Lovejoy’s World
by Dai Alanye
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Copyright 2011 by Dai Alanye
Aardbassett Books - Smashwords Edition 1.1
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, not to be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share Lovejoy’s World, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.
Lovejoy’s World is an original work of fiction. All characters, locations and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings or to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.
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Lovejoy’s World
00 Not This Way
A boom echoed off the rocks, followed by a howl. Wally and Keira jumped up and stared at each other.
“Wes!” she said.
Wally swallowed once, then found his nerve.
“Stay here!” He started up the trail, rifle at the ready — instinctively crouching. And as he ran his brain reminded him: It wasn’t supposed to be this way — not this frightening way.
The adventure had started in so routine a manner…
~
~
01 Embarkation
Aside from an inordinate concern with personal honor, nothing is more conducive to madness in a man than unrequited love.
Thus mused Walter Zollenkopf as he straddled his bags on the people-mover, the first stage of his quixotic journey to Lovejoy’s World, several kazillion barren parsecs from the only home he’d ever known. He repressed a sniffle.
Movement crawled due to finicky checking of persons and baggage at the portal ahead. He shuffled his feet to relieve the strain on his legs, earning a scowl from the woman to his fore as he inadvertently nudged a bag so it brushed her bulging right calf.
Short dark hair, full eyebrows and a square jaw surmounted an athletic body. Probably played field hockey or lacrosse at an all-girls school — masculine hag.
Oh well… Life was too short for that kind of thought. Better to bring up a vision of Vickie, the cause of wasting his life’s savings on a month in ultra-space and equipment for a trek in the bush. What an otherworldly fool he was probably making of himself.
Otherworldly — heh!
The mover jerked ahead, briefly interrupting his thoughts.
Where was I…? Oh yeah, the spacegram.
Delivered two months ago on the very ship he planned to board, it hadn’t held menace — only mystery. Vickie hadn’t exactly asked him to come, but he had sensed yearning. Nothing out-and-out declared, but all seemed clear when read between the lines. It hadn’t quite intimated she needed rescuing, but gave a definite impression of discomfort, as if being held against her will but hesitant to call on the man she had… well, dumped.
And why would she be out in the back country anyway, the kind of girl Vickie Gruenschild was? She must be in trouble. Her plight wasn’t openly stated, perhaps, but she’d never been one to come right out and admit a need for assistance, always depending upon a hint or suggestive glance.
At any rate, here he stood, and there he’d soon be going.
If he ever reached the portal.
Ahead of him the Butch Babe fidgeted, rotating her solid backside like a cow. Wally looked away, sickened at having such a crude thought. Preparing for the journey to a primitive world had already coarsened his outlook. He mentally bastinadoed himself for the vulgarity.
The mover jerked again.
For a building concerned with space the concourse felt surprisingly cramped. The port itself covered thousands of hectares, and spaceships — even the shuttles they’d be entering — were far from small. Yet here stood a room that wouldn’t make a decent gymnasium. Narrow and low-ceilinged, barren and undecorated, girders and insulation exposed — a depressing place when empty, he’d bet.
Enough guards, though, and all openly armed, male and female both — standing or walking up and down, parading past the people-mover to eye travelers as if hoping any miscreant would give himself away.
One of the uniformed women stared in his direction. He froze, and she passed him by without reacting. Phew!
* * *
Would this thing never move?
She felt nervous, what with dropping everything and spending her life’s savings. And with nerves came impatience for Keira McKillips.
But it’s the only opportunity I’ve found.
She’d been looking forever, it seemed, for a chance to better herself, to unleash the creativity she knew existed within her. Such a risk as moving to a distant planet would stop most people, no matter how eager for career fulfillment, but she felt a need to show courage and self-confidence. If the promised job worked out she’d be happy as a pig in… well, whatever made a pig happy.
She frowned as she heard an abrupt intake of air behind her — almost a gasp. What now with the pretty-boy? She swiveled, and following his eyes saw a spider scuttling across the belt, with him flinching from it like a little girl. Good Lord!
She flicked out a booted foot to crush the tiny beast, glancing at his face to get a reaction. He seemed startled.
“Mighta been a black widow,” he croaked.
Sure, you silly wuss.
With his blondish hair and chiseled features he resembled a doll — a sturdy and warlike doll, perhaps, with bush clothes, pack and rifle — but a baby-doll regardless. She’d long ago learned outward appearances said little regarding character, especially with men. But to fear a spider… That was a new one.
She turned back, quickly becoming absorbed in previous thoughts.
* * *
Horrid witch! If she’d missed her stomp and the spider had raced up her leg she wouldn’t have been so cool. Obviously not the brightest of women, and easy to tell by her sneer she despised him and probably all other sensitive men.
Oh, well — he had far better things to think of than a female tough.
After interpreting Vickie’s message and coming to a decision, it had taken nearly six weeks to get permission to travel, go through medical checks, and then wait for a scheduled ship. Part of the time he’d put to good use — cleaning up obligations about his apartment and job, arranging for payment of services up to departure date, saying his goodbyes.
Not too many of the latter.
And equipping himself. A lot of thought and planning went into that. What could be worse than to land on another world without proper gear, and find no place to buy it? On Earth you could get whatever you needed — but on some outback kind of place?
He’d have to start over when he returned — when they returned, he and Vickie — having spent all but a little money, years of savings gone. Money to start marriage with, once Vickie agreed. But she’d turned down his proposal and flitted away.
Not that he’d exactly proposed. He’d been too self-conscious at Vickie’s crowded going-away party to do more than mutter hints.
Despair… then the spacegram arrived.
He surreptitiously scanned the crowd. Almost everyone wore bush-type clothing, many with backpacks — men, women and the occasional child. Colonizing — if those weren’t tourists — attracted few families, it seemed. And would tourists pick such an undeveloped and out-of-the-way place as Lovejoy? Nah. Nor colonists either, most likely.
He awoke from a trance as the macho-beefer stepped off for inspection, and in a hurry to reposition himself again made contact, although only bag to bag. She spun round to glare before tossing her luggage onto the inspection table.
He averted his eyes, but curiosity soon induced him to stare. Accepting her travel documents, a male guard opened her bags, while a female put her through a detector, then wanded her thoroughly.
Good Lord! The guard pulled a huge lectro-blaster from the first bag. Why would a woman carry something powerful enough to down a grizzly?
But it fit her type, didn’t it? Maybe she’d been recruited to ramrod a penal gang or run a hooch house.
At length she was cleared, her massive firearm safely packed away, and down the tunnel she went. The mover moved and slid him onto the floor, bag and baggage.
“Docs,” said the man, patting the counter to show where Wally should place his gear. The woman tapped his backpack to signal it should join the other equipment, then prodded him to the detector. But passing through without the alarm sounding wasn’t sufficient, and she directed him to Spread them.
He jumped as the wand touched his inner thigh.
“Sorry — not trying to be friendly.” She came around to the front. “It’s OK to smile, you know.”
“I, er…”
She offered a crooked grin and continued the process.
“Look here,” the man commanded. “Rifle goes in the lockbox, and the ammunition, sword and pistol, too.” He reached a heavy plastic case from a shelf, placed Wally’s weapons in the padded interior, closed the lid and reached for the foam nozzle.
“You headed for Nimrod with that blunderbuss?”
“Oh! The Hunter’s Domain, you mean? No — Lovejoy’s World.” And its a khukri not a sword, he longed to add.
The guard’s expression shuttered. “The locks’ll be opened at your destination. Carry it on the shuttle, then it goes into cargo bay on the spacer.”
“Can I…?”
“Take that cart.”
Thank goodness — the ammo was particularly heavy. Wally placed his bags beside the case as they were inspected, and as he started off the woman guard smiled and said, “Good flight!”
Down the boarding tunnel he went, and was directed to park the cart to one side. An attendant once again checked his documents, and handed him a seat assignment.
“Put the case under the seat, and the bags and pack in the overhead compartment.”
He carried the case in first, looking for his seat. He passed the empty front rows. 12, 11, 10, 9… Ah, 8C.
What!
“You,” she accused.
He hesitated before sliding the case under a row of seats, then hurried out.
“Can you…?” he asked the attendant, a formal-looking sort of woman. “I mean, may I change my seat?”
“Some difficulty?” Her eyebrows arched.
“I…” How to explain? “Er, the wo… the person next to me, er, next seat…”
“What is it — a personal problem?”
“Um, yes.”
“Is this someone you know? Someone you’ve had conflict with?”
“Er… Not exactly, but…”
“No changes, then.”
* * *
Wally put his bags in the overhead, not meeting her eyes or even looking directly at his neighbor. He slid cautiously into his seat but couldn’t avoid brushing his knee against hers. Her backpack was crammed between her thighs, spraddling her right leg into what should be his space. The side of his face burned from what he knew was her glare of hate.
Almost twenty hours of this!
Slowly, slowly the shuttle passenger bay filled to its capacity of seventy plus two attendants. One of those attendants appeared with refreshments, banging the cart into his thigh as he sat swiveled away from his seatmate.
Still, he enjoyed the cola and began to accept the situation, even mustering a little sympathy for someone other than himself. On the left side of Beefy-babe sat a small older man forced to cope with the problem of her left knee. The poor chap contorted himself against the wall with one leg lifted to make room for the other. How long, Wally wondered, before the old fellow cramped up?
Coming back, the attendant stopped short. “ Can you…?” she asked, indicating the protruding knee.
He covertly attempted to indicate the offending backpack, and as his surreptitious finger-flickings amplified the attendant caught on.
“Miss,” she asked, “would you like to put that in the overhead compartment?”
A brief battle of wills took place before Macho Gal gritted out, “Fine.”
Wally leaped up, ready to assist. “Shall I…?”
Another glare lashed him.
“Stand clear,” she hissed, “you… you pretty-boy!”
And then they were loaded and starting off. As the shuttle was towed to takeoff position the attendants checked restraints and gave instructions for the coming launch and trip to ML1.
”Welcome aboard Shuttle Twelve, known to its crew as Dirty Dozen. Thank you — thank you very much. Yes, I always say that, just to loosen-up people. We’ll soon be in launch position, at which time Sandi and I will strap in, and you’ll be on your own. You’ll hear the boosters being attached, then the wings deploying. The Captain will warn us before firing. The ports will remain closed during the trip, but when we arrive at the LaGrange point they’ll be opened, and you’ll see a view of the Moon that should reward you for any discomfort on the way up.
“Initial acceleration will rise to approximately two-point-four gravities as we leave the runway, but will soon decrease to a much lower figure. When we reach approximately twenty-thousand meters the boosters will detach, and the wings retract shortly after. Powered flight will continue for another three-quarters of an hour, and you will then experience null gravity. Soon thereafter the passenger section will begin to rotate, giving the equivalent of a ninth G. At that time you may loosen your harness, and get up to use the latrines or socialize. Please restrain your children from bouncing off the overhead.
“What? Yes, I am serious. Any one — child or adult — who bangs the overhead will be required to strap in. The what? Certainly not. In space the waste would drift about and present a hazard. Yes, meals and drinks will be served. Didn’t you read your pre-flight brochure? All this is in there.
“Now, then — although you’ve attended adaptation sessions, it is possible for low-gravity nausea to result, so please take out the sickness apparatus in the seat pocket before you, and…”
* * *
“Young man?” cooed the middle-aged lady across the aisle. “Is this your first flight?”
“Well… yes.”
“I want to say — and I hope you won’t mind my interference — try to relax. It’s not at all dangerous.”
Do I look that tense? Probably so.
“I’ve, er, got a lot on my mind… Have, have you done this before?”
“Oh, yes. This is our third trip off-planet — the first out of the Solar System, though. We’re looking forward to it so much.”
He didn’t feel like talking, but simply to be polite…
“Where are you headed?”
“We’re taking Hyperion, and getting off at Xanadu 3. It’s supposed to be a wonderful planet, and we only hope it won’t be a tawdry tourist trap. But we’ve been assured it isn’t. And you?”
“The…” The answer stuck in his throat. “The Votan to Lovejoy.”
“Oh.” Her voice fell, and she hesitated before asking, “Business, I assume?”
“Er, yes.” I’m not shackled, am I? But he didn’t say it aloud. “It’s… That is, I’m meeting a friend there — scientist.”
“Oh.” She sounded dubious, and turned away. “Well, nice talking to you.”
Good Lord, was he likely to be shunned? Lovejoy didn’t have that bad a reputation, did it? He glanced left, receiving a scowl in return. Apparently Beefy One considered even a look to be invading her space. In the face of all this disapprobation he began to lose the resolution that had carried him this far. But it was too late to leave the shuttle — no chance to get off until ML1.
Could he get a partial refund if he abandoned the Lovejoy trip?
~
~
02 First Step
No sooner did rotation start than his seatmate sprang up, flying off her seat and caroming into the overhead storage. She flailed hands and legs, stepped on his right thigh, grabbed at the opposite seatback. With a fleeting glare at Wally she charged down the aisle, leaving the deck briefly at each step. On her way she forced one man then another back into his seat, gaining the restroom door and disappearing inside.
He wasn’t the only one who stared. Smiles were exchanged, and the woman across the aisle murmured, “Why would they ever serve drinks and then tie us down for two hours?” She herself rose, albeit in a more controlled fashion, leisurely maneuvering to join a line at the twin facilities.
The man next to her scooted into her seat and leaned over to speak behind his hand. “Ain’t you the lucky one.”
“Me! You mean…?”
“She your gal?”
“No!” Wally scorned the thought.
“Oh… Still lucky, though. All that meat and no potatoes. Mmm-mm.”
Disgusting! What kind of creature did the fellow think he was dealing with? Wally turned away, pretending to read the emergency sheet in the seat pocket.
After a minute he began to consider his own bladder. If he managed to see her coming he could get into the aisle, let her seat herself, then join the line. It would mean several minutes less propinquity — slight but certainly desirable. He undid his harness and swiveled to watch the lav door. The man again tried to catch his attention but he pretended not to notice.
* * *
Keira thanked Heaven for her natural strength and agility. A few more minutes and an incident embarrassing to more than herself might have occurred. She grinned, thinking of the men she’d forced her way past. Had they been naturally chivalrous — not that a modern woman needed any man’s help — she wouldn’t have had to jam them back in their seats.
If only she could relax and spend some time in here, not have to return next to her girly-man seatmate. Blast! Why couldn’t she have more luck with the unfair sex? Her experiences were almost all bad. Either they thought of her as fresh meat, or were so lacking in confidence she frightened them. One glare was enough to scare away most. Jerks or mama’s boys all.
She was headed off-planet for career reasons, but it didn’t hurt that Lovejoy had an excess of males. The only problem… most were ex-felons according to one of the brochures. Just what she wanted for a life-mate — a glowering tattooed killer with bristly jowls. Ugh.
She slowly washed her hands, mentally preparing to run the gauntlet of stares sure to be awaiting.
* * *
Eighteen uncomfortable hours, three meals and a half-dozen trips to the lav later, Wally wakened from a snooze at an attendant’s announcement. He raised his seat upright — which was, apparently, the order she had given, for she smiled approval in his direction.
“…in ten minutes, then we’ll maneuver toward docking. You might occasionally see the ultraship’s attitude rockets light off. Don’t be alarmed, they won’t leave without you. Ha ha. Yes, thank you — I always say that. Why? Because the L1 point is unstable, so the big ships need to adjust position now and then.
“When docking is completed, we’ll notify you one by one to bring your baggage to the exit. We’ll call off the seat numbers, starting in front with 1C. With low gravity you’ll find your things quite light but they still have inertia, so be careful. And if anyone needs a hand, we’ll jump right in to give you one. Remember now, this is Ultraship Hyperion, so don’t make a mistake and go to the wrong planet.”
Wally, still hazy, clutched at his itinerary, frantic he might have missed his ship’s name. Calm down, you fool! Votan, of course — who could forget a name like that? And surely they kept track of passengers — it wasn’t like going past your transit stop on Earth. His heartbeat diminished.
Soon the overhead doors slid back, and oohs and ahs were offered up at the closeup of the moon’s surface, impressive if somewhat disorienting as the view slowly spun before them.
Now the bulk of the great ultraship began to block their view, micro-pitted surfaces reflecting diffuse light. Wally tensed as various sounds and jolts indicated the docking operation taking place, and he fumbled for the emergency instruction sheet while an attendant rose to call out the order of disembarkation.
* * *
Oh Lord, the husky woman was staying on. Well, he’d tagged her for a penal guard, so maybe it made sense, but he felt an irrational sense of repression — almost persecution — at the thought of weeks of enforced contact aboard the ultraship.
But no sooner had their other companion entered the aisle to get his luggage than she jumped into that seat, favoring Wally with one final resentful glare from icy blue eyes. He hid any response, but when an entire row cleared out up ahead, he slithered into the aisle and made his way to it. He couldn’t resist glancing back to see how she took his leaving, and the answer was — not well. Tiny optical daggers pierced his skull as he hid behind the new seatback.
Disembarkation took time, but eventually they un-docked and began to maneuver toward Votan, a ship of similar proportions to Hyperion. The overhead doors closed to solar and cosmic radiation, and he snoozed once more.
He awoke to find one of the attendants — the cuter one — bending next to him, and felt a brief episode of panic lest something had gone wrong. But she only smiled and offered him her business card.
“I’ve written my number on it,” she breathed. “When you come back this way I might be in port.”
He suffered momentarily confusion.
“Oh. Oh!” How flattering. “Thank you so much. I…” Nothing more came out. He hesitated to tell her how much he would fear a casual liaison — to date someone he didn’t even know.
“You’re not with her, are you?” She casually gestured toward that woman.
“No! No, certainly not.”
“Good! Very good. Enjoy your trip, now.” She smiled and winked before returning to her station.
He felt himself blushing.
* * *
The Votan was all efficient space — spare and sterile. Occupancy pods were stacked five high with angled stairways easy to climb in one-quarter inertial gravity — or centrifugal force, as the non-Illuminati chose to call it.
Barely high enough to sit in, the pods offered bed and bath in one, the bed-linens and yesterday’s clothing dissolving during daily washdown. To avoid an impromptu stinging shower it was necessary to exit before the cleaning cycle started. Waste clothing and bedding were washed away, comminuted and dissolved to become part of the reaction mass used for maneuvering in real space. Personal clothing was stored with their other gear, and even loose jewelry was verboten during the trip.
Settings for wall opacity and a personal shower could be controlled by the occupant. The rectangular sound- and light-proofed pods offered adjustable environment and varied entertainment.
They ate by shifts in a separate space which altered into an exercise room with four multi-form machines. Exercise was mandatory under lengthy periods of low gravity. As for latrines — or heads, as the ship’s personnel called them — the setup resembled that on the shuttles, with the same need for occasional line-standing.
The passengers from the “Dirty Dozen” completed Votan’s load. Following a hurried orientation lecture they were confined to pods, harnesses deployed and tightened, and the great ship maneuvered to begin conventional travel away from the ecliptic plane. A few hours acceleration at slightly over one gravity, then Votan would coast for the better part of two days before initiating ultradrive. Approximately thirty-two days subjective in ultraspace — five and a half months objective or so-called galactic time — and they would reach the vicinity of Lovejoy to begin the approach to orbit.
Votan’s on-board shuttle would take them planetside, convicts debarking in the initial group. Upon arriving and clearing the port, passengers’ weapons would be released from bond. Once landed, they were advised to keep them within reach at all times.
“It is a frontier planet, you realize.”
Wally felt a thrill of… not anticipation, exactly — more like dread.
In the meantime they must stay on the free-passenger side of the ship, avoiding any incidental contact with the convicts — hardened and mostly violent offenders every one. Besides, the connecting hatches stayed locked.
To avoid crowding and the inevitable conflicts that would eventually develop, the steward strongly advised them to spend the majority of time in their pods. The ship’s library contained a copious selection of vids and written matter, and should they wish to sample the starscape while in conventional space, or the apparent colorful patterns of ultraspace, they need only select the proper viewer setting.
“Any questions?”
Well, no matter, because acceleration would shortly begin, and answers must be postponed until after. Written instructions and diagrams would explain the working of utilities within the dens, as the ship’s crew insisted on calling the occupancy pods.
“Up you go now.”
* * *
Immediately after cessation of conventional drive they ate, and when group three had wiped their chins all passengers commenced the regular ship’s program. Exercise filled the next scheduled period, and who should turn up for Wally’s but his female nemesis. Flinching from her glare, he claimed the most distant toning unit.
After coasting far above the ecliptic, Votan transitioned to ultra, much less of a sensation than Wally had feared. He rested easy in the reduced perceptual gravity, even lighter at his fifth-story pod. But the fabled beauties of ultraspace had been exaggerated, and soon tiring of passive entertainment, he emerged from his reusable chrysalis to meet his fellows.
Most were men, and the few women — regardless of age or beauty — became centers of attention. But not from him, for he had his memories of true love, chaste and pure. As for his bete noir — an appropriate term, for she had dark hair and dressed in dark colors — the dance of desire swirled loosely round her, for male attention was a pleasure she seemed pleased to do without.
It figures, Wally thought.
He found a few cronies — one a man returning from business on Earth. He, like many on the frontier world, lived off the convict population, supplying the prison with apparel and fabrics. Wally eagerly consumed questionable anecdotes of life on Lovejoy, consisting mainly of scary tales about ex-prisoners, all sent up for violent felonies.
Habitual fighting, robbery, burglary, aggravated manslaughter and murder were among the crimes which gained a man — or woman — a stay on Lovejoy’s World. Sneak thieves of every kind, confidence tricksters, embezzlers, hoarders, goods speculators — those served their penalties on good old Mother Earth. The nasty ones, though, received hard labor on Lovejoy. And after serving their sentences — including time added for misbehavior — they were refused passage back to Earth until an equal period had passed. The ex-convicts, Wally imagined, were the source of problems on Lovejoy, and the reason everyone on the planet carried arms.
But to hear Casey (Red) Wisnewski tell it, escapees caused the problems. Wally didn’t see it.
“How can they manage anything with those shackles?”
“I’m telling you, son, they learned how to bamboozle the things some time back. Tricks of the trade — convict trade, that is — get passed on from generation to generation of crooks. Each new draft of prisoners goes through initiation, and everyone who lives gets taught the secrets of the lodge.”
“Lodge?”
“I’m speaking metaphorically, son.”
“Who lives…?”
“Mostly they survive. I’m not saying a huge percentage is knocked off — only the odd weakling. It’s mental — if they keep their nerve, they’re safe.”
How could Wisnewski know? “You know this because…?”
“Everybody gets to hear this stuff, so it’s not like I’m claiming to be an insider. You gotta remember — half our population, almost, is ex-cons. They’re sworn to keep it all secret, but you know how people got to talk.”
Yes, Wally did.
“Few years back we had this one fella — Pete something. They called him Prancing Pete on account of he got his leg hurt getting out of the shackles, and it put a little skip in his walk. Well anyhow, he formed up the strongest gang yet, and they…”
“Got out of his shackles? I thought those were practically unbreakable, impossible to unlock without the code-key, too hard to…”
“I’m telling you. These crooks learn like any other citizen… Well, not that they’re citizens, strictly speaking. But anyhow, what they do is get an industrial laser to cut most way though the cuff — 85C cast steel, it’s supposed to be, and real hard, with diamonds or similar in it.”
“Carbide.”
“Sure, I guess… Then they get a chisel in the slit made by the laser, and they’ve got to bust it the rest of the way by more conventional means. With Pete, somebody made a little slip, and his leg wasn’t so healthy any more. Course he killed the fool later.”
“Now wait — how do they even get to a laser? Don’t those things lock up when they get too far away from prison?”
“You’re right. They key the magnets by distance, and the farther past the bounds the more difficult to walk. Kind of funny to see them spraddle-footed with their legs stuck way out. And if they slip — bang, their ankles lock together.”
“Surely they can’t go far?”
“Mighty difficult, but they’ve got their methods. They’ll shunt the shackles with iron bars, use aluminum to shield them — all kinds of tricks.”
“It can’t be that easy, can it?”
This recitation gave Wally an eerie feeling — the idea criminals might be thronging the streets of Touchdown City.
“Course they can always get somebody to carry them. You know, get help from an old pard who’s free.”
“It’s a fraternity of thieves, you mean.”
“Oh, they pay them.”
“What! They have money in prison?”
“No, no. They get scrip — for doing labor. They don’t get much, actually, but they save it up.”
“Pay?”
“Oh, sure. Otherwise they’d down tools and go on strike. Yeah, it’d get real nasty, cuz we need to have the roads and such fixed, pick up the trash, clean the privies… I mean, Lovejoy’s bad enough without having to do our own dirty work.”
Wally’s head spun. There had been none of this in the literature. So it was like a slave economy, but with rebellious slaves who had to be bribed. He didn’t want to insult his new crony by pointing this out, however.
“They pay them…? All of them?”
“Near about, I guess. It’s not much, but they can save up for stim-cigs, snacks, doo-dads… And if they save enough, they can pay someone to help in an escape.”
“But… It’s not currency, I presume. What good is this prison-money to an outsider?”
“Ah, that’s the essential! They trade the stuff to the guards for maybe three to one in real money, and the guards use the prisoners as intermediaries to buy stuff in the jail commissary… Or maybe to buy favors, if you know what I mean.”
“Favors? From women, you mean?”
“Sure — depending on tastes, of course.”
What am I getting into?
~
~
03 On the Other Hand
Ole Gestner tried to give him the straight of it.
“You b’lieve everthin’ that Red joker tries to feed ya you’ll get the heeb-jeebs. Tain’t near so bad as that. Prancin’ Pete he’s tellin’ ya bout? — not so mean, rilly. Served his extra fiver like a honest man… Well, I guess honest ain’t ezzakly the word, but… So, anyhow, I’m runnin’ errands for Pete, and I observes to him one day how I could use a bit more of the blues — and the reds and pinks, too, heh-heh.
“Well, he scowls at me — Pete bein’ a great scowler, no doubt a that — an he says, Bout time you was gettin’ a real job. An off we goes to a eatery — pretty swell place — an he innerduces me to the owner, sayin’ This is yer new man, Pablo. Well, lemme tell ya, ol’ Pablo did a lotta real fine scowlin’, too, right then. I got no place for some old coot, he says. But Pete tells him, I ain’t sayin’ he’s yer new manager — just get him on the payroll.
“So there I am, two nights a week — or more, if there’s a party — washin’ dishes. Scrape em off, put em in the machine, stack em when they come out. Four, five, six hours a night, dependin’, for thirty terries and a meal. Not so bad, huh?”
“Aren’t you retired — got your dole allowance?”
“Sure thing, but it’s kinda spensive on Lovejoy, what with all we gotta import. So a man can use a little extra, else he gives up his goodies.” Ole ruminated a few moments. “Only thing, Pete served his exile, then he ups and goes back to Earth. Was a jumble for awhile, everbody fightin’ ta take over. Big mess, and nobody knows what’s what — then Black Bert comes out on top, bleep him!”
“What happened?”
“Oh, he’s a mean one, and wants more’n his due. Pete was takin' the normal five but Bert makes it ten, then everbody’s hard up. Tell ya, I had ta save up fer more’n a year to make this trip — from my job money and my dole, too. Gone to visit my grandotter, ya see — only relative I got, and her gettin’ married.”
“Do you mean you must give a cut of ten percent of your pay to this Bert?”
“Yeah I wish! Ten terries it is, and way too much. The bleeper’s greedy, he is, and some bleepin’ day somebody’s gonna… Well, all I can say, it’s lucky I don’t pay no taxes, else I’d be flat broke.”
* * *
Carmy Santangelo made his acquaintance by brushing against him in the passageway to the dining/rec room.
“Oh, excuse me! I’m so clumsy in this low gravity.”
Wally colored and stuttered his own excuse.
“Well, at least you’re a gentleman. We could use more of your type.”
They separated, but she soon extended the acquaintanceship, introducing herself and ladling out compliments.
“Such nice manners! Somebody grew up in a decent family, I guess. And you’re so good-looking, as well. I’m sure glad someone like you is with us this trip.”
Wally gradually lost the tendency to blush in her presence, and they moved on to general conversation. Carmy — a woman two decades past the girlish facade she presented — owned a tailoring shop, and her trip to Earth she justified by selecting fabrics and accessories, and observing the latest styles. She dealt with both women’s and men’s clothing, making it on-planet, “Cuz the prices on finished goods are so high I get a real avantage, even making things to custom.”
Wisnewski she had no use for. “Brings in his special fabric — horrible orange and pink-striped stuff it is, like to make your eyes bleed.”
“So they can’t blend in?”
“Maybe — how’d I know what they want it for? And he has patterns and closures and whatever, and then steada giving me a share of the work he bids it out to any fool woman or man willing to ask next to nothing by way of pay. It’s unfair, and he’s a real weasel!”
She had an outlook on the prisoners, too. Or rather the ones serving their exiles or settling after working out sentences.
“Some of them toughs — not saying all — are the biggest creeps ever. This latest gang leader I got no use for. Keeps down the casual crime, sure — but he puts the bite on you like the worst ever. Not like Pete — Pete could be a gentleman in his own way, and he only hit up the more public houses, like eateries and saloons and — scuse me — brothels and such. I mean, this fellow goes after everybody — even me — and he don’t pretend like it’s a fee or something steada plain old extortion. Lives high on the hog, let me tell you! Got no class.”
Mark Tredigar had a more expansive view of Lovejoy, and especially of Mudberg, as the inhabitants tended to call Touchdown.
“Big mudflats next to the town, and whenever the wind’s northwest, you know it. Get a big tide up the creek whenever both moons are lined up one side or the other. Then the water spreads out a klik or better, practically lapping at the foundations. A little levee keeps us dry.”
Tredigar often wondered if he should have come to Lovejoy’s World.
“Ah, who am I kidding? — I wish I’d never heard of the place. At first it excited me being a pioneer and living off-Earth, but now it’s too late to start over back home. On Lovejoy you can’t save the kind of terrabills you’d need in order to set up back there. We make no money here. If the prison didn’t subsidize us we’d have to live the way they do in Eastside. Of course, they’ve got their mines over there, while the back-country settlements…”
He had the only real machine shop on Touchdown’s side of the peninsula.
“Yeah, I’m the one services the escapees when they want to get unshackled. Got no choice, else they’d kidnap the family, or maybe kill me and try to run the machine themselves.”
“Prancing Pete — did you help him? I heard he killed the man who injured him.”
“Oh no! — I wasn’t the one crippled him. I did my part alright — of course his ankle might have been a bit warm before I finished. No, it was the poor soul — another convict, of course — who cracked the last bit of metal. Besides, I know how to handle these thugs. When they come to get cut loose I tell them right to their faces. You want to get free? Fine! I’ll do it and charge nothing. But it’s the last thing I’ll ever do for you, and I never want to see you again. You’ve got to be tough with them, or else they’ll play the bully over you any chance that comes.”
“Don’t you worry they might resent your attitude?”
“Resent or not, I don’t care. I carry a gun, and you’d better, too. And I keep two tough men with me day and night, and two more at the house. This new tyrant — Black Bert he’s called — when I heard he planned to go after all businesses with his protection racket, I sent for him. Hear you’re planning to spread out, I said, so I wanted to discuss my fees with you.
“He settles down for a nice friendly palaver, and I then say, Well let’s get one thing straight — I ain’t paying any so-called fees. You don’t like it, I’m willing to kill you right now. I had him at a disadvantage, and he knew it. So what’s it to be, Mister Boss Bert? Tell me now, or I’ll do what must be done. He saw I meant it, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Still, I keep a sharp eye out, make no mistake. One day we’ve got to get a proper government set up, so honest folk won’t need to be supporting thugs.”
* * *
Wally now had a picture of an anarchical society, lawless by choice, where survival of the fittest was the rule, and not only nature but mankind red in tooth and claw endangered the law-abiding.
“Oh, it’s not total bad, Wally,” Carmy assured him. “You’ll like it, cuz I can see you’re into culture, same as me. We got our Entertainment Society, like where we watch vids and read — there’ll be new vids aboard Votan. And we got our Self-expression Group where we sing and dance and stuff. And you know we’re up on style and dress, otherwise where would I be?” Her laugh tinkled. “And sports — you could go after unicorn.”
What?!
* * *
Ole laughed at that one. “Dint she esplain it to ya? Oh, what a doozy!”
It took a minute for him to get under control while Wally looked around, embarrassed by the attention, and hoping Carmy wouldn’t hear. But she must have been denned-up.
“Pulling my leg?” He couldn’t believe it of her.
But Ole settled down to explain how unicorns were one of the few edible animals on Lovejoy — edible by humans, that was.
“They’re kinda like deers, I guess, but somethin’ lankier. Ain’t many round Mudberg, cuz they useta shoot em up pretty good. You know — for food. Got to go back in the hills, ya want em now.”
“They’ve got one horn? Aren’t they bi-laterally symmetrical?”
“Bi-what? No, they got no horns a-tall. Way I said, they’re like deers.”
“Then why do you call them unicorns?”
Ole hadn’t thought about it.
* * *
“I’ve got a horizontal machining center — you know what that is? Hundred-eighty cents by one-twenty by eighty, plus a built-in rotary. Got a lathe that’ll do thirty-two cents by two meters between centers, and swing fifty on a faceplate.”
Tredigar boasted of his machine shop while going into the industrial capacity of Lovejoy. He covered his grinders, EDM, laser profiler, saws, vertical mills of various grades and types, and so on.
“Blast furnace and rollers give us cast and wrought iron. They get their ore, if you want to call it that, out of the swamps and mudflats. You know — partially reduced iron out of the river, filtered by the rotten vegetation. You familiar with technology?”
Wally’s knowledge was spotty.
“Then in Eastside they make cement and mine lead and copper — get a little silver from the lead. We trade iron and finished goods for cement and non-ferrous — ship around the peninsula in good weather. Why cement? Well, due to currents and whatever, the winter storms pile huge windrows of shell on the beaches there. Quite beautiful, many of them. They grind them, mix in clay, burn it, and presto! — you’ve got your cement. More to the process than that, of course, but…”
A big problem with Lovejoy’s economy, Tredigar explained to him, was scarcity of indigenous energy sources. They had as yet developed no oil or gas. Wood — turned into charcoal — heated the iron furnaces and cement mill among other processes — and most buildings. Oil cooked from plants and alcohol destructively-distilled from vegetation powered the few vehicles. Sure, they had nuclear power — the Votan carried a replacement package unit for exchange with one presently at Touchdown. But nuclear was so expensive — plus the freight and the fee for the technicians who needed to oversee disconnection and re-installation — they used homegrown sources insofar as possible, and this meant wood. Timbering and charcoal burning employed many on Lovejoy.
“Then what’s the nuclear for?”
“Electricity, mainly, and purifying the water supply. And since electric’s in short supply, it’s kept expensive to be sure required services have what they need. So we generally heat water and cook with wood, and don’t run any more lights or motors than we have to. Even the water reservoir is filled by pumps run by wind turbines. Always breaking down, too, the blasted things.”
Tredigar had licenses for firearms manufacture.
“Rudiger Arms — slug throwers — and Blasko Blasters. Only a few models, to keep the machining and assembly simple. The critical parts — like the sear mechanisms and blaster electronics — we ship in from Earth.”
Both types were hand weapons, and quite expensive — in part because of the need for alloy steel, imported from Earth.
As for something like Wally’s rifle, “Not much call for long guns on Lovejoy. Those two handguns I make give you everything you need.”
~
~
04 A New Start
“Cara?”
“Keira.”
“Kerra?”
“Keira.”
“Oh… Kira.”
“You’re close, it’s Keira.”
“I see now — Kyra.”
Keira McKillips doubted her new friend really understood, but she could live with the problem, she guessed. People always had trouble with her name.
“He hinted we might expect… an accident.”
Keira had spoken to one of the stewards, who casually dropped the information that ultraships occasionally failed to reach their destinations. No, no-one knew why or what happened to them, but it was rare phenomenon indeed, and she needn’t worry. Hardly any chance at all. Infinitesimally small — practically zero. Then he had winked.
She wasn’t sure whether he’d brought up the subject or if she herself had.
“I’ve never heard of ultraship losses. I haven’t read anything, and for sure the travel agents never said a word,” Maggie Royston replied.
No, they wouldn’t, Keira thought. Perhaps the steward might have been trying to frighten her — men acted so juvenile. Somehow the subject had arisen when she asked about alternative clothing. She and her generous figure didn’t like revealing garments, and choices were few aboard the Votan.
“We’re not a luxury cruiser,” he had said, “and we don’t run a laundry on board.”
So she had to wear the disposables. Not a problem, but… She was far from petite, so wore a man’s regular, which made the one-piece almost loose enough. The difficulty had to do with color — the darkest choices available being either light gray or tan, and the non-woven fabric was somewhat translucent. She felt nervous about being silhouetted against a light source. Why any woman chose white she couldn’t fathom.
She changed the subject. “You teach?”
“Yes — middle school.”
“What subject?”
“Er… I am the middle school, so to speak. That is, I’m the faculty.”
Touchdown had few families, and therefore few children and only six teachers. Middle school was stinted, although one of the high-school instructors handled math. Language, history, science, and whatever consisted of civics depended on this one woman.
“I have thirty-eight students… when none are absent.”
“Wow! Sounds tough — what a job. You like living there?”
“Air pollution is the worst problem. Everyone and everything but the vehicles burn wood — not always properly seasoned — and the iron smelter is a problem, plus the stink off the marsh. And the slaughter yards. Fortunately the wind generally blows southish in summer and spring. Of course the bugs are pretty bad, as well.”
“Bugs? I hate insects!”
“These aren’t exactly insects, although they seem arthropodish. There’s a mosquito-like kind that drives you nuts in calms, or when you get the stink.”
“Oh my! What do you do for diseases? Are the medical facilities adequ…”
Her companion interrupted with a laugh. “Medical facilities? It sounds so impressive put that way. We have a couple doctors and nurses, and a kind of clinic. I guess that’s facilities.”
Keira felt confused.
“But if you have mosquitoes, don’t they spread all kinds of things? Like those old diseases — yellow fever, malaria, smallpox, HIV?”
“Not these.” The woman laughed again. “We kill them. Seems our bodily fluids are fatal to the bugs, so one bite and they get sick and are goners within a day. They never bite again, so not much chance of them being vectors.”
“Well then…”
“Leaves a heck of a welt, though — itches for days. Maybe sometime the ones who like our smell will be gone — evolved out. Couldn’t be too soon for me… What is it you do, by the way? Are you a colonist or only touring?”
“Do you get many folks moving in?”
“Very few, I’m afraid. We barely keep ahead of the outlaws.”
Keira hadn’t been able to find the right opportunity on Earth. Apparel design houses were mostly into fancy clothing, and she preferred practical, utilitarian garments. Her calling, she felt, was to design good-looking comfortable wear for the average person. But on Earth only work-clothing fell into such a category, and those firms had no use for a real designer — they simply recycled the old styles in new shades and fabrics. So she had found an employment ad — an opportunity! — for Lovejoy’s World.
“Are you familiar with Facile Fashions?”
“Facile… Is that Fasilla Clarke?”
But Maggie knew little of the company, and hadn’t seen any of its designs. This discouraged Keira, but on the other hand, perhaps she and Facile Fashions could make a new start together, bringing practicality with style to Lovejoy.
Carmella Santangelo learned Keira could design, and engaged her in shop talk. But Carmy wasn’t interested in design as such, since she simply copied whatever came out from Earth. “If you can work a commercial sewer, though, maybe I’d have a little design work on the side. Hundred terries a month plus overtime — extra for design.”
Keira didn’t think so. As a last resort, maybe, but for now she would stick with Fasilla. Anyhow, one-hundred terrabills a month? No thanks.
“Oh?” Carmy said in a rising tone.
How odd. It seemed as if she knew a secret Keira should be dying to learn. But she wouldn’t give the pestiferous woman the satisfaction of a question.
Red Wisnewski wasn’t familiar with Facile Fashions either.
He told her, “You set up for yourself and I’ll contract with you.”
No, no design, he said — cut and sew to pattern. He knew where she could get a machine cheap.
Again, Keira said thanks but no. She wasn’t traveling thirty-odd light-years to be an ordinary wage slave.
Maggie struck Keira as smart and level-headed, and from her and others she got the picture of Touchdown as a true frontier town full of people trying to create a normal lifestyle for themselves and their families. By normal they meant like on Earth but nicer. And nicer meant not only less crowded and with greater opportunity but more courteous and moral. Except for crime and sudden death, of course.
But those were the fault of the un-rehabilitated criminal portion of the population — an all too large portion. Some day the honest citizens would get the upper hand, but until that day they must make accommodation, largely by allowing themselves to be taxed twice.
It sounded like a pretty rough place, the elected authorities and police perforce sharing authority with ex-prisoners, and the latter drawing better pay. Perhaps the only blessing was that after five years — the most typical prison sentence — the exiled prisoners tended to be forced out of the gang by newcomers. They then had to act as citizens — either joining the mass who wished for law and order, or becoming hangers-on to the protection racketeers.
Keira wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or chilled by the type of life this promised.
~
~
05 Touchdown
Lovejoy’s World swung below. All the viewers, Wally imagined, were focused on the planet, searching the vast northern continent for the city where they’d be landing. You’d think they could see lights even from up here, but nowhere on the peninsula did any detail show — black land amidst a charcoal sea.
Night hid the landing field, dawn a few hours off. Already the convicts had boarded the lander and glided down to port. Before long it would be back for the paying passengers, and they would arrive at Touchdown by the light of early morn. A clear day was predicted, but squalls might move in off the ocean by nightfall.
They had opened their luggage to don ordinary clothing, and he was sensibly dressed for a trek in the bush. Their last shipboard meals were digesting, the sweat from the latest exercise sessions be-dewing their axial hair. Wally felt vastly excited… and nervous.
* * *
Keira got a tremendous kick as the shuttle broke loose from Votan for the transit to Touchdown. No thrill-park ride could compare to the rush of swooping through the blackness of space to a darkened planet, of the faint but real uncertainty of smashing into the surface or flying past to be lost forever. Many of the passengers voiced their instinctive fears of falling through nothingness — was Pretty-boy one of the screechers?
She had hung behind so as to avoid being a seatmate either to that man or the Santangelo woman, and her proximal companions seemed unexceptional. The landing was rough but not frightening, and they lined up to exit, luggage ready. Soon they stood in the fresh air, weapons in hand from the unsealed containers.
She had to admit having the blaster reassured her after the stories of Touchdown’s wild streets, and felt comfortable due to the practice she’d taken with it. She slammed it into the holster, observing that even the residents had firearms, so those stories of regular violence must contain some truth.
They lined up once again to board the bus which would take them into town. A few people hiked off, however — trailing down the gravel road.
* * *
Wally saw Ole Gestner shouldering his single bag and sauntering down the road toward town. Hmm, the man must live nearby, but how did he get to his dish-washing job? Could he be sufficiently well-off to own a vehicle?
Wally humped his own gear out to the storage trailer, staggering under the weight of ammunition for the rifle. Two-hundred rounds — why had he allowed himself to be talked into so much? He’d sell part as soon as he could. He loaded and secured his luggage among the others, then settled down in the bus, nostrils offended by the pungent exhaust.
They trundled down four kilometers of gravel road to Touchdown, past homes and commercial buildings largely made from unpainted wood, bleached silver by sun and weather. Their conveyance pulled over on the wrong side of the road before a broad three-story building, its plain front decorated with THE SPACEPORT HOUSE. At the bus door the driver held out his hand for the four-terry fare. Wally handed him a fiver, and while he waited for change the man reached around him for the next fare.
Taking the hint, Wally moved on. As he unshipped his luggage, waiting to help was a porter in what seemed to be the hotel uniform. Most of the other passengers — the locals — were on their own, while this man had unerringly picked out the newcomer. Wally surrendered the heavier part of his gear to him, and they mounted to the board sidewalk, then up the steps and through a narrow lobby, stopping before a counter. The porter dropped the ammo box and held out his hand. Wally considered, then offered a terry. The hand remained poised. Another terry, and the porter leaned toward him to announce in a stage whisper, “Five is usual, sir.”
He registered with the smiling desk clerk, who assigned him room 212, asking for Tb-40 in advance. Grimacing, Wally paid and was waved toward a porter — a different porter but with a similar acquisitive look — who would take his bags up the stairs.
Wally gained a sudden insight into one facet of the economy of Lovejoy — it was rackets all the way.
* * *
Keira hung back on the bus, and seeing what happened ahead, got four singles ready. She slapped them into the driver’s hand, loping toward the baggage trailer. Ignoring the waiting porter, she carried her bags in by herself, stopping within range of the desk. Forty terries! Impossible — she had less than three-hundred to get herself settled, and no knowledge of when Fasilla would set payday, nor how much she might withhold from the promised two-fifty weekly salary. She looked around for help, finding no-one who looked sympathetic. But one doorway sported a sign.
She entered the dining room and took the first table, setting her bags at her feet. A waitress promptly appeared, smiling so as to split her face.
“Only ice-water, please,” Keira rasped, her voice not quite working properly.
“Ice-water?” the girl echoed. “Would cold water do, mam?”
“Please.”
She sipped while considering a course of action. Forty terries a night would absolutely break her bank. Ten she had expected, fifteen she could accept, but the demanded amount would put her on the street before she had time to find a rental. If prices ran this high at a hotel, what might an apartment — even of the worst quality — possibly cost. Perhaps Facile Fashions offered a generous wage for good reason. At any rate, there it was — she would have to find something cheaper or sleep on the street. Her next step must be to find a place to store her luggage, then immediately go to see Fasilla Clarke.
She put down her glass and shoved back the chair. The waitress immediately appeared, offering a bill on a wooden salver. A bill for water! She had expected to leave a small tip, but… An entire terry! She began to heat up — was the entire town out to take advantage of her?
Grasping for calm, she slouched in her chair and reached for the glass. Two sips and she made up her mind. Placing a five on the salver, she motioned the waitress near.
“Is there somewhere I can leave my luggage?”
“Oh… If madame were a guest they could be stored.”
“Well, is there a cheaper hotel in town?”
The girl blushed. “Only decrepit places of bad repute, madame.”
“I see… You may take this.”
It took the girl a while to return, but finally she brought the change in bills on the salver, not having the goodness to present a single terry in coin. Apparently she demanded rather than merely expected a large tip. Keira nodded and continued to sip, while the waitress faded into the shadows — ever watchful, no doubt.
One more fake sip and Keira grabbed the bills, cramming them into a pocket. She snatched her bags from the floor, and in long strides exited the dining room and headed for the sidewalk.