Analog SFF, July-August 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The shopkeeper offered an infosphere address and a wink. Art linked in—and grinned. He was suddenly high above a stand of trees, slowly drifting. No, not drifting: banking. The soft buzz of a motor filled his mind's ear. “A micro-plane! Can I try it?” A new address let him do just that. Three times, crashes were averted by some briefly invoked override link. Two near-mishaps were clearly his own untrained doing; the third close call he blamed on a ventilation fan kicking on.

  “It's laziness that has me taking control.” The shopkeeper had a trace of the North Martian accent Art had grown up with. “The micro-plane is small and lightweight. That makes the square/ cube ratio low, which means it's strong like a bug. It's actually fairly hard to hurt one by crashing it. I'm just saving myself a walk to the park if it got flipped on its back or stuck in a bush or something."

  Art found himself hooked. “How does it work?"

  A box no larger than a deck of cards was set on the counter. A tiny aircraft lay inside under a clear plastic lid. “This is the plane.” A holo formed, many times life-sized, into which the salesman pointed. “Titanium wire frame. That little loop coming out the top is for handling; most of my customers use hobby tweezers. Wing cloth is woven carbon nanotubes, very thin and light and strong. Micro-electromechanical motor drives the little prop. CCD camera underneath. It could be much smaller, except that would make it inconvenient to handle."

  And infosphere remote control, obviously. “Solar cells in the wing cloth?” Much of his attention remained in the park, swooping and looping.

  “Only on some racing models. A nuclear battery is standard."

  Art split his attention a third way and queried. A nuclear battery seemed to involve a beta-particle source. There were many designs for collecting the charged particles and converting the accumulating static charge into oscillations to drive a piezoelectric generator.

  “Our batteries use a few milligrams of tritium, which has an energy density way higher than anything any chemical battery or fuel cell can provide. The beta particles, electrons that is, drive it. The betas from tritium are very low-speed particles, so the thin plastic seal around the battery is more than enough to stop them. As is the dead-skin layer we all wear. The safety rule is the same as for any battery—don't eat it."

  Bart would love this. Could he be trusted with it? Art had visions of his son spying on his sister and buzzing the neighbors with the toy. “Umm. Is there any way to control how a kid uses this?” That led to a discussion of programmable cruising boundaries, parental control overrides, onboard image-censoring options, and an audible beeper mode.

  He convinced himself: Maybe it wouldn't drive his ex too crazy.

  The transaction took longer than it should have—too much of Art's attention remained in the little robot now looping the loop above the nearby park. Knowing looks exchanged between Carlos and the salesman suggested this wasn't a big shocker.

  They didn't seem surprised either when Art bought a micro-plane for himself.

  * * * *

  The fragmentary message forwarded by an Earth-orbiting InterstellarNet relay had been encrypted using a very old—but nonetheless authentic—public key. T'bck Fwa was the only one within light-years who knew the private key with which to decrypt it. In an instant, any satisfaction in detective work well done was washed away by a tsunami of shock and alarm.

  “Alert. Alert. This is the Unity starship Harmony. We were captured.... “End of fragment.

  The United Planets were clearly allied with the hijackers. What, beyond impotently forwarding home this message, could he do?

  The third watch ended. The fuel-transfer experiment took place.

  Mashkith did not bother to ask the result. No one, neither clan nor prisoner, could have survived any outcome other than a complete success.

  All that remained was to complete refueling—and one more voyage.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 26

  Every inspection trip he made to the Odyssey, every visit to a port repair facility or supply store or fuel depot, made Helmut anxious. It appeared he had successfully misdirected Rothman. Would the next encounter end as well?

  A narrow tunnel linked Norstead Spaceport to Valhalla City. The passage was thronged, as it always was. He strode casually, the day's business done, jostled occasionally by a hurried passerby. Netted imagery from the overhead public sensors let him look around without appearing to watch. Passengers, crew, spaceport employees—no one seemed to be paying attention to him.

  Which proved nothing. Anyone interested in him could also be watching over the net.

  He breathed easier as he emerged from the long tube into the city proper. Corinne was meeting him for drinks and dim sum. Two work buddies relaxing....

  A whoosh of cool air swept the pedestrian mall, and a nearby sensor showed him looking tousled. Ducking into a quiet side corridor, his hand went into a jacket pocket for a comb. He found a folded sheet of paper that did not belong.

  Helmut positioned himself in a corner where no public sensor could peer over his shoulder before unfolding the paper. The note was terse. It contained only a place, a time, and two words that made his blood run cold.

  Frying Dutchman.

  * * * *

  The Willem Vanderkellen of spaceport-bar legends was ever wily and in total control. What Helmut remembered, years later, was confusion and panic and improvisation. Chaos, and barely escaping with his life.

  A small rock like 2009 Sigma r was more docked with than landed upon. Given a precise tangential approach, there was no rocket fire to draw the eye until moments before contact. The Lucky Strike was stealthed, its transponder off; there was no reason to expect any unwanted visitors would choose to reveal themselves on radar. So piercing spacesuit alarms were the first announcement of the claim jumpers’ arrival. Whatever ruptured their suits killed Bill and Milos instantly. Kwasi managed only a puzzled, “Who are you?” before meeting the same fate.

  Willem was prepping Lucky Strike at the time of the attack, by sheer dumb luck on the side of the asteroid opposite the inflated base dome and the claim jumpers. Three flatlined readouts tugged at his eyes and his mind. Grieving had to wait; to dally was to die. He released grapples and boosted at two gees. Radar showed nothing, not even rocks, anywhere near. No one to help. No place to hide. He broadcast a Mayday, but could not imagine it doing any good.

  He got a head start of almost a hundred klicks before an IR sensor spotted the hot, side-on plume of another ship emerging from behind the asteroid. As they turned into direct pursuit, the reading dropped sharply, the reaction mass cooled and dispersed by the time it left the ship's shadow. He guessed the brief delay had been to allow the shore party to scramble back aboard.

  Willem was out of sight and stealthed—and too near his pursuers for either condition to save him. His fusion drive surely blazed in their IR sensors. Shutting down now and coasting solved nothing. Those chasing him could extrapolate his current course long after his engine cooled. With a bigger lead, he might have used attitude jets undetected to nudge a drifting ship. He didn't have a bigger lead. Since he was shrieking his position in IR, there was no reason not to monitor the pursuit with an occasional radar ping—and no benefit either, as they remained stealthed. He did not doubt they were gaining on him. They would have given chase immediately and returned later for the ambushers had there been any question who had the faster ship.

  They—whoever that meant—had already killed in cold blood to usurp the claim. He wasted no photons in vain pleading for leniency. They wasted none in cynical promises. Not that photons weren't a source of worry: At sufficiently close range, the only difference between a comm laser and a weapons laser was intent. His laser was serviceable, but hardly exceptional—not that it could be pointed straight aft. Theirs was surely, at a minimum, the max-rated legal device. It would have no difficulty firing forward.

  He had no decent options, nor even a way to judge the rate at which they were gaining on him. His first clue woul
d be their laser painting his hull. Depending how long they waited to fire, it might also be his last clue. Shivering, he programmed attitude jets to vary his formerly bee-line course with some zigs and zags. That might buy him a few more seconds.

  Then it hit him. Lucky Strike, like its pursuer, was only visible in IR. It was too hot—from its fusion jet, from solar heating—to slip away. The same was not necessarily true of the lifeboat, shirtsleeve cool in its bay.

  How long until a laser blasted him? Frantically, he disconnected the radar nuller and wired it into the tiny lifeboat. He despun Lucky Strike from its temperature-leveling barbeque roll, plunging the lifeboat bay's hatch into darkness. As the bay's heated air was pumped into the ship proper, he suited up. He did his preflight checks with the outer hatch agape, as the lifeboat radiated its modest heat into the black shadows. The lifeboat's environmental systems remained off. At the next evasive zig that gave the lifeboat a slight nudge towards the hatch, Willem released the magnetic couplers.

  The continuing acceleration of the Lucky Strike imparted a spin to the lifeboat as it slid from the bay. It was his well-loved ship's parting gift to him—a leisurely tumble to slow the sun-heating of the lifeboat. As programmed, the outer hatch slid shut behind him.

  Cool, dark, and stealthed, the lifeboat drifted away.

  Maybe his pursuers had decided death by laser blast was too quick, or maybe they got greedy and chose to capture Lucky Strike intact. He'd never know. Whatever the reason, they observed long enough to identify the recurring pattern of the programmed evasive maneuvers. Then they closed the distance—and docked.

  His only hope was to disappear without a trace, which meant his pursuers had to believe him dead. He had rigged Lucky Strike to explode when attacked. With mixed horror and grim satisfaction, Willem watched his IR view flash white-hot overload as the reactor blew. When the lifeboat's optical sensors returned online, nothing remained of Lucky Strike and its assailant but a rapidly dispersing cloud of shrapnel.

  * * * *

  Shoppers strolled between storefronts. Kids on maglev boards sped through the loops and corkscrews of an enclosed track. In the mall's central plaza, a water fountain burbled. Helmut sat on the broad rim of the stone wall that surrounded the fountain, waiting.

  Ten minutes late, Rothman emerged from a city tram. He approached slowly, trembling. His face glistening with sweat. That's when it hit Helmut: I'm the supposed cold-blooded killer. Rothman picked this very public meeting place because he is afraid of me.

  “I'm actually sorry about this, you know,” Rothman said, tugging at an earlobe. Into a lengthening silence, he added, “You don't know what kind of pressure I'm under."

  “Nothing I did, I hope."

  “No.” Rothman laughed nervously. “Here's the thing. Someone is exchanging a big pile of interstellar cash. Nothing illegal, just irregular: gray-market stuff. It looked like there was serious money to be made."

  “Snake money?” Not that it mattered.

  “Nah. Centaur. I don't know why now.” Rothman glowered at a group of teens ambling in their general direction. They sneered back, but veered away.

  “What does this have to do with me?” Helmut asked.

  “A twenty-percent discount should have meant a tidy profit—but there's so much sloshing around out there. I can't unload what I bought without discounting even more. And I can't wait for the market to return to normal. I ... borrowed to make this investment."

  Embezzlement? Loan shark? Helmut shrugged inwardly. The reason or rationale hardly mattered. “And?"

  “Sorry, Colbert. I need to repay soon, or some people will make things very unpleasant. You understand.” Rothman swallowed, somehow apologetically. “I need a quarter million sols."

  There was no mention why “Colbert” would offer money, nor of terms. This was blackmail. If he had expected one alias to hide him forever, he would not now be on his third.

  Rothman might be as desperate and semi-decent as he seemed. Maybe he would be satisfied with one payoff, not that Helmut could afford even one, and that would be the end of it. Maybe there was honor among some thieves. Or maybe Rothman would pocket the bribe and then finger him for the far-larger underworld bounty.

  Another tacit part of the transaction was an in-case-of-my-death note. Depending how and with whom that message had been left, someone beside Rothman might already know who “Colbert” really was.

  Helmut had to assume the worst. His best hope for escape was to leverage Rothman's greed. “I'll need a couple days to free that up as cash. Can we meet here in forty-eight hours?"

  * * * *

  Telling Corinne was stupid, but Helmut never hesitated. They talked all night in her hotel room. More truthfully, he spoke for hours; she, apart from incisive requests for clarification, only listened. Reliving the horror with someone was cathartic. Despite the ticking of the clock, he kept talking.

  “It was a getaway, but hardly clean. I sold the lifeboat to raise cash. And I needed a new identity—fast. If I'd been the hardened criminal the stories make me out to be, I might have known how to disappear. But I'm not. I don't know exactly what went wrong.

  “Maybe a serial number on some part of the lifeboat was traced back to Lucky Strike. Or maybe someone—a fence, or the doc who sold me this face, or a chance passerby who knew me by my mannerisms—revealed Willem's survival.” His escape had cost the lives of everyone aboard the claim-jumpers’ ship, and the destruction of the ship itself. “The bad guys had short tempers and long memories. They put a price on Willem Vanderkellen's head. I ran, again."

  Corinne nodded. “And so was born the legend of the Frying Dutchman."

  “Funny how you didn't seem especially surprised."

  “At who you turned out to be? I'm a helluva reporter. Did I neglect to mention that?"

  “How?” The next time I slip up, it could kill me.

  “Besides your general evasiveness when, for days on end, we had no one but each other to talk to? It's not like you're a good listener. The final proof was in that ratty old hat of yours. It's quite the departure for Capt. Clean. I got curious enough to have a DNA match done on a hair.” She stretched and yawned. “Sorry. That was not about you."

  “Thanks for not saying anything.” Helmut stared at a wall holo, the scene something terrestrial and pastoral he did not recognize. Killing time. Avoiding saying goodbye.

  “There's more than one legend of the Frying Dutchman,” she said. “Often he's the good guy. Apparently the families of your old crew get anonymous financial support. There's no ambiguity about the gangsters who put the bounty on your head."

  And still he sat.

  “Get out of here. Take Odyssey. Use the shipboard account. Just send me an anonymized message where the ship is when you're done with it."

  He just stared at her.

  “It's been too long for you, but that's what friends do. Help each other.” Corinne gave him a hard shove toward the door. “Now, go!"

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 27

  Himalia receded slowly in the bridge's main holo. In a nearby tactical display, a swarm of invisibly small UP warships, their positions revealed by their traffic-control transponders, continued their security patrols around the antimatter factory. At this scale, neither display showed the decelerating lifeboat for which the humans had traded years of their antimatter production.

  As an unusual sound disturbed Mashkith's concentration, the main holo flipped suddenly into a tiled view of large chambers throughout the ship. He recognized the engine room, mess halls, interior parks, gathering places, and auditoria. Every area teemed with Hunters, crew and families alike, gazing upward into unseen cameras. Puzzled, he turned to the bridge officers.

  The soft rumbling deepened. Lothwer stepped forward, licking his lips in satisfaction. “Accomplishment of mission, Foremost. In readiness for triumphant departure. Permission for presentation of status?"

  Mashkith could more easily have ascertained the ship's condition with a
mental query to a shipboard AI, but he did not. This extraordinary assembly was a ceremony to be savored, no mere accounting to be expedited. “Report of status?"

  Lothwer gestured to the arc of officers just behind him. One by one they stepped forward, stiffly erect with pride and accomplishment. “Antimatter containment at capacity.” “Hydrogen, deuterium, and tritium all at capacity. Water at capacity.” “Biochemicals, Hunter and herd, at capacity.” “Sulfur, at capacity.” “Metals of all kinds, at capacity.” “Clan health excellent.” “Shipboard ecology, both zones, returning to nominal.” “All on-board auxiliary vessels at full operational readiness. Remaining vessels"—on final approach from charm-offensive visits to Mars and Ceres—"on maintenance schedule for routine engine overhauls.” The good news went on and on.

  “And morale?"

  Lothwer spoke to a camera. “Clan Arblen Ems. Your answer?"

  The omnipresent rumbling swelled into a resounding roar of approval. Lothwer saluted crisply.

  “My thanks to all hands.” Mashkith paused for a deep breath. “To home!"

  “Home!” and “K'vith!” echoed thousands of voices.

  With cheers still ringing in his ears, Mashkith returned to his cabin. For all his pride and certitude, there was also melancholy at the truth he admitted to himself.

  Many would soon die to make real the dream of restored clan greatness, a dream that, although shared by all, they did not fully understand.

  * * * *

  Teak furniture, oil paintings, hand-loomed tapestries, hand-knotted Berber carpet, a bottle of actual Earth unblended scotch—the room exemplified conspicuous consumption. “Penthouse” was perhaps an odd label for the deepest tier of an underground structure, but no term better fit the pretentious décor.

  As Art studied his reflection in a gilded mirror, French doors swung open. Chung swept into the foyer of his suite in Callisto's finest hotel. “I do hope this is important, Doctor. It is quite late."

  Why else would I have staked out your rooms? “It is, Ambassador.” Art fumed as Chung concentrated on pouring himself a drink. “Important and time-sensitive."