Starhawk (10 page)

—Bobmontana

That's sexist, Bob. Women are just as capable of behaving like lunatics as guys are. They just don't do it as often. Remember that mother in the Middle East a few months ago whose kid blew himself up in a temple and killed a dozen people? She said she was proud of him. That's as loony as it gets.

—MariaY

THE CERTIFICATION CEREMONY
was a month away. Until then, Priscilla's time was her own. The normal routine for a new pilot was to lock down an assignment with one of the deep-space corporations and take some leave. Priscilla needed to get away. Go home and put Lalande behind her rather than spend a week or two on the Wheel. She was tired of being closed in, of the centripetal halfhearted gravity generated by the spinning space station, and of being so far from the nearest beach. Yes, it was November, but she liked beaches. So she called home. Then she called Jake to say good-bye.

“Enjoy yourself,” he said. “Have a big time.”

“I'll give it my best shot.”

“How's Tawny?”

“She's good.”

“Your mom going to take her?”

“Absolutely. Tawny and I will be headed for Princeton in the morning.”

“Good. She's a lucky cat. Oh, by the way, I have news.”

“You're going to be the new WSA director.”

He laughed. “No. Even better: I'm retiring.”

“You're kidding, Jake.”

“No. I'm pulling the plug.”

“You spend a few weeks with me, and it's all over, huh? Well, that's pretty much the way I've always affected good-looking guys.”

That broke him up. “Priscilla, you're priceless.”

“So where are you going?”

“The Blue Ridge. I'm going to settle in Virginia.”

“That's kind of sudden, isn't it?”

“It's time.”

“Why Virginia? I thought you were from Pittsburgh.”

“I have a cabin up there. It's been my vacation spot for years.”

“Well, I'm happy for you, Jake. But I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you, too, Priscilla. If you ever need me, just call—”

 * * * 

HER LIFETIME AMBITION
went beyond mere piloting. She wanted more than simply taking an interstellar into deep space. There was nothing intrinsically interesting about that. She expected to go farther, to get onto the exploration side. Head for places no one had ever seen. Most of the pilots did nothing more than haul passengers and cargo between research stations and, in a couple of cases, service people working at extraterrestrial archeological sites, places where civilizations had once flourished but which, for reasons not yet clearly understood, had grown dysfunctional and died, taking the inhabitants with them. There was only one known world with living intelligent beings. That was the awkwardly named Inakademeri, an attempt to render in English one of the inhabitants' own names for their world. Priscilla could never understand why the experts hadn't settled on something a bit less difficult to pronounce. Surely, the natives had other names for their world. In any case, it had been shortened to Nok.

Nok was not a place anyone would want to visit. The aliens were bipeds whose appearance was not wildly different from that of humans, but there was a problem. They were impossibly boring. They were locked in a centuries-old series of conflicts arising out of politics and religion and anything else they could think of to fight over. Fortunately, their technology was nineteenth-century, more or less. But, as one of her teachers had put it, they lacked history majors.

Reproductions of their art hung in museums, and translations of their literature had been made available. But they wrote long-winded novels, painted abstracts that Priscilla could make no sense of, and practiced religions that, in some instances, advocated killing nonbelievers. Their advocates claimed it was simply a matter of giving them time to develop. The bad news was that they'd had roughly a ten-thousand-year head start over humans. Maybe in the end, she thought, we would discover that whatever occupants on other worlds looked like, they would all behave uncomfortably like us. Except possibly worse. There might, in the end, be no aliens worth getting to know. At least none close enough for us to find.

But she was forgetting the Monument-Makers. And whoever had been at Talios.

Priscilla had sat in on a conversation in the Cockpit the night before she'd left on her qualification run. She'd heard Preacher Brawley, one of the most respected pilots in the business, going on about how the age of exploration was over. The various governments, after two decades, saw interstellar flight as nothing but a drain on resources. And private corporations were exclusively involved in making money. Tours, orbiting hotels, and potential colonies. But the corporations did not want to make investments that had only a long-term payoff, let alone do any blue-sky science. She suspected that Kosmik would gladly sell off their interstellar operations if they could find a buyer. And the governments were doing everything they could to withdraw funding.

So now, mostly, we weren't doing much other than transporting cargo and passengers. There were several small, privately funded operations, like the Academy Project, that were actually trying to move farther out. But they needed resources.

She would, for the time being, have to settle. Kosmik, Inc. had an office just off the main concourse. She'd submitted a résumé within hours of getting back from the certification flight. Her shuttle didn't leave until four, so she had plenty of time. Why not take some good news home?

She called them. “My name's Hutchins,” she said to the young man who answered. “I'd like to work for Kosmik. As a pilot.”

He passed her along to an older guy with heavy eyebrows and a receding hairline. He looked out at her from the display. “You look a little young, ma'am. How much experience do you have?”

“I'll be receiving my license next month.”

“Are you on the Wheel now?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked away momentarily. Seemed to be speaking to someone else. “When can you come in?”

 * * * 

HIS NAME WAS
Howard Broderick. He was chewing his lip. “So you want to do missions for us, is that right?”

“That's correct, Mr. Broderick. I'd like very much to be part of Kosmik.”

He took a couple more chews, glanced down at a notepad, then looked up at her. “Why?”

“Because Kosmik is leading the way in an age of discovery. They're making history. I'm not sure that we've ever done anything more significant than what is happening right now. I want to be part of it.”

“I see.” His eyes narrowed. “You were on the mission that came in yesterday, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're smiling. Why?”

She was wondering how he'd react if she told him that she'd helped rescue a cat. “I was just thinking how much I've looked forward to this moment.”

“Yes. I'm sure. It says here you lost Captain Miller. Not you, but the mission you were part of.”

She nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry to say that's correct.”

“Do you mind telling me what happened?”

She ran through it again, avoiding some of the more difficult details. And again she faced the question she suspected she'd hear a few more times before this was over. “How did they decide who was going to go down to the cargo bay?”

“Captain Miller simply went down without telling anyone what he intended to do.” That was, of course, the truth.

“And nobody understood what was going on?”

“Mr. Broderick, I've told you as much as I know.”

“I see.” He wasn't impressed with her answer. As if she
should
have been aware. He exhaled. Nodded. “Is there anything else we should know?”

“I think that's about it.”

“If we decide to take you on, when would you be able to start?”

“The certification ceremony's December 22.”

“That's irrelevant, Priscilla. You're already certified. The ceremony's just a ceremony. So when could you start?”

“It's been a long haul. I'd like to get a few days off.”

“Okay. Make sure we have your code. We'll see you back here next Friday. December 4.”

“Thank you.” She tried to keep her voice level. “I can do that.”

“Excellent. Congratulations and welcome aboard.”

 * * * 

NEWSDESK

After all these years, it's difficult to see what possible benefit can come out of space exploration, with its enormous costs and assorted risks. We've known for a long time that there are other intelligences in the universe although after more than thirty years of looking around, we've yet to find anyone we can talk to, other than the barbarians on Inakademeri. And we clearly have nothing to learn from them.

Our explorers have gone out more than sixty light-years. We've seen some ruins, and we've discovered the Great Monuments, probably the one serious benefit we've gotten from all this. But the reality is that we've had better sculptors at home though no one wants to admit it.

We live on a crowded planet, beset by widespread famine and plagued by the environmental meltdown caused by ancestors who ignored the problem until it got out of control. And we are still charging around bombing each other.

There is no intent here to belittle the accomplishment of those who gave us the means to reach out and conquer the vast distances that separate us from other worlds. But the hard reality is that the resources being used to send vehicles to the stars are desperately needed at home. Let's take care of our own world before we go looking for others. Let's not repeat old mistakes.

—Gregory MacAllister,
Baltimore Sun
,

November 26, 2195

IF YOU SPEND
twenty-seven years in space, nineteen of them piloting interstellars, you tend to lose contact with the bonds of Earth. Friends wander away, your family dissipates until only a few cousins and nephews remain, and the neighborhood in which you grew up changes so much that it's no longer recognizable. Visit, and you're a stranger. Consequently, Jake had no reason to return to Pittsburgh. Instead, he'd always liked remote places. Growing up, he'd thought that one day he'd like to live on an island. Or a mountaintop. It was probably the same drive that took him to the stars.

The Blue Ridge was a natural place for him to settle. His cabin was located halfway up a mountain, near Radford, Virginia, with a spectacular view of Claytor Lake. He had a few acquaintances but no friends in the area. It was his kind of country—rugged, beautiful, a place where you could expect to be left alone. It had never occurred to him that when the day came on which he actually settled into the cabin, he might not
want
to be left alone.

He'd visualized a different sort of retirement, one in which his colleagues, over the course of his last few months, would tell him how much they'd miss him, in which his bosses would acknowledge his work with a certificate, which he'd frame and hang over the sofa. There'd be a farewell party at the end. He'd expected to come to it with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he'd done exactly what he'd wished with his life and with the knowledge that it had counted for something. He would arrive on the Blue Ridge bearing the respect of the professionals with whom he'd worked. Of people who'd been around a while. And of people like Priscilla, who were just starting and would form the next generation. Instead, he couldn't even look into the eyes of those whom he'd known all these years. Least of all, into Priscilla's.

She'd pretended everything was okay. But she knew what he'd done. And God help him, if he were put in the same situation today, he'd probably do the same thing. Stall and pretend he didn't know what Joshua was really saying until he went below and shut off the air.

It was raining when he arrived at the cabin. He'd never been here before for more than a couple of weeks at a time. But it had officially been his home for nine years. He dropped his bags on the front deck, listening to the downpour and the wind while the lock clicked open. No other building was visible although at night, a few places across the slopes would light up. And, of course, if he was watching at the right moment, he'd be able to see the maglev going through the valley on its way to Roanoke.

He went inside and closed the door. A sudden rush of rain swept across one of the windows. Jake crossed to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and poured himself a glass of rum. Then he settled into a chair, sipped his drink, put the glass down on a side table, and let his head sink back. It's not always a good thing, he thought, when you run into desperate circumstances and find yourself in the presence of a hero. You may come out alive, but it was possible nothing else that mattered would survive.

He was a different person now than he had been when he was called to go out and take over Priscilla's certification flight. He knew more about himself than he had then. He'd been tested and found wanting. And he'd have to live with it.

Well, okay. How many other guys would have been willing to step up in that kind of situation?

He showered and got into fresh clothes. There was nothing in the refrigerator, but he didn't want to have dinner alone anyhow. Not today. So he went down to Earl's, where he routinely ate when he was in town.

 * * * 

IT WAS EARLY,
and there were only three or four other customers in the place. He knew the waitresses, and David the bartender. David was a heavyset African-American who knew what Jake did for a living and consequently treated him like a VIP. Earl himself was an invisible presence, a guy who lived in Richmond and owned a chain of bistros.

“What'll you have, Jake?” asked David. “Been a while.”

“Hi, David.” He sat down at the bar. “A light beer would be good. How've you been?”

David gave him a big smile. “Pretty good, actually.” He picked up a glass, filled it, and set it down in front of him. “I'm opening my own business.”

“Really? You're not leaving here, are you?”

“Yes. This is my last week.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Jake. “You bought a bar?”

“A restaurant. In Charlottesville. I'll be moving down there next week.” He was muscular, a guy who might have been a linebacker in his earlier days. And he looked happy.

“Good luck with it, David.” He picked up the beer and took a swallow. “What kind of restaurant is it?”

“It's going to be a Bumpers.” He handed Jake a flyer. “It opens the weekend after next.”

“Knockout waitresses,” said Jake.

David laughed. “Just like here.”

“I hope you make a million up there, David.”

“I hope so, too.” He glanced at the overhead. “How's life on the space station? I see you helped rescue some girls last week.”

“More or less.”

He had to break off to pour drinks for a couple of customers. Then he was back: “How long you going to be here this time, Jake?”

“I'm home permanently. I've retired.”

“Really? You're pretty young to be doing that, aren't you?”

“I wish.”

“Are you going to be living here?”

“For a while, anyhow.”

“Well, good. I hope you'll come over to Charlottesville to see me occasionally.”

“I'll do that, David.”

“I'll tell you something, though. If I could fly one of those things that
you
do, I don't think I'd ever quit.”

 * * * 

WHEN HE'D FINISHED
his dinner, Jake went back up to the cabin and turned on the HV. He needed to get a couple of women in his life. Maybe that would help him break out of this mood. There were a few places in the area he could try. But not tonight.

He settled onto his sofa and looked for something to watch. He skimmed over cooking shows, talking heads going on about the presidential campaign, more talking heads discussing a woman who'd gotten dumped and responded by murdering her boyfriend, the boyfriend's father, and a pizza-delivery guy who'd gotten seriously unlucky. He found an Ed Brisbane comedy, but he'd seen it. And a science-fiction thriller with a man and woman crawling through a pipe pursued by a spidery beast.

Yuk.

He was still looking when his link sounded. He lowered the volume on the HV. “Hello?”

“Mr. Loomis? This is Sheila Pascal. I'm calling for ITI.”
Interstellar Transport, Inc.
“We understand you've retired.”

“That's correct.”

“Mr. Loomis, we need an experienced pilot. We'd like very much to talk with you. Maybe bring you on board.”

“No, thank you, Sheila. I have no plans to go back.”

“Well, yes, that's what we heard.”
Her voice warmed.
“We'd make it worth your while, Mr. Loomis. We are moving people and cargo out to several stations. You'd find the work interesting and rewarding—”

“Thanks, Sheila. But I'll have to pass.”

“Okay, Mr. Loomis. I'm sorry to hear it. We expect to keep the job open for another forty-eight hours or so. So you have time to get in touch with us if you change your mind. I'll hope to hear from you.”

 * * * 

JAKE WAS STANDING
on the front deck in a heavy jacket watching the sun dip below the mountains. It was cold. November in the Blue Ridge. A steady wind was roiling the tree limbs. He was about to go inside when his link sounded. The ID signaled an unknown caller.
“Jake?”
A male voice. Familiar.

“Yes,” he said.

“This is Leon.”

“Leon?” His jaw dropped.

“I need to see you.”

For a long moment he stared at the link. “Leon, you didn't really
do
that, did you?”

The wind murmured in the trees.
“Yes,”
he said. The word hung in the vast mountain desolation.
“God help me, Jake, yes. I did it. It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did.”

Jake was surprised that he felt no sudden rage. Only a cold lack of emotion. “You know about Joshua?”

“Yes. I know.”
Something cackled.
“Jake, I'm just a couple of minutes away. Can I come by? I need to talk to you.”

“You know where I am?”

“Yes. Please, Jake.”

“All right. Come on over.”

 * * * 

DESPITE THE COLD,
he waited on the deck. The view was spectacular. Snow-covered mountains, Claytor Lake trailing away to the southwest. The woods were silent, but somewhere he heard kids laughing. Probably the Conway cabin, the only one nearby, though it wasn't visible. Gradually, the laughter subsided and was replaced by the sound of a car coming up the mountain road. The only thing he could think of at that moment was the pleasure it would give him to throttle Leon Carlson.

The car came in through the trees and pulled off into the driveway behind his two-door Ford Lance. Leon got out, looked up at him, closed the car door, and simply stood with slumped shoulders. “Hello, Jake,” he said.

“You know the Feds are after you?”

“Yeah. I know.”

They stood staring at each other until finally Jake reached back, opened his door, and held it. Leon climbed the three steps onto the deck. He hesitated at the entrance until Jake motioned him inside. “Jake,” he said, “I'd give anything if I could go back and change what I did.”

“Yeah. I don't guess you get a do-over, do you? Not when you kill somebody.”

“No, you don't. I'm going to have to live with that. I thought—Well, Jake, you don't know what we're doing out there. We're destroying an entire world. Everything on it is dying.”

“I understand about that, Leon. But how does that justify your putting a bomb on a goddam interstellar?”

“I—I just got it wrong. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

“You could've taken out those kids, too.”

“Damn it, Jake, there weren't supposed to
be
any kids. There was only supposed to be Drake and the shipment. I had it set up so he'd dock at the Selika station, and an alarm would go off and warn him about the bomb. There would have been time for him to get away from it. I was trying to make a statement. It's all I wanted to do. Find a way to alert people about what's happening.”

They sat down in the living room. Jake got some scotch and filled two glasses. “Here.” He set Leon's on the side table. “What do you want me to do? You want me to help you get out of the country somewhere? Is that what this is all about?”

“No, Jake. My life is over. I just want you to cut me some slack.”

“In what way?”

“I want to apologize. I know what you went through.”

“No, you don't. You have no idea what I went through. I stood aside out there and let Joshua kill himself. Who do
I
get to apologize to?”

“I'm sorry, Jake. That's why I'm here. I couldn't just let this thing hang. I can't do anything now except this—” He finished the drink in a swallow and stood. “I'm sorry. I'd change it if I could.” He started toward the door but stopped. “If you want to call the police, they can pick me up on the road.” His voice broke. He was almost in tears. “Or, if you want, I'll wait here for them to come for me.”

“You're right, Leon. You really screwed it up.” Jake stayed unmoving in his chair.

Leon opened the door and looked back at him. “Good-bye, Jake,” he said. Then he was gone.

 * * * 

NEWSDESK

HOMICIDE RATE IN CITIES RISING AGAIN

Philadelphia Worst in Nation with 63 Dead So Far

Projected to Reach 70 by Year's End

EBERLE HAMPTON DEAD AT 122

Cause of Death Uncertain

Beloved Vocalist Founded Child Rescue

SPACE STATION TO UPGRADE SECURITY

New Systems Already in Place

PRESIDENT NORMAN PARDONS TURKEY

Representatives from Both Parties Attend New White House Dinner

HIGH IQ LINKED TO COMIC BOOKS

Early Childhood Activities May Count More Than Genes

RED SOX SIGN BOOMER LYSON IN RECORD DEAL

ISRAEL, PALESTINE HOST WORLD CHESS TOURNAMENT

MCGRUDER BLASTS NORMAN ON ECONOMY AS RACE HEATS UP

Tells Supporters “It's All About Jobs”

DENTIST DROWNS WHILE RESCUING KIDS

Helps Two Girls Survive Overturned Canoe

CHURCH ATTACK RENEWS PLASMA WEAPON DEBATE

NLA Resists Attempts to Impose Ban

ZANZIBAR FERRY OVERTURNS

Six Dead; Captain Sought