StarHawk (11 page)

He was back, coming from the opposite direction, before Calandrx lit the first match.

Big Bright City

The day before the race

It might have been the cheapest room in the city.

It certainly was one of the smallest. Located atop a sixty-six-story building hard by the edge of the east canal, the compartment measured a merc twelve feet by twenty. It had a tiny balcony, a small lavatory, a floating cot, one slightly cracked window, and a food tube that had been installed sometime in the previous century.

Several air bridges went right over the top of the diminutive apartment building. That was one reason for the room’s cheap rent. The fact that one of the ancient triad bridges ran close by further lowered its desirability. While the vast majority of people in the Galaxy were superstitious, Earthlings were the worst of the lot. No one wanted to be anywhere near a sacred span if they could help it. No one…

Which is why Zap Multx had to pay just six aluminum coins for the use of the small room. He wasn’t here because of the economics, though. Money was hardly a problem for someone in his position. No, he was here because he wanted to lay low for a while. Just him, his thoughts, his blaster pistol, and a few bottles of slow-ship wine. That’s what he thought he needed. So he’d leased the room a week ago, using an assumed name. And once the tense meeting up in Chesterwest had concluded, he beamed directly here, without even having to pass through the front door. It turned out to be a great place to hide.

Most people assumed he was on his way back out to the Fringe, to resume his quest of saving the Galaxy for the Empire. Actually the
BonoVox
was parked in the seventeenth dimension at a spot just outside the Pluto Cloud. The One-Seven was where SF warships needing extensive repairs were sent while waiting their turn before the electron torch. The
BonoVox
needed no such repairs. But considering what had happened during their last trip Inward, Multx thought this was the best place to stash his vessel, at least for the time being.

Still, after sitting here for a week now, alone and drunk, how he longed to be back aboard her and flying in space again! Heading out to the frontier, the farther out the better. The Fringe.
That’s
where everything was happening.
That’s
what made the blood in his veins flow. If he was an expert on just one thing, it was this: As busy and bustling and exciting as Big Bright City was, especially on the eve of the Earth Race, it still couldn’t compare to the adrenaline rush one could get daily out there, so close to the edge.

And that’s what Multx knew he would miss the most.

Despite the air bridges and the sacred span and the thousands of air-chevys darting above, below, and around him, Multx’s little room still had a commendable view.

It looked out over the east canal and into the real downtown part of downtown Big Bright. For the past six days he had watched the great city prepare for the Earth Race. The skies above, the waters below, the streets and airways—busy, maddeningly so. What happens when they give a party in a city of two billion filthy rich people? Another two billion show up. All-just close friends, mind you, but it made for a very crowded place.

From his hiding spot, Multx believed he’d seen every last one of those four billion pass by him in the past six days. He was literally surrounded by humanity, everyone having someplace to go and something to do. It was fascinating to watch, but this distraction did little to relieve the dull ache in his chest. Multx did not like this feeling. After more than one hundred years as a military officer, nearly half of that time commanding a huge starship, one would have thought he’d gained an immunity to such lowly things as apprehension and uneasiness. But apparently that was not the case. Not in the past week, anyway.

It was the waiting—that’s what was killing him. Sitting alone, in his dress white uniform, knowing it was just a matter of time before they found him.

And what would happen after that?

He didn’t want to think about it.

It was early afternoon, the sun was just beginning to warm his tiny balcony when he heard a familiar sizzling sound behind him.

He turned from the porch to find two Space Navy guards standing in the middle of his compartment.

They were in dress uniforms, armed, but with their weapons still holstered, at least for the moment.

“Sorry to disturb you, Star Commander,” one of them said. “But you’re wanted at headquarters immediately.”

“Not a problem,” Multx replied with a sigh. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He stood up, buttoned his tunic, and drained his glass of wine. Then he took in one last breath of the canal air. It tasted bittersweet.

“Okay, brothers,” he said, “lead the way…”

Flash
!

An instant later, Multx was sitting in the Grand Briefing Office (GBO), a multiwindow room atop the soaring, octagon-shaped skyscraper known as CD District One.

This gigantic building served as headquarters for the Empire Space Forces. It was nearly five times as big as the SF’s largest warship and was at the southern end of Big Bright City, just before the canal known by the archaic name M’cpoto. (No surprise, the Solar Guards’ headquarters was more than four hundred miles away, due north, at the exact opposite end of the vast city; it sat on the banks of an equally ancient and perpetually fouled canal known as the Chuk.)

Sitting across the huge table from Multx now were six star admirals. Each was more than two hundred years old; each was wearing a uniform weighed down by dozens of medals, ribbons, and battle pins.

These were Multx’s direct superiors, the gods of his world. And even though they were all smiling, Multx knew none of them was happy.

After receiving nods from the other five, one officer activated a hum beam, sealing the GBO in.

“Welcome, Brother Zap,” the first admiral began. “We are enriched by your presence here.”

Multx bowed his head slightly. The flattery sounded sincere, but these guys were very good when it came to these things.

“I draw strength from my friends and the Earth beneath my feet,” Multx replied correctly.

The quick formalities over, the smile left the first admiral’s face. It was time to get down to business.

He spoke: “Zap, old friend, we called you here because we are very concerned about the events following your successful operation on Vines 67. Some time has passed now since the
BonoVox
was attacked. Have you any further thoughts on what happened?”

“I do not, sir,” Multx replied, cursing himself for having to use those words. “As my report stated, we had no indications of any vessels near us. Then, quite suddenly, this Blackship was simply there, off our starboard side, dispensing its war parties.”

A stark silence enveloped the room. Multx began to say something further, but stopped himself instead.

The first admiral spoke again: “The fact that they were trying to board you, and not destroy you outright, is telling, don’t you agree?”

“I do, sir,” Multx replied glumly. Whoever the mysterious spacemen were, they had quite nearly succeeded in their goal. Had that happened, the
BonoVox
would have been the first Space Forces starship ever captured by an enemy, and Multx’s name would have gone down in history—as a new adjective for failure.

The second admiral spoke now.

“It is not only disturbing that the bandits chose to take one another’s lives,” he said. “It’s proved inconvenient as well. They left us no evidence as to who they were, or how they managed to get into Supertime, true?”

“Yes, sir—even the fractional analysis of the visual sensor readings did not help us at all,” Multx reported. “We were not able to penetrate the enemy’s spacesuits or even get a glimpse through one of the helmet visors just to get a look at the faces of these men.”

“So they were masked intentionally?” the second admiral asked.

“No doubt part of their overall nefarious plan,” Multx replied. “If their attack failed, then we were not to know who they were. And if they had succeeded… well, I’m sure their names would be on everyone’s lips by now.”

Another painful silence descended on the room. Multx looked past the six men, through the huge window beyond. A gigantic starship was lifting up from below, preparing to rocket away into deep space. Multx felt his heart do a flip. How he wished he was on that ship—any ship!—right now.

The third admiral now spoke to Multx.

“This man you picked up on Fools 6—his name is Hunter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He certainly seemed to be in the right place at the right time, correct?”

“To say the least, sir,” Multx replied.

“Where is he these days?” the third admiral wanted to know.

Multx hesitated, but just for a moment.

“He’s been conscripted into the Space Forces and is due to begin training, here on Earth, very shortly.”

“What kind of training?”

“ ‘Advanced flight training,’ I think we could say,” Multx replied quickly. He didn’t want to dwell on
this
subject. It was the only bright spot in what had been a very dreary week. “I have no doubt that he will be an asset to our forces someday—and possibly the one good thing to come out of this incident.”

Another silence settled on the room. The six officers closed their briefing books on cue. Multx tried to steel himself. The worst part of this day was now at hand.

The first admiral smiled unevenly, then spoke again: “Well, now that all our preliminary business is over, we have an announcement to make. It is my pleasure to inform you, Star Commander Multx, that you and your crew will be given special citations for your role in this unusual action.”

Multx again nodded with as much dignity as he could muster. But he knew a very large bomb was about to drop on his head.

“And, as a result of discussions we had prior to your arrival here,” the top officer went on, “it has been decided that you and your crew will be reassigned as well…”

Multx grimaced.
Here it comes
, he thought.

“Instead of returning to the Fringe,” the second admiral announced, “we would like you to make a ‘goodwill tour’ of the inner Galaxy.”

That was it. Multx felt all the energy drain right out of his body. Those were the exact words he’d dreaded hearing.

“We are being sent to the Ball, sir?” he asked weakly.

“Correct,” the first admiral replied, trying his best to sound upbeat. “I think you’ll agree the citizens at the center of the realm have to wait far too long between visits of our grand ships. The appearance of the famous
BonoVox
in their midst will do wonders for their morale, not to mention their loyalty. Indeed, after what you’ve been through, you and your crew have earned such an assignment.”

The other officers nodded in agreement.

But it was all Multx could do to remain sitting upright in his chair. Being sent to the inner part of the Galaxy was the equivalent of an old racehorse being put out to pasture. The Ball was no place for any warship, never mind one that carried twenty-thousand highly trained special operations troops. The star systems there were dull, peaceful, ardently devoted to the Empire. There had not been a military action anywhere near the Galaxy’s core since the rise of the Fourth Empire nearly five centuries before.

Still, Multx could understand his superiors’ decision. That a Blackship had somehow been able to puncture the Ethers was very disturbing. Even more chilling was the possibility that the bandits had somehow tapped into the Big Generator itself. Such a thing would shake the Empire to its very foundations.

But of more immediate concern was the fact that twenty-two thousand troops and crew members of the
BonoVox
had witnessed the strange midspace battle and knew what the mysterious spacemen had been able to do. And though they had all been sworn to secrecy, there was no way the Space Forces’ hierarchy could take the chance of twenty-two thousand pairs of loose lips returning to the Fringe.

(Indeed, rumors of a strange battle were already making their way across the Galaxy.) Thus the decision to exile the
BonoVox
to the Ball, to float through the complacent seas of the core for an indefinite period of time, far away from any front-line forces to whom such a dark secret as this would actually mean something.

For Multx, though, the goodwill tour was a career-killer. In a perfect world, he and his starship should be
leading
the search for the origins of the mysterious Blackship crew, not running away from them. But that important assignment would go to someone else now, a close rival of his, no doubt. And should they be successful, the prestige and glory would belong solely to them.

Assigned to the Ball
… Multx would have rather heard the words of his execution decree. For someone like him, this truly was a fate worse than death.

Thus the penalty of being in the
wrong
place at the
wrong
time.

Big Bright City

Race day

Erx and Berx were late.

A colossal traffic jam of people, people-moving machines, soldiers, robots, hovering air cars, you name it, filled the streets around the Big Bright City arena. The Earth Race was scheduled to begin in less than an hour. Anyone not already inside the vast stadium was scrambling mightily in these last few minutes, hoping to secure entry before the crucial moment of noon.

Erx and Berx had planned ahead of time to avoid this massive crush. Instead they were making their way through the labyrinth of alleys and courtyards that bordered the miles-long arena’s west side. They had thought this would reveal a creative shortcut to the main gate, and indeed, the way was clear when they started out. But in the last alley they had traversed before reaching their goal, they stumbled upon the main service entrance for the thousands of robots serving the arena.

This was not good. The narrow alley was full of mechanical men moving this way and that, sent out to this hidden street to tune down until they were needed again. The problem was that when they weren’t assigned a specific task, robots tended to be clumsy. This was especially true of the industrial models, which were barely two arms, two legs, a torso, and a square head. These robots were of the lowest service type imaginable. They could deliver a drink, light an atomic cigar, push a broom, and that was about it.

As more of then flowed into the alleyway, they were beginning to tune out, which meant they would shut down in a frozen position until being activated again. It was nearly impossible to move them once they were down; thus moving
around
them became a nightmare. Though close to it, Big Bright City was not a perfect place. Strange things were known to happen here, too.

“Only on Earth could a bunch of robots block off an entire thoroughfare on the most important day of the year!” Berx cried as they soon found themselves in a virtual forest of walking oil cans.

“I fear this bad luck will carry through to our wages on the race!” Erx agreed.

They were in sight of their destination; that’s what made it so frustrating. But they had only themselves to blame. They had chosen to spend the previous night drinking and whoring with holo-girls—and a late start this morning had been the result. So they would be late for the most prestigious sporting event in the entire Galactic Empire and miss placing their wager.

Blast the luck, they would have liked to think, but truth was this: The last week had been such a blur it was lucky they’d made it this far.

The reason they’d been sent to Earth in the first place was to watch over Hunter, to shepherd him through the pre-Earth Race process. To make sure that no other starship commander put his hooks into him and thus negated Zap Multx’s brilliant ploy.

But they hadn’t seen Hunter all week. Once Calandrx got him accepted as a finalist for race day, he was immediately sequestered. As his sponsor for the race, Calandrx was designated Hunter’s one and only handler. Thus Erx and Berx were stuck on Earth, in Big Bright City, with nothing to do.

Well, almost nothing…

Because since leaving Calandrx’s house that next morning, their unexpected vacation had devolved into an endless string of prerace parties, holo-girls, and indescribable feasts—all at Multx’s expense. Leaving their rented quarters too late on this day, the busiest morning in the Empire, had been just foolish.

There was less than a quarter mile from the main gate, but that distance might as well have been a light-year or two. The jam of robots had ceased moving a long time ago.

But then something of a small miracle happened…

There was a commotion behind them. They turned to see a line of Earth Police making its way down the alley. Noted for recruiting the largest individuals in the Empire, the EP served as the Planet’s premier security force. Few things stood in their way when they got the call to duty. No surprise, they had a solution to the blockade of ‘bots.

The captain of the rank simply directed a levitation beam at the swarm of robots. Causing the tin cans to rise about ten feet off the ground, he created a tunnel of sorts for his policemen to walk through. When the column passed by, Erx and Berx simply pulled their helmet visors down and fell in behind the group.

Before anyone noticed, they had marched the final block and a half to the stadium entrance and right through the main gate itself.

At that point the two Earth Policemen in front of them turned and realized what the explorers were up to.

These gigantic creatures lifted Erx and Berx up off their feet and literally threw them out of the line. They landed hard into the crowd jammed around the gate, knocking over a dozen people at least.

But it didn’t matter.

They were in.

Three hundred feet below

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Hunter looked up from his control panel and thought about the question for a moment. This might have been the first time since leaving Fools 6 that someone had asked him what
he
wanted.

“Sure I want to do it,” he replied. “Why not?”

Calandrx smiled. “I’m glad you’re still sounding positive about it. That’s a good sign.”

“Think that if you want,” Hunter said. “But to tell you the truth, I’d do just about anything to get out of here.”

They were in the subsubbasement of the Earth Race arena, locked inside one of the tiny, concrete vessel bays that made up the holding area for the contest’s participants. Hunter was sitting in his cockpit; Calandrx was lording over a bottle of slow-ship wine. One of thirteen compartments that ran off a circular hallway that held an air tube in its center, this had been their home for the past six days. It was cool, damp, musty—not the best conditions for Hunter’s flying machine. It also seemed to be quite haunted. Even though they were sealed in, they were periodically assaulted by the most ghostly howling, outright screaming, and the sounds of a woman wailing, all of it coming from somewhere deep in the walls.

It was a
very
strange place, but they had no choice except to be here. True, the regulations for the Earth Race took up an entire nanodisk of memory, much of it written in the archaic language that few people on Earth even understood anymore. But some of the rules were clear. One said that all pilots had to remain unseen in the six days before the race (thus the Emperor’s “symbolic” week off). Another said the racers had to be sequestered here, with their handlers, five stories below the earth, in the ‘combs, while preparing for the competition. No surprise, Hunter’s star-crashn’ glow had faded quickly in this place.

No one had seen them since they’d been interned here. Hunter had spent the time listening to Calandrx’s war stories and getting an education on the Empire’s military history, all while checking, rechecking, and then triple-checking every one of his machine’s critical flight systems. This had kept him busy; there were many adjustments to be made to his craft after the skewing it had experienced while jumping into and out of the twenty and six.

It also kept his mind off of who might be doing all of the howling and screaming and wailing.

“You always hear the good buzz about this contest,” Calandrx was telling him now. “But I know guys who started off stinking of boldness, yet by the time they launched, flew the race and crossed the finish line… well, let’s just say they were different people. That transdimensional stuff had scrambled their brains a bit. I know it did mine.”

Hunter went back to testing his control panel lights. “If you really thought you could talk me out of this, I wish you’d done it six days ago. Then we could have avoided this hole in the ground altogether.”

“To the contrary, my friend,” Calandrx said with a sigh. “If you decided not to run this race, my life would return to its old boring ways. Reading my books, lighting my candles. Everyone needs a change now and then.”

Hunter looked about the dank compartment. “But is this really the change you were looking for? I mean, this place gives me the creeps.”

“Yes, I think they do that on purpose,” Calandrx said knowingly. “At least they did back when I ran the race. It’s their way of introducing you to the madness to come.”

Hunter reattached his light screen. “Well, judging from what you’ve told me about this whole affair, I don’t doubt that a bit.”

Over the past few days, Calandrx also had relayed everything he knew about the history of the Earth Race. It was fascinating in an odd kind of way. During its first century, the race was exactly what its name implied: a contest to find out which of the Empire’s starfighter pilots could fly around the globe at the fastest speed possible without having his aircraft disintegrate around him. In those early years, no money was offered in the winner’s prize; there was no promise of homes or promotions or assignments to the most desirable posts in the Empire. The winner got an aluminum medal, a blessing from the Emperor, and that was it.

By its second century, the citizens had decided this was way too boring. The perks were increased, money was introduced as part of the first prize, and the winner was declared by the Emperor to be a Very Fortunate by law. The race pilots also were allowed to modify their aircraft after the discovery of a “nonrule” in the race’s regulations in about the year 7074. This created a sprint in technology among the participants that led to some mind-boggling speeds and finish times.

Over the past century, the race had evolved even farther. The idea was still to go around the planet as fast as possible. But several decades before, the twist of the interdimensional obstacle course had been added. The twenty-five-thousand-mile race was still basically the same; it’s just that now, along the way, the competing pilots had to fly certain legs of it inside the thirteenth dimension, a place appropriately nicknamed “Bad Dream.”

The interdimensional portals for this were articulated in the form of huge blue screens that came up fast and at unpredictable locations along the race course. The racers knew only that there would be three screens in all. What happened to them after they punched through one and gained the one-three was totally unpredictable. Nothing was stable inside Bad Dream; it was a mirror dimension ruled entirely by antilogic. Painful memories usually prevailed, though. It was possible for race pilots to refight some long-forgotten battle or to relive parts of their lives while traveling within. Even parts of
previous
lives could be dredged up. Or so it appeared. Though what happened inside the thirteen was usually wiped from the pilot’s memory as soon as he punched out, some racers carried bits of their experience out with them.

Calandrx certainly had. In one of his punch-ins, he’d been jolted back to his first ever combat mission, an action against the fierce Ajax Tri-System pirates that had left everyone in Calandrx’s unit dead except himself. In the weird world of the thirteen, he’d had to dogfight the pirates all over again, in space, at what his brain considered faster-than-normal speed, all while his colleagues were dying around him in extremely slow motion. Thus their every cry had echoed through his headphones, and he’d heard every one of their last breaths again. And his three other punch-ins weren’t much better. To this day Calandrx maintained the only reason he won the race was that his interdimensional forays were actually
milder
than those of his fellow pilots, giving him the microsecond advantage needed to streak across the finish line just ahead of the pack.

When it was over, Calandrx had said, he tended to remember only the skills he’d displayed in surviving the flight itself. But his message was clear: What went on inside the thirteen could do a real head number if the racer was not ready for it. Though he never said it aloud, Hunter shuddered to think that being assigned to this cold, dark, and weird place was a way of getting him prepared for what was about to come.

But that certainly appeared to be the case.

He climbed out of the cockpit now and began removing the fasteners that held his machine’s nose cone in place.

Calandrx passed him a cup of slow-ship and they did a quick toast. “May I rephrase my last question?” he asked Hunter, draining his wine in one long gulp.

“Sure. Go ahead…”

“You say you
want
to do this,” Calandrx said with a drawl. “But can you tell me
why
you want to do it?”

Hunter pulled the nose off his craft and confronted the gaggle of electronic stuff inside.

“You mean other than the fact that if I didn’t do the race, I’d probably be a fifth-level recruit, cleaning the beam tubes on an S-Class cruiser by now?”

“Yes, of course,” Calandrx said. “There
always
is a reason behind the reason…”

Hunter began sorting out the mess of wires in the nose cone.

“I just have a crazy notion, I suppose,” he said. “When I was back on Fools 6, I used to tell myself that if I ever got off the damn place, I’d do everything I could to find out who I was and where I came from.”

“A noble ambition,” Calandrx said.

Hunter stopped work for a moment and wiped his hands on the sides of his work uniform. “Well, what better way to find out if someone out there knows you than to take part in the biggest event in the Galaxy? You’ve told me that the winner’s name is on everyone’s lips the next morning, correct? Right across the Empire?”

“Word true,” Calandrx replied.

“Then it should come to the lips of someone who knows who I am—and why I got dumped on the last planet in the Galaxy you can hit before you fall off the edge.”

Calandrx pulled his chin in thought. “Fascinating,” he said with a whisper. “And if no one steps forward to greet you, then that would mean you
are
from someplace else. Which would make you very unique indeed…”

He let his voice trail off for a moment. Hunter went back to his nose cone.

“This is shaping up not unlike some of the epics written about the great warriors of the First Empire,”

Calandrx went on, pouring them another drink, “fighting not just to fight, but to win a noble cause. Going into the unknown, the uncharted, not just for the thrill, but also to learn something, to bring something back. The unselfish approach to heroics. It’s actually rather refreshing. Perhaps you are a reincarnation of one of these people of yore. Perhaps you were a great warrior in the First Empire, four thousand years ago, flying this very machine. Or something like it…”