STAR HOUNDS -- OMNIBUS

by David Bischoff

  “Dear lady,” Captain Northern said, still radiating his rumpled boyish glow, “the Jaxdron will wait with your brother. They’ve made it perfectly plain that they are going to be delighted with our arrival, after extending their rather ineffable invitation through poor Jitt. Meanwhile, adventure’s afoot, and last one there’s a heel!”

  “Your attitude really steams me sometimes, Northern!”

  “My attitude, my dear, is my own, and so is this ship. Though you have deigned to bless us with your company.” Captain Northern executed a mock-gallant bow. “Please be advised that I am still in charge!”

  “What does some hunk of ancient metal have to do with anything?” Laura found herself saying the words almost automatically, just to be contrary.

  Captain Northern’s deep blue eyes seemed to twinkle. “More than you might think, Ms. Shemzak! More than you might think.” He was clearly in one of his unpredictably manic moods, his graceful movements a dance of delight at some secret joke, his long delicate features parading excited emotions.

  This Northern character was a quixotic sort, no question, Laura thought. But she found him strangely fascinating. He was like a buccaneer in one of those swashbucklers that Cal liked … only quite crazed, and periodically depressive and somber.

  Now he pointed his finger in the air like a maestro wielding a baton above an orchestra, about to direct a frenzied symphony. “Time to call up Mr. Shontill, Lieutenant Mayz. Doctor, might I borrow a brace of your robots to escort our friend to the bridge? This may get him in one of his”—the captain showed even white teeth in a silly smile—“excited moods.”

  “Quite,” said Dr. Mish. “I believe that General Patton and Attila the Hun are sufficiently empowered to control any untoward actions on our guest’s part.”

  Attila the Hun? thought Laura. That was a new one. In the days since the Jaxdron encounter near Baleful, Dr. Mish’s robot factory had been busy. First it had to reproduce Mish’s own fatherly-scientist type from the copy blasted by the Jaxdron robots in their successful bid to break free of the Starbow’s powerful tractor beam. Then it had to replace those Starbow robots that had been destroyed by the alien berserkers as they fought their way to the bridge and to Dr. Mish.

  If Captain Tars Northern could be characterized as a manic-depressive loon anchored by a strong sense of duty and mission, then Dr. Michael Mish—and thus, the intelligence of this very ship itself—might be dubbed unclassifiably eccentric.

  His crew of robots was a case in point. They did not look like robots at all, but like human beings. And they were all limited simulacrums of famous Earth military leaders. They were primarily used in boarding ships that the Starbow attacked, but also did double duty as servants, allowing the Starbow crew of some thirty officers to live quite comfortably, with no menial work to speak of. But Laura found them as weird as women’s beards.

  She stood back, watching with fascination the activity aboard the bridge as the crew went about the business of redirecting the course of the Starbow. The ship went from the supra-Einsteinian dimension called Underspace, back to the normal galactic way of things. From what she could tell as she listened to the voices call off readings, the derelict spacecraft was caught in orbit around a red-giant star. The star was surrounded by eight planets, huge flecks of cold cinders around a dying furnace, none holding any life. Spectrum analysis showed the definite presence of Fault influence, a fact that seemed to excite Dr. Mish inordinately.

  Personally, Laura could not get too excited about all this Fault business—this strange dimension that everyone wanted to enter and study. All she cared about was rescuing her brother. She found that the best way to achieve her goals was to focus upon one at a time and let the others be of little consequence. True, from the sound of it, the very reason that Cal had been captured by the Jaxdron was because of his association with the study of this dimension. But as far as Laura was concerned, the fact remained that the aliens had her brother, and she wanted him back safe—Federation, Jaxdron and universe be damned!

  By the time Shontill arrived on the bridge, everything was ready. All calculations had been made, the course had been set, and the Starbow had been put on an automatic pilot that would whisk it back through the veil between Underspace and normal reality.

  The alien strode calmly through the door, ducking his head to get through, bookended by the two robots that had been detailed to retrieve him. Although the starship’s superiors clearly had some trepidation concerning Shontill’s reaction to learning this bit of information, the only difference in the alien that Laura could detect was a hard gleam in its (his? her?) eye which, humanly interpreted, looked more like determination than excitement and enthusiasm.

  Still, though the creature completely ignored her, it gave Laura the jitters, the memory of its reaction to her intrusion upon its private quarters clear in her memory.

  When Laura had first encountered Shontill, the alien being had been horrifying, a Lovecraftian nightmare of tentacles and teeth in a nutrient-rest tank. But it had a metamorphic talent, and could change to a humanoid shape and breathe (raspingly) through sets of laterally placed gills in its neck and body. It still wore the robe Laura had last seen it in over its greenish body. Wide, proud nostrils flared as its eyes took in the movements on the bridge—the dancing lights, the yellow and green data lettering the ship’s vu-screens.

  “Ah, Shontill!” called out Northern. “My dear, dear fellow! So good of you to—”

  The alien’s voice was a deep vibrato and definitely understandable, but nonetheless quite inhuman. “I expected … your summoning …. I sense the relic … I pray for revelation … yet lain prepared … for disappointment.”

  “Remarkable,” returned Northern. “Now Shontill, we don’t know for sure that this is one of your race’s starships, even though the readings—”

  “The ship! … Frin’ral” Shontill’s voice rang authoritatively. “I can … sense it! You doubt me, Captain Northern?” Something like anger seemed to glow in its alien eyes.

  Captain Northern raised his hands defensively. “No, no, of course not! And of course we’ll check it out most thoroughly. We haven’t got an attilium reading on the derelict yet but I’m sure that we can get that just as soon as the Starbow breaks back into normal space and we can get near enough to the vessel. It’s out near the edge of the planetary ecliptic, so that should not be too much trouble. Then we’ll have some probes and—”

  “The Frin’ral ship,” said the alien authoritatively, “will be boarded.”

  “Well, I suppose we can send out a few robots—”

  “No. It will be … boarded by … units of life. Robots may trip … traps …. Robots may not … see what can be seen.”

  “Oh, well, if you think that this is absolutely necessary …. If probes and sensors find no danger. I don’t care to place the lives of my crew in jeopardy.”

  “Not necessary,” said Shontill tonelessly. “I will go.”

  “But Shontill! Look here! How is that possible?” Northern demanded. “You have no life suit. Part of that derelict is almost certain to be in vacuum.”

  “I haven’t told you,” said Dr. Mish, “But between us, Shontill and I have effected a quite adequate life-support system for him.”

  Northern paused, considering. “In that case, yes, the party that will accompany you will be human.”

  Clearly, for some reason, Northern wanted the activities of the alien supervised.

  “That party will consist of Ratham Bey,” Northern continued thoughtfully, “Gemma Naquist, and myself. Is this to your satisfaction, Shontill?”

  “Yes … I shall go … to prepare myself … with Dr. Mish’s assistance …. Please consult … your data … concerning the vessel … in which you found me … for preparation … purposes.”

  The alien brusquely turned and departed.

  Laura walked up to a thoughtful Capta
in Northern.

  “I’m going too!” she said.

  Northern lifted his eyebrows. “Are you now, indeed?”

  “Yes. I owe you that much, Northern. I’m the best in this sort of business. If there’s danger in that ship, my intuitive abilities will be able to sense it. I think you know you can trust me now. I have committed myself, after all, to the purposes of this starship.”

  “What do you think, Doctor?” Northern said, smiling faintly. “Do you think we should let Laura come along with us?”

  “Oh, certainly. She may well be right,” the doctor said. “And it hardly seems likely that there will be any clones of her brother that she will want to shoot.”

  “If you like, just disarm me!” Laura volunteered cheerfully. She was too curious about the alien derelict to allow them to explore it without her, and willing to make all kinds of concessions if necessary.

  Northern stroked his chin, considering for a moment. Then he broke into an accepting grin. “Why not, Laura? You’re always good for a laugh, at least.”

  “Thank you!” Laura said, expecting an argument. Suddenly, she found herself giving him an impulsive kiss on the cheek. The gesture surprised Northern, and he blinked.

  Embarrassed herself, Laura smiled inanely, then went to get herself fitted for an EVA suit.

  Her lips felt warm from the touch of his beard-stubbled skin and the scent of him lingered in her nostrils. She remembered the times that he had touched her, and the memory seemed to warm her, flush her face.

  Damn! What’s wrong with me, she thought. That damned dispenser must be giving me too much.

  She flung the thought of Captain Tars Northern from her mind and made her way toward the suit room.

  Chapter Six

  Some three centuries before, Earth—Terra, the birthplace to humankind, the center of the galactic Federation, had undergone radical changes cosmetically, ecologically, and environmentally. Since the Industrial Revolution began in England so many years before, despite all manner of wars, pestilence, and famine, the human population of the planet grew in leaps and bounds, covering the far corners of the world with people. Despite strong efforts by numerous governments to curtail it, this growth spawned all manner of habitation centers, which in turn created all manner of problems, from pollution to mass sociological disturbances. Upon the embarkation of mankind to other worlds in waves upon waves of colonization, these problems were eased, but the scars remained. Much of Earth had become one sprawling city, once food was not so dependent upon large stretches of farmed land. And so when the population of Earth was finally placed under rigid control by the newly emerged Friendhood, the world found itself swimming in an ocean of ceramic, nanocomposites, permacrete, and alloys, structures it no longer needed.

  The best planetscapers were brought in, and renovation began—a gentrification of the world, returning to it a part of its original wildness, bulldozing back most of the evidences of man’s presence to the borders of modernized population centers and allowing a disciplined Nature to hold sway again. Most of the Earth was molded into one large stately park, testament to the powers of the Friendhood and a living reminder of the biological and ecological glories that had given birth to its brightest flower: humankind.

  Large tracts of this global park were cordoned off for the exclusive use of members of the immense bureaucratic network that ran the Federation, known as the Friendhood. This government consisted of Underfriends—the tens of thousands of individuals doing small jobs on Earth and the many other human-populated planets in the Federation; Friends—the heads of the many various departments; and Overfriends—the group directly wielding the largest amount of power, be it judicial, legislative, or executive.

  Friend Chivon Lasster, a willowy attractive blonde, traveled in one of these parks now: a preserve, woodsy and hilly, in the part of the Northern Hemisphere once known as northern California. She rode in an aircar, alone, on what she had reported to her monitoring superiors to be a simple Sunday outing to get some fresh air and sunshine unfiltered by the air and light processors of the Block, where her home and office were located.

  The forest here was mostly deciduous, the air laden with the fresh scent of pine. She flew low and slowly to savor the redolent breeze. The sun was not yet hot nor high, and a gentle bit of mist, remnant of dawn, was slowly drifting away from the valley where a stream flowed like a melted blue ribbon through the greens and browns of ground and trees, the sharp gray of rock, the white of rapids.

  Chivon Lasster was troubled, though, and not even all this scenery, which was a treasured retreat, could prevent the nervous uncertainty and the doubt in her heart.

  She followed the river for some miles, then, recognizing a few telltale markers, knew she was on the right trail and veered off toward a hill. At the top of this hill was a cabin, a small spartan structure of wood and stone with a shingled roof and a chimney. Chivon parked her aircar and went inside, carrying with her a suitcase and a slim briefcase.

  She sat back in a reclining chair in the cool place, but finding she could not relax, she rose, opened the suitcase, and took out a bottle. The cabin, though lacking the varied amenities of her high-tech home, was equipped with basic necessities: a kitchen stocked with supplies, a refrigerator, hot and cold running water, glasses and dishes, firewood, baseboard heating—all powered by a microwave dish seated on a nearby tower which received power via satellite then stored it in batteries below the ground.

  There was no communication link to this cabin, no spectrum or Underspace radio signals could penetrate the short-range dampening field that Chivon had with her. Hence, it was the most private place on Earth that Chivon Lasster could think of. Since it had no access to the vast banks within the Big Box, she at first had discounted it as a possibility. But Andrew, her computer therapist, had said no, there are ways around that problem.

  Ah, the rustic life, Chivon Lasster thought to herself wryly as she went to the fridge for some ice. Yes, the trays were full. She broke some up and put the cubes in a glass, then poured herself a small bit of liquor from the virgin bottle and sat down to savor it, to try to unwind.

  Despite herself, she could not help but look at the briefcase on the bed. There were a lot of explanations in the case, a lot of answers to secrets. But she was not sure if she wanted to know about them ….

  She rattled her ice in its glass, then took a sip of the watered liquor. Just plain bourbon this time, nothing exotic. That’s what she told her peers and superiors about her drinking—that she wanted to sample the alcoholic tastes available throughout the universe, narcotic or not. But the truth was, she just liked to drink. She wasn’t afraid of alcoholism. Any signs of that in her health checkups or psycho-profile, and she could be given just a few hours medical treatment and be clean. And she made sure her drinking did not affect the quality or efficiency of her work. She looked at it as a simple modified depressive joy, a reminder of her days with that crazy man, Tars Northern, wistful memories of a few moments of being truly alive, perhaps even happy ….

  Tars Northern. Damn him, she thought. If not for Tars Northern, there would be no doubt in her life, no cause for this dreadful feeling of uncertainty. She could live out her ambition as a brilliant member of this vibrant and vital government, holding a webwork of hundreds and hundreds of planets light-years from one another together, cohered toward a truthful and magnificent destiny for humankind in the galaxy. If not for Tars Northern, she would not—

  She swallowed the rest of her drink. Then, feeling fidgety, she went for another. She poured, but did not drink. The briefcase seemed to beckon her, its shiny brown leatherette soft and inviting. Open me, it seemed to say.

  She put down her drink, went to the case, and unlatched it. There was a slab of machinery within, faceted with light-nubs, buttons, holographic liquid-crystal display screens. Under her fingers it came to startling, sparkling life.

  She took a m
oment to remember Andrew’s instructions. “This is a very special instrument,” he had said, “and to work properly, you must make the proper adjustments. It was not designed by a human mind, so just let go of your judgment and follow your memory. In this way no other individual can summon what it contains.”

  Andrew had then, with her permission, hypnotized her and implanted the key words. She had previously found the case and its contents where he had told her she would find it—in an unlocked cabinet in an empty computer maintenance room. Now she found her fingers dancing over the controls seemingly of their own volition, first tapping the right switches and buttons, then summoning up the correct program keys.

  COMPLETE, a screen reported. READY FOR SUBWAVE TRANSMISSION. ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.

  Chivon obeyed, and waited as the equipment made the connections. An aerial web grew from the back of the electronics. Light rods protruded, came alive, and projected a hologram. The colors resolved and the frozen figure held within the multicolored rays of light moved. It was a figure of a man with graying hair, a short beard, and friendly, calm eyes.

  “Hello, Andrew,” she said. “We … we can talk freely now, without threat of the transmission being tapped?”

  “Yes,” replied the figure. “We are using a technology that cannot be detected from outside, Chivon Lasster. Trust me. It would not be to my advantage to disclose my existence.”

  “You … exist,” Chivon said, finding her drink again. “This is a fact that is difficult for me to accept. I always just simply thought of you as being some complicated program purposely created for psychological therapy. Not human.”

  “I never said I was human, Chivon,” said the image. “Even though, for therapeutic purposes of identity-establishment, a holographic model has been programmed into my program, that is merely a facade use, a convenient mask.”

  “I still don’t understand. I’ve been wracking my brain all I can and all I can come up with is the possibility that somewhere in your section of the Block’s computer banks something has gone amiss in the ontology firewall, and an artificial intelligence has been born.”