The Forever Hero (75 page)

“…Release all further interest in Ydrisian United Communications for other good and valuable considerations, as outlined in the addendum.”

The pilot paused and reread the lines on the data screen. Possibly not as legalistic as it should be, but the Empire would hesitate to take on the Ydrisians, and the release of his interests would deprive them of their strongest pretext. That was the best he could do. Had he been wise enough to divest himself of the residual ten percent interest in the network, the question would have been moot a century earlier.

His eyes blurred. The text was the last in the series, and the AI had already programmed the torp. He had earlier loaded the necessary physical documents.

Isbel's granddaughter would be surprised to receive actual documents from the torp, but there was no helping it. The Empire was not about to try to intercept even a single incoming torp to the Ydrisian hub station, not with the outlying systems wanting their own pretexts.

“What is the girl's name?” he mumbled, aware that his words were slurring from the mental effort of trying to wind up all the financial angles of his businesses.

“Inquiry imprecise.”

“Well aware my inquiry is imprecise…not directed at you. Directed at my own confused memories.”

Isbel—that was the old port captain, and her daughter was Fienn. But Fienn's daughter?

That was the trouble with all his enterprises and all his contacts. After nearly three frantic centuries, the faces, the scents, and the names became harder and harder to separate. Not when he saw people face-to-face—that wasn't the problem, because the reality sorted out the recollections—but when he was by himself trying to sort them out.

Fienn's daughter?

Murra? Had that been it?

“Interrogative destination code, Ydrisian Hub, for Port Captain Murra Herris Relyea.”

“That is affirmative. Code on screen delta.”

The pilot sighed. “Stet. Torp two to destination code for Port Captain Murra Herris Relyea.”

He tapped the complete block for the material on his data screen, the message to Murra that would explain her obligation.

Simply put, in return for the ten percent interest she was receiving from him, she had to transmit the transactions and instructions packed into the message torp to their addresses—all various Gerswin enterprises. He had done his best to divest himself of such interests, if only to keep the Empire at bay. Some of those concerns would survive. Some would not, but most of the techniques they had brought into commercial acceptance would survive, along with the increased levels of biologic technology.

He wished he had left himself the time to conduct the last steps of divestiture himself, but he wasn't about to try, not with three Imperial squadrons reputed as committed to find him.

Far safer to leave the remainder to the Ydrisians. They owed him, and they knew they owed him. And Ydrisians paid their debts. No matter what the cost. Always.

That brought up another question.

Debts.

“And have you paid yours?”

He did not bother to shake his head, knowing the answer. Like an insolvent institution, he had not rendered full repayment on each credit. Like a chronic gambler, he had bet more than he had, using other people when he could not cover his bets. Other people, like Lerwin, and Kiedra, like the poor altruistic Ydrisians, like Lyr. Especially like Lyr.

Her whole life had gone to the foundation, nothing more than a charade and a cover for his determination to reclaim Old Earth. She might guess, but would never know, could never know, how successful that real mission had been.

While he had given her back some of those lost years through the extensive medical therapy and rejuves he had arranged for her, he had led her on with promise after promise…and had never delivered.

“Will I see you there?” Those had been her last words, and he had not even answered them.

For a time, his eyes looked beyond the views on the screens before him, beyond the exterior view of the uninhabited system where he orbited while he completed his last Imperial-related business. He saw neither sun nor stars, recalling, instead, a sandy-haired woman, earnest and intense, and the warm wood of an exclusive private club.

How many trusting souls had he led on? How many had there been, particularly women, each thinking he had given them something, when he had no more than given them a glimpse?

Caroljoy…Faith…Kiedra…Allison…Lyr…

 

Those were the ones it had hurt for him to hurt. But had it stopped him?

And what of the others, the ones he had blazed past in hours or days, never turning back, his eyes on a future that might never come to pass?

“Interrogative dispatch instructions,” asked the AI, the cool tones of the disembodied intelligence cutting through his memories.

“Dispatch torp two.”

“Dispatching torp two.”

With another sigh, the pilot turned his attention to the controls, and to the jump-point plots.

“Time to jump point?”

“Two point five.”

He touched the controls and began to plot the coordinates and course line manually, rather than letting the AI do it, understanding that he did so not only to prove his abilities, but to avoid the memories that seemed ever more ready to spill out and to draw him into endless self-debate.

He frowned, pursing his lips, as he watched the plot, wondering how quickly the Empire would act, or whether it would bother, for all the rumors, for all the speculations reported so far.

There were arguments for every possibility.

He shrugged. One way or another, he was going home. Although it was no longer the home he had known, there was no other place that could or would claim him.

He sealed the course, leaning back in the couch.

After a time of keeping his thoughts blank, he dozed, trying to push too many shadowy figures back into his subconscious, half waiting for the time when the AI would sound the chime that signified that the jump point was approaching.

Cling!

“Jump point approaching.”

“Stet.”

He scanned the board, twice, then ran through the parameters…feeding in three possible post-jump courses, probably unnecessary, since the odds of an Imperial patrol being within an emkay of his reentry were minuscule. If the odds, however long, were wrong, he needed to be ready.

“Ready for jump.”

The pilot scanned the screens and the data board one more time, his survey still conforming to the military patterns he had learned so well and so long ago.

“Jump.”

The familiar black-white flash that seemed instantaneous and endless enfolded the ship and its pilot, then deposited them on the outlying edge of the arrival/departure corridor for a G-type sun, one no different than any other from the distance at which the scout emerged.

“EDI traces toward system center.”

“Interrogative distance.”

“Beyond one standard hour at standard reentry velocity.”

“Interrogative closure.”

“That is negative.”

The pilot frowned at himself. He should have realized after all the years that there would be no closure—not yet. His instruments were picking up EDI traces that could have been hours old. It would be several minutes more, at least, before the Impie patrol, if, that was what the traces represented, picked up his reentry.

“Full screens. Commence acceleration at one gee toward contact.”

“Commencing acceleration. Full screens in place.”

As the
Caroljoy
began the inward trip, the pilot began to study the information as it built upon the screens before him. Given the angles and the placement, and his own energy reserves, there was no way to
avoid some confrontation, and the straight-line approach he had picked would minimize his exposure.

He continued to study the data, sometimes nodding, sometimes frowning, but mostly waiting. Waiting until the pattern and the distances became clear enough for his actions.

As the ancient scout slipped in-system, the silence in the control cabin remained unbroken except for the hissing of the ventilators and the occasional click of the pilot's fingers on the control board.

The numbers on the data screens changed, as did the locations of the contacts on the representational screens, but the pilot said nothing as he watched those changes, as he watched his ship as it neared the Imperial patrols.

Finally, he touched the control panel, and the speakers hissed into life.

“Double eye, this is Longshot one. Jump entry wave at one eight five, plus point five.”

“Interrogative characteristics.”

“Negative this time. Negative EDI trace. Could be midjump. Sending data track.”

The pilot of the incoming scout smiled, relaxed as his course curved him above the normal reentry plane path. Transecliptic courses used more energy, but he wasn't planning a return.

“Longshot one, this is Double eye. Data track indicates incoming is target. Probability exceeds point eight. Suggest optical distortion scan. Track against standing wave. Target screens capable of EDI block.”

“What in Hades else does he have?”

“Target capable of higher acceleration than standard scout.”

“Ist—” The rest of the transmission was cut off.

Gerswin smiled. The fact that the Intelligence-ordered intercept group did not have all the information on the
Caroljoy
made it possible—just possible—that he could get almost on top of the outlying pickets before they realized his speed.

What he would do when he got close to Old Earth was another question, since he could not attempt atmospheric entry without deceleration. Not if he wanted to arrive planetside in fragments larger than dust particles.

His hands continued to flash across the controls, more from habit than from necessity.

Cling!

“Contact, zero zero five relative, thirty emkay, minus one,” observed the AI.

“Stet. Continuing present course,” returned the pilot.

The
Caroljoy
would pass nearly one emkay above the corvette.

“Interrogative probability of detection at ten emkay. Assume contact has optical distortion scanners.”

“Probability of detection by contact is point two at ten emkay.”

Gerswin checked his harness, then rechecked the scout's energy status and the projected reaction times.

At the moment of detection, he would have twenty-two seconds before the Imperial ships' optical distorters would register a change in his speed or acceleration. The lag time was critical. For Service torps to travel faster than ships, they had to make mini-jumps, and such jumps did not allow course adjustments in flight. When both combatants were moving slowly, around orbital speeds, the torp drives were most effective. At higher speeds in deep space, the torps lacked maneuverability and required good predetermined target positions.

Gerswin shook his head. He couldn't remember the maximum gee acceleration for Service ships. After so many years in Service, he couldn't remember?

Rather than voice his inquiry, he put it through the data console. Number in hand, he set the
Caroljoy
's first acceleration burst for thirty seconds at ten percent above the Service maximum. Then he programmed in a series of course changes, applied at differing intervals than the acceleration changes, that would lead his scout back toward the normal reentry channel, but behind the picket line.

“Interrogative range to contact.”

“Nine minus emkay.”

Gerswin's gut tightened, and he tapped the preprogrammed acceleration/course sequence into action, grunting as the gentle pressure pushed him back into the shell. While he had hoped to wait until he had been closer, his instincts had insisted he not delay.

As if to confirm his feelings, the screens flared and blanked, and the speakers relayed the tactical Imperial frequencies.

“Contact. One eight zero, system orient, at
plus five relative
. Spread one away.”

Gerswin shivered. Even with his experience, it was unnerving to have the detonation arrive before the announcement of its dispatch.

No sooner had the
Caroljoy
's screens cleared than they blanked again, despite his course changes.

“Longshot two, this is Double eye. Interrogative target acquisition.”

“Double eye, Longshot two. Negative this time.”

“Double eye, Longshot one. Negative on spread. Target undamaged. Second spread away.”

Gerswin pursed his lips, waiting for the AI's report.

“Detonation patterns ranging from one five zero to two one zero relative. Point zero five emkay.”

Gerswin changed heading, nearly at right angles, and triggered another acceleration burst.

Once more, the screens cleared, only to blank with the flash of another detonation.

“Double eye, Longshot one. Spread three away. Interrogative instructions on spread four.”

“One, Double eye. Fire on best track data.”

Gerswin grinned. With luck, all he had to worry about was whatever the Eye Service had managed to deploy around Old Earth itself. His grin faded as he reflected that what he had just evaded would be a short and easy exercise compared to what awaited him.

The ship's screens cleared and blanked briefly a fourth time.

Gerswin made another small course change and boosted the acceleration, but negated the rest of the programmed changes.

“Double eye, this is Longshot one. Scanner information indicates target is continuing Old Home.”

“Stet, one. Understand. Regroup Double eye. Regroup Double eye.”

Gerswin set the alarm and leaned back in the control couch, finally dropping the acceleration to normal gee force to conserve the most possible of his remaining energy. Further acceleration would not help, and could only require more power to kill at destination.

More than a standard hour passed before the alarm chimed softly.