by Ivan Ertlov
"There is no pattern."
Eastwood had said the sentence more to himself, absent-mindedly grumbling, but he was right, as Frank had to admit after another glance at the flashing lights above their heads. No discernible system, no trace, no distribution except absolute chance - and the natural distribution of raw materials in planetary systems, dependent on their central stars.
Dilara walked under the projection, her head back, her ears stiff as a drink in the most disreputable pirate bar. Then she turned around, half-closed her eyes - and finally shook her head.
"We can't fly over all of them, not even close. Besides, we won't find anything anyway - except for a few mining traces, but some of those would be decades old."
"That is to be assumed, unfortunately."
Frank frowned.
"Can you show us the suspected raw material deposits? Including the types of material and estimated quantity?"
"As far as that is in the records, yes. I remove all reports with no mention of the disappeared resource or quantity."
Almost half of the red lights disappeared, numbers and chemical elements began to form around the rest. Then, spellbound, they stared upwards, began to analyse one incident after another.
It was pure chaos, a seemingly random mess. Half of all food-grade algae had disappeared from one water moon, more than two thousand metric tonnes of coltan on a marginal world that carried only a small astronomical research post on its back. An asteroid field that had looked like an inexhaustible reservoir of helium-3 just a few years before had been completely harvested the last time a tanker visited.
Platinum and chucknorrisium, phosphate deposits and copper veins had vanished into thin air, as had biological resources. Even a whole micro-moon of an otherwise boring gas giant, less than twenty light years away from Pseudohursh, had been undetectable during a routine inspection two years ago.
Different raw materials with seriously diverging quantities and values, meanings and rarities. Again, no discernible pattern, no purpose to be read from it.
"I can't think of any Consortium or project that would consume this combination of raw materials over twenty-five years. But, regardless, the numbers don't add up."
Florbsh was right, and Frank cursed.
"We're not getting anywhere like this."
Dilara wiggled her ears, a sign of half-hearted approval.
"No, maybe not like this, but I have an idea. Yrsha, please show us ALL incidents again, but sequentially and staggered by the time of presumed disappearance. Preferably in increments of ten."
"As you wish."
The first group of light points appeared at the outer fringe of the marginal worlds, where some worlds half-heartedly mapped centuries ago crossed over into the grey zone. Then the next towards the preferred areas of operation of the Subnebula Pirates, without reaching their territory. In the third, they came to the Alliance's border but did not cross it. Finally, the fourth wave seemed to move in all directions, seemingly at random but much more hesitantly - and from then on, it was steady.
Neither the Alliance nor the Protectorate were bothered; the more densely populated and regularly frequented Rim Worlds were carefully left out. No confrontations; everything happened in the anonymity of the vast, often frightening distance between the systems and worlds that were bustling with activity. A pattern?
More like rules of the game, and Troshk grumbled excitedly.
"Dila, that was brilliant; I think we got it. Yrsha, can you extrapolate from the first fifty incidents? Calculate a probable origin of the spread from the timing and locations of the disappearances?"
"I think so. Give me some time to do the maths, my friends."
The tension rose as the soul of the ship calculated. Florbsh wafted back and forth excitedly, Dilara's ears trembled, the Stormcommander unconsciously scratched his ass fur. Frank himself was counting the seconds in his mind as the clicking of Bettsy's mandibles grew louder and louder. Even the peacekeeper's leaves paused in eerie silence as if frozen in time until all the red dots had melted into one.
Silent and mute, but in a subtle, not directly tangible way, threatening, the light pulsed away at the edge of the Rim.
Dilara sucked the air sharply into her lungs, and the tips of her ears began to bob up and down.
"Yrsha, enlarge the section and superimpose astronomical designations!"
The sectors above their heads disappeared, making room for a single system that at first glance seemed quite unspectacular: a pale, unremarkable sun, two gas giants, and a rocky planet with oceans and three continents. Granted, in the habitable zone, but an uninhabited wilderness, according to the data surveyed a little over two hundred years ago by a freelance prospector - and classified as a resource-poor wasteland.
Dilara bared her teeth.
"This is Trubul-2. No sow goes to Trubul, we've always said, and if she does, it's to avoid being found. The only access is connected to the Kundahar wormhole, and nobody in their right mind makes that jump willingly."
Frank was both amazed and fascinated. Even if this world was poor in raw materials - there was obviously enough water, as well as rudimentary vegetation. The human urge to explore and expand had awakened in him, and even Dila's comment regarding the jump was only a short cold shower on this feeling of desirous restlessness.
"Why is that?"
"Because it's what we astrotelepaths call a Fast Dancer. Opens up every forty seconds, collapses after four or five more, no matter how well you stabilise - and it shifts its position erratically. Only by a few kilometres with each dance step, but enough to be unpredictable. So you have to float back and forth with the expander fully charged, hope you get the right place at the right time, and then get through it faster than most larger ships reasonably can."
Troshk walked under the projection, looking thoughtfully at the gas giants, which remarkably lacked moons.
"So the system is inaccessible except by relativistic flight? A second zero zone?"
Dila shook her head.
"I didn't say THAT. If you're desperate enough, being hunted by the authorities or having robbed a Zuhra Brigades convoy, if you are caring more about the cargo in the hold than your own survival - you can risk it."
The peacekeeper raised his supporting branches.
"The Tree of Life would make the jump, as would most privateer ships. Kundahar is only two wormhole connections from here; I could coach you if Yrsha's Expander ..."
"I don't have an expander, Edge Eastwood."
Dumbfounded, the Toronk lowered his branches again.
"What? That's - that's completely impossible. You must have one! How else did you get here?"
Troshk slapped the bark of the old tree amicably and shrugged his shoulders regretfully.
"Unfortunately, this information is top secret. Military classified, on the one hand, our great prospector's word of honour on the other. We will take it from here."
Bettsy scurried down the stairs and set up beside the Stormcommander.
"But not without thanking you first. We owe you one, peacekeeper."
There was almost something like melancholy in the rustle of his leaves, mixed with a vague longing. But the way the Metaltaster had emphasised his title brought him to a reluctant sense, reminded him of his duty.
"Alright, then. In that case, I wish you - well, a good journey. And much success. Especially to you, Raging Beauty. It's nice to know there are still some of the old legends out there flying."
Dilara bowed, and Frank did not miss the reddish tinge in her cheeks.
"I feel the same way, Wooden Corsair. Fertile earth, to you, and your seed!"
*
Majestically, Yrsha floated through space, gaining more and more distance from Pseudohursh, while Frank and Dila ensured no off-course trader or suicidal space pirate crossed their course.
Bettsy and Troshk strapped themselves in; Florbsh crawled into the barrel he had dragged himself onto the bridge to help him jump.
They
were ready, and Frank took one last deep breath before relaxing and closing his eyes.
"Yrsha, prepare the jump. Take us into the Trubul system, a spare light-minute or two from the planet."
A moment passed, then another, followed by a whole series of moments of silence before Yrsha announced with a regretful undertone:
"I'm sorry, but I can't."
Frank opened his eyes, glanced sideways at Dilara's face, which looked just as dazed as he undoubtedly did.
"What do you mean you can't? Does your programming forbid you? Are your energy stores not filled enough?"
"No, I just CAN'T. I ..."
A hint of desperation crept into her voice, and Frank began to worry. Not only him, but Bettsy's clicking also spoke volumes.
"Are you having problems with the spacetime manifold? Wait, I'll see if I can ..."
"NO! It's not me, it's the destination - Frank, Dilara, I can show you if you go deeper into the connection."
They looked at each other briefly, nodding silently in agreement to allow so much intimacy. Since the first flight with Yrsha, they had always tried to keep a certain mental distance, tried to prevent a complete merging.
For good reasons.
Dilara had her secrets that were none of Frank's business, and he, in turn, had thoughts and feelings that he would have been reluctant to share with the astrotelepath - at least not like this.
With a queasy feeling in his stomach, he sank back into the pilot's couch and closed his eyes.
He feels Dilara, she feels him, and they both feel Yrsha. But this time, they are prepared, armed for what awaits them.
Cautiously, Frank feels for Dilara's mental hand, senses that it is seeking his. They intertwine, flying together into the great unknown that Yrsha reveals to them.
The Universe.
No, only an infinitely small part of it, huge only in relation to the tiny insignificance that a single being has in it.
Insignificance?
Not for themselves, not for each other.
The triad flies!
Together they race through space, overcoming unimaginable distances in an instant.
They fly towards the Trubul system, approaching the planned destination of the journey, and space thickens.
Becomes tough, sticky; it starts to slow them down.
Hundreds of vortices of curved space-time, invisible barriers of unnatural, all-distorting gravity.
They are still making progress, getting closer to the planet, but the effort is growing exponentially.
The flight beyond the speed of light becomes a slow hovering, turns into an arduous struggle, a crawling through the gaps and crevices between the faults.
And then - the end of the line.
No forward progress, every path blocked and closed, a solid, invisible wall of cosmic proportions.
It is as if the universe itself opposes them, does not allow them a chance to move forward.
Like a timeless titanic guardian, it stands before them, making it unmistakably known that they are not welcome, not even tolerated.
Trubul remains closed to them, and disappointed, they retreat.
The experience and the feeling, the perception and the sensation are one thing - the rational consideration is quite another.
The question is obvious.
"We have created this ground for ourselves, through the diligence of our hands, we have transformed the old forest, which was otherwise the home of bears, into a seat for humans.
We killed the spawn of the dragon that rose from the swamps swollen with poison.
We have torn apart the blanket of fog that hung eternally grey around this wilderness, blasted the hard rock, led the way across the abyss to the secure footbridge for the wanderer.
Ours, through thousands of years of ownership, is the soil."
- Friedrich Schiller
6.
New home
"So, come out with it; what's going on there? What in the cursed moons have you seen?"
Frank could understand Florbsh's curiosity only too well, but it was Dilara who came to her senses first, sitting up in her recliner and wiggling her ears unconsciously.
"A good question. I don't know what we saw, but I know what it felt like - like an invisible barrier that gets denser the further you go into the Trubul system."
"It was a chaotic spacetime vortex whose tides I cannot calculate, with a warp density that makes it impossible for me to open a stable tunnel into it."
Bettsy clicked curiously.
"How does something like this come about? Is it a natural phenomenon?"
"That is theoretically conceivable but extremely unlikely. According to the historical data, there are no anomalies in this or neighbouring systems that could trigger such a thing."
The initial confusion was followed by painful disappointment, that strange feeling of an aborted attempt to jump, comparable to a sex act in which the military emergency alarm rang just before climax, the actual partner surprisingly came home early, or a cow fell from the sky[1] and slew the playmate/the other orgy participants[2].
Frank straightened up, forcing himself back into the confident, composed commander mode he had practised so often in front of the mirror. But, admittedly, not all the tips from the holo-guidebooks on team leadership delivered what they promised. The open-door policy, for example, had proved to be a fiasco. Actually intended to better interaction with the team members - he didn't even dare to formulate the word "subordinates" in his mind - it had only brought him sneering remarks like "Well, Frank, did you put on a few kilos again?" or an energetic "Close the damn door, nobody wants to see your naked ass!"
But this was different. The crew was in danger of losing sight of the destination, and he, as a level-headed, experienced captain, had to get them back on course.
Or something like that. At some point, even the most hair-raising guidebook ran[3] out of metaphors for shipping.
"Alright, folks, let's take a step back for once to look at our options objectively."
"Man, what are you talking about? I'm stuck in a barrel; how am I supposed to take a step back? And by the way, I find the term step deeply speciestic; it doesn't make us gelatinous beings feel included at all."
Frank sighed.
"Sorry, Florbsh, that was just a metaphor, nothing personal. We need to calm down, take a breather, and figure out what we're going to do now."
Dilara shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, what do you think? First, we'll take the Kundahar wormhole. Its exit is only in the edge zone of the distortion and should be safe, shouldn't it, Yrsha?"
"Indeed, but it is two beaten light-hours away from Trubul-2. If someone is there and maybe even hostile to us, it won't exactly be a surprise visit. Oh, and there's the teeny tiny problem that I don't have an expander."
Frank paused. Had Yrsha just shown a hint of sarcasm? It wouldn't be the first time he suspected something like that. Just as their tone had become more laconic and chummy for months. Somehow it was reassuring to know that they all rubbed off on each other.
"Besides, it's not necessary. I can get us into the system, just not very close to the planet."
Three heads, a head segment and a pseudopod crawling indignantly out of its barrel stretched towards the ceiling from where Yrsha's voice came.
"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"
"You didn't ask me. You wanted, and I quote, one or two light minutes from the planet. And I can't."
Frank sighed.
"All right, how close can we jump?"
"It's a question of energy expenditure, and that grows exponentially with the approach. I could get us within five or six light minutes, but that would empty ninety per cent of my buffer. Not recommended if we're in for a fight."
Bettsy clicked in agreement.
"You're right about that. How close can we get if we use sixty per cent of your reserves?"
"Ten light-minutes, give or take a few thousand kilometres. But ev
en that will be a, well, interesting jump ..."
*
Gravity, time, and space. Everything is connected, closely interwoven, a unity that challenges the intellectual mind - and brings fragile stability to the universe.
And it is precisely this illusion of stability that is cruelly shattered as Yrsha cuts her way through the fault lines, seeking a path through an obstacle that should not exist.
It must not exist.
And in this niche of impossibilities lurk the spirits of other planes of existence, reign demons and gods beyond the laws of physics.
Titanic shadows and shades, each one of them large and malignant enough to devour, to pervert an entire world, to drag it and its inhabitants into a vortex of cruelty and lust, blasphemy and an orgiastic annihilation.
Madness personified, the voice that whispers in your ear in the dark of night to wallow in the blood of your hated neighbour and disembowel his offspring before his eye. It has a body here, a presence, a consciousness that greedily tries to crawl into our reality.
Hatred condenses into a black billowing mass, equipped with its own malignant intelligence, its own will, hunting for prey.
But it is also a place of the others, their opponents, those forces that oppose chaos and destruction, strive for order and harmony.
They are equally desperate to rewrite history, negate the great horrors of the past - the collapse of the Mathasharam galaxy, the Grey Death of the Gahar, the Ghostbusters reboot of 2016 AD.
They fail.
Perhaps because the past is set in stone and unchangeable, perhaps because the window of opportunity is too short, closing again under their noses as Yrsha and her crew return to normal space.
Put through the wringer, half-digested by the perverted space-time and spat out again, they come back to life.
Indeed, they have reached the Trubul system, but it appears different from the records.