Gibraltar Earth E-Book

Michael McCollum

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

It is the 24th Century. Humanity is only just beginning to gain a toehold out among the stars. While exploring the New Eden system, the crew aboard Stellar Survey Starship Magellan encounters a pair of alien spacecraft. A skirmish ensues and both sides exit the battle with heavy losses. In picking through the wreckage of one of the alien ships, the human crew stumbles upon a survivor with a fantastic story. The alien hails from a million-star Galactic Empire ruled over by a mysterious race known as the Broa. As masters of this region of the galaxy, they permit no challenge to their empire. But as yet the Broa are ignorant of humanity's existence. Armed with this vital information, the human race must decide how best to proceed. Do they cease all astral voyages and retreat to their corner of the universe, quaking in fear at the thought of the Broa's discovery of Earth? Or…do they take a more aggressive approach?

Leseprobe

GIBRALTAR EARTH

Copyright © 1999, 2006, 2019 by Michael McCollum

All rights reserved.

Published as an eBook in 2019 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-625674-65-4

Cover design by John Fisk

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

The Rock of Gibraltar

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

About the Author

Also by Michael McCollum

THE ROCK OF GIBRALTAR

Prologue

“It is said of the British Empire's acquisition of the Indian subcontinent that they did not so much conquer India as win the prize in a fit of absentmindedness. Although exaggeration, there is a modicum of reality in the statement. For the truth is that the greatest jewel in Victoria's crown was won in large part through a streak of luck—bad luck for the indigenous peoples and good luck for the inhabitants of what otherwise might have been just another sleepy island nation.

“Nor can we modern humans make any great claims for our own recent acquisitions. Oh, we speak loudly of our own prowess, and celebrate the memories of the brave men and women who sacrificed their lives to our cause. Still, we should not lose sight of the undeniable fact that we were lucky, perhaps far luckier than we deserved. I therefore ask you, my fellow citizens of Sol, to join me in an exercise in humility. Consider for a moment all the things that might have gone wrong—”

From a Victory Speech by the

Right Honorable Jonathan Ambrose

To the World Parliament

12 October 2356

PART ONE

ENCOUNTER AMONG THE STARS

Chapter One

Captain Dan Landon of the Survey Ship Magellan sat strapped in his desk and gazed at the large holoscreen that dominated the far bulkhead. It was filled by a blue-white planet bordered by a patch of ebon sky. Stretched out before him to the curving planetary limb was a panorama of fleecy-white clouds and seas of royal blue. To the right lay a sprinkling of green islands; each surrounded by aquamarine shoals. At the top of the screen, just coming into view, was the jagged coastline of one of the major continents. Soon they would be sweeping over amber plains blackened by herds of six-legged beasts, mountain ranges capped by snowfields, forests of deep green, and a river network that was equal to the Nile, the Amazon, and the Mississippi combined.

In the two generations since humanity had won free to the stars, the race had found but twelve worlds sufficiently like the Mother of Men to be considered even marginally habitable. This was the thirteenth, and so far, the best. Preliminary results gave it double the highest habitability index previously recorded. A solid month of orbital scanning, laboratory tests, and on-the-ground exploration had revealed a paradise. For that reason, Landon scowled as he watched the scenery float by far below. A life spent in the service of the Stellar Survey had left him with a philosophy that mirrored the organization’s unofficial motto: “If things are going well, you have obviously overlooked something!”

As he gazed at New Eden, the crew’s unofficial name for their find, he wondered what they were overlooking. Even after a month of study by a thousand talented specialists, they had only scratched the surface of what there was to know. A world was just too large and too varied a place to be surveyed by a single shipload of scientists. To understand New Eden completely would be the work of generations. Where lurked the microorganism that would ultimately prove fatal to humans, the environmental factor that would render colonists sterile, or the million-and-one other deadly possibilities that would turn this beautiful new world into a pestilential hellhole?

Landon knew that his current black mood was a defense mechanism against the high hopes that New Eden had spawned in him. It was easy to remain detached when the system to be surveyed consisted totally of sterile rocks and gas giants, as most of them were. There was no love in his breast for the usual dust balls, volcano fields, and oceans of hydrochloric acid. However, to find this beautiful world and then lose it because of some innocuous-seeming environmental factor would be too great a disappointment. Better to keep expectations low until they knew more about it. Sighing, he moved to retrieve a bulb of steaming hot tea from its microgravity holder.

There was a quiet rattle as the cabin around him shivered. Landon froze for a long second as his brain analyzed what he had sensed largely on a subconscious level. A chill had gone up his spine as it sometimes did when he was thrilled or frightened. Yet, it had not been just him. There had been a subdued clatter from the storage lockers that lined every unused centimeter in his cabin. The holoscreen had flickered with static, hadn’t it?

The introspection took less time than it takes to gulp. A moment later, his hand reached out of its own volition and slapped down on the intercom plate inset into the desk.

“Report!” he snapped as the duty officer, a pimple-faced ensign, stared back at him.

“Don’t know, Captain,” the boy squeaked. “We are getting reports from all over the ship. Wait a second. Scout Three is reporting that they felt it, too!”

Scout Three was Jani Rykand’s ship, en route back from exploring the larger of the two moons of the planet. The fact that she was ten thousand kilometers from Magellan eliminated the thought that whatever had happened was a problem only with his ship.

“Sound general quarters, Mr. Pendergast.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Landon was already out of his seat, pulling himself hand over hand toward the control room as the alarms began to bleat. A thousand past drills provided him with a mental picture of the organized bedlam taking place all over the ship. Before the alarms lapsed into silence, he was strapped into his control console at the heart of the big survey craft, surrounded by dozens of screens, none of which told him what he wanted to know.

“What was it, Doc?” he asked a white-haired man in his personal screen after keying for the ship’s chief scientist.

“Whatever it was,” Raoul Bendagar replied, “it wreaked holy hell with our instruments. Half of them lost calibration at the same precise moment we felt the shock.”

“You must have some idea,” Landon persisted.

“Wait a second while I check something,” Bendagar answered. He stooped to manipulate a screen on which a series of glowing red lines were superimposed on a polar coordinate grid. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Bendagar glanced up at the captain, a look of shock on his face. “We just experienced the Grand Hooting Monster of all gravity waves, Captain. No wonder it knocked everything out of alignment.”

Landon frowned. He knew that gravity waves existed, of course. For more than a century, a trio of satellites had orbited between Earth and Mars at a precise one thousand kilometers from one another. They used laser beams to maintain their spacing to twelve digits of accuracy, forming a vast equilateral triangle that detected the microscopic distortions caused by the collapse of distant stars and other more catastrophic events. The largest gravity wave ever detected had distorted space by an amount less than the width of a proton. This one had been heavy enough to rattle Landon as he sat in his cabin.

“Come off it, Doc. Couldn’t have been.”

“The instruments recorded a distortion wave traveling from Equipment Lock Two to the boat deck at the speed of light. Call it what you will, but I say it was a gravity wave.”

“Captain,” the communicator on duty reported, “Scout Three has a sighting report.”

“Put her through.”

As usual, Jani Rykand’s features were framed in a tousled copper explosion of hair. Unlike most women who lived and worked in microgravity, she refused to bob her mane, or to keep it bound in a hair net. On her, it looked good.

“Report!”

“Something weird going on out here, Captain. I am getting energy readings from a point thirty degrees aft of my orbital path.”

Landon glanced at Bendagar.

“We’ve got them, too,” the chief scientist reported.

“What do you make of it, Scout Three?”

“Hirayama’s got the scope focused on it, Captain. It looks like a couple of ships.”

“Patch your view through to us,” Landon snapped.

An instant later, Jani Rykand’s features dissolved to show the blackness of space. In the background were the usual constellations of stars, subtly or drastically altered from the familiar constellations of home by the hundred light-years Magellan had crossed to reach this world. At first, there was nothing to see. This changed when a violet flash of light sparked the darkness. It put Landon in mind of summer lightning back home in B.C. Except this lightning managed to illuminate two shapes in the blackness, one of which glowed for long seconds after the bolt.

“Give us a tighter view, Hirayama,” the captain ordered. Onboard the scout the geologist who was operating the scope controls moved to comply. The distant stars jerked back and forth a few times as the telescope zoomed to maximum magnification. When it stopped, there was no doubt that they were looking at two vessels and that one of them seemed intent on destroying the other.

The prey was the larger of the two, a squat cylinder—it looked remarkably like the pressurized cans in which ground coffee was shipped to prevent vacuum damage. The ship was obviously intended to be spun to produce artificial gravity. Its tormentor was a thin cylinder with a variety of mechanisms jutting from a central core. While they watched, the attacker again sent a beam of violet to splash against the hull of its larger prey. They watched as a geyser of plasma spewed away from the strike in a wide-angled vacuum expansion cone.

“All recorders to maximum,” Landon ordered without being aware of it. “Hirayama, track them!”

Even with the telescope focused on the battling duo, it was obvious that the larger ship was doing everything in its power to escape. It jinked one way, then the other, always trying to stay ahead of its tormentor. The effort was futile. The small warcraft matched each violent maneuver with one of its own, hanging onto its prey like a small terrier harrowing a large bull. Every few seconds another violet beam would splash across the hide of the larger craft, leaving an ugly, glowing scar in its wake. Yet, if the small ship were attempting to disable the larger, it was having little luck. After each hit, the target changed course and tried to flee.

“They’re headed this way!” Jani Rykand’s excited voice said over the intercom. Sure enough, the larger ship had changed course and was now headed directly for the scout. As the observers aboard Magellan watched, the squat cylinder became a perfect circle and began to grow on the screen. Whatever drive principle the two unknowns were using was not obvious. There were no flares or other emissions to suggest they moved by means of reaction engines.

“Scout Three, take evasive action!”

“Any particular ideas?” the young woman pilot asked. “They both look as though they can fly rings around this tub of mine. My God, look at them come!”

She was right. Both ships were growing at an unbelievable rate on the screen. Soon Hirayama was backing off on the magnification to keep them in view. It took less than a minute before both ships were within naked eye range of Scout Three. The larger prey flashed past at a range of ten kilometers with the small war craft in hot pursuit.

Then it happened.

Dan Landon had been dividing his time between the view from Scout Three and several long-range views of the battle from Magellan’s own telescopes, which showed only an occasional spark of violet against the ebon backdrop of space. As it passed the scout, the warship fired another of its violet beams. The beam reached out and momentarily bathed Scout Three in a violet corona of light. The signal from the scout cut off abruptly.

“Scout Three!” Landon screamed. “Report. Jani, how badly are you damaged?”

The answer was obvious on the screen. Where a moment earlier there had been a tiny human spacecraft too small to be seen against the blackness of space, now there was a tiny speck of radiance, a glowing cloud of plasma that cooled as it expanded.

Landon felt a sudden surge of rage. His vision was clouded by the memory of a laughing face framed in wild red hair. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the rage was gone. He felt nothing as he watched the larger ship again foreshorten until it was a half-lit circle of light expanding on the screen. It was the same as the view from Scout Three’s cameras, but with the difference that this time, Magellan was drawing the battle to it.

“Prepare message probe.”

“Captain, we can’t do that,” Pendergast said beside him. “We are too deep in the planet’s gravity well. The generators will never stand the strain.”

“Load message probe, damn you!”

A moment later, Pendergast reported, “Message probe prepared for launch.”

Crammed with power reactors and a stardrive generator, a message probe was a small, unmanned starship. Magellan carried a dozen of the five-meter diameter spherical craft. They were used for sending reports back to Earth. Not only did they obviate the need to return home after each system; they were insurance against the loss of valuable data should the ship meet with an accident.

Landon watched the oncoming pair while monitoring a display that showed their speed, course, and relative bearing. Since no one had ever expected to fight a space battle out among the stars, Magellan was ill equipped to defend itself. The ship’s entire armory consisted of rifles, machine guns, and a few heavier weapons to take care of pesky carnivores. Still, they had one potential weapon onboard that might prove useful in stopping an alien marauder.

The two craft came on, with the smaller continuing to chew away at the larger. The damage was beginning to take its toll. Chunks of the prey were being shot off as a cloud of gas and vapor issued forth from dozens of rips in the hull.

Dan Landon set up the probe’s coordinates himself, not trusting anyone else to do it. As the warship neared the distance from which it had destroyed Scout Three, Landon keyed the control that would send the tiny unmanned starship racing for Earth. Except, its target was not Earth this time. Landon sent it directly toward the alien warship.

Ensign Pendergast was right. They were far too deep inside the planet’s gravity well for a stardrive generator to remain stable. The message probe disappeared from its launching cradle and moved a hundred kilometers at superlight velocity. Those few nanoseconds of operation were sufficient to overload the probe’s generators. They exploded, hurling the probe back into normal space. The excess energy was converted to velocity. The rapidly expanding cloud of debris that returned to normal space moved at 0.6c. There was no time for the unknown warship to react. An instant after the cloud of debris appeared, one or more of its particles struck the small warship, turning it into a star that rivaled the system primary for a few seconds.

* * *

Lieutenant Harlan Frees had joined the Stellar Survey because he did not relish the thought of taking over the family business in Woomera. The life suited him. To Frees, the opportunity to lead a party aboard the surviving alien craft seemed too good to be true.

“Report, Scout Two,” Landon ordered as Frees’s command hovered just beyond range of the slowly tumbling alien craft. Immediately after Magellan had destroyed its tormentor, the large ship had put on a burst of speed to escape the scene of the battle. It had apparently been too much for the craft’s tortured engines. Moments later, the squat cylinder had gone ballistic. After checking the point where Scout Three had been destroyed, Magellan went in pursuit.

“She’s not human, Captain. No orbital shipyard anywhere near Sol ever built this thing,” Frees reported. He had ordered his vessel in as close as he dared. In front of him was a vast gash where one of the warcraft’s beams had struck a slashing blow. In the compartment beyond floated a body. It was badly mutilated, but enough survived to know that the being had possessed two arms too many.

“Get a shot of that,” he ordered Ensign Grimes, his copilot.

“Yes, sir.”

“After you get the body, do a slow pan. Show them the extent of the damage.”

“Yes, sir.”

While Grimes took care to document the alien ship, Frees looked for a place to dock. The alien ship’s slow tumbling motion was a problem. They would have to latch on and use their own drive to halt it before anyone could explore. Otherwise, there was too much risk of an accident.

Frees found what he was looking for and gently nudged the scout forward. He became conscious of a strange stink in the helmet of his vacuum suit, and then realized it was his own fear producing the odor. He wondered if Grimes smelled the same thing inside his own closed environment.

Scout Two made contact without incident. Two minutes later, they secured their ship to the derelict with a cable. Five minutes after that, they had the tumbling motion halted.

“You have got the conn, Mister,” Frees ordered as he unstrapped. “If you see anything other than us moving about in there, blow the explosive bolts and run like hell for the ship. Got that?”

“What about you, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t mind me or anyone. Anything with four arms comes into view, you get out of here.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Frees moved to the after compartment where the rest of his boarding party waited. The three were sealed inside vacuum suits and looked slightly ludicrous with a collection of weapons strapped to their chests. Firing a gun in microgravity was a tricky business. The recoil could send you caroming off in the wrong direction, not to mention the possibility of a ricochet puncturing a suit. Nevertheless, considering what had happened to Scout Three, the captain had ordered the boarding party armed.

“I’ll lead the way,” Frees told Able Spacers Goldstein, Valmoth, and Kurtzkov. “Monitor this frequency and the emergency one at all times. Everyone set?”

He received several clenched fists, the gesture that substitutes for a nod in a vacuum suit, in response. After checking to see that Grimes was prepared in the cockpit, he turned the valve that spilled cabin air directly to space. This was one time, Frees reasoned, when they might not have time to cycle through the airlock in the normal manner. When both inner and outer doors were latched open, each man floated through the short airlock tunnel and entered the alien ship.

They encountered corridors that were two meters square and lined on two sides with equipment lockers. This confirmed that the ship was designed to be spun to produce artificial gravity. In ships designed for microgravity, the lockers would have covered walls, deck, and overhead. During fifteen minutes spent exploring the dark, they discovered several members of the crew. There were more of the four-armed beings that looked like beetles with fur. Another species had bulging eyes and thin manipulators that seemed to have evolved from something like a lobster’s claw. Whether the bulging eyes were natural or the result of explosive decompression was not immediately obvious.

Frees was examining one of the dead when a radio call came echoing to him through the metal corridors. “Come look at this, Lieutenant. We’ve found a section with air behind it.”

“Stand by.”

Frees pulled himself hand over hand to where the able spacer shone his light on a closed pressure door. The door was similar to that found on a human spaceship, although the proportions were different. So, too, was the control inset in the door’s face. It glowed in a script composed primarily of dots and swirls. Kurtzkov braced his legs against a ledge that stuck out into the corridor and tried to lever the door open with his own strength. The hatch did not budge. That was hardly surprising if there were air on the opposite side.

“Are you sure it isn’t jammed?” Frees asked as he floated to join the two spacers.

“Don’t think so, Mr. Frees. None of the other hatches we came through was.”

“Right. Valmoth, get back to the ship and break out the portable airlock. We have atmosphere on the other side of this bulkhead.”

Rigging the airlock took twenty minutes. The biggest problem was finding a point to anchor the lock in order to control the blow-off load when it was pressurized. The lock was just big enough for two men in vacuum suits. Frees and Kurtzkov crowded together and let the other two seal them in before getting to work on the hatch. A quick flash of light from Kurtzkov’s drilling laser and the airlock filled with air.

As soon as his suit collapsed around him, Frees reached out to touch the hatch control. Pressing one contact had no effect. He tried the other. The pressure door swung silently back on its hinges.

Inside, Frees swept his flashlamp around the darkened room. In one corner, a figure lay huddled in a tight ball. At first, Frees thought it another corpse. Only after a moment did he notice the unblinking yellow eyes that stared at him and the quick panting breath.

“Tell the captain that we have a survivor,” he told the two spacers still in the vacuum portion of the ship.

Slowly, carefully, he moved toward the shivering mass of flesh. The being jumped and whimpered when Frees reached out and touched it on a pointed shoulder. Slowly, gently, Frees and Kurtzkov unrolled it.

“Damn, Mr. Frees. It’s a monkey!”

Chapter Two

Moira Sims was all any man could ask for in a woman. Long of limb and svelte of form, she was beautiful enough that men sometimes walked into walls as she passed. Her dress of black gossamer set off her pale skin while emphasizing her full figure. Her jewelry was understated and expensive, her coiffure perfect, and her voice that low, throaty purr much prized in holo actresses. She was poised, a witty conversationalist, and had a sparkling sense of humor. Yet, Mark Rykand was becoming bored with her.

“Let’s go back to your place, Markie. I am tired of this party.”

Mark glanced toward his companion who was sprawled beside him in the lounger on which he was perched. She had slipped a finger under his cumber bun and was kneading the little roll of fat that he worked so hard to keep under control. He tried not to frown despite the fact that she had interrupted Gunter Perlman, his fellow solar racing enthusiast, and the skipper of the yacht on which Mark occasionally crewed.

He made a conscious effort to swallow his irritation as he turned to her. “In a while, Moira. Gunter and I need to settle this bet before we leave.”

“But solar racing is such a bore!”

“Then why not go get yourself another drink? We’ll be through in a bit.”

“Oh, pooh!” He was conscious of her warm body as she slid off the lounger and stood up. Gunter watched as she straightened the dress hiked up by the maneuver. Her answering smile showed that she was aware of the attention. For some reason, that irritated Mark even further. The two of them watched her sway her way past the string combo toward the bar.

“Why do you do that, man?” Gunter asked.

“Do what?”

“Why do you treat her like furniture? She loves you.”

“Moira loves my money.”

“Even if true, that’s no excuse. If you are not careful, she is going to leave you the way Carol did.”

Mark’s answering shrug felt callous, even to him. “There are a lot more fish in the sea.”

“At the rate you are going, you just might do a full-scale ecological count on this particular ocean.”

Irritated with the way the conversation was going, Mark asked, “Look, have we got a bet or not?”

Gunter smiled. “You still think Price is going to beat Hoffman in the cis-lunar, do you?”

“Why not? His yacht just had a sail replacement and the word is that he has lightened his life support system by twenty percent.”

“Doesn’t matter. When Niels Falon quit him, he lost all hope of winning the trophy this year.”

“I think Price’s advantage in equipment will overcome any experience loss from Falon’s departure. In fact, I’ll put a thousand on it just to make it interesting.”

“Even bet? No distance handicap?”

“None.”

“Then you have got yourself a wager, Rich Boy. I just hope you aren’t too drunk to remember this tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll show you who’s drunk,” Mark hissed as he stood. Suddenly, the room began to revolve slowly. He reached out to steady himself on Perlman’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. I think I’ll find Moira and call it a night.”

“Don’t forget that I am having a practice session aboard Gossamer Gnat in a couple of weeks. I would love to have you crew for me if you have the time.”

“Sure, sounds like fun,” Mark said. “Nothing I like better than smelling myself after being cooped up in a vacuum suit for a solid week. Call me in a couple of days and we’ll arrange it.”

* * *

The lights of the Phoenix-Tucson metroplex were a brilliant carpet of diamonds strewn across the dark desert floor as Mark Rykand’s air car wended its way west. In the intermediate distance were the ribbon-like communities that lined the banks of the Colorado River, while on the horizon; the sky glow of San Angeles was just becoming visible. Within the sky car, the only illumination came from the blue glow of the instruments.

Mark scanned the horizon, searching for other aerial traffic while Moira snuggled close, her left arm draped around his neck and her head resting on his chest as she emitted soft, snoring sounds. There was a reason for his vigilance.

Three years earlier, Mark’s parents had been traveling this same flyway when a drunken pilot had chosen Blythe for his next drink. It had been a busy Friday night and traffic control had refused changes in flight plans all evening. Rather than take the chance that his maneuver would be disapproved; the drunken flyer had illegally switched to manual and started a long sweeping turn to the right. Part way through the turn, his car had encountered that of Mark’s parents.

The drunk had paid for his mistake immediately. His car’s right side impellers had been smashed, robbing him of half his lift. The resulting asymmetry had turned his car over and sent it diving into the ground some twenty kilometers east of the river. Mark’s parents had been marginally luckier. With most of his active flight controls smashed, Hugh Rykand had fought his car into a semblance of stability and headed for the ground. He’d let down to land on a stretch of Old Interstate 10 only to discover a small hillock, invisible in the dark, loom in the beams of his landing lights at the last second.

Moira stirred. “What’s the matter? You are shivering.”

“Sorry. The liquor must be giving me the twitches.”

“Oh, poor Markie! Your heart is beating a kilometer a minute,” she said as she burrowed her head into his chest. “Is there anything Moira can do for her Markie?”

“No,” he said more sharply than he intended. “Go back to sleep.”

He had been a student at the time, studying to be a computer specialist, with a minor in astronomy. Life had been good. As the son of rich parents, he had lacked for neither money nor clothes and had more than his share of female companions.

“Are you Mark James Rykand?” the taller of the two police officers that called at his apartment door had asked.

“What have I done, officer?”

“Nothing that we know of, Mr. Rykand. We are here about your parents. There’s been an accident.”

The knife that had entered his heart had been ice cold. “How badly are they hurt?”

“I am sorry, but they’re dead.”

The news had not really sunk in until Mark had gone to identify the bodies. He had managed to identify his father’s battered corpse without breaking down, but when he saw his mother lying naked on the cold slab with no obvious injuries; it had been too much. The feeling of being alone had been overwhelming. Despite his many friends, he’d felt that only one person could remove the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. That was his sister, Jani, and unfortunately, she was exploring some nameless star system out in the deep black.

Over the next several weeks, he had wondered how he would break the news to her when her ship finally returned. Like a trip to the dentist, the anticipation of the event had proven worse than its reality. In fact, he had not had to tell Jani at all. The Stellar Survey took care of that as soon as her ship materialized somewhere beyond the orbit of Jupiter. Jani had nearly three weeks to compose herself before her return to Earth, and then she barely stayed a week. She had visited Mark just long enough to have a good, long cry with him and to sign over her power-of-attorney, giving him carte blanche to manage their mutual inheritance. After that, he had accompanied her to the spaceport, kissed her good-bye, and watched her disappear back into the endless vacuum overhead. Her whirlwind visit had done nothing to alleviate the gnawing feeling of loneliness.

Three years later, the feeling was still with him. Mark often awoke to find himself wrapped in perspiration-soaked bed sheets, shivering, fists clenched around an invisible control column as he struggled to gain just the few meters of altitude that would have saved his parents. In the aftermath of such episodes, Mark often wished that he had followed his sister’s example. Better a life among friends in the midst of vast emptiness than a life alone among Earth’s teeming billions.

* * *

Moira was the first to notice the blinking notice on the screen in the den. They had been home ten minutes and were preparing for bed.

“You have a max priority message, Mark,” she said as she entered the bedroom, head cocked as she removed one of her earrings.

“From whom?” he asked with a start.

“Doesn’t say.”

He muttered under his breath as he padded in bare feet to the den. Sure enough, the diagonal red stripe designed to draw instant attention was blinking on the screen. He cleared it and called up the message. The face was that of no one he had ever met.

“Mr. Rykand, this is Hans Cristobal, duty officer at Stellar Survey Headquarters,” the recording said. “Please give me a call when you return. It’s important.”

The sober expression and matter-of-fact delivery were enough to shock Mark sober. A call from the survey duty officer could have only one meaning. All that was left was to find out just how bad the news was. Mark punched out the numbers at the bottom of the screen with shaky fingers and waited an eternity until he was looking at the same face as had been in the recording.

“Yes, may I help you?…Ah, Mr. Rykand. Good of you to call back.”

“What’s happened to my sister?” he asked without preamble.

The officer blinked, not knowing how to react to the direct question. The hesitation told Mark all he needed to know. He had seen that look before, on the face of the police officer that had delivered the news about his parents.

Finally, after a lag that was nearly four times that required to get a message halfway around the world, the officer said, “I am sorry, Mr. Rykand. It is my sad duty to inform you that your sister was killed in an accident three weeks ago.”

“How did it happen?”

“We have few operational details at this time. Perhaps we will know more when Magellan docks. All I can tell you now is that we have received official confirmation of her death.”

It was the recurring nightmare about his parents all over again. Mark felt the cold hand grip his heart again, just as it had three years earlier. If anything, it was worse this time. He barely heard his own voice as he asked, “When will you be shipping the body home?”

The duty officer hesitated. When he resumed, his words gave no comfort. “I am afraid there is no body. We will, of course, arrange a memorial service for Miss Rykand at the time and place of your choosing. There is also the matter of her standard insurance policy. I believe you are the beneficiary.”

“Damn it, I’m not interested in her insurance. I want to know what happened!”

“As I said, sir, I don’t have that information at this time. Perhaps in a few weeks—”

The screen rattled on his desk as he slammed his fist onto the cutoff plate. He sat trembling before the darkened screen for nearly a minute before Moira came in to see what the noise had been.

“What’s the matter?” she hissed upon seeing his expression.

“Jani is dead.”

“Oh, no, Mark! It can’t be true.”

“It is. That call was from survey headquarters. Sorry to inform you, Mr. Rykand. No, we do not know anything else, Mr. Rykand. Sorry, but the body will not be returned, Mr. Rykand—”

Mark’s voice evaporated as his body was wracked with sobs. A moment later, he found himself cradled in Moira’s arms. She stroked his hair and cooed to him softly. It did not help. The old foreboding was back. He could not shake the feeling that this time his loneliness was permanent.

* * *

Mark Rykand watched the endless procession of vineyards sweep past as the bullet car soared between successive electromagnetic accelerator rings in its usual gravity defying flight. This part of northern Switzerland was especially beautiful with its green hills and whitewashed houses slipping past at an easy 200 kph. Normally he would have been enchanted by the view. Not today. This morning he felt drained—emotionally, physically, mentally, morally. The human body has only a finite capacity for strong emotion and he had used up his full quota in the previous twenty-four hours. The only trace left was a pale anger, a mere shadow of the rage that had threatened to consume him during the dark hours before sunrise.

The bullet car topped a rise to reveal the blue expanse of Lake Constance in the shallow valley below. White sails were silhouetted against the dark blue of the lake. The view was a brief one. Soon the car dipped behind a low hill as it followed its line of pylons and accelerator rings. The lake flashed into view one last time. On the far shore, the glass-and-steel pyramid shape that was the headquarters of the Stellar Survey seemed as large as the distant Alps. The building fluoresced gold as early morning sunlight reflected off the eastern flank of the pyramid. A moment later, the lake, its boats, and the pyramid on the far shore were gone as the car hurtled into the black maw of the tunnel that would take it across to the far shore.

Mark’s anger had been unfocussed at first. He had raged at an uncaring universe that had robbed him of his entire family in the short span of three years. Yet, shaking one’s fist at the stars is not very satisfying. Society taught that when a person dies, someone is to blame. The culprit might be a criminal, the drunken flyer of an aircar, or even the victim himself (if he dies of a heart attack after a life of dissolution).

Until he knew the details of Jani’s death, it would be impossible to assess blame. The more he thought about the duty officer’s refusal to tell him how his sister had died, the angrier he became. How dare they keep such vital information from her only relative?

After a long night spent in mental turmoil, Mark decided to do something. It was easy to ignore a face on the screen, considerably less so when that face is close enough to feel hot breath issuing from an angry mouth. The sun had not risen over the Sierras when he had booked passage on the first suborbital flight to Europe. Even then, nature conspired against him. The eight-hour time difference meant that the first direct flight did not leave until early evening. He had spent the day in anxious anticipation and useless recrimination before boarding a suborbital hyperjet for Zurich.

In less than a minute, the car was out of the tunnel and in sunshine again, climbing the low hills that surrounded the ancient fortress at Meersburg. The bullet car pivoted about its long axis, compensating for the sideways surge of a long sweeping curve to the right. The accelerator ring pylons ran parallel to the shoreline, directly for the gleaming pyramid that towered above the trees. A minute later, the car decelerated swiftly as it entered the pyramid and slid to a halt in the subsurface transport station. Most of the passengers climbed to their feet and waited patiently for the automatic doors to open. When it came Mark’s turn, he moved like a man in a trance.

“Mr. Rykand?” a young woman asked as he exited the car.

“Yes?”

“My name is Amalthea Palan. I am special assistant to the director here. We received your message that you were coming late last night. Director Bartok apologizes for not meeting you personally, but he had an appointment in Toronto today. He asked that I convey his sympathy for your loss. Your sister was a valued member of our family and will be sorely missed.”

“Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I won’t be quiet either. I came here to find out how my sister died. I think you owe me that.”

“I understand your concern, Mr. Rykand. Why don’t we go up to my office and discuss it? I’ll be happy to share everything we know, little as it is.”

They rode an escalator up to the main level of the building. The public foyer of Survey Headquarters was one of the eight architectural wonders of the world. It was the largest enclosed space on the planet, exceeding even the ancient Vehicle Assembly Building at the Cape Canaveral Museum. Finished in polished marble, the great expanse reminded Mark of a mausoleum—a thought that he ruthlessly put down as soon as it occurred to him. Around the perimeter were views of worlds the survey had discovered. It being early on Monday morning, the usual small groups of school children were absent and the anti-echo field had yet to be turned on. Mark listened as his and Amalthea Palan’s footsteps echoed back from far overhead.

They took another escalator to a mezzanine level and then an express lift to the 27th level. The director’s assistant ushered him into a plush office with a sloping window that looked out over the lake.

“Refreshments, Mr. Rykand? Coffee, tea, perhaps something stronger?” she asked as she motioned him to a leather settee and then sat opposite him.

“No thank you.”

Amalthea gazed at her visitor.

She saw a well-muscled young man of slightly more than average height with a shock of sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. He would almost be handsome except for the dark bags under each eye and the turned down corners of his mouth. In addition, it looked as though he had not depilated today. “I hope you don’t think me too forward, Mr. Rykand, “but you look as though you haven’t slept in a long time.”

“Could you sleep if it had been your sister?”

“No, I suppose not. If you like, I will have our staff doctor prescribe something when we are through here. We can even provide you with quarters in this building. We keep them for visiting VIPs.”

“Please, I just want to know what happened to my sister.”

She paused, seemed to come to a decision, and then said, “Very well. Are you aware of your sister’s job out in the deep black?”

“She was a scout pilot.”

“Quite correct. As I understand it, the system Magellan was exploring this trip is quite dirty compared to most. It had a lot of meteorites and space dust in it. The astrophysicists tell us that this is normal for a new system. Personally, I majored in economics, so I do not really understand these technical things. Do you?”

Mark nodded. One of the courses he had taken in pursuit of his minor had gone extensively into the evolution of star systems.

“Anyway, your sister’s scout craft was transporting several of the ship’s planetologists to a moon when it ran into a piece of orbital debris. The ship was vaporized instantly. That is why we can’t return Miss Rykand’s body to you.”

“There were others killed?”

“A total of eight, according to the report by Magellan’s captain. I am afraid that is all we know about the incident until the ship docks and sends down its full logs.”

“Perhaps I can talk with the captain to get more information,” Mark said.

Amalthea Palan sighed and cocked her head in an odd gesture. “I am afraid that is impossible. The ship is still out beyond the orbit of Mars and two-way communications are not yet practical. Speed-of-light delay, you know.”

“When will it arrive?”

“Within a week.”

“Perhaps I can visit the captain then, both to hear what happened to Jani and to pick up her personal effects.”

“We’ll deliver her effects to you. You certainly won’t have to go to the expense of going all the way to orbit to retrieve them.”

“I am rich. I don’t mind the expense.”

“I understand your pain, but there is really nothing constructive you can do in orbit. Captain Landon will not be able to meet with you, anyway. First, there is the mandatory quarantine period and he will be very busy preparing the ship to go out again. I will tell you what. We will forward a copy of the captain’s log entry as soon as we receive it. Will that be acceptable?”

Mark gazed at the pretty blonde opposite him. Her expression reminded him of the professional lamentation of a mortician. Perhaps it was his lack of sleep or the fact that his senses had been stretched taut. Something about her manner told him that she was not telling him the truth, at least not the whole truth. He frowned, and then nodded. “I suppose it will have to do.”

They talked for another ten minutes, after which Mark found himself deftly herded back to the transport station. He climbed into a bullet car headed south and watched Amalthea Palan as she stood on the platform until his car had left the building.

Mark mulled over his next move. If the survey thought that he would go back to California and give up, they were in for a surprise. Someone was to blame for his sister’s death and he was not going to rest until he found out whom that someone was!

Chapter Three

Nadine Halstrom, World Coordinator, and arguably, the most powerful single human being alive, sat in the dark and watched the images shimmer in the depths of the holocube. Beside her sat Anton Bartok, director of the Stellar Survey. Beyond the darkened office, a late afternoon storm sent booming thunder across the Toronto cityscape while rain pelted the side of the hundred-story office building that housed the bureaucracy serving the World Parliament.

The record of Magellan’s fight with the alien starship and its aftermath ended in a flicker of static as the lights came on in the coordinator’s office. Nadine blinked rapidly in the sudden brilliance.

“My God, Anton. So it’s true!”

“Yes, Madame Coordinator. Captain Landon squirted that recording and his report to me via secure comm link as soon as Magellan dropped sublight.”

“Where is Magellan now?”

“Just crossing the orbit of Mars, inbound. She should be here in about a week.”

“I have to admit to some skepticism when I received your initial message, Mr. Director. After seeing this, I must say that you understated your case. Have you considered the implications?”

Bartok nodded. “I’ve thought of nothing else for the last day and a half, Madame Coordinator.”

Nadine sighed. She, too, had thought of little else. “I think we have a major problem here.”

“I agree.”

“Have we any idea at all where these aliens come from or their military potential?”

Bartok’s expression was doleful as he shook his head. “None.”

“Then we’d best keep this under wraps until we’ve learned more.”

“Is that wise? The newsers will cut us to pieces when they learn we’ve been holding out on them.”

“That can’t be helped. Do you have any conception of what it will do to the body politic if they start going to bed every night afraid they’ll wake up dead in the morning?”

“I think you are exaggerating, Madam Coordinator.”

“I wish I were, Anton. You should read more. The surest way to bring about psychosis in the human animal is to give him something to fear that he does not understand. I can cite you chapter and verse from history if you like.”

Nadine Halstrom had begun her career as a professor of history and had only gotten into politics through a fortuitous series of accidents. Her field of specialization had been the ultra-violent twentieth century. In many ways, that century had been an aberration, a detour into mindless destructiveness. It had been an era when the question of national survival had turned logic on its ear. How else to explain the fifty-year stalemate that had dominated much of the last half of history’s bloodiest century? Eastern and western power blocs had both threatened to annihilate their foes if attacked, all the while professing their devotion to the cause of peace. For more than two generations, people had lived in fear of death raining down from the skies and it had warped them. To think that the same thing could happen in her century sent a shiver up her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Very well,” Bartok replied, “we’ll keep the alien a secret.”

“How do you propose to do that, Anton?”

Despite the lightness of her tone, it was obvious to the survey director that his job might well hinge on his answer. He considered the problem for a few seconds while alternately puffing out his cheeks and sucking them back in. It was a mannerism of which he was totally unaware.

“Standard procedure calls for holding the alien in quarantine aboard High Station until the biologists can clear him. Obviously, we cannot do that. High Station is too public for a secret of this magnitude to last very long.”

“You aren’t suggesting that we break quarantine!”

“No, of course not. What we need is someplace out of the way where we can perform the necessary tests, somewhere we are able to control access.”

“Any suggestions?”

“What about PoleStar? The weather directorate owns it outright and there is virtually no traffic to and from the habitat.”

Nadine looked pensive, and then flashed a smile familiar to billions of holovision viewers. “Hmmm, not bad ... not bad, at all! It is remote and in a conveniently difficult orbit for everything in the equatorial plane. I will see to it that the weather directorate cooperates. What problems are there in turning it into a base of operations?”

“We’ll need to duplicate High Station’s laboratory facilities, of course, and man them with specialists. If we start moving people and equipment from High Station, someone will talk.”

“Then we don’t do it. You can use Magellan’s specialists for most things. Those extra scientists we need, we will recruit here on Earth. Same with the equipment. That way no one will have enough view of the full picture to realize what is going on. To further obscure things, have Magellan’s flight plan pulled from the Sky Watch computer. We may not be able to obscure the fact that the ship is home, but by God, we can make it difficult for anyone trying to find it.”

Bartok scribbled a note on the face of his pocket computer before continuing. “Then there is the problem of the people who were killed. We’ve notified their next of kin.”

“Any problems?”

“The families are in shock at the moment. I think we can handle them well enough if they start to ask too many questions. The scout pilot was independently wealthy. So is her brother. He is at headquarters right now making inquiries into how his sister died.”

“I suppose you have arranged a plausible cover story.”

Bartok nodded. “My assistant is explaining to him that his sister ran into an errant piece of space junk. That should satisfy him. We will also send someone to help with the funeral arrangements. I figure if we are helpful enough, he will soon give up rooting around for details.”

“It sounds like you have things well under control, Anton. Now, then, what do you make of the fact that these aliens attacked our scout and starship without warning?”

“Obviously, they’re warlike.”

“I thought species who have achieved interstellar travel were supposed to be long past the war stage. In fact, I once wrote a thesis to that effect.”

“Apparently, your thesis is in need of revision.”

“They must be very confident,” she mused. “The speed with which they attacked the scout indicates that they didn’t consider Magellan a threat.”

“How could they know whether it was or wasn’t?” Bartok asked. “They’d never seen a human ship before.”

“Paranoid?”

“Possibly. Still, the fact that they attacked us without provocation is less disturbing than what our people found onboard that derelict. You saw the bodies. Did they look like the same species to you?”

“No, of course not.”

“The survivor represents a third species, and those who destroyed our scout, a possible fourth.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“In a very precarious position, Madame Coordinator. The evidence suggests that somewhere not far from here, there are two interstellar civilizations at war with one another. One of these civilizations contains at least three stars, probably more. Possibly, a lot more! Maybe they both do.”

“Does that necessarily follow?” Nadine asked as she stared at the director over steepled fingers. “After all, if someone boarded one of our starships, they’d find humans, dogs, cats, parakeets, cockroaches, and a dozen other species.”

“You haven’t had time to read Captain Landon’s report,” the director said as he held aloft a report marked Stellar Survey Confidential. “Magellan’s biologists autopsied several of the corpses. The six-legged aliens developed under a star cooler than our own, a K5 stellar type to judge from the construction of their oculars. The second species of dead aliens came from a hotter star, probably one in the F-class. The survivor comes from a star very like our own. In addition, the scientists say the survivor and the six-limbed species have blood chemistry based on iron, same as human. The insectoid had a magnesium-based circulatory fluid. The three could not possibly have come from a single biosphere. Human beings and oak trees are more closely related.”

“So we face a minimum of three star systems and two contending interstellar associations—”

“Or a single association infested with space pirates.”

“That doesn’t cheer me up any.”

“No, Ma’am. Still, there is one bit of good news. They don’t know where we live.”

“Are you sure? One explanation for their quickness to attack a human starship is that they recognized it for what it is.”

“The fact that Magellan destroyed the attacker would argue against that,” Bartok insisted. “And if our ship was their target, why were they fighting the other vessel? No, I think we stumbled into someone else’s fight.”

“How do we confirm or refute that?”

“Two ways,” Bartok said, holding up a similar number of fingers for emphasis. “If we can learn to talk to the alien, he can tell us what is going on. For that, we will need a good linguist and knowledge of his psychology. We need to establish a baseline sufficient to tell when he is lying to us. Luckily, semantic analysis has developed into quite a science since the two of us were in school. Given time, we will be able to tell when he lies to us merely from analyzing the internal contradictions that creep into his story. Luckily, no knowledge of alien physiological reactions will be required.”

“Not that we won’t use bio-monitoring as well, once we learn how he reacts.”

“Agreed, Madame Coordinator.”

“What are your immediate personnel requirements?”

“We’ll need a linguist and a psychologist to study the alien. Also, an astrophysicist. We can get him from Magellan’s crew.”

“Why an astrophysicist?”

“Because,” the director replied, “once he tells us where his star is located, we’ll need someone who can translate his coordinates into our own.”

“And if he won’t tell us?”

“Semantic analysis ought to help there, too. If we can get him talking about the sort of things he sees in the night sky of whatever planet he lives on, we may be able to triangulate the location of his home world.”

Nadine nodded. “All right, the alien is the first approach. What is the second?”

“That one is a little more objective. Captain Landon wants to return to New Eden to salvage the alien hulk. We can learn a great deal about these people by studying their technology. Who knows, we might even come away with their star maps.”

“I don’t like that approach, Anton. As of now, they do not know where we live. However they got there, New Eden has been visited by two alien starships. What is to stop it from being visited again while we are trying to salvage that ship? They could follow Magellan home this time.”

“I believe the gain is worth the risk.”

“We’ll see. Before I approve any such expedition, I’ll want to see a detailed operations plan that reduces our exposure to a minimum.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“In the meantime, you can busy yourself getting the PoleStar operation moving. I must emphasize, Mr. Director. I want this secret held very tight. No more are to learn of the alien than are absolutely necessary.”

“I understand.”

“I will also want someone there to look after things from a political perspective. Any objections to Dieter Pavel?”

“None.”

“Excellent. Whom will we get for our linguist?—”

* * *

Like the earliest space stations, Soyuz and the International Space Station, Equatorial Station orbited low to keep beneath the Van Allen radiation belt. The relative lack of altitude contributed to a view that made the big triple-wheel a destination as well as a transfer point. The extra income from tourists nearly compensated for the cost of the additional reaction mass that had to be expended to counteract atmospheric drag.

Like everyone else, Lisabeth Arden paused at the viewport in the non-rotating station hub as she exited the transfer tube. Arden was a petite blonde with a permanent tan and green eyes. Beyond the armor glass, the Earth slid quickly beneath them, a vast blue circle too large to encompass in a single glance. The station was just passing over the eastern coast of Ecuador. The South Atlantic stretched clear to the limb of the planet, with the Ivory Coast of Africa still fifteen minutes away over the curving horizon. The usual bands of clouds were dominated by a large spiral formation that was the beginning of a tropical storm. Directly beneath them, the thin white contrails of aircraft marked the air route between Lima and Kinshasa.

Lisa was a professor of linguistics at the Multiversity of London. She had arrived at her office half an hour late that morning, not having gotten to sleep until the early morning hours before dawn. The first thing she noticed when she powered up her work screen was a summons to the chancellor’s office. The muttered oath that accompanied the discovery was one that had come down unchanged from Anglo-Saxon times.

As she hurried down the hall toward the lift, she ran over in her mind all of the possible infractions that might have earned her a visit to the chancellor’s office. There had been that expense report she had turned in for the seminar in Mombassa. Or possibly, she was over her budgeted allotment of time on the university’s library net. Still, neither matter should be important enough to be called before Chancellor Seaton.

“Come in, Lisa,” Seaton said when she entered his office. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After sitting, she was surprised to note that Seaton appeared nervous. If so, she realized with a start, it was the first time she had seen him that way. “Before we go any farther, Lisa, I need your word that what I am about to say won’t go beyond this room.”

“You have it.”

“The Stellar Survey has asked me to recommend a linguist for a project they have going on in orbit. Would you be interested?”

“Me? In orbit? Whatever for?”

“They didn’t give me the details. I can tell you that the World Coordinator has endorsed the request. Whatever it is, you can expect that it will look good on your resume once you finish the job. It will also reflect well on the university.”

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because tolerance for microgravity degrades with age and you are the youngest person in the department. In addition, you are one of the best linguists I know. And, if you must have a third reason, they said they preferred someone who is not married.”

“What could they possibly want with a linguist?” Lisa mused, almost to herself. Then, when the comment about her marital status sank in, “Just how long will I be gone?”

“The coordinator only said that you could expect to be away for several months.”

“Who will take my classes?”

“Ardmore can handle most of them, and we’ll get Shipingdale to help out. Don’t worry, we’ll manage.”

“And you can’t tell me what I’ll be doing?”

“All I know is that it is a matter of some urgency.”

“This is silly, Chancellor! They really expect me to make up my mind without telling me anything about the project? I thought things like this only happen in historical holofilms.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Seaton agreed. “That, coupled with the coordinator’s interest, should give you some idea of the importance.”

“Or else the bureaucrats are merely playing their damned power games.”