Outward Bound

by Juanita Coulson

  "Goddard Agri-Transshipment Corporation." Obregon avoided her eyes.

  At least he wasn't quitting Breakthrough Unlimited to join Nakamura's quasi-nation or Alamshah's. If she were losing Hector Obregon to a rival corporation, that would be the ultimate disgrace. Goddard Agri was a subsidiary of Saunder Enterprises Agri-Services. Realization penetrated the small comfort Brenna took from that fact. The transshipment outfit Obregon was joining was one of Carissa Saunder's many financial investments. In effect Obregon was jumping from the Martian-based branch of Saunder Enterprises to the Earth-based one. A step backward, for a Colonist, even if he would be working out of Goddard. She didn't keep the contempt from her voice. "That's a truck driver's job, Hector. You'll really be putting your skills to work for them, won't you?"

  He had been fussing with his mustaches, still avoiding her eyes. Now he looked squarely at her. His expression was a mixture of shame, defiance, and pain that Brenna could almost touch. "I have to," he said. "You don't know how it is."

  Despairing, Brenna said, "If it's money, we can work something out. You know that."

  Hector shook his head. "It's ... it's not that. It's ... just time for me to move on. I put it off as long as I could, I swear."

  Brenna's weariness sapped her, draining away the fight. What was the point? "I can't talk you out of it, can I?" She read the answer in his dark gaze. This wasn't a sudden decision for Obregon. He had been working up to it for quite a while. At least he hadn't made the break right after the accident.

  She had been through that sort of ripping agony, though-after Prototype I was destroyed and Derek quit Breakthrough Unlimited. There had been others who had quit, these past three years. Lots of them. But losing a pilot was the worst. Technicians and med people were difficult to find, and filling vacant posts was becoming tougher and tougher. But in a sense, every pilot was essential. They couldn't have enough of them. Hector's defection wasn't as severe a blow as Derek's had been, but it was bad. She couldn't afford to lose him. But she understood. Money, yes. And fear. Security for his family. And growing doubts that Breakthrough Unlimited was ever going to fulfill its promises.

  Somehow, she found the presence of mind to stand up and hold out her hand. You're a Saunder. Noblesse oblige. Even when you're madder than hell at an unexpected desertion in the ranks. Be gracious to those who aren't made out of the same fiber as the Saunders and McKelveys. "Well, good luck," Brenna said. Hector flushed still darker, then shook her hand and let go of it as if it were on fire. He opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he had meant to say, and closed it. The moment was painfully awkward. Brenna took no further steps to end it, though. That was a type of vengeance. All these years! And now he was simply walking out!

  Without another word, Hector turned to go. He ran into Yuri, who was just about to enter the office. The two stared at each other at a distance of centimeters. Then Hector pushed his way past Yuri, hurrying on out into the hangar. Yuri watched him go, consternation chasing over his face. Brenna sighed. "What now?"

  Yuri blinked, flicking a glance at the frozen monitor screen. "I thought perhaps you hadn't heard. It's on the vid. Chairman Hong lost the election."

  Brenna had to shift mental gears. Election? Oh, yes. Protectors of Earth. The scandal about the Earth First Party fanatics hiding in Chairman Hong's entourage and the accusations that he was letting Terran Worlds Council suck Earth's economic lifeblood away. Hiber-Ship Corporation was solidly underway, drawing staggering amounts of capital investment—and Yan Bolotin and the other board members were all Terran Worlds Council members. Breakthrough Unlimited just might do the trick, and it was T.W.C.-backed. The colonial fuel depots and trade agreements and ore runs—all T.W.C.-controlled. Year by year, Protectors of Earth was losing ground. And Hong had paid. Brenna shrugged, not even curious enough to ask who would be assuming the Chairmanship now. Not an Earth First Party secret supporter, she could be sure. Maybe whoever it was would stamp out that ridiculous dinosaur left over from the political infighting of the Forties. And long overdue! Assassinations ... and sabotage, she added to herself, remembering. A new regime might make Earth a more hospitable port for Spacers, in the future.

  "Hector quit, didn't he?" Yuri asked suddenly.

  "Are you here to give me a resignation, too?" Brenna retorted bitterly. She tossed the disposa-fiche on the desk. One look at Yuri's eyes told her she had wounded him in the vitals. "Sorry. I'm ... I've got a headache. Haven't been taking my gravity compensation medications, I guess."

  A lot more than that was causing her headache, and they both knew it. Yuri's hurt at her momentary distrust vanished. He shook his head, very sympathetic. "I ... I heard them talking to him this summer. He's the oldest. They made him a very good offer."

  "They made you offers, too," Brenna said, Stuart's remark about certain guests at the party on Saunderhome coming back to her. A sad smile twisted her mouth. "But you turned them down." He didn't bother replying. There was no need. Yuri Mikhailovich Nicholaiev was a mainstay. He would never quit. They would have to shoot Breakthrough Unlimited out from under him to pull him away from the company.

  A sudden commotion in the main room made them both look that way and run out into the hangar. The pilots and several techs were struggling and yelling. Stuff was scattered on the floor, being kicked. Yuri loped toward them, lunging into the confusion, Brenna at his heels. As Tumaini Beno swung his hand in a roundhouse, Yuri ducked and picked the blow off on his shoulder. He grappled with the Mweran, letting punches whistle harmlessly by his head. Other people were pinning Hector Obregon. Brenna stepped on something and looked down at a mess strewn on the hangar floor. Hector's personal kit had fallen or been knocked out of his hands, and the belongings were underfoot. One of the techs was picking stuff up and throwing it back into the duffel, not being very gentle with the things.

  Tumaini was hurling Mweran curses as well as punches, words that sounded like "Nangwaya, chiumbo!" Fortunately, only a couple of techs understood him. Hector got the general idea, but not the exact terms. All the other pilots were clustered around Tumaini, helping Yuri pin the furious African. Tumaini was starting to cough, his whole body shaking with effort. He stopped trying to get at Hector and bent over, gasping for breath. Even then he swore, switching to English. "Fucking sellout! Go haul cottonseed and rotten fish, you cretin son of a bitch ... dog of..."

  Hector fought those who were trying to keep him away from Tumaini. The Mexican's face was almost as dark as Tumaini's. But as Tumaini broke off, too breathless to talk, Brenna saw Obregon leash his anger. He couldn't hit a man in Tumaini's condition, even though he had good reason; Hector's lip was split, already swelling. Tumaini had gotten in one hard blow before the others pulled the two men apart, obviously.

  The tech finished repacking Hector's kit and handed it to him. She looked as if she hated to touch the thing. Obregon grabbed it, yanking it out of her hand. He glared at them all. Behind the fury, again, Brenna saw his pain. He hadn't wanted to bail out like this. But there was no way to make this kind of break amicably, not after all they had been through together. Obregon slung the kit over his shoulder and butted aside the techs and crew members, practically running for the exit. Nobody went after him or tried to stop him. One or two of the earthier support-team members spit on the floor as Hector hurried by them, and Joe Habich made an extremely obscene gesture at his one-time fellow pilot's back.

  Everyone busied himself fussing over Tumaini. That didn't lessen the noise level, but when Tumaini sat down and quit gulping for breath, it gave him something new to curse at. Those oaths, at the people trying to help him, were fond epithets. The ones he had thrown at Hector hadn't been.

  There was no use carrying on office tasks. Brenna returned to the small room briefly and shut off the monitor screen. Work would have to wait. The hangar didn't settle down for over an hour. By then the headache tabs she had taken were having a slight effect. Between Hector Obregon's resignation and the news of the P.O.E. elections, Brenna
was surprised anything was working right. She didn't bother asking how Tumaini and the others had found out that Hector was quitting. Bad news traveled fast. He might even have told his friends himself. It didn't seem to matter now. Brenna left early for the Main Spaceport concourse, not wanting to hear anymore angry jabber or to answer further questions about the metallurgy tests.

  On the way out of Breakthrough Unlimited, Brenna passed the PR offices. Evanow was holding a basic briefing on the just-completed materials tests at FTL Station. He was good. He succeeded in making them sound like a major accomplishment rather than a tentative step along the way to solving critical design flaws. It should have cheered Brenna to see that Breakthrough Unlimited still qualified as a media event; ComLink and TeleCom and the better-accredited newshunters in the science and transport fields were there, even though the political news from Earth was the current hot topic. But the sight only worsened her fatigue. Demands for news, and her company was producing so little these days. She took the roundabout way toward the spaceport shuttle, avoiding the reporters.

  Not all the newshunters were inside the Saunder Enterprises complex, however. Charlie Dahl still didn't have entree. He was hanging around the shuttle platform and saw Brenna and her SE security escort hurrying down the ramp toward the shuttle. "Hey! Saunder!" he yelled, and others in the area, waiting for their trains, heard him and turned to look and listen. "I hear the rats are leaving the sinking ship! Obregon got a better deal elsewhere, eh? Any tips on who's going to jump off the boat next?"

  "Want me to shut him up, Miss Saunder?" one of the SE guards offered.

  Brenna was tempted. But she had asked for it. She had stopped Charlie Dahl, and he was grabbing his chance to get even. The TeleCom lawsuit was crawling its way through the courts right now. What purpose would it serve to add to Dahl's ammunition against her? He was already claiming she had cut off a legitimate signal during the Prototype II accident. "Ignore him," she said. "He just likes to hear himself talk."

  Dahl pursued her, shouting questions all the way down the ramp. Only the shuttle's doors closing in his face rescued Brenna from the harassment.

  She appreciated the brief, quiet comfort of the shuttle ride-five minutes' worth of blessed nothingness. Brenna sprawled in the seat of the private car and let her mind go blank. The guards were watching the screens, ready to jump out the door when they arrived at the Main Spaceport. Dimly, Brenna heard them muttering what they would like to do to pests like Dahl. Her aunt Carissa probably would have given them the go-ahead—warning them to be discreet about it. Mustn't cause a mess. Was her way, or Stuart's sidling, slinking-around-behind-the-scenes method, better? No. If Brenna wanted Charlie Dahl squashed, she would do it openly. Of course, that also meant he would know exactly whom to blame for his losing cushy assignments. Brenna couldn't win...

  The Main Spaceport concourse was unusually busy. Brenna paused at the Debark platform, gazing over the milling crowd. Surely not all these people were here on spaceflight business. Then she saw the excited groups clustered around the big holo-mode news screens. The startling election results from Earth were coming in. The concourse, a hemispheric and colony cross-traffic nexus, was a handy place to congregate and gossip.

  A familiar, tall, towheaded man was standing at the far side of the cavernous underground depot. Derek was waving and smiling. He ducked under the courtesy barrier dividing departing luggage loads and took a shortcut to reach Brenna sooner. A concourse employee yelled and started to order Derek to get back where he belonged. But when he saw the lovers embracing, the baggage handler grinned and looked elsewhere, ignoring the breach of rules.

  Brenna managed to catch her breath and fell into stride alongside Derek. This time they took the long way around, earning an OK sign from the baggage handler. Brenna snuggled close to Derek, an arm around his waist. Her headache was completely gone, all of a sudden.

  "I missed you constantly," Derek was saying. He was heedless of where they were, nuzzling her hair. "These crowds! Crazy! All because of that election. Doesn't concern them."

  "Or us," Brenna said, not wanting to talk about the home world. Goddard Agri was tied to Earth. It was responsible for luring Hector Obregon away from Breakthrough Unlimited. The shock of his betrayal had left an empty spot in her being, as if an old friend had died unexpectedly.

  As they stepped up onto the outer walkway, Brenna saw Lieutenant Chionis a few meters away. The Hiber-Ship officer was holding a mini-transcriber and looking around the concourse. Apparently she was searching for Derek, probably in order to give him a message from Yan Bolotin or one of their bosses. "Captain...!"

  Derek frowned. "What? Lilika, I told you I have a half hour free. If you don't understand that, I'll write it down for you."

  "Councilman Bolotin instructed me to—"

  Derek stopped her with a gesture and a glare. "You can tell him the same thing. I'm not property. Is that clear, Lieutenant?"

  Chionis drew herself up very straight. She shot a daggery look at Brenna. Did she blame the Breakthrough Unlimited pilot for this chewing out? Obviously, she did. "Yes, Captain," Lilika replied tonelessly.

  "Good! I'll report when I'm due. Not before. Come on, Bren." He led Brenna past his crewmate, heading for the cafeteria.

  "If ... if Bolotin needs you..." Brenna began.

  "He doesn't. He'll have me full time, starting a half hour from now. I'm entitled to my own life until then. And Lilika knows damned good and well not to butt in when I'm free," Derek said, still annoyed.

  Lilika. Looking ahead to the time when Derek Whitcomb would be Adam to her Eve, on a colony world thirteen light-years and seven decades distant from Earth. She could simply be anticipating and cutting out Derek Whitcomb's current "Eve," Brenna Saunder. After all, no sense in letting the captain get too attached to someone who would be an old woman by the time he made his planetfall near Kruger 60.

  "Yeah, she does get out of line," Brenna said. "And her saluting is a trifle sloppy, too."

  The cafeteria doors dilated silently ahead of them. Derek peered at Brenna and smiled. "Affirmative and underline. Actually, Lilika would salute, if the charter called for military forms like that. Let's get a booth before the late shift lets off at Earth-Mars terminal. They'll be burning with gossip, and every one of them will want a place to sit and soak up caffa."

  They slid side by side into an empty place. "Not only that, but the shuttle from Earth will be arriving in about fifteen minutes," Brenna added. "More fresh gossip." He raised a fair eyebrow, tacitly asking how she knew the timetables so well. Brenna smirked. "I own SE Trans Co stock, remember? That's one of our spacecraft."

  "Saunder princess." She didn't resent the nickname so much anymore. Derek dialed the wall servo for cups of caffeine and some carbohydrates. The orders slid out of the delivery slot, and he sorted them out between himself and Brenna. The cups and the food then sat untouched. He took Brenna's hands, looking at her with that intense expression she knew so well. "I wasn't exaggerating. I don't have much time to spare at all."

  "You never do. That's the story of our lives, nowadays." She had hoped, when he had asked her to meet him here, that this reunion would be different from the other recent ones. Now it appeared it wouldn't. When she had returned from Earth in late August, she and Derek had had almost a full week together, a lovely holiday at his place near Syrtis Major. Since then they had gone back to the ships-that-pass-in-the-night routine. What with frequent visits to see Morgan and Brenna's involvement in the new Breakthrough Unlimited program and Derek's in Hiber-Ship's fast-culminating schedule, there had been weeks at a stretch when they hadn't seen each other at all.

  In training, for the moment when I know I'll never see him again, ever.

  "I don't get anymore leaves," Derek said softly. Startled, she searched his face. It was only October. Hiber-Ship's New Earth Seeker wouldn't launch until March. It was too soon for Derek to be going out of her life like this. "I've got a ferry pickup at Goddard, a relay from Earth. It's t
he last of the animal-breeding stock and construction supplies. A lot of volunteers are making the trip then, too, for final orientation. We'll take the long orbit out. Once we get there, in December, after the stops en route at Kirkwood and the Trojan Jovian stations, we stay there. The rest is all set, Bren."

  She pulled her hands free, not wanting him to feel her trembling. He could see it, though. No way to miss it. She was so cold her teeth were chattering. Brenna picked up the cup and gulped caffeine, fighting panic.

  "Have you ... thought over what I said in September?"

  She nodded. "You said a lot of things. So did I."

  "You know what I'm talking about. If you'd just come out and see the ship..."

  New Earth Seeker. Starship. A working starship. Photon ramjet. A sub-light-speed craft. But she could make the journey. Hiber-Ship's prototype had been out beyond Pluto and back again, in the Sixties. Cryogenic stasis had been perfected, working from Ward Saunder's patents, in the Fifties. Hiber-Ship Corporation had overcome that objection—a lingering fear from the Crisis of 2041, when Jael Saunder's supporters had demonstrated that the old cryogenic method used in the Antarctic Enclave didn't always work. The new one did. Revival rate, 100 percent. Ramjet and cryo stasis—proven. Not theories which killed people or left them hopelessly maimed or broke the spirits of once-dedicated space pilots like Hector Obregon.

  The words, and Derek himself, were a siren call. Brenna knew she should run away, figuratively and literally, to escape the lure Derek was casting in her direction. But she didn't.

  "I ... I've seen all the PR literature. I was out at the ship in '72, right after you..." She had been about to say, "Deserted me and joined a company that's opposed to everything I believe in." Instead, Brenna said, "After you signed up with Hiber-Ship."

  "So much has changed. The ship was just bare bones then. She's finished now, and she's beautiful, Bren. The PR vid presentations don't begin to do her justice. I want you to see her." There was an unspoken additional part of that statement. He wanted Brenna to come aboard New Earth Seeker and stay— with him. Derek was too wise to say that out loud, though. "I've been up to FTL Station," he reminded her. "Your turn." He was putting a lot of chips on the table in this winner-take-all game of words.