Walt & Leigh Richmond

by Phoenix Ship

  Then he laughed. This, he'd thought, must be what it was like to be in space. And he looked at the whiteness reflecting back the remaining light and stretching to infinity in every direction, and felt an urge to throw out his arms and embrace it.

  Turning then in a complete circle, he had tried to determine the direction from which he'd come. It was then that he saw the small figure approaching and recognized it instantly by the golden padded suit, shaped like his own, but glowing in the reflected light.

  Bracing himself against the gusting wind, Stan went to meet the figure. "Dr. Lang," he shouted through the wind when they were near, "have I done wrong to come out?"

  The face that he knew to be broad and expressionless was hidden behind the hood, but as the wind lulled between gusts, the voice was unmistakable. "I think, Stan, that we shall give you a special inoculation. No, you have not done wrong. Should it be wrong to come out into the open?"

  A question for every question, Stan thought. But, "No," he answered. "This is peace. It should be sought."

  After that, he'd gone out for at least a little while almost daily. He'd never gotten lost again, and he'd never met the Mentor again. But the trips topsides had come to mean a relaxation and a cleansing, more effective than a shower.

  Stan had missed his home and friends at first as the strange course went on; but more and more the trips home had come to seem "like visits to a foreign land, the people to speak an alien tongue.

  And then, in one short week, his home became enemy territory.

  He had barely arrived for Christmas vacation when the news broke on 3-D: ships of the Belt had attacked Earth Fleet; had attacked and destroyed a few of the mighty vessels that controlled interplanetary space.

  And the Belt forces were led by Trevor Dustin.

  The shock was felt everywhere. It was impossible. The tiny, weak population of the Belt taking on the might of Earth?

  But as the hours passed and the 3-D marshaled its onthe-spot coverage from space itself, the shock became greater.

  The screens showed the huge battleships of Earth, light-colored to reflect back the impinging rays of the sun; long cylinders more than two hundred feet across, spinning slowly to give gravity when not under thrust Mighty ships. Their hulls held six feet of water for radiation shielding over the entire surfaces; water that served as a major part of the life-support systems for the crews and the two thousand Space Marines that were the normal complement They were armed with powerful laser beams for space warfare, with projectile and atomic cannon for planetary warfare, though the ships themselves would never come nearer to a planet than a two-hour orbit. Massive monsters, capable of maneuvering at up to a two-G thrust. . . .

  And darting among and between them like a flight of stubby crossbow arrows, black so that they were nearly invisible, the tiny ships of the Belt

  "The Belters have dropped their freight doughnuts, and they're using the central control-cabin/thrust-tube segments of their freighters as fighting ships!" an excited commentator explained. "They've painted them black so they can't be seen by eye ... a useless gesture. They can be seen by ladar."

  Breathless, he went on, explaining to an Earth audience that had never considered the problems of Belt shipping. "The Belters load their freight into doughnut-shaped containers, the way freight used to be loaded on Earth into the trailer end of a trailer-tractor truck. Their control cabins are directly attached to the ion drive tube that centers any spaceship, and that control cabin is the only part of the ship that needs shielding, since the freight travels in vacuum. When the freightnut is loaded, the control-cabin/drive-tube combination is fitted into its center and the Belter accelerates it into a Hohmann orbit toward its destination, then lets go. The freightnut is picked up at the far end of its trip by a similar ship/drive-tube.

  "Those drive-tube ships are fast," he went on. "With no shielding needed except for the small living section, they're long and fast and maneuverable. They can get thrusts up to any G's a man can take; and the system of dropping the freightnuts makes almost every ship in the Belt a fighting ship."

  Then the head of Earth's Space Commission was brought on to reassure the vast listening audience. "The Belters," he said solemnly, "are getting too big for their britches. Of course they haven't any fire power at all, comparatively speaking; and this uprising should be over in a few hours. They have been listening to the traitorous leaders who have quarreled with Earth's very light and reasonable control measures from the begiririing. When this is over, the traitors must be weeded out, and restrictive measures taken.

  "It may hurt a parent to spank a child," he went on in a kindly tone of voice, "especially an insanely brave child. However, it must be done for bis own good. The very act of attacking where there is no possibility of winning shows the extent of the delusions of grandeur from which the Belters must be rescued."

  Yet time went on, and the predicted spanking became more and more remote.

  The tiny ships of the Belt were everywhere, black mosquitoes diving onto light-colored elephants and pulling out again. They didn't even try to match fire-power with their prey; just dove almost onto the Earth ships, then pulled into steep climbs that flicked their tails toward the hulls of their enemy and sprayed them with the full jet streams of their drives.

  A few were swatted, but very few compared to the numbers that were diving again and again. The mighty laser guns of Earth Fleet had been built to focus sharply at distances of one hundred miles and better, and were having trouble with their accuracy in this in-fighting. The Earth gunnery officers did hit their targets, as demonstrated with fair frequency by minute sparks of light on the target hulls. But the targeting sparks seemed to be without effect except when a spark hit the control-cabin end; and even then it was usually followed by only a tiny puff of steam that was gone almost as soon as it appeared, while the Belt ship arrowed on instead of exploding.

  Not so with the stings of the myriad Belt mosquitoes. As the tail of the Belter lighted the hull of its prey with the ghastly blue glow of its jet stream, a great gout of steam would pour forth, and continue to spout. It did not take many hullings before the giants dissolved from hydrostatic shock in great soundless blasts of steam and debris on the viewscreens of Earth.

  They were strange battles to watch, as the two fleets came together time after time: the ponderous ships of Earth maneuvering majestically, while the tiny Belt ships dove in and out among them, dancing like fireflies at punishing accelerations and decelerations, in patterns impossible for the heavily manned, heavily armored leviathans of Earth.

  "Guerrilla ships," the Belters were called by the astounded commentators. Guerrilla ships that were showing a technological invincibility that had not been suspected. Guerrilla ships that were recklessly, impossibly, remaining on the attack—and winning.

  It was over in three days; three days in which neither Stan nor anyone else left the 3-D; in which food was something to be gulped between battles; in which sleep was out of the question.

  Stan watched the last and crucial fight. The Earth fleet had been maneuvered into massing; and the guerrilla ships were diving through the mass, one after the other, picking off the central ships while the firepower of the Earth ships was limited for fear of hitting their own. It was a daring thing to watch as the one-man Belt ships threw themselves, unhesitatingly, into and through the mass of monsters.

  Stan was watching too, when the flagship of the Belt fleet, Traitor Dustin's ship," the commentators called it, as tiny as the others, took a hit and spun out, exploding slowly in the fantastic silence of a space war. But with that ship went the giant of the Earth fleet, the main battleship, Earuna.

  It was over. Earth Fleet had withdrawn to "regroup and study the situation," the commentators said, though the euphemism was obvious to even the most chauvinistic. Earth was defeated, and the Belt independent

  And Uncle Trevor dead, Stan added to himself, while the commentators talked excitedly of the unexpected technological abilities of t
he Belt, which were matched (they emphasized) by the technology of Earth, though that technology had not been thought necessary to the control of the spaceways. . . .

  Stan left the 3-D, but instead of going to his den to sleep, he took the elevator to the top of the sky-rise, to the park-area where he could look into the sky and think beyond it

  As he left the elevator, a familiar figure, tall and heavy under its flapping cloak, was approaching it "Hi, Tom," Stan said, preoccupied.

  Traitor Dustinl" was Tom's only greeting, and Stan found himself ducking a roundhouse right cross that barely missed his nose, the broad sweep of Tom's cloak sleeve slapping across his face.

  What happened next was as much a surprise to Stan as it was to Tom. He had been attacked. The attack had missed only because of his own quick reflexes which, almost of their own accord, now had Tom engaged in a half-nelson, Stan's left arm gripping a pressure point at the back of Tom's neck.

  "What shall I break first?" he heard himself asking in a mild voice. The overstimulation that should have resulted from a flood of adrenalin to the circulatory system in the standard fight-or-flight response wasn't there. There was none of the raggedness of heavy breathing that would formerly have accompanied any fight. The automic responses hadn't been needed or triggered. He hadn't even had his attention on the fight He was still debating his own fierce pride that the Belt had won. He should be loyal to Earth —or should he. Somehow there was a feeling of justification, both in the war and in his own personal battle that he neither understood nor wanted to question.

  The next day he had gone to the tailor's and had himself fitted for tunics and trousers—of a light gray silken material that held a gold tinge. Then he'd selected a tunic belt of gold—plain gold—though he knew that the tailor, his family and friends would find the clothes, the color, even the fact of the belting, distasteful.

  He'd made his visits home as infrequent as possible after that and now he felt almost a stranger there; and the feeling was mutual. The pug nose was gone; the freckles gone.

  "You look too much like your former uncle for comfort," his father had remarked on his last trip home. "If I were not assured that this school is training you for one of the higher governmental positions, I would suspect..."

  Stan punched the last figures into the board before him, and to his surprise saw it clear completely. Then the questions were replaced with a terse summons:

  Student S.T.A.R. Dustin. Report to Professor Mallard in Office 201.

  Stan jerked out of the daydreams that had more and more accompanied his tests over the years as he had relaxed to let the answers come easily.

  The almost hypnotic rhythm by which he had worked for more than four years lay shattered around him, and he felt as though he were stepping over its shards as he left the cubicle.

  II

  PROFESSOR MALLARD stood, cloaked but unhooded, behind his desk as Stan entered, his piercing eyes seeming to X-ray the student and his pursed lips seeming to find what he saw unpleasant.

  Stan drew himself up. "Student S.T.A.R. Dustin, reporting as ordered, sir."

  The professor's face relaxed, and he allowed a small smile to superimpose itself on the disdainful expression.

  "Star Dustin," he said in a clipped voice. "Perhaps the name is prophetic, General."

  Startled, Stan turned to find a uniformed figure seated casually behind him, beyond the door by which he had entered.

  "So this is the young man." The general eyed Stan from his carrot thatch to his new gray-gold slippers, then nodded to himself and rose, a big figure in a carefully tailored uniform. "This your somewhat independent but exotically educated guinea pig, eh? WelL have no fear, Professor. Well tame him. We've tamed the likes of him and better before. After that well see whether he performs to specifications." He nodded briefly to the professor, ignoring Stan, took cap and gloves from the table beside his chair, and left without another word.

  As the door closed behind the general, Professor Mallard almost let the precise smile slip, then replaced it carefully. "You have brought yourself to important notice, young man," he said.

  Stan felt an internal stillness that held every sense alert, waiting. There was a sure knowledge of danger beneath the stillness, but it was the lesser of the two emotions. There was a dislike of the professor so intense as to be nearly overwhelming. Why the professor? he asked himself. Why not the general? And he found no answer except the fact.

  "I haven't flunked, have I, Professor?" he heard his voice asking and knew himself to be asking for time to get his balance, to sort out the emotions that threatened to flood his system.

  "Flunked?" Mallard considered for a moment, then shook his head from side to side. "No. Not that. A bit too . . . self-motivated, perhaps. But as the general said . . ." He decided to leave the sentence hanging.

  A silence lay between the two then. The professor stood immobile, his eyes boring into those of the student.

  He expects me to speak first, to look away, Stan thought He's determined to force me. Why? His chin lifted and firmed.

  At the gesture, the professor's smile deepened. "Ah, yes," he said with the casual triumph that comes with winning a personal bet. "A bit too self-motivated. However . . ." He slowly dropped himself into the desk chair, tenting his fingers on its surface, each action deliberate. Then he began to speak, lightly, as though discussing a subject of no possible import.

  "You will be apprenticed as a Marine in the Earth Space Service," he said. His eyes still did not leave Stan's, and the effect removed any casualness engendered by his tone. "You will be in that post for perhaps half a year. When your . . . obvious eagerness is thoroughly under control, and because you have shown yourself rather exceptionally bright you will be transferred to more and more responsible positions. By the time that we are ready to re-subdue the Belt, I expect you to be among the squad leaders of the effort. By then you should have a souad completely composed of personnel who have been molecularly trained as you have been, who should prove—"

  "The Belt?" Stan heard his voice ask. "The Belt is independent, sir."

  The professor brought himself up crisply. "The Belt is temporarily independent. It is, you will realize, a condition that Earth cannot tolerate."

  "Sir." Stan paused, marshaling his words. "I should prefer another assignment. I have loyalties. . . ."

  "Ah." The professor nodded. "Trevor Dustin's memory. The traitor mythologized into a hero. Trail Duster. And your nickname is Star Duster? What a mistake your parents made! I should have realized." Then, fiercely: "You know, of course, that he would be captured and hung if he were not dead already? That he has been hung in effigy?"

  Then the voice relaxed. "Well, the first inoculations you get before going to—never mind." He clamped his mouth with a sudden snap, then smiled again. "We can understand your misplaced loyalties, young man. We can also handle them. You have been accorded a high honor, and it is not one that you will be allowed to refuse. It is an honor that has already been accorded you in part, for you were accepted into this school although your IQ was at first thought to be too low and—"

  "Sir.If I may interrupt. I should like to talk the matter over with Dr. Lang."

  The professor's face showed another of its abrupt changes. "Professor Lang," he said distastefully, "is no longer with us. He has not been with us now for almost three years."

  Stan felt himself sinking, as though a support had been removed from beneath him, and the feeling startled him. He'd barely known Dr. Lang, but he'd trusted him. And Dr. Lang was no longer here? Somehow Stan had thought of him as . . . well, as standing in the wings, watching and waiting. It was an odd thing to have thought, he reminded himself. He'd seen the smooth-faced Mentor perhaps four times, and exchanged very few sentences with him. Yet the feeling of trust, of familiarity, of . . . Dr. Lang had represented to him what he thought of as the school. And Dr. Lang had not been there for most of his schooling.

  The professor's voice was continuing, and he brought h
is attention back to it. "At any rate, young man, you have very little choice. The results the school is obtaining must be demonstrated to the military in no uncertain terms and as immediately as possible. We have convinced them theoretically that with molecular training we can put the wisdom of an older man into the resilient body of a young man on a stimulus-response basis. But theory and demonstration are two separate items. Therefore the demonstration must take place. Once they are convinced, we will be able to do this work on a mass production basis.

  "You have no choice, as our top pupil, but to be the demonstration agent—and you will not fail us." Over the precisely composed face a slight smile was allowed to appear and the voice that continued was more kindly now. "We have made an investment in you of well over a maga-credit. That is an obligation that you cannot disregard."

  Stan was startled. "A megacredit, sir?"

  "That is correct. Later, mass production will bring the costs to a reasonable figure, but experimental work comes high."

  "I . . ." Stan paused. Then: "You keep saying 'molecular training.' May I ask, sir, just what sort of training I have had? I thought. . ."

  "You thought! You were not supposed to think!" The professor's voice was almost a snarl, but immediately he brought it back under control and allowed the slight smile to recompose itself over his severe features, in spite of the annoyance that threatened his composure.

  "The training you have had did not require thinking; and the insistence you have placed on independent study has gone far toward nullifying the results we had every right to expect. However, it has also enhanced the results, and the nullification can be itself nullified. But you must not forget—you must not be allowed to forget—that it is the molecular training that has given you the education and the abilities of which you find yourself possessed."