The Spheres of Heaven tmp-2

by Charles Sheffield

  A slightly higher setting produced a similar lack of result. Bony added thrust in slow increments, waiting each time to make sure that the situation had stabilized. On the fifth increase he felt a different tremor in the ship. A silt cloud still obscured the view outside the ports, but the inertial navigator indicated that the ship was rising, slowly and vertically.

  He did not want to go all the way to the surface, though it was nice to know that he could. Bony carefully adjusted the power setting until the Mood Indigo was hovering at a constant depth. He knew the direction that Liddy, Friday Indigo and the group of Limbics had taken, but the imaging sensors showed nothing but the continuous blue-green of sea water.

  Bony activated a pair of lateral thrustors at their lowest level, so that the ship began to crab slowly sideways through the water in the direction taken by the group of Limbics. If they had changed their minds before reaching the ridge, Bony would be out of luck.

  He was a little lower in the water than he had realized, and became aware of the approaching ridge by the reappearance of the cloud of blown silt. He raised the ship another ten meters, waited until he reached the brow of the ridge, then hovered stationary while he inspected the displays provided by the imaging sensors.

  He stared desperately at the seabed, seeking a group of figures. He had a problem. If he went too high, the amount of scattered sunlight filtering down around the ship made it hard to see detail below him. But if he went lower, silt raised by the exhaust of the thrustors obscured everything.

  If he could not find them he had to return the Mood Indigo to its original position, so that Friday Indigo and Liddy could get back to it. As he reached that conclusion, he realized that although he saw no moving figures, either bubble people or humans, the view below was not totally featureless. He could make out a faint trail of suspended mud, a haziness where something appeared to have recently disturbed the bed of the sea.

  It must mark the way that they had travelled. Just beyond the ridge it angled wide to the left. Continue on his original course, and he would have missed them completely.

  Bony rose, to a height where he could still just see the ghostly arrow of blown silt, and directed the ship along the trail. He went slowly. He wanted to know what was going on with Friday Indigo and Liddy, without the captain being aware of it. Indigo’s instruction had been explicit: stay in one place and look after the ship. He had already violated that, and if he got in the way of what Friday Indigo was trying to do it would make things worse.

  No danger of getting in the way at the moment. On the seabed the trail went on and on, but no matter what he did with the image intensifiers he could detect no sign of figures, human or otherwise.

  Was he following an illusion, a path made by some other creature that lived on Limbo’s tranquil seabed? In fact, wasn’t there a hint, at the very limit of visibility, of a quite different shape out there? He fancied he could discern a long, low form, with some kind of conical shell on top. The sort of thing you would see if the ocean of Limbo was home to a gigantic sea-snail.

  He allowed the Mood Indigo to drift forward, slower and slower. Now he could discern a bright line along the upper edge, as though the body of the great snail was edged with gold.

  Nearer. And just a little nearer yet, though he remained ready at any moment to cut in an alternate set of thrustors and shoot away at maximum power. The snail lay silent and motionless on the bed of the ocean.

  And then, in a moment, the image changed — not on the seabed, but inside Bony’s mind. It was like one of those optical illusions, where a figure suddenly transforms as you look at it into a quite different one. The sea-snail was even bigger than he had thought, and it was no longer a snail. It was a ship, lying on its side.

  And not just any ship. The outer hull was misshapen, all bulges and wens. Although he had never encountered a vessel like the one before him, Bony recognized those lines.

  The object on the sea bed was a Pipe-Rilla ship, built by — and unique to — that alien member of the Stellar Group.

  14: THE CREW OF THE HERO’S RETURN

  The Hero’s Return was close to three hundred meters long and massed in excess of eighty thousand tons. It had been designed for “peacekeeping,” which meant that it had been fitted out from stem to stern with the most hideous weapons of war that the human mind could conceive. Nothing ought to warm better the heart of one of the solar system’s most experienced military men. Yet General Dag Korin stood in the main docking area and shook his white-haired head in disgust.

  “You see how it goes,” he said. “You form some sort of halfassed union with a load of goggle-eyed sapsucker pipestem-legged aliens, and they dump their jackass craphead lily-livered ideas on you, and before you know it you’ve come to this .”

  He waved his arm to take in the whole of the loading bay, forty meters across and twenty high. Flammarion, standing at the General’s side, stared around at the ribbed walls, the array of displays, and the warren of pipes and cables. Everything looked fine to him. Not only that, the Angels to his certain knowledge didn’t have eyes to goggle, and he very much doubted that they, the Tinkers, or the Pipe-Rillas had livers.

  “Filthy!” General Korin ran a gloved hand along a rail, and it came away smudged with dust and grease. “Filthy, and neglected, and stinking. A typical civilian vessel. Swallow all the soft-headed pacifist nonsense that the aliens preach, and in just a few years here’s what you have. What I’d like to know is, where did good old-fashioned military discipline go, the thing that made humans great?”

  Flammarion couldn’t answer. But since the Hero’s Return had been for at least ten years a civilian ship, it didn’t seem reasonable to look for it here. The weapons, except for strictly defensive shields, had been stripped out, and the human crew replaced by robots low-level to the point of imbecility. On the other hand, the ship’s computer had been upgraded to the very best that humanity could produce. This was an area where humans led the rest of the Stellar Group by a wide margin. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

  Dag Korin was glaring at Flammarion, who knew better than to offer answers or comments. He had a lot of respect for the aged general, and he realized that he was more of a convenient audience than anything else.

  “And the crew that we’re getting!” Korin regarded Flammarion with something close to approval. “Now you, you’re a military man yourself. You know the value of organization and training. Did you see the description of what’s going to be arriving on board in the next few hours?”

  “Yes, sir.” It would be more like the next few minutes. According to the status display, a transit vehicle to the Hero’s Return had docked three minutes ago and Flammarion could hear the locks in operation.

  “The scum of the solar system,” Korin went on. He waved the manifest that he was holding. “The two arriving on this ship are a fine example. Coming from the Oort Cloud, and so far as I can tell they’ve never done one useful thing in their whole lives. See this one. ` Tarboosh Hanson. Areas of expertise: talks to animals; strongman and stuntman.’ A fat lot of use he’s going to be when we’re fighting armed aliens in the Geyser Swirl. And here’s the other one. ` Chrissie Winger. Areas of expertise: magic and deception.’ What’s that mean? They may buy this sort of nonsense out in the Oort Cloud, but not here. Now this other man coming in later today looks a bit better. He’s not military but at least he has a career. ` Daniel Casement. Areas of expertise: financial investment advice, precious stones.’ Hmm. Maybe I should deal with him myself.”

  “Sir, the first two will be here any second. That’s the outer hatch cycling. What should we do?”

  “Hold your water, and take your signals from me. These people have to know who they’re dealing with. First impressions are important.”

  Dag Korin strode forward. He placed himself firmly, legs wide apart, in the middle of the passageway leading from the main lock to the interior of the Hero’s Return . Anyone who wished to enter the ship from the transit vessel would first hav
e to pass by him.

  The inner hatch of the lock opened. After a few seconds, a fat little animal with thick brown fur and a bulging pointed head emerged. It trotted forward and paused in front of Dag Korin. As he bent creakily forward to grab for it, the creature scurried between his legs and vanished underneath a tangle of pipes.

  Korin straightened up to glare at the man who came strolling out of the lock. “Is that beast yours?”

  “As much as she belongs to anybody, and as much as she’s a beast, yes.” The newcomer was very black, very broad, and very tall. His height was enhanced by the bright red fez on top of his head.

  “You can’t bring a dog onto a navy ship.”

  “It isn’t a navy ship.”

  “A former navy ship, then. You can’t bring a dog aboard.”

  “It isn’t a dog. It’s a modded ferret. Her name’s Scruffy.” The man smiled amiably at Korin. “And mine is Hanson, Tarboosh Hanson. Reporting to Chan Dalton.”

  “Get that filthy animal off my ship.”

  “Sorry. Can’t do that.” Tarboosh Hanson felt in the pockets of his blue jacket and produced a slip of paper. He came closer and handed it over. As the general studied it, he said, “See. Approved for accommodation aboard the Hero’s Return , Tarboosh Hanson and job-related equipment, the latter not to exceed fifty kilos in mass. Scruffy weighs a lot less than fifty, she’s as smart as I am, and for me she’s essential job-related equipment. If you’re going to talk to animals, you have to keep in practice. Anyway, I’m supposed to report to Chan Dalton. Where do I find him?”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet. He’s on the next transit vehicle.”

  “Good enough. I’ll wait for him on board.” Tarboosh Hanson nodded agreeably. He whistled to the ferret, who came promptly from its hiding place, and walked past Dag Korin. The General, turning and ready to explode, was diverted by something new. Another arrival had appeared from the lock and stood watching.

  She was a short, trim woman in her early forties, dressed in a white sleeveless blouse, white pants, and long white boots. She had blond hair and a smooth china-doll face. Normal enough, except for the white headband that held back her long hair and hid most of her forehead. Across it, in black letters that became steadily smaller, ran the words:

  You are now close enough for me to steal your wallet.

  As soon as she saw that she had been noticed, the woman walked toward Dag Korin. He squinted at the headband as she approached, until when she was still two feet away she threw up her right arm in a snappy military salute. Guileless blue eyes stared up into his.

  “Chrissie Winger, reporting for duty to General Korin.”

  Seven decades of experience made the General’s return of salute a reflex action. His hand was not yet back to his side when hers was lifting toward him.

  “Here, sir. I feel sure that you will need this.”

  She was holding a slim black folder. Korin clapped his hand to the empty pocket at the back of his pants.

  “That’s mine. How the devil did you do that? You were never closer to me than half a meter.”

  “Professional secret.” A small card appeared from nowhere next to the black folder. “It’s my stock in trade. You can’t expect a lady to give it away.”

  Kubo Flammarion, watching from a distance, expected Korin to explode again. Instead, the old General laughed and took both the wallet and the card.

  “You’ve got a nerve, Chrissie Winger. I’ve always liked that in a woman. Magic and deception, eh? If we’re not allowed violence in the Geyser Swirl, maybe they’ll come in useful. I’ll make you a trade. Tell me how you managed to get your hands on my wallet two seconds after leaving the transit vessel, without ever coming near me, and I’ll guarantee you the best living quarters on this ship.”

  She put a finger to her chin, considering. “Include Tarboosh Hanson in the deal, and you’re on. We’ve been together a long time and we’re kind of used to sharing quarters.”

  “All right. Now tell me, how did you steal my wallet?”

  “I didn’t. The Tarbush took it when you turned around and threw it to me.”

  “Well damn my eyes.” Korin shook his head. “I should have known. That sort of trick was old when I was a lad. But I didn’t feel or see a thing.”

  “You’re not supposed to. If you did, it wouldn’t be much of an act, would it? Now, what about these fancy quarters you promised?”

  “Later. The Hero’s Return is scheduled for midnight departure to an Asteroid Belt Link entry point, and your group is still four members short. Including your team leader.” Korin pointed to the status display. It indicated that another vessel was arriving, this one from Europa via Earth. “If that doesn’t have Chan Dalton aboard, we’re in trouble. You go ahead — Captain Flammarion will show you the layout of crew quarters — and I’ll catch you later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chrissie Winger saluted again. She walked across to Flammarion, who took a couple of steps back and looked at her warily.

  “You’re not going to do any of your fancy wallet-stealing stuff with me, are you?”

  “Not a chance.” She beamed at him, in a way that made Flammarion feel that he was an immensely entertaining and interesting fellow. “Does a brewer give away beer? It’s as I told General Korin, I don’t do that sort of thing for free. But I wanted to impress him, so Tarb and I arranged that little stunt.”

  “He likes you, you know. If he didn’t he’d have gutted you for pulling something like that.”

  “Well, I like him, too — what I’ve seen of him. I expected an old fossil, but he’s not like that. There’s still plenty of firepower in him.”

  “There is. And you don’t want it directed your way.” Flammarion, leading Chrissie down the ship’s main corridor, noticed an odd tightness in his jacket. He opened it as he walked and felt a bulge in his undershirt. And inside that -

  He reached in and pulled out a bottle. “This is impossible. My jacket was closed, my shirt is tight at the neck.” He stopped dead and stared at the label. “Is it really beer?”

  “I’m not a brewer, so I can give it away, and there are a few things I would never do. One of them is deceive a man with a gift of fake beer.”

  “But how did you get it there?”

  “Ah, now as to that, I am willing to deceive. Or at least, not to reveal.” Chrissie Winger had not been told where to go, and since she had not stopped walking Flammarion was now behind her; but she unhesitatingly made the turn to the unmarked corridor leading to the crew’s quarters. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” she said over her shoulder. “A girl has to have her little secrets.”

  She walked confidently forward. Flammarion trailed along behind. He didn’t know quite what kind of team was assembling for this expedition, but he was sure it was unlike anything he had met before.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes ago, Chan Dalton had been relaxing for the first time in ten days. It had been a desperate, sleepless dash around the solar system, but against the odds he had done everything. Chrissie Winger and Tarboosh Hanson had jumped at the idea of a new stellar expedition, almost before he could tell them about it. Apparently life in the Oort Cloud was too dull and easy. They had taken the first available inbound ship and should already be on board the Hero’s Return , waiting for him.

  He had spoken with Deb Bisson two hours ago, and although she was as cold as ever she swore that she, too, would arrive before the deadline. She was bringing Tully O’Toole with her. He was shaky and feverish with Paradox withdrawal and occasionally hallucinating, but with guidance and encouragement he was somehow hanging on.

  That left only Danny Casement and the Bun, and Chan had been more sure of them than anyone. Danny had enormous persuasive power, but he probably wouldn’t even need it. In the old days the Bun had been keenest of all to go to the stars. Now they would fly out from the Vulcan Nexus and complete the old team.

  And then reality intruded. Danny’s message, chasing Chan around the solar s
ystem, finally caught up with him. It told of the Bun’s disappearance and his almost certain death. The Hero’s Return was looming up ahead but Chan didn’t see it. He was turned inward, looking at the collapse of his plans. Deb Bisson had promised to go along only if he had the full team. With the Bun gone, Deb would back out. Without Deb, Tully would not make it. The dominoes would fall. No Bun, no Deb, no Tully …

  No team.

  The transit vessel docked. The hatch opened. Chan didn’t have the energy to stand up and go through it. He sat, hands gripping the padded arms of his chair, until the robots came along and began to service the cabin around him. The gentle probing touch of one on his leg, as though asking Do I clean this? , roused him.

  He stood up and passed through the first connection chamber, through the outer hatch, through the lock and through the inner hatch. He was finally in the true interior of the Hero’s Return , but he had sat so long after docking that anyone waiting for a passenger on the transit vessel would surely be gone. He glanced over to the couch at the side of the chamber, expecting to see no one. General Dag Korin lay there at full length. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. Somehow he gave the impression of a man sleeping at attention.

  Chan hesitated to wake him. On the other hand, what was Korin doing here if not waiting to see Chan? And when you had bad news to present, one time was as good as another.

  Chan leaned down and shook the General’s shoulder. Korin came awake so smoothly and quickly that it was hard to believe he had been sleeping.

  Frosty blue eyes fixed on Chan as the General slowly sat upright. “You’re running damn close to the deadline, Dalton. Are you sure you’ll have all your team on board by midnight?”

  “I’m sure I won’t. One of them is dead.”

  “You tell me that now , with just a few hours to go to departure?”