Someone once said that all people are the same height lying down. Equally true, and perhaps more important in its truth, is the fact that all species look equally ridiculous and bored standing in ticket lines, luggage lines, boarding lines, and “what in the world am I standing here for” lines.
Space travel, while advanced to the stage where you can move from one point to the next at a speed of two light years per hour (or, if you’re lucky enough to be in a q-ship, at one light year per minute), still brings to the average traveler all of the joys associated with the ancient airport. There has never been a happy airport, and even the advent of space travel has only made the delays and missed flight changes and lost luggage all the more infuriating. All of the spacelines are commercial, private, for-profit endeavors, and so they hire the cheapest, most incompetent help available from whatever species it is which happens to have the lowest command of the galactic language.
N-ships can’t launch from any decent sort of atmosphere. Well, they can, but the sudden instantaneous acceleration from motionlessness to over 300,000 miles per second would create quite a sonic boom, not to mention the vacuum effect which would disturb the rest of the sky. It’s more of an aesthetic thing, really.
In a pinch a ship can go into a partial N-drive lift-off or descent, but most N-ships aren’t designed for planetary landings, except for a few specialized military and research types. Landing, actually, isn’t much of a problem, as an N-drive on full or partial power descent doesn’t suck as much stuff into the shielding, although a careless tech or two has been known to disappear getting too close to a freshly descended N-ship. The shielding of the N-drive also has the effect of drawing whatever comes into contact with it to the beginning of the universe, which is not a happy thing to do with birds, or clouds, or even atmosphere.
So N-ships are usually launched from orbiting stations, having the added bonus of forcing the passenger to first take a shuttle from the planet to the station and then transfer to the N-ship, effectively doubling the length of time a passenger has to wait in line and increasing two-fold the opportunities to lose luggage, not to mention the endless possibilities for missed flights and botched schedules resulting in lengthy stays in horribly decorated lounges tortured by psychotic decorators and mindless muzak.
A Q-ship, on the other hand, can launch from anywhere it bloody well pleases, as it launches directly and bodily from this reality into another, leaving only a gap in the atmosphere which is filled with a thunderclap much like air rushing back together after a lightning bolt.
Again we see the little-appreciated benefits of human engineering flukes.
The spaceports of the Capitol Planet of the Confederation of Galactic Systems were unique in that the designers just couldn’t figure out a way to force passengers to endure the shuttle portion of the trip, as all of the air was inside the sphere and travelers launched directly from the surface, so they devised a system of space faring tugboats and harbor pilots to muddle up the whole affair and bring some discomfort to the average traveler. While this might not be as satisfactory as the normal arrangement of torture, it will have to do until some deviously enterprising race figures out a way to make more of a profit by offering even less convenience.
The airport in the Succoth sector was large and bustling, with many different aircraft taking off and landing, mostly local flights. Not every sector has a space port of their own. Most of the trader races did, and nearly every race has at least a small port from which diplomatic missions can be launched and (more importantly) the highly moneyed can avoid the discomfort of the modern space ports elsewhere. Some species even are content to just use everyone else’s facilities, and thus avoid a racial tax on the space port by the confederation and the expense and trouble of maintenance.
Most of the Succoth port was taken up with the mazes of ropes and barriers designed to keep passengers from reaching the many commercial flights until moments after they departed, with ticket counters, security designed apparently for the purpose of hindering travel by unsuspecting citizens while giving free passage to any object resembling a bomb or a gun, and large numbers of beings whose only purpose for being was to hang out at space ports and bump into you.
Near this terminal was a secret military-looking area, clearly marked and well-guarded. From the lines forming for ticket purchases one could see through the large glass windows a pair of sleek Q-ships nearby, hidden in their launching bins with the huge picture windows.
A Q-ship is fast and mean-looking, and their design reflects the fact that they are designed to launch from wherever they find themselves. Glass boarding tubes lead to the noses of the ships, like some ancient rocket from the early days of just about every spacefaring people when they would get from here to there by throwing as much junk out the back as fast as they possibly could.
The lines for tickets on this day were, as every day, unbearably long, and filled with beings who couldn’t stand it one minute longer and always do. The lines stretched all the way to the entrance, past the amazing velvet red ropes which kept even the biggest meanest races timidly in line.
And at the back of the line stood Andy and Simon.
Andy stood, mindlessly eating a bag of peanuts and rudely scattering the shells on the floor for the hourly help to clean up, working on the premise that someone has to make work for them so that they can keep their jobs. Simon was looking around, nervous and anxious as usual. Simon appeared to expect trouble to pop up out of the floor and slap him silly at any instance. The crowd jostled around them, rushing to and from places the authorities conspired to keep them from reaching in any reasonable length of time.
Simon blanched as he looked to the doorway.
A pair of Special Policemen entered the door, two Lower Amrams in dress uniform and carrying the usual megadeath sidearms. Simon put his shaking hand to his face to wipe away the sweat which was threatening to drip from his upper lip and splatter loudly on the floor, attracting attention.
Simon nudged Andy to get his attention.
The two cops looked over the crowd professionally. Simon quickly turned to hide his identity, pulling his collar up and nudging Andy again. Andy just chuckled and popped in another peanut. Simon started to work his knees back and forth like a man living on a diet of beer who hadn’t seen a urinal in two weeks.
The two Amram cops strolled slowly toward the ticket counter, scrutinizing the crowd with practiced eyes. One kept his hand firmly planted on the handle of his pistol, the other held his communicator and whispered something every so often to the static coming from it.
Simon whispered under his breath to Andy, trying not to be heard.
“Andy, there’s two cops just came in.”
“What?” Andy asked loudly, picking a piece of peanut husk from between two teeth.
“Two cops. Over there. Cops.” Simon gestured with his head nervously.
“Oh.” Andy cracked another peanut. “Want one?”
The cops started to move closer to the pair, splitting slightly to flank the area where Andy and Simon are. Simon covered his eyes with one hand and pressed hard, then looked again. They were coming even closer.
“Andy…” Simon wished he knew of some way to convince Andy of the danger they were in.
The two Amrams bulled down, and they were looking mean and hungry, and they moved quickly and professionally until they were right on top of Simon and Andy and Simon turned to find a way to run and escape –
“Hold it right there!” one of the cops bellowed.
Simon froze and turned around, resigned, holding out his hands and promising himself never to drop soap in the shower when a renegade Theasaur was around. The two cops pushed past Andy and Simon, heading for two fairly attractive Upper Amram females who had just come out of a customs office.
Andy popped another peanut, nonplused.
“Relax. We haven’t done anything illegal. Yet.” Andy watched as the Lower Amram cops hugged the Upper beauties with obvious affection. “Doesn’t that just warm your heart?”
“What?” snapped Simon, irritable. He felt as if somehow, someway, Andy had set him up again.
“When a Lower and an Upper Amram can find true love. It makes you glad most races don’t bother with a caste system anymore.”
Andy looked off into the distance, over by the military section of the spaceport. Ibeth had just entered from the front door, dressed in a very smart military officer’s outfit and looking very good in it.
Ibeth noticed Andy and nodded, then disappeared through an official looking door with a bored guard who simply saluted.
Andy paused for a moment, scanning the options, and then stepped out of line.
“Come on.”
“What about our tickets?” Simon hesitated, not wanting to lose his place in line. He only had a half hour to go from this point.
But Andy walked away, so after an instant’s hesitation Simon followed. The line closed up behind him instantly, working under the law of line attraction which states that if you move from your spot for any reason whatsoever, you’re just out of luck, fella.
Andy worked his way in a circle around the ticket hall, looking simultaneously nonchalant and official.
He inquired about a schedule by butting in at the head of a line, and left with a clipboard from off of the desk, holding it in full view and unquestioned.
He continued around the large room, grabbing with all the finesse of his trade an official-looking hat off of a rack near the chemical lounge (where refreshments can be had for a mere five times the current market value.) Andy grabbed a second hat, considered it, then put it back.
He finally picked out a third hat and tossed it to Simon, tagging along behind him like a lost mutt trying not incur a dogfight over turf by not looking lost.
Andy took a confident breath, and then marched right up to the door Ibeth had disappeared into. The guard looked at him, bored.
“Afternoon, soldier,” Andy pulled the door open and nodded at the guard. The guard glanced at his hat and clipboard, and then nodded in return. Simon stuttered in his steps behind Andy, looking in abject fear at the guard.
Andy reached out and pulled Simon in through the door with him.
“New help,” Andy explained. The guard just grunted without looking at either of them.
Inside the door, Andy found himself in a nondescript white industrial hallway, official looking in its total lack of any feature which might be remotely interesting. Andy looked both ways down the hall, and then arbitrarily chose a direction.
Simon tagged along, confident that he would soon be in a military prison.
A door ahead opened, and a Knarf in military fatigues who had pulled clean-up duty backed out, pulling a bucket of suds with his fluent tongue and locking the door behind him. Andy and Simon took the next left turn before the alien could turn around and see them.
This hallway was much like the last, and Andy was casting about, looking for clues as to which way might possibly lead to the Q-ships. This time, a Sceva officer in a slightly more impressive uniform turned down the corridor and came up the hall directly at them. Andy didn’t hesitate a moment, but opened the first door to his left and stuck his head in.
Inside the office, an A’nak clerk at a desk doing paperwork. The A’nak looked up in surprise at the intrusion. Andy looked confused for a brief moment, as if considering.
“Oh – sorry. Thought this was Rosenthal’s office.”
In the hall behind Andy, the Sceva officer walked past, looking strangely at Simon. Simon smiled weakly and just tried to look as if he belonged there. The officer just ignored him and continued on.
Andy shut the door and the pair continued down the hall. Andy reached the corridor from whence the Scevite had come and decided to take it.
Another hall, much the same.
Two more Strike Forces officers in even more impressive uniforms, one a Theasaur and the other a human, came toward them. Andy wheeled viciously on Simon.
“I cannot believe you could foul something so simple up! I’ve told you time and again about this –”
The two officers passed quickly, with the natural inclination to avoid any conflict one hasn’t instigated and doesn’t have the upper hand in. Andy grinned and continued up the hallway.
Simon hesitated a beat, looking at the retreating forms of the last pair.
“Andy, where are we going!”
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
Andy started around yet another corner, then stopped short and drew back, almost knocking Simon down. Simon started to speak, but the words were clamped by Andy’s hand over his mouth…
The Mercy Graft - a sci-fi novel 