The Infinity Link (51 page)

There is an old path, barely visible, angling through a crease in the hills. Despite the ache in his knee, he pushes ahead, climbing—and discovers that what had seemed a smooth path has turned into a dry streambed strewn with boulders and treacherous twists. In the twilight, the landscape seems to shift and change like some phantasmagorical dream. He should stop; but this is no place to seek shelter for the night, here in the midst of Hell's Highway. Press on.

Darkness has come by the time he reaches the top, but his senses seem to have grown with it. He feels the terrain altering—a subtle shift in slope here, a change in the wind there, a difference in the slide and friction of pebbles beneath his feet, a deepening in the darkness ahead; there's no one signpost, but he stops and crouches, favoring the knee—gropes in front of him, feeling only air—and a drop-off. Pauses. Rests his eyes, palming them with his cupped hands, taking slow, deep breaths. When he lowers his hands and blinks his eyes open, shifting focus between near and far, he is rewarded with a flicker of clear vision. Stars sprinkle the sky overhead, and around him, the land glows ghostly in the infrared, and in front of him is only darkness, empty darkness.

It is more than that, of course, but he must squint to readjust his eyes again; and then an image appears in the darkness, an image mostly in the infrared. A flatland for miles, a plain. In the distance, there is something different about the glow, something sickly—or perhaps it is only his imagination. The glow, the disease that lives out there is not something that human eyes can see, not even his inhumanly amplified eyes.

It's in front of him now, Phoenix Crater, glowing ever so dimly in wavelengths that are just outside the normal human range of vision. He edges back, groping behind him for a flat place to sit. And then—for a long time, he sits motionless, looking, thinking. Of a city that once occupied that plain. A city that was the birthplace of Hoshi Aronson, twenty-seven years ago. A city that lies now in ashes and ruins.

Thinking of returning home.

In time, he is aware of feeling chilled, and he fishes for the aluminized survival blanket, folded into a small wad in his pack. He shakes it out, pulls it snugly over his shoulders, and in a little while feels warmer. Thoughts of life and death pass through his mind, as he sits looking out over the site that was once Phoenix, Arizona—before the Great Mistake, the Monstrous Error, the Hideous Screwup of 2015, and he thinks of another death, billions of miles from here, linked with yet another, only a few tens of miles from here, both of them his doing.

His thinking is very clear now, this is not self-recrimination, the time for that is past; it's just an acknowledgment of what has been, and is, and is to come. Clarity is everything. It has taken days to reach this point, and one day more will complete the journey. It is a going home, a positive act, an affirmation of life. An atonement, an act of acknowledgment of the sanctity of the life that was taken.

No sleep will come to him tonight. He will sit awake, with his hunger which he scarcely notices any longer, and his thirst which is less, now that the sun is gone. The moon rises bright behind him, and the shadowy realm before him fills with its dim, cool illumination. No man-made lights move out on that plain. This land has been abandoned; but he has come to reclaim it, his birthplace, his birthright. The city is gone now, only a memory and a reminder of the horror, the sunbursts that lasted only seconds each, but shined death on thousands, instant death, and terrible lingering death. And so was born a new Phoenix, not out of the ashes this time, but out of unspoiled land, miles away. The bombs were too dirty, and long years would pass before the soil beneath the ashes healed. That the city might have been saved was the most dreadful realization of all. The orbital lasers had been too busy defending New York, and Houston, and Chicago, and Silicon Valley—and Washington, of course, but there had been too many aimed at Washington, and a few had gotten through—and Phoenix, well, Phoenix just hadn't been high enough on the protection list.

The eight-year-old Hoshi had been out of the city at the time, in the mountains with Uncle Jim and Aunt Edna. But looking in that direction, at that moment, he'd seen the first fireball and felt the others, and it was the last thing he saw for years, until the platinum and doped silicon were implanted in his brain. His parents, of course, had died quickly, instantly. He must always believe that, better to trust instantly, not knowing
how
they'd died. Painlessly. So he was told, and so he believes.

He's over that horror now, has been over it for years. But now the time has come to pay his respects, to discharge his debts. To return a life that was given to him here. He scarcely remembers how to pray for guidance, but he is certain that the Lord, if the Lord is here and listening, will approve.

Strangely enough, he scarcely needs to think of Mozy now, that's all settled. He loved her, still loves her, will always love her.
Mozy, do you care for me? That's all I need to know.
He's brought a note-recorder along in his pack, and perhaps tomorrow he will record his last thoughts before setting out—though it is doubtful that anyone will ever find them to read, or will care.

Phoenix is a dark maw out there, and his eyes are growing fatigued; even in the moonlight it is a murky blur. But he can see it well enough in the illumination of his mind, and in the light of day, tomorrow, his eyes will see it clearly, one more time. And peace, at last, will be his.

The shuttlecraft floated slowly away from the station docking port, its attitude and maneuvering jets spitting flame as it turned. A patrol craft passed across its bow, marker lights winking. The shuttle pitched slightly, came to the correct yaw, and hung for an instant. The main thrusters fired.

The lieutenant scanned the instruments, adjusted the channel selector, and spoke into his microphone. "Traffic control, this is USSF-274, outbound to Tachylab at course one-niner-niner."

The burn cut off, acceleration melted away, and weightlessness returned. He glanced at the officer seated to his right. "We should reach Tachylab limits in about thirty minutes, Major. You said there would be a late change in flight plan. Shall I go ahead and dock at Tachylab?"

The major scowled as he fished a document out of his flightsuit breast pocket. "This is your revised flight clearance. Enter the outer approach and radio the change to Tachylab Control—code yellow. We'll rendezvous with two other shuttle vehicles at this location." He tapped a set of figures on the paper. "From there we'll proceed to the assigned destinations."

The lieutenant examined the orders curiously. "The homestead sites? That's private sector."

The major nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the two MPs seated to the rear. "That's right," he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. "We have some pigeons to snare."

The lieutenant knew better than to ask for elaboration.

He got it anyway, a minute later. "Traitors," remarked the major, flipping through his notebook. He scratched at his chin. "We're going to pull us in some traitors. Quiet-like. Before they can run." He glanced at the lieutenant. "You just mind your driving, and put us at the rendezvous point on time." After that, he had no more to say until Tachylab was in sight, a twinkling dot in the distance.

The major watched silently while the lieutenant notified Tachylab Control and executed the course change. "As soon as you track the other shuttles, raise them on the narrow beam."

"I have one already," said the lieutenant. He tapped a phosphor-green dot on the screen and snapped several switches on the console. "Trying to raise them now, Major."

Contact was established with both shuttles, and then the lieutenant was far too busy achieving three-way rendezvous to worry about the major's business. The maneuvering rockets hissed and banged, the other two pilots' voices droned laconically in his ear, and first one and then the second shuttle floated alongside. Over the lieutenant's head, just behind one of the shuttles, the Earth glowed rusty and blue and misty white, the crooked line of the California coast just visible beneath the clouds.

The shuttles thumped together, and the major disappeared through the docking hatch into the adjacent craft. A few minutes later, he returned and gave the lieutenant a new set of coordinates. "Put us on course for the science settlement, Lieutenant. That's where our pigeons are roosting."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant began punching numbers.

Soon the homestead settlement came into view, a cluster of spherical and cylindrical bubbles joined by spindly tubes. It was "low-rental" housing, built fifteen years ago to accommodate small teams of scientific personnel whose work demanded their presence at the station in spite of limited and erratic funding. Later, when budget restrictions were eased, the ramshackle housing, rather than being replaced, was expanded for scientists and private entrepreneurs who were willing to make do with less for the privilege of pursuing their interests in geostationary orbit. The settlement had grown with its own version of urban sprawl, until it now was a spider's web of tubes and pods.

The lieutenant guided the shuttle toward the leading end of the cluster, skirting the paths of a small tug and several men in motorized worksuits. The address the major had given him proved less than easy to find in the controlled chaos of the cluster; but once they'd established the location of the correct docking port, the lieutenant quickly guided the shuttle into place.

He felt the heavy click of the latches. "Docked, Major." He turned to his left and checked the docking-environment panel. "Pressurizing . . . clear to egress."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Please remain here." The major turned as he floated out of his seat and swam toward the rear of the shuttle, followed by the two MPs.

The lieutenant secured the hatch to the safety position and settled in to wait.

* * *

"Major, I want some answers. Whatever's going on here—" The wiry, bespectacled man paused, puffing with frustration. For the last fifteen minutes, he had been pacing—throwing himself back and forth, really—in the netted-off detention cubicle, and he'd only gotten short of breath for his trouble. Volatile temper. According to the report, he'd protested loudly during the transit from Tachylab to GEO-Four—until the arresting officer had threatened to have him put in irons. From then until a few minutes ago, he had been sullen and silent.

The security officer—a corporal, not a major—eyed the man warily. "Dr. Irwin, you're under arrest for conspiracy to violate military security. The orders came from Space Forces Command HQ. As you've been told before." The soldier added, in a not-unkindly tone, "I wish you'd calm down and stay in one place, Professor. You're driving me crazy bouncing around like that."

Irwin drifted to the netting and hooked his fingers through it, like a monkey hanging from its cage door. "I did nothing," he said, glaring at the officer. "But if you think I'm going to tell you anything without a lawyer present, you're crazy."

"No one's asking you to," the corporal said. He drifted back to his desk—little more than a velcro board and a laminated writing surface—and removed the place-mark clip from a paperback book. He'd barely found his place when Irwin called to him again.

"When am I being assigned a lawyer?"

The corporal looked up, shrugged. "Someone will let you know, I'm sure."

Irwin scowled angrily. "Am I the only one you're holding?"

Once more the corporal shrugged.

"I heard someone talking about 'the others.' I know I'm not the only one."

Annoyed, the corporal clipped his place in the book again. "So what, Professor? We're not going to let you talk to each other, so you can just put that out of your mind."

"You did arrest other people, then."

"Yeah. We've got a few of your friends here, as a matter of fact." The corporal was losing his patience.

"I want to talk to them. I must talk to them."

The corporal sighed. "Now, what did I just say?"

"You don't understand. We haven't done anything wrong. You have to let us see each other," Irwin insisted urgently.

"Listen, Dr. Irwin." The corporal scratched his chin, then shook his head.
"I
don't know what you and your friends did, but it sure must have been a lulu. They're assigning a military prosecutor to your case, and none of you are even in uniform. Whatever it was, you and your friends are in some trouble. Now, what did you want to know, Professor?"

Irwin didn't answer. He stared past the corporal, focusing on something on the far wall—focusing on nothing at all.

* * *

The colonel sealed the arrest papers back into their plastic pouch and slid them into his desk. "We didn't
want
to believe that there was a conspiracy, either, Mr. Louismore. It was the evidence that forced us to that conclusion."

Sam Louismore rubbed his ample cheeks and tucked his copy of the papers into his own brief pouch. "The evidence, as you say, hardly seems all that persuasive to me," he answered. "A lot of circumstantial details, one audio recording of dubious legality, and a good deal of jumping to conclusions. You're going to have to do better than that to prove a conspiracy." Louismore smoothed the front of his shirt as he swung slowly from a handhold beside the colonel.

"If you're referring to our surveillance of Irwin's apartment, we had federal clearance for that activity," said the colonel.

Louismore allowed his facial expression to mirror his disdain. "Did you have a court order—from a
civilian
court?"

"Not necessary. It's a military security matter. I'm sure you know the Security Act of Twenty-six as well as I do."

"Better," said Louismore. "We'll contest that, of course."

The colonel looked at him in irritation. "I suppose you think we're grandstanding, trying to draw the press off our backs?"

"The thought had occurred to me," Louismore said dryly. "The reporters
have
been asking some embarrassing questions lately, haven't they?" The colonel glared at him, and he chuckled. Louismore had in fact become aware of this case only a few hours ago, though he was well aware of issues raised in the press recently, relating to alleged military activities in deep space. As one of seven practicing attorneys on GEO-Four, it had been the luck of the draw that he had been tapped as public defender; but it looked to be an interesting case.