Zahn, Timothy - The Icarus Hunt

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The Icarus Hunt by Timothy ZahnTimothy Zahn

The Icarus Hunt

CHAPTER

THEY WERE WAITING as I stepped through the door into the taverno: three of

them,

preadult Yavanni, roughly the size of Brahma bulls, looming over me from both

sides of the entryway. Big, eager-eyed, and territorial, they were on the

prowl

and looking for an excuse to squash something soft.

From all indications, it looked like that something was going to be me.

I stopped short just inside the door, and as it swung closed against my back I

caught a faint whiff of turpentine from the direction of my would-be

assailants.

Which meant that along with being young and brash, they were also tanked to

the

briskets. I was still outside the invisible boundary of the personal

territories

they'd staked out for themselves in the entryway; and if I had any brains, I'd

keep it that way. Yavanni aren't very bright even at the best of times, but

when

you're outweighed by two to one and outnumbered by three to one, brainpower

ratio isn't likely to be the deciding factor. It had been a long day and a

longer evening, I was tired and cranky, and the smartest thing I could do

right

now was get hold of the doorknob digging into my back and get out of there.

I looked past the Yavanni into the main part of the taverno. The place was

pretty crowded, with both humans and a representative distribution of other

species sitting around the fashionably darkened interior. It was likely to

stay

well populated, too, at least as long as anyone who tried to leave had to pass

the three mobile mountains waiting at the door. A fair percentage of the

clientele, I could see, was surreptitiously watching the little drama about to

unfold, while the rest were studiously ignoring it. None of either group

looked

eager to leap to my defense should that become necessary. The two bartenders

were watching me more openly, but there would be no help from that direction,

either. This section of the spaceport environs lay in Meima's Vyssiluyan

enclave, and the Vyssiluyas were notoriously laissez-faire where disputes of

this sort were concerned. The local police would gladly and industriously pick

up the pieces after it was all over, but that wasn't going to be much comfort

I wound up being one of those pieces.

I looked back at the Yavanni flanking my path, one a little way ahead and to

left, the other two to my right. They still hadn't moved, but I had the mental

picture of coiled springs being tightened a couple more turns. I hadn't run,

didn't look like I was going to run, and their small minds were simmering in

eager anticipation of the moment when I put a foot across that invisible

barrier

and they got to see how many colors of bruises they could raise on me.

I wasn't armed, at least not seriously. Even if I had been, blasting away from

close range at three full-size Yavanni was not a recommended procedure for

anyone desiring a long and happy life. But there was a trick I'd heard about a

few years ago, a nice little combination of Yavannian psychology and

physiology

that I'd tucked away for possible future reference. It looked, as the saying

went, like the future was now. Gazing at each of the Yavanni in turn, I

cleared

my throat. "Do your mothers know you boys are here?" I demanded in the deepest

voice I could manage.

Three jaws dropped in unison. "It's late," I continued before they could

respond. "You should be home. Go home. Now."

They looked at each other, their earlier anticipation floundering in

confusion.

Talking like a Yavannian dominant male was probably the last response they'd

expected from an alien half their size, and the molasses they used for brains

was having trouble adjusting to the situation. "Did you hear me?" I snapped,

putting some anger into my voice. "Go home."

The one on the left apparently had faster molasses than the other two. "You

are

not Yavannian," he snarled back at me in typically Yavannian-mangled English.

fresh wave of turpentine smell accompanied the words. "You will not speak to

that way." Paws flexing, he took a step toward me—

And I opened my mouth and let out a warbling, blood-freezing howl.

He froze in place, his alien face abruptly stricken as his glacial brain

caught

up with his fatal error. I was stationary and he was moving, which meant he

had

now violated my territory. I was the injured party, I had given out with the

proper Yavannian accusation/indictment/challenge shout, and I was now entitled

to the first punch.

By and by, of course, he would remember that I wasn't a Yavanne and therefore

not entitled to the courtesy of Yavannian customs. I had no intention of

giving

that thought time to percolate through. Taking a long step toward him, I

tightened my hands into fists and drove both of them hard into his lower

torso,

into the slight depressions on either side of the central muscle ridge.

He gave a forlorn sort of squeak—a startling sound from a creature his size—

and

went down with a highly satisfying thud that must have shaken the whole

taverno.

Curled around himself, he lay still.

The other two were still standing there, staring at me with their jaws hanging

loosely. I wasn't fooled—flabbergasted or not, they were still in territorial

mode, and the minute I stepped onto either's chosen section of floor I would

get

mauled. Fortunately, that was no longer a problem. The left side of the

entryway

was now free territory; stepping over the downed Yavanne, I passed through the

entryway and into the taverno.

There was a small ripple of almost-applause, which quickly evaporated as those

involved belatedly remembered that there were still two Yavanni left on their

feet. I wasn't expecting any more trouble from them myself, but just the same

kept an eye on their reflection in the brass chandelier domes as I made my way

through the maze of tables and chairs. There was an empty table in the back,

comfortably close to the homey log fireplace that dominated that wall, and I

sat

down with my back to the crackling flames. As I did so, I was just in time to

see the two undamaged Yavanni help their unsteady colleague out into the

night.

"Buy you a drink, sir?"

I turned my head. A medium-sized man with dark skin stood in the dim light to

the right of my table, a half-full mug in his hand, a thick thatch of white

hair

shimmering in the firelight. "I'm not interested in company right now," I

said,

punching up a small vodkaline on the table's menu selector. I wasn't

interested

in drinking, either, but that little fracas with the Yavanni had drawn enough

attention to me as it was, and sitting there without a glass in my hand would

only invite more curiosity.

"I appreciate what you did over there," the man commented, pulling out the

chair

opposite me and sitting down as if he'd been invited to do so. "I've been

stuck

here half an hour waiting for them to go away. Bit of a risky move, though,

wasn't it? At the very least, you could have broken a couple of knuckles."

For a moment I gazed across the table at him, at that dark face beneath that

shock of white hair. From the age lines in his skin he clearly had spent a lot

of his life out in the sun; from the shape of the musculature beneath his

jacket

he hadn't spent that time lounging around in beach chairs. "Not all that

risky,"

I told him. "Yavanni don't get that really thick skin of theirs until

adulthood.

Kids that age are still pretty soft in spots. You just have to know where

those

spots are."

He nodded, eyes dropping momentarily to the ship patch with its stylized "SB"

the shoulder of my faded black-leather jacket. "You deal a lot with aliens?"

"A fair amount," I said. "My partner's one, if that helps any."

"What do you mean, if it helps any?"

The center of the table opened up and my vodkaline appeared. "If it helps you

make up your mind," I amplified, taking the glass off the tray. "About

offering

me a cargo."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but then he smiled. "You're quick," he

said. "I like that. I take it you're an independent shipper?"

"That's right." I wasn't all that independent, actually, not anymore. But this

wasn't the right time to bring that up. "My name's Jordan McKell. I'm captain

a Capricorn-class freighter called the Stormy Banks."

"Specialty certificates?"

"Navigation and close-order piloting," I said. "My partner Ixil is certified

both drive and mechanical systems."

"Actually, I won't be needing your partner." He cocked an eyebrow. "Or your

ship, for that matter."

"That makes sense," I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "What exactly

you need—a fourth for bridge?"

He leaned a little closer to me across the table. "I already have a ship," he

said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "It's sitting at the spaceport, fueled

and

cargoed and ready to go. All I need is a crew to fly her."

"Interesting trick," I complimented him. "Getting a ship here without a crew,

mean."

His lips compressed. "I had a crew yesterday. They jumped ship this morning

after we landed for refueling."

"Why?"

He waved a hand. "Personality conflicts, factional disputes—that sort of

thing.

Apparently, both factions decided to jump without realizing the other side was

going to, too. Anyway, that doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm not going

to make my schedule unless I get some help together, and quickly."

I leaned back in my chair and favored him with a sly smile. "So in other

words,

you're basically stuck here. How very inconvenient for you. What kind of ship

are we talking about?"

"It's the equivalent of an Orion-class," he said, looking like a man suddenly

noticing a bad taste in his mouth. Revising his earlier estimate of me

downward,

no doubt, as his estimate of how much money I was going to try to squeeze out

him went the opposite direction. "Not a standard Orion, you understand, but

similar in size and—"

"You need a minimum of six crewers, then," I said. "Three each certified

competent in bridge and engine-room operations. All eight specialty

certificates

represented: navigation, piloting, electronics, mechanics, computer, drive,

hull/spacewalk, and medical."

"I see you're well versed in the Mercantile Code."

"Part of my job," I said. "As I said, I can cover nav and piloting. How many

the rest are you missing?"

He smiled crookedly. "Why? You have some friends who need work?"

"I might. What do you need?"

"I appreciate the offer." He was still smiling, but the laugh lines had

hardened

a bit. "But I'd prefer to choose my own crew."

I shrugged. "Fine by me. I was just trying to save you a little running

around.

What about me personally? Am I in?"

He eyed me another couple of heartbeats. "If you want the job," he said at

last,

not sounding entirely happy with the decision.

Deliberately, I turned my head a few degrees to the left and looked at a trio

gray-robed Patthaaunutth sitting at the center of the bar, gazing haughtily

out

at the rest of the patrons like self-proclaimed lords surveying their private

demesne. "Were you expecting me to turn you down?" I asked, hearing the edge

bitterness in my voice.

He followed my gaze, lifting his mug for a sip, and even out of the corner of

eye I could see him wince a little behind the rim of the cup. "No," he said

quietly. "I suppose not."

I nodded silently. The Talariac Drive had hit the trade routes of the Spiral a

little over fifteen years ago, and in that brief time the Patth had gone from

being a third-rate race of Machiavellian little connivers to near domination

shipping here in our cozy corner of the galaxy. Hardly a surprise, of course:

with the Talariac four times faster and three times cheaper than anyone else's

stardrive, it didn't take a corporate genius to figure out which ships were

the

ones to hire.

Which had left the rest of us between a very big rock and a very hard vacuum.

There were still a fair number of smaller routes and some overflow traffic

that

the Patth hadn't gotten around to yet, but there were too many non-Patth ships

chasing too few jobs and the resulting economic chaos had been devastating. A

few of the big shipping corporations were still hanging on, but most of the

independents had been either starved out of business or reduced to intrasystem

shipping, where stardrives weren't necessary.

Or had turned their ships to other, less virtuous lines of work.

One of the Patth at the table turned his head slightly, and from beneath his

hood I caught a glint of the electronic implants set into that gaunt,

mahogany-red face. The Patth had a good thing going, all right, and they had

intention of losing it. Patth starships were individually keyed to their

respective pilots, with small but crucial bits of the Talariac access

circuitry

and visual display feedback systems implanted into the pilot's body. There'd

been some misgivings about that when the system first hit the Spiral—shipping

execs had worried that an injury to the Patth pilot en route could strand

their

valuable cargo out in the middle of nowhere, and there was a lot of nowhere

out

there to lose something as small as a starship in. The Patth had countered by

adding one or two backup pilots to each ship, which had lowered the risk of

accident without compromising the shroud of secrecy they were determined to

keep

around the Talariac. Without the circuitry implanted in its pilot—and with a

whole raft of other safeguards built into the hardware of the drive

itself—borrowing or stealing a Patth ship would gain you exactly zero

information.

Or so the reasoning went. The fact that no bootleg copies of the Talariac had

yet appeared anywhere on the market tended to support that theory.

The man across from me set his mug back down on the table with a slightly

impatient-sounding clunk. Turning my eyes and thoughts away from the hooded

Patth, I got back to business. "What time do you want to leave?"

"As early as possible," he said. "Say, six tomorrow morning."

I thought about that. Meima was an Ihmis colony world, and one of the

peculiarities of Ihmisit-run spaceports was that shippers weren't allowed

inside

the port between sundown and sunup, with the entire port sealed during those

hours. Alien-psychology experts usually attributed this to some quirk of Ihmis

superstition; I personally put it down to the healthy hotel business the

policy

generated at the spaceport's periphery. "Sunrise tomorrow's not until

five-thirty," I pointed out. "Doesn't leave much time for preflight checks."

"The ship's all ready to go," he reminded me.

"We check it anyway before we fly," I told him. "That's what 'preflight'

means.

What about clearances?"

"All set," he said, tapping his tunic. "I've got the papers right here."

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TheIcarusHuntbyTimothyZahnTimothyZahnTheIcarusHuntCHAPTER1THEYWEREWAITINGasIsteppedthroughthedoorintothetaverno:threeofthem,preadultYavanni,roughlythesizeofBrahmabulls,loomingovermefrombothsidesoftheentryway.Big,eager-eyed,andterritorial,theywereontheprowlandlookingforanexcusetosquashsomethingsoft.F...

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