*
Napoleon had no difficulty changing the placement of the stone. Bandicut watched in the monitor as the robot emerged from one exhaust bell, glowing ball in its grip, and disappeared into another. It came back out empty-handed, and a moment later, Bandicut felt a momentary dizziness, which he assumed was the stone expanding its field to encompass the ship again. As soon as Napoleon was back aboard ship, Charlie suggested that they resume threading flight at once.
/I want to wait and see if we get a reply from Triton,/ Bandicut insisted. He was feeling morose, but also stubborn. The quarx reluctantly agreed to wait another hour.
Fifty-one minutes later, the comm picked up a signal. Bandicut strained to hear. It was a voice signal, but faint with static, as though improperly aimed. ". . . EXPLORER . . . CANNOT CONFIRM YOUR POSITION. PLEASE SAY AGAIN. IF YOU CANNOT RETURN . . . STABILIZE YOUR ORBIT . . . ATTEMPT TO ASSIST. WE DO NOT UNDERSTAND, BUT . . . GAME . . . OVER . . ."
Bandicut stared at the comm panel in disbelief. The message continued, repeating itself over and over. Was it possible they didn't believe him—even after the way he'd departed? He swallowed, knowing that it was all too possible. Even if Julie and exoarch believed him . . . he could just imagine the rulers of MINEXFO trying to wrap their small minds around something like this.
/// I'm sorry.
But I'm honestly not surprised.
Shall we continue? ///
He shook his head, his vision blurred. /Just a minute./ He cleared his throat to transmit, and squeezed the switch. "Triton Orbital, Neptune Explorer. This might be the last transmission I can make. I'm about to accelerate again—threading space, they call it. So listen to me, and listen good. Are you listening?" He took a breath, then shouted, "YOU DUMB MOKIN' GOAKS! PUT A MOKIN' TELESCOPE ON THE MOKIN' COORDINATES I JUST GAVE YOU! IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, BELIEVE YOUR MOKIN' EYES! BANDICUT OUT!" He gasped with anger as he punched the comm off.
/// Well said, John . . . I think. ///
/Charlie, punch it. Let's get moving,/ he said wearily. /And give 'em a good light show, okay?/
As the fusion chamber ignited, he felt a gentle push of returning gravity. And in the rear monitor, he saw an eruption of concentric rings of light and color behind them, as Neptune Explorer threaded space inward toward the sun.
Chapter 29
Lonely Crossing
BANDICUT'S ANGER DID not diminish, and it was only a matter of time before he turned it inward, upon the quarx. /You weren't exactly honest with me, were you, you bastard?/ he said, after stewing in silence for a while.
/// What . . . do you mean? ///
The quarx's voice sounded weak. Defensive?
/You said there was a fifty-fifty chance we'd come out of this alive. Now, you tell me we're goners. You care to explain that?/ It had taken a little while for it to sink in, that the quarx was changing his tune, now that they were under way and it was too late to turn back.
/// No, I said . . . well, I mean . . . ///
/You just said—/
/// —that we won't return to Triton.
But I . . . ///
Charlie's voice was quivering. He seemed to be straining for words.
/// I never said we would return, John. ///
/Fifty-percent chance! That's what you said./
/// I didn't mean, to return!
I meant . . . to survive, in some form. ///
Bandicut squinted out the window, imagining a great orrery of planets encircling the sun. /In some form?/ His mood was not improving. /You implied that we might be rescued. Now you're saying, what? We'll survive, but we won't be rescued?/
/// Not by . . . your people . . . no. ///
His heart skipped a beat. /What the hell are we talking about, then—the goddamn afterlife? Is this some kind of goddamn theological prediction?/
/// No, no!
I meant survival.
But I have to admit, the chances might be
less than I predicted before. ///
The quarx's voice was definitely trembling.
/// I think I was . . . optimistic, before. ///
Bandicut caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. His face was contorted with fear. /Charlie? Where the hell will we be—if we're not dead?/
Charlie's voice dropped to near-inaudibility.
/// I can't . . . say for sure.
But it will be a journey.
Possibly a most magnificent journey . . . ///
Bandicut's breath caught, and he sat staring at his own terrified reflection in the maneuvering window, thinking about Charlie's journey of millions of years that had brought him here to the solar system. And he suddenly knew that the quarx was not talking about a journey to the other side of the sun. The quarx came from beyond the stars, and that was where he intended to return.
Charlie was quiet for a few moments.
/// Not home, if that's what you're thinking.
That I cannot do.
But . . . beyond the stars . . . yes. ///
Bandicut swallowed. /Then where—?/
/// Well, that's the thing.
I really can't say.
But, John—?
Looking at our present situation,
the chances are probably more like ninety percent
that we'll die,
and that will be the end of it. ///
Bandicut stared blankly for a moment. /WHY THE MOKIN' HELL DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT BEFORE?/ he thundered.
/// I was . . . afraid you wouldn't agree. ///
/You were afraid—/ Bandicut felt his breath go out. /You mean, you . . . lied to me? You flat-out lied?/
/// Well, I . . . weighted some uncertain odds.
I guess, in that, I misled you.
I'm sorry. ///
/Thanks, asshole./
/// I said, I'm sorry.
It really would be better, John,
if you just went into the final phase of our mission
expecting to die. ///
Bandicut bit back a sarcastic reply. /Well, you haven't answered my question. If we don't die, where do we go? Alpha Centauri? Sirius? Where? Don't I have a right to know that much?/
/// John, I really don't know. ///
/How can you NOT KNOW?/ Bandicut yelled, his emotions sliding completely out of control.
There was no answer.
/CHARLIE?/
After a moment, the trembling quarx whispered,
/// John, didn't you understand from the beginning
that you were giving your life to this?
That nothing would ever be the same again? ///
/Are you crazy?/ Bandicut pounded the console savagely. Maybe the quarx had made it clear enough then, but that didn't help him accept it now.
From the quarx, there was silence. Charlie had shut himself off, and retreated into some private purgatory of his own.
*
In the absence of the quarx's voice, Bandicut found himself starkly alone and at a loss for purpose, drifting toward, but not quite into, silence-fugue. He watched the instruments and the stars, and did little more for the rest of the ship-day than tap the armrests on his seat and listen to the vague choir of fugue-voices tuning up for action, just beyond the edges of his consciousness.
Eventually, drawn by hunger, he drifted out of his borderline state and went to prepare a grim, lonely dinner. He mouthed some tasteless soyloaf, thinking about all he had left behind, even his duffel bag with all of his photos, books, memories . . .
/// You still have your memories.
Those other things were only possessions. ///
He grunted. /You're back, huh?/ The quarx might have been right, but he very badly wished he had those possessions. He thought he might find them comforting, at the end. To say nothing of the people he would have like to see.
And that thought was enough to send him skidding over into real fugue . . .
*
Dakota's voice made him turn. "Uncle John?" Her green eyes were welling
with tears as she prepared to board the train with her grandparents, after the heartbreaking funeral. "When you're back on Earth, will you still come see me?" She glanced at her grandmother, beckoning from the train portal. His heart ached as he chucked her under the jaw. He felt like a hopelessly awkward uncle, and wished he could somehow find a way to show his niece how much he cared. " 'Course I will, kiddo," he murmured. "And I expect you to come visit me in space, when you're a little older. Deal?" Deal, she whispered.
He saw her just twice after that, before shipping out to Triton. But he set up the trust fund before he left, in a sudden impulse that in retrospect seemed almost prescient.
"I know what you're going through," Julie murmured, leaning to kiss his cheek. "I'll find Dakota and explain everything to her, don't worry. And I'll wait for you right here, for as long as it takes you to come back. I love you, John—"
/// Your act must be its own reward, ///
Charlie said, breaking through the soft borders of the fugue-dream.
Bandicut started. /Platitudes, Charlie. Tell me—will anyone believe that I really did this? Will they even see the comet go kaboom? Will there be any evidence?/
/// Depends on their willingness
to believe what they see.
Maybe they'll see the flash. ///
Bandicut grunted. He suspected that the quarx had not even the slightest expectation that his act would be recognized even if it were seen. /I always thought,/ he muttered, /that when people died heroes, they at least got a little credit for it./
The quarx didn't answer. In the silence, Bandicut drifted back into his own dreamy fugue.
*
The sun grew steadily as the days passed. They were plummeting inward in a steep, S-shaped trajectory, aiming to loop around the sun in the direction opposite to the movement of the planets. On day twenty, they swept through Saturn's orbit and inward toward Jupiter's and Mars's. Not that they would be stopping off, or even able to see those planets, other than as remote telescopic images, since the orbits were merely abstract tracings on the nav-screens and the planets themselves were elsewhere in their great elliptical tracks around the sun. Nevertheless, Bandicut imagined conversations with the outposts on and around those worlds, imagined stopping off to have a beer on Ganymede or Phobos, before continuing his mission . . . imagined Julie at his side . . .
Their velocity extrinsic to the threading environment was quite impressive now, close to a tenth of lightspeed. It would, Charlie acknowledged, make for a pretty good bang when they hit the comet. It gave him greater hope—if not of survival, at least that their collision would be seen.
Life aboard ship grew increasingly quiet. Charlie increased the shipboard gravity by small increments, and Bandicut exercised twice a day in an effort to get back into shape, and wondered why he was bothering. Charlie made periodic, unsuccessful efforts to cheer him up. The quarx seemed unusually distracted. Bandicut wondered if something was bothering him, but didn't wonder very hard. Bandicut's own thoughts were growing more and more disjointed as they streaked inward toward a close approach to the sun, and a rendezvous with the comet soon after. He was aware that he was slipping in and out of a semipermanent silence-fugue, and he wondered vaguely, from time to time, why Charlie didn't do something about it. He wondered if Charlie was just getting tired, or if something else was wrong. But by the time he thought to ask, he had forgotten why he cared.
*
Perhaps, if he had been clearer headed—or if Charlie had been more alert—the accident on day twenty-four would not have happened. But at the time, working on the engineering level checking some power systems with Napoleon and Copernicus, he was already having trouble distinguishing what the robots were telling him from what the fugue-voices were saying.
"Award for best leap yet across the solar system!" cried an ethereal spectator in the asteroid belt, clapping at Bandicut's amazing feat of celestial navigation. Bandicut bowed, jumping across the propulsion deck from one instrument panel to another, puffing lightly with the exertion. The shipboard gravity was now at about one-fourth gee, but in his present dreamy state it felt like much less.
"John Bandicut," Napoleon interrupted with a metallic rasp. "If you wish us to inspect the secondary fuel-pump assemblies, it will be necessary to move these cylinders. They are blocking our access." The robot swiveled its head from a rack of compressed gas tanks that had been clamped up in an apparently temporary storage location during the servicing of the ship.
Bandicut peered up at the robot, hanging high on the wall, and the tank rack that it was poking at. One of the tanks was labeled "Barium"; it probably contained gases intended for injection experiments in the atmosphere of Neptune. "We won't be needing those, I guess," he muttered, waving his approval. "Sure, take care of it." His decisiveness brought another wave of applause from his asteroid-belt spectators, and he leaped across the deck again, with a graceful twist.
/// John, are you sure you should be . . . ///
/What's the matter?/ he muttered to the quarx. /Don't you trust the robots to do their job? I thought you were the one who—/
/// No, I mean your jumping around.
Your fugue seems to be getting out of hand. ///
Bandicut snorted. /If you can't help me control it, what am I supposed to do?/
/// I'm having trouble, John.
I'm very tired, for some reason. ///
/Then don't mind me . . . huh?/ There was a screech of metal, and he squinted up at the robots' efforts. Napoleon was releasing the tanks from the rack, and Copernicus had its manipulator-arms extended upward to bring the tanks down; but neither one of them seemed to have very good control.
"Pinball!" yelled someone from the audience, waving from the shadows. "All riiiight!"
"John Bandicut—!" squawked Napoleon. It was interrupted by a bang and a metallic shriek—and an avalance of cylinders, cascading directly toward Bandicut.
He had only a momentary awareness of alarm and danger—and an abrupt shift in the gravity field, but too late to stop the fall—before the first tank glanced from his temple, and the second hit him squarely in the ribs, and everything went black.
*
The sensation of pain was pervasive. He flickered in and out of consciousness, in a haze of red. His eyes refused to focus, but he was aware of two shadowy shapes moving nearby, and metallic drumtaps and voices. Then he blinked, and both of the shapes were gone.
He tried to turn his head, and felt a flash of new pain.
/// Don't move! ///
gasped the voice in his head.
/What—?/
/// I'm healing.
It's very difficult . . . ///
and then the voice faded away.
He had a dim memory of heavy objects falling toward him, but he couldn't quite place what had happened. He began to sigh, but it hurt too much. He breathed in slow, shallow waves . . .
When awareness came back to him, he found that he could focus on a ceiling overhead. He couldn't quite identify it. He didn't think it was his bunk, or Julie's . . .
He felt her hand on his forehead, cooling and soothing with her touch; he was burning with fever. She was speaking softly, not in words, but with comforting sounds. His chest hurt, but he was able to breathe a little more easily. Now Julie was leaning to kiss his forehead, and now his lips . . .
When he blinked and focused, he realized that he was on the deck of the engineering compartment, staring at the ceiling. He recalled at least two or three heavy metal cylinders hammering into his body. Where were they now? Weren't there supposed to be robots around to help? What about the mission? He felt nearly weightless; the gravity must have been cut back; maybe he could just turn . . .
/// Very carefully, ///
whispered a fatigued-sounding voice. Who was that? Charlie? He'd never heard Charlie sound so tired . . . except once . . .
/// Never mind that.
Can you move your eyes? ///
He tried, carefully. It made
him a little dizzy, but he managed to refocus on another part of the ceiling.
/// Can you move your head slightly? ///
He tried. His head and neck blazed, but he was able to turn his head slightly to the left. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he saw a black-eyed robot peering down at him.
"John Bandicut—are you well?" squawked the robot.
The sound of its voice made his ears ring. He didn't try to answer.
/// I think we've repaired
the most critical damage . . . ///
/I—what—happened?/
The quarx's answer seemed to require an almost overwhelming effort.
/// Do you remember . . .
the tanks striking you? ///
/I—think so./
/// The robots . . . didn't compensate properly
for the change in gravity.
They couldn't support . . . the tanks. ///
He felt faint for a moment. /That's stupid,/ he whispered. /I should have . . ./
/// They are unsophisticated machines. ///
/But I should have . . ./
/// You were in fugue.
I'm sorry. ///
/Sorry?/
/// I wasn't . . . feeling well . . . couldn't help. ///
/Oh. You sound tired now./ He shifted his gaze from the waiting robot to the ceiling again.
/// Yes . . . very.
The healing . . . getting you out of critical danger . . .
demanded . . . much of me.
It's not done, but I . . . ///
Bandicut felt a flicker of alarm. /You aren't hurting yourself, are you?/ His head throbbed with the effects of the sudden surge of adrenaline. /Charlie—?/
/// Yes, well I . . . I don't know how much . . . ///
Bandicut closed his eyes and counted to four. /Charlie,/ he whispered slowly and carefully. /Don't put yourself at risk—not even to heal me. I can't do this thing alone./
The quarx sounded wearily unconcerned.
/// Your survival . . . is paramount.
Your skills will be needed— ///
/No, listen. I—/
/// —at the end.
Absolutely essential.
I am . . . expendable. ///
/Charlie—/ His head was buzzing with a confusing welter of physical and emotional pain. /Don't. You hear? You've . . . saved my life. That's all you need to—/
The Chaos Chronicles Page 30