The Cry of the Onlies

by Judy Klass

  The people he was with stopped to listen to the account of an old man, a bent retainer from a long line of palace servants, describe what his duties had been, the hours he had worked, and what life had been like above and below stairs. His attitude seemed to change with every sentence. He was bitter about the stinginess and cruelty of Puil's family. He described the long hours, and the high rates of sickness and death among the servants matter-of-factly. Yet serving at the palace was all he had known, all he had ever been raised to dream of; his life now was without purpose. He said that the revolution had made him an antique.

  The attic room was filled with a long line of narrow beds in which the servants had slept. There was a long troughlike bed stretching out at their feet; this had served as the bed for the servants' children. The dimness of the room bothered Kirk's eyes. He followed a family of Boacans out through the doorway, and down the winding staircase.

  He descended all the way down to the basement level and walked out into another tunnellike corridor, past a well-stocked wine cellar, dust covering great tankards of the finest Boacan brandy. He headed on into the kitchen complex, where the stone walls seemed clammy with dank moisture. Stretching all around him was a network of stoves and carving tables, spits for roasting meat, boiling tanks and deep frying pits. New equipment that had been added in the last years of the regime augmented cruder implements, centuries old.

  Old servants were on hand here as well, old chefs and kitchen workers, to describe the work that went into the feasts they had served, the quantities of food prepared every day, for Puil's family and courtiers and for beloved pets, and the great quantities sent back uneaten. Are they well paid by the new government to do this? Kirk wondered. Are they told what to say? These servants had many harsh words for Puil. But the older chefs were openly angry at the revolution, which had deprived them of the chance to practice and profit from their art; the common people could not afford it, and the new rulers refused their services.

  There were small bedrooms down here as well, filled with berths for the kitchen staff. There were great chimney flues, and the visiting Boacan children crawled inside them to look around and emerged covered with soot. Children had been used, in Puil's day, for the cleaning of chimneys, and other such specialized work. Kirk knew if he lingered down here too long, he would have to leave much of the rest of the palace unexplored.

  Stepping from the twilight of the servants' stairway out into the main hall of a higher floor caused Kirk to blink several times, from the brightness of the light. Light was the thing most revered on Boaco Six, and a well-lit home thus a sign of prestige. The palace was illuminated by vast windows of crystal and stained glass, aided by some artificial sources. Once his eyes adjusted, Kirk became aware of space-age noises which seemed incongruous in such a place, on such a world.

  He walked along and discovered a laser room with a built-in light show unit, and a children's arcade—all the equipment was an example of modern state of the art Federation technology. Children visiting the palace-museum were allowed to play laser battles in the arcade. They whooped as they aimed and blasted at each other's targets. Such expensive, sophisticated equipment seemed unreal on a backwater world such as this.

  In another wing, Kirk found a succession of sumptuous bedrooms and boudoirs, closets stuffed with clothes, wardrobes and vanities dripping with jewelry. It was a banquet of opulence, spread out for inspection. Women wandered, murmured, reached out their fingers to stroke a plush or glittering object—and then drew back their hands, afraid. A guilty atmosphere seemed to hang over the people here, as if they were raiders, trespassers in a temple. This mood affected the children less; they caught up and exclaimed over shiny trinkets, and ran their feet back and forth in the layers of deep downy carpeting.

  Kirk encountered young Ensign Michaels in a room filled with women's stockings, girdles, and other undergarments. The stockings were piled high on the bed in a rainbow of colors, a dozen of every pair, and a mountain of satiny drawers was spilling off a reclining couch. A portrait of one of Puil's fat mistresses hung over the vanity in a gilded frame. She was dressed as a Terran shepherdess, and coquettishly held a jeweled shepherd's crook. A small, fuzzy, six-legged animal, with an orange bow around its throat, rubbed its head against her dress. The portrait was illuminated by a large lamp built into the wall above it, and it was at this fluorescent source of light that the Boacans gazed with wonder. Candlelight was still the reality in their homes.

  Michaels stared around him, his face expressing awe and nausea. It was what his captain felt as well.

  Chapter Five

  THE SEA OF STARS is supposed to be unchanging. For the ocean mariner or the star traveler, these points of light are the constant in the abyss. Their pattern, seen from different latitudes, is a coded message to set his compass with, and steer by. The light of a sun at the other side of the galaxy, that may have long since exploded or quietly died, reaches across the light-years, and its steady beam is as reassuring as an anchor in the vacuum of darkness.

  And yet, the impossible seemed to be happening. Readings had been blinking and shifting for several days. Pockets of stars seemed to invert their constellations, as if to suggest that the quadrant had been crossed, and they were being viewed from the opposite angle. Clusters of asteroid debris had been appearing and disappearing, clusters not on any Federation star map. Their formation wasn't like anything you'd find in a meteor shower. All this spelled only one thing: sensor readings foul-up.

  It had to be the fault of this shoddy company equipment. Ion storms were making the sensors go on the fritz and report screwy things. They'd be fine for hours, readings would be normal, and then they'd pull one of these maneuvers. It was irritating, unnerving, even, but it didn't add up to a major problem. The ship could navigate around these asteroids, real or imagined. Close to any object, safety systems would come into play and steer clear of collision. But the entire system would need an overhaul when it docked.

  Glen Andrews swiveled around on his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. They ached from lack of use. God, was he restless—he felt ready to scream. Boredom stultified his mind, and he felt that if he tried one more time to get to the source of these blips in the sensor readings, he'd bug out completely.

  At one time, navigating an ore freighter from a mineral-laden planet to a young Federation colony had seemed a cushy, relaxing, well-paying job—exciting, even. Just the thing for a young man ready to cut loose from Earth, anxious to see the galaxy, with a hatred of punching time clocks, and the business grind. Just the way to get needed experience, and stories to swap, and to meet exotic girls …

  After three years of such work, it seemed like a penal sentence. He was uncertain about when he'd have the courage to set himself free.

  Some adventure, he thought. Interstellar navigation. Big deal. When your ship just plods along through space at warp two. When the freight you're hauling isn't very valuable, or even explosive. About as exciting and glamorous as navigating a garbage scow. Just once, I'd like to see a little action.

  He spun around on the chair once more, and stopped it to lean forward and grimly observe his only shipmate and companion, Hiroshi Takehara. Hiroshi was absorbed in using gravity beams to make a small metal ball go through a hoop inside a fiberglass box. His brow creased with concentration as he shifted the gravity levers up and down.

  Amazing what three months of this tedious traveling will drive a man to, thought Glen.

  "Hey, Hiroshi. I've got another exciting game you could try. You stand and bang your head against the wall and see which cracks first."

  "Be quiet, man! I've almost got it." Hiroshi licked his lips and subtly adjusted the right-hand lever. "Banzai!"

  Glen got up and sauntered over to him to take note of his achievement, but he shook his head as he went. "I don't know, Takehara. I'm worried about you. I think you need some time in a rest colony, weaving basket lanterns and polishing glo-rocks."

  "Aah, you're just
jealous." Hiroshi put the toy aside and moved toward the control panel his friend had abandoned. "You couldn't do it if you tried."

  "Hey, do you see me trying?" Glen pressed a button on the wall food dispenser, in hope of a glass of beer. But the machine flashed a refusal—he had had a glass an hour ago, and the alcohol intake of freighter pilots was regulated. He punched the bulkhead and swore. "I'm cracking up. I swear to God, I really am. Look, distract me, get my mind off being cooped up in this tin can. Tell me about whatever was on that news service wire you were picking up, before the storm struck."

  "You can't assume it's an ion storm. In fact, I'm really worried, Glen …"

  "All right, fine. Then, before the equipment started being more useless than usual. Just gimme the headline stories, please."

  "Glen, Glen," Hiroshi said, shaking his head in a way calculated to irritate his friend. "Why don't you ever read about these things for yourself?"

  "Hey, did I know communications were going to go kablooey? Anyhow, maybe I want your expert interpretation of current events. What did it say about peace talks? Or war talks?"

  Hiroshi's face became more serious. "Same as it's been. Nothing erupting yet, but the situation doesn't look good. The Romulans want to renegotiate the borders of their neutral zone—but they're really just using that as a pretext, they seem to be gunning for some kind of war. Some 'anonymous' Federation Council aide thinks they're worried by rumors that Starfleet has some new ship or system up its sleeve. They don't want to just sit around waiting for our side to deploy it."

  Glen really, really wanted that beer. He could imagine its cold, bitter wetness sliding down his throat. "And the Klingons?"

  "The Klingons are pretty gung ho also. They say this situation is just typical of Federation thinking—that we think we can just divide up and demarcate the galaxy, draw lines around everybody else. They're worried the Romulans are being mistreated." As he talked, Hiroshi kept his eye on the control panel Glen had moved away from. He had had some training in engineering, and he found the occasional distortion of readings more bizarre than did his friend. But all looked quiet now, just as it should be.

  Glen was amused by the Klingon stand. "They're worried about the Romulans? That's a laugh and a half. You know that something is up when the Klingons start playing good Samaritan."

  A chief difficulty, every day Glen logged in space, was trying to find ways to look busy. Not that Hiroshi needed to be impressed, or anything. But Hiroshi seemed to have a much clearer idea of where his duties began and ended; he'd execute them precisely, then relax in reading or contemplation. Or with his blasted gravity box.

  Whereas Glen always felt a need to prove himself, prove that his job had meaning, his presence was necessary. That he couldn't, after all, be conveniently replaced by a mechanical iron ore freighter. He paced about now, and paused to run his hands over a series of wall circuits, checking for—what? Dust? Short-circuited fuses?

  "All right, then, what were the other big stories? Tell me about this 'miracle man' you were saying lives in this quadrant."

  Hiroshi yawned. "Didn't I tell you about him, already?"

  "Yeah, you were jabbering about it this morning. But since when do I pay attention to what you say? Tell me again, what's all the fuss about him for?"

  "Well," Hiroshi said, "it's this guy called Flint. The bulletin came in at 2200 hours, when you were sacked out. The Federation has confirmed that he's everyone he says he is."

  "So, who does he say he is?"

  "Everyone, practically. Methuselah, Merlin, Solomon …"

  "Who?"

  "Great men, Andrews, great men. And from your Western cultural heritage. Shame on you for not knowing about them."

  "So the idea is, this guy is incredibly old, and that's how he was able to be all these people?" Glen's hands stopped their idle run over the exposed circuits. He leaned back against the wall, taken with the idea.

  "That's what they say. And now he's doing some 'weapons research' for Starfleet." Hiroshi smiled slyly. "And if you really want my opinion," he added, "I'll bet this has something to do with whatever has got the Romulans so worried."

  "Uh-huh. What kind of weapons research?"

  "Come on, Andrews. It's classified. Top secret. You know, the big time."

  Glen Andrews scratched his ear. He felt almost miffed at not being told, not having his drowsy curiosity satisfied. "And you expect me to believe all this stuff? A load of bunk you read off some cheesy star tabloid news wire, about a mystery man who lives forever?"

  "The bulletin came on the Starfleet news wire service," Hiroshi said evenly. "I'd hardly call them a 'cheesy star tabloid' operation."

  Glen knew he could not really challenge this. "You know," he finally drawled, "I once thought about joining Starfleet."

  "You? What a joke."

  "But I couldn't handle the haircut. Or the uniform."

  "Or the regular baths," Hiroshi gibed. "I hear they require those too."

  "Yeah … that's the way to see the galaxy," his friend said, not really hearing him. "But I guess, with things heating up like they are, it wouldn't be a very smart time to try and enlist." This thought ended his Starfleet dreaming. "Okay, Hiroshi. If this guy Flint is in the neighborhood, why don't we pay a visit to his planet?"

  "Are you kidding me? Uh-uh. He's got his own private world. Think how rich he must be! Admirers, the press, and dignitaries have tried to get through to him. But he's put up a force-field, to keep 'em out. I mean, he's in contact with Starfleet and all. I think it was a starship that first stumbled across him and identified him. Anyhow, he's in this quadrant all right, but nowhere near us."

  "And as long as we're crawling along in this snail of a ship, we'd be older than he is by the time we got there. And the company would give us hell, of course. God, am I getting stir-crazy."

  "You really need to relax."

  "I'll tell you what we both need, Hiroshi. A couple of weeks on some pleasure planet. Or at a starbase, say Starbase Twelve. They've got this one little cafe there, Xandar's it's called …"

  "I've told you what we ought to do, Glen. We need to get out of this line of work altogether." Hiroshi checked the ship's life-support readings, speed, and fuel consumption. Sensors showed that no other ships were in the area. He would let the ship's remote control navigate, for a while longer. "What we really need to do is open a place of our own …"

  "Aw, not this again!"

  "Say on Gallaga Nine. A lot of freighters pass through that system, and the clubs are generally lousy. But after a year in this line, we know what needs guys have when they're resting up. Not sleazy, noisy stopovers, but a place that's classy, relaxing. Fine liqueurs, dimmed lights, soft music, a fountain, maybe. And we could rent out rooms …"

  "Aw, listen, Hiroshi. I've been an ore puller for three years, not one. And I know what guys really want after a month of hauling a load through space. And it ain't soft music and cherry blossom wine. Have you been to this place Xandar's? Have you?"

  "I really don't want to …"

  "It's the only jumping joint on Starbase Twelve. Hell, you should see the girls they have. They have one girl, a green Orion, well, you know what they're like. In her first number, she comes out in this getup, it looks like jade green swaying fronds. And she's even got jade green tassles on her …"

  "I get the idea." Now it was Hiroshi's turn to amble across the room and take a stab at the food dispenser panel. He punched a few buttons and wrinkled his nose in distaste when the reconstituted string bean tempura arrived on his tray.

  "As I was saying," Glen continued, unperturbed, "a couple of swigs of Saurian brandy, and this girl will transport you to green heaven. And then there's Sadie …"

  Both men heard it at the same moment. Both snapped their heads around to listen. It was a high-pitched whine, almost like a woman shrieking. Their lazed, long-numbed minds identified it after a few moments—someone had fired a phaser blast, and the shot had grazed their ship.

 
Hiroshi dropped his food tray and ran to the control panel. "My God, we're being attacked! But by whom? Where did they come from?"

  Glen moved beside him, activated the main viewer. A small craft seemed to shimmer in space for an instant, then winked away into nothing. Sensors could only pick up readings of scattered asteroid rubble.

  "What … it looked like a Federation make …" Glen puzzled.

  The ship reappeared, as Hiroshi switched on the ore freighter's flimsy shields. Immediately after, the attacking vessel fired another shot, damaging the shields, and sending shock waves through their ship.

  Glen crouched to repair a wire grill that clattered open, the inner wires it protected heating and hissing. "Oh God, oh my God, oh God, help me, oh God …"

  "They vanished again. What the hell is this?"

  "Hiroshi, contact them. Hail them, and tell them we give up. They want the goddamn iron ore so badly, they can have it."

  "No, Glen, we can't. We must defend …"

  "Defend? Defend how? With what?" Glen stood, his face red with hysteria. "Is our ship armed? Has the company given us any means of protecting ourselves?"

  "Well, who would attack an ore freighter?"

  "Well, if these … space pirates want our cargo so badly, they're gonna come take it anyway. Tell them we surrender."

  Hiroshi set his jaw, determined not to comply. A second later, another phaser beam blasted through their shields, and the ship began to creak and fold in places, like tin being crumpled. Hiroshi dived for the intercom. "We surrender, we surrender. Help! Stop it, please, stop it!"

  Only static came filtering back, filling their now-darkened cabin. And then a maniacal laugh.

  "Please," Hiroshi whispered.

  The next phaser blast ripped away the cargo carrier so that it floated off into space. Equipment flew through the small pilot's chamber, and the life-support monitor began to blink. Glen Andrews found himself lying in the darkness, wedged under part of the control panel, which had ripped itself out of the wall. His head throbbed. He felt a warm trickle of blood from his scalp, seeping through his hair, curling behind his ear, and forming a puddle under his head. His collar was sticky. The room was dark, and very quiet. His right leg was numb.