Fall of the White Ship Avatar

by Brian Daley

  "I—what—Look, it's hooked to them by a cable!"

  Floyt wasn't the only one who'd spotted it, a long gleaming metal line the ship had paid out. In the flash of the running lights and spotlights, lines could be seen running from the other small ships to the large ones, or rather to something slung under the two brute cargo haulers, something like a shaped, skeletal Crosshatch dome with long, hooked anchor prongs, four meters thick.

  "A duralloy matrix," Alacrity said wonderingly. "They're here to plug a leak!"

  "But we didn't position any charges here," Floyt reminded him.

  Alacrity made a helpless gesture. "We must've weakened something, I guess."

  They both looked to Paloma, who was smiling into the backwash of light from the construction operation as the matrix was lowered away, touching the lake's surface.

  "Let's go get cleaned up," she said serenely, showing white teeth through her mud mask.

  * * * *

  "That way," Floyt said, showing the direction. "About four days' easy march for you, you'll begin seeing members of another herd. Make sure you keep to cover, the way we taught you, until you find them, Pokesnout."

  "Yes. Yes." Pokesnout looked that way. "Their scent will lead us to them."

  "And the company won't notice that the gawks' numbers have increased?" Floyt frowned to Alacrity. Decline in population was, after all, a major reason for the company's leaving the gawklegs alone.

  "Naw, not unless they start tagging and doing a detailed headcount," Alacrity said. "And even then, the numbers're gonna be lower than they were generations ago. At least until the two herds make friends—plus gestation, of course." He patted Treeneck's lowered muzzle.

  "What will happen when you meet the other herd?" Floyt wanted to know. "Will you fight, Pokesnout?"

  "Verities are Verities," Pokesnout pronounced with great composure. "It will be all right. Digger; Speed; dear Babyfat! We wish you well. All this is part of the Verities now, and so are you, for always."

  Paloma hugged Pokesnout's neck as Floyt dried his eyes on his hand. "We'll do our best for you, on Shalimar; we'll get things changed as soon as we can," she promised.

  There was more of the same, farewelling with Treeneck and Rockhorn. But Invictus would be up in half an hour, and the herd had to find shelter for the day.

  "Take care, Pokesnout." Floyt squeezed the neck so thick that he couldn't get his arms around it. Pokesnout put the huge mouth that had saved Floyt's life over Floyt's shoulder, exerting infinitesimal pressure, an embrace.

  The three bulls moved off after the rest of the herd, tails switching. In a few moments they were gone.

  * * * *

  The various plans of action they'd worked out were all unnecessary, given the state of the company outpost when the worn trio made it there late the next day.

  It had swollen to twenty times its former size, a makeshift workcamp crowded with exhausted construction and survey crews, overworked study teams, and exasperated, badly organized managerial types who gave contradictory orders based on conflicting information and cross purposes. It seemed the diverted lake drainage had also damaged a large dam and jeopardized a major company mining operation. The workcamp reminded Alacrity of a scuttle-death hive.

  The three came into the place nonchalantly, their lances discarded and the top of Paloma's costume hidden under Floyt's jacket, her gunbelt slung over her shoulder beneath the jacket and her evening shawl wound around her middle. She and Alacrity each had one of the target pistols concealed on them, ready to try a bluff if they had to.

  The first order of business was stealing worksuits, then finding out which of the shuttling airfreighters was leaving for Horselaugh next. Bumming a ride wasn't very hard; personnel, supplies, and equipment were being hauled to the improvised camp with all possible speed, but there was plenty of room on the return leg. Manifests, routing slips, passenger clearances, and all the usual security details had been brushed aside in the emergency. Paloma kept in the background, work helmet tilted low, as she, Alacrity, and Floyt climbed onto the cargo bed of the lugger and it lifted off.

  From high up, Lake Fret was a collection of shrinking pools in a huge, baking mudflat.

  Even Horselaugh was in a hoo-ha over the Lake Fret crisis, crews and equipment being tallied, vehicles jockied around for transshipment while apoplectic foremen and expediters got into shouting matches and purple-faced cargo masters tried to get a straight answer out of somebody. The only notice anyone took of the three arrivals was when a loading dock super screamed at them to get the hell out of her way so the robos could get the lugger's next cargo aboard.

  They scrambled out and found themselves near a large freight gate, where the guards and scanners were so busy checking what was coming in that scant attention was paid to who was going out. A minute later the trio stood by a city intersection, bunking and looking around with not much less amazement than Pokesnout might have.

  Alacrity spotted a day-date-time panel and was relieved to see that it matched his proteus in both local time and Standard. There was still time to make the White Ship meeting.

  Somehow, through it all, Alacrity had hung onto most of the scrip he and Floyt got when they traded off Callisto's jeweled garter. He took the folded, wadded money, faded from assorted dunkings and salt-frosted from his sweat, from an inner pocket and bought a bottle of fortified fruit juice from a corner vending machine. All three drank deeply.

  Paloma wanted to see what had happened at the Wicked Wickiup, but Alacrity vetoed the idea. "The company might still be keeping an eye on it, hoping you'll show up to explain things. Same with your townhouse."

  Floyt agreed with that; Paloma dropped the idea. "But I kept a sealed apt unit in a complex across town, under another name, a kind of safe house. And the rent's paid a year in advance. That, at least, damn well ought to be all right."

  She pushed a summoner signal at the curb and the next groundcab that came along popped its gullwing doors for them. They piled in, still passing the fruit juice around. Eight minutes later they were at the apt. It wouldn't open to her palm ID. Paloma drew back a fist to hammer at the plate, but Alacrity caught it.

  "Your paw's too grimy." He sloshed fruit juice on it, drying her palm against his chest, as she endured it stiffly. The lock opened on the second try.

  The place was nothing extravagant, comfortably but sparsely furnished in Industrial-Mosque Cosmique in soft pastels, with a commanding view of the dreary company town. Paloma dashed to the bath chamber first, while Alacrity used the lavatory and Floyt rummaged through the kitchen storage, digging for vitamins and medicines as well as food and drink.

  When Paloma emerged she was wearing a travel suit that might've been nondescript if it hadn't been on her. Alacrity and Floyt had shot glasses of ice-cold peppermint schnapps and were tossing back megavitamins and cramming cookies into their mouths. They'd found coveralls in her closets and jammed into them with only hasty washing-up, leaving their own clothes in a heap by a dispose-all.

  They were now attentive to her media terminal, poring over a search program Floyt had set up to screen newsfiles, public announcements, police blotter reports, and similar sources.

  Paloma accepted a drink, motioning to the bath. "Next? And what do you men say we throw about six or eight meals in the heater?"

  "Uh-uh," Alacrity said. "We can eat in the Whelk, or grab something on the way." He motioned to the media terminal. "Nobody's looking for us, and you're just listed as missing. So grab whatever you're bringing and let's breeze. Next stop, Spica."

  Paloma stopped in midmotion. "Spica?" Her brows met. "You mean Shalimar, then Spica, don't you? Or have you forgotten the gawks already?"

  "I haven't forgotten. But they're safe for now. All that's just gonna have to keep for a while. Paloma, I can't miss that board meeting!"

  "You won't!" she snapped. "But how long can it take to put a bug in somebody's ear on Shalimar? They just need an excuse under Bali Hai Republic law to take Lebensraum away f
rom the company, and we'll give it to them."

  His mouth thinned to a ruled line. "And suppose Shalimar decides it needs us as witnesses or something, and locks us up? I'm not taking that chance."

  "No, but you'll take a chance that somebody will notice the herd's moved and wipe it out, is that it? We might not get back for months! Anything could happen!"

  Floyt was torn, knowing Alacrity's desperation and very real fear, but sharing Paloma's apprehensions for Pokesnout's people. "Alacrity—"

  But Paloma drowned him out with her proteus's playback mode. The other two recognized it after a second, the gales and Precursor thunder of Hecate's lair. Even a recording sent needles of fear into Floyt's nerves but called up a Vision he regarded very differently, too.

  "Beta-Thud-Actual-Tau-Hecate-Epsilon-Kimarth-Manila," said the crazy woman's voice.

  Paloma shut it off. "And I've got the share numbers, too. Now, we can go after the White Ship as allies or as enemies, Alacrity, and if you don't help me do right by the herd, you'll be making the choice. But crooks should stick together."

  He fought the urge to hit her, was nearly driven to it. She saw it in his eyes but stood her ground. He was in an attack posture, face scarlet.

  "Crook?" he shrilled. "Call me crook? The White Ship's mine and my family's!"

  "That's what everybody on that board claims: 'It's mine!' " she howled right back at him. "You think you're unique? The only one claiming divine right?"

  "Yes." He'd gotten hold of himself so suddenly at what she'd said that it left her, flushed and quick-breathing, alone and off-balance on the field of battle. "Yes, that's dead-center correct, Paloma. All right, then: Shalimar."

  She looked doubtfully to Floyt. He nodded; he'd never known Alacrity to break his word to a friend. She lowered her proteus. Alacrity and Paloma inspected one another, then dropped their gazes.

  "I don't have much to bring," she told Floyt. "I'd like to pick up some things from my townhouse, but—"

  Something occurred to her and she touched out a commo call, leaving the visual pickup off at her end. A face appeared, one of the Heads of Cerberus, her bodyguards from the Wickiup. He spoke at once.

  "Condition shog, here. Fallback bromide." The image was still for a moment, then repeated the code exactly. Floyt saw then that it was a loop.

  Paloma broke the connection. "Well, the police aren't hunting me, but I'll have to stay away from the townhouse. Legal trouble, I expect. That's life; the gang will handle things until I get back."

  She pulled on a flight jacket, quickly stuffing this and that into her pockets while Alacrity and Floyt gobbled up the rest of the pack of cookies and opened a box of chocolates. Paloma ate some, too.

  Alacrity saw that she had a number of cash drafts and credit plaques, and assumed she had the moonpure fillet with her as well. In a few minutes they were cabbing to the starport.

  At the terminal entrance, Paloma dumped a handful of candy into a pocket and went walking off without a backward glance. Floyt and Alacrity raised their eyebrows to each other, then entered, Alacrity's brolly tokking the hard floor with its ferrule cap back on.

  Outprocessing was a lot less rigorous than inprocessing. Floyt exchanged their scrip for Bali Hai currency at a much less favorable rate than conversion the other way. As Alacrity waited, he studied the displays listing ships in port: status, destination, port of origin, and so forth.

  Fortunately the partners' visas hadn't expired and still showed gold in the computer system. The only hitch was when an officer reviewed Floyt's initial declaration to make sure the Inheritor's belt wasn't some kind of smuggled artifact. Take-off and field access clearances from the Bali Hai officials were pro forma.

  They walked out across the wet hardtop of the grounding area under floodlights, slick rainbows of spilled lube splashed here and there under their boots. A few freighters and ore-lifters were around, and lit with worklights and preparing to make weigh, a beat-up ten-passenger intrasystem shuttle was being serviced. The Lightning Whelk rested where they'd left her, a contoured, tired old seashell in the glare.

  As the pair walked along, a shadow separated itself from others and joined them. "Made it, huh?" Alacrity grunted.

  Paloma chuckled, twirling a lock of hair around her glamornailed finger. "Oh, that Tepilit—he always had an eye for my second-best sunstreamer choker. Shall we go?"

  She took Floyt's arm to head for the Whelk, but Alacrity stood in their way. He gestured with his head to the interplanetary shuttle.

  "She's lifting for Shalimar in three hours," he said. "I checked while we were processing. You'll be there in eight hours, Paloma. If you don't have the fare, we'll give it to you. She's a Shalimar vessel, so once you're inboard your troubles are over and the company can't fool with you."

  She spoke slowly, stunned. "Your word never meant anything to you. You don't care shit about Pokesnout or the herd or anything, do you?"

  Floyt groped, "Alacrity—"

  But Alacrity cleaved the air with his hand. "Think what you like! I promised Shalimar, and that's where you're going. But I have to get to Spica now, not later."

  Her lips were drawn back, teeth locked. "And you end up with one less competitor, how perfect, eh? What if I say, 'Fine, let's up-ship for Spica?' And we make it back and find the company's wiped out all the gawks? Could you live with it?"

  Alacrity met her stare. "I can't help any of that."

  Floyt, a deep breath held, let it out and set himself in front of Alacrity before Paloma could launch herself at him. "This is beneath you. And it's pointless; the White Ship isn't going to be yours, Alacrity. Ever."

  Alacrity drew his chin back and aside a bit, as if Floyt had taken a swing at him. "Listen, I know how you feel about Pokesnout, but—"

  "The White Ship won't be yours! So stop deluding yourself and at least help someone who's helped you!"

  "God damn you, Ho, I don't have time to get into this with you right now—"

  "Oh, yes you do! You were wrong about the causality harp! Shall I tell you why? Because you saw what you wanted to see! Alacrity, I changed the input before you went out on the gantry and touched the harp. Is this getting through to you? The harp was answering a different question!"

  Alacrity was breathing as heavily as if he'd just run to Horselaugh from the Precursor site, or fought an army of enemies. He was long moments answering. He sounded almost calm.

  "It's Paloma, isn't it? Go; go with her. I don't blame either of you, I mean that! I'll come back for you if I can. Or send somebody if you prefer … "

  Floyt went to throw himself at his friend. "You're not some kind of avatar! Your family failed and you'll fail! I'm not letting you get away with betraying people and wronging them just so you can live some fantasy!"

  But Floyt's grasping hands missed because Paloma pulled him back, restraining him. She was taller than Floyt, strong, and, moreover, had gotten him in some sort of very effective hold. He couldn't shake her loose.

  "It's no use, Hobie! He heard Fate play his tune on that harp!"

  "I don't care if he heard Krishna blow it through a tuba for him!"

  Alacrity caught one of Floyt's clawing hands and slapped the rest of their cash into it."You two're gonna need this more than me. I'm lifting as soon as the Whelk's warmed up." He hesitated. "You're gonna be great together." He pivoted and went off.

  Floyt subsided, watching him go; Paloma eased off her grip. "God, I hate it when he acts noble," Floyt seethed. "Worse than when he acts like a shitheel, even! Did you hear him? Exit speeches!"

  Paloma hummed a short laugh. "You'd better get moving, Hobie."

  He spun on her. "But—the herd—"

  "Oh, I guess I can handle that. No, let's be honest: I know I can. But I'm not so sure you two can deal with whatever he's about to get you into, so watch yourself."

  Floyt clasped handfuls of his thinning hair. "He wasn't always like this, you have to trust me." He felt like weeping. "He didn't leave me to fend for myself when he
could have and had every right to. And maybe should have, given what's happened since."

  "If you say so, citizen. You'd best get going, before he raises without you. But I mean this—"

  And Paloma Sudan put her arms around Floyt's neck and put her lips close to his, so that he inhaled her sweet breath. "I almost made the wrong pick, there, once or twice, Hobart. I hope we find each other again. I want that a lot."

  He had her in his arms and kissed her, embracing forcefully, just as content to make it a grinding, snail-tongued kiss as she was. It conveyed more feeling, meaning, and intent than any other language Floyt knew. The world pinwheeled.

  And they were apart. She caressed his cheek; he kissed the palm of her hand. Then she was just beyond his reach, pulling up the collar of her flight jacket. Paloma made for the shuttle, heels clacking on the hardtop. He watched her until she'd disappeared up the boarding ramp, but she never looked back.

  Alacrity had left the Whelk's hatch open; Floyt secured it behind him. An odor caught his notice as he moved cockpitward, and he traced it to the minuscule ship's head. The smell of undertow hung above the basin and drain. The empty bottle was in the refuse bin.

  Floyt seated himself on the pulldown jumpseat, saying nothing, watching Alacrity ready the Whelk for liftoff.

  "We forgot to lay in supplies," Alacrity said after a while, still tending his boards. "We'll be on emergency spansules most of the way."

  "Alacrity—"

  Alacrity swung the pilot's chair around to face Floyt, control banks and instrument panels automatically moving out of his way. He'd seen the farewell kiss from the bridge, realizing that nothing had happened between Floyt and Paloma on the entire Long Trek, and didn't know what to think or say.

  "Look, please, Ho … you're the best friend I've ever had, that's all I have to tell you. But—let's not talk for a while, okay?"

  Floyt settled back in his seat to wait, as the starship's engines came up.

  Chapter 15

  Damned If We Don't