Fool's Run (v1.1) (13 page)

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not, maybe we’d still be alive and bickering. But who wants to test that theory?”

“I don’t,” the Magician said. “I just wonder how long the FWG can keep its grip on the world. It’s part democracy, part tyranny, part socialist, part plain parental, and it has kept itself alive so far by our memory of near annihilation. When the memory fades, will the bureaucracy still work?”

“Magic-Man,” the Scholar said wryly, “every government in the world started that way.”

“True.” He turned the sound lower again, gazed at the screen. “They came down hard on something a few years ago, came down far out of proportion… What was it? One of the FWG’s draftees. Terra Viridian.”

“That lunatic in Desert Sector.”

“She had sunstroke, massacred all those people, then gave the FWG a merry hell of a chase. They finally found her in Suncoast Sector in a garbage bin… She got the most inept trial in FWG history. A two-year-old could tell her circuits were burned, but the court declared her sane so they could legally throw her in the Dark Ring and placate—”

“Magic-Man,” Quasar said nervously, “shut up. I don’t want to hear about the Underworld. We play there and go. That’s all I want to know.”

The Magician looked at her. Beyond her, he saw the Queen of Hearts’ sleeping face. The secrecy that Quasar had glimpsed in the lustrous, expressionless gold suddenly snagged at his attention: beneath the smoothly painted eyelids, the mind was awake and listening.

The Queen of Hearts opened her eyes a second later, blinking, seemingly oblivious of the Magician’s attention. “Where are we?” She consulted the control panel, then ran her fingers tiredly, absently, through her hair again and again until it floated around her languorously, like kelp. They were all watching her then, charmed, even Quasar.

“Another hour,” the Magician said.

She nodded, swallowing a yawn, her eyes on the starscreen. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here,” she murmured. “I haven’t been in space since Cygnus did the off-world tour two years ago.”

“When you learned to navigate,” the Magician said. She seemed to hear an odd overtone in his voice; she turned to him, smiling, but she hesitated slightly before she answered, and he could not see past the smile in her eyes.

“When I learned to navigate in space. Yes. I got us this far, Magic-Man. I didn’t forget what I learned, did I? It’s like riding a bicycle. At least that’s what they say; I’ve never ridden a bicycle in my life. But why is that, do you think, that some things you have to learn and relearn, and other things you never forget how to do? You might forget a language, but you don’t forget how to add or subtract. Or sounds—you don’t forget the difference between bird song and a human voice.”

“I don’t know,” the Magician said, distracted by her amiable chatter. “Instinct?”

“Mathematics is not an instinct,” the Scholar said witheringly.

“I was thinking more about bicycles. A sense of balance being connected with a survival instinct.”

“What is—” Quasar began; the Scholar answered her question.

“Like breathing. You do it to live; you stop doing it, you die. But it’s not something you think about doing one way or the other. As long as you live, you do it. Or your body does it. Like jerking your hand away from fire. Or running from something dangerous.”

Quasar nodded, inspecting a streak on one of her nails. She pulled the polish-tube out of her pocket. “I have done that. But then I learned something strange. When you run, you run backward, you never reach the future. The past runs faster than you and waits for you to reach it. You have to walk out of danger, out of the past. Because you look back when you run, but you look to the future when you walk.”

The Scholar and the Magician looked at each other. “I’d say that’s a survival instinct,” the Scholar said.

The Queen of Hearts gathered her hair out of the air, bundled it around itself at her neck.

“How do you know that?” she asked Quasar. Her voice sounded husky, almost abrupt to the Magician’s ear. Quasar retracted the nailbrush with an audible snap.

“I know.” She eyed the chip of light ahead of them along the
Flying Wail
’s path. Then she smiled, her eyes dark, mocking. “Look at you. We were in your past. You came back to us. The Gambler found you and brought you back. Why?”

“Because the Magician’s music had to be played.”

“And that makes,” the Scholar murmured, “the Magician as big a megalomaniac as the FWG.”

“What?” the Magician said, startled. The
Flying Wail
sang delicately; he took his eyes off the screen and swiveled his chair to the controls, answering the cruiser’s message on the keyboard.

He settled back again; the Scholar broke the silence.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, what did it say?”

“Oh. Just company. A smallcraft entered scanning range.” He looked up suddenly. “What was that about me being a megalomaniac?”

“Quasar says your music is responsible for the synchronicity of the universe.”

“Quasar used ‘synchronicity’ in a sentence?” His eyes widened as she uncapped the polish-tube again. “No! Don’t do it! I take it back, I’m sorry—”

“I am not appeased.”

“Come into the kitchen. No, better yet, the hold. The Nebraskan put all the Scotch back there.”

“You drag me to a space-prison. And you refuse to let me smoke. And then you insult me. For that I will loose purple floating globs all over the
Flying Wail
.” She had the Magician’s full attention; half alarmed, half laughing, his hands up, open, placating, he pleaded without words; her smoldering gaze held a manic gleam. The Queen of Hearts lifted a hand languidly, slid the tube out of Quasar’s hand.

“What is this? This is marvelous. I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it new? Do you have more colors? Do you have a shade that will match my hair?”

“Do you have a shade that will match my lightning bolt?” the Scholar asked meekly.

Quasar, diverted, disarmed, glowered at him, then trained the force of her restlessness at the Queen of Hearts.

“I have a color that will match your mask.”

The Queen of Hearts brushed her cheek vaguely. “My face paint.”

“Your mask. I know these things. You never take it off, do you. Not even to make love.”

“Quasar,” the Magician said, even while his mind veered briefly to explore the possibility.

“You see the paint,” Quasar said stubbornly. “But you don’t see her eyes.”

“Sure, I do,” the Scholar said. “They’re wide open in front of my face and they’re smiling. It’s just her stage-face. It means one of the best cubers in the world. People everywhere recognize it. It’s a symbol.”

“What’s a symbol?”

“Her gold face. Something that means something. Something you react to without thinking. Like an instinct, but it’s cultural rather than biological.”

“
Comment
?”

“A physical object or design that represents an emotion, a belief, a ritual, a cultural experience—”

“What language are you speaking?” Quasar inquired icily. The Scholar sighed.

“Magic-Man—”

The Magician pulled a flap on the arm of the commander’s chair. Gold floated into his palm. He held it up between finger and thumb: a small, perfect circle. The Scholar took it from him, smiling.

“A wedding ring. Where’d you get that?”

“It belonged to my great-great-grandmother. I actually wore it once. Now it’s emergency fuel if I ever get stuck somewhere without credit.” He added to Quasar, “That’s a symbol: two virgins giving each other gold as a promise to love and make love only to each other for the rest of their lives.”

Quasar’s brows lifted in distaste. “You never did that, Magic-Man. Did you?” The Magician’s mouth twitched. He sealed the ring away again. The Nebraskan drifted overhead like an angel.

“Did what?” he asked interestedly.

“I’m trying to explain to Quasar what a symbol is,” the Scholar said.

“Why?”

“I forget.”

“That’s easy,” the Nebraskan said, fingering a straying end of his mustache. “It’s like a horseshoe. Nail a horseshoe over your door and it attracts good luck.”

“That’s a superstition, not a symbol.”

“Okay, a rainbow, then. That’s a symbol of good luck. Or a four-leaf clover.”

“I was trying for something a little more profound.”

The Nebraskan gave his mustache a final tug and reached down the neck of his bodysuit. A thread of silver snaked into the air. He pulled it over his head, sent it down toward the control panel. A thin chain of silver with a charm the shape of a triangle flowed past the Queen of Hearts’ face. She lifted her hand, her fingers tangling in the silver, and the triangle turned slowly to transfix her with its eye.

“What is that?” The sharpness in her voice startled them. The Magician took the chain from her, frowning.

The Nebraskan said apologetically, “I saw it on some pre-FWG U.S.A. currency. The eye within the triangle. I liked it, so I had it cast in silver. I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s the eye of God,” the Magician said, as if recognizing a casual acquaintance. The Scholar reached for it; the Magician looked at the Queen of Hearts, his brows raised questioningly. She was laughing again, fingers making furrows in her hair, pulling it around her face until it was barely visible, and the Magician saw only one grey eye.

“Of course I’ve seen that before,” she said. “Of course I have. I don’t remember where, though.”

“Me neither,” the Scholar said. “That’s funny. We’ve seen it, we don’t know where it came from, yet we all recognize it, and it means something. Something without words, something from the past.”

“Like a cross,” the Nebraskan said.

“Or a star. Star of David, the pentangle of—”

“I met a man once who believed in that flak,” Quasar interrupted. “He tried to tell me about someplace called heaven. Then he told me I was going to hell. I can’t remember what I did to make him angry. Something. I don’t like the past.”

“Starlight is always in the past,” the Magician murmured. The cruiser spoke again, a short arpeggio on a harpsichord; a com-light went on at the same time. He touched it and the air was filled instantly with static.

“Identify,” a woman’s voice said abrasively. “Imperative. Identify—”

The Magician winced at the noise. “Smallcraft ID 960PCS, the
Flying Wail
. From Suncoast Sec—”

“Name.”

“What’s your name?” he asked civilly. Quasar’s fingernails clamped down on his arm.

“Patrollers.”

He blinked, his face suddenly expressionless, and shifted a shield-angle over the window.

They saw the long, bulky body between them and the Underworld, the flashing cruiser lights.

He whispered rapidly, “God damn it, Quasar, if you’ve brought anything illegal aboard—”

“No, Magic-Man, I swear—”

“This is patrol-cruiser WG11F from the Underworld. Transmit navigational codes for all ports beyond Earth.”

The Magician breathed something and glanced at the Queen of Hearts. She was upright, but her hands over the controls were clenched. “Heart-Lady.” She took her eyes from the cruiser, stared at him without seeing him. “They want our itinerary.”

“Oh.” Her hands loosened abruptly; she began transmitting. “I’m sorry, Magic-Man, I’m sorry—”

“Stay calm.” They heard cross-chatter under the static; he deciphered it incredulously.

“You’re intercepting what?”

“State your business in the Underworld.”

“We’re on a tour,” he said bewilderedly. “The Nova Band. The Underworld, Helios, Rimrock, Moonshadow—we booked through the Suncoast Agency, we’ve got permissions, passports, docking dates and codes—”

“Hold.”

He held, his mouth tight. He turned to Quasar, held her eyes. The Nebraskan said softly, “Quasar, they can search us when we dock, and if you’ve got something in the hold, just show me—”

“I didn’t! I haven’t!”

“Just what I always wanted,” the Scholar muttered. “Private lodgings in the Underworld.”

“Magic-Man, it’s not me this time, I—”

“Quiet down. I don’t have any idea what we’re transmitting. Heart-Lady, did you notice anything funny when you—”

The patroller’s voice interrupted him, a fraction less harsh. “Permission and entry code for Flying Wail on record. Why is your receiver open to the Underworld Frequency?”

“I didn’t know it was,” the Magician said blankly.

“Who owns the craft?”

“I do.”

“Where did you acquire it?”

“From a used-smallcraft lot in Suncoast Sector. All its records were—”

“Beneath the control panel there is a serial number. Give me that, your license number and your ID number.”

The Magician sighed noiselessly. There was a longer silence when he finished. They waited.

A sudden thump came out of the bowels of the
Flying Wail
, and a trill of the harpsichord. The Magician jumped, slapped it silent.

“Roger Restak. ID 4069PC1114.”

“Yes.”

“All communications systems on patrol-cruisers sold to private citizens are adjusted to receive only legal frequencies. Why are you monitoring our codes?”

“I’m not! I had no idea—”

“ID numbers of all on board.”

“They’re already on record with the Underworld. Are we in trouble?”

The static sounded slightly more human. “It’s possible that an error was made in your presale adjustments. Are you the first civilian owner?”

“No.”

“The sales history will be verified. Roger Restak. Legal status: owner and commander of a suspect smallcraft,
Flying Wail
. You are not formally charged. You will proceed as scheduled to the Underworld. Any attempt to deviate from docking schedule will be regarded as a felonious act. Questions.”

“No.”

“
Sunbird
. Out.”

The cruiser accelerated out of orbit, left them a clear vision of the Underworld. Quasar swallowed audibly.

“Magic-Man.”

“You can smoke in the hold.”

“Me too,” the Nebraskan said, trailing after her.

“Not,” the Scholar said, “a friendly place. Roger.”

The Magician grimaced. “There is nothing secret from the FWG. Heart-Lady, did you check with the Library Bank about fixing that receiver? Was there any warning to private citizens about the Underworld Frequency?”