Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline (2 page)

Vainly, he strove to think of a way to outmaneuver someone he did not yet know, someone whose intentions were not yet clear.

He ignored the flying lizard. It waited patiently, accustomed to his brooding way.

Storm took an ancient clarinet from a case lying beside his chair. He examined the reed, wet it. He began playing a piece not five men alive could have recognized.

He had come across the sheet music in a junk shop during his Old Earth visit. The title, “Stranger on the Shore,” had caught his imagination. It fit so well. He felt like a stranger on the shore of time, born a millennium and a half out of his natural era. He belonged more properly to the age of Knollys and Hawkwood.

The lonely, haunting melody set his spirit free. Even with his family, with friends, or in crowds, Gneaus Storm felt set apart, outside. He was comfortable only when sequestered here in his study, surrounded by the things with which he had constructed a stronghold of the soul.

Yet he could not be without people. He had to have them there, in the Fortress, potentially available, or he felt even more alone.

His clarinet never left his side. It was a fetish, an amulet with miraculous powers. He treasured it more than the closest member of his staff. Paired with the other talisman he always bore, an ancient handgun, it held the long night of the soul at bay.

Gloomy. Young-old. Devoted to the ancient, the rare, the forgotten. Cursed with a power he no longer wanted. That was a first approximation of Gneaus Julius Storm.

The power was like some mythological cloak that could not be shed. The more he tried to slough it, the tighter it clung and the heavier it grew. There were just two ways to shed it forever.

Each required a death. One was his own. The other was Richard Hawksblood’s.

Once, Hawksblood’s death had been his life’s goal. A century of futility had passed. It no longer seemed to matter as much.

Storm’s heaven, if ever he attained it, would be a quiet, scholarly place that had an opening for a knowledgeable amateur antiquarian.

The ravenshrike spread its wings momentarily.

Three: 3052 AD

Can we understand a man without knowing his enemies? Can we know yin without knowing yang? My father would say no. He would say if you want to see new vistas of Truth, go question the man who wants to kill you.

A man lives. When he is young he has more friends than he can count. He ages. The circle narrows. It turns inward, becoming more closed. We spend our middle and later years doing the same things with the same few friends. Seldom do we admit new faces to the clique.

But we never stop making enemies.

They are like dragon’s teeth flung wildly about us as we trudge along the paths of our lives. They spring up everywhere, unwanted, unexpected, sometimes unseen and unknown. Sometimes we make or inherit them simply by being who or what we are.

My father was an old, old man. He was his father’s son.

His enemies were legion. He never knew how many and who they were.

—Masato Igarashi Storm

Four: 2844 AD

The building was high and huge and greenhouse-hot. The humidity and stench were punishing. The polarized glassteel roof had been set to allow the maximum passage of sunlight. The air conditioning was off. The buckets of night earth had not been removed from the breeding stalls.

Norbon w’Deeth leaned on a slick brass rail, scanning the enclosed acres below the observation platform.

Movable partitions divided the floor into hundreds of tiny cubicles rowed back to back and facing narrow passageways. Each cubicle contained an attractive female. There were so many of them that their breathing and little movements kept the air alive with a restless susurrus.

Deeth was frightened but curious. He had not expected the breeding pens to be so huge.

His father’s hand touched his shoulder lightly, withdrew to flutter in his interrogation of his breeding master. The elder Norbon carried half a conversation with his hands.

“How can they refuse? Rhafu, they’re just animals.”

Deeth’s thoughts echoed his father’s. The Norbon Head could not be wrong. Rhafu had to be mistaken. Breeding and feeding were the only things that interested animals.

“You don’t understand, sir.” Old Rhafu’s tone betrayed stress. Even Deeth sensed his frustration at his inability to impress the Norbon with the gravity of the situation. “It’s not entirely that they’re refusing, either. They’re just not interested. It’s the boars, sir. If it were just the sows the boars would take them whether or not they were willing.”

Deeth looked up at Rhafu. He was fond of the old man. Rhafu was the kind of man he wished his father were. He was the old adventurer every boy hoped to become.

The responsibilities of a Family Head left little time for close relationships. Deeth’s father was a remote, often harried man. He seldom gave his son the attention he craved.

Rhafu was a rogue full of stories about an exciting past. He proudly wore scars won on the human worlds. And he had time to share his stories with a boy.

Deeth was determined to emulate Rhafu. He would have his own adventures before his father passed the family into his hands. His raidships would plunder Terra, Toke, and Ulant. He would return with his own treasury of stories, wealth, and honorable scars.

It was just a daydream. At seven he already knew that heirs-apparent never risked themselves in the field. Adventures were for younger sons seeking an independent fortune, for daughters unable to make beneficial alliances, and for possessionless men like Rhafu. His own inescapable fate was to become a merchant prince like his father, far removed from the more brutal means of accumulating wealth. The only dangers he would face would be those of inter-Family intrigues over markets, resources, and power.

“Did you try drugs?” his father asked. Deeth yanked himself back to the here and now. He was supposed to be learning. His father would smack him a good one if his daydreaming became obvious.

“Of course. Brood sows are always drugged. It makes them receptive and keeps their intellection to a minimum.”

Rhafu was exasperated. His employer had not visited Prefactlas Station for years. Moreover, the man confessed that he knew nothing about the practical aspects of slave breeding. Fate had brought him here in the midst of a crisis, and he persisted in asking questions which cast doubt on the competence of the professionals on the scene.

“We experimented with aphrodisiacs. We didn’t have much luck. We got more response when we butchered a few boars for not performing, but when we watched them closer we saw they were withdrawing before ejaculation. Sir, you’re looking in the wrong place for answers. Go poke around outside the station boundary. The animals wouldn’t refuse if they weren’t under some external influence.”

“Wild ones?” The Norbon shrugged, dismissing the idea. “What about artificial insemination? We don’t dare get behind. We’ve got contracts to meet.”

This was why the Norbon was in an unreasonable mood. The crisis threatened the growth of the Norbon profit curve.

Deeth turned back to the pens. Funny. The animals looked so much like Sangaree. But they were filthy. They stank.

Rhafu said some of the wild ones were different, that they cared for themselves as well as did people. And the ones the Family kept at home, at the manor, were clean and efficient and indistinguishable from real people.

He spotted a sow that looked like his cousin Marjo. What would happen if a Sangaree woman got mixed in with the animals? Could anyone pick her out? Aliens like the Toke and Ulantonid were easy, but these humans could pass as people.

“Yes. Of course. But we’re not set up to handle it on the necessary scale. We’ve never had to do it. I’ve had instruments and equipment on order since the trouble started.”

“You haven’t got anything you can make do with?” Deeth’s father sounded peevish. He became irritable when the business ran rocky. “There’s a fortune in the Osirian orders, and barely time to push them through the fast-growth labs. Rhafu, I can’t default on a full-spectrum order. I won’t. I refuse.”

Deeth smiled at a dull-eyed sow who was watching him half-curiously. He made a small, barely understood obscene gesture he had picked up at school.

“Ouch!”

Having disciplined his son, the Norbon turned to Rhafu as though nothing had happened. Deeth rubbed the sting away. His father abhorred the thought of coupling with livestock. To him that was the ultimate perversion, though the practice was common. The Sexon Family maintained a harem of specially bred exotics.

“Thirty units for the first shipment,” Rhafu said thoughtfully. “I think I can manage that. I might damage a few head forcing it, though.”

“Do what you have to.”

“I hate to injure prime stock, sir. But there’ll be no production otherwise. We’ve had to be alert to prevent self-induced abortion.”

“That bad? It’s really that bad?” Pained surprise flashed across the usually expressionless features of the Norbon. “That does it. You have my complete sanction. Do what’s necessary. These contracts are worth the risk. They’re going to generate follow-ups. The Osirian market is wide open. Fresh. Untouched. The native princes are total despots. Completely sybaritic and self-indulgent. It’s one of the human First Expansion worlds gone feral. They’ve devolved socially and technologically to a feudal level.”

Rhafu nodded. Like most Sangaree with field experience, he had a solid background in human social and cultural history.

The elder Norbon stared into the pens that were the cornerstone of the Family wealth. “Rhafu, Osiris is the Norbon Wholar. Help me exploit it the way a Great House should.”

Wholar. That’s the legendary one
, Deeth thought.
The bonanza. The bottomless pot of gold
. The world so big and wild and rich that it took five Families to exploit it, the world that had made the consortium Families first among the Sangaree.

Deeth was not sure he wanted an El Dorado for the Norbon. Too much work for him when he became Head. And he would have to socialize with those snobbish Krimnins and Sexons and Masons. Unless he could devour the dream and make the Norbon the richest Family of all. Then he would be First Family Head, could do as he pleased, and would not have to worry about getting along.

“It’s outside trouble, I swear it,” Rhafu said. “Sir, there’s something coming on. Even the trainees in Isolation are infected. They’ve been complaining all week. Station master tells me it’s the same everywhere. Agriculture caught some boar pickers trying to fire the sithlac fields.”

“Omens and signs, Rhafu? You’re superstitious? They are the ones who need the supernatural. It’s got to be their water. Or feed.”

“No. I’ve checked. Complete chemical analysis. Everything is exactly what it should be. I tell you, something’s happening and they know it. I’ve seen it before, remember. On Copper Island.”

Deeth became interested again. Rhafu had come to the Norbon from the Dathegon, whose station had been on Copper Island. No one had told him why. “What happened, Rhafu?”

The breeding master glanced at his employer. The Norbon frowned, but nodded.

“Slaves rising, Deeth. Because of sloppy security. The field animals came in contact with wild ones. Pretty soon they rebelled. Some of us saw it coming. We tried to warn the station master. He wouldn’t listen. Those of us who survived work for your father now. The Dathegon never recovered.”

“Oh.”

“And you think that could happen here?” Deeth’s father demanded.

“Not necessarily. Our security is better. Our station master served in human space. He knows what the animals can do when they work together. I’m just telling you what it looks like, hoping you’ll take steps. We’ll want to hold down our losses.”

Rhafu was full of the curious ambivalence of Sangaree who had served in human space. Individuals and small groups he called animals. Larger bodies he elevated to slave status. When he mentioned humanity outside Sangaree dominion he simply called them humans, degrading them very little. His own discriminations reflected those of his species as to the race they exploited.

“If we let it go much longer we’ll have to slaughter our best stock to stop it.”

“Rhafu,” Deeth asked, “what happened to the animals on Copper Island?”

“The Prefactlas Heads voted plagues.”

“Oh.” Deeth tried not to care about dead animals. Feeling came anyway. He was not old enough to have hardened. If only they did not look so much like real people . . . 

“I’ll think about what you’ve told me, Rhafu.” The Norbon’s hand settled onto Deeth’s shoulder again. “Department Heads meeting in the morning. We’ll determine a policy then. Come, Deeth.”

They inspected the sithlac in its vast, hermetically sealed greenhouse. The crop was sprouting. In time the virally infected germ plasm of the grain would be refined to produce stardust, the most addictive and deadly narcotic ever to plague humankind.

Stardust addicts did not survive long, but while they did they provided their Sangaree suppliers with a guaranteed income.

Sithlac was the base of wealth for many of the smaller Families. It underpinned the economy of the race. And it was one of the roots of their belief in the essential animal-ness of humanity. No true sentient would willingly subject itself to such a degrading, slow, painful form of suicide.

Deeth fidgeted, bored, scarcely hearing his father’s remarks. He was indifferent to the security that a sound, conservative agricultural program represented. He was too young to comprehend adult needs. He preferred the risk and romance of a Rhafu-like life to the security of drug production.

Rhafu had not been much older than he was now when he had served as a gunner’s helper during a raid into the Ulant sphere.

Raiding was the only way possessionless Sangaree had to accumulate the wealth needed to establish a Family. Financially troubled Families sometimes raided when they needed a quick cash flow. Most Sangaree heroes and historical figures came out of the raiding.

A conservative, the Norbon possessed no raidships. His transports were lightly armed so his ships’ masters would not be tempted to indulge in free-lance piracy.