Wyo looked hard at his former mentor, and realized that even after all these years, the older man still had things to teach, and Wyo still had lessons to learn.
“Thanks,” Wyo said, and promptly got up out of his gee chair.
“Where are you off to now?” Loper asked.
“I’ve got to go change into something a bit more appropriate,” Wyo said. “Then I am going to go see if I can build a bridge.”
Chapter 17
Garsina Oswight could be a hard woman to find when she wanted to be left alone. Having reassured Elvin Axabrast that she was just going out for a bit of exercise, she took a lift car straight up to the cargo spaces located directly under the starliner’s mushroom-shaped shield dome. The dome was a huge, thickly-concave battering ram, intended to absorb whatever dust or debris crossed the ship’s path. Even very small particles, traveling at interplanetary or interstellar velocities, could seriously hurt the ship. So, while under thrust, the dome took the brunt of the damage. Making the area directly under the dome perhaps the safest place one could find aboard. Half of the starliner’s fuel was nestled there, including storage for sensitive or volatile cargo.
Presently, Garsina wandered among rows of gee-stacked military crates—each crate magnetically locked to the others, which in turn were magnetically locked to the deck—all of which were labeled with various DSOD hazard warnings. Either because of explosive potential, or radiation danger. An armed guard had let Garsina in, largely because the guard didn’t know what to do with a First Families heir. Garsina had promised to behave herself, then began walking among the containers. Not looking for anything in particular. Mostly enjoying the sensation of vigorous movement after days spent in slightly uncomfortable microgravity. Getting her blood moving, with her arms and legs swinging rhythmically, was good for body and mind alike.
Convincing both Wyodreth Antagean and Admiral Mikton to allow Garsina to depart the Task Group unescorted had been something of a coup. But diplomatic maneuvering, and the subtle—or not so subtle—application of Family force, was something she didn’t do easily. Her interest on this expedition was purely scientific. The fact that Constellar was still on a war footing against Nautilan merely complicated what should have been a straight-forward project. She understood the risk. But she also believed that nothing ought to stand in the way of increasing humanity’s knowledge where the Waymakers were concerned.
The opportunity to examine a fresh set of worlds, orbiting a new star, was too important. All her years of painstaking study had built up to this moment in her life. Though she had not known it as an undergraduate. Would she be disappointed? Or were there treasures here, the likes of which she could not even dream of?
Even a few fossils would suffice. Humanity had never known what the Waymakers even looked like. The aliens left no dead behind. No bones, nor any statues. Some of the inert tools suggested possible shapes for hands—or at least the Waymaker equivalent. But there wasn’t any way to be sure. Almost as if the aliens had deliberately removed any trace of their corporeal selves before abandoning the Waywork—for humanity to eventually stumble upon.
Had the Waymakers known humans would be coming? Had they known about Earth? Was the Waywork constructed purely for human benefit? Or was it actually—as some pessimists had opined—just a trap? Into which humans, fleeing Earth, had fallen.
There were some who speculated that the Waymakers were behind the war which had sparked the Exodus in the first place. Their reasoning went like this: humans are confusing, or fascinating, or dangerous—to a truly alien mind—so get people off Earth, then destroy Earth, and herd the survivors across the stars. Until they can be safely contained in a closed environment. Unaware that they are being studied. A cosmic petri dish.
Was that why the Waymakers had left so few traces? So as not to overly contaminate their experiment? If so, why leave the Keys at all? Unless the Keys themselves—and what little Waymaker technology had come with them—were just part of the project. Intended for humanity to discover and use. With an explicit lack of faster-than-light escape routes.
Not that there was anything to prevent a conventional expedition to systems beyond the Waywork. But those voyages took a hundred years or more, just to go one way. Who in their right mind wanted to embark upon a journey of such tremendous length, even for the chance to see foreign worlds in foreign space? When you returned—assuming you could somehow live long enough for a round trip—almost nobody you knew or loved at the beginning would be around to greet you.
Still, a handful of such attempts had been made, replicating some of what was known about the arks which came from old Earth. But those missions had failed. Or, at least, were never heard from again. Was it deliberate? The people on the arriving side, wanting nothing to do with the Starstates anymore? Had the children of the original voyagers felt no kinship to those within the Waywork, and set about creating separate societies for themselves?
Or was it simply impossible to survive the trip? Nobody could consider every contingency when planning such a lengthy and complex journey. No machine worked perfectly. Not even for a span of months. Much less the century, or more, it took to reach some of the nearest systems. And while automation and self-replication could solve part of the mechanical problem, what about the people themselves? A slower-than-light voyage was a recipe for mental illness. Nowhere to go but inside the ship itself. Everyone and everything you knew, left behind. Homesickness would be rampant. And even a very big ship—maybe, perhaps, a converted comet or asteroid?—could eventually seem insufferably small. Given enough time and restlessness among the crew.
People might have gone mad. Or gotten sick. Long-term exposure to cosmic radiation was still a problem many worlds across the Waywork struggled with. Cancer of one form or another was perpetually taking lives, despite the best modern medicine could do. Unless you lived most of your days underground, deep within the crust of a planet. Which is perhaps where the survivors of those lost expeditions had ultimately fled? Burrowing. Hoping to outlast the danger. Watching critical systems gradually fail. Along with hydroponics crops. The mass death of livestock brought along for the trip. Friends and loved ones succumbing to the end. No hope. A slow suicide.
Practically speaking, every problem faced by any inclement world in the Waywork was magnified tremendously when you extrapolated such problems for potential interstellar travel. Which meant the cost for even a single trip, using a single ship, had almost broken several of the Starstates’ economies in the distant past. So, when the first few attempts yielded no results, future attempts were abandoned. There had been no payoff for so great a gamble. And there was plenty of virgin territory—back then, within the Waywork—worth claiming.
At least until one Starstate had grown so large and so hungry, that all the other Starstates were unable to escape their oversized neighbor’s appetite for perpetual expansion.
Garsina knew—along with her brothers—that the Constellar Council had been discreetly reconsidering the slower-than-light dilemma. If it came right down to it, what choice would the First Families have? When every last Constellar planet had been seized, where could any of them hope to go? Nautilan policy regarding previously captured Constellar worlds was supposed to be brutal. Political executions, or so the stories said. Precious little actual data got back to Constellar from within Nautilan proper. And what did come back—from worlds taken, and transformed in the Nautilan model—gave an impression of unutterable tyranny. First Family holdings and estates ransacked. Family members killed, or driven into hiding. Whole populations threatened with death by airlock, or manual labor in the factories, if they did not reform according to Nautilan directive.
It hurt Garsina, knowing that there were children now being born on former Constellar worlds who knew nothing of their past. Of Constellar’s rich and noble history as a country. Of the valiant effort to preserve Constellar culture.
Those lost children would, in fact, be raised to hate their own people. On the ot
her side of the Waywork. Men and women who were estranged cousins, but Nautilan regarded them as enemies.
The worst stories said that former Constellar worlds which openly rebelled were eventually wiped clean of human life. Every last person, regardless of age, made to eat vacuum. Their corpses left to freeze-dry. Until Nautilan recolonization could begin anew. As if that world had never had a history, nor a civilization, all its own. The culture having been effectively erased. Not just exterminated. But removed from the Waywork in total.
Except in the archives of the Constellar Council’s Hall of Remembrance. Where each and every former world, and former system, was reverently commemorated. Names and images of families stored. Lineages too. Their fates, and the fates of their descendants, largely unknown.
Dwelling on these morose thoughts, Garsina almost collided with Zoam Kalbi as the short man rounded a stack of crates—his head craning to get a better look with his video spectacles.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, taking three steps backward. “The guard told me you were in here, but after a few minutes of looking around, I became fascinated by the contents of these shipping containers. It’s a bit unnerving to think we’re surrounded by so much potential destruction. Some of these metal crates contain tactical nuclear warheads. If just one of them exploded, it could take half the ship with it.”
Kalbi rested a hand on the box nearest him, but gently—as if the metal were hot.
“I should probably get back to the executive suite,” Garsina said. “Mister Axabrast will be calling for me soon, if I don’t call him first.”
“Do please extend my courtesies to the man,” Zoam said, his thin lips approximating a smile—while his eyes did not.
Garsina instantly snapped back into diplomatic mode.
“Of course I will,” she said.
“It was not my intention to upset your servant.”
“He knows that,” Garsina said. “But you have to understand, Elvin thinks it’s his job to be a little bit grumpy about everything. Behind the roughness, he has good intent.”
“Thank you for the reassurance,” Zoam said.
“Have you been able to interview Antagean’s personnel like you wanted?” she asked.
“Mister Antagean’s employees have been willing to speak to me every time I’ve asked, but the answers I am getting to my questions seem to be…a bit too self-aware. No doubt Antagean Starlines has a company policy regarding its workers talking to informationalists. I was hoping to better capture their fear, as well as their anticipation, on this journey. But they’ve been much too professional for that, thus far. We’ll see if they maintain that professionalism, in the event that there is real trouble.”
“You say that so calmly,” Garsina objected, “as if ‘trouble’ for them doesn’t mean trouble for all of us? Especially you. You’re here by yourself. Nobody really knows you. Except by reputation.”
“Occupational hazard,” Zoam remarked. “Infotainers are known to work alone. It’s really a matter of rights. One informationalist with good recording equipment can gather all the audio and video feed necessary for a fine infotainment production, and have to share none of the compensation. Having multiple people covering a single event tends to dilute the value of the stories which follow. Because when everyone is reporting on something, nobody is reporting on something. Does that make sense to you, Lady Oswight?”
“I think so,” Garsina said. “Still, if I had to come on an expedition like this, and do it without any prior connections to anybody, I think I might be a nervous wreck. At least until I made some friends. Hopefully.”
The corners of Kalbi’s mouth crept upward slightly. “Perhaps you and I could become friends,” he said.
“Yes, perhaps we could. Though, I understand infotainment requires you to also maintain some professional distance too.”
“Yes, it does. You seem to understand my profession better than the average Constellar citizen.”
“I have to,” Garsina said. “I am part of a First Family.”
“Of course,” Zoam said.
Both of them waited for the other to continue speaking. Then, in somewhat awkward silence, Kalbi went back to his recording.
Garsina turned to begin walking for the exit when Lieutenant Commander Antagean approached. He’d dispensed with the one-piece spacer’s flight suit, and put on the more formal, two-color uniform she’d first seen him in back on Planet Oswight’s surface. Knowing what had transpired during their previous interactions, and that she still had to carefully maneuver against the man’s inherent, anti-Family prejudice, she elevated her diplomatic personal shields even more, and assumed a stance of dignified disinterest.
“Lady Oswight,” Wyodreth said as he approached. The look on his face told her he was slightly nervous. And, having heard Antagean’s approaching boot steps, Kalbi had switched from examining the gee crates to focusing on the conversation.
“Lieutenant Commander,” she said coolly.
Wyodreth looked at Zoam, and raised an eyebrow.
“This is a secure area,” he said. “I don’t think civilians are authorized here.”
“What about her?” Zoam objected, pointing to Garsina.
“First Family exception,” Wyo said. “Which doesn’t cover infotainers.”
“Article Thirty-six covers a lot of things,” Zoam said, baring his teeth in a grin Garsina could have sworn was meat-eating.
“Even so, with these kinds of weapons, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go probing.”
“Mister Antagean,” Zoam said, ignoring the Reserve officer’s title, “do you somehow think I am going to set one of these bombs off? I wouldn’t know where to start. And I can’t exactly steal them, now, can I? They each weigh more than I do. And these crates are security sealed, not to mention magnetically held to the deck. Nothing short of a conventional explosion could dislodge them. And I am not hurting anything coming here to see just what kind of munitions your Tactical Ground Operations soldiers might employ. Curious, that they thought it necessary to bring weaponry like this. What could possibly be so threatening in this system that a surface army need employ fusion bombs?”
“You’ll have to ask the resident TGO company commander that question,” Wyo admitted. “My orders are to safeguard everyone aboard, since our departure from the Task Group. What the TGO company commander, or the battalion commander who is on one of the other Antagean Starlines ships, has in mind…is your guess as well as mine. I suspect they’re thinking it pays to be prepared for even the most unlikely combat scenarios. Better to have and not want, than to want and not have. Or at least my father liked to say that, when he taught me about running maintenance depots.”
“But, are you ordering me to depart?” Kalbi asked pointedly.
Wyodreth’s eyes scanned the crates, then looked at Garsina, before returning to Zoam’s face.
“No. Just please be careful.”
“I had no intention of being anything else,” Zoam said, and then pivoted cleanly on a heel before walking quickly away.
Garsina watched the expression on Antagean’s face gradually relax.
“Informationalists serve the public trust,” Garsina said. “Even the First Families acknowledged this when the Starstate was founded. If our society is to be one built on principles of liberty, a certain amount of transparency must be maintained.”
“If that’s all it was,” Wyodreth said coldly, “I don’t think myself or my company would have any issue with Zoam Kalbi. But he’s here looking for problems. And I suspect if he can’t find any problems, he’ll invent them. That’s the nature of the infotainer. Merely reporting the facts is not enough. It’s about the audience too. You don’t maintain a fan base by giving them boring material. Kalbi wants dirt, Lady Oswight. Dirt on me. Dirt on you. Dirt of any kind that can be used to spice up his rendition of events upon our return. And if this causes marketing problems or public embarrassment for either you, or myself, or the DSOD, Zoam Kalbi doesn’t have t
o care.”
“That’s a remarkably cynical viewpoint,” Garsina said. “For a man who’s been charged with safeguarding all of us, you seem to take a particularly dim view of at least two VIPs in particular.”
Lieutenant Commander Antagean opened his mouth to object, then seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth. He stepped from foot to foot for a couple of seconds, then forced a small laugh out of his throat.
“You’re right. And I am sorry. In fact, that’s the whole reason I came looking for you in the first place. Axabrast wanted to throw a fist at me when I inquired about your whereabouts. So I used the ship’s secure network to put out a quiet all-points bulletin, asking if anyone had seen you. Coming up here, I knew it was risky. Because you’ve got no reason to want to get along with me. But I am hoping that I can convince you to trust me. Not just as an Antagean. But as a man who takes his duty with the DSOD seriously. Admiral Mikton put this rank on my collar, and I intend to do right by her. To the utmost of my ability.”
“We all intend to perform our duties to the utmost of our ability,” Garsina said, still maintaining a pose of dignified detachment. Her eyes looked past Antagean, then scanned the crates nearest him.
“Anyway,” Wyo said, seeming to realize that she wasn’t in a mood to be placated, “I came to offer you a sincere apology for how I’ve handled myself so far. My father taught me better, and so did the DSOD. I suppose this entire expedition simply caught me completely off guard. My father’s been sick, and most of his responsibilities have fallen to me—until now. I don’t like having to drop everything and run off, leaving my sister to carry the company load all by herself. It’s made me brittle, and I am afraid you’ve caught some of the worst of that brittleness. I hope to do better in the future. By your leave, Lady Oswight.”
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