A few minutes later, Jess arrived with Ryan. Two seasoned veterans saluted each other, exhibiting no less grace than did the pair now engaged. The tall, reserved warrior vigorously commenced a bout with the woman fully his equal in prowess, grateful for the chance to force a hurt-filled mind onto something besides a searing sense of loss.
Striding into the arena, accompanied by Teeny, Signe surveyed three sets of combatants with manifest pride, grown instantly cognizant of Conor's and Jess's motives in selecting those particular partners. No trace of the emotional pain generated by the recent losses of valued comrades showed on the handsome, faintly lined face beneath the startling silvery hair. Saluting the redheaded woman who returned the gesture with supple grace oddly at variance with her spectacularly homely features, the Commander engaged an opponent whose aggressive attack forced her full absorption in the task at hand.
A considerable time later, eight spacer-fighters stored foils, masks and plastrons, and retired to the dingy canteen across the corridor for drinks. Malcolm, seated opposite a delicately lovely, sloe-eyed, golden-skinned woman, greeted those dropping into chairs around a battered table. Smiling on the newcomers, Midori did likewise.
Glancing from face to face, Morgan inquired, "Anyone want something different from his usual? No? I'll fetch a tray."
As the majority of those seated helped themselves to tea, the purveyor of the refreshments set a steaming cup of bitter brew before Conor. "Try that on your tantalum-steel gut, spacer," he grunted. "It's a wonder you can sleep ten hours later, after you drink what our Ministry of Food Resources fondly calls coffee."
Placidly, the scarred warrior sipped the dark liquid. "Worse than usual," he admitted. "But tea seems insipid after you acquire a taste for this rot-gut slop. The Ministry's food-chemists must slip something in their wretched imitation that makes addicts of what few customers they've got left."
"I planned on sending them a packet of that Columbian coffee from the galleys in those ships we stole," Malcolm remarked disgustedly. "I figured on asking whether they could duplicate it, but every last smidgeon of the powder disappeared down the gullets of our spacers."
Midori's infectious laugh warmed her hearers. "I've got enough for one cup stashed, Malcolm," she confided. "Write the message, and I'll donate my hoarded powder."
Wong let the chatter flow around him. As if the pain occasioned by the loss of comrades weren't enough, we find ourselves contending with additional sorrow generated by wounds to our psyches , he mused bleakly. Morgan's wholly oblivious to the way Jess's eyes change when he speaks to her. He has eyes for no woman but Signe, who cares for no man other than as a brother. Ryan's mourning Madelyn, but even if he weren't, he'd see Teeny purely as a fellow warrior--a comrade. Not even as female, let alone as desirable. Teeny entertains no hope of ever marrying--never did, I'll wager, even before Ryan grew so infatuated with Madelyn. And I find it a test of my willpower to treat Midori purely as a pupil--a most promising novice at my art. I manage to hide how I feel, but at a cost to my peace. The only ones among the eight of us whose happiness shows all over them, are Malcolm and Midori.
Well, there's hope in that, for the future we're risking our lives to make free of fear for a new generation. I wonder whether any of us will live to produce sons or daughters. By the time this war ends, it could well be that the cream of our warriors will have died without issue.
Sad, that. Conor's the last of his line--sired no children. He keeps his wholly unhealed wound hidden, but suffers. He won't quit till the war's won, though. Not Conor. Nor will Signe. She takes every death to heart, even as she plunges us into new danger. Leads us. That's the key. The Commander risks herself first and foremost. She habitually declines to send a fighter where she refuses to go herself. Daring strategist, Signe, but that skill pales before her ability as a leader.
A vast distance away, across the void, Levi sat before his terminal, his dark eyes remote. Wholly unaware of the cup of fragrant coffee gone space-cold on the counter beside him, of the fact that the dinner-hour had come and gone, of the noise occasioned by a faulty blower in the ventilator shaft above his head, he sat erect, still. Mind at a white-hot peak of concentration, he thought on a plane most men could not attain, in the symbolic language of pure mathematics. True, pictures formed, but those visions bore no semblance to the world his body inhabited.
An hour passed. One by one, the advancing seconds marched into oblivion. Dahl entered, on tiptoe. Seeing that his cabinmate neither moved, nor spoke--seemed in a trance--he left again, sliding the door soundlessly shut behind him. Well aware of Levi's ever-deepening abstraction throughout the previous day, the solicitous spacer-captain had refrained from intruding on the mathematician's reflections. Not given in the best of times to idle chatter, Dahl projected comradely warmth without speaking: a circumstance that registered on some nonverbal portion of Levi's churning brain, enabling him the better to concentrate. At 1800, Dahl returned, bearing a hot premium steak dinner. His cabinmate seemingly had not moved during the six hours since his earlier intrusion.
Shades of the ancients, surely Levi needs to eat! the dismayed Captain fretted nervously. Should I … Perhaps the smell will entice him . Setting the container on the counter beneath the galley , he again tiptoed out, shaking his head. I guess he's all right. He looked … entranced. No … eager, but far off. Lost in a realm we can't reach.
Genius, Arlen says he is. I don't doubt that in the least, but I somehow thought geniuses tended to be cranky, petulant, and self-absorbed. Levi surely isn't. He isn't even absent-minded--or at least, not more so than most of us get, at times. He constantly cooks the coffee to black sludge that would float a bolt, but says he's used to his wife's handling that aspect of his domestic life.
He misses Rachel--I can tell. Some woman she must be. Biochemist. My aching old wounds! I can't imagine a woman's qualifying as a scientist--doing original research. Well … I'll stay out, till bedtime. Why not raise Lacey on the vid, and cheer him up? He's giving the medics fits, Rafael says--wants out of the infirmary. Ahearne won't hear of it. Might there be a terminal in Lacey's cabin? I'll inquire.
Having persuaded a disgruntled medical technician to push a portable terminal next to the invalid's bed, by promising to soothe the irate patient's nerves, Dahl spent thirty minutes visiting with the Captain whose whole person radiated frustration.
"Rafael's carrying on," Dahl assured him briskly. "The Commander-in-Chief has filled the space around Columbia with ships, all searching on the vid for a disembodied exhaust. All the corridors fronting locks, he's keeping heavily guarded. Signe targets first-class military ships--or has, thus far. One of these days, she'll overreach herself, and fall in one of her assaults."
"Don't hold your breath." Frowning blackly, Lacey growled, "Danner crossed swords with her, but didn't so much as score on her."
"He'd just run six hundred meters at top speed, before taking her on--after spending eight hours on duty. Brant will drop her, if he ever gets the chance."
"I wonder." Petulantly, the convalescent threw back the gray bedcover, exposing his heavily bandaged torso to the view of the comrade staring into his screen.
"You're looking better," Dahl observed cheerily.
"I need out of here! I'd heal just as fast aboard--or at least, in my quarters at Chemen!"
"You're doing just fine where you are, I'd judge." Sensing that his blunt assessment annoyed the invalid, Dahl confided, "Arlen recently took steps he hopes will lead to our being able to detect Signe's ships." As he spoke, he noted the gauntness of the coppery face, and the stubble of beard shadowing sunken planes beneath high, flat cheekbones. The warrior-captain's black eyes alone seemed unchanged, retaining their impetuous fire.
"Let's hope so! I can't believe we're fighting opponents we can't see!"
"Barclay heard one, though. He passed Arlen a disc containing a code of some sort. The Commander set an expert evaluating it."
"Code! Who in hell could fight at the same time he
had to turn commands into code?"
"That seems impossible, I'll agree, but then so do undetectable ships. I think I see now how Signe showed up to snatch mine, though. Six men on two boards never saw a thing."
"Damn her to hell!" A clenched fist slammed robustly into the mattress.
Dahl smiled bleakly. "You never met her, Lacey. I did. And damned if I don't admire her, despite the way she scored on me. She's a unique woman, let me tell you."
"I can't say I met her. She skewered Marcel right next to me, though. And yes…unique's the word. She's a warrior, all right. Blast her!"
At 1950, Dahl walked down the corridor towards his quarters, smiling to himself as he conceded, I don't envy that harassed-looking medic. Damned if Lacey won't prove a handful before he's on his feet! Well, he's recovering. No doubt about that.
Just as he reached for the handle, the door slid open with a bang. Levi charged through the aperture to collide heavily with his cabinmate. Reeling from the force of the impact, Dahl instinctively clutched at the taller man, who in turn sought to prevent his comrade's toppling ignominiously to the deck. After engaging in a momentary, incongruous ballet, each regained his equilibrium.
"Dahl!" Levi exclaimed breathlessly. "I've done it! I've solved it! I can finish now…"
"Marvelous! I figured you must be close when I left the steak."
"Steak?" The mathematician's eyes, which had glowed with eagerness, regarded his associate blankly. "I never noticed…"
"You were off in a parallel universe. No sweat. I'll reheat it. You can eat after you get back."
"I need to report to the Commander-in-Chief, if he's available. I'll dine afterwards. Dahl, I thank you."
Clapping the mathematician on the back, the Captain offered hearty congratulations, shaking his head in a mixture of awe and relief as he watched the lean figure hasten towards the office of his superior.
Rising precipitately, Arlen met the man whose entire person radiated contagious excitement, halfway, hand outthrust. "Levi! You've solved it!"
"I made a major breakthrough, sir. Today…minutes ago. I've eliminated the worst barrier preventing my finishing the calculations. A week or ten days hence, we'll be able to sit down and plan practical applications. Or you will, with my admittedly feeble assistance. I'm not the physicist you are, but between us, sir…"
"Between us, Levi, we'll devise a countermeasure that'll nullify Signe's advantage." Exerting a powerful grip on the sinewy hand he still held in his, Arlen added grimly, "We stand in need of a break, damned if we don't. The linguist identified the root tongue, but says he fears that what's on the disc is an obscure variant. Numerous subfamilies of the main language-family existed on Earth, he informed me. He says this variant's as far removed from the main language as is Earth-Standard from Pre-Unification French or Spanish, and he can't locate any dictionary or grammar in the bank similar to what's on the disc."
"Even if we could hear them, we can't see them," the listener reminded the world leader whose frustration he sensed. "Well, I'll grab a few hours of sleep before attacking the problem again. The end is in sight now, sir."
"You'll grab eight hours of sleep!"
A transfiguring, warm smile greeted that adjuration. "I'll wager I get as much sleep, or more, these next few weeks, as you do, sir," Levi retorted mischievously, his manner conveying admiration rather than reproach. "I seriously doubt that your habits have changed since you were an undergraduate pursuing dual degrees, while inventing--as a pastime--things like a new method of generating the fields that protect ships and habitats from strikes by meteoroids. Fields twice as effective as those in use before that breakthrough!"
Arlen smiled in his turn. "Touché," he acknowledged. "But snatch eight hours tonight. At least start out rested."
After the door closed behind the mathematician, the dictator heartened by the news strode to the locks, and lifted his personal vessel. Thirty minutes later, he sat facing his senior captain in the latter's office at the base in Dunn. "Amin, Levi just made a crucial breakthrough. A week or ten days should see me able to start on the device. Brief me on your progress to date."
"I've refitted the three passenger vessels to accommodate crews, and mounted crude beam weaponry on their hulls, sir. They're ready. I scoured both the military and the University for engineers--even robbed Galt of a man he values, which served to deepen your colleague's underlying anger at your retention of power. We've designed openwork that will surround the ships: modules that can be easily locked together by men in mobile assemblers. That framework will support docking modules to which military ships, fuel ships, and cargo vessels can lock, and a corridor that will allow access to the passenger vessel through its docking module.
"I've suspended production of all vessels, military and civilian, until this work's complete. In two more weeks, we'll start assembling the forts. That'll be touchy. I've muzzled my engineers--made plain that any who indulge in loose talk about this project risk serving a term in a military penal work detail. I've also forbidden them to use any electronic means of communication--forced them to brainstorm face-to-face, right here. In fact, I've sequestered them rather brutally, but I couldn't risk Signe's picking up a telltale broadcast, from a black ship. She evidently spends time listening, from orbit, before a strike, while totally invisible. She timed that raid on Briedd to perfection."
"She did indeed. I feel badly about that. Gordon died valiantly, defending his ship."
Amin nodded. "'Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it,'" he quoted softly. "I honor his valor, but it'll take more than futile heroism to defeat the foe we face now. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, Arlen."
The Senior Captain spoke as friend to friend, his action arising from a bond older than that uniting subordinate and Commander-in-Chief. His measured words fell with soothing force into the stressed mind of a leader besieged on more than one front. Accustomed to the isolation arising from a position of autocratic power--an eminence the object of envy on the part of three able and ruthless commanders--Arlen experienced an upsurge of warmth. "Always the apt quotation," he remarked, smiling. "You're the original Renaissance man, Amin. Scholar, engineer, leader, warrior. Well-rounded."
"It takes one to know one. Well. When our forts are ready, we face a dangerous task. They'll be direly vulnerable while they're being assembled in orbit."
"Indeed they will. Let me assure you that I'm gratified by your accomplishments to date." And by your unfaltering, loyal concern for a Commander-in-Chief backed to the wall by a thrice-damned female strategist the equal of any of us in daring!
Rising, Arlen took his leave. An hour later, he dropped into his bunk. Tired to the bone, he determined to let his mind dwell on fanciful notions divorced from the problems plaguing him. I just need time , he mused drowsily . No … veer off that course. Drift …
Time. The hour is the same here as on the opposite side of Columbia … the same as at Briedd, or Dunn. The same here as in Gaea, or on board a ship in transit between worlds. What is time, but a means of measuring change? Earthmen told time by the rotation of their planet, and its revolution around the sun that ruled their lives. Day equated with sunlight--warmth, for crops grown in soil. Night meant starlit darkness. Men living at one particular location on Earth knew their lives to run a certain span of hours behind or ahead of their fellows living at a different location. They saw the inconvenience as unalterable.
Earthmen. To their displaced descendants whose bodies still follow circadian rhythms rooted in the spinning of a planet unimaginably distant in space and time, the motions of rocks orbiting the gas giant bear no relevance. Arbitrary, our system. Artificial, but convenient, for men who live out their lives within windowless habitats shielded from cosmic radiation by double, water-filled hulls.
No sun rules our lives. Artificial light bathes us constantly--bright by day, dim by night. Agriculture's a quaint myth. We synthesize meat indistinguishable from the flesh of slaughtered animals, from inor
ganic chemicals. We set our clocks by a standard unrelated to the minisystem ruled by our giant gaseous planet: the radio emissions of a pulsar. Clocks synchronized system-wide record time counted from 0100 on Monday of the first fourweek of the Earthyear 1 AJL. After Johann's Landfall, instead of Anno Domini … hours, days and pseudoyears geared to our history in this star-system. Thirteen fourweeks to an Earthyear: exactly 364 days. On the day one of us celebrates his hundredth birthday, he's fourteen weeks younger than an Earthly ancestor who lived one hundred of his years.
What matter? We valued simplicity--knew that improbable, exotic, life-bearing planet of our origin to be forever lost to us. Earthmen measuring time experienced problems with accuracy. Our arbitrary system-standard time suits the sons of galactic adventurers: spawn of Earth, who brought their flawed, aggressive instincts with them. Genetic, our penchant for resorting to war? Or a learned response? Some contradictory combination of both?
Damn … drop off the edge, Arlen. "To sleep … perchance, to dream … " By all the Powers, that man understood human nature. None better, down through seven Earthcenturies of time. Playwright whose insight still puts psychologists to shame …
At Dunn, Amin also made a conscious effort to thrust his multitudinous responsibilities from mind, and invite sleep. A face floated into his inner vision: an achingly lovely, laughing, ageless face. Welcoming the diversion, he dwelled on a memory undimmed by the tumultuous passage of days filled with an incredible press of work. The smile playing over the lean hawk-features persisted on the aristocratic ebony face until Amin at length drifted into oblivion.
Within airless deeps bathed in diffuse light from a distant, splendid sun, rocks in thrall to a giant planet moved with stately grandeur, their rhythmic, complex dance no whit altered by the presence in their midst of an egocentric alien race.
Tossing restlessly beneath the coarse gray bedcover of her hard bunk, Signe pondered her options. That last raid put a dent in our supply of fuel, as did my sending the cargo ship on a round of the thirty-nine inhabited rocks. More settlers survived than I'd figured. Tough folk, those. We gained some recruits: rock-hopper spacers seething at the loss of their ships, and young people as eager to fight as Wong and Inigo. Well, we needed replacements for the fighters I know I'll lose shortly.
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