Nimisha's Ship (25 page)

“Fleet will have the specs by now, anyway,” she said.

“They will?” He was surprised by that.

“I assume so. I had a second hull nearly finished when I took this one out on what was to be a short testing run . . .” She gave an ironic chuckle. He pressed her hand again. “I gave—” She paused, suddenly overcome with a longing for the daughter she might never see again. “I gave Cuiva the final design disks. She’ll know when to give them to Caleb Rustin. And I hope she has. If they’re to find us, they’ll need a second Fiver.”

Jon sat up straighter, his eyebrows lifting. “Caleb Rustin . . . tall guy, blue eyes, attached to Vegan Fleet?”

“You know him?”

“I was jig on the ship he was first assigned to. Good man.” He gave her a long thoughtful look.

“He was my Fleet spy.” She never talked about previous alliances and did not intend to now, so she deliberately deflected the possibility of that question.

“Your what?” Jon’s voice reflected conflicting emotions: anger, surprise, and indignation.

“Well, you can hardly blame Vegan Fleet Headquarters for wanting to keep their eyes on my designs, can you?” When he shook his head, his eyes flickering with questions, she went on. “I did get a chance to choose my—” She chuckled. “—naval attaché. He was the best choice I could have made, though I’m not sure who was more surprised, he or Admiral Gollanch. He had some very good notions, and had seen naval action against that annoying band of freebooters over in the Beta system. I’m not averse to using other people’s ideas when they’re as good as some Caleb came up with. Actually, I’m more of a tinkerer than an innovator.”

“Considering the performance of this ship, Lady Nimisha, I question that description.” He gave a snort of denial.

“No, really, that’s the truth. You know how Fleet economies constrict real advances,” she said. “I’m under no such restraints, so I can tinker and refine a system until I’ve achieved the optimum possible performance no matter what it costs. Of course, I do keep an eye on the best way to achieve what I want at a suitable price. The designs have to be feasible if I’m to make a profit from the yachts.”

“You have to know
how
and
when
to tinker.”

“ ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?’ ” she quoted, grinning.

As the designs shown on the screen were getting to the more interesting alterations she had made, he was torn between looking at her and them.

“Well, I see you’ve worked on the missile recoil problem.” He gave her a quick admiring glance. “The solution is so simple, I’m surprised it was overlooked.”

“I don’t think it was, Jon. But it required a new design of buffer that was expensive until my Yard found a substitute material that could be imported from Altair rather than Earth. Transportation expense is often an inhibiting factor, as you know.”

“All too true,” he admitted and they continued to discuss her “tinkering,” which he called “inspirational” or “inventive” until she was almost uncomfortable with such unstinting praise.

“You know,” he began, taking his eyes away from the data on the screen, “I’ve known many career Fleet women, but I’ve never before met one so . . . possessed by the design factors. Oh, I’ve heard them complain about the inadequacies of this or that system—”

“Males do, too,” she reminded him.

“Of course we do, but we don’t often know how to rectify the problem. This Fiver of yours is a total beaut inside and out.” He shook his head, partially in envy, partially in approbation. “Hey, Lady Nimisha Boynton-Rondymense can blush!” He stroked her hot cheek. Then he turned her chin so he could kiss her mouth.

Of one mind, they rose and adjourned to her cabin.

“The AI’s have no access here, do they?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.

“Only comunit. And I shut it down for outgoing until I address it.”

“That’s good!”

And very shortly, Nimisha was intensely glad that there was no contact with the other intelligences aboard the Fiver.

Late that night, while Jon was soundly asleep—she was grateful that he was a quiet sleeper—she crept out and to the medical unit.

“Doc, please remove my implant,” she said softly, settling herself on the couch.

“Local?” he asked, responding in as low a tone.

“Yes.”

“You do know what you’re doing?”

“Yes. I do. And now’s the time to do it.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thought you might need a vote of confidence. You’re a very healthy young woman, Nimisha, and should carry and deliver a fine healthy baby with no more trouble than you had with Cuiva. Especially since you will have me to keep you in tiptop form. I took the liberty of checking Captain Svangel’s gene patterns when I did his physical—” When she made an inarticulate sound of surprised protest at his initiative, Doc chuckled in his best Lord Naves imitation. “Only routine at the time, of course, but vital information to have on hand on an alien and basically unknown planet. I found no genetic incompatibilities between you.” While he was talking, he had deadened the spot on her leg that contained the implant. She felt nothing even when he sprayed on the new skin. “There. That’s done. If my reading of your menstrual cycle is accurate, you are likely to be fertile in the next two days. Good timing, Nimisha. That’s all. Except check in with me each morning while we’re on our run to the new M-type.”

Nimisha slipped out of the unit and, thanking Doc, made her way back to her cabin and into the head, the faint noise of flushing rousing Jon from sleep and to renewed activity. She was not averse to satisfying him, and herself.

Helm called them to the bridge just after they felt the translation into system drive.

“Unidentified object drifting off the port bow, Lady Nimisha.”

“Magnify,” she said as she and Jon slipped into the seats and automatically netted in.

“I don’t think that mess poses any problems,” Jon said, regarding the twisted, battered flotsam.

“It was once a spaceship,” Nimisha said.

“It had no luck coming through the wormhole. And I think that’s what happened to it.”

They got close enough to circle the wreck, but it was too battered and compacted to give them any idea of its original shape. No markings of any kind remained. Helm did an analysis of the metallic composition, but that was unexceptional enough, containing no unusual alloys that might have given them some clues as to its origin.

Jon asked for a spatial map of the area and, after some figuring, decided that the vector of its current velocity did not point to the same spot where the Fiver and the
Poolbeg
had exited from the wormhole.

“How could that be? Are your figures correct?” Nimisha asked, astonished.

“Check ’em yourself.” Jon handed the pad over to her, grinning. “I could hope that there is an error. If there isn’t, then there may be more than one wormhole exit in this area of space.”

Nimisha regarded her calculations with dismay and slowly handed back his pad. “I don’t like to think of
more
wormholes emptying who knows what in on top of us.”

“That one’s going to do us no harm,” he said consolingly, and had Helm record its presence and their disturbing calculations. “Where’ll it end up, Helm?”

“Plotting its current trajectory, it will probably be attracted by the gravity of the fifth planet and impact on that surface,” Helm said.

Jon saluted the wreck. “I wonder how many other vessels met a similar end in this part of the galaxy.”

“Unknown, Commander,” Helm replied.

“A rhetorical comment.” Jon grinned at Nimisha.

They continued inward, examining the other planets of the system, none of which would sustain humanoid life.

The M-type planet had three moons, one with a thin atmosphere but obviously dispersing, for what plant life was still supported was starving for oxygen. They continued on to the planet. Its atmosphere did not check out as eminently suitable, in its present geological age. Even as they made their first orbit, they could see that the active volcanoes in its mountain ranges spewed forth black dust and pyroclastic materials, as if celebrating the arrival of the observers. Though life-forms, small and large, were scanned, there seemed to be more aquatic types than land surface dwellers. A smart option with such volatile landmasses. The vegetation managed to cling where it could and was lush enough but all too primitive to be useful, even as basic stuff for a catering unit to turn into edible substances. What oases of habitable areas there were without nearby volcanic action were few and far between.

“Maybe in a few millennia, all that volcanic activity will calm down,” Nimisha said, not entirely disappointed since she already was quietly nurturing the good news Doc had given her early that morning. Even Rhidian had not succeeded in his first attempt to impregnate her for her body-heir. She would tell Jon later. She wished to savor the news herself for a while.

“Who knows when they’d grow volcanoes, too,” Jon said.

“Let’s come back in a few centuries and see if it’s calmed down.”

“You’ve had rejuv?” Jon asked.

“Of course, though I resisted when it was first mentioned. Have you?”

He nodded. “There were moments a while back when I bitterly resented having to deal with longevity.”

“Not now?” she asked in a teasing voice. She had discovered that she could tease him about almost anything without him taking offense. Caleb had so often backed off when she spoke whimsically or sarcastically that she had controlled her habit. Caleb had been far too aware of his anomalous situation as attaché and determined not to “presume.”

Jon glanced at her, his expression tender, and he stroked her bare arm. “None at all.”

His genuine spontaneous responses were another point in his favor. Rhidian had always been on his dignity, even in bed with her, as befitted a First Family scion—polite, courteous, and appropriately concerned for her enjoyment, delivering his query as a necessary ritual. Jon never needed to inquire; he knew! Caleb had been . . . well, a nice lover, but . . . unimaginative. With Jon, she could be as spontaneous and inventive as he, which added a zest to their love-making. She had also discovered, in the moments when they conversed—and they seemed to have a lot to talk about on many subjects—that Jonagren Svangel came from an old and property-owning family in the Scandinavian peninsula. It probably accounted for his innate self-confidence with none of the posing that a colonial First Family male would display. Lady Rezalla—if she ever saw her mother again—could find no fault with his lineage. He could be as stern as command required him, or open and frank in discussing anything that they had so far considered. Sometimes he was even so outrageous that he could surprise her out of long-held notions that his observations made her reexamine.

With considerable time to fill in the journey, they had watched new tapes as well as the old favorites she had. First he had wanted to update his understanding of naval technical advances and the general history of their worlds during the time he had been marooned. He was apolitical, as most naval officers found it expedient to be, but he had definite ideas about individual rights and other domestic issues on Earth, and opinions about some of the colonial worlds’ issues. He always called them “colonial,” which amused her. Though the adjective was essentially accurate, any one from the “colonies” would have risen up in indignation at its use. Certainly Lady Rezalla would have been outraged, as would Rhidian. She wondered about Caleb’s reaction, since he was Vegan by birth, but they had never discussed the subject. Jon had such a nice way of teasing her about her “colonial” status that she humored him. She could warn him about her mother . . . later, when the need arose. She could hope that it would, but she was becoming more and more resigned to the improbability.

Resignation to the loss—no, absence, she told herself firmly—of her daughter, Cuiva, was another matter entirely. The thought of a new baby did not reduce the longing for her firstborn, but it was comforting.

She had checked with Doc each morning during the fertile period, and he ascertained that ovulation had taken place. Shortly thereafter he confirmed that an egg had been fertilized.

Despite her good health, she started feeling queasy before they reached the heliopause of the second M-planet system. In such close companionship, Jon noticed her distaste for breakfast, as well as for any pungent food smells, and jumped to the right conclusion.

“Pardon me for being personal, Nimi, but could you possibly be experiencing morning sickness?” Jon asked.

“I did offer you a remedy, Nimi,” Doc said, sounding miffed.

“You
wanted
to be pregnant by me!” Jon gave a whoop and a holler and swung her about the cabin in his arms. “And you never even warned me you’d taken out your implant.”

“My option, you know,” she replied. “And I wanted to surprise you.”

“You’ve sure done that.” Then he was pushing her toward the medical unit, his expression altered to one of deep concern.

“No need to worry, Jon, dear. Doc says our genes are eminently compatible.”

He hauled her back in his arms again to kiss her thoroughly, a spontaneous reaction that she found far more satisfying than Rhidian’s fatuous expression when she had informed him of Cuiva’s conception. In fact, Jon kept on hugging her, doing a sort of two-step dance of success all around the main cabin until she had to stop him since the motion was making her nauseous.

“I’ll settle that for you, Nimisha,” Doc said when Jon contritely stopped the whirling, “if you’ll deign to visit my couch.”

Jon immediately escorted her there and held her arm out while an extendable hypospray permeated the skin with an antinausea drug.

By the time they reached the third possible M-type system, she was well over that stage. This world, with two moons, was more hospitable in climate and terrain than Secondo’s. On one moon, when they did an exploratory orbit, they saw a crater, its center showing a metallic signature. Helm took them in low enough to record the anomaly, and the analysis provided them with the resting place of yet another of the eighteen missing spaceships. To establish its identity, they would send the analysis back to Navy Headquarters on Earth—when they finally made contact again—and see if a match could be found in their data banks. Its metallic signature was definitely similar to FSP materials.