For a moment, he entertained the idea of returning to Jackson and Yan Carbow. He could trust Yan to look out for her and keep her out of trouble until she learned to survive in galactic civilization, such as it was.
However, it just was not possible. There were too many inconsistencies and risks. By now, the word was out on John Smith, and a bounty on his head. Returning to Jackson would make a waste of all his efforts. Scorpion was known there, might even now be identified with said John Smith alias James Yor-Tarken, and its return would draw attention. It would be in the hands of an apparent stranger. His new description would certainly be noted, as would his new identity. No, he could not return there, at least not without a different ship. He could possibly make it as a passenger on a liner, say, but chances are Yan was now watched. Tempting as it was, he would have to find another solution.
There was an idea that had been percolating in the back of his mind since his visit to Torlon. With old Nabel's help, he might be able to give Scorpion a new name and clean papers — clean enough to enter the Alliance.
He was fairly certain he had seen the distinctive outline of a genuine stinger-class courier, the ship Scorpion had been modified to resemble, in Nabel's scrap yard. If he could get Nabel to sell him the ship's identification papers and, most important, the serial number plate embedded into the hull metal, Scorpion could almost certainly pass for a legitimate survivor of the Fall, and his own Rankin identity was certainly good enough as the duly registered owner.
The Alliance was an island of progress in a sea of a former empire declining to barbarism. There were a few successful planets, and even a few groups of systems, but no non-Alliance system in man-settled space was better off now than it was before the Fall. Obviously, millions of the Old Empire's wealthier citizens wanted to immigrate to the Alliance; as a result, the Alliance's immigration policies were strict and tough. The Alliance had annexed a dozen systems, but only one inhabited planet in the last century, and it only admitted a few million immigrants per year. They did not care where you came from, but legal immigration involved investigations, interviews, and tests. Many tests. The Alliance would accept only the smartest, the best educated, those who could contribute to the development of the Alliance.
Nevertheless, if you were careful and lucky, you could sneak into the Alliance illegally. The rumor was that if you were able to sneak in, and your papers passed casual inspection, the Alliance authorities would not devote much energy to catching you. Rumor had it that the Alliance figured that if you were smart enough to break in, you were probably smart enough for the Alliance. Oh, people-smugglers were energetically tracked down and punished with a vengeance. The Alliance only wanted those smart and tough enough to make it on their own. But they didn't make it easy. Borders and nearby jump points were picketed and patrolled relentlessly, and the Alliance Border Patrol's pursuit ships were reputed to be the fastest in space — and the best armed.
Cale had decided it was not worth the risk and effort required to try to sneak into the Alliance in Scorpion. But now…
Naive as she was, Ruth would need a safe, stable environment to live in while she learned to cope with galactic society.
But no, he decided. It simply was not worth the risk and the extraordinary effort it would take. There were over a thousand inhabited worlds in the Old Empire. With Scorpion and his resources, he would surely be able to find a peaceful planet for her. He could drop her off somewhere, perhaps with the rest of Jan's gold in a local bank. Then he could get on with his own plans — without this feeling of guilt and responsibility!
Anger flared. Why should he feel guilty or responsible? She was the one who'd slipped aboard his ship. She was the one naive enough to think that piety gave her security in a hostile world.
He slammed a hand on the chair arm. Damn it! The trouble was that he did feel responsible for her, and yes, even a little guilty about the inevitable hard lessons she was about to get.
By the time they emerged in Torlon's system, the very close quarters, the lack of hygiene, the space rations, and of course the sexual tension, had caused them to really begin to annoy each other.
"Sit down, or get into your bunk," Cale ordered sourly. "I'm going to drive in at 1.5G. You're going to feel very heavy, and if you fall, you could break an arm or leg."
"Do not trouble yourself," she replied coldly. "Does this '1.5G' mean we will get there sooner?"
"Yes. We'll get there in less than 20 hours. But it will be very uncomfortable."
"Then go! Go!"
"Sit Down!" he roared. She dropped into the copilot's seat with a thump. Cale worked out the orbital data and delta vee requirements, entered them into the nav comp. Their bodies pressed back into the padded seats as the acceleration built. It steadied on 1.5G. Cale felt that was enough to get them there sooner, but would still allow them to move around when necessary.
Ruth struggled to breathe against the force compressing her chest. She had never experienced anything but the. 96 gravity of Ararat, and panic was setting in. She gasped for air.
"Relax," Cale said in a gentler tone. "Don't fight it. Concentrate on breathing. That's it. In, out, in, out. That's it. And above all, don't panic!"
For the first time in her life, Ruth regretted not knowing any curse words. She fumed, but the simple act of breathing demanded so much attention that her anger faded. "How… long?" she forced out.
"About… 18 hours." She was pleased to note that his voice also sounded strained.
Several hours later, it took her over a minute to pry herself from the chair and struggle heavily to the 'fresher, moving hand over hand for fear of falling.
Finished, she gathered two of the self-heating space ration packets and worked her way back to the copilot's chair. She dropped into it with a painful grunt.
Cale tried to smile at her, but the acceleration's effect on his face turned it into a horrible rictus.
They traveled on in silence. Cale also made a struggling trip to the 'fresher, but except for the few moments when L'rak flipped over to begin deceleration, they merely sat in mutual discomfort, breathing hard and counting the seconds until that awful weight would lift.
Finally, it did lift, and they approached orbit around Torlon. From his previous visit, Cale knew that the space detection satellites were not functioning. When he hailed ground control, it took almost half an hour for the familiar raspy voice to respond. Since the landing grid also didn't work, calling ground control was mostly a courtesy. Cale simply did it out of habit.
He landed L'rak manually at the edge of Nabel's junkyard. The two tired, dirty travelers climbed out of the tiny cabin and stretched, breathing in huge, gusty sighs and luxuriating in the one G gravity field of the planet.
Chapter 4
He was a bit surprised the old man didn't hear him land and come out, but after a few minutes, he shrugged and headed for Nabel's "office". There was no sign of Nabel, and Cale was beginning to get worried and suspicious. Had the pirates tracked him down? Had news of the price on his head reached here? Would he find only an ambush in the old warship/office?
He motioned Ruth to stand to one side, then went to the other, turned the knob and threw the door open. It banged against the hull, but there was no hail of pellets or blaster fire. Just a wave of stench and a querulous voice. "'Bout time ye got here!" Nabel said weakly. "I been waitin' fer ya fer a week!" The two visitors steeled themselves against the odor and entered the office.
They found Nabel propped in his float chair. A duramin rod was tied to his right thigh and leg with filthy rags. The overpowering smell testified that he had been sitting in his own feces, unable to get to the 'fresher in the next compartment of the old ship.