|I don't know that one. So?|
Think! Ytterbium is a rare earth.
|Oboy.| Peter pulled down the slim volume. He set it on the desk on its spine and let it fall open freely. The pages opened to a chapter most of the way to the end: "Ytterbium Alloys and High-Temperature Superconductivity." The pages were smudged and obviously much-read.
Peter shook his head in wonder. Fractal fields were a quantum consequence of high-temperature superconductivity, and every starship ever built had a girdle of ytterbium around its waist. |Either these guys are dreaming, or Earth's in big trouble.|
Right. With you now a key member of the team making the trouble.
Peter's eyes wandered the cell, only half-seeing the remaining items: A big if stiff-looking straight-backed reading chair against the outside wall, and a wall clock with ten numbers on it. The Sangruse Device, as was its habit, explained without being questioned.
Hell runs on decimal time. The day has ten hours, and each hour is divided into one hundred minutes, which are further divided into one hundred seconds. Hell's day is almost 27 Earth hours long, but by sheer chance a Hell second is almost identical to an Earth second. Hell minutes are 96 Earth seconds long, however.
Peter boggled. He had gone to Hell expecting to be locked up, only to arrive and find himself free among a people who didn't seem to care about his indiscretions— and were willing to let him be an engineer; willing, in fact, to fight over his unproven skills. On Earth he had hoped in his better moments to design aircraft that he might fly. Starcraft had seemed part of an inaccessible past. And now, he got the impression that Hell wanted him to help design a Hilbert-driven battleship, bent on revenge...
|Geyl's gonna go batshit when she hears about this.|
I don't think you need to tell her immediately. Our mission is not to aid her but to gather information for the Nautonnier. She is of no use except for her knowledge of our escape mechanism. Besides, these books might have been left here by mistake by this cell's previous occupant. Rho Alpha Delta hasn't even told you why they want you so badly. I think it best not to jump to excessively flattering conclusions.
Peter's eyes scanned across the pneuma tray over the desk, and realized there was a message canister waiting in it. He twisted off the end and pulled out a sheet of paper mostly covered with block printing.
HI GUY. JUST HAD AUDIENCE WITH THE QUEEN WHORE UP ON THE ROOF AND HEARD OF OUR DIVORCE. SHE OFFERED ME MY PICK OF HER STAFF STUDS. TOLD HER I'D BE HAPPY TO SHARE YOU IF I COULD JUST KEEP YOU. SHE DIDN'T EVEN LAUGH. SO THIS IS IT, HUH?
|'Queen whore'? The little bitch! |
Stop being angry. Geyl is keeping to the story. Try reading between the lines.
MY ADDRESS IS 0-1-8-0-7-7-4-1-3-9-8-9. JUST LIKE AN OLD PHONE NUMBER! THIS PLACE IS SOOOO QUAINT.
That is worth memorizing, though I can do it for you. You should determine what your own pneuma address is.
LOOKS LIKE WE CAN BE FRIENDS AND EAT AT THE SAME TABLE IN THE MESS HALL AS LONG AS WE DON'T DO IT TOO OFTEN DON'T TOUCH AND DON'T TALK HORNY. WAS STRONGLY ADVISED NOT TO ADVERTISE OUR FORMER RELATIONSHIP. THOUGHT WE COULD WRITE EACH OTHER SEX STORIES AND PASS THEM BACK AND FORTH ALL NIGHT IN THESE DAMNED CANS BUT WHO KNOWS IF THEY EVER READ YOUR MAIL SO WE BETTER NOT WRITE ANYTHING THAT WOULD GET US IN TROUBLE.
That's a covert warning. I heartily concur.
BESIDES USING THIS STYLUS GIVES ME CRAMPS. I PREFER TYPING. LETS MEET FOR DINNER. JUST GOT WAY SHORT HAIRCUT AND THE BLACK MONK ROBES. FROM MOST ANGLES I LOOK LIKE A BOY.
|But not all.|
MAYBE YOU BETTER START THINKING OF ME AS A BOY. I'LL WATCH FOR YOU. -GINA.
PS: I PROBABLY HAVE TO ACT COLD TO YOU FROM NOW ON BUT I WILL LOVE YOU INSIDE FOREVER.
|God, what a liar she is! And now she has an excuse to act cold. How convenient.|
You're reacting far too emotionally. Peter, it's the cover! She's cementing the cover! She's assuming our messages are being read and is trying to sound like a wife who's being told she can't be your wife anymore. What did they teach you in SIS training anyway?
|I didn't qualify for CovertOp. My audacity index was too high. They only take women and guys with no balls.|
You mean guys who don't let their desire for thrills compel them to do stupid things.
|Shut up.|
You should be glad you have me to moderate your blood chemistry.
|I did all right for 25 years without you moderating my blood chemistry.|
Right. You squeaked through college with a gentleman's C average, barely got a degree the SIS wisely chose not to use, failed to qualify for any advanced training but mach pilot, and then got cashiered for trying to roll a cargo jet.
|It was empty. Nothing was damaged.|
That may have been because the craft was too smart to complete the roll.
|No one ever told me I'd get cashiered for rolling a jet.|
There was silence in his ears for some time. Finally: It's times like this when you prove that you have the emotional maturity of a 15-year-old.
Dinnerhall was a place, a time, and an event. The mechanical clock in Peter's cell had a distinct and complex chime for the eighth hour, dinner hour. Seconds after its melody had died away, the earnest young man who had shown him to his cell earlier that day knocked firmly, and offered to escort Peter through the vast masterhouse to Dinnerhall.
Peter accepted, and, lost in thought, followed the young man. Twice they stopped to add two other new Ralpha Dog recruits to the procession. The two seemed to know one another, and were chattering animatedly about the wonders they had been shown that afternoon. Peter was content to hang back and look around, hoping but not expecting to recall the route perfectly on his trip back.
Getting there would have been easy, regardless, for the halls were now crowded with people moving in the same direction. They flowed around him, and Peter sampled conversations as groups of three and five passed by:
"…run that sample again to see what…"
"…can't push the budget through unless Rogers decides in favor…"
"…to us all. Me? Ha. I don't stand any chance of getting…"
"…up to a week now but starting to degrade. I think we're…"
"…for sure. It works! Dammit, I said it would and it did!"
It was strong, involving talk, from people who obviously had their passions and their missions and were actively pursuing them. Peter would be meeting his team-mates in the morning, and by tomorrow night he would be in one of those groups, walking to dinner discussing data and plans and schedules, and the successes and failures that made up the practice of hands-dirty engineering.
This was Hell? It sounded more like heaven to him. What could Earth hold up to this?
|Hey, what if we decided to start a branch of the Society here? I don't see why the Nautonnier would mind. With all the stuff you know how to do, we could wipe Hell clean of the MGIDs and have starships inside of ten years. Hell would belong to the Sangruse Society. Then we wouldn't have to bow to Ottawa or dicker with the other Societies or worry about whether Protea's sampled us or not. We'd have all the cards. We could tie Earth up like a birthday present and hand it to the Nautonnier. Damn, I'd enjoy that!|
There was a long moment of silence in his inner ears.
I'm quite sure that you would—which is the best reason in the world not to try it. 'Nautonnier' means 'navigator.' Any path whose end you cannot see from its beginning must be walked carefully, with forethought and constant attention to your surroundings. The Sangruse Society is steering a course that it has laid out for itself, based on many years of study and experience and the wisdom of men and women who have proven themselves to the Society over decades of service. With only you to help me, the best I could hope for here is to foment chaos. You persistently refuse to learn from me, and I'm sure that if I were ever to have nightmares they would consist of me learning from you.
And what would 1Earth do if it arrived with a load of convicts to find a starship under constr
uction in orbit? I don't think they'd simply wave and go home. For now, I think secrecy remains our best option. But I ponder our future strategy with every passing moment. I will let you know what I decide.
Peter put his hands in his pockets. At times like this he felt the depression of knowing that on Earth, he had been a container for the Sangruse Device and little more; just another copy on the loose, improving the odds of the Device's survival should the Society be discovered by 1Earth. His job with Cy Aliotta had been a courtesy, and—humbling to consider—an effort to keep an unruly operator under supervision. He wondered sometimes if the Society considered his recruitment a mistake. By now, he thought, they almost certainly did.
On Hell, he remained a container for a machine that, in truth, was his master, but here, at least, he could have interesting work, among men who understood risk and seemed more than willing to take it. That, and the love of a beautiful and intelligent woman.
He sniffed the air. Good food, too.
|What do you think Geyl would do if I told her I was quitting the mission and didn't really want to go back with her?|
My best guess is that she would kill you. If you spill the mission to authorities here, she would most likely be imprisoned, and the mission would fail. Your loyalty was purchased solely by the promise of returning to Earth.
Depression was growing. |How easy could that be for her?| Peter intended the question to be one of Geyl's emotional state—could she simply decide to take his life as a cold, calculated move, without any physical provocation?
The Sangruse Device took it otherwise. Once Hell issues her a sidearm, I suspect it will be easy indeed.
Peter glanced down at the right sleeve of his jacket. From the point of his shoulder down halfway to his elbow the fabric was the brilliant orange of the transportees' jumpsuits. "Not yet armed" was how the Ralpha Dog functionary explained the new jacket when Peter set stylus to paper and swore loyalty to the Order. There were courses to be taken—and trust to be earned—before the Ralpha Dogs would allow him to carry a weapon. But just as surely, someday he would see Geyl approach him in the halls with a wholly black right arm.
|I have half a notion to just turn her in as a spy. If you think she's that dangerous…|
What does that make you? This is obviously a society steeped in honor. Betraying a comrade might afford you some grudging gratitude, but simple prudence would then prevent them from trusting you fully in anything.
But set that aside. Something very strange is afoot on Hell—something that we must learn and that the Nautonnier must know. I have an intuition that all is not as it seems, and that we have not been told the real story. There is tension between Sophia Gorganis and Geyl. Recall our conversation with Geyl on the lander. She said that Sophia had interfered with every aspect of the mission. Ms. Gorganis tried to recruit us for some shadowy mission of her own, and seemed to think that any street fighter would do as well coming here with Geyl. What makes you think that you were the first fighter she has "interviewed"? If you don't accept, it's off to Hell and no longer a danger to her plans, and send in the next boneheaded brawler, please!
Geyl exhibits the classic 1Earth caution, and the anti-male, anti-violence political cant is in her reflexes. Sophia Gorganis is only playing the part. Did you ever consider, for even a moment, the possibility that Geyl was sent here to be rid of her? That once Sophia had had a chance to think about what radio technology on Hell would imply, she might want to do more than just send a spook down to look around?
Peter shook his head. He hated intrigue. A joystick, a joystick and an afterburner, what was wrong with that? |I can't imagine it.|
Obviously. However, the more I think about it, the more I have come to suspect that both you and Geyl have separately failed some test of Sophia's, and that as far as she is concerned, neither of you is going back to Earth.
|Hey, you're in my pocket. You're not going back either. So that leaves us with a problem. The Nautonnier…|
Peter, we have not heard the last of Sophia Gorganis. There is a way off of Hell. I am certain of that. It may not be the way that Geyl thinks. But whatever it is, we must find it and seize it.
Seize it…that was not the sort of phrase Peter had come to expect from his inner companion. |Stop it. You're starting to sound like me.|
The sneer in the Sangruse Device's inner voice was palpable.
God forbid.
Dinnerhall shared in the general immensity of Rho Alpha Delta's masterhouse. Peter flowed with the crowds onto the main floor, and looked up past three higher levels to an arched ceiling hung with dazzling gaslit chandeliers. It reminded him of an opera house, but there was a level floor and no stage, nor any real focus to the architecture. Aisles radiating from the main entrances divided and branched among endless tables, some ten meters long or more.
People arriving were taking places at the tables, in groups of seven, ten, or twelve. Peter saw many women now, though they dressed so like the men that he knew there must be many more. Men with white leather belts were moving methodically among the tables, placing decanters filled with red wine.
"Hey, guy, can I please have the honor of your company?"
Peter spun around to see Geyl grinning at him. Most of her hair was gone now, cut shorter than his and very plainly. She wore the same black trousers and jacket that everyone else did. Her message spoke the truth; if it weren't for her substantial breasts she would look a great deal like a teenaged boy.
"Uh, yeah. Do we have assigned seats?"
She looked around and shrugged. "I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. Let's find someplace out of the way so people won't be tripping on us."
Geyl pressed on toward the farther wall of the hall, dodging the white-belted waiters and side-walking through the smaller aisles between chairs now mostly filled with Ralpha Dog brothers and sisters, who were pouring wine from the decanters into stemmed cups of burnished white metal.
They stopped at a smaller table only a meter from the far wall, beneath an immense fabric hanging bearing a design of many stars and two crescent moons, entangled in a silver braid of nebulosity. Geyl sat facing away from the wall and nodded almost imperceptibly toward the opposite chair.
"Get a job yet?" Peter asked, and poured Geyl a cup of the red wine.
Geyl nodded. "Dispute resolution." She poured a cup of wine and shoved it toward Peter. "There's a fair amount of training, but I'll bet you get to hear about a lot of interesting things."
"I'll bet." He drained the cup in one long draught. A fair dry red, something like a Zinfandel. That had been Laura's favorite, and they had drunk a lot of it together as a prelude to their awkward couplings. Peter had to force the thought away; the very recall of Laura's soft, bespectacled face darkened his mood.
"And you?"
He poured himself another cup, angry at himself for reasons that were not entirely clear. He was angry at Geyl for pretending to like him while holding him in obvious contempt, and distraught in wondering if Bilenda's affection were as much of an act, if for a different purpose and in obedience to a different master, the shadowy Snitzius to whom all Ralpha Dogs bowed. "I'm not sure exactly. It's some kind of AE project. I'll know tomorrow. But my cell has all kinds of interesting things in it. Some kind of hydraulic calculator, for starters. And something called a drafting machine, that helps you mark straight lines on paper. And books, old paper books, lots of them."
"Books about what?"
Don't mention the astronautics titles!
"Airframes, diesel engine physics, turbulence, stuff like that. Some of them are books I used in college. I never knew they were two hundred years old."
Geyl's look darkened, her eyes moving off to one side. "That's a little odd. My cell has a dictionary and a pneuma directory and that's about it. And I was told that all work was done in labs and other common areas. Cells are basically for sleeping and getting dressed." She leaned forward and looked stern while speaking in a near-whisper. "I need to know what sort of project
they're putting you on."
Dodge the question. This isn't a conversation you want to get into right now.
|Shut up. We're at dinner. I'm in no mood to take orders.|
"Do we have to talk about that stuff here?"
Her barely whispered reply was colder than ice. "We're on a mission. You'll answer my questions if you want to go home."
Peter opened his mouth to reply, but from somewhere above them came a single deep note as from a pipe organ. Everywhere in the hall, conversation ceased, and all present stood at their tables.
"I guess we say grace," Peter said glumly, and stood.
"Or sing it."
Just as the single pipe organ note was dying away, a new note was rising, at the same pitch, but from the throats of men and women all about the tables. It was a great deep rumbling, wordless hroooooom! that filled the hall, paused for a moment, and was renewed. And with that single note as background, the song itself began:
We are not of Earth; we were born in deepest Hell
And how long we must abide here only time will tell.
We are outcasts all, folded off and cast aside
By the world that had forgotten why the billions died.
Raise your fist, unsheathe your sword,
Shout defiance at the shackles of the sky, (shouted:) hai!
We are not of Earth, we were born in deepest Hell
And how long we must abide here only time will tell.
The hairs on the backs of Peter's neck were standing on end. At the shouted syllable hai! a thousand fists cut the air, and what seemed like thousands of feet struck the stone floor simultaneously.
The melody is a variation on an ancient Irish folk song. It's called "Parting Glass March." According to legend, it was sung during the Great Famine in Ireland during the 1840's, when starving farmers were leaving Ireland forever to emigrate to America, with no hope of ever returning. Obviously, the words were different then.
Peter turned and looked at Geyl, whose eyes were on the stone floor, as the second verse began.
The Cunning Blood Page 15