Starliner

by David Drake

  "You'd better have it!" Kneale snarled in a whisper.

  He raised and smoothed his voice to say, "Ladies and gentlemen? I've just been in touch with the authorities here on Biscay. They hope to have the problem squared away in twenty minutes, but it certainly won't be sooner than that. If any of you would like to wait in your rooms or the lounges, I'll be making a general announcement just as soon as we're allowed to open the ship."

  There were groans and sighs from the crowd. A few people actually turned and left the hall.

  Kneale took a deep breath. The trouble was that almost none of the First and Cabin Class passengers had Biscay as a final destination. These folk simply wanted to get off and view the sights. They didn't have to worry about luggage and all the other normal delays of disembarking.

  On the other hand, more than eighty percent of the Empress of Earth's forty-two hundred Third Class passengers were on Biscay at least until they'd served out their labor contracts. Many years before, there'd been a nasty incident when emigrants from the King Wiglaf saw their new home for the first time—and the main gangplank was lowered, with only a few surprised crewmen to try to halt the stampede back aboard the starliner. Mind, the wealthy, privileged folk here in the Embarkation Hall weren't going to spend long on sightseeing themselves. Thirty seconds of Biscay was a bellyful for most people. . . .

  "Another truck's arrived," Mohacks announced over the radio. He was somewhere in the loading area, invisible behind a curtain of dust.

  "Release Section Thirty-three," Ran called from the head of the Third Class gangplank.

  Babanguida, scowling over the respirator which concealed his lower face, trotted up the outside of the walkway. The Staff Side ratings weren't pleased to be doing the job of ground personnel, but there didn't seem to be a lot of options on this run.

  A gust of wind rocked Ran against the hatch coaming. Emigrants on the walkway staggered. They looked like dim ghosts in the yellow dust. During a momentary lull, Ran heard the wails of children . . . and of some adults.

  The Empress's ventilation system ran at redline to provide positive pressure within the huge bay, but occasionally gusts overpowered the fans. Fine dust covered the last five meters of the corridor like a blond carpet, and drifting motes made the emigrants sneeze almost as soon as their sleeping quarters were unsealed.

  The sky was a saffron haze, brighter toward zenith. It must be close to noon, but Ran wasn't sure how many standard hours a day was on Biscay. Section 33—females and children—processed past him, led by one of Wanda Holly's ratings. Each of the emigrants stumbled at the hatchway when she saw the choking waste beyond.

  Ran waved them onward stolidly. "It'll be better in the trucks," he said. His voice was thickened by his respirator. "The air in the trucks is filtered."

  A woman clutched him with both hands, jabbering in a dismal, high-pitched voice. The translator on Ran's shoulder caught a few words, but most of the complaint was as inarticulate as the wails of a trapped coyote.

  The line halted. Babanguida and Wanda appeared to either side of the woman. The rating loosened her hands from Ran's utility uniform while Wanda touched the emigrant's cheeks and murmured consolingly. The two of them, officer and emigrant, walked a few steps down the gangway before Wanda patted her and returned to the hatch.

  "They're the last," Wanda said to Ran. "Poor bastards."

  Babanguida began edging away from the officers.

  "Babanguida!" Ran snapped before the rating could manage to disappear. Technically, Third Watch was off-duty, but Babanguida knew better than that. "Change your uniform fast and report to Commander Kneale. Don't go off on your own till he releases you or I do."

  "Sir," the big crewman muttered. He didn't sound angry, just regretful that he'd been caught

  Wanda hadn't been wearing her respirator as she opened sections down the corridor. She put it on now.

  "Is it always like this?" Ran asked, gesturing into the haze.

  "No, but often enough," she replied. Then she added, "It isn't right to bring people here. It isn't moral."

  Ran looked at her. "How so?" he asked. "I thought there was an ocean of ice bigger than the Pacific under this loess. In twenty years, Biscay's supposed to be supplying food for the whole Am al-Mahdi system. Isn't that so?"

  "In twenty years, maybe," Holly said. "Look at these people now."

  The last of the emigrants were out of sight in the yellow blur. Several figures staggered up the gangway toward the ship.

  "They come from western China," Ran said. "Do you think this is the first time they've seen a dust storm, Wanda?"

  "I don't think they knew—" she began.

  "They signed up because they thought it was a better life," Ran said. He was shocked at his own fierceness. "And it will be a better life, if they work at it and because somebody worked at it."

  "They thought it would be better now!" Wanda said. Their respirator-muffled faces were close together in the hatchway.

  "Did you ever survey the Empress's Cold Crew?" Ran demanded. "Did you ever ask them if they knew what sponge space was like? Because sure as God, Wanda, they didn't know when they signed on. And we're here because they keep the engines fed and trimmed while we ride inside the envelope. That's worse than a dust storm, lady. That's worse than Hell, if there is a Hell besides sponge space."

  Mohacks and a stranger in unmarked coveralls stopped at the hatchway. Wanda's two ratings followed them up the gangway at a slight distance.

  "They're all on the trucks, sir," Mohacks said. The Second Officer aimed her transceiver toward the receiving lens and relayed the message to Commander Kneale. Dust in the air fuzzed the IR signal.

  The stranger stuck out his hand. "Tom Urdener," he said. "Latimer Trading. We're the contractors on this lot."

  "Why the hell didn't you have your people in place?" Ran demanded. "You barely provided enough to drive the trucks! By the contract, our personnel aren't responsible for the emigrants once we've opened the berth sections on the ground!"

  "I know that," Urdener said, "I know that. What happened is that I lost over a hundred of my staff when you radioed news that war had broken out. They're boarding your ship right now."

  "Huh?" said Ran.

  "Grantholm nationals," Urdener explained. "Reservists, most of them. They're going home to join their military."

  He sighed and shook his head. "We shouldn't have hired so much of our staff from one planet, I suppose," he went on. "But—you know, there's nobody like a Grantholmer to keep a labor crew's noses to the grindstone. Nobody like them at all."

  Urdener touched his forehead in a half-serious salute. "Can't stand here gabbing," he said. "Just wanted to apologize to you, is all."

  He headed back down the gangplank.

  Ran looked at Wanda. "I'm sorry," he said. He thought of adding something, but he couldn't decide what to say—especially with the two ratings on Wanda's shift staring at the officers. Mohacks had disappeared down the corridor.

  "You're right," Wanda said. She touched the switch that shut the compartment to the outside. The hatch began to swing closed from top and bottom simultaneously.

  "And Federated Earth is right," she continued, staring out as the rectangle of yellow haze narrowed. "At home, they're surplus population. Here they're doing something for themselves and for mankind. Eventually."

  "I don't like it either," Ran said softly. He might have touched her hand if it weren't for the enlisted personnel.

  The hatch ground closed, then coughed several times to clear its seal of dust. Pressure in the compartment increased momentarily; then the ventilation fans cut to idle.

  "I've had a pretty comfortable life," Wanda said. She met Ran's eyes. "I guess I don't like having my nose rubbed in the fact that a lot of people don't, even on Earth."

  She smiled, shifted to put her body between herself and her subordinates, and squeezed Ran's hand.

  "Let's get cleaned up and help the commander," Ran said. "If he's got a hundred Gra
ntholm slave drivers coming aboard, he's going to want us around."

  IN TRANSIT:

  BISCAY TO AIN AL-MAHDI

  Miss Oanh found the Quiet Room tucked at the end of a blank corridor. The bulkheads whispered. They enclosed the starliner's service mains, not living spaces.

  The Empress provided a generally acceptable ambiance for her Third Class passengers and expected them to adapt to it For those who could pay, however, the huge ship had nooks and crannies molded to every foible.

  Most passengers would visit the Starlight Bar only once in a voyage, if that often; but the "experience of sponge space," or the possibility of that experience, might affect their choice of a starliner and the enthusiasm with which they recommended the Empress of Earth to their friends.

  The wrought iron gateway of the Quiet Room passed even less traffic than entered the Starlight Bar; but those who wanted solemn silence in a setting apart from that of their suite often wanted it very much.

  Lanterns hung to either side of the arch, softly illuminating through the grillwork an interior paneled in dark pine. A Kurdish runner, woven from deep reds and browns, carpeted the center of the small retreat The exposed flooring was of boards thirty centimeters wide, pinned to the joists beneath by dowels. The four high-backed chairs were of black oak, with leather cushions fastened to the frames by tarnished brass brads.

  At the end of the room was what could have been an altarpiece, richly carven but without specific religious content. A pair of electronic "candles" stood on the wood, programmed to sense the slightest breeze and to flicker in response.

  Miss Oanh stepped into the empty room. Two of the chairs faced the altarpiece. She started to sit down in one of them.

  It gave a startled gasp. She screamed.

  The young man who'd been sitting in the chair jumped to his feet. "I'm terribly sorry!" he blurted. "I didn't hear you come—"

  Oanh put a hand to her chest. "Oh my goodness!" she said. "I'm so sorry, I thought the room was empty."

  As Oanh spoke, she looked around quickly to be sure that there weren't people scowling from the chairs feeing one another from the sides of the room.

  "No, no, it's just us," the young man said. "Ah—I'm Franz Streseman. Though if you want to be alone, miss, I should be going anyway. I'm just . . ."

  "Oh, please, no," Oanh said. Franz was a slim man of average height—for most cultures, the delicate builds of Nevasa being an exception. He had strong, regular features with a small moustache which to Oanh gave an exotic tinge to his good looks. "I wasn't . . . That is—"

  She looked at her hands. "It isn't that I wanted to be alone, but if—"

  "—you were going to be alone anyway, you didn't want to do it in a lounge with a thousand people watching you," Franz said, completing her sentence and her thought perfectly.

  "Yes," she said, meeting the young man's eyes. "That's how I felt."

  "Ah—"Franz said. He looked away, then back. "Ah—I was planning to get something to drink. Ah—coffee, perhaps, or . . . ?"

  "I've thought of seeing the Aviary Lounge," Oanh said, smiling shyly. "If you'd like that, I . . . ?"

  Franz offered his arm. "Let's do it now," he said. His face wore a lithe, active expression, a complete change from the cold gloom with which he'd been staring at the altarpiece.

  "You know how to find it, then?" Oanh asked. "The ship is so big, I'm afraid I'll get lost every time I leave father's suite."

  The woolen carpet was only a meter wide, so their outside heels clicked on the boards until they passed through the archway. The corridor floors of the Empress of Earth were of varied appearance, but all were of a synthetic which deadened noise as well as cushioning footsteps.

  Franz laughed cheerfully. "We'll find it," he said. "We'll have an adventure, just the two of us."

  Oanh joined his laughter. It occurred to her that this was the first time in . . . weeks, certainly—and probably longer—that she'd felt cheerful.

  * * *

  "You," called a passenger in one of the alcoves of the gallery connecting the Embarkation Hall with the Social Hall. "Boy!"

  Babanguida turned with a neutral smile and walked toward the alcove. Four men sat around a small table, three of them on chairs and the fourth, the obvious leader, alone in splendor on the curved banquette. They'd come aboard on Biscay, but they were Grantholm nationals.

  The hologram covering the wall behind them showed a mountain valley on Grantholm, overlooked from a crag by a strikingly handsome couple. The passengers themselves were windcut in a pattern that outlined the respirators and goggles they normally wore. Their knuckles were scarred, and in all they looked harder than the idealized rocks in the hologram.

  They had drinks. The steward who fetched them from the service bar at the end of the gallery stood several meters away from the alcove, watching from the corners of his eyes. His attitude toward the Grantholmers was that of a cat eying a large dog through a screen door.

  "Yes sir?" said Babanguida to the man who faced him from the banquette. The passenger was as tall as Babanguida but much broader in proportion. He looked to be in his forties, with a flaring black beard and black hair except for the white flash where a knife scar trailed up his cheek into the temple.

  He grinned at Babanguida and said, "Don't worry, boy, you're not in trouble yet. My name's von Pohlitz, Gerd von Pohlitz. Maybe you've heard of me?"

  Babanguida had. Von Pohlitz was on the watch list Bridge generated when it ran the names of new passengers through the data banks Trident Starlines shared with other major shipping companies. Von Pohlitz had been involved in several incidents with dark-skinned or oriental members of starliners' service crews.

  "Very glad to have you aboard the Empress, Captain von Pohlitz," Babanguida said smoothly. "Can I help you with something?"

  The other three Grantholmers were physically of a piece with their leader, but they lacked the force of personality that glared from von Pohlitz like heat through the open door of a blast furnace. They looked at Babanguida with expressions mingled of disdain and distaste.

  "You're Staff Side, aren't you, boy?" von Pohlitz demanded. "That's what the white uniform means, right?"

  The Grantholmers were dressed in business suits they'd obviously bought in the Empress's Mall when they boarded. There wasn't much call for First Class dress on Biscay. In place of the normal cummerbund, von Pohlitz wore a scarf of stained yellow silk across his belly.

  Anything could have caused the three small perforations in the silk. Given the way the Grantholmer flaunted them, Babanguida assumed they were bullet holes.

  "Yes sir," Babanguida said. "That's right."

  "Don't think I look down on you for that," von Pohlitz chuckled. "That's what we all are here, aren't we, boys?"

  His companions nodded and grunted assent. One of them noticed his glass was empty and whistled at the steward.

  "The engineers lay out the job, that's fine," their leader continued. "But then it's up to me and the boys to see that the wogs get to work instead of sitting on their hands. Staff Side, see?"

  "Yes sir, I can see that," Babanguida said calmly.

  A few commands to Bridge would cause the entertainment center in von Pohlitz's cabin to put out a low-frequency hum, sensed though inaudible. Von Pohlitz and his roommate, another Grantholmer, would probably go berserk after a few hours of that. There'd be evidence in the data banks if anybody thought to check, though. . . .

  "So you know things about the ship," von Pohlitz continued, "and you can go anywhere aboard her?"

  Babanguida nodded very slightly.

  The steward arrived with a fresh drink. He backed quickly away, without bothering to wait for a tip.

  "I hear that there's a bigwig from Nevasa aboard," von Pohlitz said bluntly. "But he doesn't leave his suite."

  "That might be the case," Babanguida said. His eyes were on the clean, triumphant-looking hologram behind the alcove.

  Von Pohlitz nodded. One of his companions handed Bab
anguida a chip. "This might be fifty credits," the Grantholmer rumbled.

  It was. Babanguida discharged the chip into his reader. All the Grantholmers beamed when they saw him accept the money.

  "Minister Lin has embarked with eight members of his staff and family for Tellichery," Babanguida said quietly. "I don't believe he has left his suite, no. Certainly they're taking all their meals there."

  "Now I'll bet," von Pohlitz said carefully, "that a boy in your position could copy a passkey to that suite."

  Babanguida stood like an ebony statue.

  "It would be worth another two hundred credits if you did," the Grantholmer pressed.

  "It would be worth two thousand," Babanguida said softly.

  "Balls!" von Pohlitz snarled. "Do you take me for a fool?"

  "I'm not bargaining with you, Captain," Babanguida said. "I'm giving you free information. For two thousand credits, I would call my friend who's in the Housekeeping office right now and have him bring down a one-pass copy. For nineteen hundred and ninety-nine credits, I'll keep walking right on into the Social Hall, where I'm supposed to be now anyway."

  "It won't be any—real trouble, hanging trouble," von Pohlitz said. "Just a little something for him to remember—and maybe some of his files get scrambled."

  "Two thousand," Babanguida repeated without emphasis.

  The Grantholmers looked at one another. Von Pohlitz grimaced and ostentatiously loaded a chip from his reader—two, zero, zero, zero, End. His blunt fingers stabbed like miniature battering rams.

  Babanguida shifted his commo unit toward a point on the ceiling and said, "Mohacks? Three." Then he clipped a scrambler disk onto the transceiver and waited for a reply. Mohacks had a girlfriend in Housekeeping, which was frequently handy to the men's other business interests.

  "Yeah?" Babanguida heard Mohacks normally, but the conversation recorded as only a ripple of static in the Empress's data banks.

  Babanguida gave a series of brief directions. He didn't bother to explain anything to his partner. When he was finished, he removed the scrambler and looked at the Grantholm party with a complacent smile.