The Seeds of Time (39 page)

Autopsy photos. Chest massively bruised. Face locked in a grimace. Clio handed them back. “Looks like they ran into a wall.”

“We’d very much like to know what they ran into,” Tandy said. “Because their chest cavities were penetrated, and the heart muscle ripped open. Apparently without external trauma.” He handed her the next series of photos. She glanced at mangled chests, laid open by autopsy. “That’s how they died. Trauma to the heart,” Tandy said.

“How could that happen?”

Tandy nodded. “That’s just what we’d like to know.” He tucked the photos back into their folder, settled back to look at Clio. “Chances are, what we’re dealing with here
isn’t human. Not Earth civilization. What you found, Clio, in that ship. Alien.”

He rose and paced behind Ellison. “And it’s not just a matter of Niang anymore. Last month, Joseph Ritters, chief Biotime engineer, was killed while on leave in Disney City in Phoenix. Killed in the same way.”

Clio watched him spin this story, wondering how much to believe.

“Exactly the same manner of death.” He turned to face her. “I’m going back to Niang, Clio. A joint army-Biotime venture, this time. A new ship, bigger than
Starhawk
, much bigger. I want you to come with me.”

“Find somebody else.”

“I need someone who can take us to the crash site. You’re the only one left alive who knows where it is. I need you, Clio.”

“I’m not going back.” She rose, turning on Brisher. “You and your damn space adventures. What’s this game? Get the common folk pumped up on faster-than-light? Promise them something else you can’t deliver? Or scare the shit out of them with stories of invading aliens? Another ploy to take their minds off their problems? Think I care about your stars, your FTL? Tell you what I cared about, if you want to know. Earth. What I cared about. Lost everything else, and still kept going, lost my family and still kept going. Had a ship full of Niang seeds. Limping home, almost made it. Expected a rescue ship, got a warship instead.” She turned to face Tandy. “Your army planned to blow us the hell out of the way, not even rescue the crew, just sanitize the whole event. I ended up with a pocket full of seeds. Even those you killed.” Clio watched his face, calm as ever. “Now you want me to care about your next fucking adventure.” She sneered at Tandy. “Should have left me in the barracks, Colonel, ’cause I just don’t give a shit.”

Brisher cleared his throat. She turned to face him, ready to mow him down.

“We have Petya, I’m afraid,” he said. “We have your brother.”

Now she would murder him. She wanted to fly at him, but the desk lay between them. “Liar!” she hissed.

“We can produce him, of course.”

Clio heard a moan deep in her throat. She found the chair. And sat. Now fighting with herself whether she felt joy or bitterness. Petya. If they had him, then he was alive. If they didn’t have him they couldn’t use him against her, couldn’t hurt him. Again, the question: Is life always the best thing? Is it best that Petya is alive? Or should he, like her, have died long time back?

“I want to see him.”

“Right.” Brisher rose, a match for the heft of the mahogany desk. “Yes, we thought you might want proof. Meanwhile, a recent picture.” He fished in his pocket, brought out a photo, handed it to her.

Petya sat at a table with Tinkertoys spread out, hands folded, fingers locked in front of him. He wore a red plaid shirt and a baseball hat. He looked startled, as though seeing her looking at him. Probably the flash from a previous picture had surprised him.

“He doesn’t like Tinkertoys. They’re too easy,” Clio said. Her face was hot as blisters. Whole room was damn hot. She took off her cap, rubbed her itchy scalp, stared at the picture some more. Little brother, yes. Alive.

“Who’s the dumb shit that expects him to use Tinkertoys?” Clio said, without looking up. Hard to squeeze the words out. Throat sore, constricted.

Then Colonel Tandy was by her side. Gently took her by the arm, raised her to her feet.

Brisher piped up: “And you can start growing your hair back, for godsakes.”

“That she will, Ellison,” Tandy said. “Without your advice.” Tandy walked her to the door. Turned, looked at Brisher a few beats. “She’s mine now.”

They walked in silence for a time, Tandy and Clio, toward the main station plaza. He guided Clio off toward A Quadrant, past the main green sward with its fifteen-meter trees, and past the cluster of shops dispensing coffee, sweets, and sushi. Passing VandaPet, Clio saw a small dog
inside, licking the window at her. A German shepherd puppy, ears too big for its face, reminding her of Rudy, beloved old shepherd with the bad hip and penchant for ice cream.

“You like dogs, do you?” Tandy asked.

“I guess so.”

“We’ll come back, later.”

He led her past the dispensary, where you don’t want to be seen, despite the meticulous screening for service on Vanda. Past a jogger, dressed in baggy tunic. No clinging togs allowed, no swaying buttocks, breasts. Bodies out of fashion.

And soldiers in the corridor. Strolling, shopping, lounging. One in three a soldier, the army green subtly changing old Vanda into a place she almost recognized but not quite, like those dreams of home where there’s Mother and Petya and Rudy but those extra rooms and floors you never knew existed, and when you go there you’re lost.

So they have Petya, she thought.
Son of a bitch, I have family after all
.

Tandy guided her off main corridor into D Quadrant, and then Clio knew where they were headed: the docking bays. Oh yes, show her the big ship.

As they peeled off at the spoke to the docking terminal, Clio said, “I want some different clothes.”

Tandy patted her on the back, two hard whacks. “Yes! Clothes it shall be. Life worth living, after all, eh? The woman will have clothes, by God. Biotime? Civvies? You name it.”

“Don’t care.”

Tandy grinned broadly.

“And I want to see Petya. When do I get to see Petya?”

“Soon.”

Docking Bay Six loomed ahead. Broad emergency doors stowed open, and they passed through to the observation platform high above the massive bay. On the left side, the windows of loading operations—staffed with Vanda techs hunched over terminals, lips moving, eyes flicking up at Clio and Tandy, then back down to business. On the right side, the cavernous bay. Occupied.

The
Galactique
.

The
Galactique
loomed sixty meters up from the loading bay, just below the observation platform and halfway to the 150-meter ceiling of Bay Six. Through the bridge deck viewports, Clio glimpsed the flight instrumentation and the bridge crew officers. Behind the forward section of the
Galactique
, the long span of mid-decks stretched out to, and beyond, the bay doors where the tail, with its ponderous jet drives, remained sealed outside station. Techs swarmed below, attending to the
Galactique’s
needs, accessing her belly with cable and hose, charging her up for the sort of voyage where the next service station is ten million years away.

The
Galactique
was taking on fuel for a run.

Clio felt like a fish being reeled in, let out, reeled in, set that hook, sink it hard. A crack made its slow way up her chest cavity, something rushed in. Hurt.

“A beauty, eh Clio?” Tandy watched her face instead of the ship.

Clio shrugged. “It’s big all right.” The thing lacked
Starhawk
’s grace—its mean, spare look—black and riveted and all business. Massive as a cargo transport and then some, but trimmed for a fight, with gun hatches and missile tubes. On the long back of mid-decks, two protuberances deprived the
Galactique
of any hope of a sleek profile. One, just aft of the bridge, Clio guessed for officers’ quarters—and the other, unmistakably, the landing craft, nested in riding position.

“Thing can fly, huh?” Clio asked.

“Like to take it for a spin?”

The crack widened, blood below the surface. “Nah, looks like a tank. I like ’em fast.”

“I heard that you do.” He walked away a few paces, turned, cocked his head slightly in the direction of the loading catwalk at ship’s bridge level. “Let’s take a look.”

She followed, feet obeying, heart scolding. Son of a bitch. An ugly son of a bitch. Too big to fly.

“Takes a crew of forty-six comfortably, seventy-two doubled up, as we are now, for the joint mission,” Tandy said. At the catwalk, two guards, army, saluted Tandy and moved aside. Fully armed, she noted. Noted too how eyes flicked to her, then away. She pulled her cap further down onto her head, touching the shaving cuts on her neck tendons. The catwalk swayed, loose-chinked, as she and the colonel approached the bridge hatchway, door clamped open against the hull.

Following Tandy, Clio ducked onto the flight deck. She stood blinking in the glare of a large semicircular room, with instrumentation clustered around three sides, and overhead at the nose of the ship. Behind the pilots’ chairs, pockets for navigator and captain.

Clio and Tandy emerged onto the rear of the flight deck without being seen. Then a Biotime officer leaned in to the ear of ship’s captain, and he turned. Confusion flushed his face for a moment, quickly covered, as he smiled with grand white teeth. “Colonel Tandy,” he said.

Tandy moved forward, shook hands. “This is Clio Finn, Captain.” The two men gazed at her. “Clio, this is Captain Wendall Hocking, the
Galactique’s
commanding officer.”

Clio’s hand fluttered in an almost-salute. But no. Not Biotime anymore, by God. “Sir,” Clio said.

Hocking’s nose rumpled, and the smile vanished. He looked at Tandy. “Time for the tour then?”

Tandy spread his hands in an up-to-you gesture.

Seated at the helm, the pilot swiveled around and now managed to crane her neck past the captain. She smiled at Clio. Young-looking, dark eyes limpid underneath wall-to-wall eyebrows. A cheerful smile that Clio did not return.

Tandy nodded at Clio. “You’ll be under the captain’s charge for the tour, Clio. Enjoy.” He fixed her with an amused look and walked off, ducking through the aft hatchway.

The flight deck embraced her with the pulse and surge of ship’s life, the electrical, electronic, and hydraulic hum and sigh. Through the bright overhead lights, the flight panels sparkled with their own animation. Video screens revealed ship’s thoughts, all bent on flight, flight.

Place smelled like a new car, a just-below-the-surface chemical stew that made you want to open a window. Like a whiff of the Toyota Tourister, when Mother got a good deal and finally turned in the old Dodge Caravan. Straight off the showroom floor it was, with seat belts that worked and a blank panel for a radio that they never filled despite many promises.

Clio was staring at Captain Hocking. He hadn’t moved, nor had the two Biotime officers. Finally he cleared his throat. Frowned. Turned to the man beside him. “Commander Singh, navigator.” The commander nodded at her, slowly. A friendly smile through a trim beard. Hocking nodded down at the pilot. “Lieutenant Voris, pilot.” The pilot smiled again, wiggled her fingers at Clio in hello. Hocking pulled his flight jacket down more firmly around his waist. “Well, this is the flight deck,” he began.

Clio smiled wanly. Right. The flight deck.

He waved at the consoles hugging ship’s nose. “You’ll be familiar with the flight panels. Takes the same mechanics to fly the
Galactique
as a smaller rig.” He paused, looking back at her. “Most people are surprised about that.…” Waited for her reaction, gave up. “The only new thing we’ve added is the navigation post.” Here he turned, waved at a workstation parallel to the captain’s chair about six meters back from the pilots’ chairs. “Reaction-control systems are dual on board, so maneuvers can be carried out from here or the mission deck. That’s one improvement.…” He waved at Voris. “I’ll let Lieutenant Voris take you through the boards in more detail. For now, let’s
take a look at mid-decks.” Hocking droned on as though he’d conducted this tour a time or two before.

As Clio followed Hocking down the hatch in the flight-deck floor, she glimpsed Voris jumping up from her seat. Voris crouched down by the hatch, looking Clio in the eye.
“The
Clio Finn?” she asked in a low tone. “Honest to gosh?”

“Yeah,” Clio managed to say as she continued down the ladder. “Cross my heart.” Clio followed the captain several paces through a mid-deck corridor and through a hatchway to a cabin directly under the flight deck. “Science deck,” Hocking announced. Crew stations pressed against the rounded hull, occupied by a dozen Biotime mission specialists. Several turned to acknowledge the captain, swept up Clio in the same movement; no welcome there. Commanding the huge cabin was a conference table strewn with gear and a plastic liter of RC Cola. Hocking raised an eyebrow at one of the techs. She bit her lip, made to remove the soda. Hocking spun on his heels, disappearing through the hatch, leaving them to dispose of the nonconforming drink.

In the corridor again, Hocking swung around to face Clio. His nose glistened with sweat, undermining an otherwise handsome face. “You will remove the cap, Finn,” he said. Waited. “This is a ship where we follow the rules. That’s one of them. You have ideas about carving out your own procedures, think again.” He raised himself up a fraction, taking in a long breath. “I’ve heard all about you, and I don’t like what I’ve heard. So far I don’t like what I’ve seen, either.”