StarHawk (7 page)

The Earth Race

When night fell, Big Bright City got even brighter.

Lights that had been blazing all day had their luminescence turned up a few more notches once the sun had finally set. The streets, the buildings, the airwalks were all absolutely clean and sparkling, thanks to a huge army of robots. Because every exposed piece of ground reflected the cool, green hue of terranium, the overall effect was that of a gleaming, emerald city.

Only the Very Fortunates lived in this magnificent place. More than two billion in all, and every last one of them had a reason for being here. They were either somehow related to the Specials—and there were several million of them alone—or worked for someone who was. But in a place where the ground that the Emperor’s cloud city passed over was considered sacred—the “Holy Shadow,” it was called—even the hired help had to be at least a Fortunate. No one below that class even dared step within the city’s gates.

Unless you were in the high military, that is. Then you were treated almost like royalty, just a step down from the Specials themselves. There was no surprise in this. The Empire owed its existence to the military; its soldiers were considered celebrities, to be honored and respected, the higher the rank the better.

Anyone in a uniform who managed to get himself to Earth could find no better circumstance than walking among the people of Big Bright City—especially in the week before the Earth Race.

Once the first stars were in sight, thousands of narrow, extremely bright beams of white light went shooting up into the night sky. These were StarScrapers, the latest playthings of the Very Fortunates.

They were about the size of a quadtrol, handheld and tubular. They had unlimited power, thanks to the Big Generator. The device could shoot off into space, at Supertime speeds, and capture the light signature of a particular star. Because every star in the Galaxy was at least a little different from the next, each one produced its own unique blend of colors across the spectrum. These could be condensed and then be
dragged
back down to Earth, using the StarScraper’s shaft of super white light as the medium.

The Very Fortunates had chosen to call these captures “light songs.” Most of them were incredibly vivid to the eye.

Once the light particles were drawn down to Earth by the StarScraper, they could be used in a number of different ways. Some of the Very Fortunates illuminated their dwellings with their own brand of starlight. Others bathed themselves in the glow for hours, swearing by its youth-giving properties. Some tapped into the star’s audio frequencies to literally “hear the light” as well as see it. Some even would warm their cloud wine by starlight, claiming it increased the liquor’s opiate properties.

And just like crashing through stars, people who used StarScrapers always had a certain glow about them.

Even when the Holy Shadow passed above their heads.

In contrast to the metropolis below, the floating city known as Special Number One had shut down for the night.

Its labyrinths of bright floating lights were dulled, casting eerie red and yellow shadows across the Imperial grounds. Anyone in the Royal Family who craved the nightlife had headed below a long time ago. The main gates were now sealed and a squadron of air-chevys began doing slow orbits around the hovering palace. It was customary for Special Number One to go dark in the week before the Earth Race. It was said that the Emperor took this downtime to recapture memories of his previous life as a starfighter pilot during the Third Empire—or so he claimed. Most believed the Emperor simply used the time to catch up on his sleep.

Nevertheless, with the activation of an impenetrable force field around the entire floating city, another day in the life of the High Specials was coming to an end.

Or so it seemed.

No sooner had the lights been lowered than a small air-chevy rose from the surface and approached the main gate of the floating city. After a quick surveillance scan by one of the Imperial sentries, the air car was allowed to pass through. It puttered its way through the maze of streets inside the palace walls, finally stopping at an nondescript building about half a mile from the Imperial House.

Two guards materialized; one opened the door of the air car. A man dressed in a long black cloak emerged and glided into the building. His air car then moved into the shadows.

The figure in black floated up the stairs and down a long corridor, finally reaching a huge oak door. He rapped on it twice and felt its lock spring open. He glided in. Two more Imperial guards were waiting for him.

“I’m here,” the man simply told the guards. One disappeared behind another door, then reemerged. He motioned the man forward.

The dark figure lowered himself and walked into the room alone, closing the door behind him. Sitting on a couch next to a roaring fire was the person he’d come to meet. Long blond hair—at least today. Skin perfect. Eyes perfect. Mouth, nose, and cheeks, all perfect. It was Cyn-Nay, wife of O’Nay, First Empress and Queen of the Galaxy herself.

Or was it just the light?

The Empress waved the man in black toward a floating table containing a vast array of Venusian cloud wines. Then she activated a hum beam.

“You only ask to see me when something is wrong,” she said to the man as he helped himself to a large mug of super’rose. He was a spy. One of the best in the Empire.

“I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if that wasn’t so,” the man replied. “Secret as our talks have been.”

“And you do realize that no one of any consequence can ever know that we speak?” she told him. “And that you should never approach me in any other setting than the one before us now?”

The spy nodded. “I do, my lady.”

He sat down on the couch next to her. The Empress sipped her drink plaintively.

“So then? What is the problem?” she asked him, staring into the flames.

The spy shook his head.

“Well, that’s just it,” he began. “I’m not sure.”

The Empress looked over at him. “Not sure?”

“It’s just a feeling,” the spy confessed. “But it’s a deep one.”

“Tell it to me, then,” she said.

The spy took a deep gulp of wine. He would have to choose his words carefully.

“I think trouble is coming, my lady,” he said soberly. “In fact, it may already be here.”

The Empress thought about this for a moment. She used the spy only on the most secret of affairs. She had entrusted him to ferret out the truth for her, no matter where it might be hiding in the realm these days. Being able to do so was a rare talent. So when he spoke, she tended to believe him.

“And why do you feel this way?” she asked.

The spy leaned forward in his seat.

“You’re aware of the attack on the
BonoVox
?”

She nodded. “Most unnerving. What have you heard lately? Has anyone got a theory on how a Blackship penetrated… what do you call it again?”

“Supertime, madam… and no, the word is solid on this: No one has any idea how it was able to break through the Ethers. There’s a substantial internal investigation already ongoing. Ordered by your husband, I believe?”

She nodded brusquely.

“But how can they possibly investigate such a thing?” she asked. “It happened so far out…”

The spy tasted his drink. “I am no expert on these things, my lady,” he began correctly. “But I believe there is a way, a formula of some kind, that can determine where and how much power from the Big Generator the Blackship used while in Supertime. Once this is discovered, they might be able to track these units of power back from the source to its recipient in the moments before the attack.

Reconstructing the crime, so to speak. That can only lead to further revelations, I’m sure.”

The Empress dabbed her eyes.

“What I find particularly disturbing about this whole affair was the fate of those marauders caught in space after their ship was destroyed. They chose to end their own lives rather than be captured? Is that so?”

“They shot at each other until the last man blinked out,” the spy confirmed. “A very bizarre situation, all agree. Personally, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Wouldn’t we have just held them in our jails had they been captured?”

The spy nodded. “And therein lies the strangeness. Our prisons are not places that further blacken men’s souls. These people would have been interrogated, yes. Scanned. Brain scrubs, the works. But afterward, they would have been sent somewhere fairly comfortable and been fed and clothed. A vast improvement over life as a pirate, snorting ion-ballast crystals whenever your food tube runs low.”

The Empress shivered noticeably. “Why kill themselves then?” she asked.

The spy just shook his head.

“Madam, no one I know has a clue,” he said.

She shivered again. “This is not a good situation…”

“True, but it is the reality of this Blackship appearing in Supertime,
that
is what’s really bothering me,” the spy said. “Not only is it baffling, it might prove catastrophic for all warships as well. We have always enjoyed complete invincibility within the Ethers.
Complete invincibility
. That’s a tough thing to lose. I know for a fact that our top commanders are now considering sending starfighter escorts with all ships traveling in Supertime out on the Fringe. This has never been necessary before. But now, should something like this happen again—well, the captain of the next ship attacked might not be as lucky as Zap Multx.”

The Empress nodded. “There was talk of giving the shuttle pilot who helped—does anyone even know his name?—some kind of commendation for his bravery. But Multx has managed to bury him somewhere. I can’t say I blame him. It is not like a starship captain to want a lowly shuttle pilot to get medals for saving his ship.”

“It’s best that the
whole
affair be kept quiet—we don’t need to be giving anyone any medals,” the spy said. “As far Zap Multx, my sources tell me his streak of luck is about to end.”

She sipped her drink. The fire waned a bit.

“But however the Blackship managed to get into the Ethers,” she said, “wouldn’t someone, somewhere in your network have heard something before the attack on the
BonoVox
? A loose set of lips out on the Fringe? A drunken braggart among the pirates? I mean, planning for such a monumental event could not have happened in a vacuum. Could it?”

The spy shook his head again. “Therein just lies more strangeness, my lady,” he said. “Word of such a dramatic plot
would
have leaked out eventually and traveled around the Fringe very quickly. As you know, there are few secrets that last very long out there. Yet my best contacts tell me these particular pirates were absolute unknowns—they certainly weren’t from the Sileasian System. No one knows what group they were from. No one knows where their bases are or even what sector they call home.”

The Empress stared into the fireplace again. Another log appeared, sparking new life to the smoldering embers.

The spy went on: “And why in the world would they attack a ship like the
BonoVox
? Think of what havoc they could have caused among our trading and cargo ships. What plunder they could have secured!”

“What were their motives, then?” the Empress pressed him. “To capture a second ship capable of Supertime?”

The spy shrugged. “That’s quite a goal for a first foray,” he said. “Pirates are usually a disorganized lot, and long on dull minds. Some can barely operate the claptrap vessels they use now. Trying a ship-to-ship takeover, as your first sortie into the Ethers? I’m not sure even
our
best troops could pull that one off.”

A brief silence fell. The fire was blazing again.

“So then,” she finally said, “I’m sure the incident itself is already the whisper of the Fringe.”

“It is,” the spy confirmed.

“And the conventional thinking is?”

The spy paused before answering.

“That these pirates,” he finally began, “if they were pirates, must have received the Supertime technology from someone… well, close to us, I’m sad to say.”

The Empress was stunned. Her shoulders dropped dramatically.

“Are you suggesting… that someone in our
own
forces gave this sacred technology to them?”

The spy shook his head once again. “What other explanation could there be, my lady? Even if the pirates simply stumbled upon the technology—in a shipwreck, let’s say—they still would have to implement it.

And even then, they somehow would have to learn how to tap into the Big Generator. I don’t know anybody who knows how to do that—not from scratch, anyway.”

The Empress could barely move. “My God, where does that trail lead? Disloyalty in our ranks? That’s exactly what led to the downfall of the Third Empire. And I suspect the first and second ones as well.”

“Thus my fear of dark clouds on the horizon, my lady,” the spy whispered. “When the storm hits, it might be some time before it is clear skies again.”

A much deeper silence engulfed the room now. Even the fire fell quiet. The Empress’s face had turned ashen. Her hands began to shake, and she could barely hold her glass. The very thought of
lèse-majesté
in the Empire’s military was enough to make her chest tighten and her brow moisten with sweat. She hoped her façade would not fail her now.

Finally she broke the spell.

“You have always provided great advice and counsel for me,” she said to the spy. “I pray this occasion is no different.”

But the spy just slowly shook his head. “I wish it were not so, my lady,” he said. “But I
have
no advice. Only that we must be vigilant—about many, many things.”

He drained his drink and got up to go.

“If there was only a science to these things,” he mused. “If only someone had come up with a way to predict events of the future. Five minutes from now. Five days. Five years. Five centuries…”

“No such science exists,” the Empress said sadly. “Unless it is hiding in the heart of the poet. So we remain at a disadvantage, not knowing what the future will hold.”