Ascending (7 page)

You Would Not Think Annoying Persons Could Find You In Outer Space, But You Would Be Wrong

Here is a fact about space travel: it is very very boring. I greatly enjoyed the excitement of escaping implacable foes…but once I got away, there was nothing to see but stars, stars, stars. Some of the stars were no doubt galaxies; others might have been planets, or comets, or incandescent space butterflies singing of life in the sun; but they all looked like stars,
and I have seen stars before.

I wondered whether the journey would be more interesting if we slowed down—perhaps we were passing all manner of appealing space objects, but so quickly they could not be seen. However, with the human navy pursuing us, it did not seem wise to ease up even a little bit. Therefore, we hurtled through the tedious black for hour after frustrating hour, while the untwinkling stars went on and on without meaning, like one’s life when one is devoid of lofty goals…until suddenly, I heard a man clearing his throat.

“Uclod?” I called. All this time my eyes had been linked with the Zarett, unable to see my companions sitting in the chairs beside me. I had not known if they were alive or dead; and to tell the truth, I had mostly forgotten about them. The great starry sameness tended to blank my thoughts…which is not to say my brain grew
Tired
. I was fatigued, nothing more—and perhaps in need of solid food now that I had left the sustaining light of my Ancestral Tower. One must not let one’s heart become choked with panic over simple weariness and hunger. “Uclod?” I said much louder. “Are you finally awake, you churlish little man?”

“Nope, not Uclod. Guess again.”

The voice was definitely not Uclod’s. It sounded male but had a raspy nasal quality to it: the type of voice one’s sister might adopt when saying, “Nyah, nyah, look whose bed is wet!” The words were spoken in Explorer English with a quick flat accent that cut rapidly through syllables and left them sliced in pieces on the ground.

“Who are you?” I asked. “
Where
are you?”

“Ooo, direct questions!” the voice said. “That’s what I like about primitive organisms: no wasting time with social niceties. No throwing yourself into postures of abject worship and offering infant sacrifices like
some
races I could mention. You come right out and say, ‘Who the hell are you, pal?’”

“You are not my pal,” I said. “And despite your admiration for direct questions, you have not answered mine.”

“Absolutely right. That’s cuz I’m an asshole.”

“Do you have a name, Mr. Asshole? Do you have a location?”

“Yes and yes. See? I can answer questions with the best of ’em. And before you get your knickers in a knot, let me reveal myself in a tiny fraction of my eye-popping glory.”

One second I was looking at starry space, unable to see my own body; the next, I was standing in the flesh on a fiery red plain that was definitely
not
inside Starbiter.

The Fiery Red Plain

Less than a stone’s throw away, chunky pools of lava hissed up thin streams of smoke, making the air ripple with their heat. Small black things swam in the crimson-hot pools, two-headed slugs that slithered short distances along the surface, then buried their noses into the magma and dived out of sight. There were insects too, buzzing loudly enough to be heard over the molten sizzle, flying from one smoke streamer to another and pausing briefly inside each, as if sipping from flowers.

As soon as I thought of flowers, a garden sprang up around me: a garden that had not been present two seconds before. I did not recognize the plants—they were scarlet and black, with huge limpid blooms hanging heavily at the level of my thighs, their petals the color of human blood. They rustled restlessly against my legs and against each other, though I could feel no wind. I felt no heat either, nor the ground beneath my feet, nor the touch of the flowers, though I could see them brushing my skin…and suddenly I realized the truth.

“This is a simulation!” I cried. “Nothing more than a trick. You are transmitting sights and sounds to Starbiter, who is transmitting them to me; but I cannot feel anything, because the Zarett is unable to send me such sensations.”

“Ooo, aren’t you the smarty-pants!” said the voice. “Except for the pants. Doesn’t your backside get breezy?”

I looked around. There was no sign of anyone else in the bubbly volcanic landscape—nothing but the garden and the lava, plus some peaky black mountains on the farthest horizon. The sky was empty too: an ashy maroon with no clouds or stars. “Are you hiding, Mr. Asshole?” I called. “Or are you preparing an extravagant entrance you think will impress me?”

“Bright girl,” the voice chuckled. “You’re obviously miles ahead of my feeble brain.”

With a surging explosion of smoke, something erupted from the depths of the closest lava pool. It was big and white, with fizzing droplets of molten rock running off its hide. Where the drips spilled onto the blood-red flowers, the plants sprouted brand-new blossoms that appeared with a soft screaming sound. The screams were an excellent touch—if one intends to simulate a volcanic garden, there is admirable showmanship in flowers that howl as they grow.

But the white thing continued to rise from the magma, as if it were standing on a submerged platform being lifted by an elevator mechanism. I could see now the beast was exceedingly leathery, the approximate size and pebbly texture of a rhinoceros.
⁴
It had four massive legs and even a fuzzy tail tucked between the armorlike slabs of hide covering its haunches…but unlike a rhinoceros, this creature had no horn. It had no nose at all, and no eyes or mouth either, because the animal completely lacked a head—its neck simply stopped at the throat, where an open hole led back into the chest cavity.

As I watched, the headless creature leaned forward so the hole in its neck tilted downward. A thick gout of lava poured out of the gap, as if the beast were emptying unwanted fill-age that had flowed into the opening while submerged. “God, that itches,” the animal said in a gargly voice. It made a hawking sound in its throat the way a crude person does before spitting; then a wad of lava spurted out the neckhole and splashed back into the pool.

“That’s better,” it said in a much clearer tone. “How ’bout you? Not too intimidated by seeing the real me?”

“Why should I believe I am seeing the real you? Since this is just a projected image, you may look nothing like a headless rhinoceros. You could be something small and
squishy,
attempting to make yourself look more impressive.”

“If I wanted to make myself look impressive, I’d pick something better than a headless fucking rhino.” The beast stepped from the surface of the lava onto the solid ground of the garden; the flowers he tread upon gave high-pitched squeals and dragged themselves out of the way, ripping their roots from the soil and replanting themselves at a safe distance. I stared at them…and the beast noticed me looking. He glanced at the fleeing plants, then up at me. “Too much?”

“Yes. You are trying too hard to dazzle me.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Screw the special effects.”

He slopped across the garden toward me, now moving
through
the flowers as if they were not even there. They did not screech or pull away; they did not even quiver as his body passed through leaves and blossoms that were no more solid than smoke. Or perhaps it was the beast himself who had become insubstantial—large and white and unnatural, coming toward me like a decapitated ghost.

As the creature drew nearer, I got an unobstructed view of the gaping hole where his head should have been. The sky’s dim red light did not pierce far into the beast’s inner blackness; yet down his open throat, as deep as his heart and lungs, two crimson orbs glowed like the dying coals of a campfire. I suspected these were Baleful Burning Eyes, buried in the recesses of the creature’s body…but if so, it was a most foolish place to locate one’s sight, because one’s view would be greatly restricted by the sides of one’s own neck.

I myself would not enjoy that type of tunnel vision; but then, we must not expect aliens to see things our way.

Introductions

“So,” the beast said, “let’s deal with formalities.” He took a deep breath, then rattled off quickly, “Greetings-I-am-asentient-citizen-of-the-League-of-Peoples-I-beg-your-Hospitality-what-a-load-of-horseshit.”

“Oh yes,” I replied. “Me too. Except for the horseshit.”

I was vexed I had not been the first to speak the required phrase. As official communications officer, I should have been faster; but this creature had deliberately distracted me with ostentatious spectacle, so that was my excuse.

“And it’s time to introduce myself,” the creature said. “I’m called the Pollisand. Does that ring any bells?”

Searching my memory, I could not recall hearing the name; but suddenly I remembered my conversation with the woman in the Tower of Ancestors. She claimed I had been visited by a big white thing
like some animal, except without a head.
“Your name is unfamiliar,” I said, “but you came to me on Melaquin, after I fell.”

“Give the glass lady a transparent cigar!” the Pollisand cried. “I brought you back from the dead.”

“You did not! I am not such a creature as can die.”

“Oh, you can die,
cheri
,” the Pollisand said. “You are more than capable of that little feat. The only reason your species doesn’t kick the bucket more often is because you’re a bunch of preindustrial hayseeds—so damned Paleolithic, you’ve never invented weapons more lethal than pointy sticks. As if those could pierce your hard glass heinies!

“But,” he went on, “you’ve left your world behind now, sweetums. You’ve entered the hostile high-tech universe, and there’s many a method to make you a corpse. Monofilament garrotes that can saw through your jugular. Hypersonic pistols to shatter your glass guts. Plain old dynamite or plastique. And that’s not to mention alien microbes or toxins—you may be immune to the diseases and poisons on Melaquin, but I guarantee you weren’t built to handle every damned biochemical compound in the galaxy. Bump against the wrong kind of leaf, and you might keel over like a pole-axed steer.”

I looked down at the flowers brushing my legs. It would be most cowardly to back away from them, and anyhow they were unreal mental projections; so I stayed where I was. “Perhaps it is true I now have a heightened risk of decease,” I said, “but it is most unlikely you came just to warn me of such dangers. What do you want?”

Before he could answer—or at least before he
did
answer—a patch of scarlet flowers rustled behind me. I turned quickly, expecting attack; all this time, the Pollisand might have been a devious villain whose only goal was to provide distraction while a confederate stole up on me from behind. After being forced to flee from the stick-ship and the human navy, it was pleasant to have the prospect of a solid enemy I could punch in the nose…but when a creature leapt from concealment, I was dismayed to see it
had
no nose.

It was a round gray ball the size of my own head; and as it sped toward me, I recognized its texture: gray strings on white goo. Furthermore, the creature was not attacking so much as
bouncing
—a small gray animal jumping up and down with excitement, scrambling around my ankles as it made happy little cheeps. It seemed to take pleasure from hopping against my calves, rebounding back, and skipping around to try the same thing at a new angle.

“Is this what it appears to be?” I asked the Pollisand.

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, “that’s the one and only Star-biter.”

“The real Starbiter is much larger.”

“Clearly, she
thinks
of herself as smaller. I’m not creating her image, she is. In fact, I didn’t expect her to show up at all; but since I’m using her to project bumpf into your brain, she must have decided to get in on the act. And this is how she sees herself.”

The Pollisand tilted his neckhole downward as if he wanted to look more closely at the little Star-bouncer. She must have noticed the red glowing eyes in his chest cavity, and found them a source of allure; skittering away from me she bounced toward those eyes, squashing flowers as she went. I could see the Pollisand’s eyes blaze more brightly…just before Starbiter made a tremendous leap and jumped straight down the Pollisand’s throat.

Starbiter, The Cannonball

It is most amusing to see a haughty alien with a small energetic creature stuffed into his neck. Starbiter made happy squeaky sounds as if she were proud of her mischievous accomplishment; she wobbled back and forth inside the throat cavity, thudding against the sides and giggling each time she bounced off.

As for the Pollisand, he seemed frozen in astonishment: he did not move for a full count of five. Then with a great shudder, he raised his shoulders and filled his lungs full of air. His breath made tempestuous sucking sounds as he inhaled around the Zarett crammed down his throat; I could see his ribs expand wider and wider, until suddenly he blew out with all his strength.

Starbiter shot from his neckhole like a cannonball. She squealed something that sounded like “Wheeeeee!” as she flew in a perfect arc, hurtling far across the garden and landing precipitously in a patch of blood-flowers. For a moment, I worried she might be hurt; but almost as soon as she splashed down she bounced up again, making joyful peeps and whistles.

“Look,” I told the Pollisand. “She wants to do it again.”

“Tough titty,” he said. “Do you know what would happen if certain folks saw me with a Zarett down my maw? I’m supposed to retain my dignity, for Christ’s sake—some species worship me like unto a god. A fat lot of good it would do my reputation if people knew I’d been used as a basketball hoop.”

“Perhaps it would
help
your reputation. Perhaps you would not be considered an asshole if it were known you played cheerfully with others.”

“What do you mean, cheerfully? I’m not cheerful—I’ve got Zarett guck in my mouth.”