Brian Daley - Fall of the White Ship Avatar
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[Fitzhugh 3]-FALL OF THE WHITE SHIP AVATAR
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FALL OF THE WHITE SHIP AVATAR
Brian Daley
This tenth, as the first, for Judy-Lynn Del Rey
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
My thanks to L. Neil Smith, Vivian Waters, and Suezy Kim for their counsel
CHAPTER 1—ITS ALWAYS DARKEST BEFORE THE BLACKOUT
Floyt sighed. "We're just going to have to give up wine, women, and song, Alacrity."
"I vote we start with song."
As he and Alacrity Fitzhugh made their way to the customs counter in the odd, crane-mating dance of
lunar walking, Floyt persisted. "But we're not going to get very far with so little money, you do realize
that, don't you?"
"We sure as scheisse can't turn back," Alacrity pointed out. Off to one side, the crew chief of the Terra-
Luna shuttle Mindframe was turning over Floyt's Webley revolver and Alacrity's big energy handgun to
a customs inspector.
"Name?" asked the senior inspector, looking Alacrity square in the eye. His nameplate said he was
Inspector Grissom.
You oughta remember! Alacrity thought at him silently. You got a big enough bribe out of me last time
we blew through here!
Floyt, standing behind Alacrity, tried to maintain a certain aloofness and not look worried, guilty, or
pursued. He was 175 centimeters tall and a shade more, compact and bearded and more than twenty
centimeters under Alacrity's height.
The shuttle crew was passed through without so much as a perfunctory check, but the two weapons still
lay on the counter. If the Lunie customs folks didn't recognize Alacrity, they'd doubtless recall the
Captain's Sidearm, his pistol. The crewchief and his mates were happy; the squeeze Alacrity'd paid them
for helping Floyt and himself escape Earth was more than healthy, and tendered in flawless novaseed
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gemstones. The two partners in adversity weren't simply in reduced circumstances; they were just about
broke.
"I said, 'Name?' " Grissom repeated tightly.
"Dr. Attila Von Cribdeath," Alacrity snapped.
"Professor Manglewords MaLarkey," Floyt supplied, deadpan, trying to stay in form with Alacrity, but
despairing. The formerly sedate, law-abiding Earther hadn't nearly as much experience fibbing as his
young friend, or in fraud, unlawful flight to avoid prosecution, and impersonating an innocent party, but
the last few months had been an accelerated course of study.
The customs inspector gave them a gimlet stare. "Let's just see your documentation, please." Customs
officers were watching, as were two guards who were rocking back and forth and swinging their
nunchaka nonchalantly.
Floyt tried not to feel panic. It wasn't the tightest spot his young companion had gotten him into. Still, as
a former Earthservice functionary, Floyt dreaded and feared bureaucracy. More, it couldn't be much
longer before their hasty escape from Terra was noticed. A message to the Lunar authorities calling for
their detention was a disaster not to be contemplated.
"Yeah, y'see, we're applying as undocumented persons," Alacrity announced.
Which was ridiculous right on the face of it and had the guards hooking their thumbs over their pistols,
since Alacrity and Floyt had just come up from Earth, where every action—and particularly travel—was
attended by endless red tape.
Except that, in their case, it was true. They'd landed on Terra under fire in an outlawed spacecraft, stayed
long enough to help bring down the Earthservice government and shake the foundations of worlds
human and nonhuman across known space, then taken flight with very little forethought.
"Well,"—Inspector Grissom grinned—"this looks like it's going to take a little paperwork, eh?"
When Alacrity nodded emphatically, the man gave the other customs officials the eye. They made sure
no one else was around to interrupt. The two guards wandered off so as not to take notice of what was
about to happen. They'd get their cut later.
God bless Lunar flexibility, Floyt implored. Grissom turned out to be very understanding that Dr. Von
Cribdeath and Prof. MaLarkey came from a place with no formal travel documentation, a world Alacrity
specified as Sweet Baby's Arms, which might or might not exist. The fact that Alacrity was dressed in
the outfit of a breakabout—a working interstellar spacer—and Floyt wore an ancient-style Terran
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tuxedo, white tie with black tails, didn't seem to shake the inspector's faith in them one whit.
Until, that is, Alacrity, leaning across the counter and speaking privily, could produce only a few dozen
ovals and a handful of Spican ducats, plus small-denomination odds and ends.
Customs inspector Grissom then frowned. "Are you being cute, boys?"
"Uh-uh! We can get you more," Floyt heard Alacrity murmur as the other officials pressed closer.
"Good," Grissom said. "You can wait right here in the holding pen while somebody fetches it on down."
A woman inspector had her finger close to a call-button, ready to summon back the guards. Floyt's gut
suddenly tightened. He knew Alacrity would do just about anything to avoid being dragged back to
Earth, but Floyt wasn't sure he was really up to dodging, dashing, and fighting his way through Lunar
customs, and was painfully aware that Alacrity rarely consulted him on such matters before throwing the
first punch.
"Well, it's not exactly like that," Alacrity admitted, and Floyt saw him casually glance to the inspector
who held the guns. Floyt found his heart beating very fast. The man was some distance away and,
moreover, had the two pistols. Alacrity's had been called a "dinosaur gun," while Floyt's Webley was
loaded with Chicago Popcorn, dum-dums notched all the way down to the case mouths.
"But it'll really be worth your while," Alacrity maintained. "Believe me, it will; you know me. Look,
we'll go get it for you, be back inside an hour, and you can hang onto our guns."
Grissom considered that for a moment. The reproduction Webley and the Captain's Sidearm—passed
down from Alacrity's father—were plainly valuable, but the inspector had several coworkers and a
couple of guards to satisfy, and maybe a superior or two to grease.
Alacrity saw him thinking it through and about to discard it. He turned to Floyt. "Ho, gimme your
Inheritor's belt."
Floyt hesitated for a moment, then unclasped the Inheritor's belt from around his middle. It was a heavy
ring of red-gold plaques. He and Alacrity had chanced across light-years to claim it and the inheritance it
represented, becoming friends in the doing, through hardship, misery, and intermittent glory, after
starting out as near enemies. The belt meant a lot to Floyt and had a much higher value than its intrinsic
worth, if the two could get to the right spot to use it, since it gave Floyt the prerogative of asking favors
of other Inheritors.
But it was useless if they were detained at customs and dragged back to Earth. Floyt set it on the
counter, the plaques chiming.
They saw from Grissom's face that it was nearly a deal, but it was quite a chance that the Inspector was
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taking. "Tell you what, men: one of you stays, the other goes and gets the rest of the money. That's all I
can do for you."
How long can it be before the Terrans raise the howl? Alacrity agonized. They were on borrowed time
already.
Earthservice had dragooned him into shepherding Floyt across interstellar space, costing him months of
irreplaceable time, just as he was about to embark on the mission that centered his life. To achieve his
purpose was worth any risk to him; to be chanceried on Earth would be ruin, worse than death. Without
seeming to, he took a fix on the customs man with the handguns, getting ready to move.
"Umm, does anyone have something I can read while I'm waiting?" Floyt solicited, setting himself
between Alacrity and the guns to forestall any rash moves.
"I'll stay," he added to the gangly Alacrity, whose mouth was slack. "After all, you have a few details to
look after. But don't dawdle."
Alacrity understood what he meant: keep going and don't look back. Floyt was saying farewell.
Just then a comset birred. One of the inspectors leaned to a hush-speaker while Grissom got ready to
take an identity affidavit from Alacrity and issue him a temporary visa.
"Chief? Word from upstairs," the comset-answerer said. "They got a twix from Terra, an all-points for
two guys named Alacrity Fitzhugh and Hobart Floyt."
The inspector with the guns held Alacrity's on them. Another grabbed the Webley and leveled it. The
woman with her finger by the summoner waited for word to touch it.
"I'll stay," Floyt told Grissom again. "And the pistols and the belt … they're yours."
Alacrity wanted to scram the idea, at the same time feeling a desperate hope, the opening of a bolthole.
The purpose he'd set himself in life was so much more crucial than any Grail that he compressed his
breath to a silence, face burning with shame, but praying and hoping he'd be free to go.
"Which one're you? Damon or Pythias?" Grissom asked Floyt with a facial twist. The place was silent
for an attenuated, white-hot moment.
Then Grissom turned to an underling. "Tell upstairs we got nobody by those names offa Mindframe. Just
a coupla undocumenteds from Sweet Baby's Arms off one of the O'Neill runs, filling out affidavits."
As that was relayed, Grissom smirked at the dumbfounded duo. "You're them, huh? The ones who broke
the news about that Camarilla thing and shittubed the Earthservice? And got the Spicans and Srillans
cleaning house too?"
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Alacrity cleared his throat. "That'd be us," he owned up, with nothing to lose.
"Mm-hmmm." Grissom nodded. "Y'don't either of you look like the covers of those books about you."
Floyt coughed on the back of his hand. "Those are really just a very embarrassing mistake, those books."
He smiled.
"I'm not surprised," Grissom drawled, motioning to his assistants and handing Floyt's belt back to him.
Thunderstruck, Floyt and Alacrity accepted their weapons.
"Y'know, I never did like Earthservice, or those Spican bankers either," Grissom went on. He shoved the
little handful of cash back across the counter at them. "And with things freeing up on Terra, Luna's
looking way up there in the pilot's chair these days. So let's just say this one's on the Moon, all right?"
Five minutes later, Floyt and Alacrity were standing once again in the vast rotunda called Billingsgate
Circus, a honky-tonk commotion of dives, drug dens, casinos, and the rest that went with starportside
life. The kaleidoscope of holosigns and lightshapes reminded Floyt of a trove of garish costume jewelry.
The place was four times as busy as the last time they'd been there, even more clogged with robobarrow-
boys, even more choked with thronging out-systemers.
Nearby sauntered a young hetero couple from Ashram, that unfailingly pacific world. They flaunted the
distressing "Shock-Trauma" look, complete with synthetic lacerations and compound fractures, sucking
chest wounds and other horrible injuries. Instead of pain, the boy and girl showed hostile condescension.
A little farther along came a young woman in silver lace domino, dressed in a wandering boa of rolled,
silver-taupe fabric bound with intricately knotted silver twine, giving off a delightful fragrance they
could smell from ten paces. Her lovely haunch bore the membership brand of the very militant
Professional Chessplayers' Guild.
Alacrity and Floyt had temporary visas in their chosen aliases and permits for the guns. Alacrity wore
his in a hip holster on a reddish-brown leather Sam Browne belt that also carried pouches and cases of
various sizes and shapes; Floyt carried the Webley in a shoulder holster under his tail coat. They'd
tucked the Inheritor's belt into Alacrity's warbag; a token from the late Director Weir might attract
attention.
Alacrity drew out the shoulder straps of his warbag, adjusted them, converting it into a backpack, and
made sure his umbrella was secure. "Listen, Ho, about what happened back there—"
"Fap; if we start trying to figure out who's done more for whom at this point, we'll only drive ourselves
rammy." Floyt gazed around Billingsgate Circus as if he'd put it out of his mind, but he was actually
feeling pretty damn good about himself. "What now?"
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"What I'd really like to do is start panhandling, but the Lunie cops're nobody to cross."
Floyt looked about. "Do you think they're after us? They and whom else?"
Alacrity shook his head. "I doubt Luna's been alerted, since Grissom cut our leashes, but we can figure
on Langstretch operatives being on the prowl. And if there aren't a lot of Camarilla members looking to
get even with us, then beer is rainwater and we should all go live in the gutters."
Floyt fingered his neat, graying, close-cropped beard.
"Do you think we can make it across Billingsgate Circus, much less out to the Sockwallet lashup? Um,
you were thinking of asking the Foragers for sanctuary, weren't you?"
Alacrity's worried look made way for a quick: grin. "Oh, you're fast today. Yeah."
"Don't some of those robohucksters over there sell clothes, as I recall?" Floyt asked. "And last time we
were through here, there were vending machines that dispensed disguises, weren't there?"
Alacrity was shaking his head, his silver-in-gray banner of hair rippling. "Those're cheap dressup for
people who are fooling around on the side or playing masquerade or kids out for some grabass. No, a
little finesse, here. First, we tour the transport system."
They set off, not such an odd duo in the hodgepodge of Billingsgate Circus.
On the way, the two passed a data kiosk with a rack of current best-sellers on display. Conspicuous
among these were Hobart Floyt and Alacrity Fitzhugh in the Castle of the Death Addicts and Hobart
Floyt and Alacrity Fitzhugh Challenge the Amazon Slave Women of the Supernova. Since the title
characters as portrayed in the ad loops resembled astoundingly rugged and handsome male models much
more than they did the real items, the books' popularity had been a minor problem thus far. Floyt had
read them and found his fictionalized adventures much more enjoyable and happy-go-lucky and less
pestiferous and terrifying than the authentic versions.
A major part of their remaining funds got them two five-hour transit passes, and Alacrity snagged a
guide-map. For the next twenty minutes they alternated between riding the tubeways, ascending and
descending by carrier chute, and kangaroo-shuffling along pedestrian tracks.
Alacrity kept surveillance on the people and other beings around them, following a convoluted route,
doubling back twice. Floyt monitored faces too, trying to pick out any tails.
In a coin-operated vicebooth near Plasm Dealers' Row, Floyt shrugged out of his tux jacket and removed
his vest, white tie, and wing collar, all of which went into Alacrity's warbag. Floyt drew on a disposable
smock bought from a vending machine along the way; all his other clothes were back on Earth. They left
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through a different door, and couldn't see anyone following, though that was no guarantee; with decent
communications and even middling organization, it would be possible to follow them with never the
same tail in view more than once—or for very long. Similarly, they'd examined themselves for a bug or
homer, though they lacked the equipment for a proper sweep.
They grabbed an empty tubeway capsule out in the direction of Hubble City. Alacrity leaned his head
back for a moment, closing his eyes. "You've been a real pal, not asking a lot of questions about where
we go from Luna, Ho."
"Been a goddamn prince!"
They both laughed tiredly. "Anyway, I'll fill you in as soon as we're someplace secure," Alacrity
promised. "It was nothing I could talk about on Earth because—well, you had the picture."
True enough. Their spectacular return to Terra had Citizen Ash, Earth's executioner, dismembering
Earthservice almost singlehandedly and making the Alpha-bureaucrats tell all they knew about the
Camarilla that had kept the planet in isolation for two hundred years. The atmosphere of intrigue and
counterintrigue, upheaval and unrest that flared on Earth and across human space made it an unsafe time
for confidences about future plans. Especially for Alacrity, pursued from childhood by Langstretch
operatives and others, and particularly for confidences to Floyt, who was at the eye of the storm and—
until a few hours before—destined for years of security debriefings and testimony before courts, boards
of inquiry, grand juries, and all that.
"I'd just assumed you're going to lay claim to the White Ship, no?"
"Huh! You don't just show up in the Spican system and casually deal yourself in on something like the
White Ship, Citizen Floyt. But I swear, she's gonna be mine."
Floyt looked at him dubiously. "You're not going to clomp around up on deck all night on a whalebone
peg-leg, are you? And nail gold doubloons to the mast?"
"What? Sometimes I wish we had a language in common, Hobart." Alacrity opened his wide, oblique
eyes and looked around the capsule uncomfortably. It wouldn't be so hard to wire the whole mass-transit
system for covert monitoring. "I'll explain everything a little later."
Floyt nodded, leaning back, adjusting the shoulder holster so that the Webley rode more comfortably,
studying the layout of the capsule for potential fields of fire.
Despite the joking, Floyt was still mulling what Alacrity had said regarding the White Ship inboard
Mindframe. Alacrity had admitted to being more than just a shiftless breakabout; his grandparents were
prime movers behind the building of the White Ship. For nearly thirty years the stupendous starship had
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been under construction and reconstruction, her sole mission being to uncover the secrets of the long-
vanished, all-powerful Precursors.
The White Ship was a lightning rod of intergovernmental conflict, corporate bloodletting, and a near war
or two. Who controlled the secrets of the Precursors stood to control the galaxy, or perhaps all of
Creation.
Small wonder that a lot of people were eager to cancel Alacrity's postage and that "Alacrity Fitzhugh"
wasn't the name given him at birth, but one of many aliases he'd picked up being raised by various
breakabouts and serving as one himself.
The whole business of Floyt's inheritance and the destruction of the Camarilla moved Alacrity squarely
into the public eye and splashed his name across the light-years. Then there were Sintilla and her books
about Alacrity and Floyt. From what little Floyt knew, Langstretch Detective Network had a standing
high-figure contract on the life of the man sitting there in the capsule with him. And Floyt had already
seen how very effective Langstretch personnel could be.
He resettled himself and thought about his own decision, to put Terra behind him and venture out among
the stars. Earthservice had originally had to kick him off the planet, force him to go claim his inheritance
from Weir. But somewhere along the way some new, inner Floyt had emerged. Unable to go back to his
pigeonhole as a nameless functionary third class, he'd thrown in his lot with Alacrity.
Floyt realized that he was tapping his lips, which were numb, and it came to him that they'd been that
way for a while.
"Alacrity? It's no great matter, I know, but I've been noticing a certain, um, lack of sensation lately, in
my fingertips, my lips—"
"Peripheral neuropathy," Alacrity said. "I've got problems with it, too. Look, we've been stungunned,
gassed, actijotted, and whatever the hell else these last few weeks. All those zap-naps are murder on
your nervous system. No immediate crisis, but we'll get it treated the first chance that comes our way."
He was silent for a moment, then added, "And we can get those friggin' actijots dug out of us at the same
time."
It had been weeks since Floyt had spared any thought for the minute control devices implanted in the
two back on Blackguard. One of the advantages of constant peril and turmoil, he'd come to see, was a
certain preoccupation with the immediate.
The capsule viewscreen, which was showing the route's surface scenery relayed from a string of above-
ground pickups, brought the ruins of This End Up City—"Upsie"—into view. It was history's first box-
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town, collapsed now and deserted for more than a century.
Soon after, the abandoned catapult head of Luna's original and smallest mass driver came into sight.
The capsule began to slow and Alacrity again blinked open his great eyes, their irises glowing an
unearthly, radiant yellow, striated with red and black.
"Maldkas! I hope the Sockwallet Outfit's still here."
So did Floyt, thinking hopefully of a chilled mug of Old Geyserfroth beer, or a Gunga Din gin and tonic.
He almost asked Alacrity why he hadn't made a few inquiries about the Sockwallets at Lunaport, then
realized that was no way to keep a destination secret.
Alacrity opened his holster's thumbbreak. If there were Forager guards on the platform, he'd be expected
to hand it over. If not, he might need it.
Floyt stood when Alacrity did, finding his balance with only a bit of difficulty. He made sure his smock
was open, the Webley's butt accessible. The capsule came to a smooth halt at the abandoned catapult
head's subsurface station.
The pair froze, looking for the loitering guttersnipes—Third Breath updates of Dickens's street urchins—
who were the very canny Forager sentinels.
Instead, the platform put Floyt in mind of the sewers of ancient Paris, stories of the long-gone Casbah,
and pictures he'd seen of hobo jungles. Someone was making music with sonic withe, synthesizer, and
tin whistle; shabbily dressed children were doing an odd, flapping-scarecrow dance in the light gravity.
With darting glances Alacrity took in everything. He passed over the few foodsellers and their meager
stocks; the end-of-the-line sex rentals who could no longer cut it in Lunaport; the fences with nothing
worth buying; and the begging terminal cases. He registered the hawkeyed gang kids and lounging
strongarm types, weighing dangers and options.
The squalid smell of the place nearly rocked Floyt back on his heels as he caught sight of the vacant-
eyed faces, recalling a similar place light-years away where the stench had been different and yet quite
emphatically the same.
"Boxtown," Alacrity muttered as they stood at the open capsule doors. "The Sockwallets are gone, and
the down-and-outers've moved in and turned the place into a boxtown."
"Do we get off or pass?" Floyt preferred the latter. The capsule doors were about to close again.
"There's nothing for us in Hubble City. Stick close, and for Shaitan's sake keep an eye on my backpack.
Everything we've got's in it, and I'm a sitting pigeon for pickpockets and cutpurses."
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"Sitting duck," Floyt corrected automatically, taking up his station behind Alacrity and a hair to the left.
They stepped out of the capsule. In that arrangement, one Alacrity had taught him, Floyt's right hand and
arm were blocked from view and he could reach for the Webley with a certain amount of concealment.
The capsule's doors closed and it slid away silently except for a rushing turbulence in the air.
Four of the healthier-looking idlers, three men and a woman, casually moved to take a better look at the
new arrivals, obstructing the way. Floyt waited for a signal, sweat starting in his mustache, but Alacrity
gave none.
As they closed on the strongarm group, Alacrity simply stopped, resettling his pack a bit, and put his
hand on the grip of the Captain's Sidearm. Floyt kept watch on what was going on to the sides and
behind them.
The music stopped and the dancers edged toward cover. The banter and goofing died away too as people
took prudent steps to avoid possible lines of fire. Quite a few hungry, fearful glances were turned their
way and Floyt compelled himself to glower in return.
The muscle were watching Alacrity. He sneered at them in some language Floyt hadn't heard before,
tugging at his own clothes and pack, and gesturing to Floyt. The challenge wasn't too hard to figure out,
given Alacrity's previous attitude in that kind of crisis. The two companions were more prosperous
looking than most boxtown visitors, but they were armed and knew the ropes. Alacrity's question, in
slum patois, conceding that pack and clothes had some value, had to be: But are they worth your lives?
Floyt drew the Webley, letting the lanyard ring at its base swing and clink, putting a hard squint on his
face, keeping watch on their rear and flanks for a sneak attack. There was a profound silence on the
platform.
In the midst of it, Floyt thumbed back the revolver's hammer, a sound that hung in the air. Not many
hours before he'd been in the somewhat ensnaring lap of luxury, Hero of the Terran Weal, seemingly
Earthbound for life. In retrospect, that fate had certain points to recommend it.
The muscle began to spread out to either side, to outflank them. Alacrity yanked out the Captain's
Sidearm. It was a big, matte-black weapon with a basket hand-shield to protect the firer from blast and
backlash.
"Ah! Now just go back and sit where you were, or we start hosing!"
Floyt brought the revolver up into the clear. The muscle looked at one another. Floyt had seen Alacrity
kill their kind in another boxtown, not so long before. Then Floyt hadn't been obliged to fire; now it
looked different. An altogether inappropriate time, but he found himself wrestling with his doubts.
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