There Goes the Galaxy Read online

  “Yeah, it’s a real chance you take coming to an unevolved system,” Rollie went on. “Some places just everyone’s curious to meet your vital organs.” The captain’s gaze had latched firmly onto a drink server who seemed to be buzzing around every table but theirs.

  “She is buzzing, right?” Bertram whispered.

  “She’s Mathekite.” Rollie glared a hole through her antennaed, inattentive skull. “Place must really be hurting for servers. Mathekites aren’t exactly known for hygiene.” He turned the same sharp gaze on Bertram. “So, what’ll you have?”

  “Have?”

  “I want to make this quick, Ludlow. My first night free in a Universal Year, and if it’s all the same, I won’t be spending it with you.” Rollie pitched him the menu, which was on strange pulpy paper and coated in spilled goo. “What’ll it be?”

  Bertram looked at the card before him, a thick sprawl of illegible symbols. Still, the text seemed close, closer … His jaws worked the gum with new fervor.

  Now there was a faint scent of overripe vegetables and Bertram turned. The waitress fluttered at his shoulder. She rubbed her hands together and uttered something that sounded a lot like static.

  Nodding, Rollie spoke in a second language, this one with hissing, guttural tones that, together, sounded like the unfortunate genetic product of a snake and a Scotsman. “Tsaargh-tsoo Zlorgon tchkaagk?”

  And the waitress said: “Bzzzzshzzzzuzzshzzjjzzz …”

  He held up the menu. “Feegar-tsoo, na tseenee. Sha? Tsargh-tsoo Feegar?”

  And again the waitress responded, two of her six arms pointing to the menu. “Bzzzzzzhzzzz.”

  Rollie sighed and shook his head at Bertram. “No Zlorgon Subatomic HB, no Feegar bourbon … ’Course, I might have guessed this lot wouldn’t know a Feegar from a Klimfal if it ate ’em alive, but …” He readdressed the waitress, slipping off another series of strange syllables. He then indicated Bertram and the waitress let out a horrible, wheezy noise.

  Rollie laughed warmly. And the Mathekite waitress continued laughing, because that’s what the horrible noise was. In fact, Rollie and the waitress were both still laughing as she buzzed away.

  It was hard to know just how ticked off to be without understanding what they’d said. “I think I was supposed to order,” Bertram said.

  “And if you’d started the Translachew when I’d told you,” there was a glint in Rollie’s eye, “you’d have heard me give your order, wouldn’t you?”

  Bertram felt a reflexive pang, like a willful child caught in a lie. He recognized it for what it was, though—a prime symptom of how complex things had grown. Perspective was slipping away. Bertram’s critical thinking was shutting down. The unease felt very real.

  “So.” Bertram cleared his throat and forced himself to sound conversational. “Er, where are you from, exactly?”

  Rollie didn’t answer right away. He seemed to debate further verbal flogging, but then just settled on making a short derisive sound. “Okay, Ludlow, we’ll play it your way. I’m from Hyphiz Delta. Fourth planet in the Hyphiz system.” At Bertram’s blank expression, he added, “If you’re coming from Tryfe, you hang a bit of a left off of Alpha Centauri and then just—” He broke off, attention shifting to the front doors as someone new entered the establishment. Bertram noticed him tense, survey the situation, then relax again.

  “See something?”

  “No. And that bothers me.” He took another careful glance around, and then turned back to Bertram. “I can’t figure it. Why’d those sightless slaggards send us here? I highly doubt it’s for the stellar service, the fine scenery and the great drinks value. So what then?” His eyes flicked to the Yellow Thing at Bertram’s neck and he frowned, adding, “And why am I the only one asking these questions? Aren’t you at all concerned?”

  “About more things than I can name,” Bertram told him.

  “Well, then?”

  He cleared his throat again. “So, um, hey—now that you’ve been released from your unfortunate incarceration, what are your plans for the future?”

  Grumbling, Rollie helped himself to a handful of round, green snacks from a bowl in the center of the table. Over their crunch, he said, “Launch yourself, Ludlow.”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to condescend,” Bertram insisted. “It’s interesting. I mean, it’s not like we really got to chat much before you, you know, shot me or anything.”

  Rollie considered this while clunking his booted feet onto an empty chair seat, one by one. “Vos Laegos,” he said finally.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll probably go to Vos Laegos. It’s a planet. Y’know, hit the Simmiparlors, make up for everything I couldn’t do in my luxurious ten-by-ten confinement cube… Then come to, rinse and repeat. Do that six or seven times, then sink into a hot tchutsaaree steak with cold kaargoogk dressing.” He closed his eyes, savoring the image of alien dinners past. “I can almost see it melting.”

  Bertram feared they’d lose the thread in extra-terrestrial cuisine. “How about long-term?” he pressed. He wished he could take notes. They’d be helpful for future analysis.

  “How about, why do you care?” The man’s eyes opened and seemed to flicker. “You’re still thinking you’re in your head, aren’t you, Ludlow? Or, rather, that I’m in your head, and you’re completely out of it.” He leaned across the table and poked Bertram in the chest. “Listen to me, Ludlow, if those Seers aren’t dishing dung, mate—if they actually know what they’re talking about—then I do pity your little planet.”

  Bertram scowled. “And why’s that?”

  “Because its great Tryfling savior’s too fragging weak to face an uncomfortable truth. Too unevolved to even try and stretch his tiny mind around a concept so disturbingly vast. Instead, he’s stalling for time and playing duck-and-cover.” He dusted the snack crystals off his hands and settled back into his chair. “Might as well wave good-bye to it now, Ludlow. Bid Tryfe paar too and save yourself the pain later. Because you’ll never get through the GCU like this.” He shook his head. “I just hope most of your people are reconciled with their favorite deities, is all.”

  “And I’m sure they’d appreciate your concern,” Bertram grumbled. He pushed at the pain hovering between his eyes. Savior or madman, he’d never felt more wearied and lost than he did now.

  “Look,” Rollie said finally, “it’s nothing personal against your planet, Ludlow. In fact, I rather liked its unenlightened charm. Was as ego-centric as most backspace worlds, I s’pose, but certainly as good as any. Better, maybe.”

  “Is,” Bertram said, “is.”

  “Is, then.” He shrugged. “’Course, I’m not exactly a rep for popular opinion, am I? Most life-forms round the GCU wouldn’t be able to pick your solar system from space salvage. I happen to appreciate the obscure, me.” He offered Bertram the bowl of snacks, but Bertram wasn’t really in the mood to imagine eating. “Anyway, I guess it’s possible they’re just pulling your trigger.”

  “Who?”

  “The Seers. Making up all this ‘Tryfe in Peril.’ Having us on.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Do I know? I’m just the A-to-B man. Or, rather, the A-to-B-to-C man. Hard to say if they’re even half as powerful as everyone says they think they are.” Rollie looked up over Bertram’s head. “Ah, about time.”

  The Mathekite waitress hovered with a tray of drinks. She placed a tall, thin glass in front of Rollie. Then she began to heave the foot-wide, globe shaped, sherbet-colored creation of Bertram’s. With half of a giant squash floating in it, there was still somehow room for a dozen tiny drink decorations, which danced and sang every time anyone touched the drink. Bertram peered around it to see Rollie’s white crocodile grin glinting in the light of the bar.

  Bertram felt oddly relieved his hallucination seemed to have a sense of humor. “Does it come with a diving board, or do I order that separately?”

  “It’s a nectricium bowl. Lowest booze content this s
ide of Daglann-Da. Didn’t know how your system’d react to anything stronger.”

  “Or smaller?”

  “Enjoy.” Chuckling, the alien raised his glass and took a long swig from it.

  Bertram weeded through the chorusing drink decorations to locate a straw. He was just about to exchange the Translachew gum for it when, from somewhere in the bar, a single voice caught his attention.

  Bertram froze, the straw dangling from his lower lip. “Did you hear that?”

  Rollie clunked his already-empty glass to the table. “Hear what?”

  Bertram waved him off and listened.

  “… And so I told him …” continued the voice from somewhere in the bar.

  “That,” said Bertram. “I can’t believe it—English!”

  “No English there, mate,” Rollie said. “I told you, you’re lucky that I even know it. And I doubt anyone here could afford a projection translator. Must be the beckoning call of a refill you hear.” He motioned to the waitress for a second round.

  “I’m sure I heard something.” And again, Bertram tuned into the rumble of alien gibberish trying to filter out that one familiar sound. It seemed like a long, long moment before it reached his ears again, and he leapt up from the table, almost overturning his chair. He stretched to scan the crowd.

  “Um, Ludlow, what are you doing?”

  “Thank God! Finally, some good news!” The elation Bertram felt now was greater than any he’d experienced in a long time. More than passing finals. More than getting his T.A. position. More than even getting that phone number of Rozz Mercer in the Murray Avenue Tavern.

  But Rollie’s pale blond brows drew sharply together in what, oddly enough, looked like genuine concern. As Bertram’s host for the hallucination, obviously the man couldn’t understand that some reality was seeping in, couldn’t see that maybe the outside world had found a chink in the glass and sounds from home were actually, finally, beginning to get back through.

  “Ludlow, it’s the gum,” said the captain. “The gum’s kicking in, right? All of the languages can’t synch at once. Sit down.”

  But Bertram was already dodging through a sea of oddities, following the sound like a shot, straight to the speaker in question.

  He was surprised to discover the voice belonged to a lean humanoid male, with fair hair in thin wisps that gave the impression he was crowned with a low-flying cloud. From face to neck to arms, his skin looked thick, grooved and browned, like burled wood, or an ancient canyon wall. He spoke with an authoritative resonance that made Bertram wonder whether the man’s companions were stone, stone-deaf or just stoned, as they sat unmoved and unmoving before the game board on their table.

  “Excuse me,” began Bertram. But the man carried on with animation and a deaf ear.

  “It’s a blasted shame what’s happened to the industry,” the man was insisting to his companions. “See, you got your Simulant pilots. Then you got your hired Organics. Not to mention, all sorts of newfangled security devices. Such that, nowadays, how can a fellah even know what to expect when he overtakes a freighter? I ask you. I mean, obviously, it’s easy enough to dismantle a Simmi freighterman—I don’t need to tell you mates the tricks. But it’s only easy when you know that’s what’ll be behind the blasted hatch when you latch target and bust in, that’s my point. You think you’re dealing with a Simmi crew, but then find out the Organics called off the strike and it’s back to work for the natural life-forms … Well, one minute you’re trying standard Simmi disarm. And the next you’re looking down the fragmenting end of an XJ-35.” He fired off an imaginary shot from one knobby, tan finger. “Why, in my day—”

  “And which millennium was that?” a voice asked, and Bertram made a quick step out of Rollie Tsmorlood’s path.

  The life-form at the table stopped in mid-sentence as he focused on the captain through the haze. His eyes sprang into sight from under its heavy creases. “Son of a Keeltsar! Rollie Tsmorlood, I cannot blasted believe it!”

  He rose quickly, clapping Rollie on the back. Even the other two beings at the table came to life with words of greeting and surprise.

  Rollie beamed at the man. “Backs, you old prib, no one’s killed you yet?”

  “Too fast for ’em, mate, too fast,” laughed Backs.

  “And just what in the name of Karnax are you boys doing in this system?” Rollie asked.

  “We’re a bit too popular in Quad Four right now, so we’re killing time between jobs.” Backs swung back into his seat. “Question is, where have you been hiding yourself? Don’t tell me all those rumors were right and you’d actually got yourself life-merged again? Why, I’d been telling the fellahs here, after the last time, there was no way our boy Tsmorlood’d launch his freedom just to cohab with some jab. You make me a liar?”

  “Never need me for that,” Rollie said, moving an extra chair to the table. “It was confinement.”

  One of the life-forms groaned. The other nodded sympathetically as they made room in their circle.

  “Where?” asked Backs.

  “Rhobux-7.”

  “The penal colony? You poor slaggard.”

  “Rough one,” agreed another gravely.

  Rollie just offered the one-shouldered shrug. “Well, it was hardly lounging in the purple sands of Blumdec, but the place did have its benefits. Ended up heading KP. Decent supplies, chose my own menu, a nice kitchen unit. A little primitive, but then it is a blasted confinement center, isn’t it?”

  “And what’s this?” one of them asked. He was a short, slim being with bluish-black, slicked-back hair. His eyes were hidden behind navy-tinted glasses, and his stark white face was hidden in a neatly-trimmed, navy-tinted beard.

  He had indicated Bertram, and Bertram gave a start.

  Rollie said, “This, Wilbree, is a Tryfling.”

  Wilbree’s mouth dropped open. “I believe I’ve never seen one of those before,” he breathed. With a small, trembling finger, he poked Bertram in the arm. “And I hardly believe I’m seeing one now.”

  The second life-form looked up from the gameboard with electric blue eyes behind thick, crystal-faceted lenses. The color reflected and flitted in the glass like tropical fish in a bowl. He took a draught of his drink. “A Tryfling? Hey wow, where’d ya get it?”

  “Where do you think I got it, Fess? Snatched it up from one of the many Tryfling tour groups roaming the cosmos?” Rollie snapped. “I got it on Tryfe.”

  Fess pushed up his glasses with two of at least twenty fingers. Bertram almost couldn’t look away, as the being simply sprawled with appendages of different shapes and sizes. It was to the point that Bertram wasn’t sure where Fess left off and the chair began. “Whatcha gonna do with it?”

  “Nothing, I got no use for it,” said Rollie. “Anyway, it’s not mine, is it?”

  Wilbree’s expression grew grave. “Better put it back then, before someone misses it.” He turned to the game before him.

  “I am not fragging putting it back, Wilbree,” Rollie said in strained tones. “It’s … it’s got stuff to do, I don’t know, I’m not involved anymore. Ask it yourself.”

  “Do you have stuff to do?” Wilbree asked Bertram gently.

  Bertram blinked. Did he? He wasn’t sure now. Somewhere along the way, Bertram began understanding languages other than the only tongue he’d ever thoroughly learned. He had a vague awareness that there were three different languages, and possibly two dialects, being bandied about at this table alone. And yet, it was as if they all somehow were one. It was very confusing.

  “I … I think,” he said, “I’m supposed to save Life As I Know It.”

  “Ohh,” cooed Wilbree. “That’s lovely. How do you plan to do it?”

  Bertram opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. This was seriously beginning to be a problem.

  “Oh no, I’ve frightened it,” Wilbree observed, concern creasing his brow. “I’m sorry, Rollie. I didn’t know it was skittish.”

  “It—” Roll
ie exhaled and raked a hand through his choppy yellow hair. “He. He isn’t. Look, mates,” he said, “this is Bertram Ludlow. Ludlow, this is a group of beings I loosely refer to as friends. At my right is ‘Backspace’ Bungee, self-proclaimed scourge of the outer sectors. Backs, here, fancied himself my mentor half-a-century ago, when I was young and deluded and he was still an old slaggard. Taught me everything he knew about the intricate cosmic network of underground dealings. Then I met Fess and Wilbree here, and actually learned something useful.”

  “Unappreciative,” Backs told Bertram. “He was always unappreciative. And not one molecule of respect. But you ask him. You just ask him where he’d be this minute if it hadn’t been for me.”

  “‘Still rotting in a third-galaxy confinement,’” chanted Fess and Wilbree.

  “That’s right,” said Backs. “And you want to know why?”

  Fess moved one of his playing pieces. “’Cause bail’s kinda pricey these days?”

  Backs threw a handful of snacks at him. “Because he’s got no vision, that’s why.”

  “I disagree,” Rollie said, helping himself to Fess’s drink. He flicked out a couple of errant snack-food pellets. “I can see through you.”

  “Ah, now, I’d be careful what I say here, boy,” cautioned Backs with a grin. “You are, after all, talking to the future Official Leader of the Intergalactic Underworld.”

  At this, Rollie didn’t even bother to hide his amusement. “Oh, is that so, now? The OLIU? I’m afraid I must have missed that Uninet flash in my confinement cell.”

  “What’d I tell you?” Backs appealed to the group with a wave of his arms. “Totally lacking in imagination.” Over the beings’ laughter, Backs explained, “It’ll take a certain amount of effort to get there, of course. And I don’t expect it to happen overnight. I predict it’ll be a U-year or two down the road. But the merchandising rights, sponsorships, and endorsements alone make it a very tempting campaign on my part.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound like a man who’s serious.” Rollie leaned back and thumped Fess’s now-empty glass to the table. “Or off his orbit. Tell me this man isn’t actually serious?” he asked Fess and Wilbree.