Contact

by Susan Grant

  Biologically he must have been programmed for goodness, she’d decided—coding that not even Moray could break. Jordan was much the same way, and Trist was grateful that the will of the Seeders had brought them together.

  Nature versus nurture. It may indeed have been Kào’s inherent nature that saved him, but for her, a descendant of Talagar expatriates, it was her upbringing that formed her—and she’d gladly die proving it. Possessed of much-maligned Talagar genes, she was not ruled by them; nor were the others like herself, as enlightened individuals in Alliance already knew.

  Talagar culture was to blame for the evilness of their Empire, not any inborn traits. Now, in her shining moment, she’d finally have a chance to prove it.

  Breaths uneven, sweat glistening on his exposed skin, Kào ducked inside the airlock and rotated the heavy hatch closed behind him. The primary airlock was used as a thoroughfare when the Savior was docked to another ship. It was carpeted, its rounded walls spongy with soundproofed insulating material. But this, the secondary airlock, was another story. It was a poorly illuminated tube bridging the space between two ships, no higher and no wider than a man. The walls were constructed of bare alloy, every rivet, every scar of construction as visible now as the day the vessel left the shipyard. From there, he contemplated the round hatch on the far end of the airlock. An untold number of Talagars were going about their business on the other side.

  Steeg. So close.

  When it came to Moray, Kào’s sentiments were . . . muddled. But Steeg—Kào wanted to rip out the man’s heart; he wanted to send the monster to the place the Earth people believed men like him burned in agony for all eternity. Hell, they called it. But it was easy to have such thoughts for a man he didn’t know.

  Dutifully he marched onward through the airlock, his boots clanging on the metal floor, a loyal Alliance soldier there to prove what he could not during the war: He would willingly die defending the ideals his government stood for—freedom, peace, and honor. He’d gladly give his life to ensure a future with Jordan, in which she and her people, and their children, would be safe from Talagar raids. Whatever it took to stop men like Moray and Steeg, whose livelihoods fed on the human spirit, he would do it. For all those reasons and more, he’d come to this airlock ready to do battle with a recalcitrant mechanical switch that would not obey its computerized command.

  The passageway in which he strode was cold and barren, serving two purposes only: as an emergency manual breakaway should the normal docking release fail, and as a backup conduit for everything from digital signals to water and air. At each end were sealed hatches—one Kào had shut behind him when he climbed inside the airlock, the other leading to the Talagar battleship. Between the vessels was a breakaway point at which a closed pressure door shielded the fragile human body from the deadly vacuum of space when the ships parted. But with one pull of the manual release handle, used to detach the Savior in an emergency situation, the seam would split apart. Anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong side of the pressure door would be sucked out and sent to their almost instant death.

  The docking relay switch was located in an area near the floor that required Kào to open the pressure door to access it. Instinctively he attached a safety cord to his waist belt before setting to work. He pondered that. There was a time when he was so numb and empty inside that he wouldn’t have cared if he lived or died. Because of Jordan, he’d come alive, gloriously so. But with his renewed ability to feel came a blooming hatred and sharp sorrow of almost equal intensity—for Moray—along with regret which Kào suspected any man might experience if he were to sense the imminent end to a life seemingly just begun.

  Focus, he told himself. With a harsh grunt, he yanked on the handle and opened the pressure door. His ears popped. There was always a fractional pressure differential between a pair of ships. The heavy door opened inward, toward him. With a grating scrape, it came to rest against the curved wall.

  Kào crouched, setting out the tools he’d brought. Starlight and reflected illumination from the two immense vessels flanking him provided sparse light in which to work. But he knew his way around a starship better than most. Within seconds, he’d located the telltale seam in the metal wall and followed it with his fingers until they collided with a square protrusion. He saw the problem: the switch, a simple blasted switch, coated with dirt and old lubricating fluids. The congealed mess had prevented it from closing over the relay when Trist had commanded it.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers, blotted the sweat of his brow. Then he gripped the handle in two hands. For you, Jordan. For the Alliance. “For the future,” he gritted out past clenched teeth as he shoved the handle downward over the switch and closed the critical relay.

  “There were several unsuccessful attempts to get onto the main computer, Commodore,” an ensign reported.

  “From what terminal?” Moray demanded.

  “Seven-four-oh-bravo. A workstation in the cargo bay. That’s all I have, sir. We’re still working on it. In light of the docking-in-progress and your request to monitor the comm, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yes, yes, Ensign, thank you,” he said distractedly as he began typing one-handed on the nearest terminal. “Jinn,” he bellowed. In an instant, the aide was at his side. “Where is Poul?”

  Jinn squinted. “He reported that the refugees were missing—or misplaced—which I passed along to you. Then he left with Heest and”—his facial muscles went rigid and his eyes widened—“they never reported in.”

  “Traitors,” Moray growled under his breath. He slammed his fist into his palm. “Check for all communication in or out of this ship.”

  Jinn went to work. Almost immediately, his head popped up. “A signal is being transmitted from our ship to the Diligent. Unorthodox code, hidden in a legitimate routine. It’s being routed through the secondary airlock, sir. And whatever it is, it’s big, and it’s taking a while to download. Otherwise I don’t think I would have seen it.”

  Moray’s head snapped to the battleship looming outside. “Is there a chance that the signal being sent could do damage to the Diligent?”

  Jinn’s jaw moved back and forth.

  “Out with it,” Moray barked. “Don’t give me the answer you think I want to hear as opposed to what you really believe. I didn’t promote you to third aide to hear pretty-talk.”

  Jinn’s throat bobbed. “The code could summon a larger program, once inside the Diligent, and put Admiral Steeg’s ship in danger.”

  Moray swung away from the observation railing. “Get Trist to help you and abort the transfer. Purge any and all substantiation of our activities onboard this ship. I don’t care how. Just do it. That signal will be stopped, if we have to tear apart the wiring in the airlock with our bare hands.”

  Chapter Thirty

  A boom shook the 747. It came from outside the airplane. In the cockpit, Jordan jolted to full alert. Was it an explosion?

  The loud bang sounded again, then stopped. For long moments. She was about to settle back in her seat when a series of thunderous reverberations rattled the airplane and her teeth. More silence followed.

  Jordan threw off her seatbelt and shoulder harnesses. So much for Trist’s orders; she was going to see what the heck was going on.

  As she bolted down the center of the aisle in upper-deck business class, she tried to smile reassuringly at the passengers staring at her from their seats. “I have to tell whoever’s doing that to hold down the noise,” she quipped, although she felt anything but funny.

  They merely watched in silence as she ran past. As travelers, they were an airline’s dream: No one complained about atrocious conditions and lousy service.

  Downstairs, Ben was straining in his harness in his flight-attendant jump seat by the forward left door. His face was pressed against the small circular window in the door, and he was looking at the cargo-bay doors. “That hook keeps lifting and banging down against the bar. Is it supposed to do that?”

 
She dropped to her knees and cupped her hands around her eyes to see out the window. Was the hook designed to bounce around? No. Something was wrong. One good bounce and that hook would fly off the bar as if it weighed nothing.

  She fell back on her haunches. “Someone’s trying the bay doors.”

  “Are you sure?” Ben turned white; his dark stubble stood out starkly.

  “The hook moves when the command is given. Only we put it over the bar so it can’t lift. In the down position, it disables a command from the bridge to open the doors.”

  “We’d die if those doors opened. We’d freeze to death.”

  “Actually, we’d suffocate first. Or would our blood boil?” She stifled a groan. “It’s one of the two. And neither is how I want to go.” She didn’t want to “go” at all, but that was beside the point. “Every time that hook lifts, it’s trying to obey a command issued by the ship’s computer. It shouldn’t lift at all. But maybe we didn’t check to make sure it was fully in place before we came inside. I didn’t back up Trist. I figured she knew what she was doing.” Jordan knew how to use the hydraulic wheel to lower the hook. Lowering the hook as far as it would go would stop the bouncing. But that meant she’d have to go outside to do it.

  Her stomach twisted, and a horrible feeling of vulnerability choked her. Ten seconds, she’d heard you had in space with no protective suit. Ten seconds. In the airplane they’d last longer if the cargo bay lost pressure—but how much longer? A minute, maybe? It might be long enough for Trist to get the doors closed from upstairs. Might.

  Jordan grimaced. Was that reason enough to huddle in the plane when she knew how to save everyone?

  She peered down the aisles, making eye contact with many of the passengers staring back at her. We trust you, Captain. We know safety’s your top priority. Jordan bit back a sigh. That was the company line, wasn’t it?

  Outside, the banging started again. The hook waggled spasmodically on the bar. “Whoa,” Ben said nervously. “That one got some airtime.”

  Jordan shot to her feet. “I’ve got to fix it or the next time it bounces, it falls, and we’re history.”

  She considered calling for volunteers. Rich, Garrett, Natalie, they’d all be eager to help. While those on the airplane might survive, anyone near the doors would be sucked into space as easily as a crumb into a vacuum cleaner. No. Securing the bay doors was her duty. She couldn’t escape it; she couldn’t foist it onto someone else’s shoulders and think she’d be able to stand herself the rest of her life.

  Promise, Mommy?

  “I know, sweetie,” she said too softly for anyone to hear. What can I do? I’m the leader, and this is what leaders have to do. Leaders didn’t choose another to accomplish what they themselves were too scared to do.

  “Do you want me to check it out?” Ben asked. Perspiration glittered on his pale forehead. He was scared shitless. But he’d volunteered anyway.

  “I need you here,” she said.

  A breath shuddered out of him. “To mind the store.”

  “Yeah. You do a great job of it.”

  His smile wobbled, and she reached out and ruffled his hair. “It’s better that only one of us go anyway, Ben. We don’t need more. Trist showed me how to lower the hook. It’s a piece of cake. Really.”

  With both hands, Jordan took hold of the airliner’s door handle and rotated it. The door swung open. You’re coming home, right, Mommy?

  Guilt bared sharp claws of regret, shredding her insides. But somehow, after all these months, she knew it would come to this: returning to her child or sacrificing herself so that the rest could survive—a terrible choice that had only one resolution she could live with.

  I’m sorry, Boo. Blocking any more thoughts of her daughter, she vaulted from the airplane to the platform below.

  “No! Mommy, nooo!”

  The keening cry woke John Jensen from a deep sleep. His firefighter’s senses were instantly alert. He jackknifed up in bed, gaping wide-eyed into the darkness.

  His wife said sleepily, “It’s Roberta. She’s having a nightmare.” She tossed off the blanket.

  He blocked her with his hand. “I’ll go,” he said and hopped out of bed.

  Pulling on his robe, he shoved open the door and walked into the hallway. Roberta’s bedroom door was ajar. The fronds of the potted palm in the hall were still swaying. He must have missed the kid by seconds.

  His gaze veered to the stairs. Then he heard the front door open. “Roberta!”

  He took the stairs two or three at a time, stumbling onto the landing and almost breaking his neck. He collided with a tree fern in an effort to beat Roberta down the front porch steps. Heard the crash of the pot onto the wood floor behind him as he raced after her. He could see her now, a wraith in a pink nightgown, skinny legs pumping. “Roberta—stop! Now!”

  The grass was spongy from yesterday’s rain. He slipped and fell. Righted himself and kept going. Roberta headed for the street. “No!” he cried hoarsely.

  But she ran as if her life depended on it. “Mommy!” she cried out. Or someone else’s life, he thought, his heart twisting. She’d dreamed of Jordan, but the kid had never done anything like this before.

  The headlights of a car flickered to the left. Roberta dodged a fire hydrant and ran into the street. Time slowed down. He was thirty-five, he thought, but he ran with the speed of a seventy-year-old. Or it seemed that way. “Roberta!” he bellowed.

  He was close, close enough to hear her bare feet slapping against the asphalt. Too far to grab for her. The car didn’t slow down. No one would expect people to be running across the street in the middle of the night.

  Headlights, blinding now. Goddamn. Roberta darted in front of the car. A horn blared. Brakes shrieked. John dove for the kid, caught her in his arms.

  They rolled across the street, tumbled over the sidewalk and onto the lawn of the house across the street. John’s hand shielded Roberta’s head, and he managed to get their bodies to stop before crashing into a row of thorny shrubs.

  Roberta tried to struggled free. “Mommy, Mommy—no!” She squirmed and pummeled him.

  “Hush. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” He crushed her close. Kissed her blond curls. She smelled like bubble bath and little girl. He’d always wanted a daughter, but he railed at the unfairness of it all that the daughter he got was his dead sister’s. “Hush,” he soothed, sheltering her in his arms. “You had a nightmare. It’s over. You’re with Uncle John now.”

  The kid fought him until she collapsed into a quivering mass of limp limbs. “Come back, Mommy, come back,” she chanted hoarsely.

  John rose with her in his arms. The driver was standing outside the car in a pool of light from the open door, her hand pressed to her mouth. Only the chime from the interior of the car and Roberta’s intermittent sobs broke the silence of the night. “I didn’t see her. I’m sorry.”

  John shook his head. “You didn’t hit her.” His voice broke. “Thank you. She’s all I have left of my sister,” he whispered. Then he turned away and carried the child home.

  Kào heard the hatch behind him open and then close, the hatch that led from the Savior. Kào jerked to his feet and spun around. His tools slid off his lap, falling in damning jangles to the metal floor.

  Moray stood at the far end of the airlock. “Kào. . . .”

  How could one word hold so much pain, so much regret? Kào felt the weight of it crushing down on his shoulders. He swallowed hard against a throat suddenly constricted, wishing that things had been different, wishing for a thousand things, all impossible now.

  The moment drew out, horrible and poignant.

  Finally Kào let his arms fall to his sides, palms up. “Why?” He was surprised to hear himself speak. He hadn’t meant to voice the thought.

  “They took Jenneh,” Moray said gruffly. “My children.” The words were ragged-sounding, pain-filled.

  The Alliance did? “I thought they were killed in a Talagar raid.”

  “
They were.” Moray’s large hands crushed into fists. “It should never have happened. The Alliance bastards left Remeraton undefended. They knew the danger to the families stationed there. I was away—on duty. Giving my soul to the Alliance!” His voice quavered. “And when I came home I found them dead. All of them.”

  “So you joined the Talagars? The same people who murdered your family?” Kào heard the bitterness in his own voice, and the disbelief.

  “The Alliance killed my family. Out of irresponsibility. Out of indifference. It was then I realized I was on the wrong side. The Talagars were misunderstood—and still are. Many reasons. Their culture is a closed one. Restrictive.” His gray eyes beseeched Kào. “And of course the barter of humans is misinterpreted. You would think differently of the society if you knew it as I have. Black and white. Right and wrong. No gray.” Across the airlock, Kào saw a flash of pain in his father’s eyes, painful in its intensity. “No indifference.”

  So. Moray had assuaged his grief by punishing those he blamed for it. Kào knew that humans weren’t programmed to tackle life with the logical approach of computers—himself included—but this . . . this treason, the suffering and lives lost, the damage done to the longest-running freely elected democracy the galaxy had known, it was irrational. It was unforgivable. But after all these years, there would be no convincing Moray of it. No matter what his father’s motivation, Kào knew that no one else must die for it.

  Kào glanced down at the switch next to his right boot. A tiny, crisp, blinking green light indicated, he hoped, that the relay was active. Trist’s file was large; it would take several more minutes to go through, minutes Kào hoped he had now that Moray had come. His father followed his gaze to the switch. Understanding dawned in his eyes. “It’s going through that relay, isn’t it? The signal.”

  “It’s too late,” Kào told him. “While Steeg waits for you to get the refugees, this will destroy his battleship. It’s over, Father.”