by Mel Keegan
This new simulator was not the same. Everything Travers knew was conventional, designed to duplicate conditions in normal three dimensional space with a time component making up the fourth dimension. Much more complex simulators existed, but he had never flown them. The machines in which pilots like Yuval Greenstein and Piotr Cassals had qualified duplicated e-space conditions to a high degree of precision. A pilot coming up from the ranks of the ‘heavy’ category of harbor tugs and surface-to-orbit cargo haulers would spend three months in the e-space simulators, calculating Weimann solutions, handling every manner of hazard with the hardware and software, and then another three months working hands-on with a senior pilot, in and out of e-space. The e-space conduit had been intimately understood for a little more than three centuries, and the Weimann simulators were almost as conventional as those duplicating normal space.
But beyond e-space, Travers thought with a glance at Marin, there was the place the Resalq called ‘the stormy side of the sky.’ And on the brink of Elarne anything Travers comprehended came to an abrupt stop. Several times, he had looked into the yawning mouths of the Hellgate monsters and glimpsed something, somewhere and somewhen, but much of what he brought away from those encounters was a dizzying sense of dread. A kind of vertigo and paralysis, where his mind could not grasp what his physical eyes were seeing, and refused to make sense of any of it.
“You’ve run the numbers?” Vidal was asking.
“As far as we can. We don’t even have most of the numbers,” Rabelais admitted. He leaned both shoulders against the wall opposite the docking rings.
“Who would have them?” Vidal was looking along at Jazinsky, a frown etched between his brows.
“Mark Sherratt,” Rabelais said without hesitation. “The problem is, Mark could hand the whole lot to me on a plate, and I wouldn’t be sure what to do with it.” He gave Vidal a familiar, lopsided smile. “I was a pilot, an explorer. I still am. And I’m way out of my depth here.”
Vidal’s lips pursed. “I hesitate to drag Barb into this project. She’s already buried under a year’s work. But Alexis is catching up fast. You know, this was her life’s obsession, she was so bloody fixated with Hellgate physics, her marriage wound down, soon as she could wrangle a Fleet commission that put her on carriers in the Drift. Did she tell you – she has an ex-husband out there somewhere, and a kid not much younger than me. Every time you see her lately, she’s got her nose in Barb’s work, or Mark’s.”
“Colonel Rusch,” Queneau mused, and jabbed Rabelais with an elbow. “Ask her. Recruit her. God knows, she’s your niece.”
“Great-great-grand, several times over and a couple of times removed,” Rabelais argued, “but I can ask – get the data from Mark, have Alexis crunch the numbers for us.” He nodded thoughtfully.
“Of course,” Queneau said with a disgusted expression, “it might be different if we had the proper equipment to work with!”
“You mean, we’re flying on one tank, and we need two?” Vidal knew exactly what she meant.
Travers was mystified and took a step closer. “Tank, tanks? What do you mean?”
“The transspace simulator design,” Vidal said tersely. “You’re not used to anything vaguely like it, Neil. Every simulator you and Curtis ever flew was controlled from conventional flight systems, from a pilot seat, right?”
“Obviously.” Travers glanced at Marin, who was listening intently.
“Well, transspace is six dimensions different from anything you ever saw before,” Rabelais said with a profound resignation. “If you’re going to handle it properly – if you’re not going to go right out there and kill yourself the first time you try this! – you need to … to …”
“You fly transspace with your living mind in your living body,” Vidal said in an odd voice, “as if there is no ship. You start thinking of this job as flying a ship through a medium, and you’re toast in seconds. It’s just you and transspace, like the flight controls are part of your limbs and brain.” He shook himself hard. “Trust me, Neil, it’s the only way this works.”
An edgy silence settled between him, Queneau and Rabelais. Into it, Marin said thoughtfully, “But you took the Orpheus into Elarne the first time. You flew it from a pilot seat, joystick, the usual instrumentation.”
A regiment of ghosts and shadows raced over Vidal’s face, through his eyes, and he took a long deep breath which shuddered just a little. “We should have died. Jo and I … I’ll never know why we made it through.”
The same ghosts were in every line of Queneau’s face. “We made it through because there was maybe one human pilot in the whole goddamn’ universe whose brain was so wired for this, he could do it.”
“And you’re lookin’ at him,” Rabelais added. He nodded at Vidal. “Don’t ask other pilots to do what he did, Curtis. It won’t be happening. Even Mick finds it a thousand percent easier flying from a tank, where every sensory input’s been blocked and in the whole cosmos there’s only you and it. Transspace.”
“Flying from a tank makes it doable,” Vidal said slowly. “Even for me, there was a lot of luck, too much, involved in getting through the first time. Beginner’s luck? I don’t know. But I do know there was enough of an uncertainty factor for me to get through on one flight and crash and burn on the next one. Those are lousy odds – 50/50 isn’t what you want to see when you’re planning a mission, any mission, much less one the whole Deep Sky depends on.”
Anger sharpened Queneau’s tone. “So we requisitioned a couple of cryogen tanks,” she told Travers and Marin, “so we could gut ’em, rig ’em as sensory deprivation tanks, cross-connect ’em so there’s comm between the pilot and navigator so fine, so fast, it’s like you’re reading each other’s thoughts. That’s what it’ll take to do this right. But when we put in the requisition, Bill Grant cut us down to one tank.”
“Why?” Travers wondered. “The Wastrel must have plenty of them.”
“We all know we’re going into a couple of full-on battle situations very soon,” Marin said quietly, lifting a brow at Grant, who was standing well within earshot and wearing a face like a thundercloud. “Bill?”
The medic had obviously covered this ground before, and more than once. He was glowering at Vidal as he said, “I’ve heard the scuttlebutt. I don’t have the security clearance you guys do, but I know what’s going on. It’s fun and games on the Omaru blockade first, isn’t it? Oh, I heard all the whispers about how it’s supposed to be some kind of artsy-fartsy bloodless coup, but you gotta be kidding me! A Fleet blockade’s gonna roll over to have its belly tickled? That’s a barrowload of bullshit. You know the old saying about best-laid plans. I’ve seen this kind of show go pear-shaped faster than you can blink, we all have. I’ve got two cryogen tanks on the fritz. I’m holding three reserved for the Wastrel’s own tech gangs – you have no idea how many ways salvage workers find to tear themselves up, and how often. And I put four on reserve for the freakin’ bloodbaths I’m predicting.”
“So he let us have one,” Vidal said with a shrug. “Bill’s thinking like the Fleet medic he used to be.”
“Bloody damn’ right, I am,” Grant muttered.
Queneau was genuinely annoyed. “Isn’t it a question of priorities? We’ve been through this, Bill. What do you put on top of the list, the success of the training program that’s going to take human pilots into transspace, or one human casualty?” She shook her head. “I know where you’re coming from, man, and I do respect the Fleet medic’s instincts, but … I reckon you’re wrong. I reckon the priorities just got changed.”
“And if I’m right,” the Lushi grumbled, “people are going to die. I know you think of it as just one life, but suppose the life that went begging was yours, or your kid’s, or your partner’s. Then you’d wish there’d been an extra damn’ tank.”
“Leave it, guys.” Vidal held up both hands. “We already did this. None of us has the authority to make or break the rules.”
“Harrison does,” Travers said grimly. �
��I can see both sides of the argument, and I’d hate to be the one making the decision. Why don’t you take it up with Shapiro, when you put your problem to Colonel Rusch and Barb? They’ll both be at this briefing. In fact, they’re late.”
As if the words were a cue, the docking rings rolled open with a growl of heavy machinery. A faint breeze blew from the Mercury into the Wastrel as the final difference in air pressure equalized, and Travers’s nostrils flared at the scents of the different ship. By comparison with the tug, the Mercury was modest but in fact she was by no means a small ship. She had her own character, her own routine, which Travers appreciated.
A figure moved just inside the docking rings and he saw Jon Kim’s face. The young man wore a smile, and stood aside to beckon them aboard with the grace one would have expected of Harrison Shapiro’s partner. “Welcome to the Mercury. Dinner will be served momentarily, and we’re ready for you now.”
Travers and Marin went ahead of Vaurien and Jazinsky, while Bill Grant hung back with Vidal, Queneau and Rabelais. They were waiting for Perlman, Fujioka and Fargo, representing Bravo Company, Rodman and Hubler from the Harlequin, Alexis Rusch herself, and some contingent from the Resalq science crew, but they would make their own way aboard soon enough. Travers was not about to wait. He had already caught the aroma of dinner.
The Mercury might not have boasted the opulence of the Wastrel, but Harrison Shapiro liked comfort. The ship was warm, bright; the crew wore smiles, discipline was relaxed enough to permit jewelry, and the sounds of Bevan Daku wafted from the discreet sound system in the conference lounge, spilling out into passages leading forward to the crew quarters and back to the more Spartan accommodations where prisoners were confined.
And the food, Travers decided, smelt excellent. To be sure, it was still generated by autochefs, but the way these machines were configured, and the materials with which they were stocked, rendered the cuisine very different from that available on other ships. Living the good life in Sark, Borushek for thirty years had accustomed Shapiro to fine art, elegant company, a degree of luxury which was often lacking on a Fleet ship.
They turned right at the docking rings and followed the sound of music, the aroma of dinner which issued from the lounge, with its long table, silver-gray cloth, crockery and silverware from Elstrom City, framed paintings from Sark and Riga, and two autochefs set up for the different races who would be seated at this table.
“The Nine Worlds Commonwealth Fleet cruiser Mercury,” Marin said pointedly as they stepped into cream and amber lights.
“And you’ve got to like that,” Travers said with profound approval.
“I like the Commonwealth Fleet part of it.” Vidal was a pace behind them, with Bill Grant. “Bobby Liang and his people are thinking forward, past the war.”
“Past the Zunshu,” Travers said darkly.
“The Zunshu are our business. Let Chandra Liang and his staff take care of politics. The rest – the science, the exploration, the enemy – are our concern now.” Mark Sherratt’s deep voice spoke from the door behind them, and Marin spun toward him.
Anywhere else, Mark would have offered an embrace and Curtis would have taken it. Here, now, they clasped hands and Marin said, “You were already aboard the Mercury?”
“We came aboard an hour or two ago.” Mark gestured over the shoulder of a shirt in the gold, deep reds, dusky greens and designs of his people. “The others are still in the Ops room, using the navtank to run the deep scans your probe managed to capture before the device self-destructed.” The gold eyes were haunted as he looked over Marin’s head at Travers, Vidal, Rabelais and Queneau. “We were … lucky.”
“In a universe where luck shouldn’t be any part of any equation,” Vaurien said quietly, “and where relying on it will see you dead and buried faster than it takes to post your obituary to CityNet.”
“Yes. Yet, still, we were lucky.” Mark’s eyes crinkled a little as he discovered a smile. “I’ve looked over the data. I can tell you – and it’s not often I can say this! – it’s the first time I’ve seen such a device.”
Surprise sharpened Marin’s voice. “First time? We’re guessing it has to be a planet-wrecker. The kind of thing that destroyed your homeworlds, like Neranhe and Sher’chiya.”
“Yes.” Mark’s lion-maned head nodded. “There’s nothing else it could be, and the fact remains, our ancestors never managed to capture one. I suppose they were never in the right place at the right time to even image one.”
“Damn.” Travers had helped himself to a glass of Jagrethean burgundy, and toasted Mark with it. “Well, we scored ourselves a first.” He took a sip and made appreciative noises. “Not that we actually captured it, though Barb wanted to try. Richard’s guess was, it would detonate if it even suspected it felt tractors on it.”
“His intuition was correct.” Mark turned a chair out from the table and sat. “From what little I’ve seen of your damage report, you were too close for comfort.”
“Any further away from the device,” Jazinsky said with a deep resignation, “and we’d have been out of strike range. We had to hit it, Mark. No choice, not even if we’d been crippled in the blast.”
“And the damage sustained at our own maximum strike range tells you the potential of the weapon.” Vidal issued a low whistle. “Good gods, if the government of the Confederation could get its sticky paws on such a weapon…”
“Not even in your nightmares, Mick.” Travers set a hand on his shoulder. “I checked out the ’chef. It’s offering a nice line in juice, tonic water, angostura, if you’ll let me mix something not too disgusting for you.”
“No booze,” Bill Grant warned loudly. “Not one molecule, Neil.”
“The voice of my conscience?” Vidal sounded pained.
“Yessir, message received and understood.” Travers gave Grant an amused look, but he took the warning seriously. At the ’chef, he mixed grapefruit juice and tonic over ice, and gave the glass a liberal dash of bitters before he thrust the cocktail into Vidal’s waiting hand.
He tried it, and huffed a sigh. “Not bad.”
“What it needs,” Marin guessed, “is a shot of tequila.”
“A double,” Vidal told him. “But since the nano holding my liver together would go tits-up at the mere suggestion of it –” He saluted the whole company with the glass. “Gan bei.”
As Travers slid in at the table voices from the doorway announced Alexis Rusch and Dario Sherratt. The rest of the Sherratts remained absent, but Midani Kulich was not a pace on Dario’s heels, hanging on the others’ conversation. Travers watched him silently mouthing the words, trying them on his tongue.
He was working hard to blend in, become part of the Resalq community, and Travers had to credit him not only with the effort but also with modest success. He was in loose slacks and a big tunic of abstract blue, green and gold geometric patterns, which disguised the Resalq body morphology; and he wore a silk bandanna which gave him a rakish, almost piratical look. It suited him, Travers thought. But Midani kept the double-thumbed hands in his pockets as if he felt he must hide them, which made Travers frown. The ancestral Resalq was clearly feeling his differences, perhaps a sense of isolation; and every time he had to move among humans the sensation would only grow worse. Among the Resalq he was likely comfortable, but among this gathering Travers watched him stick close to Dario and Mark, slouch a little to take the edge off his height, and keep those telltale hands out of sight.
“Alexis!” Rabelais turned in his seat as she appeared, and beckoned her to the end of the table where he, Queneau and Vidal had gathered in their own private clique, heads together, talking in soft tones and effectively screening out everyone else in the room.
“I’m late,” she apologized, and gestured at the plain slacks and sweater, both in shades of chromatic gray. “I didn’t even take time to change.”
“You look beautiful as ever,” Rabelais told her, courteous with the gentility of a bygone age.
�
�And of course you’re aware that flattery will get you everywhere,” she chuckled as she joined them. “What are you drinking? I’ll fetch another round.”
Three meters away and not even looking in Vidal’s direction, Bill Grant called, “Not for Mick!”
He was talking with Fargo and Perlman, who had stepped in moments before Rusch. Bravo Company gossip, Travers supposed. They would be waiting for Jim Fujioka before they settled at the table.
“Bill, I’m a maniac, not an idiot,” Vidal retorted as he pulled a chair out for Rusch. “Sit, Alexis. I’ll get drinks in. We have a favor to beg, if you don’t mind being handed a job.”
She dropped into the offered chair and graced the company with a mock-suspicious frown. “What kind of job?”
It was a chance, Travers knew, for her to put into practice everything she had learned theoretically, riding on the coattails of the Sherratts, Jazinsky, even Tonio Teniko. Rusch was seated between Rabelais and Vidal – aunt to one, grand-niece to the other, which was more family than she had known since she sold her soul to Fleet in exchange for a ticket into Hellgate. Vidal was right – Travers had long known she had an ex-husband and a son back in the Deep Sky; but security files quoted the husband as an architect who had soon grown bored with her fascination for the sciences, while the son was finished with Fleet after his conscription hitch, and now played the English horn for a chamber orchestra on Jagreth. Differences of opinion drove them apart as Alexis began to follow her own talents, and Travers was far from surprised the marriage had ‘wound down,’ as Vidal put it.
Across the table from himself and Marin, Vaurien and Jazinsky were sitting close, not even talking; not needing to, Travers observed, the way he and Marin were intimate in each other’s company, with no obligation to talk to fill empty silences. Not long before, he would have been envious. Now, he gave Richard a smile and raised his glass in a silent toast which Vaurien returned.
It was Midani Kulich who broke the companionable silence as he slid into the chair beside Vaurien. “You objecting to I sitting here, Captain?”
