Part 1 (2/2)

Benny planted a kiss on the top of his head, and looked up. An elderly woman, well-wrapped in a black coat and scarf, was watching them from the base of the steps.

She couldn't be a student no dirt - and Benny didn't recognize her from the seminars on board the Henrietta Henrietta Leavitt Leavitt. A cold wind was suddenly blowing.

'h.e.l.lo!' called the woman. Dried leaves blew around her feet. 'Is your name Summerfield?'

'What can I do for you?' said Benny, standing up.

'Professor Truszkowski said I'd find you somewhere around here,' said the woman. 'I knew a Summerfield once, but it was a long time ago, a very long time...' Benny started walking down the steps towards her. 'You didn't have an uncle or perhaps a grandfather named Isaac?'

Benny sat down on the steps, hard. Jason was by her side in a moment. 'Oh my dear girl,' said the woman. 'What have I said?'

Jason squeezed his wife's hand. Benny was staring through the woman as though her eyes had stopped working.

'Admiral Isaac Douglas Summerfield?' she said.

'He was my commanding officer,' said the woman. 'Forty years ago.'

'He was my father,' said Benny. 'And he disappeared.

Forty years ago.'

'Your father,' repeated the old woman. She squinted at the young couple. 'My name is Admiral Groenewegen. I think you'd better come back to my tent.'

Benny sat on a box, looking at a photograph of her father.

Jason put his hand on her shoulder, just to let her know he was there. She gave the hand a rea.s.suring squeeze. The Admiral's tent was warm and cosy, a ma.s.sive affair like something out of a Foreign Legion movie, all poles and cus.h.i.+ons and interesting boxes.

Benny held the photograph in her hands. Sepiatone, a wooden frame; genuine artificial antique, a craze half a century out of date. Her face was dimly reflected in the dusty gla.s.s.

She didn't look anything like him.

He was standing next to Groenewegen in the photo, a much younger Groenewegen, with short dark hair, her uniform in disarray and her eyes twinkling above a smile.

He... wasn't exactly handsome, but striking: strong jaw, very pale hair, very grey eyes. The photo was different from the holograms in s.p.a.cefleet's records, real, alive.

Groenewegen had a mug of beer, while he was holding a shot gla.s.s of dark fluid.

'Turkish coffee,' said the Admiral, handing her a cup of tea. Benny stared at it in confusion. 'He used to get through endless cups of that stuff. I don't know how he managed it. It still gives me palpitations.' Groenewegen's eyes were misty with remembering. 'He had his own cezve cezve, this pot with a long handle to make the coffee. He used to carry it everywhere. For good luck.'

Benny said, 'When I was four, maybe five, Mum told me that he didn't drink. I laughed because I didn't understand what she meant.'

'He was always stone-cold sober.' Jason shook his head as the Admiral waved a chipped mug at him. She poured herself a cup. 'How much do you remember about him?'

'Just little bits and pieces. I remember the last time I ever saw him...' She closed her eyes. The light glinting off the badge of his cap. 'I remember the cologne he wore; I always a.s.sociate that smell with childhood. One of the reasons I became an archaeologist was because I thought I might find him. Somewhere, out beyond the edge of civilization.

Trapped on some backwater world amongst the sc.u.m and villainy. Or fighting a top-secret war against the Daleks. Or taken prisoner and bravely holding out against torture. Or something.' She gave a little choked laugh. 'Silly things. I haven't thought about him for a long time, not like that.'

The Admiral shook her head. 'I don't know if it means anything to you, but I protested the official report of his disappearance.'

Benny brushed a speck of dust off the photo. 'That was good of you.'

'Whatever Isaac was doing, he wasn't running away.'

'I don't know. I suppose I'll never know.'

Groenewegen said, 'I do know. I knew him. And besides, I was there.'

Benny's eyes shot to the Admiral's face.

'I was only a captain then,' said Groenewegen. 'There were a flock of us - those clunking old Fury-cla.s.s fighter-s.h.i.+ps. The Dalekbusters. Huge s.h.i.+ps, huge guns, small crew - mostly automated. So much of Dalek strategy is repet.i.tious, predictable... Admiral Summerfield's s.h.i.+p was the Tisiphone Tisiphone, the lead s.h.i.+p. It was just us, a dozen or so Furies, between a trio of Dalek planet-rippers and Bellatrix. My s.h.i.+p was the only one that survived the battle, and that was luck, not brilliant tactics.'

Benny said levelly, 'The report said he turned and ran.'

'He certainly turned. Surprised the cruk out of us - 'scuse my language. Was he running? No. Not Isaac. h.e.l.l, to someone who could drink that coffee, the Daleks must have seemed like a pretty minor health hazard.' She barked a laugh. 'Hang on a minute.'

The Admiral got up and went to one of her boxes, tapped her fingers on its lid, chose another box. 'Half of this stuff is Mel's,' she said apologetically, rummaging. 'More than half, actually. And she's off shopping again. We're going to need a bigger tent. Aha!' She pulled a small black cube out of the box.

'What is it?' asked Jason.

'The Clotho Clotho's flight recorder.' She turned the datacube around in her hands, thoughtfully. 'When they decommissioned her after that battle, I kept this as a souvenir. Captain's privilege. It's in an archaic format, but it's still intact. If you plug this into the right software, it'll show you the whole battle as a tactical hologram. If you want to see it.'

'What kind of software?'

The Admiral put the cube into her free hand. 'You're sure?'

'No,' said Benny. 'No, I'm not sure. I am less sure than something very unsure indeed.' She looked down at the cube. 'You've been so kind. I don't know -'

'Goodness, girl,' said the Admiral, grinning. 'If you do ever find him, get him to look me up. He still owes me five credits.'

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