“Is there a way,” Alex asked, “to keep both hatches open?”
“We’d have to depressurize the entire yacht,” I said.
“Let’s do a quick inspection. We might not be here that long.”
The lights brightened for us. To our right, a passageway led back, dividing six sleeping compartments. Eight movable seats were distributed around the cabin. Beyond that lay the bridge.
It had been a luxurious setting when the yacht was new, but now everything looked worn. One of the seats was tilted slightly. Its reading lamp was on. Gravity was off. I checked the air. It was okay.
Alex looked around the cabin while I went up onto the bridge, sat down in one of the empty chairs, and examined the controls. “Anybody there?” I said, hoping to get a response from an AI. We’d been informed, of course, that the Firebird did not have an AI, but it was worth checking.
Nobody answered.
“Everything okay?” Belle’s voice.
“Yes. We’re fine.”
Alex floated in behind me. Looked around. Touched the panel carefully as if he might break something. “Let’s get some weight,” he said.
“Good by me. You ready?”
“Do it.” He took hold of one of the chair arms and pushed his feet against the deck. I activated the generator. If you’ve ever been in a zero field when they turn on the gravity, you know it shows up gradually, allowing you to adjust while it builds to its normal onboard setting, which is usually about .37 standard.
Alex didn’t wait for the process to finish before he returned to the cabin. I got up and followed him. He stopped to open a storage cabinet. “That’s strange,” he said. We were looking at a pressure suit. “These things aren’t cheap.”
“No. It must be defective. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have left it here.”
Except for the suit, the cabinet was empty.
Alex crossed the cabin, entered the passageway, and pushed against the door to the first compartment on his right. It opened. The interior was dark, but after a moment a light came on. A bunk was set well above the deck to conserve space. When in use it would be lowered. The compartment was neat and tidy. Unused.
I checked the compartment across from it. And got a shock: The bunk was down, and someone had slept in it recently. (And yes, I’m speaking relatively, but I don’t know how else to say it.) And a message had been scrawled across the bulkhead with a black marker.
Eliot, don’t know what happened.
Hope you’re okay.
Radio wasn’t much help.
The marker was crawling slowly up one bulkhead. “He’s gone,” said Alex. “He gave up and walked out through the airlock.”
Each compartment had a storage cabinet. We opened it and found a shirt, a razor, and some toothpaste. One of the other compartments held the missing piece of luggage. And his notebook.
His notebook.
“We don’t have him,” said Alex, “but maybe we struck gold anyhow.”
We tried to take a quick look, but couldn’t get into it because we didn’t have the password.
They’d set up a clock, and it was showing a total elapsed time of 272 days, 11 hours, 6 minutes. “So what this means,” I said, “is that during the forty years it’s been out here, less than a year has passed on board. So the black-hole track becomes what—?”
“A shortcut through time as well as space,” said Alex.
“Incredible. I’m still not sure I believe it.”
We went back and looked again at the writing on the bulkhead. We took pictures. Then we returned to the bridge.
“Let’s run a test,” Alex said.
“Okay. What’s the test?”
“See if you can send a message to Skydeck.”
I sat down at the hyperlink. Ordinarily, I’d have directed the AI to make the connection. But the Firebird didn’t have a functioning AI. So I set it up myself. And opened a channel. “Skydeck Ops,” I said, “do you copy? This is the Firebird.”
We had to wait a few seconds. Then we got a voice: “Firebird, this is Skydeck. I copy. What do you need?”
“Just running a test, Skydeck. Thanks. Firebird out.”
“He didn’t use it,” said Alex, “because he didn’t know how.”
“I’d say that’s exactly right.”
“How about the radio? Does it work?”
I turned it on. “Belle, are you there?”
“I’m here,” she said.
“So why,” asked Alex, “didn’t he call for help?”
“He’s too far out. To reach Rimway, he’d have to have sent a directed transmission. If he didn’t know how to make the hyperlink work, I doubt he’d have been able to aim a beam at Rimway.”
Alex looked around helplessly. “He just didn’t get a break, did he?”
“I guess not.”
He sat down in one of the chairs. “All right. How were they managing this? How’d they hope to find the yachts?”
“I’d guess Robin knew how long they’d be under, or was able to control the duration. One way or the other.”
“Okay. So they’d come out here in the Breakwater.”
“They probably had the radio set to broadcast when it surfaced.”
“But they only set the radio for the one trip. On this last flight, my guess is that Robin wanted to see what it felt like to experience a passage through time. So he decided to stay. Cermak would come back in two weeks—Cermak’s time—and, I guess, only a few hours, Robin’s time. So maybe they reset it for one more flight.”
“I can’t really tell what they did with it. But that’s probably exactly what happened.” I got another creepy feeling. “Are we sure it was voluntary? That he wasn’t just left here?”
“Chase, he brought his notebook and his bag over here with him. So he expected to be here awhile.”
“Alex,” I said, “what really happened that night? When Cermak went to Virginia Island? Do you know?”
“I know most of it. Some details are missing, but I think even there we can make a reasoned guess.
“Cermak was carrying on an affair with Elizabeth. Or she’d given him reason to think she might acquiesce. I can’t be sure about the state of things. When Robin announced he was going to stay on the Firebird, it must have looked like a golden opportunity. Incidentally, as far as Cermak was concerned, it must have been a last-minute decision. And it probably was. Had Cermak known in advance, he’d have tried to set something up with Elizabeth.
“She must have gotten a jolt when Cermak showed up on Virginia Island. The last thing in the world she needed was to have a lover over for the night, especially one who came equipped with a skimmer that some of her friends might recognize.
“It might have resulted in a fight. Or, more likely, she just told him it wasn’t safe. Maybe they’d set something up for the following night, off the island somewhere. So he goes home.
“Later, she finds out that Cermak is dead, and suddenly she has a decision to make. We can assume she wasn’t passionately in love with her husband. She can get help out to him. Presumably she had some idea where he might be found. Or maybe not. In any case, she decides to sit tight. The family estate will come into her hands, and she won’t need to lift a finger.
“Then, a couple of days later, she learns that somebody saw Cermak’s skimmer outside her house. She can’t very well change her plan without compromising herself, so she decides to brazen it through. ‘My husband,’ she tells the police, ‘never came into the house that night.’ She didn’t know what had happened to him.”
“And,” I said, “she got away with it.”
Five hours and fifty-two minutes after the initial contact, we sat in the Belle-Marie and watched the Firebird fade away. “My best guess,” said Alex, “is that it’s surfaced about a thousand times.”
I’d figured it to 1,071 appearances.
“If it always stays roughly six hours—”
“There’s very little onboard passage of time while submerged.”
“Maybe none at all.” He looked out at the background of stars. Looked at where the last glow from the Firebird had been.
“Well, if we need it again, we’ll know where to find it. If we can’t figure out the password for the notebook, it might still be possible, at least, to see what adjustments Robin made to the drive unit. On the whole, Chase,” he added, “I think we did pretty well.”
“It’s depressing, though—”
“I know—”
“I’d hoped we’d get the long shot,” I said.
“Find Robin on board? And bring him back alive and in good health?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too, Chase. Me, too.”
THIRTY-THREE
There is no virtue more admirable than courage. And no defect more unsettling than a lack of prudence. Yet it is a curious fact that they are essentially one and the same quality.
—Edmund Barringer, Lifeboat, 8788 C.E.
We sent the notebook to Shara immediately. She went absolutely delirious. We’d surprised ourselves by finding the password on the way back: It was brane. The notebook was filled with numbers and sketches that might have been tracking data, but it was impossible to be certain. There were pages of equations that meant nothing to either of us. One section was titled time-space variables. It consisted of line drawings, arcs, and more equations. There was all kinds of data on starships, the mass of various models, the drive types, details on general hull design.
There were also, without explanation, between sixty and seventy pages listing galactic positions, like these:a: 22:14:38 dec: +22.31 S 0611/4322
a: 21:10:41 dec:—17.33 N 1222/6319
a: 19:21:35 dec:—19.27 N 0303/9312
a: 23:32:17 dec: +14.12 N 0914/8711
The eight-digit number seemed to be a date, given in the terrestrial calendar. If that was correct, some of them went back thousands of years.
“So what do you make of it?” Alex asked Shara.
“Give me a chance to look at it,” she said. “But I’d say it’s just what we were hoping for.”
They were huddled in the dining room when I came in next morning. Shara was so excited, she could have been walking on the ceiling. “The basic problem,” she told me, “is that we’ve never known where the black holes really are, except for a few. So nobody ever put all this together. What Robin’s done is to mark the launch sites of vehicles that went missing. Then he went looking for later sightings, something that would, if not confirm, at least suggest, that these were Sanusar events. In some cases, he was able to show that no other reasonable explanation existed. Some of these events date all the way back to the third millennium. He’s also been able to give us the tracks for black holes that we didn’t know existed. Still don’t, officially. The only evidence for their existence derives from lining up Sanusar events. But now we have a sense of where the danger areas are. Places where you don’t want to be if you’re aboard a given type of ship and you’re about to make a jump.”
She took a long swallow of her coffee. “All of this will need confirmation. But, unless he was making up the numbers, and even some of the events—we haven’t been able to find them all yet because he didn’t list his sources—I don’t think there’s much question that we have a major breakthrough here.”
I glanced over at Alex. He was just finishing a plate of scrambled eggs, but his eyes were on me. “Why,” I said, “didn’t he mention this to somebody? Why—?”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Alex.
Shara nodded. “I’d guess he was gathering data and getting ready to publish. It’s the way the game is played. You don’t go out there with this kind of thing until you can show reasonable evidence.”
“So where are we now?” I asked. “I assume we’re going to try to find the Alpha Object.”
“We only have one ship,” said Alex. “Remember the butterfly.”
“What’s the butterfly?” asked Shara.
“Chase thinks the measurements aren’t sufficiently exact to enable us to find these things.”
“They aren’t,” I said. “And the playing field is getting bigger. Some of these ships only show up every couple of centuries.”
“Well, that’s not quite a valid statement,” said Shara. “They are only observed every couple of centuries. Actually, though, we have exact times on the last two appearances. So we should be in good shape with the Alpha and Antares Objects.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. Shara continued talking about the value of Robin’s notebook while I collected some toast and coffee. I went back to the table and pretended to listen while she went into some detail about what happens when time and space are subjected to the presence of a black hole. I waited for the appropriate moment and asked the question that had been on my mind from the beginning: “Do we have anything on the Capella? Do we know when it’ll be back?”
Alex looked at Shara.
“We have to wait,” she said, “until somebody sees it. Once we have a sighting, we can match it to the launch, and that will tell us where and when we can find it.”
The problem was that it might never happen. Probably wouldn’t, as a matter of fact. It could show up every few days, but if it was out in the pit, nobody was going to notice.
The Alpha Object would be up first. It had last been seen 178 years before by a deep-space monitor.
“Its previous known appearance before that,” said Shara, “was again 178 years. And we’re pretty sure this thing left Cormoral 2,331 years ago. That’s divisible by 178, or nearly so.”
“But the jump,” I said, “could also be eighty-nine. Or 44.5. Or anything at all that’s divisible into 2,331.”
Shara nodded. “That’s correct. But it doesn’t matter.”
“What do we do,” I asked, “if we find survivors?”
“We’ll take them off,” said Alex. “If we can.”
“The Belle-Marie doesn’t have much carrying capacity, Alex. Suppose there are fifty of them? Or a couple of hundred?”
“We’re hoping that won’t be the case,” he said.
“Hoping?”
Alex’s eyes clouded. “Chase, what do you think would happen if we went to StarCorps with this? And asked for a fleet of ships to accompany us?”
“They’d ask for some specifics.”
“And—?”
“Some proof you know what you’re talking about,” said Shara.
“We have pictures of the Firebird.”
“I don’t like it, Alex.”
“Neither do I, babe. Right now, our best bet is to get some hard evidence, and next time it appears, a serious rescue force will be on hand.”
“Alex, you’re talking almost two hundred years.”
“No. I’m talking how much time will pass inside the ship.” He seemed frustrated. “If there are a couple of hundred people on board, we wouldn’t have time to get them off no matter how many ships we take. Let it go. If we can prove we know what we’re doing with this one, next time we ought to be able to get some help.”
I looked at Shara. “He’s right,” she said.
“I’ve ordered a few extra pressure suits,” Alex said. “One for Shara, if she wants to use it. And seven for survivors, if we find any. Beyond that, we’ll have to make it up as we go.”
As we got ready to leave on the Alpha mission, a storm rolled in. The Coyote had been delivered the night before. I remember standing with Shara out on the front deck, waiting for Alex, watching the rain wash over the new lander. We were excited at the prospect of taking it up to the station. Finally, he came out just as a bolt of lightning crackled across the sky. He looked up for a moment. “Anybody here believe in omens?”
Our luggage had been loaded earlier, when the weather was clear. We hurried down onto the covered walkway. The rain was still blowing in on us. Not that it mattered. We’d have to run through the rain anyhow. The lander was too big for the shelter, so it had been left in the middle of the lawn.
W
e got drenched. I didn’t care. I love getting behind the controls of a new vehicle for the first time. (The test run didn’t count, of course.) We sat down and said hello to Gabe, who’d been installed by the manufacturer. I checked in with the tower, got clearance, and within a few minutes we were on our way to Skydeck.
Alex sat in back with Shara. They were talking about the chances of success and how many ships might be out there, lost in transdimensional tunnels.
We rose through the clouds. Alex leaned forward and asked about my reaction to the Coyote, how did it handle, would I have any problem getting used to it, but I could tell he was just making conversation, that his mind was elsewhere.
I asked Gabe what he thought of the Coyote. “It is,” he said, “a substantial upgrade over that junker we used to ride around in.”
On approach, I reported in to the station. And a familiar voice replied. “Hi, Chase. This is Skydeck.” Brad Hopkins. He was a heavyset guy who drank too much. Life-of-the-party type. He’d been in the Pilots’ Club the night I was there. “You just can’t stay away, can you?”
“Never could, Brad.”
“Lucky for us. Okay, Chase. Release the Coyote.”
I turned control over. “You have it, Brad.”
“Indeed I do, beautiful.” Hopkins was never much for standard operating procedure. “You headed for the Belle-Marie?”
“Yes, we are.”
He slowed our forward motion while a maintenance vessel emerged, then guided us into the docking area. When we were alongside the Belle-Marie , he told me the Coyote looked pretty nice. Then he said something about seeing me at the Club. And, finally, “All yours, Chase.”
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