

"Two on one jaunt is a record." Captain Bururia was also redundant. Lizina had

met the spacefarer yesterday, and she had explained all this then. Lizina did

not mind the fact that she would have to share Lanna's Run's one and only

passenger cabin with another person. That the passenger was male didn't matter

either. Bururia had assured her the room's two beds were equipped with privacy

screens. If the screen were not enough to waylay any unwarranted attention

from her roommate, Lizina had her stopper. Her right hand brushed the handle

of the cylindrical gun strapped to her waist. Until her escape from 29 Mahir

she had never worn a weapon. Now she would not be caught without one. At a

four-way tunnel junction, Bururia turned right and halted before a door

painted a dull institutional green. She thumbed the hatch open and motioned

Lizina inside before her. Her expression was her idea of pleasant. The room

was a cramped four meters by four meters, with two wall-attached beds on each

side. A yellow surlock-expanbag lay on the bed to the right. Lizina tossed her

small hand-held bag atop the one on the left. "Sonic shower-sitter combo."

Bururia pointed to a door at the rear of the room. "Meals are served in a

common galley on Level Two three times a day. Chow-call's one long buzzer

burst followed by three short. We've got a cybercook, but it was programmed by

the best human chef on Hawking." She managed a smile. Lizina nodded. She noted

the privacy screen's button-controls on the side of her bed. Near the pillow,

for easy access. ''My fellow passenger?'' "He agreed to help with the cargo to

cut his fare." Bururia gave the room a once-over and nodded. ''Cargo detail

should be through in a half hour. Another thirty minutes and we hit the

Tachyon Trail." "Time enough for a shower before we're outbound then?" "Time

enough." Bururia redshifted through the hatch, closing it behind her. Lizina

ran a finger down the seamless front of the dull tan jumpsuit that was

standard attire on Mirjam- for man or woman. Molecular bonding opened. She

tossed her shoulders and let the suit drift about her ankles, then kicked it

atop her bed. It didn't look any prettier off, but she did. A shower now would

avoid an awkward situation later when her male roommate was present.

Consciously, she gave her body cursory inspection. A habit re- 30 tained from

the days when her physical attributes were her only assets, and thus

marketable. Twenty-eight years old (plus a few months), she appeared a not-so

innocent twenty-one. She stood a hundred sixty-eight sems and weighed a

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constant fifty-four kilos. A bit fleshy for those with a taste for tall,

stringy women such as Captain Bururia, she admitted. But for those with an eye

for alluring curves rather than jutting bones, there was no denying the

sensual voluptuousness of her consummately feminine form. She had never given

her breasts more than an "adequate" rating. Others would have been quick to

disagree. Golden tan like the rest of her, they were firm and uptilted. Most

importantly to her, every sem of her body was hers. Naturally hers. A rarity

in the Galactic worlds where cosmetic surgery and bioengineering were

generally available to nearly everyone. Even the metallic-coppery gleam of her

hair was natural-right down to each and every root. Only her irises had been

enhanced. Subcutane-treated to achieve a deep emerald hue. Lizina ran a hand

over the taut flatness of her belly. It would be months before the child she

carried began to show. She thanked Emalia Daktari for that. HOME'S physician

had given her an injection that inhibited gestation. Her pregnancy would take

eighteen months rather than the usual nine. More than enough time to return

HOME. The thought wanned her as she stepped toward the sonic shower. Her

son-Dorjan's son-would be born on a world that traveled between the

stars. Lizina napped through the instant of mental and physical disorientation

that accompanied Lanna's Run's tran- 31 sition into a stream of coalesced

tachyons. She had no complaints at having missed it. It was the hiss of the

room's opening door that woke her. She blinked leadened eyelids twice. . . .

then sat up straight, eyes saucer-wide in disbelief. "Chane!" "Lizina?" The

young man's expression contained the same incomprehension as hers. "How did .

. . Lizina!" He was on the bed beside her, hugging her joyously, kissing her

lips and cheeks. She returned the enthusiastic greeting measure for

measure. Only four days ago she had sent this boy from her bedroom. (She

thought of him as a boy because of the seven years separating their ages,

though Chane had proven himself a man time and again in her bed.) They had

said their teary-eyed goodbyes. She had never expected to see him

again. "Mahir? How did you get away from that son-of-a-vug?" Chane asked after

the flurry of hugs and kisses subsided. As Lizina began her explanation, a

long buzzer sounded from a grille in the cabin's ceiling. It was followed by

three short bursts. Chow-call. Arm in arm, the young man and older woman found

the way to Level Two and the galley. With Chane's demand for every minute

detail of her flight from the mining town Ore City, Lizina's recount of her

escape from Mahir more than adequately consumed the dinner conversation. It

continued to occupy their attention during the stroll back to their cabin. "If

Mahir's stopper was equipped with one of those new high duration power-packs,

he will be dancing for a week.'' Chane laughed in shared relish of Mahir's

fate. His youthful face abruptly went sober as the door hissed closed behind

them. He turned to Lizina. His hands firmly gripped her shoulders. 32 "When

you wouldn't run away with me ... I didn't think you'd ever have the courage

to make a break, Lizina." "Neither did I. Not then." That last day in Ore

City, Chane had offered to help her escape from her husband/procurer. Lizina

had refused. Mahir had killed a former "wife" and lover when they tried to run

from him. She had not wanted Chane-or herself-to suffer a similar

fate. "Lizina, I never expected to see you again. To find you here with me is

more than I ever hoped for.'' His voice was low and somber. "What I said in

Ore City was real. I meant it. I love you, Lizina." His hands tightened,

drawing her to him. Hungrily, but with the gentleness she had always

appreciated, his mouth covered hers. She offered no protest. The kiss seemed

natural and right. After all, this was Chane. And he did love her. (In truth

Lizina suspected that his love was a classical case of younger man and older

woman. An infatuation that stemmed from the fact that she had been the only

woman in Ore City-the only available woman.) In her own way, she loved this

boy/man. She had been no more than a piece of meat to all those Mahir had

brought to her bed. A cake to slice. A hust with whom, in whom to relieve

biological needs. Chane had been different. He had cared, had given her love

and friendship. In his innocence, he had wanted to protect her from Mahir. He

would have killed himself trying to do so, if she had allowed him. Chane's

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right hand released her shoulder. Fingertips glided to the neck of her

jumpsuit. Molecular binding opened easily. Inward, beneath the coarse fabric,

his hand slid. Warm palm cupped pliant breast. "No!" Lizina pushed from him.

Anger twinged her denial. Chane's forehead furrowed with uncertainty.

"But 33 . . . Lizina . . ."He stammered in confusion, his face stricken. "This

isn't Ore City! Chane, I'm not Mahir's property now." Lizina took a deep

breath to steady herself, to quiet the anger. When she spoke again, it was

with unmistakable determination. "I will not be used again. Never! If a man

comes to my bed, it will because / want him there. I'm not a hust. I won't be

used like one. Never again." "Lizina, I . . ." Chane still stammered,

bewildered by the unexpected rejection. "Oh, Lizina!'' Lizina stared at him.

"It won't be any other way, Chane. Do you understand that?" He nodded slowly.

Like a cowering puppy, he turned and sank to the edge of his bed. His gaze was

downtumed to the floor. Lizina studied him while she sat on her own bed. Damn

it! She felt guilt. Chane and she had been lovers. Lovers of circumstance, she

admitted, but lovers just the same. Perhaps she had been too sharp with him.

The kiss, the caress of her breast were things he had done hundreds of times

before. No. With resolution, she assured herself. She was free of everything

she had been on Mirjam. From now on, I choose who shares my bed. That was the

way it had to be; that was the way it would be. "Chane, there is something we

need to talk about." He looked up. The hurt in his eyes tore at her heart. She

did her damnedest to ignore them. She was her own woman now. And she intended

to remain that way. "There are some things I've never told you about Lizina

Harith," she said, to begin a thumbnail history of her life on Panish. Chane's

eyes widened with each word she spoke. She saw doubt on his face. But beneath

that was definite interest. She told him of Thax, Mikk, Kukis, Degula, 34 and

Ganesa. Then of Dorjan and HOME-without, carefully, mentioning any of them by

name. She would have died before betraying either of those trusts. "What I am

saying is that I need somebody to help me. Someone I can trust." She paused,

her eyes meeting his and holding them in green bonds. "There's only one person

I know who fills that bill. You." Chane said nothing. Traces of a hurt puppy

remained in his expression. "I know you want to get back to your home on

Jas-bir," Lizina continued to plead her case. "But I promise you that if

you'll stay with me, help me,' I'll make it well worth your while." "I don't

know. You've got to admit that from where I stand it all sounds pretty

fantastic." Chane shrugged. "I've lived through it. And it seems fantastic to

me." Lizina smiled sadly. Chane had no reason to believe her. "All I can say

is that everything I've told you is true." He shrugged again. "I'll have to

think about it." "You've got until we reach the Barbro Transfer Station to

make a decision. From there, I find passage to Panish." "Let me sleep on it,

Lizina." She nodded. "A good idea. It's been a long day, and I could use a

week or three of sleep." Lizina swung her legs onto the bed while Chane rose

and buttoned the overhead lights. The light dimmed to a soft glow, but did not

go off. A precaution for green spacefarers who might lose their way in the

dark? Lizina wondered. She toed off her shoes and kicked them to the floor.

Starting to wiggle free of the jumpsuit, she paused. Chane still stood by the

light control. He stared at her intently. No need making it worse on him than

it already is. 35 She felt along the side of the bed and found the privacy

screen buttons. She pressed one. An opaque gray field formed about the bed.

Chane and his sad-pup's eyes were the last things Lizina saw as the screen

went up. Rootless guilt (or was it?) suffused her again. She tried to repress

the feeling while she peeled away her jumpsuit and tossed it to the foot of

the bed. Why should she feel guilty? Chane had no right to expect anything

else from her! They weren't on Mirjam! On Mirjam he had me . . . Had me . .

. A surprising tingle raced through her body. What they had shared had been

good. She smiled. Damn good. Chane was young in years. But he definitely

understood what a woman-at least this woman-wanted from a man. And he knew how

to provide it. An image of hurt eyes, eyes so young, niggled at her mind. She

reached for the privacy screen controls. No. She jerked her hand away. She

wouldn't give in to him. She was her own woman and intended to remain that

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THEYHADBREAKFASTINBED,SERVEDBYACYBERBUTLER.ChaneateravenouslywhilelisteningtoLizina'splanforrevenge."You'reatotallunatic,"hesaid."Madasarabidgrat.Butyou'lltryitwhetherI'mhereornot."Beforeshecouldprotest,Chanecontinued."Nopointsittingaroundwhileyougetyourselfkilled-soImightaswellhelpyou."Lizinashriek...

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Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 07 - The Manhuntress

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