She gave the mess deck a considering glance, then cast about in memory for any other details she’d glossed over in the last two days while the ship had bounced from transit point to way station and onward into this trackless expanse. The Moulins was small; listed as a freighter seeking supercargo passengers, or some kind of high-value, low-mass cargo that couldn’t wait for a big liner or cargo-carrier to come by. Or, she realized, for fugitives to smuggle… like her, like the Crow. Or information-very low mass; data-crystals or comp discs-and that could turn a tidy profit.
That familiar pressure-the constant, draining, exhausting need for quills which had been omnipresent her whole life-seemed out of place here. That’s not right. This captain, this crew, they don’t taste right, feel right; they’re not mercenaries. She couldn’t say quite why, but she was suddenly certain that Locke and his men were not out in the back of beyond looking for money.
A spy-ship? But not an Imperial one. Her heart skipped. None of the crew she’d seen were Mexica or Nisei or Skawtish or any of the other nations bound by the compact of the Four Hundred families. Could this be an HKV courier? A Resistance ship? Glorious Christ, there is still a Royal Navy at work amongst the stars? She thought of her great-grandfather, a fiery old man with a neat white beard, killed in the Last War. He had served aboard a Swedish cruiser in battle near Saturn. A flood of emotion filled her and for an instant-her heart aching-she perceived something of the shape of the ship, the crew, even the irritable Captain Locke. She saw a bloody spear, shining in the darkness, radiating roseate light into the void. Pointed ever outward, fixed upon the heart of an invisible, implacable enemy.
Chilled and sweating, Gretchen slumped back against the bulkhead. The coffee cup squeaked in her hand. When she looked down, her knuckles were white. Oh. Well. I guess I don’t need Malakar’s singing to bring on this… this… whatever it is.
The peculiar perceptual gestalt which came and went-incited by stress, or by psychotropic drugs, or the presence of another being in a state of extreme agitation-had been absent from her daily existence while she’d toiled away in the basement office on New Aberdeen. The nightly visions or dream-states which caused her to speak aloud in the tongues of ancient Mokuil had been slowly diminishing as time passed and her body recovered from being exposed to the memory-echo of the kalpataru. Malakar’s notebooks were filled with drawings, songs, tales long lost to her people-Gretchen’s troubled sleep had yielded up an unexpected bounty for the old librarian-but even that had been drawing to an end when the Hummingbird had arrived.
Now, with her mind feeling awake for the first time in months, Anderssen licked her lips in unease. Is simply being in the presence of the nauallis enough to fray the veil blinding my perception? On Ephesus he had to give me a pill-a dose of oliohuiqui to part the shadows-but on Jagan all I needed was the presence of the Tree Which Gives What You Desire. And here? There doesn’t seem to be even so much…
The prospect of perceiving the true shape of the world around her, to glimpse the underpinning of men’s purposes, was both troubling and exciting. Now if only I could make it work when I want it to! That would be a bonus. What a tremendous tool. Just seeing the proper pattern of a broken pot would Then, with her mind alert to the present, she heard through the hatchway Hummingbird’s low, sharp voice speaking in an unfamiliar language, though the vowel cadence sounded terribly familiar. Locke’s astonished reaction was like a bucket of ice water.
“You? Pr?ceptor? Impossible!”
Peering through the partially open hatch, Gretchen caught sight of the old Mexica’s face. The nauallis nodded slowly, his arm lifted as though displaying some symbol to the merchanter.
Ah, a pity. Anderssen’s throat felt tight with disappointment. These men were not HKV, not Resistance. A crimson cross on a white field. A bloody spear and some secret language. No crew-women to be found. Just some marginal religious sect fallen prey to the Crow’s blandishments.
Disappointed, she gathered up her things and crawled back to their tiny cabin behind the food recyclers. Lying in the narrow bunk, with barely enough room for her shoulders, much less her feet, the hurt curdled in her breast. The thought that Grandfather’s cause-noble and doomed as it had been-was still secretly alive in the wilderness out beyond the Rim, had lifted a little of the weariness upon her heart. Now the same cold weight settled again, twice as heavy, and she fell into a fitful sleep, troubled by dreams of men’s voices singing beyond a golden doorway, in a lost tongue she ought to understand.
The Pinhole
Deep in the Kuub
“Transit kick in three-two-one…”
Susan’s stomach flipped, settled, and she swallowed the faint taste of bile. At the pilot’s station, Sho-i Holloway counted down his post-insertion checklist, announcing all systems green; deflectors intact and the ship in proper spatial position. By then, two minutes had passed.
“Status of the squadron?” Susan had already reviewed her own boards, seeing that all three battle-cruisers had kept station after dropping to normal space, but it never hurt to check. Particularly with a piglike Fleet tender along. The Fiske and Eldredge had done well in keeping up so far, but she doubted they had any legs at all if things got hot.
“All present and accounted for,” Holloway replied. “We have three friendly IFF registers. Fleet says they are-” He reviewed a side-pane on his panel, making sure that the battlecast relays had come up, verified the new ships, that they matched registry entries and the Naniwa ’s long-range cameras had confirmed their outlines in the heavy murk. “- Temasek, Corduba, and… no name on the third vessel, but she’s registered as a ‘mobile science platform’-same as ours in the registry, but the silhouette is markedly different.”
That will be the Mirror hard at work. Susan nodded. Then the debris density they’d dropped into registered on her consciousness and she felt mildly ill.
In transluminal space, the physical protostellar matter collecting in the wasteland of the kuub was represented by both a gravity dimple and a quantum-level spore, or nugget, which interacted with the translated quantum-frame state of a ship much as a physical rock would interact-that is, smash into-the physical hull of a ship in realspace. Here, though, where physicality assumed its usual guise of solidity, the swarms of dust particles, or even micrometeoroids and outright boulders or asteroidal fragments, posed an even greater danger to the Naniwa and other ships trying to make realspace headway.
Everything within optical range of the battle-cruiser’s cameras was a thick haze of heavy dust and debris. What dim light filtered through the murk from distant, half-hidden stars was diffuse and red-shifted. It made an appalling sight for a Fleet captain. Even a miner’s scow would find heavy going in this environment.
“Impact rate?” The Naniwa was at very low v as she maneuvered into a parking station a safe distance from the unnamed research station.
“Forty-five percent,” responded the weapons officer. “And we’re nearly dead slow.”
Susan nodded, leaning back in the shockchair. “Holloway, you and Konev work up some velocity metrics for me-how fast can we go, how best to configure the transit deflectors. We need to make headway in this mess. I want something by end of the watch.”
“ Hai, Chu-sa! ” both voices chimed together in near unison.
“And get us a name for that station-something simple.”
Holloway smiled tightly. He’d already queried the Temasek -the lead of the two Survey Service frigates-for the latest news. “They’re calling it the Can, Chu-sa. Very imaginative.”
“That will do.” Kosho considered the threatwell for a moment, trying to map out the local terrain in her mind. This was just the situation-some nasty, unknown patch of space filled with hidden opponents, tangled local politics, and unsteady stellar phenomena-that Hadeishi excelled in. Nothing drains the strength of your opponent, he would say, faster than unknown ground. But if you are alert, even the most treacherous swamp can be your ally, a third arm striking at the enemy.
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A message chime on her board interrupted the memory. Susan started to grimace, seeing the Tokiwa ’s mon chopped on the header, but then smiled slightly as the message unspooled.
“ Socho Juarez, I’ll need a shuttle prepped and a guard-party suitable for the squadron staff meeting.”
The marine, never far away by earbug, replied immediately: “ Hai, Chu-sa. We’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, boat-bay three.”
Good, she thought, relieved to finally get a chance to meet her fellow squadron commanders and exchange proper introductions with Chu-sho Xocoyotl. Now we’ll find out what the devil is going on out here.
***
The staff conference room on the Tokiwa was crowded, hot, and noisy as the last of the squadron commanders found their seats. Chu-sho Xocoyotl’s staff were arrayed along the walls, while everyone else was present at a long oval table which folded up out of the floor. The flag battle-cruiser was an older model than the Naniwa, though still in the Provincial class, and this same room did not exist in the current configuration of Kosho’s ship. If memory served, a suite of Logistics and Supply offices occupied the same internal coordinates.
“Admiral on deck,” barked one of the Tokiwa ’s marine sergeants and everyone stood.
Xocoyotl was of medium height, carrying a bit too much flesh on his bones, and the color of polished mahogany. His high cheekbones caught a gleam from the overheads as he took his place at the head of the table. “Sit,” he growled-his voice was even deeper in person than over stellarcast.
“Our business here comes under purview of the Imperial Secrets Act,” he said with a scowl. “The Mirror is leading an investigation of some local phenomena and Fleet is providing security for their operations. Beyond this, I am informed we do not need to know anything .”
He stopped, glanced around the room at all of the officers, snorted, and continued in the near-perfect silence.
“Survey informs us this area of the kuub is tremendously dangerous. It is also uncharted and there are no navigational beacons within range. I expect, therefore, that all watches will be fully staffed and weapons will be maintained in ready status at all times.”
Xocoyotl flashed a tight, frosty smile at Kosho. “At least one of our ships-the Naniwa -has a fresh crew, a fresh captain and has not yet completed trials. I expect the other combatants to make allowance for this when plotting combat vectors.”
To her credit, Susan remained entirely still while the Chu-sho went on about the combat patrol pattern he expected of the other ships, and she did not let her outrage show in any obvious way. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she could see some of the cruiser captains glancing sidelong at her in puzzlement. How could I be more circumspect, she wondered, in suggesting that deployment change during transit? Losing one of the support ships would have crippled the entire mission.
“Scientist Cuaxicali? Your turn.” Xocoyotl gestured abruptly at a fat little Mexica civilian in a Survey Service mantle who had been standing by one of the doors. One of the admiral’s aides keyed up a projector panel and the lights dimmed. Cuaxicali cleared his throat, looked at the Chu-sho questioningly-received a snarl in response-and then began tapping on a slim silver comp with his stylus.
Behind him the projector shifted aspect and a holo of the surrounding region sprang into view. The collection of ships arrayed “south” of the Can appeared with Imperial standard glyphs. “North” of them, a broad area of crimson points appeared.
“Avoid this range of spatial coordinates,” Cuaxicali said, indicating the beelike swarm of scarlet, “if you wish to keep your ship intact. This is the area of our-ah- the phenomenon. And it is exceptionally dangerous.”
The assembled captains looked at one another, then a forest of arms went up to ask for details.
“No, no. No questions.” Cuaxicali shook his head nervously. “This is a matter of the utmost security. There is no other information available at this time save what I’ve shown you-a copy of these astronomical charts has already been commed to your navigators.”
“Surely you can tell us what sort of peril to expect?” a loud voice boomed across the conference room.
“I could,” Cuaxicali agreed, attempting a consoling smile. “But for safety’s sake I will not.”
A red-haired Chu-sa whom Susan remembered vaguely from Chapultepec stood up and asked, “Begging your pardon, Scientist Cuaxicali, but please explain how can it be safe to not know the nature of our opponent? Or even what it looks like?”
An ill-disguised snort of laughter erupted at the back of the conference room.
Cuaxicali’s face changed abruptly into a sort of maroon-olive. Susan was not sure she’d seen the exact shade before, on anyone, anywhere.
Chu-sho Xocoyotl stood up and surveyed the assembled officers with one raised eyebrow. The room settled down.
“That is all. Return to your ships. Patrol patterns will be distributed by third watch.”
***
Five hours later, as second watch was winding down, Kosho was back on the Command deck in a fresh uniform, her hair slick from a fast shower. For the moment, the bridge was double-staffed as the crew prepared for turnover. Amid all of the commotion, she had taken a moment to comm up the two officers she remembered from the Academy. Both of them-Muldoon on the Falchion and Tloc on the Axe -had been surprised to hear from her.
“Not often you high-flying battle-cruiser commanders take the time to say hello to the plow horses,” said Muldoon after they’d confirmed a private channel and triggered their own encryption. “But it’s good to see you again, Kosho- tzin.”
“Likewise,” grumbled Tloc. The Ciguayan captain had acquired a bad set of burn scars on the side of his face since graduation day. “How did you get on Xocoyotl’s bad side? I’ve never heard him rip a junior officer like that before.”
“I gave him some advice,” Susan said, shaking her head slightly. “I should have known better.”
Muldoon laughed. “Admirals know all and see all, remember? Just like the upper form prefects on Grasshopper Hill. The Runner said you’d been the wise woman behind that formation change during transit-but I didn’t think he’d take it so hard.”
Tloc grimaced. “I’m on my second posting with him-he knows best and likes it that way.”
Kosho frowned, feeling worse for having the extent of her misstep made so clear. “My last commander would’ve expected me to suggest a better course, if I saw one.”
“Then you were lucky.” Muldoon’s normally lively tone flattened. “I heard Hadeishi was beached. That’s too bad, everyone said he was a fine ship-handler.”
Susan nodded, once. “Too good, sometimes. I have been reminded-repeatedly-that being very good can lead to believing you can do the impossible one more time than you can.”
Both men nodded, sobered. “That’s the truth,” Tloc said, touching the side of his face.
“So what about this mess?” Kosho felt the memory of Hadeishi weighing on her. “What does Painal the Runner say about this most secret of secrets?”
Muldoon perked up, laying one finger alongside his nose. “My money is on a quantum-level distortion. We could see it from here, except it’s invisible to our sensor suite.”
“How could-” Susan started to ask, but Tloc interjected:
“My information says a gravitational distortion’s been detected around a huge volume, all of it clogged with nova debris. Almost impenetrable to scanning… just to twist the screw another thread.”
“And I’ve heard if you run into this phenomena you get cut to bits.” Muldoon made a throat-cutting gesture. “Word is a pair of Survey ships tried to break through and ended up literally dissected.”
Susan frowned. “Do these lost ships have names? Any detail at all?”
“Not yet, but give me some time,” Tloc replied. “I’ve got about a ton of chocolatl and kaffe in personal stowage.”
Ten minutes later, after arranging a trade to keep the kitchen happy, Kosho signed off. The second w
atch was in the process of leaving Command, most yawning, some already busy in conversation with their fellows. The comm duty officer and the assistant navigator were a step slow and Susan beckoned them over.
“Rumor says a pair of Survey scouts caught hold of the Chu-sho ’s phenomena by the sharp end. See if you can pick out any wrecked ships in the immediate vicinity. They ought to be the other side of the Can. Keep your eyes open for anything out of place. Something very odd killed those scouts-and I’d like to avoid the same fate.”
***
The quiet of the off-watch officer’s mess was broken by a soft voice: “ Chu-sa Kosho?”
Susan looked up from her cup of tea. It was Navigator’s Assistant Llang, trying to suppress a huge grin. Susan beckoned her over. “We’ve got ’em, kyo.” Llang blurted, comp clutched to her chest. “All three. It’s-”
“Not to be discussed here.” Kosho silenced the girl with a sharp look. The Chu-sa picked up her tea and guided the young Thai-i back out the door at a brisk walk. “Let’s use my station on the bridge instead.”
In the lift, as the decklights blurred past, Susan considered the young Tagalog lieutenant. This was the girl’s second duty posting-she’d come recommended from the Mac Allan, a frigate working shipping lane patrols around Alpha Centauri-and Kosho was sure she had very little political experience. After a moment she said quietly, “There may be those aboard Naniwa who will have lost friends or family in those ships. We do not want to break such sad news in a casual way.”
Third watch should have found the bridge nearly deserted, but when the lift doors rotated away, every duty station was staffed and there were four or five extra bodies present, holding up the walls and checking console diagnostics that had been checked only the day before. Oc Chac nodded as she approached.
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