Panglor Page 3

  "It's a hideous idea."

  "Think of who will suffer. Vikken. Does that displease you?" Demimoss took a tiny narco pop-bulb from his shirt pocket, bit it, and sucked on it, smiling. "Besides, do you have a choice?"

  Panglor fumed. He shrugged twitchily. He had no doubt that Garikoff could carry out his threats. He could be killed by a Garikoff goon right here on the station if he refused the job.

  He refocused his eyes suddenly. Nelisson and Demimoss were both standing, and the veil of the privacy-shadow was gone. Anything he said now was for the entire lounge to hear. Demimoss was the one who spoke, though. "Trust us," he said, stroking his glittering hair back. Then he nodded to Nelisson, and they stepped apart into separate, glowing drop-fields and vanished.

  Panglor stared across the empty table, frozen. He felt a great pressure inside his skull, like a wedge of ice. So. No more wondering about the atrocities Garikoff had in mind. No more guessing. No more faint hoping.

  His feelings spread like a chill vapor throughout his body. For long minutes, he sat paralyzed. But cracks, eventually, began to split the ice.

  It was a Vikken ship he was about to attack, and there could be pleasure in that. But could he ignore the other lives involved? Well, why not? It was his life or theirs, and what did he owe any of them? They were only men, and therefore essentially vicious like all men. Ghosts, phantoms loose in his existence uninvited. Why protect them?

  And as for Grakoff-Garikoff, well, there would be time enough for them later. They could threaten him with their goons, and they could threaten him with worse things, and for right now he might take it. Right now he might do as they told him. But later he'd make them pay; somehow, he would. Panglor Balef would have his revenge.

  The cracks spread through his icy feelings, allowing pain and desperation to leak through. The body of ice groaned, then suddenly shivered apart in his skull, exposing the pulsating nerves within. A hot rivulet ran down his spine, releasing feelings in quick little streams: anger, fear, humiliation, relief. He began to shudder, putting knuckles against his mouth. And then laughter erupted, choking laughter, and suddenly he was breathing again.

  Chapter 2

  The Sky Lore Lounge was filling rapidly for the evening's entertainment. He didn't want to stay here for that, for bejeezus sake—some mutilated holodrama, caterwauling musicians, and who knew what else?—but he didn't want to pick up and move until he had thought this all out.

  He had about a day. Escape was impossible; no telling how many goons Garikoff had watching him. Going to the authorities would be like slitting his own throat; if Garikoff's goons even suspected, they'd make mincemeat of him. Not that he'd be losing much if he died, but what about LePiep? She was totally dependent on him. And she was the only creature in the universe who accepted his loyalty and returned it in full. No, he had to keep himself alive, if on no other account than that ou-ralot's.

  He had better get back to her right now, and not leave her alone again.

  "Sir?" asked a soft voice beside him.

  Startled, he looked up. A stunningly attractive woman stepped from the lift-field and stood beside his table. She wore a crimson gown with a high-necked, open collar reaching up under honey-orange hair; her arms were bare and smooth. "Would you care for a refreshment?" she asked with a smile, shaking the hair out of her eyes.

  He swallowed hard, breathing with difficulty. This was no holacrum; this was flesh and blood. He could smell her and touch her. His blood rushed and pooled disconcertingly, toward his loins.

  She bent toward the table, tilting her head. Her gown shifted slightly, and produced a clear contour of her breast. "Perhaps something else?" she asked quietly, hair falling over her eyes.

  Something else? Is that how you do everything in this station? Is that what you're selling now—expensive women? He closed his eyes, trembling, feeling his blood rush upward again, to his temples. Get out of here—now.

  He lurched away from the table and shoved past the startled waitress. Stumbling, he fell off the edge of the platform. He gasped, tumbling; but a drop-field caught him and brought him gently down to the floor. Conscious of laughter around him, he pushed himself up from the floor and sprang toward the exit. The starry decor swam around him and he staggered dizzily against the wall.

  Outside, he ran. A few gasps of fresh air calmed him, finally, and he stopped and crouched in the corridor, looking both ways, getting a leash on his nerves. Calm down, he thought. Calm down. A cool sheath slipped over his enraged feelings, and after a few moments he had control again. His anger toward Garikoff was now a cold anger, manageable. The important thing was getting back to his quarters before anything happened to LePiep.

  The corridor was empty, except for a small cleaning robot ticking down one side, along the wall. He had no idea where he was, only that the Sky Lore Lounge was around the corner. All he wanted to know was, which way to his quarters?

  Directional lines flicked on, winking. "Right," he muttered. He wondered how many of his other desires the psych-monitors could read. It was not a reassuring thought.

  When he entered his quarters, he found LePiep snoozing. He looked around carefully for signs of Garikoff mischief, but the only change in the room was a litter of crumbs around the half-eaten packet of wafers. The ou-ralot raised her head sleepily, then groaned and rolled onto her back, stretching. She radiated waves of pleasure. "Whooeeep?" she said, righting herself and blinking at him. She suddenly sensed his disquiet.

  "Yah," he said, completing his scrutiny of the room. Grakoff hadn't tried anything, but they still might.

  "Peep," he said, picking her up and stroking her, "we have to figure out what to do." He set her down again and paced in front of her, explaining the situation. LePiep responded with a shiver and a plaintive hum; even if she couldn't understand the details, she could sense his fear. She flexed her spine and wing joints and stepped toward him, her eyes dark with empathy. She lowered her nose and pressed her forehead to his cheek.

  "Hhrruuu?" she said.

  The ou-ralot's courage washed through him like a warming tide, comforting him to the belly. He held her that way for a minute, then lifted her into his arms. "Let's go for a walk, all right?" Maybe if he kept moving, he could make the feeling of courage last.

  * * *

  They wandered aimlessly, moving upward through the station's levels. Panglor knew he should begin planning, setting up course projections for The Fighting Cur, but his mind wasn't on that; he just wanted to keep moving, exploring, finding things of interest or even things not of goddamn interest, just anything to distract himself. Gradually they passed out of the section where most of the guest quarters and lounges were located, and into levels intended for both transient spacers and locals.

  On Level Nine, he found a room where one could sit and dial images from the station's omnitelescope. Each seat had its own viewscreen and controls. Panglor sat and twiddled the controls for a while; he looked at several planets on this side of the sun—two gas giants and a gaunt cinder—and then he focused on the nearby sights of the waystation itself. He inspected ships and warehouses and field radiators. The Fighting Cur appeared in the viewscreen, a battered silver can with a smaller can on the front and a massive driver-ring on the stern, and he was surprised at the affection he felt. Once he'd hated the ship, but she'd brought him alive from Veti IV; she'd done her job well. It wasn't her fault she was owned by Grakoff-Garikoff.

  Then he realized that he could probably focus just as easily on Deerfield, his prospective victim. The thought instantly gave him the jitters, and produced other thoughts: foreshortening . . . bad insertion . . . limbo . . .. He jumped out of his seat, dumping LePiep to the floor.

  "Hyolll!" she cried, scurrying in circles around his feet.

  "Hey-y-y, there!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality. He scooped her up and stroked her nervously. "Didn't mean to do that, old girl," he murmured. Conscious of people staring at him, any one of whom could be a Garikoff spy, he took her out
of the room and into the nearest lift-field. He kept rising until he reached Level Seventeen. When he stepped out of the lift-field, a pair of directionals met him, pulsing brightly, pointing to a drop-field. Apparently he was not wanted on this level. He ignored the signal and looked around. Things were different here. The corridor was narrower and dingier and badly illuminated. Exposed conduit and pipe ran along the walls and ceiling. Clearly this was a resident or maintenance section. No one was in sight. "We're as good as the damn locals, right?" he muttered. "Right," he answered and started down the corridor.

  The gloom was eerie, and so was the quiet—except for his echoing footsteps. He wondered what this section was really used for. Listening at a door, he heard a faint sound of machinery. That figured. He went to the next door and listened; the door paled at his touch. Surprised, he cautiously peered inside. A single light panel illuminated a dusty storeroom, empty except for several crates in one corner. He inspected them more closely, rubbing dust from one of the crates. Under the dust he found markings of the Elacian National Worlds, whose script he recognized but couldn't read. "Mm," he said. "LePiep—"

  He scowled. "Naw." But maybe . . . "Peep, what do you think about hiding up here and just waiting for everyone to leave? Grakoff would get tired of looking, sooner or later, and then we could hop a ship out." LePiep looked at him oddly, twitching her ears. She sat on the crate and thought with him.

  "Naw, hell," he growled. It wouldn't work. They'd find him, probably with that damn psych-monitor—in fact, they were probably coming after him right now—and then they'd kill him. And even if he got away, how would he survive without funds? If they didn't deep-space him for piracy, they'd get him for jumping ship. Oh, he could duck them for a while, but what kind of life was that?

  "We've had it, pal," he said. "Let's go. Hup."

  LePiep jumped into the crook of his arm. "Hoop!" she cried, muffling her snout against his armpit.

  A shadow passed by the door. Panglor froze. Whoever it was did not stop, though, and he waited until he thought it was safe. He looked out cautiously and found the corridor deserted.

  Sighing, he continued in his original direction. He planned to take the next drop-field, but didn't want to backtrack. Ahead, a blue-green shimmer screened off the corridor. Assuming that it was just a simple air-screen partition, he went right through. Immediately voices assaulted his ears. There was a doorway up on the left, and from it he heard the sounds of scuffling, a female giggle, and angry shouts. He hugged the wall and listened. The corridor here was paneled and clean; another hall intersected on the right. Get moving down that way before they see you, he thought. But he couldn't move.

  A male voice became intelligible. "Day before that she queered the J-scan going up to the department and fed in some kind of—" He was interrupted by the giggle and more scuffling noises. "Hilarious," the voice growled. "Let's take this witch and—"

  "Witch?" someone shrieked.

  Panglor tensed, listening hard. What was happening here?

  A woman said, "Look, let's not—"

  "The hell with that! She's a witch, and we ought to just stuff her down a drop-chute and be done with it."

  "Try!" A girl burst out of the doorway and yelled back venomously, "You try it and you'll never try anything again!" When she turned toward Panglor, he saw that her face was twisted with rage. She looked to be about fourteen, perhaps sixteen years old.

  His first impulse was to back out of the hellion's way. (Was he going to have to deal with an adolescent girl, for chrissake?) But he couldn't seem to move—despite LePiep's squirming and sputtering in his arms. He hoped the girl wouldn't notice him.

  At that moment, her gaze fell upon him. Her rage suddenly wrinkled into harsh gaiety, and he realized that she was laughing at him, now. The instant she had seen him, she'd started laughing. What the hell? LePiep was crying in his ear, but he still could not make himself move. The girl's mouth twisted with contempt. Her eyes closed to slits as she studied him, her nostrils arrogantly flared. He could just see her pupils, contracted to black dots.

  The face was that of an unusual sort of ghost. A ghost of young hatred. A terribly dangerous ghost.

  The ou-ralot, now, was hissing—a soft sound, a whisper. But in her throat was the beginning of a deep, rising grumble.

  Panglor trembled and felt his muscles begin to thaw.

  LePiep erupted with a murderous yowl. "Yi-i-ip! Yi-i-ip! Yi-i-ip!"

  Panglor swung into motion. His feet moved clumsily, carrying him toward the side corridor. Then he began to run, and once he was running he didn't think of stopping. Why should a goddamn adolescent scare him this way? Never mind, keep running!

  Ahead he spotted a pair of lift- and drop-fields, a gateway back to the civilized levels. He slowed, stumbling, as he reached them; his lungs ached, dragging for air.

  Psykinetic directionals winked on, pulsing brightly toward the drop-field. He glanced back, thinking he had heard steps. Cheezus. The girl was coming down the corridor fast. "All right!" he snarled, and leaped—not into the drop-field, but into the lift-field.

  Now why did you do that? he wondered, rising in the shaft. The next level was the highest one, and he jumped out of the field and glanced around. He was in a deserted foyer, from which several corridors split off. The area looked unused, the walls unfinished. Across the foyer, a ramp curved up against a wall to a high, gloomy exit. Keep moving. He hurried up the ramp and through the exit and into a passageway that continued to ascend. He stopped and listened behind him. At first there was nothing, then light footsteps. He continued up.

  At the top he confronted a solid-metal pressure-door. A light beside the signal plate indicated pressure balanced on both sides, so he touched the plate. The door slid open. He stepped through, and it closed again.

  He was surrounded by the stars.

  The room was a blister on the station's skin, an observatory. With the exception of a com-console on one side, the room was bare. It was a place to look at the stars—and the view was magnificent. The galactic band glittered with a milky profusion of light across one side of the sky; on the other side was the sun, darkened by a polarizer to a dull yellow disk. Numerous bright stars stood out here and there in the night; some were probably planets of this system.

  He set LePiep down on a ledge that ran along the circumference of the blister, and he faced the stars, close to the clear bubble. Perhaps the stars could alleviate his pain and his fear, calm him and give him strength. If not, he'd face the future shivering. He walked along the ledge with the ou-ralot at his elbow. Outside, much of the station was lost in shadow, though certain edges and angles were lighted by mirror or direct sun. Overhead, a shuttle twinkled as it passed from shadow into sunlight.

  Behind him the door hissed open, startling him. He closed his eyes, hope draining out of him. "Naw, Peep," he said, opening his eyes again but no longer seeing the stars. Perhaps he could feign indifference; perhaps he could pretend to be calm. He turned slowly.

  In the doorway stood the girl, gagging with laughter. "Boy, oh boy!" she cried.

  He glared at her, his blood quickening furiously. "What do you want?" he growled.

  The girl caught her breath, then shrugged, and said with a grin, "Nothing. What do you want?" She was about two thirds his height, and skinny. Her hair was clipped short in front, but it hung in a funny curve that made it long in back and on one side only. She wore a man's pocketed pants, and a woman's shirt with a loose and rumpled turtle-neck. She stood with her weight slouched over one hip, thumb hooked over the waistband on the other, fingers drumming cockily against her pelvis. Her eyes were bright and contemptuous.

  Obviously the thing to do was to ignore her. Shrugging, he carried LePiep over to the com-console. He activated the screen, scratched his neck self-consciously, thinking hard for a moment, then said, "General information. Display foreshortening departure schedule for the next five days." The console viewer produced a full-tank schedule tree; he studied it with a show of g
reat care.

  The girl came over to within a few steps of him and snorted. "You came all the way up here just to do that?" she said. He raised his eyes and found his gaze locked with hers. She stuck out her chin. "What's your name, anyway? Don't you know you're not supposed to be up here? What are you, a derelict?" She shifted her hips and studied him with a mix of puzzled interest and animosity.

  He bent back to the console. He didn't know how to answer her, and the fact that she was both female and an obnoxious child made it that much worse. "Go away," he said finally.

  "Huh!" she answered, giving no indication that she planned to leave. "My name's Alontelida Castley. You can call me Alo." She pointed at LePiep. "What's your animal? That's a strange one."

  Panglor squinted darkly, his thoughts frozen, his anger locked up in splinters of ice. "If you don't—"

  "What did you say your name was?"

  His breath released enough to grunt, "Panglor."

  "Panglor, hey?" She snorted in satisfaction. "What did you say your animal was?" She glanced again at LePiep.

  He wanted to squash her like a bug. And yet he couldn't respond, couldn't unlock the fury. "She is an ou-ralot," he said. "And she is not an animal."

  "What's she, then, a plant?" said Alo. "Or an aphis gel? She sure looks like an animal to me."

  "She's worth more than most people I know. Now if you don't—"

  "Ho!" Alo crowed. "Gaw-dam, but you're nervous. Ping-lor."

  He growled, "Get away."

  "Pinglor, Punglor. What was it?"

  "Pang-lor."

  "Yeah. Ponglor. Why are you here? Are you a spacer?" She stared at him in mocking, wide-eyed appraisal.

  Are you a spacer? he thought sardonically. And how much more of this are you going to take? Why not kill her, throw her out? Glaring at her, his chest tight, he hissed, "Yes. I am a spacer."

  "But probably not a good one."

  "If you don't get out of here—"

  "Pfffff . . . you won't do anything." She smirked. "You're probably a coward, anyway." Her arms dropped rigidly to her sides, betraying tension. Her eyes narrowed. "What's the matter with you? You don't fight back." She glanced at LePiep again. "What did you say your animal was?"