Scavenger Hunt

Chapter 2: Grand Liftoff-1

Chapter 2: Grand Liftoff

In the early days of human interstellar travel, there was no established pattern. But since Nature tosses anarchy into that same abhorrent class as vacuum, power relations began to build—trade empires, manufacturing conglomerates, banking fortunes. These and more grew rapidly, some within the space of a single lifetime.

Very soon, there were some people of greater intrinsic value than others. And as power clings to power, these valuable people gravitated toward one another.

At first these people saw one another as threats, and the in–fighting was fierce. But gradually a truce developed. The original source of their wealth—the common people—remained constant. They drew social circles to distinguish themselves from the vulgar masses that huddled in the shadows outside. They formed Society.

Nature normally institutes checks and balances on social systems. But in this case, she goofed—she made the distances too big. While ships could ply between star systems in a matter of days or weeks, no method of communication was any faster. The force that should have kept this Society in check—a strong, centralized government—could not be organized on an interstellar scale.

Several attempts were made to set up interstellar governments; they failed miserably and unanimously. With few common laws between the hundreds of planets man inhabited, with no laws in interstellar space whatsoever, and with no suitable extradition agreements between stellar systems, anyone capable of traveling freely from one star to another could, in effect, place himself above the rule of common men.

The members of Society were the only ones who could afford to travel freely among the stars. With their enormous personal fortunes, in fact, they had little else to do but travel…

Although the human mind constantly strives for infinite leisure, it cannot accept it when it happens. Members of Society had to find something to do with their time, before they rotted like month–old fruit. It could not be “work” or anything else that remotely resembled the pastimes of the lesser people, so they turned to play for physical relief.

An intricate system of protocol arose in Society’s ranks. To make sure it was used, numerous excuses were devised to get people together—balls, parties, and other forms of social entertainment. These provided a constant rationale for planet–hopping, as well as a needed change in companionship and atmosphere.

But even more important than the parties were the games. Elaborate and often devious sports were devised to provide excitement, conversational material, and an outlet for competitive urges. Some of the games were tests of physical stamina, others were tests of mental agility, and still others were a combination of the two.

The culmination of everything was the Scavenger Hunt. It was held every twenty years because people’s nerves could not stand holding it either more often or less. It was so big that interest in it was not limited to Society circles. Stories of past Scavenger Hunts sold like wildfire in the common press, and tales were told and retold to the point of making them legendary. There were no great prizes given for winning the Hunt, of course—unless demideification could be called a prize.

—Jardine Matthies

The Need for Decadence

Huntworld had been settled to serve one purpose only: the administration of the Scavenger Hunt. There was but one town, human population of fifteen thousand, on a planet the same size as Earth. It was an enormous computer complex, staffed by seven thousand people and twenty thousand robots. Another eight thousand people and fifty thousand robots inhabited Huntworld, performing services not directly related to the Scavenger Hunt.

On a typical day there might be only one or two spaceships dotting the enormous expanse of the Huntworld Spaceport—some of the scout ships constantly being sent throughout the galaxy to provide data for the Huntworld computers, or perhaps giant trader ships, arriving with food or materials and leaving with that much empty space in their holds, for Huntworld had no exports.

But this was not a typical day. This was the eve of the Scavenger Hunt, raison d’etre for all of Huntworld. And so the spaceport, normally an artificial desert, was now a jungle of starships, noses pointing skyward, waiting eagerly for the order tomorrow that would send them on their way. There was the Égalité, for example, the android’s ship—scarred and battered and standing a mere ten meters tall, looking terribly outclassed by its bigger brothers. And there was Ambic Jusser’s ship, the Hermes, a sleek needle impatient to be starbound, built for speed, all twenty–two meters of its height screaming style and elegance. And there were others, too, nearly two hundred of them shoved together indiscriminately in hopeless confusion.

But even in this forest of space vessels, Tyla had no problem spotting her brother’s ship. The Honey B towered far above the rest; with its thirty–seven meter height and its thirteen meter diameter at the base, it was far and away the largest private space yacht ever constructed. Three massive fins reached downward from the sides of this monstrous bullet like roots sucking nourishment from the ground. A temporary gantry stood beside the ship, reaching up twenty–five meters to the main airlock.

Tyla’s tears had dried by the time she reached the gantry, leaving her with a feeling of empty frustration. She stepped inside the gravtube and only became more annoyed at its slowness in lifting her upward. She sniffled and daubed at her face with a handkerchief, removing all traces of her recent humiliation.

When she finally did reach the lock, she found the hatch shut. She looked around for some way to open it, but lost patience. Ringing the buzzer provided no immediate answer; she punched the touchplate more and more fervently, her anger increasing with each push. Finally a voice came over the intercom. “Who is it?”

“This is Tyla deVrie. Let me in!”

The hatch slid slowly open. Standing in the doorway was little Dru Awa–om–anoth, the ship’s computech. She was a mere hundred and fifty–five centimeters tall, and her sixty kilo mass gave her a dumpy appearance. She had a round, pale moonface, with sad eyes and a dismal expression that never seemed to change. She was clad in the drab brown spacer uniform that was the only thing Tyla had ever seen her wear. The normally smooth material looked wrinkled, and hung on her like a sack. “I shall sing my Song of Apology, Mistress,” she said. “It was dark outside, and your face did not show up well on the screen.”

“What took you so long to even answer?” Tyla snapped.

“I was in my cabin, singing my Song of Hope for the new venture. It is not good to stop in the middle of a Song.”

“I stood out here waiting for five minutes.” Tyla made a conscious effort to remain angry, but whatever anger was left in her was rapidly being absorbed by Dru’s sponge of nonemotion.

“The hatch can be opened from the outside, if you take the time to learn the procedure. Or you could have used the Engineer’s Exit in the tail. But I will sing my Song of Apology for you twice.”

Tyla squirmed slightly. She simply could not retain her anger against such an unresisting lump as Dru. “That won’t be necessary. Where’s Bred?”

“In the High Room with Captain Kirre.”

Tyla stepped through the hatchway and into the Drawing Room. A mild annoyance was building again, but it was undirected. “All right, you can return to your cabin now. I can manage from here.”

Tyla watched as Dru walked across the Drawing Room to the Core. Like nearly all the chambers aboard the Honey B, the Drawing Room was shaped like a sector of a cylinder not quite ten meters in diameter with a four–meter high ceiling. The walls were covered with velvet wallpaper in shades of green; “family portraits” and imitation gaslights hung at intervals. Several large oriental rugs were placed over the inlaid marble floor. The furniture was simulated antique—not because the deVries couldn’t afford genuine Victorian, but because this furniture would have to withstand several gees of acceleration. There was a long sofa against one wall and six overpadded chairs spaced around the room, all upholstered in heavy green plush. A small spinet stood in one corner and a real–wood grandfather clock in another.

Tyla stood alone in this opulence for a long minute, trying to decide what to do. If her tension built any higher, she felt she’d explode. She wanted to go somewhere and do something, but there was nowhere for her to go and nothing for her to do. She clenched and unclenched her fists in frustration.

Finally she made a decision. With determined strides, she crossed the Drawing Room and entered the Core, a two–meter diameter tube running practically the entire length down the center of the ship.

Instead of going foreward to Sector II, where the sleeping cabins were, Tyla used the handholds to climb rearward—“down” since the ship was under the tug of gravity. It took just a couple of steps to reach Sector V, the Specialized Area. She stood on the ledge that ran around the wall of the Core at this level. To her left was the door marked “High Room,” the only one closed on this level. Tyla frowned. That room sported a large, opulent bed and the atmosphere within was laced with euphorics, giving the occupants a giddy feeling of well–being to enhance their lovemaking. Even though it was soundproofed like all the rooms aboard this ship, she imagined she could hear the sounds of passion between her brother and the captain of his all–female crew.

Tyla walked around the ledge to the Womb. She pulled off her red and green wig with one hand, unwrapped her outfit from her body with the other, and hung them both on one of the handholds beside the door. Naked, now, she took the Womb’s airmask off its peg and cupped it over her face, then slid her body into the tubular opening.

The machinery in the Womb sensed the warmth of her body and responded accordingly. The soft, smooth walls collapsed gently around her, enclosing her entire form in a sleek embrace. Beadlets of aromatic oil sweated through the Womb’s skin and coalesced on her own. Millions of tiny mechanical fingers came to life and began their work, rubbing, caressing, stroking, and massaging every centimeter of her body in a gentle, relaxing motion. Tyla whimpered and moaned with pleasure as the Womb carried out its ministrations. All the cares of the evening were put aside. Her mind concentrated solely on her body as wave after wave of sensuality rolled over her.

***

There was a loud, insistent buzzing at the intercom. Tyla fought her way out of a maze of sleep to reach above her head and press the touchplate. “Ummnh?” she mumbled.

Bred’s voice bounced cheerily out of the speaker. “Good morning, little sister. You’ve got a visitor.”

Her hand fell back to the bed with a heavy thud. “Whoisit?” she asked, too tired to separate the syllables.

“Come down and see for yourself. I’m in the Drawing Room.” Bred shut off the intercom.

Tyla sat up slowly, still not fully awake. She was nude, back in her own sleeping cabin. Her memories after the Womb started its work were blurry at best. She knew the Womb would only operate for an hour at a time, so she assumed she’d gotten out after it finished and climbed up the Core to her quarters. Her wig and plastiglo dress were draped carelessly over one of the hammock hooks, substantiating that hypothesis.

She stood up and stretched as best she could in the confined cabin. Being in Sector II, near the nose of the ship, the cubicles were not very large. There were three meters fore to rear of “height,” and the “floor” and “ceiling” were both in the trapezoidal pattern that predominated aboard the ship. Within this volume was a toilet and washbasin, a bed for use under gravity conditions that folded up into the wall, hooks for zero–gee hammocks, a private holie viewer, a book screen, and a small built–in set of drawers for clothes and personal effects. Not much space was left for living, but these cabins were intended solely for sleeping and personal privacy; the living was done in the other, more exotic, rooms.

Tyla went to the washbasin and slapped some water on her face to wake herself up, muttering curses under her breath against her brother and anyone else who could play guessing games at such an early hour of the morning. Then she looked at the wall clock—it was five minutes to ten, local time. The Scavenger Hunt would start in just over two hours, and here she was still sleeping.