"Very. Thus far, there've only been skirmishes—singleship encounters—both sides seem to be feeling each other out. But the Halyan't'a have concluded they're facing a numerically and technologically superior opponent. They don't like admitting it—they're as butt-headedly proud as we—but they're scared. Especially with Earth moving up behind them. Under the circumstances, they'd prefer us as friends and allies."
"Can't fault that analysis. So what happened to this ship?"
Ciari took a breath, his eyes suddenly haunted as he looked around the sleek, sparsely furnished room. Nicole wondered whose memories he was reliving. "Shavrin isn't sure. Possibly a malfunction, a major systems failure. Or enemy action. Or sabotage. Not everyone at home is thrilled by this embassy. Why bring Earth in as equal partners when we can effectively colonize the place?" Nicole's eyes flashed at his use of "we" to describe the Halyan't'a.
"As the Europeans did India and the Third World."
"Yup. Fortunately for us, Shavrin's party prevailed.
"Anyway, the incident occurred when Range Guide—this vessel—was in warp space, well away from s'N'dare. A glitch developed in their cryogenic fuel network, a repair crew went to work on it, and there was an explosion. The blast killed all the duty engineering staff and voided the atmosphere through two-thirds of the ship before the automatic bulkheads closed. They lost seventy percent of the crew. Including the Speaker," he finished.
"That's you," Nicole said flatly. Ciari looked sharply at her, then quickly translated what she'd said to Shavrin. Nicole tried to distinguish individual words in his speech, but found it impossible; there were no breaks in the phrasing, merely shifts in harmonic tones and intensity, and in the shape of the sound itself. He was singing—and how he sang seemed as important as what he sang.
"Correct," he said at last, in English. "That's me.
"A Speaker," he continued, "is probably one of the most crucial members of an embassy, and, I think, of Halyan't'a society as a whole. They're very rare; a handful each generation is considered extraordinarily good fortune. To have one as a member of your family—I suppose it's akin to having a relative elected Pope. Honor without parallel.
"The name describes the function: a Speaker is one who communicates. In his or her brain is contained the sum total of Halyan't'a experience and knowledge, tied in with total recall. That complete awareness, combined with a highly sensitive telempathic talent, makes them invaluable as mediators. They can see both sides of a dispute, in immediate and long-range terms, how that dispute and its resolution will affect not only the parties involved, but society as a whole. Simultaneously, they're conditioned to remain above the conflict—dispassionate and uninvolved—the ultimate arbiter, whose decisions are invariably accepted without question or argument because all involved know that decision was made impartially, without malice or prejudice.
"The Speaker aboard Range Guide had been briefed with every scrap of data the Halyan't'a had amassed about Earth and its peoples. He spoke English, he understood us about as well as any Halyan't'a could. With his telempathic talent, he could have told Shavrin not only what our representatives were saying, but the social and political context of the words, and the emotions behind them. Without him, she was hunting blind, deaf, and dumb."
"Why didn't she head home for repairs, then, and a replacement?"
"She couldn't. They managed to cope with the damage while staying in warp space. Miraculously, the explosion left their stardrive untouched. But the integral structure of Range Guide itself was badly damaged. She wasn't sure the ship could survive the downshift transition into normal space, let alone an upshift back into Warp. She decided there was more risk in going back than coming on."
"Would there have been a political cost to her returning in failure?"
A silence, then, "Yes."
"Which would have changed the balance in favor of the other party?"
"Possibly. They'd also lost a critical amount of life-support—food, water, air—to conserve what remained, Shavrin placed the ship under computer control and ordered her crew into stasis. That's why we found no signs of life when we came aboard; everyone was in suspended animation."
"And the computer woke them up as soon as you opened the airlock."
"Actually, it woke Shavrin when Hana bounced her radio beam off the hull. She observed our approach from a shielded compartment. We were left alone till we reached the flight deck because she wanted to see what kinds of beings we were, how we'd treat their ship."
"I assume she liked what she saw."
Ciari looked up at the deliberate shade of irony in Nicole's voice. "She nearly had a seizure when you took off your helmet," he said.
"Worried about Terrestrial diseases...?"
He shook his head. "Nope. From that aspect, they'd mediscanned us pretty thoroughly and were fairly certain we were safe. It's that, to Shavrin, you... stank. Still do. That's why she's wearing nose filters."
Nicole remembered her own supposition about the Halyan't'a sense of smell and was pleased to see it borne out, although mildly chagrined at Shavrin's reaction. "Okay, Ben, they needed a Speaker and they chose you. The modules," she asked, "that's what those were about?" He nodded. "What about Andrei and Hana? I've been assuming that if I'm all right, so are they, but I wouldn't mind some reassurance."
"They're fine, Nicole. They're in stasis." He touched a button on the table top and a holo-image appeared in the air. It was a view of the chamber where Nicole had awoken, only now she could see that one long wall was marked off into transparent squares. Most were empty, but within the two central in the image, she could make out Harm's and Andrei's faces. She couldn't tell if they were alive or dead and, though she tried, she couldn't repress an instinctive shudder of revulsion. The place reminded her too much of a morgue.
Ciari pressed another button and the image vanished.
"Why am I awake and not them?" Nicole demanded.
"They'll be revived as soon as we've finished this talk. I..." Ciari shrugged, trying to come to grips with emotions that were solid as steel one instant, elusive as-quicksilver the next. "I couldn't forget your face as the warriors dragged me away. I..." He searched for words, Nicole's eyes narrowing at this uncharacteristic hesitancy in Ciari's manner, where before had been sure self-confidence. "I wanted to stop the hurting inside you. To show you I was all right."
"You cared," she said flatly.
A nervous smile. "I always cared. Now, it meant something—important—to let you see. Also, I needed to explain what had happened, and why. Aside from the fact that you were Spacecraft Commander, I trust your judgment more than Andrei's or Hana's. The Halyan't'a aren't our enemies, Nicole, and they aren't by nature cruel. By doing to me what she did, Shavrin violated every ethical canon she's ever been taught. Her people may forgive her, especially if she succeeds in this mission, but I doubt she'll ever forgive herself. She felt she had no alternative. She was right."
"Perhaps," Nicole said, reaching across the table to Ciari. Hesitantly, she touched his hair, his cheek, unconsciously repeating the gestures Shavrin had made when they first met. The textures weren't what she remembered; he was the same, yet... Alien. "They used a genetic virus, correct? The modules were to determine which of us was the most compatible with the process."
"Impressive."
"It wasn't all that hard to figure out, Ciari. The only way your body could manifest such subtle, yet fundamental, changes is if someone's been fooling about with the basic DNA structure of your cells."
"You're angry."
"I suppose I am."
Shavrin growled a low phrase, her voice touching rumbling basso levels no human could match. Ciari answered in kind.
"Shavrin understands," he told Nicole, after the exchange, "but she also believes that, were you in her position, you would have done the same."
Nicole made no reply, but knew Shavrin had hit the mark. That realization was, in fact, the reason for her fury.
"They began scanning
us the moment we boarded. Shavrin had no plans then to transform any of us, but she would have been remiss in her duties if she didn't at least explore the possibility."
"Is it rough, Ben?"
"You have no concept," he told her. "Most of the time—now, for instance—I can handle myself fairly well.
But then...
"Christ, Nicole, having another head inside your own is frightening enough, but this is like having billions and billions of heads all crammed together; every so often, I'm overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. Usually, y'see, potential Speakers are tagged at birth. They have a unique genetic matrix, and they undergo conditioning through childhood to enable them, physically and psychologically, to accept the virus. With me, not only do I not have any of that conditioning, I'm an alien species to boot. I'm lucky I'm not crazier than I am."
"Is the effect permanent?"
"No, thank the Maker. But the more time that passes before I take the antidote, the less effective it'll be."
"Why'd she do it!" As she asked the question, Nicole rounded on Shavrin, the pain and rage in her heart lashing out like a whip. "Why?"
"The raider, of course," Ciari answered simply.
Nicole faced him, anger transformed instantly to shock. "What!" she stammered, trying to regain her mental equilibrium.
"The raider. I'm afraid I hit that one on the nose. Range Guide was too big a plum to pass up. It showed up on the Halyan't'a scanners while Hana was on the flight deck; she recognized it instantly. It's the same cruiser that ambushed Wanderer.
"Shavrin had no intention of using the Speaker virus before then. She didn't know whether or not we represented any of Earth's governments, but she liked us and, strange as it may seem, trusted us. We gave off good vibes and the Halyan't'a responded to them. That impromptu concert we gave worked wonders, as did our collective responses to their holographic Rorschach. They were why we were permitted to participate in their Memorial Service. When Hana saw the raider, and reacted with such primal emotions, that suddenly made establishing effective communications between us imperative. And the only way to do that was the Speaker virus. Shavrin decided to go with her instincts. She had you and the others stunned and locked in stasis because she knew you wouldn't understand and, not understanding, would resist. Try to rescue me. Also, the stasis chamber is completely shielded against sensor probes, so that, when the raiders scanned Range Guide, all they'd register would be Halyan't'a."
Something about Ciari's manner prompted Nicole to mention, "I saw a scanner just before I was clobbered; you and I registered about the same."
"Actually, you were more psi-sensitive."
"Then why'd they choose you?"
"You remember the Service?"
"I try. That was another examination?"
"In part. You're lucky, in a way; I remember it all, like watching a film inside my head."
"I saw you change, as if you'd put on a tiger's mask."
"True. I wore a mask, but you were the one who changed. You're more like them—more like Shavrin—than you know; if they'd administered the Speaker virus, you'd never have found your way back. You'd be Halyan't'a in a human body. For the rest of your life. Maybe it's my age, or my experiences. Among other things, flying singleships builds a helluva sense of self-possession. Maybe I'm just stubborn; whatever, I seem able to hold on to my self. Barely. You couldn't."
"I see. And when did all this occur?"
"Ten days ago."
"Jesus."
"The virus took about six hundred kilosecs—a week, Standard—to completely take effect. Most of the time I spent hanging on to my sanity by my fingernails. This morning, we arrived at the raider base. It's an asteroid, a couple of klicks in diameter, part of a large mid-Belt cluster. This is a big operation, Nicole, very professional, probably with Corporate backing. We spotted three other spacecraft on our way in—two strike units and a refinery—and Shavrin's Tactical Officer suspects there are others docked on the rock's farside. Our escort's the biggest of the lot, but that other pair pack a respectable punch, easily Wanderer's match."
"Go on."
"We're hard-docked against the asteroid, with transfer tunnels connected to our main portside airlocks. Shavrin's opinion is that, regardless of whether or not she cooperates with these people, her crew is doomed if they stay here."
"I agree."
"So do I. Got any suggestions?"
"You're the cop, isn't this your territory?"
"I'm—" he flashed his rare old grin—"not myself."
"Okay. Crack Hana and Andrei out of the icebox and we'll see what we can do."
Chapter Twelve
"Any bright ideas?" Nicole asked no one in particular.
Andrei spoke first. "We could always surrender."
"Hey," Hana squawked, "that was my line!"
Nicole sighed and rubbed her eyes. Thanks a lot, Lord, she thought, it's going to be one of those days. "I did say bright ideas, guys."
"Can we see that exterior scan again, Nicole?" Hana asked.
Nicole nodded and carefully tapped the touch-sensitive computer keyboard inlaid on the surface of the briefing room table. She took her time, working the controls as Ciari had taught her. She knew she was doing it right, but still couldn't contain a grin of triumph as the airspace over the table blinked into a three-dimensional portrait of the view outside Range Guide. She swung the camera towards the asteroid.
"Hold it!" Hana snapped. Nicole took her hand off the panel as the other woman levered herself up from her chair to hover right beside the image. "See these?" She indicated various points on the rock's hulking, irregular surface. "Nicole, can you lock on to one and focus the lens as tightly as possible?"
When she'd done so, they had the illusion that they were standing outside the bunker, so close—the picture was that clear—they could almost touch it. The sense of reality was unnerving. Someone whistled.
"Missile launchers," Andrei noted quietly.
"And particle beam weapons," Nicole added. "Pure murder at short range. This rock's easily got sufficient firepower to deal with any single cruiser that tries to take it on. And perhaps even a whole squadron."
"Could the bunkers be eliminated, or crippled somehow?" Andrei wondered.
"If they have a common energy source and/or See-cubed link," Nicole answered. "Then, if we zapped that central control, they'd be helpless. Unfortunately—" she shifted focus slightly—"the bunker has its own radar tracking system. They probably have triple redundancy and better, plus independent power. If central command goes off-line, they simply switch to their individual command and control systems and keep on shooting."
"We wouldn't need more than a few minutes' grace, Nicole," Andrei said. "Just sufficient time to sever all physical connections with the asteroid and gain ourselves a small amount of clearance."
"And then what," Hana demanded, sarcasm obvious. "We simply disappear?"
"Something like that." Andrei smiled. "We turn on the stardrive."
For a moment, no one said a word, stunned by the terrible simplicity of Andrei's suggestion.
"That's right," Nicole murmured, when she'd found her voice. "It's fully functional, isn't it? But I thought Range Guide couldn't withstand the strain of Warp transition."
"We need keep the drive active for at most a couple of seconds—on, beat, beat, off! I think the hull can endure that level of stress. The critical maneuver will be establishing our proper flight attitude, so we don't accidentally plow into a planet or the Sun when we DownShift."
"Andrei," Nicole asked incredulously, "how the hell far is this jaunt going to take us?"
"Based on a flight time of three seconds—here are my rough figures, Hana, can you work it out?"
She scratched at her pad a moment, chewed the end of her pen, then let out a low whistle.
"It should take us across the System. We'll probably end up a little outside Pluto's orbit."
"Forty astronomical units," Nicole said, "over six billion kilomet
ers—in three seconds?!"
"From a standing start," Andrei nodded. "The Halyan't'a stardrive is slightly more efficient than our own."
"No foolin'. If the raiders find this out, all bets are off; Shavrin and her crew are history."
The door hissed open and Ciari entered. Nicole saw him first and his unearthly beauty—that was the word that fit best, though he was inescapably male—took her breath away.
He wore the full, formal robes of a Speaker—a floor-length, long-sleeved gown worn under a floor-length, sleeveless vest. The gown was a very dark green, the vest black, highlighted with intricate runes etched in silver thread that flashed fire with every move he made. The vest hung open, revealing two pieces of jewelry: a silver and turquoise belt buckled around his waist, and a chain of office around his neck. Someone had styled his hair and made up his face to subtly accent the aspects of his physiognomy that had become more Halyan't'a than human. The end result was magnificent, civilized, yet hearkening back to a passionate, barbaric past. And it was unhuman.
"Wow," was all Nicole could say.
Ciari managed to maintain his impassive, Alien mien for a few more seconds before his face dissolved into an unrestrained, totally human grin. He held out his arms and did a slow pirouette—no mean feat, considering the Velcro-like gripsoles keeping his sandled feet stuck to the deck in the starship's zero gravity.
"Like it?" he asked them all, with a momentary sideways glance that focused the question exclusively at Nicole.
Again, all she could say was, "Wow." And she asked him how he felt.
"So far, so good." He chuckled. "I feel alive, I feel excited, I feel terrified. I feel speedy and high. I'm dancing on clouds and racing along a tightrope stretched a million kilometers above the ground. I'm babbling."
"Yeah." Nicole took his hands and led him away from the others, dropping her voice so that he alone could hear. As they moved, Ciari's grip suddenly tightened around her wrists and she winced at the unexpected pain. She didn't try to break his hold; she wasn't even sure she could. "It's harder than you thought, isn't it, Ben? Holding on to yourself."
First Flight Page 21
