The Dark Between the Stars

by Kevin J. Anderson

  With burning eyes, she looked at the portrait image of Seth she kept in the cockpit. She didn’t understand what had happened, refused to believe what she knew was true. It was just a small warning shot with low-powered jazers!

  Hundreds of the bloaters still drifted around her, as mysterious as before. Another question tugged at the back of her mind. What the hell are those things made of?

  TWENTY-THREE

  LEE ISWANDER

  Sheol’s Tower Three was located in the most intense part of the thermal plume, and when the thick support struts approached the melting point, the tower’s legs buckled. In a slow and inexorable plunge, the tall structure folded over and collapsed on top of the smelter barge that had docked to the base to take evacuees. The comm channel was a storm of screams.

  Iswander gasped, “There’s no way to fix this!” He wanted to call up his technical reports, prove that he had done everything prudent to provide a safe environment. This was going to look very bad for him.

  Rlinda demanded his attention. “How many personnel are stationed on Sheol?”

  He called up the data. “Over two thousand—two thousand seventeen, I think.” Then he remembered that Elisa Reeves had gone off after her husband and son. “No, two thousand fourteen.”

  “Too many for the ships you have,” Robb pointed out.

  Iswander couldn’t argue with that. “We have shielded facilities, heat-resistant smelter barges, bolt-holes in the towers. We did not foresee the need for a complete evacuation of personnel.”

  On Tower Two, shielded Worker compies kept working at the evac hatch, while two large rescue ships circled, looking for a way to retrieve the stranded personnel. Through the magnification screens on his desk, Iswander saw one of the shielded robots spark and collapse, its exterior skeleton melting. It dropped away from the hatch and fell like an insect sprayed with poison. Another compy took its place, working at the same ruined controls.

  Half of the geothermal sensors positioned around the worksite had already burned out. Through the confusing squawk of alarms, Iswander heard an even more urgent tone: on the warning screen, a spike in the readings indicated an intense heat column rising through the magma near Tower Two.

  He signaled to the Tower Two supervisor. “A new lava geyser is forming. Prepare yourselves. There’s going to be—” He stopped, knowing there was no way the supervisor could prepare herself.

  Vomiting molten rock covered the hull of Tower Two. The spray hammered both of the waiting rescue ships like liquid cannonballs, destroyed the tower’s evac hatch, vaporized the compies, and hardened in the air to form an impenetrable seal over the structure.

  The two damaged rescue ships reeled, unable to maintain control. One engine exploded, and the first ship tumbled into the sea of lava. The other ship managed to circle a little longer before skidding to a landing on the access deck of Tower Two, but the weakened deck collapsed and dumped the second vessel down into the magma.

  Iswander reeled, stunned to think of how many people had just died, but also angry and frustrated that the structural engineers had let him down again. The deck should have been sturdy enough. They had run tests!

  Rlinda grabbed Iswander’s arm, pulling him toward the door of his office. “Come on, we’re getting to the Curiosity now. You’re not going to be stupid and go down with your ship.”

  He followed her, surprised by her comment. He had no intention whatsoever of going down with the facility. The structure shook and slid, and Iswander knew it wouldn’t be long before those support struts buckled as well. Captain Kett was right: they had to get out of here.

  All five smelter barges had now declared emergencies. Temperatures inside their enclosed chambers were rising and there was no way they could escape. Every crewmember aboard was going to be roasted alive—the barge crews had to realize that by now.

  He, Rlinda, and Robb staggered along uncertain corridors, racing toward the exit tunnel and the waiting Curiosity. Rlinda huffed as she ran. Robb touched his comm. “Better not leave without us, Tasia.”

  “I’m already fully loaded, sixty-three people, but I’ve got room for a couple more. You may have to sit on my lap.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” he said. Five other evacuation ships lifted off.

  Most of the people assigned to Tower One had already gotten away, but the bulk of Iswander’s personnel were out at the various worksites for the day shift. The processors and materials handlers were all in Tower Two, and the off-shift workers were in the crew quarters on Tower Three. Iswander felt a heavy certainty that they were all lost already. Nothing he could do about it.

  He felt overwhelmed, sickened, and furious. “This was supposed to be safe. My engineers, my designers, my specialists were all—”

  Rlinda cut him off. “We can point fingers later. Get aboard.”

  As he ran, he realized this would have repercussions throughout the Roamer clans. They would learn of this disaster right before the election of the new Speaker. Garrison Reeves was on record with his warnings, and an inspection of records would show that Iswander Industries had operated on very narrow safety margins, had declined to use superior—but more expensive—materials.

  Many people were going to die here. That was unavoidable. He had to rescue as many as possible. If he had, say, a ten percent casualty rate, then he would still look good, that he had led them through a disaster. The sympathy vote might even be stronger than his own campaign.

  But he knew he was going to lose more than ten percent. A lot more.

  As they charged through the access tube to the waiting cargo ship, Iswander felt heat blazing around him. The walls of the thermally shielded tunnel had a dull shimmer, nearing the melting point. If even the smallest crack broke through, the searing temperatures would incinerate them in an instant. Iswander didn’t intend to be one of the casualties.

  Tasia’s voice shouted across the comm, “The outer section of the landing deck just collapsed. All available ships have launched, and we are going to be gone in a minute if you’re not aboard!”

  They raced through the tunnel into the crowded loading deck, the last ones aboard, and Robb sealed the hatch. He touched his comm. “Go, Tasia!”

  Iswander collided with a group of panicked, sweating workers. They looked at him, recognized the chief. Most were too stunned to say anything, their faces red, their eyes wide, but several glared at him. He saw their accusing expressions—and knew it was just the beginning. They already knew who to blame.

  With a lurch, the Curiosity lifted off just as the low landing deck dropped away. The structural sheets folded and sank into the lava, where they melted in a discolored swirl.

  Rlinda shouldered evacuees aside, clearing a path to the cockpit. The ship was packed with people, but the numbers were deceptive. Iswander was responsible for 2,014 people, and only a small fraction of them had gotten away.

  The Curiosity rose into the sky, and Iswander saw the other half of the split planet looming huge overhead. Tasia fought against thermal buffeting.

  Once the evac ships departed, there would be no survivors left behind on Sheol. Some would die instantly in a flash of heat; those who managed to reach temporary shelter would bake slowly in a horrible death.

  He had to start thinking and planning. He had a very serious problem.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ORLI COVITZ

  Every time Orli entered her compy laboratory on Relleker, she felt like a teacher entering a classroom full of eager students.

  “Good morning, Orli,” said LU, a blue and gold Listener compy who had been with the laboratory complex since the beginning.

  “Good morning, Orli,” said MO, a Domestic model who had such an abhorrence of dirt and stains that she kept every surface spotless. MO circled the laboratory, dusting, scrubbing, polishing. The compy was cheerful as she worked, cleaning even before it was necessary, as if trying to intimidate dust and smudges ahead of time.

  A year ago, when MO arrived at the facility a
s a donation, Orli had thought it was a good idea to put the Domestic compy to work in their own home, but MO’s obsessive cleanliness was maddening, especially to her husband Matthew. She could understand why the original owners had gotten rid of her.

  Now Orli was trying to modify the Domestic’s programming to increase her tolerance; she wanted to make MO understand that while humans liked a clean home, they did not want an absolutely sterile environment. Once, when she and Matthew were having a meal together on their anniversary—a supposedly quiet and romantic meal, which had degenerated into a tense discussion—MO only made things worse by hovering close to the table and snatching away any dirty plate the moment either Orli or Matthew took a last bite. . . .

  Carrying her record pad and files of notes with ideas she wanted to pursue, Orli entered the main center to a chorus of “Good morning, Orli.”

  A decade ago, when she and Matthew got married, they had decided that rehabilitating discarded compies was what they wanted to do. When her old friend and companion Mr. Steinman passed away, he had left her some money, which Orli used to fund their work, and Matthew had inherited the facility building itself when his parents died.

  Now, she had twenty-five compies here under study, each one contributing to the research as best they could. The different compy models used laboratory wallscreens to run diagnostics on themselves while running modified core programming. The compies were pleased to be guinea pigs. In fact, they were happy to be with her, since she took such good care of them.

  Orli tried to keep track of all of their designations, not the full serial numbers, just the two-letter nicknames. The donated compies came and went as she did her therapeutic work on them, then found them new homes and useful assignments.

  “Good morning, Orli,” said another compy, whose voice she recognized.

  Looking up with a warm smile, she said, “And good morning to you, DD.”

  She gave the little Friendly compy a hug. DD had been with her for most of her life, though his succession of owners dated back for more than a century. He spent much of his time in the lab complex when he wasn’t with Orli in their home. Even Matthew was fascinated with him, tinkering with DD’s deepest programming to determine what exactly the evil Klikiss robots had done to him when they held him captive for so many years.

  Every standard compy possessed basic Asimov strictures, modified and expanded to encompass numerous scenarios; basically, the unbreakable subroutines forced compies to obey direct commands, and not to harm humans or let humans come to harm. Even so, after the major uprising of Soldier compies at the end of the Elemental War, people had become so uneasy that many had given up their compies, regardless of the model.

  MO cheerfully brought Orli her cup of klee, a hot beverage brewed from ground worldtree seeds, a specialty of Theroc. “Your cup, just the way you like it, Orli.”

  “Thank you, MO.”

  Rlinda Kett’s shipping company made a great profit distributing klee to other markets, especially the upscale consumers here on Relleker. Because she and Orli were so close, after all they had been through together, Rlinda made sure Orli always had a generous private supply. Since Matthew had never acquired a taste for klee, Orli had it all to herself.

  She took a seat at her desk, logged onto the screens that displayed reports. Matthew’s image appeared in the corner, but it was just a portrait, not a new communication. He was gone on a long business trip, traveling to Earth, New Portugal, Theroc, and Newstation, giving talks. He was a vocal advocate for compies, insisting that they were perfectly safe. Orli already knew that, as did anyone with common sense who had spent time around compies; they were so warm and personable, and so useful. But many people remained leery of them, despite the reassurances.

  Before the Elemental War, compies had been ubiquitous throughout the Terran Hanseatic League, and they had also been used by the Roamer clans. But in the past twenty years, their popularity had dwindled. Very few were manufactured anymore. Maybe it would just take patience, Orli thought. Maybe it would take a great deal of crusading, which her husband was doing. She didn’t much care for being on stage and the center of attention; fortunately, Matthew enjoyed it.

  For her own part, while staying home in the quiet Relleker laboratory, she and DD recorded some standard educational lessons and released them widely, even though she doubted she made much impact out in the Confederation. DD seemed a natural, and she felt comfortable enough when she had rehearsed her talk. Orli performed a good educational service for anyone who was interested, but her subtle goal was to demonstrate how warm and charming DD could be. Such a faithful Friendly compy could never be a problem; people needed to see that.

  Although in some ways the compy facility functioned like an animal shelter—since people dropped off troublesome or abandoned compies there—compies were far more than “animals” to her. She had always felt a close connection to them, especially to DD. She considered the facility more of an orphanage. And she wanted to find these compies homes.

  When she and Matthew got married, they talked about having a family. Both wanted children. Unfortunately each came to that realization at a different time. Matthew decided he’d like to have a family just as they were establishing their compy laboratory, but Orli was too busy with the many strays who needed reprogramming to return to human society. Years later, when she was satisfied with her work, Orli decided she was ready to have children. But by then, Matthew had changed his mind and talked her out of it. Poor biological timing.

  Matthew was proud of what they had accomplished in the compy laboratory, but he focused on the broader mission now, so he was often gone. Orli found that she didn’t mind, since she had so many compies to keep her company, and DD was hers again. She never felt alone. Orli instructed the compies, learned from them, watched their actions, and she loved them.

  Now, DD hovered by Orli’s desk. “I arranged your files and answered some of the standard messages. Are you sure that’s all right?”

  “Of course it is, DD. Just like it was yesterday, and the day before.” She shook her head. “How could I not trust you?”

  “Would you like me to formulate an answer?”

  “No, DD. It was rhetorical.”

  “Ah, a rhetorical question. I understand.”

  Orli and Matthew had everything they wanted, and they were doing good work. Although her marriage had not turned out to be as exciting or passionate as she had hoped, she was happy enough. She’d had a lifetime’s worth of excitement in her younger years—far too much, in fact—and she felt no regret about having a quiet, normal life.

  While Matthew went off on his lectures and crusades, she spent her days working here. Though Orli still felt an occasional bittersweet twinge that she hadn’t had children of her own, these compies were enough. She and Matthew had agreed that it was enough.

  MO brought her lunch, precisely at noon. “Your favorite, Orli. I’ve prepared a special dish that’s exactly what you’ll like.”

  Orli made a point of appreciating whatever MO created, though she had never given the Domestic compy any guidance as to which foods she actually liked. MO simply worked her way through numerous recipes in a catalogue and pronounced each one a delicious masterpiece.

  MO hovered to take away her tray as soon as she finished the last bite. “Was it delicious?”

  “It was delicious, MO.”

  DD came cheerfully into her office as she finished her meal. “A message just came in from your husband, delivered by a trader to Relleker.”

  “Thank you, DD,” she said. Matthew preferred to record his messages and send them the old-fashioned way, rather than via a green priest, who would transmit the words through the worldforest network. He wanted his own voice, his own expression. Orli thought he just liked to hear himself.

  She activated the transmission and saw his face: the dark hair, the faint crow’s-feet around his eyes, the pale blue gaze that she had once found so riveting, especially when they sat across the table from
each other and discussed compy problems. Now, he looked tired, his expression haggard.

  When he sent messages, Matthew did not use endearments. He had never been the romantic sort, and Orli had learned not to expect that of him. He had recorded this message some days ago and managed to avert his eyes so that he wasn’t looking at Orli on the screen. He seemed troubled.

  “Orli,” he said as if addressing a business correspondent, “I’ll be back at Relleker in a week. We . . . we need to talk.”

  Compies would never identify nuanced expressions or tonalities, but Orli heard something in Matthew’s voice, and she was already convinced she wouldn’t like what he had to say.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TOM ROM

  Heading toward the empty Klikiss city and into the gathering darkness, Tom Rom went far from the camp and lay on the ground, staring up at the stars. He felt safe in the open aloneness, wearing the armor of his own confidence.

  The sketchy records he had found about Eljiid made no mention of dangerous nocturnal predators. He wasn’t worried. Tom Rom was never worried. He had taught himself to sleep lightly, and he always awoke feeling rested, and ready.

  When the dawn washed over him, he rose to see the distorted alien towers that looked like pockmarked termite mounds. The nearby Klikiss city was empty, but he knew many insectoid bodies remained inside, preserved where they had fallen after the end of the last swarming. He had his autopsy kit and specimen containers. He would find what Zoe Alakis wanted.

  During his trip to the transportal nexus at Rheindic Co, Tom Rom had studied all public information, as well as three classified reports, on Klikiss physiology. Dissections of the various Klikiss castes had already been done; one report was so detailed it was called An Atlas of the Klikiss Body, but the work was merely documentary—images, measurements, some limited chemical analysis—without any insightful conclusions. From the images, he had identified the “royal jelly” gland that Zoe wanted to investigate. None of the other scientists had even postulated what purpose the organ might have served.