by Mel Keegan
As Travers watched, Ingersol dialed it down, and down again, until the current was within acceptable parameters, and then applied the adapter to an external line-in socket that looked corroded.
“Cross your fingers,” Ingersol muttered. “If we get a good connection we’ll know in about a minute.”
“And if you don’t?” Marin wondered.
“You’ll know in about two minutes,” Ingersol said acidly.
“And if you don’t get a connection, you do what?” Rusch was on the other side of the tank, sharing a big handy with Jazinsky. “We’re running out of time.”
He glared at her. “Make yourself useful, why don’t you? Try and find out where the power’s going. When this bucket of junk was shipped in here, it was fine.”
Jazinsky held up the handy, screen turned toward him. “Looks like a fault in the onboard cells. She took a good shaking on the way over here. There’s plenty of power in the cells, but they’re not delivering it.”
“Fixable?” Ingersol asked sharply.
“Not in the time we have left.” Jazinsky was emphatic.
And Rusch was waiting. “Alternatives?”
“Better ask Billy,” Ingersol muttered. “If this garbage tank starts to purge, your grandpop’s coming out, one way or another.” He flicked a glance at the data. “Fifteen percent and dropping, and we’re still trying to make a circuit here. Bill, you better get your gear together.”
Grant had been working steadily in the background. “I’m way ahead of you, old son. Not that there’s any magic formula. If it goes pear-shaped, all I can do is slam him into a fresh tank, fast, and send him to Mark’s specialists, because he’s going to be in retrieval shock. And before anybody asks the stupid bloody question, yes, I’ve got a tank prepped and standing by.”
The handy was already reading ninety seconds and still counting, and Travers listened to the beat of the pulse in his ears. Marin’s fingers tightened on his arm, bruising him there, and Ingersol reported softly into the loop, for the benefit of the ops room. Mark Sherratt stepped into the Infirmary so quietly, Travers was barely aware of his presence. When the adapter connected, and at last the power monitors clicked back over into the green zone, he dragged a breath to the bottom of protesting lungs. The system gave a soft chime, and Marin’s hand relaxed on Neil’s shoulder.
“Twelve percent, and steady … fourteen … sixteen … we’re good.” Jazinsky dragged one hand over her face and turned her back on the offending tank. “The drones that brought it over here probably just bounced it around a little more than it cared for, Alexis.”
“Damn.” Rusch’s eyes closed. “That cost me about ten years of my life! I won’t rest easily till he’s out of there.”
“And Queneau,” Ingersol added. “The fact is, I don’t trust these pieces of crap as far as I could throw ’em. They’re not so beat up, they’re just obsolete technology. People had the guts to climb in one of these things and pull the top down? Better them than me!”
“Fair enough.” Rush took a long breath and looked up at Jazinsky. “When will you be able to retrieve them?”
She had drawn together with Mark, and was sharing data. “Queneau’s tank is quite stable, and we’re monitoring it constantly,” Mark said musingly, “but I want to run a thorough diagnostic and have emergency measures standing by, before I purge it. 05:00, Wastrel time, Alexis, if you want to stay aboard.”
“I’ll be aboard till we relocate to Lai’a.” Rusch’s brows arched, and her arms folded across her chest in a defensive posture. “It looks like I’ll be with you, Barb. The lure of Elarne, transspace …” She gave Mark a self-mocking smile. “It’s unspeakable.”
“I know.” Mark passed the handy back to Jazinsky. “I want to do the same deep-diagnostics on Rabelais’s tank, and I’m already seeing some glitches in the mechanism. They might be within acceptable parameters for a machine of this age, but I’m not about to take risks. Let’s get Queneau safely out in the morning, and then we’ll standby a full tech crew, complete with a fresh tank for Rabelais. I’ll have the Carellan Djerun prep to receive him, just in case.”
“Tomorrow,” Travers breathed. “I don’t believe this. There’s no mistake? That’s him, that’s Ernst Rabelais?”
“I’ll give you one chance in a thousand it isn’t,” Jazinsky said flatly. “That is the Odyssey, stuffed into an old Resalq tin can and guided by the flight systems from the Orpheus. These are the original issue cryogen tanks belonging to the Odyssey. That’s Mick decontaminating over there, and this other tank is holding a human female with Pakrani genetics, and she’s as underweight as Mick is, which means whatever happened to him also happened to her.” Jazinsky’s eyes smoldered on Vidal. “This has to be Jo Queneau, there’s no one else it can be.”
“And this.” Marin laid his flat palms on the second tank, which was connected to Ingersol’s power cells by a short, thick conduit. “Ernst Rabelais.” His eyes glittered in the worklights. “I remember sitting in a sixth grade classroom, watching the vids of the launch of the Odyssey, listening to edits of the mission logs. He laid down the Rabelais Track, he marked hundreds of navigation hazards, and then … gone.”
As they spoke, Grant was pushing the emergency equipment out of the way, and Travers helped him maneuver the standby tank into a corner of the annex. It could be pressed back into service tomorrow. Finished with the task of making space for Jazinsky and Sherratt to work, Grant returned to Mick Vidal, and Travers helped him move the tall arch of the scanner into place over Vidal’s head.
The machine turned on with a grumble which Grant ignored. He was configuring it for a full, deep brainscan while Jazinsky and Rusch mulled over the events which must have overtaken the Odyssey.
“We always assumed Ernst was killed in an event.” Rusch frowned over Vidal. “The safest bet was that the Odyssey flew right into a Class Four or bigger, and a ship that size wouldn’t stand a chance. There was a search, of course – Fleet sent a cruiser that quartered the whole area centered on the last transmission point, but they never found so much as a bolt on the outside of Hellgate. And in those days nothing had the clearance to actually go into the Drift.”
For over forty years, only science vessels were authorized to enter the region which very soon become known as the Rabelais Drift – Travers had learned all this as a child in history class. The death toll was high. Many ships were lost, and science crews laid their lives on the line to study a region of space which fascinated and lured at the same time as it terrified researchers.
The greatest work of the era was done by an engineer called Yamazake, who at the time worked for Murchison. The name was on Travers’s mind as he angled a curious glance at Jazinsky. The most recent generation of the Yamazake nav’ware was still state of the art, still wrangling Fleet ships in the Drift, only outstripped by the systems developed by Jazinsky herself, and Mark Sherratt.
They were in a huddle beside Rabelais’s tank, talking rapidly in undertones, with many sharp gestures which meant nothing to Travers. Rusch had left them to the job of investigating technology that was so old, so obsolete, it was almost alien. They would have to fathom how it worked before they could tell if it was working properly, and what degree of deviation could be called normal within its operating parameters. Travers did not envy them the task.
The scanner was chugging steadily across Mick Vidal’s head, one half-millimeter at a time, while Grant read early data on a wide-screen handy and hummed to himself. Marin leaned over to see the display, but when Travers lifted a brow at him he only shook his head and shrugged.
At last it was Rusch who said tersely, “I can’t bear the suspense, Doctor Grant. You want to tell me what you’re seeing, or give me a sedative?”
“I can do both,” Grant said with wry humor Travers appreciated. “It’s way too early to be definite … the scans won’t be complete for an hour, but from what I can see, he’s a lucky boy.”
A fist had grasped Travers’s insides again, and he
swallowed with some difficulty. “How lucky?”
“I’ve seen a lot worse,” Grant said with all due caution.
“Worse – that came through with its faculties and memories intact?” Rusch insisted.
“Worse – that needed nano to fix the big things,” Grant corrected, “and that’s exactly what he’s getting, in about an hour. I’m going to configure the nano, soon as I see the final results of this scan. The good news is, there’s a lot of his brain that’s in fair to middling shape. His memory might always be a bit hazy, especially in the area of very recent events, but I think I can tell you, he’s not going to be a blank slate.”
The woman seemed to subside against the end of the decontamination unit, and passed a hand across her eyes. “Be sure, Doctor. Anything you need, if it requires Fleet authorization, pass the requisition to me. I can still swing that.”
But Grant made negative gestures. “I’ve been talking to the guys on the Carellan. There’s a cerebro specialist, name of Vince Barker. I’m streaming these scans to him in realtime. Now, he’s a Resalq specialist, but he says he’s been studying the human brain for decades, as a hobby.”
“He has.” Mark wiped an embarrassed smile off his face. “He has several human brains in vitro. I hate to admit it, but he collects abnormal specimens the way some scientists collect bugs.”
“Well, everyone should have a hobby,” Grant said fatuously. “Hey, Doc, we’re aliens. We’re weird. It’s research, the way humans used to study monkey brains. The only thing that matters is, Vinnie Barker knows a hell of a lot more about the human brain than I do, yet.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the office. “I have eight or ten months left before they let me practice without oversight … frankly, I’m not keen to rush it. And incidentally, ‘Vince Barker’ can not be a Resalq name! Where do you guys get these names from?”
“His name is Venes Bahakyr,” Mark said, amused. “There’s always an acceptable human name well within the same phonetic zone, something you people can pronounce, and that doesn’t offend our ears.” He came around to Grant’s shoulder to see the scan, and looked up over the Lushi’s head at Rusch, Travers and Marin. “I’m going to stay here, work with Bill and Vin to configure the nano. I suggest you go and get some rest, all of you. It’ll be tomorrow before there’s anything to see, or to tell, and as soon as the nano is instilled into Michael’s brain, decontamination procedures must go to the next level.”
The meddrones would be flushing his lungs, his sinus cavities, and every abdominal cavity. Even his tear ducts and aural channels would be washed with the pale yellow chemistry, in a process taking six or ten hours. Travers was glad Vidal was comatose, for the procedure was often painful and always exhausting. In this condition, Vidal had neither the physical strength nor the endurance to suffer it awake.
Marin’s hand on his arm stirred him back to the present, and he met Curtis’s dark eyes levelly. “I could use some rest.”
“We both could.” Marin beckoned him out of the Infirmary. “Thanks, Bill … Mark. You need a spare pair of hands, give us a hoy.”
“We will,” Mark assured him.
He was settling a combug into his ear and, as Travers stepped out, he heard the soft, elongated Resalq vowels. Mark was conferring with the team on the Carellan, and since they were part of the Riga science community, they would be more comfortable in their native tongue. Grant wore an annoyed, resigned face as he hooked a chair with one foot and drew it up to the threedee. Jazinsky was still working with the tanks, while Alexis Rusch seemed to have ignored Mark’s advice utterly, and had drifted back to Vidal’s side. She would be there, Travers guessed, until Grant forcibly ejected her from the Infirmary, to begin the next stage of the decontamination.
Wastrel time, it was just after 2:00am, and the chronos aboard the Mercury would be reading almost midnight. Travers was tired. Emotion had a way of wearing a man bare to the bone, and he was glad to follow Marin back to their quarters, grateful when the door slid over, and when Curtis palmed the lock to secure it.
The lights were low, and Marin murmured to the AI to drop them again. The cabin was lit in deep wine and gold hues from the idling threedee. Travers subsided against the wall, listening as Marin moved about, shedding his clothes, calling up a little soft music, pouring the last of the Velcastran whisky into a single glass, which he brought back to the bulkhead where Travers still leaned.
The glass was chill in Neil’s palm. He held it and watched as Marin stooped before him, undressing him with the deftness of long practice. The whiskey warmed in his hand and he took a sip, another. The alcohol seemed to go directly to his head, bringing a welcome fog his senses. When Marin pushed him down onto the bed he was pleased to surrender.
He looked up at the smaller, more slender body as Curtis straddled him. Cool, long-fingered hands splayed across his chest, toyed with the nubs of his nipples, and Marin seemed to study him in the gold halflight. Travers handed him the glass, watched him take a mouthful, and then Curtis leaned down and set his mouth on Neil’s lips to share the whiskey.
The sharing became a kiss, deep and searching, and against the odds he felt blood begin to pulse in his extremities, fetching him up hard. With a rueful chuckle, Marin settled on him and began to rock, skin against skin, bone against bone.
It was simple, easy, and Travers had only to capitulate, let pleasure happen. His arms went around Marin to hold him, his fingers knotted into the soft hair that had rapidly outgrown the military cut, and when Curtis hunted for his mouth once more, Travers opened to him eagerly.
A long time later, barely half awake, with Marin’s head on his shoulder, Marin’s right hand nestled between his legs in an oddly protective gesture, Travers said,
“We’re going, aren’t we? With Lai’a.”
For some moments he thought Curtis would not answer, and then he said, muffled against Neil’s chest, “Yeah. I think we are. The rest will all wait. The property … Three Rivers. All in its own time. Yes?”
“Yes,” Travers whispered, and it seemed a great weight had been lifted off him. For better or worse, the decision was made, and Mark was right. When the moment came, the choice was simple.
Chapter Seventeen
They slept through the first call, and Marin woke with a start as Etienne buzzed them a second time. The chimes shattered a dream about Westminster, Jagreth, where everyone knew that Zunshu walked the streets in broad daylight but nobody had ever seen one. He jerked back to consciousness and sat up as the AI spoke softly, a general announcement that the tech crew had gathered in the Infirmary.
Still sound asleep under the bronze sheet, Travers was breathing deeply, evenly, and for a moment Marin hesitated to wake him. The chrono in the threedee read 06:55, and he groaned. They had been asleep for four hours, and his eyes were hot, gritty.
His hand dropped on Travers’s hip, shaking him gently. “Neil, they’re retrieving Jo Queneau in about ten minutes. You want to be there?”
“I heard.” Travers was not as asleep as Marin had thought. The sheet moved and he turned over, eyes still closed, jaw blue with stubble. “Give me five minutes to shower.”
“I’ll join you.” Marin raked his fingernails through the new beard on his own jaw, and kicked back the sheet. “Etienne, lights.”
The Wastrel was busy. The boards were alive with status reports from tech gangs working on Lai’a and on the habitation module which would be fitted, finished, as soon as decontamination was complete. Three hundred drones had been fried in the early process, but Lai’a reported that its levels were already back within its own broad tolerances, and comm systems were coming properly online.
It was working in concert with the Carellan Djerun and Ingersol’s crew. Marin was listening to their crosstalk as he and Travers stepped into the Infirmary. Ingersol could not have slept, and his voice had the sharp edges and slight hoarseness of a man who was running on peps, caffeine, kip grass and enthusiasm.
The Infirmary light
s were low. The office was dark and a dozen people stood in the shadows, not more than two meters from a cryotank surrounded by drones. The standby tank was already open, green lights winking on its panel, and both Ingersol and Grant hovered over it on one side, while Jazinsky and Mark Sherratt stood shoulder to shoulder on the other, comparing data on a pair of handies.
The old tank was opening already. A layer of cold air, knee-deep, had crept across the floor of the Infirmary. Marin felt the chill of his feet as he and Travers joined Vaurien, Shapiro and Jon Kim. Alexis Rusch was absent, and a glance at the space where Vidal had been showed only dormant machines. The next level of the decontamination process was intensive, and the meddrones would have moved him into a cubicle where the chemistry could be changed over and over while his body was flushed from toenails to tear ducts. Rusch, Marin guessed, would have been here until the drones literally took Vidal away from her. She would still be asleep.
Two viddrones jetted up by the ceiling, recording the whole procedure as the old tank cracked, and the images were framed in the big flatscreen, set up at the side of the annex. Marin frowned deeply at what he saw. Still in the tank, Jo Queneau lay like a corpse, waxen-white, clad in a dark blue teeshirt which accentuated her pallor, and the bottom half of coveralls which had been torn off at the waist. Both garments were tattered, dirty, and loose about a body that had wasted away. Her bones were too close under the skin, the cheekbones sharp as razors, eye sockets sunken.
Both Grant and Ingersol whispered a running commentary, each focused on his own aspect of the work. Grant was intent on the occupant; for the moment Ingersol was interested only in the hardware. Marin and Travers stopped by Shapiro and Vidal at the flatscreen, and listened to the undertone commentary.
“Reading brain activity,” Grant murmured. “Alpha waves … she’s starting to dream. Damnit, where did people get the balls to climb into contraptions like this? They had more guts than we have! Body temp is coming up nicely … respiration is four … five. Tully?”
