Ballad

  by Barton Paul Levenson

  Published on October 8, 2011 on RaygunRevival.com - online version

  Ballad

  by Barton Paul Levenson

  with apologies to Rudyard Kipling

  Samira Hussein saw the red sparkle of a laser out of the corner of her eye. She leaped and rolled behind a pillar.

  “Gotcha,” Avishai Bekenstein said.

  Samira blew him a raspberry. “In your dreams, pal.”

  The two wore UFN Aerospace Corps blues as they stalked each other through the firing range, a vast, blue-plastic floor covered with obstacles of all shapes and sizes. So far neither had managed to score any laser tag points. They could see the icy crags and boulders of the big moon the base stood on through the transparent dome around them.

  “How ’bout a break?” Avishai said. “I’m tired already.”

  “Oh, that’ll work if you’re ever in real urban warfare. Just let the bad guys know you’re tired and you need a break.”

  “I admit my inferiority,” Avishai said. “I am a dilettante, a playground soldier, worse than useless, and my mother dresses me funny.”

  “In that case, I’ll give you five minutes.” Samira straightened up and leaned against the pillar. She was slightly tired herself.

  “I owe you forever.” He took a deep breath. “So. . .why does Blondie hate you so much?”

  Avishai, Samira thought once again, was a really good-looking guy—tall and tanned, with dark, curly hair, incongruous blue eyes, and a perpetual smile. He was always pleasant to her, always up for a game of laser tag or VR Dogfight. But there was no way she was going to get involved with a fighter pilot. Fighter jocks were too impulsive, too unreliable. Emotionally unstable, that’s what they were.

  Samira knew. She was a fighter pilot herself.

  “Why does Linda Pennington hate my guts?” Samira asked. She ran a hand through her long, dark hair. “Damned if I know. And a girl from a nice, egalitarian society like Marble Halls, too. Why she cares so much about class issues escapes me. But she never lets me forget my mother is base commander. I’m a privileged little rich girl, according to her.”

  “Ideology, maybe? She might be a super patriot in her own world.”

  “Then it’s a shame she can’t put that crap aside and act more professional.”

  A door slid aside. Both pilots looked to see who was coming in. “Hey, Linda!” Avishai said in his usual, friendly tone. “We were just talking about you.”

  Linda was thin, graceful, and classically beautiful. For reasons unknown she had dyed her auburn hair platinum blonde. “Hi, Avishai. Hi, Samira.”

  “Oh, hi, Linda,” Samira said. “Didn’t see you come in.”

  “Ha!” Linda walked in and sat on a plastistone bench. “So tell me, Samira. What do you think of your friend Feess? Honestly.”

  “Feess?” Samira asked.

  “Feess Tay. The elf. The Avra Tome with the caveman accent.”

  The Avra Tome were aliens, lean, graceful, with tiny red eyes and big, spreading ears that resembled bat wings. They had ruined their planet with global warming and now lived mostly in space habitats or ghettos on other inhabited worlds. Some humans called them “Space Gypsies.” Some Avra Tome had become pirates, and that was why Garm Base was here—to contain the largest operations base Avra Tome pirates had ever set up. The pirate settlement floated in the atmosphere of the gas-giant planet, Garm. Since establishing Garm Base, UFN patrols here had cut pirate operations in nearby systems by more than 90%. Feess Tay was a rarity, an Avra Tome recruit to the Aerospace Corps.

  Samira lost her temper. “The Avra Tome do not have a caveman accent! Their language just doesn’t use articles. Why can’t you—”

  “My bad my bad my bad,” Linda said, waving away Samira’s objection. “But what do you think of our blue-skinned friend as a person?”

  “I think she’s a damn good pilot and a nice person,” Samira said. “I don’t have a racism problem. Do you?”

  Linda laughed. “God forbid I should be racist. I just came here from Traffic, Samira. Did you know your buddy just took off in your mother’s fighter and headed straight for Garm?”

  Samira shot to her feet. “A pilot defected with a fighter and you just want to score bitch points? What the hell is wrong with you?” She ran toward the door, which slid out of her way, and sprinted down the corridor outside.

  “Samira! Come back!” Avishai yelled after her.

  Samira climbed into her fighter and strapped in. She shut the cockpit, bypassed all checks, and started the fans. She rose a hundred meters, swung up toward Garm, and fired the engines. “Clear the shields,” she said. The little fighter leaped toward the jeweled night sky, closer and closer to the shimmering force-field barrier overhead.

  “Samira, you’re not authorized!” the voice from Traffic said. “We’re locked down in case there’s more trouble. There has to be an investigation—decelerate and head back! That’s an order!”

  “I’m having trouble receiving you. Clear the shields.”

  “Samira, come back and we’ll call it a test flight! But once you’re past the barrier, you’re AWOL. Don’t draw a court martial because you have some stupid damn idea about family honor!”

  “Can’t hear you. Clear the shields.”

  “You can still do it if you execute a one-eighty now. Do it! Fire maneuvering units! Help me out here, Samira! Don’t make me an accessory!”

  “Gonna be a hell of an explosion if I hit the barrier at this speed. Debris might hit the base. Better clear the shields.”

  A pause. “If by some freak of destiny you make it back alive, I am personally gonna kick your sorry ass all the way to the brig. I’m lowering shields.”

  The shimmer disappeared. The fighter flashed into space, hitting escape velocity as the shimmer swept back into place behind. Samira fired maneuvering units. The fighter nosed down, heading for the blue-green immensity of the gas-giant planet, Garm. A telescope window on her canopy showed a tiny speck, diminishing in the distance against the sea of aqua.

  She plunged toward it. Garm rose up before her. The sky around her lightened from black to vivid blue.

  A red light on Samira’s control panel came on. The fighter bucked as the on-board computer fired maneuvering jets at random to make it harder to target. “OpFor lock-on,” the computer said. Opposition forces have locked on to us.

  “I can see that,” Samira said.

  The stolen starship was within sight now, still tiny, but visible as a UFN fighter.

  Another red light on Samira’s control panel went on. “OpFor lock-on, two positions. Follow back?” The computer was offering to fire laser-following missiles.

  No one had fired yet. Standard doctrine was, get them before they got you. Only. . .with two lock-ons, it was incredible that they hadn’t already gotten her.

  “Negative,” Samira said. “Do not fire.”

  Another red light. “OpFor lock-on, three positions.”

  The bucking was making her sick. “Kill evasive.” The maneuvering units stopped firing.

  The fleeing fighter’s destination was visible now, far ahead and far below: a silvery structure like a large letter X with a saucer at each extremity. A city floating in the clouds.

  Another red light. “OpFor lock-on, four positions.”

  Another. “OpFor—”

  “I know how to count.”

  “—positions.”

  Five enemy ships had locked onto Samira, yet none of them fired.

  The fleeing fighter came in for a landing on a wide airstrip. Samira followed it down; put out landing gear; rolled to a stop. She deliberately bumped the fighter ahead of her. Overhead, giant, transparent force fields shimmered into place. Streamers on indicator poles snapped in the wind as breathable air replaced Garm air. Samira waited for the streamers to settle down again.

  Armed guards surrounded her fighter. The Avra Tome soldiers wore red uniforms with silver necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. Each huge ear bore two, or three, or six long purple scars, for the number of enemies killed.

  Samira opened the hatch and stood up. She backed down the hatch ladder. Feess Tay stood there, watching as the guards took away Samira’s side arm and searched her.

  She waited until they were done. “You follow me, Samira Hussein?” Feess Tay said. “You like me or something?”

  “Why would I like a thief? Especially a thief who steals from my mother.”

  A guard stepped forward and poked her in the stomach with his rifle. “You talk to daughter of president, brown-skin. You show respect or I pop you one.”

  “Shut up,” Feess Tay said. “Samira brave woman, call me thief in front of own soldiers. We had you lock-on all way down, know that, Samira? One word from me, blow you out of sky.”

  “To add murder to theft?”

  “You government declare war on Avra Tome, yes? Not thief, not murderer. Soldier, with spoils of war.”

  “Thief, with someone else’s property.”

  “Shit,” the guard said. “Feess Tay, let me cut off hand this shit, or foot. Get some respect.”

  “I say no, I mean no.” She turned to Samira. “Come!”

  Samira followed Feess Tay.

  Feess Tay was the pirate president’s daughter? How the hell had she gotten past the security checks? It must have been a deep operation, planned years back. But Feess Tay was young, less than twenty Earth years. She must have started training for this as a teen.

  And Samira had befriended her. She had fe lt sorry for the lone Avra Tome pilot at the base. Stuck up for her against the gibes of people like Linda Pennington. No one trusted an Avra Tome, and this time the bigots had been right.

  I tried to be your friend, you lying bitch!

  The landing strip ended at a building, all girders and transparent panels. Inside, Feess Tay stepped into a small, open cart in a groove in the floor. She patted the seat behind her. “Sit!”

  Samira sat down. Two guards sat behind them. Each one tapped Samira’s back with his or her rifle, letting her know they were there. Samira didn’t turn around.

  “Executive Mansion,” Feess Tay said. The cart started forward with a lurch.

  The guards shoved Samira through the doorway. Inside, a massive female Avra Tome sat behind an equally massive desk of dark red wood. Her ears bore dozens of scars. The woman got up and went to Feess Tay. They embraced. “Hekserru heksas,” the older woman said, and she spat in Feess Tay’s mouth.

  “Hekserr aman totch,” Feess Tay replied, and she swallowed.

  The larger woman nodded toward Samira briefly. “Sta hay mennika sest?”

  “Samira Hussein sest. Fatima Hussein aman totch sest.”

  “Ho ho,” the woman said. “Fatima Hussein’s daughter, huh? You brave little girl?”

  “I’m not a little girl,” Samira said. “Your daughter stole my mother’s personal fighter. I’m here to get it back.”

  “Ho ho ho!” The woman laughed hugely, her belly shaking. She staggered back to her desk and sat down in the huge armchair behind it, wiping her eyes. Suddenly the laughter cut off. “I Feess Banta, president of Garm Avra Tome. You nobody, no ear scars, no weapons, no name. You come here ask for Mother’s fighter back?” She shook her head incredulously. “Little girl, you got lot to learn.”

  “Samira brave woman,” Feess Tay said softly.

  “Oh?”

  “Came here. Five fighters lock on, one by one. She keep coming anyway. All alone, right here. Brave.”

  “Brave, or stupid,” the president said. “Tonight we see which.” She clapped her hands together twice. Armed guards came in and escorted Samira out.

  There was neither bench nor bed in Samira’s tiny cell. All she could do was sit on the floor and wait.

  Eventually guards came and took Samira out. They marched her to a circular room with a huge round pool taking up most of the space. “Wash,” a guard said.

  Nervously, Samira walked to the edge of the pool and squatted. She scooped up water and splashed her face with it.

  “No, wash” he said.

  “I am washing!”

  The guard kicked her. Samira tumbled into the water. She struggled frantically to right herself and get air. One of her feet struck the bottom, which turned out to be only four feet down. She stood up, coughed out water, and glowered at the guards. “Very funny, ha ha. Try it some time when I’m looking, and we’ll see who kicks whose ass.”

  But the guards weren’t laughing. They each extended a hand to her, and Samira reluctantly let them pull her up out of the water. A third guard came up with a bundle of fabric in both arms. “Undress,” this one said.

  “Make me!”

  The half-fistfight, half-wrestling match that followed only lasted until one of the guards drew his side arm and held it to Samira’s temple. Gritting her teeth, she took off her uniform. The new clothing turned out to be a translucent robe, green on one side and pink on the other, which fell to just above her knees. “There, are you happy?”

  “This way,” the guard said.

  They marched her through a long corridor, which came out near the bottom of an amphitheater. Avra Tome, tall and short, filled the seats, watching the guards march Samira out onto the arena floor. An ornate, silver-chased box held the president and Feess Tay. They were too far for Samira to see their faces, but one large view screen on each side of the arena showed a close-up.

  “First test,” the president said, her voice amplified by loudspeakers. “Samira Hussein, face charge. You move, we know you for coward.”

  A wide set of double doors opened across the arena. A huge animal of some sort, big and yellowish-white in color, charged out. It spotted Samira and came thundering toward her. It looked like a bull or yak of some kind, but with short, stubby antlers.

  It must be trained to stop. Or maybe it’s on a leash.

  As the animal galloped closer, she couldn’t see any sign of a leash.

  What if it’s just going to run me over?

  She wanted to run, but reason told her she couldn’t outrun this beast. Okay, you bastards, watch me go down. I’ll be damned if I’ll cry for you.

  Eighty feet away. Sixty. It was moving fast! Forty. Twenty. Samira clamped down hard on her lips, resisting the urge to scream.

  Something exploded out of the ground. Samira jumped, but managed to stay in the same spot.

  A cluster of iron prongs had come out of the ground and impaled the animal. It gurgled, unable to scream, its throat pierced. Samira could smell its stink, and a sharp odor that was probably its blood. She felt weak, but forced herself to stay standing.

  Scared the hell out of me, you bastard, she thought at the animal. Just the same, I’m sorry. That’s a lousy way to die.

  “Good enough,” the president said. At first Samira thought the woman had come down onto the field with her, but there was no one else around. Audio relay. “You win one test, Samira Hussein. Many do that much. Let’s see how you take number two. Get ring.” A uniformed official of some kind tossed out a white, rubbery ring two feet wide. It landed a few yards to Samira’s left.

  “Get ring?” What am I, a dog? Nonetheless, she started for the ring.

  Sheets of flame rose up in front of her face. She stepped back before she could help herself.

  “You scared?” the president asked.

  Samira snarled, took a deep breath, and plunged through the flames. She bent to pick up the ring. Her robe was on fire. Oh, crap. She rolled on the ground, smothering the flames. Then she stood up. She bent over and picked up the ring just long enough to show that she had it. Then she flung it down again.

  “Good enough again,” the president said. “Last test. Put ring on hook.”

  An object like a coat rack rose out of the ground some distance away. Samira picked up the ring and started toward it. A jet of blue flame shot out of the floor, and she jumped aside to avoid it. She started walking again. The sound of a gunshot went off in her ear. She looked around wildly, trying to see where it had come from. No clue.

  She started walking again. With a boom, a small square of floor before her dropped out of sight. She wasn’t in time to avoid dropping in, but the ring she held was slightly bigger than the opening and she clutched it tight by reflex. She dangled by one hand. With a lurch, she reached up her other hand. She hauled herself up. Holding onto the ring, she climbed out of the pit. She rolled to the side, then retrieved the ring.

  Another door opened. Another yellowish animal came charging toward her. She kept walking toward the “coat rack.” The animal got closer. It bellowed at her. She kept walking. Closer still. It occurred to her suddenly that this one might not be stopped. She leaped forward just as the animal plunged through where she had stood a moment ago. It went on for some distance, then turned around. Another shot—the beast dropped dead on the arena floor.

  You guys sure are cruel to animals.

  She resumed walking. She got to the “coat rack” expecting something more to happen, but nothing did. She put the ring on the hook at the top.

  “Very good, Samira Hussein! Now, come to me, and I reward you.” The president walked out of her box. She made her way down an aisle between rows of spectators, heading for the floor of the amphitheater. The audience crowded around her, babbling excitedly in Avra Tome. Women held up their babies, and the president paused to spit in each one’s mouth.

  Samira started toward the president.

  Other spectators prevented a woman at the lowest row from getting closer to the president. She moved onto the ladder that led down into the pit, trying to go around them. Suddenly she dropped the small child she was carrying onto the arena floor. It seemed to land okay, rolling as it hit, but its fall triggered something. Another gate opened. Another pseudo-yak galloped onto the arena floor, heading straight for the child.

  “My baby! Get him! Get my baby!”

  Samira broke into a run. Stay there, kid!

 

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