Fool’s Run

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “Do you have a shade that will match my lightning bolt?” the Scholar asked meekly. Quasar, diverted, disarmed, glowered at him, then trained the force of her restlessness at the Queen of Hearts.

  “I have a color that will match your mask.”

  The Queen of Hearts brushed her cheek vaguely. “My face paint.”

  “Your mask. I know these things. You never take it off, do you. Not even to make love.”

  “Quasar,” the Magician said, even while his mind veered briefly to explore the possibility.

  “You see the paint,” Quasar said stubbornly. “But you don’t see her eyes.”

  “Sure, I do,” the Scholar said. “They’re wide open in front of my face and they’re smiling. It’s just her stage-face. It means one of the best cubers in the world. People everywhere recognize it. It’s a symbol.”

  “What’s a symbol?”

  “Her gold face. Something that means something. Something you react to without thinking. Like an instinct, but it’s cultural rather than biological.”

  “Comment?”

  “A physical object or design that represents an emotion, a belief, a ritual, a cultural experience—”

  “What language are you speaking?” Quasar inquired icily. The Scholar sighed.

  “Magic-Man—”

  The Magician pulled a flap on the arm of the commander’s chair. Gold floated into his palm. He held it up between finger and thumb: a small, perfect circle. The Scholar took it from him, smiling.

  “A wedding ring. Where’d you get that?”

  “It belonged to my great-great-grandmother. I actually wore it once. Now it’s emergency fuel if I ever get stuck somewhere without credit.” He added to Quasar, “That’s a symbol: two virgins giving each other gold as a promise to love and make love only to each other for the rest of their lives.”

  Quasar’s brows lifted in distaste. “You never did that, Magic-Man. Did you?” The Magician’s mouth twitched. He sealed the ring away again. The Nebraskan drifted overhead like an angel.

  “Did what?” he asked interestedly.

  “I’m trying to explain to Quasar what a symbol is,” the Scholar said.

  “Why?”

  “I forget.”

  “That’s easy,” the Nebraskan said, fingering a straying end of his mustache. “It’s like a horseshoe. Nail a horseshoe over your door and it attracts good luck.”

  “That’s a superstition, not a symbol.”

  “Okay, a rainbow, then. That’s a symbol of good luck. Or a four-leaf clover.”

  “I was trying for something a little more profound.”

  The Nebraskan gave his mustache a final tug and reached down the neck of his bodysuit. A thread of silver snaked into the air. He pulled it over his head, sent it down toward the control panel. A thin chain of silver with a charm the shape of a triangle flowed past the Queen of Hearts’ face. She lifted her hand, her fingers tangling in the silver, and the triangle turned slowly to transfix her with its eye.

  “What is that?” The sharpness in her voice startled them. The Magician took the chain from her, frowning.

  The Nebraskan said apologetically, “I saw it on some pre-FWG U.S.A. currency. The eye within the triangle. I liked it, so I had it cast in silver. I’m not sure what it is.”

  “It’s the eye of God,” the Magician said, as if recognizing a casual acquaintance. The Scholar reached for it; the Magician looked at the Queen of Hearts, his brows raised questioningly. She was laughing again, fingers making furrows in her hair, pulling it around her face until it was barely visible, and the Magician saw only one grey eye.

  “Of course I’ve seen that before,” she said. “Of course I have. I don’t remember where, though.”

  “Me neither,” the Scholar said. “That’s funny. We’ve seen it, we don’t know where it came from, yet we all recognize it, and it means something. Something without words, something from the past.”

  “Like a cross,” the Nebraskan said.

  “Or a star. Star of David, the pentangle of—”

  “I met a man once who believed in that flak,” Quasar interrupted. “He tried to tell me about someplace called heaven. Then he told me I was going to hell. I can’t remember what I did to make him angry. Something. I don’t like the past.”

  “Starlight is always in the past,” the Magician murmured. The cruiser spoke again, a short arpeggio on a harpsichord; a com-light went on at the same time. He touched it and the air was filled instantly with static.

  “Identify,” a woman’s voice said abrasively. “Imperative. Identify—”

  The Magician winced at the noise. “Smallcraft ID 960PCS, the Flying Wail. From Suncoast Sec—”

  “Name.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked civilly. Quasar’s fingernails clamped down on his arm.

  “Patrollers.”

  He blinked, his face suddenly expressionless, and shifted a shield-angle over the window. They saw the long, bulky body between them and the Underworld, the flashing cruiser lights. He whispered rapidly, “God damn it, Quasar, if you’ve brought anything illegal aboard—”

  “No, Magic-Man, I swear—”

  “This is patrol-cruiser WG11F from the Underworld. Transmit navigational codes for all ports beyond Earth.”

  The Magician breathed something and glanced at the Queen of Hearts. She was upright, but her hands over the controls were clenched. “Heart-Lady.” She took her eyes from the cruiser, stared at him without seeing him. “They want our itinerary.”

  “Oh.” Her hands loosened abruptly; she began transmitting. “I’m sorry, Magic-Man, I’m sorry—”

  “Stay calm.” They heard cross-chatter under the static; he deciphered it incredulously. “You’re intercepting what?”

  “State your business in the Underworld.”

  “We’re on a tour,” he said bewilderedly. “The Nova Band. The Underworld, Helios, Rimrock, Moonshadow—we booked through the Suncoast Agency, we’ve got permissions, passports, docking dates and codes—”

  “Hold.”

  He held, his mouth tight. He turned to Quasar, held her eyes. The Nebraskan said softly, “Quasar, they can search us when we dock, and if you’ve got something in the hold, just show me—”

  “I didn’t! I haven’t!”

  “Just what I always wanted,” the Scholar muttered. “Private lodgings in the Underworld.”

  “Magic-Man, it’s not me this time, I—”

  “Quiet down. I don’t have any idea what we’re transmitting. Heart-Lady, did you notice anything funny when you—”

  The patroller’s voice interrupted him, a fraction less harsh. “Permission and entry code for Flying Wail on record. Why is your receiver open to the Underworld Frequency?”

  “I didn’t know it was,” the Magician said blankly.

  “Who owns the craft?”

  “I do.”

  “Where did you acquire it?”

  “From a used-smallcraft lot in Suncoast Sector. All its records were—”

  “Beneath the control panel there is a serial number. Give me that, your license number and your ID number.”

  The Magician sighed noiselessly. There was a longer silence when he finished. They waited. A sudden thump came out of the bowels of the Flying Wail, and a trill of the harpsichord. The Magician jumped, slapped it silent.

  “Roger Restak. ID 4069PC1114.”

  “Yes.”

  “All communications systems on patrol-cruisers sold to private citizens are adjusted to receive only legal frequencies. Why are you monitoring our codes?”

  “I’m not! I had no idea—”

  “ID numbers of all on board.”

  “They’re already on record with the Underworld. Are we in trouble?”

  The static sounded slightly more human. “It’s possible that an error was made in your presale adjustments. Are you the first civilian owner?”

  “No.”

  “The sales history will be verified. Roger Restak. Lega
l status: owner and commander of a suspect smallcraft, Flying Wail. You are not formally charged. You will proceed as scheduled to the Underworld. Any attempt to deviate from docking schedule will be regarded as a felonious act. Questions.”

  “No.”

  “Sunbird. Out.”

  The cruiser accelerated out of orbit, left them a clear vision of the Underworld. Quasar swallowed audibly.

  “Magic-Man.”

  “You can smoke in the hold.”

  “Me too,” the Nebraskan said, trailing after her.

  “Not,” the Scholar said, “a friendly place. Roger.”

  The Magician grimaced. “There is nothing secret from the FWG. Heart-Lady, did you check with the Library Bank about fixing that receiver? Was there any warning to private citizens about the Underworld Frequency?”

  She shook her head. “No.” Her hands were still trembling. She didn’t look at him but at the looming space-prison, the great wheel of light and dark constantly turning under the sun’s eye. “No,” she whispered. The Magician reached out finally, touched her; again the expressionless gold, turning to him, disturbed him. “Magic-Man, I’m sorry.”

  “You keep saying that,” he said, listening at last. “You didn’t do anything. You couldn’t have, if all you were doing was following the mechanics diagrams.”

  “There were two—there were two small copper seals with the Underworld logo on them. They weren’t on the diagrams. So I thought—I thought they shouldn’t be there. So I took them out.”

  The Magician made a sound. He touched a light at random, so gently nothing responded. “So,” he said softly. “You probably activated a subsonic transmitter, as well as opened the UF. Too bad we weren’t listening—”

  “We are lucky,” the Scholar said emphatically, “we weren’t listening. They’ll check our log-tape.”

  “I didn’t—I didn’t think of that…Magic-Man.” She put her hand on his arm, held his eyes, her own eyes so distressed that he shook his head a little, mute, worried. “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

  “Will you calm down?” he pleaded. “You’re making me jumpy. We’re not in trouble.”

  “I’ll tell them,” she said, coming to a sudden, bewildering decision. “In the Underworld. I’ll tell them.” He shook his head again, sharply.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “We’re here to play music. When I leave, I’m leaving with a whole band, come hell or high water. It’s not your fault. How are you supposed to know about frequencies that don’t exist on record?”

  “Then what will you do?” she said again. He smiled, gave her shoulder a quick pat.

  “Let them hear what they want to hear. That’s what I’m good at. Cheer up. It was an innocent mistake. Even if they don’t believe my lies, they would never throw us into the Dark Ring for that.”

  “It was a mistake,” she whispered. “It was a mistake to come.”

  He was silent, suddenly overwhelmed with her nebulous emotions and at a loss to comprehend them. The Scholar said gently. “We’ll play and then leave. It’s as simple as that.”

  She didn’t answer. The Flying Wail spoke again, announcing their dock escort. The Magician lifted his head incredulously, hearing a note that he hadn’t programmed into the cruiser. But, listening to it again in his head, he realized the false sound was not in the music, but in the Scholar’s vision of their future.

  TWO

  In the Hub computer room, Jase watched the Flying Wail dock. The room was shadowy, nearly soundless; light from the lovely panoply of nebulae and galaxies, someone’s dream of space, colored his face. He liked spending spare moments in there, in the brain of the Underworld, knowing that every second it was making countless decisions to keep the Underworld running smoothly, calmly, the way a body made decisions, inarticulate and precise, to keep itself alive. Usually, so much power at his elbow was soothing. But the computer wasn’t invented yet that could be plagued with premonitions.

  “Challenge.”

  “He was born with the gift of laughter, and a sense that the world was mad.”

  “Challenge.”

  “E = mc2.”

  “Challenge.”

  “Flash Gordon.”

  “Entry code 6B. Channel 9. Starcatcher, escort Flying Wail to Station C. Flying Wail, follow instructions precisely to avoid destruction. Acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Permission to enter the Underworld.”

  The immense outer lock swiveled open, closed again. The red web of warning lights around the two cruisers gradually turned gold. The cruisers settled.

  Jase studied the Flying Wail. It was an outdated cruiser, a Moonflivver, bulky and clumsy looking; there were people who swore it was the best model the cruiser designers had ever come up with. No one came out of it. A tech crew was going through it first, checking the faulty receiver. He doubted if anyone on board had tampered with the system. They were musicians, come to play one evening in the Underworld, and be a memory by lunch the next day. They were Sidney Halleck’s chosen band, not a handful of conspirators trying to use the Underworld’s equipment to gain entry. They were guests, here in good faith…“So why,” he demanded of the Hub computer, “am I standing around here in the dark waiting for all the alarms in the Underworld to go off?”

  Because, he answered himself silently, they’ve barely landed, and already there are too many coincidences.

  “Chief Klyos.”

  He touched the com-light. “Here.”

  “Tech-Captain Rethro speaking, sir. We checked the Flying Wail’s receiver. The logo-seals are missing. I’d guess it got sent to Earth without being altered. An error on our part. Nothing from the UF showed up on their log.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Fine. Let them loose, have a dock crew help them with their equipment. Is Halpren down there to meet them?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir? Is the concert just for prisoners or can anybody go?”

  “Ask Halpren. It’s his baby. I’ll tell him he can have all the security guards he can handle, as long as you’re all off duty.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “One more thing.” He paused, contemplating one final, niggardly detail.

  “Sir?”

  “Check the repair records on that cruiser before it was sent Earthside to be sold.”

  There was a tiny silence. “Yes, sir. You think—”

  “And get someone to dig back into its resale history. No. I’m not thinking. I just want to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Out.”

  He crossed the corridor to his office. Nils was sitting at his desk, sipping coffee and looking bleary.

  “What are you doing awake?” Jase asked.

  “I assigned myself as security for the concert.”

  “You did.” He raised a brow. “Maybe I’ll ask Jeri to do a Rehab program for the staff.”

  “Are you being sarcastic, sir?”

  “No,” he said, surprised. “I complain so much, I forget other people might complain too. We’re all up here with no escape. Maybe we can work something out with Helios, fish in their rivers or—”

  “In return for what?”

  Jase grinned. “I’ll think of something.” He sat down, glanced over their visitors’ status-sheets, which Records had sent up for his inspection.

  Nils said, “Sir?” The odd tone in his voice made Jase realize the peculiar quality of his own stillness. He breathed again, blinking, but nothing on the stat-sheet changed.

  “I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know…Run down a Queen of Hearts, Suncoast Sector for me, will you?”

  “How can she be doing that?” Dr. Fiori demanded of the ceiling.

  “Doctor, maybe it’s the machine.”

  “It’s her.”

  Terra gazed at them without blinking. She hadn’t moved in half an hour. The image on the screen
had changed twice in half an hour. Neither time had it made much sense. The first image, they had decided, was the swollen, ponderous face of the planet that had loomed over Terra when she was a child. The second image was a seashell.

  “It’s a chambered nautilus shell,” Reina said helpfully. Dr. Fiori flicked her words away.

  “It’s the same image the computer gave her for seashell.”

  “Maybe she’s finally shot out of the galaxy.”

  “If you can’t make meaningful suggestions—”

  “I thought I was.”

  “She can’t be doing that. How can she do that?”

  “She’s concentrating.”

  “On a seashell?”

  “Doctor, maybe it’s the machine.”

  “Sir,” Nils said. “A report’s coming on screen from Records.”

  “Go on.”

  “Says the mechanics sheet dated twelve years ago on cruiser UP29548YP indicates all repair work, including UF scrambling, was completed before it was sold to Earth.” His eyes lifted puzzledly. “Did they make a mistake? Or did someone who bought it—”

  “I won’t know until I get the sales history.”

  “So you’re taking this seriously.”

  “It’s a hunch.”

  “About what, for God’s sake?”

  “I don’t know yet. So who’s the Queen of Hearts?”

  Nils shook his head, his fingers moving on the keyboard. “She’s the Queen of Hearts.”

  “Well, what—”

  “That’s it. Seven years ago she didn’t exist.”

  Jase sighed. He said patiently, “Well, find out what name she changed it from.”

  “Sir,” Nils said as patiently. “There’s no record.”

  “No record? She’s in the band, she’s not a seven-year-old child—”

  “Then, sir, why don’t you just ask her?”

  They glared at each another a moment. Then Jase growled, “Ah, that’s too easy. Humor me. Records has every status-sheet on every citizen who even trimmed his toenails crooked in the solar system. Try credit, taxes, traffic violations, anything. She’s up here in the Underworld and we don’t even know her name.”

  “Sir.”

  “What?”

  “Why?”

  Jase opened his mouth. Then he slid his fingers over his eyes and up over his hair. “Nils, if I told you exactly why, you’d recommend me for a brain scan.”