Event Horizon (Hellgate)

by Mel Keegan

  It could be like this, he thought hazily as he began to work – a summer’s morning on a world so new, it was virgin, the sky clean, air so fresh, it tasted like champagne. A nook in an orchard, he decided as his hands molded around Curtis’s shoulders to hold him to the rhythm, with that very cabin not far away, those same horses in the soft grass, a world without Terran agents and the threat of bounty hunters –

  And then thoughts spun away into incoherence. The cosmos might have consisted of himself and Curtis Marin, a writhing mass of emotion and sensation flaring into brilliance where two bodies became one. Beneath him Marin cried out, high and sharp – Neil had heard foxes call that way, long ago, in springtime on the side of the mountain, under the Wulff Glacier. Hot, acid tears stung his eyes, perhaps in an instant of mourning for all that could never be again. He blinked them away and worked harder as Marin began to hunt for the end.

  The plan was to sleep late, and Travers did. He had no firm memory of making it back to their stateroom, when he woke at last he found himself between bronze sheets while the threedee whispered a wakeup call. He cracked open one eye, heard water running in the bathroom, and a whisper of music there. Marin was showering, and the ’chef issued the scents of fresh coffee and croissants.

  He sat up with a groan, wondering where the last ten hours had gone. Good dreams followed good sex, and he felt more rested than he had in weeks. Months. He peered at the time as he swung his legs off the bed. The rookie class would be forming up in the suiting room in an hour.

  The bathroom door slid open, emitting a billow of steam, and Marin looked out. “You’re awake. I’d begun to think I’d killed you.”

  “What, I died of bliss, sometime around the third cosmic climax in the wee, small hours of the morning?” Travers was fetching coffee.

  “That, or a cardiac arrest,” Marin allowed with a paucity of romance as he stepped out of the steam. He began to rummage for the slacks he had mislaid. “I’d have yelled for a medic, of course. And sent flowers to the funeral.”

  “Magnanimous of you.” Travers shared his amusement as he sat on the foot of the bed, waiting with the coffee and content to watch him for the pleasure of looking at him, until Curtis was in Tai Chi pants and a familiar pale mesh shirt.

  He tried the coffee, found it much too strong and took it back to the ’chef for cream. “Something about a crash course in Marines armor, for the civilian contingent?”

  “You got time to help?” Travers wondered.

  “I want to run first,” Marin told him, “but I’ll come right to the jump bay, soon as I’m done. God knows, there’s not much to talk them through, but I’d rather be sure they know it. Roy and Jon especially. Dario, Tor, Ernst and Barb have been working with every kind of armor for decades. This hardsuit’s different, but it shouldn’t take them long to get used to it. To be honest, I’d also like to drag Alexis in there.”

  “You would?” Travers was surprised, and not at all sure Alexis Rusch would be coerced.

  “No colonel with a triple doctorate has seen the inside of a suit of Marines armor since she went through the executive version of boot,” Marin said pointedly, “and you know how soft that would have been. Holdfast, Malteppe? Not by a long shot.”

  “You still remember that?” Travers saluted him in coffee.

  “Like I’ll ever forget. It was me against Sergeant R.A. Neville … and I think,” Marin said thoughtfully, “I won.”

  “You did. But I still had to make the bastard shut down the sim.” Travers finished the coffee and went back to the machine for a refill. “He was going to throw more at you – the kind of action where you’d have been cut to pieces. Dendra Shemiji might have walked away from the sim, but the rest of the platoon would’ve been in the Infirmary. Or the morgue. By that time, Neville was ready to kill the rest to take you down.”

  Marin sobered fast. “Yeah, I know. If I never said it before – thanks. At the time, I was pushing Neville to see how far he’d go, and I thought I might’ve pushed too hard. I was ready to take the simulation tank itself to pieces, to stop it, which is so far against regulations, I’d have been on charges – so much for the Dendra Shemiji assignment! I didn’t know you were out there watching, but I’m very, very pleased you were.”

  “Hey.” Travers set aside the coffee and enfolded him. “One look at you, and I think I just knew. You and me, it was all going to happen. And no way was I going to let some mad bastard screw it all up.” He feathered a kiss around Marin’s face, laid claim to his mouth, and stood back to survey his handiwork. “Thank you for last night. It was … inspired.”

  A shade of color highlighted Marin’s cheekbones. “Thought you’d like that. Doesn’t have to be a one-off. The arboretum’s always hot and humid as a summer evening in Dominguez.” He laid one hand flat over Travers’s heart. “I’m going to run. I’ll meet you in the suiting room.”

  He was gone on those words, and Travers set the shower faucet to scalding. Twenty minutes later he was in the jump bay, looking at ranks of armor, personalized helmets set into niches above the lockers, and waiting on the last few members of this workshop. Predictably, Jazinsky and Sereccio were the last to show, Barb because she was so busy, Tor because he was attending under protest. But Travers was surprised and pleased to see Mark Sherratt, and Alexis Rusch arrived with Rabelais and Vidal.

  All of them barring Jon Kim and Roy Arlott had experience with armor, but the Zunshulite suits were necessarily far more cumbersome than any industrial hardsuit, and the mass was astonishing. Even the helmets were so heavy, it was impossible for someone like Arlott or Rusch or Vidal, in his current condition, to lift them if the Arago power was off. Each helmet had its own tiny emitter, the same kind of field projector used in glowbots and viddrones, so the apparent mass was never more than a few kilos.

  Even so, Arlott growled about the weight of his own helmet until Travers checked it. Looking thoughtfully at the small, slight Roy, he increased the Arago power till the dead weight of the helmet was not so intimidating. Jazinsky was impatient, and not slow to point out that she had designed this armor, and knew more about it than anyone else in the suiting room with the exception of Mark Sherratt.

  Of them all, Rusch and Leon were the most receptive to advice. Tor grumbled and sniped until Dario was exasperated and Mark was about to apologize for him; but Travers turned his back to Tor, dropped his voice and said softly, “Don’t worry about it. Curtis told me.”

  “He did?” Dario was first astonished and then a tiny fraction embarrassed. “He’s not usually such a … a prick.”

  “I know.” Travers chanced a grin. “Have you thought about getting him a shot? Get enough booze into him, he won’t even know he’s had it.”

  “That,” Dario said in deep, sinister tones, “is not a bad idea.”

  They were all in armor when Marin arrived, and Vidal was demonstrating the new Arago instrumentation while Travers adjusted Arlott’s apparent mass for the fifth time. Richard Vaurien loitered in the armordoors, watching as Shapiro explained the hardsuit, piece by piece, for Jon Kim. Rabelais was so used to suits, he was into armor, through orientation, desuited and sitting by the lockers, finishing a second iced green tea before Travers was satisfied with some of the others. Jazinsky was critical of the fit and wanted feedback from Rusch about how the suits fit a woman, but otherwise she seemed satisfied.

  “Good enough,” Vaurien decided as Vidal, Marin and Rabelais stacked the helmets back into storage. He looked rested, in the old white denims and a faded shirt with the sleeves pushed up above lean brown forearms. “You happy with them, Neil?”

  “More or less,” Travers told him, “and without taking the armor outside for a test run, they’re not going to get any more familiar. They can get in and out of it, set the weight, adjust the life support, which is all most of them are going to need. If it comes to fighting, leave the work to Bravo.”

  “And you?” Vaurien asked quietly.

  Travers took a long breath, held
it, let it out slowly. “Curtis, Bill and I were part of Bravo when this ship was still the Intrepid. This is just one last rodeo, as Judith Fargo would say.” He looked up at Vaurien with a grim determination. “Let’s just get it done, Richard.”

  For a moment Vaurien hesitated, and then nodded. “We’ll transit at the Red Gate tomorrow. Blood Gate. Whatever it means.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be an explorer.” Travers stood back to let Rusch, Rabelais and Tor leave, and Sereccio continued to grumble, though he must have known no one was listening. Leon would have told Roy what his problem was, and Mark would have told Vidal, who would have informed Rusch and Rabelais. Tor seemed untroubled that most of the company knew about the turmoil of Resalq hormones. As Marin had said, the Resalq were not uncomfortable about their own biology, and what embarrassed Dario was having to apologize for him, when he had picked a quarrel for no good reason.

  “Lai’a,” Vaurien was saying, “has dissected the Ebrezjim database for every scrap of reliable navigation data. Enough fragments are salvageable to give us a halfway decent navtank load.”

  “For the Zunshu Gate?” Travers heard the catch in his own voice.

  “Yes.” Vaurien dropped his head back, worked his neck to and fro, telltale of tension there.

  For the first time Travers saw strands of silver among the red hair. Perhaps Richard had been using cosmetic nano to keep them away; perhaps they were new. Travers did not know, and though they were attractive, distinguished, he said nothing of them. Did Richard want to be reminded, in this place, of his mortality? Did Travers?

  “You got anything you want me to do?” he asked instead as the group drifted away, leaving the suiting room quiet. Marin and Vidal stayed, sharing a water bottle and talking in murmurs; Leon and Roy were the last working on a suit, in the far corner.

  But Vaurien made negative noises. “We’re riding a gravity tide Lai’a is calling The Onbai’shu. I don’t know what it means, but it sounds poetic.”

  Pleasant surprise ambushed Travers. “I do know what it means. It’s from the Jagreth story – Onbai means shining, or glittering, and shu is a way or a path, a trail. The Onbai’shu was the route Jagreth flew to track down his partner, who’d been abducted ... and it took him right to the front gates of a nasty character called Kes Matub.”

  “Is that a fact?” Vaurien was as impressed as amused. “You should talk to Vidal about this. He’s become fascinated with all things Resalq … and a little infatuated with Mark, I believe.”

  “Infatuated?” Travers was amused. “Well, you take friendship and add infatuation, what do you get? Mick’s found himself a safe anchorage in a storm, and I’m the last one who’d object.”

  For some moments Richard studied him mutely. “You’ve changed, Neil,” he said at last. “The kid I used to know was only interested in racing iceboats, and range-testing assault rifles, and flying sportplanes.”

  “And getting laid a lot,” Travers added.

  “That too.” Now Vaurien allowed a sound of humor.

  “I guess I grew up.” Travers was watching Marin and Vidal. “I thought Fleet would broaden my horizons, but in the end all it did was acquaint me with a crewdeck and a pit in the sky that scared us all so spitless, we just wanted to get out.”

  “And you did.” Vaurien dropped a large hand on Travers’s shoulder. “We got a lot from the Ebrezjim. Less than Mark’s people had wanted, but more than Barb and I expected, if I tell you the truth. Mind you, the last thing any of us anticipated was that the crew killed their own AI. And I can tell you, Lai’a is, as it puts it, alert to the probability of the same kind of attack. Beat that, Neil, and we believe we can handle the rest.”

  “Meaning, you like our odds a little better now.”

  “Let’s say …” Vaurien paused to listen to his combug. “It’s not quite the kamikaze run it seemed to be at first. We’re in with a fighting chance now – which is all any of us ever asked for. Nineteen hours, now, Neil. Red Gate.”

  As he spoke Vidal and Marin were on their way out of the jump bay, and Vidal echoed, “Red Gate…?”

  “Exploration,” Vaurien said sagely. “The thrill of seeing what’s out there. I could get used to this.”

  “What’s Barb say?” Marin wanted to know. “If you’re headed out after the war, and if you’re handfasting, you need to be on the same page.”

  “Barb just wants to lie on a beach and drink piña coladas till she forgets what day it is. My job,” Vaurien added, “is to find the beach. A beach where Terran bounty hunters are not likely to show up with a picture of me in one hand and a Chiyoda machine pistol in the other. The warrant was issued for me just about the time we shipped out. Dead or alive, same as Harrison. The bastards could show up in the Deep Sky in six months, or ten years, so long as the bounty’s on offer. It’s one monkey you can’t get off your back.”

  “You don’t think Chandra Liang and Alec Tarrant and the others can get the warrants cancelled, if they’ve brought the Confederacy to the conference table?” Marin looked from Vaurien to Travers and back.

  “Maybe, given long enough. And maybe,” Vaurien said bleakly, “the sanction would be issued covertly, through a security agency on Earth or Mars, by a committee of certified bastards like Colonel Carvalho and Senator Rutherford, who’d like to have my head pickled in a glass barrel … right beside Harrison’s.”

  “Well, shit,” Vidal said succinctly. “You’re saying there’s no way back for anyone identified as one of the geniuses who made it all happen. I don’t suppose Bobby Liang’s going to bug out – he can’t, being who he is, what he is. So he’ll live the rest of his life inside a security cordon on StarCity.”

  Vaurien only shrugged. “I could be dead wrong. I could also be just plaid dead, and buried in a memorial garden in Elstrom, right between Harrison Shapiro and Bob Liang! I’d rather be living way beyond Earth’s reach, lying on that beach beside Barb while my ships ply between some new Freespacer paradise and the Deep Sky ports … come back occasionally, unpredictably, where these hypothetical agents never know where to find me, on a ship they can’t reach into. The Wastrel has been the safest place in the Deep Sky for years now. It probably always will be. But there’s no law,” he said pointedly, “says we have to stay in the Deep Sky.”

  “Well … shit, and I said that already, I know,” Vidal whispered.

  “When the time comes,” Vaurien offered, “if you want in, give me a call.”

  “I, uh, I will.” Vidal puffed out his cheeks. “And I know Ernst and Jo will want in. Lex, I’m not so sure, but –”

  “She’s high on the arrest list,” Vaurien reminded him. “Harrison got the intelligence via a drone courier, just before we left.” He gave a low chuckle. “We’re all wanted criminals, with a military firing squad waiting for us if we let the Earthers get their paws on us. And that,” he said with steely finality, “won’t be happening.” He gestured at his combug. “I’m wanted in Ops. Later, guys.”

  He had returned to the service lift when Vidal added, “And I’m supposed to be wrangling the simulator for Roark and Asako. They’re starting to make it work.”

  “They got through without dumping themselves right into Naiobe?” Marin was impressed.

  “Once. Let’s see if they can make it twice.” Vidal looked back into the suiting room, where Mark and Leon were still fiddling with Leon’s environment settings while Roy Arlott looked merely bored. The Resalq liked their armor warmer, dryer, the grav-resist a little lower to give it a higher apparent mass. “Mahak, are we still on for later?” Vidal called.

  Mark favored him with a smile. “Of course. I’ll come by the hangar as soon as I can get away.” He gave Marin a rueful look. “I’ve let him talk me into taking the transspace simulator ‘for a spin,’ as he puts it. I ought to know better, but I have a little time, before we transit the Red Gate, so – why not?”

  “You mean, why should we have all the fun?” Travers snorted. “I don’t think fun is quite the
right word.” He shot a glance at Vidal. “Well, for some of us, maybe.”

  “But then,” Vidal admitted, “I always was weird. Gotta go, guys.”

  He was gone with that, and Travers slung one arm across Marin’s shoulders. “You want to watch Hubler and Rodman not hang it up?”

  “We need to take a good, close look at the nav data Lai’a managed to squeeze out of the Ebrezjim,” Marin said quietly. “Worst comes to worst, Neil, you and I could wind up actually flying this thing very soon, in Zunshu space … and if I tell you the truth, the thought scares me to death.”

  It made Travers’s blood run so cold, he preferred to block it out of his mind, but Marin was right. Preparation was the other side of the coin of survival. Very quietly, almost surreptitiously, the Sherratts, Vidal, Rabelais and Queneau had already assembled the cabling and physical connectors to couple the simulator to the secondary Weimann and hyper-Weimann control system.

  Auxiliary drive control was the ultimate backup, the physical system that would come online if Lai’a failed. Lai’a approved of the backup; it had assisted in the configuration. It had to know the cabling and junction conduit had been assembled to pilot this ship from the flight systems of the simulator, Travers thought, but he knew nothing more. For human pilots to come online, Lai’a would have failed – it might even be erased, the way the Ebrezjim’s AI had been terminated. And Lai’a was minutely aware of the possibility.

  “I want to load the simulator with the new nav data,” Marin said in the same quiet tone. “I want to fly the Zunshu Gate in simulation, long before we actually get there. I know Mick and Jo will be doing the same thing. For the moment, I’d like to use the big tank in Ops and run the charts backwards and sideways. Yes?”