by Janet Morris
Nobody knew what these alien ships could do.
But they were beginning to find out.
And Reice didn't want to regret finding out a whole hell of a lot more than humankind could survive.
He was just beginning to get a little flak from the ConSpaceCom contingent when two things happened:
Remson returned his call.
And UFO-1 popped back into being, exactly at the spot where it had first appeared and then disappeared.
Vince Remson was saying in a hoarse and carefully articulated voice, "Hold your fire, Reice. Is that clear? Hold your fire."
And Reice was saying, "Yes, sir. Clear, sir. Holding fire, sir," because he had no time to argue.
He had to get off-line with Remson before he could execute Remson's orders. He had to make sure nobody took a potshot at UFO-2 or UFO-3. Or at the frigging Ball.
And he needed to do that as fast as possible. Not only because somebody, in these circumstances, might shoot—because they were nervous, or because instinct was sometimes overwhelming, or because the need to act was so strong when facing the unknown. But also because, until he made sure that everyone was safely back to standby, he couldn't go to the head and retch.
Which was what he wanted to do. Needed to do.
Those aliens had just made it painfully clear that they were toying with all the muscle that TTT could muster. The entire display that the Trust Territory had deployed here, all its shiny firepower and dissuasive might—all of these were merely being tolerated by the aliens, who could wink out of this spacetime whenever they chose.
Without a warning. Without a trace. And without the consolidated forces of Trust Territory being able to do a damned thing about it.
And those aliens had Mickey Croft in their clutches. The SecGen was clearly beyond the protection of the UNE, of ConSec, of ConSpaceCom—of humanity.
Reice had never been so frightened, or so demoralized, in his entire life.
CHAPTER 14
Minding the Store
Back on Threshold, in the Simulations Bay, the sky was blue. The trees were green. The water had wrinkles on its surface that moved lazily before her eyes.
Riva Lowe laid out a checkered tablecloth and put a wicker basket on the grass, feeling ridiculous, ludicrous even, in a plaid skirt and a blouse trimmed with lace.
Opposite her, Richard the Second, CEO of NAMECorp and bereaved father of the missing Cummings III, wore a lumberjack shirt and a pair of faded blue trousers with rivets at the pocket corners. And boots.
"I feel like I'm in an old movie," she admitted to Cummings. "All that's missing are violins." But she couldn't admit to Cummings that she was going through all these infinitely silly motions with him only in hopes of keeping secret the fact that there was an alien armada parked within striking distance of Threshold.
Cummings looked as if he hadn't a care in the world. His handsome, broad head dipped slightly. His face, when it turned to her, had a vid-show smile on it.
"You look as if you were born to it," he said softly.
Born to what? Earth? She'd never seen Earth in her life. Never expected to see it. Never expected even to be in so expensive a simulation, learning to adapt to it. Or did he mean that she was born to the game of deception?
If he meant that, he might be right. But since she didn't know which he did mean, Riva was suddenly more concerned than she had been. If Richard the Second found out she was trying to distract him she would lose her trip to Earth, of course: her outrageous, unexpected, fantastically elite junket; her once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the ancestral planet.
But worse than that, she reminded herself forcibly, she would have made a powerful enemy. So she must find a way to prepare for the inevitable moment when Cummings, Jr., did find out she'd been keeping him busy while Mickey and his staff tried to deal with the aliens without causing a panic.
How did you do that?
Cummings was one of the largest stockholders in Trust Territory. His interspatial holdings were greater than those of many national conglomerates. He was a power beyond measure. If he became displeased with her, her career would be over. She'd end up serving drinks in the Loader Zone—if she was lucky.
Or deported to a terraforming world, more likely, where she'd die with silicates in her lungs and aluminum in her brain.
Richard Cummings the Second sat down cross-legged on the synthetic grass and patted it. "Sit. Let's have this picnic and pretend we have all the time in the world." He frowned. "Of course on Earth there'd be bugs."
"Bugs?"
"Insects. Bees, ants, mosquitoes that bite. Worms."
"Mosquitoes that bite," she said dumbly, doing as he asked. How had he sat so gracefully, folding into a squat without having to rearrange all his limbs?
Her bare legs flashed as she tried to emulate him in the unwieldy skirt.
Why would women have worn skirts, anyhow? But she knew the answer to that: to make them quickly accessible to the mating instincts of men.
She was momentarily repelled by the thought, by herself, and by the man across from her, all power and patience.
He didn't seem to know about UFOs 1-3. He didn't seem to be worried. So maybe she was doing the impossible, which, unfortunately, seemed to be her job right now. She ached to tell Cummings the truth and be out of here.
He'd find out, eventually. So why not now? They might need her out there. Remson had convinced her that she was most needed here, dealing with Richard the Second. It hadn't seemed fair, even then.
But Vince Remson was calling the shots. So she was here. And South was out there. Even Keebler was out there.
And she was here. A twinge of resentment made her mutter.
Cummings said, "Here, let me help you." Inane man. He'd thought she hadn't known how to open the basket, perhaps. Or how to get out the champagne glasses and the pate and all the other delicacies that his staff had packed for them.
If this was a seduction, Richard the Second might, for the first time in his life, fail at something.
A look into the quiet blue eyes of the man made her know that the thought of failure hadn't crossed his mind.
So she said, "The matter of your son is one we want you to know we've been doing our utmost to resolve." You failed at that, hotshot. At raising a son with more sense than to take off for parts unknown with his Juliet, in a ridiculous display of coming-of-age misjudgment.
Cummings didn't wince, but he didn't nod his regal head either. He brought his level stare to bear on her and said, "My people feel that something extraordinary has happened to those two children. We've analyzed the disappearance of their ship and our technologists have come to more definite conclusions than yours."
So maybe this wasn't pure seduction. And maybe the trip to Earth was going to disappear from her wish list, if not from her future, at any moment.
But Riva Lowe was a professional. She didn't duck challenges, even when they came from men more influential than some presidents or kings. She said: "We don't speculate. We have theories, but theories don't qualify as anything more than speculation at this time. I hope you're not suggesting that we're dragging our heels on this investigation."
"I'm suggesting that you're holding back information, yes. And I'm telling you that it's a waste of time: I always find out what I need to know."
Suddenly, she didn't want to have a confrontation. She didn't want to have a picnic, either.
Cummings was popping the cork on the champagne bottle, which made an explosive sound.
Startled, she flinched. Froth poured out of the bottle. Cummings, chuckling, caught some in his fingers and licked them.
She found the gesture insultingly suggestive and overtly provocative. So she reached into her purse and toggled her office pager.
It would call her with an attempt to dump her messages in a few moments.
And then she'd be out of here, away from the NAMECorp CEO before she made some terrible mistake.
Mickey Croft had been wrong. She
couldn't handle Richard the Second. Remson had been wrong, too. She wasn't up to the task of distracting this man sufficiently that he would keep his nose out of the alien encounter.
Cummings was handing her a glass, saying, "Let's change the subject. There's no reason for us to argue over bureaucracies and red tape. When we get to Earth, you'll realize how minimal these simulations are. And how extraordinary an experience it is to walk the homeworld ground. But until—"
Her beeper obediently demanded her attention. She didn't need to pretend to be flustered. She fumbled for it, nearly dropping the glass full of champagne, the surface of which was launching a flotilla of bubbles into the air.
"I've got to go check these. I'll be right back."
"And of course, you can't do that with me at hand. Shall I stay here then, until you return?"
She should have realized he wouldn't let her go this easily. But she hadn't. She felt outclassed. He knew how powerful he was.
What was going to happen when he was forced to learn that, as far as she was concerned, no one was powerful enough to lay a hand on her? She didn't consider the occasional discreet affair to be part of her job. She never had. She never would.
And Cummings wasn't the sort of man to take no for an answer.
Determinedly, she stood up and said, "Fine. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Within the hour, surely," he said, to make certain she knew that he was expecting to be tended by her, to have his picnic, to have his way.
"Of course," she said, but the tone of it made him raise an eyebrow. Turning her back she walked swiftly to the simulator exit, between two brick columns.
One more step and she would be safe from Richard the Second. . . .
As her stride took her between the apparent piles of brick, the hairs on the nape of her neck rose and fell and the brick disappeared, to be replaced by the Virtual-Reality Bay with its gray-and-green panels.
She'd never been so glad to get out of someplace in her life.
She turned around, to be sure Cummings hadn't followed. The simulator entrance was clearly marked in use, and unremarkable.
With a sigh, she sat down along the wall and flipped her wallet communicator open. She did have three messages marked urgent.
Two were from Vince Remson. Two?
When she'd listened to both of them she knew that Mickey had gone aboard the alien craft and that it had disappeared, then reappeared.
The third message was from South. When she replayed it, her hands were shaking.
The little screen on her fliptop displayed a miniature South with tortured eyes, saying, "I dunno what's happening here. The Scavenger and Sling are out here. Mickey's still out of contact. I'm going out to the Ball with the black box, the way we planned. If you don't get to me before I leave, Reice'll have a fix on me. I got to tell you . . . thanks for all you've done."
The little face disappeared.
Riva Lowe leaned her head back against the wall. She was suddenly very sad.
What did that idiot South think he was going to accomplish? And why wasn't she angry at him?
Couldn't he think clearly enough to realize that what had happened to Mickey and to UFO-1 dictated that no prior courses of action should be pursued?
But of course, he wouldn't understand that. She wished she'd been there.
She wished she was out there now.
And then she began to get angry. She should have been there. She was so wrapped up with this Cummings thing, and the foolish trip to Earth that would invest her with massive profile and clout by association, that she'd lost track of her real best interest.
Vince Remson would find a way to coopt South and use him for Secretariat purposes, while she was otherwise engaged.
It was just like Vince. Turf battles were his stock in trade.
She flipped on her pocket privacy field and stared at the comforting enclosure of silvery static.
From here she could call anyone, do anything she wanted, without worrying about who might overhear.
South wasn't available, she was told. Just that. The staffer she spoke to wasn't shaken when she tried to pull rank.
Okay, she'd expected that.
The staffer told her, "I'll be glad to give you the Assistant Secretary's extension. I'm sure that you'll be able to secure the progress report you wish by calling that office."
Kiss my ass, she thought, and said she'd try that later.
Then she called Reice.
Good old Reice had a longtime crush on her. Normally, there was nothing Reice wouldn't do for her.
But not today, of course. Today wasn't a normal day.
Reice was harried, and his miniaturized head was framed in a mosaic of signature-scanning monitors, all blazing with readouts.
"Progress report? God, Riva, we might be about to go to war here. UFO-1 disappeared. Then it reappeared. We're under a 'Hold Fire' order from Remson. It's quiet as a grave over there, and UNE Peacekeeping wants to fire one across their bow just to make sure somebody's inside. For all we know those are three empty hulks out there—now."
Reice was trying to choose his words carefully, and that made his excitation even more distressing.
"I want a progress report from South then, since you're too busy. Can you arrange that for me?"
"He's out there at the Ball, with his crazy buddies and an escort. You want to call him, here's what you do."
Once Reice had given her the right freq and call signs for this military emergency she told him that, if he spoke to South before she did, she expected Reice to pass on to South her order that South return immediately to Threshold and see her in her office.
Never mind that she couldn't possibly be expected to be in her office whenever the Relic pilot would arrive.
She didn't even know why she was giving such an order.
When at last she got patched through to South and tried to give the order directly, she could only receive him on audio.
"I'm kinda busy," he interrupted in a whispery tone, before she could finish her demand that he return. "How about I call you back when the fun's over?"
"What are you doing out there?" she demanded.
"Classified," he said in a voice that might have been chuckling. "My therapist is here, though. So don't worry. We'll be home soon."
"You'll come back right—"
The circuit went dead.
She sat there, staring at the fliptop screen on her lap. His therapist? Then she realized he meant the psych-evaluator, a pilot-specialized AIP-T, or Artificially Intelligent Preprogrammed Therapist. This one was supposed to be evaluating South's fitness for a pilot's exam. So what use was it going to be in this sort of crisis? What was going on out there?
She was going to need some therapy herself, when this was over. South, the Scavenger, and the aftermarketeer all out at the Ball? With less going on than the visit of alien spaceships, she would have been disturbed by that news.
Now, it didn't seem any more unusual than anything else.
She shut down the privacy field and the flowing silver tube disappeared. The Virtual-Reality Bay beyond looked normal.
Maybe she was overreacting. Sure she was.
Nothing for it but to put her things away, smooth down her skirt, and go back in there to face Cummings and his picnic. After all, she had her job to do.
Today her job was Cummings, Jr. Vince Remson had made that clear. You did your job, everyday, and you didn't ask too many questions.
And this was just another day, minding the store here on Threshold. Sure it was.
Just because Mickey was in the hands of aliens, and South was out there with a crazy man and a black market electronics jock trying to open up the Ball, didn't mean she had to be there.
She wanted to be there so badly that she nearly told Richard the Second what the trouble was when he asked.
But she couldn't do that. She had to play her part, at least until she got rid of Cummings for the night.
Then, if she happened to n
eed to consult with South, her Customs man on the scene, personally, who could argue with that?
CHAPTER 15
Flashbacks
Aboard STARBIRD, Joe South was sweating in his climate-controlled suit, despite his AI's attempts to cool him. "Birdy," he said to the ship around him through his open helmet, "what do you think?"
The voice of the artificially intelligent copilot interface didn't answer him.
Of course Birdy didn't "think," in the human sense of the term. But Birdy and he were the lone survivors of the experimental flyby of X-3, five hundred years in humanity's past.
Now that he had maneuvered STARBIRD nose-to-nose with the mysterious Ball that seemed to have followed him back to the home system across time and space, he needed to know that Birdy was reading this situation the way he was.
And he was feeling that something urgently relevant to the Ball and to the teardrop ships around it lay in his lost knowledge of those forgotten events, hidden from humanity by a curtain of relativity and from South's memory by a protective trick of his mind or a reaction to experimental spongespace travel.
Or he thought he knew that. His flight deck was his security blanket. Birdy whirred and purred around him, tending to his every need the way she always had, through STARBIRD's multispectral capability to keep him alive and well. The spacecraft he loved, and had fought to secure as his own, knew damned well that something strange was happening.
Birdy could interface with his life-support system, tweak the suit he wore to help keep his body at maximum efficiency. The cuff on his wrist and his pharmakit would combine to bring him back to a functional baseline if his chemistries spiked too far. But Birdy was giving him plenty of latitude this time. He was on an emotional roller coaster, here in his doubly safe cocoon of ship and suit, and the AI wasn't doing anything to brake the ride.
So maybe Birdy was scared, too. Or maybe the way he was feeling didn't indicate anything like parity with Birdy's artificial intelligence. Maybe Birdy felt fine. Maybe the AI didn't share South's overwhelming angst. Loneliness. Melancholia. Disassociation. All of those could be pure fear reactions that seemed familiar because South had seen aliens in his dreams and lavender skies and ringed planetary vistas he couldn't understand during his test flight.