Gabe felt a rush of frustration and looked around the office for some inspiration. He found little to preserve his vanishing patience. IntCent had settled in one of the many information centers on the Concord, and the room contained very little scenery. There was only the technician’s broad desk, a few scattered alcoves with computers, and clean, gray bulkheads. It was true that his pilots hadn’t exactly been disciplined since their flight from Eris—a point that Susan hadn’t been shy about making—but this situation was serious. He made a mental note to speak with his pilots about how their reputation was interfering with legitimate contacts, but first he had to convince the woman in front of him of the danger they might all now be in.
Allen caught Gabe’s attention and jerked his head, signaling that they should leave, but Gabe was far from finished. He placed his hands on the technician’s desk and leaned forward. “So you’re telling me that you won’t even consider the possibility that we aren’t making this up?” He watched as she met his eyes, and her stare didn’t waver. “Then tell me why what we saw out there isn’t possible. Explain it to me.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Why? So you can get the details right next time?” The tech shook her head. “Fine. So be it.” With a gesture, she activated a small projection unit at one side of her desk, showing a three-dimensional hologram of the slender rig. Just seeing the projection made Gabe shiver slightly. He could still remember the pilot’s deep, reverberating voice, and the strange, repeated questions he couldn’t understand.
The tech, on the other hand, didn’t seem all that impressed as she stood up and began pointing at the image. “The first problem is that this thing is way too small for a feasible rig design. It just doesn’t have the mass to work.”
Allen snorted, and Gabe glanced back at his wingman. The other rig pilot was shaking his head. “They seemed to function pretty well to me, ma’am.”
The tech fixed him with a glare. “So you say. The fact is, though, that a rig needs a certain amount of mass just to be able to support a pilot.” She tapped a few more controls, bringing up an abbreviated schematic of the CTR design alongside the slender rig. “You need space for the pilot, for energy supplies, for the computer systems, for the tetherdrive, weaponry, armor … the list goes on.”
She turned to glare at Allen again. “Your supposed rig sighting doesn’t have enough space for all of that. Even with the lightest possible armor and skimpiest internal structure, there wouldn’t be enough room for a pilot to fit inside. Unless you’re crazy enough to think that these things are driven by artificial intelligence, this thing doesn’t have room for anyone to give it commands—and no one has been stupid enough to trust AI pilots for hundreds of years.”
The tech replaced the CTR schematic with a portion of the records from Gabe’s rig. It showed the other rig maneuvering, trying to find a way past the CTR in pursuit of the rest of the flight. She shook her head. “This part is just as bad. Even if there was room for a pilot, there’s no way they could fit that kind of tetherdrive capacity into that small of a rig. The strain on the thing’s joints would break it apart on some of these course changes. Like here.” The tech froze the recording at a point where Gabe’s opponent had swerved up and away from him, jerking around in a way no CTR could hope to match. “If this scrawny thing actually tried to make a turn like that, it would snap like a twig. They’d have to be using heavy internal structure to withstand that kind of force—which, of course, would leave even less room for a pilot and everything else.”
As the recording faded, the tech punched in another set of commands. “And now for the coup de grace.” Gabe watched as the image of the slender rig magnified. Small red markings sprang to life in various spots on the surface of the rig, highlighting different bits and pieces. The tech turned to smile at them, victorious and bitter at the same time. “Do you notice anything missing, gentlemen?”
Gabe studied the image for a moment, and then surprise washed over him. “There’s no hatch. How does the pilot get in?”
“A prize for the winner!” The tech clapped her hands in mock celebration. “As far as we’ve been able to tell, there’s no way in or out of these things. The pilot would be sealed into the rig permanently, which would mean they’d be dead after their supply of oxygen ran out. Which wouldn’t be long, given the size and girth of the thing. And we haven’t even gotten to questions like, ‘Where is the carrier that launched these rigs?’ or that sort of thing yet.” She shook her head and shut down the projection. “Look, I appreciate the attention to detail, and the story was entertaining, but we need to focus on serious matters here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Gabe turned and looked at Allen, who shrugged helplessly. When he returned his attention to the tech, she’d already sat down and begun reading a different report. With a grumble of frustration, he started off down the hallway, his teeth clenched tight. Allen trailed after him, remaining silent while Gabe fumed. About halfway down the corridor, he heard someone else fall into step alongside him. He looked over to see Derek, his former wingman and persistent friend, grinning at him.
“So, how are our intrepid alien abductees doing?”
Gabe groaned. “Do I really have to put up with this from you too? I would think that you would have something better to do with your time.”
Derek chuckled. “Oh, come on. Why would you think that? We’ve got nothing but time right now.” He glanced back toward the intelligence center. “I take it that IntCent was a bit less than helpful about your mysterious contact?”
“You’ve got that right.” Gabe shook his head. “Even if it just turns out to be an isolated group of border pirates, we need to know what’s out there. Especially the way those rigs could move.”
Derek frowned. “You’re saying it was that bad, huh?”
Allen spoke up, his voice somber. “They had us surrounded. Pretty much dead to rights. If they’d fired, and if their weaponry was anything close to effective …” His words trailed off. “I’m just thankful the Lord didn’t call us home the other day.”
Gabe nodded. “They were fast, Derek. It was like trying to keep up with sunlight. They had better sensors, accel, and stealth features. For all we know, they’re still keeping watch on us right now, and the patrols just haven’t been able to pick them up.”
Derek’s frown deepened. “I don’t know if it’s that serious, Gabe.” He put up his hands, as if to shield himself from Gabe’s glare. “Look, I’m not doubting you here, but if what you say is accurate, those things wanted nothing to do with the RSR flight sent out to collect you. If that’s correct, it could be because the little bug men can see a lot better than a CTR. I’m betting our RSR patrols have been spooking your little skinny friends. The fleet should still be safe.”
Allen grunted. “Sure. But only for the moment. How long are they going to shy away from direct contact? If anything, our patrols should tell them that we’ve got a significant fleet presence in their system—if this is their system—and that will probably worry them enough to come looking for us eventually.”
Gabe felt a chill run through him as he imagined a flight of the slender rigs hovering above the Concord. There was something distinctly disturbing about not only finding more of the things, but also having them know where he lived. “Then we’re going to have to find them first. Locate their base of operations or whatever they’re using to keep supplied, and then get enough evidence that Lieutenant Skeptic here can’t naysay it.”
His two friends fell silent, and he glanced at them. They looked worried. “What? You don’t think we should?”
Allen seemed to pick his words carefully. “It may not be a case of should we do it so much as if we can do it.” He shook his head. “Those things have been keeping themselves very well hidden since the other day, and before that, the RSRs barely had any hint of them. How in the world can we manage to find them again, let alone find their base?”
Derek laughed. “Well, I suppose the Lord will h
elp us do it if He means for it to work out.” He hit Gabe on the shoulder and walked on ahead. “I’m about to head out with my flight for a patrol, so I’ll be on the lookout for any little green men. While I’m out there, don’t spend your time brooding, all right? You’re ugly enough as it is.”
Gabe tossed a pen at Derek’s retreating back. “Thanks, I think. Take care of yourself out there.” He watched his friend turn the corner, lost in thought. When Allen laid a hand on his shoulder, Gabe started, and then grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry. Just trying to figure out a way to chase these things down.”
Allen nodded. “We’ll find them, Gabriel. The Lord always provides a way.” Then Gabe’s wingman smiled. “For now, though, let’s focus on getting something to eat. Arguing with IntCent always makes me work up an appetite.”
Gabe chuckled and followed him toward the nearest cafeteria. As Allen had said, there would be time enough to worry about the mystery rigs later. He tried to shake off the feeling that there might not be nearly as much time as he thought.
Chapter Three
Susan watched the Summer Rain grow in the shuttle’s navigational projections and tried to look forward to being aboard her. One of the biggest and best maintained ships in the refugee fleet, the Summer Rain served as the center of the Wayfarer government. She had probably started life as a simple passenger liner, with smooth lines and utilitarian amenities, but the Wayfarers had been careful to prepare the ship well for her intended journey across the stars. The smooth lines had been crafted into graceful curves, and the standard tetherdrive, power plant, and defensive shielding had been amplified. There were no offensive weapons onboard, but the Summer Rain could easily manage to outrun heavier ships and endure barrages from the smaller ones long enough for the Defense Forces to come to her rescue.
The ship wasn’t perfect. Few things were in the refugee fleet, despite the Wayfarers’ best efforts. Susan’s particular objections to the Summer Rain had more to do with her position as the center of the fleet’s government. The Council would have been better protected and far more secure aboard the Concord or one of the other military ships. The Summer Rain had been built to accommodate thousands of passengers, and the Wayfarers had stuffed the ship to its limits. To Susan’s mind, that provided any potential assassins, saboteurs, or other troublemakers with numerous opportunities to cause problems for the government of the fleet.
Yet the Council had been adamant about remaining apart from the military’s command structure, and even more determined to stay away from the Concord, the flagship of the entire fleet. Susan didn’t entirely understand their decision to enforce that separation, but she had begrudgingly agreed to it—as she already had so many other limitations.
She sighed to herself as the shuttle swung up beside one of the Summer Rain’s many docking points. It took only a moment for the little craft’s pilot to sidle it up against the hatch and establish a connection. When a tone sounded through the passenger cabin, Susan stood and made her way over to the exit.
Yet she didn’t travel alone. Ever since the assassination attempt in Eris, Susan had taken a bodyguard with her whenever she left the carrier. Corporal Shen was not a very talkative individual; indeed, she often wondered if he resented playing nursemaid to the commander of the Wayfarer Defense Forces. Yet he did his duty with a stalwart sort of determination that endeared him to her, and she nodded to him as she stepped past his seat. The grim, heavily armed soldier stood and followed her out of the hatch and onto the Summer Rain.
There was a solemn-looking man waiting for her. He nodded to the corporal, and then presented a hand for her to shake. “Admiral Delacourt, my name is Sergi Andrews. I’m to be your guide while you are meeting with the Council.” She nodded and let go of his hand. He gestured for them to follow him. “This way.”
The short walk through the Summer Rain’s corridors only increased her dislike for the situation aboard the civilian vessel. On a military ship, the corridors would have been cleared of debris and passersby when a visiting dignitary or officer came on board. Such gestures of respect and good order were not in evidence here. People crowded the hallways, gathering in clumps near some of the common areas or lounging around the passages, gawking at her and her escort. Her eyes narrowed as she considered how many attackers might hide in those crowds, and she did not relax her guard until she made it to the room where the Council waited.
It was a simple conference room, likely once used for the captain of the passenger liner to brief his crew or meet with investors. The broad oak table had been brought from New Sonora before the city’s evacuation, and Susan briefly wondered how much effort it had taken the Wayfarers to squeeze it through the doorway. Her idle thoughts were interrupted when she ran her eyes over the room’s occupants.
Elder Miller was there, sitting at the head of the table. His presence, as well as that of the rest of the Advisors’ Council, was not unexpected. After all, they were the ones who had called the meeting. Keeper Schreiber was also present. He was not a frequent visitor to the Council, but he wasn’t exactly a surprise, either. The man seemed devoted to his chronicle of the Wayfarer exodus, and he seemed to catch word of any meeting that promised to be especially important—or, failing that, full of internecine strife that he could dutifully record.
Three more people—people she had never expected to see the inside of the Summer Rain at all, let alone the Council’s conference room—caught her interest more effectively than any of them. The first was a guard; his stance, loaded pistol, and body armor made that clear at a glance. It was also just as clear that his duty did not extend to merely keeping the Advisors safe. He was much more interested in monitoring the actions of the other two visitors in the room. His eyes never left them, and any unexpected motion brought his hand to his gun.
One of those visitors was a former captain, Essen of Bennett Securities. He’d been captured along with the mercenary ships that now drifted along with the rest of the fleet. Essen had been the only commanding officer to survive both the vicious battle that had destroyed Bennett Securities and the equally bloody mutiny that had led to the surrender of the remaining vessels. The man did not owe his survival to superior wits or his inspiring nature; Essen had been left unconscious by strikes to his ship’s bridge, and his crew had not bothered to finish him off when they decided to lay down arms. He was pale and clearly nervous as he looked at the others in the room. When Essen recognized Susan, he flinched and quickly looked away.
His fellow mercenary was far less timid. She had auburn hair and strong features—and more importantly, she did not seem the least bit intimidated by the Council. When Susan met the mercenary’s eyes, the other woman stared back at her defiantly, as if they stood on an old-fashioned dueling ground. Her face had been marked by a single slender scar running down one cheek, but it seemed like an old wound rather than a legacy of the battle in Eris. Regardless, she was obviously much happier to be present than Essen was—in fact, Susan decided that this woman was the only reason Essen had attended at all, given his lack of backbone. That fact alone made her someone to watch carefully.
Elder Miller rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Admiral Delacourt, I’m glad you could make your way here so quickly. We have an interesting proposition for you.”
Susan looked at Elder Miller in surprise. His expression gave away little, but his voice had carried a warning tone that told her she wouldn’t entirely agree with what was about to be said. Gabe had a similar way of speaking at times, and it rarely boded well when he resorted to it. Inwardly, she braced herself for yet another concession she would have to make for the supposed benefit of the refugee fleet. “I had hoped to hear that we would be moving out soon, Elder Miller, but any news from you is welcome.” She moved to the nearest seat and lowered herself into it while Corporal Shen took up a position on one side of the doorway. Their guide left as silently as he’d come, closing the door as he went.
For his part, Elder Miller looked
only slightly chagrined at the veiled rebuke. He sat as well and rested his forearms on the table. “Fortunately, there is good news on that front. Elder Morsely, could you summarize our decision on that matter?”
The solemn-faced man nodded. “Of course, Speaker.” He turned to Susan with a stoic expression. “While we have not yet designated our final destination, we have decided to choose one system as a fallback option, in case something catastrophic occurs in this place.”
Morsely touched a control, and a projection of the surrounding stars appeared over the table. One of them burned a bright orange, showing the system where the fleet currently sat, while another shone with green light. The stars where they had previously traveled had been stained a dull, bloody red, stretching in a line back to Eris and the rest of the Known Worlds. “The green star has the appropriate characteristics for a habitable zone, and observations from Known Worlds observatories and our own instruments indicate that there are rocky planets in orbit. They could provide at least a temporary shelter for us, if such is needed.”
Susan felt a burst of frustration. She restrained it, mindful of the prisoners in the room and of her position in the Wayfarer hierarchy. “Might I ask why we are not already moving toward this star? It serves no purpose to remain here if we do not intend to colonize this place.”
Elder Miller gave her another warning look, but it was Elder Ishval who responded. “The decision to stay here has been influenced by many factors, Admiral. Not least among them is the critical supply of fuel. If we jump through space heedlessly, the fleet could easily find itself unable to continue our journey—and each resonance burst consumes a dramatic amount of that fuel.”
“Elder Ishval, that fuel can either be consumed while the fleet remains idle, or it can be used to find a suitable place to live.” Susan was trying to convince herself to be patient, but much of her exasperation came through. “Again, I must strongly urge the Council to reconsider. We need to move soon, or we may end up never moving at all.”
Broken Halo (Wayfarers) Page 4
