Dire Steps (9 page)

Rolling away from each other, just in time, and then he was up, running hard, trying not to trip over the loose rock and hardened furrows left behind by countless dumpings. Forcing himself, against all logic, to get in close to the steaming yellow creek that now rolled downhill, knowing it would hide him from the heat-­seeking scanners on the wall. Seeing the pipe now, knowing that the material from which it was made was invulnerable to heat and therefore safe to walk on, even as the lava-­like river inside dropped off to a narrow stream.

Reaching the pipe, racing inside hunched over just a bit, trying to imitate Tupelo's bowlegged stride. Sweat pouring down, acrid air in his mouth and nostrils, he looked down to see the fiery stream between his pounding boots and was amazed to realize he'd kept up the count. In one minute, hatches would slide shut over the venting portholes where the pipe rose from the ground well inside the wire. Thirty seconds after that, a foamy spray would blast down the pipe, cleansing it with deadly chemicals.

Concentrating on not slipping, watching the molten sludge between his feet, trying not to bump into Tupelo, Lee Selkirk counted down what just might be the last seconds of his life.

D
ull starlight played over the flat flight line, and distant lights provided lots of shadow. During their rehearsals, Tupelo had assured Selkirk that the Zone Quest security ­people had such faith in their perimeter fence that they seldom patrolled the complex grounds. That night, with so many of their personnel focused on the veteran settlement down the hill, the flat expanse of the spacedrome was completely deserted.

Massive ore transports stood out against the small fleet of personnel shuttles, but the gunships were parked off by themselves. With narrow bodies and wing-­like rocket pods on either side, they looked like massive mosquitoes. Shuffling along under the belly of one of the transports, Selkirk reached for the small package tied to his back. By prearrangement Tupelo went left and he went right, breaking from cover briefly before ducking under the armored gunships.

The device was simplicity itself, a block of concentrated explosive with a basic detonator attached. Sliding the bomb out of the canvas bag, Selkirk glanced around him on the empty tarmac, refusing to believe that it could be this easy. Pressing the malleable explosive onto the hull under the main fuel tank, feeling it stick, he poked his head out to see Tupelo doing the same thing with the other ship. A raised hand signaled he was ready, and then Selkirk pressed the bomb's only button. It vibrated once, to indicate it was armed and that the countdown had begun.

Searching the nearby buildings for any sign that they had been detected, Selkirk rushed back to the shadows under the transport ship. Tupelo hustled up to him and knelt.

“The next refinery dump is in one hour. It's quicker getting out than getting in because you'll be going downhill. Find a spot to hide near the pipe, and don't forget the count.”

In the blue-­gray light of the stars, Selkirk imagined he saw a quick smile on the scout's face. “What are you up to?”

“You think my Deelia was only worth two jumped-­up shuttles? I'll give you time to get away, but that rat fuck Rittle dies tonight.”

“You can't do that. They'll kill you before you get anywhere near him.”

“I been all over this complex, and they never even knew I was here. When those detonators go off, Rittle will come outside. He's that kind of boss. And I'll be waiting.”

“How you gonna get away?”

“I'll think of something.” The Spartacan's eyes shifted around, getting ready to leave him. “Thanks for the help.”

A horrifying image popped into Selkirk's head, Ayliss lying sick and helpless in an unfortified building between the two armed camps. When the Spartacan deserter killed their chief, the mine's security detachment would open fire on the settlement.

“Wait.” Selkirk grabbed his arm. “You do that, it's going to be a wipeout. They've got a
lot
more firepower than your ­people, even without the gunships.”

“You think we haven't planned for this day? Think you saw everything we've got? Thought you were smarter than that.”

“Either way, it's a bloodbath. Come back out with me, and we'll cook up something better. I promise you, Ayliss is on your side.”

“Don't you get it?” The other man's voice rose, pain welling up in the words. “Deelia was the only thing I ever had. And they—­”

A single shot barked at them, and Tupelo crashed forward into Selkirk. The scout's head dropped on his shoulder as if he'd been knocked unconscious, and Selkirk knew immediately that he was dead. Hot wetness ran down the inside of his shirt, and he shoved the body away while rolling in the opposite direction.

A second round impacted against the tarmac where he'd been kneeling, a spark flashing. The momentary light reminded him that the entire spacedrome would be illuminated in moments, and that he would need a distraction. Guessing the direction from which the rounds had come, Selkirk ducked around one of the transports' massive tires and then sprinted across the open.

More gunfire, probably more shooters, but only one of them any good. The snap just above his head of a passing round, then more sparks as the ricochets bounced off the runway. Running madly now, his vision bouncing, Selkirk raced toward the parked gunships. Voices shouting in the darkness, panicked questions, telling him that they'd been discovered by a single guard or a lone sniper. Lights coming on in the nearest buildings, not enough to show him, more shots and near misses, and then he was skidding under the first gunship.

Finding the bomb where he'd left it, bringing his straining eyes right up under it, fumbling for the button that controlled the timer. Pressing it, relieved to see the readout come to life, and quickly thumbing it down to fifteen seconds. Searchlights snapping on now, beams cutting the shadows, wondering if the one explosion would set off the other bomb, and then releasing the button and scrambling away from the reaching rays. Fifteen seconds.

Emerging from the cover of the gunship, running flat out, straight for the fence without any thought of how to get over it. Or under it. Sprinting, adrenaline pounding through his every muscle, believing that if he could just reach the barrier, he would run right through it. Leaping perfectly, hands clawing, climbing, seeing the spot where he could flip himself over the top, not feeling the bullets when they found him.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

O
lech had expected to be nervous at his second wedding ceremony, but was surprised to find that was not the case. Standing in front of the purely decorative altar of the Celestian state religion, he looked down the long aisle flanked by row after row of dignitaries and their families. He knew all of the important faces, and had worked with most of them for decades.

That was one reason why he'd expected to be uneasy. The packed hall, with him standing at its front, far from the door, reminded him far too much of the day that President Larkin had been killed. Believing that several of the perpetrators of that crime were present should have heightened his discomfort, but it did not.

Standing there, wearing stiff formal dress and the blood red ribbon of the Unwavering, Olech felt an incomprehensible sensation, an otherworldly feeling of not being there at all. His mind drifted lazily, taking him back to the day when he and Lydia had been married. Attended only by two college friends, it had been a quick ceremony with no frills. Neither of them had come from money, and neither of them had felt a need for a third party to place a stamp of affirmation on their relationship.

He'd been nervous that day, jobless, unsure of what the future might hold, and yet he'd been happy. Lydia had always steadied him in that fashion, and so he'd viewed the official act of their marriage as the start of a wondrously unknowable journey that was guaranteed to be good simply because they would be taking it together.

Even the recollection of the way that journey had been brutally cut short failed to bring him back to reality, and he didn't mind it. He would be embarking on a different voyage that very night, without the woman to whom he was about to be joined, and so his future was the very definition of unknowable.

Light music drifted toward him from the loft at the rear of the hall, and he now saw Reena standing there smiling. Her gown was gold—­the Celestians' festive color of choice—­and a shining tiara crowded with precious stones stood atop her red hair. The congregation stirred as more and more ­people became aware of her, and they all turned in their seats so that no one was looking at him anymore.

Horace Corlipso stepped into the doorway, wearing an all-­white suit that looked cool and comfortable. The very picture of decorum, he offered his arm to his sister just as the bridal march began to play. They processed up the aisle, returning each row to its proper posture, Reena wearing a smile that only Olech knew was false. As they got closer, and he saw the effort it was taking for her to maintain that happy countenance, Olech Mortas silently cursed himself and his plan, for having robbed the woman he loved of the joy that should have been hers on this day.

They finally reached him, and Horace gave Reena a light kiss on the cheek before turning to face Olech. The man who ran Celestia gave him an unsettling wink as he took his hand, leaning in to speak.

“We're family now,” he whispered, and when he drew away it was with a flash of teeth that Olech couldn't decide was happiness or triumph.

Horace disappeared from his view, and although the head prelate of the Celestian state religion now took his place before the altar, all Olech could see was the face he loved most in the universe. The smile was frozen in place, but a single tear rolled over each of Reena's cheeks.

H
ours later, after the excruciating banquet where he'd been forced to make idle conversation with hundreds of officials and emissaries from the alliance planets, Olech finally reached the shuttle that would take him and Reena back to the
Aurora
. His new wife was already inside, having maintained the façade so well that she was now almost completely drained. Leeger had assisted her aboard, leaving Olech to bid good-­bye to Horace.

“Congratulations, Olech. Or should I say ‘Brother'?” The enigmatic grin was back, and Olech was suddenly finding it hard to stomach.

“Let's just use first names, like before.” He cautioned himself not to ruin the act at the last moment, but it was no use. The ceremony had awakened memories of his murdered wife, and those feelings joined with the climbing dread of the night's mission to burst the dam of his self-­control. “The Unwavering, those of us who survived, have always called each other brother.”

“You and I have been through the wars too, in a fashion.” The smile faded.

“We've certainly seen our share of bloodshed, haven't we?”

“Sometimes it's necessary. You know that.”

“Not sure what I know these days. Before I go, I had a question for you.”

“All right.”

“When Lydia was dying, she told me to push the kids away and act like I didn't care about what had happened.”

“Lydia was a fine strategist, right to the end.”

“You advised me to follow that strategy.”

“I did. We had no idea who poisoned her, so it was a sound plan. Whoever they were, it took away their leverage.”

“If that's the case, why did you let me marry your sister? Didn't that just turn her into a target?”

Horace eyed him warily. “I'm not sure that many of Lydia's murderers are still alive. I've long believed that most of them died with Larkin.”

“Larkin wasn't involved.”

“I know that. He was a fool, but he was a good man. No, I meant that so many of our opponents died in that melee that it's likely her killers were among them.”

“I do recall seeing your security team rushing into the room. Although I was hugging the floor, there seemed to be an awful lot of them—­and they were doing most of the shooting,” Olech said.

“My low opinion of certain ­people in that body was well known. In the middle of all that confusion, some of my personnel may have taken advantage of what they saw as an opportunity to rid me of those ­people.” The smile came back to Horace's face. “You telling me you've got some suspicions of your own, Olech?”

“No. Not anymore.” Olech took the other man's hand. “Brother.”

Walking onto the shuttle, Olech finally admitted the truth that he'd been denying for so many years. His new brother-­in-­law had assassinated the Interplanetary President and much of the old Interplanetary Senate, all for his own ends. And Blocker was right; someone who could do that could easily murder the wife of a man he wanted to control.

O
nce the shuttle was free of Celestia's orbit, Olech summoned Leeger to his office. Time was short, and he needed to adjust his plans based on what he'd learned.

“What have you found out about the slave girl Emma?”

“Horace didn't rescue her from the gutter. Her family came to Celestia like so many others, believing there was a job waiting for them in paradise. It was the standard fraud, and pretty soon their debts were so extreme that they were all in danger of going to the mines. The girl was sold to keep that from happening.”

“Have our operatives contact the family, see if they'd like to live somewhere else.”

“Already done, and they are receptive. Pulling this off will not be easy.”

“Can it be done?”

“Yes.”

“Horace is a much greater threat than I believed, but he has an important role if I disappear tonight. Make sure you don't move until he's played his part.”

“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?”

“No, Hugh. So many thousands lost, so many more still at risk, and here I sit, almost completely safe, calling myself their commander.”

“You did your time, and you almost got killed for it. Everyone knows that.”

“It's not a question of popularity, or opinion. I genuinely believe there is a good chance this will gain us the contact that could tip the scales in the war. I have to try.”

“Very well. Regarding Horace, if you do disappear I will have to clear this with Reena.”

“Of course you will. She'll be in charge. Horace will make sure of that.”

N
ot many hours later, messages bearing the codes of the Chairman of the Emergency Senate began to beam and bounce all over the galaxy. The message itself was not terribly unusual, as the Step had been suspended in the past whenever an anomaly was detected or a ship disaster occurred. Those infrequent interruptions were always of brief duration, and there was no reason to expect that this one would be any different.

All across the solar systems of the settled planets, bouncing off the construction zone, then spreading out to the enormously separated systems of the war zone, Command echoed the order. The message then fragmented, rebounding from the bridges of Zone Quest freighters to craft both large and small, legitimate and otherwise. The disturbance caused by the Step was easily monitored, particularly when no one was supposed to be using it, and the penalty for disobeying such an order would be swift and final.

For a brief time, the galaxy returned to an earlier age when voyages between even neighboring star systems were multidecade endeavors, and longer journeys were out of the question, even with the latest propulsion methods. For the duration of the suspension, just about every spot in the galaxy occupied by humans became an isolated outpost.

The
Aurora
had emerged from the Step almost exactly in the same location (relative to Earth) where the reconfigured space probe had reappeared so many decades before, bearing the instructions for the incredible technology. Ten different ships of war, in ten distant locations across the galaxy, now received instructions to read special orders that had been issued with the highest security coding. Cleared to use the Step for one special mission where they would take a tiny craft delivered to their care and immediately send it back whence it came, never moving themselves, the ships immediately swung into action.

In a receiving bay in the
Aurora
's belly, Olech came through the hatch dressed in a black pressure suit. Technicians manned consoles or stood ready to assist in the launch, and a small group of Olech's confidants waited near the hatch of an unusual spacecraft. The small ship was designed to withstand the forces involved in the sequence of twenty Steps. It had no crew and would carry only one passenger, who would be returned to that same spot if the mission went according to plan. If it did not go according to plan, the tiny vessel was outfitted with every kind of long-­range beacon and a stock of food and water. Sealed inside a Transit Tube within the ship, Olech would complete the entire journey in exactly the same way that every human experienced the Step—­completely unconscious.

Wearing a forced smile, he approached the small group. Leeger stood stiffly at the back, but both Mira Teel and Gerar Woomer stepped forward to meet him.

“God bless you, Chairman.” Woomer tilted his head at the technicians manning the consoles. “Every monitoring device in space is focused on our efforts here. Your ship is outfitted with the most recent locating apparatus, and I've plotted the paths of your voyage personally. Enjoy the ride.”

They shook hands, and Woomer moved away. Mira, serene as always, stepped up in his place. A pink shawl, stitched all over with Step Worshiper symbols, was draped over her frail shoulders. She went up on tiptoe, and he leaned forward so she could kiss his cheek.

“How I envy you.” Her eyes overflowed with both kindness and joy. “For the first time in the history of the race, one of us will initiate contact with the entities. You are exactly the right man for this role, darling Olech. Have no fear. You are about to experience a miracle.”

The last member of the group now approached. Reaching up, Reena Mortas took his face in both hands. They kissed awkwardly because of the suit, but for a long time nonetheless. The tears were gone now, and his wife gave him a wink when they broke the kiss.

“You owe me a wedding night, Mr. Mortas. Don't forget that.”

“I've been thinking of nothing else. I'll be back before you know it.”

The technicians moved in then, leading him to the ship and through the narrow hatch. The Transit Tube took up much of the spacecraft's interior, a spacious cylinder with a reclining seat. A helmet was lowered over his face and locked into position, and then he was assisted inside the container. The technicians were well rehearsed, complementing each other's movements as they sealed the Transit Tube and engaged the ship's instruments before withdrawing.

Alone then, looking up out of the helmet's face shield and through the tube's clear cover. Only seeing the walls and the blinking lights and the cabinets that contained the food and water he would need if he became stranded. Knowing that no amount of either one would sustain him if he could not be found. Remembering the rumors from his youth, of disasters in the Step where entire ships had simply vanished. Later, as a powerful Earth official, hearing the actual reports of freighters and even warships that had disappeared without a trace.

The clean air inside the helmet took on a sweet scent, the smell of the gas that would render him unconscious. A fluttering, gibbering hope blossomed that he would fall asleep quickly and awake to find the whole thing was a failure—­with the exception that he had returned alive. Shoving that away, forcing his thoughts to review the logical thought process that had made this effort both sensible and, to his mind, necessary.

Feeling the engines engage, a dull throbbing through the cushioning beneath him, fearing for just a moment that the flight would start before he was sedated. Ordering himself to calm down, that he'd traveled this way hundreds of times before. His thoughts becoming scattered, flashing from Reena to Ayliss to Jan, then to the too many faces of the dead. They'd all perished while he had lived, the boy soldiers of the Unwavering, his dear wife Lydia, his bodyguard Faldonado, President Larkin, and, in a way, his very own son. He'd believed for a time that Jan had been killed on Fractus, and the grief and the shame had never left him.