Wasteland of Flint

by Thomas Harlan

  Gossi's round face crinkled up in disgust and Gretchen felt a spark of amusement. She was getting grumpy, which was not wise. "My pardon, Gossi-tzin, it's been a long day."

  "Well." The Maltese visibly reboarded his train of thought, "Sixteen days ago a transmission was received from the Palenque with the usual weekly report. At that time, everything was fine. Unfortunately, we have not received any reports since then. When the second report failed to arrive, I informed the home office and efforts began to mount a relief effort."

  Parker tilted his head to one side, thinking, then said: "How long does it take a courier drone to reach Ctesiphon from Ephesus? A week? You're saying they've been out of contact for as much as three weeks?"

  "No ..." Gossi tabbed through the briefing document, glancing sideways at Magdalena. "The Palenque is fitted with a new, experimental tachyon transmitter. It allows immediate communication between the station main relay and the ship. So, as I have said, sixteen days have passed since our last, ah, active communication."

  The Hesht's ears flipped back and yellow eyes blinked as she came awake. "Why do you say active? Has there been some other message? A distress beacon?"

  "Not as such..." Gossi seemed to struggle with the words. Gretchen leaned forward, interested. "I am told by the station technicians they have a t-lock on the Palenque, but the transmitter is not responding to requests for an open channel. I have been informed this means the transmitter is still nominally operating, but it is, ah, on standby."

  "It's turned off? And the crew haven't noticed?" Parker made a face.

  "Something else must have happened," Gretchen raised her voice slightly. "But the ship still has power or the transmitter is on a battery of some kind.... Can we turn on the transmitter from here? Send a wake-up command?"

  Gossi spread his hands. "I am told . .. no."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Gretchen saw Magdalena's whiskers twitch, but the Hesht said nothing.

  Gretchen looked around at the others, then back at Gossi, eyes narrowed. "You have another ship to take us to the Ephesus system? I presume Magdalena knows how to fix the transmitter, and Parker can pilot the Palenque home if it's not entirely disabled. Bandao will shoot anything dangerous. Why am I going?"

  "You're the senior Company field employee in the sector." Gossi's round smile had returned. He was comfortable with this avenue of discussion. "You are also the only person we could find, quickly, with experience in a biosphere like Ephesus's, due to your time on Old Mars."

  Gretchen nodded slowly. The polar excavations had been her first posting. Tedious work in a very hostile environment, picking bits of an unidentified spacecraft out of permafrost. "What else are we bringing back? Something from the surface?"

  "Perhaps nothing." Gossi tabbed the briefing packet again. The holo image of the planet expanded, then shrank, focusing in on a section of the southern hemisphere. Long shadows cut across a desolate plain. Some of them made what seemed, in the low resolution of the orbital scan, to be a double-circle. "One of the field reports from the scientists in the initial team says structures—manufactured structures—have been observed from orbit. I wonder—I fear—the team found something and brought it up to the ship for examination. It's an old story ... everyone's heard it before, yes? A dangerous artifact, an accident, the crew so horribly slain. Another sixty-five million quills of Company money wiped out."

  Gossi stopped, shaking his head in dismay, and there was a moment of silence. It was an old story. The Company suffered a very high rate of attrition—in personnel, in spacecraft, in equipment—which made the recovery of saleable material critical. To the Company, anyway. Graduate students were far cheaper and more plentiful than Nanhuaque-drive starships. Gretchen didn't think it was a good idea to trade her own life—of which she had only one at last report—for some broken indecipherable bit of ancient machinery. She looked around. Parker, Bandao and Magdalena were looking expectantly at her.

  It was an odd moment. Gretchen thought later that time didn't stop, but it did stretch. She had never really been in charge before. Gangs of native workers in the pits on Ugarit didn't count.. . the dig director had been breathing down her neck the whole time. These three strangers wanted her to make a decision, to tell them what to do, to be the leader.

  In that crisp moment, she saw blue smoke curling up past Parker's head, the glow of the holo-cast shining on his forehead; the points of Magdalena's teeth were showing, fine and white; Bandao was plucking at the sleeve of his plain cotton shirt, the subtle woven pattern almost obscuring the outline of a small flat pistol tucked into the back of his belt. A perfect full awareness filled her—this was not what she wanted to do—but it was what she was going to do. She looked down, breaking the moment.

  Gossi coughed, batting his hand at Parker's smoke. Gretchen picked up her briefing pad and tabbed through the pages, a dizzying red-tan-blue-white glow flashing in her eyes.

  "The Palenque requires a crew of at least six to operate safely." She looked up, raising an eyebrow at Gossi. "What kind of ship are we taking? Can we split her crew to cover both?"

  The Maltese raised both hands, then flared them slightly. He smiled. Gretchen's nose crinkled up. "What kind of ship, Gossi-tzin? We do have a ship to take us there?"

  "Oh yes! The Company does not have any ships in-this sector, oh no. They are expensive, you know, and the Company is spread thin. ... I have arranged for you to be taken to the Ephesus system and delivered to the Palenque. If she proves unfit to make transit back to the station, then you will be able to return with the .. . other ship. However, since the transmitter remains operating, if unreachable at this time, I expect the Palenque will be flyable and you can return in her."

  "What ship?" Gretchen tabbed to the end of the briefing packet, watching budget figures and details of the original mission flip past. "A miner? Some tramp freighter working the Rim?"

  "It is an Imperial ship." Gossi spread his hands even wider. "They were already going in that direction, you understand. It is ... convenient."

  "Imperial." Gretchen rubbed her nose, sharing an arch look with the others. Parker seemed amused, Bandao's face was even more expressionless than before, and Magdalena was puzzled. "No Imperial ship is going to truck some macehualli scientists—"

  "Or pilots," Parker interjected in a soft voice.

  "—to the back of beyond, much less help them recover a derelict—possibly contaminated—spacecraft."

  "The captain of the Cornuelle has kindly agreed to investigate the matter, and to take you there, and render you what assistance he can." Gossi's expression changed and Gretchen saw, to her wonder, that he did own a real smile. The corners of his eyes tilted up and his tiny round teeth became visible between rubbery lips. She wondered, briefly, how the Company man had pulled off Imperial "assistance."

  "The Cornuelle." Parker tapped the top of his briefing pad, clearing the active document. "That's not a Náhuatl name. What class of ship is she?"

  "A warship." Gossi cleared his own pad and keyed in a locator code. The holo image above the table flickered, was replaced by the station transmission screen for a moment, and then resolved into a view from an outside cam, showing an arc of star-filled sky, dominated by the twin primaries of Ctesiphon A and B, then the sleek black shape of an Imperial star-ship. "This is your conveyance," he said, smug pride creeping into his voice. "The Henry R. Cornuelle is an Astronomer-class light cruiser commanded by the esteemed Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi. She has been assigned to the Hittite sector on anti-piracy patrol. I understand from her executive officer, Miss Sho-sa Koshō Susan, they will be able to spend several days in Ephesus orbit, assisting you in recovery operations."

  He paused, running one finger along the side of his pad. The holo image rotated, showing an elongated wedge shape with three heavy drive fairings at the back of the ship. Like most Imperial combat craft, she was matte black and the work-lights of the station barely limned the vague shapes of rounded weapons emplacements and recessed sensor arra
ys. "There have been some rumors, lately, of illegal mining in this area. Of solitary ships attacked by raiders. This is lawless space, so close to alien enclaves—your pardon, Magdalena-tzin, I have only the utmost respect for your people."

  "Fine." Gretchen looked at Parker, tilting her head in question. "Can you fly the Palenque?"

  Parker nodded, running a hand back through thinning brown hair. "Sure. Six crew could run everything—shuttles, power-plant, environmental, flight control—but if all we do is a jump back to the station, Maggie and I can handle that." He looked down at his pad, brows furrowing. 'This Temple class can run almost auto with a soft upgrade. Maggie, do you have this package in archive?"

  The Hesht uncurled from her chair, light shifting on her glossy fur. A harness of leather hung around her shoulders and upper body, holding tools and storage pockets. Each wrist was circled by the gleaming mirror of a comm unit. A claw extended from a long finger and tapped the surface of the briefing pad. "This ship," she hissed in a grumbling voice, "has an older model brain, but it will take most of the newest control package. I might have it, or we can buy one here on-station."

  Gretchen eyed Gossi. "Do we have any money for this?"

  "Some." Gossi put on a poor face. "So much was invested in the original expedition—"

  "How much?"

  The Maltese looked away and Gretchen sat back in her chair. All the exhaustion of a long flight from the Jupiter Yards came crowding in. The migraine, which had been distracted while she started to work the problem of this recovery mission, woke up and began rustling around behind her left eye, throwing clouds of white sparks across her vision.

  Without thinking, she thumbed her wristband, jetting a serotonin regulator into her bloodstream. It would hurt later, but she had to think clearly right now. All the bad things about being in charge started to come to mind.

  "So ... no money to speak of. How many days do we have to prepare?"

  Gossi's face assumed the shining round mask again. "The Cornuelle is already on a schedule—you will load your equipment tomorrow, then boost for Ephesus the day after."

  "Two days?" Gretchen tasted something sour. "Well then. We'll be busy employees, won't we?"

  ABOARD THE CORNUELLE, OUTBOUND FROM

  CTESIPHON STATION

  "Talk to me about the transmitter."

  Space aboard an Imperial warship was at a minimum, so Gretchen was doing sit-ups hanging from a bar set into the ceiling. Working in the field was good exercise, but sitting in a three- by four-meter cabin for weeks on end during transit did nothing for her girlish figure. Magdalena was perched on her bunk, surrounded by data pads and printouts on quick-cycle sheets. The Hesht looked up, yellow eyes narrowed to slits over the top of amped-up sunglasses. The cat had an earbug as well, letting her hear the soft invisible voices of the processors riding in the pads. Gretchen had used field goggles before, with v-feeds and a sound interface, but they had been big, bulky units. Maggie's sunglasses were as sleek and dark as she was.

  "It's an experimental unit, sister. A commercial version of the old military-grade Wayfarer ship-based transmitter. The Company is field testing it for TeraWave—according to the logs, it's a one-oh release. That means light encryption, no redundant power supplies or emitters, about a six to seven light-year range." Maggie made a chuckling sound like a hydrogen-powered chainsaw starting up. "Thirty or forty predefined channels—very primitive."

  "But... grunt... not hand mirrors and smoke ... grunt... from the mountaintop."

  "No." Maggie clawed a pad and let some schematics drift past. "A little better than that. Each channel is identified by headers tacked onto the message packets, then thrown out in a single emitter stream. Sort of a faster-than-light telegraph. But it works and it's as cheap as you can build a tachyon unit. I've tested the connection myself by patching through Ctesiphon comm—they have a big industrial emitter and router—the unit on the Palenque does respond to a 'hello', but refused to open a conversation. I think the unit is actually in maintenance mode, on standby, waiting for the shipboard operator to reset the system." The Hesht paused, then held up a pad. Gretchen jerked her head and Maggie flipped the device upside down.

  "That... grunt... still makes no sense to me. Plain Náhuatl, sister."

  Maggie laughed again, rolling on her back and lolling her head off the edge of the bunk. Now she seemed upright to Gretchen, though her ears were pointing off at a strange angle. "The Wayfarer has a manual mode, where the operator can pick and choose which channels are live. This is also used for maintenance, where you don't have to shut down the whole system. Specific components can be turned on or off, even removed from the chassis. When I send a 'hello' across the t-link, the refused connection message comes back with an error code. Of course, the code isn't documented yet, not on a test system, but it matches the older military code for 'standby'."

  "So ... grunt... there was a problem, they turned it off. The problem got worse ... grunt... no one came back to push the 'on' button."

  "That's what the momma cat said."

  Gretchen finished her count of two hundred and eight, then swung down off the bar. The Cornuelle was accelerating out from the station on normal-space drive, chewing up antimatter pellets and spitting plasma, which gave them one g inside the habitat areas of the ship. A bigger ship, a commercial liner or an Imperial battlewagon, would have g-decking everywhere. The Cornuelle was not a big ship. Gretchen stepped carefully over the duffels and equipment boxes strapped to the floor. The Marine gunso they had bumped back to hot-bunking with the rankers already had their cargo allotments aboard, so there was very little room for the Company people. A two meter-high polyfoam crate holding spare transmitter parts occupied the space where a little table and seats were usually pulled down.

  She frowned at the clothing spread out on her bunk. Playing in the dirt, as her father would say, did not require dress-up clothes. Unfortunately, this was an Imperial ship of war, which meant chu-sa Hadeishi would have a dress evening mess. Gretchen sighed, turning over her "good" shirt. It had stains. Ruin bugs had eaten a hole in one sleeve.

  "A citizen is humble, simply-dressed, respectful, pious...." she mumbled to herself, fingers twitching her trousers straight.

  Maggie laughed again, her tail twitching. "You're the kit who always has dirt on her nose and looks so surprised! Will this clan-lord Hadeshee nip your ears for a dirty pelt?"

  "Yes. Miss Sho-sa Koshō has been very polite and accommodating, but we need the commander's good will. He is Nisei, too, which means he will be very proper and traditional. He may have guests—I can't embarrass him too much. Time for the of enzymatic cleaner."

  Gretchen squeezed into the end of her bunk, found a clean cloth, then picked up her boots. They were good boots—her mother had had them fitted and built for her by hand, of realcow leather, with shock-soles and brass fittings—but the dust of Ugarit fouled everything it touched. She sighed, seeing the soles were beginning to separate from the uppers.

  "No matter..." She shoved them to the back of the bunk. Aboard ship they went about in light disposable deck shoes designed to adhere to the walking surfaces when they were in zero-g. She spat on the shirt stain, then began to gently rub it between her fingers.

  Two Imperial Marines in sharply creased black dress uniforms with crimson piping stiffened to attention as Gretchen approached a hatchway outlined in pale blue. Each Marine had his hands behind his back, but heavy flat pistols were slung on their belts and they had visors as sharp and sleek as Maggie's. The Navy rating escorting her bowed politely and thumbed a comm pad set into the bulkhead next to the hatch.

  "Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, Commander," he announced in a stiffly formal voice.

  The pad chimed and the hatch recessed with a slight chuff and then slid up into the bulkhead. Her mouth suddenly dry, Gretchen nodded to the young man, then stepped inside. The room was small, like everything on the Cornuelle, but managed to hold a low traditional table for six, dressed with crisp white linen
and thin porcelain cups. A very short man, barely reaching Gretchen's shoulder, bowed in greeting from the head of the table. The five other officers—ranging from the petite executive officer, Sho-sa Koshō, down to a midshipman, or sho'i ko-hosei, with pale red hair—also bowed in place, their hands flat on the tatami mat floor. Their incline was slightly deeper than Hadeishi's. Gretchen kept her face composed, hands together in front of her, and managed a bow halfway between those that had greeted her.

  "Welcome, Doctor Anderssen," Hadeishi said. Gretchen blinked in surprise—the Nisei's Norman was flawless. "Please, join us."

  Gretchen slipped off her deck shoes before entering the room, turning the motion into a second bow.

  The midshipman scooted a little to one side. Gretchen knelt, smiling politely at the boy. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Like the other officers, he wore a perfectly white dress uniform, with the fire-snake emblem of the Imperial Navy worked in copper at his collar. Above his heart rode the sunburst symbol of the Cornuelle and a square glyph holding a running man.

  The other officers remained still, heads lowered. The captain smiled down the table at Gretchen, and raised a thin porcelain teacup in polite greeting.

  "Doctor Anderssen, welcome to the Cornuelle. I am Mitsuharu Hadeishi, her captain."

  "Konichiwa, Mitsuharu-san. Thank you for making me so welcome."

  "Your Japanese is excellent," Hadeishi said, smiling, eyes crinkling up. Gretchen felt an odd sense of dislocation. She had worked with many Nisei; at the university, on Old Mars, even on Ugarit. They were unfailingly polite but she had never encountered a Japanese man, particularly one her social superior, that had genuinely smiled at her.