Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock of Gramarye

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Escape Velocity by Christopher Stasheff

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Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

cover image

She was a girl. Dar knew it the moment he saw her.

That wasn't as easy as it sounds. Really. Considering that she was shaved bald and

was wearing a baggy gray flannel coverall, Dar was doing pretty well to identify

her as human, let alone female. It would've been a much better bet that she was a

department-store mannequin in one of those bags that are put on them between

outfits, to protect them in case somebody with a plastic fetish comes along.

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Escape Velocity by Christopher Stasheff

But she moved. That's how Dar knew she was human.

And he was just in from a six-week trading tour and was just about to go out on

another one (Cholly, the boss, was shorthanded this month; one of his traders had

been caught shaving percentage points with Occam's Razor). Which meant, since

the Wolmar natives didn't allow their womenfolk to meet strangers, that for the

last six weeks Dar had seen things that were human, and things that were female,

but never both at the same time; so he was in a prime state to recognize a girl if

one happened along.

This one didn't “happen”—she strode. She nearly swaggered, and she stepped

down so hard that Dar suspected she was fighting to keep her hips from rolling. It

sort of went with the gray jumpsuit, bald head, and lack of makeup.

She sat down on a bar stool, and waited. And waited. And waited.

The reason she waited so long was that Cholly was alone behind the bar today and

was discussing the nature of reality with a corporal; he wasn't about to give up a

chance at a soldier.

Not that the girl seemed to mind. She was ostentatiously not looking at the two

privates at the other end of the bar, but her ears fairly twitched in their direction.

“He niver had a chance,” the gray-haired one burbled around his cigar. “He but

scarcely looked up, and whap! I had him!”

“Took him out good and proper, hey?” The blond grinned.

“Out! I should say! So far out he an't niver coming back! Mark my words, he'll

buy the farm! Buy it for me yet, he will!”

The girl's lips pinched tight, and her throat swelled the way someone's does when

they can't hold it in anymore and it's just got to bust loose; and Dar figured he'd

better catch it, 'cause the soldiers wouldn't understand.

But Dar would. After six weeks without women, he was ready to understand

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Escape Velocity by Christopher Stasheff

anything, provided it came from a female.

So he sidled up to lean on the bar, neatly intersecting her line of sight, smiled with

all the sincerity he could dredge up, and chirped, “Service is really slow around

here, isn't it?”

She got that blank look of total surprise for a minute; then her lip curled, and she

spat, “Yes, unless you're looking for death! You seem to dish it up awfully fast

around here, just because you're wearing a uniform!”

“ ‘Uniform'?” Dar looked down at his heavy green coveralls and mackinaw, then

glanced over at the two soldiers, who were looking surprised and thinking about

feeling offended. He turned back to the girl, and said quickly. “ ’Fraid I don't

follow you, miz. Hasn't been a killing around here all year.”

“Sure,” she retorted, “it's January seventh. And what were those two bums over

there talking about, if it wasn't murder?”

She had to point. She just had to. Making sure Dar couldn't pretend she'd been

talking about two CPOs walking by in the street, no doubt. To make it worse,

judging by their accents, the two privates were from New Perth, where “bum” had

a very specific meaning that had absolutely nothing to do with unemployment.

The older private opened his mouth for a bellow, but Dar cut in quicker. “Points,

miz. You can believe me or not, but they were talking about points.”

She looked doubtful for a fraction of a second, but only a fraction. Then her face

firmed up again with the look of someone who's absolutely sure that she's right,

especially if she's wrong. She demanded, “Why should I believe you? What are

you, if you aren't a soldier?”

Dar screwed up his hopes and tried to look casual. “Well, I used to be a pilot . . .”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” she said sourly.

“They told me girls would be, when I enlisted.” Dar sighed. “It's got to work

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Escape Velocity by Christopher Stasheff

sometime.”

“I thought this planet was an Army prison.”

“It is. The Army has ships too.”

“Why?” She frowned. “Doesn't it trust the Navy to do its shipping?”

“Something like that.”

“You say that with authority. What kind of ship did you pilot—a barge?”

“A space tug,” Dar admitted.

She nodded. “What are you now?”

Dar shrugged, and tried to look meek. “A trader.”

“A trader?” She spoke with such gleeful indignation that even Cholly looked

up—for a second, anyway. “So you're one of the vampires who're victimizing the

poor, helpless natives!”

“Helpless!” the old private snorted—well, roared, really; and Dar scratched his

head and said, “Um, 'fraid you've got your cables crossed, miz. I wouldn't exactly

say who's doing the victimizing.”

“Well, I would!” she stormed. “Stampeding out here, victimizing these poor

people, trying to take over their land and destroy their culture—it's always the

same! It's all part of a pattern, a pattern as old as Cortez, and it just goes on and on

and on! ‘Don't give a damn what the people want; give 'em technology! Don't give

a damn whether or not their religion's perfectly adequate for 'em—give 'em the

Bible! Don't ask whether or not they own the place—herd 'em onto reservations!

Or make slaves of 'em!' Oh, I've heard about it, I've read about it! It's just starting

here, but you wait and see! It's genocide, that's what it is! It's the worst kind of

imperialism! And all being practiced by the wonderful, loyal soldiers of our

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Escape Velocity by Christopher Stasheff

miraculously democratic Interstellar Dominion Electorates! Imperialists!” And

she spat.

The two soldiers swelled up like weather balloons, and the weather was going to

be bad, so Cholly yanked himself out of his talk and hurried down to the end of

the bar to put in a soothing word or two. As he passed Dar, he muttered, “Now,

then, lad, whut've I told ye? Reason, don'cha know, now, Dar, reason! Try it,

there's a good fellow, just try it! An' you'll see. Sweet reason, now, Dar!” And he

hurried on down to the end of the bar.

Dar thought he'd been trying reason already, and so far it hadn't been turning out

sweetly; but he took a deep breath, and set himself to try it again. “Now, then,

miz. Uh, first off, I'd say we didn't exactly stampede out here. More like a

roundup, actually.”

She frowned. “What're you talking about? . . . Oh. You mean because this is a

military prison planet.”

“Well, something of that sort, yes.”

She shrugged. “Makes no difference. Whether you wanted to come here or not,

you're here—and they're shipping you in by the thousands.”

“Well, more like the hundreds, really.” Dar scratched behind his ear. “We get in

maybe two hundred, three hundred, ah . . .”

“Colonists,” she said sternly.

“. . . prisoners,” Dar finished. “Per year. Personally, I'd rather think of myself as a

‘recruit.’ ”

“Doesn't make any difference,” she snapped. “It's what you do after you get here

that counts. You go out there, making war on those poor, innocent natives . . . and

you traders go cheating them blind. Oh, I've heard what you're up to.”

“Oh, you have?” Dar perked up. “Hey, we're gettin' famous! Where'd you hear

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