“A number of your colleagues have expressed apprehensions about flying with you for the evaluation,” Whitman said. “You’ve been an exemplary student, and I’ve received no complaints until now, but is there something I’m missing?”
“I really can’t think of anything,” Terson shrugged.
“I’ll ask this straight out, then,” Whitman continued severely. “Did you force Max Brichen into the airlock and threaten to space him on your last flight?”
“Does he claim that I did?” Terson asked cautiously.
Whitman let his breath out. “No, but the source of the problem appears to be a rumor to that effect that’s been circulating for several days. Brichen denied knowing anything about it when I asked him, but I could tell he was hiding something. I think you’d better tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t touch him,” Terson said, “but I suggested the possibility of spacing when I caught him pencil-whipping the preflight.”
“I see. I’m curious why you didn’t report such a serious violation.”
“I wasn’t trying to sink his career,” Terson told him, “and I think I scared him enough that he’ll think twice about it next time—especially if he’s flying with me.”
“It isn’t all about you,” Whitman said emphatically. “What about the people he’s flown with since? Do you think they deserve protection from someone so irresponsible as to skip a preflight inspection?”
“I—” I’m not responsible for them, he was about to say, but choked back the words before they could escape and send Whitman into an apocalyptic fit. Anyone with a gram of instinct for self-preservation would take responsibility for themselves and double-check the inspection however surreptitiously, but that wasn’t what Whitman wanted to hear and Terson had learned that on Nivia self-preservation sometimes meant saying things he didn’t believe. “Yes. Yes, of course they do. That was a bad call, and I apologize.”
His response appeared to placate Whitman somewhat.
“It was noble of you to protect Brichen,” he said, “but the requirement to report the violation is just as important as that to follow proper procedure. I take it you’ve chastised other trainees for similar transgressions?”
“Probably.” He had, in fact, on numerous occasions, but he wasn’t prepared to apologize for chewing somebody’s ass when their poor performance ran the risk of getting him killed.
“You can see where it’s led,” Whitman nodded. “Alienating your crewmates just makes it harder on everyone. I don’t expect you to tolerate dangerous behavior in your peers, but don’t take it upon yourself to correct it. There is due process to handle that sort of thing and I expect you to use it.
“I trust that the point has been made. The pairing for your evaluation will be random, as always, but I will have this conversation with your partner if you anticipate any conflict.”
Terson kept his voice carefully neutral. “That won’t be necessary.”
He stalked out of the building in a dark, foul mood. It was bad enough that his whiney, weak-kneed classmates had the gall to complain about him because of a few justifiably harsh words, and then to take a scolding over it from the one person who should have backed him up, but to get bumped from the first rotation as well? Granted, a delay of two or three weeks didn’t amount to much in any tangible sense, but it was generally understood that the best performers tested out first and anyone who looked deeply enough into his transcripts to notice a bump would naturally wonder what caused it.
He relished the thought of tracking down a few of the offenders and giving them something worth complaining about, but doing so would only get him in trouble with Whitman. What he really needed was to get the hell off campus for a while.
Despite attending countless hours of instruction at Malone’s central campus, the two square kilometers of sprawling academic and administrative buildings connected by wide walkways and meticulous landscaping remained the place Terson felt the least comfortable. In view of his obvious off-world origins, the students and faculty considered his presence at Malone an admirable demonstration of commitment to adapting Nivian culture and they went to great lengths to help him fit in, most often by subjecting him to condescendingly simple (and inaccurate) lectures on minor facets of their society that any fool could ascertain by direct observation.
The institution dripped with naïve idealism, exhibited by cheerful students following established tracks of study leading to guaranteed careers and faculty who feared no criticism because conformity and trust in authority were encouraged, expected and visibly rewarded. Their world was certain, stable and uncomplicated, a condition that ran completely counter to the environment of rugged self-reliance that produced Terson’s pessimistic realism.
Their blind assumption that Terson strove to embrace the same values contributed more to the gulf between them than the overt rejection he faced off-campus. Reining himself in required constant vigilance, and when that vigilance failed him the consequences were painful and embarrassing.
Virene had dropped him off at the central campus on her way to classes at one of the smaller annexes on the other side of Saint Anatone, expecting the coordination for his exam to last until mid-afternoon. After that they had an appointment with one of the half-dozen reproductive security firms that served Saint Anatone for a free consultation.
Terson considered it prematurely optimistic, but he’d since learned that dangers existed even for potential expectant mothers—not the news he wanted just prior to leaving his wife alone for the better part of a month. The delayed departure served to reduce his stress on that count, somewhat.
Public transportation might get him to their apartment with just enough time to catch the next bus back to Malone to meet her. He decided to head for a tavern he knew of instead where he could get a sandwich and a couple of beers while he waited for Virene without encountering any of his loose-lipped peers. He hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps in that direction when someone fell in next to him.
“Hey, Reilly. Have you talked to Whitman today?”
Whitman’s cautions be damned, Terson wasn’t going to take any more shit. He let the rage flow and spun on the interloper with murder in his eye—and corked it up again, but not before Zarn Vondelis saw the expression on his face and took two long and deliberate steps backward.
“Whoa, I guess you have!” Of all Terson’s classmates, Zarn was the one who least deserved to get unloaded on. He was nearly a decade older than the rest of them, aerospace operations being his second career. The added maturity made him tolerable, and he seemed to have shaken off the environmental zealotry of youth, assuming he’d had it to begin with. If he didn’t know better, Terson would have taken Vondelis for a fellow immigrant. He and Terson had flown together on several occasions and remained one of the few partners Terson hadn’t threatened to stuff out the airlock.
Still, Terson didn’t feel charitable. “You guessed right. What do you want?”
Vondelis stepped back into a friendly proximity and held up a printout. “I picked up our navpoints. You have time to work on the flight plan?”
“I got bumped to second string,” Terson told him.
“I know,” Vondelis said. “I went to Whitman as soon as I heard and told him I’d fly with you. I assumed you knew.”
“First I’ve heard of it.” Whitman probably wanted Terson to sweat a little, or believe that the crew assignment was random because making an exception might be perceived as rewarding bad behavior. But that didn’t explain why Zarn was willing to take a bump to partner with him.
“The first-round schedule conflicts with some personal matters,” Vondelis explained when Terson put the question to him. “I was going to request a reassignment anyway, so I figured I’d go up with you rather than get stuck with a wash-back or somebody like Brichen. I’d have loved to see the look on his face when you shoved him in the airlock.”
Terson didn’t bother to set the facts straight. Sometimes rumors were more advantageous tha
n the truth.
They returned to the flight operations building where they encountered a small crowd gathered around the newly posted second-round assignments. Terson noted relieved expressions on several faces as he and Zarn made their way through. “Poor bastard,” someone snickered.
Mercifully, the chart room was deserted. Zarn logged into one of the navigation consoles and activated its holographic interface. A representation of the Nivian system appeared, showing its planets, their moons, major orbital habitats and significant asteroidal bodies (none of this was to scale, otherwise the orb representing the farthest planet would appear nearly three kilometers from the console).
Nivia Prime held five planets in its gravitational clutch: Fuma; Nivia and its single moon; Caliban, a jovian-class gas giant with five natural and one manmade satellites, none inhabited save Caliban Station; Othello, another gas giant half the size of Caliban with three moons, the largest of which, Iago, was inhabited; and the dim and frigid Hades, orbiting just inside the Kuiper belt.
Zarn entered their assigned navpoints and began plotting a course. Although both team members were expected to collaborate on all aspects of the evaluation, Terson was more than willing to let Zarn handle the lion’s share of the navigating. Terson did not consider strategy his strong suit, but he excelled at execution so Zarn typically deferred to him in matters of tactics—one of the reasons they worked so well together.
The test was straightforward and simple, on the surface: each two-man team received sixteen navigation points spread through the Nivian system. In order to pass, they merely had to approach each point close enough to register their transponder identification with the monitoring system. The reality wasn’t nearly as simple, of course. Their navpoints included several high-traffic destinations where they’d be subject to general Space Traffic Control regulations as well as local procedures. Points would be deducted for any officially noted violations, and the unpredictable nature of public traffic might require them to adjust their flight plan in transit.
Then there were the matters of refueling, re-provisioning, and unavoidable layovers, all requiring some form of docking and another layer of procedures and bureaucracy. When it was all over they would have to endure a three-member panel review of their overall performance, to include efficiency of fuel and time, ability to remain on schedule, response to unforeseen circumstances, and explanations of any documented violations.
In some ways the evaluation began the moment the teams received their navpoints, because high-traffic jumpzones required time-slot requests as far in advance as possible. Those who chose to procrastinate in filing a flight plan could find their carefully crafted route useless if a vital transit slot was already filled.
Five of Terson and Zarn’s navpoints were major traffic centers. The rest were variously uncongested, unrestricted, or unmanned private platforms operated and maintained by Malone itself. Zarn’s preliminary route looked like a grand tour of the Nivian system: from Nivia Station to Caliban, where they would dock at Caliban Station for a two-day layover before jumping back toward the sun to touch the two asteroidal habitats, A-30-Sierra and A-1140-Delta. From the asteroid belt they would pinball through several unmanned navpoints before heading for Othello and land on Iago for five days before their departure window for a flyby of distant Hades. Then inward again, bouncing across several of Malone’s private platforms before returning to Nivia Station. The only one of Nivia’s planets they wouldn’t approach was tiny Fuma, orbiting too close to the primary for safety.
It was nearly time to meet Virene when they finally finished.
“Thanks for doing this,” Terson said.
“Thank you,” Zarn replied. “I hate waiting for those other knuckleheads to get in the mood to do the paperwork.”
“I mean flying with me,” Terson clarified.
“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t trust you,” Zarn told him. “I wanted to talk to you about something else, too, if you’ve got time.”
“I’ve got an appointment with the wife I dare not miss,” Terson apologized.
“No problem; I’ll catch you next time.”
SEVEN
Beta Continent: 2709:05:03 Standard
McKeon chose a spot five kilometers up an overgrown trail at the end of a blind ravine where a single gunshot would go unheard and a body undiscovered for years. Dayuki pressed herself back against the unyielding gunner’s seat, curling like a leaf in the hot sun under Hal and McKeon’s inimical gazes.
“Where did you learn to build that kind of bomb?” McKeon demanded.
“Books,” Dayuki responded with barely a whisper. “Gaijin books in the old library.”
“Books!” the security officer spat, “You expect us to believe that?”
“It is the truth,” she murmured.
“You couldn’t have built it alone,” Hal said. “Who helped you?”
“A Minzoku boy,” she said. “A soldier.”
“Who is he? We want to talk to him.”
“He became a Buddha,” Dayuki said.
“A what?”
“He’s dead,” McKeon translated. “And just how did you pull that off?”
“His heart burned with lust,” she explained. “I told him to wait at a small cove up the coast where I would come to him. He drowned.”
McKeon nodded unconsciously. “Get out,” he told her. “Stand at the front of the car with your back to us.” Dayuki exited wordlessly and took position where she’d been ordered, hands clasped together and head bowed.
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?” Hal asked.
McKeon nodded again. “The Minzoku transport the cargo to our front by submarine. If her bomb had gone off as planned we’d have lost nothing but the load on that one sub. Nobody would wonder what happened for too long; they’ve lost subs before.” But the bomb had malfunctioned and lay undetected in an anonymous warehouse while the Family’s front collected the rest of the consignment and detonated on the way up, destroying far more than Dayuki intended.
“What do you recommend?” Hal asked.
“Kill her.”
“She could help us find out what Den Tun is up to.”
“I’ve never heard a whisper about this Tiger Opal,” McKeon sighed. “We can’t confirm any of her so-called evidence of a Minzoku conspiracy, and even if there is some kernel of truth to it her solution caused a lot of damage. She meant well, but a loose cannon with good intentions is still a loose cannon.”
Dayuki’s feat was impressive for a young woman without a lick of formal education whether it was based on fantasy or not. Her devotion to the Family was obvious and Hal’s sense of fair play shrank from the thought of killing her for it. And how much of McKeon’s recommendation was based on prudence versus embarrassment at the possibility of a Minzoku conspiracy occurring under his nose?
“I want this checked out first,” Hal decided. “She can die as well tomorrow as today.”
Dayuki maintained a sober expression when she learned of her reprieve, perhaps sensing that it was only temporary and depended entirely on the accuracy of her accusations. More surprising was McKeon’s willingness to let her return to the Minzoku base unsupervised.
“She doesn’t have a lot of options,” he explained after they dropped her off at the portal she’d used to spirit Hal away a few days before. “She betrayed Den Tun, regardless of whether this Tiger Opal is real or a figment of her imagination. The Minzoku will kill her for us if he finds out.”
Hal wasn’t so sure; she was related to Den Tun by blood, and the old man might be lenient if she confessed all and threw herself on his mercy—especially if what she said was true and a warning allowed the Minzoku to conceal evidence of their treachery. Either way, her unexplained absence from the base would certainly raise suspicions and make it that much harder to expose Den Tun. Releasing her now was an undesirable but necessary operational risk.
They returned to the Fort and went straight to Tamara Cirilo’s office where Hal repeate
d Dayuki’s revelations. “I’m not going to claim that the Minzoku cracking our network is flatly impossible,” his cousin said, “but the chances are very slim. The connections we use to monitor Den Tun’s network are heavily firewalled and very well hidden.”
“But if he had outside help…” Hal pressed.
“Still not that likely,” Tamara insisted. “They’d have to defeat multiple layers of security that are explicitly designed to detect and warn of such attempts. Anything man-made can be defeated, but it would take years.”
“Who says it didn’t?” McKeon asked. “She didn’t claim that the penetration was recent—only that her learning of it was.”
“Hard to prove,” Tamara nodded, “but easy to fix. We’ll just break all external connections while we run a comprehensive system probe.”
“Not yet,” Hal said. “I don’t want anything to alert Den Tun before we know what he’s up to—if anything. What does your database have on Tiger Opal?”
Tamara ran a search of the Fort’s comprehensive cross-referencing database, but shook her head. “No direct correlations. The closest indirect hit is a loose translation of a Minzoku word, ‘milenopar,’ which translates literally as ‘stripe-having jewel.’ The index lists the last recorded use in a report relating to deliveries of raw materials about fifty years ago. Pretty archaic.”
“A dead end,” McKeon snorted.
“Archaic,” Hal murmured to himself. It was not a word, then, that most adult Minzoku would be likely to use, much less so someone of Dayuki’s generation. Den Tun, however, might have been familiar with it in his youth. “What were the materials for?”
Tamara ran another search of Family historical records. “An obsolete optical semiconductor—indium gallium arsenide. It’s since been replaced by—”
Pale Boundaries Page 11