Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (30 page)

“You’re not to discuss that,” Amy said.

Mouse grinned. “Oh! The Saints forfend! Never, my dear. What are you going to do about it if I do?”

“I saw Consuela yesterday,” McClennon said, heading them off.

Amy softened. “How was she?”

“Twenty years younger. Happy as a kid loose in a candy store. She’s hoping you’ll come down.”

“You went?”

“Yesterday. It’s interesting. But I don’t think we’ll get as many answers as questions.”

The convoy entered Operations Sector. A huge door closed behind them, isolating them from the rest of the ship. Mouse wondered aloud why. No one answered him. McClennon’s former tech team, Hans and Clara, awaited him. Their faces were not friendly, but were less inimical than any he had seen outside Operations. Clara even managed a smile.

“Welcome back, Moyshe. You even get your old couch.”

“Clara, I want you to meet somebody before we start. You never got the chance. This is Amy.”

Clara extended a hand. “Amy. I heard so much about you when Moyshe was with us.”

McClennon removed his tunic, handed it to Mouse. The Marine sergeants considered the couch and its technical stations, posted themselves to either side, out of the way.

The Contact room had fallen silent. People stared. Obviously, no one had been warned that Contact expected visitors.

Thomas settled onto the couch. “Clara, I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

“You don’t forget. Hans.”

Hans said, “You let your hair grow, Moyshe. I’ll have to gum it up good.”

“Haven’t had time for a haircut since we hit The Broken Wings.” He shuddered as Hans began rubbing greasy matter into his scalp, and again when the youth slipped the hairnet device into place. A moment later the helmet devoured his head.

“There’s a fish waiting, Moyshe,” Clara said. “Just go on out. And good luck.”

TSD took him. Then he was in the starfish universe.

Stars’ End was a vast, milky globe surrounded by countless golden footballs and needles. The three Empire Class warships became creeping vortices of color. They were at full battle stations already, with their heaviest screens up. Golden dragons slid across the distance, orbiting well beyond the ships.

And beyond the dragons, against the galaxy . . . “My God!” he thought.

He saw great shoals and thunderheads of red obscuring the jeweled kirtle of the galaxy. The sharks were so numerous and excited that he could not discern individuals.

“Yes, Moyshe man-friend. Will attack soon,” a voice said inside his mind.

“Chub!”

“Hello. Welcome home. I see by your mind many more adventures lived, Moyshe man-friend. I see doors opened where once shadows lay.”

“What in heaven . . . You’ve changed, Chub. You’ve become poetic.”

Windchime laughter tinkled through his mind. “Have been so lucky, Moyshe man-friend. First a spy linker who taught jokes, then a she linker filled with poetry.”

McClennon felt the starfish reaching deep within him, ferreting through the hidden places, examining all the secrets and fears it had not been able to reach before. “You remember fast, Moyshe man-friend.”

On cue, an outside voice said, “Linker, Communications. We have an open channel to
Assyrian
and
Prussian
Fire Control. Please inform us when you’re ready to begin.”

Fear stalked through McClennon. The starfish reached in and calmed him. “I’m ready now,” he replied.

He listened in as
Danion’s
communications people closed their nets and linked with the dreadnoughts. He heard the chatter as the Navy and Seiner fleets went on battle alert. From his outside viewpoint he watched screens develop around the Navy ships. The two giant warships began creeping toward the shark storm.

The sharks sensed the attack before it arrived. Suddenly, they were flashing everywhere, trying to reach their attackers and the ships behind them.

McClennon felt the flow from Chub go through his mind into
Danion.
He saw the response of
Assyrian
and
Prussian.
Their weapons ripped the very fabric of space. Sharks by the hundred died.

And by dozens and scores they slipped past and hurled themselves at the massed ships around Stars’ End.

In ten minutes space was aglow from the energies being expended. And ten minutes later still McClennon began to feel bleak, to despair. When he recognized the mood’s source, he asked, “Chub, what’s the matter?”

“Too many sharks, Moyshe man-friend. Attacking was mistake. Even the great ships-that-kill of your people will not be able to endure.”

McClennon studied the situation. Space was scarlet, yes, but he saw no sure indicators of defeat.

Still, starfish could intuit developments before even the swiftest human-created computer.

He began to see it fifteen minutes later. Whole packs of sharks were suiciding in the warships’ screens, gradually overloading them. They were doing it to every ship. Near Stars’ End at least a dozen vessels were aflame with the fire that could burn anywhere, as anti-matter gasses slowly annihilated the metal of their hulls.

It got worse.

“Moyshe?” Clara’s voice seemed to come from half a galaxy away. “You’ve been in a long time. Want to come out?”

“No. I’m doing fine.”

“You’re thrashing around a lot.”

“It’s all right. It’s grim out here.”

A driblet of fear was getting past Chub’s sentinel effort. The starfish himself was in a state of agitation. His kind were being slaughtered.

It got worse.

Prussian
was compelled to withdraw. The sharks redoubled their assault upon
Assyrian. Hapsburg
picked up the realtime link and replaced
Prussian.

The Navy squadrons fared better than did the Starfisher harvestfleets. Their fire patterns were virtually impenetrable.

From somewhere, a voice screamed, “Breakthrough! Breakthrough!”

McClennon did not understand till much later. At the moment he thought it meant the sharks had managed their victory. It was not till Chub began exulting that he realized the tide had turned.

The sharks were turning on themselves, pairing off and fighting to the death in ponderous, savage duels. Winners searched for new victims. Here and there, a few began to flee.

Within half an hour the only red to be seen was that fading from fragments of dead shark. Space was aboil with the activity of the scavenger things that followed the sharks. Chub kept giggling like a teenager at a dirty joke. “We do it one more time, Moyshe man-friend. This time when impossible. And in grand style. Grandest style possible. Will make bet. Herd and harvestfleet will have no trouble from sharks again for age of man. So many died here . . . ”

“Moyshe?” Clara said. “Still okay? I think we should bring you out. You’ve been under a long time.”

A sadness came over McClennon. For an instant he could not identify its cause. Then he knew. Chub was sorry to see him go. The starfish knew that this time it would be forever.

“I don’t know what to say, Chub. I already said goodbye once.”

Chub tried a feeble joke. McClennon forced a charity laugh.

“Not so good?”

“Not so good. Remember me, Chub.”

“Always. The spy man from the hard matter worlds will remain immortal in the memory of the herd. Stay happy, Moyshe man-friend. Remember, there is hope gainst the world-slayers too. The Old Ones tell me to tell you so. They are remembered from other galaxies. They have been stopped before.”

“Other galaxies?”

“They come to all galaxies eventually, Moyshe man-friend. They are the tools of the First Race, the hard matter folk of the beginning. They do not grow old and die. They are not born as you, but in machine wombs from pieces of adults. They are created things. They do not reason as you. They know only their task.”

McClennon felt the starfish struggling with concepts alien to the starfish mind. There was an aura of the extremely ancient in what the creature was trying to tell him. Chub seemed to be translating very old mood lore into the relative precision of modern human thought.

“They scourge the worlds that they might be prepared for the First Race, Moyshe man-friend. But the First Race is gone, and not there to take the worlds, nor to end the work of their tools. They were gone before the birth of your home star.”

“Who built Stars’ End? Do you know?”

“The little hard matter people, as you thought. Those whose bones you found. They were enemies of the First Race. They won that struggle, but still run from the tools of their foes.”

“But . . . ”

Chub knew his questions before he thought them. “They are old, too, Moyshe man-friend. They flee, and the killers-of-worlds pursue. This is not the first time they have passed through our galaxy. You do not know Stars’ End. It is old, Moyshe man-friend. Older than the stones of Earth. The enemies of the world-slayers are but a ghost of what once was. They perish in flight, and decline, and always they leave their trail of traps for their foes. The herd knew them of old, Moyshe man-friend, in other ages, when the galaxies were young and closer together and our fathers swam the streams arching between them.”

“You’re getting poetic.”

“The moods mesh, Moyshe man-friend. The moods mesh.”

“Moyshe? You’d better not stay much longer.” Clara’s voice was more remote than ever. He began to feel her urgency.

“Linker? Communications. We’re breaking lock.”

“Linker, aye. Chub, I . . . ”

“Coming to you, Moyshe man-friend. You will remember.”

The starfish’s message puzzled McClennon. He would remember what?

Something hit his mind. It was an overpowering wave. Panicking, he yanked upward on his escape switch. “Chub . . . My friend . . . ” were his last screaming thoughts before the darkness took him.

Pain!

Overwhelming pain, worse than any migraine. His head was pulling itself apart.

He screamed.

“Hold him!” someone yelled.

He writhed against restraining arms. Something pierced his flesh. Warm relaxation radiated from that point: The pain began to lessen. Soon he could open his eyes and endure the light.

“Get back!” Clara snapped at someone. “Moyshe, how do you feel?”

“Like death warmed over. Over.”

Though she looked relieved, she growled, “I told you to come out. Why didn’t you?”

“Chub was telling me about Stars’ End, End. About who built it, and about the centerward race. Race. It was important. Important.”

“You pushed it too far.”

“Give me another shot. Shot. I’ll be all right. Right. How’s the battle coming? Coming? What happened, anyway? Anyway?”

Hans held his arm while Clara gave him the second injection. The pain receded. It became a slight irritation over his eyes, like a sinus infection.

“They made the breakthrough with the Stars’ End master control, Moyshe,” Hans said. There wasn’t the slightest animosity in the youth now. “You held them long enough. Once it found the key, it broke our language in seconds. It saw our problem. It did whatever it did about the sharks.”

“What did it do? Do?”

Mouse stepped around where he could look into McClennon’s eyes. “We were hoping you could tell us. You were out there.”

“I didn’t know what was happening. Happening. One minute we had no hope. Hope. The next minute the sharks sharks had been hit by a hurricane or something. Or something.”

“The Empires didn’t do so hot, eh?”

“They did magnificently. Better than all of Payne’s Fleet Payne’s Fleet did during the first battle. Battle. I think Gruber Gruber will be properly impressed. Impressed. There was just more there there than anybody expected. Expected.”

Mouse frowned at him. He asked Clara, “Why is he doing that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Why am I doing what? What?”

“Echoing yourself.”

“What do you mean? Mean?”

“How soon can we move him?” Mouse asked.

“Any time,” Clara told him. “But he should stay here. Our medical people know how to handle mindtech problems.”

“No. The Admiral wants him right back. Come on, Thomas. Feet on the floor. Let’s see if you can stand.”

“No problem. Problem.” He was weak, but he could get around. Why were they all looking at him that way?

He began to remember.

“He told me I would remember. Remember.”

“Who told you?” Mouse asked as he guided McClennon toward the door and conveyances waiting outside.

“Chub. The starfish. Fish. I’m beginning to. To. Mouse, I’ve got to see the Admiral. Admiral. I’m remembering everything the fish know about the centerward race and their enemies. Enemies.” He turned. “Clara. It was good to see you again. Again. Hans. Be a good fellow. Mind your grandmother. Mother.” He reached with his right hand. Surprised, Hans shook it.

“Of course, Moyshe. Good luck.” He glanced at Clara.

The woman said, “Good luck, Moyshe. Maybe you’ll surprise us again.”

McClennon smiled weakly. “I hope not. Not. No more battles, anyway. Way. Mouse. Let’s go. Go.”

He was driven by anxiety. He wanted to report what he had learned before the memories slipped away.

Mouse stopped to talk to Amy before he boarded the shuttle. “Take care of yourself,” he told her. “And be happy. What’s happened wasn’t your fault. You could say it was fate.”

“I know, Mouse. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.” She smiled wanly. “Greater destinies? It’s probably for the best. Sorry I was such a bitch.”

Mouse shrugged. “No problem. Take care.”

“Take care of Moyshe.” Mouse looked at her strangely.

“He’s your friend, but he’s the husband I’m going to remember.” She leaned close, whispered, “Promise not to tell him till he’s past the worst part. We’ve got a baby on the way.”

“It’s a promise. He doesn’t need that on his mind too.” Storm backed through the hatchway, waved, turned, found a seat. For a time he was too amazed to be disturbed by the fly.

McClennon sat opposite him, beside one of the Marines, writing furiously.

Twenty-four: 3051 AD
The Contemporary Scene