Chapter 3

 

Jack unstrapped the webbing holding him in place. His eyes were dry and raw from several hours of unsatisfactory sleep and troubled dreams. The ship reeked of the exudations of humans living in confined quarters and endlessly recycled air. The computer was screwing around with the environmental settings again. The heat was stifling. The humid air clung to his skin like a soggy towel.

Jack told the computer to improve conditions if at all possible, before floating up and out of the bunk, along the narrow corridor, and into the crammed space that passed for a ‘ bridge ’ . Once inside he looked around. The NavZombie—in real life one David Rigoster—lay as he had lain for the last three weeks; hooked up to his IV, the discharge collectors and a bunch of colorful wires connected to his implants. The telltales above his head indicated that he was alive and well, and contributing his bit to getting them from A to B—or, in this case, from Fargo 5 to Herrykairn.

Good boy. Stay alive. That ’ s all I ask.

The hypo unit strapped to Rigoster ’ s neck made a faint hissing noise and injected another few micro-grams of gnarl-extract into the Zombie ’ s carotid , keeping the juice levels to just the minimum threshold required. Keeping it cheap and keeping it safe. Safeguarding the interests of the company as much as those of the Zombie. After all, next to Dracoderm thread, gnarl-juice was just about the most expensive substance by weight in the known universe. It also had some interesting effects when taken in overdose.

Jack knew. He ’ d seen it happen.

He coasted to the pilot seat and strapped himself in.

“Trajectory parameters.”

“Holding on projected course,” the navcomp told him; starting off the dialogue on a prophylactically positive note.

“E.T.A.?”

“Three hours, eight minutes, nine seconds.”

Sure. And now for the bad news.

“Estimated error?”

“One hour, two minutes, and thirty six seconds.”

Great! With that kind of margin they might overshoot, or fall short of, the target by several light-weeks. Which would mean lengthy re-computation of re-entry and trajectory parameters. If he was that lucky! If he ended up too near to the central star to return to A-space it could be worse. Meaning, quite possibly, an extended trip through normal space. And no bonus.

Thanks, but no, thanks.

Jack had the navcomp display a holographic representation of the current computed trajectory into the space above the controls and examined it critically.

He can do better than that.

By himself, and never mind the damn computer giving him a plethora of computed trajectories, from which Pilots—using their intuition-like abilities—selected the best one. Jack didn’t need computers to choose a bunch of trajectories, all of which would be less efficient than the one he was going to compute all by himself. Over the years he had discovered that his ability went far beyond anything his employers could possibly suspect.

Unfortunately he had to conform to the usual ritual. If he didn’t, flags would be raised and someone would eventually figure out that Jack Corwin was far more than even a top notch Pilot. He was a genetic freak. Something had jumped his father’s generation and made him into something that hadn’t existed before. He had attempted to figure out what that was, and ultimately concluded that it must have been something in his mother’s genes, which combined with his father’s to create him .

To avoid revealing his talent, Jack had developed an workaround. He’d still pick the best nav sequence from the computer’s list of suggestions, but then, again using his intuition, modified the code to conform to what he knew would be the best possible trajectory. Not that he understood the code, but he didn’t have to. He also didn’t understand how he just knew whether people lied or how he could crack just about any passcode without even thinking about it. Or how he had known that the Berenice ’s reactor was about to go out of control.

When Jack was done, the navcomp tweaked the Daniel-Lewis ’ s teracs by a few micro-tics here and a few milli-teslas there. The net result, if it all worked out their E.T.A. was extended to five hours, but the accuracy of the trajectory was such that it more than made more up for the delay.

He sat back and contemplated his handiwork. His bonus would increase a few percentage points; but not too much to make people suspicious of him.

 

~~~

 

The Daniel-Lewis dropped out of A-space in full, glorious view of Herrykairn. Since nobody else was going to do it, Jack mentally patted himself on the back.

A few moments after the ship appeared back in normal space the gibberish on the com started up. Traffic-controller speak. The same as everywhere; especially when they tried to cover their excitement and agitation with jargon.

And were they ever agitated! The Daniel-Lewis , all five-hundred meters length of cargo holds and linacs, had re-materialized indecently close to planet and orbiting space-station alike and frightened the living daylights out of everybody.

Live with it, folks. It happens.

They ’ d think it was by accident, of course—that he had just barely missed hitting them or their planet by sheer chance. Ships sometimes did come perilously close.

They were wrong, of course. This was pure, unadulterated Jack Corwin.

Just don’t get carried away!

Jack spent the next few minutes responding to the babble and making arrangements for docking. He was in luck, they told him. The Lister Diamond had just discharged its complement of passengers and cargo before retreating into a higher orbit to avoid blocking the way for other vessels trying to dock.

Jack ’ s ears pricked up. The Lister Diamond ! Now that the Berenice was no more, the Lister was just about the largest piece of space-faring hardware in existence.

Jack swallowed convulsively, dislocating the lump in his throat. The hollow feeling in his gut wasn ’ t so easy to dispose of though. Strange, how it didn ’ t let him go. Not even after all that time.

He switched the second viewer to surround-angle mode, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He ’ d seen her once before, a couple of years ago; a massive hulk that put smaller asteroids to shame. But his search was in vain. Jack desisted from his efforts and attended to the needful.

 

~~~

 

The company came on-line soon after the traffic controllers went off. The local rep ’ s face appeared on the screen: a porcine countenance which shone greasily; eyes too close together; mouth too small and effeminate; a chin that sloped down to a fat neck without much of a transition.

Genes. Too much food. Too little exercise. Too much sucking up to the company.

“Corwin? Hilyer Kern. Good to see you! You ’ ve made good time.”

Jack shrugged. “I always do.”

“Of course,” Kern said with just a hint of condescension. “Well, the company surely appreciates the speedy turnaround.”

Jack ’ s ears pricked up at the subtle inflections.

“Not so fast! You owe me a big bonus and a week ’ s shore-leave.”

Kern opened his mouth to say something but Jack interrupted him.

“The answer is ‘ no ’ . I ’ ve just had two weeks in a ship with a virtual corpse for company. If you want a functioning Pilot who doesn ’ t go mental on the next trip, you ’ d better give me my break.”

Kern ’ s mouth snapped shut.

“All right,” he said placatingly. “One Herrykairn week.”

Jack ’ s ears picked up a subtle inflection. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Kern said, “the equivalent of four stad ’ y ’ s.”

Of course! Herrykairn rotated rather briskly, making its day about sixteen standard hours long; ten local hours: one to just over one and a half standard hours. Jack knew that his body-clock was going to have to do some serious adjusting.

“One local week,” he agreed.

Not that he had much of a choice. The ‘ local ’ clause was standard in virtually all Pilots ’ contracts. Why, he had no idea. Guild logic, like all corporate logic, was a strange animal. In the end, of course, it all averaged out—so who cared anyway? Besides, inside of a week, even a short one, he ’ d have seen about all he wanted to see of Herrykairn; slept with all the prostitutes he could possibly handle; and be more than ready to get back into space and the cocoon he ’ d created around himself.

A week was just fine.

 

~~~

 

The docking crew goggled at Jack through face-covering oxygen masks. They stayed as far away from him as they could.

Idiots! What did they think? That he was carrying some terrible social disease?

If only…

One of them motioned him toward a decon chamber. Jack surrendered his ‘ card and UnIFac, but kept the pendant around his neck. He ’ d only let go of that once, and that was when he’d had no choice, because he was almost dead.

The man took the items gingerly and placed them into a drawer, which disappeared into the wall of the airlock. The door to the decon chamber hissed close behind Jack. A soulless voice told him to undress and dispose of his garments into a bin. He complied. The lid slit shut and the container merged into the wall. The voice told him to take a deep breath and hold it. Then he was hosed down with some disgusting spray that stung on his skin. Still, after the crap of the last two weeks it was like a revitalizing douche. That was followed by a rinse and a blast of warm air to dry him. He was prompted to exit into an adjacent cubicle where he found underwear, a belt, and a Guild uniform; standard grey-and-blue, somewhat tight, overalls with the golden shooting star arcing toward an infinity-symbol delicately embossed on the left chest, just above the heart.

Where would we be without the precious signs of our status?

It was an indication of the Guild ’ s pervasive influence that a Pilot ’ s right to be provided with a nice, clean uniform wherever he went had remained unchallenged.

Jack was about halfway dressed when there was a little whirring sound and a drawer in the wall slid open to reveal his ‘ card and UnIFac; duly decontaminated, but hopefully without the use of astringent sprays. Jack buckled on the belt, slipped the ‘ card into its slot, attached the UnIFac to its clip, and told the walls he was ready. The door hissed open, and he had the freedom of the station.

Or maybe not quite; Hilyer Kern was there, looking even less savory than on the viewer, smiling at Jack with all the welcoming sincerity of a Deluvian mask-devil.

“Feel better?” he asked solicitously, eyeing Jack up and down; not entirely, it seemed, without envy.

Jack took a few deep breaths of the slowly circulating station air. He knew it was stale, too, but to him it was a breeze from heaven.

Kern immediately tried to change his mind about shore-leave, but Jack wasn ’ t having any of it. He parted with Kern as expeditiously as possible and on amicable terms, at least superficially. Jack knew that their dislike was mutual and deep-seated. The gulf between them would never be bridged.

The next transport to the surface was due to leave in less than three local hours. Plenty of time for Jack to get his legs used to some gravity again. The station ’ s spin generated only half-normal at the promenade level, but that was enough. It was nice to know ‘ up ’ and ‘ down ’ again, and to feel a steady tug. His muscles were in good enough condition, because he was a fanatic when it came to using the ship ’ s exercise facilities. But all the strain and impact exercises in the world couldn ’ t make up for the comforting feel of gravity ’ s tug , even if on the station it was simulated by rotation.

Jack ambled along the curved promenade with its booths, shops, and eating places; allowed himself the luxury of a sinfully expensive cup of freshly brewed real coffee. He went to the local banking facility, plugged in his ‘ card, had it verified and updated with the company ’ s most recent transfers, and took out a heap of local currency tabs.

He stood there holding them thoughtfully. It had been some time since he ’ d had a need for hard cash. However, on Herrykairn they used specially printed currency tabs of differing denominations. One ‘ jin ’ exchanged to one standard EU. But whereas EUs could be fractionalized to within four decimal places, a jin divided into subunits of one hundred ‘ jincens ’ . Currency tabs of various colors, decorations and sizes were available down to a minimum quantum of five jincens.

Jack ended up with a bulging pocketful of tabs, the largest of which was about the size of his ‘ card. It felt odd, but after a little while he didn ’ t notice anymore. Adaptation to local idiosyncrasies wasn ’ t always as simple as this.

As he waited for the shuttle to board, he gazed out through the wide viewing ports at Herrykairn rotating below him. The resemblance to Earth was pronounced. A lot of water—more than Earth, but not quite as much as Coralia—and the rest brown and green land masses, some flecked with dots of white where stood tall mountains.

The night side of the planet came into view, and with it a peculiar sight; as of a giant luminous amoeba with several bulbous pseudopods extending across a substantial fraction of a large peninsula of the main northern continent. Jack stared at it with fascination. Here was the reason why cruise ships berthed at Herrykairn; one of the wonders of the populated galaxy.

Jack popped his ‘ card into an interface slot, held his UnIFac to the transfer plate, and had it download a chunk of planetary data into the device ’ s quantum-dot memory. He ’ d look at those at his leisure later. On second thought he also requested a complete history of the colony. Cultural stuff was important, especially on shore leave. Getting dumped unprepared into the peculiarities of the local ambience could really spoil one ’ s chances of having a good time. Of course there was usually an enclave catering for space-travelers and visitors. But once one had released one ’ s pent-up energies at the ubiquitous brothels—which he did, though he was very selective about his choices—gotten oneself a headache in the bars using whatever brew happens to be cheap and plentiful—which he did occasionally, though he preferred expensive, imported stuff, which was safer—and at the gambling tables and machines—which he avoided, because they invariably got him into a kind of trouble that most people would have welcomed—once all that had been sampled, it was time to step outside those confines; out of curiosity, if nothing else; to experience a new world, its landscapes and seas, autochthons, the adaptations of men and women to the localities and circumstances beyond their conception, and to which they and their descendants had been forced to accommodate or perish.

Amazing, really, how it was always different and yet, when you looked deep enough, the same.

As the shuttle plunged toward the planet below, Jack asked himself, for the zillionth time, why he was bothering with this stupid game. He was rich enough. He didn ’ t need to subject himself to those endless, wasted hours; to the loneliness and the brooding that invariably came with it; to stints like those on the Daniel-Lewis , with a near-corpse as the only companion.

Being a Pilot had been interesting. Once. Now it was just a job, whose only redeeming feature was that it got him around the inhabited galaxy, and gave him a chance to see what mankind had made of itself after over three hundred years in space.

The bottom-line so far: not very impressive—and the prospects for improvement looked none too bright either.

Why am I keeping this up?

Maybe, he told himself, because he just hadn ’ t found the right place to stop.

Was that what he was doing?

How would he know if and when he found it?

Would he know at all?