Star Fall

by David Bischoff

  But the sysiphun—a gigantic muted crayfish—stepped in his path, reached out with its claws. Todd ducked, instinctively slogged a straight arm past the thing’s chitinous defenses straight into its optical cluster. He caught hold of a bunch of eyestalks like a handful of posies. And tugged. Eyeballs bulged, popped out like falling marbles. The thing squealed and staggered away, the claws up and clicking.

  He could feel the power now ... he was learning to use the MacGuffin. It was a matter of emotional determination somehow that hit whatever buttons the thing had. And the sight of Alexandra Durtwood in the corner, wide-eyed, renewed his purpose.

  He felt a restraining tentacle from one of the Deevian’s wind about his leg, hard, almost tripping him. Instead of turning to fight, though, he kicked away hard, stretching the thing, snapping it. It fell wriggling for the floor as Todd dashed the two meters that remained. The only obstacle left was the rock thing. What was it for? It hadn’t done a thing, just stood there like a lump. It didn’t seem very fast, so if he could just run quickly around it, prepared for whatever odd appendages might jet forth from its bulky body ...

  With a quick maneuver Todd danced around the rock thing gracefully.

  Wonderful, he thought. I’m going to make—

  And it fell on him.

  Not a leisurely, graceful, hesitating fall. It simply swiped down as some black hand might swipe at a fly. Before he knew what had happened, Todd found his chest and arms pinned to the floor. The thing had levered itself by some kind of stone hook snagged on the bolted-down couch and was crouching heavily on his chest.

  It hurt. It felt like a mountain had fallen on him. He found it difficult to breathe, the pressure was so great. Only his legs were free. They kicked fruitlessly.

  Gasping, he tried to get them into a position to push upwards. But the human had wrenched himself from the tri-D wreckage and began to make sure that his legs got in no such position.

  Even if they had, it was doubtful they would have done any good. This thing on top of him was heavy. Todd looked up and saw a porthole-sized opening appear just above his head. A maw ... a mouth, like a funnel filled with teeth, chewing toward him.

  “No,” said Alexandra, obviously recovered. “Not yet.” Todd could see her peering down with a sickening grin on her face. “I want to enjoy this.”

  The sysiphun was off in the corner, clicking and whining, but the Deevians danced around like shambling, murderous sea polyps, set to watch and assist when called upon. The human stayed behind chuckling to himself.

  “Not much that body of yours can do now,” said Alexandra. “I selected my assistants carefully.” She leered at Todd.

  Talking was like trying to squeeze toothpaste from the wrong end of a depleted tube but he managed to spit out: “Won’t—you even—check?”

  She waved the object teasingly. His vision was blurring; he could make out studs, buttons, and a sharp glittering attachment like a miniature switchblade. “What? And get whatever law there is on this boat after me for waylaying one of their passengers? I’m not dumb. I’ve got you now and frankly, I don’t want to hear any more from you. I really don’t care now if you aren’t Amber.”

  “What good is your anger,” Todd managed.

  She spat in his eye and stood. “I don’t get angry, Amber. I get even!” She turned her attention from Todd. “Wilbur, leave off the legs. Help me with this. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, sure.” His ever-present grin wide, the stocky man ambled over. “What’s the problem?”

  “I have to get this clamp loose so I can fit it over his head. We’ve got to get it tight so that the drill slips in the right place or we won’t find the proper nerve nexus.”

  “How come we can’t just off him now?” the man asked. “I don’t like the idea of staying here too long, know what I mean? Security— ”

  “Yes,” muttered Todd. “You can’t escape in this closed system. They’ll find you.”

  “Shut up!” she shrilled. Her hands were shaking now. “Darn it, I don’t care. I just ... I just ... Wilbur, hold this.” She passed the machine to the man. “And don’t drop it. Took me forever to get that out of Med/Sec.”

  Wilbur shook his head in exasperation. “Now look, let’s get on with this. We got the sucker pinned. We earned our bread. Like I say, I don’t wanna get involved no further.”

  Alexandra shivered as though in a gust of icy wind. Todd was heaving with all his strength just to keep the strange alien beastie from crushing his rib cage. He felt let down ... Maybe this wasn’t a MacGuffin after all. And it looked as though this was about it.

  “Get on with it,” said Wilbur, exasperation plain in his voice. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “No one understands.” Alexandra sighed, pacing, quite frantically now, back and forth.

  “I understand, Alexandra,” said Todd, grasping at straws. “Everyone hated you. Except your father. Isn’t that right? All your life was hurt and tears, and you withdrew into a tight little ball. The only things sweet in your life were chocolate and your father. And now your father’s been taken from you. I bet that’s not your true body, is it? I bet that your father bought you a brand new one for your twenty-first birthday. One that was not ugly or fat ... one that people liked ... one that made people care.”

  Her features were contorted now in a rictus of uncertainty. “How did?” she staggered as Wilbur watched, obviously appalled. “How could you possibly know?”

  “You just want to pay the universe back for taking your father away, right, Alexandra Durtwood? But listen. I do understand. This isn’t my real body either. I’ve been where you’ve been. I know what it’s all like ... and it must have been much worse for you. I understand. Look, I can even help. Just call these things off, huh?” It was taking all of his will and effort to form coherent speech, but he realized it was his only hope. “It won’t do you any good to kill me. It won’t make things any better—it won’t put any more sweetness into your life. You need help. You need someone who understands.”

  “Look, lady. Do it now,” insisted Wilbur. “And no fooling around with torture or anything like that. Now, dammit!”

  The aliens stood still, not understanding—waiting for orders—perhaps believing all of this was part of some strange human death ritual. Wilbur had lost his grin entirely and was obviously trying to decide what to do. The rock thing stayed put over Todd. Alexandra began to sob.

  “Cut this crap!” said Wilbur, clutching the device. “You got us into this; we gotta finish it. We’ll settle with you later.” He spoke to the others in harsh command and they gathered closer to Todd. The device, in Wilbur’s hands, descended. The brawny man had fixed it so that it held a horseshoe shape. Todd could see now that it was prickly with needles, and held one long diamond drill in its center.

  “I swear, I won’t go after you if you let me go,” blurted Todd.

  “Sorry.” The clamp settled onto Todd’s head. Immediately his body cringed in pain.

  “This won’t take long,” said Wilbur. “And then the gigamex can eat the evidence.”

  The pounding pain made him kick his legs. He could feel them slamming against the floor in frustration as the unbearable pain grew ... and the machine began to hum. He looked up with what vision he had. He could see that Wilbur’s eyes were filled with a kind of sadistic glee.

  Abruptly, something seemed wrong with his legs. No—not both of them. Just one. It felt like he had just kicked off a boot—like he used to do with his galoshes after a traipse through the snow. Pressure ... and then release. But it was different here because suddenly he had no feeling at all in his right leg.

  Something clopped onto the top of the rock creature.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Wilbur. Suddenly the jack hammer pain in his head ceased. Todd craned his head, looking to see what the man was staring at.

  A leg.


  Perched atop the upper surface of the gigamex stood an upright leg!

  A man’s leg, cut off at mid-thigh, bare save for a shoe and a green and red plaid stocking.

  Todd’s leg.

  As Todd stared, bewildered, holes irised on each side of the ankle bone. Metal rods extruded, reinforcing the thing’s stance into a crazy tripod. Similar rods grew from hatches just above the knee. On the top of the severed limb, a sight poked up, tracking for a shot.

  “Quick,” cried Wilbur. “Get it!”

  One of the Deevians stepped forward, tentacles stretched to grab hold of the enemy leg. Quickly, the little cannon swiveled toward it, halted, issuing forth a thin energy beam which nimbused the alien in a coruscating glow.

  The Deevian dropped like a bag of wet cement.

  The beam did not stop, but began to slowly arc around to the other Deevian, who was caught in a similar fashion by the beam and dropped as well.

  “Gigamex!” shouted Wilbur. “Get it off you!”

  The stun beam had already connected with the sysiphun, which was not in much of a position to fight anyway, chittering over the loss of some of its eyes. But a rocky pseudo-pod sprang up in an eruption from the skin of the rock beast. Sledge-hammer, long, it made to bash into the one-leg army. Just before the point of impact, however, the leg crouched, and then jumped, neatly avoiding the blow. Its sailing lunge was foot-first—steaming rockets burst from concealed nozzles, propelling it faster through the air. The heel caught Wilbur directly on the chest slamming him against the hard wall. Already unconscious, he oozed down the wall to flop on the floor.

  The automated leg eased down to the floor.

  Todd was hurting too much to think further past the fact that the leg was his salvation. “Get this thing off me before it decides to use its mouth.”

  The leg briskly hopped over to the side of the boulder creature. It leaned against the corrugated mineral hide of the thing and a harsh buzzing ensued. The leg, with the aid of its metal appendages, hobbled away.

  Slowly, the gigamex arose like a falling mountain in slow-motion reverse.

  Not hesitating a moment, Todd scampered from its shadow and tried to stand. He keeled over onto his face, right in front of the leg. Pushing himself up on his arms, he stared quizzically at the thing.

  From its top, two photoelectric optical units rose up. They stared down at Todd with almost a bemused aspect. “You okay?” it asked.

  THROUGH THE gleaming streamers of Extrareality events pulsed. The Weavers monitored the delicate tapestry of space-time as it shivered, sparkling about them.

  “He is a Master indeed,” commented one.

  “Ah, but is he fully in control?”

  “His presence in the matter is revealed. His Twining has finally begun. A Master has not control; rather he plays with the controls, the givens.”

  “I think he plays too much.”

  “It is hard to say. This is no normal event-sequence. The plot unravels without the control.”

  “And this is how we interpret these events then? Plot? Character? Complication? Perhaps I have been too long in the clouds, friend. I do not understand.”

  “He inhabits the Twilight of juxtaposed Chaos and Law, of emotion and thought, rationality and irrationality. It is in these terms that we interpret the proceedings. The results, if positive will enrich us all.”

  “And if they are negative? Which appears likely at this point, I might say.”

  The whirl of wind-chime. The subtle shifting of contrapuntal thought-flow. “That is hard to say. It is the reality of origin, and our anchor. If it shifts ... Can we help but shift?”

  A shroud of darkling silence settled over the starry clime as they felt again for the pulse ...

  * * *

  Melodrama.

  That’s all they wanted, thought Dennison sourly. No soul, no tragedy, no goddamned feeling.

  You can play Chopin, Bach, and Beethoven on your piano with breathless subtlety, and all they want is “Chopsticks.”

  Russell Dennison smoked entirely too much.

  By his own admission he smoked too much, and when he said that, he was making an understatement. If there were such things as chain smokers, then Dennison was a chain mail smoker, stuffing two or three cigarettes in his mouth at once, puffing furiously on them all.

  Tobacco, nosesmokes, dopers, marijuana; he’d smoke anything, whether wrapped in paper or tamped tightly in a pipe. In his thirty-five years of life, he’d sucked his way through tons of vegetable matter. Certainly, he’d gone through four lungs—and the fifth was due for a good cleaning, at least.

  He took the Denebian cigar from his mouth and coughed. Not a simple, polite cough, but a ragged, phlegmy hacking. Ashes from the brown, smoldering cigar flaked off and tumbled over the computer readouts he was going over. And still he hacked. Reaching over, he gulped for a cup of ultracaffeinated black coffee. Still he coughed. He poured himself a tumbler of cheap wine, hoping it would douse the fires for a while.

  It did.

  Shaking nervously he picked up the paperwork and wished ardently he was back writing 3-D.

  Banks of computer terminals were arrayed about him, holding 2-D screens that peered into every corner of the entertainment night aboard the Star Fall. Various assistants took readings and fiddled here and there with the machines. Some were having a great time, sitting at their typewriter consoles and working up separate plots for passengers. Having a marvelous time, sipping beer, smoking packs of cigarettes and chuckling to themselves. Probably thought they were damned clever, pretty damned fine writers, he thought glumly.

  He always had to hook those personal plots up to the computer for a rewrite anyway. Still, if the programmers weren’t here, he’d have to do all the work.

  He smoothed back his thinning hair, wondering absently if he should trade in his body after the trip—after all with the wad of money he’d get from this job, he could actually slip into a younger more resistant body and give up his cherished awful habits.

  He shrugged and stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

  Probably not.

  He’d just gotten readouts on the passengers. A pretty easy lot to satisfy, it seemed. A little tits and ass James Bond stuff for the men. Some rape and romance for the women ... they were easier. Give ‘em a True Love to dream over, a little conflict—maybe a bug-eyed monster to be saved from. Fortunately, a lot of the men really dug the roles the women wanted them to play. Adventure engineering could be real easy, if you made the right male/female matches. Fantasy tended to complement itself, thank God!

  Dennison riffled through the readouts. Soon they would be processed into adventures for folks who had little else to occupy their minds. Scuds of gray smoke floated from his cigar.

  Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

  He jumped. Papers flew. His cigar dropped. “What the—” he swiveled around so that his thin, aquiline nose pointed straight at the man who disturbed him.

  Captain MacNeil. Ort Eath’s spear carrier.

  “Sorry, Dennison,” MacNeil apologized when he saw the engineer’s cross expression. “Didn’t know you’d be startled.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  MacNeil held up a magcard. “From Ort Eath. Surveillance program. Along with precise instructions in regard to subjects under scrutiny.”

  Dennison grabbed the card. “What’s the score?”

  “I haven’t gone over the material.”

  “Special orders, huh? The boss wants to dabble. Gets off on it.”

  “Ours is not to reason why, Mr. Dennison.”

  Dennison plugged it in. Information flowed forth across the screen, prominently and often displaying the names SPIGOT and AMBER.

  When he saw what else the card held, Dennison’s eyebrows rose with consternation. He reached for his tumbler of wine even as M
acNeil punctiliously departed.

  * * *

  When Todd Spigot was six years old, a carnival came to town.

  A shoddy affair by current galactic standards, it wandered the decrepit mining towns of Deadrock like a tattered, giggling ghost of joy.

  Todd had heard of this carnival long before its arrival, and had waited anxiously. His father, however, took a dim view of such frivolous activities. His mother wondered as to its sanctity in the eye of God.

  But Todd had for once set his mind.

  Just as he had set his mind on the Star Fall.

  And now, sitting in a cafe, drinking barrel-brewed old German dark beer, he decided that for the second time in his life obstinacy was worth the effort. Todd leaned luxuriously back in his seat and sighed. The robo-waiter clopped another old-fashioned bottle under his nose, a faint whitish bubbling rising up its neck. Todd grasped it and poured. The beer effervesced up the sides of his mug into a thick white head.

  He stared at it lovingly, well into a goodly sized drunk. It was there that Philip Amber found him.

  * * *

  “Have a good day?” Amber shifted from foot to foot, almost nervously. He regarded Spigot with an uneasy mixture of anger and compassion.

  Spigot regarded him with a surprise that slowly melted into wariness. “Yes. Thank you.” He made a stab at an awkward smile. “Care for a seat? We have things to discuss, I think.”

  Amber tossed something onto the table. It rolled, and clunked against Todd’s mug. Rocked to a halt.

  About the size of a ping-pong ball, it looked like a crudely soldered transistor radio. Tiny metal filaments protruded like twisted spines on a sea urchin. The plastic surface was dulled by a patina of dried blood.