by neetha Napew
“You’re - “ Sass couldn’t think of a good term, and shook her head. Mira grinned. “I’m a typical ambitious, underbred and overfed merchanter brat, who’ll never make admiral but plans to spend a long and pleasurable career in Fleet. Incidentally serving FSP quite loyally, since I really do believe it does a lot of good, but not ever rising to flag rank and not really wanting it. Deficient in ambition, that’s what they’d grade me.”
“Not deficient in anything else,” said Sassinak. She caught the wink that Mira tipped her and grinned back. “You devious little stinker - I’ll bet you’re a good friend, at that.”
“I try to be.” Mira’s voice was suddenly demure, almost dripping honey. “When I have the chance. And when I like someone.”
Sassinak thought better of asking, but Mira volunteered.
“I like you, Sass . . . now. You were pretty stiff in the Academy, and yes, I know you had reasons. But I’d like to be friends, if you would, and I mean friends like my people mean it: fair dealing, back-to-back in a row with outsiders, but if I think you’re wrong I’ll say it to your face.”
“Whoosh. You can speak plain.” Sassinak smiled and held out her hand. “Yes, Mira; I’d like that. ‘S long as I get to tell you.”
And after that she enjoyed the little free time she had to share impressions with Mira. Meals in the officers’ mess were not as formal as those in the Academy, but they knew better than to put themselves forward. For the first month, Sassinak was on third shift rotation, which meant that she ate with other third shift officers; the captain usually kept a first-shift schedule. From what Mira told her, she wasn’t missing much. When she rotated to first-shift watch, and Communications as her primary duty, she found that Mira was right.
Instead of a lively discussion of the latest political scandal from Escalon or Contaigne, with encouragement to join in, the ensigns sat quietly as Captain Fargeon delivered brief, unemotional critiques of the ship’s performance. Sassinak grew to dread his quiet “There’s a little matter in Engineering ...” or whatever section he was about to shred.
The shift to Communications Section gave her some sense of contact with the outside world. Fleet vessels, unlike civilian ships, often stayed in deepspace for a standard year or more. None of the cadets had ever experienced that odd combination of isolation and confinement. Sassinak, remembering the slave barracks and the pirate vessel, found the huge, clean cruiser full of potential friends and allies an easy thing to take, but some did not.
Corfin, the ensign who slipped gradually into depression and then paranoia, had not been a particular friend of hers in the Academy, but when she recognized his withdrawal, she did her best to cheer him up. Nothing worked; finally his supervisor reported to the Medical Officer, and when treatment slowed, but didn’t stop, the progression, he was sedated, put in coldsleep, and stored for the duration, to be discharged as medically unfit for shipboard duty when they reached a Fleet facility.
“But why can’t they predict that?” asked Sassinak, in the group therapy session the Medical Officer insisted on. “Why can’t they pick them out, clear back in the first year, or before - “ Because Corfin had been in the Academy prep school, and had a Fleet medical record going back ten years or more.
“He was told of the possibility,” she was told, “it’s in his chart. But his father was career Fleet, died in a pod repair accident: the boy wanted to try. and the Board agreed to give him a chance. And it’s not wasted time, his or ours either. We have his record, to judge another by, and he’ll qualify for a downside Fleet job if he wants it.”
Sassinak couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it. To be stuck on one planet, or shipped from one to another by coldsleep cabinet? Horrible. Glad she had no such problems herself, she went back to her work eagerly.
It was, in fact, a prized assignment. The communications “shack” was a good-sized room that opened directly onto the bridge. Sassinak could look out and see the bridge crew: the officer of the deck in the command module - or, more often, standing behind it, overlooking the others from the narrow eminence that protruded into the bridge like a low stage. Of course she could not see it all; her own workstation cut off the view of the main screens and the weapons section. But she felt very much at the nerve-center of the cruiser’s life. Communications in the newly refitted heavy cruiser were a far sight from anything she’d been taught in the Academy.
Instead of the simple old dual system of sublight radio and FTL link, both useful only when the ship itself was in sublight space, they had five separate systems, each for use in a particular combination of events. Close-comm, used within thirty LM of the receiver, was essentially the same old sublight microwave relay that virtually all technical races developed early on.
Low-link, a low-power FTL link for use when they themselves were not on FTL drive, brought near- instantaneous communications within a single solar system, and short-lag comm to nearby star systems. Two new systems gave the capability for transmissions while in FTL flight: a sublight emergency channel, SOLEC, which allowed a computer-generated message to contact certain mapped nodes, and the high-power FTL link which transmitted to mapped stations. Even newer, still experimental and very secret, was the computer-enhanced FTL link to other Fleet vessels in FTL flight.
For each system, a separate set of protocols and codes determined which messages might be sent where, and by whom . . . and who could or should receive messages.
“One thing is, we don’t want the others to know what we’ve got,” said the Communications Chief. “So far, all the commercials in human space are using the old stuff: electromagnetic, lightspeed-radio and stuff like that - and FTL link - really a low-link. Arbetronics is about to come out with a commercial version of the FTL sublight transmitter, but Fleet’s got a total lock on the high-link. Our people developed it; all that research was funded in house, and unless someone squeaks, it’s our baby. And the Fleet IFTL link even more so. You can see why.”
Sassinak certainly could. Until now. Fleet vessels had had to drop into sublight to pick up incoming messages - usually at mapped nodes, which made them entirely too predictable. Her instructors at the Academy had suspected that Fleet messages were being routinely stripped from the holding computers by both Company and unattached pirates. The IFTL link would make them independent of the nodes altogether. “Information,” the Comm Chief said. “That’s the power out here - who knows what? Now, ordinarily, in any disputed or unsecured sector, all crew messages are held for batch transmission, ordinary sublight radio, to the nearest mail facility. Anything serious - death, discharge, that kind of thing - can be put on the low-link with clearance from the Communications Officer, who may require the captain to sign off on it. The initiating officer’s code goes on each transmission. That means whoever authorized it, not who actually punched the button - right now you’re not booked to initiate any signals. The actual operator’s code also goes on it; whoever logs onto that system transmitter automatically gets hooked to the transmission. Incoming’s always accepted, and automatically dumped in a protected file unless its own security status requires even more. Accepting officer’s code - and that’s you, if you’re on duty right then - goes on it in the file. If it’s the usual mail-call batch, check with ‘Tenant Cardon; if he says it’s clear, then let the computer route it to individuals’ E-mail files.”
“What about other incoming?”
“Well, if it’s not a batch file message, if it’s a singleton for one person, you have to get authorization to move it to that individual’s file. If it’s a low-link message, those are always Fleet official business, and that means route to the captain first, but into his desk file, not his private E-mail file. We don’t get any incoming on high-link or SOLEC, so you don’t have to worry about them. Now if it’s something on the IFTL, that’s routed directly to the captain’s desk file. Pipe the captain, wherever he is, and no copies at all. Nothing in main computer. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. But do I still patch on my ID code, on an
IFTL message?”
“Yes, of course. That’s always done.”
Some days later, Sassinak came into Communications just as the beeper rang off on the end of an incoming message burst. Cavery, who had already discovered the new ensign could do his job almost as well as he could, pointed at the big display. Sassinak scanned the grid and nodded.
“I’ll put it down,” she said.
“I’ve already keyed my code on it. Just the mail run from Stenus, nothing fancy.”
Sass flicked a few keys and watched the display. The computer broke each message batch into its component messages, and routed them automatically. The screen flickered far faster than she could read it. She liked the surreal geometries of the display anyway. It hovered on the edge of making sense, like math a little beyond her capability.
Suddenly something tugged at her mind, hard, and she jammed a finger on the controls. The display froze, halfway between signals, showing only the originating codes.
“Whatsit?” asked Cavery, looking over to see why the flickering had stopped.
“I don’t know. Something funny.”
“Funny! You’ve been here over six standard months and you’re surprised to find something funny?”
“No . . . not really.” Her voice softened as she peered at the screen. Then she saw it. Out of eighteen message fragments on the screen, two had the same originator codes, reduplicated four times each. That had made odd blocks of light on the screen, repeating blocks where she’d expected randomness. She looked over at Cavery. “What’s a quad duplication of originating blocks for?”
“A quad? Never saw one. Let’s take a look - “ He called up the reference system on his own screen. “What’s the code?”
Sassinak read it off, waited while he punched it in. He whistled. “Code itself is Fleet IG’s office . . . who the dickens is getting mail from the IG, I wonder. And quad duplication. That’s ...”
She heard his fingers on the keys, a soft clicking, and then another whistle. “I dunno. Ensign. Some kind of internal code, I’d guess, but it’s not in the book. Who’re they to?”
Sassinak read off the codes, and he looked them up.
“Huh. ‘Tenant Achael and Weapons Systems Officer . . . and that’s Tenant Achael. Tell you what. Ensign, someone sure wants to have Achael get that signal, whatever it is.” He gave her a strange, challenging look. “Want me to put a tag on it?”
“Mmm? No,” she said. Then more firmly, as he continued to look at her. “No, just the receiving code tag. It’s none of our business, anyway.”
Still, she couldn’t quite put it out of her mind. It wasn’t unknown for the IG to pull a surprise inspection - and not unheard of for a junior officer to be tipped off by a friend ahead of time. Or someone - presumably ‘Tenant Achael - might have made a complaint directly to the IG. That also happened. But she couldn’t leave it at that. She was responsible, whenever she was on duty, for spotting anything irregular in the Communications Section. Two messages from the IG’s office - two messages sent to the same person by different routes, and with an initiating code that wasn’t in the book. That was definitely irregular.
“Come in. Ensign,” said Commander Fargeon, seated as usual behind his desk. She wished it had been some other officer. “What is it?” he asked.
“An irregularity in incoming signals, sir.” Sassinak laid the hardcopy prints on his desk. “This came in with a regular mail batchfile. Two identical strips for Lieutenant Achael, one direct to his E-mail slot, and one to Weapons Officer. The same originating code, in the IG’s office, but repeated four times. And it’s in code ...” She let her voice trail off, seeing that Fargeon’s attention was caught. He picked up the prints and looked closely at them.
“Hmm. Did you decode it?”
“No, sir.” Sass managed not to sound aggrieved: he knew she knew that was strictly against regulations. She hadn’t done anything yet to make him think she was likely to break regs.
“Well.” Fargeon sat back, still staring at the prints. “It’s probably nothing. Ensign - a friend in the IG’s office, wanting to make sure he’d get the message - but you were quite right to bring it to my attention. Quite right.” By his tone, he didn’t think so - he sounded bored and irritable. Sassinak waited a moment. “And if anything of a similar nature should happen again, you should certainly tell me about it. Dismissed.”
Sassinak left his office unsatisfied. Something pricked her mind; she couldn’t quite figure it out, but it worried her constantly. Surely Fargeon, the most rigid of captains, couldn’t be involved in anything underhanded. And was it underhanded to be receiving messages from the IG? Not really.
She mentioned her inability to feel comfortable with Fargeon’s attitude to the Weft ensign, Jrain.
“No, we don’t think he’s bent,” was Jrain’s response. “He doesn’t like Wefts, but then he doesn’t like much of anyone he didn’t know in childhood. They’re pretty inbred, there on Bretagne. A bit like the Seti, in a way: they have very rigid ideas of right and wrong.”
“I thought the Seti were pretty loose,” said Sass. “Vandals and hellraisers, always willing to start a fight or gamble it all on one throw.”
“They are, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have their own rules. Did you know Seti won’t do any gene engineering?”
“I thought they were primitive in that field.”
“They are, but it’s because they want to be. They think it’s wrong to load the dice - genetic or otherwise. But that’s beside the point: what matters is that Fargeon is straight, so far as Wefts can tell. Even though he doesn’t like us. Wefts choose to serve on his ship, because he is fair.”
Only a few shipdays later, they had their first break in routine since leaving Base. The cruiser had orders to inspect a planet in the system which had generated conflicting reports: an EEC classification of “habitable; possibly suitable for limited colonization” and a more recent free scout’s comment of “dead - no hope.”
From orbit, the remote survey crews backed up the free scout’s report. No life, and no possibility of it without major terraforming. But Fleet apparently wanted a closer investigation, some idea of who had done it - the Others, or what? Commander Fargeon himself chose the landing team: Sassinak went as communications officer, along with ten specialists and ten armed guards.
It was her first time since the training cruise at the Academy in fall protective gear. This time, a sergeant checked her seals and tanks, instead of an instructor. The air tasted “tanky” as they put it, and she had to remind herself where all the switches were. Carefully, very aware that this was no training exercise, she checked out the main and backup radios she’d be using on the surface, made sure that the recording taps were all open, the computer channels cleared for input.
She didn’t see the planet until the shuttle cleared the cruiser’s hull. It looked exactly like the teaching tapes of dead planets. Sassinak ignored it after a glance and ran another set of checks on her equipment. Although the planet had once had a breathable oxygen atmosphere, sustained by its biosphere, it had already skewed towards the reducing atmosphere common to unlivable worlds.
Besides, whatever had been used to kill its living component might still be active. They would be on tanks the entire time. She had hardly cleared the shuttle ramp on the surface, and felt the alien grit rasping along her bootsoles, when the landing team commander called a warning.
At first Sassinak could not judge the size or distance of the pyramidal objects that seemed to grow, like the targets in a computer simulation game, from nothing in the upper air. Certainly they didn’t follow the trajectories required by normal insystem drives, nor did they slow for the careful landing the shuttle pilot had made. Instead they hovered briefly overhead, then sank apparently straight down to rest firmly on the bare rock.
Sassinak reported this, hardly aware of doing it, so fascinated was she by the display. Half a dozen of the pyramids now sat, or lay, m an irregular array near the shuttle.
Theks, the landing party commander had said; apart from teaching tapes, she had never seen a Thek and now she saw many in person, if such designation was accurate for those entities.
Another member of the landing party beeped the LPC and asked, “What do we do about them, sir?”
The LPC snorted, a splatter of sound in the suit corn units. “It’s more what are they going to do about us. For future reference, this looks to me like the beginnings of a Thek conference. Meanwhile, look your fill. Not many of us ephemerals get a chance to see one forming.”
His suit helmet tilted; Sassinak looked up, too. More of the pyramids appeared, sank, and landed nearby.
“If that’s what they’re doing,” LPC said after a brief silence, “we might as well go back in the shuttle and have something to eat. This is going to take longer than we’d planned. Inform the captain. Ensign.”
More and more pyramids arrived . . - . and then, without sound or warning, the ones already landed rose and joined the others to form a large, interlocking structure of complex geometry.
“That,” said the LPC, sounding impressed, “is a Thek cathedral. It’s big enough inside for this whole shuttle, and it lasts until they’re through. The Xenos think they’re linking minds. Humans who have been in one don’t talk about what happened.”
“Humans get drawn into one of those things?” someone asked, clearly unsettled by the notion.