Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

* * * *

Amy had reluctantly followed Ted to the forward lounge, where they watched the confusion and worry. Three times, crewmen ordered them to leave, to go back to their cabins, but Ted simply ignored them-he didn’t need to obey orders from figments of his imagination. Amy followed his lead; she wanted to see what was happening, not be cooped up in the suite with Susan and Elani and Prossie.

Nobody had time to argue with them, or force them, and they stayed in the lounge.

They stayed there right up until the pirates boarded the Princess and burst in through the airlock.

Ted looked at the grey-uniformed men, at the heavy blasters they held, and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “I don’t like this part. It’s nasty, and I don’t want any more of that. The monsters were bad enough.”

“On the floor,” a man in a grey coverall ordered.

Ted ignored the order; instead he stepped up and reached out for the man’s blaster. “Give me that,” he said.

“He’s crazy,” someone called.

Ted’s hand started to close on the barrel of the blaster, and the man holding it said, “I’ll give it to you, all right.”

* * * *

A dream it’s all a dream it’s a fucking dream it can’t be real.

The pain blazed through the side of his head, screaming agony that ripped at his consciousness.

It’s a dream.

It has to be a dream.

But a dream can’t hurt like this.

I must have fallen out of bed, that’s what happened, I fell out of bed and hit my head on the floor, and it hurts like hell, why can’t I wake up? God, is it a concussion or something?

Why can’t I wake up?

As he fell, as he struggled to remain conscious, Ted remembered an old story called “The Knight’s Tale,” from a book of puzzles, a book called Mazes and Labyrinths , a story about a mysterious death. The man in the story had dreamed his own death, and had died in his sleep as a result.

Could that happen? Could he really die from this stupid interminable dream?

No, the knight had lied. And he couldn’t possibly sleep through pain like this. He would wake up any second now, he knew he would wake up, and the dream would be over.

Please, God, it would be over!

* * * *

“Get away from there,” someone ordered.

Nancy looked up, startled.

“What is that, anyway?” the man in the grey coverall demanded. He was standing in the doorway of the storage area with a blaster in his hand.

“Alella,” Nancy said. “She’s dead, too.”

The man looked at the little corpse.

“What is that, some kind of freak? Or just a doll?”

“She’s… she was a little person,” Nancy said.

“You sure it’s dead?”

Nancy just stared at him; the inside of her chest seemed hollow and aching.

“Whatever, just leave it and come out of there.”

Nancy didn’t move.

“Damn it, bitch! Get out here!”

In some part of her mind Nancy knew that she should do what the man in grey wanted; he had that gun, and he was getting angry, and it wouldn’t do Alella or Grummetty any good to linger here.

That logical, sensible part of her was overwhelmed, though, by the grief and emptiness she felt, and she still didn’t move.

With a wordless growl, the man reached in and grabbed her by the hair, one-handed, the other hand keeping the blaster at ready. He tightened his grip until, even through her grief, she felt the pain; a small gasp escaped her.

Then he dragged her out into the corridor.

Exhausted from her long hours tending the little people and from all the cumulative strain of being swept out of her own world, awash in despair, she never did find the strength to scream.

* * * *

When the door opened, Raven expected to see Lieutenant Drummond enter. By the time he saw the stranger’s face it was too late.

“Touch that sword and I’ll blow your fucking head off,” the man in gray told him.

Stoddard glanced at Raven, who gave a quick negative jerk of the head. The weapon in the stranger’s hand would not have worked back in the real world, nor in Pel Brown’s Earth, but this ship sailed in the Empire’s skies, where such devices were effective indeed.

“Surely, sir,” Raven answered. “Whatever please you.”

Stoddard accepted this hint, and made no move for his weapons.

“Get out here.” The man gestured with his blaster.

“Certes. Might I ask, though, whether Lieutenant Drummond…”

“No questions.”

Raven shrugged and obeyed.

He had no fear of any fight, but unarmed men against one of the Empire’s fire-weapons was a senseless waste. He would heed, for the present, Lieutenant Drummond’s advice. Perhaps this was some jurisdictional squabble between Imperial factions, or a disagreement over the succession to the throne, but in any case, this gray-clad fellow with the rude speech gave no impression of being one of Shadow’s monsters. Surely, in time, all would be made clear, and when matters were settled Raven and his companions would be free.

And perhaps whatever faction this person represented would be more eager to fight Shadow than had been Captain Cahn and his crew.

* * * *

Pel was awakened by a pounding on the door; it was only when he started up that he realized he had dozed off.

He turned the knob, struck once again by the incongruity of ordinary wooden doors, with knobs and hinges, aboard a spaceship.

The door was shoved open, the knob yanking out of his hand before he could react, and he found himself facing three unfamiliar men in grey uniforms. Two of them held drawn blasters; one needed a shave.

“Out,” one of them ordered.

“What…” Pel began.

“ Out ,” the man repeated, gesturing with his weapon.

Pel reluctantly stepped out into the passageway, then turned and said, “My daughter…”

“That her?” One of the men pointed at Rachel, still asleep.

“Yes,” Pel said.

“Get her.”

Pel obeyed. He crossed quickly to the cot and stooped over her, then stood again, lifting the girl to his shoulder. She protested sleepily, then flopped against him, her arms around his neck.

“Out,” came the order.

Nervously, Pel returned to the corridor.

“That way,” he was told, and one of the men herded him forward, toward the lounge, while the others vanished into the cabin.

Farther aft, down the passage, Pel could see armed men at other cabin doors, and ahead he could see a knot of people.

In the lounge he found the ship’s doctor bent over Ted Deranian, who lay on the floor, arms flung out to either side. One side of Ted’s head was…

Pel couldn’t see it clearly. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it, but he couldn’t look away, either. There was black, and red, wet and shining, and the hair was gone. He was glad Rachel was asleep, and not able to see it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” someone said.

“He tried to play hero,” Amy answered. “When they came charging in here Ted tried to take away one of their guns, and the man with the gun shot him. He didn’t have time to aim, though, so he’s still alive.” She made a choked little noise, apparently suppressing a hysterical giggle, and said, “I mean, the man didn’t have time to aim, so Ted’s still alive.”

Pel realized that the doctor was feeling Ted’s chest, rather than his head, but before he could ask anything, Amy added, “They kicked him after he fell; we think a couple of ribs are broken.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” Pel looked around, checking who was present.

There was Susan, standing quietly, and Prossie Thorpe, and Soorn, and Valadrakul. There were three, four, five of the Princess ’s original passengers, and three of her crew, in addition to the doctor.