by Tim Dennis
How is Caldera? Has Broad Plain responded?
Feric replied with a checklist of resources already en route from Broad Plain to Caldera. Relieved, Krykowfert relaxed his pace and exited the elevator into the little lobby outside his suite of offices. Wordlessly he passed through Nia Feric's office to his own, and, leaving the door open, lowered himself into his preferred armchair. He leaned back and stared up through his tr'indos at the rest of Central Command's torus, its five hundred meter ring connected to its Hub by a network of structural spokes and gently curving elevator shafts. Twisting around and through the slowly spinning tangle, tubular trusses of Launch Rails pointed alternately at the never-empty sky and the pincushion of a planet below. He took his teacup from the small hand-carved wooden table that served as his desk, and sipped.
Two hundred years previous the first Shield Guard Director had constructed his offices here, on the inner rim. Far from the Council Sector, he cut those true windows into the external hull of the ship so he could see, actually see, the dangers that threatened their fragile existence. That almost forgotten Director had built those Rails. He'd also launched the Diverters that loitered in the outer system, nudging asteroids out of Legong-intersecting orbits, and before that he'd established the Destroyer Fleet, orbiting Legong, mopping up those rocks that made it through.
Krykowfert's ancestor in spirit, that Director had halted the rain of meteors and made the planet habitable. The hard work done, some subsequent Director had moved the offices down to the Council Sector and for generations the position languished, a ceremonial posting for dullards. Krykowfert was no dullard, and he didn't see the post as ceremonial. No one objected when he dusted off the abandoned suite of rooms and took them as his own.
Feric slipped silently into the little office and sat beside him. "Six has convinced the Council to transfer three more Shield Guard divisions to her newly formed Council Guard." She said. "I've used the neurological files to make the reassignments, if you'd like to review-"
Krykowfert waved her off and took another sip of tea. "Have they taken any action regarding the Eden Project?"
Feric's eyes fluttered and her head dipped slightly as she made her implant connect with the network. "No. The Councilors are ambivalent about locating the Eden planet, they seem to accept it as your pet project, although some are concerned about the religious implications."
"Can we move the Project outside of Shield Guard, to Surface Infrastructure perhaps?" Krykowfert asked.
"The Council has avoided impinging on the activities of the Diversion Bases in the outer system," she said. "They see that as the core responsibility of Shield Guard and want nothing to do with it."
Krykowfert huffed disparagingly. The Diverters were doing real work; important, life-changing work. Of course the Council wouldn’t want to be involved. He nodded. Feric again dipped her head and connected to the network.
"And the Earthman?" He asked.
Feric turned her chair to face the blank wall behind them and opened a f'window. An image of the Earthman appeared, sitting naked on his bed with his legs crossed, apparently deep in meditation.
"I think it's a method of communication." She said.
Krykowfert looked at her quizzically. "Telepathy?"
Feric shrugged. "He's made no objection to the impounding of his ship, there's no evidence of a probe launch and we've detected no radiations."
Krykowfert shrugged and finished his tea. Absently resting the empty cup against his chest, he leaned back to stare into the sky, past the Hub and its silent Launch Rails, beyond the far side of the torus. Every minute and a half the stars in their black background slipped away, replaced by a vertiginous view of Legong. Every ninety minutes Central Command's orbit brought them over Caldera, and it was this that captured Krykowfert's attention now. His body tensed and his pupils expanded, as if force of will could stop the spin, holding that view of the drowned settlement in place. Feric watched him, waiting patiently for whatever came next.
But in his world the force of will can't overrule the laws of physics. Central Command didn't stop spinning, and so Caldera and Legong slipped away and the black, starry, empty night returned. Krykowfert turned to the f'window, where the Earthman remained; quiescent, naked and cross-legged in his apartment elsewhere on Central Command. Feric closed that view and opened another. Now it was the atoll of Caldera hanging unobtrusively on the wall, its surrounding sea first inundating, then scouring the low, green Keys. Only the rounded and crumbling mount of the main island remained dry, its City Center building glistening in the sun, towering over the lower structures huddled around it. Krykowfert sighed and put his teacup back on the little carved table. Noticing a slight vibration he instinctively glanced upwards. The Shuttle Nexus, mostly silent since the Earth-man's appearance, rocked slightly as it absorbed the inertia of a Shuttle. He looked over at Feric.
"From Broad-Plain." She said.
"Something wrong with the Caldera recovery?"
Feric consulted her implant. "Yes, and no. It's an Advocate from Caldera. He's requested an audience with the Council."
"Who? Which one?" Krykowfert asked.
Again Feric consulted. "Tugot. He's technically qualified, but unassigned."
"The farmer's son?"
Feric nodded. Krykowfert sat back in his chair, staring up at the Hub. Feric waited. Krykowfert twisted to face her. "Show his profile."
Feric instantly displayed a series of figures and spectrums. Both examined the data closely.
"Have they granted him an audience?" Krykowfert asked.
"They've not yet replied."
"OK. Intercept his request. If anyone challenges you, tell the Council that since it was my decision to cancel the Drops I'll take the complaint directly."
3
Made longer by its silence, the trip in Bento's Skimmer across the inland sea to Broad-Plain was uneventful. Once there Myles discovered all normally scheduled Shuttles to Central Command had been cancelled. He called upon the privileges of his rank, such as it was, to arrange a personal transport.
Probably canceled due to the floods...
The floods are kilometers away in Caldera.
Whatever.
On Caldera the Shuttle station was buried far beneath the rocky outcropping that capped the dusty hill of the Main Island. Broad-Plain's Shuttle entrance lay on the surface, its laser-straight Launch Rail gently sloping down into a long cavern, emerging again a hundred kilometers distant. Nineteen empty seats and one distracted Advocate shot along the Rail at ever increasing speeds, bursting from the vacuum tube into the lower atmosphere with a colossal bang as some device Myles didn't understand turned a column of air into a rarefied plasma. Before the air could refill the tubular hole in the sky the Shuttle was gone, chasing down Central Command and its tangled mass of Launch Rails. After a short orbital drift Myles and the Shuttle were dragged to a stop, their kinetic energy converted into electricity, stored for their, or someone's, trip back to Legong.
Myles pulled himself along the accordion tube connecting the Shuttle to the Hub and kicked off into the open expanse of the Shuttle Nexus. A much smaller version of the six-hundred meter ring that made up the bulk of Central Command, the Shuttle Hub consisted of a hollow ten-meter padded tube curled around on itself into a donut.
Which way to the Council Chambers?
His implant gave no response.
Myles had never seen the place without people in it. Normally there would be other Advocates, Parliamentarians, School groups; masses of floating flesh awaiting Shuttles to the surface mingling with the quivering stomachs of new arrivals. Today, no-one; save the lone Council Guard, sound asleep, floating knees to chest in the classic micro-gravity fetal position. Obviously no one, from any settlement below or ship above, had arrived for quite some time. Leaving the old man to his dreams, Myles set about searching hatch-by-hatch, ignoring the grab-bars, giving himself a shove, floating and swimming and bouncing along the empty torus.
Must
be a general shutdown. Myles thought to himself, then, in a moment of clarity, he issued a direct implant-order, CC Shuttle Hub: illuminate the passage to the Council Chamber elevator.
This time, instead of returning nothing, Myles received an unambiguous 'null.' Heartened by the functioning connection he tried again. Again a 'null,' this time backed up with specific information regarding his requested audience with the Council.
Audience denied.
The sleeping Guard bounced twice against a ventilation return duct before the gentle suction held him fast. Myles started drifting towards it himself.
What do you mean, 'audience denied?'
Nothing.
Myles swam around the Hub, peeking out portholes at the great torus in a vain attempt to identify which elevator would take him 'down' - or is it 'out' - to the Council Sector.
Please report immediately to the offices of Director Krykowfert.
Myles spun around to see who was speaking, only to continue spinning, floating too far from the wall to grab hold and stop himself.
There is no-one, he thought to himself, that was your implant.
He let his arms and legs dangle, slowing his spin to the point that he was able to maneuver himself back to wall, where he hovered, staring at an open elevator portal illuminated in a wash of pale green.
Why would the Director want to see me?
I don't know. Maybe you're in line for a promotion.
Implants weren't known for sarcasm so Myles assumed it was just another of his own stray self-deprecating thoughts and continued drifting, considering the possibilities. None of them were good.
Rim Bar? He queried his implant. The Director's elevator remained lit.
Myles counted three doors to the left, or clockwise, or is it up? Pushed off with both feet and overshot, landing against the fourth door.
Close enough.
It opened and Myles swam in.
Please return to the Shuttle Hub and enter the lighted elevator...
That was the implant.
No thank you.
That was Myles.
Large enough for a dozen passengers, the elevator car slid along a curved route from the Shuttle Lobby to the large outer ring, and as the feeling of gravity slowly returned Myles took care, paying enough attention that he wasn't caught-out when wall turned into floor.
Exiting into an unfamiliar hall, Myles wandered nearly empty corridors until recognizing a route to the Rim Bar.
Why are the corridors so empty?
The question echoed around his brain, never stimulating the implant, which would probably not have given an answer anyway. In any case, he had finally reached the Rim Bar, and a feeling of comfort and joy bubbled up to replace the anxiety of the Director's summons. Although libations formed part of his plans, the comfort came mostly from the long wall of windows through which one could observe the planet below. Being constructed long after the Ark arrived, the bar nestled between two main sectors, where, pressed up against the outer structure, real, transparent panels showed a true view of the outside. Myles sat by them, the spin of Central Command keeping his butt pressed in his seat in a most civilized way as the view below changed from planet, to stars, and back to planet. Dim lighting usually kept pupils tiny and stars bright, but today the bar was fully lit, and Myles watched as the bartender followed a Charbot around the room, moving tables and chairs aside to allow it access to bits of floor that had probably not been cleaned in months. Or decades. Standing ankle-high on spindly legs, the Charbot sprayed a hazy blue beam onto a stain on the floor, re-modeling the surface back to original condition.
The unusual brightness intensified the dingy blankness of the walls. Others would describe it as a patina; Myles saw only the desiccated oils and ossified flakes of skin left behind by a hundred years of visitors.
Disgusting.
The only human aspect of the place.
What about her?
Myles had not noticed a woman sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the bar, as far away from the windows as you could get and still be in the room. Unnaturally pale, gaunt even, her complexion identified her as a 'lifer,' a career bureaucrat who may have never left Central Command.
Beetle. Myles thought to himself. 'Beetle' was the term Dirt-siders used to describe such persons.
Don't judge.
Middle aged. Suit worn, but clean and carefully fitted. Drink: gin and tonic. Kinda pale. A lifer, never even visited the surface. Prefers machines to people. Beetle.
Maybe people prefer machines to her.
Myles looked closer. If there ever had been ice in her drink it was long melted, not a drop of condensation left on the glass despite it being only half empty. For a long time he watched, her eyes never left her glass. The room brightened a little. She raised her head, not to acknowledge Myles, but to steal a glimpse through the window at the browns and blues as the planet below came into view.
An emptiness in the woman's eyes overcame Myles with a depth of sadness that numbed him.
She's depressed.
Who wouldn't be, stuck up in this tin can! Disconnect! How the hell did I link with her anyway?
A great wave of anguish locked him into bitter loneliness and intense regret. He sat transfixed, unable to break away from the woman's gaze.
She's not looking at you.
She wasn't. She was back to her drink, yet Myles still couldn't break the connection.
That's not an implant-link.
It must be. Disconnect. DISCONNECT.
"Sorry, I didn't see you come in. What'll it be?"
The bartender stood over Myles waiting for his response, leaving the Charbot click-clacking away to fulfill its purpose without further guidance. The woman across the room was quickly forgotten. Myles looked up, felt his damp eyes and wondered if the bartender had noticed.
"Vodka and plum. Please."
The bartender walked back to his bar and Myles returned to the view out the window. The long row of windows made it impossible to ignore the compound motions of spin and orbit, soothing to some and sick-making to others. In half a minute Legong made its way along the wall of windows and then slipped away, leaving behind a field of stars. Myles watched the changing view, forgetting why he'd come until his drink had arrived. Myles took a sip and looked around the room. Two more people had come in, a couple young cadets.
Again, or still, Myles tried to remember why he'd come, and what the hell he'd done to make that connection with the sad woman.
You were going to tear the Council a new one for dropping the ball on their responsibilities to the settlements.
Oh. Right.
The fog cleared and thoughts of Krykowfert returned. Myles was accustomed to the Council, addressing them was easy. Mostly posturing and bullshit. Not much was ever accomplished, but at least one had the satisfaction of being heard.
Did I order another drink?
The bartender stopped halfway across the room, stood still and looked down at his shoes. He raised his head and turned back for the bar, walking quickly.
Did he forget something?
Idiot – he was responding to an implant-call.
The Charbot click-clacked its way back into its hole in the wall as the bartender adjusted the lights down to their normal, dim setting. The room fell into a subdued silence. The chatty youths and the lonely lady stared down at their laps.
A general notice?
Myles leaned his head forward, concentrating on a blank spot on his table.
All channels open.
Nothing. Myles tried to clear his mind; instead it filled with theories and fears.
Damn it!
The other three quickly downed their drinks and stood up, marching briskly out the door. Myles took a sip of his own and tried again to connect.
Just ask the bartender.
The bartender stared at the glasses left behind by the three patrons, then at the door, then back at the glasses. Myles gently lowered his own glass, stood, and cautiousl
y walked towards the door himself.
Before making it more than two steps the door opened and two Shield Guards entered, followed immediately by a weatherworn face topping a once powerful frame of shoulders, chest and impossibly flat stomach.
Shit.
Krykowfert walked calmly towards him, smiling too broadly and holding out his hand. "I do not believe we've met. I am Tendaji Krykowfert, Director of Shield Guard." Myles let the man take his hand and shake it. "Please, don't abandon your drink on my account." Myles looked down at his glass as Krykowfert rolled his eyes and nodded at the bartender. "May I?" The two men sat: Krykowfert relaxed, Myles rigid.
"I just thought I'd have a drink before heading up." Myles offered.
"Yes, yes. Of course. And why not?" Krykowfert smiled, eyes twinkling. The bartender arrived with a drink and a plate of tarts. "You'll be interested in this. Your parents are farmers, aren't they?" he asked, nodding out the window as Central Command passed over Caldera. "I believe I met them, many years ago, before you were born."
"Yes. I think- they've mentioned it once or twice."
It was Krykowfert, or more correctly, his initiatives, that had made the farm possible. The man took a tart and pushed the plate over towards Myles. Myles placed one on his napkin. Harry would not be pleased to hear he'd eaten another baker's tart.
"Almonds." Krykowfert announced, as if he'd just invented the things. "They're nuts, grown on trees. In the dirt."
"Yes," Myles agreed, "Very nice."
Krykowfert ate, watching Myles closely. "You have an issue with the relief efforts?"
"That's Council business." Myles surprised himself with what, in effect, was a direct challenge to Krykowfert's authority.
"Yes, yes. It was. But now it's mine, you see. I canceled the Drop-Capsules."
"That's not protocol."
"No. But your neighbors in Broad-Plain are helping, and I understand it is going quite well."
