Drifter

by William C. Dietz

  The boy caught her eye. Wendy shook her head. Both of them stood up. She looked around. The crowd had started to thin out. Death was nothing new to these people. Rimmers mostly, fresh from planets where life was hard, and death came young.

  But the onlookers didn't go very far. D deck was too small for that. Being the globe ship's lowest passenger deck, "D" was located right above the hold, and was rather small in circumference.

  That hadn't stopped the shipping company from packing them in, though, and Wendy was reasonably sure that there were more passengers on D deck than on A and B combined.

  The result was a crowded maze of curtained-off double-tiered bunks, lights that burned around the clock, the smell of food cooked over portable burners, air so thick you could cut it with a knife, and noise that never stopped. Talking, laughing, yelling, and crying. It went on around the clock.

  It made Wendy yearn for Angel's wide open spaces, for the clean wind that whipped across the open plain to chill her skin, and the privacy of her own room.

  A newborn baby cried somewhere behind her and Wendy looked down. The old man's cheap blue ship suit seemed to billow up around him as if filled with air instead of flesh.

  The old man's features were enlarged with age. He had a large beak of a nose, ears that stood almost straight out from the side of his head, and a long thin mouth which curved up at the corners as if amused by what had happened.

  Wendy felt someone brush her arm, and turned. The woman with the electro-implant smiled hesitantly. "His name was Wilf. He had the bunk over mine."

  Wendy smiled. "Did he have friends or relatives aboard?"

  The rimmer shook her head. "No, miss, none that I know of."

  Wendy nodded. "Well, we can't leave Wilf here. Let's carry him over to the lift tube. The crew will take it from there."

  The woman made no move to help. "They won't say anything for him, will they?"

  Wendy imagined a couple of bored crew members, laughing and joking as they loaded the body into an ejection tube.

  "No, I don't suppose they will."

  The rimmer pointed to the brooch pinned over the pocket of Wendy's jacket. It was a triangle surrounded by a circle of gold. "You're Chosen, aren't you?"

  "I'm a member of the Church of Free Choice, yes. Only our enemies refer to us as The Chosen. They use those particular words to make us seem arrogant and self-centered."

  The woman gave an apologetic shrug. Light reflected off her electro-implant. "I meant no offense."

  "And none was taken."

  "It's just that I'm not very good with words, not that kind anyway, and I wondered if you'd say something for Wilf. You know, something about God and so on."

  Wendy nodded solemnly. "I'd be proud to say something for Wilf."

  And so it was that three strangers said goodbye to a man none of them knew, while their fellow passengers looked on, and a costume ball took place two decks above.

  Later, after they'd carried Wilf's body over to the lift tubes and notified the ship's crew, Wendy had retreated to the comparative privacy of her own bunk. The curtains were thin but better than nothing at all. A pair of newlyweds were busy making love right below her, but Wendy tuned them out.

  She discarded the distractions around her one by one until she was all alone inside a cocoon of warmth and peace. It was there that she examined Wilf's death and the circumstances that surrounded it.

  She felt no sorrow, for Wendy believed that Wilf's essence lived on, but the manner of his passing troubled her greatly. Why had the ship's medical personnel denied him treatment? How could the vast majority of her fellow passengers be so callous? What could she have done to make things better?

  They were difficult questions, and Wendy failed to find any easy answers. But the episode did prove the elder's wisdom. There is little room for good where people are packed too closely together and machines hold sway. The sooner she reached HiHo and discharged her responsibility, the better.

  Two more cycles passed before the liner reached the correct nav beacon and made the transition from hyper to normal space. Like most of the passengers on D deck, Wendy knew very little about the physics involved and was forced to trust the machinery around her.

  Part of Wendy, the part that had grown up on a farm where even robo-tillers were regarded as necessary evils, was troubled by this dependency on technology.

  Another part, the part that had attended and graduated from the Imperial School of Medicine on Avalon, trusted machines and what they could do.

  Both parts felt the momentary nausea that goes with a hyperspace jump and gave thanks that the first half of the journey was nearly over.

  But it still took the better part of a full cycle for the ship to work its way in from the nav beacon and enter orbit around HiHo.

  After that it was semiorganized chaos as everyone pushed and shoved, hoping to get aboard the first shuttle dirtside. They were soon disappointed, however, as passengers from A, B, and C decks were taken off first.

  Hours passed. Children cried, people argued, and the air grew thick with tension. The pressure of it, the feeling of being confined within such a small space, gave Wendy a splitting headache. She popped two pain tabs and washed them down with some of the ship's bitter water.

  And then, when all the upper decks had been cleared, and the D-deck passengers were clumping their way aboard a pair of clapped-out contract shuttles, Wendy forced herself to go last. It was a form of self-discipline, a self-imposed penance, a punishment for her own lack of inner tranquility.

  Finally, after she had passed through the liner's huge passenger lock, and boarded the reentry-scarred shuttle, she got to look out a viewport. This, and only this, was the part of spaceflight that she loved.

  Wendy saw nothing of the spacecraft's bolt-down seats, the bare metal bulkheads, or the trash-littered decks beneath her feet. Her eyes were completely taken with the huge brownish-orange orb below, a one-in-a-billion miracle of physics, geology, biology, and chemistry that could support human life. A creation so wondrous, so perfect, that it could single-handedly prove the existence of God.

  Not some white-haired tyrant in a mythical realm, but a natural order, which had expressed itself in a multitude of ways, including the planet below.

  These were fourth-class passengers, and the pilot had her orders, so she chose the shortest and most economical path down.

  The trip was smooth at first, but the shuttle started to jerk and shudder when it hit the atmosphere. Adults swore, children cried, and the hull groaned in protest.

  Wendy shut it out, kept her eyes on the planet below, and held onto the armrests with all her strength.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity but was something a good deal less, the shuttle glided in over HiHo's principal spaceport, and lowered itself onto a blast-burned landing pad.

  The other passengers released their seat belts within seconds of touchdown, and stood in the aisles.

  Once again Wendy forced herself to wait, rising from her seat only as the last few people were exiting the main hatch, and following behind them.

  It was early afternoon and Wendy blinked as she stepped out into bright sunlight. Her boots made a clanking sound as she made her way down the metal roll-up stairs to the duracrete below.

  It was warm and she took a moment to strip off her jacket and stash it in her backpack. That, and the molded duraplast med kit, was her only luggage. Somewhere behind Wendy a destroyer escort fought clear of its pad, engaged drives, and screamed towards space.

  It was a long walk from the economy-class pad to the low-lying terminal, but Wendy enjoyed it, glorying in the opportunity to stretch her legs under the vast sweep of HiHo's blue sky.

  She had been to HiHo twice before, so she found her way through the crowded terminal with little difficulty, and stepped out onto a congested street. There was garbage everywhere. It smelled, and the heat made it worse.

  All sorts of transportation was available, ranging from long black lim
os to beat-up hover cabs.

  Wendy disliked both options, and looked for something simpler, closer to bone and muscle. There were no animal-drawn carriages in sight, but she did see a dilapidated pedicab, and waved it over.

  The vehicle's operator was an ancient Tillarian, so wrinkled and burned by the sun that he looked like a raisin from which all moisture had been drawn.

  Like all of his basically humanoid race, the Tillarian had a crested skull and a pair of very round eyes. He wore a sweatband with an advertisement on it, a pair of baggy shorts, and some sturdy sandals.

  As Wendy climbed into the pedicab's passenger seat, she wondered what whim of fate or personal decision had brought the Tillarian to HiHo and left him stranded like a piece of sentient driftwood.

  Unlike many of the alien races that man had encountered among the stars, the Tillarians were antisocial almost to the point of paranoia, and rarely ventured beyond the limits of their native system.

  Wendy provided the Tillarian with an address, and he placed his feet the worn black pedals. Pumping hard, he pulled out in front of a hover cab, ignored the blaring horn, and slid into the flow of traffic.

  Five cars back, the woman with one eye swore as her limo driver rear-ended a delivery truck and Wendy disappeared into traffic.

  The pedicab's hard rubber tires hummed over hot pavement.

  Since the three-wheeled vehicle had very little in the way of suspension, Wendy could feel each little bump in the road. But she liked the slow, steady pace at which the scenery moved by, the pressure of the warm, thick air against her face, and the feeling of connectedness that the ride gave her. A few bumps were a small price to pay for such important pleasures.

  Like many of the cities that grow up around spaceports, Zenith had evolved along the path of least resistance, until a certain level of success had been achieved and the second generation followed the first.

  At that point a sense of civic pride had bubbled up from some unseen source, and with it, the desire to impose order on chaos, a process that involved master plans and zoning laws.

  Wendy watched as the jumble of run-down bars, sex shops, and cheap hotels gave way to clean, orderly streets and carefully constructed stores.

  Both areas, old and new alike, struck Wendy as crowded, confining, and ultimately deadening. She couldn't understand it. Given the fact that they had an entire planet to work with, why did they choose to live in each other's laps? Was it something in their genetic codes? A thousand years of conditioning? Or just plain stupidity?

  Wendy was still considering various answers when the pedicab coasted to a stop in front of a well-cared-for building at the edge of town. The site had been carefully chosen so that it was backed up against the edge of a dry wash where no one else could build.

  Behind and beyond the building there were miles of semi-arid land, dotted here and there with low-lying vegetation shimmering in the afternoon heat. And there, halfway to the brown horizon, mountains formed a jagged line between land and sky.

  Wendy paid the Tillarian, tipped him handsomely, and made her way up a short walk to the blindingly white building. The front door was made of durasteel and strong enough to stop high-velocity bullets.

  A brass plaque announced the name of INTERSTAR IMPORT-EXPORT and a gold-plated knocker invited Wendy to make her presence known. Like her brooch, it featured a circle with a triangle mounted within. She lifted the knocker and let it fall. The result was surprisingly loud.

  A minute passed before a woman opened the door. She had black hair streaked with gray, a kindly face, and bright blue eyes. She wore one of the loose white tunics that many locals favored at home. Her expression was polite. "Yes?"

  Wendy smiled. "Aunt Margaret?"

  Aunt Margaret's face lit up with happiness. "Wendy? Is that you? You're all grown-up! Well, don't just stand there. Come on in! Here, let me take that case."

  The inside of the building was just as Wendy remembered it. Cool and dark, part warehouse and part home. About half the structure was given over to the import-export business and the rest served as her aunt and uncle's home.

  Wendy had been about sixteen years old during her last visit to HiHo, and the building had been brand new. It was the smells that Wendy remembered the best. A heady mix of preservatives, alien leather, and exotic spices. She'd enjoyed her time with her aunt and uncle and wished that this visit could be as carefree as the others had been.

  Wendy followed Aunt Margaret down a long hallway and into a large room. It fronted on the dry wash and the desert beyond. Though forced to live in Zenith for economic reasons, her aunt and uncle had done everything they could to make their home seem as if it stood alone on a windswept plain.

  "Sydney! Look who's here! It's Wendy!"

  The room was just as Wendy remembered it. A large sunlit chamber full of the old-fashioned books that her uncle liked to collect, and the bright splashy canvases that Aunt Margaret painted when she had time.

  Wendy's uncle sat in his favorite recliner, pipe in hand, a cloud of smoke hovering over his head. A computer sat on his lap, and his right leg was in a cast.

  As Uncle Syd raised his head, Wendy found herself looking at a male version of her mother, and a lump formed in her throat. He had the same even features, the same high cheekbones, and the same brown eyes. Those eyes were filled with excitement as he tried to rise.

  Wendy dropped her backpack and rushed to his side. "Don't you dare! What did you do to yourself?"

  Uncle Syd gave Wendy an awkward hug and kissed her on the cheek. "What did I do to myself? And you call yourself a doctor? What's the matter? Never seen a broken leg before?

  Never mind. Let's have a look at you."

  He made a show of looking Wendy over. She had short black hair, large luminous brown eyes, a nice straight nose, and full red lips. They curved upward in a smile. "Well?"

  "Gorgeous," Uncle Syd answered solemnly. "Absolutely gorgeous. A terrible temptation to men everywhere."

  "Oh, really?" Wendy asked lightly, "Then, why am I unmarried?"

  "A very good question," Aunt Margaret put in sternly. "We receive letters, you know, and your father tells us that a number of young men have asked, and that you say 'no.' "

  "My father exaggerates, and should mind his own business," Wendy replied primly. "Now, Uncle Syd, tell me about your leg. What happened?"

  During the next couple of hours Wendy heard about the packing crate that had fallen on Uncle Syd's leg, the stiff competition they faced in the import-export business, and how hatred for the Church made matters even worse.

  The hatred was nothing knew. It had started hundreds of years ago, when a small group of people had committed themselves to what they called "a life of free choice, guided by the voice within."

  Unlike most religious groups, they had no ministers or priests, no written credo, no enforced rules. But they did share some common values. Included was a belief that life should be simple, nonviolent, and productive.

  In order to pursue that kind of a life they avoided cities, built homes in rural communities, and did their best to avoid conflict.

  But cities had a way of expanding, eating up more and more farmland with each succeeding year, until the life they'd sought to avoid surrounded and crushed their farms.

  Avaricious land developers labeled them "anti-progressive"; other religions made fun of their self-directed ways, and planetary governments used their taxes to wage war.

  So they moved from city to country, from planet to planet, but it was always the same. No matter how isolated they were, no matter where they went, others would come and take control. Unable to live under those conditions, the members would be forced to leave their homes, often selling farms and other property at a fraction of their true worth, or losing them altogether. It was a pattern that had occurred over and over again.

  In an effort to resolve this problem, a huge meeting was held. Representatives came from a dozen planets. Discussions went on day after day. And finally, after eac
h voice had been heard, a decision was made. A world would be purchased, a planet where the membership could live life as they chose, and enjoy the fruits of their own hard work.

  It was a bold plan, but more realistic than it might seem, since Imperial Survey ships discovered a couple of inhabitable planets each year, and most were offered for sale or colonization.

  So a team of scientists was assembled and funds were pledged. Many years passed, during which a number of planets were considered but none was purchased. Some were too hot, some were too cold, but most were simply too expensive. The most desirable worlds, those with potential as pleasure planets, were bid up by the powerful mega-corporations.

  But eventually, in what could only be viewed as a massive compromise, half of a planet was finally obtained. It was largely barren, and they'd be forced to share it with a mining operation, but something was better than nothing.

  The planet was named Angel, and with the exception of the time she'd spent in med school, Wendy had lived there all her life.

  So Wendy understood the stories her aunt and uncle told. Tales of planetary import licenses that went to members of more accepted religions, accounts of business deals lost because they refused to deal in arms, and stories of mega-corps that conspired to underprice them.

  And for their part, the couple were hungry for news of the progress on Angel, since it was their dream to sell the import-export business and retire there some day.

  How much land had been cleared? What crops grew best? And was the mining company causing problems?

  Wendy's aunt and uncle asked those questions, and more, until the sun had set beyond the mountains and darkness had claimed the desert.

  It was then, over one of Aunt Margaret's wonderful vegetarian dinners, that the conversation turned to the reason behind Wendy's visit.

  Uncle Syd took a sip of wine, savored it for a moment, then let it slide down his throat. "So, enough of our silly questions. You came to HiHo for a reason."

  Wendy smiled. "So don't keep me in suspense…. Have you got it?"

  Her uncle nodded soberly. "It took the better part of three months to find exactly what the elders asked for, and a great deal of money, but yes, there are ten tons of concentrate waiting on Weller's World."