Second interim, p.24
Second Interim, page 24
Coura swung over to a nearby display. Nitya came up by her side, unlocked it, and with a few touches had a blank panel ready to respond to Coura’s fingertip.
She drew on the display what had lurked in the background noise of her mind and on sheets of scryb under her unthinking hand for many years, its significance only clear now, aboard this ship.
“A triple black hole,” Sallat observed before she finished.
“Exactly,” Coura said.
“The nearest is Rothallu,” Nitya said. “Minimum voyage time, one-hundred and sixty-four standard years.”
“Exactly,” Coura said again, in a less triumphant tone.
“And what are we to find there?” Sallat asked—as anyone would.
“I’ve told you all I know.”
“Anyone else had visions?” Fyat asked.
There were no replies.
Sallat said somberly, “Such distance is daunting. To set a course for Rothallu assumes much, including that the nearest phenomenon of its kind is the correct one.”
“The next is more than double that,” Nitya reported. “At that point, we’re looking at rapid increases in deaths from hibe failure. Thirty, forty percent. Even with Rothallu, we face the same on a return voyage, if there is one. In other words, if Rothallu isn’t the right place, it almost doesn’t matter, assuming we want to arrive alive.”
“It’s Rothallu,” Coura declared with a degree of confidence that lacked any basis in fact.
“I see.” Sallat said no more.
“A one-way voyage to an uninhabitable destination that may or may not be the right one,” Nitya summarized. “That sounds like an individual decision. I know mine. If this ship is going, I’ll be on it.”
“We have to go,” Coura said with a look at her mother.
Ren equivocated. “I’d like to know more first.”
“Sounds like we know all we can,” Simon answered her.
Coleridge said, “I’m in.”
Fyat laughed. “Why not.”
“Sallat,” asked Kearn, whose willingness was never in question, “will Whisper be setting course for Rothallu?”
The Commander thought for a long moment before committing. “Yes. Pending negotiation of terms with Fleet to ensure a peaceful expedition and, ideally, immunity for any of my crew who wish to remain behind.”
“Commander, if you think I can be of help, just ask,” Coura offered.
“I see someone holds herself in high regard,” Sallat said, before quickly adding, “Not entirely without cause. Thank you, but I’ll see what I can accomplish myself first.” The vice-commander cleared her throat, prompting Sallat to amend, belatedly, “No doubt my Vice is all the help I need.”
“Are we really—?”
Serenity stopped speaking abruptly. Rather than raise a lonely voice of reason, she gave her daughter a supportive smile and surrendered to the unreason of it all. With a smirk, she answered her own aborted question.
“I guess we are.”
* * *
Within the hour, Sallat addressed the entire crew of Whisper of Death by comm. They already grasped the basic truth that their commander had let his decisions be guided, and his ship’s course set, by the perceived will of an interdimensional being of questionable existence. By now, half a lifetime after Freedom’s Reign, anyone left aboard Whisper trusted Sallat to such a fault that Sallat hadn’t even need to fully employ his considerable skills of persuasion to get them to follow him to Tanris-4 and from there back to Reissa, where they were liable to be killed on sight.
Still, a voyage of one-hundred and sixty-four years on a high-turnover hibe cycle that would see everyone aboard living out almost ten subjective years with no way out but death demanded faith on an even higher plane.
When Sallat’s negotiations with Fleet were done and all aboard had submitted their intentions, it was revealed that twelve of Whisper’s crew of nearly two-hundred weren’t ready to set foot on that next plane. According the terms Sallat had worked out with Section J15, assuming Fleet intended to honor them, the twelve would be granted immunity and granted residence in-system as civilians.
The other terms of the joint expedition to Rothallu included resupply for Whisper of Death in exchange for the ship’s full disarmament. Sallat evidently had attempted to get the two Fleet voidships also to disarm but when they predictably refused, he declined to let it stand in the way of an otherwise favorable outcome for a vessel full of renegades.
As part of the deal-making, Coura had been called on to speak directly with Fleet, not at Sallat’s request but that of someone identifying himself as Colonel Praeder. Although he named no affiliation, his lines of questioning—primarily Lisset—and the fact that his rank wasn’t a Fleet one suggested to Coura that Praeder was J15.
She told him all she could, which wasn’t much she hadn’t said already, and found him to be pleasant and reasonable. It was never said directly, and Coura by no means had full access to the command-level negotiations, but the impression Coura gained was that her presence aboard Whisper was the strongest guarantee of the ship’s safety. In pursuit of whatever prize they imagined to be present at Rothallu, Fleet—possibly having had its hands tied by J15, not to mention Sallat’s adamant refusal to allow Corporal Martijn to comply with any orders to leave his ship—seemed hesitant to risk losing the clearest link to Lisset’s mysterious will by killing Coura. No one wanted to arrive at Rothallu to find a locked door to which they’d thrown away the key a hundred-plus years back.
Even if none of this could have happened without her—a questionable hypothesis, to be sure—Coura tried not to think of herself as a key. But, just in case, she did spend a number of the many hours eaten by negotiations sitting near Lisset’s body, lest it wish to communicate.
She never heard or felt anything. Given how clear the message had been the last time she’d almost set off on a wrong course, in Coura’s mind, Lisset’s silence meant that Rothallu must be right. For what it was worth, she shared that observation with Sallat, whose reply was that he’d already decided and she might as well stop trying to convince him.
At last, Sallat announced ship-wide that terms had been agreed for a peaceful, joint expedition to the triple black hole of Rothallu. A rapid timeline was announced for the transfer of personnel who wished to disembark. In the end, more than the initial twelve, perhaps after the Stellar Union’s offer of amnesty became official—if still unenforceable—made the decision to stay behind.
That wasn’t surprising. However right this voyage felt to Coura, however strong her conviction that nothing mattered more in the universe than going to Rothallu, she could see how it wasn’t a trip for everyone.
The crews of the two Fleet ships on the expedition, Hold High the Flame and Wreath of Seven Stars, were also to be comprised fully of volunteers. No one wanted a crewmate on a voyage this long who didn’t want to be there.
What surprised Coura—dismayed her, really—was the discovery that Nitya would be leaving Whisper of Death and boarding Wreath.
The Vice-commander told her this during some shared workout time.
“Exchange of hostages,” Nitya said. “An ancient solution to an ancient problem.”
“Hostages?” Coura exclaimed. “Why? Sallat’s agreed to disarm.”
“Trust comes in layers, I guess.”
“Why does it have to be you?”
“I’m his vice,” Nitya said. “And Sallat let the choice be mine. I could have refused. Maybe we could have negotiated another way. Four other officers are going, too.”
Hearing this, Coura grew angry at the woman. “Why didn’t you refuse?”
Nitya frowned thoughtfully. “To be honest, it’s not a bad deal. I won’t be in duty rotation on Wreath. I’ll do minimal revivals, spend about a year out of hibe instead of ten. That sounds good to me after my last long haul. Sallat will let you and your family do the same, you know. You should. You’re young. Don’t let this trip suck ten years from you.”
“I guess,” Coura said. She was too dismayed to debate whether she should do her part on the voyage or just sleep through it. “I’ll miss you. It’s been good knowing you.”
“Don’t talk like it’s the end. I’ll see you on the other side of this. Whatever that looks like.”
“Of course,” Coura said. “Is Fyat going with you, at least?”
Nitya laughed wryly. “He’s the one who actually walked into Althauser’s house and kidnapped her. They know that. If they let him aboard one of their ships, they’d have a hard time not killing him, agreement or not.”
“I guess so. Does this mean Fleet officers will be coming aboard Whisper?”
“No. Sallat won’t allow it. Too much work monitoring them to make sure they can’t do any harm.”
“Then it’s not an exchange at all!” Coura complained. “How is that fair?”
“It’s fair,” Nitya replied calmly. “We’re getting plenty from them. Amnesty’s a big one.”
Expelling her anger in a sigh, Coura yielded. “When do you transfer?”
“Matter of hours.”
When they’d finished their workouts, Coura saluted Nitya with a heavy heart.
“Good-bye, Vice-commander,” she said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
The movement of personnel proceeded without a hitch, including Nitya’s. Whisper of Death jettisoned the key components of its weapons systems and fired its final salvo at a nebula so distant that Reissa’s sun would be dead, having birthed a nebula itself, by the time the torpedoes arrived.
Coura passed the hours with her family, both individually and as a reunited whole. In the latter case, there were inevitable awkward patches, but never enough to dent her contentment.
She had everything. Mom. Dad. Bio-father. Best friend. Space.
And she had the thing she’d been missing most of all. Purpose. Fruit Stand Girl was going on one of the most important quests in human history.
Or the most idiotic, she told herself in moments of less certainty.
No. The first one. Definitely the first.
At last, the hour came to find out. Or, rather, to take the first step on a long, cold, silent road to finding out.
Sallat invited Coura to the command deck to touch the final control that would send Whisper of Death out-system on a heading for Rothallu, saying that privilege should be hers. Secured there in a grav couch against the forces of course adjustment and acceleration, she took him up on the offer.
The Stellar Union ships Hold High the Flame and Wreath of Seven Stars completed the same maneuvers, and the three-ship expedition to the galaxy’s nearest triple black hole officially commenced.
Coura reported to the hibe vault where she was to pass, invisibly, a span of time longer than the years she had left to live. The prospect, as Sallat said, was daunting. Apart from her initial voyage—or arguably, abduction—to Reissa, she had only ever experienced hibernation a handful of times, none of them for a duration measured in years.
At least her family was with her. She took courage from their presence—and wasn’t going to show them hesitation. She said her goodbyes to them, carefully, in a way that didn’t seem too final, while acknowledging what none was willing to speak: that there was a chance, however small, that one or more of them wouldn’t wake up.
She and Kearn were last into their capsules.
“I know it’s too soon for you to know how you feel about me,” he said. “But I love you. And I’m proud of you.”
The sentiments walked right up to the forbidden borderline of fatalism that spacers were loath to cross. Coura didn’t answer it except to hold Kearn tightly before separating to climb into her capsule.
“See you in a minute,” he said with a smile.
One of Whisper’s techs shut the capsule and initiated hibe sequence.
Coura slept.
Chapter Twenty-Four
164.2 STANDARD YEARS LATER
Coura knelt at her mother’s open bedroom window, aiming the rifle down into the rows of trees that were Martijn Orchard. A nermeet ambled out from behind a tree. Patiently, Coura tracked it and squeezed the trigger.
A miss. It sped off.
“Try again, sweetie,” urged Serenity, crouching at her side.
“I’ve had enough,” Coura griped. “I want more than this, Mom.”
“Don’t be stupid, Coura. What else could there possibly be besides this?”
Coura flicked the safety on and leaned the rifle against the wall. “Space, Mom. I want to go to space.”
“Oh,” Ren said. “Mister Haake has a fruit stand in orbit. Maybe you could work there, for him.”
“No, Mom. I don’t want—”
“You’ll be Space Fruit Girl. Fruity Space Girl. Spacey Fruity Fruit Space.”
“Mom, I don’t want to be a Fruit anything!”
“Don’t be stupid,” Ren repeated sweetly. She pointed out the window. “There it is again! Shoot it!”
Coura took up the rifle once more and aimed it out the window. A shape moved among the even rows of twilit trees, but it was not a small, pudgy, four-legged nermeet.
“That’s a person, Mom.”
“It’s an overgrown nermeet. Shoot it before it gets away.”
Coura studied the figure in her sights more closely. “It’s a woman, Mom. A young woman.”
“Shoot it.”
“I’m not gonna shoot her.”
“Shoot it.”
“Mom, I won’t—”
“Shoot it.”
“No!”
“Shoot it,” Ren repeated, mechanically, tonelessly. “Shoot it. Shoot it. Shoot it. Shoot it.”
“No!” Coura screamed.
Without remembering getting there, Coura stood outside, in the orchard. The rifle was no longer in her hands. The trees surrounding her were black shapes against a deep purple sky overflowing with bright stars.
In the near distance, swift movement disturbed the low-hanging branches. It was the figure Coura had seen from the window, the young woman. She ran away from Coura, disappearing behind a trunk.
“Wait!” Coura cried.
She gave chase. When she caught sight of the figure again, it was farther from her and still moving away, darting between the trees. Without having seen a face or even a glint of starlight on auburn hair, Coura knew what name to shout.
“Lisset!”
The figure didn’t reply, nor did it halt in its evasive flight. The ease with which Coura followed, never losing sight of her quarry for more than a few seconds, left an impression that Lisset’s intent wasn’t escape at all, but rather to lead.
Nonetheless, Coura cried out, “Wait! I want to talk to you!”
The chase through the orchard persisted, taking Coura ever further from the house. The fruit trees thinned out and gave way to open meadow. On a horizon no longer obscured, beneath a dazzling expanse of stars, Lisset’s flitting, shadowy form paused.
“Tell me what you want!” Coura begged.
Lisset’s shadow turned, as if acknowledging Coura for the first time, before disappearing over the horizon.
Coura pressed on across the meadow in pursuit. As she ran, she wondered where had she seen Lisset before. Not here, in the orchard. Not at the market. Spane? No. The answer was on the tip of her brain.
Abruptly, she stopped thinking—and stopped running—as her feet ran out of meadow on which to stand. Before her was a cliff’s edge, and beyond it, an abyss filled with abject impossibility.
Struck breathless with terror, Coura looked down on three great black spots, circular mouths whose stark, perfect edges glowed with the death-light of annihilation as around each dark maw, matter and energy danced an intricate, soundless triple spiral.
Rothallu.
She couldn’t recall where the word came from. It conjured the impression of some evil entity lurking behind the fabric of our own reality.
After she’d stared, paralyzed, into the abyss for somewhere between an instant and eternity, Coura’s stomach lurched. The ground fell away under her feet. She screamed, yet her mouth produced no sound, for it, like the rest of her body, was rendered into its component atoms as she hurtled at relativistic speed into the jaws of Rothallu.
* * *
Coura awakened with a start, every muscle rigid. Bright light surrounded her.
But how could she have eyes? How could she have limbs after—
“Corporal Martijn,” someone said. “It’s alright, Corporal. It’s a hibe dream. You’re safe. Relax.”
As the unknown speaker’s words sank in, Coura realized she was straining against some restrictive force. Webbing held her fast against a soft surface. Yet her weight wasn’t on that surface—or any surface. Zero-gee? That made no sense.
It made even less sense that the feeling was familiar.
She forced herself to relax—her body, at least. Her mind remained tense in the face of the unknown.
Coura’s vision settled in a soft light that had only seemed bright at first. A man stood within arm’s reach, looking at her. No, not standing. He hung suspended, weightless, as she was.
The man had a military look about him. Coura recognized his uniform as one she knew well, though she wasn’t sure how. She didn’t know his face.
“Where is this? Who are you?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.
He answered in soothing tones, “I’m Lt. Worgarth, a hibe tech on Whisper of Death. We’re en route to Rothallu. You’ve been in hibernation. You experienced a dream at the moment of revival. It’s not uncommon. Your memory should sort itself out shortly.”
Coura stared at him, wishing the promised clarity would hurry up and arrive. She’d just been in her family’s orchard, and then—
Rothallu. The word was a thread connecting worlds. Coura pulled it.
Worgarth gave her a smile. “You’ll be fine,” he assured. “I have to go check on the others. Kearn, Serenity, Zerouali—hearing their names may help you. I’ll be back.”
He floated off, leaving Coura to examine the smoothly contoured metal surfaces of her surroundings while behind the wall of her eyes, memories trickled back. She followed their flow upstream, connecting present to past: Whisper of Death. Outside-5. Fleet Academy. Reissa. Spane. Martijn Orchard.
