The Forever Hero (42 page)

Both circuit blocs remained black.

With a sigh, the man in the working tech's jumpsuit set them aside and stood up.

Each aspect of rebuilding the courier took more time, more credits, and more equipment than even he had anticipated. He reset the test probes, and reattached the cube blocs. His fingers played across the tester's console.

This time, the circuit bloc on the right turned crimson. But the one on the left remained black.

He sighed again and stood up, glancing across the hangar at the incomplete structure in the graving cradle, the structure that he hoped would someday be the ship he needed.

His eyes strayed to his wrist and the comp-timer there.

2230—far too late already. Allison would be asleep, assuming that Corson was not giving her trouble. But Corson seldom did, despite his intense interest in the world around him and his already too active efforts at crawling.

Corson and Allison—there was never enough time for them, not with the demands of being Standora Base Commander and the invisible deadlines for completing the courier that crept up toward him.

How could he tell Allison that he had to finish the ship before his last tour at Standora? She thought he had all the time in the universe.

Caroljoy had thought that, too.

Perhaps they were right, but he could be killed as easily as any other man, and would be, once the Empire discovered his plans. On that basis, he had little enough time, and no one in whom he could confide.

Allison, wrapped up in her moments of joy, and in Corson, could
not understand the desperate need of a distant and antique planet forgotten by all but the myth tellers, the historians, and one Imperial senior commander.

Caroljoy, who had understood, had also opted for her moments of joy in her son. But she had left him the means and, indirectly, yet another pressure, to pursue his obsession.

“Obsession?” he asked himself wryly.

“Obsession,” he conceded as he placed another circuit bloc into the tester, ignoring the tightening in his guts as he felt the night inch toward morning, as he could sense the loneliness radiating from a large house on a high hill.

The third circuit bloc flared crimson, and he smiled, using his lips only, as he placed it inside the screen relay he was reconstructing.

“Only five more,” he muttered as he selected yet another bloc from the case of scrapped components he had obtained through the Ydrisian free market.

He shifted his weight as he began once more to work the testing console, probing the minute circuits before him to insure their integrity and functions.

Taking a deep breath, he settled back into the routine. Select, set up the test patterns, scan, and test. Select, set up, scan, and test.

He hoped Corson was sleeping well.

And Allison. And Allison.

“Congratulations, Admiral. Congratulations.”

“Appreciate it, Medoro.” The newly sworn Admiral of the Fleet surveyed the palatial office, the wide armaglass windows that overlooked New Augusta from the hillside that the I.S.S. had claimed generations earlier, and the small group of Imperial courtiers, functionaries, and subordinates who waited at the far end of the high-ceilinged room.

He repressed a smile as he glanced back at Medoro. The senior commodore, who had served as Chief of Staff for the last two Fleet Admirals, obviously would lose no time in pressing his own agenda. The admiral nodded at his Chief of Staff. “It's time to play politics, I gather.”

“It's always time to play politics, Admiral.”

The admiral let the smile come to his lips. “Always and forever, from now on. Right, Medoro?”

“If you want a long and healthy tenure, ser.”

Medoro's tone was light, but the admiral caught the bitterness of underlying truth. The most senior officer of the Service took a step toward the white linens of the over-laden table where the official “informal” celebration of his swearing-in would commence.

“Any space for truth?” he asked the commodore, almost as if the question were an afterthought.

“Only if you are careful, ser…and now is not the time to begin…Admiral Keraganis is the one on the far right…next to him is Admiral Fleiter, head of logistics and personnel…and behind him is Rear Admiral Thurson, Information Services—”

“That's basically the Service rep to the Eye Council, right?”

“He does sit as liaison to the council, currently.”

The admiral refocused his attention on the officers approaching as he moved up to the table area.

“Congratulations, Admiral Horwitz,” boomed out the man Medoro had identified as Keraganis. “Look forward to working with you. Heard a lot about you, especially the way you handled the original Ursan contact. Brilliant strategy.”

Horwitz inclined his head. “Thank you. Just fortunate to have the right people in the right places. I look forward to having the benefit of your unique experience, and your distinguished advice will certainly be welcome.”

“Glad to see you again, J'rome,” broke in another admiral, a silver-haired and thin man who stood a half head above the others.

“Marsta! Didn't expect to see you. When did you get here?” The Fleet Admiral sidestepped Keraganis, favoring him with a pat on the shoulder that he hoped would get the point across that Keraganis was not working with him, but for him, and around the end of the laden table.

He stopped before reaching his friend.

“All of you, it's a happy occasion. Please enjoy the food and the company. Dig in.”

Immediately several junior commodores and a senior commander, appearing rather out of place among the senior officers of the I.S.S., took refuge in the food.

“J'rome. Didn't expect to make it, but we wound up the Rim maneuvers almost a week ahead of schedule. For once, everything worked. Smart idea that Alexandro had, insisting on premaneuver checks at Standora.”

“Alexandro? Standora?”

“C.O. of the
Dybyykk
. He had some emergency work done there a year ago. Better than any Service yard yet, he insisted, and since no one else out that way could fit the squadron in, I agreed. Took a week more than we thought, but it cut the down time on station by twice that. So I'm here.”

Horwitz frowned. “Standora? Why is that so familiar?”

The rear admiral laughed. “How could you forget? Gerswin? He's the commandant at Standora.”

“Gerswin is still around? He was ancient at the time of the Ursan contact.”

“Doesn't look it, but I understand he's on his last or next-to-last tour—”

“Congratulations, Admiral Horwitz,” broke in another voice. “Marc Fleiter, here. Logistics and personnel. I just wanted to meet you informally before we get together officially, and I wanted to let you know how much I look forward to working for you.”

Horwitz repressed another smile. Fleiter was sharp, and had seen Horwitz's reaction to Keraganis's attempt to put the Fleet Admiral down.

“Good to meet you, Admiral Fleiter. I'm sure we will do well together, and I appreciate your interest.”

“Not at all, Admiral. Just wanted to say hello, and I apologize if I intruded.”

“No problem…no problem.”

As Fleiter stepped back and away, and as Horwitz and Marsta were left alone momentarily, Marsta smiled a brief and rueful smile.

“Watch out for that one, J'rome.”

“Sharp, isn't he?” Horwitz responded. “And dangerous, I suspect,” he added in a lower voice. “But not the most dangerous one.”

“Who's that?”

“I think it was Gerswin. Too bad he got mixed up in that Old Earth mess. Or maybe it's a good thing he did.”

“Admiral Horwitz…”

The new Fleet Admiral turned to greet the next in the stream of well-wishers.

Admiral Marsta nodded and turned toward the fruit.

The emptiness struck the commander as soon as he stepped through the portal into the foyer, with its real slate tiles that had been left from the days when the base had boasted a commodore in residence.

Boots clicking, the slender officer in working grays glanced into the salon, into the living room, into the formal dining room, and into the kitchen that was twice the size necessary even for the entertainment needs of the base commandant it served.

Empty—the main floor rooms were empty.

A dozen quick steps carried him up the wide formal staircase to the second floor, opposite the room she had used as a nursery. The standard crib, which had been presented to them by a local acquaintance, stood empty; the handmade quilt the boy loved, gone with him and his mother.

The I.S.S. senior officer crossed the small room and checked the closet. No clothes remained.

With a sigh, he surveyed the room once more.

Another deep breath, and he left, heading for the master suite, knowing she would be gone, and that the room they had shared, briefly it seemed, would be immaculate, and vacant.

In the wide hall outside the old-fashioned doorway, he paused, not wanting to burst in, nor wishing to find what he knew he would discover.

His eyes traced the perfectly squared panels of the wood. Finally he reached and touched the handle. The door swung inward at his touch.

For a moment, an instant, everything seemed normal. The crimson trimmed gray quilt still covered the outsized bed. A solideo cube still graced the bedside table on the side where he slept. Late afternoon sun still poured through the western windows of the sunroom and spilled through the archway into the bedroom itself.

His fears were confirmed by the other absences—the bare table-top on the right side of the bed, the empty space on the wall where the portrait of the three of them had hung, the missing daccanwood box where she had kept her uniform insignia.

With slow steps he reached the closet, opened it, and saw his own uniforms on the right, and the emptiness on the left.

He turned, paced back and forth three times along the foot of the bed, almost as if she were still there, always back before him, her long legs curled under her, Corson at her breast, listening to him tell her about the day.

His eyes flickered to where she usually sat, then back to the floor before he realized that a white square lay across her pillow.

The commander pounced upon it, so quickly an onlooker would not have believed the speed with which he moved, and studied the script, the nearly childish lines with the large loops and clear and precise letters.

The formal notecard in hand, he straightened and let his steps take him into the sunroom. From the wide windows, he looked downhill toward the empty shuttle field.

She and Corson had taken the
Graham
back toward the Arm, back toward Scandia and its tall conifers and rocky islands.

Scandia…the name even sounded like her.

He shook his head and turned away from the vista.

She had liked the view from the commandant's quarters. How many times had she sat in the swing chair in the late afternoon, after she had gotten home, Corson cradled in her left arm, just looking out?

“Destiny…” The single word seemed to cast a shadow on the sunlit carpet.

Was he that driven? Was it so obvious that those who loved him turned away? Or did they really love him at all? Were they just drawn to him for some other reason?

He laid the notecard on the arm of the swing chair before he left the sunroom, before he looked through the rest of the quarters for the two he would not find, for any trace of the pilot, woman, and officer who had loved him, and of his son, whom he had known so briefly.

The sunbeams played across the weave of the Scandian carpet he had bought for her, illuminating the soft golds and browns in the silence.