Starfishers Volume 2: Starfishers (16 page)

There was a tightness around the corners of Mouse’s eyes. And an edge to his voice. Moyshe recognized a command. He moved down the table.

He did not like being pushed, but Mouse had a point. The mission was not dead. He would not get his job done sitting in his cabin.

He took the empty seat opposite the youth at the foot of the table, smiling wanly. His opponent had black. Moyshe opened with king’s pawn. Four moves. “Checkmate.” He could not believe it. Nobody fell for a fool’s mate.

“Good, Moyshe,” Amy said over his shoulder. “Tommy, wake up. Moyshe isn’t a subtle player. He’s more your kamikaze type.”

BenRabi turned. “Really?” She was leaning on the back of his chair. Skullface Kindervoort and his troops had vanished.

“From the games I’ve seen you play.”

Tommy’s mouth finally closed. The swiftness of his defeat had shattered him.

“Let’s say that’s just for practice,” Moyshe said. Tommy smiled weakly.

“Too generous of you,” he murmured. “I deserved what I got.”

BenRabi beat him again, easily, but took longer. Then he moved up the table, playing Seiner after Seiner, quickly, and one landsman whom he had beaten before. The Starfishers, while enthusiastic, were even less subtle than he. They played the game like checkers, going for a massacre. He won every match he played.

“Break time, Amy,” he said. “I’m getting calluses on my butt.”

“That was kind, what you did for Tommy,” she said as she guided him toward the refreshments line.

“What’s that?”

“Giving him a second chance. Playing badly on purpose.”

“I did that?” He was glad they had dragged him in. The noise, the excitement of new people . . . It was infectious.

“You did. I know something about the game. Tommy’s eager, but a little short. You know.” She tapped her temple. “He’s my second cousin. I feel sorry for him. Someday he’ll realize that he won’t ever beat anybody. It’ll really hit him. The only thing he can really do better than anybody is handle the animals.”

“Animals?” benRabi demanded incredulously.

“Sure. The zoo animals. In Twelve South, over by Sail Control. We’ve got the space for it. That’s one thing we don’t lack. We’ve got botanical gardens and feral forests and football stadiums and all kinds of space wasters. Our ships are built to be lived in.”

“You remind me of somebody,” he mumbled, remembering Alyce. Alyce had had that same elfin nose, those same high cheekbones, that same slim, small-breasted body.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He tried to cover up by downing half a cup of steaming coffee. It scalded him. He sprayed the man in front of him. He mumbled apologies, felt small, and rubbed his lips and tongue.

Amy guided him away before he humiliated himself.

Swinging a hand to indicate the crowd, he said, “Reminds me of an Archaicist convention. For which read madhouse. Does this go on every week?”

“Except last week, when they were getting ready for you to come aboard. You should see it during sports season.”

“How do they find people to play those games? From what Mouse told me . . . ”

“People isn’t the problem. Every residential cube has teams. They can pick and choose their players. It’s a big thing, being a sports hero. Specially if you make one of the All-Star teams that play against the other harvestships. We’ve got every game you can imagine. You ever try nul-grav handball?”

“I’ve played. Maybe not by the same rules . . . Mouse and I play sometimes.”

“Who wins?”

“He does. Most of the time. I don’t have the killer instinct. I just play for fun.”

“He’s always dead serious, isn’t he? Completely determined. And yet he seems to enjoy life more than you.”

He scowled. “What is this?”

“Sorry. Where was I? Oh. There’s even an Olympics. And intership games whenever we’re in The Yards, and Fleet games while we’re harvesting.”

“The yards?”

“Enough said. That’s secret stuff.”

He did not press. But the agent in him red-tagged her words.

Amy led him to a cluster of tables under a banner proclaiming: COLLECTOR’S CORNER. It was quieter there. The people were older and less flashily dressed. Moyshe spied coins and stamps and other odds and ends of milemarks from Old Earth’s past. Coin and stamp collections had been popular, lightweight links with the motherworld during early space days, when mass and volume had been critically important.

“Not a nibble,” he overheard one man complain to another. The listener nodded tautly, as though he were hearing it for the
n
th time. “Told you it would be a waste of time, Charley. They’re all hedonists.” The speaker glared at a raucous group of Archaicists. “We won’t see one thing new before next auction.”

His table caught benRabi’s eye and interest. The man had laid out a display of British coins and stamps. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Yeah?” the complainer growled. Then he recognized Moyshe as an outsider who might have something to offer. BenRabi could see excitement rising in him. More companionably, “Sit down. Sit down. Name’s George. What’s your field?”

“Victorians. Tell me, how does a Starfisher come by . . . ”

A quick, conspiratorial smile flashed across the man’s face. “I would’ve bet you’d ask that, friend. I got lucky one time. I bought this unclaimed trunk when I was on The Big Rock Candy Mountain. Opened it up and, Holy Christ!” George launched a narrative which included the minutest detail of his lucky day. Collectors were that way, and every one had his story.

Moyshe studied him. How had he gotten down onto a Confederation world? Why? Was this another tidbit that should be red-tagged? Did Starfishers make many surreptitious visits to the worlds of their hunters?

“I didn’t know if I’d run into any collectors out here,” Moyshe said, “but I brought my trading stock just in case. I’m more into stamps than coins. British and American and German. If you know anybody. I’ve got some good stuff.”

“Know anybody? Look around you. See all those birddogs on point?”

I’m a champion fool
, Moyshe thought suddenly.
I could retire on my collection if I could sell it at market. Hell. I’m rich
.

Prize money had a way of piling up. He only used his to support his hobbies.

“Come on, friend. Sit. How many times do I have to tell you? Paul, get the man some coffee.” All warmth now, George practically forced him into a chair. Moyshe surrendered. Amy attached herself to its back.

She must be assigned to me, the way she’s sticking
, benRabi thought.
It’s not my overwhelming charm keeping her here
.

“Like I said, I’m George. Grumpy George, they call me. But I kind of grow on you after a while.”

“BenRabi. Moyshe benRabi. I was noticing this stamp here . . . ” He and George swapped stories for an hour.

“I’m glad you dragged me over here,” Moyshe told Amy afterward.

“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Her tone said she was not having fun.

“What’re you doing tonight?” he blurted. He felt as nervous as a youngster trying to make his first date. “About the ball, I mean. One of the Archaicist groups is having that American Deep South Civil War thing . . . ”

She smiled a sad smile. “I don’t have any plans, if that’s what you mean. But you don’t have a costume.”

“Is it mandatory?”

“No. You know Archaicists. They’ll put up with anything to interest people in their pet periods. That one’s already popular. The American ones are here. Our ethnic roots mostly go back to North America. Are you asking me?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Good.” She laughed. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“What? Shouldn’t the man? . . . ”

“Not when he’s a landsman. The rules. You’d get arrested if you went running around looking for me.”

“Oh. All right. What now?”

“There isn’t much happening. Unless you want to join the Archaicists, or go to a ball game.”

“Let’s just circulate.” He might pick up something interesting.

They milled in the press, watching several Archaicist performances, Mouse handling the Tregorgarthian youths, a fencing tournament, and the endless chess matches. Life aboard
Danion
was little different from that aboard a warship on extended patrol. The limits just were not as narrow.

Amy introduced Moyshe to scores of people whose names he forgot immediately. “This is getting to be like an overgrown cocktail party,” he observed. “I hated them when I was line. You had to attend. They’re the reason I decided to be a spy. Spies don’t have to be nice to people they don’t like.”

Amy looked at him oddly.

“Just joking.”

“Your friend is good at everything he does, isn’t he?” She had become impressed with the way Mouse had handled the Tregorgarthians.

“When he gets interested in something he gives it everything. He’s got a knack for switching on and off to complete commitment.”

“And the girls. How does he find the time?”

“I don’t know. If I did, I’d be cutting a swath myself.”

His answer did not satisfy her. She kept trying to pry something out of him. She wasted her time. He had been in the spy business so long that the information shutdown was reflexive.

“You want to find out about Mouse, go to the horse’s mouth,” he finally told her.

“I don’t think so, Moyshe.”

He smiled. Mouse would talk about himself all night, not tell a word of truth, and seduce her three times in the process. “Probably not. We’re different, him and me. I’m the type that would rather observe.”

Amy linked her arm with his. “Observe for me, observer.”

“About what?”

“You came to watch Seiners. Tell me about us. What do we look like to you?”

“Uhm. Happy. At peace with yourselves and the universe. Here’s a thing. About laughter. It’s different here. Not anything like at home. Like your souls are part of it. Like my people only laugh to push back the darkness. The guy who was doing the comedy routine?”

“Jake?”

“Whatever his name is. The one who told the story about Murph, the guy who knew everybody. He even made me laugh. And you know why? Because he was poking fun at things I wouldn’t even have thought about. Or wouldn’t have the nerve to criticize. I’m a moral coward.”

“Whoa. What’re you talking about? What brought that on?”

“I just started thinking about my boss. Very dignified gentleman. When he wants to be. All the big-timers are in Luna Command. Only their dignity is almost always pomposity in disguise. Ever since I was a midshipman I’ve had this fantasy about being the king’s secret agent. I’d go around disguised as Joe Citizen. I’d keep a list. Whenever a civil servant or sales person was obnoxious, I’d put their names down and the king’s men would come and get them. I’d also be a sort of wandering clown who made pompous bigwigs expose themselves for what they were. The Bureau would be my first target.”

“You have hard feelings against the people you work for?”

Moyshe did not answer. The intensity of Amy’s question scared him off. She was too keen, too tense, too eager all of a sudden. “Let’s change the subject.”

She did not press. A while later she suggested, “Why don’t you go back to your writing now?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No! That’s not what I meant. Did it sound like that? I’m sorry. I just thought you might feel better now.”

He reflected for a moment. “I do. Maybe it’ll go better. I hate to admit it, but I’ve had a good time, Amy. Thanks.”

He allowed her to escort him to his cabin, where he immediately attacked his story. It went well.

He hardly seemed to have begun though, when Amy pushed his buzzer. “Moyshe. Wake up,” she called from the passageway.

“It’s open. Time already?”

In she bounced, charmingly dressed as a southern belle, in lots of pink and petticoats. “Been going good? You’ve got papers everywhere.” She had a Confederate uniform over one arm, and swords and things under the other.

“Smoking.”

“I borrowed some things . . . What’s the matter?”

For an instant he had seen her as Alyce. His past hit him like a tsunami.

Her smile persisted, but did not ride her voice as she asked, “Moyshe, what’s behind you?”

“Nothing. That costume for me? Give it here and I’ll change.”

“I’ve been watching you, Moyshe, Something’s eating you. Don’t let it. Puke it up. Get it out where you can stomp on it, chop it up, and kill it.”

That was the difference between Amy and Alyce. Alyce would never have asked. She would have waited till he wanted to talk.

“What about you?” he demanded. “Want to tell me what’s behind you?” Best defense is a good offense, he thought, mocking himself.

She ignored it. “Tell me something.” She spoke softly, with concern, just as she had done that day on the shuttle.

“I have walked with joy down the passion-shaded avenues
Abounding in the City of Love. My heart was young,
And She was beside me; together were we,
And in that was my totality.”

“Czyzewski,” she observed. “Yes. I read too. It’s from
Sister Love
. They say he wrote it before he went into space and lost his mind—if a guy who brags about a love affair with his sister isn’t crazy already. What do you mean by it, Moyshe? Is an old love affair bothering you? That’s silly. You’re not fifteen . . . ”

“I’m perfectly aware of that. Intellectually. ‘I was then, stark in the gardens of the moon,’ ” he quoted out of context. “Now I’m a tired old man, far from home, futureless, with no friend but a chess-mad Archaicist triggerman I never see except during working hours . . . ”
Hold it
, he thought.
The mouth is playing traitor here
.

“Give me that costume. Let me get ready. Please?”

“All right.” She put a lot into those two words. It reminded him of the professional mother who had taken care of him occasionally while his natural mother had chased ghosts of vanished Earths. She had been able to say the same words the same way, implying that nothing good could possibly come of whatever he planned. She had been able to say almost anything in a way that made it sound like he was condemning himself to the clutches of the Devil, or some equally nasty fate.