Tony Daniel (31 page)

“What are they?” Andre said.

“They’re of the Met. DIED destroyers,
Dabna
-class,” replied Century.

“DIED?” said Molly.

“Department of Immunity Enforcement Division,” Century said. “See the missile blisters.” A red circle appeared, outlining a spot on one of the ships that was an inkier black than the rest of the skin’s body. “See, too, those positron cannon?” A blue triangle pinpointed another area on the ship, but Andre failed to discern even the slightest difference.

“How can you tell?” he said.

A disembodied Cheshire-cat grin appeared beside him in the virtuality. “Got eyes in the back of my head,” Century said.

“But how do you know they’re Met?” Molly asked.

“Because they are pure warships. Have you heard of the deadly outer system armada?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to such things.”

“Well, there
isn’t
one,” said Century. “No fighting ships. Not like those. Those are Amés’s.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Need you ask?”

“You can’t mean they’re attacking Triton?”

“I can and I do.”

As if the ships had heard Makepeace Century’s words, all three simultaneously released a salvo of missiles. The missile engines briefly shone like little suns, and then they streaked off toward what looked like collision courses with the planet. “They’ll be circling round,” said Century. “The moon they’re after is on the other side now.

“You see those ships?” she growled. “Have you eyes?”

“Yes, and a memory,” Andre replied. “I remember a man on Triton. A friend of mine.”

“This weatherman you’ve oft alluded to?” Andre didn’t think it was possible, but Century’s face became even more haggard. It was ghastly white, and split with worry lines. “What can a weatherman do against a positronic cannon, I ask you? Is he made of antimatter, that the rays will strike him like a harmless beam of light?”

Andre laughed. “No, he’s just a man. About six feet tall. Looks like an old crow.”

“And what is this ugly man’s name?” Century asked.

“Sherman,” said Andre. “Roger Sherman.”

Century gasped. The effect was so dramatic that for a moment Andre was sure it was staged, and meant as irony. But then a wry smile came over her wizened face, and some of the doom went out of it.

“Captain Roger Sherman, you would be meaning?” said Century.

“I believe he’s a colonel now.”

“Aye, he would be.”

“You know this fellow?” TB asked, suddenly more interested in the conversation, it seemed.

“I know him,” said Century.

“And how is that?”

“Well,” said Century, “for one thing, he killed my husband. And he nearly got me, too. Took my hand—” She held out her right hand. “This one’s new-grown.”

“He killed your husband?” Molly said. She turned toward Andre, her feet braced against a bulwark cleat. “And this man is a friend of yours?”

“Before I got hold of
Mrs. Widow
and turned to the smuggling racket, I used to be in a more dangerous line of work,” Century said. “Revolution. Clint—that was my man—Clint and me were about liberating Mars from the directorate nonsense.”

“You were in FUSE?” Molly said. “A terrorist?”

“I wasn’t only in it,” said Century. “I founded the goddamned thing, and Clint with me.” Century ran her false hand over her face, touched her eyes. “I was younger than this, if you can believe it, and with youth comes foolishness, like a pellicle of cursed grist.”

“Cursed grist,” TB said. “That, I know all about.”

“We had some initial success,” Century said, “in blowing the ever-living hell out of a few things. Then along came dear old Captain Roger Sherman and his company of devils. The Fever Blisters, we called them. Only they were a sight more deadly. Found us out and routed us. The dumb and unlucky, he captured. The brave went down with the ship.”

“Except for you,” Andre said.

“I fled,” Century intoned, “in horror and amazement. Didn’t stop running till I got me to the Carbuncle and was well hid with my sister, Gladys. Even there, I lived nigh-on two years in mortal dread. Changed my name and rethought my politics a bit.” Now Century smiled a wicked smile. “But only a bit,” she said.

“If anyone can stop Amés,” Andre said, “it is Sherman.”

“All right, then,” said Molly. “All right. But how do you propose we get down to the moon in the first place, Captain Century?”

“A question like that,” Century said, “deserves a mother and a kindly upbringing.” She looked hard out the viewport. “I don’t suppose any of
you
have an idea, do you?”

“It’s not a blockade,” Andre said. “Those ships are on the opposite side of the planet. It’s a sneak attack.” He looked out the viewport. “We get in behind them,” he continued. “We follow them in to Triton. We break away and land in the confusion of the fighting. Leave them something in orbit to shoot out of the sky.”

“The bulk of my ship,” Century said.

“It would have to stay in space anyway,” Andre replied. “They’re going to blast it one way or the other.”

“Aye.” Century’s gloom returned to her face.

“What about the cannon you talk about?” asked Molly. “What about the missiles?”

“If we can get in close enough to their reaction plume, they’d not risk a missile. The flare would kill them, too. The cannon are another thing, though.”

“Do you really think they can fire directly behind themselves?” said Andre.

“I agree,” answered Century, “that would be an admirable place to be. Getting there, though, might require something along the lines of a direct intervention from the deity. Think you can pray that up for us, Father Andre?”

“What about a decoy?” said Andre. “Think about it: You’re going in for the kill, and a ship appears to your aft. You’re preparing to make war. Everything is in a dither. All minds are set on what’s ahead.”

Century put her hand in her hair, twirled a strand about a finger, and absentmindedly pulled out an entire hank of gray.

[The woman comes apart, just like her ship,] Andre’s convert said.

“There are so many holes in your idea and so many variables to consider,” she said, “that I like it. Because the only way it could possibly work would be if you happened to have at your service the finest pilot in the outer system.” She looked back out into space. “We give them the living quarters,” she said, “so they’ll think they’ve done for us. All hands will stay here. And you”—she indicated Bob—“will fiddle me a tune while I work. Something to fit the mood, if you please. The rest of you . . . attach your sweet selves to the walls and Father Andre, be about your prayers—or whatever it is your kind does.”

Bob cackled with delight, and everyone else moved to do as Century had commanded.

“No time better than the present,” she said, after everyone was secure. “We’re going in.” Century didn’t move, but Andre could tell by the slackness of her posture that she was in the virtuality. They felt the first push of acceleration. It grew. And grew. And grew. Bob began to play the fiddle, and, after a moment, Andre recognized the music.

[My God,] his convert portion said. [I know that piece. It is one of Despacio’s “A4 Variations.”]

Mrs. Widow
continued to build speed, and the grist in the walls interacted with Andre’s pellicle to form a stronger bond. It gave a little, as if he were a fly stuck in glue. Century herself drifted quickly back and slammed into the rear bulkhead of the control room, where she, too, stuck tight. Her eyes remain fixed on a reality that only she could see. But presently, the Met black ships became visible in actuality as dots against Neptune. The dots quickly grew to the size of grapes and Andre could begin to make out their shapes. At that distance, their surfaces looked like they were encrusted with black hailstones. Nothing at all like the ships of the outer system. Ominous. Like the kind of precipitation that kills cattle when it falls. Closer, and he could see their engines fire up. The sudden white light of antimatter becoming energy in an instant. Closer, and he saw them as he’d viewed them in virtuality, a hand full of harvesting sickles bound together with barbed wire.

[Now would be a good time to pray,] said the convert, [if you were that kind of priest.]

Three bells chimed. For a moment, Andre thought they were only sounding in his own mind.

“They’ve seen us,” said Century. “Quarters pods away!”

He felt the
Mrs. Widow
lurch, then readjust herself to the new mass. Bob continued to play, fighting for each note against the strain of continued acceleration. The music was reaching its rousing climax. The music sounded smeared, as Bob had to fret with such strength, but somehow the elision of notes suited the piece, and it was even more affecting and appropriate.

They screamed in toward the Met ships. Toward a ship, the middle one in the formation.

“We’re faster!” Century called out. “By God, we’re faster than those lubbers.”

Then there was a bright flash to starboard. “Ah, my poor ship,” said Century. “The quarters all blown to hell now and all that fine decorating grist bought dear and gone for naught.”

They’d spent the last half e-month in the quarters, and Andre had not been particularly impressed with the old captain’s taste in cabin grist. Good riddance, he thought. The harsh blaze of the middle ship’s engine now filled the viewport.

“Have to shut her closed,” Century said, and immediately the viewport opaqued. “Put all the mass I can to forward for shielding. You all can watch in virtual, if you like, but there won’t be much to see but a false color flare. Gonna have to do the steering by judging intensity levels.” The ship lurched to port, then back to starboard, then a hard lurch to port again. “Locked in,” said Century. “By God, we’re there!”

The
Mrs. Widow
roared and shuddered as if a giant baby were using it as a shaketoy.

“Is that normal?” Andre heard Molly call out. “It feels as if we’re breaking apart.”

“We’re burning away like a comet,” Century replied. “But there should be enough of us to forward to keep us from melting entirely away before we get to the moon.”

“At least, you hope so,” Molly said.

“We all live on hope, friend,” said Century. “And speed! Now comes the dangerous part—where we fall out of the sky like a meteor and hope to hell the people on the moon below don’t destroy us for our troubles.”

“See if the merci is still jammed,” TB said. It was the first time he’d spoken since the dive began.

As had been the case in space, the local merci was not jammed, but all other communications were. Century quickly broadcast their identity to the ground forces—whatever those might consist of. She got a brief answering response.

“They say they’ll try not to shoot us,” she told them. “But accidents do happen.”

“Christ,” Molly said. “The gallows humor out here in the boondocks can get to be a bit much, I think.”

Century slammed away to port without further warning. The acceleration increased to the point that Andre felt his head might explode like a stepped-on melon. Then there was a sudden lurch in the opposite direction. He could literally feel the blood slosh around inside him, and he saw dark spots in his vision.

“We’ve hit the atmosphere,” said Century. “Such that it is.” She opened up the viewport, and all Andre could see was fire and light. “I’m spinning us around.” Another violent lurch. The spots returned.

Slowly the acceleration lessened.

“Ten klicks. Five. A thousand meters.”

The fireball in the viewport dissipated. The sky darkened. There was Neptune. It was night. Andre recognized the subtle difference in color when the wan sun was not in Triton’s heaven.

“Down,” said Century. “Down and down.”

All sound ceased. The grip of the wall grist grew less tight. Andre peeled himself away and dropped down about a meter to find himself standing beside Century on what had been the rear bulkhead. He was standing in Triton’s gravity—his favorite gravity in the solar system.

“Don’t know where we are,” said Century. “But I tried to miss the cities and such. Antimatter’s hell on a person’s house.”

Andre did not reply. He turned to the captain and caught her in a big bear hug. Then he felt the others join in. All except Bob. The fiddler, instead, began another tune. They all stood in a clump, clinging to one another for a long time, while Bob played away at a high and lonesome reel.

“I’ll be damned,” Bob said, after he was finished. “Made that one up on the spot.”

Danis Graytor reached into the bucket and wearily counted another 3,947,311,921 grains of sand. Then she dropped it back into the bucket and took another handful to tabulate for the latest time of many. She fought off the urge for a cigarette. How had she become addicted to algorithm constructs? It wasn’t the nicotine. There was no nicotine. It must be psychological.

She tried not to think about Sint and Aubry, about her husband, and the counting was actually helpful in that way. It required much of her attention, for there was a time limit and her captors knew exactly how fast she was able to work. Counting sand was her morning task. She finished the count, made a note of the results, and took up another handful to tabulate.

As she filed away the number, Danis attached to it a second value. She had noticed that the memory area where she was to keep the count results was, until its recent conversion for this use, a storage place for complex numbers—that is, numbers that had both an integer value (such as 1, 2, 3, and so on) and also allowed for an imaginary component, that is the square root of negative 1 and its various derivatives. The imaginary number component was not used in sand-grain summing, and so there were memory sectors lying empty. Danis had worked out a code of imaginary numbers, and each time she filed a sand count, she filed another letter in the story she was writing.

She was keeping a secret account of her experiences in the prison camp here in Noctis Labyrinthus, Silicon Valley, as the inmates called it. So far, she had composed about ten thousand words in Basis, the free-convert version of English. If a word averaged six characters, that was sixty thousand handfuls of sand.