The New Space Opera 2 (50 page)

“Agreed. Drop me alone at the highway station. I'll kill the link as you move onward.”

Then Graybeard drags Xala back against the wall, and pulls her down with him so they are sitting on the deck, as close as lovers.

“Do the honors, will you?” he asks Scarface, nodding to the bands that Xala dropped.

“What? You mean the delta-bands?”

“Right.” With a stare in the direction of the Zajinets: “Since we're about to get going again.”

As the flowmetal wall begins to seal up, the Zajinets are already moving out of sight in the corridor.

Scarface offers delta-bands to the mother and father.

“Put them on, press here”—he points—“and you'll sleep. Otherwise, mu-space will send you insane.”

He stops and looks at Graybeard.

“I don't like this. You're going to be the last to sleep, right?”

“You've been paid.”

“That's the reason I'm going along with it.”

He resumes handing out the delta-bands.

“You don't frighten easily”—Graybeard turns to Carl—“for an academic.”

Carl finds himself swallowing.

“Er…I'm scared.” It's easy to allow his voice to vibrate. “Believe me.”

“Good.”

Carl isn't just frightened. He's trying to work out what Graybeard did with his tu-ring that forced the Zajinets to obey. Right now, the smaser nozzles are melting back into the wall, and he senses the ship getting ready for mu-space.

“Put the band on, Professor.”

Shit.

He lies back, places the band on his forehead, and reaches up. Then his eyelids flutter as his hand drops down.

“There you go, Xala.” Graybeard's voice. “Sweet dreams.”

“That's everyone.” This sounds like Scarface.

“After you.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Carl waits. Either they think he's pressed the band or they believe it doesn't matter, that he's only seconds away from being driven insane by the fractal reality of mu-space.

Silence.

Everyone else is probably asleep. If he's quick, he might be able to—

Transition.

Golden light is flooding through him. He opens his eyes.

At last.

He's back in the continuum where he belongs. And this time, he's awake.

 

The Logos Library, infinite within its boundaries, held an uncountable number of carrels: spaces for solo study or simple retreat. In one of them, Carl sat at a desk and cried.

The party had been—still was, elsewhere—a noisy, energetic maelstrom of pulsing music and triumphant fun, laughter, and pride, toasts to new beginnings, a celebration of the hundred and nineteen vessels added to the fleet for the benefit of humanity at large. He had suffered through it, avoiding his parents but knowing that he would have to face Marina. And, eventually, he did.

“I'm sorry.” Her triangular features had saddened. “We'll still be…friends.”

“Right. You'll be exploring the galaxy and I'll—” He had pushed out a breath, trying to expel his bitterness. “You did so well. Really, really well.”

Her pleasure had been real as she smiled. Amazed pleasure.

“Isn't she beautiful?”

“One terrific ship. Everyone's talking about her.”

“Yes. Look, I have to go see Commodore Durana.”

“Daredevil Durana?”

“
She
wants to talk to
me
. Would you believe it?”

“That's really—”

“See you around, Carl.”

Turning away, she had dipped her head. They had all been drilled in
the neurophysiology of communication, and knew when to hide their own reactions. But Carl had already begun his extra training, had learned to read the minutiae of gesture and movement, and wished he hadn't. In her eyes, in the tightening of the muscles above her upper lip, she had broadcast her message in clear.

A part of her despised him.

Marina…

Public shame had dissolved whatever compelling image she'd held of Carl. Words had risen up inside him then, a plea for new understanding, but she had already moved into the mass of happy, celebrating Pilots. Fighting down emotion and the urge to blurt out his feelings, he had found a quiet exit and used it.

Everything had changed the moment she had turned away.

I loved you.

But that was over. It had to be over.

Now, as he sat in the lonely carrel amid stacks of infocrystals, he felt as if something had severed the cord of his life. The old part had been cut away from the new, for everything was different now.

Focusing on breathing, the simplicity of inhale-exhale, he began to center himself.

~
It's time
.~

When he looked up, he felt calm.

“I know,” he said.

 

With golden mu-space energy flowing through him, he lies on the couch, feeling ready. Whatever happens next, it will be in his own continuum, where he truly comes alive. For someone like him, this is what makes a dual life worthwhile.

He throws the delta-band aside and sits up. Everyone is sleeping: Graybeard slumped against the wall, Xala curled beside him, the others on their couches.

“Now we'll see.”

Smiling, he powers up his tu-ring's weaponry. In front of him, the flowmetal wall pulls apart, revealing the fore-to-aft corridor.

Time to do it.

Forget the past, for this is where he belongs, in places and moments like this.

On the edge.

 

Leaving the Logos Library, he took a quiet route, bypassing Borges Boulevard and the Great Shield, entering Ascension Annex through an obscure entrance. The bronze-petal door folded back at his approach. Inside, the floor pulled him along, through a screen of sapphire light, then another of coruscating emerald. Finally, the floor swirled to a halt in a great ovoid hall where no one was waiting.

“I'm here.”

An oval of wallspace melted away, allowing a blocky figure to enter. Rolled-back sleeves revealed massive forearms. Shaven-headed and jet-eyed, he stared at Carl.

“Your emotional state, Pilot Candidate?”

As far as the rest of Labyrinth was concerned, Carl was a candidate no longer.

“Surviving, Commander.”

“You got through the celebrations.”

“Yes.” Carl thought of Marina, her look of contempt burned in his mind forever. “With no desire to go back and explain myself.”

“Not even a little?”

Carl took the question seriously, as Commander Gould intended.

“None, sir. Not now.”

Gould smiled. “Then it's time to face the real ordeal, don't you think?”

The commander led the way to the far wall. It shimmered, sparkled, transformed into a lattice of floating white stars, and then dissolved. Beyond was a great bluish hangar bay, and inside—

My God.

—hung a black dart of a ship with fine scarlet edging. Small compared to others, but this one would never carry passengers or cargo. Her power capacity was orders of magnitude above normal. Even at a glance, he could tell that she had maneuverability and firepower that were outstanding.

She's beautiful.

Powerful, with an air of being on the brink of speeding movement, on the edge of dynamic balance, like a sprinter in motion…she was designed to hold one Pilot, only him.

So beautiful
.

Carl Blackstone, Pilot.

“Take her out, son.” Commander Gould's hand was on his shoulder.

“There are so many people in Labyrinth now,” Carl said. “Can I really—?”

~You will be unobserved.~

Commander Gould looked upward.

“The city has spoken, Pilot Blackstone. She'll make sure you leave unseen.”

“Thank you.”

There was no need to ask about stealth capability. He knew, inside himself, that his ship had everything.

“Enjoy your triumph, Carl.” The commander had not used his first name before. “A very private triumph, because that's the nature of the beast.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. It's why you were chosen. Why you chose yourself. Because you can score victory with no need to boast, face defeat in obscurity, endure public shame.”

“Yes…”

“Because that's what it means to be a spy.”

But there was no remembering humiliation now, not with
her
in front of him, his black-and-scarlet ship. His beauty, who would have to remain here or fly alone for so much of his life, her commitment as great as his.

“She'll always be faithful, Carl, and there when you need her.”

I know
.

Carl reached up for his ship—his beautiful, wondrous, powerful, lovely ship—to carry him up, to take him inside herself in a moment of beauty and triumph.

Private triumph.

 

Standing before a bulkhead, he points his fist and holds it there. There is no flare of light, but the flowmetal pulls open as his tu-ring completes its work, revealing the windowless control cabin. Inside, the two Zajinets are floating: one a shining lattice of red, the other glowing azure, now unclothed.

<<
Greetings, Pilot
.>>

<<
Greetings, Pilot
.>>

<<
Greetings, Pilot
.>>

<<
Greetings, Pilot
.>>

It is the red one communicating. What's astounding is the clarity of its message—its solitary meaning instead of overlaid confusion.

“You knew I was here?”

<<
Not until you awoke. Then we knew
.>>

<<
Not until you awoke. Then we knew
.>>

<<
Not until you awoke. Then we knew
.>>

<<
Not until you awoke. Then we knew
.>>

Earlier, the Zajinet had used the word
entanglement
in response to Graybeard's command. There's a link in place between Graybeard's tu-ring and the Zajinet, a link powerful enough to change the alien's mental state in a new way.

Carl's own tu-ring grows dull, not at his command.

<<
We are not your enemy. We never have been
.>>

<<
We are not your enemy. We never have been
.>>

<<
We are not your enemy. We never have been
.>>

<<
We are not your enemy. We never have been
.>>

Perhaps it is true, but there have been encounters in the past, with the Zajinets targeting Pilots rather than ordinary humans.

“What's he carrying?” Carl meant Graybeard. “And why is it important?”

Before coming on board, he had no idea whether he was investigating an illegal venture with Zajinets or a renegade Pilot of his own kind. Now the parameters have shifted beyond recognition, and illicit ferrying of passengers means nothing.

And Graybeard has the means to threaten Zajinets into submission, which makes his tu-ring almost as interesting as the contents of the case he is carrying.

<<
Darkness. He carries darkness
.>>

<<
Darkness. He carries darkness
.>>

<<
Darkness. He carries darkness
.>>

<<
Darkness. He carries darkness
.>>

So much for thinking that the Zajinet has achieved clarity.

<<
His kind are centuries old inside your species. Yet you do not see
.>>

<<
His kind are centuries old inside your species. Yet you do not see
.>>

<<
His kind are centuries old inside your species. Yet you do not see
.>>

<<
His kind are centuries old inside your species. Yet you do not see
.>>

He looks at the other Zajinet. Faint blue lines link it to the convolute sculpture of the controls. Perhaps it's busy.

“What do you mean by darkness?”

Suddenly, the golden light that was ubiquitous shivers out of existence, and the air feels cold. They are back in realspace.

<<
You have two minutes before he awakens. Wake Xala
.>>

<<
You have two minutes before he awakens. Wake Xala
.>>

<<
You have two minutes before he awakens. Wake Xala
.>>

<<
You have two minutes before he awakens. Wake Xala
.>>

He has a hundred and twenty seconds in which to attempt sensible conversation with a Zajinet or to take action. He's already jogging back along the corridor as the thought completes. At some point, his tu-ring comes back to life.

Inside the passenger cabin, everyone is still sleeping. Carl tears the delta-band from Xala's forehead.

“Ow! Shit.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm going to have a migraine.” Dragon tattoos swirl around her scalp. She pushes herself away from Graybeard. “Bastard.”

“We've only got a few seconds.”

“Huh. So how come you're awake first?”

Carl gestures toward the front of the ship.

“Ask your friends.”

“My—? I need to know more than that before—”

“And I need to know what's in the case. What this
bastard
”—he nudges Graybeard with his foot—“is carrying.”

“So take a look.”

She taps on the case. The top splits open, revealing nothing.

“It's empty, Xala.”

“Try lifting it up.”

This is annoying, but Graybeard's eyes are shifting beneath closed eyelids. Carl takes hold of the case and…tugs without effect.

“What's this? A mag-field?”

Bracing himself, he squats and pulls, raising it several centimeters from the deck, then lets it thump down. But the casing should be lightweight, its mass measured in grams, not tens of kilos.

“No mag-field,” says Xala. “It's the device inside that's heavy.”