The Forever Hero

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He shook his head. “That won’t do it.”

  With the incoming alien, and it had to be an alien at that velocity—either that or something the I.S.S. had just invented—the stranger would be past him before he received the return transmission from Marduk Hawkwatch.

  The Imperial pilot checked the stranger’s indices once more.

  The incoming ship, if it were truly a ship, had shifted course, directly toward Marduk. By now, the scout pilot doubted he could have caught the stranger.

  He relayed the shift in heading with another data burst transmission, not bothering with a verbal tag.

  “How close will she pass, Gwarrie?”

  “More than two zero emkay.”

  “Can we get an enhanced visual?”

  “Not within standard parameters.”

  The pilot frowned for a moment. “Let me know if there’s another course shift. Your move.”

  XXXVIII

  Had it been visible to the naked eye without its lightless full-fade finish, the scout would have looked like an obsolete Federation scout. The energy concentrations within the dark hull resembled those of a miniature battle cruiser, while the screens could have taken anything that a full-sized light cruiser could have delivered.

  Speed and power cost, and the trade-offs were crew size (one); offensive weapons (none); gravfield generators (crossbled to screens); and habitability (minimal by Imperial standards).

  The pilot checked the signals from the modified message torps he waited to launch. There were three, each adapted to discharge two dozen reentry packets on its atmospheric descent spiral. Each packet contained the same spores and seeds, though the proportions varied.

  “Unidentified craft, this is Marduk Control. Please identify yourself. Please identify yourself.”

  Gerswin smiled, but did not respond to the transmission, instead checked the distance readouts and his own EDI measurements of the Imperials who circled the planet ahead.

  “Unidentified craft, this is Marduk control. Please be advised that Marduk is a prohibited planet. I say again. Marduk is a prohibited planet.

  “Desct Mardu firet ortley…”

  The Imperial patrol craft repeated its warning in a dozen different languages, human and nonhuman.

  All of them Gerswin ignored as the Caroljoy knifed toward Marduk, his hands coordinating the kind of approach he wanted, with enough evasiveness to make it unpredictable.

  Gerswin also listened to the I.S.S. tactical bands as they were filtered through the AI and played out through the console speakers.

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove one, cleared to launch. Target course zero nine three, E plus three. One point two emkay.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove two, cleared to launch. Target course, zero nine two, E plus three.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove three, one to launch.”

  “Torchlove three, cleared to launch. Target course, zero nine zero, E plus three.”

  The man who had once been a commodore smiled and touched the screens’ generator status plate.

  Satisfied with the readout, he nodded, then tightened the harness about him, and eased himself into the full accel/decel position, the controls at his fingertips, and the critical screen readouts projected before his eyes.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove one. Target locked on EDI, no visual. Say again. Locked on EDI, no visual. Range point nine emkay.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two. No EDI lock. No visual.”

  “Torchlove one, two, three. Opswatch calculates target class one alpha. Class one alpha.”

  The Caroljoy’s pilot grinned sardonically. Class one alpha—high speed, armed, and dangerous. Two out of three wasn’t bad for the Impies without even a visual.

  “Torchlove one, two, and three. Recommend spread seven, spread seven, with jawbones. I said again, spread seven with jawbones.”

  Gerswin studied his own readouts.

  The Hawkwatch Commander wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat, not when he was ordering a tachead spread for the Caroljoy to meet.

  He also wasn’t terribly bright, doing so in the clear. But then, it had been a long time since anyone challenged the Impies, and perhaps they were too slow on scrambles and codes to react. Or, more likely, who cared?

  Gerswin touched the full-screen activation button, slumping into his seat under the acceleration as the screens took power diverted from the gravfield generators.

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one. Lost EDI lock. Lost EDI lock. Still no visual.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove two. Lost EDI.”

  “Torch three. No EDI. No visual.”

  “Torchlove one, two, and three. Launch spread seven based on DRI, Spread seven based on DRI…”

  Gerswin eased the controls, tensing his stomach as the Caroljoy veered slightly—enough to confuse the DRI at his speed and with the screens the modified scout carried.

  A sliver of blinding light appeared in the forward exterior screen—momentarily—before all exterior signals were damped to blackness.

  The detonation of twenty-one tactical nuclear devices created a glare that would have been observable from the day side of Marduk itself, had there been anyone there to watch the fireworks.

  Gerswin edged up his scout’s speed, using his own screens and fields to bend the additional energy from the detonations into further boosting his own velocity.

  “Torchlove one, two, three, EMP bleedoff indicates target fully operational and extremely dangerous. Probably position two eight five, E minus two.”

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove one. Interrogative target position.”

  “Two eight five, E minus two. That’s from you, Torch one, at point two emkay.”

  “Nothing’s that fast!”

  “Torchloves, interrogative last transmission.”

  “…ssss…”

  Gerswin would have laughed at the obvious silence had he not been pinned down in his shell, but smiling was difficult under the four plus gees.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Torchlove two. Probability of contact of non-Imperial origin.”

  “Probability point eight. Calculated characteristics impute either higher gee tolerance or non-Imperial technology.”

  “Blithing alien…”

  “Torchloves, interrogative last transmission.”

  A faint signal returned. “Interrogative yours.”

  “Torchloves, mission abort. Mission abort. Estimated target beyond spread range. Return to base. Return to base.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torchlove one. Stet. Returning to base.”

  Gerswin scanned the indicators, altered course again fractionally. The Caroljoy would skim by Marduk before lifting above the ecliptic for the long trip back to Aswan.

  “Three until drop,” the console informed him.

  The pilot left his ostensibly obsolete scout on course until the three lights winked red in quick succession, then green.

  “Torps away. Launch path is clear and green through reentry.”

  “Hawkwatch, Torch two. Target discharged missiles on reentry course for Basepath.”

  “Torchlove two, interrogative interception.”

  “Hawkwatch, that is negative.”

  “Understand negative.”

  “That’s affirmative. Negative on intercept. Missile reentry curve will commence prior to intercept.”

  “Torchlove two, hold data. Say again. Hold data for analysis.”

  “Hawkwatch, stet. Holding data for analysis. Returning base this time.”

  Gerswin debated releasing full screens to return normal gravity to the Caroljoy, but decided to hang on for another few minutes. It would be just like the Impies to have a few jokers planted around the system.

  He altered course again, well within the general departure corridor, but enough to confuse a DRI tracker using the launch curves for the torps as its data base.

  His screens blanked again.

>   “Distance and weapon?” he asked the AI.

  “Three triple em cluster at point one emkay.”

  Nothing like proving yourself correct on the spot. He checked the screens, but they seemed to have held under what had been an extremely close miss.

  “Impact near previous course line?”

  “Impact less than point zero one from previous track.”

  Gerswin decided to leave the screens up longer than he had decided a few moments earlier.

  “Hawkwatch, this is Turtlestrike. Target evaded DRI line, on high exit course Hawk system.”

  “Stet, Turtlestrike. Interrogative status.”

  “Status is red five from EMP backblast.”

  Gerswin translated. Turtlestrike, whatever craft that represented, had also been too close to the detonation and would be down for at least five stans, long after the Caroljoy had made the first of the return jumps toward Aswan.

  Gerswin left the screens up, though he dropped acceleration to allow a gee drop to three gees, until he was within minutes of the jump point. Then, and only then, did he return to normal operations for the jump. The switch from three-gee acceleration to near weightlessness nearly cost him the pearapple he had eaten before he had entered the system.

  He swallowed hard, gulping back the bitter taste of regurgitated fruit, and plowed through the prejump checks.

  While the modified message torps carried enough of the spores and seeds to transform Marduk back into a livable planet, given several thousand, or more, years, the Imperial Interstellar Survey Service would still have Marduk as a source of supply for its toxic warheads for several dozen centuries, hopefully longer than the Empire would be around to use them.

  He shook his head and touched the jump stud.

  The stars winked out; the blackness swam through the Caroljoy; and, after a short infinity, another set of stars dropped into place as the scout resettled in real spacetime twenty systems from Marduk.

  XXXIX

  The Overlords of Time have called upon the Underlords of Order under the Edict of the West Wing of Chronology.

  Listen…

  Can you hear the whispers of the old papers rustling in the stacks where they were placed by the servators to ensure that the records would be complete?

  Can you understand the mumbled words of the languages so old that their alphabets have been lost, so antique that outside of the library no record exists of them or of those who spoke such soft sibilants?

  Do you wonder who filled the library, for it was neither repository nor refuge by design, but Hall of Destruction, built for the Ancients by the Gods of Nihil?

  Do you stand in awe of the Black Gates that no tool can scratch, that not even the Empire could understand, and that the Commonality quietly refuses to see?

  Hush…

  In the silence that falls with the west mountain shadows, you may hear a set of footsteps, if you are in the right corridor, catch a glimpse of the captain.

  The captain, you ask? That figment of imagination? That illusory paragon of legend? That satyric sire of our long afternoon? That man whom sages deny?

  Hush…

  Three steps, each lighter than the last, a silvered black tunic, and hawk-burned eyes—did you see? Did you dare to see?

  Ahhh…

  You turned your head, away from the sole chance you had to see the captain as he was. For he was, and is, and will be, as we were, are, and will be.

  The Shrine? That time-clouded prison? For now, it holds his body, his thoughts, but not his soul. Not his soul.

  His soul is here, along the corridors designed to resist the fires of Hades, where you may see him if you are lucky, when twilight falls from the mountains across the Black Gates. His soul belongs not just to the gentle, nor to the green, nor to the ladies, but to the past, to the storms, and the spouts.

  One soul, one man, one barrier that separated the Gods of Nihil from the green of the new Old Earth, and you have missed the chance to see.

  There never was a captain, you say?

  Are there none so blind as will not see? None so deaf as will not hear? None so alive as will not live?

  Speak not of Faith! Faith is but a belief in what cannot be known, and the captain was, is, and will be. Knowing and known—the captain, keeper of the Black Gates…

  Mystery of the Archives

  Kyedra L. deKerwin

  New Denv, Old Earth

  5231 N.E.C.

  XL

  The controls moved easily under his fingers, even though Gerswin had not used the flitter in more than a year. All indicators were green, and the preflight check had been clear.

  Perhaps he was being overcautious. Even after setting down the Caroljoy on his own secluded property on Mara, theoretically a hunting preserve not directly traceable to Gerswin and the foundation or to his identity as Patron L. Sergio Enver and the local subsidiary, Enver Limited, which had taken over the commercial culturing and production of the biological sponges that could remove and decompose nearly any organic toxic, he was skeptical. Skeptical about the workings of a sealed flitter in a hidden bunker.

  On top of the skepticism, he had doubts about the wisdom of continuing to build biotech enterprises and continuing to collect ever-increasing income, income he was having more and more difficulty investing and handling.

  “So why do you keep at it?”

  He wasn’t sure he knew the answers to his own questions, outside of the fact that Old Earth wasn’t ready for his return, outside of the fact that stopping would require some serious thoughts and self-evaluation. He pushed that away.

  The contracts with New Glascow had represented a nice boost to his personal holdings, besides leading to the first steps in turning that smelter/manufacturing planet into someplace livable—not that the New Glascow Company knew that would be the end result of using Enver products. All they knew was that if they dumped the spores into waste piles they got total organic breakdowns and heavy metals on the bottom of a settling pond. In short, some water, some oxygen, carbon paste, free hydrogen, and a gooey mess worth its weight in metal for easy refining and recycling.

  Someday, Gerswin suspected, when the air began to clear and fish began to appear in all the streams, they’d discover the overall picture. In the meantime, with a modest take from the enterprises created from the application of grant research, all properly licensed, of course, Gerswin, under close to a dozen names, was able to finance his own operations with but a token tap on the foundation budget, while pouring additional contributions into OERF.

  He hoped that his efforts to keep separate from the foundation would limit the Imperial scrutiny, or delay it somewhat.

  As far as Enver, Limited, went, he was Patron L. Sergio Enver, who preferred play to work, but who occasionally visited the facilities and didn’t complain too much if his senior executives voted themselves expensive bonuses—provided production and sales continued to increase and provided they kept their eyes open for new biological technology opportunities.

  Already, on Mara and other nearby systems, half a dozen other competitors were using information stolen from Enver.

  Gerswin smiled as he thought of it. If they knew how easy he had tried to make such theft! You could offer knowledge on a silver platter, and no one would take it. Once you made money with it, suddenly people would cut throats for it.

  He cocked his head as he listened to the whine of the turbines. Despite its inactivity, the flitter handled well, and the engine indicators were normal.

  Sooner or later, he knew, the Empire would come calling, and he would have to leave precipitously. Perhaps that was why he avoided worrying about continuing, preferring to leave that decision up to the Empire. The coward’s way out…

  He tapped the signal for the homer as the flitter neared the local Enver headquarters. While he did not announce his visits in detail, he did not want to catch his loyal employees totally by surprise. Usually he sent a message torp indicating the general time of his next inspection.<
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  Here, on the main continent, the sun had dropped behind the western hills, and the twilight had fled for solid night.

  Gerswin dropped the flitter into a sloping descent toward the rooftop pad reserved for the patron on Enver, Limited. The homer signal remained green on the screen.

  As the flitter slowed, he closed his eyes and triggered the flash strobes, searing the roof with a blaze of light. In the following instant, he cut all exterior lights, and the flitter settled onto the hard-surfaced building.

  Releasing the canopy of the old-fashioned combat model flitter, Gerswin dropped to the roof on the right side, the side of the fuselage that had no handholds or extended footbars.

  With his own unhampered night vision, he could see the watchman rubbing his eyes. But beyond the control bubble…was there another figure?

  The pilot flattened behind the right stub skid, bringing his stunner to bear.

  Two figures with long rods that suspiciously resembled projectile rifles were sighting on the flitter. Their quick reaction to the blinding glare he had flooded the landing pad with meant that they wore night glasses to protect their vision. Night glasses on the roof meant some level of government. Competitors would have used poison, long-range sniping, or some other less violent or more stealthy method.

  Government involvement also meant that the pair wore conductive stun armor and helmets.

  Gerswin estimated the distance from the flitter skid to the low wall from behind which the two agents waited. Slightly more than thirty meters.

  He had to act, and quickly!

  In seconds, they would start looking for the pilot, one Gerswin, and, on finding him, calmly riddle his position with whatever projectiles they were carrying—fragmentation, straight shells, or gas.

  Thirty meters was too far for the stunner, even without their armor to consider, and certainly too far for the throwing knives.

  Gerswin settled on the watchman, who had to be an accomplice, tacitly or otherwise.

  A weak distraction, but better than none.

  The watch bubble was fifteen meters away, on an indirect line between him and the agents.