Exile (6 page)

After all, Dalin Shar had known love before. There had been other meetings in that garden, other gazings into various eyes, of blue, of hazel green, of violet—yes, he particularly remembered those violet eyes, set in the perfectly chiseled bronze face of the daughter of his Nubian governor. Hadn't
that
been an afternoon to remember! And hadn't the rest of her body proven to be as perfectly sculpted as her face.

But something tugged at the corners of Dalin Shar's memories of these other garden meetings, seeking to push them aside to inconsequence. Yes, there had been kissing involved, and groping limbs, but—

A measure of the misery Dalin Shar had felt the night before, on learning that Tabrel Kris was betrothed to another, returned like a wave through him. He suddenly felt sick in his stomach, short of breath, a pain no doctor could treat moving through him from head to toe—

"Damnation!"

He ran to the window, sought to draw the fresh morning air into his lungs, feel the warming sun on his face, sought to forget—

But no, there was her face, in his mind, in his heart. Burned there as if by raser fire. He knew that he would never be able to burn it out without tearing his own heart and brain from his body. It was as if some hideous disease had taken hold of him—hideous and wonderful at the same time—and he would always, from now on, be beholden to this parasite within him.

From the window, he looked out over the beauty of the royal grounds, the topiary sculptures of extinct animals—lion, elephant, tiger
—
bordering the
perfectly clipped lawns, the rolling hills of verdant green, the bloomed flowers in riotous colors in the mazed garden—and once more, all he could see on this beautiful day was her face.

"Damnation!"

Concurrent with this oath came a brisk knock on the door, and Dalin Shar turned his attention to it rather than bask in his present anguish.

"Come in!"

The door opened, revealing his valet, the manlike, chromed length of his body bedecked in a crisp black and white servant's uniform. The smooth oval sphere of his head, eyeless and bald, turned in Dalin's direction as the valet rose from his bow.

"It is time for you to dress, sir. And eat. Have you showered yet? Shaved?"

"No . . ." Dalin said absently.

"May I serve your breakfast then, sir?"

"Yes . . ."

Instantly, another robot, not more than a table with wheels, rolled in around the valet and stopped by Dalin Shar's side. An arrangement of covered dishes smoothly slid their silver covers off, revealing a perfect slice of deep green melon, steaming scrambled eggs, a neat row of bacon.

Absently Dalin reached down to pick up a slice of bacon; absently he chewed on it while he turned his attention to the breezy day outside the window.

"Valet, has Minister Faulkner arrived yet?"

"Funny you should ask, sir. He has arrived and is awaiting you in the conference chamber."

Dalin Shar absently chewed on his bacon, staring toward the gardens.

"Valet, do you know anything about love?"

Behind him, the valet straightened. "What is it you wish to know, sir? I can access anything you desire." The valet's even voice retained its flat demeanor. "If you meai physical love, there are precisely two hundred and fourteen positions between human female and human male—"

"That's not what I meant, valet," Dalin Shar said. "I was speaking of being
in
love."

"Ah. I can, of course, access love poetry, or other classical allusions to the subject, such as Mahideen's Chasteness of the Lair or Shakespeare's ancient play Romeo and Juliet. I can—"

"Never mind, valet."

"I presume you are in love, sir?"

Dalin almost laughed at the placid preciseness with which the valet's words were delivered.

"Oh, yes, valet: I am in love."

"Congratulations, sir."

This time a laugh broke from Dalin's lips, and Dalin's morose spell was broken.

He looked down at the slice of bacon he was eating and at the rest of his breakfast, and realized he had an appetite after all.

"All right, valet," he said, "that's enough of love for now. You may fetch my clothes."

The valet bowed. "Very well, sir."

Tabrel Kris was sick of starlight.

She used to think, when she was a girl, that starlight was for lovers. But now she was not so sure. With little else to do during the trip and little space to do it in the Titanian freighter that had picked up her life raft, she had spent most of her days wedged between pallets of goods in the cargo hold, staring out the single porthole. The crew—two androids and a lecherous old salt who had spent as much of the first few days regaling Tabrel with stories of his life on cargo ships as he did eyeing her bosom—had proven inadequate company, and she had at first found solace alone with only perpetual night as her companion.

But that companionship had proven as inadequate as that of the crew, and, when she wasn't worrying about her father, she found herself thinking more and more of that first startling kiss with King Dalin Shar of Earth.

She had never felt anything like it before —and knew in her heart that she would never feel anything-quite like it again. It had been like putting a hand into a wave generator a shock one was not likely to forget.

And she was sure he had felt it, too.

She wondered what Dalin Shar was doing now. Her first impressions of him—too young, callow, insulated, and inexperienced—had proven in many ways to be correct. She had known, going into that garden with him, that he would try to kiss her; she
imagined he had done 'such a thing many times before. She had entered into an agreement with herself that she would let him play out his game, since at the very least it would be a diplomatic thing to do—but when the kiss finally came, she knew it had been like a bolt of lightning to both of them.

Is this how true love comes?

Once again, staring idly at the wash of passing stars outside her window, she wondered what he was doing now, if he was thinking of her.

Such foolishness, but so much time to do nothing
else, unless she wanted to worry about her father. There came a bang and creaking sound which

announced the opening of the cargo bay's old hatch. "Missy, you in there?"

Where else would I be, you old lecher?
she thought—but out of inbred politeness she said, "Yes, Captain, I'm here."

"At your old porthole, eh?" Captain Weens cackled, making his appearance between two lashed pallets of tall crates. He put his hands on his hips, and once more his one good eye strayed down to her bust.

Tabrel crossed her arms over her chest to thwart his stare.

"You require something, Captain?"

"Just company, deary," Weens said. "I gets tired o' scrapping with them two metal heaps up front. They don't want to hear 'bout nothing save the truth." He cackled again, leaning closer to Tabrel. "Did I tell ye about when I was a younger man, on

62
 
Al Sarrantonio

the crew o' the
Abilene,
when the whole aft section o' the ship got blowed away by a meteorite?" Weens shook his head. "Oh, that was a sight—."

As politely as she could, Tabrel interjected, "Yes, Captain, you told me."

Weens stood up straight. "Oh. Then did I tell you 'bout losing me eye?" He flipped up his black patch to reveal, for the tenth time, the charred crater of his socket. "Took a raser shot right in the looker, I did. Would o' burned me brain out if my retina hadn't deflected it portside." He pointed to a scarred round section on the same side of his temple. "Shot came out right there, it did. That's when they named me Popeye—"

"Captain, if you don't mind, I'd rather be alone."

"Oh. Well, then, I guess I'll be delivering my message and returning up front. Wouldn't happen to have a crowbar, would ye? There's a little score I'd like to settle with that heap o' junk metal pilot."

Smiling indulgently, Tabrel shook her head.'

If he would just stop staring at her chest....

Weens rubbed his chin and said, "Well, then, I'm to tell you that we'll be on Titan within the day, and that Jamal Clan will be waiting for ye. Sounded mighty eager, he did, too. Would've been there sooner, but we've had to do a little dancing to avoid them Martian patrols. Their cruisers out this way are few and far between, but they've gotten mean as hornets the last week or so. You'll be safe once we gets down to Titan, though. Tough bunch, them Titanians."

He rose, but his eye lingered on Tabrel's breasts. He rubbed at his chin again. "Say, you wouldn't by any chance be interested in an old farter like me, would ye?"

Before Tabrel could answer forcefully in the negative, one of the ship's robots had appeared at the cargo bay doorway and announced in a flat tone, "We are being boarded, Captain Weens."

"Boarded! What in hellation—"

There came a loud clang to the fore section, and the entire ship shuddered. Weens fairly ran from the cargo hold, pushing the retreating robot out of his way.

"Let me up front, y' waste receptacle!"

The navigator righted itself and followed after the captain.

From her porthole Tabrel could see nothing. Again the ship shuddered, and Tabrel followed the other two up front, where a loud commotion had commenced. Yet again the ship shook violently, and Tabrel noticed that the airlock light on the fore entryway was green, indicating that the outside door had been breached.

"Pirates!" Weens shouted, wrestling the controls from the pilot robot, who sat placidly in the captain's chair. "What in Mormon's hell is wrong with you bolt-holders! Can't ye see we're being attacked by pirates?"

"It is not in our nature to resist," the navigator, back at his post but doing nothing, answered. "Resist this, y' sheet-metal moron!" Weens said,
picking up the nearest loose object, which proved to be a data card, and flinging it at the robot. It bounced harmlessly off the navigator's gleaming shell.

"Away we go!" Captain Weens shouted, punching the ship's accelerator and pulling at the stick.

The cargo ship veered sharply. Instantly the sounds at the airlock ceased. Tabrel went to the copilot's window and now saw their adversaries: a makeshift ship, a hundred yards long, seemingly made up of parts of various other vessels. Standing in free space with nothing to hold on to were two space-suited creatures bearing tools, their faceplates turned blankly in the direction of Tabrel's ship.

"Hoo! Ditched 'em, we did!" Weens shouted.

But as Tabrel watched, the two space-suited figures returned to their ship, disappeared into its airlock, and the lumbering jerry-built craft turned its nose in their direction.

"They are following, sir," the navigator said from his position.

"So you're good for somethin' after all?" Weens spat. "Well, keep your instruments on 'em, ye talking toolbox!"

"Yes, sir," the navigator said.

"And you, pilot!" Weens shouted. "Fly this box crate while I empty the crapper in our wake and give these fellers somethin' t' contemplate!"

On passing Tabrel, Weens put a hand lightly on her arm and managed to look kindly into her face while ogling her breasts at the same time.

"Not t' worry, darlin'," he said. "I've been this route before. We'll ditch 'em for sure, we will."

Hooting, Weens ambled off in the direction of the cargo hold.

Tabrel returned her gaze to the window and saw the pirate vessel falling behind.

But now there came a massive bang that seemed to emanate from everywhere throughout the ship at once.

Instantly Weens was back, his face drained of color.

He said, "What in blazes was that?"

The navigator said calmly, "We have been locked, sir."

"Locked! No way in—"

The power systems in the ship faded as one, leaving its occupants in sudden darkness.

Weens pressed his face to the pilot's window, looking back at the pirate craft, still far behind. "It ain't them bast—"

"There is a second craft approximately point oh two parsecs to our stern side," the navigator reported evenly.

Ween's eye swiveled madly to the other side; to Tabrel it looked as if it would pop out of his head, it widened so much.

"Bejesus in paradise!" the captain swore.

Tabrel looked in the same direction and felt her heart Stop for a moment.

"We are being pulled, sir," the navigator reported.

"No bloody lie!" Captain Weens said. "It'd be an amazement o' God if we weren't!"

There, filling the window and growing more massive by the second, approached a ship which dwarfed anything Tabrel Kris had ever seem Its endless cone shape, widening from its pointed snout to where it overflowed the window ports with its bulk, was as smooth and chromium-shiny as any robot. At first Tabrel could make out no portholes or markings of any kind; but then, as the vessel grew ever nearer over them, she began to detect a faint long line of round windows which traversed the craft from bow to stern. They were like tiny black dots—fleas on the body of a behemoth.