The moment of disorientation that ensued was extended.
"Oh, my," Mel Sent said, in an unaccustomed voice; it occurred to Kay Free that if Mel Sent had been hosted by a human creature at this moment, that creature's eyes would be welled with tears.
Oh, my... PcI Front said, barely audible.
"Yes . . ." Kay Free said.
And then she slowly became aware of-herself and her surroundings again. She had been in a shocked limbo, and now when limbo was left behind, the
shock remained, though of a newer kind. -
196 Al Sarrantonlo
Incorporeal, nearly invisible, like waving sheets of pale green-yellow light, like the aurora borealis, Kay Free saw now that she and the others had left their hosts and stood suspended and shimmering in their natural state.
"It's best that we leave this place," Mel Sent said in a somber, low voice.
"Yes, and immediately," Pel Front said.
They rose, curling, filmy, lighted expanses, up toward the undulating gray-green clearness of the ocean top above them. When they broke through, it felt like stepping through a mirror.
But before they penetrated the surface, Kay Free turned her attention a final time to the scene below her: the eyeless burned thing that had been her host; Pel Front's host, skin pulled back over its exoskeleton in a curl of execution, toothed mouth locked wide open—and Mel Sent's magnificent whale-creature, now rolling gently and dead in the current, over onto its burned back, its huge and beautiful black eyes now exploded from within, cavitied depths of nothing.
Chatper 20
"I don't understand this," Targon Ramir said, studying the report in front of him with furrowed brow. "You say three high-energy sources left the planet? We weren't attacked—we were unattacked?"
"Something like that, sir."
"Don't call me sir," Targon said to the young security force officer, whose scrubbed face reminded Targon of his own brief stint in Earth's Nature Scouts, where he had learned how to tie knots and contract poison sumac. Targon looked back at the viewer, trying to make sense of the data: the high-energy sources had apparently shot out of Clotho Tessera—which was the middle of a sea. Scanning had indicated that there were no facilities under the water at that location—that there was nothing there but water and fish.
Targon made the data go away with a flick of his finger.
"Right now it means nothing to me; let me know if it happens again."
The security officer saluted sharply. "Yes Mr. Ramir."
Targon scowled. "And don't salute me anymore."
"Yes . . ." the young officer said, properly confused.
"Send Mr. Sneaden in, please."
Fighting both his hand and mouth, the officer turned sharply on his heel and marched out.
In a few moments, Jean Sneaden came into the room, automatically closing the door behind him. He was youth to Targon's age, but Ramir had quickly learned that this young man with the shock of red hair was nearly as infected with enthusiasm for Venus as the old engineer himself was—which explained the pained look on his face.
"It's a black day, Jean," Targon said.
Sneaden nodded. "Black as they come."
"It could get blacker," Targon added quickly; and just as quickly regretted it. Though Sneaden was enthusiastic and loyal, his age sometimes precluded his complete understanding: in short, his lack of years prevented him from seeing the umbrellaed arc of any policy; with his impatience, he saw only the rain on one section, forgetting that the rest of the umbrella was getting wet, too.
"Has there been any response from Cornelian to our ultimatum?"
"I'm a little surprised. Especially after that speech he gave on Mars. It may mean he's not as ready as we thought he was."
Sneaden's frown was infectious. "It will at least give us more time to prepare."
"Prepare what? Our only weapon is the planet itself. Corneliari knows that full well. We know his shuttle forces have been gathering for the past week. We know the Martian Marines have been mobilized to full strength. We knew the only thing we could do to keep him away was prove that we meant what we said: that if he attacks, he'll win the race but lose the prize."
"Everyone loses the prize," Sneaden said.
"Yes . . ." Targon Ramir took a deep breath and turned to stare out the window. Already in the far distance, the brown stain from the detonation of the Aurelia feeder station was drifting high into the atmosphere and westward. The pictures from the sight had been painful enough to look at: the hole in the ground and in the sky. That it was in the most desolate area of the planet, totally unpopulated, made little difference: The thought of the stray animals and plant life alone which were vaporized in the explosion, not to mention the point oh four percent loss in total atmospheric oxygen that had already occurred—a wound which would take five years to bandage and heal—made Targon sick to his stomach. The sight of the poisonous smudge on the healthy skyline brought actual bile up into Targon's throat. He could well imagine the way it made his young friend Sneaden feel.
Or Carter Frolich. . . ."
Something like a shiver went through Targon Ramir. It would be hard to think of his old friend any longer without feeling pain, loss—and, yes, fear. For with Frolich's disappearance soon after returning to Venus, and his subsequent underground missives condemning Targon Ramir to death and proclaiming himself the one true leader of a free and independent Venus, the relationship between master and apprentice had mutated into something horrible, a deadly adversarial duel. Though Carter was thus far seemingly on his own made no difference: His stature alone was enough to make anyone listen to what he had to say, and there had been some grumblings in the lower ranks of the Engineering Corps about why Targon was taking the course he had chosen.
Which had prompted Targon to do something even more painful than ordering the destruction of Aurelia station: releasing the mental health records of Carter Frolich, defining and proving his instability and, in effect, assassinating his character in public.
That the tactic had apparently worked was nearly beside the point; the sour taste in Targon Ramir's throat was almost a constant thing these days.
Targon turned away from the painful scene outside to face Jean Sneaden, who was studying his face, looking for something he apparently had not found.
"Targon, what happens next?" Jean asked.
Targon sighed. "We wait. Hopefully, the Martians will get the message and not attack. The last thing Cornelian wants is a Venus that is useless to him. He is a patient man, but not that patient—he knows that by the time Venus is cleaned up, he'd be in his grave fifty years."
Jean was silent for a moment; and then he asked the question that Targon Ramir knew he had come to ask.
"But will you really do it?"
Targon Ramir fixed a steady gaze on the young man's face. "Yes, I will, Jean," he said without a trace of hesitation. "Because it would be better to let a future generation fulfill our dream on Venus, rather than let it be realized by a man like Prime Cornelian. This is what Carter doesn't understand. To him, the dream itself is more important than anything. Throughout history, that has been a mistake that mankind has made. Men of vision have all too often ignored the consequences of their discoveries and realizations. What good would this planet do for mankind if it's in the hands of Cornelian? Would it be right to create paradise—if the only use for it is as a more pleasant setting for slaves to live?"
Targon found his passion ebbing into sadness. "The only weapon we have is the thing we love," he said. And though he felt more alone that at any time in his life, he added, "And we'll use that weapon if we have to."
Chapter 21
On Titan, Saturn was rising.
At the lipped horizon of the world, the sharp thin line of the E ring, shepherded by tiny Enceladus, one of the Lesser Moons, pushed its curve into view, followed by ring G. But these thin lines were only a prelude. Soon F rose, at Titan's distance and without optical aid a flattened band separated by the dec
eptive black emptiness of the Encke Division. Wrath-Pei was well aware that the Encke Division was filled with millions of tons of material, all ground into tiny dust motes. He also had no interest.
From Wrath-Pei's vantage point outside the open dome of Schumacher Observatory, comfortably seated in his floating lounge chair whose gyros, similar to the ones enclosed in the nearby telescope's guide system, adjusted to his every muscle's whim of movement, the best part of the show was yet to come. For now the partial majesty of the A ring slid up the sky. Now the ring system was beginning to resemble the edge of a huge yellow-white scythe cutting up into the darkness.
"Ouch," Wrath-Pei said, smiling to himself, shifting sinuously in his chair, thinking of what the imagery meant.
Wrath-Pei's interest heightened as the smooth wide darkness of the Cassini Division rose into view. "Is that it?" 'Wrath-Pei said.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good. And we'll be able to see it when?"
"In four minutes and fifteen seconds, Your Grace."
"Excellent."
Lawrence, standing beside him, dressed in black to his eyebrows, bowed slightly, keeping his eyes to the inside float-Screens of the visor he wore. He was no more than ten, but had not seen anything without the aid of his visor since the age of three.
"Three minutes and thirty seconds, Your Grace."
"Very well."
Wrath-Pei's palms began to sweat with excitement.
The Cassini Division was broadening into the sky now. Already the rings had eaten nearly twenty-five degrees of night, and the giant planet had yet to bulge into view. By then, of course, the real show would be over.
"Time?" Wrath-Pei said.
"Just . . . three minutes, Your Grace."
Wrath-Pei made an impatient gesture, shifting in his chair, which whirred imperceptibly to accommodate his uneasiness.
"When will the Screen kick in?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"At one minute and thirty seconds, Your Grace." Anticipating the next question, the boy announced, "We are now at two minutes and forty-five seconds."
Impatience metamorphosed into the thrill of anticipation, and Wrath-Pei suddenly hit the armrests of his chair with his balled fists, unable to contain his hunger. The chair gimbaled forward like an animal bucking its rear legs, nearly throwing him to the ground before instantly settling back again.
"Ohhh, I can't wait!" Wrath-Pei said. "Ti—"
"Two minutes and ten seconds, Your Grace."
Now the B and C rings, wide and bright, were nudging the Cassini Division broadly up into view. Soon the faint D ring, barely visible from Titan, would pull the planet's limb after it.
"You're sure about all this?" Wrath-Pei suddenly snapped, last-minute fears, as always, besetting him.
"Unquestionable," the boy said instantly. Arms straight at his sides, black sleeves ending in the knobby stumps of fingerless hands, the boy stared straight into his darkened visor, head moving in slight circles as he studied his private data.
"One minute and fifty seconds, Your Grace," the boy announced. After ten seconds of silence he said, "One minute and forty seconds."
Now Wrath-Pei's excitement grew exponentially with his attention. He rocked gently forward in his chair, staring hard at the deep wide black of the Cassini Division while at the same time trying to anticipate the point at which his close-up view, gratis the Schumacher telescope, would pop into space before him.
"They said I would be able to see something before—"
Ahead in space, off in the center of the black band, Wrath-Pei saw a tiny flash of light.
"There!"
"Yes, Your Grace," the boy announced. "That is exactly—"
He immediately broke off and said, "One minute and thirty seconds."
Before Wrath-Pei's eyes, the night burst open into an invisible Screen. Wrath-Pei thought he heard the gyros of the giant Schumacher telescope behind him wheel slightly, sharpening the focus of the picture hanging in air before him: a slice of space deep inside the Cassini Division, a jumble of tiny bright stones and faint cloudy flows of dust. And, in the exact center of the view, a spacecraft.
"You should be able to detect the partial impact
of a moment ago, Your Grace," the boy said. Wrath-Pei leaned farther forward, squinting. "Yes . . ."
There, on the front right nose of the craft, was a crushed spot.
"That's what I saw? The flash?" Wrath-Pei asked. "Without doubt," the boy answered.
"And . . ."
"Fourteen seconds to total impact, Your Grace."
"Audio?"
"In . . . three seconds, Your Grace."
With held breath, Wrath-Pei waited.
"Now, Your Grace."
Then Wrath-Pei heard them, the dying men, trying desperately to avoid their fate and change their course. A jumble of shouting voices—all four of them, Wrath-Pei detected—mixed together, but Wrath-Pei easily picked out Commander Tarn's loud commands as he tried to shout his underlings down. Vaguely, Wrath-Pei could hear the hiss of escaping oxygen from the first hit the craft had taken.
"Just do what I say!" Tarn shouted. "Try to turn the forward sta—"
"Two seconds, Your Grace."
Tarn's voice turned into a sudden scream, louder than the others.
"The window—!" someone, not Tarn, shouted.
Then there was a glancing flash of light, and the object they fast approached, which was artificial, fired a beam of pencil-thin violet light which cut the spacecraft into neat slices, starting at the stem and continuing to the stern.
There was a final burst of audio screams which abruptly ended, though Wrath-Pei could follow the suitless men's twisting agony as they flew away from the cut wreckage and writhed out their last moments in the airless space between two beautiful Saturnian rings.
One of the bodies, still moving, floated too near the smooth orb of the defensive satellite that had attacked the spacecraft, and the artificial orb fired another thin line of fire that cut the man in half.
Looking closer, Wrath-Pei was pleased to see that it was Commander Tarn.
Sated, Wrath-Pei leaned back in his chair. "Off," he said.
Instantly the close-up view before him went away, replaced by the sight of Saturn's yellow, fat, banded bulk rising in the wake of its ring system.
Wrath-Pei yawned and, with the aid of the chair, stood up.
"It is very pleasing to me that you were able to calculate that performance so well," Wrath-Pei said to the boy. "How could you know that the first object, the
"Ring particle, Your Grace. It was approximately a half meter in diameter."
"Yes, ring particle. How did you know it would be in exactly that position, to give them that initial blow, alert the defensive satellite, and rupture their hull?"
The boy said nothing.
"You may be flippant, if you like," Wrath-Pei said.
"I see no other way to answer the question," the boy said. "The ring particle was there . . . because it was there. It was always meant to be there."
Wrath-Pei yawned. "Whatever. You did well, Lawrence."
The boy's head bowed slightly, and his lipless mouth, just visible in his black hood, opened slightly in satisfaction.
"And now, to bed—" Wrath-Pei began.
"There is a transmission, Your Grace," Lawrence announced, his eyes studying the inside of his visor. Wrath-Pei waited.
"It is Prime Cornelian, Your Grace."
Wrath-Pei said nothing for a moment, then snapped, "Put it on."
Again the Screen flashed into view before WrathPei's eyes. Only now instead of the satisfying picture of Commander Tarn's bisected torso writhing out its last moments of life, Wrath-Pei was faced with the horrid anomaly of Prime Cornelian, or, as Wrath-Pei called him privately, the Bug.
"Prime Cornelian," Wrath-Pei said, bowing.
The insect nodded its head a fraction in greeting. "I . . . need to ask a favor," Prime Cornelian said.
Guessing already
what the favor was, Wrath-Pei said in a munificent voice, "Ask away!"
"I need you back on Mars."
Amused, and not able to completely hide it, Wrath-Pei said, "Oh?"
"Yes," Prime Cornelian said. "And I need you to bring the young girl, Tabrel Kris, with you."
"An ...
That had been the favor he had been anticipating.
"But Cornelian!" Wrath-Pei said. "She is now a happily married woman! I could not possibly leave her husband behind!"
"Then bring the simpering idiot with you!" Cornelian snapped.
Enjoying the Bug's discomfort, Wrath-Pei made a show of tapping his chin in thought before answering.
He finally said, shaking his head decisively, "I'm sorry, Cornelian—I mean, High Leader—I couldn't possibly leave Titan at the moment. So much to do."
"I'm ordering you back here!" Cornelian raged.
"Oh? A moment ago you were asking a favor," Wrath-Pei cooed.
"Call it whatever you want! But do what I say!"
Wrath-Pei made a great show of yawning and deliberately let the High Leader see him reach to disconnect the transmission.
"Wrath-Pei! Wait!"
Wrath-Pei arched an eyebrow in faint interest. "Yes, High Leader?"
Showing his remarkable ability, which Wrath-Pei secretly envied, of utterly concealing his true feelings, the Bug offered, "I . . . may be able to get you an audience with Sam-Sei."
Wrath-Pei could not hide his astonishment.
I thought you would be interested, Prime Cornelian cooed. "In fact, Sam-Sei has indicated to me that he may want you . . . to visit him, here on Mars."
"Splendid! When—
"Soon, Wrath-Pei. He is still a bit . . . hesitant. But if the word is given . . ."
"Yes, yes," Wrath-Pei said, "of course I would be on my way immediately. And I'll bring the girl, if that's what you want."
"Good. And as a measure of your good faith in this matter, I should like you to do a tiny favor for me at this time."
"Anything!" Wrath-Pei said, suddenly impatient to be rid of the Bug, to give his thoughts over completely to returning to Mars—to unfinished business with Sam-Sei.
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