Pawn’s Gambit (18 page)

She snorted. “I've been under worse strains than this without falling apart.”

“I know. But you've never buried yourself this deeply before, and it worries me.”

“I know. I'm … sorry. If I could put it into words—” She shrugged helplessly.

“Are you worried about Bradley?” I prompted. “Don't forget that, whatever Lanton has to do here, he'll have all the resources of the Swedish Psychiatric Institute available to undo it.”

“I know. But … he's going to come out of it a different person. Even Lanton has to admit that.”

“Well … maybe it'll wind up being a change for the better.”

It was a stupid remark, and her scornful look didn't make me feel any better about having made it. “Oh, come
on.
Have you
ever
heard of an injury that did any real good? Because that's what it's going to be—an injury.”

And suddenly I understood. “You're afraid you won't like him afterwards, aren't you? At least not the way you do now?”

“Why should that be so unreasonable?” she snapped. “I'm a damn fussy person, you know—I don't like an awful lot of people. I can't afford to … to lose any of them.” She turned her back on me abruptly, and I saw her shoulders shake once.

I waited a decent interval before speaking. “Look, Alana, you're not in any shape to stay up here alone. Why don't you go down to your cabin and pull yourself together, and then go and spend some time with Bradley.”

“I'm all right,” she mumbled. “I can take my shift.”

“I know. But … at the moment I imagine Rik needs you more than I do. Go on, get below.”

She resisted for a few more minutes, but eventually I bent her sense of duty far enough and she left. For a long time afterwards I just sat and stared at the stars, my thoughts whistling around my head in tight orbit. What
would
the effect of the new Bradley be on Alana? She'd been right—whatever happened, it wasn't likely to be an improvement. If her interest was really only in wing-mending, Lanton's work would provide her with a brand-new challenge. But I didn't think even Alana was able to fool herself like that anymore. She cared about him, for sure, and if he changed too much that feeling might well die.

And I wouldn't lose her when we landed.

I thought about it long and hard, examining it and the rest of our situation from several angles. Finally, I leaned forward and keyed the intercom. Wilkinson was off duty in his cabin; from the time it took him to answer he must have been asleep as well. “Wilkinson, you got a good look at the damage in Lanton's neural whatsis machine. How hard would it be to fix?”

“Uh … well, that's hard to say. The thing that spit goop all over the Ming-metal coil was a standard voltage regulator board—we're bound to have spares aboard. But there may be other damage, too. I'd have to run an analyzer over it to find out if anything else is dead. Whether we would have replacements is another question.”

“Okay. Starting right now, you're relieved of all other duty until you've got that thing running again. Use anything you need from ship's spares—” I hesitated—“and you can even pirate from our cargo if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” He was wide awake now. “I gather there's a deadline?”

“Lanton's going to be doing some ultrasound work on Bradley in fifty-eight hours. You need to be done before that. Oh, and you'll need to work in Lanton's cabin—I don't want the machine moved at all.”

“Got it. If you'll clear it with Lanton, I can be up there in twenty minutes.”

Lanton wasn't all that enthusiastic about letting Wilkinson set up shop in his cabin, especially when I wouldn't explain my reasons to him, but eventually he gave in. I alerted Kate Epstein that she would have to do without Wilkinson for a while, and then called Matope to confirm the project's access to tools and spares.

And then, for the time being, it was all over but the waiting. I resumed my examination of the viewport, wondering if I were being smart or just pipe-dreaming.

Two days later—barely eight hours before Bradley's operation was due to begin—Wilkinson finally reported that the neural tracer was once again operational.

“This better be important,” Lanton fumed as he took his place at the dining-room table. “I'm already behind schedule in my equipment setup as it is.”

I glanced around at the others before replying. Pascal and Chileogu, fresh from their latest attempt at making sense from their assortment of plots, seemed tired and irritated by this interruption. Bradley and Alana, holding hands tightly under the table, looked more resigned than anything else. Everyone seemed a little gaunt, but that was probably my imagination—certainly we weren't on anything approaching starvation rations yet. “Actually, Doctor,” I said, looking back at Lanton, “you're not in nearly the hurry you think. There's not going to be any operation.”

That got everyone's full attention. “You've found another way?” Alana breathed, a hint of life touching her eyes for the first time in days.

“I think so. Dr. Chileogu, I need to know first whether a current running through Ming metal would change its effect on the ship's real rotation.”

He frowned, then shrugged. “Probably. I have no idea how, though.”

A good thing I'd had the gadget fixed, then. “Doesn't matter. Dr. Lanton, can you tell me approximately when in the cascade point your neural tracer burned out?”

“I can tell you exactly. It was just as the images started disappearing, right at the end.”

I nodded; I'd hoped it was either the turning on or off of the field generator that had done it. That would make the logistics a whole lot easier. “Good. Then we're all set. What we're going to do, you see, is reenact that particular maneuver.”

“What good will
that
do?” Lanton asked, his tone more puzzled than belligerent.

“It should get us home.” I waved toward the outer hull. “For the past two days we've been moving toward a position where the galactic field and other parameters are almost exactly the same as we had when we went through that point—providing your neural tracer is on and we're heading back toward Taimyr. In another two days we'll turn around and get our velocity vector lined up correctly. Then, with your tracer running, we're going to fire up the generator and rotate the same amount—by gyro reading—as we did then.
You
”—I leveled a finger at Lanton—“will be on the bridge during that operation, and you will note the exact configuration of your cascade images at that moment. Then,
without shutting off the generator,
we'll rotate
back
to zero; zero as defined by your cascade pattern, since it may be different from gyro zero. At that time, I'll take the Ming metal from your tracer, walk it to the number one hold, and stuff it into the cargo shield; and we'll rotate the ship again until we reach your memorized cascade pattern. Since the physical and real rotations are identical in that configuration, that'll give us the real angle we rotated through the last time—”

“And from
that
we can figure the angle we'll need to make going the other direction!” Alana all but shouted.

I nodded. “Once we've rotated back to zero to regain our starting point, of course.” I looked around at them again. Lanton and Bradley still seemed confused, though the latter was starting to catch Alana's enthusiasm. Chileogu was scribbling on a notepad, and Pascal just sat there with his mouth slightly open. Probably astonished that he hadn't come up with such a crazy idea himself. “That's all I have to say,” I told them. “If you have any comments later—”

“I have one now, Captain.”

I looked at Bradley in some surprise. “Yes?”

He swallowed visibly. “It seems to me, sir, that what you're going to need is a set of cascade images that vary a lot, so that the pattern you're looking for is a distinctive one. I don't think Dr. Lanton's are suitable for that.”

“I see.” Of course; while Lanton had been studying Bradley's images, Bradley couldn't help but see his, as well. “Lanton? How about it?”

The psychiatrist shrugged. “I admit they're a little bland—I haven't had a very exciting life. But they'll do.”

“I doubt it.” Bradley looked back at me. “Captain, I'd like to volunteer.”

“You don't know what you're saying,” I told him. “Each rotation will take twice as long as the ones you've already been through.
And
there'll be two of them back to back;
and
the field won't be shut down between them, because I want to know if the images drift while I'm moving the coil around the ship. Multiply by about five what you've felt afterwards and you'll get some idea what it'll be like.” I shook my head. “I'm grateful for your offer, but I can't let more people than necessary go through that.”

“I appreciate that. But I'm still going to do it.”

We locked eyes for a long moment … and the word
dignity
flashed through my mind. “In that case, I accept,” I said. “Other questions? Thank you for stopping by.”

They got the message and began standing up … all except Alana. Bradley whispered something to her, but she shook her head and whispered back. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and followed the others out of the room.

“Question?” I asked Alana when we were alone, bracing for an argument over the role I was letting Bradley take.

“You're right about the extra stress staying in Colloton space that long will create,” she said. “That probably goes double for anyone running around in it. I'd expect a lot more vertigo, for starters, and that could make movement dangerous.”

“Would you rather Bradley had his brain scorched?”

She flinched, but stood her ground. “My objection isn't with the method—it's with who's going to be bouncing off the
Dancer's
walls.”

“Oh. Well, before you get the idea you're being left out of things, let me point out that
you're
going to be handling bridge duties for the maneuver.”

“Fine; but since I'm going to be up anyway I want the job of running the Ming metal back and forth instead.”

I shook my head. “No. You're right about the unknowns involved with this, which is why
I'm
going to do it.”

“I'm five years younger than you are,” she said, ticking off fingers. “I also have a higher stress index, better balance, and I'm in better physical condition.” She hesitated. “And I'm not haunted by white uniforms in my cascade images,” she added gently.

Coming from anyone else, that last would have been like a knife in the gut. But from Alana, it somehow didn't even sting. “The assignments are nonnegotiable,” I said, getting to my feet. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to catch a little sleep before my next shift.”

She didn't respond. When I left she was still sitting there, staring through the shiny surface of the table.

“Here we go. Good Luck,” were the last words I heard Alana say before the intercom was shut down and I was alone in Lanton's cabin. Alone, but not for long: a moment later my first doubles appeared. Raising my wrist, I keyed my chrono to stopwatch mode and waited, ears tingling with the faint ululation of the Colloton field generator. The sound, inaudible from the bridge, reminded me of my trainee days, before the
Dancer
… before Lord Hendrik and his fool-headed kid. … Shaking my head sharply, I focused on the images, waiting for them to begin their one-dimensional allemande.

They did, and I started my timer. With the lines to the bridge dead I was going to have to rely on the image movements to let me know when the first part of the maneuver was over; moving the Ming metal around the ship while we were at the wrong end of our rotation or—worse—while we were still moving would probably end our chances of getting back for good. Mindful of the pranks cascade points could play on a person's time sense, I'd had Pascal calculate the approximate times each rotation would take. Depending on how accurate they turned out to be, they might simply let me limit how soon I started worrying.

It wasn't a pleasant wait. On the bridge, I had various duties to perform; here, I didn't have even that much distraction from the ghosts surrounding me. Sitting next to the humming neural tracer, I watched the images flicker in and out, white uniforms dos-à-dosing with the coveralls and the gaps.

Ghosts.
Haunted.
I'd never seriously thought of them like that before, but now I found I couldn't see them in any other way. I imagined I could see knowing smiles on the liner captains' faces, or feel a coldness from the gaps where I'd died. Pure autosuggestion, of course … and yet, it forced me for probably the first time to consider what exactly the images were doing to me.

They were making me chronically discontented with my life.

My first reaction to such an idea was to immediately justify my resentment. I'd been cheated out of the chance to be a success in my field; trapped at the bottom of the heap by idiots who ranked political weaselcraft higher than flying skill. I had a
right
to feel dumped on.

And yet …

My watch clicked at me: the first rotation should be about over. I reset it and waited, watching the images. With agonizing slowness they came to a stop … and then started moving again in what I could persuade myself was the opposite direction. I started my watch again and let my eyes defocus a bit. The next time the dance stopped, it would be time to move Lanton's damn coil to the hold and bring my ship back to normal.

My ship.
I listened to the way the words echoed around my brain.
My ship.
No liner captain owned his own ship. He was an employee, like any other in the company; forever under the basilisk eye of those selfsame idiots who'd fired me once for doing my job. The space junk being sparser and all that aside, would I
really
have been happier in a job like that? Would I have enjoyed being caught between management on one hand and upper-crusty passengers on the other? Enjoyed, hell—would I have
survived
it? For the first time in ten years I began to wonder if perhaps Lord Hendrik had known what he was doing when he booted me out of his company.