they pawed and fought pantomimically and tossed folding money at one another, laughing and snuffling.
“Hey,” they said when Seria Mau fetched up. “Here, kitty kitty!”
There was nothing they could do to her. She was safe with them. It was like having grown-up brothers. For a moment or two they threw the dice at blinding speed. Then one of them said, without looking up: “You don’t get bored, being not real that way?”
They couldn’t play for laughing at that.
Seria Mau watched the game until a bell rang softly on the White Cat and drew her away.
As soon as she was gone, two of the shadow boys turned on the third and cut his throat for cheating, then, overcome by the pure existential moment, cradled his head in the warm golden light as he smiled softly up at nothing, bubbling his life out all over them like a benediction. “Hey you,” they comforted him, “you can do it all again. Tonight you’ll do it all again.”
Up in the parking lot, Seria Mau sighed and turned away.
“You see?” she told her empty ship. “It always comes to this. All the fucking and the fighting, it all comes to nothing. All the pushing and the shoving. All the things they give each other. If for a moment I thought—” Could she still cry? She said, apropos of nothing: “Those beautiful boys in the sunlight.” This made her remember what she had said to the Nastic commander, out there in the shadow of his stupidly big ship. It made her remember the package she had bought from Uncle Zip, and what she intended to do with it. It made her recall Uncle Zip’s offer. She opened a line to him and said:
“OK, tell me where this Billy Anker guy is.” She laughed, and, mimicking the tailor’s manner, added, “Also his present ambitions.”
Uncle Zip laughed too. Then he let his face go expressionless.
“You waited too long for that free offer,” he informed her. “I changed my mind about that.”
He was sitting on a stool in his front room above the shop. He had on a short-sleeve sailor suit and hat. White canvas trousers clung tight to bursting over his spread thighs. On each thigh he had a daughter sitting, plump red-faced little girls with blue eyes, shiny cheeks and blonde ringlets, caught as if in a still picture, laughing and reaching for his hat. All the flesh in this picture was lively and varnished. All the colours were pushed and rich. Uncle Zip’s fat arms curved around his daughters, his hands placed in the small of each back as if they were the bellows-ends of his accordion. Behind him, the room was lacquered red and green, and there were shelves on which he had arranged his collections of polished motorcycle parts and other kitschy things from the history of Earth. Whatever you saw in Uncle Zip’s house, he never let you see his wife, or gave you one thin glimpse of the tools of his trade. “As to where the guy is,” he said, “this is where you go . . .”
He gave her the name of a system, and a planet.
“It surveys as 3-alpha-Ferris VII. The locals—which there aren’t many of them—call it Redline.”
“But that’s in—”
“—Radio Bay.” He shrugged. “Nothing comes easy in this world, kid. You got to decide how much you want what you want.”
Seria Mau cut him off.
“Goodbye, Uncle Zip,” she said, and left him there with his expensive family and his cheap rhetoric.
Two or three days later, the K-ship White Cat, registered as a freebooter out of Venusport, New Sol, quit the Motel Splendido parking orbit and slipped away into the long night of the halo. She had loaded fuel and ordnance. After port authority inspection she had accepted minor hull maintenance, and paid the scandalous tax upon it. She had paid her dues. At the last moment, for reasons her captain barely understood, she had taken on payload too: a team of corporate exogeologists and their equipment, headed towards Suntory IV. For the first time in a year, the lights were on in the human quarters of the ship. The
“Hey,” they said when Seria Mau fetched up. “Here, kitty kitty!”
There was nothing they could do to her. She was safe with them. It was like having grown-up brothers. For a moment or two they threw the dice at blinding speed. Then one of them said, without looking up: “You don’t get bored, being not real that way?”
They couldn’t play for laughing at that.
Seria Mau watched the game until a bell rang softly on the White Cat and drew her away.
As soon as she was gone, two of the shadow boys turned on the third and cut his throat for cheating, then, overcome by the pure existential moment, cradled his head in the warm golden light as he smiled softly up at nothing, bubbling his life out all over them like a benediction. “Hey you,” they comforted him, “you can do it all again. Tonight you’ll do it all again.”
Up in the parking lot, Seria Mau sighed and turned away.
“You see?” she told her empty ship. “It always comes to this. All the fucking and the fighting, it all comes to nothing. All the pushing and the shoving. All the things they give each other. If for a moment I thought—” Could she still cry? She said, apropos of nothing: “Those beautiful boys in the sunlight.” This made her remember what she had said to the Nastic commander, out there in the shadow of his stupidly big ship. It made her remember the package she had bought from Uncle Zip, and what she intended to do with it. It made her recall Uncle Zip’s offer. She opened a line to him and said:
“OK, tell me where this Billy Anker guy is.” She laughed, and, mimicking the tailor’s manner, added, “Also his present ambitions.”
Uncle Zip laughed too. Then he let his face go expressionless.
“You waited too long for that free offer,” he informed her. “I changed my mind about that.”
He was sitting on a stool in his front room above the shop. He had on a short-sleeve sailor suit and hat. White canvas trousers clung tight to bursting over his spread thighs. On each thigh he had a daughter sitting, plump red-faced little girls with blue eyes, shiny cheeks and blonde ringlets, caught as if in a still picture, laughing and reaching for his hat. All the flesh in this picture was lively and varnished. All the colours were pushed and rich. Uncle Zip’s fat arms curved around his daughters, his hands placed in the small of each back as if they were the bellows-ends of his accordion. Behind him, the room was lacquered red and green, and there were shelves on which he had arranged his collections of polished motorcycle parts and other kitschy things from the history of Earth. Whatever you saw in Uncle Zip’s house, he never let you see his wife, or gave you one thin glimpse of the tools of his trade. “As to where the guy is,” he said, “this is where you go . . .”
He gave her the name of a system, and a planet.
“It surveys as 3-alpha-Ferris VII. The locals—which there aren’t many of them—call it Redline.”
“But that’s in—”
“—Radio Bay.” He shrugged. “Nothing comes easy in this world, kid. You got to decide how much you want what you want.”
Seria Mau cut him off.
“Goodbye, Uncle Zip,” she said, and left him there with his expensive family and his cheap rhetoric.
Two or three days later, the K-ship White Cat, registered as a freebooter out of Venusport, New Sol, quit the Motel Splendido parking orbit and slipped away into the long night of the halo. She had loaded fuel and ordnance. After port authority inspection she had accepted minor hull maintenance, and paid the scandalous tax upon it. She had paid her dues. At the last moment, for reasons her captain barely understood, she had taken on payload too: a team of corporate exogeologists and their equipment, headed towards Suntory IV. For the first time in a year, the lights were on in the human quarters of the ship. The
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