Dark Beneath the Moon (27 page)

“Pardon me,” Viss interjected in his politest voice, “did you say ‘configured’ wormholes? As in, constructed them?”

The Corvid nodded. “It is not a simple technology to manipulate, and the resource costs are extremely high. We were also fearful that it might fall into Chron hands, as some of our other technology did. But there seemed little choice. We established this station and others, and the attendant guardian asteroid fields, to keep the Chron contained within systems they already controlled.”

“I can’t imagine they were too happy about that,” Hirin said.

“An understatement,” the Corvid agreed with a bob of her head. “It was during this time also that we sent data-collecting drones into your Nearspace, and learned much about your several species. That is why we appear proficient with your language. It is actually being filtered through a database and translated as we speak—but it allows a comfortable semblance of conversation.”

“But it’s been a century and a half since our Chron War,” Baden noted. “Surely you haven’t been holding them off while they hammered away at this system all that time?”

“Fortunately, no. They’ve had other things to concern them in that time, notably a schism in their society between the warlike sects and more peaceful ones—although we have been unable to learn many specifics. That set them back decades.”

“But now?” I asked. “From what we’ve seen, they seem to be on the offensive again. And after so long, why are they apparently breaking through your defenses?”

“They certainly are on the offensive. Despite their setbacks, they have not stood still in the development of technology. They are not content to stay within the systems they currently control. They have become more adept at using algorithms to calculate and navigate a path through the asteroid fields, as well as developing a stealth mechanism so they can sneak through the wormholes.”

“Why not simply destroy the wormholes that lead out of their systems?” Rei asked bluntly. “Cut them off, seal them in, and forget about them?”

Fha’s beak fluttered again in what might have been a Corvid smile. “Destroying wormholes is not as easy as you might think. We can disable them temporarily—you saw that when our ship fired on the renegade Chron who was trying to reach your Nearspace.”

I sat forward. “You mean the damage to that wormhole is temporary?”

She nodded. “In relative terms. It will revert to its previous state naturally, usually within—” she paused, then finished, “three to five of your years.”

My heart sank. Three to five years! PrimeCorp could harm Mother in a matter of days, much less years—if they hadn’t already done so. I shied away from that thought. As for me and my condition—I shuddered, remembering my earlier nosebleed. I was quite certain I’d be dead long before that wormhole was in working order. I forced myself to nod. “I see.”

“So it is a temporary solution, and there is another reason that is more—mysterious,” the Corvid went on. “We cannot explain it, at least not yet. When a wormhole—a naturally occurring one—is disrupted, we have found that another one will soon appear, connecting the same two systems as the original. Its endpoints may be a great distance from the originals, but there it will stay, as stable as the first one was, for as long as it is needed. When the original wormhole is restored, the replacement will, after a time, dissipate. It is as if some fundamental balance in the cosmos must be restored and maintained.”

Hope surged again. “So a new wormhole could open at any time between Nearspace and the system where we were stranded?”

The Corvid nodded gravely. “Yes. But it may be difficult or nearly impossible to find, and there is no way to predict precisely when it will appear.”

I sighed. “
Okej.
So you can’t seal the Chron into their systems. What do you think they’re after now?”

She shrugged. “More of the same, we imagine. They reject all attempts on our part to communicate with them. Their initial forays into this system, and their attempts to break through into others, intensified recently.”

I glanced over at Hirin and caught his eye. He cocked an eyebrow. Had the Protectorate scientists, mucking around on the artifact moon, somehow turned the eyes of the Chron toward Nearspace once again?

“I fear that difficult times may lie ahead for us, and for others,” the Corvid said.

“I’m certain you’ll find the inhabitants of Nearspace to be allies,” I said, “but is there any way to forestall another war before it begins?”

“If there is, we have not been able to find it,” she said. “We cannot indefinitely keep them from leaving their systems, if we cannot destroy the wormholes, and they do not wish to be confined. The only thing that has restrained them this long is the schism in their society—should the two sides reunite with a shared agenda of conquest, or should the warlike Chron find other allies, we would not be able to stop them.”

“Is that likely?” Hirin asked.

Fha raised her shoulders and dropped them in a very human shrug. “We do not know. We have had little contact even with the peaceful ones. They are—mistrustful at best.”

“Which is why you thought we’d be safer staying here,” Viss said.

The Corvid nodded. “We felt obliged to offer you our protection, since it was the actions of one of our ships that severed your means of returning home directly.”

“But we can’t stay here,” I said. “We need to return to Nearspace as quickly as possible. For many reasons, as well as warning others about the impending threat of the Chron.”

“In addition to which, the Captain is ill and needs special medical attention,” Yuskeya added.

I threw her a reproachful frown, but she ignored me.

Fha regarded me with a keen eye. “We have limited knowledge of your physiology, so I am afraid we could be of little assistance in that regard.”

Rei continued my initial thought. “But can you help us get back to Nearspace?” she asked impatiently. “Everything hinges on that, and so far, well, you haven’t been very encouraging in that department.”

The Corvid regarded her unblinkingly. “I cannot get you there,” she said finally. “But I can show you a way. Whether or not you choose to take it is up to you.”

The holographic image of the wormhole that had been suspended above her head disappeared, and a starmap took its place. The configuration was completely unfamiliar to me, and extremely complex, showing numerous systems linked by wormholes. There were more systems than in all of Nearspace, and I felt a sudden insignificance.

A series of three wormhole skips blinked green, and my heart sank.

“Three skips?” Hirin asked, trying, I could tell, to sound optimistic. “That might not be too bad, if the in-system travel times are reasonable. This is the most direct route?”

“It is not the most direct,” the Corvid said, “but slightly less dangerous than the most direct. I still have mixed feelings about the propriety of even offering this as a possibility. Because,” she said, and the middle two systems in the route changed to slowly blink red, “it will take you directly through a sector of Chron space. Which makes it difficult for me to calculate your chances of survival.”

I LET MYSELF
drop into my chair, my hands falling from the screen where I’d been furiously typing all I’d heard over my eavesdropping rig—which consisted of Pita, in my datapad, patched into the bridge comm system.

“
Sankta merde,
Pita, did you hear all that?” I subvocalized into the throat touch mic.

“That they’re going into Chron space? Yeah, I heard it. I can’t believe we went to all that trouble to download me into this thing and bring it aboard, only to end up on a suicide mission.”

I pursed my lips. “I don’t know—we might have a slim chance of survival. Whatever else I might think about Luta Paixon and her crew, they seem to have a knack for getting out of tight situations unscathed.”

“This is not a tight situation.” Pita’s voice sounded dryly amused in my head. “This is a death sentence.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t even die.”

“I
feel
like I can die,” she retorted. “Doesn’t that amount to the same thing?”

I wasn’t interested in getting into an existential argument with my PAREA AI at the moment. “Anyway, that was only part of what I meant. Did you hear them talking about the tech these crow-things have?” I got up from the chair, pacing the small room. It was killing me that I didn’t know yet what the aliens looked like. All I knew was what I’d overheard from the bridge. “Creating and manipulating wormholes? Static asteroid fields? Can you imagine what some of that would bring in Nearspace? Alin Sedmamin, for one, would literally drool on his great big shiny desk if I told him I could get him tech like that.”

“I didn’t hear the crow make any offer to
share
that technology,” Pita observed. “In fact, she sounded fairly annoyed that some of it had fallen into Chron hands in the past.”

“Well, I’m obviously not going to ask them for it. But if the opportunity presents itself—”

“Um, and how exactly do you propose to get your hands on any kind of tech or specs? You’re sort of a prisoner here.
We’re
sort of prisoners here.”

The room was bigger than my sleeping quarters on the
Hunter’s Hope
, but it felt cramped. Even smaller when you tried to pace inside its confines. I didn’t need Pita to remind me of our situation. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d come aboard the
Tane Ikai,
and I was already starting to chafe at the restraint. At least the news about the
Hunter’s Hope
was good—if I could return to claim her before someone else decided she was salvage. But that worry could wait. One problem at a time.

“Our situation could change if you could get access to the ship network,” I reminded her. “I didn’t bring you along for your scintillating conversation.”

Her heavy sigh whistled through my brain. “I’m getting there. I think I’m close. There are always vulnerabilities in every system, I just have to find the right one.”

“Keep at it, then.”

“You’re the boss.”

The trouble was I didn’t feel like the boss. I felt completely at the mercy of Paixon and her crew and these aliens and the whims of fate. Helpless, like in those old nightmares. And I
hated
it.

Shedding my jacket and pushing my chair against the far wall, I moved into the slow, rhythmic movements of a
zelendu
form. It was much harder to concentrate without the smooth, polished wood of a
vazel
staff in my hands, but mine had been left behind on the
Hunter’s Hope
. I chose a form that took only three square feet of floor space, and pulled some of my kicks. Didn’t want to hit a wall and bring someone running to see if I was trying to break out. That thought made me smile. With luck, and Pita’s help, I wouldn’t have to resort to anything so crude. Only halfway through the workout, a knock sounded on the door. I took a quick glance to make sure neither neither Pita nor the room computer would arouse any suspicions, then said, “Come on in.”

“I’ve disengaged the lock, but my hands are full. Can you open it?” said a muffled, female voice.

“Sure thing.”

A woman I hadn’t seen before stood outside the door with a plate of steaming food and a tall, condensation-beaded glass. Her blonde hair had been pulled into a practical ponytail, but the shorter layers had come free and framed her face. I’d put her age around forty, perhaps—although I, of all people, know that appearances can be deceiving. This had to be the captain’s daughter; she certainly wasn’t the Erian pilot. Blue eyes regarded me shrewdly.

“Supper time,” she said, gesturing slightly with the dishes. “Spicy pasta and vegetable paste, nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”

I shrugged. “If someone else cooks it, I’m happy.” I took the plate and glass from her, turned and took the few steps necessary to set them down on the desk. When I turned back, she still stood there, arms crossed, studying me.

“Can I help you with something?”

She tilted her head slightly to the side. “I’m trying to figure you out, honestly.”

I laughed. “Good luck with that. I don’t have myself entirely figured out. Maja, right? Captain’s daughter?”

She nodded and pursed her lips. “I haven’t really decided if I think you’re a criminal, or merely another one of Alin Sedmamin’s pawns,” she said, shifting her weight to lean against the door frame. “Don’t take offense—he fooled me for a long time, too.”

I wondered if she realized how easy it would be for me to take a couple of steps, grab her elbow, and twist. Hit the pressure point that would have her on her knees, gasping and whimpering. Then I could head for the bridge, or anywhere else I wanted on the damn ship. She didn’t seem at all worried. Maybe she knew
zelendu
too, or warrior chi, or some other hand-to-hand. She looked fit enough. Or maybe she realized I had nowhere to go that would do me any damn good.