Inside, the flyer was as featureless as the outside, apart from a set of contoured seats and a small panel upon which a faintly glowing light winked on and off at regular intervals. All she had to do was work out how to operate it, for the panel was blank apart from the blinking light and a deep slot disappearing back from the smooth surface. There was no obvious sign of any control. Mahra clambered in and settled herself in the foremost seat, adjusting the blade between her shoulders so it didn't dig into her back.
Carefully, she scanned the panel and the interior, looking for something that resembled a set of controls. She pursed her lips and thought. Reaching forward, she tapped at the blinking light. Nothing happened. She pressed it firmly with her forefinger. Again, nothing happened. She tried pressing the flat of her palm to the panel, but again nothing. Perhaps, she thought, the flyer would activate by itself given enough time, so she sat and waited, feeling increasingly foolish as the time stretched on. After several minutes passed, she decided that there was nothing to be gained by sitting and waiting. Maybe the key was in her comp. It called the craft; perhaps it would start it as well. She held it forward and ran it across the surface of the panel. Then she saw it. The slot…might just….
Yes, it was a perfect fit. The comp slid neatly into the opening and she was immediately rewarded. The door panel slid smoothly closed and the previously dull grey control board blossomed with displays and lights. Mahra gripped the seat nervously, as the flyer rose silently and took to the air. Smoothly, it turned on its axis, and she was pressed back into the seat as it shot away from the open grassland into the setting sun.
Her eyes wide, Mahra took in the retreating patterns of the open countryside. The scenery whizzed past below and, despite the now fading light, she was afforded a perfect view of the passing landscape. Slowly she released her white-knuckled grip on the sides of the seat. Now, despite all she had learned, she was here, surrounded by tech, her own resources virtually useless and feeling excited and very confused. Increasingly she was starting to doubt the received wisdom she had taken so much for granted.
The flyer started to climb, the only sound that of the wind whistling past the outside the surrounding shield. She watched as a ridge of low peaks approached, whipped below, then receded into the distance, and she craned her neck to followed it. She turned to follow their passage behind, marvelling at the speed and the lines of cloud that formed streamers like banners trailing from the peaks. Everywhere below her lay sights she could only have dreamed of.
She faced front and gasped. A vast lake stretched from end to end of the horizon, edges purpling in the growing dusk. The water's depths smouldered with the reflected red and orange sunset. For a few moments, she was so absorbed with the spectacle that she didn't notice what should have captured her attention immediately. At last, she became aware of it. A tracery of lights spread in a web from a central point of oval darkness lying on one shore of the lake. As the ship grew closer, the dome's enormity registered and she brought one hand to her mouth in amazement.
The dome's shape became more defined with each moment of her approach. She craned forward in her seat. She had never seen a structure so large and she could barely believe that such a thing was physically possible. This was it, the great Place of the Assembly.
By now, many, probably most, of the great minds of The Cradle were gathered waiting for the last few stragglers such as she. How could she possibly be worthy to join and take part in such an assemblage, such a meeting of minds, let alone merely be here?
Orange and red flickered on the dome surface echoing the lake's sunset colours. The surface had to be constructed of some polished stone, made shiny to catch the setting sun's remaining colours and throw them back in intensified splendour. The colours grew brighter and soon they were even brighter than the setting sun. Blinking her eyes against the glare, she frowned. Then she saw what else lay before her, hanging above the lake. A huge silver shape was descending from the darkness above the dome. An arc of light lanced down from that shape playing across the curved structure. She narrowed her eyes, then she realised. The shape was a ship.
Almost at the very instant that she recognized the shape, the dome's surface erupted into flowers of force, blossoming fire as pieces of the structure fly skyward.
"No!" she cried out. "No!"
Her guts had gone cold. She slammed her fist against the clear plas in front of her.
"No!"
She knew instinctively what she had to do. Reaching forward, she wrenched the comp from its slot, still watching as the destruction played out before her. Open mouthed, she stared as the flyer descended, too stunned to move as her craft dropped rapidly to the gentle slopes below. The scenes of devastation continued, stretching out in slow motion as if time was oddly distorted. She shook her head to clear the images, but they stayed there, terrible with their power.
The flyer bumped to the ground and the door panel slid open. Mahra didn't understand, but she acted. She grabbed her comp in one hand and her pack in the other, then clambered and stumbled from the flyer. She sprawled face-first on the ground, catching her foot on the rim of her craft. She barely noticed the pain as she dragged herself to her feet and started to run up the hill away from the horror behind.
Mahra ran until she could run no more, and fell, wracked by sobs, to the ground.
Chapter Thirteen
Far beyond the slowly rising ship, the orbital platform continued with its duties. It registered the approach, identified the call signal, and catalogued it before flashing the displays on the main console. This time the display was blue. This ship had been recognised and was legally registered. Otherwise, the displays would have been in flashing yellow.
This was not a particularly busy time and the sole member of the watch crew on duty sat idly drumming on his thighs with his palms. He leaned back listening to music on his phones. There were times such as this where the job was pretty boring, but it had its advantages as well. Being able to sit and relax with a bit of head space was nice every now and again. Markin got through a lot of music that way. Of course, there were busy periods as well where there was no time to think and the work came thick and fast. Now, however, it was out of season and the traffic was slight.
Out of habit born of routine, Markin's gaze wandered from time to time over to the main console, checking for movement. He noticed the call sign flashing with its steady blue identifier and hissed between his teeth as he pulled off the phones with one hand. Work was never finished. There was always someone or something willing to interrupt a bit of peace.
He scanned the call sign and grunted his recognition. Markin knew this ship, one of the old beaten-up traders that occasionally frequented the system. It was legally registered but on an outward journey, so it had little to interest him. Once or twice he might have had caused to look the other way for this particular ship in exchange for the appropriate adjustment to his cred balance, but it was always on the inward journey. There was never anything to look for on the Catseye on its way out of system.
Markin tapped the sequence to bring her up on visual, letting his gaze wander over her as she approached. It amazed him sometimes how some of these traders got away with flying buckets like this one. They were a hazard to themselves as much as to other shipping, but that was of minor importance as far as he was concerned. It'd be nobody's loss if she were to break up. For a moment or two, he toyed with the idea of shaking her down just for the sheer hell of it to mark his disapproval, but then thought better of it. It would be a waste of energy and only give him a moment or two of satisfaction for all the effort. Then there'd be all the paperwork to fill out.
He shook his head and leaned forward to tap the sequence that started the ritual question and answer of the recognition drill. His finger paused above the pad, waiting for the next step. All of a sudden, the screens went crazy. First one, then the other flared brilliant yellow and flowered in reverse to darkness flecked with traceries of white. He had seen system downs befor
e, but nothing like this one. Cursing he slapped his hand on the console. After a second or two, nothing changed and he rapidly tapped the sequences for re-initiation. Still nothing happened and he tried again. He slammed his fist down on the console.
"Come on, come on," he muttered between closed teeth.
Slapping both hands on the console, Markin pushed his chair back and shrugged off his harness. Now he had to go and check out the overrides. He hated the really technical stuff. He muttered to himself as he palmed the observation module's exit sequence and wandered down the corridor to locate the panel. Maybe he could work out what to do. He didn't hold much hope of being able to fix it, but he had to try. With any luck, it would clear itself. He really didn't want to call in the techs. If he did, that meant reports and reports meant work. He had enough reports to fill out as it was.
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Slowly, above the blinded station, a shimmering haze distorted the images of the stars behind. Gradually at first, and then more rapidly, the wavering form acquired substance as if collecting matter about itself. The stars behind it dimmed and the blackness became lighter. The shape became steadily more defined until the backdrop could no longer be seen behind the large silvery ovoid that now hung in its place. Its smooth surface was unblemished. Nothing protruded from the curving shell and not a single marking distinguished the outer skin. The vast ship hung for a moment, suspended, then with a speed seemingly contradicted by the immensity of its bulk, slid forward to position itself between the platform and the approaching scow.
The tramp ship grew inexorably closer. A glowing beam of light stabbed out from the front of the great orb. For an instant, the two ships hung connected by a bridge of light, then the smaller ship shuddered and a moment later, simply ceased to be. Not a trace of debris remained to mark the scow's position. The luminous spear winked out of existence at the same moment. The great orb glowed faintly, a slight shimmer grew around it, then just as rapidly, it was no longer there. The space around the orbiting platform was empty.
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The navy watchman returned to his post still muttering and cursing to himself, ready to summon the techs to see to the problem. Markin knew he wouldn't be able to fix the damned thing. He was pleasantly relieved to see that the screens were back to their normal steady state. He was just settling back into his seat ready to don his phones, when he realised there was something odd. He'd forgotten about the Catseye. The call sign for the tramp trader ship no longer showed.
"That's not right," he said.
He had not been away long enough for the ship to get past the platform, and there was absolutely nothing else in the area at the time.
He frowned for a moment then flipped the controls for search. He keyed in the call sign and began both an automatic and visual scan of the surrounding field. After a few minutes, the search came up negative. Perhaps the old rust bucket had finally met its fate after all. With that thought, he strapped himself into his chair and, cueing visual, began to search the surrounding area for debris, or at least some sign of the missing trader.
After several more minutes of scanning, the fields were as empty as before. This time Markin cursed. It looked like something really had happened to the Catseye and he was going to have to file a damned report anyway.
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News of the tragic loss of the trader Catseye made Valdor curse out loud when he saw it. Having been briefed in full by Milnus, Carr knew what he was looking for. During his ritual scan of the nets he was paying particular attention to the shipping movements. As a result, the report caught his eye a lot sooner than it normally might have. The ship was missing, presumed broken up just off New Helvetica. A search was underway for survivors, but little hope was held for any success.
He read the report three times over to make sure before slamming his fist down on the desk and spinning his large chair to face the wall behind. Anger and frustration seethed. He stared at the wall through narrowed eyes, his lips tightly pursed, his hands held under his chin as one by one he cracked his knuckles. It was so unlike Milnus to get things wrong. Why hadn't he at least chosen a decent ship? He was going to have words about this one. His thoughts of retribution were brought abruptly to a halt by a voice coming from behind the obscuring back of the chair. It was a voice that had haunted Valdor in his dreams and had done so for weeks.
"Well Vald' Carr. As I tell — to you. We speak again."
Valdor slowly turned the chair to face the smug alien voice. He narrowed his eyes even more as he looked at the Sirona's diminutive frame and oversized head. As in the last visit, there had been no sign or sound of entry. The Sirona was simply there in his innermost sanctum having passed all the security measures — without so much as a whisper from the alarms. He couldn't be sure if this was the same one, Tarn, but he assumed it probably was.
"What do you want now?" he demanded. "Did I ask to see you?"
"No, Vald' Carr. I believe that this is the problem."
"What do you mean?" he said evenly, fighting the temptation to spit the words at his unwelcome visitor.
"Since we talked, you — and the Sirona. The Sirona have been watching Vald' Carr. Vald' Carr has shown nothing to tell the Sirona that he — recognised any of what the Sirona said. Vald' Carr has taken measures working — against the Sirona. This much we know. Vald' Carr has displeased us. So, the Sirona have taken measures. Does Vald' Carr know what the Sirona are telling him?" The Sirona tilted its head to one side as if listening.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Tarn, if you are Tarn, or whatever you want to call yourself," he said slowly, deciding to bluff it out and see where this was leading. "Why don't I just have you thrown out of here?"
"We are afraid this is not possible, even if — you wished it. Besides, the Sirona know that you are aware of our — displeasure. It was an unfortunate incident with your ship. It was — a shame? — that your person was on the ship. Very sad — this loss of life. Do you agree, Vald' Carr?"
So, this was the confirmation. The Sirona really were behind the trader's loss. The pieces started clicking into place.
Valdor's mind raced over the options. They obviously had some sort of access to the innermost workings of his organisation and its personnel. There was very little he could do about it at this stage, but there had to be some means to extricate himself from what now appeared to be a tightening web. If he could bargain with the creature for position ... it might buy him time to get out and away from here, hopefully out of their reach. Meanwhile, he could put mechanisms in place to ensure his plan's survival. His thoughts were ticking over rapidly. Perhaps there might be a way ....
"All right, Tarn. What is to stop me informing the proper authorities about what's happening?"
"This you could do. The Sirona would not stop you." The creature gave a toothed smile. "But, when they ask — where is your evidence, you would show them — what? Also, the Sirona ask Vald' Carr how much of Vald' Carr's organisation does he wish to show? The Sirona think — Vald' Carr is not stupid."
Valdor weighed up the response, and on balance, he had to admit the Sirona was right. The question wasn't serious, anyway. It was just a meant of buying more time for him to think.
He still had every intention of getting a gene set sample offworld, but there had to be another way to achieve it. But he just couldn't understand the Sirona's interest in what he was doing. Certainly, it would provide them with an avenue to exploit what was bound to be a highly successful commercial venture, but there had to be more to it than that. He saw no reason why that alone could interest them. They obviously had enough success with their own ventures and it seemed as though they were not interested in true commercial success as Valdor understood it.
"So, Tarn, let's talk then. What is it you want of me?"
"This is — a wise decision, Vald' Carr," said the Sirona nodding slightly. "The work your companies do now — the Sirona would like to stop. You have moved — faster — than the Sirona expected. The Sirona want — to w
atch Vald' Carr's business with co-operation."
"I don't quite understand," Valdor said slowly. He was genuinely puzzled.
"The Sirona would like all of this work — to stop. All records must be removed. All — minds — have to be reassigned. The Sirona will supervise this process. It would be easy for the Sirona to — terminate your operation, but that would — create attention? With Vald' Carr's assistance, this is a more — elegant solution for the Sirona."
"Uh-huh," Valdor replied, chewing thoughtfully at the end of his thumb. "I see. What the hell would you want to do that for?"
The Sirona simply stared. Valdor clearly wasn't going to get an answer, so he continued. "But if I go along with this, what do I get out of it? I'm likely to suffer a substantial loss as a result, and I don't just mean financial. You couldn't really expect me to give up this opportunity just because the Sirona want it."
"Of course, the Sirona do not — expect this. Vald' Carr is a business man — a trader. The Sirona know this. The Sirona are traders. You would be assured — of compensation. There are many further opportunities for Vald' Carr that the Sirona could — provide. All would be taken care of."
Valdor knew better than to start talking terms with the alien at this stage. That was not the way to play it. He had to show a little interest, but not too much, and then reel them in under his own terms. That may be difficult, because right at this moment, they seemed to have the advantage. So, let him play as if he were going ahead. It might give him a few more options if his plans should go awry over the next few days. Suddenly this was more familiar ground, and Valdor was warming to the task.
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