The Carpet Makers (23 page)

The red light of the nearby sun shimmered dimly on the huge Portal Station’s matte exterior skin, which was pocked by particle streams and micrometeorites. Hardly anyone ever looked out into the universe. There were only a very few viewing windows, because there was hardly anything to see. A great red sun, and then the uncanny dark spot in space at whose edges the light of the distant stars was distorted: the Tunnel.

*   *   *

Ludkamon confronted her for an explanation in the container warehouse, hoping she would not notice how he was shaking.

“Iva, I can’t go along with this any longer. You leave me to go to Feuk and come back to my place from being with Feuk, always back and forth. I can’t take it.” With these last words, he had to struggle to control himself … to keep his voice from dissolving into helpless sobs.

“And what about it?” her tone was snippy. “What do you intend to do? Break up with me?”

Just the thought, just hearing the words made everything cramp inside him. He clenched his fists.

“You have to decide on one of us!” he insisted.

She made an obstinate face. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Iva, I love you!”

“The way you say that, it sounds like: I want to own you!”

Ludkamon didn’t know how to respond to that. She was right, of course, and it just made him more furious. “You’ll see!” he finally blurted out, and turned away. As he walked away, he hoped she would call him back, but she didn’t.

*   *   *

The next ship that docked in Loading Bay 2 was I-5404. Surprisingly, it brought not only freight, but also relief crewmen, supplies, and replacement parts. The supplies and parts had been impatiently awaited, but the personnel replacements presented a problem. I-22822, which was supposed to take back the departing crew, had not yet arrived. So the narrow, uncomfortable emergency quarters in the Engine Sector had to be flooded with air and heated. The upside was that the battle stations could be temporarily double-staffed.

*   *   *

“Feuk!”

Ludkamon shouted across the entire dining hall, and he didn’t give a shit that hundreds of people all around could hear him.

“Feuk, I challenge you!”

The broad-shouldered cargo loader turned around slowly. He looked deliberately over the crowd, and muscles like steel ropes were visible beneath his clothing.

“Oh yeah?” he growled with amusement when he saw the willowy loading supervisor rushing toward him.

“Feuk, I want a fight!” Ludkamon stood wheezing in front of his rival.

“Of course,” he grinned. “Should we step outside or should I nail you to the floor right here?”

Ludkamon shook his head. “I challenge you to compete with me in the championship. Whoever goes farthest in the competition gets Iva, and the other one shoves off.”

Suddenly, there was rapt attention in the dining room.

Feuk thought about it. “I’ve never taken part in a championship competition,” he responded cautiously.

“Neither have I. So it’s a fair fight.”

Someone mumbled in agreement.

Feuk sized up his challenger. “Oh well,” he responded. “I suspect you won’t even qualify. So … good.”

Ludkamon extended his hand. “Agreed? On your honor?”

“Agreed. On my honor,” he responded with a grin and shook on it, squeezing Ludkamon’s hand so hard, he almost brought him to his knees.

Those around them clapped in approval.

*   *   *

The great conference hall directly in the center of the Portal Station was readied for the championship event. The necessary technical installations were easily arranged. More difficult were the organizational problems. They were still on high alert, so the defense systems had to be fully staffed, even during the tournament. However, because the victor’s reward was to be promotion to the Upper Sector, no limit was set on the number of participants. Everyone who qualified would be allowed to compete.

*   *   *

“Ludkamon! Have you gone crazy?”

“No. I am just keeping myself from
going
crazy.”

She was beside herself with rage. Completely against regulations, she had come to his supervisor’s cabin during working hours, and now the entire loading crew watched from below while, burning with anger, she confronted him and made a scene. Not being able to hear anything though the glass walls just made it more interesting.

“I thought I must have heard wrong. Fighting for me. You want to beat on one another for me—thanks, very flattering. And nobody bothers to ask me about the matter at all?”

“I
did
ask you, Iva.”

“When?”

“I asked you which one of us you wanted to choose.”

“But I don’t want to choose!”

“And that’s why we’re resolving the matter between the two of us.”

“The matter. Aha. For you two I am ‘the matter.’ A trophy. First prize to be displayed on a shelf. Or in this case, to be put in bed.”

“We just want to finally clear up the situation.”

“So why didn’t you beat one another up on the spot?”

“Iva, Feuk is a cargo loader, a big hulk of a man. It would have been unfair.”

“Ludkamon, how well you do in the championship depends mostly on natural aptitude. The fact that you’re a supervisor and Feuk is just a cargo loader doesn’t improve your chances.”

“Exactly. So it’s fair.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. “And if you lose, you’re just going to drop me?”

“Yes.”

“Jerk!”

“But I’m going to win.”

An inarticulate scream escaped her throat. “Why didn’t you just roll
dice
for me? That would have been fair!” she shouted. Then she tore open the door and screamed into the entire hall:
“Men!”

*   *   *

The qualification officer scrutinized the young man in the chair, who seemed so excessively nervous. “What’s your name?” he asked with pen in hand.

“Ludkamon.”

“Position?”

“Supervisor of Loading Bay 2.”

The man checked his list. Loading supervisor was not an essential position for defense, so it wouldn’t be necessary to assign a replacement for him. He lay the form aside and handed the candidate a battle helmet. “Have you ever competed in a championship?”

“No.”

Oh, Emperor! Another adventurer dreaming of escape from the daily grind of the Portal Service. Another fellow who thought he was worthy of the Upper Sector, the most exalted caste imaginable.

“Okay, I’ll explain it to you,” the officer began patiently. “Put on the helmet, and be sure the front sensors are tight against your forehead. Like this. Now lower the visor. What do you see?”

“A yellow ball.”

“Good. Move it.”

“Move it?” the young man asked, baffled. “How?”

“Simply by
thinking,
” the officer explained. “With the power of your thoughts. In the championship, you only fight with your thoughts. The helmet collects these impulses and transforms them into movement. With this model, only you can see the ball; in the championship, the spectators can see it, too. And of course, it isn’t just one ball. In the second round there will be three, then five, and so on. You will fight your opponent for control of these balls, and the more balls you can control, the farther you will get.”

“Just as long as I get farther than…,” the boy began, but then cut himself off.

The officer took notice. “Than who?”

“Nothing. What do I have to do?”

Well, okay. The skinny boy’s problems made no difference to him. “Move the ball. In a circle, if you can.” The man monitored on a screen what appeared in the helmet visor. The ball moved, tentatively at first, then rapidly becoming steadier, tracing an approximate circle.

“Thank you,” the man said, and made a check mark on the form. “You’re qualified.”

*   *   *

The championship usually passed without much notice, but this time it was opened with much pageantry. Nearly everyone not tied to his post by the security alert had collected in the stands. Music was playing, a colorful light show danced across the ceiling, and the mood was casual.

The spokesman for the management level stepped up. The music stopped, the light show went out, silence settled over the crowd.

“It is my honor,” he said, “to solemnly declare the opening of the championship with the recitation of our oath, the Oath of the Portal Guards. Please repeat after me.”

There were muffled sounds of shuffling and clattering as everyone stood up.

“We serve the Emperor,” he began.

We serve the Emperor,
repeated the choir of voices, a thousand strong.

“Whose word is law. Whose will is our will.”

Whose word is law. Whose will is our will.

“Whose anger is terrible. Who forgives not, but punishes.”

Whose anger is terrible. Who forgives not, but punishes.

“And whose vengeance is eternal.”

And whose vengeance is eternal.

A fanfare blast. “The championship,” shouted the speaker, “is open!”

*   *   *

While Ludkamon ran beside the others onto the playing field with his helmet pressing tight against his head, his eyes scanned the stands without finding Iva. There were too many faces. Maybe she had not even come.

He had to concentrate on the game. This was his chance to beat Feuk, the only chance he had.

His first opponent was easy. At the signal, a yellow ball appeared between them, and a pale blue rectangle glowed above the head of each player. Whoever got control of the ball and moved it into the rectangle over his opponent’s head was the winner. Ludkamon won in a few seconds.

Then he looked around. Feuk stood some distance away, but seemed to have won as well.

Well, okay then. On to the next round.

This time there were three balls, but Ludkamon held on to all of them and dropped them into the goal. Another win.

He checked out Feuk. He was finished, too, and was also keeping tabs on Ludkamon.

That made him nervous. He wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. He didn’t hear the shouts of the crowd; he saw only his rivals. Secretly, he had counted on having a mental advantage over his opponents, but it seemed that Iva was right: in this game the aptitude measures were different. Gradually he began to suspect that this would be no easy fight.

*   *   *

“Portal Station, this is I-6937, an Imperial Ship. We request permission to land.”

“I-6937, this is Space Traffic Control for the Portal Station. No offloading is possible at this time. Please move to a holding position.”

“Space Traffic Control—what’s the problem?”

“At the moment, a grand championship match is under way.”

On another channel. “Imperial Ship I-12002 calling Portal Station.”

“I-12002 this is Space Traffic Control.…”

The number of dots of light around the Portal Station kept growing. Work had stopped in the loading bays. Only the loading of the transfer ship continued in spite of the championship.

*   *   *

Eleven balls. Ludkamon’s eyes burned from the sweat, and the helmet seemed intent on crushing his skull. Eleven balls, and both of them were still in the competition. Feuk shot him a grim glance across the much reduced field of players. He would not give up. He felt passion burning inside him like a consuming flame.

Eleven balls. At this point, they had left many good and popular players behind. Whatever happened, they would end up near the top of the field.

The realization that he, a beginner, had defeated well-known championship players like the technician Pai and the soldier Buk rattled him for a moment, and for an instant, the pattern of the eleven vibrating, dancing balls began to wobble.

He must not lose his concentration now. He clenched his fists and swayed back and forth, legs planted wide, without losing his focus on the balls. His opponent was strong and tricky. From the seven-ball level on, the battles had been hard-fought and long.

*   *   *

The final container became wedged against the counting device just before rolling into the interior of the tunnel transfer ship. Because the preset number for the load had not been reached, the entire conveyor system continued to run empty, and the rotating rollers scraped with a nerve-jangling screech against the underside of the container that was stuck in place.

The noise alarmed a transfer ship crewman. The tunnel rider hurried to the spot and tried to free the container from its wedged position, but because of the incessant pressure of the conveyor rollers he could not free it by himself. He got another man to help out.

“Things like that always happen right at the end,” he said.

“Yes. How’s the match coming?”

“It looks like this time two unknown players will be in the final. Too bad we’ll be gone by then.”

The tunnel riders were obligated to only one schedule: to the pulsing of the Tunnel, called
tides.

Together, the two of them managed to shove the container back onto the conveyor track. It rumbled along to its designated place, and then, with a reverberating boom, the entire loading system switched itself off. Instantaneously, it was quiet in the hallways and shafts, with the exception of the continued whirring of a few free-spinning rollers.

*   *   *

“Bulkheads locked and sealed.”

“Absorbers ready and functioning.”

“Umbilical cable disconnected. On-board systems functioning.”

The man in his black uniform leaned forward and activated a series of switches. “Transfer ship to Space Traffic Control. We’re ready to disengage.”

“Space Traffic Control here. You’ll miss the championship finals.”

“Yes. But our hearts beat to the rhythm of the tunnel tides.…” It was a saying among the tunnel riders.

“Of course. Preparing to disengage in ten … five … three—two—one—disengage! Have a good flight.”

The man in the black uniform smiled. “Thanks, Portal Station!”

Gently, without a trace of vibration, the transfer ship separated from the great space station and slid slowly toward the sinister black spot in the sea of stars.

*   *   *

Ludkamon had mocked and provoked Feuk in every conceivable way to stoke up his battle rage. Now that they stood facing one another in the final, he stuck out his tongue one more time. That brought frenetic hooting from the crowd and apparently set off an insane fury in Feuk. Good. Let him be blind with anger—let him fight raging blind and hotheaded. Let him hate, let him forget everything but the desire to defeat Ludkamon.