Orbitsville

twelve

“The starboard explosion was the worst,” Commander Napier reported to the emergency meeting of the Bissendorf’s executive staff. “It actually breached the pressure hull in the vicinity of Frame S.203. The pressure-activated doors functioned properly and sealed off the section between Frames S.190 and 210, but there were five technicians in there at the time, and they were killed.”

O’Hagan raised his grey head. “Blast or decompression?”

“We don’t know — the bodies were exhausted into space.”

“I see.” O’Hagan made a note on his pad, speaking aloud at the same time. “Five missing, presumed dead.”

Napier stared at his old antagonist with open dislike. “If you know how we can turn the ship to recover the bodies this would be a good time to tell us about it.”

“I merely…”

“Gentlemen!” Garamond slapped the table as loudly as was possible in conditions of almost zero gravity. “May I remind you that we are scheduled to be killed in about eight hours? That doesn’t leave much time for bickering.”

O’Hagan gave a ghastly smile. “It gives us eight hours for bickering, Captain — there’s nothing else we can do.”

“That’s for this meeting to decide.”

“So be it.” Chief Science Officer O’Hagan shrugged and spread his dry knobbly hands in resignation.

Garamond felt a reluctant admiration for the older man who seemed determined to remain egotistical and cantankerous right to the end. O’Hagan also had a habit of being right in everything he said, and in that respect too it seemed he was going to preserve his record. Although reaction mass was not plentiful in the region of Pengelly’s Star, the Bissendorf had been aided in its return journey by the pull of the primary and had achieved a mean acceleration of close on one gravity. Modest though the acceleration and distances were, the ship had been travelling at 1,500 kilometres a second at turn-over point and, although it had been slowing down steadily for two days when the explosions occurred, its residual velocity was still above a hundred kilometres in each second. At that speed it was due to impact with Orbitsville in only eight hours, and it appeared to Garamond that there was nothing he or anybody else on board could do about it. The knowledge boomed and pounded beneath all other thoughts, and yet he felt a surprising absence of fear or any related emotion. It was, he decided, a psychological byproduct of having eight hours in hand. The delay created the illusion that something might still be done, that there was a chance to influence the course of events in their favour, and — miraculously — this held good even for an experienced flickerwing man who understood only too well the deadly parameters of his situation.

“I understand that both auxiliary drive systems are still functional,” Administrative Officer Mertz was saying, his round face glowing like pink plastic. “Surely that makes a difference.”

Napier shook his head. “The ion tubes are in action right now — which accounts for the very slight weight you can feel — but they were intended only to give the ship a close-manoeuvring capability, and they won’t affect our speed very much. I guess the only difference they’ll make is that we’ll vaporize against Orbitsville a minute or two later than we would otherwise.”

“Well, how about the secondary nuclears? I thought they were for collision avoidance.”

“They are. Maximum endurance twenty minutes. By applying full thrust at right angles to our present course we could easily avoid an object as large as Jupiter — but we’re dealing with that.” Napier pointed at the forward view panels, which were uniformly black. Orbitsville was spanning the universe.

“I see.” Mertz’s face lost some of its pinkness. “Thank you.”

The operations room filled with a silence which was broken only by faint irregular clangs transmitted through the ship’s structure. Far aft, a repair crew was at work replacing the damaged hull sections. Garamond stared into the darkness ahead and tried to assimilate the idea that it represented a wall across the sky, a wall which was rushing towards him at a hundred kilometres a second, a wall so wide and high that there was no way to avoid hitting it.

Yamoto cleared his throat. “There’s no point in speculating about why the ship was sabotaged, but do we know how the bombs got on board?”

“I personally believe it was done by Pilot Officer Shrapnel,” Napier said. “There isn’t much evidence, but what there is points to him. We gave all the information in our emergency call to Fleet Control.”

“What did they say?”

“They promised he would be investigated.” Napier’s voice had a flinty edge of bitterness. “We are assured that all necessary steps will be taken.”

“That’s good to know. Isn’t that good to know?” Yamoto pressed the back of a hand to his forehead. “I had so much work still to do. There was so much to learn about Orbitsville.”

They’re going to learn at least one thing as a result of this mission, Garamond thought. They’re going to find out how the shell material stands up to the impact of fifteen thousand tons of metal travelling at a hundred kilometres a second. And they won’t even have to go far from the aperture to see the big bang… Garamond felt an icy convulsion in his stomach as he half-glimpsed an idea. He sat perfectly still for a moment as the incredible thought began to form, to crystallize to the point at which it could be put into words. His brow grew chill with sweat. “Has anybody,” Denise Serra asked in a calm, clear voice, “considered the possibility of adjusting our course in such a way that we would pass through the aperture at Beachhead City?”

Again the room filled with silence. Garamond felt a curious secondary shock on hearing the words he was still formulating being uttered by another person. The silence lasted for perhaps ten seconds, then was broken by a dry laugh from O’Hagan.

“You realize that, at our speed, running into a wall of air would be just like hitting solid rock? I’m afraid your idea doesn’t change anything.”

“We don’t have to run into a wall of air — not if we turn the ship over again and go in nose first with the electron gun operating at full power.”

“Nonsense,” O’Hagan shouted. He cocked his head to one side as if listening to an inner voice and his fingers moved briefly on the computer terminal before him. “It isn’t nonsense, though.” He corrected himself without embarrassment, nodding his apologies to Denise Serra, and others at the conference table began to address the central computer through their own terminals.

“Overload power on the gun should give us enough voltage for the few seconds we would need it. It should be enough to blast a tunnel through the atmosphere.”

“At this stage we have enough lateral control over our flight path to bring it through the aperture.”

“But remember we haven’t got the full area of the aperture as a target. We’d be going in at an angle of about seventy degrees.”

“It’s still good enough — as long as no other ships get in the way.”

“There’s still time to do some structural strengthening on the longitudinal axis.”

“We’ll shed enough kinetic energy…”

“Hold it a minute,” Garamond commanded, raising his voice above the suddenly optimistic clamour, “We have to look at it from all angles. If we did go through the aperture, what would be the effect on Beachhead City?”

“Severe,” O’Hagan said reflectively. “Imagine one purple hell of a lightning bolt coming up through the aperture immediately followed by an explosion equivalent to a tactical nuclear weapon.”

“There’d be destruction?”

“Undoubtedly. But there’s plenty of time to evacuate the area — nobody would have to die.”

“Somebody mentioned colliding with another ship.”

“That’s a minor problem, Vance.” O’Hagan looked momentarily surprised at having used Garamond’s given name for the first time in his life. “We can advise Fleet Control of our exact course and they’ll just have to make certain the way is clear.”

Garamond tried to weigh the considerations, but he could see only the faces of his wife and child. “Right! We do it. I want to see a copy of the decision network plan, but start taking action right away. In the meantime I’ll talk to Fleet Control.”

The ten science-oriented and engineering officers at the table instantly launched into a polygonal discussion and the noise level in the room shot up as communications channels were opened to other parts of the ship. Within a minute perhaps thirty other men and women were taking part, many of them vicariously present in the form of miniaturized, but nonetheless solid and real-looking, images of their heads, which transformed the long room into a montage of crazy perspectives.

Garamond could almost feel the wavecrest of hope surging through all the levels of the disabled vessel. He told Napier to make an announcement about the situation on the general address system, then went into his private suite and put a call through to Fleet Control. It was taken not by the Fleet Movements Controller, as Garamond had expected, but by a Starflight admin man, Senior Secretary Lord Nettleton. The Senior Secretary was a handsome silver-haired man who had a reputation for his devotion to the Lindstrom hierarchy. He was of a type that Elizabeth liked to have around, capable of presenting a benign fatherly image, while keeping himself remote from the inner workings of the system.

“I was expecting somebody on the operations side,” Garamond said, dispensing with the standard formal mode of address.

“The President has taken the matter under her personal control. She is very much concerned.”

“I’ll bet she is.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nettleton’s resonant voice betrayed a degree of puzzlement which was an open challenge to Garamond to speak his mind.

Again Garamond thought about his wife and child. “The President’s concern for the welfare of her employees is well known.”

Nettleton inclined his head graciously. “I’m aware of how futile words are under the circumstances, Captain Garamond, but I would like to express my personal sympathy for you and your crew in this…”

“The reason I called is to inform Starflight that the Bissendorf has enough lateral control to enable it to pass through the aperture into the interior of Orbits… Lindstromland, and that is what I intend to do.”

“I don’t quite understand.” Nettleton’s image underwent several minute but abrupt changes of size which told Garamond other viewers were switching into the circuit. “I am informed that you are travelling at a hundred kilometres a second and have no means of slowing down.”

“That’s correct. The Bissendorf is going to hit Beachhead City like a bomb. You will have to evacuate the area around the aperture. My science staff can help with the estimates of how widespread the damage will be, but in any case I strongly recommend that you issue warnings immediately. You have less than eight hours.” Garamond went on to explain the proposed action in detail, while continued perturbations of the image showed that his unseen audience was increasing every second.

“Captain, what happens if your ship misses the aperture and strikes the shell material below the city itself?”

“We are confident of passing through the aperture.”

“All you’re saying is that the probability is high, but supposing you do miss?”

“It is our opinion that the shell would be undamaged.”

“But the shell is one of the greatest scientific enigmas ever known — on what do you base your predictions about its behaviour under that sort of impact?”

Garamond allowed himself a smile. “In the last hour or so our instinct about these things has become highly developed.”

“This is hardly a time for jokes.” Nettleton looked away for a moment, nodded to someone off screen, and when he turned back to Garamond bis eyes were sombre. “Captain, have you thought about the possibility that Starflight may not be able to grant you permission to aim for the aperture?”

Garamond considered the question. “No — but I’ve thought about the fact that there is absolutely nothing Starflight can do to stop me.”

Nettleton shook his head with regal sadness. “Captain, I’m going to put you through to the President on a direct connection.”

“I haven’t the time to speak to her,” Garamond told him. “Just send a message to my wife that I’ll be back with her as soon as I can.” He broke the connection and returned to the operations room, hoping he had sounded more confident than he felt.

Lindstrom Centre was austere compared to its equivalent on Earth, but it was the largest and most palatial building on Orbitsville. It was octagonal in plan and had been built on a slight eminence some twenty kilometres east from Beachhead City, to which it was joined by power and communication cables stretched on low pylons. No attempt had yet been made to sculpt the hill according to the President’s ideas of what it ought to be, so the glass-and-acrylic edifice was incongruously lapped by a sea of grass. Its first three floors housed those elements of the Starflight administration which the supreme executive had transported from the Two Worlds, and the top floor was her private residence.

On this evening, the guards who patrolled the perimeter fence were distinctly uneasy. They had heard that a maniac of a flickerwing captain was going to try to crash his vessel through the aperture at interplanetary speed, and the rumour had even quoted an exact minute for the event to occur — 20.06 Compatible Local Time. As the moment grew nearer each man felt a powerful urge to fix his gaze on the distant scattering of buildings, just below the upcurved horizon, which was Beachhead City. They had been told that most of the city had been hastily evacuated to escape the promised pyrotechnics, and nobody wanted to miss the spectacle.

At the same time, however, their eyes were frequently drawn upwards to the transparent west wall of the Presidential suite. Elizabeth Lindstrom herself could be glimpsed up there, screened only by sky reflections, her silk-sheathed abdomen glowing like a pearl — and it was well known that she sometimes kept watch on her guards through a magnifying screen. None of the men relished the idea of being dismissed from Starflight service and sent back to the crowded towerblocks of Earth, and yet the compulsion to stare into the west grew greater with each passing minute.

The suspense was also making itself felt on the top floor of the Octagon, but in the case of Elizabeth Lindstrom it was a pleasurable sensation, heady and stimulating, akin to pre-orgasmic tension.

“My dear,” she said warmly to Aileen Garamond, “do you think you are wise to watch this?”

“Quite sure, My Lady.”

“But the boy…” “I’m positive my husband knows what he is doing.” Aileen’s voice was firm and unemotional as she laid her hands on her son’s shoulders, forcing him to face the west. “Nothing will go wrong.”

“I admire your courage, especially when the chances are so…” Elizabeth checked herself just in time. The common, characterless woman beside her appeared genuinely to believe that a ship could run into a solid wall of air at a speed of a hundred kilometres a second and not be destroyed on the instant. Elizabeth was girded with the mathematics which showed how incredible the idea was, but she knew the equations would mean nothing to her guest. In any case, she had no desire to break the news in advance — she wanted to watch Mrs Garamond’s face as she saw her husband’s funeral pyre blossom on the horizon. Only then would she receive the first payment against the incalculable debt which the Garamond family owed her.

The concept of grief cancelling grief, of pain atoning for pain, was one which few people could properly understand, Elizabeth had often told herself. Even she had not appreciated the logic of it until days after Harald’s small body had been cast in sun-coloured resin and stood in its place in the Lindstrom chapel. But it was so true!

There were no flaws in the system of double entries — anguish against anguish, love against love — and this realization had given Elizabeth the strength to go on, even when it appeared that the Garamonds had chosen to die in the black deeps of space. That episode had been nothing more and nothing less than God’s way of telling her that he was simply building up the Garamond’s credit to the point at which it could be used to wipe out all their debts. In retrospect, it had been fortunate that she had not been able to extract payment immediately, because there would still have been an imbalance and she would never have found her heart’s ease. A child is a focus, a repository of love which is added to in each year of its life, and it was crystal-clear that the death of a boy of nine could never be compensated for by the death of a boy of…

“I have the latest computations for you, My Lady.” The projected voice of Lord Nettleton broke in on Elizabeth’s thoughts. “The impact will occur in exactly three minutes from… now.”

“Three minutes,” Elizabeth said aloud, knowing that the accurately beamed sound would not have reached the other woman’s ears. Without giving any sign that she had heard, Aileen picked her son up and her face was screened by the boy’s body. Elizabeth moved quietly to the other side, as was her due, and waited.

She waited through eons and eternities.

And the ribbed canopy of the sky ceased to turn.

Time was dead…

The lightning bolt came first. An arrow-straight line of hell, searing upwards at an angle into the heavens, isolated for the first perceptible instant, then joined by writhing offshoots, tributaries and deltas of violet fire which flickered and froze on the retina. Faint shadows fled across the sky as the air above Beachhead City was hurled outwards by the fountain of energy. Appalling though the general display was, there existed at its core — on the threshold of vision — a sense of even greater forces in the shock of opposition. There was a feeling of cataclysmic upward movement, then a bright star burned briefly and dwindled in the south-west. The day returned to normalcy, but seemingly darker than it had been before.

Elizabeth drew a deep quavering breath — no other death she had ever witnessed had been so final. She turned her gaze on to Aileen Garamond’s face, and was shocked to see there a look of serenity.

“It was to be expected,” she said. “I know.” Aileen nodded contentedly, and hugged her child. “I told you.”

Elizabeth gaped at her. “You fool! You don’t think he’s still alive after what you’ve just…” She was forced to stop speaking as the waves of thunder rolling out from Beachhead City, slow moving in the low-pressure air of Orbitsville, engulfed the building. Reflections of lights stretched and shrank and stretched again as the transparent walls absorbed energy, and small objects throughout the room stirred uneasily in their places. Christopher buried his face in his mother’s hair.

“Your husband is dead,” Elizabeth announced when silence was restored to the room, “but because you are the widow of the most distinguished of all my S.E.A. captains, you will remain here as my guest. No other arrangement would be acceptable.”

Aileen faced her, pale but immovable. “My Lady, you are mistaken. You see — I know.”

Elizabeth shook her head incredulously and a little sadly. She had been planning to spend perhaps a year in a game of subtleties and suggestions, watching the other woman’s slow progression from doubt to certainty about her son’s eventual fate. But it was obvious now — in view of Aileen Garamond’s mentality, or lack of it — that such strategies would be ineffective. If the full payment were to be extracted, as God had decreed it should be, she would have to speak plainly, in words a child could understand. Elizabeth touched a beautiful micro-engineered ring on her left hand, ensuring that no listening devices could remain in operation nearby, and then explained the accountancy of retribution which demanded that Christopher Garamond should be allowed another three years. He was to have the same lifespan as Harald Lindstrom — but not a day longer.

When she had finished she summoned her physician. “Captain Garamond’s death has left Mrs. Garamond in a state of hysteria. Give her suitable sedation.”

Aileen opened her mouth to scream but the physician, an experienced man, touched her wrist in a quick movement which did not even disturb the boy she was holding in her arms. As the cloud of instant-acting drug sighed through her skin Aileen relaxed and allowed herself to be led away.

Alone again, Elizabeth Lindstrom stood looking out across the western grasslands and was aware — for the first time in over a year — of something approaching happiness. She began to smile.