Stars End - Starfishers Triology Book 3

by Glen Cook

  The main research station was awesome.

  "What they did," Amy explained, "was take over one of the drydock asteroids. So they could study the ships inside."

  The planetoid was smaller than the one that had engulfed Danion, but still was vast. At least a hundred ships floated in its interior. Some were so alien their lines almost hurt the eye.

  Around the inner face of the asteroid lay an office and laboratory level. It was roofed by a layer of glassteel. The researchers and their staffs could look up at the ships floating overhead. People in the bay could see what was going on in the offices and labs. The asteroid had been given spin along its longitudinal axis instead of using artificial gravity generators, which would have been in continuous imbalance by facing inward.

  Moyshe and Amy entered through a lock in the asteroid's end, and observed briefly from a lookout there. Moyshe was impressed. The line of ships marched on till it vanished in the distance.

  "They bring them in this end," Amy said. "They look them over, study them, and the ones that aren't useful they move up the line." She indicated a remote vessel. Tugs were guiding it away. "The far end is industrialized. The ships the scientists don't want they break up for raw materials or refit for us to use. Let's see if we can find a scooter."

  An hour later Amy introduced him to a woman named Consuela el-Sanga. "Consuela is an old friend, Moyshe. Consuela, Moyshe might be able to give you an idea or two."

  Consuela el-Sanga was a small, dusky woman in her early fifties. She bore the stamp of the preoccupied researcher, of a person who had devoted a lifetime to her curiosity. Moyshe liked her immediately, and as quickly felt a kinship. She was a shy, diffident individual in matters outside her expertise.

  "Are you a xeno-archaeologist, Mister benRabi?"

  "No. Amy's exaggerating. I'm not even a gifted amateur. My only claim is that I followed the Lunar digs close till a year ago. I had a friend on the project."

  Darkness hit him. It had the impact of a physical blow. A woman's face floated before him. He had not seen that face in years. Alyce. Academy love. The girl who had worked at the Lunar digs...

  "Moyshe!" Amy sounded frightened. "What's the matter? Are you all right?"

  He held up a hand, patted at the air. "Okay. Okay. I'm okay." He shook his head violently. "Just a delayed reaction to the spin here," he lied. "I've never been in centrifugal gravity."

  Inside, panic. What the hell was this? It had not happened for months. He realized he was talking, and talking fast. "I was at the digs a year and a half ago. They'd just opened a new chamber, in almost perfect condition. They thought some of the machinery might still work."

  Amy and Consuela watched him carefully. "You sure you're all right?" Amy asked.

  "Sure. Sure. Miss el-Sanga, what could I do to help?"

  "I really don't know. We could walk you through one of the ships we think relates to the Lunar base, for a layman's opinion. We're sure there was a connection, but, because of politics, we can't work with the people there."

  "It's a pity, too."

  "Come along. We'll start with artifacts recovered from the ships. So you're married now, Amy."

  BenRabi caught an odd note in what could have been either statement or question. He gave the women a closer look. There was a slight tenseness between them, as if there had been more to their relationship than friendship and shared interests. He filed it in the back of his mind.

  "Took me long enough, didn't it?" Amy tried to sound light. She failed.

  The moment of disorientation had turned something on inside Moyshe. His mind went to work agent-wise. The cameras rolled. The cross-reference computer clicked. His surroundings took on more depth, more meaning. They became brighter and more interesting. His movements became quicker and more assured.

  "This is what we laughingly call the museum," Consuela el-Sanga said, pausing before opening a door. "It's not, really. It's just a storage room. Whoever those people were, they didn't leave much behind. Mostly just trash. But that's all archaeologists ever have to work with. Broken points, potsherds, and whatever else the ancients threw out behind their huts."

  Moyshe moved up and down rows of metal shelves. They contained hundreds of items, each tagged with a date, ship number, inventory number, and brief guess as to what the object might be. Some were referenced to other inventory numbers.

  Twice he paused, reexamined an item, said, "I saw something like this at the Lunar digs. I'd say there's a definite connection."

  The second time, Consuela el-Sanga responded, "Not necessarily. Parallel function. Say a comb. Any creature with hair would invent a comb. Wouldn't you say? So the existence of a comb wouldn't prove anything but a common physical trait." And when Moyshe finished with the racks and shelves, she said, "Now into my office. I'll show you our two real treasures."

  Moyshe and Amy followed her through another door.

  "You haven't seen these either, Amy. We found them while you were out. They were both part of the same find."

  Consuela El-Sanga took two plastic cases from her desk. She handled them with loving care.

  Moyshe accepted one, Amy the other. The item benRabi held was a piece of paper that had been torn into small fragments. A very few faded marks were visible.

  "Is it a photograph?" Amy asked.

  "Good guess," Consuela said. "We had a hell of a time with them." Moyshe traded with Amy. The second object was an extremely faded, flat, two-dimensional photo. It had been torn in two.

  Consuela continued, "First we pieced all the tears together. Then we did scans with low-intensity lasers and computer enhancements. We came up with these." The woman glowed with pride as she handed over reproductions of the items.

  The photo, in color, was of a creature very similar to the Lunar dig reconstructions. BenRabi said as much. The other object appeared to be a hand-written letter.

  "Any luck interpreting this?" Moyshe asked.

  "No. We haven't even determined which direction it's supposed to be read."

  "You haven't found any technical manuals or anything?"

  "Not a speck. Just a few characters on nameplates, stuff like you'd find around instrumentation and doors on any ship. Any time there's more than three characters, they're arranged in matrices like these."

  "Maybe they had a holographic system for reading."

  "No. Doesn't go with a two-d photo. We don't think."

  "Very interesting," Moyshe said, studying the picture again. "A Dear John letter? And the guy, or gal, gets mad and tears up the lover's letter and picture, but then can't bear to part with the pieces?"

  "That's one of our hypotheses."

  Moyshe scanned the letter. "Thirty-four different characters here. Some punctuation?"

  "Don't try to figure it out in your head. Even the computers can't get a handle on it. Just think how hard it would be to break our language without a starting clue. Big letters, little letters, script, punctuation, spelling variations by dialect, different type faces, all the stylized lettering and special symbols we use for technical stuff... You see? We'd need a whole ship full of old letters, novels, and newspapers to break it. Not just a few plaques on an instrument panel."

  "Don't worry, Consuela," Amy said. "We'll be into Stars' End soon. You'll find your answers there."

  "If I'm lucky enough to go. They haven't picked the science team yet. I'm worried."

  "You'll go. You're the best."

  BenRabi looked at the woman and slowly shook his head. That Stars' End insanity again.

  "I don't know what I'd do if they turned me down, Amy. It's my whole life. I'm not getting any younger. And they might use my age to keep me home."

  "Don't worry. You know they can't leave you behind. There's nobody better than you. And they know how much it means to you."

  "How soon, Amy? Do you know?"

  "It hasn't been decided yet. But it won't be long. A month or two."

  Consuela brightened. "You're sure they'll send me?"

  "Of
course. Don't be silly."

  "That's what I am, you know. A silly old woman."

  Amy enfolded her in gentle arms. "No you're not. No you're not. Come on, now. Show us one of those ships."

  Consuela el-Sanga led them to a little four-place air scooter, flew them out to a vessel. BenRabi felt lightheaded in the lack of gravity. "I feel like I could fall all the way to the end," he said, staring down the length of the hollow.

  The ship was one of the least alien of those in the lineup. "Form follows function," Moyshe muttered, remembering the Luna Command constructs, which had very much resembled small human beings.

  The ship's lock was open. Consuela made fast, led them inside. She was small, but even she had to stoop in the passageways.

  Moyshe wandered around for an hour. He finally summed up his impressions by observing, "It's not that strange. Just kind of dollhouse. Like it was built for children. You can figure out what half the stuff is. It's just parked places we consider weird."

  "You said it yourself, form follows function," Consuela replied. "We've done comparative studies between these, Sangaree, Ulantonid, and our own ships. The physical requirements of bipeds appear to be universal. Scales seem to be the most noticeable difference."

  "That ship two ahead of this one. What built it? A giant slug?"

  "We don't know. It's funny. There's something almost repulsive about it. You have to work yourself up to it if it's your turn to study it. It's like the alienness oozes out of the metal. It's more of a mystery than the other ships. It's almost contemporary, if our dating technique is valid. It shows battle damage. It's the only one of its kind we've ever located. It was as clean as these others. One of my colleagues believes the crew were forced to abandon ship after an accidental encounter during some crisis period, like the Ulantonid War, when everyone was shooting at anybody who didn't yell friend fast enough. Curiously, though, it was surrounded by a whole squadron of our little friends here."

  "Enemies?"

  Consuela shrugged. "Or purely chance. The ships aren't contemporary with one another. What were they doing together? There aren't enough books to write down all the questions, Mister benRabi. It gets frustrating sometimes."

  "I can imagine. Could the crew have been studying the old ships when they were attacked by a third party?"

  "That's a possibility we hadn't considered. I'll bring it up... "

  "Consuela?" someone shouted into the vessel. "Is that you in there?"

  "Yes, Robert. What is it?"

  "Somebody's looking for those people who came to see you. A man named Kindervoort. He sounded pretty excited."

  "Oh-oh," Amy said. "I'm in trouble now. I thought he wouldn't notice. Consuela, I'd better call him."

  She placed the call from Consuela's office. Jarl foamed at the mouth and ordered them to return to Danion. Now. He snarled at benRabi, "Moyshe, I don't care if you cut those nitwit citizenship classes. They're a waste of time anyway. But you're not ducking out on the training schedule. Now come back here and get your men ready. You've got the rest of your life to look at old ships. The auction is now."

  Amy was quiet throughout the return passage. Once she whispered, "He's really going to give it to me," and clutched Moyshe's hand. She was shaking.

  "He's an amateur," benRabi told her. "You haven't been chewed out till you've taken it from Admiral Beckhart." A moment later he grinned and added, "But if it's private, he lets you yell back."

  Soon after they returned they heard that another of the great harvestfleets was entering the nebula. The news generated a fresh air of excitement aboard Danion.

  One by one, the harvestfleets came in. Scores of fresh, eager young faces appeared aboard Danion as graduates of Seiner technical schools filled the billets of people lost at Stars' End. The howl and hammer of repairs went on around the clock. The excitement and tension continued to mount.

  They were going back. This time in full strength, and to stay. A prideful, nationalistic, bellicose mood gripped the fleets.

  Moyshe benRabi and Masato Storm pursued their instruction of the teams they would direct on The Broken Wings. Their days were long and exhausting. Moyshe often tumbled into bed without enough energy left for a good-night kiss.

  He began to feel the pressure. It started to intrude into his sleeping hours. He began to dream of the girl he had left behind, so long ago. He suffered more momentary lapses of attention while he was awake.

  He began to grow frightened of what might be going on back in the nether reaches of his mind.

  Eleven: Christmas 3049 AD

  The Contemporary Scene

  Tension gripped the bridge of the attack cruiser Lepanto. "One minute to drop," the astrogation officer announced.

  Jupp von Drachau scanned his people. They were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the crack of the starter's pistol. They would have to grab an enormous fund of data in a few brief minutes.

  Lepanto was coming up to an enemy star. There was no way of guessing what might be waiting. Detection gear would not work from hyper unless initial detection had been made in norm. The cruiser was going in blind.

  No one knew the capabilities of the Sangaree detection systems. Operating from norm, they would not have the same handicap. A force might be moving toward the drop zone now.

  "Thirty seconds."

  "Stand by, Weapons," von Drachau ordered. "Button up, people." He sealed the faceplate of his own helmet.

  One quick drop to get his bearings, then a short arc in to the fringes of the Sangaree sun...

  "Five seconds. Four. Three."

  The figures on the bridge hunched forward a centimeter more.

  "One. Drop."

  "Screens up."

  "Commander, heavy vessels bearing... "

  "Display active."

  "Three ships bearing... "

  "Range to star one point three two a.u... "

  "We have a local inherent velocity of... "

  "Attack missiles bearing... "

  "Bridge. Weapons. Launching two salvos."

  The vessel shuddered and rocked. Von Drachau stared at the display tank. Six red blips had come to life there. They sped along projected curves which would bring them within spitting distance of Lepanto. Tiny ruby pinpoints raced ahead, toward the cruiser.

  "... time to intercept forty-seven seconds... "

  The hyper alarm commenced its hooted warning to the crew. "Time to hyper one minute," a voice boomed.

  Someone said, "Commander, we've located the planet."

  "Bring me up a visual."

  "Aye, sir."

  Von Drachau's command screen came to life. For an instant it displayed a computer graphic of the local solar system. The schematic yielded to a visual from an external camera. It showed a white third-crescent. The amplification rose quickly, revealing a world heavy with clouds and seas. "Looks a lot like Old Earth," von Drachau murmured.

  "Yes sir."

  "Are you taping?"

  "We're getting everything we can, sir."

  "Twenty seconds to hyper."

  Von Drachau glanced at the display tank. The missile salvos were driving closer. Weapons Department was not bothering with anything but defensive fire. Considering the nature of the mission, engaging a handful of raidships was pointless. "Anything near that sun?" he asked.

  "No sir. We have a lot of activity near and on the planet."

  That made sense. The Sangaree would be scrambling everything in fear that Lepanto might be the spearhead of a thrust against their Homeworld. That was the doom they had dreaded for centuries.

  "Hyper in five seconds. Four."

  Von Drachau did not think these picket ships would jump with him. They should await the rest of a suspected battle fleet.

  "One. Taking."

  The universe shifted. Screens went blank. The display tank, cued in norm, remained active. Von Drachau stared, willing the Sangaree raidships to remain where they were.

  "One minute to drop." Astrogation had programed
a very short, slow arc.

  Von Drachau reached back into his soul, searching for any wisp of feeling that might bear on the orders he had to give. He did not want to do this thing. Every cell of him protested. And yet... And yet he knew too much. He knew the critical importance of obtaining results. And he had his own orders.

  "Special Weapons Party, stand by."

  His orders would be a formality. The pre-launch program had begun an hour ago. The only significant command he could give now would be the abort.

  He checked the tank again.

  "Damn!" They were coming. Their detection gear was good. They knew no one else was coming in right away. "Looks like we knocked over a beehive," he said. The six raidships from the drop zone were being joined by a horde quartering in from the planet.

  "Twenty seconds till drop."

  It would be a narrow squeak, making the launch and getting clear in time. And some of them would chase him all the way home... "Astrogation, program your next jump for Carson's." He did not want to lead the pursuit too close to the action on The Broken Wings.

  "Sir?"

  "Pull the cassette and reprogram." An attack squadron would be on station near Carson's. He could scoot in and cling to its protective skirts.

  "Yes sir."

  "Drop."

  "Special Weapons Party, launch when ready."

  There. It was too late to take it back. Too late to keep from having to live with it the rest of his life.

  "Special Weapons launch in three minutes, twelve seconds," launch party captain replied.

  "What's the holdup? We've got Sangaree crawling up our backs."

  "Sorry, sir. A coupling jammed."

  "Long range hunter missiles bearing... "

  "Visuals, please," von Drachau said. His screen came to life. "Show me the star."

  In a second he was staring at an endless plain of fire. Broad continental reaches of darkness lay upon it. The star appeared to be passing through a period of heavy sunspotting. But, as he remembered it, the Sangaree home star was supposed to be highly active, with exceptionally intense solar winds.

  "Two minutes to special launch."

  Von Drachau checked the display tank. The Sangaree were coming on in a mob. They were not organized, but there were too many of them. Lepanto wouldn't have a prayer in a heads-up fight.