“Um, right. Thank you.” Carson slung his bags onto the bunk. “And where’s yours?”
What? Was he suggesting . . . ? “Not that it matters to you, Doctor Carson, but my cabin, the captain’s cabin, is forward, just aft of the control deck. It’s off-limits, as is the control deck unless I say otherwise. Clear?”
“Ah, abundantly so.” Carson said, chagrined. “I don’t know what you thought I meant,” that was a lie, and they both knew it, “but I wanted to know in case of an emergency.” That sounded truthful.
Had she misjudged? “Oh.” She regained her composure. “Well, in that case, simply yelling ‘Captain!’ should get my attention. The ship’s computer will wake me if I’m asleep.” Jackie wondered if she were blushing, her face felt warm. She was also trying to decide which interpretation of his question she felt more insulted by.
∞ ∞ ∞
Departure time. Jackie stepped out of the ship and scanned the Sophie with a practiced eye. The area was clear of debris, and there were no tie downs, fuel lines or umbilical cables still connected. She went over to the hull then crouched down and peered up underneath it. Nope, no small animals had taken up residence in the landing gear wells or built nests in the lifting thrusters. She began her walk around the ship counter-clockwise. Whenever she passed a maintenance hatch or inspection port covers she gave it a tug to check that it was secure. The aerodynamic control surface clamps had been removed, the aft thrusters were clear, and no red “REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT” ribbons fluttered in the gentle breeze. Every time Jackie did a walk around, even a quick one like this, she remembered the time in flight school when she had almost, almost, flown off in an aeroplane with its fuel cap still open. Her instructor had made sure that Jackie never forgot again. Finding nothing that would be embarrassing if it caused an aborted takeoff, Jackie re-entered the ship. She closed and secured the hatch behind her.
“All right then, Doctor,” she said, moving up to sit in her pilot’s chair, “take a seat.” She gestured at the empty seats behind her. “Strap in, and let’s get this show on the road.”
As Carson strapped himself in, Jackie went through her preflight checklist, tapping out instructions on the console keyboard, checking the displays, and ensuring the controls were functional. Fuel tanks full, check ship mass—she glanced at the display, double checked that the weight-on-gear sensors were using this planet’s gravity to do the calculations—circuits check, fusion generator on line. All go. She gently applied power to the thrusters and opened the intake scoops, mixing air into the exhaust to quiet and cool it. She eased the power up to take about half the weight off the landing gear, then called ground control.
“Kreschet Ground, this is Sophie, requesting clearance for hover taxi to the pad.” You didn’t just blast straight out of the parking area; that was hazardous to people and ships on the ground nearby and likely to get your licenses and permits suspended.
“Affirm Sophie, cleared to pad five, contact tower on 127.3”
“Sophie, pad five, contact 127.3, roger and thank you.” Jackie increased thrust, lifting the ship gently until it hovered a foot or so above the ground then glided across the field to a circular paved area with a large and rather scorched numeral “5” painted on it.
She flipped the comm to the new frequency. “Kreschet Tower, Sophie requesting clearance to lift.”
“Roger Sophie, cleared for lift at your discretion. Contact departure on 119.7 above ten thousand. Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you, Tower. At my discretion, departure on 119.7 above ten K.” Jackie glanced over to Carson. “Buckled in?” At Carson’s nod, she smoothly increased power and the Sophie leapt into the air, powering skyward. Jackie tapped a control, causing the ship to vibrate and clunk briefly as the landing skids retracted, then she pitched the ship toward space and throttled up the aft thrusters. The acceleration pushed them down and back into their seats. As the altimeter neared 10,000 meters she flipped the comm to departure control, got clearance from them to orbit, and as the ship cleared the atmosphere she signed off with a “thank you, and please open the flight plan.”
The flight plan was a formality. She would get to Epsilon Indi before it did . . . unless she didn’t get there at all. In the latter case some records would be entered and some statistics updated, but the impracticality of an interstellar search meant that nobody would think much more about it. The exception would be if the ship showed up somewhere without a registered transfer of ownership, but anyone in the business of hijacking a starship probably knew enough to fix that.
“Roger Sophie, catch you on the return. Have a good one.”
Jackie didn’t exactly enjoy dealing with the bureaucracy of space traffic control, but at least they were always polite. She piloted the ship away from Kakuloa and began preparing for the transition to warp. It would take just over a week to reach Taprobane.
Chapter 15: Marten
Taprobane (Epsilon Indi III)
Clarkeville always reminded Carson of an Earth theme park. The human-timoan settlement, on the large island of Borealia, was built to resemble the native towns on the mainland. The stone buildings of Kangara University dominated the town. Not one of them was more than three stories high; timoans tended not to like heights. Most of the other buildings, the residences, shops and so forth of any small town, were one- or two-story structures with wood or thatched roofs. Behind that outward appearance, though, were systems for modern plumbing, electricity and communications, and much of the stone and thatch was simulated with concrete and synthetics. For all their apparent age, the oldest building in the town had been constructed less than twenty-five years ago. The cobblestone streets held only a few vehicles. The town was less than two miles square, so anything needed was within walking distance. Carson knew that the rumored tunnel with motorized carts running between the main university building and the spaceport was mythical, a joke played on naive freshmen.
Which was unfortunate, thought Carson, as he walked up to the Pragarth Maga, as the main pub on campus was called. The name translated to something like “albino deer.” It had been a bit of a hike from the spaceport.
Carson entered the pub feeling only a little out of place. He tried to avoid student hangouts on campus, as a rule, but Kangara wasn’t his campus, and he expected that he would find Marten here tonight. He looked around, trying to spot his old friend while studiously ignoring the interested look from a pair of young human coed students sitting at a table near the door. Several humans and timoans sat at other tables, but they ignored Carson’s entrance. There was Marten, at the bar, shorter than the average human, with blue-gray hair, and where his clothing didn’t cover him, finer fur the same color. He was drinking a . . . just what was that anyway? Perhaps feeling the attention, Marten looked up in the bar mirror to meet Carson’s eye.
“Hannibal!” Marten said, as he turned and stood up from his bar stool. “What are you doing here? You should have called, told me you were coming!”
“How?” asked Hannibal, somewhat amused. Marten tended to forget that ships were the fastest method of communication between stars. This in spite of the fact that native timoan civilization, off the island, didn’t even have telephones.
“How? Oh, yes, of course. But you should have called when you landed. What brings you here?”
“I did call, but you didn’t answer. Must be the noise in here. Anyway, we just got in. Can we go somewhere quieter? I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“Of course, let us go to my office.”
∞ ∞ ∞
On the walk across campus, Carson filled Marten in. “Do you still have that talisman we found at the dig on Zeta Tucanae III? The one with what looked like a constellation?”
“Of course. It is with the other artifacts we collected. No wait, that one is in my office, along with several others I am in the process of reexamining. Why?”
“Excellent. I want to take a look at that constellation again, I suspect it’s a clue to another site.�
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“Really? Another site on Zeta Tucanae?”
“No, I think it specifies a location in another star system”
“But the Tucani never had star travel.”
“Well, neither did you, and now look at you,” Carson said.
“Point taken, but a different star would be inconsistent with the cultural level. Why specify an actual stellar location by scribing a diagram on a stone instead of just writing down the coordinates or recording it on an information storage system?”
“To record it for a very long time, perhaps. Have you analyzed the material of that talisman?” asked Carson as they approached the entrance of the History Building.
“Just preliminary. I remember it is anomalously hard, but we haven’t examined that part of the collection in detail yet.” said Marten as they entered the building. “My office is up two levels.”
“Who did you annoy?” Timoans disliked heights.
“Hah. It might look like that, but this way I get a bigger office.”
They were deep in conversation as they exited the stairwell on the third floor and had taken several steps towards the office when they realized that the figure, a human, standing in the hallway wasn’t cleaning staff, that he was standing by Marten’s open office door, and that he was whispering urgently to somebody in the office.
∞ ∞ ∞
“He’s back, let’s get out of here!” said the figure. A muffled response came from inside. “Never mind, grab the stuff and let’s go!”
“Hey!” said Marten, reacting, “what are you doing there, who are you?” Marten and Carson ran down the hall toward the man, who turned and fled. “Stop!”
Carson’s longer legs took the corridor quickly, and he yelled back to Marten, “you check your office, I’ll get this one.” He closed on the fugitive.
“Ow!” came a cry behind him. Carson looked back to see Marten sprawl on the floor, he had been run down by another man who’d come barreling out of the office just as Marten had reached it.
The other intruder made to take off running in the opposite direction, a package under his arm. Marten rolled and grabbed his legs, tripping him. The package went flying and papers, memory sticks and other objects scattered across the floor. Carson stopped and turned back to help his friend.
“No, go after the other guy!” Marten yelled. As he did so, his intruder scrambled to his feet, kicking Marten away, and grabbed for his case. “I am okay. Go!” said Marten.
Carson turned again to pursue the first intruder just as he disappeared into the stairwell at the end of the hall. Carson rushed to the door, opened it, and saw and heard nothing. He looked up, then down the narrow gap between flights of stairs. Nothing. He quieted his own breathing and listened. Nothing. No footsteps, no heavy breathing, no sounds of doors. Up? Or down? Damn!
He heard a faint scuff of a foot on the stair. Down. He started down the steps, taking them two and three at a time. He rounded the corner at the landing. Wham! A fist smashed into Carson’s face and staggered him backwards. His assailant turned and ran.
Carson shook off the stunned feeling and put a hand to his lips. It came away bloody. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed the hand rail and levered himself over, pivoting across the banister to slam his feet into the fleeing intruder. The man staggered, stumbled on the steps and fell headlong onto the next landing. He didn’t get up. Carson started down to check on him.
∞ ∞ ∞
Marten, meanwhile, had shaken off the kick. The intruder was still scrabbling about, picking up papers and disks and stuffing them into the case, glancing back frequently at Marten and the stairwell door that Carson had chased his friend through. Marten feigned grogginess, pushing himself up on hands and knees as though too weak to rise. The man glanced at him, then reached to pick up another handful of papers. Marten pounced, low and fast.
The impact took the man behind the knees, buckling them and sweeping his feet out from under him as he fell backwards. Marten rolled out of the way, but his reactions were still sluggish from the blow to his head. The man landed on top of him. Marten’s body cushioned some of the burglar’s impact, knocking the breath out of him and leaving his opponent in better shape than he had planned. Still, the crook was shaken.
Marten kicked the case out of the man’s grip, again sending its contents spinning. As the case slid across the floor, Marten saw another object slip out of it. He rolled and dived, landing on it and the case.
Behind him the intruder had gotten up to his knees. He saw Marten diving for the case. He dove too, hands outstretched to grab the case away from Marten, and let his weight fall on Marten again. Marten curled up into a ball, hands clutched at his knees, and rolled aside. The man hastily grabbed up his case and a handful of papers, then ran.
∞ ∞ ∞
Carson reached his man on the stairs, grabbed him by the shirt, and drew his arm back to hit him again. The man just hung limp. Carson remembered Marten; this guy would keep. He turned and ran back up the flight of stairs and through the door. He saw Marten staggering to his feet. Carson ran down the corridor to him. Papers covered the floor where the culprit had dropped his case. At the far end of the corridor, the south stairwell door was closing. He ran to check it, but the lead was too great. By the time he got there the man had disappeared. Carson ran back to check on Marten, shaking his head and muttering.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I feel like a bowling pin. Just shook up. What about you? Your lip is bleeding. And where is the other guy?”
“He’s on the stairs, I’ll get him.” Carson jogged back to the north stairwell, down the flight of stairs . . . but the other burglar was gone. He had either recovered quickly or had been faking it. Damn it! Carson turned back to check on Marten again.
“Here, let’s get you sitting down and I’ll take a look. I think you’re bleeding,” he said, helping Marten up.
“Just a few scratches where he kicked me” Marten said. “I was slow, too many beers at the pub.” He held his hand up to the laceration on his scalp, winced, and brought it down again to look at the red residue on his fingers. “Let me get these things gathered up first.”
“This is a lot of paper, Marten. Do you have something against computers?”
“I grew up with paper. And computers make inadequate beer mats.”
∞ ∞ ∞
A few minutes later they were sitting in Marten’s office, Marten holding a damp cloth to his head.
Looking around the office, Carson noticed several certificates on Marten’s wall that didn’t look like the usual academic awards. There was a trophy on a shelf. He picked it up and examined it, reading the inscription “Competitive Pistol, Second Place.” The certificates were also competition awards for pistol shooting and marksmanship. Carson was impressed. He was a good shot himself but he had never done it in formal competition. And he’d thought Marten had hardly touched the things.
“Marksmanship? Pistolry? Since when have you been into firearms, Marten?”
“Oh, a little while now. Since we got back from the fiasco at the Raven, as a matter of fact. I felt rather stupid not being able to hit anything with that damn gun—I was probably more dangerous to you than the villains,” he said. Carson didn’t argue the point. “Anyway, I decided to join the pistol club here at the university, to get some practice in. A lot of what we shoot are antiques, at least in design, mostly brassloads.”
“Brassloads?”
“Apparently up until about fifty years ago, they used a little brass can to hold the propellant, as a powder, with the slug and detonator, or primer, crimped into it at opposite ends. Humans did, that is. We timoans hadn’t quite reached the gun-making stage. We just had rockets. Which I suppose is more like the ammo today, where the propellant is molded into and around the bullet.”
Marten warmed up to the subject. “Brassloads make gun mechanisms more complicated, there has to be a way to eject the things once the bullet is fired, but they take some of the
heat with it. The old guns seem to have had a problem with heat.
“Mind you, the ejected brass cans could be a problem too. Once, one went down the front of my shirt. I do not have much fur on my chest; it was hot! In my surprise I still had the pistol in my hand as I scrambled to get it out. Fortunately I did not fire again because the pistol was pointing just about everywhere but down range. The Range Officer was furious! He told me ‘gun control is about keeping the gun pointed at the target’ and suspended me from the range for a week. I can’t say that I blame him, the whole episode was embarrassing and somebody could have been hurt.
“Once I got the hang of it, though, it was rather fun. The next thing I knew they were encouraging me to try out for competition and, well, I suppose I did reasonably well.”
“Well, congratulations. I hope that doesn’t come in handy.”
Marten grinned. “Me too, but in our kind of field work you never know.” His grin faded. “Even life in the office is getting too exciting.” He looked around meaningfully at the papers and things that the intruder had tried to take.
“It looks like they weren’t expecting whatever they were looking for to be hidden,” said Carson, as he looked around the room. The office had clearly been hastily searched, but not ransacked. Nothing was tipped over, drawers were open but not pulled out, books were still on bookshelves.
“It was not,” replied Marten.
“You know what they were looking for? What?”
“Same as you, the talisman.”
Carson’s face fell. “How do you kno—”
“But they didn’t get it.”
“What?” Carson locked his eyes on Marten's.
“I saw it drop from his bag when I tripped him, I grabbed it before he saw it.”
“Good move!”
“Thanks. Then he landed upon me.” Marten was leafing through the small pile of papers and memory wafers that had scattered when the intruder had dropped the bag. “These papers and memory sticks confirm it. They are from my files on that artifact and on the dig. Looks like he got away with some of the images of it, and part of my report, but I still have the X-rays, my computer data, and the rest of it.”
The Chara Talisman Page 9