Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

Pel never did see what it looked like from the outside during the approach; Edward VII didn’t bother with unnecessary viewports. His primary impression of the inside was of endless corridors-not spotless, gleaming white corridors, as he had seen in any number of science fiction movies, but steel corridors, painted in battleship gray or olive drab or maroon, most of them floored with worn linoleum tile in various colors-sometimes mismatched. He found black grit in the cracks between floor tiles, black streaks on the wall here and there where a cart had rubbed, and other signs of long and heavy use on every side.

He had to be dragged off the ship; he was demanding to be taken back to Zeta Leo III, to find his daughter. He was dragged off and given a small room, with a cot and a bureau and a chair, and he was locked in.

By the time he had been there a full day he had calmed down enough to be interviewed-they didn’t call it interrogation, but that term would probably have been more accurate. He answered as honestly and completely as he could-and there was no reason not to, as a telepath always sat in on the sessions. It wasn’t Prossie Thorpe; instead, it was a young man named Theobald Carver who appeared, from comments various people made, to be Prossie’s second cousin.

There were many sessions.

He was questioned about Zeta Leo III, about Psi Cassiopeia II, about Shadow’s realm, about Earth, and he answered as well as he could.

Between interviews Pel was given a brief tour of parts of Base One, including an observation chamber where thick windows looked out onto the surface of the asteroid and gave a view of a gigantic complex of equipment-copper busbars at least ten feet in diameter supported a ring of intricate crystal and metal gadgetry.

“That’s the warp generator,” his guide explained. “The gateway to your home universe.”

Pel took more of an interest once he had heard that; he looked out at the huge tangle of machinery.

Soon, when they found Rachel and brought her safely back here, he would be going through that thing, back to the safety and sanity of his own world, his own home, his suburban quarter-acre twenty miles from Washington.

As soon as they found Rachel.

It was three days later when he was brought into the interview room again. This time, though, instead of his usual questioner in the standard purple uniform, he found himself facing an older officer in more ornate garb, with gold braid and a row of medals.

“Mr. Brown,” the man said, folding his hands on the table in front of him, “this time, instead of asking you to tell us things, we’ll be telling you what we’ve found out.”

Pel took his usual seat and said nothing.

“You were captured by pirates and sold into slavery on Zeta Leo III,” the officer said. “While it’s true that pirates and slavers are a recurring problem on the fringes of the Galactic Empire, they are a minor problem, and the odds of the particular ship that Captain Cahn had commandeered being attacked-well, let’s just say that it was unlikely enough that we were very suspicious indeed.”

Pel listened without much interest. The attack had happened; he didn’t really care why.

“With that in mind, once we had taken control of Zeta Leo III, we began a thorough investigation of pirate activities based there, and of the attack on Emerald Princess in particular. We took a dozen telepaths with us to aid in the investigation-an unheard-of measure. I don’t suppose you realize just how extreme a measure that is, unfamiliar as you are with our society, but let me assure, it’s extreme. Never before have we allowed more than eight telepaths to gather in a single place, other than at military transfer points or this base.” He raised a hand to make a gesture at the ceiling.

Pel sat, listening. He blinked occasionally.

“We found what we’d expected,” the officer said. “Several people died inexplicably under interrogation, not from anything we did, but eventually we found what we were after. Agents of the extra- universal thing known as Shadow had secretly controlled the government of not just Zeta Leo III, but an entire network of rebel worlds-the others are being reduced even as I tell you this. It was already expanding its sphere of influence from its own universe into ours, and it was this thing, this Shadow, that ordered the attack on Emerald Princess .”

That was scarcely a surprise, really, Pel thought. They had guessed at it, without any evidence at all, aboard the pirate ship.

“That means that it was Shadow that was responsible for the death of your wife.”

Pel blinked. He really hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true-Nancy hadn’t just died. Someone had killed her. Some person had deliberately killed her.

He sat up a little straighter.

“And I’m afraid that I have some very bad news.”

Pel knew, with a cold, crawling certainty, what was coming. His lips formed the word, “No.”

“I’m afraid we found your daughter, Rachel. And… well, we’ll be bringing the remains here to Base One, so you can make your goodbyes.”

“No,” Pel said, quietly.

“That’s another death that this Shadow is responsible for, indirectly,” the officer said. “More directly, of course, someone else was, and while I can understand it if you find this a disappointment, if you’d have preferred a more personal vengeance, I’m afraid that the procedures of military justice have already taken care of him. A man named Lemuel Burgess has been hanged for your daughter’s murder. If you wish, transcripts of the tribunal and other evidence can be provided to satisfy you that we found the right man.” He cleared his throat. “Your wife’s killers were never specifically identified, but the entire crew of the ship Reaper has been apprehended and executed for piracy, slave-trading, and other high crimes, so she, too, is avenged-in part.”

Pel stared at him.

The Empire did things with despatch, certainly, if this man was telling the truth-and why would he lie?

They were all dead-Nancy and Rachel and the men who had killed them, all dead.

“Thank you,” Pel whispered, unsure why he said it.

The officer hesitated. “There’s a little more,” he said.

Pel sat motionless, watching him.

“As I said,” the man continued, “this Shadow is responsible for the deaths of your wife and daughter. And it’s waging a sort of secret war against the Empire, as well. We can’t just march in and bring Shadow, whatever it is, to trial; we can’t hang it or shoot it, much as we’d like to. In plain truth, we don’t know much about it. We do know, though, that it’s evil, that it’s criminal, that it’s responsible for the deaths, not just of your family, but of hundreds of innocents.” He paused dramatically.

Pel watched.

“We want it stopped,” the officer continued. “It’s a murderous, monstrous thing, intruding where it has no business, and we want it stopped as quickly as possible. What’s more, we think that you can help us stop it. We want to send you into Shadow’s world, as part of a team effort to track down and destroy it. This is the thing that gave the orders for your wife and daughter to die that we’re asking you to fight; it’s a chance for revenge. Will you take it?” He looked down at Pel, awaiting a reply.

Pel looked back. He stared up into the bright, brown eyes of this man from another universe, this officer in the military of a Galactic Empire, this figure from some pulp space opera, offering him a chance at lurid vengeance against the killer of his wife and child.

It was all like a scene from a novel or a movie, more than ever-he was James Bond being offered his assignment, Mr. Phelps listening to the tape, he was a man being offered a chance to be a hero. He was supposed to say yes, whereupon the officer would shake his hand, and the camera would cut away, and the next scene would be the determined little war party preparing for the assault upon the enemy’s fortress.