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Chapter 22

Ganz studied the layout of the Tandesko vessel for a long time before making a move. All the crew members were now off the ship making last-minute preparations for departure. They suspected nothing. Why should they? Their ship was a scientific courier. Now was the time for Ganz to act.

The hatch opened easily on the first try. The identification codes that Broder had sent hir were good then, and a lucky thing. Ganz could have broken in anyway, doubtless; but it would have been risky to be seen fiddling with the hatch programming. This way, who—other than the owners, and they weren't here—would be suspicious of Ganz boarding a Tandesko ship? Hir was projecting only a slightly altered appearance: Tandesko talisan, rather than hrisi. Port security had accepted hir identification without question.

The hatch rematerialized with Ganz on the inside. A quick look confirmed that the passageways were laid out exactly as the library readout had indicated. Ganz moved quickly to the forward power-decks. Hir had no way of knowing when the crew would return, but this job would take only a few minutes. The power-deck hatches opened and Ganz stepped through, treading the narrow service passageway.

The K-space generators looped around the passageway like a helical array of translucent jewels. At present they were dark; but when the ship made its long jump between the stars—when these generators were brought to life to distort the fabric of space—they would blaze with power and with the light of a sun. With the modifications Ganz was about to make, they would blaze even brighter. But they wouldn't blaze long.

The beauty of neutralizing a ship in this way was that the explosion would occur within the confined dimensional rift of K-space; and while there might be some flash-through along the K-space distortion lines, any radiation that might emerge in the normal-space continuum would do so light-years from the nearest observers. Even if, years later, a flash were observed, it would be virtually impossible to trace its source.

Ganz found the relay module hir was looking for, nestled among the generators. Hir opened a small tool pack and plugged a test unit into the module to verify the existing programming. Grunting in satisfaction, Ganz broke the module open with a molecular-bonding probe and examined its interior. Hir removed a thin quasicrys wafer and replaced it with a similar wafer from hir tool pack; then hir retested, rebonded, and again retested the module. Done. Ganz rose and concealed the tool pack in the folds of hir blouse.

The programming change would be undetectable from the piloting station, and in fact, except for one tiny, deliberate anomaly, would come into play just moments before the ship exploded. It would be a clean death for the crew, an instant death. They would feel no pain. That was the way Ganz preferred to work. Efficiency, without needless cruelty.

Retreating quickly the way hir had come, Ganz closed the entryway to the power section and peered down the passageway. The ship was still and silent. Hir walked calmly off the ship and out through the port security gates. Within moments, hir was lost among the crowds of Grissondon City.

An hour later Ganz returned to the port, but to another section, where hir own ship was docked. This ship was quite similar in appearance to the one hir had just left. The shipboard security system was far tighter than the other's; nevertheless, Ganz checked the ship thoroughly for malfunction or sabotage. Then hir waited, chatting occasionally with the shipboard cogitative system. They had a polite disagreement as to whether or not hir should neutralize Ruskin here, where it would be relatively easy. Ganz acknowledged hir own bias toward doing so; hir had left the job unfinished before, and that rankled. But the Jeaves-copy in the system urged forbearance: Ruskin might, after all, perform as desired, and without him the best that they could hope for would be so much less.

Ganz was a hrisi; hir was not a political person. Hir was aware that hir employer, Stanley Broder, represented a splinter faction of the Tandesko hierarchy and not the main quorum. What hir was doing now might not in fact be pleasing to the main quorum—almost certainly would not be. But that mattered little to hir. Ganz did what was contracted for: no more, no less. And since the Jeaves-copy carried some of Broder's command authority, Ganz agreed to forbear. But hir couldn't quite get that original contract out of hir mind, the one which—to hir shame—hir had failed to complete.

When the Tandesko courier ship Unity departed for deep space, Ganz watched on the monitors. An hour and thirty-four minutes later, Ganz received hir own departure clearance. Ganz paid scant attention to the sight of the space city receding astern, but paid close attention indeed to the courier ship ahead. Hir flew a parallel course, observing closely the spectral signature of Unity's exhaust. Hir noted the tiny variation hir was looking for in the exhaust—not enough to affect the ship's performance, and well within operational limits—but enough to verify what hir needed to know.

Ganz watched the characteristic rainbow flash and the momentary distortion in the starfield as the courier made the crossover to K-space and vanished from the Kantano star system. Ganz nodded to hirself and prepared to make the same leap.

The courier's destination was Betelgeuse, a supergiant red sun nearing the end of its natural life. Orbiting the sun was the Starmuse scientific outpost, nominally an interworld research station, but in fact the domain of the Auricle Alliance. Aboard Unity were two Tandesko scientific observers, en route by treaty arrangement to monitor the Auricle scientists, who in turn were monitoring the star, preparing to watch stardeath in process.

The courier's passengers would never arrive at their destination. But Ganz would arrive in their place.

 

* * *

 

Grissondon City and Kantano's World were well lost astern by the time Ruskin gave his ship's computer the go-ahead to make the crossover jump to K-space. He did not do so casually. First he'd checked the entire system from top to bottom, and all of the navigational instructions; and all of his work was double-checked by Ali'Maksam. It wasn't merely his distrust of an untried cogitative system that troubled him, or their inability to identify the additional software that Farsil had spoken of. It was also the message carried in the wafer that Farsil had handed him—the message from his home office, from Judith. "You may be followed by someone masquerading as an Auricle loyalist, someone who may try to remove you . . ." But the system and the nav-calcs checked out, and he couldn't not go just because of a warning of something he already knew anyway.

"Do it," he said to the console.

"Very good, sir," it answered.

And he and Tamika and Max rested back in their couches arrayed before the curved viewscreen of the ship's tiny bridge, while the system counted down . . .

* * *

Gravity flicked off.

The viewscreen in front of his eyes stretched like an elastic sheet as the ship turned inside out and back again . . . and so did his stomach and his mind. . . .

* * *

It was as though his head simply opened up, and out of it came floating thoughts and feelings and memories, like balloons rising into the ether; he reached out and tried to capture them, but only a few came within his reach . . . two creatures scampering after him, reeling drunkenly through the trees . . . a fortress floating in orange clouds . . . a tall figure, looming. . . .

* * *

Feelings of wary speculation floated by, feelings of fear and distrust, feelings of self-consciousness, of astonishment; feelings that were not at all his own. . . .

* * *

Time seemed to flow like syrup, clear and thick, stretching slowly into endless strands. . . .

* * *

Time and space melted, shimmering, and recrystallized with a very strange ping. . . .

 

* * *

 

When his eyes refocused, he searched the viewscreen instinctively for stars, for a familiar frame of reference. He found none. A galaxy full of stars had been transformed into a frieze of slow-moving splinters of color. Like daggers, the bits of color revolved through a kind of translucent ice, faceted and fractured; a glint of color disappeared at one fracture line here, and reappeared at another, there. This was the look of K-space; this was all the viewscreen could show them of space until they made the crossover back out, at their destination.

Ruskin sat forward abruptly, shaking his head. He turned to his companions. "We all still here?"

Tamika was still gazing at the screen. She seemed not to have heard him.

"Console: screen off," Ruskin ordered.

The viewscreen darkened. Tamika started. She sighed and met his gaze. "Hypnotic," she murmured.

Ruskin nodded and called to Ali'Maksam. The Logothian was motionless. "Max!" he repeated sharply. "Ali'Maksam—are you okay?"

The Logothian's head was tilted at an odd angle. Ruskin released himself from his couch and approached his friend. The Logothian's breath hissed sharply in and out; at the edge of his mind, Ruskin felt Max's fiery discomfort. The Logothian was radiating empathically; he was in distress. Ruskin hesitated. "Ali'Maksam!" He reached out to touch his friend's arm.

"I am here!" Max said with a sudden gasp, jerking himself upright. He turned his visored head from side to side. "Off lights, please!" Ruskin quickly complied, plunging the bridge into darkness. There was near-silence for a moment, just Ali'Maksam hissing in pain. Gradually his breathing slowed, and he whispered, "Thank you. I—"

"What is it, Max?"

The Logothian's voice rasped in the dark. "I have never done—that—in the presence of Humans—before." His breath whistled in and out. "Your minds open up—so startlingly—in that moment." He was struggling to control his voice. "I—stood in the way of a torrent . . . of fears and hopes and pains. Never have I felt so much, so fast." He sighed in a long hiss. "I will be all right in a few moments. But I would like to open my visor. I feel claustrophobic."

"Take your time," Ruskin murmured.

"Thank you." The Logothian's visor creaked open.

They waited in the dark, aware—though they could not feel, see, or hear it—of the ship's mercurial movement through the twisted strands of K-space that its generators created before it. Ruskin tried to remember what he had felt just moments ago, during the crossover; but the memory had fled with the stars on the screen. (Dax, did you catch any of that?)

No answer. Had he lost Dax?

He tried to remember: What had he been feeling just before the jump?

That, at least, came back to him. He'd been worried, thinking of the message from Judith: ". . . someone masquerading as an Alliance loyalist."

How would Judith know about such a thing? There had been a faintly apologetic tone to her message, he'd thought—and no reference at all to the software transfer that Farsil had mentioned. Where had it come from, if not from Judith? There was nothing in the system except the functional cogitative software and his own data, loaded from slivers. Unless something else was quite cleverly concealed . . .

"Rus'lem."

He started, sensing a movement in the darkness. It was Tamika; he felt her hand on his shoulder and her voice in his ear. "I'm going to lie down in the cabin." There was something in her voice that tugged at him; she was more than tired, but he couldn't tell what was wrong.

As she groped her way to the exit, he waited in the darkness with Ali'Maksam and thought: (Dax? Are you there?) He felt a quiet stirring within. (Dax, where have you been? What happened during crossover?)

The inner voice answered with uncharacteristic slowness:

((It hit us hard, Willard . . . I'm reorganizing . . . I think we learned some things . . . and maybe lost some things . . . but I'm not yet sure what.))

Ali'Maksam stirred beside him and finally spoke. "Willard, Tamika suspects the wrong people. I fear this."

Ruskin blinked in the dark. "What do you mean?"

"I sensed . . . images from her. And suspicions."

"About what?"

The Logothian was slow to answer. "About the assassination attempt. She has suspicions—that I differ with. It would be better if you asked her yourself. I should not speak of thoughts I was not intended to share." He paused, and there was a tiny click. "If you wish, you may bring up the lights again. We should probably do a check of the onboard systems."

Ruskin sighed. "Lights up slowly, please." Max was right about checking the systems. But very soon he wanted to talk to Tamika.

 

* * *

 

They moved in the dark, until gradually their movements stopped and their breathing slowed. Tamika hadn't wanted to talk right away. Eventually, though, as the tension and energy flowed away, lassitude set in—and so too did the concerns that for a few brief minutes had been driven from their minds.

Ruskin wanted to know what Ali'Maksam had sensed in her, but he didn't want to ask straight out. In the end, he didn't have to. Curled spoon-fashion against him in the dark, she whispered. "The noliHuman. That's what I was thinking about when we went over. In case you were wondering."

Ruskin opened his mouth and said nothing. He breathed against her hair, waiting.

She rolled away from him. "That's probably one of the things that Max sensed. He knows that I know . . ." Her voice faltered.

"If he knows, you might as well tell me."

"All right . . . that it was a noliHuman that tried to kill you. That it was probably connected with the Querayn." Her voice was a sigh, speaking away from him in the dark.

He called for light, blinked as it came up slowly, a dull orange glow gradually brightening. "Why do you say the Querayn?" he asked—even though the same thought had occurred to him. "Because I thought I saw a noliHuman looking at me? That's not enough of a reason." When she didn't answer, he said, "Twig, I'm not that sure what I saw. And there are lots of noliHumans who have nothing to do with the Querayn, and vice versa."

"I know that." She rolled back against him, gazing up at the ceiling. "But a lot of times first impressions are right. Think back to Skybase. Remember, when you saw those Querayn, how you almost went into a trance—until Max called you away? Now why was that? I'll bet it was the NAGs." Her eyes shifted toward him, then away. "I'm just telling you what I feel. I know it's not proof—but I can't put it out of my mind." She turned and gazed at him. "Ali'Maksam is a friend of the Querayn. Not just a colleague. A friend. I saw that in his thoughts when we crossed over. Just the way he probably saw all of this in mine."

"Yes, but—" Ruskin exhaled, understanding now why she had left the bridge so suddenly. "Twig—"

"I'm not saying you should say anything about this to Max," Tamika said. "Probably you shouldn't."

"Do you suspect him?"

Her breath caught. She held it a long time before answering. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying—"

"What?"

"God help me," she whispered, "I don't know. I just know what I feel."

"And that's that you don't trust Max."

She shrugged helplessly. "I did trust him. Mostly. But now—" She took a ragged breath. "I don't trust the Querayn, that's all. And he's a friend of theirs."

Ruskin considered that. "He's our friend, too, Twig," he said finally. "He saved me from who knows what kind of violence, when he stopped my blackouts." She shrugged, beside him. "And even the Querayn argue nonviolence. They don't go around assassinating people. And what would they have against me, anyway?"

Tamika gazed at him without speaking. She brushed his face with her fingertips. "I don't know, Rus'lem," she whispered. "I just don't know."

Ruskin sighed, closing his eyes. He wished that he could project all of these questions against his eyelids and shuffle them around and make them fit, one question answering another. He wished he could make the tumblers fit, mesh, spin, click, unlock. Open.

With that thought firmly in mind, he drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He dreamed of a dark fortress, adrift in a sea of amber mist, its embrasures glowing like the dying coals of a fire. And surrounding the fortress, floating close by in the amber but unable to reach it, were several tiny figures, darker still. He could not tell who or what they were, but he was afraid of them. If he could only reach the fortress himself, he could protect what was there.

But he had built the fortress, hadn't he?

What, he wondered, or whom, was he trying to keep out . . . or in?

Interlude

Death had not come, nor spoken an answer. But the whispers, the voices of the dreams continued: not all the time, like the tightness and the hurt. But often enough to make Bright

 

think

    wonder

      sing

  was I wrong   ?

 

Perhaps the voices were neither of dream nor of death, as Bright had thought of dream. Of death.

Perhaps the voices were of life. A new beginning.

Bright was filled, consumed by a new idea, one that could start only with a question, and just the hope of an answer:

 

  Can one sing

    of new life

      from within   ?

  Can such a thing come

    from one such as me   ?

 

The question had never before occurred to it in just this way. In all of its long life, never had Bright seen new life appear—except far away, in the dark and the void. And it was hard to know whether it emerged direct from the old life, or sprang fresh from the hollow valleys of space, from the channels of time.

Bright supposed that it could have asked, long ago, but somehow it never had. It could ask Near, or Small; but they could give no answer, just a gentle musing song. But what of the distant dark-life that drifted about the great/empty/dark/world in such quietude, that wandered and never cast light of any sort upon the slates of time? What brought that dark to life? From what source did it spring?

 

  Voices

    voices within

      dream

        or life in me

          do you know

  Have you heard   ?

    Have you sung   ?

      Can you tell   ?

 

To the great emptiness, Bright called out its question and its mystery, knowing that it might wait long indeed for an echo of a reply. Indeed, if anyone knew, never had Bright heard it spoken of.

Wasn't it strange that in such a lifetime, a mystery so haunting could be unspoken of? But if the voices were not of dream, nor of messengers of death, then they must come from Bright itself. A wonder great, a wonder indeed.

 

  Speak to me

    my children

      if you are of me

        and I of you

          and if you would spring from me

  I would have you know my world

    my wonder

      my song

 

There was a great silence in answer: only the great ringing rhythms of Bright's own fires burning.

But Bright was unworried. Bright could wait.

Even if the voices should bring not just life to the new but death to the old, Bright would seek its own understanding, its own rejoicing.

 

  Life was long

    and for such a mystery and a glory

      what mattered such a thing as waiting   ?

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