' Chapter One
From the moment that the trading ship, Avalonia, slipped its oribital berth above the plabet Lave, and began to manover for the hyperspace jump point, itd measureanle life span, and that of one of its two man crew, was exactly eighteen minutes.
The space station gently soab away into the shadows and the small Ophidian class vessal shuddered as its motoes angled it eound towaeds the Faraway jump. The planet Lave, beloe, rotated in blue -green splender. There were storms mocing across the Paluberion Sea, six great whorls of pink and white cloud. They were approaching the contine nral mass that was FirstFall, and promising a bkeak and wet few says to the swarhes of forest and the deep, snaking valleys that cut throygh the rugged land. The cities of both Humankind and Lavian glitteres among the verdant blanket below, like bright shards if glass,
Watching the lush world from his seat at th asteogation console, Alex Ryder expressed an audible sigh of regret that he had not been allowed to observe a rich and fabled world like Lave from orbit. He had been planetside once, an unforgettable experience…But the rules and regulationd of the Galactic Co-operative of Worlds were strict; and sensible. Lave, like any other planet, was not a holiday resort, not a curiosity. It was a living, evolving world, and there were folk down below to whom that world was everything that Old Earth had once been to the Human race. Protection. Mother. Home.
Another time, another year, Alex thought. You earned your visit to Lave, and he had hardly begun his professional life. He still had so much to learn.
The Ryders had been a trading family for three generations. It had begun with Ben Ryder, who had traded almost exclusively using shotup pirate ships. Ben had lived life on the edge, and one day, one night, one star year, he had not returned. Out in the cold between the stars his grave was as remote as it was private, and would probably never be found. His son, and his grandson, who was Jason Ryder, had followed the family business. Alex would soon have to make the final decision: whether to sacrifice his life to shuttling cargo between the worlds of the Galactic Co-operative, or to train for a different profession.
Let's be clear about trading. Trading between worlds is no game for a youngster with ideas of getting rich quick. You can spend a lifetime carrying food, machinery and textiles, and at the end of that life you'll havr enough saved up to buy a patch of costal land on an Earth type world, and spend the rest of your days in quiet, isolated comfort.
That's all.
A lifetime of sweat and combat for an oribital shuttle, a home, and the clear blue of an alian sea at your doorstep. If you want more, there are ways of getting it: narcotics, spices, zoo animals, weapons, political refugees… trade in any of these things and wealth will tumble around you.
And corsaries, and privateers, and pirartes… And the police.
The strain of the years of honest trading was already telling on Jason Ryder, but he had invested wisely, and this small, cargo carrying pleasure yacht was his pride and joy. He could get away from the deadelines for a while (although he always respected the trader maxim that "an empty hold means an empty head", and he never travelled freightless; today he was carrying berry juice, an exotic flavoring. He could show his son what space was really like, and whet the lad's appetite… or let him see that a life in hard vacuum was one of the hardest lives of all.
For his part, Alex Ryder would need a lot more convincing. He was a tall, fair haired young man, wiry amd athletic. He was atom-surfing chammpion on the Ryder home world, Ontiat, and very bright. Like all student to professional, with all that that meant in terms of settling with one particular girl, one job, and beginning to plan for when, eventually, he would buy his own land.
He still had a year to decide, a year of surfing, free-fall baseball, cloud barbecues, hi-falling, partner selection, and Sim Combat.
He was in no hurry.
Except that he loved space. Loved the flash of sun on duralium hulls, the clutter and confusion of the space ports. Loved the idea of other worlds, of exploration, of path finding.
The voice of SysCon, which controlled all traffic flow in Lave's orbit space, murmered softly. "Avalinia, make a four minute drift flight to Faraway jump point."
"Understand," Alex called back, and adjusted the auto accordingly. His father sat back and smiled, his job done for the moment.
SysCon said, "Enter faraway jump along channel two sevenm, at forty five orient."
Affirmed." Alex said, and his father rolled the ship aling its central axis, ready for the dangerous hyperspace transit.
Eveything looked good.
On the rear monitor, where the planet shone brilliantly as it slowly moved through the heavens, a dark shadow drifted into vision: another ship, lining up for the Farway jump.
It was quite normal. Alex took no notice, more concerned about the impending transit through hyperspace. His father scrutinised the other vessel for a moment, then relaxed. He had no way of knowing that he only had fourteen minutes left alive.
Making a Faraway jump in a system as complex and crowded as Lave is no simple business. A hundred eyes are watching you for the slighest mistake. Make a mistake in orbit space and the next time you go to dock at one of the world's Coriolis space stations a big NOT WELCOME sign might flash in the vacuume before you.
You slip your C-berth under the instruction of Station Space Monitor. Perhaps twenty ships are doing the same. You go when it's safe. You rotate, accelerate, decelerare and spin to the absolute second, both of time and arc. That way you get clear without two thousand tons of duralium trader rammed into your hyperspace jets.
It isn't over.
Now you're under supervision of HSA, Home Space Authority, and they'll jockey you safely about among the traders, and the yachts, and the ferries, and the shuttles, and the star liners, and the arrow shaped police patrol ships. All of these vessels slip and slide about you, streaks of silver in the darkness, flashing green and blue lights, sudden walls of grey metal that pass across your bows, winking yellow warning beacons.
You move through this chaos and a new voice begins to call for attention. Now you're with the Faraway Orientation System Controller; FOSC (or SysCon as it is sometimes known), sets you up for the big jump. You're going to cover maybe seven light years in a few minutes, and you might think that's a lot of space to ger lost in, but that isn't how it works. Faraway is a tunnel, like any other tunnel. Inside that tunnel is the realm called Witch-Space, a magic place, a place where the normal rules of the Universe don't necessarily work. And every few thousand parsecs along the Witch-Space tunnel there are monitoring satellites, and branch lines, and stop points, and rescue stations; and passing by all of these are perhaps a hundred channels, a hundred 'lines' for ships to travel, each one protected against the two big dangers of hyperspace travel: atomic reorganization, and time displacement.
Jump on your own through huperspace, across more than half a light year, and you'll be luckey to make the same Universe, let alone your destination.
You might emerge from Witch-Space turned inside out (which is not a pretty sight).
You might be streached in all the wrong angles, and although the shiip keeps travelling, that jelly mass of broken bone and flesh inside the cabin is you.
According to legend, you might come through okay and breathe a sigh of relief, only to go into Earth orbit and wonder why that big lizard, with the teeth and the long rail and the green scales is roaring up at you, and warning you off of his nice Jurassic patch of prehistoric desert.
To go Faraway is a killer, unless you obey the rules.
So for a few minutes, in that fateful day, Alex Ryder was content to let the robot voices of SysCom guide his family's ship through the space lanes, towards the jump point for the planet Leesti. He relaxed, beside his father, and watched the bussle of the space port.
The shadow behind them, the ship that was following their path towards Faraway, was a Cobra class cargo freighter.
No one knew how or when the designation of space going vessels had been linked to the names of snakes. The Ryder's own vessel was a relatively harmless Ophidion, capabale of two hyperspace jumps. armed very basicaly, set up, really, only to destroy imminent dangers, like asteroids, meteoroids, or 'crazy craft' the name given to vessels that were out of control, or ridden by juveniles out for kicks.
The Cobra was a bigger vessel by far. A common trading ship, most Cobras are buried beneath the weaponry and defences that their hard bitten, tough talking captains have accrued. And with good reason…
To be a trader is to be two things: dangerous and at risk. Dangerous because to survive as a trader you have to know your weapons and how to use them in space combat; you need to be able to recognize a pirate, or an anarchist, or a Thargoid invader, or a police trap when you might be carrying any one of the thousands of prohibited materials.
Amd at risk for the same reason . A juicy Cobra, weighed down with minerals, or rare textiles, or furs, or ore, is as tasty a target for a freebooter as any in the Galexy.
To be a trader means to shoot first and pray that you've read the warning signs alright, and that your victum was a pirate. Make a mistake and not even two shells of time stressed duralium and a belly full of missiles is going to save you from the vipers.
Vipers. Police ships. Small, fast, deadly. And most particularly, tenacious. The pilot is a man, certainly, but kill the man and the ship will keep coming at you. Kill the ship and its missile will keep coming at you. Kill the mssile, an watch for the shadow. When a viper bites, it clings.
Eleven minutes… 'There's a sight you'll not often see…'
His father's words broke through Alex's silent, concentrated study of tje planet they were leaving. To the right, running a parallel course towards the Faraway tunnel, was an odd shaped ship, with powerful lights flickering on and off. It waws catching the sun and Alex could see how it was slowly spinning about its ce ntral axis . F idh like fins opened and closed. Across its sleek hull a rapid pattern of colored lights rippled.
A Moray. A subaqua vessel, designed for both space and undersea voyaging. The Moray ws a rare shiip indeed to see in space, especially about to undertake a hyperspace transit. On worlds like Regiti and Aona, where the only land ws the tips of volcanoes, rising above the oceans, the Moray was both freifhrer and public transport, a vital shiplink between the undersea cities that were developing in such hostile environmrnts.
The Motay's frantic color signalling ceased. Alex noticed that his father was watching the animalistic display (the cosing had been developed from the signalling of a terrestrial aquatic creature, the squid) with a frown on his face.
'Something up?'
Jason shrugge. 'Not sure. Probably not.'
Alex watched the Moray with renewed interest, then turned back to the rear view, where the Cobra had nudged a few kilometers closer.
'Shall we warn him to stay back?'
Jason shook his head. For the first time Alex realized that his father had been studying it cutiously for some minutes. There was tension on the Avalinia's btidge that was unususl, and unpleasant.
Something wasn't right. Alex had no idea what, but he sensed it powerfully.
Something was not going according to routine.
Then the go signal for entry to the Faraway tunnel flashed on, accompanied by a gentle audio prompt.
And as it did so the Avalonia's life expectancy had shrunk to just nine minutes.
Around the entry point to Witch Space is always to be found the biggest cluster of transit vessels, most of themn moored in groups at orbital buoys while mechanics and repairmen crawl over them, checking and servicing their external systems. At such a point in anpy advanced system like Lave you'll see every ship of the line, every type, subtype and artufucually mocked up version of every snake shop ever built.
As they approached the jump, Alex practised ship identification, a crucial talent in any space faring profession. The unarmed, unmanned orbit shuttles were easy enough to spot, as they ferrued cargo all around the system. He noticed two Asps, navy ships, small, manouverable anddeadly, well protected against attack, and with highly advanced military weapons systems. He also saw a single Krait, the so-called StarStriler, a small, one-man ship much favored by pathdinders and mercenaries.
To his right, space-docked and still unloading her paddengers, was the immense, cylindrical mass of an Anaconda, a massive freighter that had been adapted to passenger tramsport. It was an ugly ship, and its yawning ram scoop gave it the appearance of being a squat, blind creature with its mouth disgustingly agape.
The catalog was endless. Boa class cruisers; Pythond; the bountpy humters' favorite, the Fer-de-lance, packed out with weapons, and no doubt decked out inside like a palace; landing craft called worms; Mambas; Sidewinders…large craft and small, all winking brightly and reflecting sunlight in brillent blue-gray sheens.
And of course, there was advertising Droidships, their catchpy light displays blining out information about ROHAN'S REAL EARTH ALE WITH HONEY, or KETTLE'S CLONE-YOUR-OWN FUNGAL CURES. Or even offering "The last real food before Witch Space," small restaurant ships designed to dock and supply indtant nourishment (PRIEST'S PERFECT PROTOPOLYPS, TUTTLE'S TASTY THERAPSABLADDERS) to space weary travelers.
"Here we go… Hang onto your seat…"
Jason Ryser always did this, and Alex always fell for it. He tensed up as if the ship was about to plunge over a gravity roller. In fact, the entry to Witch Space was accompanied by an almost negligible accelerarive surge, a moment's dizzinedd, and then the spectacular sight of the stars brughtenung, spreading out and suddenly streaking in multi-colored circular patterns, so that the ship seemed to be passing down a spinning tube. Almost as soon as the surge of acceleration had come it had gone. The ship drifted in "Witch Light," in the non place in space and time. It was crossing the void between stars in seconds, but for those seconds it was in a twilight world whose existence was beyond imagination.
They say that witch space is haunted. Maybe that's why they call it 'witch." Time turns around all around, and atoms turn inside out, and gravitywaves billow up, and things move there, lifeforms, or shadows, or atoms, or galaxies, who knows? Noone has ever stopped and gone outside to find out, Only robot remotes exist there, switching stations, monitors, rescue Droids and the like. Whatwver lines in Witch Space, in the faraway timmels, will remain a mystery always.
But there are ghosts there. The ghosts of the early ships that went in to Faraway, and didn't come out again.
Ghosts…
And shadows.
The shadow of a snake. A Cobra… Rising over them…
"What in God's name…? Jason Ryder had gone whiter than white light.
Trapped in Witch Space, there was nothing he could do to outmanouver the other vessel. Alex said, "He doesn't know the rules. Perhaps it's a rookie pilot."
"Perhaps," his father said. Jason Ryder's eyes never left the scanners. His face had beaded with sweat. Alex watched the shadow of the Cobra…
Well equipped, a fuel-scoop, missile silos, extra cargo jolds, the squat dome of an energy bomb housing; a rich ship indeed, and a deadly one.
"They can't be intending to attack us." "The hell they can't!" Three minutes… And they came out of Witch Space!
Immediately Jason's hands began to fly over the key console. The Acalonia surged forward, rotating on its long axis. The planet Leesti was a small, greenish disc in the far distance. Alex saw his father arm the two missiles that the Avalonia carries, then reached to rest his hand on the multiple laser trigger,
It was a pirate, then. And as Alex came to accept the inevitability of combnat, his mouth ermt dry and his mind sharpened. He had never been in combat before, not for real, only in the SimTrainer. He had heard hid father ralk about t, of course, And combat did not sound glorious.
A Pirate ship, disguised as a trader, pursuing its victim into Witch Space itself, for their cargo of… Thrumpberry flavoring?
An uneasy voice whispered in Alex's mind. This was untypical behaviour for a freebooter. They normally waited ar rhe edge of planerary systems, watching for their prey eith long distance scanners, picking and choosing carefully. Pirates could be found everywhere, of course, though rarely in space around Corporate State worlds, or Democracies *the police were too efficient). Planets run by anarchistic or feudal governments were a pirate's favorite haunt.
This behaviour was wrong… Not a pirate. Alex looked from the slowly rotating planer to the grim, gray features of his father. They were a long way from safety. "What the hell are we up against?"
"Put on a RemLok and get to the escape pod," Jason Ryder murmered. "Do it!" I'll stay and fight." "The hell you will. do as I say." As he spoke, Jason thrust a small, black face mask, the remote space locater, at his son. The first missles struck the Avalonia's shields, and Jason punched the launch buttons on his own defenses. The small ship veered and strained as he looped it in an escape run, activating its ECM as the Cobra launched a second wave of missiles.
The rear screen exploaded with light…
But through the btightness the somber gray shape of the killer came on…
It happened so fast, then, that afterwards Alex was uncertain as to what exactly had happened. The duelling ships spun and circled in towards the planet. Space around them blazed silently as their weapons struck and were deflected.
then the whole universe rocked. Air screeched into the void. The lights in the Avalonia blinked and dimmed, Warning lights shot on across the console: Laser temperature in the red, screens fown, energy low, cargo jettisoned, canin temperature dropping…
In the same moment of the Avalonia's death, Alex Ryder found himself being struck by his father, the remlok mask forced into place about his eyes, nose and mouth. Then his whole body was physically manhandled into the escape pod.
The ship shuddered and screamed, Fuel spilles into the void.
Father and son faced each other for a last moment, each watching the other through a mist of tears and confusion. "I don't understand…" Alex screamed above the noise of the dying ship, meaning: Who's trying to kill us? "Raxxla!" Jason said. "Remember Raxxala!" then as he pushed Alex back into the cramped escape pod, he shluted. "Remember me, Alex! I wouldn't have wished this on you. Raxxala!"
The escape pod was jettisioned. Alex tumbled, Tje sleek shape of the Avalonia was above him, and then just whit light. White heat. Cold space!
In a second it had gone, the ship, his father, a part of his life; obliterated by a single burst of fire from the hovering shape of the pirate.
And as Alex watched, so a yellow tongue of fire licked towards the tunbling escape pod. He felt heat, then pain, then cold…
The tiny survival vehicle was blasted apart, sparkling fragments falling towards the green world of Leesri.
Alex hit space, arms flailing, mouth opened, consciousness and life draining from him eith every second.
Chapter Two
In space, everyone can hear you scream… As long, that is, as you're equipped with a RemLok survival mask.
An instant after Alex Ryder hit the hard vacuum, a sKin of plasFibre had been shot across his body from nozzles on the face piece, keeping him warm against the cold, tightening and protecting him, securing him against the void. The oxygen flow in his body was cut off to all but his heart and brain. Needle doses of adrenalin and somnokie were held ready, just within the skin area of his mouth, ready to alert or depress his body functions according to circumstances.
And the RemLok screamed through space for help.
It was a standard survival device, an instantly recognisable distress call indicating that it was being sent out from a small, remotely located, dying body. The alarm screeched out in forty channels shifting wavelength within each channel four times a second. One hundred and twenty chances to catch attention.
A cumbersome Boa class cruiser, loaded down with industrial machinery, slowed its departhre run from Leesti and turned to scan space for the source of the signal.
Two police vipers came streaking from their patrol sector, near the sun, scanning for the body in trouble.
An adapted Moray Starboat, a vast glowing yellow star on its hull, the sign of a hospital ship, came chugging out of the darkness.
Messages from ships to both the planet and its ring of Coriolis stations were abruptly broken as the split second message came screaming through. TV programs were interrupted, the screen dissolving into a permanently recorded display of the space grid location of the RemLock. Every advertising space module changed its garish display to flash, in brilliant green, the same information.
In the orbit space around Leesti, a million heads turned starwards. That split second of panic, that moments cry of distress, was a sound they kenw too well to ignore, and were too frightemed of to take for granted.
Within twenty seconds, two autoremotes, tiny vessels just big enough to carry an hour's oxygen, one dose each of forty drugs, and a variety of other stimulants, were hovering around Alex Ryder's spinning body. One of them shot out a stabilizing cable and dragged itself to his corpse. Blinking through its solitary monitor, it hovered over his face like a squat, legless dachsund hound and pumped adrenalin, oxygen and glucose into his bloodstream. Alex opend his ryrs and panicked slightly. The autoremote calmed him down with a quick pumpsurge of tetval.
The robot's voice whispered in his ears, "Brandy? Scotch? Vodka? I am equipped with a full range of miniature stumulants to make the waiting easier."
"What …happened…ship?…Avalonia…" he gasped through the tight face mask.
Teh autoremote blinked at him sympathetically, "Brandy, then," and hit Alex with two shots of Qutirian SynCognac.
An hour later he was aboard the Moray hospital cessel, in parked orbit above the green-grey face of the world of Leesti. Burns to his hands and face had been taken care of. Minor blood vessels theat had ruptured in his skin had been knitted back together, He was bruised, stunned, but essentiall fit physically.
The image of the ship exploding had begun to haunt him, however. He stood by the wide, sloping window of his hospital room, staring out across the bright of space to the slowly rotating world below , watching the flash and tumble of shuttles and small frrighters as they either glided up from worldDown, or struck the atmosphere on their descent, leaving brief, btilliant flares of red in the thin planerary atmosphere.
Wherever he looked he could see the shadow of the Cobra, rising up in the Witchlight, a great, killer beast, closing in on its prey.
And his father's face… The sudden alarm, the sudden anger, and yet… and yet Hason Ryder had known.
His greiving, mind stunned son just kenw that his father had been more aware of the danger than he had let on. It had been in his face, in the tension in the cabin, in the slow, dwliverate words that he had spoken during the approach run to hyperspace.
Jason had known that his lige was in danger. He had been ready for it, readu to save his son in the event of an attack.
It made no sense. But for the moment Alex felt only loss, the loss of a mon he had loved. Both his parents were gone, now. His homeworld would seem an empty, ininviting place.
Behind him, the door opened softly and the grey suited figure of a nurse appeared. She reproved him mildly for being out of bed, but seemed pleased by his apparently calm mental state.
There followed what seemed like a constant stream of visitors. First the doctor, scanning him for tension and psychic repression. The medic was not pleased. He more or less said, " Young man, your father is dead and it would do tou no harm to shed a few tears. It's all there, all the frief, all the sadness. It'll do youno good to deny it."
"I'll greive for my father," Alex said back angrily, coldly. "I'll grieve among the ashes of the pirate that killed him, And not until."
"Will you indeed."
"Yes," Alex stated defiantly. "I will. Indeed."
After the doctor had gone, the man from the Galactic Medical Co-operative came, fussily checking up on Alex's medical insurance, making sure that he was covered for all aspects of the treatment, including his Garaway transit home.
Then the police, two lwean-faced men, wearing the grey cloaks and silver waistcoats of the Narcotics Investigatiom Department. What cargo had the Avalonia been carrying? Why would a pirate be so interested in him as to follow him to a corporate State world? had his gather evef transported drugs? Firearms? Slaves? What about alien substances: <anjooza, fear glands, Marswurt? What was said in the moments before destruction? Wouls he recognisw the ship again? What were its markings?
Alex told them everything he could remember. Everything he;d seen. Everything he'd heard… Except for the fact that his father had clearly known the danger. And except for the word Raxxla.
The police left. They were not satisfied, Alex had hust received his solo pilot's license, so he could make his own way bqci to his home system, but he should notify them of what route he was taking. - Raxxla…
Alex watched them go , their Viper a slim, evil looking ship as it rolled and sped away from the hospital vessel. His mood matched the dim lit room, matched the floom frey of the storms that were biolding up on th world below. Leesti's oceans looked wild and cold, now, its clouds great charcoal colored swirls of anger above the ragged, mountainous land.
-Raxxla. What could it be? What could it mean?
At midnight, still resting and recouperating (care lf the Leesti Medical Authority), a smallgreen light winked on in his room. Aowx, still awake, frowned the realized that he was being monitored. "What is it?" he asked the empty room, and a nyrse's voice whispered, "There's a holoFac message coming through for you. They've requested a tight beam. Will you receive?" Alex sat up in bed. No one knew he was here. Did they? He frowned and said, "Sure." "Will you accept the charge against your CR?" Curiouser and curiouser. Since he was broke, and without credit until he sorted out his GMC insurance, it was easy for him to say. "Yes." In the middle of the room the air suddenly shimmered white, small bright particles flying off in all directions aroucd the gradually defined shape of a man. He was tall, but slightly stooped. As the whiteness of the resolved into colot, the whiteness of the man stayed, His hair was long and snowy, his bead ragged. His face has a touch of color, His eyes were small, gleaming points among the wrinkles, Hewas smiling. He wore a tattered trader;s uniform, and ome arm hung limmp by jis side, Even his boots were worn down, and the toes were split. The hand laser at his side had seen the same better days as the rest of his equipment.
"You the Ryder Boy?" this apparition of rum dowm age asled. Yhe chvoice creaked, a gruff, battered tome, the voice of a man who had breathed hard vacuum. "Thats me. Alex Ryder, And you?" Alex climbed out of bed and went ti stand before the life sized holoFac. The old man watched him, and chewed, Then he spat. The gibber if staubed soittle srrmed to fly straight towards Alex's shoulder and he winced and herked slightly to one side, before realizing that nothing could travel into real space form the holo. "You don't remember me," the old man said. "Thats clear enough, But I remember you." "Give me a name." "Rafe Zetter, trader of old, Trraded with your father for many years, till we parted companu on accoumt of a certain issue which, you maight say… caused a diffefence of opinion between is." "Slaves," Alex said quickly. He remembered Tafe, now. But what had happened to the man? He was old before his time. He was the same age as Jason Ryder would have been, but looked twenty years more. "Slaves is right," Rafe said. "I ran my life on the edge of a Viper's sting…" trader parlance for "one jump ahead of the law". "But by the time I indulged that little whim, ny ass was hars as iron. I somehow made it tohell 'n back. Thats where I am now." "In Hell?" "Broke."
Alex nodded, picking up slowlr on the trader slang. An :iron ass" was a ship that was well enough defended - shields, missiles and lasers - to make a skim tun through any system at all, even an anarchist's paradise like Sotiqu. All hell and then some would come at you if you tried to trade in such a chaotic system. "Hell 'n back" meant that Rafe had tasted the good life, bought with the profits of his illegal trading, but that it had all gone wrong. It always went wrong. Rafe said, "I was damn sorry to hear about Jason. A good man, A good friend of old, and a man I still respect." "It didn't happen but eight hours ago," Alex said coldly. " How the hell do you get to hear about it?" Rafe Zetter chuckled. then spat again, and again Alex couldn't help ducking. The spittle vanished at the holoFac's edge, and Alex felt a chill of irritation. "yu got your father's temper, young Alex. Maybe you've even got some of his skills." "Answer my question, old man. How do you manage to know about my father? How did you find me?" Watching him from the holo, Rafe chewed, smiled and considered. Alex tensed, waiting for the next high velocity spit transmission. and what he was doing." "He was a good man," Alex said. "And an honest trader." "He was a damn sight more than that," Rafe said loudly, and spat. Alex dodged. The ghostly holoFac image shimmered and blurred slightly. "What does that mean?" Rafe Zetter leaned forward so that his grizzled features seemed almost able to kiss the younger man. "He was a combateer, Alex. One of the best. No way should he have died like he did." "My father was a trader, not a combateer," Alex said, startled and disturbed by what Rafe was implying. "Guess again, sonny." "But it sickened him to fire shots in anger." "Maybe," Rafe said drily. "But it didn't stop him. How else do you think he made it as a trader all those years? Dammit, Alex, even if your cargo is sur cream and piclles there's someone going to try and take it from you, Your father was a combateer of the highest caliber…?" Alex swallowed heavily, staring at the quizzical features of old Rafe Zetter. "The highest caliber…?" Rafe nodded. "That's right, Alex," he said softly. "You can be deadlu, you can be dangerous, and you can end up as pet food in orbit around a dog's ass of a world like Isveve. But if your Elite, and you die, them there's a reason for your death.
what was this old man saying? Elite? An elite combateer? Alex's head spun. He knew all about the space pilots who'd earned that title, og course. Few of them did, To be elite in combat was to be… well, as near invincible as made no odds. A great many polots were "dangereous"; you didn't last long as a traded if you weren't. Many more had earned the classification "deadly." So had a lot of mercenaries. So had a lot of pirates. But elites. Few and far between. and his father, Jason Ryder, had been elite, and none of his family had known!
"Jason was one of the very best. You probably never saw his ship, but it was like a fortress. He traded places that most of us would have had nighymates about." Rafe shook his head admiringly. "One of the best. A man of the highest caliber…" His gaze hardened on Alex. "The question is, can you be the same?" "What makes you doubt it?" "Jason never sais anything about you. I guess he was trying to prorhtct you. The trouble is that it gives me nothing to go on: you're going to avenge your father's death - I can tell form the look of you, and your tone, and your anger - but for all I know, that'll just mean one more Ryder will be stardust before he even manages to target a missile." Not liking Rafe Zetters tone, Alex said bitterly, ""I've done houre of SimCombat, I score highly…" Rafe laughed and spt voluminouslu, then he became serious. "Alex, there's something I've got to know. Maybe you're going to end up-" "Pet food in orbit around Isveve!" "Yeah, maybe that. The only person who knew your talents was your father. Tell me, Alex , and tell me true, now… Did he say anything to you… you know… in the momnents before he died? Did he indicate anything, or say anything?
"He said a lot," Alex murmered, and felt a strong pang of grief as he remembered the look in his father's eyes, the freyness of his cheeks, and his desperate words, remember me, Alex… "I think he knew he was going todie, The last thing he said was the word Raxxla. I don't know what that is. An alien I guess…"
Rafe smiled, haking his head. Suddingly there was a brilliant sparkle in his eyes: "Raxxla'a no alien, Alex, It's a ghost world. A planet. A legend…" He hesitated, staring quizzically at the younger man throgh the distant link between them, "Jason relly said that to you?"
Alex nodded, "Moments before…It was the last thing he said."
"Then he knew," Rafe said with a nod. "And that's good enough for me, Akex, get your frail shell to Tionisla and take a cisitor's shuttle to oribital cemetery there. Say you've come the grave of the Starpilot Fleischer. And takkhe a good look around. You do that, boy. Tomorrow. I'll be waiting for you."
"Waiting to do what?"
Rafe chuckled. "How're you going to hunt a Cobra? You going to hitch hike? Or use a big stick? You'll need a ship. Hunt like with like. Get to the wreckplace at Tionisla. I know just the vehicle you need. Don't speak to anyone. Just get to Tionisla."
"But -" 'Au'vor, Alex!" And Rafe Zetter spat for the last time before the holoFac faded. Alex didn't flinch. Something whistled past his ear and struck the wall behind him.
The best way to see the wreckplace at Tionisla is to approach it from the Sun ( a reasonably safe thing to do since Tionisla, being a Democracy has few pirates in its system). Tionasila itself is a bright yellow world, and the cemetery is always between the planet and its star. As you fly close, the whole strange graveyard seems to be expanding from the circle of the world behind.
The first thing you see is a shimmering, silver disc, a double spiral of tiny bright points. It slowely turns: it's a galaxy in miniature, with the biggest tombs are to be found.
Come close and soon you can see that the stars in this galaxy are markers, great lumps of metal, heavily inscribed with the words and with the words and sumbols of a thousand religions. The cemetery is a bizarre and moving sight. The markers are rerely less than a thousand feet across. There are chrome-alloy crosses, titanium Stars of David, duralium hemges, and all the strange sumbolic shapes of the worlds, and the minds and the faiths that have come to die in this Star traveller's special place.
Tethered below this vast, rotating mausoleum is the dodecahedral shape of a 'Dodo' class space station, the home of the Cemetery Authorities. Here you go through security checks and get yours visitor's visa. And as you stand in the queue, staring up through the translucent ceiling of the Customs Hall, you can see the battered, broken ships many of the dead, still attached to the silent tomb that contains the body.
It's good enough reason to come to Tionisla. There are pickings aplenty among the wrecks. The treasures of centuries might be revealed by pressing the right panel on the right cube of black, alien metal as it floats silently by.
Or maybe not treasure, just the tomb's defenses. A pit with a laser. a robot guardian with knives where its hands should be. A hyperspace vacuum that sucks you in and throws you out into another time.
You tred carefully among the wrecks in orbit about Tionisla. The creatures buried here, human and alien, had money enough to buy these prized resting places, and more tham enough wealth to protect their property after death from the mercenary fingers of bounty hunters.
Formalities completed, his newly issued pilot's licence checked, Alex Ryder was given a small tourship, an oddly shaped and cumbersome vessel. He drifted quickly among the tombs, seeking the resting place of Starpolot Fleischer, following co-ordinates on the ship's cemetery plan.
He soon found what he was looking for, whoever Fleuscher had been, he was monstrously egocentric: his tomb was a great crystalline structure, a puff-ball of diamond-bright needles, literally hundreds of feet across. His body, dressed in the red uniform of an elite combateer, hovered in stasis at the center of this great construct, illuminated by focused light from the sun.
Tethered to the simple monument of the grave next to this was the battered, blistered shape of a Cobra class ship, its insignia still proudly displayed, but all its vital equipment, its fuel-scoop, its extra cargo beys, its aft missile and laser banks removed.
Alex stared at it. It looked nothing like the Cobra that had destroyed his father's ship. That vessel had been bristling with all the extra things that good money could buy, to defend and to attack, and to make the trading game an easier prospect for the elite trader.
A light on the Cobra winked at him. Alex blinked, then looked again. Sure enough, a small, red light was flashing on and off, a brief sequence of code:
LAND ON DOR PL
'Land on the dorsal plate', That was clear enough.
Alex manoeuvred his tiny craft above the arrow shape of the Cobra, and touched it gently onto the heat blistered hull. He looked around guiltily. Touching monuments wasn't permitted and the cemetery was patrolled by Kraits, small and deadly security craft, with instructions to blast away at any man, woman or child seen tampering with a mausoleum…
But the graveyard was huge, and the shadows of the great tombs transferred this miniature world of the dead into a place of hide-outs, and shifting, occasional safety.
An entry port opened, and a green ligh quickly blinked the message "Come abord." Alex flew the tour ship into the hull space and whem he got the "pressure green" signal, stepped out and walked cautiously towards the main control area. He opened the sliding door and blinked for a moment at the bright control displays and scanners. Ahead of him, the main screen was wide, and filled with a view of Fleischer's crystal tomb.
Silhouetted against the gleaming brightness of the crystal was the shape of a man, wearing full space suit. One hamd rested on the navigation console, the other hovered above the laser button.
"I'm aboard," Alex said, and walked up behind the silent pilot. The man made no movement, said nothing.
For a moment Alex stood beside him, staring out into the wreckplace, at the slowly shiftig monuments. at the stars glimpsed in the backgroumd.
Then he turned to greet his host.
And nearly died of shock, taking a quick, horrified step backwards!
It was the drawn, mummified face of a corpse that half looked up at him from behind its visor, the rictus smile of death stretching wide across its lips.
"Do you think we should take him with us?" a voice asked from across the cabin. Alex started again with surpride and watched the figure which emerged from the shadows. "As a sort of totem. A lucky charm."
Alex tried to smile, but neither relief nor the new arrival's charming grin could relax him enough. Too much had happened too fast, and he stood rooted to the spot, watching as the woman came over to him.
She was quite small. Her skin was olive, her eyes dark. She wore her hair in a fashionable series of spikes, like a porcupine. Dressed in the light green coveralls that most traders sported, she seemed swamped by clothes. Her hand touch was cool and confident, and she kept the contact as she looked up at Alle Ryder, still smiling disarmingly.
"So you're the man theat Rafe has chosen. Well, Alex. Soo far it seems that star riding with you is at least going to be quiet. You do.. er..," She frowned. "You do have a speech function?" She turned him slightly and felt up his back for the switch. "Or are you one of the early 'semaphore and gormless grin' models?"
"Sorry," Alex said. "You took me by superise."
"Oh God," the woman said. "Where is the off switch? I think I prefer you silent…"
"Who are you?" Alex asked, irritated by her levity and keen to find out why Rafe Zetter had summoned him here? Where was the old man?
"Trader Fields," she said, and tuched the heel of her hand to her left shoulder by way of salute. "My given name is Elyssia. Elyssia Fields." She smiled again. "My brood mother's little joke. She discovered Greek mythology at age 9 when she was incubating her first cluster."
Brood mother? Greek? Incubating clusters? That meant that Elyssia Fields was from Teorge, the so called "clone world." Alex struggled to remember what he'd been taught about Teorge… an inhabited world… settled by two colony ships that had preceeded to clone a select few of the crew and colonists, killing the others. For centuries Teorge had been a world apart, cut off from the normal flow of trade and commerce, and banned from ending representatives into space.
Elyssia Fields was clearly a fugitive.
" "I'm Alex Ryder," Alex said.
"I know," the woman said back, breaking the gaze with which she'd been fixing him, She patted the corpse on the shoulderr, an oddly affectionate gesture, "This is - or rather was - Space Trader Henry Bell. We're going to purloin Mister Bell's coffin. Of all the people who are going to object, he's going to be the most objectionable. This rust bucket is set up with holo-projections of our man here, warning of dire consequences for invading his sanctity, I've turned most of them off, but I expect I've missed a few."
"We're going to steal this ship?" Alex said quietly, checking the flickering control display panel. Witchlight fuel registred enough for a 0.1 light year jump, hardly sufficient to clear the Tionisla system.
Elyssia stared at him, a half smile on hr lips. "We could pass the time chatting if you'd prefer. Plant some flowers, clean up the tomb…"
'I meant,' Alex said drily, 'How the hell are we going to get away with it?' He found himdelf staring at the pert features of the humanoid female. The shadow of gloom and grief that had haunted him for the last few hours seemed to fade a little. The girl interested him. He added, 'And just why are you helping me, anyway? Where's Rafe?'
With a quick laugh , Elyssia said, 'Funny thing about Rafe, Wherever you go in the galaxy, he's always there, a shimmering white holo-Fac… but where he really is… that's something you're about to find out.' She glanced up at Alex. 'Why am I helping you? Who says I am? We'll be helping each other, in fact. You have a father to avenge. I have some things to avenge too. Maybe I'll tell you about them one day. But without you I cannot fly this ship.'
Surprised, Alex said, 'Cobras were made to be flown by a single pilot.'
'But I'm a single Teorgeon. I'm not supposed to be here. I can fly this bucket with my eyes closed, but your face fits. Listen, Alex, this ctaft wouldn't survive the first attack by a pirate with a peashooter, no matter how good we are behind the laser button. We need shields, missiles, defenses and cargo space. How d'you think we're going to get them? They don't grow on silvery moons, you know.'
'Trade for them,' Alex said gloomily, and the vista of his family's long life trading through the stars swept before his eyes. Elyssia was right. He couldn't go hunting a Cobra without the proper equipment, and it would take too long to sort out his inheritance, bearing in mind the ciecumstamces of his father's death.
He felt utterly overwhelmed with frustration. A part of him wanted to kill right now. A part of him wanted to rip out onto the space-lanes, and hunt his father's killer. But the best part of him knew that would be a recipe for disaster, that patience was called for, that a tactical appraisl of how he would set about the hunt was essiential…and that a protected ship was the barest necessity!
'I've got a hundred credits in all the world,' Alex said, referring to the Galactic Emergencyy Services loan that he had been given to get him home.
'It's a start,' Elyssia said, 'It's a start in the trading business. As Rafe would say, we'll give this old lass an iron ass.' Her face darkened, 'Then we'll go to a place that I suspect only Rafe Zetter knows, and we'll watch a lot of heartache burn up courtesy of some fine shooting by the both of us. 'We'll get the ship that put an end to your father, It's a ship that has a lot to answer for…'
But she would say no more than that.
For anyone reckoning on beginning a space trading career from scratch the hardest task is finding a ship, Each planetary system has its floating junk yards, its second hand craft, its impounded vessels, eventually auctioned by the police. Most places advertise for co-pilots, to work without pay for four years with the guarantee of a ship at the end of it - if they're still alive.
But ships are expensive, even if they're from the scrap heap.
Alex was impressed and startled by the audacity of the theft that was being proposed. In response to Rafe's plan, the fugitive, who had been hiding out in the dead craft for nearly a year, had managed to accumulate the fuel, food and power to make the brief hyperspace jump to the interstellar junk yard. All that had been missing was the right co-pilot, someone who could actually do the trading without arousing suspicion.
They hauled the mummified body of Henry Bell to the small tourship and set the craft adrift.
'Whatever happens now,' Elyssia said as they took positions at th bridge consoles, 'You're going to get an "offender" status tag. But Rafe thinks if you respect the body they'll just post it at Tionisla itself. Destroy the body and they'll probably notify most worlds in the vicinity, and we can't afford that, Here goes…'
On the screen, the small tour ship drifted away, and the crowded monuments of the cemetery swung past in a dizzying array of bright and shodowy surfaces. Alex studied the scanners and monitors carefully. They had only tiny energy supply to fore and aft screens, A blast or two of laser power, No missiles, of course. The craft was still locked on to the Dodo space station, whose position was shown by the darting bright point in the tri-axial grid map.
Slowly the Cobra turned, and began to move gently, silently towards the edge of the spiral grave-field.
The scanner scanned, and Alex watched it hard, alert and apprehensive for the tell-tale wink of its moving green light, The duller colors of the tombs and stationary craft crowded the scanning screen, moving slowly past.
'There's something I ought to tell you about in controlled Witch Space jumps…'Elussia said, and Alex felt a moment's irritation.
'I already know, Thanks. Besides, wherever we're going we're only going a tenth of a light year, And that's reasonably safe.'
Elyssia sniggered. "What god or goddess do you believe in?'
'Randomius Factoria…' Alex muttered.
'Me too…'
They looked at each other.
Alex laughed and said, "Repeat after me: Lady of Fate, we adore you…'
'Get us to Rafe's, we implore you…'
The monuments and monoliths drifted by. The star field widened ahead of them.
'Nearly there,' Elyssia breathed. 'Get ready for the jump…'
Alex watched the scanner.
And two bright points of light appeared, moving rapidly towards them.
'Company!' He said, and Elyssia swore loudly.
'We've not got much laser power,' Alex said
'Use our laser and any chance of trading goes. Those are police. They may not be Vipers, but they are police nevertheless. Damn!'
Ahead of them the starfield was almost clear. The two security craft veered apart, to close in from the sides, Elyssia began to count down, finger resting on the simple trigger that would dispatch them Faraway. 'Ten seconds…'
The Cobra vibrated and whined, unused to activity after many tears in stasis.
They'te closing - fire coming in!'
'Five seconds.'
The Cobra screeched as a laser shot glanced off its hill, The shield energy, low as it was, vanished! The attacking craft overshot, It's colleague fired and missed, maneuvering with difficulty around a large, henge monument that slowly revolved at the edge of the cemetary.
'Three…'
'Lining up… fire coming in!'
The two craft were together again, Their laser fire played in the void around the Cobra.
'Two…'
There was a strike, a scream of pain, the vessel almost rocked out of control, And then–
Star tunnel!
Elyssia flopped back in her chair. Alex cheered. When he looked at the woman he saw that she was drenched with sweat, When he reached a hand towards her, his fingers were shaking uncontrollably.
'You've got a ship,' said Rafe, "You've got money. You've got a co-pilot who's a better soht than you, but not for long I hope. Now it's up to you, young Alex. And one thing more. If Jason were here he'd have this to say. In time of trouble forget common sense, forget the force, Do what you goddam feel like. If it don't work, one things for sure. You ain't going to be around to regret it.
Seated at the astrogation console of the Cobra, Alex watched Rafe's home on the forward screen. It was a much modified, and quite bizarre looking, Anaconda cruiser, its cargo bay dented, its fuel scoop ripped open, its hull lights blinking not so much with meaning as with disrepair.
Rafe had not invited him abord, At 0.1 light years from Tionisla he was safe from detection, and here he stayed in the cold and silence of interstellar space, collectiog ships, fuel, food and weapons. three Mambas, small fighters, were tethered to the service bay on the Anaconda's hull, robots crawling all over them as they patched up the shot up vessels. Unlike humans, robots could work without arc-lights.
When the graveyard ship had arrived at Rafe Zetter's private system, Rafe's holoFac had appeared in the cabin.
'It takes a lot of effort and a lot of wile to get supplies for the sort of mission you're about to go on. I'll fuel your ship enough to get you to Isinor. But from then on you're on your own. You're going to need missiles, operational lasers, an energy bomb, a fuel scoop….a whole bunch of other things.'
"An iron ass,' Alex muttered with a smile. 'That's right. And I don't want to hear from you again until you've scalped that Cobra that killed Jason.'
'Why are you doing this for me?'
'I'm doing it for Jason,' Rafe said. 'And for others besides, And listen Alex. Don't you go worrying about Raxxla. Not yet. That comes in time…'
'But why did he say it?'
'To let me know he trusted you, Your father reckoned you hade it in you to become one of the Elite. That's good enough for me.'
Alex's head span. What was this old man saying now? Not just that Jason Ryder had been an elite combateer, but that he'd seen the same potential in his son?
In SimCombat Alex had ofton built up a success and survival score that had awarded him the simulaor's highest accolade: a victory roll over the mock-up of the old Earth city of London. But he had never thought that in real life he would ever achieve a combat status higher than 'dangerous.'
To be elite.
A dizzying prospect. And a nerve-racking one, with all that it implied of not just fighting off free-booters, but of spending time as a bounty hunter, deliberately hyperspacing into dangerous planetary systems and waiting for pirates to come to you; looking for trouble, in other words, boosting your combat status to the maximum by advertising yourself to killers, and outgunning them. One thing for sure,' Rafe went on drily. 'Unless you get there, unless tou become elite, you'll never get to Raxxla. And you;ll never kmow exactly what your father was seaeching for.'
'I don't understand.'
'Were you aware of his involvement in The Dark Wheel?'
Shock after shock! The Dark Wheel was a semi-legendary space unit, star-riders who made it their business to seek the truth behind the plethora of myths and romantic stories that filtered back from all corners of the Universe: fabulous cities, parallel worlds, time travellers, even planets that appeared to be the old 'heaven' of Earth legand. The Dark Wheel was as mysterious and as mythical to the traders of the Galaxy as King Arther might have been to the first spaceman.
It's not possible,' Alex breathed. 'He would have told us…
'The hell he would,' Rafe said, staring at the younger man from the shimmering holoFac on the bridge. 'The ship that killed Jason was no pirate, He was killed because he'd fongd something. Something that certain parties were deeply unhappy that he'd found.'
'What exactly?'
Rafe laughed. 'Listen to the boy! Look at me, Alex. Do I look whole? I do? Well I ain't. One leg, some of my liver, a few brain cells - all that's left of the real me. The rest is just bionic. Trying to do what you father did, I got shot to hell'n' back. I was elite once. Now it takes me ten seconds to decide to spit. He didn't tell me because I'm not part of it anymore. Not to that degree. But I watch and I listen, and I do what I'm told. And as sure as there's gold flake on the skin of a Gererean, Jason Ryder told me to get you ready to follow in his footsteps.'
Coming so soon after his father's death, with the memory of Jason's murder so vivid in his mind, it was almost too much for Alex. He didn't know whether to glow with pride, or shake with apprehension. He slowly sat down at the astrogation console and played his fingers over the controls of the Cobra.
After a while he smiled, and shrugged away the confusion and the sadness he was feeling.
'Right. If that's what mu father wanted, then I shan't disappoint him…'