He had not done any of the things she had expected of him on this voyage. The nonsense about his not being rated for this type of spacecraft was just that—nonsense. After ten minutes of familiarization, it was clear that he could fly the ship as well as she could, or better. She had expected him to act on that, to plant himself in the copilot
’
s seat of the
Cruzeiro do Sul
and stay there, watching her like a hawk—or, more accurately, like a flight instructor. It would not have surprised her overmuch if he had simply ordered her out of the pilot
’
s station for the duration of the trip and done all the flying himself.
Instead he hadn
’
t set foot in the station, once he had confirmed that he could handle the controls in an emergency. Beyond that, he had barely paid Norla a moment
’
s attention since they had boarded the lighter.
Instead he had idled over his meals, by all appearances doing his best to savor what there was to savor in flavor and texture of shipboard food. He had brought along a large number of downloaded books from the
DP-IVs
library. From what Norla could see from looking at the titles, his choices were either eclectic in the extreme, or else had been made totally at random. And if there was anything beyond random selection in the music he played, Norla was unable to divine it. She recognized hardly any of it. Some of it was, to her, heart-stoppingly beautiful, but just as much of it was indistinguishable from noise.
There was something disturbing behind his calm, his detachment. Something that also whispered of the condemned man
’
s last meal, a man bidding a last fond farewell to all the things that made life worth living. But that was not quite it. There was something in what Koffield did that told her he was familiar with the patterns of the things he was doing, that he had done these things before, and in the same way. The meals, the books, the musical pieces were part of some ritual he had performed many times.
Norla was finally coming to understand what was going on. Koffield was preparing himself for battle, enjoying one last time the things of civilization, the things that made battles worth winning.
Anton Koffield was doing what he did when he knew it might be the last time. He was saying good-bye, bidding a ritual farewell to all the things he loved. Anton Koffield was savoring, one last time, not merely the things of life, but the things of peace. Whether or not he came back from whatever fight he expected, he would start the struggle with the fresh and clear memory of the things that made fighting worthwhile.
But if Koffield was going into battle, then she was too. And if he felt the need to be prepared, then so did she. She needed to know things. And there was only one way she could see that she was going to find them out. She crossed the deck and sat down in the chair opposite him, regarded him closely. It took a moment for him to look up from his book and notice her.
“
What is it, Officer Chandray?
”
he asked.
“
That was what I was about to ask you,
”
she said.
“
What
’
s going to happen? What is it you
’
re getting ready to face? Is there going to be a fight? A battle? If there is going to be, I should know about it, so I can get ready too— and get the ship ready.
”
“
This ship was not built to fight,
”
he said.
“
No, sir. She
’
s not armed. But even if it meant standing on the hull with a hand weapon, I
’
d rather go down fighting—if we are going to fight. When I see a man going through his prebattle ritual, I like to know what it
’
s about. Are we going to have to fight—and if so who, and over what, and where, and when?
”
Koffield glanced down at his book, then closed it and set it down on the sofa next to him.
“
‘
Prebattle ritual,
’
“
he said.
“
I
’
ve never thought of it in quite those terms, but I suppose that
’
s what it is.
”
He pulled a pocket controller out of his breast pocket and pressed a button. The music stopped.
“
I have every expectation that I will be in a fight,
”
he said.
“
But it will not involve you. It will not be fought with guns or bombs or laser cannon, but with words—at least at first. I doubt I will be killed, or even injured, even if it goes badly—but I could very well be arrested and thrown in some sort of jail or concentration camp—or mental institution.
”
Norla thought back to the scuttlebutt she had heard aboard the
DP-IV:
third- and fourth-hand stuff about what one crew member had heard about what another crew member had said about what the captain had said in an unguarded moment.
“
The story going around is that as soon as you were revived, before you knew what had gone wrong, you were expecting to be arrested—for warning the Solacians that their climate had gone wrong.
”
“
Yes. I expected to be arrested for predicting disaster.
”
“
Are you still expecting that?
”
“
In a way, yes.
”
“
Even though what you predicted has already come true.
”
“
Partially. Not all of my predictions have come true— yet. According to my studies and researches, the worst is yet to come.
”
“
You don
’
t think the planetary ecostructure will recover,
”
she said, careful not to make it sound like a question.
“
But I don
’
t see why that should be such shocking news that you
’
d be thrown in jail for saying it. If things are as bad down there as you say they are, surely someone has thought of that—and said it—already.
”
“
Quite true,
”
Koffield said, his face revealing nothing.
“
But if that was all there was to it,
”
Norla went on,
“
you wouldn
’
t have pushed so hard to go in-system. Why
risk being thrown in jail for the rest of your life, just to tell them what they already know?
”
“
You are quite right once again.
”
“
So what is all this? You know more than you
’
re saying.
”
Koffield shook his head no, back and forth one time, as if to deny that he knew more—but then stopped, and let out a weary sigh.
“
And why I do keep hiding it all? That
’
s the logical next question. And the best answer I can offer is force of habit. Fear of spreading panic, of getting rumors started without any way of stopping them if—or rather when—the story goes out of control. Maybe there
’
s some part of me that still believes in magic, that thinks that if I don
’
t say it out loud, it won
’
t come true. But you
’
re right. I know a lot of things. And I haven
’
t even told them to Marquez. He
thinks
he knows it all—and what he knows is bad enough. But he doesn
’
t have the whole story.
”
Koffield paused a moment, and considered.
“
That was a mistake, probably. If something happens to me, there will be no one left in a position to press on. I should have taken the time, convinced him. Too late now.
”
“
Perhaps so, sir. But you still haven
’
t told
me
anything.
”
Koffield. laughed, and there was even something careful and reserved about the way he laughed.
“
You don
’
t miss much, you know how to put the pieces together, and you
’
re damned persistent. Those are good traits to have, Officer Chandray. They
’
ll serve you well.
”
“
Well, sir, I
’
d like it if that started happening right now. Talk to me. What
’
s going on? What is the big picture?
What is this all about?”
Koffield sank back on the couch, rubbed his face with his hands, and let out a sigh. When his hands came down from his face, it seemed almost as if he had peeled away a mask. Suddenly the weariness showed, and the worry, and the anxiety. He was letting her see.
“
What
’
s it about?
”
he asked, echoing her words.
“
Disaster. Long-range, fullblown disaster for our entire civilization—and our species as well, for that matter.
”
Her eyes widened, and she stared at him. His tone of voice, his expression, made it impossible not to believe Koffield. He wasn
’
t spouting hyperbole that made him feel big and important. He was speaking the truth. That it had taken so much effort to drag it out of him only made him seem more convincing. He meant what he said.
“
Tell me,
”
she said.
Koffield stared at her for a moment, and then, at last, nodded.
“
All right,
”
he said.
“
All right.
”
He stood up and paced back and forth a time or two across the wardroom-lounge area.
“
It
’
s hard to know where to start,
”
he said. He paused and looked out the wardroom porthole.
“
After not speaking for so long, it
’
s hard to start at all,
”
he admitted.
He stared out at the cold stars for a long time, his thoughts seemingly as. far from Nor la as the stars themselves. Suddenly he turned toward her and spoke.
“
I suppose the best way to explain it to you is to explain how I got involved,
”
he said.
“
I expect you know—-you know what happened—what I did—at the Circum Central Wormhole Farm?
“
In general terms,
”
she said. I don
’
t know every detail.
”
I
know they curse your name at Glister, and the mere fact that the Chronologic Patrol approved your actions was enough that, before the collapse came, Glister’s government ordered all Patrol facilities in the system closed, and ejected the entire Patrol contingent,
she thought.
They’ll never trust the Patrol, or any outsiders, again.
But was that true? Never was a long time—and the incident was now a century and more in the past. What was Koffield to Glister now, today? A name that rated a footnote in the history books, or still a monster whose name would echo down the ages?
“
I—I suppose I know as much as I need to know.
”
“
Hmmmph. You might—or might not—need to know a great deal more about it in future. But that
’
s to one side. Circum Central is not what I want to talk about now.
”
Or ever,
Norla added silently. If that blood were on her hands, she would not want to talk about it.
“
Go on, sir,
”
she said.
Koffield sighed, turned his back on the porthole, leaned up against the outside bulkhead, and folded his arms wearily.
“
The Circum Central Incident. That
’
s what it
ended up being called, for the most part. I will tell you it in brief. Some of what I
’
ll tell you I knew at the time, and some of it I knew later. I
’
ll tell it as short and clean as I can. There was a standard defense arrangement on the time-shaft wormhole. One ship, the
Standfast,
on the past, or downtime, side of the singularity. Another ship, mine, the
Upholder,
that had transited from the downtime side, to the future, or uptime, side of the wormhole. The
Standfast
was jumped by thirty-two uncrewed intruder ships that seemed to come out of nowhere, and maneuvered and accelerated at very high rates. Sixteen of the intruders were decoys, meant to occupy the
Standfast
while the others got through the wormhole. The
Standfast
was destroyed while killing most of the sixteen intruders that were trying for the wormhole. Six of the sixteen got through—how, no one knows. The codes and control systems were supposed to be completely unbreakable.
“
My ship, the
Upholder,
killed three of those six intruders, and was severely damaged in the process. I—we—lost six of our crew. The other three intruders escaped, and
seemed
—I emphasize that word—
seemed
—to accelerate to and past light-speed as they did so.
“
Two relief ships—the
Guardian
and the
Watchkeeper
— arrived at the downtime end of the wormhole, and sent an extremely minimal signal to my ship, the
Upholder,
to report their arrival. I mistakenly assumed that only one relief ship would come from downtime, while the other would arrive from the uptime end. Once I destroyed the wormhole, of course, there was no point in sending any sort of relief craft, from past or future, to the uptime end of Circum Central. But I
’
m getting ahead of the story.