Shatterzone, p.21
Shatterzone, page 21
"She does already."
"Huh? What d'you mean, Fesh?" Mason turned his attention on the Glahnite.
"Feshar, if you please, Mason," he corrected gently. "Think about it. How many colonists does the Exec intend to send on that ship you saw?"
"A hundred thousand?"
"I thought it was ten thousand," Adens chimed in.
"It doesn't matter," Feshar said. "How many people would you guess are working and living on the shatterbase right now?"
Mason rubbed his stubbly chin and considered. "Oh, about one, maybe two hun — waitaminute!"
"Exactly. Very few of the colonists are actually on the base. I'm surprised," Feshar observed, "that any are — but Lt. Nichi's girlfriend seems to be an exception." The Glahnite paused there, thinking for a moment, then continued, "They are down in the hold —"
"— In the shipll" Adens broke in.
"And have been," Feshar concluded, "since before it was finished. In fact," he observed dryly, "from what you told me about the vessel, Mason, I would think that they arrived in their coldsleep modules, already prepared, and were immediately attached to the vessel."
"Shit."
"But that means —" Adens began, her voice trailing off. She looked at Mason, who came to the same conclusion. His eyes widened. This time, the Glahnite was left with the almost imperceptible questioning
gaze.
"Ulma — that's Nichi's girlfriend — will be one of the last to be loaded." Mason paused to let that sink in. The Fleet pilot looked at her hands. She'd never met this Ulma, and she hardly knew Nichi, but she was moved.
The Glahnite picked up where the scout left off. "She'll be near — or on — the outer layer. The most exposed area when we fly into the shatterzone."
As if on cue, the doors to the lounge slid open and a haggard Lt. Nichi, his face red on one side and pale on the other, staggered in.
"Shit," Mason said again, and signalled for another drink.
Alone in her office, Exec Franchett had told her external wall to show her a projection of the shatterzone, from a viewpoint of point-one light year. That was close enough to defeat most of the 'zone's camou-flage-distortion, but not so close as to overwhelm the viewer. Even so, the light flashes and tumbling asteroids lit the office with an eerie, flickering mass of light and shadow.
But Franchett all but ignored the spectacle. Instead, she tapped her desktop and called up a seldom-used set of controls. They required her authorization code and prints, which she patiently supplied. Afterwards, the Exec rose from her chair and automatically blanked the desktop. She then sighed and walked to the small refreshment bar near one dark wall.
A small panel on the server slid open silently in the darkness and a blinking light added to the discordant images dancing through the room. Crouching before the bar, Franchett reached in toward the light and flipped a toggle switch. A faint hum started.
"Tight beam transmission, outer sphere, dia-code 471-3," she said, her voice smooth and low. The hum changed briefly as the small computer unit, hidden in the larger server controls, processed her command. Somewhere on the shatterbase's hull, Exec Franchett knew an external sensor was being baffled and a small, tight-beam transmitter was folding out into the darkness.
"Cleopatra to Asp, receive. Cleopatra to Asp, receive," Franchett said. She did not ask for confirmation. Moving at light speed, this transmission would still take two hours to reach its destination. "Birth date has been set. The baby will be out in one day from signature mark. Shower gathering at appointed place; bring gifts. The godparents have been chosen: old man in the sea; the cockroach; Benedict Arnold; and Gainsborough's boy are coming out. No complications are expected, but you'll want to chaperone closely. Directions follow."
Franchett toggled another switch and her desktop lit up quickly as the larger computer inside was temporarily accessed by the transmitter's smaller electric brain. Normally, this would have set off several alarms throughout security and her own personal system, but the authorizations had all been met. Two and a half seconds later, the interface was over. Franchett flipped both switches back and walked back to the desk. The automechanisms in the server and on the shatterbase's hull made certain her secret was kept.
Sitting behind her dark desk, Exec Franchett, for the first time, had the inclination to gaze into the 'zone not as a businessperson, but as an observer. She spent several minutes watching the electronic reproduction of nature's most bizarre, inexplicable phenomenon, and considering it not with her mind, but with her heart. Perhaps it was that reason, more than any other, that Tessen Franchett began to grow uncomfortable in her darkened office, and the feeling began to grow in her that something outside might be considering her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day was spent like a beggar's last cred piece. Carefully hoarded, only to be gone when looked for at last. Nichi, Mason, and Adens haunted the scouts' lounge silently. They'd been barred by executive order from any of the dispensers' many stimulants and relaxants, so they made due on the last of Nichi's secret stash. Still, that wasn't enough to relieve the tedium or dull the nerves of three individuals with different fears and similar fates.
Adens relived the turning point in her career — or, as she thought of it, the lump of dark matter that lay smack in the middle of her jump crossing. Its name was Colonel Meskin, and she knew she'd regret meeting him for the rest of her life.
More stunned than morose, Nichi called up old memories as well — anything was better than reflecting on the few short hours of happiness he'd experienced, only to have them yanked away from him by cruel, cold irony. But, like Adens, Nichi had a face and a name to go with his personal loss — "dia bastaria"
Exec Tessen Franchett. But every time his mind turned red and began to think of the woman writhing in pain and fear, she turned into another figure and he winced, drawing liquid solace from an ever emptying container.
Of the three, Mason was the least depressed. It wasn't as though he didn't try, God knew. Fie felt anger and sorrow for his partner, and he even tried to feel indignity and outrage with Adens, but he found himself consumed with another emotion that both disgusted and excited him. Curiosity ate away at Mason's fear; the one last mission, beyond all other missions, to wrap up a long, lonely career.
Feshar was in the scout lounge more often than not, but his cool calm was not welcome to the other three — not even Mason. The older scout could feel Feshar's well-hidden anticipation, but it disgusted him even more than his own curiosity. Feshar began to wonder if any of the others could sense something more about him as well, and that made him withdraw more into his practised stoicism... which, in turn, made him more unwelcome. When Mason finally began to turn his curiosity on the tall alien, Feshar decided it was best to excuse himself.
"Don't blame him," the old scout said as the Glahnite left the near-empty lounge. "Hangin' 'round with a bunch o' gloomy Glah— hah! never thought that expression through." Mason reached for Nichi's bottle with a dry chuckle on his lips.
But Nichi got to it first, a now-familiar sneer on his normally handsome face, "Then why don' you join him, eh, Mason? Go off an' plot wi' yuir Glahnite frien'."
Mason was thick-skinned enough not to take offense at his drunken partners' words — not on the eve of 'the battle,' anyway. "Don't you mean my 'eyna,' Nitch?" he asked.
"Eyna, frien', amori, what does it matter? In a day it will matter even less." Nichi raised the bottle steadily and poured the last of the liquor down his throat. After it was gone, he held the bottle to his mouth, eyes clenched shut, for a few seconds longer than even a drunken man should. Mason felt a shiver of disgust slide up his spine.
"Don't be too sure, Nitch. We made it through the 'zone once, man — we can do it again."
"That's what I'm afraid of, man," Nichi muttered darkly. The plastiglass bottle dropped from the young scout's hand and bounced loudly on the floor. It caught Adens' attention.
"You believe the bitch, then?" the Fleet pilot asked.
Mason wasn't sure who she was addressing, but answered anyway, "Why would she lie? To send us out into the 'zone? If there ain't a tunnel, she's just wasted a hundred thousand lifers, Deb; NetWorld'd be real happy about that."
"What the hell would they care?" Nichi snarled, "They're just peoplel Not like they were ships or food or supplies or corp execs or..." Nichi's voice trailed off as he buried his face in his hands. "Not like they mattered, man ..." he muttered through a sob. A moment later, his head dropped down on the table and his soft snores echoed through the bar.
Mason looked at the young man with compassion, but quickly changed his expression to annoyance, "Aw, shit, Adens — now I gotta carry him back to the cabin. An' if he wakes up with a hangover —"
Adens grabbed Mason's elbow as the scout stood up. It was a firm grip, and it startled the older man. He turned his head and looked down into the pilot's face.
Her eye was still dark from the kick he'd heard Berth gave her, though everything else had been fixed by the medics. That made her glistening pupils stand out more against her spaceship-pale complexion. For a moment, Mason's heart jerked as he remembered another face like it, from long ago.
"Do you believe her, Mason?" Adens asked imploringly. But there was no more fear in the voice or the face, only a need to know.
Mason answered as honestly as he could. "Yeah, Deb. I believe her. I gotta believe her. I'm an old man, Deb, an' this is my last mission no matter how it comes out. But I ain't gonna die in that mass o’ rocks out there! I know it. I've known it since the first time I bought it in the biosim, an' I remembered it when you an' Feshar were there to pick us up the other day." Mason's voice turned rough and his face was filled with determination. "I ain't gonna die in the shatterzone."
"I believe you ..." Adens murmured, looking away and releasing Mason's arm, "I believe you."
"Then it's a good thing you're flyin' with me, Deb, 'cause that means we'll make it through together!"
The words didn't make it through to Adens' brain until Mason was almost out the lounge door with Nichi in tow. When she looked up, all Lt. Adens saw before the doors shut was the big, bowed back of the old scout, stooped under the load of the taller, unconscious man, but moving forward nonetheless.
"I believe you, Erik," she whispered, and the doors closed.
The next day was it. Mason and Nichi woke up, showered, shaved, and dressed in silence. Adens and Feshar did the same, and the four met in the scouts' lounge for breakfast. They were greeted there by Secretary Jessen, who had the good grace not to be cheerful or unnecessarily talkative.
"After you eat, you are to go down to the flight deck. The Hawks's Eye has been prepped and readied for flight. You will receive further instructions there," the man said. With that, he turned to leave them to their meal.
But Adens interrupted his departure, "The Hawk's Eye?" she queried. "But that's the transport. Aren't we taking the colony ship?"
Mason cleared his throat noisily, but Jessen answered, "You are. The Eye has been fitted for towing. Good luck." And the man left.
It took a few moments, but Adens came out of her stunned silence, "Towing?!" her voice cracked, "What the helll We're supposed to ferry a goddamn colony ship through the shatterzone?!"
It wasn't until Mason put his hand on her arm that Adens realized she'd stood up. "Relax, Lieutenant," he said evenly, "it's all right."
"All right?!" she asked, but she sat back down.
Mason looked across the table at Nichi, who was busily chewing his food. He caught the young man's eye and asked, "What d'you think, Nitch? That answer any questions?"
The young scout nodded curtly, then focused on his food once more.
"Nichi an' I saw the colony ship — back before it was being built. It ain't like nothin' you ever seen before, Deb," he commented, still spooning occasional mouthfuls past his teeth. "We figured it'd need a detachable — and independent — foresection to withstand the 'zone. You get a big ship and do the kinda damage the 'zone could do to it an', well, you'll break its back an' that's all she wrote. We can keep flying with a patchwork hull if we have to."
"So if the colony ship gets too damaged, we can jettison —" Adens cut herself off as she saw Nichi's dangerous expression. She stammered, "Well, not that we would have to, of course ..." he voice trailed off, helplessly.
"A feasible alternative," Feshar said, both his expression and his voice actually sounding optimistic. He ignored Nichi's dark gaze and continued, "This improves the odds of our success considerably — and reaffirms my faith in NetWorld."
"Your faith in — hah!" Nichi broke in, his mouth still half full of food — but his voice clear enough for sarcasm — "What the hell crap you spreading, Feshar? Exec Hatchett an' Net-worth got your chain now?"
"Nichi!"
"Mason!" the young scout shot back mockingly, then he turned back to Feshar, "You been awful skag-chummy with Uncle NED, Feshar. You got your bread buttered, blue-boy?"
"And you," Feshar observed in his customary monotone, "seem to have lost your cool demeanor, Lt. Nichi — and your accent. Perhaps you'd better find them again."
"Why you —!" Nichi sprang up, a fork in his right hand.
Feshar didn't move one muscle, but Mason and Adens each grabbed one of the young man's arm. Even so, the party's cups and plates jumped and spilled. Feshar pointedly ignored the proceedings, content to avoid any of the spillage.
"I guess we're done with breakfast," Mason said as Nichi through of his hands and made for the door.
"I guess so," Adens agreed.
Feshar merely rose and followed Nichi out the door, leaving Mason and Adens to hurry on behind.
"What the hell is this thing?" Adens asked. She was standing in the flight deck with the other three fliers, staring at the rack of equipment between her and the Hawk's Eye. Crewers were going over the Eye like melaks on a fresh carcass, and only one harried technician stood by to answer her question.
"As I was saying, Lt. Adens, these are the newest environment suits developed by Net World. Originally designed for long-term mining operations, they have been converted for use during your trip through the shatterzone."
Mason stepped up and looked at the rack of jumbled parts. "'Converted for use,' eh? Hey, Nitch — try this on for size!" Mason tossed what looked like a square glove with no fingers at the younger scout. The man caught it in surprise and then began looking it over.
"Careful!" the tech yelled. "Those are arranged in a specific order! If you get them mixed up, we won't be able to tell what goes on who where!"
"Terrific," Mason growled, "an envi with mysterious moving parts. Just what this trip needed."
"If you can't tell where something goes on a suit, for gods' sake," Adens asked, exasperated, "how the hell did you piece together the Eye?"
"Very carefully, Lieutenant," the tech countered. Before any more objections could be raised, she continued, "Look. We've gotta get you into those suits, okay? I know you scouts love to gripe and growl, but we've got a job to do here as well. How 'bout we get it done and you can bitch to the Exec afterwards, okay?"
"Where is the Exec, mia eyni?" Nichi asked.
"You'll find out soon enough. I here she's supervising the removal of the colony ship from the drydock and the link-up personally."
"Oh, what a treat," Mason said. "All right, techie, what do we do now?"
"Well, since you tossed ... Lt. Nichi something first, we'll start with him."
"Thanks a lot, Erik."
"Hey, no problem. Really."
It took over two hours to assemble the suits around the pilots, because each piece was fitted with complicated electronics and servo-mechanisms, some of which had to be calibrated, and recalibrated, with the four pilots' movements and individual preferences the controls for much of the ship's systems, the tech explained, were linked into the "gloves" of suit It was hoped that this would make response time that much faster.
"Like a giant friggin' robot!" Mason groused loudly
"Ow! Tone it down, Erik!" Adens said. "We're getting feedback through the receivers!"
"Here. Just let me..." the technician moved around behind Mason, who started to turn clumsily, then started to trip over his oversized feet.
"Whoa! Hey!" With a lot of swaying and flailing about, Mason managed not to go down in a gigantic mechanical heap.
"There! Try it now."
"Robot Fighter One to Robot Fighter Two," Mason said in a loud voice. "Are you receiving me?"
"Very funny, Mason," Adens said dryly. "Very funny."
The technician went on to explain the suits' operation to the pilots. Not only were they complete, armored environments, but they also packed a complete range of sensors and tactical units — much like the combat envis corporate marines wore into battle. They also had sphincter valves, medical packs, and stimulant injectors for emergencies. The scouts were warned, however, that they should keep those systems registered as "Off Line" until absolutely necessary.
"It probably won't be necessary," the technician observed. "The type of stuff you're likely to run into — pardon the expression — in the shatterzone isn't likely to shoot or stab you. It'll just pulverize you."
"Thanks a lot," Mason growled. "Can we go now?"
"Not yet. There's one more function of the suit I have to tell you about." The tech walked around Mason and the rest of the armored figures with her compboard on monitor mode. It chirped and beeped occasionally, and she made a few slight adjustments to the suit. "There! You're all set for synchronized coldsleep."
"What?" three out of the four chimed in.
"Synchronized coldsleep — remember?" The tech shook her head, "Ferren's Balls, I'm too tired for this. Look," she explained, "you know how you're gonna be flying in shifts? Well, the suits are linked so that when two of you are flying, the other two are out — cold. But just sleeping wasn't enough. Too many drugs and depressants involved. In a couple days you'd be freaky and jumping all over the place. The suits will pop you in and out of coldsleep, freshen you up, and get you ready to fly—or navigate -— in a few moments. Then the next guy goes down and gets his — or her — rest."
