“Seven minutes to impact,” the ship told him.
Evan held on to a safety bar on the outside edge of the airlock and looked straight down. There they were. Three red haloes, their superheated reaction mass creating the appearance of a ring around the unlit nose of each missile. Coming his way, at eight gravities of acceleration.
“When it is two minutes before impact,” Evan told the ship, “turn sunward with as much acceleration as you can.”
“Instruction received,” the ship said.
It was time to put the rest of his plan in motion, for what it was worth. “Suit, go private,” Evan instructed. His instruction stopped communication with the runabout. “I need you to create a message for me.”
Evan told the EVA suit exactly what needed to be in the message. The suit, which had its own capable processor, easily managed the request. Part of the message was encrypted, using the public key of the intended recipient. Only that one person would be able to decrypt it, using a carefully guarded private key.
“Message created,” the suit told him.
“Suit, send the message to the ship and then go public. Ship, take the message and transmit it to Kelter Four on all available channels to every available recipient. Do it immediately.”
“Send as a priority to any specific person?” the ship asked.
“No. Send to every recipient known on Kelter, its moons, or nearby stations. Continuously repeat sending until I countermand.”
“Acknowledged and in process,” the ship told him.
Evan had told the runabout he intended to escape in the sled, but that was not his plan. The sled had no additional life support systems beyond what was provided by his suit. If the sled was missing from the wreckage of the ship, it would be found. Or it might be detected by the second or third missile and destroyed shortly after the runabout. He needed an even smaller vessel.
And, he needed the boom. “Ship, run out the boom,” he instructed.
In the direction that he normally would have called aft, but which now appeared to be just below him, a series of struts started extruding from the ship. Evan found himself wondering where it all came from. Fully extended, the boom was longer than the width of the ship. Somehow it was assembled on the fly inside the workings of the runabout, resolved to an apparently flawless lattice as it ran out from the ship.
“Suit, go private,” Evan instructed. “No further communication with the ship.”
“Gone private,” his suit told him.
Just over ten meters long, the boom was used for any number of operations. In this case, it would get him those ten meters farther away from the center of the ship, and the thrust of its engine.
“Suit, tell me when we are fifteen seconds from the two minute mark.”
“Acknowledged,” the suit said.
And then Evan began his walk out the plank.
It was a framework of metal bars, comprising many small triangles. Perfectly good to hang on, or clip a line to, if you were weightless. Evan had done that any number of times before. But he had never walked on it.
Just ten meters. Ten steps, or a few more. With each step, he had to find a stable spot on the intersection of the struts by coordinating his vision with the very limited feel he could get through his thick boots, and ultimately adding a little bit of positional intuition.
The first step was the biggest, going down a full meter from the airlock door to the start of the boom. He held the safety bar and lowered himself, then turned to face away from the ship. Away from the balance and comfort of the bar.
One step out on the boom, then two. Three. He was getting the hang of it. The next few steps came more quickly. Then he was standing at the edge.
“Fifteen seconds at – Mark,” the suit told him. It was time.
“Count down the seconds to zero.” The timing was going to be critical. Evan needed to take exactly the right step, at exactly the right time, within a second or even less.
Evan stood on the very edge. He looked down at the approaching missiles. They had grown both in size and brightness, just over two minutes away.
He wanted to turn and look back at the ship, to gauge if he would fall far enough away from the discharge of the engine, but he was afraid of losing his balance. So he set his vision straight ahead into the blackness and stars.
He was counting on his own precision. And a carefully crafted message. And most of all, he was counting on Mira.
The suit counted down. Four, three, two, one.
“Klono have mercy,” Evan said, and stepped off the end of the boom.
Hey, Get Off My Lawn!
Mira Adastra almost fell off her bar stool at the next thing she heard. How could that be?
In a huge news day, the story was posed as an intriguing mystery. The incoming ship, arriving at a previously unknown glome emergence, had used its few remaining minutes to send a message, repeated over and over, before being destroyed. Most of it was encrypted, but the part in the clear was being treated as a joke.
The big screen over the bar was running one of the news channels of the Spoon Feed. In most public places you only got the Spoon Feed – approved programming and shopping opportunities. The genial older caster bantered with the infobabe, “Wow, that sounds like something I would say to the local kids.”
“You’re not that old,” she assured him. “Besides, we don’t even have lawns around here. Maybe we should explain what a lawn is, anyway.”
“Great idea, Lisa. On certain planets, people keep a patch of live grass around their home, where kids can walk or play. I don’t mean turf – a lawn is an actual mat of little plants growing on the ground. To keep that grass going, you need constant irrigation.”
“Or even reliable natural rain, like they have on some parts of Earth,” Lisa put in.
“Yes. And in those places, older people are famous for keeping their lawns meticulously tidy. If some kids come by, they could tear up the lawn or litter on it. So the old guy says –”
They finished in chorus: “Hey, Get off My Lawn!”
In her accustomed role, the young woman set up the senior caster. “That just makes no sense, Al. That a ship would send that as a message. What do you make of it?”
“Well Lisa, the clear part is probably just a diversion. And the encrypted message has been sequestered. Top secret, you know. Seriously, folks, don’t do anything to help infoterrorists – if for any reason you received the transmittal and haven’t called for help cleaning it off your system, you need to do that right now.”
“You mean, you need to do that yesterday.”
“That’s right, Lisa. You can’t be too careful with sequestered data.”
Mira knew what the cover message meant. The encrypted message was for her. And it was from Evan McElroy.
Which meant that he had been on that ship. And that now he was dead, killed by the missile strike that had destroyed the ship.
Evan. Dead.
She left her stool, on purpose this time, and headed for the door, reaching for her phone. “Kestrel, meet me at the Buttonwood. How soon can you be there?”
A grumpy voice answered her. “Do I get to finish sleeping first?”
“No,” she told him.
“Five minutes then.”
“Ok, see you there.”
Perfect. Just enough time to walk there in the nice cool evening. Mira set an even pace, floating for a brief moment off the ground in each long step.
The friendly streets of the Untrusted Zone were welcoming. They were home. There was always something going on, at any time of the day or night. Vehicles, pedestrians, bicyclists, sorting it all out in real time, getting where they needed to go. Although there was no specific requirement to do so, she kept to the edge of the street as she walked along.
Hey, Get Off My Lawn!
When she had been his pilot, it had been their little joke. Evan had only three more years than her by count, but was seemingly decades older in attitude, experience, and, as he d
idn’t mind needling her about, maturity. Any time she had one of those moments, whether dismally unhelpful or merely inconvenient, they would look at each other, and one or both of them would say it.
It was always an adventure with her. Was that bad?
Then had come the moment of truth. Two days before they had been scheduled to lift, heading for Phoenix for the next expedition, a close friend of Mira had been identified as an infoterrorist, and Mira’s credit had been instantly zeroed.
When you get zeroed, you have nothing. Can’t buy anything. Your insurance is canceled, and you can’t do anything without insurance. You are frozen out.
People who were once your friends will not help you, for fear that whatever got you zeroed will taint them. The algorithms are notorious for that. If you associate with a known infoterrorist, you will be zeroed until any questions are resolved. The chain could and did reach out to snare the unwary – it was definitely safest to have no interaction with anyone who was zeroed.
She had gone to see Evan, to tell him that he needed to find another pilot. She had wanted to tell him in person, but it had also been necessary, because her phone didn’t work. The neighbors wouldn’t even open the door for her. How had they known so quickly? After a four-kilometer walk, she had been at Evan’s door.
Mira had explained the situation and offered her apologies. Maybe she would be in good standing in time for his next expedition. If he was willing to give her another chance, at that undefined time in the future.
After she was done, Evan had just held up his hand and seemed to ponder. “Okay,” he had said at last. “You’ll be going on my credit.”
This was not something that anyone did. “Are you insane? They’ll zero you like it’s nothing. And then forget about the expedition.” She wasn’t going to let Evan throw it all away, even to try and help her.
“I don’t think so,” he had told her. “Anyway, it’s wrong, and we won’t have that. So, I’ll get a credit authorization sent to you. Will you be ready on schedule?”
Mira had nodded, having run out of words. Never sentimental, she had almost felt gratitude. Almost. “Right,” Evan had said. “Let’s go through the manifest.”
That had been four years ago. She had only once asked him why, a few weeks later. Evan had just said, “Because you are the expedition pilot.”
Mira was nearing the Buttonwood. She had not said whether the tree or the pub, because in effect they were one and the same. The plaza that homed the tree was arrayed with places for people to sit and have their food or drink, whether purchased from the Buttonwood Pub, another nearby establishment, or simply brought along.
She walked through one of the gaps in the circle of buildings that went all the way around the tree, a respectful distance away from the trunk that defined the center of the plaza. Within the invisible boundary, there were no vehicles. Just denizens of the Untrusted Zone, eating, drinking, arguing, and otherwise enjoying the evening.
Mira and Kestrel easily spotted each other near the trunk of the tree. He called out, “Hey Mira, are we getting a beer?”
“Nope, not right now,” Mira said. “I need something from you.”
“All business tonight. Okay then! What will it be?”
“First we climb. High up.” Mira slipped off her shoes.
“After you, milady.”
If anyone could keep up with Mira in the tree, it was Kestrel. But tonight he would be hard pressed. From a standing start, she bounded straight up for three meters, catching hold of the first branch with her right hand, and then she was off to the races. Arms, legs, hands, and feet were not so much tools to grab the tree as they were a means to adjust her course, spiraling upward through the branches. It was not just the low gravity of Kelter. Climbing the tree was an art form that she had studied since she had been in grade school.
In addition to being majestically tall, the buttonwood tree was the best possible tree for climbing. Stout branches at convenient intervals of two to three meters. A strong but smooth outer bark. No thorns, because there had never been land animals on Kelter until humans arrived. It was also the best tree because it was the only tree around.
When she was a kid, Mira had called it her tree. In some sense, it was. There was no person who knew it better. Every branch, every cluster of the thick rubbery leaves. Every move between branches, whether a static step or a bold leap.
In the intervening years, it had changed. Grown, slowly. A few branches had died, but overall it was in excellent health. The tree was well tended.
Mira wondered why she didn’t often climb the tree, these days.
“Hold on, that’s too high,” Kestrel called. “They’re getting thin up there. If you go any further, you could break a branch, and you’ll get fined. A really big fine.”
If the worst happened, Mira would pay, even if it took months or years to do so. But it was not going to be a problem. Mira knew her tree.
“Just one more,” she told him. “Come on up.”
A wary Kestrel climbed the last few meters and sat beside her on the highest cross branch of the attenuating trunk. The Untrusted Zone spread below them, with buildings, lights, and then the dark of the undeveloped land beyond. To the south, Abilene was visible, several kilometers away, over in civilization. The Untrusted Zone and Abilene had grown toward each other over the years, so it was now difficult from this vantage point to see where one ended and the other began. On the ground, the boundary was absolutely clear.
“Kiss me,” she demanded.
“I thought we were here to talk business, and we both know that didn’t end well for either of us, Mira.”
“Trust me. Just this once.”
Mira kissed him on the lips for a brief moment, then moved close to his ear. “Hold me like you want me,” she whispered. “And I will tell you what I need.”
“Kes, I need the full transmission that came from that ship.” She felt him tense. “That one − the ship that came in from the direction of Cappella and then was destroyed. The entire encrypted portion. And most especially, it can’t come back to me.”
“Mira, I’m not − I’m not sure I can do it.”
“For me, you will, right? It’s worth a lot to me, and I’ll pay. A thousand coins.”
Mira listened carefully to the quiet whisper in her ear. “No really, I’m not sure I can. Heavily sequestered. It was broadcast everywhere, but the monitors were just seconds behind, connecting into every civilian system, finding it and wiping. Anyway, ten thousand, if it’s even possible.”
“Okay, ten,” Mira readily agreed, even though that would wipe out most of her savings. “But what about ships in orbit? They wouldn’t be directly connected to a network, right?”
“Where the monitors couldn’t access remotely, they boarded, wiping out drives or just carting them off. From what I heard, scary as anything. They meant business. They even left ships unable to navigate, just towed them to the nearest station and let the crews figure it out. It’s out there, I know, but to ask is to get stuck in the web.”
“I believe in you, Kes. Come on, too tough for you to pull it off? And you’ll want it for the Codex, anyway. Hey, don’t forget, we’re here for recreation.” She gave his neck a sensuous rub.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Mira smiled in triumph, even as she still held him. “That means it’s in the bag. As soon as you get it, meet me here. Just send me a ping, you don’t have to say anything, and I’ll be here. Bring it on a physical device, okay? Just optical read, not radio. Kes, I really need this, at the first possible moment. I know you can help.”
“Mira, why do I find myself agreeing to do things for you?”
“Because it’s me! See you soon, right here. Ping me the moment you have it.” Mira stood up and began a backflip in the same motion, arcing down through the tree, and so she left him.
Rental Captain
Arn Lobeck ate up the corridor at more than a meter per step, reducing them to a hurrying rabble. “
Sir, if you will, allow me to brief you on the situation,” Captain Roe forced out. He was making three steps for each two of Lobeck’s strides.
“I will conduct a briefing,” Lobeck told him. “Meanwhile, let me tell you my requirements. I need a full officer suite. My belongings will be placed there by a member of my staff who will board in approximately ten minutes. Thereafter, no crew members will enter my suite. I require full private use of the forward gymnasium for not less than five hours per day, at times I will determine.”
“Five hours! But sir, gym time is slotted weeks in advance, and−”
“If any of your crew have objections, I will be glad to discuss the matter with them. Do you think there will be any problem?” Lobeck did not pause for an answer.
“Sir, we work hard to keep up morale here, and as you know, sir, that’s essential on a ship like this−”
Lobeck turned on Roe, who suddenly found himself standing with his back to the corridor wall. “Morale, yes. I can think of several things which would hurt morale more than losing gym time. Things that could happen if there is any evidence of an inability to faithfully execute orders down to the last detail. This ship is mine for as long as I need it, in service to the Affirmatix Family in accordance with our civic partnership. You are a rent-a-crew. Do I make myself clear?”
Roe looked up at Lobeck. The man was tall, and defined by muscle through his entire body. Even where his dark clothing was loose, somehow the impression of muscle underneath came through. His features, his unlined skin and absolutely white teeth, could not possibly be real for any man more than twenty years old. Lobeck’s blue eyes were directly upon Roe, unwavering.
“Yes, sir,” Roe managed.
“Then let us go to the bridge.” Lobeck again led the way. They proceeded to the anteroom, where the door shut and locked behind them before identification was scanned, and the way to the bridge opened. The party, of Lobeck, Roe, and two orderlies, stepped out onto the bridge.
The Great Symmetry Page 3