“Dark courier,” he said, his voice crisp with unease. “What the common folk call a senior diplomat.”
“But who—”
“The Emperor’s hounds. Wherever they go, doom and destruction soon follow.” Guns cast an anxious glance behind them. “I’ll be glad when we’ve left this system behind us.”
“Those soldiers were something.”
“Aye, Hegemony dragoons. Bloodthirsty lot. Imperial household guards, from the look of their uniforms. Though what the emperor’s chosen few are doing on a minor outpost like this one is beyond me.”
Rick recalled the moment that old crone’s gaze passed over him, and shuddered. “That woman shook me up.”
“Aye, anyone who says they’re not frightened by a dark courier is a liar and a fool to boot.” Guns pointed ahead to where a grim-faced Tucker was motioning them through a narrow portal. “Looks like we’ve arrived. Don’t know what I want most just now, a meal or a bed or a ticket out.”
****
Rick awoke to the sound of low voices. He rolled over, and it was only his swift reflexes that kept him from falling from the narrow bunk. He unfastened the curtain, opened it a crack, and blinked at the bright light. When his eyes adjusted he saw that the central table of their chamber was now occupied by Tucker, Guns, and two strangers. A pair of guards—not theirs—stood at alert by the portal.
He slipped into his clothes, pushed the curtain wide, and dropped down. He slid his feet into his shoes, made his way to the ’fresher, and upon his return spotted a side table heavily laden with breakfast.
They had paid extra to have a private rock-walled chamber all to themselves. The chamber’s only color was from the curtains shielding the floor-to-ceiling alcoves that lined three walls. Rick heard gentle snores coming from those nearby. He filled his plate, then turned to find Guns waving him over.
“This is one of our pod flyers,” Guns said proudly, making room for him on the bench. “Rick, Mahmut here runs a caravan headed for Yalla.”
“The desert planet is known for the beauty of its gems,” the merchant offered, his voice as oily as his dark hair. His eyes were as black as onyx and as unreadable as the night. Mahmut offered Rick a smile that meant nothing at all and said, “Firestones are coveted throughout the Hegemony, even adorning the emperor’s crown. Alas, the merchants of Yalla are well aware of the jewels’ value, and charge us the moon and stars and sun and wind. It is very difficult for an honest merchant to make an honest living, much less pay the exorbitant amount requested by guard-captains.”
Rick saved himself from needing to respond by keeping his mouth full. Tucker fired back, “We have requested a fair wage and not a penny more. Even the landing station’s supervisor, the one all know as Happy, has said our price is low.”
“And I say there is no need for further guards at all.” The young cohort shared the merchant’s slender build and dark complexion. His eyes blazed as he challenged each man in turn. “We are armed, our guards are well trained, and what’s more, their trust has been earned over years.”
“You must forgive my son,” Mahmut purred. “He does not share my anxiety rising from this spate of rumors.”
“There are always rumors in third-rate hovels like this,” the young man said, his voice almost a snarl. “If we take them on, we’ll have to assign our own guards to guard them.”
“True, true,” Mahmut grumbled, stroking his thin beard. He wore a gray belted robe over a singlet of black silk, simple yet clearly of finest quality. His single ornament was a ring with a stone the size of Rick’s thumbnail, a jewel that seemed to flicker with a light from within. “It is indeed a dilemma. Perhaps if the guard-captains were to lower their price a trifle . . .”
“The price is fair and firm,” Tucker replied tightly. “As to whether or not we are trustworthy, there are a dozen people and more around these parts who will tell you who I am.”
“And profess to your honesty, yes, Happy has already brought several of these people for us to speak with. A most impressive show.” Dark eyes flitted swiftly about, making it hard to get a fix on what the man was thinking. “Yet I am also wondering what argument you can make to my son’s concerns.”
“We won’t argue with anyone,” Guns replied. “But we also don’t need access to your caravan or your goods.”
The young man snorted. “That goes without saying.”
“Abdul, please,” the father murmured. “It is a fair offer. Hear them out.”
“We are being hired as outriders,” Guns persisted. “Your first line of defense in case of attack.”
“Not to mention my trained soldiers there to help your men stand guard wherever you ground,” Tucker added.
“The planets we shall visit before and after Yalla are indeed lawless lands,” Mahmut agreed.
His son objected, “And what if the pirates are using them as a first line of attack?”
“Pirates?” Rick pushed his plate to one side. “You’ve heard something about pirates?”
“Ah,” Mahmut said. “The young flyer’s interest is piqued at last.”
“And not just his,” Guns said. “We’d give our eyeteeth for another go at pirates.”
It was Mahmut’s turn to show a keener gaze. “Another go?”
“We’re not sure what it was,” Tucker said, shooting Guns a warning glance. “But we know something’s out there, and we’ve tangled with them before.”
“And not just you,” Mahmut confessed. “Several of our merchant friends and their caravans have vanished without a trace. And, as I said, rumors abound.” He glanced at his son. “Especially now. Especially here.”
Sensing the argument going against him, Abdul chose another course. “I have seen these guard pods of yours,” he snorted. “What makes them so special? It is certainly not their looks.”
“A solid weapons system,” Rick replied. “And training.”
“Not to mention finely honed reflexes,” Guns added.
Abdul’s eyes glittered like a big cat hunting prey. “Ah, reflexes. How very interesting. They have a sport here that requires good reflexes. They call it ground-flying. Perhaps your pod flyer would be willing to have these reflexes of his put to the test.”
Tucker’s brow scrunched together in unexpected worry. “I know this diversion. It’s a suicide sport.”
“The lad has never been on a low-gravity planet before,” Guns added, “much less here.”
“Our last journey was my own first visit,” Abdul swiftly countered. “It was only then that I learned the sport myself. As to suicide, I have no intention of departing an instant earlier than necessary.”
“Several of our guards have become passionate about this little game,” Mahmut added, a flicker of humor deep within his gaze. “I assure you, gentlemen, I would not risk my valuable defenders at such an unstable time. The game has risks, yes. But so does life itself.”
“And what better way to test these so-called reflexes,” Abdul sneered, “than with a game he does not know?”
“I still would advise against this, lad,” Tucker warned.
“Ah, of course, if your gallant flyers are afraid to have their courage tested as well,” Abdul taunted, “we of course understand.”
Rick met the son’s flat gaze and replied calmly, “I have no problem with a contest.”
“A wager,” Mahmut cried. “Your young flyer will accept the challenge. If he succeeds, I agree to your price and terms. If not, you agree to mine.”
“If not,” Abdul corrected angrily, “we do not use them at all.”
Mahmut hesitated, then waved his hand in agreement. “So be it.”
“So the game is to beat you, is that it?” Rick watched the son and decided it would be a pleasure.
Abdul barked a laugh, his face taut with eagerness. “The game, fly-boy, is to survive.”
Chapter Eight
“I still don’t like it, lad,” Tucker repeated for the dozenth time. He was cramped into the narrow seat beside
Rick, his broad features furrowed with concern. Their transport was little more than an oversized pod, and jammed to the gills with people. “There are risks here you can’t imagine. And the one who travels with you wants to see you lose.”
“Too late to turn back,” Rick said, glad his nerves did not show in his voice. “Guns and you have both been checking, and there aren’t any other caravans headed anywhere near Yalla. We’re committed.”
“Aye, I suppose so.” Tucker sighed past his objections. “All right, then, here’s what I know of the contest.”
Rick was overtall for the transport, and his knees were jammed hard into the seat in front of them. He glanced down at the helmet in his lap. Like the others around him, he wore a space suit as tight fitting and supple as a downhill skier’s. Yet where his was a uniform gray, the others crowding the pod wore suits decorated with wild designs—racing stripes, angry masks, ferocious beasts, serpents weaving up and around their entire bodies. “Who am I up against?”
“This is not a contest against others,” Tucker replied. “You fly against yourself.”
There was no worry of their being overheard. The noise Rick thought of as chain-saw music raged from the overhead speakers. The shouted conversation among the other passengers was almost as loud. Tucker went on, “I had several mates who became hooked on ground-flying. It was a thrill like no other, they said. And the only way to survive was to be fully committed.”
“Survive?” Rick examined the older man’s somber features. “They used that word?”
“Commit. That is the word you need to concentrate upon.”Tucker’s expression was as fierce as Rick had ever seen it. “There is no safety in seeking control through slowing or stopping. The way makes any such movement unstable. You must commit, and stay committed to the end.”
A slender figure, dressed in a suit of silver with purple lance-heads crossed upon the chest, bent over them. It was Abdul; he sneered at the pair and shouted, “Trying to give your mate a final lesson in courage?”
Before Rick could respond, wild cheers and shouts and war whoops rose until the music was drowned out. When they died down, Abdul shouted, “Too late for that! We have arrived!”
Rick let Tucker fit his helmet into place, waited until Tucker had adjusted his own, then joined the crush moving toward the portal. The din in his ears was overwhelming. Once outside, the view was so sudden and so shocking that Rick stood numb, immobile, until Tucker gripped his arm and drew him to one side of the platform away from the others. Instantly the din diminished. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” But it was hard to concentrate on Tucker’s words. “This is awesome.”
But Tucker was too worried to pay Rick’s excitement any mind. “The radios have a range of only a few feet. The authorities insisted on it, as noise from the ground-flyers was interfering with work. The flyers accepted it as part of the game.” He sounded disgusted by the idea. “Which means you will be utterly on your own once you start. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Rick did a slow pirouette. The transport had landed upon the highest peak in the lunar range. The crest had been leveled into a broad platform. As far as Rick could see in every direction was sky of jet-black, with millions of stars flowing like great silver rivers. And directly overhead hung Solarus, so close he could actually see the globe’s curvature, a vast sphere of cloud-covered blues and greens. Beyond and to his right hung a second moon, a bright silver orb too brilliant to be so still.
“Ah, there you are.” Abdul sauntered up, his derision coming loud and clear over the radio. “Sorry, nothing gained by hanging back, there’s only one way off.” His steps were turned into a mincing dance by the low gravity, his head a silver globe set upon the gleaming silver suit. He stopped a halfpace from Rick and added, “That is, unless you would like to withdraw now, and let us be done with you.”
“I’m ready,” Rick replied. This sort of banter was nothing new. Taunts like these were part of every line of scrimmage of every football game he had ever played.
“That’s what you think.” Abdul held out what at first glance appeared to be a broad plank. It was half Rick’s height, with curved edges and a slightly uplifted nose. “This is your flyer. And your last chance to withdraw.”
“I’ll take that,” Tucker said. He bent the board over his broad knee and began checking the edges and the foot straps. Finally he straightened and said, “It all appears to be in order.”
“Of course it does. I do not need to resort to subterfuge,” Abdul announced. “The course will see to that for me. That is, unless you—”
“Let me have a look at that,” Rick said, reaching for the board.
“See you on the crown. That is, if you make it down at all,” Abdul taunted. “Fly-boy.”
“The crown,” Tucker said, once Abdul had moved away. “Now I remember. They used to talk about that. The course enters a long straightaway—there are several, but this is longer and straighter than all the others combined. They call that the safety stretch. The flyer has two choices. Most do slow sweeping turns down the straightaway, bleeding off their speed. And remember, until you reach that last stretch you will need all your speed to survive. So make sure it’s the last stretch before you start slowing down.”
Tucker breathed heavily, worried beyond words by what was about to take place. He collected himself and went on, “At the end of that final stretch there is a broad overhang. Use the last of your speed to swing up the side and over the top. The transport will collect you there.”
Rick kept his eyes upon the board in his hand and had difficulty not to laugh out loud. “And the other choice?”
“Danger and disaster,” Tucker replied. “The craziest of the ground-flyers used the straightaway to build up speed, because beyond the crown is a chasm. So deep, it is said, that those who did not have enough speed to reach the other side have time to die a thousand times from fright before ever reaching the bottom.”
Tucker’s reflective helmet turned around to watch a pair of the pod’s passengers begin wild maneuvers to take them toward the platform’s edge. They used the low gravity to jump high, doing backward flips and twists, the boards attached to their feet flickering like helicopter blades. Most of the boards were painted with designs to match their suits. The flyers weaved and danced, amping themselves up, preparing for the descent.
“If a flyer makes it over the chasm,” Tucker went on, “the course continues all the way down to the main lock. It’s a mark of prestige throughout the tunnels when someone makes it over the chasm for the first time. The trouble is, once they taste the thrill, they keep at it until they’re eaten by the gorge. Lost a couple of good mates that way, I did.” He observed the other flyers continue their wild antics and warned, “Do not allow them to tempt you into foolish games. Your task is to arrive, and to do so in one piece.”
“Listen, it’s okay, really.” Rick patted the big man’s arm. “Once football season was over, I used to go snowboarding every weekend.”
Tucker turned back toward him. “I don’t understand a word you have just said. Nor do I understand how you can be the one standing there, offering comfort to me.”
“Let’s go,” Rick said. “I’m ready.”
Tucker walked with him to the platform’s edge and watched as Rick bent over and fitted his feet into the braces and tightened the straps. “How do you know how to prepare your ground-flyer?”
“I told you, I’ve done something like this before.” Rick did not face forward, but rather stood with his front to the board’s side. He straightened up, glad no one could see his grin. “A lot like this.”
Another flyer hopped over and demanded, “You a first timer?”
“He doesn’t need anybody’s help,” Abdul lashed out, moving up beside them. “He’s a brave pod-fighter.”
“Stay as close to the pack as you can,” the flyer told him, ignoring Abdul’s jibe. “There are guide markers at each side of the course, but you’ll see your way clearer if you
can keep up and watch what we do.”
“Leave him alone, I say,” Abdul snarled.
The flyer turned toward Abdul. His suit had a fanged beast painted across both back and front, with long claws reaching down over his hands and feet. “I remember another first timer,” he said, his voice tinny over the suit radio. “He was so scared we had to put his board on for him. Then he had to crawl to the edge, and we all heard him scream—”
“Lies!” Abdul reached the edge with a fierce hop, grabbed hold of the rails, and launched himself high up and out. “May you . . .” The radio died to a faint hiss.
“Just keep as close to the pack as you can,” the flyer told Rick. “Ready?”
“Yes,” Rick said, holding back, not wanting to look over the edge until he was committed. “And thanks.”
“Hey, anybody who can stay on his feet the first time he comes close to the edge is okay by me.” The flyer hopped back over and joined his mates, waved once in Rick’s direction, and dropped over the edge.
“I have to go.” Without waiting for hesitation to slow him down, Rick took a hopping leap to the railing. The jump took him just high enough to let him have his first glimpse straight down. He gripped the rails, knowing to wait even an instant would be to freeze him solid with fear. “Thanks for coming up and seeing me off.”
“Lad, you’re one of the bravest—”
“Save it for the end,” Rick said, and pushed himself up and over the edge.
The drop was sheer, a straight descent without any contact at all, as the cliff ducked back upon itself. Rick saw the three nearest flyers hunched over their boards, bodies twisted so as to face forward and down, one hand gripping the board’s edge. Rick crouched and did the same, refusing to think of what he was actually seeing. So far down.
Finally the cliff moved out to greet him. With contact came sound, passing up through the board and his boots. He heard a quiet sighing as the board cruised over the super-fine silvery lunar silt. Rick passed an outcrop then and realized that the low gravity altered things mightily from what he had known before. His descent was far slower than the speeds he would have already achieved while snowboarding. He was just gradually building up speed now, even after the first long drop. And the slide did not have the same feel as a descent in higher gravity. What would have been impossible on earth was now a thrill.
The Dream Voyagers Page 30