Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (7 page)

“Thirty seconds, Mr. Treet.” The captain's calm voice fell from above. “Would you like to watch the liftoff?”

“Uh, sure—if it's no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I'll switch on the holovision.”

A second later the holoscreen blipped on and Treet, swiveling his chair with the aid of a button on the armrest, saw a view of the cavern ceiling opening to a sky pitch-dark, devoid of moon or stars.

“Some cloud cover, as you can see. But all things considered, a pretty good night for flying. Fifteen seconds,” Crocker's voice intoned. “I'll be a tad busy for the next few minutes. I'll talk to you when we've locked in our trajectory. Until then, relax and leave everything to me.”

Treet felt the shuttle tremble and sensed slight movement around him. The holovision revealed that the ship had angled up—the floor beneath them had become a steep incline to give them a straight shot away. The thrum of the engines became a boom and then, with only the merest suggestion of a bump, the craft rose from the floor.

He watched the holoscreen and saw the cavern slide away slowly. Then they cleared the ceiling—the lights, now pointing skyward, flashed momentarily—and he glimpsed dark landscape spreading out around them. Treet felt himself grow heavy in the chair, sinking down into the cushioned material as the shuttle took on speed.

Faster and faster the ship climbed. There was nothing to see; the screen showed a dark, formless expanse of empty sky. Gravity pressed him down with a heavy hand. His eyesight darkened, as if the light in the compartment had dimmed, and his limbs became sluggish and lethargic. It took too much effort to shift his arms. Suddenly tired, he closed thick eyelids and allowed sleep to descend upon him.

Treet
awoke—seconds, minutes, hours later, he couldn't tell which—to see through the oval window above him a slice of bright-spangled starfield. He sat for a moment without moving, then, feeling strangely light and buoyant, lifted his hand to open the catch on the seatbelt. The hand flew up and tugged him away from the chair. They were in orbit.

He retrieved his floating moneybag, stuffed it into a drawer under the seat of his couch, unbuckled his belt, and let himself drift up over the chair, then kicked off toward the door. Treet learned next why the walls of his stateroom were covered with a spongy padding, for he had misjudged the angle of his flight and piled into the doorframe. The door, evidently pressure-sensitive, folded back automatically, and he grappled his way through the opening and into the main compartment where he collided with someone just emerging from the cubicle next to his.

The body was male and pear-shaped, with hips slightly wider than shoulders. An overlarge fuzzy head, sporting jug ears, wobbled on a thin-pencil neck as the stranger ricocheted toward the nearest bulkhead. “Hey!” he cried. “Watch it!”

“Sorry!” Treet said. “You okay? I don't quite have the knack of this yet.”

His fellow passenger raised his arm and spun around like a diver making a slow-motion pirouette. “It's easy, once you learn how. Zero-G is a blast!” The man smiled. His glasses flashed in the light, and Treet realized that he was, despite the antique metal-framed glasses, much younger than he looked—half Treet's age at least. “You're overcompensating, that's all. Just take it easy.”

Treet tucked his legs under him and pushed off, using about half as much muscle power as he thought he should. He drifted closer to the stranger and extended his hand. “Thanks. I see what you mean. My name is Orion Treet.”

“Asquith Pizzle, here. Glad to meet you, Treet. By the time this flight is over zero-G will be second nature to you.”

“Oh, I don't expect I'll get the chance to become an expert.”

“Of course you will. After all there's really nothing else to do for the next twelve weeks.” The young man drew his lips back in a goofy, toothsome grin which made him look like a bookish gnome.

“Twelve weeks? I'm getting off at the transfer station in a couple of hours. I—” Treet stopped. “What's the matter?”

Pizzle looked at him quizzically. “Are you sure you're on the right bird?”

“Of course! This is a Cynetics shuttle heading for rendezvous with a corporation transport.” Treet's voice sounded thin in his ears.

“This is no shuttle, Treet. This
is
the transport. We're on our way.”

“You're joking!” Treet glanced
around him. The jerk of his head sent him gliding off at an angle to Pizzle. A ripple of panic fluttered his stomach. “We're going in
this?”

“Righto mundo! This is a transport. Scaled down, of course—by about sixty times.”

“But… I… thought…”

“Not to worry. Crocker is a champ. He could fly a washtub to Mars if it had hydrodrive. He'll get us to Empyrion with starch in our shorts.”

“You're going too?” Treet's mind flip-flopped. Surprise made his voice whine. “I mean—I assumed I was alone.” On second thought, there was no reason for that assumption. Varro had not mentioned any other passengers, but then again, he hadn't said there weren't any others. “Is anyone else aboard?”

“One other. I don't know who. He's in his compartment, and I haven't seen him. Then there's Crocker, of course.”

The irrational fear ebbed away as Treet got used to the idea of traveling into deep space in such a small and apparently crowded craft. He wondered what else Varro had neglected to mention. “I, uh—got a little nervous just then. See, I was under the impression that we'd dock and transfer to a regular Cynetics transport. I guess not, huh?”

Pizzle shook his head. “Nope. This is it. Hey, but this is one elegant vehicle—a Grafschoen carbon-tempered titanium hull with twin sealed Rolls-Bendix plasma engines. There's not a better-made ship anywhere—you can bet your biscuits on that.”

“You an engineer?” asked Treet. Pizzle shook his head again. “A physicist?” Another shake, ears wobbling. “What then?”

“I'm a TIA man.” Pizzle grinned proudly.

“What's that?”

“Trend and impact analyst.”

“You're an accountant?” Treet asked incredulously.

Pizzle's face fell a fraction. “Not exactly. TIA is more than statistics and balance sheets.” He brightened again. “My branch is social integration of economic operants: SIE for short.”

“Oh.” Treet still had not the slightest idea what Pizzle was talking about—something to do with marketing, he figured. “I see.”

To break the silence that followed, Treet asked, “How come you wear glasses?”

“You mean instead of corneal implants or permatacts?” Pizzle placed a thumb to the bridge of his nose and shoved his steel frames back into place. “Nostalgia. These belonged to Z. Z. Papoon —one of my favorite authors. We have the same astigmatism.”

“Z. Z. Papoon? I don't believe I've ever heard the name.”

“He wrote a long time ago—futuristic fantasy mostly. Marvelous characters: Beeno the Beast-Stalker—that was one of his. People tell me I look like somebody from one of his books, so I guess it's only right I should have his glasses.”

“Only right.”

“Why did they pick you?” Pizzle asked.

“Sorry?” Treet bobbed in the air, drifting off to one side.

“Here, kick your legs together like in the water—that'll straighten you out. I meant, what's your specialty, Treet? How'd you convince them to give you one of their precious berths aboard this tin cricket?”

“Oh, I'm a writer mostly. History is my specialty, but I also do the odd travel piece. I guess the Chairman liked one of my articles, so here I am.”

“You must be some writer. Ever write any science fiction?”

“Strictly nonfiction.”

Pizzle looked incredulous. “I had to fight to get on here. I was one of five hundred applicants. They narrowed it down to a hundred a week ago, and this morning I was chosen.”

“You don't say. I was more like kidnapped.” Pizzle acted interested, so Treet went on to elaborate the details of his day, leaving out the part about the eight million dollars. “But tell me, Pizzle,” he said when he had finished, “what's your assignment on Empyrion? You mind my asking?”

“Not at all. It's long-range forecasting. Specifically, to prepare probability studies on the effects of high-production vibramining on the social and environmental infrastructures of the Empyrion colony.” Pizzle made a gesture as if to say it was all in a day's work, then said, “Are you hungry? I could eat a brick. Let's get some breakfast.”

Pizzle gathered himself into a ball and then whirled his arms; he tumbled end-over-end slowly toward the nearest bulkhead where he kicked off toward a console overhead. He grabbed the padded handring on the console's pedestal and pulled himself around.

“Yo, Crocker!” he said, punching a button.

“What's on your mind?” Crocker's voice answered from a speaker somewhere below them. The ceiling had temporarily become the floor.

“We're hungry.”

“I could use a bite myself.”

“How about giving us a little thrust? It's a putch trying to eat in zero-G.”

“We're scheduled for a little OA and A burn in about thirty minutes. I could give you some now and take it off the other end.”

“Thanks. I'll get the coffee perking.” Pizzle shoved away from the pedestal and spun in the air. “Follow me,” he called to Treet. “The galley is this way.”

Treet
slouched in a basket-shaped foam chair, gum-soled boots propped on the edge of a retractable table, sipping black, pungent Tasmanian coffee. Both he and Pizzle were listening to the Captain explain the intricacies of space navigation.

Crocker had joined them earlier, wolfed down some eggs and a few slices of Texas ham, and now sat puffing on a very long, green aromatic panatela, saying, “Of course, ground control computers handle all the really tricky maneuvers. Our onboard system is nothing to sneeze at, though. We've installed the Cynetics Cyclops in place of the usual Hewlett StarNav equipment. That bugger is nearly a hundred times faster and smarter than anything commercially available. It's made solely for Lein's peacekeeping forces.” He smiled broadly. “But we got a special deal.”

“Why such a powerful computer,” asked Treet idly, “if ground control can handle everything?”

“Just plain good backup,” shrugged Crocker, his sunburned face creasing in a conspiratorial wink. Then he leaned forward and said, “Thing is, nobody really knows what happens when you get that close to the event horizon. And once inside the wormhole, we're on our own.”

Treet blinked back at him. Had he heard right? “Wormhole, did you say?” He exchanged a bewildered look with Pizzle.

“Uh-oh.” Crocker nodded slowly, took the cigar out of his mouth, and tapped the ash off into an empty mug. “Ol' Horatio has stepped in it again. I thought you fellas knew.”

“Are you saying we're reaching Empyrion via wormhole?” asked Pizzle, visibly awed at the prospect.

“Well, let's just say we don't have provisions for a fifty-year trip, so we're taking a shortcut.”

“Fan-super-tastic!” Pizzle rocked back in his chair, beaming. Crocker smiled broadly.

“I'm glad you're both so delighted,” said Treet sourly. “Just what in blue-eyed blazes is a wormhole exactly?”

“Well, it's—nobody knows what it is
exactly,
but—” began Crocker.

“Let me tell him,” offered Pizzle cutting in. “It's like a tunnel in space, only elastic, sort of…” His voice trailed off when he saw that Treet was frowning. “A hole in the space-time fabric, you know?”

“Something like a black hole, you mean?” Treet felt that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach again. What had he gotten himself into? “Are we talking about a black hole?”

“Yes, sort of,” said Pizzle. “Um … but not exactly. They're distant cousins, maybe.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Treet kept his temper down, barely.

“It's a phenomenon on the level of a black hole,” said Crocker. “Very difficult to describe.”

“Apparently,” puffed Treet indignantly. “Am I supposed to believe that we're going to fly through some
phenomenon
to get to the colony? Like diving through a hole in a wedge of Swiss cheese?”

“That's it!” Pizzle nodded vigorously. “But more like pinching Jello. Say you had a block of Jello—that's space, see?” His hands described a large cube. “You pinch it in the middle and push the two opposite sides together—collapse the center, see?” He brought his index fingers together through the imaginary Jello. “Well, the distance you have to travel decreases the more you pinch, see?”

“And since in space,” added Crocker, “distance and time are one and the same thing …
Voila!
Decrease distance and you decrease time, see?”

Treet was silent for some moments, looking from one to the other of them and back again, a dark frown lowering his brow and pulling his mouth down. “I see,” he said finally, “but I don't like it.”

“Take it easy,” Crocker soothed. “It's perfectly safe.”

“How do you know? You just said nobody knows what happens inside a wormhole.”

“Our best guess is that you just pop on through—like riding a trolley through a tunnel. Only you've carved about forty or fifty years off your travel time.”

“I don't believe this,” said Treet softly. “Both of you are crazy. You can let me off right here. I'll walk back.”