Manta's Gift

TWO

The Contact Room, as it had been dubbed, seemed very quiet as Faraday passed through the security door and stepped inside. Quiet, but with the sense of a coiled spring about it.

Or maybe the coiled spring feeling was just him.

For a minute he stood at the doorway, running an eye over the semicircle of equipment consoles and the backs of the four young people currently manning them. As far as he could tell from here, it all matched the design schematics they'd shown him back on Earth.

Which, if true, would be nice for a change. SkyLight had always had a bad tendency to change perfectly good plans for no better reason than what seemed to be the unscheduled whims of the people at boardroom level.

But then, this operation was hardly SkyLight's exclusive baby. Not with what was at stake. This was squarely in the hands of the Five Hundred, all the way.

And though it hadn't been stated in so many words, Faraday had no doubt that, sooner or later, someone from the Five Hundred would come to Jupiter to watch over his shoulder.

Or that someone was possibly already here, he amended his musings as he looked at the command chair and console to his left. A tall, incredibly blond young man was sitting there, peering intently at the row of displays rising up over the heads of the seated techs.

Delicately, Faraday cleared his throat. The man looked over, and instantly bounded up out of his seat. "Colonel Faraday," he all but gasped. "I'm sorry, sir—I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"That's all right," Faraday assured him. "And you are...?"

"Albrecht Hesse, Colonel," Hesse said, offering his hand. "Council representative on Project Changeling. Welcome back to Jupiter Prime."

"Thank you," Faraday said, squeezing the proffered hand once and then releasing it. Not merely from the General Chamber of the Five Hundred, which held the public debates and made the official media pronouncements, but from the Supreme Mediation Council itself, where the real horse-trading and power decisions were made. Earth was taking Changeling very seriously indeed. "It's good to be back."

"I understand this is your first trip here since retiring from active duty," Hesse went on. "I think you'll find quite a bit has changed."

"Most of this wing is new, certainly," Faraday commented, nodding around him. "We only had the one rotating section when I left."

"That's right," Hesse said. "I think you'll find that having the second wing in counter-rotation to the first has added tremendously to the station's stability. A word of warning, though: You'll need to watch yourself the first time you make the transition between them. If you don't pause long enough in the connecting mid-corridor, your inner ear can get very confused when you start turning it the opposite direction."

"I'll keep that in mind," Faraday said. It was marginally insulting advice, certainly considering how much of Faraday's life had been spent in space. Either Hesse was trying to establish the proper pecking order—with himself at the top—or else he was simply rambling as he desperately tried to find something to say to a living legend.

There might be an easy way to tell which it was. "You seem to have your people well on top of things," he commented, gesturing at the control board.

"Your people, sir," Hesse corrected hastily and firmly. "I'm strictly an observer here. And yes, they're ready."

"Good," Faraday said. So it was indeed number two: the Living Legend Syndrome. Slightly embarrassing, but after two decades he'd learned how to deal with that. Time and familiarity, he knew, should quietly put it to rest.

Time they would certainly have plenty of. And given the cramped quarters, familiarity wasn't likely to be a problem, either.

"Let me introduce you to the Alpha Shift team," Hesse went on, gesturing to the large, dark-haired man on the far left. "This is Everette Beach, communications specialist. He'll handle all the mechanics of our contacts with Mr. Raimey. He's also our expert on understanding Qanskan tonals."

"Colonel," Beach said, glancing away from his console long enough to give Faraday an abbreviated wave.

Hesse shifted his pointing finger to a short woman who looked as if she might come up to Beach's shoulder if he was willing to slouch a little. "Jen McCollum is our biology and xenobiology expert.

Anything you want to know about Qanskan physiology, she can tell you."

"Or at least I can tell you what we know about Qanskan physiology," McCollum added over her shoulder. "There are a lot of blank spots that still need to be filled in."

"But you can extrapolate?" Faraday asked.

"You mean make stuff up on the fly?" McCollum asked blandly. "Sure. No problem."

Faraday smiled to himself. Young tech and science types, their heads still mostly in academia's clouds and thus mostly immune to Living Legend Syndrome. That would be nice for a change.

"That one's Tom Milligan," Hesse continued with the next in line, a man slightly shorter and less bulky than Beach, with stringy hair and a rather half-hearted goatee. "He'll be handling the sensors and the various deep-atmosphere probes we'll be using to keep track of him. He's also our resident expert in physics, should we need something esoteric from that field."

He gestured to the fourth tech. "And finally, this is Hans Sprenkle, our psychologist."

Faraday frowned. No one had said anything to him about a psychologist. "Is the Council expecting us to go crazy out here?"

"Past tense, with this group," Sprenkle said cheerfully. He was built to the same scale as the other two men, though with a neatly trimmed moustache instead of Milligan's goatee. "My humble opinion, of course."

"I didn't know shrinks' opinions were ever humble," Beach commented from the other end of the control semicircle.

"You haven't read any of the retractions in the professional journals," Sprenkle countered dryly. "It's amazing how low some people can grovel while still keeping their noses in the air."

"Dr. Sprenkle's also in charge of keeping track of the weather on Jupiter," Hesse jumped back in, sounding slightly embarrassed. "There are a lot of atmospheric storms—"

"Mr. Hesse?" Milligan spoke up.

"Yes?" Hesse asked, frowning at the interruption.

"I'll bet the colonel probably remembers that," Milligan offered.

Hesse reddened. "Yes, of course," he murmured. "Thank you, Mr. Milligan."

"Any time," Milligan said, turning back to his board. Not only was this group not impressed by living legends, Faraday decided, but they weren't overly impressed by authority of any kind.

"Interesting combination of credentials, Dr. Sprenkle," he said. "Psychology and meteorology don't seem an obvious pairing."

"Actually, the meteorology started as a hobby," Sprenkle said. "But it sure came in handy when I was applying for this position."

"As you see, we don't have a lot of room in here," Hesse pointed out. "Even with the second wing, floor space on Prime is hard to come by. We thought it would be useful if our people could double up on their areas of expertise wherever possible."

"Sounds reasonable enough," Faraday said. "Are Beta and Gamma Shifts equally talented?"

"Ha," Milligan said under his breath. "Rank amateurs, all of them."

"Hardly more than kids, either," McCollum put in.

"All right, that's enough," Hesse said tartly, sounding even more embarrassed. "I have to apologize for this behavior, Colonel. Somehow, Alpha Shift seems to have gotten the impression they're the cream of this particular crop."

"That's all right, Mr. Hesse," Faraday said. It was more than all right, actually. In his experience, this kind of casual camaraderie was the mark of a well-functioning team. Whether the group had picked it up in training or had simply clicked together on a personal level, it was a good sign. "So are Beta and Gamma Shifts composed of rank amateurs?"

"Hardly," Hesse said, glaring at the back of Milligan's head. "As a bonus, they've also managed to maintain a certain degree of professionalism. If you'd like, we can shuffle the shifts around so that a different group is on duty when you want to be here."

"No, no, this group will be fine," Faraday said soothingly. "I can always send them to their rooms if it gets too bad. So if it's too late to keep this shift from going crazy, Dr. Sprenkle, why are you here?"

"Mostly, to monitor Raimey's mental and emotional state," Sprenkle explained. "The Council is concerned about psychological conflicts as he melds into his Qanskan body."

"Or to be more precise," Hesse added bluntly, "they're worried that he might forget who he is. It's vital that he not forget where his ultimate loyalties lie."

Faraday looked up at the main display, currently showing the roiling clouds of Jupiter some ninety thousand kilometers below them. "No, I suppose not," he said quietly.

"Colonel?" Beach called, half turning around. "The surgeons downstairs say they're ready to go."

"Thank you," Faraday said as he stepped past Hesse and sat down in the command chair. Time to say good-bye to Matthew Raimey.

Or at least, to say good-bye to what Matthew Raimey had been.

It was, Raimey thought, rather like being in a coffin. A thick, form-fitting coffin, lined on every wall with conduits and pipes and tubing of every thickness imaginable. The kind of coffin that would be specially designed for the funeral of a master plumber.

The probe passed one of the corridor lights as it rolled along, and he got a quick glimpse of the particular group of tubes and jars sitting directly in front of his face. His brand-new digestive system, the techs had identified it: an external stomach and set of intestines, hanging out there in front of him where he could keep an eye on it.

What in the world was he doing?

From somewhere at the back of his head came a brief, feedbacklike squeal. "Mr. Raimey?" Faraday's voice came. "Can you hear me?"

"Just fine," Raimey growled. "I thought you were going to do something about that squeal."

"We're working on it," Faraday assured him. "It should be fixed before you reach the rendezvous point. I just wanted to wish you luck, and to thank you again for your willingness to—"

"Save it," Raimey cut him off. "There isn't any room in here to wave flags."

"Mr. Raimey, this is Dr. Sprenkle," a new voice came in. "Just try to relax. It's natural for you to be feeling a little nervous about this."

"Oh, well, thank you so very much," Raimey shot back, trying hard to be angry. He hated condescension almost as much as he hated pity, and this Sprenkle character was managing both at the same time.

But the anger wouldn't come. The best he could do, in fact, was a sort of vague annoyance. They'd probably already shut down all the glands that were necessary to drive a good, solid anger.

Still ninety thousand kilometers away from the nearest Qanska, and already they'd started stripping his humanity away from him.

A gift, Faraday had called it back in that pastel blue hospital room. Some gift.

What in the world was he doing?

"It's not too late to change your mind, Mr. Raimey," Faraday said quietly.

Raimey snorted, or at least gave as much of a snort as he could in the tight quarters. "Oh, right," he bit out. "Forget all the time and effort and the public pronouncements and the millions of dollars.

Let's just call the media and say, sorry, I've changed my mind. I'll bet the Five Hundred would love that."

"It doesn't matter what the Five Hundred think," Faraday said. "Only what seems right to you."

"Even now?"

"Even now," Faraday said firmly. "Nothing we've done yet is irreversible."

The almost-anger faded into an almost-depression. "No," Raimey said. "Nothing's irreversible.

Except my accident."

"Matthew—"

"Oh, shut up," Raimey cut him off. "Let's get on with it."

"It's going to be all right, Matthew," Faraday said. "Everything's going to work out just fine." If he was offended by Raimey's tone, it didn't show in his voice.

Too bad. It would have been nice to offend the man, at least a little. Being able to offend people was another part of being human.

The rolling cart carrying the probe continued down the corridor. It hadn't, Raimey noted cynically, even slowed down during the conversation. So much for him having the final say on what happened with his life.

But then, what life?

The probe rolled to a stop. There was a moment of tense anticipation; and then, suddenly, there was the stomach-wrenching return to free fall as it was drop-launched from the station. A moment later came the vibrating roar of the drive and pressure against his feet. After that came silence, punctuated every few minutes by the quieter hissing of the maneuvering jets. Faraday had left the various microphones open in the Contact Room, and in the silence he was able to hear snatches of low conversation from the techs controlling his flight.

It was actually rather peaceful out here, he decided. Rather like how he'd always expected death to be. Idly, he wondered what Faraday would say if he told them to call off the project and just let him drift along this way.

But the peaceful drifting didn't last very long. All too soon, he began to feel the faint vibration as his capsule started to skim into the Jovian atmosphere. The vibration became a gentle shaking, then a rougher shaking, and finally a very serious buffeting. "Faraday!" he shouted over the screeching of the wind around the plastic walls of his flying coffin. "You guys asleep up there?"

"Is something wrong?" Faraday's voice shouted back.

"Yeah, there's something wrong," Raimey snapped. "I'm being bounced around like a preppie at a bar. They didn't say anything about shaking my teeth out."

"It's all right," Faraday said. It was impossible to tell for sure over the wind, but it sounded to Raimey like there was a new rigidness in the other's voice. "You're in sort of a holding pattern right now."

"Holding? For what?"

"For whom," a new, rather Germanic voice put in. "The Qanska who are supposed to meet you don't seem to have arrived yet."

"Terrific," Raimey growled. "What the hell do we do now?"

"Just sit tight," Faraday said. "Maybe they went to the wrong place. We're looking for them."

"Yes, but..." Raimey broke off, frowning. There was an odd pressure against his skin. "Faraday?" he called. "Faraday!"

"Yes, Mr. Raimey, I'm here."

"There's something happening," Raimey told him tightly. "What are you doing?"

"Just stay calm," the Germanic voice said; and there was definitely a tightness in his tone. "It's under control."

A strange tingling joined the strange pressure sensation. "What do you mean, it's under control?

What exactly—?"

And then, like the ground on that Aspen ski slope, it suddenly hit him. "You've started it!" he gasped. "My skin—you've started dissolving my skin!"

"Take it easy," the German said.

"Take it easy?" Raimey snarled. "What the hell are you doing? You said the Qanska aren't even here yet!"

"We thought they were," Faraday said. "We saw a group of them swimming upward in your direction—"

"You jumped the gun!" Raimey cut him off. His body—his helpless, paralyzed body—was being disintegrated all around him. "Damn you, anyway."

"Mr. Raimey, pull yourself together," the German said. "I mean—"

"Oh, that's funny," Raimey shouted. "That's real funny."

"He didn't mean it that way," Faraday said. "Look, there's a good wide timing margin built into the operation—"

"What operation?" Raimey countered. The tingling was getting stronger, and he could visualize his skin vaporizing away, layer by layer. Next would be his muscles, then his organs, then his bones—

"There they are!" another voice shouted suddenly. "Twenty-two by fourteen. Coming up fast."

"Maneuvering to intercept," someone else said.

"You hear that?" Faraday called. "They're here. It's going to be all right."

The pitch and direction of the noise outside changed as the pod shifted direction.

And as it did so, the tingling sensation faded away. Was his skin all gone? "Hurry," Raimey pleaded.

His voice sounded strange. Was his larynx going, too? "Please. Hurry."

"Deploying remote surgical pod," another voice called.

"Intercepting," the first voice said. "Birth canal insertion..."

There was a sudden thump, a fresh sensation of pressure, and the sound of the wind faded away.

"You're in," Faraday said. "It won't be long now."

"It's too late," Raimey called, his voice a bare whisper now. The last gasp of a dissolving throat.

"Mr. Raimey, hang on," the German insisted.

"Go to hell," Raimey murmured. "All of you, go to hell."

He closed his eyes, and the universe went black.