by Allen Steele
“Oh, we could have.” Jonathan Parson studied the small vessel as well. “But Sawyer thinks that anything more sophisticated would draw attention, and that’s something you don’t want.” A shrug. “He has a point. Take a ship with null-gravity drive to Earth, and any local who happens to see it is going to know that you’re not from around there.”
The reasoning was sound, but it didn’t make Jorge any more confident in what his expedition had been given. The CFS Gerardus Mercator was a Vespucci-class shuttle designed for sorties between Earth and Lagrange-point space colonies. Sixty-five feet long, with stub wings jutting from each side of its cylindrical hull, its main engine was powered by an indigenous-fuel nuclear reactor. Funnel-like airscoops on the upper fuselage tapered back to ramjets mounted on either side of the vertical stabilizer, while its narrow cockpit rose above a conical bow. The shuttle was more than twenty-five Earth-years old, and hopelessly obsolete in comparison to the newer vessels of the Federation Navy, most of which had been retrofitted with reactionless drives derived from hjadd technology. Dents and blackened scars of atmospheric friction along its hull and wings only deepened Jorge’s impression that it was an antique that had been mothballed until only a week ago.
Jorge turned to the Navy pilot standing beside his father. “Not to make an issue of it, but…how long has it been since the last time you flew this thing?”
“Two days, if you must know…and once every three months before that.” Hugh McAlister, the former European Space Agency spacer who’d flown the Mercator to Coyote nearly twenty years ago, scowled as if he’d been personally insulted. “It may not look like much, Lieutenant,” he added, his voice an irate Scottish burr, “but it’ll get us where we need to go. And I’ll thank you not to…”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything, Hugh.” Jon gave his fellow ESA veteran a mollifying smile. “Jorge has just never seen a craft which has had as much service as yours.” As he spoke, the colonel glanced at his son. Watch your tongue, his expression said. Pilots take comments about their craft rather personally.
“My apologies, Captain.” Realizing that he’d said the wrong thing, Jorge sought to make amends. “I wasn’t trying to…”
“Of course you weren’t.” Standing behind them, Sergio Vargas regarded him with amusement that bordered on contempt. “You’re just a kid. Probably never seen anything before that wasn’t made before you were born.” He prodded McAlister’s shoulder as if sharing a joke with an old comrade. “Count yourself lucky. Compared to the heap I stole to get here, this is the height of space technology.”
If Vargas’s last remark had been intended to ingratiate himself with the pilot, it didn’t work. McAlister didn’t look his way; instead, a frown appeared beneath his trim mustache. McAlister wasn’t one to keep his opinions to himself, and he’d already let his superiors in the Navy and the Corps know how he felt about having a former Union Astronautica officer—particularly one who’d hijacked a freighter, even one that had been decommissioned—as a passenger. Although there had never been any actual hostilities between UA and the ESA, it was a known fact that spacecraft of both services were frequently armed, with their crews undergoing space-combat training.
Jorge wasn’t crazy about having Vargas in the expedition, either, but there was little choice in the matter. They needed someone who’d recently been on Earth—particularly the East Coast of North America—to act as a native guide, and Vargas was the only person who qualified. Yet when Jorge glanced back at him, he noticed that Inez seemed to be keeping her distance as well. Only a couple of days earlier, while the two of them were taking a break from weapons practice on the Corps’ small-arms range outside Leeport, Inez had confided in him that there was something about Vargas that she didn’t trust.
“I can’t read his mind,” she’d said, “but I don’t think he’s told us everything. He’s holding something back.”
Jorge didn’t trust Vargas, either…which was another reason why he’d recruited Greg Dillon to the expedition. The sergeant had been Jorge’s right-hand man in the Corps for a while, and Jorge needed someone reliable to keep an eye on Vargas. So, although Greg’s ostensible purpose for being on this mission was to back up Jorge, his real job was to watch Vargas’s every move and clamp down on him if he did anything even remotely suspicious.
The tractor had finished wheeling the Mercator out of its hangar. The driver detached its tow cable, and a couple of ground crew moved in, dragging the fuming hoses of hydrogen fuel lines behind them, while another pad rat ducked beneath the shuttle to open its underbelly hatch. “Time to get aboard,” Jorge said, bending over to pick up his pack. “Gentlemen, Inez…”
“Not so fast.” Laying a hand on shoulder, his father stopped him. “You’ve still got one more passenger…and I think that’s him now.”
Jorge looked up, saw a small coupe approaching from the direction of the airfield. Whoever it was, he must have flown into New Brighton on a different gyro than the rest of the crew. He’d forgotten that the Federation liaison to the Talus was supposed to be going with them to Rho Coronae Borealis, where he was to assist Jorge in negotiating with the High Council of the Talus. This person wouldn’t be accompanying the expedition—provided, of course, that the Council granted them permission to visit Earth—but instead would return to Coyote aboard another ship.
“You haven’t told us who this gent is, Colonel.” McAlister watched as the coupe glided to a halt between them and the Mercator. “I hope he’s not some run-of-the-mill…”
Whatever he was about to say, it was left unfinished, for at that moment the coupe’s rear door canted upward, and a tall figure in a black robe emerged. Jorge caught a glimpse of titanium-alloy feet, then two multifaceted red eyes within a metallic, skull-like face peered at them from the raised hood.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Vargas’s voice was an angry mutter. “You can’t be serious.”
Jorge said nothing, though he couldn’t help but stare at the new-comer. Since childhood, he’d heard his parents’ stories about Manuel Castro. Once the lieutenant governor of the colonies during the Occupation, Castro had been one of the Savants—posthumans who had sought immortality by having their brains scanned and downloaded into quantum comps encased within artificial bodies—who’d come to 47 Ursae Majoris aboard the first Western Hemisphere Union starships. Thought to have been killed during the Revolution, Castro was left behind when the Union was forced off Coyote; a few years later, he’d met Jon and Susan and become part of their short-lived rebellion against the early colonial government.
Few people had seen Castro since then. For a long time, he was believed to be a hermit living in the Black Mountains, studying the chirreep tribes of Great Dakota. But when Jorge was a teenager, he and a couple of friends had hiked into the mountains, hoping to catch a glimpse of the last Savant on Coyote. Apparently Aunt Marie had once been a very close friend of his, because she had a hand-drawn map pointing the way to the one-room cabin he’d built near an abandoned logging site; when she wasn’t looking, Jorge had copied the map, and the boys had used it to find the cabin. But Castro’s home had been long since abandoned, its roof rotted and on the verge of collapse, its only room infested with birds’ nests and skeeters. No one knew where Manuel Castro had gone, and over the years he’d gradually become a figure of myth and legend.
Jon ignored Vargas’s remark as he walked over to the Savant. “Hello, Manny,” he said, extending a hand. “Thanks for coming.”
A rasping burr from the grille of his mouth that might have been laughter. “The pleasure is all mine,” Manny replied. A four-fingered claw appeared from the folds of his robe, grasped Jon’s hand. “Any opportunity to visit the Talus qua’spah is one I’ll gladly accept.”
“I see you finally got your left eye fixed.”
“Left eye, and much more.” The Savant opened his robe, exposing a robotlike body that dully reflected the winter sun. “Seems that the danui have a lot of experience with cyborgs. The last tim
e I was there, I managed to talk some of their representatives into upgrading my…”
“Wait a damn minute!” McAlister was staring at Manny with undisguised loathing. “You’re not telling me…you didn’t say…!” He pointed at the liaison as if he was a monster. “He’s a Savant!”
Manny let his robe fall back in place. “You’re the pilot, correct? I hope your skills match your keen grasp of the obvious.”
His immobile face and strange eyes displayed no emotion, yet Jorge thought he detected the slightest twinge of sarcasm in Manny’s voice. From behind him, he heard a stifled laugh; peering over his shoulder, he saw Inez clasping a hand across her mouth.
“As you’ve so wisely pointed out…yes, he is.” Jon glared at McAlister and Vargas as he stepped aside. “Allow me to introduce you to Manuel Castro, the Federation representative to the Talus. I hope you’ll afford him the same respect and courtesy as you would any government official…particularly one who’s a senior diplomat.”
“But…” McAlister shook his head, both bewildered and irate. “Hell’s bells, Colonel, how can you expect us to trust someone…something…like…”
“Captain, you’re out of line. Savant Castro…”
“Captain, with all due respect, my loyalty and trustworthiness are not at issue here.” Apparently unwilling to let Jon defend him, Manny approached the pilot, the bottom of his robe whisking softly against the concrete. “The last four presidents have entrusted me with the task of speaking on behalf of the Federation…and indeed, not just the Federation, but all humans on Coyote. No one has ever complained about my service, although I’ll admit that my role has been circumspect. I’m sure, however, small-minded individuals might object.”
Jorge understood McAlister’s and Vargas’s feelings about Manny, even if he didn’t share them himself. Long ago, when the Savants had shared power with the Patriarchs and Matriarchs in the Western Hemisphere Union, their inner circle had secretly plotted to ease Earth’s population crisis by eliminating one-third of the population. The conspiracy had ultimately been exposed, but not before tens of thousands of persons were killed; those Savants who weren’t captured and destroyed fled from Earth, eventually taking up residence in the farthest reaches of the solar system. Manny had never been involved in the plans; nevertheless, those who remembered the Savant genocide automatically despised his kind.
“Goddamn right I object.” McAlister started to take a step back, but not before he found himself staring Manny straight in the eye. “I can’t believe the president would allow something like you to…”
“If you don’t believe it, then you’re welcome to take this up with President Edgar. I can link directly to Government House…would you like for me to do so?” Manny waited. When McAlister didn’t reply, he went on. “Your objection has been noted. However, I’ll remind you that your job is not to pass judgment on me but to transport us to Talus qua’spah, where I’m to carry out my official duties, as mandated by the president. Are you clear on that?”
“Yeah.” McAlister was still simmering, but he reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, I…”
“‘Yes, sir’ is the proper response to a senior official, Captain.” Manny paused. “Furthermore, in the future, I’ll thank you to refer to me as ‘someone’ and not ‘something.’ Are we clear on that as well?”
“Yes, sir.” The pilot’s face had gone red, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping his upper lip from curling. “I understand, Savant Castro.”
“‘Mr. Castro’ will do. My friends call me ‘Manny.’ Either one is acceptable, since I no longer use my former term of address.” Manny turned toward Vargas. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Vargas?”
Vargas appeared to be shocked that the Savant would know his name. Unwilling to challenge a senior diplomat the way McAlister had, though, he shook his head. A dismissive nod, then Manny strolled over to Jorge.
“Lieutenant Montero, I presume?” Again, the clawlike hand appeared from within his robe. When Jorge grasped it, he found Manny’s touch to be cold, yet surprisingly gentle. “Very pleased to meet you after all these years. Your grandfather and I were on opposite sides during the war, but later we became friends.”
“So I’ve been told.” Jorge glanced at his father, who nodded but said nothing. For an instant, he considered telling the Savant about his attempt to find him, then decided against it; perhaps later. “I’ve heard a lot of stories. My grandfather always spoke well of you.”
The staccato buzz that sounded somewhat like a laugh. “Happy to hear this…even though, as I said, we’d had our differences. In any case, I’m proud to have assumed his old position as diplomatic liaison. I only hope that I’ll be able to serve you as well as he would have.”
“Thank you.” Jorge began to say something else, but before he could, Manny turned to Inez. This time, though, he didn’t offer his hand, but instead bowed slightly, his hands clasped before his chest.
“Sa’Tong qo, Corporal,” he said, his voice now low and oddly reverent. “It’s an honor to meet you. Your father’s teachings have meant a great deal to me.”
Oh, my god, Jorge thought, he’s a Sa’Tongian! The expression Manny had just used was hjadd in origin. Literally translated, it meant “Follow the wisdom of Sa’Tong,” but it could also have different meanings, depending on the circumstances: “hello,” “good-bye,” and “good luck” were but a few. Nonetheless, it was something only a devout Sa’Tongian would be likely to say. Inez seemed to be surprised as well, because her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Yet she recovered quickly and reciprocated with the same bow and formal clasping of the hands. “Sa’Tong qo, Savant…that is, Mr. Castro. I’m pleased to learn that you’ve received the wisdom of the chaaz’maha.”
Jorge thought they’d go further, but apparently that was all that needed to be said. Manny briefly introduced himself to Greg, who accepted the Savant’s handshake despite a moment of obvious reluctance, then Castro turned to McAlister again. “Captain, I believe the time has come for us to leave. If you will…?”
“Right.” The pilot bent over to pick up his bag. “If you’ll follow me, please…?”
Hoisting his own bag across his shoulder, Jorge started to join the others, but then his father stopped him. “Just a moment, son. If I could have a word with you…”
Knowing what was coming, Jorge halted. Jon waited until the rest of the expedition members were out of earshot, then he went on. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know you don’t want a speech from the old man, but…well, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. If I could’ve come along…”
“I know.” Jorge was aware of the fact that his father had tried to pressure Sawyer into adding him to the expedition, arguing that he was a more experienced pilot than McAlister. Sawyer had turned him down, though, saying that Jon was too old for this sort of thing; besides, he was uncomfortable with the notion of sending both father and son on such a hazardous mission. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll get us there and back again.”
Jon nodded, and Jorge was surprised to see a trace of redness in his father’s eyes. Jon was trying to force back tears; in all the times they’d seen each other off, for one Corps expedition or another, never before had his father been so emotional. “Give Mama my love,” he added. “Tell her I’ll see you both as soon as I get back.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.” For a second, Jorge thought his father would embrace him. But they both knew that would be embarrassing—as expedition leader, it wouldn’t do for him to be seen being given a farewell hug by his father—so instead they formally shook hands. “Good luck, boy,” Jon said. “Take care of yourself…and the others, too.”
“Thanks. I will.” Then Jorge turned and followed the others to the Mercator.
The shuttle’s interior wasn’t spacious, but it was suitable for their purposes. The belly hatch led to the middeck passenger cabin, where four couches were arranged on either side of a center aisle and their supplies tucked into
cargo nets behind them. Inez, Vargas, Manny, and Greg were buckling themselves into their seats when Jorge came aboard. He raised the ladder and closed the hatch, making sure that it was dogged tight before moving forward. Apparently Inez sensed his emotions, because she turned to give him a sympathetic smile; Jorge patted her fondly upon the shoulder, then went up a short flight of steps to the flight deck.
The cockpit was even smaller than the cabin, with two couches crammed nearly shoulder to shoulder within a wraparound array of control panels. Although Jorge knew nothing about flying a spacecraft, as expedition leader he’d nonetheless been assigned to the right-hand copilot seat. McAlister was already going through the prelaunch checklist, his hands roaming across the various toggle switches and buttons as he activated the shuttle’s major systems. The pilot grunted as Jorge straddled the center console to fall clumsily into his couch, and Jorge felt McAlister’s eyes upon him as he struggled to untangle the harness straps and attach them to the six-point buckle at the center of his chest.
“Ever been up in space before, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Yes, I have.” Jorge wasn’t about to admit that his previous experience was limited to two suborbital training sorties. “Just…remembering how to do all this, that’s all.”
“Hmm…well, fortunately, I’ve done this a few times. Sir.”
Jorge glanced at McAlister. Although there was a hint of irony in his voice, the pilot’s expression remained neutral. Jorge only hoped that his attitude wasn’t a permanent fixture, or there would be problems.
Instead of responding, he gazed through the cockpit windows. As the ramjets took on the low moan of its warm-up procedure, he saw the ground crew moving away, dragging the fuel lines behind them. He spotted his father standing just beyond the edge of the flight line. Jorge briefly raised a hand, but apparently Colonel Parson didn’t see him because he didn’t respond in kind.