The Seeds of Time (46 page)

“Good for you, Voris. Now could you leave me alone and in quiet to be scared shitless?” Clio felt the ship strain, lights blinked irritatingly, ship kicked up toward Dive velocity. Not like the old days when
Starhawk
responded with power to spare, chomping at the bit.

“You say that to shock people, Clio, but I know how brave you really are. What I don’t know is where you get it from, with your soul in the state it’s in.”

Captain Hocking: “Helm to Finn, Lieutenant Voris. And cut the chatter.”

“Yessir.”

Clio’s board signaled helm control, and they reached for Dive velocity.
State my soul is in
. Had to be a sorry state, no doubt on that one, if soul was what your stomach told you about how you fit into the world. Had to be a sorry state.

“Blessings, Clio.”

“Christ almighty, Voris, stow it before I cut your channel.”

“That hurts.”

“Dive point coming up, could we have a professional crew, here, and pay attention?” Hocking asked, voice not exactly whining. “Dive point coming up, on my mark.”

Clio readied her hand over the switch guard on the Dive button, ready to engage the coils at maximum velocity.

“Good luck, Clio,” Voris said, a slow drip from a faucet.

I will kill her
, Clio thought.

Then: “Dive,” Hocking ordered.

“Yessir.” Clio hit the button, switching them over to Dive, switching them to the tunnel track through the space-time continuum, and backward, getting
direction
right, backward in time. Ship’s coils hummed, vision thickened, humming rose to a drilling whine. And ceased.

Vision cleared, console blinking red, an alarm blaring. Normal space, the
Galactique
had put a toe in the cold water’s edge and retreated, fast.

“Finn,” Hocking shouted, “you miss the switch? Or what’s your call?”

Console showed they were losing velocity. Voris, on scan, called out the coordinates. They had missed.

“Couldn’t say, sir,” Clio responded. “For starters, coils are hot as hades and thermal-control systems are on overload.” A battery of lights flared up and cabin pressurization wobbled a split second, an instant too long for Clio. “Call to stand for code-one alert, sir, I’d recommend.”

Klaxon subsided, leaving Hocking hollering for no reason, “I’ll make that determination, Finn.” Then, at lower decibels, “Don’t overreact, now. Ship is coming back to normal.”

From Singh: “Computer is signaling for code-one alert, sir. Shall I instigate?”

“No. I said no. Is anyone hearing me say no?”

“As you say, sir.” Singh’s head bobbed back down to navigation boards.

Voris’ eyes were wide; she was sitting quiet, letting things settle, but watching the boards close.

Silence hovered among the four of them. Then, from Hocking: “Finn, you will ease us into our burn, and slowly.”

“Take two,” Voris said, Clio’s channel.

Clio looked at her, wondered if that was humor. Voris wasn’t looking at anyone, now that Hocking was peeved; Voris knew how to keep her head down.

And they revved up to Dive point again, gathering speed at such a pace as
Galactique
could muster, coils a little warm for Clio’s judgment, but what the hell, blow the carbon out, see what the ship could do. And as they gathered speed, Clio knew in her gut they had made the
Galactique
too damn big, that this behemoth was never meant to Dive, should have been a freighter, a
troop carrier
, by God, which is what she was, come to think of it.

And they hit Dive point and lumbered through this time; crew blacked out, and Clio was alone.

Bulkhead receded, but pressed in, belying their metal-framed certainty, and the weight of time filled the cabin, pressing against her face. The familiar heat in her stomach, slightly nauseating but swelling upward to her throat, and the chronometer clicking away, and she wanting to go to sleep with the rest of them.

Clip gripped the chair arms and blinked liquid from her eyes, trying to center her attention. Pilot. Yes,
Galactique
, and get a damn grip. Done this before, a time or two. She swiveled her chair, checking on crew, all out and skin translucent like shallow water in moonlight. Then glancing up to viewports, the time-elapse trails of the migrating stars coursed across the viewports, and the chronometer screen scrolled and scrolled, a thousand years and now eleven hundred. Going to be sick. Threw up once a long time ago, but never again, most Dive pilots made
that
mistake only once, with every event in hypercolor and sensual display.

Ran a systems check. OK, feeling better, deal with the ship. Your job. Watch the boards and pilot when called upon, evasive maneuvers as needed, as, say, any galactic matter larger than a basketball.

Perspiration rolled down her face and torso, med reaction, maybe, but also nervous, by God. Ship faltered into Dive, too much mass, and mass narrows the Dive point, crimps the perimeters. So the ship squeaked through—but arrogant bastards, to cut it this close, scrape the paint off but no dents. Too damn close. On a science mission, don’t need forty-six cabins, don’t need a crew lounge, an observation deck, spacious officers’ quarters. Trying hard not to, then giving in to the thought: an astral
Titanic
, where the everyday power of the universe can flick a wrist and send your glittering ship to the bottom of the cold, deep sea.

But, steady, old girl. Clio patted the boards like the old Dodge Caravan that refused to die, thanks to Petya’s jurryrigging, patted the $280 billion
Galactique
on the nose, and said out loud, “We’ll make it, old girl.”

And then, called up visual on the heat-exchanger system, checked it out, and then checked it again. So Clio worked the boards, displaying ship’s systems, and crosschecking coordinates, and feeling the old exhilaration, the wind in her hair, the sun on her back, like a bike ride down the longest hill in the universe. And how long ago was it she had lain in the Issaquah Quarry barracks and thought she would never fly again? Seven days, or eight, counting as the bird flies, thirty-four thousand years as the ship flies, and now she was back here in the pilot’s chair, as though this were the only real life, and all the rest mere side trips.

Ran systems checks again, and, with seventy-two sleeping crew and passengers, kept the eerie bridge company until the chronometer came to a standstill. And as the bridge crew stirred, the Niang system’s young, hot star hove into view dead ahead: a diadem pulsing with what might have been turquoise as Clio lost consciousness.

Dreaming of Earth. Lovely green rolling hills, all mowed and smooth. Real oaks here and there shading white headstones. Clio walked through the lovely green, with tiger lilies in her hand, and stood before Mother’s grave. Mother sat at her desk piled high with papers and bills, smoking a cigarette, while one still lay smoldering in the ashtray. Clio
set the flowers in the vase on the desk. Mother looked up and said gently, “I told you not to bury me.” Clio tried to say,
I couldn’t be there, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
, but the words were zeros on the breeze. Mother looked at the flowers. “Plastic,” she said. Clio saw that they were.
There aren’t tiger lilies anymore. The flowers were the first to go, Mom
. Her lips moved, but no voice. Mother handed her a Kleenex. “Blow,” she said, and went back to her bills.

Someone offered her a drink of water. Took a sip, but no, can’t drink yet. Pushed it away, flopped back down onto her bunk. Head pounding like it wanted to go nova, and room rippling around. “Jesus Godalmighty, can you kill the damn light?”

Somebody dimmed the room, sat back down on the bunk.

Best not to talk when every word hurt like passing kidney stones. This is the worst part, post-Dive, soon be over. Clio groaned and turned toward the bulkhead, wrapping her arms around her stomach, trying to keep it from taking a walk.

She slept again.

Woke up to the smell of coffee. Tried moving a leg. Then, by degrees, up on an elbow. Someone sitting in the chair next to her bed. “Why’s it so damn dark in here?” Clio asked.

Lights went up. Ashe standing next to the bed. Must be Ashe. Black eyes, scar up his eyebrow, large-framed. Ashe.

“Guess you’ll live,” he said.

“Maybe rather not.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to assist at a suicide.”

“Gonna die without any help. Head gonna fall off.”

“Can I get you something?”

Clio moaned. He sat down on the edge of the bunk. “Lie back down,” he said. “On your side.”

Wasn’t used to taking orders from the crew, but maybe lying down was a good idea. Felt his hands massaging her shoulders. “This will help your headache,” he said, “it’s
something my father taught me, get the blood down from your head into your shoulders.”

Not sure about this. But
did
feel good, and, Jesus, how long had it been since anybody had massaged her shoulders?

“You’ve been sleeping for thirteen hours.” He worked on a knot under her left collarbone. “The old crate made it through Dive, and if that weren’t miracle enough, looks like you made it too. Petya’s been fine, spent most of the last day down in botany getting my old PC to work and then beating me at vid checkers.”

Clio gave herself up to the massage. Turned to lie facedown on the bed, thinking of taking her shirt off, but can’t do that, might be misunderstood. A signal all right, don’t have to be Einstein to get that one.

Like the times before, when she and Keith would drive down to the potholes in his antique ’79 T-Bird, 351 V8 with the mag wheels, and they would leave the radio blaring with the doors open and the Schlitz malt liquor in easy reach. And Keith might ask her if she wanted a backrub, and she’d lie down in the spiky grass, turning away from him to unbutton her blouse. Spreading it out, she’d lie on the earth and feel his hands take over her back, and pulling her jeans down, massage her everywhere. And she could remember wishing he’d just keep on working her back, so hunched up it felt like she was storing marbles under her skin, but then he’d turn her over, and pull off her 501s, and look at her while he undressed himself knees straddled over her thighs, and at that point, the massage was more or less over. She sometimes thought how things you said were signals for things you didn’t want to say, like, “Want to go down to the potholes and pop some lids?” or, “Like a backrub?” or, “I should get back,” when he was finished, instead of lying there with her, maybe holding her and watching for shooting stars or satellites or space junk
.

And once, a flashlight in their faces, as they sat in the T-Bird drinking beer, and what was DSDE doing out in their hideaway? And the man asked for driver’s licenses
and health cards and left them sitting a long time and then came back and asked what they planned to do with the beer, since it was a crime to litter, and a crime to have it in the open car, and they said they’d put it in the trunk. DSDE looked at Keith like maybe that was the wrong answer, and Keith kept saying, “sir,” embarrassing Clio with his deference, but then she saw that he was shaking a little bit, and once again thought about how the beer wasn’t what they were dealing with. It was about being scared, and giving DSDE the respect, the power they liked to get. And they drove off, while the black van followed them home. And when they got to her house, Keith said, in that way that didn’t ask for a response, “I’ll call you.”

“Just relax,” Timothy was saying.

“Trying to.”

His large, deft hands pressed and molded her aching muscles. Found a knot, started to work on it. “You anxious about revisiting Niang?”

“No,” she responded automatically.

“Can’t be a pleasant memory,” Ashe said.

“No. Not pleasant, but maybe beautiful.” Niang, the world forest. Green, as Earth had been.

“You lost friends, I guess. That’s always real hard.” The knot was starting to soften up. “Sometimes, though, going back, it gives you another chance to say goodbye.”

“I’ve said enough goodbyes.”

“You going to say goodbye to Niang this time?”

She closed her eyes against these thoughts. Niang held the promise of life renewed, a new Earth. How do you say goodbye to that?

Ashe pressed on. “Must have been hard, that trip home. Did you feel betrayed by Niang then, as the ship rotted away?”

“Not how I felt. Not betrayed by Niang. Betrayed by Earth, by army, Biotime. Niang was like a wild animal on that ship, that shouldn’t have been caged in the first place.”

He was quiet then, and her thoughts turned to
Starhawk
,
the science deck giving way, blowing apart, as equipment slammed toward the gaping hole to space …

She pulled away from him, sat up, full now of unwanted emotions, resenting him and his damn probing.

“How’s your headache?” He sat quietly on the edge of the bunk, his big frame graceful, at rest, no tension anywhere.

“Headache’s gone,” she said. “Thanks.” But what she felt was annoyance, a ripple in her stomach, asking, why does he meddle with me?

He nodded, still sitting quietly, letting the time be quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t annoyance she felt, as the ripple moved down into her groin. She wanted to touch the arrow scar above his eyebrow, and rake her hand through his thick black hair, pulled back as always into a ponytail. Small wiry white hairs escaped from the smooth rounded crown of his head. Still he watched her, a little too personal.

She put her hand on his thigh, rested it there.

His eyes narrowed, but he covered her hand with his own.

“Coffee,” she said, her gaze sliding over to the cup. He reached for it, handed it to her.

She sipped at it, cold now, but it tasted good, cleared her mouth. Handed it back to him. She sat up and reached for his hair, pressing her hand against it, down to the nape of his neck, feeling its wiry profusion.

He put his hand to her head, running his warm hand over the stubble. “You have a beautiful scalp, Clio,” he said.

“That’s a great opener. Original.” She smiled.

He pulled his hand back, set it in his lap. And somehow, in that gesture, she knew the moment had passed when he could pull her toward him. Yes, the moment had passed. He had passed on her.