The Octagonal Raven (14 page)

Fledgling: Supra-Ecliptic Space, Sol System, 426 N.E.

Past conditioning and physical strength notwithstanding, my lungs and chest were beginning to ache as I lay pushed into the form-fitting bridge couch by the
DeGaul
’s three gees of constant acceleration. The cream gray of the overhead blurred if I tried to look at it directly, and most of the time I kept my eyes closed, using the direct links to monitor the ship’s systems and all the scanners.

The
DeGaul
was angling out of the solar system, angling because getting away from the dust envelope was harder leaving Earth than with any of the colony systems. Our home system was one of the few where the orbital ecliptic plane was nearly at right angles to the galactic plane. So, it wasn’t that leaving the system’s ecliptic wasn’t any harder, but getting out of the system ecliptic
and
to where the Gates were placed was, and that meant a longer acceleration.

Then the whole business of Gates was another matter. The theory had been around for a long time, back in the days of the Noram Commonacracy, although they didn’t call it that. There had been two problems—generating and focusing enough power to create the wormhole and making sure the exit was where it was supposed to be. In the end, both were resolved by the scientific equivalent of the larger blunt object wielded with greater force.

Creating a Gate system required lots of power, because you had to get the second two-way Gate set where you wanted it, well away from a system’s dust corona. Even finding a system required enough power to hold open the wormhole long enough to see if where you’d sent the exploratory probe-Gate was the system you wanted.

In the end, for each final Gate placed, the Federal Union had sprayed about one hundred disposable gates across space and time before translating a permanent Gate. After that, a survey and tech ship went through to tow and position the Gate, and then months went by while they tuned and calibrated everything. The same process was going on all the time, slowly. It took almost ten years—and the expenditure of a frightening amount of power—to set up each new system Gate. And more than two-thirds ended up on standby. All of which was why my father had been right when he’d said that interstellar commerce was a dead-end and why pilots and crew spent most of their time getting to and from Gates.

“What’s the density?” asked Major Schlerin through the direct link, using that rather than trying to talk against the gee force, even though his couch was less than two meters from mine.

Since he was on-system, he could have done the scan, and that meant I was probably missing something.

“Still at minus five red.”

“Keep watching.”

I kept watching, and after another ten minutes, the density began to rise, although I could sense nothing in the scanners to account for the increase. The gas and dust density was just rising, although the area before the
DeGaul
, where the magscoops were collecting all the diffuse matter, would have qualified as a vacuum just about anywhere.

“It’s up to minus three red. How did you know, ser?”

“Measurement anomaly belt.” The laugh was only on the link between us. “It’s there, and all the pilots who’ve made a number of transits know it, but since the scientists can’t explain it, and since all the transits since the development of the photon drive have still only resulted in measurements of a fraction of supra-ecliptic space, they just claim it’s a construct of scanner anomalies.”

“Give us enough time, and we’ll reduce all the dust,” I suggested.

“Oh…we might create a dust-free corridor…in say a million years.”

I offered a net-nod. That was the major’s idea of a joke.

“Drop back to one gee, Alwyn,” Major Schlerin said. “Announce a thirty minute constant at one gee. Then you can take ten, and come back and relieve me.”

“Yes, ser.” I reconfigured the
DeGaul
’s magscoop intakes so that most of the matter they gathered—largely hydrogen—was either being diverted or stored, and eased back the volume coming from the photon nozzles. It took a minute or so before I had the acceleration stable.

Then, I clicked into the
DeGaul
’s main comm and speakers. “All hands. All hands. There will be a thirty minute stand-down at one gee. I say again, a thirty minute stand-down at one gee, commencing immediately.”

Then I pulsed the major. “You have the con.”

“I have it.”

Once the major’s links greened, and mine went amber, I loosened the harness straps and stretched, then I unfastened the harness and then the control links before I stood. Neither legs nor arms ached—not yet. I’d only been on for two hours.

The standard ship routine for pilots was four standard hours on the bridge, four for a meal and for handling auxiliary duties, four on, and then eight off. Neither the library records nor the data banks had any information on the source of that rotation pattern.

And that twenty-hour pattern was for a standard one gee departure. No one really got meals or aux duties done at multiple gee acceleration. They just lay in their couches. Some of the techs claimed that they could sleep under multiple gees. I hadn’t been able to, but I’d only made one other near-continuous high gee transit in the three months I’d been on the
DeGaul
.

“All rotations ever tried by any military outfit in history share one thing. They never work quite right.” That had been Major Schlerin’s observation when Senior Lieutenant Baldau had questioned him, and on that I definitely agreed with the Major.

Unlike the other officers, I only had ten minutes of the thirty in normal gee. So I had to hurry to relieve myself, and then scurry to the mess to grab one of the high-cal, high-pro food bars. Several other officers were in the mess by the time I got there, including Captain Belsever. He was talking to the ops officer, Subcommander deRieux. DeRieux was a thin-faced woman with very short hair and a square jaw, and she was gulping down one of the supplement bars as she listened.

“…some Gate drift that’s not explained…that’s why they want full measurements as we near Gamma two….”

“…have the scanners on max sensitivity, and we’re recording everything…another planet?”

Captain Belsever shrugged his bony shoulders, and the wings on his singlesuit bobbed up and down. The captain of a ship had to be a qualified pilot, and current. So did the executive officer. “They’re not saying, ops.”

“Yes, ser.”

I realized I was running out of time, and grabbed a sustain bar, then a cup of the liquid, alternately chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing, before finishing both and slipping back to the bridge.

Once there, I strapped back in and on-linked. “I’m online, ser.”

“Eleven minutes.” A net-chuckle followed. “Not bad.” After a moment, the major added, “You have the con, Lieutenant.”

“I have it, ser.”

“Just watch the density. There’s probably nothing else out here, but if there is, just reinforce the scoops and shields first. Then, start tracking, and call me. In that order.”

“Yes, ser.”

There wasn’t anything out beyond the
DeGaul
, nothing but hydrogen and a few other scattered molecules per cubic meter. Even before Major Schlerin returned, the density had dropped back to red minus six, another indication we were clearing the system residuals, and I’d had to re-expand the magscoops to maintain even flow for the converters.

I even had time to wonder about why a Gate was drifting.

Raven: Vallura, 459 N.E.

Once I was back home, I summoned up and inspected every software subsystem in the dwelling, then I went through the hardware. I wasn’t surprised to find that everything had been checked, and that there were dumps and snoops hidden away in more than a few places. For the moment, I left them all, except three that I disabled in ways that would seem accidental enough, unless someone looked really closely, and enough to let me keep an info search and the data from being read—I hoped. Then I took a deep breath, sat down, and leaned back in the chair in the study, thinking.

I didn’t know how much time I had before something else went wrong, but I was going to have to get into better shape, physically. That was for certain, and I’d have to buy more time, preferably by appearing to do nothing, while planning everything for the moment when I could act. I also needed to be in better shape to re-inspect the glider before I took it anywhere. Gerrat had had it brought home from Helyna, but I hated to think what might be lurking in it.

One of the first things I did after checking out the house and comm systems was call up the VR of the night that had started the whole mess, except this time I attacked it as a methodizer. I isolated every person in Kharl’s great room, and then analyzed each one’s behavior and reactions. I didn’t stop at whether they looked in my direction, but at physical reactions and every cue I could develop. Then I went into the psychology references and dug up some more.

The results were, as with everything, both surprising and not so surprising.

Rynold Tondrol had been clearly oblivious to anyone but his consort of the evening, and she to him. Kharl frowned, out of nowhere, one minute before I had been sprayed on the terrace, and was actually moving toward the door the moment it opened, even before I was fully visible. Grete’s mouth dropped open, and she let out an involuntary murmur of some sort.

The Advocate General of West Noram—Seglend Krindottir—looked totally stunned, even more so than Grete, as I fell, but immediately left the room, and apparently Kharl’s dwelling, because she never showed up again. Nor did her husband.

My old friend Kymal Aastafa had been late to react, but the worry lines around his face indicated concern, and he’d gone to Grete—not Kharl—and apparently inquired and offered something, since Grete had nodded in agreement to whatever he had said, then shaken her head.

N’garo and Aalua had been the couple who had entered before me. Kharl had indicated she was a doctor, and that seemed to be borne out, because she’d hurried over and bent down over me when I’d fallen into the great room, and she and Kharl were clearly working on me. Her husband had looked half-stunned, half-puzzled.

Majora Hyriss had also gone to Grete, after Kymal, and remained talking to Grete for more than a few minutes. Like Kymal, she had appeared surprised and worried, very worried.

The other discrepancy involved Eldyn Nyhal, who had stood out with his brilliant single suit, and the glittering oval medallion. For all his flamboyant appearance, the oddity was that he hadn’t reacted. With most of the people in the great room turning to see what had happened, including his wife, he had continued talking to a man I didn’t know, and that man had politely slipped away to ask the woman next to him about something, presumably me, from the gestures. Nyhal had motioned to his wife after that, clearly into himself, looking as if he had been personally affronted that I had collapsed. Still…he hadn’t reacted at all.

I scanned and studied all the faces, but if anyone else behaved unusually, I couldn’t see it. Of course, that could only mean that any guilty party had been well briefed or prepared.

After all the studying, I still had the same question. Why would anyone be out after me? I had no role in running UniComm. Gerrat and Father controlled UniComm. My inherited interests were…what, five percent of the voting stock—the same as Elora’s, I assumed. And, because I was stubborn, my legal testament directed my shares to Elora.

My edart pieces got ratings of just over a hundred—usually for the week or two after they were posted, but that meant on average, there were a hundred more frequented edartists. And my methodizing…well, I was so indispensable that my biggest client had just trashed me.

The gatekeeper clinged, and I noted the incoming—Majora Hyriss—and accepted.

“I just wanted to see how you were, Daryn.” The tall woman looked the same as she had four months—or fourteen years—before. Dark brown eyes dominated a thin face. Her generous mouth and the eyes expressed concern, clear even through VR. We’d remained friends, but no more, over the years, perhaps because…I wasn’t sure exactly. I liked Majora, but perhaps it was because I felt that nothing with her could be anything less than total commitment, and she was the sort of person I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, try to deceive.

“Are you all right?” she asked as I just looked at her image for a moment.

“Oh…I’m fine. You’re kind to check on me. Kharl finally let me come home.”

“I know. I’ve been checking with the hospital. How do you feel?”

“All right, all things considered.” I wasn’t about to say I felt weaker than I would have liked, not with more snoops and dumps that I’d probably even found. “I do appreciate your call.”

“I wasn’t sure…you looked awfully taken with the redhead…I wasn’t certain, but I did call Kharl.”

I shook my head ruefully. “She turned out to be a mistake, a very costly one.” Except I still kept thinking about Elysa, but certainly not romantically.

“Kharl hinted at that. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“It still hurts?”

“When someone tries to kill you, it hurts in more ways than one.” That was certainly true.

“I’m here, and you know where to find me.” She smiled that warm generous smile, and I wondered why I’d never pursued her.

“I know, and I appreciate it more than you know.” I meant that.

She paused, then asked, as if recalling something, “You know Eldyn Nyhal, don’t you?”

“We went to school together years ago, before I went off to The College. Why?”

“His wife died—suddenly. It’s all over the news, but I think it was on InstaNews first.”

I winced. “That has to be hard. You lose someone, and the nets are right there. But I guess he’s famous. He’s a norm and as wealthy and powerful as any pre-select—and probably brighter than most.”

“You’re lucky you’re not that famous. Everyone trails your brother.”

“I chose not to follow that orbit, remember?”

She laughed. “Then you were smart as well as lucky.”

When she broke off, suggesting I get some rest, I agreed. But I wanted to check the news before I stretched out. So I tried InstaNews—that was the OneCys counter to UniComm’s AllNews. I had to wait almost ten minutes, but Majora had been right.

The first image was that of a Sino-style villa on a hillside above snow-dusted pines.

The screen cut to a warm and smiling image of the small vivacious woman I had seen but once, showing her on horseback, then dropping back to a more distant view of her riding dressage in an arena somewhere. I blinked. Someone had used a graduated light effect, very subtle, but increasing the light around her, almost like an unseen halo.

The shot of Nyhal showed a tired-looking, small, and beady-eyed figure glaring at the viewer, followed by a view of a glimmering silver-finished replicator. He was in darker blue, not bright blue, and wore another ovalish medallion, except it was almost black.

InstaNews wasn’t doing a slash-job; it was more like a public execution.

With a yawn, I cut off the news holo images and sank back into the chair. I thought about calling Klevyl, but dismissed that immediately. First, I was snooped, and, second, if I did, it would show more than I wanted.

The involuntary yawns, and the blurriness around my eyes told me that Majora had been right. I did need some rest. Then, I needed to think, because I wasn’t, not well.