A Talent for War (4 page)

There are also numerous lightcuts, photo constructs, and at least one major symphony. Three of the unknown heroes stand at the great captain's side in Sanrigal's masterpiece, Sim at the Hellgate. Talino's wife is portrayed among the drug addicts and derelicts in Tchigorin's Inaissa.

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And in Mommsen's Finale, a ragged man helps Sim battle the controls of the stricken Corsarius, while a wounded crewman lies prostrate on the deck, and a woman who must have earned her living in the streets of Abonai squeezes the triggers in the weapons cradle.

I suspected that Sim would have cleaned up his new crew, and that the end, when it came, would have been sudden and total. But what the hell: it was good art, if unlikely history.

The deserters dropped out of sight, to become objects of scorn. Talino lived almost a half century after his captain's death. It was said of him that his conscience gave him no rest, and that he was driven from world to world by an outraged public. He died on Rimway, apparently very close to madness.

I could find no record of Inaissa in the histories. Barcroft insists that she existed, but cites no source. (He claims to have spoken with Talino, but that assertion also stands unsupported.) Talino himself is not known to have mentioned her.

Historians entertained themselves for two centuries trying to put names to the volunteers, and even arguing over whether there were not really six, or eight, who took time final ride. Over the years, however, the Seven transcended their status as military heroes. They came eventually to symbolize the noblest sentiments of the Confederacy: the mutual commitment between government and its most desperate citizens.

I made arrangements to go home.

Fortunately, my connections with the world on which I'd been living for the preceding three years were tenuous. I had little trouble dissolving my business interests, after which I made arrangements to sell off most of my property, and packed the rest. I said good-bye to the couple of people who mattered to me (promising, as we always do, to exchange visits). That was a joke, considering how far Rambuckle was from Rimway, and how much I hated starships.

On the day that I was to leave, a second communication arrived from Brimbury & Conn. This one was hardcopy:

We regret to inform you there has been a break-in at Gabriel's home. Thieves took some electronic equipment, silverware, a few other items. Nothing of substantial value. They missed the artifacts. We have initiated steps to see there is no recurrence.

That seemed a suspicious coincidence. I wondered about the security of the Tanner file, and considered asking the lawyers about it before committing myself to travel to Rimway. But owing to the distances involved, I couldn't hope for an answer inside twenty days. So I dismissed the notion as overactive imagination, and headed home.

As I mentioned, I abhor starflight, and I avoided it when I could. A lot of people get nauseated during the transitions between Armstrong and linear space, but it seems to hit me especially hard.

I also have trouble adjusting to changes in gravity, time, and climate.

Moreover, there was the sheer uncertainty and inconvenience of it all. In those days, you never knew when you'd arrive at a destination. Vessels traveling through Armstrong space could not determine their position with regard to the outside world. That made navigation a trifle uncertain. Everything was done on dead reckoning, which is to say that the computers measured onboard elapsed time, tried to compensate for the uncertainties of entry, and everyone hoped for the best. Occasionally, vectors got displaced and vessels materialized a thousand light years from their destinations.

The most unnerving possibility, though, was that of re-entering linear space inside a physical object. If the odds were heavily against such an occurrence, it was nevertheless something I always thought of when a vessel was preparing to make its return jump. You never really knew where you were going to come out.

There is, in fact, evidence that this is what happened to the Hampton almost a century ago.

The Hampton was a small freighter which, like Capella, disappeared in nonlinear. She was
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carrying a cargo of manufactured goods to a mining colony in the Marmichon System. At about the time the vessel was to have made the jump from hyper, an outer planet—the gas giant Marmichon VI—blew up. No one has ever advanced an explanation of how a world can explode without help. Speculation at the time held that the vessel materialized inside the iron core, and that the antimatter fuel in the Armstrong drive unit initiated the explosion.

Armstrong generators were equipped with deflector units, which created a field strong enough to clear a few atoms and make room for the ship's transition into linear. Anything bigger wandering into the area at that critical phase put the vessel at risk. There was little real danger, of course. Ships were required to materialize well outside star systems. That bought relative safety, but left the traveler with a long ride to his destination. Usually, you could expect that the voyage from the Armstrong emergence point to the place you wanted to go would take roughly twice as long as the actual travel time between stars. I'd never gone anywhere that I could guess within five days when I would be arriving.

My flight to Rimway was no exception. I got deathly ill making the jump both ways. The carriers pass out drugs to help people through all that, but none of it's ever worked for me. I've learned to rely on alcohol.

All the same, it was good to see Rimway again. We approached from the dark side, so I could see the blazing splinters of light that marked the cities. The sun illuminated a gauzy arc of atmosphere along the rim. Through the opposite window, the moon was pale brown and turbulent. Storm-laden.

We slipped into orbit, crossed the terminator into daylight, and, a few hours later, rode down sun-washed skies toward Andiquar, the planetary capital. It was an exhilarating approach. But all the same, I promised myself that my interstellar days were over. I was home, and I was by God going to stay there.

We ran into snow over the city. The sun was low in the west, and it cast a thousand hews against frosted towers, and the peaks to the east. The capital's extensive parks had all but vanished in the storm. In the Confederate Triangle, the monuments to the two great brothers were blue and timeless: Christopher Sim's Doric pyramid, its illuminated apex glowing steadily against the encroaching dark; and, across the White Pool, Tarien Sim's Omni, a ghostly globe, symbol of the statesman's dream of a united human family.

I checked in at a hotel, logged onto the net in case anyone wanted to reach me, and took a shower. It was early evening, but I was tired. Nevertheless I couldn't sleep. After an hour or so of staring at the ceiling, I wandered downstairs, had a sandwich, and contacted Brimbury & Conn.

"I'm in town," I said.

"Welcome home, Mr. Benedict," said their AI. "Is there any way we can be of assistance?"

"I need a skimmer."

"On the roof of your hotel, sir. I am clearing it for you now. Will you be communicating with us tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said. "Probably late morning. And thanks."

I went up and collected my aircraft, punched in the location code of Gabe's house, and five minutes later I was lifting out over the city, headed west.

The malls and avenues were crowded with sightseers, shielded from the falling snow by gantner light. Tennis courts were filled, and kids paddled in pools. Andiquar has always been lovely at night, its gardens, towers, and courtyards softly illuminated, the winding Narakobo silent and deep.

While I floated over that pacific scene, the newsnet reported a mute attack on a
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communications research ship which had wandered too close to the Perimeter. Five or six dead.

No one was sure yet.

I flew out over the western fringes of Andiquar. Snow was falling heavily now, and I tilted the back of the seat and settled into the warmth of the cockpit. The landscape unrolled a few hundred meters below, leaving its trace on the thermals: the suburbs broke up into small towns, hills rose, forests appeared. Occasionally a road wandered through the display and, about twenty minutes out, I crossed the Melony, which had more or less marked the limits of human habitation when I

was a boy.

You can see the Melony from the attic bedroom at Gabriel's house. When I first went to live there, it twisted through mysterious, untamed country. A refuge for ghosts, robbers, and dragons.

The amber warning lamp signaled arrival. I banked and dropped lower. The dark forest was harmless now, curbed by athletic fields and pools and curving walkways. I'd watched the retreat of the wilderness over the years, counted the parks and homes and hardware stores. And on that snowy night, I flew above it and knew that Gabe was gone, and that much of what he loved was also gone.

I switched to manual and drifted in over the treetops, watching the house itself materialize out of the storm. There was already a skimmer on the pad (Gabe's, I assumed), so I set down on the front lawn.

Home.

It was probably the only real home I'd known, and I was saddened to see it standing stark and empty against the pale, sagging sky. According to tradition, Jorge Shale and his crew had crashed nearby. Only an historian can tell you now who first set foot on Rimway, but everybody on the planet knows who died in the attempt. Finding the wreckage had been the first major project of my life. But, if it existed out there at all, it had eluded me.

The house had once been a country inn, catering to hunters and travelers. Most of the woodland had been replaced by large glass homes and square lawns. Gabe had done what he could to hold onto the wilderness area. It had been a losing fight, as struggles against progress always are.

During my last years with him, he'd grown increasingly irascible with the unfortunates who moved into the neighborhood. And I doubt that many among his neighbors were sorry to see him go.

The attic bedroom was at the top of the house, on the fourth floor. The louvers on its twin windows were shut. A pair of idalia trees reached toward them; the branches of one twisted into a king's seat which I'd loved to climb, thereby scaring the blazes out of Gabe. Or so at least he'd allowed me to think.

I opened the cockpit and stepped down from the skimmer. Snow continued to whisper out of the sky. Somewhere, out of sight, children were playing. Excited shrieks echoed from an illuminated avenue a few houses over, and I could hear the smooth hiss of runners across white lawns and streets.

A sodium postlight beneath an oak threw a soft glow over the skimmer, and against the melancholy front windows. A familiar voice said, "Hello, Alex. Welcome home."

The lamp at the front door blinked on.

"Hello, Jacob," I said. Jacob wasn't really an AI. He was a sophisticated data response network, whose chief responsibility, at least in the old days, had been to maintain whatever conversational level Gabe felt up to, on whatever subject Gabe wished, at any given time. That would have been cruel and unusual treatment for a real AI. But it was sometimes hard to keep Jacob's true nature in mind.

"It's good to see you again," he said. "I'm sorry about Gabe."

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The snow was ankle deep. I hadn't dressed for it, and the stuff was already into my shoes.

"Yes. I am too." The front door opened, and the living room filled with light. Somewhere in back, music stopped. Stopped. That was the sort of thing that gave life to Jacob. "It was unexpected. I'll miss him."

Jacob was silent. I stepped inside, past a scowling stone demon that had been in the house long before I came to it, removed my jacket, and went into the den, the same room from which Gabe had recorded his final message. There was a sharp crack, as of a branch snapping, and flames appeared in the fireplace. It had been a long time. Rambuckle had been a cylinder world, and there had never been wood for burning. Nor any need to. (How long had it been since I'd seen snow? Or experienced inclement weather?)

I was back, and it felt suddenly as though I'd never been away.

"Alex?" There was something almost plaintive in his tone.

"Yes, Jacob. What is it?"

"There is something you need to know." In the back of the house, a clock ticked.

"Yes?"

"I don't remember you."

I paused in the middle of lowering myself into the padded armchair I'd occupied in the sponder.

"What do you mean?"

"The lawyers informed you there was a robbery?"

"Yes, they told me."

"Apparently the thief tried to copy my core unit. The basal memory. It must have been a possibility that concerned Gabriel. The system was programmed, in such an eventuality, to do a complete wipe. I have no recollection of anything prior to being reactivated by the authorities."

"Then how—"

"Brimbury and Conn programmed me to recognize you. What I'm trying to tell you is that I know about us, but I have no direct recollection."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"It leaves a few holes." I thought he was going to say something more, but he didn't.

Jacob had been around for twenty years. He'd been there when I was a kid. We'd played chess, and refought the major campaigns of half a dozen wars, and talked about the future while rain had splattered down the big windows. We'd planned to sail together around the world, and later, when my ambitions grew, we'd talked of the stars.

"How about Gabe? You remember him, right?"

"I know I would have liked him. His house indicates that he had many interests, and I feel safe in concluding he was worth knowing. I console myself that I did know him. But, no: I don't remember him."

I sat for some minutes, listening to the fire, and the sound of the snow at the windows. Jacob was not alive. The only feelings involved here were my own. "How about the data files? I understand something was taken from them."

"I checked the index. It's rather strange, really. They took a data crystal. But it could not have been of any use to the thief. He would need to know the security code to get access to it."