Firebird

THIRTY-TWO

We brought Belle back to port and began getting ready, finally, to go after the Firebird. Meantime, the interest in the Chris Robin antiquities continued to surge. The people who'd bought them originally could have parted with them at a considerable profit. And Alex admitted that we'd held the auction too soon.

Orders and requests came in, sometimes accompanied by complaints about Alex, or cheers from people urging him to continue his “good work.” Many of our new clients seemed to think he was simply an employee, and that he should be promoted or dismissed.

But the increased activity, somehow, didn't help the time pass. I kept thinking about that open outer hatch. So, okay, when Cermak and Robin left the Firebird, they'd forgotten to close up. And the AI was not working or it would have done it for them. So it was no big deal. But there was something about it that chilled me.

Shara reported that the effort to track lost ships, which they were now calling the Firebird Project, was going reasonably well. “The big problem,” she told us one evening over dinner, “is that we don't really know enough about the black-hole population. How many are there? The only way you can spot them is by the gravitational effects. Estimates are that we only know about ten percent of the total within two thousand light-years. My own feeling is that there aren't nearly as many of them as most people think. But ask me what I base that on, and it comes down to pure guesswork.” She grinned. “Or maybe pure optimism.”

Finally, it was time to go.

I went up to Skydeck to conduct a preflight with Belle. But I went a day early, so I could spend a rare evening at the Pilots' Club. I love the place. I've a lot of old friends there, and more than a few memories. I was in the middle of helping one of them celebrate her escape from a tiresome boyfriend when Alex called. “I've arranged to have an extra pressure suit delivered.”

“Okay.” That induced another chill. We hadn't really discussed it, but we were both hoping, against all the odds, that we'd find Chris Robin on board. Waiting to be rescued.

What were the chances? Remote, at best. Probably nonexistent. Even if time on the ship passed only when it had surfaced, six hours out of every two weeks since 1393, he would still have been on board for almost eight months. The air supply for one person might be adequate, but it would have been unlikely that he'd have had enough food and water. So we were, in effect, hoping for a miracle. Which was why neither of us ever mentioned it. And why the open hatch was so depressing.

And why Alex was bringing along an extra pressure suit.

“Are you on Belle now?” he asked.

I knew he could hear the music in the background. “Yes,” I said.

“Good. They should be contacting you shortly about the suit.”

“Okay.”

“I'll see you in the morning, Chase.”

I was on the bridge doing my routine flight check when Alex, carrying a couple of small bags, arrived, trailing a cloud of media guys. Somebody had called them to let them know we were headed out somewhere, and that was all it took. Where are you going, Alex? Does this have anything to do with Save-the-Boxes? With the ancient ships? With Christopher Robin?

Alex told them we were just going out looking for an artifact, but he refused to say which one. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “but it's our policy not to reveal what we're looking for in advance. I'm sure you can understand why.”

Hands went up. More questions were shouted. But he pushed through into the airlock.

A Courier reporter was right behind him. “When will you be back, Alex?” he asked.

“We'll only be gone a few days, Larry.”

He closed the outer hatch, sealing them off. Two minutes later, he came through into the cabin, looking relieved. “Love the media,” he said.

“Hi, Alex,” I said. “How's it going?”

“I'm not sure. How in hell did they get up here so early?”

“Took the early flight, I guess.”

“How we doing? Ready to go?”

“We're scheduled out in about a half hour.”

“Okay, I'm going to get unpacked.” He looked at me. “Good luck,” he said.

We had no trouble finding the Firebird. We arrived in the target area, and had been waiting only a few hours when Belle reported a contact. “Directly ahead,” she said. “Range nine hundred kilometers.”

I noted the time. “It just appeared, Belle?”

“It would have had to. It wasn't there a moment ago.”

“Okay. Alex? We've got it.”

He was in the passenger cabin. “Coming.”

“We have a visual.”

“Let's see it.”

She put it on the display. It was too far out to get much of an image, but I could make out the lights.

Alex came in behind me.

“As soon as you're belted down,” I said, “we'll be on our way.”

“Very good.” He lowered himself into the right-hand seat, and I activated the restraint.

“Belle, we want to pull alongside.”

She began to accelerate and adjusted course. We were pressed gently back into our seats. “We should rendezvous in approximately ninety minutes.”

I squeezed Alex's shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“Not yet,” he said.

“You still want to board the vehicle?” asked Belle.

“Yes.” Silly question.

“I will line us up appropriately.”

Alex took a deep breath. “Open a channel to it, Belle.”

Status lights blinked. “Done.”

“We've already tried that,” I said.

“I know.” He took a deep breath. “Firebird, this is the Belle-Marie. Please respond.”

Static.

“Professor Robin, are you there?”

An hour and a half later, we drew alongside. The yacht looked exactly as it had two weeks earlier: The cockpit was dark, but the cabin lights were still on. There was no movement anywhere inside. And watching it from a few meters away was different from seeing it on a screen at the country house. When we were back home, it simply looked empty. Up close, we could feel the emptiness. Not so much empty, maybe, as abandoned. An effect emphasized by the open hatch.

“You really do think he got stranded here, don't you?” I said.

He didn't reply.

We eased in alongside. I was looking out at bolts and struts, at the yacht's scanners, which were rotating slowly, and at the serial number W4-771 emblazoned on the hull. And that name again: Tai Ling. “We should have a couple of hours before we need to worry about its making another jump,” said Alex. “Still, we don't want to spend any more time in there than necessary.”

We were already in our suits. The third one was in a storage bin aft. We left it.

“We will be braking slightly,” said Belle. “Get hold of something.”

We did, and there was a slight jar, pulling us both forward a step, as we matched velocity. “Okay,” she said. “This is as close as we're going to get.”

The Veiled Lady looked brighter, denser, bigger, than it ever had before. Don't know why. My imagination was going full bore. I felt as if I'd gotten to know Chris Robin, and I was hoping that, yes, in spite of everything, he was over there, asleep in the cabin, waiting for rescue.

The sky was filled with stars, and I remembered the old Greek line about how they looked like the campfires of an invading army. We were tethered to each other. Just in case. And we wore links so that Belle could follow everything.

The open hatch was directly across from us, only about fifteen meters away. I pushed off, floated across, and landed inside the Firebird airlock.

I turned back to Alex. “Okay,” I said. “Whenever you're ready. Go easy-”

He stepped out of the airlock. I watched the hatch close behind him as he drifted over, and it's funny how long something like that seems to take. It was only seconds when I was crossing, but Alex had almost no experience with this kind of thing, and I was concerned how he might be reacting. But I think he became aware that my breathing had picked up, and he told me to relax. Halfway across, he switched his wrist lamp on.

He arrived in good form, tumbling in, and if I'm making it sound as if it was a clumsy crossing, I don't mean to. It's hard to be graceful in zero gravity when you're wearing a suit. If you get where you're going, you've done pretty well.

I removed the tethers. Alex turned the lamp on the control pad. I pushed, and the outer hatch slid down while an overhead light came on. The status board began blinking, indicating that air had begun to flow into the chamber. “When we get inside, Chase,” he said, “don't remove your helmet. In case we have to get out in a hurry.”

We still couldn't be certain that the ship might not submerge ahead of schedule. The exit process, the fadeaway, took slightly more than two minutes. I timed the pressurization procedure, and suspected Alex was doing the same thing. When, finally, the hatch slid up, and we looked into the passenger cabin, two minutes and forty-three seconds had passed. Assuming the reverse process took as long, if the yacht started its jump while we were inside, we would not get clear.

“Is there a way,” Alex asked, “to keep both hatches open?”

“We'd have to depressurize the entire yacht,” I said.

“Let's do a quick inspection. We might not be here that long.”

The lights brightened for us. To our right, a passageway led back, dividing six sleeping compartments. Eight movable seats were distributed around the cabin. Beyond that lay the bridge.

It had been a luxurious setting when the yacht was new, but now everything looked worn. One of the seats was tilted slightly. Its reading lamp was on. Gravity was off. I checked the air. It was okay.

Alex looked around the cabin while I went up onto the bridge, sat down in one of the empty chairs, and examined the controls. “Anybody there?” I said, hoping to get a response from an AI. We'd been informed, of course, that the Firebird did not have an AI, but it was worth checking.

Nobody answered.

“Everything okay?” Belle's voice.

“Yes. We're fine.”

Alex floated in behind me. Looked around. Touched the panel carefully as if he might break something. “Let's get some weight,” he said.

“Good by me. You ready?”

“Do it.” He took hold of one of the chair arms and pushed his feet against the deck. I activated the generator. If you've ever been in a zero field when they turn on the gravity, you know it shows up gradually, allowing you to adjust while it builds to its normal onboard setting, which is usually about. 37 standard.

Alex didn't wait for the process to finish before he returned to the cabin. I got up and followed him. He stopped to open a storage cabinet. “That's strange,” he said. We were looking at a pressure suit. “These things aren't cheap.”

“No. It must be defective. Otherwise, they wouldn't have left it here.”

Except for the suit, the cabinet was empty.

Alex crossed the cabin, entered the passageway, and pushed against the door to the first compartment on his right. It opened. The interior was dark, but after a moment a light came on. A bunk was set well above the deck to conserve space. When in use it would be lowered. The compartment was neat and tidy. Unused.

I checked the compartment across from it. And got a shock: The bunk was down, and someone had slept in it recently. (And yes, I'm speaking relatively, but I don't know how else to say it.) And a message had been scrawled across the bulkhead with a black marker.

Eliot, don't know what happened.

Hope you're okay.

Radio wasn't much help.

The marker was crawling slowly up one bulkhead. “He's gone,” said Alex. “He gave up and walked out through the airlock.”

Each compartment had a storage cabinet. We opened it and found a shirt, a razor, and some toothpaste. One of the other compartments held the missing piece of luggage. And his notebook.

His notebook.

“We don't have him,” said Alex, “but maybe we struck gold anyhow.”

We tried to take a quick look, but couldn't get into it because we didn't have the password.

They'd set up a clock, and it was showing a total elapsed time of 272 days, 11 hours, 6 minutes. “So what this means,” I said, “is that during the forty years it's been out here, less than a year has passed on board. So the black-hole track becomes what-?”

“A shortcut through time as well as space,” said Alex.

“Incredible. I'm still not sure I believe it.”

We went back and looked again at the writing on the bulkhead. We took pictures. Then we returned to the bridge.

“Let's run a test,” Alex said.

“Okay. What's the test?”

“See if you can send a message to Skydeck.”

I sat down at the hyperlink. Ordinarily, I'd have directed the AI to make the connection. But the Firebird didn't have a functioning AI. So I set it up myself. And opened a channel. “Skydeck Ops,” I said, “do you copy? This is the Firebird.”

We had to wait a few seconds. Then we got a voice: “Firebird, this is Skydeck. I copy. What do you need?”

“Just running a test, Skydeck. Thanks. Firebird out.”

“He didn't use it,” said Alex, “because he didn't know how.”

“I'd say that's exactly right.”

“How about the radio? Does it work?”

I turned it on. “Belle, are you there?”

“I'm here,” she said.

“So why,” asked Alex, “didn't he call for help?”

“He's too far out. To reach Rimway, he'd have to have sent a directed transmission. If he didn't know how to make the hyperlink work, I doubt he'd have been able to aim a beam at Rimway.”

Alex looked around helplessly. “He just didn't get a break, did he?”

“I guess not.”

He sat down in one of the chairs. “All right. How were they managing this? How'd they hope to find the yachts?”

“I'd guess Robin knew how long they'd be under, or was able to control the duration. One way or the other.”

“Okay. So they'd come out here in the Breakwater.”

“They probably had the radio set to broadcast when it surfaced.”

“But they only set the radio for the one trip. On this last flight, my guess is that Robin wanted to see what it felt like to experience a passage through time. So he decided to stay. Cermak would come back in two weeks-Cermak's time-and, I guess, only a few hours, Robin's time. So maybe they reset it for one more flight.”

“I can't really tell what they did with it. But that's probably exactly what happened.” I got another creepy feeling. “Are we sure it was voluntary? That he wasn't just left here?”

“Chase, he brought his notebook and his bag over here with him. So he expected to be here awhile.”

“Alex,” I said, “what really happened that night? When Cermak went to Virginia Island? Do you know?”

“I know most of it. Some details are missing, but I think even there we can make a reasoned guess.

“Cermak was carrying on an affair with Elizabeth. Or she'd given him reason to think she might acquiesce. I can't be sure about the state of things. When Robin announced he was going to stay on the Firebird, it must have looked like a golden opportunity. Incidentally, as far as Cermak was concerned, it must have been a last-minute decision. And it probably was. Had Cermak known in advance, he'd have tried to set something up with Elizabeth.

“She must have gotten a jolt when Cermak showed up on Virginia Island. The last thing in the world she needed was to have a lover over for the night, especially one who came equipped with a skimmer that some of her friends might recognize.

“It might have resulted in a fight. Or, more likely, she just told him it wasn't safe. Maybe they'd set something up for the following night, off the island somewhere. So he goes home.

“Later, she finds out that Cermak is dead, and suddenly she has a decision to make. We can assume she wasn't passionately in love with her husband. She can get help out to him. Presumably she had some idea where he might be found. Or maybe not. In any case, she decides to sit tight. The family estate will come into her hands, and she won't need to lift a finger.

“Then, a couple of days later, she learns that somebody saw Cermak's skimmer outside her house. She can't very well change her plan without compromising herself, so she decides to brazen it through. 'My husband,' she tells the police, 'never came into the house that night.' She didn't know what had happened to him.”

“And,” I said, “she got away with it.”

Five hours and fifty-two minutes after the initial contact, we sat in the Belle-Marie and watched the Firebird fade away. “My best guess,” said Alex, “is that it's surfaced about a thousand times.”

I'd figured it to 1,071 appearances.

“If it always stays roughly six hours-”

“There's very little onboard passage of time while submerged.”

“Maybe none at all.” He looked out at the background of stars. Looked at where the last glow from the Firebird had been.

“Well, if we need it again, we'll know where to find it. If we can't figure out the password for the notebook, it might still be possible, at least, to see what adjustments Robin made to the drive unit. On the whole, Chase,” he added, “I think we did pretty well.”

“It's depressing, though-”

“I know-”

“I'd hoped we'd get the long shot,” I said.

“Find Robin on board? And bring him back alive and in good health?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too, Chase. Me, too.”