DAYS OF COMMOTION AND disarray. Mr Dakko emerged from the fish, eyes firmly shut, yet already pondering his new business opportunities. He’d made me promise a complete list of pictographs by the next day. I would have my work cut out.
Scanlen and McEwan made their arrangements to go aloft. Meanwhile, Mr Branstead took the first shuttle groundside, where he began his struggle to bring order out of chaos.
The six sacrificed fish had settled on a sandy Venturas beach, where, one by one, their colors ceased to flow. After their deaths, for safety’s sake, a volunteer squad used incendiaries to sterilize the nearby shoreline.
No outriders were found.
Henry Winthrop led the expedition that arrested Vince Palabee at his lodge.
I got an hour on the caller to Judy.
Mr Dakko followed Jerence groundside, secure in his pardon.
Hope Nation’s principal salt mine was in the Ventura foothills. Within four days the first cargo vessel lifted to the Station.
Ms Frand released Tolliver, who’d reluctantly given his parole. Mik and Tad Anselm refused, until Fath spoke sharply to them by caller. All three retained their rank and status, but were relieved of all duties. I assumed Fath would manage to get them reinstated, one way or another.
I assured the big outrider that his salt was on its way. With his agreement—he said nothing that I interpreted as an objection—Fath and I withdrew to the Station, by way of Tommy Yost and Olympiad’s launch. Ms Frand grudgingly left it with us, in case we had further need to visit the aliens.
The squadron of fish rejoined their leader, but stayed well clear of Olympiad. It was somewhat startling to glance out a Station porthole and see an enemy fleet standing calmly by, which I’d only seen before in holos of the war.
At the Station, standard grav and hot showers were an unimaginable pleasure.
Fath bunked privately with Ms Sloan. I was exiled to a cabin nearby. That was fine with me. Corporal punishment of joeykids is barbaric and cruel, especially as Fath administered it shortly after we docked. Despite my pleas, he made no allowance for Mr Tolliver’s recent caning. If I hadn’t deserved it so thoroughly, I’d have hated him more. As it was, for the first day or so I barely spoke to him. Adults snicker about joeykids having to eat standing up, but I didn’t find it funny. Morose, I browsed the Station’s library of chips, found the whole lot of them boring, ended up perusing Fath’s frazzing Bible in my bed.
At least the Station medic was able to disconnect my ruined prosth. I hadn’t known it was replaceable at the elbow. To my dismay, Dr Romez sent over a duplicate, and Fath made me let the techs install it. I didn’t dare object; he was keeping me on a very short leash. In a moment of petulance I’d shown less than perfect courtesy to a Station tech, and Fath had taken me by the scruff of the neck and … I still blushed when I thought of it. Later I’d suggested he let me return to Olympiad but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Not without a keeper, joey. Even then, you’re best stuffed in a clothes locker and let out for meals.”
“But—”
“Twelve verses.”
I’d let it drop.
At last, a great day came. Bishop Scanlen passed through the Station on his way to Olympiad. I begged Fath to let me watch. I wouldn’t have sneered. Not where anyone but Scanlen could have seen. Fath, of course, would have none of it.
The next day “Governor” McEwan, the Terran Ambassador, came through the lock, enough luggage in tow to fill a cargo hold. He must not have anticipated a triumphant return on the next starship.
Fath and I visited our host fish, One-Arm, to make sure the aliens remained content. Midshipman Yost piloted the launch with excruciating care. He was rather nervous; I couldn’t tell if he was worried about showing lack of skill, or afraid of such proximity to the aliens. It prompted me to a breezy nonchalance in the airlock that faded as we neared the pulsating fish.
Outriders emerged to escort us. For a moment or two, as one enveloped me, I felt Mr Dakko’s distaste.
But within, all was well. A token consignment of salt was to be delivered shortly. Fath had the idea of inviting an outrider aboard the Station to observe. No one considered how he’d get there; I doubted Ms Frand would allow the alien into the launch. I was quite sure Yost would abandon ship rather than pilot him. But Fath, in a moment of pique, had told me to keep silent. I did.
When we returned, Fath proposed to send Corrine home to Olympiad. I suspected he didn’t want her close to an alien in a vessel he didn’t control. As Orbit Station was built from one of the Navy’s obsolete ships, it was quite small compared to Olympiad. If trouble developed, there were fewer places to flee.
But Ms Sloan wouldn’t hear of it. “Not unless they carry me. And I warn you, I’ll bite and scratch.”
“But it’s your only chance. When a ship returns with a writ from the Church …”
“I’ll have had three years with you. Randy, wouldn’t you like to visit the lounge?”
“Not really, I—uh, yes, ma’am.” I made my escape.
Later, I asked Fath, “Why don’t you make her go?”
“Because I’m selfish. Someday, you’ll understand.”
“I’m not a child.”
He snorted. Then, “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll supervise the salt transfer.”
“We?”
“You still speak more fluently than I.” He’d been studying the same list of pictographs I’d given Mr Dakko.
“You’d trust me not to take over the negotiations?”
He set down his holo. “At times,” he said, “I find your manner tiresome.”
I had the grace to blush. And the wisdom to shut my mouth.
I needn’t have worried about how we’d bring across the outrider. His fish brought him. It drifted ever closer to the Station, until it was but a few meters distant. I wished I’d been in the control center; Colonel Kaminski must be beside himself.
I was glued to a porthole, watching. The fish’s skin swirled, grew indistinct. An outrider squeezed through. I shook my head, wondering how they did it. As far as I’d been able to tell, the fish had no loss of pressure when the membrane opened.
The outrider launched itself toward the Station hull. Fath confirmed his arrangements with Colonel Kaminski, and hurried to the airlock nearest the alien.
The outrider came aboard.
I wasn’t about to tell Fath, but I did wonder whether this was one of his better ideas. “To normalize relations,” he’d said, but outriders had been known to carry viruses. True, Fath and I and Mr Dakko had tested clean when we’d gone through the station’s decon after our session in the fish.
Colonel Kaminski, rallying, sent Centraltown and Olympiad encouraging bulletins of the outrider’s visit, and Fath even posed with the alien before the holocams. He loathed publicity; I’d never realized how important it was to him that relations start off well.
“Big ship no-Fuse, no-go,” was how we’d originally described the Station, before assigning the phrase a symbol. Fath showed the alien around, though I suspected the Station’s maze of corridors made as much sense to the outrider as the fish’s membranes did to me.
“Tell him more salt will be here soon,” Fath ordered, and dutifully, I did. In fact, a cargo shuttle was even now making its way to the Station.
But the first vessel that docked was a launch from Olympiad.
We left the outrider a tub of nutrients—hospitality was an important tradition to nourish—before we passed into the next section to greet our visitors. Familiar figures strode down the Station corridor: Mikhael Tamarov, holding Janey’s hand. Behind them, Midshipman Yost shouldered an overstuffed duffel. Janey broke loose, hurled herself at Fath.
Mik’s eyes were sunken. He snapped a salute, but Fath waved it away, pulled him close.
“Pa, I thought of resigning, but—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“When we get home, I’ll get in touch with Philip. He and Senator Boland will help—”
“Yes, son, do that. But for the cruise home, exemplary conduct. Don’t give them excuse to—”
“Tad Anselm’s waiting for a chance to relieve Frand. What goes around comes—”
Fath gripped his arm so tightly that Mik winced. “Under no circumstances! Make him understand they’ll hang him. Naval politics has become about as ugly as …” He shook his head. “Mik, his life is in your hands.”
“I’ll try, Pa.” Mik’s tone was sober. He searched Fath’s eyes. “Three years, home and back. God, I’ll miss you.”
Fath smiled. “You’ll be nearly grown.”
Mik was twenty, but took the jibe without annoyance.
“Why’d you come, son?”
“I have your gear, but mostly to bring Janey. Since you and Corrine are here …”
“Of course. I was going to make arrangements with Ms Frand.”
“She said it had to be now.”
Fath looked pensive. “Oh, did she?”
“Yes, sir.” Mik looked over his shoulder. “You. Come here.”
“Me?” My voice squeaked. Tentatively, I eased within his range.
He swept me into a rib-cracking hug. “I’ll miss you. Take care of Pa.” It was a whisper.
“I’ll try—no. He takes care of me.” Trying to take care of Fath had gotten me in most of the trouble I’d landed in.
“Please, Randy. Don’t fight him.”
That I could promise, and did.
Mik said to Fath, “I have to go, sir. Ms Frand wants her launch.”
“What’s her hurry?”
“We’ll be sailing to Fusion safety.”
“Hmm. Very well, you two. Get going.”
“I’m staying.” Tommy Yost looked sheepish. “Mr Tamarov pilots home. I mean, to Olympiad.”
Fath raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Yost shifted from foot to foot. “It’s … well… I asked for transfer to Admiralty, sir.”
“There won’t be another ship for ages.”
“I know, but …” His eyes darted to Mikhael. “Sir, is it all right to say?”
Mik nodded.
“I didn’t want to be part of it. Removing you, sir. Besides, Scanlen and that fraz Pandeker march about as if they own the ship. Ms Frand doesn’t lift a finger.”
Fath said nothing; he couldn’t very well criticize Olympiad’s new Captain before a mere middy.
Mik stirred. “Sir, I’d better be going. Good luck, Mr Yost.”
We saw him to the airlock.
Tommy Yost said hesitantly, “Should I report to the Commandant for transport?”
“I’ll arrange it,” said Fath. “There’s a cargo shuttle due shortly. I’m sure they’ll let you hitch a ride down.” He checked his watch. “I’d best get back to the outrider. Randy, take Janey to Corrine, would you? Mr Yost, you’d best stay clear of our visitor. Go with Randy.”
As Janey and I started off, hand in hand, the middy fell in beside me. “Was it scary?”
I blinked. “The fish? Worse.”
“Ms Frand was livid when you told her off.”
“Good.”
Yost said hesitantly, “Mr Carr …”
“Randy. I’m not even ship’s boy now.” With a pang, I realized I missed it.
“I’m sorry, how I spoke to you.”
I searched my memory. Since Yost and I had quarreled, the fate of species had been decided. It didn’t matter a whit, and I told him so.
Janey was ecstatic to see her mother. We headed back. I settled Yost in the corridor, passed through the hatch to the outrider’s section.
“What do you think, shall we take our friend for a tour?” Fath sounded almost jovial.
“We already did.”
“Just a couple of bays, and the remains of the fusion chamber.”
I argued against it, but Fath wasn’t really listening. However, before he could throw terror into the Station techs, the cargo shuttle came to dock. We took the alien instead to section five, at whose lock it would moor.
The speaker crackled. “Captain Seafort, Comm Room. Incoming message.”
Fath set the caller to no-hands, so as not to turn his back on the alien.
“Olympiad to Station. Right Reverend Scanlen will speak to Captain Seafort.”
“I’m here. Go ahead.”
“We’ll be Fusing shortly. Sorry you couldn’t be with us.” The Bishop’s tone was sweet. “But you’re better off among your Satanic allies.”
Disgusted, I stared through the porthole. A fat, stubby shuttle was mating at the bay.
“Does your call have a purpose?” Fath’s tone was acid.
“Never duel in minutiae with the Church, Seafort, we’re past masters at the game. I said I’d leave: I did. I said we’d present your treaty: I will. I’ve kept my sworn word to the letter.” Scanlen sounded gleeful. “McEwan and I will present your cursed treaty to the Assembly. Eventually you, or Branstead, or Dakko, or another of your cohorts, will come chasing after, but far, far too late.”
An alarm chimed. The shuttle was mated.
The outrider quivered.
“In today’s distracted world, first word is all, and we’ll have nearly three years to work our will before you get home. It’s McEwan and I who’ll frame the debate and sculpt the issues for the vids. We’re masters at that too. We’ll cast your treaty in the light it deserves. By the time we’re done, not a soul will give you a moment’s hearing.”
“Why?”
“Seafort, you tweaked the Church over and again, here and on Earth. Did you think our patience infinite? Retribution is nigh.”
“You’d destroy a race for revenge?”
“Forget about trade; your precious fish are dead, or will be. We will war against them with all our Godly might, until Satan is vanquished. And know that the Navy will return, in its glory, to subdue the colonial heretics who overthrow Mother Church. Hope Nation is ours, and will remain so. Or perhaps you think your cause will prevail because it’s just?”
Fath’s eyes were pained. “Is that so unreasonable, Bishop?”
The lock panel flashed green. The inner hatch slid open. Lieutenant Alon Riev sauntered through, duffel over his shoulder. When he saw Fath, he threw a laconic salute, which Fath didn’t bother to return.
Scanlen’s tone was savage. “You forget: we have first word. You’re excommunicate and damned Nicholas Seafort, and will suffer far more pain than I could ever inflict, but I’ll do my bit for Lord God.”
“Bishop—”
The line went dead.
Fath stared at the bulkhead. My fists knotted, I glared at the starship’s distant lights.
Lieutenant Riev cleared his throat. “I’m to take a launch to Olympiad. From the next lock.”
“Very well.” Fath’s tone was indifferent.
Riev eyed the outrider. “Is that their chief?” As Fath was pointedly ignoring him, his question was to me.
I ought to snub him, but in Fath’s presence, I didn’t dare.
You’re fourteen, joey, but when you act ten, you’ll be treated as ten. Yes, sir.
“I think so,” I told Riev, but I realized I hadn’t bothered to inquire. Belatedly, I studied the alien. Was our visitor the big outrider? No way to tell, really. Shapechangers had no defining shape. Their skins all swirled, they all quivered when anxious, and skittered about unexpectedly.
The outrider settled on a deck plate, and wrote.
“I have something for him,” Riev said, reaching into his duffel. “A gift from the people of Centraltown.”
“Ask first.” My tone was urgent. Lord God knew how the alien would react to a surprise. “Fath, Captain Seafort, should he—”
Riev pulled his gift from his duffel. “Actually, it’s from Right Reverend Scanlen. And the deacons of our blessed Church.”
“LIEUTENANT, NO!” Fath.
Riev’s laser was fully charged. The outrider watched, twitching, as Riev aimed.
Fath was caught in mid-corridor, too far to lunge at the pistol. Belatedly, I came alive. Both arms, prosth and real, clawed at Riev’s wrist. His left hand thumped into my chest, holding me at bay.
“Why, Alon?” Fath’s voice was agonized.
“He’s Satan’s spawn! Your treaty won’t survive a death. And you don’t deserve to win!”
I struggled to throttle him. No use; Riev’s arms were longer than mine, his strength far greater.
“Call off your midget, before I kill him.”
“Randy, back!” Fath’s tone brooked no refusal.
The laser light shone steadily on my nose. Cursing nonstop, I gave up the unequal struggle.
“Why not kill me too?” Fath had edged closer.
“I ought to, you self-serving hack! This demon’s death—” His laser flicked to the outrider, and back. “—will earn me a medal. For your death, they’d hang me. You’re not worth it.”
“Leave him be. I’ll do anything in my power to—” Another step.
“Thank the Lord, you have no power.” Riev’s first shot splattered the alien against the bulkhead.
Fath lunged; Riev clubbed him to the deck. Coolly, he aimed continuous fire at the outrider, until nothing was left but a sizzling blob. “As your whore did to High Bishop Andori.” His tone was vitriolic. “Back away, joey!”
I did.
Riev snatched up his duffel, raced down the corridor to the adjoining airlock.
“Fath, are you—”
He shoved me aside. “That fool!” He leaped for the caller. “Station alert! Close hatches! Don’t let Riev—”
Too late. Lieutenant Riev had already dived through.
Alarms wailed. Footsteps thudded. Fath wiped a trickle of blood from his forehead. He looked stricken.
“Station, launch N109 departing Bay 3.”
I gabbled, “Have a seat, sir. Away from that acid. In fact, let’s get out of this corridor. You’ll be all right once—”
“Departure Control to Launch, negative, do NOT depart—”
“I’m all right now! God, Randy, how could I have been so blind!”
“You?” I gaped.
“Commencing breakaway.” Riev’s voice was cool.
“To let him anywhere near …”
I said, “How could you know he’d—”
“He was the Bishop’s man, even helped them cow Kenzig. Never missed a religious service on ship. Nagged the middies about their souls; I put a stop to it on the trip out. Now he waltzes into the alien’s corridor and I do nothing. Seafort, you idiot!”
“Fath, the Station lasers! Tell Kaminski, he’ll shoot him before he escapes!”
“Riev’s on a launch, not a shuttle. He’s making for Olympiad.” Of course. Launches weren’t atmospheric vehicles. And the only other ships about were fish.
Wearily, rubbing his scalp, Fath strode to the caller, paged the Colonel. “Mr Kaminski, declare an emergency. Send a decon team to section …” He squinted. “… five. The corridor needs full treatment; we need hosedown and showers. Keep radar watch on the launch; if it doubles back, arrest Riev. Connect me to Olympiad.”
A series of clicks. “Comm Room, I need Ms Frand, flank.” Fath clenched and unclenched a fist.
I stared at the gruesome remains. All for naught. My devious machinations, the fears I’d overcome, Fath’s fury. It would all swirl down the drain of war. Riev had capped the Bishop’s machinations with outright atrocity.
The caller clicked.
“Sarah?”
“I’m CAPTAIN Frand.” Her tone was disapproving.
Fath stared at the caller as if it had bitten his hand. He shook himself. “Riev is about to dock. He met the alien observer, pulled a laser pistol, and killed him. Consider him armed and dangerous.”
Ms Frand’s tone was cool. “What do you propose I do?”
“Arrest him!”
“On what charge?”
Fath spluttered. “Are you daft? He killed the outrider!”
“Yes, quite. Last I reviewed Naval regs, it was no crime to destroy the enemy.”
“Ms Frand, for God’s sake!”
“Precisely.”
Stunned silence.
“He clubbed me. Does that count?”
“I’ll look into it, Mr Seafort. “The line went dead.
I stared at the deck. Amid the smoking mess, the alien’s last etching. SALT HUMAN HERE?
Yeah. The salt of the earth.
The corridor hatch slid open. Suited Station hands clumped toward the smoking remains, spray gear in hand.
A stocky joey approached. “Captain?” His voice was muffled through his helmet.
“Colonel, I …” After a moment, Fath shook his head.
“Yes, a disaster.” Kaminski’s tone held sympathy.
Fath demanded, “What’s come over Sarah?”
“Scanlen’s gone aboard. And there’s that Pandeker joey.” Their eyes met. “She’s putty in their hands.”
“Not until this moment,” Fath said heavily, “did I think I could disapprove of devotion to the Church.”
Kaminski cleared his throat. “That’s as may be, sir. I’ve taken the Station to full alert. What next?”
“Oh, God. What next.” It was statement, not question. “Put my son through Class A decon.”
“And you?”
Fath peered into a suit locker. “I’ll need that thrustersuit.”
“Why?” Kaminski and I spoke as one.
“I have a … journey to …” He left it at that. “Colonel—” He clapped my shoulder. “—I know this joey well. He’ll try … I hold you responsible. He’s not to follow me. Keep him on Station, if you have to lock him in a cabin.”
“Fath!”
“If things go wrong, tell Jerence Branstead I knew what I was doing. And get Randy to Olympiad. Mik will take care …”
No. Not this.
Fath worked his way into the suit.
Behind us, crewmen hosed the deck.
Fath offered me an apologetic shrug. “Someone has to … tell them. Avert war, however it may be done.”
Kaminski said vehemently, “Don’t sacrifice yourself!”
“That’s not my intention.”
“Liar.” My lips formed the word, but I didn’t say it aloud.
“Son, do we have a word for ‘sorry’?” He checked his clamps.
“No, sir.”
“For ‘reparation,’ or …” He gave it up. “I’ll play with ‘die’ and ‘equals.’”
“Let me help; I know all the symbols and how they—”
“Not this time.” Helmet under his arm, he leaned forward, planted a kiss on my forehead. “Fare thee well.”
“You can’t go, I won’t—”
Suited hands closed around my arms, tugged me inexorably toward the decon station.
“Wait, I have to see …”
Fath plodded to an empty lock. “Kaminski, I entreat you. Don’t fire on them. Not unless …” His eyes were grim. “Only to save your lives.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Captain Seafort trudged into the airlock. In a moment, it began to cycle.
Kaminski’s thugs dragged me toward decon.
The panel blinked red. The outer hatch opened.
I kicked out, caught my guard in the shin, broke free. I dashed to the nearest porthole. “No, please let me look! Give me a second more—” I clawed, bit, twisted this way and that. “I’m begging—”
“Let him watch.” Kaminski’s voice was soft.
I pressed my nose to the transplex.
Fath emerged from the lock, into the unforgiving vacuum.
“You don’t have to go, there’s still time—”
He kicked off. As soon as he was clear he squirted his thrusters, headed straight for our host fish.
“I know the pictographs, I wrote half of them—”
With graceful skill he brought himself to a standstill a meter or so from the fish’s swirling skin.
“You leave me and find me, leave me and—”
An outrider emerged from the fish. It enveloped my father, all but his feet, took him inside the fish.
I stiffened. “The suit! It had only one air tank!”
They dragged me toward decon.
“Come along, son.” Kaminski’s voice was soft. “That’s all he’ll need.”
Decon. Stinging chemical showers, blood draws, needles.
Fresh clothes that didn’t reek.
Hot chocolate in a steaming mug, untouched.
Murmurs. Solicitous voices urging me to rest.
A cabin.
I curled in my bunk, slipped a Bible chip into my holovid. Twelve verses, Fath had given me, and I’d never complied. I’d show him. I’d learn thirty.
An hour or more had passed, and I could no longer bear the solitude. I burst out of my hatch. In minutes, I was settled at a corridor porthole. Outside, the fish floated silently.
A few hundred meters beyond, there drifted scores more aliens. Some three hundred of them.
“Randy?” Corrine Sloan, her voice soft.
I looked up, said nothing.
“None of us can stop him.” She knelt, her eyes glistening. “God help us, we’ve tried. Tolliver, you, me, Arlene, Derek … there, rest your head. Let it out.”
No, that would be too easy. With a struggle, I mastered myself. For Fath’s sake, I spoke with care. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone.”
By the time I realized my cruelty, she was gone.
I sat brooding.
A flurry of activity. Outriders emerged, launched themselves at their compatriots. A dozen or so of the fish pulsed, blinked out. The others began a slow, ominous drift toward the Station.
I braced for Colonel Kaminski’s call to General Quarters, but it never came.
After a time, the corridor lights darkened to nominal night.
Massaging the ache in my neck, I trudged, unheeding, through corridors and passageways, up and down ladders.
The huge holoscreen in the Station’s comm room had a view of the fish. Unbidden, I watched from the hatchway.
A steady voice, so steady it had to be a puter loop. “Mr Seafort, please respond to Station. Mr Seafort, please respond to—”
After a time my calves knotted. I sat.
Eons passed.
“Here he comes!”
I bolted upright.
“Colonel, Comm Room, watch your screen!”
In the holoscreen, the fish floated alongside as before. A membrane was open in its side. Through it emerged a suit.
Thank Heaven.
“Focus tight.”
The view lurched, zoomed in.
I made a ghastly sound.
The suit was empty.
“Where’s Fath?” I grabbed the nearest tech. “WHERE?”
“Still inside.”
I recoiled. “They digested him?”
No answer.
I ran, Lord God knew where. After a time I found myself belowdecks near the machine shop, pounding a bulkhead.
Joey, this won’t do.
I trudged back to the comm room.
Morning found me curled in a console chair. If some hushed voice had murmured into the caller seeking permission for my vigil, I’d paid no heed.
“Breakfast, joey.” Hot cereal, in a tray.
“Thanks.” My voice was rusty. I tried again. “Thank you.”
The fish drifted in space, surrounded by its fellows. On another screen, Olympiad floated unmolested.
I asked, “How many hours?”
“Thirteen.”
Far too long.
“Mr Carr?”
I peered up. Colonel Kaminski, unshaven. I met his gaze.
“Let me take you to your cabin.”
I gripped the chair, as if they’d try to haul me out of it. “No.”
“Son, I know you’re—”
“I won’t let you call me that.”
He hesitated. “Look, joey, you need sleep. I promise we’ll call if—”
“Colonel, incoming traffic. The Manse.”
Kaminski frowned at the interruption. “Very well, I’ll take it here.” He listened. “Ah, Stadholder Bran—all right, then. Jerence. No, he’s …” A glance my way. “… visiting the fish. Not yet. We still hope—yes, right here.” A pause. “I could ask, but the SecGen’s last—his instructions were to put him on Olympiad.” He covered the caller. “Would you care to go groundside, wait with Mr Branstead? He says—”
“No.” Wait, Fath wouldn’t care for that. “I meant ‘No, sir.’ And thank him, please.”
I would do for myself what Fath had demanded. Too bad he wouldn’t be here to—
Not yet, Randy. Time for that later.
Lunchtime came and went. I might have been hungry, decided it didn’t matter. After a while the warm leather seat became unbearable. I walked, but the corridors were excruciatingly empty, sublimely boring. None of the portholes had seats where a joey could scan verses in his holovid when he grew weary of staring into space.
Back to the comm room. I rubbed the ache in my spine, and stared endlessly at the holoscreen.
Alarms chimed. I snapped awake.
More fish were Fusing in.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
More than a few joined the flotilla around the Station. Others floated toward Olympiad.
Outriders flowed back and forth.
The comm room came alive with traffic. Olympiad calling the Manse, personal for Stadholder Branstead. Station to Olympiad. Venturas Base to Station. Chris Dakko to Colonel Kaminski, on open circuit: “Do you think, if we gave them the salt …?”
“No point. With Seafort dead, the treaty’s a board of blown chips.”
“Is he … have they …”
“No body yet. We’re keeping watch. Christ, the boy’s probably listen—” The line went dead.
An hour later, Olympiad sailed toward Fusion safety. On the screen, her lights slowly receded until they were as dim as the uncaring stars. The fish, left behind, returned to the flotilla. I marveled that they hadn’t gone for her tubes. Was it a sign of hope?
Minutes were eons, hours beyond the scope of comprehension. I walked. I slumped in chairs and jerked awake at the slightest sound.
“Come along, Randy.”
I peered sleepily. Tommy Yost.
“I’ll take you to your cabin.” He overrode my protest, guided me along the corridor.
Fath deserved more than he’d had. A monument, a grave, as future generations might contemplate the man who nearly saved them from themselves.
The fish, our enemy, would never give him back. Not for the asking.
Abruptly I dug in my heels. “No. Somewhere else.” What I contemplated made my stomach queasy. Mik. Corrine. Janey. They, at least, would appreciate what I would do.
Yost was waiting. “Where, Randy?”
I told him.
“I can’t.” He glanced about, though we were alone, and spoke softly.
I said, “Please.”
“The Admiral will have my … this is dismissal, joey.”
“This is Nicholas Ewing Seafort.” I held his gaze. Fath. The man who’d discovered the fish, fought them, served as Commandant of Academy, cleared the starlanes of fish at terrible cost to humans and aliens alike. The SecGen. The man who …
I had no need to say it. Tommy knew.
A sigh. “Scanlen was insufferable, but I never meant to forfeit my career.” He poked me. “Let’s go.”
I led him to the machine shop. Yost signed out an etching tool, and a couple of scrap sheets of alumalloy. I thought his excuse was weak, that he wanted to practice pictographs with me just in case … but he was an officer. People saw him as adult. I was but a joeykid.
Yost watched me write out the message. “You understand that folderol?”
I snorted. “Understand? I invented it.” For a moment, a glow of pride. Then I recalled why the plate was before us.
I handed him the tool. “Better return it, before someone comes looking.”
“While I’m below, locate a gig.”
The Station moored a handful of gigs, Tommy had told me, small craft seating six at most. It even had a launch of its own. And shuttles, of course, when they weren’t groundside.
The problem wasn’t the craft. Nobody bothered to lock a gig; where would one go with it? Ships called only twice a year, and only the shuttles could traverse Hope Nation’s atmosphere. Besides, locked craft would be useless for emergency evacuations.
But the Station was at a high state of alert, thanks to the menacing fish. We couldn’t just stroll through the lock, could we? Alarms would sound. Nervous techs would train their lasers. My shirt grew damp.
“Ready.”
I jumped.
Tommy frowned. “Where?”
I blushed. “I didn’t look.”
Lugging the plate, I let him take me on an absurd stroll through the Station, glancing out portholes. We found three possible craft.
I whispered, “Would they be fueled?”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
We settled on a gig at a Level 2 lock. There weren’t any service posts near—Comm Room, dining hall, or the like—and the corridor was, for the most part, deserted.
Yost peered into a nearby suit locker. “No thrustersuits.”
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t really need one.”
He said, “I might, if they eat the gig.”
Before putting on his helmet, Tommy awkwardly got down on his knees. He closed his eyes, and his lips moved.
I waited.
“Amen.” He struggled to his feet.
“What did you ask for?” A stupid question, born only of curiosity. It was none of my business.
His ears went red. “Courage.”
Christ, what was I doing? “You don’t have to go.”
“You can’t steer a—”
I said, “We’ll call it off.”
“For my sake?”
I nodded.
A long exhalation. “Thanks. But …” He handed me my suit. “I’m tired of comparing myself to you and Ghent.”
I worked my way into the suit.
I’ll say one thing for my prosth: thanks to the nerve grafts, I had nothing to learn. I just used my hand as if it were my own. It looked weird enough, but it sure beat climbing into a suit one-handed.
I sighed. Maybe Fath had been right.
In the end, it was as simple as cycling through the lock. The gig was waiting, and powered up without a hitch. A tiny craft indeed, it had a small lock, six seats divided by a narrow aisle, and a control panel for the pilot. No cockpit. No head.
Tommy strapped himself in, began breakaway.
A clean getaway.
But the moment I clicked on my radio …
“Randy, what are you doing?” Kaminski himself. His tone held no anger, only worry.
“Going out, sir. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” At any rate, Tommy would.
“I promised Mr Seafort!” Anguish. “Come back, joey. Please!”
“On his behalf, I absolve you.” I giggled. “I suppose I’m his heir.”
“Son …” Perhaps he forgot that he wasn’t to call me that. “You’ll get us killed if you rile the fish.”
“That’s the last thing I intend.” For a moment I switched off the radio. “Hurry, Tommy, before they think of something.”
“We’re clear. I’m trying not to damage the Station.” Slowly, we glided away.
“Easy, Tommy, it’s that close one. No need to—”
“I know.” Already he was braking. I keyed the suit radio.
“Why, Randy? What’s the purpose?”
“To retrieve Fath.”
Tommy took me as near to the fish as he dared.
I swam to the lock, gripped a stanchion at the outer hatch, grateful for my working left arm. “Open, please.”
I gave the plate a last look: “Trade one-arm human / dead big-human.”
It was all I had that they might want.
Carefully, I released the plate, tapped it gently. It floated toward the fish. Surely they’d sense it, take it in. “Tommy, the moment I’m gone, sail the gig as fast as you—”
A membrane swirled. An outrider emerged, clung to the skin. The plate bumped it. An appendage shot out, snagged it.
Protoplasm rippled across the plate, read it, wiped it clean.
“Oh, no!”
The outrider launched itself. Straight for the gig.
I formed words: Tommy, go! But I said nothing. Heart thumping against my suit, I braced myself in the hatchway. At the last minute, I had the sense to duck aside.
“Laser room, prepare to fire on—”
I blurted, “Wait, sir!”
The outrider sailed past me, came to rest against the inner hatch. It quivered.
I waited for oblivion. At length, wondering, I turned my head.
Outside the fish, another outrider, absurdly large. No, it was wrapped about …
A suit. An ancient suit. The holos hadn’t shown that style in years. Decades.
“Not Philip Tyre, I beg you. I couldn’t stand it.” Foul bile flooded my throat.
“What, Randy?” Yost.
Desperately, I swallowed. “Nothing.”
The outrider oozed off the suit, launched himself and it. Together, they floated to our lock.
The first outrider loomed over me. It exuded my plate.
A sizzle.
After a time, it abandoned the plate, reconstituted itself at the hatch, quivered once, and launched itself home.
The second outrider propelled the suit toward our inner lock.
I didn’t dare cycle, not with him aboard. I could risk myself, but Tommy …
I peered at the plate.
A long message.
SALT IN HUMANS. SALT IN OUTRIDER. NO-WAR HUMAN / OUTRIDER.
I blinked. “What the fu—” I stopped myself at the last moment.
The outrider extended an appendage. Gray.
It touched my suit.
Not knowing why, I seized it, brought it to my helmet, kissed it through the bubble.
A moment of stillness.
With shocking speed the outrider moved to the hatch, launched itself, and was gone.
Mechanically, I cycled.
SALT IN HUMANS. SALT IN OUTRIDER. NO-WAR HUMAN / OUTRIDER.
It was almost familiar. What could it …
I rubbed my eyes. I was exhausted. If I hadn’t stayed up two nights reading the frazzing Bible, maybe I could think enough to—
“Yost, you hijacker, get him back to the Station!”
“Aye aye, sir, as soon as I get him inside.” The inner hatch slid open. Tommy stumbled over the ancient suit, hauled me past. “Sit there.” He shoved me into a seat. Forgetting we were in zero gee, I tried to balance the plate on my knees.
The arm of the suit blocked the hatch. With a muttered curse, Tommy dragged it to the tiny aisle.
As he let go, the helmet twisted to one side.
I gasped.
It was Fath.
“TOMMY!” Hands made useless by desperate frenzy, I clawed at the clamps.
“Oh, my God!” He knelt, ripped off the helmet.
Fath’s face was gray and lifeless.
Yost spun, snapped my clamps, tore off my own helmet. “Stay with him!” He threw himself at the pilot’s seat. He gunned the engine so hard we shot past our lock.
Please, Sir. I’ll never ask anything else as long as I live. Just this one miracle. Please.
Nothing.
And then Fath breathed.