The big man raised his head with effort, blood running down his cheeks from the enormous wound in the back of his head.
“I will die for you, Ayliss.” The words grated as if his mouth had filled with dirt, and then he sagged against her.
“Don’t leave me, Big Bear.” She fought to stay calm, knowing it was a dream.
“Ayliss, this isn’t going to work unless you’re completely truthful with me.” The woman speaking was Mira Teel, the de facto leader of the group known as Step Worshipers. The Delphi was their ship and, with the exception of its captain and most of its crew, the passengers were almost exclusively her followers. Since coming aboard, Ayliss had privately started referring to the Step Worshipers as Steppers and mentally referring to Mira as the High Stepper.
“Truthful? About a dream?” Ayliss leaned back into the curved sofa in Mira’s quarters. While the Steppers preferred loose-fitting, colorful garments, Ayliss was wearing a set of sand-colored fatigues. Her blond hair was cut short, and an oval of tiny scars marked the right side of her face. Struck with rock fragments during the fighting on Quad Seven, Ayliss had refused to have the scars erased.
“I don’t understand why you’re fighting me.” Mira reclined in a chair facing the couch, blowing on a mug of tea. “I thought we’d become good friends, back on Earth.”
“I’m not fighting you. And we are friends. My father trusted you, and so do I.”
“Your father disappeared in the Step because of that trust.”
“No. He disappeared because he was trying to contact the entities that gave humanity the Step in the first place.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.”
“He told me all about his plan before I went to Quad Seven. Personally, I think he succeeded. I think he made contact with those entities.”
“I do, too. And that’s why I still hold out hope that he will eventually return. Or that, through our efforts here, we might find him.”
“We were never particularly close, you know. He pushed Jander and me away from him, after our mother died.”
“Olech told me all about that. But a mere blood relationship isn’t why you’re here. You and your father share a similar experience while in the Step, one that is not common. Very few people dream during a transit, and the dreams come in two varieties. Either they replay events that actually happened, which we call a ‘memory’ dream, or people from the dreamer’s past interact with the dreamer in a way that they never did in real life. We call that a ‘message’ dream.”
Ayliss remembered Lola’s outlandish attire during the just-completed voyage, and the words she’d never spoken. “I already know that. We’ve had this discussion before.”
“Apparently we need to have it again. You and your father both had dreams of the second variety, as have most of my colleagues here. We believe those dreams are attempts by the entities to communicate with humanity.” Mira placed the mug on a nearby table, and swept an errant gray hair back into place. “From the moment your father disappeared, no one in our group has had a single message dream. In fact, an entire month went by before anyone in a transit reported having any dreams at all. And, despite countless voyages made since then just to regain contact, so far the ones who’ve started dreaming again have only experienced memory dreams.”
“So your associates keep telling me.”
“You can understand their frustration. They dedicated their lives to communing with a higher form of existence, and then saw that link severed by someone who is not of the group.”
“They blame my father for the lost contact?”
“Fairly or unfairly, yes.”
“You helped him. We both did.”
“Everyone knows of my role. You may not have noticed it, but some of the hostility they’re directing toward you is also coming my way.”
“Good thing it doesn’t bother either of us.”
“It doesn’t bother me because I have a higher purpose. I’m not sure why it doesn’t bother you. Or why you keep telling me virtually the same dreams, over and over, regardless of how many transits we make.”
“Memory is imperfect. Subconscious memory even more so.”
“When I first met you, you had no difficulty remembering your Step experiences in detail.”
A hand waved at the cheek scars. “I’ve been through a lot since then.”
“We’re all very impressed by your actions on Quad Seven. You risked your life, fighting off the Sims alongside your colonists. I was hoping you’d show the same loyalty to us.”
Ayliss sat up. “We weren’t attacked by Sims. It was a smuggler named McRaney, human as you and me, hired by a Zone Quest station manager named Rittle. As discharged veterans, my colonists were given control of Quad Seven by my father. Rittle and the rest of ZQ didn’t like that.”
“Your stepmother told me about this before sending you to us. Between the loss of your father and the civil war on Celestia, she felt that an accusation against one of the largest mining organizations in the war zone would have been too much.”
“So you admit that Reena put me on this voyage to keep me quiet.”
“Oh, I doubt she thinks anything could keep you quiet for long.” Mira laughed, reaching for the tea. The humor was genuine, and Ayliss gave her a grudging smile. “And I don’t want you to be quiet. I want you to trust me, and to tell me what’s happening in your psyche when you’re in transit.”
“I told you I dreamt of Blocker.”
“Yes. A memory dream of him comforting you when your mother died.”
“He’s on my mind. Since we’re skipping around the cosmos with no real destination, could we arrange a stopover so I could see him? It might help me to focus.”
“He’s convalescing at Larkin Station, yes? In the war zone?”
“Yes. From what little he’s told me, it’s not going well.”
“I can have the captain arrange it.” Mira stood, her colored smock dropping into place. Ayliss rose as well, but the older lady blocked her exit. “I have no interest in whatever it is you’re planning, although it sounds like it may involve revenge against this Rittle character. Our race has been at war with the Sims for four decades, and I’ve never taken an interest in any of that violence at all. I have one goal here, to reestablish contact with the entities.”
“I’ll help you all I can.”
“That’s all I ever ask of anyone aboard.” Mira stepped aside, her face darkening. “I’d consider it a personal favor. I’m not dreaming at all anymore, no matter what kind of transit we attempt. If this silence goes on much longer, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.”
As always, Ayliss left Mira’s quarters with relief. The High Stepper’s link with whatever existed in her Step dreams might have been severed, but her skills as an inquisitor remained. In the time she’d spent with Mira before Olech’s fateful journey, Ayliss had come to view her as a clairvoyant when it came to reading people’s thoughts. She knew she wasn’t the only one who considered Mira to be almost a witch in this regard.
Despite the discomfort of these post-Step interviews, there were several aspects of life on the Delphi that Ayliss enjoyed. Over her stepmother Reena’s strident objections, no bodyguards were allowed aboard the research vessel. It was a welcome respite from a life that had become cluttered with overprotective men and women, and their presence here would have been pointless. Every human aboard the Delphi had to go into a Transit Tube whenever they initiated a Step, so if anyone meant her harm they’d have plenty of opportunities. Not that there was much chance of that; as a group the Steppers felt that violence was beneath them. Their resentment of her father’s role in severing their dream link had so far manifested itself only in a standoffishness that Ayliss secretly appreciated.
She turned a corner, and almost collided with a tall Stepper coming the other way. Her multicolored robe hung to the deck, and a shaved head sprouted from its top. Ayliss had noticed this one before, hovering nearby, and had thought the face was fami
liar. The suddenness and proximity of their meeting brought the proper memory to life.
“I know you.” Ayliss extended a finger. “From the party circuit at university. What’s your name?”
The Stepper didn’t flinch. “Margot Isles. And I left that life behind me.”
“Isles. Munitions family. Made a fortune off the war. Right?”
“Sounds like the Mortas family, to me.”
“Wrong. Your people sell the weapons.” Ayliss leaned in, showing the cheek scars. “My people use them.”
She stepped around Margot, pretending to have forgotten her but mentally recording the incident for later consideration.
The ship’s engines hummed through the bulkheads as she walked, and to Ayliss it sounded as if the spacecraft was recharging. The cycle of putting everyone into the sleep tubes, generating a Threshold, completing a Step, and then awakening them occurred at roughly twenty-four hour intervals. Analysis of the dream data and post-Step interviews required substantial effort from Mira and the other interlocutors, but the rank-and-file Steppers had plenty of down time. Ayliss passed several more individuals, male and female, as well as a clutch of Step acolytes enjoying a laugh at the junction of two passageways.
The laughter died when she approached, and didn’t resume once she’d passed.
The walk ended at another hatch, and Ayliss punched in the access code. Stepping into the space, she stopped abruptly.
The tight compartment was lined with banks of communications gear, and a canted control panel ran around three of its walls at waist level. Christian Ewing was seated in the center of the room, and a female Stepper was sitting in his lap. Short and slim, very much like Ewing himself, she took her time standing up. After running spread hands through an impressive mane of red hair, the woman leaned in to kiss him farewell.
“Ayliss.” She offered a noncommittal smile, and left.
The communications expert grinned up at her while she moved the compartment’s other chair a little closer. Ewing was wearing a khaki flight suit, and didn’t try to intercept her when Ayliss reached into one of its side pockets. Her hand came out with a folding row of individually wrapped discs which the redhead had deposited while saying her goodbyes.
“Transdermals. Your Stepper friends trying to help you stay awake?”
“They’re very interested in the music I hear out there.” Ewing pointed a finger at the ceiling. “I think they’re living vicariously through me, now that their dreams have gone cold.”
“Music that nobody but you hears.” Ayliss handed the drugs back. “Those things are going to kill you, one of these days.”
Ewing raised his eyebrows. “Your addiction’s likely to do that sooner.”
“Touché.” Ayliss raised open hands. “Give me an update.”
Ewing punched a button on one of the consoles, and an eerie soundtrack filled the space. Many voices, not human, sighed and moaned in a high octave. The calls and answers drifted over each other, sometimes mixing melodically. Ayliss recognized it as the recording of whales singing in Earth’s oceans, only because it was Ewing’s standard defense against eavesdropping.
“Our friend never leaves the war zone. That’s why he’s advanced so quickly inside the company.” Despite sophisticated anti-surveillance equipment embedded in the walls and the masking sound of the whales, they still talked in code about Vroma Rittle, the Zone Quest station manager from Quad Seven. “He’s very well connected, inside and outside his organization. If First Sergeant Hemsley hadn’t banned me from radio watch back there, I think I could have figured out that our friend was on good terms with the smugglers.”
“How so?”
“The chatter is all around us. You just need the gear to grab it, and the sense to sort through it. This rig you got for me is perfect, by the way.”
“It was one of my conditions for coming on this trip. Don’t forget that my stepmother’s people put this all together, so you can bet they’re monitoring everything you do.”
“They’re not the only ones. Somebody on board, not the crew or the command element, has been trying to hack into my work. Not sure who it is, but it’s obviously a spy of some kind. It’s strange, because even if they succeeded, I doubt they could figure any of it out. So much data, and I look at it from a lot of different angles.”
“You’re disguising the results with disinformation.”
“You really are a wily one, Minister.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not in charge of a damned thing anymore.”
“Neither is our friend. He hasn’t been given a new station to manage, but that’s not surprising. The war zone’s a mess right now, Sam attacking everywhere, so many troops sent to Celestia.”
“You don’t suppose the Guests would send him there, do you?” Ayliss used the veterans’ derogatory term for the overbearing mining company. Zone Guests. Profiteers in the war zone.
“Celestia’s loaded with important minerals, and most of the production’s been stopped by the fighting. Our friend would be a good candidate to get things running again, once they’ve pacified one of the mining areas.” He paused. “They might be tempted to send him there, despite the rebellion.”
“That would be wonderful.” Ayliss’s gaze lingered on the wall, but Ewing knew she was somewhere else. An entire world consumed by blood and fire, where humans were slaughtering each other that very moment. “In all that chaos, an accident would be easy to arrange.”
“It’s not my place to say anything, but that’s never stopped me before. Maybe you should let this one go. Everybody who’s anybody knows the real story about Quad Seven, good guys or bad. You get rid of our friend, the Guests are going to know it was you.”
“What are you saying? Just be a good sport? He poisoned me, he killed my . . . my man. He treated you and the other vets like shit, and then he paid someone to wipe us all out. He managed to kill a lot of your fellow colonists.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I was there a lot longer than you, being ground under that bastard’s heel. If I ever run into him, I’d be tempted to do something. But I wouldn’t go out of my way, is my point.” Ewing turned back to the controls, pretending to play with the music mix. “The galaxy is loaded with assholes, Minister. You can’t kill them all.”
“I can try.”
“I saw you after the battle. You like it a lot, don’t you? The violence.”
“Yes.”
“Well with all the god-awful suffering in this war, I suppose somebody ought to be enjoying it.”
“The patient still shows marked weakness in the left leg.” Physician’s Assistant John Scalpo spoke to the air while pressing down with both arms. His hands held Dominic Blocker’s left ankle, and the big man was easily raising his leg to full extension despite the resistance. Scalpo grinned at him. “The patient’s poor state of physical fitness prior to his wounds is the most likely explanation for his slow recovery.”
Blocker mouthed a pair of obscene words at the PA, and Scalpo released him. Though in his sixties, Scalpo still had a full head of hair that was completely white and cut very short. An olive-colored set of medical scrubs hung from his lean frame, and thin lines ran across his forehead.
“Recommend maintaining the patient here on Larkin Station for at least another month, with additional physical therapy sessions.”
He stepped over to a desk and began typing notes. Seated on the exam table, Blocker looked at a gallery of pictures slowly rotating across a screen on the wall. A new one appeared, a rising sun peering over a brown horizon made up of dirty sand dunes.
“I know that one. That was the view from the main support base on Selo Six.”
“Now how would you know anything about the view from the rear area? Big bad platoon sergeant.”
“Rear area? Didn’t Sam overrun that base?”
Scalpo stopped typing, his expression suggesting a pleasant memory. “He did. I bagged three of those bastards that very night. And the clerks and cooks did muc
h better than that, once they got into the spirit of the thing.”
“It’s a game anybody can play.”
The PA finished his notes, and then shut off the console. Rolling his chair back, he gave Blocker an appraising look. “You sure you want to do this?”
“You sure we can talk here?”
“I had the auto-sterilizers scrub the room down just before your appointment. No mike known to man could survive that. And the confidentiality software is fully engaged.”
“Yes. I want to do this. Rittle has to pay for what he did on Quad Seven.”
“Known you a long time, Dom. Why are you getting so worked up about some Zone Quest functionary?”
“He shit on a bunch of discharged veterans, and then tried to murder them. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not. From what you told me, half those colonists ran away when you needed them.”
“Most of ’em weren’t combat vets. All things considered, they did all right.”
“Still not good enough to take this kind of chance. ZQ will know what this is, and they will not take it lightly. So what’s really behind this?”
Another picture appeared on the screen, the only one so far that contained people. Two men in camouflage fatigues, both covered in gray dust and sporting blood-tinged bandages, smiled up at the camera. They were sitting on the ground, backs to what looked like a wrecked aircraft, holding out water bottles in a toasting gesture. Blocker walked over for a closer look.
“You don’t display that photo with other patients, right?”
“I don’t show that one to anyone. Remember how thirsty we got?”
“My platoon had plenty of water when we got to the crash site. And you took every drop for the wounded.”
“What did you expect to find on a wrecked medevac bird?”
“Honestly? A bunch of dead bodies.”
“Sammy Sim sure tried to make that happen. Long two days.”
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