If her heart alone were making all the decisions, then this would be so easy. They could return to the planet, give their speeches – and a warning about the Fyal – and then disappear inside a tinted citycar and retreat into private life.
Lara tried to cling to that fantasy. But the reality was simple: In one way or another, the Fyal would remain with them all. The world they looked upon either had already been visited by those creatures, or very likely would in the near future. Either way, the fantasy would have to remain just that.
She cursed the Fyal, she cursed herself. And she did not forget the final words of the Fyal: “We WILL COME for you.”
11
T
hree words, Sir Jonathan Travert uttered. Bryan should have been prepared. He had braced for this, the culmination of so much work, so many risks. Andorran has returned. Andorran has returned.
“Suffice to say,” Travert continued, “this is a remarkable turn of events. But it is not one that comes without preparation. And it is not one that will ever be broadcast to the general public.”
In between his next dramatic pause, Travert stared the distance of the table, and Bryan met the leader's eyes. Bryan knew exactly what was coming next.
“What I am about to tell you is known only by the Senior Councils of the six economic communities, plus a handful of operatives. Four years ago, as the window for Andorran's return neared, a decision was made that the six councils believe will be in the best long-term interests of the world. The crew of Andorran will not be allowed to return to Earth. As I speak, an operation is under way in one of the PAC protectorates to fuel and man an orbital shuttle that will rendezvous with Andorran as she arrives in orbit. At the time of the rendezvous, the crew of the Andorran will be terminated without delay, her archival memory downloaded and her engines reprogrammed to take her out of orbit and toward a collision with the sun.”
Travert confirmed what Bryan's sources told him almost two years earlier, but he hoped against hope itself this plan had since changed. Now, there was no stopping the nightmare of glory that tagged alongside him for 22 years. In the span of less than one minute, everything he anticipated for the future changed.
His security colleagues were, for the most part, apprehensive, even shocked, by Travert's pronouncement.
“Kill the crew, Mr. President?” Barbara Henlowe of Northeastern Regional Patrol blurted out the first objection. “How could we justify ... why ...? Make me understand.”
“This was not an easy decision,” Travert replied. “But in light of all that has transpired since Andorran left Earth in 2110, we felt it would better serve the future and what we are striving to achieve here. It has not been all that long since we brought the colonial space era to a merciful conclusion. If, in fact, the Andorran achieved all of its objectives, such a miraculous return could be just the spark to re-ignite that incredible period of waste and fraud. It was a slice of our history that exacerbated all of our problems at home and nearly brought this world to utter collapse.
“Now, as for the particulars, and why I have relayed this information to all of you. The Andorran has been signaling Earth for several days, and at this moment, is less than six hours from orbital rendezvous. At this time, we do not believe anyone other than certain members of the PAC are aware of its presence. Shortly after the decision to terminate the Andorran crew, we realized it would be necessary to intercept the ship's signal before arrival. In a lovely twist of irony, we used the relics of the colonial era, the old TRONSTAT satellites still in orbit, to form what our experts called a Grayson-Ridder deflection. In essence, the satellites were configured to focus on the pre-programmed course parameters for Andorran's return. Every signal, whether Chameleon or the old radio bands, has been filtered through the TRONSTATs and ultimately relayed to a receiving station in the Yukon.
“But, as our methods are not necessarily infallible, it is always possible the signal might have reached others, especially the underground networks we have been trying for years to flush out. There is one in particular, and you are all aware of it. I refer, of course, to the group headed by Dr. Adam Smith. We still do not know its location or its name, but we believe Smith's contacts to be extensive, and it is possible an effort will be made to sabotage our project. I come to you so you will be vigilant over the next 24 hours. Place your regional commanders on high alert. Enforce the flight grid around the Caribbean protectorates – any overt action against this project will take place there.”
Travert sat back, sighed. “We're too close to our goals, people. All we need is 24 hours, and Andorran will be on course toward the sun. Do your jobs at your fullest potential, and we will remain on track.”
Another of the supervisors spoke, scratching his full head of red hair. “I must say, Mr. President, I was not aware there were even any orbital shuttles remaining.”
Travert offered a wry grin. “Officially, of course, there are not. The entire colonial fleet was indeed obliterated. But a handful of orbital shuttles were kept in a, well – what would my grandfather have called it? – a safe place for a rainy day. There are four worldwide, one in the PAC. I'm not at liberty to disclose which communities have the others. But one will be sufficient. We're not fools – we always knew there might some day be a need for them. Any other questions? Comments?”
Barbara Henlowe rustled in her swivel, continued to shake her head. Travert saw this and turned to her. She couldn't remain quiet.
“I have to come back to this issue of killing the crew, Mr. President. I understand your point about not risking the glorification of space travel, but those men and women are innocents. They don't know about the changes. How can we just summarily execute them because of an outside chance they might spawn a movement that could endanger the balance of the PAC? It seems unjustified.”
Here, here! Bryan thought, even though he knew Henlowe might as well be speaking to a deaf man. He watched as Travert rose, emboldened himself with a wide, gracious smile, and pulled down the crumpled sleeves of his tri-breasted white jacket. The PAC's leader paced around the table. Bryan knew what was coming.
“Allow me to indulge,” Travert began. “As a boy, I frequently visited my grandparents' farm in what was then known as Indiana. And I especially remember my visits during autumn. You see, their back yard consisted almost entirely of fields as far as one could see, but for a single oak. It was enormous, incredibly old, magnificent specimen. And every two or three years, it would produce a bumper crop of acorns. Huge bunches. The branches would hang limp, the acorns were so thick. And I would go out each morning, hoping to find the first fallen acorn of the season. But there was one morning when I forgot to inspect the tree. By that afternoon, not only had they begun to fall, but the squirrels had begun to arrive. Amazing, those particular squirrels. They didn't bother to rummage through the tree and collect their prizes early. No, they waited until nature did the work for them. And as the acorns began to fall like a steady rain, the squirrels came by the dozens and then the hundreds, it seemed. And as soon as those acorns had fallen, those eager little shoppers just ran off with them.
“You see, Ms. Henlowe, those squirrels were brilliant. When the objects of their patience fell before them, those squirrels feasted. They indulged, they grew fatter. And when the last of the acorns were gone, undoubtedly those squirrels which had not stored their food away yearned for more. Andorran is that oak. Those 11 men and women, and the records of their journey, are the acorns.
“We have come too far and built a world unrivaled by the past. We are as close to absolute symmetry of the human condition and absolute economic purity as any dreamer could have fantasized. In four years, SkyWeb will come online, and when it does, we will be assured this world we created will always be this world. If utopia is not possible, then this will be the closest mankind has come. And I'll be a son of a bitch if I will risk seeing it fall apart on my watch!”
Bryan offered a side glance, knew that Travert's speech had been
sufficient for Henlowe, whose apprehension had been replaced by respectful nods.
In the midst of Travert's rhetoric, Bryan did his best to signal his body to calm itself. But the chill produced not by environmental controls but by that oldest of controls – fear – held sway, and he rubbed his hands together.
“Thank you for seeing me, ladies, gentlemen. That will do us,” Travert pronounced, then turned to Bryan. “Words, if I may?”
“Of course.”
Bryan joined his boss by a south-facing window. There was a faint hum, and then a Sprint emerged just a few floors above them, leaving the rooftop pad. The crablike transport bore the blue crossbar insignia of the Front Guard.
“Things are going well for you, Bryan?”
“Wonderfully. And yourself, Mr. President?”
“Not a complaint. At least, not yet. Ask me again in 24 hours.”
The Council President opened his left hand, revealing an inch-long metallic cylinder not much bulkier than the head of a pen. Instinctively, Bryan took it.
“All the details are there,” Travert began, “including the security protocol around the facility on Barbados. That's where we're keeping the shuttle. It's essential there are no compromises of protocol, Bryan.”
“How long to take-off?”
“Three hours. We want the shuttle in orbit and tracking Andorran well before she arrives. But I have an uneasy feeling. We only have one chance at doing this right.”
“And it will be. That's why you hired me, was it not?”
Travert stifled a laugh. “Me? You mean your mother. She’s the one who got you in the door.”
“She can be quite persuasive.”
“Well, favoritism aside, you've done a great job. I've never regretted the decision. Your mother has been completely loyal from the beginning, and she believed in you; so that was always enough for the rest of the council. Your aide told me you had an overtrial this morning?”
“Yes, the usual stuff.”
“Hmmph. Interesting. I'll have to visit one someday. I hear they can be fascinating. Well, I'll let you get to your business. I'll be in the regent suite across the quad for the duration of this project, should you need me.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
When Bryan returned to his office, he made a beeline for the liquor bar, then held back. He needed more time to allow this to sink in, to come to terms with what he faced. But like the sun now moving solidly into the western sky, time was slipping away. And to make the situation worse, Travert mentioned Bryan's mother.
My dear, dear mother. Always dear mother.
A dart of anger intersected his overwhelming sense of foreboding, and Bryan realized he needed to balance his emotions, put together his strategy. He always thought he would have days to make these final preparations, not hours.
He needed a cigar.
Janise had said she was worried about him, wondered if he would be ready when the time came. Now that it was at hand, Bryan was surprised by how composed he was. He hoped all the others could react on such incredibly short notice. Especially Dr. Adam Smith.
Bryan knew his first step: He had to see the woman who would help him betray an empire.
12
A
ndorran slowed, less than six hours from Earth, the end of the mission and a chance to rest. But inside her, the survivors she brought back from Centauri III were in frenzied activity. Theory, debate, argument, blame, repair, resuscitation and discovery crossed each other in a hectic agenda that touched all 10 of them.
Lara did not understand everything Boris Leonov said about using Andorran’s tachyon deceleration dispersal to contact Earth, or Fran Conner's unorthodox proposal regarding infrared shading, or Mifuro Nakahita’s last-ditch workarounds to track possible sources of Chameleon band distortions. These were not areas where she had been trained. But she listened and hoped her simple responses and agreeable nods were sufficient.
It began with an argument about the orbital shuttle, Napier, which was badly damaged in the escape from Centauri III.
Daniel interrupted his repair on the stasis chamber to vidspeak with Boris and Peter, trying in vain to convince them a backup plan was needed. “It would certainly seem that the longer Earth fails to respond, the greater the chance it will never respond. We may be left with no alternative but to fit up Napier.”
“But it will take many hours,” Boris said. “Can’t guarantee safety.”
“Goddamn miracle we made it back to Andorran,” Peter added.
Boris followed. “Need at least six hours on external repair, but also must realign access circuitry to SOA stabilizers. Another 10 hours. Can’t guarantee shield would hold on re-entry.”
“If it fails,” Peter iterated, “we’re goddamn crispy critters. Didn’t think we’d have to use the piece of junk anymore.”
And on it went into a language full of acronyms and programming syntax. There were moments when Lara simply had to tune out and turn to the forward viewport.
Soon, Peter made a new proposal, which he explained to Lara and Fran, while Daniel listened from the agripod.
“The ship is still going through tachyon dispersal. It's a routine procedure after deceleration, but usually takes about 250 hours to complete the cycle. We are due for the final burst in 55 minutes. Now when that burst occurs, each scoop is going to release a long, concentrated stream of hydrogen-tachyon propulsion. The burst itself will last about 200 seconds.”
“And they can see it from Earth?” Lara asked expectantly.
“No,” Peter shook his head but smiled. “It's an invisible stream. However, if we recalibrate the mixture of hydrogen to the right levels during the burst, that stream will be very visible.”
“How so?” Daniel asked. “Plasma?”
“Very similar. What they'll see from Earth are very long, very unnatural lines of pink across a portion of the night sky. Hot pink, actually,” he said with proud relish. “In fact, we've calculated that based on our current trajectory and speed, those streams will be visible over about 20 percent of the sky for most of North America.”
“It sounds encouraging, but I thought it was dangerous to alter the hydrogen mix with tachyons,” Lara said.
Boris swung around in his swivel. “Not at all,” he said. “Ion field was automatically terminated when ship slowed to planetary speed.”
“With the IRF deactivated, we'll be safe,” Daniel added. “This looks promising, but I've got to ask, Pete, why are you so eager to do this? Not long ago you were telling us the Fyal most likely came and went, and now the Earth might be waiting for us as a trap.”
Peter laughed. “Hey, what I said in the Commons was a theory. No different than what anyone else had to offer. And even if I was right, what the hell else are we going to do? We're here. Nowhere else to go that I'm aware of.”
Lara nodded. “Do what's necessary.”
“Very well,” Boris stood up. “We must go to propulsion core for override procedure.”
Ten minutes later, Peter and Boris reported the override was in place. They seemed excited about the possibility, used it as another facet to their argument against refitting Napier, but failed to get Lara particularly intrigued. She knew this was worth a try – practically anything was viable at this point – but smoke signals from space? If direct communications had failed, what expectations could be gathered from this experiment?
And then she was torn from a momentary trance studying the Earth.
The doctor, Olivia Jorgennson, was on the monitor above Mifuro’s workstation.
“Lara,” the Norwegian began, and swallowed hard. “Excuse me, Captain. I need to see you in the hibersleep pod.”
“Is something wrong?”
Olivia shifted her blue eyes. “A quandary. I'll need your input.”
“I'll be with you right away.”
It wasn't until seconds before the Tube opened into the hibersleep chamber that she re
alized she overlooked something of a milestone. Olivia addressed her as “Captain” and simultaneously requested her input on a matter. It was still strange, this feeling of someone acknowledging the authority she would rather not have had.
Lara stifled yet another yawn as she entered the hibersleep chamber, a tall, snow-white vault in which the laws of human mortality were continually being defied.
The hibersleep pods flanked each other, 12 man-size berths that most closely resembled thick, ivory dog bones. Rising along the top center of the berths, thin glass lids stretched almost full length. Each pod abutted the wall just at the base of a life-support monitor, which was a panel of digital readouts for heart rate, brainwave patterns and respiratory stability.
Olivia's crimson bodysuit was a dramatic departure from the ivory environment, and the doctor was seated in a high-back swivel at the far end of the chamber, staring into an open pod.
She didn’t acknowledge Lara before saying, “We have a problem.”
“Which is?” Lara stared into the open pod and admired the long, black and naked body of Susan Morehouse.
“She's pregnant.”
The response was meek, delayed. “No! How?”
Olivia winced. “That's not the right question. It's more a matter of why.”
“Isn't it forbidden for a pregnant woman to enter stasis?”
“Absolutely.” Olivia tore her eyes away from Susan, who was unconscious. “I confirmed it when I ran a blood screen during first-phase revival. The fetus is six weeks old. It's a boy.”
“And the father is ...”
“Anatoly. They were rotation partners their last shift before ...”
“Yes, yes. I know that. And I know all about how it ended. How they were on the verge of killing each other when it was time to be put to sleep.”
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