The Dark Beyond the Stars

by Frank M. Robinson

  The next meal period, Ophelia ignored me as usual. On the surface, Crow and Loon were as friendly as always, but there was an undercurrent of tension strong enough to make Thrush glance at Crow and me, his eyes full of curiosity. Fifteen minutes before the end of the period, Noah set up the chessboard and studied the pieces as if he were going to play against himself. After a minute or two I drifted over. Maintaining a routine was all-important, otherwise Banquo might notice and Abel certainly would.

  I straddled a crate so I wouldn’t drift and tried to decide on my opening gambit, my mind still full of revolts and mutinies.

  “The first move is always the most difficult,” I said, making excuses for the time I was taking.

  Noah didn’t look up from the board. “Not if you have a game plan.”

  I pushed a pawn forward, then pulled it back. “We didn’t decide who plays white.”

  He shrugged. “You go first, Sparrow. It’s your move.”

  I looked at him sharply. We were fencing about the mutiny and that was a game I was bound to lose. I decided to concentrate on simply playing chess.

  So I didn’t go to the Captain. Gradually I found myself nodding to Crow when we passed in the corridors, and then we were going out of our way to be civil to one another. Finally, one sleep period, I slipped into his compartment to admire the view from the balcony and share some smoke and the latest gossip with him and Loon.

  I didn’t mention the meeting then but later, when Crow and I were alone in an empty corridor, I said, “You’re not afraid?”

  “Of what?”

  “That I might go to the Captain about your meeting.”

  “If you were going to go, you would have done it immediately.”

  “I still might,” I said, annoyed.

  “You lost your chance, Sparrow—it’s too dangerous now.”

  I was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “The first thing the Captain would ask is why you didn’t tell him sooner.”

  “I didn’t tell him sooner because I didn’t want to inform on my friends,” I said, offended.

  “You’re not thinking.” Crow lowered his voice. I could feel the faint movement of air at my back—somebody was coming. “The Captain’s not going to give you a medal for putting your loyalty to your friends above your loyalty to him. He’ll think you delayed because you were considering joining us.”

  I was indignant. “But I wasn’t.”

  Crow sighed. “Use your head, Sparrow.” He slapped my shoulder and kicked off down the corridor, leaving me to wonder if he was right. They had risked too much by trying to recruit me. Crow might have been telling the truth at the meeting; maybe I had been involved before, though how or in what capacity I didn’t know. But if I had been that important to them before, I was probably still important to them now. They would approach me again.

  The risk was that somebody else would find out about them and tell the Captain. And because I had kept silent, I would be found as guilty as they.

  ****

  The key was who I had once been and what I had once done. The one person who could help me was Huldah, but she hadn’t stepped out of character since the time in the mess when she had suggested that if I wanted to discover my past, I should study my present.

  I had never had a chance to talk to her alone to ask her what she had meant. Even when I shared supper with her and Noah, she always played the part of the dutiful wife who dialed the meal on the food machine, then sat quietly in a corner reading at the terminal screen or working on a string tapestry while Noah and I played chess.

  I waited for my opportunity; one time period when Noah had been called to a meeting in Exploration, I slipped through her shadow screen after first announcing myself and receiving permission.

  She offered me a collapsicup of tea, then relaxed in the compartment sling, a plump little olive-skinned woman with eyes much too bright and intelligent for the matron whom she played. She did me great honor by not making me waste time trying to coax her out of that role.

  I didn’t know how to begin but she made it easier by saying, “I’ve been hearing about you, Sparrow, from Noah and Ophelia. Crow and Loon mention you from time to time. So does Corin, when he stops by. And Snipe.”

  I said, “You know.”

  “About the meeting? Of course. But you make a mistake if you think those six are the only members.” She read my face and smiled. “The mutiny is an open secret, Sparrow. You can spare yourself a trip to the Captain, though I believe you already have.”

  “You have your loyalties. I wouldn’t impose on them.”

  “I don’t talk,” she said dryly, “I watch. Everybody respects that.”

  “And the Captain?”

  “He has his own eyes. He doesn’t need mine.”

  “Who do you watch?” I asked casually.

  She smiled and squeezed a small bulb of liquid into her cup. I caught the odor and wondered what it was. Later, Loon told me about the secret distillery on board.

  “Children.” She sipped at her cup and relaxed still more. “And their parents. I watch genes work their way from generation to generation, not only in the shape of bones and the color of eyes and hair but also in actions. I watch children when they get angry or when they laugh and I know I’m watching their parents and their grandparents as well. You watch long enough and you can tell who mated with whom—it’s not that difficult.”

  My respect for her was turning to amazement and I said so. She smiled. “Anybody can do it, Sparrow. I’m just the one who takes the time.”

  “Nobody knows who their father is,” I said. “Why?”

  “You can’t hide maternity, Sparrow, that’s why the begats follow the mother’s line. But there’s no easy way of determining the father.”

  She drained her cup and let it drift to the bulkhead, where it clung. “Life is very rare and valuable in the universe. It’s also rare and valuable on board ship. Mass is limited, so nobody can have a child until food is assured. That usually means somebody has to die before a child can be born.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes glowing in the soft light of the compartment.

  “Think of it, Sparrow—the creation of life! For both men and women, the birth of a child is a miracle. It’s also an act of pride and possession, especially for the man. So impregnation is not restricted to one man. Because nobody knows who the father is, one child is everybody’s child.”

  Her words were a revelation. I had been too young to realize what it might mean to a woman to have a child—or to a man to father one.

  “How’s the woman chosen?”

  “Usually by lot. Sometimes by the Captain’s fiat.”

  “And the… father? How many men have a chance to impregnate her?”

  “Not fewer than three. Perhaps as many as a dozen.”

  It struck me as barbaric, then I realized I had no basis for comparison. Huldah read my expression with disapproval. “It’s a matter of ceremony, Sparrow—probably the most moving one in which you’ll ever take part.”

  The honor of fatherhood would be diluted. So would the man’s feeling of possession of either the woman or the child. Long-term relationships would not be based on blood, at least not from the man’s viewpoint.

  “The begats,” I said uncomfortably. “Aren’t they all in the computer?”

  “On some things,” she said with emphasis, “the computer is… unreliable.”

  “Nobody ever knows the father?” I asked again.

  She shrugged. “Not the biological one, though occasionally that’s obvious. But everybody has to feel they had the chance to create life, everybody has to feel they played God at least once.”

  I remembered what she had said about genes. “But you know,” I said. “You always know.”

  “I watch people, Sparrow, that’s all.”

  “My father—”

  “Biological?” She shrugged. “I don’t know, Sparrow. Even if I did, it wouldn’t help you remember your past. Neverth
eless, it’s important for you to struggle to find out. The very process of trying will help you.”

  “And Laertes? Crow and Tybalt said he… took an interest.”

  “A lot of crewmen took an interest, Sparrow.”

  For some reason, that didn’t comfort me.

  “Crow said my mother died early. Laertes must have been very important to me.” I had fixed on Laertes; if Nerissa had died when I was very young, then Laertes must have been the most important person in my life. What I didn’t tell Huldah, though I think she knew, was that I desperately wanted a father, wanted somebody whom I could claim and who would claim me.

  “You have the means, Sparrow,” she sighed. “Why don’t you use them? Find your own answers and perhaps they’ll have some relevance for you. If I answered all your questions, you would only have more questions.”

  It was a rebuff, one I deserved. “The ship,” I said. “Life on board has always been the same?”

  She looked at me sharply. “You mean, does it change from generation to generation? No, Sparrow, it remains the same. Life remained the same in Egypt for hundreds of years and so did life in the shtetls of Russia. Change comes from the outside, seldom from within. And I think, right at Launch, they made sure that nothing would really change on board.”

  I didn’t understand that, and wanted to ask more questions, but her eyes had dulled and her shoulders had slumped back into the posture of the plump little matron. It was time to go.

  “I thank you for your time,” I said formally. I turned and almost ran into Pipit coming through the screen with several packets of herbs in her hand. She looked surprised and started to back out.

  “Don’t go,” I said, “I’m leaving.” And then I stared hard at her and glanced back at Huldah. “Your daughter?” I said. I couldn’t believe I had missed the resemblance before.

  “You used your eyes,” Huldah said approvingly.

  Pipit floated over to her mother and the family portrait was complete. I couldn’t be sure who her father was but I thought I saw traces of Noah in her. Then I remembered sick bay and the many sleep periods when she had sat up with me, and her insistence that I get well.

  “I should have thanked you long ago,” I said.

  She looked embarrassed. “I did very little, Sparrow.”

  I kicked over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “Then I thank you for very little,” I said and slipped away into the corridor. It was my first apology, but I knew it wouldn’t be my last and I was very proud of myself for having made it. Pipit was kind, she was generous of spirit, and she was beautiful. I could understand Crow’s adoration.

  ****

  The sleep periods slid by and I became increasingly aware—at times painfully so—that I was sleeping alone. Like most young men, I found an outlet in my dreams. Sometimes I dreamed of Pipit, feeling guilty enough when I awoke that I would avoid her for several time periods. One period I awoke sweating and wet and realized with a shock that I had been dreaming of Ophelia. It didn’t make any sense, though I blushed when I saw her in Exploration and stammered when she asked me a question. She looked at me curiously and after lecture asked what was bothering me. I assured her nothing was wrong, then proved I was lying by fleeing from her through the corridor.

  But most of the time I dreamed about Snipe, in situations and positions I was sure nobody had thought of before. I watched her in plays and found excuses to visit her on the hangar level. At the time, I was certain she didn’t know why; I was to discover later that at seventeen, I was far younger emotionally than most crew members my age and Snipe was far older. I finally talked about it with Tybalt while on shift.

  “Snipe?” he said, disbelieving. “She’s a skinny little thing. I was afraid nobody would ever see anything in her.”

  “I do,” I said, blushing still again.

  He grinned. “I guess it takes all kinds. Why don’t you just ask her to sleep with you?”

  I stuttered that of course she had no interest in me, that her only possible reaction would be rejection. Tybalt’s half smile faded.

  “I keep forgetting,” he said slowly. “Sparrow, nobody on board the Astron ever turns anybody down the first time. Nobody. And nobody asks the second time unless they’ve been assured it’s mutual.” He paused, searching for words. It was obvious that it was a ship’s custom he wasn’t quite sure how to explain.

  There was a moment of awkward silence, broken when I blurted: “Babies, what about—”

  “Contraception?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s in the food—I thought you knew that.” Then he mumbled, “Of course you didn’t,” and finally grumped, “It isn’t healthy for people to be a mystery to each other, Sparrow. We live too close together.” He shrugged. “It’s a small enough thing to do. I don’t know anybody for whom it’s a problem.”

  But it turned out to be a problem for me. I finally stammered out my request to Snipe, who seemed neither overjoyed nor depressed by the prospect. She came to my compartment that sleep period and I made what I thought was love and then spent the rest of the period apologizing. Physically, Snipe was no longer a mystery but love itself remained one. I’d had no idea I could be so close to Snipe and yet not be close at all.

  I went to the hangar deck as often as before to watch her in plays and discovered to my shocked surprise that there was still something I wanted from her. I wept when she died as Juliet, was won once again by her Katherine played against a very wooden Crow as king, and found her irresistible as a lithe and vivacious Rosalind pretending to be a boy.

  There was more to Snipe than a rag and a bone and a hank of hair, as Tybalt frequently put it. I wanted desperately to know just what that “more” was. She fascinated me at the same time she irritated me; she could be coolly pragmatic one moment and wildly illogical the next, superior and aloof at the start of a conversation and warm and understanding by the end.

  It didn’t help to realize that Snipe’s personality would stabilize with time and eventually she would irritate me less and fascinate me even more. At seventeen, I was in no mood to wait.

  ****

  On station, Tybalt and I worked well together, and he was quick to admit it. I also found myself achieving a rapport with the palm terminal. As Tybalt had told me, its fleshy surface responded faster to a delicate touch than a hard push. I pared my fingernails and rubbed lotion into the palms of my hands so the skin was soft and supple. Sometimes I even scraped my fingertips so the nerve endings were closer to the surface. In the viewing globe, I could make the charts and equations flow so fast you couldn’t tell one from another, but I could still stop the display on the desired graph.

  I could make the numbers dance. Nobody else in the division could.

  One shift Abel came by with Thrush in tow and they watched while I put the terminal pad through its paces. When I was through, Thrush said in a noncommittal voice: “You’re very good. Show me.”

  It wasn’t a request, it was a command, and I glanced at Tybalt for his approval. Abel didn’t wait for Tybalt’s permission but nervously growled, “Do it,” so I showed Thrush a simple series of movements. He watched my hand with the same intent look I had noticed in Reduction, then duplicated my movements without a mistake. I ran through another, more complicated series.

  He made one mistake this time, then leaned back in the operator’s sling with a small smile of triumph. “All it takes is practice, right?”

  “It takes more than that,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He twisted smoothly out of the sling and hit me lightly on the arm.

  “I don’t think so, Sparrow.”

  He smiled again when he left and this time I read his expression with no difficulty. We were competitors, he and I, though I had no idea what for, nor did I know what the winner’s prize might be.

  A dozen work periods passed before Tybalt mentioned his adventures again. By now, I accepted them for what they were—memories of things not quite seen—and did my best to sift fact
from fancy. I had been wide-eyed with awe before but now, thanks to Ophelia, I had growing doubts—and hated myself for having them.

  We were alone and Tybalt settled into the headquarters sling, taking special pains so his foreshortened leg was free of the webbing. He reached for his pipe and turned the exhaust vent on high.

  “I told you about the first landings I ever made, didn’t I?”

  “Tell me again,” I encouraged. The names of the planets kept changing and I was no longer sure just which were his first landings.

  “They were Alpha and Omega, twin planets in the Tau system,” he began. “They were dead planets—no moons and no tectonic activity, frozen to their cores. We had no hopes of finding life there, we knew those planets had never served as a cradle for it. Alpha was a cursory exploration, all ashes and pumice and ice. Omega was the more interesting—by far.”

  Once again I was rapt with attention.

  “Omega was as dead as Alpha, of course. But we found the remains of something that had been stranded there. We ran across slabs of rock that formed a huge lean-to—you could even see the blast marks where they had been cut from a nearby cliff. And there were tracks in the pumice surface where something huge had dragged itself over to the lean-to for shelter. The tracks were almost obliterated by small craters; the creature had been shot and wounded.”

  As Tybalt talked, I could see the creature in my mind as clearly as if it were a projection on the hangar deck. Something with four stumpy legs and gray, rocklike skin with a shielded braincase out of which tiny eyes glared defiance at a hostile world.

  The picture hung in my mind for a moment, then wavered around the edges and started to fade as doubt set in. The biggest handicap in believing Tybalt was that I wanted to so badly.

  “You found the body?” I asked, knowing that he hadn’t.

  “Its friends had come back for it,” he said with a note of regret. “You could see where the rescue ship had landed.” He used a stubby finger to draw a picture in the sweat on the bulkhead. “First there were the tracks of something pulling itself through the pumice, then those were partly erased by small craters during the fight, then a dozen of the craters were crushed in turn by the rescue ship settling on them.”