The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1 (31 page)

Dr. Patrick Hamilton had been sedated since the second swarm battle, in which he had been parted from his right foot. A bit of a crybaby, Patrick Hamilton did not want to endure the pain and ick factor involved in reattaching his appendage while conscious.

When finally he rose from his sick bay cot, he was dismayed to learn that, though the ship was in orbit around Arra, he was not permitted to displace to the surface to try out his reconnected foot in the starshine on the green Arran meadows.

Since
Merrimack
was back in the Myriad, Patrick figured that Glenn must be back on board. And since it was mid watch, his wife would be OOD. Dr. Pat would just see who was allowed to go where.

As he made his way to the control room, people looked at him as if he’d grown four eyes—or an extra foot. They whispered behind his back, glanced away when he turned round.

He overhead one furtive exchange: “That’s Hamster’s husband.”

“Oh. Him?”

Patrick Hamilton arrived at the control room to find Commander Calli Carmel on watch. He double-checked his chron. It was definitely the Hamster watch. “Where’s Glenn?”

The whole control room turned around to stare. More of those weird looks. Embarrassed. Pained.

Finally someone clued him in: While you were sedated, your wife was kidnapped by the LEN, escaped, was presumed killed in a capture attempt, but turned up alive on the planet Arra.

“Oh, is that all?” Patrick said, customarily flippant. Wondered when someone had intended to wake him up to let him know. “Where is she now?”

“Planetside with Captain Farragut.”

Someone hissed the speaker quiet, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t. Patrick Hamilton glanced at all the eyes that quickly averted in numbing silence.

Feeling as if he was waking up much later than he had thought, Patrick Hamilton asked, “Is there something else I should know . . . ?”

Donner had a monitor screen illuminated in his audience hall, the screen filled with
Merrimack
’s mauled hulk.

The Archon turned from the horrific image to Captain Farragut. “You found your monsters.”

“We did,” said Farragut, then told Donner in the most exigent terms he could find in the Myriadian language that Donner must not—must not—go to Origin ever again. Must not even let the beings of Origin learn of the existence of starfaring peoples this side of the
kzachin
or of the possibility of true FTL travel. “You cannot tell them anything about us. It will change history.”

“How simply you can say so.” Donner’s tone was tempered, but his mane stood up along his spine in fighting set. “It is not your world. It is not your history.”

“It is my
now
and you must not change it,” said Farragut.

“Very well.”

The dictator’s acquiescence took them all by surprise, left Farragut off balance. He had been braced for a storm. Got instead a quick easy
okay.
Captain Farragut looked to Colonel Augustus and Lieutenant Colonel Steele to make sure he had not mistranslated Donner’s answer.

And to their startled stares, Donner insisted, “If I must, I must.”

Steele breathed a sudden obscenity. Farragut turned sharply. Found Augustus nodding in agreement with the Marine’s comment. Augustus spoke in English, (“Even the musclehead figured that one out.”)

Farragut caught on. (“Donner already sent the message.”)

(“Weeks ago,”) Augustus guessed. (“Probably the moment we arrived in the Myriad.”)

(“Then it’s all done,”) said Steele. (“It’s all over and nothing happened.”)

(“Maybe not,”) said Farragut. Hoped so. But would not bet on it. (“It’s not like he could just displace a ship to the Rim gate. It would take an Arran ship a while to travel from Arra to the
kzachin
that leads to Origin.”)

(“How long of a
while
?”) Steele directed that to Augustus.

A hint of a smile lurked in Augustus’ dark eyes. Black humor there. (“Weeks.”)

Farragut’s heart sped. (“Augustus! Assume Donner sent a messenger ship to Origin when we first appeared—Do we still have time to stop that messenger?”)

(“I’m not plugged in, so I can’t run the numbers, but given that Donner is stalling us with this agreeable bullshit, I would have to say yes.”)

All eyes returned to Donner. Though the Archon could not understand their words, he must have guessed what they were saying, because he now held a projectile weapon trained on John Farragut’s head.

Farragut’s posture deflated a little with an impatient sigh. Never appreciated that view of a firearm. He implored, “Donner, logic dictates—”

“No, Captain Farragut.
I
dictate.”

The Archon gave his weapon a small lift to draw attention to it. “Primitive enough by your standards, but it’s lethal enough for my purposes.”

Of course Donner would not be able to see the energy wall Colonel Steele had activated, LD to LD. Charged with security, Steele had been entirely ready for this reaction. Donner might detect only the slightest refraction in the air between him and his target. The greater giveaway was Farragut’s lack of concern at having a weapon pointed at his face.

Farragut’s steady gaze met the eyes behind the gun. “What
is
your purpose, Archon?”

“To save my home world. This planet—Xi, you call it. Lieutenant Commander Glenn Hamilton tells me it is Origin and it is dead. Tell me, what killed my world?”

“Any number of natural forces could have done it,” said Farragut. “Entropy is a basic condition of the universe.
My
home world will be dead in ten billion years.”

Donner spoke thickly, deeply felt. “But your descendants will not be dead. Your people travel far. I know my people did not go elsewhere. They have not the means. And if I sent them heavy elements with which to build thousands of ships, then you would find something of them still on this planet Xi, even after ten billion ‘years.’ Something left besides the back of a reliquary . . .” He broke off with a quaver in the voice, a glistening in the coal-black eyes.

Myriadians cry.
Human tears.

Donner snarled, “It means I did not help them. I did not help them
yet.
I see there is a God, and God sent you to show me my error. I am destined to save them. I will change my history.”

Farragut suppressed a groan.

The heavy air shimmered with sound. A chorus of cricking, the fluttering of myriad wings, the scraping of serrate legs. The bluster of swarms of insectoid life.

Farragut shivered in the Arran heat, his hair pricking up like Donner’s mane at the sound, the sound that stirred only the most elemental dread.

And saw everywhere—from the sponge bushes, from the lake, from the vine trees and coral gardens, from the water and the rock faces—insects rising.

“Hive sign!”

16

D
ONNER FROWNED, perplexed. Not accustomed to losing the attention of those he held at gunpoint. Might as well be holding a toy for all the regard it won him.

Captain Farragut yelled into the back of his hand, (“Calli. We have Hive sign. What’ve you got?”)

(“Nothing. Negative Hive sign. We are quiet. Are you sure it’s not another mimic?”)

“Dead sure. This planet is being pinged.”

The Hive often sent scouts ahead, which always betrayed their presence this way. The scouts’ signals back to the Overmind set the local insectoid life to panic. With a being as unified as the Hive, in which the Overmind had instantaneous knowledge of every one of its cells, the concept of stealth was so alien to the Hive as never to occur to it. There were no sneak attacks.

Even Donner, who had never witnessed Hive sign, was instinctively disturbed by the sight of Arran creatures swarming and flapping and creeping out of the ground.

(“They haven’t found the ship yet. We’re all quiet here,”) Calli sent. (“Do you want some bugs down there for confirmation?”)

(“Do it.”)

In moments, a terrarium of telltales blasted into existence on an LD. Immediately ants poured out of their tunnels and pawed at their glass confines.

(“Hive sign confirmed,”) Farragut reported.

Donner stared at the shiny black bodies beetling out of the sand. Listened to the eerie noise all around them. Spoke to Farragut, “Your monsters. They are here.”

“They’re not here quite yet,” said Farragut. “That’s the point singer—
somewhere
on planet. He’s calling the monsters to dinner. (Calli! Break res silence. Gimme a res scan. Get an idea who this creep is singing to. Any swarms in the immediate neighborhood?”)

(“Initiating scan.”) And, quickly, (“Got ’em. Two hundred light-years out.”)

(“ETA?”)

(“Five—whoa. Stand by. We have another sighting, closer.”)

(“Where?”)

(“Stand by. We’ve got another hit. Another. They are waking up on all sides. This stellar neighborhood is lousy with dormant swarms. They’re not dormant anymore.”) She read off multiple plots, converging on the Myriad. (“Nearest swarm so far is one month out.”)

The Overmind woke its dormant swarms in proportion to the size of the bait.

“You will drive away these monsters you have summoned,” Donner commanded.

Eyes of alien blue told Donner he couldn’t. If John Farragut wanted to, if it were Earth itself, he could not. One month was not enough time for
Merrimack
to reach Fort Eisenhower for a refit, reload, reman. With five engines, dwindling projectiles, nine-tenths of a crew, and great holes in her physical hull, the
Mack
could not do battle again.

“Donner, you cannot bring your people here from Origin. You’ll all be eaten alive.”

“It’s too late. I told them to come.”

(“Oh, for Jesus. Calli, get us out of here. Displace now.”)

The look of betrayal on Donner’s face branded his memory as he vanished from Arra. He honestly believed he would never forget it.

John Farragut hit the deck barking. Ordered a res message be sent to Earth. Update the Joint Chiefs of our—oh, for Jesus—our status.

Ordered a res message to Fort Ike. Tell ’em we’re coming in hot. Give ’em our laundry list.

Ordered displacement of the LEN detainees back to
Woodland Serenity
. Advised the LEN they would have a rescue operation on their hands in one month.

Ordered a computation: Given the transit times between
kzachin
, what was the best time a vessel dispatched from Arra could arrive at the Rim gate at the Myriad’s perimeter?

“Best time?” young Jeffrey, manning the tactical station, said. “Best time is through a connecting
kzachin
in the Centro system. If the Arran messenger left Arran space the moment that
Merrimack
’s first image was seen on Arra and didn’t stop at Centro, Donner’s messenger ship could be closing on the Rim gate now.”

“Ping the Rim gate.”

The sensor technician executed a resonant sounding of the vicinity surrounding the Rim gate and its connecting
kzachin
. Reported: “No vessels in transit between the
kzachin
connecting Arra to the Rim and the
kzachin
that leads to Origin.”

Which was not to say a messenger ship could not pop out of the connecting
kzachin
at any moment, because there was no way of knowing anything about a ship inside a
kzachin
.

Farragut leaned over the stellar plot. “So if the Arran messenger were to come out of that
kzachin
right now,” he pointed at the
kzachin
that connected Centro to the edge of Myriad. “How long would it take him to get from there to the Rim gate—the
kzachin
that goes to Origin?”

“That would depend on how fast he’s traveling, sir. We haven’t seen Myriadian ships do much better than eighty percent c. Eighty percent c gives him a minimum transit time of two hours.”

“Then get us to the Rim right now. We’re going to head him off.”

“We’re a day and a half from the Rim, best speed,” Calli reminded him. “Unless it took Donner a day and a half to figure out what he was going to say and launch that messenger, or the messenger stopped off at Centro, he’ll be coming out of that connecting
kzachin
any time now. We’ve already lost this race.”

“The messenger has
not
reached the Rim gate,” Farragut said, like a command. “Get me there first.”

Racing toward the edge of the Myriad took Merrimack within five light-years of the planet Centro. In passing,
Merrimack
launched an SPT boat and a squadron of Swifts in a flying drop. The Marines had orders to proceed to the planet in silent mode and discover whether Centro was showing Hive sign or if the world lay still hidden from the Hive’s ravenous eye. The Marines were also charged with repulsing any space traffic which might try to make the local connection to the Rim gate. Though most of the company suspected that Echo Flight had already seen the messenger during early recon sortie.

Steele suggested in parting that if the planet Centro lay dark, it could yet serve in the coming siege. Steele would look for a suitable base while there. But Farragut told him, “One battle at a time, TR. We lose this one, the rest of them won’t matter.”

“Augustus—” Farragut blew into the torpedo storage bay. “I have to ask you to plug in. I’m going to need precise calculations coming up here, and I can’t afford to overlook any variables.”

Augustus turned slowly, lowered, and lifted his lids slowly. “If that is a request, the answer is no. How bad do you want it?”

“It’s an order,” Farragut rephrased. He looked at Augustus, really looked at him only now, taking in his tired, sour expression, the whole of his makeshift quarters—the sword propped, hilt-down, point angled up at midriff height. Farragut’s glance shifted uneasily from sword, to Roman, and back. “You look like you’re fixing to fall on that.”

“Not now. Eventually. However—” Augustus plucked up the sword in disgust. “This is
not
the tool for the job.” Tossed it aside. “It ought to be longer and straighter. This is a gorgon slicer.”

Farragut became quite troubled. His voice came out more plaintive than he wanted. “But why will the job need doing? Eventually. At all?”

Suicide, the very idea of it, was alien to John Farragut. He could see himself dying by throwing himself between harm and a beloved, but never an act wherein the whole point of the endeavor was to die.

“Later,” Augustus dismissed the question, and before Farragut could press it, the captain’s link crackled to life on the back of his hand. It was Calli: “Captain! Res-read ! We have the Arran messenger. Just appeared from the connecting
kzachin
. Heading toward the Rim gate at seventy percent c.”

“ETA?”

“At present rate, the Arran will reach the Rim gate in three hours.”

“And
our
ETA?”

“Nine hours.”

“If we can’t catch it, then shoot it down. Arm a Star Sparrow.”

“Aye, sir. Load, sir?”

“A
fast
one.”

An Arran courier vessel would not require much punch. A simple collision might take it out. But a Star Sparrow at that speed might just poke a neat hole in the flimsy ship without detonating.

“Can a Star Sparrow make intercept?”

The specialists had been conferring over just that question. “Negative. Even at optimum launch time, which will be coming up in about one hour—we’re coming up short.”

“Arm the bird. I’m coming up,” Farragut sent, clicked off, turned to Augustus. “Here’s where I need a patterner. Get me the precise optimum launch time for a T five forty one Star Sparrow. You’ll find the exact specs in the data bank.”

Augustus would need to factor in the speed of the
Merrimack
, fuel consumption and acceleration of the Star Sparrow, and the gravitational drag of the Myriad’s stars.
Merrimack
was passing through the thickest part of the cluster now.

“You can’t catch the Arran,” Augustus could tell him without plugging in.

“Get the ordnance there in the best possible time. Can you do that?”

“I will give you the optimum launch time, but it won’t do the job, so why are you hurrying to an intercept you cannot make?”

“Because if you give up running out a bad hit and the shortstop just happens to overthrow base, and you get tagged out because you didn’t hustle, your own mama will boo you out of the park.”

“Ever happen to you?”

“Not to
me!
” said Farragut with some pride. “You run on what you hit. You may get tagged out, but you don’t ever quit. Unless it’s to the enemy, never say die.” And, confiscating Augustus’ sword, “And that’s not what
this
is for either. You don’t quit.”

“You have no idea what this is about.”

“You got that right. So tell me.”

“Later.”

“It’s always
later
with you. But later never comes.”

Augustus plugged cables into his neck. His eyes extinguished. His face slackened and his voice went hollow. “Don’t talk to me.”

Clambering up the ladder to the command deck level, Farragut caught himself playing the
ifs
, looking for every turn he might have played differently, each second he had squandered, all the moments he might have saved so as not to be running against a time deficit toward an impossible intercept.

If he had not paused to return the LEN pirates to their ship.

If he had simply ordered Hamster to blockade the Rim gate rather than have her try to talk to Donner.

If he hadn’t paused to restock his oxygen. Could have done that afterward. Now there might not be an afterward.

If. If. Not a question he normally asked. But faced with a real possibility of everything he knew coming to an end, the ifs came in a barrage.

How much of his life would vanish because of any of those wasted moments? All of his own history? His world. His nation. His self.
Was I killed at EtaCas
?

It wasn’t his life that flashed before his eyes—it was the people in it. From his too beautiful, slender and stately, Roman-educated XO, Callista Carmel, to his surly chief, who kept the
Mack
a ship to make you proud, to that obnoxious Roman IO who somehow made himself indispensable, to the unattainable Glenn Hamilton, to that big-eared kid Jeffrey at the tac station, to his civilian Nobel Laureate passenger Jose Maria Cordillera who had become more like a father to him than his own father.

All the people on board. He knew them all. Wanted to keep them.

They were his. He would not let them go.

He could not control what was already done, so he threw off the ifs and charged straight ahead.

He exploded into the control room. “Augustus, feed your numbers to fire control.”

The tactical specialist reviewed the firing solution. Shook his head. “Best isn’t good enough. The Arran ship will be at the Rim gate in one hundred twenty-one minutes. Star Sparrow will get there in one hundred thirty-five minutes. We can’t make intercept.” He craned round in his seat to add, “Unless you mean to shoot through the
kzachin
and catch him on the other side.”

“No. Under no circumstances send anything through the
kzachin.
”

All evidence suggested that no object could overtake any other object inside a
kzachin
, and energy weapons did not exist at all inside the
kzachin.
Once on the far side of the
kzachin
, the race was over.

“Why?” Jeffrey asked. “We still have nineteen minutes on the far side of the gate to make intercept. The
kzachin
spits you out on the other side of the sun and nineteen light-minutes from Origin.”

“Don’t forget, as soon as that messenger ship is through the gate, it will be transmitting its little heart out. We can’t corral electromagnetic waves. Once that messenger gets through the gate, the genie is out of the bottle. And there’s no way I’m sending a Star Sparrow back ten billion years to become the instrument of our own destruction. We catch him on
this
side of the gate or—we catch him on this side of the gate.

“Can’t, sir.”

Not a word to use to John Farragut. He turned to Augustus. “Why aren’t we launching the Star Sparrow yet? It accelerates a hell of a lot faster than the
Mack
.”

Augustus remained withdrawn into his data storm, not hearing, or more likely, ignoring the ignorant question.

The tactical specialist responded for him. “These look like real good numbers Colonel Augustus gave us, Captain. The
Mack
is passing through the core of the Myriad. If we launch now, the Star Sparrow would spend all its energy fighting tidal drag and making course corrections. Course corrections will rob its forward capability in a big way, probably crack it up. Sparrow’s kind of speed needs a straight-line path. Optimum launch really is in fifty-nine minutes. We’re going to be close.” Heard how feeble that last part sounded as it came out of his mouth. Wanted that one back.