Star Fall

by David Bischoff

The door shut behind him with a harsh hiss. If it had hinges, no doubt it would have been slammed.

  * * *

  Wonderful things, doors, thought Angharad Shepherd as she hastily changed into cloth-type apparel. Open, they reveal. Closed, they conceal. And yet, there are so often doors behind doors behind doors—

  A cottony robe embracing her nude body with its reassuring warmth. She went to her cabinet to plan, before Ort Eath had further orders for her.

  How fortunate she had met this Todd Spigot, carrying his own door along with him as though it were some cross he was lugging from Calvary, sometimes a mask, sometimes the true Todd Spigot. He would soon grow from the carapace he’d ripped away, changing into a new shape, a new form. He would almost certainly be most useful.

  She opened the cabinet door and began replaying the tape she had made of their conversation, paying particular attention upon the truth indicator dials. He might, after all, be one of Eath’s Byzantine traps. Some doors, after all, opened out into empty, consuming vacuum, sucking out their victims with rapacious hunger.

  And then again, some opened to much more pleasant things. She smiled to herself. He was like a little boy, fitted out in overlarge grownup clothes.

  “MR. SPIGOT,” Ort Eath said. “Would you please drop your pants?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I request that you drop your pants.” Lithe, fluid digits wriggled, alluding toward Todd’s trousers. “Take off your trousers. Dispose of your drawers. Am I using the wrong phrase? Please discard your article of clothing about your waist hanging down your ambulatory limbs.”

  “But why?”

  The orgabox toddled forth, extruding an array of sensor devices from previously concealed orifices.

  “I wish to make a quick scan,” replied Ort Eath simply. “This would expedite matters.”

  They had returned to Ort Eath’s quarters. On the way, Todd had explained his basic situation, requesting assistance. However, just as he was about to mention his activities while acting in what he had come to call his “Hunk Mode,” he thought better of it, for some reason. Until he knew what he was getting into, it was better not to confide to this alien.

  And yet Todd was singularly impressed. Shining metal, singing steel; flow sculptures sensitive to psyches nearby, Ort Eath, with something akin to pride, explained it all, including the large vu-screen, capable of showing anything—entertainment, or the private affairs of passengers.

  Shrugging, Todd stood up from his seat and lowered his pants. The orgabox advanced, executed a quick palpatory survey of both bare legs, and then retreated. Todd swiftly pulled the pants back up, even as the results of the test spewed forth upon the machine’s screen. “Well?” asked Todd.

  “Yes,” responded Ort Eath. “A MacGuffin, Mark Twelve. Deadly device, Mr. Spigot. But an innocent enough bearer, it seems. I find you no threat, you’ll be glad to know.”

  “You’ll clear up the misunderstanding.”

  “With the female you call Alexandra Durtwood? Of course. But I would prefer you maintain possession of this body in preference to Philip Amber, for the duration of the journey.”

  “Ah. But just what are MacGuffins?”

  “Essentially, battle bodies. Killer bio-machines. They are named after their originator, Andreas MacGuffin who developed them two centuries ago and was soon forced to close down operations. Legal operations, that is. Since then they crop up from time to time. They are owned by mercenaries and assassins such as Mr. Amber. When they are captured—which is not often—they are destroyed. Hence their rarity.”

  “I gather that if Amber was found in this body, with his reputation, there would be one less.”

  “Oh, absolutely not! He is of no harm to me, if I were convinced of his harmlessness to this mission. I operate outside human codes, you must remember, Mr. Spigot. I daresay, I would request the same of him as of you. But I find your presence in the MacGuffin preferable.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Only your aid, if need be. I trust you are aware of the goals, the hopes of this mission. More specifically, it is an expression of my own philosophy of existence ... a kinetic metaphor, if you will. Life is a shared experience that, with cooperation, can offer new discoveries, new pleasures. By constructing a ship suitable for habitation for all species of intelligent life known specifically humans and Morapns, since it is their mutual coexistence which is the goal—there exists a mingling of understanding. It is my hope that the humans aboard—and a singularly influential bunch they are—will come to understand alien ways, by understanding alien joys first. How can two creatures hate one another when they comprehend that the other’s goals are not threatening?”

  “Like throwing a party and inviting everyone to get drunk.”

  “Drunk? Ah. Inebriated! Yes. To dissolve their barriers. A socializing device. A good metaphor, Mr. Spigot. That is exactly what I am after. Not only is the Star Fall a symbol of the invisible connection between the Morapn civilization and the Terran, it is an active, ongoing experience which I hope will run for some time, continuing the party, as it were. Naturally it is hoped that everyone enjoys themselves not merely for their own sake but for the sake of universal peace as well. There are, however, problems. And this is the reason I might have use of your aid at some point. It is always good to have the use of a body as well-equipped as yours.”

  “Problems?”

  “Alas, yes. There are elements of your society, your human civilization, who do not wish to see this mission a success. The idea of associating with alien life forms is appalling to them. They are true xenophobes. They would like to see the human race conquer all space, all planets, and dominate rather than coexist. I have reason to believe there are agents of this sort aboard. If they act, I could have need of you.”

  “I’m not the violent sort—but I can only say yes, in the interest of the success of this mission.”

  “Excellent. It is settled. In the meanwhile the best way to assist at the moment is to venture out, sample everything that is offered. Moral codes of constipated societies and religion have no place here. What feels good, is good. In short, Mr. Spigot, indulge. Watch how other races indulge. Understand their pleasures. Have fun.”

  “It sounds good to me.”

  “Yes, yes. Try to comprehend us Morapns.”

  Todd indicated the orgabox. “Do you all have those contraptions fitted to you?”

  “No. Only one.”

  “Why?”

  “It controls the character I affect when I speak to any human, Mr. Spigot. It controls both my mannerisms and my thoughts, molding them into patterns that are understandable to humans. I can walk among you easily, assured that this, my translator of not merely speech and meaning but of attitude and viewpoint, can render what normally I might find incomprehensible in humanity into simplicity. You see, after all, I am a Morapn. Without my orgabox I would be nothing more to you than a mute, frightening alien. There would be practically no communication.”

  “I must say I feel more at home with you than I ever thought I would.” Todd sipped at the whiskey sour that had been prepared for him.

  “This is most gratifying,” said Ort Eath. “However, this system is not yet entirely perfected. I am presently working on my voice, which alas is rather flat. Anger is the only aspect of emotion that I can indicate by voice modulation. I am working on others. Hopefully, I shall one day laugh through my orgabox. And I would like to really comprehend what is meant by humor.”

  Todd found the notion amusing and ingratiating.

  “Now, I’m afraid I have other things to attend to,” said Ort Eath. “I must dismiss you. But the computer extension in your room will answer any further questions. Your predicament will be taken care of immediately. I shall notify you if ever I have need of you.”

  The alien rose from his seat and somehow seemed not quite so bizarre. Yet the
re was still a quality of the unknown about him that put Todd off.

  “Thank you,” was all that Todd said as he stood to depart. “Farewell, then, Mr. Spigot. Do enjoy yourself. By the by, have you a taste for opera?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Ah, a shame. I am staging a most unusual version of Wagner’s Ring cycle in the course of the voyage utilizing my fellow Morapns on board. Thanks to my orgabox, I have some understanding of your arts. I find Richard Wagner’s works most arresting. Most appealing indeed. I would encourage you to attend.”

  On that note, Todd left, taking the path described by Ort Eath to get to his quarters. He yearned for privacy and rest ... away from all excitement and disorientation.

  He took the readily available transportation in a haze of thought and disbelief. Could it all end this simply, after the hours of frenetic chase and fear? And what about all the things he’d stumbled upon. To say that a whole new world ... no, new universe, had opened to him, was to understate the matter. And still the mystery of Hunk was unresolved. Would he have the leisure to find out? It appeared so.

  Deposited close to his prescribed cabin by the tube-car, he was soon at the door, trying to figure out the proper use of the magnetic key that Ort Eath had given him. Just as he fumbled the square-shaped device into place, the door seemed to open of its own volition.

  Standing before him was Alexandra Durtwood. “Hey, kid,” she said “You’re just in time for your party.” She jerked a thumb behind her. “Guests are already here.”

  A claw streaked around the side of the doorway and securely latched Todd’s wrist.

  * * *

  She sipped her steaming coffee, which smelled to Amber like burned nuts. “Oh, yes, of course it was a simulated adventure. Don’t you think the crew deserves some jollies occasionally?”

  Philip Amber shifted his ponderous body uncomfortably in the hard plastic canteen seat. He had changed back into the tasteless clothes Spigot had dumped along with his body, but meant to trade them soon. Hardly noticing what he was doing, he took frequent sips of his cold black Amersian tea, clinking ice balls. “But you said we’d all be destroyed. It was a bit disconcerting.”

  She shrugged, congenial features relaxing into a pleasant smile. Just the melodrama. You know ... dire danger, the paranoid plot. You want to hear the whole thing? They didn’t do a bad job of it. Not quite as stunning as a real-fic, but it was good for a cheap thrill.”

  “Pardon?” Amber slid a pack of dopes from his coat. Always nice being in a new body not used to any smoking substance. The effect was much more powerful. Amber liked to smoke.

  “Yeah. Real-fics are different. Easier. But, like, you only get one genuine adventure. That one you saw was mine ... or part of it. That kind of programmed adventure is based entirely on the psychic evaluative measurement they do on you when you enter. You know, how far you are from individuation ... Shadow, animus, ego, libido—how well they’re combined. What your symbols are. What situation aboard the ship proper would appeal to you. And then,” she made a two-handed gesture alluding to the environs, the whole ship, “with the quite extensive facilities, they supply you with the adventure ... and the characters about you to act it out with. It seems real.”

  “And yours called for you to get the hell bashed out of you by security guards after you babbled about ‘antimatter’ to the astonishment of a new arrival.”

  She laughed and nodded. Above her head an old-style slow-fan stirred the air. “I have odd needs, I suppose. I must admit, it surprised me too, Philip. I’m sorry to get you involved.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty upset.”

  She tilted her head so that her tawny hair rustled. She stared at Amber. A curious feeling pricked him. My God—he hadn’t had the sensation since—since he couldn’t remember when. Since Simone, maybe. Gropes and gasps and good byes since then. He wasn’t sure just why. “The general consensus is that there is no antimatter,” she said coyly. “Just a scientific ghost story. Something to include in 3-D dramas. And then engineers struck it in mine.”

  “I see,” he muttered, looking at her face. No, it wasn’t her face that moved him. He’d seen faces like that in every shop-mall in the galaxy. It was the blue-green eyes that caught his fancy ... something very deep and strange inside them ...

  He told himself to cut this sort of thinking out. It was this sort of sentimental crap that tore down the barriers of his repressed emotions. That was the trouble ... and the better he got that fixed, the safer he was.

  “Now, let’s talk about you, Philip. I must admit, I’m most interested in your situation. That Body Parlour certainly landed you with a problem. I’ve never quite seen the like. But of course it can be easily enough corrected.”

  He hadn’t told her the whole truth. Only that he’d had an accident on Deadrock and had to use a temporary body to get back to Earth. She seemed to buy it ... and God knew, it made more sense than the actual course of events. “You can bet I’m looking forward to that,” he said emphatically. “But what do I do in the meantime? It’s driving me crazy.”

  “The drugs given you should effectively deal with that. I’m sorry we can’t operate now. Actually, I’m quite interested in what it looks like. Haven’t heard about anything quite like it for a while.”

  Amber laughed. “And that’s why you’ve taken time to talk to me?”

  She smiled. Not a professional Med/Sec smile ... but something that hinted at tenderness. “Not entirely. I like you. I’ve the evening off, and I thought I could show a new passenger around. Besides, I figured I’d better explain that little number I did on your head back in the orientation chamber.”

  “I’m surprised,” said Amber.

  “Well, what do you say? Call it a ship’s courtesy. If you have any more anxiety attacks, you have a certified physician with you.”

  “All right. But I’m afraid I’m not in the most presentable apparel for a social evening.” He prodded his face with a fingertip. “But I suppose it will have to do for the duration.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I like the way you look. It’s different.”

  “All the same,” Amber said, meaning it. “I feel kind of sorry for the guy who had to wear it before me.”

  * * *

  “I must warn you,” said Todd, “I’m very antisocial.”

  “That’s all right,” responded Alexandra Durtwood. “We’re going to teach you to open up more.”

  The clawed hand had jerked him in, and the door had immediately closed. Suddenly looming beside Todd was what appeared to be a walking boulder. Its skin was of some craggy, pitted combination of minerals. Gold and silver and milk-quartz glittered on its surface as it abruptly grew a rocky limb, which insinuated itself between Todd and the door mechanism, preventing any hope of Todd’s departure.

  With the creatures circling him, Todd realized that his discussion with Ort Eath had lulled him into a premature sense of security. How could Ort have known that Alexandra had already drummed up her revenge?

  And what a bunch. If this was a party, as Alexandra had called it, then it was Halloween for sure. Todd ardently hoped so.

  “All right,” said the beautiful woman, stepping back a pace to clear herself from danger. “Get him before he pulls one of his tricks. Remember he’s dangerous.”

  Okay Hunk, thought Todd. You seem good at dealing with this sort of thing. Do something!

  But nothing happened. No tricks. Nothing! Todd maintained full control. He back-pedaled, hands outstretched imploringly before him.

  “Listen, Alexandra. I’m not who you think I am. I’ve even talked to the owner of this damned ship. He was about to get you off my back. Now believe me, or you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

  With one hand he reached behind him groping for the control knobs of the com-unit. If he could only signal for help. But his actions did not go unnotic
ed ...

  The single human among the woman’s hirelings—a squat, muscular sort with a scarred doughy face—bounded forward with astounding speed. A flash of hand; a karate chop smashed in the plastic of the com-unit. Sparks crackled in the twisted machinery; wisps of smoke twirled toward the ceiling. The thick-set man turned to Todd and showed perfect white teeth in a grin.

  “Nothin’ personal, buddy.”

  Todd’s neck tingled. He wheeled and was confronted by a snake pit’s worth of tentacle members twining around the room. A Deevian.

  There was nothing to do but resist.

  He slammed a fist against the side of one of the things and felt his body’s power surging through him, lending him confidence. Snatching his hand away, he saw he had broken the skin—a thick spinach-colored fluid dripped. And was that a groan from the creature? Thank God—at least they didn’t have weapons.

  Todd pounded at both of their gourd heads; some of the tentacles rose in defense; but there were still plenty left for offense. Suddenly the human—what was he, some kind of fighting expert?—was raining blows and kicks, jabbering Chinese into the bargain.

  It didn’t hurt much. Evidently the stuff with which he was made was tough—with a limited surface nerve area designed for higher pain thresholds. But the clobberings didn’t exactly help. And with this triumvirate hemming him in, and those other two backing them up, and with the door securely shut, all he could do was thrash away as best he could.

  He dodged and dived, dipped and jumped, flailing for a way out. Vaguely, in the background, he could hear Alexandra giggling. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was throttle the woman. He was furious. With a penetrating lurch he pushed toward Alexandra in the corner.

  Alexandra stopped tittering. A little fright showed in her eyes. “Stop him!”

  The other three were near his back, a couple meters away—and he was charging, fast, anger driving him hell-bent at Alexandra. She was the weak point. She had hired these thugs. No Alexandra, no payment—and he could probably bribe them with less himself. There was no question that he had to take the matter in hand.