Jamie could see the clock as well as she could, and his fingers were dug just as deep into the arms of his chair. It could be anything at all out there. Anything. Five. Four. Three. Two. One--
The clock reached zero and died.
The universe vanished altogether. Nothing. There was nothing at all. And not just beyond the viewport. The ship itself, the command center, the chair he was sitting in--even, Jamie realized in horror, his own body--were gone. He tried to gasp in astonishment, but his voice, his mouth, his throat were not there to do the job. He tried to move his head, but he had no head.
He strained to move, to blink, to look somewhere else, to look anywhere at all, but his head wasn't there, his eyes weren't there. There wasn't there. He could not see feel hear smell taste sense anything. Time and space were gone.
Time not there. How long have I been this way? he asked himself. It seemed to have started not so long ago, but how was he to be sure? Perhaps his thoughts themselves had been speeded up, or slowed down. Had it been a half second? A minute? A year? How long will I be like this? Will I be like this forever? It was hard not to imagine such things. What happened to the ship? What happened to Hannah? She had warned that a transition could be wildly different for two different people sitting in the same compartment. Maybe the universe had vanished for her as well--or maybe it was only Jamie.
Maybe, somehow, the transition had done some very permanent and terrible damage to his nervous system, severing every connection between his mind and the outside world. Perhaps days, weeks, months had already passed, and his body lay in some intensive care ward somewhere, while the doctors struggled to find a way to reach his mind, put it back in contact with his body--or else had to decide whether or not to pull the plug and let him die.
Or perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this was death, and death was a mind caught forever in simple and eternal nothingness. How long, he wondered, until he went mad? How would he be able to tell? Or perhaps the state of death itself would prevent him from going mad. Perhaps his mind would be locked forever in its present state, incapable of any change.
Yes, it must be death. He had heard all the old stories about a light or a tunnel--and there it was! Straight ahead of him, coming closer--
Light! He could see! And it was not a mere spot of light, it was the outside universe rushing back at him--or was he rushing back at it? Suddenly he was in it, flashing through it, the stars and galaxies and dust clouds and the wide dark voids and planets and light and heat and cold and dark hurtling by--
And it stopped.
And he was back where he had been, sitting in the copilot's chair, staring at the countdown clock.
The ship systems began to power themselves back up--calmly, quietly, without any fuss, as if all was right and normal with the universe.
"Did--did everything just go away, and then come back? I mean, everything?" he asked. "Did that just happen? Did it happen for you?"
Hannah answered, in a voice that seemed quiet, even subdued. "Something just happened. No. No it didn't. Nothing happened. I've--I've never been in Nothing before."
"Other people have?" Jamie asked.
"I've heard of it," Hannah said. "It's pretty unusual. Mostly what you get are the stars looking weird and distorted, or space looking blue instead of black, or a gravitational effect or something. The effect is outside the ship, with the ship staying more or less the same. But that was inside the ship."
"That was inside us," Jamie said. "Whatever just happened got between our brains and our bodies, or something."
"Maybe," said Hannah. "Maybe we just got flipped into some side universe where our kind of nervous system doesn't work, then flipped back. Or we just got stuck between two femtoseconds for a while."
"How could that possibly be? That doesn't even make sense."
"Fine," Hannah said. "You come up with a better explanation." She checked the nav boards. "The main thing is that we're alive, we're all right--and we're where we're supposed to be. We've got what looks like a nice simple navigation solution for Reqwar. We're just about four days out."
Which gave them four days to find out everything they could about the place. Jamie refocused his attention on that point--and on one very promising source of more information.
The message control system switched itself back on, and prompted him to enter his decrypt key. He reached for the keyboard--and noticed Hannah very ostensibly looking the other way. In the BSI that was a piece of basic etiquette. If everyone in an organization was trained to seek out hidden information, it was more than sensible for everyone to get into the habit of making it clear they weren't seeking out your hidden information.
Jamie finished entering the key sequence and prepared to temper his eagerness with patience. Even with modern ultrahigh-speed equipment, it could take several seconds, or even longer, to decrypt a long or complex message protected by an especially tough encryption system. Some messages were sent such that the decrypted message was itself an encryption of an inner message, and there might even be another layer inside that one.
He sent his decrypt key to the message system. A red box appeared on the display, with the words PLEASE STAND BY: PERFORMING DECRYPTION on it. But the red box turned green almost instantaneously, and displayed the words DECRYPTION COMPLETE.
"That message couldn't have had much encryption," said Hannah, who plainly felt no compunctions about looking at a status report screen. "I take longer than that to remember how to spell my own name."
"Yeah," said Jamie. "I was kind of thinking the same thing."
The decrypt had taken the briefest fraction of a second. For a message to get unbuttoned that fast, it would have to be in a brainlessly simple code, and be an extremely short message. This message qualified on both counts. The actual message, without header or routing info, was all of nine characters long when encrypted, and a whopping twenty-one characters long once it was unbuttoned.
The stats display showed that the message had been sent in the simplest possible merchant's code, meant not to conceal data but to reduce transmission time, a standard number substitution system, where a given number represented a specific word. In other words, Bindulan had sent a very short message containing information that he felt no need to conceal. Jamie flipped the display to show the message itself. It read "123-4-458." The decoded version was just below it.
"That's all the advice he could give me?" Jamie felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't realized how much faith he had already started to put in Bindulan's wisdom, even in the few brief minutes since he had learned the message was from him. Now the bottom had dropped out. Now they were on their own again.
"What?" Hannah asked. "What is it?"
Jamie realized that Hannah was still dutifully not looking at the display, being careful not to read his mail. "Go ahead," he said. "Take a look. A lot of good it will do you. Or us."
"Wonderful," said Hannah as she read the message. "How in the dark stars of hell are we supposed to do that now?"
But, like most simple and impossibly impractical advice, the message offered no guidance on such mundane details. On the bright side, it was at least clear and to the point.
It read, in full:
REFUSE THE ASSIGNMENT
NINERISK
Zahida Halztec at least had the good fortune to receive her QuickBeam message at a civilized hour. It came in late afternoon, at just the hour a young unmarried female Reqwar Pavlat of high rank, such as Zahida, might well be expected to remain at home in hopes of being there to receive visits from her prospective suitors.
But there were no suitors, and were not likely to be any, other than the dreadful bore her parents had dug up. Zahida had grown very used to whiling away the afternoons--and the mornings, and the evenings, and the long, dreary nights--since she had dutifully obeyed her parents' summons and returned from off-planet.
The front salon's message center chirped at her, and she hurried over to it, glad for any diversion. She sat down and decrypted the messa
ge. It was from her great-uncle Bindulan Halztec. Well, eager for almost any diversion. Her mother had warned her before Zahida had gone to Earth and met him that Bindulan had a genius for stirring things up, then getting out of the way "as fast as bad new travels by QuickBeam." She began reading, and learned just how right her mother had been.
And just how strong were the ties of family obligation. She knew, long before the end of the message, that she would do what Uncle Bindulan asked.
* * *
"I must ask that you leave now," said Unitmaster Darsteel to the determined young female who stood before him.
"You must allow me to see him!"
"I must do no such thing, Lady Zahida," Darsteel replied. "In fact, the thing that I must do, under these circumstances, is keep you from seeing him."
Unitmaster Laloyk Darsteel had felt worn-out and frustrated even before Lady Zahida Halztec burst in on him. The flight back and forth to the human-Stannlar camp had been long and grueling, and Marta Hertzmann had been far from gracious or appreciative when informed of the human lawkeepers' pending arrival.
Things had scarcely improved since his return. A routine check of the message-routing service showed that the report on the human lawkeepers had never reached the Thelm's office, let alone the Thelm himself. Someone, somewhere in the maddeningly intricate and interlocking bureaucracy that was the Thelm's household, had both the power to filter the information that reached the Thelm himself and the desire to keep him from knowing certain things. There was no telling who was doing it, or who they were serving, or to what purpose. But plainly someone wanted the Thelm ignorant of the whole affair. That, in and of itself, was enough to convince Darsteel that the Thelm needed to be told.
But Darsteel could not march up to the Thelm and report directly to him without being arrested, and, more than likely, handed over to the very persons who had blocked the information in the first place.
Then this impossibly belligerent female of the minor nobility had barged into his office. "Please," he said again. "Understand. The rules forbid it. You must leave."
The Lady Zahida Halztec drew herself up to her full height and breathed in deeply. "No," she said. "I must speak with the Thelm. If need be, I will invoke the right of Noble's Risk to do so."
Darsteel looked at her sharply. "I beg of you not to make that claim," he said. "It is no empty formality. The Thelm takes his obligations in this matter most seriously. If he cannot, in good conscience, swear an oath that it was right and proper for you to seek the audience, then your execution will be carried out. There is no possibility of clemency. The Thelm is forbidden to show mercy under the claim of Noble's Risk. You will be killed, in the manner prescribed by law. It has happened, and recently."
"I am fully aware of all that," she said. "But I must bring certain information to the Thelm, and do so at once. If there is no other way, then I shall choose the Risk."
"What is this information?" Darsteel asked. "Is it something someone else could bring to the Thelm on your behalf?" He fully expected to be told no, to hear some absurd story about secrecy, and oaths of silence, and all the other weary nonsense.
"The information is this," said the Lady Zahida. "Two human lawkeepers are on their way here, having been summoned in the Thelm's name, but very likely without the Thelm's knowledge. They are unknowingly traveling into grave danger, and the Thelm will be greatly dishonored if they come to harm. It does not matter in the least who tells him these things, so long as he is told." She looked straight at Darsteel. "Do you not feel that warning the Thelm of danger to his own honor merits the Noble's Risk?"
It was precisely the information he had been burning to report himself. Darsteel almost found it hard to return her gaze. "I will help you draft the legally binding written claim of the right of Noble's Risk," he said.
* * *
At first, Darsteel had no qualms at all about sending the Lady Zahida on her way. Once she left, he started working through his mountains of paperwork in a fine and happy mood. There would be no risk to her under the Thelm's roof. Not if the Thelm was just and honorable. The Thelm had to know, had to be told.
It was not until many hours later that it dawned on him just how many other dangers the Lady Zahida might be bringing down upon herself. For there were other people besides the Thelm with the power--if not the legal right--to have noble females killed.
* * *
The Thelm's Private Audience Chamber was on one of the topmost levels of the Thelm's Keep, a grand chamber that took up nearly all of the level, with wide windows that looked out over the great valley all around. Now, in the nighttime, there was little to see but the lights of the small city, also known as Thelm's Keep, below, and the lights of the stars overhead. But even that illumination was washed out by the brightly lit interior. The Thelm liked the place blazing with light--another of the almost un-Pavlavian eccentricities for which he was famous. Those same wide windows were open at the moment, and even if they failed to provide a view, they certainly provided a draft.
Zahida Halztec had dressed hurriedly, in a formal mode suitable for an unmarried female of her years. Her modest tunic and demure pantaloons were deep blue in color, with designs in silver embroidered on the chest and sleeves. All very classic and tasteful--but woven of very thin, even sheer, cloth. She knew her costume suited her well, and was appropriate to the occasion--but she wished mightily that she had remembered what she had read about the Thelm's habits and worn something warmer.
Lantrall, Thelm of all Reqwar, stood before her tall and erect, wearing a male's robe of semiformal cut, taupe in color, with an absence of decoration that was almost severe--but his garment was richly made of the finest material. Thick, warm material.
She stood before the Thelm, forcing herself to courage and dignity, marshaling all the skill of argument and logic that her long years of training in the arts of noble etiquette and debate had bestowed. "I come, honored Thelm," she began, speaking the first words of ritual as she bowed low in perfect courtly form, her arms spread wide, palms open, the upper and lower thumbs of both hands perfectly vertical. "I come to do you all honor, and to bring you news you must hear."
"Rise up, daughter of Reqwar," Thelm Lantrall intoned. "Rise up, and then, pray--sit down." He spoke the last two words in a much more everyday voice, far less formal and grandiloquent than the first part of his speech, even with a note of humor.
He indicated the lower of two seating cushions in one corner of the room. He could see that she hesitated and gestured more emphatically. "Yes, yes, go ahead. Be seated in the presence of the Thelm, who will remain standing. The Keep will not crumble to bits because of it. Society will not collapse. But you will speak more calmly and more quietly, and with less infernal ceremony, if you are seated. I prefer to move about while I listen."
"Very well, Thelm of Reqwar," Zahida said, feeling even more uncertain than she had a moment before. She levered herself down onto the cushion to sit cross-legged.
"So," said the Thelm, turning his back on her and facing the southwest window, "you have been most persistent in seeking a private audience with me and have prevailed upon one of my most loyal and reliable subordinates to make it happen quickly. Unitmaster Darsteel clearly feels that what you have to say is of the utmost importance, even urgency, as he allowed you to take the Noble's Risk." He turned around and looked at her sternly, and both his ears swiveled forward toward her in a way that indicated annoyance, even anger. "And you are here, at least in part, as the clanswoman of a dishonored exile."
Here was the dangerous moment, where the truth must be spoken--though the truth might kill her if the Thelm's whim so commanded. She must be especially careful not to refer to Great-uncle Bindulan by name. One simply did not use the names of dishonored exiles--even those exiled on questionable charges--in front of the Thelm of all Reqwar. "Forgive my disagreeing with you, Great Thelm, but my clansman was merely accused of dishonorable action. It was later proven--after he was forced to exile--that he in fact
had done nothing dishonorable. The legal basis for his exile collapsed, and the sentence was commuted. But the stain on his name could not be removed without the cooperation of his accusers, who refused to admit their own shame in willfully making an invalid charge. My relation then elected to remain away from the Pavlat worlds and became a voluntary expatriate."
It was the official family party line. All of it was precisely and literally true--and all of it wildly misleading. Uncle Bindulan had in fact refused to fight a duel, and been accused--indeed found guilty--of cowardice. It developed that the Pavlat who had challenged him was badly intoxicated at the time and later claimed he could not even remember the incident. Bindulan had refused to accept a challenge from a Pavlat in a diminished mental state, and also claimed he would have found it dishonorable to fight an opponent who was so inebriated he could not operate his weapon. It would have been, he said, murder, not an affair of honor.
Except it was never clear just how drunk his challenger truly was, or whether his challenger really couldn't remember it all. It was also possible that his challenger had realized after the fact that a claim of intoxication would allow him to avoid a charge of making an improper challenge.
And, drunk or sober, the Pavlat who had challenged Uncle had shown remarkably bad judgment: Uncle was a crack shot, and no doubt would have dispatched his challenger no matter what condition the fellow was in.
None of that mattered, however--or was allowed to matter. The charges against Uncle were confirmed and he was forced into exile at lightning speed. The rapidity with which he was found guilty stood in stark contrast to the years, the decades, it took to get the conviction overturned and the case thrown out.
And there was one other minor point that had its part to play in the story: his challenger was one Caldon Saffeer, the younger son of a minor noble family with a tenuous connection to the house of the High Thelek. But a whole series of unexpected events--deaths, scandals, marriages, adoptions, even a divorce--had disqualified a whole host of other claimants, and the upshot was that young Caldon Saffeer had ascended to the title of High Thelek, ranking only behind the Thelm himself.
The Cause of Death Page 10