Starbridge Read online

  Starbridge (Starbridge #1)

  A. C. Crispin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some writers may produce books in an attic, or a vacuum, requiring no inspiration or assistance except that provided by their own inner voice.

  I am not one of them.

  I owe many people a debt of gratitude for their assistance in producing StarBridge. I, like many others, get by with a little help from my friends.

  Heartfelt appreciation is due the following people:

  First and foremost, my collaborator in Book Three of the StarBridge series, Silence Dances, Kathleen O'Malley. O'Malley is my good friend and first-line editor, the person who keeps me on my toes and honest between book covers. Without her creativity, advice and editing ability, StarBridge would never have gotten off the ground. Thanks, Kathy.

  Ginjer Buchanan, my excellent ACE editor, who improved StarBridge vastly by putting it on a diet. Ginjer, I'm grateful for your faith in me, in this book, and in the StarBridge series.

  My agent, Merrilee Heifetz of Writer's House, who first suggested that the time was right for me to create my own series.

  Deb, Teresa, Anne, Deborah and Faith, my Whileaway buddies, who provided (as always) encouragement, advice and moral support.

  My mother, Hope Tickell, for proofreading the manuscript. My friend, Paula Volsky, for her advice and encouragement.

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  I'm not a scientist, so I am dependent on people "in the know" for technical advice when putting the "science" into my science fiction. I'd like to thank the following people (with the caveat that any errors contained herein are exclusively my own):

  Vonda N. Mclntyre, my friend, who patiently listened (long-distance, yet) and gave advice on a variety of subjects;

  Dr. Robert Harrington of the U.S. Naval Observatory, for help in figuring out orbits, interstellar distances, and the like;

  Irene Kress, for reading the manuscript and making comments;

  Ben Bova, for information on the effects of explosive decompression.

  Also:

  Herica Kamer, for vetting my extremely rusty French;

  J. Kalogridis, for information and advice on linguistics, both human and alien;

  Harlan Ellison, for advice on writing during the Boca Raton writer's workshop of 1983, for inspiration gained throughout the years from his works, and in hopes that this will eliminate the last of the "frisson of unhappiness." Thanks also for arranging that suite with the maid and the aspic for me when I get to Heaven . . .

  And last, but by no means least:

  My husband, Randy, for child care, vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, and going out for pizza while I was parsecs from home.

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  This book is dedicated to Andre Norton, First Lady of science fiction and fantasy . . . and my friend.

  When I was growing up, your stories, more than any others, filled me with a sense of wonder about the universe. A sense of wonder is one of the greatest gifts a writer can bestow . . . something to treasure always. Thank you, Andre.

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  ix

  CHAPTER !

  1

  Sixteen Parsecs From Nowhere ...

  Dear Diary:

  Nothing ever happens in space. Of course Uncle Raoul's happy about that--I suppose Desiree getting clipped by a chunk of comet or skidding into a black hole would be bad for business. And he did warn me that space travel would be boring. But I never dreamed how boring!

  I think Maman must have remembered her trip from Earth to Jolie, because she gave me a handful of memory cassettes, suggesting that a diary might help pass the time. I'll try and make an entry each day--it may be the only thing that will keep me from losing my mind.

  They only woke me up out of hibernation yesterday, and already I've explored this freighter five times--except for the cargo hold and that's off-limits for the remaining six months of our trip to Earth.

  Six months!

  In six months I'll be a raving lunatic. College can't possibly be worth it. The

  "cradle of humanity" can't possibly be worth it. Everyone says how wonderful Earth is, how I'll love it ... then, in the same breath, they mention it's so overcrowded and noisy that they never regretted becoming colonists . . .

  But if I want an education past U-prep level, I'm stuck being bored for the duration. Boring Mahree Burroughs, sixteen, almost seventeen, stuck on a boringly routine voyage on a boringly

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  ordinary freighter--I may be the first person in history to die from boredom.

  If only I were different! But I'm so damned average-looking . . . brown hair, brown eyes, medium-fair complexion, medium height, medium build (except for my chest measurement, which is definitely sub-normal, dammit!).

  Medium . . . average . . . ordinary . . .

  When I was little I used to worry that I'd disappear.

  Dad always tells me I'll improve with age and experience. He says I look very much as he did at sixteen, and now, though he's not holo-vid handsome, he's considered quite attractive. Distinguished. Only trouble is, he's a man, and features that look good on a middle-aged man will probably look shitty on me when I'm his age. I feel disloyal admitting this, but I wish that I looked like Maman, instead, because she has gorgeous auburn hair and sapphire eyes.

  (But of course there's nothing ordinary about my father--Dr. Stanley Burroughs, physician and researcher, the man who discovered the L-16

  vaccine. Maman isn't ordinary either--she designed and built half the buildings in Nouvelle Marseille.)

  Six months!

  And to make it worse, everyone on this ship is venerable. At least forty.

  With one exception. The ship's physician, Robert Gable. He's twenty-four, which makes him barely seven years older than I am. (My little brother could access the security files on this system.)

  Dr. Gable was my father's righthand assistant and friend during the Lotis Plague, but, due to the early quarantine they imposed on North Continent, I've never met him.

  (It was terrible ... the Plague hit, and suddenly I couldn't go home. We had to stay at school. They thought we'd be safe in the mountains, but it reached us, eventually. Several of my teachers and two of my best friends died. I'd never seen anybody die before . . .)

  Anyway, I got a look at Robert Gable when I bypassed security and called up his personnel interview vid-record. He's definitely attractive! And smart.

  Even in these days of accelerated degrees and hypno-teaching techniques, he's something of a phenomenon. Graduated from Earth's version of U-prep at thirteen, and from med school at twenty-one. Getting to know him would definitely be a big step in alleviating my boredom!

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  Only problem is ... at the moment he's lying in a coffin, stiff as a rail. They aren't scheduled to wake him up until--

  Oops! That was Uncle Raoul on the 'com, wanting to know whether I've finished today's assignments. The main reason they woke me up after three months was so I could put in some concentrated study time--our schools on Jolie are good, but they don't offer the range of subjects that Terran schools do. So I've got some catching up to do ... especially in Earth history.

  Maybe later I'll go look at the stars again. You'd think they'd make me feel smaller, more isolated, but for some reason I find myself comforted when I see them--they've been there for such a long time, and they'll be there when we're all gone. And even they aren't eternal ...

  Enough metaphysical musing. Back to history. (But, honestly, I don't see why I have to learn chapter and verse about stuff that happened hundreds of years ago. What difference can it possibly make? And the Second Martian Colony is so boring!)

  Au revoir, diary.

  Mahree Burroughs hit the "save" button on the computer link in her tiny cabin, frowning at the slowne
ss of the system response. Then she called up her history textbook, and stared determinedly at it for several minutes, but couldn't concentrate. Finally she gave up and flung herself onto her bunk. I'll never make it, she thought dismally. I can't stand this . . .

  Finally she rolled over again and sat up. Gathering fistfuls of her hair, Mahree reached for her brush, then faced the wall over her minuscule washstand. "Mirror," she commanded, and the surface shimmered, then went reflective. Squinting with concentration, she began braiding her waist-length hair, fingers moving with the deftness of long practice. If only I weren't so ordinary. So unremarkable that I'm practically invisible.

  Finished, she flung the heavy braid back over her shoulder. "Wall," she commanded, and the mirror disappeared, fading into the powder blue of the softly padded plas-steel walls.

  "And while you're at it, turn green. I'm tired of blue."

  She watched for a moment as the walls, ceiling, and floor began to change their hue, but even playing with the color controls in her tiny cabin had lost its appeal.

  Footsteps sounded faintly in the corridor, breaking into her brown study.

  'Two heartbeats?" demanded a voice Mahree

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  recognized as her uncle's. "Are you sure his unit's got two heartbeats?"

  "I'm sure," came the response. "I started him on the Vitastim airmix this morning, because he's scheduled for revival tomorrow afternoon. But when I checked his progress just now, there were two heartbeats, Captain! One normal for a man his size, and the other, much smaller, coming from the abdomen."

  Mahree put her ear against the narrow crack she'd left in her doorseal. "So what are you implying?" Raoul Lamont demanded sarcastically. "That the man is pregnant?"

  "Of course not, Captain! I'm simply . . ."

  The voices faded away as the footsteps continued on down the corridor.

  Too intrigued to resist, Mahree opened her door and scurried down the tan-colored plas-steel corridor, her bare feet soundless on the resilient flooring.

  Her uncle's companion was Desiree's Bio Officer, Simon Viorst. The two men never glanced behind them--both were concentrating too deeply on their problem as they continued toward the hibernation chamber, located just forward of the cargo holds.

  "Why didn't you notice this before?" the Captain was demanding as Mahree dared to move within earshot again.

  The Bio Officer sounded embarrassed. "I don't know, sir. I checked the readouts every day, as usual. For some reason the second one didn't register until today."

  "Could you bring him out of it now?"

  "Sure," Viorst replied confidently. "I'd just give him the rest of the Vita-stim in an injection. Is that what you want?"

  "As soon as I take a look for myself."

  As they keyed open the door to the hibernation chamber, Mahree ducked behind a support stanchion. When her uncle and the Bio Officer stepped into the hibernation chamber, she mentally counted twenty, then began strolling casually past the open door, pausing when she saw them inside. "Oh, hi, Uncle Raoul. What are you doing down here?"

  "Simon was concerned about some fluctuations in the readings on the unit containing the ship's physician," Lamont told her, raking his fingers through his thinning brown hair in a habitual gesture of worry. "So we're waking him up to make sure nothing's wrong."

  Mahree followed them into the chamber, glancing around with

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  studied indifference. The coffinlike hibernation units, ten of them, covered three sides of the area. Each had a bank of readouts studding its top cover and a small window so the person sleeping within could be identified. Both men were standing by one of the middle units, so she joined them. "Okay if I stay, Uncle Raoul? I've never seen anyone revived."

  "I guess so, unless he experiences an adverse reaction when we open the unit," her uncle told her, busy with the external controls. "Vita-stim makes some people upchuck, and that would embarrass the man."

  Mahree glanced down at the doctor. Sleeping beauty, she thought wryly, experiencing again the attraction she had felt when she had called up Robert Gable's image on the holoscreen.

  The Medical Officer had very dark, curly hair; due to the hibernation it was quite long, but Mahree recalled from his interview vid that he wore it considerably longer than current male fashion decreed. His skin was fair, but not freckled; his regular, almost delicate features were rescued from prettiness by a wide mouth and a rather long nose.

  Simon Viorst administered an injection via the intravenous hookup. A few minutes later, Gable began to stir slightly; then he blinked. Captain Lamont glanced over at the tall blond Bio Officer. "Here he goes, Simon. Stand by with that O2 mask."

  Mahree heard a hiss as the seals on the hibernation "coffin" released, then a faint puff of cold air made gooseflesh spring up on her bare arms. The lid swung up.

  "What the hell--" Raoul Lamont stared down into the hibernation unit, amazement etched on his ruddy, moustached features. "It's a damned--"

  "Cat!" exclaimed Mahree in delight as she crowded under his arm to see better. "A real Terran cat!"

  The small black animal lay curled on top of the man in the unit. As Mahree watched, it opened eyes of palest green, emitting a tiny questioning sound.

  "I've seen them on Earth," Raoul muttered, mostly to himself. "Where did he get this one? They were only cleared by the ecologists last year for shipment to Jolie."

  "The Governor has three," Mahree said. "I saw one of them at that party at the mansion when she gave Dad his award for discovering the L-16

  vaccine."

  The man in the unit suddenly gasped, then began to struggle.

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  "Oxygen!" snapped Raoul, grabbing the cat and thrusting it unceremoniously into Mahree's arms as Viorst clamped the mask over the doctor's face. The gasping noises abruptly changed to retching ones.

  "Hell, he's sick. Get his head up!" Raoul and Simon dragged at the doctor's shoulders.

  Mahree hastily scuttled outside. Once safely in the corridor, she leaned against the bulkhead with a sigh of relief--and discovered she was still holding the cat.

  "Hi!" she whispered, delighted. Gingerly she shifted the little animal to a more comfortable position, then stroked the plushy fur. After a moment it snuggled against her trustingly.

  She was still petting the cat when Raoul and Simon reappeared. Each man held one of Robert Gable's arms, steadying the newly revived man. The doctor was pale, his eyes puffy, but he wore a fresh ship's jumpsuit and his hair hung in damp ringlets from his shower. From the interview vid-record, Mahree had gained little impression of his size; now she saw that he had a slender, athletic build. He was also short; both Raoul and Simon towered over him.

  The doctor's expression brightened as he saw Mahree scrambling to her feet, his pet in her arms. "Is she all right?" he asked--croaked, rather, his voice harsh from long disuse.

  "She's fine," Mahree reassured him. "What a beautiful animal, and so friendly. I never got to pet one before."

  "Her name is Sekhmet," Gable said, stepping forward under his own power to rub the backs of his fingers beneath the creature's chin. After a moment the animal began making a buzzing, rasping noise.

  "Respiratory difficulty?" Mahree gazed anxiously at the cat.

  Gable chuckled. "No, she's just purring. They do that when they're happy."

  "This is my niece, Mahree Burroughs," Raoul Lamont said. "Mahree, this is Dr. Gable."

  The girl nodded, her ease vanishing with the formality of the introduction.

  "Hello." Gable's smile was a little strained as he formally extended his hand.

  "So you're Stan Burroughs' daughter. I've heard a lot about you."

  Mahree blushed as she tried to disentangle first one hand, then 7

  the other. She nearly dropped the cat, who abruptly stopped purring and gave all of them a dirty look.

  Gable, with an embarrassed laugh, clasped her hand with the briefest of touches. "Here, I'd better take her. I wouldn't want you
to get scratched."

  Regretfully, Mahree handed over the cat.

  Raoul Lamont cleared his throat loudly. "Well, Doctor," he said, his voice gruffly official. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

  Gable nodded dejectedly. "I know. Can I get a cup of coffee before I start?"

  Simon Viorst nodded. "That and some food. We brought you out early, so you're going to feel like you've got a hangover for a couple of hours."

  The younger man grimaced. "Tell me about it."

  Minutes later, the two ship's officers faced the errant ship's physician in the common room and galley over cups of coffee and a plate of sweet rolls.

  Mahree sat in one of the booths across the compartment, eating a sandwich, her history text before her on the table's monitor. She was careful to keep advancing the pages, but her ears strained to catch every word.

  Robert Gable took a cautious swig from the steaming mug Raoul Lamont handed him, then made a face. "I'm so far gone I can't even tell if that's bad or good. At least it's strong."

  Viorst sipped his coffee and scowled. "It's bad, Doc. Your taste buds must still be asleep."

  "All right, Gable, let's have that explanation," Raoul Lamont snapped.

  "Where'd you get the cat, and what do you mean sneaking it aboard my ship?"

  "Right," the doctor said, and sighed. "Sekhmet was a gift from Governor Tumali. 'An informal award for your services to Jolie during the epidemic,' as she put it. I had been called to the Governor's mansion to treat her little girl when she fell out of a parachute tree. When I happened to mention that I was fond of cats, the Governor hands me this one! I was on the spot--how do you turn down a valuable gift from the Governor without seeming churlish?"

  "You say, i'm terribly sorry, but I can't. Thank you anyway, Governor,' "

  Lamont said evenly.

  "Uh, yeah." The doctor cleared his throat. "Anyway, that same afternoon you called, saying your ship's doctor had de

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  cided to get married and stay on Jolie, and offering me the chance to get home months before I thought I'd be able to ... as long as I could leave immediately.

  "I knew that there wasn't time to get clearance for Sekhmet, but the chance to leave early was too good to miss. I'd already been on Jolie a year longer than I'd planned because of the epidemic, so"--he turned his hands palm-up, smiling ruefully-- "so I rigged my unit, then smuggled her in with me. Half of my allotted baggage weight consists of food and supplies for her. She's housebroken, so she won't be any trouble, Captain."