“There are so many people in Labyrinth now,” Carl said. “Can I really—?”
~You will be unobserved.~
Commander Gould looked upward.
“The city has spoken, Pilot Blackstone. She’ll make sure you leave unseen.”
“Thank you.”
There was no need to ask about stealth capability. He knew, inside himself, that his ship had everything.
“Enjoy your triumph, Carl.” The commander had not used his first name before. “A very private triumph, because that’s the nature of the beast.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. It’s why you were chosen. Why you chose yourself. Because you can score victory with no need to boast, face defeat in obscurity, endure public shame.”
“Yes…”
“Because that’s what it means to be a spy.”
But there was no remembering humiliation now, not with her in front of him, his black-and-scarlet ship. His beauty, who would have to remain here or fly alone for so much of his life, her commitment as great as his.
“She’ll always be faithful, Carl, and there when you need her.”
I know.
Carl reached up for his ship—his beautiful, wondrous, powerful, lovely ship—to carry him up, to take him inside herself in a moment of beauty and triumph.
Private triumph.
Standing before a bulkhead, he points his fist and holds it there. There is no flare of light, but the flowmetal pulls open as his tu-ring completes its work, revealing the windowless control cabin. Inside, the two Zajinets are floating: one a shining lattice of red, the other glowing azure, now unclothed.
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It is the red one communicating. What’s astounding is the clarity of its message—its solitary meaning instead of overlaid confusion.
“You knew I was here?”
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Earlier, the Zajinet had used the word entanglement in response to Graybeard’s command. There’s a link in place between Graybeard’s tu-ring and the Zajinet, a link powerful enough to change the alien’s mental state in a new way.
Carl’s own tu-ring grows dull, not at his command.
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Perhaps it is true, but there have been encounters in the past, with the Zajinets targeting Pilots rather than ordinary humans.
“What’s he carrying?” Carl meant Graybeard. “And why is it important?”
Before coming on board, he had no idea whether he was investigating an illegal venture with Zajinets or a renegade Pilot of his own kind. Now the parameters have shifted beyond recognition, and illicit ferrying of passengers means nothing.
And Graybeard has the means to threaten Zajinets into submission, which makes his tu-ring almost as interesting as the contents of the case he is carrying.
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So much for thinking that the Zajinet has achieved clarity.
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He looks at the other Zajinet. Faint blue lines link it to the convolute sculpture of the controls. Perhaps it’s busy.
“What do you mean by darkness?”
Suddenly, the golden light that was ubiquitous shivers out of existence, and the air feels cold. They are back in realspace.
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He has a hundred and twenty seconds in which to attempt sensible conversation with a Zajinet or to take action. He’s already jogging back along the corridor as the thought completes. At some point, his tu-ring comes back to life.
Inside the passenger cabin, everyone is still sleeping. Carl tears the delta-band from Xala’s forehead.
“Ow! Shit.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to have a migraine.” Dragon tattoos swirl around her scalp. She pushes herself away from Graybeard. “Bastard.”
“We’ve only got a few seconds.”
“Huh. So how come you’re awake first?”
Carl gestures toward the front of the ship.
“Ask your friends.”
“My—? I need to know more than that before—”
“And I need to know what’s in the case. What this bastard”—he nudges Graybeard with his foot—“is carrying.”
“So take a look.”
She taps on the case. The top splits open, revealing nothing.
“It’s empty, Xala.”
“Try lifting it up.”
This is annoying, but Graybeard’s eyes are shifting beneath closed eyelids. Carl takes hold of the case and…tugs without effect.
“What’s this? A mag-field?”
Bracing himself, he squats and pulls, raising it several centimeters from the deck, then lets it thump down. But the casing should be lightweight, its mass measured in grams, not tens of kilos.
“No mag-field,” says Xala. “It’s the device inside that’s heavy.”
“Device?” Carl puts his hand inside the hollow case. “There’s nothing there.”
“Like a ghost. Because of what you’re made of.”
Graybeard’s head moves from side to side, and he moans.
“He’s waking up.” Xala’s voice drops. “Shut the damn case.”
“I—All right. What happens if something triggers the link between that”—he points to Graybeard’s tu-ring—“and the Zajinets?”
“They die, the ship blows up. What did you expect?”
He seals up the case.
“What ghost?” he asks. “What do you mean by that?”
“Your hand passed right through it.”
“Because…?”
“Because you’re the ghost, or haven’t you worked it out? You and me both.”
Carl looks at the case.
“You can’t mean—”
“The device is made of dark matter. You know, the real stuff that we’re not made of, and can’t interact with. We’re the ghosts, didn’t you know? Most of the universe is something we’re not.”
The tattoos are scarcely moving on her scalp. Her voice is steady. She believes her own words.
“If it’s dark matter, the case wouldn’t contain it.”
A hard grip snaps onto his wrist.
“Well that,” says Graybeard, “is the real trick, isn’t it?”
“Crap.”
“I thought you were trouble.”
The whole cabin—no, the entire vessel—vibrates, then grows steady.
“That’ll be my lift,” adds Graybeard. “I think, Professor, you should come with me.”
“No.” Carl twists his wrist and torso together, disengaging from Graybeard’s grip. “Not a chance.”
“You know what? Forget it.”
Graybeard picks up the case left-handed—stronger than he looks—and smiles as the outer wall begins to melt open. Beyond is a transparent-domed shuttle, and through it, the stars are
visible.
A magnificence of stars. A billion incandescent suns.
“Where are we?” whispers Xala.
“It’s the core,” says Carl. “The galactic core.”
Graybeard’s right fist remains trained on them as he backs toward the waiting shuttle, lugging the case. The shuttle’s clear hull grows permeable. The faintest of sucking sounds accompanies Graybeard’s passage through the material. Then the hull begins to vitrify once more.
The others, including the remaining fake priests, remain asleep. They know nothing of what’s happening. Perhaps they’re about to die without ever waking up.
Make a move.
Because there’s no reason to trust Graybeard. Obeying a command from someone who threatens you is tactically stupid except to gain time—and time has run out.
“Tell them to get back into mu-space, Xala. Tell them.”
“Why would—?”
“Now.”
In the Academy, Marina was the best runner, but Carl has learned to sprint because sudden bursts of speed save lives. He hurtles forward, lowering his chin, striking the still-permeable hull with the top of his head. The stuff is growing viscous—push hard—but then he’s through, tumbling into the shuttle, falling to the deck.
He snatches for Graybeard’s ankle, but the bastard pulls back.
“Bye-bye, everyone.”
As Graybeard makes a fist, his tu-ring flares; while behind Carl, a sudden nova-brilliance indicates a transition to mu-space. Did they make the jump in time? It’s impossible to tell.
A percussive thump knocks him backward.
What was that?
He pushes himself to a sideways position on the deck. Stellar abundance shines behind Graybeard’s outline, while the strangest of non-movements, shifts of half-glimpsed nothingness, surround him.
“No,” says Graybeard. “I think I’ll just get rid of him.”
Like movement at the edge of vision, and when you turn around, nothing is there.
“That’s right,” adds Graybeard.
And the flickers of darkness are gone. So is the power in Carl’s tu-ring. Again.
“Balls.”
“Tsk. I hope you prayed to the Equilateral Redemption.” Graybeard’s smile is nasty. “Just follow the line of the highway, keep staring for a few centuries till the photons get here, and you’ll see what the believers were on about. Beacons in a triangle, very neat.”
“What highway?”
“You’ll see. ’Course, you haven’t exactly got centuries. More like minutes.”
“Until what?”
“Until nothing ever again. You know that blood boils in a vacuum, right?”
“You can’t—”
“Of course I can.”
This time the thump is harder. It’s massive, invisible, and the shuttle is receding from him, hard to see with his blurred vision and his inability to breathe—but if the shuttle is already far away it means he’s in empty space—ejected me, the bastard—and panic slams through him even as he feels the hidden loop of quickglass begin to stir around his waist.
Stars, brilliant clouds of stars, pass across his vision as he begins to tumble. When he tries to find the shuttle, he can no longer see it against the glory of the galaxy’s core. Massed suns, stupendous light, not a molecule to breathe.
He mentioned a station.
When Graybeard was talking to the Zajinets, he used the term highway station. Some kind of orbital near the galactic center?
What highway?
Spreading across his skin, cool and slick, the quickglass reaches his throat, his chin, then envelopes his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, accepting the intrusion into nasal cavities and throat, sucking in oxygen already. After a moment, he forces his eyes open, squinting against the bright blur as quickglass merges with and absorbs his smartlenses.
It is already subsuming his clothing for additional fuel.
What highway?
As his vision clears, he begins to accept the reality of floating in brilliant emptiness, the backdrop of massed suns and…a long stream of light, a massive collimated beam of energy: a galactic jet some thousand light-years in length, a divine needle in our galaxy’s heart.
This?
Surely this is no highway.
It has been some hours now, but it’s all right.
Come to me, my love.
She was so far away; but she is closer now.
I need you. I always need you.
Slowly rotating, he sees once more the galactic jet, a shining pointer whose continuation would pass through Earth, all the way beyond this galaxy, this cluster of galaxies, to the far side of a dark-matter void where, an eon ago, three gamma-ray bursters exploded.
Correction: we call it void, but it’s the space where the real stuff resides, in who knows what forms and structures, while we of ordinary matter are the ghosts who cannot touch the greater reality. Humans and Pilots; ghosts and dreams.
But if this is a highway under construction, you have to ask: is this the source or the destination? And what is the nature of the travelers?
Maybe they’ll be friendly.
It would be nice to think so, but it was one of their human agents who ejected him into space, expecting him to die. If it wasn’t for what’s about to happen, he’d be flooded with angry fear, cursing in his mind.
Come on, darling.
He cannot see her yet, but he is certain.
Come on, my love.
Somewhere, through a golden space draped with crimson nebulae and speckled with black stars, speeds a black dart edged with scarlet, concentrating her superlative power, following an extreme geodesic that few of her kind could contemplate.
For her need is as great as his.
Soon.
Floating above the heart of the galaxy, where the stars shine a thousand times brighter than out on the spiral arms, Carl Blackstone is smiling.
Soon.
ELIZABETH MOON
CHAMELEONS
With enemies all around you, sometimes your best bet is to hide in plain sight. Of course, if your enemies spot you, that means that they also know where to find you…
Elizabeth Moon has degrees in history and biology and served in the U.S. Marine Corps. Her novels include The Sheepfarmer’s Daughter, Divided Allegiance, Oath of Gold, Sassinak and Generation Warriors (written with Anne McCaffrey), Surrender None, Liar’s Oath, The Planet Pirates (with Jody Lynn Nye and Anne McCaffrey), Hunting Party, Sporting Chance, Winning Colors, Once a Hero, Rules of Engagement, Change of Command, Against the Odds, Trading in Danger, Remnant Population, Marque and Reprisal, and Engaging the Enemy. Her short fiction has been collected in Lunar Activity and Phases, and she has edited the anthologies Military SF 1 and Military SF 2. Her novel The Speed of Dark won a Nebula Award in 2004. Her most recent book is a new novel, Victory Conditions.
Bryce Gosslin had never intended to come back to Novice. Sixteen years had not erased the memories; he’d told his employer about his reasons for avoiding Novice when given this itinerary. His employer had laughed.
“You’ll be fine, Bryce. You shouldn’t have more than a twelve-hour layover between the charter and the Altissima—” The Altissima, flagship of his employer’s fleet of luxury liners, would be as safe for the youngsters as their own home. “Just keep them in the Premier Lounge area and nothing can happen.”
Bryce had sworn he’d never go back, but he was still half a standard year short of getting permanent status in the best job he’d ever had. He’d nodded, said yes, sir, and accepted his orders.
Now they’d arrived at Novice Station. The charter yacht that had picked them up had special clearance to dock in the Blue Zone, but only to put its passengers safely onto the station’s Premier Lounge. Then it would transfer to the general-transport side of the station for refueling and reassignment.
Bryce watched as the yacht’s crew put their luggage into the Altissima storage lockers, then withdrew. The boys shifted from foot to foot. Karl,
the elder, looked much less boyish than he had three standard months ago, when Bryce had escorted him to Eleyon for vacation. Part of that was pure sulk, Bryce thought. He’d done nothing but complain since Bryce arrived to take them to the yacht. Part was muscle—he’d been working out more, and it showed.
“I’m sixteen,” he’d said. “I’m not a child. I don’t need an escort—nor does Evan, really. I could take care of Evan; I have two black-belt ratings in two different martial arts. Nothing ever happens anyway. We use false IDs, so we’re not trouble magnets—”
“School files and vacation resort files can be hacked,” Bryce said. “The older you get, the less your cover IDs will work.”
Now Karl glowered at the docking bay where the charter yacht’s crew had already sealed the hatch.
Evan, the younger, looked around the small entrance lounge. “Where’s Immigration and Customs?”
“We won’t need to go through,” Bryce said. “We’re just here to transfer to Altissima—as long as we stay in the premier lounge—” He moved to the exit from the arrival bay, hoping Karl would follow and not make another scene. Karl’s sigh was audible, but he came along, as Bryce pushed through semi-elastic membrane that read their biometrics and registered them into the Premier Lounge.
Bryce had never visited the Premier Lounge when he lived on Novice Station. He hadn’t known there was one. He’d been, variously, in a cheap sleephole, a restaurant kitchen washing dishes for a chance at the scraps, in lockup as an undesirable, and, finally, shipped as common labor on an ag transport full of pregnant rabbits a colony world might want.
He’d been in luxury lounges since, on his employer’s business, and this one did not impress. The carpet was stained—someone had tried to clean it, but left a different stain that did not quite match the outline of the original. The furniture looked plush enough, but as he neared the first couch, he saw signs of wear. The information booth had only an automated attendant, whose accent was nearly unintelligible. Bryce persisted: was Altissima on schedule?
No. The liner was delayed—arrival date now uncertain but at least three days away.
Three days with the boys—Bryce had a sinking feeling that things were about to go very wrong.
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