“You’ve watched Transition live?”
“On a bet. Big by-God mistake, that I can tell you. Typical kind of wager, who can hold out the longest. Pretty fair kitty, too, as I recall.”
“You didn’t win, I take it.”
“No, Nicole, I sure didn’t. An’ I got no desire to be that sick again, either.”
“Excuse me,” a new voice, faint but definite Scots burr, from a couple of tiers below, a woman Nicole recognized—from Earth, she realized—but whose name totally escaped her. She was too far away, especially in the chamber’s muted light, for Nicole to make out her ID tag.
The woman raised her right hand flat to her forehead in a British military salute.
“Flight Leftenant Coy, sir, Royal Air Force.”
“I remember you—Jenny, isn’t it”—a nod in reply—“from the dock in Hanecgar.”
“San Diego, sir.”
“What’s Hanecgar?” Hana asked.
Nicole shook her head and frowned. “Haven’t a clue. Something I was thinking about, I guess. I must’ve transposed the name.”
“I’ve been assigned as your dog’s-body,” Jenny said.
“Say what?” This, from Pasqua, who’d stepped off the Throne to make way for his replacement, in shirtsleeves instead of armor.
“Britishism,” Nicole told him, “their equivalent of a gofer.” She looked towards Jenny. “I thought you just got your starflight wings.”
“I did. But my assignment to the Constitution was set fairly early on—assuming, o’ course, I didn’t wash out—so I’ve a quite comprehensive knowledge of the ship an’ its systems.”
“Nearsighted leading the blind,” came a comment from Hana, along with a chuckle, “this should be interesting.”
The officer who’d passed Pasqua—another light Commander—offered Nicole a salute, which she automatically returned.
“I relieve you, Major,” he said.
“I stand relieved,” she replied with equal formality, and made way for him in the chair.
When they made their way outside, after a round of farewells and a last, appreciative look at the overhead display—now presenting a simulacrum of what they’d see were they still in Normal Space, derived from the computer’s inertial plot of their course—Nicole wasn’t at all surprised to find the Marine Sergeant patiently waiting for them.
“Let me guess, Sergeant,” Nicole said, “you’re here to make sure the officer sent to make sure Dr. Murai and I don’t get lost doesn’t get lost herself, yes?”
“If you ladies will follow me,” was the reply.
This pace, thankfully, was considerably more relaxed than the one the Sergeant had set earlier, more of a brisk stroll than a race. They hadn’t gone far before Hana decided to state the obvious.
“Funny,” she said to Jenny without preamble, “you don’t look Celtic.”
She got a big grin in reply. “Not bad, Doctor. Not half so tactless as some I’ve heard.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m an island Highlander, off Skye.”
“Whereabouts?” Nicole asked.
“Portree, that’s the main town. My dad’s a teacher, my mum’s a nurse.”
“And you’re a pilot.”
“Not so great a leap as y’ might think. Dad was RAF, too, for a bit. Flew ground attack until he caught some antiaircraft in the Balkans. Mum looked after him in the casualty ward. One thing led to another.”
“How long’ve you been on Skye?”
“I’m the fourth generation. Great-granddad was highland Vietnamese, Air Attaché at the Embassy in London when Saigon fell. Asked for asylum. I think he’d done some work for MI-6—that’s our Secret Service—because Whitehall let him stay without a fuss and helped get whoever else in the family wanted to come into the country as well.”
“Never thought of going back?”
Jenny paused before answering, as though every time she heard this particular question it had to be given proper consideration. “No,” she said, finally and flatly. “Wherever my family may have come from, Major, Skye is my home—is something wrong?”
Truthfully, Nicole couldn’t say, any more than she could understand the sudden and inexplicable pang she felt at Jenny’s reply. As though the same sentiment no longer had meaning for her. She was a boat, adrift and becalmed, with neither wind nor current to move her on her way, but that didn’t matter—because even if she had the means, she had no destination. She was where she always wanted to be, with no idea of where she was going. Or, worse, of where she belonged.
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
The tide is too fast, the beach it covers too large, and she’s quickly caught in the surf, as waves that had originally broken far in the distance now break on top of her. It’s like being caught in an avalanche, she’s hammered to the sand hard enough to make her lose most of her breath, then tumbled head over heels as one comber quickly yields to another. She can’t find her bearings; she has no idea where to find the air, as bands of fire tighten around her chest and her heart feels as though it’s about to explode.
It was a long time before Nicole slept, she was so jazzed. Hana crashed right off and Jenny soon after, but Nicole stayed in the sitting room of their duplex apartment, clad in singlet and running shorts, feet tucked tight under her as she scrunched herself into a corner of the couch and wished for a hearth fire. She tried for the next best thing, calling up a representation of one on the DisplayWall, but erased it after a few seconds, switching instead to a starscape. A subordinate window flashed all the relevant information about the ship’s speed and status. Nicole held her breath for a short five-count and watched tens of millions of kilometers flash by, so significant a velocity that their progress could be noted simply by the movement of the stars. She snuggled deeper into the pillows, cradling her mug of tea against her breast, luxuriating in its warmth, and shuddered imperceptibly with a mixture of awe and raw delight.
The com beeped, demanding attention, using the Wall to tell her that Amy Cobri was on the line. Nicole ignored it, and the com obligingly shunted the call to its memory buffer. Amy’d been trying to get through since Nicole came off-watch, but Nicole was in too good a mood to deal with her.
Be a pleasant change for the girl, she told herself and the others, to discover she can’t get her own way in everything.
“Library,” she called suddenly, as another thought struck home.
“Accessing,” replied the computer, in its neutrally female voice.
“Do you have any information on the word ‘Hanecgar’?” And spelled it as well, as best she could.
“Pronunciation suggests a Halyan’t’a derivation.”
“Damn!” She sat a little straighter on the couch, and a furrow appeared between her eyes as her attention focused; she should have been aware of that from the start, and wondered why she wasn’t.
“Anything beyond that?” she asked.
“Hal referents are limited; this term is not included among them.”
Inspiration, since she’d somehow transposed it with San Diego: “It could be a seaport, or perhaps something relating to the ocean, does that help?”
“Hal referents are limited; this term is not included among them,” it repeated. “Nor can the term be found among any Terrestrial data bases.”
“If you come across anything, let me know.”
“Will comply.”
She craned her neck a little, and rolled her eyes towards the gallery overhead, the upper level of the duplex, where the Hal were quartered. It was common procedure to bunk members of the same operational team—or flight—together. In this instance, that policy served a double purpose, allowing Hobby to semiquarantine the XTs—as the Hal had come to be called, in a more socially acceptable alternative to “Fuzzies”—among those humans who knew them best. Conflict would be inevitable, that was assumed from the start, the idea here was to minimize the opportunity.
There was an ache beneath h
er breastbone, a hollowness of longing that struck her as sharp and deeply as a knife, and she found herself thinking of Ben Ciari. Five years and more since she’d seen him in the flesh, since they’d shared a bed, and that memory prompted a wicked little smile. They’d been very good together, more than a match for each other.
But the smile turned almost immediately to a frown and she shook her head angrily as images blurred in her head, details smearing and merging, the sleek smoothness of bare skin giving way to a shape that was just as lean, just as hard, but covered with a fine, silken fur.
“Christ,” she breathed, crossing her arms to hide her face, half afraid to take a decent look for fear of what she’d see. “Mother of Christ! What is happening?”
It wasn’t Ciari who had changed in her mind’s eye, it was Nicole.
Sleep wasn’t the comfort she’d hoped for but at least she had no dreams—that she could recall, anyway—until all of a sudden she sat bolt upright on the couch, heart racing with an adrenaline surge, fully awake, completely alert without knowing why. That answer came a beat later as perceptions caught up with senses and she heard the two-toned, short-long burst of the alarm klaxon. The entire DisplayWall was radiating a scarlet background and pulsing the word ALERT in letters larger than Nicole herself.
Her first thought as she kicked off the couch, springing for the bedroom doors in a single giant step, was that the suite’s primary environment was still stable. No discernible change in either atmosphere or gravity, which by implication meant the power plants were still okay. Beyond that, though, they seemed to be out of luck, as she slapped a switch to turn on the lights and nothing happened.
“Everybody up,” she bellowed, hammering on the door to Jenny Coy’s room. Hana’s opened before she could hit it, Hana yanking a T-shirt over her head as she demanded an explanation.
“No details yet,” was Nicole’s hurried reply, “just that damn horn. Check upstairs, Hana, find out what happened to the Hal.” As a species, their hearing and visual acuity were more sensitive than human norms; this noise that was painful to Nicole would be brutal for them. Ch’ghan was an experienced spacer, he’d know what it meant even if Raqella didn’t. Nicole was surprised they hadn’t reacted to the clamor already.
Hana’s call from the gallery told her why.
“They’re both gone,” she cried, “the rooms are empty!”
Nicole was at the desk, typing commands on the keyboard in an attempt to get more information on the alert.
“Shit,” she snarled as the screen filled with garbage, “shit shit shit! Total systems crash, I can’t access!”
The door popped wide, swinging inward so hard it bounced off its stops. The moment she heard the locks disengage, Nicole grabbed for a handhold against a possible decompression, but all that occurred was that the foyer filled with a trio of armored Marines. Their helmet lamps were blinding, like staring into a set of aircraft landing lights, and the troopers moved with practiced efficiency to collect the three women and hustle them into the corridor outside.
It was a struggle to keep from being panicked or disoriented as they were rushed along. The air was thick with noise, different kinds of alarms assaulting the ears along with the shouts of the Marines, exhorting them to pick up the pace until they were moving at close to a dead run. The halls were in total darkness, the only illumination coming in random splashes of brilliance from the Marines’ helmet and hand lamps, and that did more harm than good since each dose of light left the victim dazzle-blinded, vision splattered with opaque spots and rendered virtually useless. The dominant impression was one of tremendous urgency but even as Nicole and her flatmates—plus quite a few others, all looking like they’d been rousted from bed, their confusion and growing apprehension almost physically palpable—were gathered together, she began to suspect there was less to what was going on than met the eye. The harder she looked, the more deliberate the pandemonium began to seem.
She heard a cry, calling her name in genuine terror: “Nicole! Nicole! What’s happening!”
The girl lunged for her, but it was like trying to move across a subway platform at rush hour, the only sure way to make progress was to go with the flow, two or three steps forward, one to the side. Amy—characteristically—just plunged in, expecting the crowd to make way. Someone’s foot snagged on someone else’s, she was bodychecked by a Marine, and before she’d taken a decent step she was falling. Nicole realized all this immediately and began reacting even as Amy tumbled underfoot. The Marine made matters worse by trying to keep from trampling her, thereby setting up a chain-reaction collision with the people following. Nicole threw her own body into the mix, gathering Amy into her arms to shield her, but fast as she was, the Marines shepherding her and Hana were a match. She and Amy were caught before they hit the floor and even though they were both jostled and bumped and bruised a little they quickly found themselves upright once again and back in the pack.
“They hurt me,” Amy wailed, purest adolescent, without a care for her normal air of grown-up self-possession.
“Wasn’t intentional, kiddo,” said Nicole, keeping an arm protectively about Amy’s shoulder and the girl herself held close. Her mouth was set, her eyes flashing her anger at this increasingly helter-skelter situation; she was convinced now that there was nothing really wrong, this was some elaborate performance. Inside, though, she was smiling at how she and Amy were relating to each other. Given a moment to regain their normal equilibrium, she knew they’d both be back at sword’s point, but this was a pleasant change. She wondered if Amy felt the same—or if she’d even noticed.
“Simply what happens,” she continued, a glance over her other shoulder satisfying her that Hana and Jenny were together and close at hand, “when bare skin collides with body armor. If they were serious, we’d be busted all to bits.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” Hana told Nicole, and Nicole had to laugh.
“ ‘Right,’ who knows? It’s certainly bogus.”
“No emergency?” from Jenny, holding tight to Hana.
“I’d bet serious money on it.”
They were bundled en masse through a final hatch, into what Nicole assumed was a cargo bay, a space easily big enough to handle the crowd pouring through the single entrance. The Marines took a fade at that point, most staying outside in the corridor, while the few that remained took up stations along the periphery. The mood was still primarily one of confusion, as folks looked for people they knew—friends, colleagues, family—and tried thereby to get their bearings. Nicole used her height to good advantage, going up on tiptoe to try for a look over the surrounding heads, but the room was too dimly lit for her to see anything useful. The illumination was so poor, in fact, that she couldn’t make out the other walls from where she stood, nor the ceiling. The floor at least was delineated by softly iridescent GlowStripes.
“Interesting,” she said to no one in particular.
“What?” Hana replied.
“There are no kids here.”
“I saw some along the way.”
“Me, too. Rents are asking and looking, though—see how the Marines are singling some couples out, pulling them aside for a quick talk?”
“Would there be a protocol for evacuating kids separately?”
Nicole shrugged. “Even if there was, I suspect it doesn’t apply here.”
“The floor’s cold,” Amy complained, gathering arms and the body of her cotton nightgown close about her.
“I think somebody stomped on my foot,” Jenny echoed with a grimace, Nicole acting as a brace while the young Scot lifted her leg to gently probe for broken bones. Jenny favored pajamas, the sheer silk material at odds with the ostensibly respectable design.
“WELCOME,” boomed a huge male voice, catching everyone off-guard, the omnidirectional speakers giving no clue as to the origin of the broadcast.
Simultaneously, the darkness overhead was banished by a glorious explosion. Every face looked upward to behold an indescribable
wavefront of energy—a glowing, growing sphere of radiance that expanded in mere seconds to fill the entire viewing surface.
Nicole couldn’t help but be impressed, this was a level of display technology on a par with the imaging system in the Command Centers. Around her, she heard cries of awe and delight mingled with those of outright terror.
That explains about the kids, she thought; they ’d be scared stiff already from the rush through the halls. They find themselves in what appears to be naked space, the poor things ’d probably go berserk.
Some of the adults weren’t handling things that much better, and Nicole reassured one nearby couple that this was only an illusion; appearances to the contrary, they were all still safe and sound, deep within the starship’s hull.
There was a shout from down front and a scattering of appreciative applause, plus an outbreak of nervous laughter to break the tension everyone felt, as the wave front swept past them and away, leaving in its wake a sky filled to bursting with stars. It was as though they’d all been privileged to eavesdrop on the moment of Creation, a billion years of genesis compressed into a few wondrous moments.
“In the Beginning,” she remembered and as always thought about what that meant: The more we learn, the less we know. The more completely we seek to comprehend the elemental, fundamental nature of Reality, the more it comes to be seen as magic.
Which neatly closed the circle on what was happening here, a spectacularly orchestrated and produced magic show.
Forms were slip-sliding through the firmament, wriggling salamander streamers of fire that coalesced into a multitude of shapes and figures, the most spellbinding being the last, a majestic raptor with a crested plume of solar gold and a body of autumnal flame. It was approaching with wings and claws outstretched, as though descending for a landing, but at the last possible instant, another metamorphosis occurred, from bird to man, illusion to reality, as Bill Hobby stepped out onto an invisible dais.
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