by Diann Read
The cockpit rocked again, throwing him against his harness. The impact came from port this time. More red lights blinked on. He hit DAMAGE CONTROL; the screen lit up. “Base,” he said, “I’ve lost my forward port thrusters, too.”
“Acknowledged, Hammer.”
The comms died with an electronic shatter in his earphones, and the impact it seemed to anticipate threw him back in his seat. The instruments blanked, except for the computer screen:
LIFE SUPPORT HAS FAILED
ESTIMATED RESERVE: 3 MINUTES
PREPARE FOR EGRESS
Tristan drew a deep breath. “Emergency life support,” he whispered, and heard it in his headset. He felt Coborn observing beside him. The ring lay over his left shoulder, where the oxygen hose attached. He fumbled for it with gloved fingers and tugged. Cool air rushed into his oxygen mask.
The screen flashed:
EGRESS! EGRESS! EGRESS!
He stiffened into egress position, reached for the yellow handles, locked his teeth against the launch.
When the simulator seat bumped to a stop, he heard the IP release his breath. “See you in the classroom, Sergey.”
* *
Tristan stood at attention before the table, his vision fixed on the back wall, his face expressionless.
“You passed,” the captain said, “but I hesitate to recommend you into the flight program. You’re already exhibiting MOA. You’ll never make it through elementary flight training if you don’t get over it.”
“MOA, sir?”
“Manifestation of apprehension,” said Coborn. “I’m passing you, Sergey, but only on conditional status. I need your sponsor’s name so I can submit the report.”
“Governor Renier,” Tristan said, his throat tight.
The IP stared at him, hard, for a full minute. “Oh,” he said at last. “Then I guess you’ll be flying whether you should be or not.”
Whether I want to or not, Tristan thought.
Sixteen
Dylan Dartmuth pulled two food trays from the warmer and placed one in front of the old man before he took his own seat. He dropped into his chair stiffly, grimacing.
“Dampness bothering you again?” Beaumont asked.
Dylan glanced up. “Yes, Uncle. The damp and the overtime.” He picked up his utensils and bent over his meal.
He felt the old man observing him but he didn’t raise his vision; he concentrated on his food. He had nearly emptied his tray before Beaumont said, “The bum leg isn’t the only thing, eh, lad? You’ve not been this grim since the lieutenant refused your request for spare parts. What’s it this time?”
“Masuki,” said Dylan. His gaze locked on the old man’s. “The colonel told us today at commander’s call that the academy’s to admit the first masuki to pilot training within six months.”
Beaumont raised sparse eyebrows. “A provision of the Cooperation Pact?”
“The same.” Dylan’s hand fisted around his utensil. “It was masuk scum that took my sister and her baby.”
“I remember,” said Beaumont.
The old man rose from the table then, as if suddenly remembering something else, and made his slow way across the room to pull a packet from a cabinet near the door. “A courier brought this for you today.”
Dylan accepted it, flipped it over. The packet bore the seal of the Topawan Embassy. “What in great space . . .” he murmured, and slid a finger under the packet’s flap to tear it open. He withdrew a single sheet of paper, folded in half.
The page contained the hardcopy of a message transmitted from Ramiscal City, nation of East Odymis on Sostis. “What the—?” he began, and pushed his tray aside to spread out the sheet on the table.
He read it twice, then sat staring at the tabletop.
“What’s the matter, lad?” asked Beaumont.
The old man’s voice cut across a distance like a dream. Dylan started, looked up. “It’s from Admiral Sergey,” he said. “He’s putting me on assignment.”
“On assignment?” Beaumont lowered himself into his chair and folded knobby hands on the table.
“Yes. Remember when I told you about the boy in the med capsule? The prisoner transfer from Ganwold? And the cadet who got in a scrap over a slot in Alpha Flight a couple of weeks ago? He is my sister’s son! My nephew. And he’s attending the academy on the governor’s sponsorship.”
“The governor’s?” Beaumont arched his brows. “That’s an interesting twist.”
“Right. And it smells bad to me. Very bad indeed.”
Beaumont said, “What’s Lujan asking of you, then?"
“He wants me to look out for Tristan,” Dylan said. “Make sure he’s all right. That sort of thing.” He pushed himself to his feet and collected the empty trays. “For now.”
“Which means?”
Dylan paused at the disposer in the kitchen. “It means that if there’s a change in defense status,” he said, “I’m to take Tristan to safe haven at the Topawan Embassy.”
* *
Governor Renier crossed to his chair at the head of the conference table and the two masuki flanked him, taking places on either side. Renier paused behind his chair to survey the table, to study the faces, human and nonhuman, of his war council. He saw the veiled shock, the questions narrowed eyes and creased brows, and he smiled. He motioned the council to be seated, but he remained standing.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I present to you b’Anar Id Pa’an, son of the Pasha of Mi’ika and emissary of our allies in the Bacal Belt.” He scanned the circle again. Smiled again at its grimness. “We have much to offer one another,” he said. “All of our peoples—human, umedo, and masuki —have much to gain by this alliance.” He turned to face b’Anar Id Pa’an.
“My sire thanks you, Sector General.” Pa’an inclined his head. Slightly. Narrowed eyes and the curl of his lip lent irony to his smile. “Your enemies will become the wealth of the Bacal Belt.”
Human and umedo advisors and generals shifted in their chairs with obvious uneasiness and revulsion. Renier saw how many couldn’t prevent it from showing in their faces.
Pa’an saw it, too. He smiled on them all, baring canine teeth thick as tusks. “Be pleased,” he said, “that we are your allies. Be careful that you remain that way. One human slave is worth to us three slaves of our own kind.”
* *
Tristan stepped into a booth just large enough for one person, a closet for a medical monitor with two screens: one at waist level, angled like the keyboard beside it and marked with the outline of a hand, the other at face level, like a reflector. The upper screen displayed instructions:
1. ENTER NAME AND STUDENT ID NUMBER.
2. PLACE RIGHT HAND ON SENSOR PANEL AS SHOWN WITH FIRST FINGER THROUGH SPHYGMOMANOMETER SENSOR BAND.
3. MAINTAIN HAND PLACEMENT UNTIL READOUTS APPEAR.
Tristan followed the instructions without reading them. It had become part of his daily routine by now.
The upper screen cleared itself. After several seconds its cursor began to shoot back and forth, unrolling a block of information:
SERGEY, TRISTAN, ID#TS9392, CLEARED.
BLOOD GASES: NEGATIVE FOR INTOXICANTS CONSUMED WITHIN PREVIOUS EIGHT HOURS.
BLOOD PRESSURE: 142/83*
PULSE: 88/MIN*
TEMPERATURE: 98.6oF
*PASSING BUT IN CAUTION RANGE. IF CONDITION PERSISTS, PLEASE CONSULT FLIGHT SURGEON.
He didn’t have to read the bottom line, either; it had appeared six days in a row now. He withdrew his hand, wiped it down the leg of his flightsuit, and flexed it.
He felt the med-tech watching from his own console as he stepped out of the booth. Tristan avoided his eyes but the man asked, “What’s wrong, cadet?”
Tristan hesitated. My mother is dying on Ganwold! he wanted to shout, and I’m being held prisoner here as bait for my father, and nobody will let me help her!
But the governor’
s threats echoed in his mind. “If your mother’s life is so important to you, Tristan, this will not happen again.” And, “I have my own reasons for your attendance at the Academy. I won’t take your non-cooperation lightly.”
In his memory, the stroke from the governor’s walking stick still burned across his face.
“Nothing,” he said, dry-mouthed.
“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ to me,” the medic returned. “You’re hypertensive. You’re too young for that sort of thing. You should see the flight surgeon.”
“I’m all right,” Tristan said.
The medic shrugged. “Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Tristan felt the other’s gaze following him as he walked away.
In the support room he collected his helmet and egress pack. He tested the oxygen and radio lines mechanically. The door sighed open at his approach, letting him out to the slideway where Coborn and Pulou waited.
The slideway sloped down into a subterranean corridor that ran as far as Tristan could see. They stepped onto the outbound conveyor. It carried them in silence, but for the shush-shush of its track, past one arched portal after another. With a glance at Pulou, Tristan placed his egress pack between his feet and mentally reviewed the lesson plan, his call sign, his ship’s number.
They stepped off the conveyor at the sixteenth arch and rode its lift up, emerging in a launch bay domed only with sky, crisp with pre-dawn chill. Floodlighting lit the bay like daylight, glanced from the skin of the trainer ship, etched into sharp detail the men and machinery moving around it.
Tristan shifted his helmet in his hands and paused beneath an abbreviated delta wing. He reached up with his free hand to touch it and released a shaky breath.
He felt someone watching him.
He froze. Cocked his head just enough to look over his shoulder.
His crew chief stood there, a man with gray hair and mustache and eyes like steel. The man who had broken up his fight with Siggar. Tristan nudged Pulou and pointed with his chin before he turned his back to make his walk-around check of thruster nozzles and landing gear.
In the pilot’s seat he lost his harness clasps twice before he got them secured, and then they seemed to constrict his heart; he could feel it pounding against the webbing. His breath raked through his earphones. His hands curled into fists, resting on his thighs.
“. . . checklist,” Coborn’s voice said in his helmet. Tristan jumped, looked at him.
“Start your checklist,” Coborn said again, with a note of impatience.
“Yes, sir.” Tristan swallowed. Reached for switches and buttons, exchanged hand signals with the crew chief as he tested each system. He glimpsed Pulou watching from the doorway of the maintenance room beyond him. When he finished the checkout, the man gave him a thumbs-up and limped clear.
“All systems green, sir,” Tristan said.
“Start your engines.”
A gloved finger flicked the switches, one at a time, and the roar mounted around the ship as each engine came to life. The craft trembled with contained power.
“What’re you waiting for?” asked Coborn.
Tristan started again. “Huh?”
“Call for clearance.”
“Yessir. . . .” Tristan drew a long breath, carefully, so it wouldn’t be audible to his IP. His voice held steady when he said, “Clearance control, this is Hammer four-three—disregard, disregard!—Hammer three-two requesting clearance for launch.”
Clearance said, “Hammer three-two, you’re cleared to space station papa tango via SID foxtrot tango two-two-niner. Do you copy?”
“Roger that,” said Tristan.
“Now what?” Coborn prompted.
“Ground,” said Tristan, and thumbed the comms button. “This is Hammer three-two—”
He heard chuckling in his headset. “Hammer three-two, where’re you calling from?”
He swallowed again, at being caught in such a state of distraction. “Launch bay zero-one-six, sir.”
Beside him, Coborn folded his arms over his chest and stared straight ahead through the canopy.
“Hammer three-two,” said Ground, “there are ten ships ahead of you. Bays on both sides of you are filled. Wind is from zero-three-zero at twelve knots, and . . .”
Tristan listened to the final weather report, adjusted his altimeter for atmospheric flight, and when Ground instructed him to switch to tower frequency, he said, “Roger.”
The tower frequency was filled with chatter. Tristan called, “Tower, this is Hammer three-two—”
“Hammer three-two,” a sharp voice came back, “you are eleventh in launch sequence. Do not acknowledge until we give you clearance.”
He nodded. Shot a sideways look at Coborn. Waited. His mind lingered on Ganwold.
The insides of his gloves were already damp.
He heard, “Hammer three-two, please hold. . . . Hammer three-two, you now have three launches ahead of you, please hold for launch time. . . . Hammer three-two, you have clearance to launch. You have traffic ahead and will have traffic behind. . . .”
“Roger, Tower,” he said, and glanced at Coborn again.
“So take us out, Sergey,” the captain said.
Locking his teeth, he spread his hand over the thruster switches.
“All at once,” said the IP. “If you don’t, you’ll lift at an angle and hit the bay dome. Cadets who do that don’t get their crests even if they live to tell about it.”
“Yessir.” Sweat plastered Tristan’s hair to his forehead. “This is Hammer three-two lifting,” he said into his pickup. “I’ve got four green, no red or amber, line on line, point on point, eight good engines and squawking normal.” He toggled all eight switches together.
He felt the tremor increase, the roar swell to a scream. It flattened him into his seat, pushed his stomach down like a stone dropped into a pool. His teeth closed on his lip.
They cleared the bay. He heard Coborn release his breath.
He brought up the landing gear and leaned back in his seat.
“You forgot something,” said Coborn.
Tristan jumped. Stared at him. “What?”
“Make contact with Departure.”
“Yessir.” He licked dry lips before thumbing the mike. “Departure, this is Hammer three-two requesting vectors to space station papa tango.”
“Roger, Hammer three-two.” The voice rattled through his earphones; he winced. “Have you on radar, passing point one-niner-two. Proceed on your present course . . .”
Pre-dawn pink riddled a northeastern horizon filled with clouds. Tristan glanced at the vertical speed and attitude indicators; his right hand rode the thrust switches, holding his course until the controller gave him a heading.
“When we break atmosphere,” the captain said, “switch over to the space station’s frequency and start trying to establish communications. It won’t take long to come into range.”
Surface detail diminished, disappeared beneath cloud, and the craft broke clear of white billows into a sky so bright Tristan squinted despite his helmet’s dark visor. The blue deepened and darkened, and the pressure eased. Constellations appeared beyond.
For one mad moment Tristan thought of wrenching the craft out of its flight profile and aiming it at one of those constellations and running.
Only for a moment. He wouldn’t leave Pulou. Besides, even if Coborn didn’t seize control of it, he knew the craft would never make it to the outskirts of Issel’s solar system.
Teeth locked, he reset his radio to the space station’s frequency and listened for its VOR signal. “Station papa tango,” he said, “this is Hammer three-two requesting vectors to bay one-four echo.”
“Station to Hammer three-two,” he heard, “continue on present course and stand by for heading.”
The lesson plan included landing in and launching from three horizontal-plane bays in the academy’s training station. “App
roach angle and speed are critical,” said Coborn. “Cut your engines and drift; you’ve got enough momentum to carry us in. Watch your approach guidance lights. If you come in at an angle, you’ll crash into the bulkhead.”
The bay loomed up like a square mouth lighted from within. The AG lights above and below it showed amber.
“You’re too high,” said Coborn. “Pull up and around and make another approach.”
“Roger,” said Tristan. “Station, this is Hammer three-two on the go.”
The AG lights showed green on the second approach. Tristan cut the engines again and kept his hand tense on the switches.
“Watch your speed,” said the IP. “Fire retros one second on, one off.”
Tristan’s lower lip had gone numb, clenched between his teeth, by the time the ship slid into the bay.
“Request clearance for departure,” said Coborn. “We’re not going to stay long enough to go through the pressurization cycle.”
Launch was easy by comparison: fire thrusters at two and one to clear the bay, ignite the engines, roll out. As he cleared the space station after the final docking, Coborn said, “All right, get us home now.”
He hit turbulence eighteen thousand feet from the surface. Descent built painful pressure in his ears and made his stomach rise into his throat. The craft bucked like a peimu caught by the horns. He fingered the switches, fighting to maintain control.
“Give it here,” said Coborn.
Tristan relinquished the controls without a word and put his head back, eyes closed.
“Feeling green, Sergey?” he heard in his headset.
“Yessir. . . .”
“Switch your oxygen to a hundred percent.”
He opened his eyes only long enough to find the switch; he concentrated on breathing. Sweat broke cold around his nose and mouth. His stomach turned under his ribs.
The ship lurched up again; his stomach rose with it. He gagged on gorge and sat rigid, swallowing over and over to keep it down.
“For Zi’sake, get the oxygen mask off!” Coborn said in his earphones. “D’you want to drown yourself in it?”
He had to pull off his glove, and found his hand white and wet. It shook so he could barely release the mask. He pressed his fist to his mouth and kept his eyes closed, felt the craft rock in the crosswind, and heard Coborn’s breath sucking through his mask as he fought it. Tristan swallowed the retch reflex. The ship dropped, dropped, dropped until it finally settled with a tremor and a roar.