Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (31 page)

Roget wondered if there might be a village or town called Hemlock, but didn't ask. He still could help thinking about the last words the director had offered … about events two and twenty-five centuries earlier. They'd been almost tossed off, as if they were absolute and yet as if whatever the Federation found would be disregarded.

When they disembarked at Rhodes, so did some twenty young men and women, mostly from other cars. Only a handful of men and women were waiting to board.

“Just wait a moment,” Lyvia said.

Roget slung his pack over his shoulder and stood there.

Only when the concourse appeared empty did Lyvia turn and walk to the end away from the ramp leading up to the surface. At the end of the concourse, as they neared, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a narrow ramp. The hidden doorway closed silently behind them.

The ramp led straight down for a good hundred meters, then ended in a small foyer. On the right side was a single set of translucent doors of the same type used in the subtrans concourses, except that these were a dull yet deep red—the first of that color Roget had seen. This time Lyvia used her belt-tube and the doors opened, revealing a much smaller conveyance, almost a large capsule with but four seats, two on each side facing each other. All four seats were a deep green without trim.

Lyvia gestured and Roget stepped inside, taking a seat and putting his pack on the one beside him. Lyvia settled across from him, and the doors closed.

Roget studied the capsule, deciding from the lack of wear and its compactness that it was not used heavily. He could sense that they were descending. Descending? To reach a launch site that would send his dropboat into space?

Roget shrugged. That made about as much sense as anything had on Dubiety.

When the tube capsule came to a halt and the narrow door slid open, he asked, “How deep are we?”

“Deep enough.”

From what his internal sensors registered with the change in air pressure, Roget guessed that they had dropped a good klick, if not more, but that estimation was rough, not an exact calculation because he didn't know all the variables. He followed Lyvia out into a small foyer whose metallic walls glistened like brushed pewter. Opposite the doors to the tube capsule was a metal framed archway.

The archway door split open. Each side of the door was almost a meter thick, and he walked swiftly through after Lyvia. Two guards—stationed behind energy screens—watched as Lyvia and Roget stepped through the heavy metal and composite doors. For the first time, Roget did sense energy emissions and scanning. Another closed archway stood behind and between the pair of guards.

“This is where I leave you.” She smiled. Warmly, Roget realized. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Roget unclipped the belt-tube. “I suppose I should give this back to you.”

“You can take it with you,” Lyvia said. “It's another piece of evidence.” She smiled. “Besides, if you ever do come back, you can still use the credits.”

Roget shook his head. “They'll want the evidence.”

“It doesn't matter. The credits are registered in your name.”

“If I don't come back, give them to Aylicia, if you can.”

“Thank you.” She turned and walked back through the still-open archway from the tube capsule. It closed.

“Major…” offered one of the guards. “The technicians are waiting.”

Roget looked back toward the second archway, now open. After a moment, he said, “Thank you,” and stepped through the archway.

On the other side waited a man in a white singlesuit, standing in another featureless and high-ceilinged foyer. “Major Roget, this way.”

Roget nodded and followed the other along the wide corridor. In a way, he felt more comfortable—wherever he was—because the installation had the definite feel of a military operation.

The technician turned into the second doorway on the left, the first one that was open. A series of wide lockers lined one wall, and a bench was set back from them. An open archway led into another chamber, which looked to hold freshers and toilets or the equivalent.

At the end of the bench was a frame holding a suit similar to the pressure suit Roget had worn on his descent through the orbital shields. The suit was a lighter shade of blue than his had been, almost white. He set his bag down on the end of the bench.

The technician pointed. “That's a deep-space pressure suit. Yours was too degraded, and we didn't bother trying to figure out how to repair it. We modified the neck-ring so that it is compatible with the standard Federation helmet. That was for comm compatibility. We checked the seal against your helmet, and it's perfect. Your helmet is in the dropboat.” He pointed to a flat bag on the end of the bench nearest the suit. “There's an emergency suit there with a quick-seal hood, in case you can't get to a full suit. You might consider taking it. Of course, it's only got about an hour of oxygen, but that's usually enough for us to get to people in our operations.”

“Thank you.” Roget didn't know what else to say.

Roget studied the emergency pressure suit, then paused as he noted the red triangle on the waistband of the suit. “What's this?” He pointed.

“That's an emergency beacon. Press and hold for several seconds. Not that I expect you'd want pickup from us.” The technician laughed. “I'll be outside when you're ready, and I'll escort you to the … launch chamber.”

Within moments, Roget was alone. Launch chamber? Possibly klicks below ground? And he was standing in a locker room that held a good twenty lockers. He reached forward to the nearest locker. It was locked, unsurprisingly.

Finally, he took off his jacket and folded it, setting it on the bench. Then he began to don the replacement pressure suit—far easier to get into than the one he had used before, yet he had the feeling it might well be more durable. The seals literally melded into a seamless fabric.

Once he had the suit on, he bent to retrieve his own pack. Then he paused as he saw the flat package on the bench. The tech's observations were as close to an absolute recommendation as he'd gotten. He picked up the pack and felt it, then scanned it. A Trojan horse?

He shook his head. Why would they bother? They could have turned the entire dropboat into that. Besides, it was another piece of evidence. Finally, he slipped the flat package into his pack, rearranging items so that the pressure suit was on the bottom and his jacket was on the top. Then he closed the pack, slung it over one shoulder, and headed out of the locker room.

The tech was waiting in the corridor.

“This way, Major.”

Roget walked beside the tech toward the end of the corridor and another metal girded archway with a closed set of doors. “Is this the only launch center?”

“It's best that I don't answer that, Major.”

“Can you tell me what entity operates it? It seems … military.”

“When you deal with massive force, any organization needs discipline. In that respect, we're no different.”

Roget couldn't argue with that, but before he could frame another question they reached the archway, and the doors opened. He and the tech stepped into a huge domed and circular composite-lined chamber more than two hundred meters across. The apex of the dome was at least two hundred meters above.

A dropboat rested in a massive cradle in the middle of the chamber. The floor was polished and perfectly level, but the cradle was centered in a circle of amber composite so large that the cradle and boat looked almost lost, yet the gray area outside the circle was far larger. Protruding slightly from the mouth of a tunnel to Roget's right was a second cradle with another Federation dropboat.

“You'll be in the first boat, Major. The second boat is slaved to yours. Don't make any course or power corrections until Drop four is in formation on you. The slave relay won't work until it's in position. But any power or course changes you make will be copied precisely by Drop four. Someone will probably have to do a maglock or a tow on it once you get close to whatever ship they want you to rendezvous with.”

“The other agent?”

“He's … very erratic. We're going to keep you two apart because he's stable for the moment. We just want to get you both back in one piece.” The tech walked directly toward the cradle. “His comm is also blocked, except for the links to our control, but he won't know it until after launch.”

“And mine?”

“Yours is open all the way. You'll see.”

Roget certainly hoped so.

As they neared the cradle and the dropboat, Roget saw a portable ladder set at the side, arching over the cradle and leading to the dropboat's hatch. The tech stopped at the bottom. “Once you're inside we'll roll the ladder back. Except for the cradle and the boat, the space inside the circle has to be absolutely clear. Do you have any last questions?”

“How long will the launch take?”

“Less than ten minutes once you've finished your checklist and are ready. After you finish your checklist, control will contact you, and we'll orient the cradle. Make certain you're fully restrained.”

“I can do that.” Roget smiled.

“Best of luck, Major.”

“Thank you.” Roget climbed the ladder, carrying his pack. The hull was a different color in several places although the metal or composite the Dubietans had used melded into the original exterior seamlessly, except for the difference in shading. The hatch was open, and he had no trouble entering the dropboat. He could tell immediately that extensive repairs had been undertaken internally, not because of patches or oil or dirt, but because the entire interior looked almost new. Shaking his head, he stowed his pack in the tiny bunk cubicle behind the pilot's couch and then inspected the interior.

Once he finished his interior inspection and settled himself before the controls, Roget donned his pressure helmet, linked to the craft's systems, then went through the predrop checklist, hoping that it would cover what was needed for whatever kind of launch the Dubietans used.

He went through the checklist twice. If he could trust the linkage and the reports, all systems were green, and all power reserves were at one hundred. He ran another set of diagnostics, but the secondaries confirmed the primary reports. He knew he hated trusting in what he didn't understand, but, yet again, he had to put his trust in the Thomists.
Do you really have any choice?

He didn't, but it seemed, in retrospect, that he'd had few enough in his life.

Dropboat three, this is Magna Launch Control, communications check.
The words were crystal clear. They were also in old American.

Control, this is three. Loud and clear.

Interrogative restrained and ready to launch.

Restrained and ready to launch, Magna Control.

Stand by for cradle orientation.

Standing by.

No sound penetrated the dropboat, but Roget could feel the cradle and the boat moving smoothly and then coming to a stop, nose up, perhaps thirty degrees.

Cradle orientation complete and verified. Stand by for launch.

Ready for launch this time, Control.
Roget pushed out of his mind the impossibility of a planetary launch from deep underground and waited.

Good luck, Major.

Roget had no idea what to expect, but what happened next was totally unanticipated—blackness through which he could see nothing while he felt pressure, barely two gees, if that, followed by a lifting of the blackness, weightlessness, and by readings on all of his instruments showing that he was in space.

He didn't have time to think about the impossibility of what had just happened.

Where was he? Roget scanned the screens. Dubiety/Haze was well insystem from him, and he could discern a good thirty Federation ships directly in front of him on his present courseline and solar inclination. Thirty? There had only been five when he'd been dropped nine days before. Only nine days? In some respects, it felt far longer.

He ran another set of checks, but all his systems were green, and he was on an interception course for the center of the Federation formation. Even his closing speed was within the parameters that would allow phase deceleration. His power was still just below 100 percent.

He checked for the other dropboat, but Drop four was nowhere around.

“They have to move the cradle,” he murmured, forcing himself to wait … and wait.

Then, his screens blinked, and abruptly, he could see Drop four at his one seventy at a range of three klicks. Inside the pressure suit, he shivered. The Dubietans had launch-projected two dropboats something like a million klicks and set them within three klicks of each other?

“Frig…” he murmured. He cleared his throat, then transmitted,
WD-Con, this is Drop three, returning. Estimate CPA in one five. Drop four is incapacitated and slaved to three. Four will need maglock or tow.

Drop three, say again.

Roget repeated his transmission.

Stet, Drop three. Stand by for further instructions.

Roget continued on course toward the Federation fleet, noting that he had been launched directly at the
WuDing
. He didn't know of any Federation system that could have achieved that kind of accuracy—let alone have launched a dropboat through a chunk of the planetary mantle. Clearly, they could have literally launched a torp or explosives to materialize inside any of the Federation ships. They hadn't. That raised again the question of exactly what the Thomists had in mind. From what he'd seen, the Federation didn't have any technology that matched the best of what he'd seen on Dubiety. He'd questioned more than a few times whether he'd seen what he'd thought he'd seen, but now that he was returning—assuming he wasn't imagining that as well—it was appearing more and more likely that he had indeed seen what he recalled.