Charles Sheffield - Transcendence

You stare at that vertical line for maybe a couple of seconds. You know it must be the bottom of the stalk, running from the center of Miranda Port right up to stationary orbit, and it’s no big deal — nothing compared to the forty-eight Basal Stalks that connect Cocoon to the planetary surface of Savalle.

But it’s still getting darker, so you look up. And then you catch your first sight of the Shroud, the edge of it starting to intersect the sun’s disk. There’s the Upside of Miranda Port, the mushroom cap of the Stalk. The Shroud is nine thousand miles across. That’s where the real business is done — the only place in the spiral arm where a Bose access node lies so close to a planet.

You stop the car, and your mind starts running. There’s a million starships warehoused and netted up there on the edge of the Shroud, some of ’em going for a song. You know that in half an hour you could be ascending the Stalk; in less than a day you’d be up there on the Shroud, picking out some neat little vessel. And a few hours after that you could be whomping through a Transition on the Bose Network, off to another access node a dozen or a hundred or even a thousand light-years away…

And if you’re an old traveler like me, there’s the real magic of Miranda Port; the way you can sit flat on the surface of a planet, like any dead-dog stay-at-home Downsider, and know that you’re only a day away from the whole spiral arm. Before you know it you’re itching for another look at the million-mile lightning bolts playing among the friction rings of Culmain, or wondering what worlds the Tristan free-space Manticore is dreaming these days, or what new lies and boasts old Dulcimer, the Chism Polypheme, is telling in the spaceport bar on Bridle Gap. And suddenly you want to watch the Universe turn into kaleidoscope again, out of the edge of the Torvil Anfract in far Communion territory, where space-time knots and snarls and turns around itself like an old man’s memories…

—from Hot Rocks, Warm Beer, Cold Comfort: Jetting Alone Around the Galaxy ; being the personal and unadorned reminiscences of Captain Alonzo Wilberforce Sloan (Retired) (Published by Wideawake Press, March E.4125; remaindered, May E.4125; available only in the Rare Publications Department of the Cam H’ptiar/Emserin Library.)

Money and credit meant little to an interspecies Council member. To serve the prestigious needs of a Council project, any planet in the spiral arm would readily turn over the best of its resources; and should there ever be any hesitation, a councilor had final authority to commandeer exactly who and what was needed.

But for an ex -councilor, one who had resigned in protest…

After a lifetime in which costs were irrelevant, Julian Graves was suddenly exposed to the real world. He looked on his new credit, and found it wanting.

“The ship we can afford won’t be very big, and it doesn’t have to be brand-new.” He offered to J’merlia the authorization to draw on his private funds. “But make sure that it has defensive weapons. When we track down the Zardalu, we cannot assume that they will be friendly.”

The Lo’tfian was too polite to comment. But J’merlia’s pale-lemon eyes rolled on their short eyestalks and swiveled to glance at E.C. Tally and Kallik. They were not likely to assume that the Zardalu would be friendly. The last time that the four of them had encountered Zardalu, E.C. Tally’s body had been torn to pieces and the little Hymenopt, Kallik, had had one leg pulled off. Julian Graves himself had been blinded and had required a new pair of eyes. He seemed to have forgotten all about that.

“But range and drive capability are even more important,” Graves went on. “We have no idea how far we will have to go, or how many Bose Transitions we will be obliged to make.”

J’merlia was nodding, while at his side Kallik was bobbing up and down on her eight springy legs. The Hymenopt had found the endless formal proceedings of the Council hearing dull and hard to endure. She was itching for action. When Graves held out his credit authorization she grabbed it with a whistle of satisfaction.

The same urge to be up and doing had dictated the actions of Kallik and J’merlia when they flew out of Delbruck and came to Miranda Port. Catalogs of every vessel in the shroud moorings were held in the Downside catalogs, and a prospective buyer could call up specifications on any of the ships. She could even conjure a 3-D holographic reconstruction that allowed her to wander vicariously through the interior, listen to the engines, and inspect passenger accommodations. Without ever leaving Downside she could do everything but stroke the polished trim, press the control button, and smell the Bose Drive’s ozone.

But that was exactly what Kallik was keen to do. At her urging, she and J’merlia headed at once to the base of the Stalk. In the very moment when Louis Nenda and Atvar H’sial were entering Delbruck, their former slaves were lifting for free-fall, the Shroud, and the Upside Sales Center.

It was not practical to make a physical inspection of more than a tiny fraction of the ships. With an inventory of almost a million vessels scattered through a hundred million cubic miles of space, and with ships of every age, size, and condition, even Kallik admitted that the selection had to begin with a computer search. And that meant the central office of Upside Sales.

It was the tail end of a busy period when they arrived, and the manager eyed the two newcomers with no enthusiasm. She was tired, her feet were hurting, and she did not feel she was looking at sales potential. There were funny-looking aliens aplenty running around Miranda Port, but mostly they didn’t buy ships. Humans bought ships.

The skinny one was a Lo’tfian, and like all Lo’tfians he seemed mostly a tangle of arms and legs. The eight black articulated limbs were attached to a long, pipestem torso, and his narrow head was dominated by the big, lemon-colored compound eyes. In the experience of the sales manager, Lo’tfians did not have money, or make purchase decisions. They did not even speak for themselves. They accompanied Cecropians as translators and servants, and they never offered a word of their own.

The Lo’tfian’s companion was even worse. There were eight legs again, but these sprang from a short, stubby torso covered with fine black fur, and the small, smooth head was entirely surrounded by multiple pairs of bright, black eyes. It had to be a Hymenopt, a rarity outside the worlds of the Zardalu Communion — and a dangerous being, if reputation was anything to go by. Hymenopts had superfast reactions, and the end of the rotund body concealed a deadly sting.

Could the pair even talk ? The only sound that the aliens were making was an odd series of clicks and whistles.

“Patience, Kallik.” The skinny Lo’tfian switched to human speech as he turned to the sales manager. He held out a bank chit. “Greetings. I am J’merlia, and this is Kallik. We are here to buy a ship.”

So at least one of them could talk human. And he had credit. That was a surprise. The manager’s first reaction — don’t waste five seconds on these two — was overridden by long training. She took the chit that the Lo’tfian was holding out to her and performed an automatic check on it.

She sniffed.

Two dozen eyes blinked at her. “Are we in luck?” the Hymenopt asked.

So they could both speak.

“You’re lucky in at least one way. The choice won’t be too difficult. You won’t have to worry about ninety-nine percent of our inventory.”

“Why not?” Kallik’s circular ring of black eyes was taking in the holograms of a dozen ships at once.

Читать дальше