by Allan Cole
THE HATE PARALLAX
ALLAN COLE AND NICK PERUMOV
DEDICATION
For my sweetie, Kathryn, who makes everything possible. —Allan
To my wife, Olga, bravely bearing a crazy writer for all these years. —Nick
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2011 by Allan Cole and Nick Perumov
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
‘Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently by at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!’
“The Ballad of East and West”
by Rudyard Kipling
He was an old devil, a tired devil and as he pushed the starship through Uttermost Space his thoughts were on his long-overdue vacation.
This voyage would end soon— a few EarthDays at most. Even as he went through the first phases of SpellDown his mind was on the bonus he’d receive for a good docking. Surely more than enough for a DirectSpell return. Enough so he could engage the very best of port wizards, close his eyes and…
… Lo! he’d be on Avalon.
His name was Scratch and as Old Scratch he was known to more than a thousand Navigation Spirits, Control Brownies and Supply Goblins.
Scratch was an Engine Devil and with tremendous overlight speed he was pushing the starliner deeper into the Void. His power cut the very flesh of The Continuum and made hundreds of thousands of lesser spirits in huge armored tubes throw back thick spurs of overheated plasma.
But it was an Engine Devil’s curse that whatever he received was less than he needed. He spent every second of every voyage swearing and sweating over each dram of power so he could hurl the ship to its distant goal.
However, on this particular EarthDay Old Scratch’s thoughts were not on his common duties. His ship was the HolidayOne. His employers: StarFunInc, who ran a fleet of six bargain-fare vacation liners throughout the galaxy. The HolidayOne was the least luxurious and oldest of the six.
Still, it was a stout ship, a reliable ship and in good repair. Just now it was being used for the company’s annual Honeymoon Special. There were more than a thousand couples aboard, nearly all young, lusty and merry.
Several times Old Scratch found himself turning an even deeper shade of his normal red when he accidentally eavesdropped on the private chatter and thoughts of the young people.
He could see nothing— strong spells barred his sight. But those good-for-nothing Brownies darting about the ship were eager to spy on the honeymooners and never missed an opportunity to tell the dull and credulous Goblins the hottest of the hot stories.
Supporting his authority, Old Scratch growled several times at the rowdies, but, but…
But… it only made him dream more of Avalon.
Avalon… Fire, hot enough to whip away this damned chill of Uttermost Space. First he’d enter the House of Flame, where he’d lie absolutely still for FiendDays on end, making his old bones glad with the delicious heat of it.
As Scratch dreamed of Avalon every weary joint and muscle twitched in blissful anticipation. Even for an engine devil three hundred years in space (never mind Uttermost or Innermost or Nearest) don’t pass easily. Plus he could never be certain if the bonus would be enough to match his dreams.
The Company’s chief bookkeeper was a many-degreed blackmaster of financial lies. At StarShift’s end a hard working devil never knew how many LT’s would be credited— or deducted— from his account.
Scratch dismissed this depressing thought, replacing it with a vision of the fattest possible bonus and what those great stacks of Legal Tender notes would bring.
Which was… Avalon!
His best fiendish friend, Ashgaroth, would return to Avalon in a wheel or two. Old Scratch smiled to himself imagining the good uproar they’d have at the “Three Hanged Monks”— the favorite tavern of Engine Devils Local 666.
There was a sign on the door that was the delight of every fiend who saw it: “Softskins Beware! Enter At Your Own Risk!”
Not that softskins— or humans— would be comfortable for a second in the “Three Hanged Monks.” There were no tables, chairs, or even a bar— none of the ridiculous paraphernalia the Unfiendish require to live their clumsy lives in comfort.
A place where human time, EarthTime, CessiumTime, had no meaning. A place where a mentos shout brought a drink quicker than a decaying atom could parse time.
And the treasured silence that followed could last a hundred EarthYears.
Engine Devils were a proud race and disliked all things connected with their soft-skinned masters. Yet they served their masters well. Devils must obey. That was the rule. The Great Spell cast a thousand years before had decreed it.
Damned Spell! And nothing to do about it. Freights and charter runs, consignors and insurers, bonuses and salaries, cargo terminals and repair docks, and…
“… Spells-spells-spells-spells-movin’ up an’ down again!”
A damnably good poet, that Rudyard Kipling. Although he’d been a soft-skinned human— and therefore a natural disgrace for an Engine Devil to enjoy— Kipling brought much comfort to poor Old Scratch’s life. Even his best friend, Ashgaroth, knew nothing of this secret vice.
Yes, “spells-spells-spells-spells”… Spells to cut the way through. Spells to control that rowdy crowd of hotjet-fiends. Spells to protect the sophisticated and cursedly expensive machinery from the ruining breath of Uttermost Space. Spells of many kinds.
And each one sucked at Old Scratch’s strength.
Frequently he hated his work, which Scratch disliked to admit even to himself. Frequently he dreamed about The Inner Hell— his home. Yes, Inner Hell, the Fiendish Worlds, whose might and pride had been cast down by soft-skinned Mages a millennium ago.
The Great Flame had perished and now a common Engine Devil (or SuperProcessor Devil, or PowerGenerator one) had to work hard to earn enough to buy a small bit of local Flame for himself.
Old Scratch was a great swearer. He would always grumble and growl, grudge and grunt. His curses were his shield against the incompetence of captains and navigators, port wizards and fiendish innkeepers everywhere. His complaints were about the common thorns in all Engine Devils’ hides.
But Old Scratch was the past, present and future master of swearing— of putting tormentors in their place. Some of his curses became legend— as legend as the bureaucratic foulups causing them.
He was so surly, so full of lava-hot deprecations everyone cringed when they saw his name on the ship’s MasterList.
What no one knew was that Old Scratch had one other secret vice besides his fondness for Kipling. Which was this: he hated his work, but loved it too.
He loved the shimmering of the uncounted stars with their fiercely burning crowns when his ship passed by. He loved the storms of hard x-rays near the Black Holes; the many-colored planets, blue, purple, yellow, red or green; the voices of his remote friends coming upon wings of FastSpells from afar.
And many other wondrous things, the very sense of an Engine Devil’s life.
As for Avalon… Old Scratch returned to his most gratifying thoughts. Yeah, “Three Hanged Monks.” Pure bliss. Deep curtains of smoke and black stones floating in the air— air pierced by countless thunderbolts and filled with the most welcome warmth of True Flame.
Surely no human weaklings could stand this. Spells running to and fro, burning Fiendish punch, fire sparks dancing and flashing above Engine Devils Local 666.
But first he had to work.
* * *
Billy Ivanov was in love.
He was ten years old, a round-eyed innocent, and the object of his youthful desires danced before him in all her splendor. She was slim, she was curvaceous, she was torrid.
Her name was Lupe Morris— half Spanish, half Amer— and she had night-dark eyes and a smile that lit up every corner of his small world.
At the moment she was dancing with her new husband, who Billy thought looked like an ape. Joe Morris was his name and he was Amer through and through.
Thick of mind and body, with a voice that rattled the ship’s hull when he called sweet Lupe’s name.
The music was hot, hot, hot. And Lupe jounced in her form-fitting toreador outfit, rousing feelings in Billy wholly unfamiliar but quite pleasurable.
The scene on his cabin wall shifted as his eyes followed her across the dance floor, which was several decks below his lonely berth.
He whispered a command and the Vidsprite said, “Yessir,” and scrambled back to give Billy a wider view.
The ship’s main salon was crowded with honeymoon couples decked out in makeshift exotica for the traditional Costume Ball that was the finale of every StarFun cruise.
Some of the costumes were daring— nubile young wives jouncing in see-throughs, muscular husbands strutting in less than what a classical statue wears. A few costumes were modest, but these were worn by middle-aged or even quite ancient couples on their second honeymoons.
The passengers aboard HolidayOne were exceptionally middle-class. Some had saved for years for an economy berth. Others were making the trip thanks to the generosity of their relatives.
To everyone it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. A trip to the sinful lights and uninhibited fun at a Frontier Zone resort.
Although if truth be known the resorts were mild-mannered and far from wicked. They catered to conservative tourists on limited budgets interested in mild titillation rather than in-your-face sin.
StarFunInc knew its market well. The company offered good food and plenty of it, constant but cheap entertainment and watchful employees to ensure no one got into difficulty once they reached the resorts.
To maximize its profits— and fill all its berths— the company booked passengers from both New America and New Russia. Crowded as it was, the dance floor was divided in half by beefy security men strolling the middle zone to make sure the two traditional enemies didn’t mix and spoil the fun.
Billy whispered orders and the Vidsprite zoomed in on Lupe again, coming in so tight her pearly teeth glittered in the revolving ballroom lights.
“Hey, hey, heyhey!” the vidsprite said. “Look at that, master. Va-va-voom!”
Billy was embarrassed, but he didn’t call for a wider angle. Then the tempo changed to something romantic and to Billy’s immense disgust Joe the Amer Ape clutched Lupe close, rubbing his body against her.
“Off!” Billy commanded and the vidsprite scowled, then switched off, dissolving the scene of the ship’s main salon. It was replaced by a canned shot of the swirling colors of Uttermost Space.
Billy was an educated child who knew there was nothing to be seen at Spellspeed and the images on the vidwall were a simulation, a Fantas, of what space would look like at postlight speed. If mortal eyes could have viewed it, that is.
Billy watched the ever-changing colors and shapes for a moment, then turned away, bored.
At first the voyage had been a marvelous first-time experience. He was a half-breed child; part Russian, part American and never mind how it had happened. To Billy his half-breed status was a subject of intense shame. He was traveling to the Frontier Zone with his grandparents, who were on their second honeymoon.
Billy was an orphan and his grandparents had no friends in New Russia close enough or understanding enough to see to a half-breed child’s care. During the voyage he’d kept to himself as much as possible, instinctively allowing them privacy to enjoy this long-dreamed of adventure.
He was the only child on the ship, making him a bit of a curiosity, so he’d Eloised at will, exploring the crew quarters, officers’ mess, and all the mysterious corridors permeated with the buzz and stink of spell machinery.
Billy had even been allowed on the bridge— a really skushne tour as it turned out, since as everyone knew humans did little to run a starship’s machinery and were stuck with boring jobs.
He sneered at the memory— the silver-haired captain and handsome first mate strutting about as if they were really in charge, instead of merely being the glamorous and bemedaled servants of the paying passengers.
Billy wished he were an Engine Devil. Now that was real power! Thinking about it, he made engine noises and pushed at the air with his hands as if guiding the ship.
Except if this really were his ship, it wouldn’t be a stupid old passenger liner. It’d be something huge and military like… like… a space fortress!
The boy instantly took command of the imaginary gun turret. He pointed a finger at the vidwall, imagining Joe Morris in an American military uniform.
“Take that, you dirty old Amer dog!” he falsetto-growled and he sprayed the vidwall with imaginary projectiles.
CHAPTER TWO
At that moment Old Scratch was busy sending out powerdown spells.
The HolidayOne was entering The Frontier Zone, formed of hundreds of newly developed and terraformed planets— cast across the fabric of space like the Pacific Isles on Old Earth.
The Zone was inhabited by all the sentient species of the Galaxy— both human and alien. Some worlds were warm, some hot, some green and some desolate. What all had in common was that jobs were scarce but living was cheap— if a being didn’t miss luxuries from home too much.
In recent years Zone administrators had pushed tourism to help fill the gap, playing up the Zone’s wild and woolly history to attract visitors. The advertisements, playing on vidscreens all over the galaxy, were aimed at the working class.
The resorts offered low cost entertainment— safaris into the safest areas of the wilderness, casinos where the odds for the house were low and as little as a single LT could be wagered, re-enactments of famous Old Frontier fights, and shows featuring aging entertainers.
All the ads were clever and the program was a big success, drawing tourists from the Old Colonies, New Russia, New America and even Mother Earth. And over and over again the advertisements stressed that the days of violence and danger in the Frontier Zone were long past.
Old Scratch entered the Zone with supreme confidence, guiding the HolidayOne to port.
The only reason to keep a watchful eye on his surroundings were the military bases, equally divided by treaty between the United Galactic States and the Russian Galactic Federation.
The UGS and RGF bases were huge armored spheres, floating in space and armed to the teeth— grim tokens of past bloodshed.
Old Scratch had reason to be confident for all captains considered the Zone as “Danger Declined One.”
* * *
Something was wrong!
Billy shot up in bed.
He was sweating heavily, heart fluttering, stomach churning. He looked about the darkened cabin. His grandparents were still absent. The curtain closing off their alcove was open, the bed empty.
Billy couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. No nightmare had troubled his sleep. Still, he was drenched with a feeling of tremendous dread.
Except for the distant throb of the spellengines the ship was silent. This was normal during the false night when all humans slept.
Billy turned his head toward the ship’s bulkhead. He knew that just beyond the cantilevered layers of alloy and plas forming the honeycombed skin was nothing but empty space.
There could be no danger there, no monster, no hulking brute bent on tormenting little boys. Nevertheless he had a feeling someone was watching him. No… Not him… .
<
br /> … It was watching the ship!
An evil thing. A thing of malice and dark intent.
Billy swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He started to rise and then… suddenly the feeling of dread was gone!
He giggled in relief. “You’re stupid, Billy,” he said aloud, unconsciously using his voice to push away the last webs of fear. “There’s no one there.”
Instantly he felt better. He got up, went to the bathroom, then crept back into his bunk. A moment later he was asleep.
This time he dreamed. He dreamed of Lupe and their first meeting …
…She was alone at the game table, eyes cast down, peering into the black mirrored surface. She motioned with a slender finger tipped with scarlet and the viddeck of cards spread out. She motioned again and the cards rose up, shuffling as if worked by invisible hands.
A few feet away, Billy watched, fascinated by his first close view of an Amer woman. There was no one else in the room to see him staring and so he felt quite safe. Not that anybody— even an Amer— would have been disturbed.
A ten-year-old child would be a threat to no one.
Despite the bitter hatred all Americans and Russians had for one another, children were exempt— both by policy and natural human inclination.
“Play,” the Amer woman commanded and the cards spread out before her, making up a complex solitaire game.
Billy thought he’d never heard such a beautiful voice. It was soft and musical and edged with humor. He moved closer and he could smell her perfume— warm and tinged with lemon flowers. It drew him closer still.
He watched her play, delicate hands fluttering in the air as she commanded card to column. After a time he saw her frown, shake her head and let out a long sigh of defeat.
“You can present the seven of spades,” Billy blurted in Russian.
The woman turned, frown deepening into one of confusion. She hadn’t understood. Billy was dumbfounded by her beauty. She was in her early twenties and had a small, heart-shaped face with immense eyes— dark and mysterious as the deepest space. Her lips were full, naturally red, and her smooth skin was the color of a rare tropical wood.