Starhawk (37 page)

Downtown-Downtown Big Bright City, Five Days Later

There were approximately two thousand entertainment establishments in what was known as Downtown-Downtown Big Bright City.

They were mostly cloud bars, as places that dispensed only high-grade slow-ship wine were called. But there were also many sports clubs, dance clubs, music clubs, fight clubs, and sex clubs—lots of sex clubs.

This part of the vast city was ground zero for the Ches-terwest crowd, people who didn't have any Holy Blood in them but, by hitching on to a Special who did, enjoyed elevated rank simply by that association. The Party Zone was always crowded with these Very Fortunates, day or night, twenty-four/seven. The revelry never stopped.

On the fringe of the Party Zone there were several more blocks of clubs, all best described as being a little more earthy. Lots of brothels were located on this periphery, places where only holo-girls were employed. There were also clubs dedicated primarily to the users of what was once known as coca-neen. An occasional plaything for the Very Fortunates, the feel-good drug was illegal everywhere in the Galaxy except on Earth.

Down the dark alleys beyond the coca bars there could be found yet another fringe, an area many regarded as the lowest common denominator of the Party Zone. The bars here doled out a very rarefied, very refined form of the ancient plant once called opiux, now known more readily as jamma. These places were called jam bars. Their doors were always unlit, their customers always sticking to the shadows. Dark and dangerous, even the most robust star-ship troopers avoided them.

It was in what was probably the most notorious jam bar, a place called Junky-Junx, that Joxx found himself this dreary morning.

He hadn't eaten in five days, but he'd ingested enough jamma to keep his body running like a Starcrasher for weeks, months even. Or at least that was the illusion.

He was in disguise, which was ridiculous, as everyone on the fringe of the Party Zone was usually so zonked out, many would have a hard time recognizing their own mothers.

Joxx's camouflage was a simple one. He was wearing the unadorned uniform of a cargo ship commander: a plain, dark blue flight suit and a typical service hat. Nothing flashy, no medals, no ribbons, not even a weapon. He blended right in with the periphery crowd.

He'd not planned to wind up here, at Junky-Junx, at least not consciously. Though he'd barely tasted slow-ship wine in his lifetime, it just seemed like the natural progression of things, of his life in general these days, that he would jump from place to place looking for the strongest, quickest way to medicate himself. He'd started out drinking five days before, just after catching a ride back to the city from his family's home. The crushing disappointment of his father's nondenial about the Fourth Empire's seamy past had made him snap yet again. After that, it was just a case of how much he could guzzle, how much he could snort, how much he could smoke. He was probably AWOL, technically anyway. And perhaps the Earth Guards were already looking for him. But he didn't care. If he never flew in space again, it wouldn't matter to him. His spirit was that bleak.

Try as he might, though, he still could not erase the haunting images visited inside the mind ring trip. On his arms still were the scratches from the two girls he'd tried to protect in the processing station. He found himself searching the crowded room at times, thinking he saw glimpses of the mother's face floating above the sea of addicts. Or even worse, the cry of her two young daughters, echoing, always in the background. That was why he hadn't slept in five days, either.

No, the slow-ship didn't work, and the coca hadn't, either, so now Joxx was here, sitting at a table in a very darkened corner of the already extremely dark bar, a pile of jamma in front of him. In his hand was a shooter, the device that transferred the narcotic from the pile to his bloodstream.

He had two holo-girls with him, and their personifications also told the tale of his spiral. He'd bought them from a vendor lurking outside Junx, a legless veteran of some long-lost Fringe war who promised they would fill his darkest fantasy. He was right. One appeared in the form of what could only be described as a beautiful witch, all black hair and nails and eyes and lip paint, plunging black gown and cape, a tall black hat. The second projection appeared as a younger female whose sole intention was to look innocent and giddy, obviously setting herself up for the kill by the gorgeous witch.

Dark as it was, Joxx was hardly paying attention to the two girls. He was methodically pumping himself higher and higher with jamma, while the robot band tinkling away at the other side of the club played music that seemed to get lower and lower in tone and mood with every note.

It was after his fifth or sixth load that Joxx noticed someone else had joined them at his table. An old woman dressed in a green gown and a red piece of fabric spun around her head. She had huge stone rings on each finger and wore a glittering necklace as well. She had to be at least eight hundred years old.

She was a witch. A real one.

Unlike some other life forms, witches had managed to survive through the turmoil of the last five thousand years, four empires, and a number of Dark Ages in between. Their longevity was a mystery, as just about everyone the Galaxy looked down on them. Even in his inebriated state, Joxx was amazed to see one actually on the Mother Planet. Riffraff was not very well accepted on Earth. Usually such annoyances were shipped out to the near Fringe planets and strongly advised not to come back.

The trouble here, though, was this woman recognized Joxx. He could see it in her eyes.

"It must be true what they are saying," she said to him now in a very hoarse whisper. "Our greatest star hero, in the Junky-Junx? That proves it then...."

Joxx at first tried to laugh her away. Both holo-girls vanished at first sight of her.

"What is it that they're saying, you old bag?" Joxx asked her with a slurred, dismissive sneer.

"That the Empire is crumbling from within," she replied very matter-of-factly. "That all it needs is a push."

Her remark shook Joxx down to his toes and back again. It wasn't so much what she was saying—which of course was pure sedition. But it was how she was saying it. Cold. Taunting.

He recovered quickly. "If I hear that from your lips, it could only mean the Fourth Empire will last another thousand years," he said. "Maybe even five thousand."

She laughed on cue.

"But why scorn me?" she asked Joxx. "We are the only people in the swirl who know the
real story
of the empires. The witches and the poets. And the dreamers."

Joxx put another load of jam into his arm and got ready to push.

"If that is so, old lady," he said drunkenly, "why then doesn't anyone pay attention to you?"

She scoffed again. "It's not that the Specials don't pay attention to us," she said. "It's that no one ever bothers to ask."

Joxx hesitated throwing another load of jam into his veins.

"They ignore you because you have nothing to say," he told her sharply.

"Oh, really?" she replied. "Perhaps then someone might want to ask me what
I
think really happened in Kelly's Hollow. You
are
soliciting opinions on that subject, aren't you?"

Joxx's jaw dropped open. He let the shooter fall to the floor.

He pulled the old woman down into the booth with him. He was so stoned though, he wasn't sure at this point if she was real or just some cruel hallucination.

"What nonsense do you speak?" he asked her shakily.

She laughed in his face. "Do you think it is really nonsense?" she asked him. "The tale of Jimmy and Michael and O'Nay? Of the hollow and the hobgoblins and the hole in the water?"

"Meaningless places and names—except the one of the blessed O'Nay," Joxx replied testily.

"You might be a great hero," she told him, "but you're also a very bad actor."

She got up to leave, but Joxx did not want her to go.

"Babble on then," he told her, pulling her back into her seat. "Educate me. It seems to be the fashion these days."

She gave him a shrug. "What do I know that you don't?" she asked. "Jimmy invented ion ballast, opened the first roads to the stars, and oversaw the settling of the Galaxy. Michael was responsible for the electron torch which led to building spaceships and weapons as easily as one would build a house of cards.

"With O'Nay came the technology of Supertime, Time-Shifters and the Big Generator too. Now there's something that you should look into, something to become educated on, as you put it: the Big Generator supplies power not just to the space military but to every aspect of every citizen's life in the Galaxy, right? It's in their homes, in their ships. The Big Generator is in the pocket of every citizen in the realm. Don't ever dismiss the notion that it might be in their minds too."

Joxx ran a troubled hand through his overgrown hair. He felt like blowing his brains out right then and there.

"And I know this as well," the witch went on. "That the real reason you are here is that a friend of yours is about to meet his end. That's a guilt trip that will stay with you for the rest of your extended life. Take it from me, that's your fate."

She got up to go again, but Joxx yanked her back down.

"What else do you know?" he demanded of her. "Especially about the hollow?"

She laughed again. "That perhaps all three scenarios are true, to some extent. But think about this: Emperor Jimmy gets zapped, or bowled over, or whatever the hell happened to him, and one day he sits down and designs the ion-ballast engine. The man was a terrorist and a drunk! And suddenly he's a genius? Then Brother Michael, equally sodden and dull, gets zapped or something, and somehow he is
raised from the dead
. Then he dreams up the electron torch.

"Then O'Nay gets zapped, gets revived, and he comes up with the whole concept of Supertime. Why all this sudden great wisdom? This incredible brilliance? Just a happy connection of synapses, sparking off by chance? I'm not dumb enough to believe that. And I don't think you are, either. It's those hobgoblins again! So when you finally put yourself down to sleep someday, think that these fated brothers weren't so much enlightened as they were employed."

She paused for effect. Joxx was just numbly staring back at her.

"Also consider this, as you descend into your jonzz," she told him. "Your friend Hunter. Everyone knows his story. How he was found way,
way
out on the planet called Fools 6. And how he didn't know where he'd come from. Consider this: How was it that Hunter could so suddenly appear on that lonely rock—zapped or something—and then draw out that magical flying machine of his? Is it me? Or does that sound familiar?"

Joxx was so stunned, so stoned, he couldn't speak, never mind form a rational reply.

"And here's one last puzzle," she concluded, "just so I can totally ruin your trip. The Second Empire was overtly bloodthirsty. You saw a tiny piece of it yourself, when they executed the 36 Coalition. Why then didn't they just
kill
all the people of Earth? It certainly would have been easier. Just put them on some old planet and then pulverize it with Master Blasters until there was nothing left. Instead, they built this fake system—a prison, true, but one that was conceived to not only keep its inmates unaware but also to keep them alive and somewhat well. Why do you think that was?"

Joxx just shook his head.

The old witch poked him hard in the ribs.

"Here's a clue for you: It's the very same reason that you and your relatives will live so damn long."

With that, she got up, pressed something into his hand and then disappeared into the crowd.

23

The
ShadoVox was
taking the long way home.

Its orders were strange. Proceed to the most isolated part of space that could be found within five days' flying in Supertime. In this void, find the most nondescript, isolated planet possible. On this planet, find the most isolated, barren place.

Once there, they were to carry out the execution of Hawk Hunter. Shoot him with a three-quarter-power ray-gun blast to the heart, a wound that would take at least a day to kill him. Then bury his body in an unmarked grave.

After that, every member of the Starcrasher's crew would be subjected to a brain wipe, removing any trace of the experience from their memory cells. This would seal the long fate of Hunter's resting place, a spot most likely never to be found again. Why not a full ray-gun blast to the rebel's head, killing him instantly? Or why not just shoot his body into the nearest sun?

No, these means of death would be too good for him.

The Emperor wanted Hunter to suffer for what he'd done, even after death.

For such a big ship as the
ShadoVox
, it certainly was a small jail cell.

It reminded Hunter of the catacombs beneath the grand arena back inside the mind ring trip. Or, even more so, the compartment where he'd stayed in the days leading up to last year's Earth Race, the contest he'd won so handily.

The Earth Race was canceled this year, the first time in recent recorded history, thanks to the short-lived invasion of the Empire. To say this upset billions of people was a vast understatement. All the more reason the Emperor was crying for Hunter's head.

He'd been told by his guards that O'Nay himself had ordered that his execution take place on an uncharted planet as far away from Earth as possible. There would be no Galaxy-wide announcement of his death; no chances then for him to become a martyr and a beacon for other individuals who would carry on his fight. This seemed to be a fitting punishment for a man who wanted nothing more than to return to Earth and fight for it to be given back to its rightful owners.

A painful death in an unknown place. Even Hunter had to admit it had a certain ring to it.

Now, in his last hours, he could do little more than tally up the damage. His quest to overthrow the Fourth Empire was gone. There had been no good-bye to his friends, Pater Tomm, Erx and Berx, Calandrx, Zarex, Klaaz, Agent Gordon. The fact that they were now all dead was what weighed the heaviest on his heart. In many ways, they had been fighting his battle when they'd been killed. Caught up in his passion to make all things right in the Galaxy again. He laughed, sadly, whenever he thought of them. Brave men, and characters all. But were they just fools as well to listen to him? To follow him on his mad quest? At that moment he would have given just about anything to drink a bottle of slow-ship with Erx and Berx again, or to share a campfire meal with Pater Tomm, or a discussion about the ancients with Calandrx.