Event Horizon (Hellgate)

by Mel Keegan

  Everyone had. It was compulsive viewing. Across twenty worlds, CNS was covering seething riots, mutinies, every manner of ‘civil disobedience’ – a colonial governor had been assassinated; a frigate was destroyed at Fleet Lithgow, still berthed at a security dock, and took half the tokomak with it, and two hundred technicians.

  “It’s bad,” Vaurien said bleakly, “and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. And we,” he added gravely, “are ultimately going to take the blame, though we had nothing to do with the scenes on Lithgow, Haven, Pakrenne, Mazjene.”

  “We stirred it up, touched off the blaze,” Travers admitted. “If it hadn’t been for what we’ve done –”

  “If not for us, the Deep Sky colonies would have sat there, big, fat, noisy with comm traffic, dirty with industry, till the Zunshu destroyed them all, the way Albeniz died.” Marin stirred deliberately. “Not our problem to solve, Neil. Future historians will have to hammer this out when the truth is declassified in ten years, or fifty.”

  A sweet ringing tone issued from the threedee and Etienne called, “Captain Vaurien to Hangar 4. The shuttle is waiting.”

  “Then tell it to bloody wait,” Vaurien growled, though he turned toward the executive elevator. “Tully … we’re on our way,” he called into the quiet Ops room.

  The new captain lifted a hand in farewell. “Mind how you go, Rick. I’ll be waiting with a bottle of something good, when you get back.”

  “Good luck,” Vaurien told him, before he seemed to force his feet to move. “Etienne, where’s Colonel Rusch?”

  “In Hangar 2, with Captains Rabelais and Queneau.”

  “Rigging the transspace simulator for transfer,” Travers guessed.

  He and Marin had flown it more than twenty times, on the way back from Jagreth. Five times, they had not crashed it and he had just begun to glimpse how to handle a driftship properly. They would fly the simulator another hundred times, like Queneau and Rabelais, Rodman and Hubler, Perlman and Fargo. Eventually they would consistently keep it viable, though if Travers had known how to pray, he would have prayed for the skills never to be needed.

  “A file from Robert Chandra Liang came through with the courier,” Vaurien was saying as they stepped into the elevator for the short ride down and aft. His voice was hoarse; he seemed to be talking to distract himself. Travers could imagine what it cost him to leave this ship, no matter how safe she was, in theory. “The senior Daku representatives from Borushek are on StarCity at this moment. They’re going over the choreography for the smooth transfer of power in Sark.

  “It’s been scheduled – 12 days from now, 72 hours after the proclamation at Omaru. And Borushek doesn’t have to worry about a battle group hovering at its backdoor! The shadow president is a Daku called Joyce Cardwell – the name means nothing to me, but ask Mick. She’s waiting to hoist the Commonwealth flag and walk right into the office of the colonial governor; and as for Governor Petrakis, you can count on him to stroll away with a smile. He’s been a toothless, clawless puppet, like the rest of Borushek’s government.”

  “Sark has always been a military town,” Travers said as the elevator opened onto the colder, dimmer hangar level. “The civilian sector might never have liked to admit it, but any time anything actually happened, the decisions came from Fleet Quadrant Command. Meaning Harrison Shapiro’s office.”

  “And Governor Petrakis was wise enough to just do as he was told.” Vaurien was out of the lift, turning right toward the hangar. “Exactly as he’s doing right now – going through the motions. Sovereignty at Borushek will be a formality.”

  “Then, it’s almost over.” The chill, acid air of the hangar parched Travers’s eyeballs and lips.

  “At least as far as the Deep Sky is concerned,” Vaurien mused. “Louverne, Pakrenne, Lushiar – they’ll declare sovereignty in their own good time. They’ll certainly require Commonwealth protection, and Chandra Liang, Tarrant, Prendergast and Cardwell will make sure they get it. Sergei van Donne’s people are more than capable of seeding the Zunshu swarms wherever they need to be.”

  And the Wastrel could remain safe at Alshie’nya, manufacturing the mines by the thousands. Tully Ingersol would supply them on demand, and the Mako would shuttle between the Drift and the new republics of the Deep Sky on the most lucrative contract van Donne had ever enjoyed. The most ironic thing was, it was entirely legitimate; van Donne must be bemused, Travers thought.

  “There’ll be a ripple effect back through the Middle Heavens,” Marin speculated. “A lot of worlds are going to want to join the Commonwealth to get out from under the conscription levy and the taxation.”

  “It can’t be our problem.” A few paces into the hangar Vaurien paused, almost as if he had just remembered some forgotten duty. Travers waited, but Richard seemed to collect himself and pushed on toward the heat-shimmering Capricorn, which was flying shuttle service. He did not look back. “As soon as the swarms are seeded and the proclamations of sovereignty made, the rest is just politics. I’m no more a politician than Harrison is – and I don’t care to be dragged into their circus! Speaking of politics, the courier brought news from Earth. You can watch the whole vid, if you like.”

  “Or you can give us the short version,” Travers prompted.

  Vaurien slipped a combug into his ear, already busy with the business of the crew aboard Lai’a, and traded waves with Gillian Perlman, who sat up in the cockpit of the Capricorn. “Oh, we’re angels of death, all four of the Horsemen. We’re Satan incarnate – a pack of barbarians, savages,” he said acidly. “We’ve deliberately killed thousands of Fleet servicemen … no mention is ever made of the fact the battle groups that brought them were assigned to punitive strikes, with predictions of colonial casualties numbering in tens of millions.”

  “We expected the coverage,” Marin said dismissively. “The essential thing is, it’ll keep Fleet out of the Deep Sky for ten years. Longer.”

  “Perhaps.” Halfway up the incline of the Capricorn’s ramp, Vaurien turned back. “You should know, Chandra Liang is about to invite the Confederacy to send an ambassador. It’s time to talk: negotiation as an alternative to more bloodshed. Who’s arguing? If he can bring them to the table fast enough, he might be able to stop carnage in the Middle Heavens. It all depends if the Earthers want to play nice, or if they demand to make the rules and then enforce them.”

  “If they’re pulling the Avenger back to the homeworlds and trying to convince whole populations we’re about to come gunning for them, they better play very nice,” Travers said sharply. “Did Chandra Liang say where the talks will take place? Neutral territory?” He and Marin shared a glance.

  “I’ve no idea. That’s one for Chandra Liang to hash out with some bean counter back on Darwin’s, possibly even on Earth.” Vaurien headed on up the ramp. “They talk, they don’t talk – it’s Earth’s business, or Commonwealth business. For myself, when we get back from Zunshu space, I might take a year off and lie on a beach somewhere. See if I can remember how to use a tube of sunblock and a snorkel. Or I might take the Wastrel and head out, way out, see what’s on the other side of Freespace. Maybe see if we can’t find another jewel like Velcastra, with no political affiliation.”

  And start again? Travers felt the tug of fascination. A world that was not being fought over, never likely to be a target, nor have its skies darkened by industry like the raddled old colonies of the Middle Heavens. He nursed the idea as he and Marin ran up the harness in the seats behind Perlman.

  The Capricorn was loaded. Jim Fujioka and Tim Inosanto were already in the back, and squeezed into a corner, hugging himself and appearing some shade between gray and blue, was Tonio Teniko.

  “What’s his problem?” Marin asked so quietly, Teniko would not have heard over the whine of the hatch closing and the braying coughs of the igniters as the engines refired. Curtis had slid a combug into his ear to listen to the loop between the Wastrel and Lai’a, and Perlman heard him.

  “Cap Vaur
ien flushed his stash,” she said, and indulged in an arid chuckle. “The little twerp was trying to smuggle a bunch of no-no nose candy, which is dead against the rules the skipper laid down on day one.”

  “Because he’ll get no chance to lay in another stash in transspace.” Travers glanced back at Teniko.

  He was coming down into a deep mauve funk. Until his next shots of Ibrepal he would barely be functional, and even after those shots he would need two hours to come down off the high before his judgment was trustworthy.

  But he was growing. He was around Marin’s height now – with wider shoulders, big knees, elbows, hands, feet. He looked nothing short of bizarre; even his face was distorting, with a heavier brow and jaw which seemed to make his nose and eyes too small. The process was not a smooth transition from Lushi to Pakrani, any more than an eight year old child possessed the same body geometry as the adult who had finished growing. Pain lines were etching themselves into Teniko’s face, too. He had deep ‘railroad tracks’ between his brows and grooves around his mouth, telltale of suffering.

  Was it worth it? Travers would have said not, but every man was welcome to his own opinion, and Teniko obviously counted the cost well worth paying – so long as he could be doped to the eyeballs eighteen hours out of every day.

  The Capricorn lifted as Travers turned away from the figure scrunched into the rear corner, and over the loop Perlman was saying, “Lai’a Flight, this is Shuttle Two on our way back to you.”

  And from the hangar aboard the hulk of the Apollo, which had become physically part of Lai’a, Judith Fargo’s voice: “Set up and ready for you, Gill. Be aware, the Trofeo’s tucked into the left side of the hangar – the General and Jon Kim came over twenty minutes ago, with the last of their stuff. Roo and Tim are setting up the ’chefs for dinner in the crew lounge, if you can grab the time.”

  “I reckon I could finagle it,” Perlman judged as she took the Capricorn out of the hangar. “I’ve got the Cap aboard. Am I flying shuttle for the Resalq?”

  “Nope. They’re coming over with the last of their freight – Colonel Vidal’s riding with them. I was just talking to the younger Doc Sherratt, one minute ago.”

  Travers tapped his combug to shut off the audio. “Sounds like Mick’s awake.”

  “He’ll be … wobbly,” Marin warned, off the loop. “Cut him some slack, Neil. Voice of experience.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Travers rested one hand on Marin’s knee. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “Ten years before we met?” Marin gave him a brief, crooked smile. “It’s a nice thought. File it under ‘sentimentalities and practicalities.’”

  Travers had ducked a little to watch the view through the forward canopy as Perlman took the spaceplane through a wide parabolic arc, up over the back of the tug. The Wastrel seemed to pass directly overhead, a mass of gantries, cranes, zug rails, drone bunkers, gun silos, and then she was gone, the stars spun over as the Capricorn rolled, and Lai’a rose into view.

  A glimpse of the Intrepid made Travers’s heart skip before he made himself see Lai’a instead – and his heart skipped a second time, for very different reasons. The hyper-Weimann drive was inert and yet so sizzling hot, it was sheathed in ten layers of interlaced Arago fields which created a shimmering haze around the naked engine core. Despite the Aragos, every hazard warning on the pilot’s console had winked red. Perlman simply ignored them. A squad of drones was on standby; the Capricorn would be comprehensively decontaminated as soon as she was permanently hangared.

  Lai’a raced up out of the distance and the plane dove down, and under, to approach the hangar. Travers watched as the immense ship seemed to roll over. In fact, the Capricorn had performed every maneuver – Lai’a was unmoving, on station keeping.

  “Brace yourself,” Marin said darkly. Travers shot a glance at him, and as the Capricorn nosed into the bright hangar lights he said, “While you were on the Carellan, Barb had the Wastrel monitoring Hellgate for a likely event on the Orpheus Gate. The data feed from Oberon predicts one inside the next three hours.”

  “So soon?” Travers was aware of the sudden chill sweat prickling on brow and ribs, and angled a frown in Vaurien’s direction. Richard was already immersed in the business of crew and ship, and from what little Travers could overhear, he was hammering out schedules. Oh yes, there was a Hellgate storm looming on the horizon.

  “The sooner the better.” Marin released the harness as the plane touched down. The engines were still whining to a stop as he got his feet under him. “Like visiting a dentist, isn’t it?”

  “You mean, the anticipation’s worse than the reality?” Travers followed him up.

  Jim Fujioka looked bleak as he came forward to the hatch. He carried equipment cases under both arms and a gaudy, green and purple civilian backpack between his shoulders. He looked around Travers, into the cockpit. “Hey, Gillie, I brought your stuff. Anything you forgot this time stays forgot.”

  “Thanks, hon.” She was shutting down systems, and waved over her shoulder. “You want dinner? Jude says they just finished setting up the autochefs.”

  “Yeah, but who set ’em up?” Fujioka grumbled. “If Doc Jazinsky did ’em, you’ll get half your tastebuds burned off and spend a week in the damn’ latrine!”

  “You don’t like Pakrani food,” Travers observed.

  “I like it just fine,” Fujioka told him, “it just doesn’t like me!”

  “So get in there and fine tune a ’chef to suit you,” Perlman snorted as she joined them at the hatch.

  “I intend to,” Fujioka said tartly.

  “Besides,” she added, “Roo and Tim were in charge. It’s safe to eat, so long as you don’t mind a sausage on a bun.”

  “It’s all about the mustard.” Fujioka pushed half of the equipment cases into her hands.

  The hangar was small enough to cycle swiftly, and moments later the hatch instruments blinked green and the mechanism opened with a shush of equalizing pressures. Cold air and the acid reek from hot engines smarted Travers’s sinuses as he followed Marin and Vaurien to the inner armordoor. It was growling open when Vaurien said into the loop,

  “All right, Barb, if Lai’a agrees, we’ll move out in 100 minutes; start the clock. Jon, I’ll ask you to raise the whole complement individually. We’re almost out of time to remember fiddling personal details.”

  Jon Kim’s voice was high, taut with stress he was smothering with the practice of a career in the turbulent, volatile Ulrish political arena. “Will do, Richard … or should I say, Captain. I don’t have an office set up yet. We’re in the lounge – you mind if I work out of there?”

  “Please do,” Vaurien invited. “I’ll be with you soon enough.”

  It was the first time Marin and Travers had set foot in the habitation module, and Travers was surprised at the familiarity of it. The hull of one Fleet cruiser was very like any other. The Apollo and the Mercury were twin sisters from the same production lines, the shipyards orbiting Mars and several moons in the Jovian system. The Apollo might have been dormant for years, but she was resurrected now – bright, warm, and Travers had only to follow his nose to the crew lounge where the autochefs were already working.

  The vast painting of the tea clipper City of Adelaide under full sail ahead of a white-water storm had been transferred from the Mercury, and from the Carellan, a reproduction of a ‘solar sailor’ from the early days of Resalq manned spaceflight. The gossamer-winged vessel looked more fantasy than technology, but it had actually done service, tacking on the solar wind between the homeworlds of the ancestral Resalq. Mark’s people were still absent, but Shapiro and Kim were installed in the corner under the clipper ship, and Kim was busy with a combug and a handy.

  Before them was a scatter of similar handies, most of them idle. Marin appropriated two and passed one to Travers. ”Messages,” he said pointedly, “while we have the chance.” His fingers were already busy.

  At the next table, Rodman, Huble
r and Bill Grant were eating as if they had little time to spare, while Jazinsky inspected the ’chef menu and several members of Bravo company kibitzed over noodles, otsumami and green tea.

  “Richard!” She handed him a plate, which he tried to wave away, but Jazinsky would accept no such refusal. “Anybody tell you lately, you’re looking thin in the skin? Eat.”

  “I told him,” Grant said loudly. “You want shots, Captain? I can pencil you right in between Mick and the nong.”

  “The nong?” Travers looked up from the device where he was keying as brief and terse a message as he could manage to his eldest brother. No love had ever been lost between himself and Allan, and the text was purely a formal notification that if this mail were received, Travers, N.A. was deceased and a bequest was accessible, upon legitimate legal application. The wording was so terse, he almost went back and rewrote it. Almost.

  “I said nong, I meant nong,” Bill Grant said brashly.

  Memory jogged, and Travers recalled the scathing Australianism from years before. He angled a critical glance at Teniko, who had curled up into a ball in a chair in the lounge’s only dim corner. Heavy eyed, slack mouthed, Tonio showed Grant his middle finger and buried his nose in a mug of mocha so thick, it was like syrup.

  “And I said, eat,” Jazinsky repeated, slathering sauce over the plate of Singapore noodles she had handed to Vaurien.

  “I guess I’ll eat,” Richard said in tones of resignation. “I don’t have time for this. We’re on countdown to departure, Barb.”

  “Yes, you do. Mark and I have been watching a storm brewing for the last hour or so,” she argued. “Looks like it’ll be a beauty, which suits us just fine – but it won’t crest inside at least the next hour.”

  “Lai’a seems to like the size and shape of it.” Vaurien was picking around the edges of the food.

  “Lai’a identifies it as the Orpheus Gate.” Jazinsky had taken a bowl of mixed seafood and fragrant rice. “Obviously, it can’t wait to get into any storm that’ll take it right back to its natural environment. Homing pigeon. Us? We’re piggybacked along for the ride.”