The older Admiral nodded, still smiling. “I don’t recall another report by a Major Wright, but supposing there were such a report, I’d be interested in what it had to do with Fleet Development.”
The younger Admiral shrugged. “As I was saying, the Senate can’t commit adequate resources for Sector Five, no matter what. Sector Nine is another question—a purely military one, which is appropriate for military solutions.”
“You don’t think that the Accord example won’t cause problems throughout the Empire? What about the Sligo revolt?”
“Sligo is in Sector Four. Those hard-rock types have always been malcontents. If you want to make an example, do it there.”
“You would support such an example?”
“Me? I’m just a very junior member of the staff command. I was only making an observation.”
“And do you have any other observations, Hewitt?”
“I’d be very surprised if the late and unremembered Major Wright is as deceased as the files say.”
“That’s an odd observation.”
“Perhaps. Leslie was the Comm Officer at Missou Base on New Kansaw. Call it slightly personal.”
“I see. You’d question a complete dead body with a total DNA match?”
“Only where Accord is concerned, but there’s really nothing that can be done there. Might as well leave the Rift alone. That might not have happened if the Service had better equipment, if we hadn’t been forced to rely too much on Intelligence operations, if we could have built the FC or the CX—but I ramble too much…. It is too bad that the Honorable Chairman of the Galaxy’s most prestigious Committee continues to try to run all aspects of military policy. One of these days, who knows, he might even start in on Intelligence operations, revealing another set of sordid details.” The younger Admiral laughed. “It’s so enjoyable testifying before him and that know-everything young staff of his. Just hope you never get that pleasure.”
“You do have some interesting ideas, Hewitt. Have you thought about retiring and writing them down? It might be a fascinating exercise in fiction.”
“Hardly. I have shared them with a few highly placed friends, but…what can I say? Our best bet would be if the Senator took up some hazardous sport like skim-gliding on Sierra, but he’s far too devoted to his job. The only thing that would stop him would be a sudden stroke or an accident. Hardly likely these days, though it does happen.”
The older Admiral nodded. “Interesting speculation, but you still haven’t told me the reason for your visit.”
“No real reason. I was over here and thought I’d stop in. Wondered if you had any thoughts on how we could concentrate on Sector Nine and our friends the Fuards. That’s what we ought to be doing. Then they’d have to come to economic terms with the Matriarchy. If we’d done that to begin with, Accord wouldn’t have dared…but I’m rambling again. What’s done is done.” He stood up slowly, as if requesting permission to depart.
“Well, Hewitt, you do have some intriguing thoughts, and someday you might think about writing them down.”
“There’s too much to do, right now…”
“That’s true.” The older Admiral stood. “I appreciate your stopping by. Give my best to the Chairman the next time you see him.”
“Oh, I’ll leave that to you. Our hearings are over, for a while anyway.” He turned to go, then paused as if to add something, then stopped. He looked back. “Have a good evening.”
“You, too.”
LIV
JIMJOY TIGHTENED THE straps holding him into the control couch in the weightlessness of the Ecolitan-designed and Thalos-built needleboat. He mentally reviewed the checklist, cataloging the items, occasionally stumbling at the not-quite-familiar order.
“You can start the checklist, Luren.” He glanced over at his temporary copilot.
While the needleboat’s overall design was an improvement, for the Institute’s needs, on standard I.S.S. configurations, the new checklist took a little extra time for someone trained on the older design.
Luren did not have that problem, since she had been trained on the new Institute design.
Jimjoy watched as she began.
Her once-long curling brown hair had been trimmed nearly as short as Thelina’s, and, according to Kerin Sommerlee, she had a near-natural aptitude for the martial arts and hand-to-hand. Her piloting skills were adequate, but not nearly so natural. Her determination was the compensating factor. Jimjoy had watched her spend her limited free time helping build the new boats with Jason and his team, as if by knowing every structural and engineering detail she could increase her skills.
Jimjoy pulled at his chin, glancing from the boards to the representational screens, still wishing he were doing the piloting.
“Converter…stand by…”
“Screens…up…”
Her motions were deliberate and practiced, not yet automatic.
Jimjoy’s eyes surveyed the cabin, where no essential item was beyond the pilot’s reach. The forward display screen showed mostly the black of space, sprinkled with the white scattered stars of the Arm, contrasting with the formless dark of the Rift. In the right-hand corner of the screen lurked an indistinct gray object, PAA #32, the asteroid his team had just finished converting into a two-person biohazard research/production station.
“Checklist complete, ser.” Luren did not look at him, but continued to scan the controls and screens.
Jimjoy’s fingers touched the small square of controls beneath his left hand. “VerComm, Jaymar two, departing Bold Harbor three this time.”
With the time lag, he didn’t expect an answer, but VerComm needed to know he was en route to the last station setup. Mera and Jason had already left with the big transport, the lasers, and the remaining fusactor.
Behind him would come the Roosveldt, trundling in the supplies and the equipment required by Drs. Stilsen and Narlian.
Jimjoy smiled as he recalled the meeting between the two.
“Stilsen, we don’t need all that junk. This isn’t research; it’s war. We know what to produce. After we win, then you put in for all the goodies, when everyone’s grateful—or, in our case, scared stiff.” That was how Arlyn Narlian had attacked the cautious Dr. Stilsen.
He looked over at his copilot, still wondering if he should have switched the rotation. “It’s all yours, Luren. Get us over to Bold Harbor four.”
“Yes, ser.”
He watched as her fingers flicked easily across the simplified board.
Waiting until the faint pressure pushed them back into the couches—this particular boat had yet to be fitted with grav-fields—he scanned the readouts on the board.
Then he triggered three studs. “Simulated emergency. Simulated emergency. Your decel is scheduled in three minutes.”
Jimjoy had blocked the transfer of power from the converter to the drives.
Luren froze the board, then began to unstrap.
Jimjoy smiled. “What do you plan to do?”
“Unless an instructor freezes power, the only thing that will produce that blockage is either a converter malfunction or a short supercon line. There’s no way to tell the difference without looking.”
“Strap back in. How would you tell the difference?” Jimjoy unfroze the board. His actions had really been a trick to see if she would have tried to do something. Sometimes the best course was to do nothing, at least until you knew what to do. Luren had been right. Under the circumstances, she could have done nothing from the controls.
“I’d check the supercon line first, ser. Then the plug end from the converter…”
Jimjoy nodded. He still had another five requirements on which to test Luren.
“The board’s open. Without any net increase in total power output or time of arrival, change our approach vector by at least ninety degrees. Don’t hurry it. You have plenty of time.” He kept his voice even, wishing in some ways he didn’t have to double as check pilot, but he needed to know the new pilots’ capa
bilities, and the Institute was short on top-flight pilots, even after co-opting off-duty time from the Accord line people, like Swersa and even Broward.
He leaned back, pretending to relax, wondering if he looked as much at ease as he tried to project, watching and hoping Luren would be able to figure it out. Then he could drop the next one on her.
He almost pulled at his chin. Instead he cleared his throat and glanced at the representational screen, glad that the only EDI traces on the system board belonged to Accord. How long that would last was another question.
LV
THE ADMIRAL FROWNED as he read through the report, still wondering how Graylin had come up with Major Wright. His head was beginning to throb again, and he reached for the glass of water, sliding out the small console drawer containing the capsules.
Water and capsules ingested, he turned back to the screen, again skimming through the information.
“Whaler, James Joyson, II…no known record outside of limited data bases prior to 3645 E.A…. Professor at Ecolitan Institute…applied ecologic management tactics…expert in field tactics…reported as besting system champion in hand-to-hand (open)…unexplained absences…reported as ‘brilliant’ instructor…inspires great loyalty…”
The Admiral rubbed his temples, then tried to massage out the tightness between his shoulders with his right hand before jumping to the last lines of the report.
“…comparison between Wright, Jimjoy Earle, Major (Deceased) and Whaler, James Joyson, II…inconclusive. Physical parameters at limits of surgical alteration possibilities, even given assumptions of Accord biosurgery…psyprofile comparison indicates seventy-five percent congruency…equivalent to clone or identical twin raised in differing environment…”
He shook his head. What good would it do him, assuming he could spare the operatives, if Accord could clone the man again? Especially if he weren’t even Wright? What if they had debriefed Wright, taken tissue samples, and cloned him—then murdered him on Timor II? With their technology…
He rubbed his temples again, hoping the capsules would take effect, waiting for the news bulletins.
LVI
JIMJOY WATCHED AS the suited junior Ecolitan realigned the drilling laser to follow the fracture line on the screen. Then Jimjoy shifted his study overhead, trying to pick out one of the needleboats orbiting the asteroid.
He’d gotten the idea from the reports on the way the Sligo miners had taken out Sligo SysCon. The concept was relatively simple, although the mathematics and the hardware for the remotes had proved beyond his pilot-oriented abilities. He would have turned to Jason again, but Jason was working too many hours trying to refurbish the destroyers and complete and upgrade the needleboats.
After several complaints, Meryl had finally drafted Orin Nussbaum, one of the senior specialists in mathematical constructs and analytics. Orin wouldn’t dirty his hands with assemblies or with the tedious programming. So he instructed the brighter students, some of whom looked like they might learn enough for Orin to return to Harmony.
That would be fine with Jimjoy. Not a day passed when he was on Thalos that Orin didn’t corner him. The food was boring. The maintenance staff preempted his latest modeling run with a power failure. The student Ecolitans were too interested in big yields instead of proper dispersion.
Even thinking about it, though Nussbaum was eighteen million kays away, started a faint throbbing in Jimjoy’s temples. With Thelina somewhere unknown, he had enough to worry about. The thought of her still tackling another unnamed mission she hadn’t even shared with Meryl twisted his guts whenever he let himself think about it. Damned near four tendays since he and the Roosveldt had “salvaged” the Fuard destroyers, and no one had heard from Thelina.
He moistened his lips, conscious of the sour smell of the suit, a smell that he was enduring more and more these days. The work grew faster than the trained hands. He took a deep breath.
“Professor, team one has the drive borehole complete. They want clearance to bring in the installation group.”
“Stet. I’m on my way.” He began to pick-bounce his way across the mostly nickel-iron asteroid—a little more than a kay in diameter, but located—for the next three standard years at least—along entry corridor two toward Accord.
“Jeryl, careful with the laser.”
“Yes, Professor.”
A greenish light blinked overhead, a periodic signal that the space tug was still standing by, waiting to bring in the simplified fusactor and drive unit.
“Professor, team two has an anomaly.”
“Hold on the boring until after I check team one. Until I get there, split the remotes and take team one’s over to their staging area.”
“Stet.”
In the center of a laser-melted circular space twenty meters across stood a laser boring rig and two suited figures, looking toward him.
“Meets all the specs, Professor. Five nines.”
Jimjoy repressed a sigh and studied the readouts on the borer and on the tripod. The anchor holes for the drive unit met the five nines required, and the nickel iron underfoot was vapor-melted more than level enough for installation.
He nodded, then realized the motion was inconclusive within the suit. “Site one is ready for installation.” He switched frequencies.
“Perch two, site one is ready for hardware. Triggering beacon this time.”
“Perch two here. Understand site one is ready for hardware.” Analitta’s voice was crisp, cool.
“That’s affirmative. Haylin standing by with anchors.”
“Coming in this time.”
“Stet.”
Jimjoy turned toward the man in the yellowish suit, toggled back to the working frequency. “Haylin, you’ve got the anchors.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Just follow Ecolitan Derski’s directions. And answer her questions, if she has any.”
“Yes, ser. You’re going to team two?”
Jimjoy bobbed his head. “Some problem there. You can still call me if you need me.”
“Yes, ser.”
Jimjoy turned back toward the other borehole, where he had left Jeryl. “Team three, interrogative status of borehole.”
“Depth at point two five. Hardness within point zero zero five.”
“Stet. En route team two this time. Report when you bottom out.”
“Will do.”
Jimjoy picked his way out of the depression where Haylin had prepared the site for drive installation and toward the other borehold, and where Mariabeth had reported an anomaly. Ahead, he could see the thin pole with a green pinlight, presumably still attached to the drilling laser.
“Team three?”
“Holding as requested.”
Mariabeth, in another dirty yellow suit, was standing by the flat plastic screen connected to the laser unit.
“What’s the problem?”
“Looks like some sort of drastic density change, ser. Drops off from the standard nickel-iron density…”
Jimjoy frowned. If the damned planetoid had an unbalanced core, the whole project was shot. The fragmentation had to follow a programmable dispersion. Otherwise…He shook his head.
“Have you been able to determine how far that extends?”
“It’s not too bad horizontally—not much more than five meters.” She touched the display controls. “See…it’s like a soft rock tube at an angle.”
Jimjoy frowned again. It didn’t look too bad, but…He glanced around and toggled the frequency shift. “Perch two, interrogative link with VerComm.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Tell Nussie that we’re sending him a geology mass problem. Need a placement recalculation based on real-life geology. Somebody missed an interior spike. Should have a complete data profile within point five. And, Analitta, tell him this takes top priority of his time. No students. Him.”
“Yes, ser.”
Jimjoy switched back to common. “Mariabeth, you heard that?”
> “Yes, ser.”
He smiled. He thought she had switched frequencies with him. “You understand the data needs?”
“Yes, ser.”
He touched her suit’s shoulder. “Take care of it. Bring me a cube as soon as you can. I’ll be on Perch two, trying to calculate what borehole latitude we have in terms of the physical limits and geology.”
He took another deep breath and began to pick his way back to where the tug was approaching to off-load the fusactor and drives. Trying to develop smart and destructive rocks could be frustrating as hades, between Orin Nussbaum and unscanned geology.
LVII
THE SUITED FIGURE rechecked the laser rig, the anchors, and the readouts on the condensers. Purity still well above ninety percent.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
The scream of white noise from the helmet receivers stunned her, and she had to jerk her chin twice to toggle the volume off. Her hand grasped one of the anchor struts as she stood on the asteroid surface, wobbling and shivering from the intensity of the sound.
Finally, she shook her head, and with careful quick steps headed back toward the tug, scanning the star-studded sky. Overhead, she could see Ballarney, the gas giant, like a dull red ball the apparent size of her gloved fist.
Nothing in the Belt skies seemed different. She shook her head again, then concentrated on reaching her tug.
Once inside the Jeralee, the thin miner only cracked her helmet before moving forward and slumping into the tug’s control couch. She flicked the board activation stud and watched as the three functioning screens lit up.
Her left hand, the one that would have showed a map of scars and welts had it not remained gloved, clenched and unclenched as she waited for the old equipment to come on-line.
Clung.
Her gloved fingertips carefully punched out a query.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Again she waited.
Her eyes widened as she took in the EDI indications on the representational screen, mouthing the numbers. “…thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen of the mothers…”
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