Drifter's War (6 page)

Cy eyed the globe in front of him. It provided access to the ship's NAVCOMP. Well, the builders called it something else no doubt, but a navigational computer is a navigational computer is a navigational computer.

The cyborg wanted to dip a pincer into it, wanted to enter the knowledge that it contained, wanted to know where the ship had been. Where had the ship come from? What happened to the crew? There was the very real possibility that the drifter's NAVCOMP could answer all of those questions and many more.

But that sort of knowledge was extremely valuable, and thought-driven controls have a down side as well. What if the cyborg unknowingly erased a portion of the NAVCOMP's memory? Or entered the mental equivalent of static? Or any of a thousand other possibilities? That's why the others had forbidden Cy to go skinny-dipping in the drifter's data banks.

But that was silly. Cy extended a pincer until it was only an inch shy of the globe's gleaming surface. Anyone intelligent enough to build a ship like the drifter would have built safeguards into its computer systems. No, it wouldn't do to have unauthorized types fiddling around with things and causing trouble. The others were worry warts, that's all, quick to indulge their own pleasures, while limiting his. Cy stuck his pincer through the surface of the globe.

Suddenly, and without effort, Cy
was
the ship. A single drop within the endless ocean of space, a string of coordinates expressed in sounds he didn't understand, and a purpose that felt like reaching. Exploring? Wanting? Gathering? All seemed to fit but none were sufficient by themselves.

Now the ship found and identified him. Thoughts came his way. They hurt the cyborg's mind like high-frequency sounds can hurt human ears. Word pictures bounced back and forth between the walls of his mind.

"YES? YES? YES?"

Cy flinched inside his metal shell. He found it hard to focus his thoughts. "I want knowledge."

A tidal wave of sounds, numbers, images, and ideas washed over the cyborg and tumbled him under.

"CHOOSE. CHOOSE. CHOOSE." The words reverberated through Cy's brain like a giant ringing of bells.

Cy swam up from the bottom, trying to breathe, suffocating on the knowledge around him. Information flowed in through his mouth, nose, and ears, filled his throat, and packed lungs that he no longer had. He couldn't breathe. The cyborg screamed.

"No! It's too much! Stop!"

The storm was gone as suddenly as it had come. Cy was left floating on the very surface of a gently undulating sea. There was no sun as such, only a warm hazy light that came from somewhere and nowhere all at the same time.

Cy lay there for a moment, recovering his composure and organizing his thoughts. He'd asked for knowledge and the computer had responded. The fault was his. Instead of asking a precise question, such as "Where are we now?" he'd been way too general. Okay, no problem. One well-framed question coming up.

"What happened to this ship's crew?"

"CHOOSE. CHOOSE. CHOOSE."

Cy swore softly. The computer didn't know or needed a different kind of question. The cyborg tried a different tack. He visualized a sun.

"Would you agree that this is a sun?"

"YES. YES. YES. Type 3vb890123/4A."

Cy smiled internally. All right! Now he was getting somewhere. He summoned up a planet. It had small polar caps, a lot of blue water, and ragged brown islands.

"And this is a planet?"

"YES. YES. YES. Type 7jc465-XX79."

Cy felt almost faint with excitement. He was close, so very close. Just one more question and he'd know something people had been after for hundreds of years. The location of the builder's home world, or if not that, then something almost as good: a potentially unplundered artifact planet.

"Which planet was this ship built on?"

There was a mind-numbing blur as thousands of images whipped through Cy's mind like a tape on high-speed rewind. Then it was there, a crystal-clear vision, floating against the backdrop of space.

It was an ordinary-looking planet, with large polar caps, no oceans to speak of, and a single globe-spanning continent. Cy felt a sense of disappointment. He had expected something more. Something worthy of a superior race. A paradise perhaps, or the ruins of one, anything but an ordinary-looking planet. Oh, well, you can't win 'em all.

"How about the surface? Can you show me the way the surface of the planet looked when this ship left it?"

"YES. YES. YES."

Cy found himself in orbit, looking down through some sort of electronic magnification, scanning the surface below. By simply wanting it the cyborg could zoom down to examine a single stone or pull back to view an entire mountain range.

He saw mile after mile of fields, all tended by fantastically shaped agrobots, and supervised by beefy-looking humanoids. They had coarse features, heavy musculature, and looked remarkably alike. They wore heavy clothing as if the air was cold.

Then the fields were gone, replaced by widely spaced villas, and tantalizing glimpses of tall spindly aliens that came and went in carefully sealed ground cars.

After that came the city, an absolute maze of walls, buildings, plazas, dead-ends, courtyards, and streets. Now there were more humanoids, similar to those Cy had seen before, but different too. These were slender things, shorter than the more muscle-bound variety, but just as identical. Like their heavy beefier cousins these humanoids were dressed in warm clothing.

Once again the cyborg saw the beetlelike ground cars that zipped to and fro and spied on the leggy-looking builders as they made their rounds.

Twice he zoomed in, trying to see what should have been their faces, but was stymied both times. The builders, if that was what they were, wore some sort of portable privacy screens that turned their features into a blur. It was frustrating but consistent with a race that had left no pictures of themselves behind.

Then the city was gone, giving way to more villas and the fields beyond.

Cy released the image. "Thank you. I am finished."

"WANT? WANT? WANT?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"WANT?! WANT?! WANT?!" The words were more insistent now, as if the computer wanted another answer and wasn't getting it.

Cy began to worry. What the hell was going on? He prepared to withdraw his pincer.

"Nothing. I don't need anything else. I wish to terminate this contact."

"NO! NO! NO!" Each word was like a sledgehammer. Cy became angry.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"YES! YES! YES!" the computer echoed obediently. "ACCUMULATORS CHARGING. DEPARTURE 9 X 9 AND COUNTING."

Cy jerked his pincer out of the interface. The computer disappeared from his mind.

"9 X 9 and counting?" What the hell did that mean? Nine days? Nine hours? Nine seconds? Great Sol, what had he done? Cy searched the room for help. There was none to be had. Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the ship, something started to whine.

6

The fog lay over the sea like a soft gray blanket. It was early, so early that the sun was an almost unseen presence, its light filtered by a thick layer of clouds.

The man who stood on the stern of the hovercraft was average in almost every way. Freeson had graduated fiftieth out of a class of ninety-eight at the Coast Guard Academy, had been rated "Acceptable" during his most recent performance review, and was neither old nor especially young.

In fact, the only thing to distinguish Freeson from hundreds of other male Coast Guard officers was an enormous nose that had earned him the lifelong nickname "Honker," and the fact that he was the one who had spotted the skimmer.

Both vessels were located near the mouth of the Istaba estuary, a long, narrow passageway that led inland, and terminated at the city of Norton.

The hovercraft rocked from side to side as swells rolled in off the ocean. Freeson spread his feet farther apart in order to compensate for the additional movement and tried to hold his binoculars steady. A gust of wind came along and snatched the fog away from the pleasure craft's rigging. The skimmer looked like a wounded bird, one wing dragging in the water, as it crept toward safety. There was no sign of life on the other vessel. Still asleep probably.

Freeson lowered the binoculars, licked dry lips, and brought the glasses up again. Every port from Ontoon to Dowling was under surveillance. Only two days' worth of storms had prevented the authorities from catching up with the skimmer earlier. Spy sats can't locate what they can't "see" and the combination of bad weather and the skimmer's composite hull had rendered it damned near invisible.

The fact that Lando had sailed into Freeson's search sector was pure luck, but luck the officer could use, since he was in need of some visible success. The kind of success that would put the word "Outstanding" on his next appraisal and pave the way toward lieutenant commander.

Freeson lowered the binoculars. Yes, this was a lucky day indeed. He looked toward the bow. Weapons Tech First Class Shimaku sat hunched behind the twin-fifties. She was faceless behind the reflective visor. One word from him and she'd turn the skimmer into floating scrap. The idea was safe, and therefore tempting, but there was the little girl to consider.

Freeson had a daughter of his own and the thought of Shimaku's heavy-caliber slugs ripping through her body made him shudder. No, they'd do it the old-fashioned way, stop and board. Just like the stories he'd read as a kid. If the girl got in the way, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Freeson checked to make sure that the boarding party was in place, nodded to the petty officer in charge, and turned toward Power Tech Third Class Miller. "Let's go."

Miller nodded. He was a slim young man with thick blond hair. A ready smile hid his otherwise disrespectful thoughts. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant Honker, sir. Whatever you say, sir."

A pair of powerful engines roared into life, the vessel rose on a cushion of air and skimmed across the surface of the estuary. A seabird flapped its wings, broke free from the surface of the water, and lumbered into the air.

Freeson watched the skimmer. He half expected to see it turn, speed up, and try to run. It didn't. Good. Still waking up. This would be easier than he'd thought. He turned toward Miller.

"Put us alongside."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Miller spun the wheel and brought the hovercraft in next to the skimmer in a long gentle curve. He killed power at just the right moment, and allowed the patrol boat to coast for a moment and bump into the yacht's port side. The hovercraft bounced away and both vessels drifted apart.

Metal clattered on composite as Freeson's crew tossed grappling hooks across and pulled them tight. Hulls touched for the second time, and the boarding party jumped across, protected to some extent by Shimaku and her twin-fifties. Their combat boots left scuff marks on the skimmer's pristine deck.

Freeson felt a sense of disappointment. It didn't take a genius to figure out that no one was aboard. All that reward money down the tubes. It didn't seem fair. The reports came in one at a time.

"Nothing forward, sir!"

"Nothing below, sir!"

"Nothing aft, sir!"

Freeson gave a nod of acknowledgment, gauged the movement of the boats, and jumped across. His landing was reasonably graceful, for which he gave silent thanks. A boatswain's mate stepped aside and allowed the Coast Guard officer to step down into the cockpit.

Freeson looked around. There was a scattering of empty meal paks, some crumpled clothes, and a pair of unmade bunks. They confirmed what he already knew. The fugitive had been aboard but left. The question was where? He addressed himself to no one in particular.

"Is the NAVCOMP on?"

"I certainly am," the machine answered cheerfully, "and welcome aboard, sir. It's a bit nippy out there. Would you be wantin' some nice hot coffee?"

Freeson shook his head impatiently. "No, that won't be necessary. Tell me, was there a man and a little girl aboard?"

"No," the NAVCOMP replied matter-of-factly. "How 'bout some breakfast? Nothing like some bacon and eggs to get your day off to a good start."

Freeson frowned and stepped up to the controls. Blunt fingers tapped a series of keys. An auto log appeared on the screen in front of him. There they were, departure times, headings, fuel consumption, weather notations, and more for the
Nadia's
maiden voyage, and every trip thereafter. Outings that invariably listed Nathan Izzo as skipper and various women as crew.

Freeson shook his head sadly. Some guys had all the luck. Now to look at the last few days. His fingers flew over the keys. The screen flickered, dipped to black, and came up loaded with random junk. Keys clicked as the Coast Guard officer hit them again. The screen shimmered but remained as it was.

Damn! Like the NAVCOMP the log had been wiped clean as a whistle. Conscious of the boarding party's curious stares Freeson made his way up to the skimmer's deck and looked around. The fog had started to burn off. It would be a long, long day. A day of tedious explanations, boring reports, and endless repetition. Once again luck had passed him by.

"Hold on!"

Melissa did as she was told and grabbed the ropes that ran down both sides of the inflatable raft.

Lando faced her, paddle poised above the water, and waited to dig in. The trick was to catch a wave just so, ride it toward shore, and reach the beach without flipping over.

Lando sensed that it was time, looked over his shoulder to make sure, and paddled for shore. The wave slid under the raft, raised it up, and carried it toward the beach.

There was a moment of pure undiluted pleasure as the wind pressed against his face, spray flew up around the raft's bow, and Melissa screamed with excitement.

But pleasure turned to fear as Lando felt the bow drop, saw Melissa fall backward out of the raft, and found himself tumbling head over heels into the surf. A current pulled the smuggler down, bounced him off a sandy bottom, and jerked him back up. Lando yelled the moment that his head broke through the surface of the water.

"Melissa! Melissa! Can you hear me?"