“
Understood, sir,
”
Norla said, though she understood very little indeed.
“
I promise, Officer Chandray, that you will know all you need to know before you need to know it.
”
And with that, Rear Admiral Anton Koffield nodded toward her, once, very slightly, and vanished into his cabin.
All you need to know before you need to know it.
How could he be sure
he
knew all that was needful? Even if he did, how could she possibly learn it all in time? Norla shook her head. Anton Koffield might be a man of his word, but the promise he had made would be tough for any man to keep.
And even harder for a man who was already a hundred-plus years behind schedule.
“
SCO Traffic Control, this is
Cruzeiro do Sul.
We report engines off. Circular parking orbit in equatorial plane, as instructed, ninety-nine-point-nine-plus match with assigned orbit Easy-27-44. Over.
”
Norla killed the mike and glanced over at her companion. The man was making her nervous. She knew damned well she didn
’
t have Admiral Anton Koffield close to figured out. He had told not a word more of his story since the first hail had come in. What was he waiting for?
She had no idea. But she had at least thought she had worked out his attitude toward the lighter
Cruzeiro do Sul
and her trip in toward Solace. She had thought he couldn
’
t care less. He had, after all, paid not the slightest attention to her operation of the ship during the first two and a half days of the journey. She had expected him to keep that up, and pay no attention whatsoever right on through to the close of their journey. But she wasn
’
t that lucky. He was right there, next to her, in the copilot
’
s station. And the only thing he was doing was watching.
Which was just about all he had done since Solace Central had first hailed them. Watching. Observing. Checking his recording devices now and again to confirm they were getting everything. Sitting there in the copilot
’
s chair with his hands folded, watching every move she made, listening to every hail and reply back and forth between the
Cruzeiro
and Solace Orbital Traffic Control.
She supposed it made sense, when she thought about it. He knew all about the
Cruzeiro,
and he knew that Norla was a competent pilot. Therefore, there had been no need to keep watch. But he knew next to nothing about current conditions on Solace, or in the Solacian system. At any moment, some vital bit of information could go past, something that might be the crucial piece to a puzzle, perhaps even to a puzzle they did not yet know existed. He
had
to take in everything that concerned the unknown.
“Cruzeiro do Sul,
this is SCO Traffic Control.
”
It was a young man
’
s voice, worried-sounding, but trying to put on a show of calm and professionalism.
“
Maintain current orbit. Do not maneuver until instructed to do so.
”
“
SCO Traffic Control, this is
Cruzeiro do Sul.
Instructions received, and will comply. We are standing by for maneuver instructions.
”
Norla killed the mike.
“
That was the first voice I
’
ve heard from SCO Traffic that didn
’
t sound automated,
”
she said.
“
Do you think we got bumped up to actual human attention?
”
“
Probably,
”
said Koffield.
“
If I were an Artlnt, this is about where I
’
d kick it upstairs to a human. It would seem they
’
re starting to wonder about us.
”
“
Well, it
’
s not exactly like we
’
re on their current registry,
”
Norla replied.
“
I
’
m surprised we got this far.
”
“
That
’
s the advantage of not volunteering information,
”
Koffield said with a chuckle.
“
It keeps people from getting curious about all the things you
’
re
not
telling them.
”
“
So now what?
”
she asked.
“
Now we do what the man said,
”
Koffield replied.
“
We wait. And don
’
t ask me how long. Might be hours, or longer. Depends on what sort of bureaucracy they have these—
”
“Cruzeiro do Sul,
this is SCO Traffic Control. Please reply.
”
Norla grinned.
“
A pretty efficient one, it looks like.
”
She flipped her mike back on.
“
This is
Cruzeiro do Sul,”
she said.
“
Go ahead, SCO Control.
”
“Cruzeiro,
we
’
ve getting some strange data from your autotransponder. Are you aware it is running on a very out-of-date frequency? Over.
”
Norla raised an eyebrow and looked at Koffield.
“
It doesn
’
t surprise me. Over.
”
“
Ah, yeah. Well, the frequency
’
s not the only thing out-of-date. Our Artlnts had to dig way back into the archives to find the registry data. We have you listed as a lighter off a larger core vessel. Can you confirm that?
”
Core vessel? She hadn
’
t heard that term before, but it was easy enough to figure out what it meant.
“
That is correct. Our core vessel is the
Dom Pedro IV,
Earth registry.
”
She was tempted to tell him more, but Koffield shook his head.
“
Over
”
was all she said.
“
Ah, right,
”
the young man
’
s voice replied.
“
That matches our archive info. Except the
Dom Pedro IV
was declared as lost with all hands, ah, one hundred twenty-two years ago. Ah, over.
”
That matched. They usually gave an overdue ship five years to show up. Norla shrugged.
“
Well,
”
she said,
“
I guess we were lost, but we
’
re found now, SCO. Over.
”
“
Stand by,
Cruzeiro.”
The line should have gone dead at that point, but the controller apparently forgot to cut his mike. Koffield and Norla could hear two or three voices whispering urgently in the background. Finally the controller came back on.
“
Hell, my mike
’
s still open. Ah,
Cruzeiro,
please advise. Where is the
Dom Pedro
IV?
”
Norla looked toward Koffield again. He mouthed the words
Just tell the truth.
“
Dom Pedro
is in-system, SCO Control, in a distant orbit. Our captain figured it would be smart to send in a, ah, scout ship first to see what the situation was. Given the circumstances. Over.
”
“
Right,
Cruzeiro.
I can understand that. I think. Stand by.
”
This time the controller did cut his mike. Koffield shook his head and smiled sadly.
“
Now it begins,
”
he said.
“
We
’
re public. I wonder if they
’
ll think we
’
re freaks, or quaint survivors, or historical treasures, or suspect us of being part of some vast secret plot.
”
One thing was for sure. The man certainly knew how to put a positive spin on things.
After a brief delay, the controller came back on the line.
“Cruzeiro,
SCO Traffic Control. Just so we
’
re clear on this. You
’
re saying that your core ship, the
Dom Pedro IV,
has just arrived, one hundred twenty-seven years late?
”
“
That
’
s correct, SCO. We don
’
t understand it either. Not yet. But that
’
s what happened.
”
“
Very well,
Cruzeiro.
Stand by one more time.
”
Again the line went dead. But it didn
’
t matter. Now they were public. Now the outside universe knew they existed. The outside universe suddenly had the capacity to reach them, to affect them, to hurt them or help them.
And now, at last, they had reached out
to
the outside universe. Before this moment, Norla could pretend that it was all a bad dream. There had been a bubble of unreality around them, because the outside universe did not know they existed. Now the bubble was burst.
Then, at last, the call came.
“
Cruzeiro do Sul,
this is SCO Traffic Control. Please respond.
”
It was a woman
’
s voice this time, older, more confident and authoritative.
“
Looks like we
’
ve been bumped up one more level,
”
Norla muttered, and then flipped on her mike.
“
This is
Cruzeiro do Sul.
Go ahead, SCO Traffic Control.
”
“Cruzeiro,
if the Artlnts and automatics are giving us straight data, it looks as if your autonav systems are about eight generations back. We
’
re supposed to be backward compatible, but no one here wants to bet on eight gens of bug-free programming. We
’
d like you to fly a manual approach, rendezvous, and dock. Do you concur? Over.
”
“
That makes sense to me, over.
”
“
Very well. Is anyone aboard qualified for manual flight ops and docking? If need be, we can fly a pilot out to you.
”
Norla was about to take offense, but then she realized it was a perfectly sensible question. They were, after all, a hundred and twenty-seven years late getting in. The
Dom Pedro’s
crew could easily have taken some casualties— as indeed they had. There was no way for Solace Central Orbital to know whether they were alert and healthy and trained, or just barely alive and limping in on luck and automatics.
“
No need for that, SCO Traffic Control. We have two pilots aboard, both fully trained and qualified on this craft. Though I guess our licenses have probably lapsed by now.
”
“
Well, we
’
ll waive license requirements for the time being,
Cruzeiro.
We
’
re sending your flight plan up on sideband two now. Please examine it and respond. Your maneuver window is ten minutes, five seconds, and it opens in forty-six minutes, seven seconds, mark. Please advise in ample time whether or not you concur with flight plan. Over.
”
“
Understood, SCO Traffic Control. Flight plan is on my display now. Stand by just a moment.
”
Norla looked over the flight plan and nodded to herself. No problem. A conservative transfer orbit and a very straightforward direct approach. Not the fastest way to get them there, but they had lost any right to be in a hurry about a century or so back. At a guess, SCO was making things easy on her just to be on the safe side. How sure could they be about what a ship from out of the last century could do?
“
SCO Traffic Control, this is
Cruzeiro do Sul.
The flight plan is fine. Will commence initial maneuver at start of window.
Cruzeiro do Sul
out.
”
Norla didn
’
t have any way of knowing how they did things these days, but back in her own time, it had been surpassingly rare for a pilot to get a chance at a manual-approach maneuver, to say nothing of final rendezvous, or doing the actual docking. The automatics did it all, and the pilots sat on their hands, mere backup systems for the machinery that never failed. Pilots were there for the unforeseen, the unforeseeable. But after thousands of years of space travel, there was not that much left that could be unforeseen. Everything had happened at least once, and been recorded in the memories of the infallible machines.
Except what had happened to them.
This
crisis was not for the machines to deal with. This was hers. She was going to fly this sequence, and do it right, and enjoy it.
Because she might not get another chance. That joke
about their licenses being expired was no joke at all. Everything she knew was a century-plus out-of-date. Would she even be able to recognize a modern pilot
’
s station? Maybe ships these days didn
’
t even
have
pilot
’
s stations. She
’
d be lucky if they allowed her aboard a modern spacecraft, and never mind flying one. And if she could not serve on a space crew, what would she be good for? What work would she be qualified for here and now?