Soldiers Out of Time (14 page)

Jason turned to Palanivel. “With your permission, Captain?”

Palanivel nodded, picked up his intercom mike, and spoke a command he had never dreamed he would give. “All hands, this is the Captain. Prepare for temporal displacement. You will receive a ten-second countdown.”

Jason spoke again to the chief technician, then patched him into Palanivel. The two coordinated, and the countdown commenced.

Jason had never been inside a vehicle that was being temporally displaced—the Authority had never even considered such a thing until now. He wondered if the sensation would be the same as his accustomed individual displacements—an indescribable dreamlike disconnection of reality—or if everything within the ship would remain normal to his senses. He eagerly awaited the answer to this question.

The countdown ticked down to zero . . . and afterwards
he couldn’t remember.
He should, he ruefully realized, have expected it. As always, there was no sensation of time having passed, and no recollection of anything having happened.

There were only the snowfields of Zirankhu’s north polar region, gleaming below in the control room’s viewscreen in the early-morning light.

After such a profoundly unnatural experience, there was the inevitable moment of sickening disorientation which all personnel had been briefed to expect. As an old hand, Jason came out of it first. He waited until Palanivel had recovered his equilibrium, then spoke formally.

“The displacement has been completed, Captain. We are now in what is, by standard Earth dating, the late 1890s. Please ask your navigator to shape a course for HC+31 8213.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Astronomical observations had long ago determined that HC+31 8213 had at least one gas giant planet, and that that planet was not a “hot Jupiter” that had migrated inward and settled into a close orbit around its sun after wiping out any potential life-bearing worlds.
De Ruyter
was no survey ship, but as she approached the system even her necessarily compact instrumentation was able to detect the small terrestrial planets, and ascertain that one of them showed the spectroscopic lines of free oxygen—a sure indication of life.

As they drew closer, details of that planet began to emerge. It orbited at an average radius of almost exactly one AU. But its primary was a G3v star, slightly less massive than Sol and only seven-tenths as luminous, so this put it near the outer limit of what was traditionally held to be the “Goldilocks Zone.” However, it was somewhat more massive than Earth but not significantly larger, yielding a surface gravity of 1.12 G and suggesting both a higher allotment of heavy elements and a denser atmosphere; the range of temperature should be more or less Earthlike. Likewise, the two moons—relatively small, but close—had slowed its rotation to a diurnal period of thirty-five and a half hours. Those moons also served, like Earth’s Luna, to stabilize the planet’s axis in its nineteen-degree tilt, which should produce interesting but not extreme seasons.

All in all, a prime world. This, beyond doubt, was Planet B.

Palanivel disengaged the drive field sooner than strictly necessary, outside the star’s Secondary Limit. He then performed the pseudovelocity-cancelling maneuvers with great caution, with all stealth measures engaged. But nothing triggered
De Ruyter
’s array of sensor-detectors. It seemed the Transhumanists were relying on the supposed secrecy of their presence here.

And of that presence there was no doubt. Their sensors picked up low-level but inarguable energy emissions from Planet B as Palanivel inserted them into a hyperbolic orbit outside the plane of the ecliptic but eventually intersecting Planet B’s orbit. This would give them time for further observations, and also for deciding on a course of action.

“The great imponderable,” said Chantal thoughtfully, “is whether or not they really have stopped coming here yet. The fact that we haven’t detected either of their transports doesn’t prove anything.”

“Well,” said Mondrago, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table the three of them sat around in the wardroom, “it stands to reason that they must have, doesn’t it? I mean, we caught them coming here from our era, so as far as they’re going to know then . . .” His brow furrowed, as it often did when he contemplated the logic of time travel. “What I mean is, if any of them come here after we’re finished, then they could go back and report that—”

“Not necessarily,” Jason cautioned. “A Transhumanist ship here now could come from a time a little in advance of our own. Not much, I think, given all the indications we have that
The Day
isn’t all that far in our future. In that case, they could have been—or will be—retrieved into their own time, and not have an opportunity to go back and warn their buddies in our time.”

“Or,” said Chantal gloomily, “it could simply mean that our mission here is going to fail.”

“I prefer not to assume that,” said Jason firmly. “Let’s not theorize in advance of the evidence. Let’s wait for some hard data.”

That data was not long in coming.

“We’ve detected a ship entering this system and going sublight,” said Palanivel as Jason, Mondrago and Chantal crowded into the control room. “It’s making no attempt at stealth.”

“Does its profile match the figures I gave you?” asked Jason.

“That’s affirmative, Commander.”

“So it’s one of their transports,” said Mondrago, sounding as glum as Jason felt. “Which means they’re not quite finished here after all.”

“Our options have suddenly become more limited,” said Jason grimly.

They watched in silence as the new arrival proceeded sunward. It was no surprise that its projected course not only intersected with Planet B’s orbit but was calculated to accomplish an exact rendezvous. Jason studied the system display, comparing that course and their own orbit.

“It looks,” he said to Palanivel, “like it ought to be possible for us to follow that ship in. Please do so—very cautiously, and at a safe distance.”

Palanivel applied the requisite vector, and
De Ruyter
eased out of its orbit into a course that would converge with the transport and Planet B—not that Jason had any intention of going that far, at least not until he had more information.

Observing from afar in their stealth cocoon, they watched as the transport, puzzlingly, took up a geostationary orbit around Planet B. Given the sophistication and power of
De Ruyter
’s sensors, they were able even at this range to make out a shuttle lifting off from the planet’s surface.

“This isn’t right,” Mondrago stated. “Why don’t they land on the planet? They’ve got no security worries here, like they did on Zirankhu.”

“I don’t know,” said Jason slowly.

Palanivel eased them into a fairly distant matching orbit, and they watched as the shuttle rendezvoused with the transport. The two vessels remained linked for a surprisingly short time, after which the shuttle departed from orbit and descended toward the surface. And the transport simply remained in its orbit, seemingly dormant and lifeless.

“What’s going on here?” Mondrago demanded irritably of no one in particular. “Did the transport’s crew take the shuttle down and just leave their ship deserted in orbit?”

“I hope to find out.” Jason turned to Palanivel. “Captain, please ready the gig. I’m going to take Superintendent Mondrago and the commandos and reconnoiter.”

“Very well, Commander. Ah . . . you realize, of course, that the gig doesn’t possess this ship’s stealth features.”

“I do. But I don’t expect to need them, given its small size and the fact that the Transhumanists aren’t expecting intruders here.”

“But Commander, if I may ask, what do you plan to actually do?”

“That depends entirely on what we find the situation to be. Which is why I’m taking the commandos. I want as many options as possible, and the gig is unarmed.”

“So why not take the ship in, under stealth?”

“Too risky. We still don’t know what they’ve got on the planet. And we also don’t know what kind of Observer Effect-related obstacles we’re going to encounter. So I don’t want all our eggs in one basket. You will remain out here and simply observe. And Captain . . . if anything happens that causes you to lose contact with us, you will take no action, but rather remain out here where you’re safe from detection and wait for us. In fact, in such an event I want you to move into a new orbit—one that I don’t know about.”

For an instant, Palanivel’s dark eyes held a mutinous spark, as though he wanted to ask just exactly what Jason thought
De Ruyter
’s weapons were for. But he restricted himself to a stiff nod. “Very well, Commander. I will do so . . . under protest.”

“As I would have expected,” said Jason with a conciliatory smile.

He and Mondrago went to the ship’s locker, where they donned combat environment suits and drew gauss pistols. Mondrago also took a satchel of highly specialized tools. They were checking each other over when a small female voice was heard from the forward hatch.

“I wish I was going with you.”

“Hey, the gig can only hold seven passengers—us and the commandos,” said Mondrago to Chantal with a grin. Then, more seriously: “Anyway, this may not be any place for a non-combatant.”

“I know,” sighed Chantal. “I’d probably be useless, and certainly in the way. But . . . I’m worried. Frightened, in fact. I just hate the thought of not knowing what’s happening to you.”

Jason frowned. Chantal wasn’t usually like this. “Don’t get yourself into a state. We’ll be in tight-beam communication with the ship.”

“I know.” She didn’t really seem reassured, but she put on a brave smile. “Good luck,” she said to Jason. Then she turned to Mondrago and said nothing, except with her eyes. Jason looked away as they embraced. Then she was gone.

They walked through a hatch into the gig ready room, just forward of the locker. The commandos were there, fully beweaponed. Jason had had time to get to know them all. Besides Hamner and Armasova, the rifle section included PFC Anton Bermudez. The special weapons section consisted of Corporal Askar Bakiyev, a chunky flat-faced Kirghiz, and PFC Raoul Odinga, predominantly African and giving the impression that he could have handled the missile launcher even without the combat environment suit’s strength-amplification feature. There was barely room for them all in the tiny ready room.

“Stand easy,” said Jason, before Hamner even had a chance to order attention on deck. He then gave them a quick run-down on the arrival of the Transhumanist transport and its enigmatic behavior. “We’re going to take a closer look, without committing this ship. As I told you at the outset, I can’t tell you what to expect. Just be ready for anything.”

They took a grav tube down through the lower deck and into the gig’s dorsal airlock. The slender diamond-shaped craft was eighty feet long, with a photon thrusters for space propulsion as well as for atmospheric maneuvering under grav repulsion. Forward of the engineering spaces and a small cargo bay was the cabin into which they now filed, with seating for seven passengers and a pilot, who was already seated at her console and was running through her checklist. Jason settled into the foremost passenger seat, to her right.

“Everything on the green, Lieutenant?” he asked.

Lieutenant Sita Hansen nodded. “Yes, Commander. We’re cleared for departure whenever you give the word.” Jason nodded in turn, and she activated the “detach” sequence.

The gig’s maneuvering thrusters nudged it far enough from
De Ruyter
’s hull, and the photon thrusters kicked in. The artificial gravity’s inertial compensation feature prevented them from feeling the G-force as the gig accelerated on its new course.

The gig was definitely not intended for long-term occupancy. This was an exceptionally extended trip for it, and they were all stiff and cramped by the time the transport grew in the viewscreen, silhouetted against the cloud-swirling blue day side of Planet B, about twenty-two thousand miles below—or “away,” if one chose to so view it, for at the distance required for a geostationary orbit it could be thought of either way.

“You realize,” said Hansen, “they’re orbiting well outside Planet B’s Primary Limit. So at any time, they could accelerate away at over a hundred Gs.”

“Yes,” nodded Jason. “If, that is, there’s anybody aboard. It doesn’t look like it.”

“So you think they all went down in the shuttle?”

“I don’t know.” Jason peered at the planet. The gig’s sensor suite was rudimentary, but they had been able to ascertain that the transport’s orbit kept it over a point on the west coast of one of the continents, and that this was the point from which the fairly weak energy readings emanated. There was some kind of small base or camp or something down there.

He reached a decision. “I want to investigate more closely—see if that ship really is as deserted as it seems. And if it is, we can use a paratronic lockpick to board her. Bring us a little closer.”

Hansen obeyed, and the gig drew into a range where it was surely visible to any operating sensors aboard the transport. Jason, Mondrago and the commandos attached modular EVA packs to the backs of their suits and, with a rattle of equipment, went single-file through the cabin’s after hatch into the cargo bay.

EVA procedures were a matter of routine. Hanson bled the air from the sealed cargo bay and, after it was in vacuum, opened its ventral hatch. The seven-member party then drifted out, using the EVA packs. The latter were small grav repulsion units, unable to provide much in the way of propulsion this far from Planet B’s surface, where they only had a gravity field of less than 0.1 G to work with. But it sufficed, given that they were in free fall and at any rate had no desire to build up a possibly uncontrollable velocity. And returning to the gig would be no problem; it mounted a small tractor beam projector in the cargo bay, so Hansen could simply pull them in one by one. Jason, wanting to keep radio communications to a minimum, gave a hand signal and they moved slowly toward the darkened transport, tightly grouped for safety.

They were about halfway there, with the gig growing tiny in the distance, when it happened.

Without warning, lights awakened up and down the transport. And a retractable ventral turret began to extrude itself. In the light of the planet, Jason instantly recognized that turret for what it was. Horrified, he watched it swivel in the direction of the gig.

In the vacuum of space there is, of course, no sound. And laser beams—even those in the visible-light wavelengths, much less the X-ray lasers of space combat—are invisible. The only manifestation of the energies that turret released was the glare as explosive energy transfer tore the gig apart.

It had all taken little more than a heartbeat. Jason hadn’t even had a chance to break radio silence. Now it was broken for him, and a harsh voice crashed into his earphones.