“You heard me,” Zuri said firmly, “and transmit to Commodore Iakar that the encrypted message has been received, and understood. Since he’s short one monitor now, he’s going to have to be extra diligent about watching the Waypoint—in the monitor’s absence. We don’t want our excitement over the discovery to leave us with our pants down, should anyone try a sneak attack on this system.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the watch commander said, “But what ‘discovery’ are you talking about?”
“First things first,” Zuri said. “Bring us up to proper alert status, please.”
The watch commander dipped his chin to his chest—in acknowledgment of the order—then turned around and began typing rapidly at his keyboard. Within moments, the man’s voice was carrying throughout the ICC, as well as being broadcast to every DSOD-coded receiver in the entire system.
“THIS IS A CLASS-THREE ALERT, AS ORDERED BY THE INTERPLANETARY COMMAND CENTER. REPEAT, THIS IS A CLASS-THREE ALERT. ALL DOWNTRACE PERSONNEL AND FACILITIES ARE TO REPORT READINESS AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT AGAIN, CLASS-THREE ALERT. CLASS-THREE ALERT.”
Suddenly the ICC was alive with commotion. One of the huge flatscreen status boards on the far wall flickered to life, and displayed the throbbing orange symbol for live-action alert. The hologram of the system itself—suspended in the air directly over the amphitheater, where all eyes could see it, and Zuri especially had a clear view—sparkled, as each of the DSOD’s different assets began to acknowledge the class three. Little icons closest to the ICC went from brown, to yellow, to green, very quickly. Other locations much farther away—light-minutes distant—would take longer.
Meanwhile, Admiral Mikton knew she had several jobs to do at once.
“I want to talk to the First Family representative,” she said, locking eyes with the same ensign who’d originally taken the encrypted message from the Daffodil. “Then I want somebody to give me a quick count on every spacecraft in this system that is Key equipped. Military, civilian, it doesn’t matter. If it’s interstellar, I want to know what it is, who owns it, and how to get in touch with them.”
Chapter 2
Wyodreth Antagean was sitting at his father’s desk when the blue-legged-and-mustard-coated DSOD people strode through his executive office door. There were five of them, three male and two female. Having done an obligatory stint with the DSOD right out of prep school, Wyodreth knew their type, and didn’t need to be told their ranks. He himself still held a reserve commission, though it had been a long time since Wyodreth had set foot onboard an active-duty warship. These days he was up to his neck in the family business—a task he found more challenging than anything the military had ever thrown at him.
As the five DSOD folk took up positions around the office, sidearms prominently displayed in pistol-belted, cross-draw holsters, Wyodreth had the distinct impression that his day would shortly be taking a turn for the worse.
He cleared his throat. “If you’re here to renegotiate military bulk-cargo rates—”
The oldest DSOD officer cut Wyodreth off. “Can this office be fully secured?”
Wyodreth eyed the man who had addressed him. “Yes. Why?”
“Do it,” the officer ordered, as one of the junior DSOD people went to activate the electronic lock on the door. Outside, Wyodreth’s administrative assistant kept glancing sidelong through the wall of glass—no doubt wondering why the military had taken a sudden interest in her boss.
Wyodreth gave his assistant a smile and a nod, then tapped the small control panel on the desk, which opaqued the glass and activated a localized sonic distorter to neutralize listening devices.
“This had better be good,” Wyodreth said testily. “I’m a very busy man. Since my father took ill, much of his day-to-day work has fallen into my lap. What can Antagean Starlines do for Constellar’s office of Deep Space Operations and Defense?”
The oldest officer removed a thin hardcopy folder from his impact-proof valise, and dropped the folder onto Wyodreth’s desk.
“Antagean has three Slipway-capable ships currently in dock,” the man said. “As of now, their itineraries are to be scrubbed. They’re being called up, per Article Nineteen of the First Families Compact. DSOD compensation terms are standard, and generous—with bonuses included. It’s all in the paperwork.”
Wyodreth stared at the officer for several seconds, then picked up the folder and opened it. Inside were sheets with the Deep Space Operations and Defense seal at the top, and the grand coat of arms of Starstate Constellar watermarked into each page. Scanning the verbiage, Wyodreth could see that the officer’s estimation was accurate: the terms were generous indeed.
But there was a second group of papers in the folder, also with a DSOD seal at the top.
Wyodreth dropped the folder to his desk.
“My ships aren’t the only things being called up,” he said, exasperated. “Do you have any idea how horrible your timing is?”
“Couldn’t be helped, sir,” the officer said. “Your orders come from the desk of Admiral Mikton herself. If you look at the bottom, sir, you’ll also see that they include a brevet promotion for the duration of the mission.”
“Mission?” Wyodreth said, shoving the folder away from him. “My ‘mission’ is to keep the company running until my father’s latest battery of treatments is complete. I can’t just disengage from corporate oversight at the drop of a hat. What’s this all about, anyway? Why does DSOD need my ships so suddenly that you can’t bring in your own craft from one of the other systems?”
The DSOD people all eyed each other, then the oldest officer pointed to the holographic control unit on the office wall.
“May I?”
Wyodreth waved his hand at them, and reclined in his father’s leather chair—Wyo’s chin and mouth obscured by a clenched fist.
Of all the stupid, silly, harebrained…
But Wyodreth kept his composure, and allowed the officer to slide a data card into the holographic control unit’s slot. Hitting a few of the glowing buttons on the control unit’s surface—his fingers moving deftly—the officer then stepped back, and suddenly the center of the office was glowing with a life-sized recording of a trim, gray-haired DSOD woman wearing the clusters of a flag officer on her collar.
“Mister Antagean,” the visage spoke, “you must forgive the abrupt nature of this communication, and these two sets of orders. One of our DSOD monitors in this system became aware of a situation which required immediate action, and we need not only your available starliners, but yourself as well. Ordinarily, if the DSOD presses civilian ships into the fleet, we crew them with DSOD personnel. But since we don’t have time for that, I believe it’s best if we put an Antagean corporate man in charge of those ships. Somebody the civilian crews will take orders from, and who can seamlessly interface with DSOD chain of command as well.
“Your reserve commission is hereby upgraded to the active rank of lieutenant commander, effective immediately. You are to report for duty at once.
“Don’t bother heading home to pack. Your file says you have no dependents. A message can be sent to your sister’s office, letting her know that you’re detached for the duration. Since she’s been helping you run Antagean Starlines in your father’s stead, I am sure she has a contingency plan in place—in case you’re unavailable for normal work.”
“What the hell’s so urgent that I can’t even—!”
But the recording continued, oblivious to Wyodreth’s outburst.
“These men and women standing in your office are under my personal orders to escort you to DSOD reception. Everything you need, including travel kit and uniforms, has already been prepared for you. As for the question foremost in your mind—what’s it all about?—pay close attention.”
The image of Admiral Mikton dissolved, and was replaced with the familiar lines of human space. Antagean made its money on those lines. It was one of the few civilian space operators in Starstat
e Constellar with authority from the First Families to own and operate Keys. Wyodreth himself had spent a fair amount of his youth moving along those lines. His father had thought it necessary that Wyodreth learn the job from the ground up. Just as Wyograd Antagean himself had done at the company’s inception.
Wyodreth stared at the blinking Waypoint which stood apart from the rest of the Waywork, roughly on the border between Starstate Nautilan and Starstate Constellar—if the border extended that far, which it never had.
“By the Exodus…” Wyodreth breathed, instantly recognizing the significance of that blinking light.
“Something’s happened which hasn’t ever happened before,” Admiral Mikton said. “There’s a new Waypoint on Constellar’s flank. Uncharted territory. Our system—though not a strategic focus in the war until now—is the closest known Constellar Waypoint within striking distance of the new Waypoint. There is a Nautilan system within reach as well, but just barely. A DSOD monitor ship went ahead, on its own initiative. To reconnoiter. Now we’re moving every available Slipway-capable ship, as quickly as it can be moved. This means your starliners. We intend to put down the Constellar flag on whatever real estate we might find at the new location. Planet-finder telescopes give us a general idea of what to expect. But as you know, nobody has visited a truly unexplored system since the initial settling of the Waywork. Opportunities like this do not come even within the span of a dozen lifetimes. That’s all I can tell you for now, Lieutenant Commander Antagean. I look forward to meeting you at the spaceport in one hour.”
The holographic map of the Waywork faded out. And the office lights automatically came back up.
Wyodreth sat, stunned—staring into the air where the map had previously been.
“Sir?” the DSOD officer said. “We should get moving.”
“Right,” Wyodreth said, puffing his cheeks as he exhaled. “Everybody out, and leave me be—for five minutes. I’ve got to alert my father, my sister, and the company board.”
“Yessir,” the officer said, nodding his chin to his chest—a sign of obeisance, since Wyodreth now officially outranked him.
Then the officer was waving both himself and his people out of the room.
Wyodreth sat in silence, staring at the computer built into his father’s desk. Then he reluctantly reached for the keyboard, and started to punch in company communication codes.
Chapter 3
The planet Oswight was like so many other terrestrial worlds in the Waywork: a barren sphere of rock and sand, which may have once had liquid water running across its surface, but was now a desiccated, lifeless ball, with negligible atmosphere. Of the many hundreds of known planets spread throughout the Starstates, only five of them were Earthlike. Or, at least, comparable to the version of Earth which had come down to the present time, in stories and myth. Each of those five sat at the relative center of a different Starstate—clement capitals, from which their respective governments ruled.
Oswight, by comparison, was average: thin air, and terrain sparsely populated between underground settlements and the few bubble cities erected on its surface. The planet itself might have been ignored altogether, except for the fact that its three asteroid moons were each rich with industrial ores, making them ideal for shipyards and shipbuilding. Dome farms on Oswight’s surface kept the workers in orbit properly fed, while also providing them with a convenient place to relax and experience a touch of clement luxury.
Oswight’s main spaceport was also average: the atmosphere could not support spaceplane operation, so the port’s landing field was studded with gantries for ground-to-orbit-and-back clipper craft—the sort of tried-and-tested wedge-shaped vehicles which had served across the Waywork for well over a thousand years.
Garsina Oswight—of the First Family Oswight—watched through the curved safety glass of a spaceport observation tower as one such clipper craft blasted its way into the sky on a shaft of fire. There were at least a score of others, each waiting for liftoff. All being hurriedly packed with soldiers, ships’ crew, consumables, weapons, surveying equipment, and other necessities—the hastily assembled components of a hastily planned adventure.
Which Garsina herself intended to participate in, whether her father liked it or not.
“No,” Bremen Oswight said for the second time, slamming the heel of his knee-length black boot onto the metal of the observation deck.
“It makes sense,” Garsina said emphatically, not bothering to face her father’s angry glare. “I’ve devoted my schooling to study of the Waymakers, and this may be a once-in-a-millennium chance to unlock some of their secrets!”
The youngest heir to the Oswight Family title was not dressed in her usual finery. She had instead donned a snuggly formfitting charcoal-gray zipsuit more appropriate for trips outside the airlock than conducting matters of state. The zipsuit had impact and abrasion-resistant armor at the shoulders, knees, elbows, and hips, as well as limited meteoroid and radiation shielding. Armadillo pleating allowed flexibility throughout. If need be, an environment helmet could be attached at the collar, with a separate streamlined backpack for atmosphere generation and filtration. The zipsuit’s calf-high boots had thick tread and medium heels. As opposed to the sensible flats she ordinarily wore when participating in Oswight Family business away from home.
“If the expedition didn’t stand a good chance of meeting Nautilan gunboats on the other side, I might say yes,” Bremen said, his deep voice practically growling with disapproval. “But the truth is, we have no idea what’s waiting for Admiral Mikton’s armada once she gets there. The trip’s too dangerous, Garsina. I can’t allow it.”
“Three civilian starliners, two military long-range scouts, one oversized frigate, and the Oswight Family interstellar yacht hardly compose an armada, Father.”
“All the more reason for you to not go!” Bremen thundered. “There are other Waymaker experts to perform this work. Military experts. I need you here, since your brothers are away at the Constellar Council.”
“And what is there for me to do on this world?” Garsina said bitterly. “The mindless administration of our Family estate? Entertaining official visitors at the Family hall? Correspondence with bureaucrats, each seeking our Family’s favor?”
“Any one of those things is vitally important to the Oswight interest,” Bremen said reproachfully. “Neither of your brothers ever shirked his duty when dispatched to perform important but mundane chores of state. My daughter, please understand. To be a member of a First Family is to endure certain burdens. Do you think I had any choice when I was your age? I wanted to stay in the DSOD. I could have risen to Admiral Mikton’s rank. Partaken in great battles! But your grandmother had other plans for me. She sent your aunt and uncle to fight. Neither of whom returned home, I might add. Their remains are still out there, drifting in space. Eventually, I came to realize that I had been the lucky one. You should feel lucky too.”
Now Garsina did turn to face her father—her eyes welling up with hot tears.
“You have four dozen different functionaries, all of whom are desperate to assume more important roles within the Family bureaucracy. Loyal men and women who have served you ably, and will continue to serve you ably. Let them manage our holdings. Have them participate in the local System Quorum. They already do most of these jobs anyway. I’m just a figurehead.”
“And if something happens to you?” Bremen said, his own eyes suddenly brimming with hot tears. “How could I bear it? With your mother already gone? The Family Oswight lost one matriarch. It cannot afford to lose another.”
Garsina considered. She’d seen that look on her father’s face before. His officious patina had melted, revealing the pain underneath. Her mother’s death was a blow from which Bremen Oswight had not entirely recovered. He was desperate to not have to endure such loss again.
For much of her own life, Garsina had tended to think of herself as just one of three: she and her twin brothers. Take away one, and there would be two
left. All of them worthy heirs. The Family would proudly continue. Except now, with the ghost of Garsilva Oswight invoked, Garsina realized—not for the first time—that she was the only woman left in her house. That made her an especially precious commodity.
But the stars also beckoned. So much potential and possibility. Forever out of reach, if Garsina devoted herself solely to staid matters of Oswight obligation.
Another clipper’s engines roared to life, pushing the craft up into the black sky. Garsina watched it fly, taking her heart aloft with it.
“You can command me not to go,” she said coldly, “and I will obey your order. But know this, Father. I will hate you for it, for the rest of my life. Because others will go to the new system, and others will make the discoveries that I could have made. Who knows what awaits humanity on the other side of the new Waypoint? It might change everything! Including the course of the war! The Oswight legacy is already secure, Father. You have Brekor and Bretan for that. They are married. Soon, they will give you a score of grandchildren.”
“But—” he began to retort, and she talked right over the top of him. She’d seen her late mother do it more than once. Garsina was an apt pupil.
“I have devoted my adult life to understanding the Waymakers, their relics, and what little we know of their species, from fossils and scraps of technology. The Keys. Father, what if what’s discovered on the other side helps us to finally understand the inner workings of the Keys? The Waywork is our home, and our prison too. That’s the whole damned reason we’re at war in the first place. There is nowhere else for humans to go. There has been nowhere else, since the beginning. Our lives are like those tiny spacecraft you build in bottles. We’re closed in. We cannot get out. Not until now, at least. I must be part of this expedition. The university research group wants me to go too. I’m their best, and they know it. ‘Enough lecturing! Time for doing!’ That’s what they said. Please, Father, don’t deny me this. What good is our Family name, if all we do is carefully tend our little fiefdom, while our enemies in Nautilan threaten to destroy Constellar utterly?”
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