Outward Bound

by Juanita Coulson

  Five kilometers ... ten ... fifteen ... eighteen...

  They had just crossed the twenty-kilometer line when the Vahnaj ship exploded. The tidal wave of fire and shock Brenna had feared was overtaking them. She didn't know if she could outrun it, even if she opened Chase One up.

  She didn't try.

  The universe tossed wildly, the Chase ships pitching in the surge of debris and new energies. The waves were invisible but awesome, shaking the sturdy spacecraft, threatening to turn their own guidance systems against them.

  Brenna stood in the safety webbing, fighting for balance. Her middle ears protested. Her stomach lurched, almost filling her throat and mouth.

  The cockpit was a dizzying smear of glowing screens and fairings and panelings sliding around and around—as she was doing!

  The emergency on-board computer guidance controls tried valiantly to steady the tossing ship. Verniers and main propulsion systems fired in strange sequences.

  Pitching and yawing and about to roll, totally out of the hands of humans or computers...

  Brenna got hold of the manual switches, clinging to a stanchion. Somewhere, Shoje Nagata was crying, "Tobidasu! Hail" The shout hurt Brenna's already-aching ears.

  Falling, forever. No. Not forever. She was in free fall, but there was order, a detectable path to this falling through orbit. The roll tendency was damping. Yaw was ending. Pitch, too. All three horrendous breakouts in the ship's flight pattern-coming back into her hands.

  Brenna seized the weakness in her metal steed, gently taming it with the manual keys. Carefully! She was a good test ship, and spirited. Very responsive to control, and to outside forces battering her.

  The webbing holding her was no longer squeaking and strained to the limits of its tolerances. Brenna hung limply from the safety lines, too busy to tighten up the restraints.

  Hull integrity? Solid. Life-support? Nominal. Guidance systems? Badly rattled, but repairing themselves. Computers and com? Recovering from the assault.

  Exterior scans showed Chase Two steadying down, too, seconds later than Brenna's ship had. Once that would have made her smile with pride, that she had outstripped them in pilot-craft. Now Brenna simply felt relieved.

  Radiation counts were dropping into safe ranges. Residual debris cloaked both ships, traveling with them like mist off an Earth ocean or like a Martian dust storm. The junk was starting to thin out, very slowly. Here and there Brenna began to see stars peeking through the dirt and floating shrapnel.

  A shaky call came through the intership com. "We ... Brenna? You okay?"

  The visual screens were steady enough so that she could nod and know they would see her. Brenna wasn't sure she trusted her voice yet. Her mouth burned with the taste of stomach acid. She cleared her throat gingerly. "Okay. We made it."

  Three faces on the monitors, three expressions of awe-struck guilt and delayed-reaction horror. Adele gasped, "We almost ... we didn't think . .

  "No, you didn't," Brenna snapped. Then she caught herself. It was partly her fault. They had dropped enough clues. She should have paid more attention to them, and to Tumaini. Now it was too late for him—but at least three others had been saved.

  Yuri's com signal broke into their exchange. The computers noted that he was still three days away from their position, even though he was coming at top speed. The danger was over, and he would be angry and grieved that he hadn't been able to take part in it, Brenna knew. And he would blame himself, as she was, for not having discovered the plot sooner.

  "Brenna? I am relaying to Morgan. Can you...?" She put him out of his misery, ending the suspense as quickly as she could. The distance between them, and the signal lag, didn't lessen his intense relief at hearing the good news. "Nichevo! I hoped that ... nichevo!" he repeated, overwhelmed. Then, very sadly, he said, "Space Fleet has told me. If I had realized what he was going to..."

  "Tumaini knew you were too reliable, too sensible," Brenna said. "He also knew how dangerous it was. He wanted to spare you."

  New horror was seizing the junior pilots. They read the truth behind the brief conversation, hardly daring to ask for a confirmation. "Tumaini?"

  "He's dead." There was no way to soften that. On the monitor, Brenna saw Yuri bowing his head, his shoulders heaving with suppressed pain. She recalled the last time she had seen Tumaini—who had been eager to rush Brenna off on her trip to Hiber-Ship Jovian Base. And Tumaini watching Yuri warily, afraid his friend had guessed the secret plot. Brenna heard herself lecturing them fondly, in a teasing tone that now stabbed her with remorse: "I'm counting on you old-timers to keep the kids in line." Had Tumaini taken that as a hint that she, too, might suspect what he and the junior pilots were up to? She would never know. And Tumaini would never see his sons reach maturity. Rue Polk and Mariette Saunder and Kevin McKelvey ... and Tumaini Beno, added to the growing fist of Breakthrough Unlimited's casualties.

  "Brenna...?" Shoje Nagata, his Oriental face stiff with shame.

  "Don't say anything more. By now, Space Fleet's back on our channel and listening to every word. The three of you are going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. And you'd better wait until I hire a good Saunder Enterprises law team to help you out."

  Yuri was nodding as if he would like to crack the trio's heads together—but was too happy to see them and Brenna safe to hold onto his anger. The young pilots were chastened, shaken by grief and their close call, only now beginning to comprehend the magnitude of the mess they were in.

  Brenna checked her exterior scan monitors. The rainbow cloud of alien metals and twinkling Vahnaj-manufacture plastic was dissipating, separating into individual orbits that would circle Sol endlessly. Junk. All that was left of Quol-Bez's wonderful ship. The secrets of Vahnaj faster-than-light space travel-gone. The only ship in the Solar System capable of FTL had been destroyed. And this time, there wasn't even a working model of Prototype III ready to take her place and challenge the stars.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Judgments

  Brenna had never realized it until now, but a temperate zone blizzard on Earth was just as awesome as one of Mars' famous dust storms. She stared out the window at the megalopolis below, shrouded in whipping winds and white flakes. It hadn't been snowing when they had arrived at Terran Worlds Council HQ in New York-Philly. The storm had started while the Council's Diplomatic Treaty Hearing had been in session. If Brenna had been superstitious, she would suspect the heavens were making a comment on her junior pilots' chances with the Council. They and her lawyers and the Vahnaj Ambassador had been closeted with the Council for three hours now. There couldn't be that much evidence. Everything was on the Chase ship's tapes: there was also a flood of corroborating testimony from Space Fleet and a captured group of Earth-based conspirators. Joe Habich, Adele Zyto, and Shoje Nagata had been more than willing to cooperate. Tumaini's death, and the realization of how they had been duped and used by forces behind the scenes—people with no genuine concern for faster-than-light travel—had chastened the three thoroughly. Grieving and contrite, they had marched in to take their medicine.

  Brenna wondered if Space Fleet had collected the junk left after the Vahnaj ship had blown up. The Space Fleet cordon which had closed in on Brenna's ship and Chase Two after the explosion hadn't challenged them, but they had been in custody ever since—Brenna very courteously treated, the junior pilots a lot less so. It was only Councilman Ames's intervention, and Quol-Bez's, that had allowed her to contact her legal firm.

  Three weeks to reach Earth, loafing along. Space Fleet had been stalling. That was obvious. Politics again, Brenna suspected. They must have been rounding up conspirators while the surviving FTL pilots were being escorted to Earth to stand up before a Terran Worlds Council hearing. Brenna hoped they had kicked over all the rocks and found the murderous types who had set up this plot!

  "Why did we have to come here?" Stuart grumbled. The room was well heated, but he was beating his arms about himself. One of his flunkies threw a cloak
over Stuart's shoulders. Stuart didn't thank him, but he clutched the fabric about himself, glaring at the white flakes dancing against the window-wall. "It's too damned cold. Must be another glacier outbreak." Yuri and Brenna and the flunkies regarded him with pitying amusement. "And why the hell do we have to stand around waiting like this? Who do they think we are?"

  "Witnesses and participants in a major political plot," Brenna said.

  Stuart shot a frightened glance her way. His lawyer cautioned him to say nothing, not even to another member of the Saunder clan. At the other side of the room, Carissa was being consoled by her aides and hangers-on, all of whom agreed it was simply beastly of T.W.C. to demand her presence at this stupid hearing in the middle of winter. It was treachery of the worst sort that Protectors of Earth hadn't rescued her from the summons. What was Earth coming to?

  "Shut up that damned dog!" Stuart roared.

  That had about as much effect as yelling at the blizzard would have. The terrier in Carissa's arms simply yapped louder, competing with the irate Saunder scion. Brenna couldn't resist digging at him and adding to Stuart's misery. "Look on the bright side. They could have insisted on holding the hearing on Mars. Eos Chasma is lovely at this time of year..."

  The door to the inner chamber opened, and the junior pilots, followed by the legal staffers, exited. One look at their faces told Brenna the session had been exceedingly rough. She had wanted to share it with them. So had Yuri. But the Council had demanded a private hearing. What had happened behind those doors?

  "Could have been worse," the chief counsel told her, trying to put an optimistic face on matters.

  Joe Habich smiled ironically. "Yes. It could have." Shoje's face would crack if he let down his guard and revealed his feelings. Adele was plainly on the verge of tears and fighting them desperately. They had come through the nerve-shattering situation near the asteroid with flying colors. But this was a problem they couldn't beat by top-notch piloting and courage.

  "Pilots' regs lifted for eighteen months," Joe said, before the lawyers could spell out the judgment. "The Ambassador made them waive the fine. Good thing! We couldn't pay it."

  "I would..." Brenna started to say.

  Adele snapped, "No, you wouldn't!" Her face was flushed with shame. "You've been through enough for us. You, too, Yuri. They sucked us in with their lies. It's what we have coming for being so stupid..." The others were nodding ruefully.

  A Space Fleet squad stood by watching them, waiting. Shoje tilted his chin up bravely, squaring his shoulders. "We are ready." He turned to Brenna and Yuri. "We have agreed, as part of our punishment, to cooperate to the full extent with the Fleet. We're going to a briefing. It ... may be a very long discussion." Brenna admired his aplomb. She and Nicholaiev shook hands with their fellow pilots, wishing them good luck, frowning anxiously as they left the room, hemmed in by Space Fleet troopers.

  "Well, that's out of the way," Stuart said sourly, wriggling inside the makeshift cloak he was wearing. Yuri glared at him and took a step in that direction. Brenna caught the Russian's arm, shaking her head.

  "Such an imposition! I shall certainly lodge a protest with..." Carissa began whining.

  Yap ... yap ... yap.

  The inner doors opened again. A high-ranking aide summoned those in the anteroom. "It's about time!" Carissa complained and led her retinue inside. Stuart lagged, unable to think of a way to bolt and get out of the dilemma. Brenna, Yuri, and Brenna's accompaniment of SE Security and legal staff brought up the rear. The Council hearing the testimony was small—only five members. But they were among the most powerful people in the Solar System, Ames especially. Carissa's employees fussed around, getting her seated properly. They were shocked when the Council ordered the terrier removed. One of the employees, looking unhappy, carried the yelping dog out to the anteroom. When the door shut, a welcome silence fell over the main chamber.

  "I do hope this isn't going to be tedious," Stuart said.

  Yan Bolotin sternly told him to be quiet. The Earth-based Saunder legal team rolled its eyes collectively, anticipating trouble for its clients.

  Ambassador Quol-Bez and Sao weren't sitting at the Council table. They were perched in special chairs at the side of the room, at right angles to Stuart and Carissa. Brenna smiled at them; Quol-Bez smiled in return. That seemed encouraging. He had already applied some muscle on the junior pilots' behalf. What else was he going to do? Obviously, in any crisis involving the Vahnaj ship, he should have the deciding vote.

  "We've studied the depositions and the evidence," Bolotin said. "I don't believe there's any need to be formal. This is a judgmental hearing."

  "My client doesn't accept the authority of this Council to pass judgment on her behavior," Carissa's weasel-faced lawyer protested.

  Councilman Ames grinned nastily. "Who said we were passing judgment? Could it be that you have a guilty conscience, my dear?" Carissa's mouth dropped open. She forgot to simper and wheedle with that little-girl voice, for once. Ames's manner toughened. "If you want to make this a court test, we'll oblige you. But take my advice, 'Rissa, you're going to be a lot better off taking what we dish out here in this room. And Stuart... well, we'll get to you."

  They did, cutting the red tape and the nonsense ruthlessly. The assembled lawyers were aghast, white-faced, as the Council explained the events behind the hearing. As pale as the lawyers were, Stuart was paler. In contrast, Carissa was reddening. Brenna grew worried her aunt might suffer a stroke or faint.

  It was a jumble of intrigue and interwoven plots. Brenna listened in stunned amazement.

  At the Colony Days gala Chairman Hong had said, huffily, that Terran Worlds Council wasn't going to be involved in the business practices arbitration between Alamshah and Nakamura Kaisya; and Councilman Ames had then warned him that if the Progressive Expansionist Coalition kept pressuring Space Fleet's contractors, T.W.C. would get into the fracas. Progressive Expansionists had, with P.O.E. egging them on. And Terran Worlds Council had taken over—one more chunk of authority P.O.E. was losing to its space-oriented governing rival.

  Apparently, that was the point at which Carissa and Stuart had gotten mixed up in the mess. Obliquely. And on different sides, of course. Brenna recalled Councilman Bolotin's reminding her that she shouldn't rig the odds in the horse race. Now Yan Bolotin explained that he had mistakenly believed Brenna, too, was involved in her aunt's and cousin's schemings. He apologized. Yuri sat with his arms crossed, nodding in grim satisfaction, an "I told you so" expression on his face. Last summer, Brenna had been swimming amid sharks and hadn't known it:

  "It's the Hong faction. They wanted to get even for some bad investments. Your aunt and cousin cut them up pretty bad, recently. Then there's the election, of course ... Whatever happened—a close call or your being killed—would've suited their purposes. But now it'll all go flat because we hushed it up."

  The plump, matronly secret agent at Carissa's party had believed that. But things had worked out differently. The sabotage of Brenna's flier had gone unnoticed. A small defeat. That had only made the plotters more desperate. And there was a very great deal of power and money at stake—Stuart's and Carissa's among those.

  Brenna grew dizzy, hearing the recital. Agents, working a roundabout way, making contact with Tumaini Beno and putting a bug in his ear about stealing the Vahnaj ship. An independent agent, Stuart's lawyer yelled. No one contradicted him, but the Councilmen smiled knowingly just the same.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of this tug of war, other "independent agents" associated with Carissa's candidates in the election were prodding Protectors of Earth and the Progressive Expansionist Coalition.

  Both factions wanted to wipe out Terran Worlds Council's power and turn back kilotons of economic advantage to Earth. And somehow, they had cut each other's throats, pushed the wrong buttons, hired the wrong thugs and assassins. Fanatics were difficult to control, it seemed. Erratic. The assassination attempt at the Colony Days gala was a terrible miscalculat
ion. No wonder Stuart had made such a quick disappearance! He had been scared, not of the assassins—but of being thought part of their plot!

  No wonder Carissa had gone to such pains to commandeer her niece at the reception in August—lest Brenna talk to some of the wrong people and start putting two and two together about the sabotage of her flier and certain financial machinations involving Saunder Enterprises: Earth. Even so, Brenna had exchanged words with Yan Bolotin and that matronly secret agent. Her suspicions had been aroused, but not pointed in the right direction. The conspirators hadn't realized that, though. They had rushed ahead with their complicated plotting for fear Brenna would discover what was cooking and give them away.

  Instead, a disgruntled TeleCom reporter had stumbled onto the scheme and galloped to the nearest Terran Worlds Council intelligence source he could find. Whatever else he might be, Charlie Dahl was a good newshunter, and he knew critical mass information when it dropped into his lap!

  The irony was, he had blabbed and tipped off the plot in an attempt to get back at Brenna Saunder—but Brenna Saunder had had nothing to do with the crazy conspiracy against Terran Worlds Council and the space-oriented industries supporting them!

  Charlie Dahl—like a good many humans—thought the Saunders were all alike. Hurt one, and you hurt them all.

  Brenna almost laughed out loud. She got her amusement under control and listened to the conclusions. Across from her, Stuart had turned the color of snow. Carissa had tried sobbing and sham fainting and hysterical pantings. But the Council had plowed right ahead, sending its resident physician to look over the aging President Emeritus of P.O.E. The doctor had stated Carissa was fine—agitated, with good reason, but in superb health.

  "You keep your hands clean," Ames summed up. "We know what went on, of course. But for right now, it suits us to let it just sit there. Do I make myself clear?"