“I’m not the key. It’s whatever was done to us.”
“Why weren’t you killed,” the Hal mused, “as Deschanel-Officer was?”
“I’m going upstairs, okay?”
Without another word, she turned her back on him, hauling herself up the short ladder to the flight deck and halfway into the left-hand seat before she realized what she was doing. She almost climbed right back out, then flopped the rest of the way with a snort that turned instantly into a sharp groan as various sore spots all over her registered their protests. Regardless of what any scrap of paper said, much less the bureaucrats behind it, this was where she belonged.
The field of vision was spectacular, far better than in any Terrestrial shuttle—albeit, at the moment, presenting a view only of the blank-featured wall of the hangar. The transparency reached from above her head to below the level of her seat, creating a panoramic vista that swept forward from behind her chair all the way around the flight deck and down the other side. The panel was the same basic mix of flatscreen displays and analog instruments, switches filling a control hump between the twin pilot seats and a ceiling panel overhead. Sidestick controllers as well, instead of the central yoke still favored at NASA.
She slumped deep into her seat, struggling to find even a marginally comfortable position. Amazing, she grumbled silently, how two races so fundamentally similar in physique can’t come up with compatible furniture; amazing, she went on without a break, to find two races so fundamentally similar period! Especially first time out the box. She smiled now. And Einstein said God doesn’t play dice with the Universe, hah!
She pulled her jacket tight around her, tucking her hands up under her armpits, as though her arms were a kind of seat belt, crossing her chest to lock her into place. Started playing a tune inside her head, lifting her legs to tap her feet on the panel in time to the phantom melody, staring away at nothing, unaware she was crying even as tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
The air lay hushed about her with supernal stillness, as though the world itself still slept. Sitting on her heels atop the tier of rock that marked the crest of the ridge, she had a superb view of the valley below. She knew she should be moving, but didn’t really care. The moment was too special, too precious to cast aside. And in a way, fitting with her purpose here.
With easy grace, she straightened to her full height, a faint tremble rippling the soft fur of her body as it responded to the predawn chill. Wasn’t that cold, but she was dressed more for day, sleeveless pullover tucked into shorts, a pair of well-worn running boots, sweatbands on wrists, kerchiefs around forehead and neck, her thick mane tied back into a rough braid. Wasn’t as clean or fresh as when she’d started, but that was partly the point of the pilgrimage.
She shifted her pack, settling it more comfortably on her shoulders, placing hands at the base of her spine and rolling her shoulders back, in the same motion extending her arms full length, before reaching them upward to stretch her body the same way. Followed by a gusting sigh of relief as she relaxed back to normal. A moment’s further pause to look and listen, savoring the hint of salt sea off the ocean, but it was still too early in the day for anything animal to be stirring. And then she kicked herself off the rock and on down the moderate slope, slit pupils dilated almost to a full circle in the grey predawn half-light, enabling her to pick her way around any obstacles.
It was the turning of the year, and the valley floor was simmering with muted color as the flowers began their final transition. Later in the morning, responding to the sun’s light and warmth, that simmer would burst into glorious flame, a magnificent palette of reds and golds that the slightest breeze would send into rippling motion, creating the illusion that the ground itself was burning.
An age-old path ran across the valley and she picked up speed as she reached it, thankful she wouldn’t have to disturb the natural order of the field. Smiling with the realization that she wasn’t the first to come this way, nor to have such a response. A mist overlay the horizon, masking her destination against the last shadows of night. She pushed a bit harder, confident there was time but wanting to give herself as much of a cushion as possible. This wasn’t necessary. Fewer of the community made the trek these days and those that did often went by air to the high places of their respective Houses. Her schedule was no less jammed, her responsibilities no less demanding, she could have rationalized such a decision herself with hardly any effort. But that defeated the whole purpose of coming.
When a friend dies—and especially when that friend is a comrade in arms—their memory should be honored. And that moment should have as much meaning as the life now lost.
The track led her to the base of the bluff, a hulking plug of primordial stone thrust up in the last spurt of mountain building—the same that had created the Haukon Chain farther along the coast, whose peaks gave the sunward horizon its jagged-toothed appearance—and there, it ended. She would have to make her own way to the top. Sadly, that posed no great challenge, for she’d made the same trip not so long ago. Although then, she’d come from the beach and she hadn’t really been here in any corporeal sense, but in the Vision Chamber aboard Range Guide, the Memorial Mount no more than a holographic illusion generated by the starship’s computers.
On that occasion, the full surviving complement of crew had been present. This would be done by her alone.
She attacked the slope with a wildly careless abandon, as though this was some sort of personal test, refusing to slow her pace even as the way grew increasingly steep. Until, with the horizon banded pale to herald the rising sun, she cleared the crest and reached the top. There was a breeze now, a rich mingling of the scents of land and sea, and off in the middle distance she could hear the faint coughs of J!kst’nai as they gathered for breakfast along the rock reef, the shrill skirl of birds overhead hoping for a dive-and-grab at whatever carrion remained, in happy disregard that their approach made them just as fair game for the amphibious predators. Farther out to sea, she saw a familiar spurt-sparkle of spray as a Polidan shook itself to the surface, trailing its huge tentacles lazily through the water, splashing them in a random sequence that made sense only to them.
She could only spare a glance at the sights, as she cast off her pack and strode to the Herald Chime. At the seaward end of the bluff stood a head-high cairn that had originally been the roughest hewn of stone, worn down over the ages into a smooth, wind-polished pillar. She took the mallet, sounded the chime once to announce her presence to the Spirits. Then, in a quick, economical sequence of moves, she stripped off her clothes, picked and pulled at her braid until her hair hung loose, proceeding as she did towards the cairn to stand finally facing it, an arm’s length distant. She held her arms slightly out from her body, palms towards the cairn, as she offered her greeting and stated her purpose. A heartbeat’s pause, and she reversed direction, bringing her arms up level with her shoulders, facing the sun just as it broke the line of the horizon, the first brilliant dot of light searing itself into her eyes and brain. And her head went back, lips baring teeth in a snarl more appropriate to the prairie hunters of her evolutionary ancestors than the technological sophisticates they’d become, and she cried the name of her fallen friend, offering a portion of her own self and spirit to stand by what remained of the other in memory.
The mood splintered with the sound of a pair of hands in a slow, sarcastic clap, and she spun into a combat crouch to find Alex Cobri perched atop the cairn, cross-legged like Alice’s caterpillar.
“Very nice,” he said with a tone that matched his physical attitude, bored and contemptuous, and she couldn’t help the hackles that rose in fury along the line of her neck.
“You don’t belong here,” she said, the English words emerging stretched and twisted around a Hal tongue that found them awkwardly uncomfortable.
“And you do?” he countered. And she looked askance at him, because the voice itself didn’t fit the man at all. Higher and sharper than she was used to hearing
from him, with a more rounded European pronunciation to the vowels.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You want to play with Pussies, dear heart,” he said, “you really should look the part.” And tossed a cat collar to her feet. There was a long silver leash attached, the far end held in one of his hands.
With a hiss, she grabbed at the cord and pulled, hard as she could, wanting to see his face bleed when it hit the rock—but it was she who fell, and when her sight settled she found herself on all fours, hands and knees, the collar buckled snugly about her throat.
“So tell me,” he said with a laugh, unfolding from his seat and sauntering towards her, reeling in the leash along the way to keep it taut, “what do you do for an encore?”
And her eyes popped wide, body spasming just this side of totally out of control as she fought free of the confining embrace of the chair, almost colliding with Kymri as he came up from below. At the sight of him, the faintest brush of his fingers as he reached out for her, she pitched herself back, uttering a soundless cry of pain as she struck the main instrument panel. Even recognizing—at last—where she was, who was with her, it still required a conscious effort not to flinch, or snarl defiance, when his hands went out to her again, to catch her firmly by the upper arms.
She was breathing so hard, she couldn’t speak at first, lungs pumping fit to burst, and she wondered absurdly how she looked to him, since she was still trying to sort in her own mind whether she was human or Hal.
“You were sleeping,” he said.
“Dreaming.” So inadequate a word, and nightmare so banal an alternative, to describe what she’d just endured.
“What is wrong?” he demanded, mixing a little of the starship officer in with the concerned friend, offering his strength to bolster hers. She was looking around wildly, making scrabbling motions with her hands. Like some trapped and helpless little mouse, she thought disturbingly, or a baby, desperately trying to make sense of its reality. Hell, simply trying to determine what reality itself is!
“I was on s’N’dare,” she said at last, “the Memorial Mount. I issued the Sunrise Call in Simone’s name. Alex Cobri was there, he was laughing at me.” Her voice trailed off, her own expression mostly disbelief, with an undertone that shifted violently between stark horror and an even more fierce, and growing, rage. “Only I don’t think it was wholly Alex, the mannerisms were his but pushed to an extreme I’ve never seen from him, especially with me. And the voice...
“I was Hal,” she said flatly in English, deliberately breaking her train of thought as she realized she’d been speaking that Alien language. “The same duality of being that occurred during the Memorial we held on Range Guide. And in the ceremony with Matai. How is that possible, Kymri?” An accusatory tone slipping in. “You gave the Speaker virus to Ben Ciari, I was left out of it, isn’t that right?”
“You miss the obvious, Shea-Pilot,” he replied smoothly. “Might not this be simply another manifestation of Cobri’s Virtual Reality trap? That would explain his presence.”
And, she thought, his actions.
“A flashback, you mean?” He cocked a head, blanking on the reference, as she did when she sought through her own mental vocabulary for the Hal equivalent. “A residue,” she tried, “of the original imprinting. Buried deep—or maybe not so deep—in the subconscious, slips out when you least expect it. In response to some equally subconscious cue.”
“A possibility.”
“But how could he know so much?”
“Why should he need to? If he stages the basic scenario, you possess all the memory data required to complete the process. The strength of these illusions seems to be that they speak to some aspect of your personality, they strike a resonant chord that prompts you to participate willingly. So, within yourself, you do whatever is necessary to fully realize the tapestry he has laid out... ”
“While at the same time, ignoring—rationalizing—any false notes that might disturb it.”
He nodded, another quirk he’d adopted.
“So is this real? Or am I still sprawled on my couch or my bed or whatever, lost in Alex’s funhouse?”
“Any answer is suspect. As is any action.”
“Neat little trap. If I assume it’s real, I make no attempt to break loose of the fantasy. I might as well be dead. Do the reverse, embrace it as Virtual when it isn’t, figuring I can recycle myself out of any disaster, I could be in for a very fatal surprise. Son of a bitch!”
“Agreed.”
“It was a nice dream,” she said, gently but firmly pulling loose from his grip, turning to separate herself a couple of steps from him, all really that was possible on the flight deck, “until that twist at the end. Question is, could it happen again?”
“Possible.”
“Anything we can do about it?”
“I am no PsiTech, Shea-Pilot.” The Hal equivalent of a shrink. “The best among us—anywhere in near-Earth space—to fulfill such a function, especially where you specifically are concerned... ”
“Was Matai.”
“Hence her assignment as your primary watcher. Forgive me, but had you not woken yourself I would have done so. Your presence is required by the Rachiim-Colonel.”
“News?”
“None. Which is why he wishes to speak with you. Neither a sign of Matai nor Cobri. Both have gone to ground most effectively.”
“How can I help?”
“In terms of Cobri, I know not. Evidently, his sire has engaged private trackers who bear the brunt of the responsibility for him. Although Rachiim-Colonel is to be notified immediately upon their success.”
“You don’t sound too terribly confident.”
“They are reputable individuals, so I am told, competent craftspeople in their profession—as are Rachiim-Colonel’s subordinates. But their agenda is not his, nor their primary loyalty to him. As for Matai, I believe he hopes by seeking what you would do under similar circumstances, he might divine some sense of her intentions.”
“Because she’s so much me?” A nod. “You don’t sound hopeful there, either.”
“You are better than you know. And Matai... ”
“If she weren’t top line, she wouldn’t be one of Shavrin’s crew, yes?”
“Our Lady inspires excellence.”
“What’re you saying then, Matai isn’t likely to be found?”
“Barring fate’s fortune . . .”
“Which neither of us believe in, though we’ll always take what we can get.”
“She will reveal herself at a time and place of her own choosing.”
“She’s an Alien, Kymri.”
“All the more challenge to overcome. By nature, Shea-Pilot, we are hunters, and warriors. We thrive on adversity. And every contest is played to win.”
Three weeks passed in a flash. By the time Nicole realized time was passing, it was gone. At Manuel Cobri’s request, Grace Kinsella had been slotted as his personal spaceplane pilot, an assignment only slightly less prestigious, and in career terms far more potentially beneficial, than getting the left seat on Air Force One. He showed at the base the day he made the decision, although officially it bore the imprimatur of the Air Force Chief of Staff and the Secretary of Defense, and was his usual charming self. So much so that Nicole was hard put to reconcile the man before her with the grasping megalomaniac portrayed by Al Maguire. He left a fair-sized slot on his calendar for her, but surprisingly talked not a bit about his children. It was a charming afternoon, and one of the finest high teas Nicole had ever eaten, topping the best served by the old London hotels and made all the more delightful because it was a picnic.
That night she dreamed of a house on a hill, with herself being pressed as a figure into a Tiffany favrile stained-glass window.
The details didn’t last past breakfast, only a vague aftertaste of disquiet that she chalked up to the stress of overwork. She was back on the job within a couple of days of the incident, simply because the press
of business wouldn’t allow her to stay away any longer. Kinsella’s departure only increased the burden, and the pressure, bearing the brunt of the work on the Hal/NASA Integrated Shuttle. Which in turn was coming down to a decision to mate Terrestrial systems and power plants to a Hal lifting body. She and Kymri and Tscadi were together almost constantly—especially since Nicole had shifted out of her own quarters and into theirs, in hopes the Hal computer network established there would prove more than the assassin could crack. And when more senior officers at the Test Center grumbled about a Second Lieutenant shouldering that kind of responsibility, Sallinger simply pointed to the data streams and flow charts, eloquent proof that she was doing the job as well as anyone and better than most. Nicole didn’t know about the gripes—save for the good-natured ones that came at her on the flight line or in the maintenance bays, when she was getting down and dirty with Ray Castaneda’s grunts, tearing equipment apart to put it back together better—and wouldn’t have cared if she had, she was having too much fun. Working harder than she had since the Moon and loving every minute.
It would have been a perfect existence, but for the shadow cast by Arsenio Rachiim. As Colonel Sallinger had predicted, there was indeed hell to pay, and the news rumbled up and down the chain of command—all the way to the Oval Office—like an avalanche, gathering power and awful momentum as it went, giving rise to more than a little speculation that Sallinger himself would pay for Simone’s death (not to mention the subsequent fireworks) with his job. For all the melodramatic anticipation, however, the initial repercussions seemed eerily low-key. Very little changed, in fact, at least as far as the Flight Test Center itself was concerned. New faces working out of the Provost Marshal’s office. Some very high-tech snoopers operating from their own secure complex out in the boonies. Heightened security around the Cobri compound. That was pretty much all.
Those first days Nicole seemed to live in Rachiim’s office, engaged in a seemingly relaxed conversation with him and some federal bods that, in retrospect, she realized was the most intensive and sophisticated interrogation she’d ever undergone. It frightened her, really, how much information they were able to charm out of her, and how easily she gave it up to them.
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