by Sharon Lee
The boss rubbed his forehead and nodded.
"We'll dupe your info for you—and in the meantime I'll call in a specialist."
"Thank you," said Daav and went back to the bar to put his tools away, all the while amazed that a phrase learned so long ago and so far away was still potent enough to make a Juntava jump.
* * *
CABIN PRESSURE WAS at one-tenth normal, which should have been counted as good; it signified that Clonak's work was paying off.
Alas, Shadia did not much feel like cheering. She sat lightly webbed to the command chair, patiently doing hours of work by hand and eye that an online computer might do in a blink.
Clonak had left her to the recognition search while he worked on what he called "housekeeping." Housekeeping entailed using a small bubble-bottle to find the worst of the leaks and then seal them with the quick-patch sit.
As for her work, so far she had only three possibles and one probable. Dust in the outer fringes of the Nev'Lorn cluster made some of the IDs difficult and she'd not yet found a near opaque patch or two that might also help her . . .
"Shadia?"
The sound reached her, distorted and distant.
Clonak stood behind her, almost an arm's length away, beckoning her toward a portable monitor hooked to a test-kit. With his other hand he seemed to be fighting a control.
Indeed, the air pressure was building ever so slightly.
Noting her spot, she locked the star-field scope; by the time she got to him he was using both hands on the control. He yelled at her again through the sack-like Cloak; she could barely hear him.
"Please tell me what you see. I'm not sure this will work for long!"
What she saw, besides Clonak wrestling with a wire-filled metal tube, was devastation. The grainy monitor was showing her what would normally be her Screen Five, inspection view.
"The rear portside airfoils are gone," she yelled, schooling her voice to the give the information as dispassionately as possible. "There is damage into the hull; I can see a nozzle—likely it's one of the wing nitrogen thrusters, still attached to a hose—moving as if it is leaking."
Clonak shrugged, did something else with his shoulder, and the image shifted a bit toward the body of the ship.
Shadia blinked, disoriented. The ship didn't have a—Oh.
"The ventral foil has been blown forward and twisted—shredded. The. ."
The image went blank as Clonak's hands slipped on the tube; the Cloak vibrated with the buzz of his curse.
Shadia continued describing what she had seen.
"There's no sign of any working airfoil components. There are indications of other structural damage. I can't tell you about the in-system engines—the view was blocked by the ventral fin."
Clonak sat down hard.
"That view was blocked by the ventral? Might be something left to work with if we can get some more power going . . ." His last few words were lost as he stared at the blank screen.
"Clonak, I have a feeling that the ship is—bent." Shadia bent close and said it again, this time touching Cloaks shoulder to shoulder.
"Well," he sighed. "That explains why we can't budge the hatch."
They both were silent for a moment; Shadia was glad for the slim comfort offered by touching someone else, even through the plastic.
The ship's spine had taken some of the heat of the attack and the ship was out of true. The rear compartment—Including the autodoc, the sleeping alcove, and about 60 percent of the food, was accessible only if they could force the hatch against the bend of the ship.
"We have to assume," Clonak said suddenly, "that we're not airworthy past the hatch; obviously we won't want to be trying any kind of atmospheric descent if we have a choice—Might be missing some hull, too."
He straightened a bit, leaned in to her and said, "Look again. I'll see if I can force this to scan the other side!"
Her fingers answered yes, and Clonak began twisting the cable yet again. The image reappeared and then swung suddenly, showing an oddly unflawed stretch of ship's hull and beyond it the fluted shapes of several nozzles poking out from the blast skirts.
Beyond that was a brightness; three points of light; reddish, bluish, whitish. A local three star cluster—
"The Trio!" she said, but then there was another light, making her blink
"Stop!" she yelled, the noise over loud in her ears.
Clonak let go and the image went away. Shadia stood staring at the blank screen, seeing the stars as they had been.
"We're still in-system," she said, putting her arm against his. "If the Trio and Nev'Lorn Primary are lined up . . ."
"We're somewhat north of the ecliptic," Clonak concluded, "with Nev'Lorn headquarters safely on the other side of the sun."
* * *
THE IMAGE OF his son—and of his son's partner—lay on the pilot's seat along with the rest of the information provided by the Juntavas. Daav tried to imagine the boy—a pilot of the first water, no doubt; a Scout able to command the respect of a Clutch chieftain, who held the loyalty—and perhaps the love—of the very Hero of Klamath . . .
His imagination failed him, despite the recording furnished by the Juntavas boss.
The boy's voice was firm, quiet and respectful; the information he gave regarding the last known location of his vessel only slightly less useful than a star map. The voice of Miri Robertson was also firm; unafraid, despite the message she'd clearly imparted: All is not as it seems here.
Yet, despite the image, the recording, and the records his imagination failed him. Somehow, he thought he had given over the concept of heir, of blood-child. Certainly, he should have been well-schooled by his sojourn on the highly civilized world of Delgado, where the length of all liaisons were governed by the woman and where the decision to have or not to have a child was one the father might routinely be unaware of—witness his mistress's daughter, now blessedly off-planet and in pursuit of her own life.
Daav picked up the flimsy, staring at the comely golden face and the vivid green eyes. A Korval face, certain enough, yet—there was something else. With a pang, he understood a portion of it: the boy, whoever he was, and however he had gotten into the scrape announced to the universe at large, was a breathing portion of Aelliana. Daav projected her face, her hands, her voice at the image of their son, but that did no better for him—what he saw was Aelliana.
The boy was only a boy to him, for all they shared genes and kin.
Daav sighed and laid the picture back on the pilot's chair. Whoever the boy was, elder kin should surely have taught him to stay away from the Juntavas. He should have been given the Diary entries to read. Er Thom knew—who better? Er Thom should have—but Er Thom was gone.
And in the end the duty had not been done, the tale had not been told, and here was the result. Briefly he wondered what other duties he'd left undone . . .
He'd have to find Clonak. Clonak had later news. Clonak would know what needed done, now.
He sighed then, rewebbed himself, scanned the boards, checked the coords he already keyed in from some recess of his mind, and punched the Jump button.
* * *
THEY'D SLEPT FITFULLY in the unnaturally silent craft, each sitting a half-watch in a Scout's Nap. What noises were, were confined to the Momson Cloaks and their wearers. The Cloaks had a tendency to crinkle when one moved, and though the upper shoulder placement of the air-pack made wonderful sense when standing, it required some adjustment to sleep semi-curled in the command chairs in order not to disturb the airflow.
The wake-up meals were cold trail-packs, laboriously introduced ito the Cloaks through the ingenious triple pocket system, a sort of see-through plastic airlock. Since the Cloaks were basically plastic bags with a few rudimentary "hand spots" the process was awkward, even for two people.
First the trail-packs were located and then held in place with lightweight clamps. Then the outer pocket was opened, with one person pulling lightly on the outer tab and the on
e inside the Cloak grasping the side wall of the pocket firmly and pulling back. The pocket walls separated, and the resultant bulge had a lip-like seal that was pressed until it opened. The trail-pack went into the newly opened pocket, and the outside was resealed.
The second pocket had a seal at what Shadia thought of as the bottom; by bunching the pocket up from inside it could be made to open, and the trail-pack was moved into that part of the pocket, and that seal to the outside pocket pressed tightly; now there were two seals between vacuum and food. The inner seal, finally, was opened—puffing up the part of the pocket with the trail-pack in it—and finally the food was safely inside the Cloak.
Crumbs being a potential problem, the food bars were handled gingerly and the water squeezed carefully from its bulb.
While she ate, Shadia chewed on the problem of their exact location, with regard to Nev'Lorn 'quarters—and potential rescue.
While knowing that they'd not left the Nev'Lorn system was definitely useful, the camera-monitor wasn't the tool for finding out where they were or, more importantly, where they were headed. It was impossible to guess how much of their Intrinsic velocity and flight energy might have been transferred to the attacking destroyer and they had nearly as much chance of being in a tight, highly elliptical orbit as they did in being on the outward leg of a hyperbolic orbit that would throw them out of the system, never to return.
Thus, shortly after breaking her fast, Shadia realigned the gyroscope for the auxiliary instruments and changed her search pattern with the star-field scope. Now that she knew which end was up her job had gone from that of a hopeful pastime to an immediately useful necessity. What they might do about where they were was another matter.
On the other side of the chamber, Clonak busied himself with another semi-disassembled piece of hardware, periodically professing himself or any number of other objects, deities, and people damned, stupid, absurd, or useless.
That she could hear these footnotes to progress clearly proved that the pressure in the ship was slowly rising, in part a result of the action of the layered osmotic membranes that made up much of structure of the Momson Cloak. The finely tuned membranes purposefully released certain amounts of carbon dioxide and hydrogen while retaining some moisture; heavier users might complain of the suit "sloshing" as the moisture reservoirs filled. Far from breathable, the external atmosphere made the Cloaks a little easier to move around in.
The increased pressure also made Shadia aware of an occasional twittering sound she couldn't place. Twice she glanced up to Clonak, hard at work but doing nothing that looked to make such a noise.
The third time she looked up, Clonak had also raised his head. He caught Shadia's eye and smiled ruefully.
"Not rodents, Shadia, with little rat feet. More likely we have micro-sand, scrubbing the hull down to a fine polish. This system has a fine collection of unfinished planets to choose from, I'm afraid."
"Though actually," he continued, "that's not all bad. If the wrong people are looking for us we're better off here than an hour off Nev'Lorn."
"Should we use the monitor to—"
"I've thought of that, but really, the best use of resources is to continue with what we're doing. I may yet get a computer up and running and you may yet find us a safe harbor."
There were several distinct pings and another scrabble of dust on the hull then and Shadia bent back to her charting with a will.
* * *
DAAV WOKE WITH a start, certain someone had called his name. About him the ship purred a quiet purr of circulators and the twin boards were green at every mark. The Jump-clock showed he had enough time for breakfast and exercise before he arrived back in normal space. No matter what might befall, he'd be better prepared if he kept now to routine.
He'd been to three systems so far without touching ground at any. Izviet, Natterling, and Chantor were all minor trade ports, ports that usually sported a small training contingent of Scouts making use of the nearby space.
At Izviet a ship a few years out of mode coming from a port rarely heard from was barely gossip, still he'd had the ship come in as L'il Orbit, maintaining his professorship as well. The cycle was off—there were no Scouts training near the spectacular multi-mooned and multi-ringed gas giant Cruchov. Natterling's usual band of ecologists-in-training were out of session; the wondrous planet Stall with its surface outcroppings of pure timonioum had no company. By the time he'd hit Chantor he'd had a lot of news to digest, but there were no cadets practicing basic single-ship in that place, as he had.
Among the news chattered most widely were the rumors attending the Juntavas and their danger-tree broadcast.
Some felt it was trap, aimed at netting the Juntavas. Others explored news-pits and libraries and invented great empires of intrigue: one of these stated that the missing man now ruled a system as a Juntavas boss; another said the merc hero had bagged herself a rich one; yet another swore the pair of them had turned pirate and were staging raids against the Scouts.
What was missing in all three places was the back-net chat he would have found in an instant in the old days. In the places he would normally have found Scouts he found nothing but notes, signs, recordings: on temporary assignment, on vacation, will return, in emergency please contact—
Worse, at Chantor's orbiting Waystation Number 9, in an otherwise dusty maildrop he'd maintained since his training days, was a triple-sealed note with all the earmarks of a demand for payment from a very testy correspondent. The return address meant nothing to him but the message had chilled him to the very bone.
"Plan B is Now in Effect," it said in neat, handwritten, Liaden characters.
No signature. He recognized the handwriting, familiar to him from his former life, when he had been Delm Korval and this man had taken hand-notes of his orders. dea'Gauss. He felt a relief so intense that tears rose to his eyes. dea'Gauss was alive. Or had been. He blinked and looked again at the note. The date was not as recent as Clonak's news.
Plan B: Korval was in grave danger. He drew a breath and felt Aelliana stir, take note, and finally murmur in his ear: "Whatever has happened? Surely the Juntavas have not caused this?"
The intership chatter had been tense with other rumors; civil wars, Yxtrang invasions, missing spaceships, Juntavas walking openly in midports in daylight.
Daav had debated destinations. Lytaxin—world of a solid ally. Liad itself was surely to be avoided with Plan B in effect!
He sat to board, finally, and having thought Lytaxin, his fingers unhesitatingly tapped in another code. This was a destination only for Scouts and the adventuresome curious; there was no trade there, nor ever had been. Well.
"Well," Aelliana affirmed, and he gave the ship its office.
Now, with an hour yet to Jump-end, Daav hesitated before switching his call signals. No need to give away all his secrets, even to Scouts. He set the timer and moved back to begin his exercises. Ride the Luck would call him before they arrived at Nev'Lorn.
* * *
SHADIA REACHED TO the canister overhead, pulling the red knob that was both handle and face mask. Obligingly the canister gave up its package, the plate descending to shoulder height. Grasping the disk carefully she twisted the red handle. It turned properly in her hand and the initial three minutes of air began flowing from the mask as the Cloak began taking shape. She pushed it toward the floor, stepped into the tube, and as it inflated by her head, she grabbed the blue handle and pulled. That closed the Cloak over her head and with a twist of vapor from the heat seal she was now inside the new Cloak while wearing the old.
Now she reached for the blade on her belt and carefully pierced the diminished Cloak, and writhing awkwardly, stepped out of it, perhaps spicing her language a bit to help, and then a bit more as the old Cloak tangled on her ankle and left her sitting in mid-air. With exasperation she used a few more choice words, asked a couple of pungent questions of the universe at large and cut a bit more with the knife. In another moment, the old Cloak was a m
ere wrinkle of plastic and a disk, which she handed it through the pockets of the new Cloak with relief.
She stuffed it into the waste bin, which was filling rapidly, and surveyed the work area, realizing as she did that she hardly registered the more minor sounds of the space dust on the hull.
Over in the corner, Clonak ter'Meulen, supervisor of Pilots, was tampering with a Scout issue spacesuit, breaking thereby a truly impressive number of regulations. He had replaced his Cloak nearly a Standard hour before and now sat immersed in carefully deconstructing the suit, with an eye toward keeping the electronics intact.
More or less conversationally—the atmosphere in the ship having gotten up to near 20 per. cent of normal—he bellowed inside his Cloak.
"Shadia, I hadn't realized you'd spent so much time around Low Port . . ."
She almost laughed and did manage to snort.
"Doubtless, I hurt your ears . . ."
"Well, at least you've hurt my feelings."
She looked at him quizzically.
Clonak glanced away from his work, moving his hand inside the Cloak to pull out a bit of paper towel and mop his brow before continuing.
"I clearly heard you ask whose, ahhh . . . .whose idea the Cloaks were. Very nearly they are mine!"
Shadia blinked.
"Are you Momson, then?"
"Me, Momson? Not a bit of that, at all." Clonak continued, still busily taking the suit apart. "Momson is some legendary Terran inventor, I gather. No, but the Cloaks—they've only been on Scout ships for about 25 years. But then, I guess you could blame Daav yos'Phelium, too, for having the bad judgement to need a Cloak when he didn't have one . . ."
"But I thought the nameplate says that some Terran foundation gave us the money to start installation . . . ."
"Right you are. The Richard A. Davis Portmaster Aid Foundation. But I'm afraid that's my fault. They have a wonderful archive—at least equal to the open Scout collections!—and I was looking for quick solutions. Headquarters was already moving me into this pilot support track I've ended up in, you see, and dea'Cort himself set me on them."