by Timothy Zahn
“Got it. If you’ll clear it with Lanton, I can be up there in twenty minutes.”
Lanton wasn’t all that enthusiastic about letting Wilkinson set up shop in his cabin, especially when I wouldn’t explain my reasons to him, but eventually he gave in. I alerted Kate Epstein that she would have to do without Wilkinson for a while, and then called Matope to confirm the project’s access to tools and spares.
And then, for the time being, it was all over but the waiting. I resumed my examination of the viewport, wondering if I were being smart or just pipe-dreaming.
Two days later—barely eight hours before Bradley’s operation was due to begin—Wilkinson finally reported that the neural tracer was once again operational.
“This better be important,” Lanton fumed as he took his place at the dining-room table. “I’m already behind schedule in my equipment setup as it is.”
I glanced around at the others before replying. Pascal and Chileogu, fresh from their latest attempt at making sense from their assortment of plots, seemed tired and irritated by this interruption. Bradley and Alana, holding hands tightly under the table, looked more resigned than anything else. Everyone seemed a little gaunt, but that was probably my imagination—certainly we weren’t on anything approaching starvation rations yet. “Actually, Doctor,” I said, looking back at Lanton, “you’re not in nearly the hurry you think. There’s not going to be any operation.”
That got everyone’s full attention. “You’ve found another way?” Alana breathed, a hint of life touching her eyes for the first time in days.
“I think so. Dr. Chileogu, I need to know first whether a current running through Ming metal would change its effect on the ship’s real rotation.”
He frowned, then shrugged. “Probably. I have no idea how, though.”
A good thing I’d had the gadget fixed, then. “Doesn’t matter. Dr. Lanton, can you tell me approximately when in the cascade point your neural tracer burned out?”
“I can tell you exactly. It was just as the images started disappearing, right at the end.”
I nodded; I’d hoped it was either the turning on or off of the field generator that had done it. That would make the logistics a whole lot easier. “Good. Then we’re all set. What we’re going to do, you see, is reenact that particular maneuver.”
“What good will that do?” Lanton asked, his tone more puzzled than belligerent.
“It should get us home.” I waved toward the outer hull. “For the past two days we’ve been moving toward a position where the galactic field and other parameters are almost exactly the same as we had when we went through that point—providing your neural tracer is on and we’re heading back toward Taimyr. In another two days we’ll turn around and get our velocity vector lined up correctly. Then, with your tracer running, we’re going to fire up the generator and rotate the same amount—by gyro reading—as we did then. You”—I leveled a finger at Lanton—“will be on the bridge during that operation, and you will note the exact configuration of your cascade images at that moment. Then, without shutting off the generator, we’ll rotate back to zero; zero as defined by your cascade pattern, since it may be different from gyro zero. At that time, I’ll take the Ming metal from your tracer, walk it to the number one hold, and stuff it into the cargo shield; and we’ll rotate the ship again until we reach your memorized cascade pattern. Since the physical and real rotations are identical in that configuration, that’ll give us the real angle we rotated through the last time—”
“And from that we can figure the angle we’ll need to make going the other direction!” Alana all but shouted.
I nodded. “Once we’ve rotated back to zero to regain our starting point, of course.” I looked around at them again. Lanton and Bradley still seemed confused, though the latter was starting to catch Alana’s enthusiasm. Chileogu was scribbling on a notepad, and Pascal just sat there with his mouth slightly open. Probably astonished that he hadn’t come up with such a crazy idea himself. “That’s all I have to say,” I told them. “If you have any comments later—”
“I have one now, Captain.”
I looked at Bradley in some surprise. “Yes?”
He swallowed visibly. “It seems to me, sir, that what you’re going to need is a set of cascade images that vary a lot, so that the pattern you’re looking for is a distinctive one. I don’t think Dr. Lanton’s are suitable for that.”
“I see.” Of course; while Lanton had been studying Bradley’s images, Bradley couldn’t help but see his, as well. “Lanton? How about it?”
The psychiatrist shrugged. “I admit they’re a little bland—I haven’t had a very exciting life. But they’ll do.”
“I doubt it.” Bradley looked back at me. “Captain, I’d like to volunteer.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I told him. “Each rotation will take twice as long as the ones you’ve already been through. And there’ll be two of them back to back; and the field won’t be shut down between them, because I want to know if the images drift while I’m moving the coil around the ship. Multiply by about five what you’ve felt afterwards and you’ll get some idea what it’ll be like.” I shook my head. “I’m grateful for your offer, but I can’t let more people than necessary go through that.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m still going to do it.”
We locked eyes for a long moment … and the word dignity flashed through my mind. “In that case, I accept,” I said. “Other questions? Thank you for stopping by.”
They got the message and began standing up … all except Alana. Bradley whispered something to her, but she shook her head and whispered back. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and followed the others out of the room.
“Question?” I asked Alana when we were alone, bracing for an argument over the role I was letting Bradley take.
“You’re right about the extra stress staying in Colloton space that long will create,” she said. “That probably goes double for anyone running around in it. I’d expect a lot more vertigo, for starters, and that could make movement dangerous.”
“Would you rather Bradley had his brain scorched?”
She flinched, but stood her ground. “My objection isn’t with the method—it’s with who’s going to be bouncing off the Dancer’s walls.”
“Oh. Well, before you get the idea you’re being left out of things, let me point out that you’re going to be handling bridge duties for the maneuver.”
“Fine; but since I’m going to be up anyway I want the job of running the Ming metal back and forth instead.”
I shook my head. “No. You’re right about the unknowns involved with this, which is why I’m going to do it.”
“I’m five years younger than you are,” she said, ticking off fingers. “I also have a higher stress index, better balance, and I’m in better physical condition.” She hesitated. “And I’m not haunted by white uniforms in my cascade images,” she added gently.
Coming from anyone else, that last would have been like a knife in the gut. But from Alana, it somehow didn’t even sting. “The assignments are nonnegotiable,” I said, getting to my feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to catch a little sleep before my next shift.”
She didn’t respond. When I left she was still sitting there, staring through the shiny surface of the table.
“Here we go. Good Luck,” were the last words I heard Alana say before the intercom was shut down and I was alone in Lanton’s cabin. Alone, but not for long: a moment later my first doubles appeared. Raising my wrist, I keyed my chrono to stopwatch mode and waited, ears tingling with the faint ululation of the Colloton field generator. The sound, inaudible from the bridge, reminded me of my trainee days, before the Dancer … before Lord Hendrik and his fool-headed kid. … Shaking my head sharply, I focused on the images, waiting for them to begin their one-dimensional allemande.
; They did, and I started my timer. With the lines to the bridge dead I was going to have to rely on the image movements to let me know when the first part of the maneuver was over; moving the Ming metal around the ship while we were at the wrong end of our rotation or—worse—while we were still moving would probably end our chances of getting back for good. Mindful of the pranks cascade points could play on a person’s time sense, I’d had Pascal calculate the approximate times each rotation would take. Depending on how accurate they turned out to be, they might simply let me limit how soon I started worrying.
It wasn’t a pleasant wait. On the bridge, I had various duties to perform; here, I didn’t have even that much distraction from the ghosts surrounding me. Sitting next to the humming neural tracer, I watched the images flicker in and out, white uniforms dos-à-dosing with the coveralls and the gaps.
Ghosts. Haunted. I’d never seriously thought of them like that before, but now I found I couldn’t see them in any other way. I imagined I could see knowing smiles on the liner captains’ faces, or feel a coldness from the gaps where I’d died. Pure autosuggestion, of course … and yet, it forced me for probably the first time to consider what exactly the images were doing to me.
They were making me chronically discontented with my life.
My first reaction to such an idea was to immediately justify my resentment. I’d been cheated out of the chance to be a success in my field; trapped at the bottom of the heap by idiots who ranked political weaselcraft higher than flying skill. I had a right to feel dumped on.
And yet …
My watch clicked at me: the first rotation should be about over. I reset it and waited, watching the images. With agonizing slowness they came to a stop … and then started moving again in what I could persuade myself was the opposite direction. I started my watch again and let my eyes defocus a bit. The next time the dance stopped, it would be time to move Lanton’s damn coil to the hold and bring my ship back to normal.
My ship. I listened to the way the words echoed around my brain. My ship. No liner captain owned his own ship. He was an employee, like any other in the company; forever under the basilisk eye of those selfsame idiots who’d fired me once for doing my job. The space junk being sparser and all that aside, would I really have been happier in a job like that? Would I have enjoyed being caught between management on one hand and upper-crusty passengers on the other? Enjoyed, hell—would I have survived it? For the first time in ten years I began to wonder if perhaps Lord Hendrik had known what he was doing when he booted me out of his company.
Deliberately, I searched out the white uniforms far off to my left and watched as they popped in and out of different slots in the long line. Perhaps that was why there were so few of them, I thought suddenly; perhaps, even while I was pretending otherwise, I’d been smart enough to make decisions that had kept me out of the running for that particular treadmill. The picture that created made me smile: my subconscious chasing around with secret memos, hiding basic policy matters from my righteously indignant conscious mind.
The click of my watch made me jump. Taking a deep breath, I picked up a screwdriver from the tool pouch laid out beside the neural tracer and gave my full attention to the images. Slow … slower … stopped. I waited a full two minutes to make sure, then flipped off the tracer and got to work.
I’d had plenty of practice in the past two days, but it still took me nearly five minutes to extricate the coil from the maze of equipment surrounding it. That was no particular problem—we’d allowed seven minutes for the disassembly—but I was still starting to sweat as I got to my feet and headed for the door.
And promptly fell on my face.
Alana’s reference to enhanced vertigo apart, I hadn’t expected anything that strong quite so soon. Swallowing hard, I tried to ignore the feeling of lying on a steep hill and crawled toward the nearest wall. Using it as a support, I got to my feet, waited for the cabin to stop spinning, and shuffled over to the door. Fortunately, all the doors between me and One Hold had been locked open, so I didn’t have to worry about getting to the release. Still shuffling, I maneuvered through the opening and started down the corridor, moving as quickly as I could. The trip—fifteen meters of corridor, a circular stairway down, five more meters of corridor, and squeezing through One Hold’s cargo to get to the shield—normally took less than three minutes. We’d allowed ten; but already I could see that was going to be tight I kept my eyes on the wall beside me and concentrated on moving my feet … which was probably why I was nearly to the stairway before I noticed the kaleidoscope dance my cascade images were doing.
While the ship was at rest.
I stopped short, the pattern shifts ceasing as I did so. The thing I had feared most about this whole trick was happening: moving the Ming metal was changing our real angle in Colloton space.
I don’t know how long I leaned there with the sweat trickling down my forehead, but it was probably no more than a minute before I forced myself to get moving again. There were now exactly two responses Alana could make: go on to the endpoint Lanton had just memorized, or try and compensate somehow for the shift I was causing. The former course felt intuitively wrong, but the latter might well be impossible to do—and neither had any particular mathematical backing that Chileogu had been able to find. For me, the worst part of it was the fact that I was now completely out of the decision process. No matter how fast I got the coil locked away, there was no way I was going to make it back up two flights of stairs to the bridge. Like everyone else on board, I was just going to have to trust Alana’s judgment.
I slammed into the edge of the stairway opening, nearly starting my downward trip headfirst before I got a grip on the railing. The coil, jarred from my sweaty hand, went on ahead of me, clanging like a muffled bell as it bounced to the deck below. I followed a good deal more slowly, the writhing images around me adding to my vertigo. By now, the rest of my body was also starting to react to the stress, and I had to stop every few steps as a wave of nausea or fatigue washed over me. It seemed forever before I finally reached the bottom of the stairs. The coil had rolled to the middle of the corridor; retrieving it on hands and knees, I got back to the wall and hauled myself to my feet. I didn’t dare look at my watch.
The cargo hold was the worst part yet. The floor was swaying freely by then, like an ocean vessel in heavy seas, and through the reddish haze surrounding me, the stacks of boxes I staggered between seemed ready to hurl themselves down upon my head. I don’t remember how many times I shied back from what appeared to be a breaking wave of crates, only to slam into the stack behind me. Finally, though, I made it to the open area in front of the shield door. I was halfway across the gap, moving again on hands and knees, when my watch sounded the one-minute warning. With a desperate lunge, I pushed myself up and forward, running full tilt into the Ming-metal wall. More from good luck than anything else, my free hand caught the handle; and as I fell backwards the door swung open. For a moment I hung there, trying to get my trembling muscles to respond. Then, slowly, I got my feet under me and stood up. Reaching through the opening, I let go of the coil and watched it drop into the gap between two boxes. The hold was swaying more and more violently now; timing my move carefully, I shoved on the handle and collapsed to the deck. The door slammed shut with a thunderclap that tried to take the top of my head with it. I hung on just long enough to see that the door was indeed closed, and then gave in to the darkness.
I’m told they found me sleeping with my back against the shield door, making sure it couldn’t accidentally come open.
I was lying on my back when I came to, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Kate Epstein’s face. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Fine,” I told her, frowning as I glanced around. This wasn’t my cabin. … With a start I recognized the humming in my ear. “What the hell am I doing in Lanton’s cabin?” I growled.
Kate shrugged and r
eached over my shoulder, shutting off the neural tracer. “We needed Dr. Lanton’s neural equipment, and the tracer wasn’t supposed to be moved. A variant of the mountain/Mohammed problem, I guess you could say.”
I grunted. “How’d the point maneuver go? Was Alana able to figure out a correction factor?”
“It went perfectly well,” Alana’s voice came from my right. I turned my head, to find her sitting next to the door. “I think we’re out of the woods now, Pall—that four-point-four physical rotation turned out to be more like nine point one once the coil was out of the way. If Chileogu’s right about reversibility applying here, we should be back in our own universe now. I guess we won’t know for sure until we go through the next point and reach Earth.”
“Is that nine point one with or without a correction factor?” I asked, my stomach tightening in anticipation. We might not be out of the woods quite yet.
“No correction needed,” she said. “The images on the bridge stayed rock-steady the whole time.”
“But … I saw them shifting.”
“Yes, you told us that. Our best guess—excuse me; Pascal’s best guess—is that you were getting that because you were moving relative to the field generator, that if you’d made a complete loop around it you would’ve come back to the original cascade pattern again. Chileogu’s trying to prove that mathematically, but I doubt he’ll be able to until he gets to better facilities.”
“Uh-huh.” Something wasn’t quite right here. “You say I told you about the images? When?”
Alana hesitated, looked at Kate. “Actually, Captain,” the doctor said gently, “you’ve been conscious quite a bit during the past four days. The reason you don’t remember any of it is that the connection between your short-term and long-term memories got a little scrambled—probably another effect of your jaunt across all those field lines. It looks like that part’s healed itself, though, so you shouldn’t have any more memory problems.”
