Percival unsealed the polymer wrap and pulled out the uniform blouse. He ran his fingers along the fabric, then examined the jacket, the braid, the stiff epaulets. He had not played his military role in a decade, although the Diadem pestered him to attend her festivals and receptions as a living legend, a showpiece as her daughter Keana had been. But Percival Hallholme was no decoration, and the Diadem had already used him more than he’d expected, or wanted. And he had to live with it.
One of the last times he’d worn this uniform was to accept the surrender of General Tiber Maximilian Adolphus, after defeating his nemesis with a threat—a bluff, actually—to slaughter thousands of innocent hostages.
Even though he was defeated, at least the General had a clear conscience. Percival could never erase that moment of personal dishonor, though he was the only one who seemed troubled by the choice he’d made. Now he resented being called back into service—he had already done many things that went beyond his moral boundaries. The Constellation’s lack of integrity, the win-at-all-costs attitude, sickened him. Honor was like a crystal goblet—even if broken only once, it was still broken.
Moving stiffly because of his chronic limp and sore muscles, Percival changed into his old uniform with painstaking thoroughness, straightened the lapels and sleeves, fastened every tab. Many aged officers grew fat and lazy in retirement, but he was pleased to see that the clothes still fit. He pinned on his medals and stood before the mirror, where he used a trimmer to groom his bushy muttonchop sideburns: charcoal gray fading to white. Nevertheless, he still cut a dashing figure, much like the propaganda images after his victory. Those portraits hung in every governmental hall on Sonjeera. Someday, his image would probably appear on a coin.
He emerged into the manor house’s main room. When Elaine saw him, she caught her breath. “That looks very impressive, Father! It’s straight out of the history loops.” He had told Elaine only that the Diadem wished to consult with him and that he needed to leave within the hour.
The two boys were playing soldier with makeshift guns; Coram had built a fort out of furniture, while Emil tried to find a way around his brother’s defenses. But they halted, amazed to see Percival in his uniform.
He maintained a brave face for his daughter-in-law and grandchildren. “It helps put me in the mind-set of what I need to do. Escobar might need a little assistance, and I’ll be happy to give it.”
A loud pounding came at the door, and before Elaine could open it, Duff Adkins burst inside, his eyes bright. Over his shoulder, he carried a worn duffel that looked lumpy and hurriedly packed. “What’s the emergency, sir? I’ve thrown some things together as you instructed, but you weren’t specific. What do you mean, we’re going to Sonjeera?”
“The Diadem calls,” Percival said.
The aide sized up the Commodore in his pristine uniform, then swallowed hard. “I was afraid it would be something like that, sir.”
Percival nodded. “We’ve been called back to duty.”
32
Bolton Crais had a suggestion, a last-ditch hope, but he was hesitant to discuss it with the Redcom. The fleet probably would not survive long enough to see the idea succeed, but if he couldn’t convince Escobar of its merits, they would have no chance whatsoever. The brave fleet that had launched with such high hopes would vanish, becoming nothing more than a cluster of ghost ships lost in the void, filled with the skeletons of starved, frozen soldiers.
He would have preferred to speak with Escobar privately, but Gail Carrington had to be party to the decision, and Bolton wanted Lord Riomini’s spy on his side. He invited them both to his private quarters. Knowing that the anxious crew watched their commanding officers with ever-growing suspicion, he didn’t want to call attention to the meeting. After he had sealed the door, Bolton said, “I have a way to get us to planet Hallholme.”
“Let’s hear it,” Carrington said.
“What I have in mind will take a minimum of two months—if it works at all.”
“Two months?” Escobar cried. “You said our supplies and life support would never last that long!”
“They may not, but we certainly won’t survive unless we try something.”
“Better to be lost without a trace than to fail for everyone to see,” said Carrington. “We cannot give General Adolphus any sort of victory.”
Escobar sat in the chair at Bolton’s desk, placed his elbows on the desk, rested his chin in his hands, and looked at him. “Let’s hear your plan, Major Crais.”
“When I loaded the fleet ships at Aeroc, Redcom, you were skeptical about my added precautions. I don’t mean to pat myself on the back, but the additional supplies I included may be sufficient to keep us alive long enough … provided we take extreme measures.”
“Yes, you’ve reminded me of your foresight several times, Major. I’ll give you a medal when we get back to Sonjeera, if that’s what you want.”
Bolton had no patience for that nonsense. “Non sequitur, Redcom. I am merely laying the groundwork to tell you something more. I also brought along an old trailblazer ship with a load of iperion, on the chance we might need to make stringline repairs.”
Escobar frowned. “I signed all the paperwork myself—no trailblazer was on the manifest. Where did you hide it?”
“I used a clause in the orders, sir, that each officer is allowed to bring aboard a certain amount of personal property at his own expense. I used my own funds to store it in the cargo bay alongside our fighter craft.”
“I don’t like deception, Major,” Escobar said. “Although I should congratulate you, since this now gives us some glimmer of hope that we might complete our mission.”
“Or just survive,” Bolton said. “We have strayed far from where the iperion path is likely to be located. We are badly lost. But that trailblazer can fly from here to planet Hallholme and lay down a new stringline path—like a corps of engineers cutting a new trail through a jungle. Once the iperion path is marked, we can use our stringline engines again and complete the trip in a day.”
“And how long will the trailblazer take to reach its destination?” Carrington asked.
“Two months, by my estimation, and the rest of our ships would have to remain here by the new terminus. We hunker down and wait.”
Both Escobar and Carrington reacted with stunned silence. When the silence grew too long, Bolton added, “You did ask for ideas, sir, no matter how unlikely they might seem.”
“We’ll do it,” Carrington said, as if she were in command. “That plan doesn’t preclude us from finding another solution in the meantime. Our search for the severed stringline can continue, but at least we’ll have a second chance in the works.”
Escobar threaded his fingers together, clenching and unclenching his hands. “But how are we to survive for two months? Just sitting here? We’re already feeling the hard realities of rationing. We never expected supplies to last that long.”
“Make no mistake, Redcom, our situation will get much more difficult,” Bolton said. “In fact, I’m sickened to think of the measures we will be required to take for those two months—and not all of us will survive.”
Carrington sounded enthusiastic, even optimistic. “But those who do survive will be able to complete the mission. We can defeat General Adolphus after all.”
Bolton nodded, glad that she supported him, although her priorities were not the same as his.
* * *
The five military haulers had regrouped at an arbitrary point in space. They had wandered great distances in their ever-expanding hunt for the lost stringline, and now they were far from the former location of Substation 4. This would be a new anchor point, a terminus for a last-ditch iperion route. Now their fate rested on a lone trailblazer ship laying down a new path of quantum breadcrumbs all the way to planet Hallholme before fifteen thousand crewmembers perished.
Although the futile-seeming search for the severed outbound path continued, the stringline haulers and the hundred warships would p
ower down, conserve energy, wait in silence, and pray. Navigation teams had scanned space, checking and double-checking the coordinates to the destination system. It was a simple enough navigational calculation, Escobar knew, drawing a straight-line path to Hellhole, taking into account any intervening star systems. Escobar would not allow any stupid mistakes. More and more it looked as if they had only this one chance, this one way out.
Bolton Crais’s surreptitious trailblazer had been removed from its storage dock in the hangar of the Diadem’s Glory. As soon as he looked upon the distinctly different design of the ship, Escobar wondered how the rest of his crew could have been fooled … but the official paperwork had been signed by Major Crais, and soldiers were trained to follow orders, not ask questions.
The Redcom applauded Bolton because he had been efficient and cautious, although he also resented the quiet and unprepossessing man because he had thought of things Escobar hadn’t! A mere logistics officer, a military accountant—a nobleman who couldn’t even keep his own wife from straying; Bolton had only been permitted to join the expedition because Escobar did not have the political clout to deny him.
In their situation now, though, Escobar had a grudging respect for the man. While Gail Carrington gave him stern stares and the other officers wore unspoken accusations on their faces, Bolton did not heap blame upon him. Obviously, the man’s priority was to complete the mission, to save the ships and crew aboard the Constellation fleet. Escobar had begun to think of Bolton as a reliable sounding board whose opinions were valid and well considered—a counterpoint to Carrington’s unforgiving harshness.
Bolton had spent hours loading supplies aboard the small trailblazer, inspecting each package, tallying the food, water, and energy packs the pilots would need for the harrowing two-month journey.
Ten pilots had volunteered for the dangerous mission, and all had undergone thorough medical testing, but it boiled down to two men. The blood chemistry of Sergeants Francone Zabriskie and Arbin Caron showed that they were more resistant to iperion poisoning than any of the others. Cramped for months in a small vessel, so close to the shielded stockpile of the toxic stringline marker material, at least one of them had a chance of surviving.
Escobar summoned Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron to the flagship’s hangar for his final briefing. These men were loyal, soft-spoken, competent pilots. Each seemed pleased that his name had been chosen from among the volunteers’.
“You’re the most qualified pilots for the job,” Escobar had said, without further explanation. Guiding a trailblazer along an obvious path did not require any exceptional expertise. “I hope you’re both under no illusions. This will be a very difficult assignment.”
Zabriskie, a compact, olive-skinned man, shrugged. “Sitting in a cockpit for two months doesn’t sound any harder than a pitched battle, though my butt will be awfully sore by the time I get there.”
“If our food and life support lasts that long, we’ll complete the trip, sir,” Caron said. He was the smaller of the two, a fortyish man with a lined but youthful face.
Bolton held an electronic clipboard, all business. Together, the three inspected the boxes of packed rations, the water tank, the sealed recycling cabinet. “This should be sufficient nutrition for both of you. We can’t spare this level of rations here on the fleet, but if anyone needs to be fully fed, it’s you two. By recycling everything, maintaining your calm, and not burning any unnecessary calories, you should survive the journey.”
Sergeant Zabriskie skeptically assessed the cramped ship. “How would we burn unnecessary calories even if we wanted to? What are we going to do, dance? There’s no room to move. In fact, we won’t be able to stretch our arms and legs until we empty those food containers and compress them.”
Caron snapped to attention. “You can count on us, Redcom. We’ll lay down the iperion and you’ll have your stringline.”
“Gentlemen, the Constellation depends on you. This fleet depends on you. And I depend on you.”
“Yes, sir!” both pilots said.
And Escobar heard the words of his father inside his head. So often the old Commodore had droned on with his interminable war stories, tale after tale full of anecdotes and bits of unsolicited advice. “A good commander must have a healthy balance of optimism and pragmatism. Issue the necessary orders and believe that they will work.”
The Commodore’s shadow loomed over the fleet now, although Escobar was sure that even the legendary Percival Hallholme would have been at a loss for a solution in this case.…
Moving with uncharacteristic speed, dressed in his fashionable and completely impractical clothes, Jackson Firth rushed into the hangar. “Red Commodore, I understand you’re about to send a direct expedition to planet Hallholme? I insist on accompanying the trailblazer pilot. I can serve as the alternate.”
Escobar would have laughed at the suggestion if it hadn’t taken him completely by surprise. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Firth.”
“Nevertheless, it must happen. If this is the first ship to reach the Hallholme system, there is every chance the General’s forces might intercept it. I must be there to establish diplomatic contact, to speak on the Diadem’s behalf.”
“Request denied, Mr. Firth,” Escobar said.
The diplomat glowered. “I did not express it as a request, Red Commodore. In diplomatic matters, my rank supersedes yours.”
Sergeants Zabriskie and Caron looked at the foppish diplomat and frowned. The thought of being cooped up in such a small craft with a third person was impossible. Firth’s request was absurd.
Bolton Crais came to the rescue. “I’m sorry, Mr. Firth, but this is not a matter of choice, and it’s not a diplomatic matter; it’s a military survival matter. It’s simply not possible for you to accompany the mission. There isn’t sufficient room in the vessel to carry an additional person, much less the food, water, and life support required. And you haven’t been given the medical clearance for long-term iperion exposure. Even though the stockpiles are shielded, they still leak. Besides that, constant manipulation is required in laying down the markers in space, resulting in even more exposure.”
Firth blew air through his lips and looked at all three men as if trying to determine if they were tricking him, then relented. “Very well, but I will write a formal diplomatic dispatch for the pilots to carry. If they have any contact with General Adolphus, this will serve as your template for negotiations.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Zabriskie said, after getting a nod of approval from his Redcom. “I will handle it very carefully.” Satisfied, Firth departed.
Caron grumbled under his breath, “I’ll be so bored by the end of two months, I’ll probably be reading every word on the food wrappers.”
Bolton cleared his throat. “Redcom, we should not delay. Two months from now, every minute might make a difference.”
“Agreed,” Escobar said. “Prepare for departure, sergeants. I’ll make an announcement to the fleet.”
* * *
From the bridge of Diadem’s Glory, Escobar and Bolton watched the trailblazer drop out of the hangar bay. The stringline engineers had already constructed a temporary anchor point for this end of the new stringline.
Using the navigation coordinates programmed into the trailblazer’s cockpit, Sergeant Zabriskie set course for the Hallholme system while Caron signaled the bridge. “All lined up and ready to depart. Iperion deployment systems are optimal, fuel tanks loaded, engines check out, course set. Wish us luck.”
Escobar broadcast across the hundred ships in their docking clamps, “All our hopes and prayers go with you, sergeants. Have a safe and swift voyage.”
“See you all in a couple of months,” Zabriskie said, then activated his FTL accelerators. The trailblazer launched with a shimmering blur while strains of military music played across the fleet intercom.
A round of cheers went up from the bridge crew. Gail Carrington stood trim and silent beside Escobar and Bolton, all of th
em staring at the point in space where the trailblazer had vanished.
No one could see the new stringline, but once the iperion breadcrumbs were strung from here to planet Hallholme, the military haulers could cross the final distance in a flash. The hard part was waiting—and surviving—until the trailblazer marked the route.
Bolton leaned close, lowering his voice. “Redcom, while the crew is upbeat, this is the best time to impose the next stage of our extreme rationing and conservation measures. They’ll accept it now.”
“Very well, Major. You have new recommendations for me?”
Bolton had an electronic clipboard in his hand. “I’ve run the numbers and I warn you, it’ll be hard. Many will find my additional safeguards appalling, perhaps even impossible, and we can’t do it all at once or they will revolt.”
Escobar frowned. “What do you mean, ‘not all at once’?”
Bolton looked dismal, and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid we’ve only discussed the first phase of what we have to do.”
33
Deep underground, Cristoph and Keana-Uroa disembarked from the shaft crawler and entered the museum vault for another day of searching and cataloging. Lodo was already there, working with the human team members and their shadow-Xayan assistants and advisers. Even after centuries entombed there, the Original alien rarely left the subterranean chamber.
Although her mental companion Uroa had informed Keana of old frictions among various Xayan groups, particularly between Zairic and Encix, Keana generally liked Lodo’s personality. Among the surviving aliens, he had the most congenial demeanor, and a sense of humor, instead of the edgy hardness Encix exhibited.
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