Part 19 (2/2)
”Clonak, I have a feeling that the s.h.i.+p is-bent.” Shadia bent close and said it again, this time touching Cloaks shoulder to shoulder.
”Well,” he sighed. ”That explains why we can't budge the hatch.”
They both were silent for a moment; Shadia was glad for the slim comfort offered by touching someone else, even through the plastic.
The s.h.i.+p's spine had taken some of the heat of the attack and the s.h.i.+p was out of true. The rear compartment-including the autodoc, the sleeping alcove, and about 60 percent of the food, was accessible only if they could force the hatch against the bend of the s.h.i.+p.
”We have to a.s.sume,” Clonak said suddenly, ”that we're not airworthy past the hatch; obviously we won't want to be trying any kind of atmospheric descent if we have a choice-Might be missing some hull, too.”
He straightened a bit, leaned in to her and said, ”Look again. I'll see if I can force this to scan the other side!”Her fingers answered yes, and Clonak began twisting the cable yet again. The image reappeared and then swung suddenly, showing an oddly unflawed stretch of s.h.i.+p's hull and beyond it the fluted shapes of several nozzles poking out from the blast skirts.
Beyond that was a brightness; three points of light; reddish, bluish, whitish. A local three star cl.u.s.ter- ”The Trio!” she said, but then there was another light, making her blink ”Stop!” she yelled, the noise over loud in her ears.
Clonak let go and the image went away. Shadia stood staring at the blank screen, seeing the stars as they had been.
”We're still in-system,” she said, putting her arm against his. ”If the Trio and Nev'Lorn Primary are lined up...”
”We're somewhat north of the ecliptic,” Clonak concluded, ”with Nev'Lorn headquarters safely on the other side of the sun.”
THE IMAGE OF his son-and of his son's partner-lay on the pilot's seat along with the rest of the information provided by the Juntavas. Daav tried to imagine the boy-a pilot of the first water, no doubt; a Scout able to command the respect of a Clutch chieftain, who held the loyalty-and perhaps the love-of the very Hero of Klamath...
His imagination failed him, despite the recording furnished by the Juntavas boss.
The boy's voice was firm, quiet and respectful; the information he gave regarding the last known location of his vessel only slightly less useful than a star map. The voice of Miri Robertson was also firm; unafraid, despite the message she'd clearly imparted: All is not as it seems here.
Yet, despite the image, the recording, and the records, his imagination failed him. Somehow, he thought he had given over the concept of heir, of blood-child. Certainly, he should have been well-schooled by his sojourn on the highly civilized world of Delgado, where the length of all liaisons were governed by the woman and where the decision to have or not to have a child was one the father might routinely be unaware of-witness his mistress's daughter, now blessedly off-planet and in pursuit of her own life.
Daav picked up the flimsy, staring at the comely golden face and the vivid green eyes. A Korval face, certain enough, yet-there was something else. With a pang, he understood a portion of it: the boy, whoever he was, and however he had gotten into the sc.r.a.pe announced to the universe at large, was a breathing portion of Aelliana. Daav projected her face, her hands, her voice at the image of their son, but that did no better for him-what he saw was Aelliana.
The boy was only a boy to him, for all they shared genes and kin.
Daav sighed and laid the picture back on the pilot's chair. Whoever the boy was, elder kin should surely have taught him to stay away from the Juntavas. He should have been given the Diary entries to read. Er Thom knew-who better? Er Thom should have-but Er Thom was gone.
And in the end the duty had not been done, the tale had not been told, and here was the result. Briefly he wondered what other duties he'd left undone...
He'd have to find Clonak. Clonak had later news. Clonak would know what needed done, now.He sighed then, rewebbed himself, scanned the boards, checked the coords he already keyed in from some recess of his mind, and punched the Jump b.u.t.ton.
THEY'D SLEPT FITFULLY in the unnaturally silent craft, each sitting a half-watch in a Scout's Nap.
What noises were, were confined to the Momson Cloaks and their wearers. The Cloaks had a tendency to crinkle when one moved, and though the upper shoulder placement of the air-pack made wonderful sense when standing, it required some adjustment to sleep semi-curled in the command chairs in order not to disturb the airflow.
The wake-up meals were cold trail-packs, laboriously introduced into the Cloaks through the ingenious triple pocket system, a sort of see-through plastic airlock. Since the Cloaks were basically plastic bags with a few rudimentary ”hand spots” the process was awkward, even for two people.
First the trail-packs were located and then held in place with lightweight clamps. Then the outer pocket was opened, with one person pulling lightly on the outer tab and the one inside the Cloak grasping the side wall of the pocket firmly and pulling back. The pocket walls separated, and the resultant bulge had a lip-like seal that was pressed until it opened. The trail-pack went into the newly opened pocket, and the outside was resealed.
The second pocket had a seal at what Shadia thought of as the bottom; by bunching the pocket up from inside it could be made to open, and the trail-pack was moved into that part of the pocket, and that seal to the outside pocket pressed tightly; now there were two seals between vacuum and food. The inner seal, finally, was opened-puffing up the part of the pocket with the trail-pack in it-and finally the food was safely inside the Cloak.
Crumbs being a potential problem, the food bars were handled gingerly and the water squeezed carefully from its bulb.
While she ate, Shadia chewed on the problem of their exact location, with regard to Nev'Lorn 'quarters-and potential rescue.
While knowing that they'd not left the Nev'Lorn system was definitely useful, the camera-monitor wasn't the tool for finding out where they were or, more importantly, where they were headed. It was impossible to guess how much of their intrinsic velocity and flight energy might have been transferred to the attacking destroyer, and they had nearly as much chance of being in a tight, highly elliptical orbit as they did in being on the outward leg of a hyperbolic orbit that would throw them out of the system, never to return.
Thus, shortly after breaking her fast, Shadia realigned the gyroscope for the auxiliary instruments and changed her search pattern with the star-field scope. Now that she knew which end was up her job had gone from that of a hopeful pastime to an immediately useful necessity. What they might do about where they were was another matter.
On the other side of the chamber, Clonak busied himself with another semi-disa.s.sembled piece of hardware, periodically professing himself or any number of other objects, deities, and people d.a.m.ned, stupid, absurd, or useless.
That she could hear these footnotes to progress clearly proved that the pressure in the s.h.i.+p was slowly rising, in part a result of the action of the layered osmotic membranes that made up much of structure of the Momson Cloak. The finely tuned membranes purposefully released certain amounts of carbon dioxide and hydrogen while retaining some moisture; heavier users might complain of the suit ”slos.h.i.+ng”
as the moisture reservoirs filled. Far from breathable, the external atmosphere made the Cloaks a littleeasier to move around in.
The increased pressure also made Shadia aware of an occasional twittering sound she couldn't place.
Twice she glanced up to Clonak, hard at work but doing nothing that looked to make such a noise.
The third time she looked up, Clonak had also raised his head. He caught Shadia's eye and smiled ruefully.
”Not rodents, Shadia, with little rat feet. More likely we have micro-sand, scrubbing the hull down to a fine polish. This system has a fine collection of unfinished planets to choose from, I'm afraid.”
”Though actually,” he continued, ”that's not all bad. If the wrong people are looking for us we're better off here than an hour off Nev'Lorn.”
”Should we use the monitor to-”
”I've thought of that, but really, the best use of resources is to continue with what we're doing. I may yet get a computer up and running and you may yet find us a safe harbor.”
There were several distinct pings and another scrabble of dust on the hull then and Shadia bent back to her charting with a will.
DAAV WOKE WITH a start, certain someone had called his name. About him the s.h.i.+p purred a quiet purr of circulators and the twin boards were green at every mark. The Jump-clock showed he had enough time for breakfast and exercise before he arrived back in normal s.p.a.ce. No matter what might befall, he'd be better prepared if he kept now to routine.
He'd been to three systems so far without touching ground at any. Izviet, Natterling, and Chantor were all minor trade ports, ports that usually sported a small training contingent of Scouts making use of the nearby s.p.a.ce.
At Izviet a s.h.i.+p a few years out of mode coming from a port rarely heard from was barely gossip, still he'd had the s.h.i.+p come in as L'il Orbit, maintaining his professors.h.i.+p as well. The cycle was off-there were no scouts training near the spectacular multi-mooned and multi-ringed gas giant Cruchov.
Natterling's usual band of ecologists-in-training were out of session; the wondrous planet Stall with its surface outcroppings of pure timonium had no company. By the time he'd hit Chantor he'd had a lot of news to digest, but there were no cadets practicing basic single-s.h.i.+p in that place, as he had.
Among the news chattered most widely were the rumors attending the Juntavas and their danger-tree broadcast. Some felt it was trap, aimed at netting the Juntavas. Others explored news-pits and libraries and invented great empires of intrigue: one of these stated that the missing man now ruled a system as a Juntavas boss; another said the merc hero had bagged herself a rich one; yet another swore the pair of them had turned pirate and were staging raids against the Scouts.
What was missing in all three places was the back-net chat he would have found in an instant in the old days. In the places he would normally have found Scouts he found nothing but notes, signs, recordings: on temporary a.s.signment, on vacation, will return, in emergency please contact-Worse, at Chantor's...o...b..ting waystation Number 9, in an otherwise dusty maildrop he'd maintained since his training days, was a triple-sealed note with all the earmarks of a demand for payment from a very testy correspondent.
The return address meant nothing to him but the message had chilled him to the very bone.
”Plan B is Now in Effect,” it said in neat, handwritten, Liaden characters.No signature. He recognized the handwriting, familiar to him from his former life, when he had been Delm Korval and this man had taken hand-notes of his orders. Dea'gauss. He felt a relief so intense that tears rose to his eyes. Dea'gauss was alive. Or had been. He blinked and looked again at the note. The date was not as recent as Clonak's news.
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