A Star Wheeled Sky

by Brad R Torgersen

  Colonel Jun couldn’t say, except for emphasizing that they couldn’t know more before conducting a thorough boots-on-ground survey. For which the old man would be present, despite his ill health, and despite the fact that Vex didn’t like his attitude. Jun had continued to display a flagrant level of nonchalance in Vex’s presence. If she’d had another option—a different Waymaker guru—in her employ, she’d have taken that person without a second thought. But Jun was the only man to be had, so to the surface he would go.

  Meanwhile, Ekk would remain with Alliance, to keep the space around the clement planet secure. With General Ticonner’s squadron presumed missing or destroyed—along with the Constellar force he’d been attacking—General Ekk was now all that stood between Vex and additional Constellar ships which might be coming across the Waypoint at any hour. If Vex felt regret at the loss of her number two officer, she didn’t show it. Like Ekk, Ticonner had been useful. But she didn’t attach emotional significance to any of her men, just as she didn’t attach emotional significance to people in general. These could be points of weakness which a military or political rival might exploit. So, Vex had received news of Ticonner’s demise with only mild interest—for the sake of the destroyed ships, and their Keys, but not much more. The new system was going to require a thorough salvage sweep once the situation had been stabilized. There were too many Keys now drifting loose in interplanetary space. But the pyramid…that was the clear priority.

  Once Vex had what she’d come for, she could leave a small garrison detachment behind, return to orbit with whatever Waymaker knowledge and technology could be taken with her, and return to Jaalit space for the next phase in her plan to conquer this new world.

  Colonel Jun had suggested calling it Cheops—the ancient name for a ruler who had existed during the time when Earth men were still actively building pyramids.

  “Madam Kosmarch,” Ekk said, clicking off the flatscreen, “given the fact that my counterpart’s squadron has been destroyed, and the Waypoint now lies unsecured at this system’s border, don’t you think it would be wise to send at least one destroyer to reconnoiter the Waypoint’s perimeter? At this great distance, if any ships do cross—ours, or somebody else’s—we won’t know about it for precious minutes. And there will be nothing to stop additional Constellar incursion.”

  “I think at this point, General, we can assume two things. One, if Constellar was capable of moving additional ships across the Waypoint—as a second wave—they’d have done it by now. Just as we’d have done the same. Two, the fact that neither of us have done this, tells me that the odds are still in our favor. It will take more time for Starstate Constellar to reconfigure its defensive posture—in order to move ships into position to cross to Cheops space—than it will for Nautilan reinforcements to arrive in Jaalit space, and make the crossing. Our numerical superiority is our single greatest advantage in this regard. They cannot afford to spare the ships. We can. By the time Constellar could send additional ships, it will be far too late. This system will be ours to do with as we please, as will whatever knowledge and technology can be gleaned from the Waymaker pyramid on the surface.”

  “And if the pyramid itself resists us?” Ekk asked.

  Vex considered. The thought of the pyramid posing a threat had not occurred to her. Mostly because the Keys had proven so benign, for so long, what danger could the artifact on Cheops’ surface pose? Still, the general had made a valid point. If the pyramid itself was dangerous—boobytrapped, to prevent future meddling by an unnamed enemy?—she would need to designate a course of action.

  “Nuclear response, General,” Vex said.

  “How many?” Ekk said, his face showing a bit of astonishment.

  “Assuming I am dead, or incapacitated, use as much of your onboard arsenal—and the arsenal of our two companions in orbit—to level everything. The wreck, the pyramid, all of it.”

  “Even Keys cannot be destroyed in this way,” Ekk said.

  “But the site can be irradiated to such a degree that it’s practically a no man’s land. General, let me be frank. If I cannot possess whatever information and tools are waiting for me down there, no one can. You won’t be blamed, of course. I’ll make the order explicit in your log, prior to my departure. Kosmarchs coming to Cheops after me may be frustrated by the fact that you will have made the artifact untouchable. But then again, if it resists me in any way, why would it not resist them? They can have its secrets when they are smart enough to unlock the puzzle of why it’s so dangerous—assuming it even is dangerous, which I am not convinced is true.”

  “Madam Kosmarch, I trust your intuition.”

  “Thank you, General. And thank you for the latest update. Please alert me when you think the storm has cleared completely enough for us to consider landing. I would like to begin the ground survey as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 35

  Admiral Mikton was ill. The Daffodil’s surgeon had diagnosed Zuri with a serious case of radiation damage. Whether or not it would prove fatal remained unclear. Suffice to say that the medical bay’s antirad regimen had been put into full effect, so that instead of conducting operations from the command module, Mikton was doing business from her hammock in the medical bay itself—with tubes running in and out of her arms, while liters of medicated fluid mingled with her blood and tissues. The cells lining her stomach and intestines, had begun to die first. The medicine being streamed into her body was designed to mitigate this problem, as well as combat chromosome damage. But even the best treatments Constellar medical science could come up with weren’t proof against truly severe radiation exposure.

  Admiral Mikton thought she had maybe a fifty-fifty chance. Which really didn’t bother Zuri that much, given what had happened to her Task Group. Losing a beloved officer like Urrl was merely the insult to injury. It was the loss of ships which hurt Constellar the most. Now, more than ever, Zuri’s plan had to work. And in order for that plan to go the way Zuri wanted, she had to convince the captain and crew of the Daffodil to attempt suicide.

  “No,” said the Daffodil’s skipper, who was floating upright next to Zuri’s hammock in the medical bay.

  “I’ll make it an order if I have to,” Zuri said. “But I’d rather not.”

  “Ma’am, we should be collecting Keys, and getting them back to Oswight Space,” the Daffodil’s captain said firmly. “With those keys in our possession, we can quickly turn around some of Commodore Iakar’s security flotilla, and be back across the Slipway in short order. If protecting Uxmal system is the priority, I see no reasonable alternative.”

  “And then Nautilan simply blows away whatever ships we’ve moved, and we’re back to square one,” Zuri said. “No. Trust me. I’ve seen this show before. I know how it ends, Captain. The only chance we’ve got is to throw out the script, and do something they’ll never expect us to do. Even if it means Daffodil’s destruction. It will buy Starstate Constellar the time necessary to move heavy assets. Destroyers and cruisers. The big stuff. While Nautilan is girding its loins for another strike on their side of the Waypoint, Constellar can reallocate enough capital ships to Oswight and Uxmal space alike, to make a second Nautilan attempt on Uxmal incredibly difficult. But we have to strike now.”

  “The Keys are too important—” the captain began, and was cut off.

  “Even if we collect whatever Keys can be easily found, and try to shuttle more of Iakar’s ships over, they don’t have enough Waypoint pilots for the work. And not every ship in Iakar’s force can be quickly converted to Key use, regardless. So, we wait, and lose. Or we do something crazy, and maybe win.”

  “Admiral, it’s not that I can’t see the potential benefit of your plan. I can. It’s just that we don’t even know if we can successfully wire the Nautilan code box into our communications array without damaging the code box beyond repair. That’s sensitive Nautilan technology being joined to sensitive Constellar technology, and our systems aren’t able to talk to each other very well at all. W
e’ll be lucky if the two engineering specialists I have aboard are up to the task. We’re not exactly fitted out for this kind of work, you know.”

  “I know,” Zuri said. “And I am sorry things can’t be done in a more regimented fashion. In a sane universe, we’d collect the Keys, take the code box back to Oswight space, and turn it over to DSOD forensic intelligence for a careful dissection. But Uxmal has changed things, and we’re not necessarily allowed to take the safe road anymore. In fact, I strongly suspect it’s been us taking the safe road—all this time—which has gotten us into our hole against Nautilan in the first place. They know our doctrine like we know their doctrine. And their doctrine is specifically designed to wait out our doctrine. Decade, after decade, after decade. The numbers are firmly on their side. And have been all of our lives. Constellar is not going to win against that. Not unless we do something unexpected. And there is no better time than the present.”

  Daffodil’s commander still seemed hesitant.

  “Please, Captain Garmot, don’t waste this chance. Commodore Urrl paid for it with his life. So did the crew of the Hallibrand. We can’t go back to Oswight space reporting that we lost the First Family yacht without significant payoff. There has to be a reason for it all.”

  “You mean, you need a reason, Admiral,” the captain said.

  Zuri closed her eyes, and swallowed. Then opened her eyes again.

  “That too,” she said. “I’ve led a lot of people to Uxmal space to die, apparently. And I might be one of them. Clearly, I’ve not asked anyone to do anything which I am not willing to do myself. But we’ve got to think about long-term ramifications. If Starstate Nautilan claims Uxmal, it might snuff out the only candle flame of hope Constellar’s seen in the Waywork for a long, long time. We have to keep Uxmal under our flag. There has been nowhere else for Constellar to go, while Nautilan slowly eats us alive. And when they’re done with Constellar, it’ll be Starstate Yamato next—whom they hate almost as much as they hate us—then they’ll go for their sometimes allies, Starstates Amethyne and Sultari. And when the whole Waywork is under Nautilan control, what future will there be for the human race? From which world will a successful rebellion spring?”

  Captain Garmot stared at his grip shoes, which rested lightly on the deck.

  “You know I’m right,” she said.

  “Doesn’t make it any easier,” he replied. “What am I supposed to tell this crew?”

  “Tell them they’re doing it for their brothers’ children. And their sisters’ children. Hell, tell them it’s for the sake of all children across the Waywork. A moment in human history when, if we’re successful, everything pivots. Look, Captain, for all I know, even if I order you to do this, once you walk out of the medical bay you could tell your crew whatever you want. Declare me medically unfit. In your position, I’d be tempted. But I am begging you. Please don’t sell out the future.”

  Captain Garmot slowly looked up at his boss, and pushed a hand out toward her.

  “May God favor the bold and the free,” he said with resignation in his tone.

  “Victory with honor,” Zuri said, and shook his hand.

  Chapter 36

  Wyodreth Antagean stirred awake. His muscles were cold, and cramped. It was agony uncurling himself from around Garsina Oswight’s damp, warm body. But he thought he’d heard something other than the sound of water splashing in the distance.

  Gently rolling over—body silently complaining—Wyo looked up into a human face. The woman was old. With skin the color of light chocolate, and wavy white hair, bordering on curls. She held one of their two lamps in one of her hands, revealing a flowing smock which appeared to have been handmade, and a similarly handmade tunic over the top of the smock. She’d certainly dressed appropriately for the weather, though Wyo couldn’t begin to guess who she actually was. A lovely flame motif had been woven into each of her sleeves, at the cuff. And the smock sprouted a healthy bundle of turtlenecked fabric under her chin.

  The woman’s brown eyes watched Wyo, without blinking.

  “Who are you?” Wyo asked, realizing his voice was almost gone. He’d shouted so loudly, so many times, his vocal chords were battered to a rasp.

  When the woman didn’t say anything, Wyo asked again. Then, something in his brain kicked him for not thinking more clearly, and he switched to using Mariclesh.

  Now, the old woman reacted. She smiled slightly, and stood up.

  “A friend,” she said, her Mariclesh fluent, but the accent strange—like nothing Wyo had ever heard in the Waywork before. Was she possibly from Starstate Amethyne? Of the international traveling Wyo had done—for the company—Amethyne was the one Starstate he knew least well.

  “The trip through my water catchment system could have killed you.”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t,” Wyo admitted, looking down at his soaked zipsuit and armor, neither of which had prevented about a gallon of water from pouring down his neck, filling the cavities between the suit and his skin with an uncomfortable squishiness.

  “Is she alive?” the woman asked, motioning to Lady Oswight with the lamp.

  Wyo checked Lady Oswight’s neck.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t know what kind of mental shape she’ll be in when she wakes up. The storm scared her senseless.”

  “Storms are why I live down here,” the old woman said. “Been a while since I had visitors.”

  Wyo stared at her.

  “How…how long?” he asked.

  “That’s part of my problem,” the old woman said. “It’s been so long, I honestly have no idea. You got a name, son?”

  “Wyodreth Antagean,” he said.

  The woman’s mouth silently made the odd—for her—vowel and syllable motions.

  “Wyo for short,” he said.

  “Why-ohh,” she said carefully. “Not the usual sort of man’s name, like John or Patrick.”

  Now it was Wyo’s turn to silently sound out the unusual vowels and syllables.

  “You don’t know those names?” she asked.

  “No,” Wyo admitted.

  The woman grunted at him, then turned on a heel, and began walking away from the edge of the ledge, with their lantern still in her hand.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Wyo asked, his voice still raw from shouting.

  “The hell away from here,” she said. “You better follow. And bring her too.”

  The lieutenant commander stood up—very shakily, and feeling extremely sore—then stooped to pick up the Lady Oswight. She was heavy in his arms, and limp, but not so bad that he couldn’t cradle her to his chest. After a few steps, she murmured and stirred, then instantly wrapped both arms around his neck, and let out a squeaking shriek into the plates of armor on his chest.

  “It’s okay,” Wyo said. “I’ve got us. Or, well, somebody has got us.”

  The Lady Oswight gradually turned her head to look over her shoulder, at the old woman’s back as she walked purposefully through the metal-walled corridor. It led away from the ledge where Wyo and the Lady Oswight had taken refuge.

  “Who…?” the Lady Oswight whispered.

  “No idea, yet,” he whispered back to her.

  The corridor twisted and turned, appearing to make several switchbacks, until it ultimately terminated in an oval-shaped, high-ceilinged room decorated with what appeared to be chandeliers. The light hurt Wyo’s eyes, and he stopped momentarily, blinking away spots, before taking a few more steps—and stopping again.

  The old woman was standing in the middle of a painstakingly tiled global map, though of what globe Wyo could not be sure. It could have passed for one of the Waywork capitals, or even Uxmal itself, save for the fact that the shapes of the land masses and the seas were totally foreign to Wyo’s eyes. Lady Oswight looked down, and then patted Wyo quickly on the shoulder. He gradually set her on her feet, allowing her to brace herself on one of his arms as she stared at the design, then she looked up at the old woman—who simply watched them w
ith a kind of dispassionate curiosity.

  “Do you recognize it?” the Lady Oswight asked him.

  “No,” Wyo said. “But I get the feeling she could tell us more.”

  The Lady Oswight took a few hesitant steps, futilely attempting to straighten her half-dried, frizzy hair, then brought herself up to a proper First Family posture and said, “I am Garsina Oswight, of the First Family Oswight. I am visiting your planet on a mission of exploration. How may I address you?”

  The old woman merely continued to watch, and said nothing.

  “Mariclesh,” Wyo hinted. “It’s the only thing she’s understood.”

  The Lady Oswight repeated herself, this time in the ancient international tongue.

  “You sound like royalty,” the old woman said, and took a few steps closer. She slowly circled the Lady Oswight, looking the younger woman up and down, then stepped away and pronounced, “Brazilian.”

  “What?” Garsina said, startled.

  The old woman went to one of the land masses on the floor map, and tapped a toe in its upper corner.

  “Right here,” the old woman said. “If I didn’t know better.”

  Garsina stared at Wyo, her mouth half open, then looked back at the old woman.

  “We don’t understand what that means,” Wyo said. “We’re from Starstate Constellar.”

  The old woman stepped over to Wyo now, and gradually circled him, looking from head to toe. Then she stepped back and pronounced, “Euro, but with some other blood mixed in, so make it American.”

  This time she went to a different land mass on the map, and tapped her foot.

  “Again, if I didn’t know better.”

  “Is that…is that supposed to be Earth?” Garsina asked, trying to be gentle—her voice every bit as hoarse as Wyo’s.