Starbridge

A. C. Crispin

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some writers may produce books in an attic, or a vacuum, requiring no inspiration or assistance except that provided by their own inner voice.

I am not one of them.

I owe many people a debt of gratitude for their assistance in producing
StarBridge.
I, like many others, get by with a little help from my friends.

Heartfelt appreciation is due the following people:

First and foremost, my collaborator in Book Three of the StarBridge series,
Silence Dances,
Kathleen O'Malley. O'Malley is my good friend and first-line editor, the person who keeps me on my toes and honest between book covers. Without her creativity, advice and editing ability, StarBridge would never have gotten off the ground. Thanks, Kathy.

Ginjer Buchanan, my excellent ACE editor, who improved
StarBridge
vastly by putting it on a diet. Ginjer, I'm grateful for your faith in me, in this book, and in the StarBridge series.

My agent, Merrilee Heifetz of Writer's House, who first suggested that the time was right for me to create my own series.

Deb, Teresa, Anne, Deborah and Faith, my Whileaway buddies, who provided (as always) encouragement, advice and moral support.

My mother, Hope Tickell, for proofreading the manuscript. My friend, Paula Volsky, for her advice and encouragement.

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I'm
not
a scientist, so I am dependent on people "in the know" for technical advice when putting the "science" into my science fiction. I'd like to thank the following people (with the
caveat
that any errors contained herein are exclusively my own):

Vonda N. Mclntyre, my friend, who patiently listened (long-distance, yet) and gave advice on a variety of subjects;

Dr. Robert Harrington of the U.S. Naval Observatory, for help in figuring out orbits, interstellar distances, and the like;

Irene Kress, for reading the manuscript and making comments;

Ben Bova, for information on the effects of explosive decompression.

Also:

Herica Kamer, for vetting my extremely rusty French;

J. Kalogridis, for information and advice on linguistics, both human and alien;

Harlan Ellison, for advice on writing during the Boca Raton writer's workshop of 1983, for inspiration gained throughout the years from his works, and in hopes that this will eliminate the last of the "frisson of unhappiness." Thanks also for arranging that suite with the maid and the aspic for me when I get to Heaven . . .

And last, but by no means least:

My husband, Randy, for child care, vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, and going out for pizza while I was parsecs from home.

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This book is dedicated to Andre Norton, First Lady of science fiction and fantasy . . . and my friend.

When I was growing up, your stories, more than any others, filled me with a sense of wonder about the universe. A sense of wonder is one of the greatest gifts a writer can bestow . . . something to treasure always. Thank you, Andre.

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ix

CHAPTER !

1

Sixteen Parsecs From Nowhere ...

Dear Diary:

Nothing ever happens in space. Of course Uncle Raoul's happy about that--I suppose
Desiree
getting clipped by a chunk of comet or skidding into a black hole would be bad for business. And he
did
warn me that space travel would be boring. But I never dreamed
how
boring!

I think Maman must have remembered her trip from Earth to Jolie, because she gave me a handful of memory cassettes, suggesting that a diary might help pass the time. I'll try and make an entry each day--it may be the only thing that will keep me from losing my mind.

They only woke me up out of hibernation yesterday, and already I've explored this freighter five times--except for the cargo hold and that's off-limits for the remaining six months of our trip to Earth.

Six months!

In six months I'll be a raving lunatic. College can't possibly be worth it. The

"cradle of humanity" can't possibly be worth it. Everyone says how wonderful Earth is, how I'll love it ... then, in the same breath, they mention it's so overcrowded and noisy that they never regretted becoming colonists . . .

But if I want an education past U-prep level, I'm stuck being bored for the duration. Boring Mahree Burroughs, sixteen, almost seventeen, stuck on a boringly routine voyage on a boringly

2

ordinary freighter--I may be the first person in history to
die
from boredom.

If only I were different! But I'm so damned average-looking . . . brown hair, brown eyes, medium-fair complexion, medium height, medium build (except for my chest measurement, which is definitely sub-normal, dammit!).

Medium . . . average . . . ordinary . . .

When I was little I used to worry that I'd disappear.

Dad always tells me I'll improve with age and experience. He says I look very much as he did at sixteen, and now, though he's not holo-vid handsome, he's considered quite attractive. Distinguished. Only trouble is, he's a man, and features that look good on a middle-aged man will probably look shitty on me when I'm his age. I feel disloyal admitting this, but I wish that I looked like Maman, instead, because she has gorgeous auburn hair and sapphire eyes.

(But of course there's nothing ordinary about my father--Dr. Stanley Burroughs, physician and researcher, the man who discovered the L-16

vaccine. Maman isn't ordinary either--she designed and built half the buildings in Nouvelle Marseille.)

Six months!

And to make it worse,
everyone
on this ship is
venerable.
At least forty.

With one exception. The ship's physician, Robert Gable. He's twenty-four, which makes him barely seven years older than I am. (My little brother could access the security files on this system.)

Dr. Gable was my father's righthand assistant and friend during the Lotis Plague, but, due to the early quarantine they imposed on North Continent, I've never met him.

(It was terrible ... the Plague hit, and suddenly I couldn't go home. We had to stay at school. They thought we'd be safe in the mountains, but it reached us, eventually. Several of my teachers and two of my best friends died. I'd never seen anybody die before . . .)

Anyway, I got a look at Robert Gable when I bypassed security and called up his personnel interview vid-record. He's definitely attractive! And
smart.

Even in these days of accelerated degrees and hypno-teaching techniques, he's something of a phenomenon. Graduated from Earth's version of U-prep at
thirteen,
and from med school at twenty-one. Getting to know
him
would definitely be a big step in alleviating my boredom!

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Only problem is ... at the moment he's lying in a coffin, stiff as a rail. They aren't scheduled to wake him up until--

Oops! That was Uncle Raoul on the 'com, wanting to know whether I've finished today's assignments. The main reason they woke me up after three months was so I could put in some concentrated study time--our schools on Jolie are good, but they don't offer the range of subjects that Terran schools do. So I've got some catching up to do ... especially in Earth history.

Maybe later I'll go look at the stars again. You'd think they'd make me feel smaller, more isolated, but for some reason I find myself comforted when I see them--they've been there for such a long time, and they'll be there when we're all gone. And even
they
aren't eternal ...

Enough metaphysical musing. Back to history. (But, honestly, I don't see why I have to learn chapter and verse about stuff that happened hundreds of years ago. What difference can it possibly make? And the Second Martian Colony is
so
boring!)

Au revoir,
diary.

Mahree Burroughs hit the "save" button on the computer link in her tiny cabin, frowning at the slowness of the system response. Then she called up her history textbook, and stared determinedly at it for several minutes, but couldn't concentrate. Finally she gave up and flung herself onto her bunk.
I'll
never make it,
she thought dismally. I
can't stand this . . .

Finally she rolled over again and sat up. Gathering fistfuls of her hair, Mahree reached for her brush, then faced the wall over her minuscule washstand. "Mirror," she commanded, and the surface shimmered, then went reflective. Squinting with concentration, she began braiding her waist-length hair, fingers moving with the deftness of long practice.
If only I weren't
so ordinary. So unremarkable that I'm practically invisible.

Finished, she flung the heavy braid back over her shoulder. "Wall," she commanded, and the mirror disappeared, fading into the powder blue of the softly padded plas-steel walls.

"And while you're at it, turn green. I'm tired of blue."

She watched for a moment as the walls, ceiling, and floor began to change their hue, but even playing with the color controls in her tiny cabin had lost its appeal.

Footsteps sounded faintly in the corridor, breaking into her brown study.

'Two heartbeats?" demanded a voice Mahree

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recognized as her uncle's. "Are you sure his unit's got two heartbeats?"

"I'm sure," came the response. "I started him on the Vitastim airmix this morning, because he's scheduled for revival tomorrow afternoon. But when I checked his progress just now, there were two heartbeats, Captain! One normal for a man his size, and the other, much smaller, coming from the abdomen."

Mahree put her ear against the narrow crack she'd left in her doorseal. "So what are you implying?" Raoul Lamont demanded sarcastically. "That the man is pregnant?"

"Of course not, Captain! I'm simply . . ."

The voices faded away as the footsteps continued on down the corridor.

Too intrigued to resist, Mahree opened her door and scurried down the tan-colored plas-steel corridor, her bare feet soundless on the resilient flooring.

Her uncle's companion was
Desiree's
Bio Officer, Simon Viorst. The two men never glanced behind them--both were concentrating too deeply on their problem as they continued toward the hibernation chamber, located just forward of the cargo holds.

"Why didn't you notice this before?" the Captain was demanding as Mahree dared to move within earshot again.

The Bio Officer sounded embarrassed. "I don't know, sir. I checked the readouts every day, as usual. For some reason the second one didn't register until today."

"Could you bring him out of it now?"

"Sure," Viorst replied confidently. "I'd just give him the rest of the Vita-stim in an injection. Is that what you want?"

"As soon as I take a look for myself."

As they keyed open the door to the hibernation chamber, Mahree ducked behind a support stanchion. When her uncle and the Bio Officer stepped into the hibernation chamber, she mentally counted twenty, then began strolling casually past the open door, pausing when she saw them inside. "Oh, hi, Uncle Raoul. What are you doing down here?"

"Simon was concerned about some fluctuations in the readings on the unit containing the ship's physician," Lamont told her, raking his fingers through his thinning brown hair in a habitual gesture of worry. "So we're waking him up to make sure nothing's wrong."

Mahree followed them into the chamber, glancing around with

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studied indifference. The coffinlike hibernation units, ten of them, covered three sides of the area. Each had a bank of readouts studding its top cover and a small window so the person sleeping within could be identified. Both men were standing by one of the middle units, so she joined them. "Okay if I stay, Uncle Raoul? I've never seen anyone revived."

"I guess so, unless he experiences an adverse reaction when we open the unit," her uncle told her, busy with the external controls. "Vita-stim makes some people upchuck, and that would embarrass the man."

Mahree glanced down at the doctor.
Sleeping beauty,
she thought wryly, experiencing again the attraction she had felt when she had called up Robert Gable's image on the holoscreen.

The Medical Officer had very dark, curly hair; due to the hibernation it was quite long, but Mahree recalled from his interview vid that he wore it considerably longer than current male fashion decreed. His skin was fair, but not freckled; his regular, almost delicate features were rescued from prettiness by a wide mouth and a rather long nose.

Simon Viorst administered an injection via the intravenous hookup. A few minutes later, Gable began to stir slightly; then he blinked. Captain Lamont glanced over at the tall blond Bio Officer. "Here he goes, Simon. Stand by with that O2 mask."

Mahree heard a hiss as the seals on the hibernation "coffin" released, then a faint puff of cold air made gooseflesh spring up on her bare arms. The lid swung up.

"What the hell--" Raoul Lamont stared down into the hibernation unit, amazement etched on his ruddy, moustached features. "It's a damned--"