Starship

by Brian W Aldiss

  "I had no alternative but to try and remove you both," Zac Deight said huskily. "If you will save me from this horrible creature I will do anything— within reason."

  They were interrupted by a noise nearby, a curious noise, a scraping rustle, frightening because it was unidentifiable. It grew louder. Suddenly, it was overhead.

  Rats were on the move! They drummed along the air duct; across the grille Complain had recently climbed through pattering pink feet came and went, as the tribe thundered by. Dust showered down into the room, and with the dust came smoke.

  "That sort of thing'll be happening all over the ship," Complain told Zac Deight gravely, when the stampede had gone by. "The fire is driving the rats out of their holes. Given time, the men will gut the place absolutely. They'll find your secret hideout in the end, if they kill us all doing it. If you know what's good for you, Deight, you'll get on that instrument and tell Curtis to come out with his hands up."

  "If I did, they would never obey," Zac Deight said. His hands, paper-thin, rustled together on his lap.

  "That's my worry," Complain said. "Where is this Little Dog?— Down on the outside of the planet?"

  Zac Deight nodded confirmation miserably. He kept clearing his throat, a nervous trick which betrayed the strain he was undergoing.

  "Get up and tell Curtis to speak to Little Dog, double-quick, and make them send a ship up here for us," Complain said. He drew his dazer, aiming it steadily at Deight.

  "I'm the only one who flashes dazers here!" Marapper shouted. "Deight's my captive." Jumping up, he came toward Complain with his own weapon raised. Savagely, Complain booted it out of his hand.

  "We can't afford to have three sides in this argument, priest," he said. "If you're going to stay in on this, stay quiet. Otherwise, get out. Now then, Deight, have you made up your mind?"

  Zac Deight stood up helplessly, twisting his face with indecision.

  "I don't know what to do. You don't understand the position at all," he said. "I really would help you if I could. You seem a reasonable man, Complain, at heart; if only you and I––"

  "I'm not reasonable!" Complain shouted. "I'm anything but reasonable! Get on to Curtis! Go on, you old fox, move! Get a ship up here!"

  "Inspector Vyann, can't you––" Zac Deight said.

  "Yes, Roy, please..." Vyann began.

  "No!" Complain roared. "These beggars are responsible for all our miseries. Now they're going to get us out of trouble or else."

  Seizing one end of the bookcase, he pulled it angrily away from the wall. The phone stood there on its niche, neutral and silent, ready to convey any message spoken into it.

  "This time my dazer's at Lethal, Deight," Complain said. "You have the count of three to begin talking. One . . . two . . ."

  Tears stood in Zac Deight's eyes as he lifted the receiver. It shook in his grasp.

  "Get me Crane Curtis, will you?" he said, when a voice spoke at the other end. Possessed as he was, Complain could not restrain a thrill shooting through him, to think that this instrument was now connected with the secret stronghold in the ship.

  When Curtis came on, all four in the room could hear his voice distinctly. It was pitched high with anxiety; he talked so rapidly he hardly sounded like a Giant. He began speaking at once, before the old councillor could get a word in.

  "Deight? You've slipped up somewhere," he said. "I always said you were too old for this job! The damned dizzies have got that welder in action. I thought you told me you had it? They're running amok with it— absolutely berserk. Some of the boys tried to get it back but failed, and now the ship's on fire near us. This is your doing! You're going to take the responsibility for this . . ."

  During this flow of words, Zac Deight subtly changed, slipping back into something like his old dignity. The receiver steadied in his hand.

  "Curtis!" he said. The command in his tone brought a sudden pause on the line. "Curtis, pull yourself together. This is no time for recriminations. Bigger matters are at stake. You'll have to get Little Dog and tell them––"

  "Little Dog!" Curtis cried. He went back into full spate again. "I can't get Little Dog. Why don't you listen to what I've got to say? Some crazy dizzy, monkeying with the welder, has severed a power cable on the middle level of Deck 20, just below us here. The structure's live all around us. Four of our men are out cold with shock. It's blown our radio and our lighting. We're stuck. We can't raise Little Dog and we can't get out..."

  Zac Deight groaned. He turned hopelessly away from the phone, gesturing at Complain.

  "We're finished," he said. "You heard that."

  Complain poked the dazer into his thin ribs. "Keep quiet," he muttered. "Curtis hasn't finished speaking yet."

  The phone was still barking.

  "Are you there, Deight? Why don't you answer?"

  "I'm here," Deight replied wearily.

  "Then answer. Do you think I'm talking for fun?" Curtis snapped. "There's just one chance for us all. Up in the personnel hatch on Deck 10, there's an emergency transmitter. Got that? We're all bottled up here. We can't get out. You're out. You've got to get to that transmitter and radio Little Dog for help. Can you do that?"

  The dazer was eager at Zac Deight's ribs now.

  "I'll try," he said.

  "You'd better try! It's our only hope. And, Deight . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "For God's sake tell 'em to come armed— and quick."

  "All right."

  "And hurry, man. For heaven's sake hurry."

  A long, meaningful silence followed Zac Deight's switching off.

  "Are you going to let me get to that radio?" Deight asked.

  Complain nodded.

  "I'm coming with you," he said. "We've got to get a ship to us." He turned to Vyann. She had brought the old councillor a beaker of water which he accepted gratefully.

  "Laur," Complain said, "will you please go back and tell Roger Scoyt, who should be revived by now, that the Giants' hideout is somewhere on the upper level of Deck 20. Tell him to wipe them all out as soon as possible. Tell him to go carefully: there's danger of some sort there. Tell him— tell him there's one particular Giant called Curtis who ought to be launched very slowly on the Long Journey. Take care of yourself, Laur, I'll be back as soon as I can."

  Vyann said, "Couldn't Marapper go instead of––"

  "I'd like the message to arrive straight," Complain said bluntly.

  "Do be careful," she begged him.

  "He'll be all right," Marapper said roughly. "Despite the insults, I'm going with him. Something very nasty is brewing."

  In the corridor, the square pilot lights greeted them. Their intermittent blue patches did little to make the darkness less threatening, and Complain watched Laur Vyann go off with some misgivings. Reluctantly, he turned to splash after Marapper and Zac Deight; the latter was already lowering himself down an open trap while the priest hovered unhappily over him.

  "Wait!" Marapper said. "What about the rats down there?"

  "You and Complain have dazers," Zac Deight said mildly.

  The remark did not seem entirely to remove Marapper's uneasiness.

  "Alas, I fear that trapdoor is too small for me to squeeze down!" he exclaimed. "I am a large man, Roy."

  "You're a bigger liar," Complain said. "Go on, get down. We'll have to keep our eyes open for the rats. With luck, they'll be too busy to worry about us now."

  They bundled down into the inspection-ways, crawling on hands and knees over to the double rail which carried the low trucks belonging to this level from one end of the ship to the other. No truck was there. They crawled along the track, through the narrow opening in the interdeck metal which, even here, stood between one deck and another, and on into a third deck until they found a truck. Under Zac Deight's direction, they climbed on to its platform and lay flat.

  With a touch at the controls, they were off, gathering speed quickly. The deck intersections flicked by only a few inches above their heads. Marapper
groaned as he attempted to draw in his stomach, but in a short time they slowed, arriving at Deck 10. The councillor stopped the truck and they got off again.

  In this far end of the ship, evidence of rats abounded. Marapper kept his light constantly swinging from side to side.

  Having stopped the truck just inside the deck, they could stand up. Above and around them, four feet wide, the inspection-ways here became a washer between two wheels of deck, its width crossed by a veritable entanglement of girders, braces, pipes, and ducts, and by the immense tubes which carried the ship's corridors. A steel ladder ran up into the darkness over their heads.

  "The personnel lock, of course, is on the upper level," Zac Deight said. Taking hold of the rungs of the ladder, he began to climb.

  As he followed, Complain noted many signs of damage on either side of them, as if, in the rooms between which they now ascended, ancient detonations had occurred. Even as he thought the thought-picture "detonation," a bellow of sound vibrated through the inspection-ways, setting up resonances and groans in a variety of pipes until the place sang like an orchestra.

  "Your people are still wrecking the ship," Zac Deight said coldly.

  "Let's hope they kill off a few squadrons of Giants at the same time." Marapper said.

  "Squadrons!" Deight exclaimed. "Just how many 'Giants,' as you call them, do you reckon are aboard ship?"

  When the priest did not reply, Deight answered himself. "There are exactly twelve of them, poor devils," he said. "Thirteen including Curtis."

  For an instant. Complain nearly succeeded in viewing the situation through the eyes of a man he had never seen, through Curtis's eyes. He saw that worried official boxed up somewhere in mined rooms, in darkness, while everyone else in the ship hunted savagely for his place of concealment. It was not an attractive picture.

  No time was left for further thought. They reached the upper level, crawling horizontally once more to the nearest trapdoor. Zac Deight inserted his octagonal ring and it opened above their heads. As they climbed out, a spray of tiny moths burst around their shoulders, hovered, then fluttered off down the dark corridor. Quickly Complain whipped up his dazer and fired at them; by the beam of Marapper's flashlight, he had the satisfaction of seeing most of them drop to the deck.

  "I just hope none got away," he said. “I’ll swear those things act as scouts for the rats."

  The damage in this region was as bad as any Complain and Marapper had seen so far. Hardly a wall stood straight in any direction. Glass and debris lay everywhere, except where brushed away to make a narrow path, Down this path they walked, every sense alert.

  "What was this place?" Complain asked curiously. "I mean, when it was a place."

  Zac Deight continued to walk forward without replying, his face bleak and absorbed.

  "What was this place, Deight?" Complain repeated.

  "Oh. . . . Most of the deck was Medical Research," Deight said, in a preoccupied fashion. "In the end, I believe, a neglected computer blew itself to bits. You can't reach this part by the ordinary elevators and corridors of the ship; it's completely sealed off. A tomb within a tomb."

  Complain felt a thrill inside him. Medical Research! This was where, twenty-three generations ago, June Payne, the discoverer of paynine, had worked. He tried to visualize her bent over a bench, but could only think of Laur.

  So they came to the personnel air lock. It looked much like a smaller edition of the cargo lock, with similar-looking wheels and danger notices. Zac Deight crossed to one of the wheels, still with his abstracted look.

  "Wait!" Marapper said urgently. "Roy, as guile's my guide, I swear this wretch has something tricky up his stinking sleeves for us. He's leading us into danger."

  "If there's anyone waiting in here, Deight," Complain said, "they and you make the Journey without delay. I'm warning you."

  Deight turned to face them. The look of unbearable strain clenched over his countenance might have won him pity in a quieter moment, from other company.

  "There's nobody there," he said, clearing his throat. "You need not be afraid."

  "The . . . radio thing is in here?" Complain asked.

  "Yes."

  Marapper seized Complain's arm, keeping his flashlight burning in Deight's face.

  "You're not really going to let him talk to this Little Dog place, are you, and tell them to come up here armed?"

  "You needn't think me a fool, priest," Complain said, "just because I happened to be born in your parish. Deight will give the message we tell him to. Open up, Councillor!"

  The door swung open, and there was the lock, about five paces square, with six metal space suits standing like suits of armor against one wall. Except for the suits, there was only one other object in the room: the radio, a small, portable one with carrying straps and telescopic aerial.

  Like the cargo lock, this lock had a window. The four personnel and two cargo locks distributed down the length of the ship carried, apart from the now-shuttered blister of the Control Room, the only ports in the ship. Having a different coefficient of expansion from the rest of the great outer envelope, they naturally represented a weakness, and as such had been constructed only where it might be strictly necessary to see out. For Marapper, it was the first time he had had such a view.

  He was as overwhelmed with awe as the others had been. Breathlessly he gazed out at the mighty void, for once completely robbed of words.

  The planet now showed a wider crescent than the last time Complain had seen it. Mixed with the blinding blue of it were whites and greens, glistening under its casing of atmosphere as no colors had ever glistened before. Some distance from this compelling crescent, tiny by comparison, the sun burned brighter than life itself.

  Marapper pointed at it in fascination.

  "What's that? A sun?" he asked.

  Complain nodded.

  Zac Deight had gone over to the radio. As he picked it up, trembling, he turned to the others.

  "You may as well know now," he said. "Whatever happens. I may as well tell you. That planet— it's Earth!"

  "What?" Complain said. A rush of questions assailed him. "You're lying, Deight! You must be. It can't be Earth! We know it can't be Earth!"

  The old man was suddenly weeping, the long salt tears raining down his cheeks. He hardly tried to check them.

  "You ought to be told," he said. "You've all suffered so much . . . too much. That's Earth out there— but you can't go to it. The Long Journey ... the Long Journey has got to go on forever."

  Complain grabbed him by his scrawny throat.

  "Listen to me, Deight," he snarled. "If that's Earth, why aren't we down there, and who are you —and the Outsiders— and the Giants? Who are you all, eh? Who are you?"

  "We're— we're from Earth," Zac Deight husked. He waved his hands fruitlessly before Complain's contorted face; he was being shaken like an uprooted ponic stalk. Marapper was shouting in Complain's ear and wrenching at his shoulder. They were all shouting together, Deight's face growing crimson under Complain's tightening grasp. They barged into the space suits and sent two crashing to the floor, sprawling on top of them. Then finally the priest managed to pry Complain's fingers away from the councillor's throat.

  "You're crazy, Roy!" he gasped. "You've gone crazy! You were throttling him to death."

  "Didn't you hear what he said?" Complain shouted. "We're victims of some dreadful conspiracy . . ."

  "Make him speak to Little Dog first —make him speak first— he's the only one who can work this radio thing! Make him speak, Roy. You can kill him and ask questions after."

  Gradually the words filtered into Complain's comprehension. The blinding anger and frustration ebbed like a crimson tide from his mind. Marapper, as always canny where his own safety was concerned, had spoken wisely. With an effort, Complain gained control of himself again. He stood up and dragged Deight roughly to his feet.

  "What is Little Dog?" he asked.

  "It's . . . it's the code name for an inst
itute on the planet, set up to study the inmates of this ship," Zac Deight said, rubbing his throat.

  "To study! . . . Well, get them quick and say— say some of your men are ill and they've got to send a ship. And don't say anything else or we'll tear you apart and feed you to the rats. Go on!"

  "Ah!" Marapper rubbed his hands in appreciation and gave his cloak a tug down at the back. "That's spoken like a true believer, Roy. You're my favorite sinner. And when the ship gets here, we overpower the crew and go back to Earth in it. Everyone goes! Everyone! Every man, woman, and mutant from here to Sternstairs!"

  Zac Deight cradled the set in his arms, switching on power. Then, braving their anger, he mustered his courage and turned to face them.

  "Let me just say this to you both," he said with dignity. "Whatever happens —and I greatly fear the outcome of all this terrible affair— I'd like you to remember what I am telling you. You feel cheated, rightly. Your lives are enclosed in suffering by the walls of this ship. But wherever you lived, in whatsoever place or time, your lives would not be free of pain. For everyone in the universe, life is a long, hard journey. If you––"

  "That'll do, Deight," Complain said. "We're not asking for paradise: we're demanding to choose where we suffer. Start talking to Little Dog."

  Resignedly, his face pale, Zac Deight started to call, all too aware of the dazer a yard from his face. In a moment, a clear voice from the metal box said: "Hullo, Big Dog. Little Dog here, receiving you loud and clear. Over."

  "Hullo, Little Dog," Zac Deight said, then stopped. He painfully cleared his throat. The sweat coursed down his forehead. As he paused, Complain's weapon jerked under his nose, and he began again, staring momentarily out at the sun in anguish. "Hullo, Little Dog," he said. "Will you please send up a ship to us at once— the dizzies are loose! Come armed! The dizzies––"

  He took Complain's blast in the teeth, Marapper's in the small of his back. He crumpled over, the radio chattering as it fell with him. He did not even twitch. He was dead before he hit the deck. Marapper seized the instrument up from the floor.