Heaven's Reach (57 page)

“Hannes …,” he began, then had to wait till another wave of fluency passed through his mind. He knew that each time might be the last.

“Hannes, we gotta use the comm laser to burn those two boats, now!”

Suessi stared in surprise at the brief, unexpected eloquence. His dome-covered head turned to follow Emerson's pointing finger. “What, those? Why not call Dr. Baskin and use real combat beams—”

The quantum link to Emerson's speech center flickered out, leaving him shrouded in dull muteness, unable to explain that the foe would surely have meme-disabled
the fire-control systems of any formal weapons in order to guarantee their safe escape.

He managed to force a few words out by sheer willpower.

“No … time! Do! Do it!”

The shiny dome nodded. Both shoulders lifted in a true Suessi shrug.

“Okay! You gotta help me, though. This thing ain't exactly meant for frying spaceships.”

They set to work at once, sharing a rhythm long familiar to engineers laboring through a shipboard emergency—from Roman trireme, to ancient submarine, to the first sluggish starcraft Earthlings once hurled toward the Milky Way, filled with hopes for a friendly universe. Emerson found that speechlessness did not hamper him as much if he let his hands and eyes work together without interference. Somehow, they knew which connections to shift. Which adjustments to make. When Hannes spoke, the hands responded as if they understood.

It left his mind free to observe with strange detachment, even as
Streaker
's hallways started clamoring with alarm signals, sending crew rushing to battle stations. Clearly, Suessi yearned to go join his engine gang, but so great was their mutual trust, the fellow took Emerson's word that this was more important.

It made Emerson doubly glad he hadn't been forced to shoot his friend.

“Hokay,” Suessi announced. “Here goes nothing.”

The laser throbbed, and the air temperature in the little chamber abruptly
dropped
several degrees as pulsating energy flooded into space.

Instantly, he could tell that the first pulse missed its target, disappearing among the flashes of coruscating catastrophe that surrounded
Streaker
, growing more garish and terrible by the minute.

Cursing roundly, Emerson stabbed several control buttons, bypassing the computer, then began slewing the laser by hand, aiming by sight alone.

Meanwhile, the sneakboat kept fighting waves of spacetime backwash to finally make contact with the little craft carrying Tsh't. Impact wasn't gentle. Hull
panels crumpled on one side, but the sturdy, Thennanin-built pod held together. Soon, the larger vessel's surface melted to envelop the escape capsule, drawing it inside.

Tsh't and her purloined cargo were safe in the grasp of those who wanted it so badly.

Emerson had mixed feelings while struggling to adjust the balky laser. Though he hated the Old Ones for their callousness—especially the way they had mutilated him and others for their own purposes—he also understood, just a little, their rationale. Without words, he could picture the panicky background for their actions.

Ultimately—after passing through the young, hot-tempered, starfaring stage—each race had to choose whether to continue down a comforting funnel that appeared to welcome all whose souls were ready. A place of union, where the best of hydro and oxy cultures merged, preparing to move on.

But move on to what?

The vast majority felt it must be something greater and more noble than anything in this cosmos. The place where blessed Progenitors had gone so long ago.

But there was another, minority opinion.

On Jijo, Emerson had learned something deep and gritty about the cycle of life. A metaphor that he held in his mind, even after speech had gone away.

An image of the deepest part of the sea.

And a single word.

Dross.

He jabbed the firing button.

Once again, the laser moaned a cry, deeper than a hoonish umble and more combative than the war shout of a desert urrish warrior, accompanied by a sudden wave of cold.

Something flared in the night! A sparkle of destruction. Fire illumined one end of the sneakship, outlining its aft segment, which now shimmered with devastating explosions.

All at once, words returned to Emerson's life. The voice reentered his mind, in tones that conveyed hurt perplexity.

“D
O YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE
? O
NCE ON OUR WAY
,
WE PLANNED SENDING YOU THE CYLINDER
. T
HE PLUG OF TISSUE THAT YOU CRAVE
. A
FTER WE HAD NO FURTHER NEED OF IT
,
OR OF YOU
.

“N
OW YOUR TREASURE WILL BE LOST
,
ALONG WITH US
,
AS WE FALL INTO A DYING WHITE SUN
.”

Already the mortally wounded sneakboat could be seen tumbling along a plummeting trajectory, while
Streaker
's engines cranked to push the other way.

“I know that,” Emerson sighed. So many hopes had turned to ash when he fired the laser bolt. Especially his dream of talking to Sara. Of telling her what was in his heart. Or even holding on to thoughts that right now seemed so fluid and natural, so easy and fine. Smooth, graceful thoughts that would become hard again, moments from now, when what had been stolen, then restored, would finally be lost forever.

“B
UT WHY
? I
N YOUR CRUDE WAY
,
YOU UNDERSTAND OUR WORRY
. Y
OU SYMPATHIZE WITH OUR MISGIVINGS ABOUT THE
E
MBRACE OF
T
IDES
. Y
OU EVEN SUSPECT WE MAY BE RIGHT
! W
OULD IT HAVE BEEN SO BAD TO LET US HAVE THE CLUES WE NEED
? T
O LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT DESTINY
? T
O KNOW WHICH WAY TO CHOOSE
?”

The plaint was so poignant, Emerson weighed explaining, while there was time.

Should he talk about orders from the Terragens Council, that secrets from the Shallow Cluster must be shared by
all
races … or none?

A raging corner pondered telling the aliens that this was Pyrrhic revenge, getting even for things they had done to him—no matter how well justified they thought they were.

In fact, though, neither of those reasons excused his act of murder. While
Streaker
shuddered under ever more intense spacetime waves—climbing laboriously through a maelstrom of colliding transport arks and flaming Zang globes—he found there was only one answer to give the Old Ones.

The right answer.

One that was both logical and entirely just.

“Because you didn't ask,” he explained, as the quantum links began flickering out for the last time.

“You … never once said … please.”

Harry

T
HE SEARCH WENT BADLY AT FIRST
.

Kazzkark was a maze of tunnels where sophonts could all too easily disappear—whether by choice or mischance. And matters only worsened as the placid lifestyle of an Institute outpost vanished like a memory. More refugees poured in, even after the planetoid started quivering in response to waves of sub-space disturbance. Tempers stretched thin, and there were more than enough troubles to keep police drones of the Public Safety Department busy.

When it came to looking for a pair of lost humans, Harry was pretty much on his own.

His first good lead came when he overheard a Synthian chatter to comrades in a space merchants' bar, bragging about a sharp business deal she'd just made, acquiring some first-rate wolfling relics for resale to the collectors' trade.

“Mild guilt—this I experience, concerning the meager price that I paid for such marvelously genuine handcrafted items,”
prated the husky creature in Galactic Six.
“Of their authentic, aboriginal nature, I have no doubt. Evidence of this was overwhelming, from the moment I programmed my scanner with appropriate archaeological search profiles, checking for tool marks, use patterns, and body-oil imbuements. The result? Absolute absence of techno-traces, or other signs of forgery! A bona-fide aboriginal tool/weapon, weathered and worn from the primitive fight for survival under barbaric circumstances!

“What? What is that you say? You would view this marvelous acquisition? But of course! Here it is. Behold the elegant sweeps and curves, the clever blending of
animal and vegetal materials, revealing non-Galactic sapiency in its full, unfettered glory!

“The shipwrecked human who formerly owned these artifacts—his reported brain damage must have undermined all sense of value! His recovery from space amnesia—it will not bring pleasant realizations for the poor young wolfling, when he realizes how much more he might have charged for his precious archery set, which will now garner me great profit on the aficionado circuit.

“Especially now that the chief source of all such relics—planet Earth—will surely vanish under cascades of fire, within a few jaduras.”

Harry was not present where these words were spoken. He was halfway across Kazzkark, searching for Rety and Dwer in a poor refugee encampment, when those snatches of dialogue were sent to his earpiece by a clever spy program.

Using his new rank-status, he had ordered a scan of all sonic pickups, scattered throughout the planetoid, sifting countless conversations for certain rare key words. Till now, the computer had just found trivial correlations. But this time, the Synthian went through half the list in a few duras, covering all but Dwer's name!

Racing across town, Harry sent a priority call for backup units to join him. Perhaps it was the new golden comet on his collar, or just a sense of urgency, but Harry plunged through the crowd, ignoring shocked looks from senior patron-class beings.

He arrived to find several proctor robots already hovering menacingly near a bar advertising a range of intoxorelaxants. A throng gathered to watch.

“The rear exit is secured, Scout-Major Harms,”
reported one of the bobbing drones.
“The denizens within seem unsuspecting. Several fondle concealed weapons, of types we are equipped to counter, with moderate-to-good probability of success.”

Harry grunted.

“I'd prefer a guarantee, but that'll do. Just stay close. Let everyone see you as we enter.”

He was tempted to draw his own sidearm, but Harry preferred to handle this courteously, if possible.

“All right. Let's go.”

Half a dozen Synthian traders sat in a booth, looking alike in grayish brown fur with dark facial streaks. Thickset, their heavy shoulders and bellies draped with pouched bandoliers. Harry soon found the one he wanted. A sleek bow and quiver of arrows, made from finely carved wood and bone, lay on the table. When a merchant reached for these, Harry bore in, asking where she got them.

Kiwei Ha'aoulin reacted with combative relish, striking an indignant, lawyerly pose. After listening to the Synthian complain loudly for more than twenty duras—vociferously denouncing “illegal eavesdroppers and bureaucratic bullies”—Harry finally broke in to remind Kiwei that Kazzkark was sole property of the Great Institutes, and lately under martial law. Moreover, would the merchant
like
to unpack her ship's hold, comparing each smig and dram meticulously to the official cargo manifest?

All bluster quickly faded from the raccoonlike countenance. Harry had never met a Synthian, but they were familiar figures on daytime holodramas back on Earth, where Synthian characters were stereotyped as jovial, enthusiastic—and relentlessly self-interested.

This one took a long pause to evaluate Harry's proposition, then switched to rather good colloquial Anglic.

“Well well, Scout-Major. You had only to ask. Shall I lead you to where I last saw Dwer Koolhan. Yes! But be warned, he may not look the same!
If
you find him. For as we parted, he was making enquiries. Asking questions about cosmetic surgery. As if his intent was to go into hiding!”