Brenna stood very still, quaking inwardly, fighting a pent-up flood of tears. Had she made a mistake? And if so, what was the mistake? Not following Derek? Not agreeing to give up everything she believed in? Or would the mistake be to tell Morgan it was no go and shut down operations on Breakthrough Unlimited?
If she yielded, she could go to the stars—with Derek.
But Morgan never would. The only way he would reach them was through the quantum jump past the light-speed barrier. That was Morgan's ticket—the only one he would ever be able to cash, if his ravaged body could survive until Breakthrough Unlimited achieved faster-than-light spaceflight.
Brenna felt a slight shift of air pressure. Tropical scents tickled her nose. She looked toward the solarium, seeing the outer climate-control lock closing. Chin Jui-Sao had just left the room. The Chinese woman hesitated, then walked toward Brenna. "Captain Whitcomb has departed?"
"Yes." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Brenna suspected the full story was written on her face, anyway.
To her surprise, Sao touched her hand. The contact was brief, but very sympathetic. "Forgive me if I intrude. I comprehend your dilemma. It is not always possible to communicate one's feelings. And emotion thwarts our best efforts at times." Brenna wondered if Sao had a lover. Had she faced this same "dilemma," agonizing over which choices to make?
"Derek and I have quarreled before, over the same thing, in fact."
"Morgan McKelvey is an isolated man," Chin Jui-Sao said suddenly. That made Brenna stare into those black eyes. "The Ambassador, too, is isolated," Sao added. "There has been an empathy, a new understanding, between them. I am glad Morgan chose to communicate with you as well. But I do not wish him to stop communicating with the Ambassador. The situation is of help to the Ambassador as well as to Morgan McKelvey. You see, Ambassador Quol-Bez is sometimes ... lonely." The moment she had let that word out, Sao's mouth snapped shut. She nodded politely and left the hall before Brenna could ask her any questions.
Did the comments really need further elaboration? Brenna mulled over Sao's words. It was obvious Sao felt she had broken a rule by revealing something of the Ambassador's personal motivations. But Brenna had sensed the deep compassion behind that moment of truth, for which she was grateful. Whether or not things were exactly as Sao pictured them, she had spoken about them in an effort to reassure Brenna. Until recently, Chin Jui-Sao had seemed like Quol-Bez's hanger-on, just another translator like all the rest Terran Worlds Council had assigned to assist the Vahnaj Ambassador during these past years. Faceless experts, there to help with the Vahnaj's language problems. Interchangeable people. Brenna had assumed Sao would be a transient, someone to treat with courtesy, but hardly a friend. Now there seemed more to it. This liaison expert was special, as was the being she served.
Brenna noticed a few high-ranking diplomatic aides walking along the opposite balcony, heading for the northern door to the solarium. Going to notify Quol-Bez that time was approaching for the planned departure. The Ambassador and Todd Saunder would be leaving this afternoon, from the nearby V.I.P. space strip. At least by riding in the superswift Space Fleet diplomatic ship, Brenna's father wouldn't be worn out by the journey when he reached Earth. It could make the trip in less than a week, as opposed to a week and a half for most civilian ships.
Dian would meet them at the V.I.P. strip, taking time out of her own hectic schedule. Right now the Mars branch of Wyoma Lee Foix Foundation was holding its annual convention at Chryse City. Dian wouldn't be taking the trip to Earth with her husband, though she usually accompanied him to these awards affairs. Everyone had agreed that Morgan's needs took precedence. Dian would keep tabs on her nephew while Todd was bowing and scraping and saying thank you on Earth. Brenna knew her mother would relish one bonus in staying home—she wouldn't have to attend the obligatory after-the-awards-ceremony festival at Saunderhome and put up with Carissa. The sisters-in-law weren't exactly on the best of terms.
Originally, Brenna had expected to trade off time spent with Morgan with her mother. But if she was to make the T.W.C. franchise-grant session on Earth next month, she would have to leave as soon as possible. A regular Saunder Enterprise shuttle would depart the day after tomorrow. She had a great deal to do before then, but there would always be space aboard one of those craft for a Saunder and her team members. Brenna made hasty plans, She'd return to the solarium and be sociable, joining the escort that would drive her father and the Ambassador to the V.I.P. strip. That would give her a chance to discuss schedules with Dian. Later, after Morgan had rested, she'd drop in on him again and talk to him some more. They had a lot of things to set up before Brenna headed Sunward...
And if she kept busy enough, she wouldn't have time to let her emotions rattle her. Discipline. That was the trick. If Morgan could teach himself to talk and see all over again, she could wait out Derek's mood without coming apart at the seams.
The hours clicked by, and it was tomorrow, and Brenna was checking in at Breakthrough Unlimited's hangar at Amazonis Spaceport. The key support-crew personnel were hard at work on the probable-cause reassembly, and all the pilots were there. When she made her announcement about going to Earth to renew the franchise, pandemonium broke out.
Yuri picked Brenna up in his arms, dancing around, his square face glowing with delight. "Khorosho! Ah! Spassibo, Brenna!" and in a spontaneous display he kissed her. Tumaini and Hector were laughing, the junior pilots clenching their fists, thumbs up, grinning from ear to ear. Yuri finally lowered Brenna to her feet, mumbling a lame apology for getting so carried away. He was blushing. "I am ... it is just that ... we were not sure you were going to ... to go ahead."
"Neither was I," Brenna confessed. The cheers running through the cavernous hangar warmed her, and shamed her. She'd kept them all dangling in suspense. Until right now, they hadn't known if they had a future or were just marking time until she would tell them Breakthrough Unlimited was finished and they'd all have to find other jobs. Now the enthusiasm rose in a tidal wave, work on the wrecked Prototype II temporarily forgotten. There was a future! Three cheers for Brenna Foix Saunder! "Morgan cast the deciding vote," Brenna said. "He's the one who got me off my ass and back in gear. My partner says we go. So we go!"
Techs poured cups of stimu-caf and toasted Morgan. Some of the pilots wanted to call him right then and convey their feelings personally. Brenna assured them Morgan was aware of their loyalty. Besides, he couldn't handle too much vid correspondence—not when he was preoccupied with pinpointing the flaws they would need to correct before they built Prototype III!
Camaraderie buoyed them. Doubted dreams were solid once more. That pile of junk filling half the hangar was evidence of a fatal mistake—a ship designed to tear through the fabric of space. But it hadn't. Inexplicably, it had collapsed, failed. But now the pieces were coming together, painstakingly reconstructed and examined. They'd find the problems and solve them. Together.
"Yuri, I'll need you along on the Earth trip. Somebody's got to play PR games and tap into those back-home metallurgy experts while I do the drill with Terran Worlds Council."
Tumaini Beno spoke up. "How about taking the kids with you, Brenna? They could use the exposure. Grin for the public on Earth. Let them see 'em up close. Interviewers crawling all over them." Joe Habich, Adele, and Shoje made faces, pretending dismay. But Brenna could see the prospect pleased them. Hector Obregon and Yuri weren't quite so enchanted with the proposal, though. Brenna assumed Hector's nose was out of joint because Yuri would get the PR exposure on Earth—where there were bigger crowds and more people awed by the "glamour" of space piloting. Obregon would be stuck here on Mars while his friendly rival among the pilots was gallivanting with Earth's high society! Brenna couldn't imagine what Yuri's objections might be. Of all the FTL pilots, he was the least limelight-addicted. She was sure it wasn't jealousy of the "kids" or fear they would steal his show.
"Okay," Brenna said. "Let's get to it!"
The schedule wa
s a whirlwind. A lot of packing. A lot of calling to arrange things on Earth in preparation. Setting up trip space on the SE shuttle. But time elapsed, and finally they were aboard—Brenna, Yuri Nicholaiev, and the three eager junior pilots. Liftoff, arcing up from Amazonis Planitia.
The Saunder Enterprises shuttle was a good workhorse. She couldn't catch up with Ambassador Quol-Bez's ship, of course, but she could match any other civilian ship in space. Best of all, the tickets were free! SE Trans Co, both planetary systems and interplanetary shuttles, was jointly owned by Brenna, her father, and Morgan. Might as well make use of the ships!
An incident at the departure lounge, an hour before, lingered in Brenna's thoughts. Tumaini Beno flaring at some innocent remark of Hector's. He'd been astonishingly edgy, ready to slug the other man. Hector had kept his temper in check, not wanting to be accused of fighting with an invalid—but smart enough not to call Tumaini that. Eventually, the group had cooled Tumaini down, and he had shaken hands and seemed chagrined at his behavior. At the time, Brenna had pegged the unusual event to Tumaini's rehab therapy. He was restive and irritable much of the time, wanting to be okayed for full duty, and knowing that was a long way off yet.
"Yuri?" The Russian was poring over a stress-data analysis paper he had been memorizing for presentation to the experts when they reached Earth. He looked up quizzically, visibly shifting mental gears. Brenna frowned. "What's eating Tumaini? It's more than his physical condition, isn't it?"
Yuri sighed and shook his head. "It's Aluna. She left him. Took the kids. She just packed up and got aboard the Alam-shah shuttle early this morning. I guess she's returning to Earth permanently, from the gossip I heard. There are many opportunities there for reclamation biochemists..."
"Yeah. A whole planet that needs reclaiming, after what Earth's been doing to itself this past century or so," Brenna said bitterly, letting herself float against the safety webbing. She should have sensed this coming. Damn Aluna Beno! How could she do this to Tumaini? "I should have kicked her ass all over the field the first time she came to watch Tumaini fly out of Amazonis. He's been a pilot since he was seventeen, long before she met him. She can't claim his being a pilot was a surprise..."
Yuri cracked his knuckles. "She told Carmelita Obregon that it was his scars—seeing him at the hospital."
"I can't believe that! My God! You mean she's walking out on him—and taking his sons to Earth—because he got hurt? That's the dumbest damn reason I ever heard for deserting someone you love."
Yuri shrugged. "The relationship would not work anymore. She broke it. It is very hard on Tumaini, however."
Brenna thought of her quarrel with Derek. At least that was mutual. They were both healthy. And nobody had broken the relationship completely, yet. Derek was on his way out to the asteroids for Hiber-Ship Corporation. She was heading to Earth, on Breakthrough Unlimited business. Inevitable separation, for two people highly involved with their jobs.
Aluna Beno, walking out because—she said—Tumaini got hurt. And she couldn't take that anymore.
Derek, saying, "... the next time around it'll be you who climbs into that cockpit."
Afraid of losing her. Afraid of seeing her killed, or worse. In a way, Derek and Aluna had a lot in common. But the situation was so very different.
Wasn't it?
An aberrant, very dangerous doubt lurked far in the back of Brenna's mind. Breakthrough Unlimited. Prototype III. All the obstacles cleared. Go for test run. She was sitting where she wanted to be, at the master controls. Ready to ride her to glory.
But what if it fails ... again?
Flashing images of Morgan, surrounded by a maelstrom of fire. And Morgan lying in the chair-bed, helpless, encased in a body that no longer looked like him or obeyed him.
Brenna shivered and locked the safety webbing tighter. Yuri was watching her with concern. She forced a smile, switching on her individual vid monitor. Reports. Presentations. Have to convince the T.W.C. bunch to renew the franchise. Don't think about what comes next. Let Morgan do that. Above all, don't think about failure. Never!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Unknown Opponents
Brenna leaned back and caught her breath. She needed a pause to decide what she would say next. The Terran Worlds Council members needed time to read over what she had already presented. The stuff was printing up on their vid monitors at each place around the huge table. Most of the Councilmen had come to the meeting with their tech assistants. They put their heads together with these hired experts, considering the data on Breakthrough Unlimited. Some of the material on the screens was very current, almost as new to Brenna as it was to the Councilmen—it had come in from Breakthrough Unlimited Mars HQ an hour before the meeting, relayed from Morgan. A new metallurgy stress analysis and kilometers of formulae on the oscillator. The data had impressed the Council and awed Brenna. But now ... she couldn't figure out which way they were leaning, which way they would vote. Yes? Or no? Being impressed wasn't the same as being convinced.
Councilman Ames was sitting to her right. He wasn't bothering to mull over the data or consult with his aides. He'd skimmed the readout quickly, nodding. Then the former general leaned toward Brenna. "Quit worrying," he whispered. "They'll give you the extension."
"How can you be so sure, sir?"
"Girl, I'm always sure. And I always back the winning side," Ames said with cold humor.
That was encouraging. He always did back winning sides. That was how he had survived the Death Years and the Chaos and the Crisis of 2041, when Jael Saunder had tried to take over the world. Ames had backed Irene Fairchild's political party, that time, and he'd backed Todd Saunder—the ultimate winners. He had once been a rising star in Protectors of Earth Enforcement. But during the Fairchild Peace, when the Terran Worlds Council was formed, Ames had resigned that commission and helped shape the crack military outfit that was now known as Space Fleet—in on the ground floor. While Fairchild's successors on Earth, such as Carissa Duryea Saunder, had been plodding along, proud of their founder's peace achievements but stagnating in so many other ways, Terran Worlds Council had been roaming among the colonies, dealing with the future that was already here, gaining power. Earth still led the way in population numbers. But in economics and initiative, she was losing. This meeting was an example. In theory, Terran Worlds Council represented Earth and all the colonies. But this was the first time in seven years that the annual meeting of the members had been held on Earth. The other six had been held on one of the colony worlds or on an artificial satellite, and next year's meeting would head back into space. The booming markets, the new inventions, the explosion in info technology and Twenty-second-Century thinking, were out there, not here on the home world. Earth, hanging on, and her grasp was slipping.
One proof of that was the resurgence of the fanaticism of the early Forties. Earth First Party, crawling out of its dark holes, trying to assassinate members of Terran Worlds Council. What was next? Earth was still racked by xenophobia. And her colonies, populated by pioneers who had emigrated from Earth, were now the targets of that xenophobia. The hatred of Spacers was still strong. It had existed since Goddard Colony and Lunar Base Copernicus were founded. The Spacers lived a different life, an alien life, and to too many residents of Earth, that made the colonists aliens, people to be feared.
Ames patted Brenna's hand, very elderly uncle. He was never a warm type, like Fred Grieske. But he had known Brenna's father even longer than Fred had and felt some of the same father-surrogate attitudes toward Brenna that so many of Todd Saunder's contemporaries displayed. She gritted her teeth and smiled, repressing her urge to tell him she wasn't a "girl," hadn't been for years. He remembered her that way, though-scabbed knees and missing teeth—and behaved accordingly. She was stuck with it.
One by one, the Council members looked up from the vid screens. They doodled on their mini-memory wrist terminals, taking notes, and chatted with their aides. Brenna perched on the edge of her chair. Always before, w
hen she and Morgan had reached this stage of asking for a franchise renewal, Morgan had taken over. Every year, since '72. Before then, Mariette or Kevin had handled the chore. Now there was no one left but Brenna, the last living and healthy member of Breakthrough Unlimited's family-owned corporation.
She had spoken to Morgan yesterday, on a direct line. That could be frustrating under good circumstances, because of the time lag in vid signals between Earth and Mars. Talking to Morgan, by that method, just lengthened the already daunting silences in his conversations. Even so, Brenna had suggested that perhaps he might like to join her at this meeting, via Com-Link, and make the franchise-extension pitch, as he usually did. After one of those terrible silences, he had said, "No," emphatically. Then he'd explained. The Council members might be put off by his appearance and voice. Chances were far better if he stayed off stage. He had shut off the image feed of himself after that, but continued to send Brenna constant updates on the technical stuff he was researching.
Brenna gazed around the table, trying to gauge the committee. This didn't constitute the whole Terran Worlds Council, of course, just the group dealing with such things as space reservation franchises and designated interplanetary trade routes. Brenna was one applicant among many in this current session. She was expected to give the presentation—showing she had done her homework—and take their decision and leave, making room for the next hopeful applicant for a mining claim or a fuel depot license.
There were some very powerful people on this particular T.W.C. committee. A few, like Ames, Brenna was sure she could count on. Others, like Ubaldi and Mpenda and Yan Bolotin, a prime sponsor of Hiber-Ship Corporation, she wasn't at all sure of. Which way would they jump?
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