THE BURNING HEART OF NIGHT

by Ivan Cat

  The obvious answer came to Karr as his heart rate calmed a little: he had to out-think his opponent. As a Pilot, he was presumed to be of high intelligence. Now he had better prove it Eerie smears of motion flittered around Karr. The murderer was within arm's reach. Karr inhaled a whiff of bitter body odor.

  Inspiration struck. Karr dug a stylus and mindercard out of his ghimpsuit pockets. He scribbled a message on the card's memory surface and held it outstretched at eye level.

  "Who are you?" it read.

  Karr felt pretty silly, but he had to engage his enemy, to learn what that enemy's weaknesses might be.

  Blink! The stylus disappeared from Karr's fingers.

  Blip, something was stuck to Karr's nose. He reached up and pulled off a quickfood wrapper. Lines were scraped out of its printed surface. Karr puzzled, turning the scrawl sideways.

  It was a winged stick figure with a squat oval above its head.

  Karr frowned. What did it mean?

  The wrapper pulsed away and back onto Karr's nose. Examination revealed that there were now words under the drawing.

  "I'm your guardian angel."

  The stylus reappeared in Karr's hand. He wiped ink scrapings off its tip, cleared the mindercard and wrote, "My what?"

  Again, the stylus disappeared. Another wrapper popped onto Karr's nose, with more ghostly writing.

  "Your guardian angel, friend."

  Karr crumpled and tossed the wrapper. He wrote, "Do I know you?"

  This time Karr offered the mindercard so that the stowaway could respond without sticking garbage to his face. Karr's message cleared and another appeared.

  "No, but I've met you. I know all about you. We have enemies in common, you see. But don't worry about them. I'm making them pay."

  The dialogue gave Karr the creeps. It was more of a seance really. He glanced around the dreamchamber. The violated capsules were testament to the stowaway's form of payment.

  When Karr did not quickly respond, the message lengthened. "I know how they fucked you on this mission. The bastards. They fucked you just like they fucked me. You see? We're just like two fleabhps in a pod."

  The motion streaks began to coalesce as the paranoid note continued. In the split second that the apparition hung around, Karr got a glimpse of an emaciated, male frame.

  Karr wrote, "You need to stop. Don't kill any more dreamers."

  "You're the one who wanted them dead."

  "I want them alive," Karr scribbled, underlining alive.

  "Oh no you don't. I've spent a lot of time watching you, getting to know you, Lindal. I know how you think, what you think of them. I read it in your personal logs."

  Karr flushed red. This mission from Sheldon's World to Evermore had been cursed, even before the stowaway began to murder Karr's cargo. Karr had put in at Sheldon's World to resupply Long Reach for the next tour. Long Reach's dreamchamber should have been refilled with twelve thousand dreamers, and six large seed-colony containers should have been strapped around its mid-section, each one stocked with the supplies and equipment necessary to found a new colony world on a new, virgin planet that had not occurred. Imminent collision with a freak swarm of comets was about to wipe out all life on Sheldon's World. Therefore, the planet's political elite had packed themselves into Long Reach's dreamchamber for evacuation to Evermore.

  Karr had protested. It was a violation of Karr's sacred duty, to find and seed new human colonies throughout the galaxy. As a Pilot, Karr was not allowed to weep for failed colonies. The death and suffering bothered a deep, buried part of Karr, but consciously he could not allow himself to think about such sorrows. That would only lead to the misuse of his precious Long Reach—as was the case on the present mission. No one knew how long fugueships lived, but a twenty year trip to Evermore was a significant chunk of realtime, considering that there were only three fugueships in all of human space and no way to replace them. To make matters worse, Long Reach's dreamchamber was not even full. Sheldon's World politics forbid intermingling elite and lower classes. Short of abandoning everyone on Sheldon's World and flying empty to Evermore—an even greater misuse of Long Reach—Karr had no control over who was or was not loaded into it. So Long Reach had left Sheldon's World with its dreamchamber less than half full. That was why Karr had written vengeful words in his personal logs, but it was only to vent his frustration. He didn't love his present cargo of dreamers, but he didn't literally want them dead. In fact, it was his duty to keep them alive.

  "They tricked you," The stowaway was writing. "You're an honorable man. Good thing I can't be tricked."

  "Listen, 'Angel'—"

  The stowaway snatched the mindercard. "Call me Bob. We're friends, remember?"

  Friends. Foodyeast must be getting to the interloper's brain. Cursing inwardly, Karr decided he had better humor the psychotic killer. "Sure, Bob." Karr tried a different tack. "What happens when we get to Evermore? The authorities won't be very happy with you."

  "Don't worry. I'm taking steps."

  Karr didn't like the sound of that. "What sort of steps, Bob?"

  "You write too slow," Bob scrawled, not answering the question. "Can't you write faster?"

  More quickfood wrappers appeared on the deck, reminding Karr that in the two or three fuguetime minutes of their correspondence, Bob had been trapped in the dreamchamber close to half a slowtime day. He must be getting tired. If Karr could keep him answering questions, maybe Bob would make a mistake and stay in one spot too long. Karr took his time with his next words. "Bob, I'm upset. You read my personal logs. Friends aren't supposed to do things like that."

  Bob took the bait. "I'm very sorry about that, really, very sorry. But it's so BORING on this ship. You know what I mean...."

  Karr most certainly did not know what Bob meant. Karr loved his job and his ship, and it was encounters like this which reassured him that a life with minimal contact with other human beings was a good life, even if it was a bit lonely at times. Karr forced a smile and let Bob prattle on for a while.

  Bob began to coalesce.

  Karr felt for his Gattler. It was slung over his shoulder, with its barrels pointing down, set to fire qi needles. All he had to do was yank the Gattler up and autofire in Bob's general direction. While it was not specifically designed as a weapon, Karr figured that a volley of six-inch steel needles would immobilize Bob long enough for Karr to subdue him.

  Bob kept apologizing. "It was so easy. At night I could just walk into your quarters and do anything I wanted. It's a good thing we're friends, Lindal." There was an ominous pause. "I looked through your stuff. I even tried on your clothes, but they don't fit."

  Bob had been in the same position for a long time and he was still writing. Karr's finger closed on the Gattler's trigger. He should have fired right away, but morbid curiosity stopped him as the image of Bob unfolded. Bob was a sorry angel. His limbs were gaunt, muscles atrophied from too much time in low gravity without a ghimpsuit. Ribs showed under pasty skin. Bob's hands were blurred from writing, but his head was more distinct. Fishy, malignant eyes bulged over a hooked nose, withered mouth, and receding chin.

  Bob's ghoulish monologue waxed sentimental. "You look so peaceful when you sleep. I always tuck you in if you toss your blankets off. Four months is a long time to sleep without blankets, don't you think?"

  The idea of Bob prancing around Karr's quarters, wearing Karr's clothes—tucking Karr in!—alarmed Karr in the extreme. Never again would he get a wink of sleep until this maniac was locked up tight.

  Karr yanked the Gattler up as fast as he could and squeezed off a volley of shots. Bap, bap, bap, bap, bap! Bob streaked away. The mindercard hit the deck. Karr held his breath. Had he hit?

  No.

  The Gattler abruptly ripped out of Karr's hands and disappeared. An angry gnat screeched around his head and the same force that had hurled him away from the airlock earlier now hoisted Karr into the air. Blink—WHAMM! Like a jump cut in a video recording, Karr instantaneously sma
shed into a wall five yards away. Blink—SLAMM! Invisible force ground Karr into the deck. Blink—CRUNCH! Karr hammered into a dream capsule, sudden fire in his ribs. Blink—CRACK! Welts raised under Karr's ghimpsuit. Blink—WHACK! Karr was in the air, falling. Then colliding. Tumbling. The violent montage escalated. Karr's mind fogged over with pain. His body was a rag doll in a tornado, waiting for a killing blow. Would it come in the heart or in the head, Karr wondered numbly? No, in the back. That was the kind of guy Bob was, a backstabber.

  But no mortal blow came. Blink. Karr was on the deck. The angry buzzing went away. Blip. The mindercard reappeared in Karr's hand.

  "That wasn't very nice, Lindal. Not very nice at all. I didn't want to do that, but you made me. Don't make me do that again. Don't make me do something I'll regret." There was a pause. When Bob resumed writing, the tone of his words changed with no apparent logic; Karr reminded himself that the schizophrenic switch was actually occurring over many slowtime minutes. "You've been a bad boy, Lindal. I should punish you, but I forgive you. Know why? Because I love you. So much that it hurts. That's why I forgive you. Love. It's a special thing. Don't you think? I'm tired now. I'm going to take a nap."

  The motion blurs disappeared. Karr did not waste any time cooling off, but hauled his bruised body erect and hurried around the dreamchamber, scrambling over girder-ribs and around capsules in search of Bob. Sleeping humans didn't move much; all Karr had to do was find Bob. Karr searched furiously for three minutes, but then the mindercard called attention to itself again.

  "I feel much better now. Bob's just not himself without eight hours of shuteye. It's been nice talking to you, Lindal. Let's do it again real soon. I have to get back to work."

  "Wait—!" Karr scribbled hastily, but Bob cut in.

  "Time's a-wasting. Bye."

  There was motion at the dreamchamber entrance. Karr watched in utter horror as chunks of fugueship flesh ripped out where he had injected qi needles. Blood gushed from the wounds and the dreamchamber shook with Long Reach's pain. Karr fell to his knees as the aperture opened with a spasm.

  Dream capsules began popping open. Dreamers began disappearing. And the first dreamer to disappear was the one Karr had hauled all the way back from the airlock.

  III

  A human's first duty is to his other humans. A Pilot's first duty is to his fugueship. Any other consideration is distraction: without the ship, all is lost. A Pilot's execution of duty must become instinctive. Pilots whose training and discipline depend upon conscious thought become helpless in crisis. To train such Pilots is folly. To send them forth in fugueships is murder—of the ship, the Pilot, and those entrusted to his care. In creating the Pilot, we must strive to instill proper instinctive reactions, so that in the midst of the extreme distraction, the Pilot will always function to preserve the ship.

  —Major A. Vidun

  Founder, Pilot Academy

  Post Terran Interdiction

  Bob had hurt Karr's ship. Karr saw red.

  Karr rushed to the wounded portal, wishing he had the Gattler that Bob had stolen. Barrel number two dispensed molecular adhesive, intended to suture and dress wounds just like these, but all Karr could do was press the torn flesh back into some semblance of its original position. It helped, a little. Searching around, Karr found two of the needles dug out by Bob and, carefully locating the nerve meridians, thrust them by hand into pain-killing qi points. The spasms of the chamber settled as Long Reach's pain subsided.

  Karr pressed his palms against his temples, remembering Bob's words, "Don't worry. I'm taking steps." It was now clear to Karr that those steps were the cause of the fugueship's spreading sickness. Bob was killing his cargo. Unchecked, Bob would obviously kill Long Reach, too.

  Bob must die.

  It was simple as that. Every fiber of every muscle in Karr's body desired to eliminate Bob. Long Reach must be preserved and Karr must use any and all measures to carry out that duty. But he must focus. Rage would do no good. Bob could act erratically, but for Karr every second counted. Karr forced himself to sacrifice a few hundred of those precious seconds and gather his thoughts. Soon Karr's steely calm returned and he strode out of the dream-chamber with the beginnings of a plan in his head. Where he had to go and what he had to do was suddenly very clear, but not the crucial how he was going to do it.

  Karr was out in the winding passages of Long Reach before he noticed his hands. The edges of his fingernails were yellow-brown.

  Karr looked closer. It was foodyeast. Small amounts of it were everywhere in the fugueship, seeping from inner hull chambers next to Long Reach's fusion furnace. Foodyeast grew there in the waste heat. Long Reach fed the foodyeast oxygen and basic organic building blocks from storage bladders, then ate the yeast. That was how the cycle worked, just as Terran termites fed inedible wood chips to fungus cultivated in their lairs and then ate that fungus.

  Karr had just become part of that food cycle.

  Karr berated himself. He had lost track of time during the dialogue with Bob. He consulted his subdermal chronometer. He was overdue for decontamination. Very bad. Unchecked, foodyeast would drive Karr mad, as it had Bob. Very, very bad. Now he must make a fifteen minute detour. Bob would wreak a lot of havoc in that time and Long Reach would suffer for it.

  Karr hastened to a lonely collection of cube modules, which were nestled between crimson pipelines of fugueship artery.

  "Door open."

  Nothing happened. Karr adjusted the voice-emulator at his throat and tried again. "Door open."

  This time a crack formed on a blank cube wall, describing a man-high rectangle, then that rectangle shifted back and slid aside. Karr stepped into a small airlock.

  "Door close. Airlock cycle."

  Crisp, dry air replaced humid fugueship atmosphere, then the inner door formed and slid aside. Impatient, Karr stepped through before it was fully open and he began unfastening the catches on his ghimpsuit as he strode down the sanitary white hall. Karr entered a cubicle at the end, unbuckling chest and waist straps while kicking off his left boot. Economy of motion was imperative. Every second was minutes less for Bob to do his dirty work. Karr peeled off a ghimpsock as he kicked off the other boot, then the other sock came off.

  Ochre fur lined the cracks between his toes.

  The rest of the ghimpsuit required full attention: wrist seals, ankle seals, neck seals. Karr looped his arms over support brackets in the stall and pulled the muscle-like bodysuit inside out in his rush to disrobe. Overtaxed muscles complained at the loss of support, but Karr ignored the pain. He wouldn't be unsuited long. A sweeping kick cleared his clothes into the hall.

  "Door close." A frosted panel slid shut. Karr swabbed his mouth and nose with sterile fluid and fastened a rebreather over them.

  "Shower on."

  Stinging disinfectant sprayed from holes in the walls, ceiling, and floor. In the low gravity, the air quickly filled with unbreathable mist. Karr did not see the realtime droplets, only an eye-jangling stroboscope, like interference patterns on a viewscreen with no signal. He twisted around on the supports, careful to ensure that the disinfectant reached every part of his exposed skin. Twenty-four seconds was the minimum time to decontaminate if Karr did it just right. Arms up, arms down. Left leg up, down, right leg up.... Karr pegged the sequence without wasting a beat. The jets stopped. Different holes sucked the stall clear and three cycles of warm whirlwind tossed him dry. The stall door opened.

  Karr stepped out rubbing his burning eyes. He had forgotten the protective goggles. It hurt, but he knew from experience that the burning would subside. Karr swallowed an antifungal pill, checked himself over—no sign of yellow fuzz—and slipped on a new ghimpsuit.

  The hull shook and a windy groan rushed outside the walls of Karr's quarters. More of Bob's doing, no doubt.

  "Hang on," Karr said to the ship. "Just a few more minutes." He crossed the small hall and unreeled two hoses from the fugue purifier, a large, clear globe filled with fugueship blood.
Multicolored filter spheres floated in the vat, extracting and concentrating the vital fluid.

  As Karr prepared to insert the hoses into his sinuses, inspiration struck him and the missing how of his plan to deal with Bob became clear. But it was risky.

  Just then, the shower door mysteriously slid shut. The shower hissed. The door slid open again. A counter on the pill dispenser clicked down.

  Bob had taken a disinfectant shower.

  The airlock cycled him out.

  Bob hadn't even waited for Karr to sleep this time. Karr felt violated. It was apparent that Bob could go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. No place in the fugueship was safe.

  Karr bent over. The hoses went into his nostrils and his hand reached to open a spigot and start the procedure of dosing up. That uncomfortable necessity lasted another five subjective minutes.

  Bob finished that day doing things to Long Reach that his friend Karr would not have approved of. Bob used the Gattler he took from Karr. A needle in a fuel bladder here, another in a flow constrictor there. Bob didn't know what he was doing, specifically, but he didn't care either. These tricks worked for Karr, so why not for Bob?

  Besides, they were necessary. As Karr had pointed out, the shortsighted authorities on Evermore would not understand Bob's divine purpose. They would condemn him. They would lock him up. They might even hurt Bob, and that would never do. Authorities were to be avoided.

  Bob slept again before checking in on his buddy.

  Karr was still under the fugue purifier with the hoses in his nose. Bob twitched, recalling the icky rush of fluid through his own sinuses.

  "You'd think they'd come up with a better way to do that," Bob said lightheartedly. "Ah, never mind." Of course they would not figure out a better way. Nobody cared about what he and Lindal had to go through.

  "See you later, buddy."

  Bob spent the next day shoving backstabbing bastards out through the airlock. The backstabbers thought they had the last laugh on Bob, but they were wrong. Trip after trip went by, carry a load out, eject, and return for more. It was Bob who laughed the loudest. Once in a while, Bob took a break, to rest in his empty fuel bladder hideout. Items pilfered from storage made a jumbled nest around his bed mat. At these times Bob's mind would race, like a rodent retracing the same maze over and over.