by Ben Bova
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The demagogue Jephthah addressed the crowd.
“Friends, we are approaching a time when the end of a very large, important project draws near. I’m sure you know I’m speaking of saving Earth’s Sun, and saving the birthplace of all humanity. It is to you, Dr. Montgarde, that we all owe a debt of gratitude. Without your dream, the means to accomplish this formidable task would never have been discovered.
“But while you’ve slept, a great many changes have come about that you could never have anticipated, never desired. More than two hundred years ago you envisioned a plan to save Earth’s Sun that was so ambitious, so difficult, that it required technology not possessed by humankind. And so the Empire of the Hundred Worlds entered into an uneasy but unavoidable partnership with the Sarpan Realm. Then, after proving your theories, you went into cryosleep, unaware of how that partnership would be bastardized while you slept, and how we would allow gratitude to an alien servant to blind us to the true peril they represent.
“Now look what has happened! Look what your legacy has become. Did you ever imagine that your dream would become a nightmare?”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
The demagogue Jephthah addressed the crowd.
PART ONE - HISTORY
1 - HISTORY
PART TWO - A SILENT PASSING
2 - AWAKENINGS AND ARRIVALS
3 - TRANSMISSION
4 - TSING 479
5 - THREATS AND REGRETS
6 - RUNNING AWAY
7 - JEPHTHAH
PART THREE - THE GATHERING DARKNESS
8 - MERCURY
9 - AIRBORNE
10 - RIHANA
11 - OUTBACK
12 - BACK IN THE GAME
13 - CAPTIVES AND CAPTORS
PART FOUR - THE GATHERING STORM
14 - TRANSIT
15 - DISCOVERY
16 - ARRIVALS
17 - A CHANGE OF PLANS
18 - A CHANGE OF MIND
19 - CORROBOREE
20 - A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE
PART FIVE - TO FEAR THE LIGHT
21 - BREAKING SILENCE
22 - CONTAINMENT
23 - FRIENDS, THROUGH ALL
24 - SURPRISES
25 - THE LAST EMPEROR
26 - FISSURE
27 - CONTACT
28 - INTRODUCTION
29 - WORKING RELATIONSHIP
30 - LIAISON
31 - VISITATION RITES
32 - KEEPING SECRETS
33 - JOUR NOUVEAU
34 - FLYOVER
35 - FIREFIGHT
36 - NEW FRIENDS
Tor Books by Ben Bova
Copyright Page
To the memory of A1 Newcome.
—A.J.A.
To my shooting buddy, Lionel.
—B.B.
PART ONE
HISTORY
And if thou wilt, remember;
and if thou wilt, forget.
—Christina Rossetti
1
HISTORY
The Civilian Transport Service passenger jumper L. H. Sylvan was in trouble.
All her life-support systems were intact and working properly. The tachyon dish that enabled near-instantaneous communication with any point in the Hundred Worlds was functioning as it should, as was the slower conventional broadcast transmitter. Artificial gravity was on and normal g was in force everywhere on the ship except in certain areas of the cargo holds.
That, too, was normal CTS procedure.
Electrical systems, computer and file retrieval banks, communications—even the entertainment and personal library facilities—were performing properly.
The flight crew knew where they were, and where they were going: The Sylvan was still on course at a velocity of point-seven-five c—a standard cruise speed for a passenger ship of its class—on a heading that would take them to Gate 87, the entrance to the transit wormhole nearest 40 Eridani system, where they had departed a bit more than two weeks earlier.
All but a handful of the 1,350 passengers aboard the jumper had elected to sleep through the three-week-long ride to Gate 87, and the cryosleep containers in which they silently, dreamlessly rode were all on-line and functioning flawlessly. The row upon row of steady green dots on the brightly glowing display behind Captain Partane gave testimony to that. The relatively few passengers not in cryo were either enjoying themselves in the Sylvan’s lounges and recreational facilities, or were relaxing in their plush staterooms.
The captain paced before the holographic image at the head of the meeting room and recited the systems and their conditions as each graph, chart, report, summary and readout in the holographic display changed at his verbal order.
But even as the senior officer’s demeanor remained steady during his description of system after system that was functioning as it should, Drew Hattan knew, felt, somehow sensed deep inside him, that the L. H. Sylvan was a ship in trouble.
“It doesn’t fit,” Captain Partane was saying in summation. He had stopped pacing and stood once more before a display that Drew had already seen a dozen times since this briefing began. Having made up his mind that there was nothing displayed there that could help them or improve their immediate situation, he found himself paying less attention to the captain. Instead, he watched the reactions of those around him as they listened to what was being said.
“However,” Partane went on, “it clearly shows there’s a breakdown somewhere in the Structural Integrity Shield.” He waved an arm again in frustration at the blinking red warning sensor in the display. “I don’t think I have to tell you what that could mean in a worst-case scenario.” He didn’t. Everyone in the room knew that without the SIS operating properly, the structural stresses and radiation heat load caused by near-light speed on a ship this size would rip it to pieces in a matter of moments. Dead in space, the Sylvan might remain intact, but at the rate they were going there wasn’t a chance they could slow the ship down in time. For that matter, if the SIS was damaged, the simple act of braking the ship to a stop might be fatal in itself.
There were twenty others besides Drew in the briefing room below the bridge deck, all seated around a long meeting table littered with empty cups, notepads, computer data sticks and remnants of hastily consumed snacks. The coffee urn in the center of the table had long ago been drained, but no one had bothered to order more. Drew listened half heartedly to the address, and noted that each time the captain moved or paced or pointed to the display, all eyes in the room followed the man in a way that told the young chief steward that most of them, too, felt the ship had a serious problem. Everyone here, however, was a professional at what he or she did and had spent too many years in the CTS to even hint aloud at the growing panic they each were struggling to deny.
When he looked around at his companions at the table, Drew’s eyes locked briefly with those of Vera Conté, one of the few crew members actually under his supervision. She allowed the slight curl of a smile to appear at the corners of her lips and, as her face softened at his glance, she gave a darting look ceilingward and an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She,
too, must have felt that Partane was doing his best to put a good face on a bad situation. That, and the fact that she was no more fooled by the captain’s oratory than was he. Or anyone else in the room, for that matter.
Because of their respective seats at the table, Vera’s position allowed her to be a good deal more facially expressive to him than he was to her, and he had to be satisfied with a slight nod and a quick clearing of his throat as a signal to her that he understood. He allowed himself one last moment to gaze longingly at her before returning his attention to the captain.
“Look, it’s probably nothing,” the officer went on, sitting wearily at the far end of the meeting table. He leaned back in the cushioned seat, slowly rubbing his eyes and face with his hands, and Drew noted for the first time just how exhausted the man was. He obviously hadn’t slept since the potential problem with the SIS had been discovered, more than thirty hours earlier. He hadn’t shaved, either, and Drew could hear the faint scratching sound the palms of his hands made as they passed haltingly over his cheeks.
“It’s most likely nothing at all,” Partane continued finally, his voice hoarse from speaking. He reached for the cup before him, sipped at what was left in it, and furrowed his brow at the bitter taste of the chilled remnants. “But I’ve decided to take a number of steps. Since we can find nothing on our own …” He paused and regarded Flight Systems Engineer John Rentil, seated at his immediate right at the head of the table. The man frowned in resignation and shook his head, wordlessly confirming everything that had just been said. “Since there’s nothing we can do here, I’ve decided to network the Sylvan’s diagnostic and engineering systems to the techs back on Copenhaver with the dish. Johnny and I have been in contact with them for the last several hours and this is their recommendation.”
A hand raised, then another, but Partane waved them off.
“Please, I know what you’re thinking. I don’t like cutting off our real-time communications any better than the rest of you do right now, but those techs have got to have at least some semblance of a hands-on look at the systems. I’ve already sent everything we have back to Copenhaver over the dish, with a set of duplicate transmissions to the people at Gate Eighty-seven.” He paused again, and took a moment to scan the faces of everyone seated at the table. When the captain’s eyes fell on him in turn, Drew saw behind them just how uncertain he was about what was happening. He finished his visual sweep around the table, then nodded to Co-Captain Edward Milliron, who stood and addressed them.
“Uh … the people at Eighty-seven are sending someone out to meet us; it’s the, uh …” He glanced at the handheld display in his left hand, while he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his right. “ … the Glisten, but they won’t be here for another forty-five hours,” he said. He wiped absently at his forehead again. The temperature in the room was quite comfortable, but Milliron was sweating profusely anyway, as he always did. Drew had served with Milliron before, both on the Sylvan and on a smaller jumper a few years earlier as an apprentice steward. The man was an extremely competent co-captain, the CTS equivalent of an Imperial first officer, but he was openly nervous and uneasy about his lack of the skills for public speaking and management that were required for a situation like this. It was probably that very lack of confidence, Drew thought, that had kept the man out of Imperial service. “When they arrive, they’ll match velocity with us and lend any assistance they can, including a cruise-speed shuttling of engineering personnel and equipment from them to us; that way, we won’t have to drop velocity and put any more strain on the SIS than we have to.” He smiled weakly at them, the attempt aimed at putting them—or perhaps himself—at ease.
“Until such time as we rendezvous with them, velocity and all ship’s systems will remain at current status unless otherwise cleared through Captain Partane.” Milliron sat, relieved that his part in the briefing was over.
“Thanks, Ned,” Partane said simply, then lowered his head. “There’s one other thing.” He rubbed, his hands together on the tabletop and sighed, then faced them all once more. His voice had taken a new and, for him, unusual tone. Drew regarded the man as he continued, and decided that what he was relating to them now was with a mixture of apology and desperation. He looked to Milliron, and saw the same uneasiness reflected in his features. Drew looked quickly around him, and noted that most everyone else in the room, only moments before numb at what seemed an endless repetition of reports, had raised their own eyes in anticipation of what the captain might say next.
“We’ve been in communication with a Sarpan ship.” He paused, allowing the new information to sink in. The room, already quiet but for the steady, ever-present hum common to the Sylvan, grew even more hushed. “They are only a few hours away at their present speed and are already on an intercept course. Their captain, uh …” He stumbled with the pronunciation of the name, trying to read the handheld Milliron had just slid across the tabletop to him. He shook his head feebly, giving up on what he saw in the display. “Anyway, the ship is called the—thank goodness it’s a single syllable at least—the Hinsth.”
There was nervous laughter around him at the slur against the aliens, and Drew noted the tension had lifted slightly from some of his companions. Vera, however, sat ramrod straight in her chair, her face unreadable.
“They’re a full scientific research and exploration vessel. Their authorization checks out with no problem. They’re out of Eighty-seven, five months ago, with license to do a complete diagnostic and evaluation survey of the fourth planet in Forty Eridani system. They’ve been in constant contact with Copenhaver and have followed all required protocol.”
“Has their shipboard armament been verified?” asked Conté.
“Excuse me?” Partane turned to her, obviously not anxious to begin a confrontation with her. No one really liked the Sarpan, but it was well understood by anyone who knew Vera at all that she possessed nothing but pure hatred for the aliens. “It’s a research vessel. That’s been confirmed.”
“Have you scanned for armament?”
Partane took a deep breath and let it out in frustration. “The Hinsth is a legitimate survey vessel,” he repeated. “It’s been cleared by Imperial investigators and given the go-ahead—months ago, mind you—to do an extensive survey of number four here. All of their outgoing communications have been monitored.” He took another deep breath, forcing down the frustration he felt at his ship’s situation and his rising anger at her reaction to the news that an alien ship was in proximity. “Look, the Hinsth is clean. Don’t you think I’ve had it checked out?”
Vera stared at him, silent for several moments. All attention was on her.
“Is it armed?” she asked again, slowly and deliberately. Each word seemed a sentence in itself as her eyes bore unblinking into his.
“Goddamn it, yes!” He pounded a fist on the tabletop, inadvertently catching the corner of Milliron’s handheld and sending it flipping end-over-end to the floor. “Yes, it’s armed! All Sarpan ships carry armament of some kind, but what the hell do you expect me to do?” He stopped short and leaned back in his seat, composing himself as best he could. He rubbed his face again and took several deep breaths, the exhaustion he must have felt fighting with his frustration at the situation in which he found himself.
“Vera, I’m sorry. But what the hell else can I do? I’ve got a red light on perhaps the single most important system on board, and an offer of help that’ll be here—here, mind you! Not over some damned tachyon link!—two days sooner than anyone else can bring it! You tell me: What would you do?”
She sat, her face resolute, and Drew thought he saw the skin of her face quiver as it tightened over her jaw. Was she literally gritting her teeth? He almost expected her to lash out at the captain as strongly as the officer had with her, but an incongruous look of calm spread slowly, steadily over her features.
“You do anything, anything,” she said intensely, “except trust the fucking frogs.” Her eyes continued
glaring at him, her hands folded rigidly before her on the table. The gesture was meant, Drew could tell, to indicate a sense of calmness; but he could see a slight twitching in her fingers and knew she was exerting every bit of control she could to hide her feelings. Was she sorry for what she’d just said? He couldn’t tell. Maybe later, when they could find a moment alone, he’d ask. Or, depending on how she felt about the rendezvous with the aliens a few hours from now, maybe not.
Captain Partane opened his mouth to reprimand her for the remark, then apparently thought better of it. “Cancel display,” he said instead, and the holographic projection behind him disappeared. “That’s the extent of my report.” He stood, indicating that the briefing was over. There was some light, nervous chatter as the rest of them began to rise uneasily from the table and filed out one by one, anxious to get out of the room and go about their duties. Drew waited for several others to walk past before leaving the table to join Vera on her way to the door.
“Chief Steward, would you stay for a moment to discuss the passengers, please?”
She turned to him briefly as she exited, her face still unfathomable. He smiled weakly at her, shrugging his shoulders in resignation that he couldn’t accompany her. At last, just before passing through the doorframe, she allowed a tiny smile and nodded: a signal that told him she’d wait for him outside.
Partane and Milliron were still speaking quietly to each other when he returned his attention to the head of the table. He remained standing, waiting patiently until the captain finished with Milliron. He noted that Milliron had retrieved his handheld from the floor and, with his arms folded as he listened to the captain, was tapping the edge of the casing absently against the elbow of his other arm. The two spoke only a few minutes longer before the other man left and the captain addressed Drew from the opposite side of the room.
