Odyssey

chapter 35

Most people, other than politicians and CEOs, mean well. The problem is seldom with their intentions. It is rather with their tendency to sign on with a superorganism, a political party, a creed, a nation, a local action committee, and in its name to support deeds they would never undertake as individuals.

— Gregory MacAllister, “The Hellfire Trial”

Eric caught the eight o’clock flight from Reagan to Union. Valya was already there. She’d gone up on the Dawn Rider. He felt good about himself. Vaguely heroic. “Are we ready to go?”

Yes indeed. She gave him a hand with his bags, and he walked up the boarding tube and back into the ship. “It feels as if I’m coming home.”

“I guess it does,” she said. “We had two days on the ground, and here we are again.” She hesitated. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I couldn’t figure out why you went the first time. Sightseeing, maybe. Whatever, I surely have no idea why you’re here now, Eric. I asked Hutch, and she just said you wanted to go.”

“I enjoy taking flights with beautiful women.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m serious.” He let her see he meant every word. A few weeks ago he’d have been reluctant to say such things to her. “It also occurred to me there might be an attack. If there is, you could probably use some help.”

“To do what? Fight them off?”

He laughed. “The truth is, I just wanted to be there. In case something happens.”

“You’re going to be disappointed,” she said. “We’ll go out there and ride in circles for a week or so and see nothing. Then we’ll come home.”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Eric, we both know the girl was scared. She was scared, and you and Mac were asleep.”

“Maybe.”

“I just think it’s a waste of time. But I’m glad to have you along.”

“Valya — ”

“Yes?”

“If you feel that way, why are you making the flight?”

“It’s my job, Eric. Hutch says go, and I go.” She went up onto the bridge, and he heard her flicking switches and talking to the AI and to the operations people. He went back to his old cabin and unpacked.

After about twenty minutes she warned him to belt down. He thought about joining her up front, but decided she’d be happier alone for the moment. He knew Hutch planned to keep the Salvator on station until Blueprint had been completed. Probably two weeks. He had heard the rumors about the possibility of a cosmic catastrophe. If it happened, he’d be right there to see it.

He spoke into the commlink. “Valya?”

“Yes, Eric?”

They’d begun to move. “If there’s a time-space rip — ”

“A what?”

“A time-space rip. Do you know what that is?”

“It doesn’t sound good.”

“If it were to happen, could we outrun it?”

DOWNTOWN DERBY, NORTH Carolina, was awash with demonstrators carrying signs reading HELLFIRE HURTS and SAVE YOUR SOUL WHILE YOU CAN and FIRST AMENDMENT ON TRIAL. Others waved banners declaring NO MORE CHILD ABUSE and PEOPLE INVENTED HELL; NOT GOD. Police did what they could to keep them apart. They lined the streets for several blocks in all directions. Vendors sold T-shirts carrying slogans on both sides of the argument. Others hustled Bibles out of trucks. Organ music drifted through the morning air, and local and network journalists were everywhere.

Glock had sent MacAllister a pass he had to show three or four times to get to the courthouse. At the door, weary-looking officers inspected it again, compared it with his ID, and let him in. The courtroom was small and jammed. Imagers were set up so the proceedings could be sent around the world. He had lost his day with Valya, but it was almost worth it.

Glock, stationed up front, waved and pointed him to an empty seat near the defense table. Henry Beemer, the defendant, sat nervously beside his much taller lawyer. He was pale and thin, an introvert by appearance. Not married. MacAllister, appraising the man, decided it was not by choice. He looked like the kind of guy who takes authority seriously. And therein, Henry, he thought, lies your problem.

He pushed through the crowd and sat down. Glock leaned back and shook his hand. “Good to see you, Mac,” he said.

Every time the courtroom doors opened, the noise in the street, people yelling and ringing bells and singing hymns, spilled in. “The idiots are out in force,” MacAllister said. “What kind of judge do we have?”

“Maximum George. Despite the name, he’s okay. As I said yesterday, he won’t overturn the First Amendment, but he’s not unreasonable.”

The Reverend Pullman sat on the opposite side of the bench, wearing clerical garb and one of those unctuous smiles that proclaims a monopoly on truth.

There was no jury. Glock had opted to leave it to the judge, who was, he said, less likely to be influenced by the religious goings-on than a crowd of citizens, however carefully chosen.

At precisely nine A.M., Maximum George entered. The bailiff called everyone to attention, the judge took his place behind the bench and rapped his gavel twice. The crowd quieted, and the trial was under way.

After a few preliminaries, the prosecutor got up to make his opening statement. He was long and lean as a stick, with mid-Atlantic diction laid on over a Southern accent. He described the unprovoked assault on the unsuspecting Reverend Pullman. Mr. Beemer had approached the preacher in the Booklore bookstore, right across the street from the courthouse, Your Honor. He had accused the preacher of promoting the gospel. Not satisfied with the preacher’s response, he had begun pushing and shoving. And, finally, he had assaulted the puzzled victim with a book.

The book was lying on the prosecution table. MacAllister was unable to read the title but he knew it was Connecticut Yankee. He couldn’t restrain a grin. If you were going to go after one of these hellfire guys with anybody, Mark Twain was your man.

The prosecutor expressed his sincere hope that the street demonstrations would not detract from the essential, and relatively clear, facts of the case. And so on.

Finally, he sat down. Glock stood, explained that the defense would show that the attack was not unprovoked, and that the aggrieved party was in fact Mr. Beemer. “I think,” he concluded, “that will become very quickly evident, Your Honor.”

MacAllister’s attention drifted back to the book.

To Sir Boss.

To his attempts to bring nineteenth-century technology and capitalism to Camelot.

To the sequence he remembered most vividly: the Yankee, who has been sentenced to the stake, recalls a coming solar eclipse, which knowledge he uses to terrify Merlin, the king, and everybody else by announcing he would darken the sun, and then apparently doing it. An unlikely piece of fiction, of course. Still, it made for a riveting sequence.

“The prosecution calls its first witness.”

It was a leather-bound copy, red-brown with a red ribbon, the title in gold.

“Ms. Pierson, is it true you were on duty at the Booklore when the defendant wantonly and deliberately attacked the Reverend Pullman?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution has presented no evidence — ”

The pages were gold-gilded.

“Sustained. Rephrase, Counselor.”

“Attacked, Your Honor.”

It was all about gold.

THERE WASN’T MUCH to the prosecution side of the case. Four witnesses took the stand to describe how Beemer had been standing with a stack of books, about to check out, when he’d abruptly turned around and walked into the back of the store. One witness testified that he had clearly been following the Reverend Pullman. Two of them saw him come up behind the preacher, still carrying his books, and demand to know whether Pullman knew who he was. When Pullman demurred and tried to edge away, Beemer kept after him. “In a threatening manner.” Finally, the defendant had laid the books on the floor — one witness insisted he’d simply dropped them — seized the biggest book in the pile, and tried to hit the preacher in the head with it. The Reverend Pullman had warded off the blows with his hands, begging the defendant to stop. And had finally gone down. Several bystanders had dragged a still volatile Beemer away.

Glock made no serious effort to cross-examine the witnesses. He told the judge that the defense did not dispute that the attack had happened as described.

They broke for lunch. In the afternoon, Pullman took the stand. The prosecutor asked if he understood why he’d been attacked.

Pullman said no. “Mr. Beemer claimed to have been a student of mine years ago at the church school and said I’d ruined his life. He kept screaming at me.”

“Were you injured during the attack?”

“I was severely bruised. When the police came, they wanted to take me to the hospital.”

“But you didn’t go.”

“I don’t like hospitals. Anyway, I didn’t feel I’d been injured seriously. Although that was no fault of his. Not that I haven’t forgiven him.”

Glock stepped forward to cross-examine. “Reverend, you say that, at the time of the incident, you did not know what provoked the attack.”

“That’s correct.”

“Are you now aware why Mr. Beemer was upset?”

“I’ve been informed of what he said. And I should add that hundreds of children have attended our school, and this is the first incident of this kind.”

“No one has ever complained before, Reverend?”

“No. What is there to complain of? We teach the word of the Lord.”

“May I ask how old the students are who attend the school?”

“They are grades one through six.” He considered the question. “About seven to thirteen.”

“Reverend, what is the word of the Lord regarding hellfire?”

“That it is eternal. That it is reserved for those who do not accept the Lord and His teaching.”

The prosecutor objected, on the grounds that none of this had anything to do with the charges.

“We are trying to establish a rationale, Your Honor. The Reverend Pullman doesn’t understand why Mr. Beemer was upset with him. It’s essential that we all know what provoked a man with no history of lawbreaking, no history of violence, to attack a former teacher.”

“Very well, Mr. Glock,” said the judge. “I’ll allow it. But let’s get to the point.”

“Specifically, Reverend Pullman, hellfire sounds like a dire punishment, does it not?”

“It certainly does. Yes.”

“How hot is it, would you say?”

“The Bible does not say.”

“What would you say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Enough to scorch your hand?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Enough to sear the flesh?”

“I would think so.”

“And it goes on for a thousand years?”

“It goes on forever.”

“Without stopping.”

“There is no lunch break.” Pullman turned a broad smile to the onlookers.

“Very good, Reverend. Now, if I am, say, twelve years old, what might I do that would incur this sort of punishment?”

“You mean hell?”

“Yes.”

“There are various sins.”

“Could you give us some examples?”

“Murder. Adultery.”

“A twelve-year-old, Reverend. Let me put it to you this way. Is it possible for a twelve-year-old boy to warrant hell?”

“Yes.”

MacAllister found himself again fixating on Connecticut Yankee.

“What can he do that would deserve that kind of punishment? Aside, perhaps, from murder?”

“He might miss Sunday service.”

He saw the Yankee in the courtyard while the light drained from the day.

“That in itself would be sufficient?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What else?”

“Dancing.”

And he thought of the Galactic.

“Dancing?”

“Yes. It is strictly forbidden. I know that, for godless people in a godless society, the reasoning can be difficult to grasp.”

MacAllister lost the drift of the proceedings. The courtyard at Camelot floated before his eyes, and gradually dissolved into the skeletal gridwork of the Galactic. He saw it as he had from the Salvator, turning slowly, reflecting light from nearby Capella.

He watched the asteroid, growing larger on one of the screens. Recalled how difficult it had been to gauge its size until it got close to the hotel, which, at the end, had been only a brief glimmer of light going out.

And he knew how it had been done.

But as he thought about it, and realized the implications, his heart sank.

GLOCK BROUGHT IN a psychiatrist who had examined Beemer. “No, not clinically insane,” the psychiatrist said, “but disturbed. Mr. Beemer suffers from a radical strain of paranoia, induced by the religious environment imposed on him when he was a child. At the heart of that environment were the teachings of the church and its school regarding divine punishment.”

When the session ended, MacAllister spoke briefly with Glock. “The truth is,” said the lawyer, “the wrong man’s on trial.”

Outside, some in the crowd recognized MacAllister. “Try going to church once in a while,” someone called. And: “You’re damned, MacAllister. Repent while you can.” Sun-flower seeds were thrown toward him. The seeds represented the argument that one should look toward the light and eschew the darkness. Some of the believers had bought into the notion there was a conspiracy to override the First Amendment and shut down the churches. That idea had gotten around, and though there was no chance of its happening, and in fact no likelihood MacAllister could see of Beemer’s not being found guilty, there were nevertheless some who were stoking precisely those fears.

The organ, which had been silenced by police during the trial, was operating again. It was playing an inspirational tune while the crowd sang “Going to Meet My Lord.” They picked up the volume as MacAllister strode past.

Beemer and Glock exited by a side door and were whisked away by police.

It was like traveling in time, like watching the 2216 super-nova explode again. This must have been what it was like in Tennessee three centuries earlier during the Scopes trial. He retreated to his hotel and listened to the crowd thumping and banging in the streets. The counterdemonstrators, unfortunately, were just as fanatical. They probably would have closed the churches, had they been able. They were at the moment trying to shout down the organist and his choir. MacAllister looked around hopelessly. His supporters were every bit as deranged as those arrayed on the other side.

The real enemy, he thought, was fanaticism.

THE MEDIA REPORTED that state police were coming in to bolster the local force. And the hellfire trial was for them the story du jour. Even the moonriders were crowded out.

He closed the blinds against the crowds and wished he could have shut out the noise. Getting a hotel in town had turned out not to be a prudent course of action. He’d expected some disarray, but nothing like this. The trial would probably end tomorrow. He suspected things would get worse.

He called Wolfie.

“They were running behind on construction,” he said. “But I haven’t been able to find out why. The official claim was that there was a supply bottleneck. But it was trumped up.”

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t need details.”

Wolfie grinned. “What’s all the racket? They still trying to save your soul down there?”

“The crowd’s getting a little testy.” He heard glass shattering somewhere. And a scream.

“You’ve been all over the news reports, Mac. You look pretty good. One guy challenging a mob. I bet you didn’t know what you were starting with this one.”

“Are you paying attention, Wolfie?”

“Sure.”

“I want you to find out when the papers were filed to authorize construction of the Galactic.”

“That should be simple enough.”

“Then I want you to track back from that date, say, over a seven-year period. During that time span, somebody will have done survey work in the Capellan system. Check ships’ manifests, movement logs, whatever.”

“All right.”

“You might also want to take a look at scientific papers published during the period. Somewhere, you’ll find somebody, a planetary physicist of some sort, most likely, who was out there on a project.”

“What was the nature of the project?”

“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter. We want this person’s name.”

“Okay.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll also discover a link with Orion Tours. Particularly Charles Dryden.”

“Who’s Dryden?”

“An executive over there. Wolfie, I want you to get on this right away.”

“Will do, Boss.”

“Let me know as soon as you have something.”

HUTCH WAS DRAINED. Sitting in for Asquith was never a pleasure. There were always political meetings, public relations issues, and a host of administrative details. Most of the decisions could have been put on automatic by establishing policy, or, better, relegating them to lower-level executives. Like personnel matters, or which scientific entities should be given seats in the front at the next conference on star formation. But Asquith had never been good at delegating, so the people under him weren’t accustomed to taking action on their own. When Hutch kicked decisions in their direction, they tended to scramble and panic.

Peter kept in touch and gave her the latest positions of the Carolyn Ray, the Bergen, and the WhiteStar ships. The Rehling had left Nok and was on its way. The others would all be en route within a day or so.

When time allowed she watched the hellfire trial. She sympathized with Beemer, but couldn’t see that he had a chance. She was proud that Mac had taken his side. A few minutes after the judge had recessed the trial for the day, she got a transmission from Marcus Cullen, one of the passengers on the Rehling. It was for her personally, not for the commissioner. The transmission was only a minute or so long, the AI informed her. She could have ignored it until later, but she hated to put unpleasantries off. Cullen was a crank. He wielded a lot of influence, although his fellow physicists did not have a high regard for him. He seemed to be disappointed in his life, a guy who’d never really accomplished anything, had never even gotten into the race for any of the big prizes. So he’d concentrated instead on accumulating power. He was president of Duke University, and a close friend of the president.

“Hutchins,” he said, “I am not happy with your action. You’ve added several days to a flight that was already tedious enough. Every day I have to spend out here costs my university heavily. I understand we are going to rescue, whatever that’s supposed to mean, the staff at Origins. From, as best I can tell, a nonexistent threat. You better damn well know what you’re talking about or your job is gone.”

COMMON SENSE COMMITTEE PLANS CONTACT EFFORT

Will Look for Chance to Say Hello to Rock-Throwing Aliens

Harper: “Our Opportunity for Major Advances”

“May Be a Million Years Ahead of Humanity”

CONGRESS CONSIDERS EMERGENCY MEASURES

Arms Bill Will Pass Easily

Global Effort to Mount Defenses

Gallen: “If They Come for Us, We Will Be Ready”

MARINES IN ORBIT

Special Forces to Get Training in Space Operations

FUNDAMENTALISTS DENY ALIENS EXIST

“Another Effort to Undercut Biblical Teaching”

WORLD COUNCIL OF CHURCHES SAYS

BIBLE TRUTH INTACT

“Nothing in the Bible Prohibits Others”

“We’re All God’s Children”

MOONRIDER GLOBES LATEST ACTION TOYS HIT

What Do Moonriders Look Like? Toy Manufacturers Stand By

REPORTS OF SIGHTINGS UP AROUND WORLD

Globes Seen Everywhere

Authorities Insist No Moonriders near Earth

MOONRIDER “ABDUCTEES” GIVE WARNING

“They’ve Been Watching Us for Years”

“Nobody Would Listen”

INTERSTELLAR BLUES OPENS ON BROADWAY

Perfect Timing for Musical about Lost Alien

MOONRIDERS STILL PRIMITIVE, SAYS BROWNSTEIN

“If They Have to Throw Rocks, We Have Nothing to Fear”

MOONRIDER REACTION RANKS WITH 20TH-CENTURY UFO HYSTERIA

WE’VE BEEN WARGAMING THIS FOR YEARS

Military Says It’s Ready

chapter 36

Human beings, by and large, are a cowardly and despicable lot. They snuggle up to bosses. They support personalities rather than principles. They don’t pay attention when serious malfeasance is in the saddle.

— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

On the second day of the trial, Glock introduced a series of psychiatrists who testified they had treated persons with various disorders that could be ascribed to overzealous religious instruction when they were young. A psychologist argued that he had looked through the curriculum for the schools conducted by the Universal Church of the Creator and declared that students reared in that tradition, when they attended college, consistently lagged behind others in both the humanities and the sciences. “Their minds were closed,” he said. “It was not simply that they were indoctrinated with information that was demonstrably false, for example that evolutionary processes occur only on microscopic levels, but also that they were trained to resist competing ideas. No consideration whatever was to be given to any notion that did not comply with accepted doctrine.”

Glock placed a copy of the curriculum and several studies in evidence.

The prosecution introduced experts who testified that religious training helped people adjust to a disorderly and often frightening world. Religious people live longer. They are less likely to acquire police records. They are, by most measurable standards, happier with their lives. The Reverend Pullman was merely providing the training in morals and decency that parents everywhere desired for their children.

It went back and forth while the crowds outside grew larger and noisier. Glock asked for simple fairness, for an understanding that the defendant was haunted by the visions of his youth and should not be punished for striking out at a person who had so abused him during those early years.

Objection, Your Honor. Abuse is a stretch.

The prosecution had the final word. “The defense has tried to put the Reverend Pullman, and indeed Christianity, on trial. The Reverend Pullman has done nothing that is not sanctioned by the U.S. Constitution. Indeed, he did nothing other than meet his obligation to the Church and to the greater society he serves. Mr. Beemer, on the other hand, has committed simple assault. There is no question about it. There are witnesses. The defense does not deny it.”

When the prosecutor had concluded, the judge thanked both counsels and adjourned.

“What do you think?” MacAllister asked Glock.

The lawyer gave Beemer an encouraging smile. “It’s okay, Henry. Try to relax. I think we’ll be all right.” He turned back to MacAllister: “We’re asking him to find against the Constitution. That’s not going to happen. It can’t happen. But Henry will very likely get a minimum sentence. And I think we’ve started a national debate.”

MACALLISTER HAD CHECKED out of his hotel before going to the courtroom. He went back to pick up his bags and grabbed a taxi. An hour later he was on a glide train to Alexandria.

In some respects he had never grown up. He’d had a model train when he was a kid and still loved riding through the countryside. He sat back and gazed out at the rolling hills and fields. Mostly farmland. Orange-growing country.

He got up after a while and walked to the dining car. He hadn’t had lunch and was looking at the menu when Wolfie called. “There’s an Elenora Delesandro,” he said, “who did a study of asteroids in the Capella system six years ago. She published her results in The Planetary Field Journal, May, 2230.”

“Good. Is there any mention of a giant asteroid? I’m trying to remember the size of the thing.”

“Six hundred kilometers. But it doesn’t show up in her report.”

“Where is she now? Delesandro?”

“She teaches physics at Broken Brook.”

“Which is where?”

“Fargo.”

He wandered over to the service bar, ordered a tomato-and-cheese salad, and carried it back to his table. Then he opened his notebook and called up Delesandro’s article. It was titled “Capella: Stellar Winds and the Shell-Burning Phase.”

It was too technical for MacAllister’s tastes. He went through it several times before he was able to follow the argument. Capella A is a giant star, and consequently went through a period in which it blew off the outer layers of its atmosphere. Delesandro seemed to be trying to determine the nature of this supersolar wind, whether it had come off uniformly or streamed out in jets.

Had the wind come off uniformly, the asteroid orbits would have tended to become circular. If the gas erupted in jets, eccentricity would have been pronounced.

If a dominant gas giant exists in the system, asteroids will orbit the star in half the time that the gas giant requires. The situation at Capella is complicated by the fact that there are two stars forming a single gravitational center. But it was possible to adjust for the complexities, and it was apparently this challenge that had drawn Delesandro’s interest initially.

There is a Jovian world at Capella. It completes an orbit every fifteen years. The average asteroid then, under normal circumstances, and after applying Delesandro’s formula, would have needed seven and a half years to circle the sun. Wind interaction would have altered that. And smaller asteroids would be more disturbed than larger ones. So looking at the difference between small and large provides a researcher with considerable data.

The arrival of the superstellar wind phase signals the start of shell-burning. At this point, hydrogen fusion has begun in the shell instead of in the core itself, which, of course, is made up of helium. (Of course it is, thought MacAllister.)

This is the stage during which the star begins to evolve away from the main sequence and expand into a red giant.

Delesandro had included a table of asteroids, listing their dimensions and their orbital periods. One fit the dimensions of the Galactic asteroid quite closely.

He finished his salad, looked up the astrophysics section at the American Museum of Natural History, picked an astrophysicist at random, and made a call. An AI informed him the individual was not available, so he asked who was, and got through to an Edward Moore. “How can I help you?” Moore asked, in a gravelly voice. He was a broad-shouldered athletic-looking guy. Obviously worked out a lot. Gray hair, thick mustache, casual demeanor. He was wearing a white lab jacket.

MacAllister introduced himself. “We’re looking at the asteroid that hit the Galactic construction.”

“Yes,” he said. “I saw that. Strange stuff.”

“I have an article in front of me from The Planetary Field Journal, of May 2231. It’s about asteroids near Capella, by Elenora Delesandro. Are you by any chance familiar with it?”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry to say I’m not.”

“We’re trying to determine what really happened.”

“Good,” he said. “Somebody needs to look into it.” He asked his AI to retrieve the Journal. “What exactly did you want to know?”

“There’s a table of asteroids on page 446.”

“One moment.” His brow furrowed. “Okay. I see it.”

“Down near the bottom there’s one, 4477, that has a diameter of 613 kilometers.”

“Yes. That seems to be correct. Is that the one that hit the hotel?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“Hold on a second.” He looked through the pages. “There’s a data file attached. Give me a few minutes to look at the numbers.”

“Okay.”

“Where can I reach you?”

WOLFIE GOT BACK to him as he was returning to his seat. “I’ve got a link between Delesandro and Dryden.”

“Excellent,” MacAllister said. “When and where?”

“At something called the Bannerman Award dinner. Given annually in Fargo on the university campus. In 2229, Dryden was one of the speakers. Delesandro was on the guest list.”

“That’s two years before the construction license was issued.”

“That’s correct. I can also tell you that, at the time, they were planning to put the hotel at Terranova.”

“When did they change their minds?”

“Not sure. The first mention I can find of Capella is in an interview given by an Orion executive six months after the award dinner.”

“Does he say why they were making the switch?”

“He doesn’t mention Terranova at all. And something else: Delesandro changed her address during the next semester.”

“Don’t tell me. From poorer to richer.”

“I couldn’t get the specifics, Boss, but I got a look at the properties. The new one’s definitely upscale.”

Wolfie said he’d let him know if he got anything more. MacAllister rode the train into Alexandria, got off, and was on his way up to the street when Moore called again. “I checked the data file,” he said. “And the pictures.”

“And —?”

“It’s not the same object.”

“You mean the asteroid that hit the hotel is not in the file.”

“That’s correct.”

“But it was one of the larger objects in the system, Dr. Moore. Doesn’t it seem strange that she didn’t include it in the general catalogue?”

“Not necessarily. A planetary system is a big place. She might simply have missed it.”

HE GOT HOME, glad to be away from the noise and general tumult in Derby. He dropped his bags inside the front door, collapsed onto the sofa, and called Hutch. She was in a meeting, but she got back to him a few minutes later. “What’s going on, Mac?”

“How well do you know Charlie Dryden?”

“Not that well. Why?”

“Don’t trust him.”

“I don’t. What brings the subject up?”

“I’m pretty sure the attack on the Galactic was faked.”

Her eyes slid momentarily shut, and her lips tightened. “What makes you think so?”

“I’m still working on the details. I’ll give you everything I have when I can.”

“I don’t see how it’s possible, Mac.”

He explained how it might have been managed.

“That implies,” she said, “Terranova, too.”

“Yes.”

“How sure are you, Mac?”

“I don’t think there’s much question.”

Hutch’s dark eyes smoldered. “If you’re right, you know what it means about Valya.”

He knew. God help him, he knew. “But I don’t see how she could have managed it.”

“Damn,” she said. “It never did feel right.”

“I thought the same thing.”

“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t going to be easy on you.”

“In what way?”

“Come on, Mac. I’m not blind.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Okay.” She played with a pen. Dropped it on her desktop. The silence stretched out. “All right. Let me get out of your way.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Nothing for the moment. Until I find out what’s going on at Origins. Maybe that’s faked, too. We’re going to want to take a look at the Ophiuchi monitor.”

“Why?”

“To nail things down.”

“How do you figure she did it? Did she rig the monitor in some way?”

“That’s the way I’d have done it.”

“Tell me how.”

“All Valya had to do was load a doctored chip into it. If she did that, what we saw at Terranova, the sighting, everything, would have been pure showbiz.”

“But we saw the rock. We saw it from the ship. We all but landed on it. It was really there.”

“Sure. But you didn’t see the moonriders. You didn’t see what put it on course for Terranova.”

“You’re saying it could have been an ordinary ship.”

“Yes.”

“One of ours?”

“Sure. The asteroid wasn’t that big. Not like the one at Capella. Any of the major corporates could have managed it.”

“That might explain why we had to go back to the monitor to do repairs.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. You had to repair the monitor?”

“Yes. It was in The National’s account.”

“I missed it. And I guess I didn’t look as closely as I should have at the trip report.”

“She was removing the chip,” said MacAllister.

“Sure.” Hutch took a deep breath. “How do you explain what happened to Amy?”

“Bought and paid for? Like Valya?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe that.”

AN HOUR LATER he got through to Delesandro. She recognized his name. “It’s quite an honor, Mr. MacAllister,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She was a middle-aged woman. Light brown hair, dark blue sweater thrown over her shoulders, fireplace visible off to one side. A bookcase behind her. She looked scared.

“Yes, Dr. Delesandro. I think there is. I wanted to talk to you about your work in The Planetary Field Journal. From Capella.”

She tugged at the sweater. “That’s a few years back.”

“Doctor, you’re aware of the incident at Capella last week.”

“Of course.”

“The asteroid in question was of a significant size. Apparently, judging by your work, there were only a handful in the entire system that were larger.”

“That’s correct.” Her voice was soft. He had to strain to hear her.

“The asteroid that hit the Galactic doesn’t appear anywhere in your report.”

“Yes, I know. I obviously missed it. When I did the survey.”

“How would that happen?”

She held up one braceleted arm in a who-knows gesture. “Planetary systems are very big, Mr. MacAllister. A lot of empty space.”

“I keep hearing that.”

“I’d be surprised if I hadn’t missed others.”

“Really?”

“Any general survey like mine is necessarily a hit-or-miss proposition. We look at the overall structure of a system; we don’t try to categorize everything.”

“But the asteroid would have been somewhere in the inner system.”

“Who knows? If these moonrider creatures have the capability they seem to possess, it might have come from anywhere.”

“I see.”

“Was there anything else I can help you with?” She was trying hard to look at ease.

“Yes. My information is that a survey of this type, by its nature, does try to perform a comprehensive sweep.”

“‘Comprehensive’ is a relative term, Mr. MacAllister.”

“Doctor, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the asteroid — the very large asteroid — that you didn’t notice happened to be the one that struck the Galactic?”

She swallowed. “Not at all. I — ”

“Do you think there might be any others of that size you missed?”

“I don’t know. I really do not know. It’s certainly possible. Likely, in fact.”

“I understand you’re acquainted with Charlie Dryden.” He made it a simple statement of fact.

She had to think it over. “Not well,” she said.

“You understand, Doctor, that Dryden and his people conspired to put lives at risk. That you were party to that conspiracy.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. MacAllister. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She looked like a cornered rabbit. The woman wasn’t used to lying. “Let me tell you what happened,” he said. “During the survey mission you discovered that one of the asteroids, a big one, was going to have a close encounter with Alpha II. Literally skim the top of the atmosphere.

“You came home and started putting your results together. During that period, you met Dryden at the Bannerman Award ceremony at Broken Brook. Maybe you knew him earlier. I don’t know. But during the course of the event, you mentioned the asteroid. He got interested, and either then or later, he asked you to omit it from your report. And paid a considerable sum in exchange for your forgetting about it altogether.”

“Mr. MacAllister, you have a wild imagination. For God’s sake, I wouldn’t tamper with the results of a study like that. Ask any of my colleagues. They know I wouldn’t.”

“Anybody can make a mistake, Doctor.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“You can listen now, or you can read about it in The National.”

“This is crazy,” she said, and broke the connection.

DECISIONS FOR THE upcoming issue were only two days away. MacAllister went back to reading copy, analyses by Ar-leigh Grant (“The Wolf in the Garden: Why the Greenhouse War Is Going Nowhere”) and Chia Talbott (“Looking Back from the Parthenon”). There was also a clutch of book reviews, including one that was going to generate an angry reaction from the author, a prize-winning historian who had apparently lost his ability to think straight. He was interrupted periodically by calls, mostly from his writers.

One was from Delesandro.

“Okay,” she said. She was sitting straight up.

“Okay what, Doctor?”

“You’re right. But I didn’t have any idea what it was about. I didn’t know what he intended to do until I heard the reports that it would hit the hotel.”

He was thinking about Mark Twain again. “They deliberately built the hotel in its path.”

“Apparently so.”

“Apparently?”

“Yes. That’s what they did.”

“It was a nice piece of engineering. They needed perfect timing.”

“Yes. Yes, they did.”

“When you realized what they’d done, did you talk to him about it?”

“Yes.”

“What reason did he give you?”

“He said something about wanting to provide a surprise for a group of tourists.”

“And that made sense to you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“But you didn’t ask too many questions.”

“No.”

“Was it a generous payment?”

“Not for what I’m going through now, no.”

“Okay.”

“Can you keep my name out of it?”

“No. I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Give me the details, and I promise the story will not be unsympathetic. I doubt you’ll need to worry about formal charges.”

“You don’t understand. My reputation will be ruined, Mr. MacAllister. It’ll be the end of my career.” She looked desperate.

“I’m sorry,” MacAllister said. “I have no control over that.”

He’d already written the story. When he got off the circuit, he brought it up again on-screen, made a few minor changes, and wrote in the title: “The Capella Hoax: Orion Tours Invents a Few Moonriders.”

He had no doubt that, by the time the investigation ended, there’d be conspiracy indictments against half a dozen major corporations. He read through it one more time. Satisfied, he forwarded a copy to Dryden, inviting him to comment.

Then he called Hutch. She was in another meeting, so he left the information with her AI.

MACALLISTER ALWAYS READ himself to sleep. That evening he was starting an exposé of government waste and corruption titled The Last Honest Man. He had not yet finished the introduction when Tilly informed him he had a call. “Dryden?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

MacAllister put on a robe and went into his study. Dryden’s image was standing waiting for him. The man was absolutely white. “What do you mean by this, MacAllister?” he demanded, struggling to keep his temper. He waved a few sheets of paper in the air. But his hand trembled. “If you print any of this, I’ll sue. I’ll end up owning The National.”

“Is that your comment?” MacAllister asked in a level voice.

“So help me — ”

“Okay. We’ll be locking it down tomorrow. You want to respond, you have until six P.M. to get it to me. Good night.”

MacAllister signaled Tilly to close the circuit. “He’ll call back,” he said. “Tell him to put it in writing. I don’t want to be bothered.”

The Origins Project is simultaneously the most ambitious scientific and engineering operation in history. The discoveries that await can, at this time, only be the subject of speculation. It’s painful to realize that no one in my generation will live to see its completion.

— Paul Allard, The New York Times, Friday, May 8

chapter 37

Lies hold civilization together. If people ever seriously begin telling each other what they really think, there’d be no peace. Good-bye to tact. Good-bye to being polite. Good-bye to showing tolerance for other people’s buffooneries. The fact that we claim to admire Truth is probably the biggest lie of all. But that’s part of the charade, part of what makes us human, and we do not even think about it. In effect, we lie to ourselves. Lies are only despicable when they betray a trust.

— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

Hutch watched the transmission from MacAllister with mounting anger. Valya had betrayed them all. Delesandro’s admission clinched it.

It explained why Asquith had been so insistent that Valya pilot the mission. “Marla,” she said, “get the commissioner for me.”

How much was true and how much concocted? Was any of it true?

“Hutch, the commissioner’s office reports he’s away on personal business. Unavailable until Monday. Myers is acting.” The personnel officer.

It was of course just like him. Anything blows up, somebody else takes the fall. The rescue fleet Hutch had cobbled together was on the way. Nine ships in all, plus the Salvator. If she’d been misled also about the projected attack on Origins, as her instincts told her she surely was, she was going to look extraordinarily foolish, as would the Academy. The media would have a field day with her. Furthermore, her actions would play directly into the hands of Taylor and the others who were trying to squeeze the organization. She’d been less rattled when she’d been blundering through the clouds over Maleiva III.

It put her in the curious position of hoping for a catastrophe. It was not something she was quite ready to admit to herself, let alone anybody else. But there it was. And with it came an overwhelming sense of guilt. That she was prepared to see people put at risk to be proven right.

Marla broke into her thoughts. “There’s an incoming transmission from the Salvator.”

She was trembling with rage. “Put it up, Marla,” she said. “Let’s see what the bitch has to say.”

Valentina’s image appeared, seated on the bridge. She was wearing the light and dark blue Academy jumpsuit. Not for much longer, though.

“We’ve made the transition into Origins space,” Valya said. “Preliminary long-range scan indicates negative results, but we’re still a long way out. Anticipate arrival at the facility in six hours.”

A few minutes later she was back with more: “I’ve talked with the East and West Towers, and they report nothing unusual.”

Hutch froze the image. Valentina had been a trusted Academy pilot for fifteen years. She wondered how it had happened. Had she been bought? Or had she done this out of some misplaced idealism? Not that it mattered.

She wondered briefly if she would herself have been tempted to rig the game to save the Academy. It was a thought she quickly thrust aside.

“I’ll keep you updated. Salvator out.”

Out was the operative word.

Valya and Hutch had never been close, had never been on an extended operation together. But Hutch had come to respect her. She’d fire the woman, of course. The only question was whether she should also prosecute. She’d have preferred to let everything ride until the Salvator returned. Then deal with it face-to-face. But MacAllister knew, and Dryden knew, so it was going to be getting around, and she had no doubt one or the other would be in touch with her, Dryden to tell her to look out, MacAllister to vent his rage at being lied to.

“Marla,” she said, “message for the Salvator.”

“When ready.”

“Routine precedence. Captain’s eyes only.”

“Very good.”

She sat for several moments, collecting her thoughts. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to terminate someone, but it had never before felt so personal. “Valya,” she said. “I would have preferred to do this here. You’ll probably be getting a message from the people at Orion, and I thought you should hear it first from me. We know what happened at Terranova, and at the Galactic.

“We haven’t accounted for Amy’s experience. If you can shed light on that, if you know beyond question that’s another hoax, then let’s just forget this pony ride. Turn around and come home.

“If you don’t have an explanation for what happened to her, stay on-station at Origins until we can relieve you. You’re of course aware that, if an attack is coming, we have no idea what form it may take.”

She wanted to say more, to express her sense of betrayal and outrage, but putting it into a transmission where she couldn’t see a reaction just didn’t give her the satisfaction she wanted.

chapter 38

Truth is slippery, not because it is difficult to grasp, but because we prefer our preconceptions, our beliefs, our myths. It’s why nations are so often surprised by people like Napoleon and Hitler and Guagameil. Why individuals still buy natural cures for arteriosclerosis. Why we hire door-to-door guys to fix the roof.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Show Me the Money”

Mission Operations kept Valya informed who was coming behind her. And when they were expected to arrive at Origins. All TOAs of course, depending on how good the jumps were. What a donkey drill.

But she played along, shaking her head at the commotion caused by one hysterical teenager. She was surprised Hutch had bought the story. The woman was usually too clear-eyed to be taken in like this.

She was uncomfortable with the situation. She didn’t like deceiving friends, didn’t like withholding information. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, providing the Academy with a badly needed boost. But events had ballooned out of control. Who could have believed when she agreed to help Dryden that Amy would get some kind of night sweats case, claim to have held a conversation with moonriders, and throw everything into chaos? She’d seemed like such a sensible kid.

Eric was in the right-hand seat. He enjoyed being on the bridge, probably imagining how it would feel to take the Salvator into his own hands and guide her into the East Tower dock.

“Transmission from Hutch,” said Bill. “Eyes only.”

Uh-oh.

With no one else on board save Eric, she could imagine only one reason for that designation.

She took a deep breath and became more aware of the acceleration. She was in the middle of a course correction, pushing her into her seat, squeezing her chest, and reminding her of the immense power of the machine in which she sat. Not unlike a good male, she thought. A lot of power, and just barely under control.

She’d suspected all along, despite Dryden’s assurances, that eventually they’d be caught. But it shouldn’t have come so soon. She’d told herself that when it did come out, it would happen only after the plan had failed and the Academy went back to closing down its operations, or after a success, when the big starships were heading out again in a new age of exploration. In either case, it wouldn’t have mattered all that much. Certainly, in the latter event she’d have been more than willing to accept personal disgrace, secure that in the long view her contribution would be appreciated.

But this was just too soon.

“I’ll take it in my cabin,” she told Bill, trying to suggest to Eric that such matters were routine. “In a few minutes.”

“They’re not going to tell us the moonriders have already hit the place, are they?” Eric asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s probably a personnel thing. Those always come in like this. Next assignment, probably.”

“You look pale.”

She summoned a smile. From way back. “I’m fine.” If they dismissed her, what would her chances be of catching on with one of the carriers?

Nil.

The drive shut down, and she released the harnesses. “I’ll be back,” she told Eric.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

He was an innocent. Despite the reputation that public relations people have for conniving, Eric actually believed everybody played by the rules. She wondered how good he was at his job.

She retreated to her cabin, closed the door, and took a deep breath. She should have told Hutch the truth when she started talking about sending the Salvator out here.

Too late now.

“Okay, Bill,” she said, “let’s see what Her Highness has to say.”

Hutch appeared in the center of the room. She was propped against the back of her desk. White blouse, blue neckerchief. Hair perfect. Eyes intense. The woman’s expression was enough to deliver the message.

“I would have preferred to do this here.”

Her heart quickened.

“You’ll probably be getting a message from the people at Orion.”

Anathema to it all. Didn’t the idiot realize she’d done it for her? Hutchins, if we leave the future to people like you, we’ll wind up sitting on the back side of the moon.

“…haven’t accounted for Amy’s experience. If you can shed light on that, if you know beyond question that’s another hoax, then let’s just forget this pony ride. Turn around and come home.”

Hutch, at least try to understand.

“If you don’t…stay on-station at Origins…”

At the end, Hutch seemed about to say something else, but abruptly she was gone, replaced by the Academy symbol. A scroll and lamp framing the blue Earth of the United World.

Well, you couldn’t blame the woman. Hutch was what she was. She’d have been willing to sit there and preside over the end of the Academy, and for that matter over the end of mankind’s future in space, and go down bravely with the ship.

Valentina Kouros, on the other hand, wasn’t one to stand idly by and accept disaster. She understood that Dryden and his corporate friends had used her, but she had used them, too. The space program was on the move again, and if it had taken some katafero, then so be it.

She wondered whether there’d be criminal charges.

Whatever happened, she could expect to live the rest of her life on the ground.

Well, okay. If that was the price she had to pay. “Bill, I have a response to the message. Director’s eyes only.”

“Ready.”

“Hutch,” she said, “I don’t know anything about Amy. We’ll proceed as directed to Origins, survey the area, and await relief.” She stared straight ahead, thinking what else to say. “At your pleasure.”

When the message had been transmitted, she wrote her resignation. Kept it short. Made it effective on her return to Union. And sent it off.

She returned to the bridge. Eric was sitting comfortably with his legs thrust out in front of him and his hands clasped behind his head. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

THEY WERE STILL several hours away from Origins.

Eric was a talker, but Valya was in no mood to keep up her end of a conversation about trifles. She suggested they retreat to the common room and watch a vid. He thought that was a good idea — Eric always liked entertainment — so they made themselves comfortable. It was his turn to make the selection and, probably in deference to her, he went with Thermopolae, an historical drama about the celebrated stand of the Spartans. “Do we want to do substitutions?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you like.”

Eric became Demetrios, a captain in the small Spartan force. “You look good in a horsehair helmet,” she told him, as he stood surveying the famous pass. He smiled modestly.

The female lead, now Valya, was an Athenian dancing girl who’d fallen in love with Demetrios. They watched it through to the end, including a ridiculous scene in which the two lovers — she has refused to leave his side — hold off a small army of Persians before finally succumbing.

While it played out, she decided there was no point hiding the truth from Eric. He was going to find out eventually. So the credits rolled and the vid makers informed them that the sacrifice of the Spartans had bought valuable time and thereby saved western civilization, and she steeled herself for the ordeal.

When the lights came on, Eric commented that it was a strong show, and how painful it had been to see her killed off at the end. “Eric,” she said, “I have a confession to make.”

There was no spoiling his mood. He was a man on a mission. Making his life count for something. Maybe not Demetrios. But a spear-carrier. Or maybe just somebody bringing the water. And she was about to tell him it had all been a hoax. “You’ve fallen desperately in love with me,” he said.

She took his wrist in her hands. “I wish that were it.”

His voice changed: “What’s wrong?”

“Eric, I’ve been lying to you. All along.”

“About what?”

It went with a rush. The bogus transmission from the Ophiuchi monitor. How the Terranova asteroid had been aimed months ago by a pair of Orion cargo haulers. How the other asteroid, the one at Capella, was also a fabrication. Orion had known about it well in advance, she said, and they’d put the hotel precisely at the impact point. “I didn’t realize they’d play it so close,” she said. “They had the timing for the rescue down, but it was a near thing. If I’d known…”

He listened, at first merely frowning, but gradually she watched his features darken. Had it been Mac, who often looked irritated, it would not have meant so much. Mac was accustomed to dealing with liars. But Eric, easygoing, amiable Eric, was different. He was not simply angry; he was hurt.

He struggled to respond. And she wondered what there was for him to say after she’d played them all for idiots. It’s okay, Valya. No hard feelings. I understand.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Then just sat there.

He looked past her. At the bulkhead. At the open hatch to the bridge. At the spot where the Athenian dancing girl and her Spartan captain had stood against the Persians. “Thanks for telling me,” he said.

He seemed frozen to his seat.

“If you want, Eric, I’ll let you off at the station. Hutch knows. She’s sending another ship as soon as she can find one. To relieve us. If you don’t mind waiting around, you’d be able to go home with them.”

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He stared down at her. “I’m not the one you’re going to have to answer to.”

The air in the room felt warm and close. “I’ve written my resignation. I’ll be lucky if Hutch doesn’t press charges.”

He got up and started for the passageway. “I wasn’t talking about Hutch,” he said.

VALYA HAD NEVER seen a moonrider. She’d seen pictures, supposedly taken live, but she knew how easily those could be generated. She simply didn’t believe the moonriders existed. Call it denial. Call it provincialism. To her, it was a question of accepting her instincts. She no more expected to see aliens in superluminals than the eighteenth-century explorers expected to find Pacific island natives in capital ships.

The current mission — presumably her last — was an exercise in futility, but it had been assigned, so she’d do what was required, as she always had. Almost always. In any case, she was in no hurry to go back.

They rode through the void in strained silence. Eric had remained only a few minutes in his cabin before apparently thinking better of his reaction. He returned to the common room and tried to behave as if he hadn’t walked off on her. But there was no getting around the abysmal cloud that occupied the middle of the room. “I take it,” he said finally, “there’s no threat. Was Amy bought, too?”

That scored a direct hit. “I never took a cent,” she said. “I did it because I thought it was something that needed to be done.”

His features were rigid. “Tell me about Amy.”

“I don’t know anything about Amy. I wasn’t there. For all I know, it really happened.”

“Can I believe you now?”

“I don’t lie,” she said.

“Of course not.” He picked up his reader and began paging through it, trying to behave as though she wasn’t there.

“Eric,” she said, “I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry you got involved. There was nothing personal in it.”

“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter much one way or the other.”

When he pretended to bury himself in his reading, she went up onto the bridge.

WHEN THE SALVATOR got within range of Origins, she reactivated the sweep. “Look for asteroids,” she told Bill.

“There will be no asteroids here, Valya,” he said. “It is no small matter to find even a dust particle. This area was chosen for the Origins Project for that very reason.”

“Do the sweep anyhow, Bill,” she said. “Let me know if you see anything.”

She felt like a damned fool. Eric never looked up. She walked past him and went below to conduct an inventory of the breathers Hutch had sent along. She counted eight, some with a two-hour air supply, most with four.

What had Hutch expected her to do with eight units? There were almost two hundred people at Origins.

She stayed below more than an hour. When she was finished with the inventory, she opened the hatch to the lander and slipped into the pilot’s seat. The cargo bay was dark and quiet. She sat staring at the launch doors. Finally, the tears came, and the emotions she’d been holding back overwhelmed her. My God, she thought, what have I done?

The launch doors beckoned. She could instruct Bill to take Eric to Origins. She pictured herself adrift in the lander, air running out, waiting for the end. Hutch would shake her head and comment how she’d had it coming.

She tried to steel herself to do it. Get it over with. It was a way to show that, despite everything they thought about her, she was an honorable woman.

Mac also probably knew the truth by now. There was a guy who would know how to forgive. She could imagine him looking at her with those belligerent eyes and shaking his head. And walking away from her.

Never darken my door.

She was close to doing it. At least she thought she was. She actually closed the hatch and sat trying to find the words to tell Bill to depressurize the launch section.

But she’d promised she’d check for asteroids.

What a laugh.

Was there a chance, any chance at all, that monsters would come out of nowhere on a vector for one of the towers?

Still, she’d said she would do a sweep.

She desperately wanted a reason to prolong her life. And it was all she had.

When you depressurize, you can hear it at first. Hear the air getting sucked out. After a couple of minutes the sound goes away because there’s not enough air to carry it. She wiped her eyes and wished there were a way to make everything right.

People like to say they’re not afraid of dying. Valya was. The time in daylight is so short, so marvelous. She hated the thought of plunging into the night. Of taking that final deep dive into annihilation.

It would have been easier if she were leaving behind an admirable record. If she could believe Mac would stand at night and look at the stars and remember that she had been part of his life. If Hutch would regret the loss, even a little, and the Academy, or maybe a small group of friends, would hold a service for her, where someone would cry.

SHE WAS STILL hours away when she braked, connected with the facility’s approach beam, and made final course adjustments. From this point she would not use her engines.

The preliminary sweeps, as she knew they would, revealed only empty space in all directions. Eventually the Salvator drew within visual range of the East Tower. Abiding by procedure, she sent an audio-only report to Mission Ops: “We read negative 6.5 million kilometers out. Assuming maximum approach velocity of twenty-five kps, predict no threat can materialize within next three days.”

The chance of finding a rock coming in faster than that was pretty much nil.

She could imagine Hutchins sitting in her office, amused at Valya’s being forced to turn her last mission into a wild goose chase.

AHEAD, THE EAST Tower floated in the dark. It was visible only as a circle of starless space. A transmission was coming in. “Welcome to the Origins Project, East Tower.”

“Hello, East Tower. Salvator requests clearance to dock.”

“Very good, Salvator. We’ll bring you in.”

“Buckle in, Eric,” she said.

He had made an effort to lighten the mood. Told her he wished her luck and changed the subject. But the atmosphere remained tense, and there wasn’t much anyone could do about it.

Controlled by the complex of gravity fields. they eased into the dock, and a familiar voice came over the link. “Hi, Valya. I heard you were coming.” It was Lou Cassell. “We didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. Still chasing moonriders, are we?”

It was nice to hear an unstrained human voice again. Eric had completely lost the ability to talk with her. He sounded by turns sad, apologetic, accusing, deferential. But good old Lou was just the tonic she needed. “Actually, there’s some concern they might be coming here,” she said.

“That’s what we heard. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to it, Lou.”

“I’ll tell you, Val, if they were to show up here and start dropping rocks on us, I’m not sure what we’d be able to do about it.”

She laughed. “Relax, Lou. We’ve all gone a little bit crazy.”

Airlocks opened. She climbed out of her harness and walked back to the common room. Eric was back in his cabin, getting his gear.

Lou came through the hatch, and she told him how glad she was to see him. He looked surprised at the intensity of the embrace he got. His smile brightened the place and made her feel human again. “Good to see you both,” he said. At which point she realized Eric was back. “Anybody else on board? No? Well, come on in and make yourselves comfortable. Are you going to stay over?”

“For a day or two,” she said. “If you have room for us.”

They went out the hatch and strolled through the exit tube. “There really is talk about moonriders,” she said.

“I know.” Lou obviously thought the subject laughable. “Apparently, your people got in touch with Allard, and he let us know. We got a message from a reporter, too. Saying the same thing. Telling us to look out.”

“MacAllister?”

“Yeah. That might have been the name.”

That caused a twinge. “I assume everybody had a good laugh.”

He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, it shook us up a little. I mean, it sounds crazy, but if the Academy was taking it seriously, we were, too. I mean, that business at Capella was really strange.” He looked at her, then at Eric. “You want to tell me what all this is about? I understand you saw moonriders at the Surveyor site, but I don’t see how that would translate into an attack against us.”

“We didn’t really see them, Lou,” she said. “The monitor reported some dark objects moving around. That’s all we know.” That had surprised her when it happened. But she suspected there was a natural explanation.

Eric gave her a nod of approval. Yes, keep Amy out of it. “Anyhow,” he said, “they just wanted us to come by and make sure everything’s okay.”

This time they got to meet Mahmoud Stein, the East Terminal director. Stein appeared to be well past retirement age. He had black hair and brown eyes that never seemed to come quite into focus. He was smaller than she was, solemn, with perfect diction, enunciating each word as if it were being recorded for posterity. He shook their hands and said how pleased he was to meet them. But he also laughed about the moonriders. “Do you people really think we’re going to get attacked by little green men?”

“No,” she said. “I think the Academy is just being cautious.”

Stein had better things to do, and he let her see it. “It’s just like Allard, though,” he said. “He warns us of something like this and doesn’t bother to send anyone to help if it were to materialize. We have seventy-two people here, with no way to move any of them off in a hurry if we had to. I guess that tells you how seriously he was taking it.”

Valya shrugged. “You don’t have a ship here anywhere, I guess?”

“We have two shuttles.”

“Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t worry about it. And we have ships on the way. To stand by. Just in case.”

He shook his head, a man in the employ of morons. Something in the gesture reminded her of Mac. “I suspect it is a waste of resources, young lady. But nevertheless I appreciate your concern. It’s nice to know somebody cares.”

“I have a question for you, Professor,” said Eric. “Valya says rockets and maneuvering jets aren’t allowed anywhere near the collider.”

“That’s correct.”

“But you have shuttles.”

“Two of them at each tower, yes.”

“How are they powered?”

“Some of our people would tell you by hot air.”

“I’m serious.”

Stein laughed. “They operate within magnetic and gravitational fields projected from stations along the tube. They orient with clutched gyros. It’s quite effective.”

“Suppose there’s an emergency?”

“If necessary, they can maneuver by ejecting tennis balls.”

“Tennis balls.”

Valya smiled. “The director is pulling your leg, Eric.”

“Well,” said Stein, “actually they’re trackable missiles. But they look like tennis balls.”

THEY WERE REINTRODUCED to a few of the people they’d met on the first flight. To Jerry Bonham, a quiet, nervous guy from Seattle. His specialty, Lou explained, was flow dynamics. “He’s been here six months. I think he hopes to make this his home.” And Lisa Kao Ti, an engineer, part of the team seeing to the expansion of the collider.

“It’s been, what, a month since you were here?” Lisa asked. “We’re about three hundred kilometers longer than we were then.”

“And this is Felix Eastman,” he said, introducing them to a copper-skinned man in a bright yellow shirt. “From North Dakota. Felix is working on Blueprint.”

They were in a lounge. There were probably a half dozen others present, and all conversations stopped when Eric asked whether there was any general danger attached to the project. “There is a slight risk,” Eastman conceded. He was young, not yet out of his twenties. “But the odds are heavily against any kind of major mishap.” He smiled. Nothing to worry about.

“But it is possible there could be a problem?”

“Mr. Samuels, anything not prohibited is possible. Yes, of course there’s a possibility. But so small that we really need not concern ourselves with it.”

“If this mishap were to occur, worst-case scenario, what would it entail? What would happen?”

“Worst-case?” He looked around and they all grinned. “Lights out, I guess.” He actually sounded enthusiastic at the prospect. Valya watched quietly. Talent did not always make people bright.

Another young man stepped forward. Again, not much more than a kid. But she could see he had a high opinion of himself. “Maybe I can help,” he said. “My name is Rolly Clemens. I’m the project director for Blueprint.”

Eric nodded. “Glad to meet you, Professor.” He shook hands, but looked uncomfortable. Calling a kid “professor” must have seemed out of order. “Tell me about the possibility of catastrophe.”

“Eric,” he said, “there isn’t much that is not possible.” He adopted a tolerant expression. “But I don’t think you need worry.”

“You’re sure.”

“Of course.”

“If the ‘lights out’ thing were to happen — ”

“It won’t — ”

“Indulge me. If it were to occur, it would also involve Earth, right?”

Clemens was trying to be patient. They were talking nonsense. “Yes,” he conceded. “It would involve everything.”

“How long would it take before the effects were felt? At home?”

“A little more than twenty years.”

“Why so long?”

“Because,” he said, shifting to lecture mode for slow students, “it would cause a rift, and the rift would travel at light speed.” He looked bored. Been through all this before.

What the hell, you can’t live forever.

“If you’re really worried about it,” he continued, “you needn’t be. The chances of something like that occurring are so remote they defy imagination.”

A woman stepped out of the crowd. Plain-looking, black hair, also in her twenties. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. The comment earned her a glare. But she plunged on. “Who’s to say it can’t happen. Who’s calculating the odds? We’re in unknown territory here.”

“Oh, come on, Barb,” said Clemens. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

“In the end,” said Eastman, “you can’t be certain of anything. But what’s life worth if we don’t take an occasional chance?” He was trying to make a joke of it.

She threw up her hands. “You people know it all. No need for me to be concerned.”

“Doesn’t it strike you,” said Eric, “that if there’s any chance at all of a catastrophe on this order, we shouldn’t be doing the experiment?”

“It’s the nature of experimentation,” said Clemens. Whatever that meant.

LOU GOT DINNER for them. Afterward, Eric settled in with several others to listen to projections about the things mankind was going to learn from Origins when it was completed, in another century and a half. Did they think the construction effort would actually continue that long?

They were all convinced it would. Valya suspected it would become a casualty of belt-tightening before the year was over.

The facility was on Greenwich Mean Time, several hours ahead of the clock Eric and Valya had been living by. Consequently their hosts eventually peeled off and left them in an otherwise empty room.

She wished she could sit down at a radio and carry on a conversation with Hutchins. And Mac. She would have liked to be able to explain why she’d done what she had. Both of them probably believed she’d been bought. God knew what they thought of her.

She sat quietly while Eric talked about the downside of public relations, how people acted as if he were only a flack, how they refused to take him seriously. “They think I’m always trying to sell the product,” he was saying. Through a viewport, she could see the soft reflection given off by the collider, fading into infinity.

Yet, if she had it to do again, she would change nothing.

IN THE MORNING, she told Eric she was going to the West Terminal. Did he want to come?

She knew he was glad to be out of the ship’s confined quarters, and would probably have liked to put some distance between himself and her. But he was a gallant sort. Dull, but his heart was in the right place. “I’ll go along if you don’t mind,” he said.

They had breakfast in the cafeteria, said good-bye to Lou and a cluster of Eric’s newfound friends, climbed aboard the Salvator, and let the facility’s gravity controls launch them. The tubular weave of the accelerator glowed in their lights. They moved out along it, drifting past automated machines unwinding wire from spools and knitting it into the structure.

They passed one of the support rings every few seconds. Eventually, an hour or so away from the East Terminal, a couple thousand kilometers out, they approached the midsection of the accelerator, where particles were slammed into each other at the speed of light.

Eric seemed to be feeling better than he had. He’d made a peace of sorts with what she’d done, and they were even able to talk about it. He told her he understood her motivation, and he’d do what he could to help her keep her job.

That wasn’t going to happen. She knew that, but she appreciated his kindness. She was trying to think of a reply when Lou called them from the terminal. “Valya,” he said, “I think we have moonriders.”

I’m starting this because there’s a possibility that a record of events may be helpful later.

Valentina admitted to me yesterday that she was part of a conspiracy to perpetrate a hoax that would entice the government to spend large sums of money on interstellar exploration and on defense. “The truth is,” she told me, “we don’t really know what’s out there.” However that may be, she has proven herself untrustworthy. I regret her actions, because she didn’t think things out before allowing herself to get caught up in all this.

She says she cannot account, however, for Amy’s experience at the Surveyor museum. It’s possible the corporate entities behind this were able to arrange that as well. But I can’t see how, and I can’t bring myself to believe Amy would have been a participant. God help me, I hope not.

— Sunday, May 10

chapter 39

Decisions are always made with insufficient information. If you really knew what was going on, the decision would make itself.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Advice for Politicians,” Down from the Mountain

Valya ignited her engines — she wasn’t supposed to do that in the vicinity of the accelerator — and started a long turn. She relayed Lou’s message to Union Ops, with the comment she was on her way back to the East Tower.

While the Salvator shed velocity and swung wide of the tube, Lou kept her apprised of the situation: “They’re just floating out there. Two of them. About twenty kilometers away. Black globes.”

“No lights anywhere?”

“Negative.”

“You try to talk to them?”

“They don’t respond, Valya.”

“Lou,” she said, “you might want to think about evacuating.”

“We have no way to do that.”

“Can you put me through to Stein?”

“As a matter of fact, he wants to speak with you. Hold on.”

Stein appeared. The self-contained vaguely superior mode was gone. “Do you two know something you haven’t been telling me?”

“No,” said Valya. Damned if she was going to drag Amy into this. Anyhow, what difference would it make?

“You have no idea what those things are?”

“No.”

“Why do you think they’re a threat?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m listening.”

“One of our people may have talked to them.”

“And what did they say?”

“She says they told her to arrange the evacuation of the Origins Project. Because they were going to destroy it. That’s why the Academy contacted Allard.”

“Why? What’s it about?”

“They mentioned Blueprint.”

“It might have helped if you’d told me all this last night.”

“Professor, I didn’t think you’d have believed me.”

“I’m not sure I believe you now.”

“We’re wasting time. What are you going to do about evacuating?”

“Not much. I have seventy-one people here. Seventy-two counting me. I’ve got two shuttles. What am I supposed to do with everybody else?”

“Get as many off as you can.”

“You really think they’re going to shoot at us? If that’s the case, we’re safer in here. The shuttles are too exposed.”

She didn’t know what to tell him. Didn’t know what she believed. “Maybe we should just take them at their word.”

“What do you mean, ‘their word’? Could you please describe the nature of the conversation? How’d it happen?”

“We thought the person imagined it. It’s beginning to look as if there’s more to it than that.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Have you informed the other tower yet?”

“We’re doing that now. Damn. I don’t believe this is happening.”

“Neither do I, Professor.”

He scattered a stack of pens and chips across his desktop. “Okay. I’ll get as many people off as possible. But when this is over, somebody’s head is going to roll.”

“We’ll be there as quickly as we can. We can take some of your people.”

He switched off, and an uncomfortable silence settled on the bridge. “Ta kaname thalassa.”

“What’s that again?” asked Eric.

“We screwed up.”

“You can’t really take a dream seriously,” he said. “How long will the air supply last in the shuttles?”

“Don’t know. They’ll cram them to capacity, which won’t help.” She took a deep breath. “Bill, outgoing to Hutchins.”

“Ready.”

“Hutch, we’ve got moonriders. Two of them so far. Stein is evacuating the East Tower. As much as he’s able. Let the incoming ships know. I’ll keep you informed.”

Lou came back. “Nobody knows what to think. It’s pretty hard to believe.”

“I know.”

“The moonriders are still keeping their distance.” He stopped to say something to someone out of the picture. She could hear laughter in the background. And someone saying he was in the middle of a job, find somebody else. Then a hand passed him a note. “They tell me I’m wrong. They’re coming closer.”

“Are you loading the shuttles yet?”

“No. They were both down the line. One of them’s coming in now.”

They had finally completed their turn and were starting back toward the East Tower. Off to port, the thin wire strands of the collider flashed occasionally as they raced past. Valya looked ahead, could see only stars.

“Okay, they are getting closer. No question about it. How far out are you, Valya?”

“Not far. Twenty minutes or so.”

“You think we’re really in trouble?”

She felt helpless. “I just don’t know, Lou. How are they deciding who goes on board the shuttles?”

“Volunteers.”

Volunteers? To stay or go?

“Okay, the white shuttle’s pulled in. They’re running the boarding tube out now.”

“Can’t we move faster?” asked Eric.

“We’re at optimal. Have to be able to stop when we get there.”

“Opening up.”

Valya was uncertain what she should do when she arrived. Try to drive off the globes? Or dock and take more people on board?

“Okay. There we go. We’re starting to load.”

“How many can you put into a shuttle?”

“Eight. Counting the pilot.”

“What kind of shuttles are they?”

“TG12s. Both of them.”

She looked toward the AI’s status lamp. “Specs, Bill?”

“The TG12 is designed to hold a total of six. They can accommodate eight, but it won’t be comfortable.”

“I doubt they care about comfort,” said Eric. “How far away is the fleet?”

“The closest is seven or eight hours,” she said.

“Not going to be much help.”

“The globes have closed to within about a kilometer.”

“Bill, try to raise the damned things tou diaolou. See if we can get a response. And while you’re at it, get me the West Tower.”

“Complying.”

“Shuttle’s full,” said Lou. “Closing up. The other one’s in sight now.”

“West,” said a male voice.

“This is the Salvator. You know the situation at the East Tower?”

“Not really, Salvator. We can’t figure out what’s going on.”

“Is anything unusual happening at your end?”

“Everything’s quiet. No moonriders.”

“There’s a possibility you will come under attack shortly.”

“Attack? Why? What sort of attack?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“Save the humor. You might need it later.”

“Valya,” said Lou, “the white shuttle’s away. Blue shuttle coming in now.”

“Are the globes still coming closer?”

“Negative. They’re holding steady.”

“Okay. Let me know if anything changes. West, tell whoever’s in charge over there he may have to evacuate on short notice.”

“I’ll tell her, Salvator, but she isn’t going to be happy.”

Right. Her feelings are significant at the moment. “Bill, show me a picture.”

The navigation screen, which had been providing images of the collider tube immediately ahead, abruptly shifted. The terminal and the globes came into view. Infrared images. The globes were side by side.

“Distance between them,” said Bill, “is one two zero meters. They’re manipulating gravity fields. The objects are identical. I can pick up devices on the hull. Sensors, antennas. Cones that might be communications gear or possibly weapons.”

“Are they responding to query?”

“Negative. They are silent.”

“Okay. Keep trying.”

“The objects are seventy-seven meters in diameter. Perfect spheres, save for a series of ribs or ridgelines.”

“Loading the blue shuttle,” said Lou.

She had a bad feeling. “Are you getting on this one, Lou?”

“No. I feel safer here.”

Something about the way the two vehicles were lined up chilled her. “You might get on if you can.”

“We’ll be okay.”

“West Tower calling,” said Bill. “Dr. Estevan. She is the deputy director.”

Terri Estevan was a tense woman who looked as if she never smiled. Brown hair starting to go gray. Thin lips. Not somebody who’d liven up a party. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Valya went through a conversation similar to the one she’d had with Stein. Was this a serious threat? What was she supposed to believe? Through it all, there seemed to be the implication that it was Valya’s fault.

Somebody was going to answer some serious questions when this ended. Then she was gone, and Lou was back. “Blue shuttle away,” he said.

“Okay, Lou.” She watched it move out from the dock, headed along the tube in her direction.

“Something’s happening,” said Lou.

The globes were beginning to glow. Bill switched over to the telescopes, and they could see the objects, now bathed in orange auras.

They began to move. Drew closer together, until they were almost touching.

The Salvator was coming up fast. Valya began to brake.

The globes reddened.

A pair of scarlet beams winked on. Like lasers. One from each globe. They crossed each other and both went wide of the facility. Then they intersected, combined into a single luminous coruscating shaft. It struck the tower, which also began to glow.

“Look out, Lou,” Valya called.

“What’s happening?” demanded Lou.

The tower erupted in a fireball.

The notion that anyone intelligent enough to build a star drive would not be capable of malevolent behavior now ranks with other discarded ideas, like the conviction that a state capable of producing world-class symphonies would not invade its neighbors, or that serial killers are always half-wits.

— Rose Beetem, the Black Cat Network, Sunday, May 10

chapter 40

The beginning of wisdom is to admit to being inept. We’re all a bit slow. We have our moments, but in the end, we have to resort to bumbling through. It is what makes conviction so egregious.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Plato and the Comedians”

“ — smoking ruin — ”

Valya’s transmission described the destruction of the East Tower in a flat voice, her emotions barely under control.

“ — tower is gone — ”

It was a Sunday. Hutch relayed the message to the homes of the other department heads and of her staff.

“The shuttles are clear, and the moonriders seem willing to let them go.”

“George,” she said, “do we have any way of getting to the commissioner?”

“No, ma’am. He’s still listed as unavailable.”

She lowered herself into a chair and just watched. Valya’s image blinked off and was replaced by pictures from the Salvator’s scopes. Smoke and debris and two black globes.

“ — Still trying to reach them,” said Valya. “Maybe find a way to talk to them. If they talked to Amy, they must understand English, but I get no response.”

The head of personnel called. Doug Eberling. An excitable guy who’d found a home with the Academy and had no ambition other than to stay out of trouble. “Is that really happening, Hutch? My God, I can’t believe it.”

“ — To notify the West Tower. I’ve been talking to the shuttles. They’re okay. A little bit shocked.”

“Hutch,” said Eberling, “what can we do?”

“The shuttles are telling me power’s off in the tube. They aren’t getting their boost from the rings.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Eberling.

“It means,” said Hutch, “they don’t have much in the way of propulsion. Just a few missiles they can fire off and that’s it.”

Peter showed up on the circuit. “Looks like you were right, Hutch.”

“They’re moving,” said Valya. “The moonriders are moving again.” Her voice rose several decibels. “They’re following the tube. Hutch, they’re headed for the other tower.”

The Salvator’s scopes stayed with them. They’d lined up on either side of the collider and were beginning to pick up speed. Chasing the shuttles?

They moved frantically aside, trying to evade. But the globes cruised serenely past, making no effort to pursue. Thank God for that at least.

SHE INFORMED THEIR government liaison, so he could pass it up the chain of command. The World Council probably didn’t have the news yet. But it sounded as if a war had started.

Valya had sent information copies of the transmission to the ten ships of the rescue squadron. Hutch added a warning of her own: “They are hostile. Do not put yourself at unnecessary risk. We’ll send updates as soon as we get them.”

Another message went to Valya: “Do what you can, but don’t lose the Salvator. As the situation changes, please keep us informed. Continue information copies to the incoming vessels. Good luck.”

Then a call came in from Allard. “Goddam you,” he said. The man was literally sputtering. “We have at least fifty dead.” He stared at her across a vast gulf, struggling to contain his rage. “Where is Asquith?”

“He’s not available at the moment, Professor. I have a call in to him, and I’ll relay your concern when I’m able.”

“You may relay more than my concern. What did you people know that you neglected to tell me? How could you possibly let this happen?”

His voice trembled, and she thought he was close to cardiac arrest. “We gave you everything we had, Professor.”

“Nonsense! You told me something about a dream. An apparition.”

“We gave you what we had. It was your decision to sit on it.” Although she understood why he had chosen to ignore their warning. They had not, after all, been convinced themselves.

Abruptly, tears welled up in Allard’s eyes. “God help us,” he said.

THE NEWS WAS getting out. Hutch had several calls in succession from the media. She admitted that yes, an attack had occurred, but at the moment that was all she had. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

Then there was Charlie Dryden. She’d been too busy to tell him what she thought of him. When he called, though, it was obvious he knew Mac had spoken to her. He was tentative rather than his usual charge-the-battlements self. “Hutch,” he said, “I hate to bother you. But is it true?”

“Yes. We have a lot of people dead.”

“I don’t believe it.” He looked genuinely shocked.

“Is that by any chance because you thought the moonriders were your own invention?”

“Well, that’s not exactly true. Look, Hutch, we meant no harm.”

Interesting how the first-person pronoun he normally used had gone plural. “Cut the act, Charlie. Anyway, the details, at the moment, don’t matter. I’m busy. What do you need?”

“I was hoping I could do something to help.”

“You could have helped three days ago when we needed two carriers.”

“Look, Hutch,” he said, “what we did, I know that doesn’t sit well with you — ”

“It’s okay, Charlie. I enjoy being lied to.”

“You wouldn’t have come in willingly. We knew that. But we were trying to save the program — ”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“We had a ship standing by near the Galactic. In case there was a problem. Nobody was ever in danger.”

“If you don’t have anything else, I have to go.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t have anything else. I just wanted you to know this was something we felt we had to do. We wanted to protect the Academy.”

“Give me a break, Charlie. You and your pals don’t really care about the Academy, except as a wedge to get government contracts for your own outfit. Was the commissioner part of it?”

“No,” he said. “He didn’t know anything about it.”

“Well, at least you’re not a snitch, Charlie.”

“Hutch, I’d really be grateful if you could bring yourself to overlook this. I meant well.”

She smiled at him. “I take it you’re headed for court.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“I’ll try to arrange it. Good-bye, Charlie.”

GEORGE WAS USUALLY pretty unflappable. He was, after all, an AI. But when he whispered Hutch’s name a minute or two after she’d disconnected Dryden, he sounded impressed. “Call from the president,” he said.

Hutch thought she’d better sit down for this one. “Put him through, George.”

A young woman blinked on. Black hair, well dressed, artificial smile. “Please hold for President Crandall,” she said.

Hutch tried to arrange herself. Try to look cool. As if presidents call every day.

The woman was replaced by the man himself. Patrick O’Keefe Crandall, the first Canadian president, now in his third year. He was seated in an armchair, looking at a document — somehow it was a document and not simply a piece of paper — but when he saw her, he stood. “Ms. Hutchins. I’ve been meaning to have you over to the White House.” The New White House, actually. The old one, now an island, was a museum. He glowed with the charm that had helped him carry fifty-two states in the last election.

She stood, too. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”

“May I call you Hutch?”

“Yes, sir. Of course. Whatever you like.” Dumb.

He laughed. It was okay. “Hutch, I understand the facility at Origins is under attack.”

“Yes, Mr. President. That is so. They’ve destroyed the East Tower.”

“I’m also informed you have direct contact with a ship on the scene.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“Good. I want you to stay on top of this. Anything that comes in should be forwarded directly to me. Your AI has the code.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been informed you have a small squadron of ships on the way.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“That they left a couple days ago.”

“Yes.”

“You knew in advance an attack was coming.” He studied her carefully, trying to make up his mind about her. “I wonder if you’d explain how that happened.”

Her reluctance must have shown.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re on a secure circuit.”

So she told him everything. He listened, his expression composed, nodding occasionally, explaining he understood when she described her reaction to the story. She added they’d made an effort to keep Amy’s name out of it. If that story made the rounds, the kids at her school would never let her rest. And the media would be all over her.

“And you say the thing looked like you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened perceptibly. It was a reaction everybody in the country was familiar with. “Well,” he said, “they certainly have exquisite taste.”

She smiled at the compliment. “I don’t know where it came from.”

“We’ll give it some thought. Hutch, thank you for your efforts. And we’re grateful you didn’t wait to send out those ships.”

SHE SENT A warning to Valya to let her know her messages were being relayed directly to the White House. It would be two hours before she received it, probably too late to be of any practical value, but it was all she could do.

She’d just finished when another transmission came in from the Salvator. “We’ve checked with both shuttles. They’re okay for now. I’m going to leave them to get over to the West Tower on their own. There are sixteen souls on board. No sign anybody else made it.”

Hutch forwarded the message to the New White House and her other consumers. Then she called Amy.

“I’ve been watching it on the news,” Amy said, looking stricken. “How many dead?”

“Looks like upward of fifty.”

“I told you. Nobody would listen.”

“I’m sorry, Amy. You were right, and the rest of us were wrong. We should have trusted you from the first moment. But in the end we did listen. Because of you there’s a rescue fleet moving in. At the other terminal. A lot of lives will be saved.”

She shook her head. “Fifty dead. How could you let it happen?”

ORIGINS ATTACKED

Fifty-Six Feared Dead at Science Outpost

WORLD COUNCIL IN EMERGENCY SESSION

Pasturi to Issue Statement

DID ALIENS DO IT?

Random Attacks Baffle Experts

HAND OF GOD SERVES WARNING, SAYS TRAPLEY

“Some Things We Are Not Meant to Know”

Project Was Examining Creation

CRANDALL WILL ASSURE NATION

President to Speak Tonight

DEFENSE COMMITTEE CALLS FOR MORE SPENDING

HURRICANE HARRY TO MAKE LANDFALL TOMORROW

Evacuation in Carolinas, Georgia

During the late twenty-first century, when the Lysistrata movement was at the height of its power, and the world’s major powers were being forced to disband their militaries, there were those who warned that we would eventually regret the action. The assumption was that a rogue state would surreptitiously arm itself and create havoc in its region and possibly around the world. Eldrige Westin led the assault on Lysistrata. “Those who seek peace, but who are not willing to fight for it, will have no peace, and will quickly lose the ability to seek anything.” American women thanked him by voting him out of office.

It looks now as if the hour of retribution may be upon us. We have been attacked, not by our own kind but by something outside our experience. The politicians will not admit it but, whatever this force may be, we stand naked before it. If it comes here, we will have no defense other than to throw ripe fruit in its direction.

God help us.

— Marianthy Golazko, Parthenon, Sunday, May 10

chapter 41

The creative act requires both will and intelligence. Breaking things is easy. You only need a hammer.

— Gregory MacAllister, “On the Road”

Where the East Tower had been, there were only a few scorched struts and beams, somehow still connected to the collider tube. Black smoke and debris drifted away in all directions.

“Incoming transmission,” said Bill. “From one of the shuttles.”

It was audio only, three or four panicked voices. “Who the hell are they?”

“Salvator, is anybody coming?”

“They killed them all…”

And Bill again: “The other shuttle wants to talk to you, too. As does West.”

Ahead, something lit up the sky. And subsided.

“What was that?” asked Eric.

“I’ve no idea.” She told both shuttles she’d be with them in a minute and directed Bill to link with West. It was Estevan. If she’d been tense before, she looked on the verge of a breakdown now. “What’s happening out there?” she demanded. “We’ve been cut off from the Tower.”

“It’s been destroyed, Doctor. By alien hostiles. It looks as if they’re on their way over to see you.”

“My God. What do they want?”

“I think they disapprove of something you’re doing.”

“What are you talking about, Valya?”

“Let’s discuss it later. Stein managed to evacuate a few of his people. They weren’t attacked. So whatever’s driving these things, they want the structure gone. Not you. I suggest you get as many people off the platform as you can.”

“How am I supposed to do that? We have two shuttles and that’s it.” She paused, trying to collect herself. “When will they get here?”

“They’re just past the second ring.” She did the math. The rings were 150 kilometers apart. The globes had needed about ten minutes to get from the first ring to the second one. “If they maintain current velocity, you’ve got about five and a half hours.”

Why were they moving so slowly?

“Maybe that’s their top speed,” said Eric.

“I doubt it,” she said. “Bill, let’s go back to the shuttles.”

“Very good,” said Bill. “They’re panicked.”

He switched over. Screams and yells erupted from the speaker. “You’re safe,” said Valya. “They’re gone.”

A woman’s voice spilled out. Margo Somebody. “I’m the pilot. Salvator, do you see the bastards?”

“They’re well up the line. Headed away from you.”

“Toward West?”

“Looks like. Listen, stay put. Help’s coming. I’ll make sure somebody gets over here to pick you up. They’re still probably six or seven hours away. But just sit tight.”

She did a final search of the area, on the off chance she might have missed something. But there was no one on the commlink, and the scanners revealed no intact bodies anywhere. “Okay,” she told Eric, finally. “Let’s get out of here.” She swung back alongside the tube and began to accelerate.

Minutes later, they passed the first of the rings that supported the collider. It was charred. Now they knew what had flared up. A second ring was in the same condition.

Dead ahead, she made out the globes. They were dark, proceeding at a leisurely pace. On impulse, she slowed and blinked her navigation lights. The globes blinked back.

She tried a second time, but the phenomenon did not repeat.

“They’re taking the entire thing down,” said Eric.

“Apparently.” She brought Bill back up. “What’s the latest on the rescue fleet?”

“Valya, everything is currently on the way, but they’re all still in hyper. The Rehling is supposed to make its jump into local space in about an hour.” After which they’d need some time to get to the Tower. “The Rehling can carry nine passengers. The Granville should be running a couple hours behind that. But if they get a good jump, they’ll still beat the moonriders to the Tower. The Granville can carry twenty-two. The others have next to no chance to get here before that happens.”

She reconnected with Estevan and gave her an update.

Estevan listened, rage and frustration barely controlled. “All these years of work,” she said. Her voice trembled.

AN HOUR LATER, as they approached the West Tower, Bill announced a message from the Rehling.

“Valya.” The voice belonged to Mark Stevens, a veteran pilot with whom she’d worked on several occasions. “We’ve just completed our jump. Got a good one. We’ll be at the West Tower in about three hours.”

“Make it as quick as you can, Mark.”

A frightened crowd awaited them as they debarked. “What are these things?” they demanded. “What’s happening? Is it as bad as we’re hearing?”

“Help’s coming,” Valya said.

“And these things are coming here, is that right?” demanded a tall, gangly young man with red-blond hair and a Denver Hawks jacket. “Why are they doing this?”

“Nobody knows,” she said. When they get here, you can ask them.

“We’re all going to die.” A frightened voice, somewhere. Somebody else whimpered.

“We can take some of you off on the Salvator,” Valya said. “More ships are on their way.”

It didn’t help much.

The interior was a mirror image of East Tower. The dining room that had been on the right was on the left. Conference rooms were reversed, as were the library and a gym. They pushed through, picked up an escort, and hurried down passageways and climbed into the upper levels until they reached Estevan’s office.

The deputy director looked as if the world had ended. She sat in a chair with a notebook open on her lap, staring at the opposite wall. She glanced up, said hello, thanked the person who’d accompanied them, and signaled for her to close the door on her way out.

Design charts of Origins at various stages of construction covered the walls. There was also a picture of two toddlers. Probably the director’s grandchildren. Estevan was smaller than she’d appeared on the commlink. Her face was ashen, and a vein throbbed in her neck. “For God’s sake,” she said, “what are we supposed to do? You tell me to evacuate. Where? How? I have no ships — ”

“They’re coming,” said Valya.

“When?”

“The Rehling’s three hours out. The others haven’t jumped yet, so it’s impossible to be sure. But the Granville should also be here before the moonriders. And if we get lucky, maybe one or two others.”

“How many can they carry?”

“Thirty-one between them.”

Estevan closed her eyes and fought back tears. “It’s maddening,” she said. “The potential for this facility…” She tried to shake off the mood.

“How many are on the station?”

“Seventy-eight, counting me.” She almost sounded resentful. “You look surprised.” It was more than Valya had expected. “So what do we do, Valya?”

Na pari o diaolos. How did Valya wind up in charge? This was a bit above her pay grade.

The Salvator could squeeze nine on board, not counting herself and Eric. That was well over capacity. But she could manage it for a limited time. Assuming the Granville and the Rehling got here before the moonriders, that would leave thirty-eight still on the station. “You said you had shuttles?”

“Two.”

“Are they the same as the ones at the other end? The TG12s?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“That’s sixteen more.”

“They only hold six. Including the pilot.”

“They’ll hold eight in an emergency.”

Estevan didn’t believe her. “They’ll suffocate.”

“The air’ll get a bit close. But it’s only until more ships arrive. And we’ve got a lander on the Salvator. That’ll take another four.” That left what? Eighteen. “How many breathers does the Tower have?”

Estevan made a call to get the answer. Whoever was on the other end had to check. Valya lowered herself into a seat. Estevan exhaled. Looked around the room. Then spoke into her link again. She listened, nodded, frowned. “We have six,” she told Valya. “They’re telling me there are usually two more, but they went to the East Tower a week ago.”

“And your shuttles each have two?”

“Yes.”

Each breather had a two-hour air supply. “Have them make sure the air tanks are filled and ready to go,” she said.

“Why?” she asked. “What’s the point?”

“You put as many people on the ships as the life support will maintain. Then you give the rest breathers and put them on board, too. It’ll be uncomfortable, but they’ll survive until the other ships get here.”

Valya had the eight from Union, and the two that were routinely kept on board. That was twenty. If the Rehling and the Granville got there before the moonriders, they could get everyone off.

ESTEVAN BROUGHT IN her senior staff, three men and two women, and introduced everybody. Larry Kleigmann, head of the science department, took the lead in thanking Valya and Eric for coming. “Glad somebody cares about us,” he said, exchanging glances with the deputy director. He was from Ohio State, a physicist, probably unmarried. “After all we went through trying to get the sons of bitches to fund the collider,” he said. “It took us twenty years to persuade them to say yes, and look what happens.”

Angie Sudara was the acting construction chief. Her boss had been at the other tower. She was barely five feet tall, middle-aged, light brown hair, good-looking in an unkempt, windblown way. “Good to see you guys,” she said.

Julie Halper headed the West Tower medical department. Julie was a Nigerian, obviously a woman who worked out, with a good smile, but, at the moment, an intense, scared expression.

And Santos Kerr, tall and lean, in a white jumpsuit. A mathematician who had, Kleigmann explained, been with Origins from its inception.

And finally, the deputy’s chief of staff, Ho Smith. It sounded like the name of an action hero, but he looked scared. Ho had Asian features, but spoke Oxford English.

Without wasting time, Estevan got down to business. “Right now, it looks as if these savages will be here in about three and a half hours. The Salvator is here to evacuate some of us, and Valya tells us it’s ready to go.

“As things now stand, we should be okay. I wish we could do something to stop these idiots from blowing up the rest of the facility. Ho has been trying to contact them, but they’re not talking to us.” She glanced over at Ho. He nodded. Yes, he had been trying, and no, there was still no response.

Did any one have a suggestion?

No one did.

“Okay. Then let’s go talk to the troops.”

ESTEVAN MARCHED THROUGH the somber crowds in the passageways, trying to be reassuring as she went, wearing a smile as if everything was under control.

She strolled into the dining area flanked by her staff and followed by, Valya thought, everyone in the facility.

She signaled for Valya and Eric to stand with her. Then she waited for silence. When it didn’t immediately come, Kleigmann bawled for everybody to “shut it down.”

She climbed onto a chair. It was a bit wobbly, and Santos took her hand to steady her. She started by giving her assurance that everyone was going to get off the station before the aliens showed up. Then she introduced Valya and Eric, who had arrived “in the first of several evacuation vessels.” That brought cheers. “Ladies and gentlemen, you already have a pretty good idea what’s going on. But let me lay it out for you.”

She was good. There’d been a transformation of sorts between the quivering wreck in the office and the woman who now dominated a frightened audience. In a tense but matter-of-fact tone, she explained what had happened and what was being done to rescue them. “I’ll be honest,” she said. “This whole thing is as scary for me as it is for you. But we have every reason to be optimistic. Help is on the way. And the good news is these creatures don’t seem intent on killing us. Apparently, they simply want to destroy the facility.”

“Why?” asked a thick-waisted man standing against the wall.

“We don’t really know, Harry. It may have something to do with Blueprint.” That brought sighs, protests, and a few I-told-you-so’s. “I know there’s been some discussion among us as to whether we should have been proceeding with it. That’s all moot now. All we care about at the moment is getting away from here.

“The way things are proceeding, the aliens are still roughly three hours away. I can’t guarantee that, but so far they’ve been moving at a constant rate. Valya tells me she thinks they want to give us time to get clear. I hope she’s right. We have at our immediate disposal one ship, two shuttles, and a lander. We expect two more ships to be here before these creatures, whatever they are.

“Fortunately, it’ll be enough to accommodate everybody. Some of us may have to wear a breathing apparatus for a couple of hours, but that’s a small enough price to pay.

“We’re going to put twenty-nine people on the two shuttles, the Salvator, and the Salvator’s lander. In addition, we have twenty breathers. That means we can put an additional twenty people on the Salvator, or whatever other ship shows up.”

“Is there room?” someone asked.

Estevan looked down at Valya. “It’ll be a bit snug,” Valya said. “But we can live with it.”

“We could wait for the Granville,” said Estevan, “but we think it’s smarter to get as many people off as early as we can. Just in case.”

“You think the Granville won’t get here?” someone asked. A voice in back.

“We’d rather be safe than sorry. The Rehling can take out nine. It also has two breathers, which we’ll collect. Whoever’s left will be picked up by the Granville. If you look around at the main door, you’ll notice Ho and Angie back there with a box. There are folded slips of paper in the box, numbered one to seventy-two. Take one as you go out. Show it to them, and they’ll record your number. Those numbers will be the sequence of departure. Number one will be out the door first. Seventy-two will leave when the senior staff does.

“Any questions?”

“Yes, Terri. When do we expect the Granville?”

“We don’t know. Actually, there are several ships en route. We’re waiting for them to complete their jumps, which should come at any time.

“We’re going to wait until the last minute to launch the Salvator. That way we conserve oxygen. The senior staff and I will be riding out on the Granville. Along with the highest numbers.”

She answered a few more questions, mostly repetitious, and decided to close it out. “You’ve been a good team to work with,” she said. “I know some of you had friends on the East Tower. You’re aware only sixteen people survived over there. But they didn’t have the advance warning we do.” She got down off the table and moved confidently through the room. Everything was going to be fine.

WITH TWO HOURS remaining, good news came in. “This is WhiteStar II,” said a woman’s voice. “Just made our jump, and we are on target. We’re about two and a half hours out. Maybe a bit more.”

Wonderful. “Thank you, WhiteStar II,” said Valya. “We’ll put the beer on ice. Be advised it looks close whether you get here first, or the crazies do. Recommend you lose no time. How many breathers do you have on board?”

There was a delay while the signal crossed. “Hotfoot,” said the pilot. “Will be there soonest. Have two breathers.”

She passed the news to Estevan, who nodded as if she’d known all along. “No sweat,” she said.

They collected four breathers from the two shuttles, loaded eight people on each, and launched them.

THE MOONRIDERS WERE still an hour and a half away when the Rehling arrived. It already, unfortunately, carried two passengers. Mark Stevens was first off the ship, striding into the reception area where about twenty people waited with a scattering of luggage. He was a good-looking guy, dark hair, quiet. You could see the concern in his eyes. There were comments from the crowd. Good to see you. Thank God you got here.

Valya met him at the airlock. He reacted with a pained smile, and they embraced. “You okay?” he whispered.

“It’s been scary.”

“I know. Hang in there. Everything’ll be all right.”

One of Stevens’s passengers emerged. His expression suggested he should be treated with deference. He had white hair, thin lips, narrow eyes under enormous brows, and what appeared to be a permanent frown. This was Charles Autry from Seaside University in Sydney. Valya had transported him to Nok some years earlier. He’d been obnoxious throughout the voyage. Immediately behind him came Marcus Cullen, tall and lean, an aristocrat by inclination, born into money and influence and never recovered. He was the president of Duke University. “It’s just been one thing after another,” grumbled Autry. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Stevens smiled at Valya. “We’re not happy at being delayed,” he said.

“Typical screwup,” Autry said. “Bureaucracy at work.”

Cullen looked directly through Valya as though she did not exist. His gaze swept around the room without reaction and came back to Stevens. He sighed and made a point of checking the time.

Valya resisted the temptation to ask whether either of them would volunteer to stay for the Granville. “Mark,” she said, “do you have some breathers on board?”

“We have two.”

“How much oxygen?”

“A two-hour supply for each. Why?”

“We’re going to steal them.”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re welcome to them.”

“Could we please move this along?” said Cullen.

Estevan appeared. “One through nine,” she said. Nine people picked up their bags and began to move forward. She stepped back to make room for them. “Enjoy your flight,” she said. “I’ll see you at Union.”

There was some shuffling in the crowd. A few sighs. Some guilty looks. Somebody in back said she had a child at home. Someone else explained he hadn’t intended to come out here in the first place. He’d been pressured.

There were handshakes and embraces.

Autry wondered aloud whether they were ready to leave yet.

Valya glared at him, but he never noticed. “Stazoun meli,” she said.

Stevens put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re okay. They’re not used to this. They got detoured, and now they have to ride home in a crowded ship.”

“I’m sympathetic.”

“I can see that.” His jaw muscles worked. “You going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t wait too long to get clear yourself.” His new passengers filed through the airlock. Then Cullen and Autry, and finally Stevens. Minutes later, as the Rehling was pulling away from the dock, they heard that the WhiteStar had not gained any time. If nothing changed, it would be several minutes behind the the moonriders.

Bill broke in. “Transmission from the Tanaka.”

“Salvator, jump is complete. We estimate TOA three hours ten minutes.”

Bare minutes later, the Carolyn Ray checked in. “Four-plus hours out.”

“Ray,” she said, “we have two shuttles with sixteen survivors in the vicinity of the East Tower. Those will be your responsibility.”

EVERYONE IN THE place was making it a point to approach Valya and Eric and shake their hands. Don’t know what we’d have done, they said.

They were, on the whole, a young crowd. Most of those who identified themselves as physicists were in their twenties or thirties. Administrative staff tended to be older, as were the engineers.

Darryl Murillo, a consultant to the construction crew, was able to rig a display that showed precisely where the moonriders were by tracking the destruction of the rings. Murillo was from Barcelona, a tall, well-built guy in his midthirties who spoke English with a Castilian accent. “When we get home,” he told Valya, “I would be honored if you would be my guest for dinner.”

The long tradition in physics, of course, was that you did your breakthrough work, if there was going to be any, during your first ten years. Otherwise, you could forget it. And there was no place more on the cutting edge than the Origins Project. Kleigmann looked proud when they talked about it. “The top people on the planet are out here,” he said. Then his eyes grew distant. “I hate to think what we’ve already lost in the other tower. There were a lot of good kids over there.”

Estevan made it a point to stay out of her office. She patrolled the corridors, took over a table in one of the larger conference rooms, stayed where she could be seen. She laughed and talked as if nothing unusual were happening. Meantime, crowds stayed close to Murillo’s displays.

Eric was also showing a side Valya hadn’t seen before. “I’ve spent too many Saturday nights at home,” he said. “Did you know I’m almost forty?” It seemed an odd comment until she thought about it.

Actually, she’d have guessed he was a few years older. “Is there a woman in your life, Eric?”

“Not really,” he said. “Maybe one. Jeri Makaiya. But I’ve never been out with her. Never asked her out.”

“Why not?”

“She works for me. It’s not smart. Romantic entanglements in the office. In fact, they’ve got a rule against anything like that between supervisors and subordinates.”

They were down under an hour, sitting at a table in the cafeteria, next door to the conference room where Estevan was holding court. “That can be a problem,” Valya said. “There are other women. I’d think you would make a pretty nice catch, Eric.”

He smiled shyly. “Thanks.” Then: “She’s the one I really like.”

“Then break the rule.”

He shook his head. Can’t do that.

“You have to decide what’s important. If she matters, you can’t just walk away. If you do, twenty years from now you’ll still regret it.” Being at leisure in a place you know is about to be blown apart has a curious effect. Valya found herself reviewing her own life, thinking about the good times, old friends who had gotten lost along the way, moments when she might have chosen another path. There wasn’t much she regretted, almost nothing she’d have done differently. Maybe Terranova. (Her feeling about that kept changing.) Maybe Jamie Clemens, whom she’d once loved. Still loved. But she’d walked out of his life and later changed her mind, but by then he was angry or taken. She was never sure which.

And now there was Mac.

What a rollicking, hard-nosed, unpredictable son of a bitch he was. She’d never known anyone remotely like him. Were all journalists like that? She knew he’d be resentful, would make her pay a price for her deceit. But she thought she could repair the damage, could hang on to him. When she got back she’d go see him. And she’d do what she had to.

Meantime, it was getting late. “Time to load our passengers, Eric.”

Her commlink vibrated. It was Bill.

“We have a transmission from the Granville,” he said.

“Let’s hear it, Bill.” Pray for good news.

“Salvator.” The voice sounded French. “We have just made our jump. Did not get as close as we’d hoped. But we are on our way and will be there in three hours.”

Her heart sank. Eric stared at her. “What?”

“Two hours late.” Granville was their bus. She acknowledged, and did the numbers again: WhiteStar II could take five. Seven with the air tanks they should have on board.

That would leave what?

Eleven.

Valya has been magnificent. She helped Estevan pull herself together, and has managed to convince everyone by her quiet, cool confidence that they’re all going to get home okay.

But she informed me just minutes ago that the Granville won’t be here in time. She’s in now giving Estevan the bad news. I don’t envy her, going through all this. And the ironic part of it is that she knows she’s been terminated.

— Sunday, May 10

chapter 42

We are at heart a cowardly species. But that’s good. Fear is a reflex installed to keep us alive. But sometimes the fittings come loose. When that happens, and the victims routinely defy their instincts to clear out, they often do not live to reproduce. Considering the probabilities, it’s hard to understand why courage has not been bred completely out of us.

— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

Terri Estevan was crushed by the news. “Is there no chance?” she asked in a trembling voice. “None at all? Maybe one of the ships will get lucky, and jump into a favorable position. Like the WhiteStar.”

“It’s possible,” said Valya. “But it’s unlikely.”

“All right.” They were alone. Valya had emptied the room before telling her.

For a long minute neither spoke. Estevan collapsed into a chair and fought to stifle a sob.

Valya did not know what to say. It was, after all, Estevan and ten of her associates who were going to be stuck there when the moonriders arrived. Valya would be well on her way out of town. There was no way she could offer consolation. “We’ll take everyone who has a breather,” she said. “Better not wait for the WhiteStar.”

“Can you do that? Is there room?”

“We’ll make room.”

SHE RECALLED HER staff.

Kleigmann. Angie. Julie Halper. Santos. And Ho Smith.

They knew as soon as they came back into the room that something was terribly wrong. Estevan stared past them. “The Granville’s not going to make it,” she said.

Kleigmann’s expression turned stony. Angie bowed her head and her lips began to quiver. Julie sagged against a table. Santos murmured a prayer. Ho found a bottle somewhere and poured himself a drink, tossed it back, then offered the bottle around.

Estevan braced herself. Took a deep breath. “I will stay, of course. I’m sorry, but I must ask you, each of you, to join me.”

“Maybe they won’t attack right away,” said Julie.

“It’s possible,” said Valya. “They took their time at the East Tower.”

“I’ll stay with you,” said Angie.

Kleigmann nodded. Yes.

“What happens,” said Santos, “if I say no?”

“I don’t know.” Estevan wiped tears out of her eyes. “I honestly don’t know what to do.”

“Me, too,” said Julie. “I’ll stay.”

“I don’t want to do this,” said Santos. “I didn’t sign on for anything like this.”

“I know,” she said. “But we’re department heads.” She said it the way she might have said warriors. Or, thought Valya, Spartans. “We can’t ask others to stay behind if we clear out.”

“We ought to be able to squeeze a few more people into the Salvator.”

“Life support is already overloaded,” said Valya. “It won’t take any more.”

“I’ll stay,” said Ho. He looked as if he were in pain.

Santos shook his head. “I’m not going to do it.”

“You don’t really have a choice,” said Kleigmann. “What are you going to do? Go out there and take a breather from one of your subordinates?”

Santos’s eyes slid shut. His lips were pressed tight together, and his face was a study in agony.

Unless the WhiteStar arrived quickly, seven more would have to stay.

Estevan caught Valya’s eye. “Better get the Salvator loaded and moving.” She got to her feet. “I better go tell every body.”

Valya had been looking for an opportunity to exit, and that was it. “You’re right,” she said. “I better get going.”

They all looked at her. How weak had that sounded?

Estevan got up. Shook her hand. Embraced her. “Thanks for everything you’ve done.”

“I wish we could have done more.” She said good-bye to the others, wished them luck, and with an overwhelming sense of relief, or guilt, got out of there.

THE CORRIDORS WERE almost empty. Eric had loaded the Salvator. Valya collected everyone else with a breather and told them to board. After they’d gone through the airlock, eighteen remained in the tower.

Two women stopped her to ask if she’d heard anything new from the WhiteStar. “It’s about twenty minutes out,” she said.

So were the globes.

One of the two explained she was scheduled to leave on the Granville. She was an attractive woman, about twenty-five, black hair, dark eyes. With a scared smile. Trying to be brave. “It’s getting late,” she said.

“I know,” Valya told her. “I don’t have details.” She broke away and felt their eyes on her back as she hurried into the ship. Behind her, Estevan was calling everyone to the dining area.

SHE WAS RELIEVED to get back to the Salvator, to get on board, and close the hatch behind her. Put a barrier between herself and the Tower.

The interior was jammed. Thirty-plus people on a ship built for seven. Bill, aware that the airlock had shut, made his announcement: “Everyone with a breather, please put it on and commence to use it. Thank you. If you need assistance, let us know.”

Eric appeared to help with compliance. Several of her passengers were crowded into the common room. Others, she knew, were down in cargo. She exchanged smiles with them, squeezed past, and went onto the bridge.

“Everybody on board?” she asked Eric.

“I hope so,” he said. They were stacked on top of one another.

“How about the lander?”

“Lander’s full.” Thirty-five altogether. Plus Eric and herself.

“Moonriders are sixteen minutes away,” said Bill.

“Where’s the WhiteStar?”

“Estimate twenty-four minutes.”

Well, there was nothing she could do about it. It was time to get clear. Get as far away as she could.

She activated the allcom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be getting under way in about sixty seconds. We’re going to take it slowly, but anyone who’s not in a seat please find something to hold on to. I’ll tell you when you can move around freely.”

“What’s wrong?” Eric asked.

She shook her head. Nothing.

Behind them, a female passenger sat on the deck in the hatchway. She was using a breather.

The ship’s scopes had picked up the black globes. They approached side by side, straddling and slightly above the tube.

“Where’s the Granville?”

“They made up some time,” said Bill. “They’re one hour fifty-three minutes out.”

An hour and a half behind the moonriders.

“Bill, I assume you haven’t been able to contact them?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been in constant contact.”

“With the moonriders?”

“With the Granville. I apologize. I misunderstood. No, I have been transmitting constantly to the moonriders. They do not respond.”

“We’d better get started, don’t you think?” Eric’s voice. Somehow far away.

“Yeah.”

He activated his harness. He wasn’t going to need it, and he knew that. He was sending a message.

Nobody subtler than Eric.

“Valya.”

“No,” she said.

“No what?”

“I can’t do this.”

Outside, the long narrow dock pointed toward the stars.

“Can’t do what?”

“You’re captain, Eric.”

“What?”

“I’m going back.”

“What do you mean, going back? There isn’t time.”

She got up. The woman on the deck watched them curiously. Eric grabbed her arm. Held on. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “You don’t need me.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I’ll take an e-suit with me.”

“What will you do with an e-suit?”

“If I have to, I’ll jump off the platform.” She shook her head angrily. No time to argue. “Bill?”

“Yes, Valya.”

“When Eric tells you to, I want you to pull away to a range of three hundred kilometers.”

“Okay.”

“Do whatever Eric says. He’ll be my alternate until you hear otherwise.”

“Yes, Valya.”

“Eric, the Granville will be here in about an hour and a half. The Bloomberg and the Tanaka are running right behind it. Set up a rendezvous plan with the incoming ships — ”

“I can’t manage this,” he said.

“Sure you can. All you have to do is tell Bill what you want him to do, and he’ll take care of it. Transfer everybody with a breather to one of the other ships. There isn’t plenty of time to do it, but there is time.”

“All right.”

“After you’ve done that, get the people out of the shuttles. The shuttles here.”

“Goddam it, Valya, I wish you wouldn’t do this. I don’t see what you can do for them.”

“Eric, please — ”

“Just tell me why.”

She had no answer. Maybe she could help. Maybe she just couldn’t bear the thought that Estevan was a better woman than she was. Or Angie. Or a bunch of other people.

She collected an e-suit harness from the maintenance locker. But it had no oxygen. The tank had been given to one of the passengers. She looked down at the young woman on the deck. “May I have the breather?” she said.

The woman stared back at her, frightened. “Why?” She had a Russian accent.

“It’s okay. You won’t need it. There’ll be one less rider.”

SHE DIRECTED BILL to reopen the airlock. Eric watched her leave the bridge. Listened to her reassure her passengers — his passengers now — as she passed through the common room. Then she was gone and the airlock hatch closed.

Dumb.

He changed seats. Felt his authority increase. He was the captain.

The young woman who’d given her breather to Valya still looked confused. He indicated the chair he’d just vacated. “Climb in,” he said.

OTHER THAN VALYA, eighteen people were left in the tower, most of them gathered in the dining area with whatever they planned to take with them. Estevan sat up front with Julie, Angie, and Ho. They were talking softly, two conversations going at once. Estevan looked up, startled to see her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Same as you. Trying to figure a way to get everybody off.”

“Can’t be done,” said Ho.

“You’ve lost your mind, Valya,” said Estevan. “Has your ship left yet?”

“Probably.”

“Call it back.”

“You need help.”

“What can you do?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“You’ve got a suit,” said Angie. “You can jump for it, if you have to.”

“I could do that.” That was what she intended to do if necessary.

Estevan studied her. “I’m tempted to crowd everyone on board the WhiteStar.”

“The cabin’s way too small. No way you could do it even if you had an air supply, which you don’t. You’re lucky it can fit seven. They’ll be on top of one another as it is.”

“Well,” said Julie, “welcome to the Short Timers Club.”

ON THE DISPLAY, the moonriders were burning another set of accelerator rings. “That’s the last,” said Angie. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

The Bergen called in. “We had a good jump, Origins. Will see you in two hours.”

And the Zheng Shaiming. “Two and a half hours, Salvator. We will be able to take twenty-six of your people.”

They drank coffee, and nobody said much. Estevan sighed, put her cup down, and got up. “How far away’s the WhiteStar?”

“Fifteen minutes,” said Angie.

“Not going to make it.”

“Don’t be so quick to give up,” said Valya. “The moonriders won’t open fire right away.”

Estevan seemed exhausted. “Good,” she said, pushing herself out of her chair. “Glad you have things under control, Valya.” Her tone had an edge. She got up, walked over to one of the other tables, and asked how they were doing. There was a whispered exchange between Angie and Julie, and it wasn’t hard to interpret. Say good-bye.

All heads turned in her direction. People hoping she had news and immediately seeing she did not. Estevan managed a smile. “I want the people who are going on the WhiteStar standing by the airlock. When it gets here, we’ll open up, get on, and clear out. Okay?”

They weren’t going to be hard to persuade.

A telescopic window opened on the displays. They saw lights.

The WhiteStar.

TOA: thirteen minutes.

Estevan gently tugged Valya out of her seat and looked at the breather. “You, too,” she said. “Go with them.”

Valya wanted to say yes, please, get me out of here. Kleigmann nodded, smiled, gave her a thumbs-up. Angie mouthed the words good luck. Someone had mentioned that Angie had a family. Three kids.

And Julie and Santos, about whom she knew nothing.

And Ho Smith.

“We see you,” said the WhiteStar pilot. “Valya, we can see the moonriders, too.”

Estevan answered: “WhiteStar, I don’t think you can beat them in here.”

“Have your people ready to go. This will have to be in and out.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“How many of you are there?”

“More than you can carry. We need you to take seven, plus two wearing your breathers. And one more who already has a breather.”

“Seven exceeds our life-support capacity.”

“It’ll only be for an hour or so. You can exchange when the other ships get here.”

“You’re making me liable.”

“It’s an emergency, WhiteStar. Please.”

“Okay. Do it.”

Valya hated the moonriders. Absolutely and unequivocally. She would happily have killed whatever rode the globes had she been able to reach them.

Estevan was jabbing a finger at her. “Get going,” she said.

Valya shook her head. “Not on the WhiteStar. I need somebody to get me a go-pack.”

“Why?” demanded Estevan.

“Maybe I can buy some time.”

“What? How?”

“I need a lamp. Brightest one you have.”

SHE STRAPPED ON the go-pack and went out through the main airlock, past the people waiting for the WhiteStar. There were a couple of remarks, how come she gets to leave? Wish I had one of those.

Then she was outside. The gravity unit was located in the central deck. It projected in both directions, so there was a distinct up and down along the hull. It was tricky. Had she lacked the go-pack, she could not have maneuvered, and in fact might easily have fallen off the tower and drifted away.

She used the thrusters to climb the tower, which was mildly flattened at both poles. In the distance she could see the WhiteStar, a single point of light, growing steadily brighter. The stars seemed very far, and the collider tube was lost in darkness.

So were the moonriders. She didn’t see them until they were on top of her. Two polished black spheres, dwarfed by the tower. She watched them approach, still side by side. She switched on the lamp and raised it above her head.

Eric picked that moment to call. Was she planning on getting aboard the WhiteStar? What was happening?

“No time now, Eric,” she said. “Talk to you later.”

“You are going to get clear, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Later.” She moved the lamp back and forth, pointing its beam toward the globes.

They kept coming.

“Come on,” she said. “React.”

Gradually, they changed their angle of approach and rose higher in the sky. They were slowing down, keying on her. Maybe.

They moved into position above her, directly in front of where she stood. One on either side.

And stopped.

A good sign. She hoped.

She opened a sweep channel. If they had a receiver, they couldn’t miss the message. “Hutch sent me.” She tried to visualize Hutch in case there was a telepathic element to the communication. And Amy. “We are trying to evacuate. But we need more time.”

No answer came back.

“Please do not fire on the Tower until we get everybody out. It’s going to take a couple of hours.” Did they know what an hour was? She visualized the WhiteStar. And somewhere behind it, the Granville.

It was hard to keep her voice steady and her knees from trembling.

Estevan got on the circuit: “What are they doing?”

“Just sitting there.”

“Okay, Valya. You’ve done all you can. Get off. Get away while you can.”

“If I get off, they might open fire.”

“Let us worry about that.”

She wanted to go. God help her, she wanted to get as far away as she could. But she thought she knew what would happen. “Give it a few more minutes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“It would help,” she told the moonriders, “if you would say something. We know you understand English.”

Eric broke in again to plead with her to do what Estevan wished. “Get away from there, Valya. Please.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Eric,” she said. “Relax.”

THE WHITESTAR BROKE into a cluster of navigation lights. Red and green to port and starboard. White light aft.

Lamps glowed on her commlink. The WhiteStar was talking to Estevan.

Valya took a step toward the globes. Looked directly at them. They held their position.

She listened to the air flow inside the e-suit.

The WhiteStar cruised in, slowed, slowed more, and disappeared below the curve of the hull. She felt the vibration as it connected with the dock.

The globes watched. She could literally feel eyes on her.

Don’t shoot.

Below, they’d be waiting for the airlock to open. She counted the seconds. Noted how solemn the stars were. How far they seemed from this particular place.

She tried not to think what the globes had done at the other end of the hypercollider. What they had come here to do. How many they had already killed.

Below, the hatches would be opening. And Terri’s people would be crowding into the ship.

The globes were waiting. Giving them time.

She could feel her heart beat. “Terri?”

“Hello, Valentina. Where are you?”

“Still on the roof. What’s taking so long?”

“We’re moving as fast as we can. Just another minute or two.”

“Okay.”

“You can get out of there now.”

“Okay.”

“Gotta go. Busy.”

She wondered what would happen if she went directly for the globes? Took them head-on? Might they open a hatch? Offer wine and an evening’s conversation? Or start shooting?

Lights appeared below the rim. The WhiteStar. It was pulling away.

“Terri.”

“Yes? Have you gotten clear?”

“I’m still here. You get them all off?”

“All nine. Now please go away.”

She looked up at the globes. If you were exactly at the right angle, you could see starlight reflected from the one on her right. “Where’s the Granville?”

“Eighty-three minutes.”

“Maybe they’ll wait.”

“Valentina — ” There was no missing the exasperation in the voice.

The globes were moving again. Drawing closer together.

“Whoever you are,” she said, “thanks for waiting. We need you to hold off for one more ship. It’ll be a while.”

It was beginning to feel cold inside the suit.

“I know you can understand me. I know why you want to destroy the project.”

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. And heard Terri’s voice. “Valya, get clear.”

A plate had begun to lift off the surface of the tower. It was disk-shaped, set in a cradle, and the cradle was attached by extensors to a base.

“You can have the place,” Valya said. “We won’t try anything like this again. Just please give us a little more time to get everybody off.”

“Valya, get out of there.”

On the far side, a second plate was rising. Angling itself toward one of the moonriders.

Each had targeted a globe.

They were gravity generators, part of the system used to manipulate local traffic. “Terri, this is not a good idea.”

“For God’s sake, Valentina, we’re not going to sit here and let them kill us. Are you clear yet?”

The devices locked on to their targets.

“Wait!”

“Do it!”

“No, Terri. They — ”

The tower trembled beneath her as power flowed into the generators. Lamps along the bases began to glow. The globes started to descend. To fall. Red lights blinked on, the same ones she’d seen at the East Tower, and those deadly beams flared out and swept the sky. Touched one of the generators. It exploded. Simultaneously, one of the globes plowed into the hull. Valya dived for cover, scrambling behind a dish antenna.

The metal shuddered beneath her.

When she looked again, one moonrider was gone. The other remained where it had been, while coral lightning played across the sky and sliced gaping holes in the tower. She jumped clear, igniting the go-pack. It pushed her up and out, away from the conflagration. For a moment, she thought she was going to make it.

chapter 43

I can’t imagine what life would be like without the knowledge that death is inevitable. It is because of that single, overwhelming reality that we have the arts, religion, the illusion of love, and probably even architecture. It is doubtful whether, did we not see ourselves as helpless transients, we would appreciate life for what it is. On the other hand, being grateful is not that big a deal.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Death at Manny’s Grill”

Eric recoiled as the sky lit up. His passengers, watching images on the ship’s display screens, gasped obscenities and sobbed and held on, to the ship or to one another. They cursed the moonriders with unbridled fury and swore vengeance. They demanded explanations from God. And they wanted to know whether the Salvator could move faster.

He had heard Valya’s transmissions, and he had no hope for her. Nevertheless: “Bill, get Valya.”

“No carrier wave, Eric.”

“I’ll try it.” He leaned over his commlink. “Valya, answer up.”

Nothing.

“Valentina. Where are you?”

Where the tower had been, there was only darkness.

The woman with the Russian accent sat frozen, unable to believe what she’d just seen. Eric switched over to the deputy director’s circuit. “Terri. Are you there?”

The globes had become lost in the carnage. He couldn’t tell whether they were still there.

“Terri? Larry?”

Thick black smoke drifted away.

“Anybody? Anybody at all?”

My God.

He sat back, told himself not to panic. It didn’t feel real. Close your eyes, count to ten, and it will go away.

The Russian woman’s name was Alena. Somehow, their positions had reversed, and she was doing what she could to calm him. “Okay,” she told him. “Everything okay.”

There were voices on the link.

He ran a check with the four shuttles. One of the West Tower shuttles reported an apparent heart attack. One of Angie’s engineers. They were doing what they could for the victim.

He asked Alena to walk back and check the passengers. She nodded, released herself from her harness, and left the bridge.

Mark Stevens informed him the Rehling was okay. The WhiteStar pilot said that she’d been hit by debris “ — got my tail feathers singed — ” and had lost thrust. A few minor injuries, but the ship was otherwise okay.

“Eric,” said Bill. “The moonriders are gone.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I lost them during the attack. They are no longer there.”

“Okay, Bill. Thanks.” He used the allcom to inform his passengers. Moonriders had left. No immediate danger. There were a few rabid comments. And some cheers. Then he got on the circuit with the incoming ships and described what had happened.

He recorded a message for Mission Operations: “West Tower destroyed. We got almost everyone out. Ten probable dead. Including Valya.” He hesitated before transmitting, as if the reality of the loss wouldn’t take hold until the report was on its way. Then he let it go.

WITHIN A FEW hours, the survivors were safe and secure, though not without some adroit juggling and sharing of air tanks, some exquisite maneuvering by the Granville and the timely arrivals of the Carolyn Ray and the Zheng Shaiming. And, Eric thought, not without the deployment of his own organizational skills.

He had unloaded his passengers onto the Ray and was still in the area hoping for a miracle when a message came in from Hutch: “Eric, I’m sorry to hear about Valya and the others. The Academy is proud of her, and of you. Unless you’ve already started back, transfer your passengers to one of the relief ships. When that’s been accomplished, conduct a final search for victims. You probably won’t find any, but look anyway.

“When you’re satisfied there’s no one, nothing, to be found, come home. Bill tells me he’s been instructed to do as you direct, so just tell him to go home, and he’ll take care of it. The World Council is sending a couple of ships to investigate, but don’t wait for them.”

He watched it several times. Despite what she said, he knew the Academy wasn’t going to be proud of him.

BILL BROKE THE silence. “I’m sorry about Valya, too, Eric.”

“I know, Bill.” He knew of no relatives. Not that it mattered. Hutch would see to contacting next of kin. He hoped she would tell them how Valya had died. “Let’s go in and do a sweep, Bill. We’re looking for bodies.”

The tower was gutted, as the other one had been. The hull on which Valya had stood was ripped away. The smoke was dissipating; he looked out at charred struts and beams and a few battered decks.

He stayed two days. The other ships came and redivided the passengers. They asked if they could help. And they left.

When they were gone he did one last scan of the area and told Bill to take him home.

AIs have a range of modes. They can be cheerful or morose, they can be sports enthusiasts or literary snobs, they can play chess at a range of levels, they can be irreverent or pious. Whatever the moment requires. It is what persuades us they have no reality in and of themselves. They are software and nothing more. No soul informs the electronic synapses, no mind looks out of its assorted sensors and lenses. When you are alone with an AI, you are alone.

The flight home will take three and a half days. For the most part, I’ll probably stay up front, on the bridge. Where Valya’s presence still lingers. And I can still take comfort in Bill’s respectful silence.

— Wednesday, May 13

chapter 44

Fiction is unlike reality because it has an end, a conclusion, which allows the characters to stroll happily, or perhaps simply more wisely, out through the climax into the epilogue. But life is a tapestry. It has no satisfactory end. There are simply periods of acceleration and delay, victory and frustration, seasoned with periodic jolts of reality.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Valentina”

The news came first from the Rehling, relaying reports it received from the Salvator, the WhiteStar II, and the West Tower. They described Valya standing atop the sphere, confronting the globes. Trying to talk the moonriders away while the WhiteStar docked and took people on board. And the desperate run of the Aiko Tanaka, which blew its drive unit trying to get there in time.

Those who had witnessed the event, most of them watching through telescopes on the Salvator, or from the shuttles, had to have been struck by the sheer courage of the woman. She was wearing a go-pack and could easily have gotten clear. But she stayed. Even when the globes closed in, were obviously preparing to attack, when she had to know they were getting ready to fire on the Tower, she had stayed. She’d refused to leave Terri Estevan and the others.

But Hutch saw something else. She replayed the message she’d sent to Valya. “I would have preferred to do this here. But you’ll undoubtedly be getting a message from the people at Orion — ”

Damn. Why hadn’t she waited? Send something like this to a woman alone in a ship. Alone except for Eric, which was the same thing.

“We haven’t accounted for Amy’s experience. If you can shed light on that, if you know beyond question that’s another hoax, then let’s just forget this pony ride. Turn around and come home.”

She suspected, no matter what had happened at the West Tower, Valya would have been lost.

Her resignation had arrived, effective at the end of the current mission. But Hutch had tabled it. Hadn’t intended to allow her to resign. Valya was to be terminated.

And so she had been.

Hutch sighed. My God. What had she done?

She relayed the incoming Origins traffic, without comment, to Asquith’s office. The commissioner was still missing, although he’d left a message to the effect that he would arrive later that day “to see that everything was running properly.”

Hutch directed Marla to connect her with MacAllister. She knew the media might already have the story, and she didn’t want him finding out that way. But his AI told her he was unavailable. “In conference,” Tilly said. “I’ll inform him you called.”

“Please ask him to get right back to me.”

“Of course, Priscilla.”

Thirty seconds later Mac was on the circuit. Dark blue jacket, an ID tag hanging from his top pocket, a notebook in his hand. Looking worried. “I just heard. They hit the other Tower.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How many casualties?”

“Looks like ten. The report I saw says they got most of their people out.”

“Well, thank God for that. Is Valya okay?”

Hutch looked away, and he knew immediately. “What happened? She was in the ship, wasn’t she?”

“Apparently she tried to challenge the damned things. Stood on top of the Tower and delayed the attack while they got people loaded and out.” She was struggling to control her voice.

“She was standing on the roof when they attacked?”

“Yes.”

He lowered himself into a chair and stared at something she couldn’t see. It was the first time she had seen him at a loss for something to say. Finally: “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

His eyes slid shut. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He shook his head. Fought back tears. “We were planning on running the Galactic story in this issue. But it would get lost now. I think we’ll wait.”

They stared at each other across light-years.

“Something else,” he said. He had to stop to regain control of his voice. “A couple of my people have been talking with some heavyweight physicists. You remember the notion that the hyperaccelerator might rip a hole in the time-space continuum? Whatever that is?”

“You’re going to tell me — ”

“It’s apparently not that far-fetched. We can’t find anybody who thinks it’s likely, but a lot of them say it could have happened.”

“Moonriders to the rescue.”

“That’s what it sounds like. There was so much involved in this project, nobody wanted to speak up. Say something about Origins, and it was your career.”

When he was gone, she got up and walked over to the window and looked down on the cobblestone paths and fountains. There were always visitors down there. They came to see the Retreat, which had been brought in from the Twins and reconstructed just north of the Academy. And the Library, with its wing dedicated to George Hackett, whom she still loved so many years after his death on Beta Pac III. She’d never told Tor about him because she’d never entirely succeeded in putting him behind her. There had been times she’d made love to her husband while visualizing George.

It was a Friday afternoon. End of the week. And she watched two kids with a dog running past the Library. She knew that Valya also would never go away.

THE FIRST INDICATION she got that Asquith was back came in the form of a memo. “See me.”

You bet.

She walked into his office and found him on the circuit with someone. Audio only. He looked up and pointed toward a seat. She stayed on her feet. “Have to go, Charlie,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.” Then she got his full attention. “You did the right thing. Getting that rescue fleet in place.”

“Thanks.”

“Congratulations. I’m sorry we lost Valya, but the Academy is going to come out of this looking pretty good.”

She waved it away. “A lot of people are dead. Maybe we should have taken Amy more seriously.”

“Listen. Hutch, we can’t blame ourselves for that. We tried to warn them.” He came around the desk, stood in front of it, leaned back against it.

“Was that Dryden you were talking to?”

“Yes. Why?”

She let the question hang. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?”

“About Valya. About the setup. You knew what was going on, and you let it happen. You lied to me. And you let me lie to the media.”

“That’s not so.”

“Dryden denied you were part of it, but they couldn’t have managed it without you. You might not have known the details of what they were doing, but you knew something was happening. You insisted on my assigning Valya to pilot the original mission. You set it up.”

He hesitated. Saw it was no use. “Okay, I knew. And if you’d had any guts, Priscilla, I wouldn’t have had to lie to you. This was something we needed. You and me professionally. The Academy needed it. And by God, unless you were willing to stand by and watch us close up the interstellar program and shut down everything we’ve worked for, you should be glad somebody was willing to put his neck on the line.”

“We could have done it without the lies.”

“Really? How? If you knew a way, I wish you’d have clued me in. And please don’t stand there with that holier-than-thou expression. I didn’t do this for myself.

“And to set the record straight: Nobody was ever in danger. Orion had a ship near the Galactic ready to go in and take everybody off had the need arisen.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You know, Michael, you’re pathetic.”

He was above such things. “I was thinking the same thing about you, Priscilla. You’re good at running an established operation. But you don’t have the courage to make the tough calls. You don’t have any guts.”

“Right. And how do you think the Academy’s going to look when this story comes out?”

“Nobody can prove anything.”

“The woman who first spotted the Galactic asteroid has given MacAllister a statement.”

“I know that,” he said. “I mean, nobody can prove I was involved.” He stared at her, daring her to show he was wrong.

“Maybe not. Dryden might protect your back while he gets dragged through the courts. However that goes, I want you to resign.”

The look of smug superiority went away. “If you try to blow the whistle on me, Priscilla, I’ll implicate you. And you’ll also destroy Valentina’s reputation. Although I don’t suppose you care about that.”

It had been a long time since Hutch had wanted literally to throttle someone. “You’re a political appointee, Michael. Nobody has to prove anything. A whiff of scandal, and you’re gone. Hiram Taylor already doesn’t like you very much. Doesn’t like me either, but that’s of no consequence. If he were to find out you were involved, your career would be over. And there’d be no need to bring in the media.”

He had gone pale. “That’s blackmail.”

“Why don’t you resign while you can still do so with your record intact?”

“You’re a bitch, Hutchins.”

She turned and headed for the door. “Cite personal reasons. Family concerns. That’s always a good one.”

VALYA’S MOTHER LIVED in Athens, a brother in Russia’s St. Petersburg, and cousins in New York City and Albany. She took a deep breath and called the brother first.

He took the news about as well as she could expect, and stayed on the line while she informed the mother. When it was done, Hutch was emotionally drained.

Amy was next. She caught her on the way home from school. And couldn’t miss the chill. “What did you want, Hutch?” she asked.

“You’ll be seeing news reports soon, Amy. The moonriders hit the West Tower.”

“I saw they were headed that way.”

“We managed to save most of the people who were there. Seventy of them. And sixteen more from the East.”

“Good.” She sounded relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’ll see that you get credit for it.”

“I don’t want credit.”

“I know that, Amy. Nevertheless, you’re responsible for so many surviving the attack.” She smiled. “The media will want to know how it happened. You should think about what you’re going to tell them.”

“People will think I’m crazy.”

“No, they won’t. Not after we back you up. After what’s happened.”

“Thanks, Hutch.” She was softening a bit.

“There’s something else.”

She tensed. “What?”

“We lost Valya.”

“What do you mean, lost?”

Hutch described what had happened. When she’d finished, Amy asked whether she was sure, whether there was any chance. “I’m sorry,” Amy said. “I knew she’d gone back out on the Salvator. It’s hard to believe.”

“I know.”

“She was a lot like you, wasn’t she?”

“I’d like to think so.”

MARKET RALLIES ON NEWS OF INCREASED EARNINGS REPORTS

Biolog Quarterly Up 36 %

THREE DEAD IN BOATING ACCIDENT ON LAKE SUPERIOR

Collision in Clear Weather a Mystery

MANHATTAN VAMPIRE OPENS TO RECORD CROWDS

Latest Cole Thriller Sucks Up Millions on First Weekend

CARMEN, QUIGLEY TO MARRY

Couple Reveals Betrothal at Press Conference

Caribbean Honeymoon Planned

LOTTERY WINNER WILL NOT QUIT JOB

Highway Artist Feels Need to Create

CORRUPTION CHARGES IN SAN DIEGO

Hackel, Coleman Indicted

Judges, Police Also Believed Under Investigation

TEEN KILLS GIRLFRIEND’S PARENTS WITH AX

“Quiet Boy,” Say Neighbors

“Hard to Believe It Could Happen Here”

TORNADOES WIN SEVENTH STRAIGHT

Kim Huang Homers in Tenth

chapter 45

It is not faith per se that creates the problem; it is conviction, the notion that one cannot be wrong, that opposing views are necessarily invalid and may even be intolerable.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Downhill All the Way”

The judge in the hellfire trial had not struck MacAllister as the kind of person who would have been prepared to take a stand against the popular will. He also had not looked particularly imaginative. Glock had reported that he was a Presbyterian, an occasional churchgoer, a family man with three kids. His actual religious beliefs were not on record.

Maximum George was a small, round man, balding, with black hair and enormous eyebrows. His expression had revealed nothing during the course of the trial.

MacAllister watched from his study while he entered the crowded courtroom, which immediately went dead quiet. He needlessly rapped the gavel a couple of times, did some preliminary business, then announced he was ready to deliver a verdict in the case of the City of Derby vs. Henry Beemer. “The accused,” he said, “will rise and face the bench.”

Beemer and Glock stood together.

“Mr. Beemer,” he continued, “you have, it seems to me, just cause to be resentful about your early schooling. Young minds are open during those years, imaginations are especially fertile, and we trust adults to tell us what is demonstrably true. What is put into our minds at that period is not easily removed or modified. I hope that the Reverend Pullman will, despite the obvious strength of his religious convictions, take these matters into account when he enters his classroom in the future.

“That said, I cannot find that the Reverend Pullman has violated any law, and even if he had, the attack on him would have been itself unlawful. Therefore, Mr. Beemer, I pronounce you guilty, and sentence you to three days in the county jail. I hope, sir, not to see you before me again.”

GLOCK CALLED LATER.

“You didn’t appeal,” said MacAllister.

“It’s a minimum sentence, Mac. That’s as good as we’re going to get.”

MacAllister sighed. “It’s a pity. The attack was justified.”

“Maybe,” said Glock. “But you can’t write the laws that way.”

So long as men and women are free, no one is safe. People will be in danger because others can’t operate vehicles responsibly or shoot straight. Because physicians are sometimes incompetent and lawyers dishonest. But most of all they will be in danger from ideas. It is the price we willingly pay to be free. Nor would we have it any other way.

— Maria DiSalvo, Lost in Paradise, 2214