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Rowland was the last aboard to cryo. The growing nightmares tormented him. It was a weakness he resented. Last under, first awake. Give him time to compose himself, if required. The escort ship's crew were insignificant to his overall plan but soldiers talked and any idiosyncrasies displayed by a commander could undermine that command in a critical moment.
The Crossed Swords was barnacled and as far as its occupants were concerned, a jump ahead of Rowland from Slate's Progress to the Eddy shipyard. In truth, they were a jump ahead of the Rickover. Rowland jumped with them inside the cruiser class Neptune.
A last thought as he drifted into deepsleep was the debt owed to Carver Denz. The purity of his Schoenfeldium discovery allowed smaller jumpspace tech to be viable for spacecraft like the Neptune, though the psychological risk increased with the decrease in generator size. The distortion zone enveloped the entire ship, including its barnacle. It was a good thing he had the mental discipline to endure the risk. His psyche was robust. When not in jumpspace.
*
Chels focused on the outside view monitor. Their transport, the Neptune, accelerated past the first jump beacon. She absorbed the fact and integrated it with spookspace experience from her old life. How many jumps? Dozens? A hundred? They blurred into a continuum of nightmares and regrets.
The second beacon evaporated in a blink. Third, fourth and more coalesced into a luminous string. The light wavered as the distortion core expanded. She repeated her mantra through half-lidded eyes. She changed her focus from the starry void to a point directly in front of her chest.
Beside her, Altman's breathing rasped. The pressure on her wrist from his grip lessened. He twitched. She pulled back from her companion to imagine her breath carrying tension away from her body into the bypass universe.
The transition to jumpspace flickered in her consciousness but Chels continued her slow exhalations. Nausea battered her stomach. Her insides tried to balance the differing accelerations pummeling her head and her toes. The sickness should retreat as she kept her concentration focused on the cone of energy streaming away from her. But what about the nightmares?
A peripheral niggle wormed into her subconscious. The life she'd left years before slammed through her mind. Like a stray asteroid loosened from stable orbit to crash into a habitat, memories annihilated her carefully planned survival trajectory through jump.
The asteroid had been real. Its orbit was destabilized for efficient access. A veteran prospector had committed a gross error and instead of opening the rock up for mining, the explosive charges had sent it awry, ending its trajectory in a refining habitat. Chels felt the tears sting down her cheeks and tasted salt on her tongue. Four killed, three crippled. She knew all of them. She'd been related to two of the dead. Her brother and his wife.
Subsequent investigation revealed she hadn't been the one who misplaced the charges. But she hadn't refused orders to detonate before triple-checking. Pressure from command to increase productivity had driven the mistakes. Plenty of blame to go around but the worst was the absurdity that it was deemed an accident. Death a risk the victims accepted as part of the life. She never accepted the rationalization.
Meditation clarity and thoughts of Slate and Pious finally drove the repeating past away. To be replaced with a realization it was the guilt, not spookspace itself, which ended her ability to endure jump.
Altman moaned and she realized her fingers dug into his forearm. She relaxed but didn't release her grip. She dared open an eye. The viewport swam with photon bundles howling past the barnacle. Ghosts of previous ships, they said. She believed them ghosts of something.
She saw the jumpcarrier in two realities. One with Crossed Swords firmly barnacled, the other with Swords losing its purchase and tumbling away like the rogue asteroid. A shadowy figure piloted the jumpcarrier. She could distinguish the profile but couldn't see the face. A man. An officer of the navy. High rank, judging by the shoulder decorations. Admiral Rowland? Now she knew she hallucinated. Rowland was back near Slate's Progress; she wasn't barnacled to the Rickover. Chels viewed a future. The race was on to complete her mission in the Eddy before the admiral made his next jump.
A figure trailed them, its time-stream leaving a wake in the free-drifting molecules in this side-universe. The figure never closed nor passed them. It was attached to her and Altman. Perry? His ghost in death or his alternate life? He would always be in her essence. Another spookspace nightmare.
Chels retreated into the mantra, knowing she'd have to face the fatalities again and again. This meditation didn't stop the nightmares. It allowed release which cryo couldn't and she gave thanks.
Altman trembled and moaned but she wouldn't let go. His presence assured her there was an exit point to the agony. Whatever demons he faced, she hoped her presence helped him through them.
She slipped into her past for the second time, knowing it would not be the last. Time in spookspace held no relevance. Milliseconds seemed like weeks and days could compress into a single heartbeat. Her shoulders dropped and the tension in her neck dissipated.
Get me through. I need to find Pious and confess another sin.
*
The transition from jump to normal manifested as an ascent from an aspic ocean into sweet air. Chels breached the interface gasping for breath. Warmth against her side reminded her she wasn't alone in the ship. "Pious?" she blurted before she realized it was Altman sharing the barnacle. Brother Pious was somewhere in the Eddy by now.
Altman coughed, rolled onto the deck and dry-heaved for a minute.
Chels used the cabin walls to brace herself and open the food locker. She found the recovery flask and drank deep, energy and heat coursing through her system. She knelt beside Altman and passed him the flask. "Hope you don't mind cooties," she said.
He phlegmed and snorted before taking a drink. "Not bad. Whisky would be better."
"You'll have all you need after we locate the artifact. I promise. Slate's special blend. Until then, you stay sober. If not for me, for your late partner. Okay?"
She moved to the console to guide the Crossed Swords across the gap to the Eddy shipyard. The Neptune had moved away from the 'yard.
"The escort cruiser won't want to risk encounters with any Realm spacers before Rowland and his gunship arrive," she muttered.
An hour later, the Crossed Swords was docked, locked and ready to stock provisions for the journey into the Eddy's backwaters.
"I'll go," Altman offered. "I know where we can get the best deals."
Chels said, "We go together. I need to find out where Pious has gone. If anything happens to you, I need to know what you know." She also wanted to ensure Altman kept his word and stayed sober.
"Let's move. Sooner begun, sooner done."
Chels followed him out.
The Eddy shipyard was a tangle of connection cylinders and spherical joints, evolved since her last visit. Once she had the changed layout pictured, she memorized the path they took to Prospector Supplies and Stores.
The array of shopfronts here dwarfed the market alleys on Slate's Progress.
"This has grown since I mined." She noted 'Sale' and 'Bargain' signs everywhere.
"They keep saying business declines but Denz's Schoenfeldium strike created a new high." Altman walked past the promises of 'No better deals to be had' and turned down an unlit side corridor.
` "Aren't we buying back there?"
"We would be if we were green to the Eddy." Altman leaned close and winked. "I know a guy."
Altman's guy was an ancient spacer, eyes bloodshot and the veins in his inflated nose a bright match. Too many jumps and too many impairing pharms to do anything else.
"Hey Rory. I need a month package."
"Geezus, Altman. Thought you'd given it up. Saw your ship being carved up for scrap. Bought the spectral analyser myself. Want to buy it back?" Rory cast a rheumy glance toward Chels the whole time he spoke.
"Naw, just the nav'cube I left. Keep the analyser for me until I get back, if you would. Add five percent to the bill to remove it from your shelf for three months."
"Who's your friend?"
"I'm Chels." She gave him the spacer handslide. "Pleased to meet you, Rory."
"I'll hold it for free if you and the lady would join me for a drink or two at Eddie's Dive tonight."
"Rain check," said Chels before Altman could respond. "We need to roll."
"The package?" reminded Altman. He wrote a code on Rory's status board. "Here's our slip. Have it there in an hour." He nodded to Chels.
She unrolled her credit stash and peeled notes until Altman stopped her.
"Thanks Rory. Anything going on?"
"Heard the Confluence is on its way."
Chels answered. "Some of them are already here. You can have that info gratis. We barnacled with a navy cruiser from Slate's. It's standing off but it's here to evaluate the accord. No Realm frigates in 'yard?"
Rory shook his head. Strands of unwashed hair brushed his face. He ran a hand on both sides of his head, pulling them behind his copious ears. "The Confluence won't hold target practice here."
"What about a missionary ship. Penance. Know it?"
"I might. Friends of yours?"
"Colleagues."
Altman had moved away from the pair, examining various barter goods on the shelves of Rory's shop.
Rory pulled out a stack of flimsies from under his counter. "What was the name? Announce?"
"Penance. As is why you're here and not spacing any more."
He laughed. "I'm doing that all right. Paying for my sins. And girl, I wouldn't take back one sin to leave this place. My memories are intact and full of guilt."
"The best kind for a spacer."
It was the right thing to say and he soon tugged a yellowed sheet from the wad. "Penance. Left seventeen, no eighteen, shifts ago. Just under a week, 'yard time."
"Bound where?"
"Manifest would be logged with 'yard master. I can get it for you and deliver it with the supplies." He looked to her belt where her cash had retreated.
Chels peeled off a generous portion as Altman returned.
He put a hand on Rory's fist full of Chels' funds. "That should be enough for your information and a bonus to keep our intel to yourself."
"You got it," said Rory. "For a month I keep quiet."
"Fair enough." Altman released his grip. "Don't forget to wipe our slip code after delivery."
They stood in the narrow, dim passage outsider Rory's shop and hearing.
"Anything else you need to know?" Altman asked.
"If you buddy's telling us the honest, then no. Is there a way we can confirm his timetable about Penance?"
"His intel is solid."
"Then let's head back to the ship."
"We could nip down to Eddie's Dive for a jolt of his finest."
"We'll grab a half sphere to calm you down. And we take it with us."
Three hours and two Altman shots later, The Crossed Swords slid free from the 'yard and began her journey to one of the many eddies within The Eddy.
*
Admiral Rowland watched the screen. "They're pulling out. Any navlog from the yard master?"
The Neptune's communication officer shook his head. "The Crossed Swords' registered astrogation plan is vague. These outposts don't get all worked up about details. Some prospector goes missing, doesn't return to station, it's considered a trade risk. I could invoke your status to demand information they likely don't have."
"Until the Rickover arrives, Lieutenant Cappis, I'm not here. We'll rely on what you can find. Any hints at all?"
Cappis nodded. "I've got one clue. A delivery ticket from stores to the Crossed Swords ten hours ago. Judging by mass and size, enough food and water to provision two for three to five weeks."
Rowland watched the light trace on the screen. "They have a specific destination a week to two weeks distant. Allowing time for exploration there, I'd guess on the lower end. Is the transponder working?"
A short-short-long ping sounded from his screen. We can track them at a distance outside their normal detection range. Do we follow?"
"Not yet," Rowland replied. "Deploy a relay drone. We'll remain here until the Rickover arrives. Or until the Crossed Swords stays in one locale for more than two days. Then we'll send a recon ship to see what they've found."
"You sure about them, sir? She could be going back to her previous career. Slate's partner, I mean."
"No. Slate and Chels are a permanent couple. She wouldn't leave Progress without a strong reason. Doubled on that, the fact Slate told me she's jump-shy. Pathologically so. My radar's up." He turned to Cappis. "I won't chase them on a hunch. Wait until they find what I suspect they seek. Then we'll move in and expropriate."
He watched the Crossed Swords' signal track away on the holo view. "Keep me apprised of their progress. Any stops, any communications or rendezvous with other ships. But don't reveal our presence. The Confluence's future may ride on this seemingly insignificant craft and crew." Not just the Confluence's future, Rowland thought, but his as well.
*