The Octagonal Raven (15 page)

Fledgling: Sol Gate Gamma One, 431 N.E.

As I discovered in my three plus years aboard the
DeGaul
, junior pilots stood a lot of watches on the periods between orbit departures and Gate insertions, but the Gate insertions were handled by the more experienced pilots, usually those majors within a few years of being promoted to subcommander and transferred to another ship as operations officer, and occasionally senior lieutenants with a major watching them closely.

The other thing I discovered was that once junior pilots proved themselves to be capable and ready to handle a ship under all other conditions except Gate insertions, they were immediately transferred to another ship. It made sense, but that was how I found myself on the
Newton
, initially as the most junior senior pilot, although that only lasted six months.

After I’d been onboard for about two years, I was headed for the officer’s mess when I heard my name.

“Senior Lieutenant Alwyn to the bridge. Lieutenant Alwyn to the bridge.”

Wondering what I’d done or was needed to do, I made my way up the ladders against the constant one gee deceleration until I was standing just inside the control section of the bridge. Major Tuawa was fastening himself into the right seat, rechecking the connections. He motioned for me to take the command seat. I must have looked dubious at the idea of holding the command couch while a senior major was in the junior pilot’s couch because the second gesture was a command.

I strapped in and linked onsystem.

“You’re ready, and you’re going to do the Gate translation, Lieutenant. You have the con.”

“Yes, ser. I have the con, ser.” It wasn’t as though I hadn’t been through dozens of translations, but I still tightened up slightly at the thought that I’d be the one setting up and carrying out the insertion, even if the major were ready to take over if I botched something.

I didn’t want to think about that. So I didn’t. Instead, I ran through the complete onsystem checklist, and then through the Gate approach checklist.

Gates weren’t all that large…less than four hundred meters in circumference, but then, the
Newton
had a cross-section of two hundred meters, and it was going to be my job to insert the ship through the Gate within two hundred fifty microseconds of activation, from close to a dead stop in deep space. It would have taken a lot less time if we could have simply hit the Gate at full acceleration coming out of the system, but it doesn’t work that way, since the Gate has to be set up precisely for each ship, its mass and velocity, and its departure and destination Gates.

“Pre-Gate checklist complete, ser,” I finally announced.

“Tell the captain, Lieutenant. You have the con.”

“Captain, this is the senior pilot. We are approaching Gate Gamma One for insertion and translation to Beta Consuli. Request permission for insertion and translation.”

“Systems are all go, Lieutenant Alwyn. You are clear to complete deceleration and to begin the approach for insertion at your discretion.” The captain’s advisory was clear in my mind, digitization and direct-feed having removed most of the edges that would have been in her spoken voice.

I scanned the systems once more and checked the readouts. “Estimate completion of deceleration in eighteen minutes.”

“Proceed and keep me advised, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ser.”

Then I rechecked the comm settings before making the next transmission, still conscious that Major Tuawa continued to monitor all that I did. “Gate Control, Gamma One, this is Federal Service Ship
Newton
. Approaching for insertion. Estimate arrival in approximately two zero standard minutes. Request configuration for Beta Consuli. Authorization and data follow.” As I finished the transmission, I also squirted the FSS authorization and the data on the
Newton
that was necessary for the Gate techs to set the parameters necessary to send us to the Gate at Beta Consuli, and not somewhere else in the galaxy.

At close to one point five emkay, there was almost a twenty second delay before I got the response from the Gate. “
Newton
, this is Gate Control, Gamma One, standing by for approach and insertion. Understand arrival at Gate in approximately two zero minutes.”

I rechecked the deceleration and the EDI bounce to verify decel and distance, but the system showed seventeen minutes, as it should have. I’d added the extra two minutes because most pilots did, to give themselves a little maneuvering time at the end. Reflecting briefly, I wondered if I should have added more.

After another five minutes or so of cross-checking I made the first announcement. “Deceleration will stop in ten minutes. Deceleration will stop in ten minutes. Prepare the ship for weightlessness. Prepare the ship for weightlessness.”

The deceleration continued, as the distance between the Gate beacon and the
Newton
steadily decreased, if at a slower and slower rate. I kept the magscoops at seventy percent, just in case.

We seemed to be crawling toward the Gate when I made the next-to-last announcement. “Deceleration will cease in less than two minutes. All hands strap in and prepare for weightlessness and Gate insertion.”

The
Newton
came to rest, or near rest, less than a klick from the Gate.

“Weightlessness commencing at this time. Do not unstrap. The ship will be commencing Gate insertion shortly. The ship will be commencing Gate insertion shortly.”

Even while I was making the announcement, I had to use the side ionjets to reverse the ship and align it with the off-white torus that was the Gate and the sole sharp object against the spangled pinlights of stars that lit the darkness. At least, that was the way I sensed it through the ship’s scanners. Then I checked the
Newton
’s position relative to the Gate, and used the ionjets once more to stabilize the distance between the ship and the off-white torus.

I linked to the captain. “Ship is stable and ready for insertion and translation, ser.”

“You may commence insertion, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ser.” I went to the outside comm. “Gamma One, this is
Newton
. Standing by. Ready for insertion.”

“
Newton
, understand ready for insertion. Stand by to synchronize at the signal.”

“Standing by to synchronize at the signal.” As I pulsed the transmission to Gate control, I checked once more to make sure that all the magfields were closed down, and that all stray radiation was damped, that the ship was as energy-neutral as possible outside the hull. Then came the last checks of the ionjets, used only for orbit break and maneuvering close to other objects—or for acceleration prior to a Gate insertion and translation.

Then, I clicked in the macro that would use the Gate signal as the basis for triggering the
Newton
’s acceleration toward, into, and through the Gate.

A green wave seemed to flash over the ship, accompanied by a single high trill, and I watched the ionjets and the fusactor feeds. With the direct links to the ship, at that point, as always, everything around me on the bridge dropped into slow motion, and the
Newton
began to creep toward the Gate. Acceleration was mild, not really even perceptible except through the shiplinks, because that close to the net, we were limited to the ionjets. Even a narrow and focused use of photonic drive would have distorted the Gate field—if not ripped it totally and left us in some unknown and uncharted section of the galaxy—if not in the darkness between galaxies or even in another galaxy. In the early stages of Gate development, the Federal Union had lost a number of unpiloted vehicles definitively proving that point.

The
Newton
’s nose slipped toward the whitened edge of the Gate’s torus, and just as the ship seemed to reach that star-filled darkness encircled by the toroidal Gate, two things happened. I cut off all the external sensors. Although the sensors showed nothing, I knew that the center of the Gate was filled with blinding whiteness, a whiteness that seemed to create a tunnel of immeasurable distance. Inside the
Newton
, all images went to black and white, instantly reversing themselves, so that the cream gray overhead became a dark gray, and the dark gray deck became off-white.

The internal sensors, those just inside the outer hull, fed me the field strengths, and I could sense the power created by the Gate—momentarily the equivalent of a small black hole—and barely enough to stabilize a directed Hawking wormhole for the time it took for the mass of the
Newton
to translate from Gate to Gate.

When the field faded, I unblanked the sensors to experience a new set of stars and energy fields, a good thousand light years farther along the Orion Arm. Besides the
Newton
, there were only two high energy level sources—the G3 sun that was Beta Consuli and the second toroidal Gate through which the
Newton
had just passed.

“Consoli Gate, this is
Newton
, reporting Gate translation.” I felt I might have been slow in making the report transmission, but I kept the words evenly spaced.

“
Newton
, Consuli Gate, interrogative status.”

As the transmission winked into the shipnet, I finished the quick check of all systems before replying. “Consuli Gate, this is
Newton
. Status is green this time. Thank you.”

“Understand green. Give our best to Beta orbit control.”

“Will do.” After checking all the systems a second time, I let out my breath slowly.

“Very smooth, Lieutenant. Very smooth.” Major Tuawa had been so unobtrusive that I had actually half-forgotten that he had been observing me. “You may transition to one gee insystem. Once we’re stable, I’ll have Lieutenant Resor take my couch, and you can finish the watch as senior pilot. Let Resor handle it all.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Gate translation complete,” I announced over the ship system. “Commencing low gee acceleration. All hands remain in restraints.”

Only then did I get a link from the captain.

“Smooth translation, Lieutenant.”

That was all, but at least both she and the major had agreed, and the handful of passengers wouldn’t be remarking on a rough transition.

Although we were accelerating away from the Gate on ionjets, the acceleration was less than point one gee, and I’d have to wait until we had greater separation before I began feeding power to the magscoops, and we could switch to photonjet drive.

Somehow, in a way, my first Gate translation had been a letdown. The stars were different beyond the
Newton
. The EDI tracks were different, even the dust and system fields, but I’d thought I would have felt more elated, rather than relieved…and mildly satisfied.

Raven: Vallura, 459 N.E.

Over the next few days, I started to exercise, pushing my body exactly as far as my internal systems said was safe, but stopping just on the edge of that. I
had
to get back in shape, and since I’d always been known for exercising, the snoops didn’t show anything that anyone wouldn’t have already known. There would come a time when I would destroy them all, but not until I was ready. No sense in giving warning and giving someone time enough to reinstall everything in locales even more difficult to discover and remove. Or letting them know I was on to them and precipitating action I was in no shape to handle.

I also began to make a few more modifications to the glider and its security systems. Of course, I couldn’t do much about netsystem monitors, or the skytors, or any number of other surveillance systems of which I knew nothing. So the best technique, as my unseen foes had already shown me, was to do something that appeared to be something else.

One thing I could do to sow confusion was catching up with family, something I’d neglected more than I should have before walls started falling on me. If anyone happened to be monitoring me, then they’d have to listen to a lot of gossip, and try to figure out if any of it might be important.

Another was to do a little cold-calling in search of methodizer consulting. After knowing I’d been dropped by OneCys, how could anyone not expect me to parade my expertise in search of projects? And, of course, I had to research the folks I was calling.

One of the ones I finally reached was NetStrait, a small netsystem that catered to people who comprised the fringe just short of the faithies and the netless. After we had exchanged messages several times, the image of Fylin Ngaio appeared in my study.

Ngaio was big, over two meters, muscular, and dark-skinned. His voice was deep and well-modulated as he spoke. “You have an impressive record, both personally and professionally. Why do you think you could help NetStrait?”

“Because I’m a very good and analytical methodizer who’s worked in all aspects of commnet operations, and because I’m enough of an outsider to be objective,” I offered candidly.

“One might question objectivity from one of the heirs to UniComm.”

“One might,” I admitted, “if they didn’t look at my record.”

His lips quirked slightly. “How does your record prove objectivity?”

“I’ve managed to make a good living for almost fifteen years, and I’ve never done any work for UniComm. That says that either my work is good or a large number of systems directors have very poor judgment.”

“If you’re good, why haven’t you latched on with one of them?”

“First, I’ve never asked or suggested that I’m available. Second, one of my values is outside objectivity, and I lose that the moment I go to work for and am totally dependent on one net.”

“Have you thought about reconsidering that?” asked Ngaio.

“You mean, with the OneCys run at UniComm? Or something else?”

“It’s not just OneCys, as I’m certain you know. There’s a feeling that UniComm represents, shall we say, a viewpoint that is less than responsive to the times. Now might be a…less rewarding time to be independent.”

“That’s possible, but doesn’t some netsys senior director decide that times are changing about every decade?” I grinned. “Is now any different?”

“Maybe not. Maybe not.” Ngaio grinned back. “Still…with your sister effectively running NEN and your family still in charge of UniComm, who’s likely to believe your objectivity?”

“You are,” I suggested, “because you can see that I don’t have any interest in running anyone’s net, and because you’re smart enough to use a good tool that everyone else worries about. And,” I added, “because you could tell immediately if I didn’t deliver an objective product.”

Fylin Ngaio laughed, almost a deep belly laugh, and then shook his head. “I hadn’t even thought about hiring you. I just wanted to learn more about you—and your family. And I’ve got the feeling I’d be stupid not to at least give you something…just to see.”

“I do small projects,” I said. “And controversial ones to provide insulation.”

“I will think about it.”

“Fair enough.” I paused, but not enough to let him get away. “And since you’ll think about it, what did you want to learn?”

“If your independence is real or an elaborate Trojan façade…and what role you play.”

“The independence is real. I never talk business to the family, except about my edart work, and that’s no conflict. You seem to think that this is a very unsettled time. Why?” I smiled. “I probably should know, but it will take me a few more days to get back up to full speed.”

Ngaio raised his eyebrows.

He had to have known, I would have thought, but it didn’t hurt to explain. “I was in an accident. A stone wall fell on me.” At his puzzled look, I added. “I’m serious. A very freak accident, but it did happen. I was casting around for clients, because I have time. One decided that he didn’t want to wait for me to recover.”

“I suppose that was what Myrto told you, but he’s always had to fight to use you.”

“So…that was why you responded.”

“One reason.”

I shrugged. “And the other?”

“I need objectivity, especially now.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“A small project. Just a reasoned analysis and recommendations. As soon as you can do it, if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested.”

“I thought you might be.” Ngaio nodded slowly. “You’ll have the specs and background tomorrow. Your fee schedule the same?” His head turned, and I had the feeling that someone had entered his home or office. He shook his head and looked at me.

“It hasn’t changed.”

“Good. Let me know if you don’t have the package by tomorrow night.” And then he was gone.

I wasn’t so smart. Ngaio had wanted me from the start, and I hadn’t seen it. He’d even known about Myrto. I looked over the desk out across Vallura toward the redstone slopes to the east, fingering my chin, and trying not to frown. Should I let Gerrat know about the intensified attack on UniComm?

I decided against it. If Ngaio knew already, then Gerrat did, with all the sophisticated intelligence and contacts he and Father had. In fact, they’d probably known about the OneCys move for months.

I wished I knew more. Did all this have anything to do with those who had tried to kill me? Or were the two coincidence? I distrusted the lady named coincidence even more than lady luck, but on balance, I also didn’t want to feel paranoid, and that everything was somehow directed at me.

Myrto’s actions unfortunately made perfect sense. He could replace me, and get his superiors off his back. That was my tough luck, but there was always the chance, once whatever was in the works actually happened, and time passed, I still might get work. If not, I had another potential client.

I straightened, then stood, and walked slowly to the kitchen, where I used the replicator to create an instant cup of Grey tea. Each cup tasted and smelled the same—exquisite, but exquisite with exactly the same nuances. Then, that might have been because I didn’t have one of Nyhal’s upscale and random-taste variable replicators.

After mentally noting the time—another half hour until my next exercise session—I walked back to my study.

Barely into my chair, before I could sip the tea or check the searches I’d set up earlier, the gatekeeper clinged once more.

The blond-maned Klevyl—or his sim—appeared before the desk and glanced at me. “You look fine. The last stuff you did for me—when you were in the medcenter—was as good as ever, maybe better. Why did OneCys drop you?”

“Do all the system directors in the Federal Union know?”

“Only those with intelligence, and there aren’t as many of them as directors with brains in enviro management. Now…did Myrto tell you why?”

“No.” That was certainly true. I had some ideas, but no proof. “Have you heard anything?”

Klevyl shook his head, and his leonine mop of hair flopped with the gesture. “Could be you’re too good for him. He used your accident as an excuse. You made his staff look bad.”

“I can’t do anything about that.” I shrugged and waited.

“Could be you’re an Alwyn.”

“More netsys wars?”

“OneCys is getting squeezed by NEN and UniComm. And that’s in spite of all the creds they put into this new push.”

“My sister is number three at one, and my father and brother direct the other. And I don’t even talk to any of them about netops.”

“I know that. So does Myrto—but his bosses don’t, and they won’t listen to the compositor director about that.” Klevyl laughed. “I’ve got another project on line…be about two weeks. You be ready?”

“I will.” I looked quizzical. “How did you know about Myrto and OneCys? Engineering firms…or are you building structures for them?”

“We bid. We didn’t get it. Any of them. But someone asked about you, because we had to list our outside consultants. Struck me as strange. I made some calls.” Klevyl grinned. “I knew you were one of the Alwyns. It doesn’t matter in what I do, and I just figured you were some cousin. My engineering contact at OneCys—she told me who you really were. Got to say, Daryn, guts you got.”

“Why? Because I wanted to live my own life?”

“Most people don’t. Anyway…if you need anything I can provide, I’m here, and, like I said, probably a week or two on the next job.”

“I’m here.”

“Get some rest.” Those were Klevyl’s parting words.

But I didn’t get either rest or exercise, because the gatekeeper clinged once more. I blinked. Apparently, I actually was getting a response from Elen Jerdyn from NetSpin—another small system, but one that positioned itself to deal with those who enjoyed the art world.

The image that appeared before me was of a woman of indeterminate age, with short and straight brown hair, in a conservative brown singlesuit trimmed with white, and with a short off-white jacket. Her eyes were large and gray, even as presented by the VR.

“Daryn…Elen Jerdyn from NetSpin. I almost sent the thank-you-your-work-is-great-but-not-exactly-for-us sim back. But I remembered I’d really liked the edart piece you did on the Warsha Symphony a couple of weeks back. So I checked out some of your other work.”

“I’m glad you liked the Holst piece,” I answered, coming up with a smile I hoped wasn’t too forced.

“You do good work. Not just the feel, but the technical side.” Jerdyn paused. “Word is that you got bounced by OneCys. Care to explain?”

I shrugged. “I think someone was looking for an excuse. I missed only one deadline in ten years, and that was because a wall fell on me.”

“A wall fell on you?” Her eyes widened.

“The cemetery wall in Helnya,” I said dryly. “I was trying to be a good citizen. I thought I heard a little girl calling for help. I went to look, and several tonnes of stone toppled on me. I finished my work for Myrto while I was still in the medcenter with my legs in regrowth. I was maybe ten days behind.”

“The big outfits are like that.” She grinned wryly. “Ten years don’t matter.”

“You hear that, but you always think you’ll be different.” I laughed. “Then, you never know what’s going on behind the simsmiles.”

“OneCys is making a big push to unseat UniComm. Rumor has it that one of their investor interest groups—StakeHold Group—thinks OneCys should have a bigger market share.”

“I know about the push. I did some of the analytical work on it.”

Jerdyn shook her head. “It happens. Tell you what. We’re small, but we’re not doing badly. You know our niche. I’d like to send you a small assignment—analyze an interest-time-combo slot we’ve had trouble with. I’ll send a copy of the format we like, and the parameters. Ten to twenty of your billables, and we’ll see if we fit.”

I didn’t have to force the smile. “I’d like that. It’ll be fun to work for someone who knows what they want, as opposed to an outfit that tries to be all things to all people.”

“The stuff’s on its way. Two weeks?”

“Two weeks.” I would have promised sooner, but that was dangerous.

“Good. And I did like the Holst piece—and the one on the forerunner Gate.”

“Thank you.”

The slightest cling in my thoughts, and Jerdyn’s sim image was gone, and I was looking out at the redstone cliffs to the east.

StakeHold—I’d never heard of it, but it shouldn’t take too much to find it.

I set up the routines, and then stripped down for my exercises.

By the time I finished sweating and panting, and taking a quick shower, the search results were waiting.

There were almost a hundred different outfits named StakeHold, and from the capsule descriptions, they could be almost anything, and that meant refining the search more—difficult when I wasn’t sure exactly what I was seeking and if the information meant anything at all. Still, I set up another round of searches on the names and organizations, and then checked the system for incomings. Sure enough, the material from Jerdyn had arrived.

That meant I had to get to work, since I still wasn’t ready, either in terms of physical condition or information, to follow up on trying to find out why people wanted to kill me, and who they might be. And whether there was a connection to OneCys…or whether that had just been an excuse triggered by my would-be killers.