The flyers before him began a series of sweeping turns, weaving back and forth in complicated patterns of joining and separating, their hands reaching out to trace finger patterns in the thick lunar dust. Rick followed suit, fashioning impossibly steep angles, almost standing upright and yet still continuing downward, his shoulder barely inches from the surface. The silt was finer than the lightest snow, streaming through his fingers like water.
It was then that he gave his first shout of joy.
The descent continued, faster and faster, the path broadening into a great sweeping bowl. At the bowl’s lip was a slight rise, and the flyers ahead of him formed a single file, taking the lip in a series of great bounding leaps. Rick saw one break off to the side, slipping over the edge and simply moving into a descent, and he saw from the suit’s design of purple blades that it was Abdul who had chosen not to jump.
He did not hesitate an instant. The lip swung up and he was over, leaping up higher and higher. The swooshing noise ended, no air or wind to slow him now, the only sound that of his breath. Rick looked up and saw that the transport pod hovered overhead. He waved both hands and shouted with a strength to cross the void, “This is great!”
He landed, pushing up a cloud of dust that shimmered like a billion tiny mirrors. Then he was beyond, swooping into the bowl and up the far side, his speed bleeding off as he crested the rise, and again there was another drop into nothing, as though the mountain had simply disappeared.
He did not hesitate, but simply launched himself forward, knowing now to grip his board’s edge and raise his free hand, using it as a marksman would his gunsight, keeping himself straight and in line with the flyers up ahead.
Again the cliff came up to greet him, and he was down and running. But this time he was headed straight toward a field of huge stone fangs. The tall cliffs to either side of the run compressed like a funnel, aiming him straight for the stone spears. The razor-edged rocks crowded up to both sides of the narrowing cleft, leaving him no room whatsoever to maneuver. They looked far too tightly clustered to weave through.
Rick swallowed his sudden bile and followed the others’ example, crouching low, making no turns to slow himself down, committing to a full run straight toward the rocks and their jagged knife-edges. Faster and faster until the narrowing walls became a silver-gray blur. Just as he was beginning to wonder how he would survive the impact, he saw the first of the flyers begin drifting up the cliff side, higher and higher, hanging at an impossible angle, glued to the side by speed alone.
Rick did not think, did not hesitate, did not even consider what he was about to do, just slid his weight to one side and let his board leave the silt-clad floor and begin climbing up the wall. The soft sighing was instantly replaced by a loud clattering, driving up through the soles of his boots and filling his helmet, a rattling, driving noise that seemed to push him up and up, higher on the cliff, until he was above the flint blades, then past them, then sliding back down, then swooshing back onto the floor, and screaming like a madman with the thrill.
On and on it went, his confidence growing until he was ready to move up and join the others on the straightaways, molding into their weaving patterns, mingling his shouts and half-heard cries with them. The noise rose and fell as they passed one another in their weaving dance. He obeyed their hand signals and backed off when the straightaways narrowed, watching and following their example through each of the challenging stretches.
Then they came to a straightaway that did not end, but rather broadened and continued, on and on and on. Rick knew it was the safety stretch, and part of him was beyond happy that it was almost over, while another part wished he could continue on for hours more.
Then he spotted Abdul’s suit up ahead, not turning back into another sweeping curve, but rather allowing his slowing speed to lift himself up and off the stretch and onto a broad tongue of stone that flowed up and out and over the straightaway.
And Rick knew instantly what he was going to do.
The vast majority of flyers followed Abdul’s example, but the flyer who had spoken with Rick swept over and shouted, “Last chance, first-timer!”
Rick did not even bother to reply.
“All right!” The flyer straightened from his curve, came up alongside Rick, and said, “What’s your name?”
“Rick!”
“Okay, Rick, lower yourself to bring your center of gravity down . . . that’s it, now start pumping. Harder. Yeah, speed’s the only way, push and push, keep straight, don’t let any of the speed go, hold on and push harder.”
The voice took on a steely edge. Rick held the flyer in focus as everything else blurred into a silver-gray whirl. “That’s it up ahead, ready yourself, see the ledge? Behind me, ready? Now jump with all your might!”
Rick did as he was told, moving in close behind the other flyer, crouching lower still, hitting the long steep ramp with such suddenness that he almost missed the chance, catching the last moment and pushing as hard as he could.
His speed was so great that on the steep rise it was harder than he expected to jump, but his adrenaline was enough to add steel to his legs, and he leapt up and out and over.
Farther and farther and farther, the jump endless, nothing below him but shadow. A darkness untouched by the stars and planet overhead, empty looming nothingness, so black it seemed to draw at him, seeking to slow him down and drag him in, never letting him go.
Just as the panic rose like bitter heat in his throat, the chasm’s distant edge floated into view. The other flyer ahead screamed with the ecstasy of release. Rick held back another moment, scarcely believing he would make it to safety. Then he was so close he could see the crumbling edge, and he was still aloft, flying over and beyond and into safety, screaming himself now, landing and halting and pummeling the other flyer’s back, so excited and exultant now he felt that for sure he was about ready to jump out of his own skin.
“They’re not going to believe this!” the flyer crowed. “A first-timer who leaps the chasm! Don’t know if it’s ever been done, not even tried before. Wait till we get in, you’ll have a name throughout the tunnel world.”
Rick shook his head to clear the sweat pouring over his eyes. Now that it was over, his heart was pounding, his breath coming in such great gasps that he could scarcely get out the words. “I don’t think I can stand.”
“The weakness passes,” the slender flyer assured him. “Always happens the first flight over the gorge, after you look down and know the mouth is waiting there, ready to swallow you whole.”
Rick felt the words hit him square in the gut, and would have toppled had the flyer not reached out a hand to steady him. “Take a couple of deep breaths, that’s it. Look around, see the stars. Ain’t it great to be alive?”
Gradually his breath came under control, and strength trickled back to his shaking legs. “Great.”
“Okay, steady now, time to head on back. Stand tall, now, ’cause there’s a whole world who’s gonna be watching you fly home.”
Chapter Nine
Wander returned to his quarters, stripped off his robe, and collapsed onto his bed. His exhausted mind refused to slow down. Twelve hours he and Digs had remained on watch, longer than either had ever before been hooked to the amp, until even Digs had become so weak he could scarcely pull himself from the chair.
And found nothing. Six times during this past watch alone, messengers from the senior monitor had raced in, ordered them to search another sector, looking for something that was never specified.
The fifth time, Digs had lost control and screamed at the man that the nonsense was pushing them all over the edge. Either tell them what they should be hunting for, he had shouted, or let them stop.
The sixth set of orders was delivered by the watch’s senior monitor, a wise old graybeard who had the power to calm the stormiest waters. He had spoken with a mildness that stilled even Digs, saying that he could not specify what to search out, because he himself had not been informed
. Well, maybe the dark courier needed to be told off, Digs had said, speaking from exhaustion.
The senior monitor had hesitated at that, his silence a warning. Then he had replied simply, “Do your best.”
Wander tossed in his bed, his body taut with unrelieved tension. His mind buzzed with the static of thoughts that would not come together. His heart ached with worry and with the emptiness of no outside contact. He yearned for Consuela. There had been no chance to send a message. Nor could he check to see if Consuela had left him another communication, another gift of hope. Every time he had been tempted to ask if he could reach out and check, Digs had met him with a look of desperate appeal, a fear so great that Wander knew it was wrong even to make the request.
Hope. There was so little of it. He felt as though the tension and the yearnings and the overlong watches were all mashing him down, straining out every last vestige of hope. It would be so easy to give in, to believe that the Avenger had been captured by this Hegemony-wide search, that the quest had been abandoned, that he was trapped upon Citadel for the rest of his days.
The fear of never being released, of never seeing Consuela again, threatened to snap him. He did his best to push the fog of painful loss away. But all he could manage was to keep it at arm’s length, a shadow that never left him free to manage a full rest. Though his body ached with fatigue and his mind seemed stretched to the breaking point, still his worries hovered. Each time he began to descend into deep sleep, they returned to whisper and freeze his heart with nightmarish doubt. He would jerk awake, not knowing exactly why his eyes had opened, but filled with the dread of hopeless longing.
Wander extinguished the lights and closed his eyes to the darkness that sought to wrap around his heart. He slid his head under the pillow and pushed with all his might against the fears. He had to rest. He had to hope. There was nothing else.
Chapter Ten
Consuela fitted on the headset, flicked on the amp’s main switch, and watched as the chrono ticked down the seconds. Across from her, Guns and Tucker sat in alert tension, their eyes watching the chrono with her. Guns droned, “Five, four, three, two, one, now.”
Instantly she powered up and sent out, Scout here.
Must move swiftly. There was more tension to Dunlevy’s response than she could ever recall hearing before. Have a Hegemony pilot and senior diplomat in control room. Where is Guns?
Here. Wait. Her wrist swung down the power dial, and she said, “We have contact, but something’s wrong. There’s a pilot and senior diplomat there with them.”
“Another dark courier.” Guns rubbed his chin. “Never heard of two of them lurking about a system like this. Not without a reason.”
“A major one,” Tucker agreed. “Consuela, ask him if they’re all right.”
A relative term, Dunlevy replied, the words taut. The captain wishes to know your status.
“He didn’t say, not really.” Consuela felt Dunlevy’s tension pushing at her own words. “Captain Arnol wants to know what is happening with us.”
Guns and Tucker exchanged glances. At a nod from Guns, Tucker responded, “Tell him we’ve found passage with a caravan headed for Yalla. We’re to act as outriders and guards for the cargo.”
“It’ll be a roundabout journey,” Guns added. “They have no pilot, so we’ll swing from one system to the next, following the lightways. Two planetary stops between here and there, so we should arrive within seven to ten days.”
“That is,” Tucker added, “unless Captain Arnol thinks this storm is going to blow over, leaving us with the chance to get back on Avenger where we belong.”
Impossible, Dunlevy answered, even before Consuela had finished relating the final words. Even as we speak, we are taking on a battalion of dragoons.
Tucker jumped out of his seat at the news. “The Avenger’s being waylaid? Why, I’ve a mind—”
Consuela held up one tense hand to stop him as Dunlevy continued, I am authorized by Captain Arnol to order you to Yalla. The caravan sounds as good a cover as you are likely to find. Take it, and proceed on from there.
But how? Consuela’s heart and mind could scarcely conceal her wailing fright. The avenger won’t be following the course we gave Wander. He won’t know where to reach us, and I don’t—
No time. We’re scheduled to depart in less than an hour. Tell the others we are ordered to transport the battalion back to Imperial Command. A ruse only, as they could easily have fitted on the two battleships here at Solarus spaceport. Even though they found no weapons on our ship, we are still under suspicion. Expect no further communication from us, the danger is simply too great. Dunlevy’s anxiety rose another notch. The pilot is headed this way. Get to Yalla, then hover outside the planet’s orbit as we said we would. We’ll hope Wander will continue to look beyond the time limits we set. Do you still recall the system approach that he gave us?
Yes, but—
Then go, and may your course be true, your vision clear. Dunlevy off.
Consuela’s numb fingers fumbled with the headset, her hair spilling forward as she pulled it off. She looked from one alarmed face to the other. “He’s gone.”
****
Consuela sat and listened to their planning as long as she could, hoping they would say something to reassure her, offer some guarantee that they would be able to renew contact with Wander. But though they sensed her distress, they refused to belittle her concerns or her station by offering empty words.
When sleep finally demanded her attention, she excused herself. Guns rose with her and asked, “Would you like to go to our place in the dome?”
“Too tired,” she said simply, feeling the worry weigh down her spirit, that and the strain of filtering Dunlevy’s words from the continuous mental noise. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Consuela moved back to the tiny alcove alongside the storage area. There a rudimentary ’fresher abutted a row of floor-to-ceiling bunks. She closed the door on their muted discussion, flung herself down, and was instantly away.
Not just asleep. Away. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she felt herself coming awake in that strange, eerie clarity. There, but not there. Asleep, yet awake.
Once more she faced the red-brick church, the plaza it fronted as empty as before. Yet this time the doors were open. And this time she recognized the building. It was the First Congregation, the church where Daniel Mitchum served as youth pastor. She had been there several times as a child seeking comfort, back in the dark days of her greatest helplessness. They doors stood open before her now, a silent invitation. Swiftly Consuela climbed the stairs and entered.
The preacher was already into his sermon. Consuela hesitated at the back of the hall, until the sight of a familiar face spurred her forward. She slipped into the empty seat beside Daniel and turned to smile at him, eager for his surprised welcome. But it did not come. Daniel remained as he was, his face turned intently toward the pulpit. Consuela sighed her way back around, disappointed that she was unable to make him realize she was there.
“Be ready,” the pastor was saying. “For we know not the day nor the hour. How many times have we heard these words? So often, I would imagine, that we have all but lost the ability to look beyond the clearest message, that of hoping for our Savior’s return, and see what else might be there . . . what other message might be intended.”
There it was again. Be ready. Consuela felt a rising sense of resentment. She was hurting, she was worried, she needed assurance that all would work out as she hoped. But instead, what was she hearing? A challenge. A call to do more. Her first reaction was to turn away, simply stand up and walk out. She did not need this. Not now. Yet something held her there, a quiet whisper beyond the borders of sound, spoken to her heart. A plea to remain, to listen, to learn, to grow.
“More than likely, every one of us has arrived at some point or another where we have turned to God and asked, Why is this happening? Where are we going? What is the purpose here?” He paused to gaze around the chamb
er. “Remember, now, the Lord has not promised to always lift us from trouble. Instead, He said that He would be there with us.
“So long as we are upon this earth, we shall know trials. But by bearing up under this burden, by showing the world that we meet these stresses and strains as Christians, we are granted the chance to become beacons. To show others, who continue to suffer in the darkness, that we have a gift of hope to share.
“Now think about what this means. God does not say, first I will make your lives perfect, and then ask you to go out and save the world. Not at all. He says, abide in me, and I in you, and be my servant. Where you are. Right now.
“Then you will be able to listen for the words that our Savior yearns to hear, using your ears and your heart and your mind and voice as His own. People may cry from their lonely darkness, I am confused. I am lost. Where am I going? Why I am being forced to turn down this strange road with all its pains and perils? And you, my brothers and sisters, can give to them the gifts of grace. The peace that surpasses understanding. A light that pierces the darkest night. A love that heals the greatest sorrow. As you yourselves have come to know.”
He stopped then and seemed to look straight at Consuela, as though he and only he was able to see her. As though his words were intended for her. For her.
“Therefore, my brothers and sisters, be ready. It may be this very moment that the Lord is trying to gain your attention, to ask you to do as you have been commanded and allow His infinite strength to bear your burdens, and be ready. Be ready to listen. Be ready to speak. Be ready to serve.”
Chapter Eleven
By the time the caravan arrived at the last stop before Yalla, Rick was beyond bored.
The Dream Voyagers Page 31
