The New Space Opera 2 (51 page)

“Device?” Carl puts his hand inside the hollow case. “There's nothing there.”

“Like a ghost. Because of what you're made of.”

Graybeard's head moves from side to side, and he moans.

“He's waking up.” Xala's voice drops. “Shut the damn case.”

“I—All right. What happens if something triggers the link between that”—he points to Graybeard's tu-ring—“and the Zajinets?”

“They die, the ship blows up. What did you expect?”

He seals up the case.

“What ghost?” he asks. “What do you mean by that?”

“Your hand passed right through it.”

“Because…?”

“Because
you're
the ghost, or haven't you worked it out? You and me both.”

Carl looks at the case.

“You can't mean—”

“The device is made of dark matter. You know, the
real
stuff that we're
not
made of, and can't interact with.
We're
the ghosts, didn't you know? Most of the universe is something we're
not
.”

The tattoos are scarcely moving on her scalp. Her voice is steady. She believes her own words.

“If it's dark matter, the case wouldn't contain it.”

A hard grip snaps onto his wrist.

“Well that,” says Graybeard, “is the real trick, isn't it?”

“Crap.”

“I
thought
you were trouble.”

The whole cabin—no, the entire vessel—vibrates, then grows steady.

“That'll be my lift,” adds Graybeard. “I think, Professor, you should come with me.”

“No.” Carl twists his wrist and torso together, disengaging from Graybeard's grip. “Not a chance.”

“You know what? Forget it.”

Graybeard picks up the case left-handed—stronger than he looks—and smiles as the outer wall begins to melt open. Beyond is a transparent-domed shuttle, and through it, the stars are visible.

A magnificence of stars. A billion incandescent suns.

“Where are we?” whispers Xala.

“It's the core,” says Carl. “The galactic core.”

Graybeard's right fist remains trained on them as he backs toward the waiting shuttle, lugging the case. The shuttle's clear hull grows permeable. The faintest of sucking sounds accompanies Graybeard's passage through the material. Then the hull begins to vitrify once more.

The others, including the remaining fake priests, remain asleep. They know nothing of what's happening. Perhaps they're about to die without ever waking up.

Make a move.

Because there's no reason to trust Graybeard. Obeying a command from someone who threatens you is tactically stupid except to gain time—and time has run out.

“Tell them to get back into mu-space, Xala. Tell them.”

“Why would—?”

“Now.”

In the Academy, Marina was the best runner, but Carl has learned to sprint because sudden bursts of speed save lives. He hurtles forward, lowering his chin, striking the still-permeable hull with the top of his head. The stuff is growing viscous—
push hard
—but then he's through, tumbling into the shuttle, falling to the deck.

He snatches for Graybeard's ankle, but the bastard pulls back.

“Bye-bye, everyone.”

As Graybeard makes a fist, his tu-ring flares; while behind Carl, a sudden nova-brilliance indicates a transition to mu-space. Did they make the jump in time? It's impossible to tell.

A percussive thump knocks him backward.

What was that?

He pushes himself to a sideways position on the deck. Stellar abundance shines behind Graybeard's outline, while the strangest of non-movements, shifts of half-glimpsed nothingness, surround him.

“No,” says Graybeard. “I think I'll just get rid of him.”

Like movement at the edge of vision, and when you turn around, nothing is there.

“That's right,” adds Graybeard.

And the flickers of darkness are gone. So is the power in Carl's tu-ring. Again.

“Balls.”

“Tsk. I hope you prayed to the Equilateral Redemption.” Graybeard's smile is nasty. “Just follow the line of the highway, keep staring for a few centuries till the photons get here, and you'll see what the believers were on about. Beacons in a triangle, very neat.”

“What highway?”

“You'll see. 'Course, you haven't exactly got centuries. More like minutes.”

“Until what?”

“Until nothing ever again. You know that blood boils in a vacuum, right?”

“You can't—”

“Of course I can.”

This time the thump is harder. It's massive, invisible, and the shuttle is receding from him, hard to see with his blurred vision and his inability
to breathe—but if the shuttle is already far away it means he's in empty space—
ejected me, the bastard
—and panic slams through him even as he feels the hidden loop of quickglass begin to stir around his waist.

Stars, brilliant clouds of stars, pass across his vision as he begins to tumble. When he tries to find the shuttle, he can no longer see it against the glory of the galaxy's core. Massed suns, stupendous light, not a molecule to breathe.

He mentioned a station.

When Graybeard was talking to the Zajinets, he used the term
highway station
. Some kind of orbital near the galactic center?

What highway?

Spreading across his skin, cool and slick, the quickglass reaches his throat, his chin, then envelopes his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, accepting the intrusion into nasal cavities and throat, sucking in oxygen already. After a moment, he forces his eyes open, squinting against the bright blur as quickglass merges with and absorbs his smartlenses.

It is already subsuming his clothing for additional fuel.

What highway?

As his vision clears, he begins to accept the reality of floating in brilliant emptiness, the backdrop of massed suns and…a long stream of light, a massive collimated beam of energy: a galactic jet some thousand light-years in length, a divine needle in our galaxy's heart.

This?

Surely this is no highway.

It has been some hours now, but it's all right.

Come to me, my love.

She was so far away; but she is closer now.

I need you. I always need you.

Slowly rotating, he sees once more the galactic jet, a shining pointer whose continuation would pass through Earth, all the way beyond this galaxy, this cluster of galaxies, to the far side of a dark-matter void where, an eon ago, three gamma-ray bursters exploded.

Correction: we
call
it void, but it's the space where the
real
stuff resides, in who knows what forms and structures, while we of ordinary matter are the ghosts who cannot touch the greater reality. Humans and Pilots; ghosts and dreams.

But if this is a highway under construction, you have to ask: is this the source or the destination? And what is the nature of the travelers?

Maybe they'll be friendly.

It would be nice to think so, but it was one of their human agents who ejected him into space, expecting him to die. If it wasn't for what's about to happen, he'd be flooded with angry fear, cursing in his mind.

Come on, darling.

He cannot see her yet, but he is certain.

Come on, my love.

Somewhere, through a golden space draped with crimson nebulae and speckled with black stars, speeds a black dart edged with scarlet, concentrating her superlative power, following an extreme geodesic that few of her kind could contemplate.

For her need is as great as his.

Soon.

Floating above the heart of the galaxy, where the stars shine a thousand times brighter than out on the spiral arms, Carl Blackstone is smiling.

Soon.

With enemies all around you, sometimes your best bet is to hide in plain sight. Of course, if your enemies spot you, that means that they also know where to find you…

Elizabeth Moon has degrees in history and biology and served in the U.S. Marine Corps. Her novels include
The Sheepfarmer's Daughter, Divided Allegiance, Oath of Gold, Sassinak and Generation Warriors
(written with Anne McCaffrey),
Surrender None, Liar's Oath, The Planet Pirates
(with Jody Lynn Nye and Anne McCaffrey),
Hunting Party, Sporting Chance, Winning Colors, Once a Hero, Rules of Engagement, Change of Command, Against the Odds, Trading in Danger, Remnant Population, Marque and Reprisal
, and
Engaging the Enemy
. Her short fiction has been collected in
Lunar Activity and Phases
, and she has edited the anthologies
Military SF 1
and
Military SF 2
. Her novel
The Speed of Dark
won a Nebula Award in 2004. Her most recent book is a new novel,
Victory Conditions
.

B
ryce Gosslin had never intended to come back to Novice. Sixteen years had not erased the memories; he'd told his employer about his reasons for avoiding Novice when given this itinerary. His employer had laughed.

“You'll be fine, Bryce. You shouldn't have more than a twelve-hour layover between the charter and the
Altissima
—” The
Altissima
, flagship of his employer's fleet of luxury liners, would be as safe for the youngsters as their own home. “Just keep them in the Premier Lounge area and nothing can happen.”

Bryce had sworn he'd never go back, but he was still half a standard year short of getting permanent status in the best job he'd ever had. He'd nodded, said yes, sir, and accepted his orders.

Now they'd arrived at Novice Station. The charter yacht that had picked them up had special clearance to dock in the Blue Zone, but only to put its passengers safely onto the station's Premier Lounge. Then it would transfer to the general-transport side of the station for refueling and reassignment.

Bryce watched as the yacht's crew put their luggage into the
Altissima
storage lockers, then withdrew. The boys shifted from foot to foot. Karl, the elder, looked much less boyish than he had three standard months ago, when Bryce had escorted him to Eleyon for vacation. Part of that was pure sulk, Bryce thought. He'd done nothing but complain since Bryce arrived to take them to the yacht. Part was muscle—he'd been working out more, and it showed.

“I'm sixteen,” he'd said. “I'm not a child. I don't need an escort—nor does Evan, really. I could take care of Evan; I have two black-belt ratings in two different martial arts. Nothing ever happens anyway. We use false IDs, so we're not trouble magnets—”

“School files and vacation resort files can be hacked,” Bryce said. “The older you get, the less your cover IDs will work.”

Now Karl glowered at the docking bay where the charter yacht's crew had already sealed the hatch.

Evan, the younger, looked around the small entrance lounge. “Where's Immigration and Customs?”

“We won't need to go through,” Bryce said. “We're just here to transfer to
Altissima
—as long as we stay in the premier lounge—” He moved to the exit from the arrival bay, hoping Karl would follow and not make another scene. Karl's sigh was audible, but he came along, as Bryce pushed through semi-elastic membrane that read their biometrics and registered them into the Premier Lounge.

Bryce had never visited the Premier Lounge when he lived on Novice Station. He hadn't known there was one. He'd been, variously, in a cheap sleephole, a restaurant kitchen washing dishes for a chance at the scraps, in lockup as an undesirable, and, finally, shipped as common labor on an ag transport full of pregnant rabbits a colony world might want.

He'd been in luxury lounges since, on his employer's business, and this one did not impress. The carpet was stained—someone had tried to clean it, but left a different stain that did not quite match the outline of the original. The furniture looked plush enough, but as he neared the first couch, he saw signs of wear. The information booth had only an automated attendant, whose accent was nearly unintelligible. Bryce persisted: was
Altissima
on schedule?

No. The liner was delayed—arrival date now uncertain but at least three days away.

Three days with the boys—Bryce had a sinking feeling that things were about to go very wrong.

“We'll check into rooms,” he said.

“When's it coming?” Evan asked.

“It's delayed. They estimate three days.”

“I am not staying cooped up in here—” Karl glared around the Premier Lounge, “—for three days.”

“For now, you are,” Bryce said. “That's what your father said to do. First we check into rooms, find someplace to eat—” Another deficiency of this so-called Premier Lounge: where were the upscale eating establishments? The shops? The entertainments? “—And then we'll see,” Bryce said.

The auto-attendant flashed a series of options on its screen. Only one sleeper: the Premier Suites, through the sliding door on the far side, third
entrance down. Bryce reserved two executive suites, connecting. Only two eating places: Jargooli's Junction, offering “Strickly orgenic fuds for discriminalling custimers” and Sheehan's Bar & Grill, “All U Can Eat, All Day, All Night.” The only listing under “Entertainment” was “Novice Public Library, Premier Branch.”

Bryce led his charges through the reluctantly sliding door at the far side of the lounge space, noticing yet more signs of economic uncertainty. Here the carpet had an obvious wear path down the middle, and the walls were scuffed and stained. The two entrances before Premier Suites had official seals warning visitors not to enter them. Premier Suites itself had a lighted logo out front, but of a much-lower-level chain hostelry.

Bryce pressed the entrance button; lights flared beyond the door, and a heavyset man with a rumpled, stained tunic lumbered into view. As he neared, Bryce had the uneasy feeling that he had seen the fellow before. The man unlocked the door and said, “You're the new reservation?”

“That's right,” Bryce said. “Bryce Gosslin and nephews Karl and Evan Terrine.”

The man made a face, then stepped back and waved his arm. “Welcome to Premier Suites. We don't get that many travelers staying several days. I've turned on the room cleaners, but it'll be a few minutes. You got luggage?”

“Yes,” Bryce said.

“I can get it for you, if you want,” the man said. “Or you can bring it—the rooms'll be ready by then, most likely.”

“Karl—” Bryce began, but Karl heaved a dramatic sigh.

“I know—you want us to fetch the luggage. Come on, Ev. Uncle B wants to chat with another grown-up…”

“I'm coming,” Bryce said. He shrugged at the man and turned away. He was not going to leave Karl alone in the main lounge in this mood. He caught up with the boys before they reached the sliding door.

“This is boring,” Karl said. “There's nothing to do, and no one to talk to—it's deserted.”

“Does look pretty empty,” Bryce said, in as pleasant a tone as he could manage. “But it's mid—second shift here. Let's see…our
Altissima
IDs should get us access…” He put the premier-class ticket card into the slot; the reader whirred and spat the card out. Nothing moved. He looked at the card—had he put it in backward? No. He tried again. Again the whirring and the card's return, and the luggage bin did not unlock.

“Try mine,” Evan said, holding it out.

“I'd rather not risk it,” Bryce said. “Some of these machines will swallow a card if you try the same thing too many times.” He looked for any of the standard biometric readers but didn't find one. “We'll just have to find someone to help us. Perhaps the information clerk—”

At the information desk, the automated clerk did not respond. Bryce tapped the desk and finally tapped the clerk's head. Nothing happened.

“Now what?” Karl asked. “If we can't get our luggage, we don't even have dentabs, let alone sleepskins.”

“I was wondering that myself,” Bryce said. “And my first thought is the charter.” He pulled out his parle and flicked it. The display bloomed in the air in front of them; he ticked his way through the station directory, noted the yacht's docking assignment, the red dot that meant the dock was indeed occupied, and touched the correct icon.

“Dock Yellow Thirteen, berths one through ten,” a voice said.

“I'm trying to reach the charter yacht
Bois d'Arc
, berth two,” Bryce said. “Captain Vincent.”

“They're not here,” the voice said.

“But the station display says—”

“They're not here,” the voice said again, and snapped the connection.

Bryce looked at the station directory again. Dock Yellow Thirteen berth two had a little green light now, indicating that it was empty. He had the sense of time passing, of delays snicking into place like the pieces of a child's 3-D puzzle, all aiming at something…but what? Captain Vincent had said they had at least six hours of dock time before they headed out again. It had been…Bryce checked…three hours local. They should be boarding
Altissima
now, if only the liner had been on time. Vincent could have decided to leave earlier; Novice had little to attract him or his crew.

If only his employer had listened. They could have met
Altissima
at Gorley, two stops on: the yacht had enough range. Yes, it would have cost more, and maybe the liner would still have been delayed, but Gorley was a big, busy, very successful transnexus, with excellent services, a safe haven.

What next? He looked at the display again. Novice Directory listed a charter yacht service. Two in fact. Bantang Insystem Charter Services wouldn't do them any good, but the local branch of Allsystems might have something. He called up their public face, ticked through to a live rep—a reasonably personable middle-aged woman wearing a blue vest with the familiar Allsystems logo over her white turtleneck.

“I'd like to arrange a charter to Gorley,” he said. “Three passengers.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “Both our yachts are out right now. One of them will return in two days, and then a day turnaround, before it could leave. Earliest departure possible would be nineteen hundred, that's—” a pause, “—seventy-three-point-five hours from now.”

That made three days, the same as
Altissima
, if the liner arrived on time. Bryce wavered, glanced at the boys. Karl was staring at the far wall, the perfect image of sullen uncooperativeness. Evan looked worried, the way he himself felt.

“Do you have another reservation pending?” he asked.

“No…we don't have much call for them. May I ask—?”

“We were to board the liner
Altissima
; it's been delayed at least three days, according to the Infomat in the Premier Lounge. We're making a connection at Gorley; if
Altissima
doesn't arrive in three days, we'll miss it.”

“For two hundred credits I can give you a provisional reservation,” the woman said. “You'll be notified if another customer places an order, and you can upgrade to the full fare then to hold the reservation.”

“I'll take it,” Bryce said. “Bryce Gosslin, ID from Manus Trinity.” His current name wasn't the one he'd been known by here on Novice, and his employer's credit authorization was good anywhere, so it should be safe.

“Passengers' names?” she asked.

Bryce let his eyebrows rise in calculated amazement. “You need their names now?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “It's just to have the paperwork ready.”

And share it with whomever offered the going rate for breaching confidentiality. “We're not in that big a hurry,” Bryce said. “We can deal with that when the time comes.”

“Fine, then,” she said. “You're holding first option on the yacht
Karoe Star
, due to arrive here in—” she glanced at the chronometer on the wall, “—forty-seven hours, thirty minutes. Crew reported an on-time departure from Fissley, and they're in-system with clearance confirmed, so I expect an on-time arrival. I have your contact information; you will be informed when the yacht arrives and when it will be available for boarding. If you exercise the option, you will be expected to pay full fare at that time.”

“Thank you,” Bryce said. “You've been most helpful.”

“It's my pleasure,” she said, with a smile that looked genuine. “Regular office hours are from ten hundred to eighteen hundred Sig through Argen and Bona through Vale. If you need assistance with your reserva
tion outside those hours, please contact the regular number but give your reservation code.”

“Thank you,” Bryce said again.

At least now they had a way off this place if
Altissima
didn't show. But three days…he looked at the boys. Karl's sullen expression had slipped into a mix of derision and rebellion: the adult had screwed up and he wasn't going to take it anymore. Evan, playing for the opposite team, looked bright-eyed and eager for whatever might happen.

“Well,” Bryce said. “So—we won't be leaving today. And I don't want to risk our ticket or credit chits in the luggage bins; I'll ask the man at the hotel to fetch it for us. He should have a key. If that doesn't work, we can buy some necessities for a day or so.”

“This is so boring,” Karl said.

“It's an adventure,” Evan said. “It's the unexpected, something new—you're always wanting something different.” He shifted sideways, dodging his brother's attempt to knuckle his head.

“We'll go back to the hotel now,” Bryce said. He hoped the rooms would be ready. He hoped the man there—manager, clerk, bellman, whatever he was—could fetch their luggage. He hoped the stores inside the transit lounge would have the items they needed if the man couldn't, but he was beginning to expect everything to go wrong at once.

“Your rooms are ready now,” the man said, when the bell brought him shuffling into the hotel's foyer once more. “You want to register now?”

“Yes,” Bryce said. “And our
Altissima
tickets didn't work in the luggage bin's release, so I'll need you to fetch the luggage.”

“Your tickets didn't work?” The man stared at them. “I don't know if I can—I use the tickets, see, to open the bin—” His voice had acquired a whiny edge.

“You don't have station access?”

“I'd have to get a card. It costs, and you have to reapply every standard year. For the traffic we get through here, it's not worth it.”

“What about station security?”

“Oh, they don't come in here. Ritzy passengers don't want to be bothered by station security.”