The Stalk

by Janet Morris

  The bad news was that to take advantage of all the natural cover provided by two large alien masses, he'd be nearly up under the Ball's skirts. If the Ball decided to open up and suck him inside, or spit some death ray. Reice wouldn't have a prayer of outrunning its lethal reach. Not from so close by.

  But you had to place your bets. And Reice knew enough about the Ball, if not the embassy construct, to know that the Unity aliens' superior technology ought to mean superior survivability—and a better place to hide from ricochets and strays.

  What was the Secretariat thinking? he wondered once more as he laid in his new coordinates. Any fool soldier or cop knew that blindly attacking an indubitably superior force when you were armed with demonstrably inferior weapons was a bad idea.

  You hunkered down behind some handy cover and sent for reinforcements. But that was cop thinking, or maybe military thinking. Not diplomat thinking, or bureaucrat thinking.

  He just hoped the diplomats and the bureaucrats were thinking. It would be a shame to die out here over some miscommunication or because somebody'd had a bad night's sleep.

  He got his okay from Traffic Control and began making his way as unobtrusively as possible to his new coordinates. Not that those coordinates were unobtrusive. Only when he'd been out here to meet South and Ambassador Lowe had he been so close to the Ball for any length of time.

  He just hoped it didn't misconstrue his approach as some sort of suicide attack or kamikaze move. So he sidled up to his new station nice and slow, real careful, and without any of his weapons armed during the flight.

  He knew that the Ball could sense him. He wasn't fooling himself that proximity had any effect on its efficiency. If it could tell he had live weapons trained on it from close at hand, it knew he'd drawn a bead on it from his earlier post.

  The Ball didn't reach out and grab him, suck him into a hole in spacetime, spit colored fire, or do anything much when he finally arrived on station.

  It blinked at him, that was all. Or winked. It pulsed a small whorl of colors right in his face. Just one time. And then it went back to being its inscrutable Ball self.

  He didn't know whether to report the anomaly of the blink or not. In the end, he didn't. Too many hair triggers around to chance it.

  Reice wasn't a praying man, but he was praying now that no jokers from the Secretariat or ConSpaceCom lost their heads and started something that humanity couldn't finish.

  CHAPTER 26

  Start-Up

  In the command and control center fitted to the apex of the Stalk like a witch's hat or a missile warhead or a radar mast, Richard Cummings watched the final systems check with an inexplicable optimism that bordered on elation.

  All around him in the circular C&C module walled with multifunction displays, anticipation was high and discussion animated. White-jacketed NAMECorp structural engineers huddled with LabCom propulsion mavens in rumpled leisure clothes, whispering incantations over topological spacetime maps. ConSpaceCom astrogators in orange coveralls dappled with mission patches stalked from station to station, datapads in hand and comm beads gleaming in their ears. Astrophysicists and geochronometrists conferred with Threshold traffic control experts, leaning over desktop lidar, microwave radar, and infrared scanners showing the latest turbulence and space hazard tracking reports. Gesticulating Secretariat staffers in pin-striped flannel suits guided pampered Threshold media personalities through the astronic wonderland in search of vidcam opportunities and talking heads. Logistics Agency brass, their uniformed chests resplendent with multicolored field decorations, signed manifests and gave orders with equal flourish. ConSec security personnel in weapons-belted khakis kept an unobtrusive record of who came and went through the doorways they guarded.

  Richard Cummings sat alone, in the eye of the storm, waiting patiently for the moment when everyone would take their places, braced and ready for ignition, and Threshold would begin to move. Cummings was proud of the work that NAMECorp had done on this project—as proud as he'd ever been of any work his people had produced, here at the Stalk, or out beyond the nearer stars.

  General Granrud came by, intent on managing the effort by walking around where he could be available to anyone who needed him, trailing three aides and a bird colonel behind him like a tail.

  "Everything meet your expectations so far, Mr. Cummings?" the pear-faced general asked.

  "Everything's smooth as silk, General. Quite an accomplishment, so far," Cummings replied, careful to add the salt needed when one old professional spoke to another of a project just getting under way.

  The general's casual mood evaporated. "We'd like to burn in with a test run—or a hot wash, if we need it."

  "What did you have in mind, General?" A test run was clearly feasible; a "hot wash," during which everyone came back in from a failed test or trouble-plagued exercise to determine what went wrong, and how to fix it, was the military's typical response to less than perfect field-test results.

  "We figure we can move Threshold a half-naut or so without wasting too much time, fuel, energy, or trouble. We want to make sure these plasma thrusters are going to give us the sort of fine attitude correction we want from them. Then if we've got a problem we haven't solved or anticipated, we can fix it here, while our spacedocks are still available."

  "Fine idea, General, if we've got the time and the fuel to burn." Richard was accustomed to last minute cover-our-ass thinking from the military. Sometimes he thought that the planning staffs and the action staffs really didn't communicate at all. Now that Granrud was commanding an action staff, he was thinking like an action officer. An action officer wanted to do some damned thing and see what happened, because he knew you couldn't simulate real time, no matter how much computational power you engaged. Of course, action officers didn't care what things cost—they were trained to get the job done in real time, with as few disasters as possible, but including any and all screwups, and bring their people through to the objective with the least possible deformation of mission parameters.

  Winning came first. Casualties came second. Equipment loss or damage came third. "I assume you've got consensus from my people and the science types that we're not adding unnecessary stresses on the superstructure with an unscheduled reorbiting test like this?"

  Granrud wanted to put the mobilized Threshold through her paces: start-up, short flight, attitude corrections, precision astrogation drill, and new orbit acquisition, all without losing access to Spacedocks One through Seven and the technical capabilities there.

  The ConSpaceCom general replied. "The consensus is that we don't want a problem we can't handle cropping up at a good fraction of the speed of light. Maybe we'll stress the superstructure some, but I'd rather find out now. w r hen I can do something about it, than later, when I can't."

  When they left orbit for real, they'd lose contact with the Spacedock necklace for the duration of the journey: each Spacedock would be recreated at the new orbital site. Mankind wasn't moving out of the home system, not on this or any other day. Mickey Croft's grand plan included having NAMECorp begin constructing another, more modest but more modern, habitat at the old Threshold site. Cummings had gracefully concurred, not simply because it meant another huge project for his corporate empire, but because Earth, the mother world, must be constantly monitored and protected from do-gooders and exploiters alike.

  Cummings said, "Let's go do it, General. Your way. You're the operational authority . . . shall we throw those newsies out of here or let them stay so we can look good on the eighteen-hundred news?"

  Granrud winced theatrically. "I forgot to bring my public affairs officer over here. Didn't think I'd need him. Can you field their questions from NAMECorp's point of view? I just want to run my mission, and I'd be happier if I didn't have to look my best."

  "I understand," Cummings said gravely. "We'd be delighted to handle the press, using your guidelines. I'm sure the Secretariat has lots of statements it wants to make, as well. Good luck, General."

/>   "To all of us. Test flight begins in seventy minutes. Real start up at nineteen hundred hours, and we don't want anybody broadcasting live from in here."

  "You have my word on it." As the general turned away.

  Cummings left his quiet spot at the mission integration console and ambled over to the Secretariat chief of staff, who was finessing the press delegation.

  "Vince, congratulations on your new appointment."

  'Thank you, Mr. Cummings." They shook hands and a dozen cyclopean-eyed vidcams glared their way.

  "Don't thank me, it was well deserved. Can I see you a moment in private?"

  Remson shook off the media with professional grace. "Sir?" Blond, athletic and Teutonic, Remson was looking especially photogenic today. His energetic air and commanding, perfectly groomed presence seemed to exude competence and the assurance that the Secretariat had everything well under control. Remson was fooling the newsies, anyway. He might have fooled Cummings, if not for Richard's deep familiarity with the way the Croft Secretariat worked.

  "How's Mickey?" Cummings asked casually. Mickey Croft's absence, and Remson's promotion, spoke volumes to the initiated.

  "Getting some well-deserved rest," Remson said stonily.

  "It's been a trying interval for all of us."

  "You and Forat didn't help much."

  "I'm so sorry, but real differences of opinion take time and effort to settle. Tell the Secretary for me that I hope he's well enough to make an appearance soon." Cummings was fishing, but he knew damn well there was a big fat trout in the pool.

  "He'll make a statement once there's something to say. We're not getting ahead of our technical and military agencies on this. You shouldn't, either. If something goes wrong at this early stage, so far you're the only one who'll have egg on his face."

  "Speaking of something going wrong, get these media succubi out of here within the hour. We're going to run a field test. If you want to risk them going live from a mini-disaster, it's up to you. But after that, the C&C center is off-limits to nonessential personnel. If egg on faces is your paramount concern, I'd recommend moving them out now, before the test. Then you'll have time to spin the results your way."

  Remson's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "We'll be talking to you later, of course—at the press conference."

  "Wouldn't miss it."

  As Remson stalked away without another word, Cummings wondered if Mickey Croft's new Chief of Staff had ever seen a real egg, let alone understood the reference. Cummings had promised himself that he'd spend some time at his Montana ranch when this was over—and take along his son and new daughter-in-law as a belated wedding gift, a conciliatory gesture. Montana summer might remind Ricky that Earth was his homeworld, and that the first Garden of Eden was still the best. He'd even offered to arrange for the Mullah Forat, Dini, Rick, and himself to visit Jerusalem. You had to know what the other man wanted and be ready to give it to him, to really cement a change in relationship or shore up a strategic weak point.

  Remson's sudden promotion was designed to cover for Mickey Croft's absence. If he'd had more time, Cummings would have been assiduously rooting out the truth of Croft's condition. Now, it didn't seem to matter a hell of a lot.

  The test reorbit was going to answer many more pressing questions. It would also cost the Secretariat a bundle, but that was to Cummings' benefit. He busied himself circling the room, making sure all of his people knew that NAMECorp was heartily in favor of supporting General Granrud's idea of a short burn-in.

  By the time Cummings was done, Remson had removed every last media personality and couture-clad staffer, and the C&C center was beginning to look like an operational facility at last.

  Countdown numbers started. "Zero minus sixty minutes."

  The next time Cummings truly noticed the simulated human voice announcing the countdown, there were only twenty-three minutes left until start-up of the complex matrix of astrogational and propulsion modules, outboard tows and tugs.

  "—and holding." The countdown, once stopped, was a silence resounding louder than one could imagine. One of Richard's senior space scientists came over to him. "Sir," said the big-headed youngster determinedly. "We ran these stresses again, in light of a recently detected magnetic front." Behind the NAMECorp scientist was a light colonel with hands thrust in coverall pockets and a sour look on his pockmarked face.

  "Go on," Cummings said.

  The scientist eyed the astrogator. The astrogator added, "You see, sir, it's the space debris problem we're going to have, combined with the magnetic storm—it's makin' the original flight window downright unviable."

  The scientist picked up where the astrogator left off. "We think it's crazy not to use this so-called test window to take advantage of a clear shot out past the vector of the incoming disturbance. If we don't go now, we might be socked in for days. Everybody'll lose their edge...."

  Anxiously, the astrogator in orange said, "ConSpaceCom Astrogation thinks either we abort the test and use the test window to mount the mission, or we'll be lickin' our chops for the next seventy-two hours."

  "And," the young scientist began before the astrogator had finished, "we can't be sure that the incoming magnetics aren't going to give us all sorts of corollary problems— stress the systems more than a test would, if we have to sit it out. We're real exposed where some of these sensing Systems are concerned. They aren't going to like a magnetic bath one bit. We can outrun the bath this system is going to take if we hurry, but if we sit here ... Well, I wouldn't want to warrant NAMECorp equipment after its been through the dual stresses of an outbound magnetic storm and this test run."

  "It's sort of like sunspots, sir: can't live with them, can't stop 'em."

  "I get the picture, Colonel. All right, you two. Let's see the supporting data. I suppose you've decided I'm the guy to tell your boss?" General Granrud had wanted that test. The Secretariat had been counting it as a bonus, a chance to hold a press conference, put their spin on events, make sure everybody on Threshold was prepared for what was to come, but not worried.

  Back to the original plan. You didn't always have to like reality in order to adapt to it.

  Cummings found Granrud and handed him the data without a word. The general knew what was up; his squat, muscular body was hunched over a com console. He scrolled through the supporting documentation with his chin on his fist and said, without looking up, "Well, Mr. Cummings, it's your ass, too. Want to go for it? Outrun our bad luck from a cold start? You built this equipment."

  "To your specifications/' Cummings reminded him. then added: "In consultation. Yeah. I'd go for it. if it were my call."

  "Good," Granrud straightened up. rubbing the small of his back. "Then, let's go do it." He grinned as he motioned his staff, waiting at a polite distance, to come close.

  The count resumed shortly thereafter. Cummings took his station at the command and control integration center and inserted comm beads in his ears, so he could hear some of the message traffic as well as the count and the room.

  Everywhere but at the astrogators' console, people were strapping into acceleration couches, checking life-support and auxiliary power supplies, and making sure they had space helmets and escape vehicle assignments in case the worst happened and Threshold broke apart, disintegrated as soon as the propulsion modules ignited.

  You couldn't evacuate everybody on the habitat. You could evacuate the C&C staff—very quietly, just like you evacuated the Secretariat staff.

  As the clock talked down, Cummings admitted that he was glad that Rick and Dini were safe somewhere else. Sometimes you needed to know you weren't risking everything you cared about.

  He looked at his console, pressed a toggle, and his main integration module lit up, giving him a good idea how the system was coming on-line. Each time a component somewhere on the Stalk or on the outriding spacecraft or the add-on modules was tested and brought on-line, it lit up on his graphic.

  It was comforting to watch Threshold come
alive. She'd never been meant to be mobile, but she was built to last. It was like lighting a huge Christmas tree one tier of decorations at a time, or turning on the power to a new generator or office tower. He'd done it all before. He cupped the comm bead in his left ear and attenuated the one in his right, but only joined the operation in progress when there was confusion about priority access or section reporting.

  The next time he noticed the countdown, they were real close. But he knew that. Only the suite of massive scalar drive units remained to be brought on-line. If even one of them failed by overloading and exploding catastrophically, they could lose part of Blue South or even Blue Mid. If one or all of them failed to produce ignition power levels, Threshold wasn't going anywhere.

  The countdown in his right ear was synchronized with the voices coming from far "below" him, on the three integrated scalar power modules.

  Cummings couldn't help those engineers now. All that remained in his universe was the slow count to ignition. Seven. Six. Five.

  Number One came on-line. Four. Three. Number Two roared to life. But Number Three was hesitant, vapor-locked, or frozen up. Silence interspersed by curses filled the room.

  The countdown clock announced the hold.

  You couldn't hold long, with Scalar Drive One and Two at full power.

  A tiny voice in Cummings left ear said, "Okay. Let's try it again."

  The count resumed at "One Minute to Zero."

  Scalar Drive Three kicked in. The countdown announced "Zero," and "Ignition."

  A roar rode up the Stalk from her south pole. Vibration came up Richard's legs from his feet. Not good. Too much vibration, and—An integration emergency light lit, from one of the ConSpace Com tugs. He took it himself, talking a nervous outrider through a resynchronization of his astronics to the main system. "Just a little glitch somewhere," a distant voice told him. "Artifact of the interrupted countdown," he agreed.

  Then he sat back and realized that the vibration running up his legs from the decking was gone. They were moving. And Threshold was holding together.