Downtime

by Cynthia Felice

  Calla caught her breath, felt her heart pound furiously, and couldn’t bring herself to ask what his opinion was now. She was simultaneously grateful and frightened when he continued speaking.

  “It could still go either way, Calla.”

  Was that better or worse than knowing Jason no longer loved her, knowing that for sure? She shook her head. “It’s been thirty years. I remind myself every day. I am an old woman. He is a young man.”

  “Keep telling yourself that and the question will be decided for both of you.”

  “Oh, Calla, that would be so unfair to Jason,” Stairnon said suddenly. “You’ll be denying him the opportunity for the kind of love that few people ever know.”

  A love like hers and D’Omaha’s. But Stairnon had had transplants when she needed them and even cosmetic surgery that she didn’t need. Yes, eventually even the transplants wouldn’t be enough, but not before she and D’Omaha had had a good many more years together. If Calla developed circulatory or heart problems, there was nothing to do but live with them, just like she lived with the arthritis in her joints. And the odds were that she would develop something as she continued aging, for everyone did. The time was probably close now, very close. She hated knowing that her body would betray her and if she and Jason could recapture the magic they had shared that her body would betray him, too. She couldn’t do that to him. And wasn’t Stairnon afraid of that inevitable day when D’Omaha’s love no longer blinded him to the signs that already were there? Calla glanced at the tall woman beside her whose hair seemed like spun silver in the starlight. She still walked straight, though slowly, and she could still pretend that she could have walked faster if she wanted to. Or was she truly content to let the Praetor slow his pace to accommodate her? In all the years that Calla had known D’Omaha and Stairnon as friends, and it was many, many years now, she’d never heard Stairnon speak of D’Omaha’s taking the elixir with anything but acceptance and even relief that it was his privilege to do so. But Calla couldn’t help wondering if deep down the ever poised Stairnon didn’t harbor resentment and fears that were not much different from her own.

  Chapter 7

  D’Omaha shivered as the dark, wet breeze off the sea enveloped him. Every way he turned, he could see only the dull reflection of the cloud-shrouded moon on the water. There was barely enough light for him to make his way down from the top of the rocks to where Calla and Marmion were waiting by the zephyr, parked in the sand.

  “I don’t see any sign of him,” D’Omaha said. “Could he have set down on the wrong island?”

  Calla just shook her head and pulled her cape up around her neck.

  “This is the only island big enough for him to land on along the whole coast,” Marmion said. “Don’t worry, sir. He’ll be here.”

  “But he is late, isn’t he?” D’Omaha asked impatiently.

  He’d left Stairnon sleeping in the rough cubicle at Red Rocks, not realizing that Calla’s midnight summons would take him far away from the facility. If Stairnon awakened to find him gone, she wouldn’t sleep again until he returned and it would take her days to recover the rest she’d lost.

  “Yes, he’s late,” Marmion said, but the chief seemed unconcerned over the delay. He was neither concerned for the late hour nor, it seemed, worried that Singh might have met with any harm.

  “Here he comes,” Calla said.

  D’Omaha looked up at the sky, tried to find the telltale flame of the jets, saw nothing.

  “Not up there,” Calla said. “He’s already on the horizon, flying just above the water. He dropped into the atmosphere on the other side of the planet so that he wouldn’t be seen from the ranger station.”

  D’Omaha shrugged. “A shooting star falling into the sea wouldn’t be noticed.”

  “Probably not,” Calla said. “But I don’t want any more speculation about what’s hiding behind that moon, especially from Jason. He’s surmised a lot, but not the true scope of the mission.”

  Calla must have heard the lander, for only now could D’Omaha see it, a speck like a firefly on the water. It rapidly grew larger, the jet-sounds changing from a distant whine to a roar. Then noise and flame cut out and the whisper of blades cutting air was all that he could hear until the lander set down and sprayed sand all about. D’Omaha put his cape up before his face, and when he took it away, Singh was standing before them saluting.

  “What news?” Calla asked.

  “Aquae Solis is gone,” Singh said dispassionately. Only after speaking did he seem to realize that D’Omaha was with them, and then his tone became apologetic. “A terrible forest fire, sir. It took every building and all the contents. Nothing was saved.”

  It was according to plan, but D’Omaha was glad that Stairnon did not have to hear how well it had gone. Singh seemed to expect some kind of acknowledgment. D’Omaha nodded so that he would go on.

  “Koh has called an emergency session of the Decemvirate. All of them responded with affirmative replies.”

  “All of them showed up?” D’Omaha asked in surprise.

  “They hadn’t actually met as of the last communication, but all sent word that they were coming.”

  “The time isn’t right,” D’Omaha said thoughtfully. Mutare was only three months downtime from the Hub, not even as far as some of the colonial worlds. “Our traitor would want to give us a little time to get into production. He’ll demand a recess.”

  “That’s what Koh thinks, too,” Singh said.

  “What else?” Calla asked.

  “Council of Worlds again refused to intervene with the Cassells fleet because there have been no full-scale battles in the Hub.”

  “They didn’t attack?” D’Omaha said. Cassells Fleet’s attack on Dvalerth had been the most likely probability when D’Omaha last examined the situation thoroughly.

  “No, sir. Dvalerth has come up with a few allies of its own, so Cassells appears less willing to attack.”

  Marmion looked at Calla. “Your friend Jason would be interested in hearing this. His theory is that wars are fought only when the outcome is uncertain. If he’s right, that battle wasn’t fought because Cassells knows Dvalerth’s allies have tipped the scales so that Cassells can’t win.”

  “Well, it won’t be long before the scales are balanced again,” Singh said. “Rumor has it that other new worlds are readying their fleets to join Cassells. It seems to be escalating even before any battles are fought. The council members are very jumpy, sending almost daily demands to the Decemvirate for a decision on reapportionment of the elixir.” Singh pulled a handful of jelly beans from his pocket and gave them to Calla. “These are from Koh.”

  Calla stared at the jelly beans in her open palm. All save one were swirled with silver, a distinctive characteristic of Decemvirate probability models. She picked the solid-colored one out and handed the rest to D’Omaha. “And this one?” she asked Singh.

  “We’ve been monitoring communications between the ranger station and the Belden Traveler. When I saw your request for data on Mutare that predated the ranger station, I checked Compania’s jelly beans, too. There were copies of the original orbital surveys and some sketchy data from the first freetrader to bring a crystal back from the surface. There’s not much, but what there was I copied for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and rewarded Singh with one of her rare smiles. “I’ve been curious to learn why it waited for Jason and his rangers to make the connection between the danae and the crystals when the planet has been open to exploitation for so long.”

  “The cosmic radiation and lack of stellerators kept trips to the surface short,” Singh said gesturing to the jelly bean Calla was slipping into her hip pocket. “They sound more like raids: grab as much crystal and you can find and get off. It took a long time before freetraders actually brought people equipped to stay for a while. They limited their prospecting to what they called alluvial crystal, used slash and burn techniques to clear the ground. Danae aren’t mentioned except to no
te that they’re not dangerous. When the crystal trade caught on, the freetraders started dropping off prospectors who were desperate enough to risk exposure to the cosmic rays on downtime runs. They picked them up again on the way back.”

  “That’s true even now,” Marmion said, “Or was until we came along. Now they can’t leave, and with the limits Jason has imposed, we’re going to be dealing with some very angry miners. There’s bound to be many who have bagged their limit and will want to leave.”

  Marmion, D’Omaha was certain, had checked as thoroughly as he could into Mutare’s only saleable resource. Even at Aquae Solis he’d organized the groundskeepers so that they always were on the lookout for garnets exposed by spring meltwater or heavy rains. He paid them fairly for such finds, and then used his private resources to cut and polish the garnets. He sold them to jewelers, not on Mercury Novus where such stones were not particularly rare, but to jewelers on distant worlds where they might bring as much as a diamond. D’Omaha wondered if Marmion planned to buy up crystal while he was on Mutare. Apparently Singh was wondering the same thing.

  “Have you bought any crystal, yet?” Singh asked him.

  Marmion sighed. “I can’t buy any. The ranger-governor has made it illegal to speculate in crystal on Mutare. It keeps organized dealings off the planet, mainly back in the Hub.”

  “You’ll find a loophole,” Singh said with a good-natured laugh.

  But Marmion shook his head. “The man knew what he was doing when he wrote the regulations. He had the authority to write them in such a way that he could have had his pick of the best crystal, and he could have retired forever. But he didn’t. I don’t understand what he has against getting rich.”

  “Probably nothing,” Calla said. “But Jason thinks the danae may be sentient. He needs time to find out. He doesn’t want the entire species becoming extinct while he does.”

  Singh stared at her a moment. “Wouldn’t that be interesting? To find out they’re sentient, I mean, while knowing they have this extraordinarily valuable organ. Imagine how difficult it would be to protect them.”

  “Impossible, I’d say,” Marmion said. “But I don’t think we’ll have to worry about it. I’ve read every word of Jason’s reports, and I’ve been through some of the raw data, too. There’s no evidence that they’re sentient. They don’t even have enough sense to keep their numbers up. Jason’s data indicates that they may already be dying out. I just hope Calla can convince him to increase the bagging limits before there are none left. I’d sure like to take more than three crystals with me when we leave.”

  “No,” Calla said. “You’ll have to find some other way to make your fortune on Mutare. I won’t insist that he increase the limits.”

  Marmion looked like a stoic, but D’Omaha sensed he was dismayed. “It’s not what you think, sir,” Marmion said when he realized D’Omaha was looking at him. “It’s the miners. It’s going to be extremely hard to keep them in line when they hear the news.”

  “Maybe not,” D’Omaha said, thinking back to their dinner with Jason earlier in the evening. “Do you know how to weave?”

  “Weave? As in textiles?” Marmion said. “No, sir. I know nothing about weaving.”

  “Stairnon does,” Calla said jerking her head around to look up at him. D’Omaha nodded. “Now how do you suppose he knew that?”

  D’Omaha shrugged. “Lucky guess?”

  “Not damn likely, but what a good idea . . . if it works.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marmion said, completely puzzled.

  “Our friend the ranger-governor gave Stairnon a skein of thread that he said was from the nymph cocoons. Stairnon was in raptures over it because it was so fine, and it had a lovely aroma. She told Jason she was going to work it into lace trim for her handkerchiefs so she could enjoy the perfume until they were laundered. Jason said that while the scent molecules were soluble in hot water, cold water or sonic cleaning didn’t affect them, so she could enjoy the scent forever. Then Stairnon lamented that there wasn’t more thread to make something more substantial than handkerchief lace. Jason promised to get her all she wanted.”

  “I think,” Calla said smiling brightly, “that you should talk to Stairnon about the possibilities. From what Jason said, the nymph thread is abundant, and if you could turn the miners from hunting to weaving . . .”

  “It would be pure speculation,” D’Omaha said, “and turning people who came to hunt into weavers . . .” He shrugged.

  But Marmion’s eyes were already gleaming. “To that kind of person, profit is profit. And if Stairnon, a lady who understands quality goods liked it, others will, too.”

  Calla looked at D’Omaha with a glint of pride in her eyes that he suspected was just like the one in his own. Stairnon, he was certain, would cooperate with Marmion; she’d been doing things with thread and yarn since a holy man taught her to weave when they were on holiday many years ago. Stairnon’s visit with the holy man had been well-publicized, though by the time such news reached a downtime planet it couldn’t have been more than a line or two. Still, it was possible that Calla was right, that giving Stairnon the thread wasn’t just good fortune.

  “Bring me some of this thread next time,” Singh said.

  “Someone aboard Compania must know how to do something with it, and we have little else to do. It doesn’t take many to keep the watch or to pick up the messenger drones.”

  “Be careful what you bring them,” Calla said to Marmion.

  “I don’t want Compania smelling like that shuttle after you finished cleaning up in the sonics.”

  “I’ll research it thoroughly before I bring any,” Marmion said looking embarrassed.

  “Bugs?” Singh said curiously. “Is that why you had us disinfect the shuttle?”

  “Shit,” Marmion said, and when Singh still looked puzzled, Marmion shook his head. “I’ll explain next time. Right now it’s getting too close to dawn. You need to be going, and I’ve got a sack of fresh-frozen berries in the zephyr you can take back with you. A big sack. I’ll need some help.”

  The two men turned to the zephyr; the sack they brought out was almost as tall as Singh, who was a little man. D’Omaha watched them as they carried it to Singh’s raider.

  “That will be a nice change from galley fare,” D’Omaha commented.

  Calla merely nodded. “How soon will you be ready to brief me on the new probability models?” she asked.

  “There are five,” D’Omaha said. He was still thinking of Stairnon spinning nymph thread into cloth as good as gold, cloth that would shimmer like danae scales. He was supposed to be thinking about the probability of war. “Five will take me most of the day, maybe longer.”

  “See that you call me the moment you’re finished,” she said, and with that she stepped on the toehold in the fuselage of the zephyr, and climbed in. Marmion was on his way back from the raider, and D’Omaha could hear the first whine of the raider jets. D’Omaha climbed into the zephyr knowing Marmion was only a few seconds behind.

  Chapter 8

  Jason deliberately left his personal comm and nomenclator behind this morning. Legion regulations required that he carry a comm strapped to his wrist so that he could be contacted at any time. The regulations didn’t take into account that personal comms were completely unnecessary indoors where the network of jelly bean attendants was so efficient that anyone could be located anywhere, thus making wrist-strapped comms obsolete. And, of course, because the requirement to wear wrist-strapped comms existed, comms hadn’t been built into the stellerator vests for outdoor work. And legion regulations didn’t take into account that radio communication would be primitive on Mutare. The planet had practically no ionosphere to bounce back radio waves, limiting communication to line-of-sight, except for now while Belden Traveler was in synchronous orbit and willing to amplify and rebroadcast for them. The ranger station on Mutare was a Class V operation, which did not include a communication satellite in its supply list.


  Such travesties of coordination existed everywhere in the legions, and a younger Jason used to be enraged by them. It took him years of painfully acquired knowledge to realize that he would never single-handedly be able to restructure all the legion’s regulations so that they were practical and fitting in every instance of application to legion operations, years to understand that silver moons and the like were awarded to people with enough imagination to understand both the necessity and limitations of such regulations yet who could get the job done anyhow. It took even more years to subdue his iconoclastic nature and become a reasoning, understanding, and sometimes intuitive member of the very establishment he used to attack so frequently.

  On Mutare, Jason had relaxed the requirement for wearing wrist-strapped comms indoors, for the damn things itched when the sweat and dirt accumulated outdoors dried up and the clean and almost omnipresent jelly bean network did exactly the same job, better, since it could tell the caller where you were and, in some cases, what you were doing. He had requested stellerators with built-in comms, and when the request had come back marked not available he had added development costs to his next budget request. The budget had been approved, so he would get them in another year. He had been disturbed that his request for a passive communication satellite had been back-ordered, for he didn’t believe they ran out of them back in the Hub. He suspected the back-order reply had been given simply because his justification couldn’t be refuted yet a synchronous satellite would point to the location of Calla’s secret installation. He was certain the syncomsat would continue to show up as back-ordered in future supply-ship deliveries. They had a little tower on the mountain west of the complex, and the antenna could be improved.

  But even as he strived for better communications on Mutare, there existed a dichotomy within himself. Jason resented the communication devices that demanded his attention no matter what he was doing, sleeping, eating, or trying to teach Old Blue-eyes to add two plus two. It seemed to him that there should be some time to call his own, even if it were only a few minutes in the early morning, long before anyone was likely to need him. So he had left his comm back in his room.