/// There are still . . . repairs . . .
I must facilitate . . . ///
Bandicut drew a breath and prepared to try to sit up. /If you mean this pain, I can live with it./ He gasped, pushing himself up from the deck.
"John Bandicut—are you injured?" squawked the robot.
"Nappy—help me—sit up!" he croaked.
The robot clicked and hummed, and a pair of metal arms awkwardly levered him into a sitting position. He was dizzy, and his chest hurt like hell; he must have had some cracked ribs that weren't healed yet. God, what sort of damage had those tanks done to his body? He sat, panting, gathering his strength, before telling the robot, "I want—to go—to my cabin. Help me—stand up."
"John Bandicut—we should summon medical assistance," advised the robot. "I have been calling on all frequencies, but with no response."
"There is no one, Nappy. Just us. Come on, now." Bandicut started to get up, swaying dizzily.
/// John, I'm not sure . . . ///
/I'm going to . . . lie in my bunk, damn it./
There was no further protest from the quarx. The robot awkwardly stretched to its full height, supporting him under his left arm. Hobbling painfully, Bandicut made his way to his cabin. Through a blaze of fire in his chest, he managed to get himself onto his bunk, and he gasped instructions to Napoleon to go to the galley and get him some juice and crackers.
Then he fell into a troubled sleep.
*
When he awoke, the pain in his chest was considerably lessened, and his head was relatively clear. /You didn't listen to me, did you?/ he asked Charlie. /Well, never mind. Thanks./ He turned his head and saw Napoleon waiting patiently, juice-pack in one mechanical hand and a half-crushed box of matzohs in the other. Slowly, Bandicut sat up, managing without assistance. "Thanks, Nappy," he croaked, taking the juice and flatbread. He tore into them like a starving man, scattering crumbs everywhere and dribbling orange juice in his lap. He didn't care; he drank greedily and stuffed his mouth with what felt like dry flour and tasted like ambrosia. He could feel his body screaming for sustenance.
/Charlie, am I in shape enough to go to the bridge?/ he asked, when he paused for breath.
The quarx's answer was nearly inaudible.
/// Don't know. Try. ///
Bandicut slid down from his bunk. The robot backed out of his way. He glanced in the mirror, and was shocked by his gaunt appearance. His body must have ravaged its own reserves in its quarx-guided healing. /You burned yourself out doing this, didn't you?/ he asked the quarx accusingly.
/// I . . . just tired, really.
Yes. ///
Bandicut shook his head and made his way carefully to the cockpit. He ached, and felt some dizziness, but he suspected that the quarx felt worse than he did. /Well, rest, damn it. And that's an order./ He squeezed into the pilot's seat.
/// Yes . . . ///
Charlie said, and a moment later, added,
/// John, it's time to switch. ///
Bandicut blinked. /What?/
/// To, uh . . .
fusion chamber two. ///
Bandicut shook his head dreamily. Fusion chamber two—the second to last. What day was this? He squinted at the inertial nav. Day twenty-nine. He drew a breath. /Shall I send Nappy out?/
There was a pause.
/// Yes . . . that would be good. ///
Bandicut reached to shut down the fusion reaction. /Are you turning off the threading field?/
/// What?
Yes, yes—the stone knows what to do.
Don't worry. ///
Scowling, Bandicut called Napoleon and gave him instructions to go out and switch the location of the stone. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the threading field cut off, along with the gravity. But he vowed to stay alert, even if the repair was completely out of his hands. He was determined to keep an eye on Charlie.
Not that he had the slightest idea what he would do if the quarx needed his help.
*
While they were out of threading, he tried to transmit to Mars, focusing on one of the relay sats. He also tried Earth, via a different relay sat; then he tried beaming to Earth direct. He received no response, though he did pick up a hashy commercial broadcast. Charlie noted that it was likely that their antenna had gotten degraded from the high-speed threading. Chances were, no one could receive their signal anymore. Still, that wasn't going to stop him from trying. For an hour, he transmitted a recorded message over and over, stating his position and progress, in the faint hope that he might be heard.
Eventually he gave up and strained to listen to the commercial broadcast. After a few minutes, he realized that he was picking up the BBC Interplanetary News Service. He listened eagerly for word about himself—or the comet.
He made out something about renewed political instability in the Middle East, and a threatened breakaway of New Brazil from the Union of American States, and continued secessionist agitation in L5 City. Holo star Jason Landru was dead at ninety-five . . . and a new, unusually eruptive comet had been spotted coming around the sun in a highly eccentric orbit, one that would fling it out in a very close approach to the Earth. ". . . Speculation that it might have had . . . unreflective surface before its solar . . . not seen until . . . ices volatilized . . . no hazard, but if this one brightens . . . comet of the century. Get out your cam-goggles . . ."
/// Is Napoleon back in yet? ///
/SHUT UP, Charlie—I want to hear this!/
/// Sorry . . . ///
At that point, the news cut to a long interview with a politician from New Brazil. Bandicut listened impatiently, and finally gave in to the urgent twitchings of the quarx and turned his attention to the robot's progress. Napoleon was back in the airlock, and there seemed no excuse not to press on. Still, Bandicut lingered over the staticky broadcast.
/// John . . . it's time. ///
Sighing, he reached out to turn off the comm. As his hand touched the panel, he heard the interview end, and one last, scratchy news item: ". . . word from Neptune's moon Triton . . . discovery of an intact alien artifact, still active with an unknown energy source. Exoarchaeologists disagreed on the significance . . . whether this could have any connection with the Neptune Explorer, stolen from Triton . . . rumors that . . . predicted the appearance of the comet have been denied by officials of MINEXFO . . . also denied reports of a later . . . predicting a flash of light in Uranian-Neptunian space. Other sources differed . . . flash identical to the effect when Neptune Exlorer vanished . . . believe . . ."
There was a loud hiss of static, and when the broadcast became audible again, it was in the middle of a soft drink commercial.
"They're trying to keep people from believing me," Bandicut muttered under his breath. "I can't believe it! They'd rather sit on the truth than admit it. I'll bet they're afraid they'll lose control over the translator. But they found it! Do you think it was Julie?"
/// I . . . put in a good word for her.
That's all I can . . .
John, I'm . . . ///
/What?/ Bandicut whispered.
/// I think . . . John . . . I'm dying.
I'm sorry.
Can we go now? ///
Bandicut blinked, stared, and hit the fusion igniter. He waited for gravity to return, pressing his aching body back into the seat, before he tried to speak again. He wanted to ask Charlie if that was just a figure of speech he had used, about dying—if he had just meant that he was very, very tired. But somehow Bandicut knew the answer even before he asked. He had feared that it was coming, but prayed that it was not. Charlie, don't! he thought. You shouldn't have sacrificed yourself to put me back together! But you did, didn't you?
Dear God, he didn't want to die alone.
Chapter 30
Comet
/YOU STILL THERE?/ he asked, as he watched the numbers flicker endlessly on the nav.
/// Still here. ///
/You okay?/
/// No. ///
/>
/Want to tell me about it?/
/// I think . . . no. ///
Bandicut felt a pain in his left side. /Don't try to fix that,/ he snapped. He felt a sudden burst of unreasoning anger. /You're just going to leave me, then? Get me into this, then check out before the closing act?/
/// It is my intention . . . ///
the quarx gasped,
/// . . . if possible . . .
to stay till the very end. ///
Bandicut grunted, vaguely reassured. He didn't know how he would manage the final plunge if Charlie were gone. For that matter, suppose they actually survived this crazy dive across space—what then? Wherever he would be, he sure as hell didn't want to be without Charlie. /If you don't make it, Charlie, will you be . . . reborn again?/
/// Maybe.
How the hell should I know?
I don't suppose even quarx . . . go on forever. ///
Bandicut opened his mouth, stunned by the quarx's anger. Maybe Charlie really was fearful that he'd miss the end of this drama that he had set into motion.
/// Don't worry . . .
the translator-stone . . . knows what to do.
You can do fine without me.
Just hit . . . the blasted comet. ///
The thought sent shudders down his spine. /I don't want to do it without you,/ he whispered. /You might be a pain in the ass, Charlie—but you're all I've got now./
Charlie didn't answer—then, or for many hours afterward.
*
By the time they were inside Mars's orbit, they were moving so fast that Earth's orbit seemed to be mere minutes away. Bandicut scarcely had time to readjust his thinking. Before, time had crawled; now it was running away from him. The inner planets were much closer together than the outer planets. Earth would be next, then Venus, then they'd whip across the orbit of Mercury to skim the sun, and from there it would be a smooth arc out . . . smack into the comet. Boom. They would nail it somewhere outside the orbit of Mercury, on the far side of the sun.
He hoped he wouldn't spoil the show for all those people on Earth who were dusting off their cam-goggles. With luck, he might produce an even better show, if a briefer one.
The sun grew large and bright and hot in the viewer. He kept Napoleon and Copernicus busy running checks on the ship's systems, particularly as they drew inward toward the sun. It was unlikely that Neptune Explorer had been designed to survive the kinds of conditions he was about to put her through—such as the intense heat of a close solar approach. The translator's threading field was capable of excluding excessive radiation, but if they dropped out of threading during their approach to the sun, he'd be fried long before they reached the comet.
An hour after they crossed Earth's orbit, Bandicut roused Charlie and asked him to darken the threading field; it was starting to get uncomfortably warm inside the spacecraft, and nastily hot on the outer hull. Charlie, muttering to himself, passed on the request, and told Bandicut that next time he could just address the translator directly.
/// Talk to the white stone.
It's the communications element. ///
/Oh./ Bandicut noted, on the instruments, a drop-off in ambient radiation. He fingered the silent stone in his right wrist and muttered, "Can you darken it a little more, please?" There was no answer that he could hear or feel, but he saw a sparkle of red fire in the black stone in his left wrist, and the field darkened a little more.
Venus's orbit flashed behind them, and he began to think seriously about preparing for the end. He found himself worrying about how he was dressed. He imagined the planets gathered around, watching and applauding as he smashed straight into the comet, and he wanted to look right for the event. He hurried amidships to put on clean clothes for the final plunge. He was amazed at his own calm in the face of near-certain death.
The glowering image of an enormous sun swam in the window, filtered by the threading field, as they streaked in past the orbit of Mercury. Bandicut imagined himself a performer on stage in some great cosmic theater, spotlights beaming and dancing upon him as he spun and sang. The planets loved his song and clamored for more. He was into his third song when he heard the quarx shouting hoarsely,
/// John . . . can you hear me? ///
He reeled back in his seat, trying to sort fugue from reality, as the quarx wheezed at him,
/// You have to get ready! ///
/Eh, what?/ he gabbled. /I'm ready! I'm ready! But for what?/
/// To do the flying . . . ///
The quarx's voice faded a little.
/// . . . get ready to link with
the translator! ///
/What?/ he asked, thoughts spinning back down into reality. He felt a burning sensation in his wrists, and he looked down and saw both stones pulsing with light. /I thought you guys were flying./
/// I can't any more.
John . . . you have to take over now. ///
He felt a knife blade of fear, as the quarx gasped an explanation. He didn't want to hear it—really didn't want to hear it—especially once he understood what the quarx was saying. All the nav data had been going to the translator-stones through Charlie; but it was getting too hard—Charlie was weakening fast and didn't trust himself to get it right anymore. /Are you telling me that the translator can find its way through spatial threading, but it can't track a comet around the sun?/
/// It can follow it . . .
but not if it can't see it.
And we have some . . .
equipment problems. ///
/Equipment problems—?/
/// We, uh . . . burned out the main . . . nav sensors.
I guess I shouldn't have pointed them . . .
at the sun . . . ///
/You wha—?/ He gulped back his own question and looked at the nav display. Charlie was right. The sensors had failed, and the navlock was lost. /Why did you do that?/ he gasped.
/// We didn't know.
Sorry . . .
it was . . . a mistake. ///
He felt his hopes sliding. /How do you expect me to fly without any nav?/
The quarx struggled to answer.
/// The basic trajectory's . . . fine.
It's the final approach . . . we need you . . .
to steer us, at the end. ///
Bandicut blinked, trying to absorb Charlie's words.
/// Think of it as . . . docking . . .
high-speed docking. ///
He couldn't answer. Was Charlie telling him that he was supposed to eyeball the ship in to impact—that it was all going to depend on his being personally linked to the stones?
He thought of his linkup with the translator in the cavern and shuddered. Don't worry, came a whisper from Charlie. It would be just like a game of EineySteiney, only here the stakes were a little higher.
A little, he thought. Indeed. But if there was no other way . . . /What do you want me to do?/ he whispered.
The quarx's answer came in broken words.
/// As soon as we're . . . outbound . . .
past the sun
. . . use the telescope to find the comet.
I'll link you . . .
you make corrections through the translator
. . . biggest game of . . . EineySteiney . . .
you ever played. ///
Bandicut swallowed hard and turned to the computer charts to determine where to point his telescope to find the comet. They would be at perihelion—closest approach to the sun—within the hour.
*
The threading field was so dark now that the windows were effectively shuttered. But Bandicut could see the sun in his mind's eye as vividly as if he were staring at it through the clear quartz-plex window. The sun roiled and fumed, like some terrible volcanic cloud churning over his head in the blazing glow of sunset. It was like some astonishing drug-induced hallucination, and in fact it was a hallucination—he was in full-blown silence-fugue now. But he was also locked in a bewildering feedback embrace with the translator-st
one; he sensed its vast power glimmering and flickering, just out of his reach; and it seemed that the clearer the solar image grew in his mind, the more powerfully hallucinatory it became, reverberating back and forth between his mind and the stone's. The quarx did not interrupt the fugue; maybe he was content to let it run, or maybe he was no longer capable of intervening.
In Bandicut's mind, a great solar prominence crested, erupting downward out of the sun to lash into the dark emptiness of space. Somewhere beyond that prominence was the comet that it had become his destiny to destroy, or destroy himself in the attempt. Earth wasn't visible from here, but he knew that she was watching, with all the other planets, as he flew to her defense. He rode the wave of the translator's energy, and the marching flames of the sun saluted his passage.
They were arrowing straight past the sun's rotating horizon.
He noted almost casually that they were now at perihelion, and he thought he heard the applause of the planets.
Then they were past perihelion, arcing back out of the sun's gravity well. It would be just a fleeting breath of time before they shot out past the other side of Mercury's orbit. Time flowed like a fine wine, intoxicating him as he bobbed his head, watching the movements of the planets like the fabulous, dancing movement of balls on an enormous EineySteiney table.
As the sun shifted out of his view to the stern, he grinned savagely and unshuttered the forward windows and unlimbered the telescope. He pointed the thing where the computer, using the last known orbital data, said the comet would be; and in his mind, the coruscating near-consciousness of the translator-stones whirled and followed his focus like a swarm of fiery bees.
*
It was a blazing ball of ice and stone, viewed from the sunward side—with a great luminous tail that stretched outward from the surrounding gaseous coma, the tail blown not by the comet's movement but by the streaming particles of the solar wind. The comet was a breathtaking sight, glowing through the filters and lenses of the telescope. It looked like an angel, or a cosmic sign, anything but a planet killer.
Overtaken by sudden self-doubt, Bandicut ran a new computer analysis of the comet's orbit, urgently trying to see if it really was going to hit the Earth. His measurements were uncertain, and he could see the comet emitting jets of solar-heated gas, which were bound to affect its trajectory, even if very slightly. But he suddenly had to know: Was he doing this for nothing? Did he really have to throw away his life? Or . . . was it possible he could veer away from collision, and ride herd on the comet all the way to Earth? Instead of dying, perhaps he could return home . . .
The Chaos Chronicles Page 31
