Across the Great Rift

by Washburn, Scott;

  “Yes, sir.” Innes stood up. “And on that positive note, may I suggest we adjourn the meeting, sir?”

  “Yes. My blood pressure is high enough as it is. That’s all, gentlemen.” Crawford took this dismissal with relief. He, Frichette, and Garrit popped up out of their chairs and were out before Shiffeld could change his mind. Once the door shut, he let out a long sigh and exchanged glances with the others. Garrit looked away, excused himself, and hurried off.

  “Shiffeld has got him by the short hairs, that’s for sure,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, but I’m rather amazed at how easily Ms. Innes handles our governor. You should take a few pointers from her, I think, Charles.” He looked at Frichette and saw the young man was smiling.

  “What? You mean use finesse instead of charging straight in like a runaway ore-crusher? What fun would that be?”

  “Who was the ore-crusher?” asked Regina Nassau, who had been waiting outside the office suite. She got up from where she was sitting and came over to them, the anger still plain on her face. “And who got crushed? Shiffeld, I hope!”

  “Oh. Yes, he’s been thoroughly crushed—at least for now. You and I knocked him down and then Charles jumped up and down on him. Sorry you missed the climax.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Bastard wanted to arrest my people and set Garrit to work finding the traitors among them,” growled Crawford.

  “With the unspoken understanding that traitors would be found whether there were really any or not?” asked Regina.

  “Exactly.”

  “What did you do? Although I think I can guess, my big, hulking ore-crusher.” Regina was smiling now.

  “Told him to keep his paws off my people or he can build the gate himself.”

  “And he gave in?”

  “Completely,” said Frichette failing to hold in his smile.

  “At least so far—as you said. I’m sure he’ll find some way to get back at us, but for now we’re safe.”

  Frichette’s smile vanished in an instant. “Safe? From our own leader? I’m not sure I like the way this is going…”

  “Oh, we’re all just on edge,” said Crawford. “It’s been a bad day. Things will get better.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

  “I sure hope so,” said Frichette, “Especially considering what’s coming up.”

  “Oh? What’s coming up?” asked Regina.

  “We’re starting all-out fleet training in two days. We’ve really been pushing our luck, in my opinion, by assuming that the Venanci would not be showing up for three or four months, but we can’t do that any longer. They could show up literally any minute now and we have got to try and get ourselves ready. Charles and a lot of his people will be transferring to the warships and we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Well, at least we won’t have to try to fit in a search for Citrone with all the rest,” said Crawford. “I mean, I want her to pay for what she did as much as the next person, but we have to stay focused on priorities.”

  “Yes, but I really wish we had her back for other reasons,” said Frichette.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I’m worried about what she can tell the people who rescued her. So far, we’ve managed to keep our precarious situation a secret from the locals. They see our huge, gleaming warships and are properly awed. I’m not sure what they will think if they learn that they are just empty shells for the most part.”

  “Well, it’s up to us to put some stuffing in those empty shells, eh?”

  “And you are just the people to do the stuffing,” said Regina. She was smiling, but then her smile faded a bit. “I guess I won’t be seeing much of you for a while.” She didn’t say which ‘you’ she meant, but she was looking at Crawford. It sent a strange thrill through him. “If you do get any free time, come and say hello. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Uh, sure, I’ll try and do that.”

  “Good. So, I’ll leave you two to your tasks. As for me, I have some diplomatic fences to mend. See you later.”

  * * * * *

  “I thought I would talk to you first, Tad, since we are friends,” said Regina. “Do you understand my explanation for these new restrictions? Do you think the other delegates will mind?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said the young man. “I am very sorry that this has happened. I cannot understand why a priest, even a Clorindan priest, would do such a thing. Perhaps, if you asked the other clans for assistance, they could help you track down your missing prisoner.”

  Regina blinked in surprise. She had not thought of that possibility. Would Shiffeld agree to that? If they succeeded would it change his opinion of the natives? “I, uh, I will have to discuss that with the governor, Tad, but thank you for the offer. In the meantime, I hope you and the others won’t object to these new restrictions on your movements.”

  “I don’t think there will be any objections once you explain why you are doing them. Frankly, I think everyone was a little surprised at how much freedom you were giving us here.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, I was worried that you would be offended at everyone being punished for the actions of a few.” Regina hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Tad, do you have any idea why this priest would want to take our prisoner? Or how they knew she even existed? We are trying to make sense of this.”

  Tad frowned and seemed to be thinking hard. “I don’t know why they would want her, Regina. You have never told us anything about who she is or why she is a prisoner. As for how they knew about her… My uncle and I did see her when we were first aboard. We told our own leaders about the incident, but I have no idea who else they might have mentioned it to.” He looked up at her and appeared to be very uneasy. “But, Regina, I have never spoken to the Clorindan priest, but somehow I feel I’ve met him before coming here. I can’t explain it, but somehow I know him!”

  * * * * *

  Brannon Gillard looked at the woman sitting across from him in the cramped shuttle’s cabin. He wasn’t sure exactly what the Newcomers were supposed to look like when healthy, although he’d seen a good number of them recently, but he was fairly certain that this one was not in the best of health. She seemed very thin, the skin on her face was tight against her bones and her eyes were sunken and ringed with dark flesh. Her body, under the too-large uniform, was thin and wiry, and her blonde hair was cut close to the scalp, which somehow made her seem even more sickly. She was also clearly not comfortable in free fall, which added to her pallor.

  But her eyes were sharp and attentive. They were looking back at him now.

  “Brannon Gillard,” he said, touching himself on the chest.

  “Carlina Citrone,” she replied, mimicking the gesture. They were both wearing breathing helmets since the mercenaries’ shuttle held an atmosphere that neither of them could handle well. The temperature wasn’t too bad, fortunately. Brannon wished they had a more comfortable transport, but the small vessel was designed to avoid detection, and had it been any larger, it would not have fit in the bay of the ship which had brought them to the Newcomers’ gathering. He’d had a hard enough time to convince Andra Roualet to bring it as it was. Well, at least he would not have to talk Andra into anything else that she did not really want to do! He’d have to do something nice for Andra to repay her for all this—if he ever got the chance.

  The woman was talking again, but he could not quite make out her words. She wasn’t as fluent as Lady Regina had been. He held up a hand and then got out one of the translating computers the Newcomers had handed out. He guiltily realized that he had stolen this—stolen this, too, he corrected. He showed her how the device worked (which seemed strange, since it was made by her people, not his) and then used it to tell her she was safe and among friends. She seemed skeptical.

  “Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you want with me?” she asked when he gave her the translator. It took a while to get across the idea that he came from this star system. Apparentl
y, she had been kept completely in the dark about recent goings-on. Once that fact was accepted, it took more time to explain how they had gotten here, which led to more question about the clans’ history. Brannon tried to answer the woman’s questions to put her at ease, but she seemed to have an endless string of them and he was burning to ask his own questions. Finally, he was forced to break in.

  “Why were you a prisoner?”

  It took her quite a while to type in an answer. She thought and then typed, erased it, thought some more, and then typed again. Finally she handed the device over to him and he read: “I am an enemy of the Anderans. I am here to sabotage their attempts to establish a colony beyond the Rift. I was successful in my mission, but I was caught and imprisoned.” The term Anderans puzzled him for a moment until he remembered that was the name of the political entity the Newcomers belonged to, a sort of super-clan, if he understood correctly. Sabotage took even longer to figure out, but when he finally had it, things were suddenly much clearer. And she said the Anderans were here to colonize—just as he’d feared!

  “So, you come from a different… clan than these people? You infiltrated them to strike a blow for your own clan?”

  “Yes!”

  “What is your clan? Are they at… at war with the Anderans?”

  Her reply took a long time again, with several erasures. “I work for the Venanci, who are a rival of the Anderans. They were not openly at war when we left on this journey, but that might have changed.” Brannon considered her words. She said she worked for the Venanci, but did not claim to be one of them. Was that just a quirk of the translator, or was she a mercenary?

  “What was the nature of your sabotage? No damage has been observed on the Anderan vessels.” The question seemed to upset the woman and once again she was a long time answering.

  “I disabled their warships.”

  “How so? At least one of their warships was functional when it destroyed some of my clan’s warriors.”

  This unleashed another stream of questions from the woman. She was keen to know if Brannon’s people were at war with the Anderans, if she could count on their help, what sort of military strength the clan possessed. With the language difficulties it took hours, and Brannon was growing frustrated. While it was true that they had plenty of time, the evasive course the mercenaries had chosen would take over a week to get them back to the Clorindan base, he was still anxious to get the full story—and be sure it was true. Finally, he called a halt and insisted the woman eat something and then rest. The food was a bland survival ration guaranteed to be compatible with any body chemistry. The woman seemed to tolerate it with no problems. After that, she went to sleep. Brannon tried to do the same, but sleep was a long time coming.

  * * * * *

  Carlina awoke with a start, the unfamiliar surroundings combined with a half-remembered nightmare to put her in a near-panic. She looked around in wild confusion and fought with the restraining strap across her middle for an instant before spotting the strange man who had rescued her coming out of the shuttle’s tiny head.

  “You all right?” he asked when he saw her.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “This strap it… it reminded me when I was being interrogated, I guess.” The man called Brannon shook his head and got out the translating machine. She sighed and typed in her statement; this was so tedious. She finished and handed the machine back to him. He read it carefully and then gave her a reply:

  “Did your captors abuse you?”

  “No actual physical torture, but they were not gentle, either,” was her reply. His expression was of mixed sympathy and revulsion. Or at least it seemed to be. The man’s face was different enough from a normal human’s that it wasn’t that easy to read. Carlina was still trying to digest all that she had learned the previous day. Her rescuers were descended from a group of genetically engineered humans who crossed the Rift so long ago that there was no record of their existence! It seemed incredible, but there was no denying that they were here. She wasn’t sure how they fit into her mission, but at the very least they seemed to be at odds with the Anderans. She doubted that the old saying ‘my enemy’s enemy is my friend’ was ever truer than it was for her right now. She might not exactly be free, but she was a million times better off than she had been yesterday!

  But what was she going to do now? What was her duty under these new conditions? She had carried out her primary mission as far as she could: the Anderans were crippled and she had sent out her message drone to ensure that the relief squadron knew what she had done. But she had heard enough during her imprisonment to know that her enemies were not just going to give up. They would fight, and if the relief squadron was very small, it was conceivable that they might even win. Could she enlist the aid of her rescuers in the coming battle? Despite the many questions she had asked, she had no real information on the numbers or military potential of these people. Well, she had to try. She took the translator again.

  “Are you the enemies of my captors? Do you fight them? My friends, the Venanci, are coming soon. Will you help them fight the Anderans?” Brannon took a long time to reply.

  “You ask us to take sides in your war? You both are invaders to our system, why should we aid either? Perhaps you will destroy each other and we will be left in peace.”

  Carlina frantically typed her reply. “The Venanci will be your friends! They are not invaders, they are like you. They believe in the same process which created your ancestors! The Anderans are murderers and thieves! They will steal your worlds and slaughter your people. Help us and we shall be your friends.”

  Brannon read her message and was silent for a long time. Finally, he wrote out another message. “You ask me to trust your word, but you have as many reasons to lie to me as the Anderans. But there is a way for me to be sure. Will you cooperate?”

  It took a great deal of back and forth before Carlina understood what he was asking. He showed her some very strange equipment and some vials which apparently contained drugs. She shuddered at the thought of being drugged again. But apparently this was some sort of truth-telling device. She thought furiously: will the whole truth serve here? Is there anything I could tell him that would hurt rather than help? She could not think of a single thing that might hurt her cause. She hated the Anderans and the Protector and had good reasons to do so. If these people wanted to be left alone, they would have a far better chance with the Venanci. No, in this case the truth would do.

  “All right, I will do what you want.”

  Brannon seemed pleased and immediately went to work. They both had to trade their breathing helmets for far less comfortable masks that covered mouth, nose, and eyes, held in place with a strap. Then Brannon attached a series of leads to each of their heads, all the wires running into a small box with a control pad. While he was working, one of the other men on the shuttle came in from the control room and Brannon talked to him for a while before he left again. Then more time was spent while he adjusted his device. Carlina could not feel anything happening; what did this do?

  Finally, all seemed ready and Brannon slipped the drug capsules into two aerosol projectors and attached them to the air supply of their breathing masks. She was surprised and a bit relived at this. He had not made it clear that he was going to take the drug, too, but somehow it made her feel better. A faint mist filled both of their masks and after a moment, she breathed it in.

  There was no immediate effect that she could notice, but Brannon made her sit comfortably and lean back against some cushions. He made a final few adjustments to his box and then took a similar position on the opposite bulkhead. She sat and waited.

  Very quickly her arms and legs were tingling and feeling terribly heavy despite the zero-G. Her eyelids were drooping and she struggled to keep them open. She locked her eyes on Brannon’s and tried to remain awake. His eyes were very dark, with large black pupils. She stared and stared. His eyes seemed to be getting larger and larger. Then she was falling into those huge
black pools and was gone.

  * * * * *

  Brannon came to his senses with a groan of pain. He hurt. He ached all over and the pain in his head throbbed and throbbed. He realized that he had dislodged his breathing mask and he quickly put it back on and breathed deeply. He was glad to see that Carlina’s mask was still in place and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Slowly the pain in his head subsided, at least the physical pain did. There was another pain there and he slowly came to realize it was coming from the flood of strange memories he had absorbed from Carlina. Carlina, she was no longer the ‘Newcomer woman’, she was Carlina. He had been forced to delve far deeper into her mind and memories than he had with the boy, Tad, and a large part of the woman was now a part of him. It had been a dangerous, even a foolish thing to do, but the need had been too great to turn back. He sat against the cushions, exhausted, and tried to sort out what he had learned.

  Too much. He had learned far more than he ever would have wanted. Pain, despair, anger, and a burning hatred filled the woman; it colored her every thought and every desire. The image of a man floated near the top of it all, like some bigger bit of flotsam in a recycling sludge tank.

  The Protector.

  There seemed to be no other name than that title. He knew the man had a real name, but Carlina never thought of him that way. This Protector was the leader of the Anderans, it seemed, and Carlina Citrone hated him as she hated nothing else in her hate-filled life.

  No, not entirely hate-filled. There were some good memories there, too, though deeply submerged under an ocean of rage. Images of a woman and a man and a child drifted up in Brannon’s mind. Mother, father, brother, yes. And they were dead, he had not the slightest doubt of that. The Protector had killed them. Not personally, no, there was no memory of that man standing over her family’s bodies with a bloody dagger, but in Carlina’s mind he was responsible. But why, what was the story behind this? He looked deeper, batting aside drifting tendril of rage like overgrown vines in an untended arboretum. Deeper and back in time he delved until he arrived at the image of a place. At first it was disorienting until he divined it was on the surface of a planet and not inside a space station. A building with many seats; a church he realized suddenly, a church with a congregation. A man speaking at the front of the room, but scarcely noticed by Carlina. Her younger brother was trying to take one of her toys and her mother was telling them both to be quiet. Another memory, from a much older Carlina, briefly intruded and informed him that this was The Church of the Creator, but the explanation of just what that meant skittered away under a wave of new images. Confusion and noise in the church, people screaming. Her parents surging to their feet and grabbing Carlina and her brother. A desperate rush to get outside. A mob with weapons and fire. The person carrying Carlina falls and someone else grabs her up. One last image of her father trying to help her mother to her feet with one hand while he held her brother with his other. Then the mob obscures the scene and all goes black.