Seeker

TWENTY-ONE

In the midst of celebration are we overtaken by calamity.

- Kory Tyler,

Musings, 1312 We slipped back into our home system at the end of a flight that people would probably be talking about a thousand years later. We’d found our Atlantis, but it had been a disappointment on a scale so vast that it weighed down every other consideration. Had we guaranteed ourselves a great bottom line? Absolutely. Were we going to be celebrities? I pictured myself being interviewed on every show from Round Table to Jennifer in the Morning. Money would pour in. And I was already thinking about a book. Still, we had hoped for an Atlantis that would be, despite all odds, up and running. Or at least, visible.

“What will you call it?” asked Alex, referring to the book.

“Last Mission,” I said.

He pressed his fingers against his temple and adopted the tone he might have used with a child. “I hope you’re not suggesting you’re going to retire. And anyhow, titles shouldn’t be about you.”

“It’s not about me. I’ve no intention of retiring, Alex. It’ll be about the Seeker. Trying to go for help, having a load of children on board, and the engines go down. No rescue possible within light-years. Everybody on board dies, and Margolia loses its only hope. It’s a tragic story.”

“Yes,” he said. “It sounds like a downer. I think you need some daylight in there somewhere.” He was sitting in the common room, in front of a chess problem to which he paid no attention. When I asked how he planned to announce the discovery, he looked uncertain. “I haven’t decided,” he said. “What do you think?”

“We could call a press conference, jointly with Windy.”

He picked up the black king, studied it, and put it back. “I’m not anxious to do that. I don’t want to stir up Kolchevsky and the other morons. Why don’t we try to keep a low profile for now, and move our stuff as quietly as we can?”

“You know that’s not going to work, Alex. Once it gets out that we found Margolia, every journalist in the world is going to be beating down our door. We need to know what we’re going to say to them.”

We docked, made entry, and went in through the zero-gee deck because we had three containers filled with artifacts.

As we came out into the main concourse, a tall, young man was waiting for us.

“Charlie Everson,” he said. “How was the trip, Mr. Benedict?”

“Okay.” Alex looked in my direction. Did I recognize him? I’d never seen him before.

He had black hair and a conservative bearing, but something about him reminded me of one of those guys who are always trying to impress you with their positions in the world.

“Windy sent me,” he said. “She’s anxious to know how things went.”

“Tell her,” said Alex, “it was a productive operation. We’ll get over to see her first thing tomorrow.”

“Good.” He seemed pleased. “She’ll be anxious to hear the details.” I expected him to press us, to ask whether we’d found what we were looking for, but he shoved his hands into his pockets and said she’d been talking about throwing a dinner in our honor. “By the way,” he added, “we’ve arranged your passage on the shuttle.” He had large brown eyes, and they focused on the containers. “Compliments of Survey.”

“Well, that’s good of you,” said Alex. “Thanks.”

“It’s our pleasure. Are those artifacts in the cases?”

“Yes,” Alex said.

“Wonderful.” He smiled again. Looked at me and looked away. This was a guy on the shy side, I decided. Someone who rarely had a good time. “Congratulations, Mr.

Benedict.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll let Windy know. And I’ll tell her to expect you tomorrow.” We all shook hands.

“It was good to meet you both.” He started away, paused, and turned back.

“Reservations are in your name, Mr. Benedict. The shuttle leaves at six.”

Alex thanked him again, and he went on his way. Had other business to take care of, he said.

We stopped to arrange shipping for the containers. I was carrying a few of the more fragile artifacts in a box, which I intended to carry aboard the shuttle. At first they told us there was no room for more cargo, and they’d have to go down on a later vehicle.

Alex showed them some money, and they found space.

We had almost an hour to spare when we left the kiosk. Alex was looking hesitant.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m hungry.”

There were plenty of snack shops. But Alex insisted we go to Karl’s, with its candles, soft music, and sizzling Dellacondan chicken.

“We don’t have time,” I said. It’s true that an hour on Rimway is moderately longer than a terrestrial hour, but we’d still not come close to making the shuttle. At Karl’s, you were expected to relax, enjoy the ambience, and let the food catch up to you, so to speak.

He frowned. “There’s another flight at nine.” He looked at me with those big eyes.

Come on, Chase, we’ve been cooped up for weeks. Let’s relax a bit. “Why don’t we just take it easy?” he said. “Take advantage of the opportunity?” He was really asking whether I wanted a decent meal, or preferred the prepackaged stuff on the shuttle.

So he called the reservation desk to make the change, and we strolled up to B Deck, and poked our heads into a couple of the souvenir shops. I bought a shirt for a nephew, and Alex got some chocolate for the ride down. Then we wandered into Karl’s.

Despite the mixed outcome of the mission, it was a night to celebrate. We got our table and sat down and I put the box and the souvenirs on the seat beside me and told Alex not to let me forget it. There was sultry music drifting from the piano at the far end of the dining room. We tossed off drinks and stared into each other’s eyes like a couple of starstruck lovers. We told each other how good we were, and how the entire world was going to come to our doorstep to ask how we did it. We ordered seafood.

White staple, supposedly from the Inland Sea. Whatever, I enjoyed every bite. It’s funny, I can clearly remember the details of that meal, the way the salad looked, the dressing I used, the shape of the wineglasses, everything as if it happened yesterday. I can still see the chandelier, and the half-filled dining room. I can see Alex, swept away by the emotions of the evening, sitting at the apex of his career, simultaneously delighted and depressed. The plight of those people so long ago had gotten to him.

Had I been behaving that way, he’d have told me to get my act together. Everybody dies eventually. It’s ancient history.

Well, it was that.

I remember his joking about how there should be an antiquities dealers’ hall of fame.

About time they got the recognition that had long been withheld. And he took time to thank me for my contribution. I think by then he’d drunk a bit too much.

The piano player was real rather than virtual, a tall, serious-looking guy with a bristling mustache and gray eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic music. I can still tell you what he played, and that he wore a red carnation and looked mournful. I remember thinking maybe it was a result of his wistful repertoire. “Lost Without You.”

“Night with No Moon.” And “Chandra.”

I’m not sure precisely when I became aware of a change in atmosphere. We’d gotten well past the meal and were simply sitting, drinking, and enjoying the evening. I was beginning to wonder if we’d make the nine o’clock flight. And gradually I noticed a change in the mood of the place. The spontaneity seemed to evaporate, and people were whispering and looking around and shaking their heads. Alex saw it, too. When our waiter came over to refill our glasses, Alex asked if something was going on.

“The shuttle,” he said. “It blew up on the way down.”

I have to confess my first thought was not for the victims, but for us, how close Alex and I had come to being part of the disaster. Had it not been for his appetite, and his inclination to visit Karl’s at every opportunityThe victims. They’d been walking around the concourse a few hours ago brushing shoulders with us. And the guy with the shy demeanor. Charlie. Had he been aboard?

I don’t recall that either of us ate or drank anything after that. The waiter had no details. I heard someone sobbing out in the concourse. I remember getting up from the table while Alex paid the bill. We wandered outside in a daze. “These things happen,”

I said.

He gave me a strange look and shook his head. I don’t know how I got there, but I ended in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.

I just hung on.

Alex shifted his weight.

“What?” I asked.

“The artifacts.” He called the shipping service. Yes, they were sorry, but the three containers had been on the six o’clock shuttle. “But I see they’re insured. No need to worry, Mr. Benedict.”

Insured for a nominal sum. Insuring them for their true value would have overwhelmed the shipping company and they’d have refused to accept the packages.

At that moment I remembered the box, the only remaining artifacts. Which I’d left at the table. I started back, only to see the host hurrying my way with the box and my purchases in his hands.

We tried to call Windy. Her AI informed us she was on another circuit, extremely busy, planning for a conference starting tomorrow.

I asked whether they knew about the shuttle.

“Yes,” he said. “Dr. Yashevik knows.”

“I’ve a question,” said Alex. “Is there a Charlie Everson on Windy’s staff?”

“No,” said the AI. “We do not have any such person on the rolls.”

I broke the connection. He pulled me over to one side and looked anxiously at the crowd swirling around us.

“You think that was meant for us?” I asked.

“What do you think?”

“No survivors,” somebody was saying on a news spot. “Names have not yet been released pending notification of next of kin.” The reporter turned to another journalist.

“Bill, what do you have?”

“Lara, this is believed to be the first shuttle accident in more than a century. The last one occurred-”

People were gathering to watch.

Alex called security. He gave them Charlie’s description and told them he might be involved in what had happened to the shuttle. This was the guy I’d thought shy.

Two minutes later, a man and woman showed up and asked a lot of questions. After we’d given them what little we had, they looked skeptical. But they thanked us, assured us they’d make a full report, and asked us where we could be reached if additional questioning became necessary.

“Maybe they can get him before he gets away from the station,” I said.

“Let’s hope.”

The media account continued: “-Air and Space will be issuing a statement shortly-”

A man standing beside us shushed his kids. A woman on the far side of the concourse collapsed.

“-Twenty-two people, including the pilot-”

I looked around, wondering if I might spot Charlie somewhere. Wondering if he might make a second attempt at us.

“-Into the ocean. Rescue teams are just arriving on the scene-”

Alex opened the box. Everything was accounted for. “Try to hang on to it,” he said.

“-They’re telling us there was no hint of a problem, Lara. No distress call. Nothing like that. They just dropped off the scopes without warning-”

The screen showed schematics of the L700, which was the shuttle model used at Skydeck. An analyst began explaining its safety features.

A pair of paramedics arrived to attend to the woman who’d collapsed. There were cries of Look out and Give them room. Then they carried her away.

“-Tell us it’s the safest shuttle in the fleet. It’s been in service throughout the Confederacy for more than sixty years. And this is the first-”

We disengaged from the crowd and found seats in one of the boarding areas. I think we were just beginning to grasp the reality of what had happened. Twenty-two dead.

It would constitute one of the worst disasters of modern times. But I’m not sure that was what I was feeling. I pictured myself inside the cabin and suddenly blown into the sky.

“You okay?” Alex asked.

“Yeah.”

The security people came back and took us to a central location where we described Charlie again for an artist. “Did you know,” Alex asked, “there was a time they used surveillance cameras in places like this? Recorded everything.” In fact, he added, Rainbow had sold one of the devices to a collector years ago.

“Maybe we need to get them back,” I said.

By the time we were finished, we’d missed the nine o’clock shuttle, too. Assuming there’d been one.